The Ice War

by Anders Blixt

  The Ice War

  By Anders Blixt

  To my father.

  He has taught me what is important in life.

  Copyright 2015 Anders Blixt

  Cover by Per Folmer

  Published by Anders Blixt

  Table of Contents

  Alba – a Brief Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Connect to Anders Blixt

  ALBA – A BRIEF INTRODUCTION

  During the Classical Era many philosophers claimed that there must be a vast continent, called Terra Australis Incognita (Latin: “unknown southern land”), in the southern hemisphere to balance the landmasses of Europe, Asia, and Africa in the north. Medieval cartographers frequently inserted this hypothetical land in their maps.

  The Dutch seafarers that explored the Southern Ocean during the 18th century discovered a new continent centred at the South Pole. Captain Pieter Jansen, who charted its coastlines in 1771-75, named it Terra Alba (Latin: “white land”) for its icy wastes. During the 19th century, European geographers started using the shorter form Alba.

  Alba has more than twice the surface area of Europe. Tall mountain ranges, vast ice plains, and dense forests of dark trees characterize its topography. It has extensive geological activity with smoking volcanoes in many locations and therefore earthquakes are common. Powerful eruptions have sometimes obscured the sky and chilled Alba’s climate for years.

  Alba’s most distinctive geographical feature is Acheron, an enormous circular depression in the icy wastes. It is 12,000 feet deep and 1,500 miles in diameter and was probably created by a meteoritic impact many million years ago. At its bottom, air pressure and temperature are notably higher than at sea level. It therefore has a comparatively moderate climate, for instance with liquid water in the central salty Sea of Tears, and unique flora and fauna.

  Alba’s massive central ice sheet is surrounded by a tundra belt, with heaths, bogs and lakes. This zone receives about eight inches of precipitation a year, as little as many desert areas in other continents. But unlike the deserts, the tundra retains its water because there is little evaporation and a layer of permafrost keeps the water at the surface.

  During summer melt water from the permafrost temporarily transforms vast areas into bogs. In those months the tundra displays a rich and colourful flora that supports a varied fauna. Most of these animals hibernate or migrate to the coasts during the cold seasons.

  The ursines, also known as the bear-centaurs, are Alba’s aboriginal intelligent population. They are stronger and bigger than humans and possess a similar intelligence. The ursines have reached the same level of technology as Europe in the 18th century, but their production is pre-industrial. They speak several languages and have developed writing indigenously, but illiteracy is widespread. The population density is low because of the harsh climate. Many ursines live as tribal nomads and herd zegut cattle across the tundra. The warmer Acheron is more densely populated and fragmented in many agricultural ursine realms. Some have been conquered by human powers, while others have voluntarily become protectorates in return for defence and trade arrangements, and a few remain independent.

  The European powers have built a telegraph network that covers most of Alba’s settled areas. The Habsburg Empire and Denmark have begun to build railroads. The ursines are not seafarers, but nowadays human steamers travel on the Sea of Tears. European technicians have also constructed juggernauts, huge steam- or diesel-powered vehicles that are used in flat wilderness regions and on the icy plains.

  Two animals are particularly important to the tundra ursines: the native zegut and the Arctic husky. The nomads’ way of life is governed by the migrations of their zegut herds between grazing areas. That animal’s meat is considered to be a delicacy. Its hide is used for clothes and yurts, i.e., the nomads’ hemispherical tents, and its bones for making tools. The huskies were introduced to the nomads by Danish and Russian explorers in the 19th century and gained widespread popularity as sled dogs.

  Excerpt from Geography for Primary Schools by Francis X. Nelson, Ph.D., Charleston, Carolina Colony, 1936. Reproduced with the publisher’s permission.

  Chapter 1

  The Cassiopeia’s cargo ramp touched the ground with a clonk. I crossed it and stepped down on the cracked concrete of the landing pad. The cold wind smelled of burning coal and dusty roads. The sun stood halfway into the sky to the north-northwest: early afternoon local time. Carrion birds squabbled around a carcass at the nearest warehouse. Denmark’s red and white flag fluttered over the cloudport’s gate and beyond it I glimpsed Fredriksborg’s cluster of dark buildings.

  My destination was the desk for arriving cloudships in the customs office. The officer on duty spoke German with a thick Danish accent: “So you’re coming from Magalhana? We haven’t seen ships from there for a while. Why are you here, garçon?”

  His slur did not surprise me and I responded with a well-rehearsed smile. “My name is Johnny Bornewald, Herr Zollwachtmeister,” I said in cultured German. “We carry spare parts for the governor’s office.”

  His eyes dodged my gaze. “The cargo manifest, garçon.”

  “At the bottom of this bundle, Herr Zollwachtmeister.” I handed over a file with the ship’s documents that the law required for arrivals at foreign cloudports. Some of the sheets were forgeries by our allies in the Dutch intelligence service, but I did not worry about that. Before leaving the Cassiopeia, I had double-checked everything and found no flaws.

  While the officer inspected the papers, I took a look at the surrounding office rooms and storage areas. They were mostly empty and unkempt with a few dirty machines that had not been used for a long time. Whatever cloudships arrived here must make do with their on-board equipment. The cloudport had been built to handle ten or fifteen vessels at the same time, that was obvious, but after the outbreak of war in the northern hemisphere, incoming traffic must have fallen to next to nothing.

  The document bundle hit the desk with a thud. I saw a blue clearance stamp at the top of the first page: FREDRIKSBORGS TOLDKONTOR, GODKENDT, 24 XI 1940.

  “Tell your captain that everything is in order, garçon,” said the officer.

  I looked straight into his face when I picked up the papers. He turned away from me without the salute prescribed by his service regulations. I left the building without a “thank you” and took a few breaths of fresh air to rinse the bitter feelings out of my mind. In my current position I simply had to endure such treatment.

  A grey Cloverland lorry with a partially disassembled biplane on the flatbed drove past me towards the main gate. The words SZENES MEKANIK A/S were stencilled in white on the cab door. A young woman in a blue overall handled the steering wheel; that proved that I had come halfway around the world, because females do not work as teamsters in Europe.

  I have visited many shabby pioneer settlements in Africa and Magalhana, but Fredriksborg – a maze of three-story houses in black wood in the depths of Acheron – was more sombre, more crowded and colder. Each place has its fashion and its manners. This town was unfamiliar to me, so I had selected plain and practical dress: khaki trousers, a grey cotton shirt, a blue wool sweater, a blue winter jacket and a small backpack. A rol
l of Imperial thalers weighed heavily in a pocket, silver coins that are accepted in nooks and crannies all over the world.

  Business practices resemble each other in general everywhere, but it is the small particulars of a place that really matter. We were about to run into trouble in Corli in Magalhana, but fortunately we had realized in time how the system was skewed against foreign traders. We had departed before a court had had time to penalize us for some made-up misstep. It seemed that customs were nicer in Fredriksborg, because when I studied how people behaved in the bazaar, I got the impression that business transactions were handled in a polite and restrained manner. I was not harassed by vendors or beggars despite being an obvious stranger and the dark colour of my skin caused no adverse reactions, unlike in Europe where people frequently snub mischlings like me.

  I strolled through the bazaar until I found my destination: Café Bleu, a hole-in-the-wall establishment in a long alley. The air inside was unpleasantly humid and some water dripped along a wall, probably from a leaky radiator. A blocky radio on a shelf was tuned to a station broadcasting romantic French music. The proprietor, a short old Eskimo, nodded in my direction and stepped behind the broad zinc counter.

  “Good day,” I said in German. “Black coffee, please. Do you have apple cake with vanilla sauce? I haven’t had that…” – I inserted the prescribed brief pause to clear my throat – “…since the leaves fell in the English Garden.” The current contact phrase according to the instructions that I had received before our departure from the Dutch East Indies.

  The proprietor started to prepare a tray for me. “Autumn there … is spring here. But I always have apples in my larder.” Correct response – contact established. He put a steaming cup and a plate with a cake slice on the tray. “One thaler, sir. Use the small table in the rear corner. You’ll be left alone there.”

  I picked up my tray and headed in that direction, while the proprietor lifted a phone receiver and spoke in a low voice. With my back against the wall I let the eyes wander across the café. A gang of teens occupied the remaining three tables. Their mix of skin hues showed that Fredriksborg’s population originated from all possessions of the Danish crown: Scandinavians, Eskimos, South Indians and Afro-Caribbeans. They were dressed in wide trousers and baggy colourful knitted sweaters according to some current fashion trend. One or two looked in my direction, but without suspicion. After all, my part-Indian looks blended well with the crowds. Outside people moved constantly back and forth, stopping every now and then to peek into the small shops along the alley.

  I realized that it might take some time before my contact arrived, so I let my thoughts drift into the past: A clattering propeller pushes a strong wind into my face. Far below me white waves beat at a wide sandy beach. My biplane heads north across the Pomeranian coast to the Baltic Sea. Destination: Gothenburg, Sweden. My first solo flight with the fresh pilot license in my leather jacket. An important rite of passage in my family, a proof of adulthood. But this was only memories and I had not been to Sweden for years. Sometimes I longed to return, but I refused to live under the Russian yoke.

  After eating half of the slice of cake, I pulled Ulrich Franke’s heavy reference book Alba: ein Handbuch from the backpack. Soon I would be off on a long journey through icy wastes and the more I knew in advance, the better would my odds be. The European rebellion had not yet reached this continent, at least not as full-scale military operations, but it cast its shadow over the land.

  Half an hour later a woman in a heavy coat entered the café, nodded at the proprietor and headed for my table. The Eskimo increased the volume of the music.

  I got up to greet her.

  The woman’s dark eyes, striking in such a pale face, met mine without budging. “Hello. I’m Linda Connor.” She spoke clear English, even though her R’s burred in an unusual way. She shook my hand with a surprisingly firm grip for a slender person only five feet tall. I guessed she was about my age, thirty-something.

  “Johnny Bornewald. Hello,” I said in the same language. I had not expected to meet a woman, but she behaved as if her presence was natural. And shaking hands with an unknown dark-skinned man had not troubled here. New continents, new customs, I thought.

  Linda moved dextrously when she shed the coat and revealed khaki trousers and a checked shirt underneath – a workman’s dress. A long knife with a worn handle dangled from the belt. The combination of short black hair, male clothes and a slender physique gave her a boyish look.

  The proprietor served her a cup of herbal tea while they exchanged pleasantries in Danish. I pretended not to understand. When he had left, Linda turned to me: “So, Mr. Bornewald, I’ve been instructed to assist you. What is your business?” She sounded like a civil servant handling an office matter, not like a wartime spy.

  I answered in the same manner: “Industrial intelligence. My destination is Russia’s Mine No 2 in the Montalban Mountains. I have orders to check its current production status. My cover is as an inspector for the mine’s insurance company Société Générale d’Assurance carrying out an unscheduled safety check. You are to be my guide and we will go there overland by juggernaut.”

  “Why not charter an aeroplane?” she asked.

  “I want to surprise them, to prevent them from hiding interesting matters. Aviators must file flight plans in advance and those might go astray before departure,” I said. “Another matter, I need you as an interpreter, too, because I don’t speak Russian.”

  “I grew up at a Russian estate with English-speaking parents so I’m bilingual. I also know German and Danish, because that’s necessary in my trade,” she said.

  I nodded. “Good.”

  “When do you want to leave?” she said.

  “Tomorrow if possible,” I said.

  “It’s possible. But it’ll be a long journey across the ice plateau. Do you have any experience of Arctic climate?”

  She must have made a faulty assumption about my home country from my skin colour, I thought. “I grew up in northern Europe where winters are harsh. I know how to ski and skate, though I haven’t done it for a few years.”

  “Good. See you at the railways station six o’clock tomorrow morning.” A quick handshake over the table and then she left the café as quietly as she had arrived.

  Captain Leclerc waited for me in his cabin. Its confined space reeked of tobacco smoke and not even a cold stream of air from a partially open porthole could disperse the acrid smell.

  “Hello, Johnny.” The captain spoke German out of politeness, because my Dutch was still halting. “A cigarillo?” He gestured toward small wooden box on his desk, partially hidden under mathematical tables, manuals and charts.

  “No thanks, captain,” I said.

  “How did it work out?” he asked.

  “Fine, captain. I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning,” I said.

  “We must service the repeller and it may take weeks to get spare parts,” Leclerc said. “So your absence won’t be inexplicable.”

  I nodded. The Cassiopeia’s landing had been so shaky that I had feared that she might crash.

  He continued: “That incomplete overhaul in Karquim. Now we’re paying for it.”

  I nodded again. On the other hand, we had had to flee that city prematurely because of the Empire’s unexpected attack.

  Leclerc rose from his chair, removed a panel above his bunk and fetched a thick envelope from a hidden compartment. When he moved around, his grey shock of hair almost touched the cabin’s ceiling. He was not remarkably tall, but cloudships are cramped. “Here are your travel documents,” he said.

  I leafed through the papers: cover identities as an insurance inspector and as the Cassiopeia’s trading agent. “Thanks, captain.”

  “Hals- und Beinbruch, Johnny.”

  I entered the cabin that I shared with signalman Willem Laan and started my coffee maker. My colleagues did not share my devotion to the art of brewing coffee, but viewed it as nostalgia. But I was ready to pay a lot
for premium beans, because this was the only one of my old habits I still could indulge in.

  Willem huddled in his bunk with a bundle of newspapers. He looked at me and ran the fingers across the scalp in an attempt to put his unruly black hair into place. “Hello. Did you see a barbershop at the port?”

  “No, this place is just an empty shell. I only saw some customs and service people. You’ll have to walk into town.” I changed subject. “What’s in the news? Anything I should worry about?”

  Willem got out of the bunk and pointed at the map of Alba that I had attached to the bulkhead during the journey from the Dutch East Indies. White indicated ice plains, brown mountain ranges, light grey tundra, and dark grey taiga, whereas the solitary green roundel with a blue splotch in the middle outlined the huge Acheron crater with the Sea of Tears. Human settlements were identified by tiny flags.

  He raised a pencil: “The news speaks of one a current political dispute. Here and here…” – the pencil touched two spots in a brown area – “…are the largest known coal deposits in Alba. Whoever controls them wields a lot of influence.”

  “Does it affect Fredriksborg?” I asked while pouring a fresh cup of hot brew.

  “Only indirectly,” Willem said. “It is a dispute about land rights. When the European powers set up their settlements 30-40 years ago, those deposits had not been found. So the area was not carved up by treaty in the usual manner. And now the war has wrecked all old agreements. Fredriksborg imports coal, so its governor wants to maintain status quo for the time being.”

  “What is Russia’s position?” I asked.

  “To put her diplomatic gobbledygook in three words: leave us alone,” he said.

  I sipped some coffee before responding: “Who quarrels with a bear?” A flippant tone hid my rancour. As a boy I had seen king Peter’s policemen use truncheons on women that demanded bread for their children in a street rally. I had cried without getting consolation, without getting understandable explanations for the cruelty. That night I had resolved to pursue a new course charted by my conscience: our society must change. Soon I found out that my elder brother Abel already had made the same decision and together we entered the shady world of progressive dissenters. Conspiracies and malfeasance became routine when we helped refugees or acquired food for starving people.