Simon Hawke - The Nautilus Sanction

“You haven’t changed at all, Santos,” said Delaney. “You’re still a pretentious asshole.”

“My, my, such invective,” Benedetto said. “And here I am trying so hard to be civil.”

“Where did all this come from?” Lucas said, indicating the tapestries around them. “The jewelry some of these men are wearing looks almost priceless. You and Drakov indulging in some temporal piracy?”

“Only in a manner of speaking,” Benedetto said. “Any military or even quasi-military unit requires funding. We have been amassing a treasury. A little from this time period, a little from that, it gradually multiplies. The sea is quite munificent. We have the richest shipwrecks of history at our disposal.”

“You’re equipped for salvage?” Finn said.

“Not in the manner you suggest,” said Benedetto. “We have individual diving apparatus on board, suits equipped with hemosponges which act as gills, deriving oxygen from seawater. A bit of future technology that quite impresses our crew. I never go out, myself. It unsettles me. But the Russians rather enjoy it. They compete fiercely for the privilege. They are allowed to keep a portion of what is discovered for themselves and they often bring back a few delicacies to dress up the table. We have lobsters aboard the size of German Shepherds. Crabs that could easily crush a femur in their pincers. They find it great sport to collect such things.”

“Where do we fit in?” said Andre.

“Your status, it would appear, is that of uninvited guests,” said Benedetto. “You are not entirely unwelcome, however. Martingale does not like anyone, but I am happy for your presence. It gives me stimulating company. I find these Russians tiresome. Very boring fellows. No brio whatsoever. Especially our Count Grigori. A very moody fellow. I much prefer your companionship.”

“You can joke, Santos, but we’re going to stop you somehow,” Finn said.

“What?” said Benedetto, with a feigned look of outrage. “After you gave your word to the good captain?”

“Don’t be a fool.”

Benedetto chuckled. “Finn, I bear you no hard feelings. No ill will whatsoever. We have always been upon opposing sides. I respect you for your accomplishments and for who you are. It was no easy feat to overcome the Timekeepers. I suspect, also, that you bear me a certain grudging respect, as well. Because of this, I would advise you strongly not to attempt anything against Nikolai Drakov. Your chances for success this time are quite small. I would hate to see you fall into the clutches of that little Oriental savage, Shiro. He frightens even me. Martingale and von Kampf are no less deadly, in their way, but Shiro is fanatically devoted to Nikolai and he is utterly ruthless. Look closely into that young boy’s eyes and you will see snakes writhing.”

“What’s Drakov up to, Santos?” Lucas said.

“I do not know.”

“Come on.”

“Honestly,” said Benedetto. “Look, I make no bones about what I am. I may have once been an idealist, such as Nikolai, but there is little that separates me from someone such as Martingale nowadays. I am, by profession, a terrorist. When I started with the Timekeepers, I was just an underpaid researcher, a re-education specialist. A somewhat glorified psychotherapist. I was embittered, vulnerable to seduction. Falcon convinced me to join in the grand cause against the war machine and I enlisted, burning with the fires of enlightenment. But Falcon is no more and I have seen far too much, done far too much to allow myself to remain deluded. What ever ethics I may once have had, I lost along the way. The trouble with my former profession, you see, is one knows far too much, especially about oneself. Self-analysis becomes a disease. I know at heart, I am sociopathic. I know I have precious little in the way of scruples. I am an unprincipled blackguard, a killer, a morally bankrupt human being. Does that concern me? Not overmuch. I have managed to achieve a level of comfort in my acceptance of what I have become. It makes life easier that way, prevents one from getting ulcers.

“When you and your compatriots in Temporal Intelligence broke the organization of the Timekeepers, I fled for my life. I became separated from the others, to which I doubtless owe my survival, and I spent my days constantly looking over my shoulder, waiting to be caught. It was not much fun. Being with the Timekeepers had been stimulating. It was like a game. You against us. We kept telling ourselves that right was on our side and so we would prevail. Utter nonsense, of course. For a time, we did not know each other. Then, gradually, you learned a little about us, we learned more about you, we each compiled our dossiers and it was almost like a friendly rivalry.”

“I don’t think I would go that far,” said Andre.

“Yes, well, it is all a matter of perception, isn’t it? By then, I had long since stopped taking the whole thing very seriously. But when it ended, I was left, for a time, alone. I was surprised to discover I did not function well alone. The comforting mechanisms of the Timekeepers were denied me. There were no longer any plots to hatch, no longer any confused, idealistic, radical young women to divert one’s attention in delightful ways. There was no money. I was, in short, out of a job. I was immeasurably relieved when Drakov found me and told me he was going to begin again, with a new, more vital organization. It was something familiar. And I had nothing else to do.”

“You expect us to believe Drakov doesn’t even tell his own second-in-command what his plans are?” Andre said.

“I do not expect you to believe anything,” said Benedetto. “I have given you answers to your questions to the best of my ability. Believe them or not, as you choose. For myself, I am content to go along for the adventure. I live comfortably, eat well, enjoy my liberties in ports of call through all of time-though we do not actually make port, of course-and upon occasion my particular talents are found useful. I ask for nothing more.”

“I misjudged you, Santos,” Lucas said. “I thought you were a fanatic, but you’re just a decadent fool. Martingale may not be any better, but at least he’s a professional. You’re not even that. You’re just going through the motions.”

“I will tell you a secret, Priest,” said Benedetto. “That is all life is, going through the motions. I prefer to go through the motions with at least a modicum of style. Nikolai is certain to cause some sort of cataclysm and when he does, life will be more interesting. I have no doubt you will do your utmost to prevent whatever he has planned and watching you try will be interesting, as well. In the last analysis, the greatest sin is boredom and I refuse to be bored.” He smiled. “So by all means, interest me. Only wait until tomorrow, at least. Right now, this wine has made me sleepy.”

“Is everyone aboard this blasted ship insane?” said Land.

“I’m beginning to think so, Ned,” said Lucas. “I’m beginning to think so.”

After eating, they toured the Soviet Vostochnaya Slava, renamed the Nautilus by Drakov. It was a huge vessel, aptly deserving of its original name, which translated to “Glory of the East.” Walking through it gave them the feeling of being inside the works of some giant machine, which in fact they were. Though very spacious, the submarine had been designed in typical Soviet utilitarian fashion, with minimum concessions to creature comforts. The crew members slept in nine-man rooms equipped with small tables and chairs, but the reading lights and stereo headsets were the sole touches of luxury. Everywhere were pipes and dials, gauges, wheels, control panels and watertight hatches. Everything was painted Soviet military gray. Despite the dosimeters worn by each member of the crew-Drakov had seen to it that dosimeters were given to his “guests,” as well-the men aboard the submarine were shielded from the reactor by layers of water, lead and fuel oil, receiving less radiation than would a person on the surface on a sunny day. If any malfunction occurred with the reactor, control rods would automatically slide into position between the plates of uranium and shut it down. The submarine would then operate on its auxiliary diesel engines. There were laundry facilities on board, as well as a nucleonics lab, a fully equipped machine shop, a photo darkroom and a library with close to one thousand books. They looked into the library briefly and saw Verne, oblivious to their presence, surrounded by books, reading with the intensity of an archival researcher who had struck the mother lode, several dictionaries open by his side.