The Empire of Time Read Online Free PDF Page B

tales of glory, of adventure and raw excitement, and I have not delivered. Only I can’t free myself of the notion that my mistake – whatever it was – cost the lives of almost fifty men.
Real
lives.
    I need to lie down and close my eyes. I need something to keep me from remembering.
8
    Ernst comes to me later, in my room.
    ‘What is it, Otto? What happened back there?’
    ‘I don’t know. But I must have done something. Something that left a trace.’
    He nods, then sits, facing me on the end of my bed. I watch him for a while, noting how silent he is, then ask: ‘And you?’
    His smile is guarded. ‘They say I’m doing well …’
    ‘It’ll take time,’ I say, resting my hand gently on his arm. But I am unable to imagine how he feels, for Ernst is a
Reisende
– a ‘traveller’ like me – and this confinement here in Four-Oh, however necessary, is chafing at him, like a frayed rope against raw flesh.
    ‘Otto?’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Will you speak to Hecht for me?’
    I hesitate, then nod. It will do no good, of course, but how can I refuse? Ernst is my best friend. To say no to him is almost unthinkable. Yet if I were in Hecht’s place, I would make the same decision, for to even think of sending him back would be disastrous – for
all
concerned.
    Ernst stares at me a moment, then looks away.
    ‘What?’
    He looks back at me, then shrugs. ‘I was just thinking. About the Past. About us.’
    ‘We were a good team.’
    ‘We were. Only …’
    He doesn’t have to say it. He only has to look at me and I can see the damage, there behind his eyes, there in every line of his face. And I sense – as maybe he senses – that it will never change; that he will
never
get better. And I don’t know how
I
would deal with that. Because I know that the Past is like a drug for me: I have a craving to go there, to see it and be a part of it. Without that …
    I cannot imagine it. I just can’t.
    ‘I’ll speak to Hecht,’ I say. ‘I’ll try to convince him.’
    But when he’s gone, I slump down on my bed, my mood dark, because I know I can’t help him. And if you can’t help those closest to you, then what kind of man does that make you?
    I sigh. Maybe it’s the business at Christburg, but suddenly I wonder what the point is to it all, and whether I’m not simply lying to myself thinking I can make a single shred of difference to what’s happening. But what’s the alternative? To give up? To let the Russians win?
    No. Because this is to the death. And whatever doubts I have, I need to keep them to myself.
    As if on cue, I hear Hecht’s voice from the speaker overhead. ‘Otto, I need you. At the platform. Now.’
    And I go. Because this is what I do, who I am. And to do otherwise is …
    Unthinkable
.
9
    Kramer is the first to come through. Looking across at us, he grins. He’s wearing a simple brown garment of the roughest kind of cloth and his reddish hair is cut pudding-bowl fashion. He’d look the part, the archetypal medieval peasant, were it not for the way he bears himself now that he’s back in Four-Oh, his ‘disguise’ thrown off.
    As he steps down, the air behind him shimmers once more and Seydlitz forms like a ghost from the vacuum, his tall, well-proportioned figure taking on colour and substance in an instant. He’s dressed in full armour, the mantle of a Livonian Sword Brother about his shoulders, and his ash-blond hair is cut short, crusader-style. He looks exactly what he is, an aristocrat, his princely bearing only emphasised by his aquiline, almost Roman nose.
    I look to Hecht for explanations, but Hecht ignores me. Stepping across, he greets the two.
    ‘Hans, Max …’
    They bow their heads respectfully, then look to each other, excitement written all over their faces.
    ‘Well? What did you find out?’
    ‘Russians,’ Kramer says, his eyes gleaming.
    ‘Two of them,’ Seydlitz adds. ‘We killed them.’
    Or think you did
.
    Hecht smiles. ‘Do we know who they were?’
    Kramer