The Empire of Time

by David Wingrove

  Hecht claps his hands. ‘Out!’ he yells. ‘Now!’ And he kicks out at the nearest peasant.

  I’m shocked. I have never seen Hecht this angry. He turns and looks at me, raw emotion in his face.

  ‘If I ever get my hands on him …’

  Reichenau …

  I nod, then get to work, clearing that dark, malodorous tent, the toe of my boot pushing the last, reluctant pilgrim from the place.

  I turn and look. Hecht is kneeling over Ernst now, listening to his chest. He looks up, deeply concerned, then reaches out and, cradling Ernst, lifts him.

  ‘Burn the place,’ he says. And then he jumps.

  I stand there, looking at that awful, disease-ridden pallet on which they’d lain him; then, shuddering with disgust, I draw the laser from my belt and aim.

  148

  They send him back six months and repair him physically. But mentally?

  Mentally, Ernst is in bad shape. Whatever he went through inside the time-trap, we can only ever glimpse the tiniest part of it. Imagine Time standing still. Imagine it freezing about you. Just imagine yourself embedded in ice. Eternally.

  Then imagine being conscious all the while it happened.

  Ernst smiles up at me from his bed, then lifts his head and shoulders from the nest of cushions in which he lays.

  ‘Otto …’

  He’s clearly pleased to see me, yet his smile is so pale, so wintry, that it chokes me up. This is the first time I’ve seen him since he came back, and I can see the difference.

  Ernst will never be the same.

  I sit down beside him on the bed, looking at him, studying his face, then reach out to embrace him.

  He’s so light; there seems so little of him. Like a cancer patient. Only the problem isn’t physical. Physically there’s nothing wrong with him.

  As I move back from him, I notice the cards and flowers on the table on the far side of the bed.

  ‘From the women,’ he says, seeing where I’m looking. ‘They came and saw me earlier.’

  ‘They’re glad you’re home,’ I say. ‘And so am I.’ I pause, then. ‘It must have been hard.’

  Ernst says nothing. He doesn’t have to; the damage is in his face.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask, after a moment.

  ‘Yes … yes, fine.’

  Both of his hands are in mine. I look down at them, noting the translucency of the flesh, the strange, angular thinness of the fingers. They lay there in mine, impassive, switched off.

  I meet his eyes again. ‘What did they say? I mean … about getting you back into the programme?’

  Ernst looks down. ‘I’ve not asked him yet. But I guess they’ll need to be careful.’ He’s quiet a moment, then: ‘I understand that. If I were him …’

  I wait, then, when he offers nothing more, I say cheerfully, ‘I’ll speak to him, maybe. See if we can’t ease you back into things. Something simple. Familiar.’

  He smiles wanly, like there’s only so much energy to generate it. ‘Thanks, Otto. It’s so good to see you …’

  ‘Time heals …’

  Only, coming away from him, I wonder. Maybe there are experiences that leave so deep a scar they never properly heal.

  I have to go back. To Orhdruf. To complete the circle. Only first there’s someone else I have to see. Someone else who thinks he’s seen the last of me.

  149

  Manfred is alone in the War Room. It’s late – after three in the morning – and he has sent the others to their beds. This is the last night. When the sun comes up, it will all blow away in the wind.

  I appear in the shadows by the door, stepping silently from the air.

  Sensing something, Manfred looks up. He doesn’t see me at first, but then he does.

  ‘Lucius … or is it Otto now? How did you get in?’

  If he fears assassination, he doesn’t show it. But he is tired, I can see. I walk across, then sit, on a bench seat close to him.

  ‘How goes the war?’

  ‘It’s …’ He stops, then, remembering what happened last time we met, stares at me directly. ‘You vanished.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But how do you …?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  The great map behind me is mainly black now. Manfred’s armies have routed the Russians. But it isn’t over. Far from it. The final phase is about to begin.

  ‘You know how they’ll respond,’ I say.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Then why? Why destroy it all?’

  But he has no answer. Only that he must. He stands up, towering above me, then turns as the great door on the far side of the room hisses open. It’s Tief.

  ‘Are you all right, My Lord?’

  ‘Yes, Meister Tief. As you see, Otto has returned. Stepped out of the air.’

  Tief nods. ‘I saw, My Lord. One moment there was nothing, the next he was there.’

  Manfred turns and looks down at me. ‘I always knew.’

  ‘Knew?’

  ‘That there was something strange about you. All that talk of alliances …’ He pauses, then. ‘But not a Russian?’

  ‘Never a Russian, My Lord.’

  Tief clears his throat, and Manfred looks back at him. ‘Yes, Tief?’

  ‘They have an answer.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘The Russians, My Lord. To our ultimatum.’

  ‘Ah …’

  ‘And My Lord?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The Konigsturm is burning. The Guild …’

  ‘I know, Tief. I know.’

  It is civil war. Guild against King. Army against Undrehungar. As if one enemy wasn’t enough.

  I watch Manfred walk across and climb up on to the raised, semi-circular platform. Across from him the great screen changes. The map dissolves and in its place appear seven seated figures, as over-large as they are in life; greybeards in pale grey full-length cloaks. They look curiously ancient – medieval, almost. This is the Russian veche – or seven of the nine, at least – their supreme council of rulers. Like Manfred and his kin, they form a genetic elite among their kind – podytyelt, as they’re known– yet they have nothing of Manfred’s grandeur. They’re poor specimens by comparison, and I find myself thinking that, like the Guildsmen, it needs full seven of them to match a single one of Manfred’s ilk.

  The two who are missing are already dead, their leader, Chkalov, one of them, assassinated at the very outset by Manfred’s agents in the Kremlin.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Manfred says, giving them a sweeping – ironic? – bow. ‘You wish to surrender?’

  The eldest of the Russians – seated at the very centre of the group – leans forward slightly and looks from side to side before he speaks.

  ‘We have come to a decision.’

  ‘A decision?’ Manfred gives a short, humourless laugh, then shakes his head. ‘I’ll have no terms. You will surrender unconditionally.’

  There’s a moment’s silence, and then the elder speaks again. His face is bitter now, his hatred for Manfred showing clear suddenly. ‘You leave us no choice.’

  Manfred lifts his head slightly. ‘You capitulate then?’

  The old man seems exhausted. Even so, he is defiant to the last. ‘Never. Not until hell itself freezes over.’

  Or the Earth boils …

  Surprised, Manfred points towards their spokesman. ‘You will surrender. You have no choice.’

  ‘We shall destroy you first.’

  And all of us, I think. But this is all written. Unchangeable. Manfred has backed the rats – as he’s so often called them – into a corner from which they can’t escape. And now the rats are biting back. If they must die, they will die – as they see it – honourably.

  Such pride. Such stupid, self-destructive pride.

  ‘So be it,’ Manfred says wearily. And he cuts contact. On the screen the figures vanish, the great map reappears.

  I stand there, shocked. Knowing about this was one thing, but seeing i
t …

  And I do see it. I see it in Manfred’s eyes, particularly; in the way he bends over the rail, like a runner whose energy is wholly spent. This isn’t war, it’s suicide. Only Manfred didn’t want to go alone. He wanted to take everyone with him. Like that bastard Hitler. That’s why he pushed them to the edge. Not to win. He could never win.

  ‘You can’t,’ I say quietly, stepping towards him. ‘You can’t!’

  He looks up, meeting my eyes, then turns and speaks to the air: ‘Code Black Cloud,’ he says. ‘Target: Moscow …’

  My mouth works soundlessly. There have been exchanges of missiles already. Cities have already been destroyed. But thus far it’s been tactical. Brinkmanship. Now the real destruction begins. Hell itself will gape.

  Already – even at that moment – the missiles are soaring upwards in great arcs towards their targets. German missiles, and Russian too.

  Manfred looks to me again, and to my unspoken question answers: ‘Why not? Rather this than a world run by the Guild. It’s over, Otto. Finished.’

  And as he says the word, so there’s a loud commotion outside and a sudden, violent hammering on the door, as if Thor himself is demanding entrance. A moment later it hisses open. Two Guildsmen step through and take up position, their weapons raised.

  Adelbert enters a moment later, slowly, cautiously, his head swivelling from side to side. If he’s smiling, then he’s smiling deep within that nest of wires and plastic and metal that’s his head.

  ‘My Lord,’ he says, and bows, as if the title means anything any longer. For Adelbert has won. Germany is his now.

  ‘Guild Master,’ Manfred answers, and again he gives that low, ironic bow. ‘Or should I just call you … Master?’

  Step by mechanical step he comes, until he’s just below Manfred, at the foot of the metal steps that lead up to the platform. He looks up, his turret of a head tilting slowly back.

  ‘You will be treated well …’

  Manfred laughs tonelessly. ‘I will be dead. And so will you. Unless, of course …’

  Adelbert seems puzzled. ‘Unless, My Lord?’

  ‘Unless you can stop the missiles in mid air.’

  ‘My Lord …?’

  Manfred moves back a little, allowing Adelbert to see the map. On it now are a series of tiny, colourful streaks, to the right and left of the central mass, like tears – or claw marks – in the surface of the screen.

  ‘It’s the final phase,’ Manfred says, coming slowly down the steps until he’s on a level with Adelbert, facing him, towering over him.

  ‘But they …’

  ‘Told me to go to hell.’ Manfred laughs once more, then walks past Adelbert, towards where I’m seated.

  ‘Otto. You know what happens. Tell him.’

  ‘It’s over,’ I say, feeling sick to the stomach now that I’ve seen what really happened. ‘Nothing will survive.’

  It’s not strictly true. Something will survive. The two deep bunkers for a start. And Reichenau, perhaps, if we’re right about him. But it’s as close to the truth as I can say.

  ‘But why?’ Adelbert says. And, strangely, there’s real emotion in his voice.

  ‘Because you bastards would fuck it all up. Make it a living hell.’

  Adelbert doesn’t answer. He stands there, still and silent, like he’s been turned into a pillar of salt.

  Manfred sits alongside me, his long legs sprawled out before him.

  ‘How long before the first one falls?’ he asks, his overlarge head turned towards me, his eyes – which I once thought wise – defying me to challenge what he’s done.

  ‘Eighteen minutes,’ I say.

  ‘And the last?’

  ‘Approximately four and a half hours.’

  ‘That long?’ Manfred gives a long sigh. ‘And you’ll be gone, I take it?’

  ‘Yes, My Lord.’

  He nods, then turns away and, closing his eyes, yawns deeply. Getting to his feet, he walks back to where Adelbert still stands, silent and motionless.

  ‘What is it, Grand Master? Seized up? Rain got to you?’

  Adelbert’s head swivels round. His voice is angry now. ‘You’re a fool, Manfred. A wicked fool.’

  ‘As if you care for a single one of them!’ Manfred huffs contemptuously. ‘No! Let the bombs fall! Let the earth be wiped clean of our kind! Let there be no more wars, no more Rassenkampf! Thirty centuries is quite enough!’

  He falls silent. The colored streaks on the map have lengthened, reaching out from west and east, the foremost missiles crossing trajectories. In a while they will all cross over. More are joining them by the moment, as matters escalate. Soon the whole map will be cross-hatched with the trails of missiles.

  For me, it’s time to depart. I have borne witness to the final act of this tragedy – this dark comedy of two nations, hell-bent on each other’s extinction. There is no more.

  Or rather, there’s one last thing. One last person I must see.

  I stand and bow, first to Adelbert, and then, finally, to Manfred.

  ‘My Lord …’

  But as he shapes his mouth to answer I am gone. As he too will be gone before the dawn. Into the air. Ashes to ashes …

  150

  She is not in the sun room. The great lounge is empty and burned out, the great glass window cracked and darkened by smoke. I go up and find her on the battlements, staring out towards the east, her long, golden hair falling to her waist. Beyond her the sun is rising for the last time on a living world.

  ‘Gudrun?’

  She turns to face me, her face in shadow. ‘Otto? Is that you? Have you come?’

  ‘I said I would.’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  I go across to her and see, as I come closer, that her eyes are gone. Burned from her face. She is blind now. She will never see the dawn. Even so, she seems to stare down at me.

  ‘What is it?’

  I am wearing protective lenses. Fast-reactors, that form a thick film immediately there’s a change in the light. And fortunately so … for as she speaks, there’s a blinding flash, like the whole world has been turned into a negative of itself. Gudrun’s dark shape is outlined in liquid silver.

  As it fades – the light bleeding back into the dark – I feel a tingling on my face. My eyes hurt, but at least they’re not damaged.

  ‘Leipzig,’ I say.

  ‘Leipzig?’ And then she realises. ‘Oh, sweet mother …’

  I step closer, reaching out to take her hands. ‘Your eyes …’

  ‘It surprised me,’ she says. ‘No one told me …’

  Looking up into her ruined face, I could cry for all that spoiled beauty. Even so, she smiles, and as she does, I remember how she looked.

  ‘There can’t be many left,’ she says. ‘I’ve heard them. Felt the heat from them on my cheeks and on my arms.’

  Her arms are burned, I realise. The flesh is peeling from them.

  I swallow and make to answer, but at that moment the sound hits us in a wave, the air throbbing and growling, making us both clamp our hands over our ears, for it’s like the sound of a million souls howling forlornly on the wind.

  Such an awful, bestial sound.

  And then that too fades, and the stillness that follows is strange, for the silence is perfect. It is dawn, but not a single bird is singing. Not a single cock crows. There’s no sound of trains, or planes or—

  Gudrun kneels, facing me, her hands reaching blindly for my face until she finds it. Her fingers cup my cheeks.

  ‘Otto?’

  ‘Yes, sweet lady?’

  ‘Do you have someone you love? Back where you come from?’

  I am about to say no – not where I come from – but this is no time to be pedantic.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Her name is Katerina. And she is as beautiful as you, my lady.’

  ‘As I am now?’

  ‘Oh, you are still beautiful.’

  ‘But my eyes.’

  ‘I remember your eyes. If I clo
se mine, I can see them perfectly.’ Her fingers make a small movement on my face, then move back. She stands and looks about her, as if she’s sensing the air, her head turning slowly this way and then that.

  ‘When …’ Her voice breaks. She takes a moment, then begins again. ‘When do they bomb Erfurt?’

  ‘Soon, my lady.’

  ‘And you … you will be gone?’

  ‘Yes …’

  And it feels like a betrayal. Like I could do something. Only I can’t.

  ‘Will you … will you come back and see me?’

  ‘See you?’

  ‘In the Past. You could remind me. Show me the cup. Maybe …’

  She falls silent.

  ‘Maybe?’

  She turns, smiling again, looking down at me, almost as if she can still see me. ‘Oh, it would never have worked … the size of me and the size of you …’

  I shiver. ‘I—’

  ‘Oh, I know, Otto. You love Katerina. And you’re an honest man, not a rogue. But it would have been so sweet, to have had you, somewhere, somewhen. In some loose strand of time, maybe. You and I …’

  I close my eyes, tormented, for there is nothing I can do. I cannot return. I cannot grant her wish. And even if I could …

  ‘I must go,’ I say, and find that I hate myself for uttering the words. ‘I …’

  ‘I love you, Otto. Did you know that?’

  I give a tiny, surprised laugh, then look to her. But why is it absurd? Why could I not be loved by such a one as her?

  Because she is a goddess, Otto. Because such unions are not meant. And besides, there’s Katerina.

  There is. Only this once, I feel, perhaps, she’d understand. For Gudrun, at that moment, burned as she is, still has an unearthly beauty. And maybe that’s why. Maybe such beauty had to perish, because …

  But there is no ‘because’. Here at the end, all I can register is the pointlessness of it all. As the last bombs fall, what can I say but that this never should have happened.

  Rassenkampf. What madman conjured up the notion?

  ‘My lady …’

  And I jump, because if I stay a moment longer my heart will break.