by Alex Scarrow
Abel snatched the gun out of his hand as calmly as a toad lassoing a passing mosquito with its tongue.
‘Jesus!’ The cop’s jaw dropped open.
The other cop challenged Abel from across the street. ‘Drop that weapon! Now!’
‘I require the ignition key to your vehicle,’ said Abel calmly. ‘Please provide this.’
‘Drop the weapon now or you will be fired upon!’ the other cop barked, a gun levelled at Abel, taking slow steps towards him. His voice was shrill. High-pitched. Warbling with fear.
Abel swung the gun in his hand quickly. A microsecond to aim, then three shots fired in rapid succession. The first shot killed the approaching cop, the other two were unnecessary. Faith immediately paced over towards his prone body ready to frisk his pockets and belt pouches.
‘Hey … p-please! Don’t sh-shoot, man!’ the other cop pleaded, his hand and finger still twisted in Abel’s firm grasp.
‘Do you have the vehicle ignition key?’
‘It’s in the c-car, man!’ He grimaced in agony. ‘It’s in the car!’
Abel shot a Bluetooth instruction to Faith and she changed direction towards the squad car.
‘You will not discuss this intervention with anyone,’ said Abel.
‘Whuh?’ Then the cop understood and nodded vigorously. ‘No! OK! Sure … I … I won’t d-discuss this. I promise.’
‘Your promise is not required,’ said Abel. Then he calmly shot the second cop dead.
He noted the pedestrians nearby staring at him. Frozen with shock. It would take too much valuable time to pursue them all and kill them. He decided so many eyewitnesses were an unfortunate collateral contamination, but nothing that could be helped.
The squad car rattled to life as Faith settled into the driver’s seat. Its siren squawked for a second before it was turned off. Abel made his way over, pulled the passenger side open and got in beside Faith. The car rocked under his weight.
‘Boston,’ she said.
He nodded. ‘Please proceed.’
Chapter 10
11 September 2001, Interstate 95, south-west Connecticut
Liam had watched as the Bronx became a suburban carpet of gradually more expensive homes interspersed with out-of-town superstores fronted by acres of car park as the RV crawled north-east along Interstate 278, then along 95. It was slow progress for the day, bumper to bumper past slip-road after slip-road; police blockades and random vehicle searches had reduced the traffic to a crawl. They’d stopped once for petrol at lunchtime then finally hit some clear road beyond New Rochelle.
‘It’s all new to me too,’ said Foster quietly. ‘All I’ve ever seen of this world is New York.’
Liam nodded. ‘You never been tempted to take yourself off and have a look around?’
Foster looked at him. ‘Have you?’
‘I’ve not had any time. Feels like we’ve been dealing with one problem after another since you pulled me off the Titanic.’
He realized, though, that the old man’s question was an invitation for him to talk about what they now both knew but had yet to talk to each other about.
‘She told me,’ said Liam. ‘Maddy told me you’re … me.’ He shook his head. ‘Or I’m you, or however I’m meant to say it.’
‘I’m how you’ll become, Liam. We’re the same person on either end of a number of years, lad.’
‘That’s what I can’t get me head straight about, Mr Foster. It’s …’ He paused. ‘Or do I call you Liam now?’
‘Just Foster,’ he answered with a smile. ‘I’ve been used to that name for some time now.’
‘So …’ Liam looked out of the scuffed perspex window at a Greyhound bus, its windscreen striped with the reflected glow of street lights passing overhead.
‘Do you remember all the same things as me?’
‘Up to a point.’
‘Cork? St Michael’s School for Boys?’
Foster nodded.
‘Sean McGuire and that stupid party trick of his with the three apples?’
The old man grinned. ‘He was never very good at it, was he?’
They both laughed. Liam felt odd. Memories, personal memories that he hadn’t shared with anyone, and yet this man knew them as intimately as he did. It was like talking to himself. Yet hearing a wizened, croaky version of his own voice coming back at him.
‘You remember getting the steward’s job with the White Star Line?’
‘Yes,’ Foster replied. ‘We got the job only because that other Irish lad was caught drinking on duty before the ship set sail. Remember his name? Oliver, wasn’t it?’
‘Aye.’ Liam smiled. ‘Stupid fella didn’t realize he was breathin’ his fumes all over the Chief Steward.’
The RV halted in traffic, causing everyone inside to lurch gently as Bob applied the brakes a little too keenly. A plastic bag full of unlaundered underwear slid off a seat into the cluttered aisle.
‘So you remember that night as well?’
Foster closed his eyes. ‘The night the Titanic went down? Of course I do. How does anyone ever forget something like that? I think what stays with me, Liam, what has stayed with me, was the calm before all the screaming. When everyone was certain there’d be lifeboats for all; that it wouldn’t come down to the type of ticket you’d bought.’
‘Aye.’
‘It came suddenly, so it did. The panic. You remember that?’
Liam nodded. It had. One moment there’d been order and calm across the promenade deck, even the calming sound of a string quartet playing. People talking excitedly about how this was going to be the news story of the day tomorrow; how their eyewitness accounts – from the comfort of their bobbing lifeboats – of the Unsinkable Ship slowly, gracefully surrendering to the sea would be in every newspaper around the world. No panic. Not yet.
And then word had spread among them like wildfire. Chinese whispers. Not enough lifeboats for everyone. Not nearly enough.
Then the panic. The horrible panic.
A thought occurred to Liam. ‘So, Foster … were you recruited just like me? The same way?’
He could see a glint of light reflected in Foster’s eyes. The glare of passing headlights on his drawn face. ‘Yes. Yes, of course. I was down checking on the second-class cabins.’
‘And you were young, like me?’
‘A bit younger than you are now, Liam.’
Of course. Liam knew that. Felt that now. No longer a young lad of sixteen, but subtly older in a million barely noticeable little ways. A man, prematurely.
‘And was it an older version of you … that recruited you?’
Foster hesitated. ‘Yes.’
‘But does that mean I’m in some kind of a loop that goes on and on? That I’ll get old like you, change my name to Foster, and then one day send myself back to 1912 to pick up another me? Is that it?’
‘No. Not a loop exactly.’
‘Then what?’
Foster looked at Maddy sitting up front in the passenger seat beside Bob. ‘She’s going to find out soon enough. If we keep heading this way.’
Liam turned to follow his gaze, looking at the back of her head. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Foster reached out to Liam and rested a fatherly hand on his shoulder. ‘Liam, it’s all going to come clear for you soon enough. Perhaps far too soon.’
‘Oh, come on, Foster! Will you just tell me –’
‘She’s going to learn.’ Foster lowered his voice just for Liam to hear. ‘And so is Sal. They’re both going to learn the truth. And it’s going to be hard for them. Much harder than it will be for you.’
‘Why? What do you mean? What’s going to be hard?’
‘Liam, you’ll cope … because I know I coped. And I carried on the agency’s work. I carried on doing the work Waldstein needs us to do.’
‘Jay-zus, you’re annoying!’ Liam hissed. ‘Just tell me! What are you talking about?’
Foster shook his head. ‘Maybe it’s best for
the girls if they find out this way.’ He patted Liam’s arm. ‘Trust me … I think it’s for the best. You’ll learn the truth together.’
Sal sat near the front of the RV, the female support unit sitting dull-eyed and vacant beside her. It wasn’t Becks yet, she’d decided. It wasn’t going to be Becks properly until they’d uploaded her AI. For now, this thing was just a spare female support unit. A blank-minded one at that.
‘That’s a gene-silicon hybrid,’ said SpongeBubba chirpily.
‘I know,’ said Sal.
‘We had two dozen of those units on Project Exodus!’ The lab robot’s goofy plastic grin widened. ‘They were spooky!’ Its bauble-round eyes gazed at her curiously. ‘What’s wrong with your gene-silicon hybrid unit?’
‘She’s got a name, you know,’ said Sal, suddenly feeling protective. ‘We call her Becks.’
‘Becks?’ If the squat, square-shaped lab unit had had shoulders, he’d have shrugged them. Instead, wide, rolling, expressionless eyes above a fixed frozen grin regarded her. ‘Hello, Becks! My name’s SpongeBubba!’
The support unit’s grey eyes remained unfocused, unblinking, unintelligent. Fixed and lifeless. Her young face a frozen frown of incomprehension.
‘Hello, Becks! My name’s SpongeBubba!’ the lab unit chirped again.
‘She’s not been installed properly,’ said Sal. ‘She doesn’t know her name yet.’ Sal sighed. ‘She can’t speak anyway.’
SpongeBubba stroked his pickle-shaped nose, a gesture he must have picked up from Rashim. ‘My model, Mitzumi HL-327 LabAssist V4.7, comes with language modules and laboratory protocols pre-installed!’
‘Well, aren’t you lucky.’
‘I didn’t have to have software installed in me after manufacture. I was function-ready!’ SpongeBubba sounded like a spoilt brat.
‘Well, at least Becks doesn’t look really stupid.’
‘My model comes with a polyform plastic casing and a library of programmable templates. Dr Anwar hacked the template code to make me look this special way!’ SpongeBubba stroked his nose again. ‘He says I’m different to any other Mitzumi unit because he hacked my template code! Skippa says I’m unique!’
Sal glanced at Rashim. He was stretched out on the seat opposite, fast asleep.
‘And your voice code too? Is that his work or do all you models talk like this?’ Sal wondered how Rashim managed to cope with SpongeBubba’s squeaky, high-pitched voice and permanent false cheeriness. Fun for a while perhaps, but already she was finding the thing incredibly irritating.
‘Oh no! My voice was approximated from a few audio files made from a children’s cartoon show that used to be on cable TV at the beginning of the twenty-first century! My voice is very special!’
‘Can you use that special voice of yours quietly?’
‘Oh yes! My volume output can be modulated!’
‘Well, how about you turn it down for me?’
‘Uh-uh.’ SpongeBubba wagged a finger at her. ‘Only skippa can adjust my user settings.’
Sal wondered how Rashim could sleep so readily. She toyed with the idea of waking him up and asking him to turn SpongeBubba off or mute him somehow. The robot was still staring at her, that stupid buck-toothed smile.
‘Shadd-yah! Are you always so … so perky and annoying?’
‘Perky?’
‘Happy.’
SpongeBubba shook his whole body, his version of a headshake. ‘No. I have no capacity to emulate human emotions. My model doesn’t require that! There is a similar model designed as a domestic support unit for civilian use. That unit is installed with gesture and mood recognition and replication code. But Dr Anwar says that’s a pointless waste of install space since if you know a robot’s a robot why pretend it can have feelings?’
‘So you’re not really happy, then? You’re just designed to look that way.’
SpongeBubba stared at her, an unwavering, goofy smile. ‘Dr Anwar designed me.’
Sal couldn’t work out if the robot was blaming his owner, or just stating a fact.
Becks pointed at something she’d seen through the windscreen. ‘Urggh … ge fug, duf,’ she gurgled excitedly and pointed.
Sal nodded, pulled her hand gently down and settled her. ‘Yes … cars, that’s right. Nice shiny cars.’
Why me? She shook her head. Why do I get to babysit these two morons?
‘We’re going to have to stop for gas again pretty soon,’ said Maddy. The gauge was showing just under the quarter bar. ‘Maybe we should pull over for the night. Find a motel. We’re far enough away to be safe now, aren’t we?’
Bob nodded. ‘We are probably far enough to be safe.’
Even now, so late, ahead of them was a sea of traffic, red brake lights winking on and off as vehicles inched forward.
‘What do you think they’ll do? Do you think they’ll keep coming after us?’
‘I have no information on their mission parameters.’
‘But if, say, you were sent to kill us, what would you be doing?’
‘I would persist until the mission parameters were satisfied, of course.’
‘How would you go about that, Bob? For example … what would you be doing right now?’
Bob scowled. Thinking. ‘I would attempt to intercept police radio communications for references to stolen vehicles in the vicinity of the archway. I would be searching the archway for items of useful intelligence.’ He looked sideways at her. ‘We left in a hurry. We cannot be certain we have not left behind some information that could lead them to us.’
He was right. They had left in a hurry, a careless scramble to grab all their essentials. God knows what they’d left behind, what fragments of information lay scattered around in their wake. Maddy’s head began to throb with renewed stress.
She sat in silence for a while, her fingers caressing her temples. She looked down into the stationary cars on either side of them. The glow of radio tuners on dashboards. She imagined every single driver in every vehicle on this road was tuned into a news station and listening to reporters recap the day’s terrifying events. Late-night talk radio stations venting unbridled rage at this cowardly attack on innocent American civilians. Experts hurried into studios to try and make sense of things. Because that’s what everyone needed to have right now, wasn’t it? Another explanation.
Why? Why are we being attacked? What did we do to deserve this?
Of course, Maddy had been pulled from a time – 2010 – when a lot of thinking had been done on why 9/11 had happened. The fact that there had been warning signs. The fact that there had been people in the FBI, the CIA screaming warnings to President Bush back in 2000 that something like this Was. Going. To. Happen. Imminently. Maddy came from a time when there was perspective, hindsight, on this day; from a time when everyone understood that a terrorist attack on America was inevitable. But for the people in these cars all around them this whole nightmare was still – and would be for years yet – a bewildering and terrifying mystery.
She drew her mind back to more pressing issues, for her. ‘No matter how far we drive, Bob … there’s no knowing for sure that we’re going to be safe, is there?’
‘No.’
She glanced at the gauge again. ‘And how far have we gone?’
‘We are only eighty miles from New York as a direct-line distance.’
‘Eighty miles? Might as well be a thousand and one, I suppose … Let’s take the next turn-off, then. We’ve got to fill up sometime soon anyway.’
Bob nodded. ‘Affirmative. Next turning.’
‘And how much further to Boston? It’s not that far, is it?’
‘Approximately a hundred and twenty miles as a direct-line distance from our current location.’
‘We can do the rest of the drive after a rest break.’ She pointed at a road sign looming towards them on the right. ‘Let’s take that next turn-off. The one for Branford. See if we can find a gas station and someplace to get some food, a diner or something.’
‘Actually, the hell with that. Let’s see if we can stop and find a motel too. We can do the rest of the drive tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’ He nodded approval. Perhaps even Bob realized she needed a night off.
‘Affirmative.’
Chapter 11
12 September 2001, Washington DC
The duty corridor off the mezzanine floor was windowless. The ‘catacombs’, that’s what he’d heard one of the personnel who worked down here call it once. Several offices along an unused floor beneath an anonymous government building in Washington.
These offices had another name – a semi-official name. The few personnel who worked down in this artificially illuminated netherworld called it ‘The Department’. More than half a century ago – fifty-six years to be precise – was when The Department was set up. Not here, though. The Department didn’t have proper offices to call its own until after the 1947 ‘New Mexico Incident’. But this had been its one and only home since then.
On several occasions in those fifty-six years, these offices had experienced short bursts of frenetic activity; carefully vetted FBI agents had been drafted in to do routine belt-’n’-braces work, but never fully briefed on the various case files they were doing the heavy lifting on.
On a need-to-know basis. That’s how The Department did its business.
There’d been a buzz of activity here back in ’47, and again in 1963 after the ‘Dallas Incident’. There were a lot of paper files generated over that, all of them still down here in the catacombs. Everything one would ever want to know about the death of a President was stored in dog-eared cardboard folders, in dusty filing cabinets labelled ‘J-759’. And, if one took the time to dig through thousands of yellowing pages of gathered intelligence and witness depositions, one might in fact find the correct name of the man who actually killed President Kennedy.