The Mammoth Book of Alternate Histories [Anthology]

by Edited By Ian Watson

  The Minister said, “My private short cut,” He walked forward to the Lamborghini, stood running his fingers across the low, broad bonnet. He said, “Look at her, Richard. Here, sit in. Isn’t she a beauty? Isn’t she fine?”

  Mainwaring said, “She certainly is.”

  “You like her?”

  Mainwaring smiled. He said, “Very much, sir. Who wouldn’t?”

  The Minister said, “Good, I’m so pleased. Richard, I’m upgrading you. She’s yours. Enjoy her.”

  Mainwaring stared.

  The Minister said, “Here, man. Don’t look like that, like a fish. Here, see. Logbook, your keys. All entered up, finished.” He gripped Mainwaring’s shoulders, swung him round laughing. He said, “You’ve worked well for me. The Two Empires don’t forget. Their good friends, their servants.”

  Mainwaring said, “I’m deeply honoured, sir.”

  “Don’t be honoured. You’re still being formal, Richard…”

  “Sir?”

  The Minister said, “Stay by me. Stay by me. Up there… they don’t understand. But we understand… eh? These are difficult times. We must be together, always together. Kingdom, and Reich. Apart… we could be destroyed.” He turned away, placed clenched hands on the roof of the car. He said, “Here, all this. Jewry, the Americans… Capitalism. They must stay afraid. Nobody fears an Empire divided. It would fall!”

  Mainwaring said, “I’ll do my best, sir. We all will.”

  The Minister said, “I know, I know. But Richard, this afternoon. I was playing with swords. Silly little swords.”

  Mainwaring thought, ‘I know how he keeps me. I can see the mechanism. But I mustn’t imagine I know the entire truth.’

  The Minister turned back, as if in pain. He said, “Strength is Right. It has to be. But Hess…”

  Mainwaring said slowly, “We’ve tried before, sir…”

  The Minister slammed his fist onto the metal. He said, “Richard, don’t you see ? It wasn’t us. Not this time. It was his own people. Baumann, von Thaden… I can’t tell. He’s an old man, he doesn’t matter any more. It’s an idea they want to kill, Hess is an idea. Do you understand? It’s Lebensraum. Again… Half the world isn’t enough.”

  He straightened. He said, “The worm, in the apple. It gnaws, gnaws… But we are Liaison. We matter, so much. Richard, be my eyes. Be my ears.”

  Mainwaring stayed silent, thinking about the book in his room; and the Minister once more took his arm. He said, “The shadows, Richard. They were never closer. Well might we teach our children to fear the dark. But… not in our time. Eh? Not for us. There is life, and hope. So much we can do…”

  Mainwaring thought, ‘Maybe it’s the wine I drank. I’m being pressed too hard.’ A dull, queer mood, almost of indifference, had fallen on him. He followed his Minister without complaint, back through the bunker complex, up to where the great fire burned low and the tapers on the tree. He heard the singing mixed with the wind-voice, watched the children rock heavy-eyed, carolling sleep. The house seemed winding down, to rest; and she had gone of course. He sat in a corner and drank wine and brooded, watched the Minister move from group to group until he too was gone, the Hall nearly empty and the servants clearing away.

  He found his own self, his inner self, dozing at last as it dozed at each day’s end. Tiredness, as ever, had come like a benison. He rose carefully, walked to the door. He thought, ‘I shan’t be missed here.’ Shutters closed, in his head.

  He found his key, unlocked his room. He thought, ‘Now she will be waiting. Like all the letters that never came, the phones that never rang.’ He opened the door.

  She said, “What kept you?”

  He closed the door behind him, quietly. The fire crackled in the little room, the curtains were drawn against the night. She sat by the hearth, barefooted, still in her party dress. Beside her on the carpet were glasses, an ashtray with half-smoked stubs. One lamp was burning; in the warm light her eyes were huge and dark.

  He looked across to the bookshelf. The Geissler stood where he had left it. He said, “How did you get in?”

  She chuckled. She said, “There was a spare key on the back of the door. Didn’t you see me steal it?”

  He walked toward her, stood looking down. He thought, ‘Adding another fragment to the puzzle. Too much, too complicated.’

  She said, “Are you angry?”

  He said, “No.”

  She patted the floor. She said gently, “Please, Richard. Don’t be cross.”

  He sat, slowly, watching her.

  She said, “Drink?” He didn’t answer. She poured one anyway. She said, “What were you doing all this time? I thought you’d be up hours ago.”

  He said, “I was talking to the Minister.”

  She traced a pattern on the rug with her forefinger. Her hair fell forward, golden and heavy, baring the nape of her neck. She said, “I’m sorry about earlier on. I was stupid. I think I was a bit scared too.”

  He drank slowly. He felt like a run-down machine. Hell to have to start thinking again at this time of night. He said, “What were you doing?”

  She watched up at him. Her eyes were candid. She said, “Sitting here. Listening to the wind.”

  He said, “That couldn’t have been much fun.”

  She shook her head, slowly, eyes fixed on his face. She said softly, “You don’t know me at all.”

  He was quiet again. She said, “You don’t believe in me, do you?”

  He thought, ‘You need understanding. You’re different from the rest; and I’m selling myself short.’ Aloud he said, “No.”

  She put the glass down, smiled, took his glass away. She hotched toward him across the rug, slid her arm round his neck. She said, “I was thinking about you. Making my mind up.” She kissed him. He felt her tongue pushing, opened his lips. She said, “Mmm …” She sat back a little, smiling. She said, “Do you mind ?”

  “No.”

  She pressed a strand of hair across her mouth, parted her teeth, kissed again. He felt himself react, involuntarily; and felt her touch and squeeze.

  She said. “This is a silly dress. It gets in the way.” She reached behind her. The fabric parted; she pushed down, to the waist. She said, “Now it’s like last time.”

  He said slowly, “Nothing’s ever like last time.”

  She rolled across his lap, lay watching up. She whispered, “I’ve put the clock back.”

  Later in the dream she said, “I was so silly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She said, “I was shy. That was all. You weren’t really supposed to go away.”

  He said, “What about James?”

  “He’s got somebody else. I didn’t know what I was missing.”

  He let his hand stray over her; and present and immediate past became confused so that as he held her he still saw her kneeling, firelight dancing on her body. He reached for her and she was ready again; she fought, chuckling, taking it bareback, staying all the way.

  Much later he said, “The Minister gave me a Lamborghini.”

  She rolled onto her belly, lay chin in hands watching under a tangle of hair. She said, “And now you’ve got yourself a blonde. What are you going to do with us ?”

  He said, “None of it’s real.”

  She said, “Oh …” She punched him. She said, “Richard, you make me cross. It’s happened, you idiot. That’s all. It happens to everybody.” She scratched again with a finger on the carpet. She said, “I hope you’ve made me pregnant. Then you’d have to marry me.”

  He narrowed his eyes; and the wine began again, singing in his head.

  She nuzzled him. She said, “You asked me once. Say it again.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  She said, “Richard, please…” So he said, “Diane, will you marry me?” And she said, “Yes, yes, yes,” then afterwards awareness came and though it wasn’t possible he took her again and that time was finest of all, tight and sweet as honey. He’d fetched pillows
from the bed and the counterpane, they curled close and he found himself talking, talking, how it wasn’t the sex, it was shopping in Marlborough and having tea and seeing the sun set from White Horse Hill and being together, together; then she pressed fingers to his mouth and he fell with her in sleep past cold and loneliness and fear, past deserts and unlit places, down maybe to where spires reared gold and tree leaves moved and dazzled and white cars sang on roads and suns burned inwardly, lighting new worlds.

  He woke, and the fire was low. He sat up, dazed. She was watching him. He stroked her hair awhile, smiling; then she pushed away. She said, “Richard, I have to go now.”

  “Not yet.”

  “It’s the middle of the night.”

  He said, “It doesn’t matter.”

  She said, “It does. He mustn’t know.”

  “Who?”

  She said, “You know who. You know why I was asked here.”

  He said, “He’s not like that. Honestly.”

  She shivered. She said, “Richard, please. Don’t get me in trouble.” She smiled. She said, “It’s only till tomorrow. Only a little while.”

  He stood, awkwardly, and held her, pressing her warmth close. Shoeless, she was tiny; her shoulder fitted beneath his armpit.

  Halfway through dressing she stopped and laughed, leaned a hand against the wall. She said, “I’m all woozy.”

  Later he said, “I’ll see you to your room.”

  She said, “No, please. I’m all right.” She was holding her handbag, and her hair was combed. She looked, again, as if she had been to a party.

  At the door she turned. She said, “I love you, Richard. Truly.” She kissed again, quickly; and was gone.

  He closed the door, dropped the latch. He stood a while looking round the room. In the fire a burned-through log broke with a snap, sending up a little whirl of sparks. He walked to the washstand, bathed his face and hands. He shook the counterpane out on the bed, rearranged the pillows. Her scent still clung to him; he remembered how she had felt, and what she had said.

  He crossed to the window, pushed it ajar. Outside, the snow lay in deep swaths and drifts. Starlight gleamed from it, ghost-white; and the whole great house was mute. He stood feeling the chill move against his skin; and in all the silence, a voice drifted far-off and clear. It came maybe from the guardhouses, full of distance and peace.

  “Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,

  “alles schlafte, einsam wacht…”

  He walked to the bed, pulled back the covers. The sheets were crisp and spotless, fresh-smelling. He smiled, and turned off the lamp.

  “Nur das traute, hoc heilige Paar.

  “Holder Knabe im lochigen Haar …”

  In the wall of the room, an inch behind the plasterwork, a complex little machine hummed. A spool of delicate golden wire shook slightly; but the creak of the opening window had been the last thing to interest the recorder, the singing alone couldn’t activate its relays. A micro-switch tripped, in-audibly; valve filaments faded, and died. Mainwaring lay back in the last of the firelight, and closed his eyes.

  “Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh,

  “Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh …”

  * * * *

  2.

  Beyond drawn curtains, brightness flicks on.

  The sky is a hard, clear blue; icy, full of sunlight. The light dazzles back from the brilliant land. Far things - copses, hills, solitary trees - stand sharp-etched. Roofs and eaves carry hummocks of whiteness, twigs a three-inch crest. In the stillness, here and there, the snow cracks and falls, powdering.

  The shadows of the raiders jerk and undulate. The quiet is interrupted. Hooves ring on swept courtyards or stamp muffled, churning the snow. It seems the air itself has been rendered crystalline by cold; through it the voices break and shatter, brittle as glass.

  “Guten Morgen, Hans…”

  “Verflucht kalt!”

  “Der Hundenmeister sagt, sehr Gefdhrlich!”

  “Macht nichts! Wir erwischen es bevor dem Wald!”

  A rider plunges beneath an arch. The horse snorts and curvets.

  “Ich wette dierfünfzig amerikanische Dollar!”

  “Einverstanden! Heute, habe ich Glück!”

  The noise, the jangling and stamping, rings back on itself. Cheeks flush, perception is heightened; for more than one of the riders, the early courtyard reels. Beside the house door trestles have been set up. A great bowl is carried, steaming. The cups are raised, the toasts given; the responses ring again, crashing.

  “The Two Empires ..!”

  “The Hunt. . !”

  Now, time is like a tight-wound spring. The dogs plunge forward, six to a handler, leashes straining, choke links creaking and snapping. Behind them jostle the riders. The bobbing scarlet coats splash across the snow. In the house drive, an officer salutes; another strikes gloved palms together, nods. The gates whine open.

  And across the country for miles around doors slam, bolts are shot, shutters closed, children scurried indoors. Village streets, muffled with snow, wait dumbly. Somewhere a dog barks, is silenced. The houses squat sullen, blind-eyed. The word has gone out, faster than horses could gallop. Today the Hunt will run; on snow.

  The riders fan out, across a speckled waste of fields. A check, a questing; and the horns begin to yelp. Ahead the dogs bound and leap, black spots against whiteness. The horns cry again; but these hounds run mute. The riders sweep forward, onto the line.

  Now, for the hunters, time and vision are fragmented. Twigs and snow merge in a racing blur; and tree-boles, ditches, gates. The tide reaches a crest of land, pours down the opposing slope. Hedges rear, mantled with white; and muffled thunder is interrupted by sailing silence, the smash and crackle of landing. The View sounds, harsh and high; and frenzy, and the racing blood, discharge intelligence. A horse goes down, in a gigantic flailing; another rolls, crushing its rider into the snow. A mount runs riderless. The Hunt, destroying, destroys itself unaware.

  There are cottages, a paling fence. The fence goes over, unnoticed. A chicken house erupts in a cloud of flung crystals; birds run squawking, under the hooves. Caps are lost, flung away; hair flows wild. Whips flail, spurs rake streaming flanks; and the woods are close. Twigs lash, and branches; snow falls, thudding. The crackling, now, is all around.

  At the end, it is always the same. The handlers close in, yodelling, waist-high in trampled brush; the riders force close and closer, mounts sidling and shaking; and silence falls. Only the quarry, reddened, flops and twists; the thin high noise it makes is the noise of anything in pain.

  Now, if he chooses, the Jagdmeister may end the suffering. The crash of the pistol rings hollow; and birds erupt, high from frozen twigs, wheel with the echoes and cry. The pistol fires again; and the quarry lies still. In time, the shaking stops; and a dog creeps forward, begins to lick.

  Now a slow movement begins; a spreading out, away from the place. There are mutterings, a laugh that chokes to silence. The fever passes. Somebody begins to shiver; and a girl, blood glittering on cheek and neck, puts a glove to her forehead and moans. The Need has come and gone; for a little while, the Two Empires have purged themselves.

  The riders straggle back on tired mounts, shamble in through the gates. As the last enters a closed black van starts up, drives away. In an hour, quietly, it returns; and the gates swing shut behind it.

  Surfacing from deepest sleep was like rising, slowly, through a warm sea. For a time, as Mainwaring lay eyes closed, memory and awareness were confused so that she was with him and the room a recollected, childhood place. He rubbed his face, yawned, shook his head; and the knocking that had roused him came again. He said, “Yes?”

  The voice said, “Last breakfasts in fifteen minutes, sir.”

  He called, “Thank you,” heard the footsteps pad away.

  He pushed himself up, groped on the side table for his watch, held it close to his eyes. It read ten forty-five.

  He swung the bedclothes back, felt air tingle on his
skin. She had been with him, certainly, in the dawn; his body remembered the succubus, with nearly painful strength. He looked down smiling, walked to the bathroom. He showered, towelled himself, shaved and dressed. He closed his door and locked it, walked to the breakfast room. A few couples still sat over their coffee; he smiled a good morning, took a window seat. Beyond the double panes the snow piled thickly; its reflection lit the room with a white, inverted brilliance. He ate slowly, hearing distant shouts. On the long slope behind the house, groups of children pelted each other vigorously. Once a toboggan came into sight, vanished behind a rising swell of ground.