The Heirs of Babylon - Glen Cook

by harry

  “Martin told me.”

  “We’ll talk about him sometime. Bring the book when you’re done.”

  “Okay.” Kurt rose and started for the door.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. We’re rotating watches. We’ll have the midwatch.”

  Inwardly, Kurt groaned. Midnight to four in the morning. Bad.

  “And you’ll stand with Brecht part time, too, until he knows what he’s doing.” Brecht, the signalman, otherwise out of a job, was taking Hippke’s place.

  Kurt returned to the mess decks.

  “You look glum,” said Hans, chuckling. “What’d Mr. Lindemann say?”

  “Work. Piles and mountains of work. And we’re rotating watches. We now have the midwatch. And, on top of it all, I’ve got to stand watches with Brecht, who’s taking Hippke’s place. How’d you like to be a Quartermaster? Why don’t you throw one of your Boatswains overboard and let me have his job? There’s never been a Boatswain, since they invented ships, who’s ever done any work.”

  “Bitch and gripe. This lemonade’s good stuff.” Hans held his glass high and stared into it.

  “You tried the coffee yet? Better, before it’s gone. No comparison with ersatz. Look, I’ve got to get to work. Maybe we can talk later, at supper.”

  “Sure. Got work of my own. Have to straighten out the mess Adam made while I was gone.”

  “What mess?” Kurt asked. “He didn’t do anything.”

  “That’s what I mean. Have you seen the rust on the forecastle?”

  Kurt went to the charthouse, labored over his translation the rest of that day, and during the few free moments he obtained during the passage to Bab el Mandeb.

  The summary chapter was incredibly dull. It took all his will to keep plowing through the rehash. All the way through the book, Kurt had expected the momentary collapse of the author’s reserve, a sudden explosion of emotion and outrage. That, as much as content, had kept him going. Now, at the end, he was left disappointed and wondering if he who had written had been truly human. But the supplementary pamphlet, written much later by a more excitable author, proved highly interesting, once he started. It sketched the founding of High Command.

  High Command, in concept, was a clandestine military United Nations, a joint council of general staffs. The foundations of such an organization had been laid the day the War began, but it did not become reality until the post-Bio-War era — the War could be divided into two major phases; the first, that undertaken to solve the economic problems of the pollution-initiated famines and depression; the second, the war undertaken to recover from the ravages of the first phase gone mad: the latter was the only phase truly deserving the name “the War.” The council was meant to determine and negotiate the levels of violence needed to keep national economies expanding, and was to act as an umpire in the fighting. Insanity. As far as Kurt could see, a better effect could have been achieved with a planned program of reconstruction (thinking back to the Bio-War, he wondered if the West now fought itself because the East had been so effectively destroyed).

  Yet the establishment of a ritualized war for economic reasons seemed a logical step forward from the earlier situation, moving from a stopgap to a permanent measure. Typically bureaucratic. But God! The blood and misery!

  And it seemed two logical steps forward from the situation extant prior to the great depression — the endless attention-getting, uniting, balance-of-power-maintaining, economy-stimulating, contrived wars of the sixth, seventh, and eighth decades of the twentieth century.

  Perhaps the planners of the past had been unable to see another way out. Or, another perhaps, warfare had been the easy way.

  What had gone wrong? The fighting was no stimulus. The world was too exhausted, was slipping back toward barbarism — albeit slowly. Had the violence been maintained at a level too high for success? Did High Command keep stepping it up as they saw their program failing? Certainly, Kurt thought, too much energy was being spent on the War in the present, right or wrong. There was little left for rebuilding.

  He slammed a fist against the chart table. Why? he asked himself. Why was there always violence to prevent progress? He wished, for perhaps the thousandth time, that he had gone to Norway with Karen. He also realized that he had gotten something valuable by coming. Knowledge. Not necessarily truth, but another viewpoint on history. But how to use that knowledge?

  He penned the last line of his translation a short time before Jager anchored off Perim. Arabia lay on one hand, Ethiopia and Somalia on the other, legendary lands.

  When the hook dropped and the hecticness of Sea Detail faded, Kurt left the bridge. He collated his translation and notes, took the book from his safe, and gave the lot to Gregor. Lindemann immediately took the material to his stateroom.

  Kurt joined Hans on the port wing. They stared toward the Arabian Coast.

  “How long do we stay here, Kurt?”

  “I don’t know. Until they bring enough fuel from Turkey. Maybe a month.”

  “The middle of June?”

  “About. Why?”

  “I’m getting nervous. We’re awful close to the Meeting.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever get there,” said Kurt, a faraway look on his face. Past, present, future melted and mixed in his mind, and he was all at sea, without time. This journey seemed timeless, endless, like Earth itself, its beginnings lost in mist, its end hidden in unreachable shadows beyond the rising sun.

  “Why?”

  “We’ve been at it a year already, and we’re not halfway there, not if we’re going to Australia.”

  “I guess. It doesn’t seem like a year to me, though. Yet, if it keeps going this way, we’ll be old men before it’s done.” Hans chuckled. “Maybe we’ll meet the last Gathering coming home.”

  Entirely serious, Kurt replied, “No. The last Gathering returned years back. That Turkish ship we traded with... it went to the last Meeting too. I couldn’t learn much because the Political Officers wouldn’t let me ask, but our side lost.”

  “Find out anything about U-7937’ “Not much. The Turks had heard about it, but knew only that it didn’t come back. They fought two battles, one off India that they won, where U-793 was last seen, and another at Malacca that they lost.”

  “Sad, your father not coming home,” said Hans. “He was a lot of fun. A good father.”

  Kurt sensed unspoken envy. His father had been more interested in his children than had Hans’s. Karl Wiedermann’s usual reaction to Hans had been to tell him to go away, he was too busy — or he had brought out the belt. But he had had a great concern for outsiders.

  “I don’t know, Hans. Your father was a bit heavy-handed, but not vicious. Blind, maybe, setting standards adults couldn’t attain. He was good to me. I learned a lot from him.” Strangely, Karl Wiedermann had been Loremaster of Kiel’s Boy Volunteers, a Scout-like organization to which most boys belonged. He had been an excellent leader, had taught many youths many things — much of Kurt’s early sea lore had originated with Karl.

  As Kurt finished his comments, he saw a wicked expression flicker across Hans’s face. Jealousy? And he suddenly felt, without any evidence to anchor his feeling, that he had intuited much of the cause of Hans’s old dislike — and the reason for their getting on well aboard lager. Memories returned, of Boy Volunteer activities. Karl, in view of other boys, had often upbraided or beaten Hans for trifles, had more often and cruelly demanded he be like Kurt, well-behaved and attentive. Indeed, though he had not paid much heed, nor had really cared at the time, Kurt now realized that Karl had treated him far better than his own son. Perhaps the older Wiedermann just had not realized what he was doing, slashing Hans’s soul with dull razors. Hans had been terribly shortchanged.

  But not here. Here Hans was an equal, under no pressures, able to compete on his own, to be his own man. Here, out of the shadow of his father’s person and power, he was a true individual for the first time. He now had friends, was increasingly popular. Sad that one
man could so beat another down.

  “He might’ve been easier to-please,” Hans said distantly, “if he hadn’t been a Political Officer.... Hey, speaking of Political Officers...” He pointed to a boat approaching J ager. It flew the High Command ensign. An old man in Political Office black sat in the stern, wiping sweat from his face with a rag.

  “Looks like our new man,” Kurt mumbled. “Let’s hope he’s less trouble than Beck.”

  “Why? He never hurt anybody.”

  “Only because he never got the chance. Anyway, just having him aboard was bad. You could smell fear wherever he went.”

  They watched as the old man was helped from the boat to the quarterdeck. There he was greeted by von Lappus, Haber, and the three young Political Officers, and immediately hustled off to the wardroom.

  “Now there’s an idea,” said Hans. “What?”

  “Let’s go somewhere where it’s cool. Mess decks.”

  “All right. I’ll see if Brecht’s got everything secured.”

  XIV

  THE new Political Officer was no Beck. He had the coldness and penetrating stare, but was an old man, primarily interested in his own comfort. He spent most of his time in his stateroom, with the air conditioning. His name was de 1’Isle-Adam. The Germans called him Deal Adam.

  The heat and humidity at the mouth of the Red Sea might have been borrowed from Hell itself. Jager’s men endured it as little as possible. The ship’s air-conditioned spaces were often so crowded the machinery did little good.

  Refueling, a daylong high-lining of bundles of wood, was pure torture. Once it was completed, however, there was nothing to do but wait for the supply ships to return from Turkey (those ships had been hauling all along, but warships burn fuel even while at anchor, to provide steam to power generators and to make fresh water), and try to keep cool.

  A week after refueling, in the heat of the afternoon, Kurt was summoned to the wardroom. He hastily examined his memory as he went, wondering what he had done — for it was the day and time for Captain’s Mast.

  Surprises awaited him. The first came when he stepped through the wardroom door and found the entire officer complement, with the exceptions of the Political Officers, awaiting him. General court-martial?

  “Sit down, Ranke,” said Gregor, indicating a chair at one end of the long table there. The seat faced von Lappus, which made Kurt even more nervous — and the Captain’s stare did nothing to calm him, the more so when he noticed his translation beneath the man’s heavy hands. General court-martial indeed. He glared accusingly at Gregor, seated on his right.

  Haber spoke first. “You translated this Ritual War thing, Ranke?”

  Kurt thought a moment. What had he gotten himself into? He had better tell the truth, since they had him anyway — yet it was hard. These men were authority, the powers with death in their hands. That some were old friends and relatives might be a weight in the balance against him. “Yes sir.” Weakly.

  “Take it easy, son,” von Lappus rumbled. “There’s nothing to worry about. We’re not Political Officers, this isn’t a tribunal, and we’re not going to hang anyone.”

  “Now then,” said Haber, “is your translation accurate?”

  “It could be better, sir. I’m unfamiliar with English idioms.”

  “What do you think of the validity of the work?”

  Kurt struggled with fear of answering. When his pause grew uncomfortably long, he forced, “I’d say it’s the truth as the author saw it, sir. I felt it was sincere.”

  “Commendably cautious. Well, for the sake of argument, let’s assume the thing’s valid. Where’d you get it?”

  “Gibraltar, sir.”

  “Yes, I know. How? Where?”

  Kurt bit his lower lip, stared down at the table top, tried to decide how much he dared tell. “From an old man who ran an antique shop, sir.”

  “The man who taught you English?” Again Kurt gave Gregor an accusing look. “Yes sir.” Haber leaned back in his chair, folded his hands before his mouth. Thoughtful, he looked like a giant squirrel. “Tell us something about him.” A nervous squirrel. His shakiness had lessened, but was still there.

  Kurt told them a little about the cripple. “His name?”

  “Martin Fitzhugh, sir.”

  “You spent twenty-two afternoons with this man. I’m sure you learned more about him than. that he liked history, was crippled, and was a kindly old crackpot.”

  “Excuse me. Commander,” said Gregor, interrupting. “Kurt, you’re not on trial here. They’re after information which could be important to Jager’s future. Your future. Fact is, they’re trying to decide whether or not to leave the fleet.” His words were intense, commanding. His gaze was heavy, yet, surely, he was trying to be reassuring.

  “You could’ve told them,” Kurt mumbled. “You knew Fitzhugh.” He pondered the situation. He had already earned a death sentence by accepting Ritual War. The officers would too, if they did not report him. He shrugged fatalistically. Talking might do some good. “Fitzhugh opposed High Command — quite cautiously, of course.” He told of his last day with Martin, when the Spanish and Portuguese ships had made their breakout. “He was somehow involved, perhaps the organizer,” he finished.

  “That’s damned obvious,” von Lappus grumbled. “Otherwise, would he have known of the breakout beforehand?”

  Haber shook his head, mystified. “But that would, it seems to me, imply the existence of an organization opposing High Command.”

  “The organization exists,” Kurt said. “During our talks, Beck told me a lot about it. It’s a growing movement, especially strong on Gibraltar and in the Littoral.” He ignored Gregor’s warning frown. They would see who would expose whose secrets. “It’s headquartered in Telemark...” He paused to savor their surprise. “... and was once well represented on this ship. Kapp and Hippke were agents.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Haber.

  “Beg your pardon, Heinrich,” said von Lappus. “He’s right. Consider the situation at home. My brother’s been witch-hunting for years — for such I thought his search for an underground behind the kids running away to Telemark. And Karl Wiedermann was certain there was an underground. He’s been after it for a decade. Maybe we shouldn’t’ve laughed.”

  “An organization like that couldn’t exist without making itself known,” Haber protested.

  “Pardon me, sir,” said Lindemann, “but I’m sure there’s no such organization — unless it’s something like early Christianity, people giving other people the message, without being organized.”

  “No,” von Lappus grunted.

  Ha! Kurt thought. Trying to smokescreen.

  “All right, picture Kurt’s friend at Gibraltar. He can’t be the old kind of revolutionary, can he? He’s more the passive sort. Just passes the word on to a few selected people, hoping they drop out, hoping they pass it on to a few more. That’s revolution too, but slow, until everyone’s stopped obeying....”

  “I think I like Ranke’s theory,” said von Lappus, chuckling. “Really, Lindemann, I’m not blind. Your efforts have, at times, been anything but subtle. Nor do I think you really want to hide. You want attention. Else, why bring me this?” He slapped Kurt’s translation. “This’s the real underground, Lindemann. An idea, not people with guns, not espionage, not secret plots of mutiny. Ignoring High Command would be tantamount to overthrowing it — because it’s an idea, too. It has little real physical power.”

  “Which raises a good question,” said Haber. “What motivates High Command? The book tells us what did two hundred years ago. What does today? We’ll probably never know, but consider: institutions change, forget their original purposes. Look at the Church.... Say, I think there’s an analogy. Aren’t Political Officers priests of a fashion?”

  “Comments, Ranke?” the Captain asked.

  Kurt avoided his eyes. “I’ve been thinking something similar. High Command’s dedicated to the perpetuation of the War — my opinion.
What was once a means is now an end in itself. The level of violence, though decreasing with time, has risen above our social and technological capacity. What I mean is, while the Meetings get smaller, each requires a bigger portion of our manpower and machinery. It’s gotten to the point where the Littoral has little time for anything but training men and fixing ships. Everything else’s maintained at a subsistence level. Look at what happened after Grossdeutschland sailed....”

  Here Lindemann interjected, “Wrong, Kurt. This’s the biggest Gathering ever. All the ships left in the West.” But everyone ignored him.

  “A point,” said Haber. “I was a child at the time. Putting the cruiser in service took so many men, and so much material, out of Kiel, that we almost went under.”

  “Maybe High Command is a religion,” said the Supply Officer. “Like religions, it seems to ignore the problems of the present because of an overwhelming concern for the future.”

  “I’d rather compare it to a machine with a broken Off-switch,” von Lappus growled.

  “Excuse me,” said Haber, “but I seem to’ve led us off the subject. We’re here to discuss the book, and to find out if Ranke knows anything about an organization opposing High Command. We have his statement. I suggest we proceed. Ranke, you can go. Thank you.”

  Kurt rose hastily, excused himself, and slipped out. His immediate reaction was relief at being free. He went up to the charthouse, to do a little reading in the novel The Anger Men, and to be alone, to think.

  He pushed his key into the padlock — it would not go. He looked down, frowning. He had the right key. The lock? He looked, snorted. He was trying to push it in wrong side up. Curious, though. He always closed the lock with the open side of the catch toward the door, but it was closed the other way, contrary to habit. He frowned again, trying to remember the last time he had closed it. It seemed he had done so according to custom. He shrugged and opened the lock.

  Something was indefinably wrong in the charthouse. Without being conscious how, he knew someone had been there. How? Why?