The Steel Tsar (19 page)

“You share Makhno’s views,” I said. “Must one become an anarchist to join your League?”

She was amused by this. “It could be the other way around,” she told me. “I have much in common with Nestor Makhno, however. I have the same skepticism of authority, especially when it is self-elected.”

Somehow this conversation had relieved me. I lost much of my restlessness and uncertainty. I no longer felt such a helpless victim of Fate, though in some senses I remained one, quite as much as the unfortunate Cornelius Dempsey.

“Now we should sleep.” Mrs. Persson got to her feet. “We don’t want to miss Mr. Wilson’s display tomorrow.”

“Do you know what he means to reveal?”

“I think so, but I have left that whole aspect to ‘Monsieur Zenith’. We each have responsibility for certain aspects of this affair, captain. I find that it rarely pays to anticipate events. After all, if they come as a surprise, one responds rather more spontaneously.”

“I am still baffled,” I admitted.

She put a finger to her lips. “Trust me,” she said.

I would do whatever she required of me. “I will,” I told her, “but I want no more innocent blood on my hands.”

She picked up her cup and drained it. “If all goes well, Captain Bastable, we shall have completed our task here by tomorrow. Then you and I shall leave.”

“Leave?”

“As you know, you have been invited to join the League of Temporal Adventurers. I would like to try to convince you that it is in your best interest—and ours—to do so.”

“I shall listen to you, Mrs. Persson, and you know that I am at your service. However, I have some ambition still to return to my own time, my own world, where some kind of order at least seemed to prevail.”

“Believe me,” she said, “it did not last much beyond your time. You did not know it, Captain Bastable, but when you were trapped in the ruins of Teku Benga, you also avoided the experience of Armageddon in your own world. Nothing is free of this terrible
wrongness
, this bestial violence, this destructive machismo. Oh, I cannot tell you how weary one becomes of it. You must reconcile yourself to the fact, my dear friend, that you will never know that innocence and security again. It was an illusion. Security is hard-earned and never maintained by violence, even the violence you employed as a servant of your Empire. You cannot return to your own time. The League offers you a home and a purpose, a chance to take a little control of your own fate.”

I accepted what she said without question, but it was not palatable.

“In the meanwhile,” she told me, “please continue to follow my lead. This is a very complicated business indeed, captain. A circle must be completed. A certain marriage must take place. A job,” she grinned suddenly, in self-mockery, “must be done.”

* * *

N
ext morning we were all called to assemble outside the school, in the large quadrangle behind the main building. Cossacks were coming and going everywhere. The entire camp was busy with the rattle and rumble of horses and soldiers, artillery and heavy vehicles. In the distance the armoured trains went by, loaded with men and armaments. Everyone had heard that Yekaterinaslav had been recaptured, that the Japanese were suing for peace and that Central Government troops, no longer busy with one enemy, were on their way to put down this unruly uprising before it expanded into fully-fledged Civil War. The Centralists, of course, had no notion of the kind of armament Djugashvili brought against them.

He strutted before his
atamans
, full of brassy confidence and comradely reassurance, a Cossack among Cossacks, a man amongst men. “Have no fears, my friends. This attack will be easily resisted. And very shortly Moscow will be suing for peace. We shall be at the very gates of Petersburg and those bloodless weaklings, those aliens who seek to control our fate, will be kneeling and kissing the hoofs of our horses!”

One handsome old
ataman
, splendid in black and silver, tugged at his great, grey beard and grumbled. “The airships will blow us to bits. They are cowards. They will not engage us honourably. We can’t get at them. Cossack courage is useless against them.”

“We have Cossack science,” the warlord promised. “Our own superior science, untainted by their vice and weakness. Our science will easily wipe out the threat of their ships.” The steel mask glinted as he raised his eyes towards the pulsing sun. “You will see. Within a week we shall be stabling our horses in the Hermitage—if we have allowed the Hermitage to remain.”

The
ataman
became nervous. “By God,
hetman,
I hope you’ll use no Devil’s magic. I am an honest Christian...”

“We fight for God and Socialism,” Djugashvili reassured him. “For the Freedom of the Great Cossack Host. God has put an instrument into our hands which will ensure our freedom for all time, and will enable good socialists to do His work. It is Christ whom we serve, my friend. Christ against the evil forces of Anarchy!”

The old Cossack seemed to accept this and nodded. Again I was forced to make sure my incredulity did not show on my face. I tried to avoid Mrs. Persson’s sardonic eye.

“For God and Socialism,” she murmured. “And we shall destroy all who stand against them.”

But the mollified
ataman
was striding away on his bowed legs, glad to get back to his pony and swing up into the saddle. He rode away to give his men the news.

Mrs. Persson murmured to me in English: “It’s in the nature of a good despot to say anything that will convince someone to do as he wishes. Only when he does not need them does he really say what he thinks. And by that time, of course, because he has no need of them, they are usually as good as dead. The secret of becoming a successful tyrant lies in an early ability to be all things to all people.”

“You sound as if you’d trained him yourself,” I said.

She made to reply but instead began to button her military coat. She had seen Djugashvili striding up behind me. He stopped as I turned to confront him and his burning eyes fixed me. “Where’s our Captain Dempsey?” he asked. “He seemed so anxious to take command of the ship. Is he fit enough for it, do you think? If not, you will have sole command, Bastable.”

“I would be glad of that,” I said. “It is some time since I had full command of an airship. But I think Dempsey is ready for the job.”

I had seen my alter-ego that morning. It was pretty obvious that he was sustaining himself on drugs. He had, however, been absolutely determined to captain the
Vassarion Belinsky
. He had asked us to go ahead of him. He had promised to join us shortly.

Djugashvili offered his back to me, idly rubbing at his steel helmet as if it were a real face. I wondered if he had slept in it. “He had better be in control of himself.” His manner was crudely threatening. “Good morning, Mr. Wilson.”

Peewee Wilson appeared, walking ahead of a dozen Cossacks who were carrying some massive object on their shoulders. The thing was wrapped in a mixture of canvas and sacking and was about twice as long as a tall man.

“You’re ready for us, eh?” Djugashvili became jocular, almost excited, like a spoiled boy involved with the prospect of a new toy.

Wilson seemed ill at ease. “Morning, Chief. I hope—”

“So do I, Mr. Wilson. Our pride and joy is about to perform, I presume.”

“Oh, yes, Chief. There are no major problems.”

“We want no problems at all, Mr. Wilson.” It seemed as if the Steel Tsar was goading his creature, amused by his mixture of nervousness and fanaticism, yet at the same time not wanting to be disappointed by whatever it was he had commissioned from the English mechanic.

“This is what we need for our morale,” Djugashvili informed us confidently. “Mr. Wilson has the measure of our Cossack lads. He knows what impresses them. Have you heard the news, by the way?” he chuckled. “Enemy scouts have already been sighted in the air to the south and the west.”

“Well, Chief, I hope... I mean, we’re ready, of course. Just the ticket for our War Effort, eh?” Wilson’s own attempt at mirth was chilling. “Perhaps if we had a private demonstration first...”

“Nonsense, Mr. Wilson. I have every faith in you. This is what we need to rally our boys. We have to show them that our science is not only superior but also more familiar. This will bring their legends to life. They are sustained by legends, these people. It is their substitute for reason, believe me.” His contempt for those he used suddenly came to the surface and he checked himself. He could not afford to lose a single Cossack regiment at this stage. He seemed to become impatient with himself and again made a strange little gesture. He began to walk backwards, signaling for the men to bring the huge object into the centre of the quadrangle and motioning for the watching Cossacks to stand back. They were a colourful mixture in their bright kaftans and uniforms, with their swinging swords and bandoliers glinting in the morning light.

Djugashvili positioned himself in the centre of his captains and called to Peewee Wilson, who still seemed uncertain of what he was supposed to do. He directed the men to lower the object to the ground and then, using ropes, raise it to an upright position. After further hesitation, he began to pull at the rags swathing it. It looked like a huge Egyptian mummy, clad in unsanitary winding cloths.

“Come, come,” Djugashvili called. “Do not be modest, Mr. Wilson. Let us see your scientific miracle, the proof of our superiority! Captain Bastable and Mrs. Persson are clearly very curious to know what we have invented between us.”

Suddenly, with rapid, almost desperate movements, Wilson began to tear at the canvas and sacking. The thing was made entirely of metal but only as he stripped away the last of the coverings did we see what it was—a gigantic human figure made entirely of steel and wearing, in metal, the regalia of a Cossack
hetman.

Djugashvili began to laugh uncontrollably. “Isn’t he fine? Isn’t he an inspiration? So muscular and strong. So handsome.”

Neither Mrs. Persson nor myself could respond. We were struck dumb by the idolatry, the sheer egomaniacal obsession, of the warlord as he strutted up to the figure and stared into its gigantic features, which were identical, in every way, to the mask which rested upon the head of Djugashvili—one steel face peering up into another. This sense of mirrors distorting infinitely the very substance of the multiverse was very strong and I found myself looking for Dempsey, my own strange twin.

Peewee Wilson the English mechanic had produced an image of the self-proclaimed
hetman
that was more than twice life-size. It gave me the impression that Time was coagulating or perhaps deliquescing. Somewhere, I thought, I heard a bass drone. I looked to the sky but saw nothing.

“Isn’t he magnificent?” Djugashvili was swollen with pride, strutting about the thing as if he already believed the great steel giant to be himself.

“He is splendid,” said Mrs. Persson.

The best I could do was pretend to nod enthusiastically. I still could not find words to describe my reaction to this extraordinary exercise in egocentricity.

“This is only the first,” Djugashvili told us. “Soon there will be a Steel Tsar overseeing every town. To remind them of their master, that it is through his will and his alone that they live. This mighty hero will lead the Cossacks into battle. He will show himself to be invulnerable. He will represent all that is best in me!”

“When do you intend to employ him?” Mrs. Persson watched as Peewee Wilson proudly polished his creation’s left knee.

“At once. He will help distract the Central Government forces while you, Captain Bastable, will fly the ship to Makhno’s camp and drop the first bomb. I presume he is ready to march, Mr. Wilson?”

“Oh, yes, Chief. Certainly, Chief.” Wilson took an oil can from the pocket of his green overalls and applied a drop or two to the joints he could reach. He seemed to be taking as much time as he could, perhaps wishing to delay the moment, as if his own faith in his invention were not quite as strong as his master’s.

Djugashvili turned to the
atamans.
“Now, my comrades, go and assemble your riders. Bring them here and we shall demonstrate the invulnerable power of the Steel Tsar! The first of the great army of mechanical men who will carry our banners across the world!”

“Just the ticket, old boy.” It was Dempsey. Already apparently drunk, he had had a shave. His neat airshipman’s uniform was a little too big for him. He was haggard but he walked steadily, and for all his slightly inebriated air he seemed to have lost the despairing attitude I had begun to identify with him. He even winked at me as he turned up. “Morning, Bastable. Ready to go aloft?”

“We’re all ready, I think,” said Mrs. Persson. “Hello, Professor Marek. Did you oversleep?”

The scientist was distracted. He looked the great steel statue all over and shook his head. “Not yet,” he mumbled. “Too soon. Far too soon.” He barely acknowledged her greeting. He tugged at his ear nervously, threatening to tear it off. Like us, he fell in behind our Chief as Djugashvili walked rapidly across the quadrangle to where a rough-and-ready dais had been erected. We were supposed to join him on this. Meanwhile, there was dust rising on all sides as the Cossack horsemen rode in an ever-tightening circle to attend the gathering called by their
hetman.
Those wild riders in all their savage finery were, in spite of everything they stood for, one of the most colourful and thrilling sights in the world.

Mrs. Persson offered me a small pair of powerful field-glasses she carried and I stood on the platform, watching the Cossacks coming in. They had not left their armoured vehicles or their artillery behind. As they reached the school, they fired off their carbines in salute and Djugashvili returned their greeting with a fatherly wave.

Peewee Wilson was running round and round the great steel figure checking every part of it. He seemed a little more relaxed now, as if he was confident his invention would not disappoint his Chief.

Now the Steel Tsar lifted his arms and addressed the great mass of his followers, his voice amplified by some natural echo, so that all could hear it.