by Baen Books
“Fourteen,” Wolfgang called out. “Boys.”
He was about to repeat himself when the man raised a hand. After a long inspection either way along the river, he gestured behind him. Two younger men appeared dragging a boat. A moment later it was on the water and on its way across.
Reaching into his vest pocket, Wolfgang pulled out his watch. It was his father’s watch, given to him just before the old man died back in ’38. It had been bought by his grandfather, back in the 1880s, during the days of the Second Reich. He ran his fingers over the external engraving. It had run perfectly for all those years. It had never once needed repair.
The boat touched the shore. The man once again eyed the shoreline to either side, then gave the sky a quick once-over. Wolfgang stepped down the embankment to help pull the boat in.
“Need to keep an eye out for the Jabos. They’re like crows.”
“I know.” He was of old peasant stock, sturdy and short, his face red, and lacking several teeth. Wolfgang squeezed the watch one last time and handed it to him. The farmer examined it, clicked open the cover, and held it to his ear. “Good,” he said. “Now, you’ve got fourteen, you say.”
“That’s right.” Several of the boys had emerged from the brush. He waved toward them. “And me.”
“Volkssturm, are you? Well, it’ll take two trips. Half and half.”
“Fine. How are things on the other side?”
The man gave him a gap-toothed smile. “Getting a little crowded.”
“I can imagine. Any sign of the Amis?”
“Not yet. Some claim they’ve spotted patrols, but I’ll believe it when I see it. They’re not far off, though. A day, maybe less.”
Wolfgang nodded. The boys had gathered around them. He pointed them to the boat. “Squad A first,” he told them. He’d divided them into two squads when they’d first been organized last November. It gave them a more military tone.
A moment later the boat was filled. The boatman grabbed an oar and told Gus to pick up the other one. They pushed off. Several of the boys called back to them.
Wolfgang cast an anxious eye overhead, but the sky remained clear. One of the remaining boys whispered something about “going away.” Anton answered him: “It’s still Germany.”
Wolfgang eyed him a moment. He was a deep one.
The boat had nearly reached the opposite shore, a little ways down from where it had set out. Someone called to him from this side. A small group was approaching on the river road, eager to intercept the boatman when he returned. Wolfgang was about to answer them when they came to a sudden stop, then fled into the brush.
It was then that Wolfgang heard the engines. He swung around to see a truck approaching from the opposite direction, led by a Kübelwagen. As he watched, the Obersturmführer rose, gripping the windshield and shouting at him.
He turned to the boys. “Into the brush, now. Go!”
He watched them vanish, then glanced across the river. The boat had reached the other side and they were dragging it out of sight.
The Kübelwagen screeched to a halt. He turned to face it. The Obersturmführer leapt out, followed by two men from the truck, both carrying rifles. The officer shouted an order and pointed across the river. The two began shooting at nothing.
The Obersturmführer strode toward Wolfgang, his teeth gritted, his damaged face blood-red. Behind him, Wolfgang could see Dieter sitting in the Kübelwagen behind the driver.
He needed to buy time for the boys. He tried to gather his thoughts, but then the SS man was upon him. Wordlessly, he raised a gloved hand and struck Wolfgang across the face.
The blow was followed by two more, stunning him and driving him to his knees. A second later he was flat on his face, being stomped by the boots of the other SS men. All he could hear was their ragged breaths.
They backed off at a barked order from the Obersturmführer. “Come here, boy,” he called out. “There you are. That’s what a traitor looks like.”
Wolfgang raised his head. Dieter stood about six feet away, staring down at him. Spitting out a gobbet of blood, he shifted to push himself up. A booted foot slammed him back down into the dirt.
“Your teacher. That’s what you said. I can imagine what he taught you. Degeneracy. Cowardice. Treason. Not to stand up for the Führer, for the Reich, for the people. We can do without teachers like that. Get him up!”
Two sets of hands lifted Wolfgang up and started to drag him toward the truck. He gathered his feet beneath himself and shoved them away. “I can walk!”
He heard them laugh. Up ahead, the Obersturmführer smirked over his shoulder.
The officer directed the truck to back up to a tree with branches nearly extending out over the river. “I’ll teach you to stand for something. Then I’ll hunt down those little rats of yours. They’re traitors too. You taught them that and you led them here.”
He turned to Dieter, standing a step or two behind them. “You will shout to them and tell them it’s all right, that it’s safe to come out, that nothing will happen to them. You understand?”
Dieter’s mouth fell open but he said nothing. The officer flicked a glove against his cheek. “It’s for the Reich, sonny.”
The two SS men shoved Wolfgang toward the rear of the truck. The tailgate was down, and the officer’s driver had thrown a noose over a stout branch. His face was tired, as if he’d done this too many times.
He stepped to one side and the SS men pushed Wolfgang forward. There was a cry from down the road.
Forty feet away the young woman from the farmhouse stood a few feet ahead of her wagon. “What are you doing? He’s a teacher!”
The driver gave her a brush-off gesture. “Go, Fräulein. Just go…”
“No!” The Obersturmführer shouted. He took a step in her direction. “You stay right there. Don’t make a single move. You hear me?”
The girl stepped back as if to flee but did as she was told.
“We’ll take care of her afterward. Teach her to mind her business.”
One of the SS men chuckled to himself. At a gesture from the officer the two of them half-hoisted, half-shoved Wolfgang onto the tailgate. He got to his feet under his own power and turned to face the river as the noose was dropped over his head and made tight. He felt a weight in a jacket pocket. He’d never had time to eat that potato.
The driver dropped off the tailgate. The officer gazed up at Wolfgang. “This is an act of cleansing. I want you to know that. You are not worthy of life, not worthy to be a member of the Reich, not worthy to call yourself one of the German people. You are a parasite, a coward, a thief, and a traitor. You also led others, innocent boys, into treason with you. And you did this in time of war…”
Wolfgang cut him off. “War? You’re telling me about war? I fought in a real war, a man’s war. We didn’t send boys out to fight for us.”
The officer gritted his teeth.
“It’s over, you son of a bitch. You and your Redoubt. How long do you think that’ll last? How long before the Allies roll over that? They’ll crack you like an eggshell.” He spat at the officer’s feet. “That for your Redoubt. And your Reich, too.”
The officer clambered up on the tailgate beside him. That maimed eye glared into Wolfgang’s face. “I’m going to let you dangle. Ten minutes, fifteen. Then I’m going to cut you down and wait until you come to… and then I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
He leapt of the tailgate. “Make it slow. I don’t want his neck broken.”
Wolfgang took his last glimpse at the world. He looked south down the river, and was about to turn his head when he saw them.
Two dots on the horizon, growing as he watched, suddenly sprouting clear and defined wings. They shifted their path to bear down on the truck. The Jabos–there was no running from them now. How strange life was! Only a moment ago he had looked at them with hatred and fear. But now here they were, his friends, come to save him from a shameful and agonizing death.
The truc
k vibrated as the engine started. Bright flashes burst beneath the wings of the planes. There were shouts and movement below him, but that was of no interest to him. He raised his head, seeing his wife’s face, his two sons, the boat bearing his boys across the river. You did rather well after all, he thought, as he was engulfed by white, cleansing fire.
Not For Ourselves Alone
by Charles E. Gannon
Note: The author wishes to gratefully acknowledge the advice and consultation of Dr. Ellis Miner (formerly, Fields and Particles specialist, and Deputy Project Scientist on the Voyager mission, JPL). His expert review of near-Jovian habitat requirements was indispensable
The service pin glimmered silver-white through the Mercator map that was etched into its reflective surface. Maelstrom whorls—his fingerprints—stood out against the underlying brightness of the miniature continents. He buffed the tiny world with his shirtcuff; the meteorological perturbations vanished.
The sunlight abruptly decreased in the cabin; the spaceplane had tucked around behind Earth’s terminator. Down below, the Asian landmass slipped by, dark and unremarked except for occasional pinpoints of light: the sparse cities of the steppe. In his mind he named them and savored the naming. Even though some of those cities had no love for ethnic Russians, he cherished them; they had not been targets. In their streets, men still grumbled, women still sang, children still played. That was all that mattered.
The spaceplane trembled. He closed his eyes, felt the course change: a slight roll and yaw to the right. They were angling south. He opened his eyes; the Sea of Japan scudded by beneath them, a featureless black sheet.
Too fast, he thought. In wartime, everything seemed to happen too fast; comings, goings, meetings, partings. From the first moment he had been given the pin he now held, there had never been enough time to shake hands, to remember faces, or to save anyone’s life—
Other than his own.
* * *
Before the first peal of the klaxon died out, Sergei Andreyev was sprinting toward the emergency spacesuit lockers. He focused on the nearest of the narrow doors, gauged the rate at which it was automatically opening. As he came abreast of the locker, he spun on the ball of his foot and kicked off into a sharp backward jump. His shoulder blades crashed against the rear panel of the locker, but the blow was tolerable, softened by the interior of the emergency suit waiting there. Sergei straightened his legs and flexed his ankles so that, as he "stood up," his feet slid down into the waiting boots. That contact activated the automatic assist: servos whined and the bottom half of the emergency suit shot up to his waist.
The klaxon yowls accelerated into doubletime. No time to lose. Jam arms into sleeves, fingers into unipiece gloves. Reach down, find oversized guide tab for ventral zipper. Yank it up—zzrrrrripppp—and then slam the central overseal in place. A sudden gust inside the suit: confirmation that a hermetic seal was established. Reach overhead. Grab helmet in both hands, pull down sharply. Craclack-bang as the connecting rings of suit and helmet met, argued, then mated with a resounding metallic bark.
The automatic power-up initiated: a heads-up display sprayed glittering data on the inside of the visor. Environmental systems green. Communications green. Seal monitor green. Maneuver jets green. Mooring clamp indicator green and blinking: time to disengage the suit from its rack. He depressed the first button on the back of his left gauntlet; the suit came free of its ready-harness with a dull ker-klack.
Sergei played out the suit’s tether slowly, carefully. So far, there had been no howling blast of explosive decompression, nor the warbling whine of a sizable leak; this part of the space station was still pressurized—for now. Time for a communications check. Sergei activated the helmet mic with a nudge of his chin; “This is Andreyev, ID 2-18. Reporting all-go from Module Eleven. Over.”
There was a pause. Then: “Acknowledged, Andreyev. Your total test time: 22 seconds.” Captain Aivars Meri, today’s emergency drill supervisor, punctuated his report with a short grunt. It was a disappointed sound, indicating that he had not been able to find any major flaws in Sergei’s performance. “You established full-seal in fourteen seconds, but you lost time with the gloves. Pick it up there. Traumatic abaria gives you twenty seconds of function—at most.”
Sergei suppressed a snort; as though I don’t know that. But I do note your tone, Captain Meri; pure disdain. To you, I’ll never be more than the son of a pan-Slavic embarassment, of a “Nommie” extremist.
Meri had emerged from the pressure door at the other end of the corridor, dressed in the blue and black flight suit worn by the pilots of the Baltic Confederation. “Okay, Andreyev, let’s finish the drill. Next action?”
Sergei droned through the checklist. “Check the module—”
Meri shook his head; his short, lank blond hair switched from side to side. “Andreyev, this mock-up module:”—he waved a hand at their surroundings—“what does it represent?”
Andreyev frowned. “A module on the Americans’ Jovian space station.”
Aivars nodded: a slow, exaggerated gesture. “Da. Very good. But allow me to remind you that the American station is a torus comprised of many modules.” His tone lost the false animation of sarcasm, became flat and impatient. “So `the’ module means nothing to me, Andreyev. Always identify which module you are in. No exceptions. Now: try again.”
Andreyev resisted the urge to grind his molars and started over. “I check Module Eleven for other personnel. Assist any who are experiencing suit-up difficulties. I move to the Command Center in Module One with all haste. As I pass through each intermodule coupler, I check the module separation system. If the system has failed, I am to arm that module’s separator charges manually.”
“Why?”
Andreyev blinked; that question was not part of the standard drill. “I do not understand. I thought—”
“Andreyev, it is my prerogative to ask questions that are not in the tech brief—to see if you’ve been paying attention to the orientation lessons. I ask again: why do you arm the module separator charges in the event of a local system failure?”
Andreyev stuttered out an answer. “If—if the separation system is not responding to the main command net, and if it becomes necessary to jettison that module, separation can only be effected by switching to manual override and personally detonating the separator charges.”
“And what are your chances of survival if you must manually initiate detonation?”
The technical briefing materials hadn’t even mentioned this: Sergei tried math, gave up, guessed. “There is a fifty percent survival possibility in the event of—”
“Wrong, Andreyev. If you secure yourself with your tether before triggering the charge, you have an eighty-six percent chance of survival. If you don’t, you are dead. Period. You will be sucked out into space. Your life support pack will last up to twenty-four hours at minimum settings, but the rads will have killed you long before then.” Meri’s already narrow lips thinned; his frown became a feral smile. “Your next drill will be on the American station, tovarisch, and it wouldn’t do to put on a sloppy show there, would it? Not only would a failure in front of Americans stain your family honor,”—Sergei’s brow grew suddenly and uncomfortably hot—“but I’d have to mention your incompetence to Major Korsov. And clearly, Korsov might not be as understanding as I am.” The Estonian’s sneer-smile vanished. “Unsuit, Andreyev. And here:”—he tossed a small manila packet at Sergei—“I understand this is the latest fashion craze.”
Sergei rubbed his thumb across the small, disk-like lump at the center of the packet. “What is it?”
Meri smiled. “A sign of our unity, tovarisch. A pin, I think. The symbol of the provisional global government.” The deck jarred slightly under their feet. Meri’s smile became hard and decidedly unkind. “Early arrival and docking is now completed, Andreyev. Time to debark and meet the Americans.”
* * *
Sergei, glad to have finally finished moving through the crew
induction gauntlet, savored the emptiness of the well-appointed galley. He opened the manila packet Meri had given him: a silver service pin tumbled out of the manila packet and on to the table, its mirror-like surface winking brightly. Sergei ignored it and picked up his glass of tea. He assayed the aroma: a coarse blend, overly strong in tannins. He checked the logo on the teabag: an American brand. Of course.
A clutter of new noises began washing over the subtle "earthsounds" being piped into the galley: thudding feet, mutters, an occasional bark of laughter. Sergei put down his glass, fumbled a Russian technical journal out of his jumpsuit’s breast pocket, and feigned immersion in the material.
The rest of contingent from the Pripyat entered in twos and threes, bringing with them a babel of languages punctuated by translations into Americanized English: the lingua franca of the modern epoch. Sergei hunched forward into the sanctuary of his journal’s cyrillic characters.
Sergei heard the clatter of trays and a few jokes about the pureed cuisine on the Pripyat. Korsov’s bearish guffaw rose above the general buzz of conversation; the large Russian settled into the endmost seat on the other side of the table, Aivars Meri trailing behind him. “But it looks like beef,” Meri was insisting, staring at the hamburger on his tray.
Matthewson, a pilot from New Zealand, grinned. “No matter what it looks like, mate, it’s just processed tilapia.”
“We have the same thing,” Korsov added, “but not on the older ships.” He winked at Matthewson. “Aivars here has only served on rustbuckets. Poor boy from the sticks.”
The Estonian snorted. “Hegemonist. Eat your fish-burger.”
Korsov haw-hawed and squeezed his teabag against his spoon. “The tea is a bit harsh though, hey?”
“Americans drink it differently,” Matthewson commented. “Try it with more milk and sugar, Grigori.”
