David Wingrove - The Empire of Time

‘And were you ever in real danger, Master?’

The questioner is a thirteen-year-old named Tomas, a big lad for his age, all muscle and brawn like a peasant’s son, only I know he is the brightest of them all.

‘You are always in danger, in the Past.’

‘ Always? ’

‘Yes, Tomas. For where we are, they are.’

‘The Russians?’

‘Yes.’

And their allies . For they, like we, are not averse to using whatever or whoever is at hand to further their cause.

Which is?

To annihilate us. To rid history of any taint of us, the German people. While we, in our turn, strive night and day to do the same to them.

A game. But one with the most deadly of intents: a game called Rassenkampf — ‘race war’. And don’t flinch at my words. Think. For this is the truth of humanity.

Tomas’s eyes gleam as he watches me. ‘Did you kill any … Russians ?’

Ernst, sensing that we’re about to be led off into a cul-de-sac, interrupts. ‘Let’s stick to the subject, shall we?’

‘But …’

‘ Tomas .’

Tomas falls silent. Beside him, Matteus raises his hand.

‘Yes, Matteus?’

‘Does it smell back there?’

There is laughter. As it fades, I answer him.

‘Very much. And you know what? Every Age has its own distinct smell. Where I’ve been, well, things were very basic back then. Their idea of sanitation and personal hygiene left much to be desired.’ I smile. ‘It’s no place for a sensitive nose.’

They like that. There’s more laughter. But Ernst, I can see, wants something deeper than this from me. I can see in his eyes just how much he’s missing it, how much he wants to talk about how it feels to be out there, in Time.

I look down. When I look up again my features are sterner. ‘Smell is an important indicator of the state of social development of an Age, yet it’s one of the more superficial aspects. Just as each age has its own smell, so it has its own mind-set, its own store of beliefs, of givens …’

‘Religion,’ Dieter, the eldest of them, says, and I nod. ‘When you go back, you must immerse yourself in the mind-set of that era. To do otherwise … well, it’s not an option. Not if you want to stay alive. One must learn to become a man of that time in every detail: in look, in speech and in basic mannerisms.’

‘What do you mean, Reisende ?’

Reisende , he calls me. Traveller .

I pause, remembering just how hard it actually is: lying to yourself day in day out, pretending to be what you’re not, paying lip service to things you cannot, should not ever believe. Especially all of that Nazi stuff. Looking back at those reverent boyish faces, I find I cannot tell them. Not the whole truth, anyway. Being a time agent is like being the biggest liar that ever was.

I compromise. I tell them part of it.

‘What I mean is that you must be a kind of actor. You must embrace the pretence. You cannot — must not — be who you really are. To let anyone suspect …’

‘So you live a lie?’ Dieter asks.

I backtrack a little, noting how Ernst is watching me now, the faintest smile on his lips.

‘When you’re there, and it really is only when you’re there, you find yourself searching within your own character for those elements that coincide with the Age, which … reflect it, I suppose. You give rein to those elements.’

I see that some of them are not following me.

‘It changes you,’ I say, and I note how Tomas, at least, nods, some small glimmer of understanding in his eyes. I know there and then that he’ll make a good agent when his time comes.

But the others? What do I want to say to them? That you are not who you think you are? That to become a traveller — a Reisende — you must learn to shed one skin and wear another?

Yes. Only that’s not all. The truth is, it is an exhilirating, liberating, revelatory experience. And troubling, too, for sometimes you learn too much about yourself when the restraints are cast off; when one must live by a new set of rules simply to survive.

‘Otto?’

I look to Ernst. ‘I’m sorry. I was remembering.’

‘Remembering?’

‘How it was, the first day I was there. On the boat, coming down the river to Marienburg.’

But I say no more, because I don’t want to frighten them, and if I tell them how I really felt that day, it will. You see, the Past is an alien country. It is brutal and unforgiving, and you cannot make mistakes — not with the Russians out there.

‘Otto?’

‘I’m sorry. I’m tired. I haven’t quite adjusted back yet.’

But it isn’t tiredness, it’s sudden understanding. I know now that it was me. Something I did back there. A mistake, perhaps, or some carelessness on my part. Because there’s no other way the Russians could have known.

‘I’m sorry, boys, but …’

The boys show a paper-thin understanding, but I can see they’re disappointed. They wanted tales of glory, of adventure and raw excitement, and I have not delivered. Only I can’t free myself of the notion that my mistake — whatever it was — cost the lives of almost fifty men. Real lives.

I need to lie down and close my eyes. I need something to keep me from remembering.

Ernst comes to me later, in my room.

‘What is it, Otto? What happened back there?’

‘I don’t know. But I must have done something. Something that left a trace.’

He nods, then sits, facing me on the end of my bed. I watch him for a while, noting how silent he is, then ask: ‘And you?’

His smile is guarded. ‘They say I’m doing well …’

‘It’ll take time,’ I say, resting my hand gently on his arm. But I am unable to imagine how he feels, for Ernst is a Reisende — a ‘traveller’ like me — and this confinement here in Four-Oh, however necessary, is chafing at him, like a frayed rope against raw flesh.

‘Otto?’

‘Yes?’

‘Will you speak to Hecht for me?’

I hesitate, then nod. It will do no good, of course, but how can I refuse? Ernst is my best friend. To say no to him is almost unthinkable. Yet if I were in Hecht’s place, I would make the same decision, for to even think of sending him back would be disastrous — for all concerned.

Ernst stares at me a moment, then looks away.

‘What?’

He looks back at me, then shrugs. ‘I was just thinking. About the Past. About us.’

‘We were a good team.’

‘We were. Only …’

He doesn’t have to say it. He only has to look at me and I can see the damage, there behind his eyes, there in every line of his face. And I sense — as maybe he senses — that it will never change; that he will never get better. And I don’t know how I would deal with that. Because I know that the Past is like a drug for me: I have a craving to go there, to see it and be a part of it. Without that …

I cannot imagine it. I just can’t.

‘I’ll speak to Hecht,’ I say. ‘I’ll try to convince him.’

But when he’s gone, I slump down on my bed, my mood dark, because I know I can’t help him. And if you can’t help those closest to you, then what kind of man does that make you?

I sigh. Maybe it’s the business at Christburg, but suddenly I wonder what the point is to it all, and whether I’m not simply lying to myself thinking I can make a single shred of difference to what’s happening. But what’s the alternative? To give up? To let the Russians win?

No. Because this is to the death. And whatever doubts I have, I need to keep them to myself.