Tales from Kalgachia - 12
The University of Bergburg was rather smaller than the one in Oktavyan, and the only one outside Oktavyan which was chartered to award doctorates. According to the official line it had been founded to fully exploit the statistical IQ advantage of its local Siyacho-Ashkenatzi population, although various critics of the Judaic peoples - from the drily academic to the unashamedly bigoted - had observed that the insitution was necessary to prevent the 'bagel chompers' from wielding undue influence on the academic scene of the Kalgachi capital. Among the Bergburgers themselves, some held such segregation to be the first step in the much-attempted but never completed annihilation of their people; but most welcomed the university as a cultural bastion in which the 613 mitzvot, and the immense body of ancient tradition they spawned, could be safely guarded through waves of syncretic reinvention by the shrub-idolators and gnostic heathens who had come to rule their homeland in recent ages. The local Ketherist clergy had fallen in with the latter line, seeking to remain relevant in Bergburg society even if it meant indulging the locals' ancient creed of Deuteronomistic submission to a comically petulant demiurge - they held that since the harlot Rahab of Askenatzi legend had given shelter to the righteous and been spared while her city was reduced to rubble, the time would come when Kalgachia would be spared in its hour of peril because it gave shelter to Rahab's descendants in Bergburg. Kalgachia's ruling Council of Perfecti would then be compelled, by way of gratitude, to invite the chosen sons of Bergburg to their very own midst - or at least give them a free hand to stone the proverbial Achan in the aftermath. Compared to the desperate state of their poor brethren in old Kolmenitzkiy the Bergburgers were told that they were, by every measure that mattered, onto a good thing.
As a postgraduate of geology studying for a doctorate, Jake Rosenstern was not naturally given to such pious conceptions of his place in the world. He found contentment in the travel associated with his subject of study, chosen with a blissful freedom since his mother had died a mercifully early death and relegated her furious exhortations for him to enter the medical profession to mere fist-shaking dream visitations from the distant depths of She'ol. Rosenstern had just returned to Bergburg from the fringes of the Lieutenancy of Oktavyan, the most severe mountain country in all of Kalgachia. With him had returned an aluminium-clad briefcase full of compartmentalised rock samples, the result of his explorations which had been somewhat hurried on account of the imminent winter snows. Nonetheless on arrival back in Bergburg he had found a couple of hours left in the day, so went immediately to the laboratories of the university's modest geology faculty to conduct some initial tests.
After those couple of hours, the fatigue of Rosenstern's journey had begun to catch up with him and he decided not to extend his session into the night hours. Reaching a natural break in his analysis, he packed up his samples and marched contentedly through the faculty toward the exit - but as he was passing the office of the faculty dean, the dean himself stepped smartly out of its door and almost collided with him.
"Ah, young Jake!" said the dean, a rather short and elderly man sporting a beard full of tight white curls. He smiled. "I didn't know you were back. How was it?"
Rosenstern gave a little shrug. "Well I could have stayed a little longer but the weather came in. Got a decent selection, though." He tapped his briefcase with his free hand.
"But you must show me!" said the dean, his eyes lighting up. "Show me..." He reached back to his office door and swung it open, holding it steady as Rosenstern walked in. "You know I haven't had the chance to get out east for a while. And never more than a few hours these days... I don't have the stamina to scramble up those slopes like I did. Now the faculty relies on young guns like you to come up with the goods!" He closed the door and glided silently across the office's ruby-red carpet to his drinks cabinet. "You're in luck, my man. I haven't finished off the slivovitz yet. You must have quite the thirst after your journey. And don't just look at that chair, for heaven's sake! Sit down, sit down..."
"Thank you," said Rosenstern, placing himself down on the leather armchair in front of the dean's desk. The dean's hospitality was a precious thing to be taken whenever offered, he reminded himself, and he had nothing pressing to do at home. An ornately-cut glass of slivovitz was duly placed into his hand, the first sip of which was agreeable to his palate - where the dean got it from was a mystery, in a country where most spirit beverages were variations on gin or vodka. Rosenstern pondered and decided against asking his host about it. Instead he took another sip and then laid his briefcase on the desk, flipping it open before the twinkling eyes of the dean who was now seated opposite in anticipation. As the dean wedged a magnifying monocle into his eyes and leaned over the samples, Rosenstern offered an explanation:
"I remembered your suggestion about the subject of my dissertation, looking at the metamorphic skarn boundary of the upper Octavian peaks. My visit has convinced me that you were right. I suspect there's a lot more to find up there."
"But of course," said the dean, looking up through his monocle. "I don't make these suggestions on a whim, you know. The area's been studied in fragments, but nobody's done an exhaustive survey on it. The trouble is, everyone looks along the altitude gradient from bottom to top, like taking a slice of cake. But nobody has kept to one height and studied the whole rim of the Octavian skarn boundary. They've just taken one part and assumed it's the same all the way around. If there are variations, you will be the one to discover them."
"I'll be going back, for sure," said Rosenstern. "Maybe in the spring."
"You'd be a fool not to, young man!" said the dean, looking at the samples again. "What do we have here... Plenty of quartzes, low-grade fluorites, a few tremolites... and what's this little piece here? I can't say I'm familiar with-"
"Scheelite," said Rosenstern. "It confused me for a moment too. I had to run it through the spectrometer..." his words trailed away beneath the dean's amused cackle.
"Oh dear no, my man. That would be too much to hope for. The spectrometer in lab three is on the fritz, you know. If you run it through one of the others, I'm sure you'll find it isn't anything of the-"
"I did run it through all the others," said Rosenstern. "And they came back the same. Besides, I started in lab one."
All jollity seemed to fall out of the dean's face and he studied the small sample again, before removing his monocle. "Have you got the..."
"Here." Rosenstern passed across the spectrographic printout - a neat, flat trace with unmistakeable spikes for calcium and tungsten.
The dean now bore an expression of outright worry. "But there wasn't much of it, was there?"
"Oh there was plenty," said Rosenstern. "More than the other stuff, in fact. Judging by the thickness of the seam it runs for several kilometres at least. But I only found it at the end of the day, and it's hard material. I could only break off that small piece to bring back."
"I see," said the dean, who suddenly seemed to be restraining himself from some kind of geriatric panic attack.
"But that's good, isn't it?" said Rosenstern. "For the dissertation, I mean."
"Hm? Oh yes, yes... very good." said the dean, forcing a smile. "Well, listen. I shouldn't keep you much longer, it's getting late. I think you've earned a rest, don't you?"
"I suppose I have." Rosenstern smiled back, downed the last of his slivovitz and stood up to secure his briefcase, musing that old man was getting a little cranky with tiredness himself. "I expect I'll see you tomorrow. Plenty more work to do... I suspect I'm only just getting started with this stuff."
"Yes," muttered the dean as Rosenstern strode to the door. "I suspect you are."
"Thanks for the drink," said Rosenstern. "I'll have to stop by more often," he added with a smirk. "Have a good evening!"
"And a good evening to you, Jake," said the dean, his forced smile instantly dropping once Rosenstern had left the office.
With a sigh and a shake of the head, he picked up the telephone.
Rosenstern's home was in a small apartment block set among several others, an inferior imitation of the leafy 'condoraions' of the Minarborian era. Unlike the principal buildings of Bergburg it had no link to the city's network of small subways or the underground premises they served, so Rosenstern remained on the surface, picking his way through the dark streets with the aid of a sparse string of yellow sodium streetlamps. He nestled into his jacket against the cold and after half an hour he reached the top end of his own street, which like most things in Kalgachia was set upon a slope. Descending toward his apartment at the far end he picked out the shape of a black limousine parked outside, one of the old Minarborian government cars which had been retained in the service of Kalgachi officialdom. His idle wonderings about why it might be parked in his little neighbourhood were interrupted by a steady clap of footsteps behind him. Instinctively he sidestepped to let the hurrying figure overtake to his right, only to become aware of a man in a black greatcoat who was walking uncomfortably close on his left side.
Before the pangs of suspicion could become fully formed in Rosenstern's mind, the black leather glove of a third person reached directly from behind and clasped his mouth while the two figures beside him seized his arms. In an instant he was being dragged on his heels, his silent struggles futile against the iron grip of his three assailants. In a matter of seconds they reached the limousine and one of the men threw its rear door open, pressing Rosenstern's head down as he was bundled inside. Three slammed doors and a fired ignition later, the limousine lurched into motion with an acceleration that pinned Rosenstern to his seat. In the dim light of the rapidly-passing streetlamps, Rosenstern in his terror could only see the vehicle's other occupants as silhouettes flickering in occasional dull orange. The man beside him released the hand from his mouth. While Rosenstern sat paralysed with terror, the man spoke in a calm, flat accent:
"Please accept my apologies, mister Rosenstern. You're not in trouble but we do have certain procedures to follow. I would ask for your full co-operation in the matter."
In the corner of Rosenstern's eye, the man gave an imperceptible nod toward a shape between the front seats, lit intermittently by the passing streetlamps; a suppressed pistol whose barrel was being held squarely at him by the passenger in front. Rosenstern tensed and attempted to speak, but words failed him once more.
"Comfortable?" said the man.
"Err..." croaked Rosenstern, "if I can be honest sir... no."
The car's three occupants chuckled at the reply, making Rosenstern slightly less tense.
"Don't worry," said the man beside him. "It'll all be clear soon enough."
"Why not make it clear now?" said Rosenstern.
"We don't know why you're being picked up," said the man. "We just got the order to do it. You'll find out at the other end."
"You're partisans?" said Rosenstern.
"Do you really think Church militia goons cruise around town like this?"
"Prefects, then?" Rosenheim hesitated to even say the name. Coming to the attention of the Prefects, Kalgachia's national security service, was universally recognised as an undesirable predicament.
"Well done," said the man with a chirp of sarcasm.
Rosenstern's heart sank. "But you say I'm not in trouble?"
"Not in the slightest. Not yet, anyway. They told us that much."
"Who's they?"
"That's for us to know and you to guess."
Rosenstern pinched the bridge of his nose in disbelief. The streetlamps had gone now; the car was heading out of Bergburg, plunged into a darkness which was broken only by the headlights on the road ahead. "Can you at least take that thing off me?" he said, indicating the gun in front.
"If you promise not to cause any trouble," said the man beside him. "But if you do, my friend here has a quite excellent reaction time."
"I don't want to cause trouble, mister. I just want to go home and get to sleep."
"Alright, put it away Ribald," said the man beside him to the gun-wielder in front. The silhouette of the pistol disappeared. "If you want to sleep, feel free to do so. We'll be on the road for some hours yet."
"Where are we going?"
"Us to know. You to guess." Came the reply, almost chanted like a mantra.
"Well with all due respect sir," said Rosenstern, "I don't think I can sleep in these circumstances. Would you be able to, in my position?"
"Not a chance," said the man. "Luckily for you, help is at hand."
Silhouetted against the lit road ahead, Rosenstern saw the raised hand of the front seat passenger, squeezing the air out of a loaded syringe.
The voice was muffled at first, then came with a suddent clarity through the void - along with a splitting headache.
"Somebody's head should roll for this, sir. They could have killed him. I always had the Prefects down as professionals... how do you accidentally triple a sedative dose? Ten or a hundred times I can understand, but three's a prime number."
"Quite," came a second voice. "I'll be making a formal complaint, for what it's worth. Probably not much with that bunch and it won't do me any favours, but at my age you don't care so much about recriminations. The fact is, they almost bumped off a Grade One person of interest. Are you sure he won't be left with any brain damage?"
"He's got full nerve response, but we won't know for sure until he wakes up."
"Alright, send for me when he does wake up."
"Yes sir... oh! Wait one moment sir. I think he's stirring now."
Rosenstern rolled his eyelids open to a blinding white light, intensifying the headache. Some blurred, dark green shapes slowly resolved themselves while the junior voice came in again:
"Good pupillary contraction... hey! Mister Rosenstern! Can you hear me?"
Rosenstern's attempt to reply summoned little more than a feeble wheeze, so he attempted a nod of the head which was marginally more successful.
"Conversational too! You lucky son of a... ahem. Now don't worry mister Rosenstern, everything's going to be fine. There was just a little mistake with your medicine, but you're in safe hands now. Understand?"
Rosenstern forced another nod, then a swallow which lubricated his larynx enough to attempt speech again:
"Where... am I?"
"You're in the infirmary," said the junior voice. "A very long way underground. We'll get to the rest in a minute. Blink please..."
Rosenstern's eyes stung as some kind of liquid was dripped into them, triggering a flurry of painful blinking. Suddenly his vision was clear; he was staring up at a white tiled ceiling. Looking down at him was a man dressed in the fatigues of the Kalgachi Defence Force, with an apron and armband signifying a medic. Opposite him was another uniformed man - a KDF officer. Then the walls and equipment of a well-appointed hospital room came into view, as the headboard of Rosenstern's gurney was cranked upright.
"And how are you feeling?" said the medic.
"Awful," croaked Rosenstein. "Am I still in Bergburg?"
The officer, a middle-aged man with a thin pencil moustache, let out a giggle of amusement. "Boy, they really did knock you out," he said. "You're a long way from Bergburg now, mister Rosenstern, but I can't divulge the exact location."
"Can you tell me why I'm here?" said Rosenstern. "Is it something to do with that?" He nodded at his suitcase of rock samples, which had somehow followed him and now lay on a chair in the corner of the room.
Instead of replying to Rosenstern, the officer addressed the medic. "Lieutenant, are you satisfied with mister Rosenstern's condition for the moment?"
"Yes sir," said the medic.
"Then would you mind..." the officer jerked his head toward the door.
"Sir." In a series of graceful steps the medic swung the doors open, revealing a small ward full of mostly-empty beds before they swung shut again, leaving Rosenstern alone with the officer.
The officer paced the room for a moment, apparently giving some consideration to what he was about to say. "I am Major Jaunty," he eventually said. "Supervisor of raw material sourcing at Tungsten Smelter Number Three, where you are currently located. It's a DLEP operation down here, but owing to the... strategic importance of the material processed, the entire quality control department and security detail is composed of KDF personnel. I am here in that capacity. The facility also has a dedicated geothermal power plant run by the DPW - tungsten smelting is an energy intensive business. We have to guard and supervise the whole place, so we have our own garrison down here. With its own infirmary. You came to the right place... if you'd ended up in a DHPW hospital with an overdose, they'd have written you off as a degenerate drug addict and thrown you in a dumpster with the clinical waste. Oh and the Prefects have an office here to screen all the workers - no Froyalanish skivvies down here, you'll find. I'll be heading down to that office in a little while to give them a piece of my mind."
"Why are you telling me all this, Major?" said Rosenstern. "Is it because you can afford to? Are you planning to kill me?"
Jaunty laughed. "If we wanted to kill you, all we needed to do was switch your ventilator off at some point during the last nine days."
"Nine days!? Is that how long I've been unconscious?"
"Indeed, much to my annoyance. I can only apologise for the food... there's only so much variety you can squeeze through a tube." He lifted Rosenstern's blanket and indicated the tubes running into his torso, which he had not noticed until this point. "Still, we have you alive... that's the important thing. Your dean sends his apologies for landing you here, by the way."
"You mean he's in on this?" Rosenstern's eyes widened in astonishment.
"Doesn't seem the type, does he?" said Jaunty. "But the Prefects hold certain incriminating photographs of the man, so he dances to our tune whether he likes it or not. The fact is, when he informed us of your discovery, the order to have you picked up rested with myself. So if you must blame someone, blame me."
"So it's something to do with the Scheelite," said Rosenstern. "That's when he got funny, the old dean. When I mentioned the Scheelite."
"Quite so. You'll be aware of it's special composition... probably better than I."
Rosenstern tossed his arm with the realization, almost ripping out the catheter which was buried in it. "Tungsten... of course! You use it for kinetic warheads, for those anti-gravtank missiles of yours... and I just stumbled on a large natural deposit of the stuff."
"For your sins, you did," said Jaunty, his little moustache twitching with merriment. "Perhaps at this stage you wish you hadn't, but we'll make your life as comfortable as we can from here onward. Quite frankly, it's a reward you deserve."
"Why not reward me by letting me go?"
"Everything associated with Kalgachi tungsten resources, and the exploitation thereof, is a state secret of the highest order. The Scheelite deposit you have found is the biggest in the country. It dwarfs everything else." Jaunty leaned over the bed into Rosenstern's face. "And here's the kicker - the dean of your faculty, yourself and I are the only three people who know of its location. The fact is, by virtue of that knowledge, all three of us are effectively possessions of the Kalgachi state. They're not going to let us out of their sight. Especially you. You're the only one who's seen it with your own eyes."
"Does it really make that much difference? You've got other sources, surely."
"Only trace sources." Jaunty jerked his thumb toward the door. "Do you know what gets processed over there right now? Granite spoil. Tons upon tons upon tons of the stuff. From every underground construction project in Kalgachia. Did you ever wonder what happens to all of it? First they make huge heaps of it in random locations to fool spy satellites into thinking there's something important there. It sits there outside a decoy tunnel entrance for a few months, a few years, until we have capacity to receive it here. It gets quietly trucked over here, crushed, screened, leached, a tiny trace of tungsten ore is extracted from each load and smelted into purity. The problem being, it's only enough to produce a handful of Malus missiles a year. Fine for stockpiling, but to replenish the expended stock in a war situation? We had no hope! No hope, that is, until you went scrambling around and found a seam of pure Scheelite ore well within Kalgachi territory. Do you realise the implications of this?"
Rosenstern squinted at Jaunty, who had become visibly excited. Here was a man, he thought to himself, who lived and breathed ore smelting. Perhaps it was the only thing keeping him sane. Perhaps Rosenstern would end up the same way. "Well it'll speed up production," he said, "but I'm no military officer. Who am I to gauge its military value? That's your job."
"Indeed it is," said Jaunty. "Let me show you something." He went over to the chair with Rosenstern's suitcase on it, pulling out a leather document pouch which had been wedged behind it. This he opened, producing a large sheet of paper which he spread over Rosenstern's bed. It was the blueprint for some kind of armoured vehicle without wheels. Certain sections were ringed and labelled as structural weaknesses in red pen, peppered with question marks.
"Courtesy of a well-placed friend in the Shirerithian defence industry," said Rosenstern. "Went into Mishalan with the Konkordskaya Bratva, now he's a file clerk at Red Bear LLC... and he remembers his old comrades. We've been leaning on him to cough up more material before they root him out and put a bullet in his head, but I suppose one can't blame him for treading carefully."
Rosenstern studied the blueprint. "What is it?" he said.
"That, mister Rosenstern, is the GAV-4 Jackalope gravimentric personnel carrier," said Jaunty. "Whereas before, we only had to worry about Shireroth's armoured spearheads gliding over our mountain obstacles, each one of these things can deliver two platoons of goose-stepping landsers right on top of us. It seems we overestimated their costs in mass producing gravimetric engines, but I suppose they've enjoyed the same efficiency savings from Froyalanish labour as we have. It naturally follows that if they're going to churn these things out like beer cans, we'll have to increase our production of hypersonic kinetic weapons to swat them down. That's where you come in."
"But haven't I done my part, Major?" said Rosenstern. "I found your tungsten seam already... what more am I supposed to do? I'm a geologist, not an armaments engineer."
"On the contrary," said Jaunty, "your work for us is only just beginning. You haven't explored the whole circumference of the Upper Octavian Skarn Boundary yet! Who knows how many more veins of Scheelite are waiting for us to come and exploit them? It seems you have an expert eye and a natural gift for mineral prospecting, so who better to do it on our behalf? I can assign you a demolition platoon from one of Oktavyan's underground regiments to help out with the heavy work... you needn't lift a finger. Only search and identify. And believe me, we'll make it worth your while. We'll even let you finish your doctorate... it'll be classified, but it'll still be appreciated by the right people."
"Well that's a kind offer, Major," said Rosenstern, "But I can't possib-"
He hesitated, having noticed the instant disappearance of the amiable glow from Jaunty's face, plus the fact that the Major's hand was now firmly rested on his pistol holster.
"Can't means won't," said Jaunty, a sudden growl creeping into his voice. "Won't has consequences. And in these circumstances, mister Rosenstern, the consequences for you will be severe. Accept it - the Garden of Kalgachia has only one use for you alive. And if you turn that down..."
"Then we both suffer," said Rosenstern, picking up on a subtle quiver in Jaunty's eyelid. "Do we not?"
Jaunty sighed and began pacing the room again. "You see, it's that kind of intuition that makes you valuable to us. It's true... if you refuse to cooperate and we end up putting you through the rubble crusher, the failure will fall squarely on my head. Doubly so if the Prefects need a convenient distraction from their own errors. But fear isn't my only motivation here. I see what you do not. I see the peril this country is in..."
At this point, Jaunty became visibly flustered and shook his head, lost in some memory or other. "...If I had a Kalgarrand for every lurid tale my old folks told about life under Shirerithian rule... the treachery of Kaiser Verion, Tokaray's massacre at Brrapa Central station... it was alright for your Kossar ancestors, galloping around old Volhyria without a care in the world, but my people have known what Shirerithian dominion is. We know what it means. It resonates through our blood, keeps us up at night and screams at us... screams at us to resist. Resist for the love of the Garden. Resist in the face of all perils and temptations. Resist when the only possible outcome is unbridled pain, because that pain would only come to us anyway if we submitted. The Mango Archon sustains itself by that pain, feeds upon it like nectar. But what do you know of such things? Eh? What do you know!?"
"Major, it was never my intention to upset-"
"Stuff a bagel in it!" snapped Jaunty. "The Council of Perfecti want to spare you the fate of their ancestors, equip you with the means to defend yourselves out of the goodness of their hearts, and you refuse their charity? Since when did a Bergburger refuse charity?"
"Come now Major, don't you think that's a little prejudicial? We're not all money-grabbing shysters, you know."
The door suddenly opened and the medic poked his head around the door. "Everything alright in here?" he asked. "I heard a commotion."
Rosenstern found himself putting on a masterpiece of a smile. "Everything's fine, doc," he said. "Just a little healthy debate. The good Major here has just made me a job offer... and I accept."
