The Heirs of Babylon - Glen Cook Read online

  The Heirs of Babylon

  Glen Cook

  Copyright © Glen Cook 1972

  First Printing: December 1972

  This ePub edition v1.0 by Dead^Man Jan, 2011

  It is the time of the gathering and all nations must pay tribute...

  WHY MUST THEY? Kurt wondered, as the decrepid destroyer JAGER wallowed through uncharted waters on its way to Gibralter, the Gathering of the fleet, and the final meeting with the Enemy. It was sad to think how man fad fallen from the days when such vessels as the JAGER had been built. Now the last men struggled on in isolated communities, maintaining machines they could no longer build, ruled over by the distant Political Office in the person of the much despised and universally feared Political Officers. These black phantoms ruled mankind, telling one how to think, how to act, and when to obey the call to the Gathering. And now the call had come for Kurt to sail off to Gibraltar to the Gathering - the ritual massing of the fleet for the War, the Gathering from which no one had ever returned...

  I

  A RESTLESS couple sat on a blanket on a twisted, rusted girder, holding hands sadly, occasionally glancing toward the ancient ship at the pier in the distance, silent love islanded in a forest of broken steel madness. The girl moved nervously, stared through the bones of the shipyard, hating the ship that would take her Kurt away — Jager, a gray steel dragon specially evolved for the dealing of death, crouched, waiting beside the Hoch-und-Deutschmeister pier. Her hand tightened on his. She lifted it, rubbed her cheek against his knuckles, kissed them, and moved closer. He slipped his arm around her, lightly. Hers passed around his waist. The cool, moist fingers of their free hands entwined in her lap.

  They were Kurt and Karen Ranke, married eleven months, two weeks, and three days, and about to be parted by the warship — perhaps permanently. Both were tall and leanly muscular, blond, blue-eyed, almost stereotypically Aryan, alike as brother and sister, yet related only through marriage. Their sadness was for the War, on again.

  A snatch of song momentarily haunted the ruins to their left. They turned. A hundred meters distant, beside the shallow, scum-topped water-corpse of the Kiel Canal, sailors made their ways toward the destroyer; men without attachments, accompanied by no women. One sang a bawdy verse. The others laughed.

  “Hans and his deck apes,” Kurt murmured. “Almost happy because we’re pulling out.”

  Karen leaned her head against his shoulder, said nothing. Through narrowed eyes she searched the torn iron fingers surrounding them. Kurt ignored the question, unspoken, in her eyes. He understood the need to create more such ruin no better than she.

  A whistle shrieked at the pier, a foghorn bellowed — Jager testing.

  The warship had come through sea trials well, like a great-grandmother proving capable of the marathon. Her officers and men had once been delighted as children with a new toy. But their joy was fading. The toy was ready for the War, for the Last of All Battles, as the Political Office had it. A pale specter on a far horizon dampened all enthusiasms. The games were over, and death lay in ambush on a distant sea.

  Kurt knew Karen doubted the Political Office, and bore a grudge against the destroyer. Already the two were responsible for a dozen training separations. Her darkest fear, and his, was that this one might be permanent.

  Karen’s fingers, teasing through his hair, quivered. He tried to ignore it. He was going to the War — she said to no purpose. He repeated her questions in his mind. The War had managed without him for centuries. Why must he go? He had been assigned a good position, and the same wanderlust which had led him to spend three years with the Danish fishing fleets demanded he not refuse it. More than once she had called him a willing victim of man’s oldest madness. If gods there were, Ares was the most enduring.

  A murmur of low voices came from the direction of the canal. Kurt stopped thinking of Karen long enough to glance at Chief Engineer Czyzewski and his group of Polish volunteers. Then came the sound of small bells ringing. lager’s gunnery and fire control people were making a last check of the gun mounts. The main battery trained left and right. Flags rose to the starboard yardarm. “Half an hour,” Kurt observed. Karen said nothing.

  More clatter along the canal. They looked. The officers: Captain von Lappus; Commander Haber; Kurt’s cousin. Lieutenant Lindemann; and Ensign Heiden, the Supply Officer. Other officers were already aboard — except one.

  He walked alone, a hundred meters behind the others. Tall, thin, pale, with cold eyes that seemed to stare out of a private hell in a bony face with skin stretched taut, skull-like, beneath sand-colored hair, he wore a uniform unlike those of the others, neither naval, nor of the Baltic Littoral. This was black, silver-trimmed, bore death’s-head insignia at the collars, grim imitations of an age long unremembered. A Political Officer.

  “Beck,” Kurt sighed, shivering.

  Karen stirred nervously, kicking a mound of rubble. It collapsed with a tiny clatter.

  Beck stopped, haunted eyes searching the steel boneyard. The strangeness of the man projected itself through the hundred meters of ruin. The couple shivered again. He studied them a moment, then walked on.

  “That man...” Karen sighed with relief. “He makes me freeze up inside, like a snake. Be careful, Kurt. He’s not old Karl.”

  Karl Wiedermann was Kiel’s resident Political Officer. He projected the same coldness, had the haunted eyes at times, but did have a spark of humanness in him. He wore black and silver only on military holidays, and seldom invoked his power. Kurt had happy childhood memories of his little shop on Siegestrasse where he crafted fine furniture of imported Swedish oak. Old Karl was not a bad man — for a Political Officer.

  Beck — Beck was no Kiel-born man. He had no ties with the Littoral. He was from High Command at Gibraltar, sent to Kiel to summon Jager to the War. He appeared a fanatic, cold as the devil’s heart. Perhaps, as Karen had once opined, there was an association. Kurt, however, suspected he was as human as anyone, with loves, hates, hopes, and fears. He could not credit pure evil, as many believed Beck to be. He had seen strange men and stranger behavior while with the Danish fishing fleets, and always, no matter how unusual, a man’s actions had been explicable in terms of human needs.

  Kurt’s mind, unhampered because Karen was unusually silent, drifted off to his years with the fishing fleets. A great adventure they had been, until he came home and found Karen grown into a lovely woman. He had abandoned the sea to court her, had won her, and had let her talk him out of returning — until Commander Haber offered him the post of Leading Quartermaster aboard Jager because of his experience.

  More sailors passed in time. Many were accompanied by tearful wives and lovers and mothers. There were few men. Kurt watched his sister, Frieda, as she and her fiancé. Otto Kapp, passed, she clinging to his arm so tightly her knuckles were white. “We give so much to the War,” Kurt murmured. Karen nodded. Their families had given for generations.

  Their fathers had gone to the last Meeting, aboard U-793, a salvaged submarine, and had not come back — those who went to Meetings seldom returned. Three of their grandfathers had sailed on the cruiser Grossdeutschland, decades gone.

  “Let’s walk,” said Karen, rising from the girder, tugging the blanket. While putting his cap on and hoisting his seabag to his shoulder, Kurt took a last fond, deep look at the ruin surrounding them. This was his home, this brick, concrete, and steel desert that stretched a thousand kilometers to the east and south and west. Only the north, Scandinavia, had been spared the mighty bombs. The plagues had raged through, but the survivors were left with livable land, and, in time, had developed a looseknit, quasi-medieval, viable culture. Yes, Kurt lived in the bones of a fallen Germany,
but this was his home and he was loathe to depart, albeit he had been thinking much of Norway lately, especially the province of Telemark,

  They walked beside the canal. Suddenly, Karen revealed her own Norwegian thoughts. “Kurt, I’m going to Telemark.” The seabag fell from his shoulder, thumped on the earth. No words of rebuke could he find, though he opened his mouth to speak. With dreamlike slowness he turned and took her by the shoulders, held her at arm’s length while staring into the bottomless blue of her eyes. They reflected the misery of the rusty wreckage around her, they reflected ruin she must escape — and a crystal tear. For a brief instant Kurt shared her soul’s agony. Somewhere a lonely seabird called, a stormcari. “To the colony,” she said, her voice soft as meringue, yet with an edge of steel daring his reply. “I can’t bear Kiel anymore, Kurt. Look!” She swept an arm around, all-inclusive. “The Fatherland. The best part. We’re maggots feeding on its corpse. We steal from the dead, create nothing new, waste what little we have on this endless madness — I’ll not damn our baby to it! Not just to give the Littoral another sailor to die at the next Meeting....”

  There were gray clouds rising, shadows moving, and a wind come down from the north soughed among the girders. Perhaps a storm was brewing. Perhaps not. These could be omens. “Baby?” Kurt exclaimed, still off balance from the shock of Norway. “Yes, a baby.”

  “You’re sure?” She nodded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Wouldn’t’ve made any difference, would it?” Guiltily, he avoided her angry eyes — because it was true. The War was first in his life, even before babies. “But Norway?” ‘Too much? No. When Kari Wiedennann calls the refugees traitors, do you have to break your neck agreeing? No one called you a traitor when you went to Denmark. Must I love Germany less because I go to Norway? And why do I want to go? Because there’s got to be something better than getting ready for the next battle — and I can’t have it here. Only in Telemark. Yes, Telemark! Where the weird ones go, the dropouts, the pacifists, the turncoats, the ones who go where there’re no Political Officers to make them think about killing.

  “Go to your damned War! No, don’t argue. You can’t change my mind. When the shells fly there, wherever, remember me and tell yourself it’s worth it.”

  He suspected this was a prepared speech, so readily did her words come. Usually, she was as lame-tongued as he. “But...” Exasperated, he ran a hand through his hair, forgetting the cap he wore. With a curse, he caught it centimeters above the earth. The accident sparked anger he channeled toward Karen. “Why’d you marry me if I’m such an idiot? Why not Hans?”

  She smiled weakly. “Hans is a bigger idiot. He believes. You’re stupid sometimes, Kurt, but I love you anyway.” She slipped her arm around his waist and his anger began to fade. “Come on. Let’s get you to your boat before Hans comes after you — or Beck.”

  They walked in silence until they reached the moldering concrete surface of the Hoch-und-Deutschmeister pier, where, with Jager’s bow looming above them and her decks ringing with the clatter of shoes, they joined Kurt’s sister and her fiancé. They exchanged greetings, but Frieda began moving around nervously, always keeping Otto between herself and her brother. Kurt was startled and a little hurt — although she claimed Otto’s enlisting was his fault, and was still angered by it — until he suddenly realized that Frieda had broken her promise to herself and had done what she had meant to avoid until marriage. He chuckled, not at all dismayed. Indeed, he was pleased for them.

  Otto, too, seemed withdrawn, uncertain, no longer the warm companion of childhood, prior to the death of Kurt’s mother, and before Kurt followed his cousin Gregor into the self-imposed exile of the fishing fleets. Three years’ separation had seem them grow from boys into men, and apart. Common experience no longer tied them together. Both had striven for the old closeness after Kurt’s return, but soon realized they were trying to catch the wind. It was gone, fading through their fingers like gossamer on an autumn breeze. The old, once thought eternal, binding magic had failed, and they could never go home....

  A shout broke Kurt’s study. He looked up, saw sailors preparing to single up mooring lines. Otto and Frieda were growing increasingly uneasy. With Karen close, he started down the pier.

  A dozen steps onward, Karen said, “Put your bag down.” He did. “Kiss me.” He did. “Miss me, Kurt. Miss me bad.” She was fighting tears against his shoulder, and failing. “Be careful. Come back — please?” She kissed him again, much harder, one to remember. Above, a boatswain’s pipe shrieked. “Remember, I’ll be in Telemark. I’ll wait. You’d better hurry on.”

  He kissed her once more, glad she closed her eyes and missed his own tears. Then he shouldered his seabag and walked stiffly along the pier, falling into step beside Otto. Silently, momentarily, they shared, as long ago, their departure despair. Kurt did not look back until they reached the brow. Lord, he felt guilty.

  “Come on, Kapp, Ranke, we can’t hold movement for you,” someone shouted from the quarterdeck.

  Kurt looked, saw Hans Wiedermann, an old enemy. Karen had been his loss to Kurt and he had never forgiven, though he had restrained himself well. He could have gotten revenge through his father, Karl.

  Then, as he climbed the brow, Kurt saw Beck watching from the fantail. Fighting disgust, he jerked his eyes back to Wiedermann. Hans had something of a similar aura, but much mellowed. He was no Political Officer himself, merely one’s son. Yet some of the austere aloofness (monastic? Jesuistic?) had attached itself. Beneath black hair his face was pale, his eyes were icily blue, narrow — but crinkle lines lurked at their corners, and about his mouth. Hans sometimes laughed. Political Officers did not, except at wakes and executions.

  A false, stereotypical notion, Kurt knew, yet one he thought uncomfortably close to the truth. He had strong, perhaps exaggerated opinions about Political Officers, but not much so. They were a cruel and mysterious tribe.

  Wiedermann smiled as Kurt started aft, toward his compartment. “We’ll have the same watch.”

  Kurt felt ice-fingers caress his spine. Nominally, he and Hans were of equal rank, the senior ratings in the departments, but Hans’s was the senior rate. Boatswain over Quartermaster. Kurt silently blessed Hans for the warning. He would walk carefully for a while, hoping Hans would realize a ship had no room for strong animosities.

  Soon, after stowing his gear, he went to the bridge, looked around. Sea Detail was set. Hans was present, as were Captain von Lappus, Commander Haber, and Mr. Lindemann, Captain, Executive Officer, and Officer of the Deck. Otto Kapp had the helm. Bearing takers were on the wings, the walkways outside the closed bridge or pilothouse. A messenger stood by, as did telephone talkers. A full complement, once the lee helmsman arrived.

  Outside, on a very light breeze, a drizzle began falling from the gray sky, into the gray water. It was a dismal day for beginnings, though no one aboard, or on the pier, seemed to notice. There was dismay enough already.

  Kurt stepped to the chart table, glanced at his charts, opened his logbook — a handbound collection of scraps garnered from the ends of the Littoral. After noting the watchstanders, he went to the starboard wing — he did not sense the rain — and waved to Karen. Peripherally, he saw Wiedermann frown. But the Executive Officer stood nearby, waving to his own wife, and Hans dared say nothing unkind. Kurt allowed himself the petty pleasure of a smirk. He blew a kiss.

  Strange. He felt sorry for Hans, never to have had the love of a woman, neither mother nor wife. Nor had he ever had close male friends, throughout his younger years having been shunned because of his father’s position. Always, he had interacted most with Kurt, because so many of their interests and goals had been similar. What had most recently flared in fistfights over Karen had begun at the age of six, in a dispute over a torn and ragged picture book, of ships, each had wanted to borrow from Kiel’s tiny library....

  “Cast off number four!” the Captain growled. Kurt started, glanced down. Two mooring lines were already in
. He hurried inside to get it logged.

  “Hard left rudder. Port engine back one-third.” J’dger shivered as her port screw came to life, a proud old lady looking forward to another assignation with the sea. The sea, the sea, the beautiful, lonely, endless sea, Kurt’s first love, which was leading him to forsake his second and true for its sad, empty, rippled bosom.... lager’s stem slowly swung away from the pier.

  “Cast off number one.” Stay-at-homes scurried on the drizzled pier as the last mooring line was freed. The forecastle bustled as the Sea Detail hauled it in and stretched it for eventual drying. The proud old lady was on her way to her ancient lover,. Neptune, Poseidon, Dagon, god of a thousand names, who dwelt where shattered towers lie.... “Fair Atlantis...”

  “What?”

  Kurt blushed when he saw Otto had overheard, embarrassed by having his daydreams aired like a lumber-room carpet. “Nothing.” He turned to his chart table, leaving Kapp bewildered. Otto had grown into a hard, practical man who was often bewildered by Kurt’s lack of change since childhood.

  “All back one-third. Rudder ‘midships.”

  Jager backed down slowly till she reached the center of the fairway, then stopped and used her engines to swing her bow to the proper heading for leaving harbor. During a lull in engine orders and rudder changes, Kurt glanced up from his log. Karen and Frieda had become tiny figures waving pathetically, almost indistinguishable for rain, crowd, and distance. His throat tightened. He suddenly feared he would never see them again.

  His eyes shifted to the city, ruin forever on, angles and planes and steel fingers clawing at the sky whence had fallen the ancient death. Time had worn the sharp edges, except around the shipyards where the corpses of tremendous cranes and mysterious machines lay like scattered, corroded, vanquished trolls. The neat little shops and houses fronting the harbor to the southeast were out of place and time. Indeed, here, Man was out of place and time, yet he refused to acknowledge his fall.