Daughter of the Deep(56)

Four control stations make a horseshoe curve along the front of the bridge. As in the engine room, each panel is Swiss-watch intricate, with dials and switches labelled in engraved calligraphy. LOCUS nodes, dormant, are mounted on top of each station. Artistic flourishes decorate the borders of the controls: dolphins, whales and flying fish.

The entire ship is a handcrafted, bespoke work of art. She could never be reproduced, much less mass-produced. I start to appreciate just how unique the Nautilus is and why her recovery was so important to HP and to Land Institute. Already on this tour, I have seen half a dozen technological advances that could change the world – if the Nautilus would let us take her apart and study her inner workings, which I don’t think she would agree to.

‘And here,’ Luca says, gripping the back of what is clearly the captain’s chair, ‘is where we found Nemo.’

‘Aah!’ Ophelia swats his arm. ‘They did not need to hear that!’

‘Well, I thought Ana might want to know he died at his station. We considered trying to extract some of his DNA, but, ah, ethical considerations aside, it soon became clear that the Nautilus would not tolerate any clever tricks to bypass her systems. She must choose her captain, and it must be a living Dakkar.’

Ophelia pinches her nose. ‘Ana, my dear, I am sorry. My husband has no sense of propriety.’

I look at the captain’s seat. It’s a monstrous metal L on a swivel pedestal, like an old-fashioned barber’s chair. Nested in each armrest is a hemispherical hand grip, like the DNA-reader on the Varuna. The seat’s upholstery appears to be gleaming black leather.

For some reason, the idea of my fourth great-grandfather’s body being found here doesn’t disturb me as much as I might have thought. In a way, the whole submarine already feels like his crypt, his earthly remains.

I trace my fingers across the supple leather seatback. ‘This material is new.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Luca agrees. ‘The metal survived. The original leather was damaged beyond repair. Also, well, the remains of your ancestor had been sitting there for over a century …’ He glances at Ophelia to see if she will swat him again. ‘We committed Nemo to the sea. Then I recovered the chair. The material itself is seaweed-based. Fortunately I have an excellent leatherworker friend in Firenze. Italian workmanship is the best, as everyone knows.’

Ophelia rolls her eyes. ‘We have, of course, tried to activate more of the ship’s systems. But the captain’s chair seems to govern access to everything critical: propulsion, weapons, navigation, communications.’

She points to each of the four control stations in turn. Then she faces me again, as if waiting …

Of course. She’d like me to sit in the chair. She doesn’t want to push, but she’s dying to see what will happen if I put my hands on those control spheres. Even for Luca and Ophelia, who have been so kind and welcoming, it’s hard for them to see me as a person and not as an all-purpose miracle tool.

I take a deep breath. I don’t want to sit in that chair. It isn’t mine. I haven’t earned it. I’m trying to figure out the politest way to decline when Ester saves me.

‘You shouldn’t start there,’ she says. She’s been quiet so far, standing in the middle of the bridge, taking in every detail, maybe listening to the mood of the ship. ‘You should start there.’

She points to the pipe organ. I’ve been trying not to think about the huge musical contraption and why it suddenly decided to play a single blast all by itself.

Something about its presence on the bridge creeps me out, even more so than the dead captain’s chair. Trying the pipe organ before the bridge controls doesn’t sound logical. But, then again, Ester seems to understand the ship in a way that goes deeper than logic.

I approach the forest of gleaming metal pipes.

The four-tiered keyboard has seen better days, but it is still beautiful. The major keys look like abalone. The minor keys have the same dark lustre as my mother’s black pearl. Like the pipes, the pull-stop levers and pedals are of gleaming nemonium, etched with decorative fish leaping through waves.

The bench’s velvet cushion is black with mould. Its wooden legs look ready to collapse.

Luca coughs. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know much about pipe organs,’ he says sheepishly. ‘I cleaned it as best I could, but its more delicate pieces are still in bad shape. I’m sure it needs tuning … however one tunes an organ.’

‘I have no idea,’ I admit. ‘I took piano lessons, but …’

The memory takes me back to elementary school.

I recall Dev complaining bitterly whenever Mrs Flannigan arrived at our house for twice-weekly lessons. He hated playing the piano. It wasn’t a sport. It wasn’t outside. He couldn’t kick it, shoot it or tackle it.

Still, our parents insisted.

Your future depends on many skills, I remember my father saying, including the keyboard.

I’d never understood that. I just chalked it up as yet another of our parents’ strange and inscrutable commandments. Like so many things that involved Dev, my own piano lessons were an afterthought. Mrs Flannigan was coming over anyway. She might as well give us a two-for-one deal.

Dev was always better. Despite his complaints, he had a natural ear. He never practised. He just stormed up to the keyboard, listened to Mrs Flannigan play, then imitated her perfectly. His sloppiness and impatience drove her crazy, especially since it didn’t stop him from mastering whatever she put in front of him.