The Steel Tsar

by Michael Moorcock

  France, on the other hand, was no longer a Great Power. She had never recovered from the Franco-Prussian Wars. Germany now controlled much of the old French Empire and the French themselves seemed content enough in the main, without the responsibilities of their colonies. Ger­many had become a close ally of Britain, although not bound to join in the current conflict. She formed part of an alliance with the Scandinavian countries; a very powerful trading pact which suited everyone. Austria-Hungary moldered on, a romantic, decaying Empire, constantly in debt, constantly being helped out by richer nations. The only new Great Power of any significance was the Ottoman Empire, which had expanded significantly into Africa and the Middle East to form a strong Islamic union.

  Greece, I learned, was all but non-existent. Most of her people were now Moslems and to all intents and purposes Turkish. The Japanese Empire controlled large areas of what had been China and her inroads along borders of the Russian Empire had been the chief reason for the present struggle. I learned why the Japanese attacked British targets with far greater ferocity than they attacked others. They believed that Britain had deliberately started the War, with a raid on Hiroshima. I was reminded of my own part - my own guilt - in a similar raid, when I had sailed aboard the flagship of General Shaw.

  If I had known only one world I might have thought that History was repeating itself, but I knew that it was human nature, which lay at the root of History and that no matter where I found myself, I was bound to discover superficial similarities expressing and exemplifying that nature. It was human idealism and human impatience and human despair which continued to produce these terrible wars. Human virtues and vices, mixed and confused in individuals, created what we called 'History'. Yet I could see no way in which the vicious circle of aspiration and desperation might ever be broken. We were all victims of our own imagination. This I had realized in all my strange journeys across what Mrs. Persson calls 'the multiverse'. The very thing which makes us human, which produces the best, is also the thing which will make us behave worse than the maddest wild beast could ever behave. We live through example and emulation, which can turn into envy if circumstances create for us misfortunes. That is all I have come to believe, and I am not entirely sure I believe that. But I am reconciled to human nature, if not to human folly, and that is what my own particular misfortunes have achieved for me.

  Olmeijer was soon in his element once again. He somehow managed to get himself put in charge of the camp shop and ran it with all the grandeur of a Chef de la Maison at the Ritz.

  Greaves joined a group of English and Australian merchant seamen who had been captured at the fall of Shanghai. They spent most of their time choosing sides for Rugby football games and talking about Home. I supposed that this was how they managed to avoid thinking too much about the truth of their situation, but I could only stand half-an-hour or so of their schoolboy stuff. I knew very well that not long before my first visit to Teku Benga I might well have joined in with some enthusiasm. I had changed beyond redemption. I would never be quite the same as that idealistic and naive young army officer who had first led his men into the mountains in search of the bandit, Sharan Kang. I felt, indeed, like a cross between Rip van Winkle and the Flying Dutchman, with a touch of the Wandering Jew besides. I sometimes felt that I had lived for as long as the human race had existed.

  Quite soon after arriving at the camp I myself fell in with a mixed bag of civilian airshipmen, the survivors of a variety of wrecks. Some had been accidentally shot down; others had been rescued by Japanese patrols. Some had simply been lost in the general chaos and wandered into Japanese hands. I learned that all merchant airships now moved in convoys these days, protected by military vessels.

  It was about a week later that Harry Birchington attached himself to me. He was a thin-faced, angular man, with an awkward, unspontaneous way of moving, a flat forehead and cheekbones and a reddish discoloration under the eyes of the sort I often identify with a certain mental imbalance. He approached me as I came out of Olmeijer's hut. He regarded me, he said, as a fellow intellectual; someone who had a bit more education than most of these riff-raff'. Since there were a number of clergymen and academics amongst the prisoners in our compound alone, as well as a couple of journalists, I did not find his remarks particularly flattering. He wore a khaki shirt and a striped tie, gray flannel trousers and, no matter what the temperature, would often have on a tweed sports-jacket with leather patches on the elbows. He was a bore. He was, in fact, the camp bore. Every army unit has one, every airship crew has one, and every office and factory in the world doubtless has one. However, Birchington was, I'll admit, a bit above the average.

  He drew me across the compound to the wire fence corner. Leaning against one of the struts of the fence was a short, moody Slav in a dirty peasant shirt. I had seen him before. His name was Makhno and he was from the Ukraine. For bizarre idealistic reasons of his own he had elected to make his way to Tokyo in the cause of international brotherhood. He was an anarchist, I gathered, of the old Kropotkin school and, I thought then, like most anarchists would rather talk than anything else. He was a likeable enough fellow who, having failed to convert the camp, kept his own counsel. Birchington introduced us. 'This chap's not too good with the English,' he said. 'I talk a spot of Rooshian, but I'm having trouble getting through to him. We were talking about money.'

  'You're trying to buy something?' I asked.

  'No, no. Money. International finance and that.'

  'Aha.' I exchanged glances with the Ukrainian, who raised a sardonic eyebrow.

  'Now I'm a socialist, right?' continued Birchington. 'Have been all my life. You might ask what we mean by the word socialism, and you'd be correct in doing so, because socialism can mean many different things to many different people...' He went on in this vein, doubtless word for word repeating himself for the nth time. There are some people who never appear to realize to what degree they have this habit. I have come to believe that it has the effect on them of a soothing lullaby sung to them. It has a completely opposite effect, of course, on anyone attempting (or forced) to listen to them.

  The anarchist, Makhno, was not bothering to listen. It was obvious that he could understand many of the words but that he had instinctively recognized Birchington's type.

  'Now this chap,' Birchington stabbed an unhealthy finger in Makhno's direction, 'would also call himself a socialist. I suppose the term would be "anarcho-socialist". That is to say, he believes in the brotherhood of man, the emancipation of the working classes of the world and so on and so forth. He comes, after all, from a so-called socialist country, though what it's doing with an emperor still there, for all he's got no real power, I don't know. And he's against his own government.'

  The Russian government,' said Makhno. 'I am against all governments. Including the so-called Ukrainian Rada, which is only a puppet of the Central Government in Petersburg.'

  'Just so,' said Birchington, dismissing this. 'So you're a socialist and you're against socialists. Am I right or wrong?'

  'Kerensky's Duma is socialist in name only,' said Makhno in deep, Slavic tones. 'In name only.'

  'Exactly my own point. Not proper socialists. Just Tories under another name, right?'

  'Politicians,' said Makhno laconically.

  'That's where you're wrong, old chap. Just because they're not real socialists doesn't mean that real socialists can't make good politicians.'

  I was already trying to extricate myself from this, but Birchington held on to my arm. 'Hang on a minute, old man. I want you to umpire this one. Now, what do we mean by this word "politics" of ours? See, I'm an engineer by profession, and I like to think a pretty good one, and to me politics is just a matter of getting the engineering right. If you have a machine which functions properly without much attention, then it's obviously a good machine. That's what politics should be about. And if the machine has simple working parts which any layman can understand, then it's, as it were, your democratic machine. Am I right or
am I wrong?'

  'Crazy,' said Makhno, and scratched his nose.

  'What?'

  'You're not right or wrong. You're crazy.'

  This amused me and Makhno could tell, but Birchington was baffled.

  'Sane, I'd say,' he said. 'Very sane indeed. Like a good machine. That's sane, isn't it? What's more sane than a properly functioning steam turbine, for instance?'

  'Rationalist nonsense,' pronounced Makhno, and rolled the 'r' in that ironic way only Slavs have.

  'And what about your own romantic twaddle?' Birching­ton wanted to know. 'Blow everything up and start again, eh?'

  'No worse a solution than yours. But this is not what I argued.'

  'It's what it comes down to, old chap, that's your anarchism for you. Boom!' And he laughed as one who had never known humor.

  Although I felt sorry for Makhno (while having little sympathy with his politics) I had had quite enough of this. With a murmur of vague apology I began to move away, to where some of my acquaintances were standing, smoking their pipes and talking airship talk, which at that moment was preferable to anything Birchington had to offer.

  Birchington stopped me. 'Hang on just a sec, old man. What I want you to tell me is this: without government, who makes the decisions?'

  'The individual,' said Makhno.

  I shrugged. 'Given the hypothesis as it's put,' I said, 'our 'Ukrainian friend is absolutely right. Who else could make a decision?'

  'Just for himself?'

  ''By consensus,' said Makhno.

  'Ha!' Birchington was triumphant. 'Ha! And what's that, but democratic socialism. Which is exactly what I believe in.'

  'I thought you believed in machines.’ couldn't resist this jab.

  Birchington missed my small irony as he had missed all Makhno's. 'A democratic - socialist - machine.' He said, as if to a child.

  'That is not anarchism,' said Makhno stubbornly. But he was not trying to convince Birchington. If anything, he was trying to drive him away.

  'I can see some of my pals want a word,' I said to Birching­ton. I winked at Makhno and made off. But Birchington pursued me. 'You're an airshipman by all accounts, as are these fellows. Don't you believe in using the best machinery, the engines least likely to let you down, the control systems which will work as simply as possible . . .?'

  'Airships aren't countries,' I said. Unfortunately an unsuspecting second officer from the destroyed Duchess of Salford heard me without noticing Birchington.

  'They can be,' he said. 'Like small countries. I mean, everyone has to learn to get on together . . .'

  I left him to Birchington. When he realized what he had let himself in for a look of patent dismay crossed his young face. I waved at him behind Birchington's back and sauntered off.

  It was to be one of my easier escapes from the Bore of Rishiri. The fact that I was a prisoner and beginning, like many others, to fret a great deal was bad enough. It was Purgatory. But Birchington was making it Hell. I am still surprised that nobody murdered him. He became impossible to avoid.

  At first we tried joshing him to get rid of him and then laughing at him, then downright rudeness, but it was useless to try to insult him or alter him in his course. We would sometimes offend him, but he would either laugh it offer, if hurt, return in a few minutes. And I had everyone's sympathy because he continued, no matter what I said or did, to claim me as his closest friend.

  I think that must be why, when Greaves approached me with his half-baked escape plan, I agreed to join in against all common sense. He and his fellow Rugger enthusiasts meant to go under the wire at night and try to capture one of the two Japanese motor-torpedo-boats which had recently anchored in Rishiri's tiny harbor. From there Greaves and Co. intended to try for the Russian mainland, which had not fallen to the Japs.

  There had been a number of attempted escapes, of course, but all of them had been unsuccessful. Our guards were vigilant; there were two small scouting airships keeping the tiny island under surveillance, there were searchlights, dogs, and the whole paraphernalia of a prison. Moreover the island was used as a fuelling station for raids against Russia (which is why we were there - to stop the base from being bombed) so it usually had several large airships at mast near the harbor.

  It was true, as Greaves argued, that no military aerial vessels were in evidence at that moment, but I was not sure that, as he put it, this was 'the best chance of getting clear we'll ever have'.

  I did believe that there was a small chance of escape as well as a fair chance of being killed or wounded. But I argued to myself that even if I were wounded I should spend time in the hospital away from Birchington.

  'Very well, Greaves,' I said. 'You can count me in.'

  'Good man.' He patted my shoulder.

  That night we assembled in twos and threes at Olmeijer's shop. The Dutchman was not in evidence. He would have been too portly to squeeze himself into the tunnel.

  Greaves and his Rugger chums had been digging. It was usual to meet in the hut in the evening, to play table tennis or the variety of board games supplied by the Red Cross. We had only occasional trouble from the guards, who were inclined to look in on us at random. Because they did not check our numbers, we stood a fair chance of all getting down the tunnel before they suspected anything. A few of the airshipmen had elected to stay behind to cover us.

  Greaves was to go first and I was to go last. One by one the men disappeared into the earth. And it was as I was about to follow them that I realized Fate was almost certainly singling me out for unusual punishment. Birchington walked through the door of the hut.

  I was halfway down. I think I remember smiling at him weakly.

  'My lord, old man! What are you up to?' He asked. Then he brightened. 'An escape, eh? Good show. A secret is it? Shan't breath a word. I take it anyone can join in.'

  'Urn,' I said. 'Actually Greaves . . .' 'my pal Greaves, eh? His idea. Jolly good. That's all right with me, old man. I trust Greaves implicitly. And he'd want me along.'

  One of the airshipmen near the window hissed that a couple of guards were on their way.

  I ducked into the tunnel and began to wriggle along it. There was no time to argue with Birchington. I heard his voice behind me:

  'Make way for a little 'un.'

  I knew that he had joined me in the tunnel before the light vanished as the airshipmen above replaced the floorboards.

  I seemed to crawl for eternity, with Birchington muttering and apologizing, constantly bumping into my feet, criti­cizing what he called the 'poor engineering job of the tunnel. He wondered why they hadn't thought of asking him for his expert help.

  We emerged into sweet-smelling darkness. Behind us were the wire and the lights of the camp. We were close to the earth road, which wound down to the harbor. Greaves and the merchant seamen were whispering and gesticulating in the darkness, just as if they were still choosing sides for a game.

  Birchington said in a voice which seemed unnaturally loud, even for him: 'what's the problem? Need a volunteer?'

  Greaves came up to me urgently. 'Good God, man. Why did you tell him?'

  'I didn't. He found out just as the guards were on their way.'

  'I thought you could do with an extra chap,' said Birchington. 'So I volunteered. Don't forget I'm an expert engineer.'

  I heard someone curse and murmur: 'Shoot the blighter.' Birchington, of course, was oblivious.

  Greaves sighed. 'We'd better start getting down to the harbor. If we're separated—'

  He was interrupted by the unmistakable sounds of airship engines high overhead. 'Damn! That complicates things.'

  The sound of the engines grew louder and louder and it was evident that the ships were coming in lower. We began to duck and weave through the shrubs and trees at the side of the road, heading for the harbor.

  Then, suddenly, there was light behind us, and gunfire, the steady pounding of artillery. A dying scream as a bomb descended some distance from the camp. Up the road came severa
l trucks full of soldiers, as well as a couple of armored cars and some motor-bicycles. The firing continued until I realized that the ships were attacking. Something whizzed past me, just above my head. It felt like a one-man glider. These ingenious devices were far more manageable than parachutes in landing troops. It seemed there was a raid on and we had become caught in the middle of it.

  Greaves and his lads decided not to vary from their plan. 'We'll use the confusion,' he said.

  Birchington called: 'I say, steady on. Perhaps we should wait and see what—'

  'No time!' shouted Greaves. 'We don't know what this is all about. Let's get to that boat.'

  'But suppose—'

  'Shut up, Birchington,' I said. I was prepared to follow Greaves' lead. I felt I had little choice now.

  'Wait!' cried the engineer. 'Let's just stop and think for a minute. If we keep our heads—'

  'You're about to lose yours to a samurai sword,' called Greaves. 'Now for God's sake shut up, Birchington. Either stay where you are or come with us quietly.'

  'Quietly? I wonder what you mean to say when you say—'

  His droning voice was a greater source of fear than any bombs or bullets. We all put on an excellent burst of speed. By now machine-guns were going, both from the ground and from the rear. I have never prayed before for another human being's death, but I prayed that night that somebody would take Birchington directly between the eyes and save us.