by Anders Blixt
The coffee mug trembled for a moment in my hand. “Do you want to see my Dutch passport?”
“Passports are easy to forge. And I actually believe that yours is genuine. However, your backpack contains things that no Dutch cloudman should possess. That binocular, for instance. I haven’t seen anything like it before.”
I remained silent to gather my thoughts. I had to make up an explanation that would sound credible to a Russian intelligence officer. “I’m a Dutch spy, working for the Inlichtingendienst. My mission is to monitor Alban developments that affect the interests of our realm.”
“The Netherlands is a petty country at the fringe of the worst war in Europe for fifty years. What’s your interest in Alba? Why do you carry so many strange gadgets?” Akhmatov’s calm voice made me shiver.
“We depend on international trade. You may grumble about our wheeling and dealing with the Habsburg Empire, Russia and the republics at the same time, but we have to. Our cloudships and merchantmen travel all over the globe, you know that. I work alone in a hostile environment so I’ve got equipment to aid me. That binocular is a cutting-edge design from Carl Zeiss in Duisburg,” I said.
“It looks like something out of a French adventure movie. And it has no Zeiss markings,” said Akhmatov.
“That red stove over there is a sophisticated device. I don’t understand how it can stay functional for so long periods without supervision,” I said.
“Nor do I. But it has been built by Russia’s foremost savants. Not by a pipsqueak state like the Netherlands.” Akhmatov advanced toward me with a kitchen knife in his hand, his face expressionless. I scurried out of the bunk, getting ready for a brawl that I knew I would lose.
Suddenly Akhmatov’s head jerked aside and he gasped with pain. A slim knife protruded from right side of his neck. He dropped his weapon and grasped for the knife’s handle while blood splattered the floor around him.
I stepped forward and kicked at his right knee. He dodged by staggering backward while he waved his arms at me. A second knife hit his shoulder. I stopped for a moment. Akhmatov sat down with a thump and once again reached for his neck. I used the brief opening to kick him in the chest with great force. His torso fell backward and his skull slammed into the stone floor. He shivered for an instant and lay still.
Dead? Yes, my fingers confirmed that he had no pulse. I backed off and checked the room.
Linda squatted in her bunk with a third throwing knife ready. “Johnny, are you okay?”
I sat down in my bunk. The hands trembled uncontrollably. “Yes,” I whispered. “You saved my life.”
Linda got down and sat next to me. Her face was stiff and pale.
“You’re an ace,” I continued.
“That’s necessary for a plebeian woman fighting in this war, isn’t it?” Her voice was flat.
“That’s why you’re a rebel?” I asked.
“I don’t want to be a third-class citizen: woman and riffraff. Do you understand that?” she said.
“Yes, I do. Look at the colour of my skin.” I did not have the mental energy to continue the conversation, so I got up, dragged the corpse into a corner and covered it with blankets. Meanwhile Linda wiped the floor with a towel. When I checked my backpack, I saw that Akhmatov had not damaged any device during his inspection.
I decided to inspect the strange stove. It was completely enclosed by a metal casing and appeared to work without combustion. A yellow band of stencilled Cyrillic letters ran along one side with the words Опасность для жизни in a larger font than the rest. “Linda, what does this say?” I pointed at the text.
Linda squatted next to the stove and translated: “Mortal danger! This unit contains substances that emit ionizing radiation. This unit may only be disassembled by certified personnel. Covering the unit’s exterior may cause fire. Date of assembly: 27 November 1936. To be decommissioned: 27 November 1946.” She looked at me. “Do you understand this?”
“Yes. Have you heard of ionizing radiation?” I said.
“No.”
“There are elements that are naturally unstable. Their atoms break apart and turn into other elements while emitting invisible particles or rays. It is called ‘atomic decay’ and it can be harmful to living tissue,” I said.
“I learned in school that atoms are indivisible,” she said.
“Well, some physicists have discovered that nature is more complex than that,” I said. “Anyhow, certain of those elements become warm during decay and this stove apparently uses that property to produce heat for years. I had no idea that was possible, but I’m no physicist. And I did not know that Russia had reached so far in this field.”
Linda moved to a bunk and motioned me to sit next to her. “How come you know so much about this?”
“Do you know who Alfred Nobel was?” I said.
“The man who invented dynamite?” Linda said.
“That’s right. Towards the end of his life, he resided in one of the Italian states. The Pan-European war in the 1890s shattered his trust in the existing societies. He was rich and without heirs, so he willed his wealth to the establishment of the Nobel Institute, an independent foundation that is charged with furthering peace through science. That’s my employer. Nobel specified that the institute would reside in Hamburg, an independent city state that he thought was peaceful. The institute has recruited many brilliant physicists: Danish Niels Bohr, Swiss Albert Einstein, Lise Meitner and Leo Szilard from the Habsburg Empire. Their ideas about the inner nature of matter are revolutionary,” I said.
“I’ve never heard of that, but I’ve only been to primary school,” said Linda.
“The institute is discreet. We’re in the middle of a war,” I said. “Anyhow, now I have proof that the Russians have known about decaying elements for more than four years and I must report that to the institute.”
“Easier said than done.” Linda was quiet for a while. “Do you have colleagues in Alba, people that can help us?”
“Yes, but I need a radio transmitter to reach them,” I said.
Linda switched subject: “Yesterday, Akhmatov disposed of one snowmobile for a diversion. He didn’t worry about retaining only one here.”
I nodded: “He must have known something we’re ignorant of.” My eyes checked the cavern but found nothing unexpected.
“This islet contains a means of escape.” Linda sounded certain.
“I think you’re right.” I switched subject to something that had troubled my minds for some days. “How come a company director picks a fight with Russia?”
“The Rhodes conglomerate behaves like a country here in Alba, even though they pay lip service to the Orange State.”
“I know little of what’s going on in Africa, but quarrelling with the tsar? Terboven must have some cards up his sleeve if he thinks that his organization can prevail against Russia in the long run,” I said.
“Do you have any ideas?” asked Linda.
I shook my head. “No, nothing more than it must be an ace. And that’s scary.”
Linda and I spent a second night in the cavern to restore our vigour, but we agreed that we had to depart after that because soon Akhmatov’s corpse would start to stink and we were not able to hoist it safely to the surface with available equipment. Back injuries would be disastrous to our continued journey.
After breakfasting on Russian canned food, we climbed to the surface. The world remained as it had been: a rock islet in a white infinity. Grey clouds raced across the sky, riding on a biting wind from the north-east.
“There ought to be another hideout,” insisted Linda. She was right, but we had to search for many cold hours to find it. When she twisted a certain boulder next to the ice sheet, she was able to topple it and uncover a deep and narrow unheated cavity cluttered with machinery. We found several long sheets and rods of metal and beyond them we saw a simple engine, six studded steel wheels and some fuel barrels.
Linda got the picture at once: “A dismantle
d ice-buggy.” She displayed her skill as a mechanic by reassembling it in an hour.
When she was done, I asked: “Where are we going next?”
“After our arrival Akhmatov said: ‘Soon we’ll be seeing friends.’ We’ll have to look for clues in his belongings,” she said.
We returned to the warm cavern and searched Akhmatov’s possessions and clothes. Linda struck gold when she opened a small notebook and found a crude hand-drawn map with three scribbled notations for latitudes and longitudes. I used a sextant and my wristwatch to determine our current position. It matched one of Akhmatov’s positions, whereas the other two were to our north.
“Let’s head for the nearest one, shall we?” Linda said.
“Yes,” I said.
“It’ll be a long journey. Do we have enough Maxidin pills?” she asked.
“Sure, let’s get moving at once.” That drug will be my death soon, I thought.
Chapter 10
A long ice-buggy journey is more tedious than you would expect. You are coped up close to the ice in a cramped and noisy cabin. Initially you may feel adventurous as you dash ahead, but after a few hours you feel only stiff and bored. The landscape never changes, except for occasional grey peaks penetrating the ice. Linda drove the craft expertly and I had no wish to relieve her. The Maxidin kept us awake during one day and one night as we covered almost 700 miles at an average speed of about 30 knots. We took only a few brief breaks for meals and position checks, because we wanted to get out the war zone as quickly as possible. My memories of that journey deal mainly with enforced immobility and never-ending aches. A large dose of alertness drugs does strange things to the mind.
Soon after dawn our destination appeared as a tiny jag at the horizon. As we approached, it grew into hills and crags that I scrutinized through my binocular. A surprising amount of brown-grey rock protruded through ice and snow and plume of steam or smoke rose from several locations. I twisted the zoom control and my vision jumped forward. A pennant in green and black fluttered from a hundred-foot metal pole. I described for it Linda.
“Ursine haven. Lucky we’re.” Her muddled speech was a side effect of the Maxidin.
“What?” I said.
“A meeting place, warm, a peace place, rest, a stop.” She looked at me. “What say I?”
“You’re dazed. It will pass as the drug leaves your body,” I said.
An ursine haven, such as this place called Gishtir, is best compared to an oriental caravanserai. Gishtir had been established long ago in this place where hot springs caused by volcanism penetrated the bedrock. It consisted of a maze of interconnected low round stone buildings. Its interior was as humid as a rain forest, but with an ever-present odour of sulphur. Many trade routes met here and therefore there was a need for a neutral meeting ground where public display of weapons was banned, that is, a good place for Akhmatov “to meet friends”.
When we entered Gishtir’s spacious interior, I saw no other humans, something that I appreciated under our current circumstances. However, such travellers must visit the place every now and then because the superintendent, a scarred old ursine with a maimed right hand, provided two proper beds for the plain room that Linda rented. She communicated with him in a Lingua Franca used by ursine traders and we got what we needed at a reasonable price. Soon we collapsed in those beds and vanished into the realm of sleep.
I opened my eyes and looked at the grey ceiling above my bed, feeling that I once again was able to think clearly.
Three days had rushed by in a jumble of dizzy spells, meals and irregular sleep. Our sleeping patterns had been out of synch, so I had spent most of my waking hours in silence. The superintendent had sent three meals a days to our door: bland but filling dishes that suited the human stomach.
Linda huddled on her bed, wrapped in a blanket. She looked at me with clear eyes. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I said. “I stink. I must have a bath and wash my clothes.” I worried that my shoulder wound would get infected.
“Me too. Also, my period has started so I feel sick,” she said.
“Any bath facility in this place?” I asked.
“Sure, but you’ll have to share it with the ursines,” she said. “I’ll order a tub so I can take care of myself in here.”
The thermae was a vast building by itself, partially cut into the bedrock, with two hot springs in the floor. Their sulphuric tang, mixed with the nutmeg odour of wet ursines, permeated the hall. Sturdy servants carried buckets from those wells to a double semicircle of brass bath tubs.
I cleaned my wound carefully with a coarse soap and checked that it was healing as it should. While a washer took care of my dirty clothes, I slid into the warm water and let it soften my aching muscles. A human is notable smaller than an ursine so I floated comfortably in the tub. I wanted to analyse what had happened to us and the best way was to relax and let my thoughts wander freely. Bulky ursines scrubbed their fur is the surrounding tubs while chatting and joking with each other. They paid no heed to me and their voices turned into background buzz.
A few new facts carried immediate importance for my work at the Nobel Institute. First, Terboven trusted that the Rhodes conglomerate was able to challenge Russia in Alba and get away with it in the long term. Even though Russia currently used her military to subjugate Scandinavia and prevent the republican rebellion from spreading into her lands, sooner or later those conflicts would end. And then common sense said that the conglomerate bosses would have to answer to the tsar. However, Terboven obviously believed that he could avoid that and I needed to figure out why he thought so.
Second, the Russian military had developed new ways of using radioactive substances, something that we at the Institute so far had thought was our secret. For the last two hundred years, we westerners have tended to see Russia as an empire mismanaged by self-indulgent aristocrats. But that was no longer the case. More than four years ago Russian scientists had developed a technology that might be used for city-wrecking weapons. Terboven ought to be ignorant of that, because if we had not known, how could he? Once again, the institute needed to find out more of what was going on, but how would it be possible to peek into Russia’s secret files?
“Johnny, what’s keeps you moving … in your heart?” Linda asked when we shared dinner in our room that evening.
I put down the spoon in the bowl of bitter stew and looked her in the eyes. “Why do you want to know that?” It would not be easy to answer her question.
“You’re a scholar but you live like a rootless wanderer year after year. Not even the ursine nomads are as solitary as you. I can’t understand why you do that to yourself,” she said.
My gaze flittered around the dining hall. It was an open space because ursines customarily eat standing or moving around. We sat in a corner on a woven rug with food bowls on the floor around us. My back rested against the stone wall while Linda sat cross-legged in front of me. A dozen ursines ambled in the hall, occasionally glancing in our direction but otherwise leaving us alone.
When I had gathered my thoughts, I responded: “I have nothing to return to. The tsar’s secret police would arrest me at once. If I escaped the hangman’s noose, I would be banished to a Siberian penal colony.”
“If you want to hide from the Okhrana, why don’t you just vanish into Magalhana’s highlands?”
“True,” I said. I hesitated for a moment. Speaking of my youth was never pleasant. “But running away wouldn’t suffice in my heart. When I was an adolescent, I got hold of banned books written by men like Karl Staaf, John Wesley and Benedetto Croce. I started to dream of a better society, in which the hungry will get bread instead of lashings. I became a republican activist to work for that end.”
“I’ve never heard of those men. Please, tell me more,” said Linda.
“A thousand years ago, my father’s ancestors said that ‘power resides in the spear point’. The issue is then: ‘who holds the spear and where does he point it?’”
I started to expound on freedom and equality for everyone.
Eventually Linda said: “Stop it, Johnny. Enough for today.”
I closed my mouth. I had used the opportunity to say speak about all that burned in my mind. Linda lay down on her bed with the hands behind the head and closed her eyes. I reached for my water cup to moisten my dry throat.
“Do you think all that really is possible?” said Linda.
“They didn’t build Rome in one day. If enough people choose to go in the same direction, they can work miracles. That is the goal of your rebellion and mine. I am responsible to God and my conscience for my choice. I know my road and that gives me strength.”
Linda opened her eyes. “You’ve received a lot for free. People like me haven’t. Our goals are less ambitious.”
“But I’ve lost almost all of my privileges,” I said. “But a few things can’t be taken away. A solid education has given me a clear sight. My father taught me to assume responsibility and do my duty. My elder brother showed me the difference between good and bad duties. So I decided to put my talents to service of the downtrodden.”
“Do you think that ursines should have the same rights, the same opportunities, too?” she asked.
“Yes, all intelligent beings are equal. The same rules should apply all over the world, regardless of your species,” I said.
Linda shook her head. “There are plenty of humans in Alba who think that such ideas are nonsense. You don’t know the ursines. They don’t think like we do.”
“Does it matter? They, too, have souls.”
Chapter 11
For almost two weeks we mostly slept, ate and talked. The journey from Fredriksborg to Gishtir had taken about the same amount of time. After ten days in the haven, we had regained enough strength to start planning for the next stage of journey, going back to Acheron.
