The Black Gate (13 page)

“It was not a joke, Peter,” von Falkenstein told him. “None of it is. Using the gate, we can shape human creation as we please.”

Baumann snorted. “The other creatures in Kleist’s care can hardly be considered human anymore.”

“They were barely human to begin with,” von Falkenstein said. “I doubted the odds of our success using such poor specimens until 98-7 came back to us.”

Peter looked from one man to the other. “But if those other…things on Level Three aren’t human, what are they?”

“Chimeras, Peter!” Von Falkenstein told him. “Are you not familiar with Atlantean lore?”

“Yes, sir, but…” Peter stopped and closed his mouth. Blavatsky’s theorized Fourth Root Race was the least of it. “Near its end,” he recited from memory, hearing the words in his head as his father had spoken them so many years ago, “Atlantis was embroiled in a war between magicians who practiced white and black magic. The black magicians created chimeras, human-animal hybrids, as warriors and slaves…” His voice trailed off as realization struck. “The chimeras. They created them with a gate like this one.”

Von Falkenstein nodded emphatically. “Yes, Peter! And while nearly all of the chimeras we have produced have been useless for anything but milestones for Kleist to map out the evolutionary sequencing, he finally guided us to the trajectory that led to Subject 98-7. A Jewish whore riddled with cancer she may have been before she went through the gate, but she emerged as the pinnacle of our work here. We of the Fifth Root Race, the Aryans, may be the purest of the human race, but our ancestors were far more powerful. We found our future in our distant past.”
 

Peter stared at the older man. “Excuse me, sir,” he asked slowly, “but did you say that this woman, 98-7, had cancer?”

Von Falkenstein nodded. “Yes, yes she did. We discovered early on that travelers through the gate, no matter their condition, return to us in perfect health.” He chuckled. “Not necessarily as
homo sapiens
, of course, but even the subjects that returned as chimeras, genetic hybrids, were found to be completely free of any disease they may have had before they departed. Once we learned this, I had Kleist send a number of subjects through to fully test the theory. Most of them were children with cleft palates and various other birth defects to test the results. While the form in which they returned varied according to the trajectory on which they embarked, all returned in perfect health according to the autopsies Kleist performed. We have finally discovered the cure for the common cold.” He smiled and gestured to Peter’s leg. “We also sent through subjects who had limbs or organs removed, and injuries such as you sustained in battle. Regardless of their form upon their return, they were whole again.”

“Could you send someone through and have them come back completely human?”

“According to Kleist’s theories, yes, that should be possible.” Von Falkenstein cocked his head. “But that is beyond the scope of our immediate mission. Besides, why would one wish to return merely human?”

What von Falkenstein had done was monstrous, but Peter was gripped by the sensation of something within him turning, like a key inside a lock, as he realized that his father’s whimsical passion, his “useless hobby,” as Peter’s mother had said many a time, had been anything but. To move through time and space was one thing, an amazing enough achievement. But to be able to fully repair a human being, or to craft an entirely new sub-species, was another thing entirely. Disease and disfigurement could be eradicated, perhaps forever. What they had discovered here would alter the destiny of the human race. The gate could literally redefine the future of human evolution in a manner of mankind’s own choosing. If only the technology had been in the hands of the Allies and not the Nazis, Peter thought. If only it could be put to use for the betterment of mankind, not its destruction.

“Now, let me show you something.” Getting up from his chair, von Falkenstein went to the bookshelf directly behind his desk. He pulled down a volume that, by the look of its cracked leather binding, must be old, very old. With obvious reverence, he opened it. Carefully turning the pages until he found what he was looking for, he nodded, then handed the ancient tome to Peter.

“This book was discovered by an
Ahnenerbe
expedition to Bohuslän, Sweden in 1936. I’m sure you don’t recognize the language,” von Falkenstein told him, “but…”

“This is written in Elder Futhark,” Peter breathed. He could see that many of the pages in the book were missing and most of those that remained had charred edges. Looking up at von Falkenstein, who was staring at him with open-mouthed surprise, he said, “It’s the oldest of the runic alphabets, used by Germanic tribes over a thousand years ago.” He brushed the open page with his fingertips. The letters, each of which was formed by a collection of straight lines, were grouped into words that filled each page in orderly rows, with artistic embellishments at the corners. “But this couldn’t possibly be the original copy. The surviving Elder Futhark texts are all carved in stone, as far as I know. This looks like it must have been transcribed by monks during the Middle Ages…”

He broke off as von Falkenstein sank back into the chair opposite him, positively beaming. “You amaze me, Peter. How on Earth did you know all that?”

“My father was a bit of an occultist, I’m afraid,” Peter said. The truth of it was that Peter’s father had been obsessed with the occult and fanciful legends. “His library was filled with ancient books and fragments of books on everything from Atlantis to zombies and everything in between. I suspect most of them were fakes sold to him by frauds, but some seemed real enough. He was rather fixated on Atlantis and had a theory that the Norse gods were actually Atlanteans who had survived the final apocalypse. He insisted that the only way to properly study them was in their native language, which he believed was Elder Futhark. So he taught it to me.” He smiled at the memory. He had spent many hours as a boy in his father’s library, poring over the ancient-looking (be they real or fake) books of long-dead languages and discussing the traits of mystical creatures, both beautiful and horrific, at length with his now-dead father.

Von Falkenstein leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “So you can read this?”

“It’s been a while and I can’t claim that I’m fluent, but yes, sir, I can read a fair bit of it.” He carefully turned to the book’s first page, and a chill ran down his spine at the words written in bold, colorfully embossed runes. “
The Black Gate
would be my rough translation.” He looked up. “I guess that explains the project name.”

“Indeed, Peter, indeed!” Von Falkenstein was so ecstatic that he retrieved the bottle of cognac and refilled everyone’s glass.
 

“This is very good news,” Hoth said, raising his glass in a salute to Peter, “more than you know.”

“Why so, sir?” Peter asked. “It’s just another dead language that’s of little use to anyone but anthropologists. Latin is vibrantly alive, by comparison.”

“Not for our purposes,” Hoth told him. “You see, once the
Herr Professor
made the connection between the research we had been conducting and was able to translate the text, that book became our road map, if you will, for the technical side of the project. We understood, of course, the concept behind the Einstein-Rosen bridge and were able to create a stable singularity, but beyond that we were stymied.” He nodded at the book. “This ancient tome was the Rosetta stone that unlocked the secrets of the gate. And Kleist’s work, despicable though the man may be, helped us understand what the gate actually does.”

“As you can see,” von Falkenstein interjected, “much of the text has been lost, which is an unspeakable tragedy. The secrets that might have been revealed are unimaginable. But even the fragments that remain helped solve the greatest problem we faced once the ring itself had been constructed: programming the coordinates.” Leaning over Peter, he turned to the pages toward the end of the book, a dozen of which showed elaborately drawn circles with rune characters arrayed in eight concentric rings around the center.
 

“These look like runic calendars,” Peter said as he looked over the diagrams. “But…” He frowned as he paged back and forth through the eight images. He was familiar with such calendars from the time with his father. These were similar at first glance, but upon closer inspection were quite different.
 

“You see it,
ja?
” Said Hoth, a sly grin on his porcine face. “Those diagrams do not measure the days and months. They form the basis of a coordinate system for the
other side
.”

Peter looked at him. “The other side of what?”

“Why, the gate, of course.”
 

“Your father was right, Peter,” von Falkenstein said. “I believe that we are recreating what our Atlantean ancestors did all those ages ago. This book is the last remaining record of that achievement, handed down in story and song until our barbarian forefathers a thousand years ago chiseled it into stone. Then some long forgotten monk, having no idea what it really was, copied it down in this book before the information was lost forever.”

“Perhaps we would have been better off.”

Everyone turned to look at Mina, whose expression was uncharacteristically grim. “Did it ever occur to you that perhaps this is what destroyed them? Think of the war between the black magicians and the white, and your theories,” she nodded at von Falkenstein, “that the gate opens onto Heaven or Hell. And how could it be that a random act of nature doomed Atlantis?” She shook her head slowly. “No. The Atlanteans opened Pandora’s Box when they opened their gate, and now we are blindly following the same path.”

“Mina, darling,” von Falkenstein said in a frigid whisper, “we have had this discussion before.”

“Yes, but as before, you refuse to even consider the possibility!”
 

Hoth was looking uncomfortable, while Baumann was clearly enjoying the spat.
 

“And did you ever wonder,” Mina continued, “what might happen if something comes out of the gate, something other than what we put in? Because what you’ve really done is create a pair of gates, haven’t you? One that takes a traveler from here to the other side, and a second from the other side that brings the traveler back. What happens if something from the other side comes through on its own?”

“Is that possible?” Peter asked.

“It is a theoretical possibility,” Hoth admitted with a nervous look at von Falkenstein, “but the aperture of the gate is infinitesimally small where it intersects the other side. Nothing could find its way in.”

Mina laughed. “So you may think, but
something
is there.” Turning to Peter, she said, “You felt it when the gate opened, didn’t you? Like something dark, evil, was staring back at you?”
 

He shook his head. “All I felt was an overwhelming sense of awe.”
Except in the dream you had
, he told himself, suddenly swept by a sense of guilt.

Mina leaned toward him. “Liar,” she whispered.
 

Von Falkenstein’s big hands had balled into fists, and a flush of red was creeping up his neck as he stared at his mistress. “Gentlemen, if you will excuse us.”

“Come,” Baumann said in a curt voice as he got to his feet.
 

Peter stood up, then paused. “Excuse me, sir,” he asked von Falkenstein, knowing he was taking a terrible risk by interrupting the man’s building fury, “but is that a copy of
The Mystic Will
by Howard Brinton?” He pointed to a book bound in red leather on one of the book shelves.

Von Falkenstein broke Mina’s gaze and looked where Peter was pointing. “Yes,” he growled.

“May I borrow it? It was one of my father’s favorites.” The lie came to him with disturbing ease. Peter’s father had despised Brinton and his book, but it was the only volume of von Falkenstein’s that, in the little time Peter had to look, matched one in Peter’s own collection. “And if it’s not too terribly much to ask, may I also borrow
The Black Gate
for a time? I would love to study it, and will treat it with the utmost care.”

“Take what you wish and get out!”

With the ancient text still held in his hands, Peter retrieved
The Mystic Will
from its place on one of the bookshelves and hurried after Baumann and Hoth, who were impatiently waiting for him at the door.

The three men quickly fled the apartment. As Baumann closed the door behind them, Peter heard the unmistakable sound of flesh striking flesh.

“Mina…
Fräulein
Hass, I mean.” Peter cursed himself for the slip. “She’ll be all right, won’t she?”

Baumann smirked. It was an expression that Peter was coming to despise. “Oh, she’ll be fine after he puts her in her place and has his way with her.”

“She should learn to mind her tongue,” Hoth whispered nervously.

“She provokes him intentionally,” Baumann said. “I suspect she enjoys it as much as he does. If she had wanted to be a respectable woman, she would have married, had children, and learned to be a good
hausfrau
.”

“Why didn’t they marry?” Peter asked.

“The
Herr Professor
has no use for a wife,” Hoth told him. “He is wedded to his work, and always has been. He simply requires a woman to take care of the needs had by every man of such great vigor.”

“And,” Baumann added, “she has proven herself useful in many ways outside the bedroom.” He gave Peter a sly grin. “Just don’t get any ideas yourself. Von Falkenstein is a very jealous man.”

Peter only nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

They had just reached the T junction when a trio of guards emerged from the elevator that led to the surface. One, whom Peter recognized as the big NCO who had scrutinized his papers when Peter arrived, was holding a girl who was about twelve years old, while the other two soldiers held an old man. The girl was crying and the old man was babbling, terrified.

“What is this?” Baumann demanded angrily.

“We found the girl in the rail tunnel, sir, trying to get through the access door,” the NCO reported. “The old man was climbing up the hill after her.”