Artam Read online

  ARTAM:

  One Reich, One Race, a Tenth Leader

  Written by

  Volkmar Weiss

  Translated by

  Tanya Fox

  German original © 2007

  Volkmar Weiss • http://www.v-weiss.de

  English translation © 2014

  Tanya Fox • [email protected]

  Cover illustration and design © 2014

  Lorena Guerra • www.ellohdesign.com

  Ebook formatting

  Maureen Cutajar • www.gopublished.com

  Published by Tanya Fox at Smashwords, 2014

  This is an English translation of the original German edition Das Reich Artam: Die alternative Geschichte [The Reich Artam: The Alternative History] by Volkmar Weiss (Leipzig: Engelsdorfer Verlag, 2007).

  The second German edition of the book was released under a different title, Das Tausendjährige Reich Artam: Die alternative Geschichte, 1941–2099 [The Thousand-Year Reich Artam: The Alternative History, 1941–2099] (Neustadt an der Orla: Arnshaugk: 2011), and is available for purchase at most online retailers.

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer to purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author and translator.

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE

  Part 1, Chapter 1

  Part 1, Chapter 2

  Part 1, Chapter 3

  Part 1, Chapter 4

  Part 1, Chapter 5

  Part 1, Chapter 6

  Part 1, Chapter 7

  Part 1, Chapter 8

  PART TWO

  Part 2, Chapter 1

  Part 2, Chapter 2

  Part 2, Chapter 3

  Part 2, Chapter 4

  Part 2, Chapter 5

  Part 2, Chapter 6

  Part 2, Chapter 7

  Part 2, Chapter 8

  Part 2, Chapter 9

  PART THREE

  Part 3, Chapter 1

  Part 3, Chapter 2

  Part 3, Chapter 3

  Part 3, Chapter 4

  Part 3, Chapter 5

  Part 3, Chapter 6

  Timeline of Events

  About the Author

  About the Translator

  PART ONE

  Part 1, Chapter 1

  “A chivalric German military order on German soil—I call it Artam.”

  Willibald Hentschel (1923)

  It was a cold, dull October morning in the year 2084, and the guards were just changing at the memorial. Adrian Schwarz passed through the iron gate of his housing development—after having his DNA code automatically verified and after the guard had searched his car, looking for some obscure reason to delay him. Whenever he searched a vehicle, the guard would follow a particular routine that was rather superfluous given the state of current technology. Eventually, he would salute, click his heels together, and say, “Goodbye Senior Storm Unit Leader.”

  The end of the avenue disappeared in the fog that had climbed up from the river. Glistening light was still flooding from the street lights, but it could only be a matter of minutes before they switched over to daytime. Adrian’s car stereo broadcast the Morning Prayer on a constant loop, but he was not consciously listening to each word for he was lost in his own thoughts. “And now let us pray for the power and glory of our Reich for all eternity… Eternal power, may we protect our children and our children’s children from death and disaster, as we have protected ourselves… Give us confidence in ourselves as you gave it to our fathers. May we destroy our enemies. Lead us to eternal light and our enemies to darkness. We are the arrows of longing for the other shore, a rope tied between animal and superhuman. Ours is the power and the glory for all eternity. We are the first race of a new kind, driven to a different goal. Begotten from the race, living for the race, transforming into another species. Artam.” After this began the broadcast of the Muslim service, and Adrian switched off the radio.

  Adrian, who was thirty-nine and who had sprained his foot at the last military exercise, stepped on the gas, for he still had to drive about 8 kilometers to reach his home, number 81C.

  Like every other house, his stood behind a wall peppered with electronic devises. Even the properties belonging to those of lower ranks that Adrian passed along the way did not differ in their external appearance from the properties of higher-ranked individuals. Approximately five out of every six entryways were identified with a rune, a coat of arms, and a number. Scattered at random intervals, about every sixth house had a Handschar and a number by its entrance. Behind each wall was a long and very thick hedge, impassable even to children. Except for one woman wearing a chador, who was pushing twins in a stroller past number 30C, the sidewalks were deserted.

  There was an intermediary gate after 5 kilometers, which required another brief stop. To open the gate and the garage door at number 81C Adrian would have to speak the words, “Hail the Clan into which we are born,” so that his voice could be electronically identified. The elevator went straight from the garage into the hall. The door to the hall required further proof of identification before it would open. The large screen in their hall displayed an image of a deserted steppe. Adrian adjusted the picture so that it became smaller and dim, but it could not be turned off altogether. He stood by the window. A powerful figure, he looked even more imposing in his custom-made black uniform. His hair was quite blond, his eyes blue, and his face bronzed by the sun.

  Even through the vast window, the world outside looked cold. Farther down the avenue, the wind sent poplar leaves spiraling upward, and although the sun shone and the sky was a deep blue, the fog had still not lifted from the lower-lying areas of the development. The hedges and trees had begun to lose their leaves, making the high walls around each house more prominent than in the summer. Even higher than the other walls, the intermediary wall surrounding all 10 square kilometers of Section C was hard to overlook. In the distance a helicopter patrolled the outer wall. As it approached, Adrian recognized the Handschar next to the Sig runes.

  So it is true, thought Adrian, now they have taken over the air patrols as well.

  For a moment it appeared that the helicopter considered changing direction, as though it had received an order perhaps, but then it swung back to its original course. The threat of the Red Hand’s terror groups was real, although not ubiquitous. Only the Department of Central Conscience was ubiquitous. Also ubiquitous were the minute delayed-action weapons, which could still explode after all those years, spreading poisons and viruses, infesting children like ticks, interfering with electronic devises, and bringing down helicopters. Behind Adrian the screen had switched itself to the news. Following the fanfare and military marches, a female voice reported that the third quarter had brought an increase in the birthrate among the Handschar and that the Mormons had successfully cultivated a new variety of fruit.

  The screen was capable of both transmitting and receiving data. Each noise and every movement in the hall not only registered on the screen, but was also recorded and saved for several decades. There was an assumption that, for an unspecified period of time, it was possible to determine who had been present in the hall or who had passed through a doorway on either of the floors at any particular minute, second, and tenth of a second. How effective this automatic data analysis was and whether it even existed at all was a matter of sheer speculation. It was indeed conceivable that everything was analyzed by the Department of Central Conscience. Thus, one was forced to live—and one did so out of a habit insti
lled since childhood—under the assumption that every interaction and every movement in the hall was being filmed and saved, even in the darkness by way of infrared technology. Adrian turned his back to the screen. He preferred it that way, even though he realized that his posture alone could be revealing.

  Meanwhile, the fog had lifted in the west, and about 12 kilometers away the square, monolithic building that was his workplace, the Reich Settlement Headquarters, was difficult to overlook. There it was, he thought with vague sense of trepidation, that was Reichsburg, the most important stable city in Artam and the capital city of the Gau Heartland. He tried to recall an old photograph he had once seen at an exhibition; it reminded him of the city that had been here 150 years prior. Apparently it had been called Kiev. On construction sites one would occasionally come upon the ruins of walls that must have stemmed from the earlier settlements. More than 100 years ago, the land had been carpeted with people’s fields and gardens, where once Ukrainian villages had stood. It was, however, in vain, and nobody could even imagine this scene anymore. While the Old World fell and perished during the Great Chaos, Artam did falter but managed to endure.

  The Reich Settlement Headquarters—RSHQ—differed markedly from everything else one could see. A square, windowless building made of reinforced concrete and layered with marble, it rose up 100 meters into the air. Architecturally, a honeycomb design and vertical ribbing and gave it an unmistakable appearance. From where Adrian stood, he could easily make out the massive likeness of a naked warrior, his sword raised in a form of greeting, and his other hand holding a shield by his side. When Adrian had been at the office this morning—his presence had been requested at an unusually early and quite pointless meeting, although he had not been sure why—he had paused in front of the building. Looking up, it had appeared to him that each of the statue’s testicles was as big as the drive train of a small rocket.

  The RSHQ had—nobody knew the exact number—about a thousand above-ground rooms, and an even larger number under the ground in various constellations; they were all protected by reinforced concrete ceilings meant to withstand nuclear attack. In Reichsburg there were three other buildings similar in appearance and proportion—all the way down to their underground capacity. These four buildings, symmetrically arranged along Reich Parade Street, housed the headquarters of the four divisions which ran and monitored Artam: first there was the Leader’s Headquarters; second the Department of Central Conscience, which was responsible for monitoring all data and for intellectual order; third the above-mentioned Reich Settlement Headquarters, which attended to the number, distribution, and quality of the populations; and fourth there was the Reich Spear Office, which was responsible for matters related to the economy and which had been named after a legendary leader of armament from the time of the Great Fatherland War. And then there was the mosque, built only ten years ago, whose minaret was as tall as the other buildings. (When it was being built there were many rumors about a dispute behind the scenes over how tall the minaret was allowed to be.)

  The Department of Central Conscience was by far the most impressive of all. It had been said that there were no windows looking out onto the inner courtyard. Adrian had never been inside the Department of Central Conscience, nor had he had any direct interactions with this office. He did not even know anybody who had ever set foot in this building. It was strictly forbidden for those who worked there to disclose their actual place of work. They each purported to be employees of other offices and departments. Surrounding the building for security were several walls and electronic locks. One could assume, however, that the actual electronic brain was located below the ground, backed up in the layers of granite and underground rooms beneath the Ural, in which the foundations for the Reich Vril were forged. The Sixth Leader had prophesied that the Reich Vril would supersede Artam at the end of this cycle of the world’s history.

  Adrian turned around abruptly. He passed through the hall to the kitchen, which was very well equipped. The kitchen robot informed him in Godela’s voice that she had taken the children to the large indoor swimming pool. In the refrigerator and the freezer there were at least twenty meals that the robot only had to heat up in the microwave. But Adrian had retained some habits from his years at war and was satisfied with an apple and some dry bread. The bread caught in his throat, and he had to wash it down with some water. He had aged since his time at war. He went back through the hall and up the stairs to his office on the top floor. From the top shelf, out of the children’s reach, he took down three volumes of Our Struggle in order to reach a thick book in the back row.

  The screen in the hall was installed so that it could watch each doorway but did not have a view inside the private rooms. In the private rooms, one could do whatever one wished without fear of being heard or filmed. There was only a smoke detector in each room.

  The book he had just taken out was an heirloom that had been in his family for generations; it was a photo album from the middle of the previous century. These were no longer being made in the age of digital photography. It originated from Adrian’s great great grandfather, Heinz Schwarz, who had been a Youth Leader somewhere in the Old Reich and had later fought on various fronts as an officer. The album contained photographs from youth group trips to the Alps and to East Prussia with tents and a campfire. There was a card with the words to the song “Torch high, torch high!” There were photos of Heinz Schwarz working with the Reich Labor Service, and photos of him holding a shovel at the Nuremberg Rally, but they were mostly of him during war times and in uniform. For each photograph, the place, date, and names of the people were recorded; for some of the loose photos tucked between the pages, this information had been recorded on the back. But there were also some unlabeled photographs, mostly of women, fully dressed or wearing bathing suits. Two of them were shown naked in one of the pictures. They both had good figures but were not of the Atlantic race; their given names were French. According to the oral history shared among the adult men of the family, these had been his lovers. Adrian remembered when he was still a child someone had tried to make him believe something from contemporary magazines about reproduction.

  Now that he had this quiet time Adrian wanted to take another look at some pictures that were hidden between the back pages of the album. Only an expert could have known that these were modern photographs produced using an old technique. This way, should anyone else happen to get his or her hands on the album, these photos would not stand out—or so one would assume. Private offices such as this one were not off limits to family members; secret employees of the Department of Central Conscience could gain entry anywhere they wished.

  Adrian was holding the photograph he had been looking for. It was not labeled, but he knew he had acquired it in Gotenbad on the Krim on May 23, 2078 and that it had been taken that same spring. A tall woman with black hair, she wore a close-fitting dress that accentuated her figure; she was Eurasian with a pronounced East Asian, slant-eyed look: Ludmila.

  He was thirty-two and had long been happily married when Ludmila came into his life. It all began with an enquiring glance; neither of them knew that it would not end at this. At the time he had estimated her to be eight or ten years younger than he. His office had sent him to Gotenbad for a symposium that November. Often these symposia and conferences were attended by employees of companies and institutions not belonging to the Black Corps and the Clan; some participants even came from other countries. Everybody knew that these sorts of conferences—as with all personal interactions—were being monitored by the Department of Central Conscience.

  But still, she had captured his attention. He caught the scent of a perfume, which somehow managed to arouse him. At this point she was standing with her back to him. Her elegant clothing hung over her broad hips, and her hair was concealed beneath her headscarf. As she turned around she realized he had been watching her. Their eyes met. He looked away, directing his eyes to a poster. As he casually returned his gaze to her, he met her
dark eyes; this time it was she who looked away.

  He once had a female classmate in high school tell him, “Whenever you look at me, it makes me feel as though you are undressing me.” Two other girls, standing nearby, had nodded in agreement. Her comment was not inaccurate: it was sort of a habit of his; he was barely even aware of it. So he did not attach much importance to this exchange of glances with this woman. Relationships with women who were not in the Stud Book were considered miscegenation and were therefore not something he had ever considered. This was also true for women who wear headscarves: having contact with married men, not to mention with non-Muslims, was like playing with fire.

  Unexpectedly, during the next break, a question was directed at him. This was, of course, the reason for these scientific conferences: asking and answering questions. Even in a personal interaction, this was nothing unusual. But this question came from the tall woman with the slanted eyes. He noticed they were not actual slant eyes but that her face had a strong Asian influence and prominent cheekbones. The content of her question was purely professional, and Adrian answered it to the best of his knowledge. She had asked him about the accuracy of a new process intended to isolate proteins. The woman claimed she was interested because she was employed by the Institute for Horticultural Research, which deals with the breeding of fruits and vegetables. As Adrian’s answer did not fully satisfy her question, she added in passing, “I am hoping to gather some useful information from Dr. Süssmilch’s presentation.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Tomorrow, the second evening.” And that was the extent of their very first conversation.

  He spent the first night of the conference alone in his room. After having sat through hours of presentations and discussion, he had no desire to participate in further professional interactions. There was nothing on the television that interested him. Normally, he had at least an hour or two each day to exercise; here he had not found the time. He was also used to having the sisters take turns waiting up for him, as he was now of the age that he needed to have sex in order to be able to fall asleep, just like a child needs a bottle. He lay awake for a long time, trying in vain to recall the smell of the mysterious woman’s perfume, stroking himself between his anus and his scrotum, which did not help. He thought for a moment about jerking off, but then he did manage to fall asleep.