Ganymede

Thirteen

Andan Cly ran his finger over the map as slowly as a man learning to read. He traced the curve of the Mississippi River gently, lifting his hand to see a detail here, a notation there. The map was an older one and it had been abridged, amended, and scrawled across to make it more pertinent to the present situation. This sheet included not only the serpentine bends and miniature ports that dotted the way between the city and the ocean; it also included the canals, both commercial and semiprivate — and the docks that Texas likely didn’t know about.

The electric lamps had been dimmed down to nothing, leaving only the oil lamps and rickety wire-frame lanterns to give them any light.

Outside, there were no sounds of soldiers or rolling-crawlers. No marching feet or passing patrols. The Texians had left — at least, those who were leaving were long gone, and no more were on the verge of exiting, so the time had come to put the finishing touches on the plan before putting it into action.

Night had not yet fallen, but it was coming, and it would be there within the hour — black and thick, a perfect shield from the eyes of anyone too interested in knowing about the giant machine hidden inside the nondescript storehouse.

“These are the forts, ain’t that right?” Cly asked, poking at a spot in the river just past a bend that kinked sharply north and to the east.

“Fort Saint Philip on the north bank, and Fort Jackson on the southern one,” Deaderick told him. “Fully manned, mostly by Confederates.”

“Not Texians?”

“Naw. Texas lets them keep their forts as a matter of show. Makes it look more like a group effort, rather than an occupation. It’s bullshit, and everybody knows it.”

“So the Rebs keep the forts in order to keep their pride. Got it. Are they dangerous?”

“Dangerous enough to steer clear of them, as much as we’re able. They don’t have anything much in the water that we’ll have to bypass — no charges or anything like that. They can’t clog up the waterway with bombs. There are too many merchant ships coming and going to make it worth their trouble. But they do have lookouts aplenty keeping an eye on everyone who passes by — and anyone who goes steaming upriver.”

Fang made a sign. Cly saw it out of the corner of his eye.

Gatekeepers.

“Gatekeepers,” the captain said aloud, since he doubted anyone else but Houjin could understand the message. “That’s all they are.”

“Heavily armed gatekeepers. They’ve got cannon all over the place, and antiaircraft, too.”

Rucker Little noted, “There’s nothing keeping the antiaircraft from becoming antiwatercraft. All they have to do is tip the things on their fulcrum, brace them, and aim them at the waves. A buddy of mine used to work for them, doing maintenance on machine parts and the like. He says they have a pair of antiaircraft shooters mounted on each of the fort’s two river-facing towers, and both of them have been modified so they can shoot up or down.”

“Good to know,” Kirby Troost said.

“We’ll stay out of their way. Out of their sight, anyway. Let me ask you something,” Cly said to Deaderick. “Is there any good reason we have to go right past them? They’re guarding the way to the ocean, but only if we stay in the river.”

“This thing won’t grow legs and crawl, Captain.”

“No, that’s not what I mean. These canals, here and here.” He tapped at them. “Are they deep enough to hold us?”

Deaderick rubbed at his chin. “Maybe. Not that one,” he indicated a sketched-in line at Empire. “But this one might — the one just past Port Sulphur.”

Houjin perked up. “Isn’t that where we landed? When we first came into town? Those Texians made us set down there instead of landing at Barataria.”

“That’s right,” Cly told him.

Rucker sniffed. “Doesn’t surprise me. Texians trying to chase off perfectly nice pirates.”

“They thought the Lafittes were hiding this thing.” Deaderick cocked a thumb at Ganymede. “We’d actually asked for their help, a few months ago, and they were interested in assisting us, but for a fee we couldn’t afford — and we couldn’t get the Union to spring for it. I suppose someone passed our request along. Some spies, somewhere.”

“The bayou’s chock-full of ’em,” Rucker agreed. “Just as well we couldn’t take them up on it.”

Kirby Troost stared at the map, baffled. “I don’t mind telling you, it blows my mind how little help you’re getting from the Federals. Here you are, trying to hand them a piece of hardware like this, and they just leave you hanging for the details.”

Deaderick made a small grimace and said, “Eh, you know how it goes. They aren’t sure Ganymede’s worth the investment, and we can’t prove it until we show it to them. Funny thing is, the Rebs believe it. We wouldn’t have any trouble convincing them that the ship is valuable — they’re scared to death of it.”

Rucker said, “And they know what it could do, in theory. They were the ones who commissioned the first ones, the Hunley, the Pioneer, and the rest. They know what a difference a craft like this could make in the war, and God knows they’re barely hanging in there these days. They can’t afford to let the Yankees to get this thing, take it apart, and figure out how to make more of them.”

“You think they could do that?” Cly asked.

“Sure. Within a few months, if they hire a few of us,” he replied, indicating himself, Mumler, and Anderson Worth. “For that matter, if it comes to it … we might just head back North and make a case ourselves. The three of us, plus a couple of others — we might be able to sit down and draw up our own plans. We know it better than anybody else.”

Deaderick Early agreed, but with reservations. “Of course, if you boys did that … it’d be another year or two at soonest before you had something working. No, this is our best bet for ending things fast.” He glared down at the map as if he’d rather be looking at something else. “We’ve had trouble enough convincing those damn fools we know our heads from a hole in the ground. But we’ll show them. Once they get a look at the firepower on this thing, and they watch it in action … once they see what it can do…” His voice trailed off, then returned again, stronger. “At any rate, Port Sulphur. That’s the closest dock to Barataria, so it stands to reason that that’s where they diverted traffic. Do you think they’re still doing it? Guiding people away from the big island?”

Deaderick said, “Probably not. They didn’t find the ship and they’ve sent their extra men home, so my guess is that they’ve mostly lost interest in what goes on over there.”

“I don’t like to work on guesses.” Cly frowned. “But it looks like we’re stuck between a number of uncertainties. The forts will be dangerous to sneak past. The canal at Port Sulphur might be safer, but it might be crawling with Texians.”

Deaderick folded his arms, wincing as his shoulder shifted. “Might be, but I doubt it. Last word in from the city has it that there’s just a residual force on staff at the bay, cleaning up and sorting out what’s worth keeping and what’s not.”

“You think they’ll set up a post there? A fort or something, where the pirates used to camp?” Troost asked.

“Maybe. Or maybe they’ll scavenge for anything they can make use of, and let the place fall to ruin.”

Cly shook his head. “It won’t fall to ruin. The pirates will take it back. That’s their hometown, their home nation. The only place they have with any history to it. They’ll be back for it.”

“You say that like you’ve given it some thought yourself,” said Norman Somers, who was back to assist with the big trucks and the winch that would send the Ganymede swinging over into the river. “I’d be pleased to help you, if it means one less square of Louisiana that Texas gets to keep.”

“Can’t say it didn’t occur to me. Can’t say I wouldn’t like to see it happen.”

Kirby Troost stuck a match in his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. “There’s no time like the present, if you want it back. Or that’s the word in the sky.”

“How would you know?” asked Rucker.

“I got ears all over the place, that’s how. Pirates are going to grab for it, pretty soon.”

“Who?” Cly asked, interested against his better judgment. “Somebody arranging an operation?”

“Supposedly Henry Shanks is leading point, or that’s how it’s falling into place. He’s got One-Eye Chuck Waverly coming in from the Atlantic coast, and Jimmy Garcia swinging up from the Yucatán. Rumor has it even Sweet Bang Lee is interested in raising some hell. He’s on his way from California with Brigadier Betty and their son.”

The captain breathed, “Jesus Christ Almighty. That’s one hell of a crowd. Ol’ Hank Shanks is in the lead, is he?”

“That’s what they’re saying.”

“I can’t imagine anyone else so big that others would follow him. Nobody but Lafitte, and he’s dead — and so are half his grandchildren, or rotting in jail.”

Deaderick uncrossed his arms and scratched at a sore spot where a bullet wound was healing, and itching. “I’d like to see the pirates reestablish themselves, myself. They took better care of me than they had to, when I was tore up during the raid. But fellows, I believe the conversation has gotten off course again.”

Cly said, “You’re right, you’re right.” Then he rattled off the coordinates they’d agreed to — the ones about twenty miles into the Gulf, where Admiral Herman Partridge was waiting on the warship Valiant … until morning, and no longer.

“How long do you think this will take?” Houjin asked. “It’s a long way, isn’t it? How far are we going?”

“All told? Sixty, maybe seventy miles. And you’ll be right behind us with more fuel, won’t you?” he asked Deaderick and Rucker.

“Right on top of you,” Rucker confirmed. “Literally, sometimes. We’re sneaking the diesel in sealed tubs covered in shrimping nets. And we’ve got a hose all strapped up and ready to deploy.”

“But we can’t do it while you’re underwater. You’ll have to break surface for us to refuel you. That’ll be the most dangerous part,” Deaderick said with deepening seriousness. “One of the things we’re hoping to change on future models of this thing — is we’d like to see it take on more fuel without breaching.”

“I sure as hell hope they do keep us around, so we can make some suggestions on those future models,” piped up Wallace Mumler, who’d been leaning against a wall and smoking quietly as the conversation carried on.

Chester Fishwick, who’d come in late but now stood beside Wallace, agreed. “I’d like the chance to work on the ships they’ll build after this one. I’m all full up on ideas — ways they could make it better. Ways it could run cleaner, and longer.”

Cly lifted his head to direct his next question at the pair of them. “Speaking of running longer, how far can we expect to get on one full tank?”

No one answered right away, but Chester took a stab at a reply. “Twenty-five or thirty miles, or that’s our best guess. It’s hard to say, once you’re out in the current. It’ll help you, but we don’t know how much. Maybe the river will take you an extra mile; maybe she’ll take you an extra ten. Keep your eye on the fuel gauge, that’s my advice. And give us a signal before you’re ready for more — when you’re down to a couple miles’ worth of juice, we’ll find a spot for you to pull aside real quiet and give you another dose.”

“Got it.”

Once more they went over the plan, working in the new particulars — a decided-upon detour at Port Sulphur, establishing estimated stopping points where refueling might be easiest, and alternative possibilities in case of Texians or Rebs. And when it all was pinned down at last, the smallest detail confirmed, all the men took deep breaths and stood up straight. They cracked their backs and their necks, stiff from having leaned over too long, staring at the assortment of maps.

They stretched their legs and gazed anxiously at the canvas-covered lump of the Ganymede.

Then Norman Somers and Rucker Little climbed into the big driving machines and started the engines. Deaderick Early and Wallace Mumler opened the double doors at the back side of the warehouse, while the remaining members of the party, except for Cly and his crew, went to stations outside to look out for the trouble that everyone secretly expected.

But none came.

Intermittent whistles like birdcalls — prearranged for meaning — chirped through the now-full night, declaring that all was clear and the time was now.

Hurry. Move it. Out of the warehouse.

Down to the water, where the big winch waited, having been moved from the bayou to the edge of the river.… There, it had been concealed with saw grass and reeds, and a tuft of false tree canopy that disguised it at a distance.

Such a disguise was the best they could do. If anyone got close, the illusion would not hold. It could never hide something so large, and so strange. The whole assortment of nervous men prayed that anyone who took more than a second look would assume it was be overgrown dock equipment, left over from the days when people more regularly fished, and fixed boats, and moved cargo from the small bend called New Sarpy.

First gear was always the hardest when towing something so huge and heavy. The trucks strained against their load, and strained to pull together in perfect time like a pair of mechanical oxen. They moved, crawling inches at a time, but gaining traction and turf; and the conjoined platforms that moved the craft hauled it forward.

Now the watchers kept their eyes peeled even harder. They scanned using spyglasses that could tell them only so much in the darkness — but alerted them to lanterns, lights, and pedestrians out on the main road. They peered and squinted in every direction, calling soft hoots and the croaks of frogs that all was clear.

Do it now. Get it out of sight. Get it to the winch.

Only a few yards separated the warehouse exit from the camouflaged winch, so it took only minutes to move Ganymede from one stopping point to the next. It took only a few terrified clicks of Wallace Mumler’s watch for the craft to be affixed to the hooks at the top of the winch, and a few more for the dark-clothed men to move like shadows performing a dance, hitching the craft and swinging it over the water on a long, straining arm that could scarcely hold its weight.

Its bottom hit the water with a splash that sloshed a wave onto shore, soaking the legs of the men who stood nearby. They’d picked this place partly because there, the river was deeper than it looked, and would be an easy spot to launch from.

While the winch adjusted its position, the men who weren’t directly operating it went scampering along the banks, removing vegetation to reveal small engine-powered boats. They were the boats of poor people, half-cobbled things held together with pitch and elbow grease, and a dab of spit. They were boats no one would look at twice, for the river was crowded with them — mostly run by older men who took to the water in search of night-blind food, or lazy companionship, toting their nets, poles, and shellfish traps.

The men in the dinghies got bored enough that they served as a network of sorts, passing gossip and news back and forth across the water almost as swiftly as the taps could carry it. They were spies of another sort, watching the world for signs of change or progress. For a few pence in the palm, they’d help the rum-runners or the blight smugglers, the cargo handlers and the crawdad scrapers.

But not the Texians.

Not one of the boatmen would’ve lifted a finger to share gossip with the occupiers, and the handful of men who knew what was passing downriver kept the knowledge to themselves — or spread it to others like themselves, so that the Ganymede and its attendants wouldn’t be bothered.

Which was for the best, because there was no muffling the chains as they clanked and grinded, lowering Ganymede into the water. Everyone listened, terrified and tense, ears alert for warnings called from the watchmen beyond the warehouse. But nothing came, except the hoots and grunts that said all was well, and to continue.

So they did.

And when the ship was more in the water than out of it, the chains were released and it dunked itself, throwing up another sloppy wave. It bobbed, its entry hatch remaining above the waterline, but ducking and leaning, then stabilizing.

Norman Somers and Andan Cly used a pair of hooked poles to latch the craft to a set of pier posts, which had been driven deeply into the mud. These two men, the largest and strongest present, wrestled with the weight of the craft and nearly — for one horrifying cycle of waves slapping and watchers calling “still safe” in their bird cries — let it slip away from them. But they caught it, and hooked it into place as if they were tying an enormous horse to a pair of hitching posts.

Now the ship was more hidden than visible, the bulk of its shape concealed by the shimmering black water.

“The winch,” Deaderick whispered fiercely. “Put it up. Get it away.”

Again the men moved like clockwork, each one to a task, each one knowing exactly where to place each foot, twist each knob, unfasten each support. Soon the winch was teetering, and then it fell into the water, as planned.

Deaderick instructed them in his stern, low voice, “Cover it up. Sink it. Leave it in the mud.”

This happened wordlessly, promptly. Completely. Their success would not be assured until the sun rose again, but it would suffice for now. The lanterns showed nothing beneath the surface but a roiling bubble of silt washed up by the heavy winch settling on the bottom.

It would do.

“Inside,” Deaderick told them. “Hurry.”

Hurry was the word of the hour, and they all obeyed it.

Cly stepped into the river on a small raft that’d been pushed into his path to use as a floating stepping-stone. He straddled the raft and the shore, the remarkable span of his legs stretching the distance. “Fang,” he said.

Fang took Cly’s hand, and, with barely a step upon the captain’s knee, reached the Ganymede’s hatch and opened it — so gently that it did not make even the quietest clank when he set it aside. Immediately behind him came Houjin, moving almost as fast, almost as easily. Fang took the boy’s elbow and tipped him inside, then followed him.

“Troost, your turn.”

“Son of a bitch,” Troost grumbled, adjusting the match in his mouth, taking a deep breath, and lunging for the captain’s outstretched hand. He stumbled, caught himself — and Cly held him up, too, keeping him mostly out of the water — and then he was against the craft, clinging to it. He swung his leg over and crawled down the hatch.

“Early,” Cly called.

When Deaderick walked over, Wallace Mumler objected, saying, “Wait. No. You’re not healed up. Not yet.”

“No one else knows that thing as well as I do. No one else knows it in and out, all the weapons systems and all the bailing systems.”

“I do, almost,” Mumler argued. “And I know the electrics even better than you, I bet.”

“Then you come, too, if you’re willing. The pair of us, me and you — and these fellows. We’ll get it down the river. Norman can take over your pole boat, can’t he? Norman?”

“I can take it, Rick.”

“Good. Take Wally’s pole-craft, and you,” he said to Mumler, “get inside. Come on, if you’re coming.”

Wallace looked at Ganymede, and looked at his leader. “All right, then. Me and you.”

“Go in, get in. You’ll need less help than I will, with me in this shape. Not that it’s as bad as you think,” he added before Mumler could protest any further.

Cly came last. He leaned, stepped off the raft, and stuck to the side of Ganymede, hanging there. Before he climbed in, he looked over at the few assembled men who weren’t on lookout duty, and said, “We’re counting on you fellows, you know that, right? We can’t make this work without you. We’ll drown down here, if you don’t keep us moving.”

Rucker Little, now essentially in charge along with Chester Fishwick, nodded from the bank. “We’re coming. We won’t let you scuttle her by accident, we can promise you that. You do your job; we’ll do ours.”

Cly gave them a nod and a small parting salute as he flipped his leg over the hatch’s round entrance and disappeared down inside it.

He drew the lid shut behind him, settling it as tightly as he could against the seal, then drawing the wheel hard to the right to compress that seal, and lock them all dry inside. As he did so, he felt a strange vacuum settle and he recognized it — he knew it from years of gas masks sucking themselves into position against his face, and from the layers of filters and seals that preserved Seattle’s underground. He knew the feel of it, but here, somehow, it felt more sinister.

In the underground, up above there was only a street — only a city filled with poison air. But that poison air could be cleaned. No one would drown in the street. All it took was a mask to make the city navigable, never mind the rotters and the blinding clots of fog.

But not here.

Not in the water, where once the ship had been lowered, there was nothing above, nothing outside, nothing touching it but the suffocating weight of liquid.

In the previous days, it’d only been practice — only puttering around the lake and learning the controls. This was different. This was the Great Muddy, Old Man River. This was bigger, or at least longer. And maybe deeper, for all Cly knew. Definitely stronger, moving with its unrelenting current from somewhere up North to somewhere beyond the delta, meeting the ocean west of Florida.

He ducked down into the main body of the interior, where red, orange, and small gold lights flickered, brightening the interior, but not much. The dimness was necessary, for two reasons.

First, no one wanted any other craft to take notice of an odd glowing presence beneath the murky waves. And second, if the interior was too bright, the windows would be useless. It was very dark beyond the six-inch-thick glass, but with a small row of encouraging sunset-colored lights mounted externally beneath the watershield — beaming like a tentative smile — it was possible to spy the largest obstacles without being spotted from above.

They hoped.

They’d tested it out after dark on Pontchartrain, but the results had been inconclusive. The ship’s visibility depended on too many things — how many other craft were present, what other lights were bouncing, reflecting, shimmering on the surface. They all quietly prayed, or wished, or crossed their fingers inside their pockets … taking it on fervent faith that the small fleet of pontoons, airboats, and skiffs above could hide them.

“How’s it looking?” Cly asked, taking a sweeping assessment of the room.

Fang signed with one hand: All ready.

Deaderick Early was standing by the window, looking out into the swirling mud and dark, dirty water. Without turning around, he said, “We’re as ready as we’ll ever be.”

Cly said, “Then everyone needs to buckle down, if you can. We’re pushing out into the water, and we don’t know how hard the current’s going to take us. Early? I might recommend that you take a seat there at the window, so you can still serve as underwater lookout. We’re running low on chairs at the moment, but you’ve got handholds there.”

Wallace Mumler sighed. “Just one more thing we’d like to improve in future models. We don’t need for it to be a luxury steamship in here, or anything like that. But it’d be nice to have extra sitting room for the occasional passenger.”

Deaderick said, “Agreed, but for now, we’ll work with what we’ve got. Wally, make yourself at home by the low right port, will you?”

“Already on it, sir.”

A series of taps on Ganymede’s dome sent the message that the folks up top were ready to serve as guides, this crew of Charon’s helpmates, paddling, pulling, tapping, and running small diesel motors that sounded awfully loud, but weren’t, in the grand scheme of the river’s mumblings. Up above, Cly could hear them starting, one by one. The low putter of the motors and the screw propellers from the two or three antique steam engines designed in miniature … these noises filtered inside, and in the submarine’s belly it all echoed, muted and muffled.

“Turn down the lights as far as you can — but not so far that they won’t do us any good,” the captain ordered. Houjin went to one concave wall and threw one set of switches; Wallace Mumler reached up and grabbed the other set. With the flickering fizz of electrics dimming, the interior dropped to a low, golden glow.

The men in their chairs were shapes and shadows, man-sized cutouts of utter black in the charcoal gray of this scene, offset against the wide, bulbous windows that gazed out into the darkness of the river’s underside. But from under the window, the smiling lights glowed, struggling hard against the silt to provide some guide, some illumination.

Morse code taps bounced down from above.

“They can see the lights,” Deaderick said.

“Yeah, I heard it,” Cly acknowledged. “But we’re not all the way under yet. We’ll shove off and get some depth, and maybe they won’t be quite so clear. That’s what I’m hoping, anyway.”

More taps. A quickly sent word of readiness.

Cly took his own seat and strapped himself down. “Engines up, Fang — don’t burn the bottom propeller; we’re still right up against the shore and I don’t want to screw us into the bank. Use the side thrusters above the charge bays. All we need is a nudge.”

Fang nodded, and his fingers flew across the levers with their knobs and buttons so faintly alight that they could barely be described as such. A hum rose up, accompanied by a curtain of bubbles that brushed by the edges of the huge forward windows.

“They aren’t synched,” Cly reminded him. The side thrusters were made to steer, not propel. There was no mechanism to make them fire in time with one another.

Fang didn’t nod this time. He didn’t need to. He needed only to lean his wrists forward, perfectly in tandem, and with a tiny lurch, Ganymede pulled itself away from the bank, away from the sunken winch, and away from the improvised dock at New Sarpy.

Slowly at first, the ship crawled forward. Then, as soon as the riverbed had dropped away before them, Cly positioned his feet on the depth pump pedals and began the nerve-racking work of letting the craft drop, inch by inch, deeper into the river. At the top of the wide forward windows, a small seam of water sloshed outside, at the level where the craft’s crown hit surface. This jiggling seam of inky water crept higher and higher, until it was gone.

And at last Ganymede dropped below the waves with one gigantic slurp.

They were in the river. There was no air except what they had in the compartment, and what would be pumped down every so often to cycle what they breathed.

It made Cly’s skin crawl, and Kirby Troost’s, too — the captain could see it when he glanced over at the engineer. Troost looked queasy. One arm over his stomach. One hand over the weakly illuminated dial that showed how far down they’d come, and how much farther they could reasonably go.

Houjin, on the other hand, was vibrating with excitement. They’d stationed him at the mirrorscope he’d liked so much upon first encounter; now it was his job to stay there and report what was coming and going whenever it was safe to leave the tube up in the open air. He turned it side to side, a voyeur to adventure, and the metal tube’s joints squeaked despite their fresh greasing.

“What do you see?” Troost asked the boy.

“The other boats — the little ones, the rafts and skimmers. They’re moving into place and coming up behind us. Ooh! Norman sees me looking at him! He’s waving us forward.… He wants us to pull ahead.”

“Is there anything or anyone in front of us?”

“No, sir, and I’ll say so, if I see something.”

“Then here goes,” he breathed, and he engaged the back propeller screws. Slowly he toggled their controls. The hum of the engines was not quite loud in their ears, but it felt very close all the same. “Everyone hang on. We’re headed into the current.”

He gritted his teeth, not knowing what to expect. It might be easy as a cloudless day, or it might be bad as a hailstorm.

The ensuing jolt was a little of both.

Ganymede bobbed forward and was caught very quickly in a full-surface tug as the Mississippi River got a grip on the craft and hurled it forward. The ship swayed, forcing everyone to take hold of whatever handles they could find; Houjin’s feet slid out from under him, leaving him hanging by the crook of his elbows from the scope.

But Fang’s expert handling of the thrusters soon had the ship aimed steadily downriver, resisting the left and right yanks of the underwater pathways surging beneath the surface, so that it only twitched back and forth instead of swinging out of control.

“This isn’t like the lake,” Cly complained, wrestling with the foot pedals. “And it ain’t like flying.”

Kirby Troost, now fully green around the gills, said, “Bullshit, sir. It’s the same thing as flying; you just have to find a current and ride it.”

“But the currents are all over the place!” he declared. “And I can’t see a goddamn thing.…”

“Can’t up in the sky, either. Find the flow and hold it.”

“I’m trying, all right?”

Ganymede dropped precipitously, and bounced up again. Troost said, “Goddamn,” and clutched at his mouth.

“Hang in there, Kirby. Hang in there, everybody. I’ll find it.” He fought with the controls, watching out the forward windows that told him almost nothing about where they were going, or even what direction he was headed. He could feel the river shoving at his back, so he could assume they were headed east and south, since that was the curve and flow of the Mississippi from where they started. “Troost?”

Ominously, he burped. “East-southeast, sir.”

“Fang, you’re doing great. Keep us from spinning, and I’ll get us level,” he vowed.

Houjin was once more standing upright, and now he was braced that way with his legs locked. “The bayou boys are catching up to us, sir. They lost us for a minute. We caught a drag,” he said, using the slang he’d picked up overnight. “Can you slow down any?”

“Nope.”

“Can you … I keep losing the view,” he warned. “Every time we dip under. I can’t adjust this thing in time to keep it steady.”

“Not your fault. I’m the one making trouble over here.”

“No,” Deaderick corrected. “It’s the river. She’s fighting you. Fight her back, and hold her off.”

“I’m working on it.”

Andan Cly closed his eyes. Looking out through the window into the swirling, sediment-packed void wasn’t doing him any good, and the dim red lights of the ship’s interior told him only where to put his hands and feet — which he knew already. His hands were primed on the levers. His feet were propped against the pedals that would expel water or draw it into the tanks, changing the underwater “altitude.”

Or whatever it was called, there below the waves.

For half a minute he was breathless, considering and reconsidering how absurd this situation was — how impossible, and how bizarre it had become. But in the next half minute, he calmed as he sat there, holding fast to the instruments and feeling the water moving around Ganymede—pulling and pushing, urging and demanding, crushing and jostling — and some deep instinct told him not to worry.

It’s only water, he told himself. Only a storm. As above, so below.

He let instinct move his arms and guide his feet, and he told himself it was only the thrusting power of a hurricane — water below, moving no differently from the air above. It wasn’t quite true: the tug was different; the force was different. The weight of the craft was different, too, and it handled more slowly, more heavily.

But it handled. It worked. And soon the craft was stable.

Cly opened his eyes and gazed out through that near-useless window, and saw that Deaderick was standing now, blocking part of the view by looking out into the shimmering, brown-black panorama. In silence, the whole crew stared as the whirling waters went streaking ahead in curls and coils. Fish pirouetted past, their gleaming silver and gray bodies standing out like a flicker of gas lamps as seen from above a city. River-borne driftwood crashed along, smacking the metal exterior, cracking against the window, and spiraling away.

They were within the abyss, and it carried them.

But it did not dash them to bits like the driftwood, or hurl them beyond their abilities.

Houjin whispered, as the moment called for whispering. “Captain, Norman Somers and Rucker Little are caught up, and the other craft are fanning out. They’re giving us the signal. They’re telling us to go forward.”

“Forward. Sure. Here we go. Hey, Mumler, refresh my memory — what’s our first refueling stop?”

“We’re stopping at Jackson Avenue, near the Quarter, but not right on top of it. There’s a ferry stop where we’ve got enough friends to be left alone and we can still dock without any problems. We’d pick up Josephine closer to home, except we don’t want to run into any of the zombis.”

“Zombis?” Houjin asked, peeking his head around the side of the visor.

“I’ll fill you in later,” Cly promised him. “All right, let’s go. We know the general course, but not the particulars. Mumler, you’re on point. Stick with Kirby; he’s got the instruments to tell us where we are, and you’ve got the know-how to tell us where to go. Me and Fang will keep this thing as steady as we can. Huey, you’re our eyes above the water. Tell me if we get out of range, or if we outpace our escorts. And someone’s gotta listen for their taps. Kirby?”

“I’ll keep my ears peeled for ’em,” he said. Troost was the fastest and best at understanding Morse, so it became his job to listen — in addition to the rest of his duties. If indeed he could listen as he wrestled with his digestive situation.

“Good man, Troost. And good on you, keeping everything inside. You’ll get your sea legs soon enough. Mumler, what about our air supply? How are we looking?”

“Fine for now,” Wallace told him. “We won’t need to worry about circulating it for another half hour.”

“Somebody keep an eye on a clock.”

Mumler said, “That’ll be me. I’ve got my dad’s watch. It’s as precise as any nautical piece.”

“It’d better be. By the time we know we have a problem, it’ll be too late — that’s what Rucker said.”

“And he’s right. But we could go closer to an hour without having to worry about it.”

“Glad to hear it,” the captain said. He flinched as a submerged tree trunk careened toward the window, hit it, and ricocheted away. “Jesus.”

“The window will hold,” promised Mumler. “Don’t worry about that. Just keep us moving.”

Cly urged the pedals in accordance with the flow, his hands on the levers to manage their rise and fall; Fang worked the other set of controls, the ones that moved the ship from side to side. Between them, Ganymede’s trip downriver was not smooth or even graceful, but it was steady, and they neither sank too far nor rose too high.

Out of the corner of Cly’s eye, he watched his engineer go green around the gills, and prayed the man wouldn’t vomit … even as he was forced to admit that the submarine was giving them one hell of a wild ride. “Troost?” he called.

“Yes … Captain?”

“You still with us over there?”

“Still here, sir. Hey, Mumler, Early — I’ve got an idea for an improvement, for the next model.”

Deaderick asked, “What would that be?”

“Buckets.”

“Huey,” said the captain. “How’s our escort?”

“Sticking with us, sir. Some of them better than others. The little boats with the little motors are doing best, them and the ones with the big fans.”

“Those guys have poles, don’t they?”

“They do, Captain. But in this current, with all this movement … I don’t know. I hope they can keep up.”

Cly said, “When we stop at — what was that, Jackson Street? — to pick up Josephine and whoever she brings along, we can have a quick conference with the topside men and see how they’re doing.”

The Ganymede continued half-carried, half-piloted farther down the wide, muddy ribbon of river. Mostly she stayed away from debris, and mostly they stayed satisfactorily submerged, bobbing above the surface only once, and then diving again immediately. No one saw them, though, or if anyone did, no one knew what it was, and no one was alarmed.

Before long — and much sooner than Cly had expected — a loud series of taps on Ganymede’s top announced that the time had come to begin angling for the shore, for the hidden dock at Fort Jackson.

“Make for the north bank,” Mumler said, and he called out some directional specifics.

“I’m on it,” Cly told him. “Fang?”

Fang nodded.

“All right. Here we go. Let’s see how well this thing steers when we’re not quite running with the current, eh?”

As it turned out, Ganymede steered with no great ease — but she responded sufficiently to allow Cly to bring the craft up against the dock with a lot of swearing, a few faltering attempts, and finally, success that broke only one pier piling and splintered a second one. The whole crew considered it a victory that no one had died and no one onshore had been knocked into the river.

As the men outside tethered the vehicle into position, everyone within exhaled deep breaths and stood. An all-clear sounded above, and Houjin scrambled up the ladder to open the hatch. “Hi!” he announced.

“Hi!” responded Rucker Little. “Everyone all right down there?”

“Everybody’s fine,” Deaderick said in a voice just louder than the one he usually used for speaking. This was not the time to shout.

“How’d it go?” Rucker asked, leaning his head inside past Houjin to take a look around.

Kirby Troost said, “It went. And I’ve got to go, too, just for a minute. Pardon me,” he added, leaving his seat and heading up the ladder. Houjin hopped out of the way, and Rucker retreated to let the engineer exit.

The sounds of retching barely penetrated Ganymede’s hull. The gags and heaves were followed by splashes, and no one complained, because Troost throwing up in the river was better than Troost throwing up while they were all trapped inside a sealed compartment with him.

Deaderick went to the ladder and said up the hatch, “While we’re stopped, we’ll deploy the hose and circulate the air.”

“Damn right we will,” Cly mumbled. “Fang, get on that, will you?”

Fang stepped to the panel console and released a latch to drop the hose. When a lever was cranked, the hose was pushed through a channel in the hull until it breached the surface.

“I see it,” Rucker Little announced. “We’ll get it and stick it up firm. Start the generator, and we’ll let it run.”

“How long will it take?” Cly asked.

“Not long,” Deaderick vowed. “We can process everything inside in about two or three minutes, if everything’s up to full power.”

“Andan?” asked a new voice.

“Josie, that you?”

“It’s me, yes.” Her face appeared in the open hatch hole. “There you are. Is everything running all right? Everyone … everyone doing all right? Other than Troost, I mean. I saw him already.”

“Everyone’s fine. Everything’s fine. What about you, up there?”

“Things have gotten messy out at Barataria, but I think it’ll be good for us. Texas will be distracted, and maybe the Confederacy, too.”

“Barataria?” he seized on the word, without yet mentioning that they’d agreed to cut toward the canals in order to dodge the Confederate forts. He also did not mention that the canals would take them close to the bay, and close to any messiness that might be going on.

“You heard me,” she said. Then she ordered, “Make way.”

“What?”

“Get out of my way, Andan. I’m coming down, and I won’t have you looking up while I’m doing it.”

He almost mumbled something to the effect of, Nothing I ain’t seen before, but he came to his senses before anything escaped his mouth. Instead he got out of the way as commanded, and stood aside while she descended into the cabin.

“My goodness. Rather warm in here, isn’t it?”

“Rather,” he agreed, even though he hadn’t noticed until she’d pointed it out. “What are you doing in here, huh?”

“Riding along. I’m no good to the men up top; they have enough polers and boatmen. I’ll only attract attention that no one wants, so I’m riding down here with you fellows.”

“What I mean is why are you riding along at all? I don’t get it, Josie. Why don’t you stay home where it’s warm and dry and … safe?”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Practically answered your own question, there, didn’t you?” Then she sighed, and said, “I’ve worked entirely too hard these last few months, planning and plotting, and buying every favor I can scare up to get this damn thing out to the admiral. I’m not going to sit someplace warm and dry and safe while the last of the work gets done. I intend to hand this craft over myself, and shake the admiral’s hand when I do so. This was my operation, Andan. Mine. And I’ll see it through to the finish.”

A million arguments rose in Cly’s mind, but he knew better than to voice any of them. Ignoring all the obvious reasons she ought to stay where she belonged, he said, “All right, then. But you’ll have to fight Rick and Wally for a seat. Seats are few and far between on this bird. I mean, this fish.”

“I know, and I don’t mind.”

“Suit yourself.”

“I always do.”

“I know,” he said almost crossly. “Just stay out of the way. And don’t forget, I’m in charge. If you’re in my ship, you follow orders.”

“I gave you this ship. Or I got you into it, at any rate.”

“But you hired me to pilot it, and if I’m the pilot, I’m in command.”

“No one’s arguing with you, dear.”

Houjin was back at the hatch, delivering a blow-by-blow of what was going on up top. “The hose is sticking out next to the scope. It’s pretty quiet, but it’s sucking down the air. Can you feel it over there?” he asked in the general direction of the vehicle’s far right end.

Wallace Mumler wasn’t standing there anymore, so he shrugged. Josephine approached it and waved her hand around the vents beside the unlatched hiding spot where the tube was unspooled. She declared, “I can feel it. It’s blowing just fine. Plenty of air’s coming in, and since the hatch is open, I can assume we don’t need to vent anything.”

Mumler told her, “No, ma’am. The level’s holding fine — and we aren’t moving up or down, so all’s well from that end. Give it another minute or two, and we’ll head back out.”

“Josie, you said something about Barataria. What’s going on over there?” he asked. He had an idea, but he wanted to hear something certain. Had it already begun? Had Hank Shanks launched an offensive so quickly — taken it from rumor to action in the span of a few hours?

“Pirates,” she confirmed his hopes. “A bunch of them, swarming like bees who’ve had a rock thrown at their hive. They’ve mounted a rally, and they’re raising hell. Maybe they can’t take back the whole bay, but they’re bound and determined to reclaim the big island.”

“Glad to hear it!” he said with more enthusiasm than he’d meant to.

“Don’t get too excited on their behalf just yet. Word out in the Quarter says they’ve bitten off more than they can chew.”

He frowned. “Really? You don’t think they can take it back?”

“I don’t have any idea. I know precious little about the bay these days, or the people who inhabit it. Besides, there’s a curfew — hadn’t you heard? The chain of gossip would run a little smoother if the goddamn Texians hadn’t been shutting down the Quarter.” As she said the part about the goddamn Texians, a strange look crossed her face. Like she was reconsidering something, or reevaluating it. But she continued, “The important thing is, it’s good news for us.”

“You think?”

“The Rebs at the forts will almost certainly head out to help Texas, so the way downriver will be clearer than it might have been otherwise. Fewer eyes watching, and even if anyone sees us, it’ll take them half of forever to recall their forces. We’ll be in the middle of the Gulf by the time they can rally any response.”

Cly turned away from her, revisiting his seat at the captain’s chair. “This is all worth knowing, but there’s been a change of plans. We’re stopping at one of the canals. We’re cutting through it down to the…” He trailed off.

Fang shot Cly a look that no one on earth but the captain could’ve read. The look was fleshed out by a smattering of signing. You’d better lie to her.

And until that moment, Cly hadn’t even realized that this had been his plan all along. It was as if he’d been deluding himself so successfully that the truth hadn’t dawned on him until he was confronted with adjusting it. But this had been the plan, hadn’t it? Ever since he’d first heard that the bay had been taken, and that his fellow unlicensed tradesmen were planning to take it back.

Fang didn’t blink, and didn’t look away.

Cly returned his attention to Josephine and said, a bit too brightly, “Anyway, plans are made to be adjusted, aren’t they? We’ll work it out as we get farther downriver. We’ll have to stop in the canal’s general vicinity to top off our air and fuel supply, anyway. From there, we’ll see how it goes.”

“Andan, I don’t like—”

He interrupted before she could go on fretting about protocol. “We’re sitting inside an advanced military machine like nothing the world has ever known. This thing is armored from top to bottom, and it’s armed to start a war, or stop one. This is just a detour. Nothing’s going to slow us down.”

She frowned and gently bit her lower lip, an old habit of hers that Cly had forgotten until he watched her do it again. It made her look younger, or maybe it only reminded him of when they both were young. “If you understood exactly what I’d risked, what I’d compromised to bring this about—”

“It wouldn’t change a thing,” he assured her. “You did such a great job that the rest of this will be smooth sailing. The hard part’s already out of the way.” He approached her and put his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to look up at him.

She did, and she told him, “Maybe you’re right, but we won’t know until it’s over and we’re on board the Valiant. But I hope we get to stand on that deck, so I can turn to you and tell you that you were right all along. Just get us there, Andan. Get this craft to the Gulf. I don’t care what it takes, and we are not taking the canal.”

“Stop worrying.” He might’ve said more, but Troost came back down the hatch. Shortly behind him came Deaderick Early, moving slowly but resolutely.

Josephine extricated herself from the almost-embrace and went to her brother, about whom she was still allowed to worry. “Rick, you’re not looking well.”

“I’m getting stiff as I heal up, that’s all. You worry too much.”

Cly let out a laugh that sounded like a cough, and changed the subject before she could accuse them of ganging up on her. “Everyone get back to your places. Josephine, find someplace where you can hold on — this thing jumps and dives like an otter. Someone turn off that generator, if we have the air to keep us alert and alive for the next run?”

“All right,” Troost said. He looked less ill, but still not altogether well. He went to the generator switch and turned it off, then pulled the lever to retract the air circulation hose. “Where’s Mumler?” he asked.

“Right here,” Mumler announced himself as he came down the ladder. “Is this everyone?”

“Looks like it,” Cly confirmed.

“Then I’ll close up the hatch and call us ready to set sail. Or set screws, or start charges, or whatever this thing does. Goddamn,” he grunted, as he turned the wheel to seal them all inside. “They’ll need to invent a whole new lingo for boats like this.”

Josephine stood in front of the window beside her brother. She appeared to be transfixed by the scenery, dark, swirling, and largely undecipherable though it was. “I’m sure sailors the world over will be up to the task. Or airmen,” she amended the sentiment, flashing Cly a look of honest gratitude that gave him a pang of guilt.

He already knew that this wasn’t about to go as smoothly as she’d hoped. He didn’t have any intention of telling her while there was still some trouble she could make about it, and he didn’t yet know how Deaderick or Mumler would handle the news that their detour at the canal would be more extensive than expected, so he didn’t say anything about it yet.

For the moment, though, he didn’t have to. He only had to get Ganymede back into the river and as far as the canal. What he’d told Josephine off the top of his head was correct: It couldn’t go much farther than the canal without needing its air circulated anyway, so it was a good excuse to pull over when the right place was located.

When all was in order once more, the craft shoved off, its propulsion screws churning at the rear, and the ballasting fins and pumps all working in accordance with the hands and feet of Cly and Fang. Troost called out degrees and directions, helping to adjust their course. Mumler kept an eye on his watch, Houjin kept his eyes plastered to the visor scope, and Josephine kept an eye on her brother — who watched his own reflection in the window, since there was little to be seen on the other side of it except for the black vortex of the river at night.

This time the launch was easier, and better controlled. Ganymede dipped hard only once, and swung left to right like a dog shaking its head for only a few seconds before Fang was able to steady it.

Josephine gasped and clutched at the wall, then sat down along it, only to stand again when the peril was past.

“It was worse the first time,” Troost assured her. A small burp escaped his lips, but whatever else was tempted to come up stayed down.

“You’ve got it under control now, though, don’t you?” Anxiously she regarded Cly, who nodded and cocked his head toward Fang, who did the same.

“Don’t worry about it, Miss Josephine!” Houjin chirped. “They’re getting the hang of it!”

In approximately half an hour, much to Cly’s relief on several levels, the offshoot to the canal came within spotting distance on Houjin’s scope. He announced, “Port Sulphur is dead ahead, up on the right.”

“Veer eight degrees south,” Troost called.

As if she already suspected something was amiss, Josephine said, “Wait. But we decided we weren’t taking the canal. There’s too much trouble out at the bay. We’d already decided.”

Cly almost fell into a very old pattern of explaining that we had not decided anything; she had decided something, and that was not the same as a consensus. But he didn’t. Instead he said, “We have to run the air tube up, Josie. May as well pull over where it’s safe, or safer than any old spot along the river.”

A series of taps up topside announced that their escorts either hadn’t gotten the message about Josephine’s decision, or they were prepared to ignore it in favor of a good docking spot. Either way, the tapping against the hull by the poling boaters backed up Cly’s assertion that they were, in fact, stopping.

“I don’t like this,” she said.

“Sorry. But I like having fresh air to breathe, and the rest of these fellows do, too. We’re stopping, Josie. We’re putting up the air hose, and we’re freshening up, and then we’re headed back out again. I’ll get you to the Gulf, I swear to God. But you’re going to have to trust me, just this once.”