The Empire of Time (43 page)

The Russians have their own genetic elite, of course – their
podytyelt
– but they are as nothing beside these
Adel.

‘I was, I have to say, surprised.’

‘Surprised, Meister?’

‘Yes.’ And he sits, on the fifth step up, his long legs sprawled out before him like two fallen pines. ‘Oh, I knew that things were happening out in America, that it was no longer such a barbarian wilderness as once it was, but …’

I bow low, acknowledging that. ‘Things have changed. Since the Confederation was formed we have striven hard to eradicate disease and hunger among our people.’

I pause, and am taken by surprise by the interest in his eyes. His is a powerful nation of a billion and a half, America a ragged conglomerate of states totalling no more than eighty million souls – less than the southern quarter of Berlin itself – and he knows this, yet he listens as if we were equals, and I realise what a clever, well-balanced man he is. One might expect a degree of arrogance from such a being, yet he shows no sign.

‘So I’ve heard. Indeed, I understand that you’ve made great strides.’

‘Small steps, Meister, but in the right direction. These fifty years …’ I pause and lower my head slightly. ‘Our achievements might seem modest compared to your own, yet we are proud to have emerged from the darkness.’

There is history here – a lot of history – yet it can be simply stated. At the end of the twenty-first century, the United States came into conflict with its main trading rival, China, and fought what it hoped would be a decisive war. It was. America lost. Not that China won, exactly. Only Europe survived the conflict. Or rather Germany and European Russia.

‘Six centuries of darkness,’ he says, and looks away, as if he sees it clear. ‘It is hard to imagine your people’s suffering.’

‘Meister …’

Only I
have
seen it. I’ve been there, along with Ernst. Long ago, admittedly, but not so long that I can forget the awfulness of it. After the bombs had fallen there was nothing. Nothing but ashes.

‘Your king?’

I am loath to correct him, yet I must, if only for the sake of consistency – of getting our story right. ‘Our
president
, Meister …’

He smiles, indulging me. ‘Your president, then. Does he send me word?’

I take the sealed envelope from my pocket and, bowing low, offer it to him. He opens it and reads, then looks across at me.

‘I see …’

It’s not what I expected him to say. He doesn’t seem surprised. But then, what could surprise a man as old and worldly wise as he? It is a request to become his ally. Unsurprising, maybe, only the document, like all else about us, is a fake. Only the seal is genuine. The writing is Hecht’s, the sentiments his alone. Even so, it seems to do the trick.

I kneel. ‘Meister?’

‘Yes, Lucius?’

‘Should I kiss your ring?’

It might seem that my business here is done – that all it takes is for the King to say yes, but that’s not so. Though Manfred is lord and master here and has the power of life and death over all, he still needs to consult those who matter in his realm: his many sons and brothers on the one hand; the Guild on the other.

The one body he doesn’t need to consult is the army, and that’s his one great strength, for the army is fiercely loyal to Manfred. And not merely his
Leibstandarte
– his fortress elite – but the greater mass of the
Wehrmacht
– the people’s army.

There’s to be a meeting of all parties later this evening, which we are to attend. A feast. Until then Heusinger and I are granted the freedom of the fortress.

Tief offers to be our guide, to show us whatever we wish to see. It’s a generous offer, yet I wonder just how far I might push it.

‘You have heard tell of the Hall of Kings?’ Tief enquires.

I stare at him, surprised. ‘That is a story, surely?’

‘No, no. It exists. Would you like to see?’

‘Why yes, I—’

Tief speaks to the air. ‘Arrange it.’

And so we follow, in a kind of daze, because this is the stuff legends are made of, and true enough, as we step through the massive door, the Hall stretches out before us, a long, comparatively narrow space with a series of high, domed ceilings. The floor is marble, not fake, but a beautiful Italian stone, pure white, with the thinnest streaks of black.

The first of a dozen large glass cases faces us, not a dozen paces distant, like a giant bell jar, its massive, rounded dome reflecting the light of a circle of glow-globes that hover just above.

Tief strides across, then turns, awaiting us. We walk across, then stare.

‘This was the first of them,’ Tief says. ‘The prototype. It’s a lot bigger than a normal man, as you see – a good metre taller – but compared to what followed it’s a crude attempt.’

I look up at Tief, surprised by his comments. Or perhaps they’re sanctioned. Perhaps this is the official view – for this is one of Manfred’s ancestors, the very first of the
Adel
. Not a king as such, but in the direct genetic line. I stare at the thin, sickly looking creature and can see how it must have suffered. Not so much a man as an experiment in gene-manipulation, this creature looks as alien as anything I glimpsed in Werner’s makeshift morgue.

‘You can see the problems at a glance,’ Tief says. ‘Though the genes had been stripped down and cleaned, and though they did their best to choose for strength, health and intelligence, what resulted … well, you can see it with your own eyes. The first of the
Adel
were unsustainable.’

And preserved here for all time
, I think, wondering what the living creature would have made of such a humiliating fate.

We walk on, to the second of the great glass cases. This one, though little taller than the first, is slightly more human. Not so thin or sickly looking. Yet he shares the pallor of the first, and the same look of unarticulated misery is in his swollen eyes.

Tief smiles at it fondly. ‘With Hans here the geneticists thought they had solved most of the problems, or at least that they were moving in the right direction. The muscle-development, while not good, was much better than in the prototype, and – as you can see – Hans is much stronger, much more viable. Even so, he lasted only twenty-eight years.’

‘And the first? The prototype?’

Tief makes a sad face. ‘Seventeen.’

I nod and walk on, following Tief, listening as he tells me the history of each of these sad creatures. Some are an improvement, others – some markedly so – a regression. Yet every last one of them suffers from those problems that beset humans with greater height, greater body weight: problems of bone-weakness, of poor muscle-development and inadequate heart capacity. For the first nine generations of
Adel
these problems seemed insuperable. Sickly dinosaurs, they seemed. An evolutionary dead-end. Not only that, but they rarely bred true, nor naturally. Right up until the tenth generation they were, to all intents and purposes, an artificial race, needing the constant help of experts to sustain their line.

We stand beneath the ninth and last of the jars as Tief finishes his tour. Ahead of us the Hall stretches away, echoing empty, not a single glass case between us and the exit a hundred metres distant.

For with the tenth generation the geneticists finally got it right. With Manfred the quest was ended, the ‘greater man’ – the
Übermensch
– finally made flesh; a viable species, bigger and better than anyone had dreamed of: one that bore live children, and whose lifespan was twice that of mere old sapiens. It was an awesome victory over nature, a staggering vindication of scientific pride. And to the people? To the people it was as if the gods had returned to the earth.

‘Are you tired yet?’ Tief asks. ‘Or would you like to see more?’

‘Lead on,’ I say, and smile. And there’s much to see. The fortress is a wonder in itself, nine palaces in one. Here is luxury – self-indulgence, some might say – quite beyond imagining, yet I quickly tire of it. Besides, there’s something else I want to see, and after a while I take Tief aside and whisper to him.

‘Hmmm …’ he says. ‘That may prove difficult. But who knows? Let me ask, anyway. The Grand Master may just be in a mood to show you his domain, and if he is …’

Tief smiles.

If he is
, I think,
then we are done here
.

I have the map in my head, you understand – the map our two-headed friend Reichenau gave me, identifying the position of the power source. All I need is to match one single point on it with some reality, and then …

But that’s to jump ahead.

We wait, among the furs and tapestries, the marble statuary and the endless gold, while Tief goes off to see what he can do.

I’m silent, thoughtful, but Heusinger’s excitement makes him talk. He loves being here inside the fortress. For twenty years and more he’s dreamed of this.

‘Did you see that painting? That was a Petsch, surely?’

It was. But not one of them will survive. The greatest art works of a thousand years and all –
all
– will be consumed by the coming fires.

Petsch too will die, and his beloved Pauline. And the thought of it suddenly makes me think of Katerina, and of her mortality. Curiously, her natural lifespan is something I’ve not thought of before that instant and a pang goes through me to think that she will grow old and die.

I look down, distressed, for no good reason fearful for her. Where is she now? And what is she doing?

The answer is that she is everywhere back there; anchored in a million moments to her world, her life like the wake a ship makes in its travels. I can go back and dip into the stream of her being, but she … she is tethered there, tied to her eternal Now.

I look up, meaning to say something to Heusinger, when I realise we are no longer alone. Across from me, seated in a chair by the doorway, is another giant – one of the
Adel
. And not just any giant. This is clearly the King’s son, for that face, though different in its way, is similar enough to make its source quite clear.

I glance at Heusinger, then quickly bow.

He is dressed like a barbarian, in tight-fitting black leather trousers and a sheepskin jerkin that leaves his hugely muscled arms bare. In his thick, studded leather belt there is a short stabbing sword, like the Romans used to wear. I say short, but the whole thing is bigger than me. He could cleave me crown to groin with such a weapon.

I say he is like his father, but the likeness is that of caricature. Whereas Manfred seems confident and calm with a serenity that suggests great wisdom, this seed of his – if indeed this creature is a direct fruit of Manfred’s loins and not concocted in some vat of chemicals somewhere – seems cruel and spiteful. He has said nothing, done nothing, and yet I see it in his face. There’s a sneering arrogance to his features. His lips, his nose, his deeply blue eyes, all suggest a vicious, petulant nature, and when he speaks, the nasal tone of his voice confirms it for me. Here is a man not to be crossed, not even to be argued with.

‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘Meister,’ I say, bowing low. ‘I am the envoy of the Confederation of North American States. Your father …’

‘
Quiet!
’

I keep my head lowered, my eyes averted. Though I have the King’s protection, I do not wish to anger this man in any way, though I sense my mere presence is provocation enough.

He stands and, towering above me, walks round me.

‘
America
…’ And the sneer within that single word becomes a laugh. A laugh that is snuffed out suddenly like a candle. He leans closer, his voice lowered, as if offering me a confidence. ‘We do not need you, whatever
he
thinks …’

I know by ‘
he
’ he means his father, the King, but I say nothing. I wait for more, secretly praying that Tief will choose that moment to return, but when someone comes it isn’t Tief, but a woman, another giant, a sister to this sneering demon. She wears a long, revealing cloak of purest white, against which her ash-blonde hair cascades like fine strands of precious metals.

‘Who’s this?’ she asks, her tone dismissing me out of hand.

‘
Americans
,’ he answers, and they both laugh, a cruel laughter, as if they would enjoy watching us be slowly tortured. My eyes slide sideways, looking to Heusinger. He no doubt knows who these two are and how important they are in the pecking order inside the fortress, but there’s no way I can ask him.

‘He’s a
puny
little specimen, don’t you think?’ she says, walking round me, then lifting my chin with one frighteningly enormous finger.

‘Hideous,’ her brother says. Yet as my eyes meet her sapphire blue eyes, I note a flicker of interest. Of curiosity. Her scathing disinterest is, it seems, a front, a mask put on to satisfy her brother. But she herself is wondering why I’m there, and why my own eyes show no fear, no awe of her.

I’d smile, only that would let her know that I’d seen through her, and then she might be angry with me.

She turns away, her finger drawing back from my chin, my flesh tingling where she has touched me.

And strangely – strangest of all, perhaps – I find I am attracted to her. As her long, elegant body turns from me, I am aroused. I look down, confused and dismayed, and force myself to think of Katerina, hoping that somehow her image in my head will displace this sudden, unwanted sign, yet my body continues to betray me. The feel of her finger on my flesh, that strange, hard pressure of her touch, has made me wonder what it would be like to sleep with such a goddess.

I shudder, frightened by the thought, appalled that I could even think it.

‘
Lucius
…’

For a moment I do not recognise my alias. Then, with a strange jerk of my head, I glance across at Heusinger. He gestures towards the empty space in front of us.

‘They’ve gone.’

‘Ah.’ But I feel cold. The shock of the encounter has quite thrown me. ‘Who were they?’

‘The male was Manfred’s sixth son, Hagen. His third wife Gunnhilde’s son.’