She held herself in stasis, trying to bring forward those memories of a half-million years ago; and then she smiled.

—You were with me when I called, berserker. You have all my thanks, in truth.

—Any time.

All three smiled rainbow smiles.

Then Gavriela walked to the table where complex phase spaces hung in dozens of orthogonal projected realities. A part of her – the part that had absorbed hundreds of millennia of strategy training – understood the problem they were trying to solve: given that no plan survives contact with the enemy, how do you plan for that?

With sheaves of alternatives that can be chosen in an instant, was one answer.

She examined the attacking forces.

—A thousand billion of them, striking at once?

Ulfr made a fist; but Kenna put her hand on it, and looked up at Gavriela.

—We need the small-scale simulation first, before planning for the real thing.

In apology, Gavriela put her own fist against her collar-bone.

—I beg your pardon. Of course you do.

For they had half a million years, still, before the end.

TWENTY-FIVE

EARTH, 1941 AD

It was a sound once associated with the limbo of factory work, empty and impersonal; now it signified the imminence of incandescent hell. Moaning strongly, then low, then strong again, the siren’s sound resonated along the buildings. Gavriela held still, Brian’s one arm around her back, as they stopped opposite Madame Tussaud’s and looked to see where people were headed. The flow towards Baker Street Tube was already starting.

She could not hear them yet, the killers above the clouds; but then, was she so different? Gavriela Wolf with blood on her hands once more. Debriefing, she had said nothing about the Gestapo men she murdered in Berlin; but in the SOE cellar, Rupert and Brian had seen her every action. For her the moment had been confusion, a swirling of stroboscopic vision and physical motion, glimpses of the riflemen interspersed with blood-red nothingness; and then the corpse below her, and the wet slickness on the rifle butt. It was lucky that Rupert, sharp despite the danger, had interpreted the situation exactly: the prisoner having mesmerised his guards, causing them to turn on their own superiors; Gavriela entering berserkrgangr to save the day.

I did what?

But Brian was shaking her arm.

‘Come on.’

‘What?’

‘Down the Tube, come on.’

Past banked sandbags, down metal-edged stairs, spherical lights a soft glow atop bronze stands, the glazed-tile walls wet with cold, condensed sweat, and down on the sooty platforms, the blanket-wrapped crowd sitting and lying, frail humans huddling and waiting for destruction to fall overhead. As always, every space near the exits was full, so they pushed and slipped among their fellow beings, eventually to reach a shadow-wrapped alcove, shared with a water-filled extinguisher. Somewhere around the corner, a child and an older person were weeping.

Why can’t it ever stop?

She pressed against Brian, and he against her, his arm tight.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You did the right thing, and we’re proud of you.’

Closing her eyes did not shut out the redness; neither weeping nor sirens could obliterate the thud of wood through skull.

I’m not a killer.

Except that in science she believed in operational definitions, and if someone who killed was not a killer, then what were they? But now, despite her insulating coat, here was an interruption to her guilt: Brian’s manhood pressing against her, as her crotch grew warm.

No. Oh, no.

She had had so little to do with men, but she was scared and so was he – poor Brian, with demons of his own to fight, the loss of his arm among them – and then they were kissing, tongue against tongue, and it was urgent: the unbuttoning of heavy coats, wrapped around each other as they stood; fingers against skin, rough against nipples, the ripping of her knickers, the fumbling of her fingers unbuttoning his fly; and then he was in her, hard, thrusting, harder, and her fingers were like claws, nails like talons in his skin, pushing and hauling and wanting the hurt, needing the pain, forcing it, needing it to—

Oh. Oh.

—explode inside her, and she could not hold down the whimper and neither could he; but no one remonstrated or even showed they noticed; because this was wartime and life was ephemeral and things could change in an instant; and now they had.

She felt him slip out of her.

Brian.

Wet and slick against her thigh.

Morio was Dmitri’s seventh male lover among the High Command, or rather the ultra-nationalists who held such strong positions there. Today’s half-brutal intercourse had followed a bout of archery – shooting live dogs in snow-covered Shibiya Park, one of Morio’s favoured methods for hardening his warrior spirit. Then he announced he was being sent to China.

‘This time, we will crush Changsha,’ he said.

‘I’m sure you will,’ said Dmitri.

The Chinese had held out against the previous two onslaughts; but in the wake of Pearl Harbor, Japanese determination was renewed.

‘They declared war!’ Morio’s face was red with booze and outrage. ‘War!’

‘How dare they,’ said Dmitri.

How dare they honour their international treaties, as they’ve always done? How dare they declare war on Germany and on Japan, which has been striking inside their borders for a decade, treating the population, women especially, with all the regard Morio showed Shibiya’s dogs?

‘When I come back, we will have much celebration.’

‘Why wait?’ said Dmitri.

But Morio lay back on the cushions, breath whistling in his nostrils, until his mouth dropped open and his snoring became an impression of a pig snuffling in mud.

So Changsha is under threat again.

It would be the last piece of news to be passed on via his existing courier network, before he boarded the ship for Germany. His cover had been deepened by Soviet agents in Berlin, so that he now had an opportunity to penetrate further; or perhaps his masters were being kinder than usual, removing him from a zone made increasingly dangerous for westerners since General Tojo had replaced the civilian Konoye government with his own military cabinet.

Morio thought the world had changed last month, on the 7th of December; but for Dmitri, the turning point had occurred the day before, when General Georgi Zhukov flung 100 fresh divisions – infantry, the near-indestructible T-34 tanks, cavalry and artillery: seven army corps and two cavalry corps – against a shocked Wehrmacht army already worn down by mud then snow. No one, not the Abwehr or Hitler himself, had suspected the existence of such a force.

I may be a country boy at heart, but Moscow is my city.

They were élite divisions, Zhukov’s forces, and they had been stationed on the border with Japanese-occupied Manchuria, guarding against the threat from Imperial Nihon … until Dmitri’s report informed Moscow that the Japanese were directing all of their attention against an American naval base, and the Pacific arena was about to explode into warfare.

So Mother Russia had vented her wrath at last, breaking the myth of the Wehrmacht’s invincibility.

Are you shocked by my treachery?

But the darkness in his mind did not respond.

From her room in Swiss Cottage, as Gavriela peeked out from between the blackout curtains, only a small, broken garden and the back of another house were visible. But snowflakes were drifting, some curling back up, and snow lay like bunched loaves atop the garden wall, luminescent in the grey dawn light, while a thin layer obscured the soil, save for circles like bullet holes where clumps of defiant grass broke through.