Captain Nemo: The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius (67 page)

He opened the upper hatch and emerged blinking into the sunlight.
 
The air smelled of greasy smoke.
 
“Come with me,” he said to no one in particular.
 
Every member of his crew felt as desperate and shocked as he did.
 
He didn’t try to provide false assurances or unrealistic hopes.
 
“We must learn what we can.”

After tying up the sub-marine boat, the men stepped carefully across rotting dock planks.
 
When they reached the compound itself, they hesitated, afraid to proceed.

The foundations of buildings stood like blackened stumps of teeth.
 
The smelting refineries had caved in, windows smashed, bricks crumbled.
 
The living quarters had been burned to ash and slag.
 
Everything . . . destroyed.

The oppressive silence was broken only by a faint whistle of wind that trespassed in the cove.
 
Nemo thought he could hear the shouts of raiders, the crackle of flames, the clang of scimitars against makeshift weapons . . . or against soft flesh, hard bone.
 
Screams of pain and pleas for mercy from the desperate slaves, the women, the children -- everyone who had endured life at Rurapente.

Auda had allied herself with her father, Caliph Barbicane; she had known about the impending attack and arranged for her own rescue and the safety of the others. . . .
 
But now it appeared that no one had listened to her.
 
Nemo could only pray that she had escaped.
 
Or had she and young Jules been victims of the terrible revolution?
 
Where were they?

The
Nautilus
crew picked their way among the rubble, not speaking, searching for some sign to give them hope.
 
Instead, they found skeletons picked clean by carrion eaters and time.
 

This massacre had occurred many months ago, perhaps at the same time they’d killed Robur and escaped in the sub-marine vessel.
 
While the captive engineers had fled, masters of their fate and oh-so-pleased with their victory over the bloodthirsty caliph, their families were being slaughtered at Rurapente.

The men could identify none of the remains, but the faces of wives and friends and children shone in every man’s imagination.
 
Nemo held back the tears in his eyes as he surveyed the charred wasteland.
 
He turned to his second-in-command, and his voice struck fear in even the gruff Englishman’s heart.
 
“Mr. Harding, take teams and recover anything you can find -- keepsakes or memories, and then give a respectful burial to these poor people.”

“Aye, Captain,” Harding said.
 
He had never argued with Nemo’s orders before, but now he hesitated and said, “And what will you be doing, sir?”

With his chin, Nemo gestured toward the steep cliff paths that led up to the plateau.
 
In her note, Auda said she’d used the shepherds as couriers.
 
Many of them were involved in the plot.
 
“I need to find someone,” Nemo said.
 

He took a pack and food from the
Nautilus
, then began his long uphill trek.
 
He plodded throughout the hot day until finally, at sunset, reached the top of the plateau.
 
Finding a small windbreak of low bushes, he built a smoky campfire, but remained awake most of the night, staring at the stars . . . and remembering.

For two days he wandered the Anatolian Plateau, searching for the nomadic shepherds who had acted as secret watchers for the Sultan and his advisors in Ankara.
 
At last he came upon a small group sitting crosslegged in front of their patched tents, while women tended a cookfire, roasting cubes of mutton.
 

Seeing a lone man in inhospitable territory, the shepherds brandished their ancient rifles at him, making signs to ward off evil.
 
Indeed, the stricken expression on his face made him look like a vengeful spirit -- but Nemo made appropriate placating gestures, then a religious sign of Allah he’d learned during his time in Rurapente.
 
He called out in their own language, claiming to be a friend.
 
He wished merely to share their cookfire and ask them some questions over cardamom-spiced coffee.

The shepherds were dirty and scarred, and looked far older than their actual years.
 
They grudgingly accepted his presence, following the rule of hospitality to wayfarers on the Turkish highlands.
 
Nemo told them that he had spent much time in Rurapente, but that he’d been gone for a year.

“Can you tell me what happened?”
 
His voice cracked with need.
 

The shepherds discussed the matter among themselves, wondering if he might be a spy testing their allegiance, or a deserter from the Sultan’s armies.
 
Though Nemo had dark eyes and dark hair, he did not look at all Turkish.
 
But Auda did . . . and so did his son Jules.

He took a chance, and the grief in his voice softened the men.
 
“My wife lived in Rurapente -- and my son.
 
She was Caliph Barbicane’s daughter.
 
I’m trying to find her.
 
I have companions who also wish to find their families.
 
Can you help us?
 
Please?”

One of the shepherds stood up, stepped away from the smoky fire, and stared appraisingly at him for a long moment.
 
“You were Auda’s husband?”

Nemo cringed at hearing the past tense.
 
“Yes.
 
She warned me and my men of the uprising, and we managed to survive.
 
Caliph Robur is dead.”
 
Not knowing the loyalty of these men, he did not admit that he himself had killed the warlord.

“Auda was an infiltrator,” the shepherd said.
 
“She was sold to Robur to become your wife, but she continued to watch Rurapente.
 
Through us, she reported to Caliph Barbicane, for the Sultan in Ankara.
 
We were part of the army that came to free them.”
 
He patted his chest, then shook his head.
 
“But there was great bloodshed, much fighting.
 
Another caliph sent forces that swore no allegiance either to Robur or Barbicane -- and a slaughter ensued.”

“Senseless and terrible,” one of the other shepherds said.
 
“The men enjoyed the killing very much.”

Nemo listened with a heavy heart.
 
Smoke from the cookfire stung his eyes and nose.

“When it was discovered that Auda was a spy, she and several others loyal to Barbicane took a boat and tried to escape across to the Aegean Islands.
 
But on the way they were attacked.
 
Their boat sank.
 
All aboard were killed.”

After that, Nemo heard little else as anger and despair clamored in his head.
 
He didn’t care about the changing politics in the Ottoman Empire, or the Sultan’s current advisors, or plans for the site of the industrial compound.
 
In a daze, he finished his coffee with the shepherds and thanked them, but refused their offer of a full meal.
 

At dusk, he wandered across the plateau into the deepening night.
 
He felt as destroyed inside as the entire city of Rurapente.

vi

Aboard the
Nautilus
, the crew sank into a heartsick silence.
 
The men from a hodgepodge of countries and cultures drew closer together than ever, unified by their circumstances and their losses.
 
They performed their duties like the walking dead, all hope of happiness lost in one cruel stroke of fate.

Feeling hollow, Nemo stood at the bridge, gripping the metal rail.
 
Finally, out of desperation, he gave the order to depart from the Turkish coast, taking painful memories with him and leaving nothing else behind.
 
With engines at half power, the
Nautilus
cruised away from the ugly scar of Rurapente.
 

He vowed never to return.
 
Never.
 
He’d had enough of warfare, suffering, and death.
 
He wanted nothing to do with humanity’s bloodshed and cruelty.

As the ocean folded over the underwater boat, he stared into the blue-green wilderness.
 
Every time he encountered people, every time he tried to make peace with society and live with his fellow man, the results were disastrous.
 

He thought of the pirates attacking the
Coralie
. . . .
 
They had killed Captain Grant and stranded him for years on the desert island.
 
Then he’d traveled across Africa and been captured by slavers.
 
Next, he’d experienced the horrors of the Crimean War, and then lived as the prisoner of a murderous caliph . . . which caused him to lose Caroline in the bargain.
 
And he’d just seen what had happened to Rurapente, to Auda and Jules.

Fate hadn’t claimed their wives and children:
 
People had.
 
Warmongers.

For years Robur had extolled dreams of benign technological superiority for the benefit of his people.
 
But the
Nautilus
had been designed for no purpose other than war.
 
The caliph had meant to terrorize peaceful sailing vessels and extort a ransom for all trade entering the Red Sea.
 

After so much time, Nemo remained appalled at the ability of men to cause pain and suffering.
 
Certain men were bred to be bloodthirsty killers, and they brought crimson shadows to the entire world.
 
Violent conflict had always been abhorrent to him, and now his hatred of it grew even worse.
 

He had lost so much already.

The sub-marine boat cruised through the Mediterranean, as if in a daze itself.
 
The crew remained withdrawn for days, eating just enough food to keep themselves alive.
 
They had no goal now, no destination.
 
Their dreams of utopia with their families had died along with Rurapente. . . .

Nemo considered abandoning the sub-marine boat, returning to Paris, and trying to recapture peace in the arms of Caroline.
 
Surely she would welcome him again, though it had been so long, so many years.
 
Jules Verne had said she still refused to remarry.

But in his moments of solitude he could imagine only the death cries of Auda and his young son.
 
He could not bear to rush back to Caroline as if nothing had happened, as if he intended to forget his wife and boy.
 
The thought of trying to fit in with French society terrified him.

Nemo tried to salve his grief by staring for hours upon end at the bliss beneath the seas.
 
He never wanted to leave here, never wanted to face any aspect of war again.
 
But even as he hid under the sea, warmongers continued their painful march across the canvas of history.
 
No one would ever stop them.

None of the men even suggested heading for their respective countries.
 
Nemo did not want to return to the world at all.
 
He was through with mankind.
 
He would let the so-called “civilized” people continue their vicious fighting until they learned their own lessons. . . .

Days later, at the height of his anguish, it occurred to Nemo that he
could
strike back, that he need not spend his days in passive misery.
 
The
Nautilus
itself was a tremendous weapon.
 
It had been designed to inflict terror upon other ships sailing the seas.
 
But while Caliph Robur had intended to prey upon merchant ships or peaceful travelers, Nemo realized he could use the sub-marine boat against another kind of vessel.