Liberator

by Richard Harland

  The team strode on in a straight line, avoiding side passages and branching corridors. However, their route came to an end at a grand arched entranceway. It reminded Col of the entrance to Dr Blessamy’s Academy, but gilded and far more elaborately carved.

  ‘The doors are open,’ said Dunga.

  ‘Let’s keep going,’ said Riff.

  They walked through into a high-domed gallery and continued along a mosaic path between lush green vegetation. Somewhere ahead there were people talking and laughing. Splashing sounds too.

  Col raised his rifle and Riff raised her pistol. They came up to a further archway and looked through into a very strange hall.

  A huge pool of water occupied the centre of the place, fifty paces long by fifty paces wide. Around the sides ran a paving of tiles and an elegant colonnade of white pillars. Cubicle doors filled in the spaces between the pillars.

  The water must have been warm because wisps of steam rose from the surface. Six officers with moustaches and side-whiskers stood or swam in it, and an equal number of ladies in bathing caps. The officers wore tight-fitting, red-striped costumes buttoned up to the neck, while the ladies’ costumes were looser and puffed out like balloons above the water.

  Then one of the ladies caught sight of the intruders and screamed at the top of her voice.

  The officers rushed for the steps on one side of the pool. They were mostly middle-aged and paunchy, ungainly as walruses in their tight-fitting costumes. They flapped across the tiles and vanished into the cubicles.

  The team skirted the pool on the opposite side. There was another archway at the far end of the hall. They ran past deckchairs, towels, the remnants of a picnic and half a dozen dresses that stood up all by themselves, like human figures without arms or heads. Presumably they belonged to the ladies in the pool, and hoops and stiffeners kept them upright.

  The ladies meanwhile dipped down below the water until only their eyes and bathing caps were showing.

  The team was halfway around when a voice barked out an order in Russian. Unya skidded to a stop, and pointed. The barrels of six pistols stuck out over the tops of six cubicle doors. The whole team halted.

  ‘We can match that,’ snarled Riff, and aimed her pistol at the head of one of the ladies in the pool.

  Col did the same, squinting along his sights as if ready to shoot, while praying he wouldn’t have to.

  It was a stalemate. The Russian officers shouted to one another from behind their cubicle doors.

  Then one door swung open, and one officer stepped out. On his head was a brass helmet, which looked very odd in combination with his bathing costume. He had strapped on a sword belt and left his pistol behind.

  He stalked around the pool with his nose in the air and a supercilious expression on his face. He marched up to Col, drew his sword and struck the ground at Col’s feet with the tip.

  When he spoke, his tone dripped with contempt. ‘Kapitan Kodalski.’

  ‘That must be his name,’ Riff guessed, as Unya pointed to the officer’s chest.

  Then Unya swung and lunged with her arms, this way and that.

  ‘Ah, swordplay,’ Riff interpreted. ‘I think Kapitan Kodalski is challenging you to a duel.’

  ‘I could just shoot him,’ said Col.

  ‘And they could just shoot us.’

  ‘Why me anyway? You’re the expert in single combat.’

  Riff grinned sarcastically. ‘I don’t think his code of honour would let him fight with a girl.’

  Col saw that the officer was still glaring at him, rigid as a statue. He shrugged and passed his rifle across to Dunga.

  Kapitan Kodalski bowed to the ladies in the pool, then shouted ‘En garde!’ and sprang forward. The fact that Col was unarmed didn’t seem to trouble his code of honour.

  Col jumped back, knocking against a deckchair. The sword swept past and barely missed his ear. Kodalski advanced to deliver another blow. Col flung the deckchair in his way, and the sword sheared through canvas and wood instead of flesh and bone.

  ‘Use this!’

  As Col sought desperately for a weapon, Riff tossed him a towel. A towel! And already Kodalski was preparing to lunge again.

  Col did the only thing he could do with a towel. He darted forward and flicked out at his opponent’s face. The corner of the towel caught the officer across the cheek. He howled with pain and lost control of his stroke, which scythed through empty air.

  Unya hooted with laughter. Kodalski’s howl turned into a splutter of mortification, then a roar of rage.

  Col watched the man’s eyes. Riff had trained him long ago to spot the movement in the eyes that comes a split second before the movement of the muscles. He saw where the next blow was aimed, and dodged easily. The thrust to his chest sailed past his left elbow.

  Then he worked out another use for the towel. When Kodalski thrust forward again, Col sidestepped to the right and raised his arm so that the sword passed beneath – then whisked the towel under his arm to muffle the blade’s sharp edges. He clamped down with his elbow and trapped the sword against the side of his body.

  The officer’s face was a picture of goggling outrage. Col swivelled from the hips and forced him round on the other end of the sword. When he took a step forward, Kodalski had to step backwards. Two more steps – then Col swivelled again and propelled him right off the edge of the tiles.

  Too late the officer let go of his sword. For a moment, his feet hung over empty air; then he landed in the pool with a mighty splash. When the spray cleared, he was standing up to his chest in water.

  Col drew the sword out from the towel and waved it in front of Kodalski’s nose. The officer was very red in the face, and refused to look Col in the eye. He raised his arms in token of surrender.

  ‘You’ve humiliated him!’ laughed Riff. ‘Beaten in a duel and tossed in the water.’

  In the next moment, the cubicle doors opened and the other officers trooped out with their arms also raised. The ladies in the pool seemed to have disappeared underwater completely.

  Unya came up to the side of the pool and spoke in Russian to Kapitan Kodalski. He muttered in reply, and she raised her voice.

  ‘What are they saying?’ Dunga asked.

  Orris’s brow was creased in frowns as he struggled to translate. ‘Something about ‘going up’.’

  The exchange went on for half a minute. Unya’s tone grew sharper and sharper, Kodalski’s head hung lower and lower. Finally, he made his way to the steps and climbed out of the pool.

  Not once did he look in the direction of his fellow officers. He removed the brass helmet from his head and held it under his arm.

  ‘Davai, dvigaisya!’ Unya ordered.

  ‘That means ‘Move!’’ said Orris.

  Kodalski marched stiffly towards the exit at the far end of the hall. Unya followed, and gestured for the others to follow her.

  Riff grinned. ‘I think he has to do whatever we say. Very useful, this code of honour.’

  Beyond the exit, there were more wood-panelled corridors. Col carried his newly acquired sword and let Dunga keep the rifle. Kodalski left wet footprints on the carpet and shivered as he marched. They passed another two groups of Russian Menials, labouring on domestic duties, but Unya didn’t call out again.

  It was no surprise when Kodalski turned down an intersecting corridor and halted in front of a set of glass doors. Unya made him face the wall and put his hands on his head.

  ‘Steam elevator!’ Orris exclaimed. ‘We’re going up!’

  They rode the elevator up through forty-two floors, and stepped out at the top onto a deck more opulent than any they had yet seen. The walls were decorated with tapestries, the ceilings with gold and painted stars. Niches displayed artificial flowers or wax fruit arrangements under domes of glass.r />
  ‘Listen,’ said Riff.

  The fighting wasn’t far away: a vast and confused hub- bub of shouts and cries, with frequent cracks of rifle fire. The sound of the svolochi singing was a backdrop to all other sounds.

  ‘Must be around the top of the first elevator,’ said Orris.

  ‘And the top of the staircase,’ added Dunga.

  ‘Probably hundreds of them up by now,’ said Col.

  ‘Let’s go!’ cried Riff.

  They set off running towards the hubbub. The corridor became a broad highway, fifteen yards from side to side. Someone was coming towards them from the other direction.

  ‘Hey! That’s Cree!’

  ‘And Jarvey!’

  The two separated members of the team recognised them in the same moment. They slowed and waited.

  ‘You made it,’ said Cree, as the two groups came together.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Riff asked. ‘Who’s winning?’

  ‘We are – just,’ said Cree. ‘We’re on the highest floor here. The Imperial guards have retreated to the open deck above.’

  ‘There’s not that many ordinary soldiers,’ Jarvey added. ‘And most of their officers are old.’

  Cree took over again. ‘But they’ve blockaded the stairs to the open deck. The Russian Filthies are trying to fight their way through. We’re trying to find another way up.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Col agreed. ‘There must be other stairs.’

  ‘You’d think so.’ Jarvey grimaced. ‘We haven’t found any yet.’

  ‘We’ll all search,’ said Riff. ‘We’ll fan out and . . . What’s she doing?’

  Unya had wandered off by herself. A short way back up the corridor was an imposing door flanked by marble statues. Unya had opened the door and was peering inside.

  Then she turned and shouted, beckoned and waved.

  ‘Maybe she’s found something useful,’ said Orris.

  The team members exchanged glances and came to an instant decision. As Unya vanished through the door, they hurried after her.

  Col took a good look at the statues on the way in: one male and one female, carved in proud and formal poses, wearing robes and elaborate headgear. The nature of the entrance suggested there was something very special about these rooms.

  Inside, the air smelled of tobacco and cigars. Col took in green baize tables, stucco mouldings over the ceiling, glowing lamps and painted lampshades. On one side of the room was a black animal chained to a hoop in the wall. Larger than a cat yet smaller than a tiger, it showed its teeth and glared at them with bright, yellow eyes.

  Unya was intoxicated. She caressed the lampshades and stroked the baize tops of the tables. It seemed she had to touch everything before she could believe it was real.

  They went on into the next room, which was even more luxurious. Col gasped at all the satin and velvet, amber and tortoiseshell, lacework and crystalware. Crimson drapes hung around a massive four-poster bed, and the walls were lined with mottled brown fur. Perfume scented the air, exotic, sweet and musky.

  There was no one presently in the room, but many signs of hasty departure: clothes scattered over the floor, pillows tossed aside, an open book upside-down on the quilt. From the room beyond came unmistakable sounds of movement.

  Col, Riff and Dunga advanced with their weapons raised. Col eased the door open with his foot, to reveal another scene of sumptuous magnificence – and the source of the sounds. Half a dozen Menial servants shuffled around in their leather harnesses.

  They wore all-white uniforms emblazoned with the letters A & K on their chests. Unya pointed to the insignia with great excitement. Riff pointed in another direction entirely.

  ‘Here’s how we go up,’ she said.

  Just inside the door was an arch to the left and an ascending staircase. Riff went through the arch and started up the stairs. Col followed at her heels.

  The stairs were narrow and dimly lit. The team climbed to a small landing, swung to the left and continued up again. This was obviously a private and exclusive route for the occupants of the rooms below.

  At the top, they came to a circular space with bare metal walls. No luxury here. The air was cooler and fresher, and the light seeping in around the edges of the door had a different quality. Col thought at once of the turret above Liberator’s Bridge.

  ‘We’ve come to the open deck,’ he said.

  There were bolts on the door, but not drawn across. Col worked the door handle. Metal creaked and grated on metal.

  ‘Carefully,’ Riff warned.

  The rest of the team had gathered behind them. Col gave the door a tiny push and it almost flew wide open, caught by a gust of wind. He snatched it back and held it just a few inches ajar.

  Outside, the deck of the Romanov was an endless flat metal surface. Surprisingly, it was wet with puddles of rainwater. Col remembered the rumbling thunder when they’d crossed the ground between the two juggernauts. The storm must have broken overnight, while they were down in the Romanov’s engine-room. Now, in the morning, the sky had cleared and the sun was shining.

  The nearest people were fifty paces away. They had congregated by the side of the deck: a score of very grand ladies and gentlemen. The gentlemen wore short cloaks, sashes, and rows of medals on their chests, while the ladies were all in white, with veils, gloves and high-piled coiffures. They might have been attending a ball in all their formal finery.

  Unya pointed her finger and gabbled away in Russian. She was on her hands and knees, peering out at the bottom of the door. She was pointing to one couple in particular.

  ‘Ya ikh uznal! Eto Tsar i Tsarina!’

  Col registered the two words that made sense to him. ‘Did she say . . .?’

  ‘Tsar and Tsarina!’ Orris jumped in. ‘That’s who they are. Tsar Alexander the Sixth and Tsarina Katerina. Of course. Initials A and K.’

  Col stared at the couple and noticed how much they resembled the statues flanking the doorway in the corridor. ‘We were in their rooms,’ he said slowly. ‘We came up by their private staircase.’

  Riff shushed them both. ‘Keep your voices down.’

  Tsar Alexander wore a simple black bearskin rather than any more elaborate form of headgear. As they watched, he removed the bearskin and passed it across to one of his subordinates. Then he took a short ceremonial sword from a scabbard at his waist, and passed that across to a second subordinate. His gestures were very deliberate, very regal; his subordinates bowed and received the items with great reverence.

  Unya was pushing against the door, and Col allowed it to open a few inches wider. No one seemed likely to look in their direction.

  The breeze blowing in ruffled their hair and clothes. Outside, it stirred the puddles and made the water glitter in the sharp sunlight. On the other side of the Imperial family was a tangle of masts and wires like a forest of fallen trees.

  ‘What is this ceremony?’ Orris muttered.

  The Tsarina had now presented her gloves to one of her female attendants. Tsar Alexander stood very erect with out-thrust chest as a courtier in fur cloak and knee-high boots unpinned his medals and ribbons, one by one, and made a pile of them on a cushion held out by another subordinate.

  Two further attendants were busy at the side of the juggernaut, where a ramp led up to the encircling barrier. They unfurled a tasselled white cloth and spread it over the ramp as if laying a tablecloth for dinner.

  ‘Hear that!’ said Dunga.

  Col had grown used to the general background clamour of fighting and singing, but now the sound had changed. The song of the svolochi was no longer a song of defiance but a song of victory. It grew louder and clearer even as they listened.

  ‘They’ve won!’ exclaimed Cree.

  Jarvey brandished a triumphant fist. ‘They’re com
ing up on deck!’

  It was all taking place on the other side of the turret, where they couldn’t see. There was a redoubled uproar of shouting and rifle fire, as though the Imperial guards were making a last stand.

  What they could see were the reactions of the Imperial family. The Tsar and Tsarina glanced in the direction of the fighting, and a new urgency came into their actions. The Tsar began shaking hands with his subordinates, addressing a few words to each one.

  ‘I could shoot him from here,’ said Dunga, sighting along her rifle.

  ‘No, wait,’ said Riff. ‘I want to see what happens.’

  The Tsar finished shaking hands, then turned to his Tsarina and bowed. She responded with a tiny bob of a curtsey. Then they walked side by side to the ramp, ascended the incline . . . and stepped off at the end.

  Col gasped. Everyone gasped.

  He had to replay the sequence in his mind to be sure it had really happened.

  ‘Why did they do that?’

  The courtiers and attendants followed their master and mistress, two by two. They marched up the ramp and stepped off into the void on the other side of the barrier. The ones who had received the bearskin, sword, gloves and medals went over with the rest, bearing the ceremonial items as they dropped.

  ‘Perhaps I can explain,’ said Orris. ‘I learned something about the Russian nobility. They’ve always been known for their aristocratic code of honour. The Tsar could never live with the disgrace of being overthrown by his own Filthies.’

  ‘So we’ve won?’ Dunga looked puzzled.

  ‘Easy as that?’ Col could hardly believe it.

  Riff believed it. She was exultant. ‘Our second revolution! First the British, now the Russians! No one can stop us now!’

  She kicked the door wide, and they stumbled out into the open air. The breeze carried a sharp smell of gunpowder to Col’s nostrils. He stepped away from the turret and looked to see what was happening on the other side.

  The Russian Imperial guards had formed a defensive line all across the deck of the juggernaut. Some were standing and some kneeling, some flourished swords and some fired rifles. Many lay bleeding on the ground.