The Empire of Time (34 page)

I have been here once before, long ago, back in my youth, back when this massive edifice of sculpted basalt was brand new, the terror and envy of the world, yet seeing it now I am astonished once more by its size, by the physical reality of it.

Like all else here it is made of
Kunstlichestahl
– ‘false steel’ – more plastic than metal, though equally tough. Yet fake or not, its solidity is undeniable. It is German in a way that few buildings in our history have been. A castle. A fortress. An
embodiment
.

‘There it is,’ Burckel says, coming alongside me. ‘
Das Hornisse-nest
.’

A hornets’ nest, indeed. I laugh, then turn my eyes from those soaring battlements. Burckel is watching me, his eyes weighing and measuring me in a way that I might find offensive in another. But I am conscious of what Burckel has gone through here. The state’s spies are everywhere.

I follow, keeping close as we cross the bridge and descend into the Tempelhof. The steps and narrow alleyways are crowded now, the press of humanity increasing steadily as we near the
Vergnüngungspark
– the ‘pleasure-ground’.

And suddenly, as we turn a corner, there, ahead of us, at the foot of a broad flight of steps, lies Von Richthofen Strasse, its broad avenue packed with pleasure seekers, throbbingly alive with music and the glare of lights from endless bars and cafes, their balconies cascading with flowers and greenery, like this is Babylon.

The evening’s warm. Pushing through that densely packed crowd, my senses are once again assailed, this time by a hundred different smells, some sweet, some foul. There’s an air of intoxication, of dangerous excitement, but so it is in these places, whatever the century. My eyes, however, note the differences. These are, after all, a ‘sculpted’ people, hand-crafted, one might say, by the great geneticists of the King’s dark fortress. Some have longer arms, some heads that seem too thin or too broad. Some are tiny, like arrested children, while others have great muscular backs and chests. And though there is great variety, one notices immediately that such differences are differences of
type
, not of individuals. These people have been bred for specific tasks. Among them, Burckel and I are the exceptions. Not that we are alone, but
Naturlich
like us are in a distinct minority here. I see only three, maybe four others as we make our slow way through the press.

We’re halfway along when I stop, my eyes caught by something. Burckel comes back and, taking my arm, speaks to my ear.

‘What is it, Otto?’

I gesture towards a row of men and women dressed uniformly in black leather, their heads shaved, chained to the wall nearby – or not
chained
, I realise, but
plugged-in
, lengths of flex looping from sockets between their shoulders to a panel on the wall behind. It’s all very high-tech, yet they have the look of slaves.

‘Ah …’ Burckel says. ‘The
Stopsel
…’

Plug-ins. Of course. And he quickly explains that these are for hire, for any purpose. You have only to pay the requisite fee.

I turn, looking about me, and see another row of
Stopsel
further down, and, just across from us, another. As I watch, someone slips five credits into the slot of one of the panels and, as the flex falls free, catches it, then leads his purchase away.

It’s brutal, yet no more ugly than things I’ve seen elsewhere, in other times. People have always sold themselves. If anything, it is its honesty that shocks.

Burckel walks on, past endless noisy bars and seething clubs, then ducks inside, into the
Schwartze Adler –
the Black Eagle. I follow him in, looking about me. It’s done up like an ancient bier-keller, with great wooden trestle tables and crudely carved benches. There are slatted wooden partitions and iron cressets on the walls. Large-breasted, blonde-haired
Frau
, in tight, dark pleated skirts and frilly white blouses move between the tables, carrying large trays of foaming steiners. But I alone seem to notice the anachronistic strangeness of it all, for there, at the centre of that great barn of a room, two men – great shaven-headed brutes in combat gear – fight hand-to-hand in a jungle glade while a throng of eager-eyed customers look on from every side.

We stand there, watching.

There’s the whack and thud of blows given and received. The two combatants grunt and sigh and groan as the death struggle nears its climax. It seems an equal match, and then one of them – the Russian – slips in his blood and falls and suddenly the bout is over in a blur of quick and vicious blows. Blood spurts, a fountain gush of blood, and a great cheer goes up – yet even as it does, the figures vanish, leaving the stage empty, a single spotlight picking out the bare wooden planks.

‘Upstairs!’ Burckel yells into my ear, his voice rising over the mob’s excitement, and up we go, even as another figure – a tall, broad-shouldered man in a white senatorial toga trimmed with mauve – appears from out of nothing at the centre of the stage.

It is the war. Despatches from the front. Or maybe it’s all staged – done for the Tri-Vees in some studio close by. All the same, the crowd laps it up, a gleam of bloodlust in every eye.

Burckel buys us a table in the far corner, bribing the pale, worm-like waiter heavily for the privilege, a
Wache
, or ‘minder’ positioning himself at the entrance to our open-sided booth.

‘It’s okay,’ Burckel says, noting how silent I am. ‘You can say what you like. The
Wache
are all deaf mutes.’

‘So they tell you.’

But Burckel shakes his head. He isn’t having any of it. In fact, he’s grinning now, and as the waiter returns, he seems almost drunk. Burckel orders for us both – pork, potatoes, sauerkraut, gherkins and some savoury potato pancakes,
Kartoffelpuffer
, of which he knows I’m particularly fond. But my mind’s not on the food. I’m thinking that he’s been alone here too long. Or maybe he’s taken something. Whatever it is, alarm bells have started ringing. I’ve seen agents go like this before.

I wait for him to order, then lean in close.

‘What’s happening, Albrecht?’

‘Happening?’ He looks at me, all innocent, then laughs. ‘I’ve asked some friends to meet us here.’

I stiffen. ‘
Friends?
’

‘You’ll see.’

I stare at him, then stand. I am prepared to jump; to up and leave, right there and then, but as if sensing what I’m thinking, he reaches up and holds my arm. His expression has changed, that inane grin gone; his eyes are serious now.

‘No, Otto. Stay.
Please
. You’ll like them. I promise.’

My eyes fix on his. ‘No one is supposed to know that I’m here. I thought you understood that.’

‘I know, but it’s okay. They think you’re a relative. A cousin from the south.’

‘You’ve
told
them about me?’

He nods. ‘Look, it’s okay. I’ve known them years.’

I stare at him a moment longer, then sit. ‘Friends?’ I ask again. ‘What
kind
of friends?’

‘You’ll see.’ And he turns away, the smile returning. That same silly smile that made me want to draw my gun and shoot the fucker. He’s lost it. I can see that now. But I wait. And soon they come.

‘Albrecht! And you, you must be Otto.’

I look up and meet his eyes. He’s a big man, his smooth skull glinting red in the tavern’s wavering light. His smile shows perfect teeth. He has his hand out to me, in the age-old, unchanging gesture, but I ignore it. I don’t know who or what he is, and until I do …

Burckel senses my hostility and tries to smooth things over, but I am watching the newcomer, my eyes trying to find something in his, some clue as to who he really is, because I’m sure he’s someone, whatever Burckel says.

A Russian agent, maybe. Or a spy. Working for the fortress.

The two men who are with him are smaller, less significant, and I’m aware of them only as background shapes.

‘Otto,’ Burckel says, half rising from his seat, ‘this is Werner.’ Werner. It’s a good German name. But I’m far from certain that he’s German.

He sits, facing me, not fazed at all by my refusal to shake his hand. His two friends – genetically adapted, I note – seat themselves either side of him, but back a bit, letting him dominate the table.

‘Well, Otto,’ he begins, the smile hovering on his lips, ‘I’ve heard so much.’

I say nothing, just stare at him blankly, angry that Burckel has placed me in this situation. But Burckel clearly doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong. If anything he’s angry at
me
now, for being so intransigent, so bloody-minded.

‘Don’t mind Otto,’ he says, smiling nervously. ‘He’s tired, that’s all. The journey from the south …’

‘They say the war’s biting hard down there.’

It’s an invitation to break the ice, but I decline it frostily. There’s an awkward clearing of throats, then Werner stands.

‘Maybe we should go. Leave you two alone …’

But Burckel seems anxious that Werner and I be friends. ‘No, stay. Please. It’s Otto’s way, that’s all. Don’t mind him.’

And the readiness with which the three men sit again confirms it for me. Anyone else would have left by now, offended by my behaviour, but they’re staying. Why? Out of friendship with Burckel? No. Something’s fishy here. Smiling suddenly, I cast out my little net.

‘So what do you do, Werner?’

There’s the tiniest little blink of surprise, and then he smiles again. ‘I’m a gene surgeon.’

‘And these?’ I indicate the two who flank him.

‘They’re mine. My children, you might say.’

It’s unexpected. ‘So how do you know Albrecht?’

He sits back, his right arm gesturing to our surroundings. ‘We share a love of the old, I guess.’

I look about me, conscious of what a throwback to the Past this place is. Almost authentic, only the wooden surfaces aren’t wood, just as the stone isn’t stone, but
Kunstlichestahl.
But then, nothing’s natural here.

‘So how’s business?’

There’s the slightest hesitation before he answers, enough to suggest that he’s carefully considering his words.

‘You know how it is.’

I don’t, but I can guess. Genetics are strictly controlled in this society, and if I remember correctly there are tight restrictions. In all probability our friend caters for the black economy. But I’m not going to ask. It does make me look at him again, however, and though he’s dressed simply – black vest, black baggy trousers and black slip-ons – there’s something
groomed
about him that suggests he’s not short of money.

‘And you, Otto? How’s the history business?’

I smile, then look to Burckel. From his evident embarrassment I can see he’s let slip far more than he ought.

‘It’s fine,’ I say, and hope that’s innocuous enough. But I’m worried now. Such indiscretion in an agent is bad. It puts all of us at risk. And if Werner
is
a Russian …

‘Will you have a drink?’

The big man smiles, relaxing slightly. ‘That’d be nice. A beer, please.’

‘And your friends?’

But he shakes his head, and I reassess his relationship with his silent companions, reminding myself that this is, beyond all else, a world of masters and servants.

When they’re gone, I quietly ask Burckel what the fuck he thinks he’s doing, and whether he’s had our friend Werner properly checked out. He says he has, but I don’t believe him. In fact, I’m so sure there’s something wrong about the man, that I’m half-convinced I ought to check him out myself. Only that’d be no help to Ernst.

It’s then that I break the rules and ask Burckel directly what Hecht said to him.

‘I can’t say,’ he answers, but he’s having a hard time avoiding my eyes. I get the feeling that he wants to tell me badly, if only to make up for his other indiscretions.

‘But you know why I’m here?’

He shakes his head. So I explain – about Ernst and the energy-trap and how we’ve traced the power-anchor to this point. And it makes me wonder just what
was
in Hecht’s letter, because if he knew none of that …

Burckel says he can help. He knows someone. He just has to make a call.

I wait, while he goes to make it. And while he’s gone, while I’m looking about me, casually studying the people at nearby tables, it’s then that I have my second shock of the night. There, seated not half a dozen paces from me is an unpleasant little weasel of a man who I last saw back in the twenty-third century.

Dankevich! Urd’s breath! It’s Dankevich!

I quickly turn away, lest he sees me through the latticed wall of the booth. But what am I going to do? If I leave he’ll see me. And if I don’t …

When Burckel returns, I grab his sleeve and pull him down, speaking urgently to his ear. He blinks, surprised, then stares directly at Dankevich, clearly recognising him.

‘Another friend?’ I ask quietly, and he nods.

‘He calls himself Schmidt,’ Burckel says quietly. ‘Andreas Schmidt.’

But there’s no time for more. At that moment, Dankevich stands and, throwing down a couple of credit chips, turns and leaves. I’m up at once, but when Burckel makes to follow, I turn on him.

‘Wait! I’ll come straight back.’

I follow Dankevich out and almost lose him in the street, then see him duck down a side alley and force my way through the crowd, hurrying to catch up. Again, I think I’ve lost him, but then I see him hovering in the shadows just ahead, waiting, it seems, for a door to be opened. As it does, so the light reveals his features once again, removing any last doubts. It’s Dankevich all right – the same bastard I killed. And though I knew he was here, the shock of finding him so close – there in that bar, at a table so near to me – has fed my paranoia to the point where I want to jump right out of there, before the whole damn scheme collapses.

Dankevich. What the fuck was Dankevich doing at that table?

But it confirms what I suspected. The Russians have targeted Burckel.
Surrounded
him with ‘friends’. And I’ve jumped into this.

I turn and hurry back, but when I get there, Burckel’s gone. I wait close on thirty minutes, then, when he doesn’t show, I settle the bill and leave.