Free Twenty Trillion Leagues Under the Sea by Adam Roberts

it must be possible to return the way we came.’
    ‘You are the captain,’ Lebret observed.
    ‘Thank you for noticing, Monsieur Lebret!’ returned Cloche, sarcastically.
    ‘I would only note, sir,’ Lebret added, with the slightest hint of insolent emphasis on the honorific, ‘that if my hypothesis is correct, then ascent or descent will be equally fruitless. The chance of finding the precise point at which we passed from the mundane ocean to this strange new location – if it be infinite – is mathematically: zero. We can never again return home. We shall sail these endless, unlit waters until our food gives out and we starve – or until we grow insane with confinement and kill one another.’ He smiled a weird little smile.
    ‘Sir,’ said the captain, with asperity. ‘For the second time upon this voyage I am compelled to rebuke you for pessimism. Morale is as important in maintaining the good running of a ship as discipline – and both are more vital than any amount of technological know-how or fanciful theorising! I must insist you refrain from giving voice to sentiments liable to depress and discourage the crew.’
    ‘But we must be realistic, Captain,’ said Lebret. ‘And plan for every eventuality. Let us try and find a refuge in this new place, and not yearn hopelessly after the return home.’
    The captain snapped, ‘You are dismissed, sir! Please return to your cabin!’
    Languidly, Lebret complied.



7
    LEAVING THE PLONGEUR

    Cloche summoned de Chante, Avocat and Capot to the bridge and asked for volunteers; but none of the three men came forward. ‘Come, come!’ chided Cloche. ‘You don’t want me to ask Pannier, surely?’
    ‘He’s drunk,’ said Capot, running fingers through his greasy, rust-coloured hair. ‘And Castor is chief engineer, too important to risk on such an undertaking – I see. You’ve gathered the three of us because we are the most dispensable; and you don’t know what hell-monsters lurk in the water outside.’
    ‘Monsieur!’
    ‘We all know, Captain – we all know what’s happened. We’ve been sucked alive into Satan’s hell, and you’re looking for a volunteer to swim out and meet the demons.’
    The captain stood up from his chair. ‘Sailor!’ he said, sternly. ‘I am undecided as to whether I shall shoot you for insubordination or lock you in the brig!’
    Capot had gone white. ‘Might as well shoot me, Captain,’ he returned. ‘We’re all doomed to a drawn-out death sailing through this godless cess-pit for evermore. I’d rather get it out of the way.’ His voice was level, but his hands were visibly trembling.
    Cloche slowly unbuttoned the flap on his holster and brought out his pistol. He levelled this at Capot’s head. ‘Sailor,’ he said. ‘You may have given up hope, but I have not. And luckily for you it is my will that matters. Lieutenant! Lock Matelot Capot in the brig. Avocat!’

    ‘Captain?’
    ‘Suit up. Get Castor to help you. You’re going outside to take a look at the ballast tank intakes, and see what must be done to fix them.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘I want my vessel brought back under my control!’
    Boucher led Capot away, and Cloche re-holstered his weapon. ‘Messieurs,’ he announced. ‘We have drifted, and sunk, for long enough. It is time to take charge of our destiny!’
    Below the observation deck (the steel shutters still closed upon the oval porthole), down a blue-painted metal ladder, was a compact chamber from which, via an airlock, egress from the vessel could be effected. This space contained two cupboards, in each of which hung a thick, rubber diving suit and tanks of compressed air.
    Down into this place climbed de Chante, Avocat and Lebret. Matters did not get off to a good start: de Chante opened one cupboard, and one of the vessel’s freak breezes blew suddenly up, making the empty arms of the suit flap and thrash, as if warning Avocat away. The motion was so unexpected that Avocat yelped in fear and