Alternate Wars

by Gregory Benford

  Without warning, a portable searchlight blazed into the courtyard from the open gateway into Trsat Castle. Smith froze, his eyes filling with tears at the sudden transformation from night to brighter than midday. An amplified voice roared, “Halt! Stand where you are! You are the prisoners of the Independent State of Croatia!”

  Bogdan bellowed like a bull. “No fucking Croat will take me!” He grabbed for his rifle. Before the motion was well begun, a burst of fire cut him down. Smith and Drinkwater threw themselves flat, their hands over their heads.

  Something hot and wet splashed Smith’s cheek. He rubbed the palm of his hand over it. In the actinic glare of the searchlight, Bogdan’s blood looked black. The partisan leader was still alive. Shrieks alternated with bubbling moans as he writhed on the ground, trying to hold his guts inside his belly.

  Jackboots rattled in the courtyard as men from the Ustashi, including a medic with a Red Cross armband, dashed in from the darkness. The medic grabbed Bogdan, stuck a plasma line in his arm. Bogdan did his best to tear it out again. A couple of ordinary troopers kept him from succeeding. “We’ll patch you up so you can sing for us,” one of them growled. His voice changed to gloating anticipation: “Then we’ll take you apart again, one centimeter at a time.”

  A rifle muzzle pressed against Smith’s forehead. His eyes crossed as they looked down the barrel of the gun. “Up on your feet, spy,” said the Ustashi man holding it. He had 7.92 millimeters of potent persuasion. Smith obeyed at once.

  An Ustashi major strode into the brilliant hole the searchlight had cut in the darkness. He marched up to Smith and Drinkwater, who had also been ordered to his feet. Smith could have shaved on the creases in his uniform, and used his belt buckle as a mirror for the job. The perfect outfit served only to make him more acutely aware of how grubby he was himself.

  The major studied him. The fellow had a face out of a fascist training film: hard, stern, handsome, ready to obey any order without question or even thought, not a gram of surplus fat anywhere. An interrogator with a face like his could make a prisoner afraid just by looking at him, and instilling fear was half an interrogator’s battle.

  “You are the Englishmen?” the major demanded. He spoke English himself, with a better public-school accent than Smith could boast. Smith glanced toward Drinkwater. Warily, they both nodded.

  Like a robot’s, the major’s arm shot up and out in a perfect fascist salute. “The Fatherland thanks you for your help in capturing this enemy of the state and of the true faith,” he declared.

  On the ground, Bogdan’s groans changed tone as he realized he had been betrayed. Smith shrugged. He had a fatherland, too—London told him what to do, and he did it. He said, “You’d best let us get out of the harbor before dawn, so none of Bogdan’s people can be sure we had anything to do with this.”

  “It shall be as you say,” the major agreed, though he sounded indifferent as to whether Smith and Drinkwater gave themselves away to Bogdan’s organization. He probably was indifferent; Croatia and England loved each other no better than Croatia and the Communists. This time, it had suited them to work together. Next time, they might try to kill each other. They all knew it.

  Smith sighed. “It’s a rum world, and that’s a fact.”

  The Ustashi major nodded. “So it is. Surely God did not intend us to cooperate with such degenerates as you. One day, though, we shall have a true reckoning. Za dom Spremni!”

  Fucking looney, Smith thought. If the major read that in his eyes, too bad. Croatia could not afford an incident with England, not when her German overlords were dickering with London over North Sea petroleum rights.

  The trip down to Rijeka from Trsat Castle was worse than the one up from the city. The Englishmen dared not show a light, not unless they wanted to attract secret policemen who knew nothing of their arrangement with the Ustashi major and who would start shooting before they got the chance to find out. Of course, they ran the same risk on (Smith devoutly hoped) a smaller scale traveling in the dark.

  Traveling in the dark down a steep hillside also brought other risks. After Peter Drinkwater fell for the third time, he got up swearing: “God damn the Russians for mucking about in Turkey, and in Iraq, and in Persia. If they weren’t trying to bugger the oil wells there, you and I wouldn’t have to deal with the likes of the bloody Ustashi—and we’d not have to feel we needed a bath afterwards.”

  “No, we’d be dealing with the NKVD instead, selling out Ukrainian nationalists to Moscow,” Smith answered. “Would you feel any cleaner after that?”

  “Not bloody likely,” Drinkwater answered at once. “It’s a rum world, all right.” He stumbled again, but caught himself. The path was nearly level now. Rijeka lay not far ahead.

  THE TOMB

  Jack McDevitt

  The city lay bone white beneath the moon. Leaves rattled through courtyards and piled up against shattered walls. Solitary columns stood against the sky. The streets were narrow and filled with rubble.

  The wind off the Atlantic carried the smell of the tide. It sucked at the forest, which had long since overwhelmed the city’s defenses and crept into its forums and market-places. A surge of oak and pine in the north had washed over a hill and crashed into sacred environs anchored by a temple and a tomb.

  The temple was a relatively modest structure, projecting from the side of the hill. It was, in fact, almost diminutive, but a perceptive visitor would have recognized both Roman piety and Greek genius in its pantheonic lines. The roof was gone, and the circular walls had disappeared within the tangle of trees and brambles.

  The front of the building, save for a single collapsed pillar, remained intact. A marble colonnade, still noble in appearance, looked out across a broad plaza. Carved lions slumbered on pedestals, and stone figures with blank eyes and missing limbs kept watch over the city.

  Twelve marble steps descended from the temple into the plaza. They were as wide as the building itself, precisely chiseled, rounded, almost sensual. The marble was heavily worn.

  One would have needed several minutes to walk across the plaza. Public buildings, in varying states of disintegration, bordered the great square. They stood dark and cold through the long evenings, but when the light was right, it was possible to imagine them as they had been when the city was alive.

  The eastern side, opposite the temple, opened onto a fountain and a long pool. Both were dry and full of dust. Weary strollers, had there been any, would have found stone benches placed strategically for their use.

  The tomb stood beyond the fountain on a direct line with the temple. It was an irregular octagon, constructed of tapered stone blocks, laid with military simplicity. The structure was gouged and scorched as high as a man on horseback might reach. If ever the tomb had borne a name, it lay now among the chunks of stone scattered at its base.

  The tomb itself lay open. There was no evidence that a slab had ever sealed the gaping shaft. But it must have been so.

  A device that resembled a sword had been cut into marble above the entrance. In keeping perhaps with the spirit of the architecture, it, too, was plain: The hilt, the blade, and the cross guard were all rectangular and square-edged.

  The vault rose into a circular, open cupola. Two stone feet stood atop the structure, placed wide in what could only have been a heroic stance. One limb was broken off at the ankle, the other at the lower part of the shin.

  On a tranquil night, one might easily apprehend the tread of divine sandals.

  Three horsemen, not yet quite full-grown, descended from the low hills in the northwest. In the sullen wind, they could smell the age of the place.

  They wore animal skins and carried iron weapons. Little more than boys, they had hard blue eyes and rode with an alertness that betrayed a sense of a hostile world. The tallest of the three drew back on his reins and stopped. The others fell in on either side. “What’s wrong, Kam?” asked the rider on the left, his eyes darting nervously across the ruins.

  “Nothing,
Ronik…” Kam rose slightly off his mount’s haunches and looked intently toward the city. His voice had an edge. “I thought I saw something moving.”

  The night carried the first bite of winter. Falon, on Kam’s right, closed his vest against the chill, briefly fingering a talisman, a goat’s horn once worn by his grandfather and blessed against demons. His mount snorted uncertainly. “I do not see anything,” he said.

  The three riders listened for sounds in the night.

  “Where?” asked Ronik. He was broad-shouldered, given to quick passions. He was the only one of the three who had killed. “Where did you see it?”

  “Near the temple.” Kam pointed. They were still high enough to see over the city’s fortifications.

  “No one would go there,” said Ronik.

  The words hung on the night air. No man, thought Falon. But he said nothing.

  “We are going there,” said Kam. He was trying very hard to sound indifferent.

  Falon stroked his horse’s neck. Its name was Carik and his father had given it to him before riding off on a raid from which he had never returned. “It might have been best,” he said, “if we had not bragged quite so loudly. Better first to have done the deed, stayed the night, and then spoken of it.”

  Kam delivered an elaborate shrug: “Why? You’re not afraid, are you, Falon?”

  Falon started forward again. “My father always believed this city to be Ziu’s birthplace. And that”—he looked toward the temple—“his altar.”

  They were following an ancient roadway. It had once been paved but was little more than a track now, grassed over, occasional stones jutting from the bed. Ahead, it drove straight on to the front gate of the city.

  “Maybe we should not do this,” said Ronik.

  Kam tried to laugh. It came out sounding strained.

  Falon gazed across the ruins. It was hard to imagine laughter within those walls, or children being born. Or cavalry gathering. The place felt, somehow, as though it had always been like this. “I wonder,” he said, “if the city was indeed built by gods?”

  “If you are afraid,” said Kam, “you may return home. Ronik and I will think no less of you.” He made no effort to keep the mockery out of his voice.

  Falon restrained his anger. “I fear no man,” he said. “But it is impious to tread on the works of the gods.”

  They were advancing at a walking rate. Kam did not answer, but he showed no inclination to assume his customary position in the lead. “What use,” he asked, after a moment, “would Ziu have for fortifications?”

  This was not the only ruined city known to the Kortagenians: Kosh-on-the-Ridge, and Eskulis near Deep Forest, Kalikat and Agonda, the twin ports at Pirapet, and three more along the southern coast. They were called after the lands in which they were found; no one knew how their builders had named them. But there were tales about this one, which was always referred to simply as “The City.” Some thought it had no name because, of all the ancient walled settlements, it was the oldest. Others thought it a concession to divine origin.

  “If not the home of gods,” said Ronik, “maybe devils.”

  There were stories: passersby attacked by phantoms, dragged within the walls, and seen no more. Black wings lifting on dark winds and children vanishing from nearby encampments. Demonic lights, it was said, sometimes reflected off low clouds, and wild cries echoed in the night. Makanda, most pious of the Kortagenians, refused to ride within sight of the city after dark, and would have been thunderstruck had he known their intentions.

  They rode slowly forward, speaking in whispers. Past occasional mounds. Past solitary oaks. The wind stiffened and raced across the plain. And they came at last to the city gate.

  The wall had collapsed completely at this point, and the entrance was enmeshed in a thick patch of forest. Trees and thickets crowded together, disrupting the road and blocking entry.

  They paused under a clutch of pines. Kam advanced, drew his sword, and hacked at branches and brush.

  “It does not want us,” said Ronik.

  Falon stayed back, well away from Kam’s blade, which swung with purpose but not caution. When the way was clear and the city lay open, and Kam had sheathed his weapon, he advanced.

  The streets were dark and still.

  “If it would make either of you feel better,” Kam said, “we need not sleep in the plaza.”

  The horses seemed uneasy.

  “I don’t think we should go in there at all,” said Ronik. His eyes had narrowed, and his features, usually aggressive and energetic, were wary. Falon realized he was frightened. But less adept than his companions at concealment.

  Kam’s mount took a step forward, a step back. “What do you think, Faion?”

  The road opened out into a broad avenue. It was covered with grass, lined by crumbling walls and broken courtyards. “We have said we will stay the night,” said Falon, speaking softly to prevent the wind from taking his words into the city. “I do not see that we have a choice.”

  Inside, somewhere amid the dark streets, a dry branch broke. It was a sharp report, loud, hard, like the snapping of a bone. And as quickly gone.

  “Something is in there,” said Ronik, backing away.

  Kam, who had started to dismount, froze with one leg clear of the horse’s haunches. Without speaking, he lowered it again and tightened his grip on the reins.

  “Ziu may be warning us,” said Ronik.

  Kam threw him a look that could have withered an arm.

  Ronik returned the glare. Kam was oldest of the three, and the others usually acceded to his judgment, but Falon suspected that, if it came to a fight, Ronik would prove the more capable. And perhaps the less likely to flee.

  “Probably a wolf,” said Falon, not at all convinced that it was. Wolves, after all, did not snap branches.

  “I am not going in.” Ronik dropped his eyes. “It would be wrong to do so.”

  Kam came erect. “There’s a light,” he whispered.

  Falon saw it. A red glow, flickering on the underside of the trees. In the plaza. “A fire,” he said.

  A shudder worked its way through his belly. He damned himself and fought it down.

  “It’s near the tomb.” Kam turned his horse, started back through the trees. Ronik moved to follow, paused, and clasped Falon’s shoulder to pull him along.

  Falon tried to ignore his own rising panic. “Are we children to be frightened off because someone has built a fire on a cool night?”

  “We don’t know what it might be.” Kam’s tone had grown harsh. Angry. His customary arrogance had drained completely. “I suggest we wait until daylight. And then see who it is.”

  Falon could not resist: “Now who is afraid?”

  “You know me better,” said Kam. “But it is not prudent to fight at night.” He turned his mount, and started out.

  Ronik was tugging at Falon. “Let’s go,” he said. “We can retire to a safe distance, in the hills. Stay there tonight, and return to camp tomorrow. No one will ever know.”

  “We would have to lie,” said Falon. “They will ask.”

  “Let them ask. If anyone says I am afraid—” Kam gripped his sword hilt fiercely—“I will kill him.”

  Falon shook free of Ronik’s hand. Ronik sighed, began to back out through the copse, and encountered some difficulty getting his wide shoulders through the twisted branches. He kept his face toward the city, several times jerking his arm toward Falon in a frustrated effort to persuade him to follow.

  The forest smelled of pine and dead leaves and old wood.

  Kam’s voice, impatient: “Hurry…” As if he saw something coming.

  Falon was about to comply when Ronik—good, decent Ronik, who had been his friend all his life—spoke the words that pinned him within the city: “Come with us, Falon. It is no disgrace to fear the gods.”

  And someone else replied with Falon’s voice: “No. Carik and I will stay.”

  “Ziu does not wish it. His will is clear.
”

  “Diu is a warrior. He is not vindictive. I do not believe he will harm me. I will stay the night. Come for me in the dawn.”

  “Damn you.” Kam’s mount, visible through the hole they had cut in the forest, moved first one way, then another. “Farewell, then. We will return in the morning. I hope you will still be here.” And they wheeled their horses and fled, one swiftly, the other with reluctance, out along the paved road.

  The wind moved through the trees.

  Have no fear. I will not betray you.

  The red glow of the fire faded and went out. Falon made no effort to track its source.

  He rode deliberately into the city. Down the center of the avenue. Past rows of shattered walls and occasional open squares. Past enormous broken buildings. The hoofs were loud in the night.

  He stopped in a wide intersection, gathered his courage, and dismounted. The city lay silent and vast about him.

  He spoke to Carik, rubbed his muzzle, and continued on foot, leading the horse. The temple came into view, standing serenely on a mild slope.

  His heart hammered, and he debated whether it would not be prudent after all to join Kam and Ronik. And the answer to that was clearly yes. Yet he knew that if he ran now, fled beyond the gate, he would in the end have to come back.

  Leaves swirled behind him, and Falon glanced fretfully over his shoulder.

  Something about the temple stirred him. Some emotion to which he could not put a name fluttered deep in his soul. He walked to the next intersection and looked again. Ghostly illumination filled the building.

  Carik moved closer to him.

  It was moonlight. Nothing more: a trick of the night.

  The temple looks complete, but the roof is off. The moon shines directly inside.

  He decided against sleeping in the plaza. Better to camp out of the way. Just in case.

  He found a running spring and a stout wall on the east side of the avenue. Anything coming toward him from the direction of the tomb would have to cross that broad space.