The Ocean of Time

by David Wingrove

  I interrupt her. ‘But you know that won’t happen. I disappear …’

  ‘You forget the nature of Time,’ Old Schnorr says, seeming more authoritative, more commanding than I’ve ever known him. ‘You might appear to be with us only for a day or so, even a week, but that time might be folded in. You might jump back or jump out. Your time might be stretched. We just don’t know. Meanwhile the Elders have appointed us.’

  I stand. For a moment they’re silent, watching me, looking to see what I’ll do. Only I know suddenly that I’ll do nothing. Nothing outrageous, that is.

  ‘Not now,’ I say to Freisler. ‘Later. After the ceremony. We’ll make a start then. And Ernst …’

  ‘Yes, Meister?’

  ‘Get me news. Let me know that she’s all right. I can’t function without knowing.’

  Zarah is looking down. So too is Schnorr. Only Ernst and Freisler are looking at me, and I have the sense that Freisler is studying me as if to gauge just how reliable I am.

  Not at all, I think, and wonder at myself, because Freisler’s right. This is no time to be unreliable. No time to be selfish. Right now, the volk – the entire German nation, now and for all time – is vulnerable. If the Russians were to learn of Hecht’s death …

  I turn, looking to Gehlen, at the flattened yet familiar face upon the screen.

  ‘Hans … what do the Russians know?’

  Gehlen is tapped into the mainframe, you see. If anyone knows the overall situation, he – dead as he is – will know.

  ‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘They think Hecht’s alive and well and running things.’

  ‘Then let’s keep it that way.’ I look to Zarah. ‘No ceremony,’ I say. ‘Our agents aren’t to know anything. As far as they’re concerned, Hecht is still alive. He’s still the Meister.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘There’ll be time later to celebrate his life. But not now. Now we are vulnerable.’

  I look to Freisler. ‘Jurgen, have we a project ready to launch?’

  ‘Not ready, Meister, but—’

  ‘Something we can improvise, then?’

  He thinks a moment, then nods.

  ‘Then let’s do that. Let’s distract the bastards.’

  Freisler likes that. He smiles. And Freisler rarely smiles. ‘Yes, Meister!’

  But Zarah, I can see, is still unhappy. I need to placate her over the ceremony.

  ‘Hecht was a great man,’ I say. ‘We shall not see his like again.’

  ‘He was our Father,’ Zarah says. ‘Whenever we had a problem, he was there for us.’

  I open my mouth, then nod, as if I agree. Only I don’t, because I know now what a father is and Hecht was never that. No. Hecht was our Meister, pure and simple. Through us he played the Game. And though the Game goes on, things have changed, for I am Meister now, and, looking round that table, I realise for the first time what that means.

  I have the power to change things. The power to change the way the Game is played.

  Only not now. Not yet.

  ‘Zarah, Jurgen, Ernst, leave me now. Meister Schnorr and I have things to discuss.’

  And they leave, obedient to my wishes, for I am Meister now and this is my Game.

  294

  ‘Well, Meister Schnorr? What is it?’

  Old Schnorr peers at me a moment over his massive spectacles, then, turning aside, reaches down and lifts something from the floor beside his chair. It’s an old, satchel-like briefcase – a soft, brown leather bag, worn and ancient, bulging with documents. Setting it on the table in front of him, his fingers fumble at the old brass catches, even as he begins to speak.

  ‘We’ve been busy, Otto. Very busy. I drafted in two new students to help collate the stuff, but, well, my boys have done me proud. I thought there’d be gaps, even after all our best efforts, but—’

  The document he lifts from inside the old briefcase is huge – a good two inches thick and dense with type. He pushes it towards me.

  ‘Kolya?’

  ‘Kolya,’ he confirms. ‘As complete as we could make it. Seventy-two generations on the father’s side. Potted histories, the lot.’

  ‘And no gaps?’

  The old Master removes his glasses to polish them and smiles. ‘No gaps.’

  He replaces his spectacles. His eyes once again look as large as gobstoppers.

  ‘Do we know—’

  ‘Where he’s taking them?’ Schnorr shakes his head. ‘Not yet. Only we’re certain he’s taking them somewhere. Seventy-two ancestors, and every last one of them disappears without trace the moment the direct descendant is born. Hardly coincidence, eh?’

  Hardly. I flick through a page or two, then push it aside. ‘So what’s the way ahead? How do we use what we know?’

  Schnorr’s smile broadens. ‘You’re the Meister now, Otto. That’s your job.’

  ‘But …’

  Only he’s right. I have to think for all of them now. Come up with the answers. Decide what to do and how to do it.

  I need to think this through, come up with a strategy. And not just any half-cocked scheme. Only I’ve not got a lot of time; not if I’m about to ‘vanish’ from the screens.

  ‘Meister Hecht wanted me to go in,’ I say. ‘2343. He wanted me to get some answers.’

  ‘Then go.’

  ‘But I thought you didn’t want me to go in.’

  ‘If it was the old Meister’s wish, then we’ll not oppose you. It was only if you went in … after her …’

  ‘Katerina?’

  He nods, a touch embarrassed, and I sense that while he understands, he does not approve. Like Hecht, he thinks I’ve made a mess of things. And maybe I have, but I am beginning to think it’s for a purpose, that what I said to Hecht about it being ‘meant’ is true.

  Only how to prove that without passing through the loop?

  Until I’m out the other side, I can only trust to instinct. And my instinct right now – stronger even than my need to see Katerina and make sure she’s safe – is to find and kill Kolya. Time-dead, so he can’t come back.

  So why not start at the beginning of his story? Where supposedly he’s born. In the 2340s.

  Old Schnorr has been watching me silently. Now he takes another package from his bag – the same envelope Hecht left for me – and pushes it across.

  ‘We had it analysed,’ he says. ‘And guess what? It’s made of DNA. Katerina’s DNA, presumably.’

  I tip the pendant from the envelope and pick it up, closing my hand about it, like I have a living piece of her beneath my fingers.

  My instinct was right, then. The smith was an agent, put there in Belyj, in that crap heap of a trading post, with the sole purpose of meeting us and getting the pendant into Katerina’s care.

  Only how did they know what I would ask for? Who found that out and told them?

  ‘One further thing,’ Schnorr says. ‘We X-rayed it. It might look like an ash leaf, but beneath that superficial form is another.’

  ‘The lazy eight?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  So it’s a portable focus. But linked to what? Where does it jump to?

  ‘She was wearing it,’ I say. ‘In Cherdiechnost, the evening I left her, when Hecht brought me back here. The question is, how did Hecht get hold of it, and where?’

  And there are other questions, too. Like what happened to Katerina when I left her in Krasnogorsk – when I was pulled out of there back to Four-Oh?

  Old Schnorr sits there, silent, waiting, I guess, for me to dismiss him now that he’s delivered his little surprise. But I’ve one final task for him. Something to get his young men working on.

  ‘I want you to find her,’ I say. ‘I want you to trawl time once more for her face. Find out where she went and where she’s been.’

  Schnorr seems surprised. ‘Katerina?’

  ‘Katerina.’ And, tearing off the first page of the report, I turn it over and begin to sketch her face.

  295

  Zarah walks rou
nd me, ‘inspecting’ me, straightening my cloak and making sure I look the part, then nods.

  ‘You’ll do.’

  But for once I’m feeling nervous as I step up on to the platform, because if Meister Schnorr is right, this is the epicentre. If there are answers to be had, then they’re there, in 2343, and that could be dangerous. Especially if Kolya’s there.

  They’ve set it all up in advance. Our agents have gone in and established an identity for me, given me a history and a status. Enough to convince anyone should they choose to pry.

  I’ve been to the language lab and had a refresher in Mechanist ‘jargon’. Not that I’ll probably need it, because the circles I’ll be operating within consider it vulgar; just that it would be careless not to.

  Everything else I need is in a case that will be delivered once I’m there. As is the custom. For a man of my status – an Inspector of the second rank – would consider it quite beneath him to carry his own luggage.

  ‘Strength,’ Zarah says, as she steps behind the screen, preparing to send me back.

  I smile. ‘Strength,’ I say, even as Four-Oh evaporates about me.

  And there I am, on a broad, white marble path between tall trees. It’s a perfect spring day in Germany and the tiered white façade of the Akademie looms close, beyond the trees, a hundred metres distant.

  They are expecting me. Only not today. In the communication from my office, they were told I would be making an inspection on the fifth of April, but I am two days early. But that, apparently, is how we operate at the Ministry. We like to keep them on their toes.

  ‘Can I help you, Master?’

  I turn, to find two boys, dressed in what looks like military uniform, their silks predominantly black, each outfit finished off with long leather boots and a sash. They are tall and blond, fourteen, maybe fifteen years old at most, yet they carry themselves with the assurance – nay, the arrogance – of adults.

  Oh, and one further detail. On the left side of each of their necks is ‘tattooed’ what looks like an elaborate Chinese ‘chop’, in effect, a perfectly square and highly detailed ‘bar-code’. This is a ‘genetic indent’, containing an abbreviated form of the most important genetic details of each of their twenty-six chromosomes. More complex than any fingerprint, it is their distinct identifier in this world, and bears an almost heraldic importance in this society. I have a similar ‘indent’ on my own neck. False, naturally, for I’ve no wish to give anyone that kind of detailed information about me, but consistent with the ‘indent’ kept on the Ministry’s files. If anyone bothers to check up on me, that too will coincide.

  I look to the elder of the two. ‘I have come to see the Doktor. I believe he is expecting me.’

  They already know who I am. Can see, from my dress, and from the insignia on the arm of my cloak, what my rank is and thus my status in this acutely hierarchical world. They both give a tight little bow – a curt movement of the head – before one of them responds.

  ‘Then perhaps you would permit us to escort you to his office, Meister …?’

  He is fishing for my name. I am inclined to smile at this earnest young man, only my status as Inspector does not permit it. Instead I return their bow.

  ‘That would be most kind of you, young Master.’

  I am duly deferent, not knowing quite to whom I am speaking. For these cadets – these elite members of the Akademie – are important in their own right, not to speak of their fathers. For the Akademie is where power is bred in this land and at this time. They are taught here how to rule. And the Doktor …

  The Doktor is the most powerful man of all, for he is the shaper of these powerful young demi-gods. Yes, and in more than one sense.

  We walk on, the two boys flanking me, their curiosity kept in check. They want to ask me why I’m there – what has gone wrong this time, and who it affects – only the strict rules of the Akademie insist that the Doktor’s business is his alone, until – and if – he should wish to share it.

  We pass through a massive – almost medieval – gateway, the ten-metre-high thick wooden doors pushed back, past a row of blue-uniformed guards and into the massive entrance hallway, its cerulean blue domed ceiling a good fifty metres above my head, the twin eagles – symbol of Germany throughout the ages – displayed in giant mosaic on the perfectly circular floor.

  Power. It all speaks of imperial power. Of a brute strength that, in its way, is as sharp-eyed and ruthless as the eagles of its chief motif.

  I know my way, yet I let them lead me, up the broad, curved marble stairway to the left and into a corridor built, like all else, in the imperial style, wide and high-ceilinged, with massive pillars to either side.

  We march with almost military precision to the end of that corridor where, framed by imposing pillars and a lintel of heroic proportions, a studded, leather-faced door of equally massive size faces us, two guards stood before it, dwarfed by the portal they defend. Unwavering they stand there, as, above the lintel, a camera eye turns to study me.

  And then a voice sounds. ‘Meister Scholl. Please come in.’

  If he is surprised, his voice does not betray it, and, as the guards step aside and the giant door swings slowly back, so I turn briefly and give the slightest nod of thanks to the two young cadets, knowing I will doubtless see them again.

  The Doktor’s study is huge. Tall shelves of books fill every wall. His massive desk and equally imposing leather chair are a good twenty paces from the door, beside a window that would grace a cathedral, which offers him a view down on to the main quadrant.

  I walk slowly across, and as I come closer, so he rises from that great nest of a chair and, unsmiling, comes round the desk to greet me, his hand outstretched. I grip it and bow, then step back.

  ‘Herr Doktor.’

  ‘I was expecting you,’ he says. ‘For the fifth read the third, eh?’

  And, when I look up and meet his pale grey eyes, I see that my early arrival has merely confirmed what he believes of the Ministry: we are little more than petty bureaucrats; an irritation rather than a threat.

  ‘So?’ he says, pointing to a chair facing his own, one which in its starkness, its simplicity and sheer smallness serves to emphasise – if emphasis is needed – the disparity in status between he and me. ‘What is it this time?’

  I go to the chair and, waiting for him to resume his own seat, squat uncomfortably on its edge.

  ‘Forgive me, Herr Doktor, but it is a matter of some delicacy. There have been reports. Anonymous reports, I hasten to say, and unconfirmed as yet. But the Ministry would be seen to be failing in its duty if—’

  He interrupts. ‘Reports of what?’ And the steel in his voice – the contrast with his polite, if unsmiling greeting – is stark. The Doktor is, surprisingly, a small man. If he is five six, then that’s flattering him. And he’s bald, too, and portly. But commanding. There’s no doubt of that. Like Napoleon, he commands the very air about him.

  I hesitate. ‘I would rather not say. As I said, it is a matter of extreme delicacy and—’

  ‘Bugger delicacy! Have we another damn traitor in our midst?’

  I am silent, as if considering what to say, and, impatient now, the Doktor rises from his chair and, pressing his hands palm down on the edge of his desk, glares at me angrily.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘An accusation of this nature—’

  ‘There! I knew it! Some worthless klatsch opening their unterentwickelt mouth and spreading foul rumours about one of my lads! They’re the ones you should be investigating, not us!’

  I note the word he used: ‘unterentwickelt’. Underdeveloped. It is one of the foulest insults one can offer a man in this society.

  ‘Forgive me,’ I say, lowering my eyes and – as I’ve practised often in preparation for this role – adopting a pedantic, bureaucratic mode, ‘but the rules of the inspection must be followed to the letter. I would dearly like to share such information with you, Herr Doktor, yet to even hint at the true
nature of the accusations could, as we know from experience, do irreparable damage to the young man concerned.’

  The Doktor sighs heavily, then sits. ‘So what you’re saying is that you want to interview them all, is that it?’

  ‘Not all, Herr Doktor. A random sample will do.’

  ‘Random as in including our so-called traitor?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You know this is our busiest time, with the examinations coming up?’

  ‘It cannot be helped, Herr Doktor. Were it not so important a matter …’

  He takes an exasperated breath, then, speaking so politely that it seems rude, ‘So what will you require?’

  ‘A room, with a bed and a desk.’

  And I know, without fear of contradiction, that it will be the smallest room the Doktor can find, with the shabbiest desk and the most uncomfortable bed. For we are enemies, when it comes down to it, the Ministry and the Akademie, and the Doktor resents our intrusion even as he grudgingly acknowledges the necessity.

  ‘It will be as you wish,’ he says, and I smile and thank him and rise from that small, uncomfortable chair and, with a parting bow, leave the great man’s presence, pleased to have cleared the first hurdle unscathed.

  296

  The room is small and bleak, a monk’s cell, reminiscent of a dungeon, the walls bare, the bed unmade – rough sheets, a thin blanket and a single pillow stacked neatly on the thin, unsprung mattress. The desk is smaller than I could have imagined – barely large enough to work on – while in the corner stands my case.

  I turn to the boy – an eight-year-old – who escorted me and nod. ‘This will be fine. Thank the Doktor for me.’

  The thought of thanking the Doktor clearly terrifies the boy, but charged with this duty, he bows low and scurries away with almost indecent haste.

  They know, I think. Already rumours are circulating from boy to boy, their speculation fuelled by a distinct absence of fact.