by Roger Ley
She woke with a jerk and sat up gasping.
“I’ll get you a glass of water,” said Patrick. He went into the bathroom, as she lay panting and came back, sat on her side of the bed and handed her the glass. “It’ll go away eventually,” he said. “It’ll just take time but you’ll be all right in the end.” She drank, then put the glass on the bedside table, he got in next to her and put his arms around her. “I’ll look after you Mary,” he whispered. “It’s my job. Go to sleep, it’ll be better in the morning.” He pulled the covers over them both and she drifted off.
The next day, Mary lay trembling slightly on her couch as her orderly checked everything for the third time. Now I know how Anne Boleyn felt on her last morning, she thought. I do not want to do this, but I have to show Patrick that I have faith in him. “I’m sure everything’s okay Corporal, stop fussing around,” Mary snapped, then said more gently, “Sorry Maureen, I’m very grateful for your help.”
The orderly shrugged and smiled, “That’s alright ma’am, I’d be feelin’ edgy meself.”
This is as bad as root canal work, Mary thought, and tried to control her shaking. If the software worked it would give her confidence for the future, and she had every reason to believe it would work. It had worked when Patrick stuck a tiny pin into her captive drone yesterday. Mary had found herself “back in the room” as soon as he touched her host’s dermis.
Today’s test was the real thing though. Her host was in one part of a plastic box in the next room, she felt sorry for it, the box was divided into two sections by a thin separator, in the other half sat a big, grey, garden spider. Patrick had caught it a week earlier, and had shown her its impressive markings. He hadn’t fed it since its capture.
“Okay ma’am?” asked her orderly as she presented Mary’s visor. Mary nodded and lifted her head for her to fit it.
She lay back and spoke to her sprite. “Let’s get this over with.”
“I’m sorry ma’am, I don’t under…..”
“Initiate insertion,” she interrupted.
A few moments later, Mary was standing on a smooth vertical surface, stable on her six sticky feet. She moved around until she could see the separator.
“Patrick wants to know if he can start?” said her sprite.
“Okay, go,” she said, and watched as, a moment later, the separator flipped up out of the way. She saw the spider, it was enormous, it horrified her, she felt her host’s agitation, but held it in check as its wings buzzed and it tried to flee. The spider jerked as it saw her, and then paused. It raised its front legs and slowly began to approach, its movements unbearably menacing. She saw lights reflected in its cluster of polished jet eyes, the spiky hairs that covered it, its jaws working. Mary couldn’t face it and turned off her vision channel. She waited in the darkness as her unseen assailant crept up on her and struck.
And she was back in the room, jerking on her restraints and shouting, “FUCK,” as she tried desperately to shake off her visor. Her orderly whisked it away; Dr Tom was already sitting on the jump seat holding her arm, ready with his aerosol. Patrick was hovering anxiously nearby.
“I’m okay,” said Mary breathlessly, “I’m okay, I didn’t feel a thing. It worked just fine, but I couldn’t handle the sight of the spider as it closed in on me.” She was shallow panting. Dr Tom stood back and looked at her vital signs, on the screen above the couch, the aerosol wand at his side. The orderly stepped in and undid the Velcro straps, with some difficulty because the stitching was partly ripped.
“That’ll need repairing,” she pointed them out to the Doctor. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It can’t be good for her.” She sponged sweat from Mary’s face and helped her up. Patrick supported her, as she walked slowly towards the changing rooms.
“It wasn’t my idea,” said the Doctor, as Maureen busied herself wiping the couch and tidying up. He walked back to his office, shaking his head.
The membrane shrank and disappeared. Riley and Farina’s seats rotated to face one another.
“Peter Abrahams looked a lot older,” said Riley.
“Well, over thirty subjective years have passed; he’s an old man by contemporary standards. What did you think of Mary Lee?”
“She’s very attractive,” he smiled mischievously and paused for a moment to watch Farina’s reaction. He was disappointed when there wasn’t one. “She has guts, but that’s not surprising, she was a fast jet pilot and they’re risk takers.”
“You need to become more familiar with her and her world of your future Martin. We will continue with your indoctrination tomorrow.”
Back in the flat it was Farina’s turn to cook.
“These aliens you mentioned when you first abducted me, don’t they worry you?” asked Riley. “I mean, given the number of habitable planets in the galaxy, we should pick up comms chatter and entertainment transmissions from all directions and you’ve only found one distant transmission.”
“Ah, the Fermi paradox,” said Farina. “What do you think is the explanation Martin?”
“Perhaps the noisy ones have already been subsumed or exterminated by a warlike space faring civilization, and the rest are keeping quiet hoping to avoid detection.”
“Do you really believe that Martin?” she asked seriously.
“Yes, I do, and if this alien civilization you’ve been talking to has been listening to your broadcasts for the last hundred years, it’s had all that time to prepare and launch an invasion fleet. You might meet them sooner than you imagine, they could be edging into the solar system as we speak. This could be a good time to wake up Genghis Khan.” Farina looked concerned, Riley burst out laughing. “Just kidding, I’m sure they’re friendly. Tell me, do Synths have a sense of humor?”
“Not really Martin,” she said laughing along with him. “But we can simulate one, to help with human relations.” She became instantly serious. “I need to communicate with Tolland about this. Sun Tzu might be a better choice as war leader.”
It was Riley’s turn to feel discomfited. “Do you think so?” he asked anxiously.
“No Martin, I thought you realized that I was joking about the aliens, we haven’t found any, Fermi’s paradox is still holding.” She chuckled as she spooned his rice and vegetables onto a plate. “Do Synths have a sense of humor?” she mimicked his voice. “No, but we can simulate one,” she said in a squeaky, comic, robot voice and carried on laughing quietly to herself.
Riley realized he’d been bested.
Chapter Twenty-Five
USA the 2040s
Mary finished her Royalty Protection shift and walked to the changing rooms. Maureen helped her out of her sensuit and hung it in the maintenance locker, she heard the cleaning cycle start. In the shower her sprite spoke.
“The boss wants to speak to you ma’am.”
“Tell him I’ll be there in ten.”
The Group Captain was standing talking to a secretary, in the admin area as she arrived. He turned to face her.
“Hello Mary, can I offer you anything? I know you’ve just finished for the day.”
“A cappuccino please, sir.”
They walked into his office, sat down, and made small talk about her shift for a few minutes until the coffee arrived. As he added sugar to his cup, the Group Captain came straight to the point.
“How would you like a posting to America?” he asked. “It’d be a two-year tour, and you’d be promoted to Squadron Leader. What are your immediate thoughts?”
Mary’s immediate thought was that it might mean a break up with Patrick, but she didn’t say this.
“Promotion sounds good sir, what would the job be?”
“Do you recall that civilian you showed around a couple of weeks ago? Name of Abrahams, smallish chap, looked Middle Eastern, spook, doctor of something or other.”
“Yes, I remember him, Peter Abrahams.”
“Well apparently, he took a shine to you, in a professional way I mean. He’s requested you as drone pi
lot on some sort of hush-hush, Anglo American surveillance project at Langley. It’s with the CIA or Homeland Security, something like that, they haven’t been specific. Anyway, he wants you on the team. What do you say? Need to sleep on it? I would. You might want to talk it over with Patrick.”
“Actually sir, I’m sure that the answer will be yes but, you’re right, I ought to discuss it with Patrick first.”
She left his office, told her sprite to order a car and waited outside the building, enjoying the afternoon sunshine. Somewhere nearby, she heard a drill sergeant screaming. His voice got louder as a platoon of recruits marched around the corner of the building, swinging their arms in the approved manner. The sergeant did an “eyes right” and saluted her. She saluted back smartly, and then smiled to herself as they marched past her. The sergeant continued shouting. It was all pleasantly familiar.
As the car drove her back to their house, she thought about life without Patrick. They could visit each other, maybe every month, even take the “Ballistic” to cut the journey time. It wouldn’t be so bad, it was definitely doable. They planned to have a family when she retired from the Air Force, aged forty-four; she was only thirty now so there was plenty of time. The promotion would mean a bigger pension. The challenge of a new project lifted her spirits. She felt confident and ready for a change.
Patrick was less enthusiastic when she told him over dinner that evening.
“There’s no way I’m stepping onto a suborbital airliner again. Not even for you Mary. I can’t stand weightlessness, it’s something to do with my middle ear. The only time I experienced it I threw up everywhere, missed the sick bag completely, the whole cabin had globules of vomit floating around, sticking to everyone and everything. It was very embarrassing; the smell was unbearable. The flight attendants were very nice about it, flying abound with little fishing nets, collecting it all up and spraying deodorant, but no thanks, tried it once, didn’t like it.”
“It’s a pain, I know,” she carefully placed her wine glass on the table, “but look at the advantages, the salary, the pension, and it would only be for a couple of years. I could write my own ticket afterwards, maybe get a job at the Ministry of Defense in London. I’d really like to give it a go, Patrick.”
The next morning, she reported to the Group Captain. He smiled, “I’m pleased for you Mary; although I’ll be sorry to see you go. Who knows, they might send you back here at the end of the posting. By the way, they want you there next week so you’d better get cracking.”
Less than a week later, she stood outside the “New Building” at Langley. They still called it “new” even though it was built at the turn of the century. Her personal chip got her through security at the front doors and then as far as the tenth floor.
The holographic AI running reception smiled a greeting.
“Please take a seat Squadron Leader Lee. Dr Abrahams will be here in a few minutes. Can I offer you any refreshment?”
“No,” she said and sat in an armchair, briefcase on her knees, her forage cap beside her. The AI would be analyzing her blink rate and other physiological signs, adding the information to her personal file. She didn’t like the bloody things, they’d stolen her aeroplanes. Still, she was impressed that it knew her new rank, even though she hadn’t had time to update the insignia on her uniform.
“You might like to try a more appropriate smile,” she said helpfully. She knew AIs still had problems mimicking human facial anatomy. The AI went through its library of smiles, holding each for a couple of seconds, until Mary raised a finger at a particularly cheesy one.
“That’s it,” said Mary, spitefully pleased that it would take ages for it to adapt back to normal. She chuckled to herself.
Peter Abrahams bustled into the room.
“Well, well, Flight Lieutenant Lee, (he used the English pronunciation for her rank) how are you? Oh, sorry, it’s Squadron Leader, now isn’t it? I really enjoyed your briefing on insect drones at RAF Waddington. What a surprise they were, I haven’t felt completely alone since then.” They shook hands. “Come through into my parlor.” He laughed at his little joke, Mary shuddered slightly but said nothing. They walked through the doorway and into an open plan area that reminded Mary of an air traffic control center. There were a dozen large screens with people sitting in front of them gesturing at menus and sub vocalizing commands. Other electronic equipment occupied benches around the periphery.
Her sprite whispered, “They’ve just added a new security clearance to your personal chip ma’am, so you can come and go as you please in most of this area.”
“This is our main laboratory,” he gestured expansively. He led her off to one side, and through a door marked “Drone Control, no admittance.” There were two couches with their familiar ancillary equipment and a US Air Force sergeant, who had been making adjustments on one of the flat screens. She stood to attention.
“Never been used yet,” said Abrahams gesturing at them. “This is Sergeant Harbaugh; she’ll be your orderly and technician.”
The sergeant was a woman of about thirty, dressed in fatigues; she was more heavily built than Mary, who had inherited her mother’s slim, oriental figure. She saluted, Mary did the same. They shook hands.
“I’m sure we can get by without too much formality,” said Mary.
The sergeant smiled and appeared to relax.
“Whatever you say ma’am,” she said. They exchanged pleasantries and began discussing the equipment.
“I’ll arrange for you to spend time together and to do a few trial flights,” said Abrahams, interrupting them. He seemed to want to press on.
“We call them ‘circuits and bumps,’ ” said Mary and she and the sergeant smiled at the familiarity of the shared Air Force jargon.
They moved on through the control room to Abraham’s private office, and sat at the conference table. A small arbeiter wheeled in with two mugs of coffee on its top surface.
“You’re our only drone pilot Mary. The Americans could have provided one, but we have an agreement to mix US and UK personnel on the Temporal Messaging programme and your experience with amply SIS qualifies you.”
Mary was intrigued to know the name of the programme at last. Back in England her superiors had been evasive. “Special Project” was all they said. It sounded more interesting, now she was finally getting to the bottom of things.
“Temporal Messaging?” she looked at Abrahams. “It sounds as if you’re involved with time travel.”
“I suppose in a way we are.” He leaned forward. “To put it simply, we have a team in another part of the States who send scans of newspaper reports and clips from TV news channels. They think they’re gathering general intelligence for the FBI. Our technology allows us to see these files two weeks before they’re sent. Effectively we can see two weeks into the future. We call it Temporal Messaging. If they don’t like what they see, the Government can alter things before they happen. We call that ‘Temporal Adjustment’ or ‘TA.’ ”
Mary sat and considered this while Abrahams sipped his coffee and watched her over the rim of his cup.
“You mean to say you can change the future?” she asked.
“Not us, we just report our findings, it’s up to the politicians to decide on the changes, and the spooks to implement them.”
“Is that a good idea, it sounds dangerous?”
“They’re very careful, an Oversight Committee scrutinizes every move. You’d be amazed at the atrocities we’ve prevented, the lives we’ve saved.”
“Why only two weeks, why not longer?” asked Mary. She was more interested in the practicality than the ethics.
“There’s a theoretical limitation, like the sound barrier, or the speed of light,” he said.
“Who else has this technology, is anybody else tampering with our reality?” she asked. “I find the idea of Temporal Adjustment disturbing, alien.”
“We are the only ones capable of Temporal Messaging. An English physicist called Martin
Riley invented the technique back in the 1990’s. The British Government financed the research and threw a security blanket over it, but it got to be too expensive. Eventually our American allies became the major underwriters, and here we are.”
“I’ve never heard of this Martin Riley.”
“No, I’m not surprised, but I knew him well, he was my mentor, the man was a genius.”
“Was? He’s dead then?”
“Yes, he died in a car accident over thirty years ago. Tragic, he wasn’t even fifty; he could have achieved so much more.”
“I find this time travel stuff difficult. Surely you could change all sorts of things. I mean, what if you assassinated Hitler in 1935, just think how that would change history?”
“We can only send information back, not people and we only ever make alterations in our present, which then alters our future, so time appears to flow normally to us. We never alter things in our past, too dangerous, there’d be unpredictable effects on our present.”
“What type of changes have you made?”
“Most of them are secret. They’ll tell you about some of them, as part of your indoctrination. I can tell you about one thing that the TA team did before the Americans got involved though. Martin Riley saved Princess Diana.”
“Saved her from what?”
“Well, originally she died in a car accident in Paris, in 1997.”
Mary thought for a moment. “He brought her back to life?”
“No, no, they altered the events leading up to the crash, so it didn’t happen. SIS arranged for the driver to be changed. The original was drunk.”
“They must have regretted saving her,” said Mary. “She’s been a thorn in the Royal flesh for years, what with converting to Islam and having kids with Dodi. She’s always made the Establishment uncomfortable. The papers can’t mention her without spluttering ‘Islamification of the Royal Family.’ ”