Andrew Stewart - We Shall Sing a Song into the Deep

It’s not until just after Vespers the next day, when I find the moment to break away, informing Brother Ernesto that I am going to check on the pumps in the battery room.

As soon as I climb down, I remove my robes, still damp and reeking from the attack the day before. Then I unwrap myself, release my chest from the itchy bindings. Take in a deep breath.

Cry.

I let myself, key in my hand.

My shoulder aches from being jarred when the sub bottomed out. My head throbs where it struck the beam.

Only one more day.

One more.

There might still be time to save Lazlo. The radiation might not have gotten to him yet. It might just work. This dangerous, insane plan.

And then, Topside. Sunlight. Fresh air.

“Who would have imagined?” a cold voice calls out. “Here, at our final hour, I find our brave Cantor, so broken…”

I whip around to find that St. John has followed me down into the battery well. I didn’t even hear him.

He seems about to continue with whatever biting words he had begun when he sees the silver key in my hand.

Confusion. But then his eyes widen. And that wide gaze falls upon me, upon my chest. I close my robes, but it’s too late.

He’s seen.

The light of realization dawning on his face, fallen heavy as a hammer.

The smirk disappears. In its wake, shock.

Not now. Not so soon! Not when everything is at stake.

“St. John,” I say, trying to find the words.

His confusion bends quickly to a fierce, cold malice.

“What secrets you’ve been keeping, Remy,” he says.

He’s closed the distance between us in a few steps, snatching the key from my hand before I can even react.

“Give it back,” I say, reaching for it.

“And what is this?” he demands, gripping it tight, dodging my darting hand. “Something you stole from the caplain… like the sinner you are… like the impure creature that was cast from the garden…”

“Not stolen,” I say, angry now. “Given to me. Entrusted to me. By Caplain Amita.”

“Lies! Tell me what it is. What does it open?” he demands.

“It’s… it’s the key that will launch the Last Judgment,” I blurt out. It might be the only way to convince him. Or at least, it might surprise him. Take him off his guard. “Caplain Amita entrusted it to me.”

St. John’s mouth grows slack. He squints down at the key. Confused. Disbelieving.

“The key? To the Last Judgment? He… he gave it to a… to a female?” he says, almost hissing. “You bewitched him. You’ve bewitched us all…”

“He knew all along,” I say.

“Lies.” His eyes positively glow. “How Caplain Marston will reward me…”

“Give it back,” I warn.

“I don’t think so…” he says, beginning to back away. “No, you’ll swim for this, Remy. For this deception.”

I lunge forward but am met with the hard back of St. John’s hand across the cheek. I’m knocked to the deck, stunned.

He turns, already climbing up from the well, but I push myself up, lunge for his legs, yanking him down. He topples hard against the bank of batteries. Rolls off, down to the deck. I am atop him before he can spring to his feet. Even though I am slighter than he, he cannot push me away. No matter how much he thrashes, struggles.

I think of all he has done. What he did to Lazlo.

I bring my fist across his face.

And again, with my other fist—more vicious, stronger than I intended. The wet smack. Tears bead hot on my cheeks, down my chin. I can barely see him for the tears. I sling my other fist at him, and then again, each blow stronger than the last. My knuckles sting. They ache. Lazlo’s face swirls in my mind. With it, a white-hot rage. It is this bastard’s fault that Lazlo is back there, dying. It is all St. John’s fault. His nose spouts blood.

Finally, I stop myself and look down at him, almost as dazed as he. Tears stream down the sides of his face. He tries to roll me from atop him, weakly, one last time, but I pin him down by the shoulders with all my might.

“ You’re wrong. About everything, ” I say through gritted teeth. “ We’ve been wrong all along! ”

I’m not sure if he even hears me. His eyes are open, but it is as though he’s blinking away a fog. I take the key from his loosened grip.

Then, with all the strength left in me, I flip him around and, using a length of rope from the tool kit, I bind his hands, his feet. Stuff some of my binding linens into his mouth. Then I drag him to the far corner of the compartment, so that he won’t be seen from the hatch.

Looking down upon him, at what I’ve done, I gasp. My blood goes cold as the sea.

There’s no choice now. Nothing to be done. We have to act. A day early. We have to act now.

I go first to my bunk, to gather my small cache of victuals I’ve been able to stash away. A few bits of dried fish. Sour grey cake. Next, I must journey through the mess hall, past the elders’ wardroom in order to access the lower level of the chapel, where Adolphine is being kept. The mess is abuzz with activity. On the tables, bolts of fresh cloth have been unrolled—they must have been brought on board from the raid on Adolphine’s ship. Or kept in storage. New white robes are being sewn for all. Our final dive is coming soon.

I nod to those brothers who greet me, keep my eyes down. My bloodied knuckles, just barely hidden beneath the cuff of my robes.

No one will notice St. John is missing until well after the hour.

A few minutes. That’s all I need.

Further down the corridor, I peek through the hatchway into the chapel. Several brothers are congregated around the missile diagnostic panel with Brother Ernesto, just a few feet from Adolphine’s cell.

There’s no way I’ll be able to release her without being caught.

I couldn’t have chosen a worse time to set our plan into motion.

But I also can’t wait.

I’ll go to engineering first, then. Will go to Lazlo.

That’s the better plan, anyway, to give him time to figure out how to shut down the engine and hydraulics. Everything must happen fast if this is going to work.

I’ll come back to release Adolphine when the rest of the plan is in motion.

The auxiliary machine compartment is abandoned. No one sees me wheel open the hatch and pass through the tunnel, crossing a threshold I have never dared before now.

And so easy.

The first compartment through the tunnel is the aft machine room—a dim space, filled with the familiar blockish shapes of banks of corroded batteries. Generators. Secondary and backup systems for the boat.

The maneuvering shack is in the next compartment back, on the other side of the banks of generators. That’s where the reactor and engine functions are controlled. There, Brother Leighton will be on duty. Best to steer clear. Instead, I take the first ladder to the lowest level of engineering and find myself in what must be the main engine room. A great, long machine fills the low, narrow space, its two rows of pistons pumping in a rhythmic, deafening metallic concert. That thrum and rhythm I have known so well, now deafening, so close to the source.

I turn to find myself standing in front of what must be the reactor containment chamber, for the warning signs adorning the small hatch leading inside. It’s sealed, barred from the outside.

I pull aside the heavy lead shield obscuring the porthole-sized window.

Peering inside, a faint blue light emanates. His light. At the compartment’s center sits a tall metal cylinder, the top half only—the rest of the shape is clearly embedded in the deck. The reactor. All manner of small pipes and hoses sprout from it. What looks to be a pump wheel. But the post is unmanned. Empty. I turn, looking to the hatch at the far end of the compartment, on the other side of the hulking, humming engine.