The Empire of Time

by David Wingrove

  I can almost hear the indrawn breath, the sudden panic among the various listeners. For this is a secret, and Heusinger has dropped it into the mix as if it were well known. The Guild will want to know how we found out and who the traitor is in their midst. The King, for his part, will want to know why the Guild is building rocket ships without his knowledge.

  ‘I guess we should get ready,’ I say, as if nothing has been said. ‘You have the gifts for the King?’

  There is a knock, not loud or hammering, but firm and sharp. Tief’s knock, if I’m not mistaken. I look to Heusinger and smile.

  ‘Come in.’

  Tief pushes back the massive doors and enters. Was he listening? His face betrays nothing. ‘Gentlemen,’ he says, bowing low. ‘Forgive me for intruding, but there’s to be a ceremony – an offering to the gods – and the King …’ He smiles. ‘The King asks if you would like to witness it.’

  ‘It would be an honour,’ I say. And it’s true. Not only that, but it is some while since I gave thanks to Urd.

  Tief waits while we prepare ourselves, then leads us out, across the platform and then down – floating on a piece of Kunstlichestahl no bigger than a desk top – on to a broad balcony that looks out over what seems a cross between an ancient chapel and a woodland glade, the one transposed inside the other. The walls are bare stone, with stained-glass windows in a medieval style, but there is also earth and rocks, pines and flowing streams, and at the centre of all a great ash tree, towering above the rest, its crown on a level with where we stand, above it all.

  The World Tree, Ygdrasil.

  Before it stands the King, and others so very like him that I assume they are his brothers and his sons. Those closest to him. Those that hate him most. Sensing me there, he turns, then gestures to me to come down. I glance at Tief, then descend by way of a small stone stairwell, walking out among those giants until I am at the King’s side.

  He towers above me, wearing a cloak of midnight blue so dark it seems made of the night itself.

  I stand to his right. To his left stands a boy – taller than I, yet a child – holding a basket of apples. But not any just apples. These are huge, gilded apples that glow from within, silver and gold, like they were grown on some magical tree.

  Manfred reaches into the basket and plucks out one silver apple and one gold and, holding them high before him, offers them to the World Tree. His voice booms deeply in that silent, enclosed space, deeper than any human voice I’ve ever heard.

  ‘Urd, daughter of Mimer, who is mind and memory, Goddess of Fate, Queen of Life and Death, accept my offerings and, with your sisters Verdande and Skuld, guardians of the Past and Future, vouchsafe our destinies.’

  The Tree shimmers, as if alive, and I see, high in its branches, a great bird, an eagle. Vedfolner, perhaps. It is a movement of the bird’s great wings that has made the Tree shimmer, yet the illusion that the gods responded is strong.

  Two handmaidens, half Manfred’s size, dressed in virginal white, step out from the shadows to either side and, accepting his offerings, step across to the foot of the great trunk. They place them there, then step back, and as they do, so a fierce beam of light crackles in the air above, consuming the apples.

  Manfred waits a moment, then, taking two more apples, holds them high and speaks again, his voice deep and resonant.

  ‘All-Father Odin, one-eyed God of War, grant us your love and protection. Wisest of gods, you who were at time’s first dawn, you of the nine and forty names who sees the fate of men and gods, watch over us and give us victory over our enemies.’

  Again the handmaidens take the apples and place them by the World Tree, and again they are consumed by the blazing light.

  For a third time, Manfred takes two apples and holds them high. His eyes shine now with belief, and his voice, when it sounds a third time, seems to resonate in my bones.

  ‘Freyja, Goddess of Fertility, whose handmaidens sit beneath the boughs of the great World Tree, grant us long life and happiness and many children. May your beauty be our inspiration always.’

  From all sides there comes a deep murmur of agreement. All about me and above me, heads bow towards the great Tree. Again it shimmers.

  It is the simplest of ceremonies, over in a moment, yet I find myself moved beyond all expectation. I am used to the forms and phrases, for this is our religion, yet rarely have I heard them uttered with such conviction, such belief, never have I felt so certain of the gods’ existence, and so, after a moment, I bow low, as if in Odin’s eye, and Manfred, seeing this, places one of his great hands upon my shoulders.

  ‘You have gods in your country, Lucius?’

  ‘We do, Meister. But none as powerful as these.’

  And I mean it. For though I have believed in the gods since I was a child, rarely have I felt their living presence as I did today.

  We walk on, across the soft dark soil, and through, beneath the boughs of the great World Tree, into a long, lamp-lit corridor and thence into the Hall. And once again I am surprised, for what surrounds me is no less than an ancient chieftain’s lodge, a huge, log-walled chamber with great shields and swords and axes on the walls, built in the ancient style. At the centre nine great trestle benches have been set up, eight in the main body of the Hall, in four rows of two, and one at the head, raised on a platform above the rest, as in olden days. There’s straw on the cold stone floor, and, as in centuries past, a great fire roars in a massive grate to one side. The scent of burning pine fills the Hall.

  I have sat in halls like this – smaller, danker halls, admittedly – when Germania was but a scattering of tribes hated by Rome and unified by lust and aggression. I have sat and eaten thus with many an ancient king, even with the great Hermann of the Cherusci, known to Rome as Arminius, whose armies defeated three legions in the Teutoburg forest, back in ad 16, but this is the strangest gathering I’ve ever attended; for while those ancient kings sought to impress me with the ‘luxury’, the modernity of their lodges, these Übermensch approach things from the opposite direction. They play at this retrograde simplicity, as if it suits them to be plain, unadorned brutes. Barbarism is in their blood, like a drug, yet their brutality is a matter of style.

  It’s a strange gathering in another respect, too, for rarely have I seen such a mixture of types of people – huge and tiny, gene-sculpted and bio-mechanical. The Guildsmen are conspicuously absent, and I note immediately that two of the benches at the centre sit empty. While the King goes among his people, shaking this man’s hand or speaking to another, I look about me, surprised to see so many Naturlich among the ranks of the Adel. Heusinger, at my side, is pointing out various ministers, explaining their role in things, when I notice Gudrun, seated to my right.

  It’s barely an hour since I saw her last, yet she seems more beautiful than ever. Not only that, but when our eyes meet, she seems to start with surprise.

  That moment’s startlement confuses me. What does it mean? Surely she can’t be interested in me? Yet to my surprise she stands and, coming across, smiles and gives me her hand. Her eyes are strange. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were filled with gratitude. But why should she be grateful?

  She leans down and whispers. ‘Thank you, Otto.’

  This time I’m shocked. Shocked that she knows my proper name. But I also haven’t a clue why she should be thanking me.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  But there’s no time to find out. Tief appears at my side and, hurrying me on, leads me across to the high table.

  Everything here is manufactured to the scale of the Adel. Massive silver platters, bowl-sized cups, knives the size of swords, the forks like tridents. Even so, the King has made concessions to his guests, and though it makes us feel like infants at an adults’ table, we have been given special chairs, special bowls and plates and cutlery.

  The King, indeed, has honoured us, placing us to his left at the high table, above many who are patently brothers and sons – princes all of this mighty r
ace.

  Many an eye is on Heusinger and me. Many a scowling face scans us haughtily and looks away, as if we are – quite literally – beneath their interest. Among them I notice Hagen, seated with several of his brothers on one of the tables below and to my left. His sneering smile seems to welcome me, though I know he wishes me nothing but ill. I look to Gudrun again, seated among a group of maidens to the right, Valkyrie all, their blonde hair braided for the feast, plate armour beneath their silken, flowing robes, like illustrations from some ancient book of myth. And as I look, so she meets my eyes again, then looks away, as if flustered. As if something has happened between us when I know for a fact that it hasn’t. And I wonder if this is some kind of game she’s playing, to wind up Hagen, maybe. To make that bastard jealous. Only Hagen isn’t conscious of it.

  There’s a strong buzz of talk, then a trumpet blows and all there stand, looking towards the two great doors at the far end of the Hall.

  They march in like a cohort of ancient legionaries, four abreast behind the Grand Master, awkward, mechanical-looking creatures in pale blue full-length cloaks trimmed with purple, each of them identical to the Guildsman I saw at the club. Yet though they are huge by comparison to ordinary men, beside these Adel they seem diminutive. As they march to their places, I notice a kind of mocking superiority in the eyes of the Adel, as if the Adel know they don’t have to march four abreast to intimidate their enemies.

  We wait as the Grand Master bows before the King, then wait a moment longer, the silence strained, as the Guild Knights take their places. Then and only then, does the King sit again, relaxing, turning to me with a smile, even as the Hall fills with talk and laughter once more.

  ‘Our friend Adelbert does love to make an entrance …’

  Adelbert is the Grand Master, and that sentence sets the tone, for from there on the King confides in me, letting me know just what he thinks of whom, and why.

  ‘You see those five,’ he says, raising his voice as he points out a group of Adel seated to our right, close by the maidens. They look to be of an age with him – brothers, not sons. ‘They look full of themselves, don’t they, Lucius? But they’re lucky to be alive. I had them neutered. Made sure those sons-of-bitches wouldn’t breed.’

  I raise an eyebrow and he explains.

  ‘They tried to kill me.’ He smiles, then raises his goblet to them in a toast. ‘I could have had them killed, only they are my brothers, after all.’

  It’s impossible not to see the bitterness in their eyes, the festering hatred, and I wonder how Manfred can live with this and still be sane. No wonder Burckel called this a hornets’ nest.

  He looks to me again, even as the first dish is served. A rich meat broth, with fresh-baked bread.

  ‘Your king, Lucius, is he as small as you?’

  ‘Our president …’

  ‘Forgive me, your president. Is he …?’ And he gestures to me with an amused smile, as if I ought to know what a pathetic specimen I seem. And maybe it’s so, but I don’t feel intimidated by him. I know that his kind are a genetic dead end. The Future, however it turns out, is not going to be ruled by these Adel.

  I smile pleasantly. ‘He’s a small man, yes, and thin, too. But very clever. And tough. You don’t know how tough such a small man can be.’

  ‘Oh, I can guess, Lucius.’ And, taking a spoon the size of a ladle, he begins to eat his broth, tearing at a loaf that’s as large as a roasting pig.

  I’m surprised at the way he launches into his food, for you would have thought there would be a taster, considering how much his own family want him dead, yet he seems to take no precautions against poisoning.

  Or maybe I’m just missing something.

  Between mouthfuls, he continues our conversation. ‘You’ve met Hagen, I understand. A nasty little brute, isn’t he? But typical of my children. Ingrates all. And none too bright, either, despite their genes. At least, not as bright as they need to be. As for their mothers, my wives …’

  He gestures to his right, where, at the end of our table, a group of women have been sitting all this while in total silence, not eating, their sour expressions an indication of just how little they want to be there.

  ‘Grasping bitches, the lot of them! Not a pinch of kindness in any of them, even the youngest! They think only of their sons and who will rule when I am dead. But what do you expect when you have to fuck your own family?’

  I don’t know what to say. His candour throws me. I stare, then shake my head, as if I’m dreaming, but Manfred seems not to worry whether I answer him or not. He merely wants to talk, to berate those about him.

  ‘They say it’s our destiny. That the future belongs to the better race. Well, so it is, Lucius. We are the future. But getting there …’ He laughs bitterly. This is a different king from the one I met earlier in the day, and it makes me wonder what has happened to make him so.

  ‘Take this war we’re having with the Russians. This “race war”, or Rassenkampf, as my ministers love to call it. What’s that all about? How in Thor’s name did we get ourselves embroiled in that? Is that too part of our genetic destiny? Must we obliterate all of our rivals to succeed? Because if that’s so …’

  ‘Meister …’

  Tief interrupts, sensing, perhaps, that the King is about to overstep the mark.

  ‘Yes, Tief,’ he says, turning towards him, a weary sigh escaping him. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The Grand Master wishes to speak to our guest. He asks if he might take a place at the high table.’

  ‘Ho ho!’ Manfred says, and rubs his massive hands together, as if delighted. ‘Tell him to approach. Oh, and set him a place … there … facing me. I’d like to see him struggle with the broth.’

  My eyes clearly have a question in them, because he leans towards me and, in an exaggerated whisper says: ‘They don’t eat, Lucius, they re-charge.’

  And he giggles. At least, as much as such a big man can giggle. It’s a rich, deep chortle that goes on and on and only stops as the Grand Master steps up on to the platform.

  The Hall falls silent.

  The King stands and puts out a hand, as if offering a place to a friend, but I can see how little friendship there is between the two men. The Grand Master bows, then, at the King’s gesture, sits, facing us. And as I look at him, I have my first surprise. Though he is mostly metal and wire, plastic and lubricant, there is someone in there. Two bright eyes sit back some way in that great mask-like piece of circuitry, like someone has been trapped inside.

  Hydraulics hiss. Metal creaks. ‘Ambassador.’

  The voice is smooth and deep, without a trace of machine-enhancement.

  ‘Grand Master,’ I reply, with a little bow, conscious that, for all his title claims, there is only one real ‘master’ in this Hall, and that’s the King.

  His head moves slightly, like a tank turret, taking bearings on my face. ‘I understand that you wished to see the Guild apartments. I am most regretful that we could not grant you that today. But if you would be my guest? Tomorrow, at dawn?’

  Though Tief has undoubtedly told the King of my request, the Grand Master’s courtesy clearly surprises Manfred, and he glances at me.

  ‘That would be most kind,’ I say, ‘unless, of course, the King has other plans for me.’

  ‘No, Lucius,’ he says. ‘You must go. I’m told it’s very Spartan there. But you’ll like their theatres, I’m sure … I’m told they have plenty of theatres …’

  I look down, trying not to smile. Manfred doesn’t mean places of entertainment, he means operating theatres. For Guildsmen aren’t born Guildsmen, they’re made, transformed into the kind of complex bio-mechanism that sits before me only after hundreds of operations. Manfred might make a joke of it now, but it’s why, as a breed, they’re so well used to pain. So capable of transcending it.

  The Grand Master waits a moment, as if expecting more, then speaks again, looking to me as he does.

  ‘Forgive me, Ambassador, but I’m curious. W
hy did your masters send so small a mission? There are, I understand, just two of you.’

  I smile. ‘That’s so.’

  ‘Ah … yes … yet it would seem …’

  ‘Inadequate?’

  Manfred, beside me, smiles. But I sense he too would like to know the reasoning, so I continue.

  ‘It’s a matter of simple expediency, Grand Master. A larger mission would have required a much bigger craft, and we do not have one. As you probably realise, we are rebuilding fast, yet our level of technology …’ And I shrug, as if my admission of our weakness is endearing, but the Grand Master looks far from amused.

  ‘There is another matter,’ he begins. ‘You say you have come from America, yet our agents report that you flew in from Africa. From the Tunisian coast, to be precise.’

  ‘That’s true,’ I say. ‘We have a base, in Dakhla, on the coast of the Western Sahara. One of several small outposts that facilitate trade.’

  ‘Ah. And you flew there first?’

  ‘And refuelled. It would not have done to have flown in over Germany with an empty tank. Who knows where we might have dropped out of the sky – and on to what …’

  Manfred laughs, amused, but I am beginning to wonder what the point of these questions is. Don’t the Guild believe us? Have they other information about our mission?

  ‘You’ve heard why they’ve come?’ Manfred asks, looking directly at the Grand Master.

  Again that turret of a head revolves, like it’s about to take aim. ‘No, Meister … though I believe we shall be discussing it.’

  Manfred, however, is not so polite. ‘Oh, he knows, Lucius. Our friend Adelbert here has his spies everywhere. And so do we. They know what we are doing and we know everything about them … or almost everything.’

  The Grand Master is staring at Manfred now, his head seemingly frozen in one position, as if some mechanism has locked.

  ‘They love the pretence,’ Manfred says, an edge now to his voice. ‘They love to make people think they’re on my side, even while they’re spying and prying and building spaceships …’

  ‘Meister!’ the Grand Master protests. ‘We are not!’