One Thousand Years

by Randolph Beck

  “Then why keep the exact number a secret?”

  “This is not like a military secret. We simply choose not to dwell on it.” Stern seemed to think for a few seconds, looking into the air above McHenry momentarily. “Just suppose the number was really ten million,” he said after a pause. “Would you then say Hitler was ten times as bad as he would be if we only killed one million?

  “And then what if the number was only half a million,” he continued. “Would you then say that was half as bad as one million? You see, these numbers are of such a scale that the moral consequences cannot be judged on the basis of quantities. We dismiss the numbers and think only in terms of right and wrong. And for that you must judge the times. You do not possess the historical insight in which to judge the moral correctness of a man like Adolf Hitler.”

  “I don't need historical insight to say that such mass killing is wrong,” said McHenry.

  “Oh really?” Stern asked with a sneer. “If you like, I can have the rechner list the names of men you have killed for the American army. I can even give you the names of their families, widows, and orphans.”

  “That's not the same thing,” McHenry insisted, startled but undeterred.

  Stern leaned forward. “If you do not want to take my opinion on this matter, perhaps you should wait until we retrieve a couple of the Jews on our recovery schedule. You can argue with them about it.”

  “I was under the impression that you weren't picking up any religious people,” said McHenry.

  “We are not. The two Jews we plan to retrieve are both atheists.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” McHenry said sourly.

  “It should prove interesting,” said Stern. “They are also communists. They will not appreciate the Reich's victory any more than you do — not right away — but they will turn around just as you will when you learn more about the Reich.”

  “If you think so, then why not think the same of my friend Parker?”

  “Is that what this is about?” Stern seemed surprised at that. “I assure you Herr McHenry. There are technical reasons why we cannot recover your friend. It has nothing whatsoever to do with his beliefs. You have my word on that.”

  McHenry didn't know what to say to that. He looked at the man, full of arrogance and confidence, and yet there was a touch of regret in his voice. That seemed to be the one thing he had said that sounded genuinely contrite.

  “Believe me, we have no doubt that he could have become a loyal subject of the Reich, and perhaps one day, loyal to the Führer. You will learn to support our Führer, too. Everything she does is for us as a people. You will see. And the day will come when you will appreciate Adolf Hitler as well.”

  McHenry simply refused to believe that. “For a people who say you don't worship God, you sure seem to treat Hitler like one.”

  “Yes,” answered Stern. He smiled contently and confidently. “I would gladly sacrifice the lives of my sons for Adolf Hitler. And without question, all my sons would do the same. But unlike the fabled Abraham, we would not hesitate long enough for our first Führer to change his mind.”

  *

  Dale was present with Mtubo in the Kommandant's office when the Luftwaffe technical sergeant gave his report. Kommandant Oberst Volker stood beside Mtubo listening to the presentation. The rechner projected a diagram upon the Kommandant's desk. They were schematics for the Tiger engines, infected from the molecular corrosion.

  “The damage is most extensive,” the sergeant concluded. “But the unterkarbon net is the dilemma. We cannot repair the Tiger inside the hangar without retracting the unterkarbon, and we cannot retract the unterkarbon because the terminating matter is fused. Under present conditions, it will take at least twenty days to make repairs outside.”

  “May I ask a question, Oberst?” asked Dale. The SS aboard Göring rarely addressed Volker as Kommandant, at least not directly. Her rank was Oberst. She may have been the ship's commander, but she was not her commander. Dale continued after she nodded. “Can the unterkarbon be ejected at the hangar entrance?”

  “It would expose us to the Grauen regardless,” explained the Kommandant. “The net was designed to retract precisely at the hangar doors. The geometry is critical, and the tolerances are tight. This is not just with respect to shape, but the Tiger's center of gravity as well. A variation of five millimeters could render us detectable within two thousand kilometers, and that is by our understanding of the Grauen sensors. Those intelligence estimates could always be wrong.”

  “I understand that, Oberst,” she said respectfully. “But the temporary measures are also risky. We have just heard that Göring's unterkarbon envelope has been compromised by the placement of the Tiger docked beside it. That may only be a difference of a half-kilometer but this is an additional half-kilometer over a period of weeks, rather than just the few minutes of greater exposure while the unterkarbon is withdrawn.” She glanced at Mtubo, who seemed to nod approval at her making the point.

  The Kommandant took a brief pause before responding, clearly surprised by Dale's grasp of the details. “Yes,” she said. “That is a valid concern. It is always on my mind. There is, however, another problem as this geostationary orbit represents an additional security risk. If they are looking for us at all, they will be looking at this altitude first. My orders for this mission are risk-averse to the extreme. This ship, and its mission, may ultimately be the last defense of the Reich. I cannot allow us to break cover for even an instant. Not here.”

  “I understand,” she answered. “I withdraw my point.”

  “It would be much more secure if we pulled back to deep space,” the Kommandant noted. “Take it somewhere that we may tear off the unterkarbon, bring the Tiger inside, and then be back here within a day. Working through the airlock could take months.”

  Mtubo looked to Dale, who shook her head. “I would not advise leaving until the events of June.”

  “Understood,” said the Kommandant. “Alternatively, we can also jettison the Tiger into the sun.” She saw Mtubo's eyes shift briefly to the technical sergeant and then back again. The Kommandant took the point and turned to the sergeant. “Thank you Feldwebel. Continue the repairs outside. Dismissed.”

  Mtubo spoke after the sergeant had left the office. “Operation Spartacus would require at least two Tigers. It is too soon to lose one now.”

  “Is there any change in that mission contingency?”

  “There might indeed be,” Mtubo sighed. He turned to Dale. “Sturmbannführer, you are dismissed.”

  “Heil Renard!” said Dale, clicking her heels before turning and leaving the room. She knew what the topic of discussion would be, and she was glad she didn't have to be present for it.

  She had a feeling they might be leaving in June after all.

  *

  Too disturbed to even think about sleeping, McHenry left the SS section and went up to the hangar section. He needed a friend to talk to. The zero-gee hangar section was deserted except for an Asian Luftwaffe officer aboard one of the Tigers who told him a few of the pilots went to the crippled Tiger.

  One of the outer hatches opened for him. Could the rechner have made a mistake? McHenry floated through and then followed a makeshift gangway that curved slightly into the familiar hatch of the Tiger. He paused there, looking at the opening. It was just possible, he hoped, that this Tiger might not be latched onto Göring like the others.

  His thoughts were now tempered by his understanding of the likely consequences. They were so different from his initial attempt to escape with the lifeboat. Now he fully understood that his escape, and further participation in the war, would mean changing history. It would affect not only his Luftwaffe friends, but it would likely end the very existence of their families, descendants, and multiple generations of ancestors. He would have a thousand years of blood on his hands. But inaction also meant that generations ahead would be condemned to live under Nazi rule. It was a Nazi rule unencumbered by serious political rivals or hum
an enemies, and now with the advantages of time travel. He knew that he might have to put thoughts of escape out of his mind. But he also knew that they could never be entirely gone.

  Then the hatch closed again and he understood why these hopes would have been for naught anyway. The rechner would never have opened it for him if there were a chance he could escape. Then the reason became obvious when he entered. The interior was bare. Even the cargo pod had been removed, exposing the bare weapons module that McHenry had previously only seen in pictures and diagrams. Bamberg and Sanchez were floating in the middle cabin with coffee containers in their hands.

  “Isn't this your nap period?” asked Sanchez.

  “I couldn't sleep,” McHenry answered. He couldn't be sure whether Sanchez was joking or not. “How much are they taking out?”

  “The engines came out fast,” said Sanchez. “The robots are outside, realigning the unterkarbon. They will be doing that for weeks.”

  “You look unhappy tonight,” observed Bamberg. “Was it more trouble with the SS?”

  “You guessed it.”

  “Let's get you a cup of coffee,” said Sanchez, leading the way into the cockpit, which McHenry could see was now configured for a lone pilot seat. Other than that, the cockpit was unchanged, but McHenry could detect a slight hum. The dome showed the outside, including the unterkarbon, which was not normally displayed. Small bug-like robots hugged sections of its webbing. He suddenly realized how rare it is to hear a superfluous sound generated by technology. Göring and its Tigers had so few mechanical noises other than those beeps, tones, chimes and alarms designed with the intent of being heard by someone.

  “That noise you hear is the auxiliary reactor,” explained Bamberg while rearranging the seating. “We would normally not hear it but it is misaligned for testing. Some of the covers are off.”

  “It's still pretty darn quiet to me,” said McHenry.

  “Compared to your old aircraft, I am sure that it is,” said Bamberg.

  McHenry smiled slightly. “Yes, those things are loud.” Then the smile lapsed. “Are they still holding Otto Barr?”

  “No,” said Bamberg. “We were told he is transferring to ship's navigation until further notice. We assume he saw something sensitive and cannot risk being captured.”

  “Do you think he might have peeked at the Tiger's SS equipment?”

  “The side-panel? He would not do that,” said Bamberg, shaking his head.

  “His SS officer isn't listed on the flight schedule anymore either,” added Sanchez. “Whatever it is, it seems to affect both of them.” She handed him a container of coffee and then seated herself sideways where she could watch the door. “So,” she said. “Tell us what the SS did now. Was it Dale again?”

  “Yes, but mostly Stern.” Then he thought further. “Actually, it's everything. I got an idea earlier that they rejected the mission because my friend is a Christian.”

  “They would not like that,” said Sanchez. “But I very much doubt that's the only reason.”

  “It's not,” said McHenry. “I'm sure of that much. Stern led me to believe there's something else. He wouldn't say what, but whatever it is, he's not saying.”

  “I would not expect him to,” said Bamberg.

  “It is suspicious. I wonder if it could be related to the reason Barr is being held.”

  “Doubtful,” said Sanchez. “I think it's more widespread than one issue. The SS is very busy now. We will have a full flight schedule tomorrow. Don't ask why; they aren't telling us. But don't worry about Otto. I'm sure he's comfortable.”

  “What can you tell me about the Jews?” He didn't want to change the subject, but her mention of secrecy made him think of it.

  “You mean of your time?” asked Bamberg, surprised. He followed up without waiting for an answer. “You must know better than we that no one liked the Jews in your day. This is your time period, after all.”

  “How many do you think were killed?”

  “Killed?” asked Bamberg, surprised. “By whom?”

  “That's just it. They're killing millions of Jews.”

  “Typhus killed a lot of them,” said Sanchez. “This was common back then.”

  “Yes,” said Bamberg. “But you said ‘killing.’ I do not doubt that there were also some executions. Some people were cruel in your time, if you don't mind me saying so. But millions of executions? Millions?”

  “Stern admitted it to me.”

  “It is the first time I had heard of that,” said Bamberg.

  “That doesn't disturb you?”

  “Of course it disturbs us,” said Bamberg. “But this happened many generations before we were born. There are many things they cannot tell us.”

  “Those were cruel times,” said Sanchez. “And perhaps that's why it is a secret.”

  “Even after the war is over?” McHenry asked. “Even after a thousand years?”

  “Our society values order,” said Bamberg. “How much do you value five hundred years of peace among humankind?”

  “I don't know,” McHenry said. “Maybe it's not so much the hundreds of years that I'm concerned about. I'm starting to understand that we really are talking about an eternity.”

  *

  McHenry's room seemed eerily quiet when he returned. The music was off, which was fine, but in his weird state of sleepiness, even his own thoughts sounded distant and hollow. It was to be expected, he consoled himself. It was five in the morning. He instructed the rechner to let him sleep until ten.

  “You have one event scheduled,” the machine responded. A message box overlaid the fake window reminding him of Hitler's birthday rally at nine.

  “Tell Hitler I said happy birthday,” he whispered, dropping himself into the bed and kicking off his boots.

  The machine said nothing.

  McHenry snickered. He wondered if the rechner was going to wake him in time for the SS festivities, or whether it would let him sleep until ten. It would really feel good if they do try to wake him early. A fight was just what he needed.

  He reached around for the tablet but it wasn't there. He had left it somewhere in SS section, and now considered having the machine create another one. But he needed to sleep. That much was certain, he thought, even if he didn't know whether he'd be getting up at ten or eight thirty. He looked up at the window. The message box was gone.

  His thoughts wandered. He was very tired, and yet not sleepy at all.

  “Rechner,” he called. “Wake me up at seven thirty.” He needed to go, he decided, reminding himself that he was an American soldier. A tired American soldier who couldn't sleep.

  McHenry was tired. He felt almost drunk. He kept thinking about Adolf Hitler, the man who began World War II, and then ended it with such a grand gesture. Dale had accused him of cultural prejudice, and he had to admit some of it was true. The Nazis were his enemy. Now they wanted to be his friends. It might have worked if they promised to rescue his friend, but they didn't. Even so, he'd have accepted this if he wasn't so certain there was something they were holding back. Hitler's grand gesture meant little to him now.

  It had taken a few seconds to remember Parker's name. He wondered why, but was too tired to think. He grew more tired and even less able to sleep.

  The door chime sounded.

  “One second!” he shouted, jumping clumsily off the bed, and turning it back into a chair. The doors were soundproof, but he also knew the material would sometimes let his voice carry. Such were the properties of its construction, and that ubiquitous rechner's control over them.

  McHenry felt the blood drain from his head, but he did his best to stand straight and make himself presentable. “Come in,” he said. It was the doctor.

  “You should sit down, Herr McHenry,” Dr. Evers said, waving a medical wand over McHenry's head.

  “Is something wrong?” McHenry asked. He was glad to have any reason to get off his feet, but stressed over the doctor's sudden visit.

  A scan of McHenry's bra
in appeared on the window panel. The doctor studied it for a moment before speaking. “No,” he said. “There is nothing wrong. You have been spending much time on the Tigers, have you not?”

  “Yes,” he replied, watching the colors deepen on the image as he formed the words. “I practice flying there, using the simulator mode.”

  “And you have been drinking coffee on them, haven't you? A lot of coffee?”

  “Of course,” he said. “I ate food there too. I thought we could eat anything we wanted.”

  “Yes,” the doctor said, nodding. “That would be okay for everyone else. You are different. Your body is still acclimating to its new potential. It needs to be monitored. The rechner knows what you consume on Göring, but not on the Tigers.”

  McHenry tried to force himself to become more alert. He turned away from the display of his mental faculties in action. The feedback made him uncomfortable. “Is that why I can't sleep?”

  “No. You cannot sleep because your brain no longer requires it every day.”

  “Then why am I not completely awake?”

  The doctor looked at his eyes and then turned back to the display. “I do not think you would understand, Herr McHenry. It would be better if you became alert first. Stare at the panel.”

  McHenry warily complied. The panel showed a different image this time. It was a pattern of intersecting lines.

  “Blitz!” the doctor commanded, and a flash lit the room.

  It was a bright flash. The image stayed in his eyes for a while as they adjusted back to the regular brightness of the room. McHenry was still momentarily confused. It was as though he was just waking up.

  “Does this mean I won't ever need to sleep again?”

  *

  Chapter 17

  “Not only fortune, but also reputation is always shifting during a war between great men and nations. It is therefore difficult, perhaps even impossible, to determine the political and military importance of individual events in the midst of war. What yesterday seemed a brilliant move can within several weeks or months prove a major mistake, and that which seemed short-sighted and mistaken can later become a decision of deep wisdom.”