One Thousand Years

by Randolph Beck

  The ship's large control room had at least a dozen men and women, mostly in blue Luftwaffe uniforms working at various stations. View screens surrounded every station; some displays appeared momentarily in the background of the dome and disappeared just as suddenly. The center area held two large chairs facing forward. The stern-faced Oberführer Mtubo was standing beside one — one of four SS officers present. The other chair was obviously meant for the Kommandant. This was, surprisingly to McHenry, a woman.

  Luftwaffe-Oberst — Colonel, that is — Petra Volker looked very much like a woman proud of the ship she commanded. “Greetings, Lieutenant McHenry. Welcome to the Göring.” She held out her large hand.

  “Thank you,” McHenry replied. He was still unsure how to address these people. He tried to consider himself a P.O.W. They shook hands firmly.

  At first glance, the fair-haired and clean-cut Kommandant seemed to McHenry as being not being older than anyone else. She looked, perhaps, not older than thirty, judging by the smoothness of her features. But her stoic and confident manners somehow implied this was a much older woman. Only then did it start to dawn on McHenry that the Nazis had beaten mortality just as they had conquered everything else.

  “I didn't realize your ship was in outer space,” said McHenry.

  The Kommandant laughed heartily. “The doctor has been babying you — eh Doctor? Do not blame him, Lieutenant. The entire crew has been, as you might say, on pins and needles. We all know this must all be quite overwhelming.”

  McHenry sat there feeling unexpectedly shy and hesitant. He tried to remember his P.O.W. instructions and his oath as an officer, and he searched his memory for anything he was taught that could be applied here. These people already knew his name and who-knows-what-else. No one had asked a single question. No interrogation was necessary.

  He looked out over the sea to the south. “That's the Med, isn't it?”

  “Yes, it's getting dark down there now.”

  “That's about where I ditched my plane,” he said numbly. “But I guess you know that.” Most of it was coming back to him now. He hoped the men got back okay.

  “We knew precisely where you were going down. The ship that tried to pick you up had a log entry about you, which included the coordinates. We knew everything about you before you were selected. Traveling through time is not something we can afford to be careless about.”

  “I know. The doctor told me all about it.”

  “Then you understand the seriousness of the situation here,” Mtubo interjected. “And the risks we undertook to rescue you.”

  “Yes, I do. I just don't understand why.”

  “You are a relic of history, Lieutenant,” Mtubo answered with some disdain. “That makes you an interesting item.”

  “Do not question your good fortune,” the Kommandant said, turning back to where Germany and western Europe were fading in the distance. “Men are giving their lives by the thousands back there. You will be remembered as a hero back home, like all the others, but you also have a second chance at life.”

  McHenry turned his back and looked ahead. The moon shone down on a dark planet now. “I'll have to play this one day at a time,” he said finally, turning back to face the Kommandant.

  “And what marvelous days you will have,” the Kommandant said brightly. “Doctor!”

  Dr. Evers stepped forward. “Ja, Kommandant!”

  “Show Herr McHenry his quarters, and then let him see the ship.”

  “Jawohl!”

  The Kommandant pivoted formally to McHenry. “The men will look in on you to ensure you learn your way about the ship. If you need any medical assistance, be sure that the doctor attends to your needs.”

  “Thank you, ma'am.” McHenry winced slightly as he heard himself say the word ma'am. He needed to be respectful, and cordial, but not subservient. But he felt better about it when he saw Mtubo's stern glare. He took one last look at the land on the horizon and then followed the doctor down the short stairway to the open elevator doors.

  The doctor issued a command to the elevator, and the doors closed. They moved sideways and then downward. “We have prepared a private room for you. We will stop there so that you know where it is and then we will have dinner. I am sure you are hungry.”

  “You've read my mind, Doctor.”

  “Good. Leutnant Vinson might be there. You will meet more of the crew over time, but it might be best if we start with the pilots.”

  The door to his room had his name beside it. There was a number under his name. McHenry recognized the last five digits as part of his Army serial number. The rest was not familiar.

  “That is your personal number,” the doctor said. “It is actually five hundred years old. The Reich integrated everyone into the system that could be accounted for — living or dead.”

  “I see,” McHenry said numbly. He didn't like that the Reich knew who he was.

  “Of course, you were long dead at the time,” the doctor added.

  “Listed as killed by a bird, no doubt.”

  The room itself was small but very comfortable. This could almost have been a stateroom on board any passenger ship. As if to highlight that point, there was even a placard with emergency instructions on the wall by the door.

  The doctor showed him that the desk converts into a bed, and then remembered to explain he could adjust the temperature and lighting simply by calling out to the ship's main machine. “Rechner, Fenster.” The back wall dissolved into a window. Unlike the tactical view in Kontrolle, this looked like a clear window without the embedded graphics. They were evidently passing Asia and heading out over the Pacific.

  “Wow!” McHenry exclaimed, startled. “Is that a real window?”

  “No, there are no windows on this ship. The rechner is just giving us a view from one of the outside sensors. This can also show maps and pictures and even books. I am certain you will use it a lot.”

  McHenry remained awestruck, and was pleased that he would be able to have such a view in his room. The picture gave a perspective of depth with perfect clarity. “I'll have to remember the word Fenster.”

  “Ah, do not worry. The rechner understands English perfectly well. Tell it what you want. It will ask for clarification if there is any chance of confusion. I think you will find some advantage to living in our time.”

  *

  A nearly empty officers' mess was just down the hall from McHenry's quarters. He would come to find out this was the officers' mess reserved for the pilots — those who pilot the ship, and those who pilot the smaller spacecraft. The door opened automatically.

  From the doorway, McHenry could see the room was clean and efficiently designed with three large portraits on the opposite wall. He recognized Adolf Hitler and Hermann Göring in two of the pictures, with likenesses appearing more muscular than the original twentieth-century men. The center portrait, slightly larger than the others, was that of a blonde woman, short-haired, and wearing a brown uniform. There could be no doubting who she was.

  This Führer had a beautiful face, with the distracting exception of a piercing and determined stare. Had he not known better, and had she not had that stern, resolute expression, McHenry would have thought that the most powerful woman in the thirtieth-century was also in her mid-twenties.

  Dr. Evers paused at the door with McHenry. “May we enter?”

  “Yes, certainly,” answered one of the men inside. There were only three men in the room, although it could easily accommodate two dozen. One of them was Vinson.

  “Let me introduce two of our other pilots,” Vinson said as McHenry and the doctor came in. “Here is Otto Barr and Lars Bamberg.” Each stood as they shook McHenry's hand, and all of them towered over him even though they were bending slightly.

  The three Luftwaffe pilots shared the superhuman build and height now standard in the thirtieth-century. They all seemed very much alike but for the fact that Barr was a black man, evidently a naturally jovial man, despite the fact that he sp
orted a Hitler mustache. McHenry was still getting used to the idea of seeing the mixture of races in the Reich. He was intrigued that this society had evolved to a point where their very equality had become unremarkable. Indeed, the more obvious difference between the three was that Barr and Bamberg had Iron Crosses under their collars, and Vinson did not.

  “Have you eaten yet?” asked the doctor as they took their seats around a circular table. A thankful McHenry took the chair facing away from from the portraits. It raised itself for his shorter stature automatically.

  “We thought we would wait,” Bamberg said. “Adolf thought you would be coming by. Are you ready for some of the best food you ever tasted?”

  “What's for dinner?” asked McHenry.

  “We shall see.” said Vinson. He spoke a command to the rechner again. The pad in the center of the table opened and five trays appeared with piping hot food. “Pork with rice. What would you like to drink?”

  “Have you got a Coke?”

  “Coke?”

  “Cola,” Barr said. “I will have one too.”

  “Same,” Bamberg said, and the doctor nodded, raising his thumb.

  “Rechner, five colas,” Vinson ordered. Five drinks appeared.

  The sodas were not quite cold enough for McHenry's tastes. They were very good but they were distinctly different. The Coca-Cola Company evidently didn't survive Nazism. The food, however, was excellent. “My compliments to the chef,” McHenry said.

  “So what is the pilot talk nowadays?” asked the doctor.

  “Our little Adolf is in love,” said Barr.

  “And it is the forbidden fruit,” added Bamberg.

  Vinson shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “It will not be improper after we return home,” he mumbled, his mouth full of food.

  “What is forbidden?” asked McHenry.

  “Relationships with superior or subordinate officers are discouraged,” answered the doctor. His lips formed a smile. “Or with anyone in the SS.”

  Barr's eyes widened. “Ach, you know!”

  “It was obvious when the two of them brought in Herr McHenry.”

  Vinson turned to a confused McHenry. “She was with me on the mission to retrieve you,” he said. He then looked to Barr. “And she is a very nice person. All we did was talk. It's not a relationship. She doesn't even know how I feel.” The other men laughed.

  “The whole ship knows how you feel,” said the doctor.

  “Mtubo?” asked Vinson meekly.

  “He is not blind. Your tongue was practically on the floor.”

  “Scheiss!” exclaimed Vinson. “Do you think she knows?”

  “That is not a little girl,” said Bamberg.

  “She has been around the town a few times,” the doctor noted. “She is a hundred years older than you are.”

  Startled, McHenry blurted out, “You're kidding!” Again, he wondered how old everyone was.

  Bamberg laughed uproariously. “That must seem strange to you. In your day, no one even lives that long.”

  “How long do you people live?”

  “With proper care there are no limits,” said the doctor.

  Bamberg put his hand on McHenry's shoulder. “See, you thought you had died, and now you will live longer than anyone down there.”

  Those ramifications hadn't really hit McHenry until just that moment, and even then, only superficially. At twenty-four, he was a young man who had faced death, but old age would have been too far ahead of him to fully appreciate.

  The camaraderie reminded him of the good times he had with his squadron, and he wondered what his friends were doing.

  As a teenager, when becoming a pilot was still only a dream, McHenry had read High Adventure, James Norman Hall's account of his days as a World War I combat pilot. He thought about that book now, here in the officer's mess. The book concludes with Hall's crash behind enemy lines, and then his capture by the Germans. Hall spent the first evening having a friendly dinner with the German pilots. It was not a reception McHenry had ever expected for himself, and yet, here he was.

  They chatted for a long time, mostly small talk. The three men were Tiger pilots. They promised he would get plenty of time to see the ships.

  Adolf Vinson was the only one they called by his first name. At first, McHenry thought he might be poking fun at the name Adolf, but he soon realized it was because he was the youngest among them. At 28, Vinson was the only man close to McHenry's age. Barr made a vague hint that Vinson got this assignment through family connections, but it was never made clear, and McHenry didn't ask.

  McHenry learned that Barr, of African heritage was born in Peenemünde, Germany. Bamberg was born in London. On McHenry's prompting, he found that both were in their 400s. The doctor was a mere 145.

  The men laughed and the conversation quickly turned to pilot matters and Barr described his teenage years when he first learned to fly an old-style winged aircraft. “And I took it into the controlled air lanes once, mixed in the same traffic as the regular cargo transports going three times as fast as I was. The turbulence was great fun for a youth like me, but I had been in the lane less than a minute when my teacher called me, screaming his head off!”

  “Very daring!” Vinson declared. “If I had tried that, my instructor would have thrown me out!”

  “I was restricted for two months,” Barr acknowledged. “And I was forced to march rounds every night.” Then he turned more seriously to McHenry. “But at least I had a strong modern airframe. I think every pilot on this ship looks at your experience as quite challenging.”

  “That is correct,” Vinson agreed. “We would be eager to hear some of your adventures first hand.”

  McHenry felt all eyes were on him. He had many stories to tell, but all he could think of was his duty, and the men he had flown with. “I'm afraid I can't discuss our flight operations,” he said blankly. “That would be classified.” It all came out almost automatically, and he knew it sounded strange to these men, but he felt it was the right thing to do.

  The men were taken aback. There were a few long seconds of silence until Barr guffawed, but that was quickly followed by an approving grin from Bamberg. Vinson and the doctor remained silent for a few seconds more.

  “You are a good man,” said Bamberg.

  The doctor was the next to speak. “Gentlemen, Herr McHenry had seen what might have been jets or rocket planes.”

  “No,” Vinson said, apparently happy to change the subject. “That is too soon. They were not flying in your area.”

  “There are still only test flights,” said Barr.

  “I don't know what they are,” McHenry said. “Nobody does. All I know is that we've seen some very fast aircraft.”

  “Never heard of anything you would not recognize as an airplane,” said Bamberg. “Are they combat aircraft? Have they ever attacked anyone?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “What do they look like?” asked Vinson.

  “Round and silver and very fast.”

  “Traumsehen?” asked the doctor.

  “Yes,” Bamberg concurred.

  The men left their plates and they all walked to the doctor's dispensary. McHenry didn't like the idea of a medical experiment, but Vinson promised he would find it interesting. He took a seat on the edge of the first bed.

  “This is a very old technology,” said Vinson.

  The doctor spoke a command, and a cabinet opened to reveal a metal elliptical ring. The doctor fitted it to McHenry's head. “Do not worry, it will not harm you.”

  A view screen over the bed lit up with a bright moving pattern of shapes. The men gathered around and watched it form patterns.

  “You must concentrate on the craft that you saw,” the doctor said. “Try to imagine it in your mind and then watch the pictures. The machine is measuring the part of your brain that recognizes images. It will redraw these designs until it senses that you see something familiar in them.”

  The pattern turned and s
hifted several times, and changed into circles, ellipses, triangles, and innumerable polygons and then returned to ellipses again. They stretched and flattened until it came closer to approximating the oval form of the ship he had seen. It gradually developed a three-dimensional texture. The colors stopped changing, and then the image finally resolved itself into a picture as vivid as McHenry's memory.

  “Ach!” Bamberg stammered.

  “That's it!” McHenry exclaimed. He was so surprised to see that the machine could create the picture that he didn't register the shock on the other faces. Barr and Bamberg ran out the door.

  Vinson slapped his hand to the swastika on this collar. “Kontrolle!” he shouted.

  “Ja, Vinson,” a voice replied.

  Vinson spoke quickly in German.

  “What's going on?” McHenry asked the doctor. “What was that thing?”

  “The enemy,” the doctor whispered. “Our enemy.”

  *

  Chapter 7

  “Once before in our lifetime, we fell into disunity and became ineffective in world affairs by reason of it. Should this happen again, it will be a tragedy to you and to your children and the world for generations.”

  — Secretary of State Cordell Hull, (April 9, 1944)

  Vinson ushered McHenry back to Kontrolle. He refused to utter a word about this enemy of theirs. “I'll explain later,” he had promised, despite McHenry's attempts to make him share a hint. The corridors were empty, the entire crew at their alert stations.

  Kommandant Volker and Oberführer Mtubo were obviously prepared for them. The starboard side of the dome had a sky blue background with a full size image of McHenry's sighting. The silver spaceship seemed to hang there outside the dome, motionless, in three-dimensions.