Twenty Trillion Leagues Under the Sea by Adam Roberts Page A

‘Another word,’ hissed Cloche, ‘and I shall make an example of you.’
    Nobody spoke.
    ‘I repeat my order,’ said Cloche. ‘You will then either follow it, or die – here and now. Do you understand?’
    De Chante nodded slowly.
    ‘Very well. Boucher – the celebrations are … Boucher? Boucher! Where is my lieutenant?’
    ‘He is locking up Avocat,’ said Lebret in a mild voice.
    Cloche glared at him. ‘These celebrations have proved premature ,’ he declared. ‘Pannier will return these bottles of wine to the store – Pannier? Pannier! And meanwhile, de, de, this sailor here will venture outside the Plongeur and, and, and restore control to the forward vanes. And – Pannier!’ he bellowed. ‘Where is the man?’
    The others in the mess swapped uncertain glances. Billiard-Fanon evidently considered it his duty to inform the captain.
    ‘Captain, I regret to inform you—’

    ‘What?’
    ‘Pannier is,’ said the ensign, nervously. ‘Pannier is—’
    ‘Drunk,’ said Lebret, in a voice so loud that Billiard-Fanon jumped, like a man pinched. ‘Dead drunk, in fact. By which I mean insensible.’
    For a moment nothing happened. The time felt weirdly suspended. Cloche glared at Lebret. Everybody waited to see what would happen next.
    Then the captain took in a deep breath, held it, and released it. Slowly he replaced his pistol in its holster. ‘The crew of the Plongeur ,’ he said, speaking distinctly, but directing his words into the space between Lebret and Jhutti. ‘The crew of the Plongeur has disgraced me. The crew has disgraced France. With God’s help and my leadership we shall return to Saint-Nazaire. And when we do, I shall report you all to the authorities for dishonourable discharge from the French navy, and imprisonment or execution depending on the degree of the mutiny. Messieurs—’ He swivelled his gaze to the two Punjabi scientists, ‘—are not sworn-in members of the Navy of France, and I exclude you from my disapprobation. Nevertheless, I expect you to respect my authority and follow my orders.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I am going to my cabin,’ he announced. Then, slowly, he pulled his way along the sloping floor of the bridge, and up the corridor.
    For long minutes, nobody spoke. It was clear that some profound violence had been enacted upon the structures of authority in the submarine. Something had broken.
    De Chante sat down. ‘The captain has gone mad,’ he breathed.
    ‘Sailor!’ snapped Billiard-Fanon. ‘Be quiet! To say such a thing is tantamount to mutiny.’
    ‘Even if it’s true ?’ retorted the white-faced de Chante. He pulled a cigarette case from his shirt pocket, an action that made plain how much his hand was trembling.
    ‘You have your orders, sailor,’ Billiard-Fanon said. But his voice lacked certainty.
    Boucher came half-stepping, half-tumbling down the slope and into the bridge. He was carrying the sodden wetsuit, draped overone arm. He saw at once that something was wrong. ‘Where’s the captain?’ he asked.
    ‘The captain has retired to his cabin,’ replied Billiard-Fanon.
    ‘Things flip-flopped rather suddenly,’ drawled Lebret, ‘in terms of the – shall we say, the captain’s mood.’
    ‘He … he left us with orders,’ Billiard-Fanon insisted.
    ‘Well, follow them!’ said Boucher. But the expression on Billiard-Fanon’s face clearly disconcerted him. ‘I mean – what were the orders?’
    ‘He said de Chante was to go out, try to fix the vanes,’ said Billiard-Fanon.
    ‘Yes, I heard that. Avocat has removed the suit – here it is …’
    ‘The captain also said,’ Lebret interrupted him, ‘that the entire crew, save only the two Indians, can expect to be court-martialled when we return to Saint-Nazaire.’.
    ‘He said that?’ returned Boucher, his cigar-shaped eyebrows floating up his brow.
    ‘It was unclear whether his words applied to me or not,’ Lebret added. ‘I presume they did.’
    ‘He has lost his