Future Tense

by Frank Almond

  “Good. We’re going to need it, mate—the Duck’s away—and it’s only a matter of time before Temporal Criminal Pursuit get here.” I patted his shoulder. “How’s that chain coming, Bentley?”

  “Nearly through, sir,” said Bentley.

  Suddenly Jemmons let out a piercing peacock cry—it freaked the hell out of me. Bentley nearly jumped out of his skin and dropped the hacksaw.

  “Good grief, sir,” said Bentley. “What was that?”

  I stooped down in front of Jemmons and looked into his staring eyes. “Don’t worry, mate—your ordeal’s nearly over,” I said, patting him on the knee. I looked over at Bentley, who, without taking his eyes off Jemmons, was feeling around on the floor for the saw. “You see this man,” I said to Bentley, “he’s been through hell. My father put him in that tank with a bloody great giant squid—what you just heard was delayed shock. He’s traumatized. Now, hurry up. I’m getting him out of here.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Bentley, hurriedly finding his cut on the chain and sawing for all he was worth.

  Jemmons was soon freed and stood up. I embraced him and patted his back. He embraced me back.

  “We’ll get through this together, mate,” I said. “If anyone had put me in there with that thing I’d need counselling. Hang in there.”

  I let go and tried to step back, but Jemmons kept hold of me. I gave him another hug and tried to pull away again. He still wouldn’t let me go.

  “Yeah, all right, mate—don’t overdo it,” I said, shoving him off.

  Jemmons belched and looked around him.

  Bentley, I noticed out of the corner of my eye, was edging away from us.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” I said.

  “The tray, sir.” He picked up his tray and put the hacksaw on it.

  “Don’t go sneaking off,” I said. I turned back to talk to Jemmons, but he was gone—he was looking around over by the wall, kicking at something with his foot. “We should split, Rog,” I said. “Tempus fugit, mate.”

  Jemmons bent down and picked something up. He had found the cutlass.

  “Yeah, bring that—we might need it,” I said. I turned round and wagged a warning finger in Bentley’s face. “And you are going to show us where we can find some guns,” I said.

  Bentley whipped the hacksaw off his tray and charged at me with it.

  “Aunt bloody—!” I exclaimed, dodging to my left.

  Bentley pushed me out of the way. I heard a loud CLANG, swiftly followed by an even louder KERRANG! I kept my head down and wheeled away, screwing my neck round at the same time to see what all the noise was about. Jemmons was hacking at Bentley with the cutlass and Bentley was fending him off with his tray and hacksaw like a gladiator.

  “Hey, Rog?” I shouted. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Jemmons whacked Bentley out of the way and lunged at me. I ran behind Bentley.

  “It’s not Mr Jemmons, sir,” said Bentley. “It’s a replicant—and it’s unstable!”

  “Unstable? He’s bloody lethal!”

  Bentley’s trusty silver tray took another scything blow, and he parried two more vicious sword thrusts with his hacksaw.

  “Try and hold him off,” I said. “I’ll find something.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir. Please hurry, sir.”

  I patted Bentley’s shoulder and ran off down the side of the aquarium to find something to stop the replicant with. I could still hear the CLANGS and cries of the combatants as I hunted about. I wanted something long and heavy, but I couldn’t see anything that fitted the bill. I didn’t know how much longer Bentley’s brave rearguard action would last, so I settled for two bowling pins. I dashed off down the lane and grabbed them and was just turning round to go back when I saw Bentley running along the other end of the lanes, chased by the sword waving Jemmons, in silhouette.

  “Bentley! Down here!” I cried.

  Bentley dropped his shoulder and swerved to his right to come down the far lane and cut back towards me. The replicant was slow to react, but then turned like a machine, looked round, saw us, and charged.

  I lobbed one of my pins at him. It seemed to hit his shoulder and glance off, clunking, skidding and spinning up the wooden lane and smacking into the back of the tank. The replicant was momentarily halted but then let out another terrifying peacock scream and came on. I threw my second one at him and it struck him full in the chest, and bounced off. And then he was on me and somehow I got my arms out and we were hand to hand, only he still had the cutlass and was trying to wrench his hand away from mine to slash at me with it. The real Jemmons was a big man, a burly Plymothian matelot, and this thing possessed all his strength and some. I fell back on the lane under the weight of his onslaught, still desperately trying to hold him off. But I knew it was only a matter of seconds before he overpowered me and ran me through with that cutlass. I wanted to scream but I couldn’t afford the energy. I just held him there with every ounce of strength I had left.

  Suddenly, there was a loud hollow crack, like a batsman hitting a boundary—the force left Jemmons’s arms, the cutlass clattered to the floor, his elbows buckled and he slumped onto my chest. I peered round his shoulder and saw Bentley standing over us, holding aloft a bowling pin with both hands, ready to deliver another blow.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Kill the Duck,” I gasped, and passed out.

  Chapter 7

  Okay, so I got it wrong. The Duck didn’t always lie and Bentley was a pretty good guy after all. But that still left me plenty to bitch about.

  Bentley helped me to my feet and we locked the thing in the attic.

  “Why did the Duck lie to me about my duelling wound?” I said, as we made our way downstairs.

  “He never said, sir,” replied Bentley.

  And I believed him. When a man who has just saved your life tells you something you tend to believe him. Unless, of course, he was the one who was trying to kill you. But, then, you might still, because he had the chance and he didn’t, so you think maybe he might just be the one person you really can believe. Have you noticed how everything is true and everything is faintly ridiculous, when you think about it? When you really think about it.

  “But you were in on the bit about my joke-shop wound,” I said.

  “Sir Julian did tell me about the arterial catheter, yes, sir.”

  “So that’s what it was. I could have bled to death.”

  “It was my responsibility to see that you did not, sir,” said Bentley.

  “Thanks for that, Bentley. But I wish you’d told me.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry, sir. I was following your father’s strict instructions.”

  “Bentley, you must never let my father make you do things you know to be wrong. It’s no excuse to say: oh, he made me do it. Or, oh, I knew it was wrong, but he told me it would be all right. Those are the morals of the playground, Bentley.”

  “Yes, sir. Presumably, that is why you tried to switch the duelling pistols when your father asked you to cheat, sir?”

  “Yes—that was different—my life was on the line! I had no choice!”

  “Yes, I see the difference, sir.”

  “Good.”

  “You mean one may pick’n’mix one’s morals, sir?”

  “Yes, Bentley—that’s exactly how it works. And don’t get caught.”

  * * *

  We reached the main hall. I looked over at the long case clock.

  “Time’s running out, Bentley. You know there isn’t much point in lying anymore,” I said. “So, why don’t you tell me everything you know? And maybe if we pool it with what I know, we might be able to make some sense out of all this.”

  “What would you like to know, sir?” said Bentley.

  “I would like to know who Travis De Quipp really is.”

  “Shall we go along to my private apartment, sir? I’ll prepare some supper,” he said.

  “I’m not hungry, thanks, Bentley, but I could use some
strong black coffee.”

  “This way, sir.”

  We walked down the rear corridor and up a flight of back stairs to a mezzanine landing, where Bentley unlocked a little door and ushered me in.

  The butler’s quarters were modest and comfortable, but contained an office with an impressive desk—underlining his importance in the day-to-day running of the house—as well as a sitting room, bedroom and kitchen-diner. Bentley showed me through and sat me down at his small dining table, while he put the kettle on the stove.

  “De Quipp is not a Frenchman,” he said, as he hand-ground the coffee. “I believe him to be travelling incognito, sir.”

  “He’s a time traveller?”

  “Yes,” nodded Bentley. “Though I am not sure whether he is from the past or the future.”

  “Or maybe the present,” I said.

  “Well, yes. However, what I do know is that he never sleeps.”

  “Never sleeps?”

  “He was allocated a room, but he has never used it, sir,” said Bentley. “And there is something else that strikes me as very odd about him, sir—he never eats.”

  “He never eats? Are you sure, Bentley?”

  “Quite sure, sir. At mealtimes he pretends to eat, but—and this is rather disgusting, sir—he spits it out onto the floor.”

  “That is odd. I mean, I used to do it all the time at prep school—especially on cabbage days—but it’s definitely odd for a guy his age. What’s his connection with my father? I mean, how did he get here?” I said.

  “Ah, now that I do know, sir. He arrived here shortly before you in Mr Jemmons’s time machine.”

  “In Jemmons’s machine? So he was with Jemmons when Jemmons was arrested and imprisoned in the Castle. He must have escaped,” I said, half-thinking aloud.

  “Yes, sir, I think that’s what happened, because he and Sir Julian have gone to pick up Monsieur De Quipp’s vehicle, which I believe he was forced to abandon.”

  “So that’s it!” I smiled. “The Duck’s not bothered about rescuing Jemmons—all he’s interested in is De Quipp’s time machine. I bet you it’s got advanced technology.”

  “I have no knowledge of that, sir.” He mashed the coffee beans and poured boiling water over them.

  “So where does the Princess fit in?” I said.

  “The Princess, sir?” said Bentley, filtering the coffee. The fumes from which were so overpowering, I fancied I caught a whiff of the plantation owner’s cigar in there.

  “You’ve never met the Princess? You didn’t know Miss Parker was really a princess?”

  Bentley shrugged. “That is certainly news to me, sir.” He poured a cup of the thick, black, steaming coffee and handed it to me.

  “Does this stuff come with a Government Health Warning?” I said. “Parker must be an alias. De Quipp’s her bodyguard.”

  “You must be mistaken, sir—Monsieur De Quipp arrived alone,” said Bentley, joining me at the table.

  “Are you absolutely sure about that?” I said.

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  I looked at him through my steaming coffee. “Hm. Now that is interesting,” I said. “Anyway, what about Jemmons’s machine—know where that is?”

  “I think so, sir,” said Bentley. “But—”

  “Good, I’ll be needing it,” I said briskly. “But first you are going to have to drive me to Bath—I want to see Miss Gummer and I have to speak to Mr Mason-Wright—he’s the only one who knows where the Castle is. Can we drink this and get started?”

  “Tonight, sir? I am afraid that will not be possible, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “There is no moon—the horses would not be able to find their way. Which is why there are no overnight coaches, sir,” he said.

  “I was forgetting all that. Well, first thing then,” I said. “How long will it take?”

  “Only a day or two, sir.”

  “A day or two?” I exclaimed, spurting out a mouthful of coffee. “But it’s only down the road!”

  “What road would that be, sir?”

  * * *

  Actually it took us thirteen hours to travel just fifty miles, first by an open trap and horses to the nearest coaching station, then overland by mail coach to Bath. I say overland because that is what it felt like, despite the fact that we were—I was assured by Bentley—riding on the main highway to the Westcountry. The “road,” which was little more than a ploughed track, took us into Bristol, by which time my ass felt as numb as a punch bag, and then out of town on the southern route to Bath itself. We arrived at the house the Mason-Wrights were renting in the famous Royal Crescent—which was only about thirty years old at that time—at around seven in the evening, having been dropped off in the aptly named Julian Road. Yes, I wondered that, too. And, no, it wasn’t. I think it was named after Julius Caesar because it’s all neo-classical in Bath.

  A maid answered the door.

  Her eyes flashed to me and then back to Bentley.

  “Why, Mr Bentley, sir,” she said. “You’re unexpected.”

  “Just tell Mr Mason-Wright and his daughter Sir Stephen Duckworth is here,” I said, before Bentley got a chance to explain. I was keen to get inside and find something soft and motionless to park my butt on.

  She curtsied to me and opened the door wide. “Do come in, sir. I’ll go and announce you to Mr Mason-Wright and Mistress Emily.”

  Bentley and I stepped in and waited, while the maid closed the door behind us and hurried off down a passage, branching off from the reception hall. We removed our hats and gloves.

  “You did know I’m a baronet, Bentley?” I said.

  “No, I did not, sir. Well done, sir.”

  “Thank you, Bentley. My father bought the title for me. Might as well use it now that we’re here. These things impress people. Especially in Bath, if Jane Austen’s anything to go by. Personally, I couldn’t care less about such things,” I said. “I’m not a snob, Bentley.”

  “No, sir.”

  I caught myself in the hall mirror and adjusted my cravat. I cut quite a dashing figure in my elegant Georgian clothing, consisting skin-tight cream breeches, riding boots, snug bottle green frock coat, white Byronic shirt, and fashionable matching neck scarf thingy.

  “However, one has to keep up appearances,” I said.

  “Allow me, sir.”

  I allowed Bentley to straighten and tighten my cravat for me.

  “That—that feels a little too tight, Bent-ley,” I said, reaching up to loosen it.

  “Really, sir,” said Bentley, slapping my hand away and pulling the necktie even tighter.

  “Bent-ley-let-go-of-me-you’re-chok-ing—”

  Bentley swung me around and smashed my back against the mirror—which cracked.

  “I believe that’s seven years’ bad luck, sir,” said Bentley, only now there was a look of repugnance in his eyes and a sneering tone in his usually subservient voice. He wrenched me off the wall with tremendous force and flung me down on my knees.

  “You’re-not-Bent-ley,” I gasped.

  I heard the sound of boots pounding into the hall behind me.

  Bentley addressed them over my head, “This is his son,” he said, pronouncing the word like an oath.

  I felt two pairs of hands grip my arms from behind. I tried to twist my head round to see who they belonged to, but Bentley jerked my neck and made me face the front—though I did catch sight of two redcoated soldiers in the broken mirror.

  Although Bentley was looking into my eyes, he wasn’t talking to me, he was talking about me, “He knows nothing. Zirconion keeps him in the dark,” he said. “Put him in the cellar with the others.”

  “What am I—a mushroom?” I said.

  The two redcoats pulled me to my feet.

  Bentley, or whoever he really was, held up a hand for them to wait, before they dragged me off. He looked away to the side to throw me off guard, and then slyly wound his arm back and punched me hard in the solar plexus. I was totally not e
xpecting it. I doubled up. All the air rushed out of me and I was left gulping for breath.

  “You,” said Bentley, with great venom and hatred, “are an abomination before God!”

  Now I knew who he really was—he was an agent for Corrective Measures, a tyrannical government agency operating out of the fourth millennium, responsible for overseeing the purity and godliness of the human race. Sort of like a cross between television evangelists and the CIA, only honest. Oh, and this lot didn’t ask for money. Or give you any, as the case may be.

  The redcoats marched me backwards up the hall.

  “You cliché!” I yelled, craning my neck round to see where they were taking me.

  And then something very peculiar happened—we passed through a time portal. The Duck had told me about these contraptions once, though I hadn’t been paying much attention at the time. However, if my memory serves me well, the best way to describe them is: they’re like short time corridors, sort of pathways bridging relatively brief periods of time. You walk into one end and it’s like stepping through a vertical wall of flat calm water, and then you find yourself in a mini temporal vortex—you can actually see the other end—then you’re through and out the other side, and into another time zone.

  Apparently, Corrective Measures have thousands of the things spread around the world, in various towns and cities. Think of them as kind of police stations or holding tanks for time criminals. The one I was in was probably connected to several other locations they had under surveillance, and may even have been set up solely for the ongoing Zirconion case. My father, whose real name was Doctor Zebulon Zirconion, must have had a Department of Corrective Measures file on him the size of the Texas School Book Depository. I don’t know why I thought of that. Kill the Duck.

  But from a Corrective Measures point of view, sexual partners meant “damned offspring” and all the Duck’s kids, I guess, had to be rounded up, sooner or later, because the demographics and purity of the future was being messed up by his philandering. Well, it was all very complicated. Actually, I was the finest fruit of his loins, ever, because he had made me in his own image, so to speak, and immortalized my gene string. As he was fond of telling me—I was going to live forever, just as long as nobody killed me in the meantime. I should add that sex in the fourth millennium had been reduced to gene matching and in vitro insemination, even within marriage there was no actual, er, physical fulfilment. As far as Corrective Measures were concerned, I was a vile mutant—and my father something worse. I, at least, agreed with them on that.