David Wingrove - The Empire of Time

You might wonder what Hecht means by that, and I ought, perhaps, to explain. Only, I am kind. Kinder than Hecht imagines. He’s right, of course. I do have problems with that side of things, not with sex itself, but with the way we as a Volk handle sex. Oh, and I know the arguments. With so few of us, we need to take every opportunity we can to diversify the gene pool. Intellectually I can see the need.

Some argue that we could arrange this differently, mix up our genes in the laboratories and attain diversity by that means, but the counter-argument is strong. We are a Volk , not a group of families — Engel, Fischer and Muller, Schulz, Vogel and Ziegler, with all of the clannishness that involves — but a people. Change how we go about breeding and we would lose that. Our sense of oneness comes from knowing that we are one single family, that all mothers are the mother, all of our children the children of that one, singular mother, whomever’s womb nature uses for the task. As for the physical, sexual side of things, that’s there to bond us, man to woman, flesh to flesh. To do it otherwise is unthinkable. Or so I’d argue, if pushed. Because intellectually I can see the need. Emotionally, however …

But you don’t need to know that. Not yet. Only that I find it hard, the way we do things here in Four-Oh.

Back in my quarters, I strip off and shower, then lie on my bed naked, my fingers laced together behind my head as I run things over in my mind.

It’s hard at first to focus. Coming back, re-immersing myself in the hustle and bustle of Four-Oh after the cultural rawness of the Middle Ages, is never easy. My mind tends to be in two places at once for a while. But there are disciplines, and I use one now to clear away the mental clutter and attend.

It’s very simple. If the Elders — the senior Reisende — have met, then a decision has almost certainly been made on Seydlitz’s project — either to go ahead or, and the thought troubles me, to abandon it entirely.

I try to put myself in Seydlitz’s position, try to imagine what it would be like to be turned down after putting in so much. After all, he’s worked on his scheme for eighteen years now. And not just any eighteen years scattered through Time — but eighteen years subjective , as measured by his body’s slow decay. He’s still a young man, young enough, perhaps, to embrace another cause, another project, but I’ve seen men changed by the experience of rejection, seen them turn in upon themselves. If that were to happen to Seydlitz …

They may, of course, have endorsed it. In which case …

I smile, suddenly, strangely certain that that’s what’s happened, and the thought of it — of that great switch of manpower and man-hours to a new alternate time-line — gives me the kind of thrill that only an agent, operating out there in Time, can feel.

A new world order is about to be born. Something that didn’t exist is about to be conjured into existence, with new choices, new branches, new diversifications.

A new move on the great board.

The thought reminds me of where I’ve just come from, and a wave of sadness envelops me, but I’m tired now, and, closing my eyes, I sleep …

And am woken at seven by Ernst’s soft suden Deutsch accent, reminding me of where I need to be at eight.

I dress, choosing a simple black one-piece not unlike Hecht’s own, then, remembering the boys’ faces, decide to summon Jodl, the armourer.

He’s there instantly, as if he’s been waiting for my summons — which is quite possibly true. He would have been informed the moment I got back. Now he steps into the room and stands there, head lowered, as the hatch hisses shut behind him.

He’s a small compact man in his sixties, and he would dearly like to turn back the clock and be a Reisende again, only Hecht won’t let him. These days his expertise is harnessed in other fields, which is what will happen to all of us when — and if — the time comes.

‘I’m seeing Ernst’s students,’ I say, turning from the mirror to look directly at him. ‘I thought it might be nice to look the part.’

He nods, then goes to speak, but I anticipate.

‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘A few cuts and bruises, that’s all.’

Jodl almost smiles. ‘You want me to clean the armour you were in, or bring your second suit?’

‘The second suit will do.’

He hesitates a moment longer, and then he’s gone, the hatch hissing shut behind him, returning an instant later, a hover-cart in tow, upon which is a brand-new suit of armour, my sword, a shield, and a second set of crusading Brothers’ clothes.

‘You didn’t have to,’ I say. ‘There was time.’

He looks at me sternly but says nothing. Jodl prides himself on his efficiency. To be thought the least bit tardy …

‘Ernst isn’t well,’ he says, as he hands me the first item from the cart.

‘Oh? In what way?’

‘Look at his eyes. He hasn’t been sleeping. And his hands …’

I nod. It doesn’t surprise me after all Ernst has been through. The only surprise is that he’s sane at all.

I strip off the one-piece and begin to dress again. ‘He’ll be okay now that I’m back.’

Jodl looks me in the eye. ‘Maybe.’

‘No, he will. He’s missed me, that’s all.’

He looks away, then hands me another item, making no comment, but I know that behind that perfect mask of a face his thoughts are buzzing like a disturbed hive. Like all of them, he wants to know what I saw, what I did, who I met. And maybe I’ll let him see a copy of my report when it’s finished, only right now I don’t want to discuss it. Not with him, anyway. Jodl has a way of asking all the awkward questions. And I’m not sure I’m up to answering those kind. Not yet, anyway.

As I pull on the rough woollen shirt, I look at him, reminding myself. If you look close — really close — you can see the odd grey hair among the black.

Time. How slow time must pass for the occupants of Four-Oh.

‘What is Time like , Master Behr?’

‘Time is like the surface of a pond. And also like …’ I pause, then laugh gently. ‘Time has a thousand qualities, but mostly, mostly it’s the thread that holds the universe together. In Gehlen’s equations …’

I stop, seeing how the boys are looking at me, glazed over suddenly. That’s the trouble with Gehlen’s Time equations, you can’t visualise them — they function on a totally abstract level — and the mind needs to be able to picture things before it can understand them properly. It needs to create workable metaphors. But Time … how can you explain Time? It’s pretzel logic.

‘Time,’ I begin again, ‘is like a river. There are many tributaries, but only one river.’

Or a Tree, or …

They grin back at me, and I realise I’m being teased.

I know these boys well. I’ve taught most of them now for two, maybe three years, since they first came out of the Garden. When we’re not in the field or researching, we teach, passing on what we know to the next generation. Ensuring that the fight is carried on in the best way possible.

Matteus, the youngest of them, raises his hand.

‘Yes, Matteus?’

‘Did you kill anyone, Master Behr? Where you’ve just been, I mean-’

It’s a good question. Because if that past doesn’t become the Past, then surely no one ‘real’ is killed at all? Only it isn’t so. The Past is always real, even when we make changes to it. As real as this.

‘Yes,’ I say, remembering. Even one as young as you . But I don’t say that aloud, because it disturbs me, this capacity in me to become a killer, back there in the Past. You see, at times we must be assassins. That is our job. There’s little room for moral qualms. Or supposedly so. Some find it easy, you understand. Myself? I find it the hardest thing to hate. Not for ideological reasons, anyway.