The submersible’s interior was a death trap of pipes and gears. A coffin rushing through the ocean just below the surface. Humming with latent energy. Cold at each corner.

  For all the comfort it provided, Macha’s bunk bed could have been made of metal, too. As it was his austere, empty room. Each night left his muscles aching and his mind blurred with the lack of sleep.

  The narrow corridors mimicked the veins of a mechanical beast. Dim, humid and hot. No corner was pleasant to the sight. Riveted plates groaned under incredible pressures of the sea, while copper tubes, filling the walls and ceilings, hissed occasional bursts of steam. Wheels and levers filled the gaps, their purposes a mystery. Macha eyed one as he passed, its rusted handle licking drops of water as he passed. Would it flood the vessel if broken? Would it fill it with unbreathable gas? Whatever it was, he knew it was nothing good.

  The Icto had never been used for carrying people. It had cabins, yes. But the truth unfolded as soon as they boarded. Anything Robert had designed to make fools believe otherwise. Well designed on blueprints, poorly executed in reality.

  The bridge offered little difference from the submersible’s industrial brutality. Same wheels, same pipes, same levers. For human comfort, just some moth-eaten blankets and mold-stained cushions scattered on the floor. He’d not complain, at least not openly. After all, it was that vessel what allowed them to escape Tampra. And it was its captain who rescued them from death. Yet, each thought, each step and each glance, pushed him to curse in silence.

  In one shadowed corner, Ced lay like a marionette without strings, his hollow stare fixed on nothing. The devastation of the news Macha had to deliver broke his already weakened soul. Crushing him like the ocean would do if the submersible collapsed.

  Sandree rested nearby, her face nearly matching the sickly glow of the long fluorescent lamps lining above. The bucket at her side hadn’t left her grip since the journey had begun, and the contrary, it had gotten worse. Yet she had shown Macha another reason to love her. Something purer and more hidden than her beauty, her intelligence or her grace. Rooted beside Ced, she had not left his side for a moment; always more attentive to him more than to herself. Her bow resting against the wall like a silent sentinel. Drowned by the constant thrum of engines, words felt useless. Especially to Ced, who didn’t engage in them much. Her presence, the only comfort she could offer, even if broken by the eventual need to hug the bucket.

  At the chamber’s middle raised the parody of a throne, a tangled nest of copper tubing, frayed cables, and dented metal consoles.In there, little lights flickered, gauges’ needles twisted. Rob, king of metal, sat at its top, his elongated limbs moving with precision over the controls. The submersible answered to him, every press of a button or a switch moving down, a groan or a shudder of the metal ship.

  The automaton yanked down a squeaky lever, then a massive periscope descended from the ceiling with a hiss. Brass fittings squealed, almost as if they could protest, and the eyepiece aligned with Rob’s spherical head. Rob’s eyes, two old lanterns magically transformed into a way to see for a machine, turned on and off. Or what he’d say: he blinked.

  “One-ten degrees,” Rob announced, his voice a shriek of grinding gears and the hollow echo of a speaking trumpet. “Corvette class. Comp’s vessel. Confirmed.”

  His vocal timbre shifted abruptly, deepening into the resonant bark of a seasoned captain. “An advance party. Very well. Proceed to intercept, Navigator.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!” he chirped back in a reedy, eager tone, the subservience of a lowly deckhand layered beneath the words.

  Then it changed again, softer, almost sheepish: “Descending to stealth depths, Captain.”

  A moment later, his voice boomed again, rough and boisterous. “Turning forty degrees south. We are in line, sir!”

  With a final, theatrical bellow, he swivelled his head toward all passengers who had dared to leave their cabins, which were only three, and spoke to them. “Tell our guests to brace, sailor! Attention, passengers, we’re in for bumps and dumps! Hold your horses!”

  The submersible tilted forward, plunging deeper into the abyss. Macha’s fingers reached for the nearest pipe as his feet lost footing.

  The Icto groaned.

  “We are going to die!” Sandree muttered.

  “It’s fine Mon’Lass, Don’t be afraid.” Ced said, reaching for her hand.

  Macha startled. The man, after all his pain and loss, in a moment of little hope and great unrest. Had found words again. He smiled, Sandree smiled. Ced, although briefly, did too.

  “Rob,” Macha pressed thumb and forefinger against his nose. Then he took a moment to blow, popping his ears. The other two, who had forgotten to do as he had taught them, and paid the price painfully, rushed to do the same. “Rob!” Macha repeated.

  “What is it, dear?”

  “When we rammed the last ship, the Icto had structural damage.”

  “Affirmative.”

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  Macha waited, but no more was said. Rob continued with his motions.

  “So?” Macha said.

  “So, what dear?”

  A teeth snap burst from Macha’s mouth as the Icto tilted up. “You said it was because of the impact of a metallic hull. The external saw was designed for wood!”

  “Affirmative!”

  After a pause, waiting for another more elaborate answer, that would not come, Macha snorted. His free hand gestured toward the walls where pipes rattled like loose teeth. “If this one’s armoured too, won’t that snap us in half?”

  The automaton’s spherical head swivelled a full round degree like one of the ship’s gears. “Calculations complete! Probability of catastrophic failure: seventy-three percent! We won’t sink nor spectacularly explode, esteemed dear-sir!”

  One spindly arm shot upward, nearly grazing a leaking steam valve, while the other gestured wildly toward the periscope’s flickering images. “Previous target was a hostile vessel engaging allied forces. This one belongs to their communications web. Eliminate it is priority from High Command. Sir, captain, Dear.”

  Macha’s stomach lurched as the submersible banked again. Somewhere, metal shrieked in protest. At his side, Sandree gagged from inside her bucket.

  “You said there are dozens of these relay ships!” he shouted, while trying to find somewhere to brace properly. “It won't make a difference! Are you going to risk the ship for that?”

  “Affirmative!” Rob’s entire torso rotated. “One less is statistically significant! Our chances have changed after relocation. Now survival is at twelve percent. Oh, no… twenty one… silly me… navigator! Ascend for impact!”

  The world turned sideways, then returned to normal. Macha fell to his knees as a hand reached to pull. Sandree hugged him tightly, then Ced braced them both.

  The collision hit like a cannonball. Macha’s teeth rattled as his body shook without control. Outside, the scrapping sound of teeth sawing metal. Inside, pipes vomited jets of steam, filling the bridge with a heated mist. Two wheels popped from place, and a shriek pierced the ears as they bent.

  As the submersible finally stilled, groaning like a beaten dog, Macha peeled himself off the floor. His ribs ached and his knees shaken. In his temple, a string of blood appeared. The cause if it, he didn’t know. “Everyone … Are you fine?”

  Ced nodded, so did Sandree.

  Through the dissipating steam, Rob’s silhouette remained upright, arms raised in triumph. The automaton’s voice came from behind the swirling vapour, joyful, victorious: “See, see? Still intact! Mostly!”

  The machine raised from his throne, torch-eyes flickering with maniac energy around the bridge. hammering echoed, each strike shuddering through the hull. Then squeaking, then more hammering.

  Macha turned toward Sandree, only to find her face still buried in the bucket again, her knuckles white around its rim. The stench of bile clung to the air, thick enough to taste. Yet, finding themselves alive and dry, it didn’t seem to matter much.

  Rob’s voice from somewhere. His eyes banished behind the thick curtain of vapor. “Good and bad news, esteemed passengers!”

  Macha gritted his teeth. “Spit it out!”

  “Problems fixed! The ship won’t sink, neither explode, nor implode,” Rob said. “But the air supply will conclude in approximately three minutes and forty-two seconds! Do you need that?”

  Sandree’s muffled groan rose from the bucket. “We do!”

  “Oh! Right!”

  Without warning, the submersible lurched violently upwards once more, more tilted than ever before. Macha’s boots skidded across the slick metal floor before his footing disappeared entirely. He crashed backward, rolling like a discarded barrel until his shoulder slammed into a protruding pipe. Pain flared hot and bright behind his eyes. The vessel shuddered again. Then, with a deafening splash, it righted itself to a horizontal position to settle.

  Unwilling to stand again, he crawled toward Ced, who had lashed himself to a cluster of small pipes like a sailor weathering a storm on a net of ropes. The man’s face was ashen, his grip unyielding.

  “Are you alive?” Macha rasped.

  Ced gave a subtle smirk. “I wonder which one is worse: the torture in tampra or this.”

  A guttural growl cut through the metallic groans of the submersible. Sandree, her silk dress splattered with the contents of her bucket, spat on the ground. “I swear to my mother and to my father, I will gut that thing with my bare hands.“

  Macha exhaled, rubbing his throbbing temple. “This is not what I was expecting.”

  A shadow loomed over him. Rob crouched suddenly, his ocular lenses blinding them. “Sir, dear. No worries,” he whispered. “We are replenishing the air now. Upon finishing, I will amend the ship, and we can continue. Male is close.”

  Macha closed his eyes. “Oh, thank Isha.”

  “Don’t thank her yet!” Rob said. “When we reach, there will be war. Much shaky and cracky! Will we survive? Data sets our chances to two percent. It’s not much, I know. But what can we do? War is war, isn’t it?”

  The automaton straightened abruptly, one arm snapping up in a mock salute. “Captain to sailors… Ahoy! Let’s do this!”

  “Aye, aye, Captain!” He answered himself, his voice a shifting tapestry of different voices.

  Macha dragged a hand down his face. “The one I’m going to kill is Robert,” he hissed. “For putting us in here with this mad machine.”

  The submersible groaned in agreement.