Cuttlefish by Dave Freer Page B

bags for us may have been a mistake. Duke Malcolm's men are setting enquiries afoot in London. The leadership of the Liberty—as they call themselves—want us out of here, as soon as possible. So nice to be welcome. Well, I suppose at least they're not just tossing us out.”
    Looking around the station, Clara felt that “out” might have nicer air to breathe. But obviously her mother didn't think so. Soon they were in another bobber, heading for Stockwell Tube and that thing Clara had no real image of: a submarine.
    The level of flooding in Stockwell was deeper, and the station's domed roof barely penetrated the murky water. Nobody on the surface would have guessed there were new tunnels down there, and that the generating station branch line led to the deep caverns, which was where the bobber took them—to the Underpeople's main submarine nest. Mick helped them out—it had been a long run and they were bruised and shaken. And there in the light of the methane-gas flares were three submarines being loaded…or unloaded. They were black, broad, and streamlined, the hull-metal bound with rivet-bands, the upper deck planked and tarred, but otherwise near featureless except for their exhausts, and a low cowling. “Our gateway to the world, ma'am,” said Mick, cheerfully. “The Darter , the Plaice , and the Cuttlefish . Over there is the Garfish , having her struts worked on.” Clara looked where he pointed. A long sharp-nosed tube hung from several gantries, with the outrigger-like sides protruding outwards and downwards on rails. The sharp, actinic light of welding flashed and flickered from the workers there. “Pity she's not quite ready for sea. They've been working on the outrigger design. They work as hydrofoils when they're under sail. They're trying to adjust Garfish so she can run on her coal-fired Stirling on them.”
    He took in their expressions and said, “Greek to you, I'd be thinking. Well, let me take you to meet Captain Malkis. Looks like they got word, and Cuttlefish is readying for sea. He's a good skipper, and they've got a great navigator submariner in their first mate. He'sone of the original Hollander trainers who showed us how to work underwater.”
    He took them to the third of the strange, forbidden craft, moored here, underground and underwater, deep in the heart of the British Empire's capital. And that was how they'd got here. It had only been minutes after they'd arrived that their valises and trunk had arrived, and the submarine had left Stockwell.
    The submarine might be yet another new thing, but it was narrow and crushing to someone who had lived—well, at least walked to school and home again—under an open sky. And this cabin was smaller and more closed-in still.
    Lying there, Clara finally decided she could take it no longer. She could smell food. She could hear the thump of the motors. When she got up she could even feel it through the soles of her feet. They couldn't still be on silence.
    She followed her nose down the passage, and to the tiniest of tiny kitchens. That boy was there, scrubbing pots. So was a short man who was nearly as wide as he was high, stirring another large pot. “Ah, missy. Yer come for some tucker?” he asked with a gap-toothed beam.
    She decided then and there she could like him, unlike the boy, who was scowling at her again. “What's tucker?” she asked.
    â€œVittles, missy. Food. That's what we call it where I come from. The new bread hasn't come out yet, and this porridge needs stirring or it'll stick, but if young Tim can get his hand out of the suds, he can cut you a bit of yesterday's baking.”
    Tim obviously got the message, and dried off his hands and fetched out a loaf while Clara asked the cook, “So where do you come from, mister? I've never heard your accent before.”
    The cook grinned. “Westralia, missy. God's own Republic, bless 'er. Dry as a…bone.