City of Shadows

by Alex Scarrow

  Across the road a bed of flowers, Sweet Carolines, glowed in shafts of warm sunlight, tidy rows of purples and creamy pinks. A chestnut-coloured Labrador on a long leash followed an old lady wearing gardening gloves and holding a shopping list in one hand.

  She heard the soft boom of rock music and a Ford Zodiac pulled up a long driveway. It was painted with skulls and flaming guitars. A young lad with long hair got out, a guitar case over his shoulder and a small practice amp in one hand.

  Band rehearsal.

  She smiled. Even only days after 9/11, life was still going on for everyone. The bad guys hadn’t won. America hadn’t ground to a halt. Kids were still taking their guitars and doing band practice.

  And God, it felt so good to be coming home. Maddy tried to remember the last time she’d been back home to see Mom and Dad. Because since she’d left home to work for that software games company, she’d been living in …

  Once again her mind was letting her down.

  ‘Oh, come on, girl,’ she chided herself. She’d been living … where? … Where?

  She stopped. Nothing was coming. She couldn’t even remember where in New York she’d been staying. Or was it New Jersey? And yet she’d been on a damned plane when Foster had saved her. Where the hell was she going? Was she going home for a visit? It must’ve been. Home for Thanksgiving or Easter, or Christmas or something. But home from where exactly?

  Her confusion was brushed to one side as she caught a glimpse of the family house up ahead. Home. Unmistakably home. There it was, unchanged in all these years. A large family home built in a mock antebellum style. Covered porch along the front, shingle tiles and white painted supports.

  She turned up the empty drive. Dad was probably still at work and Mom always parked her car in the carport.

  Did she actually do that? Did she? Was that a memory?

  Maddy had the distinct impression she’d just made that bit up, like someone joining the dots on a child’s puzzle. Filling in gaps with whatever seemed to fit. Just to hurry up and finish the picture off – damned if it was a hundred per cent right or not.

  She noticed the bedroom window above the carport was open and a gentle warm afternoon breeze was teasing a pink curtain in and out. Her bedroom. Now that she was certain of. The front room above the carport, that was hers all right.

  But a pink curtain?

  I never liked pink … did I?

  She shrugged. She’d still been a bit girly at age nine. Torn between being like all the other girls or being a tomboy. Maybe the pink curtain was a phase in her younger life she’d chosen to blot out, to not remember. A phase where she’d made a half-hearted attempt to appear feminine. Beyond that curtain, inside the room, she was pretty sure it was all Star Wars action figures and comic books, Warhammer figurines and models of tanks and guns.

  The window being open meant one thing. I must be at home. Maddy stopped before the whitewashed steps leading up to the front door.

  I’m at home. I’m in this house somewhere. Me. I’m home from school. Of course she was. It was after three.

  It’s me in there. Me, aged nine.

  She felt an overpowering rush of emotion. It was going to be so strange meeting herself. Like looking in a peculiar mirror that could filter away years, allow her to look back through ten years of time and see herself with braces still welded to her teeth and that always impossible hair of hers dragged into submission by a brush and pulled tightly into two bobbing Goldilocks ponytails.

  She was trembling. It was going to be impossibly weird.

  ‘And what the hell do I say?’ she muttered.

  She took the steps up to the porch slowly. There was the garden gnome with a chainsaw. Her idea of a joke present for Mom, who just hated gardening and could quite happily have taken a chainsaw to all the delicately trimmed bushes up and down Silverdale Crescent. And there, across the porch, was the rocking-chair. She smiled at the memory of the thing. Dad’s favourite chair … where he spent summer evenings smoking a long clay pipe and rocking back and forth.

  Again. She had the distinct impression that she was inking in details, filling in gaps in her mind with memories that seemed appropriate, most likely. She was creating mental images to fill her blank memory. Worse still, she suddenly realized, she was borrowing images, scenes, from old movies, from old TV shows. Why the hell was she seeing Dad with long white whiskers? Wearing worn old dungarees and a battered straw hat?

  ‘That’s not right … that’s The Waltons,’ she whispered. It had been on TV back in the motel room: some old rerun of The Waltons on cable. And now her mind was taking bits of that old show and superimposing it on her scant childhood memories. Filling in. Filling in.

  The front door. Now, dammit, she remembered this for sure. Reassuring, a genuine memory this time. Mint green with that brass knocker. How many times had she closed that behind her or watched her mother fumble with shopping bags to find her keys to open it?

  She reached for the knocker and hesitated. What the crud was she going to say to Mom? How was she going to explain who she was?

  It was going to be difficult. Mom was in there somewhere, probably glued to the TV on the breakfast bar in the kitchen, still watching the news on Fox. Perhaps still crying for her poor older sister who’d lost a wonderful son in that pile of still-smouldering rubble. And Maddy could imagine herself up in her bedroom painting her Warhammer figures. Keeping her mind occupied. Not wanting to think about the fact that Julian was gone for good. Not wanting to pester Mom with difficult questions right now.

  This was going to be awkward.

  She grabbed the knocker and tapped it firmly against the door.

  Hi, Mom. Can you guess who I am?

  No, that wouldn’t do.

  Hi. I have something really important to tell you … Can I come in?

  No. That made her sound like a goddamn Jehovah’s Witness.

  Mom, it’s me … Maddy. I’ve come from nine years in the future.

  She heard footsteps inside. The squeak of trainers on parquet floor, then the rattle and clack of the latch and the door opened.

  ‘Yeah?’

  A girl. About the age she was expecting, blonde. She was wearing a Spice Girls T-shirt and pink jeans with a glitter pattern down one leg and floral pumps.

  God! Is that really me!? It can’t be!

  ‘Yeah?’ said the girl again with an impatient shrug. ‘Help you?’

  Maddy was tongue-tied. ‘I … uh …’

  ‘You want to speak to my mom?’

  Maddy nodded mutely.

  ‘Mom!’ called out the girl. ‘It’s for you-hoo!’

  ‘Who is it?’ A woman’s voice from somewhere in the back.

  The girl made a wearisome face. ‘Mom says … who is it?’

  Maddy felt her resolve beginning to fail her. She wanted to mumble something like I guess I got the wrong house, sorry about that, turn around and walk away. But she couldn’t walk away. Not now. She was past that point, over it. She was here, she’d already knocked and waited and now the door was open and she was just seconds away from speaking to Mom. Too late to run. She was here now and she really needed Mom and Dad’s help. It was now or never.

  Maddy hunkered down a little, to the girl’s level. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘My name’s Maddy. Just like yours.’

  The girl looked at her sideways. ‘Uh, no, it ain’t.’

  ‘Nadine!’ called the voice from the back. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Your name’s Nadine?’

  ‘Uh … yeah.’

  That flummoxed her. ‘Nadine?’ She wasn’t expecting that. ‘Since … when?’

  She shrugged. ‘Like, since, birth.’

  Chapter 31

  2055, W.G. Systems Research Campus, near Pinedale, Wyoming

  Waldstein stared at it. There it was behind the darkened glass, in a carefully controlled and monitored sealed envelope of cool air. A sheet of brittle and age-yellowed newspaper. A page of classified ads: columns of messages from the h
opeless, the lonely, the bereft, the bewildered. An ad from someone who’d lost a much-loved bulldog answering to the name of Roosevelt and was offering a reward of $200 for him. Some old soldier looking for a fellow platoon member he served alongside during the Normandy landings, and someone else looking for a missing daughter who might just be living in the Brooklyn area. There an ad from a very lonely widower looking for someone else to share his suddenly empty life with – searching for a friend who might enjoy trips to the theatre, watching matinees of old Bette Davis movies.

  This page of forlorn little classified ads was a perfectly preserved record of one day’s worth of misery in Brooklyn in the year 2001. A record of incomplete lives and broken hearts. Of final words that should have been said face to face, but never were.

  Waldstein’s heart ached every time he studied this withered page of newspaper. There were words he wished he’d said to his wife, Eleanor, and his son, Gabriel. Words that he’d always felt foolish saying out loud, rather preferring to assume the pair of them knew he loved them very much, to save him saying such things. Words that he’d sell his very soul to be able to say to them one last time … now.

  Words.

  Beneath that light-filtering glass, a UV light glowed softly on the page, and a digital camera with an ultra-low light-sensitive lens and an infrared sensor closely monitored one particular personal ad. There it was halfway down the third column, one rather innocuous little paragraph of faint, slightly smudged newsprint.

  The letters in that paragraph quite often flickered in a faint, spectral way. Just enough that if you weren’t looking directly at them your peripheral vision might just catch the subtlest sense of movement. A square inch of newspaper that undulated, shifted, stirred every now and then as if a small ghost lived in the very fibre of the newspaper itself.

  It was a square inch of reality in permanent flux. The tiniest portion of the world caught in a perpetual state of undulating change, trapped in the eddies and currents of its own mini time wave.

  Today, though, it seemed particularly agitated. Letters fidgeted, blurred, changed. As if it very much had something it wanted to tell Waldstein. The infrared sensor was picking up a temperature shift off the brittle old paper that was a whole tenth of a degree higher than normal. The minutest leakage of energy through the tiniest crack in space-time.

  It wants to talk to me.

  He studied the data monitor beside the glass case, watched the temperature read-out twitch and shuffle and occasionally spike. Beside it, the low-light image of the printed letters shimmered and danced like ghouls in a graveyard, caught only in glimpses of flitting moonlight.

  Waldstein suspected the newly grown, birthed and trained team were struggling to find their feet. That poor old wretch – not Liam now, he’d chosen the name Foster instead. So much rested on his shoulders. And he’d been through so much recently. To have lost his friends in such a horrific way. Then to have also been through the appalling torment of being suddenly, prematurely aged. And then, after all of that, after sending his plea for help through time to the future, to hear back from his ‘creator’ and learn that he was somewhat less than human. Worse still … that he was going to have to fix things up again entirely on his own. To be the fatherlike mentor for a new team.

  So much – too much to put on the poor thing. Waldstein’s heart ached for him.

  That poor wretch Liam – now Foster – was entirely on his own, effectively running this project himself. He’d had to set up a replacement team, to mentor them, train and ready them for their respective roles, all the while knowing exactly what they were and yet having to go along with this appalling deceit. To lie to them.

  Now it seemed, with these flickering letters on the page, there was more bad news coming through from 2001. From Foster.

  The heat reading spiked again. Another tenth of a per cent of a degree.

  It’s coming.

  The letters shimmered and shuffled faintly. And there it was. Ink on paper. No longer shimmering with a desire to change. There it was. Bad news.

  … Experienced significant event. Origin time-stamp of contamination 1941. Major displacement effects. Problem narrowly but successfully averted. New recruits performed well under stress. One team member lost. Require new observer immediately – Foster.

  Joseph Olivera looked up from his floating data screens. ‘They need a new …?’

  ‘A new observer, Joseph. They need a new Saleena Vikram.’

  Frasier Griggs paled. ‘You mean … send one back?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What happened, Mr Waldstein?’ asked Joseph.

  Waldstein shook his head. ‘I’m not sure. It seems like they’ve had to deal with a major contamination originating from sometime during the Second World War. Something big must have shaken things up for them.’ Waldstein smiled. ‘Their first big test. And it seems they’ve saved mankind.’

  ‘But one of them’s dead,’ said Griggs.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘What about the others?’

  ‘It seems they’re all right, Joseph.’ Waldstein touched a data pad and the air in front of him shimmered with holographic data. He swept the data to one side with his finger, and double-tapped a thumbnail image. It expanded in front of them, a digitized image of the page of newspaper hovering in mid-air. ‘You read it for yourself.’

  Joseph and Griggs leaned forward to scrutinize the image more closely. They read it in silence.

  ‘He won’t be able to grow one back there,’ said Waldstein. ‘The memory needs altering. Which is why we’ll have to do it here and send her back.’

  Joseph nodded. Waldstein was, of course, quite right. The other two team members – the Maddy unit and the Liam unit – weren’t ready to know what they were. If Foster was sent a Saleena Vikram unit foetus and started growing it right there in the archway, then the game would be up. He’d need to explain to the other two units exactly what they were.

  Clones.

  All three of them were designed to work at their best believing themselves to be entirely human. Believing they had real life stories, real loved ones, real memories. It’s what made their purely organic data matrices produce completely human-level decisions. That’s why Joseph hated to call it ‘Organic Artificial Intelligence’. Because it wasn’t artificial intelligence. It was Authentic Intelligence. If their brains – which were no different from any other human brains – truly believed the store of memories in their minds to be genuine then as far as Joseph was concerned, they were real people. Just as real as anyone else. More than mere genetically engineered replicas. Certainly so much more capable of strategic thought than the silicon minds inside the support units.

  However, the moment they realized their lives were fabricated, a pack of installed lies; the moment they understood they hadn’t been born to loving mothers, but instead had emerged fully grown from plastic tubes, just like their support units … that was when their decision-making would become compromised. Unreliable.

  ‘Joseph, start a growth here in the lab,’ said Waldstein. ‘Then we’ll have to send her back. Can you edit her memory to make that work? She can’t suspect she’s a tube-product.’

  ‘Wait … hang on a minute!’ cut in Griggs. ‘We said no more direct interactions!’

  Waldstein waved a hand to silence him. ‘They need an observer. Joseph?’

  Joseph nodded. ‘I can s-splice into her existing memory. We have her life-story file, right up to the recruitment event.’ He scratched his chin. ‘I suppose I can graft in some generalized memories of her living in the archway with the other two. Nothing too s-specific, just the general impression that she’s been living in close proximity to Maddy and Liam for some weeks. It’ll be a little foggy for her.’

  ‘Foggy?’

  ‘She’d be a little disorientated. Like she’s experienced a kind of mild amnesia. A gap in her memory, as if she’s experienced a mild trauma, concussion, like a blow to the head. There’ll be minor continuity errors sh
e won’t be able to make sense of, but if we deploy her directly after a field refresh or a corrective time wave she and the others may attribute that foggy memory as some side effect of the realignment of the timeline.’ He shrugged. ‘Since they’re newly recruited, I imagine they’ll buy that explanation from Foster. They’ll trust what he tells them.’

  Waldstein nodded. ‘Then we should do that.’ He looked at Joseph, placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Be as careful as you can splicing in her memory.’

  That didn’t need saying. Sal needed to wake up and find herself returning to the archway, believing nothing more than some time wave must have caught her outside; messed with her head in some small way. If that didn’t work, if she started questioning her reality …? If the team figured out they were a bunch of enhanced support units, meatbots? Then the whole project was over. They’d have to start again from scratch. Delete the old ones and grow a brand-new team. New minds, new memories, new lives.

  ‘I’ll be very careful, Mr Waldstein. Trust me.’

  ‘Good.’

  Griggs stepped forward and grabbed Waldstein’s arm. ‘Roald … this is really pushing our luck. You know we broadcast our presence every time we open a portal! You know there must be dozens of tachyon-listening stations all over the world. Christ … it was your campaigning that made sure of that. Do you want to be discovered? Do you want that?’

  ‘It’s an acceptable risk, Frasier.’

  ‘No, it’s not. This whole project was always too risky. We were supposed to travel only to 2001 to set it up. And that was it. No further trips!’

  ‘It’s an acceptable risk.’ He looked at Griggs sternly, then lowered his voice. ‘Please, don’t push our friendship, Frasier. This is more important than that. More important than anything.’

  ‘More important?’ Griggs laughed. ‘What’s all this really about? Eh?’

  ‘You know as well as I do. Three-dimensional space is as precious as fine bone china. You can’t let time travel –’