Julian Comstock

by Robert Charles Wilson

  I carried that news to Julian tonight.

  He greeted it with grim amusement. “Just what I hoped the Dutch were thinking. Good! Maybe we can find a way to deepen their fears.”

  Again, he wouldn’t explain what he had in mind. But he has sequestered one of the warehouses by the docks (out of range of enemy artillery), and is converting it into some sort of workshop. Men have been recruited and sworn to secrecy. He has requisitioned countless bolts of black silk; also sewing machines, hooks and eyes, strips of lathing from damaged houses, bottles of caustic soda, and other peculiar items.

  “Maybe it’s good for the Dutch to believe in this imaginary weapon,” I said, “but unfortunately our own troops believe in it too. In fact they imagine you’re preparing to activate it.”

  “Perhaps I am.”

  “There is no Chinese weapon, and you know that as well as I do, Julian, unless hunger has driven you entirely mad.”

  “Of course I know it. I’m a firm believer in its non-existence. All it means is that we’re forced back on our ingenuity.”

  “You mean to build a weapon out of silk and fish-hooks?”

  “Please keep that thought to yourself. The rest will become clear in time.”

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 2174

  The pace of activity in Julian’s sealed warehouse increases. The “secret weapon” is now so commonly spoken-of that I fear the men will be bitter or even vindictive in their disappointment, when the truth is finally revealed.

  More shells fell today, causing heavy casualties among one particular regiment. I volunteered at the field hospital in the afternoon, assisting Dr. Linch in the chopping, paring, and stitching of shattered limbs. The work is almost unbearable for anyone of a sensitive nature (and I count myself among that number), but necessity knows no excuse.

  Our gravest enemy, Dr. Linch says, is less shrapnel than dysentery. At least a quarter of our soldiers are down with it, and it spreads with the infectiousness of a fire in a kindling-yard.

  Corn-cake and salt cod for dinner, in small servings.

  SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 2174

  Extraordinary events! I mean to set them down before I sleep, though it is already very late.

  After the evening meal Julian summoned me to his quarters and asked me to bring along my typewriter. I carried the machine (no small task, in my weakened and hungry condition) to the upstairs study of the former mayor’s house, and Julian instructed me to keep it ready, for there was a message he wished to dictate.

  Then, to my astonishment, he summoned an adjutant and ordered Private Langers to be brought into his presence.

  “Langers!” I exclaimed as soon as the adjutant had gone out. “What do you want with Langers? Has he committed some fresh outrage? I saw him at the hospital, perpetrating his clerical fraud; but I don’t suppose that’s what this is all about.”

  “It isn’t—or only in part. And please, Adam—you might be startled by some of what I have to say to him; but it’s essential to the success of my plans that you don’t interrupt or correct me while Langers is in the room with us.”

  This was a sterner tone than Julian usually took in my presence; but I reminded myself that we were at war, and under siege, and that he was a Major General, and I was not. I promised not to speak out of turn. Of course my curiosity was profoundly aroused.

  We shivered for most of half an hour—Julian heated his quarters parsimoniously, to conserve the supply of coal—before Langers arrived. Langers was shivering, too, as he stumbled into the room, perhaps not entirely from the cold. He looked at Julian apprehensively. “Sir?” he said.

  Julian put on his most imperial manner.* “Please sit down, Private.”

  Langers inserted himself into a chair by the stove. “You called for me, sir?”

  “Obviously I did, and here you are. I’ve received a complaint about you.”

  Langers—no doubt recalling what had happened to him when Sam gave out the truth about his Lucky Mug during the Saguenay Campaign—seemed almost to shrivel with dismay, and his expression grew even more furtive and wary. “It’s ungrounded,” he muttered.

  “You haven’t heard the charge yet.”

  “I know it’s unjustified because my conduct has been above reproach. These past weeks I’ve labored exclusively at the field hospital, sir, consoling the sick and the dying.”

  “I know all about that,” said Julian, “and I would commend you for it, but for one thing.”

  “What thing?” Langers demanded, feigning indignation, not very successfully.

  “One of my regimental commanders discovered several suspicious items hidden under your bedroll. These included a large number of gold rings and leather billfolds.”

  “Well?” Langers said, though he reddened. “A man can harbor a few keepsakes, can’t he?”

  “No, he may not, not if the same items have been reported as missing from the mortally wounded. I have a corroborating statement from one of the doctors who saw you at the field hospital, your right hand raised over an injured man in a benediction while the left hand stripped a wallet from the victim’s pocket. As for the rings, ordinarily such ornaments are sent to grieving widows, not squirreled away under the bedrolls of counterfeit Deacons.”

  “Well, I—” Langers began, but he faltered. The evidence against him was shocking, and he had lost the opportunity to mount a defense. His naturally long and equine face seemed to grow even longer. “Sir—the hospital is an awful place—it affects a man’s mind, over time—perhaps the circumstances drove me to irrational acts—”

  “Perhaps they did, or perhaps it was just your acquisitive nature. But don’t worry, Private. I didn’t call you here to scold you or punish you. I mean to give you an opportunity to redeem yourself.”

  Langers was not so naive as to grasp that straw without squinting at it first. “I’m sure I thank you—redeem myself how exactly?”

  “Be patient. Before we go on, I need to dictate a letter. Adam, will you write it down on that machine of yours?”

  I suppressed my astonishment at these unfolding events and said, “Yes, certainly, Julian—I mean, General Comstock.”

  “Good. Are you ready?” (I applied paper to platen, hastily.) “Put in a top line with the date and mark it as from my headquarters, Army of the Laurentians, Northern Division, Town of Striver, Lake Melville, Eastern Labrador, etc.” I clacked away at this task. My typewriting skills had improved since I first acquired the machine, and I was proud of my speed, though it set no records. “Address it to Major Walton, General Headquarters, Newfoundland.”

  I did so. Then Julian dictated the body of the text, which I will set down here while it remains fresh in my mind, including the unusual capitalizations which Julian demanded:

  This is to let you know that, after much solemn deliberation, and in the face of continuing enemy encirclement and bombardment, I have resolved to deploy the MECHANISM we earnestly hoped would never be used in civilized warfare.

  I do not take this decision lightly. It is no easy thing to enter into a war as brutal as this one, and to make it yet more inhuman by the employment of such a cruel DEVICE. It is not the prospect of the IMMEDIATE death of countless enemy soldiers which pangs me, for that is the nature of war, so much as the knowledge of the LINGERING EFFECTS, in which death comes only after hours or even days of intolerable suffering. You know that in councils of war I have argued against the deployment of this WEAPON, which is so vicious in its workings that any Christian trembles at the mention of it.

  But I find myself in a position that allows no other outcome. My army has been besieged, and we are sent no SUPPLIES or REINFORCEMENTS. Thousands of loyal men confront starvation, and I dare not surrender them to the mercies of the Mitteleuropan Army. Therefore I have resolved to do everything in my power to deliver the troops, or some fraction of them, to safety, even if the conduct of this war is made that much more HELLISH and SATANIC.

  You may pass this information to the General Staff and to the Ch
ief Executive.

  God help me for taking this decision. PRAY FOR US, Major Walton! We act within days.

  “Add the usual salutations,” Julian said, ignoring my gap-jawed amazement not only at the contents of the letter but at the unusually ecclesiastical tone of it, “and give it to me to sign. Thank you, Adam.”

  I did as he asked, though I could hardly contain my questions and anxieties.

  “What does this business have to do with me?” Private Langers demanded. “I don’t know anything about these dreadful things!”

  “Of course you don’t; but a message, to be useful, has to be delivered. That’s your task, Private Langers. The letter will be sewn into a satchel. You will carry the satchel past the Dutch lines to the American fortifications at the Narrows, and personally hand it to the ranking officer there.”

  “Across enemy lines!” The Private’s eyes were as wide as Comstock dollars.

  “That’s correct.”

  Impossible!” Langers exclaimed; and I was inclined to agree with him, though I kept my silence, as instructed.

  “Perhaps it is,” Julian said, “but I need someone to make the attempt. You’re healthy enough, and it seems to me you have a powerful motive for succeeding at it. The choice is stark, Private Langers. You can accept the assignment, or you can stay here and face exposure for robbing wounded men.”

  “You wouldn’t tell the infantry about my indiscretion!”

  “I would—at the next Sunday meeting! The men don’t like to think of a tract-peddler stealing from them in their most vulnerable moment.”

  “But they’ll kill me if they find out—they’re prudish about things like that!”

  “I don’t doubt that they’ll be unhappy. The choice is yours.”

  “I object! It’s blackmail—face certain death here, or be shot by the enemy!”

  “You might not be shot, if luck is with you. You’ll have to be very quiet and move by moonlight. If I thought your capture was a certainty I wouldn’t send you out at all.”

  Langers hung his head morosely, an acknowledgment that he could see no way out of the trap Julian had sprung on him.

  “Let me add,” Julian said, “that if you do accept the task you must not under any circumstances allow the document to fall into the hands of the Dutch. It would nullify our purpose entirely if they learned of our plans. And the enemy are sly—even if they capture you, even if they attempt to bribe you with promises of protection or great rewards, you must not succumb.”

  This was precisely the wrong thing to say to Langers, I thought. It was no use appealing to Langers’s conscience—which, if it existed at all, must be a particularly feeble and anemic specimen—and I longed to correct Julian’s mistake. But I remembered his instructions, and bit my tongue.

  Langers seemed to brighten a little after Julian’s admonition. I don’t doubt that he was calculating the angles of the situation in which he suddenly found himself, attempting to discover a geometry more suitable to his goals. He made a few more small objections, just to keep up the seeming of the thing, but finally agreed to expiate “the potential stain on his military record” caused by stealing from the not-quite-dead. Yes, he agreed, he would brave the Mitteleuropan lines and make a run for the Narrows, if that was what duty demanded. “But if I’m killed,” he said, “and if that news reaches you, General Comstock, I ask you to make sure I’m listed among the honorable dead, so as not to bring shame to my family.”

  “What family?” I couldn’t help exclaiming. “You always said you were an orphan!”

  “Those who are as close to me as family, I mean,” Langers said. (And Julian gave me a poisonous look, which reminded me to keep silent.)

  “I promise,” Julian said. Incredibly, he extended his hand to the larcenous Private. “Your reputation is safe, Mr. Langers. In my eyes you redeem yourself simply by accepting the commission.”

  “I thank you for your confidence. You’re a generous commander, sir, and a Christian gentleman—I have always said so.”

  (If this did not cease, I thought, I would soon shred my tongue entirely, from the biting of it.)

  “It’s essential that you leave at once. One of my adjutants will conduct you to the forward trenches and give you your final instructions. You’ll be provided with an overcoat and a fresh pair of boots, along with a pistol and ammunition.”

  Julian summoned a young Lieutenant, who tucked the message into the lining of a leather satchel and escorted Langers away.

  I looked at Julian aghast, now that we were alone.

  “Well?” he asked, with an insouciant note in his voice. “You have something to say, Adam?”

  “I hardly know where to begin, but—Julian! Is there really a Chinese weapon?”

  “Can you think of some other reason I might send that note to Major Walton?”

  “But that’s just the absurdity of it! Using Langers as a messenger, and then telling him that the Dutch would reward him for betraying us! You accuse me of naïveté from time to time, but this tops it all—you might as well have invited him to defect!”

  “Do you really think he might succumb to the temptation?”

  “I think he could hardly do anything else!”

  “Then we share the same opinion.”

  “You mean you expect him to betray us to the enemy?”

  “I mean that if my plan is to succeed, it will be better if he does.”

  I was naturally confused, and I suppose my expression showed it, for Julian took pity on me, and put an arm about my shoulders. “I’m sorry if I seem to trifle with you, Adam. If I haven’t been entirely frank, it’s only for the purpose of preserving absolute secrecy. Report to me in the morning and I’ll make it all clear.”

  That dubious promise was the most I could extract from him, and I left his headquarters in a whirling state of mind.

  Now I must stop writing, if I want to sleep at all before reveille.

  The air is cold but clear tonight, the wind as sharp as scissors. I find myself thinking of Calyxa, but she is awfully far away.

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 2174

  Julian has explained his plan. Tonight we perform an essential test. I can confide the truth in no one—not even in these Notes, which I keep for myself.

  It’s a thin chance, but we have no other.

  (Here the Diary concludes, and I resume the narrative in the customary style.)

  * Despite the well-known cruelty and Atheism of Mitteleuropa, that principality nevertheless inspires in its subjects a kind of “patriotism” which resembles in almost every particular the real thing.

  * Nor could there have been.

  * A skill every Eupatridian of Julian’s class has mastered: it consists of regarding the world and all its inhabitants as if they emitted a faint offensive odor.

  5

  Julian took me into his confidence at last, and during the afternoon of the 21st of November he conducted me on a tour of the warehouse where the “weapon” was being prepared.

  It soon became obvious that what I had overlooked about Julian was his persistent and unconquerable love of theater. That aspect of his personality had not been much manifest during his tenure as Major General Comstock … but neither, apparently, had it been wholly suppressed. The interior of the warehouse (illuminated by freshly-scrubbed skylights and a generous number of lanterns) resembled nothing so much as the backstage shambles at some colossal production of Lucia di Lammermoor,* with Julian as the property-master.

  Men in uniform had been made into seamstresses, working bolts of black silk at feverish speed, often while cutters slashed at the same cloth. Carpenters had busied themselves sawing wooden poles or lathing into supple strips as tall as a man. Cordage from a wholesale spool the size of a millwheel was carefully measured out, and segments of it rewound onto smaller hubs. This was only a sample of the vigorous business taking place.

  The huge room stank of various chemical substances, including caustic soda and what Julian claimed was liquid phos
phorous (in several pitted metal barrels). My eyes began to water as soon as the door was closed behind me, and I wondered whether some of what I had mistaken for fatigue in Julian’s countenance was simply the result of long hours spent in this unpleasant atmosphere. I was impressed by the industriousness and scale of the work, which filled the enclosed space with a fearsome noise, but I confessed I could not make sense of it.

  “Come on, Adam, can’t you guess?”

  “Is it a game, then? I assume you’re assembling some weapon—or at least the seeming of one.”

  “A little of each,” said Julian, smiling mischievously.

  A soldier came past carrying a wrapped assemblage of lathes and black silk, which Julian briefly inspected. I told Julian the bundle resembled one of the fishing-kites he had got up at Edenvale, though much enlarged.

  “Very good!” said Julian. “Well observed.”

  “But what is it really?”

  “Just what you imagine it is.”

  “A kite?” The soldier in question stood the object upright among many others similar to it. Folded, they resembled so many sinister umbrellas, fashioned for the use of a fastidious giant. “But there must be a hundred of them!”

  “At least.”

  “What use are kites, though, Julian?”

  “Any explanation I could give you would be beggared by the truth. Tonight we test the product. When you see the result, perhaps you’ll understand.”

  His coyness was aggravating, but I supposed it was another manifestation of the showman in him, not wanting to describe a stage effect for fear of diminishing its impact. He said he wanted me as “an unbiased observer.” I told that I had no bias but impatience; and I went to the field hospital in a mixed humor, and made myself useful there until after dark.

  When night had fully fallen, and after our meager evening rations had been doled out, Julian and I once more made our way toward the docks. The warehouse, though still heavily guarded, was less busy at this hour. The men Julian had chosen as his workforce had been sworn to secrecy, and they slept apart from the other soldiers so as not to risk unwise conversation. Most of the recruits, Julian said, knew only the particular task assigned them, and had been kept ignorant of the whole outline of the business. But there were a hundred or so men who had been made to understand our ultimate objective, and this elite group was in the warehouse tonight—or rather on top of the warehouse, for we climbed an iron stairway to the roof of the building, which was securely tiled and only gently sloped. The “Kite Brigade,” as Julian called them, awaited him there.