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Seeking Valhalla
BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY ERIC G. SWEDIN
Anasazi Exile: A Science Fiction Novel
Fragments of Me: A Science Fiction Novel
Seeking Valhalla: A Retro Science Fiction Novel
Other Books by Eric G. Swedin
Bingham Canyon Doctor: The Life and Legacy of Paul S. Richards (2012)
Computers: The Life Story of a Technology (with David L. Ferro) (2005)
Healing Souls: Psychotherapy in the Latter-Day Saint Community (2003)
The Killing of Greybird: A Novel (2004)
Science Fiction and Computing; Essays on Interlinked Domains (with David L. Ferro) (2011)
Science in the Contemporary World: An Encyclopedia (2005)
Survive the Bomb: The Radioactive Citizen’s Guide to Nuclear Survival (2011)
When Angels Wept: A What-If History of the Cuban Missile Crisis (2010)
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2013 by Eric G. Swedin
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
For my uncle, Curtis Hunt,
dead in an automobile accident at age
seventeen, yet who inspired me posthumously with his science fiction paperback collection
CHAPTER ONE
Major John Carter learned to hate the Nazis the day that he stood in Dachau before a pile of emaciated corpses. He had been fighting the Germans since D-Day, crawling from Normandy across France, Belgium, and into the Fatherland, but that was soldier against soldier, a struggle between professionals. Now he learned to hate, a visceral feeling that came from deeper inside his brain than intellect, from the same fundamental place that a man craved food, survival, and the affection of a woman.
That spring day in 1945 was like most spring days in Germany: pleasant temperatures, blue skies, the trees showing life after a harsh winter, and the promise of rain in the air. The smell of death didn’t belong.
Other members of his Ranger company were helping the survivors, supporting them as they placed one foot slowly in front of the other, carrying them if need be. The prisoners’ collarbones supported the rags they wore like odd tent poles, and their bony arms looked more like sticks than things belonging on men. Doctors from the medical battalion had set up a receiving station near the camp gate and were slowly administering water and food, careful not to let the starving men eat too quickly, lest they bloat and die.
The main gate to the camp was wrought iron, with three words welded into the metal: Arbeit Macht Frei. “Work Brings Freedom.” Irony turned into mockery, all reflecting only bureaucratic savagery.
“There’s more over here, Major.”
Carter turned to look at Master Sergeant Carson Napier. The sergeant had been with him for two years, since they had first trained together in Georgia. A rock of a man, with a squat sturdy frame and a cunning intelligence behind eyes that now streamed tears. In contrast, Carter stood just over six feet tall, with a lanky body and wavy light brown hair, and the bearing of a Virginia aristocrat.
“Lead on, Sarge.”
They walked past rows of barracks, made of poorly cut pine planks, each forming a single large room. A solitary stovepipe in the middle of each building provided the only heat. In some places, boards were missing from the walls, perhaps used as firewood to survive during the winter. They came to another barracks, better constructed than the others, with planks that fit tightly against each other. Three stove pipes showed that this building was heated properly. A tall fence of wire mesh surrounded the building, with barbed wire coiled across the top.
Napier led Carter through an open gate, past the empty guard boxes. Two of his own Rangers stood casually but alertly near the door to the building. They didn’t salute, but stiffened their backs in a way that showed respect for their superior. Rangers were the elite, and fought because they were proud to fight; they didn’t go in for that formal horseshit.
The sergeant opened the door for the major, waiting for Carter to step inside before following him, standing behind him as a loyal aide. Carter was surprised to find the interior well-lit from numerous windows; the other barracks he had looked into were more like caves than proper buildings. A row of single beds lined each wall, with proper mattresses, blankets, and pillows on them.
Clustered against the far wall were the inhabitants of the building. Young women, all with long hair, some blonde, most dark-haired, and even one redhead. They wore white nightgowns and white slippers, and looked so fresh that a man ached to look at them. He noticed that all seemed to have large breasts straining against their nightgowns. The poor girls were obviously terrified. Glancing around, the major noticed that a few had remained in bed, huddled under their blankets, some with covers over their heads, and others peering out fearfully with eyes that seemed too large for their faces.
“Why are they so afraid?” Carter asked.
“Don’t know, Major,” Napier replied. “They won’t say a thing.”
“You found them?”
“Jenkins did, sir. He came and found me. You figure this is a brothel, sir?”
Carter’s eyes searched more carefully. “Could be. I’ve heard that the guards liked to have their pick of the prettiest.”
“And these are certainly pretty enough.”
“True, but this doesn’t feel like a brothel. It’s too...pristine.”
Carter had finished his degree in Classics at Yale only two years ago, just before joining up. He had always had a gift for languages. Professor Jones had said that he was a prodigy, a once-in-a-generation talent. Carter didn’t care to think of himself as some sort of language genius—that went against his upbringing—but he enjoyed the taste of new words.
He spoke in German. “Young ladies, we are not here to hurt you. Please do not be afraid. Is there anything that you need? Water? Food? Please speak to me.”
The redhead spoke up. “You are not Nazis?” Her German was heavily accented.
“We’re American soldiers, miss. Please don’t be alarmed. What is your name?”
She detached herself from the other women, pushing away hands that tried to keep her in their cloister, and walked down the center of the room, her head held high and her eyes alight with awareness. She didn’t look to be a day over sixteen years old. Carter noticed that her nipples were pushing against the linen of her nightgown, perhaps from nervousness, and studiously tried to keep his eyes on her face.
“My name’s Aoife McLaughlan. I’m from County Clare.”
“You’re Irish?”
“Yes.”
“You speak English?”
“Enough. My family spoke Gaelic and I know a bit of German.”
Carter switched to Gaelic and saw a pleased glow come to her eyes. “How did you come to be here?”
“I was kidnapped,” she said.
“Kidnapped?”
“A group of soldiers came ashore from a submarine and tried to grab my sister and me on July 8, 1941. I fought them and my sister got away, but they brought me here, and I have lived in this barracks ever since.”
“And these other women?” Carter indicated them with a wave of his hand. “Also kidnapped?”
“Aye, we come from all over Europe. Some from Sweden, Norway, Finland, Denmark, Poland, France, Belgium, Holland, England, Scotland, Wales, Switzerland, even Iceland.” She sounded like a schoolgirl reciting all the countries in northwestern Europe.