The Ocean of Time (55 page)

I look to the elder of the two. ‘I have come to see the Doktor. I believe he is expecting me.’

They already know who I am. Can see, from my dress, and from the insignia on the arm of my cloak, what my rank is and thus my status in this acutely hierarchical world. They both give a tight little bow – a curt movement of the head – before one of them responds.

‘Then perhaps you would permit us to escort you to his office, Meister …?’

He is fishing for my name. I am inclined to smile at this earnest young man, only my status as Inspector does not permit it. Instead I return their bow.

‘That would be most kind of you, young Master.’

I am duly deferent, not knowing quite to whom I am speaking. For these cadets – these elite members of the Akademie – are important in their own right, not to speak of their fathers. For the Akademie is where power is bred in this land and at this time. They are taught here how to rule. And the Doktor …

The Doktor is the most powerful man of all, for he is the shaper of these powerful young demi-gods. Yes, and in more than one sense.

We walk on, the two boys flanking me, their curiosity kept in check. They want to ask me why I’m there – what has gone wrong this time, and who it affects – only the strict rules of the Akademie insist that the Doktor’s business is his alone, until – and if – he should wish to share it.

We pass through a massive – almost medieval – gateway, the ten-metre-high thick wooden doors pushed back, past a row of blue-uniformed guards and into the massive entrance hallway, its cerulean blue domed ceiling a good fifty metres above my head, the twin eagles – symbol of Germany throughout the ages – displayed in giant mosaic on the perfectly circular floor.

Power. It all speaks of imperial power. Of a brute strength that, in its way, is as sharp-eyed and ruthless as the eagles of its chief motif.

I know my way, yet I let them lead me, up the broad, curved marble stairway to the left and into a corridor built, like all else, in the imperial style, wide and high-ceilinged, with massive pillars to either side.

We march with almost military precision to the end of that corridor where, framed by imposing pillars and a lintel of heroic proportions, a studded, leather-faced door of equally massive size faces us, two guards stood before it, dwarfed by the portal they defend. Unwavering they stand there, as, above the lintel, a camera eye turns to study me.

And then a voice sounds. ‘Meister Scholl. Please come in.’

If he is surprised, his voice does not betray it, and, as the guards step aside and the giant door swings slowly back, so I turn briefly and give the slightest nod of thanks to the two young cadets, knowing I will doubtless see them again.

The Doktor’s study is huge. Tall shelves of books fill every wall. His massive desk and equally imposing leather chair are a good twenty paces from the door, beside a window that would grace a cathedral, which offers him a view down on to the main quadrant.

I walk slowly across, and as I come closer, so he rises from that great nest of a chair and, unsmiling, comes round the desk to greet me, his hand outstretched. I grip it and bow, then step back.

‘Herr Doktor.’

‘I was expecting you,’ he says. ‘For the fifth read the third, eh?’

And, when I look up and meet his pale grey eyes, I see that my early arrival has merely confirmed what he believes of the Ministry: we are little more than petty bureaucrats; an irritation rather than a threat.

‘So?’ he says, pointing to a chair facing his own, one which in its starkness, its simplicity and sheer
smallness
serves to emphasise – if emphasis is needed – the disparity in status between he and me. ‘What is it
this
time?’

I go to the chair and, waiting for him to resume his own seat, squat uncomfortably on its edge.

‘Forgive me, Herr Doktor, but it is a matter of some delicacy. There have been reports. Anonymous reports, I hasten to say, and unconfirmed as yet. But the Ministry would be seen to be failing in its duty if—’

He interrupts. ‘Reports of
what
?’ And the steel in his voice – the contrast with his polite, if unsmiling greeting – is stark. The Doktor is, surprisingly, a small man. If he is five six, then that’s flattering him. And he’s bald, too, and portly. But commanding. There’s no doubt of that. Like Napoleon, he commands the very air about him.

I hesitate. ‘I would rather not say. As I said, it is a matter of extreme delicacy and—’

‘Bugger delicacy! Have we another damn traitor in our midst?’

I am silent, as if considering what to say, and, impatient now, the Doktor rises from his chair and, pressing his hands palm down on the edge of his desk, glares at me angrily.

‘
Well
?’

‘An accusation of this nature—’

‘There! I knew it! Some worthless
klatsch
opening their
unterentwickelt
mouth and spreading foul rumours about one of my lads!
They’re
the ones you should be investigating, not us!’

I note the word he used: ‘
unterentwickelt’
. Underdeveloped. It is one of the foulest insults one can offer a man in this society.

‘Forgive me,’ I say, lowering my eyes and – as I’ve practised often in preparation for this role – adopting a pedantic, bureaucratic mode, ‘but the rules of the inspection must be followed to the letter. I would dearly like to share such information with you, Herr Doktor, yet to even hint at the true nature of the accusations could, as we know from experience, do irreparable damage to the young man concerned.’

The Doktor sighs heavily, then sits. ‘So what you’re saying is that you want to interview them
all
, is that it?’

‘Not
all
, Herr Doktor. A random sample will do.’

‘Random as in
including
our so-called traitor?’

‘Of course.’

‘You know this is our busiest time, with the examinations coming up?’

‘It cannot be helped, Herr Doktor. Were it not so important a matter …’

He takes an exasperated breath, then, speaking so politely that it seems rude, ‘So what will you require?’

‘A room, with a bed and a desk.’

And I know, without fear of contradiction, that it will be the smallest room the Doktor can find, with the shabbiest desk and the most uncomfortable bed. For we are enemies, when it comes down to it, the Ministry and the Akademie, and the Doktor resents our intrusion even as he grudgingly acknowledges the necessity.

‘It will be as you wish,’ he says, and I smile and thank him and rise from that small, uncomfortable chair and, with a parting bow, leave the great man’s presence, pleased to have cleared the first hurdle unscathed.

The room is small and bleak, a monk’s cell, reminiscent of a dungeon, the walls bare, the bed unmade – rough sheets, a thin blanket and a single pillow stacked neatly on the thin, unsprung mattress. The desk is smaller than I could have imagined – barely large enough to work on – while in the corner stands my case.

I turn to the boy – an eight-year-old – who escorted me and nod. ‘This will be fine. Thank the Doktor for me.’

The thought of thanking the Doktor clearly terrifies the boy, but charged with this duty, he bows low and scurries away with almost indecent haste.

They know
, I think. Already rumours are circulating from boy to boy, their speculation fuelled by a distinct absence of fact.

Indeed, there is no fact, for this investigation, like my presence there, is a complete fraud: an imaginary peg on which to hang an imaginary coat. But it will suffice. It will allow me access, and access is what I need.

Access to Kolya’s mother. For she is here. I have only to find her.

Shutting the door, I walk over to my case and, lifting it, place it on the bed. Crouching, I study the lock, relieved to see that it’s untouched, the smear-seal untampered with. Then, taking the pulse-key from my pocket, I touch it and the mechanism springs open with a double-click.

There’s an unused notepad, made, like everything else, of my DNA, together with a detailed list – running to eighteen pages – of the students at the Akademie. Beneath those are a single change of clothes and a basic dictionary of twenty-fourth-century
ge’not
. Tucked into a pocket at the side is a detailed map of the locality and, in a small, sealed box, are various drugs. Right at the bottom – and it’s the bulkiest item by far – is the file on Kolya, which I’ve yet to properly look at. And other, personal things, Katerina’s pendant among them.

Five days, I’m giving myself. Time enough, I hope, to find some clue as to who Kolya is and why he’s doing what he’s doing.

I remove the notepad and the list and place them on the desk, then fasten the case again and slide it beneath the bed. Then I make the bed and, that done, go to the door and call for the guard.

The man comes at once, bowing low before me. ‘Master?’

‘Where do I wash?’

He shows me and I shower. But, returning to my cell, it is to find a stranger there – an adult, not a boy, wearing a meister’s robe.

‘You’ll need a chair,’ he says, before I can ask his name. ‘I guess you didn’t ask for one.’

And he smiles, which confuses me, because he seems so unlike his superior, the Doktor, and yet so similar.

‘I forgot,’ I say, ‘Herr …’

‘Haushofer,’ he says, offering his hand. ‘Klaus Haushofer. And before you ask, I’ve been assigned to you as your liaison officer.’

He seems on the surface of things a pleasant man, his charm expressed physically in the soft roundness of his face, the bluff ordinariness of his features. He seems a man without airs. Only this is an age of ‘airs’, of precise – one might say
exact
– social placement, and I wonder just how real his jovial nature is.

He looks about him and shakes his head disapprovingly. ‘No, no. This won’t do. They take the Doktor’s instructions far too literally. Something basic, he said. But this isn’t basic, this is spartan.’ And again he looks to me and smiles. ‘I’ll arrange something. But tell me, are you hungry?’

Which is why, five minutes later, I find myself in the refectory, beneath a high ceiling of ancient wooden beams, several hundred students seated at tables nearby, as Haushofer arranges for a servant – a mute, I note – to bring us our meals.

He is sat beside me, leaning in towards me conspiratorially as he speaks in a half whisper. ‘I would have taken you to the masters’ dining room, only I thought you might like to see how the boys live. Get an idea of how social – how
regimented
– their lives really are.’

And so it seems, for there is very little noise, very little of the boisterous behaviour one might expect from such a large gathering of young men. Oh, there is talk at the nearby tables – mostly, I should think, of who I am and what in Urd’s name I could be investigating – but it is restrained,
kept within limits
.

I turn and look about me, conscious of how uniform they all look. Some have black hair, some red, but the predominant colour is ash blond, cut in the same close-to-the-head style, like the brother knights.

Eyes meet mine briefly and look quickly away, for they know who I am and what power I might have over their lives. Only they don’t look scared. Hostile is what they look, like a family having to put up with an unwelcome guest.

Haushofer is watching me, even as he chews his bread. He smiles, then nods to indicate the insignia on my arm.

‘You’re not one of the Bremen crew, then?’

I could take exception to that word, ‘
crew
’. It is, after all, a kind of slur on my profession, only I sense that that’s perhaps what he wants. To exude friendliness while sniping at me all the while. I let the insult pass.

‘No, I’m from Breslau, actually. And before you ask, I’ve not been sent because of any local connection. We take turns to investigate such matters. It prevents
favouritism
.’

There! A tiny dig back. A suggestion – if only slight – that they might try to influence things here at the Akademie. To use their connections to pull strings.

And what connections they have. Why, there is barely a senior official in the whole of Greater Germany who has not passed through the Akademie.

But Haushofer does not react. Unless his smile is a reaction, which I doubt. His tactic, it seems, is to be as pleasant to me as possible – to seem to be my friend, to act informally in my company, and by that means to elicit information. Only it won’t work. Because I
haven’t
any information. And because I’m not here to play
his
games. I’m here to find Kolya.

To that end, I study the women who are working behind the counter. As far as I know, Kolya’s mother wasn’t a cook or a serving woman, yet what we know of her is sufficiently vague to make it worth my while to check. Haushofer notices the direction of my glance and, leaning closer, asks me if I would like one of them sent to my room.

I don’t answer, merely stare back at him, and after a moment he shrugs, as if it is my loss, and I begin to understand just how they operate here.

Corrupt, yes. Of course they are corrupt. Because power
is
corrupt. And what they teach here – what they live and breathe and, so it seems,
eat
here – is power.

When the meal comes, I eat in silence, letting Haushofer make the small talk. I learn he has a wife and two sons, oh, and a daughter. He almost forgets the daughter, for what use is a daughter in a world such as this, except to be a
hausfrau
and bear children?
Male
children, preferably. And little by little I come to hate the man with an intensity that I daren’t show, even though I know he expresses merely the common opinions of his age.

Mechanist opinions. Views from a Mechanist world.

Yes. But what do I mean by that?

Mechanism is the philosophy of this age. It is a belief that destiny is genetic. That individuals are not important of themselves, only as an ‘expression’ of race. Just as each separate gene is integral to the chromosome of which it is a part, so each individual, they argue, is integral to the race. For the Mechanists, people are simply gene-machines, to be fine-tuned and brought towards the ‘median’, which is the ultimate goal.