Best of British Science Fiction 2016

by Peter F. Hamilton

  The bench tilts at an angle of 20 degrees so that a prisoner can’t sleep without rolling off. Nor can the prisoner sleep upon the concrete floor, since bricks jut up harshly at random. Exhausting!

  Nor, due to the awkward bricks, can a person pace the cell. Himmler has managed to plant his black boots flatly between two bricks to steady himself – his coordination isn’t as good as it might be.

  What a Jew of a day this has turned out to be. The journey to Montserrat monastery to take possession of the Holy Grail, a total failure. His briefcase stolen from the Ritz Hotel. The Führer, infuriated by Franco’s pigheadedness.

  The damnable news that the briefcase went missing came towards the end of the reception given by Dr Jaeger, the German Consul General, in his residence. Which was prior to the scheduled dinner at the Rathaus – called the Casa Major or something, Barcelona’s town hall in Plaza some saint or other. That theft certainly put die Katze im Taubenschlag, the cat in the pigeon loft, as regards the stupid pigeonhead Spanish police! For sure the reception was soured.

  Painted on one wall of the cell is an eye-dazing chequerboard. Spots little and large orbit around, red, white, black.

  That chequerboard draws your gaze to it nauseatingly. Like a Kandinsky in the degenerate art exhibition Goebbels commissioned in ‘37, all those unGerman works displaying mental disease...

  Over dinner in the Rathaus, the Mayor of Barcelona described these cells of degenerate art so as to distract attention from a succession of police officers reporting to munching General Orgaz about how the Ritz and the whole city were now being shaken vigorously, in vain, in pursuit of the missing briefcase. So here’s the jowly, fat-faced Captain General of Catalonia within the crowded cell, suffering consequences.

  What’s the Mayor of Barcelona’s wretched name again? Miguel... Mateu. So he’s here too, in the cell. Even though these Spaniards dined so late, Himmler promptly insisted on a visit to the cells. Partly this was to punish his hosts, but also out of fascination –it’s important to research new information encountered in life, personally if possible, meticulously and exhaustively. Maybe the Gestapo can learn a new trick.

  The German Consul, Dr Jaeger, is here too in the cell for his sins. Only after the theft was reported did the Consul confess to Himmler that the staff of the Ritz notoriously ‘used to be’ infiltrated with spies – waiters trying to eavesdrop on important discussions, snooping chambermaids.

  Mind you, prior to Himmler’s trip Canaris idly mentioned one supposed piece of Ritz history: when the exiled Jew Bolshevik Trotsky was icepicked in Mexico a couple of months earlier by a Soviet agent, that selfsame Catalan Communist who murdered Trotsky worked in the Barcelona Ritz hotel at the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War.

  If Canaris was to be trusted! Too fluent in English by half, and in Spanish too, is Canaris. Him with his own rival military intelligence service.

  It couldn’t be, could it, that Canaris has anything to do with the ingrate Franco refusing to join forces with Germany and allow the Reich a corridor through Spain to capture Gibraltar? Unthinkable! Admiral Canaris, if anybody, knows the strategic importance of the British Rock...

  “Those cells use psychotechniques,” the Mayor had said in English, with an American accent, at the dinner table, Gruppenführer Karl Wolff translating for Himmler’s benefit.

  A string quintet was playing during dinner in the ‘Chronicles Room’ of that Spanish Rathaus. The Prelude to Lohengrin, the Siegfried Idyll, a flute doing duty for the tiny trumpet part...

  The floor of the ‘Chronicles Room’ was of black marble. Its walls and ceiling were murals of obscure historical happenings, painted upon expanses of gold and silver leaf.

  “Art to punish and disorient prisoners,” continued the Mayor. “This was how the Reds dealt with opposition while they were still in control here – though we aren’t sure if Companys knew about this personally.”

  Companys, the President of Catalonia during the red republic, was shot by firing squad in Barcelona’s castle just four days before Himmler arrived in Spain, maybe as a way of saying ‘Thank You’ to the Gestapo for catching that pest in Paris and handing him back.

  By all means mention Companys! Another example of the generosity and support of Germany for the pipsqueak Generalísimo!

  Himmler’s meticulous work in Madrid, buttering up Franco, was as much in vain as the hunt for the Holy Grail – or for the Ark of the Covenant in Toledo.

  Come to think of it, Canaris had pointed Himmler towards Toledo as regards the Ark... The Toledo tip-off was thanks to interrogations of a rabbi in Auschwitz, an initiate in Kabbalah, Canaris had assured Himmler, so this might be credible. Except that it wasn’t.

  “Psychotechniques –” repeated the Mayor, while Himmler toyed with his vegetables.

  General Orgiz had before him a plate of thick bloody Rossini steak, foie piled on top. Slaughtering birds and beasts for food is a crime against the natural world, although at times one has to go hunting with a rifle, smilingly on account of one’s companions.

  “– devised by a Republican torturer so-called artist named Alfonso Laurencic, and carried out by his depraved artisan Garrigós. We executed Laurencic over a year ago. Laurencic also designed special tight ‘wardrobes’ which constantly stress a prisoner – quarter of an hour in one of those could break a man... Just another of the atrocities of the red scum. Laurencic had a red beard,” added Mateu.

  “You still use his cells?” enquired Himmler.

  The Mayor shrugged. “We restored civilisation.”

  “Permanent vigilance, and repression when necessary, is the ticket,” said General Sagardía. “I’m sure you understand, Reichsführer.”

  Did ‘permanent vigilance’ include keeping an eye on the briefcase of the head of the Gestapo and of SS? These Spaniards! Noisy, hot-blooded, over-excitable lot. Their wine and their women and their cruel primitive bull fighting – one bullfight in Madrid was enough to last Himmler a lifetime. When Himmler presented the toreadors, toreros, whatever the word, with good German medals, one of the bull-killers said, “Medals are all very well for the Virgin, but what about the ears and tail?” Barbaric.

  As for their pathetic agriculture, how can it be so bad when so much rain seems to fall? The agronomist in Himmler is appalled at the neglect.

  Doubtless the thief broke into that suite at the Ritz after traversing several wrought-iron balconies by way of the linking ledges, making a mockery of the armed police stationed or snoozing in the corridor. Lurking crouched down on the same balcony from which earlier Himmler had saluted the multitude; awaiting any opportunity. The thief risked being spotted but it was night and no one was paying attention.

  What roars of admiration had come from the crowd after lunch when Himmler saluted – which was gratifying; yet to be obliged to put on a show for these bull-killers...

  Wolff apologised deeply that the SS guard within the suite absented himself briefly; once back in Germany, the man would be sent to an extermination kommando in Russia to redeem himself.

  General Orgaz was blaming the British Secret Service for the theft of the briefcase, presumably on the grounds that the Spanish themselves couldn’t be blamed if British spies were involved, cream of the cream. Alternatively, the French Resistance was to blame. Yet why not another Red spy, someone like Trotsky’s killer who cut his teeth right here? Hadn’t Franco’s cronies cleaned all the stables of red scum completely yet?

  The briefcase held documents about the agreements Himmler had negotiated in Madrid between the Spanish secret police and the Gestapo; also a report about the German community in Catalonia, courtesy of Dr Jaeger – and, on top of those, priceless ancient plans of the monastery at Montserrat, its secret catacombs and tunnels where the Grail might be kept hidden. That seat of learning published its first book at the end of the 15th century, yet it possessed in its library no copy of Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzifal – or so claimed the junior monk spokesman, Andreu or somebody, because the abbot hi
mself refused to meet with Himmler.

  One young monk: the only German speaker in the whole learnèd monastery – was that credible? The occult plans of tunnels proved useless.

  No copy of the great Parzifal poem was literally incredible when Wagner’s Parsifal received its first authorised performance beyond Bayreuth in Barcelona precisely due to proximity to Montserrat – which should be the Montsalvat of the opera, home of the Grail. Himmler had been driven past the Lyceum opera house or whatever it was called on his way to the Ritz through swastika-hung streets. After the time-wasting charming folk dances and displays of gymnastics by young people.

  “Exhaustion, plus hallucinatory art to derange the prisoner,” said Mateu.

  “I wish to see those cells,” Himmler declared.

  Orgaz wiped his lips with his linen napkin. “We’ll take you there tomorrow morning. Mañana. The Vallmájor checa, I think.”

  “Cheka – are you referring to Lenin’s political police?” Vicious, sadistic murderers...

  “Alfonso Laurencic designed the system of local lock-ups for interrogation and punishment based on the Russian Checa model.”

  “I want to see those cells now. Because I shall fly back to Berlin as soon as possible tomorrow morning.”

  Orgaz was astonished. “Right now? But I believe the dessert will be raspberry and peach Melba... created by Escoffier himself, the Emperor of Chefs as your very own Kaiser said. The inspirer of the Ritz hotels!”

  Himmler smiled very thinly.

  “The Melba might be exceptional.”

  Likewise, the security at the Ritz...

  “Even,” added Orgaz, “legendary.” Was the Captain General snidely implying something about Himmler’s quest earlier today? If so, how infuriating. Due to the curse of doctrinaire fanatical Catholicism, these people had no idea of deep occult truths. As a reincarnation of the first pan-Germanic king, Heinrich the Fowler, Himmler knew much better.

  “Scoff your dessert, then. I insist we leave within thirty minutes.” Presumably Wolff translated a less insulting word than ‘scoff’, hinunterschlingen.

  “At least take a coffee first, Reichsführer. Best Brazilian beans, by way of Lisbon, so I hear.”

  The Spanish might well misinterpret Himmler’s thin smile as cordiality. He learned long ago not to give obvious vent to anger; better to store up such feelings for subsequent vengeance. Yet, above all, he must not be taken for a fool.

  Resigning himself to some delay, he insisted, “As allies, we will all go together to see the hallucination cells.”

  Allies! As regards Gestapo liaison with Franco’s police, yes. This cost the Spanish nothing to agree to, and benefited them. Among the thousands of Germans living in Spain, refugee enemies of the Reich lurked amongst the businessmen, a potential fifth column of foreigners. As to joining with Germany in the war, Himmler could still hear Franco’s squeaky voice whining at his Pardo Palace outside Madrid about bad harvests, bad transport for German food aid, Spain’s greed for more of north Africa. Here in Barcelona, Himmler had handed over thousands of Reichsmarks in aid to flood victims. Good old Uncle Deutschland, much obliged. Spain, willing to do what in return?

  The chequerboard, like a vertical maze for mice, the coloured circles, the wavy lines disorient Himmler. The light is too bright; the lines swim; the black and white squares pulse in and out. This has been a long day. He begins to hallucinate or slip into semi-dreams.

  “Welcome to Adventures in Art History! Your selection is Twentieth Century Nazi Era –”

  A different woman’s voice interrupts distantly. “Henry? Henry from Harvard, you’ve become lost. You’re submerged. Seek-Engine Vasari’s expanding its reach, sucking in petaflops of historical detail. It’s spinning out of control, attaching more and more strands to its web.”

  A voice in his head, coming and going. How can he understand a voice speaking English? Yet he seems to... Is this occult knowledge? Some of what the woman says is nonsense: seek-engine, petaflop...

  “You should never have come to Himmler as a Viewpoint. To Göring, yes – he looted art. Or Goebbels – he was involved in the Degenerate Art exhibition. Or Rosenberg. Or the idiotic von Ribbentrop who liked French painters such as Utrillo even if Utrillo was degenerate. You should be in the Jeu de Paume in Paris, where looted art was assessed. Or at the Degenerate show in Berlin. Better still, you should never have impersoned as a Nazi bigwig.”

  Much eludes him. It’s like overhearing someone talking a hundred metres away.

  I don’t understand. Are you the power I seek for the Reich?

  Power. Macht. The Reich already has the Holy Spear safe in Nuremburg. The Ark of the Covenant remains elusive – a wooden chest once clad in gold, probably unclad these days. Himmler was in Toledo a couple of days ago, and his aides found nothing. He was at Montserrat today, only to be frustrated.

  Yet now a voice speaks to him in his head.

  “Power,” the woman says more clearly. “Drawing so much power. The seek-engine may have gone A.I. It’s autonomous, learning.” None of this makes any sense. “Learning the wrong things. Learning to be evil. Himmler and his cronies were nutty as fruitcakes. We’re afraid this isn’t exactly a sim any more. It’s so detailed that it’s coalescing with past reality. Identity of indiscernibles, Leibnitz. You know about this, Henry. No, scrub that – David says the sim’s coalescing with an actual alternative reality within Many Worlds, not very ‘alternative’ at all, leastways at this time period, 1940, almost identical. David’s in my ear. He’s saying our assumption that time retains the same pace, same rate of progress from past to future, in Many Worlds is wrong. Henry, you gotta do something dramatically out of kilter to break the, well, congruence – I nearly said enchantment. The seek-engine is eating up our processing power. Wait, David’s saying No Don’t Not Yet. This is a kind of time travel, he says. Fuck that, David, this is too dangerous. Henry, does your Himmler have a pistol? Walther 25 calibre, say, specially sewn pocket in his trousers, just like his beloved Führer?”

  Himmler’s fingertips grope. Pistol, yes.

  The power of degenerate art to corrupt a visionary German... A wave of nausea sweeps through him, but he doesn’t vomit his vegetables. Time seems to have stopped. The clock inset in the wall isn’t moving its hands. Clever idea, that clock – it gains four hours in every twenty-four, to disorient a prisoner further. Now the clock seems stuck.

  “The cell is a psychotrap. The way it was designed, the way it was painted. Henry, you’re experiencing psychotic dissolution. Cause Heinrich to pull his pistol and shoot the others in the cell. Fegg off, David – you said the sim’s resonating with an alternative reality, not with our own reality in the past. We’ll break the link, disrupt the sim, collapse it like cards, resetting the seek-engine. What does it matter if the alt-reality diverges? That’s the disruption we need. And we’ll rescue Henry, too.”

  The black and white squares throb. The lines on the wall oscillate. Red and yellow discs dance. Himmler’s fingers wriggle. Suffocating, in the cell. Heavily-dressed bodies crowding it. Body odours and cologne.

  “You listen to me, David, damn it! Is there any chance that the sim’s resonating with our own reality in the past? What would the consequences be of Himmler apparently losing his marbles and shooting people in that cell? If he shoots Consul-General Jaeger, witnessed by the Spanish, what difference may that make? Jaeger may be replaced as a minor player and the world bumps along... But if SS Wolff stops a bullet? For Chrissake, Wolff is Himmler’s Chief of Staff. He’s third in command of the SS, a rival to Heydrich. He’s Himmler’s peephole upon Hitler. He ends up as military commander in Italy, so it’s him who negotiates the surrender with Dulles. Yet he stays a mystery man, even after he starts appearing on post-war TV, authenticating the Hitler Diaries, whatever. Who replaces such an enigma?

  “Shoot the Spanish? Because they have no major roles to play? Himmler is unhappy with his visit to Spain, so he shoots two of Franco’s top henchmen? Do you think
he’ll get away with this, escape back to Berlin? Off to a sanatorium for a few weeks to keep his head down?

  “Oh yes, David, we thought it would be so safe and ring fenced and marginal if we focused first upon art history. Yet what if art is one of the primary forces in the world? A definer of reality.”

  Power. Control! He must control. In this psychotic cell he is controlled unacceptably. Why should he even try to please any of his Spanish hosts, when the reason for pleasing them vanished with the failure of the Führer’s meeting with Franco? He has pleased too many people in the past! Oh to be back home in Germany. Why should this odious Spanish experience be happening to him?

  “Himmler shooting his own Chief of Staff might have the big impact we need?”

  He has to release himself, break the frozen ice of the moment. How better than with a bullet? Or several?

  “We truly daren’t wait much longer, David. Truly so?”

  To shoot or not to shoot? Blood, even brains, might spatter his uniform, his face, his glasses. If only the Führer were here to command him, Shoot, my faithful Heini! Then to reward him for doing the right thing, with Well done, my faithful Heini. No, that’s his wife’s voice, a woman’s voice.

  Only once in two thousand years is an Adolf Hitler born! A more-than-man who can command instantly, choosing the true path instinctively. Heini is not himself a Führer. Head of the SS, oh yes. Head of the Gestapo, indeed. But not the more-than-human Godhead of Germany, not a Hitler.

  He wavers. The psychocell fluctuates, as though underwater. Have his glasses steamed over? The claustrophobia. The stifling.

  “Leave it up to Himmler who he shoots? Because he isn’t a puppet but a person? What’s with this humanising of Himmler? You of all people, David! Can’t you take the responsibility of deciding? And then we won’t be interfering quite so much? Is that it?

  “Really, we have less than a minute? Before this flux loses fluidity? Before we lose our power to act?