‘Ah …’ Burckel says. ‘The Stopsel …’
Plug-ins. Of course. And he quickly explains that these are for hire, for any purpose. You have only to pay the requisite fee.
I turn, looking about me, and see another row of Stopsel further down, and, just across from us, another. As I watch, someone slips five credits into the slot of one of the panels and, as the flex falls free, catches it, then leads his purchase away.
It’s brutal, yet no more ugly than things I’ve seen elsewhere, in other times. People have always sold themselves. If anything, it is its honesty that shocks.
Burckel walks on, past endless noisy bars and seething clubs, then ducks inside, into the Schwartze Adler –the Black Eagle. I follow him in, looking about me. It’s done up like an ancient bier-keller, with great wooden trestle tables and crudely carved benches. There are slatted wooden partitions and iron cressets on the walls. Large-breasted, blonde-haired Frau, in tight, dark pleated skirts and frilly white blouses move between the tables, carrying large trays of foaming steiners. But I alone seem to notice the anachronistic strangeness of it all, for there, at the centre of that great barn of a room, two men – great shaven-headed brutes in combat gear – fight hand-to-hand in a jungle glade while a throng of eager-eyed customers look on from every side.
We stand there, watching.
There’s the whack and thud of blows given and received. The two combatants grunt and sigh and groan as the death struggle nears its climax. It seems an equal match, and then one of them – the Russian – slips in his blood and falls and suddenly the bout is over in a blur of quick and vicious blows. Blood spurts, a fountain gush of blood, and a great cheer goes up – yet even as it does, the figures vanish, leaving the stage empty, a single spotlight picking out the bare wooden planks.
‘Upstairs!’ Burckel yells into my ear, his voice rising over the mob’s excitement, and up we go, even as another figure – a tall, broad-shouldered man in a white senatorial toga trimmed with mauve – appears from out of nothing at the centre of the stage.
It is the war. Despatches from the front. Or maybe it’s all staged – done for the Tri-Vees in some studio close by. All the same, the crowd laps it up, a gleam of bloodlust in every eye.
Burckel buys us a table in the far corner, bribing the pale, worm-like waiter heavily for the privilege, a Wache, or ‘minder’ positioning himself at the entrance to our open-sided booth.
‘It’s okay,’ Burckel says, noting how silent I am. ‘You can say what you like. The Wache are all deaf mutes.’
‘So they tell you.’
But Burckel shakes his head. He isn’t having any of it. In fact, he’s grinning now, and as the waiter returns, he seems almost drunk. Burckel orders for us both – pork, potatoes, sauerkraut, gherkins and some savoury potato pancakes, Kartoffelpuffer, of which he knows I’m particularly fond. But my mind’s not on the food. I’m thinking that he’s been alone here too long. Or maybe he’s taken something. Whatever it is, alarm bells have started ringing. I’ve seen agents go like this before.
I wait for him to order, then lean in close.
‘What’s happening, Albrecht?’
‘Happening?’ He looks at me, all innocent, then laughs. ‘I’ve asked some friends to meet us here.’
I stiffen. ‘Friends?’
‘You’ll see.’
I stare at him, then stand. I am prepared to jump; to up and leave, right there and then, but as if sensing what I’m thinking, he reaches up and holds my arm. His expression has changed, that inane grin gone; his eyes are serious now.
‘No, Otto. Stay. Please. You’ll like them. I promise.’
My eyes fix on his. ‘No one is supposed to know that I’m here. I thought you understood that.’
‘I know, but it’s okay. They think you’re a relative. A cousin from the south.’
‘You’ve told them about me?’
He nods. ‘Look, it’s okay. I’ve known them years.’
I stare at him a moment longer, then sit. ‘Friends?’ I ask again. ‘What kind of friends?’
‘You’ll see.’ And he turns away, the smile returning. That same silly smile that made me want to draw my gun and shoot the fucker. He’s lost it. I can see that now. But I wait. And soon they come.
‘Albrecht! And you, you must be Otto.’
I look up and meet his eyes. He’s a big man, his smooth skull glinting red in the tavern’s wavering light. His smile shows perfect teeth. He has his hand out to me, in the age-old, unchanging gesture, but I ignore it. I don’t know who or what he is, and until I do …
Burckel senses my hostility and tries to smooth things over, but I am watching the newcomer, my eyes trying to find something in his, some clue as to who he really is, because I’m sure he’s someone, whatever Burckel says.
A Russian agent, maybe. Or a spy. Working for the fortress.
The two men who are with him are smaller, less significant, and I’m aware of them only as background shapes.
‘Otto,’ Burckel says, half rising from his seat, ‘this is Werner.’ Werner. It’s a good German name. But I’m far from certain that he’s German.
He sits, facing me, not fazed at all by my refusal to shake his hand. His two friends – genetically adapted, I note – seat themselves either side of him, but back a bit, letting him dominate the table.
‘Well, Otto,’ he begins, the smile hovering on his lips, ‘I’ve heard so much.’
I say nothing, just stare at him blankly, angry that Burckel has placed me in this situation. But Burckel clearly doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong. If anything he’s angry at me now, for being so intransigent, so bloody-minded.
‘Don’t mind Otto,’ he says, smiling nervously. ‘He’s tired, that’s all. The journey from the south …’
‘They say the war’s biting hard down there.’
It’s an invitation to break the ice, but I decline it frostily. There’s an awkward clearing of throats, then Werner stands.
‘Maybe we should go. Leave you two alone …’
But Burckel seems anxious that Werner and I be friends. ‘No, stay. Please. It’s Otto’s way, that’s all. Don’t mind him.’
And the readiness with which the three men sit again confirms it for me. Anyone else would have left by now, offended by my behaviour, but they’re staying. Why? Out of friendship with Burckel? No. Something’s fishy here. Smiling suddenly, I cast out my little net.
‘So what do you do, Werner?’
There’s the tiniest little blink of surprise, and then he smiles again. ‘I’m a gene surgeon.’
‘And these?’ I indicate the two who flank him.
‘They’re mine. My children, you might say.’
It’s unexpected. ‘So how do you know Albrecht?’
He sits back, his right arm gesturing to our surroundings. ‘We share a love of the old, I guess.’
I look about me, conscious of what a throwback to the Past this place is. Almost authentic, only the wooden surfaces aren’t wood, just as the stone isn’t stone, but Kunstlichestahl. But then, nothing’s natural here.
‘So how’s business?’
There’s the slightest hesitation before he answers, enough to suggest that he’s carefully considering his words.
‘You know how it is.’
I don’t, but I can guess. Genetics are strictly controlled in this society, and if I remember correctly there are tight restrictions. In all probability our friend caters for the black economy. But I’m not going to ask. It does make me look at him again, however, and though he’s dressed simply – black vest, black baggy trousers and black slip-ons – there’s something groomed about him that suggests he’s not short of money.
‘And you, Otto? How’s the history business?’
I smile, then look to Burckel. From his evident embarrassment I can see he’s let slip far more than he ought.
‘It’s fine,’ I say, and hope that’s innocuous enough. But I’m worried now. Such indiscretion in
an agent is bad. It puts all of us at risk. And if Werner is a Russian …
‘Will you have a drink?’
The big man smiles, relaxing slightly. ‘That’d be nice. A beer, please.’
‘And your friends?’
But he shakes his head, and I reassess his relationship with his silent companions, reminding myself that this is, beyond all else, a world of masters and servants.
94
When they’re gone, I quietly ask Burckel what the fuck he thinks he’s doing, and whether he’s had our friend Werner properly checked out. He says he has, but I don’t believe him. In fact, I’m so sure there’s something wrong about the man, that I’m half-convinced I ought to check him out myself. Only that’d be no help to Ernst.
It’s then that I break the rules and ask Burckel directly what Hecht said to him.
‘I can’t say,’ he answers, but he’s having a hard time avoiding my eyes. I get the feeling that he wants to tell me badly, if only to make up for his other indiscretions.
‘But you know why I’m here?’
He shakes his head. So I explain – about Ernst and the energy-trap and how we’ve traced the power-anchor to this point. And it makes me wonder just what was in Hecht’s letter, because if he knew none of that …
Burckel says he can help. He knows someone. He just has to make a call.
I wait, while he goes to make it. And while he’s gone, while I’m looking about me, casually studying the people at nearby tables, it’s then that I have my second shock of the night. There, seated not half a dozen paces from me is an unpleasant little weasel of a man who I last saw back in the twenty-third century.
Dankevich! Urd’s breath! It’s Dankevich!
I quickly turn away, lest he sees me through the latticed wall of the booth. But what am I going to do? If I leave he’ll see me. And if I don’t …
When Burckel returns, I grab his sleeve and pull him down, speaking urgently to his ear. He blinks, surprised, then stares directly at Dankevich, clearly recognising him.
‘Another friend?’ I ask quietly, and he nods.
‘He calls himself Schmidt,’ Burckel says quietly. ‘Andreas Schmidt.’
But there’s no time for more. At that moment, Dankevich stands and, throwing down a couple of credit chips, turns and leaves. I’m up at once, but when Burckel makes to follow, I turn on him.
‘Wait! I’ll come straight back.’
I follow Dankevich out and almost lose him in the street, then see him duck down a side alley and force my way through the crowd, hurrying to catch up. Again, I think I’ve lost him, but then I see him hovering in the shadows just ahead, waiting, it seems, for a door to be opened. As it does, so the light reveals his features once again, removing any last doubts. It’s Dankevich all right – the same bastard I killed. And though I knew he was here, the shock of finding him so close – there in that bar, at a table so near to me – has fed my paranoia to the point where I want to jump right out of there, before the whole damn scheme collapses.
Dankevich. What the fuck was Dankevich doing at that table?
But it confirms what I suspected. The Russians have targeted Burckel. Surrounded him with ‘friends’. And I’ve jumped into this.
I turn and hurry back, but when I get there, Burckel’s gone. I wait close on thirty minutes, then, when he doesn’t show, I settle the bill and leave.
He’s not in his room, nor has he left a message. But just as I begin to lose patience, he returns.
‘This is …’
‘A friend?’ I stare at the man. To my eyes he looks identical to the two goons Werner brought along with him. He’s the very same type. There’s probably a name for it, but I don’t ask Burckel right then. My priority is to dig Burckel out of the mess he’s got himself into.
‘You wanted help,’ the newcomer says. Statement, not question. I look to Burckel, but he’s just grinning again, like he knows something I don’t.
‘It depends what you mean …’ I begin, then understand just why Burckel’s grinning. This is his contact. His man on the inside. The one he made the call to.
He looks to Burckel. ‘Is the room clean?’
‘It was when I left.’
‘Not good enough,’ he says. So we leave the room and ascend, taking the stairs this time, avoiding people, until we’re standing on that great ledge once again, staring out across the misted dark towards the fortress.
‘So what can you tell me?’ I ask, now that he’s free to speak openly.
‘Tell me first why you want to know?’
It seems a fair request, so I tell him. ‘Albrecht and I … we’re Undrehungar. We want to overthrow those fuckers.’
‘Undrehungar …’ He clearly likes the word. Revolutionaries. He says it a second time, then laughs.
‘Albrecht I trust, but why you? How do I know …?’
‘That I’m genuine?’ I shrug. ‘You don’t. You’ll just have to take my word.’
‘I don’t have to.’
‘No. But someone will. Someone will give me the information that I need.’
‘Not everybody knows it.’
But he doesn’t seem smug about it. Once more it’s a statement of fact, and I begin to like our new friend.
‘What’s your name?’
He laughs, and I realise I’m not going to get a name. A name is something that could be tortured out of me, and then maybe he’d find himself in the chair, being tortured.
‘Okay,’ I say finally. ‘Your choice. But I tell you this. There are other forces at work here. They want to preserve things as they are. They don’t want to see this regime fall. They want to prop it up until it decays from within.’
‘And who are these people?’
‘The Russians.’
He laughs, and doesn’t stop chuckling for quite some while, as if it really was amusing. And finally, when he has his voice back, he asks me why the Russians – our deadly enemies – should want to do that.
‘Because they view things in the longer term.’
‘Really? Then watch …’
And, as if on cue, there are a series of blue flashes on the horizon, far to our right, at the eastern edge of the great sprawl of Berlin. I’m puzzled at first, but then our friend hands me a VEU – a visual enhancement unit – and, slipping it over my eyes, I see just what those tiny blue flashes are, and understand. They’re missiles. I see the bright detonations, hear – a moment later – the dull concussions. I watch for some while, seeing how they move oddly, erratically, with a kind of predatory malice, as if they’re looking down at the streets below, searching out specific targets.
‘See how they do that?’ the stranger says. ‘The idea is to terrify the populace. Bigger, faster missiles would be more effective, but those things do far more psychological harm.’
We watch as a swarm of cruisers launch from the fortress, swooping out like great winged insects, heading east over the city to engage the enemy missiles. It’s quite a sight, and we’re not alone on the rooftops as the battle commences. Two of the big lasers open up from the fortress, sending fierce beams of searing light flashing out into the darkness, the after-image so bright it seems scorched upon the retina. The air is sharp with the burning smell of ozone.
And then, with a suddenness that seems almost anti-climactic, it’s over.
I turn and look at him. ‘How often do they do that?’
‘Attack us? Oh, most nights. Sometimes three, even four times. It’s like they want to remind us that it’s not all being fought out on Tri-Vee.’
Burckel, who has been silent all this time, now clears his throat. ‘Well?’ he asks. ‘Will you help us?’
The stranger stares at me, his dark eyes considering, then turns away. ‘We’ll meet tomorrow. I’ll give you a decision then.’
Why not now? I want to ask. But I can guess the answer. Our friend is not working alone. He wants to consult someone. A committee, maybe. Undrehungar – real revolutionaries – not fakes like us.
/> ‘All right,’ I say, keeping my impatience in check. ‘And if there’s anything we can do for you …’
‘You?’ He laughs once more, as if what I’ve said is just the funniest thing he’s heard in years. And, as he walks away, I hear him say a single word, the irony heavy in his voice.
‘Undrehungar …’
95
Burckel is angry with me. He thinks I was heavy-handed. And maybe I was. Only I’m far more angry with him, even if I don’t show it.
‘You don’t know just how long I’ve cultivated my contacts here,’ he says, pacing the floor, the glow globe in the corner illuminating his angry face. ‘You come along here and think in one day you know it all, but you fucking well don’t! You don’t know the first fucking thing about what’s going on!’
I’m sitting on the bed, watching him pace. ‘Have you considered the possibility that they’re spies, or Russians even?’
He stops and stares at me. ‘Of course I’ve fucking thought of it. I’m not stupid. Hecht didn’t pick me for my stupidity.’
That’s true. Only something might have happened. A blow to the head. Some drug slipped into his drink. Anything, in fact. And the result? One ineffective agent who only thinks he’s in control.
But that’s the danger with ‘sitters’. I meet his eyes and give a tired smile. ‘I’m sorry. We seem to have got off on the wrong foot. It’s just … I’m worried. About Ernst.’
That’s also true, but it’s not the whole truth. I’m worried about Katerina. About leaving that situation for too long. For while I could, theoretically, jump back there any time I wanted, I’m still uneasy. Uneasy, yes, and missing her. Missing her badly.
‘So what do you want to do?’ Burckel asks, happier now that I’ve apologised. ‘You know, before the meeting tomorrow. You want to see the city?’
I shake my head. ‘No. First I want to find out about the place Dankevich visited.’
‘Dankevich?’
‘Your friend Schmidt.’
The Empire of Time Page 27
