“They won’t need conscripts. Brave men are joining by the thousands—”
He laughed and poured another drink. “Brave men by the thousands. Fools by the train car load — joining because they think there’s glory in it, maybe fame and adventure. They don’t know the cost of war. The price you pay.” He shook his head and took another long pull, almost emptying the glass. “Word will get around soon, and then they’ll have to draft, just like the states did during the Civil War. They didn’t at first, this was years after the war started, when people got a taste of it, that’s when they began the conscriptions and rich men started writing to poor men like my father. But the post runs slow in the Canadian frontier, especially if you’re a logger living way out of town. By the time we got down to Virginia, this planter had already hired another substitute, said he hadn’t heard from your grandfather, was scared he’d have to show up himself, heaven forbid. But we were in Virginia, and he was hell bent on fighting for a fortune — up to $1,000 — that’s what the substitutes were paid, and it was a fortune, if you could collect it. Well he didn’t. He found another planter who was up against it, and he wore that wretched gray uniform and died in it. When the South lost, society crumbled, and the huge track of land promised to your grandfather as payment was bought by some northern carpet bagger on the steps of the county courthouse for pennies on the dollar.” He finally sat down, his glass empty.
“But that was the least of the horror of Reconstruction. I watched my only brother die of typhoid while the occupying Union soldiers ate us out of house and home, what home there was — a small run-down shack on the plantation. The new owner kicked us out, but my mother made a deal: she’d work the fields if we could stay. And she did. Worked those fields to death. I was twelve when I walked off the plantation and hitched my way to West Virginia. Work in the mines was hard to get, but they needed boys, the smaller the better — to crawl through the narrow spaces. So that’s the cost of war. Now you know. At least you don’t have a family. But that’s what you have to look forward to: death and misery. If you’ve ever wondered why I was so hard on you, so frugal, so demanding — there it is. Life is hard — for everyone — but it’s hell on earth if you’re foolish or weak. You’re neither, I’ve seen to it, and this is how you repay me.”
“This is a different war—”
“It’s always the same war. Only the names of the dead change. It’s always about one thing: which group of rich men get to divvy up the spoils. They call it ‘The Great War’ — clever marketing. It’s a European Civil War, the only question is which kings and queens will divvy up the continent when it’s all over. America’s got no business over there, that’s why I voted against it. The Europeans had the good sense to stay the hell out of our civil war, you’d think we might do the same. Whole affair is practically a family feud between the royal families, they’re all cousins.”
“And they’re our cousins. Our mother country’s back is against the wall. They would come to our aide if we were facing annihilation.”
“We don’t owe them a thing. America is ours. We’ve paid for this land with our blood, sweat, and tears — the only currency that has ever mattered.”
“They need miners desperately. Tunnel warfare could end the war early. You’d have me stay home? I can save lives.”
“You can’t save lives.” He looked disgusted. “You haven’t understood a word I’ve said, have you? Get out of here. And even if you do make it back from the war, don’t come back here. But do me one favor, for all I’ve given you. When you figure out that you’re fighting some other man’s war, walk away. And don’t start a family until you take that uniform off. Don’t be as cruel and greedy as he was. We walked through the devastation of the North to reach that plantation in Virginia. He knew what he was getting into, and he charged on. When you see war, you’ll know. Make better choices than the one you made today.” He walked out of the room, and I never saw him again.
I’m so lost in the memory I barely notice the throngs of people that file past us, introducing themselves and touching Helena’s stomach. We sit there like a royal couple at some state function. There are dozens of scientists, in town no doubt to study the room we recently uncovered. I meet the heads of Immari divisions overseas. The organization is massive. Konrad Kane marches over. His legs and arms are rigid, his back is straight and unbending, as if he were being probed with some unseen instrument. He introduces the woman at his side — his wife. Her smile is warm and she speaks kindly, which catches me off guard. I’m a little embarrassed at my harsh demeanor. A young boy runs from behind her (she must have been holding him), and jumps into Helena’s lap, crushing her stomach. I grab him by the arm, jerking him off of her and back onto the ground. My face is filled with rage, and the boy looks as though he will cry. Konrad locks eyes with me, but the boy’s mother has her arms around him, admonishing, “Be careful, Dieter. Helena is pregnant.”
Helena straightens in the chair and reaches for the boy. “It’s ok, give me your hand, Dieter.” She takes the boy’s arm and pulls him to her, placing the hand on her stomach. “You feel that?” The boy looks up at Helena and nods. Helena smiles at him. “I remember when you were inside your mama’s stomach. I remember the day you were born.”
Lord Barton steps between Konrad and me. “It’s time.” He looks at the woman and the child palming Helena’s swollen belly. “Excuse us, ladies.”
Barton leads us through the hall, to a large conference room.
The other apostles of the apocalypse are here waiting on us: Rutger, Mallory Craig, and a cadre of other men, mostly scientists and researchers. The introductions are hasty. These men are clearly less star-struck with me. There’s another quick round of congratulations and hyperbole like we’ve cured the plague; then they get down to business.
“When will we get through — to the top of the stairwell?” Konrad asks.
I know what I want to say, but the curiosity gets the better of me. “What are the devices in the chamber we found?”
One of the scientists speaks. “We’re still studying them. Some sort of suspension chamber.”
I had assumed as much, but it sounds less crazy when a scientist says it. “The room is some sort of laboratory?”