“Deal with enemies? You did something similar to that German girl in a bar,” he says.
“She was a thief, just like these four. This is how I deal with criminals.”
“This is just a game to you isn’t it,” Ulric mutters in disgust. “This place is your personal playground to act how you want. Forget it.” In a defeated fashion he slinks through the confused crowd and disappears from sight.
First he says we should spare them for experiments, and next he says we should end them quickly. What the hell is going on with my brother? Before I can ponder this any longer the crowd chants for more justice to be done and I meet their demands, taking out the knife that I keep on my belt.
I analyze its beautiful golden finish on the handle. The detailed eagle and swastika that are engraved on it. It is long, serrated, and gorgeous, and I drive it into the neck of the closest pirate I see. This man, his head as barren as this desert, looks off distantly as his eyes begin to redden. He lets out a few quiet gargles before I pull the knife back out, and he collapses onto the floor. His two remaining comrades attempt to distance themselves from the ever-growing pool of blood. One appears to be in his thirties, and the other is as bruised as a fallen apple.
“This is what you have been doing to our people every day, every month, and every year since the Reclamation. You try your fucking best to attack us and now you try to cower when the same treatment is given to you? Pathetic,” I hiss to the three still-living captives, kneeling over the convulsing body of the one I just stabbed. “Perhaps my brother is right, we shouldn’t drag this out. We’ll have all of you out of sight in no time.”
“Let’s have ourselves a sanding!” I laugh to the crowd, who immediately know what to do. They all rush toward the two remaining Scavengers and hoist them up. We all begin strolling away from the bow, toward the back of the ship.
“How are things up there, Volker?” I ask from inside my helmet.
“Everything is on course sir. Since we sustained no damage from the attack, stupid bastards couldn’t even get a hit, we’re still on course to arrive at the Descent in three days. How much longer are you going to be playing with your food?” Volker says.
“We’re going to sand them now,” I announce.
“Damn I never get to see those,” Volker complains.
“Next time I’ll let you do the theatrics,” I joke.
I trail behind the mob dragging the struggling Scavengers. I breathe deeply and take this moment to watch the vast flat landscape we are leaving behind. Somewhere, a crashed aircraft remains, which will only be swept up by time.
Eventually we all reach the stern. It is an area caked in sand. The air is thick from the cloud that trails behind us. It rises like a volcano erupting beneath our very feet. For all of us with helmets we don’t quite mind, but the Scavengers begin to choke and cough from the dust-filled air. Their eyes water as particles fly into their eyes and open mouths.
It is time to begin.
“Get the ropes on them,” I order. Two men bring out a long pair of old tattered ropes. Sandings are a long tradition in the Kiln. Being exposed to the elements is the ultimate torture. The sun becomes a welcome friend as it quickly cooks the skin and overheats the body. Like I said, an hour until death. Yet sailors over generations have found crafty ways to make that pain last far longer. It turns out that the best shade in this desert is the cloud we leave behind. It blocks the sun just enough that the heat doesn’t cause instant death.
Say a man is thrown overboard with a rope tied to his legs. He’s lowered with his back to the ground down to the desert floor, nicely under the safety of the cloud. It’s important to lower the man just enough that he drags along the sand. The ship continues on its way, and he goes along with it. Now, sand is a coarse material. Millions of those little rocks rubbing against the skin can have a nasty effect. After days it can even begin to grind, and eat away at the flesh, strip it down to the muscle and finally…the bone. The crew can sometimes hear the screams and moans from the unfortunate victim. Those are always the best sounds. Often sandings are used for disobedient men, or for traitors to the Reich. In this case, a special sanding is now in order for the savages who attacked us.
“Tie them on their legs, make it nice and tight,” I say, and it is done. The Scavengers attempt to bludgeon one of my men, but it only seems to hurt his hand when he strikes the armor.
“These men are a people of the desert,” I announce, holding my hand out toward the two pirates being tied up at the legs. “I feel we should reunite them with it. What do you say men?” A series of agreements permeate the crowd.
“Fantastic!” I say. “So let’s begin.”
One of the pirates quickly begins begging. He attempts to kneel and plead, his still-chained hands outstretched as a sign of obedience.
“I require a pistol,” I order, and one of the men who captured the culprits leaps to fulfill my wish. I thank him and check the gun. It has a fine handle as well. It isn’t gold like my knife, but the finish is very attractive. It will do nicely.
One pirate is still holding out his trembling hands, while the other has his head down in what I assume is prayer.
“Thank you for making this easy,” I mock. “He has his hands right out. What a kind gentleman.” The crowd laughs.
I walk to the side of the begging man, and hold out my pistol to his head. His arms defensively go to his face and I am annoyed.
“Somebody grab his arms,” I demand. One of my crew forcefully jerks the pirate’s hands away from his face. That’s better.
I aim my pistol again to his head and take in the fear that the creature is displaying in this moment, the very end of his life. Only now does he truly understand how those innocents felt when his kind, perhaps even he himself, struck them down without mercy.
With a smooth motion, I aim away from the skull, and fire three rounds at his hands. They shatter upon the impact of the bullets, turning into a pulpy mess. The pirate lets out a shrill scream and flails about in agony.
“Now he can’t untie the rope,” I conclude in chuckling satisfaction. “Throw him over.”
Two men lift the writhing pirate up by his shoulders and drag him to the edge of ship. The Scavenger has only enough time to glance down at the cloud behind him before his body is flung over the side. The rope tied to him is attached to a solid steel pole, conveniently located at the edge of the stern. Right now it is short enough for him not to fall directly to the ground below. That is too merciful. A sanding is not a short process.
He falls through the cloud, leaving a puff upward in his wake. The rope snaps straight and we hear the signal crack of bone even through the churn of the engine.
The last Scavenger seems not to take in the events around him. His head is still bowed. I assume he has accepted his fate. I slap his head and he raises his arms in defeat, still not looking me in the eye. Grabbing his face, I force him to look at my helmet, yet his eyes look up into the sky. Very well.
I shoot three more rounds into this one’s pair of hands and order the men to throw him over as well. Without a scream or a cry, he goes over. Another snap is heard and then silence.
The men untie the ropes, loosen them up, and then retie them back up, allowing the (what I would hope are) alive pirates to be lowered into the desert below. With arms raised in celebration, we all cheer at the justice we have done. Deep down, I know that I am not truly happy with this experience. For a moment, however, I should try to enjoy it and not ruin the festivities with the knowledge that more of them are on the edges of the Reich, waiting to strike.
Masihuin
What a fucking disgrace. Ulric, the S.S. Knight, is conversing with the Scavenger. Or, as he puts it, “interrogating.” It is not an interrogation. Interrogation requires pain. It requires that the prisoner suffer and spill out all they know, unless they spill all they have. I’ve gone down to the holding cell in the last fe
w days when he wasn’t there. I did not see any new bruises or cuts on that ragged old body.
How can this kid tell me that I am not an ideal Aryan, and yet willingly spare an enemy of the Reich? As I sit here in my bed, I am unable to sleep. His audacity of a few days ago continues to slap me in the face. What is in that book he is reading? Surely Hitler spoke of what we must do to our enemies, how we must defend our people. I don’t remember him ever talking about what way to do so.
Eventually, sleep just does not come to me and I give up. As I roll myself out of bed and put on my things, I decide that I need to confront Ulric about what he did a few days ago.
With just a short walk through the hallway I reach his door and knock three times. I wait. Nothing. I knock again and there is nothing. Why is he not in his room at night? A thought manifests itself. He’s in the holding cell.
I march on, descending a flight of stairs. The prison quarters are on the lowest level of the ship.
Down here, you can hear the gravel and sand clinking against the bottom. As I turn a corner I stop, recognizing one of the voices bouncing off the walls as being distinctly Ulric’s.
When I walk into the room, I spot my brother sitting on a stool—the Scavenger sits on the other side of the cage. They are talking. The Scavenger is the first to recognize me and his head goes down to his knees. Ulric, in response, shifts his head toward me. His face is expressionless.
“What are you doing?” I quietly ask, moving closer to the scene.
“Interrogating,” Ulric replies in a dull voice.
“Doesn’t appear like interrogating, it seems more like a conversation,” I retort, attempting to hold back anger.
“Well it’s not,” he denies, “if you’re so paranoid that I’m fraternizing with the enemy, you are welcome to join me.”
“I’m not the paranoid one,” I correct him. “I’m concerned for you. We don’t want anyone thinking you’re being merciful toward them.” I point to the old man curled up at the other edge of the cage.
“Anything other than smashing their face in with your boot is considered mercy…” Ulric mutters, “I don’t think your lot has the best opinion on the subject.”
“Why have you gone soft on them?” I accuse.
Ulric puts his hands to his beard in the same fashion he always does, deep in concentration. We sit quietly for a few seconds, the shaken old man watching the charade in puzzlement.
“I haven’t,” he says. “I am just acting like a regular, civilized Aryan. Apparently it’s a bit of a culture shock to see that down here. What I want…is results. A Scavenger isn’t useful to me dead. We could get good information from him. Learn about what they think. If they think…so do you want to join me?”
I focus my attention on another seat in the room. I pick it up and place it next to him. We bring our seats closer to the old man sitting with legs crossed in the corner of the cell. Tattered black robes cover most of his small frame. His beard has become disheveled after days in this cell, yet his composure is surely anything but. In fact, he sits in front of us calm and collected.
“This is Haroun,” Ulric says, pointing to the man. The fact that he even knows his name catches me off guard.
“You know his name?” I ask, bewildered. “How long have you been talking to him?”
“A few days. We’ve actually been able to converse a lot about the Kiln and what it means for both of our people. Apparently, he is from a place of great stone mountains, he says they were built by man. You know…Egypt.”
I brush this little fact off, and immediately want to know one answer. “That’s nice,” I say to Ulric. “Did you ask him why the Jews attack us?”
“Scavenger,” I yell at the old man. “You are a Jew. A pest. Why do you attack our people?”
“Jew?” he says in a puzzled, raspy voice. It was as if the sand itself was attempting to speak. Grating and ancient. “Jew…Jew…” he mutters to himself.
“Yes that is what you are. A Jew,” I hiss.
“Oh! I know what that is, I read it one of your books.” the Scavenger exclaims in discovery. “No, no, in my home…we call…them Alyahudi. They…wear…similar clothing…to pictures…”
Ulric and I pause, taking in what he just said.
“What do you mean ‘call them?’ ” Ulric asks. “You are them. You are Alyahudi.”
This is met with a laugh from the old man sitting on the floor. He raises his arms in delight and I am tempted to stab them with the knife.
“I am not Alyahudi…or as you call them…Jews,” he chuckles.
“He’s lying.” I conclude. “He thinks we’ll set him free if he isn’t a Jew.”
“Then what are you?” Ulric asks, ignoring my statement. What is he doing?
The old man reaches into his black robe, and pulls out a symbol, a small metal object attached to his necklace.
“I am what we call…Masihuin.” he concludes, holding out the necklace. “We…do not follow…the Jews religion…I’m…trying to think…of German…word for it…”
I crouch down and take a look at the necklace. It’s a cross. My mind goes blank. How did this savage get ahold of a symbol of the Reich?
“No,” I dismiss. “You are not that different from them because of this. He has the same symbol too.”
I point to the broad German cross plastered onto Ulric’s armor. The German cross was a symbol that predated even the Reclamation. One of the few surviving relics of the first Aryans. It’s an offense for this old creep to say he is similar. I analyze the gold symbol. It’s thick like the German cross, but covered in elaborate engravings. I reach out and run my hand across the circle at the center.
“Let me continue, Ansel,” Ulric says behind me. My mind blank, I simply get up and sit back on the chair.
“How do Masihuin and Jews differ then? Aren’t you racially the same?” Ulric says.
“Oh no…Jews…are lighter skinned…just a bit darker than you…they are not…native to my land…they are from…across old sea,” Haroun says. “But our…disagreements…are more on…faith. Jews not…believe…that the Savior died…for us.”
“So the Savior was like a warrior then? Died in battle?” Ulric asks.
“No…Savior…gave himself up…as sacrifice.”
“No killing?” I ask.
“Of course not,” Haroun denounces, almost offended. “He was…not…a man…of violence.”
“This is ridiculous Ulric, come on,” I scoff.
“Did he die for your people? Your race?” Ulric pesters.
“No…he died for all…even you.”
“Why are we messing with this sort of stuff Ulric?” I ask, belligerent. “How can we trust anything he says?”
“We can’t…and we aren’t. But I still want to know what he is going on about. You know I’m curious.”
“Yes and stupid,” I say. “So your friends were Jews then? The ones we killed.”
“Killed?” the man says, genuinely surprised. “You…killed them?”
“Yep every single one,” I laugh. The man’s eyes begin to water and he looks at the floor.
“Stop it, Ansel, he is going to shut down,” Ulric demands.
“Good,” I say. “So we can be done with this. You wanted to smash that disc artifact because it was dangerous, yet here we are talking to a Scavenger who probably planted ones like it.”
“Why were you and your friends out there?” I demand loudly in the direction of the old creature. “Why did you attack us?”
The man wiped off his tears and collected himself again, straightening out his back and clutching the cross.
“I…did…not…attack you. You…killed those who attacked you,” he whimpers.
“What do you mean?” Ulric asks.
“I came along…to ask for Allah’s protection. I did…not fire a gun at
your…ship.” Harroun stutters out. He raises up the cross and does a few strange hand signs.
“Allah. What is an Allah?” I ask.
“Allah is the…Creator…of all things…he sacrificed his…only son for us. That…is what my…people believe.” Haroun preaches. He takes out a thick novel, crumbling just like himself and places it into Ulric’s hand.
“It is in Greek,” Haroun says. “We have…a community…of them…in…my city…history tells us…they came…as the sea…began to wither. We…band…together for…protection from…the caliphate—”
“Wait, wait, you have history before the Reclamation?” Ulric asks.
“Before you get into this I want to know why his friends attacked us. Even if he said he didn’t,” I butt in. “Why did your friends attack us? Why do your people attack us?”
“My people…do not attack…of our own power…we are…forced—”
“By the Jews?” Ulric says.
“No, no Jews are…tiny…minority…maybe only one thousand…we…are forced by caliphate…”
“What is caliphate?”
“Muslim…state…control…everything…south of…big…towers to the seas.”
He uses his arms to form the shape of a crescent. That is a Jew symbol. I’ve seen it flying on Scavenger vessels before, and on Eagle Nests overtaken by raiders.
“Those are Jews,” Ulric says, which is met with a headshake.
“No…no…they…believe in Allah as well…like me and Jews…but believe…prophet instead…of son of Allah.”
My head spins in the confusion, I lost my patience five minutes ago.
“They…control…all not Muslims…and force us…to fight along in their raids…against towers…I come along…to give blessings for those…Masihuin on front lines. Most along with…Muslims…killed in your blasts…me and some…fled to aircraft…to escape.”
“So what do the Jews do?” I ask.
“Jews…are…not…even anything…they…are…only two or three…villages far east from my home. They…are…not…really…even thought…about.”
The Atlantropa Articles Page 8
