Julian Comstock

by Robert Charles Wilson

  That had not occurred to me. The suggestion was troubling, and I determined to show the letter to Major Ramsden of our regiment. Major Ramsden spoke a little Dutch, since his father had been a stranded Dutch sailor, and it was Ramsden who interrogated captured prisoners in their own language.

  I found him dozing in his tent, taking advantage of the Sabbath calm, and he was not delighted to see me; but he agreed to look at what I’d brought him.

  When I handed him the letter he turned it half-sideways, and squinted at it, and ran his fingers over it, and hummed to himself at length. He was so reluctant to render a translation that I wondered whether he might be illiterate—able to speak Dutch but not read it. But when I hinted at that possibility he gave me a venomous look, and I let the matter drop.

  I have preserved the letter through many years, and it sits beside me as I write, and this is how it looked, though the ink is faded now and some of the letters are uncertain:

  Liefste Hannie (it began),

  Ik hoop dat je deze brief krijgt. Ik probeer hem met de postboot vanuit Goose Bay te versturen.

  Ik mis je heel erg. Dit is een afschuwelijke oorlog in een vreseleijk land—ijzig koud in de winter en walgelijk heet en vochtig in de zomer. De vliegen eten je levend, en de bestuurders hier zijn tirannen. Ik verlang er zo naar om je in mijn armen te houden!

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  Major Ramsden frowned some more, and looked at me resentfully; then he said, “It’s all about how he hates America.”

  “He hates America?”

  “They all do—the Dutch.”

  “What does he hate us for?”

  Major Ramsden squinted at the text.

  “For our freedoms,” he said.

  This had been the subject of today’s Dominion Service, by coincidence: our God-given freedoms, enumerated, and the enemy’s instinctive hatred for them. “Does he say which freedoms upset him so? Is it the Freedom of Pious Assembly? The Freedom of Acceptable Speech?”

  “All those.”

  “And what about this?”

  I pointed out the second sheet of the letter, on which the Dutchman had committed a drawing. The pen sketch was ambiguous: it appeared to show some sort of animal, or perhaps a sweet potato, with spots and a tail. Under it was written:

  Fikkie mis ik ook!

  “It says, ‘All Americans are dogs,’ ” the Major explained.

  I could only marvel at the fanaticism of the Mitteleuropans, and at the unreasoning hatred their rulers had instilled in them.

  * And Deklan Conqueror must be uniquely sinister, I had lately thought, if he was more dangerous to confront than a legion of armed and angry Dutchmen. The difference, Sam explained, was that our enlistment would only last a year or so, while the threat from Julian’s uncle would persist throughout his reign.

  5

  For the next few months our Regiment was largely exempted from the war, though not from its consequences. It was explained to us in a series of general camp meetings that the Dutch attack on Montreal, as it turned out, had been little more than a feint by a few divisions of the Mitteleuropan army. The real action was at the Saguenay River where it entered the St. Lawrence east of Quebec City. That was where our freshwater navy under Admiral Bolen fought a pitched battle with a fleet of heavily-armored enemy gunboats, which had been assembled in Lake St. John by the stealthy Dutch. We had lost many a vessel in that encounter; and the burning wrecks, some still flying the Thirteen Stripes and Sixty Stars, had been seen floating down the St. Lawrence like the candled boats the Japanese launch in honor of their dead.* The Dutch proceeded to build fortifications near Tadoussac overlooking the river, and brought up their best artillery, including a Chinese Cannon, to harass Union traffic and strangle American trade, and it quickly became apparent that the purpose of the Campaign of 2173 would be to reduce these fortifications while maintaining a protective cordon around both Montreal and Quebec City.

  Much of the Army of the Laurentians, therefore, was put aboard boats and shipped east to participate in the land battle. But Montreal itself must still be garrisoned, and that responsibility fell to the less seasoned troops, which included our Regiment of western conscripts.

  I was sad not to be included in the summer action, but Julian scoffed at that sentiment, and said we were lucky, and that if our luck held we might be released from the military without seeing more bloodshed than the Battle of Mascouche, and that would be a fine thing. But my patriotism, or naïveté, burned more brightly than Julian’s, and I was occasionally distraught to think of all the Dutchmen being killed by other soldiers, creating a shortage for the rest of us.

  And yet it was not all bad news, for we would be allowed many recreational leaves in the City of Montreal that summer, and I was eager for another chance to meet with Calyxa, and perhaps even to learn her last name.

  Our first leave was nearly canceled, however, because of an event which involved Julian and cast a pall over the entire camp.

  A new-fashioned Colonel, lately assigned from New York City, had decided our encampment ran too close to our breastworks, and I was assigned to help relocate the offending tents. The tents by this time had taken on all the qualities of Homesteads, however, with rude cooking-pits, flues made of mud, lines strung to dry laundry, and all such small domestic entanglements; thus the work had lasted well into the night, and I had not had very much sleep when I was awakened by Sam Godwin’s hand on my shoulder the following morning.

  “Wake up, Adam,” he said. “Julian needs your help.”

  “What’s he done now?” I asked, rubbing my eyes with hands still gritty from the night’s work.

  “Only the usual intemperate talk. But Lampret has got wind of it, and Julian has been called to the Major’s headquarters for what Lampret calls ‘a discussion.’ ”

  “Surely Julian can handle a discussion all by himself? I would like to sleep an hour longer, and then go down to the river to bathe, if it’s all the same.”

  “Bathe later! I’m not asking you to go with Julian and hold his hand. I want you to conceal yourself outside Lampret’s tent and listen to their conversation. Take notes, if necessary, or just apply your memory. Then come and tell me what transpired.”

  “Can’t you just ask Julian about it, after the thing’s done?”

  “Major Lampret is a Dominion officer. He has the power to assign Julian to some other company, or even send him off to the front, at any time he chooses. If Lampret is angry enough he might not give Julian time to pack—we might not see Julian again, in the worst case, or discover where he’s been sent.”

  That made sense, and was alarming. I said (as a last wistful defense), “Can’t you listen in on their conversation as well as I can?”

  “A muddy young private who’s been on work detail all night might be excused for dozing off among the ropes and barrels outside Lampret’s tent. I have no such excuse, and my age makes me conspicuous. Go on, Adam: there’s no time to lose!”

  So I roused myself, and drank a little tepid water from a canteen to bring myself fully awake. Then I walked over to Major Lampret’s headquarters, which was just a big square tent pitched next to the Quartermaster’s warren of fresh supplies. It was this surplus of barrels, boxes, ropes, and loose equipment that provided my cover, as Sam had suggested. Three convoys had unloaded just yesterday, and our Quartermaster was overworked trying to distribute, store, and apportion the bounty. As a result I was able to saunter into a labyrinth of stacked goods and negotiate my way to the layer of provisions which happened to abut Major Lampret’s tent. By some quiet and artful shifting I created a blind, and I curled up in it just adjacent to Lampret’s canvas.

  Sam had not told me when the meeting between Julian and Lampret was set to take place, however, and as I waited I was tempted again by sleep, for the day was warm, and so was my uniform, and a barrel of salt pork nearby had drawn a crowd of flies whose droning became a kind of lullaby, and the resinous boxboards sweating in the sunlight g
ave off a dolorous perfume. My chin dipped from time to time; and I was afraid I would be found here, hours later, dreaming contentedly, only to discover on waking that Julian had been shipped off to Schefferville or points north. I used this unpleasant prospect to torture myself into alertness; nevertheless I was relieved when I caught sight of Julian approaching across the parade ground, his head erect and his uniform clean and square.

  “Reporting as ordered,” Julian said when he arrived, and although I could no longer see him his voice was as crisply audible as if he had spoken into my ear.

  “Julian Commongold,” said Major Lampret said. “Private Commongold—or should I call you Pastor Commongold?”

  “Sir?” Julian asked.

  “I understand you’ve been lecturing the troops on religious subjects.”

  Since I was unable to see either party to this conversation I mean to transcribe it as if it were dialogue in a Play: that is, without benefit of observation, for that is how I experienced it, thus:

  JULIAN: “I’m not sure I know what you mean, sir.”

  LAMPRET: “Let’s be straightforward with one another. I’ve had my eye on you for a while now. You’re not like the other men, are you?”

  JULIAN (hesitating): “No two of us are alike, as far as I can see.”

  LAMPRET: “You’re literate, for one thing, and obviously well-read. You have opinions on current events. And I’ve been a few places, Private Commongold, and I know a Manhattan accent when I hear one.”

  JULIAN: “Is that so uncommon?”

  LAMPRET: “Quite the opposite. One of your type turns up in every regiment sooner or later—if not a Manhattan cynic, then a barracks lawyer from Boston or a would-be Senator with a rural address. I’m just trying to sort out which kind of problem you are. Raised in New York, and you had a comfortable life there, by the look and bearing of you … Who was your father, Julian Commongold? Some up-and-coming rag merchant? A mechanic with enough money to buy the illusion of prosperity and a storefront education for his son? Toadying before his betters by day and cursing them at night in the privacy of his kitchen? Is that why you decided to leave your family and join the Army? Or did you just get drunk and end up on the wrong train, like a lost schoolboy?”

  JULIAN (coolly): “The Major is very perceptive.”

  LAMPRET: “Or if not that, something similar … I suppose you were the sort of boy who always had his way on the playground? A few impressive words and everyone wants to be your friend?”

  JULIAN: “No, sir—not everyone.”

  LAMPRET: “No—there’s always the inconvenient few who see through the charade.”

  JULIAN: “The Major is surprisingly well-informed about life in New York City. I was under the impression that he had spent most of his time in Colorado Springs.”

  That was a daring and dangerous thing for Julian to say. The Dominion Academy in Colorado Springs had produced some fine Strategists and Tacticians; it had also produced, and in greater abundance, a legion of spies and informers. According to Sam the Dominion Military College was once an authentic Military Academy, back when the Union still operated an Air Force—that is, a battalion of Airplanes, and Air-Men to fly them.* But that institution declined with the End of Oil, although strategic stockpiles, it’s said, kept the Air Force flying a few years into the False Tribulation. After that the Air Force Academy came increasingly under the sway of the Dominionist center of power at Colorado Springs—became, ultimately, a sort of institutional liaison between the Dominion and the Generals.

  Dominion men are full officers, and entitled to issue orders. But their real power is disciplinary. Unlike other COs, a Dominion Officer can bring up a man on charges of Impiety or Sedition. A soldier convicted of those crimes might face anything from Dismissal with Prejudice to ten years in a stockade.

  It was a power seldom exercised, for the relationship between the Army and the Dominion had always been a delicate one. Dominion Officers were generally not well-liked, and were often regarded as priggish and potentially dangerous interlopers. A good Dominion Officer, from the point of view of the men of the line, was one who would do his share of the work, who would foster piety by example rather than punishing its absence, and whose Sunday sermons were brief and to the point. Major Lampret was well-enough liked by the men, for he seldom threatened them. But he was aloof in their company, and watched them carefully from a distance. There was about Major Lampret something of the aspect of a well-fed Colorado Mountain Lion: lethargic, but muscular, and ready to pounce the moment his appetite revived.

  Had Julian whetted Major Lampret’s appetite for apostates and contrarians? That was the question I asked myself as I listened from my nest of ropes and boxes.

  LAMPRET: “You might want to consider your tone of voice, Private Commongold. May I offer you a lesson in Civics? There are three centers of power in the modern Union, and only three. One is the Executive Branch, with its supporting host of Owners and Senators. One is the Military. And the last is the Dominion of Jesus Christ on Earth. They’re like the tripod feet of a stool: each supports the other, and they work best when they’re equal in reach. But you’re not a propertied person, Mr. Commongold, as far as I know; and you’re certainly not a Clergyman; and the Army in its wisdom has put you in the lowest possible rank. Your position doesn’t entitle you to an opinion, much less the loose expression of it.”

  JULIAN: “There is proverb, sir, that opinions are like—like—”

  LAMPRET: “Say noses.”

  JULIAN: “Noses, in the sense that everyone has one.”

  LAMPRET: “Yes, and like noses, some opinions are less noble than others, and some are thrust in where they don’t belong. You may have all the opinions you want, Mr. Commongold, but you may not share them if they undermine the piety or preparedness of American troops.”

  JULIAN: “I have no love for the Dutch, sir, or any intention of undermining American soldiers.”

  LAMPRET: “That’s a guarded denial! Do you think I’m a bully, Private Commongold, looking for an excuse to exercise my authority? On the contrary. I’m a realist. By and large, the men under my command are untutored and ignorant. I understand that and I accept it. For these men religion is little more than their mothers’ half-forgotten admonitions and the promise of a better world to come. But that’s what serves them, and I expect that’s how the Lord intended it. I don’t want my men to go into battle harboring doubts about their personal immortality—it makes them poorer soldiers.”

  JULIAN: “Not in my experience. I fought beside those men, and they gave exemplary service. The Major may not have noticed, since he wasn’t there.”

  That was a gauntlet thrown at Lampret’s feet, and my concern for Julian escalated to real fear. It was one thing to argue with the Major, it was another thing to bait him. Dominion Officers were traditionally excused from combat. They carried pistols, not rifles, and they were more useful behind the lines, where they ministered to the spiritual needs of the troops. The commonest slur made against Dominion men was that they were cowards, hiding behind their angel’s-wing badges and their big felt hats. I could not, of course, see the Major’s reaction to Julian’s statement; but a kind of steely silence radiated from the tent like the heat from a smoldering coal-pile.

  Then there was a sound of rustling paper. Major Lampret spoke next, evidently quoting from a document.

  LAMPRET: “ ‘On consecutive Sundays Private Commongold was observed speaking to soldiers on the parade ground behind the Meeting Tent. On these occasions he talked without restraint or decency about the Holy Bible and other matters that fall within the purview of the Dominion.’ Is that correct?”

  JULIAN (less audibly, no doubt surprised by the written evidence): “In so far as it goes, I suppose it is; but—”

  LAMPRET: “Did you, for instance, suggest to these men that there’s no evidence of Divine Creation, and that Eden is a mythical place?”

  JULIAN (after a lengthy pause): “Perhaps I compared the Biblical acc
ount of Genesis to other mythologies—”

  LAMPRET: “To other mythologies—suggesting that it is one.”

  JULIAN: “Sir, if my remarks are to be taken out of context—”

  LAMPRET (reading again): “ ‘Private Commongold went on to assert that the story of the expulsion of the first man and woman from Eden might be understood in unorthodox ways. He claimed that, as it seemed to him, the chief virtue of Eden was the relative absence from it of God, Who created the First Couple in His image and then left them undisturbed in their innocent revels. Private Commongold also suggested that the Tree of Knowledge and its forbidden fruit was a hoax worked up by the Serpent, who wanted the Garden all to himself; and that Adam and Eve had probably been expelled by trickery when God wasn’t looking, since God, the Private said, was an incorrigably inattentive Deity, judging by the sins and enormities He habitually leaves unpunished.’ ”

  JULIAN (in an even quieter voice, since he must have realized by now that Lampret had a spy among the troops, and that he was at risk of more than an upbraiding): “It was only a sort of joke, Major. Really nothing but a pleasing paradox.”

  LAMPRET: “Pleasing to whom, though?” (clearing his throat): “ ‘Private Commongold further hinted that the Dominion, though it claimed to speak with the authority of Holy Writ, was more akin to the voice of that Serpent, sowing fear and shame where there was none before, and no pressing need for it.’ Did you in fact say this?”

  JULIAN: “I suppose I must have … or words that might be mistaken for it.”

  LAMPRET: “The report is lengthy and detailed. It cites apostasies too grotesque and numerous to mention, capped with your enthusiastic endorsement of the ancient and discredited creed of Biological Evolution. Need I go on?”

  JULIAN: “Not on my account.”

  LAMPRET: “Is there any doubt in your mind that these remarks constitute a breach not just of decency but of explicit regulations for the conduct of enlisted men?”