Union Forever

by William R. Forstchen

  Drawing his scimitar, Jubadi leaned over and with a backhanded slash cut the horse's throat. With sad pleading eyes the beast looked up at him, and then ever so slowly laid his head back and then was still.

  Bending over, Jubadi wiped the blade on the ground and sheathed it. Without a backward glance he turned and walked away.

  "Cartha ram ships in sight, admiral."

  "Clear for action," Cromwell roared, a cold grin of satisfaction lighting his coarse puffy features.

  Hands clasped behind his back, Tobias Cromwell of the Ogunquit, former captain in the United States Navy, turned about and cast his gaze astern across the narrows that divided the Inland Sea into its northern and southern half.

  How long has it been now? he wondered to himself. They had cleared the headwaters of the Chesapeake on the evening of January 2, 1865, bound for an amphibious operation off North Carolina. And then the storm, the gate of light as they called it here, had dragged him, his ship, and all aboard through to this nightmare world. Two years at least, he thought dryly.

  There had been the boyars of Rus, and then the overthrow of them by that arrogant Colonel Keane.

  "Damn him forever," Tobias growled, and his ensign turned about as if an order had been given. Tobias shook his head and turned away.

  If only Keane had played along with the boyars. They could have ridden out the Tugar occupation—hell, some of the men might have been taken, but certainly the officers would have been saved. But he had to go ahead and fight not just the boyars, but the Tugars as well.

  The memory of that last night of battle sent a cold chill running through him. He had done the only logical thing—no, the only sane thing in an insane world. He had gotten the hell out of the city of Suzdal and fled south with his ship. The battle was lost; that was obvious to any man of intelligence.

  And how the hell was he to know that those bastards would beat the Tugars after all? Of course, there was no going back. Keane would have him shot as a deserter, and besides that, he had had it with Keane, his damn Maine regiment, the whole lot of them. He could imagine the dark laughter, the taunting eyes gazing at him as he was led to the wall.

  "The hell with all of them," he whispered.

  It must be four months back now, maybe more; he'd lost count of the days a long time ago. After all, what did it matter anymore?

  The first couple of months had been the worst, raiding the Cartha shipping, after those arrogant dogs refused him safe haven. It'd been a living, but getting enough wood to feed the boilers below deck was a constant worry. All the lumber was up north, or along the eastern shore, which was heavily patrolled by Cartha ships. The only alternative was to run through the narrows before Cartha and venture into the unknown waters of the steamy southern ocean in search of a safe haven to refit.

  The great ocean had broadened out, running easterly and south, and he had followed its course. The eastern shores and islands were covered with high towering forests teaming with life—life that unlike that of the northern regions had a strange exotic bend to it, with strange winged creatures half the size of a house. There at last was a place to refit, but it was a region that filled him with a certain premonition of dread. Half a dozen crew members were lost to forest animals unlike anything he had ever seen upon earth, cats with great tusks, bearlike creatures with yellow fur and the size of a small elephant, and the great birds which could sweep a man off a beach and disappear into their high mountain aeries.

  There were signs of something else as well, footprints in the sand neither human nor Tugar, snares in the forest that decapitated a crew member before his eyes, missing watchmen, the only thing to be found in the morning a bloody track into the hills.

  They had pushed on southward, finding in an empty stretch of the southern sea a broad open island of high cloud-capped hills. Rounding into a narrow bay, they had anchored for the night, hoping like castaways that perhaps here would be a safe place to secure as a base. It was a place of broad shimmering beaches and trees that soared hundreds of feet into the heavens.

  In the morning he had awaked to the sight of two ships riding at the mouth of the channel, their high sterns and great spread of square-rigged sails the mark of ships he had seen only in pictures—galleons lost like the Ogunquit upon a strange and distant sea.

  Amazingly they had greeted him with a ragged broadside, across his bow. A little display of steam power had been enough to force the stunned pirates into negotiation, for both could see an advantage—together they could take Cartha for their own.

  The story had been a remarkable one. The thousand-odd men and women were descendants of four pirate ships that had been swept through in the late sixteenth century, most likely near the same spot where the Ogunquit had been caugjht. Their one encounter with the Tugars had cost them two of their craft and struck such terror in them that they had hidden ever since, surviving on the islands and indulging in occasional raids against human cities far to the south and east. Most remarkable of all, they had preserved the art of gunpowder and gun casting.

  Tobias found them to be a degenerate lot, wallowing in licentious behavior and given to drunken debauchery. But they could fight, and had rallied to his dream of seizing the Cartha realm for their own.

  "Admiral, the Cartha fleet's retreating," the forward lookout cried. "They're striking their colors!"

  "What the hell!" Tobias shouted, swinging his glass forward. The threescore ram ships which had sallied out of the harbor to meet them were swinging about, their purple standards fluttering down from their masts. A single ship of the fleet continued onward, its oars flashing like jewels in the sun.

  Grabbing a speaking trumpet, Tobias swung around toward his ally's flagship.

  "Jamie, they're striking colors. Don't fire unless I command."

  "So the dogs haven't got the belly for a fight," the pirate captain laughed.

  The Golden Scourge dropped off the wind to swing in close by the Ogunquit. The vessel was making good headway, running now on a broad reach. The galleon handled lively, its bluff bow plowing up two curving furrows of foamy white sea, its gunports open, revealing the muzzles of half a dozen guns.

  Swinging up into the rigging, Tobias could see Jamie, dressed in ragged breeches and a faded linen shirt, leaning over the side to look forward.

  "Filthy buggers. At least they could have shown us some fun first."

  The disappointment on Jamie's scarred and twisted face was obvious. The man had a thin and desiccated look, as if the long years in the tropics forever staring at the glare of the great red sun had dried out his body and soul.

  Tobias watched him carefully. He knew the man was untrustworthy. None of them, for that matter, could be trusted; given the slightest opportunity they'd seize the Ogunquit and throw him overboard. Tobias looked around at his crew and could see their nervous stares at the two pirate ships. Hell, they'd been nervous for months, and he half suspected that if Jamie didn't kill him, they most likely would if they felt there was any chance of making for home. He had to find a home port and damn fast if he had any hope of surviving much longer.

  "Let's hear what they've got to say," Tobias said evenly.

  "I'd rather pillage the bastards—burn the city to the ground and be done with it."

  "Eight ships and a thousand men against a city-state of maybe a quarter of a million? You must be mad."

  Jamie snorted with disdain.

  "With your guns and that steam devil below deck anything could be ours. The legends of the ancestors speak of a don devil who slew a million heathen bastards on the old sea."

  As near as Tobias could figure out, Jamie's band were descendants of English and French pirates who had raided a Spanish treasure fleet toward the close of the sixteenth century and then were pulled into the tunnel. How they had kept the Golden Scourge afloat across the centuries was beyond him. At least there were no shipworms in this sea, and as near as he could guess they had replaced her piece by piece as the years passed, and built five more like
her down through the years.

  "She's heaving to," Tobias announced, pointing back to the Cartha ship, which now lay a hundred yards ahead.

  "All engines stop."

  The pounding shudder which had been running through the Ogunquit eased off. Overhead a pluming vent of steam escaped, and Tobias smiled as Jamie looked over at him with a fearful gaze. For good measure Tobias walked over to the pilot house and pulled the whistle down. Its high-pitched shriek echoed across the rolling sea.

  Raising his glass, Tobias scanned the Cartha ship, which bobbed clumsily on the waves. The rowers leaned over their oars, obviously exhausted.

  Barking out sharp commands, Tobias guided the Ogunquit about to the ram's windward side. Lines snaked across between the two vessels. The Golden Scourge swung about on the leeward side, turning into the wind, and a longboat was lowered away. Scrambling over the side, Jamie and a boarding crew set out.

  "Gunners stand ready," Tobias cried. "On my command only, open fire."

  Raising himself up ramrod-straight, Tobias strolled over to the railing and looked down on the ship bobbing alongside. A dozen Carthas stood upon the stem of their vessel dressed in ceremonial capes of purple, their bronzed faces, wreathed in jet-black beards, turned upward. They looked at Tobias with a cold defiance. At their feet were several iron chests.

  There was a wild shout of delight as Jamie scrambled up on the deck followed by his men with cutlasses drawn.

  "No violence!" Tobias shouted. "Let's hear what they have to say."

  Jamie laughed with an open insolence as he strode up to the Carthas and then with the point of his sword flicked a chest open.

  "Bugger me blind, it's gold," Jamie hissed, and falling on his knees he scooped his hands into the chest, raised them up, and roared with delight as a showering cascade of coins rained down on the deck.

  Shouting in their high guttural tongue, the Carthas ignored Jamie and gestured for Tobias to come aboard. Inside he felt the fear rising again. It could be a trap to kill him. After all, what was a Cartha ship and its crew compared to himself?

  "The devils want you to come aboard," Jamie announced, looking over at Tobias with a grin.

  "The hell with 'em," Tobias said haughtily. "If they want to talk, let them come aboard my ship. Tell them that."

  Tobias looked over at Jamie and could see that the freebooter was sneering inside at his discomfort.

  Laughing, Jamie nodded to one of his crew, who stepped forward and spoke to the Cartha. The Cartha ignored Jamie and, speaking rapidly, pointed back to Tobias.

  "Come on, my lord admiral, there's gold to be had."

  Tobias hesitated, and Jamie looked back at him.

  "Barca here told the scum if they try anything my men will carve their eyes out and cram 'em down their throats. He said they want you to come aboard. But if you're afraid …”

  "If you want, I'll go."

  Tobias turned to see Jim Hinsen, the one deserter from the 35th Maine, standing alongside the railing, looking down greedily at the gold.

  He still could not decide if bringing this man along had been the wisest of decisions. Hinsen was a sycophant, slavishly obeying Tobias's slightest wish. Yet the man always seemed to be somehow on the prowl for something more. As long as it was power under Tobias's own shadow, it could be accepted, but he could not shake the suspicion that Hinsen was learning far too much about the Ogunquit and the mysteries of her running, which he had deliberately kept secret.

  Tobias looked down at his men lining the deck. Already Jamie was winning more than one over with his swaggering way. Breathing a silent curse, Tobias climbed over the rail. Waiting for the ram to ride up on a wave, he leaped across, nearly falling back over the side of the Cartha ship before several rowers reached out and pulled him aboard.

  A Cartha delegate stepped forward and gestured toward a closed hatchway, speaking rapidly.

  Tobias looked over at Jamie Fitzhugh, who smiled at him with a toothless grin.

  "The bugger wants you to go in. He wants to show you something."

  Tobias felt a cold chill.

  "Like hell."

  "My sentiments exactly. If they got something, let 'em bring it topside," Jamie growled and then snapped off a quick reply.

  The delegate shrugged, then went over to the hatch and pulled it open.

  Nervous, Tobias looked up at his men lining the deck.

  "Train your muskets on that hatch!" Tobias shouted as he drew his revolver.

  The delegates backed away from the hatch as a shadowy form filled the darkness. As one the delegates went to their knees.

  Tobias drew in his breath with a hiss.

  The form bent low, its spiked helmet emerging, and then reared up to its full eight feet of height.

  "A Tugar!" Tobias hissed. With shaking hand he cocked his revolver and brought it up. Jamie, his features pale, scrambled backward, dropping the gold in his fist so that the coins rattled across the deck, some of them rolling unnoticed into the sea.

  The towering form gazed upon Tobias, its yellowed teeth bared in an evil grin, its cloak of human hide swirling about in the rising wind, fluttering and shifting. Coal-black eyes looked down on Tobias with a hawklike gaze, cold, dispassionate, haughty.

  "You are the renegade Yankee Tobias?"

  Stunned, Tobias could not reply.

  "A Tugar," Tobias whispered unbelievingly.

  "Merki! The Tugars are but weaklings fit themselves for the pit. I am the Namer of Time of the Merki horde, sent to seek you."

  Incredulous, Tobias started to back up, the revolver shaking in his hand. Jamie, crouching low, brought his cutlass up, and the Namer, grinning, started to laugh.

  "Call back your dog, Cromwell," the Namer hissed in Rus. "It is time that we talk."

  "With a Tugar?" Tobias whispered. "Like hell."

  "Merki!" the Namer snarled, and then his features softened.

  "Hear this, Cromwell of the ship that sails without sails. For it is commanded by my Qar Qarth that I seek you out. To seek you even upon this sea. Hear now the words of Jubadi Qar Qarth, ruler of the great middle steppe, for it is his command that I offer unto you an arrangement of understanding."

  "An arrangement?"

  "Call it an alliance," the Namer replied, a grin lighting his features.

  "Against whom?" Tobias replied, the confidence returning to his voice.

  "For it is my Qar Qarth's wish that you be an ally with him. We have granted exemption from the pits to you, all who follow you, and to the Cartha. Already we have prepared a place for you in their city. Teach us and the Cartha your ways of war, Tobias Cromwell, and we will raise you and your followers above all other humans. Serve us and it will come to pass that in the name of the Merki you will be the ruler of the realm known as Rus."

  Stunned, Admiral Tobias Cromwell slowly lowered his revolver and smiled.

  Chapter One

  Stepping down from the train. Colonel Andrew Lawrence Keane looked about with an approving smile.

  "We've come a long way, colonel."

  Andrew looked over his shoulder and grinned at Hans Schuder, his old sergeant major with the 35th Maine and commander of the armies of the Republic of Rus.

  "That we have, Hans, that we indeed have."

  Just how far have we come? he wondered.

  He found that his thoughts turned back to Earth less frequently of late. If given the choice now of returning, he knew what the answer would be for himself, and that thought brought him a deep sense of satisfaction. It had been nearly a year and a half since victory over the Tugars—and what a world of change they had wrought since then! And thank God above all else there had been peace, the first he had really known in over five years.

  Stepping back from the train, Andrew shaded his eyes from the red glare of the sun and looked back westward. Though he had never been out west, he imagined that this must be how it looked. The prairie grass was nearly waist-high, shifting and flowing like waves upon the sea as the warm summer
breeze flowed across the endless steppe.

  The air was awash with the scent of wildflowers, which dotted the rolling hills with exuberant splashes of lavender, yellow, and brilliant reds. The warm breeze rippling past him was so fresh and pure that he felt that if there had ever been a Garden of Eden, this is what it must have been like.

  Turning to look northward, he could see the rising fir-clad hills a dozen miles away, the southern edge of the great woods which he imagined must march off for thousands of miles to a mysterious land he knew he would never see. Chuck Ferguson, his ever-inventive engineer, had calculated several months back that the world they were on was nearly the same size as earth, some twenty-two thousand miles around. It had been an ingenious experiment. Using one of the new accurate clocks that they had recently started to turn out, he had measured the position of the noonday sun back in Suzdal, and with another clock set to the first one his assistant had measured the angle at precisely the same time here nearly five hundred miles east. Ferguson claimed he had learned the trick from an account of Eratosthenes, an ancient Greek who had done the same thing two thousand years ago.

  But there was still the world straight ahead, and someday, maybe twenty years hence, the train line they were building would completely encircle the world. Andrew looked appraisingly at the steam engine Malady before him. It was named after yet another hero of the Tugar war. No finer tribute, he thought wistfully, looking at the Medal of Honor painted beneath the dead engineer's name.

  If only Malady were here to appreciate all of this, Andrew thought wistfully. Malady and the two hundred other boys from the 35th Maine and 44th New York battery, and after all, most of them had only been boys, who had given their lives in the war to make Rus free from the Tugar scourge.

  The engine was the best one built so far, on the larger three-and-a-half-foot gauge which they had decided would be the standard size for the rail line until the current frenzy of emergency development had passed. It was still smaller than the wider gauges back on earth, but there had to be a trade-off, given the limited resources available as of yet, and the need to have a lighter rail to conserve on iron.