Twenty Trillion Leagues Under the Sea by Adam Roberts

comprehending the slower, less rational mentition of other people. He spoke again, in a level voice. ‘In that case – assuming there were some purely vertical force dragging you down – it would also act upon the entire vessel. There would be no perceptual difference from your point of view. You could not feel such a current.’
    Avocat shrieked. ‘I know what I felt! It almost sucked me away! I had to hang on to the bottom of the lock-door, grasping desperately as it pulled at my legs! I only just got back inside the airlock!’
    There was an awkward pause. Castor took a noisy glug from one of the open bottles of wine.
    ‘If you didn’t go, then how did the ballast vents get fixed?’ asked Lebret.
    ‘I don’t know!’ And he began to weep.
    ‘Get a grip on yourself, sailor,’ the captain insisted. ‘It won’t do you any good being hysterical like this. You’ll need to keep a level head when you go out again.’

    Avocat’s reaction was immediate. ‘Go out again? No!’ he cried, his eyes round as oranges. ‘Sir – send me out again and you’ll be sending me to my death. Don’t, I beg of you!’
    The captain’s lined face clenched into its more habitual expression of displeasure. ‘What’s this babyishness? The vanes, sailor! You must address the vanes.’
    ‘Please sir,’ said Avocat. He was quivering with fear now, shaking droplets of water onto the floor. The pleading expression in his eyes gave his round face a childlike quality. ‘Please don’t send me out.’
    ‘Nonsense!’ barked Cloche.
    ‘I beg of you, sir,’ said Avocat, stepping towards his Captain, and holding his hands out.
    De Chante spoke up. ‘I’ll go, Captain. It’s my turn anyway.’
    ‘No,’ said the captain. ‘Avocat is already suited-up. I don’t want to waste more time. And above all, I will not nurture cowardice amongst my crew!’
    The mention of cowardice had the effect of a slap to the face. Avocat straightened up and took a step backwards.
    ‘Captain Cloche,’ said Lebret, attempting a mollifying tone.
    But the captain’s temper – never a moderate or even thing – had compressed itself into the hardest mode of fury. Like a great mass of snow poised on a mountain flank, finally shaken free by a tremor, his rage came thundering down upon his crewman.
    ‘Will you go back in the water, sailor?’ he shouted, his hand groping for his pistol. In his anger he omitted to unbutton the holster, so his elderly fingers fumbled fruitlessly at the leather flap. Without giving Avocat time to reply, he continued. ‘You can join your fellow mutineer in the brig. Boucher! Boucher!’
    ‘Captain!’
    ‘Take him away. And you—’ he turned on Lebret. ‘Keep your collaborationist chatter to yourself, sir, or I’ll have you locked in the brig as well.’
    The mood of elation had evaporated. Boucher was holding the open wine bottle by its neck. He passed it across to Castor, puthis hand on Avocat’s shoulder, and followed him out of the mess, clambering awkwardly up the still-sloping corridor.
    ‘You, sailor,’ the captain spluttered, pointing at de Chante. ‘Whatever your name is. Go along too. Wring that miserable coward out of the wetsuit, and put it on yourself. Your orders: to dive for’ard, and do what you can to unjam the front vanes.’
    De Chante had gone very white. ‘No, sir,’ he said.
    Cloche’s skin went redder, throwing his white beard into remarkable contrast. He stared hard at de Chante, then turned his head to look down at his flank. With deliberation he coordinated his fingers to unbutton the flap.
    ‘No?’
    ‘Not on these terms, sir.’
    ‘On these … terms ?’
    ‘Captain, I had already offered to take Avocat’s place.’ De Chante spoke rapidly. ‘There was no need to send him to the brig. He is no coward, Captain. He is my friend, and calling him a coward is unconscionable. To call a Frenchman such a thing is to—’
    The captain’s pistol was directly in de Chante’s face.