The Empire of Time

by David Wingrove

  Eight hundred and seventy souls inhabit the Nichtraum – the ‘no-space’ – of Four-Oh, at the last count. Of those, one hundred and seventeen are out there right now, in the Past, fighting the Russians, each one linked through Time and Space to Four-Oh. Their presence out there shapes the Tree, their living pulse forming its pulse. If any one of them should cease, then one shimmering, delicate branch ceases also, leaving only an after-image.

  One whole alternate history snuffed out.

  I look to Hecht. ‘And you want me to find out just how weak?’

  ‘In time. First you need to get some rest. I hear you’re talking to Ernst’s students later on.’

  Is there anything Hecht doesn’t know?

  ‘He wants me to give them a first-hand account.’

  Hecht laughs. ‘Well, you can certainly give them that. Do you realise how strongly you smell, Otto?’

  I grin. ‘I can’t say I’ve noticed.’

  ‘No, but the women did. Oh, and Otto …’

  ‘Yes, Meister?’

  ‘Try to be kinder to the women, now you’re back. They’re only doing what they’re supposed to do.’

  6

  You might wonder what Hecht means by that, and I ought, perhaps, to explain. Only, I am kind. Kinder than Hecht imagines. He’s right, of course. I do have problems with that side of things, not with sex itself, but with the way we as a Volk handle sex. Oh, and I know the arguments. With so few of us, we need to take every opportunity we can to diversify the gene pool. Intellectually I can see the need.

  Some argue that we could arrange this differently, mix up our genes in the laboratories and attain diversity by that means, but the counter-argument is strong. We are a Volk, not a group of families – Engel, Fischer and Muller, Schulz, Vogel and Ziegler, with all of the clannishness that involves – but a people. Change how we go about breeding and we would lose that. Our sense of oneness comes from knowing that we are one single family, that all mothers are the mother, all of our children the children of that one, singular mother, whomever’s womb nature uses for the task. As for the physical, sexual side of things, that’s there to bond us, man to woman, flesh to flesh. To do it otherwise is unthinkable. Or so I’d argue, if pushed. Because intellectually I can see the need. Emotionally, however …

  But you don’t need to know that. Not yet. Only that I find it hard, the way we do things here in Four-Oh.

  Back in my quarters, I strip off and shower, then lie on my bed naked, my fingers laced together behind my head as I run things over in my mind.

  It’s hard at first to focus. Coming back, re-immersing myself in the hustle and bustle of Four-Oh after the cultural rawness of the Middle Ages, is never easy. My mind tends to be in two places at once for a while. But there are disciplines, and I use one now to clear away the mental clutter and attend.

  It’s very simple. If the Elders – the senior Reisende – have met, then a decision has almost certainly been made on Seydlitz’s project – either to go ahead or, and the thought troubles me, to abandon it entirely.

  I try to put myself in Seydlitz’s position, try to imagine what it would be like to be turned down after putting in so much. After all, he’s worked on his scheme for eighteen years now. And not just any eighteen years scattered through Time – but eighteen years subjective, as measured by his body’s slow decay. He’s still a young man, young enough, perhaps, to embrace another cause, another project, but I’ve seen men changed by the experience of rejection, seen them turn in upon themselves. If that were to happen to Seydlitz …

  They may, of course, have endorsed it. In which case …

  I smile, suddenly, strangely certain that that’s what’s happened, and the thought of it – of that great switch of manpower and man-hours to a new alternate time-line – gives me the kind of thrill that only an agent, operating out there in Time, can feel.

  A new world order is about to be born. Something that didn’t exist is about to be conjured into existence, with new choices, new branches, new diversifications.

  A new move on the great board.

  The thought reminds me of where I’ve just come from, and a wave of sadness envelops me, but I’m tired now, and, closing my eyes, I sleep …

  And am woken at seven by Ernst’s soft suden Deutsch accent, reminding me of where I need to be at eight.

  I dress, choosing a simple black one-piece not unlike Hecht’s own, then, remembering the boys’ faces, decide to summon Jodl, the armourer.

  He’s there instantly, as if he’s been waiting for my summons – which is quite possibly true. He would have been informed the moment I got back. Now he steps into the room and stands there, head lowered, as the hatch hisses shut behind him.

  He’s a small compact man in his sixties, and he would dearly like to turn back the clock and be a Reisende again, only Hecht won’t let him. These days his expertise is harnessed in other fields, which is what will happen to all of us when – and if – the time comes.

  ‘I’m seeing Ernst’s students,’ I say, turning from the mirror to look directly at him. ‘I thought it might be nice to look the part.’

  He nods, then goes to speak, but I anticipate.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘A few cuts and bruises, that’s all.’

  Jodl almost smiles. ‘You want me to clean the armour you were in, or bring your second suit?’

  ‘The second suit will do.’

  He hesitates a moment longer, and then he’s gone, the hatch hissing shut behind him, returning an instant later, a hover-cart in tow, upon which is a brand-new suit of armour, my sword, a shield, and a second set of crusading Brothers’ clothes.

  ‘You didn’t have to,’ I say. ‘There was time.’

  He looks at me sternly but says nothing. Jodl prides himself on his efficiency. To be thought the least bit tardy …

  ‘Ernst isn’t well,’ he says, as he hands me the first item from the cart.

  ‘Oh? In what way?’

  ‘Look at his eyes. He hasn’t been sleeping. And his hands …’

  I nod. It doesn’t surprise me after all Ernst has been through. The only surprise is that he’s sane at all.

  I strip off the one-piece and begin to dress again. ‘He’ll be okay now that I’m back.’

  Jodl looks me in the eye. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘No, he will. He’s missed me, that’s all.’

  He looks away, then hands me another item, making no comment, but I know that behind that perfect mask of a face his thoughts are buzzing like a disturbed hive. Like all of them, he wants to know what I saw, what I did, who I met. And maybe I’ll let him see a copy of my report when it’s finished, only right now I don’t want to discuss it. Not with him, anyway. Jodl has a way of asking all the awkward questions. And I’m not sure I’m up to answering those kind. Not yet, anyway.

  As I pull on the rough woollen shirt, I look at him, reminding myself. If you look close – really close – you can see the odd grey hair among the black.

  Time. How slow time must pass for the occupants of Four-Oh.

  7

  ‘What is Time like, Master Behr?’

  ‘Time is like the surface of a pond. And also like …’ I pause, then laugh gently. ‘Time has a thousand qualities, but mostly, mostly it’s the thread that holds the universe together. In Gehlen’s equations …’

  I stop, seeing how the boys are looking at me, glazed over suddenly. That’s the trouble with Gehlen’s Time equations, you can’t visualise them – they function on a totally abstract level – and the mind needs to be able to picture things before it can understand them properly. It needs to create workable metaphors. But Time … how can you explain Time? It’s pretzel logic.

  ‘Time,’ I begin again, ‘is like a river. There are many tributaries, but only one river.’

  Or a Tree, or …

  They grin back at me, and I realise I’m being teased.

  I know these boys well. I’ve taught most of them now for two, maybe three years, since the
y first came out of the Garden. When we’re not in the field or researching, we teach, passing on what we know to the next generation. Ensuring that the fight is carried on in the best way possible.

  Matteus, the youngest of them, raises his hand.

  ‘Yes, Matteus?’

  ‘Did you kill anyone, Master Behr? Where you’ve just been, I mean—’

  It’s a good question. Because if that past doesn’t become the Past, then surely no one ‘real’ is killed at all? Only it isn’t so. The Past is always real, even when we make changes to it. As real as this.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, remembering. Even one as young as you. But I don’t say that aloud, because it disturbs me, this capacity in me to become a killer, back there in the Past. You see, at times we must be assassins. That is our job. There’s little room for moral qualms. Or supposedly so. Some find it easy, you understand. Myself? I find it the hardest thing to hate. Not for ideological reasons, anyway.

  ‘And were you ever in real danger, Master?’

  The questioner is a thirteen-year-old named Tomas, a big lad for his age, all muscle and brawn like a peasant’s son, only I know he is the brightest of them all.

  ‘You are always in danger, in the Past.’

  ‘Always?’

  ‘Yes, Tomas. For where we are, they are.’

  ‘The Russians?’

  ‘Yes.’

  And their allies. For they, like we, are not averse to using whatever or whoever is at hand to further their cause.

  Which is?

  To annihilate us. To rid history of any taint of us, the German people. While we, in our turn, strive night and day to do the same to them.

  A game. But one with the most deadly of intents: a game called Rassenkampf – ‘race war’. And don’t flinch at my words. Think. For this is the truth of humanity.

  Tomas’s eyes gleam as he watches me. ‘Did you kill any … Russians?’

  Ernst, sensing that we’re about to be led off into a cul-de-sac, interrupts. ‘Let’s stick to the subject, shall we?’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Tomas.’

  Tomas falls silent. Beside him, Matteus raises his hand.

  ‘Yes, Matteus?’

  ‘Does it smell back there?’

  There is laughter. As it fades, I answer him.

  ‘Very much. And you know what? Every Age has its own distinct smell. Where I’ve been, well, things were very basic back then. Their idea of sanitation and personal hygiene left much to be desired.’ I smile. ‘It’s no place for a sensitive nose.’

  They like that. There’s more laughter. But Ernst, I can see, wants something deeper than this from me. I can see in his eyes just how much he’s missing it, how much he wants to talk about how it feels to be out there, in Time.

  I look down. When I look up again my features are sterner. ‘Smell is an important indicator of the state of social development of an Age, yet it’s one of the more superficial aspects. Just as each age has its own smell, so it has its own mind-set, its own store of beliefs, of givens …’

  ‘Religion,’ Dieter, the eldest of them, says, and I nod. ‘When you go back, you must immerse yourself in the mind-set of that era. To do otherwise … well, it’s not an option. Not if you want to stay alive. One must learn to become a man of that time in every detail: in look, in speech and in basic mannerisms.’

  ‘What do you mean, Reisende?’

  Reisende, he calls me. Traveller.

  I pause, remembering just how hard it actually is: lying to yourself day in day out, pretending to be what you’re not, paying lip service to things you cannot, should not ever believe. Especially all of that Nazi stuff. Looking back at those reverent boyish faces, I find I cannot tell them. Not the whole truth, anyway. Being a time agent is like being the biggest liar that ever was.

  I compromise. I tell them part of it.

  ‘What I mean is that you must be a kind of actor. You must embrace the pretence. You cannot – must not – be who you really are. To let anyone suspect …’

  ‘So you live a lie?’ Dieter asks.

  I backtrack a little, noting how Ernst is watching me now, the faintest smile on his lips.

  ‘When you’re there, and it really is only when you’re there, you find yourself searching within your own character for those elements that coincide with the Age, which … reflect it, I suppose. You give rein to those elements.’

  I see that some of them are not following me.

  ‘It changes you,’ I say, and I note how Tomas, at least, nods, some small glimmer of understanding in his eyes. I know there and then that he’ll make a good agent when his time comes.

  But the others? What do I want to say to them? That you are not who you think you are? That to become a traveller – a Reisende – you must learn to shed one skin and wear another?

  Yes. Only that’s not all. The truth is, it is an exhilirating, liberating, revelatory experience. And troubling, too, for sometimes you learn too much about yourself when the restraints are cast off; when one must live by a new set of rules simply to survive.

  ‘Otto?’

  I look to Ernst. ‘I’m sorry. I was remembering.’

  ‘Remembering?’

  ‘How it was, the first day I was there. On the boat, coming down the river to Marienburg.’

  But I say no more, because I don’t want to frighten them, and if I tell them how I really felt that day, it will. You see, the Past is an alien country. It is brutal and unforgiving, and you cannot make mistakes – not with the Russians out there.

  ‘Otto?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m tired. I haven’t quite adjusted back yet.’

  But it isn’t tiredness, it’s sudden understanding. I know now that it was me. Something I did back there. A mistake, perhaps, or some carelessness on my part. Because there’s no other way the Russians could have known.

  ‘I’m sorry, boys, but …’

  The boys show a paper-thin understanding, but I can see they’re disappointed. They wanted tales of glory, of adventure and raw excitement, and I have not delivered. Only I can’t free myself of the notion that my mistake – whatever it was – cost the lives of almost fifty men. Real lives.

  I need to lie down and close my eyes. I need something to keep me from remembering.

  8

  Ernst comes to me later, in my room.

  ‘What is it, Otto? What happened back there?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I must have done something. Something that left a trace.’

  He nods, then sits, facing me on the end of my bed. I watch him for a while, noting how silent he is, then ask: ‘And you?’

  His smile is guarded. ‘They say I’m doing well …’

  ‘It’ll take time,’ I say, resting my hand gently on his arm. But I am unable to imagine how he feels, for Ernst is a Reisende – a ‘traveller’ like me – and this confinement here in Four-Oh, however necessary, is chafing at him, like a frayed rope against raw flesh.

  ‘Otto?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Will you speak to Hecht for me?’

  I hesitate, then nod. It will do no good, of course, but how can I refuse? Ernst is my best friend. To say no to him is almost unthinkable. Yet if I were in Hecht’s place, I would make the same decision, for to even think of sending him back would be disastrous – for all concerned.

  Ernst stares at me a moment, then looks away.

  ‘What?’

  He looks back at me, then shrugs. ‘I was just thinking. About the Past. About us.’

  ‘We were a good team.’

  ‘We were. Only …’

  He doesn’t have to say it. He only has to look at me and I can see the damage, there behind his eyes, there in every line of his face. And I sense – as maybe he senses – that it will never change; that he will never get better. And I don’t know how I would deal with that. Because I know that the Past is like a drug for me: I have a craving to go there, to see it and be a part of it. Without that …

  I c
annot imagine it. I just can’t.

  ‘I’ll speak to Hecht,’ I say. ‘I’ll try to convince him.’

  But when he’s gone, I slump down on my bed, my mood dark, because I know I can’t help him. And if you can’t help those closest to you, then what kind of man does that make you?

  I sigh. Maybe it’s the business at Christburg, but suddenly I wonder what the point is to it all, and whether I’m not simply lying to myself thinking I can make a single shred of difference to what’s happening. But what’s the alternative? To give up? To let the Russians win?

  No. Because this is to the death. And whatever doubts I have, I need to keep them to myself.

  As if on cue, I hear Hecht’s voice from the speaker overhead. ‘Otto, I need you. At the platform. Now.’

  And I go. Because this is what I do, who I am. And to do otherwise is …

  Unthinkable.

  9

  Kramer is the first to come through. Looking across at us, he grins. He’s wearing a simple brown garment of the roughest kind of cloth and his reddish hair is cut pudding-bowl fashion. He’d look the part, the archetypal medieval peasant, were it not for the way he bears himself now that he’s back in Four-Oh, his ‘disguise’ thrown off.

  As he steps down, the air behind him shimmers once more and Seydlitz forms like a ghost from the vacuum, his tall, well-proportioned figure taking on colour and substance in an instant. He’s dressed in full armour, the mantle of a Livonian Sword Brother about his shoulders, and his ash-blond hair is cut short, crusader-style. He looks exactly what he is, an aristocrat, his princely bearing only emphasised by his aquiline, almost Roman nose.

  I look to Hecht for explanations, but Hecht ignores me. Stepping across, he greets the two.

  ‘Hans, Max …’

  They bow their heads respectfully, then look to each other, excitement written all over their faces.

  ‘Well? What did you find out?’

  ‘Russians,’ Kramer says, his eyes gleaming.