The Master of Time: Roads to Moscow: Book Three

by David Wingrove

  His panicked flight, thirty-five miles on horseback to the monastery, might seem like an over-reaction. Only Peter has good reason to fear the Streltsy – even those who claim to be supporting him. Seven years ago, after his father’s death, false rumours of the murder of his young brother, Ivan, brought the Streltsy to the gates of the Kremlin, seeking ‘justice’ and bloody vengeance.

  What followed over the next three days was unlike anything Moscow had witnessed before or since. Three days of rampage and brutal bloodlust, the Streltsy searching for their victims in the corridors and hidey-holes of the royal palace, then hurling them from the balustrade of the Red Stairs onto the spears of their fellows, before finally hacking them to pieces, the good and gentle Matveev among them.

  Scenes that Peter, clutching his mother’s fearful, trembling hand, was forced to witness. Nightmare moments for a ten-year-old to experience. And now they’d come again.

  ‘So what’s he up to?’ I ask Svetov, hoping he has some clearer idea than I have as to just how Reichenau means to affect the situation here.

  But Svetov makes no more sense of it than I. Only Reichenau is most definitely here – our agents have spotted him on three separate occasions in the last few hours – and why would he be here if all he meant to do was look on?

  No. He’s up to something. He has to be.

  We jump back, then summon Ernst and Zarah and Old Man Schnorr, and Makarov, our expert for this period in Russian history. Gathered about a table in one of the seminar rooms, we throw ideas at each other, but nothing more profound occurs to any of us other than that if Peter dies on this night, then Sophia becomes Tsarina and Russia’s history changes dramatically. Under Sophia, and without Peter’s obsessive drive to make Russia a sea power, Russia will become a third-rate, landlocked country, picked upon by Poland to the west and the Turks and Tatars to the south. A country with no future. Another Lithuania.

  Only, even as we’re talking, one of our agents reports back that Reichenau has been seen again, this time with Golitsyn, Sophia’s lover and ‘Keeper of the Great Seal’. Golitsyn, whose two disastrous campaigns to take the Crimea have led to this tense state of things.

  ‘Why Golitsyn?’ Svetov asks. ‘In the context of history he’s a total nonentity.’

  ‘Like Kravchuk,’ I say quietly. ‘And yet without him … Look,’ I say, aware that I’m on the edge of something here. ‘Is there something Golitsyn might do that would change things? That might, even, tip the scales in his favour?’

  ‘His two campaigns,’ Makarov, our expert, chips in. ‘They each failed for the same reason. The adoption by the Tatars of a scorched earth policy.’

  ‘Scorched earth?’

  ‘Yes,’ Makarov says. ‘The Tatars burned the steppe in front of Golitsyn’s Russians. It’s said that the whole of the horizon was on fire. And without forage for their horses and cattle, it was impossible to continue. Golitsyn had to turn back.’

  I look to Ernst, whose eyes have also widened at the mention of those two words.

  Scorched earth, eh?

  ‘What if he had moved faster?’ I say. ‘What if, say, using his cavalry alone, he had swept in before they knew he was coming, then secured the forage for the main body of his army, coming along behind. Could that have worked?’

  ‘It could,’ Makarov answers uncertainly.

  ‘Only victory – triumph over the Tatars and their allies, the Turks – would have changed the whole situation back in Moscow. Sophia could justifiably have claimed the throne as Autocrat, with Golitsyn as her consort, ruling alongside her.’

  ‘It’s not entirely impossible,’ Makarov says, ‘but unlikely, no? The Cossack forces – their cavalry particularly would have made such a scheme a very dangerous proposition.’

  ‘I agree,’ Svetov says. ‘I’ve seen them in battle. They’re savages, Otto. Fearless, too. They would have cut Golitsyn’s cavalry to pieces!’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  Only I can see that no one about the table thinks my scheme would work.

  ‘Okay. So why did Reichenau target Golitsyn? Why not Fedor Shaklovity? He seems a far more likely candidate for working with if he wants to get rid of Peter. He’s a much more ruthless man.’

  ‘If getting rid of Peter is what Reichenau wants …’

  Only the fact is that we really don’t know what he’s doing or why, and until we do, well … all we can do is make sure Peter comes out of this unscathed.

  The air blurs suddenly and two men – agents of ours – appear from the air.

  ‘Meister,’ they both say, conscious of the slightest echo in their voices.

  ‘You first,’ I say, pointing to one of them, seeing the concern in his face.

  ‘Reichenau has made his move. He’s infiltrated the monastery. Sent his men in to stir things up. He’s got them wearing Streltsy uniforms, but they’re carrying lasers. The Sukharev Regiment are terrified. They think a team of shape-changing sorcerers has descended on them!’

  ‘And Peter?’

  ‘We’ve smuggled him out. But how safe he is …’

  ‘And you,’ I say, turning in my seat to indicate the other. ‘Anything to add?’

  He takes a breath. ‘Reichenau’s men are in Moscow, in the Streltsy Quarter. They’ve been firing the Streltsy up with stories of Peter’s atrocities, claiming that he’s taken Sophia captive and that his men have been torturing her. Also that Peter has made a deal with the Poles, and that a Polish army will be in Moscow within the week.’

  ‘And they believe that?’

  But I know they will, because the Streltsy are an ignorant and superstitious mob when it comes right down to it.

  ‘So what do we do?’ I say, speaking to my fellow veche members.

  ‘We hit back,’ Svetov says. ‘Take back the Troitsky and …’

  And what? Get into the biggest ever firefight? Is that going to help us?

  I shake my head. ‘You know what? I think this once we do nothing. Let things burn themselves out. Keep Peter safe, sure, but the rest of it …’

  And as I say it, I know it’s the truth. Reichenau doesn’t have a plan. Wasn’t that what Gudrun told us? And Schikaneder, too. But he likes to see us skittering about, wasting our time and energies. Like ants. So let’s not give him the satisfaction this time.

  After I’ve given them my decision, we sit there for a time, silent, contemplating what has been happening, and then the first of the two messengers returns.

  ‘They’ve gone, Meister. Just like that!’ And he snaps his fingers. ‘The Sukharev are terrified. They’re claiming that they faced a regiment of demons. Mind, half of their number simply ran, and they’re probably still running, down the long road to Moscow.’

  I smile at the thought. But my smile quickly becomes a frown, as the other messenger appears, in a dishevelled state, like he’s been in a fist fight.

  ‘Meister, I …’

  He reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out an envelope, then hands it to me. I hesitate, but Ernst urges me on. ‘Go on, Otto. Open it. It’ll be from him.’

  I meet Ernst’s eyes and nod, then tear the letter open.

  I read it then hand it across.

  Svetov grunts. ‘All those deaths. It means absolutely nothing to him, does it? It’s all just a game. A simple amusement. Something to fill Time.’

  But I find myself asking another question. Has he been making mischief elsewhere? Distracting us with this while …

  While what? I mean … just what is the significance of the monastery? Why was it in the photos and the paintings? Or is Reichenau simply giving us false clues to follow?

  While he does what?

  I feel once more that I’m on the very edge of understanding it … but then it’s gone, leaving just a tingle at the nerves’ ends. There is an answer to all of this … somewhere. Some explanation for events.

  I take the handwritten letter back from Zarah and read it again. It’s short and to the point.

  You’re learning,
Otto, while I remain in two minds.

  Your friend. Reichenau.

  My friend?

  Ridiculous. But it makes me remember the time I’ve spent with the man. Before I knew what he was. In Neu Berlin in the last days before the bombs fell.

  Among the undrehungar, and at Werkstatte 9.

  My friend. And now my enemy’s enemy.

  382

  I try to hold that thought. That Reichenau, my enemy, is also my enemy Kolya’s enemy. And so, by dubious logic, Reichenau considers me his friend.

  Or is that, too, just mischief?

  Of course it is. But even as I begin to pick at the knot, so I am summoned. Gehlen wants me. No. Put that accurately. Gehlen demands that I come, and at once!

  ‘What does Gehlen want?’ I ask. But no one seems to know, and so I ask around, unwilling to go in unprepared, feeling the slightest bit irritated – and surprised – by the genewart’s behaviour.

  And find that there’s been some kind of verbal brawl between Gehlen and his ‘guests’, the Great Men. According to Newton, their spokesman, Gehlen has been uncooperative. Their feeling is that they’re very close to solving the problem of the mobile foci, even, perhaps, of producing a working model, only they’re being hampered by Gehlen, who has been holding back vital information.

  I tell Newton I’ll speak to Gehlen, but our exchange suggests to me what’s been happening. Gehlen considers time travel to be his child, the equations his equations, and he clearly doesn’t like the Great Minds tinkering with it. It’s all a matter of ego. Of scientific jealousy.

  Or so I’d guess. I go see the genewart, stepping inside, into that cool blue space, the door hissing shut behind me.

  Its voice fills the empty room. ‘Otto. You must do something. Those scientists …’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ I say soothingly, hoping that this is something that can be solved with a bit of diplomacy and ego massage. That said, I remember just how spiky he was when he was still fully alive.

  ‘Their arrogance!’ Gehlen says, his colourful presence in the blue flaring up, as if he’s angry.

  ‘How do you mean? Have they been … disrespectful?’

  To which Gehlen laughs caustically. ‘They think they know everything.’

  ‘I see. And you’re unhappy with the situation?’

  There’s a pause, several billion nanoseconds passing as Gehlen considers his response.

  ‘I think we should send them back.’

  ‘Send them back? But you asked for them, You said …’

  ‘I know what I said. But it hasn’t worked. All they do is bicker and squabble.’

  I’m not sure that’s the truth, not from the reports I’ve had, but that then asks the question – can an artificial intelligence lie? It seems it can.

  ‘Isn’t there some way we can try and make it work?’

  ‘Are you doubting my judgement, Otto?’

  ‘No, I just …’

  And I shrug, searching for something conciliatory to say, only Gehlen has other gripes as well. The Russians, for one.

  ‘I’m not happy with this, Otto. To have Russians walking about, unchallenged in Four-Oh. That surely must be wrong. For two hundred years—’

  ‘Are you suspicious of them?’

  But it’s something of a rhetorical question, because even as I say it, I realise that he is. Suspicious with an extended lifetime’s worth of suspicion. And what’s to be done about that, without us giving up what we’ve been trying to do here – to end the bitter race war and find a better way of governing ourselves? Yes. But will Gehlen accept that?

  Come to that, does it matter if he’s uneasy? After all, who’s he to call the shots?

  ‘We must find new ways,’ I say, ‘new paths—’

  But his voice booms over mine. ‘I cannot tolerate it, Otto. Neither the Great Men nor the Russians. All this … It’s just a step too far.’

  ‘It’s difficult, I know, changing our ways of thinking and behaving, but …’

  ‘But nothing, Otto. They must go. The experiment has failed.’

  ‘Failed?’

  Only I know it has hardly begun. That Gehlen is not giving it a chance. And he’s wrong, because nothing is achieved overnight. Things take time. And Time is something we have lots of, here at Four-Oh.

  ‘I’ll have to discuss this,’ I say. ‘With the veche.’

  Only I know what they will say. And so, it seems, does Gehlen.

  ‘You’ve been running about in circles these past few weeks, Otto. Can’t you see that? Can’t you see what’s been happening?’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘No? So what have you achieved? Have you found Katerina and the girls? No. Nor shall you while this situation persists. Their absence makes you weak, Otto. Vulnerable. And they know that.’

  They?

  Gehlen specifies. ‘The Russians.’

  I swallow bitterly, realising we have come to an impasse.

  ‘The veche,’ it says. ‘that’s just a way of controlling you. You are the Meister, no? Then act like the Meister. Throw off the veche and act!’

  That silences me. Because something of what he says is true. The veche is like a halter, controlling me, keeping me chomping at the bit. Even so …

  ‘I’ll talk to them, and come back to you.’

  I wait, expecting an answer, but nothing comes. And I realise after a moment that Gehlen is no longer talking to me. That he’s gone incommunicado.

  ‘Hans …?’ I ask, addressing him by his familiar name. ‘Are you there?’

  He doesn’t seem to be. Or is he just being moody?

  ‘Hans …?’

  With a suddenness that shocks me, the room dims, all background noise ceasing as the whole of Four-Oh goes on to emergency lighting.

  ‘Oh fuck …’ I say, turning and, going across to the hatch, which, thank Urd, still functions, slip out into the corridor, heading back to the platform.

  383

  ‘What’s happening?’ I ask, as I step out by the platform.

  ‘You tell me,’ Ernst answers from where he stands with Zarah, staring down at the main control screen. ‘What in Urd’s name did you say to him?’

  ‘I said nothing. I …’ I let out a shivering breath. ‘I didn’t think he could do this. Can we still use the platform?’

  Zarah nods, but she looks gravely concerned. ‘It’s on reduced power, but it’s still operational. I’ve never seen the like. We’ve known all along that the AI controls Four-Oh, but I guess we’ve always believed that we controlled the AI. As for Gehlen … well, he’s certainly never used it this way before now. It’s like he’s flexing his muscles. Threatening us.’

  ‘How serious is this?’

  ‘Serious enough. I can try over-riding the system, but it’s not even as if we’ve got any wires we can pull out. All we have is the gaseous core, controlling it all. And besides, who knows what effect it would have on our agents out in Time?’

  ‘Okay. Then we stall. See what Gehlen comes back with. Zarah, you take charge here. Ernst and I will go to Moscow Central and consult. But if anything happens, let us know.’

  And with that we clamber up onto the platform and, hoping Gehlen won’t spread our atoms over some distant star system, jump … to Moscow Central, where Svetov and Saratov are waiting.

  384

  Seated with them in one of the anterooms, I get straight to the point.

  ‘The trouble is, he doesn’t trust you.’

  ‘Doesn’t …’ Svetov laughs. ‘That dead thing doesn’t trust us?’

  ‘Not entirely dead.’

  Saratov raises a hand to interrupt. ‘Okay. Okay. But the question is how do we deal with the situation? We’ve no problem here at Moscow Central, but can we survive without Four-Oh?’

  ‘Theoretically,’ I say, not liking the drift of this. ‘But you’re talking about action way down the line. No. What we need to find out is why Gehlen’s suddenly so touchy. What’s happened to make him start behaving th
is way? For over two hundred years he’s been fine – doing our bidding, you might call it. That’s why this is so strange. It’s not even as if Gehlen was giving out any warning signals. One moment he was fine, the next …’

  Svetov looks down and shakes his head slowly. ‘I’ve a very bad feeling about this. You remember what you told me that time, about Gehlen’s “history”, and particularly about how – while he was still a living, breathing man – he was taken by Reichenau and held captive by him for an indeterminate time. Time enough, possibly, to implant some kind of controlling programme into his mind?’

  ‘And then wait to use it for two hundred years? Is that even vaguely likely?’

  ‘Maybe it’s Reichenau’s ultimate fall-back,’ Saratov says. ‘His last throw of the dice, if you like.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, doubting very much that Reichenau could be as patient as that. ‘But it might explain how Reichenau – and Kolya, too – know so much about our movements. I mean … has Gehlen been feeding information to our enemies somehow?’

  ‘I can’t see that,’ Svetov says. ‘We’d have noticed that, surely? Or you at Four-Oh would have, should I say.’

  ‘If I’m honest, I can’t see it, either,’ I say. ‘I think Zarah and the women would have noticed even the slightest “leak” or signal out.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ Saratov says. ‘But I’d say it’s worth checking up on. Jump back, Otto, and get Zarah to question the women as to any anomalies in the feed. Anything that didn’t quite make sense at the time.’

  ‘And in the meantime?’

  ‘In the meantime we channel as much as we can through Moscow Central … away from Gehlen and any influence he has on things.’

  ‘Okay.’ And it’s agreed, there and then. And I jump …

  385

  … into a state of utter chaos.

  The situation at Four-Oh has deteriorated in the short time I’ve been gone. The lighting is almost spectral now, while the air itself is thin and stale. Eighty per cent of our functional capacity has been shut down, deliberately, it seems, a bit at a time, and it’s only because we have the most rudimentary of backup systems – put in as an afterthought – that we can function at all.