Excerpt
from “The Farpool: Marauders of Seome”
As I write these words, I have reached the
approximate halfway point in my current sf novel, entitled above. To keep the story fresh in the minds of those
who follow this blog, I like to post an excerpt now and then. This story is a follow-on, more or less a sequel
to my original title The Farpool. Herewith, the excerpt:
The U-boat pens at St. Nazaire had only recently
been opened for operation when Muhler finally guided the U-115 gingerly into her slip at Number Four dock. The dockmaster and a small crew awaited them
on the pier.
Dock crews made the boat fast and the men of U-115 began climbing topside and making
their way across the gangways. Muhler
was one of the last and as he crossed the gangway, the dockmaster, Wegener,
stuck out a hand.
“Welcome, home, Kapitan. Good hunting, I presume?” Wegener was sandy-haired, plump, a former
burgomeister in a small Bavarian village.
Muhler grunted.
“Good enough.” He started to
explain why they had taken such a zigzag course back to base, trying to dodge
spurious sound contacts, but decided not to.
Wegener was a clerk and little more.
He’d never understand.
Then there
was that encounter on the surface…or maybe they had dreamed the whole thing.
The odd little pod-shaped craft.
Perhaps the Allies had come up with something new to harass the
U-boats. Muhler signed off on some
papers and shoved through a small throng of applauding dock workers. He wanted to hunt down the Intelligence chief
and find out if any other boat had encountered something similar.
The dock area was lined with machine shops, an
optical shop, more workshops, a munitions bunker, well-guarded by the Marine Strosstrupp Abteilung, and
offices. Just as Muhler barged into the
dock office, a commotion erupted from alongside the pier, somewhere aft of the
boat. Muhler stopped in the door, then
stepped back out.
The waters at the entrance of the pen seemed to be
boiling and foaming. Something was
surfacing…Muhler’s stomach did a backflip when he realized it was the same tiny
craft they had seen at sea several days ago.
The Americans had followed them somehow, after days of playing cat and
mouse with Genzbach the sound man.
They’d even shot at the thing.
It had to be the Americans. Or the British. And they had been followed right into the
submarine pens at St. Nazaire.
Muhler shouted.
“Shoot! Fire! Drive them off!”
Wechsler, the boat’s Eins WO, grabbed a pistol from a yeoman, and started peppering the
water with shots. Others joined in the
fusillade and soon the sub pen echoed with weapons fire. Men yelled.
Sailors and marines and dock hands scurried along both sides of the
pier, raking the water with fire, seemingly with no effect.
The craft submerged again but didn’t go far. It glided further into the pen, looking just
like a small whale, dorsal fins, stubby forward flukes, its supple body
whipping back and forth.
Muhler had a thought. Maybe it was a whale, confused, hungry,
lost.
The craft or whale paused at a small diving
platform, suspended over the edge of the dock.
Already, inside the dive shop windows, two men half-clad in dive gear
had poked their heads out; they would have been inspecting the outer hull of
the boat in another hour, looking for leaks, dents, loose fittings, mangled
valves. Now, they ducked back into the
shop amidst the volley of rounds flying around the pen.
The water around the dive platform foamed vigorously
and two heads poked above the water’s surface.
The heads were beaked, rounded and plated as if armored.
Muhler saw them.
Froschmann, he decided. American frogmen, combat divers, carried to
St. Nazaire to sabotage the boats. They
had to be stopped.
Others saw the frogmen. They scurried to the side where the dive
platform was suspended, momentarily stunned at the sight of the divers hauling
themselves up onto the partially submerged platform.
Only when the first diver was fully in view,
standing erect, did Muhler realize this was no American frogman.
“Mein Gott…was
ist das?” What the hell--?
The diver was much taller or longer than any human
Muhler had ever seen. Easily three
meters, if not more. The dive suit resembled a dolphin from its mid-section up,
complete with beak, eyeholes, forelimbs and odd appendages he had no idea what
they were. Below the mid-section, were
two legs, seemingly mechanized, for they moved with a jerky, mechanical action
that belied the natural look of its forebody.
One of the forelimbs held some kind of device. It was cylindrical with a horn-shaped opening
at one end. The diver aimed the device
at the startled men.
A shot rang out.
Then more shots, and soon the gunfire was continuous. Marines crept along the ladders and
scaffolding, trying to get into better position. But the shots seemed to have no effect. The frogman was armored, it seemed and the
impacts were visible, as the diver twisted and turned to evade the fire, but he
continued scaling the dive platform. And
another head was emerging from below the water next to him.
Then came a brilliant flash of light, followed by
several deafening sound pulses. Muhler
staggered back, blinded, instantly nauseated, vomit rising in the back of his
throat. He pitched forward onto the
deck, barely caught himself and shuddered and shivered as more booms
reverberated around the pen. Windows
rattled and shattered and there was a momentary stillness around the dock. Men lay sprawled everywhere, groaning, their
ears bleeding, clutching their faces and eyes.
The Ponkti travelers, Loptoheen and Klindonok,
emerged fully from the dive platform and surveyed the carnage, climbing up onto
the deck. Klinodonok had a slight leak
in his suit, the result of scores of rounds from the Tailless weapons, but was
otherwise unhurt. Loptoheen was
unscathed. They tested their mobilitors
and found they could maneuver in this odd world of Notwater, kicking and
shuffling along step by step. Both
trundled forward along the edge of the pier.
Ahead of them, a door opened. The door sign read Oberkommando der Marine. Two
men stepped out, instantly startled at the sight of the Ponkti visitors. One was Fregattenkapitan
Werner von Kleist, gray white buzzcut hair, with sandy gray sideburns, thinning
on top and a trim graying moustache. Von
Kleist had just arrived from Berlin, a fact-finding and inspection mission from
the OKM. The other was Wegener, the dockmaster,
who had ducked into the nearest office when the fusillade had begun.
Now, the two Germans and the two Ponkti stared at
each other for a long moment. To von
Kleist, the visitors looked like dolphins with legs, somehow thrown up on land
and seeming to be lost. They looked
around nervously, checking everything.
The OKM officer had no sidearm, though instinctively he reached for the
holster that he had left in his office.
Wegener was also unarmed.
Klindonok pointed the sound suppressor at both men
and their hands went up quickly. The
Germans started backpedaling, but Wegener stumbled over a ladder and went down
hard, then slid flailing off into the water with a loud splash. He scrambled to find something to grab onto,
but Klindonok handed his weapon to Loptoheen and dropped into the water beside
Wegener, grabbing the Tailless under his arms.
The Ponkti flippered them back to the dive platform and deposited a
coughing and gagging dockmaster over the railing. Wegener coughed up water violently and sucked
in huge gasps of air. Then Klindonok
climbed back to the deck.
Von Kleist noticed a small pod-shaped device that
Loptoheen was removing from a belt around his midsection. He flinched, started backing…another weapon?
But Loptoheen beckoned him to stop, using the
gestures he had learned from the eekoti Chase
many mah before. The Ponkti withdrew the device and held it
out, offering it to von Kleist.
The OKM officer slowly put his hands down. “Was? You want me to take this…is that it?”
Loptoheen shuffled forward a few steps on his
mobilitors, earning another flinch from von Kleist. Cautiously, the German reached out and took
hold of the pod.
It was a small fist-sized object, oval, rounded at
the top. The sea creature had extracted
it from a small pouch in his belly; neither of them had seen that.
His hands had six fingers, delicate fingers, and they grasped the object
with a dexterity they could hardly believe.
“Kapitan…watch out…please, don’t—“ But
he had already taken possession of the object.
He stood up and examined it. The
dockmaster came up and squinted at the thing in his hand.
“What is it?
Is it a bomb?
“I don’t know—“von Kleist shook it slightly, then
nearly dropped the thing when it started to glow…a dim red glow emanated from
within. The outer case was almost
translucent and a single red light shone from within.
The sea creature—von Kleist still thought of them as
froschmann—frogmen-- suddenly became
agitated, flapping the air with its arms.
He clicked and chittered and screeched, slapping the air again and
again. The other creature soon joined
in. The fracas lasted half a minute.
“What’s wrong with them? What are they doing?”
“It seems upset—“ then von Kleist heard it. Something, a whispering susurration, began
issuing from the object. He almost
dropped the thing. “What the--?” He shook the can again, brought it up to eye
level. Now the red light had grown
stronger and sharper. He peered in,
seeing nothing, then brought it to his ears.
He could clearly hear something.
“Sounds like gibberish to me,” he said. Similar to the clicking the froschmann were doing, the can emitted a
steady stream of sounds: clicks, whistles, grunts and chirps. He shook his head, then noticed the taller creature
trying to mimic his head shakes. The
creature waved his forelimbs, hands extended and von Kleist somehow knew that
the creature wanted the object back.
Cautiously, he approached, still hovering on the edge of the deck.
“Maybe it’s a grenade…it sounds like it’s ticking,”
Wegener decided. “We ought to get out of
here right now—“
“I’m not so sure.”
Gingerly, von Kleist handed the object back, placing it carefully in the
froschmann’s outstretched hand. The fingers, they seemed so—
The creature seemed to nod and took the can. The other creature joined him in examining
the object. Von Kleist could tell they
were doing something with the object.
The dim red light cycled through more colors before finally settling on
an orangish glow. He handed the object
back to the OKM officer.
Von Kleist was intrigued and a little wary. Maybe it was an American trick, this froschmann with the talking can. But this was unique, working with dolphins
like this, dolphins with hands. Or
whatever they were. Had the Americans
bred and trained these creatures, maybe equipped them with armored suits and
weapons? He took the object back,
watching the creature’s hand and beak movements carefully. In the back of his mind, the creature
reminded von Kleist of a math teacher in Hochschule,
one dour old Herr Keller.
Here…you
want me to do this…like this…up here?… He raised the can to his ears again. This time, the whistling and chirping had
stopped. Now…my God! He could hear
snatches of something…sounds …like words….like—
Understand…voice…to
your…can…hear…your voice…(unintelligible…) can you…my voice…
Von Kleist practically dropped the thing. It was a machine. A translator.
Voice box… whatever.
“Wegener…come over…listen…you can hear…they’re
speaking words….”
Cautiously, the dockmaster bent his ear to the
device. Even as he listened, he could
see ‘Herr Keller’ become a bit more agitated.
Clicking. Whistles. Chirps, like a radio.
“It’s a radio, Kapitan,”
Wegener decided. “Like a small
radio. They’re singing—“
Von Kleist listened more. He knew a thing or two about music, having
fronted for biergartens all over Bavaria for years. But this wasn’t singing,
not exactly. It was more…
“They’re not singing. They’re talking…this device’s translating all
those whistles and screeches…listen—“
And deep inside, Wegener knew he was right. It gave him a chill. To think that the Americans…or the British--
Now, the pod was glowing from within with a warm
orange radiance. Von Kleist told the
dockmaster it was warm to the touch; Wegener verified that himself, then his
curiosity overcame everything. “Let me
listen—“
Von Kleist gave him the pod. …you
can…can…hear my voice….can understand what…say--?
Both of them nodded.
“We understand some words…yes, I hear your voice…can you understand
me?” Von Kleist sat down on the edge of
the deck, a few meters from ‘Herr Keller’ and the other creature. Wegener hung back by a nearby ladder, still
listening, squinting, trying to make out more.
…is
called…echo…pod…my voice…your voice…together…can you hear what I…
“Jawohl!”
Von Kleist practically shouted. He
grabbed the pod back from Wegener, spoke into it. “Yes, I hear your words…you talk…I mean, you
can actually talk--?
‘Herr Keller’ raised his beak, squeaking and chirping
rapidly, forelimbs waving wildly.
…’derstand
you…echopod need adjust…give me…hand …pod me…
Von Kleist looked up at Wegener. “He wants the pod back.”
“Maybe it needs work.”
Von Kleist gave ‘Herr Keller’ the pod. The creature dropped off the edge of the
deck, splashing into the water again, did something once more with the
device. The other creature stayed on the
pier. Finally, the pod’s light had
changed from orange to almost a yellowish tint.
‘Herr Keller’ surfaced, hoisting the pod with his right flipper-hand-thing
and handed it back.
By now, Von Kleist knew what to do. He grasped the pod carefully and raised it to
his ear.
‘Herr Keller’ had ducked under again, yet both of
them could hear the clicking and grunts and chirps bubbling up out of the
water. Keller’s accomplice—von Kleist
had mentally labeled him ‘Herr Schmidt’-- had chimed in too. Keller
und Schmidt—radio comics often used by Dr. Goebbels to entertain the home
audiences…that made von Kleist smile. If
they could only see their namesakes now.
And out of the pod poured a steady stream of words.
So that’s the excerpt for today. The story is coming along and should be done
late this fall. I’ll try to include more
excerpts as time and space permit.
The next post to The
Word Shed comes on August 7. In this
post, we’ll look at the differences between novels, novellas and
novelettes. Are there any real
differences? You find all three types in
the world of science fiction and I’ve done all three myself.
See you in August.
Phil B.
