Pirate Utopia

by Bruce Sterling

  As a further act of generosity, the Prophet had also sent Secondari the gift of a personal diary. The Prophet urged the troubled soldier to set down his Futuristic thoughts and plans. This writerly effort would allow Secondari to transcend his youthful confusion and mature into a man of destiny.

  Designed in Milan to commemorate the Prophet’s war-time “Flight over Vienna,” this blank tome was a magnificent feat of “Liberty Style” design craft, its sumptuous leather cover embossed with mystical stars and sinuous silver trees.

  Nestled inside the Torpedo Factory, night by lonely night, Secondari poured his soul into those diary pages.

  Secondari tried to write something worthy of himself each night, because Revolutionary Fiume, the “Holocaust City,” the “River Inexhaustible,” was a city of writers.

  Revolutionary Fiume thronged with literary men-atarms. Writers, first and foremost, had answered the clarion call of the great warrior-poet. Before the Future could exist, the Future had to be written into being.

  The Prophet himself was the first and foremost among all these armed writers, of course. But the glistening black flame of his Fiuman cause had attracted many high-spirited men of the pen: Marinetti, Vecchi, Pedrazzi, Carli, Susmi, Mazzucatto, Miani, Coselchi… Valiant foreign writers had also joined the Prophet’s crusade, the American Henry Furst, the Belgian Léon Kochnitzky. Other writers were sure to follow.

  When Secondari gazed back over his badly spelled diary entries, he knew that he was not a writer. He was an engineer. Nevertheless, Secondari was amazed by the speed and depth of his own spiritual advancement. Living in Fiume, and entirely conscious of the daily life of Revolution, he was even more Fiuman than the writers were. He had become the pirate engineer among the pirate writers. The molten iron of his discontent had become a cold blue steel.

  The Ace of Hearts was a lion: broad of chest, thick of arm. He dressed entirely in black military gear, and had long, cascading hair and a bristling mustache and beard. The Ace of Hearts had the light, glowing eyes of a predatory beast.

  The Ace of Hearts was a Milanese aristocrat, and also a combat air ace. The Ace was the Prophet’s right-hand man. He brought into being what the Prophet merely foresaw.

  The Ace of Hearts was a renowned expert in aerial reconnaissance. Outside Fiume, the Ace had built him self a secret viewing platform, camouflaged high within an oak tree’s mighty branches.

  This secret, clifftop treehouse gave the Ace a full, strategic overview of the Fiume harbor. From his tree, he could target-spot any incoming planes or possible attack boats. He could see anyone, in short, who might care to spoil the weapons-test that was taking place down at sea level.

  The Ace and Secondari settled into the secret tree-house with a radio set and field binoculars. The Ace had a little stove and a coffee-pot within his treehouse, and a small, select library of Futurist poetry, and even a handy chamber-pot.

  In the pirate utopia of Fiume, the Ace of Hearts was the greatest utopian pirate of all. He was the spymaster, the lord of secrets. The Ace of Hearts was a bandit artist. He broke civilized rules that lesser men could not dream of breaking.

  During the Great War, the Ace of Hearts had killed thousands of men. He did this by conveying his splendid aerial photographs to Italian artillerymen, who had loaded and launched the shells.

  Secondari and the Ace of Hearts were war comrades. This was why the two of them were not civilian participants in city politics, down on the stony beach. They were two warriors, covert and fanatical, perched above and beyond the politicians, with spotter binoculars and a field radio.

  “In half an hour,” said the Ace of Hearts, speaking slowly, clearly, and loudly, into Secondari’s good ear, “we will see if this comedy of yours is your wedding, or my funeral.”

  “Oh, my warheads will detonate, sir,” Secondari promised. “The trick in any modern torpedo is in the motors and the guidance. That tub out there lies at short range. We can’t miss.”

  “If that hulk out there fails to blow sky-high,” said the Ace, “Fiume will be the laughingstock of the world. Do you see all those foreign reporters down there? Those bastards will turn our great spiritual adventure into an Italian comic opera.”

  Secondari was entirely unconcerned. He had already tested the missiles. They were simple, workaday Austrian nautical torpedoes that his Torpedo Factory had been designed to build. The water-borne torpedoes were merely a necessary step toward his true dream of radio-controlled, airborne, Futurist torpedoes.

  He had managed to restore the factory to working order, and built a short production run of the Great War’s favorite nautical bombs.

  He knew for a fact that his torpedoes really worked. Together with the Croat pirates—always his comrades in these ventures—he had quietly motored past the sea-mines that protected the Fiume harbor. They’d found a rusty wreck marooned on an obscure reef near the island of Veglia, launched torpedoes at it, and blown it to scrap.

  “My torpedoes work,” he said. “I don’t care how many Americans are watching. Do you know how many people were watching when torpedoes sank the Lusitania? One thousand, nine hundred and fifty-nine.”

  The Ace of Hearts lowered his binoculars and stared.

  “I understand that you recently stole an armored car, Lieutenant,” he said. “I’ve given you some odd assignments. Stealing a tank wasn’t one of them.”

  “I didn’t steal a tank, just a Lancia-Ansaldo model IZM,” Secondari corrected. “Anyway, they were just some Communists.”

  “The Prophet would probably give you a medal for caning a Communist.”

  “What, one of his own medals?” said Secondari. “Or one of his own Communists?”

  The Ace of Hearts considered this quip. His bearded lips twitched, but he had never been known to laugh aloud. “Was that a risky political joke, Lorenzo? I didn’t know that you Turinese had that in you.”

  He passed his binoculars to Secondari.

  Down on a steep and stony cove east of the city harbor, some wooden bleachers had been erected. Fringed with pines, the stony little theater faced the sea. Out there in the sparkling Adriatic, a worthless old barge had been mocked-up with balsa-wood and cardboard. It looked something like a battleship—maybe an Austrian Imperial battleship, or maybe a British or American battleship… It could be anybody’s battleship, because torpedoes weren’t choosy about the ships they blew to hell.

  The Prophet was presiding over this display. The foreign press corps was in attendance. Many of them had newsreel cameras. The foreign press adored the Prophet. His works were vividly newsworthy.

  It was certainly worthy world news if the Prophet’s “Regency of Carnaro” could successfully manufacture naval torpedoes. Any properly made torpedo could sink any battleship. With a fleet of fast, piratical speedboats equipped with working torpedoes, the tiny Regency of Carnaro could hold the whole Adriatic hostage. After all, during the Great War, German U-boats with torpedoes had done precisely the same thing to the Atlantic Ocean.

  And, given that reality: imagine torpedoes that flew effortlessly over both land and water, and were guided to their targets by invisible, unerring radio beams. What would the world of tomorrow make of that invention?

  Down at the stony beach, a self-propelled howitzer tractor, adorned with roses and Latin slogans, tracked its weapons past the witnesses.

  A crew of Revolutionary sailors dismounted the torpedoes from their wooden sledge. They rolled the long metallic cylinders, with many ceremonial flourishes, onto a flower-strewn pontoon dock. These sailors wore brand-new Regency of Carnaro uniforms—blue, white, and very angular, like costumes for aquatic harlequins.

  The gleaming torpedoes were tenderly lowered into the glistening sea, then dashed with flutes of champagne. The sailors shouted a poetic war-cry. A crackling bugle fanfare sounded from the pole-mounted gramophone loudspeakers.

  Secondari scanned the crowd with his field-glasses. He was searching the crowd for his enemies. Because he had made real torpedo
es, he had also made real enemies. He exulted in having these enemies.

  Because it was a Balkan city, the city of Fiume abounded in inimical factions—more so even than a typical Italian city.

  The Prophet was the city’s Commandant, the military Dictator of Fiume, its guiding light and great orator. However, the Prophet could not protect Secondari from the scheming of the lesser men within his city.

  The Mayor of Fiume was in attendance at the weapons test, along with his entire elected city council. The city councilors of Fiume were, without exception, prosperous and evil men.

  The middle-aged leaders of the “Young Fiume” radicals had arrived within the bleachers. The “Sedi Riuniti” Socialist labor union, too. The Fiume Autonomist Party. The Chamber of Labor. The Apostolic Administrator of the Roman Catholic Church....

  Such a small crowd of people, yet such a grand, tumultuous, many-sided struggle. In Fiume, there were more great world causes to fight about than there were men to represent them.

  Frau Piffer was among all these quarrelsome, Balkanized men. Being a woman, she made a startling figure among all the beards, top-hats, and military brass. Frau Piffer wore the dream-like, unlikely dress of a Carnaro Corporate Syndicalist. She looked like a daffodil on a coal-heap.

  Frau Piffer had also brought her child to witness the glorious event: little Maria Piffer, who was dressed in a blue-striped sailor-suit and a ribboned straw hat.

  Secondari sharpened the focus of his field-glasses. Maria Piffer was the only native of Fiume that Secondari entirely understood. Secondari was deaf, while Maria Piffer scarcely spoke any Italian. The two of them didn’t talk much together. Nevertheless, he and Maria Piffer had become spiritual intimates. They had really found a bond.

  Maria Piffer was a true native child of the Twentieth Century. Maria was entirely at her ease inside a weapons factory. Being seven years old, Maria Piffer hated schools. She despised and feared churches.

  Secondari had even seen Maria Piffer stealing and hiding small, shiny objects from the Torpedo Factory, so that she could keep them for herself. He found this action entirely endearing. He went out of his way to see to it that she got away with doing it.

  In the solemn pews of the wooden bleachers, among the worthy local statesmen, the little pirate child was itchy, restless, and unappeasable.

  Secondari hated his enemies with a wide and generous hatred. In looking them over, he also realized that he didn’t much care for his friends. But Maria Piffer was not like that. She was not of their time, among them but just not one of them.

  He loved Maria Piffer. He wanted her to grow and to thrive.

  If torpedoes blew up everyone on the high seas—if flying bombs blew up everyone in the world—Maria Piffer was the only person he would miss. She was the only one whose grave would leave a hole within him.

  The target barge exploded. Wet fireworks of Adriatic spume flew in every direction. Promptly, the barge exploded a second time. Tall flames jetted hither and yon, and uprising clouds of steam mixed with the plummeting foam. The shattered barge exploded a third time, cracking in half in an orgiastic tumble of shattering, sinking iron.

  The Ace of Hearts methodically scanned the sea and sky for any signs of enemy intervention.

  Secondari rubbed at his right jawbone. The shock wave from the distant bombs had cracked something loose within the ruins of his right ear. He seemed to mystically sense, more than truly hear, the tickling sensation. But his dead ear had, somehow, come back to life.

  “I could swear that I heard three explosions,” he said.

  “That third burst was mine,” said the Ace of Hearts. “I hid two kilos of dynamite inside that hulk, in case your torpedoes were duds.”

  “That is very like you,” said Secondari.

  The Ace of Hearts shrugged his mighty shoulders. “If our great enterprise fails here in Fiume, I’ll have to leave for South America. I wouldn’t much care for a future like that.”

  Secondari scanned the beach with his binoculars. The exulting crowd was recovering their posh, expensive hats, after tossing them in the air. Maria Piffer had escaped her mother’s control during the bursting explosions. The little girl was frolicking alone behind the bleachers.

  “Well,” said Secondari. “That made the headlines for us. And now?”

  “Now,” said the Ace of Hearts, “it’s time that we settle our accounts with the local bourgeoisie down there. Look at those civilian sons of bitches, pretending enthusiasm for your noble feat of arms.”

  “Vico, Gigante, Grossich, Maylander, and Zanella,” Secondari recited. The Ace of Hearts had compiled a handy list of their mutual enemies.

  “Our opponents resent our spiritual greatness and our freedom of action,” said the Ace of Hearts. “They envy us. Once they were great men of property and principle, here in Fiume. These local magnates make it their business to impair our path to destiny.”

  “We have won the War of the Titans,” said Secondari. “We won’t fail at this war of the pygmies.”

  “I was pleased,” said the Ace of Hearts thoughtfully, “when Signor Vico, the owner of your Torpedo Factory, fled Fiume and ran to Zurich.”

  “When you recruited me, sir,” said Secondari, “you told me that I was a desperate pirate. You promised me dirty work. Well, my Croats and I—we grabbed Vico. We smacked him around, shaved his head, and threw him out of town. My only regret is that I didn’t put six bullets through him.”

  “Lorenzo, what can we do about those worthless people of decency? There are always so many more of them than there are visionaries like us!”

  “Do you really want my advice, sir?”

  “Well, yes I do, Lorenzo. I can see by your face that you need to speak that out.”

  “I have a solution for us. But it’s not work for lawyers. Or bankers, or poets, or philosophers. It’s an engineering solution.”

  “Let me hear of it.”

  Secondari pointed north, through the leafy branches of the oak tree, to the rugged castle hill that dominated the city. “Set mortars up there, onto target grids. Shell their mansions before dawn. Catch them all sleeping, with their wives, kids, and kitty-cats. Blow those sons of bitches right off the map!”

  The Ace of Hearts contemplated this proposal. “Well, you and I could certainly do that.”

  “We did that every day, during the war! I know: in peacetime, maybe that sounds ‘dishonorable.’ Well, that’s all just talk! The law means nothing but words on paper. The Croats and I are willing to carry it out!”

  “Are you sure you can do it?”

  “Of course! They are very good pirates, these Balkan people. My pirates aren’t fat gentlemen! They’re not bankers on a city council! They’re the ustashe, they’re the uscocchi, they are true Balkan pirates! So—once they’ve done what’s necessary here in Fiume, just give them a rifle, and a good horse, and fill their rotten teeth with gold! Send them back to their villages! They’ll be fine.”

  The Ace of Hearts thoughtfully stroked his beard.

  “As for me, sir,” said Secondari, “forge me another passport. Then I’m off to America. I can speak English. I don’t mind exile. Goodbye and good luck. Your political problem here in Fiume will be over, it will exist no more. No people, no problem.”

  “You have made me a generous offer,” said the Ace of Hearts. “That is typical of you.”

  “‘I possess what I give away.’ That’s what the Prophet always says to us, isn’t it? Well, fine! I will give myself away for our great Cause of Fiume. I’m willing to do it—if you kill the ruling class! Erase them! Liquidate them without pity. Build the new world on their bones! It’s the only way to make anything that’s fresh and clean! Do it! Then the Future is really yours. Otherwise, never!”

  The Ace of Hearts gazed at him for many heartbeats, without speaking. “Your logic is clear, my friend. However: our Commandant would prefer a more elegant, suave approach to creating a world fit for heroes.”

  “I knew you would say that!�
�� Secondari shouted. “That is gallantry, that’s not a Revolution! I offered you a final solution! You’ll be sorry.”

  “I have heard your offer and I am telling you, ‘no!’” the Ace bellowed. “A man with your skill and commitment is far too valuable for that! You’re my pirate engineer, you’re my best military asset! I can’t throw a man like you away for the sake of killing five fat civilian idiots in this little town! A man with your ability should be building amazing Futurist weapons, fit to terrify the whole world!”

  The Ace pulled a lacquered box of drugs from under his poetry bookcase. Using a brass trench lighter, the Ace of Hearts lit a brown Turkish-leaf cigarette. He passed it to Secondari, then lit another for himself.

  “No more politics from you, all right?” said the Ace of Hearts, blowing smoke. “Your demonstration here was a great success! Your Anarcho-Syndicalist factory has built a native product, right here in Fiume, the whole world will be forced to respect! I congratulate you.”

  Secondari saluted, from where he sat cross-legged on the boards of the secret treehouse. “Thank you, sir.”

  “So, let’s talk practically, eh? Let’s talk about the future of your factory. What new resources do you need from your government? This is the moment to ask me for favors. Be frank.”

  “All right. Give me command over every other industrial factory in this city. I want control of the tobacco factory, the paper factory, the shipyards, and the oil refinery, too. I’ll Syndicalize every one of them. I’ll kick out every fat bloodsucker who holds us back, with all their stupid laws and legal regulations. All the means of production must go directly to the pirate engineers.”

  The Ace of Hearts narrowed his pale eyes. “So. This is your mistress, the Communist, who is talking to me now.”

  “No, no, that’s not true at all! Frau Piffer is not my mistress! I don’t need a woman, I have no time for one. I only have time for the Future.”