There is history here – a lot of history – yet it can be simply stated. At the end of the twenty-first century, the United States came into conflict with its main trading rival, China, and fought what it hoped would be a decisive war. It was. America lost. Not that China won, exactly. Only Europe survived the conflict. Or rather Germany and European Russia.
‘Six centuries of darkness,’ he says, and looks away, as if he sees it clear. ‘It is hard to imagine your people’s suffering.’
‘Meister …’
Only I have seen it. I’ve been there, along with Ernst. Long ago, admittedly, but not so long that I can forget the awfulness of it. After the bombs had fallen there was nothing. Nothing but ashes.
‘Your king?’
I am loath to correct him, yet I must, if only for the sake of consistency – of getting our story right. ‘Our president, Meister …’
He smiles, indulging me. ‘Your president, then. Does he send me word?’
I take the sealed envelope from my pocket and, bowing low, offer it to him. He opens it and reads, then looks across at me.
‘I see …’
It’s not what I expected him to say. He doesn’t seem surprised. But then, what could surprise a man as old and worldly wise as he? It is a request to become his ally. Unsurprising, maybe, only the document, like all else about us, is a fake. Only the seal is genuine. The writing is Hecht’s, the sentiments his alone. Even so, it seems to do the trick.
I kneel. ‘Meister?’
‘Yes, Lucius?’
‘Should I kiss your ring?’
111
It might seem that my business here is done – that all it takes is for the King to say yes, but that’s not so. Though Manfred is lord and master here and has the power of life and death over all, he still needs to consult those who matter in his realm: his many sons and brothers on the one hand; the Guild on the other.
The one body he doesn’t need to consult is the army, and that’s his one great strength, for the army is fiercely loyal to Manfred. And not merely his Leibstandarte – his fortress elite – but the greater mass of the Wehrmacht – the people’s army.
There’s to be a meeting of all parties later this evening, which we are to attend. A feast. Until then Heusinger and I are granted the freedom of the fortress.
Tief offers to be our guide, to show us whatever we wish to see. It’s a generous offer, yet I wonder just how far I might push it.
‘You have heard tell of the Hall of Kings?’ Tief enquires.
I stare at him, surprised. ‘That is a story, surely?’
‘No, no. It exists. Would you like to see?’
‘Why yes, I—’
Tief speaks to the air. ‘Arrange it.’
And so we follow, in a kind of daze, because this is the stuff legends are made of, and true enough, as we step through the massive door, the Hall stretches out before us, a long, comparatively narrow space with a series of high, domed ceilings. The floor is marble, not fake, but a beautiful Italian stone, pure white, with the thinnest streaks of black.
The first of a dozen large glass cases faces us, not a dozen paces distant, like a giant bell jar, its massive, rounded dome reflecting the light of a circle of glow-globes that hover just above.
Tief strides across, then turns, awaiting us. We walk across, then stare.
‘This was the first of them,’ Tief says. ‘The prototype. It’s a lot bigger than a normal man, as you see – a good metre taller – but compared to what followed it’s a crude attempt.’
I look up at Tief, surprised by his comments. Or perhaps they’re sanctioned. Perhaps this is the official view – for this is one of Manfred’s ancestors, the very first of the Adel. Not a king as such, but in the direct genetic line. I stare at the thin, sickly looking creature and can see how it must have suffered. Not so much a man as an experiment in gene-manipulation, this creature looks as alien as anything I glimpsed in Werner’s makeshift morgue.
‘You can see the problems at a glance,’ Tief says. ‘Though the genes had been stripped down and cleaned, and though they did their best to choose for strength, health and intelligence, what resulted … well, you can see it with your own eyes. The first of the Adel were unsustainable.’
And preserved here for all time, I think, wondering what the living creature would have made of such a humiliating fate.
We walk on, to the second of the great glass cases. This one, though little taller than the first, is slightly more human. Not so thin or sickly looking. Yet he shares the pallor of the first, and the same look of unarticulated misery is in his swollen eyes.
Tief smiles at it fondly. ‘With Hans here the geneticists thought they had solved most of the problems, or at least that they were moving in the right direction. The muscle-development, while not good, was much better than in the prototype, and – as you can see – Hans is much stronger, much more viable. Even so, he lasted only twenty-eight years.’
‘And the first? The prototype?’
Tief makes a sad face. ‘Seventeen.’
I nod and walk on, following Tief, listening as he tells me the history of each of these sad creatures. Some are an improvement, others – some markedly so – a regression. Yet every last one of them suffers from those problems that beset humans with greater height, greater body weight: problems of bone-weakness, of poor muscle-development and inadequate heart capacity. For the first nine generations of Adel these problems seemed insuperable. Sickly dinosaurs, they seemed. An evolutionary dead-end. Not only that, but they rarely bred true, nor naturally. Right up until the tenth generation they were, to all intents and purposes, an artificial race, needing the constant help of experts to sustain their line.
We stand beneath the ninth and last of the jars as Tief finishes his tour. Ahead of us the Hall stretches away, echoing empty, not a single glass case between us and the exit a hundred metres distant.
For with the tenth generation the geneticists finally got it right. With Manfred the quest was ended, the ‘greater man’ – the Übermensch – finally made flesh; a viable species, bigger and better than anyone had dreamed of: one that bore live children, and whose lifespan was twice that of mere old sapiens. It was an awesome victory over nature, a staggering vindication of scientific pride. And to the people? To the people it was as if the gods had returned to the earth.
‘Are you tired yet?’ Tief asks. ‘Or would you like to see more?’
‘Lead on,’ I say, and smile. And there’s much to see. The fortress is a wonder in itself, nine palaces in one. Here is luxury – self-indulgence, some might say – quite beyond imagining, yet I quickly tire of it. Besides, there’s something else I want to see, and after a while I take Tief aside and whisper to him.
‘Hmmm …’ he says. ‘That may prove difficult. But who knows? Let me ask, anyway. The Grand Master may just be in a mood to show you his domain, and if he is …’
Tief smiles.
If he is, I think, then we are done here.
I have the map in my head, you understand – the map our two-headed friend Reichenau gave me, identifying the position of the power source. All I need is to match one single point on it with some reality, and then …
But that’s to jump ahead.
We wait, among the furs and tapestries, the marble statuary and the endless gold, while Tief goes off to see what he can do.
I’m silent, thoughtful, but Heusinger’s excitement makes him talk. He loves being here inside the fortress. For twenty years and more he’s dreamed of this.
‘Did you see that painting? That was a Petsch, surely?’
It was. But not one of them will survive. The greatest art works of a thousand years and all – all – will be consumed by the coming fires.
Petsch too will die, and his beloved Pauline. And the thought of it suddenly makes me think of Katerina, and of her mortality. Curiously, her natural lifespan is something I’ve not thought of before that instant and a pang goes through me to think that she will grow
old and die.
I look down, distressed, for no good reason fearful for her. Where is she now? And what is she doing?
The answer is that she is everywhere back there; anchored in a million moments to her world, her life like the wake a ship makes in its travels. I can go back and dip into the stream of her being, but she … she is tethered there, tied to her eternal Now.
I look up, meaning to say something to Heusinger, when I realise we are no longer alone. Across from me, seated in a chair by the doorway, is another giant – one of the Adel. And not just any giant. This is clearly the King’s son, for that face, though different in its way, is similar enough to make its source quite clear.
I glance at Heusinger, then quickly bow.
He is dressed like a barbarian, in tight-fitting black leather trousers and a sheepskin jerkin that leaves his hugely muscled arms bare. In his thick, studded leather belt there is a short stabbing sword, like the Romans used to wear. I say short, but the whole thing is bigger than me. He could cleave me crown to groin with such a weapon.
I say he is like his father, but the likeness is that of caricature. Whereas Manfred seems confident and calm with a serenity that suggests great wisdom, this seed of his – if indeed this creature is a direct fruit of Manfred’s loins and not concocted in some vat of chemicals somewhere – seems cruel and spiteful. He has said nothing, done nothing, and yet I see it in his face. There’s a sneering arrogance to his features. His lips, his nose, his deeply blue eyes, all suggest a vicious, petulant nature, and when he speaks, the nasal tone of his voice confirms it for me. Here is a man not to be crossed, not even to be argued with.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘Meister,’ I say, bowing low. ‘I am the envoy of the Confederation of North American States. Your father …’
‘Quiet!’
I keep my head lowered, my eyes averted. Though I have the King’s protection, I do not wish to anger this man in any way, though I sense my mere presence is provocation enough.
He stands and, towering above me, walks round me.
‘America …’ And the sneer within that single word becomes a laugh. A laugh that is snuffed out suddenly like a candle. He leans closer, his voice lowered, as if offering me a confidence. ‘We do not need you, whatever he thinks …’
I know by ‘he’ he means his father, the King, but I say nothing. I wait for more, secretly praying that Tief will choose that moment to return, but when someone comes it isn’t Tief, but a woman, another giant, a sister to this sneering demon. She wears a long, revealing cloak of purest white, against which her ash-blonde hair cascades like fine strands of precious metals.
‘Who’s this?’ she asks, her tone dismissing me out of hand.
‘Americans,’ he answers, and they both laugh, a cruel laughter, as if they would enjoy watching us be slowly tortured. My eyes slide sideways, looking to Heusinger. He no doubt knows who these two are and how important they are in the pecking order inside the fortress, but there’s no way I can ask him.
‘He’s a puny little specimen, don’t you think?’ she says, walking round me, then lifting my chin with one frighteningly enormous finger.
‘Hideous,’ her brother says. Yet as my eyes meet her sapphire blue eyes, I note a flicker of interest. Of curiosity. Her scathing disinterest is, it seems, a front, a mask put on to satisfy her brother. But she herself is wondering why I’m there, and why my own eyes show no fear, no awe of her.
I’d smile, only that would let her know that I’d seen through her, and then she might be angry with me.
She turns away, her finger drawing back from my chin, my flesh tingling where she has touched me.
And strangely – strangest of all, perhaps – I find I am attracted to her. As her long, elegant body turns from me, I am aroused. I look down, confused and dismayed, and force myself to think of Katerina, hoping that somehow her image in my head will displace this sudden, unwanted sign, yet my body continues to betray me. The feel of her finger on my flesh, that strange, hard pressure of her touch, has made me wonder what it would be like to sleep with such a goddess.
I shudder, frightened by the thought, appalled that I could even think it.
‘Lucius …’
For a moment I do not recognise my alias. Then, with a strange jerk of my head, I glance across at Heusinger. He gestures towards the empty space in front of us.
‘They’ve gone.’
‘Ah.’ But I feel cold. The shock of the encounter has quite thrown me. ‘Who were they?’
‘The male was Manfred’s sixth son, Hagen. His third wife Gunnhilde’s son.’
‘And the female?’
There’s the slightest quaver in my voice, but not enough to betray the reason for my interest.
‘I’m not sure. Gudrun, probably. They’re twins, you see. Her and her sister, Fricka. Manfred’s nieces.’
‘Ah …’
But then Tief returns, his open, smiling countenance refreshing after such sneers, such lofty arrogance.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘but I’m afraid it isn’t possible to see the Guild quarters just now. The Grand Master has called a special session of the Council and it would not do to intrude upon them. Tomorrow, perhaps?’
‘Of course,’ I say, far more interested by this development – expected as it is – than Tief knows. ‘Tomorrow, then …’
But I know now that it has begun. Just as in the history books. Only I shall be there this time.
112
Our quarters turn out to be a single monstrous bedroom, strewn with awnings that keep those above from spying on us. Alone there, sprawled out on a double bed large enough to house a dozen of my kind, I ask Heusinger to brief me on the internal politics of the court.
‘What you have to ask yourself,’ he says, ‘is what each faction wants. They all want war, of course – unrelenting, perpetual war – but how that war is fought and who controls it, such details are at the heart of their disagreements.’
He pauses to pour me a cup of wine, then continues.
‘The King, naturally, wants things kept as they are. Peace would be disastrous for him. The army is his chief support, and he needs to keep his generals happy. But equally an escalation of the war could prove just as dangerous, in that it would mean giving too much power to those fighting the war on his behalf – power that would, of necessity, be removed from his hands. No, what Manfred wants is stability – no one rocking any boats and the status quo maintained indefinitely.’
‘And the Guild?’
Heusinger shrugs. ‘It’s hard to read. The Grand Master keeps his cards very close to his chest. There’s no “official” Guild policy, but it would seem that the Guild wants precisely what the King wants. You’d think from that that they’d be his staunchest allies in council, only the days when the Grand Master had influence over the King are long past. Manfred acts without consulting them these days, and that infuriates them. More than anything, they’d like to see a new king, one they might control.’
It seems a harsh analysis, and if the Guild are listening – which they undoubtedly are – they’ll not take kindly to it. But we are not here to make friends. We’re not even here to forge the alliance we are supposedly seeking; we’re here to disable the power source, and we must survive in this snake-pit until we can discover where it is and make our move.
‘Do the Guild speak with one voice?’
Again Heusinger shrugs. ‘Once more, it’s hard to tell. If there are disagreements among them, they’re kept well hidden. But it wouldn’t surprise me. They’re not as machine-like as they look. Bio-mechanisms they may be, robots they’re not.’
‘Which brings us to the King’s close family.’ Heusinger laughs, then sips his wine. ‘I say close, but only in the genetic sense. There’s more hatred among this parcel of relatives than in a roomful of cats on heat. The King’s brothers and his sons might be envied for what they have – for a lifestyle matched only by the gods – yet they see themselves as pr
isoners here in the fortress. They feel impotent, powerless, much more so than the Guild. Like the Guild, they want power, but the only way they could gain it would be to kill the King.’
‘They’ve tried, I take it?’
Heusinger nods. ‘That difficulty aside, their main problem is in agreeing on a replacement. Killing Manfred would be only the start of their difficulties. With the present king dead there would be coups and counter-coups and – who knows? – maybe even civil war. There are at least four separate “pretenders” to the throne and their hatred of each other outshines their hatred of the King.’
‘I see. So in essence there are three factions …’
Heusinger laughs and shakes his head. ‘If only it were that simple, Lucius. No, beyond the internal politics of the court, there’s a much greater problem, that of the Undrehungar, the revolutionary parties, especially the Unbeachtet. They may not have a voice in the King’s council, but their existence cannot be ignored. They’re a real thorn in Manfred’s side. The Security forces try their hardest to deal with them – to eradicate them – but like the famed hydra, cut off one head and another quickly grows. No, Lucius, the Empire is in turmoil; it festers with discontent. And that’s where our friends the Russians come into the picture, for though they cannot hope to win the war, they can still dream of undermining things here. Their agents …’
Heusinger stops and smiles, imagining what the listeners are making of this, then continues. ‘Well, put it this way … I am told that there are places in the city where half the population speak German with a Russian accent.’
We both laugh, but the thought of that troubles me. I think of Burckel and what they managed to do to him, and I wonder just how far, how deeply, the Russians have infiltrated our network here.
‘So to whom should we be most friendly? The King?’
‘He seems our greatest hope. But it wouldn’t harm to court the favour of the Guild. The Teuton Knights are far from being a spent force in this land. They are – or so I’m told – building a spacecraft.’
The Empire of Time Page 34