by Alex Scarrow
Instead she headed into Brooklyn, an area she hadn’t explored at all thus far. Foster had been so very keen on her focusing her attentive eyes on Manhattan and Times Square — taking in every tiny detail until she knew everything that was meant to be there, every tiny event that was meant to happen — that she’d had no time to explore the city this side of the Hudson River.
Away from the bridge and South 6th Street, she found myriad quieter backstreets, and one in particular lined with odd little boutiques selling second-hand furniture and dusty old books. The chaos of goods piled outside the storefronts and cluttering the narrow street reminded her vaguely of the market-place near her home in Mumbai.
She found herself wiping a solitary tear from her cheek and chided herself for crying for her parents… because — stupid — they weren’t dead. The grim fate that awaited them wasn’t going to happen for another twenty-five years. At this moment in time, her mum and dad were just kids her age, enjoying their childhood and not due to meet for another decade yet. Strange, that. Stood side by side, she and her mum could probably pass as sisters.
Her attention was drawn to a shop with a curious mix of antique knick-knacks spilling out of its entrance and on to the pavement. Ancient-looking wooden furniture, a rocking-horse and clothes that looked like surplus theatrical costumes. But among them, bric-a-brac, a second-hand TV set, a toaster, a Dyson vacuum cleaner. A little bit of everything, it seemed.
She figured she had as much chance of finding something here that might fit Bob as she might anywhere else and, anyway, everything here appeared to be pretty cheap. She stepped inside the boutique and squeezed through the front of the store, cluttered with a set of chrome bar stools and several flaking display-window mannequins wearing dodgy-looking leather corsets and feather boas.
‘May I help you, young lady?’
The voice seemed to come out of nowhere and she jumped. Then she spotted a tiny old lady with jet-black hair who was even shorter than she was.
‘I, uh… You made me jump.’
She smiled. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I do tend to blend into the store.’
Sal laughed. She could imagine a customer slapping ten dollars down on the counter for the ‘realistic old lady mannequin’, tucking her under one arm and walking out with her.
‘What are you after, my dear?’
‘You have a clothes section?’
She waved an arm. ‘At the back. I have racks and racks of old, old clothes and party costumes. Lots of cast-outs from the Broadway theatres and a few antique items too.’
‘Thank you.’
Sal weaved her way further into the store, her nose tickled and teased by the dust that seemed to be on everything and the faint smell of mothballs and turpentine. She found the clothes racks at the back and almost found herself giggling at the bizarre mix of garments on display. She flicked through the racks in front of her, chuckling at some of the exotic costumes and cooing appreciatively at others. Eventually she found some things that looked suitable for Bob: a baggy pair of striped trousers with extra-long legs that she suspected might have been part of a clown’s outfit at one time and an extra-large bright orange and pink Hawaiian shirt that looked like it might just about fit over the top of his broad shoulders and rippling muscles.
‘You must have a very big friend,’ said the old lady as she took Sal’s payment and folded the clothes into a plastic bag for her.
‘Uncle,’ she replied. ‘My Uncle Bob. He’s a very big man.’ Sal was about to add that he was also pretty dumb as well — dumb, and kind of child-like — when she spotted something dangling from a hanger on one wall: a white tunic, buttoned down the left side, with an emblem on the chest that she recognized — the White Star lines. It was a steward’s tunic just like Liam’s.
She pointed at it. ‘Is that… is that a uniform from the Titanic?’
The old woman looked round at where she was pointing. ‘Oh, that? No, it would be worth a lot more if it was genuine. I could sell it to a museum or a collector for thousands of dollars. Unfortunately it’s not; it’s just a theatre costume. Not a very well-made costume either. Friends of mine… they did a production set on the Titanic. It didn’t do very well. You want to have a look at it?’
Sal shook her head. She could’ve said something about it being a funny coincidence that her bunk-buddy was a young lad who’d actually worked on the ship for real. The old lady would think her mad, of course, or that she was just being cheeky. Mind you, in just over half an hour’s time, when the first plane hit the Twin Towers, whatever odd conversation she might have now would be instantly forgotten.
Sal returned to the archway with Bob’s clothes and some groceries before the first plane hit and the Manhattan sky started to fill with smoke. She was about to mention the coincidence to Liam — the steward’s tunic exactly like his — when she realized by the expressions on Maddy’s and Liam’s faces that something important had just happened.
She forgot all about it.
CHAPTER 11
2001, New York
‘It’s a message from the agency,’ said Liam as Sal joined them beside the computer desk. ‘From the future.’
‘So.’ Sal looked at them both. ‘There’s our answer. We’re not alone, then.’
‘Yup!’ replied Maddy, grinning, clearly the most encouraged and excited by that news. ‘Bob’s decoding the message right now. He’s estimated the year of origin to be about 2056. That’s the time of Roald Waldstein, the inventor of time-travel technology.’
‘Do you think it’s him? The Waldstein fella?’ asked Liam.
Maddy reached for her inhaler on the desk and took a quick puff on it. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Hopefully it’s the agency checking in with us. You know? Seeing if we’re OK. Which would be nice.’
‘But how…’ started Liam, frowning. ‘But how will we talk back to them? These tachyon signal things can only go backwards in time, right? That’s what Foster said.’
‘He said that… but he was keeping it simple. It takes a lot more energy to project forward. Plus, more importantly, in 2056, everyone’s on the lookout for tachyon particles, right, Bob?’
› Correct. A signal aimed at the agency could be detected and reveal its location. In 2056, international laws against time travel have been established.
‘In any case, I wouldn’t know which direction to point a signal,’ said Maddy. ‘Who knows where in the world they’re based?’
‘So is there a way to talk back?’ asked Liam.
Maddy nodded. ‘Yup… there is.’ There was an entry in Foster’s ‘how to’ guide on how to contact the agency, a short explanation by Foster looking ten years younger as he spoke to the webcam. An entry he must have recorded much earlier than the others.
‘It’s the same principle, Liam, that you used actually,’ said Maddy. ‘The museum guest book, remember? Only it’s a New York newspaper. We place an advert in the lonely hearts section of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. It has to begin with the phrase “a soul lost in time…”’
Liam clicked his fingers; he understood the rest. ‘And I suppose they have a crinkly old yellowing copy of that paper?’
‘Dated September twelfth, 2001. That’s right.’
Sal looked from one to the other, her eyes widening. ‘And… and do you mean the words in the paper change? They actually change on the page?’
Maddy nodded. ‘It’s a tiny ripple in time. Nothing that would change anything else. After all… who’s going to be reading the lonely hearts section of the papers tomorrow?’
‘The papers would be full of that plane-crashing-into-building story, will they not?’ said Liam.
‘Exactly. Our little advert won’t be noticed by anyone, except, of course… a bunch of people carefully studying a page of a fifty-five-year-old newspaper in 2056, or thereabouts.’ Maddy clucked with excitement. ‘I can’t tell you how freakin’ relieved I am that there’s somebody else out there!’
Liam nodded at the screen in front of her. �
�Looks like Bob’s done.’
› I have decoded the message, Maddy.
‘What is it?’
› It is only a partial message. The signal has been interrupted.
‘Uh? OK… give us what you’ve got, Bob.’
Words spooled across the dialogue box:
› Contamination event. Origin time appears to be 10.17 a.m. 18 August 2015. Major contamination ripples. Significant realignment of time stream. Death of Edward Chan, author of original theory on time travel, resulting in failure to write thesis in 2029. Death may have been deliberate assassination attempt. Occurred while visiting Instit The three of them waited for a moment for Bob to print out more of the message.
› That is all I have. The partial ends there.
‘That’s it?’
› That is it, Maddy.
She turned to look at the others. ‘Er… what the hell are we supposed to make of that?’
They sat in silence for a while, digesting the small block of text on the screen. Finally Liam shrugged. ‘That they’re in trouble?’
‘Well, duh,’ sighed Maddy.
‘They need our help?’ said Sal.
‘But can we help, though?’ said Liam. ‘Can I go into the future?’
‘Of course you can.’ Maddy pinched the tip of her nose thoughtfully. ‘Think about it. Every time we bring you back from a mission in the past, you’re going forward in time, aren’t you?’
› This is correct. A mission operative can travel forward and backwards. However, energy expenditure is significantly higher moving forward.
Sal looked at the other two. ‘But maybe there are other field offices further in the future than us who will deal with this?’
Liam nodded. ‘She’s right. If we’re not the only team, then perhaps somebody else is closer in time?’
Maddy gave it a moment’s thought. ‘Then why direct the message right at us? I mean… right here, right now?’ She turned back to the desk. ‘Bob, was this a broad-spectrum signal beam, sent out for everybody to pick up… anywhere… anywhen?’
› Negative. It was a narrow, focused beam.
‘Meaning it was meant for us?’
› That is the logical assumption, Maddy.
‘But surely there are other teams in the future,’ said Sal. ‘Somebody closer in time and — ’
‘Maybe there are,’ cut in Maddy, ‘but any field office based after — ’ she looked at the screen — ‘after the eighteenth of August 2015 is going to be affected by the time wave also, right?’ She stared at the other two. ‘So maybe we’re the closest unaffected team? Maybe we’re the field office closest before this date?’
Liam sighed. ‘Aw, come on. Why is it us again? We only just got ourselves fixed up after the last bleedin’ mess and a half.’
› Hello, Liam. I have a question.
‘Good mornin’, Bob.’
› Is ‘bleedin’’ a reference to the high body count of the last mission including the extensive damage to my last organic support frame? Or is it an expression of anger I should add to my language database?
‘It’s Liam being all stressy,’ said Maddy.
› Angry?
‘That’s right.’
Once again they stared in silence at the partial message displayed on the screen, all of them silently hoping it would just go away or change into another message simply welcoming them to the agency.
‘It’s for us, isn’t it?’ said Sal after a while. ‘We’ve got to fix this time problem like we did the last one.’
Maddy nodded. ‘I think so.’
Liam’s jaw set firmly. ‘Well, I’m not going anywhere ’less I’ve got Bob coming with me. I mean that, so I do.’
‘OK,’ said Maddy. ‘That’s only fair.’ She turned round to face the computer monitors. ‘Bob, can we speed up the growth cycle of the foetus we’ve started off?’
› Affirmative. Increase the nutrient mix of the feed solution. Introduce a small electrical charge to the suspension fluid to stimulate cell activity.
‘How quickly can we have a body ready for you?’
› Growth cycle can be increased by 100 % with acceptable risk to the biological life form.
‘Half the time,’ said Maddy. ‘That’s still… what? Thirty-eight hours?’
› Correct.
‘Could we not birth the clone any earlier?’ added Liam. He looked at Maddy and shrugged. ‘I mean, does it need to be a fully grown man?’
› Optimal age for organic support unit is approximately 25 years old. Muscle tissue and internal healing systems are at their most functional.
‘But, as Liam says, could we eject the clone from the tube at a younger age? Or would that… I dunno, kill it?’
› Negative. A growth candidate can be functional from approximate age of 14 onwards. However, the support unit’s effectiveness would be compromised.
‘What does that mean?’ asked Liam.
‘It means Bob won’t be quite as big a brute as he was last time,’ said Sal.
‘So… what if we birth the clone at say… about eighteen years of age,’ asked Maddy. ‘How useful would he be?’
› An eighteen-year-old clone would offer approximately 50 % of normal operational capacity.
‘He’d be half as strong?’ said Liam.
Maddy nodded. ‘And how much time would that save us off the growth cycle?’
› 14 hours.
She looked round at the others. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘We speed up the growing process and then empty him out on to the floor twenty-four hours from now?’ said Liam. ‘And we’ll have an eighteen-year-old Bob, with half the muscles?’
‘That’s about it.’
‘But he’ll still be dangerous to other people, right? I mean… doesn’t make any sense me having him by my side if he’s just — ’
› Affirmative, Liam. I will be capable of causing death with or without weapons.
Liam managed a weak smile. ‘Then I guess it’d be good to have you back, Bob.’
› Thank you. I look forward to being fully operational again.
Maddy slapped her hand on the desk. ‘Right, then. I guess we have a plan of action. Since we’ve got no time to waste, Sal, could you go see to the growth candidate? Let’s get that process sped up.’
‘OK.’
‘And I guess I better start gathering all the data I can on this Edward Chan guy,’ she said, pecking at the computer’s keyboard.
‘What about me?’ asked Liam.
Maddy tapped her fingers absentmindedly on the desk. ‘Er… hell, I don’t know.’
‘I suppose I’m coffee-maker?’
She smiled. ‘If you’re doing a run to Starbucks, can you grab me a chocolate-chip muffin as well?’
‘Yeah, me too,’ called Sal from the back room’s doorway.
CHAPTER 12
2001, New York
‘So, this is what I’ve got,’ said Maddy, producing several sheets of computer printout.
This evening the Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant’s eating area was deserted apart from them. Brooklyn’s streets were quiet, everyone back home now that the last light of the evening had gone. All home, watching the news on their TV sets. Today’s sky had been divided all day by the thick column of black smoke from the collapsed Twin Towers, and New Yorkers were emerging from the fog of shock and dismay at the day’s events to a mood of contemplation and mourning.
They were lucky to find even this place open. Only a couple of staff seemed to be on, and they were busy half the time watching the news updates on a small TV set up right on the counter.
‘Edward Chan, as you guys will remember Foster telling us, is this bright young maths kid who went to the University of Texas. He graduated there, then went on to do some post-grad work.’
‘What is that… what’s post-grad?’
‘It’s just more studying, Liam. The kind of studying where you tell your teachers what specific area you intend researching, and they j
ust check in with your work every now and then, and help out if they can.
‘So anyway,’ she continued, looking down at the printouts and reading, ‘at the university he sets out to do a research paper on zero-point energy.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Jeez, Liam… are you going to keep stopping me to ask what stuff is?’
He looked hurt. ‘I’ve got to learn all these modern words, right? I mean, I’m still really just a lad from Cork who’s running to catch up on the last century, so I am.’
Maddy sighed. ‘It’s sort of like energy that’s supposed to exist at a sub-atomic level. It was still just theoretical mumbo… jumbo in my time.’
‘I think they started building something to do with that in India in my time,’ said Sal. ‘Experimental reactor or something, because we were running out of oil and stuff.’
Maddy scooped up some fries from her box. ‘Anyway, if I can continue, Liam? Chan set out to do a paper on zero-point energy and ended up changing course. Instead he wrote a paper on the theoretical possibility of time travel. The main point he was making in his work was that the theoretical energy that was assumed to be there in normal space-time, the sub-atomic energy-soup that was meant to be everywhere, was in fact a form of “leakage” from other dimensions. He writes this science paper and does nothing else notable until his death from cancer a few years later at the age of twenty-seven.’
‘So, like Foster told us,’ said Liam, ‘this Chan lad is the true inventor of time travel, not the Waldstein fella?’
‘Well, he did the theoretical work that led to Waldstein’s machine, so I guess they’re both responsible for inventing it.’
‘The message from the agency said he’d been assassinated,’ said Sal.
Maddy nodded. ‘Which means… what?’ She looked at both of them. ‘I’m guessing it means someone is trying to prevent time travel being invented?’
Liam reached for a ketchup sachet. ‘So… hold on. Isn’t that what the Waldstein fella wanted in the first place? To make sure time travel never got invented. Isn’t that why this agency thing exists, why the three of us’re here instead of dead?’