The Steel Tsar

by Michael Moorcock

What good is Revolution when it fails?'

  Makhno rose from the table. 'It is proving impossible to enjoy my food,' he said. He bowed to the rest of us and apologized. 'I'll return to my ship.'

  There was a light of triumph in the Steel Tsar's eyes, as if he had deliberately engineered Makhno's departure, goad­ing him until he had no choice but to leave.

  Makhno looked enquiringly at Dempsey, who shook his head slightly and reached for his vodka.

  The anarchist left the room. Djugashvili seemed to be smiling behind his mask.

  Dempsey was frowning slightly to himself as Makhno went out. Birchington began to babble about 'rational socialism' or some such thing and for once he broke a sense of tension, which nonetheless remained in the air.

  A few moments later there came the sound of several pistol shots from outside. There were footfalls on the stairs, and then Makhno reappeared. His left arm was wounded. In his right hand was his revolver. He waved it at Djugashvili, but he was not threatening.

  'Assassination, eh? You'll find at least two of your men shot. I know your methods, Djugashvili.' He paused, reholstering his empty pistol. 'The black ships leave their moorings tonight.'

  Then he was gone.

  Djugashvili had half-risen from his place, the light from the oil lamps making it seem that his metal mask constantly changed expression. The cold eyes were full of unpleasant passion. 'We don't need him. He was attacking our cause from within. We have science on our side now. Tomorrow I intend to display Birchington's first invention to our men.'

  Birchington seemed taken by surprise. 'Well, Chief, I think you might find it's not quite—'

  'It will be ready in the morning,' said 'the Chief.

  Dempsey had taken an interest in this aspect of the conversation, though he had hardly moved when Makhno had reappeared and made his declaration. Una Persson merely looked thoughtfully from face to face.

  Djugashvili walked towards the door and called down the stairs. 'Bring the professor up.'

  Mrs. Persson and Dempsey both appeared to know what was going on, but I was completely at sea.

  Djugashvili waited by the door until a small man with graying hair and round spectacles arrived. He seemed almost as unhealthy as Dempsey. There seemed to be something wrong with his skin and his eyes were watering terribly, so that he dabbed at them constantly with a red handkerchief.

  'Professor Marek. You already know Captain Dempsey. You have met Mr. Birchington. Una Persson? Captain Bastable?'

  The professor blinked in our general direction and waved his handkerchief by way of greeting.

  'Your bombs are ready, eh? And Birchington's invention is prepared.' Djugashvili was swaggering back to his place. 'Sit down, professor. Have some vodka. It's very good; Polish.'

  Professor Marek rubbed at his cheek with the handker­chief. It appeared to me that some of his skin flaked away.

  'What sort of bombs are these?' I asked the professor, more from politeness than anything.

  'The same as I dropped on Hiroshima,' said Dempsey with sudden vehemence. 'Aren't they Professor Marek?'

  'The bombs, which are supposed to have started the War?' I said in surprise.

  'One bomb.' Dempsey lifted a finger. Mrs. Persson put a gentle hand on his arm. 'One bomb. Wasn't it, Mrs. Persson?'

  'You shouldn't—'

  'That was experimental,' said Professor Marek. 'We could not have predicted—'

  Suddenly I was filled with that same frisson, that same terrifying resonance I had already experienced, to a slighter degree, in Dempsey's company. I felt that I stared into a distorting mirror, which reflected my own guilt.

  In a small voice I asked the professor: 'What sort of bomb was it that you caused to be dropped on Hiroshima?'

  Marek sniffed and dabbed at his eyes. He spoke almost casually. 'A nuclear fission bomb, of course,' he said.

  7.

  A Mechanical Man

  For several hours thereafter, as I sat in stunned silence, we were forced to listen to Djugashvili's boastings and diatribes. He made us drink with him. He poured glass after glass of vodka into that little aperture which revealed his lips and he spoke of conquest. He planned to conquer Russia, the whole of the Slav world; both East and West would eventually succumb 'to the justice of World Revolution'. That revolution appeared to be little more than Djugashvili's attempts to control as much of the globe as possible. Like so many fanatics, he drew a picture of the world which was far different to the one most of us saw, at once simplified and changed into something which reflected his own needs, his own fears. We were probably bored and terrified together -all of us save Birchington, who hung on the Steel Tsar's every word, and Professor Marek, who scarcely understood anything.

  Both Captain Dempsey and Mrs. Persson seemed to be waiting something out, as if they knew all this, as if they had anticipated the evening.

  I kept looking across at Dempsey, who scarcely lifted his eyes from the table but continued steadily to down vodka after vodka.

  'How many bombs are ready, professor?' I heard Djugashvili ask. I gave him more attention.

  'Four,' said Marek. 'All of about the same strength. I have their measure now.'

  'And you are able to produce more?'

  'Of course. With Mr. Birchington's help. The Yekaterinaslav laboratories had everything we needed, as I told you they would.'

  'We were lucky to find the stuff.'

  Una Persson said: 'I thought Yekaterinaslav was retaken.'

  Djugashvili dismissed this. 'So it was. But we got what we wanted. The whole attack was in order to supply Professor Marek with certain materials he needed. At Yekaterinaslav they were working along similar lines to the professor.'

  I felt sick and I felt weary. I wanted to leap from my chair and beg them to stop talking so easily about those hell-bombs. I, of all people, knew what sort of effect they could have. They could destroy entire cities as if they had hardly existed. But, because of a look from Mrs. Persson, I held my peace.

  Dempsey said drunkenly: 'You'd better hurry up and use 'em, Djugashvili, or the Central Government will be here to claim its materials back. There's a huge force on its way, as you know.'

  'Certainly I shall use them soon. It only needs one ship, after all. That's why I could dispense with Makhno so readily. We have a ship. Your ship, Captain Bastable.'

  'The Vassarion Belinsky?'

  'That's her name, yes.'

  'Captain Leonov is still aboard.'

  'He was aboard. Since he refused to leave, we were forced to dispose of him. He has been liquidated.'

  'You killed him?'

  Djugashvili shrugged. 'If you like.'

  Again it was all but impossible for me not to display my feelings, but I knew it was important to Mrs. Persson that I seemed to be in agreement with the Steel Tsar, so I held my tongue.

  'You will command the Belinsky,' Djugashvili told me. 'You have been promoted to commander, Congratulations.'

  I ignored this. Before I could speak, Dempsey was on his feet, leaning heavily upon the table. 'I demand that privilege,' he said. 'I am the more experienced airshipman. After all, I dropped the first bomb!' He spoke urgently. 'Bastable can help me.'

  'You've developed a taste for mass-murder?' I asked in a quiet voice.

  'Oh, yes.' He seemed completely mad at that moment and his eyes were merry with a demon's light. 'Oh, yes, Bastable. Quite a taste for it. Quite a taste.'

  Djugashvili said: 'we must demonstrate our power to the Central Government. The first bomb will be dropped on Makhno's camp.'

  'What a splendid idea,' said Mrs. Persson.

  It was much later when Djugashvili decided to go to bed, having ordered us to be at headquarters the next morning. We watched him lumber from the room, all unchecked ego and ruthless power.

  Dempsey had collapsed over the table. Birchington and Professor Marek were still deep in conversation about some technical point or other. Mrs. Persson asked me to give her a hand getting Dempsey back to the ho
use we were to share. He was very drunk and mumbling to himself. When I took him under the shoulders I was surprised at how light he was. He laughed at some bitter joke he had made. He was very close to madness. I said as much to Mrs. Persson after we had put Dempsey to bed and sat together drinking coffee in the tiny parlor. It was a pleasant house. I wondered what well-to-do peasants had been killed or evicted in order to provide us with so much comparative luxury.

  'Poor Dempsey is as good as mad,' she agreed. 'His judgment has been destroyed and he has managed to keep himself going on a mixture of guilt and cynicism. It's a familiar enough combination. I think he feels he must pay some kind of price for what he did. What do you think?'

  'Think?' I was very tired. 'I'm pretty much beyond rational thought myself! I'm beginning to suspect you of engineering this whole affair - especially the meeting with Dempsey. How is it possible? He carries the identical burden to the one I carry. Under what circumstances could he have dropped a nuclear fission bomb on Hiroshima?'

  'Similar circumstances to your own. He's a socialist. He became idealistically involved with Chinese nationalists trying to get foreigners out of their country. At that time Professor Marek was also working for the Chinese socialists. They were the only people desperate enough to believe that he could develop such a bomb. Other countries are working on the idea, of course, including the refining of uranium.

  That's what was going on at Yekaterinaslav. Like you, they had no idea of the power of the crude bomb they made. They intended only to drop it on the airship yards—'

  This is too much!' I held my head in my hands. 'It is madness! It isn't possible!'

  'They dropped it and destroyed the entire city. Dempsey's vessel was his own, with a London registration. It was all the Japanese needed. If there had not been a delay in the detonation, of course, nothing of the ship would have survived. As it was they found the wreckage. Dempsey had been picked up before that. Most of the crew was dead. But the Japanese took a couple of prisoners. It was their excuse. Everyone was preparing for War, anyway. The Japanese decided that the British Government had committed an act of War . . .'

  'And so struck first. It explains everything, including their ferocity.'

  'Exactly.'

  'Millions of people killed!' I groaned. 'Both Dempsey and I have that on our conscience. No wonder the poor man is the way he is!'

  'You were both catalysts - no more than that. Do you still not realize what you are seeing? No individual can claim so much personal guilt. We are all guilty of supporting the circumstances, the self-deceptions, and the misconceptions, which lead to War. Every lie we tell ourselves makes something like the destruction of Hiroshima all the more likely. More than one man has destroyed Hiroshima in more than one world, over and over again. The circumstances are often different, but the people die just the same, and some men (or women) feel that they carry the whole weight of responsibility. We are all victims, Mr. Bastable, just as, in other ways, we are all aggressors. At root we are victims of the comforting lies we tell ourselves, of our willingness to have leaders, religions, of our wish to shift responsibility onto others, whether it be politicians, Gods or creatures from other planets.'

  'You sound like Makhno,' I said.

  'I have much in common with Nestor Makhno.'

  'You're an anarchist?'

  'I don't believe in governments or religions, if that's what you mean.'

  Somehow Mrs. Persson's revelations had relieved me. I had clarity, when I had up to now been confused. I no longer felt a victim of Fate, though in a sense, of course, I regained one - as much a victim, if not more of one, as Captain Dempsey.

  'We should get some sleep,' said Mrs. Persson. 'We have to, witness Birchington's display tomorrow.'

  'Why are you going along with all this?' I asked her.

  She put a finger to her lips. 'Trust me,' she said.

  'I do.' I was smiling. 'But I want no more innocent blood on my hands.'

  She finished her coffee. 'Captain Bastable, if all goes well, we should have completed our task here by tomorrow, then you and I shall leave.'

  'Leave? Where?'

  'To a base. You are being invited to join the League of Temporal Adventurers.'

  'Mrs. Persson, I am trying to get home. Back to my own time, my own world.'

  'Captain Bastable, you must reconcile yourself to the fact that you will never know that particular form of security again. Once you have experienced what you have experienced, your own time will simply not allow you to remain. But be assured that the League offers some sort of substitute. You will be somewhat more in control of your own fate than hitherto.'

  'That would also mean a great deal to me,' I said.

  'In the meanwhile,' she told me, 'please continue to follow my lead. This is a very complicated business indeed, Captain Bastable. A circle must be completed. A job must be done.'

  In the morning we assembled outside the school, in a large quadrangle at the back. Cossacks were coming and going everywhere. The entire camp was busy with the noise of horses and soldiers, guns and armored vehicles. In the distance, an armored train went by, loaded with men and armaments. Everyone knew that Yekaterinaslav had been recaptured, that the Japanese were suing for peace and that Central Government troops were on their way to the Cossack headquarters.

  Djugashvili reassured his atamans. 'This attack will be easily resisted. And very shortly now Moscow will be at our mercy.'

  One ataman, splendid in black and silver, tugged at his huge, gray beard and grumbled. 'The airships will destroy us. They are cowards. We can't get at them. Cossack courage is useless against them.'

  'We shall use our own science - a far better science - to deal with the threat of airships,' Djugashvili reassured him. The steel mask glinted as he raised his eyes towards the sun. 'You will see. Within a week we shall be riding through the streets of Petersburg. If Petersburg still exists.'

  The ataman became nervous. 'By God, hetman, I hope you use no Devil's magic. I am a good Christian . . .'

  'We fight for God and Socialism,' said Djugashvili, changing his tack. 'And for the Freedom of the Cossack Host. God had put an instrument into our hands which will ensure that freedom for all time and which will enable us, as socialists, to do His work.'

  Again I was forced to make sure that my incredulity did not appear on my features. I had to avoid Mrs. Persson's sardonic eye.

  'For God and Socialism,' she said, 'we will destroy all who stand against us.'

  The Cossack was mollified and went back to get his pony. He rode away to join his men.

  Mrs. Persson murmured to me in English: 'it is in the nature of any good despot that he will say to those he needs anything they wish to hear. Only when he does not need them does he say what he really thinks. And sometimes, even then, he doesn't bother. The secret of becoming a great tyrant lies in an early ability to be all things to all men.'

  'You sound as if you'd trained him yourself,' I said.

  She made no reply to this.

  Djugashvili had heard her speaking and turned his intense stare on her. 'Where is Dempsey?' he asked. 'Is he fit to take command of the ship?'

  'Of course.'

  I had seen Dempsey that morning. I was pretty certain that he was sustaining himself on drugs. He had, however, been absolutely determined to captain the Vassarion Belinsky. He had asked us to go ahead of him, saying he would join us shortly.

  Djugashvili turned his back on us, rubbing at his steel helmet as if it were a real face. I wondered if he had slept in it. 'He had better be in control of himself,' he said threaten­ingly. 'Ah, Mr. Birchington.'

  Birchington had appeared, walking ahead of several Cossacks who were carrying something on their shoulders. It was wrapped in a mixture of canvas and sacking and was about twice as long as a tall man.

  Birchington seemed ill at ease. 'Good morning, Chief. I hope—'

  'So do I, Mr. Birchington. Is it ready?'

  'Oh, there are no major problems—'
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br />   'Good. This will do our morale a lot of good. Have you heard the news? Enemy scouts have already been sighted in the air to the South and West.'

  'But—'

  'Believe me, Mr. Birchington. I know what impresses Cossacks.'

  Birchington ordered the men to lower the thing to the ground. They planted it upright. It looked like a huge corpse, swathed in unsanitary winding clothes.

  'Let Captain Bastable and Mrs. Persson see it. I can tell they're curious.' Djugashvili's joviality was sinister.

  Birchington began to tug at the canvas and sacking. The thing was made of metal, which was obvious. As he stripped away the coverings we saw that it was a gigantic figure of a man in Cossack costume, cast in steel.

  'There is a Steel Tsar to strike terror into the hearts of our enemies!' cried Djugashvili. 'What do you think?'

  Neither Mrs. Persson nor I spoke.

  The face was the identical face to the one on Djugashvili's own mask. Birchington had produced a model of the Cossack hetman more than double life-size. The whole scene seemed increasingly bizarre to me.

  'What do you think?'

  'It's splendid,' said Mrs. Persson.

  I nodded enthusiastically. It was the best I could muster.

  'We'll show him to our troops in a moment,' said Djugashvili. 'He will lead them into battle. And while our Cossacks fight the Central Government, you will fly the ship to Makhno's camp and drop the first bomb.'

  Birchington seemed unusually silent and not nearly as full of himself as usual. He ordered the men to pick up the metal statue and carry it towards the main Cossack camp.

  Djugashvili was elated. 'Come along,' he said to us.

  Dempsey arrived. He had had a shave and was wearing an airshipman's uniform. The clothes seemed far too big for him. He was haggard, but he walked steadily and seemed to have lost the attitude of despair I had begun to identify with him. He even winked at me. 'Morning, Bastable. Ready for going aloft?'

  'We're all ready,' said Mrs. Persson.

  Professor Marek now joined the party, as we walked along behind 'the Chief. Marek was shaking his head. 'Too soon,' he mumbled. 'Far too soon.'

  None of us had any idea what he meant. He seemed half-mad and still very ill. We ignored him.