I blink my right eye, trying to clear it, but that’s a big mistake and the pain engulfs me, almost sending me back into the darkness for a third time. I groan aloud and clench my fists against the hurt, but the hurt is everywhere and it won’t go away. Then, slowly, so slowly that I think I’m dreaming, it begins to wash from me as the drugs take hold.
My head swims and, for the first time, I realise that it’s Hecht who’s crouched over me; Hecht who’s been talking to me this last minute or so without it registering.
I turn my head the slightest degree, trying to take in what’s happening. The platform is a mess of blood and guts and jagged bone, and there’s an overpowering stench in the air. Someone is sewing me up now, but I’m confused. What did they do? Bomb us?
And then I remember. We were in Neu Berlin. Burckel and I …
‘Albrecht …’ I croak, barely able to get the word out. ‘Where’s Albrecht?’
Hecht says something, but it gets carried away. I try to focus on him, but my left eye closes. It feels much lighter than the other, as if someone has replaced my right eye with a piece of lead. But the stabbing pain has gone now and I feel relaxed, like someone has doused me in a bath of cool, liquid silk.
Yet even as I slip back into unconsciousness, I see Dankevich’s face as we jump, see the shock there as he throws himself belatedly towards Burckel and I, his lips forming a single word;
‘No-ooooooooh!’
108
I don’t understand at first. Hecht hands me the ragged gobbet of flesh and I frown at him. It looks like a locator, and I tell him such, but Hecht shakes his head.
‘It’s what’s left.’
‘Left?’
‘Of Albrecht Burckel. Of the real Albrecht Burckel. That’s why the signal never stopped. The focus was still working. But the rest of him …’
I feel nauseous. So that’s where our friend Werner came in. The Russians must have paid him to make a ‘doppelganger’ – a ‘copy’ – of Burckel, then switched the live focus from the real Burckel to the copy, embedding this gobbet of flesh into the copy.
Only Werner didn’t use Burckel’s DNA to make his doppelganger, so that when Burckel jumped …
I get a flash of the platform – that awful bloody mess, that hideous, gut-turning stench – and close my eyes again.
And immediately blink awake, because the eye is healed up, and my body …
‘Two months,’ Hecht says, answering my unspoken question. ‘But don’t worry. I sent you back. Repaired you in the past.’
I nod, relieved. At least that means Ernst hasn’t suffered too much from my absence, though Urd knows how it feels inside that stasis field. Each second might seem an eternity.
‘You’re good as new,’ Hecht goes on, ‘only I want you to hang on a day or two before you go back in. There’s been a change of plan. You’re going back, but this time I want you on the inside.’
‘Inside?’
‘In the fortress. It’s all arranged. You have an audience with the King.’
But it doesn’t properly sink in. Not yet. Because I keep thinking about what happened. About Burckel and the ‘edges’ of his memory. No wonder the poor bastard felt like that. No bloody wonder …
Part Six
Rassenkampf
‘A people is a detour of nature to get to six or seven great men. – Yes: and then to get round them.’
– Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good And Evil
109
That night I dream of her.
Night has fallen and we’re in the forest, running, naked in the moonlight, the paleness of her body flashing between the trees ahead of me. I can hear the breath hiss from me, while ahead, in that moonlit dark, her laughter peals out, like the laughter of enchantment. All night we run, hunter and prey. Slowly I gain on her, leaping fallen logs and rocks, running silently, tirelessly through the endless forest, until, in a glade at the bottom of a long, rock-strewn slope, she turns and faces me, a surging, silvered river at her back, a dark stand of pines beyond. She looks about her, like a wild and cornered animal, beautiful in her savagery, but I am upon her and, as I step from the trees, she smiles.
The dark and perfect buds of her breasts are aroused, and as she steps into my arms so her flesh is warm and moist against my own. Her soft mouth lifts to meet mine in a kiss.
And as she kisses me, I wake, aroused, wanting her.
‘Katerina …’
I turn, burying my face in my pillow, then turn back, groaning, unable to bear it.
You might think that I could go to her. But how? Every second of my waking day is taken up. Even so, perhaps I could slip back in Time and spend a day or two with her? After all, I could make it seem that I’d been gone only a moment.
True. Only to do so I would need to be sent back. To travel in Time I must use the platform. And why go back to that particular time right now? For what purpose? To help Ernst subvert Prince Nevsky? But Ernst is trapped, and until he’s freed …
Or, to put it more simply – how would I explain it all to Hecht?
You see my dilemma. And even if I could go back, to what point would I go? If I have married her, then that’s done and in the Past and you might think that I could go back to some moment when she was mine – when, without a moment’s hesitation, I might slip into her bed and, waking her, make tender love. But such a moment does not as yet exist. As things stand I have yet to make her mine. Nor is it certain that I shall, for all that’s in the future – my future, not the world’s.
‘Otto?’
I look up, and find Leni standing there in the doorway. She smiles apologetically, an embarrassed smile, and it’s only then that I realise my condition.
I throw a sheet over my nakedness, then sit up, taking the sealed envelope from her. As I open it, she crouches, meeting my eyes.
‘Are you … in need?’
I know what she means. Do I want to sleep with her? It would not be the first time. Far from it. But things are different now.
‘No, I …’
I fall silent, reading what Hecht has written.
‘Otto?’
I look at her again. Leni is beautiful. Oh, all of our women are beautiful in their different ways, but Leni especially so, with her strong yet narrow face, her short blonde hair and her neat, full-figured body.
‘I have to go,’ I say. ‘It’s time.’
‘Ah …’ And her eyes seem regretful. She smiles. ‘Another time, perhaps?’
‘Perhaps.’
When she’s gone I shower and dress then gather together what I’ll need for the journey. It isn’t much: a gun, a knife and a picture I drew last night of Katerina, the old one having disintegrated in the jump that did for Burckel. Or what pretended to be Burckel. All else will be awaiting me at the platform.
Hecht too is waiting there. He smiles and briefly grips my shoulder. ‘Good luck, Otto. You know what you must do.’
I nod, then step up on to the platform, my bundle in one hand. Urte meets my eyes from behind one of the work-stations and smiles. ‘Good luck.’
And she brings her hand down on to the pad.
110
As the cruiser banks to make its final approach, I look down through cloud at the city below. The Jungfernsee is directly below, the lake’s surface shining like a long, burnished mirror in the last hour of daylight. From this height you can see what a vast, sprawling metropolis Neu Berlin is, a strange, black, crystalline growth, filling the North Brandenburg plain. Even so, the fortress dominates the view, its central tower a vast, extended peak.
There’s a faint murmur of exchanges from the cockpit – our pilot speaking to the control tower – then we begin our descent, swooping down out of the evening sky.
Glancing across, I smile at Heusinger. Klaus knows this age, this place – he’s been here many times – but this once he’s taking a minor role. This time he’s secretary to me, the new ambassador of the Confederation of North American States. I’ve not worked with Klaus bef
ore, but he seems an amiable young man, polite, enthusiastic, and thoroughly – thoroughly – German.
This is Hecht’s plan, evolved and carried out while I was being put back together – a thousand tiny slivers of bone removed from my flesh, my right eye rebuilt, my hair and skin re-grown.
Until now we’ve kept our agents on the hinterland of the action, in the suburbs of Neu Berlin and in several other cities of the Empire – in Cologne and New Magdeburg, Hamburg, Lodz, Munich, Oslo and Lisbon. But now we are to move inside, into the fortress for the first time. It’s time to break bread with the decision-makers. Time to meet them face-to-face.
I understand Hecht’s reasoning. It has not been possible to play it otherwise before now. Much of the success of our game depends on subterfuge, on our agents being kept in the shadows, indistinguishable from any native of the Age. But life inside the fortress is lived in the glare of the spotlight. Inside, we must be open and bold. Such a ‘throw’ as this cannot be attempted more than once. Not without alerting the Russians.
Moreover, there are historical factors that we must not disturb – things that must happen. Hans Gehlen, for instance. Right now, in June 2747, Gehlen is a young man of twenty-eight, a genius who, in the coming days – and I do mean days, not weeks – will unravel the mystery of Time and, in so doing, begin the great cycle within which we all exist. Nothing must happen to him. Nor, indeed, to several others who must fulfil their destinies, here in this Age. We have agents in place, of course, protecting them, overseeing them at every moment, yet we must be careful that some action – seemingly harmless but historically fatal – does not unweave our careful planning.
Oh yes. And for once Germany must fall. And everything – everything – be blown to pieces. For that is what happened. That is what awaits us, down the line in 2747. Ragnarok. The twilight of the gods … And afterwards? The Nichtraum. Four-Oh. And war. Eternal racial war – Rassenkampf – with Russia. All else can change, but not that.
We land on top of the garrison building, in the shadow of the massive back wall of the fortress. Stepping down, I look across and up at the huge bulk of the central tower which climbs a thousand metres into the sunlight. Everything’s on a massive scale, yet as I turn to face the welcoming party I register a moment’s shock.
They’re huge, the smallest of them ten feet if they’re an inch.
The five stroll toward us across the open space, then stop and, with a strangely disconcerting uniformity of movement, bow to us. As they straighten, I note how their heads and shoulders are in direct sunlight, their features golden in the sun’s last rays, while their bodies – like us, like every part of us – lie in deep shadow.
The tallest of them stands at the centre of the group, a pace or two in front. He’s head and shoulders bigger than his companions and wears a long black cloak. His face is old and lined, yet also strong and deeply tanned. His grey eyes meet mine with a smile.
‘Ambassador. I am Tief, the King’s chancellor. Welcome to Greater Germany.’
Tief. It means ‘deep’ in the old tongue.
I thank him, yet all the while I’m conscious of the difference in our physical statures. I feel like a child before him, yet he seems to make nothing of it. There’s a kindness in his face that’s wholly unexpected.
‘Come,’ he says simply. ‘You must be hungry after your long journey.’
We walk among those giant figures across a narrow bridge – a giddying drop beneath us, like a chasm in a mountainside – and through a massive circular portal, the curved beams beautifully carved, into a huge yet shadowed banqueting hall.
I say hall, only it’s really a massive slab of stone – or Kunstlichestahl – jutting out into the centre of what is, in essence, one vast single chamber. It’s like being inside a giant lighthouse, to the walls of which have been affixed hundreds of these vast platforms. I can see others above and below us, and between them strange shapes move slowly, drifting between the levels.
I look about me. The black marble floor is empty but for one long table at the far end, set with silver and piled high with huge platters of food.
We take our places and, for a time, indulge in pleasantries. Nothing too profound, and nothing that touches on my business with the King. Tief and I do most of the talking, but eventually the meal comes to an end and, with a smile, Tief stands and, beckoning to me, turns from the table.
I follow, joining him at the edge of the floor. It’s a remarkable sight. Above us and below, other platforms, similar to our own, jut out from the great curved inner wall of the fortress. No stairways link these giant slabs, and in a moment I understand why, as a portion of the floor we’re standing on breaks off and, with a movement that seems almost motionless, glides down towards one of the lower platforms.
I feel a kind of excited fear at being suspended above the drop. A moment’s loss of balance and I would fall a thousand metres. Yet the view beneath me is magnificent. There are kitchens and halls, workshops and classrooms, and – everywhere I look – hundreds of servants, tiny, dark, anonymous-looking figures, moving slowly, silently about their business. Not to speak of the guards.
I glance up, seeing how the platforms above me seem to defy gravity, everything here on a scale to make us lesser beings – we Naturlich – feel smaller, inferior. Or maybe I mistake the intent. Maybe it’s just that the gods build like gods.
Another platform now approaches, a hall with pillars and a dozen great throne-like chairs along one side. As the segment of floor that’s carried us melds with the edge of it, so two silent guards bow low, averting their eyes. Beyond them, the servants they have been supervising fall to their knees, their foreheads pressed to the floor. There is a profound silence to the place, such that our footfalls echo on the stone.
We cross that great, empty floor, approaching a huge archway, each of the massive wooden doors carved with the giant figure of a bear, symbol of Berlin throughout the ages.
Tief turns to me. ‘The King awaits you within. You may look at him, but you must not speak. Not without his permission.’
‘And you, Chancellor?’
He smiles. ‘I shall wait here for you. When you are done, I will take you to your quarters. Meanwhile your secretary will be attended to.’
I smile. ‘You are most kind.’
He bows once more, his long body folding elegantly within its cloak.
The throne room is dark, the ceiling a long way overhead, lost in the shadows. We seem ‘indoors’ here, cut off from the openness of the rest of the fortress. Huge wooden beams cross the darkness above me, the dark forms of ancient banners dangling from their heights. There is a musty smell of age, as if this place has stood a thousand years. Lamps flicker in iron cressets to left and right, high up. I walk forward slowly, hesitantly, my eyes straining to make out the figure of the King. Just ahead of me is an imposing flight of steps – each broad stone step a good metre deep – at the top of which is an enormous marble throne. I make my way towards it and, kneeling at the foot, bow low, resting my forehead on my knee.
‘Please stand, Herr Manninger.’
The voice comes from behind me, to my right.
I straighten and turn, even as he takes a step closer, looming over me.
If Tief was big, the King is massive. He’s three times the height of me, so big a man he seems not made of flesh but of rock. His bare arms ripple with muscles, and though I know he is over two centuries old, he looks no more than fifty. He wears a great fur about his shoulders, like he’s king of the primeval forest, but no ancient king ever looked so mighty, so magnificent.
Looking at him, I am awed. King Manfred is the end result of centuries of selective breeding – a creature at the very limits of what mankind might possibly be. But there’s another reason to be awed by Manfred, because here is the longest serving king in Germany’s long history. He has ruled this land for eighty-seven years, surviving six coups and nine assassination attempts. Yet as he gives me his hand – my own engulfed by it – he s
eems untroubled, almost free of cares. His blue eyes smile down gently at me.
‘It’s okay,’ he says, in a deep rich voice. ‘You may speak, Herr Manninger. Or should I call you Lucius?’ His smile broadens momentarily. ‘How was your flight?’
‘It was long, Meister, and, I confess, rather tedious …’
I know it’s rude, but I can’t stop staring at him. He is – and it might seem a strange thing to say about another man – quite beautiful. It’s little wonder that his people consider him a god.
The Russians have their own genetic elite, of course – their podytyelt – but they are as nothing beside these Adel.
‘I was, I have to say, surprised.’
‘Surprised, Meister?’
‘Yes.’ And he sits, on the fifth step up, his long legs sprawled out before him like two fallen pines. ‘Oh, I knew that things were happening out in America, that it was no longer such a barbarian wilderness as once it was, but …’
I bow low, acknowledging that. ‘Things have changed. Since the Confederation was formed we have striven hard to eradicate disease and hunger among our people.’
I pause, and am taken by surprise by the interest in his eyes. His is a powerful nation of a billion and a half, America a ragged conglomerate of states totalling no more than eighty million souls – less than the southern quarter of Berlin itself – and he knows this, yet he listens as if we were equals, and I realise what a clever, well-balanced man he is. One might expect a degree of arrogance from such a being, yet he shows no sign.
‘So I’ve heard. Indeed, I understand that you’ve made great strides.’
‘Small steps, Meister, but in the right direction. These fifty years …’ I pause and lower my head slightly. ‘Our achievements might seem modest compared to your own, yet we are proud to have emerged from the darkness.’
The Empire of Time Page 33
