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In a babel of languages, the captives cried out in indignation. “We are not slaves!” “We do not belong to the Turks.” “We are citizens of our own countries.”

The caliph’s face remained stony as he stared at them, unaffected by their complaints. Nemo held his tongue and studied the man, keeping the dark wings of anger at bay. Robur was without question his enemy.

When their clamor had died down, the caliph spoke again. “You men are all officially dead. The proper paperwork has been completed. Your governments believe you were killed in battle. For those few of you who had families, they have already received letters of notification and posthumous medals.” His voice was harsh and utterly confident. “No one will look for you. No one will find you. You are mine.”

The prisoners gasped in disbelief, but Nemo knew the caliph could easily have done as he said. The tangled bureaucracy and confused ineptitude of the Crimean commanders would have made such a trick pathetically simple to achieve.

Robur smiled at them. “The Ottoman Empire is falling apart. Your own European press calls us the ‘sick man of Europe.’ We were one of the greatest empires in the world, and now Britain and France see us only as the spoils of war. They dicker over how to divide the fallen corpse when Turkey falls.” Beneath his jeweled turban, the caliph’s eyes blazed. He scratched at the jagged scar on his cheek.

“But I am an enlightened military ruler. I look ahead, and I act for myself. I know that the old Ottoman ways are doomed to failure -- but I must have experts. I need engineers, metallurgists, meteorologists, boatbuilders, chemists, opticians. You men are my technological advantage. You shall work together to create invincible machinery of war, ingenious new defenses that will help the Ottoman Empire draw a fresh breath and return to life.”

The caliph strode down the deck, looking at them all. He saw anger among the prisoners, and defiance, but his gaze did not waver. “I have selected you, the best and brightest minds that were senselessly wasted on the battlefield. You should thank me. I will allow you to be creative and use your talents.” His next words hung like a heavy weight over them. “You will cooperate -- or you will be executed.”

He stopped in front of Nemo, who glowered at him, but kept his angry words in check by clenching and unclenching his fists. During his time among the prisoners, Nemo had already bound the men together. Though he had no aspirations of grandeur or power, the prisoners looked to him with respect, as their nominal leader. Robur had noticed him and singled him out.

Someday, Nemo vowed to lead his companions out of here.

“I consider myself a learned man,” the caliph said. “I will allow you certain freedoms and certain rewards -- but I expect much in return.” He looked down at Nemo. “In your Latin language, my name Robur translates as ‘powerful.’ I intend to live up to my name.”

Nemo looked back with a bland expression that masked his anger. “And I am called Nemo. In Latin that name means ‘no one.’” Now he allowed himself a smile. “But I don’t put too much stock in a name.”

vii

Writing by candlelight in Paris, Jules Verne sent letter after letter to his parents, explaining his daily work and his dreams. Even with nothing more than a cold attic room and little to eat, he badly wanted to remain here. Knowing the quaint country life of Nantes, he felt he could not survive anywhere but in the vibrant bustle of the City of Light.

After all this time, Verne had achieved only the most modest success with his writing, and no fame whatsoever. In the letters he downplayed his poetry, plays, and theatre work, knowing what stern Pierre Verne would think. The older man would be baffled, incapable of understanding why his son would brush aside predictable security.

But even after graduating with his law degree, he had dawdled and made excuses to stay in Paris. Despite his father’s plans, Verne did not want to settle into the dull attorney’s office on Ile Feydeau.

Now, though, as he finally returned home