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Many of the Nautilus crewmen turned away, but Nemo stared with glassy eyes. He had a mission in his hardened heart now, and he owed it to himself and his crew to face his conscience, to see the frightening reality of what he had done.

When he left the salon and addressed the crew, his voice carried no guilt. “Henceforth, if a warship bears arms and carries cannon to sink other ships -- then I declare that vessel fair game.” He drew a deep breath and stared at the destruction for another long moment, trying not to let questions rise like spectres in his memory, trying not to think of the people who had been on board that vessel.

“We will show no mercy.”

viii

Back in Paris, Jules Verne continued to write and read, using his imagination for extraordinary voyages, which the readers devoured. He studied the newspapers every day. World events gave him ideas to add to the adventures Nemo had shared with him aboard the Nautilus. Sitting alone in his study, he could hardly bear the excitement of the stories he intended to tell. He was glad he didn’t have to waste time actually experiencing the adventures. . . .

For months now, the international press had carried remarkable stories about warships sunk, vessels attacked and destroyed by a terrible “sea monster.” Oddly, the creature attacked only ships of war, but did not discriminate as to nationality. The naturalists of the world held a conference in London and argued about the origin of this creature, imagining a gigantic narwhal or some prehistoric beast arisen to attack ocean-going craft.

Day after day Verne read the reports with interest and horror, unable to deny the obvious answer. He told no one, of course, but he understood immediately what must be going on.

The Nautilus, an armored sub-marine boat designed for purposes of warfare, had to be the culprit. And Nemo himself was behind the attacks.

ix

French readers loved Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, published in two volumes beginning in 1869. Verne accepted his success in a daze, believing the wonderful comments he heard, and finally he allowed himself to revel in it. He felt his heart swell with the long-sought literary fame.

At lunchtime, as Honorine prepared a plate of cold meats, cheese, and fresh berries, Verne received his copies of the newly released gift edition from Hetzel. The book had been released several days before, but Verne often didn’t see copies of his own novels until some time later. Engrossed in new stories, he often didn’t notice.

Opening the package, he held up the volumes, delighted with the illustrations and pleased to see his name on the cover. A good wife, Honorine dutifully admired the books, as if they were her husband’s trophies. She never read his stories, but she placed them lovingly on shelves and displayed them for all visitors.

He grinned at her. “As soon as I completed this massive novel, Honorine, I knew in my heart that I’d written my masterpiece,” Verne crowed. “This one . . . this one would make even Dumas proud.”

He tapped on the cover with a satisfying thump, then bustled to his writing study where he could pore over every page. Once again, Verne owed this epic to Nemo, the dark-haired and daring friend who had succeeded in so many areas where the author himself had failed. . . .

Over the many months of writing the book, locked away in his study and scribbling in bound journals, Verne had shamelessly borrowed from what Nemo had shown and told him. He’d described the metal-hulled sub-marine boat and even added how it preyed upon warships. He wrote about the exotic landscapes of the sea bottom and even included the terrifying adventure with the giant squid. The novel was his masterpiece.

By couching facts as fiction, no one would scoff at Verne, though he alone knew that the events were indeed true. He had even gone so far as to name his main character, the diligent and curious Professor “Aronnax,” after Caroline, of course.