by Simon Hawke
“Yes,” said Drakov. “In that sense, Mr. Priest was quite correct in his earlier assessment of me. I am a pirate. I stole this vessel.”
“But… for what purpose?” Verne said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I told you, Mr. Verne, I am Fate’s cats-paw. I am but following my destiny. Your three friends here are soldiers from a future time. At some later point, perhaps, you might wish to ask them the nature of their duties and why those duties have become necessary. Oh, I beg your pardon. Will become necessary. That which I explained to you just now heralded the dawn of a new age for mankind in the 20th century. The age of atomic power. It enabled mankind to reach farther than ever before, widening the horizons of science. Yet, as ever, mankind’s grasp exceeds its reach. I told you I am a living paradox. Allow me to explain.
“Mr. Land earlier called me a bastard in his anger and he was quite correct. I am. My father, as it happens, is a man well known to Mr. Priest, Mr. Delaney and Miss Cross. His name is Forrester and he is their commander. As they have traveled to this time, so Colonel Forrester traveled to the time of my mother, where he seduced her and begat me. I am a man who should never have been born, Mr. Verne. At the time my father impregnated my mother, he himself would not have been born for hundreds of years. An impossibility, you say. Yet, here I am. A man who should not exist, brought into being by Fate to bring about an end to that which cannot exist, but does. There is an order to the universe and in the time from which these three soldiers came, mankind has disturbed that order. It has taken me a great many years, Mr. Verne, for I am far older than you think I am, to understand the purpose behind my existence. I was born to set things right, to restore order to the universe. And you, Mr. Verne, shall see it done. You shall be my Boswell. I could not have asked for a better man. But there is still much remaining to be done, many preparations needing to be made, before I can undertake the task Fate has set before me. You will learn things you have not dreamed of, see wonders beyond even your not inconsiderable imagination. My fate will forever alter yours. You have, indeed, a voyage extraordinaire ahead of you. And now, if you good people will excuse me, I will take leave of your company. I have matters to attend to.”
Drakov rose, followed by Shiro, and left the wardroom.
Verne gulped down some wine. “My head is swimming,” he said. “A power that could level Paris! Rays, particles, unheard of elements, I must see this library he spoke of!”
“I would be pleased to show it to you, Mr. Verne,” Count Grigori said in French. “Come.”
They left together, the author dwarfed by the gargantuan von Kampf.
“How does he fit through the hatchways?” Andre said.
“With a certain amount of difficulty,” Benedetto said, smiling a vulpine grin.
“We know why the others are in this with him,” Finn said to Martingale. “What’s in it for you?”
“I thought he made that clear,” drawled Martingale. “Money.”
“Just money?” Lucas said, wryly.
“There are easier ways of making money than being a soldier,” Martingale said. “I’m sure you know that. But it’s all I know. It’s what I do best. Besides, how many mercenaries can claim to have served in action across the boundaries of time? I wouldn’t trade this for the world, Priest. It’s one hell of a kick. See you round.”
He got up and sauntered out of the wardroom, carrying a whiskey bottle with him.
“A kick,” said Lucas. He glanced at Benedetto, who sat sipping wine and smoking a cigarette. “You know Drakov’s insane, don’t you?”
Benedetto shrugged. “I am not a judgmental individual. Who is to say what is sanity and what is not? I prefer to deal in the hard sciences and leave metaphysics to besotted Irish philosophers such as Finn Delaney.” He glanced at Finn and raised his wineglass in a toast.
“You haven’t changed at all, Santos,” said Delaney. “You’re still a pretentious asshole.”
“My, my, such invective,” Benedetto said. “And here I am trying so hard to be civil.”
“Where did all this come from?” Lucas said, indicating the tapestries around them. “The jewelry some of these men are wearing looks almost priceless. You and Drakov indulging in some temporal piracy?”
“Only in a manner of speaking,” Benedetto said. “Any military or even quasi-military unit requires funding. We have been amassing a treasury. A little from this time period, a little from that, it gradually multiplies. The sea is quite munificent. We have the richest shipwrecks of history at our disposal.”
“You’re equipped for salvage?” Finn said.
“Not in the manner you suggest,” said Benedetto. “We have individual diving apparatus on board, suits equipped with hemosponges which act as gills, deriving oxygen from seawater. A bit of future technology that quite impresses our crew. I never go out, myself. It unsettles me. But the Russians rather enjoy it. They compete fiercely for the privilege. They are allowed to keep a portion of what is discovered for themselves and they often bring back a few delicacies to dress up the table. We have lobsters aboard the size of German Shepherds. Crabs that could easily crush a femur in their pincers. They find it great sport to collect such things.”
“Where do we fit in?” said Andre.
“Your status, it would appear, is that of uninvited guests,” said Benedetto. “You are not entirely unwelcome, however. Martingale does not like anyone, but I am happy for your presence. It gives me stimulating company. I find these Russians tiresome. Very boring fellows. No brio whatsoever. Especially our Count Grigori. A very moody fellow. I much prefer your companionship.”
“You can joke, Santos, but we’re going to stop you somehow,” Finn said.
“What?” said Benedetto, with a feigned look of outrage. “After you gave your word to the good captain?”
“Don’t be a fool.”
Benedetto chuckled. “Finn, I bear you no hard feelings. No ill will whatsoever. We have always been upon opposing sides. I respect you for your accomplishments and for who you are. It was no easy feat to overcome the Timekeepers. I suspect, also, that you bear me a certain grudging respect, as well. Because of this, I would advise you strongly not to attempt anything against Nikolai Drakov. Your chances for success this time are quite small. I would hate to see you fall into the clutches of that little Oriental savage, Shiro. He frightens even me. Martingale and von Kampf are no less deadly, in their way, but Shiro is fanatically devoted to Nikolai and he is utterly ruthless. Look closely into that young boy’s eyes and you will see snakes writhing.”
“What’s Drakov up to, Santos?” Lucas said.
“I do not know.”
“Come on.”
“Honestly,” said Benedetto. “Look, I make no bones about what I am. I may have once been an idealist, such as Nikolai, but there is little that separates me from someone such as Martingale nowadays. I am, by profession, a terrorist. When I started with the Timekeepers, I was just an underpaid researcher, a re-education specialist. A somewhat glorified psychotherapist. I was embittered, vulnerable to seduction. Falcon convinced me to join in the grand cause against the war machine and I enlisted, burning with the fires of enlightenment. But Falcon is no more and I have seen far too much, done far too much to allow myself to remain deluded. What ever ethics I may once have had, I lost along the way. The trouble with my former profession, you see, is one knows far too much, especially about oneself. Self-analysis becomes a disease. I know at heart, I am sociopathic. I know I have precious little in the way of scruples. I am an unprincipled blackguard, a killer, a morally bankrupt human being. Does that concern me? Not overmuch. I have managed to achieve a level of comfort in my acceptance of what I have become. It makes life easier that way, prevents one from getting ulcers.
“When you and your compatriots in Temporal Intelligence broke the organization of the Timekeepers, I fled for my life. I became separated from the others, to which I doubtless owe my survival, and I spent my days constantly looking over my sho
ulder, waiting to be caught. It was not much fun. Being with the Timekeepers had been stimulating. It was like a game. You against us. We kept telling ourselves that right was on our side and so we would prevail. Utter nonsense, of course. For a time, we did not know each other. Then, gradually, you learned a little about us, we learned more about you, we each compiled our dossiers and it was almost like a friendly rivalry.”
“I don’t think I would go that far,” said Andre.
“Yes, well, it is all a matter of perception, isn’t it? By then, I had long since stopped taking the whole thing very seriously. But when it ended, I was left, for a time, alone. I was surprised to discover I did not function well alone. The comforting mechanisms of the Timekeepers were denied me. There were no longer any plots to hatch, no longer any confused, idealistic, radical young women to divert one’s attention in delightful ways. There was no money. I was, in short, out of a job. I was immeasurably relieved when Drakov found me and told me he was going to begin again, with a new, more vital organization. It was something familiar. And I had nothing else to do.”
“You expect us to believe Drakov doesn’t even tell his own second-in-command what his plans are?” Andre said.
“I do not expect you to believe anything,” said Benedetto. “I have given you answers to your questions to the best of my ability. Believe them or not, as you choose. For myself, I am content to go along for the adventure. I live comfortably, eat well, enjoy my liberties in ports of call through all of time-though we do not actually make port, of course-and upon occasion my particular talents are found useful. I ask for nothing more.”
“I misjudged you, Santos,” Lucas said. “I thought you were a fanatic, but you’re just a decadent fool. Martingale may not be any better, but at least he’s a professional. You’re not even that. You’re just going through the motions.”
“I will tell you a secret, Priest,” said Benedetto. “That is all life is, going through the motions. I prefer to go through the motions with at least a modicum of style. Nikolai is certain to cause some sort of cataclysm and when he does, life will be more interesting. I have no doubt you will do your utmost to prevent whatever he has planned and watching you try will be interesting, as well. In the last analysis, the greatest sin is boredom and I refuse to be bored.” He smiled. “So by all means, interest me. Only wait until tomorrow, at least. Right now, this wine has made me sleepy.”
“Is everyone aboard this blasted ship insane?” said Land.
“I’m beginning to think so, Ned,” said Lucas. “I’m beginning to think so.”
6
After eating, they toured the Soviet Vostochnaya Slava, renamed the Nautilus by Drakov. It was a huge vessel, aptly deserving of its original name, which translated to “Glory of the East.” Walking through it gave them the feeling of being inside the works of some giant machine, which in fact they were. Though very spacious, the submarine had been designed in typical Soviet utilitarian fashion, with minimum concessions to creature comforts. The crew members slept in nine-man rooms equipped with small tables and chairs, but the reading lights and stereo headsets were the sole touches of luxury. Everywhere were pipes and dials, gauges, wheels, control panels and watertight hatches. Everything was painted Soviet military gray. Despite the dosimeters worn by each member of the crew-Drakov had seen to it that dosimeters were given to his “guests,” as well-the men aboard the submarine were shielded from the reactor by layers of water, lead and fuel oil, receiving less radiation than would a person on the surface on a sunny day. If any malfunction occurred with the reactor, control rods would automatically slide into position between the plates of uranium and shut it down. The submarine would then operate on its auxiliary diesel engines. There were laundry facilities on board, as well as a nucleonics lab, a fully equipped machine shop, a photo darkroom and a library with close to one thousand books. They looked into the library briefly and saw Verne, oblivious to their presence, surrounded by books, reading with the intensity of an archival researcher who had struck the mother lode, several dictionaries open by his side.
The crew of Drakov’s Nautilus numbered one hundred twenty men, excluding themselves. They had learned of a number of casualties reducing the original complement. The Russian captain and several of his officers, as well as enlisted men, had not survived the change in command. Some had died during re-education, others had been killed trying to resist. Their guide upon the tour of the submarine, a young Soviet submariner named Sasha, answered all their questions frankly. He told them all members of the crew, with the exception of Drakov and his “officers,” as well as the ship’s doctor and its cooks, stood two four-hour watches each day in addition to work they had to perform off watch time.
Everywhere they went, they were carefully observed by members of the crew, but no one except Sasha spoke to them. There was no noise except for the hum of the ventilation system and the occasional gurgle of oil coming from the hydraulics, sounds which they quickly became accustomed to and ceased to hear. In the engine room, it was quite a different story. Crew members sat at their stations amid complex instruments and the noise of pumps, generators, turbines and reduction gears. The rapidly spinning propeller shafts turning at hundreds of revolutions per minute seemed not to move at all, except for a slight blur as they revolved. The control room of the sub resembled a bridge on a starship, with a semicircular central control station and a console holding banks of instruments. The helmsman controlled the planes on the submarine’s sail for depth and handled the rudder to maintain course. The stern planesman trimmed the up and down angle of the sub by means of the stern planes, located forward of the propellers. The diving officer kept his eyes on gauges and dials on a large panel before him, monitoring the sub’s depth, rate of dive during descent, the amount of roll the vessel was subjected to and gave orders to the planesmen. The chief of the watch was in charge of the water ballast, shifting it from one tank to another, depending upon requirements. The quartermaster of the watch was the submarine’s navigator; the radioman had little to do save monitor transmissions and the engineering officer supervised the dozen men who operated the propulsion plant.
They cruised at a depth of two hundred feet, maintaining a speed of thirty knots, none of the power driving the Nautilus being wasted in turbulence. At their depth, pressure negated turbulence. The submarine experienced reduced resistance to forward motion at depth. There was no propeller slippage and speed was easier to achieve and maintain than on the surface. Except when the decks tilted during a dive or an ascent, there was no sensation of movement whatsoever. In answer to a question from Finn, Sasha told them, in English, that despite carrying a crew of over one hundred, the submarine could be operated by as few as a dozen men in an emergency. He was very proud of his ship-he used the term “boat,” a direct translation from the Russian podvodnaya lodka, meaning submarine boat-and he was proud of his command of English. His military bearing was at curious odds with his appearance. He had started to grow his hair long and was doing his best to grow a beard. He wore a gold circle in his left ear and the cutoff sleeves of his jumpsuit revealed recent tattoos executed in an intricate, Oriental style with vivid reds, yellows, oranges and blues. A Chinese dragon covered his entire upper arm on the left side and his right arm was graced with a nude, almond-eyed woman whose hair fanned out to frame her entire body. The workmanship was exquisite.
“Shiro worked three hours on her,” he said, smiling. “I wonder if his sister looks at all like this. If so, I must somehow arrange to meet her one day.”
“I wonder if the little heathen would do one for me,” said Land.
“I am certain he would, if you were to ask,” said Sasha. “It seems to give him great pleasure, though it is hard to tell, he always looks so serious.”
“What do you think of all this, Sasha?” Lucas said.
The young Russian frowned. “All this?”
“Being a member of the Soviet Navy one day and a time pirate the next,” said Lucas.
Sasha smiled. “Time pirate. I like the sound of that. It is what we do, pirate time. How should I feel about it? I have been re-educated. I am, of course, aware of my previous loyalties, but they no longer matter. This is a new life. I am a new person. Captain Drakov has been very good to us. Mr. Benedetto has explained how he could have obliterated all our memories of what we were, but the captain would not allow that. He did not wish to rob us of our souls. He did not wish to make puppets of us.”
“Didn’t he?” said Finn.
“You met him; you saw what he is like,” said Sasha. “He is a great man, destined for great things. We are all a part of something much more important now.”
“And what would that be?” Andre said.
“You should ask the captain,” Sasha replied evasively.
“He didn’t want to rob you of your souls,” said Finn, “but he robbed you of the ability of making choices for yourselves.”
“That is not true,” said Sasha. “He helped us see to make the correct choices. And there are those among us who did not require re-educating. They were able to see clearly for themselves.”
“Which of the crew would those be?” Lucas said.
“Only the captain and Mr. Benedetto would know that,” said Sasha. “We were not told, so we would not feel inferior to those of our shipmates who were more perceptive than we.”
“Are you sure that’s the reason?” Finn said.
“Of course.”
“Very egalitarian of the captain,” Finn said, wryly.
Back in their cabin, Land stretched out upon one of the lower bunks and put his hands behind his head. “Maybe I’m starting to lose my mind, too,” he said, “or else this vessel truly is from some future time. I’ve never seen the like of it.”
“When you have exhausted all the possible explanations, Ned,” said Lucas, “consider the impossible. Try to imagine what it would have been like for a primitive caveman from the dawn of time to stand upon the decks of an iron steamship. If you can picture that, then put yourself in that caveman’s place and you will begin to understand what has happened to you.”