Timeline

by Michael Crichton

  Lord Oliver turned back to Marek to see what he would say to that.

  “My Lord,” Marek said, “if my friend Christopher is a spy, then so am I. In defaming him, Sir Guy has defamed me as well, and I beg leave to defend my good name.”

  Lord Oliver seemed entertained by this new complication. “How say you, Guy?”

  “Faith,” the dark knight said, “I grant you this de Marek may be a worthy second, if his arm has the skill of his tongue. But as a second, it is meet he fight my second, Sir Charles de Gaune.”

  A tall man stood at the end of the table. He had a pale face, a flat nose and pink eyes; he resembled a pit bull. His tone was contemptuous as he said, “I shall be second, with pleasure.”

  Marek made one final attempt. “So,” he said, “it appears Sir Guy is afraid to fight me first.”

  At this, the Lady Claire openly smiled at Marek. She was clearly interested in him. And it seemed to annoy Sir Guy.

  “I fear no man,” Guy said, “least of all a Hainauter. If you survive my second—which I much doubt—then I will gladly fight you after, and bring your insolence to an end.”

  “So be it,” Lord Oliver said, and turned away. His tone indicated that the discussion was ended.

  32:16:01

  The horses wheeled and charged, racing past each other on the grassy field. The ground shook as the big animals thundered past Marek and Chris, who were standing at the low fence, watching the practice runs. To Chris, the tournament field was huge—the size of a football field—and on two sides, the stands had been completed, and ladies were beginning to be seated. Spectators from the countryside, roughly dressed and noisy, lined the rail.

  Another pair of riders charged, their horses snorting as they galloped. Marek said, “How well do you ride?”

  He shrugged. “I rode with Sophie.”

  “Then I think I can keep you alive, Chris,” Marek said. “But you must do exactly as I tell you.”

  “All right.”

  “So far, you haven’t been doing what I tell you,” Marek reminded him. “This time, you must.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “All you have to do,” Marek said, “is stay mounted on the horse long enough to take the hit. Sir Guy will have no choice but to aim for the chest when he sees how badly you ride, because the chest is the largest and steadiest target on a galloping rider. I want you to take his lance square on the chest, on the breastplate. You understand?”

  “I take his lance on the chest,” Chris said, looking very unhappy.

  “When the lance strikes you, let yourself be unseated. It shouldn’t be difficult. Fall to the ground and do not move, so you appear to have been knocked unconscious. Which you may be. Under no circumstances get to your feet. Do you understand?”

  “Don’t get to my feet.”

  “That’s right. No matter what happens, you continue to lie there. If Sir Guy has unhorsed you, and you are unconscious, the match is over. But if you get up, he will call for another lance, or he will fight you on foot with broadswords, and kill you.”

  “Don’t get up,” Chris repeated.

  “That’s right,” Marek said. “No matter what. Don’t get up.” He clapped Chris on the shoulder. “With luck, you’ll survive just fine.”

  “Jesus,” Chris said.

  More horses charged past them, shaking the ground.

  :

  Leaving the field behind, they passed among the many tents arranged outside the tournament ground. The tents were small and round, boldly colored with stripes and zigzag designs. Pennants rippled in the air above each tent. Horses were tied up outside. Pages and squires scurried to and fro, carrying armor, saddles, hay, water. Several pages were rolling barrels over the ground. The barrels made a soft hissing sound.

  “That’s sand,” Marek explained. “They roll the chain mail in sand to remove rust.”

  “Uh-huh.” Chris tried to focus on details, to take his mind off what was to come. But he felt as if he were going to his own execution.

  They entered a tent where three pages were waiting. A warming fire burned in one corner; the armor was laid out on a ground cloth. Marek inspected it briefly, then said, “It’s fine.” He turned to leave.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To another tent, to dress.”

  “But I don’t know how—”

  “The pages will dress you,” Marek said, and left.

  Chris looked at the armor lying in pieces on the ground, especially at the helmet, which had one of those pointy snouts, like a large duck. There was only a little slit for the eyes. But beside it was another helmet, more ordinary-looking, and Chris thought that—

  “Good my squire, if it please you.” The head page, slightly older and better dressed than the others, was talking to him. He was a boy of about fourteen. “I pray you stand here.” He pointed to the center of the tent.

  Chris stood, and he felt many hands moving over his body. They quickly removed all his clothes down to his linen undershirt and shorts, and then there were murmurs of concern as they saw his body.

  “Have you been sick, squire?” one asked.

  “Uh, no. . ..”

  “A fever or an illness, to so weaken your body, as we see it now?”

  “No,” Chris said, frowning.

  They began to dress him, saying nothing. First, thick felt leggings, and then a heavily padded long-sleeved undershirt that buttoned at the front. They told him to bend his arms. He could hardly do it, the cloth was so thick.

  “It is stiff from washing, but it will soon be easier,” one said.

  Chris didn’t think so. Jesus, he thought, I can hardly move, and they haven’t put on the armor yet. Now they were strapping plates of metal on his thighs, calves and knees. Then they continued with his arms. As each piece went on, they asked him to move his limbs, to be sure the straps were not too tight.

  Next a coat of chain mail was lowered over his head. It felt heavy on his shoulders. While the breastplate was being tied in place, the head page asked a series of questions, none of which Chris could answer.

  “Do you sit high, or in cantle?”

  “Will you couch your lance, or rest it?”

  “Do you tie-brace the high pommel, or sit free?”

  “Set your stirrups low, or forward?”

  Chris made noncommittal noises. Meanwhile, more pieces of armor were added, with more questions.

  “Flex sabaton or firm?”

  “Vambrace guard or side plate?”

  “Broadsword left or right?”

  “Bascinet beneath your helm, or no?”

  He felt increasingly burdened as more weight was added, and increasingly stiff as each joint was encased in metal. The pages worked quickly, and in a matter of minutes he was entirely dressed. They stepped away and surveyed him.

  “‘Tis good, squire?”

  “It is,” he said.

  “Now the helm.” He was already wearing a kind of metal skullcap, but now they brought over the pointy-snout helmet and placed it over his head. Chris was plunged into darkness, and he felt the helmet’s weight on his shoulders. He could see nothing except what was straight ahead, through a horizontal eye slit.

  His heart began to pound. There was no air. He couldn’t breathe. He tugged at the helmet, trying to lift the visor, but it did not move. He was trapped. He heard his breathing, amplified in the metal. His hot breath warmed the tight confines of the helmet. He was suffocating. There was no air. He grabbed at the helmet, struggling to remove it.

  The pages lifted it off his head and looked at him curiously.

  “Is all well, squire?”

  Chris coughed, and nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He never wanted that thing on his head again. But already they were leading him out of the tent, to a waiting horse.

  Jesus Christ, he thought.

  This horse was gigantic, and covered in more metal than he was. There was a decorated plate over the head, and more plates on the chest and sides. Even
in armor, the animal was jumpy and high-spirited, snorting and jerking at the reins the page held. This was a true warhorse, a destrier, and it was far more spirited than any horse he had ever ridden before. But that was not what concerned him. What concerned him was the size—the damn horse was so big, he couldn’t see over it. And the wooden saddle was raised, making it still higher. The pages were all looking at him expectantly. Waiting for him. To do what? Probably to climb up.

  “How do I, uh. . ..”

  They blinked, surprised. The head page stepped forward and said smoothly, “Place your hand here, squire, on the wood and swing up. . ..”

  Chris extended his hand, but he could barely reach the pommel, a rectangle of carved wood in the front of the saddle. He closed his fingers around the wood, then raised his knee and slipped his foot in the stirrup.

  “Um. I think your left foot, squire.”

  Of course. Left foot. He knew that; he was just tense and confused. He kicked the stirrup to get his right foot free. But the armor had caught on the stirrup; he bent forward awkwardly and used his hand to tug the stirrup free. It still was stuck. Finally, at the moment of release, he lost his balance and fell on his back near the horse’s rear hooves. The horrified pages quickly dragged him clear.

  They got him to his feet, and then they all helped him to mount. He felt hands pressing against his buttocks as he rose shakily into the air, swung his foot over—Jesus, that was hard—and landed with a clank in the saddle.

  Chris looked down at the ground, far below. He felt as if he were ten feet in the air. As soon as he was mounted, the horse began to whinny and shake its head, turning sideways and snapping at Hughes’s legs in the stirrups. He thought, This damn horse is trying to bite me.

  “Reins, squire! Reins! You must rein him!”

  Chris tugged at the reins. The enormous horse paid no attention, pulling hard, still trying to bite him.

  “Show him, squire! Strongly!”

  Chris yanked the reins so sharply, he thought he’d break the animal’s neck. At this, the horse merely gave a final snort and faced forward, suddenly calmed.

  “Well done, squire.”

  Trumpets sounded, several long notes.

  “That is the first call to arms,” the page said. “We must to the tourney field.”

  They took the horse’s reins and led Chris toward the grassy field.

  36:02:00

  It was one in the morning. From inside his office at ITC, Robert Doniger stared down at the entrance to the cave, illuminated in the night by the flashing lights of six ambulances parked all around. He listened to the crackle of the paramedic radios and watched the people leaving the tunnel. He saw Gordon walking out with that new kid, Stern. Neither of them appeared to have been hurt.

  He saw Kramer reflected in the glass of the window as she entered the room behind him. She was slightly out of breath. Without looking back at her, he said, “How many were injured?”

  “Six. Two somewhat seriously.”

  “How seriously?”

  “Shrapnel wounds. Burns from toxic inhalation.”

  “Then they’ll have to go to UH.” He meant University Hospital, in Albuquerque.

  “Yes,” Kramer said. “But I’ve briefed them about what they can say. Lab accident, all that. And I called Whittle at UH, reminded him of our last donation. I don’t think there’ll be a problem.”

  Doniger stared out the window. “There might be,” he said.

  “The PR people can handle it.”

  “Maybe not,” Doniger said.

  In recent years, ITC had built a publicity unit of twenty-six people around the world. Their job was not to get publicity for the company, but rather to deflect it. ITC, they explained to anyone who inquired, was a company that made superconducting quantum devices for magnetometers and medical scanners. These devices consisted of a complex electromechanical element about six inches long. Press handouts were stupefyingly boring, dense with quantum specifications.

  For the rare reporter who remained interested, ITC enthusiastically scheduled a tour of their New Mexico facility. Reporters were taken to selected research labs. Then, in a large assembly room, they were shown how the devices were made—the gradiometer coils fitted into the cryostat, the superconducting shield and electrical leads outside. Explanations referred to the Maxwell equations and electric charge motion. Almost invariably, reporters abandoned their stories. In the words of one, “It’s about as compelling as an assembly line for hair dryers.”

  In this way, Doniger had managed to keep silent about the most extraordinary scientific discovery of the late twentieth century. In part, his silence was self-preservation: other companies, like IBM and Fujitsu, had started their own quantum research, and even though Doniger had a four-year head start on them, it was in his interest that they not know exactly how far he had gone.

  He also was aware that his plan was not yet completed, and he needed secrecy to finish. As he himself often said, grinning like a kid, “If people knew what we were up to, they’d really want to stop us.”

  But at the same time, Doniger knew that he could not maintain the secrecy forever. Sooner or later, perhaps by accident, it was all going to come out. And when that happened, it was up to him to manage it.

  The question in Doniger’s mind was whether it was happening now.

  :

  He watched as the ambulances pulled out, sirens whining.

  “Think about it,” he said to Kramer. “Two weeks ago, this company was buttoned down tight. Our only problem was that French reporter. Then we had Traub. That depressed old bastard put our whole company in jeopardy. Traub’s death brought that cop from Gallup, who’s still nosing around. Then Johnston. Then his four students. And now six techs going to the hospital. It’s getting to be a lot of people out there, Diane. A lot of exposure.”

  “You think it’s getting away from us,” she said.

  “Possibly,” he said. “But not if I can help it. Especially since I’ve got three potential board members coming day after tomorrow. So let’s button it back down.”

  She nodded. “I really think we can handle this.”

  “Okay,” he said, turning away from the window. “See that Stern goes to bed in one of the spare rooms. Make sure he gets sleep, and put a block on the phone. Tomorrow, I want Gordon sticking to him like glue. Give him a tour of the place, whatever. But stay with him. I want a conference call with the PR people tomorrow at eight. I want a briefing about the transit pad at nine. And I want those media dipshits at noon. Call everybody now, so they can get ready.”

  “Right,” she said.

  “I may not be able to keep this under control,” Doniger said, “but I’m sure as hell going to try.”

  He frowned at the glass, watching the people clustered outside the tunnel in the dark. “How long until they can go back in the cave?”

  “Nine hours.”

  “And then we can mount a rescue operation? Send another team back?”

  Kramer coughed. “Well . . .”

  “Are you sick? Or does that mean no?”

  “All the machines were destroyed in the explosion, Bob,” she said.

  “All of them?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Then all we can do is rebuild the pad, and sit on our asses to see if they come back in one piece?”

  “Yes. That’s right. We have no way to rescue them.”

  “Then let’s hope they know their stuff,” Doniger said, “because they’re on their own. Good fucking luck to them.”

  31:40:44

  Through the narrow slit of his helmet visor, Chris Hughes could see that the tournament stands were filled—almost entirely with ladies—and the railings crowded with commoners ten deep. Everyone was shouting for the tournament to begin. Chris was now at the east end of the field, surrounded by his pages, trying to control the horse, which seemed upset by the shouting crowd and had begun to buck and rear. The pages tried to hand him a striped lance, which was ab
surdly long and ungainly in his hand. Chris took it, then fumbled it as the horse snorted and stomped beneath him.

  Beyond the barrier, he saw Kate standing among the commoners. She was smiling encouragement at him, but the horse kept twisting and turning, so he could not return her gaze.

  And not far off, he saw the armored figure of Marek, surrounded by pages.

  As Chris’s horse turned again—why didn’t the pages grab the reins?—he saw the far end of the field, where Sir Guy de Malegant sat calmly on his mount. He was pulling on his black-plumed helmet.

  Chris’s horse bucked once more and turned him in circles. He heard more trumpets, and the spectators all looked toward the stands. He was dimly aware that Lord Oliver was taking his seat, to scattered applause.

  Then the trumpets blared again.

  “Squire, it is your signal,” a page said, handing him the lance once more. This time, he managed to hold it long enough to rest it in a notch on his pommel, so that it crossed the horse’s back and pointed ahead to his left. Then the horse spun, and the pages yelled and scattered as the lance swung in an arc over their heads.

  More trumpets.

  Hardly able to see, Chris tugged at his reins, trying to get the horse under control. He glimpsed Sir Guy at the far end of the field, just watching, his horse perfectly still. Chris wanted to get it over with, but his horse was wild. Angry and frustrated, he yanked hard at the reins one final time. “Goddamn it, go, will you?”

  At this, the horse snapped his head up and down in two swift motions. The ears went flat.

  And he charged.

  :

  Marek watched the charge tensely. He had not told Chris everything; there was no point in frightening him any more than necessary. But certainly Sir Guy would try to kill Chris, which meant he would aim his lance for the head. Chris was bouncing wildly in the saddle, his lance jerking up and down, his body swaying from side to side. He made a poor target, but if Guy was skilled—and Marek had no doubt that he was—then he would still aim for the head, risking a miss on the first pass in order to make the fatal hit.

  He watched Chris jolt down the field, precariously hanging in the saddle. And he watched Sir Guy charging toward him, in perfect control, body leaning forward, lance couched in the crook of the arm.