Nova Byzantium

by Matthew Rivett

  Chair-ridden for weeks, Mach—in his swansong—had miraculously stood to his feet then died. Sava suspected a macabre prank, but the more he investigated the specialist’s corpse, the more he convinced himself otherwise. The runaway growth acted to stiffen the cadaver, making him as poseable as an artist’s articulated mannequin long after death. He couldn’t help but be in horrified awe of the scarecrow Mach had become.

  Beds of clay jars brimmed with multicolored light. Sava strained to peek into their hollows but found locomotion impossible, even in the weightless liquid. Small bioluminescent creatures, abyssal octopi or lantern fish, made their dens in the ancient amphorae. But the surrounding sea floor was sterile. At the bottom of the world’s listless oceans, only anaerobic bacteria survived. Like seltzer, the microbes burped bubble curtains of shimmering sulfur, streaming from the submerged wilderness to the surface. Without the Earth’s cooling churn, the seas were devoid of life. The oxygen-starved poison preserved the world’s marine relics like prehistoric insects in amber.

  Sava found only his eyes moved. At the edge of his vision he saw hunched sentinels looming in the murk, deep-sea gargoyles guarding the scattered pottery. Their bodies looked prenatal, as if a fetal deformity had blossomed into grotesque hybrids. He could only conclude that he too was a creature of the menagerie, free of pain at long last. The crippling ache, sharp rips and tears were gone. Wholly estranged from the body, his mind shunted somewhere between his skull and spinal bundle.

  The lights from the jars pulsed in patterns. Images and symbols formed crude matrices. Tapping into a preprogrammed grid like visual Morse, the light orchestra spoke to him. The messages were subliminal, a stream of universal language understood by the id. Through the coded sequences, emotions took shape from the mystically evocative communication. The meaning hinted at immortal duty, afterlives of purpose, transcendence.

  You want me to stay here, with you, forever? Sava asked wordlessly.

  He felt a wave of warmth.

  Who are you?

  The lights spoke of a paternal urge.

  But we’re dying.

  A pulsing, hypnotic glow. Affirmation.

  With death retooled, his emotions were fearlessly reborn. This was his home now, a silent guardian over a grove of nascent souls. Without life’s finite meter, time held no dimension.

  I’ve got to wake up now and get on with it.

  The gear in his pack was strewn across the moor. A flock of auks had pecked into it, spreading the contents out to scavenge. Sava tried to shoo them but was slowed by the morphine drip. The birds, unannoyed and undeterred, continued their pillage.

  Limbs crackling with pain, Sava kicked off his soaked sleeping bag and threw the remnants of his looted rucksack into the wheelbarrow. The rusted cart was salvaged from the airfield for their initial load. Dive gear, including tanks, lead shot, and regulator, weighed up to fifty kilos, too much for a cripple to tote. It was the only way he could think of transporting such a heavy load by foot. Sandbagging the opiates, he planned to double the dosage for his return.

  After a slobbery nibble of a protein bar, he pushed the wobbly cart ahead. The Crown’s spines were visible to the south. He’d only managed two kilometers the previous evening, eight excruciating klicks to go. Up the ridgeline, his lungs wheezed with fatigue. He remembered a forced march out of New Stalingrad, three hundred kilometers to an airbase near the Volga Delta. In the heat of the dry season, the rubber from his jump boots had melted along with the asphalt. But this simple ten-kilometer hike in mild temperatures felt like a Sisyphean epic in comparison.

  Sweaty and shaky, Sava reached the crest of Jan Mayen’s central ridge. To the northwest he saw the gray crescent of Maria Muschbukta in the shadow of Beerenberg’s lower prominence. Among the shoreline’s shipwrecks, a small walkway extended to the observatory’s submerged tower. Decameters below on the seafloor lay the observatory’s abandoned lab. Sava hoped the structure’s water seals remained intact.

  By late afternoon, he lumbered onto the eastern beach. Every dun and wallow was torture. A stumble over a pile of driftwood threw him to the sand. Like ripping a scab, the Illithium tore free from its sub-dermal moorings. He howled as his muscles went rigid waiting for the pain to recede. The tipped wheelbarrow with its tire deflated, mocked him. He thought of Mach, now an ominous specter forever enthralled. The horror of his death had superseded a proper emotional response. But now, grief washed over him like the waves across a shore. He curled into the sand and closed his eyes.

  After a brief nap, Sava gathered himself and trudged the last kilometer to the observatory. The causeway’s metal grating was coated with yellow-white guano, the handrails untouchable. He ditched the cart and shuffled across. Surprised to find the steel door’s latch free, he threw the heavy portal open and stepped inside. The smell wasn’t horrible, but the mulched seaweed and algae hung heavy. Cracking a glow stick, he closed the door shut and gingerly stepped onto the spiral staircase.

  Down the stairs’ corkscrew was a muted cerulean light. He listened for movement but only heard creaking steel and the drops of slow seepage. At the bottom, he followed a corridor past heaps of filtering pumps and broken aquariums, their inhabitants long decayed. Submerged windows let in the ultramarine glow of the ocean. Through the reinforced pressure glass, gropers and wolf fish hovered like birds. He followed the signage—written in archaic English—directing to the airlock, his best hope for salvage.

  The corridor emptied into a viewing chamber. Arranged in amphitheater fashion, the lecture hall’s seats faced a massive wall of mesh-wired Lucite. He stopped near the lectern and wiped condensation from transparent polymer to look out at the seabed. The view reminded him of recent nightmares. He half-expected to see the floating vodyanoy demons, skulls, jellyfish, and malformed gargoyles. Instead, there was a rockery of mussels and barnacles cordoned by a ring of slashed net.

  “I was expecting you guys a little sooner.”

  Sava turned around.

  “What’s your name, soldier?”

  He sat in one of the seats, a high caliber 9mm pistol pointed at Sava. Shuffling over for a better look, he sized up the infamous “intruder.” Bald with a hermit’s goatee, he looked starved and dirty, curiously wearing Alkonost fatigues.

  Sava paused, then spoke. “You know my name, dead man.”

  “Sava?” The man lowered his weapon. “How . . . I don’t . . . ”

  “After all these years, Uri. I thought you would’ve found yourself some better clothes.” Sava smiled.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  November 2163 C.E.

  Uri poured the amber Islay into the Glencairn and swished it. Oily fingers of whisky draped the crystal as he pushed his nose past the rim. The earthy peat, the alcohol clean and pure, it smelled of the Old Earth. He took a sip, letting the single malt pour over his tongue and saturate his taste buds. He closed his eyes and felt the Scotch’s warmth: an oasis.

  “Ardbeg, the finest,” Zelinski said, pouring another dram.

  “Where?”

  “Outside Hibernia, we took a side trip to the Hebrides. There was a cache hidden on Islay’s Mull of Oa, an old farmhouse. We were looking for scrap copper stills when we found this basement, stocked.”

  “Better than gold,” Uri said, taking another sip.

  “And more rare,” Zelinksi turned to his monitor screen and toggled through Tiraspol Command’s database. There was an awkward pause. “Lieutenant Uri Vitko,” he quoted, “Status: Killed in Action, Operation Putin. Location: Echo-Bravo, Dagestan. Report: While patrolling the perimeter, the lieutenant and his squad came under fire from Azar snipers. Lieutenant Uri Vitko took a shot to the chest and died instantly. In retreat, Lieutenant Vitko’s body was left on the battlefield where it was never recovered. Filed By: Lieutenant Sava Valis.”

  Uri said nothing, setting down his dram. Sava had covered for him all those years ago. He could have reported him as a deserter—in fact, Uri expected it—but he hadn’t.


  “Well Lazarus, I’m guessing that wasn’t the case?”

  “I didn’t desert,” Uri protested. “There were extenuating circumstances.”

  Zelinski waved his hand. “I personally don’t see any reason Tiraspol needs to be informed of this. The headache just to reopen your ARIN number would no doubt crash the system.”

  “If you’ll allow me to explain myself.”

  “You and I go back to I-and-I in Moldova. You did me a favor once. I really don’t care.”

  Uri sighed as he slumped into his chair, relieved. East Anglia had been a concern when he’d plotted their course from the Delta. A public beheading in Cossack Point was not how he wanted to die.

  “But what I find more interesting is that Lieutenant Sava Valis covered for you. You two weren’t the best of friends.”

  “I was suspicious of him after Moldova, but we made amends in Turkmenbashi. He saved my life. But . . . ” Uri paused.

  “But what?”

  “Captain, can I ask you a question?” Uri got up and walked over to the office window. Below sat the helo-deck of East Anglia’s central platform. A flight crew was readying the Mi-26 Halo for Jan Mayen. With the additional fuel pod, its extended range would just get it to the remote arctic atoll and back, assuming no unforeseen dead zones.

  “Sure.”

  “You knew Sava was the one who’d dumped the bodies—the Carpi zombies—didn’t you?”

  “That was so long ago, I—”

  “Did you order it, or did he do it of his own volition?”

  “Listen, Uri, as someone in your precarious position, I don’t think—”

  “I’m not accusing you, captain. I just want to know. I need to know. I’ve been obsessed recently.”

  “As I told you years ago, I ordered clean disposals with potassium chloride. It was his idea, completely,” Zelinski replied.

  “I just had to be sure.” Uri poured another dram. “But there was another thing . . . ”

  Captain Zelinski raised his eyebrows, wary of any further veiled indictments. After Uri’s recent run-ins with Illithium, the truth was too tempting; he had to ask.

  “Back in Tiraspol, you mentioned Illithium and the contract termination with Morosov after the program’s failure.”

  “Right.”

  “That wasn’t the end of it, was it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sava and Mach were working a side job while deployed to the Caspian, recording executions with a prototype technology, a direct-write that rebuilds neural patterns inside another person’s mind through adapted MEGs, an Illithium spin-off. Morosov worked its connections with Alkonost to harvest content for their new gray-market enterprise, and used mercenaries as contractors.”

  “And you think I set them up with Morosov after Alkonost’s contract was cancelled, is that it?”

  “No.”

  “That maybe I was getting some kickback from that barbarian death trip bullshit?”

  “I didn’t say that, captain,” Uri protested, striking a conciliatory tone. He’d worked I-and-I enough to know Zelinski was part of the racket, his protests too incriminating. Sava was too far down in rank to negotiate with Morosov’s Crimean fixers. But he knew well enough to let it go. “Sava was my friend, young, a little impetuous. I didn’t want to believe it was his idea.”

  “Uri,” Zelinski said, relaxing a bit. “I don’t know anything about this ‘side job’ with Morosov, so drop it.”

  “Done.”

  “All right, on to the task at hand: Alkonost will honor the logistics contract to deliver your hardware. As I look through the statement of work now—” he said, keying through the paperwork on his terminal, “—it looks like we also have a sentinel contract on Jan Mayen.”

  “Interesting.” Why Al Fadah Madina had hired an Alkonost squad to guard their nuclear stockpile made little sense. But as Miriam reminded him, it wasn’t in the dossier to question the sheikhdom’s machinations.

  “Anyway,” Zelinski stood up to show Uri the door. “I’m glad you’ve found a job with Norsk-Statoil—the way things are between Tiraspol and Constantinople, I can hardly blame you—but that’s where our relationship ends, understand? In fact, if it gets out I failed to incarcerate a known deserter, Command will have my head.”

  “Roger that,” Uri said, extending his hand to the officer. “I appreciate your confidence.”

  “Good,” Zelinski said, shaking it. “And I thank you for helping me file the incident report.” Zelinski pointed back to his terminal. “Those Antonov crewmen will be sorely missed. Alkonost casualties have skyrocketed.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Not as sorry as those you left behind,” Zelinski quipped.

  Uri looked at the floor and said nothing.

  “You best get ready. They’re starting to fuel your bird.”

  Miriam shimmied down the mast as Uri stepped down to the platform’s quay. She was installing an articulated hose to the boat’s aluminum mast, a siphon. Alkonost had helped her outfit the Aegis. A pile of provisions, batteries, and portable oxygen condensers sat piled on the dock. Uri lent a hand and moved the gear on board as Miriam fiddled with her jury-rigged contraption. Norsk-Statoil and Al Fadah Madina wanted her to survey Britannia’s western shores, checking algae concentrations and water chemistry. Uri would travel to Jan Mayen alone to deliver Zliva and Pravo.

  “What’s this?” Uri gestured to the piping and attached fan.

  “It’s a snorkel for dead zones,” she said, dropping to the fiberglass deck.

  “You’re joking.”

  She shook her head. “Dead zones are different out here—mostly outgassing—not like continental flashovers. The concentrations are closer to sea level, air displacement only a decameter or two. This will help if I’m out too long.”

  “And how long do you expect to be out?”

  She shrugged. “Not sure. Norsk-Statoil’s arranged things with Alkonost. They’ll pay for transport back to Nova Byzantium from East Anglia when I return.”

  “I should be back shortly to meet you.”

  Miriam nodded.

  “Our consoles are synced through Sayyid’s router. I’ll send you a communiqué when I reach Jan Mayen.”

  Miriam motioned him into the cabin, where she shut the cockpit hatch and whispered. “What did you tell the captain?”

  “I kept it as simple as possible. I told him we crash landed due to a mechanical failure, and we were the only survivors.”

  “Did he buy it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What about the Van Dallens, did you mention them?”

  Uri shook his head. “They’ve enough firepower here to incinerate the Rotterdam kraals completely, every Vandal man, woman, and child. One sortie downrange, a few Hind gunships, and that swamp would burn.”

  “And that’s what they would do, you know that?”

  Uri nodded. “Woe to the conquered. Total War. All that revenge bullshit. It’s one of the reasons I left.”

  “Speaking of which. What about—”

  “—Zelinski found me out,” Uri said, lighting a cigarette. “There was a forged KIA report. He knows I deserted.”

  “Is he going to report you?”

  Uri shook his head. “I don’t think so. But I don’t trust him. We’ve a sordid history.”

  “And you’re sure about this? About traveling up to Jan Mayen with them?”

  “It’s part of Sayyid’s contract. I have to escort the payload to its destination, no matter what, or I forfeit payment.” Uri puffed his cigarette nervously. “I know mercenaries. I know these guys. I’ve got it covered.”

  “I can go with you. It’s not too late.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  She leaned in and kissed him gently.

  “See me off?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  The six rotor blades started to rotate as Uri climbed in and stowed Zliva and Pravo in the cargo rack. He put on a headset and c
lipped into his restraints. It’d been years since he’d ridden inside a Halo heavy bomber. They were the Alkonost’s workhorse, able to carry seventy mercenaries fully kitted into battle. Its four-man crew was a rogues’ gallery; merc vets of more than he wanted to consider. The crew sergeant was a skin-headed veteran, his Roman nose flattened. Stained with grease, the name on his flight suit was illegible. His service patches were a curriculum vitae of Alkonost’s bitter campaigns: Operations Saladin, Uranus, Trajan, Alexander; the mercenary had been everywhere. Uri nicknamed him “The Vet.”

  The vehicle pulled free of its moorings and hovered above East Anglia. Below, Miriam waved from the service deck until the low-lying clouds obscured the oil platform. The Halo’s nose dipped forward as the whine of the Ivchenko turboshafts cranked to full RPM. As the Mi-26 headed north, the crew was suspiciously quiet, no idle chatter.

  Gazing out over the steely gray seas, Uri nodded off with the engine’s drone.

  The vault’s superstructure, with its non-Euclidean reinforcements of iron, made little sense to Uri. Inside the sunken core, deep within Jan Mayen’s mantle, men in lab coats bustled like drones. In the center of the vault chamber was a pit filled with bridles of cable, ajutage, and fiber optics. Technicians in HAZMAT suits crawled out of the chthonic portal, discussing technical minutia with loitering engineers. Most were Caucasian, Norsk-Statoil men, but a few had swarthy features. Enfeebled by Earth’s gravity, they were Al Fadah Madina technocrats minus thobe and kaeffiyah.

  At the ends of the Earth, disparate parties somehow collaborated. Gold had a way of putting political differences to bed.

  One of the Arabs, sitting in front of an orchestra of monitors and electrical racks, waved Uri over. On his paneled screens were schematics, blue and green traces of a honeycomb structure with hexagonal insets roughly the size of Zliva and Pravo. The drawing was annotated in Arabic. Indecipherable to Uri, he could only speculate.

  “They’re going to flood the core soon,” the Arab said.

  “With seawater?”

  “No,” the Arab smirked. “Still water, controlled chemistry.”