Читать книгу The Atlantropa Articles - Cody Franklin - Страница 10

The Rusted Arm

What an absolute waste. Such a fine drink was now spilt onto the floor, mixing together with an ever-growing pool of blood from a Marian whore. Imagine that whiskey’s journey. The time and effort it must have taken to reach perfection. Brewed and bottled, then put into a crate and transported all the way south to the edge of civilization…simply to be ruined in such a callous manner. It was an expensive bottle, and I’m certain the price matched the work. I was quite looking forward to enjoying such handiwork. Yet instead, all of it is now a puddle of glass and blood at my feet.

Dumb bitch.

I sit here in this booth waiting for somebody to settle the matter. Few patrons in the bar glance over, and those who do quickly turn back to their drinks. An injured bar-whore on this ferry is not a tragedy to warrant more than a few seconds of curiosity.

She will just not stop shrieking. The shaking mess is curled up next to the table she clumsily knocked over. She’s wailing like a banshee, and it’s getting on my nerves; her good hand is clutching the Reichsmarks that she stole from my pocket.

She had sat on my lap, slipped her hand in my pocket, and taken the money inside, thinking I wouldn’t catch it. As she gripped the money, I in turn gripped her twig of a forearm and shattered that fucking thing in half. Bone is piercing out of the flesh, some red pulp is dripping onto the wooden floor…serves her right. She tried to get away and toppled everything over with her. The table…the drink…my patience.

A dark, cardinal-red river is flowing down her pale, fair skin. I was very eager to get acquainted with that body before we made landfall. She seemed like a quality girl. Blonde, an abundance of curves, smooth pearly skin. If she had made some good life decisions and weren’t a bar-whore, I figure she could have made a fine Aryan wife. Just my luck the best looking specimen tries to be a thief. Pity.

I motion for another drink and for somebody to take this whimpering mess away from me. Four girls scurry into the bar. One hands me a new bottle of liquor, the second places a mat over the pool of blood, and the last two drag away the sobbing bitch. It was a nice little display.

One of the girls snatches my Reichsmarks back from the bleeding bar-whore’s grasp and places the money firmly into my hands. As the rest leave the room, she gives a gracious bow, apologizes in a regretful tone for the inconvenience, and finally floats out of the room to leave me in peace.

“What was that for?” a voice calmly says at the other end of the bar.

I turn to face its owner. His slim figure is draped in an overcoat that flows down to his knees. On top of an already bulky coat is a shell of metal-armored plates. They are golden, just like his features. Blond hair slicked back, with a short-trimmed beard to match. His youth of twenty years really contrasts with my own aging exterior. Even though we are only ten years apart in age, I can’t help but notice the difference.

“You saw what she did, Ulric,” I say, pointing to the mat which had been laid down to cover the puddle of blood. “Had to protect my money.”

Ulric makes his way across the bar toward me, setting his attention on the still sideways table.

“Problems are settled differently down here,” I explain to him in a collected manner, as we both prop the table back up.

“Quite different than Germania, I guess,” Ulric hesitantly rationalizes, as he joins me at the booth. His voice is laced with nervousness. I expected he’d be a little uneasy, considering this is his first deployment down south. My brother has lived a quiet life in the pristine capital of the Reich. A place of beautiful monuments, tall winding towers, and dense green forests.

“Sometimes I don’t know the strength of this thing,” I say, shifting to display my left arm, or what is now my arm. Drops of the girl’s blood paint the side of my rusted mechanical limb. I probably should wipe that off.

It’s common practice to put artificial skin over such a thing, but I just never bothered. Fake skin never wrinkles: it stays in the same perfect condition forever, unlike the rest of me. I’ve already seen my skin age and wrinkle, even if it was just a bit. At least as the metal rusts, my body degeneration will be a uniform and balanced process.

I take a napkin and begin cleaning the blood off of my limb. I don’t get why this arm is always the dominant one. Even ten years after losing it, it still thinks it’s in charge.

“Don’t you think there could have been another way handling that situation?” Ulric says, while watching the cleaning display. “Could have just stopped her and got the money back. She was just a little thing.”

I nod in aloof agreement while cleaning away the last bits of blood. It was the same dark crimson as Ulric’s uniform—standard for an S.S. Knight. The gold eagle and skull pinned to his chest shines against the lamp hanging above us.

“I wouldn’t get caught up on it, Ulric. It’s not like it was that much of a loss,” I reason. “If you knew how many girls go through every season, you’d know she can be replaced like that.” I snap my fingers, “Don’t get queasy. I know you’re a pacifist and all….”

“I’m not a pacifist,” Ulric defends. “I just have never seen violence like that before.”

“Not a pacifist, sure,” I joke, pointing to his uniform.

“The Knighthood maintains cultural integrity,” Ulric explains, his hands clenched together as his body slouches over. “We aren’t some peace organization.”

“So getting caught up on a bar-whore is maintaining culture?” I laugh, looking around the dim room. Not one of the occupants was looking back at us. The bartender was cleaning one of his glasses, having a quiet conversation with a man in a grey uniform. None pay much mind to my brother and me.

Ulric’s eyes lock on the last drops of blood I am wiping from my limb. It’s as if he has something to say, but instead he simply lets out a deep breath, unclenches his hands, and orders another drink.

“The Knighthood is about protecting the tribe,” he explains.

“The only way to protect the tribe is to make sure we aren’t attacked by another tribe,” I state.

“There are many ways to protect a tribe, Ansel,” Ulric lectures, his eyes narrowing, “such as respecting your fellow Aryans.”

I chuckle to myself, almost spitting up my drink. Ulric wrinkles his brow at me with an expression of annoyance.

“Are you saying that I should have respected that whore just because she’s an Aryan?” I choke out through spats of laughter.

“A tribe that fights amongst itself is bound to collapse,” he concludes.

“We’re not going to fight some great war just because I broke a thief’s arm,” I say. “If anything, you should be lecturing her for stealing.”

Ulric slouches down into his seat. His hand loosely grips the handle of his pint.

“That woman was still an Aryan.”

“That woman was still a thief,” I say, taking a large gulp from my new whiskey.

We sit by a small window that overlooks the sea. A faint rumble permeates the walls as waves splash against the ferry. It always surprises me just how loud the sea is—a thousand little movements working in sync to create that recognizable hum. It’s a rhythm in tune to the slow churn of the ship’s engine.

This ferry isn’t larger than the ships of the Kiln, but it’s still impressive…for a water vessel. I’m surprised at how it can even stay afloat. It doesn’t need wheels, treads, or magnets to grip onto the water. This is, by all means, a chunk of metal floating on top of a liquid surface. Mechanical feet were always something inherently genetic to the European.

For its remarkable size, there is barely a soul on this ferry. The only travelers I see are the standard bunch of sailors on their way south to the Kiln. Whores strut across the bar, but even they are few and far between; granted, that probably is because of me.

The Reich officially outlaws prostitution but down south, they turn a blind eye. Sailors had to be kept happy somehow in this remote edge of civilization.

I figure that if this region were run with the moral code of Germania up north, then no sailors would want to ship cargo. In the summer months when the heat is an issue, hell, I guarantee half of the ships would be abandoned and never leave port.

This time of year, the pay is doubled, eyes are turned away, and the sailors are kept happy with women before they embark on their long journeys ahead. There’s a common saying here: “As long as the cargo ships and the Nests stay fertile, the Reich will always remain Eternal.”

I can still make out, on the horizon, the towers of Maria peeking out from behind a cloud of dust and smoke. Unlike the capital of Germania or the city of London, there was no real organized design to Maria. The streets are narrow and winding; the towers, plopped everywhere…and the people are just as disorganized as the layout.

Yet it had the right location to serve as a port city, and in that regard Maria did its job.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” Ulric says, after a long silence. I look at him, his posture defeated and his head held low. The armor swallowed up his skinny figure.

“You won’t mess up.” I comfort him, lowering my pint glass. Our vessel is just shipping containers to some Eagle Nests down south and if we run into any enemy vessels, our ship will blast them before we even need help.

“But if I need to call in a Drop—” Ulric sputters out.

“You won’t need to,” I cut in.

“Alright. I’m just saying if I need to, if we’re in a lot of danger—”

“You’re nervous…I get it,” I explain. “If we really need it I’ll let you know, but only when I let you know.”

Every ship that goes out into the Kiln is Reich property. That means that if a ship comes under attack by Scavengers and is about to go down, then the last-ditch effort is called in. An “Aegir” Drop—an orbital strike which drops a hunk of metal, crashing down onto the enemy like a meteor. Even though the Reich doesn’t expand across Asia, it still expands into space. Space is more useful anyway. Only one kind of person is really trusted to use Aegir Drops responsibly—an S.S. Knight. Guess the Reich leaders don’t have much faith in their sailors. I don’t really blame them, considering the crewmen I’ve run into over the years.

Ulric, being a newly dubbed Knight, is taking his first maiden voyage into a new life. Calling in these Drops to protect the ships. That’s why I invited my skittish brother to join my ship, so he can have a quality first experience. Well, that and it’s the law.

“Why do you not want me to call in a Drop?” Ulric asks, his face contorting in confusion.

I look out the small window toward the swirling waves. My own battered reflection peers back at me. Sullen eyes, a few scars across my face, a shaggy beard. Years out in this place have certainly taken their toll on my body.

“It’s cowardly,” I say, in a dull dismissive tone, taking another drink.

Ulric perks himself up at the sound, confounded at what he just heard.

“Cowardly?!” he repeats in astonishment. “How is a weapon designed to save the lives of your men cowardly?” His voice lines with a twinge of hysteria.

I keep myself composed, looking back toward the window and my own battered face.

“My men don’t need some orbital blast to save them,” I explain in a hushed tone. “We have all the weapons we need on the ship. I prefer to get up close to the enemy.”

“It isn’t about what you prefer,” Ulric explains. “It’s policy by the Reich. A Knight needs to be on the ship no matter what…just in case.”

“And I can disagree with Reich policies.” I argue back, in a calm demeanor. This seems to get Ulric even more infuriated. “I’m still allowing a Knight to come onto the ship. It’s just we won’t really need your services.”

“Why did I even come on this journey with you then if I can’t even do anything?” he asks, his eyes wide.

“Think of it like an introduction into life in the Kiln. You learn how things are done.”

“I’ve learned for four years in school, Ansel,” Ulric complains, his eyes lowered toward his half-empty pint.

“They are two different beasts,” I say, taking another swig. “You think I knew anything about the Kiln until I joined the military? Every man thinks he knows everything at your age, until they don’t.”

Jokingly, I flex my metallic arm. My mind flashes back to an earlier time. I was Ulric’s age, and it too was my first time in the Kiln. Yet my reason for arriving was far different. Eagle Nest #15 had been invaded by Scavengers. A gun was placed in my hand and I was told to storm those large, tall towers. “Take back the Nest,” they said, and I followed.

Took shrapnel to the torso. Everything went black. Within a day though, I was back in the fight with a new mechanical arm, and able to avenge that limb along with those innocent civilians murdered. Wasted many revolver rounds, firing into the surrendering Scavengers’ skulls.

A soft female voice rings out across the bar from speakers in the ceiling.

“Attention all passengers. We shall be arriving at the Edge in ten minutes. If you have not done so, get to your belongings and prepare to disembark the ferry when the time comes.”

I lift myself up with a heavy grunt. My metallic limb clangs as the mechanisms inside spin to support my weight. Ulric silently stands up alongside me. His face is still sullen with disappointment.

“No matter how much reading you do,” I reason to him, pointing a hand on his shoulder, “there is nothing that really prepares a man to life in the Kiln other than being in the Kiln.”

“I…I know,” he says, with a trailing voice. “I was just expecting to do something.”

“And you will, eventually. Just for now, be appreciative that you get a crash course in how things are down here.”

We pick up the small duffle bags we brought along on our journey. There wasn’t much that I packed. Anything of particular use up north was pointless down south. Most of my gear minus my armor, which I was already wearing, was on my ship anyway.

Ulric and I stand at the side of the ferry, gripping onto the railing overlooking the sea. This water always had a strange pungent smell to it. It smells of dead fish, but there hasn’t been a single fish in this small sea for centuries. With every movement of each wave, that foul odor splashes against the ship.

The occupants of the boat go about their business, preparing to dock. Some wear metal-plated armor, just like my brother and I. Others wear simple, grey uniforms. Ulric holds himself stiff as a board, cautious to stay out of the way of everyone.

In the distance, I can see a large orange cloud wafting over the horizon. It is like a monster slowly revealing its presence. A fog clashing with the teal, rippling waves. We are getting close to the Edge.

“What is that?” Ulric asks, pointing to the orange fog.

“That, Ulric—” I explain in a matter-of-fact manner, “—that is a dust storm. We’re getting close now.”

After a few minutes, the concrete world of the Edge comes into full view. Our boat slows itself down as it navigates past the traffic of other ferries and vessels, each either docking or leaving.

The flow of bodies bustles around the city like an ant colony against the gargantuan stone towers and majestic statues, the largest of which is a statue of gold in the image of a man in a flowing overcoat. One arm seems to touch the orange sky as the other rests on a large stone tablet. By his side is a pole with an eagle, its wings outstretched. This statue seems to have the most people crowded around it, all wishing to get a look at one of the Reich’s main heroes.

The ferry blows its horn to announce its arrival at the concrete shore and the crowd begins disembarking. A long, narrow bridge slowly moves toward solid ground, allowing the flood of people to spew forth from the vessel. Ulric and I navigate our way through a crowd of sailors, crewmen, and whores, all going to their own destination. As all depart and disappear into the sea of people, we both stop and stare at the sight in front of us.

These buildings must be thousands of years old and yet there is hardly a crack on them, only an orange hue which has caked itself onto the façades of these structures. They are all ornate. Carved with pictures of events from the past. Armored warriors defending against an unstoppable wave. A pact between two men holding up a single document.

Above these structures loom great statues, which remain as pristine as the day they were first constructed. Images dedicated to Führers of the past, Reich heroes who fought in the Kiln, or even depictions of eagles. In every area of the Edge, red-and-gold flags wave about, gloriously.

It truly is a magnificent sight; however, it isn’t the sight that I have come for.

We stroll through the crowd. Sailors bumble past us on their way to their designated ships. Guards in their large metal suits lumber by with a metallic clank at every footstep. Smaller soldiers march about, waiting to be loaded onto a ship destined for some Eagle Nest out in the Kiln.

As the minutes roll past, we move away from the pungent odor of the sea. The sound of the waves crashing against the Edge disappears in the noise of the human traffic. With every step, dust becomes more prevalent on the white, ancient floor. Wind begins to howl and cry as hot, dry air overtakes the smell of the sea.

There is no horizon in front of me. Instead, the blue sky simply meets a small white barrier. It’s a wall that goes up to my waist. On this wall is a line of flagpoles, each flying the flag of the Eternal Reich, a swastika emblazoned on each and every one. This simple wall is the only thing preventing onlookers from tumbling down into the world below.

After about ten minutes of navigation, we’ve made our way to the literal edge of this concrete place. As I look down past the white barrier caked in sand, I can see the desert world that stretches endlessly onward. It is the edge of the great concrete dam that holds in the entire sea which we have just traversed by ferry.

I look down the curved face of a structure that has remained stable and intact since the days of the first Aryans. This dam is the arrival point for most people traveling into the vast desert beyond.

Through the rippling desert air, I locate the vast array of ships lined in a row against the dam’s edge. Those are the true docks. Each ship packed with special cargo, preparing to sail forthright into the vast expanse of desert and salt.

From the bottom docks onward, there is nothing more than endless rolling hills of orange desert. I take in the sight of ships curving over the dunes. Going off into the horizon. Long strings of dusty clouds trail behind them as their treads slowly carry them south into the basin beyond.

“Welcome to the Kiln,” I mutter to my brother, reaching out a hand to the magnificent sight.

“It sure is different than how I pictured it,” Ulric remarks, peering over with me, “It’s far more…arid.”

“Well, it is a desert,” I laugh. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know what I expected…. So, which ship is yours?” Ulric asks, gesturing a hand toward the ships lined against the dam far below.

I point to the largest of the hulking masses of steel. “There she is, there’s the Howling Dark.”

“She’s quite a big one,” Ulric remarks.

“Well there’s a reason we’ve never needed to call in the Drop,” I say.

We stay there for a while, simply gazing out into the orange expanse of sea. After that, we turn around and head to the statue that has loomed over us since we first arrived at the Docks. Its façade has been worn down by centuries of dust and sand, but that didn’t stop it from being magnificent.

I look up upon the calm statue that for centuries has looked off into that endless desert world. Sharp cheekbones define a strong, handsome face. It has wavy hair, similar to that of the ancient Greeks. Its tall body is draped in garments and chains, yet still remains composed. One hand points toward the sky, as another clasps onto the documents that created all the dams of Atlantropa.

We were always taught that he was truly the perfect, ideal Aryan. The man who started our entire race. Standing here underneath this statue, I can’t help but feel a warmth inside my heart. It simply gives off the aura of a father, like he is looking down at his people who are prospering.

“What do you think he would have thought of this?” Ulric asks me.

I squint and wrinkle my brow to get a clearer view of the statue’s face. I take in the meticulous details of the robes. Every inch tells a story through a series of symbols and images about the people of Europe. It is a story that culminates in the Reich and the rise of the Aryans. The people.

“I don’t know how much he would think of large statues of himself,” I reply.

“I mean, what do you think he would have thought about this desert? You think he would have still gone through with constructing the dams if he knew the sea would just become one large desert?”

My eyebrows rise, and I look back down to Ulric, his face still turned upward.

“I assume so,” I guess, not really knowing much of what he would have wanted. “Peace was assured, everyone came together. So it worked out,” I reply, gazing up once more.

We then look to the stone engraving that stands at the base of the statue. It’s a mural of two men, the one in the statue and another man, the Architect, both grasping a stone tablet with one hand. Rays radiate from the stone as a group of men look on in the background. On the stone is a single phrase: “The Atlantropa Articles.”

Underneath the depiction of the two men is a short poem, engraved onto the marble:

I light my path with the flame of reason,

I warm my heart with the pride of race,

I love my Führer for all Eternal,

For his life is what gave me grace.

In Memoriam to the Eternal Führer Adolf Hitler (1889–1939)

“He’d be proud that a kid is so ambitious about his message,” I say to Ulric, his eyes analyzing the poem before us.

“You really think so?” Ulric asks with a smile.

“Of course,” I reply, smiling back. “Sieg Heil.”

“Sieg Heil.”