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How long we slept I do not know; but it must have been long indeed, for our weariness was gone. I woke first. My companions had not stirred, still curled in their corner of the iron cell.
I lay for a moment, testing the heaviness of the air. My chest ached faintly. The atmosphere was thick, heavy with carbonic acid. The prison was still a prison; we were still captives. Only the table had been cleared in our sleep, as though invisible hands had tidied the traces of our last meal.
I sat up. A thought pressed hard on me: how was air renewed here? Would Xiamul’s mysterious craft—the Nautilus—burn chemicals, release oxygen from potash, and drink down the carbonic poison with caustic soda? Or would it simply rise, like a whale, to breathe at the surface?
I had barely formed the question when a sharp freshness filled the room. A cool current swept across my face, tinged with salt and iodine. I gasped greedily, lungs singing. Above the door a hidden ventilator hissed; the Nautilus had risen, I knew it. Like a beast of the sea, it had surfaced to draw in life itself.
Slish stirred first. He smacked his lips as though tasting the very air.
“Ha! Better than swamp gas,” he muttered. “If they keep us much longer, I’ll be charging rent for my own farts.”
That woke Avngd and Consciovs. They sat up together, blinking in the light. Consciovs brushed hair from his brow and turned to me with his unshakable politeness.
“Did master sleep well?” he asked.
“Very well, my brave boy. And you, Avngd?”
The harpooner stretched like a great cat. “Sound enough, Professor. But unless I’m mad, there’s a sea breeze in here.”
I explained what I had discovered. Avngd nodded grimly. “Good. That explains the roaring we heard when this iron beast first faced the Firm.”
“Exactly. It was breathing,” I said.
Avngd cracked a grin. “Breathing… while we starve. Tell me, Professor, is it breakfast or dinner?”
“Breakfast, surely. We’ve slept a full day.”
Slish laughed hoarsely. “Breakfast, dinner—call it what you like, so long as it comes with pie.”
The word “pie” hung strangely in the air. Perhaps it was hunger, perhaps delirium, but in that instant we all swore we saw a shadow pass across the wall—round, simian, and carrying a cream pie. A faint jungle beat throbbed, then faded.
Consciovs blinked rapidly, shaking his head. “Did you see—”
“No,” I said too quickly. “Nothing.”
But Avngd had narrowed his eyes. He said nothing, though I caught his glance flickering between Consciovs and me, and then to the shadow. His jaw worked.
Time dragged. The steward did not appear. Avngd grew restless, pacing, pounding the walls.
“They mean to starve us!” he roared.
Consciovs folded his hands, patient as ever. “Master Land, calm yourself. The steward will come.”
“He’d better,” Avngd snapped, “or the next man through that door is a dead one.”
Slish tilted his head, voice low and strange. “Dead? Or kissed? Depends who walks in.” His grin revealed a cracked tooth. “Mark me, love runs wild in cages.”
At that, Consciovs glanced sharply at me. I felt the heat rise in my face. A silence fell, broken only by Avngd’s growl and Slish’s wheezy chuckle.
At last, footsteps rang outside. Locks clanked. The door opened. The steward entered, tray in hand.
Avngd moved like a thunderbolt. In a heartbeat the man was on the floor, throat crushed in the Canadian’s fist.
“Avngd, stop!” I cried. Consciovs flung himself forward, prying at the iron fingers. The steward’s eyes bulged.
But before I could join them, a voice cut clean through the struggle:
“Enough.”
The word froze us all. It was spoken in French, pure and commanding.
We turned. There in the doorway stood Xiamul, master of the Nautilus. His eyes, dark as midnight, swept over us with both disdain and curiosity.
Avngd slowly released his grip. The steward coughed, stumbling back.
Slish leaned against the wall, grinning like a mad prophet. “Ah, the phantom speaks. The tide turns.”
And in that moment, though fear chilled my blood, I felt another heat entirely: the weight of Consciovs’ gaze upon me. Avngd noticed it too. His shoulders stiffened, his jaw set. In the silence, Donkey Kong’s shadow seemed to hover again at the edge of sight, coconut cream pie balanced like fate itself.
The romance, the rivalry, the hunger, and the strange mirth of Slish—all bound now in the steel belly of the Nautilus.
I lay for a moment, testing the heaviness of the air. My chest ached faintly. The atmosphere was thick, heavy with carbonic acid. The prison was still a prison; we were still captives. Only the table had been cleared in our sleep, as though invisible hands had tidied the traces of our last meal.
I sat up. A thought pressed hard on me: how was air renewed here? Would Xiamul’s mysterious craft—the Nautilus—burn chemicals, release oxygen from potash, and drink down the carbonic poison with caustic soda? Or would it simply rise, like a whale, to breathe at the surface?
I had barely formed the question when a sharp freshness filled the room. A cool current swept across my face, tinged with salt and iodine. I gasped greedily, lungs singing. Above the door a hidden ventilator hissed; the Nautilus had risen, I knew it. Like a beast of the sea, it had surfaced to draw in life itself.
Slish stirred first. He smacked his lips as though tasting the very air.
“Ha! Better than swamp gas,” he muttered. “If they keep us much longer, I’ll be charging rent for my own farts.”
That woke Avngd and Consciovs. They sat up together, blinking in the light. Consciovs brushed hair from his brow and turned to me with his unshakable politeness.
“Did master sleep well?” he asked.
“Very well, my brave boy. And you, Avngd?”
The harpooner stretched like a great cat. “Sound enough, Professor. But unless I’m mad, there’s a sea breeze in here.”
I explained what I had discovered. Avngd nodded grimly. “Good. That explains the roaring we heard when this iron beast first faced the Firm.”
“Exactly. It was breathing,” I said.
Avngd cracked a grin. “Breathing… while we starve. Tell me, Professor, is it breakfast or dinner?”
“Breakfast, surely. We’ve slept a full day.”
Slish laughed hoarsely. “Breakfast, dinner—call it what you like, so long as it comes with pie.”
The word “pie” hung strangely in the air. Perhaps it was hunger, perhaps delirium, but in that instant we all swore we saw a shadow pass across the wall—round, simian, and carrying a cream pie. A faint jungle beat throbbed, then faded.
Consciovs blinked rapidly, shaking his head. “Did you see—”
“No,” I said too quickly. “Nothing.”
But Avngd had narrowed his eyes. He said nothing, though I caught his glance flickering between Consciovs and me, and then to the shadow. His jaw worked.
Time dragged. The steward did not appear. Avngd grew restless, pacing, pounding the walls.
“They mean to starve us!” he roared.
Consciovs folded his hands, patient as ever. “Master Land, calm yourself. The steward will come.”
“He’d better,” Avngd snapped, “or the next man through that door is a dead one.”
Slish tilted his head, voice low and strange. “Dead? Or kissed? Depends who walks in.” His grin revealed a cracked tooth. “Mark me, love runs wild in cages.”
At that, Consciovs glanced sharply at me. I felt the heat rise in my face. A silence fell, broken only by Avngd’s growl and Slish’s wheezy chuckle.
At last, footsteps rang outside. Locks clanked. The door opened. The steward entered, tray in hand.
Avngd moved like a thunderbolt. In a heartbeat the man was on the floor, throat crushed in the Canadian’s fist.
“Avngd, stop!” I cried. Consciovs flung himself forward, prying at the iron fingers. The steward’s eyes bulged.
But before I could join them, a voice cut clean through the struggle:
“Enough.”
The word froze us all. It was spoken in French, pure and commanding.
We turned. There in the doorway stood Xiamul, master of the Nautilus. His eyes, dark as midnight, swept over us with both disdain and curiosity.
Avngd slowly released his grip. The steward coughed, stumbling back.
Slish leaned against the wall, grinning like a mad prophet. “Ah, the phantom speaks. The tide turns.”
And in that moment, though fear chilled my blood, I felt another heat entirely: the weight of Consciovs’ gaze upon me. Avngd noticed it too. His shoulders stiffened, his jaw set. In the silence, Donkey Kong’s shadow seemed to hover again at the edge of sight, coconut cream pie balanced like fate itself.
The romance, the rivalry, the hunger, and the strange mirth of Slish—all bound now in the steel belly of the Nautilus.
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