All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [219]
Near the helicopter, Mr. Ma ducked, and held his unconscious sister closer.
Eliot barely made out his whispered words over the noise of the blades. “School rules give me no choice in the matter.” Mr. Ma told her. “You get an F for today’s lesson.”
But then for the first time, Mr. Ma’s craggy features softened, and tiny laugh lines crinkled the corners of his eyes. “And even though I must hate you, young lady, for we appear to be on opposites sides of fate . . . for dueling an armored tank to save people that meant nothing to you, you deserve an A-plus.”
57. Buildings in a four-block radius were declared structurally unsound and ordered demolished by the newly elected Costa Esmeralda Parliament. Miraculously, the church in the adjacent courtyard was unscathed, save a single shot-out window (and this even miraculous in that witness and photographic evidence corroborate that for three days after, sunlight passing through the open frame was colored as if the window were intact). Given these miracles—and, of course, the fact that this church was later the location where the Divine reentered the mortal world (see Volume 11, The Post Family Mythology)—the church was rechristened Bastion of the Herald of Light and selected by the New Catholic Church of the Sixth Celestial Age as the site to rebuild the Vatican. Gods of the First and Twenty-first Century, Volume 2, Divine Inspirations. Zypheron Press Ltd., Eighth Edition.
63
WOLF UNDER THE WAVES
Henry Mimes tried on the captain’s hat and regarded himself in the mirror bolted to the wall of the guest quarters. The pilfered cap was a tad too big, and the golden fringe and black canvas didn’t look right with his silver hair. Not his colors, alas.
It was just another reminder that he was a mere passenger on this submarine.
He twirled the hat on his finger. It was hard to let go of the rudder, even among friends, when one was used being the Captain.
A fluted speaker whistled to life. “Mr. Mimes?” said a tinny voice. “They’re ready for you, sir.”
“Tell them I’m on my way,” Henry replied.
He left his cramped quarters and entered an equally cramped corridor. Two uniformed ladies bumped into him.
Henry smiled, did his best to bow, and greeted them both.
They returned his salutations . . . and his promising smile.
“Would you lieutenants be good enough to take this to the bridge?” He handed the hat to the athletic brunette.
They said they would. There were more smiles and flirtatious glances, and then they went on their way, squeezing past.
Henry watched them go.
Or perhaps such close accommodations did have some advantages, after all.
And yet the Coelacanth was definitely not a craft he could spend more than a day bottled up in. Wolves did not do well beneath the waves. He preferred the open sea and fresh air. No matter how much opulence one cocooned oneself in, all submersibles were susceptible to a loss of buoyancy and gravity, and could become more coffin than vessel.
He ran a hand over the brass pipes that curved along the walls. Every square millimeter was polished and etched with tiny porpoises and sardines and scallops. Still, it was a lovely sinking tin can. Gilbert ran a tight ship.
It was technology millennia ahead of anything else when it had been forged. There was nothing like it in all the seas. In thirty years, however, American or NATO or Russian naval engineers would have the technology to detect her subtle, silent movements through the waters.
Men glimpsing legends.
Which was one of the reasons Henry knew change was coming. “A matter of time” as Cornelius might have said, although he and the other Council members seem determined to ignore that fact as long as they could.
Henry moved through three pressure doors, down a spiral stairs and entered the launch bay. The walls of the cavernous chamber were ribbed for strength, and from the ceiling a variety of small submersibles hung like mechanized insects caught in a web.
The Tinker,