OVERTURE

Well, here it is. After an epic writing session I have completed Overture. The whole story, including the prelude, is included below. I have wanted to put Bartok from Legend and Nemo (Michael Caine incarnation) from 20,000 Leagues together for a while now to see what would happen. Both characters have flaws and I think, diametrically opposed philosophies. They pretty much wrote their dialogue themselves

The Legend characters are copyrighted by Paramount Television and by Gekko Film Corp. Nemo is from the ABC production of Jules Verne�s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. This story is in no way intended as an infringement upon those rights. This story is written solely for the entertainment of others. Story copyright Sarah O'Donoghue 2000

1878

He was cold and tired. Laying on his side, half frozen in a filthy puddle the man tried desperately to slow his ragged breathing. The elegant clothes he was wearing were ruined but he didn�t care, not now.

With great effort, he rolled onto his back, and then on to all fours, favouring his left leg, and scrambled over to a pile of rotting refuse, a common enough feature in Nineteenth Century London. Out on the main street, gas lights lit eerie patterns in the November fog, elongating the shadows of his pursuers into ghastly shapes thrown into sharp relief on the brick walls on a factory wall.

Knowing that he couldn�t stay there much longer without risking detection, the man started to back up the alley, keeping hunched over, and eventually finding a half-hidden doorway leading to a shadowy stockroom. He was exhausted.

Pushing his long, black, curly hair out of his eyes, the fugitive quickly took in his surroundings, his quick intellect not quite dulled by the horrors he had witnessed that night. Spotting a wooden ladder, he quickly hobbled up into a low, dusty room piled high with crates and sacks. It was filthy, and he could hear the scratching of rats in the shadows, but at least it was dry.

Pulling a couple of sacks onto a low crate in the centre of the room, the fugitive could do no more than lay down and wait for morning.

As he began to slip into an uneasy slumber, the terrors of the day finally began to sink into him. His wife had been murdered in front of his very eyes, and it was only because of a faithful lab assistant that his baby daughter had escaped. He prayed he would find the pre-arranged rendezvous at the docks the next day.

There was nothing left for him. His science had been twisted by betrayal, his heart broken. But, the men who had ruined his life had paid. The laboratory had exploded spectacularly, his �doomsday device� a last ditch mechanism to save his most valuable and dangerous work had destroyed his work, and all those who were planning to use his research for evil.

Outside the cracked window the soft drizzle of the night became steady rain, and then a huge downpour. Suddenly thunder cracked, but the fugitive was not disturbed. Rather, his numbed body embraced the sounds of the storm outside, reflecting the storms in his heart, the steady drumbeat of the water soothing his soul and finally allowing sleep to come.

ONE YEAR LATER

The usually calm and organised Janos Kristoff Bartok was uncharacteristically flustered and angry. Not only had he just completed an epic journey across half the globe, been cooped up in a tiny cabin aboard a so � called luxury ocean liner and had his baggage mislaid by the inept crew, but now here he was, in a hot, crowded and strange city without the contact he had been promised three hours ago.

Bartok sat down on a crate and mopped his brow. He�d loosened his cravat an hour ago, but still the tropical humidity of Hong Kong was getting to him. The sweat was running down his face and beading at the end of his long nose. Around him a tide of humanity ebbed and flowed; the strange tonal Cantonese language being shouted by a multitude of people, old and young, buyers, sellers and general ne�er-do-wells in this food market he had been told to come to. Every breath he took clung to his lungs: moist, hot and pungent air filled with a pot pourri of smells from live frogs, monkey brains, strange plants bundled or wrapped in leaves, steam from the cooking areas and the constant rush, rush, rush of people pushing buy him to get where they wanted to go.

Suddenly a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Bartok jumped, one hand flying to his fulminator, strapped to his waist, something he considered an essential precaution in this foreign land. As he made to stand, the hand clamped down and a heavy � accented male voice hissed in his ear, �Don�t move. I�m your contact. You must come with me.�

Bartok was wary, but had been expecting this sort of strange meeting. Everything about his journey had been bizarre and so, reluctantly he stood and turned to see a small, middle aged Chinese man. He appeared harmless, but nevertheless, Bartok kept one hand on the fulminator as he followed his contact through the marketplace and out into the city.

Even though his sense of direction was exceptional, Bartok soon found himself to be disorientated, the high buildings, and twisting narrow streets as well as the alien culture preventing him from finding a point of reference. The Chinese man took him out of the market area and into the docks of Kowloon, a dangerous area that made Bartok even more wary and edgy if that were possible. Finally, he was lead down onto a small pier. The contact motioned for him to climb into a small boat which he reluctantly did, his long legs allowing him to easily leap into the small craft, which asides from him held only an ancient Chinese man who appeared to be the Captain and a Western � featured youth in his twenties.

Bartok was motioned to sit and before he realised it, the boat had cast off, and when he quickly turned round, he saw that his original contact had disappeared into the dockside. Now he was completely alone.

Whilst the elder man made busy with the boat, the younger gave him a warm smile and sat down next to him.

�Forgive our manners, Professor Bartok, but secrecy is essential in this situation.�

Bartok could no longer contain himself. �What situation, sir? Ever since I received the letter in Colorado I have been proceeding against my better judgement. I have been dragged halfway across the world on what I am told is a mission of the utmost importance. If I had not seen the personal seal of Queen Victoria��

The younger man cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable. �I had better stop you there, Professor. Now we are away from listening ears I have an apology to make. The Crown had nothing to do with the letter you were sent, I�m afraid we have had to operate with some deception��

Bartok�s eyes narrowed. �I received a message from one of my oldest friends in Hungary notifying me that my expertise were urgently needed by Queen Victoria to avert a major disaster in this British Territory. Shortly afterwards, a courier arrived at my Compound with a hand delivered letter with Queen Victoria�s seal practically begging me to come to Hong Kong to oversee the hydro-electrical project here which was on the verge of collapse. I hesitate, and am then told that several of my old colleagues from London have also been summoned out here, all expenses paid. Believing that it was a delicate and urgent situation I have come, and now you tell me that this has all been a lie?�

The youth squirmed even more. �Sir, I apologise, but your unique expertise is urgently needed and it is a matter of life and death, indeed, your assistance could help bring about the end of more tyranny than you can ever imagine.�

He smiled. �Sir, I can assure you, that my employer and I wish you no harm. We merely want to expand scientific boundaries to offer hope to all humanity.�

Bartok sat back and sighed. What could he do?

The voyage was short, the boat soon docking at the harbour of the nearest large island to the peninsular known simply as Hong Kong Island. After landing, Bartok was blindfolded, but lead carefully enough into what felt like a coach. After a long, and very stuffy journey, he was lead out and down what felt like a path.

Suddenly, Bartok�s acute senses were confused. He could hear and smell the ocean all around him, but his feet were dry and felt as if they were on solid ground.

The hand guiding him continued to lead down.

After what he judged to be at least ten minutes of this descent, he was seated in what felt like a plush chair and the blindfold was removed.

Despite the apparent gloom of the room he was in, it took Bartok several moments to adjust from the pitch black he had been in with the blindfold on. As the glare dispersed his mouth dropped in astonishment.

Bartok was seated in a grand armchair in the centre of a large room � a classic European library or living room from what he could see with one crucial difference: there was no ceiling. Everything was bathed in an unearthly blue light that was coming from above him � from the ocean! The whole room seemed to be submerged with huge transparent panels fitted in a metallic grid arrangement above his head. Reason told him that they could not be far down as even the clear Indian Ocean would be too dark more than ten feet or so below the surface, but even so�

Two of the three walls he could see were covered in bookshelves interspersed with electrical lamps whose warm light offset the unearthly ocean colour. Off to the right he could make out a second room, a laboratory by what he could see. There was a table beside the chair he had been sat in, on which was a beautiful miniature waterfall, the water somehow being pumped up and tumbling down an arrangement only ten inches high. Even now, in these strange circumstances his keen scientific intellect was stirred. He slid from the chair and sat on the thick pile maroon carpet to examine the model in more detail � the workmanship was exquisite�

�I see you have made yourself at home, Professor Bartok,� came a sudden voice behind him. Bartok started guiltily, scrambling to his feet with as much dignity as he could, extending his hand to greet the stranger who had just entered. A man of about his own age, height and build stood in front of him wearing the dress of a European gentleman, black curly hair clipped hard against his skull. His face was sharp, angular and he did not smile. In fact, he didn�t look like he had smiled for a long time. Bartok brought his eyes up to meet the man�s gaze and was brought up short. His eyes were dead.

�You have me at a disadvantage, Sir,� said Bartok frowning slightly. The man ignored the veiled request for his name.

�I trust you have been treated well?� the stranger enquired with a British accent, his slim frame ramrod straight as he turned towards a small desk by one of the bookshelves.

�I believe so, although the circumstances have been highly unusual�, replied Bartok, in a sardonic tone, �I would like to know why I am here.�

The other man picked up a sheaf of papers and read as he began to pace the room. �Professor Janos Kristoff Bartok, born in Hungary in 1840, speaks five languages and was considered a prodigy in mathematics and electrical engineering. Won a scholarship to the University of Budapest, studied in London and then travelled to America to work at the Western Union Laboratories in New York. He left abruptly after a rather unfortunate incident with Thomas Edison and now works in seclusion in Sheridan Colorado, assisting his friend Ernest Pratt, author of the Nicodemus Legend books, and continuing his scientific research with the backing of a wealthy widow in Denver.� The man raised an eyebrow, looked up, noted Bartok�s flustered scowl provoked by this last piece of data and continued reading. � He has a keen sense of justice and equality, choosing an Aztec scientist as an associate and has been noted helping Hungarian farmers, Indians and anyone else he feels is being mistreated. He has even been able to reform Ernest Pratt from a useless alcoholic into something resembling the hero of his Nicodemus Legend books.�

Finally, the man put the papers aside. �Admirable, quite admirable, Professor�. He smiled quite warmly for a moment, but then the smile turned into a scowl, �but I wonder how far you will allow your sense of justice to overcome your adherence to the order of society.�

The man smiled slightly and extended his hand as Bartok had when the Englishman had entered the room. � Forgive me, Professor, but I have learned all to well how careful one must be in the world of science. My name is Nemo.�

Bartok cautiously took the hand. �Am I to understand that you are a scientist, Mr Nemo?�

Nemo nodded once as he crossed to a small bar by the desk. �I received my PHD from Oxford fifteen years ago. Drink?� he enquired.

�Just water, thank you,� replied Bartok. Sensing that he was about to receive some answers, the Hungarian refrained from asking more of his obviously mercurial host.

Nemo poured two glasses and brought one across to the chair Bartok was sitting in before taking the armchair across the room and studying him intently.

�I don�t apologise for the secrecy, Bartok, it was necessary, more necessary than you could ever imagine. I have spent the last year formulating a project so large, so revolutionary, that it could well take the rest of my life to realise, and I believe that you could be the man to help me.�

Bartok was taken aback. �Then please, Dr Nemo, give me some explanation as to why I�m here.�

Nemo took a long drink from his glass. �Most of it is quite frankly none of your business, Bartok, but since I have dragged you to another continent you must feel that you deserve some information.�

�I have spent the last decade running a highly secret laboratory in London researching the application of water in generating electricity. As you know, if it is harnessed correctly, hydro-electricity could allow mankind to leap forward in technology at an even faster pace than he is now doing. Coal and wood are all very well, but they are finite and dirty sources of fuel.�

Bartok nodded in agreement. �So few people understand this sir. I predict that it could bring the Western world to ruin.�

�As I have also seen, Bartok. My laboratory had made some astounding breakthroughs. We had actually began to work with ocean water at the molecular level, something that had never been done before, and as it turned out should never have been done.�

�About a year ago, I was running a test series on hydrogen molecules, common enough in water and, I was convinced, replete with potential energy, perhaps an even greater source of power than water turbines. We were excited, and several of the scientists within the group were convinced they had a way to unleash this potential energy. We debated the mathematical equations of what they were proposing for days, but no-one could grasp the missing part of the formula we needed. Finally, one night, I discovered the missing part of the equation, an equation that would allow us to actually split a hydrogen atom.�

Bartok was stunned.

�A bomb,� Bartok breathed.

Nemo frowned. �Precisely. My colleagues were ecstatic. They talked about auctioning this knowledge off to the highest bidder, retiring rich. They were perfectly wiling to let this knowledge out. I knew it could never be known. Once they realised that I wanted to destroy our findings and that they couldn�t change my mind they betrayed me, destroyed my family and left me to die. I was betrayed by those closest to me and knew I could never trust again.�

Nemo sat, no obvious emotion on his face as he took another drink of water.

Bartok�s head was spinning. A bomb made from the atom would unleash an Armageddon. This knowledge was inconceivable� He sat up. �This knowledge would be too terrible for anyone to keep. Did your colleagues get the data to the authorities?�

Nemo shook his head, his face still set like stone. � They never had a chance. I�d booby-trapped the laboratory.�

�You murdered them?�

Nemo glared, his eyes blazing, �After they had murdered my wife, and left my child to die because I wouldn�t sell out with them.�

Bartok swallowed hard. �So why are we here, in Asia?� he asked carefully.

�I have been declared dead by all those who knew me in England, and my knowledge of a hydrogen bomb has died with that old life,� began Nemo, �but there is so much potential in the ocean I cannot ignore it�s call. Man is spiteful and stupid, dividing the land into meaningless sections and then fighting wars over who has the most or the best portion. These values mean nothing to me now. Hong Kong is an ideal place for me to work. Secrecy, a harbour, access to the ocean, and no-one will question an Englishman here. I need peace, I need a home, and I can never again find it among people.�

�Dr Nemo,� began Bartok, �I understand that you have suffered a terrible loss and betrayal, and you know that I have suffered in a similar way, but I have learned that you cannot run from your pain. You must make a stand somewhere and fight for what you believe in.�

�Like you and those friends of yours in Sheridan?� asked Nemo with a smirk, but there was no malice in his voice. �You were able to pull yourself off the path of bitterness. I regret that I have not and now I know of no other place for me at this stage of my life, but the future, the future is where I know I will have peace.�

�Professor Bartok, I am embarking on the most important, and the most secret endeavour in human history,� began Nemo. �I have now forsaken the land - it holds no pull for me now, but in the ocean is the chance to begin again.�

Nemo stood and walked across to the shelves of books lining the walls. �I have always had an interest in oceanography and now that interest has become a lifeline. I firmly believe that it is possible to build a new world in the ocean. Under the water is a land we can barely begin to dream of: lost treasures, chances to begin again on what has gone before��

Bartok gaped. �Does the world truly hold nothing for you now?� he asked.

Nemo turned. �Nothing,� he answered coldly. �My future is in the ocean, and the future of all men of science and integrity, Bartok, men like you as well.�

He gestured upwards. �This, this is what I�m working towards, Bartok! A life completely underwater, a life of peace. This glass is of my own design. The bracing, developed by a company in Germany working to my specifications. I am on the verge of opening up a whole new field of technology using the power of the ocean to live in the ocean and I believe that you can help me to realise this dream.�

Bartok looked past Nemo to the laboratory beyond. �So what is it that you want my help with, Doctor?� he asked.

Nemo followed his gaze and smiled softly. �Come with me, Bartok and I�ll show you.�

Stretching cramped legs, Bartok stood and Nemo lead him into the next room. Bartok was stunned. In here, not only the ceiling but the walls and floor as well were open to the ocean. He felt as if he was floating in a strange bubble under the sea.

Nemo seemed to be enjoying his guests discomfort. �Don�t worry, Bartok, you will get used to it.� He gestured to the centre of the room and to a pedestal with a model of the most strange, elegant and alien ship displayed that Bartok had ever seen.

�What in heaven�s name is it?� he breathed.

�Behold the Nautilus,� whispered Nemo. �A completely submersible ship able to travel above and below the waves. It can stand the pressure of thousands of leagues� depths and will provide a staging ground for establishing a colony on the ocean floor. However��

Nemo turned to Bartok. �The engines are not yet designed. Despite my experience I am at a loss how to optimise their efficiency for long term use underwater. This is why I need your help.�

�Dr Nemo, I have heard much today to make me sympathise with you and even forgive you for bringing me here under false pretences, but why on Earth should I help you to realise such a foolhardy and dangerous dream?�

Nemo�s eyes blazed. �Dangerous and foolhardy, Bartok? And helping a writer to defend what you think of as justice on the frontier isn�t? Don�t you see how hopeless mankind is? The only hope men like us have is to preserve our knowledge and understanding and build upon it in a place free from political tyranny.�

Bartok rounded on Nemo. �But running away and starting a new world order is not the answer! Think man! The only way to change a system is from the inside! Running away makes you lose all credibility and makes people either laugh at you or fear you. Sometimes both. I have been feared by people in Sheridan who do not understand what I am trying to do to help them. If you make yourself into even more of an enigma than being a scientist of vision makes you anyway, people will never understand or accept you. You must appeal to hearts as well as minds.�

�I don�t want people to understand me or accept me! Don�t you understand, Bartok, people always fear what they don�t understand! People will always find the easiest way to be happy! The way that leads to destruction! No aspirations, no dreams of higher things, just running around killing and destroying that which they don�t understand, or even just what they don�t like.�

Nemo took a breath. �I did not bring you hear for a philosophical debate, Professor. Whether you agree with my philosophy or not is immaterial to me. Your assistance on the other hand is requested. Will you stay here and help me?�

Bartok glared. �On the contrary sir, your philosophical stance is of the utmost importance to me. Quite frankly, I think you are a dangerous man who will ethically justify murder if it suits him, who appears hell-bent on reeking revenge on the whole of humanity for the injustices he has suffered and who wants nothing more than to escape and begin again on his own terms denying his scientific advances to anyone who will not join him. You were right to suppress your knowledge of the atom, sir, but wrong to commit murder, deception and deceit to achieve your own ends. A scientist should serve humanity, not his own ends.�

Nemo�s glared. He said nothing, merely pushing a button on the laboratory table. Moments later, the young gentleman from the boat appeared. �Escort Professor Bartok back to Kowloon,� said Nemo coldly, �And see that he gets aboard the next ship bound for America.� The young man nodded wordlessly and produced a blindfold. Bartok�s eyes were covered and he was lead out. He said nothing.

Nemo sighed and collapsed into a chair tired in body and in soul. He lifted his gaze to the deep blue sea surrounding him; nurturing him like the womb.

�The sea covers seven tenths of the Earth,� he whispered to himself as he basked in the calmness of the ocean. �It�s breath is pure and wholesome. It�s an immense world pulsating with very form of life. Here there are no despots. On the surface men still exercise their endless laws, fight and indulge in all their bloody earthly horrors: but below the surface their power ceases. Their dominion vanishes. To live in the embrace of the sea�only here is their independence. Here I recognise no master. Here I am free.�

Fin.

This story copyright 2000 Sarah O�Donoghue. As with everything else on the Steampunk Central Website no profit is derived from this work, and all contents are for entertainment and educational purposes only. See main index page for full disclaimer.

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