Captain Nemo The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius Read online

  CAPTAIN

  NEMO

  THE FANTASTIC HISTORY OF A

  DARK GENIUS

  K.J. ANDERSON

  POCKET BOOKS

  New York London Toronto Sydney Singapore

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 2002 by Kevin Anderson

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-7434-6325-0

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  This book is for CATHERINE,

  who has been an intelligent, insightful, hardworking,

  and all-around delightful companion

  on many of my fictional “extraordinary voyages.”

  Jules Verne’s characters could not have hoped

  for a better fellow adventurer.

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Part I: Extraordinary Voyages

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  Part II: Captain Grant

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  Part III: The Mysterious Island

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  Part IV: A Journey to the Centre

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  Part V: Paris in the 20th Century

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  Part VI: Five Weeks in a Balloon

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  Part VII: Robur the Conqueror

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  Part VIII: Master of the world

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  Part IX: 20,000 Leagues

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  Part X: Around the World

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  Epilogue: Mobilis in Mobili

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  During the researching, writing, and editing of this novel, I have valued the insights, suggestions, and expertise of a great many people, including my agents Matt Bialer and Robert Gottlieb at the Trident Media Group, John Ordover at Pocket Books, Diane Jones and Diane Davis Herdt at WordFire, Inc., friends and/or fellow authors Erwin Bush, Steve Baxter, Piers Anthony, Harry Turtledove, Megan Lindholm, Carolyn Clink, Herbert R. Lottman for his superb biography of Jules Verne, and of course my wife, Rebecca Moesta.

  “What one man can imagine, another can achieve.”

  —J ULES V ERNE

  P ROLOGUE

  Amiens, France

  February, 1873

  Damp winter clung to northern France, but a fire warmed Jules Verne’s writing study with sultry smoke, orange light, and dreams.

  Verne had composed many of his best stories in this isolated tower room, where narrow latticed windows looked out upon the leaden Amiens sky. The bleak view reminded him of the polar wastelands in Captain Hatteras, or the Icelandic volcano in A Journey to the Centre of the Earth. Imagination had taken him to many places, both real and unreal.

  Elms graced the flagstoned courtyard of the author’s house on rue Charles-Dubois. Thick vines climbed the brick walls like ratlines on a sailing ship, such as the three-masted Coralie, on which a young and ambitious Jules had almost taken a voyage around the world.

  Almost. At the last minute, Verne’s stern father had snatched him from that real-life adventure, then punished him for “boyhood foolishness.” His friend André Nemo had gone on the voyage without him. “A world of adventure is waiting for us,” Nemo always said. And Nemo had done it all himself, while Verne remained at home, safe and bored.

  Though he was much older now, and wealthy, Verne promised himself he would go out and see exotic lands and have exciting adventures, just like Nemo. One day.

  At the age of forty-five, Jules Verne was a world-renowned writer, bursting with imaginative ideas. Persistent gray strands streaked his unruly reddish hair, and his long beard lent him a philosophical appearance. Often depicted in the French press, Verne had seen his fame grow with each successive novel. Lionized for his brilliant imagination, he was a man to whom the world turned for excitement.

  And Nemo had inspired it all.

  Verne’s “inventiveness” was a sham. Nemo was the one who experienced all the real adventures, survived the trials, explored the unknown. Verne was merely an armchair adventurer, living a vicarious life through Nemo’s exploits. If only it could have been different . . .

  No matter. Nemo didn’t want the applause or the fame anyway.

  In the tower study, Verne’s maplewood shelves groaned with reference books, atlases, explorers’ journals, newspaper clippings—information compiled by others. He had no other way to achieve verisimilitude in his fiction. Verne had been everywhere on the planet, but only in his mind. It was safer that way, after all, and not so much of a bother.

  Verne picked at the plate of strong camembert his quiet and devoted wife had left him hours before. He smeared the soft cheese on a piece of brown bread and ate, chewing slowly, deep in thought.

  Nemo had once said to him, “There are two types of men in this world, Jules—those who do things, and those who wish they did.”

  Oh, how Verne wished he could have been there . . .

  Ten years ago his first novel, Five Weeks in a Balloon, about a fantastic trip across unexplored Africa, had established him as a popular writer. Since then, his “Extraordinary Voyages” had made him a fortune.

  Despite the fame, Verne found himself oddly envious of his old friend Nemo, the experiences he’d had, the opportunities he’d seized. Nemo had loved and lost, had come close to death any number of times, had suffered tremendous hardships, and triumphed. It seemed like such an exciting life, if one went in for that sort of thing. Nervous perspiration broke out on Verne’s forehead just to think of i
t. Would I really have done it all, given the choice?

  Verne had followed Five Weeks with A Journey to the Centre of the Earth, which explored exotic regions underground, and then Captain Hatteras, about a dramatic quest for the North Pole. Next came From the Earth to the Moon, The Children of Captain Grant, and 20,000 Leagues under the Sea, all before the Franco-Prussian War had devastated the French countryside.

  Ignoring the gray sleet and the skeletal elm branches outside his window, Verne added another length of wood to the fire. He closed the shutters, increasing the gloom in the study . . . the better to imagine dire adventures.

  Downstairs, the family’s big black dog barked, and his ten-year-old son Michel squealed. The rambunctious boy had an impish face, chestnut hair, and the soul of a demon. The dog barked again, and Michel shouted, chasing it around the house. Outside, when the regular train from Amiens to Paris clattered by, the engineer took malicious delight in tooting its whistle.

  The clamor and disruption of daily life was enough to drive a man mad. Adventures enough for me, he thought.

  The latest novel, Around the World in 80 Days, had taken him beyond success into genuine celebrity. Installments published in newspapers generated more excitement than actual news. Chapters were telegraphed around the globe; men made wagers as to whether the intrepid Phileas Fogg would succeed in his quest to circumnavigate the globe. Already, Verne had begun talks with a well-known playwright to create a stage production with real cannons and a live elephant. Very exciting.

  Yet another idea he owed to Nemo’s real-life exploits. Verne smiled to himself.

  The popular favorite by far, however, remained the undersea adventure of the Nautilus and its enigmatic captain who had isolated himself from humanity, a man who had declared war on War itself. To Verne’s surprise, the dark and mysterious villain had captured the public’s imagination. Nemo, Nemo, Nemo! No one guessed the man was based on a real person.

  Verne thought he’d ended Nemo’s story by sinking the sub-marine boat in a maelstrom off Norway. His fictional version of Captain Nemo had perished in that vortex of waves, while the erstwhile Professor Aronnax, his manservant Conseil, and the harpooner Ned Land barely escaped with their lives.

  Verne hadn’t really believed Nemo would stay down, though—not even after his literary death. No, Nemo always came back.

  He pushed the tea and cheese away, then stared down at the thick ledger book in which he wrote his manuscript. This massive new novel would be a challenge to his heart as well as to his storytelling abilities.

  Verne had never intended to write about his friend again. He had begun this new novel, a shipwreck story, back in 1870 during the horrors of the Prussian war. Buildings had burned; desperate citizens had eaten zoo animals and sewer rats just to stay alive; and in the midst of that turmoil Verne had lost his beloved Caroline forever.

  But now, two years later, the world had returned to order. The trains ran on schedule, and once more Verne was expected to release his “Extraordinary Voyages” like clockwork.

  He hated to reopen old wounds, but he would force himself to write the rest of Nemo’s story, the way it should be told. He knew the real André Nemo better than any man alive, the passions that drove him, the ordeals he faced. Future generations would remember Nemo’s life the way Verne chose to portray it, rather than what had actually happened. He would concoct a fitting background for the dark captain. The “truth” posed no undue restrictions—M. Verne was a fiction writer, after all.

  He opened a fresh inkwell and dipped the sharp nib of his pen, then scratched the blackened tip across the paper. Beginning a new story, a long story: The Mysterious Island.

  Perhaps he could finally lay Captain Nemo to rest and then live his own life, seek out his own adventures. One of these days . . .

  The words began to flow, as they always did.

  PART I

  E XTRAORDINARY

  V OYAGES

  I

  Ile Feydeau, Nantes, France

  July, 1840

  In their younger years, Jules Verne and André Nemo were the best of friends.

  Walking together on damp ground that sloped down to the Loire’s edge, they each ate a sweet banana from one of the trading clippers just arrived from the East Indies. Thick white cumulus clouds hung like unexplored islands in the sun-washed sky.

  “By the quays, Jules,” Nemo said, leading the way. “I want to be close to the ships when I submerge myself.” With his new apparatus, Nemo was certain that he could walk and breathe underwater. And Verne actually believed him.

  Growing up near one of France’s largest shipyards, both of them had an abiding love for the sea. Sailors from Batz unloaded a cargo of salt onto the quay. The fish market, its air thick with the stench of day-old catch, sweltered under the humid July sun. The fishwives teased each other in loud voices, using colorful language that would have brought a blush to the cheeks of Verne’s strict father, a local lawyer.

  Even forty miles inland, the broad Loire was sluggish as it drained toward the Atlantic. A century earlier, through dredgings and diversions, engineers had created an artificial island, Ile Feydeau, separated by a shallow canal on one side and the deep river channel on the other. The swollen waters of annual spring floods still found the first floors of the row houses, and many families kept small boats tied up in the courtyards.

  Ile Feydeau was shaped like a boat, and Verne and Nemo often pretended the entire island would detach and float down the river—village and all—to the coast. From there, they could drift across the Atlantic and explore the world. . . .

  Now, they made their way past the barrels, crates, and lumber piles to where they had stowed their equipment. Walking underwater. Verne found Nemo’s plan incredible—but his fiery-eyed and determined friend might succeed where no one else could. The dark-haired young man did not believe anything was impossible.

  Preparing for the underwater experiment, Nemo carried his equipment over one shoulder. Verne hurried after him with the remaining items. Soon they’d find out whether the invention would work. Verne planned to write a chronicle of their underwater adventures, provided the two of them ever went anyplace more interesting than the Loire River.

  Half a century before, Nantes had built up an enviable prosperity from the “ebony trade,” shipping slaves from Africa to the West Indies. Merchants used the money raised in the Caribbean to buy sugar cane, which they brought back to France and resold at a high profit. Since the decline of the slave trade, Nantes had faded as a major port. When local sugar beets replaced expensive imported cane, the city became dependent on its shipbuilding industry. The shipyard forest held frameworks and drydocks for packet ships, clippers, schooners.

  A nearly completed vessel floated in the deep channel just ahead of them, a ship named the Cynthia. In the hot afternoon, men chanted as they swung heavy mallets, pounding deckboards together, hammering iron eyes. Pulleys rattled as thick ropes were hauled up to the tops of the three masts. On deck, cauldrons of bubbling tar gave off a harsh chemical stench that drove back the aroma of old fish. Painters covered the outer hull with traditional black, then added a sleek white stripe from bow to stern.

  Nemo shaded his eyes, trying to make out a familiar silhouette among the workers. His father, Jacques, worked as a carpenter and finisher aboard the Cynthia. The wiry, good-natured man had been a seaman in his early years and now used his expertise in constructing the tall ships. Verne and Nemo often listened to Jacques telling tales of his glorious days at sea.

  It seemed strange that the son of a conservative lawyer would be good friends with the child of a widowed shipbuilder, but the two shared a fascination for far-off lands and the mysteries of the Earth. They had the same favorite books: Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe and Wyss’s Swiss Family Robinson, which they collectively called their “Robinsons.”

  Though both were dreamers, the young men were different in appearance and temperament. Verne had blue eyes and tousled reddish hair, freckles
on his pale skin, and a plodding sort of persistence; Nemo had deep brown eyes that held an undeniable spark of optimism. Corsican blood from his long-dead mother had given him an olive complexion, straight dark hair, and an independent spirit.

  Reaching the selected docks, they dropped their bundles in the mud beside the thick pilings. Nemo removed a flexible bladder that had once been a wineskin. He had altered it by inserting a wide reed through a hole and sewing a narrow rectangle of thick glass fashioned from a broken pane. Near the mouth area he had added a one-way flap valve so he could exhale his used air. After the modifications, he had closed the skin with tight little stitches covered in gutta percha for a watertight seal.

  Helping him, Verne fiddled with the tube that protruded from the bladder hood. Taking reeds, he and Nemo had dunked their heads under the Loire, wading around like the clever American Indians in the adventures by James Fenimore Cooper. But this experiment was much more complex.

  Nemo paused in his preparations and extended the modified bladder helmet toward Verne. “We are in this together, my friend. You have as much right to be first as I do. Here.”

  Verne backed away, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t dream of it, André. I’ll just stay here and help feed the tubes. You . . . you try it first.”

  Not surprised, Nemo strapped a belt of heavy stones around his waist, then thrust a dagger into the sheath at his hip. In an emergency he could cut the weights free and rise to the surface.

  Nemo tugged the bladder over his dark hair until he could see through the rectangle of glass. The flexible sides fit tight against his ears and temples, and it smelled of sour wine. He slathered his neck and the edge of the bladder with thick grease, then cinched a leather belt to seal the helmet against his skin to prevent air loss, though not so tight that it would strangle him. He knew this was risky—but he refused to hold back with such an opportunity at hand.