Race to the Bottom of the Sea Read online

  Like the sharks that fed on the cod around Arborley, pirates preyed on the cargo ships that sailed to and from port. They pilfered cocoa beans, tropical fruits, and expensive sailing supplies like rope and canvas. Occasionally they took a whole ship at gunpoint, and the poor sailors were left to drown or swim for shore — if they were lucky. Better than being taken captive.

  Ida Quail had a run-in with pirates once, when she was crossing over from the mainland, returning home after a symposium on marine mammals. The pirates let her go once they realized that the Platypus had nothing to steal except empty mermaid purses and red algae specimens.

  “We were heading home after our last run.” Captain Beagle flinched as she pressed a cloth full of ice to her forehead. “They hit us just before the rain came. They took it all — every last bean.” Most of the sailors were too drunk to stir sugar into coffee, but they reacted to every part of the captain’s story as if it had been their own captain, their own ship, their own mates.

  Fidelia only half listened. Through the window, her eyes roved the beach, the docks, the water, over and over, scanning like sonar … Mom and Dad, please! Where the devil ray are you?

  “One of their cannons blew through the rigging. Sent the boom right into my noggin.” Captain Beagle gestured to the wound on her forehead, which was finally beginning to clot.

  “Where are they now?” Another sailor frowned, his hand finding the pistol at his belt. “Should we sail out and meet them? Give them a warm Arborley welcome?”

  “Don’t bother,” Captain Beagle said. “The horizon’s blacker than a coal chute. Let the Undertow take care of them.”

  “It’ll eat their ship for dinner,” someone else piped in.

  Fidelia bounced her legs up and down beneath the table, a little nervous soft-shoe. The Egg’s helm was still gummy — why hadn’t she fixed it this morning? How could she be so careless, to let her parents take the submarine when there were still so many kinks to work out? All confidence in her machinery drained out of her.

  Ratface was trying very hard to look at something out the window. His whole face squinted like a raisin — because of the distance or because of his drunkenness, Fidelia didn’t know and didn’t care … until he said, “Say, Quail. Isn’t that your submersible doohickey out in the water?”

  Fidelia pushed back her chair so fast, it tipped over. “Where?” She scrambled to the window, forehead pressed against the glass.

  There was the Egg, stranded in the shallows of Stony Beach, waves lapping at the aqua-blue metal.

  “Mom!” she cried, and everyone in the Book and Bottle stopped talking. “Dad!” She bolted out the door, down the boardwalk, and across the bridge.

  Back outside, the elements seemed to conspire against her. Wind shrieked in her ear; rain blew sideways, tilting her as she ran. The closer she came, the tighter her gut clenched with the sickening wrongness of it all — the Egg, stuck on the shore like a beached whale, porthole window crookedly facing the sky.

  She crunched over the pebbles of Stony Beach, the storm throwing sand against her cheeks. When she finally hit the cold water, her breath deserted her.

  The Egg was barely recognizable as a submarine. It was folded in on itself, dented into a twisted metal mess. The aqua paint was scratched away in long lines, as if a gruesome creature had dragged its claws across the exterior — or as if the Egg had been tossed mercilessly against the rocks and coral of the seabed. Wrenched from its hinges, the hatch door lay useless in the incoming tide.

  The rain fell harder, but she waded closer. The Egg’s cabin was a shambles. Files were emptied of their contents, which were strewn all over Stony Beach like a soggy paperwork snowstorm. Drips of seawater clung to the keypad of command buttons. The dull sound of static still echoed from the radio, the receiver swinging on its wire.

  “Mom,” Fidelia whispered, trembling. “Dad.”

  “You there! Girl!” A constable in a black trench coat and galoshes flashed the orange lights of his patrol boat from the canal. “Quail, is that you? What the blazes are you doing? Get inside!”

  “My parents!” she wailed.

  “Are you mad?” the constable said. “It’s the Undertow! Now hustle!”

  “Not until I find Mom and Dad!” She charged into the water, nostrils flaring, eyes stinging with tears. Her mind jumped from thought to thought like frogs on lily pads: What happened to the Egg? Where were they? Swimming back to shore or being swept farther and farther out to sea … ?

  The constable brought his boat out of the canal, where the submarine lay. “They were in this thing? Didn’t they know the storm was coming?”

  Fidelia stood there, cold water biting her calves. “It was tagging day.” The words barely seeped out of her — suddenly her voice was missing, too. She had been the one who insisted they stay out longer than they should have. “How close is the storm?” Ida had asked, trusting Fidelia’s eyes, Fidelia’s judgment.

  And Fidelia had pushed, pushed to the very edge of the storm’s mercy… .

  Was this her fault?

  Black waves reached like hands, farther and farther up the shore. The constable pointed at the town. “You can’t be out here.”

  Fidelia’s feet didn’t budge. “I have to find them!” Was she the only one who thought they should be charging into the sea, Undertow be damned? Searching every reef, every ripple?

  The constable sighed. “We’ll do everything we can, Quail. There’s nothing else for you to do but wait somewhere safe.”

  But Fidelia refused, and finally the constable motioned for someone to come and forcibly remove her — another constable, perhaps? Or one of the sailors from the Book and Bottle? Fidelia never saw whose arms linked under hers, dragging her across the shingle beach to the bridge as she kicked for freedom, shrieking the entire way.

  The arms placed her on the edge of the bridge, legs dangling over the canal, and left her alone, rain soaking her to the bones. There she sat, and she watched.

  Watched more constables surround the Egg in the distance, like a swarm of flies investigating a bloated carcass. Watched the water rush higher and higher up the beach.

  She wasn’t sure how long she was there — the sounds of the storm drowned everything else out. It was just the rush of the canal, and the crash of waves against the rocks, and the roar of the Undertow …

  “Fidelia?” A soft voice somehow cut through the pollution of noise. “I’m here to collect you.” Ida Quail’s sister, younger by ten years, stood on the bridge under a pale blue umbrella.

  If Fidelia was a broomstick, Aunt Julia was a feather duster — wispy, somber, with frail-looking limbs. Fidelia had always thought her aunt looked like she’d escaped from an oil painting — too delicate for reality. She, like Fidelia, was bespectacled, but while Fidelia’s glasses were square and bold, Aunt Julia’s were subtle, round peach frames.

  Fidelia’s throat tightened. “Mom and Dad …” But she couldn’t say it. If she didn’t say it, maybe it wasn’t real.

  A lock of Aunt Julia’s hair blew free from its chignon; she caught it and immediately tucked it back into place. “Oh, Fidelia, darling.” She pulled her niece off the edge of the bridge and into a hug.

  “We have to — Why isn’t anyone —?” Fidelia stammered frantically against Aunt Julia’s collarbone.

  As if in response, a deafening gust of wind pushed across the bridge, nearly strong enough to carry Aunt Julia away. Fidelia sobbed. She wouldn’t be convincing anyone to rally a search party; even the constables were scrambling back to the boardwalk, their trench coats blowing behind them like great rubbery wings.

  “Shh.” Aunt Julia patted Fidelia’s head. “Nothing to do now but get out of the storm. Let’s go dry off and we’ll wait —”

  “Wait for what?” Fidelia pushed herself free from Aunt Julia’s embrace. “For Mom and Dad to wash onto shore like horseshoe crabs?”

  Aunt Julia blanched at the image, but Fidelia couldn’t bring herself to care. “We should b
e scouring the beach! We should be searching every rock and reef in the bay!” Her aunt gently took her elbow and guided her down the bridge and into a waiting canal boat.

  She slouched on the back bench while the paddler pushed the boat down the canal. Her teeth chattered. “They’re okay,” she said, mostly to herself. “They’re marine biologists, right? They’re probably fine, aren’t they?” The words came out in circles, overlapping themselves like ripples in a puddle.

  Aunt Julia’s chin trembled. “I suppose — anything is possible.”

  Fidelia’s mind turned over the details of the situation, hunting for a crack, a burst of light, an answer.

  Fact: Dr. and Dr. Quail had last been seen approximately one hour ago, in the southeast quadrant of Arborley Bay.

  Fact: Dr. and Dr. Quail were navigating the submarine — powered by an electric motor and propellers.

  Fact: Fidelia had refilled the Egg’s gas tank this morning.

  So where were they?

  Did they escape out the hatch with snorkels? Were they treading water? Were they clinging to the cliffs on the other side of the island?

  Last year the Quails had published a topographical map of Arborley Sea. They’d charted every dip, every ridge, every detail of the seafloor around Arborley Island — but maybe they had missed a cave for their map. Yes, an underwater cave, one of those rare ones that kept a pocket of oxygen beneath the ocean … And the Quails could be hiding inside, waiting for someone to track them down and rescue them.

  But even as Fidelia finished the hypothesis in her mind, the unlikeliness of it — the futility of such thoughts — overwhelmed her, smothering her like a swell at high tide, and her thoughts trickled into silence.

  So there was truly nothing she could do.

  Fidelia curled her toes inside her boots. Her fingers squeezed the skin on her forearms. Every part of her clutched to anything available, anything that could ground her. Secure her.

  Tears filled her eyes. As the canal boat floated into the city, the shape of the Egg blurred in the distance, an aqua speck on the beach. Her poor crushed submarine — months of work had gone into its creation, all undone in a single evening.

  And the other things she had lost tonight …

  The last thing Fidelia saw before the canal angled away from the sea was a twilight wave, barreling and sparkling before it was crushed by the darkness of the Undertow. Somewhere in the water, Grizzle lurked, untagged, untraceable.

  Lost forever.

  When the Mother Dog sailed, it didn’t just cut through the water — the sea humbly parted itself for the flagship of the Queen’s Own Navy.

  The forty-gun frigate proudly protected Her Majesty’s coasts from any crime or tomfoolery. It was top of the line, built from live oak and scrubbed to godliness — the finest vessel in the nine seas. The masts were sanded so smooth, one would think they had never met a storm. Gold writing on the stern spelled its name in flowery script.

  The commander of its voyages wiped a white-gloved finger along the rail. Not a speck of dust or brine, he gloated. Not on my ship.

  Admiral Percy J. Bridgewater’s head was the shape and color of an oversize beet, with a hay-bristle mustache and two tiny rodent’s eyes that were always roaming, always judging, behind a pair of small round spectacles. Silver piping ran along the seams of all the naval officers’ cobalt-blue uniforms; Admiral Bridgewater’s own silver piping was stretched to capacity around his massive girth. Forty years he had served in the Queen’s Own Navy, and he bore those years proudly — crow’s feet earned in the second civil war, frown lines along his jowls from the takeover at Jolitrou … And the deepest crease in his face, a wrinkle in the center of his forehead … The last ten years had carved that particular beauty into his skin. A full accounting of his records as admiral, right in his flesh.

  The Mother Dog was finishing its three-week inspection of the cocoa route. So far, two pirate ships had been impeded, the wicked thieves clapped in irons below in the Mother Dog’s dark, drippy hold. The pirates’ boodle — sea chests heaping with gold medallions, precious jewels, and pearls — was carefully stashed in the admiral’s quarters. All of it would be returned to Her Majesty — after a private accounting by Admiral Bridgewater, of course.

  A nice, clean sweep — Admiral Bridgewater should have been satisfied. Any day when pirates were removed from the bounding main should be a good day. But those weren’t the right pirates.

  The faded green of land finally unfolded across the horizon, and the naval officers exhaled with relief when they thought their commander wasn’t looking. But the admiral missed nothing. They would be permitted a week of shore leave, and then it would be back aboard the Mother Dog for another voyage. Shore leave was the only antidote for the difficult life of a navy man — a chance to experience hot showers, shoe shines, delicious stove-cooked meals chased by cream-filled desserts, the pleasurable company of a fashionable young lady at the opera.

  Admiral Bridgewater found no need for it. While his officers gallivanted around the port like half-starved animals released from their cages, he stayed locked in his office on the flagship, poring over maps and sea charts by flickering lamplight.

  Soon, he vowed. Soon I’ll have him.

  “Veer west when we come in range of the harbor,” he ordered a lieutenant whose name he didn’t know and never would. “It’s tax day for the Miranda.”

  The Miranda, a tidy little sloop with faded sails, waited at anchor just offshore, placid ripples sparkling blue around its waterline.

  Admiral Bridgewater sneered at the puny Miranda, at its sea-warped beams, its wrinkled canvas. His officers angled the Mother Dog until it was parallel to the lesser vessel, close enough that the admiral could smell the earthy tropical dirt still clinging to the cargo of cocoa beans aboard the sloop.

  “Ahoy, Admiral!” The scraggly captain of the Miranda waved his greasy cap. “Lovely day we’re having, wouldn’t you say? The boys were thinking we’d come ashore and find spring blossoms, not autumn leaves —”

  “Small talk is for small people,” Admiral Bridgewater cut in. “Do you have my payment?”

  The captain swallowed. “We have … most of it, Admiral.”

  “Most?”

  The captain held up a bulging jute bag to show the admiral — half the usual payment. “We’ll have the rest to you by the first week of March —”

  “March?” Admiral Bridgewater frowned. “That’s six months from now. A trip to the tropics is a week’s sail, at most.”

  “But — the Undertow!” The captain looked around at his men for backup. “It’s due to strike any day!”

  Admiral Bridgewater pulled off his white glove and examined his fingernails. “Yes, I suppose the weaker seamen of the world can’t be expected to brave a little rain and wind. Very well,” he said with a sigh. “Officer, write down that the Miranda now owes us three hundred blue notes.”

  “Three hundred?” the captain sputtered. “But — but that’s double the usual amount!”

  “A lesson in punctuality,” Admiral Bridgewater said. “Lest you think I will ever tolerate this again.”

  The captain glowered, but motioned for his boatswain to toss a grapple hook with rope pulleys — it easily caught onto the Mother Dog’s railing. He hung the jute bag of cash on the rope and the naval officers began hauling it over.

  “May I remind you,” Admiral Bridgewater said, “that my royally bestowed task is to catch pirates and bring them to the gallows. Nothing more. Your personal protection in open waters is none of my concern … unless you pay to make it my concern.”

  The jute bag now dangled above the water, between the two ships.

  “If you provide half the cost, I can guarantee only half the safety,” Admiral Bridgewater continued.

  The jute bag was nearly to the Mother Dog — just a few more feet.

  “And pirates,” Admiral Bridgewater said, “the rotten, blackened souls, lurk in every stretch of the nine seas, waiting until your gu
ard is down —”

  A porthole on the Miranda suddenly flew open. A black-haired man poked out of the hold, a lit tallow candle in his hand.

  “Merrick!” A fleck of spit flew from Admiral Bridgewater’s mouth and landed on his impeccably clean railing. “I should have known you didn’t really hang in San Sebastian! That corpse didn’t stink half as bad as yours would have!” Behind him, the crew scrambled, preparing the guns.

  “How’d he get in there?” The captain of the Miranda cried, his men around him as bewildered as he was.

  “My dear Bilgewater!” Merrick saluted from the porthole, the candle’s flame illuminating the laughter in his steel-blue eyes. “Still robbing the good sailors of the cocoa route, are we? And to think — you call me the pirate!”

  “Surrender now, you dung-munching varmint, and I’ll make sure none of your body parts are left for the krill,” Admiral Bridgewater said.

  Merrick reached for the rope between the ships with one hand, steadying the jute bag.

  Admiral Bridgewater narrowed his eyes. “You’re not a pirate. You’re a devil. A dead one, at that. Shoot him,” he commanded.

  The Mother Dog’s swivel guns were aimed and fired. Grapeshot peppered the side of the Miranda, narrowly missing Merrick, who ducked back into the hold.

  “Hey!” the captain of the Miranda shouted. “That’s my ship! Take it easy!”

  Merrick popped back out the porthole like a gopher and grinned. He lifted his candle, higher and higher, until the orange flame kissed the rope where the jute bag dangled.

  “Put that fire out!” Admiral Bridgewater shrieked. “Now, I command!”

  But the fire danced along the rope until it reached the jute bag, which was not full of money at all, but full of explosives.

  The noise was terrific; the flash of white light and rich blue smoke was even better. As the string of blasts filled the air, the officers and crew of the Mother Dog and the sailors on the Miranda threw themselves onto their decks, ears plugged, protecting themselves from the onslaught.