“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.”
6
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.
The crew of Drakov’s Nautilus numbered one hundred twenty men, excluding themselves. They had learned of a number of casualties reducing the original complement. The Russian captain and several of his officers, as well as enlisted men, had not survived the change in command. Some had died during re-education, others had been killed trying to resist. Their guide upon the tour of the submarine, a young Soviet submariner named Sasha, answered all their questions frankly. He told them all members of the crew, with the exception of Drakov and his “officers,” as well as the ship’s doctor and its cooks, stood two four-hour watches each day in addition to work they had to perform off watch time.
Everywhere they went, they were carefully observed by members of the crew, but no one except Sasha spoke to them. There was no noise except for the hum of the ventilation system and the occasional gurgle of oil coming from the hydraulics, sounds which they quickly became accustomed to and ceased to hear. In the engine room, it was quite a different story. Crew members sat at their stations amid complex instruments and the noise of pumps, generators, turbines and reduction gears. The rapidly spinning propeller shafts turning at hundreds of revolutions per minute seemed not to move at all, except for a slight blur as they revolved. The control room of the sub resembled a bridge on a starship, with a semicircular central control station and a console holding banks of instruments. The helmsman controlled the planes on the submarine’s sail for depth and handled the rudder to maintain course. The stern planesman trimmed the up and down angle of the sub by means of the stern planes, located forward of the propellers. The diving officer kept his eyes on gauges and dials on a large panel before him, monitoring the sub’s depth, rate of dive during descent, the amount of roll the vessel was subjected to and gave orders to the planesmen. The chief of the watch was in charge of the water ballast, shifting it from one tank to another, depending upon requirements. The quartermaster of the watch was the submarine’s navigator; the radioman had little to do save monitor transmissions and the engineering officer supervised the dozen men who operated the propulsion plant.