The Heirs of Babylon - Glen Cook

by harry

  In her grim, determined try for life, Kurt saw an allegory of the struggling race. Mankind was, these days, a ruined, dying vessel in its last desperate hour, grasping for anything to save it from following the dinosaurs into oblivion.

  There was little allegorical significance, for Kurt, in the High Command battleship’s getting up steam and charging toward the mortally wounded ship. He had, though unconsciously, been expecting something of the sort. From all he had learned since departing Kiel, this was High Command’s function: destruction. Once again, the mystery of that organization’s purpose plagued him.

  The game was hare and hounds — with the hare already half dead. Or cat and mouse, for Purpose ignored the quick kill of which her guns were capable. Rather, with her smaller sister tagging kilometers behind, she raced to cut the vessel off. Though this seemed cruelest torture, Kurt suspected there was good reason — perhaps to make certain there were absolutely no escapees. Which bode ill for Jager.

  The events of the past few days, of the whole cruise, were coming to a head in Kurt’s soul, he hated, and needed to cause pain. His “How?” in response to Hans’s “We’ve got to help them” was cold, deadly serious. His whole existence, briefly, was bound toward one object, destruction of that battleship.

  Hans thought. Obviously, the guns were useless. They would be mosquito bites to that steel leviathan. “The other torpedo!” he declared.

  “It’s all shot up.”

  “How do you know? Let’s look, at least.” Hans grew excited, much as Kurt remembered him when he had gotten a chance to lead in their childhood games — so long ago, that age of innocence, so happy even in gray times. So much he had lost by coming: wife, child, youth... He caught Hans’s enthusiasm, raced with him to the torpedo deck. Both ignored von Lappus’s shouted orders to abandon ship and get far inland before Jager was discovered.

  Purpose came implacably onward, would intercept the wounded vessel little more than a half kilometer offshore, would do so in less than fifteen minutes. “No holes,” said Hans, after a quick check of the tube. “You pull the covers. I’ll check the firing circuits.”

  Kurt bent to his task ferociously. The minutes hurtled past. A small, sane part of his mind screamed that this was madness, thai he was risking his life on an impossible venture, that he should swim for safety as fast as he could. He ignored that voice. For once he would stand and fight. He tried to forget how he had played the tool in previous stands, ignored the fact that he fought only for anger and hatred — twin heads of a dragon, the same that had gotten this War rolling in the first place.

  Hans shouted angrily, inarticulately. Kurt yanked the last of the canvas free, went to his side, discovered the cause of his rage. An aircraft cannon shell had punched a neat hole through the firing box. The test circuits said it was dead. “Kurt, I’ve got to sink that ship!” said Hans. His intensity was tremendous. “I have to....”

  As a symbol of his father, like his secret rebellion, his joining Gregor’s movement? Or something else? A kaleidoscope of notions swirled through Kurt’s mind. From odds and ends came shape, at first fuzzy, then solid certainty: atonement. And Kurt, who had seen Hans suffer so much, for the moment forgave. He had no time, then, to weigh in the balance and see how it tipped. “Open it,” he suggested.

  Hans did so. The damage was instantly apparent. Two thin wires, color-coded, had been cut by the passing bullet.

  “Twist the ends together,” said Kurt. He glanced at the battleship, looming huge now. “Hurry. We haven’t long.” Maybe five minutes if they meant to save the cripple. That vessel continued landward unswervingly.

  “I’ve got the blue ones,” said Hans, “but there isn’t enough slack in the red.”

  “Oh, damn!” Scarcely thinking, Kurt dashed to the other tube, ripped its firing box open, yanked out a handful of wire.

  “Hurry up!” Hans demanded.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming!” As he crossed the deck, he used his knife to pare away insulation. “Hera.”

  Hans snatched the wire, quickly bridged the gap in the circuit. He closed the box. “How deep does her armor run?”

  Kurt shrugged. “I don’t remember. Try six meters.”

  “She draws about eleven. I’ll go for eight. Contact detonation?”

  “Best hope, old as the torpedo is. I’d guess she’s doing fifteen knots.”

  “The circuits are clear. Air pressure up...”

  “Shoot!” Kurt cried. Something told him the battleship was about to open fire. Worse, he had just seen sudden activity on this side of the warship. Jager had been discovered.

  “Go!” Hans shouted. Compressed air whooshed the torpedo from the tube. It hit the sea with a great splash and vanished. For a long moment nothing happened, Kurt and Hans felt their hopes toppling — then a trail of bubbles boiling surged toward Purpose. The two danced, howled, hugged one another. This was the first time they had done something together and carried it to fruitful conclusion.

  The battleship spoke. On her far side, at no more than two hundred meters, the flying dutchman abandoned her unnatural life, disintegrated.

  “Hans, we’ve got to get off!” said Kurt. Purpose’s secondary mounts were turning toward them.

  The torpedo struck. An immense veil of water rose and momentarily concealed the forward half of the battleship. Water-born concussion and sound hit Jager with almost the fury of the atomic blast. The destroyer groaned.... Purpose’s bow lifted clear of the sea, fell ponderously back. Kurt waited to see no more. He ran, leaped from the torpedo deck on the landward side, fell, fell. He was still struggling upward when Hans hit nearby. They surfaced, swam hard. Something roared, something hit them with a million fists. Agony. A moment later, gasping for breath, Hans said, “Must’ve been her magazines.”

  “Swim!” Kurt gasped in reply. He remembered Purpose’s smaller sister, now surely dashing in for revenge. They reached land, lay panting on the beach, listened to the ongoing explosions. Kurt rolled onto his back, saw, though lager blocked part of the view. Purpose slowly turn belly upward like some monstrous, dying fish. Her entire bow section had been torn free, stood nose out of the water a short distance off. She was surrounded by swimming men, some of whom tried to climb onto her corpse, some of whom started for the beach. “Hans, we’ve got to run...”

  Something roared overhead and fell into the blasted jungle, exploded. To the north, Purpose’s Eastern sister bore down like a fiery dragon, trailing smoke of muzzle blasts. Kurt and Hans staggered to their feet.

  “Where’re the others?” Hans demanded.

  After a thunder of exploding shells, Kurt replied, “Already gone. Grab something to take. Anything.”

  Without real thought to future needs, they chased about the beachhead, seizing anything portable. Kurt took an abandoned pistol, a rifle, an ammunition box, some loose clothing, his soggy seabag — found lying beneath a decapitated tree. Staggering under the unwieldy load, he hurried into the jungle. Hans was close behind with an equally difficult and inappropriate burden.

  Behind them, a salvo fell squarely astraddle Jager. With only a sigh, which might have been for her long-delayed release, she settled to the bottom. Only her mastheads, stacks, and signal bridge remained visible.

  The High Command cruiser, which had directed the Australian Gathering, eased to a stop nearby. Some of her men set about rescuing Purpose’s crew. Others armed themselves to go ashore. High Command wanted no single lay survivor of this Meeting.

  In the jungle, Kurt and Hans, both in pain, hurried along the trail left by Jager’s fleeing survivors. “It’s finally over,” Kurt gasped. “We’re free.” But, inside, he knew it was not. There were still a few last moves in the game.

  XIX

  THEY lay close, behind a fallen tree, as the High Command landing party passed. Kurt shivered, his teeth chattered, as he peered down the moonlit barrel of his rifle. He tried to convince himself he was cold, but the lie would not stick. The jungle was sweltering. At least fifty me
n were out there, and he was afraid. He and Hans would have no chance against those numbers.

  All day they had vainly sought von Lappus and his party, all day they had listened to the hunters moving close behind them. Finally, unable to continue, they had hidden. Kurt hurt inside. He had wanted to warn the others of the pursuit. His body had failed him. Hans, though wounded, had been able to go on, but had refused to leave him.

  As the noise of the High Command rear guard faded, Kurt noticed Hans’s breathing was deep and regular. Moving closer, he saw Wiedermann sleeping, cheek against rifle stock. He should keep watch, but he was just too tired.... Yet sleep would not come, once he surrendered — because now he had an opportunity to think, and bleak, sad thoughts kept him awake.

  He thought mostly of Hans Wiedermann, this strange little man beside him, who had shared so much of his life, yet who was such a great unknown. Hans, who had saved his life more than once, and who had tried to take it as often. Hans, he had sadly decided, was Marquis, the killer he had sought so long. Marquis and Brindled Saxon, part of two worlds. And, Kurt suspected, he had played both parts to the hilt, for Hans was that way — yet how had he managed two loyalties?

  Though the evidence had been before him for months, Kurt had refused to surrender his suspicions of Haber — he wanted Hans to be innocent, wanted Hans as his friend, wanted for Hans the human things so long denied him — till this morning. Proof of Haber’s innocence had come during the assault on the tanker. The sniper, then, had worn enlisted white, not officer’s khaki. Then the atomic shell. Only a Political Officer could have expected it, had been intended to survive it.

  After fleeing his thoughts through mind-jungles for an hour, he could resist no longer. He shook Hans. Wiedermann was instantly alert. “What? They spot us?”

  “No, they’re gone.” There was a period of deep silence between them. Hans knew his thoughts. Kurt asked, “Why?”

  Hans accepted the question without emotion. Kurt thought he had been misunderstood. Then Hans said, “I really don’t know, Kurt. I seem to be two people. What’s the word? Schizophrenia? I don’t always know what I’m doing, but I know what I’ve done — though I don’t always know why.” His words were soft, neither contrite nor defiant. “I don’t understand me. If this were the Middle Ages, I’d call it possession. This morning, for instance. Something hit me, I fired the burst that warned the tanker. Why, I can’t explain. I just had to. I could’ve killed myself once I did. I went to the signal bridge, then, to cover you. You were my friend. I didn’t want you hurt. And, as I lay there shooting through their pilothouse door, I thought about Karen. I wondered if she’d have me back if you didn’t make it. Next thing I knew, you were throwing a grenade at me. Kurt, I don’t know why I did it! I must be sick.” He tapped his temple.

  Kurt found he could not be angry — Hans’s flat tone somehow made his explanation acceptable — nor could he hate. Perhaps the emotion and killing that day had burned him out — yet there were scores of long standing to be settled. “What about the others? Otto, Erich, Gregor?”

  “And Obermeyer. Can’t forget Obermeyer. He hurts the most. The others, at least, I can justify to myself.”

  “Justify? Go ahead.”

  “Should I start with Otto? Otto was an accident. He was drunk, wouldn’t stay down in the compartment. He woke up after we took him down — several times, in fact. He’d start toward Operations’ quarters, to get Hippke — those two hotheads could’ve ruined the whole resistance program that night — would pass out, and I’d carry him back to bed. The last time, though, he wouldn’t pass out. We argued. He called me traitor, pulled a knife, we wrestled around. Then something took control of me. Next thing I knew, Otto was hanging on the lifelines, I had his bloody knife in my hand, and someone was running on the torpedo deck. You. I panicked, ran. I didn’t think anyone would believe it was an accident, not with my father a Political Officer and Otto talking like he did at dinner.”

  Uncertain whether or not to believe, Kurt made no comment. It sounded logical, plausible, and Hans appeared to be making no excuses. On the other hand, he had had more than a year to put together a good story.

  “Erich was planned. I didn’t go crazy killing him, not till afterward. I didn’t want to do it, but they made me.”

  “Who?”

  ‘The Political Office. They took me to the signal bridge the day before, told me they knew I was in the underground, and, if I wanted to stay alive, I would do what they said. I doubt they cared if I got caught — so long as Erich died. They knew the mutiny was due, wanted it stopped. Erich was the weak spot in the plan. It couldn’t work without him. They put every pressure on me possible, even fixed up a radio link, through the battleship and Gibraltar, to Kiel. They made me listen to my father telling me what a disappointment I was. Finally, I gave in. They gave me the note, which was supposed to look like you had written it — they thought the crew would jump you ‘cause some men thought you killed Otto, and they wanted you out of the way because, knowing English, you were a threat — and told me to set you up for an argument with Erich. That was easy. Erich was jumpy because the mutiny was so close — he was a coward, never mind all his lies about the freecorps — and you were both shorttempered because of the heat. We all were. But I really wished you no harm. Even though I once hated you for taking Karen, you’re the best friend I’ve got.”

  Kurt doubted. Now Hans’s story did not fit what Beck’s notebook said of Marquis. Yet, surely, Hans must know that. He could have prepared something better. So much uncertainty...

  “Obermeyer... that was another mad fit. He went walking one night. I followed him, like a fool asked if he’d resign his commission. He said no. A few minutes later, I came around with a strangled man at my feet. It was just like with Otto, and I panicked again. I covered him with sand and stones, sneaked back into camp, and tried to forget. I don’t think anyone ever suspected — but his death’s the hardest for me to live with. So pointless...”

  “And Gregor?” Kurt caressed the trigger of his rifle, mildly tempted, though he suspected he could never use it.

  “And Gregor. His was the only death I wanted. I was compelled. You see, he was pretty sure I’d killed Otto and Erich — I could sense it by the way he acted whenever we discussed resistance problems. He was very distant, very careful not to tell me anything he didn’t want the Political Office to know. At the same time, they were putting on the pressure to get me to betray the underground. I knew they were terribly interested in finding a notebook that had belonged to Beck. They were afraid of what was in it, that you might read it. When I saw you give it to Gregor that night, I saw a way out of both my predicaments. I could kill Gregor, saving myself from him, and the notebook would buy me peace from the Political Office.

  “There was trouble, especially with Deal Adam, but it worked out. Everything went fine till this morning, when I thought about Karen and shot at you. They’d even accepted me as a trainee, of sorts, which was how I heard about the atomic shell — though I wasn’t supposed to know. They spoke English the day they discussed it. You’re surprised? It was always my secretest secret, the one thing I had that you didn’t, something I had that you couldn’t win away. It was one of the few things my father ever gave me, back when he thought I’d follow him into the Office.” Kurt sadly listened. He did not know what to do. For more than a year, now, his hatred, his search for Otto’s murderer, had sustained him through trials and boredom. Without it. Ritual War, and the futile search for meaning in High Command, he might have sunk into the semicomatose, total apathy characterizing many of the journey’s-end crew.

  He had found his killer and discovered he did not care as he thought he should. Only feelings of duty, and debt to Otto and Gregor, kept him from that fall. They, at least, deserved avenging in payment for the days of their lives laid waste.

  Yet logic and emotion bid him let Hans be. Logic: he would need help and companionship traveling home from this weary night — dawn now, for wan gray li
ght filtered through the leaves above. A gray sky sometimes could be seen, when the branches moved in the growing breeze. Emotional: he wished Hans no harm because he owed the man something in return for taking from him. Curious, he wondered at the bond laid upon them. Never had they been friends, not in the deep way he and Otto had been friendly, yet, in lucid moments, when not trying to hurt each other, they were close as men could be.

  He pondered it. Hans sat silently, waiting. Finally Kurt abandoned the problem. Put it off. Maybe it would resolve itself. Always, this was his way.... Nothing made sense.

  He returned to the inconsistencies in Hans’s story. He was about to ask a question....

  Heavy firing broke the jungle stillness, far, small arms and grenades... like, Kurt thought, one of the mighty battles of old. It was scarcely a skirmish by ancient standards, though.

  “Come on,” said Hans, “let’s follow the noise.”

  Kurt was no less tired than when they had stopped, yet the pause had refreshed his will. He shouldered the pack he had made of his seabag, followed Hans.

  Nearly an hour passed. The firing died. Only voices heard kept them from walking into the midst of High Command sailors gathered in a clearing.

  “Get rid of your pack,” Hans whispered. Both did so, checked their weapons. Then, as learned in games of Boy Volunteer days, they crept toward the voices. But this was no game of steal the flag, and if you’re caught, you go to jail. Nor were there any bases. Life was the prize, and all the jungle the playing field. They stopped near the edge of the clearing. There were a dozen High Command sailors in a knot there, and perhaps half as many of lager’s men, seated, hands atop heads. Those were the living. The dead, mostly in black, were everywhere, much more numerous.

  From all appearances, von Lappus — who was nowhere to be seen — had pulled a desperate maneuver, had turned on and ambushed his pursuers, and had failed, though three-quarters of the hunters were dead or badly wounded. Kurt did not know how many of Jager’s men there had been, though he doubted there were many more than those visible from his hiding place. Von Lappus was the only man he knew to be missing. Most likely, the Captain and others lay dead in the surrounding jungle.