The Empire of Time

by David Wingrove

  ‘I see. Then to translate this whole volume …?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll have it back to you within the hour. Our machines can do the basic stuff. But what are you looking for?’

  I tell him and he hurries away, even as Hecht looks up at me again.

  ‘What’s happening, Otto? Why did you jump back so soon?’

  ‘I think Albrecht’s cracking up. His conditioning has gone. He … mentioned the Garden.’

  ‘Loki’s breath!’ Hecht rarely curses, so the words have added force. ‘Wait here, Otto. Make yourself at home. I’ll not be long.’

  I watch him go, then turn, looking about me at the shadowed room. I have been here many times, but I’ve never been alone here and, more from curiosity than anything, I walk across and, calling for light, pour myself a coffee, then turn back, studying what’s on Hecht’s shelves. He might be back at any moment, but I’m certain he wouldn’t mind. After all, he trusts me. I am his Einzelkind.

  It takes but a glance to realise that the books here are sorted into four distinct sections. The first of these is familiar to me – classics of Russian and German literature, from that brief flowering of the novel, that Golden Age of literary endeavour. They’re first editions, by the look of them: Pushkin and Lermontov, Gogol, Chekhov, Turgenev and Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Pasternak and Gorky, Zamatin, Solzhenitsyn and Pelevin; Fontaine and Schiller, Goethe, Holderlin and Kleist, Nietzsche and Rilke, Mann, Hesse and Grass. There are others too, lesser writers, forgotten by the tide of history, yet not a single great work is absent, and, taking one from the shelf – Hesse’s Magister Ludi – I open it and read the handwritten dedication:

  ‘To Hecht, with profound thanks and in eternal friendship, Hermann Hesse.’

  The ink seems fresh as yesterday, the book just off the press.

  I smile, then pluck another from the shelves. They’re all the same. In each one is a personal dedication.

  Hecht has been busy.

  To their right is a second section. There are novels here too, and histories, of individual men and of nations, yet not a single book is familiar. These are from alternate timestreams, documents from cultures that have ceased to be: that blinked out of existence as some Zeitverandern – some Time-Change – swept it all to dust.

  The books here are mainly in German or Russian – the lives of so-called ‘great men’. And so they might have been, but not in our time. No, in our world, these died, or never were, or were deflected from their paths to ‘greatness’ by some chance event.

  I take one down – a study of Charles the Bountiful – and, flicking through, begin to read, then laugh with surprise. This is my period, my century – Frederick’s century – and yet there’s no sign of him anywhere in this account. In this world, Prussia does not exist, nor any of the minor German states. No, all is Frankish here, from the shores of Portugal to the Urals. The heirs of Charlemagne are rulers in this world. Or should I say the heir, for in this reality Charlemagne’s son, Charles the Bold, had his brothers Lothar and Louis killed, and so there never was a division of the kingdom into three, no Kingdom of the Germans east of the Rhine.

  I slip the book back, then move on. This next section – the third – is perhaps the strangest of all, for here are endless volumes written, it seems, in gibberish, or in code, or what might pass as code if I didn’t recognise one or two of them from my travels. These once again are from alternate time-lines, only these are in strange, hybrid languages that only Lothar and his team could possibly read; worlds so far from the central flow of Time that our agents have but touched upon them briefly and withdrawn, bringing these trophies back.

  You might ask how. After all, nothing that is not made of our genetic material can be brought back from the past. They would disintegrate the moment they appeared on the platform. And that remains the truth. Only we have built machines – duplicators – that can be taken back by agents and used to copy most of the smaller artefacts we need if we’re to function in the Past: books, brooches and coins, maps and medals, weapons, jewellery and a hundred other necessary objects. Without them we could not function. Without them … well, we might as soon jump back naked.

  I drain my coffee and, setting the cup down, walk over to the final set of shelves.

  These are different from the others; the shelves are much broader, and sub-divided into cubbyholes. Inside each cubbyhole is a set of ancient scrolls. Or not so ancient, for these too seem freshly made – the parchment new, or at most a few years old.

  Again I smile. These I know about, for Hecht has sometimes leant me a ‘book’ or two from this part of his private library. They’re in Greek and Latin for the main part, ‘lost’ works by the great writers of the pre-Christian era. Aristotle’s complete Dialogues is here, along with ‘new’ works by Catullus, Seneca and Epicurus. Archimedes’ earliest mathematical works are also here, next to poetry by Sappho and – a gem among many gems – Julius Caesar’s private journals. And lurid reading they make, too.

  But that’s not all. Beside these works by writers known to Time, are others by authors whose work – unpublished, or forgotten – are easily their equal. The Genoan, Augusto Landucci’s epic Rebirth cycle is here, for instance, written sixty years before Dante’s Inferno, and easily its superior – just one of many classics that were suppressed or openly destroyed by rivals, or by the church, or simply lost through circumstance.

  I take one down and, unfurling it, read a line or two. It’s Virgil’s Juvenilia – the complete and amended version.

  I look about me at the shelves, wondering a moment.

  So much lost. So much forgotten. So much endeavour to so little purpose. Yes, and so many lives gone to dust and not a trace of them. Those mute inglorious Tams.

  I return the scroll to its place then turn to find Hecht standing there, his face strange, his eyes oddly distracted.

  ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Yes …’ He stops and looks at me. His grey eyes are pained. ‘I thought for a moment we were undone. If they had got to the Garden …’

  The Garden is where our children are. Cut off in Time and Space from any harm. Not even Zarah knows its whereabouts. Only Hecht knows, and the machine. And without Hecht’s physical presence on the platform, the path to that safest of all havens is closed.

  ‘All’s well?’

  He nods. ‘I’ve made changes. Reprogrammed the machine. Even so … the very fact that his conditioning’s failed … It shouldn’t be possible.’

  No, and it’s never happened before. But then, a lot’s been happening recently that’s not supposed to happen, and that doesn’t augur well. We’ve kept ahead of the Russians for so long that we deemed it our right, as if History were ours, but now they’ve got the upper hand. Maybe it’s sheer numbers, but they seem to have the jump on us at last.

  As Hecht settles into his pit and begins to tap away at his keyboard, I tell him exactly what happened back down the line in Albrecht’s time. Occasionally he tuts, or glances up, but mainly he listens until I’m done, and then he shakes his head.

  ‘I think you’re right, Otto. I think the Russians have surrounded him. But let’s persevere. Find out what they’re up to. It might prove crucial. Besides, we’ve no chance at all of saving Ernst unless Albrecht’s friend can find the power source for us. Hang in there. Meanwhile, I’ll rustle up some cover. And don’t worry, Otto. You won’t be alone in there, I promise you.’

  ‘There’s one other thing.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I don’t know enough about the Age. I feel unprepared. And I don’t know how much I can rely on Albrecht to fill in the gaps. Maybe I should—’

  Hecht cuts me off. ‘I take your point, Otto, but there’s no time. As soon as we know what’s in the journal, I want you straight back in.’

  I make to protest, to remind him that we’ve all the time in the world, but for once Hecht is adamant. ‘Don’t fuss, Otto. You don’t need to know any more than you do already.’

  I don’t argue. B
esides, most men know little of the Ages they inhabit. It’s only later, historically, that they begin to make sense of things. But I like being in control, and this once I don’t feel I’ve got a solid grasp on anything. That’s what I want to say to Hecht. Only I don’t know that I should. He trusts me, after all.

  He meets my eyes. ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then go and see Lothar. I’ll join you there in an hour.’

  I realise I’m dismissed, and so I turn and leave, unhappy for once. Maybe that business with the Garden has got to Hecht, but I’ve never known him so off-hand. Not to me, anyway.

  Lothar, however, is glad to see me. His team – himself and two assistants, red-headed young men who look as if they could be twins but for a difference of ten years in their ages – have already got a dozen or more pages ready for me to read.

  I sit down at one of the long benches, among the piles of foreign dictionaries and lexicons that clutter the desks, and begin to read. The walls surrounding me are stacked high with yet more volumes, and there’s the smell of coffee in the air.

  Lothar leans across. ‘The top line – the blue – is the literal translation, the bottom – the red – the metaphoric commentary. The idea is to try and read the two in tandem. Of course, it’s not as satisfactory as reading the original, but …’

  I try it and see what he means. He throws up an image of the first few symbols on a nearby screen. They look like ornate iron-work – the kind you see on the gates of eighteenth-century mansions, all curls and curlicues and delicate spikes – only so fine as to be almost mesmeric to the eye; more like Arabic than Chinese.

  ‘You know how ge’not developed?’ Lothar asks, and when I don’t respond, he continues anyway. ‘It sprang from the need to keep up with developments in genetics. The abbreviation stands for “genetic notation”. It’s a kind of shorthand for the basic concepts of genetics. Or so it was intended. Only by the time two or three centuries had passed there were more than fifty thousand separate characters, each one describing something highly specific. Most of them are derived, of course, from the basic one hundred and forty-two root symbols, and the whole language – if I can call it such – has been through three major revisions in its time, but the basic emphasis of the language – as a direct reflection of a single field of human activity, genetics – remains unchanged.’

  Even as Lothar speaks, more pages arrive, fresh from translation, numbered and dated so that he can sort them into order for me. I look through, half concentrating on what Burckel has written, half on what Lothar is telling me.

  ‘At first ge’not was used almost exclusively by geneticists, but later …’ He laughs, and I look up. Lothar is smiling, anticipating his own story. ‘You’d not believe it, really, Otto, but it took a poet – Angossi, an Italian! – to use ge’not, part pictorially but also for its metaphoric richness. You’ve heard of Angossi?’

  Who hadn’t? But I indulge Lothar with a smile, as if it’s the first time I’ve heard all this.

  ‘In Angossi’s hands, what was mere transliteration became poetic flight of fancy. He organised the language into a new, fragmented form – much like what we see here in Burckel’s journal. These are not so much sentences or paragraphs as … well, how do I put it? The purest ge’not is a form of maths. It quite literally adds up. If it didn’t, it wouldn’t make sense. You see, every symbol has its own value, its own weight, and—’

  I interrupt. ‘Hold on … how on earth do they ever use such a difficult language? I mean, if it’s so varied, so rich in meaning and yet also so mathematically precise?’

  Lothar chuckles. ‘They don’t. Verwendung ge’not – that is, “used” ge’not – is a bastardised form, based on the two thousand eight hundred and sixty symbols Angossi chose from among the totality. Considering what he omitted it’s quite subtle really, though nothing like as expressive as it might have been.’ He sighs. ‘If only Angossi had been a better linguist. Still, it’s got more clever over the generations – become almost a creole, if you know what I mean.’

  I nod, then whistle to myself, as I read what Burckel has written at the foot of the page

  ‘Have you read any of these yet?’

  Lothar shakes his head. ‘Not in the full sense of it. Words, phrases … Why, what does it say?’

  But I’m up out of my seat and at the door. I want Hecht to see this and I can’t wait another hour.

  99

  I jump back, precisely to the point I left. Not a second has passed. Even so, Burckel senses I’ve been gone. He wakes and sits up in the darkness.

  ‘Otto? Is that you?’

  ‘It’s me,’ I say, and, sliding the journal back into place, I make my way carefully back to the bed.

  ‘Did you go back?’

  I hesitate, sitting on the edge of that narrow pallet bed, then decide to tell him the truth. Or part of it.

  ‘Yes. I was worried. Especially about Dankevich.’

  ‘I didn’t know he was a Russian. But now that I do …’

  I don’t like the fact that I can’t see Burckel, but it’s late and I don’t want to put on the light.

  ‘We’ll talk in the morning,’ I say. ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘Was Hecht angry with me?’

  ‘Why should he be angry?’

  ‘For letting slip about the Garden. I’ve been worrying about it ever since you pointed it out. Worried he might think me … unreliable.’

  It is precisely what Hecht thinks, but I don’t say that.

  ‘Go to sleep, Albrecht. We’ll talk about it in the morning.’

  100

  Only we don’t. We’re woken just before dawn by a banging on the door that would wake the dead.

  While I’m still struggling up from sleep, Burckel calls for light, then throws me a gun. Jumping up, he goes across to the door and peers through the peephole, then reaches for the bolt and draws it back.

  It’s Burckel’s friend, the nameless one. The revolutionary. He tells us to get dressed quickly and come with him. He hands us each a pass, marked TEMPORARY ACCESS ONLY, and when I ask him where we’re going, he just shakes his head and says: ‘Don’t speak. Not a word. And leave the guns. You won’t need them where we’re going.’

  I don’t like the situation – I don’t like having to trust strangers in an Age I don’t really know – but there seems little choice.

  Out in the corridor he turns left, ignoring the distracting images on the walls, walking with a quick and easy stride.

  But we don’t go far. Coming to a small door set into the wall, we stop. It’s another lift, I realise, a small, service lift. Our friend takes a flat octagonal piece of plastic from his pocket and places it in the slot. A small overhead camera scans him and accepts his ID. Maintenance, I realise. Our friend works in maintenance.

  The door hisses open and we step inside. Standing there in that narrow, box-like space, I stare into Burckel’s eyes, seeing not the slightest flicker of the madness I think may have overtaken him. In fact, he looks so sane that I have to remind myself of that slip about the Garden, yes, and that journal entry too. If he could say those things then potentially he could do anything – maybe place all our lives at risk. Only not just yet. The moment hasn’t come. Albrecht Burckel has yet to be tested, and until he is, I need him, because he’s my key to these people and these people are my key to freeing Ernst.

  I have my orders, you understand. And one of them is to kill him once we’re finished here.

  Burckel smiles, but I haven’t the heart to smile back. It would be cruel. And so he looks away, taking my seriousness for nerves or concentration on the task in hand.

  We descend, the lift slowly rattling down the levels, until, with the slightest jerk, it stops.

  Our friend moves past me, sliding the inner door back.

  I watch him. See how small and neat his hands are, yet he’s heavily muscled. Every movement is smooth and practised. Yet before he steps out of the lift, he turns and loo
ks at each of us in turn, as if to check some final detail. Satisfied, he steps outside.

  It’s dark at this level. There are maintenance lights, but they are only every ten metres or so, and the walls are bare, stained by the damp.

  ‘Remember,’ he says. ‘Not a word. And act subservient, if you can. These people can be very touchy. Keep your heads down and don’t meet their eyes.’

  I don’t know what he means, but we soon find out. He walks us down a long corridor and out into a broad, well-lit hallway. There’s a chain fence here, blocking our way, and cameras, lots of cameras. Beyond is luxury. Plush carpets and paintings on the walls. Statuary and fountains. One of the enclaves.

  Two men – big men, private guards – step out to block our way.

  We show them our passes. While one of them checks them, the other eyes us. Like Burckel I keep my head lowered, my eyes on the ground before me, but I can sense the guard’s hostility, his disgust. He thinks we’re shit. A thousand miles beneath him. And that gives me a better inkling of this world – of what makes it tick – than anything I’ve yet encountered. This is a world of hierarchies, of rigid social orders.

  We are passed through, down the plush corridor and into a dimly lit yet delicately scented room. Beyond it is another, bigger room, smelling of oil and machinery. And there, on the far side of the room, is a flyer – a Schweben-wagen. As we go across, our friend calls for light, and in the sudden brightness, we see it in all its polished beauty. It’s a bright metallic green, its curved lines giving it the look of a tapered rocket, like a massive crossbow bolt. Its glass cockpit is ridged and armoured, and its twin exhausts look powerful enough to take it into orbit.

  ‘It’s a Steuermann L-8,’ our friend says. ‘There aren’t that many of them.’ He smiles and puts his hand fondly on one of the smooth chrome tail fins. ‘They’ve quite a range. You could reach Moscow in one of these without recharging.’