by Eric Flint
Zasulich had been captured but later escaped. In fact, she was still at large.
Alexander was quite sure Zasulich herself was not aboard the Agincourt. Her description was not only well-known, he’d seen photographs of the woman.
But it simply couldn’t be ruled out entirely that the Okhrana’s intelligence was wildly off the mark. Perhaps Savinkov was actually a woman. Perhaps he was indeed a man, but a woman impersonating him was undertaking this mission. For that matter, perhaps the whole mission was a figment of the Okhrana’s imagination and he and Drezhner were wasting their time altogether.
Perhaps—perhaps—perhaps—
Such was the inescapable epistemology of the counter-revolutionist’s trade.
To which truth his companion Ilya Drezhner seemed completely oblivious. Why had this man ever joined the Okhrana in the first place? He seemed ideally suited for leading cavalry charges.
Alexander reminded himself that another of the great truths of the counter-revolutionist’s trade was that you worked with the material available, as inferior as that material might be. He’d once even had to work with a Lapp reindeer herder, who had been completely illiterate and possessed of an odor that was quite indescribable.
But—he suppressed a sigh, here—the Lapp had actually been a rather intelligent man, given his limitations. He’d certainly not suffered from Drezhner’s rigidity of thought. It seemed that herding reindeer was a profession that taught a man to avoid dogmatic assumptions, whereas riding horses did the exact opposite.
Back to the matter at hand, he told himself firmly. His reservations and caveats were simply the product of the scrupulous intellect of a good agent. On balance, he did not really think the accepted assumptions about Savinkov were incorrect.
Which meant … he was indeed one of the four men Drezhner had pointed out.
* * *
“Look here, Edward,” said Vijay Shankar. “It’s a passage from the Black Yajur Veda.” He swiveled the volume on the table between them so that the writing faced Luff. Then, tapped his finger on a particular line of text.
Edward Luff’s knowledge of Sanskrit was passable, but only that. It took him a moment or two to understand the meaning of the lines indicated.
From Earth I have mounted to the atmosphere;
From the atmosphere I have mounted to the sky.
“And here,” Shankar said, laying a second, more slender volume atop the first. “This is in the White Yajur Veda.” Again, he tapped his finger on a line.
The line was very short:
Earth! Ether! Sky!
Luff made a face. “That all depends on the translator, Vijay. The term ‘ether,’ I mean.”
“True. But what’s indisputably clear is that a tripartite—not a dual—distinction is being made. Earth and sky, which is common to any ancient tradition. But then there’s something in between. Something else.”
“And it’s not just a reference to air, either,” said Vijay’s wife Sumati. She leaned over the table and flipped a few pages in the book. Then, mimicked her husband’s finger-tapping. “Look at these lines.”
From earth to air’s mid-region have I mounted,
And from mid-air ascended to heaven.
From the high pitch of heaven’s cope
I came into the world of light.
Edward had to admit, the passage did seem like a description of interplanetary travel. The first journey, via an airship, to a transfer station; then the journey into space aboard an aethership.
Except …
“Doesn’t this all seem very … call it vague, if you will. Why use such poetic ways to depict what is ultimately a mundane matter? Would you use iambic pentameter and a slathering of classical allusions to depict a train journey?”
Shankar shrugged. “We know very little of Indian history during the Vedic period—any part of it, much less the earliest stages. The Rig Veda is the oldest of the sacred texts and it dates back at least three and a half thousand years.”
Sumati chimed in again. “And remember that if our theory is correct, what we’re calling the Martian period would have antedated Vedic civilization, possibly by thousands of years.”
“Almost certainly by thousands of years,” said Vijay. “Which means that the references in the Vedas came much later than the activities they depict. The analogy might be with Homer’s epics, which were almost certainly composed long after the events they speak about.”
“Except, if you’re right,” mused Edward, “the gap between the actual events and the Vedic record was measured in millennia rather than centuries. That would certainly explain the imprecision of the texts. In essence, you have people in a technologically primitive period trying to depict what their ancestors remembered of an ancient society whose science and industry was highly developed.”
He chuckled. “And, of course, your theory has a built-in explanation for the lack of an archaeological record.”
The Brahmin scholar shrugged again. “Yes, granted. But the mere fact that it’s convenient to our theory doesn’t make it incorrect.”
“No, no,” Luff agreed. “It is indeed true, as counter-intuitive as it might seem to most people, that the archaeological remains of primitive civilizations will long outlive the remains of highly advanced technical societies. The pyramids of Egypt have survived for three thousand years and will undoubtedly survive at least that many years into the future. Whereas if modern civilization collapses, none of its works will survive much more than a few centuries except some gold, silver and jewelry—items which will reveal very little of the technical development of the society which produced them.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Is there more?”
Sumati brushed back her long hair. “For one thing, there are frequent references throughout the Vedas to two worlds.”
“Sometimes multiple worlds,” said Vijay. He smiled. “And before you raise the objection that most religions make a distinction between this world and a more spiritual one, these references seem—to use your term—rather mundane. It can’t be proved, but the … call it ‘feel’ or ‘flavor’ of the texts seem to be matter-of-factly referring to two actual worlds. That is to say, physical worlds.”
Luff nodded. “And what else?”
This time, it was Sumati who took the larger of the two books and flipped through the pages until she found the one she was looking for. She laid the book down in front of Edward, after turning it so the text faced him again.
Her finger tapped three times in quick succession, indicating three separate lines. Luff leaned over and studied them.
That most auspicious One whose hue is coppery and red and brown
May he who glides away, whose neck is azure, and whose hue is red
Homage to him the Azure-nested, the thousand-eyed, the bountiful
When she saw that he was finished, Sumati leaned over and flipped a few more pages. Then, tapped twice. “These two lines also.”
Pursuer, Lord of Soma juice, thou cleaver, colored blue and red
… their necks are blue, their throats are white
He leaned back again. “Vague, so blasted vague. But …”
He cocked a semi-skeptical, semi-fascinated eye at the Hindu couple sitting across from him. He was by now quite oblivious to the murmuring voices that surrounded them. The table they occupied was just one of many in the crowded observation deck. “Do you really think these are references to the so-called Old Ones?”
Shankar raised his hands and spread them in a gesture that somehow mirrored Luff’s expression: half-doubt; half fierce interest.
“At the moment, I can’t say. Ask me in a few weeks—best say, few months—when I’ve had a chance to examine the Martian texts in the vaults at Ghlaktora. But one of the things that all references to the Old Ones that I’ve seen share in common is their coloration. It’s always red—or reddish, at least—but especially blue.”
“The necks in particular?”
It was Vijay’s turn to ch
uckle. “Alas! One of the things the texts definitely do not share in common is a morphological depiction of the Old Ones, other than a general sense they were monstrous. It’s not clear that they even had ‘necks’ at all, at least as we use the term.”
“The clearest description seems to picture them standing on four legs,” said Sumati, “with a torso of some kind and a head at the top. But the shape does not seem to have been a terrestrial one. From what I can tell, the torso went straight up from the legs, the way a camera sits on a tripod—not the way you’d picture something like a centaur or a sphinx.”
She spread her hands also. “Whether there was any sort of neck is entirely unclear.”
“If they existed at all,” said Luff.
“If they existed at all,” agreed Shankar.
* * *
Chapter 8
The voyage to Mars had now lasted six weeks, and the Agincourt was much closer to its destination than to its planet of departure. Savinkov felt confident, therefore, that the two Okhrana men still had no idea concerning the real identity of the notorious assassin.
The problem that remained would surface at the moment of their arrival. The passengers would then scatter to their various destinations, and unless steps were taken there was the risk that Savinkov would be exposed because the agent had no clear destination. More precisely, had no clear reason to choose that destination in the first place.
Had Savinkov known the Okhrana would manage to place two agents aboard the aethership before it left Earth, the assassin might have chosen a different cover identity. That of a reporter, perhaps. But it was too late now.
It was not a large risk, granted. Savinkov was not headed for Tryddoc Aru, which was the obvious place an Eser terrorist would go. Still, the older of the two Okhrana agents was shrewd. That was Evalenko, one of Rachkovsky’s chief lieutenants. Just the sort of man whose suspicions would be aroused by anyone behaving in a manner whose logic wasn’t readily apparent. It was best to be careful.
So.
Savinkov had planned for this and placed the necessary bribes—the first, three weeks ago; the second, yesterday; and the third and last would come after the deed paid for had been done. That would happen shortly before their arrival at Mars.
As deeds went, it wasn’t a particularly dark one. Nonetheless, Savinkov felt a certain amount of regret at the necessity. The victim of the upcoming deed was quite blameless in the affair, with no connection at all to the bitter struggle between Russia’s revolutionary forces and the Tsar’s instruments of oppression and reaction.
But, it had to be done. The goal of the mission was too important. Savinkov couldn’t afford to take any chances that might in any way be forestalled or mitigated. The scheme was clever; clever enough, the agent was sure, to continue deflecting Evalenko’s attention elsewhere.
* * *
As it happened, Alexander Evalenko’s attention had now settled almost exclusively upon two men. There was only a fortnight left in the voyage, and the Okhrana agent no longer had the luxury of taking his time and carefully weighing all possibilities.
The first possibility was the man known as Klaus Kuhn, who claimed to be a Swiss pharmaceutical representative. To begin with, Kuhn was the right age and had the right appearance—at least, insofar as that term could be applied to someone whose description was as vague as Savinkov’s.
The same could be said of several other men on the ship, of course. But Kuhn’s behavior had been suspicious throughout the voyage. He was rarely seen, spending most of his time in his stateroom—which was all the more odd given that his stateroom, 17 F, was one of the smaller ones. When he did appear, it was only at odd hours. He’d make brief visits to the cafés on the observation deck and hydroponics promenade and order very little besides coffee. Alexander had spied on him and seen the man, on one occasion, steal some of the bread and fruit that were placed on the tables to attract customers. The word “steal” seemed appropriate, even though the food was given out at no charge, because Kuhn surreptitiously slid the items into the pockets of his coat and took them away. Presumably, he’d eat the stuff later in the privacy of his cabin.
Clearly enough, this was not the behavior of a pharmaceutical representative. Certainly not a Swiss one.
His speech seemed wrong, too. His German was fluent and idiomatic, as was Alexander’s own. But something about Kuhn’s accent didn’t seem right for someone from Switzerland. Alexander wasn’t sure exactly what it was, since his own accent was far worse.
But—but—but—
The fact that Kuhn’s behavior could be explained as the behavior of a Eser assassin didn’t mean that it couldn’t be explained as something else as well—which they were missing because they didn’t know the man’s history.
By way of analogy, a man is seen to gesticulate and speak to no one in sight as he walks down a street. Clearly this is the behavior of a lunatic. But when accosted by the police and questioned, the man—now quite embarrassed—explains that he has to give a speech to a luncheon club and was practicing on his way, not realizing how publicly he was behaving.
The problem with Kuhn as their suspect was that he was too suspicious. Would an Eser terrorist—any of them, much less Savinkov—behave in such a manner?
Steal food? That made no sense at all. The SRP’s Combat Organization was not that short of funds. If they could afford to send their top assassin to Mars by way of the human race’s most prestigious aethership, they could certainly afford to give the man enough money to pay for meals along the way.
No, Kuhn wasn’t their man. That he was guilty of something or other, Alexander didn’t doubt at all. But whatever Kuhn was up to, he wasn’t working on behalf of the SRP. Or any organization, for that matter, revolutionary or otherwise. His semi-desperate behavior was the earmark of a man running on the edge, entirely on his own.
* * *
So, finally, Alexander settled on his other principal suspect, a man going by the name of Antoine Jelinek. He was supposed to be a Frenchman of Czech extraction; a dealer in exotic art, heading to Mars in search of extra-terrestrial—i.e., super-exotic—objects of art.
The story was not that implausible, actually. The reason Jelinek had drawn Alexander’s attention was that the story’s very plausibility provided the Frenchman with an excellent rationale for traveling anywhere on Mars he chose to go without creating any suspicion. He could be in Ogygis Regio one day, over in the Great Spillway a short time later, then in Protei Locus—hopping all over the red planet like a flea, losing anyone who might be curious about him …
And then, suddenly, he appears in Tryddoc Aru. Bringing with him strange objects of Martian art that could easily be used to smuggle weapons and explosives into the most carefully guarded city on the red planet.
* * *
“I’ll follow Jelinek, once we arrive on Mars,” he told Drezhner. “You go after the Underwood fellow. He’s the only one we know for sure is headed for Crenex.”
“I still think Kuhn—”
“Forget Kuhn. I’ve told you already—he’s behaving too suspiciously to be Savinkov.”
From the expression on his face, Drezhner was going to continue protesting. But Alexander had lost patience with the man. It was time to simply use his authority.
“Enough,” he said coldly.
Drezhner was nothing if not stubborn. His contrary nature having been thwarted on the matter of Kuhn, he chose to plant himself on different ground. Much the way a mule, barred from the house, might try to force its way into the barn.
“But you said yourself the most likely place Savinkov was headed was Tryddoc Aru.”
“Yes, I know—and so it is, still. But we are now nearing the end of our voyage, after having spent weeks investigating what we could. This means that we now have facts at our disposal as well as pure logic. And the facts are these.”
He began counting off his fingers. “Fact One. The only people aboard the Agincourt who have indicated their destination is Tryddoc Ar
u are people we do not suspect of being Savinkov. Or have you changed your mind and decided that Reginald Barnes and Bertram Stans—one or the other or perhaps both, if their inseparability is a sign of mystic co-existence—are really our Russian master terrorist?”
Ilya glared at him. Barnes and Stans were two English bankers travelling together. The chance that either one of them might be Savinkov was nil. Their bona fides were too well-established, too solid—not least of all, too easy to check. Prominent bankers in the City of London were anything but obscure people.
“Now let’s move on to Fact Two. Of the remaining suspects—leaving aside Jelinek, Underwood and Kuhn, for the moment—none of them are men of a suitable age or constitution to be active assassins. Unless you suspect that Edward Luff’s two children are actually Eser midgets—well, one midget, anyway; the girl’s close to full grown—who came along to provide Savinkov with a cunning disguise.”
“If Luff is actually Savinkov, those probably wouldn’t be his own children at all,” Ilya said sourly. “Have you ever thought of that possibility?”
“I did, as a matter of fact. By that scenario, the Duchesne woman would be an auxiliary Eser agent, who came along to spirit the children away when the proper time arrives so that Luff—Savinkov, that is—would have a completely free hand. But it didn’t take me long to conclude that such a scheme was too elaborate, too ornate—not to mention too expensive. And how do you explain Luff’s connection with that mob of Hindus? Is he planning to strike down Russian officials on Mars by the sheer tedium of their scholarly debates?
