by David Weber
“Again, see, I would have been perfect. We even share the same name.”
“I honestly can’t recall much about my mother,” Klaus continued, perhaps pretending not to hear Elfriede. “I’ve always tried to hang onto them, and your Babusja Yulia helped all she could, but she was such a bright and wonderful person she couldn’t help…overwriting them. Still, I think we all have clear memories of your grandfather.”
Benjamin and his twin sister chuckled, and he thought back to the grand patriarchal figure who, even in his twilight years, had projected so much strength and authority.
Klaus-Wilhelm von Schröder was one of those larger-than-life individuals the world no longer seemed to produce. He’d been born and raised with an aristocratic tradition of service that dated all the way back to the sixteenth century. Born too late for service in the First World War, he’d grown up in a bitter, angry Germany—a Germany ripe for a black-hearted demon in the guise of a man on a white horse. And that loathsome human being had been named Adolf Hitler.
Klaus-Wilhelm had been an army officer, about as apolitical as they came, and he’d never been a Party member himself. Yet Benjamin knew he’d been no more proof against the bitterness of the humiliated nation about him because of that. He’d joined the Army because that was what the Schröder family did, but also because he’d burned to avenge that humiliation. And because he did, he’d also overlooked the racism of Hitler and his Nazis…at least until Kristallnacht had opened his eyes. His willingness to overlook that racism had been a source of bitter shame for the remainder of his life, and it had influenced every decision he’d ever made afterward.
There hadn’t seemed to be anything he could do about it at the time, however. He was a professional officer, heir to a tradition of service stretching back centuries, and like every other German officer, he’d been required to swear a personal oath of allegiance to Hitler when he became Reichskanzler. Oaths had meant something to Klaus-Wilhelm von Schröder, and so he’d found himself trapped between his abhorrence for the truth he’d seen under the surface and the oath which made him part of the machine taking his nation deeper into the darkness. God only knew what he would have done if Hitler had survived!
But in the 1930s, he’d buried himself in his military duties, trying—as he’d bluntly and unflinchingly admitted to a sixteen-year-old Benjamin—to “bury my head in the sand of duty to the state because I was too afraid to stand on the rock of duty to myself.” He’d been one of Heinz Guderian’s disciples as the Wehrmacht developed the principles of mobile warfare, and he’d served under Erwin Rommel in the dash to the coast which had cut off and forced the surrender of the British Expeditionary Force.
From that beginning, it wasn’t surprising he’d gone on to command major armored formations under the restored monarchy, and his beloved first wife’s death had left him with a motherless son at the very time his country most required his services. And so he’d sent Klaus to live with relatives in the United States, safe from the madness enveloping Europe, while he answered that country’s call…as Schröders had always answered it.
“I remember,” that son said now, looking around the table at his son and daughters. “His correspondence was so cold and formal. I thought he was distancing himself from me. It wasn’t until much later that I realized it was the hole inside him that made him sound that way in his letters. He was a man of honor, your grandfather. He’d lost his wife and then sent his only son away while he fought to create a better world for all of us because that was his duty. But no matter how hard he tried, duty and honor simply weren’t enough to fill that hole.”
Elfriede moped with her chin on her forearms, and her father wagged one index finger at her with a small smile.
“Remember what I said about people being in the right places at the right times, Elfriede!” he said. “That was definitely true for your grandfather. The fighting in 1950 during the Ukraine Liberation…” His smile disappeared and he shook his head, his eyes dark. “That was the worst, most vicious combat of his entire life. The commissars fought hard, and there were—God, there were so many atrocities on both sides! And yet, in the middle of all that, he met Yulia, the only woman who could fill that hole. God gave him that gift, and the Kaiser himself gave away the bride on the same day he named Klaus-Wilhelm Interim Governor of Ukraine for the Western Alliance.
“Gräfin Yulia von Schröder wore this ring for forty-two years, until God gave your grandfather another gift and she passed peacefully in her sleep.”
He looked around the table, his eyes solemn, and even Elfriede abandoned her put-upon-sister role long enough to looked back with matching solemnity. But then Klaus sat back in his chair and smiled crookedly.
“Your grandfather and I didn’t always see eye to eye. He sometimes claimed not to understand his ‘American son,’ but I was his firstborn. More than that, I know—I always knew—he loved me dearly, even if there were times he had trouble showing it. And if I’d ever doubted it, Yulia would have made sure I didn’t. God, she was a wonderful woman, your Babusja Yulia! And he showed me how much he loved me when he gave me this ring, both as a token of his love for me and as part of our family’s heritage.
“As one firstborn to another, I know how hard it can be to grow up without a big brother or big sister. To be the first in your generation to have to figure things out. Only God chooses who will be born first in a family, but it’s a heavy responsibility. Even more so for you, Benjamin, because you had sisters looking up to you as an example.”
Elfriede, Benjamin noticed, had recovered enough to snort loudly at that last sentence, and his father’s eyes twinkled.
“But being firstborn isn’t without its privileges, too,” he said, and his voice had softened once more. “And so I give you this ring so that you can give it to someone very special. Just as Yulia appeared at the right time, at the right place, to be your grandfather’s joy, his support, the mother of your uncles and aunts, I believe Elzbietá is the right woman for you. I feel it. Your mother feels it. And we both wish you all the best.”
“Thanks—” Benjamin cleared his throat. “Thanks, Dad.”
He closed the box and hoped the mist in his eyes didn’t show. Then he took a deep breath and looked across the table. The fantasies and delusions that had plagued him, especially his father’s “death,” never seemed more distant than when he surrounded himself with family. Even Elfriede’s presence, despite their occasional bickering, filled him with an inner warmth, and he knew he was truly blessed to have such a wonderful family.
“Wish me luck,” he told them.
“Luck?” Klaus scoffed. “You’re a Schröder! You don’t need luck!”
*
Benjamin opened the door of the garage attached to the quaint, all-brick ranch-style house and pulled the car inside, next to his BMW Z40 roadster. He wondered if Elzbietá would still be content living here after she—almost assuredly—said yes. Perhaps she’d want to move into something a bit roomier than what was, essentially, his oversized bachelor’s pad. Not that it wasn’t a nice house. Far from it, in fact. It just lacked certain necessities like, oh, guest rooms? After all, if there were going to be kids in their future, they’d have to sleep somewhere. He couldn’t let his sisters have all the “fun,” right?
“Stop it, Ben. You’re getting way ahead of yourself.”
He went inside, turned off the alarm, and placed the lacquered box on the kitchen counter. He couldn’t think of a reason why she wouldn’t say yes, but then why was his stomach suddenly fluttering all over the place? He shook his head and entered the master—and only—bedroom.
Elzbietá had left her flannel pajamas on the floor again. He picked them up with a grimace, folded them, and set them down in what was now her half of the walk-in closet. Okay, more like her two thirds of the closet, and really, that came from the sheer sprawl of the mess—thankfully confined to the closet—rather than from her owning more stuff. Though she did own more stuff. Oh, did she ever own more stu
ff.
Why did anyone need so much stuff?
Benjamin could probably fit all of his belongings, excluding furniture, into a few carloads, but Elzbietá still had boxes she had yet to unpack piled to the ceiling in the basement, including every issue she’d ever owned of SCIENCE! and its sister magazine GADGETS!
Where had she crammed all of that stuff in her old apartment?
Benjamin picked up this month’s issue of SCIENCE! and placed it atop the magazine pile straining Elzbietá’s night stand. There were a few history magazines in the stack, but technical literature greatly outnumbered them. He sometimes wondered if engineering was still where her true passion lay.
Besides his entertainment center, the cars (high-performance German models, of course), and a few hobbies, there weren’t any money sinks he’d found interesting over the years. He supposed his least space-efficient hobby revolved around his scratch-built model sailing ships, four of which were displayed in a large glass curio cabinet in the living room. His latest project, a three-foot long model of the fifty-gun screw frigate USS Colorado (service years 1858 to 1876), sat nearly finished on a workbench in what was now his half of the basement.
Well, okay, his third of the basement.
Still, a little clutter and a few compromises were a small price to pay for what he knew he’d found.
Benjamin checked the time, undressed, tossed his clothes into the correct hampers, and stepped into the shower. His mind wandered to not-Benjamin, as it often did when he was alone with nothing to do or when trying to get to sleep without chemical aids.
Not-Benjamin had been working on the same scratch-built ship, but his was only half finished. Then again, the real Benjamin had an advantage there, because not-Benjamin also enjoyed hunting and marksmanship. Klaus had introduced Benjamin to both hobbies at an early age, but he’d only dabbled in them after leaving the house. Perhaps it was because his sisters had never shown an interest, whereas not-Benjamin’s brother David had been an enthusiastic shooter.
David…
A cold shiver of loss shot through him. His heartbeat quickened and he broke out into a cold sweat, despite the hot water washing over him. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the shower tiles.
“Focus,” he told himself as he fought down the anxiety. “Analyze the fantasy. Identify what is real and what is false.”
He visualized the two timelines in his mind and traced them backward, key event by key event, until they finally came to rest upon a train speeding through Europe in the spring of 1940.
A very specific train with a very famous passenger.
The exercise came naturally to him now, and the tightness in his chest subsided. As a historian, he found a certain morbid curiosity in the fantasies his mind had constructed, but they were just that. Fantasies and nothing more. Acknowledging that helped soothe his nerves. The warm water helped as well, and soon he felt normal again. Or what passed for normal since The Day.
He smacked his cheeks.
“Keep it together, Ben. Don’t screw this up.”
He lathered up, rinsed, dried off, and dressed smartly for date night: freshly ironed gray shirt and black slacks, black shoes he could see his reflection in, and a violet bowtie for just the right splash of color.
He pulled the bowtie taut and checked himself in the mirror.
“Looking good.”
He grabbed the box off the counter and opened it. The gold and diamond von Schröder heirloom glinted in the light, and he let out a contented sigh.
“She’s the one. So stop being nervous, and let’s do this.”
Benjamin went back to the bedroom, unlocked the floor combination safe, and placed the box inside. He headed for the garage and was about to set the house alarm when he heard three heavy knocks on the front door.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Transtemporal Vehicle Kleio
non-congruent
“Shut off the impeller!” Raibert shouted, running onto the bridge. “Phase in! Phase in!”
“Executing emergency phase-in,” Kleio said. “Now congruent with 2313 CE.”
Raibert called up the live feed from the TTV’s array, and it materialized over the command table. A flying wedge of chronometric signals pulsed rapidly at plus three months and sped down the timeline.
“What is that?” he asked.
“That,” Philo began, “is a shit-load of Admin time machines.”
“Have they spotted us?”
“Not at the speed they’re moving. At least,” Philo added carefully, “I don’t think they did.”
“They’ve got to be half blinded by their own turbulence, right?” Raibert asked.
“We’ll find out soon enough. Looks like twelve distinct signals. They’ll pass us in eighty seconds.”
Raibert took a deep breath as the signals closed in. He technically didn’t need to breathe anymore, but the physical motion still helped calm his nerves.
“They’re not slowing down,” Philo announced. “There. They just passed us. We’re in their wake, and they’re still moving at ninety-five kilofactors.”
“Ninety-five kilofactors?” Raibert ran his fingers back through his hair. “I thought we had the tech advantage.”
“Not with everything, it would seem.”
“Are there any SysGov TTVs that can move that fast?”
“The only one I’m aware of is the Deep History Probe, and that monstrosity used an array of nine impellers. The problem is at eighty kilofactors and up, impellers become unstable because they can’t maintain consistent permeability, and they start colliding with chronotons flowing in the wrong direction. The Admin seems to have solved that problem somehow. Did you notice how the signals were pulsing? That’s very unusual. Their impellers must operate under a very different principle.”
“I’m more interested in what it means for us.” Raibert leaned over the retreating chronoport signals. “They’re outright faster than us. If we’re spotted, we can’t run.”
“If they find us and if they can maintain a solid lock. The good news is our chronometric array must be superior to their equivalent. We saw them coming up behind us, which is where our array is weakest, and they failed to spot us when we were directly in front of them, temporally speaking of course.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t think they were even looking for us.” Raibert tapped a finger through the chronoports’ signals. “They’re all clumped together and racing full speed through time. That’s not a search pattern. They’re going somewhere in a hurry. Or rather, somewhen.”
“Okay.” The Viking nodded. “Now that I think about it, you might be right. But when?”
“Well…” Raibert grimaced.
“What’s wrong?”
“I did sort of…come out and tell Shigeki and his goons the range of years where the Event could be.”
“Ah. Well, that does complicate things.”
“Sorry.”
“Raibert, you had no way of knowing they’d react that badly. Besides, we thought we needed help.”
“We still do. Face it, Philo. It’s just the two of us—”
“Professor?”
“Okay. Three of us, and we’ve got ninety years of history that we need to sift through and somehow figure out where this universe went wrong. Neither of us have a clue where to start looking in those ninety years, and now Shigeki’s hit squads will be scouring that part of the timeline for us. How the hell are we supposed to do this?” He stopped suddenly, shoulders sagging. “And on top of that, should we be doing this?”
“You lost me there. Which ‘this’ are we talking about again?”
“This!” He waved his arms around wildly. “Trying to undo the Event! The whole thing!”
“Uhh…yes?”
“But the only way we even think we can pull this off means we destroy the entire Admin!”
“I know. And save sixteen universes, including SysGov. That
an awfully big plus.”
“But there could be another way. One where no one’s home has to be destroyed.”
“If there is, I don’t see it, and neither does Kleio.” Philo summoned a set of charts and gestured to them. “This is all we have.”
“But the Admin might find another way if we just give them a chance.”
“Not one that’ll bring back our home.”
“So it’s us or them?” he asked, glancing away with a pained expression on his face. “Is that where we’re at?”
“Raibert, listen to me.” Philo leaned forward and pointed with two fingers. “Look me in the eyes.”
“Okay.” He looked up.
The AC stared at him, eyes unblinking. “Are you going to stand idly by while the multiverse gets ready to burn?”
“Well, no. But that’s not what I’m suggesting.”
“You’re going through a lot right now, buddy. Trust me, I know, even without connecting, so I’ll make this as clear as I can for you. We can’t rely on the Admin for anything. That path is closed, and they’re the ones who closed it. We’re all that stands between the multiverse and the apocalypse. It’s just us now.”
“But Shigeki said—”
“I don’t care what he said!” Philo interrupted sharply. “I watched them grind your body into paste, and I find that memory so disturbing I’m sorely tempted to partition it off completely. I’m not trusting those…those barbarians with the fate of the multiverse!”
“But it’s their universe! Who are we to make these sorts of decisions?”
“I’ll tell you who we aren’t. We’re not a bunch of knuckle-dragging fascists who lock up history professors just because they don’t like what they hear.”
“But…”
“Who are we, you asked?” Philo went on. “We’re all that’s left of SysGov. That means we’re the only ones who can possibly bring it back and save every other reality that’s entangled with the Knot. Why? Because there’s no one else left who gives a damn.”
“Yeah…” Raibert took a deep breath, then slowly began to nod. “Yeah,” he said, a little louder.
