Drakas! Read online

  Gordon had had an extremely full and adventurous life. He'd been a career soldier, but one more honored by foreign nations than his own. A field marshall in both the Chinese and Ottoman armies, he'd also fought in the Crimea, produced the first accurate maps of the Danube River and its tributaries, been the Governor-General of the Sudan, surveyed the Holy Lands, and discovered the location of the Garden of Eden.

  He'd always had a reputation as an independent eccentric, heedless of conventional wisdom and eager to flout higher authority in the name of justice. Though a devout fundamentalist Christian, he was not a bigot. He believed that every man should be left to worship his own particular god in his own particular way, as long as he worshiped some god.

  Recently it seemed as if perhaps the controversy that he'd thrived on as a younger man had finally caught up to him. The British Army had no more use for him. Other countries he'd served no longer existed, devoured by the relentless Draka beast. He was tired of the military, anyway. As he'd learned during his tenure as Governor-General of the Sudan, all the blood, sweat, and tears in the world mattered nought when politicians arbitrarily drew lines on maps and instituted policy with eyes solely on their pocketbooks.

  After he'd resigned his commission in the British Army, Gordon, recalling conversations he'd had as a young man with de Lesseps, the father of the Suez Canal, decided that his legacy to the world would be what he now thought of as "The Plan," a scheme to dam the Nile River and make it the longest navigable waterway in the world. Since the Draka now owned the Nile like they owned the rest of Africa, Gordon had to plead his case before them. They were good listeners, but tightfisted with both money and authority. Von Shrakenberg was sympathetic to Gordon's Plan, but by no means was he the only Draka whom Gordon had to convince of its feasibility.

  To this end Gordon had suffered endless discussion, debate, and formal dinners. This night Gordon's immediate table companions were sisters of Edith von Shrakenberg, his host's wife. Both were young, lean, beautiful, and much too predatory for Gordon's comfort. Katharine, on Gordon's left, was unmarried. Amelia, on his right, was married to the merarch who sat across the table from Gordon, but that didn't prevent her from sending welcoming glances Gordon's way. He did his best to ignore her, but almost dropped his fork when during the peacock pie she put a hand under the table high up on his inner thigh.

  Before Gordon could think of a suitable remonstrance, her sister Katharine said suddenly, "You have the clearest, bluest eyes I have ever seen, Strategos Gordon, and such fine hair and features. We could have beautiful children together."

  "Ah, er." He firmly grasped the hand massaging his leg under the table and removed it from his thigh. "Well, er. I am retired from the military," he said stiffly. "Just call me, ah, Charles."

  "Charles." Katharine purred like a cat, licking her lips at the taste of his name, the tip of her pink tongue visible behind her even white teeth.

  Gordon had the sudden vision of another hand reaching under the table towards his body, and barely suppressed a shiver. He looked urgently about for a means of escape. Fortunately the dinner finally seemed to be on the verge of breaking up, but then he'd be forced to endure—

  "Now Katharine, Amelia . . ." Somehow Edith von Shrakenberg had come up unnoticed behind them, pushing her ungainly stomach ahead of her like a tug chivvying a laden barge. She was grossly pregnant, looking as if she would drop the baby at any moment. "We can't monopolize the field marshall's time, I'm afraid."

  Gordon got hastily to his feet. He was a short man, not much taller than his pregnant hostess, and much slighter than her in her current state.

  "I no longer use military titles," he said, with more than a little relief in his voice. He smiled. "Besides, neither China or the Ottoman Empire hardly exists any more. They've both been swallowed by your Domination."

  Edith von Shrakenberg smiled prettily. "Politics." She waved it away. "I have other things on my mind lately. Ooohhh."

  "Are you all right, madam?" Gordon took a step towards her, a concerned look on his face.

  "Yes, certainly," she smiled again, palely. "The boy has kicked me." She reached out and took Gordon's hand. "Do you wish to feel him?"

  She tugged his hand towards her swollen stomach. Gordon said, "No!" a bit more loudly than he'd intended, and pulled away. "No. Er, quite all right, I assure you."

  He was terrified that he'd insulted her beyond all bounds, but her expression didn't change.

  "Well then, come, Mr. Gordon," she said, "there's something I must show you." She held out her arm.

  "Quite." He bowed to his dinner companions, and murmured goodbyes, taking his hostess's arm as she led him away.

  "Poor Mr. Gordon," she said, not unsympathetically. They left the immense dining room and walked down a carpeted hallway that was as dark and quiet as the dining room had been colorful and loud. "You must be quite unused to the forthrightness of Draka women."

  Gordon inclined his head as she patted his hand. "You are correct, madam."

  "Well, that's not unusual for you Englishmen. Or Scotsmen, if you prefer." They had stopped at a door ornately carved from rich, dark wood.

  "It is all the same to me, madam."

  Gordon frowned as he noticed the distasteful scene which had been hewn into the dark richness of the wood. A man with the classic chiseled Draka features stood in a horse-drawn chariot as it was pulled between ranks of crucified serfs—men and women both. The execution of the carving was as exquisite as the subject matter was repellent. The relief seemed vaguely familiar to Gordon—then he realized that it represented a famous scene in the career of Alexander von Shrakenberg's grandfather, Augustus, who had put down a serf revolt a generation earlier by crucifying five thousand of them—whether they'd been personally involved in the rebellion or not.

  Edith took both his hands in hers. "No need to be shy, my dear Mr. Gordon." She leaned forward, conspiratorially. "My sister Katharine has taken quite the fancy to you, and would like to get to know you better."

  It was all Gordon could do not to pull away in panic. "Well . . . she is, um, quite an attractive young woman, but . . ."

  "No `buts,' Mr. Gordon. I'll tell her that you'll be expecting her in your room, later tonight."

  She frowned at his sudden frozen expression.

  "Or, if you'd prefer Amelia . . ."

  "It's not a question of preference," Gordon began.

  "Good." She smiled, cutting him off. She gave him a conspiratorial wink, released his hands, and knocked loudly on the closed door. She went off down the hall, smiling.

  "Um—I say—" Gordon choked, and then a deep voice came from within the room.

  "Come in."

  Gordon made half a step to follow her but stopped, swallowing the blasphemies that attempted to erupt from his throat, and threw open the door. He took an automatic step forward, then stopped again, frankly astounded by the room in which he found himself.

  It was von Shrakenberg's study. Alexander was waiting for him behind a great desk along the far wall, smoking a fat cigar. Two of the walls were covered by crammed bookshelves. On the floor and in shelf niches were statues, Roman (or perhaps Greek) and Egyptian. The rugs were thick and beautifully hand woven. Paintings by half a dozen European masters competed for the remaining wall space. And behind von Shrakenberg, behind the glorious desk at which he sat, smiling at the look on Gordon's face, was a set of French windows opening up onto the manor's gardens. And set in the gardens . . .

  Gordon took a step forward, staring beyond von Shrakenberg. The Draka's smile widened with true pleasure as he watched the expression on Gordon's face.

  "Ah, like my little folly, do you?"

  "It's . . . stupendous."

  Von Shrakenberg took a contented puff on his aromatic cigar. He stood, turned, and looked out the window with Gordon at the two colossal statues in the center of his garden. They were sandstone giants with time-mutilated faces, sitting sixty feet tall on battered thrones.

  "The Colo
ssi of Memnon," Gordon said in a small voice.

  "That's right." Von Shrakenberg reached for a carafe of brandy on the corner of his desk, poured a glass of the rich, aromatic liquid and held it out for Gordon, who took it automatically. "Saw 'em, oh, years ago. Just sitting out in the desert. Nobody to appreciate 'em. Well, I had some of my boys bring 'em out here, set 'em up in my garden. They're a bit worn, you know, but I like 'em. Like to look out 'em, drink a little brandy, smoke a nice cigar, and muse on the folly of human existence. Sit down," he gestured at the comfortable-looking chair in front of his desk.

  The chair, Gordon found, was comfortable. The brandy was excellent.

  Von Shrakenberg regarded Gordon silently for a long moment. As the seconds ticked off Gordon had a sinking feeling that the week he'd spent in Alexandria had been wasted, that von Shrakenberg had gotten him here, alone, to tell him that the Draka had decided not to take up The Plan. But finally, when von Shrakenberg spoke, his words took Gordon by surprise.

  "I realize that you're familiar with the Sudan. You spent several years there trying to quell the slave trade and bring a civilized government to the region. And you succeeded better than could be expected."

  Gordon inclined his head in recognition of von Shrakenberg's praise. Agag, the demon of pride that so bedeviled him tried to leap up and crow, but he forced him back down before he could put any words into his mouth.

  "I'm afraid," Gordon said, humbly, "that whatever good I did faded quickly after I departed."

  Von Shrakenberg waved his hand. "Perhaps. But the Sudan is part of the Domination now." He smiled in a friendly, non-Draka way. "At least, we lay claim to it. It's two-thirds desert, one-third swamp, and in actuality not at all controlled by us. It's easy to say that it's ours; it's another thing to make it ours."

  "Many nations have said that about the Sudan through the millennia."

  Von Shrakenberg nodded. "There's this man who calls himself the Mahdi. Have you heard of him?"

  Gordon shrugged. "There've been scores of Mahdi's over the years. Islamic fundamentalists calling for overthrow of the current government. This one seems more successful than most. I know that he's managed to unite most of the tribes. No doubt he desires to remove the Draka from the Sudan in the name of Allah."

  "No doubt," von Shrakenberg said, "he's succeeded. He and his dervishes have this past week destroyed a Janissary legion eight thousand strong. Completely. Or so it seems."

  Gordon sat back in his chair.

  "Impressed?" von Shrakenberg asked. "So are we." He eyed Gordon speculatively through a cloud of aromatic cigar smoke. "You can do us a service, Gordon."

  "How so?" he asked, but his mind was already harking back to the hellish country where he'd spent two years of his life galloping back and forth on racing camels, trying to bring civilization to a nation that was determined to remain uncivilized.

  "You know the area quite well. Undoubtedly, you still have contacts there. Men you can call upon. Perhaps men who know this Mahdi himself, personally. It wouldn't hurt if we knew more about him, perhaps even somehow brought him to our side. After all, we're reasonable men. Men from many nations have become Draka." Von Shrakenberg shrugged. "And the sooner there is peace on the Nile, the sooner you can began to build your dam."

  Gordon and von Shrakenberg locked eyes for a long moment.

  "And this is the consensus of your people?" Gordon asked.

  "It is." Von Shrakenberg paused. "Generally. There are those who favor a more . . . direct . . . solution to the problem of the Mahdi."

  "Direct?" Gordon asked.

  "Direct. Unmistakable. Brutal. Kill them all and let the valkyries sort them out. Myself, I find such an approach wasteful of resources. But the Security Directorate . . ." Von Shrakenberg shook his head. "They're a newly organized arm of the Domination . . . and ambitious. Be wary of those who wear the black, Gordon. Be wary of everyone, but especially those who wear the black."

  Gordon nodded. "I see. What exactly do you suggest?"

  Von Shrakenberg leaned forward eagerly. "I have a dirigible waiting in Alexandria. We can have you in Khartoum in a matter of days. Officially the situation has been handed to the Security Directorate, but it'll take time to get their men—and another army—in place, and then time, of course, to pursue their hunt of the Mahdi. If you can get in there quickly, and find a somewhat more diplomatic, shall we say, solution to the problem, I would say that undoubtedly your future would be assured."

  "My dam?" Gordon asked.

  Von Shrakenberg smiled. "I have the papers here."

  He reached into a drawer of his desk, and handed Gordon a sheaf of documents. Gordon, well versed in the bureaucratese of half a dozen nations, read through it carefully. It was couched in somewhat cryptic, but ultimately satisfactory language. And it had already been signed by von Shrakenberg.

  "When do I leave for Khartoum?" he asked.

  The Draka smiled. "I like a decisive man," he said. "As I said, I have a dirigible waiting. You can leave at your convenience."

  Gordon stood. The thought of that woman waiting in his room was like a hand of ice clutching his guts. He couldn't face her. He could not—

  "I'll leave now," he said, carefully folding the papers and putting them in his pocket.

  * * *

  April 23, 1883

  Alexandria en route to Khartoum

  My Dearest Augusta:

  Your loving and humble brother does at times find himself in the oddest of circumstances in the oddest places in all of the world. All of which you know quite well, of course, because I can go nowhere or do nothing without imparting to you my thoughts, fears, and hopes via these epistles, which while not of the same great significance of those letters of the four evangelists, at least warm the heart of this poor traveler when he knows his dutiful sister is eager to hear of him and his humble doings in the world.

  As I write I am, as incredible as it sounds, some thousands of feet in the air, borne aloft not by the angelic wings as is the host of Our Lord, but a great big windbag. No, not a PM, or even an MP, but an actual balloon some six hundred feet long filled with air. A Draka dirigible, called the Arsinoe, gliding silently and gracefully through the aether like an angel of Our Lord, but driven by propellers turned by steam turbines and not our prayers. We sail through the air at speeds approaching forty miles an hour, and can keep this up long enough to achieve our journey's end some 1100 miles distant. Imagine, I shall be in Khartoum in less than two days! Remember how long it took me to make this same trip by Nile steamer and camel? More than two months!

  I am amazed at the scientific progress the Draka have made in such a short time. They are an amazing people, though, personally I find them repellent. The only likable Draka I have met so far is Alexander von Shrakenberg—and he is morally bankrupt. They are sinners all, though it is my job neither to save them from Hell, or preach to them of Heaven. They will likely all burn forever. Some, like von Shrakenberg, because of mere folly, others because of a deeper, more pervading evil.

  But enough of that! I have, dearest Augusta, good news! Von Shrakenberg has agreed to The Plan, and through him I have gotten the backing of the Alexandria Institute as well. The Nile dam will become a reality! The greatest river in the world will be navigable from its source in the Lakes to its mouth in the Mediterranean. This will be a task to consume my energies for many years (If only I can keep Agag properly in check! He is like to swell up and burst into view at any moment, my pride feels so vast!). It will be a fitting capstone to my life and a monument to last down through the centuries.

  First though there is a small matter that I must handle for von Shrakenberg in Khartoum.

  I hope Mother and the rest of the family are well sheltered in the Hands of Our Lord. Please kiss them for me and give them all my very best wishes. You may write me in Alexandria, but it may take some time for me to actually get your letters. I don't know how long I will be in Khartoum. Perhaps days, perhaps weeks.

  The capta
in of this fabulous vessel has agreed to take this letter with him back to Alexandria and post it from there. I understand that the mail service in Khartoum is unreliable.

  Yours in Christ,

  Your Humble and Loving Brother,

  C.

  ii.

  The dirigible Arsinoe arrived at Khartoum, located on a spit of land between the confluence of the Blue and White Niles, at sunset on the second day after leaving Alexandria. Gordon, looking down at the breathtaking view, remembered again the years he had spent there a decade and a half ago, before the Sudan had been ingested by the Domination.

  Gordon, fresh from saving China from the Tai-pangs, a sect of fanatic Christian fundamentalists, had been sent by the Sudan's Ottoman masters to Khartoum as Governor-General to bring order out of chaos, ensure the uninterrupted flow of taxes, and suppress the slave trade. Once there he found that chaos was the natural order in a land two-thirds desert and the rest mostly swamp, and also discovered—perhaps most importantly—that without the slave trade there would be very little in the way of taxes to collect and pass up the chain, as human chattel was the most valuable commodity this land produced.

  Nonetheless, he'd gone about his job with great skill and indefatigable energy. He'd built an army and police force. He'd constructed a string of forts to protect the long suffering citizenry from slavers and bandits. He'd broken the backs of the slaving clans. The Turks had thanked him for a job well done, dismissed him, and now discovering the Sudan to cost more to maintain than it was worth, abandoned it. The slavers and bandits returned, and it was business as usual until the Draka swept through the Sudan and closed their iron fist upon it. But, much like the desert sand and swamp ooze which comprised most of this poor country, the Sudan, unsurprisingly, seemed to be trickling through that closed fist.