Free The Heirs of Babylon by Glen Cook

and
    fairy-tale adventures based on the deeds of real people:

    Napoleon, Richelieu, Jeanne d'Arc, the Black Prince, Ro-
    land, and a hundred others, some not French at all. Old
    Kurt had not been concerned with accuracy. In his sto-
    ries, pre-War times became a Hyperborean paradise where
    temporal realities meant nothing. Kurt chuckled, remem-
    bering a tale in which Wellington defeated Charlemagne
    at Avignon during the War of the Spanish Succession.

    Twelve years had passed since U-793's departure.
    Young Kurt had stopped missing his father long ago. He
    remembered the stories best, his father's tears the day the submarine sailed, and how, afterward, his mother had
    been seized by an endless grief. Life had become her
    personal Hell. He felt little sorrow at her passing, for
    death had been a blessing finally freeing her from sorrow.

    "See anything?"

    "What?" Startled, Kurt hastily glanced over has shoulder. Hans.

    "See anything out there?"

    "The hoofprints of Death."

    "Poetry I get. Pale Rider home? Let me see."

    Kurt gave him the glasses. Wiedermann stared at the
    ruin briefly, then swept the entire coast. "You're right.
    Nothing. Hard to believe so many people used to live
    there."

    "Efficient killers, the old-timers. Imagine Jager new, and she almost a toy to them."

    "She's still an iron cobra," Hans replied.

    "Now who's poetic?"

    "It's true. If nothing else, her fangs are functional.
    She'll be a tiger when we find the enemy—if we keep her
    afloat."

    "The enemy. We've heard that all our lives. What
    enemy? I wonder if there'd be an enemy if we just stayed
    home."

    Hans gave him a strange look, shrugged, said, "You've
    got me, Kurt," and returned the glasses. "Did you hear?
    Beck came out of coma this morning." He stepped inside the bridge. Kurt heard him growl at Otto for wandering
    off course.

55
    Then he shuddered. He had spoken dangerous words.
    Sure as death, if Beck were healthy he would have heard.
    Such talk could have a man hanging from a yardarm,
    though Kurt could not understand why, logically. Emo-
    tionally, he knew, anything could have strong meaning.

    His mind went howling off after the mystery of the
    Political Office. What Was its purpose? Why were its
    people so strange? He believed men served and defended
    things, ideals, and rules, in which they had a vested interest. Given that assumption. Political Officers seemed still more mysterious—they appeared to react only when the
    War was questioned or damned. Why should they want it
    continued? How did they profit? There were just six Politi-
    cal Officers on lifetime assignment to the Littoral, and not a one got anything out of his job except a small local
    power. The pay was minimal. Hans's father, for instance,
    earned more making furniture.

    Once he had asked Hans why his father was a Political
    Officer. Wiedermann had simply twirled a forefinger at his
    temple. He did not know either.

    Crazy? Might be, although, officially, the Political
    Office was that arm of the High Command charged with
    ensuring that member states made maximum contributions
    to the War.

    Which again led him to question the purpose of the
    War. Was it a vast plot to destroy? That seemed where
    everything was bound. Kurt found he liked the theory.
    Deliciously insane. Everything was.

    Or was there really some foundation to the shadow-
    threat of Australia? Was it true that, ten thousand miles
    away, madmen were gathering hordes to enslave the
    world? He glanced aft, at the ruins of Cherbourg. Destroy
    the world? Someone had done a first-rate job already.

    Then he considered his thoughts. He was thinking in
    terms of conspiracies, a High Command conspiracy. He
    grew nervous. His thinking was as crazy as that of the
    old-timers, who had seen threats and enemies everywhere.
    The first step to madness ... He laughed at himself. His
    tenseness eased.

    "What?" Hans was back.

    "Nothing. Just wondering what strange things might be
    hiding under cabbage