The Empire of Time (50 page)

‘Ah …’ And I relax. For a moment I thought Hecht was speaking of the Russians. But this is one place they surely don’t know about. One place they’d never guess we came to.

‘Come,’ Hecht says. ‘It’s just there, down the path.’

We follow a dirt path down through the rocks, then turn left, through a screen of cypress trees, into a dark and narrow space. There, between two smooth, white stone walls, lies a steel door.

It looks like a vault.

‘Otto, I have to ask you not to look for a moment.’

I avert my eyes as Hecht taps a code into the keypad by the door. A moment later it hisses open, a draft of cool air reaching out to envelop us.

We go inside, into a marvel of high-tech efficiency. It’s a library, a massive storage room, with endless screens and shelves stretching floor to ceiling and, in one corner, a long
kunstlichestahl
work surface on which are all manner of tapes and files.

‘Welcome,’ Albrecht says, turning to me and grinning that by-now-familiar grin of his that separates him so distinctly from his brother. ‘This is where it’s all kept.’

The Keeper
… And I understand, instantly and without needing to be told, that this is where Hecht stores it all. All of the information about all the different pasts we’ve visited. Details of all the changes are here, of all our failed attempts to make it different.

Hecht sees the movement in my face and smiles, a pale smile compared to that of his brother’s, but similar.

‘I see you understand. I knew you would. It’s all here. Everything. And Albrecht is the curator. He makes sense of it all. When I lose direction, I come back here and he shows me what I need to see.’ Hecht looks to his brother fondly. ‘It would be too much for one man.’

I see that at a glance. There must be tens of thousands of files stored here, in all manner of formats. And not just files, I note, but things. Things from a hundred Ages and more.

‘It’s unaffected, you see,’ Albrecht says, walking across and picking up a file, then inserting it into a nearby touch-screen. ‘If it were further up the line, then any changes that you made would make changes here. But being so far back … nothing changes.’

‘That’s right,’ Hecht says, ‘so when I come back here after a major paradigm shift, say, Albrecht
reminds
me. He shows me what was. All of those realities that I’d forgotten, that had been
erased
from my memory by Time.’

‘So just how different is it?’

‘Not much,’ Albrecht answers, concentrating on what he’s doing. ‘At least, not as much as you’d think.’

He’s quiet a moment, then gestures for me to come across and join him.

‘Look,’ he says. ‘Here’s one of your earlier de-briefings.’

For the next half hour I stand there, half-crouched over the touch-screen, watching myself answer Hecht’s questions about where I’d been, and what I’d seen and what was done. And not a single word of it remembered.

As it finishes I look to Albrecht. ‘Which of them was that?’

‘That was your sixth trip back,’ Hecht says, answering for him. ‘That’s when we knew that something odd was happening; that it wasn’t going to be as easy as we’d anticipated. That’s when we started going out on a limb – though nothing as left-field as your last trip back.’

‘And nothing works?’

They don’t need to answer that. Of course it doesn’t. That’s why we’re here. But I’m thinking aloud now.

‘But the cup …’

Albrecht looks to his brother. ‘The cup?’

‘The lavender-glazed cup,’ Hecht explains, then looks to me. ‘What about it?’

‘Just that it has to get into Gehlen’s possession somehow. That
has
to happen.’

‘Okay. But what’s the
significance
of that?’

‘I don’t know. Only that …’ I close my eyes and try to concentrate.

There are certain things that
have
to happen. Gehlen
has to
discover the equations, and Germany and Russia
have to
be destroyed. We know that and the Russians know that. But what about the power source? Does that
have to
be found? Do we
have to
free Ernst from the time-trap? Or is that something we have no control over?

Hecht, it seems, doesn’t know, and nor does Albrecht, because if they did, then we’d not be making these wild stabs in the dark.

Opening my eyes again, I look to Hecht. ‘One more try.’

He shakes his head.

‘Why not?’

‘Because the Russians know you’re there.’

‘They must have known that for some while.’

‘Maybe … but it grows riskier each time. If they get
you
—’

Albrecht looks to him sharply, and he falls silent.

‘
What?
’ I ask. ‘What don’t I know?’

‘Nothing,’ Hecht says. But he’s lying. And he doesn’t do it well.

‘What if we keep someone close this time,’ Albrecht says. ‘Someone who can jump in and pull him out of there immediately if there’s any trouble.’

‘No!’

‘
Why?
’

I’m almost pleading with him now.

‘Because it’s too risky. Besides, someone new—’

‘Won’t know what’s going on,’ I interject. ‘Look. Why don’t you show me what happened – all of it; all thirteen attempts – then send me in again, armed with what I know. After all, if this
is
a maze, then maybe knowing what
doesn’t
work – what paths
not
to follow – might just work.’

Hecht stares at me thoughtfully, then, quietly,. ‘You really want to do that?’

I nod.

‘
All
of it? I warn you, some of it’s quite gruesome.’

I frown. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean you died. Several times. We had to jump in and get you out – change time and unweave events. It wasn’t very pretty.’

‘I
died
?’

Hecht nods.

I swallow, then, knowing there’s no other course, look to Albrecht. ‘Show me. Every last little thing you have.’

That evening, as the sun sinks below the rim of the valley, Hecht ceremonially lights a massive fire at the centre of the encampment. It’s burning bright – throwing flickering shadows across the huts – when the hunters return, stepping out of the darkness in threes and fours, throwing down their captured prey on a great pile beside the main hut before joining the rest of the tribe about the fire.

And even as the men return, so the women get down to work, skinning and cutting up the dead animals, preparing the meat for the fire. Among them I notice Ooris. Indeed, it’s hard not to notice her, for she seems to be at the heart of all the activity, organising the women, making sure each task is done well. And when the first of the food is ready, it is Ooris who brings a great wooden platter of it across to us, where we sit in front of Albrecht’s hut and, bowing before us, makes an offering.

There is a kind of silence – a silence breached only by the roar and crackle of the fire – as she bows low, waiting for us to take the well-charred meat from the bowl.

Hecht looks to me and smiles. ‘You first, Otto.’

I take a large chunk of meat – the leg of some beast – and almost drop it, not realising just how hot it is.

‘Here,’ Hecht says, handing me a carved wooden plate.

I drop the meat on to the plate, then look up, smiling. ‘Thank you, Ooris.’

And as I say it, I almost feel she blushes. Only how would I tell in this half-light, and in that deep-set face? Yet there’s a distinct movement of her body, which seems to indicate a certain pleasure at my thanks, as well as a feminine shyness.

Finally, Hecht takes the last piece and, raising it, offers a word or two of thanks to the hunters, his voice richly burred as he utters their strange and ancient speech. And then the feast begins.

After a while, Ooris comes across again and, with that same, gentle shyness, sits down in front of us.

‘Hello,’ she says, her voice strangely deep. ‘Did you …’ She hesitates, then, more confidently. ‘Did you
enjoy
the meal?’

Her
Volksprach
is excellent. Hecht, I note is looking on, wearing a more earnest expression than I’ve seen him wear all evening, like he himself is being tested here.

‘I did,’ I answer, nodding exaggeratedly. ‘You speak our language very well.’

‘Thank you,’ she says, and this time – from this close, and in the fire’s light – I see that she does blush. Indeed, though her form is somewhat heavy, somewhat frightening, there’s something about her face that’s almost attractive. There is a definite sweetness to her, and – I guess because she speaks our language – I find myself re-categorising her there and then, elevating her, I suppose you’d say, from ape to human. She is like us, despite her outer form.

She glances up, then looks down quickly, averting her eyes, that gesture so human, so like a love-shy teenage girl of some later Age, that again she comes suddenly alive to me, no longer just a creature. And it’s that image that stays with me as, later, I drift into sleep: of a Neanderthal woman, smiling shyly, reminding me, despite all physical differences, of something that I’m missing so acutely that it brings me close to tears.

Heavy rain, falling on the roof of the hut, wakes me before dawn. I go to the doorway and look out at a valley transformed. Mist drifts like clouds of dense smoke, obscuring vision briefly, then clearing to reveal a landscape washed fresh and new.

It’s only when I turn to speak to Hecht that I realise he’s not there.

I walk across to Albrecht’s cabin, expecting to find the two of them there, but that too is empty. Stepping outside, I look about me, but the encampment is silent, the
huuruuhr
sprawled in their huts, sleeping off last night’s drunken feast.

The rain is still falling, a warm, pleasant rain. Peeling off my top, I walk out into it and stand there, looking out along the length of the valley, enjoying the simple beauty of the view. My hair is plastered to my head, my trousers soaked, but it doesn’t matter. This is the best feeling – being alive on a morning like this.

‘Otto?’

I turn, to find Hecht and his brother there. Hecht’s carrying a pack. He smiles at me. ‘You’re an early riser. I thought you’d still be asleep.’

‘I couldn’t,’ I say. ‘The rain …’

‘Have you had breakfast?’

‘No.’

‘Are you hungry?’

‘Famished.’

‘Then come. I’ll cook you a breakfast you’ll never forget.’

I wonder where they’ve been and what they’ve been doing, but there’s something else I want to raise.

‘I had a dream,’ I say as we walk back, ‘just before I woke. It was about Reichenau. You know, our two-headed friend.’

Hecht turns and looks at me. ‘Go on.’

‘In my dream he was speaking Russian. Fluent Russian. With a Suzdal accent.’

Hecht laughs. ‘Suzdal, eh? So he’s a Moscow boy, perhaps?’

‘It wasn’t just that. In my dream he was fishing …’

‘Fishing?’

‘Yes … sitting there on the bank of a river, on a lazy summer’s day, just fishing. I was on a boat, you see, drifting downstream, the faintest breeze in the sail, and there he was, on the bank, as casual as could be. He looked up and spoke to me, just as if he’d been expecting me.’

‘In Russian?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what did he say?’

I smile. ‘I can’t remember. It’s like the words themselves didn’t matter. It’s what lay behind them.’

‘And what
was
behind them?’

‘I’m not sure. Only it got me thinking. Why did he tell Manfred that he knew me? Was he trying to get me into trouble? Or what was he trying to do? It just seems strange that he even mentioned me.’

‘Maybe Manfred asked him about you. Directly, I mean. Maybe he showed him a holo-image.’

‘Maybe …’ Only I don’t think that. In fact, I’m pretty sure that Manfred implied that Reichenau raised the subject.

Hecht’s silent, then he turns and looks at me again. ‘So you think Reichenau’s a Russian agent?’

‘I don’t know. In my dreams …’

He stops, and Albrecht and I stop too. ‘Do you
trust
your dreams, Otto?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that maybe they tell us the truth sometimes. Truths that we’d otherwise never come upon?’

‘I don’t know. They’re only dreams, after all.’

‘And yet you trust to your instincts. How do they differ from your dreams? In what fashion?’

I stare at Hecht, surprised. Maybe it’s being back here that makes him so, but he seems very different right now.

He smiles. ‘Maybe
he’s
the key. Not Gudrun, nor Gehlen, nor Manfred, but Reichenau. Maybe he’s the one you need to go back and see.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Why should I be? It’s the one place we
haven’t
been. Not in the last few days of it, anyway.’

‘I don’t know. The map he gave me …’

‘Wasn’t of the
Konigsturm
, I know. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t locate where the source is. You just have to find out where that building is.’

‘And how do I do that?’

Albrecht laughs. ‘By asking Reichenau?’

‘You think he’d answer me?’

‘Not if he
is
a Russian agent,’ Hecht says. ‘But we don’t know that yet. Besides, why give it to you unless it means something?’

‘To waste my time?’

‘There are other ways of doing that. No. I think the map is genuine.’

That puzzles me – why should Hecht think that? – but I let it pass.

We are still standing there, in the rain, the cabin fifty yards away, waiting, it seems, for Hecht to say something, or do something. But all he does is smile, then turn and walk on. As if, in that moment, he has seen it all clearly.

I never get that promised breakfast. The decision made, Hecht wants to act on it at once. He has Albrecht compile a dossier of all we know on Reichenau – not a lot, as it turns out – then has me study it.

I don’t learn a lot that I didn’t already know, only a few incidentals about his past, gleaned from the state records. His ‘daughter’, so-called, is no relation at all. Nor could she have been, now that I think of it.
Doppelgehirn
aren’t born that way, after all – they’re manufactured: their two brains sewn into a single skull. What surprises me is that he should make that claim. As if he needed family.