Andrew Stewart - We Shall Sing a Song into the Deep

No word for a moment. “Peace, then.”

She should sound happier than she does. “Isn’t that a good thing?” I ask. “Isn’t that what the world has been waiting for?”

“Yes, of course. But peace on equal terms. If Australia gives in, rolls over, then the Liánméng will be the world’s superpower. Communists.” She coughs again. “This air tastes bad.”

“We’ll have to surface soon,” I say.

“It won’t be soon enough. This CO 2buildup is getting poisonous,” she says. I think she must be lying down, by the sleepiness in her voice.

“I think I should get rid of the key,” I say, feeling the hard metal pressing into my chest. “As long as I have it, the caplain could still get his hands on it.”

“No,” she says sharply. “No, don’t do that.”

“But even if we survive until we get to the launch location, what if our plan fails?” I ask. “What if we can’t take the engine room?”

“Then you keep it in order to trade your life for it.”

Or Lazlo’s.

“It’s more valuable than you, than me, than anyone else to Marston. Let him launch.”

“But… what about Sydney?” I ask.

“I’ve almost fixed the missile—it will launch, but I’ve found a way to reprogram the targeting computer. Even if Marston does get the key, the missile will launch into the sea. The middle of nowhere. Where it can’t hurt anyone. No, that key is power, Remy. You keep it. Don’t let anything happen to it until we’re safely off this boat.”

“Assuming we survive this—that we make it to the Arafura Sea, and the enemy hasn’t tracked us…”

Silence. No comforting word.

“Do you think the Coalition will be there? That they even heard us?” I ask.

“They received the message,” Adolphine says. “But they might not make it in time. Might not be any ships in the area. Should be two days until we reach it now. Maybe three, once we’re under way again.”

“I heard Brother Roberts say we’re just west of New Caledonia.”

“Okay, that’s two days away from our launch location, based on the Leviathan ’s pace.”

Two.

Two more days.

“Remy,” Adolphine says, her tone one of caution now. “If the plan doesn’t work, like you said… if we can’t force the boat to surface, I’d like for you to promise me that you’ll try to escape. Regardless.”

“How…”

“If we’re close enough to the surface, you can ditch… escape through the trunk. Did you ever train on that? Most submariners have.”

“No. But… Brother Calvert told me about it.”

Ditching. Swimming out from the cold depths. That darkness. It puts a chill in me, just thinking about it.

“But it won’t come to that,” I say.

“Like you said, we might not be able to take the engine room, or something… something might just go wrong. Just… survive, okay, Remy? Try.”

Her tone makes me feel worse, not better.

“Promise me?” Adolphine presses.

“Okay… I promise. But I’m not going without Lazlo…”

“Look out for yourself, girl!” Adolphine hisses, almost angry. “Would he risk his life for you?”

“I know he would,” I respond, equally as sharp.

This silences her for a time. I hear her labored breathing.

“I’m sorry,” she finally says. “I am tired. They aren’t letting me sleep.”

“I… I understand.”

The boat groans suddenly. The bilge water sloshes past my feet, toward aft.

“We’re rising,” I whisper, heart lurching.

“Thank goodness,” Adolphine sighs. “Air.”

“I should go. I’ll try to come back soon,” I say. “But I think I’m being watched…”

“Then don’t risk it. Follow the plan. You’ll know when it’s time to come for me. When we surface again. When we arrive at the launch location. Two days.”

“Yes, two days,” I say, my hand reaching for the hard piece of metal still tucked in my bindings, pressed against my chest.

Between my own collection, and Lazlo’s and Caleb’s, I count forty-six teeth in total, spread out on my bunk. Molars and eye teeth and incisors. Some yellowed, some pipped, but most clean, cream-colored. I wonder if anyone else has gathered so many. I sweep them into a darned wool sock, and, by wicklight, when others are bunked down for second sleep, I write my message with lampblack ink on the very last of the sheaves of scrap parchment Caplain Amita gave to me.

Lazlo,

You were right. About everything. Caplain will try to launch the Last Judgment soon, but we have a plan to stop it. We will need your help. In two days, be ready.

I hesitate a moment over the next words. Only a moment.

I love you,

R.

Simple. I can’t give away too much. Almost none of the younger brothers can read, but should an elder get hold of it, at least they won’t know too much of the plan.

If found, I would certainly be in trouble. Marston would know that it was I sending the message.

Yet, no matter the risk, no matter what Adolphine says, it’s important that Lazlo know something of what is about to happen. She doesn’t trust him. She doesn’t know him.

I do.

After the afternoon meal, I find Brother Dormer heading to the fan room. That’s where I corner him, when St. John and the other brothers are nowhere to be seen.

He’s about to protest, when his eyes widen at the pouch I’m carrying.

Even more surprised when I place it directly into his large hands.

He bounces it, hears the rattle.

In the speechlessness that follows, I lean in.

“Inside is something I need for you to give to Lazlo. A folded-up bit of parchment. Don’t let anyone else see it. Don’t talk about it with anyone. Just give it to him.”

Brother Dormer looks positively torn—such a bounty in his palm. He opens the sock and begins to inspect. “I couldn’t…”

He stammers.

I see images of extra helpings of stew, of sweet cake, should there ever be sweet cake again, swim in his eyes. “What does it say?” he asks. “This message.”

“It says that I hope he is okay… that I miss him,” I say.

He nods, silently, weighing the teeth in his hand against his morality.

“Just make sure he gets it, and I’ll give you any teeth I get traded for as long as I live,” I say.

He cracks half a smile. Less teeth than anyone on board, Brother Dormer. Black gaps broken with yellow and brown borders. “We in’t going to be living that much longer, yeah?”

His voice carries no humor. If anything, it is fear. Uncertainty, at least. The same uncertainty that presses down upon all of us.

Perhaps it’s that we survived the last attack when so many thought we wouldn’t.

Some stroke of real humanity, coursing through all of us.

“Right,” I say.

He nods, solemnly, bounces the tied sock full of teeth in his palm again.

“Okay,” he whispers. “I’ll do it.”

I nod. Take a breath. “Thank you, Brother.”

He doesn’t know how to react when I embrace him, wrap my arms around his middle.

“He doesn’t look… good, you know,” he says before I take my leave. “Lazlo. He isn’t well. Looks sick. He’s sick like the others get when they work in the reactor compartment.”

My heart drops. I try not to show it. I can’t, lest I look too suspicious. “Just give him the message. Please.”

I can’t breathe, even though the boat has surfaced and vented, and even though Brother Ernesto got the oxygen generator operating again.

The sensation lasts throughout the whole day—me, singing, trying to take a deep breath, but it’s as though my bindings are made of iron chains, keeping me from taking in a proper breath. My voice comes out weak, strained. If anyone notices, and I’m sure they do, they say nothing to me about it.