THE WAR OF THE FOUR EMPIRES
Copyright 2010 St. Wishnevsky on Smashwords
BOOK ONE
ELIZAVETGRAD
Elizavetgrad, Novaya Siberia, Sept. 13, 1918
Chapter One
Lizzie
“Damn the Tzarina and all her little Tzardines, Tzardinas, both Saint Georges and both heads of the bogdammed eagle.” That wasn’t very helpful, but it was the best that Raleigh could find to say, through the blinding pain of yet another blistering vodka hangover. Hadn’t these damn zemshch Muscovites ever heard of the simple moderate pleasures of a few pints and a song? Did they have to get blind drunk at every opportunity? It was all Queen Bess’ fault... hers and Philip’s... And Grozny’s. And her great-great- great-grand daughter’s. It was her birthday. That made it her fault. That was logic, was what that was...went without saying... “Bosh!” he berated himself, only a down and out history professor would think such futile thoughts... a down and out history professor with a hangover... vodka was bad enough, but vodka with chilies was a sin that extracted its own punishment. That’s what you got, for drinking in the Azatlan side of Elizavetgrad, after all. Just wait until that last fiery meal washed down with all that red chili vodka got to the bottom end of his digestive tract. Not a pretty thought. He tried to burrow deeper into his sweaty pillow, but recognized from the clear brazen note of his headache, that he was officially awake now. He forced himself to relax and ignore the foul taste in his mouth enough to start to drift off, when an officious pounding on his apartment door jerked him back to the perpetual ongoing disaster that passed for reality these days.
He stumbled to the door, fortunately still more or less dressed, and clawed it open to reveal a brace of Her Majesty’s Royal Naval Officers, in full fig.
“Professor Percival Unumphri Olivrovich Raleigh? Master of History? Late of the New Albion Preparatory School for Young Gentle Ladies?” Demanded the lesser of the two glided figures on his doorstep. This salutation, in addition to scaring him to his very marrow, proved that the two officers knew much more about him than any other persons in this blighted dockside neighborhood knew or cared. His neighbors called him “Prof” but most thought him an abortionist, at best. He managed to mumble assent, and the lieutenant snapped an ornate, cream colored envelope into his trembling hands.
“Under the provisions of the Official Secrets Act of Her Imperial Majesty’s Okhrana, you, Percival Unumphri Olivrovich Raleigh, are hereby inducted into Her Majesty’s Secret Service, and are heretofore liable for the swift completion of such tasks as may and shall be entrusted to you by such duly constituted authority as noted in this Anglorus Imperial Warrant, so help you God?”
“Was that a question?”
“You will reply; ‘Yes Sir, I accept. So help me God’.” Stated the Commodore one step farther back in the dingy hall. The threat was obvious, even if Percy’s once excellent, if largely wasted, education had not informed him of the penalties for refusing to answer affirmatively. It was called Ostrov Sahalin, Sakhalin Island, and he really didn’t want to be sent there. Really. Elizavetgrad was the rectum of the Empire, but it was at least warm. Sort of warm. When it wasn’t raining. And had buildings. And food. And drink. Perhaps bad drink, but better than was issued in the prison camps of Sakhalin.
He said, “Yes Sir, I accept. So help me God.” Just like a good little boy. He hadn’t thought he could possibly feel any worse than he had. He had been laughably wrong. He was used to the feeling. His inadequacy was like a fuzzy pink blanket to pull up over his balding head.
“Then sign here.” The Lieutenant presented him with a heavy steel clipboard and an ornate fountain pen, of the latest model. Percy, numb, signed with shaking hand. The Officer saluted and turned on his polished heel. Percy knew better than to ask any questions. Everything he needed to know would be in the envelope. He nodded to the Commodore, who did not nod, smile or show any sign of compassion before turning away like a machine in his turn. Only the glitter of the fluid on his cold blue Nordic eyes gave him any semblance of humanity at all. One of the Archanglesk Automatons, bred and trained to be harder and colder than the chilled steel armor of their Great White Fleet. Percy closed the door as gently as if it might explode.
He sank down on the tangle of the bed, and opened the clasp of the envelope with hands that had developed whole families of tremor, the vodka shakes heterodyned with a new standing wave of pure, animal fear. He supposed the intellectual panic would come next, but the other two vibrations were canceling that one out, as of yet.
The envelope was bulky and heavy with sheaves of paper and what might have been booklets. The first out of the pack was his passport, or more precisely, a new passport, in his name, and bearing his picture and all the proper gold Double Headed Eagles and Saint Georges and Lions and Unicorns and bits of colored ribbons that certified him as a member in good standing of the dominant culture of this tired old planet. Bully for him. And Ghurrah, too.
The next item was a fat folder of aluminum gray embossed with the silver winged Zed of the Zeppelin Lines; he was booked on a long trip. His heart fell even further. Surely not back to the capitol? Moskva was well into its winter already, and Percy hated cold, snow, ballet, and bureaucrats, in approximately that order. He had graduated from Queens, miracle of miracles, and had no desire what so ever to return to that gloomy ex-monastery on the outskirts of Moskva. The city was a hive of arrogant officers, surly boyars and supremely twisted Yeomani and he was a simple Novaya Siberia boy. A Government certified genius, ex- child prodigy, and world authority in his field, but a simple Novy malchic for all that.
Numbly, he flipped through the stages of his voyage; Elizavetgrad, Santa Fe, Republic of Mexico, then a long leg south through Nueva Espana, St. Augustine, Habana, Bogota, and then into Brasil Negro, to Belem, Recife, across the narrow part of the Atlantic to Spanish Daqar. After that it was due north to Madrid, Paris and finally to London, France. London, France? There it was in plain Francais; London, France, Department of Angleterre. Nobody went to London. He felt offended. London was even a bigger pithole than Elizavetgrad. Worse yet, there was no return ticket. Bog in Heaven!
Desperately, he poured out the rest of the envelope on the sticky sheets. There was a pale blue booklet of Bank of England Traveler’s Drafts, issued in the capitol of Novaya Siberia, Gloriania, no surprises there, and a single sheet of foolscap.
The sheet bore a couple of lines in brown ink, in a firm hand. “You will proceed to Rue de la Threadneedle, to the “Pomme d’ Roi” cafe, and ask the Matri de for two glasses of the chilled applejack of Normandy, Calvados, in English. When he tell you that they do not have any on ice, you will reply; “In that case I will have green tea.” and will pay with this note.” Affixed to the bottom of the sheet of coarse paper was a five-ruble note, with two opposing corners torn off. He plucked the note off the paper, where it had been attached with some organic gum, and as he did, the ink of the message faded away, leaving a blank sheet of paper. He thought for a moment, scrabbled up a safety match from the crate that served as his bed table, ignited the paper. As it crumpled away, he could see the words of the cryptic message appear in reverse for a second, before vanishing.
He watched the last curl of smoke dissipate and for lack of better occupation, cursed himself, the Empire, London, the French, the Anglorus in toto, himself again, and to round off the lot, his distant ancestor, “Sir” Walter Raleigh. If that over-dressed, over-perfumed, under-washed braggart had robbed the Spanish Armada when he was supposed to, life would assuredly have been better for all concerned. The limp-wristed dwight. He shrugged with such grace as was left him, and began to replace his documents in their envelope, when the thought struck him that he might as well make a note of his departure time from Morgan Field. He flipped open the ticket booklet, and saw with horror that his departure time was Noon, Friday, September the 13th, 1918. Today! His watch had long since been put up the spout, and he was sure that the Noon Gun from the Imperial Army Base at the Presidio had not fired, but there was obviously no time to waste. He grabbed his scruffy hat, crammed his feet into shabby boots and headed for the door, stopping only to grab his pocket book, his journal and his pen from the crate that served as a night stand, before stuffing his pitiful possessions into the pockets of his rusty frock coat. Something he had seen in the ticket booklet registered in his mind, and he snatched a minute to check... it was true. The tickets were good for Percival U. O. Raleigh and manservant.... Drat, and shite. More complications. No time for that, he had to get to the Zepplodrome immediately. He snatched his walking stick, his last gentlemanly possession, from the wall where it leaned and fled out the door, not even taking the time to slam it behind him. The neighborhood thieves were welcome to his unpaid bills, obsolete textbooks, dirty laundry and empty bean tins.
He stumbled down the splintered steps to the street, and was insanely lucky enough to find a coal-gas trishaw discharging a couple of Nei sailors in front of the Benbow Public house. He flung himself into the carriage seat before the Petty Officer even lifted out his duffel, earning him a dirty look from the Malay O.S. Percy ignored him, threw the driver his last twenty ruble coin, saying; “Chop, chop makee fastee Zepplodrome, allee samee big time. ” Normally he would have tried to converse with the Chink as a fellow human, but not when his, Percy’s, personal life was in danger. The League of Humanity was one thing, Sakhalin Island was quite another. The driver grinned a meaningless toothy grin and valved steam to the cylinder, off they flew... or puffed.
A few blocks later, they passed the Asiatic Bank Tower at the corner of Cook and St. Katarina, Raleigh was relieved to see that the time was not yet even ten. He should have known that the Okhrana would never let him miss a flight by accident. He directed the boy to stop for a moment at one of the bank’s many glass doors so he could run in and cash a draft for the trip. He would need a wardrobe, and toiletries, at the very least. And a few books. He grabbed the book of drafts from the cream envelope and sprinted for the doors, then, realizing what he had done, whirled back to secure his precious documents. He knocked over an old Jew as he whipped around, tumbling him into the path of a very dignified Lakota Sachem, spilling him and his great-feathered headdress into the foul gutter. As fast as he was, and he had only taken a few steps, he was almost too late. A swarthy ruffian was already reaching into the back of the trishaw, obviously intent on the envelope. Percy whirled his cane overhead, slammed the weighted head down on the sneak thief’s grasping claw. Even intellectuals had fast reflexes if they lived down near the docks of Elizavetgrad. It was only as the thief screamed in pain and anger, that Percy realized that he knew the mean creature.
“Dermo! Puto Grande! Yob tvoyo mat’ v tri kresta!” Which was pretty expressive, Percy thought. His mother and three crosses, too. Russian was so poetic.
“Hullo, Warty, a bit off your patch aren’t you?” He amazed himself with the nonchalance of his own voice. His heart was beating so hard; he felt that everyone on the polyglot street should be able to hear it. Warty, Walter Brewster looked up from clutching his bruised hand, sullen anger turning to amazed recognition. Behind them, the Jew and the Lakota were screaming assorted curses at Percy and all his ancestors, but there was no time for that. Anyway they couldn’t curse like the meztizo Warty. He had all the resources of his Mexican, Russian and English backgrounds to call on. He could curse like a Turk.
Warty said; “Percy, If I had recognized you, I never would have dipped you. I know you don’t have anything worth stealing. Never have. You’re a dick with glasses. What are you doing here?”
“I asked you first. Hop in, Warts, we best be on our way, before the natives scalp us.” the two offended by-passers were redoubling their ire, in spite of, or because, they were being ignored. “Come on, Warts, and I’ll buy you a drink.”
One thing about Brewster, he was dependable; he would always take a drink. Especially a free drink. He did in fact hop in, as much of a hop as his froglike shape could accommodate and they were immediately spinning off down the broad expanse of Captain Cook Prospekt, expertly dodging jitneys, mekhanika, troika drays and all manner of electric and steam lorries. The swarms of bicycles were ignored; as the lightest vehicles on the road they had to watch out for themselves.
“So, why are you on the dip, Warts? A little below your usual, isn’t it? I thought you had an income?”
“Mat’- Peremat'’! A deplorable shortage of the ready, Perc, and a permanent one. I indeed had a pittance, from my loving mother, but the marinated old pizda put the family fortunes in A&P’s and even the ancestral ranch has gone to the Jews. So it’s root, hog, or die.”
“Well, any fool would know that the Lakotas would never let anyone run a rail across their land, wouldn’t they?”
“My mother, Sir, is not any fool. She is a very special and complete fool, and she blew up in the bubble.” Brewster’s family was typical of Novaya Siberia gentility. His mother was descended from the Old Mexican hidalgos, and had once owed vast lands, now sadly diminished from their former glory. Mr. Brewster had been a minor official with the Imperial government, who parlayed his position and alleged ties to Moskva into a decent marriage, as such things went. He had followed the honored Brewster family tradition by drinking himself to death at an early age, and Walter, who struggled to aspire to the status of ne’er-do-ell, had been exiled north to Elizavetgrad to carry on the good work.
The Nieuw Amsterdamers of Wand Straat had floated vast amounts of paper, ostensibly to construct a second rail line across the North American continent. This line, the Atlantic and Pacific, would be in competition with the vastly profitable Nipponese financed Pacifica del Sur line that ran from Ouka Menjii on the West Coast, across Mexico del Norte to St. Augustine on the East Coast. They had planned to run the new line from the Demonbreun capitol of Ste. Louis to Elizavetgrad’s sister city of Ohlone Hills across the bay, but the plan had come to naught, in the end, with not a mile of track ever having been laid. But the great Atlantic and Pacific Railroad Corporation Bubble had beggared vast portions of the middle classes of Nieuw Amsterdam, Demonbreun, Quebec, Mexico del Norte, and in the coastal communities of Novaya Siberia.
The whole scheme had hinged on land concessions from the four governments involved, the smart money had stayed away. The most difficult stage, both politically and physically, was the line across the high basin and range badlands on the border between the civilized Spanish-speaking Mexico del Norte, sometimes called Azatlan, and the still unconquered Native Nations of the Lakotas. The proud savages were not primitives, no matter their pretensions, and might have eventually come to some profitable agreement. However, a peculiar and xenophobic religious cult, mostly Dutch speaking, had set up shop fifty years ago on the shores of the Great Salt Sea, Zoutmeer. They called themselves the Nieuw Hebreeuws, considered themselves the Lost Tribes of Israel. It was not in their interest to allow the outside world to investigate their rather peculiar religious practices, which included both chattel slavery and polygamy, too closely, and so they had made it their business to queer the deal. Surveyors had been murdered, arms shipped to the Lakota, the bubble burst and Milady Veronica Alton Torres-Brewster-Torres found herself unable to support her wastrel son, Walter.
All of this raced through Percy’s mind at the speed of light, and he found his mouth saying; “Warts, old Puffin, would you care to travel with me? I find myself in the need of a Gentleman’s Gentleman or a close approximation thereof, and if you are at loose ends, you could come with me. You will have to watch your mouth.”
“Well, Perc, I do need a change of scenery. Novy Sob has become a little confining for a person of my talents, if you know what I mean.”
“Fine, it’s a deal. You come with me, and steal only from other people, and we will survive for a few months longer.” Honesty made him add, “Given luck.”
“Deal. Where the fuck are we going, pray?” He said, settling his bulk back into the tatty leather seats.
“Well, that’s the bad part. We are going to France, to London, in fact.”
“Is it worse than here?”
“It’s backward, and sleepy and it rains all the time.”
“Sounds like home.”
“Safe and boring, just the way I like it. I’m just a provincial professor at heart, and that’s quite good enough,” stated Percival, without even a sigh.
‘It’s not good enough for me, huy v zhopu. I deserve some excitement, some life.” Warty tried to firm his chin... or chins, and look noble. It was less than a perfect success. “The blood of hidalgos and knights errant flows in my veins. I was born for great things. It is time I met my destiny.” Warty often said things like this, but usually only when there were silly girls or underage whores to impress. “There hasn’t even been a decent war for twenty years, not since Corea, posol k d’yacolu!”
“Warty, that was only fifteen years ago, and we damn near lost that one. If you want a war, you can always go help the Manchus.” The Mongol Freestate, backed by the Imperial Forces, had been fighting a sub rosa defensive war for almost a hundred years, trying to keep the Nipponese, the only other Power great enough to truly deserve the name of “Empire”, from gobbling the last chunks of inland China. The Nips had already gotten the entire coast, except for the stretch between the mighty Anglorus Naval bases of Ha Noi and Zian Gan. The Nipponese had had it impressed on them that any attempt to take those two bases would not amuse Her Imperial Majesty, Viktoria Elizavet IV, Tzarina of all the Russias. Peace reigned supreme, unless you were one of the hundred million odd poor Chinese who were getting slaughtered inland.
But it was true; the world had reached detente, although there was plenty of endemic tribal warfare. Since the end of the Two Hundred-Year’s War in Europe, peace had been the heritage of Mankind. Except in the Gulf of Araby where the Empire, the Ottomans, and the Portuguese Hindus struggled to control the coal-gas wells, and in Darkest Africa on the expanding edge of Brasil Negro met the fringe of Islam, things were amazingly quiet, and had been for generations. Percy preferred it that way, and as a history professor was one of the few people on Earth that even realized how unusual a condition that was. Most people thought it was the natural state of things, and like Warty, could express a desire for adventure. Adventure was dangerous. Adventure was inconvenient. Adventure could get you killed, were you not careful. Percy was not interested in adventure.
The trishaw was hissing down the last hill to the long causeway to Morgan Island and Percy could see the great silver whale shapes of the Zepps and the even huger bulks of their hangers. The gentle and predictable breezes of the Drake Bay Area made Elizavetgrad the primary Zepplodrome for the entire West Coast, from the Mexican City of Los Angeles in the south all the way up to Gloriania in the north. Only the Nipponese Naval base of Ouka Menjii could rival it. Even the western terminus of the newly opened Mexican Canal at Panama handled fewer passengers. He could see no fewer than seven of the hundred yard long airships, tethered to their widely spaced moorings, there were at least two more glittering in the perfect blue sky. The tide was at the turn, and so, regularly as clockwork, the weather was clear and the air still. Soon enough the fog and drizzle would roll in, but right now it was a beautiful day.
The driver decanted them at the Terminal Building, the time still only a little after ten. He had time to buy a few necessities at the stalls that crowded the sides of the official buildings. Such more or less illegal enterprises ruined the clean lines of the Areostream architecture, but the chronic state of inefficiency of the Imperial Bureaucracy, and a few well-placed bribes made such excrescencies inevitable. Inevitable and highly convenient.
It took only a few steps to find a Jew money-changer doing business out of his black hat, and Percy was able to cash the first of his drafts at a rate of exchange that was only ruinous. Nichevo. Nothing like a hand full of gold Double Eagles to make a bum into a man again. In the Empire, the Navy was almost pure Anglo and Oprichnina and therefore efficient, but as one went down the social scale, things became more and Zemshchina, Old Russian. Zemshchina meant Slavic, dirty, uneducated, corrupt and preferably soaked in homemade vodka. Percy had lost his last job for being a little too Zemshch.
That and an unfortunate incident with a female student. Actually, she had been an ex-student, and over the legal age of fifteen, but the Administration had not been in any mood to accept quibbles. There had been a purge in Novaya Siberia; Painists were suspected, and heads were required to roll. His rolled quite nicely, even though he was well published, well spoken, and the authority in a field he had created himself. Basically, he was a nobody. His parents were not only nobodies too, they were poor, dead nobodies. And he was Zemshch. The Oprichnina had as their first rule; “Cover your arse.”
As did all right thinking humans. His personal zhopa needed covering, literally and figuratively. If the Raleigh behind was ragged, the Brewster butt was actually showing. Neither of them was fit to appear in polite company, much less ride on an Empress of the Air like “The Pride of Astrakhan”. A few booths past the moneychanger was a half-breed Ohlone Indian with used luggage, almost certainly stolen, for sale. Percy took another, milder beating to change a Double eagle into silver shillings and rubles and coins in hand, began a wild run down the line of stalls, first grabbing a valise for himself and a carpet bag for Warty. Next he snatched up a few suits of clothes that looked like they might fit, a few toiletries, ran down the line of tin roofed stalls cramming items in his bags. He hurt quite a few feelings among the vendors by refusing to haggle, but time was of the essence. Fortunately, weight restrictions on the Zepps were quite stringent, and traveling light would not be suspect. He supposed he would have time to do a better job of shopping in Santa Fe.
He strapped the bags shut and handed them to Warty.
“What the shit do I want with these?” He demanded.
“You’re supposed to be the servant around here, remember?”
“I need this dermo like a priest needs an accordion.” He grumbled, but took the bags.
“Come on, let’s change our clothes... and watch your mouth, will you?”
“Am I supposed to talk like a rabbit?”
“Come on, Warty, you were raised well. Remember how you were taught in school. Talk like Tolstoy.”
“Tolstoy slabak! What did he ever do for me, the pimp?”
“Wrote the great classic of Anglorus literature? War and Peace? About the Great War with the French and the Ottomans in 1799? Siege of Moskva? Death of General Bonaparte? Hacked to death by Cossacks who were looking for cognac? Is this ringing any bells?”
“Ya evo v rote yebal! You owe me a drink.”
“Play nice, or stay in Elizavetgrad.” The only response was a grumble that Percy chose to regard as an affirmative.
The concourse of the Zepplodrome, officially Her Majesty’s Greater Drake Bay Area Areoport, was clotted with all the races of the Empire, and it seemed, representatives of most of the rest of the world. There were Manchus and Mongols in yellow tunics, Zapharodni Cossacks in their ornately tattered uniforms, Persians in silks, Sikhs from the Goan Principalities, Scands and Balts in somber business frock coats, Jews in black, Novys, Mexicans and Amsterdamers in jeans and flannels, Lakotas in quilled buckskins, and thousands of others. Every other male seemed to be in uniform, and every woman was a carnation of taffeta. The swirl of color was enough to intoxicate one, but there seemed to be something missing somehow. The events of the day had quite driven any introspective impulse from him, but some subliminal observation was nagging him.
He looked around for a functionary in the gray of the Zeppelin Corporation, still thinking he was missing something. He spotted his man, a tall Mittel European, waved imperiously with his ticket booklet. The functionary bustled over, making obsequious noises and gesturing behind his back with his left hand for a porter. It was only after than agent had inspected his ticket, and directed him to the proper gate, that Percy realized what was missing. There was a distinct lack of Nipponese in sight. The same had been true for the streets of the city. Odd, that. Usually the pavements of the city, and any other place that might be considered a tourist destination was clogged with wads of Nip tourists, all goggle eyed with amazement, emitting a steady clatter of shutter clicks. Today, none in sight. Perhaps it was the Emperor’s Birthday, or something.
Small lack, thought Percy. He tried to love all mankind, but some were harder to love than others. Some, in fact, were enemies. And although he was the most liberal of persons, he was, after all, an historian. As such he had a good grasp of the attitude that the reformed, modern Samurai had toward their fellow man. God knew, the Anglorus Yeomani and Aristos were arrogant enough, and callous, but they had for the most part given up tempering their swords in living flesh, or rewarding lack of punctilio with instant death. Of course, the Sons of Heaven were polite enough out among people they didn’t yet have power over, but Percy knew that they recognized no others as their peers. And in their definition, “peer” equaled “human”.
There had been two minor wars in the half-century since the Pax Romana, the Samurai had demonstrated the utmost in cold-blooded “efficiency” in their waging of those wars. Which was no small statement, considering that they fought against the Cossacks and the Mongols, man to man. Even the Empire’s Lakota mercenaries had not been as ruthless as the Samurai. The great cavalry battles of the Gobi and Mongolia had been as bloody a business as had ever been on this planet, and only the introduction of the Zeppelins and the Bell Aerial Fortresses had held the Japanese to a draw.
They came upon their gate, Number Twelve, pushed past a gaggle of Suid Afrikaaners, obviously a Military Mission, to examine the illuminated board. It displayed the fact that their flight was not yet loading. They took a few moments to slip in to the Gents and change and freshen up, as well as could be accomplished, given their disheveled natural state. Warty was outfitted with dark turtleneck, jeans and a Naval cut Peacoat that fit well enough, although he grumbled about having to doff his garish, if spotted silk foulard. Percy had purchased the simplest garments a traveling gentleman might wear, if he desired inconspicuous comfort. A casual leather topcoat, several sweaters of good wool, blacks, and a tweed jacket of some antiquity, that he hope would pass for a treasured comfort. He left his old garments in the trash bin, but Warty insisted on keeping his gaudy garments although they were near rags. Fortunately Percy had remembered to buy two hats, or rather a tweed golfing cap for Warty, and a rather sporty charcoal fedora for himself.
It was a bit early for such a dark felt hat, but it was after Empire Day, the First of September, so he was in season, even though it was not officially winter yet. He was not attempting to be in total style, just pass in polite company. He inspected himself in the mirror and decided he would do. His boots were sadly scuffed, and down at the heels, but at least they were black, and once had been decent. It would have to suffice, at least until Santa Fe. He had no time for a boot black, but likely that service was provided on board.
They exited, went to stand in line, and found that boarding was about to commence. Their tickets were checked and each was inspected for smoking materials and flammables. Percy didn’t indulge, but Warty was forced, with some protest, to give up his “fixings”. Once checked through, he was directed down the stairs and outside to the servants quarters in steerage, while Percy, as a putative gentleman Second Class, was escorted up an enclosed passageway and shown his cabin. The “Pride of Astrakhan” was an older model airship, with the dependant gondola for passengers and only four motors. It carried two hundred passengers and was small only in comparison to the new thousand-foot-long “Titans of the Air”, the “Tzarina” class which flew the long Pacific routes.
It was a cabin only by courtesy, more of a berth, even a closet. There was a hammock, enough room to put his feet on the floor besides, and a chair made of webbing and wire. There was room under the hammock for his bag, a water bottle and a thunder mug, and a bell push for summoning a steward. But it was clean, enameled white, all brushed aluminum where it wasn’t enameled. He even had a pillow, and a gray blanket marked with the Winged Zed. All things considered it was much superior to his digs back Dockside.
He dropped his bag and stick and overcoat, and decided to find the Second Class Passenger’s lounge. He might not need a drink, but he surely could use a drink. Perhaps two.
The passageway was narrow, floored with diamond tread aluminum plate, the walls, bulkheads, he supposed, were more of the ubiquitous lacquer stiffened fabric, but the lounge was spacious enough and airy, with odd out-slanting windows, or ports. Everything was aluminum, or fabric, silk perhaps. There were perhaps twenty tiny tables, a long bar, and a blonde woman in a gray gown tinkling the keys of an aluminum piano.
She was playing a medley of the semi-classical Creole composer Gottshalk. It was a surprisingly modern for such a setting, only twenty or so years out of date. The Free Creole city of Nouvelle Orleans was the musical center of the globe, its influence spread by the newly popular gramophone. Percy was becoming quite fond of the new “Spazm” or “Jass” music, and indeed, last night’s excess had been fueled to a large extent by the blazing syncopation of the Orleans based Razzle Dazzle Spazm Band” on its tour of every bordello, gambling hell and low dive in the West.
Percy was already becoming bored with the monochromatic color scheme, if indeed gray was officially a color. He had already headed for the bar, even though all the stools were taken, when a familiar looking tweedy gentleman with a mustache beckoned him to a table near the port.
Percy obliged the man, trying to place him as he neared, but to no avail. A faint association of books, was all he could dredge from his much-abused mind this morning. The man rose politely and held out a large, soft hand.
“I say, are you not Percival Raleigh, author of that delightful volume “Alternatives to History?” A most amusing conceit, my dear fellow, most amusing, indeed. I am Gregori Wells, also a scribbler by trade. Do sit down, and let me buy you a drink.”
“Mister Wells, my pleasure. Have I read any of your work?” he sat, and as his buttocks settled into the fabric seat, the connection joined in his mind. “Of course, U.G. Wells. I have read your “Kipps”. We have had similar travails in life. I have been meaning to read your romances, “Love and Mr. Lewisham” and the other one...” He fumbled for the title, it wouldn’t come. Wells was smiling, perhaps mockingly, making no attempt to supply the title. He fell back on a pleasantry. “And what brings you to this part of the world?”
“That is rather amusing. A serial I wrote for the Yekaterinburg Gazette newspaper, has been optioned, as they call it, for use in Kinema... I consider myself an indifferent amorist, but the public has different opinions. I prefer what might be called speculative fiction, but it is deucedly hard to publish. But in spite of it all, I did arouse the interest of a Mr. Zanuck Eisenstien, a producer of these new Kinematic Dramas.”
“And so you were treated to a trip to Kinema Valley.”
“Indeed. A most amazing place. I have seen cities, mining camps and railroad towns that spring out of the ground in a few weeks in Siberia or Mongolia, but Kinema Valley is not just one city, it is all cities rolled into one. Yurts next to palaces next to Japanese trenches next to Siberian fur trader’s hovels.... Amazing. What are you drinking? Gin? Or vodka?”
“Thank you, a beer would go down easily, if you don’t mind.”
“You have never traveled by air, I see. Effervescent beverages tend to explode at altitude.”
“Then a shot of aquavit and water side please. I had a touch too much last night. What is your serial about? Another romance?”
“Allow me to stand you this round, and perhaps dinner.” He waved at a gray uniformed waiter. “Actually my serial, trivial as it is, is derived from your work.”
“I am flattered, if bemused. How can a speculation on the turning points of history have influenced a kinema plot.”
“Not directly, of course. But your concept of history branching of from “cruxes of decision”, in your terms, suggested to me the concept of a vehicle that could actually travel in time; therefore my serial, “The Chrononaught”. As such things do, the novel quite escaped my control, and became an allegory on class struggle and the fate of Mankind. You needn’t fear plagiarism, my dear fellow.”
“That is the least of my worries. I am amazed that you have even read my book, it sold rather modestly, in fact.”
“Indeed? It was quite the rage in Kate this last winter. Were you not aware?”
“It must have been under a different imprint. My publisher’s cheques have been quite modest, almost transparent, so to speak.”
“A pity. Something must be done about Intra-Empire copyrights. You are not the first author from which I have heard this particular tale of woe. Indeed, if I may be so personal, you do not appear that prosperous, in your apparel.”
“The fact is, you are quite observant. I am on ... ah... sabbatical... A research grant. Quite modest, to London. “
“Of all places...Is this related to your research on the historical cruxes?”
Percy had not had time in his harassed state to develop a cover story for his trip, but here was one presented to him on an aluminum platter, so to speak. He took a sip of his Royal Kronborg Aquavit, to give himself a second for thought, and dived in. One benefit of genius was the speed with which he could produce any amount of plausible sounding govno, as required. “Indeed it is. Perhaps the crux of the present world, certainly of the Empire, in all its might, can be traced to a simple genetic quirk, a mutation, where the Tudor line, may it reign forever, became incapable of producing sons.”
“Henry the VIII.”
“Exactly. Although there are other possible turning points, such as the Woman’s Rule among the Ottomans, the opportunism of the Venetians at the Battle of Lepanto, allowing Kilic Ali Pasha to defeat the Europeans, the exposure of the Treaty of Richmond, which led to the suppression of Protestantism in all the world except the Northern Tier, and so on.”
“All valid points, indeed. One could mention the Relief of Azov, or Cromwell’s youthful indiscretion, also.”
“Exactly, but Henry’s inability to throw an heir led directly to the destruction of England, and Elizavet’s, shall we say, hurried marriage to Grozny. If Mary Queen of Scots had not been forced to marry Philip II, there would have been no invasion, no valid rival to the British Throne.”
“And if Elizavet had not had the other Mary poisoned, making a deadly enemy of the then Dauphin?”
“You said that, not I. Lese Majesty is still a Capital Offense, I believe?”
“At least they have finally given up drawing and quartering.” Wells attempted to chuckle, without much success. The House of Tudor was not known for its sense of humor concerning its illustrious forebears. Much of Percival’s poverty was due to local authorities casting a jaundiced eye on his speculations, which he had intended only as intellectual amusement. Royalty was rarely amused by reflections on their ancestors. Indeed most Royals, past or present, could not stand any too much scrutiny. Usually it didn’t matter, but Raleigh was now sure that somebody somewhere was keeping an official eye on him, at least for the duration of this mission. Somebody certainly had been keeping tabs on him for years, obviously enough.
“At least, although one winds up just as dead. But, it was that illustrious line of Tzarinas that shaped the Empire and then the world. The first three Elizavets, especially the Second, created the shape of the modern world. Their alliances with Sweden, starting with Gustavus, led to the vitality of the Scands, and the unity of the whole northernmost portion of the globe as a Protestant preserve.”
“I believe part of the Arctic Circle is held by the Lakota, is it not?”
Percy had to admit; “Yes it is, but it is close to being uninhabitable, as well as being as inaccessible as any place on earth. None of which changes my assertion that January 29th, 1536, was the day that defined the modern world.”
“Indeed... And what occurred on that day, in particular? It rings no historical bells in my mind.”
“On that day, Anne Boleyn, of melancholy memory, bore a son. He was stillborn. Had he lived, England still might be extant, and the New World might well be English speaking entire, instead of a single enclave on the West Coast.” Percy cocked an eyebrow at his host. “And what do you think of that?”
“Amusing, most amusing indeed.” Wells did not smile, but peered into space as his mind raced.
“And that was the last male Tudor until Piotr the Weak, over a century and a half later.”
Wells opened a watery eye. “Not true. Elizavet the First had a son.”
“And we know what happened to poor Ivan, don’t we?” Indeed they did. All civilized people knew the tale of how Princess Elizavet had castrated her feebleminded baby brother with her embroidery scissors in order to ascend the throne of all the Rus at age twenty-two. An idiot could be Tzar, but not a castrate. She wound up Tzarina, and he wound up a monk, known to history as Ivan Samets, Ivan the Stallion.
“Actually, Ivan, like his mother and sister, was officially a Rurik. Elizavet II found a cousin to marry and became a Tudor again. The actual paternity of her children was debatable, at best. Do you know what she said about her third daughter, Irena Narody?”
“You are the historian. Was it scandalous?” Wells waved for another round. Percy requested iced tea this time.
“Mildly so. Irena was very dark of complexion, so dark that people suspected a certain Ottoman Ambassador. No one dared to press the issue; they were quite sure who Elizavet’s father had been, after all. But someone dared praise Irena’s “exotic beauty”, and Elizavet just said that she had been breeding for intelligence, not looks, like her father before her.”
“Haw. Sounds like her. Did the questioner survive?”
“History is silent. But it is obvious that the Tudor’s, shall we say, relaxed attitude to marital fidelity led directly to the… ahh…recent vitality of the Anglo Russian Empire.”
“So your thesis is that, except for that single birth, or non-birth, England would rule the world, rather than being the poorest, most backward Department of a second rate power?”
“Indeed. Only a speculation, of course, but infinitely amusing.”
“And, not to be too personal, does your ancestry have bearing on your supposition?”
Percy felt increased respect and wariness for the soft looking man across the table. This was a first-rate mind. Well. At least there was no need to dissemble.
“Poor old Walter. He could have been such an important figure, instead of a near failure.”
“He did found the first Anglo Colony on the North American continent, did he not?”
“As they say in Novy Sob, that and a kopeck will get you a kopeck. He did found New Albion, and it did survive, if not flourish, until it was assimilated into Novaya Siberia, but he founded it only as a refuge from the wrath of Good Queen Bess, after failing to destroy the Treasure Armada in 1574. Of course his name does survive in the Raleigh Islands. He would have never found them if not for an Avaeean double canoe that was blown ashore by a tempest. ”
Wells found something in that statement incredulous. “Good Queen Who?”
“Good Queen Bess. Believe it or not, that is what the Sea Dogs called Elizavet I before she married Ivan. Even more absurdly, they also called her “The Virgin Queen”.
“Words fail me.”
“It is hard to believe that the woman who tamed Grozny, eradicated the Boyars, opened the Baltic, and created the Anglorus Navy could have been referred to in such terms, but it is an historical fact.” Percy smiled. “Poor old Walter could have testified to her lack of virginity, if he had wanted to lose his head. It is possible that their relationship kept her from sending a fleet after him, but that is supposition.”
“I have always wondered where Walter Raleigh obtained the necessary females for his colony,” mused Wells, obliquely.
“From Panama and from the local indigenes. Which is one of the reasons the ARE look down on the Novy Sobs.”
“A pirate and a genocidist?”
“At best. He had a few more minor weaknesses, including polygamy. I am from a cadet branch of the family.”
“So to speak.”
“Bantling to the bone. But such is life. I have no great love for the Aristocracy, if the truth be told.”
“In that you are in good company. In the majority, in fact.”
“Which does all of us how much good?”
“None at all. I, myself, am a draper’s son from Minsk,” allowed Wells.
“Life is hard.”
“And Heaven is silent.” Wells completed the ancient peasant saying. The Narody knew. And compared to the Aristocracy, everyone else was narody. It had been bad enough until the turn of the last century, but the vastly increased revenue and power afforded the aristocracy by the Industrial Revolution had completely split society between the Yeomani, the very rich merchant class Old Believers, and the mere survivors. Raleigh and Wells were mere survivors, and it rankled.
These gloomy, if familiar reflections were interrupted by an increased level of noise from outside the slanted windows. The engines were only a few score yards behind the Second class lounge, and they had been idling at low power since he boarded, this increased power obviously signaled their departure. Percy could not resist; he had to go to the window and watch. Politely, Wells joined him.
“One never tires of this moment. It is indeed a privilege, notwithstanding all our Imperial bombast and arrogance, to live at such a moment in history, when such spectacles are commonplace.”
“Commonplace for you perhaps. This is my first flight. When I went to College, it was a long steamship trip to Vladivostok, and a longer train ride to Moskva.”
“Indeed. The Trans-Siberia is only romantic in Ha-penny Novels. Have you traveled the Pacifica Sur?”
“Yes, but Third Class. The Nipponese reserve their amenities for themselves; all others can shift for themselves. Nips First Class, Mexicans Second, all others Third. It was a cattle car with futons.” Outside, with a dignified minimum of fuss and bother, the ground was slipping away, and the horizon expanding. The “Pride of Astrakhan” turned out to sea, and the hills on both side of the bay changed perspective and sank beneath them. He could see, with one sweep of his eyes all the way from Gates of Iron past the low island of New Albion, now devoted to Government Offices, past Ohlone Hills to where the Sawtooths vanished into the blue east, over a hundred miles inland. The low buildings of Elizavetgrad were unimpressive; a dun shingled mass huddled at the bottom of the city’s green hills. Lizzy, as the locals called her, had not recovered from the great earthquake and fire twelve years ago. If it was not for the great Imperial Naval Bases at Presidio and Morgan Island, Elizavetgrad might well have been abandoned. She mostly served as housing and support for the myriad of workers and civilian employees for the naval bases of Drake Bay. Otherwise, Lizzy obviously would never equal her rival across Drake Bay, Ohlone Hills. Ohlone Hills had been the great port for the Gold Rush of 1750, while Elizavetgrad had been a huddle of fisherman’s shacks. The view stirred a thought in Percy’s brain.
“Sir Henry Morgan, there was the man who created the Drake’s Bay Colony. And he received a real knighthood, not a self-anointed one like Walter.” He pointed aft. “If your eyes are better than mine, you might be able to make out Fort Morgan. A little east of there, at a place called Sutter’s Fort, they found more gold than Morgan, Hawkins, Drake and Raleigh ever plundered from all of Espana Nueva.”
“Indeed? What an irony.”
“Odd, isn’t it? If the Ohlone people had valued gold as much as the Incas or the Aztecs had, the Spaniards would have enslaved them too. Instead the Dons left them to breed with renegade English pirates and create an English-speaking nation here, on the very edge of the world. And in England, they speak French.”
“And not very good French at that.”
“Have you been there?”
“Not at all. But the Londoniers are known all over Europe and North Ottomans as the shiftiest collection of con-men, threadbare gamblers, counterfeiters and penny ante Radicals on Earth.”
“Well, it is only to be expected. Pain was a Londonier.”
“Indeed he was, mores' the pity. Have you looked your fill? The Dining Room opens once we are at altitude, and there are ladies awaiting.”
“Plural ladies?”
“Ladies both plural, single, and singular. Shall we?” Percy would have loved to see the great airship sail over the Iron Gate Bridge and mighty Fortress Dragon at the mouth of the Bay, but then again, his stomach had not any solid content for twenty hours or more... and women were his weakness. His other weakness.
“By all means. Lead on, kind sir.”
The Second Class Dining Room was furnished with long narrow tables, but at least each passenger was allowed a fabric and wire chair of his own, and did not have to bump buttocks with his neighbor, although the idea of rubbing rumps brought a certain appeal, at least in the case of Well’s companion, Miss Amber Reeves. She was slight and dark, copiously furnished with feminine attributes, including a glorious tumble of raven ringlets and enough bosom to swell out her shirtwaist to the bursting point. Her friend, a Hella Wolff, was slimmer, and plainer, with fawn colored bobbed hair and perhaps a bit too much nose and a touch not enough chin. But she was presentable enough, and showed traces of education and innate dignity. The Headmistress at Percy’s last place of employment would have thought her a “decent sort”. Percy thought her a stick on first sight, but kept his opinion behind his lips. Who knows, she might be amenable to persuasion or flattery.
They exchanged compliments, polite nothings, and fell to the menu. There was borsch, cabbage rolls, and a choice of lamb chops or sausages for the entree. Percy ordered the “Mittlander Sausages”, thinking that he might get more of the cheaper meat. He also slipped the waiter, a lascar, a ruble to provide unlimited breadbaskets. The single drink had restored equilibrium to his stomach and he was starved. He collared the butter dish and the breadbasket, and didn’t emerge until he heard Hella say; “The plight of the narody is expressed most clearly in the currency. We, the privileged, spend our Crowns and Guineas, while the poor try to buy the bare necessities with their miserable rubles and kopecks. Is this equity, I ask you?”
Percy felt a tiny twinge; he had given the lascar a ruble, which was worth ten kopecks, instead of a shilling, worth twelve, and had expected the man to be grateful. But then on the other hand, he had bribed the man to only do his duty. And at third and last, as the Scands said, five rubles was a skilled craftsman’s daily pay back in Elizavetgrad. He himself had only made two hundred and seventy pounds the last year he had been employed. What Hella said was correct; the largest ruble coin was the gold twenty, the double eagle and there were no ruble notes. The Anglos were used to paper pound notes, cheques and credit, the narody, strictly coin. He could see that it was inequitable, but not that it could be changed. History, a society, was like a mighty river, not to be deflected casually. He did not express these ideas, however. For one thing, his mouth was otherwise employed. The sausages had arrived, and were plump, greasy and submerged in kraut and mustard. He dug in.
Amber was dissatisfied with the fare. “These sausages have been ruined. Some idiot has boiled them! I shall have them returned, at once.” She lifted an imperious hand. “Waiter!”
Wells restrained her, gently taking her wrist. “Everything is boiled or baked on a Zeppelin, my dear. No open flames on board. Hydrogen, you know.” He turned to Percy. “Amber is also a novice at aviation, we traveled from Vladivostok by steamer.”
She lowered her hand, but looked sullen. Obviously a woman who valued her own conception of the way the world was supposed to be run. Beauties were often arrogant as well. To distract attention from this unpleasant attitude, Percy turned to his tablemate and said; “Surely you don’t think that the dual coinage system is more than an historical accident? There were many similar survivals in England after the Norman Conquest, and before the Eastering. After all, when you graft one culture on another, you cannot expect a seamless join.”
Instead of being placated at this statement, Hella’s eyes flashed and she drew herself upright in her seat. “Just like an Anglo to never call anything by its real name. Your country was destroyed, the Queen had to flee for her very life, and you use the term “Eastering” as if it was a vacation from which you might return at will!” Her emotion brought out a hint of accent in her speech, perhaps Mittel-European. Percy thought it rather charming, and Rushed to soothe her righteous ire.
“You are correct in everything, except your assumption that I am an Anglo. I am naught but a poor Novaya Siberiski, a lowly Novy Sob, no better than a quadroon in the eyes of the ARE.”
Wells chuckled, perhaps a little too indulgently. “You must forgive Hella. She considers herself and her Mitt ancestors victims of the Anglos. She is...”
Hella cut him off. “Be careful, Gregori!”
“... entitled to a “von” herself.” He finished somewhat lamely.
“You will not find many Mittelvolk who express much sympathy for the plight of the Anglos. Exile is the common fate of Europeans, except for the French and the Spanish. Where are the Portuguese? The Dutch? The Poles? And where the Italians?”
“Not to mention the Irish. Except for the San Patricios, they are all dead and gone.” was Wells’ contribution, although not, perhaps, offered in a spirit of reconciliation.
“A mercenary race, at best. The Portuguese are in the Goan Principalities, the Poles scattered to the winds, the Italians at least have their land, even if they are slaves in it. It is hard to feel too much pity for the Dutch, having thriving states on three continents and the largest archipelago on the world. It was a pity about your people, though, Hella. They almost created a state in Mexico, however. Was it called Tehas?”
She refused to be placated. “ A pity! Ach, it was a crime. A crime against humanity. Germany could have ruled the world, been the sun source of learning and science and culture, if it was not for that vile Treaty of Roma.” She spat the words. “Pax Romana!” She speared a sausage as if it was an Ottoman. “The year 1856 will live in infamy as long as the world exists. To think that two “Christian” states like France and the ARE could collude with the infidel Turks to obliterate the heart bed of Protestantism! It makes me sick!”
“It was a long time ago, Hella, it’s over now.” Amber offered, in an attempt at easing the conversation.
“My grandfather was dispossessed. We lost everything.”
“Your father is doing alright.” Pointed out Wells.
“You will kindly not mention my father again,” said Hella, icily.
There was a roar outside the plate glass windows, and they all turned to look, fearing, no doubt, some aerial cataclysm. None were as blasé about flight as they might have wanted to appear. All turned, that is all except Hella, to see an angular green and brilliant yellow structure whiz past them, at more than twice their speed. It was so fast that their eyes could not quite focus on all its details, but there was no doubt that they were witnessing the newest wonder of the modern age.
Wells’ eyes lit up like a child’s at Christmas. “A Santos-Dumont! I had no idea they were on this coast of the New World! Astounding!”
A vague recollection stirred in Percy’s memory. “The Brasilian Navy is attempting to fly a team of aeroplanes around the world. That must be one of them. Yellow and green and black are Brasil’s colors, are they not?”
“It was so fast, faster than an Express train.” Said Amber with some awe in her voice. “We could travel a thousand miles in a single day.”
“Actually, my dear, we will travel a thousand miles and more today. But the aeroplane does have twice our top speed of perhaps fifty miles an hour. The aeroplane must land frequently to replace its fuel, which it burns at a frantic rate.”
“Such a noisy toy will never replace our great Zeppelins,” said Hella with some pride.
“Not for commerce, no,” mused Percy. “However, if there was a war, the aeroplane would be a dangerous threat.”
“Brasil Negro is no enemy of the ARE.” Wells stated. “They are at war, more or less, with the Ottoman, our enemy for centuries. Our real enemy is Nippon, who is allied with the Turk.”
“All true enough. I spoke in the spirit of technical speculation.”
“All grist for your mill, no doubt.” Wells laid a proud hand on Amber’s shoulder. “Miss Reeves is a writer too. If truth be told, she sells more titles than I.”
“Indeed? Do you write Home Economy texts?”
`Wells and Reeves laughed out loud at that honest question. “Not at all. I write what might be called “Romances”. Romances of a sort.”
“Lurid tales of lust and deception, in fact.”
“It buys me my bread.” allowed Amber, with level eyes.