Perhaps, by his nature, he furthered its purpose no matter which side he took in humanity’s ephemeral, parochial affairs.
They worked in caverns below ground, a legion of the lost, each of them in the process of being broken down by workload and cold and starvation, each man a unit to be replaced: corpses were one of the waste products of Peenemünde; and Erik Wolf was just one more temporary component among the damned.
He did not believe in the concept of life force, of an élan vital; but there was a shining thought that kept him from death for now, and it was the conviction that Ilse had got away, using the loft that ran through to the house next door, before the Gestapo had come pouring in. There were no illusions: for him, it was only the work-gang and suffering, with death at the end.
But it lasted longer than he had expected, moving from digging and rail-laying to work that demanded more nimble fingers: fastening components inside metal casings of what looked like huge finned torpedoes, designed for flight. The insides had the clunky functionality of refrigerators or cars, robust and inelegant.
‘What is Vergeltungswaffen?’ muttered one of the other prisoners, a Russian.
They could get away with mumbled conversation from time to time, provided they remained bent over their work and did not stop assembling the hardware.
‘You understand “revenge”?’ said Dmitri.
‘Sure. Mest. I understand.’
‘Weapon of revenge, then.’
The Russian, his face lined and collapsed like everyone else’s, became even more grim.
‘Aeroplane bomb without pilot,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
The missiles were to be called reprisal-weapons, propaganda for the people at home who were suffering now as Allied bombers encroached on the Reich’s airspace, the name a joke to any non-Nazi. But the weapons themselves were deadly, urban populations their target.
Overhead on the catwalk, the guards were talking among themselves, paying no attention to their charges below. Escape was impossible for the prisoners, and overseers would check the assembly work before the final part of the casing was fastened in place, so why should they bother spending every second watching sub-humans at work?
Erik was dehydrated but not fully, and he could feel it in his bladder now.
‘Tell me,’ he said to the Russian, ‘if the guards turn this way.’
‘What? Yes.’
Pulling at his ragged trousers, Erik shuffled so he was pressing up against the exposed guidance system.
I’ll show you reprisal.
A thin stream of urine trickled out. All around him, expressions altered, just a little.
Try guiding yourself after this.
It would evaporate, and the overseers would never know.
‘Now,’ said the Russian.
Erik was at work again by the time the guards looked down. And the prisoners had a weapon of their own, a final riposte before their coming death.
FIFTY-THREE
MOLSIN 2603 AD
Rhianna was clad in a tight jumpsuit, matching Roger’s. All around, the quickglass chamber was set to a malleable softness, for their protection.
‘In the old days,’ said Rhianna, ‘when the first Pilots were created by nanosurgery and their eyes were removed—’
Roger shuddered.
‘—they learnt aikido,’ Rhianna continued, ‘along with other bodywork systems to enhance their somatic awareness. So let’s do the traditional unbendable arm trick.’
‘Er …’
‘Place your left hand palm-up on my right shoulder.’
He did so.
‘Now,’ Rhianna went on, ‘stop me bending it.’
She clasped her hands atop his biceps, close to his elbow, and hauled down. Her own elbows travelled close to her body, the strongest form of pulling motion. He tried to fight it, but was already failing. His arm bent at the elbow, despite the tension in his muscles.
‘All right.’ She released him. ‘Try again. This time, extend your arm fully as you visualize your fingers reaching to the far wall. Imagine energy flowing down your arm and out of your fingertips, that’s right, and see what happens …’
She hauled down on his hyperextended arm to zero effect.
‘Cool,’ he said.
‘Isn’t it?’ Rhianna stepped back. ‘The visualization is just that, although imaginary ki or chi flow often maps to neuropeptide movement in the body.’
‘Er, right.’
‘But mainly, the hyper-rotation has deactivated your biceps and triceps, and effectively screwed your joint into position, held by elastic tension in the rotator cuff. It’s because your upper arm can’t tense that I have nothing to work with when pulling down, because the use of your strength tends to bend your own elbow.’
Roger put his proprioreceptive awareness into his arm, remembering the position.
‘The triceps,’ he said, ‘was hanging there loose. The biceps was stretched right out, which means … the Golgi reflex kicked in. Of course.’
The same reflex that activates when someone loses an arm-wrestling match: the sudden switching off of all tension, the limb going floppy in order to protect muscles from tearing.
‘Well done,’ said Rhianna. ‘Well done. Now for fighting under extreme conditions, you really don’t want the Golgi reflex to work, because the other fucker will kill you in that moment.’
Roger blinked at the strong language, so different from her normal speech.
‘So I’m going to teach you,’ Rhianna went on, ‘to disengage the reflex. Attack me.’
‘What kind of—?’
The slap against his face was shocking.
‘Just fucking fight!’ she yelled.
He went for it.
Holy shit.
The ceiling whipped past his vision, something massive hammered into his entire back – the floor – and her legs were across his chest and throat, his left arm extended and caught in her grip as she leaned back, pain flaring as the armbar technique hyperextended everything.
He tapped twice, the traditional signal to acknowledge an inescapable hold was on, that he could not release himself short of allowing his arm to snap.
‘I didn’t say give up!’ she shouted. ‘I said fight!’
‘Holy … fuck.’
He worked at it.
‘Put the pain aside,’ she said. ‘Leave it for later.’
‘I …’
‘Just fight!’
A loud crack sounded as his forearm broke—
Holy shit!
—but his limb was no longer trapped, the armbar depending on the forearm’s integrity. He squirmed around and hit her in the jaw. She twisted away.
‘Good.’ She spat blood. ‘Good.’
Rolling further, she made distance and rose to her feet.
‘Stand up,’ she said.
He came up ready, covered in sweat, a predator about to kill.
‘And relax, Roger. Let’s take a look at that arm.’
Blowing out a breath, he shuddered, stepped back, and regained control.
Fuck, it hurts.
Something told him this was not the most painful lesson she had lined up.
Darkness, and the movement within it.
Now.
She was close behind him and he whipped back, an elbow-uppercut to the rear, using his good arm – contact – then his kidneys exploded with pain. They went down together, Rhianna and he, squirming on the floor until her legs scissored around his throat, his right arm caught between her thighs but not helping him, because his own shoulder, pressed into his carotid artery, enhanced the triangle technique. And then he was asleep.
The lights were bright when she brought him awake.
The ninth time, he gave as good as he got. Afterwards, Rhianna smiled a red-and-white smile, and pulled out the tooth his elbow-strike had broken. She stared at the quickglass wall, causing it to pucker then create a small alcove. She placed the tooth inside, and returned to the room’s centre as the wall sealed up.