Plan for the Worst

by Jodi Taylor

  They started to say something but I was already opening the door. I wanted to see the extent of the damage.

  There were no words to describe it. Behind us, the technical conversation stopped as everyone else crowded around the door. I stepped outside to give them room. We all stared. The world, as we’d known it, had gone. Everything had just . . . gone.

  Remembering who I was, I pulled out my recorder again. There would never be another opportunity.

  The first thing I noticed was the sound of water. Everything was wet. I was up to my ankles in water. It ran down the rocks to form small pools and waterfalls of dull, dead water. There was no sunlight to reflect. More water cascaded past us on its way back to the sea. Everywhere was water.

  And it was cold. Dark clouds completely obscured the sun. The temperature was dropping all the time. A chill wind blew past me. Everything was cold and wet. The blue skies and bright sunshine would not return for a very long time.

  Crete had been scoured. Well, this part had. We were down to bedrock here. Trees were either completely gone or snapped off about three feet above ground, their roots exposed because all the soil had been washed away. And not just the soil. Crops, vines, trees, bushes, every living green thing – all gone.

  Instead of the familiar landscape there were piles of sand, seashells, seaweed, dead fish . . . Some gigantic force had scooped up the sea bed and deposited it all the way up here. Wherever here was. I had no idea. Nothing was recognisable.

  I turned, slowly, getting everything. It was the same everywhere I looked. As if the island was at the bottom of the sea. Something flapped at my feet. There was an octopus. We were a hundred feet up and there was an octopus. An actual octopus was gripping a tree root and trying to get itself into a nearby pool of water. I watched it work its way along. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

  I had no idea where we were. A thick pall of smoke hung seemingly only just overhead, leaving us in semi-darkness. The precursor to two years and more of winter.

  I turned to look at the pod. It had suffered but survived. It was leaning at an angle and some of the outer casing had been ripped away. One corner was crushed but otherwise it looked intact. Dirty water was running out of the door.

  We’d come to rest in a small gully. I looked around. There was no sign of the teapot anywhere. I hadn’t expected there to be. It and Ronan had been washed away and, with luck, they were both either at the bottom of the sea or smashed to pieces on the rocks somewhere. Even the teapot couldn’t have survived the power of the wave. I felt a sadness for it – it had been my home for a little while – but a certain amount of relief as well. Let the Time Police do their worst. We’d told them the teapot had been destroyed and now it was. Problem solved.

  I took a deep breath and turned my recorder north.

  The sea no longer reflected glittering shards of eye-watering sunshine. There was no sun. There was no sea, either. It was invisible beneath a dense mat of shattered timber and broken boats. Mighty Cretan ships had been brought almost to nothing. Pieces of people’s homes, debris, full-grown trees torn apart, dead animals, dead people – everything that had been on the north side of Crete was now in the sea. The wave had picked up everything in its path. Ship had crashed into ship. Building had crashed into building. Nothing remained.

  It was as if the sea and the land had changed places. The sea was up here – the land was down there. And that was just the stuff that floated. I wondered what was, at this moment, falling slowly and silently to the sea bed, never to be seen again.

  A few people lay on the top of this vast interwoven mat of . . . stuff. Just lying where the water had tossed them. Whether they were dead or alive I had no idea. They weren’t moving. I wondered how many were trapped beneath the surface. Whether they’d ever be able to fight their way out.

  The whole tangled mass was constantly moving in a heavy swell. Up and down, up and down . . .

  Where were all the people? I turned west to where I thought Knossos should be. It wasn’t there now.

  It had been vast – terrace upon terrace, hall upon hall, pillars, columns, storerooms, courtyards and, like everything else, it had gone. The Minoans had built it well but nothing could withstand the power of Poseidon. The lower part had been completely swept away. You could clearly see the path of destruction. The only walls still standing were those that had faced away from the sea. Anything looking towards the sea had disappeared. Roofs, bricks, the wooden columns, barely anything remained.

  Only one thing had survived more or less unscathed. Almost mockingly, the giant bull’s horns still stood on the highest point. Slightly askew but still there. Making their point, I suppose. Today, Poseidon had truly overcome the Mother.

  I panned across what remained of the landscape. The Minoans would rebuild, but nothing would ever be the same for them. Their civilisation was gone – most of it smashed to destruction. And not just here. The whole Eastern Mediterranean coastline had taken a massive bashing. Wherever they had been when the wave hit, the Minoan fleet had been destroyed. The foundations on which their wealth and power were built had been swept away in one dreadful day. Poseidon had spoken. The mainland Greeks, the Mycenaeans, would move in. The Mother would be subjugated to her husband and society would become patriarchal. I tried to take a moment to remember those handsome, bright, confident people – men and women – and then Peterson nudged me.

  ‘Max.’

  At the same time, someone said, ‘Uh-oh.’

  I don’t know why I thought there would just be the one wave. Another dark line was forming on the horizon. Someone pulled at my arm.

  ‘Hang on.’ I panned three hundred and sixty degrees. Slowly, Maxwell. Take your time. Get it all. Don’t rush.

  They were shouting at me.

  Still recording, I backed into the pod. Someone pushed me into a seat. I buckled up because I didn’t want to go through all that again.

  ‘Computer – initiate jump.’

  I crossed my fingers but the computer responded. ‘Jump initiated.’

  The world went white.

  41

  They took us straight home. We landed on the pan outside Hawking. I’m certain they could have landed us inside, but it’s considered very bad manners just to drop in uninvited. As I had done, of course, but I think everyone will agree that was an emergency.

  My people couldn’t have been back long because the security team surrounding us was still in Cretan dress. Not so their weapons, however. Very modern and very pointed at us. Markham, still supported on both sides, nodded approvingly.

  ‘Right,’ said our leader. ‘Someone go out there and persuade them not to shoot us and we’ll start unloading the wounded.’

  We all looked at the apron-clad Markham.

  ‘I’m not going out there,’ he said. ‘Not dressed like this.’

  ‘You’re Head of Security,’ I reminded him.

  ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘I’m Head of Security. A senior member of staff. I have my credibility to think of.’

  ‘Oh, mate,’ said Peterson, sadly. ‘That ship sailed long ago.’

  Markham sighed, threw back his shoulders and gestured for them to open the door. Cool daylight flooded into the pod and out he went.

  We waited. All we could hear was a disbelieving silence and then Evans said, ‘Why are you wearing a pinny?’

  ‘Badge of honour, mate.’

  ‘Only I wondered if, you know, in these days of gender diversity . . .’

  ‘I was attacked by Clive Ronan, then three of the weirdest women you ever saw in your entire life, then there was an earthquake, then the bloody volcano went off, then there was a tidal wave and if I want to wear a bloody apron then I’ll wear a bloody apron. Is that clearly understood?’

  Evans snapped to attention. ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Only it was the little bells we were all admiring. They’re so pr
etty . . .’

  Fortunately, before Markham put himself on a disciplinary charge by murdering his entire section, Hunter turned up, gazing at her beloved with the sort of placid resignation you have to adopt when you’re just too pregnant to do anything else.

  He grinned at her. ‘Can we organise some stretchers, please. We have wounded here.’

  No one died. A state of affairs so unusual that Dr Stone wandered in three times a day just to check, instead of pursuing his usual policy of ignoring us until we got better on our own. A lot of people were damaged, not just me. Peterson, Markham and I hadn’t been the only victims of Thera’s seismic enthusiasm.

  No one had left it as late as us to evacuate – Sands had got them all away in good time – and Evans had, they told me, dealt efficiently and effectively with Dr Dowson’s determination to stay to the bitter end by simply picking him up and carrying him, together with all the equipment to which he’d been attached, dumping the whole lot in the pod and forbidding him to leave. There had, apparently, been sulking.

  The injuries were mostly sprains – wrists and ankles where people had fallen down. A tree had fallen on Bashford – naturally – and when Keller went to pull him out its neighbour fell on him. As I said – nothing serious.

  Dr Bairstow was spared the horrors of Sick Bay. He spent the time recovering quietly in his own set of rooms. I was relieved. I still wasn’t sure of my feelings towards him.

  Everyone recovered. All wounds healed. Dr Stone kept everyone in for four days and then we were all discharged together. Noisily and cheerfully. Mrs Mack had something special waiting for us in the dining room. I sat with Leon and Matthew, alternately staring out of the window and thinking how green everything was and how crowded the sky seemed with all those big fluffy clouds after the empty blue of Crete, and eating more sausages than was wise. Or even legal.

  That was the Friday. My plan was that we’d spend Saturday and Sunday alternately resting and partying – the History Department was convinced it could do both at once – before I drove them to the point of exhaustion as we set about sorting and classifying the vast mass of material we’d brought back with us. And after they’d finished that, I’d be after them for their reports. And harassing the IT section for some spectacular holos. And the Security Section for their street plan. I really don’t know why anyone thought this assignment was over with.

  The one report I had already written – by hand – was the one concerning Clive Ronan’s death. I wrote it late one night in Sick Bay while everyone else was asleep. I sat in my little circle of light and wrote without pause. I kept it factual – I didn’t need to revive memories I knew would stay with me for a long time – and ended with my theories on the cause of his death.

  That the smartdust had somehow malfunctioned, causing seizures, loss of control and so on.

  That his life had been due to end because I was about to pull the trigger and the smartdust had functioned correctly and the Time Police simply hadn’t bothered to tell us how bad it would be. Perfectly possible for those bastards.

  That in his desperate effort to get to Annie before she died, Ronan somehow cut things too fine – he clipped his original timeline and just for a nano-second there’d been two of him together, and his subsequent implosion was the result. His older self was the fuse that had blown to prevent a bigger catastrophe.

  I shoved it all in an envelope, sealed it and addressed it to Mrs Partridge for her to do with as she pleased.

  And then, Saturday evening, in the bar, as Markham was juggling a sausage roll, a beer and a packet of crisps and, if truth be told, making more than a bit of a mess, Peterson tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘You need to get yourself up to Sick Bay, mate. Quick as you can.’

  He dropped the lot and fled.

  Sunday was lovely. The windows were open and the sun – no longer an incandescent ball of heat because this was a proper English summer – was shining through. Everyone was sitting around enjoying their last afternoon of freedom.

  Peterson and I were in the bar, relaxing with a quiet drink. I was waiting for Leon, who was kite-flying with Matthew, and Peterson was waiting for Lingoss. I heard a stir and looked up. Dr Bairstow entered. He actually entered the bar. For social rather than disciplinary reasons. And he had a guest. The room went quiet. If we’d had a piano it would have stopped playing. And then everyone turned back to their drinks and their conversations and the world returned to normal.

  He was moving slowly but seemed well enough, ushering Mrs Brown to a quiet table in the corner. I’m sure he would have ordered his drinks at the bar like the rest of us because he’s quite democratic like that, but one arm was in a sling and the bar staff got to him first. They took his order and he sat down.

  I shifted my position slightly so I didn’t have to look at him. If Peterson noticed he said nothing. Well, no, that’s not quite true. If he was about to say something, he never got the chance because Markham – and I hesitate to use the word after recent events – erupted into the bar, coming to a dead stop at our table. He was in a bit of a state. Actually, he was in quite a lot of a state. If it had been anyone else, I’d have said he was in shock. His whole body was shaking and he was managing, at one and the same time, to look delighted, terrified, overwhelmed, exhausted and all points in between.

  The conversation died even more quickly than for Dr Bairstow and Mrs Brown’s debut appearance.

  Markham seized the back of a chair for support. ‘It’s here,’ he said, barely able to get the words out. ‘At last. It’s here.’

  Peterson shot to his feet and got him to sit down before he fell down, saying, ‘Well? What is it? Don’t keep us in suspense.’

  ‘It’s a girl,’ he announced, beaming from ear to ear.

  The room rang with congratulations and applause. People slapped his back and called him dad.

  ‘Typical, isn’t it,’ I said. ‘Hunter’s done all the work and you get all the glory.’

  His face lit up even more. He was going to burst into flames any moment now. ‘Isn’t she amazing?’ He stared at his hand. ‘Although I think she’s broken two of my fingers.’

  ‘I commend her restraint,’ I said. ‘I’d have broken a lot more than your fingers.’

  At that moment the barman turned up with one of those enormous brandy glasses filled with a substantial amount of liquid. ‘Compliments of Dr Bairstow and congratulations.’

  Markham accepted the drink, looked over my shoulder and raised his glass in thanks. His hand was still shakier than a politician’s integrity and I honestly think if it hadn’t been in one of those big glasses most of his drink would have gone all over the room.

  ‘So,’ I said eagerly. ‘Does she have a name? When can we see her?’

  ‘Does she look like Winston Churchill?’ asked Peterson.

  ‘What? No, of course she doesn’t. Why would she look like Winston Churchill?’

  ‘All babies look like Winston Churchill.’

  ‘No, they don’t,’ said Markham, half an hour into fatherhood and already an expert.

  I changed the subject. ‘What’s her name?’

  His grin reached from ear to ear. I’ve never seen anyone look happier. ‘Flora.’

  ‘Oh, that’s so pretty.’

  ‘She’s a very pretty baby,’ he said, clutching his glass to his chest as if it was all that was holding him up. ‘Mother and baby doing well.’

  ‘Which is more than can be said for the father,’ said Peterson.

  ‘Flora Markham,’ I said, trying it out. ‘That’s lovely.’

  ‘Is it?’ said Peterson suspiciously.

  I turned to him and frowned. ‘Yes, of course it is. It’s a lovely name.’

  ‘No, I don’t mean Flora.’ He narrowed his eyes in suspicion and leaned over the table. ‘I’m talking about the Markham bit.’

  Markham sighe
d. ‘There’s always something with you, isn’t there? What are you on about now?’

  ‘You don’t mean whether he’s married or not, do you?’ I said.

  He waved a casual dismissal. ‘No, I’ve lost interest in that. I want to know what your first name is. In fact, everyone wants to know what your first name is.’

  Markham blinked. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, we’re getting near the end. People will want to know.’

  ‘Want to know what?’

  ‘What your first name is.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Peterson spoke clearly and distinctly. ‘Your first name. What is it?’

  ‘You know what my first name is.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Yes, you do. Of course you do. You’ve been using it for years.’

  Peterson sat back in astonishment. ‘Your first name is Bloody?’

  ‘No, stupid. My first name is Markham.’

  Peterson was bewildered. ‘Who has a name like that?’

  ‘I do, obviously.’

  ‘All right – I’ll play along. What’s your surname then?’

  ‘Not telling you.’

  Peterson breathed heavily. He was going to have his own neural event any minute now. I should distract them.

  I gestured behind me in the direction I estimated Dr Bairstow and Mrs Brown to be sitting. ‘Do you think we’re going to have a Mrs Director?’

  ‘Don’t see why not,’ said Markham, obviously feeling he was entitled to some revenge. ‘We’re about to have a Mrs Deputy Director.’

  Peterson went scarlet and just at that moment, Lingoss appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Gotta run,’ he said, downing his drink. ‘We’re off to the Arms for a . . . a special event.’

  I looked at his smart jacket and very nearly tidy hair and managed a smile. ‘Enjoy yourselves.’

  ‘See you later.’ And he was out of the door at very nearly the speed of light.

  I watched him go, thinking thoughts.

  ‘It wouldn’t have worked, you know,’ said Markham, very quietly.