Byzantium Endures: Pyat Quartet

by Michael Moorcock

  I was taken aback. ‘I’m no strategist.’

  ‘But you are a scientist.’ Elanski leaned forward. ‘And a brilliant one. Everyone speaks of you. I’ve met people from Petrograd, from Moscow, from Odessa. All say you’re one of the most far-sighted men of our day. A child-genius, who built his first flying machine at the age of eight.’

  I smiled, holding up my hand. I wore rings, now, of Ukrainian filigree silver. They gave me a vaguely nationalist air without actually identifying me as anything in particular. ‘Stories of that sort are apt to be exaggerated. I have a number of inventions, many theories, some practical ideas. But without proper materials I am unable to make the necessary experiments. Thus, gentlemen, comrades, you find me in Limbo.’

  ‘Can you give us aeroplanes?’ asked the general. His name was Konovalets and he was scarcely older than me, though his face was set like limestone.

  ‘Not without proper plants and expert men. You must know this already. French aeroplanes are your best hope.’

  Petlyura spoke in a small voice. ‘We need to buy time against Lenin and Trotsky.’

  I looked questioningly at Elanski, who shrugged. ‘They won’t guarantee us anything.’

  I was still cautious. Should the Bolsheviks enter Kiev next week, Elanski might be singing a different song. His type was becoming familiar in modern Russia.

  ‘We had heard about a kind of ray. Like concentrated sunlight.’ Someone spoke from the other end of the table. ‘Have you developed this ray?’

  Now I laughed aloud. A few months ago nobody had taken the idea seriously. Tonight they ignored practical mechanical conceptions and grabbed desperately at a notion which every one of them would normally have dismissed as cheap fiction. But now the Reds were knocking at Kiev’s gates. Some there, I could tell, were still a little doubtful. There was no way in which I would convince them. I did not intend to try. I could make no claims until a prototype had been built. ‘Ray-cannon are not easily developed. A good deal of money and equipment is required.’

  Petlyura was impatient. ‘You can have what you need. Doctor Braun,’ he indicated an elderly gentleman, ‘is a scientist from Kiev University. He can put all their resources at your disposal.’

  ‘When I have heard the young man’s idea,’ said Braun in a deep voice. He gave me a stare.

  ‘I have done some research,’ I said. ‘I believe it’s possible to concentrate a ray of light until it is so powerful it can cut through steel.’

  it is not an unfamiliar theory,’ Braun agreed, ‘I don’t see how you can apply it.’

  ‘A special vacuum tube would be needed. Like a very large radio valve. Shall I describe it as simply as possible?’

  ‘For my sake,’ he said. The old man had a sardonic humour lacking in most of his colleagues. Perhaps he had less to lose. I described how mercury would be introduced into a tube and boiled to drive out air. The mercury vapour would then be trapped while the tube was sealed, with wires extruding. Low voltage could be applied to a heating element in the tube. Once it reached a temperature of 175° Celsius a high voltage would be applied to the electrodes, producing an electrical discharge in the mercury vapour. The excited mercury ions would then emit a light beyond the spectrum perceived by the human eye.

  ‘I call this Ultra-Violet light,’ I said. ‘Mirrors or quartz lenses could be used to focus it.’

  ‘And how much electrical power would you need?’ Braun was impressed. He frowned over some notes he had made in pencil on the table-cloth.

  ‘Obviously, the better the source of power, the stronger the beam.’

  ‘It is violet in colour, the ray?’ said someone else.

  I began to explain, but Petlyura gripped my arm. ‘How many of these ray-machines could you build to give us, say, a month before help arrived?’

  ‘There would have to be an experimental model first. After that, it should be fairly easy to manufacture more. If the generators were available to power them.’

  ‘Would the generators in the electricity stations do?’ Petlyura enquired.

  ‘I think so.’ I had not expected such an offer. This meant he was willing to divert Kiev’s entire power supply. I was flattered. ‘Cables would have to be laid.’

  ‘Where would the machines best be sited?’

  ‘On the heights.’ General Konovalets was adamant. ‘That gives a sweep, you see. If they were used in the outlying suburbs they would be too cumbersome to move quickly, eh?’

  ‘The machines themselves would be transported in the normal way of artillery, but the power-sources are the problem.’ I admired his quick grasp. ‘One can’t go dragging huge cables all over Kiev. The people, as well as the streets and the houses, would get in the way.’

  ‘They always do!’ Konovalets spoke with mock despair. ‘St Andrew’s would be one good site.’

  ‘You mean the observation gallery, near the dome?’ I considered this. ‘The only thing I wonder about there is - ‘ I hesitated, not knowing whether to bring the question of religion into a discussion with socialists, many of whom might be militant atheists.

  ‘Sacrilege,’ said Petlyura. ‘Is that what you’re worrying about? You’re a believer? And a scientist?’

  ‘ - the problem of diverting power to such a high point.’

  ‘There is no sacrilege,’ said Konovalets quietly, ‘in defending ourselves against Bolshevism. They are sworn to destroy all religions.’

  I saw at once that he was right. Indeed, it was almost as if God were providing us with a site from which we could defend His faith.

  ‘We’ll construct the experimental model in St Andrew’s.’ Petlyura lit a cigarette as waiters took away our dishes. ‘Power is easily diverted?’ He looked towards his Minister.

  ‘Not that easily, Supreme Commander.’

  ‘But it can be done?’

  Braun said, it might be best having some sort of emergency source. A small petrol-fuelled generator, or banks of Voltaic cells.’

  ‘Voltaic cells are a bit old-fashioned.’ I smiled.

  ‘I’ve always found them reliable. They don’t break down.’

  ‘But they’re hard to operate. The connections?’

  Braun shrugged. ‘I still advise a separate source of energy. If, in the middle of fighting the Bolsheviks, they capture our electricity stations, then we have no weapon.’

  I was forced to agree. I now understood his logic. My mistake, as usual, had been to miss the practicalities as I became obsessed with the pure idea. The very term ‘death-ray’ was unpalatable to me. These days we have such words as ‘anti-personnel devices’ which keep the entire thing in perspective. Many words of this sort were borrowed by the Germans from the Bolsheviks and from the Germans by the Americans when they offered a home to Germany’s best scientists after the Second World War. They do not make the idea of warfare abstract. They allow a technician to do his job without becoming confused by unnecessary considerations. It is for priests and novelists to decide where the moral blame, if any, lies. In giving himself up to the Age of Individualism, Man has lost the ability to reason clearly. His art and science become confused, for he believes he should reach independent decisions on every aspect of his life. One has only to accept the authority of the Church to know true clarity of vision.

  I had been elevated from my rather, ambiguous status in the scientific and business community to a fully-fledged member of the socialist Petlyurist group. I was nervous. I asked Petlyura what my powers were.

  ‘Whatever you need to fulfill your task.’ He was expansive. ‘You may requisition whatever you want - men and material - so long as you do not actually interfere with our current military operations. We have Russian and Polish chauvinists to contend with. And Deniken is likely to prove a highly unreliable ally, if he actually is an ally. He, too, is a chauvinist, but at the moment he hates Trotsky worse than me. What will become of him if the French decide he is an embarrassment?’

  ‘Let him go to Turkey with a hundred riders,’ said Konovale
ts. ‘Things are so bad there, he’ll be able to conquer the whole damned country in a week and have himself crowned Tsar of Constantinople.’

  Petlyura raised his champagne glass. ‘Death to the enemies of Ukraine!’

  I sipped a reluctant toast. As a ‘Russian chauvinist’ I was not in complete accord with our Ataman.

  ‘Twentieth-century methods will produce a twentieth-century revolution,’ said Petlyura. ‘And it will impress the superstitious peasants with the importance of science. I hear you are a linguist, Comrade Pyatnitski?’

  ‘I know English, German and some French,’ I said, ‘as well as Polish and Czech.’

  ‘And Ukrainian?’

  ‘The local dialect?’ I experienced a moment of terror.

  Petlyura changed the subject. Then I thought him a gentleman, whatever else he stood for. My diplomacy had not worked, but neither had it misfired. Official Ukrainian was a form of Galician not easily assimilated even by Kievans who spoke their own patois. The language was about as authentic as the average Republican bank-note.

  We were all of us in that candle-lit room speaking, needless to say, purest Petersburg Russian. Petlyura said, ‘I would imagine the French would pay for the secret of your ray?’

  It had not occurred to me. I think Petlyura saw this in my face. He smiled reassuringly as he patted my shoulder, ‘It is all right, citizen. You would not be here if I took you for a traitor. But I shall despatch a courier. We’ll tell Freydenberg we’re in the process of constructing a secret weapon. He must move his forces up quickly or it will fall into Bolshevik hands.’

  ‘That is strategy.’ Konovalets was approving.

  ‘It’s diplomacy,’ said Petlyura. His pink cheeks beamed. ‘And we thought it would be so easy to save Ukraine.’

  ‘I shall need authority,’ I said.

  ‘Give him a rank, Konovalets.’ Petlyura spoke carelessly.

  Konovalets shrugged. ‘You are now a major in the Republican Army.’

  And that was how I gained my first military title. Quite legitimately, but without having once spilled a drop of blood.

  ‘You’d better have that confirmed,’ Petlyura told an aide, is there anything else, Comrade Doctor?’

  ‘I have been expecting papers from Petrograd,’ I said. ‘They were held up. They’re probably destroyed now. A Special Diploma.’

  ‘A Russian diploma? They’re useless here. Professor Braun?’ Petlyura had these people hanging on his every word. The professor understood as rapidly as had the general. ‘You need what? Some sort of diploma? We could give you an honorary degree from the University.’

  ‘It would not be the same.’ I explained what had happened in Petrograd. ‘My dissertation warranted a Special Diploma, you see. The equivalent of a doctorate.’ I reached into my pocket and produced my wallet, handing him a copy of Professor Vorsin’s letter.

  Braun read the signature first. ‘I know Vorsin. This is his. If the Comrade Secretary - Ah, Pan ...’ He looked up at Petlyura as if suddenly uncertain of himself.

  ‘Is it important to you?’ Petlyura asked me. He took the letter from Braun. He read it. ‘Well, it confirms what we have heard. Is that your price, comrade?’

  ‘There is no price,’ I said, ‘for resisting Trotsky and Antonov. It’s thanks to them I have nothing on paper.’

  ‘This letter is certainly clear. Isn’t it, Braun?’

  ‘Absolutely. We can - we have diplomas -’ The professor spread his hands. ‘If a D.Sc. is in order... ?’

  Petlyura made a quick movement of his head and stared directly into my eyes. Then he looked at his napkin. ‘Will that suit you, Major Pyatnitski?’

  I sighed and reached for my crystal goblet. ‘These are insecure times.’

  Petlyura called down the table to his old comrade, Vinnichenko, another pro-Bolshevik. ‘Do you approve of this now, Comrade President?’

  Vinnichenko, a literary man with very little stomach for what was happening, looked tired. He said sourly: ‘Certainly, Comrade Supreme Commander. If the Praetorians have agreed.’

  Konovalets scratched the back of his neck. ‘This is silly. The Sich riflemen are loyal. We don’t wield power.’

  I thought I was to witness open argument amongst the various Directorate factions. Vinnichenko said wearily, ‘I apologise, Konovalets. But you’re the only one the French seem to trust at all.’

  ‘It’s because they’ve never heard of me.’ The general smiled.

  I laughed politely. Konovalets had the look of someone who might well be taking the reins of power soon. This was not to be the case. Colonel Freydenberg, in charge of the French, found it impossible to tell one socialist from another. He had been insisting, I was to learn, that all ’Reds’ be dismissed from the Directorate. Petlyura, Vinnichenko and the others controlled the Directorate. Freydenberg’s ultimatum was tantamount to demanding the dismissal of the whole government before he would come to the relief of Kiev. To Freydenberg, Petlyura and his gang were no more than bandit warlords. His only sympathy was for Deniken’s Whites. The Russian Volunteer Army was larger, more reliable, and represented the Tsar.

  Konovalets’s Galician sharpshooters were the Directorate’s strength. This was why Vinnichenko had called them Praetorians. They were grouped in the outlying suburbs ready to meet Bolsheviks moving towards the city. No newspaper reported this fact. I was equally unaware of the immediate danger after I had left the meeting. Kiev seemed very quiet. The winter was cold. The snow was hard. I could not believe very much would change until March. In the meantime I had achieved both my D.Sc. and the rank of Major. As I had once dreamed, I had been honoured by an entire government. It was ironic I could not abide their idiotic politics but I admit I was momentarily seduced by the chance, at long last, to work on one of my inventions.

  I had a note sent to Mother, briefly outlining my good news. She replied via the same messenger. I was to be careful. I was not to worry about her. It seemed every time I tasted success she became frightened. She had been too long with her head down, I suppose. It was hard to blame her.

  Next day a diploma from the University of Kiev was delivered to my suite. Maxim Arturovitch Pyatnitski was a Doctor of Science who had graduated on 15 January 1919. Shortly afterwards an officer of the Sichovi Streltsi arrived to salute me, address me as Major and hand me an ordinary paper envelope containing all necessary insignia. I was expected, apparently, to provide my own uniform. I would have a special white one. I thought the matter over again seriously. I put the envelope in a drawer of my escritoire for the meantime. I was becoming identified with a specific political group. If the Bolsheviks arrived I was likely to be rounded up and this time I would certainly be shot unless I was very careful.

  I prayed my so-called ‘Violet Ray’ would be effective against the Reds. Petlyura had given me the idea of taking the secret as soon as possible to Odessa. The French garrison would put the device at Deniken’s disposal. The entire fate of Russia lay in my hands. I received another message: a note from Petlyura confirming every assistance, giving me carte-blanche powers. The monks and priests had been ousted from control of St Andrew’s. I was now the new proprietor. This caused me some uncertainty. But God has His own methods. And surely my light-beam issuing from the great blue-and-white tower would fill even the Bolsheviks with an awe of the Almighty?