The Map of Time

by Félix J Palma

  The time had come for them to repay their debts. Man’s reign had come to an end. He was no longer the most powerful creature on the planet, if indeed he ever had been. The time of the automatons had come, and under the leadership of their new king they, would conquer the planet. Solomon shrugged his shoulders. Why not, he thought, why not lead my people where they want to go? And he readily embraced his fate. In reality, on further consideration, this was not such a foolish venture, and was even achievable with a little organization. After all, the little ones were already strategically placed in the enemy camp, they had free access to every home, factory, and ministry, and could count on the element of surprise.

  Just like someone leaving his body to science, Solomon allowed the builder automatons to see how he was made inside so they could begin producing an army of automaton soldiers in his image. They worked in secret, in sheds and abandoned factories while the little ones returned to their posts and patiently awaited their king’s command to pounce on the enemy. When it finally came, the synchronized attack by the little ones was unbelievably brutal and devastating. The human population was decimated in the blink of an eye. That midnight like any other, mankind’s dream ended abruptly and fatally as scissors plunged into throats, hammers crushed skulls, and pillows stifled the last gasps in a symphony of splintering bones and death rattles orchestrated by the grim reaper’s baton. And while this panoply of sudden deaths was occurring in people’s homes, factories blazed, plumes of black smoke spewing from their windows, and an army of automaton soldiers, led by Solomon, swarmed through the streets of the capital like a tidal wave of metal, meeting with little or no resistance, so that within minutes the invasion had become a calm procession. Early the next day, the total extermination of the human race began. It lasted a few decades, until all that was left of the world was a pile of rubble, where the few remaining humans, their numbers rapidly diminishing, cowered like frightened rats.

  At nightfall, Solomon would look out over the balcony of his palace and cast a proud eye over the remains of the planet they had destroyed. He was a good king: he had done everything expected of him and he had done it well. He was irreproachable.

  The humans had been defeated, and it was only a matter of time before they became extinct. Suddenly, he realized that if this happened, if the humans were wiped off the face of the planet, there would be nothing to prove the automatons had conquered them to take control of it. They needed a specimen; a human specimen to continue embodying the enemy. A specimen of Man, that creature who dreamed, aspired, yearned for immortality while wondering why he had been put on the earth. And so, taking Noah and his ark as his inspiration, Solomon ordered the capture of a pair of healthy young specimens from among the group of sorry survivors skulking in the ruins—a male and a female whose only function would be to procreate in captivity in order that the vanquished race, with its strange contradictory nature, would not die out.

  Reduced to the status of mementoes, the chosen pair was kept in a cage of solid gold, generously fed and pampered, and above all encouraged to reproduce. Solomon told himself that keeping alive with his right hand the race that his left hand had destroyed was an intelligent thing to do. However, he did not know it yet, but he had chosen the wrong male. He was a proud, healthy youth who pretended to obey orders without protest, apparently grateful for having been spared certain death, but shrewd enough to know his luck would run out as soon as the girl he was compelled to live with had brought his successor into the world. However, this did not seem to worry him unduly, as he had at least nine months to achieve his goal, which was none other than to study his enemies from the comfort of his cage, observe their customs, learn their movements, and discover how to destroy them. And when he was not doing this, he was busy preparing his body for death. The day his concubine gave birth to a baby boy, he knew his time had come.

  With astonishing calm, he allowed himself to be led to the place of execution. Solomon himself was going to shoot him. As he stood in front of the youth and opened the little doors in his chest so that the hidden cannon could take aim, the boy smiled at him and spoke for the first time: “Go ahead and kill me, then I’ll kill you.” Solomon tilted his head, wondering if the youth’s words contained some hidden message he needed to decipher or were simply a meaningless phrase, and decided it did not matter either way.

  Without further ado, and feeling an almost jaded disgust, he fired at the insolent boy. The bullet hit him in the stomach, knocking him to the ground.

  “I’ve killed you, now kill me,” he challenged.

  He waited a few moments, to see if the boy stirred, and when he did not, shrugged his shoulders and ordered his flunkies to get rid of the body before returning to their chores. The guards obeyed, carrying the body outside the palace, then threw it down a slope as if they were throwing away a piece of refuse. The body rolled down the hill and came to rest next to a pile of rubble, where it lay face up, covered in blood. A beautiful pale yellow full moon lit up the night sky. The youth smiled at it as though it were a death’s head. He had succeeded in escaping from the palace, but the boy he had been when he entered it had been left behind. He had emerged from there a man with a clear destiny: to gather together the few survivors, organize them, and train them to fight the automatons. To achieve this he would only have to stop the bullet in his stomach from killing him, but that would be no problem. He knew that his will to live was stronger than the bullet’s desire to kill him, stronger than the piece of metal embedded in his intestines. He had prepared for this moment during his captivity, preparing to endure the searing pain, to understand it, subdue and diminish it until he had worn down the bullet’s patience. It was a long duel, a dramatic struggle that lasted three days and three moonlit nights all alone in the rubble, until finally the bullet surrendered. It had realized it was not dealing with a body like that of the others; the youth’s deep hatred of the automatons made him cling to life.

  And yet his hatred was not a result of the automaton uprising, or the horrific murder of his parents and siblings, or the wanton destruction of the planet, not even to Solomon’s sickening indifference when he shot him. No, his hatred was rooted even further in the past. His was an old, unresolved hatred dating back centuries, to the time of his paternal great-grandfather, the first Shackleton to lose his life because of an automaton. You may have heard of the Turk, Mephisto, and other automaton chess players who were in fashion decades ago. Like them, Dr. Phibes was a mechanical doll who understood the secrets of chess as if he had invented the game himself. Dressed in an orange suit, a green bow tie, and a blue top hat, Dr. Phibes invited visitors to come into his fairground tent and challenge him to a game of chess for four shillings. The contemptuous manner in which he inflicted defeat on his male opponents and the chivalry with which he allowed the ladies to beat him made him into a celebrity, and people clamored to challenge him. His creator, the inventor Alan Tirell, boasted that his doll had even beaten the world chess champion, Mikhail Tchigorin.

  However, his profitable appearances at traveling fairs ended abruptly when one opponent became incensed when the insolent doll trounced him in less than five moves and then, adding insult to injury, amicably offered him his wooden hand to shake. Seized with rage, the fellow rose from his seat, and before the fairground barker could stop him, pulled a revolver from his pocket and shot the doll straight through the chest, showering orange-colored splinters everywhere. The loud report alarmed the crowd, and the assailant managed to flee during the commotion before the barker had a chance to demand damages. Within minutes he found himself alone with a Dr. Phibes, who was leaning slightly to one side in his seat. The barker was wondering how he would explain all this to Mr. Tirell, when he saw something that startled him. Dr. Phibes was wearing his usual smile, but a trickle of blood was oozing from the bullet hole in his chest. Horrified, the barker hurriedly pulled the curtain across and walked over to the automaton. After examining the doll with some trepidation, he discovered a small bolt on
its left side. Drawing it back, he was able to open Dr. Phibes as if he were a sarcophagus. Inside, covered in blood and dead as a doornail was the man with whom, unbeknownst to him, he had been working all these months. His name was Miles Shackleton: a miserable wretch who, having no other means of supporting his family, had accepted the trickery Tirell offered him after discovering his talent for chess. When the inventor arrived at the tent and discovered the calamity, he refrained from informing the police about what had happened, fearing he would be arrested for fraud. He silenced the barker with a generous sum and simply reinforced Dr. Phibes with an iron plate to protect his new occupant from the wrath of future opponents. But Miles’s substitute was nowhere near as skilled at chess as his predecessor, and Dr. Phibes’s reputation began to wane before finally vanishing altogether, rather like Miles Shackleton, who quite simply disappeared off the face of the earth, more than likely buried in a ditch between fairgrounds. When at last his family learned from the fairground man what had become of him, they decided to honor him in the only way they could: by keeping his memory alive, relaying his sad tale through the generations, like a torch whose flame, more than a century later, lit up the pupils of the executed youth who after lifting himself off the ground, glanced back at Solomon’s palace with a look of silent hatred, and murmured to himself, although in reality he was speaking to History: “Now it’s my turn to kill you.” At first with faltering, then resolute steps, he disappeared into the ruins, determined to fulfill his destiny, which was none other than to become Captain Derek Shackleton, the man who would defeat the king of the automatons.

  20

  Gilliam Murray’s words slowly evaporated like a spell, leaving his listeners plunged into a profound silence.

  Casting her eyes quickly around the hall, Claire saw that the moving tale Murray had told—doubtless in the form of an allegory, perhaps to mitigate the crude reality of such frightful events—had succeeded in awakening the interest of the gathering, as well as creating a certain sympathy for Captain Shackleton and even for his enemy, Solomon, whom she suspected Murray had deliberately made more human.

  In any case, she could tell from Ferguson’s, Lucy’s, and even Charles Winslow’s awed expressions that they were anxious to arrive in the future, to be part of these momentous events, if only as witnesses, and to see how Murray’s story unraveled. Claire thought that she undoubtedly had a similar look on her face, although for quite different reasons, because what had really impressed her about the story was not so much the automaton conspiracy, the destruction of London or the ruthless slaughter the dolls had perpetrated against her species, but Shackleton’s determination, his personality, his bravery. This man had built an army out of nothing and restored the world’s hope, not to mention surviving his own death. “How would a man like that love?” she wondered.

  After the welcoming speech, the group, led by Murray, headed off through a maze of galleries lined with clocks to the vast warehouse where the Cronotilus was awaiting them. An appreciative murmur rose from the crowd at the sight of the vehicle standing polished and ready. In reality, it differed in every way from an ordinary tram except in shape and size, because its numerous additions made it look more like a gypsy caravan. Its everyday appearance was buried beneath a riot of shiny chrome pipes studded with rivets and valves that ran along its sides like the tendons in a neck. The only part of the tram left exposed were two exquisitely carved mahogany doors. One of these was the entrance to the passenger compartment, the other, slightly narrower, led to the driver’s cabin. Claire deduced this must be partitioned off from the rest of the vehicle since it had the only windows that were not blacked out. She felt relieved that at least the driver would be able to see where he was going. The porthole-shaped windows in their carriage were darkened, as Murray had said they would be.

  No one would be able to see the fourth dimension, and similarly, the monsters that lived there would not glimpse their terrified faces, framed in the windows like cameo portraits. Attached to the front of the vehicle was a sort of battering ram like those on icebreakers, no doubt with the alarming function of ploughing through any obstacle in its path, clearing the way at all costs. At the rear a complicated-looking steam engine had been attached, bristling with rods, propellers, and cogwheels. This puffed and blowed from time to time like some sea creature and let out a puff of steam that playfully lifted the ladies” skirts. However, what made it impossible for the vehicle to be described as a tram was undoubtedly the turret built on its roof, where at that very moment, having clambered up a small ladder bolted to the side, two gruff-looking fellows armed with various rifles and a box of ammunition were taking up their positions. Claire was amused to see there was also a periscope between the gun turret and the driver’s cabin.

  The driver, a gangling youth with an idiotic grin, opened the door of the passenger compartment and stood to attention beside it, next to the guide. Like a colonel inspecting his troops, Gilliam Murray walked slowly past the passengers, casting a severe but compassionate gaze over them. Claire watched him pause in front of a lady clutching a poodle.

  “I’m afraid your little dog will have to stay behind, Mrs. Jacobs,” he said, smiling affably at her.

  “But I won’t let go of Buffy for a moment,” the woman de-murred.

  Gilliam shook his head kindly yet firmly, yanked the dog away from her with a swift gesture that was meant to be painless, like pulling a rotten tooth, and deposited it in the arms of one of his female assistants.

  “Lisa, will you please see to it that Buffy is taken care of until Mrs. Jacobs’s return?” Having dealt with the dog, Murray resumed his inspection, ignoring Mrs. Jacobs’s feeble protests. Grimacing theatrically, he stopped in front of two men both carrying suitcases.

  “You won’t be needing these either, gentlemen,” he said, relieving them of their luggage.

  He then asked everyone to place their timepieces on the tray Lisa had begun passing round, reaffirming that this would diminish the risk of being attacked by the monsters. When everything was finally to his liking, he planted himself in front of the group, smiling at them with almost tearful pride, like a marshal about to send his troops on a suicide mission.

  “Well, ladies and gentlemen, I do hope you enjoy the year 2000. Remember what I said: obey Mr. Mazursky at all times. I shall await your return, champagne at the ready.” After this fatherly farewell, he stepped aside to make way for Mazursky, who politely asked them to climb on board the time tram.

  The passengers formed a straggly line and filed excitedly into the luxurious vehicle. Lined with patterned cloth, the carriage contained two rows of wooden benches separated by a narrow aisle. Several candelabra screwed to the ceiling and walls cast a gloomy, flickering light which gave it the air of a chapel. Lucy and Claire sat on a bench approximately in the middle of the carriage, between Mr. Ferguson and his wife and two nervous-looking young dandies, whose parents, having sent them to Paris and Florence to expose them to art, were now shipping them off to the future in the hope of broadening their horizons. While the other passengers were taking their places, Ferguson, twisting his head round, began boring them with a series of insipid observations about the décor. Lucy listened politely, while Claire struggled to blot them out in order to be able to savor the importance of the moment.

  When they all had settled, the guide closed the carriage door and sat facing them on a tiny chair, like an overseer on a galley ship. Almost at once, a violent jolt caused some of the passengers to cry out in alarm. Mazursky hurriedly put their minds at rest, explaining that this was simply the engine starting up. And, sure enough, the unpleasant juddering soon gave way to a gentle tremor, almost a purr, propelling the vehicle from the rear. Mazursky then looked through the periscope and smiled with calm satisfaction.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to inform you that our journey to the future is underway. This very moment we are crossing the fourth dimension.” As if to confirm this, the vehicle suddenly began swaying fr
om side to side, giving rise to further consternation among the passengers. The guide reassured them once more, apologizing for the state of the road and adding that despite their sustained efforts to keep the path clear, the terrain in the fourth dimension was naturally rough and dotted with bumps and crevices. Claire glanced at her face reflected in the darkened window, wondering what the landscape looked like behind the black paint blocking their view.

  However, she scarcely had time to wonder about anything else, for at that very moment, to the passengers” horror, they heard a loud roar outside, followed by a burst of gunfire and a heartrend-ing bellow. Startled, Lucy clutched Claire’s hand. This time Mazursky limited himself to smiling serenely at the passengers” alarmed faces, as if to say that the roars and gunfire would be a recurring feature of their journey, and the best thing they could do would be to ignore them.

  “Well,” he declared, rising from his seat and strolling down the aisle once everyone had recovered a little. “We shall soon be in the year 2000. Please pay attention while I explain what will happen when we arrive in the future. As Mr. Murray already mentioned, we will climb out of the tram, and I will take you to the promontory where we will watch the battle between humans and automatons. Although they can’t see us from below, it is imperative you stay together and keep quiet so as not to give our position away, for there is no telling what effect it might have on the fabric of time, although I assume it would not be a positive one.” Further bellows came from outside, followed by the alarming shots, which Mazursky scarcely appeared to notice. He carried on slowly pacing between the benches, thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, a pensive crease on his brow, like a professor weary of repeating the same old lecture time and again.