The Heirs of Babylon - Glen Cook

by harry

  To ravage Asia, Western invaders used an aerially sprayed, laboratory-evolved disease of amazing properties: in its first generation, this bacteria was harmless; in its second, almost universally fatal; in its third, unable to reproduce. It did not spread, killed fast, and left human works undamaged, and troops could with impunity occupy the area of application within days.

  The Chinese had had their own weapon, a virus which attacked chromosomal material — only in Caucasians — and caused widespread sterility. A weapon of longer term, but effective. Only its limited use and natural immunities had prevented the disappearance of one human race.

  While dredging crews doggedly pushed toward Great Bitter Lake, Kurt slogged through a catalog of gruesome biological weapons. He was revolted by the excesses of his ancestors — yet was drawn on because the book made sense of some contemporary insanities. He finished the first half of the book, which concerned itself primarily with military events, the day the word came that the canal had been opened to Great Bitter Lake. Christmas Day, 2193, a day dedicated to peace on Earth. Jager celebrated the holiday, and ignored the meaning.

  That day Kurt stood on the. signal bridge, watching a sandstorm over Sinai. Several men on camels, specks in the distance, were outlined against the dark rising cloud. Bedouins. They came and went, watched the ships, never interfered, never tried to communicate. Perhaps they were sane men making certain madness would not penetrate their deserts.

  Kurt ignored most of this. His thoughts were northbound-winged, toward Karen and the baby. There was a good chance the child had been born. Seven lonely, terrifying months had passed.

  Was she now in Telemark? Was there someone to care for her when her time came? He suffered an oppressive guilt. What would she say when he returned? Because he had a man’s faith in his own immortality, he could not deep down believe that lager would be destroyed. Other ships, yes, but not his own. He feared his homecoming more.

  He paced the port-side wing, staring at but not seeing those Arab riders, smashing fist into palm, smashing fist into palm, muttering.

  “Kurt?”

  He missed it the first time because it was softly spoken. “Kurt!” He spun. “Oh. Hans. Sorry. I was thinking.”

  “You’d daydream your way through the end of the world. You all right?”

  “I guess. I was worrying about Karen and the baby.” He ignored Hans’s frown. “It’s due about now. I should be there.”

  “Mr. Lindemann’s about to become a mother, too — I think. He’s in a panic. Wants to see you.”

  “Why”’ “He’ll explain. Commander Haber told me to send you down. That’s all I know. Guess because we’re supposed to move to Great Bitter Lake.”

  “We don’t have any fuel.”

  “Maybe that’s his problem. Why don’t you go see?” Kurt went below, knocked at Gregor’s door. “Kurt?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Inside! Hurry!” He stepped through and turned as Gregor hastily relocked the door. “What’s the matter?”

  “Did you hear my rumor? That I know who Hippke’s killer is?”

  “Yes. I didn’t believe it. It’s been four months. I assumed you let it out as a trap.”

  “I did, and somebody was touched.”

  “What?” Lindemann peeled his shirt off and turned his back. Kurt gaped at bruises and abrasions. “That was one brilliant idea I wish I hadn’t had.” Gregor knelt and fished something from beneath his bunk. “This’s what he hit me with.”

  “A sextant box?” A stainless-steel box taken from the wreck at Finisterre, it weighed nearly eight kilos, made a nasty weapon.

  “Someone threw it off the bridge. If it’d hit me on the head, it would’ve brained me.” Lindemann forced a bantering tone, but Kurt saw hints of the raw fear he was hiding.

  “Did you see who did it?”

  Gregor shook his head wearily. “No, of course not. The man’s damnably cunning....”

  Just then Kurt realized that he must have been on the bridge when it had happened — and he had seen not a thing! What had Hans said? “You would daydream through the end of the world.” A black Christmas present for Gregor. Who, he realized, was still talking.

  “All three Political Officers were conveniently on display on the fantail. Only good to come out of it is that we can scratch Kellerman off the list. He was serving the Captain in the wardroom.”

  Kurt scowled. “And now we’re down to ten. If we’ve got to have someone killed or hurt for each name we cut, we’ll soon be hip-deep in blood. By now, though. Marquis knows you were baiting a trap. Otherwise, you’d’ve had him arrested.”

  “I think he knew all along, Kurt. The box was a warning to mind my own business. How well did you learn English from Fitzhugh?”

  “What?”

  “Martin Fitzhugh taught you to read and speak English. How well?”

  “Well enough. I’m translating a book. Why?”

  “Just curious. Here. I want you to take care of this.” He took a slim, leatherbound book from his desk, the black notebook he had seen earlier. “What’s this?” Kurt asked, turning it over in his hands. “I don’t know. It belonged to Beck. It was important to him. He never let it out of sight. Neither have I. But they’re after me now. I have to trust someone else. You. keep it hidden, and give it to Commander Haber if I get killed.”

  Haber, Kurt’s prime suspect? He tucked the book into his waistband, fought back the flood of questions he wanted to ask. The fact that Beck had never let the book out of sight implied that he had carried it with him. Which, in turn, implied that it had been taken from him. Which implied...

  Kurt refused to follow the chain of logic, though it explained something that had mystified everyone. Namely, who had pushed Beck overboard. He should have suspected from the beginning.

  As Kurt thought, and Gregor studied him, there was a soft, stealthy sound in the passageway. Both heard. Lindemann pulled a pistol from beneath his pillow — good God, Kurt thought, where did he get that? Gregor signaled that the door be opened. Kurt unlocked it silently, opened quickly. Gregor jumped through. Kurt followed.

  “Nothing,” he whispered.

  Lindemann signaled for silence. The stealthy sound came from the ladder leading out of officers’ country. They ran, arrived too late again.

  “Damn!” Gregor snarled. “There’ll be trouble now, if they know we have the book.”

  For a moment Kurt considered the notion that Gregor was maneuvering him, trying to force him into the resistance, “Aren’t you jumping to conclusions?” He scuffed the carpeted deck with his toe, listened to the sound. “For all we know, someone just walked by. You’ll be in big trouble if you get paranoid.”

  “You’re right. I’m too jumpy.” He rubbed his temple with the gun butt. “But there’re two men dead already — we have to be paranoid.”

  Kurt shrugged. Suddenly, he brightened. “Gregor, why don’t we send the suspects to the working parties? That might get the man out of our hair until we find something.”

  Still rubbing his temple, Lindemann replied, “Can’t do it. Most of them have to stay aboard.”

  “No... no. What happens if we catch the man and he’s someone we can’t do without?”

  “I see. We’d have to replace him anyway. All right. I’ll talk to the Captain. Take care of the book.”

  Kurt turned and started up the ladder.

  “Kurt? Would you ask Commander Haber to come to my stateroom? I’m out of aspirin.”

  He went to the charthouse after leaving Gregor in Haber’s care, locked the black book in the safe. An obvious place, but how would anyone get to it, even knowing it was there? Then he went prowling, just walking the ship and thinking of Karen.

  He noticed a Political Officer leaning on the signal-bridge rail, staring landward. The sandstorm was wandering south now, an impressive range of darkness in the east.

  “What do they do up there?” Kurt realized he had spoken, looked around, saw no one had heard. It was a good qu
estion. What did the three do up there, other than stay out of the way? He decided to sneak up and see.

  The inside route took him to the pilothouse unnoticed. Removing his shoes eliminated noise as he crept out on the wing. He reached a position where he could hear the murmur of voices, low, in English. An argument.

  “— think we ought to call in!”

  “So do I. If they’ve got his notebook, we might be in trouble.”

  “There’s no need to worry! These dunderheads couldn’t read it.” Two against one?

  “Wrong! That Quartermaster... picked up some at Gibraltar.” The voices faded in and out. Kurt’s imagination filled in a lot.

  “How do you know?”

  “Marquis told me.”

  “You’re certain?” the dubious one asked. “I’m sure. I’m sure. Report it.”

  “If you’re wrong, they’ll raise holy hell.”

  “What if we’re right and don’t report? You want to sweep floors the rest of your life?”

  Kurt felt a sudden urge to laugh. Irrationally, he remembered characters from a Shakespeare translation in the ship’s meager library. Characters on a deserted heath, over a caldron: “Double, double, toil and trouble...”

  Kurt set a foot on the second rung of the ladder leading up and carefully lifted himself until he could see. They were in the signal shack, gathered over their caldron-substitute. A radio, Kurt assumed. One talked into it, and, at times, a muted voice replied.

  He eased back down. So. He had learned something of value. The three could contact their masters at will, which meant those masters were, in all probability, getting running reports. Did it matter? Kurt wondered.

  He returned to the charthouse and locked himself in. His thoughts turned to Karen again. He stretched out on his back on the chart table, stared at the overhead while daydreams ran across his mind — thoughts of home, fears for the future.

  The fleeing dream again, with wolves, little change, except that Karen’s face seemed clouded. Even walking he had a hard time picturing that face. Time erosion. A pounding at the door woke him. “Kurt? You there?”

  “Huh?” Growing muzzily aware, he sat up. “Gregor?” He staggered to the door. Lindemann stepped inside and seated himself on the stool. Kurt returned to the table.

  “I convinced the Captain,” said Gregor. Kurt saw he was rubbing his head again. “Our suspects leave tomorrow, all but Commander Haber. We’ll be getting underway in an hour.”

  “What?”

  “We’re moving to Great Bitter Lake.”

  “At night? With no fuel?” He glanced at the clock. “Whoops!”

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “Asleep. Drifted oil, I guess.”

  “There’s a collier alongside now. We’ve been bringing fuel aboard for two hours. How’d you sleep through the racket?”

  “Talent.”

  “This’ll be rough. Everybody on watch all the time, here to there. Twenty hours. Know your buoys, lights, and ranges?”

  “I dream about them. Red buoys on the right, black on the left. Black and white stripes mark the fairway on the lake itself. Red lights right, green left, white in the fairway. The ranges...”

  “All right. Go clean up.”

  “Okay. By the way, you were right about that noise yesterday. Somebody was listening. I heard the Political Officers telling their bosses about the notebook.”

  “Oh? How?”

  “They’ve got a radio up there.”

  “Interesting. And you’ve got the notebook in the safe? Too obvious. Hide it.” Gregor seemed to be thinking very hard, possibly searching for some advantage to be had from this new knowledge.

  Kurt did not understand, but did as he was told.

  The Political Officers, though, apparently did nothing to find the notebook. Other than Jager moving from Lake Manzala to Great Bitter Lake, nothing noteworthy happened the following four months. Kurt toyed with his translation, but could work up little interest in the dull political and economic chapters. He worried about Karen quite a lot.

  The killer apparently had gone ashore. In any event, he did nothing to disturb vessel or crew.

  XIII

  THE dredging crews completed their work on May 1, 2194. Jager got under way on the third and moved to Port Suez, where those of her surviving crewmen returned. The privation and heat had been deadly for the working parties. Jager had lost seven men and one officer — Lieutenant Obermeyer (Obermeyer’s death could only be deduced — he had gone for a walk one night and never returned). Seven Littoral graves served as milestones down the borders of Sinai, poorly marked memorials to insanity.

  Kurt was on the quarterdeck to greet friends as they returned. Among the last was Hans, a browned, thinned Hans. “You look rough,” Kurt told him. “Lost five or six kilos, I’d say.”

  “That wonderful sun and exercise,” Hans replied, showing his darkness and callused hands. “Just what the doctor ordered.” Less lightly, “It was rough. I couldn’t’ve made it the whole time. I’m surprised we only lost eight. What’s happening here?”

  “Nothing. Spent most of the time wishing we were with you. Let’s have some lemonade.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You wouldn’t know, would you? Well, we traded some stuff off that wreck to a Turkish ship anchored beside us in Great Bitter Lake. We talked our Political Officers into handling it through theirs. We got five crates of lemons — it’s a little fruit, so big, and sour — three hundred kilos of real coffee, some fresh meat, and a bunch of other stuff. Lemonade’s made from lemons.”

  They entered the mess decks. “It’s cool in here!” said Hans, wonderstruck. “How?...”

  “Oh, another trade. There was a Liberian ship with a man who knew refrigeration. He fixed our air conditioning and reefers. We fixed their fire control.”

  As Kurt drew two glasses of lemonade, Hans said, “I thought nothing happened. What else?”

  Kurt shrugged. “Not much. What do you think?”

  Hans puckered, surprised. “Not bad, after being outside.” A man came to their table as they were settling in. “Kurt, Mr. Lindemann wants you.”

  “Be there in a minute, Fritz.” He hurriedly finished his drink. “Talk to you later, Hans. I want to hear all about digging the grand canal.” He went down to officers’ country. Gregor waited at the door of his stateroom.

  “Come in. I thought we’d better talk before things get too hectic.” Kurt settled himself on the edge of Gregor’s bunk. “Business first. We sail for Bab el Mandeb tomorrow, about seventeen hundred kilometers. We’ll anchor off Perim while the stores ships return to Cyprus and Turkey to load up. We’ll have to stack wood on in piles like we did in Norway. There’re no forests between Perim and India, almost four thousand kilometers. We’ll refuel underway. Get with Mr. Czyzewski and Wiedermann on that. I suppose he’ll get Mr. Obermeyer’s job. Get the refueling points figured as soon as possible.”

  “Got them already. We haven’t had much else to do.”

  “Good. They should’ve given you a commission, Kurt. But I suppose you’re too young.” He rubbed his right temple with his fingers, rolled his head.

  Kurt, stimulated by the statement, wondered just how Gregor had managed to win the navigator’s appointment. He, Kurt, certainly had the edge in experience, though his cousin was older. He began to wonder just how much influence the underground had in the Littoral’s Bundestag. He wondered if Hans would have been First Lieutenant if Obermeyer’s father had not been president of that assembly.

  “About our killer,” Lindemann continued.*Two suspects didn’t return. That leaves eight names — we need evidence. They all seem unlikely.” He used both hands to rub his temples. His headache had been almost constant since the day he had been attacked, and grew stronger whenever he and Kurt discussed the murderer. Aspirin helped, but never drove the pain completely away.

  Kurt shrugged. “Every one of those men is a friend. That pains me.” As he spoke, he considered the cruis
e’s effect on Jager’s officers. Gregor had the constant headache. Obermeyer was dead. Haber, though fighting it gamely, was on his way to a breakdown. He now shook so much he dared not touch anything breakable. Von Lappus’s suffering was apparent only in the rapidity with which his little hair was graying, and in his loss of weight.

  He was at least twenty-five kilos lighter than a year earlier. The others suffered in ways uniquely their own.

  “One’s no friend,” said Lindemann. “But we’ve got another problem. We’re getting a new Political Officer — I imagine because of that notebook.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, I’m not sure. The English you’ve been teaching me wasn’t up to the job.... I’ve been listening in on those kids. Yesterday they ran Brecht off the signal bridge. I wondered why, so I went up and listened while they were talking on their radio.”

  “And?”

  “The battleship will, if I understood right, send a man over when we get to Bab el Mandeb. They want someone here who can overawe us. We’re on their list of unreliables — probably thanks to Marquis. Those three kids are easy to fool.”

  “I don’t know. They seemed pretty sharp when we were trading with the Turks....”

  “Maybe. Point is, we’ve got to be even more careful if our killer survived — and we’ve got to assume he did.”

  “Right.” Kurt raised the hem of his jumper, exposed the sheath knife he had begun carrying. It had been a gift from Karl Wiedermann for excelling in Boy Volunteer activities.

  “Good. There’s something else. You’ve been reading the book you got from Fitzhugh, haven’t you?” Suddenly wary, Kurt replied, “Just some dull novels.”

  “I’m talking about the one in the safe, the one you’ve been translating. Ritual War. It’s like a Bible to the resistance. I’ve never read it because I’ve been unable to locate a German edition. I’d like to.”

  “It’s a pretty rough translation, and I’m not finished.” He wondered if Pitzhugh had meant that he do so, and see others read it.

  “How much left?”

  “Two chapters, a summary, and a supplementary pamphlet that was added later.”

  “Finish it. Don’t worry about polish. Oh, just a cautionary note. The Political Office imposes the death penalty for possession.”