Harriet watched as the passengers disembarked. Colonel and Mrs. Fitzpatrick were among the first to alight, accompanied by two of their own automatic servants. Mrs. Fitzpatrick gave an audible sniff as she spotted Harriet and Bertrand, then looked away. They were followed shortly after by the angry University student, still clutching his book tight in one hand. The dangerous-looking trio Harriet had watched at breakfast came next, pausing on the platform and looking carefully around. Harriet tensed, but they turned away from the docks and began trudging up the hill. Several other passengers followed, disappearing into the sleeping city. Just before the train was about to pull away, the young family—the Edgewares—tumbled out in a confusion of luggage, excited children, flustered parents, and impatient whistle-blasts from the train guards.
“Guests for Louros Hotel,” a voice called.
Harriet turned to see a young Chinese woman waiting at the far end of the platform. She was accompanied by a dozen automatic servants, which moved forward to collect luggage, and dressed in a uniform similar to that of an airship captain. Her long hair was held back in a straight braid.
“Follow me,” the young woman called.
“Are we to walk?” Mrs. Fitzpatrick said.
“It’s not far. My submersible is waiting at the dock.”
“Well,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick exclaimed. “I was told this was a civilized occasion. I do not recall the last time I was required to walk.”
Bertrand rolled his eyes and picked up Harriet’s valise. “Come on, old thing. Let’s grab the best seats. I’ve never been on a submersible before. I hope it doesn’t sink.”
“I think it’s supposed to.”
“What? Oh, yes, right. Sink. Ha! Of course.” He cleared his throat. “But… you know.”
“I’m sure the Louros Hotel wouldn’t use it if it had a habit of drowning passengers.”
“I suppose you must have a point. First time for everything, though, eh?”
The submersible was larger than Harriet had imagined, although she wasn’t sure what exactly what she had been expecting. Perhaps a tight, claustrophobic space, like an automatic carriage, bitter with the smell of oil and metal? Instead, it was seventy or eighty feet long, maybe twenty wide at the bows, and shaped like stubby cigar. A gangplank protected by handrails and lit by photon-emission globes led up to an open iron doorway. Inside, the submersible was as plushly decorated as the Clockwork Express, with velvet drapes tied back at each wide porthole and comfortable armchairs beside each. A small bar stood at one end, attended by a ro-butler.
“I should like,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick said, as she entered, “to meet the pilot of this… thing.”
“That would be me,” the young Chinese woman said.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s eyebrows shot up. “Do you know how to drive this, girl?”
Harriet bit her lip to prevent a sarcastic comment escaping. Keep a low profile. A spy doesn’t get noticed, unless they choose to be. She saw the young pilot’s eyes tighten, but the woman kept her voice steady.
“My father built the submersible.”
Mrs. Fitzpatrick met her husband’s cold eyes. “How… singular. Well, no doubt he had assistance. What are you waiting for, girl? I shall require the best seats.” She glanced around. “If such things exist.”
The pilot was showing remarkable restraint. If that had been her, Harriet considered, she probably would have punched Mrs. Fitzpatrick.
“Come on, Harry,” Bertrand urged. “Let’s grab these ones.” He slid into a seat beside a porthole. “We’ll get a good view from here.”
Harriet joined him. Water lapped against the thick glass. It was still dark outside, but Harriet thought she could just see the faint watercolor of dawn spreading on the far horizon. It would be darker still beneath the waves, and she wasn’t sure they would see anything. She obviously wasn’t the only one who had come to that conclusion. A couple of red-headed young men—brothers, perhaps?—had headed straight to the bar, ignoring the portholes entirely.
“This reminds me of that airship we went on,” Bertrand said. “At least we’re not trying to catch a thief this time, eh? All pleasure.” He eyed the ro-butler. “I wonder what’s for breakfast?”
As soon as everyone was seated, the pilot disappeared through a door at the front of the submersible and the automatic servants began to take orders. Shortly after, Harriet felt the submersible’s engines come to life. Water churned, and they pulled away from the dock. Below them, Harriet heard the rush of water entering the ballast tanks, and the submersible sank.
Moments later, powerful beams of light sprang from the submersible, slicing through the dark water. Photon-emission devices, Harriet thought immediately. Big ones. They couldn’t have come cheap, but then this whole venture had been prohibitively expensive. If the British-Martian Intelligence Service hadn’t paid for it, it would have cost Bertrand most of his year’s salary.
At the bar, one of the young men pulled out a newspaper. Harriet’s heart jumped as she saw it was a copy of the Tharsis Times. Was her contact really going to reveal himself here? She squinted. No. The headline was wrong. She’d memorized the right edition of the newspaper. The twelfth of April edition had news of a new manufactory for spring-powered automatic carriages that was to open on the edge of Tharsis City at the top of the front page, and below it a report of a Mars-ship that had somehow crashed into the Valles Marineris (thankfully without passengers aboard). This was yesterday’s newspaper, not the twelfth of April edition. Blast! Why was she so on edge?
She looked up and saw that the young man had noticed her watching. He was grinning, and as she met his gaze, he winked. Harriet looked away, furious and embarrassed, her face as hot as an oven.
Gasps went up from several of the other passengers by the portholes.
“Harry! Look at that!” Bertrand said.
Harriet peered out. At the range of the lights, a gigantic, shadowy shape slipped through the water. It was larger than the submersible, with long, limb-like fins, a tail like an enormous eel, and massive, elongated jaws. Someone screamed.
“No need to worry,” a voice said. Harriet glanced back to see the pilot had emerged from her door.
“What is it?” someone called.
“A mosasaurus. A large predator.”
“A predator?” Mrs. Fitzpatrick demanded. “Why do they allow predators?” Her husband’s eyes were fixed unwaveringly on the porthole. There was something very unsettling about that man, Harriet thought.
“It’s no danger to us,” the pilot said. “It eats plesiosaurs, squid, and sometimes even a small whale, but it has no interest in the submersible or the hotel buildings. I’ve been running trips down to the ruins for almost ten years with no incident.”
Mrs. Fitzpatrick sniffed. “I shall hold you personally responsible should we be attacked.”
“If we’re attacked by one of those,” the pilot said, one eyebrow lifting, “none of us will be around to blame anyone.”
Harriet hid a grin.
Mr. Edgeware, the father from the young family, spoke up before Mrs. Fitzpatrick could respond. “Do you believe that the ruins we are to visit were truly built underwater?”