by Hocking, Ian
The lift, which had no door, travelled all the way to the bottom of the shaft. Saskia heard the bustle and conversation of each floor, but she could see nothing. Bruce said nothing. The lift stopped and Bruce said, “Samuel, my friend, what a lovely day. Upstairs the sun is shining…”
Saskia dashed to one side. She felt for a wall and crouched. She should be directly underneath the sill of the guard’s booth. It was a sheer wall with holes large enough for the muzzle of a machine gun. To the left of it was a transparent, bomb-proofed door that could only be opened by the guard. Bruce had quite precise in his description.
She heard him collide with the wall. “Hey, have you been moving things about?”
Another voice said, “Dr Shimoda, please. You’ll hurt yourself.”
She became opaque. The guard emerged into the reception area and took Bruce by the arm. She grimaced. The guard was less than a metre away. If he turned in her direction, he would certainly see her.
The guard led Bruce through the doorway. Saskia followed silently behind. Once through, she kept the guard’s back to her and skipped a few metres down the corridor. There was a rack of lab coats. She took one. She deactivated her hood and tousled her hair. She buttoned the lab coat and busied herself with a mounted floor plan, which she was too excited to read. Bruce touched her arm.
“Saskia?” he asked.
“I told you we’d make it. I have powerful friends.”
“Keep your voice down. Take this.” He plucked the security ID from his lapel. Like the ID she had stolen from Frank to enter the research centre in Nevada, it had no picture. “I’ll say that I lost mine. Where now?”
“Take me to your laboratory.”
She looked at her watch. They had two minutes until Hartfield’s arrival.
Samuel walked back to his booth. Dr Shimoda was quite a character. A flashing red light on the second monitor caught his eye. Some text read:
Unauthorised Personnel in Basement Reception Area
“That was me, shit-for-brains,” he said, cancelling the override.
Samuel downed the rest of his coffee. It was cold. He did not glance at the first monitor. It replayed a blackly-clad woman scuttling through the security door. She went through over and over again.
Saskia struggled to match Bruce’s speed. She knew he was racing to beat the bomb. He was courageous to the last. She checked her watch. It was time.
The corridor stretched ahead in ten-metre sections marked by blue fire doors. Hundreds of people had passed them. Bruce was leading her against the tide. They avoided him. Saskia wondered how many would die in the explosion. “Where’s everybody going?” she asked.
“There’s a concert. David’s organising it.”
“How far to the laboratory?”
“Not far. Two more sets of doors.”
Saskia checked her watch again. It was 3:04 p.m.
They strolled through the next set of doors. Ahead of them, chatting to a colleague, was Jennifer Proctor. Saskia stopped. How did Jennifer get here?
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just a feeling of…”
The woman turned. It was not Jennifer. Her hair was darker, she was older, and she had an easy walk that escaped her daughter. This was Helen Proctor. The connections formed. Jennifer’s mother. David’s wife.
Bruce leaned in. “Never mind that. What about the bomb?”
Saskia was about to answer when the floor shook. It was not precisely an explosion. It was as though a great tree had fallen nearby. The lights flickered, went out, and emergency lighting washed the corridor red. Saskia heard the infrastructure split. Dust fell from new cracks.
“We’re too late,” said Bruce.
And then the explosions began. They began quietly. Distant firecrackers. Then the structure was shaken by louder explosions. The smell of fire. Heat.
The floor dropped an inch and Saskia screamed. She, Bruce and everybody else were thrown from their feet. The pressure of the air changed: either it increased or dropped, she could not tell. They were caught in some giant machine never meant for humans; gaps would appear, close; the very walls might chew them. Saskia reassured herself that she would survive. Her God was Time, and It would protect her.
The Valley of Fire (II)
“Saskia,” Professor Michaels said, leaning into the microphone. “We’re sending you back one half hour before Hartfield. That is, 2:34 p.m. on the afternoon of May 14th 2003.”
David did not hear Saskia’s reply. There was something significant about the time. It was, in fact, so stunningly significant that it took him a few moments to step back and see the problem. “No, no, that’s half an hour before the bombing!”
Michaels snapped, “What?”
“The bombing,” David said. The ability to form sentences had deserted him. He could hear the far-away shouts of technicians who demanded to know why big brother was turning at such a speed. “The bomb went off at 3:04 p.m. She won’t have time.”
Jennifer was close. She gripped his arm. “But Hartfield went back to 3:04 p.m.”
Michaels smiled grimly. “How very accommodating of him. I already told you that he had intended to travel back to 1999, but the computer altered his exit point to 2003. May 14th 2003. To be precise, 3:04 p.m.”
Jennifer said, “That doesn’t make sense. Why did he do that?”
“Hang on,” David interrupted. He was conscious of the security personnel running towards them. “What would it matter? What does Hartfield have to do with the bomb?”
“A great deal, David. He is the bomb.”
David sagged against the rail. He put his head in his hands. “What the blue blazes are you saying?” he asked quietly.
Jennifer mused, “Objects leave this centrifuge at over seventy miles an hour. They get flung through the wormhole at the same speed. When they impact on an object on the other side, they will release ten thousand kilo-joules of energy. That’s equivalent to one quarter ton of TNT. More than enough to trigger an explosive chain reaction if it is targeted correctly. Trust me, I’ve done the math.”
“Maths, love,” David corrected absently. The circular nature of this business was bewildering. After all this time…the trial, the accusations, the damage. Even the death of his wife. It was Hartfield. Ah. It was not; it was the fault of the agent who had caused Hartfield to veer so fatally off course. “Who changed the computer?”
“That is the question,” Michaels said. Behind him, the computer beeped. “Saskia is long gone. She is now twenty years in our past.”
David bit his nails thoughtfully. He half-noticed that Jennifer was holding his left hand. “What would it take to influence your computer?” he asked.
Michaels said, “Jennifer?”
She shrugged. “We have a closed network here. The hacker would need to link physically. Then insert a program, which acts as a time-bomb – if you’ll pardon the expression – designed to activate at a particular moment or following a particular event. It would then interface with the computer at a stage so critical that it would be too late to undo the changes.”
“This network of yours – is it a radio network?”
“It is wireless, yes.”
David narrowed his eyes. “Ego, I would like a word with you.”
“Any time,” said the voice in his ear.
Someone grabbed his arms. The security personnel had arrived. There was also a crowd of technicians. Michaels, Jennifer and David were led away. Michaels said, “Don’t worry, I’m well connected.” With all that had happened, David could not fire back a witty reply. Jennifer took a deep breath and tried to avoid the questioning eyes of her colleagues.
The hospitality of the Nevada Center impressed David. There was no torture, no real interrogation, and endless supply of tea, coffee and biscuits. Andrew Garrel could learn something. The director of the facility was a woman called Castle. She had taken them to her office, which was underground but nearer the surface, and asked the armed guards to wait o
utside. They sat around an oval conference table. An original Rembrandt hung nearby. David was tired. He did not try to take charge of the conversation. When asked, he would simply tell the truth.
“These are the facts, lady and gentlemen,” Castle said. She was a sharp, lawyerly woman in her early fifties. She wore a blue power suit and thin-rimmed glasses. David liked her. “At the moment, all I’m concerned with are three things: Professor Michaels, your unauthorised use of government property; Jennifer, your compliance in this and the illegal entry of two other persons; David, your illegal entry. In good time, I would also like to discover the whereabouts John Hartfield, our co-patron, and Detective Saskia Brandt, who gained entry along with you, David.”
David raised a hand. “Yes?” she asked.
“I could clear most of this up if I tell you what has happened over the course of this week.”
She sipped her tea, no milk, and raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure you don’t want any medical attention before you begin?”
David smiled. “The opportunity to put my – our – side of the story may not arise again. The only attention I need is yours. May I?”
“Please.”
Jennifer and Professor Michaels looked on as David fought to remove his wallet from his trousers. He opened it and produced a little card. “This is my personal computer. Ego, switch to presentation mode, please. I would like you illustrate my story with pictures as you see fit, and audio and video where possible.” He turned to the others. “Ego has been recording every step of my journey. It is equipped with Eye Witness software. The British police use it. It’s tamper-proof.”
“I’m aware of that, David,” said Castle. “Tell your story. This is a modern office. It will accept communications from your computer.”
“Very well. Ego, patch into the conference facilities in this room. Dim the lights. Display a picture of the West Lothian Complex. This, Ms Castle, is where our story begins.”
Jennifer had her elbows on the table. She was nervous. Ms Castle would surely make a decision about their future based on David’s testimony. She stole a glance at Professor Michaels. He smiled and she relaxed.
“So Hartfield,” David said, “was sent back in time to the precise point of the explosion. In fact, he caused it. We think that the time machine’s computer was hacked by my own personal computer just before we entered the cavern.”
“And why do you think that?” Castle asked.
“It would need to be an external computer…but, more than that, we have to remember who gave me this computer.”
“It was Saskia Brandt,” Castle said. “She provided the equipment that was left in the shed. The shed that was in the field where the glider went down. I remember.”
“So?” prompted David.
“I see. You believe that Saskia Brandt carried out her objective after all. She managed to stop Hartfield contacting his younger self. She sabotaged his time travelling at source. By all accounts a girl with a long memory.”
“A very clever girl,” Jennifer said.
“I don’t suppose you can prove this, David? After all, even with a plausible story, if you have no evidence then we must fall back on the available facts: the computer belongs to you. You must accept responsibility for its actions. The Automaticity Act, 2006, I believe.”
David raised a hand and let it fall. “Well, whatever. I never expected to get off Scott-free. I all can do is give you the facts.”
Another voice came from the conference speakers: “Excuse me. I am Ego, the personal computer involved. I am now authorised to tell you that Saskia Brandt has provided three signed copies of her story. I must tell you that it tallies precisely with David’s version. For safe keeping, copies were given to three legal firms in each of the three cities of New York, London and Geneva.
Saskia filed them one year ago today. Physical, hand-written copies were also placed in safety deposit boxes in those countries. I can give full details.”
Castle smiled. “Perhaps we could also meet Ms Brandt.”
“I do not have that information,” Ego said.
There was a long silence. “Well,” Castle said. “I have a board meeting.” She stood and folded her computer away. David scooped Ego from the desk and dropped it in his wallet.
“Wait,” Jennifer said. “What about us?”
“For the time being you’ll stay in guest quarters here. They are quite comfortable. I have to speak to the board about this. At the very least, we need to discuss future funding proposals, if Mr Hartfield’s absence proves to be permanent.”
“I’m sure it will,” David said quietly.
“You will also need to speak to our legal team. However, I will advise the board that no charges be pressed. David, because you are here illegally, you will sent back to Britain. There you will answer any charges. I will ask the board to provide legal representation for you; as a recipient of monies from the Hartfield foundation, I’m sure that our board will agree that we share some responsibility for your present situation. Professor Michaels and Dr Proctor, you will each have your security clearance suspended. Again, I’m sure this will be temporary.”
Jennifer asked, “How long?”
Castle looked at Proctor. “Two months. Take a holiday. I hear the weather in Britain is awful.”
“And our funding?” asked Professor Michaels.
“Professor, you have invented a time machine. You’ll get your money.”
Castle shook their hands. “The guards will take you to your quarters. You can speak to nobody apart from each other. I’ll see you tomorrow. Oh, David?”
“Yes, Ms Castle?”
“Keep an eye on your wallet.”
The Murderer Unmasked (II)
Smoke filled the five levels of the West Lothian Centre. At the bottom, near the New World computer, the fire raged. Hartfield’s body had destroyed a small electricity plant. The time machine had inserted him only metres below David’s laboratory. The fire had begun slowly. It reached up to the Liquid Storage Device. Its hardened exterior did not crack; it digital inhabitants did not die; but the computer initiated an emergency shutdown. As Hartfield evaporated, New World froze, to be awakened in twenty years.
McWhirter opened his eyes. An alarm whistled in his earpiece. The continuous tone meant fire. He lay behind the reception desk. He remembered talking to a person, perhaps a guard, but nothing else. He forehead was crusty with blood. He climbed to feet. He saw a stampede of personnel. A guard, who was directing them, asked, “What happened, sir?”
“Nothing. Keep these people moving.”
Two days later, McWhirter would check the surveillance footage for that afternoon. It would be blank. The fire had reached the computer before its data were archived at an off-site computer. It did not occur to McWhirter that an assailant had knocked him unconscious. He checked the tapes because he was a thorough man who thoroughly cherished his Distinguished Conduct Medal. Later, at the hearings, he told the panel that he had been making a manual confirmation of the computer’s fire shut-down procedures. The panel nodded. Nobody checked his story.
The guard turned away and shouted, “Keep moving, keep moving.”
The concert theatre was ten metres below. It could seat one hundred people. When the explosions began they had been listening to Dr David Proctor take his antique guitar through the strains of Cavatina. Soon they poured through the exits. All of them made it to the emergency stairwells ahead of the other personnel. David fought against them, back down the corridor towards his wife’s laboratory. The explosions intensified and the floor dropped. Everybody fell prone.
But not David. He took advantage of the pause and charged over them. Helen worked five doors down on the left. He needed to make sure that she made it. He needed it for himself; he needed it for her; but, most of all, he needed it for their infant daughter, Jennifer, who was at home in Whitburn with a child minder.
He picked his way by the red emergency lights.
Saskia lifted her head.
She licked her lips. They were covered with dust. Her eyes were dry and raw. She looked around for Bruce and saw that he had gone. She was not disappointed. She needed no further demonstration of his heroism. He was a blind man in a collapsing building. She must have lost consciousness and been unable to answer his calls.
As much as she was scared, she was satisfied. Hartfield was dead. The time machine had killed him.
The structure had stabilized. Although it was barely moments before that the walls and ceiling had ground together like teeth, they were now still and the illusion of strength had returned. It was a feeling that something this big could never crumble. Like a mountain, it was eternal.
Saskia stood. She was quite fearless. She was destined to survive this catastrophe.
Ahead of her, southwards and away from the nearest stairway, she could see that some emergency lighting had been knocked out. She had seen Helen Proctor fall into that blackness. She clambered over. She stepped on glass, cabling, masonry and other debris. Her intention was clear. She would save this woman’s life and restore the lives of David and Jennifer, give them the opportunity to avoid that future pain.
But Helen was destined to die; Saskia was destined to survive, just as the young girl called Ute Schmidt was destined to be raped and Kate Falconer destined to be killed and live again as a digital facsimile.
Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos: who were they? What were they?
A tear of frustration cut through the dust on her cheek. Her arms were pinned by Time, by an unthinking, controlling God-not-God that would never ask her permission, would only pull her strings this way and what. For what was fate but the pulling of strings?
And at what scale was her destiny planned out?
She had been destined to travel backwards in time. She had been destined to enter the building at, say, 3:55 p.m. because that was what she had already done. She had no control. She placed here foot here and here not because she wanted to…she placed them because of the determined arrangement of the muscles in her legs, the state of the nerves connected to them, the state of her brain. And what determined the state of her brain?