The Ocean of Time

by David Wingrove

  ‘Is that what you believe?’ Zarah asks, from immediately to my left.

  I turn and look at her. ‘He must be. How else would you know what’s yet to happen?’

  Old Schnorr speaks up. ‘Our friend, Schikaneder … you said to me that Kolya stole his journal.’

  ‘Yes, but Schikaneder knows nothing about what’s happening now.’

  ‘True. Only think of the file we prepared. Kolya stole that. Maybe he’s stolen other things. Memoirs written by one or other of us. Journals documenting these times in detail. Reports we’ve made.’

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ I concede, ‘if only because we know that’s one of the ways he operates. But we still don’t know why he’s doing this, or what he’s trying to achieve. I mean, why show himself to me, knowing that I’m armed, unless to taunt me in some way? To show me how powerless I am.’

  Freisler speaks up. He sounds a little subdued. ‘Is that what you think he’s doing, Meister? Taunting you?’

  I look across at him, thinking it strange to be addressed that way by him, even if it’s my title now. ‘I could have shot him, and he knew that.’

  ‘Yes, but he would have changed it. He knew how you’d react.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  And maybe I’ve grown soft. Maybe those months at Cherdiechnost have taken off my edge. In the past I’d have shot the woman immediately she was in my sights, and thereby ended Kolya. Far better that she should die than the volk be endangered by a madman.

  ‘You should go back,’ Zarah says. ‘Go back and finish what you’ve started.’

  ‘But it is finished.’

  ‘Is it?’ Freisler asks, leaning towards me, the Tree of Worlds reflected in his dark eyes.

  ‘But Kolya’s gone.’

  ‘Has he? Meister Schnorr … tell us when the records say he was born.’

  Old Schnorr smiles. ‘April 2343.’

  ‘You mean …?’

  ‘What we mean,’ Zarah says, ‘is that we believe Kolya – the nine-year-old you met – was ‘adopted’ by his real mother.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So he could be there with her,’ says Schnorr. ‘Close to her. Protecting her and, by association, himself. As a grown man he couldn’t have done that. The servants are kept segregated as to sex. But as her son …’

  ‘Then he’ll have to come back. To keep an eye on her. To make sure I don’t harm her, and thereby him.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Freisler says.

  ‘Then I have no choice. I must go back. In fact, I’ll go now.’

  ‘Not so fast, Otto,’ Old Schnorr says, gesturing to me to sit down again. ‘There are things here you must attend to first.’

  Freisler, across from me, nods and takes up Meister Schnorr’s comment. ‘That’s right. We’ve some reports we’d like you to study.’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘You ought to,’ Zarah says. ‘As Meister you need to know the full range of what’s happening.’

  I know that, and it’s one of the reasons why I don’t feel I make a good Meister. I’m an agent – perhaps the best we have – but being Meister is a different thing altogether. It demands different skills. Skills I don’t think I possess. But this is what they want. What Hecht – even knowing what he knew of me at the end – wanted.

  ‘You want me to look at them now, is that it?’

  Old Schnorr and Zarah and Freisler all nod, as do several others about the seated circle.

  ‘Then you’d better let me see them.’

  Meister Schnorr looks to Zarah. ‘Send him back, then we’ll resume here.’

  ‘Send me …?’

  It is as if they vanish. But I am still there, in the same room, on the same chair, only I know it is hours – days? – earlier, and beside me on the floor are a stack of files and a silvered data card.

  Reports …

  Several hours into the task, I look up from the screen, realising that Old Schnorr was right. I needed to know this stuff. Much of it is composed of brief resumes of what projects are green-lit and running – a page to each, giving the salient details – together with similarly brief CVs of the main agents involved. But there are a couple of files which are much more interesting because they deal specifically with matters that override the concerns of individual projects.

  For a start there’s a file on Reichenau and the platforms; another on Kolya and his abduction of his ‘selves’ through Time. Yet another deals with the quite recent phenomenon of agents coming back from up ahead. And the last, and perhaps most fascinating of all, is on me.

  These latter files – the non-project files – are all Hecht’s work, found among his ‘papers’ when they were clearing out his rooms. This, I learn from an appended note, is what they believe he was working on in those final thirty days of his life. Trying to make sense of things. Attempting to weave all of it into a coherent pattern. Much of it – and Hecht, true to his nature, takes great pains to say that this is so – is speculation, the filling of gaps with surmise. There’s not much that’s new, information-wise, but Hecht’s thinking on certain matters is worth consideration.

  For instance, he thought there was a connection – perhaps even an intimate, familial one – between Reichenau and Kolya. Why? Because wherever we find traces of one, we find similar traces of the other. Instances? Back in 1952, and again up in 2343. Hecht’s belief – and my instinct is to agree with him – was that this was hardly likely to be coincidental.

  On the subject of agents coming back from our future he was far less certain, perhaps because of lack of evidence. He had visited himself, certainly, but that was an isolated incident, and he had travelled only a relatively short distance into his own future. Overall, it was his feeling that, if it were happening, we would know for sure, because we would be flooded with agents coming back, and as that hadn’t happened … Even so, the possibility of it happening remained large. It was now, he asserted, theoretically possible for it to happen, and so it would. Given time.

  And I agree with him on that, and what he writes in his conclusion: ‘We are all living this segment of our history first time round, but next time – and the countless times after that – they will be here, changing things, making alternations, and we may not even know it’s happening.’

  Which brings me to the file I found most difficult to read, the file Hecht had compiled on me. I don’t want to speak of it here, only to say that it was remarkably clear-eyed and open-minded considering Hecht’s personal feelings on the matter, but I looked up from it finally with a mixed sense of shame and love, chastened by the experience of reading it.

  No. One fact I will mention, something he said towards the end of the report. That he had asked the Elders to appoint me Meister despite my aberrant behaviour, because he knew I would, eventually, make a fine Meister. A Meister suited for new times and new circumstances.

  Such faith in me he had, even after his disillusionment.

  And, sitting there, I find my eyes welling with tears at the thought of his loss, finally – finally – able to grieve him. Accepting him once more into my heart, as he, in his final days, had accepted what I was.

  An hour later I am back, seated once more in the circle of my peers. Old Schnorr looks to me and smiles. ‘Well, Otto? What have you to say?’

  ‘One question. Why didn’t Kolya try to kill me?’

  308

  I look up from the file and scowl at the boy sitting opposite me. He is by far the most unpleasant of them yet, a sneering, supercilious young man, not yet sixteen, who thinks himself not merely superior to me, but above being questioned by the Ministry.

  His name is Paul Woolf and his father is the Chief Geneticist at the Institute in Vienna, and a very close friend of the Doktor – something young Woolf has dropped into the conversation on at least two occasions thus far.

  ‘Just answer the question.’

  ‘Why?’ he says, leaning back a little, hoping to wind me up even further by an act of casualness. ‘Both you and I know I
’m not the student you’re interested in, so why maintain this ridiculous charade?’

  ‘You know, do you?’

  ‘Of course I know. It can’t possibly be me. I’m not a traitor. And besides, I object to the tenor of your questions. It seems to me like simple prying into what ought to be my own private concerns.’

  ‘As far as the State is concerned, nothing is private.’

  Woolf just laughs. An insolent sound.

  I stand. ‘Come round the desk. Stand before the viewer.’

  He gets up slowly, sullenly and does what I’ve asked, and for a long while there is silence, while I make my observations and jot down my notes. Ironically, there’s nothing particularly special about our young friend’s chromosomes. They’re the same mish-mash of the good and the bad, dominant and recessive, the useful and the harmful. The Woolf clan are far from being supermen.

  ‘It must be difficult,’ he says, when I’ve finally done and he’s seated again.

  ‘Difficult?’

  ‘Knowing what you are. What – genetically – you’re capable of attaining. One day, you see, all of the subspecies will be identified. That’s what my father says.’

  I stare at him dumbfounded. ‘And?’

  ‘What do you think? The lower kinds will serve us, of course. The Betas and the Deltas. Whatever we decide is necessary. Only they will be glad to serve us, because they’ll understand the evolutionary distance – the vast, unbreachable gap – between us and them. Why, eventually they’ll not even be able to breed with us any more. You see, that’s what it’s about, this society of ours. That’s what’s beginning here. We’re taking the first steps even now. But in the future …’

  In the future, I think, you will all be dead. And your foul ideology with you.

  ‘It’s the language of the blood,’ he says, almost to himself. ‘Not evolution so much as destiny.’

  The language of the blood. I’ve heard that phrase before, two, maybe three times since I’ve been here, but in his mouth it sounds almost poetic, and I wonder where it comes from. Angossi? I’m about to question him further, when the door on the far side of the room bursts open and three uniformed men march straight in. I’m about to object, when I realise who they are. They’re inspectors, like myself.

  ‘Meister Scholl,’ their leader says. ‘Forgive the interruption, but we have business of some urgency and I must consult you.’

  He looks to Woolf, who is surprised, and just a little intimidated, to see such reinforcements to my cause.

  ‘Herr Woolf,’ I say. ‘You are dismissed.’

  He stands and, with the most marginal of bows, hurries away, glad to be gone.

  I turn and look to my superior. He’s a big man, taller than me by a good six inches and broader at the shoulder. Facially, too, he is imposing, with large, almost sculpted features, jet black hair and eyes of an almost sapphire blue. Aryan, it makes me think. A creature of the dark woods.

  All of this in an instant, and then I notice his insignia – Inspector, First Class – and bow my head. ‘Meister …’

  ‘Sit down, Scholl. And listen. I’ve not had time to contact Breslau and see what you’ve filed, so I’ll need you to inform me what’s going on here – what your brief is and which student is under suspicion. I’ll also need to look through whatever ZA forms you’ve completed.’

  ‘ZA forms?’

  ‘Yes. You have them here?’

  ‘No. In my room. I … I’ll get them.’

  ‘Good. But meet us back in the main building. At the Doktor’s office. Oh, and bring the official report sheet along, too. I want to see who instigated this. It’s too much of a coincidence that we’re both here at the same time, don’t you think?’

  ‘Master …?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You know my name, but …?’

  ‘Schultz,’ he says, and puts out a hand. ‘I run the operation at Bremen.’

  309

  Zarah goes through it with me.

  ‘ZA. That’s zygote analysis. The indents … you took notes, I take it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Then we’ll use those to mock up some forms. Same with the official report sheet. It won’t take long: an hour or two at most. Get some rest. I’ll come to you when they’re ready.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I watch her go, then turn, looking about me at the room. I still feel an intruder here. This is still Hecht’s room and always will be. I’ll always see him in my mind’s eye, sat in the depression in the centre of the floor, his long, pale fingers moving quickly across the keys, the Tree of Worlds glowing in the air above him.

  Meister? I am not Meister. Meister means something else; requires a different mindset to my own, whatever Hecht believed. I am merely a stop-gap, a …

  A fake, I think, and it makes me wonder about the life I’ve led and just how much of it was real, how much of it actually meant anything.

  The parts with Katerina. Those last few months in Cherdiechnost …

  And the rest? All those failed attempts to tinker with Time?

  Standing there, I feel strangely depressed. Master of Time, I am, but can I change anything – can I really change any of it – for the good? Or am I, despite the potential power I wield, as much a victim as any time-bound man?

  You see, that’s it. The power I have seems illusory right now. Why? Because I can’t wield it the way I want to. To rescue those I love and …

  And put aside the Game.

  But how can I do that? How can I ignore the call of duty? Would it be right to abandon my people to their fate? And besides, if I did – if I tried to, that is – then surely they’d prevent me. If I endangered them, they would be perfectly within their rights to stop me, even to kill me if necessary.

  And then there’s the Russians, and Reichenau, and Kolya …

  No. The time’s not ripe to put away the Game. The Game goes on, whatever my wishes. Meister I might be, but the world will not leave me in peace. It is not my destiny.

  Ahead lies the loop, and death and birth and all the in-betweens of life.

  The door hisses open. It is Zarah again.

  ‘Forgive me, Meister, but we need to show you something urgently.’

  Behind her, I realise, is one of our agents – Kessemeier, I think it is. He dips his head respectfully, but his eyes are ablaze, his whole body trembling with excitement.

  He’s holding a book in one hand, and as Zarah steps aside he almost thrusts it at me.

  ‘There, Meister! That’s it!’

  I take it and study the beige cloth cover a moment. I recognise it. It’s one of the books I had sent to the library. The language looks like German, only it isn’t. Nor is it a sister-language. It’s an altered version, the product of an alternate timeline.

  ‘Abwechseindrealitisch,’ Kessemeier says, giving it its proper, German term. ‘I’ve done a transcript, if you want to read it for yourself.’

  I notice now that Zarah too is excited, but I’m still confused as to why it should be so important. ‘Just tell me what it is,’ I say. ‘If I need to, I’ll—’

  ‘It’s him,’ Kessemeier says, unable to contain himself. ‘Kolya!’

  That sends an electric jolt through me. ‘What? He’s mentioned in it?’

  ‘Mentioned? It’s all about him, Meister! It’s his history. How he rose, how he fell …’

  ‘Wait. Slow down a second. His history?’

  Kessemeier goes to speak again, but Zarah beats him to it. ‘Our friend Kolya was a great leader. An emperor, you might say. Until we changed things. Until we took it all away from him.’

  310

  For the next six hours I am absorbed, reading about Kolya and his world and his struggle to reach the top and stay there. A world so similar and yet so different from our own, ruled by that proud, fierce eagle of a man. Until we came along and sucked his world into the Game, destroying it piece by piece, and then discarding it, like a broken, rusting machine shunted off on to a weed-str
ewn side-track of time.

  Kolya. Undoubtedly Kolya from the portraits of the man. Ruler of an empire vaster than any other in human history, an empire that contained Europe and Asia, and most of Africa, and that was industrialised a good three centuries before its time.

  And the agent who was in charge of all of this? Myself, of course. Not that I remember any of it. But who else could it have been? Why else would such hatred smoulder in his eyes?

  Only how did he find out it was me? More to the point, how, if he was born in 2343, did he come to rule this other world nine centuries before that date?

  And when did Kolya discover how to travel back in Time?

  But that’s the trouble with this. Exciting as it is, it begs more questions than it answers. But at least we know something about him now. At least we have a possible motive for why he’s doing what he’s doing. All the more reason, then, to find him and confront him.

  Closing the book, I look up at Zarah. ‘I’m going back,’ I say. ‘I need to find out how it’s all connected.’

  311

  I jump back to the room above the kitchens, then hurry to meet the others at the Doktor’s office, the file of mocked-up forms in one hand, my head full of questions.

  If the answers aren’t here, then where are they? Back in 1952? At Krasnogorsk?

  One thing’s for certain: I can’t go back to Kolya’s world. That timeline was snipped off long ago, and is now as inaccessible as any fantasy. Whatever happened there – whatever he did and I did – is veiled in mystery now. Unless …

  And this is the thought that has been nagging me the last hour or more. What if Hecht kept a record of it, back at the Haven? After all, he kept copies of everything else back there. If I could go there, then maybe I’d get my answers.

  Only if that’s so, then why didn’t Hecht uncover it? Or is it just that he didn’t think to look?

  After all, why should he? His memory – like all of ours – changes from time to time to accommodate major alterations in the timestream. So, while a record would have been kept – a copy – there would have been nothing in Hecht’s mind to set him off – even to suggest that somehow Kolya had already crossed our tracks.