Patton's Spaceship (The Timeline Wars, 1)

by John Barnes

  He took a little time to show the place off—he was very proud of his strange command, and whatever didn’t have to be kept secret he was happy to show us. Dr. Teller, of course, had worked on getting the nuclear power plants built and on working out pressures and top speeds—the Arizona wasn’t fast, couldn’t be fast, for though her engines could push her a lot harder than they ever did, her superstructure had enough to do just to keep the terrible pressures below the surface from rupturing her, and there was so much drag that they didn’t dare to move fast. The Arizona could circle the globe submerged—it turned out that Captain Kennedy had taken her under the North Pole more than once and had run the length of the Atlantic in her—but her top speed was low, and her vulnerability to depth charges something that no one aboard seemed to want to talk about.

  For all the slowness and vulnerability, I was to learn in the next few days that the crew had come to feel invulnerable after some of the things Kennedy had taken them through; on the run through the Atlantic, they had surfaced off Jutland, run in close, and shelled Wilhelmshaven and Bremen—“You should have heard the variety of stories the Jerries kept coming up with to explain that one,” one of the intelligence staff said. “Simultaneously they had to denounce it as barbaric, cruel, and a justification for whatever reprisals they wanted to take, and declare that it had no effect, and announce that there was no such thing as an Allied warship anyway and it was just an industrial accident in Wilhelmshaven getting picked up and becoming a rumor that was also misattributed to things happening in Bremen.”

  This was a day or two later, and I was having dinner with him in the officers’ mess, where we all had permanent invitations as a courtesy. It had taken me a long time, even after seeing it surface, even after having to travel around inside it, to realize just how large the Arizona was.

  Besides her occasional surprise terror raids around the Axis-controlled world, and her operations in support of various rebel groups around the world, she also acted as a floating intelligence and research base, a guided missile platform, a flagship when in combined operations, and when operating by herself far from base, a sort of super-subtender. She could tow up to five submarines behind her—in fact that was where Skipjack was right now—while supplying them with fresh air and electric power.

  All this I learned over a couple of days as I got rest, food, and a certain amount of the simple feeling of safety. We knew we were making for the Free Zone, though exactly where was secret even from us.

  It was different here. I had seen Axis America only through the eyes of the rebels and as a hunted fugitive, but that was the most accurate way to see it, and its most notable feature was the cloud of fear in which you lived. Even people in the Good Neighbors and various other fascist organizations had to be afraid of each other. But on the Arizona, once you were aboard and it had been determined you belonged there, you were automatically part of the accepted circle. I found I could talk to anyone about anything that wasn’t classified; there was an atmosphere of freedom that, in just my short days away from my own timeline, I had all but forgotten.

  I spent quite a bit of time with Dr. Teller, trying to figure out the SHAKK, but all we could determine was that it wanted to be reloaded, and we had none of whatever it was that it was loaded with. “It’s a pity,” he said, “because what you and the two resistance people describe as its effects are things we could really use. We’ll have to make sure you get a chance to work around some of our materials science people; maybe you or they will find whatever it is.”

  Two other things became clear from the conversation; first of all, Sheila had probably not been a Special Agent. “Officially her rank seems to have been Time Scout, whatever that might be,” Teller said. “That was part of the coded material she sent us. If I were making a guess, it’s that she was more or less dropped off here and told to report back every now and then. We can only hope that this means they will come looking for her, and that they have the means to come and look.”

  The other was what had happened at the beach. “Understand,” he said, “here I was expecting one woman on an empty beach. First I find the beach guarded, then the guard departs and an armed party comes down to look at the naked, tortured corpse of the person I came to see. I was more than suspicious—I was ready to shoot—but then you mentioned transistors.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “Are they a secret password or something?”

  Teller laughed. “No—or yes. Your choice. We’ve been making them in the Free Zone since about 1950, but they’re a closely guarded secret. And the important thing is that they work by principles of quantum physics—or what the current masters of the Earth refer to as ‘Jewish science.’ The same branch of physics is essential to understanding nuclear energy as well. So if, as you are guessing, these Closers who control the Nazis are phobic about nuclear power, they probably suppress quantum theory, which is why the Nazis have no transistors.”

  “And no lasers,” I said.

  “And no what?”

  It had never occurred to me that I might meet a physicist, let alone a world-class one, who wouldn’t know what a laser was. Unfortunately, I didn’t really know myself—I knew sort of what they did, but had very little idea how they did it. At least I remembered that they were monochromatic, and the light didn’t disperse at all.

  Teller sat and scribbled frantically, scratching his head the whole while. “Wonderful,” he said finally. “Absolutely wonderful. I shall be sure to cite your assistance.”

  I was a bit startled. “Do you have any way to publish?”

  “Oh, eventually, eventually. The war is not going to last forever, you know, merely for a very long time.” And we were off to some other subjects.

  It took the Arizona almost three weeks to traverse the Pacific submerged, and I suppose if I had had anything that it was urgent for me to do, I’d have been screaming with impatience. But the fact was that I was very much stranded in this world, and therefore until someone found a job for me to do, nothing could be really urgent. Moreover, being here meant time enough to do a little reading in the ship’s library and to do some hard thinking about what I would do when I got to the Free Zone. Other than being dead certain I would volunteer and try to make my contribution in the struggle against the Nazis and the Closers, I had no idea, nor did I really know what my options might be.

  That left me with one other thing to consider—me and my place in the universe. One problem with time to rest and think is that all of a sudden things start to come into clear focus.

  First thing to notice, I decided—nobody really needed me back home. The fact was that Dad looked after himself well, and even Carrie managed to do so. Robbie and Paula would miss me but would find other agencies to give them work. I was a good bodyguard, but there were other bodyguards as well. Maybe Porter would write me from camp … that was about it.

  So there was no urgent reason for me to go home. Blade of the Most Merciful were gone—I’d had the satisfaction of bagging most of them with my SHAKK, back in the Closer base. I had liked the few ATN people I’d met, and I wouldn’t mind linking back up with them, but it might happen anyway, and I didn’t have to be at home to do it.

  No, it was clear I not only could make a place for myself here, but I probably should, because it was also quite possible that I would be stranded here for a long time. Even if another Time Scout or Special Agent came through, it seemed to me that the chances of their finding me, or of being interested in me if they did, were pretty slim.

  So I was here for good, and I was going to act like it … and that led to some hard self-reflection. I realized I hadn’t acted like it in my own timeline. Waking up fantasizing it was somewhere else had just been a symptom—the real problem was that, miserable as my new existence as a widower was, however much I had only been able to assuage my despair by constant violent action, that existence was mine, and I had gone through it sleepwalking or like a tourist, not letting it touch me enough for it to fix me.

/>   I had missed a lot of pain, but I had been avoiding life.

  This would have to change; I couldn’t make this new lifetime be a copy of the old, nor could I drop out into a comfortable if barren existence as I had at home. If I was going to have to live here, I would have to live here.

  All this took me quite a while to arrive at, and if I had had anything significant to distract me, I’m sure I would have managed not to think about it.

  The day that Captain Kennedy announced we were only ten days from port, I noticed there was something new and different on the bulletin board—an announcement that Al would be performing his poems that evening, in one of the larger messes. I wasn’t going to miss that—having heard it once, and now having read enough to get more of the references, I probably couldn’t have been kept away at gunpoint. But I did think it was kind of a shame that they had put it in such a big space, because poetry was never a popular taste as far as I could tell, and I figured maybe a dozen people plus me, Sandy, and Teller would show up.

  I had badly underestimated the power of boredom; for most of the crew, one voyage was a lot like another, once you got used to the idea of cruising below the ocean in a rebuilt battleship. They had seen the films and read the books and heard the records in the ship’s library; the idea of anything new, anything at all, was enough to draw them out in droves. The room was packed to the walls, and though I was not late, I couldn’t find a real seat of any kind, and ended up in a corner where I couldn’t quite see Al, my back wedged a bit uncomfortably—though for this, I was more than willing to put up with it.

  The room fell to a dead silence; I thought Al was beginning, and then I saw people struggling to their feet and realized Captain Kennedy had come in. I heard that gentle, deep New England voice making everyone else sit, but whether he liked it or not, they were going to make room for him in the front row.

  Then there was a little more excited buzz, and then a very deep silence. Al cleared his throat, took a drink of water, and said, “All right, then, the first of these is called ‘The Fall.’”

  It didn’t have quite the same impact as the first time, for me, but it still brought tears to my eyes before he was done, and as I watched the men in the room—Asians, Polynesians, Caucasians, and blacks jammed together, all listening intently, no one making a sound, tears trickling down cheeks and eyes shut to hear better—I knew I wouldn’t have missed being here for all the world.

  But if “The Fall” hit them like a hammer blow, “The Gathering of Nations” was a nuclear blast; by the end of it some of them were shaking with stifled sobs, others had mouths open in wonder. I have never heard wilder applause.

  They had Al read again and again, five times in all, so that everyone on board could hear it—indeed, Captain Kennedy decided to require it, I suppose in the same spirit that George Washington had made all the troops listen to Tom Paine’s The Crisis.

  After about the third reading, I bumped into Sandy; she looked much better, and without exactly saying that I asked how she was.

  “Okay,” she said, idly, a little distracted. “God, it’s so good to see Al like this. I’ve been looking out for him for a couple of years and to have so much acceptance from so many people listening to his poetry—well, I think it must be something he’s wanted for many years.”

  “Those poems are going to live forever,” I said.

  Sandy smiled sweetly and tucked her legs under her on her chair. “And of course the other thing … well, Al’s a great man, but … you know, I’ve been getting a lot of attention from Captain Kennedy—which he doesn’t really have time to give me, but he’s such an interesting man, not like anyone I’ve ever met before—”

  I bet, I thought, and for one moment couldn’t decide whether I was more jealous of him or her. But the jealousy passed, and then I mostly felt amused; I had to admit that it was almost as interesting to see what wasn’t changed between the timelines.

  12

  It wasn’t until we were actually approaching that Captain Kennedy let us know that we were going into the harbor at Haiphong. That seemed to be very popular with everyone aboard; Vietnam was the heart of the Free Zone, both physically and politically, and was about as far from Axis bombers and raiders as you ever got. Then, too, there’s something about being able to take leave in a city, and a city where you can feel safe … Hanoi was just a short trolley ride away, and I remember being a bit disoriented by the number of American sailors who kept telling me about all the places to have a good time in Hanoi.

  Dr. Teller had been spending a lot of time by himself with the notebook Al had carried aboard, and as we were putting into the harbor, he said to me, “I just wanted to let you know how significant your efforts were. This notebook is exactly what we have needed for at least three years—so many things in it which are obvious once explained but couldn’t possibly be learned other than by painful trial and error! You’ve given us a huge leap forward—”

  “Sheila did,” I pointed out, “and Al carried the notebook—”

  Teller grinned. “I know that—in fact I’ve already told Al my feelings on the subject. Also that he’s the great American poet as far as I’m concerned.”

  “It would never have occurred to me that a physicist would have much of an opinion about poetry.”

  His brows furrowed, and I realized he was a bit angry; his hands flew around excitedly. “You damn silly Americans! God! The only nation on earth where they think that if you’re smart, you won’t be interested in literature or art!”

  That made me laugh, and I apologized, which seemed to help.

  He calmed down, and said, “But in particular I wanted to thank you for something else. This ‘laser’ idea of yours—it’s pointed me in a number of exciting directions.”

  “It’s not really my idea,” I pointed out, “and besides, all I told you was that it was possible.”

  “All!” He laughed at that. “All! That’s all any decent physicist wants to know. What you’ve done is assured me of a place in physics of my own—”

  It was my turn to be startled. “Then wasn’t that notebook—”

  “Hah! Oh, sure, I was a footnote. The guy who read the textbook and got it sorted out for everyone else. But I’ve wanted an independent area to open up ever since I got into this. I had thought it might be this nuclear bomb thing, but so much of that has been concerned with just getting things accomplished at all in a setting where doing any kind of science is so difficult—and then suddenly this comes along—well! I’ve seen a dozen ways in principle it might all be done, you see. At least a dozen. I’ve filled a notebook of my own thus far. You’ve given me something new and interesting to work on, just when this other project was about to play out …”

  He went on like that for quite a while, and I was driven to reflect that he seemed like a pretty happy guy as he got off the boat. I just hoped he’d remember to finish up on the Bomb before he got going on lasers.

  It was sort of good-bye for me at the dockside. At Captain Kennedy’s strong urging, Al was going around to read his poetry, sort of a micro-USO tour, and Sandy would be going as his assistant and bodyguard. Nobody exactly knew what to do with me, so I was being sent up to Hanoi for the generals to worry about.

  Kennedy gave me this big, warm, toothy smile when he shook my hand for the last time, and said he was sure it would work out, that the Free Zone needed every good man it could get. It made me feel good, and between the firm grip and the big smile I realized I might easily have voted for him myself.

  I wasn’t particularly alarmed when they put me in a closed compartment on the train to Hanoi, and stationed a guard outside the door. There was a war on, and I was an anomaly, and if there was anything I’d learned as a bodyguard, it was that anything anomalous, anything that just didn’t fit into the pattern, was something to be watched out for.

  The secure barracks in Hanoi was Spartan but livable, and the food was mostly rice with a few vegetables and some fish, but perfectly palatable. I’ve
had better Vietnamese food in Vietnamese restaurants, but then nobody goes to French prisons to sample French cuisine either.

  The next day they loaded me into a truck with a bunch of other people, none of whom spoke English, to go over to the government building and be sorted out. I figured out from what the guards were saying that it wasn’t unusual in the Free Zone to have people of highly indefinite status around—Japanese who had fled their homeland and its Thought Police to float down the China coast on rafts, Hindus and Muslims from India fleeing persecution there, pilots who deserted the air forces of the Soviet or American puppet regimes and took their planes with them, Brazilians who had forged papers to get out of occupied Brazil … the list went on and on. They all had to be processed for loyalty risk, with the ones who seemed least likely ending up in prison for a while and the ones who seemed most likely offered a provisional citizenship in the Free Zone and put to work on some nonstrategic project for a few months to see what happened.

  On the other hand they hardly ever processed anyone who claimed to be a traveler from another timeline.

  They kept me waiting most of the day in a beautiful old colonial palace in Hanoi. The walls were thick and heavy, which was how it had survived a number of Japanese and German bombing raids, and the high arches in its walls were graceful and allowed quite a bit of air and light into the room. I had a pitcher of water, and they brought me a bowl of rice and fish around lunchtime, so I wasn’t at all uncomfortable, just bored.

  The most astonishing thing to me was how green it all was outside. There were tall palms—Hanoi was far enough from Japanese bases not to have taken too terrible a pounding, especially because (one of those funny coincidences between timelines) it had a very strong and effective set of air defenses. So the trees mostly still stood, and though you could see bomb damage here and there looking out over the city, it was still mostly what it had been in old National Geographics—a city of graceful French neoclassical official buildings, bright pagodas, and thatched-roof cabins, through whose crowded, busy streets the palm-helmeted people streamed all day long. The ruckus outside the window—children screaming, barking dogs, crowing chickens, pigs grunting, vendors crying their wares, bicycle bells, and everywhere the excited babble of busy human voices—was wonderful music after the pulsing mechanical silence of the ship. I hoped that soon I could be out there tasting and smelling some of the sensory delights.