The Master of Time

by David Wingrove

  Only how can I just wait, with my girls out there still?

  ‘I’m going after him,’ I say. ‘He must have his portals somewhere. If we can find those …’

  Which seems desperate, only my instinct tells me that something has changed. That our actions have had some effect after all, and that, though it might seem that he’s evaded us, we have caused him considerable inconvenience. After all, it can’t be easy shutting down portals and opening up new ones.

  And, now that I think of it, things have changed. Whereas before Kolya’s set-up – or what we’ve glimpsed of it – has been incredibly flexible, his approach to Time plastic, as embodied in his willingness to destroy everything and start again at will in a scorched-earth fashion, this strategy of using a complex, interconnected rabbit-warren of gates and portals through Time signals a complete change in his approach, because the more complex those set-ups are, the less flexible they become.

  Meaning what? That Kolya has finally lost his edge? If so, then there must be a way we might take advantage of this new inflexibility of his. Only it’s still as young Saratov says: to get at him, we need to wait for Kolya to show himself. As he surely must.

  Only I’m not going to wait. Thanking Saratov, I jump away from there, back to Moscow Central in the last days of 2999, and, wasting no time, I go to see my beloved and tell her what I’ve been thinking, and she listens to me and smiles and then pulls me down onto the bed with her, and we make love, for the first time since I found her again. And suddenly I know, know without a single shade of doubt, that following the path of logic will only get us so far. No. It is the other path – the path of the heart – that we must follow now. What use are Great Men and their schemes if what they advise me to do is against my strongest instincts? What bloody use?

  414

  The tiny lecture theatre is packed as I take the rostrum, the meeting attended by more than sixty of our number; once enemies, now friends and allies.

  Katerina is there, of course, seated in the front row with the other women, but every face I see is one I’d trust with my life.

  I give a little speech, telling them what it is I have to do. How I cannot be Meister any longer and feel the way I feel. How logic can only take us so far, and …

  And then that huge bear of a man, Svetov, stands, interrupting me, telling me not to apologise for what I’m feeling and that if the fate of our sons and daughters is not a good enough reason for taking action, then what is? And suddenly everyone is on their feet, cheering and yelling encouragement.

  And there and then a great scheme is devised, to scour space and time, however long that takes. For, as Svetov rightly argues, if anyone can do it, we can.

  The fact is that Reichenau could have hidden the girls anywhere and at any time, and from the hints he gave to Katerina, they are probably being held separately, and even if we find one, that won’t necessarily lead to the others.

  What makes it difficult is that Reichenau is dead. ‘Or was,’ I say, realising that once again I have overlooked the most basic of Time’s properties. ‘But he wasn’t always dead, and if I can find him again …’

  415

  And so it begins. I return to the Teutoburg Forest, a week earlier than before, tracking the Roman army as it pushes north into the wilderness.

  I don’t know exactly when or where Reichenau contacted Varus, but from what I see of the Roman legions, I know that Reichenau’s forces have yet to link with them.

  I have one big problem here. If I intervene directly then I’ll probably break the sequence that leads to Reichenau’s death, and – before that – our victory over him.

  The question is, do I want to do that? I decide that I don’t. Now that Freisler has done it, I want Reichenau kept dead.

  So how do I find out what I need to know?

  That one’s easy. I observe him at a distance and then follow him. Find out who he talks to and what they know. Get at his secrets through his underlings, for it’s almost certain that Reichenau hasn’t acted alone – not on the scale on which he’s operating.

  I stay in situ, following the legions north, living off the land and off my wits until, finally, I spy Reichenau, and witness the first meeting between Varus and the doppelgehirn, seeing how Varus wanted to crucify or burn the man as a demon, and how Reichenau persuaded him otherwise.

  That evening, I follow Reichenau back to the invisible portal in the forest and then on, through the Medieval Italian village and down to the ruins again, where – this time – there is no sign of a guard. I follow Reichenau through, taking the same route as last time, on through the ‘changed’ Cherdiechnost and into the church, where, behind the altar, there is one final time gate.

  I hesitate, then go through after him.

  Out, into the Akademie in Neu Berlin in 2343. Full circle, or so it seems.

  But why here?

  I wonder whether this might not be some kind of psychological imprinting and decide to have a good look around. I go to the room where, last time, I spoke to the ‘brother’ and to young Kolya himself, but the room is empty. Nor is there any sign of Reichenau or where he’s gone. I’m ready to admit defeat and jump back to Moscow Central when I decide to follow a hunch.

  I make my way to the laboratories, cutting through the locks with my laser one by one, knowing that my presence there will almost certainly bring security guards running.

  And there, in the big room where the political prisoners are kept for experiments, among the other young prisoners, I find what I had almost given up on finding, my daughter Irina, the nine-year-old in a piteous state, half-starved and shackled inside one of the pens.

  An alarm is sounding now, its klaxon filling the air. Running feet are hurrying toward me.

  I stoop and, kissing her brow, swear to her that I will be straight back to get her.

  And jump …

  416

  Back at Moscow Central I find that I’m trembling, anxious to get back there and secure her freedom. And while I know it will be almost simultaneous from her point of view, the preparations at my end seem to take ages.

  To get her out of there, they have decided to make a special mobile focus for Irina, and an agent has been sent off to Cherdiechnost, in happier times, to get a DNA sample for that. At the same time, to cover our tracks, it is decided that it might be a good idea to set off a few explosions, somewhere else in the Akademie, to distract the guards.

  All this agreed and everything prepared, I jump back in …

  Only, in that briefest of instances between jumping out and back again, someone else has entered that huge room.

  It’s one of Kolya’s ‘brothers’ and he’s barring the way between me and my darling Irina. The sight of him makes my blood go cold, because this once again shows a frightening prescience on Kolya’s part. How in Urd’s name does he keep doing this? Just how does he anticipate my every move?

  This fellow has the jump on me and, somewhat nervously, I feel, he orders me to throw my gun down. He is keen to stop me, only this once I will not be stopped. Throwing my gun away, I leap at him and knock him aside, then struggle with him. For one brief moment I have the bastard – can feel the life ebbing from him as my hands close about his windpipe – only right then another of them suddenly appears, his hands gripping my throat.

  A blackness overcomes me as I struggle for breath. It’s like a vice is being tightened about the top of my skull. And then I stagger back, gasping hoarsely as I take in a lungful of air.

  For a moment I haven’t a clue what’s happening. There are shouts and screams, explosions and the smell of burning flesh, and as my vision returns, I see that I’m no longer alone. Svetov is there, and Saratov, and Ernst, and between them they have killed the brothers.

  ‘Otto,’ Ernst says, turning a full 360, his eyes searching the air, as if more of them might yet appear. ‘Are you all right?’

  Only it doesn’t matter about me. Gasping, I look about me for the big cutters I brought back with me and, pick
ing them up, go over to where she’s still held, in the cage.

  I cut it open, then lean in to sever her shackles. Then, throwing them aside, I reach in and, tears in my eyes, lift her out, shocked by how light she is, how frail.

  Slipping the pendant about her neck, I jump back to Moscow Central, leaving the others there, guarding the air, waiting for Kolya to make his counter-move.

  417

  Katerina is waiting there and, as I step through, Irina in my arms, so she gives a little cry, then jumps up, onto the platform.

  ‘Oh, Irina … oh my darling girl.’

  I hand her to her mother, then stand there with them, hugging them both to me, the three of us gripping each other tightly, trembling, tears streaming down our faces.

  ‘Take her,’ I say. ‘Clean her up and let her get some sleep. I’ll see you later, yes?’

  And, kissing them both once more, I jump back, to join Ernst and the others.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask. ‘Why didn’t they hit us in force? Why only two of them?’

  ‘That’s precisely what we’ve been asking,’ Svetov says, shifting his bulky figure uncomfortably. ‘My guess is that that series of attacks we launched has stretched them thin.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘But just two? To guard one of my daughters? You’d have thought …’

  Only I don’t quite know what I expected. None or a lot.

  I look to Ernst. ‘Where are the guards?’

  ‘We dealt with them, before we came in here.’

  ‘Ahh …’ But I have the feeling that we’ve missed something. Something important. Though Urd knows what it is. Maybe the ease with which we gained our victory. Because before now his brothers have given as good as they got – and maybe better. But this time …

  Stretched thin might explain it.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Let’s leave it for now. We can always send a couple of agents in to look for clues.’

  ‘Clues and loose ends,’ Ernst says. ‘I’ll organise it.’

  ‘Good. Then let’s get back.’

  418

  I leave them to it, returning to my girls, who have barely been separated since being reunited. As Irina sleeps, freshly bathed and cuddled up in her mother’s arms, Katerina tells me what she has discovered from our daughter, much of it overheard from Reichenau’s guards and lackeys.

  Some of it she isn’t clear about, having been deeply traumatised by it all. But what is clear is that Kolya meant to keep them hostage and his temporary loss of them to his ‘son’, Reichenau, enraged him. Irina believed that Kolya was working to steal them all back, and had succeeded with some of them. Why? Because the ‘brother’ who was in the room with her when I jumped back, spoke of ‘coming to see your sisters’.

  That’s interesting. It suggests that we might yet track them down. But the Akademie wasn’t the only place Irina was kept. There was a fortress, it seems. By the sea. Very cold, like in Russia, only everyone there spoke fluent German. Which makes me think of what Schikaneder said to me that time. Makes me wonder whether this might not be Kolya’s St Petersburg fortress.

  It’s a long shot, but it seems like something I ought to follow up on, and soon, before Kolya erases it, as he’s wont to.

  And so I go back to St Petersburg, at the time of Catherine the Great, in late July 1771, and begin to look around. I hire a boat and go out to where Schikaneder said that Kolya had built his fortress. There’s no sign of it from the water, but I want a closer look and go ashore, digging about among the scrubland. And there, embedded in the earth, part hidden by the overgrown grass and weeds, I find a series of metre-long metal grids from which warm air drifts up.

  This is it. It has to be.

  I decide to get help.

  419

  Ernst straightens, then looks across at me, a smile lighting his features.

  ‘It’s here.’

  We go across, Svetov and Saratov and I, even as Ernst draws the nettles and long grass back with his arm to reveal a huge metallic trapdoor.

  ‘This is it,’ Svetov says, deeply pleased. ‘It must be.’

  I nod. Kolya’s fortress. Only how do we get in?

  We bring in tools – shovels and pitchforks, which fit in with the age – and start to excavate the place, only we’ve not got very far, exposing maybe a quarter of the big, circular opening, when we get visitors. Local fishermen have seen us, and soldiers from the nearby fort have been sent out to question us. They hail us from their boat, which is maybe twenty metres out from the shore, but come no closer. It’s a time of plague in St Petersburg and everyone is jumpy.

  Svetov, an expert on this age, goes across and greets them. We have anticipated this, and have prepared two ‘corpses’ – long, padded parcels of just the right weight, wrapped up in dirty sheets – which are visible in the boat. Our story is that they’ve died of the plague and that we’re burying them, but the young lieutenant isn’t satisfied. He asks Svetov who we are and where we’re staying. We’ve anticipated this, too. Svetov tells him we’ve been working upriver, building a dacha for our master – a man whose name the young lieutenant clearly recognises but could not consult, even if he wanted to, because the man’s a thousand miles away in Moscow.

  ‘You want to look?’ Svetov says, gesturing toward the ‘corpses’ in the boat, but the young man shakes his head. You can see that he’s still unhappy, which means he’s likely to come back, and so Svetov switches to ‘Plan B’.

  ‘Look,’ he says, as if the young officer has caught him out. ‘I know how it looks, but our Master has instructed us to be very discreet. He’s looking to build a hospital – to service the great city – and we’ve been looking at the wasteland here as a possible site. He’s worried that if the wrong ears get to hear about it, then they might charge over the odds for purchasing the land.’

  At this the young lieutenant nods. Such deals he can understand. He gets his men to manoeuvre the boat closer to the shore.

  Svetov turns and signals to young Saratov, who goes to the boat and brings out the leather purse that’s there in the box and hands it to Svetov, who takes it and turns back to face the young officer again.

  This, as Svetov knows, must be done with great delicacy.

  ‘Forgive us,’ he begins. ‘I should have come to you directly, I know, only …’ Svetov smiles. ‘Your time is valuable … I recognise that. To have made you come all the way out here … we ought to recompense you for that. You and your men, that is.’

  And he weighs the purse in his hand for a moment, before throwing it across the narrow stretch of water that now separates Svetov and the boat.

  The young man catches it, like that’s all he ever does, then opens the drawstrings and peeks inside. And is clearly pleased, from the nod he gives.

  ‘Well,’ he says, in a very businesslike manner. ‘That makes things clear. We’ll bother you no longer, gentlemen. I hope your searches don’t prove to be in vain. A new hospital, eh?’ And he turns, signalling to his men to come away, his expression as much as to say he doesn’t believe a word.

  I let out a long breath. We’ll not be hearing from that direction again. Only the diversion has destroyed any attempt at secrecy. If Kolya is inside he will know now that we’re out here, trying to get in. Even so, we decide to carry on, and when more than half the door is exposed, Svetov and Ernst draw their lasers and, setting up screens to shield the operation from common sight, start to cut out the lock to the trapdoor.

  It’s solid steel and takes a while, and we’re not sure that we’re still being watched or not from the trees on the far side of the river. If we are, then questions will be asked. The bright flare of the lasers, the smell … neither bears much explanation.

  But suddenly we’re there. The trapdoor sags, then falls away.

  We aim our torches into the darkness below. Inside there’s a tunnel leading down, with a ladder leading down to some steps.

  Saratov, the youngest, goes first, slowly and silently. At the bottom he lifts his torch, l
ooking about, then signals the all-clear.

  We follow, down to the bottom of the steps where Saratov is to be found, standing in a massive doorway, staring inside with astonishment.

  I stand beside him, then whistle, amazed by the sight that meets my eyes.

  It’s one massive space, like a giant hangar, and at its centre …

  A massive transport. Some kind of spaceship by the look of it!

  ‘The gods preserve us,’ Svetov murmurs, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

  Ernst merely laughs.

  We go down the steps, then walk across, looking about us, expecting trouble at any moment – agents jumping in and lasers firing, only … the place is deserted, with only the sound of our boots ringing against the metallic floor breaching the silence. The wall cameras don’t seem to be tracking us and the lighting seems to be emergency lighting.

  Which can’t be right, surely? I mean, why would Kolya have gone to all of this trouble merely to abandon it?

  Or is it simply awaiting his return?

  Or maybe we’ve already won. Maybe Kolya is dead, in another part of Time, and all of this is now abandoned. Anything is possible. Only I don’t want to assume anything. And besides, I want to find Kolya alive so I can find out what he’s done with my other daughters.

  Doors lead off the massive hangar, and, in rooms surrounding it, we find all manner of things. There are supplies here for a small army, but there’s no sign of life. Not anywhere. All of the high-tech communication technology is switched off and, it seems, has been for some while. When we try to get it running again, it shows no sign of being functional. Which is strange. Then again, all of the life-support systems are on automatic.

  And all of this, of course, is one huge anachronism, for this is 1771, and there were no spaceships back in 1771. Not according to the history books. And that must mean something. Kolya must have had plans to use all of this for some purpose.