“I can’t believe he’s plotted something so destructive.”
“I hate to say this, fili mi, but the evidence is damning….”
“I know. I’m not saying he’s innocent, only that he’s not the man who taught me Latin.”
“Maybe you never saw this side,” the professor ventured. “Our obsessions can sometimes colour our judgment. If you engage with the past the way your father has, constantly spurning the ways of the present, I imagine the effects can be unhealthy at times.”
“I suppose,” Felix said listlessly. He didn’t smile as the door swung open yet again.
“Yes, well, let’s get on with our planning.” The professor sighed, aware that he couldn’t comfort Felix. “You have your Kevlar outfits, correct? One for each of you when you track down Carolyn?”
“Yes,” Felix said, pointing to two bundles of clothes. “Was this really the style back then? To wear bulletproof fabrics?”
“I’m afraid so,” the professor said. “The period was difficult and violence was common. And I hate to repeat myself, but I’m very impressed with your English and German. Your father certainly taught you well.”
They were conversing in early languages called English and German, which had been common back in 2111. Felix didn’t speak Swedish, the language of Sweden, but these other languages would serve him well.
“Thank you. You mentioned a means of exchange. I assume you don’t mean cinnamon?”
“No. It had no value in 2111. But I’ve provided you with something that does.” He motioned to a leather pouch.
“What is it?” Felix asked, wrinkling his nose. The package gave off an acrid smell.
“It contains tobacco. I could provide you with some paper money, but no one would accept it. Instead the population trades in gold or silver — a sign of the wars at large. The TPM can’t handle metal, so I’ve given you tobacco instead. By 2111 tobacco was outlawed and hard to obtain. That means it’s worth a fortune now, although by trading it you’ll be breaking the law. I’d much prefer this wasn’t the case, but we’re in a jam and can’t afford to be fussy.”
“By any means necessary,” Felix murmured aloud.
“Quite. Remember, too, your belts are now your ticket home. The buckle is charged and will return you here. Personally I liked those statues, but they’d draw too much attention in 2111.”
“The doctor explained everything,” Felix said.
“There’s one last item,” the professor mused, flinching as the cabinet door struck him again. “What was it…?”
As he tried to recall the final point of business, Felix’s eyes strayed to the cabinet. He idly observed its contents: books, two suits, a spare pair of glasses, decorative items …
“Oh, yes,” the professor said, remembering suddenly. “The scan vans. You must be sure to avoid these contraptions.” With a frown, he closed the cabinet door and leaned his chair against it.
“Scan vans? What are those?” Felix asked.
“In 2111, ERR was catching on, courtesy of Clavius’ neuro-mapping. At the same time the religious wars were at their height. Some people put two and two together. They believed ERR could change religious folk into rats like themselves.”
“By rats you mean rational types, correct?”
“That’s right. The theos — that was what they called the religious people — believed ERR was a terrible idea. Both sides roamed about in ‘scan vans.’ These were vehicles equipped with neuro-implants that could either remove ERR or install it at will. Depending on whom you run into, you’ll be their friend or their worst enemy. These are very dangerous times and you must exercise caution.”
“I see. I’ll do my best to be careful.”
“I’m afraid that’s all I can do for you, puer. Good luck and remember …”
“Yes?”
“Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit.”
While Felix detested all this talk of theos, rats, and “scan vans,” he couldn’t help but smile at this Latin reference. Shaking hands with MacPherson, he left his office, comforted by the line from Virgil. He repeated it aloud and savoured its meaning.
“One day it may be pleasant to remember even calamities like these.”
Chapter Twelve
“Se upp grabben!” a deep voice growled.
Felix opened his eyes. A moment before he’d been orbiting Earth on a Class 9 station; now he was standing in the tunnelbana, the subway system in old Stockholm, and a man was bearing down on him with a giant dog. Flanking him were magno-rails, which were an improvement on the diesel engine, but way less effective than Dispersion Portals. The station’s tiles and ceiling lights were also signs of an earlier era.
“Se upp grabben!” the man repeated. His dog was growling and baring its teeth. Felix didn’t know dogs well, but his instincts told him that this beast meant trouble. Nodding tersely, he stepped aside. As the older man passed, he glared at Felix, as if he were tempted to bite him, too.
His hostility suited the atmosphere. The floor’s tiles were cracked and covered with grime, half the ceiling lights had been badly damaged, and paint marks covered most of the walls. While he’d read about graffiti, he’d never seen it firsthand. It seemed to be the work of angry people.
People. They were loitering about and seemed far from friendly. Meanly dressed and sallow-faced, they looked badly fed and poorly cared for. Felix was used to a public show of coldness, but the citizens of his age lived in well-run cities and enjoyed maximum comfort, unlike this mob which looked severely deprived. They also looked cruel enough to do something about it.
He spied an exit to the main street. In a dim-lit stairwell that stank of misery and urine, he passed three men who were quietly chatting. They hailed him in Swedish. Felix shrugged and moved along. Without warning, one guy grabbed hold of his knapsack. At the same time his pals shone two blue lights into Felix’s eyes. There was a glint of steel: they were carrying knives.
Felix broke free of the guy clutching his knapsack. He was going to lay him flat with his elbow when suddenly the trio started to laugh. One of them pulled his jacket open and disclosed a medallion on a fragile chain. Felix saw it was shaped like a cross, which he knew was a sign for people called Muslims; unless he was wrong and it signalled that other group, Christians. Religion meant nothing where he came from and he couldn’t always keep the worshippers straight.
“Vänner,” the knife guy said. “Theos.” That said, the trio retreated from the stairwell.
Felix fled before they changed their minds. He realized that they’d let him go because their blue lights were scanners and had told them he was ERR-free. This meant they thought he was a worshipper like them, and not an enemy rat. Not that this was comforting. If these guys could attack the rats they met, then rats would be willing to assault them in turn.
Felix emerged from the subway. The outside scene was bleak. While it was minutes after 3:00 p.m., the dark was falling quickly. The sun was veiled in cloud and hovering near the horizon. He knew the days were short up north, during winter at least, but had never guessed they’d be as short as this.
The dark didn’t bother him as much as the snow. He’d encountered snow on the rare occasion, but the Global Weather Template never let it stay for long; after a day it was always cleared from the system. Unlike here. The sidewalks were thickly coated with slush and the drifts by the curb were two feet high. Trees, signs, vehicles, and awnings, every flat surface held a layer of white, as if a shroud had been yanked over the city.
It might have been pretty if not for the blight. Felix was on a main street, with a square to his left. Around him was a line of buildings with elevated walkways visible in the distance, built from stone and nicely arched. Once elegant, these structures had been hammered badly. Massive chunks had been gouged from their sides, the doing of tank shells and other explosives. One walkway seemed on the brink of collapse. And on every building windows were gone, replaced by wooden boards. Most doors consisted of metal slabs with ro
lls of razor wire everywhere. The storefronts were empty, burned-out shells: fires had chased the merchants out. Every tree on the street was an ugly stump, and abandoned mini cars were scattered all over, their windshields smashed and interiors melted. There wasn’t much light to dispel the darkness: of the light orbs hanging in the middle of the street, a mere third of them were functional.
Felix felt sick. He’d known this era had been difficult, what with the ruthless wars between the different religions, which had morphed into a war between the theos and rats, but he’d never guessed that it had gutted cities like Stockholm. The cold stole into him, despite the warmth of his clothes. Pulling the collar up on his jacket, he turned toward the concert hall.
Just as his spirits were entering a tailspin, Fate handed him a bone. While the cold scoured his face, and the snow teased his shoes, he heard a familiar voice cry out.
“F-F-Felix!”
He turned. Across the street was Carolyn. She was standing in a cone of light with darkness all around her, as if stuck on a raft which the sea was bent on sinking. She was breathing hard, her face was scratched, and her palla made her stick out in a crowd. Still, the sight of her was thrilling. Emotional displays weren’t a good idea, but Felix couldn’t help himself. Running into the street, he broke into a smile.
“I thought you wouldn’t show,” he said, as soon as he joined her.
“I g-g-got de-de-delayed,” she replied. A wind was trying to steal her cloak and her legs were all exposed. Besides the cloak, she only had a tunic. She wore sandals instead of boots. Her toes were blue and she was shivering all over.
“You’re freezing,” Felix said. He slung the knapsack off his back and pulled out a jacket. “Slip this on. I have clothes you can change into when we find some shelter. And we’ll get you something hot to drink.”
“Gr-gr-great,” she stuttered. Like her toes, her lips were partially blue. The scratch on her cheek was deep and the blood had frozen over.
Once she’d put the jacket on, Felix took her arm and scanned the street. There. Two blocks down was a “floating” sign. These were large block letters with tiny engines that allowed them to hover about in mid-air — it was a form of advertising in 2111. Taken together, the letters spelled “Nobelcafe.” While cafés didn’t exist in his own time frame, Felix thought this place would suit them nicely.
“There’s a place down the road,” he said.
“H-h-hurry,” Carolyn chattered.
As they passed other pedestrians, they drew some stares. While most citizens were indifferent, the older ones were concerned. A wrinkled lady gestured that he should get her somewhere warm. He suspected that the difference between these nice types and the cold ones was ERR. He wanted to tell Carolyn this but, seeing her shivers, knew it wasn’t the time.
There were also lots of policemen about. They were heavily armed and dressed in body armour. Their heads were helmeted and visors masked their faces. Each was brandishing a pulse gun and the sight of such weapons was hardly reassuring. The cops barely noticed the pair.
A short distance away, they came upon a square. Its cobblestones were badly cratered, from explosives, he assumed. At one end stood a blue, fortress-like building with a classical facade and Corinthian columns — the concert hall. Immediately in front of it was a group of sculptures; their heads were missing. An army of cops had gathered here: the Nobel awards were a really big deal and the city was making sure they wouldn’t be disrupted.
A bee-like buzzing was suddenly audible. Pixellators filled the air. Massing together in different patterns, they formed 3-D portraits of the year’s Nobel laureates. They were sculpting Johann Clavius just then.
“We’re in the right place,” Felix said, as he continued ushering Carolyn forward.
“All th-th-these m-m-men w-w-with g-g-guns. W-what’s g-going on?” she stammered.
“I’ll explain later.” Felix was frowning. Given all the cops on duty, it wouldn’t be easy to slip inside. “Let’s focus on getting you warmed up first.”
A minute later they entered the Nobelcafe. Unlike other stores, this place was normal, charming, even. It had lavish chandeliers, excellent heating, and was tastefully painted in blue and yellow, Sweden’s national colours. The walls contained a series of screens that flashed the portraits of past Nobel winners. Delicious smells wafted about and the tables were filled with well-dressed people. The women were wearing elaborate gowns, while the men were sporting Zacron tuxedos. This show of formal dress implied these diners had tickets to the awards ceremony.
“Kan jag hjalpa er?” a heavy-set man in a tuxedo asked. The owner. While his suit was as fancy as everyone else’s, he was toting a pistol beneath his jacket. The café might be charming, but was subject to attacks.
“Do you speak English?” Felix asked.
“Of course,” the owner answered.
“Good. Could we have a table for two, please?”
“This is a select crowd. Admitting you is out of the question, I’m afraid.”
“You must be kidding. My friend is frozen. You can’t turn her away.”
“That’s where you are wrong,” he said, with a shrug of indifference. Felix suspected he was equipped with ERR. “I can expel you if I choose.”
Felix stared hard at the man. The man stared back utterly unfazed. He was about to call a waiter over but, before he could, Felix had an idea.
“Would it help,” he asked, “if I had tobacco on hand?”
“Now you must be kidding,” the owner sneered.
“You’re right. I’m kidding,” Felix said. He took out his pouch and showed him the contents. He poured a wad of it into his palm. “Can we have a table, along with food and drink?”
“I believe you’re in luck,” the owner replied, pocketing the tobacco swiftly. “But before we proceed, I must take a precaution.” Here he took a wand from his jacket and swiftly waved it over their clothes. It was a metal detector that checked them for weapons. When its tip flashed green, the owner nodded. He also waved to a girl in a blue-and-yellow gown.
“This is my daughter, Aina. She will lead you to your table.”
The girl curtsied and led them to a table in the corner. Carolyn asked Felix where the washroom was. He asked Aina who pointed to a nearby alcove. Handing Carolyn his bag, Felix took a seat.
He was feeling more relaxed. Carolyn was with him, they were safe and warm, and their objective was only five minutes away. The problem was the concert hall. How would they get inside with all those cops? They were dressed improperly and didn’t have tickets. They could steal two tickets from the guests around them but first, this wouldn’t be easy and second, they weren’t properly attired. Even as he worked at this problem, his mind kept turning to Carolyn.
She was somehow different. Maybe it was her loneliness, her frozen state, or their adventures in Rome; whatever it was, she wasn’t as cold. Her ERR was active still and she should have been distant. But there was no denying what his senses told him: she was friendlier and less inclined to snub him.
“This is a nice place,” she observed, returning to the table. She was dressed in an outfit much like Felix’s now. Her shivering had stopped and the dried-out blood was gone, though the scratches were still visible.
“What happened?” Felix asked, pointing to her cut.
“A Roman tried to grab me. It’s weird how this cut is centuries old, huh? But I assume you were successful? Aceticus made it?”
Felix gave a rundown of the facts. He added that they knew why the “child” was in Stockholm. He’d travelled to 2111 because …
“Clavius will vanish after tonight,” she said. “He’s receiving a Nobel Prize for his work on ERR. But he hates the way his results are being used and will retire up north and live like a hermit. If someone’s going to kill him, the time is now.”
Felix gasped. “Wow, how did you know?”
“Because I read his biography and put two and two together,” she said.
“It’s inter
esting,” Felix remarked, “that Clavius hates his invention. If he has doubts about ERR, maybe we should feel uncomfortable, too.”
“You could be right,” she said. “Maybe we’ve jumped to conclusions.”
Felix almost grinned. He could have been talking to a different person. Two days ago she’d told him to accept the treatment and now she was willing to reconsider. He was amazed and was going to say as much, only a young man approached to take their order.
He was the same age as Felix, but looked older and more careworn. No wonder. Beneath his Zacron jacket, he too carried a pistol.
“I am Enar,” he said, in halting English. “You have already bumped with my father and sister. What do you yearn to consume?”
“Choose something for us,” Felix suggested.
“I will bring coffee and fikabröd. This is a sweet, most delicious snack.”
“Fine,” Felix said, smiling at Enar’s stiff English. “That sounds great.”
As he walked off, Felix glanced at Carolyn. She was eyeing him and her gaze was friendly. Her colour was normal and her spirits had returned.
“Your language skills are amazing,” she said, “and that’s not all. You’re loyal and tenacious. I sold you short. When I arrived and was freezing cold, I didn’t lose hope because I knew you’d find me.”
“You’re loyal, too. That’s why you’re here.” He was blushing now. Her show of gratitude was shocking.
“I was following your example. I’m saying that I owe you an apology.”
He couldn’t believe it! She was holding his hand! Her mouth was open to say something further, but a commotion at the front door cut her short.
Some men had entered and were creating a ruckus. Their voices were loud and very angry and were followed by a high-pitched whine and a tinkling of glass. Struck by a pulse gun, a chandelier lay in pieces. The owner was trying to draw his gun, but before he could, a gun butt struck his jaw and he was writhing in pain on the floor. Some customers screamed and a tray toppled over. A voice called for quiet — or so Felix thought when the room fell silent.
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