Weaver tt-4

by Stephen Baxter

Trojan grinned. 'You can see we are ready for your gift.'

  'I think that's your cue, George,' Mary murmured.

  George stepped forward, and made a ceremony of handing Trojan his wooden box. Trojan opened it to reveal the battered Roman spear that had once graced a farmhouse wall at Birdoswald. For the sake of the cameras Trojan cradled the spear, earnestly inspecting it. All this as the flashbulbs popped, and the photographers called him to look this way and that.

  'And the provenance – this is authentic, a spear that witnessed the Crucifixion, so to speak.' Trojan stroked the spear tip, caressing it, almost sexually. 'Astonishing to think, isn't it? The Reichsfuhrer will be delighted! Here, Ernst. See if you can get this mounted. It will make another good picture.' He passed the spear to his brother.

  The young obergefreiter sent another soldier running; he returned with two short step-ladders.

  'I don't know what the Nazis want with an old spear,' George murmured.

  Mary whispered back, 'It's quite neat. Tom Mackie did his own research about Birdoswald, since it seems to be so pivotal to this whole saga. There is a fragmentary story that the fort served as headquarters to one of the officials involved in the construction of Hadrian's Wall. An auxiliary commander called Tullio, a Bavarian. And this Tullio had some kind of contact who was present at the Crucifixion.'

  That jolted George. 'Really? What's this based on?'

  She grinned. 'A good historian's question. Very little. Grave markers, that sort of thing, and a lot of speculation. But Christ had died less than a century earlier. Given that, it's at least plausible that Tullio would have had in his possession some sort of relic of the Crucifixion. A soldier's trophy. A spear, perhaps – like the Spear of Longinus, said to have been used to wound the dying Christ.'

  'Ah. Hitler's got that, hasn't he? And Himmler and his crew are always on the look-out for holy relics.'

  'Yep. But if Tullio did have such a spear, and he was stationed at the Wall, and his descendants stayed on after him-'

  'It might have finished up buried at Birdoswald. Only to be dug up by a Navy bloke two thousand years later.'

  'That's the general idea.'

  'This is an utter pack of lies, isn't it, Mary?'

  'Absolutely. But Himmler's toadies have been fooled by much less convincing frauds.'

  The photographers took more snaps, of the party as a whole under the spear, then of Josef Trojan and Mary together, and Trojan alone. He had the photographers crouch, so they looked up at his handsome face, his crossed arms, the spear on the wall behind him.

  Mary watched this, fretting, light-headed. Knowing what was to follow, she felt furiously impatient with this buffoon and his show-boating, even though she knew it was that quality about him that had got her in here in the first place.

  At last Trojan was done. He straightened his uniform and approached Mary again. 'This day is perfect, for me – perfect. And now let me make it perfect for you, my dear Mary Wooler.' He turned and nodded to his brother, who, looking a bit embarrassed by all the song and dance, opened a door to a staff room.

  And Gary walked out. There was a young woman as his side. He wore a smart suit and tie, his shoes were polished, his hair cut and combed.

  Mary ran to her son and grabbed him. She hadn't seen him since the invasion, since his capture. Gary hugged her back, hard; she felt his strength, an echo of his father's. Flashbulbs popped. Trojan and the other Germans applauded. Mary ignored them all.

  Gary drew back and held her arms. 'Mom. Hey, no tears. You'll mess up the suit.'

  'I wasn't expecting- when I thought of you, I imagined you in your uniform. Seeing you in a suit, it's as if the war never happened.'

  'Yeah, but my uniform don't look so good after a year in the stalag, believe me.'

  She looked at him intently. 'And you're well?'

  He shrugged. 'Life in Rutupiae is pretty good. Their doctors gave me a good check-over. Compared to the stalag, I'm well off.'

  'And of course he has me.' The young woman approached tentatively. She was dressed in white, attractively if soberly; her face was square, sensible, and quite well made up. This was Doris Keeler, and one eye flickered, a subtle wink at Mary, her old friend from Colchester. 'Sophie Silver,' she said boldly. She held up her left hand and waggled her ring finger. It bore a band of silver. 'Though, with your blessing, it will soon be Mrs Sophie Wooler. And hopefully before any little Aryans come along.'

  'Oh, my dear.' Mary embraced her. 'It's so good to meet you. Gary told me all about you in his mail.'

  'All good, I hope.' She plucked at Gary's lapel. 'Though he didn't listen to me about this suit. A bit spiwy, don't you think?'

  More flashbulbs popped as they talked. Gary Wooler, American veteran of the invasion, was now the poster boy of Himmler's crackpot breeding programme. It had all been perfect, Mary thought, immaculately set up by MI-14 and the resistance – a trap of publicity and achievement this vain, ambitious Josef Trojan couldn't resist falling into.

  But Julia Fiveash was staring intently at them, her eyes narrow, her face expressionless. Trojan might have taken the bait, Mary reminded herself, but he wasn't the only player here.

  Delicately Trojan approached them. 'I am delighted to have been the agent of this long overdue reunion,' he said. 'But now I must ask you to come with me. Mrs Wooler, I have a number of scholars eager to discuss with you their work on the implications for the medieval age of the Norman Conquest – I know that is an interest of yours. Many of our scholars are English, you know – indeed many have come into the protectorate specifically to work at this institute! And we have good links with several English universities, including both Oxford and Cambridge. As you remarked, there are bonds of scholarship which, eternal, transcend the petty political squabbles of the day. And then you must let me treat you to lunch…'

  He walked on with Mary, with George, Doris and Gary following, the rest of the German staff and the patient photographers, on deeper into the bowels of his brand-new college, their footsteps echoing on the granite floor tiles.

  XXVI

  The space under the floor was only about three feet deep, and full of water and gas pipes and electricity cables. Gary had to climb through this jungle from joist to joist, ducking past the pipes and cables, fearful that at any moment he would put his foot through the basement ceiling under him and ruin everything.

  Doris seemed able to squirm through it all with remarkable ease. By the light of the torch strapped to his head, Gary saw her wriggling away ahead of him, her legs bare save for her stockings, her skirt tucked up without self-consciousness into her belt. She wasn't even getting her white outfit dirty. 'Come on, keep up,' she whispered back at him.

  'I haven't had your training.'

  'What about all that tunnelling out of the POW camp?'

  'That was for the English,' he said. 'The public school types. Anyhow the Germans kept a close eye on me. A Prominente, remember.'

  'What a rotten excuse. We're close, I think.'

  It hadn't been hard to slip away from his mother's group and out of sight of the various German guards. Once they were alone, in a kind of reading room, Doris had shown him the diagram the resistance spies had assembled of this Ahnenerbe facility. They knew that Ben was being held in a kind of laboratory tucked away in the basement. 'Of course it would be the basement,' Gary had remarked. 'Nazis like basements.' It had taken Doris only minutes to lift the carpet, prise up a couple of floorboards, and slip down into the space between the ground level floor and the basement ceiling.

  'Here.' She came to a stop. With care she unscrewed a light fitting, pulled it back, and peered through the hole in the ceiling plaster. 'Bingo. And there's nobody around. Probably all watching the show upstairs…' She took a knife from under her skirt and briskly cut a circle in the plaster, a couple of feet across. She looked down again. 'Only six or eight feet. Piece of cake.' She grabbed a wooden joist and swung her feet down through the hole. She dangled by her arms from the joist. Then sh
e let go and dropped, bending her legs so she landed without impact, and virtually no noise.

  Gary came to the hole. The room below was brightly lit. He glimpsed mechanical equipment, a glass wall. Doris stood directly beneath him. He could see plaster dust on her hair. 'Now you.'

  He landed heavily, with a noisy clatter, and nearly stumbled over.

  'Idiot,' she hissed.

  'Show-off.' He straightened up, brushing the dust from his suit jacket, and looked around. The room was a box, brightly lit, the walls whitewashed. The central area was walled off by glass, a room within a room. There were desks, work tables and chairs, mounds of paper heaped up – and, incongruously, a big bookcase that contained mouldering history titles. There was a hum of fans; the air was dry, cool.

  But the place was dominated by a bank of mechanical gadgetry that covered one wall, side to side, floor to ceiling. It was as he imagined a telephone exchange might be, all relays and wires in an aluminium frame.

  Doris asked softly, 'Is this Ben?'

  He whirled around. She was looking into the glass-walled inner chamber. There was nothing much in there but a bed, he saw, with white sheets, and a table and chair and a washbasin, a piss-pot on the floor. And on the bed, over the sheets, lay a man in striped prison pyjamas, small, hunched over with his legs up by his belly, his arms folded, mussed black hair dark against the pillow. He wore a kind of cap of silvery metal, connected by the wires to a metal cabinet beside the bed. He was bathed in brilliant white light.

  Gary hammered on the glass wall. 'Ben. Ben!'

  The sleeping figure stirred resentfully, mumbling.

  'Keep it down, for God's sake. Let's get him out of there.' The glass box had a door, a lock embedded in its transparent structure. Doris produced another tool, like a fine screwdriver, and began to work at the lock.

  At last Ben opened an eye. When he saw Gary, he lurched up to a sitting position. His shirt hung open, showing his belly. He got out of bed and ran to the glass wall. The metal cap was ripped off his head by the trailing wires. His crown had been shaved, like a monk's tonsure, and his scalp was prickled by an array of crimson dots. He stood there flattened against the glass, his mouth open. 'You came for me.'

  Gary was inches away, but could not touch him. 'I told you I would, didn't I? It's OK, Ben. We'll get you out of this fucking zoo. Christ, I think they've got him drugged up. His eyes-'

  'Gary! Gary!'

  Doris still worked at the lock. 'Try to keep him quiet.'

  Gary made calming motions with his hands. 'Ben, it's OK, just take it easy.'

  The door swung back soundlessly, and Doris, tucking away her lock-picking tool, hurried into the glass room. When Doris reached for him Ben flinched back, hammering his head on the glass wall. 'Christ,' Doris said. 'Gary, get in here, for God's sake.'

  Gary pushed past Doris. Ben threw himself at him. 'Gary, oh my word, you came, I thought I would never, I thought…' He buried his face in Gary's chest.

  Gary wrapped his arms around him. Ben felt almost podgy, with fat over his ribs and belly. 'They've been feeding you up. Christ, what have they done to you?'

  Ben looked up, his eyes glazed. 'It's what they've done with me… Drugged up, asleep most of the time. Dreaming. Past and future, past and future. We're a bridge across time, a computing machine and my poor wandering psyche. You don't want to know, Gary, I mean it. Although your mother knows, I think, she might understand by now.'

  'Never mind that,' Doris hissed. 'Come on. Out.'

  Ben didn't want to let go of Gary, but they persuaded him to grab Gary's arm so that the two of them could walk, awkwardly, with Doris's help.

  Doris, all business, shepherded them to the heap of plaster dust under the hole in the roof. 'Out the way we came. Gary, get back up there. Use that chair. I'll give Ben a boost back up. I'll follow, after I've done a bit of business in here. And then-'

  'No.' Ben had been passive for a few seconds, but now he started panicking. He twisted away from them both and ran to the bank of mechanical gear at the back wall. 'I must see if they've done what they threatened, if they've done it…'

  'We don't have time for this,' Doris snapped.

  Gary grabbed her arm. 'Look, Doris, take it easy. He'll be a lot easier to get out through that roof space conscious than unconscious.'

  She bit her lip. 'All right. But quickly.'

  Ben found a paper-tape punch. He scrolled through its output, and pawed through heaps of notes, handwritten in German, some technician's orderly journal.

  Gary stood by him. 'We have to go, pal.'

  'Not before I know if they've used this thing.'

  'For what?' Gary looked up at the bank of gleaming equipment, the relays and wires, rods and gears. It was beautiful, he thought, a beautifullymade machine in the midst of all this madness. 'What is this, Ben?'

  Ben snorted. 'Actually it's a Z3. An electromechanical calculating machine. The pride of German engineering. They use it to calculate the Godel trajectories, you see, the paths back to the past. They come here, you know. Technicians from the Zuse Apparatebau in Berlin. Zuse sends technicians from Berlin to service it! Can you believe that? They get paid. And I, I must dream… Unh.' It was a grunt, as if he had been struck in the stomach.

  'Ben?'

  'They did it.' He held up a length of paper tape. 'See? There's the proof, right there. And the date stamp.'

  'They did what?'

  'They sent it back in time. The Menologium. Just two days ago. Tell your mother. Make sure she understands, that she knows. Tell her I signed it.' He grinned. 'I signed my name in their fucking Menologium. Now my name must be in the history books. Think of that! But if only you'd come earlier – it's too late, they did it again, like Rory, and I died, I died again-' And he slumped into the corner, his back to the shining machine.

  'Enough,' Doris said. 'Help me, Gary.'

  They each grabbed an arm and began hauling, but Ben was limp now, just a burden. He said, 'To wipe out all of history, at the push of a button, the close of a relay – billions upon billions of lives, snuffed out and swapped for a whole new set – the close of a relay – what could be more fascistic than that?'

  Gary could hear noise coming from above, shouting, heavy running footsteps – the thump of an explosion somewhere, a rattle of gunfire. 'It's coming apart,' he said.

  'You surprise me,' Doris said. 'We might still get out of this. Up you go.'

  Gary hopped on a chair, jumped so he got his hands onto the joists, and pushed himself up. 'Pass him up.' Sitting with his legs dangling through the ceiling, he reached down with his arms.

  The door slammed open. SS troopers burst in, six, eight, ten of them, all with automatic weapons or pistols. Julia Fiveash was at their head, waving a silver pistol of her own. The SS troopers screamed German phrases that Gary knew well from the stalag: 'Down!' 'On your knees, on the floor!'

  Doris looked up at Gary. Ben was slumped in her arms, almost unconscious. She mouthed, 'Go!' And suddenly she had her knife at Ben's throat.

  Gary lifted his legs out of the hole and scrambled back.

  Doris turned to face Fiveash. 'Back off, you traitorous bitch, or I cut his throat!'

  The troopers hung back uncertainly.

  Fiveash advanced, step by step, her pistol held out straight before her in her two hands. 'I knew there was something wrong with you people. The way the Woolers greeted each other – that was more than a mother greeting her prisoner son – I knew there was an agenda! I admit I didn't spot you, Silver-'

  With a grunt Doris shoved Ben at Fiveash. He fell against her, tangling her up. And Doris ran at the big calculating machine, the Z3. Fiveash yelled at the troopers.

  Suddenly Gary saw what Doris was going to do. He ducked behind a roof joist for cover.

  The explosion was a pulse of light, the concussion a punch in the gut. Over the Z3 the roof plaster blew upwards, and Gary tried to shield his face.

  XXVII

  He could feel himself rock back and
forth, and the breeze on his face was fresh and cold and salty. He opened his eyes. Uniforms, all around him, at odd angles. A grey sky above, heavy with cloud.

  He was in a boat. He sat up with a lurch.

  'Gary?'

  His mother was beside him. He had been lying with his head on her lap. She stroked his forehead, but he flinched, his skin tender. The boat was small, and full of marines. One older man, an officer, sat opposite him, peaked cap, trenchcoat, watching him steadily.

  His mother asked, 'How do you feel?'

  He grabbed her hand. 'Like one big bruise. And I've a head that's ringing like the Liberty Bell.' He touched his ears; his hearing was muffled.

  'I'll get you some water.' She passed him a canteen.

  He glanced down at himself, at plaster dust, blood, rips. 'I've ruined my suit.'

  'You'll answer to Moss Bros for that,' said the officer, his voice very cultured British.

  'Who?'

  'Never mind. Bad joke.' He stuck out his hand. 'I'm Tom Mackie. Captain, RN. Seconded to military intelligence for the foreseeable. I know your mother, and I've heard all about you, Gary, but it's the first time we've met. Apart from when I slung you over my shoulder to get you out of Richborough.'

  'I'm embarrassed,' Gary said. 'Um, where am I?'

  'The English Channel, old chap. Don't worry, you're quite safe.'

  His mother said, 'The doctor who looked at you on the shore said you had concussion, you were suffering from shock. It's amazing you found your way back out of that roof space at all.'

  'I don't remember,' Gary admitted.

  'What, none of it?' Mackie asked drily. 'The marine assault on Richborough, perfectly timed incidentally, the gun fight with those SS goons, the dash to the beach?'

  'Sorry.'

  'Ah, well. Just your average Christmas Eve, really.'

  Gary shivered. A marine threw him a green blanket. 'Here you go, chum.' He wrapped it around his body gratefully, and let his mother embrace him; he supposed she deserved that. The day was darkling, he saw, the light seeping out of a leaden sky.