Not Less Than Gods (Company)

by Kage Baker

  Still north and northeast, and through the first nasty gale of autumn; there was plenty of sea-room but even Stemme and the pilot got sea-sick, and Hobson and Pengrove were too miserable for description. Pengrove wasted a hat-camera shot on an image of Ludbridge and Bell-Fairfax sitting side by side on a locker, stiffly upright as dogs on point, listening to the howling wind in the shrouds with identical expressions of grim anticipation on their faces.

  The Orn brought them through it all safely, and the next day they bore due north to the bewildering labyrinth of the Aalands. Here they threaded their way between endless little green islands, and attempted to put in at Bomarsund. A Russian official in a fast cutter refused them, and went so far as to board them and demand to see their papers. He glared at the talbotype camera and, in examining it, managed to drop and break it, with a not-quite-disguised deliberateness. He managed to conceal a smile as the forlorn Englishman in the absurd straw hat picked up the brass lens tube, which had completely parted company with the box, and looked as though he might burst into tears.

  Thereafter Pengrove leaned sadly at the rail, gazing out at the vast modern fortifications and fiddling with his lapel. The Russian, having had his temper soothed by the tactful Danish captain, accepted a glass of akvavit and departed.

  “It was just as well he broke the camera,” Stemme told Ludbridge, as they watched the cutter sailing away. “Photographing a fortress is uncomfortably close to spying, you know.”

  “Well, of course, in time of war,” said Ludbridge. “The case could be made, however, that timely warning helps save lives on both sides.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it,” said Stemme, with a rueful laugh. “Especially if I want to ease my conscience.”

  He went off to relieve the pilot at the wheel. Bell-Fairfax, who had been leaning at the rail beside them, edged closer to Ludbridge.

  “We are spies, of course,” he said in a low voice. “Of course we are, son.”

  “But it was true, wasn’t it, what you said about Britain spreading civilization more effectively than anyone else?”

  “Yes, quite true.”

  Bell-Fairfax stared out at the island coastlines, slipping away aft as Stemme took them out to sea again. “Looking at all those little homesteads, I couldn’t help thinking of China again.”

  “Ah! Good point. Damned barbaric interlude, no question of that. Still . . . one rides the horse, even though the horse seldom acts like a gentleman. As long as he is capable of carrying us to our destination, we don’t look too closely at his morals.”

  “We being the Society?”

  “We being the Society. I don’t envy those members living in the Roman Empire, at its height. Think of the compromises with their consciences they must have had to make, eh? No, we have it a great deal easier. Any nation commits crimes, in its long career, and England’s no exception. Still, progress has been made since Rome, and England’s star is in the ascendant. We’re lucky to be Britons.”

  “I would like to be proud of my country,” said Bell-Fairfax quietly.

  “Of course you would.” Ludbridge took out a cigar and lit it. Puffing, he waved out his lucifer and went on: “And I’ve no doubt that when the great day comes and there are no empires any longer, but only a council of enlightened nations, England will be foremost among them. Still, you know, it doesn’t really matter who rules that council. The Englishman will look at the black or Chinese and see only a fellow man, as like him as a brother. The black or Chinese will look back out of the mirror and see the same thing. That will be the day wars end, you mark my words.”

  They flew before another gale into Helsinki, through patches of ice-crust and under falling sleet, and presented such a wretched spectacle as they struggled ashore that the Russian harbormaster waved them into his parlor and served out vodka by the stove all around before he even asked to see their papers. His kindness extended to directing them to a hotel, whence they staggered and dried themselves.

  The storm raged for two days. When it abated at last they emerged and wandered along the quays, with Pengrove busily deploying the hat-camera to photograph the shipyards and fortifications. They climbed a hill and had a splendid view of the fortress-island of Sveaborg. After purchasing supplies and sailing out of the harbor they made a slow circuit of the walls there, and Pengrove photographed them from every angle.

  1850: “There Are Shades Which Will Not Vanish”

  “It’s just as daunting in the flesh,” murmured Bell-Fairfax. They were standing at the rail of the Orn as she slipped through the narrow channel past Kronstadt. Before them, behind them and to either side, the multiple fortresses rose straight from the water, like so many scowling policemen blocking a road, and the water was crowded with steamers and sailing vessels flying the flags of every seafaring nation.

  As a mere yacht the Orn was not required to put in at Kronstadt, having no cargo to declare, but a Russian pilot had come aboard and taken the wheel. A Russian customs official had come aboard with him and made them all turn out their pockets to prove that they had no Russian money in them, which would have been tantamount to admitting that they were counterfeiters trying to destroy the Russian economy. Satisfied that they were not, the official was now going through their luggage on deck.

  Ludbridge, with a bland smile, opened all the false compartments of his trunk and displayed endless unsavory bundles of unwashed laundry. The Russian looked disgusted and gestured for him to close it up.

  Coming to the Aetheric Transmitter, the Russian scowled at the gold letters and said something to Stemme, presumably asking what a Pressley’s Patented Magnetismator might be. Stemme replied, presumably explaining. The Russian shook his head and said something else.

  “Bugger,” muttered Ludbridge. “What’s he want?”

  “He says he will have to confiscate it,” said Stemme.

  “Oh, I say, that won’t do at all!” Hobson stepped forward, pulling his doctor’s certificate from inside his coat. “Look here—have to have this for my health, what? Get the, er, nervous prostrations without it, indeed I do!” He held the certificate under the customs official’s nose while Stemme hastily translated. The Russian peered at the certificate, uncomprehending. He shook his head and said something else.

  “He says he thinks it is contraband.”

  “Contraband! What? No! Look, this is what happens when I can’t use it!” cried Hobson, and proceeded to throw a fairly good imitation of a fit, beginning with a generalized palsy and intensifying it until he dropped to the deck, flailing about and spraying spittle. “Help! Help! Oh, my poor nerves! Oh, what shall I do?”

  “Here you are, poor chap!” Bell-Fairfax fell to his knees and, opening the case, withdrew the earpieces and put them on Hobson’s head, for Hobson’s hat had come off in his dramatic demonstration. He reached back and turned a switch on the transmitter. Hobson went limp at once, with his tongue lolling out and an expression of beatific peace on his vacant features.

  “You see?” Bell-Fairfax stood up, looking into the customs official’s face. “He must have his machine. You really cannot take it from him. You understand that now, I’m sure.”

  Stemme translated. The Russian, staring back at Bell-Fairfax, blinked and frowned. “Is this going to work when he doesn’t understand what you’re saying?” said Ludbridge under his breath.

  “I sincerely hope so,” said Bell-Fairfax, smiling at the Russian, who said something back to Stemme.

  “He says you should not take such an invalid traveling,” said Stemme. Bell-Fairfax held out his hands, palms up.

  “Yes, very true, but our poor friend does so want to see the magnificent city of St. Petersburg before he dies! It has long been his dearest wish, for London has nothing to compare with it.”

  The Russian grunted. He pulled his gaze away from Bell-Fairfax and, stepping back, prodded the transmitter with his foot. He said something.

  “He says to close it up. He must seal all your luggage,” said Stemme.
r />   This, apparently, meant that they were cleared for going ashore. The pilot guided them through brackish channels and the tidal mudflats of the Neva, leaving the Gulf of Finland behind them. Low islands were passed, to port and starboard, and then abruptly the geometry of a modern city was around them on all sides, as they moored before the customs house on the battery point known as the Strelka.

  Here they disembarked and were obliged to go through inspection again. Stemme and the Orn’s steersman bid them a pleasant farewell, having no business with the officials other than to certify that they were dropping off chartered passengers and were bound back to Denmark.

  “But you will not have to wait long before your contact arrives,” said Stemme in a low voice, shaking Ludbridge’s hand as they emerged from the customs office. “Safe journeys, my friend. And enjoy your time in St. Petersburg! It may be a city built on the dead, but it is rationally and geometrically built on the dead.”

  “What did that mean?” inquired Bell-Fairfax, as they watched the Orn backing and filling, preparatory to putting out to sea again.

  “No idea,” said Ludbridge.

  “Can we hire a porter?” said Pengrove, sitting down on his trunk.

  “No idea,” said Ludbridge, looking around. “Here, you! Parlez-vous Français?”

  This produced a notable lack of response in those working along the waterfront, though one or two persons gave Ludbridge rather a cold look and continued on their way.

  “Hallo! Don’t suppose any of you lot know where a man might purchase cigars?” Ludbridge bellowed.

  “I think this chap knows,” observed Hobson, pointing to a Russian who was approaching them with an agitated air. He was stout and bespectacled, round and red of face.

  “What becomes of illusions?” he said in English, addressing Ludbridge.

  “We dispel them.”

  “And we are everywhere. You would be Mr. Ludbridge? Cyril Borisovich Nikitin, at your service.”

  “How d’you do?” Ludbridge shook his hand. “My associates: Mr. Hobson, Mr. Pengrove, Mr. Bell-Fairfax.”

  Nikitin shook hands with them, though when he came to Bell-Fairfax he had to crane his neck back to look up at him. “My God! What are you, Peter the Great? That’s a compliment! He was our greatest success.”

  “I’m afraid he is rather tall, yes,” said Ludbridge. “We’re all very pleased to meet you. Might we arrange for a porter or two?”

  “Immediately,” said Nikitin, and after a moment’s impassioned harangue had convinced a porter to load their trunks onto a cart and follow them along the waterfront to a great building on the other side of the Strelka, facing out across another branch of the Neva. Here the porter was paid off and the baggage unloaded; Nikitin bid them wait a moment and ran inside for another handcart.

  While he was gone they stared around. The vast edifice before which they stood and the equally impressive edifices across the river were all of a pastel wedding-cake prettiness, beautiful examples of Enlightenment architecture. Only here and there, where a gilded dome rose against the skyline, were they reminded that this was Rus sia. The whole effect was of lightness, spaciousness, mathematical and geometric perfection.

  “Here we go,” said Nikitin breathlessly, emerging with the cart. “Load these on and we’ll go into my office. I have an elevating room that will take us down to the headquarters. This is the museum. Welcome to the Kabinet of Wonders in the Kunstkamera! Clever, yes?”

  “Not entirely by chance, I imagine?”

  “No, of course not, though it was harder than you’d think—His Royal Highness came to distrust us at the end, such a pity, but by that time he didn’t really trust anybody. But what can one do? A czar is a czar. That was Peter the Great, young man, and I hope you won’t take offense—he too was extraordinarily tall, just about your height.”

  “None taken, sir,” said Edward, but a little stiffly nonetheless.

  Nikitin led them in and through a maze of corridors to a small office. “Here we are . . . please excuse the untidiness, won’t you? My dear young giant, will you be so kind as to reach up and push on that bit of crown molding? Yes! How wonderful! I always need to climb to the very top of the stepladder, myself. And . . . there.”

  A section of wall panel slid open and revealed the ascending room beyond. They followed Nikitin inside and the compartment promptly dropped with them, a smooth descent to an unknown depth.

  “This is an exceptionally beautiful city,” said Pengrove.

  “Thank you! It’s the very antithesis of a medieval warren of hovels, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. I wonder if you might explain something—I hope you won’t take offense—it’s simply that Mr. Stemme said something a bit puzzling—”

  “Stemme? Yes, good man, Stemme. What remark was that?”

  “He said this was a city built on the dead.”

  “And so it is.” Nikitin turned and gave them a somber look. The room slid to a stop and the door opened; they stepped out into a brick-lined corridor, clean and dry, lit by vacuum lamps, but with an unmistakable smell of dankness somewhere.

  “Our czar who built this city, Peter the Great, won this land from Sweden but it was nothing, a swamp, a muddy mess with only the advantage that it opened on the sea. He loved the sea, that man. And our people, which is to say the Kabinet of Wonders, had tutored him to love the modern world too. We made certain that the young boy traveled to other lands and saw how accomplished, how civilized and progressive, other countries were. He went home and, as we had meant him to do, set about dragging Old Rus sia out of the medieval darkness. He did many excellent things for his country, our young man. But he ruled like a medieval despot, because that was the only way any czar had ever ruled.

  “This city, yes, is as beautiful as a dream. He brought in splendid minds from the finest courts of the West to design it. Then he brought in serfs, ragged and beaten slaves, and worked them to death raising its foundations from the water. It was hard to build solid land, in all these mudflats. Hard to get enough stones. The serfs died in their thousands and when they did, their bodies were thrown into the excavations, shoring up the walls.

  “Come, I’ll show you something.” He sidestepped into a small passageway and brought them to an alcove. It opened on a dark room, and as they entered they had the impression the place was a chapel. Banks of flickering candles lit it. Before them were six tombs of dark red granite, innocent of any names or dates. On the wall above each one was a life-sized painting on a wooden panel, like an icon. Each depicted a man in scarlet robes, richly trimmed and ornamented in gold leaf. But there were no Cyrillic letters spelling out names or titles, nor were the figures staring forward like saints, nor were their hands raised to bless.

  Instead, each man held in his slack hand a tool of some kind, chisel or shovel or mattock. Each man’s face was individual, distinct, yet all were gray, lined and exhausted looking, and all had their eyes shut as though they slept.

  “Portraits of the dead. We found them when we were digging here, hiding away our headquarters under the museum.” Nikitin spoke softly. “They were perfectly preserved; they’d been thrown into anaerobic mud, so deep and so cold they never rotted. We autopsied them, we studied them, we made careful drawings of them, we learned all we could from each dead man, but of course not his name. All we could do for them was give them new burials here, with as much honor and ceremony as we could provide. And they are only six, out of the thousands we know must lie all around us.

  “They are martyrs, after all, to the future we wanted to bring to Russia. We think it is good to have them here, to remind us of the human cost of our plans. Remember them, when you walk the streets in the sunlight above.”

  They went on past other alcoves, but here living men worked or sat in quiet discussion. All in all it was not very different from Downstairs at Redking’s. In a great vaulted room with a roaring fire at one end, Nikitin poured out vodka for them.

  “To your very good he
alth,” said Ludbridge, raising his glass.

  “To the great day,” said Nikitin, and they drank. “Ah. We have arranged rooms at a private house for you, on Anglisky Avenue just across the river. We have a private tunnel that connects to it, very useful; no one will see you arrive. This is good, since the Third Section has been more than usually intrusive lately. Not that they are likely to interfere with you much, but it never hurts to obscure one’s tracks a little, whoever one may be.”

  “What’s the Third Section?” asked Hobson.

  “Our secret police,” replied Nikitin. He shook his head and poured himself another shot of vodka. Hobson held out his glass and Nikitin obliged with a refill. “The present czar was not one of our students, you see. We tutored his older brother, Alexander; same story as with Peter the Great. We laid the proper foundation but the instincts of a despot won out in the end . . . and then our man ran off and became a monk and we had little Nicholas Pavlovitch to deal with. Look how long it has taken us to get a single railway in this country!”

  “I gather the present fellow is difficult to control?”

  “Completely uncontrollable. A fine old reactionary throwback, ruling with an iron fist. Instituted the Third Section. Imagines himself the policeman of Europe, determined to suppress every liberal revolution anywhere.

  “Of course we had men in place tutoring the Czarevich, and the man promises well, nothing like his father. But, really, sometimes we feel like a bunch of Sisyphuses down here! We roll the rock of state uphill, and every time we make a little progress the rock slips and goes rolling backward into the Dark Ages.”

  “Ah! But that’s the very reason we’ve come,” said Ludbridge. “We’re bringing you a block and tackle, so to speak. You have an Aetheric Transmitter and Receiver set, I believe?”