The Steel Tsar

by Michael Moorcock

  All were festooned with weapons, with bandoliers, with daggers and swords; all rode wonderfully. They were plainly rogues but were not by any means mere bandits.

  Soon our keel was bumping along the ground as the ship was tied to wooden stakes set for that purpose into the ground on the outskirts of a small, one-street town, which seemed to have been taken over piecemeal by the rebels. We stood there looking out at the Cossacks while they grinned and gesticulated at us. They did not seem to be threatening our lives. They were overjoyed with the capture of a Central Government ship and seemed to bear us very little malice. I mentioned this to Pilniak.

  'I agree,' he said. 'It's true they don't hate us. But that's the last thing which will stop a Cossack from killing you, if he so feels like it.'

  I realized that we were in somewhat greater danger than I had originally thought. The Cossacks did not accept the usual conventions concerning a captured enemy and it was questionable now whether or not we should experience the next day's dawn.

  Captain Leonov remained in his cabin. As we stared out at our captors the tension in the gondola began to grow. Overhead we could hear men climbing over our hull, laughing and exchanging jokes with the Cossacks on the ground.

  Eventually Pilniak looked at me and the other officers and he said: 'Let's get this over with, shall we?'

  We all agreed.

  Pilniak gave the order to lower our gangways and, as the side of the gondola opened out, we marched in good order down the steps towards the Cossacks.

  We had expected everything but the cheer, which went up. The Cossacks are the first to acknowledge nerve when it is displayed as we displayed it. Perhaps Pilniak had known this.

  Only Captain Leonov refused to leave the ship and we accepted his decision.

  Pilniak and I were in the forefront. As we left the gangway he approached the nearest Cossack and saluted. 'Lieutenant L.I. Pilniak of the Volunteer Air fleet.'

  The Cossack said something in a dialect, which defeated my imperfect Russian. He pushed his military cap back on his forehead, by way of returning the salute. Then he made his horse walk backwards, in order to clear a space for us, waving us on towards the village.

  Still rather nervous of what the Cossacks might decide, on a whim, to do, we began to walk in double-file towards the rebel headquarters. Pilniak was smiling as he spoke and I returned the smile. 'Chin up, old man! Is this what the British call "showing the flag"?'

  'I'm not quite sure,' I said. 'It's been a long while since I had occasion to do it.'

  The Cossacks, some mounted, some on foot, were crowding in on us. They were pretty filthy and many of them were evidently drunk. I've never smelled so much vodka. Some of them appeared to have dowsed themselves in the stuff. They offered us catcalls and insults as we walked ' between their lines and we were almost at the first buildings of the village when the press became so tight that we could no longer move.

  It was then that one of our riggers, near the rear, must have struck out at a Cossack and a fight between the two began. Our carefully maintained front threatened to crack.

  I think we probably would have been torn to pieces if, from our right, a horse-drawn machine-gun cart had not suddenly parted the ranks. One man drove the little cart while another discharged a revolver into the air, shouting to the Cossacks to desist.

  The man with the revolver was Nestor Makhno.

  'Back, lads,' he cried to his men. 'We've no grudge against those who misguidedly serve the State, only against the State itself.'

  He smiled down at me. 'Good morning, Captain Bastable. So you decided to join us, eh?'

  I made no reply to this. 'We are heading for your camp,' I said. 'We accept that we are your prisoners.'

  'Where's the commander?'

  'In his cabin.'

  'Sulking, no doubt.' Makhno shouted something in dialect to the Cossacks and once more the ranks fell back, enabling us to continue on through the street until Makhno's cart stopped in front of a large school-house which flew the rebel flag: a yellow cross on a red field. He invited Pilniak and myself to join him and told the rest of our chaps that they could get food and rest at a nearby church.

  We were reluctant to part from the crew and fellow officers, but we had little choice.

  Makhno jumped from the cart and, limping slightly, escorted us into the schoolhouse. Here, in the main classroom, several Cossack chiefs awaited us. They were dressed far more extravagantly than their men, in elaborate­ly embroidered shirts and kaftans, with a great deal of silver and gold about their persons and decorating their weapons.

  The strangest sight, however, was the man who sat at the top of the classroom, where the teacher would normally be. He lounged forward on the desk, his face completely covered by a helmet, which had been forged to represent a fierce, mustachioed human face. Only the eyes were alive and these seemed to me to be both mad and malevolent. The man was not tall, but he was bulky, wearing a simple, gray moujik shirt, gray baggy trousers tucked into black boots. He had no weapons, no insignia on his costume, and one of his arms seemed thinner than the other. I knew that we must be confronting the Steel Tsar himself; the rebel leader Djugashvili.

  The voice was muffled and metallic from within the helm. The English renegade, Bastable. We've heard of you.' The tones were coarse, aggressive. The man seemed to me to be both insane and drunk.

  'Is it good sport, then? Killing honest Cossacks?'

  'I am an officer in the Volunteer Air Service,' I told him.

  The metal mask lifted to offer me a direct stare. 'What are you, then? Some sort of mercenary?'

  I refused to explain my position.

  He leaned back in his chair, heavy with his own sense of power. 'You joined to fight the Japs, is that it?'

  'More or less,' I said.

  'Well you'll be pleased to learn that the Japs are almost beaten.'

  'I am pleased. I'd be glad to see an end to the War. To all wars.'

  'You're a pacifist!' Djugashvili began to laugh from within the helm. It was a hideous sound. 'For a pacifist, my friend, you've a lot of blood on your hands. Two thousand of my lads died at Yekaterinaslav. But we took the city. And destroyed the air fleet you sent against us. What d'you say to that?'

  'If the war with Japan is almost over,' I said, 'then your triumph will be short-lived. You must know that.'

  'I know nothing of the sort.' He signaled to one of his men, who went to a side-door, opened it and called through. Moments later I saw Harry Birchington emerge. The Bore of Rishiri Camp back again as large as life.

  'Hello, Bastable, old man,' he said. 'I knew there must be some decent socialists in Russia. And I've found the best.'

  'You're working with these people?'

  'Certainly. Very glad to put my talents at their disposal.'

  The familiar self-congratulatory drone was already beginning to grate, after seconds.

  'Mr. Birchington keeps our airships running,' said the Steel Tsar. 'And he's been very helpful in other areas.'

  'Nice of you to say so, sir.' Birchington gave a peculiar twisted smile, half pride, and half embarrassment.

  'Good morning, Mr. Bastable.' I recognized the warm, ironic voice immediately. I looked towards the door to see Mrs. Una Persson standing there. She had crossed bandoliers of bullets over her black military coat, a Smith and Wesson revolver on her hip, a fur hat pulled to one side of her face. She was as beautiful as ever, with her oval face and clear, gray eyes.

  I bowed. 'Mrs. Persson.'

  I had not seen her for some time, since together we had inhabited the world of the Black Attila.

  Her eyes held that look of special recognition which one traveler between the planes reserves for another.

  'You've come to join our army, I take it,' she said significantly.

  I trusted her completely and took her hint at once. Much to Pilniak's astonishment, I nodded. 'My intention all along,' I said.

  Djugashvili seemed unsurprised. 'We have many well-wishers abroa
d. People who know how much we have suffered under Kerensky. But what of your companion?'

  Pilniak drew himself up and brought his heels together with a click. 'I should like to join my fellow prisoners,' he said.

  The Steel Tsar shrugged. The metal glinted and seemed to be reflected in his eyes. 'Very well.' He signed to one of his men. 'Dispose of him with—'

  Makhno suddenly interposed. 'Dispose? What are you suggesting, comrade?'

  Djugashvili waved his hand. 'We have too many mouths to feed as it is, comrade. If we let these survive—'

  'They are prisoners of war, captured fairly. Send them back to Kharkov. All I wanted was their ship. Let them go!'

  Pilniak looked from one to the other. He had never expected to be the subject of a moral argument between two bandits.

  'I am responsible for all decisions,' said Djugashvili. 'I will choose whether—'

  'I captured them.' Makhno was cold and angry. His voice dropped, but as the tone lowered it carried increased authority. 'And I will not agree to their murder!'

  'It is not murder. We are sweeping up the rubbish of History.'

  'You are planning to kill honest men.'

  'They attack Socialism.'

  'We must live by example and offer example to others,' said Makhno. 'It is the only way.'

  'You are a fool!' Djugashvili rose and brought his sound hand down on the desk. 'Why feed them? Why send them back so they can fight against us again?'

  'Some will fight against us - but others will understand the nature of our cause and tell their comrades.'

  Makhno folded his arms across his chest. 'It is always so. If we are brutal, then it gives them a further excuse for brutality. By God, Djugashvili, these are simple enough arguments. What do you want? Blood-sacrifices? How can you claim to represent enlightenment and liberty? You have already been responsible for the slaughter of Jews, the destruction of peasant villages, the torturing of innocent farmers. I agreed to bring my ships to you because you promised that these things were accidental, that they had stopped. They have not stopped. You are proving to me as you stand there that they will never stop.

  You are a fraud, an authoritarian hypocrite!'

  The voice within the helm grew louder and louder as Makhno's became quieter.

  'I'll have you shot, Makhno. Your anarchist notions are a mere fantasy. People are cruel, greedy, ruthless. They must be educated to holiness. And they must be punished if they fail!' He was breathing heavily. 'It is what all Russians understand! It is what Cossacks understand.'

  'You have no claim as a Cossack,' said Makhno with a faint sneer. 'I withdraw my help. I shall inform the people I represent and ask them if they wish to withdraw also.' He began to turn away.

  The Steel Tsar became placatory. 'Nonsense, Makhno. We share the same cause. Send the prisoners to Kharkov if you wish. What do you think, Mrs. Persson?'

  Una Persson said: 'I think it would show the Central Government that the Cossacks have mercy, that they are not bandits, that their grievances are justified. It would be a good thing to do.'

  She seemed to have considerable influence over him, for he nodded and agreed with her.

  Makhno did not seem completely satisfied, but he was evidently thinking of the safety of Pilniak and the rest. He drew a deep breath and inclined his head. 'I shall assume charge of the prisoners,' he said.

  As he left with Makhno, Pilniak called back over his shoulder: 'I wish you luck with your new masters, Bastable.'

  I only knew that my loyalty was to Mrs. Persson and that I had faith in her judgment.

  When Makhno had disappeared, Djugashvili began to laugh. 'What a silly, childish business. Was it worth an argument over the lives of a few goat-beards?'

  Mrs. Persson and I exchanged glances. In the meanwhile Harry Birchington echoed the Steel Tsar's laughter. Neither seemed possessed of what I should have called a natural sense of humor.

  'Is it true the Japanese are almost beaten?' I asked Mrs. Persson.

  'Certainly,' she said. 'A matter of days. They have already begun to talk armistice terms.'

  'Then these people are doomed,' I said. 'There is no way that the Cossacks can resist the whole might of the Russian Aerial Navy.'

  Birchington had heard me. 'That's where you're wrong old man,' he said. 'That's where you're very wrong indeed!'

  I thought I heard Mrs. Persson sigh.

  6.

  Secret Weapons

  Later, when the Cossack chieftains had returned to their men, the Steel Tsar stretched and suggested that we all dine in the rooms upstairs. I had not had a chance to speak privately to Mrs. Persson and, indeed, had been cornered by Birchington who had told me how he had been picked up during the raid on Rishiri and 'dumped' (as he put it) in Kharkov because he had 'made the mistake' of telling people he was an engineer and they had needed engineers in the railway works at Kharkov. He had left the city soon afterwards and had been on a train, which had been captured by rebels. The rebels had brought him to Djugashvili and the revolutionist had taken a liking to him.

  'He's got real imagination, old man. Unlike the imbeciles in London and Shanghai, who wouldn't give me a chance. All I needed was a bit of faith and some financial support. You wouldn't believe the inventions I've got in my brain, old man. Big ideas! Important ideas! Ideas, old man, which will shake the world!'

  I found myself nodding, almost asleep.

  'The Steel Tsar, old man, is giving me an enormous opportunity to build stuff for him which will help him win the revolution. And then we'll have real socialism. Every­thing properly managed, like a well-oiled machine. Every­one will be a happy dog. You'll see. And all it will take is Birchington. I'm the key factor, old man. I'm going to be remembered in History. The Chief says so.'

  'The Chief?'

  He indicated Djugashvili.

  We followed the Steel Tsar upstairs. He had Mrs. Persson on his arm and was walking rather heavily, as if drunk. He turned back to me. 'I had not realized you were friends. You will be able to help Birchington in his work, I hope.'

  'Certainly he will,' said Mrs. Persson, 'won't you, Mr. Bastable?'

  'Of course.' I tried to sound as enthusiastic as possible, but the prospect of even another five minutes in Birchington's company was more, at that moment, than I could contemplate.

  The room above was fairly bare, but a long table had been laid with wholesome Ukrainian food, including a bowl of red borscht on every place. Djugashvili seated himself at the top of the table, with Mrs. Persson on his right and Birchington on his left. I sat next to Mrs. Persson. A few moments later Nestor Makhno stepped into the room. It was obvious that he was a reluctant guest. He had another man with him whom I recognized. I began to wonder if Mrs. Persson had not arranged all of this.

  The other man was Dempsey, whom I had thought killed on his way to a Japanese prison. He was pale and thin and seemed ill. Possibly the drugs had begun to poison his system. When he saw me he gave a crooked smile and came forward, lurching a trifle, though he was not obviously drunk. 'Hello, Bastable. Very good to see you. Come along for the final battle, eh?'

  'What?'

  'Armageddon, Bastable. Haven't they told you?'

  The Steel Tsar began to laugh that strange laugh of his. 'Nonsense. You exaggerate, Captain Dempsey. Professor Marek assures us that everything is much safer now. After all, you took part in an experiment.'

  Dempsey sat down and began to stare at his borscht. He made no attempt at all to eat it. Nestor Makhno seated himself across from me. He seemed puzzled by me, perhaps surprised by the alacrity with which I had joined 'the other side'.

  'It's a prisoners' reunion, eh?' he said. 'Did you know, Comrade Djugashvili, that four of the people at this table have been prisoners of the Japanese?'

  'So I gather.' The Steel Tsar was opening a small plate in his helmet, to expose a mouth pitted with pockmarks.

  Now I was prepared to believe the rumor that it was vanity, which caused him to wear the ferocious mask. He
began to feed himself with small, careful movements.

  He looked at Makhno. 'Did you deliver the prisoners to Kharkov?'

  'Not personally. They are on their way.'

  'In padded railway carriages lined with silk, no doubt.'

  'They were sent in a cattle-train we requisitioned.' Makhno knew the Steel Tsar was baiting him. He stroked his neat moustache and kept his eyes on his plate.

  'For so cunning a tactician, you are lily-livered as a warrior,' continued Djugashvili. 'It would seem to me, comrade, that there is even a chance you are weakening our endeavors.'

  'We are fighting against the Central Government,' said Makhno obstinately. 'We are not fighting "for" you, comrade. I made that plain when we brought in our ships.'

  'You brought your ships because you know you are not strong enough to fight alone. Your ridiculous notions of "honor" are inappropriate at 'this time.'

  'Our notions are never inappropriate,' said Makhno. 'We simply refuse to rationalize murder. If we have to kill, we kill, in self-defense. And we continue to name it for what it is. We don't dress it up with fancy pseudo-scientific words.'

  'The people like those words. It makes them feel secure,' said Mrs. Persson sardonically, as if to an intimate friend.

  I wondered if she knew Makhno. It was even possible that he was a colleague. There was something out of the ordinary about the anarchist. Although the logic of his politics was beyond me, I was impressed by his recognition of funda­mental principles, which so many idealists seem to forget as soon as their ideals are rationalized in the language of political creeds. He carried within him a sort of self-control which did not deny passion and which, I thought, was almost wholly conscious, in contrast to Djugashvili, who relied on doctrine and masks for his authority.

  Djugashvili continued to dig at Makhno.

  'Your kind of individualism is an arrogant crime against society,' he said. 'But worse than that - it never succeeds.