The Golden Age of Science Fiction Novels Vol 05

by Anthology

The second event was the despatch of the ultimatum of the Aerial Navigation Syndicate to the Tsar of Russia and the President of the French Republic at noon on the day on which the whole fleet was pronounced fit for service. The two copies were delivered simultaneously in Paris and St. Petersburg by air-ships flying flags of truce.

  The allotted forty-eight hours passed, and no answer came back. As the forty-eighth struck, the two fleets of twenty-four vessels each, headed as before by the War-Hawk and Volante, rose into the air from Hyde Park, and winged their way, at a hundred miles an hour, the former to St. Petersburg and the latter to Paris. Before the last extremities were resorted to, a second message was delivered to each city, repeating the terms of the former, with the additional intimation that the indemnity would be increased a hundred millions for every day of delay, and that the bombardment would begin within an hour.

  But before a quarter of the hour was up, both cities were in a state of utter panic and disorder. The terrible experiences, still fresh in the popular mind, of what the anarchists had done under similar circumstances, made the mere sight of the air-ships, circling slowly in small divisions over the cities, with their guns pointing downwards, ahead and astern, and the muzzles of the Maxims peeping from the port holes in their broadsides, sufficient to drive the inhabitants into a frenzy of fear which made it impossible for the authorities to control them.

  Vast throngs half mad with fear filled the streets and squares, besieging the Government buildings, and demanding surrender on any terms, since absolutely certain destruction was the only alternative to it. But the authorities in both St. Petersburg and Paris could do nothing without the consent of the Tsar and the President, and the Tsar was at Posen preparing for an advance on Berlin, while the President was at Strassburg inspecting the now triumphant army of the Rhine, which had driven the Germans out of Alsace and Lorraine.

  Telegrams had been despatched to both on the first appearance of the air-ships, and the reply to the one from Paris was received just as the hour was expiring. Then a war balloon with a white flag flying from the car rose from the garden of the Tuilleries; the Volante sank down to meet it, also flying a white flag, and Adams had a brief interview with the general in command of the city, who had ascended to meet him. The general informed him that the President had communicated with the Tsar, and that both refused to comply with the demand of the Syndicate. It was, therefore, impossible for Paris to make terms for France.

  "Very well," said Adams. "Then I will spare Paris for the present, as it is helpless; but the President shall learn the cost of his refusal in Strassburg, and if he then persists, Paris must prepare for its fate, for we are determined to bring the war to an end at any price."

  Three hours later, the fleet ranged itself in five divisions over the ancient city of Strassburg, which was thronged with troops in the full flush of victory. No warning was given this time, for it had already been telegraphed from Paris. The moment the ships were in position, the work of death began.

  It was short, sharp, and terrible. The streets were swept with incessant storms of Maxim bullets, and shells began bursting in fifty parts of the city at once. The airships flew to and fro far beyond the range of terrestrial weapons, and in an hour the city lay little better than one vast shambles under the hurricane of death and destruction that had swept over it. At the end of an hour a white flag was hauled up the spire of the cathedral, and the firing instantly ceased.

  The Volante descended, and when she rose again, half an hour after, Adams had in his pocket the written consent of the President to an armistice of ten days between France and Britain, during which terms of peace were to be arranged. He then took his fleet back to London, replenished his fuel and ammunition, and the next morning he was far on his way to Posen and St. Petersburg, to form a junction with the other fleets, in case the Tsar had not consented to the terms accepted by his ally.

  At Posen he found the whole Russian force, amounting to more than a million and a half of men, beginning the advance on Berlin under cover of a fleet of a hundred aerostats similar to those which Renault bad destroyed over the Baltic. He took in the situation at a glance, and at once flew the signal to engage.

  It was in vain that the huge, slow-moving aerostats tried first to cope with, and then to escape from, the agile cruisers of the air. One after another they were blown up by the shells, or sent, riddled and crippled, to the earth. When half of them had been destroyed, the second division of the Syndicate's fleet appeared on the scene of action from St. Petersburg, which had been spared as Paris had been, and for the same reasons.

  The combined squadrons made very short work of the remainder, and as the last one vanished in a mist of flame, a message was dropped to the earth, calling upon the Tsar, who had watched the destruction of his aerial fleet in impotent rage, to stop his advance, and accept the same terms that France had accepted. If within half an hour a white flag in token of consent was not upon his headquarters, the forces of the Syndicate would co-operate with the British and German armies before Berlin, and a hundred millions a day would be added to the indemnity until he surrendered. If in despite of this the war was prolonged for more than a week, his headquarters would be destroyed and himself put to death.

  The half-hour passed and no white flag appeared; so, without firing another shot, the two squadrons turned westward in the direction of Berlin, and the same evening formed a junction with the allied British and German forces. Three days later, the final battle of the war was fought. Although the Russians considerably out-numbered the allies, the loss of the aerostats on the one side, and the presence of the air-ships on the other, made the issue a foregone conclusion from the first.

  The Voyageur and two other air-ships had been constantly employed bringing fresh fuel and ammunition from London, and so the fleet was able to go fully equipped into the fight. Before their first assault had lasted half an hour, the Russian commanders found it utterly impossible to keep even their best troops steady under the rain of shells, bombs, and machine-gun bullets that was hurled upon them from the sky. Wherever a bomb or a shell burst, they broke and ran like so many sheep.

  The British and German commanders were kept constantly informed of the position of the Russian forces and the havoc that was being wrought upon them, and when the confusion in the Russian ranks was at its height, the allied armies advanced in perfect order upon their demoralised foes. To a battle fought under such conditions there could be only one end. Five hours' fighting saw the complete collapse of the Russian host. From an army it had become a rabble.

  A retreat was attempted soon after nightfall, but the searchlights of the air-ships flashed clown upon them from the clouds, making their every movement plain to their pursuers, and after a night of indescribable carnage and destruction, the Tsar at last surrendered his sword to the German Emperor and accepted terms of peace.

  By the expiration of the ten days' armistice these terms were finally settled. France gave up the whole of her African possessions and spheres of influence to Britain and Germany, evacuated Madagascar and Siam, and gave guarantees for the payment of three hundred millions of war indemnity. Russia withdrew all her pretensions in Central Asia south of the 40th parallel of north latitude, the crossing of which, on any pretence, by her troops or allies, was to be for ever considered as a declaration of war.

  The Tsar's obstinacy, or his ignorance of the power at the disposal of the Aerial Navigation Syndicate, had increased the Russian indemnity to six hundred millions. Thus eight hundred and fifty millions were practically at the disposal of the directors of the Syndicate, whose original capital had been a million sterling. Two hundred millions each were given to Britain and Germany to cover the expenses of the war, and the remainder was divided equally among the original subscribers to the Syndicate.

  EPILOGUE.

  THE NEW UTOPIA.

  A YEAR after the signature of the final terms of peace, a new state came into existence and took its place among the powers of the world. This w
as the State of Oceana, and its jurisdiction extended over all the islands included within the vast parallelogram enclosed by the 30th parallels of north and south latitude and the 120th and 160th meridian of east and west longitude. A glance at the map will show that this includes nearly all those myriads of lovely islands which gem the bosom of the Central and Southern Pacific, and that is equivalent to understanding that the State of Oceana was beyond all comparison the most beautiful realm on earth.

  Although it was in every sense a sovereign State, free and independent of all control or interference on the part of other empires of the world, it was yet entirely unique among them, in consequence of the fact that it was without government, politics, or laws in the ordinary acceptation of the terms. It was managed simply as a huge business concern, and its managers were the directors of what had lately been known as the Aerial Navigation Syndicate.

  The various islands had been acquired either by treaty or cession under the terms of peace, or else by purchase. The rights of the native inhabitants, which had been sorely infringed both materially and morally under the alleged "Protectorates" of the powers which had exploited them chiefly for their own benefit, were restored.

  Absolute religious, social, and commercial freedom was proclaimed throughout the whole area of Oceana, subject solely to two restrictions. The natives were forbidden to make war on each other under any circumstances, and any trader or other white person, whether a citizen of Oceana or not, convicted of giving or selling alcohol in any shape to them was to be put to death, as experience had clearly proved that to the Kanaka alcohol is poison.

  Subject to this prohibition, the trading ships of all nations were admitted on equal terms to the islands, but no war-ship was to be allowed to cross the invisible lines that formed its frontiers on any pretence whatever. The penalty for an attempt would be destruction, and all the nations of the world were given to understand that the directors of Oceana not only would but could enforce it, for they had at their disposal four aerial fleets numbering a hundred vessels each, and the powers of the earth did not need telling, after what had happened in the war, that this was a force capable of dominating the whole world were the policy of the directors to change from one of peace to one of aggression.

  Such was the outcome attained, as we have seen, through many and strange adventures and vicissitudes, by the little social colony which had first been conceived in the brain of Edward Adams, and discussed and matured by the modest and obscure society which had called itself the Brotherhood of the Better Life.

  Although Oceana possessed neither capital nor seat of government, yet all those who had been chiefly instrumental in achieving its greatness naturally returned to their lovely home in Utopia, there to continue the tranquil and natural existence which had been so rudely interrupted by the involuntary visit of the Calypso three years before. Only one or two changes had been made manifest when the colony once more settled down in its old home, and the nature of two at least of them may be guessed from the few lines that now remain to be written. It was New Year's Day 1901, and the first day of the new century was being celebrated in Utopia as the second anniversary of the foundation of the State of Oceana. Almost exactly such another picnic as had taken place on the fatal first of January two years before was being held on the slopes of Mount Plato, and just before sunset Violet and Dora were standing almost exactly where Dora and the rest had stood at the terrible moment when they saw the airship rising above the crater of Mount Orient. They had both been gazing for a little space in silence at the dark oval of the crater, when Dora said-

  "Whenever I think of all that has passed since then and now, I always think also how little people know who say that the age of miracles is past. Who would have thought then that within two years you would be standing here, well and strong, and the wife of the Lord High Admiral of the Aerial Fleets of Oceana?"

  "Or," said Violet, slipping her arm through Dora's, "that a certain fair socialist would so soon have been transformed into a millionairess, the Lady Bountiful of broad lands in capitalist England, and the wife of a baronet who might be a duke if he liked. I think there is quite as much miracle in that, your ladyship."

  "If you ever use that horrid term of address again," said Dora, disengaging her arm and stepping back a pace, "I'll never rest until I've worried Harry into going to England and using the whole weight and influence of the State of Oceana in persuading the Queen into making your admiral a duke at the very least- and then I'll call you 'Your Grace' every time I meet you. Now come away back to the others, for every moment it grows darker, I seem to see the shape of that awful air-ship growing out of the darkness over yonder."

  "Don't," said Violet, with a shudder, putting her arm round Dora's waist and turning her away.

  And with that they turned their backs on the darkening crater, and went down to the mountain side with the full glow of the tropical sunset shining in their eyes, and lighting up two faces as fair as any that that day's sun had shone upon.

  * * *

  Contents

  PLANET OF THE DAMNED

  By Harry Harrison

  Sweat covered Brion's body, trickling into the tight loincloth that was the only garment he wore. The light fencing foil in his hand felt as heavy as a bar of lead to his exhausted muscles, worn out by a month of continual exercise. These things were of no importance. The cut on his chest, still dripping blood, the ache of his overstrained eyes--even the soaring arena around him with the thousands of spectators--were trivialities not worth thinking about. There was only one thing in his universe: the button-tipped length of shining steel that hovered before him, engaging his own weapon. He felt the quiver and scrape of its life, knew when it moved and moved himself to counteract it. And when he attacked, it was always there to beat him aside.

  A sudden motion. He reacted--but his blade just met air. His instant of panic was followed by a small sharp blow high on his chest.

  "Touch!" A world-shaking voice bellowed the word to a million waiting loudspeakers, and the applause of the audience echoed back in a wave of sound.

  "One minute," a voice said, and the time buzzer sounded.

  Brion had carefully conditioned the reflex in himself. A minute is not a very large measure of time and his body needed every fraction of it. The buzzer's whirr triggered his muscles into complete relaxation. Only his heart and lungs worked on at a strong, measured rate. His eyes closed and he was only distantly aware of his handlers catching him as he fell, carrying him to his bench. While they massaged his limp body and cleansed the wound, all of his attention was turned inward. He was in reverie, sliding along the borders of consciousness. The nagging memory of the previous night loomed up then, and he turned it over and over in his mind, examining it from all sides.

  It was the very unexpectedness of the event that had been so unusual. The contestants in the Twenties needed undisturbed rest, therefore nights in the dormitories were as quiet as death. During the first few days, of course, the rule wasn't observed too closely. The men themselves were too keyed up and excited to rest easily. But as soon as the scores began to mount and eliminations cut into their ranks, there was complete silence after dark. Particularly so on this last night, when only two of the little cubicles were occupied, the thousands of others standing with dark, empty doors.

  Angry words had dragged Brion from a deep and exhausted sleep. The words were whispered but clear--two voices, just outside the thin metal of his door. Someone spoke his name.

  "... Brion Brandd. Of course not. Whoever said you could was making a big mistake and there is going to be trouble--"

  "Don't talk like an idiot!" The other voice snapped with a harsh urgency, clearly used to command. "I'm here because the matter is of utmost importance, and Brandd is the one I must see. Now stand aside!"

  "The Twenties--"

  "I don't give a damn about your games, hearty cheers and physical exercises. This is important, or I wouldn't be here!"

  The other didn't speak--
he was surely one of the officials--and Brion could sense his outraged anger. He must have drawn his gun, because the intruder said quickly, "Put that away. You're being a fool!"

  "Out!" was the single snarled word of the response. There was silence then and, still wondering, Brion was once more asleep.

  "Ten seconds."

  The voice chopped away Brion's memories and he let awareness seep back into his body. He was unhappily conscious of his total exhaustion. The month of continuous mental and physical combat had taken its toll. It would be hard to stay on his feet, much less summon the strength and skill to fight and win a touch.

  "How do we stand?" he asked the handler who was kneading his aching muscles.

  "Four-four. All you need is a touch to win!"

  "That's all he needs too," Brion grunted, opening his eyes to look at the wiry length of the man at the other end of the long mat. No one who had reached the finals in the Twenties could possibly be a weak opponent, but this one, Irolg, was the pick of the lot. A red-haired mountain of a man, with an apparently inexhaustible store of energy. That was really all that counted now. There could be little art in this last and final round of fencing. Just thrust and parry, and victory to the stronger.