by Paul McAuley
‘If people can’t choose freedom for themselves it isn’t freedom, it’s just another form of tyranny,’ Stone said. ‘And what you want to do here in the name of freedom is a thousand times worse than any of the terrorists who’ve attacked the Real.’
‘The terrorists are wrong,’ Knightly said, ‘and I’m right. It makes all the difference. I know you’ll probably prefer to die under questioning than give up the device - I trained my cowboy angels well. But I happen to know that under your tough exterior beats the bleeding heart of a liberal. Perhaps you won’t mind paying the price for your silence, but I think you’ll mind it very much if someone else has to.’ Knightly looked past Stone at the burly man behind him. ‘Take him away, Mr Fitzgerald. Prep him. And prep Linda Waverly too.’
16
Fitzgerald and a guard in combat fatigues marched Stone into the house, through a door under the stairs, and down wooden steps into a root cellar walled with rough stone and lit by three floodlights on metal stands. A tin bath brimful of water stood in front of a scarred table on which various domestic items were laid out like surgical instruments. A car battery with starter cables clamped to its terminals, and an assortment of knives. Pliers, a claw hammer, an aluminium baseball bat, an electric drill. A roll of plastic wrap. Folded sheets of white plastic.
Linda Waverly sat in a kitchen chair to one side of these sinister props, bound by many loops of thin cord wound around her body, her arms caught behind her back. Her eyes were wide and unblinking above the duct tape over her mouth as she watched the two men shove Stone forward so violently that he missed the last few steps and fell to his hands and knees on the clay floor.
Fitzgerald stepped around him and the guard stood near the bottom of the stairs, pointing his rifle at him. ‘Stand up and lose your clothes,’ Fitzgerald said.
Stone climbed to his feet slowly and warily. The burly man was aiming a stainless-steel semi-automatic pistol at him, standing with his back to the table, six o’clock to Stone’s twelve. Stone took a couple of steps forward, not quite toward him, and said, ‘Suppose I want to talk right now?’
Fitzgerald moved sideways out of reflex conditioned by rigorous training, maintaining a good distance, the pistol aimed steadily at Stone’s chest. He said, ‘You can say what you like. But we still have to make sure that what you tell us is the truth.’
‘Do what you want with me but leave her out of this,’ Stone said. He heard the creak of stressed wood as the guard took a step down the stairs behind him.
‘It’s not up to me, pal,’ Fitzgerald said, moving two steps sideways as Stone moved forward again. The man was a professional. He was used to pointing guns at people and making them do what he wanted them to do. He thought that he was in control. He didn’t seem to realise that he was part of a dance, that he was being forced into a vulnerable position. He said, ‘Stop right there and lose the clothes.’
Stone looked up at the black oak beam that ran under the rough board ceiling. He took another step, as if to get a better view of the butcher’s hook screwed into it, and said, ‘You’re going to hang me from that? What is this, amateur night?’
Fitzgerald stepped sideways again, moving on the balls of his feet, moving with surprising delicacy for a big man. He was standing in front of Linda now. He said, ‘Goddamn right we’re going to hang you up. Get undressed right now or I’ll shoot you in the knee.’
Stone took off his jacket, folded it and laid it carefully on the floor, slowly took off his tie, and began to unbutton his shirt.
‘I’ll work you over to get you in the mood, then Mr Knightly will go to work on your girlfriend,’ Fitzgerald said. ‘I’m pretty good, but the Old Man, he’s amazing. Very inventive. It’ll be a very instructive session.’
‘Everything’s going to be all right, Linda,’ Stone said.
‘Don’t talk to her,’ Fitzgerald said.
‘What are you going to do?’ Stone said. ‘Hurt me?’
He was looking at Linda, trying to convey with his gaze what he needed her to do.
‘I’m going to hurt you bad,’ Fitzgerald said, watching as Stone knelt to untie the laces of his shoes. His eyes were dark and flat above his thin smile. ‘I’m going to fuck you up. And then I’ll staple your eyelids open so can you watch every single thing Mr Knightly does—’
The sound came from upstairs, a percussive noise followed by the pop and crackle of gunshots. Without taking his gaze from Stone, Fitzgerald told the guard, ‘Find out what the fuck’s going on, Mike.’
After the guard had turned and started up the stairs, Stone threw a shoe at Fitzgerald, hard and fast. The burly man warded it off with his arm, his pistol moving off Stone for a second, and Linda jacked up one leg and kicked him in the back of the knee. She went over backward, still strapped to the chair, as Fitzgerald fell against the table, scattering knives and tools. Stone was on him before he could recover his balance, butting him hard under the chin and grabbing his gun hand and slamming it against the edge of the table. The pistol went off when Stone ripped it from Fitzgerald’s hand, discharging harmlessly into the clay floor, and Stone hammered its grip into the man’s face and felt the cheekbone snap. Fitzgerald dropped to his knees and Stone reversed the pistol and shot him in the head. The guard was coming back down the stairs in a hurry. Stone shot at him and missed and shot him as he raised his rifle and shot him again as he fell forward and tumbled to the foot of the stairs and lay still, head twisted at a sharp angle, feet tangled in the steps.
The noise of the shots sang in Stone’s ears. The air was hazed with blue gunsmoke. He stepped over Fitzgerald’s body and checked that the guard was dead. Linda was making a muffled noise, rocking to and fro in her overturned chair. Stone stripped the tape from her mouth and used one of the knives from the table to saw through the cord and plastic cuffs that secured her to the chair.
Guns popped and snapped somewhere above. Smoke drifted down the stairs and rolled across the plank ceiling.
‘I think your father has turned up,’ Stone said as he pulled on his shirt.
‘It’s about time,’ Linda said. She was rubbing the weals that the rope had left on her wrists.
‘Are you okay?’
‘They were model hosts until an hour ago. They showed off their fully equipped fallout shelter in the woods behind the house, and they took me up to the hilltop to watch for the flash when New York was vaporised. They had smoked glasses and they had slathered themselves with factor fifty sunblock. One of them had a video camera. They were ready to have a little party. And then,’ Linda said with a grim smile, ‘they got your phone call.’
Stone shrugged his jacket over his unbuttoned shirt. ‘We’re going to have to make a run for it. Through the woods to the highway.’
‘That’s your plan? We run?’
‘Your father is the one with the plan. Let’s hope it survives contact with the enemy.’
Stone gave Linda the stainless-steel pistol, searched Fitzgerald’s body and found a spare clip and tossed it to her, then scooped up the guard’s assault rifle and climbed the stairs. The hall was full of smoke and the front part was on fire. A man sprawled on his back near the flames. He was clutching a pistol and had been shot in the chest and had a look of surprise on his face. Stone pulled the pistol from his hand and stuck it in his waistband, walked out through the kitchen and took a quick peek around the edge of the back door before sliding down the steps and along the side of the house. Linda was right behind him.
The porch was on fire from end to end. The white van that Stone had stolen in New York was slewed behind the car that had delivered him to the farm, and a man was slumped over its steering wheel. The barn was on fire too. Men crouched amongst old farm machinery in front of it, shooting into smoke that poured from its gaping door; others were advancing through the vehicles parked in the paddock.
Stone dashed across open ground to the van, Linda at his heels. The back doors hung open. The body of the fake cop was gone. So was the aluminium case of the b
omb. Stone went around the side and opened the door and pulled the dead man out by his arms. It was the overweight guy who had attended to the bomb. The keys were in the ignition.
Linda, watching the barn over the sight of her pistol, said, ‘There are sixteen of them.’
‘We have four confirmed kills,’ Stone said. ‘And your father must have taken out the other guys who were left behind to deal with the bomb.’
‘You brought it along?’
‘What else could we do? It was in the van, but it isn’t there now. I hope that means Tom has hidden it somewhere safe. How are you holding up?’
‘I’m good,’ she said, but flinched when a long burst of automatic fire sounded from the direction of the barn. Her red hair spilled over her shoulders. There was a curled length of duct tape stuck to it. ‘He’s in there, isn’t he?’
‘It looks like Knightly has got him pinned down. I’m tempted to leave him, but he has the time key, and only he knows where the bomb is. Stay with the van, and be ready to pick us up and make a run for it when we come out. If anyone comes near you, shoot them. Don’t give them any warning, don’t tell them to drop their weapon, just do it. If there are too many of them or if they start shooting back, don’t try to defend your position. Drive away if you can, or beat it into the woods and head west, toward the highway.’
‘How are you going to get him out?’
‘Any way I can.’
Stone slid into the driver’s seat of the car, the rifle across his lap, fired up the engine, and stamped on the gas pedal. The car jolted sideways, wheels spinning uselessly because its rear bumper was tangled with the bumper of the white van. Two men were running toward him. One stopped and aimed his pistol and fired. The round punched through the windshield and exited through the roof about an inch from Stone’s head. He selected reverse and slammed into the van, selected drive and floored the gas pedal again. Metal tore and the car ripped free and shot forward. Stone steered straight at the two men. One threw himself out of the way, but the other, it was Victor Moore, stood his ground and got off two shots before the car struck him with a solid thump. He flew across the hood and smashed into the windshield and lay there, caught in a cracked cradle of laminated glass, one foot punched clean through. Stone leaned sideways to peer through the only clear patch in the wrecked glass and aimed the car at the barn door.
The men in front started to shoot at the car as it raced toward them. Knightly stood amongst them, firing his pistol as calmly and methodically as if this was an exercise at one of Camp Perry’s ranges. Rounds ticked into metal, knocked gouts from Moore’s body. A tyre blew and the car lurched sideways through volumes of drifting smoke and struck the doorpost a glancing blow. Stone slipped the selector into neutral and cranked the wheel in the direction of the skid and pulled hard on the emergency brake. Moore’s body rolled away as the car spun through a hundred and eighty degrees and stopped with its nose aimed at the door.
The barn was full of white smoke that gushed from a long stack of hay bales burning inside a wall of fierce yellow flame. Drifts of smoke rolled across the underside of the pitched roof and poured out of the door or down the far wall. Tom Waverly dashed out of this waterfall of smoke after Stone hit the horn, a ghost suddenly gaining solidity. He held a pistol in one hand and a long-handled axe in the other. He slung the axe away, wrenched open the passenger door, and fell into the shotgun seat.
‘A couple more minutes, I’d’ve cut my way out the back,’ he said. ‘Where’s my daughter?’
‘She’s safe,’ Stone said, and handed Tom the assault rifle and mashed the gas pedal.
The car shot forward, gushing steam from its broken radiator and yawing on its flat tyre. Tom stuck the rifle out of the open side window and fired a raking burst; Knightly and his men fired back and shot out the rear window and punched holes in the bodywork. Then they were left behind as Stone accelerated toward the house, wrestling with the wheel. He slammed to a halt beside the van, shouldered the door open, and rolled out, drawing his pistol. His heart was bumping inside his chest and he was out of breath.
Linda stood behind the open door on the driver’s side of the van, shooting at the men running toward them. Tom fired the rifle from waist level and one man tumbled over and the rest threw themselves flat. Linda swung up into the van and Stone ran around the front and climbed in beside her. Tom fired again, a long burst that emptied the clip, and threw the rifle away and jumped into the van as Linda put it in gear. She accelerated in reverse, cut the wheel sharply and swung the van around, stepped on the gas and sped away down a track that slanted through scrubby woods.
‘My little girl,’ Tom said.
17
The burning barn and house were soon lost behind trees as the van bucked down the rough track. A dead man was tumbled in weeds beside an ungated gap in a fieldstone wall. Tom told Linda to turn left and the van swerved out onto a four-lane highway. Two threads of smoke hung above the tree line behind them, diminishing into the cloudless blue sky. Stone checked his watch. It was five after three. The gate opened at six.
‘I didn’t know you guys were in the house, or I wouldn’t have set fire to it,’ Tom said, ‘but aside from that it worked out pretty well. After they took you away, Adam, I waited until that technician turned off the bomb, and then I capped the two bad boys who were with him, stuck a gun to his head, and told him to take me in.’
‘And then you shot him,’ Stone said.
‘You bet. I set fire to a gallon can of turpentine and tossed it onto the porch as a diversion, and I went looking for you and Linda in the fallout shelter they have in back, which I admit was a dumb move. They chased me into that barn, but what the fuck, you had the balls to come get me. We made it, partner,’ he said, and thumped Stone on the shoulder. ‘We fucking made it.’
‘We’re not home yet,’ Stone said. He still had to find out where Tom had hidden the bomb, and he had to stop him making off with the time key and returning alone to 1984, taking the road that would lead him to Pottersville and Susan’s murder . . .
‘You did good. And Linda, you did pretty good too.’ Tom looked across Stone and said, ‘You are okay, aren’t you, honey?’
‘I’m holding up,’ Linda said.
‘My brave girl.’
Linda didn’t say anything. She was gripping the steering wheel so hard that her knuckles had turned white.
Stone said, ‘Let’s get something straight, Tom.’
‘What’s that, partner?’
‘I’m not your partner.’
‘For a few minutes back there, it sure seemed like it.’
Tom’s laugh turned into a cough. He wound down the window and spat into the slipstream.
‘You got me into this, but I was never your partner,’ Stone said.
‘Why don’t you lighten up? We all got out safely. We have the bomb. We have the time key. It’s a lovely day . . .’
The urge to shoot him was so strong that Stone could taste it. He said, ‘You know I’m not going to let you run off. You have to come back with me.’
Tom shook his head. ‘I’m not going to spend my last days in custody, being asked ten thousand different damn-fool questions. We’ll go back to the day before we left. Just one day. I can slip away, and you and Linda can take the time key and leave it switched on in the old dead drop right here in this sheaf, so its rightful owners can find it and retrieve it.’ He looked at Stone and said, ‘You know how it fell into our hands in the first place?’
‘Eileen Barrie told me that you took it from a bunch of time travellers. ’
‘That’s right. And it happened here, in this very sheaf. The future it comes from isn’t our future, Adam - it’s the future of the Nixon sheaf. Don’t you think that’s where it should return?’
‘You want me to leave it behind because some guys from the future will come get it? I don’t think so.’
‘Apparently that’s just what I did, the first time around. You found that empty envelope, didn’t you?’
‘An empty envelope doesn’t prove anything.’
But Stone was wondering if the reason why Tom had been unaffected when the time key had knocked down everyone else was because the thing knew, somehow, that he had set it free at the end of the first loop. Eileen Barrie had said that it was self-aware; if she had been telling the truth, it was possible that it had been attempting to manipulate events all along. Sending them back two weeks instead of three. Making sure that Tom Waverly took it with him when he went back to 1977. Trying to make sure that the loop came out more or less the same, so it would end up in an envelope in the old 42nd Street drop . . .
‘I know you’re not going to let me use it,’ Tom said. ‘Fine. But don’t for Christ’s sake let the Company have it. Do what good old TW Two did. Switch it on and leave it behind. Let it go. Because if you give it to the Company, it’ll be just as bad as letting Knightly have it.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘Think about it, Adam. Do you really believe that any politician who has the time key could resist the temptation to use it? He makes a mistake in policy, he sees that he’s going to pay for it in the next election, so he sends someone back to change things around, or give his former self the benefit of hindsight. I bet not even the saintly Jimmy Carter could resist that option. Back in the Real, in 1984, he’s coming up for re-election. If he had the time key and saw his popularity slipping, do you think he’d leave it in a vault?’
‘Stop it,’ Linda said. ‘Stop trying to pretend you’re on the right side.’
‘I’m thinking of the big picture now, honey. I’m not thinking of myself. Leave the time key behind, Adam. Leave it switched on so its rightful owners can take it back. That’s all I ask.’
‘It isn’t going to happen,’ Stone said.
‘So that’s how it is,’ Tom said. ‘The two of you are working against me because you’re both blindly loyal to the Company.’