Baltic Gambit: A Novel of the Vampire Earth

by E. E. Knight

  “Hard for someone as beautiful as you to be inconspicuous,” he said. “In the fight last month, I’ve no memory of seeing you at all while it was going on—I don’t mean that as an accusation. I was focused on my gun sights. Watching you would have been a distraction.”

  He’d been avoiding flirting with her since they landed in Halifax until this instance. But this was the nicest kind of flirting.

  She let it lie.

  He rose, wobbled for a moment as his legs got used to the deck again. “Want a hot drink from the galley?”

  “Not just now,” she said. She had a lot to sort out about him. Parts of him she admired, but there was another half of him she didn’t quite trust. He was reasonably safe on a trip with plenty to eat and drink, so his penis was moving up the to-do list. Overly attentive men were usually this way right until they were sexually satisfied, but then they lost interest until the juices built up again.

  “You and David have a past; am I right?” he asked.

  “We’ve been partners on three big jobs and two campaigns. That doesn’t count the Rising in Ozarks a few years back, either. We’re like any couple of partners who’ve served in a high-stress, high-risk job.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It’s kind of like a marriage with no sex.”

  “Kind of like a marriage, in other words.” He chuckled at his own joke. She always found that annoying.

  “Wouldn’t know. I haven’t been married,” she said. “Doubt I ever will be. I think I’ll have that drink after all.”

  They went down to the galley for more punch. Ahn-Kha was asleep, stretched out on the forward cabin floor like a bearskin rug. Valentine was reading one of the English books in the little ship’s library, and Sime was shaving his head in a basin, checking his reflection in a mirror.

  “It’s getting cool up on deck,” she said, grabbing her scarf.

  Valentine looked up from his book—she couldn’t see the title, but it was thick—and the others ignored her.

  Back on deck, they tried to get the talk going again, but the camaraderie was gone and everything was awkward. They settled for watching the wake. Duvalier spoke a little of the seasickness, now vanished in the calmer summer Baltic.

  Valentine’s Polish gal at the wheel had been replaced by another crew member. The Polish sailing master, or whatever her title was, had a blanket around her shoulders and dozed in a hammock chair as she waited to be called by a nudge of the helmsman’s foot. The fishing boats had autopilots that could maintain course for a while; perhaps with sailcraft the wind had to be taken into account in ways a machine couldn’t handle.

  Von Krebs came up on deck. He avoided them, lighted a cigar and politely smoked it downwind from them. He leaned against the rail, watching them with hands in his pockets except for the moments when he flicked cigar ash overboard.

  The steady stare made her nervous. He looked like he was sizing them up to determine worth in trade. Would he hand them over to seagoing bounty hunters? No, if he was a resource with the Baltic League, he must possess a trustworthy enough background.

  She didn’t care for being stared at. She watched the ship’s wake, so different from the churned water left by a propeller-driven vessel. The mild Baltic night and small waves meant that the Windkraft left a long, hairpinlike wake under her sails.

  Something blacker than the night water appeared in the far wake briefly, disrupting the wave pattern. All she could make of it was that it was dark and shiny. Water ran off its back in little sheets and rivers in all directions. It disappeared at the same one-two-three pace that it appeared, leaving a flat circle of water.

  Something about it sent anxious pins up her spine. Maybe in daylight it would have been less ominous… .

  “What was that?” she asked, pointing.

  No one else had seen it. A couple of the sailors searched astern, exchanging quiet words in their own language. The helmsman glanced over his shoulder and Von Krebs came back to the rail.

  “What did you see?” he asked.

  “A black something breaking the water. It came up and went down again, maybe five seconds in all.”

  “Hmmm. Could you say anything about its size?” Von Krebs asked.

  Some sensor in Stepanek alerted, and she opened her eyes and rose. She blinked at the wake.

  “As big as a rowboat, maybe,” Duvalier said.

  “Was there a fin?” Stepanek asked. “Did it blow water into the air?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I didn’t hear a noise, but it was some ways off. Something broke water, but it wasn’t a fin.”

  Von Krebs scanned the water. “It could have been a whale. There are many whales in the Baltic year-round.”

  “Was it just one creature, or several close together?” Stepanek asked.

  “It could have been several, I suppose. It didn’t rise out of the water by more than a foot.”

  “Big—,” Stepanek started to say.

  “Foot? Oh, yes, a foot,” Von Krebs said. “Twelve inches. I forget you Americans still use old English measures. Well, keep watching. Whales will sometimes come up and say ‘hello.’ Porpoises, too, for we will drive fish and create a bow wave they can ride.”

  She watched the water for fifteen more minutes, trying to look out on both sides as well as to the rear, but then gave up. Perhaps the whale, if it was a whale, had been travelling in a southerly direction while they headed northeast. Still, she doubted it was a whale; didn’t they expel a lot of water with the air in their lungs? She didn’t know much about it beyond “thar she blows” from childhood reading.

  Stepanek didn’t settle back down into her napping chair, either; instead she swept the stern regularly with her gaze. Maybe it was just paranoia on her part. She just wasn’t used to travelling this far this easily.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Kokkola on the Gulf of Bothnia, Finland: The city of Kokkola is an ancient gateway between Sweden and Finland, roughly halfway up the serrated Finnish coast on the Gulf of Bothnia. The “old” town is old indeed, dating to the fifteenth century, with tidy little homes representing traditional Finnish wooden architecture.

  In 2022 it was considered a small Scandinavian hub in a good location for meetings and conferences. Hotels and meeting space, built in the clean-lined, open style of the region, filled every summer with organizations looking to take advantage of the glorious far-north summer weather and long, idyllic nights—in July the sun rises around three thirty in the morning and doesn’t set until eleven thirty or so in the evening.

  Since the arrival of the Kurians, the population that was once roughly fifty thousand Finns has swelled to roughly one hundred fifty thousand people, in the form of émigrés from all over the Baltic. They brought with them their determination not to end up under the heel of the Kurians. Finland, now militarized to a greater extent than at any time since the “Winter War” when the Soviet Union invaded on the eve of the Second World War, maintains a small naval base, an army garrison, and a two-plane and two-helicopter military airfield for keeping an eye on the coastline. The forces assembled there are neither so great that it is considered an important military center in the great strategy rooms of Europe nor so small that independent headhunters or Kurian warships dare raid that section of the coast.

  Ease of access by sea or air, conference space, and a few local amenities made the Baltic League select Kokkola as the location for the Ninth All-Freehold Conference. Seven hundred delegates (and their translators) from fifty-one freeholds or remote, unorganized territories made the trip, not even knowing their final destination until they arrived at the jump-off point designated by the Baltic League for the last leg of their voyages. The largest and most far-reaching shortwave news network set up a special broadcast center, though to hide the location of the conference a little longer, the broadcast aerial went across and by undersea cable to Sweden before being tra
nsmitted out to the world from an old military base north of Stockholm. All their broadcasts had a thirty-second delay, allowing censors to squelch any inadvertent information that might reveal the location of the conference.

  The conference was expected to last two weeks. As events turned out, it became a near–record breaker, running to the very last day of that fateful July. The conferences usually made history in the form of long-range planning for picking off weaker Kurian Zones and helping to better establish new freeholds. No one, least of all the delegates from Southern Command and Kentucky, could have guessed just how much history would be made at this meeting.

  The light hardly ever stopped this far north. It went full dark only as the clock approached midnight, and dawn came again before three. Even with all that sunlight, the summer heat never felt oppressive; there was a golden quality to the shine rather than the midsummer hot hammer she had grown used to beating down on her neck. Duvalier felt like a plant; the sun of the northern latitudes seemed to energize her.

  They passed a pretty little island with a lighthouse set above some abandoned-looking buildings, and as that receded into the summery morning mists they entered Kokkola waters, guided by freshly painted buoys.

  “Someone has been at work here for your meetings,” Stepanek said. “The last time I was here, two rusty old buoys were all I had to go on. Good thing it is not a difficult harbor in these days.”

  “In these days,” Duvalier had learned, was a common expression among Balts, or whatever you called the mélange of Scandinavians, Finns, Russians, Germans, and so on who used these waters.

  Duvalier was enough of a deepwater sailor by now to sense the change in the air and current as they glided into the glassy Bothnian Bay waters under a brilliant blue sky.

  “The waters are like the Caribbean,” Valentine said, as he stood at the rail with her. Stepanek was busy navigating the Windkraft into the harbor, using a little motor that she learned existed on their second day out. Valentine had neither sought nor avoided Stepanek’s company, though she’d heard them after a meal on the middle night of the passage discussing her art acquisitions. He did relish a chance to have a conversation unconnected with the Kurian Order.

  They passed a single ship on patrol, a tough-looking armed tug with a cannon up front and some kind of antiaircraft set of machine guns to the rear. It even had a spinning radar antenna.

  “Monitor,” Von Krebs called to Stepanek as they approached. “Use the confirmation signal.”

  Stepanek signaled them with a small searchlight, clacking out some sort of code. The tugboat flashed a brief acknowledgment.

  After that, Von Krebs helped out with the rigging forward, following Stepanek’s commands. They made one more turn and found enough wind to bring them the rest of the way into the harbor under sail.

  “Did you ever see that creature in our wake again?” Valentine asked.

  She hadn’t, and said so.

  “I talked to Stepanek. The real danger in the Baltic when you’re at sea are Big Mouths. They’ve found torn-up boats with the crews missing. They just climb on board and eat everyone. It’s bad enough that there’s a permanent bounty on them, payable with jawbones brought into any Baltic League–controlled port.”

  She shrugged. “It looked like one big creature to me, not a school, but then I only saw it for a second. Doesn’t seem to matter now that we’ve made it.”

  The harbor side of Kokkola was festooned with the flags of all the freeholds, attending or otherwise. It was quite a display. Duvalier didn’t recognize a third of the flags.

  Some men in an inflatable motorboat roared out to them and threw a line. Their little boat then gently pulled and nudged the Windkraft up against the quay.

  A greeter, a milk-skinned woman in a powder blue suit with a yellow scarf, met them wharfside, calling first in Swedish—for the name of the ship and the language, according to the answer provided by Von Krebs.

  “Windkraft. English,” returned Von Krebs.

  “Thank you,” the woman answered. “What area do you represent, and how many are you?”

  “Five total, from the United Free Republics and the Kentucky Alliance. Two voting delegates. The rest are attending.”

  “Welcome to Finland and the Baltic League, allies,” she said, showing a brilliant and presumably genuine smile. The Windkraft bumped up against the wharf, and some dockhands in what looked like brand-new clothes tied her up and secured the gangplank.

  Duvalier had a moment’s disquiet at the newness of everyone’s apparel. That was the sort of thing that could mean a trap. Or it could just mean the Finns were putting on a show to impress their international guests.

  They had to say their good-byes and thank-yous to the crew of the Windkraft.

  “What will you do now?” Valentine asked Stepanek and Von Krebs.

  “We will return you at the end of July, when the conference is over,” Stepanek said. “I am not sure of the exact route yet, but I know it is to the north, across the Gulf of Bothnia. I believe they mean to take advantage of the summer and keep you far from any Kurian areas for the journey home.”

  Valentine nodded. “During the conference, what will you be doing?”

  Stepanek shrugged. “Rest. Enjoy the summer weather. I will take a little trip to Helsinki. It is too bad you have these meetings. You could see the private collection.”

  “What about you, Krebs?” Valentine asked.

  “Von Krebs. The Windkraft will go for a refit. I know some people a little way south on the coast, among the islands. They are wanderers like myself, refugees given the house by the Finns with the understanding that they would restore it. A very beautiful spot. I will have a holiday. Meetings do not interest me. Perhaps do some kayaking if the weather remains favorable. Finnish summers, spirits, and saunas are not to be missed.”

  “I’m jealous,” Duvalier said.

  “You may perhaps wish to spend a weekend? It is a large home, at least by Finnish standards. I do not think my hosts will mind.”

  “Will you be attending any of the sessions?” she asked Von Krebs.

  “Ha! No, not my sort of thing at all. I do understand there will be some fine dinners and parties at night. You may expect me at some of them. If you wish to visit, or explore this forest coast in the Windkraft once the maintenance is done, simply leave me a message at the conference center.”

  That let Von Krebs out as the agent, then, unless he intended to chitchat his way to information about what had transpired that day.

  “Aren’t you part of the Refugee Network?” Valentine asked Von Krebs.

  “Yes, I have certain connections that let me smuggle more-prominent individuals out of central Europe. But even so, I am a small fish. They do not need me to do much more than ensure that attendees such as yourself arrive and depart in safety. I would rather enjoy the summer weather outside, you see. And the social atmosphere. This is a very ‘big deal’ as you Americans say for this coast. Influential people will be coming from Helsinki, Oslo, Stockholm, St. Petersburg, even Copenhagen, though the Kurians control that even more than they do Oslo or Stockholm.”

  She didn’t much like Von Krebs, but he’d improved, like Pistols, over the days they’d been together. She might take him up on it at that. Save her from having to watch Valentine snuffle around his Polish sailor’s well-muscled crotch like a hound on a hot scent.

  At the bottom of the gangplank they were directed to the Ostrobothnian Center. A rattly old blue and white school bus waited for them, or they could walk a few kilometers, following a simple map provided by the woman at the quayside. There were also a few “city bikes,” in the same blue and white, available for borrowing.

  They decided to walk to the hotel together. Ahn-Kha carried far more than his fair share, and stayed at the back of the line, with Valentine falling in at the front. Maybe she wasn’t the only one put off
by the fresh paint on everything and the new clothes on everyone.

  It was a tidy little city and Duvalier found herself admiring the well-organized Finns. They had many of the same difficulties as the Canadians in Halifax, but you wouldn’t know that the town had burst its seams thanks to a flow of refugees. Maybe the town fathers or whoever was running the joint ordered the residents to haul in the laundry and tie up the dogs.

  Ahn-Kha attracted a good deal of attention. She’d seen some Big Mouth jaws hanging in the windows of sea outfitters near the wharf, but she doubted if they’d ever seen Gray or Golden Ones up here. The children, as usual, dashed out into the street to touch his fur or point at his ears, twisting this way and that at sounds of the city. Ahn-Kha bore the circus-sideshow attention with his usual good humor, and began to sing what she guessed was a bluegrass song he’d picked up in Kentucky. Soon he had a throng of kids dancing about him, the girls in little impromptu ring-around-the-rosy circles and the boys doing stomping dance moves that she couldn’t quite place in her experience.

  There wasn’t much traffic to endanger the kids, luckily. The sparse vehicular traffic was powered by either natural gas or muscle, though there were a few larger trucks parked in the alleys that seemed to be fitted out for diesel. She’d heard there was still plenty of oil up around the Arctic Circle, and they were near enough.

  They passed a couple of parks, some theaters, and a lively strip with cafés and restaurants. German seemed to be the unofficial second language according to the menus in the cheaper eatery windows, French in the tonier ones, but there were a couple of cards in English as well.

  The hotel was one of the taller buildings away from the city center, and once out of the denser blocks and in the park ring they were able to follow its roofline to the entrance even without the map.

  The hotel reminded Duvalier a little of a ski jump; it had that same triangular shape with an upswept curve. On the curve side there were many little terraces, so each floor had a nice patio looking out on the Gulf of Bothnia. The sunset views would probably be spectacular.