The Ocean of Time

by David Wingrove

  I trail the glasses across the roof, looking for an entrance of some kind, then jerk back.

  ‘Thor’s teeth!’

  ‘What?’ Matteus says. ‘What is it?’

  ‘There’s a plaque,’ I say. ‘With the company name on it and a symbol – like the sign for infinity.’

  ‘The lazy eight.’

  ‘You know?’

  ‘There was a mine here by that name. It’s how it’s marked on the map.’

  ‘Right.’ But I’m remembering where I last saw that symbol. It was on the pendants around the necks of the two Russian agents that got blown up by Seydlitz and Kramer, after my failure in Christburg.

  Yes, and the same symbol was on the flyleaf of the book of Russian folk takes Hecht had on his shelf. The lazy eight with the two arrows pointing towards the centre.

  The exact same symbol as is on the building down below, brazen and open, like they don’t care who sees.

  Or don’t think anyone will?

  ‘So?’ Matteus asks. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, as if that’s true, but my pulse is racing now, because in the second or two between seeing the symbol and working out where I last saw it, I have my answer.

  Only it can’t be possible. Surely?

  ‘We need to get inside,’ I say.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Only …’ I lower the glasses. ‘I think you should stay here with Phil. If I don’t come back …’

  Matteus stares at me, about to argue, but right then the matter is decided for us. Far to our right, where the fence is breached by a gate, behind which are two sentry boxes and a traffic barrier, a little cavalcade of four big black sedans has drawn up.

  We watch as about a dozen guards emerge from the boxes either side. They’re carrying heavy armaments, and as each car draws up, one of the guards looks inside while the others stand back, guns trained.

  As the first car moves through, I expect it to travel on the half mile to the installation, but it pulls aside and waits, its engine idling, while the next car is processed, and only when all four have been examined and okayed, does the little convoy roll on, the four big black cars like a funeral procession.

  At least, that’s the impression that comes to my mind. Death. This has to do with death.

  As the cars pull up on the far side of the dome-like building, I train the binoculars on the leading car. More guards have emerged from inside the building – unarmed this time. Not so much guards, it seems, as attendants. Going to the back door of the first car, they open it and begin to help the occupants out.

  Five of them in all, no, six, stepping out into the bright desert sunlight; each of them dressed in white, prison-like attire. Men and women, blinking up at the brightness.

  ‘They’re cuffed,’ I say.

  The other cars are emptying out now. I train the binoculars and see that their occupants are wearing the same white one-piece uniforms, and that every last one of them is cuffed.

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ Matteus asks quietly. ‘I thought—’

  ‘Experiments,’ Phil says. ‘There’ve been rumours.’

  We both look to him.

  ‘Rumours?’ Matteus asks.

  ‘Yeah,’ Phil says, nodding to himself. ‘About prisoners. Rumour is they offer them parole in exchange for their participation in medical tests. Experiments. Things the courts won’t let them do legally. Things they can’t do on rats and dogs. Things they need humans for.’

  ‘New drugs,’ Matteus says. ‘It makes sense …’

  But I know better. And even if I don’t know exactly why they’re there, I do know who’s behind this now. Reichenau.

  Matteus looks to me. ‘You still want to go in alone?’

  ‘No. I don’t think we should go in at all. I think we should get out of here. Before we’re seen.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘But what?’ I look to Phil, then back to Matteus. ‘There’s only one way of getting in and out of there safely, and I think you know what I’m talking about. But I don’t think Phil here’s ready for that information yet, do you?’

  Phil’s face wrinkles. ‘What information?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Matteus says defensively. ‘Tricks of the trade, that’s all.’

  ‘So you two are agents.’

  ‘Of a kind,’ I say, and glare at Matteus, angry at him for having put us in this situation. Down below the prisoners have been led inside and the big sedans are slowly turning, making their way in tight procession back to the gate.

  It’s hot, even in the shadow of the rocks. Matteus passes the bottle round again. This time I sip, then pour some over my brow and sluice my face. That done, I look to Matteus again. ‘You know what I think? I think we ought to find out where those sedans come from. Ask a few questions. Discover just who’s making the deals. Going in there … that isn’t an option.’

  Matteus, I can see, wants to argue. He wants some action. But even he knows it would be stupid to try. Not if there are armed guards and only one way in and out of the place. Nor can we jump in – not with Phil looking on.

  ‘Let’s head back to the car,’ I say. ‘Circle round north where those gates are, and stop off at a few of the towns heading east, find out if they saw those sedans passing through.’ I pause, then. ‘Is there anything marked? You know … a prison?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Matteus says.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Where is the state penitentiary?’

  ‘I don’t know. Carson City, maybe? Wherever it is, it’s not on this map.’

  I turn back, staring at the building, trying to work out what’s the best way to tackle this situation. The desert’s empty now, no sign of the sedans.

  I’m about to turn back, to give instructions, when there’s a sudden pulse, like a compressive bending of the air, emanating directly from the centre of the building, and a feeling like the air pressure has just changed, making my ears pop.

  In fact, everything feels strange. I have an impulse to speak, but before I can, before the message goes from my brain to the muscles of my mouth and throat, everything goes black – an intense, impenetrable blackness.

  For a count of three, that’s all there is. It’s as if the air surrounding me has congealed. And then, like someone’s switched the light back on, we’re back as we were.

  Only not, because all three of us fall instantly to the ground, as if we’re puppets and our strings have been cut. There’s a moment when we just lay there, stunned by what’s happened, and then Matteus laughs in amazement. Not only he, but all three of us, are now sporting a two-day growth of stubble.

  ‘Christ!’ Phil says, close to babbling. ‘What was that? Did we all fall asleep or something?’

  Time, I think, getting to my feet and beginning to brush myself down. They’re manipulating time. And then I realise what that means and look to Matteus.

  ‘Urd’s breath … it’s a platform!’

  272

  We drive back through Hawthorne in silence, the radio off, each of us locked in his thoughts. In fact, it’s only when we hit Bridgeport and Highway 395 that Phil finally leans forward and, addressing Matteus, says, ‘So who are you guys? Are you agents?’

  ‘Agents?’

  ‘You know. Government.’

  ‘Kinda,’ Matteus says. But I’m not comfortable having Phil there. Not now that I’ve thought about it. I want to talk this through, only that’s not possible with him in the car. Or is it?

  ‘There’s this man,’ I say. ‘He’s a, well, I guess you’d call him a revolutionary. Name of Reichenau. He runs a sect called the Unbeachtet.’

  ‘The unnoticed,’ Phil says, surprising me again.

  ‘You know the word?’

  ‘I know the club, back home in Berkeley. You think there might be a connection?’

  ‘I think it’s worth checking out.’ I pause, then say, ‘D’you think you could take us there, Phil? Tonight, maybe?’


  ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘Only not tonight. It doesn’t open midweek. Just weekends.’

  Silence falls again. We drive on a mile or two, then Phil sits back and, smoothing his hand through his new growth of beard, asks casually, ‘So what’s with the sudden darkness and the beards and …’ He laughs. ‘If this is some weird dream, then it’s really feels fucking real. I mean, I can smell the leather upholstery, hear the swish of the tyres on the road, the way the engine turns over, real smooth and quiet … You don’t normally get that kind of shit in dreams, do you?’

  ‘No …’ I hesitate, then. ‘You want to know the truth?’

  Phil laughs uneasily. ‘I’m not sure that I do. Not if it’s like the rest of it. Oh, and what’s a platform?’

  Matteus looks to me.

  ‘Pull over,’ I say to him. ‘Let’s talk about this.’

  Matteus slows, then turns the wheel, cruising over to the right, stopping on the gently canvered embankment. He switches the engine off, then looks to me again.

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’ve decided what we’re going to do. We’re going to change it. I’ll jump back. Make it so he never came on this trip.’

  ‘What?’ Phil says, leaning forward. ‘What are you saying? Change it?’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Matteus says.

  ‘Yeah. I’ve got to go and see Hecht anyway. He’ll want to know. Unless you want to end it here?’

  Phil looks twitchy at my suggestion that we’re going to ‘end it’, but I smile at him reassuringly. ‘We’re not going to harm you, Phil. Only you’re right on one count. This is some weird shit. You see, we’re from the future.’

  Phil stares at me for a full five seconds, and then he roars with laughter. ‘Great! The way you said that, your face …’

  ‘No, Phil, it’s true. What you saw earlier – the platform – is one of the means by which we travel through time. Only that wasn’t one of ours. You see, we’re the good guys. We’re the Germans.’

  273

  It takes a long time to convince him, and even then I’m sure Phil thinks he’s dreaming or imagining this. That someone’s slipped him some experimental drug – like the prisoners in the desert facility – and he’s living some strange alternate reality.

  Driving through Yosemite doesn’t help, because there’s a sense in which the magnificent scenery is just sliding by, like some elaborate backdrop.

  ‘It explains a lot,’ he says. ‘I mean, like how you know so much about history. Frederick and Hitler and …’

  ‘Barbarossa …’

  ‘Yeah, Barbarossa.’ Phil stretches his arms out in a yawn, then smiles. ‘One thing puzzles me, though. Why me? If you wanted to keep things secret …’

  ‘Because this is your territory,’ Matteus says. ‘This is the kind of thing you’re going to write about. Time travel and changed realities.’

  ‘Only you guys actually live it, is that right?’

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Feel the beard. How else did that get there?’

  ‘Well, maybe I just fell asleep. Maybe you guys drugged me. The water in the bottle, maybe that had some hallucinogenic drug in it.’

  ‘But we all drank from the bottle.’

  ‘Then maybe we all went through the same experience.’

  I smile. ‘Maybe.’ Then, remembering something, I reach across and, unbuttoning Matteus’s shirt pocket, make to remove the form guide from it.

  ‘Hey …’

  ‘It’s okay. We’re going to change it back.’

  Matteus relaxes, lets me take it. I hand it to Phil. ‘Next year’s. You could make a million following that.’

  Phil takes it, studies the cover, then flicks through, his eyes wide, his mouth open. ‘Is this for real?’

  Matteus gestures behind him. ‘There’s a San Francisco Chronicle under the seat there. Check the racing results for two days back.’

  We wait, while Phil finds the page in the paper, then checks the results against the entries in the form guide. ‘Holy shit!’

  I reach across and take the guide from him. ‘Only Matteus isn’t supposed to do that. It’s against the rules.’

  ‘The rules?’

  ‘Yeah. We’re what you call Reisende – travellers – and there’s a code we’re supposed to live by, only some of us don’t. Some of us cut corners.’

  Matteus makes a face. ‘And some of us are so straight-fucking-laced …’

  Phil sighs. ‘Jesus, but this is—’

  ‘Amazing,’ I say, but I make the word sound so ordinary, so mundane, that he stares at me, as if seeking some explanation for my lack of enthusiasm.

  ‘It’s what we are, Phil. How we live. Slotted in here and there throughout time. Making changes. Fighting the Russians. Trying not to die or to get too involved with the people we have to deal with.’

  ‘But it sounds such—’

  ‘Fun?’ I’m silent a moment, then. ‘Look, this is how it’s going to be. I’m not going to change things yet. I’m not …’

  ‘Wait a second,’ Phil says. ‘Just hold on there. What do you mean by change things? What precisely are you going to change?’

  ‘It’s simple. I jump back, to the day before we met. And I make sure that we don’t meet. So none of this happens. This whole time-line gets erased. This trip, the evening with Greg, meeting Kleo at your house … none of that will have happened.’

  Phil nods. ‘I see. And I’ll not remember any of it?’

  ‘Not a single fragment. The only one who’ll remember anything is me, and that’s because I’ll have effected the change. It’ll be me who’ll go back.’

  ‘Uh-huh …’ Phil considers a moment, then. ‘You couldn’t write some of it down for me? Like, it would be a real help, with my stories, I mean …’

  I laugh. ‘Phil … from what I’ve seen, the last thing you need is help.’

  274

  It’s dark by the time we get back to Phil’s house, and Kleo, hearing the car, rushes out, her face lit up in a big smile, seeing Phil home safe.

  ‘Remember,’ I say to him. ‘Not a word. We’ve got a deal, right?’

  ‘Right,’ he says and, giving us a wave, puts his arm around Kleo and heads back indoors.

  ‘He’ll tell her,’ Matteus says. ‘Ten dollars to a nickel he’ll tell her.’

  ‘What if he does? They’ll neither of them remember. Not once we’ve changed things.’

  ‘Yeah, but what about Hecht? You plan on telling him?’

  ‘You?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then it’s our secret. Another rule broken.’

  Matteus smiles. Then, remembering what we saw, he asks, ‘So who’s Reichenau?’

  ‘Let’s get back,’ I say. ‘I don’t know about you, but I could do with a stiff drink.’

  ‘Sure.’

  We drive the rest of the way in silence, and it’s only once we’re back indoors, drinks in hand, that we take it up again.

  ‘So?’ Matteus says, perching himself on the armchair just across from me.

  ‘Reichenau’s someone I bumped into, up the line, in the twenty-eighth century. He kidnapped Gehlen and stole his time equations.’

  ‘A Russian?’

  ‘With a name like that? No. A German, as far as we can make out. But not one of ours.’ I pause, then add, ‘He’s a very distinctive man.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘He has a double skull.’

  ‘A double …?’ And then Matteus sees it. ‘A doppelgehirn?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Shit … Must make it hard for him to blend in outside of his time zone.’

  ‘Sure. But it doesn’t stop him. I saw him again in Baturin, in the eighteenth century.’

  ‘And now here?’

  ‘Right.’

  I stare down into my glass for a second or two, then look back at him. ‘What did Hecht say, when he gave you the instructions? How did he know that something was out there?’

  ‘Hecht didn’t say anything. He
sent a messenger. Young guy, name of Haller.’

  ‘Haller? But Haller’s …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind. You were saying …’

  ‘Haller said you’d be coming, and that I was to drive you up to a place in Nevada. He gave me the map reference and told me I might need some cutters and other stuff. Beyond that … Well, I don’t think even he knew what was there.’

  I nod, considering things. ‘So someone was there before us. Someone knew what we were going to see. So why send us? Why not send in a hit squad? Blow the place to kingdom come?’

  ‘Maybe Hecht’s tried that. Maybe this Reichenau has outmanoeuvred him.’

  ‘Then why not tell me that?’

  Matteus shrugs. ‘You tell me. I thought you were in thick with him.’

  I look down.

  ‘Oh, it’s like that, is it?’

  ‘There’s a woman,’ I say. ‘Katerina, back in the thirteenth century. I …’

  I meet his eyes and see he understands. ‘Shit,’ he says gently. ‘I’m sorry. And Hecht won’t let you …’

  ‘No. That’s why I’m here. As punishment.’

  ‘Are you sure? That doesn’t sound like Hecht to me.’

  ‘Hecht’s about to die.’

  Matteus’s eyes bulge. ‘Hecht? No, no he can’t be … He’d stop that, surely?’

  ‘It’s a done thing,’ I say. ‘Locked in tight. Part of a loop.’

  Matteus seems to deflate before my eyes at the news. ‘Urd protect us … Who will …?’

  ‘Take over? Me. But then I go missing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Like I said, it’s all locked in. Unchangeable. Only there must be something I can do outside of the loop. Some way I can affect things.’

  Matteus nods thoughtfully. ‘Maybe that’s why you’re here. Maybe that’s why he’s not given you explicit instructions. Maybe he’s cutting you the slack you need.’

  ‘Maybe. Only I can’t see how that helps. So there’s a platform here. What difference does that make if we can’t get inside and use it?’