Читать книгу The Atlantropa Articles - Cody Franklin - Страница 13
ОглавлениеThe night is calm. The stars dazzle, as if the lights of Germania were above us. Cosmic clouds twirl around in a fashion similar to that of the dust kicked up by the ship’s treads. We have passed the first area of sand dunes and have entered a small sea of salt—a flat plain of white crystal that is blinding during the day, but at night it is a different tale. The salt flats, when the sun goes down, transform into an endless mirror. A smooth surface so reflective one could shave while looking down.
We have sailed for three days, and our trip has only begun. The journey for ships is always long. Planes can always make supply drops to Eagle Nests in a fraction of the time, but there are far too many crates, and far too many Nests to be supplied for that to be reliably done. If it takes a couple of ships a couple weeks to make the journey, it’s still worth it to the Reich.
To that, I have no complaints. Without the ships and the Kiln, I wouldn’t have a job. I don’t know if I could survive in the northern Reich, as much as I love the idea of it. Perhaps I love this ship because it’s an escape. It’s the only place that feels like home, even if I have to deal with the men on it. It’s better than facing the perfection and the “proper” behavior for an Aryan man. Beating whores isn’t considered civilized up there, as Ulric so delicately explained.
That’s what I’d be like up north. I’d have to be like Ulric.
I look down from the tower onto a series of campfires scattered across the deck. It was large enough, and metal enough, that nobody had to worry about the fire spreading. Groups are huddled about, laughing at stories and drinking. At this time of night, there is not much to do otherwise. The course has been set, the journey is long, and the computer does most of the automated navigation. Why I am still on the Bridge, I don’t know.
Very few actually stay on the Bridge. Usually it’s just Volker, myself, and the Second Officer, a timid young kid called Witzel. I’d say he’s about Ulric’s age. We’re the only two in the Bridge. I lean against the navigational dashboard, looking at the crowd below while Witzel stands in an upright posture, hands at his back, examining the charts on the wall.
“We’re still going in the right direction, Witzel,” I joke, taking a swig from my whiskey flask. Oftentimes the night can be long, and a few shots of liquor can help. Witzel swirls around uncomfortably, his hands still tied behind his back.
“I know, sir,” he sputters out in a rash, quiet voice, “I just like double checking.”
My response to this is a series of agreeable grunts as I straighten out my back. My hands rummage through the pouch on my chest and I pull out another cigar. The armor I wear is covered in a series of pouches for any occasion. Pockets for cigars, whiskey, water, bullets, all strewn across my waist and chest.
“Do you smoke, Witzel?” I ask with a casual mutter, reaching a cigar out toward the awkward lad.
“No, sir,” he replies, “I never really got into it.”
“It grows on you down here. This is only your…what? Second year?”
“Yes sir.”
“You got time.”
The large metal door swings open with a low creak. Footsteps signify that somebody is entering the Bridge. I swivel my head around and spot Volker. Without the helmet, he sports a buzzed head of sandy blond hair. His nose is more pointed compared to most, but it doesn’t curve like a Scavenger’s.
“Everything seem to be under control, Captain?” he asks in a raspy voice, placing his helmet onto a table adjacent to the door.
“Well, we haven’t fallen into a canyon yet, so I say everything is alright.” I mutter, continuing to puff on the cigar. Smoke floats gently up into the dimly lit ceiling. The room has very few lights.
I can turn on more lights if need be, but I like the darkness for now. Things are already so bright during the day. This can be a break. The smoke from the cigar absorbs the colors of orange and blue from the navigational screens and buttons on the dashboard, which offer most of the illumination in this room.
“Something could have popped over the horizon in the span of a walk around the ship,” Volker jokes, making his way across the Bridge, his boots clanging against the ground. A low hum permeates the cabin—a reminder of the engines underneath doing their work to keep the treads moving. Even with the relatively thick walls of the ship, the desert wind is still present, gently whistling as it rubs against the windows and steel.
“We’ve just left Maria, you know there’re no Scavenger ships this far north. You’re becoming paranoid, Volker,” I remark. “Cigar?” I suggest, handing him a finely rolled up piece of tobacco. “Witzel wasn’t very interested.”
“His loss,” Volker jokes, accepting the second cigar from me. Witzel turns around for a brief moment, a blank look in his eyes before turning back toward the chart. How long does it take to analyze such a thing? Probably just looking at it to avoid conversation.
“Not like we get many chances to smoke anyway,” I say, holding the cigar between my fingers. The campfires flicker down below, as shadowed bodies stumble their way about past the various guns welded to the deck.
“Wife doesn’t like me smoking,” Volker complains, releasing a cloud of smoke. It goes past his shallow eyes; bags have made their home underneath the sockets, a legacy of stressful days in this place.
“Wife probably doesn’t like you going over for months at a time into this hot cauldron, but here we are,” I say with a smirk.
We both stand in silence for a brief moment, holding onto our cigars, looking out into the vast expanse. The outside winds batter against the walls.
“Hear the attacks are getting worse out on the border near Africa?” he explains, pointing off into some unknown target in the distance. “Some Nests even had their defenses overrun. Had to call in the Drops to even get them to scatter.”
“Where’d you hear that?” I ask.
“Just rumors.”
“Everything is rumors,” I mutter, while finishing off whatever whiskey was left in my flask. Damn.
“Rumors are the newscasts of the desert, Captain,” Volker sneers, as more smoke trails past his jagged face.
I raise the empty flask in mild agreement to his words. Scavenger attacks have been something that the Reich has dealt with ever since the Reclamation. The Eternal Führer banished them from the Continent, and ever since they’ve wanted nothing more than to get back inside.
“That one Scavenger vessel two years ago, remember that?” Volker reminisces with a grin, “Fucking thing flared and gave away its position, then tried to lob rounds at us before we even reached the range of their guns!”
“And the damn shots landed a hundred meters from our ship,” I say. “Gave their position away and we could just blow them up.” My hands whip into the air to illustrate the ship combusting from our artillery shots. Volker’s wide smirk slowly devolves into an emotionless face before taking another swig.
“Where do you think they go?” Volker asks in a somber inflection.
“Where do they go?” I repeat in puzzlement, attempting to process the question.
“Like, do they just park those ships in caves or something. Do they live in cities? What causes a people to just hop on machines and try to pillage innocents? You ever think of that?”
I never actually have. Does somebody need to question why the sun beats down on the desert? Or why a storm can destroy all in its path. It is just nature.
“Just figured it’s how they were. We have loot and they want it. It’s that simple,” I conclude, walking toward a cupboard, opening it, and revealing a bottle of whiskey among its contents. “Do flies need a reason to seek honey? No, they simply buzz toward it and get stuck. Maybe that was the burden we carried, attracting the flies.”
Volker agrees with a grunt and takes another puff.
“If I was on the other side of the Reich border I know that would be all I’d want to do,” Volker comments.
My attention turns back to the huddled groups down below. I hear the cheers and songs rising like the smoke from fires.
“What do you think they’re talking about down there?” I ask, pointing to the orange lights scattered upon the deck.
“Usual stuff. What Nests we’re going to. What they’ll do when we reach them. What they did on their leave,” Volker lists off in a dull fashion.
“That would be a quick conversation. Most probably went and whored around, got drunk, then came back,” I reply.
“Speaking from experience, Captain?” Volker teases. To this I laugh and raise my bottle another time.
The engine buzz carries on like a constant rhythmic hum. Like a low voice chanting out. Wait. No, those actually are voices. Music gently rises from the deck, along with the noise of the drinking men. There are more sounds however. An odd, distant and fuzzy chanting.
Raise the flag! The ranks tightly closed!
The SA march with quiet, steady step.
“Odd song,” I state to Volker, taking one last drag from my cigar. “Ever heard that before?”
“Nah,” Volker denies. “How did they even get a sound system onto the deck?”
Putting out the cigar bud, I walk toward the door, tossing the wasted cigar into a rubbish bin. “I’ll go investigate,” I announce to Volker, before opening the door and exiting the Bridge.
The door leads to an indoor staircase that descends down the tower. The creaking of the ship is always the most prevalent here. Sometimes it sounds like the wires and metal plating that hold this tower together will break apart at just a strong breeze. During the day, with the sun beaming down and temperatures up, I’d need to wear a helmet, but at night, when the moon is out, there is no need.
Opening the door, I pace slowly onto the metallic deck. Ashes and sparks dance about the ship as the soft Kiln wind carries them away. The crew have divided themselves into various campfires with six or seven crowded around a flame. Some men are singing, some are brawling. Most are drunk.
Comrades shot by the Red Front and reactionaries
March in spirit within our ranks.
The song of trumpets and chants is coming from a group considerably louder than all the others near the bowsprit. While making my way over, a few of the men notice my armor and immediately stand a little straighter. The larger, bronze-colored armored one with a shaved bald head is standing above them all, knee raised up, arms outstretched in theatrical display at the story he is telling.
“And the fucker came up to me and said, ‘If you talk to me like that one more time…’ and it was right there when I knocked him onto the ground. I don’t like knives you see, gotta just—”
He wrestles with the air, pretending to down a figurative man. The crowd’s attention has now turned to me placing myself on a chair, joining the group bunched around the flames. The air becomes thick with nervousness. They aren’t used to the Captain himself joining them in their drinking.
“After I stopped throttling his neck, he eventually regained consciousness but you should have seen the wedding party—” he pauses, as his good eye slowly turns to meet mine.
“That’s a good story you should continue,” I encourage.
After a few seconds of wide-eyed befuddlement, the man quickly regains his composure and waves his arm down to the fire. “Welcome to our humble fire, Captain,” he says with a smile half full of teeth.
Clear the streets for the brown battalions,
Clear the streets for the storm division!
The muffled voices continue to sing and I turn my attention to the small wooden box that is blaring the music. It’s cobbled together in a makeshift fashion with screws and tape. With every call of the horns it rumbles like it will burst open at any moment.
“That’s an odd contraption,” I remark, pointing at the box. “Where did you get it?”
“He made it himself,” a man to my right says in a slurred tone. I can’t place his name, but he appears to be a guard by his uniform. More armor, more pouches, and a rifle by his side. Each ship in the Kiln was assigned at least a few still-active military members, although most of the men who sail in the Kiln have themselves at one time served in the Kiln.
“Thank you, but I would like to hear from Chief Engineer Keller,” I calmly reply, my eyes turning toward a face covered in a fix of dust and grease.
“I did make this myself, Captain,” Keller beams, pointing to the box. He stops the song, and the group bemoans their loss of entertainment. With one quick fashion he opens up the wooden lid and takes out a dark and round, yet flat disc. “A friend of mine sold it to me in Eagle Nest #18. Said some Scavengers found it while scouring the desert.”
“Scavenging is illegal, you realize,” I state, leaning back.
Keller’s eyes freeze for a fraction of a second, still grasping at the disc. The fire reflects speckles of orange off of the disc’s glossy coating. I can tell his mind is churning with the right words to say.
“Technically, yes it is, but I didn’t scavenge this, somebody else did,” Keller defends.
“Fair enough,” I respond, not caring much that the disc was actually found. I’ve never agreed much with the rules about scavenging in the Kiln. It’s a vast desert. I’m sure there are things out here worth some money. Yet the law demands that nobody take even a trinket from the sands. The reason for this is unclear. Some argue that it’s to prevent some ancient virus from resurfacing to plague humanity once again. Or maybe, the Scavengers planted a lie in the desert. I doubt the latter, I don’t think the Scavengers are smart enough to even replicate an Aryan artifact.
Keller takes the disc and places it neatly back into the box. With a closing of the lid and the press of a button the song continues on with its jubilant melody.
Millions are looking upon the swastika full of hope,
The day of freedom and of bread dawns!
The voices ringing from the box were muffled and distant. Perhaps it was just the rudimentary nature of Keller’s design, but this song certainly didn’t sound like anything I’d heard before. It sounded…old. Like singing from the distant past.
“We were taking bets on when this could have been made, sir,” one crewman draped in a brown cloth pipes up, “I think it’s from the Glass Wars.”
“Fuck off, it’s far too old for that, I’d say twenty-ninth century…at least,” another butts in with a deep baritone voice.
“What about you Keller?” I ask the Engineer sitting himself down. Keller puts a gloved hand to his face, rubbing more grease onto it.
“I’d say…Reclamation,” he guesses, putting his hand to his chin in a comedic fashion. The group howls in laughter at the idea.
“Reclamation! Fuck you! Something like that doesn’t survive that long out there!” the man to my right yells.
For the last time, the call to arms is sounded!
For the fight, we all stand prepared!
“I like that idea,” I say, and the laughter dies down, eyebrows raise. “I’d say it’s Reclamation too.”
“Well, looks like you win, Keller,” another jokes. “Captain has final say. Reclamation it is. We’re listening to the original Aryans.”
“There’s no way to know for sure,” I state, not wanting the festivities to end just yet. “So, what are we betting?” I ask. “Just so I know what we get if we win.” I point to Keller and me.
“The finest German whiskey, aged twelve years, winner gets the bottle,” Keller states, holding up a fine brown bottle with the engraving of an eagle. An idea pops into my head. There is a way that we could figure out this little mystery…or at least, the best-educated way to.
“I have a way to settle this,” I say. “My brother Ulric. Knights have all that knowledge of Reich history over any of us buffoons. He might help.” Drunken agreement arises from the crowd.
“I’ll go wake him up!” the man to my right eagerly says, but before he stands I place a hand on his shoulder.
“If some random sailor he doesn’t know knocks on his door at this time of night, I guarantee he won’t come out, and we’ll never learn the secret,” I joke. “I’ll do it.”
With that, I lift myself up, excuse myself from the group who raise their drinks to me, and turn back toward the portway into the officer quarters.
The joyous song still plays behind me. It must have been some crazy bastard, to go out into the desert to get that. Yes, it was “illegal” to take objects from the sand, but nobody really bothered to scavenge anyway. Going out without a ship oftentimes was just suicide.
A decent suit of armor was really the best and only defense against the scalding heat outside, and at best it lasted a few hours. After that, the last bit of power runs out, the cooling systems fail, and the suit’s occupant succumbs to the heat in a matter of minutes.
Who would want to risk their own life to try to find something out there? Everything interesting, like old ships and lost civilizations once under the sea, had supposedly been picked clean long ago. Who would expect that after two thousand years, there would still be objects out there left undiscovered? Something potentially from the Reclamation—from the time of the Eternal Führer and the founding of the Reich? The time when Europeans reclaimed their land from the influence of foreign outsiders….
It was a difficult time. Everything changed so rapidly. Technology, culture, society as a whole. Records from that time were simply lost over the thousands of years. Now only the legends, the book My Struggle, and the dams remained as a testament to that time we can only imagine now.
The origins of the Aryans have always been wrapped in a bit of mystery because of that. So to have something from that time, to hear those voices speaking back to us…if it was actually true…that’d be a remarkable find.
I stroll down to the special chambers where the officers sleep and find myself in a dimly lit, empty hallway. Most of the occupants are out on the deck or stuck in the Bridge. I really should get back to Volker and Witzel, yet my curiosity is getting the best of me.
I reach a metal door and knock softly on it with three rhythmic hits. There is no response. After a minute of waiting, the door slowly opens, revealing a puzzled Ulric. He has disbanded his armor for the night. His eyes, half shut, look back at me as he scratches at his disheveled hair. Looking past him, I see inside his quarters a book placed upon his mattress. It looks like a copy of My Struggle.
“What is it?” he asks, resting an exhausted hand on his forehead. “I was about to sleep.”
“Not socializing with the crew, huh?” I say with a smile to a sleepy Ulric. He looks back at me, unresponsive. Mouth agape.
“Not particularly,” he yawns after a few seconds. “I was just reading, it’s pretty late.”
“It’s only 22:00,” I chuckle. “Nobody sleeps this early.”
“Two hours to read before bed. I was on the section where the Führer discusses how peace in Europe came to be.”
“Want to use that reading for some good?” I say. Ulric’s eyebrows perk up, and he straightens himself up just a little bit.
“What do you mean?” he asks, an inflection of curiosity coming through his tired voice.
“First Engineer Keller somehow got in the possession of this old black disc,” I explain, putting my hands in the shape of the circular object. “It plays a song, and nobody can place when it was made.”
“And this can’t wait ’til tomorrow because…”
“A twelve-year-old whiskey is on the line,” I flat out admit.
Ulric stares at me blankly, blinks a few times slowly, and begins to close the door. My hand goes to catch it.
“The song might be from the Reclamation,” I quickly explain, just before the metal hatch shuts. A gap still persists, before Ulric swings open the door again, snapping himself out of his stupor. He looks at me with wide eyes at the sound of the word.
“You’re joking?” he asks, his tone shifting to excitement.
“Not at all, that’s why we need you. You’re the scholar here,” I say.
Ulric stands frozen. I can tell the cogs must be turning. He looks to his bed, and then back to me.
“Damn it,” he curses under his breath. “Wait here.” And with that he shuts the door.
Back on the deck, I lead Ulric past the other fires and toward the group with the booming song. They notice we’ve arrived and raise their drinks yet again, welcoming Ulric in. He nods to the men. I can tell his main focus is on whatever the artifact must be, as he sits down on a stool. I join him.
“My brother caught the best of my curiosity. Damn him,” Ulric says. “So what am I looking at?”
“That is an audio device,” Keller answers in a satisfactory tone, pointing with pride at the unremarkable combination of wood, wire, and a horn fitted on top. “I made it myself, took a couple months.” The song continues on with its melody:
Raise the flag! The ranks tightly closed!
The SA march with quiet, steady step.
Comrades shot by the Red Front and reactionaries
March in spirit within our ranks.
Clear the streets for the brown battalions,
Clear the streets for the storm division!
Millions are looking upon the swastika full of hope,
The day of freedom and of bread dawns!
For the last time, the call to arms is sounded!
For the fight, we all stand prepared!
Already Hitler’s banners fly over all streets.
The time of bondage will last but a little while now!
Ulric sits as stiff as a flagpole, focused in concentration. It was a posture I was all too familiar with when we were children. Every situation, any question was met with a posture that could only mean he was focusing all his energy to reach the answer. As the song came to an end and we were met with silence, Ulric remained with his face in his hands.
“I’m trying to think back to my time scouring the Reich records,” Ulric remarks, baffled and confused. “All the chants and songs, the speeches from past Führers, and…yet…”
“Yet what?” I insist, awaiting the answer. The rest of the group leans in just a tad closer toward my brother.
“Yet I’m blanking!” he insists, his eyebrows raised at the prospect. “I’m not familiar with this, or quality of the audio. Everything I’ve ever heard had such clear audio that it could have taken place right in front of me, even songs from thousands of years ago. Unless…”
“Unless…this was recorded before the official records,” the freckled man says in a slurred voice.
“You all think this was recorded during the Reclamation?” Ulric asks.
“I still think it’s Glass Wars,” another chimes in.
“Well, Keller and I do,” I say, lending a hand to the grease-faced, missing-toothed grinning man across the fire. “So, what do you think, S.S. Knight?” I ask Ulric.
The group leans in a little bit more with bated breath, waiting to hear the verdict.
“They do mention something about ‘clearing the streets,’ and such a song wouldn’t make sense if all the Reich’s enemies were already outside our borders.”
“But,” a man with a crooked nose interrupts, “it also said ‘the call to arms,’ so a battle. Glass Wars.”
“You idiot, that could mean Reclamation too,” Keller debates, pointing his empty pint across the fire.
“I mean, the Reclamation was largely a peaceful affair,” Ulric teaches. “It was just the expulsion of the Scavengers and uniting the countries under the Reich. The Eternal Führer never mentioned anything about violence in his book.”
He begins flipping through his copy of My Struggle.
“There are a few passages in the Eternal Führer’s words that could be construed as violent. I theorize, however, that it’s mostly just about the defense of the country against foreigners, not outright violence. Like a metaphorical war, not a literal one, since he did unite Europe in the end through peace,” Ulric lectures to nobody in particular, perhaps just rationalizing a conclusion to himself.
“Damn,” Keller says with a tone of defeat, “guess it is the Glass Wars.” He prepares to hand the whiskey bottle to the freckled man.
“Well…hang on…,” Ulric interrupts, pointing up a finger, “this audio is far too muffled. Where did you find it?”
“I didn’t find it, it was sold to me,” Keller replies.
“Where did they find it?” Ulric asks.
“In the desert.”
Ulric’s eyes widen, and he leans forward with hands covering the lower half of his face. Letting out a groan, he runs his hands through his hair as he looks back to me.
“You know this is illegal, right?” he says to me with a disappointed expression, his face falling flat.
“I know,” I reply, not bothering to come up with an excuse.
“We aren’t supposed to take anything from the desert. You know that you’re putting me in a very difficult situation,” he lectures.
“It’s fine, Ulric,” I insist, attempting to downplay the entire thing. It wasn’t that big of a deal. I knew that Ulric would have a fit over the law being broken; however, I wanted to know when this disc was created…and also…you know…whiskey. He looks at me strangely, but composes himself and turns back to the group.
“Can I see the disc at least?” Ulric asks, his mannerisms laced with begrudging annoyance.
“Of course!” Keller accepts, opening up the hatch on the box yet again. He reaches inside and pulls out the black disc with a small hole in the center. Keller bends over the fire and places the disc in Ulric’s hands. Ulric examines it as if he was scanning over a book, feeling the circular ridge lines and touching its glossy, smooth surface.
