Extinct

by RR Haywood

  ‘Oh my god, that’s so hot,’ she gasped, gripping the bedsheets in her hands. ‘Say it again . . .’

  ‘I’m not going to keep saying it . . .’

  ‘SAY IT!’

  ‘Fuck’s sake . . . I’m Alpha . . .’

  ‘So hot . . . Fuck me harder . . . Ooh, can you get me another one of those silk scarves for Jenny next time you go through . . . ? They’re so pretty . . .’

  ‘Come with me,’ Alpha said, pausing mid-thrust as she looks over her shoulder at him.

  ‘Can I?’

  ‘Sure you can,’ he said, holding her gaze. ‘I’m Alpha . . .’

  ‘Oh, you’re good, you dirty, dirty man . . .’

  Mother knew the answer before she asked Alpha if he liked Kate as she had watched them fucking on a glowing screen in the darkness of her office while all around her monitors showed feeds from cameras throughout the complex. She watched Delta in another room fucking one of the catering girls and Echo and Jenny lying in a post-coital embrace. She watched Bravo pushing one of the physics guys’ head into a pillow while going at him from behind. She watched everyone fucking, living, eating and existing while only ever really thinking about Maggie Sanderson and that smug tone the bitch had when she claimed victory.

  As time goes on, so a strange atmosphere grows within the complex. An excitement of shared endeavours mixed with a disharmony of mutterings and whispered comments, with quiet conversations snatched in the kitchens over steaming pots of food and in the gym when the treadmills and swimming pods are working. In the rooms at night in the hours of darkness with mouths pressed to ears. A thing that grows nearly unheard and undetected because those that talk are careful with whom they share.

  Ben Ryder saved a woman and her child when he was seventeen, then later he saved hundreds of people in a terrorist attack. Ben Ryder stands for goodness and decency. Safa Patel was the last person alive to see Ben Ryder. She died saving the Prime Minister and killed scores of terrorists in Downing Street. And Harry Madden? Mad Harry Madden? The hero commando who served his country and took down a Nazi base single-handed.

  Everyone in the complex also knows Emily Rose was an agent. It came out afterwards, when that image showing Emily giving the middle finger to the sky spread round the world. It was a symbolic gesture of modern times. An act of defiance against a government.

  It was the act of a freedom fighter, not a fanatical terrorist, but those people came here and murdered them. Didn’t they? They murdered the Prime Minister and members of parliament too. Didn’t they? But the footage was wiped and Mother was the only person to have seen it, but they have a time machine, so why didn’t the agents go back and stop it happening? Questions without answers, but questions whispered for fear of being asked out loud.

  ‘I look so pretty,’ Kate whispers, staring at her reflection in the full-length mirror. A black dress with white dots. Flared in the skirts and tight across her chest with one strap going up round her neck. A white belt cinched tight around her waist.

  ‘It’s too pretty,’ Gerry grumbles. ‘You’ll draw attention.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Alpha says, earning a wry smile from Bravo in the process.

  ‘If you say so,’ Gerry mutters.

  ‘Ready?’ Alpha asks.

  ‘God yes, this is so exciting and, like, totally beats Rodney going to Hadrian’s Wall.’

  ‘Remember what I said?’ Alpha asks, walking her down the corridor towards the portal room.

  ‘We’re legends,’ she says firmly.

  ‘No,’ Alpha says with a smile. ‘We have a legend. The legend is our backstory.’

  ‘Shit! Sorry. I’m so nervous,’ she says, looping her arm through his. ‘I am Mrs Alpha from England . . .’

  ‘Kate . . .’

  ‘I’m playing. I’m Mrs Kate Carter, married to Alfie Carter. We’re on holiday.’

  ‘Oh wow, now there is a rare beauty,’ Gunjeep calls out as Kate walks into the portal room.

  ‘Oh sod off,’ she says with a self-deprecating laugh while glowing from the attention.

  ‘Set and ready?’ Alpha asks, pulling his sidearm from a holster attached to the back of his trousers and hidden under his black 1950s suit.

  ‘Ready,’ Gunjeep says, nodding at the shimmering green portal. ‘Have fun, kids.’

  California. 1953. A husband and wife on vacation from England stroll hand in hand down a wide store-lined avenue to the target premises. A diner near the research campus on the right side. They take a table at the back. Smiling at the waiting staff and talking about their vacation while Kate makes eyes at Alpha.

  ‘That was so hot,’ she whispers when the waitress walks off. ‘You’re so good at this . . . Oh my god . . . have you seen that jukebox? Can we steal it? We’re totally wearing these clothes tonight in your room . . . But seriously, steal that jukebox . . .’

  Alpha listens intently as she chats away while also taking in the conversation of the scientists at the next table.

  The food is incredible. Everything is incredible. The décor, the music in the background, the light bulbs, the tables, chairs, the menu, the font used on the menu, and Kate takes a last lingering look at the diner as they walk out with a polite thank you to the man holding the door open for her.

  ‘You are most welcome, my dear,’ Bravo says, winking while walking in as she and Alpha walk out.

  ‘That was Bravo,’ she whispers urgently tugging on Alpha’s arm.

  ‘Hi,’ Echo says from the bench they walk past, looking up from his newspaper.

  ‘Oh my god . . . Ooh look . . . there’s Charlie . . . Shit, I almost waved.’

  ‘So you didn’t see Delta behind you in the diner then?’ Alpha asks.

  ‘No way! Was he really?’ she asks, smiling at Alpha for a second, but the smile fades as a serious look creeps into her eyes. ‘Can I ask a question?’

  ‘Sure,’ he says quietly, carefully.

  ‘Do you believe in what you are doing?’

  ‘Always,’ he replies instantly. ‘Why?’

  ‘Just asking,’ she says, smiling again. ‘It’s so pretty here. I love it . . .’

  Sixteen

  The Bunker, Thursday morning

  ‘Almost ready to go,’ Ben calls out, passing Miri’s office door.

  She nods curtly, still simmering from the damned awful breakfast briefing and grimaces at the pervading stench of shit hanging in the air and steps back to the window, jabbing her thumb into the switch to make the shutter rise that clanks, whirrs and spits sparks from the box before slamming down to seal the room in darkness again.

  ‘What was that?’ Konrad asks, rushing in on hearing the noise with a sick-looking Malcolm behind him.

  ‘Shutter,’ Miri says. She fumbles for the switch to her desk lamp, clicking it on, then snatching her hand away from the spark coming out as a surge of power blows the bulb with a distinct crack.

  ‘Water’s got into the circuits,’ Konrad says. ‘We need to replace wiring, motors . . . put some vents and filters in. I said to Malc we should knock a door into the far end for circulation . . .’

  ‘And?’ Miri asks bluntly. ‘Get it done today.’

  ‘We’ve got nothing here. We need tools and . . .’

  ‘Use Milwau . . .’ She stops on remembering that staging area is now gone. ‘Do what you can.’

  ‘How?’ Konrad asks.

  ‘Use your imagination, Mr Johans,’ Miri snaps. ‘Improvise.’

  ‘With what? Fresh air?’ Konrad mutters, offering a weak smile at Miri before rushing after Malcolm.

  ‘Jesus wept,’ Miri mutters, striding into the portal room.

  ‘Yours,’ Safa says, handing her a pistol and holster. ‘I guessed we’re arming today.’

  ‘You guessed correctly, Miss Patel.’

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ Safa asks.

  ‘We’ll go up to Piccadilly,’ Ben explains. ‘See what’s changed and make sure it’s safe, then we’ll bring Bertie through later and see if it matches wh
at he saw. Then at some point we’ll look at that Affa thing. Miri? Is that alright with you?’

  ‘Affirmative.’

  ‘If you eggheads are right,’ Safa says, ‘and someone is pissing about with a time machine, other than us pissing about with our time machine, that is . . . then we should put a guard on it. I’ll go with Ben and Miri into Piccadilly. Harry and Emily stay near the Blue. If we get in trouble then Emily deploys to us and, Harry, your priority is protecting the device. Got it? Emily and Harry, you two might have shagged last night, but this is work now. It’s time to switch on and get our heads in the game. Fair one?’

  ‘Understood,’ Emily says in a business-like fashion.

  ‘Aye,’ Harry says.

  ‘Ben, you and Miri do what you need to do, but if I say we move then we move. I am team leader. Got it?’

  ‘Good,’ Miri says, pleasantly surprised at not having to say any of those things herself.

  They deploy to the gloomy interior of the gardener’s hut in Hyde Park, with Safa moving to the windows to spot the same people lying on the grass and sitting on the benches that she saw yesterday, but it was only an hour ago local time.

  Harry and Emily slip out first, going down the bank and across the path to stand and look round as though deciding which way to go. Safa watches people walking past them without a flicker of a glance at the big man. Mind you, he’s dressed normally this time and not in tight denim shorts.

  ‘Clear.’ Emily’s voice comes through their discreet ear pieces with the signal given for Safa, Ben and Miri to move out.

  The three do the same and slip out quietly while Ben considers the fact that history has changed but Hyde Park is still here and looking largely the same.

  ‘Safa to Emily and Harry. Comms check.’

  ‘Emily to Safa. Receiving you loud and clear.’

  ‘The bandstand isn’t there,’ Ben says, motioning to the left. He’s walked through Hyde Park many times but not enough to be overly familiar. There are still benches, verges and street lights. Then he remembers there should be a kiosk up ahead on the right. A wooden-framed thing with big lift-up shutters that were held in place by ornate poles. He scans ahead as they walk, straining to see it, then spotting the lights and queues of people on the other side of the path.

  ‘That wasn’t there,’ Safa says, observing a completely different brick-built concessions outlet. ‘It was on the other side and it didn’t look like that,’ she adds. ‘Ben, you remember the statue that was over there?’

  ‘Achilles,’ Ben says, looking to where it should be and seeing a wide concrete plinth and an altogether different statue on the top. He looks for Apsley House, the former home of the Duke of Wellington. A house is there but it’s bigger and grander than even the gorgeous Apsley House was. This one is sprawling and less Roman, but more Gothic in architecture. The colour is different too and the roof looks more castle-type with crenulations.

  They pass the lee of the house and breach the exit road to stand where once Piccadilly met Knightsbridge and that jarring sensation comes swimming back as all three have the same feeling of seeing a place known to them that has changed.

  The huge arch that once dominated the junction and bore the glory of the Duke of Wellington for his victories is not there. The road layout is different. The access point for Knightsbridge underground Tube station isn’t there. The buildings are just as high, just as wide and just as imposing but they’re not the buildings Ben or the others have seen from this point before.

  Ben’s mouth drops open as he finally takes in the traffic in front of him. His eyes saw it when he first looked, but his brain processed the images into a thing he expected to see instead of the reality. What he takes in now are cars similar to before with different colours, shapes and sizes. Two-seaters with sporty lines. Larger family-sized vehicles and up to bigger things carrying goods. Not one of them is touching the road but gliding a few inches above it. The noise isn’t that of combustion engines either, but electric whines and motors that all mingle to give the impression of city noises.

  ‘Piccadilly is that way,’ Ben says, pointing down the main road. ‘Or at least it was . . .’

  ‘Safa to Emily and Harry. We’re out of the park, moving to Piccadilly.’

  ‘Received,’ Emily says, dropping her head as though to inspect her shoes while speaking into the microphone under her top. She looks back up and round with years of training and experience to study the motion of people. The same with Harry, and they both reflect a relaxed, easy manner while watching everything and everyone. She looks down towards the café, half wishing they could get a cup of coffee and idly wondering if money is still used here. Harry looks the other way while half wishing he could smoke, but seeing no one else is smoking and guessing that it’s either outlawed or hasn’t been invented here. They both turn to look the other direction and meet eyes with polite smiles and facial expressions that only seem to make the silence between them heavier and more awkward.

  ‘It’s, er . . .’ she says.

  ‘Looks nice,’ he says at the same time.

  They both pause, waiting for the other to speak.

  ‘You go,’ she says.

  ‘Ladies first,’ he says.

  ‘Why? Because you say so?’ she asks in a biting tone she immediately regrets. She can’t help it. He’s so big and capable, but every nasty comment she makes prompts a fleeting look of hurt innocence in his eyes. She thinks to apologise, then remembers being rejected in his room, then remembers what Safa said about this being work and leads him to the tree they rested against yesterday, motioning for him to sit down before lowering to rest her head on his thighs like she did the last time they came here. He stiffens in surprise, blanching slightly at the contact.

  ‘For our cover,’ she says quietly, looking out at the world.

  ‘Aye,’ he says simply.

  She lifts her hand and holds it over her head, wiggling her fingers until Harry takes it, then sighs and settles into the job at hand.

  ‘Feeling better?’ Konrad asks in the main room of the bunker.

  ‘Yeah, a bit,’ Malcolm says, looking into the cup he just downed. ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘No idea, Malc. The doc made it. Painkillers, glucose . . . some other stuff probably. What we going to do?’ he asks, looking round while shaking his head. ‘We need all sorts of stuff. We don’t even have pliers here, Malc.’

  ‘I know,’ Malcolm says.

  ‘She said she wants it all fixed. She said stay here and fix it. She said that. I said what with? I said we don’t have anything. She said improvise.’

  ‘I know,’ Malcolm says.

  ‘And they haven’t sorted that dead bloke out yet. Bloody mess, Malc.’

  ‘It is, Kon,’ Malcolm says.

  ‘Listen, we both know Berlin. We pop there and get a few bits, yeah? We can have it looking spick and span in no time . . .’

  ‘Berlin? Are you joking? No. Just no, Kon.’

  ‘Milwaukee then. We can go a couple of hours before they take the van away. Miri said she leaves gaps like that so it can be used. We’ll pop in, get some gear, pop back and get on with it. She said to improvise, which basically means do what you think is right.’

  ‘I’m not sure, Kon.’

  ‘Ah, you’re hung over, Malc. You leave it to me. Come on . . .’

  With evening slowly giving way to night, Miri, Ben and Safa walk a route that should have been straightforward and easy. The point they exited Hyde Park was known as Hyde Park Corner where the ultra-expensive quarters of Knightsbridge and Belgravia met the road to the famous circus junction.

  That road also bordered Green Park, a much smaller expanse of rurality within the urban sprawl of London. The problem is that Green Park isn’t there.

  ‘It’s not there,’ Ben says again. ‘Green Park surrounds Buckingham Palace . . . How can it not be there? And I’m sure that used to be the Japanese embassy . . .’ He carries on pointing out things that were in a city that once was but i
s no more. Everything is different. The buildings, the side roads, the junctions, the road markings, the cars and vehicles on those roads. It’s recognisably a city and the feel is that of London, but any familiarity ends there.

  ‘Seen that?’ Safa asks, pointing ahead.

  ‘Jesus,’ Ben whispers. There should be brick-and-stone buildings that reflect the centuries of change in London but what they see are modern, futuristic towers of dark glass and sleek design. Skyscrapers only became a feature in relatively modern life from the twentieth century onwards, and Ben’s London had enough of them, but they were largely restricted to the financial sections. Here they are everywhere. A dizzying resemblance to a modern Dubai. A luxurious cityscape, which none of them recognise.

  Hovering cars and vehicles whizz and move about the roads. Lights everywhere, but different to the lights they are used to. Not sodium or harsh or cheap-looking even, but these are smooth and natural.

  As the journey on the road to Piccadilly progresses, so those changes become more absolute. Almost as though the fringes of this section were blended to meet the old styles of architecture whereas it now morphs into something from a science fiction movie, except this is real life and full of the grit of living without the gloss of a movie set.

  Then it ends. It simply ends, and Miri, Ben and Safa come to a halt to stare in awe at the vast open expanse that was once Piccadilly.

  People everywhere. Thousands of people walking, sitting, standing, resting. Some move with purpose in the manner of commuters. Others stroll and chat.

  ‘Look at that,’ Ben says at seeing a hovering narrow train moving through the crowd from right to left. A cross between a monorail and a theme park feature with dozens of carriages all covered with bright designs and vibrant colours. Men, women and children on board, some waving as they pass while others adopt that far-away look as they access whatever operating system only they can see.

  Those ultra-modern buildings border the open area. Sentinels that stand proud and forever watchful. Screens on some that are big enough to be seen from any angle and crowds of people sitting in defined areas, laughing and cheering at the silent footage.