As I had been promised, the Nautilus was viciously cut down by the maelstrom. My life’s purpose, the finest submarine to ever exist, shredded into sheet metal like so many bits of paper. As me and my crew are crushed before we are drowned, there is a single moment of serene beauty where our souls balanced between our arrogance and our fate — the sterile inventions that had kept us from nature had also kept us from the infinite yawning maw that all life came from and shall return to.
A single moment of weakness exposed us all. A friendly reminder of the hubris that plagued humans. As much as I had forsaken my humanity — I had tried to will it not to be — in my heart of hearts, I knew I was still human. The maelstrom was an exacting vengeance, effortlessly wiping away all that I am with inoffensive brutality. Without a will to cloud its judgement, it dispensed its justice with perfect clarity; the Professor, his manservant, and the hunter had avoided its decree and will live on, wherever they are.
So we sunk. Drowned nearly 10 miles. Subjected to over 200,000 psi. In what must have been less than 2 minutes felt like 2 eternities. Without our diving suits, we should have had our breath drawn out, our bodies crushed instantly, and our souls scattered into the sea.
But it did not happen. And these things simply do not go away.
Suddenly, a greater force was upon us.
The Professor Aronnax had described his initial encounters with the Nautilus as follows: an impossible whale with a dark, hardy carapace that was immune against spears and cannons; it had great, phosphorescent lights that swept across the ocean blue and a speed that easily outmatched the Abraham Lincoln, one of the greatest ships among the American navalry. Failing to account for the miracles of science, he could only ascribe otherworldly, legendary qualities to the Nautilus.
Now, I find myself in much the same position as I watched the unimaginable happen before my eyes. A massive, silvery hull with ruddy accents glided across the undersea skies, skillfully weaving in and out of the maelstrom like a woven tapestry. In my dazed state, I interpreted the vehicle as a large steel globe; it moved as easily as a rubber ball slid down a slope; the tides merely washed over it. Indeed, on further inspection, I found that it was not a perfect sphere, but tapered off like a tear drop rolling down a piece of glass. At the back end, I notice a rudder of intricate design, made of ribbons and streamers that blurred together.
And it approached us, traveling along the wall of the maelstrom. A primal fear and awe struck my core; without meaning to, I attempted to swim away, to place some distance between us. I merely flailed in place.
It grew in size. I had incorrectly estimated the size of the vehicle to that of a distant cloud. It quickly eclipsed my field of view, and all I saw was that of a behemoth. It must have been an acre long, and whether it was by providence or by choice, the vehicle overlapped us above head without running us through. A deep rumbling reached our inner ear canals and shook our hearts, amplified by the surrounding water. The effect was divine; though the entity was above us, it was also around us and surrounded us and within us. I suspect many of us would have prostrated before it.
It advanced. The hull appears to pull away, revealing the rudders. In yet another surprise, they were more organic than machine. The rudder was a set of mile long tentacles, overlapping and twisting with the same severity as whips. And once again, I am stricken by a primal fear as these tendrils reach out for me.
I am grasped. I am drawn towards its mass.
An oculus sweeps into view, and I felt myself being observed.
The oculus is oddly shaped; instead of a typical porthole, it looked like an opening for a key. The slit where the bittings would have entered was healed over, leaving behind a thin streak similar to bleeding paint. Deep inside the darkness of the porthole, I could see flexing. In a quick motion, something mechanical snaps into place, and it completes its final movement. The porthole then appears to shift over, focusing on me. Without oxygen, I could do nothing but raise my hand.
I try to stare into the oculus as salt water stings my eyes, searching for a pilot to identify. It stares blankly back.
My consciousness faded away.
I did not die, as I was promised.
I awoke in darkness, lying in a shallow grave of freezing water. Utilizing all my senses, I could feel nothing but the clothes on my back, waterlogged and cold, and the floor upon which I rested. It was of a material I am quite familiar with; a polished nacre, similar to my now lost collection of shells, but much hardier and without grit. As I slowly explored along the floor, I found that it curved upwards, and eventually, the floor became a wall. I assume the wall eventually became the ceiling. I was in a chamber.
In the darkness, with all my other senses heightened, I felt a subtle pressure on my eardrums, deafening me. Yet another feeling I am familiar with; the Nautilus frequently subjected me to intense altitude changes. We were ascending, and quickly.
At this point, I was sure of it. We must be in another submarine, as miraculous and as powerful as the defunct Nautilus. This was truly inconceivable; we had plunged to our deaths in the maelstrom, and yet another vehicle much greater than ours was able to brave those very same depths and save us? I had believed that the Nautilus was a wholly unique and individual technological feat. If there were others that had outmatched the Nautilus, perhaps…
Had I been wrong?
Perhaps humanity was not entirely without merit?
A jolt and a slight weightlessness indicates to me that we had reached the surface. A maze of refracted light guided my path, and I am directed outside. I clamber over chamber after chamber before finding a downward incline with water lapping against the slope. I half step, half fell forward into the open Norwegian ocean.
The sky reveals itself. I could spot the maelstrom, framed by the Lofoten islands, still spinning in the distance.
As I floated out into the open sea, I took a look back and saw the shelled lifeform that had saved me.
Not my Nautilus; it clearly had not survived the maelstrom. Instead, I am face to face with the Cephalopoda Nautiloidea of cosmic proportions. My mind is drawn towards titanic krakens, and I could scarcely conjure a more apt comparison. My addled mind simply had not the words to describe this beast of beauty and nature — that which is perfect in form and function. And it had apparently decided to save me. I laughed to myself in awe and relief.
It appears to stare at me.
In my eager arrogance, I decided to foolishly guess at its intentions. I raised my right fist and held it up for as long as I could. It mimics my movement, placing one of its tentacles onto the top of its shell.
I sputter wordlessly. It responds by blowing bubbles.
I swam in a short arc to its left. It rotates in place, following my movement.
Finally, I reach out, with my palms upwards and my fingers spread out. The nautilus pauses for a moment, comparing the first action with the newest one, before coming to a decision. It places a tendril upon my hand, although it overestimated its heft and placed too much force into my biceps and shoulder. Still, I grapple its arm as best as I could.
With the help of the nautilus, I now sit atop its shell, staring into the setting sun. The freezing air is sobering, but my adrenaline keeps me warm. With nothing to do, I just sat and thought to myself.
I decided simply, thus:
I have been shown the folly of my ways.
Were it not for the bounties of nature, I would never have seen the cowardice in my idiosyncrasy.
Now, my library, my collection, my submarine, and my crew lie twenty thousand leagues under the sea.
And one last chance to make things right.
Through providence alone, I am permitted to survive.
I see the egomania of my methods and raise an alternative.
A true collaboration of that which is biological and mechanical, to rend free from the sins of man.
The nautilus shall become the Nautilus.
My vision is clear.
Liberation for all.
The skies await.
— The Monologues of Captain Nemo
