Ophelia raises an eyebrow at us. ‘So he says. I hope he’s right this time.’
Nelinha frowns. ‘I thought you said there hadn’t been any more, what did you call them, mishaps.’
‘No serious ones, no,’ Ophelia says. ‘But the Nautilus can be … grumpy. This way.’
Oh, hooray. Deeper into a grumpy submarine.
Ophelia leads us aft, down a central corridor.
Paintings in gilded frames hang along the walls. At least I assume they used to be paintings. Now they are canvases of black mould. The tile floor is marked with smudge lines where it looks like someone pulled up a rotten carpet. Along the ceiling, bronze oval light fixtures flicker a dim Halloween orange.
As we pass open doorways, it’s difficult not to stop and gawk.
To port: a formal dining room with a mahogany table and eight matching high-backed chairs. China and silverware gleam in the sideboard cabinet. Under the table lies a tattered and mouldy oriental rug.
To starboard: a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. It hurts my heart to see so many mildewed books, swollen and ruined from water damage. Two cracked leather armchairs sit on either side of a wood-burning fireplace. （Seriously? Where does the smoke go?） Against the far wall, a long oval window provides an underwater view of the phytoplankton constellations outside.
It strikes me that the ‘bones’ of the ship are pretty much intact. Everything Nemo brought on board for furnishing and decoration, however, has not fared so well. The submarine reminds me of an ancient statue, adorned with paint, flowers and fine clothing that are slowly rotting away until only the stone will remain.
We pass what must have been the crew’s quarters. Instead of tiny coffin-size berths stacked one on top of another like I’d expect in a modern sub, there are four full-size bunk beds in each room – much more space per person than what we have on the Varuna. For a submarine, this is pure decadence.
Nelinha points to one of the bunks. ‘I’m sleeping there.’
Ophelia snorts. ‘You’re as bad as Luca.’
‘I heard that!’ Luca appears, grinning, at the far end of the corridor. He wears greasy overalls and holds a pipe wrench in his hand. ‘Ana, perfect timing! Perhaps you can help me convince the Nautilus not to be quite such a prima donna this morning, eh? There is a secret door I have been dying to open!’
Considering my family’s history with this ship, I wish Luca hadn’t used the phrase dying to open.
Then again, I’ve spent enough time with Nelinha to know that Cephalopods get tunnel vision when they’re working on things that intrigue them. And nothing could be more intriguing than the Nautilus.
Luca leads us down another stairwell into what I assume is engineering. Aboard most subs, the engine room would be a hot, cramped space with more equipment than air. No surprise: the Nautilus is a different story.
The chamber is panelled floor-to-ceiling in reflective nemonium, which makes it look even bigger than it is. Endlessly mirrored Anas stare back at me from the gleaming metal. I have a vague memory of a scene like this in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory （my father loved that movie a bit too much）。 I feel like I should be wearing sunglasses and a hazmat suit and walking along with Grandpa Joe.
Stacked against the port and starboard walls are rows of large cylinders. At first glance, I guess they’re torpedo tubes. Then I sense their gentle synchronized thrum. They must be part of the power system – pistons of some kind.
In the middle of the room stands an island with four control stations. The gauges, readouts and levers are so intricately designed they remind me of an open-faced Swiss watch. A few displays are lit up, their needles quivering. Most look dark and dead.
Nelinha squeals as she reads the descriptions on various brass plates. I’m afraid she might explode from happiness.
Luca chuckles. ‘I know. I had the same reaction when I first stepped into this room.’
‘This one.’ Nelinha points to an ominous-looking red button. ‘Super-Cavitation Drive. You can’t be serious?’
Ophelia crosses her arms. ‘If only we could get it to work. But, yes, it appears Nemo succeeded.’
‘Super-cavitation …？’ I know I’ve heard that term in Dr Hewett’s class. I start to hum ‘Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious’ in my head, but I’m pretty sure that’s a different concept. I probably would have paid closer attention if Hewett had said, By the way, this technology is real, and your life may depend on it.
‘Cav-drive is next-level propulsion,’ Nelinha explains. ‘The world’s best navies are researching it now, but no one has got it to work yet. You create a sheath of air around the nose of the sub, so you have zero water resistance. Then BANG. You hit the engines and … well, in theory, you could shoot across the ocean at any depth at extreme velocity, more like a bullet than a boat.’