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  A man sitting to the right of Reitmeier brought forth the usual tirade: “The Jews are unreliable, and they only look out for their own interests.” The Jewish state, which was so small it even survived the Great Chaos, had a lot to offer Artam in terms of weapon technology and science. Personally, Adrian had nothing against the Jews, although he could barely recall ever having met one. Once at a symposium there had been a friendly man, whom he had found it easy to talk to. But in Artam it was considered unseemly to be known as a friend of the Jews, if only because of the increasing importance of the Handschar. Adrian decided it was best not to comment on this topic.

  The 1943 dissipation of the Jews was actually one of the main points of contention between Artam and Europe. According to those who had been swept up in the political agenda of the year of change, 1988, the dissipation had been a crime for which Europe, and Artam in particular, should pay reparations, whereby the amount being requested did not decrease as time progressed, but, strangely, had continued to grow. What was odd about this situation was that once North America, which had become half Hispanic and had begun to fragment, had lost its strategic interest in the oil-rich regions after these had been exhausted, and had fallen behind East Asia as a world power, it could no longer afford to support the Jewish state. Ever since, the Jewish state had relied on Artam as a financial lifeline.

  Europe’s participation in reparations was merely symbolic. Since that time new problems had taken precedence. Starting in 1960 there was a sharp increase in workers immigrating from Turkey and Northern Africa. In the beginning they were viewed as guest workers but then they started bringing their families and staying. By 2010 these migrants already comprised more than half of the working population in almost all of the bigger cities in Central and Western Europe; by around 2030 this was also true for Southern Europe. These migrant speakers of Arabic, Turkish, Kurdish, Persian, and other languages were bound by their affiliation with Islam and a militant anti-Semitism, which was almost objectless in Europe as there were so few Jews left there. But their anti-Semitism remained strong. The ’88 generation tried to oppose this militant infiltration with an abstract sense of Jew-friendliness, which they themselves had begun to question more and more over the years, given that not only the politics surrounding the occupation of Greater Israel were being condemned, but also that millions of Muslim refugees crowded into camps were being financed. Since 2011 there had been an annual event in Berlin to commemorate the anniversary of the first trains that departed carrying Jews to the other side of the Ural. At these events, just like any others, elected politicians appeared in their black caps and sour faces. There was always rioting, whereby those in the black caps had to be protected by a massive police presence in armored vehicles from the enraged and rampaging mob, which grew larger with each year. Carrying the green and black flags of Islam and anarchy, the rioters would cause serious devastation throughout the whole district, whereby the disparate factions of the rampaging mob would fight with one another. In the most chaotic years, fellow human beings with gray hair or bald heads were frequently being lynched. It had become so bad that there was even an attempt on the lives of some visiting politicians and a terror attack against the celebration itself. After this, they banned all public celebrations of this occasion. Since then, terror attacks on this anniversary have been targeted at radio and television stations.

  The tall woman with the strawberry blonde hair had returned and had resumed her place at the table. Reitmeier stood up and started singing, “All over the world the frail bones are trembling before the coming Great War.” Others at the table stood up and joined in. Adrian thought it wise not to exclude himself from the majority so he too joined in, despite not having a voice well-suited to singing. The first song was followed by another battle song, and so it went on. The only out would be if your cell phone rang and you were called away. At the end of each song it was expected that one shout “Hail!” to the Leader several times, each time raising arms high, stomping feet in a march, and pounding the table with fists. This custom, just like marching in step, was practiced starting in Preschool until it became a part of one’s flesh and blood. Such excessive enthusiasm was expected to follow speeches by the Leader as an expression of true esprit de corps.

  Adrian had mastered a trick whereby he could make his cell phone ring on command. But it would not even be necessary this time. All he needed to do was remove the thumbnail-sized earpiece from his breast pocket (it was small, but it did open up to reveal a screen the size of a book); with all this rapturous noise nobody would notice he had faked the call. Except the Department of Central Conscience. There had long been receivers implanted throughout the whole world, but in Artam these were only used for combat units.

  But then the noise died down. At the same moment Adrian caught Reitmeier’s fleeting glance. Reitmeier had stood up, removed his peaked cap, and straightened himself with a gesture typical for him. But for a split second their eyes met, and for this short period of time Adrian was certain—yes, he was certain—that Reitmeier felt the same way as he did about these euphoric outbursts. The communication they had shared was unmistakable. It was as though they had both opened their souls and their secret thoughts had been communicated to each other through their eyes.

  That was it, and after some time he was not even sure whether it had really happened. It was rare to find another person with whom one shared common thoughts and feelings such as these. The result, however, was that one kept alive the belief that one was not alone in having a critical stance. It was true that criticism and debate were practiced in the schools, despite an otherwise authoritative pedagogy, but everybody knew there was an invisible boundary which was not to be overstepped. It had been a long time since there had been news of any organized resistance within the Black Corps. Only the internal tensions with the Handschar spoiled the outward illusion of harmony. The last big cleansing effort had been some time ago now, even though individuals were regularly being captured by the Department of Central Conscience. It was forbidden to doubt the Leader, the providence, the race, or the mission of Artam, and nobody did. The Handschar were not to doubt the Leader, the Prophet, peace be with him, and the mission of Artam. And then there were the exceedingly numerous enemies of Artam: Bolshevism, the self-Bolshevization and swine-like self-domestication of Old Europe, members of foreign races, plutocracy, and the subhuman.

  Although here in Reichsburg one was among one’s own, and despite the fact that, for security reasons, not a single member of staff in the settlements and offices was of another race, it was still true that—even within the secure borders of Artam between Vistula and Ural, Lofoten and Caucasus—inferior people and members of other races, the majority of which were Russian speakers, were the superior number. Even Ludmila was one of them, although she always spoke German with him, which all educated people in the Reich could do with fluency.

  Adrian returned the picture of Ludmila to its place in the photo album and carefully replaced the three volumes of “Our Struggle” one at a time.

  His thoughts turned to the son Ludmila had borne him. How old was he now? Five years. What did he look like? When they met recently, she had shown him a series of digital photographs. What was frightening was the child’s genetic code. When children are born to members of other races, like this one was, their genetic codes are not automatically identified and saved in the Stud Book, as they are for newborns in the Corps and the Clan. The likelihood of this happening later in the boy’s life, however, would continue to increase. Parts of his genetic code could be identified from a hair or a saliva test at a sporting event or from his blood should there be a sporting injury. Doing so was routine, as was the practice of comparing the data using the immensely complex software, parts of which were familiar to Adrian, although he had little to do with it in his daily work. In the course of such a comparison, the overwhelming similarities with Adrian’s genetic code were sure to spark the interest of the automatic classification algorithm. All th
ey would have to do then is consult the data on y-chromosomes, compare this with the films saved in the Department of Central Conscience to look for her encounters with the possible fathers, and it would be known for certain that Ludmila’s son, German, was not fathered, as she claimed, by an anonymous Russian she had chanced to meet—they did not bother tracking down fathers of the children of other races—but by Adrian Schwarz.

  The thought of this made him ill. For this was miscegenation. It was ridiculous that this affair would sooner or later cause his life to collapse like a house of cards. But the genetic code was inescapable. The only way he could be spared would be if the boy were to have a fatal accident or if he was killed in a way that his death appeared to be an accident. For it was standard procedure after a murder to identify significant parts of the victim’s genetic code.

  Adrian tried to suppress this line of thinking. But he could not stop thinking about what would happen should the boy’s lineage be discovered. Miscegenation poisons the soul; it facilitates the transmission of viruses against which one does not have immunity—this is what they instill in the children at school. Once, after being with Ludmila, Adrian had indeed felt a burning sensation in his urethra for the next two days, but it had not been serious and had gone away on its own without needing any medication; he just drank a lot of water. He had not suffered any bodily damage. Why he continued to seek out this contact with Ludmila—even though he had told himself many times that this time would be the last—was a mystery to him. It would always be a mystery. But the mere thought of her perfume was enough to arouse him.

  Accusations of miscegenation were always made publicly. They could not be kept secret from one’s family or from anyone. One was pilloried in several different ways and could be grateful if, depending on one’s age, one could be deported to a labor camp in Workuta or to a suicide squad. Sometimes existing marriages were automatically terminated, if the wife was still young, and assets were awarded in favor of the wives and their legitimate children. There was no fighting this process, for any evidence of miscegenation brought forth by the Department of Central Conscience was always final. There were no further disadvantages for the biological children other than that, in terms of their personality traits, their breeding value in the Stud Book declined a few points due to the ethical misconduct of their parent (which was not the case with extra-marital children of the same race).

  Adrian had a lump in his throat; his hands had begun to tremble. There would come a day when he would be looking at himself on the screen, reading about his sentence. His fate had been sealed. He wondered whether he should destroy the note. He always carried it with him, hidden in his pencil case. Apart from two official code words needed for his duties in the office, the note contained the four-digit electronic code with which he could reach Ludmila at her workplace so they could plan their meetings. A series of meaningless digits appeared before and after the code in an effort to conceal it; only Adrian could know which the superfluous digits were. He reached for the pencil case and looked to see whether the note was still there. He heard a noise in the room. It startled him, and he dropped the cup he had been holding. It was happening already? Had somebody seen through him? So soon!

  No, it was only the house robot; it had been set in motion, probably because it had received a command. He heard children’s voices. Godela had returned with the children. Adrian stood up and went to meet them.

  Part 1, Chapter 2

  As he stood up and went to the door, Adrian noticed he had left the note out on the table. The code number, which he associated with so many memories, was just sitting there for anyone to find. How could he be so careless? He went back, picked up the note, and returned it carefully to the pencil case.

  He took a deep breath. He entered the hall just as four of his children—Helga and Hilde, Gunter and Giselher—came storming in, yelling, “Hello!” and filling the room with life. Adrian felt a surge of relief. Godela was standing in the kitchen holding Hilde, the youngest, and feeding something to her. She was ten months old and, although she could already do “Pat-a-Cake,” she did not say much apart from “Hello, ello,” and “Mama, mamama.” Adrian took the little one from Godela, set Hilde on a bench at the table and gave her a box containing a dozen colorful blocks. She began to move the blocks around. Whenever Adrian said, “Please,” she gave him one of the blocks, then a second; then she took the blocks back one at a time. This went on for a while, during which time Godela was busy in the kitchen heating up porridge for the baby.

  As Godela cooked, he watched her admiringly. She was a tall woman with light blonde hair, a true believer in god just like her sister Gundula, who was four years younger (she was in Taskania Nova participating in a two-week seminar). Both women were only slightly shorter than Adrian.

  Godela asked, “Do you want to feed the baby?”

  Actually, he did enjoy feeding the children, but he preferred to leave feeding the really little ones up to their mothers. This time, however, he stood up, picked up Hilde, kissed the child and her mother, and placed the impatient Hilde onto her mother’s lap. He was thirsty, and he poured himself some peppermint tea.

  “It was so cold in the pool,” complained Godela, “I hope the children didn’t catch a chill. It meant that we couldn’t stay in the water very long.”

  Neither his wife nor the children were particularly susceptible to illness. But the restrictions that had been necessary all over Artam affected the sporting facilities as well. Even in Reichsburg the pools could no longer be fully heated. For a long time nobody had wanted to admit it, but by now it was no secret: the thermal conductors were outdated; the power stations were not exactly using state-of-the-art technology and were only minimally effective. It was only in the houses that people had managed to keep up technologically, installing superb insulation. Heating and ventilation were controlled by a gauge that communicated electronically with the house robot. In order to have this technology one had to purchase a patent from California. There was indeed a price to pay for Artam’s political autarky. It had certainly made access to the global market more difficult in some significant domains. This meant that Clan companies with manufacturing bases in Artam, companies dealing with electronic control engineering, mechanical engineering, and other similar domains, could not fully keep pace with global players from East Asia and North America, many of which had survived the Great Chaos by splintering their companies or downsizing. Inventions could not be as easy ordered as the military step.

  “We are all going to take a hot soak in the tub,” said Godela.

  The houses in the development were built to be functional: Apart from the central part of the house with the hall and the main kitchen, there were two additional wings, each with numerous rooms, its own kitchen, its own robot, and several bathrooms. Some of these rooms consisted only of a toilet, but others had showers and bathtubs too. Families with three or four wives with children would have—if necessary—additional wings added on in the same style and with the same configuration. Each wife lived with her children in a separate wing; the central part of the house was the only communal living space. There was also a hall that joined each wing, which was intended for physical exercise; this hall doubled as an in-house playground for the children when the weather was bad. This hall looked rather deserted. There were always various pieces of sporting equipment on the floor, unless one of the older children had received explicit instructions to clean it up.

  “The little ones haven’t been outside yet today,” said Godela with an inquisitive gesture toward a cloud front on the western horizon.

  “It won’t rain until later tonight,” suggested Adrian. “Go ahead and let them out; it can’t hurt.”

  When she said, “the little ones” Godela meant her children Gunter and Helga, who were both preschool age, as well as Gundula’s son Giselher, who was born the same year as Gunter. Since they all lived together, the children had been raised communally. After the warm bath, she thought, they should go
outside and let off some steam.

  This made the children very happy. They immediately picked up the radio telephone and called the children two houses down. Little Meute was planning to dig up hamsters. Hamsters were in abundance this year in the yards that stretched 500 meters back behind each house. Open fields alternated with garden beds and fruit orchards. It was important to the families to be able to grow and harvest some portion of their own food on their 7.5 hectares. In each yard there were numerous outlets from a water pipe that ran from the Dniester. Although each yard was secured and fenced off from the others, the children, with their knowledge of the area, had found several ways to get through. Adrian’s children got along especially well with the children in the two houses to the north of theirs.

  Adrian’s family had little to do with the neighbors directly to the south. Dudajew, the owner, was an active Head Storm Leader with the Handschar garrison in Reichsburg. He was a completely respectable man; no one could disagree. They exchanged polite greetings with one another, but that was all. Dudajew spoke Chechen with his wives at home; the children also spoke Chechen among themselves. Adrian assumed Dudajew scorned him because he, Adrian, was married to two sisters, which was not in accordance with the Koran and the sharia.

  The yard directly to the north belonged to Senior Storm Leader Becker, a colleague of Adrian’s from the RSHQ. Heinrich Becker was a machine, a live wire, a man of staggering simplicity, whose intelligence—according to the criteria for rank in the Black Corps—was deemed to be at the lowest admissible level. He was a blond colossus whose enthusiasm was entirely uncritical; he was one of those workhorses so blindly committed to the Leader that the stability of Artam depended upon him even more than on the Department of Central Conscience and on the loyalty of the Handschar. He had only recently, at the age of thirty-eight, been released—against his will—from the Leader’s Youth. Before being a part of the Leader’s Youth, he had already earned some awards from the “Foxes.” In the office he was the one who organized anything that was not too difficult. Whether it was planning a sporting event, a torchlight procession, a neighborhood meeting, a hike, a visit to a memorial—when it came to an optional activity like these ones, Becker was the one for the job.