The Atlantropa Articles Page 3

  The lift ends its journey with a loud clang and we stop, having reached the deck. I’m met with the sight of a busy crew, fifty or so men, all dressed in armor like Ulric and I. Their capes are flowing in the desert wind; some have them tied around their waste so they aren’t a nuisance. Each body goes about their small duty to make sure we are prepared to sail. Guns must be properly loaded. Flags must be unfurled. Engines must start.

  As I slowly clamber off the lift the crew pauses their activities and turns their attention to me. My metal boots meet the steel of the ship in a loud clang. Every eye on the deck is on me as I straighten myself out and raise my voice.

  “Hello, men.” I boom. “This…is my brother, S.S. Knight Ulric Manafort. He is new to the Kiln, and will accompany us on our journey. It is his job to protect us on our journey, if need be, and for that you are to treat him with the utmost respect.”

  I turn to my brother, clasp my feet together, puff out my chest and salute him with one arm raised high.

  “Sieg Heil,” I bellow, followed by fifty other voices yelling in unison: “Sieg Heil!”

  “Carry on,” I order, waving them off to their own work, and the dock complies.

  “Protection, huh?” Ulric comments in a curious voice lined with hopeful optimism.

  “I’m required to say that,” I mutter in a deadpan manner.

  If the two large towers sprouting from the deck were trees, then their leaves would be the numerous banners that were strung atop them. Wire and cable dangling between the two appeared like vines in a jungle. Between the two trees was a series of arches, each pointed at the top. They had just recently closed to encompass the steel boxes housed in the center of the ship.

  “The closest tower to the bow houses the main bridge, while the second near the rear houses the defenses. Of course most of the ship is covered in some form of weaponry for protection, but that tower is just, extra defenses,” I explain to Ulric.

  We navigate to the center of the ship, where the crates are being loaded in. As the crew hurries past us, my attention narrows in on one man with a small metal frame donned in a cloth of dark yellow. He is hunched over, analyzing a slab of metal in his hand. I don’t think he has spotted us through the crowd. I wait and wait. Eventually, I clear my throat and he turns around, startled, apparently not noticing my presence.

  “By the fucking Führer, don’t scare me like that!” he exclaims. “When did you get here? Sneaking up behind me.”

  “This is the sixth time I’ve been able to do that, Volker,” I say through spats of laughter, “You need to have more spatial awareness. I was yelling to the rest of the crew.”

  “Well somebody has to account for all the crates. Guns, food, water, can’t forget anything. Not to mention resources for ourselves,” Volker defends himself in a high-pitched, grating voice. “Who is that?” he asks me, devoid of breath, pointing a gloved finger toward a puzzled Ulric.

  “Volker, this is Ulric, my brother. He’ll be the Knight on our trip,” I explain in a light-hearted demeanor, still chuckling from the image of Volker’s jumping body, “Ulric, this is First Officer Wilhelm Volker.”

  “Ah. The brother,” Volker remarks in a reminiscent tone, extending his pointing hand toward Ulrich and offering him an open handshake. “He’s told me a lot about you.”

  “Really?” Ulric says, shaking Volker’s hand.

  “Probably, I don’t know, the words jumble together over time,” Volker jokes, “But it’s nice to meet you. Hopefully you’re not too much like your brother.” He nudges me a few times with his elbow, and I laugh in return.

  “So what is the status on departure?” I ask him. Volker hands me the metal slab and I analyze through its data.

  “It seems we have accounted for all of the shipments,” Volker replies in a more logistical tone. “Most of these supplies are weapons, a few boxes are for food. We’ll be ready for departure in a few hours.”

  “That works,” I reply, looking down at the slab. “I’ll just go around the ship and inspect everything, make sure it’s all in working order.”

  “Sounds good,” Volker replies, taking the slab back from me.

  “What should I do?” Ulric asks in an uncertain voice.

  “Come with me,” I say. “If you’re going to spend some time on this ship, you might as well get acquainted.”

  For the next few hours, Ulric and I wander around, inspecting every operation to make sure everything is in working order. The flags have been set. The weapons have been loaded. The treads have been cleaned. The crates have been secured. Even the engine room is now running, after I had checked to see whether Keller had finished drinking. By all accords, we are ready to set sail.

  I stand on the tower closest to the bow, on a balcony right outside the main bridge. I can see everything, but for now I face the boundless sea before me. In the distance I spot an orange cloud floating over the horizon, stirred up by another ship. Out there, that will only be an ominous sign. The high winds shaping the grand dunes out there brush against my armor. I cling onto metal bars that have been stripped bare by the years of abuse from these conditions.

  Looking down, I see a crowd awaiting my signal. I give a stiff-armed salute, and they respond in kind before rushing to their stations. With a slow walk, I wrap around the balcony to face the port and, with it, the mountain that is the dam.

  I’m on the other side of the tower, and I see that the dock in our area has cleared out its people and machines in anticipation of our departure. I shouldn’t keep them waiting. At the main deck in the center of the ship stands the last group of deckhands. They too look up at me, and I thrust out my arm rigid and true once again—in unison, they salute as well.

  “Are we ready to depart, sir?” Volker cuts in.

  “Yes we are, all hands to stations,” I reply.

  “All hands to stations,” Volker radios to the crew. Sirens blare, and the Dock beneath us begins to clear out. I can hear the yelling down below, as all brace for the ship to awaken.

  “Start the engines,” I say to Volker, and he repeats the command into his radio.

  The Bridge rumbles as if a volcano is rumbling beneath our feet. Lights flicker and walls quake as black smoke funnels up the pipes and explodes upward in a triumphant roar. The Howling Dark has come alive.

  “Take her away,” I command, and it is done. A soft growl permeates the cabin. The treads awaken in a slow churn, grinding up the desert beneath. In response, an orange cloud rises from below as the ship creaks away from the concrete. I walk out of the bridge to view the cloud dissipate.

  The ship hurls sand onto the concrete like a wave crashing against a stormy beach. Metal bars rattle as the ship picks up speed. Treads rotate like heavy steel clocks swirling about to bring us forward. She’s a lumbering beast, and with another thunderous horn she signals that she is leaving port. I stroll back onto the Bridge and check the conditions. Everything is in working order. I stand there and watch as the ship leisurely cascades over its first sand dune of the journey. The banners tied to the front of the ship’s bow catch a gust of wind. I take in how graciously they fly in the breeze—those red-and-gold flags, each emblazoned with a white swastika at the center, fluttering against a world of apricot sand.

  Glasslands

  The 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 frac
tion 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 was not much to do otherwise. The course had been set, the journey was long, and the computer did most of the automated navigation. Why I was still on the Bridge, I didn’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 wore was 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 there 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 b
ottle 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.