The Ocean of Time (56 page)

That fine-tuning begins within the womb, and continues throughout childhood and, in some cases, through to old age. For some, like the early Guildsmen, it involves physical alteration – the beginning of that painful system of surgical adaptation that finds its final flowering, if it can be called such, in the twenty-eighth century. For most, however, it is a slow and complex process of genetic ‘shaping’. Of modest alterations to what is already – as they see it – good genetic stock. Aryans, of course, for we are talking eugenics here, after all. And here, at the Akademie, we are at the very epicentre of that process. Here, in the Herr Doktor’s skilful hands, young men of promise are engineered into perfect specimens of the
volk
, shaped both in mind and essence.
Enhanced
, as the terminology would have it, their chromosomes cleaned up.

And while the men are bred for excellence, the women are bred to produce more men, the best men they can. That, according to the Mechanists, is their role in this life. As it was under Hitler. As it is – and I recognise the flaw – in Four-Oh. The German way, you might say. Not
Mother
Russia but … the
Father
land.

Only now, with girls of my own, I have a different view.

I push my plate aside and am about to take a sip from my glass when an alarm begins to sound – a pulsing buzz that has an immediate effect on the boys. As one they rise and, in a silent, orderly fashion begin to troop out of that great hall. Haushofer touches my arm, and we make our way out too, the boys giving way to us. Out into the great open space of the main quadrant where already the boys are lining up in their years and classes, boys and masters spilling out into the sunlight in a leisurely yet businesslike manner.

As Haushofer and I walk across, I look about me, seeing how the surrounding buildings go up into the sky, tier after white sunlit tier, like gigantic steps leading up to Heaven. All except the building behind us – the administrative building, from which we’ve just emerged – which squats beneath the others, topped by its huge, almost Byzantine dome.

We climb a short flight of steps that leads up on to the raised stage-like area, joining the massed ranks of the masters. As we do, I look up, beyond the long ranks of boys, to the great leaded window in the far building, and see the unmistakable figure of the Doktor, standing beside his desk, looking out over the scene.

The alarm pulses and pulses and then stops.

The Doktor turns abruptly and leaves the window, emerging a moment later at the top of a set of broad marble steps that lead down into the quadrant. As he does, so total silence falls.

He moves slowly yet purposefully between the ranks, a small man, dwarfed by these fine specimens of German youth, yet there is an authority to his manner that is unmistakable. As he joins us on the platform, every eye is on him, every one of us in that quadrant waiting to hear what he, the Doktor, will say.

I watch him from a distance of no more than ten feet, and see the pride that’s in his eyes as he surveys his protégés: four thousand of them in all, from the vulnerable-looking, almost babyish six-year-olds to the eighteen-year-olds, whose confidence and physical perfection makes them seem like statues turned to flesh.

There’s a long pause, while he surveys his domain, and then he turns and looks to me and, to my horror, puts out an arm to indicate my presence. And in that instant I realise that all of this has been contrived for this purpose – so that the Doktor can address me, publicly, before the whole Akademie.

‘Gentlemen,’ he says, his voice booming across that packed space. ‘As you know, we have a guest from the Ministry staying with us for a day or so. Herr Scholl.
Inspector
Scholl, should I say. I just want to take this opportunity of asking you all to cooperate fully with the Inspector while he’s here. After all, we have nothing to hide.’

It’s hard to convey the disdain with which he utters those final words, only it surprises me that laughter – mocking laughter – doesn’t follow. But there is only silence. Conscious that every eye is on me now, I bow low, as if the Doktor has somehow praised me, yet I know that I make the gesture only because I am at a loss this once, and that some kind of response is called for.

For a moment the Doktor’s steely gaze remains fixedly on me, and then he turns away and, lifting his hands, claps them once, at which signal the boys turn and begin to file back into their buildings, as if this has all been rehearsed.

Which no doubt it has.

I turn and look to Haushofer and find him watching me thoughtfully.

‘Okay,’ he says quietly. ‘Your room should be ready now.’

Haushofer is as good as his word. My new room is bigger and better furnished than the last, only there’s one snag: it’s situated in the servants’ quarters, directly above the kitchens, which means that not only is there noise, all day and a good part of the night, but that everything in the room is permeated by a stale cooking smell.

It is another insult, of course, and not a subtle one, but I ignore it. Besides, poor as my quarters are, they are – though Haushofer doesn’t know it – perfectly situated. Where better, after all, to begin my search for Kolya’s mother?

Haushofer leaves me, surprised that I’m content. There’s no lock on my door, but my case is locked and I can’t believe any of the servants would intrude, and so I decide to tour the servants’ quarters.

Walking down the great stairwell I am glanced at by passing servants, but nothing more. They can see who I am, and assume I am on official business. And so I am, in a sense. Serving the
volk
.

And when you find her?

I’m not sure what I’ll do. Question her, probably. Find out what she knows of Kolya and his father. If she’ll talk. But that’s where the drugs come in, to
make
her talk. If she’s reluctant.

And then?

The object, I guess, is to kill him. Time-dead. Only if he’s as clever as Schikaneder claims he is, then that might prove more than a little difficult.

I go from corridor to corridor, up stairs and down, looking in rooms and nodding to myself, as if satisfied. Only there’s no one who resembles her. But then, as I’m about to give up and go back to my room, I glance out of a window and think I see her, walking slowly across a courtyard between buildings, carrying a pile of fresh white linen. Yet even as I make my way towards the door, about to pursue her, the two young men who first greeted me out on the great marble pathway – Gunsche and Sanger, I have learned – appear as if from nowhere and, intercepting my course, beg me to accompany them. Haushofer, it seems, needs to see me again, to discuss something.

And so, leaving my quarry, I go with them, not without looking back – in time to see her disappear beyond a door that’s swinging closed.

Kolya’s mother, blithely unaware of her own significance in Time, carrying my nemesis in her belly.

Haushofer’s room is close to his master’s, the Doktor’s – within hailing distance certainly – and I notice that even though he wishes to talk to me ‘in confidence’, his door remains open, no doubt to answer any summons from the great man.

Right now, Haushofer sits at his desk, signing some papers. On the wall behind him hang three portraits, the President, the Guild Master and the King, the last of which depicts that same long-limbed and pale, despairing creature I last saw four centuries from now, encased in glass.

King in name alone
, I think, wondering what Haushofer would make of where that particular genetic experiment would lead. That is, to Manfred and the
Adel
. And I find myself feeling sorry that I won’t have a chance of meeting Manfred’s ancestor, because it might have been interesting to learn just what it felt like to be the first of such a line.

Gunsche and Sanger leave, having delivered me, but not before I glimpse an exchanged look between them, a kind of smirk. I ought, perhaps, to be above it all, but I find that their arrogance – their naïve assumption of superiority – gets under my skin, and I decide, even before Haushofer has said a word, that the two boys will be on my list of interviewees.

‘Well,’ he begins, pushing the papers away and sitting back lazily in his chair, his fingers laced together behind his neck, ‘now that you’ve settled in, I thought we’d have a word about procedure.’

‘
Procedure
?’

‘Yes. As you intimated to the Doktor, this is a delicate business and we’d prefer it if we could make it as minimally disruptive as possible. The Doktor suggests – only suggests, mind – that twenty boys be chosen, from a range of years.’

‘It is our usual practice—’

‘—to question more than that, I know. Only there have been a number of recent investigations and they have had the effect of …
unsettling
the boys. Of undermining them, one might almost say. And not
just
the boys. The families, too, have been affected. The stress of having their children under suspicion.’

‘There is only one boy under suspicion—’

Haushofer raises a hand, palm outward, in a conciliatory fashion. ‘I understand that, Herr Scholl, only we have had to use our not inconsiderable influence to prevent some of the parents taking the matter up directly with the Ministry. Now, you and I are both realists, Otto. We understand that the relationship between Ministry and Akademie is, well, let us say
strained
and leave it at that. But I feel it would be in both our interests to come to some more
amicable
arrangement.’

I almost laugh, because Haushofer wants to make some kind of deal, and, though he doesn’t know it, I am the last person he ought to be approaching, fake that I am. But I can’t tell him that. I have to act as if I
do
have influence, however small. That is, until I have what I’ve come here for.

I lean forward slightly. ‘You talk of
undermining
, Herr Haushofer. Have you ever thought what would happen if we acted as you suggest and accommodated such … deals? It would be chaos. Germany would rot and fall. And then what? Where would the Akademie be then? No, Herr Haushofer, we must not relax our standards one iota, nor for a single second. It is our duty. To the race. To the
volk
.’

Haushofer sighs, then changes his tack. ‘You have a list?’

‘A list?’

‘Of the boys you wish to speak to.’

‘I will provide it. Tomorrow, first thing.’

‘Good. But Otto … be careful how you tread.’

I look surprised. ‘I am safe here, no?’

The question takes him aback. ‘Of course. I wasn’t suggesting …’ He pauses, then, leaning closer, says. ‘It is not the Akademie you have to fear, Inspector, but, well, as I hinted before, there are those who feel that the Ministry is exceeding its authority … being too zealous.’

I am curt, my voice cold. ‘The powers of the Ministry are granted by the President himself.’

‘Yes, yes, but—’

‘But nothing,’ I say, standing, bringing the discussion to a close. ‘Now forgive me, I must begin my preparations.’

Only back in my room I find myself pondering what Haushofer said. It wasn’t clear, but he seems to be suggesting that a group of influential men – men with sons at the Akademie – are, in some fashion, plotting against the Ministry. How that affects me I’m not sure, but it might be best to find out a little more. To jump back to Four-Oh and find out what we know. Only I’m not going to try to kid myself that that’s the real reason. I want to go back because I need to know what Ernst has to say. Whether Cherdiechnost is safe, and Katerina … I stand, then look about me. The case lies open on the bed. I ought to close it, perhaps and lock it, only I’ll not be gone more than a few seconds.

Maria is on duty at the platform, filling in for Zarah. She tells me that Freisler wants to see me, and that he’s in Hecht’s old rooms.

Freisler looks across at me as I step through. With the lights up bright, the room looks very strange – so bare and bleak, despite the shelves of books. The Tree of Worlds seems dull and pale, the vaguest presence in the air. Its natural medium, I realise, is darkness.

Freisler is not alone. Two of our younger agents – Haller and Ripke – are there with him in the back room, filling plastic crates with Hecht’s belongings. Seeing me, they pause and bow their heads respectfully, reminding me yet again that I am Meister now.

‘What are you doing?’

‘It’s your room now,’ Freisler answers, coming to the doorway. ‘We were preparing it for you. The books … you must tell us what you wish to keep. If you want, we can—’

I interrupt. ‘Has Ernst been back?’

Haller and Ripke look away, busying themselves with their work. Freisler nods, then comes across. ‘He came back an hour past,’ he says quietly. ‘I saw him myself. He said all was well.
Peaceful
, he said.’

‘Where is he? Can I speak to him?’

‘It’s okay. He went back. To keep an eye. He said he would jump back directly if anything was wrong.’

‘Ah …’ The flood of relief is incredible. I feel lighter suddenly, less burdened.

Reaching out I briefly touch Freisler’s arm. ‘Thank you. But listen. I need to be briefed. About the political situation back where I am. I need …’

And I tell him what I need. And Freisler nods and says he’ll get on to it right away. Then, reminding me, he asks, ‘The books?’

I look about me, remembering how they were arranged, in four distinct sections. ‘Keep everything that’s pertinent. That might be of use. The discarded timelines … send those to the library. No, to the linguists, they’ll have more use of them.’

‘As you wish, Meister.’

‘And Jurgen … keep an eye on Ernst for me, will you?’

‘Of course, Meister. Now let’s see if we can’t get you that information you need.’

As I stand on the platform, waiting to jump back, I find myself thinking about Hecht and the Haven, and wondering whether I’ll have a chance, once this is over, to go there.

That is, if I can get there. If Zarah knows how
.

And even if we can’t … surely Hecht’s brother will know enough to contact us, to jump here, maybe, and lead us back. Or is he dead, too? Was that where it happened? Back in the distant past, among the Neanderthal?