David Wingrove - The Empire of Time

‘The gizmo?’ Diederich combs back his thinning hair with his fingers and laughs. ‘That’s something Gehlen came up with. And not before time. He’s been thinking on the problem for the best part of two centuries now.’

‘Ah … But has it worked?’

Hecht shrugs off the suit trousers and nods. ‘If you mean, has it freed Ernst, then yes. Only …’

‘Tell him,’ Diederich says. ‘It won’t harm.’

I frown. ‘Tell me what?’

‘He has his own platform,’ Hecht says.

‘He?’

‘Reichenau. At least, that’s what Gehlen now thinks. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. And we think we know how. The black hole, at Orhdruf. He stole it.’

I laugh. ‘He stole a black hole?’

Diederich nods. ‘So Gehlen reckons.’

‘And we think we know where,’ Hecht says.

‘Well, where ?’

‘You remember that huge gap in space and time we ran across, after Seydlitz’s “Barbarossa” project in 1952?’

‘Yes.’

‘When we over-loaded the time-anchor, we made it unstable. In effect, it broke loose.’

‘And?’

Diederich looks away. ‘We didn’t realise …’

‘Realise what ?’

Hecht gives a long sigh, then answers me. ‘Imagine you’ve got a really taut steel hawser, keeping a ship tight to the shore, and then you cut it. Imagine it flying back, all of the tension in the cable suddenly released, so that it whips back. Well … it was like that. When we made the time-anchor unstable, it whipped back through time, burning a huge great hole through it.’

‘A hole?’

‘More like a gash,’ Diederich says.

‘It’ll heal,’ Hecht says, ‘given time. Only …’

‘Only that’s why,’ Diederich finishes for him.

‘Why what?’

‘Why we can’t see him. Reichenau … Because that’s where he’s been. Inside that tear in Space-Time. Only now that we know where it is …’

‘Back in 1952?’

Hecht nods.

‘Then why don’t we …?’

‘Not yet,’ Hecht says. ‘Not until we know more. Anyway, there’s something else we have to do first.’

‘Ernst?’

Hecht nods. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s go bring him home.’

The clearing is different this time. The bivouac-style tents are still there, and the stalls, yet there’s no sign of Ernst. The place is still and dark, no shining presence in the air.

I look to Hecht, alarmed, but he seems unperturbed. He walks on, towards one of the larger bivouacs and, ducking beneath the awning, goes inside.

I follow, and there, on the floor, surrounded by a kneeling host of pilgrims — two or three dozen of the ragged fellows — is Ernst. He looks deathly pale and his breathing is faint. As I step closer, he mumbles something and then groans, such pain in so weak a sound.

Hecht claps his hands. ‘Out!’ he yells. ‘Now!’ And he kicks out at the nearest peasant.

I’m shocked. I have never seen Hecht this angry. He turns and looks at me, raw emotion in his face.

‘If I ever get my hands on him …’

Reichenau …

I nod, then get to work, clearing that dark, malodorous tent, the toe of my boot pushing the last, reluctant pilgrim from the place.

I turn and look. Hecht is kneeling over Ernst now, listening to his chest. He looks up, deeply concerned, then reaches out and, cradling Ernst, lifts him.

‘Burn the place,’ he says. And then he jumps.

I stand there, looking at that awful, disease-ridden pallet on which they’d lain him; then, shuddering with disgust, I draw the laser from my belt and aim.

They send him back six months and repair him physically. But mentally?

Mentally, Ernst is in bad shape. Whatever he went through inside the time-trap, we can only ever glimpse the tiniest part of it. Imagine Time standing still. Imagine it freezing about you. Just imagine yourself embedded in ice. Eternally.

Then imagine being conscious all the while it happened.

Ernst smiles up at me from his bed, then lifts his head and shoulders from the nest of cushions in which he lays.

‘Otto …’

He’s clearly pleased to see me, yet his smile is so pale, so wintry, that it chokes me up. This is the first time I’ve seen him since he came back, and I can see the difference.

Ernst will never be the same.

I sit down beside him on the bed, looking at him, studying his face, then reach out to embrace him.

He’s so light; there seems so little of him. Like a cancer patient. Only the problem isn’t physical. Physically there’s nothing wrong with him.

As I move back from him, I notice the cards and flowers on the table on the far side of the bed.

‘From the women,’ he says, seeing where I’m looking. ‘They came and saw me earlier.’

‘They’re glad you’re home,’ I say. ‘And so am I.’ I pause, then. ‘It must have been hard.’

Ernst says nothing. He doesn’t have to; the damage is in his face.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask, after a moment.

‘Yes … yes, fine.’

Both of his hands are in mine. I look down at them, noting the translucency of the flesh, the strange, angular thinness of the fingers. They lay there in mine, impassive, switched off .

I meet his eyes again. ‘What did they say? I mean … about getting you back into the programme?’

Ernst looks down. ‘I’ve not asked him yet. But I guess they’ll need to be careful.’ He’s quiet a moment, then: ‘I understand that. If I were him …’

I wait, then, when he offers nothing more, I say cheerfully, ‘I’ll speak to him, maybe. See if we can’t ease you back into things. Something simple. Familiar.’

He smiles wanly, like there’s only so much energy to generate it. ‘Thanks, Otto. It’s so good to see you …’

‘Time heals …’

Only, coming away from him, I wonder. Maybe there are experiences that leave so deep a scar they never properly heal.

I have to go back. To Orhdruf. To complete the circle. Only first there’s someone else I have to see. Someone else who thinks he’s seen the last of me.

Manfred is alone in the War Room. It’s late — after three in the morning — and he has sent the others to their beds. This is the last night. When the sun comes up, it will all blow away in the wind.

I appear in the shadows by the door, stepping silently from the air.

Sensing something, Manfred looks up. He doesn’t see me at first, but then he does.

‘Lucius … or is it Otto now? How did you get in?’

If he fears assassination, he doesn’t show it. But he is tired, I can see. I walk across, then sit, on a bench seat close to him.

‘How goes the war?’

‘It’s …’ He stops, then, remembering what happened last time we met, stares at me directly. ‘You vanished .’

‘I know.’

‘But how do you …?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

The great map behind me is mainly black now. Manfred’s armies have routed the Russians. But it isn’t over. Far from it. The final phase is about to begin.

‘You know how they’ll respond,’ I say.

‘I know.’

‘Then why? Why destroy it all?’

But he has no answer. Only that he must. He stands up, towering above me, then turns as the great door on the far side of the room hisses open. It’s Tief.

‘Are you all right, My Lord?’

‘Yes, Meister Tief. As you see, Otto has returned. Stepped out of the air.’

Tief nods. ‘I saw, My Lord. One moment there was nothing, the next he was there.’

Manfred turns and looks down at me. ‘I always knew.’