The Empire of Time

by David Wingrove

  ‘Ah …’ He looks thoughtful. ‘You’re sure it was him – Dankevich?’

  ‘I’m certain of it. I killed the little fucker.’

  ‘Then …?’

  ‘Different part of the loop,’ I say. Even so, it’s disconcerting how often I’ve killed men, only for them to pop up once again. That’s the trouble with Time: it’s not sequential.

  ‘You want to do that first thing tomorrow?’

  I stand and shake my head. ‘No. Let’s do it now. After all, who knows what mischief that little weasel is up to.’

  96

  It’s a little after two when we get back there. Von Richtofen Strasse is still busy, but there’s not the dense press of bodies there was earlier. Tomorrow’s a work day for most, and life can be hard in the eye of the fortress – even so, enough remain to make the night eventful.

  ‘Ignore the jags,’ Burckel says to me, steering me away from a group of young men who sway drunkenly together outside one of the bars. ‘We don’t want any trouble.’

  ‘Jags?’ But even as I say it, it comes back to me. It’s a catch-all phrase for drunks and lowlifes and addicts.

  The side alley is empty. Telling Burckel to wait for me on the corner, I walk along until I’m facing the door Dankevich went into. There’s no sign, not a word to say what the place is, but I guess it must be some kind of club from the peephole in the door. And someone is clearly watching from the other side, for as I go to turn away, the door opens and a big man – he has to crouch to get out under the lintel – steps into the alley.

  ‘What do you want?’

  It’s too late to say ‘nothing’. He’s seen that I’m interested. But I don’t really want to go inside, not if Dankevich is still there. I just want to know what the place is.

  ‘A friend of mine said you were worth a visit.’ I hesitate, then, ‘I’m from the south …’

  ‘Ah …’ And he looks me up and down, then nods to himself. These Berliners think they’re a good ten IQ points above their southern German cousins, and have done since time immemorial.

  ‘Your friend … did he have a name?’

  I’m tempted to say Schmidt, but if Dankevich is inside …

  ‘Look, if I’m not welcome …’

  There’s a moment’s calculation in his face and then he stands aside. It’s not an easy thing for such a big man to do in such a small alley, but now I can’t back out. I could walk away, only that would just draw attention, and I’m pretty sure they’ve got me on camera. And if they are Russians …

  As the door closes behind me, I stand there in that tiny anteroom, conscious of his sheer size, his bulk and height. I’m a tall man myself, but this brute’s a good foot and a half taller than me. Not only that, but he has hands the size of dinner plates. And they look incredibly strong.

  There’s another door directly in front of us, and while we wait for it to open, I feel intensely claustrophobic standing beside the big man. He seems to loom over me – to fill the room about me. I can smell the brutish perfume of the man – his scent. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, and I wonder again just what I’ve got myself into.

  Even so, I have an answer. The club is called Das Rothaarige – ‘The Red-Haired One’. The two words are on a plaque beside the inner door, beneath a cameo of a long-haired man.

  Red hair. It makes me think. Of Barbarossa, the red-bearded king of early Germany, and of Hitler’s Russian campaign, named after him. Yes, and of the Rus’, themselves, named after the band of red-haired Scandinavians who formed Kievan Rus’, back in the middle of the tenth century.

  The door doesn’t open. Beside me the big man grows restless. I turn, meaning to ask him what the problem is, and see he has one of those massive hands to his ear, listening to something in his head. He nods silently, then turns to face the outer door, speaking to me as he does.

  ‘It seems your friend wants to come in too.’

  ‘My friend?’ But then I see what he means and I almost groan. Why can’t Burckel leave things be?

  The door swings open.

  ‘Otto, I—’

  The big man grabs him, pulls him inside, then slams the door shut.

  Almost at once the inner door opens, to the smell of cigar smoke and cologne and the soft murmur of conversation, interlaced with electronic music. Nothing loud or intrusive, the kind of thing that you might expect in such a club at any time, in any century. Stockhausen’s Licht, if I’m not mistaken.

  It’s a gambling club, I see that at once, nor is it very big. I turn to thank the big man, but he’s gone. In his place stands another man: small, almost arrow-thin, a polite, yet genuinely friendly smile on his face. He would seem ordinary, but for his flame-red shoulder-length hair.

  ‘Herren …’

  I return his bow, then note how he glances at Burckel.

  ‘You should have said,’ he says, returning his gaze to me.

  ‘Said?’

  ‘That you were Herr Burckel’s cousin.’

  Again, my heart sinks. Is there not one place that Burckel hasn’t made waves?

  ‘I wondered about the name …’

  Rothaarige smiles, then reaches up to touch the loose-hanging ends of his hair. ‘It’s not hair,’ he explains. ‘Not real hair, anyway.’

  I wait for something more, but it seems that’s all he has to say on the subject. ‘You’d like to play, Herren?’

  I turn and look around the tables. There are six big, hexagonal tables with blue electrostatic tops. They’re crowded, a dozen or more players – well-dressed men, mainly – standing about them, but there’s no sign of Dankevich, nor can I see any other familiar faces.

  I feel in my pocket then shrug. ‘My money, I—’

  Rothaarige smiles. ‘Herr Burckel’s credit is good. What would you like? A thousand marks?’

  It’s more than a month’s wages in this world, but the players in here don’t look like working men.

  ‘Okay. But that’s all.’

  He laughs. ‘I’d heard you suden Deutsch were cautious.’

  If it’s meant to goad me, it doesn’t work. Cautious is good. I only wish Burckel was showing more caution.

  The truth is, I hate gambling and I want to get out of there as soon as possible, but leaving isn’t an option. Not yet. I really need to know why our friend Dankevich frequents this place. Is he a gambler? If so, how can I use that?

  But underlying all my thoughts is the feeling that I have made a mistake by coming here. Maybe a big mistake.

  A young man appears at my side and hands me what appear to be ten six-inch iron-black plastic spikes. They’re pointed at one end, flattened at the other, like ancient nails. Indeed, the similarity is so striking that I stare at them in my hand, until Rothaarige laughs.

  ‘You’ve not gambled before, Herr …’

  He’s fishing for my second name, but I ignore him. ‘One hundred each?’ I ask, and he nods, then ushers us over to the nearest table. The crowd move aside, allowing us a place, and, glancing down, I see that the blue glow of the table is an illusion. Marked out within the great hexagon is something I recognise instantly.

  At the centre of the table are two diagrams, each circle in each diagram the size of a large coin. Some are brightly lit, some grey. The top one is the chemical diagram for the adenine-thymine base pair, white lines linking the represented atoms, while beneath it is that of the guanine-cytosine bases. Between them they make up the constituents of DNA and thus of life itself. All life. And there, surrounding them, forming a great circle at the edge of the table, is the double helix spiral itself.

  Again, some parts of that great circle are lit, while others are dull, and even as I watch, one of the circles – representing a carbon atom – comes alive suddenly, and I feel excitement grow about the table.

  ‘I call it the Game of Life,’ Rothaarige says quietly to my ear, ‘though the common herd know it as Spirals. You know it?’

  I wonder what’s best, to bluff, or show my ignorance. But I’m curious
now, and he seems willing to explain.

  ‘Each player buys his cards, one hundred a card, a minimum of five cards, maximum ten. Play progresses clockwise from the dealer. Each player chooses one card from his hand at each turn. And no huffing. If you can play a card, you must.’

  I look about me, seeing how, in front of each player, there’s a tiny glade of plastic spikes, like miniature pines, stretching out from the dark cushion at the edge of the table, and how, just beneath my hand, the table is mottled with tiny holes. Some of the spikes are lit, others dark.

  ‘Should I buy my cards now?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not allowed,’ Rothaarige says kindly. ‘Not until this round is over. You see, the winner is the one who plays the last card. It would be unfair if you were to enter the game now, after so much has already been staked.’

  ‘I see.’ And I do, but only vaguely, and so he continues.

  ‘There are fifty-nine circles in all, but one hundred and eighteen cards … two packs, essentially. The idea is to match a card in your hand with one of the circles on the table. You slip the card into the slot just there. Any player who completes one of the four bases gets a reward – one twelfth of the existing stake. Similarly, a player who completes one of the pairings is also rewarded – only this time one sixth of the total stake. The greatest reward, however, goes to the player who plays the final card. He claims a full half of what remains.’

  ‘And the rest?’

  ‘Goes to the house, of course.’ Rothaarige smiles at me. ‘Though not all of it. One third of the house’s profit becomes the players’ stake in the greater game, though they must continue playing if they want to lay claim to it. If they drop out … well …’

  My eyes trace the great, circular double helix and note, once again, how certain parts are lit, others dark.

  ‘I don’t follow you …’

  ‘It’s simple. Whoever finishes one of the base pair can claim a matching pair on the outer spiral. AT or CG, or their inverse pairings. If they can then complete a minor groove, or even a major, they are rewarded further.’

  ‘A minor being …?’

  ‘Four consecutive strands, a major six.’

  ‘Ah …’ And, looking once more, I see how far any of the players are from such rewards. But the night is young and the players keen. I make a quick calculation and begin to understand why the small man laughed at my thousand. It would go nowhere in this game, not with more than eight players at the table.

  I watch, seeing how the circles light up, one after another. There’s a small cry of delight as one of the players, a stooped old greybeard, completes the Thymine base. A moment later, a dozen or so of the spikes in front of him – previously dark – light up, bringing a warm glow to his deeply lined face.

  It’s twenty minutes before I finally get to play. Rothaarige’s gone now, but Burckel seems keen to help. He’s played before and, as I’m handed my cards, he tries to take them from me.

  I bat his hand away.

  Burckel frowns. ‘I was only …’

  I glare at him, then sort my cards and look to the table. I have ten cards – ten options on the board. I can see already how tactical this game can be, how, if one kept back two matching cards, one might win. Given luck. Only the point is I want to lose. To get out of there as quickly as I can.

  I play, ignoring Burckel, making him sigh with exasperation.

  ‘Otto, that was foolish …’

  I say nothing. Watch my ten cards dwindle to two, realising that the meagre little copse of spikes below me are all dark.

  ‘You want to increase your stake?’ Burckel asks. ‘You can if you want, Otto. I—’

  ‘Albrecht.’

  He falls silent.

  I play my penultimate card. There are eight players, and though three of them are unable to play – their cards are doubles of cards already played and therefore worthless – there are still eight unlit circles on the table, evenly distributed, two to a base.

  The fun starts here.

  I watch as the play moves away from me around the table. Cytosine is quickly claimed. Other circles brighten. The player two to my right joins those unable to play, his two remaining cards doubles.

  There are two circles unlit in Guanine and I have one of them, the rare N9. I hold my breath as my neighbour slips his final card into the slot. There’s the briefest pause while the machine registers the play, and then the unlit C1 atom on the Guanine lights and I know I’ve won.

  Burckel whoops. This particular game may be over for us, but we’ve won back our stake. Not only that, but I’ve earned one strand in the greater game.

  I speak to Burckel’s ear. ‘We have to go.’

  ‘But you can’t,’ he answers openly, not caring if he’s overheard. ‘You have a presence now, on the outer spiral.’

  ‘That’s a loser’s game, Albrecht.’

  ‘I’ll stake you.’

  ‘That’s not the point. We need to go.’

  Rothaarige appears at my elbow and gently touches my arm. ‘Well done, Otto. That was subtly played. Next time, perhaps, you’ll—’

  He stops abruptly, turning, as we all do, to face the hammering at the outer door. He seems concerned, and I wonder for the first time whether this is legal. Then I notice how his hair seems to ripple. There’s the faintest light flowing through it, as if through fibre-optics, and as it does, so he seems to calm. Smiling his apologies, he walks towards the door, even as it opens.

  Rothaarige is a small man, but he seems to make himself even smaller as he nears the door, cringing almost, apologetic. And then I see why. Coming through the door, literally having to squeeze through it merely to get inside, is a monster of a man, so big that I wonder how both he and the doorman managed to get into that tiny ante-room. He’s masked, yet even so, all there know who, or rather what, he is.

  ‘Welcome, Guildsman,’ Rothaarige says, his voice unctuous now, his whole manner suddenly, strangely servile. Or maybe not so strange. The Guild of the Teuton Knights is not to be messed with.

  The Guildsman turns, scanning the room as if for enemies, then fixes the small man in his visored sight.

  ‘Is the room prepared?’

  Rothaarige nods and bows low. ‘Of course, Guildsman. If you would come with me.’

  But as I glance at those close by, I see how every eye is now averted, as if the Guildsman is not there, and though I’m curious to see one of them, I do likewise. Yet maybe I’ve seen enough. He’s like a piece of crafted metal, his armoured exoskeleton more insectile than human, his hands like massive instruments of torture. And his eyes …

  Mechanical yet human. The nearest thing to a machine, and yet alive.

  Beside me, Burckel shudders, and as the door shuts on the far side of the gaming room, he murmurs something.

  ‘What?’

  Burckel looks to me, his eyes haunted. ‘I hate those bastards.’

  But he says no more. He’s not allowed to. We both know what’s to come, but of it we are not allowed to speak, not even to each other.

  ‘Come,’ I say, now that Rothaarige has gone. ‘I want out of here. Now.’

  97

  A Teuton guildsman and a Russian agent, both frequenting the same club. As we walk back down the levels to Burckel’s apartment, I ponder whether there might be a connection, and if so of what kind. Was the Guildsman merely a player, or was he there to meet someone – Dankevich, perhaps? Or was it just coincidence? Whichever, I don’t mention any of this to Burckel. He, for his part, is annoyed with me for coming away before we’d had the chance to make a line of four, or maybe even six.

  ‘You’re a lucky man, Otto,’ he says, as he turns the lock and pushes open the door. ‘But you ought to trust your luck, not shun it.’

  I follow him inside, making no comment, wondering just where the hell I’m supposed to sleep in this mess.

  ‘I’m sorry it’s so …’ And then he laughs. ‘I never was tidy. Even as a child, in the Garden. I—’

&nb
sp; I stare at him, shocked. ‘Albrecht! Have you forgotten?’

  ‘Forgotten? No, I …’ And then he laughs again, but this time it’s in embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not supposed to speak of that, am I? It’s—’

  Secret, yes.

  I contemplate jumping right out of there at once, but decide against it. Burckel clearly doesn’t know what he’s done and I’m not about to panic him. Even so, I change my plans. Hecht needs to know about this, and soon.

  I look about me for the makings of another bed, but there’s nothing, only piles of clutter. Burckel, however, seems unperturbed. ‘You have the bed,’ he says. ‘I’ll make myself comfortable on the floor.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course. And look – you have to forgive me, Otto. I’ve not been myself tonight. If I’ve been a little indiscreet, well, I’m sorry, only it’s been so long since I’ve had company. Someone I can trust.’

  It’s only a small glimpse, but suddenly I see how vulnerable he’s felt being here. And little wonder, really, for this is the most dangerous place of all. Here at the fulcrum. Here where it all begins.

  ‘That’s okay,’ I say, softening to him for the first time. ‘It must have been hard.’

  ‘Hard?’ Burckel sighs. ‘You just don’t know, Otto. You really don’t.’

  98

  I hear his breathing change, and when the pattern of his snoring becomes regular, I get up and, careful not to knock anything over in the dark, make my way to his desk and find the journal.

  I’m sure the answer’s here. And so, clutching the heavy volume to my chest, I jump. Back to Four-Oh. Back to Zarah and Urte – and Hecht.

  Hecht is surprised to see me. He asks me what I’ve got, and so I show him, and, because this is not a specialty of his, he calls in Lothar, our expert in ge’not, and, throwing up an image of the last page on a screen, Lothar reads a passage aloud.

  The translation sounds awkward, the words like an ill put-together poem, but when I query this, Lothar just smiles.

  ‘What you’re hearing is just one level of it, Otto. In ge’not the words are paired, like the genetic bases they derive from – “twisted together”, you might say. I would need to work on this a while to get the full meaning of it. It’s heavily concept-based … it works at a higher level than normal everyday language. I liken it to Chinese poetry. It doesn’t have one single, defined meaning.’