David Wingrove - The Empire of Time

‘Knew?’

‘That there was something strange about you. All that talk of alliances …’ He pauses, then. ‘But not a Russian?’

‘Never a Russian, My Lord.’

Tief clears his throat, and Manfred looks back at him. ‘Yes, Tief?’

‘They have an answer.’

‘They?’

‘The Russians, My Lord. To our ultimatum.’

‘Ah …’

‘And My Lord?’

‘Yes?’

‘The Konigsturm is burning. The Guild …’

‘I know, Tief. I know.’

It is civil war. Guild against King. Army against Undrehungar . As if one enemy wasn’t enough.

I watch Manfred walk across and climb up on to the raised, semi-circular platform. Across from him the great screen changes. The map dissolves and in its place appear seven seated figures, as over-large as they are in life; greybeards in pale grey full-length cloaks. They look curiously ancient — medieval, almost. This is the Russian veche — or seven of the nine, at least — their supreme council of rulers. Like Manfred and his kin, they form a genetic elite among their kind — podytyelt , as they’re known- yet they have nothing of Manfred’s grandeur. They’re poor specimens by comparison, and I find myself thinking that, like the Guildsmen, it needs full seven of them to match a single one of Manfred’s ilk.

The two who are missing are already dead, their leader, Chkalov, one of them, assassinated at the very outset by Manfred’s agents in the Kremlin.

‘Gentlemen,’ Manfred says, giving them a sweeping — ironic? — bow. ‘You wish to surrender?’

The eldest of the Russians — seated at the very centre of the group — leans forward slightly and looks from side to side before he speaks.

‘We have come to a decision.’

‘A decision? ’ Manfred gives a short, humourless laugh, then shakes his head. ‘I’ll have no terms . You will surrender unconditionally. ’

There’s a moment’s silence, and then the elder speaks again. His face is bitter now, his hatred for Manfred showing clear suddenly. ‘You leave us no choice.’

Manfred lifts his head slightly. ‘You capitulate then?’

The old man seems exhausted. Even so, he is defiant to the last. ‘Never. Not until hell itself freezes over.’

Or the Earth boils …

Surprised, Manfred points towards their spokesman. ‘You will surrender. You have no choice.’

‘We shall destroy you first.’

And all of us , I think. But this is all written. Unchangeable. Manfred has backed the rats — as he’s so often called them — into a corner from which they can’t escape. And now the rats are biting back. If they must die, they will die — as they see it — honourably.

Such pride. Such stupid, self-destructive pride.

‘So be it,’ Manfred says wearily. And he cuts contact. On the screen the figures vanish, the great map reappears.

I stand there, shocked. Knowing about this was one thing, but seeing it …

And I do see it. I see it in Manfred’s eyes, particularly; in the way he bends over the rail, like a runner whose energy is wholly spent. This isn’t war, it’s suicide. Only Manfred didn’t want to go alone. He wanted to take everyone with him. Like that bastard Hitler. That’s why he pushed them to the edge. Not to win. He could never win .

‘You can’t,’ I say quietly, stepping towards him. ‘You can’t !’

He looks up, meeting my eyes, then turns and speaks to the air: ‘Code Black Cloud,’ he says. ‘Target: Moscow …’

My mouth works soundlessly. There have been exchanges of missiles already. Cities have already been destroyed. But thus far it’s been tactical. Brinkmanship. Now the real destruction begins. Hell itself will gape.

Already — even at that moment — the missiles are soaring upwards in great arcs towards their targets. German missiles, and Russian too.

Manfred looks to me again, and to my unspoken question answers: ‘Why not? Rather this than a world run by the Guild. It’s over, Otto. Finished .’

And as he says the word, so there’s a loud commotion outside and a sudden, violent hammering on the door, as if Thor himself is demanding entrance. A moment later it hisses open. Two Guildsmen step through and take up position, their weapons raised.

Adelbert enters a moment later, slowly, cautiously, his head swivelling from side to side. If he’s smiling, then he’s smiling deep within that nest of wires and plastic and metal that’s his head.

‘My Lord,’ he says, and bows, as if the title means anything any longer. For Adelbert has won. Germany is his now.

‘Guild Master,’ Manfred answers, and again he gives that low, ironic bow. ‘Or should I just call you … Master?’

Step by mechanical step he comes, until he’s just below Manfred, at the foot of the metal steps that lead up to the platform. He looks up, his turret of a head tilting slowly back.

‘You will be treated well …’

Manfred laughs tonelessly. ‘I will be dead. And so will you. Unless, of course …’

Adelbert seems puzzled. ‘ Unless , My Lord?’

‘Unless you can stop the missiles in mid air.’

‘My Lord …?’

Manfred moves back a little, allowing Adelbert to see the map. On it now are a series of tiny, colourful streaks, to the right and left of the central mass, like tears — or claw marks — in the surface of the screen.

‘It’s the final phase,’ Manfred says, coming slowly down the steps until he’s on a level with Adelbert, facing him, towering over him.

‘But they …’

‘Told me to go to hell.’ Manfred laughs once more, then walks past Adelbert, towards where I’m seated.

‘Otto. You know what happens. Tell him.’

‘It’s over,’ I say, feeling sick to the stomach now that I’ve seen what really happened. ‘Nothing will survive.’

It’s not strictly true. Something will survive. The two deep bunkers for a start. And Reichenau, perhaps, if we’re right about him. But it’s as close to the truth as I can say.

‘But why?’ Adelbert says. And, strangely, there’s real emotion in his voice.

‘Because you bastards would fuck it all up. Make it a living hell.’

Adelbert doesn’t answer. He stands there, still and silent, like he’s been turned into a pillar of salt.

Manfred sits alongside me, his long legs sprawled out before him.

‘How long before the first one falls?’ he asks, his overlarge head turned towards me, his eyes — which I once thought wise — defying me to challenge what he’s done.

‘Eighteen minutes,’ I say.

‘And the last?’

‘Approximately four and a half hours.’

‘That long?’ Manfred gives a long sigh. ‘And you’ll be gone, I take it?’

‘Yes, My Lord.’

He nods, then turns away and, closing his eyes, yawns deeply. Getting to his feet, he walks back to where Adelbert still stands, silent and motionless.

‘What is it, Grand Master? Seized up? Rain got to you?’

Adelbert’s head swivels round. His voice is angry now. ‘You’re a fool, Manfred. A wicked fool.’

‘As if you care for a single one of them!’ Manfred huffs contemptuously. ‘No! Let the bombs fall! Let the earth be wiped clean of our kind! Let there be no more wars, no more Rassenkampf ! Thirty centuries is quite enough!’

He falls silent. The colored streaks on the map have lengthened, reaching out from west and east, the foremost missiles crossing trajectories. In a while they will all cross over. More are joining them by the moment, as matters escalate. Soon the whole map will be cross-hatched with the trails of missiles.