TimeBomb: The TimeBomb Trilogy: Book 1

by Scott K. Andrews

  A series of holographic screens, Kaz reckoned twenty at least, hung in an array in front of a long stretch of otherwise bare wall. He studied them closely. Three displayed what appeared to be real-time readouts of temperature, pressure and electrical output – monitoring some kind of generator? Some other monitors displayed images he couldn’t identify without context – a pool of water, some kind of furnace. Most of the rest showed scenes from around the house, better quality than the CCTV he was used to, but obviously from surveillance cameras that served the same function. One showed an aerial view of a country track down which a column of soldiers were trudging; he presumed that was the feed from the drone. Were those soldiers heading this way?

  ‘Come look at this,’ called Jana. She had perched on the computer chair and was using a keyboard to scroll through various forms of information. Kaz peered over her shoulder, but could make no sense of any of it.

  ‘What am I looking at?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not completely certain, but some of this stuff looks like …’ She stopped scrolling when she found a document labelled ‘temporal displacement – theories and practice’. ‘Now that’s more like it,’ she said, smiling.

  But Kaz wasn’t listening to her. ‘Scroll back,’ he said.

  ‘No, come on, this is the good stuff,’ said Jana, beginning to read the document.

  ‘It can wait.’ He shoved her roughly aside.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, but Kaz ignored her. He leaned over her shoulder and pressed the back button, scrolling back through the contents until he found what he was looking for. It was a collection of thumbnail images that had caught his eye.

  ‘Make these bigger,’ he demanded.

  Jana was looking daggers at him, but Kaz was not bothered. He was sure of what he had seen. Eventually Jana spat ‘Fine,’ and pressed a few buttons that made the screen zoom in. The thumbnails increased in size until they could make out the faces of the people in the photographs.

  ‘Oh, crap,’ said Jana, when she realised what she was looking at.

  ‘Yes,’ said Kaz simply.

  He was looking at photographs of himself, Jana and Dora. Photographs that he knew hadn’t been taken yet. There he was, holding a huge gun, running towards the camera, shouting. Jana, covered in dust, a livid gash across her forehead, dripping blood into her eyes. Dora, older, hard faced, snarling. And more images, a dizzying array of soon-to-be hims, not-yet Doras and someday-maybe Janas.

  After the shock had worn off, Jana mused aloud, ‘No timestamp on the images, and the filenames don’t give anything away. We have no idea when or where these were taken.’

  Kaz leaned forward and pointed to a picture of Jana crouching behind a partially collapsed wall. ‘Look at the top right of that picture.’

  Jana zoomed in and whistled softly. A small patch of sky was visible above a jumble of sandy-coloured buildings. It had a brownish tinge to it like nothing Kaz had ever seen before.

  Kaz and Jana exchanged a look but neither vocalised what they were thinking – it was so outrageous.

  Jana moved the focus down so they could examine her face. ‘It’s hard to tell through the grime and the, um, blood, but I look about the same as I do now, yeah?’

  Kaz nodded. ‘Yes. Do you recognise the gun you’re carrying?’

  ‘Nope. Nothing like that in my time.’

  They both stared at the photo for a moment, taking in the implications.

  ‘Try that one,’ said Kaz, pointing to another thumbnail. But before Jana could pull it out and enlarge it they heard a distant voice calling, ‘Hello?’

  Jana nearly toppled off the seat as she jumped in surprise at the unexpected interruption.

  ‘Where did that come from?’ she asked, unfolding herself from the seat.

  ‘Hello?’ came the voice again. ‘Is there someone out there? Is that you, Hank?’

  Kaz looked in the direction the voice had come from and saw a door in the far wall. ‘Over there,’ he said. He and Jana hurried to the door, but she held up a hand to stop him rushing right in.

  ‘We have no idea who is on the other side of this door,’ she said.

  ‘Sounds like a woman,’ replied Kaz.

  ‘Still think this was a trap?’ asked Jana.

  Kaz shrugged. ‘Let’s find out.’

  He pushed the door open gently and stepped into a large room at the centre of which sat a grand wooden bed. On it lay a woman. The bed was ringed by machines, many switched off. Some appeared to have been brought from the future, others seemed to be the best possible seventeenth-century equivalent of medical equipment not yet invented. A wooden pole held a bladder of some kind – literally, an animal’s bladder, Kaz suspected – from which a thin tube snaked into the patient’s arm; a primitive drip. A strange metal and wooden contraption with a big internal wheel could perhaps have been a sort of dialysis machine, he thought. The ECG was genuine, though, and the heartbeat of the bedridden patient was traced in glowing light on its cathode ray monitor screen, strong and healthy. There were other instruments and contraptions arranged around the room on tables and chairs.

  Although lying in bed, the woman was dressed for outside, even down to a pair of sturdy boots, and her trousers had numerous bulging pockets. She also had some kind of helmet on, completely enclosing her head. It was red and polished smooth, as if made of plastic or ceramic. It hummed softly, and there was a little green light blinking near the neck, indicating that it was doing whatever it was supposed to be doing.

  ‘Hello?’ she asked again. Her voice was strong and clear, but she spoke English with an accent Kaz had never heard before. There was a bit of American in it, he thought, but something else that he couldn’t quite pin down.

  ‘Should we speak to her?’ said Kaz.

  Jana shrugged.

  Obviously perturbed by the lack of response, the woman reached up a hand to grab a cord that hung from the ceiling. At the end of the cord was a small switch with a red button on it, the kind they had in hospitals so the patient could call for a nurse. Kaz leapt forward, determined to stop her raising the alarm. The backpack slipped off his shoulder as he dived across the bed and grabbed the woman’s hand. He was conscious of Jana shouting at him to be careful, but he couldn’t hear her properly because of the roar in his ears. He immediately realised his mistake and tried to release his grasp, but it was too late. He heard the woman cry out as he was engulfed in red fire and the room began to fade around him.

  Just as Dora had been, he was flung into time by the touch of the woman from the future. And he was powerless to stop it.

  Jana watched in horror as both Kaz and the woman on the bed glowed and vanished. The release of energy was enormous; screens flared, machines sparked and shut down in a storm of mini-explosions. Jana was thrown backwards and slammed into the wall. She pulled herself upright and then sat there, senses reeling, wondering what she was supposed to do now.

  22

  Sarah worked the soft dough on the wooden tabletop, her hands mechanically going through motions she didn’t even have to think about any more. Push, fold, add some water, push, fold, add some flour. The tactile squish of dough between her fingers felt like safety. The fire warmed her back, and the smell of the slowly roasting chicken that hung on the spit above it made her mouth water. As long as there was bread to make, and chicken roasting above an open fire, she could pretend that her world was the same as it had always been, that the war was still far, far away from her door. When she judged the dough ready she placed it in the cloth-lined wicker basket and left it to prove. She rubbed her hands to remove the clinging specks of gooey dough and flour, then wiped them on her apron as she turned to see a silhouette in the internal doorway and gave a small yelp of surprise.

  ‘Ooh, you gave me quite a …’ She trailed off in amazement as the silhouette stepped forward and she saw her daughter’s face for the first time in five years.

  Sarah’s eyes went wide and then rolled back up into her head as she gasped in surprise and
her legs began to crumple beneath her. Dora darted forward but she was not fast enough to catch her collapsing mother. A man Dora had not noticed was close enough, and fast, too. He had been sitting at the kitchen table, Dora’s view of him obscured by her mother. His chair crashed to the floor behind him and he grunted with effort as he lunged forward just quickly enough to get his hands beneath Sarah’s shoulders and ease her gently to the floor.

  It took Dora a moment to recognise her mother’s rescuer as her fellow captive from the green. He looked up at her, did a double-take and then smiled.

  ‘It gives me joy to see you again, young lady,’ he said. His voice was croaky and raw; a side effect of his botched hanging.

  ‘And I you, sir,’ replied Dora, kneeling beside her mother, who lay still. ‘She is quite insensible. I fear my appearance was too great a shock for her senses to bear.’

  ‘It would be best to leave her to recover her wits in her own time,’ said Mountfort. ‘Waking people from such a swoon can result in great distress.’

  Dora looked around the kitchen for something soft to place beneath her mother’s head. As she did so she registered a number of items that seemed similar to the kind of things she had seen in the future, including a silver machine with two slots in the top and a cable running from the base, a box with a glass window beside a panel of numbers, and a tall white cabinet that was surely a fridge. Filing these anomalies away for later investigation, she spotted a spare apron hanging by the door, rose to collect it, then folded it into a makeshift pillow. She handed it to Mountfort, who placed it beneath Sarah’s head and rose to his feet as Dora resumed kneeling by her unconscious mother.

  ‘May I ask why your arrival occasioned such alarm?’ he asked as he righted his chair and sat down again.

  ‘It has been many years since my mother has seen me,’ explained Dora. ‘I think she believed me dead.’

  She looked at her mother’s face. There were many new lines, especially on her forehead and around her eyes. They were not lines worn by countless smiles, but betrayed years of frowning worry. Her hair, once so brilliantly blonde, was now almost entirely grey. Dora guessed that her disappearance was the most likely cause of such marked changes in her mother’s countenance. This thought brought her father to mind. So fraught had their reunion been that she had not fully registered the changes time had wrought upon him. Now she thought back on it, he too had been aged prematurely by the last few years, his eyes deeper set, his hairline in full retreat across his scalp. She felt tears come to her eyes but wiped them away immediately, unwilling to let Mountfort see her cry.

  ‘I must thank you for your kindness towards me in Pendarn,’ she said, careful to keep her voice from wavering.

  ‘You are most welcome,’ replied Mountfort. ‘I had no wish to die, but I was unwilling to purchase my survival at the cost of your own. I am a soldier, of sorts, and a violent death is likely inevitable. But a girl such as yourself has no place at the end of a hangman’s rope.’

  ‘It was kind of you,’ replied Dora. ‘I am ashamed of the spectacle I made of myself. I would not have you believe that the things I said were true.’

  Mountfort laughed. ‘I have seen many strange things in my life, not least this day, but even I have not yet witnessed – what was it you said? – a black goat walking upon its hind legs singing lullabies composed of baby screams. You have a most creative imagination.’

  Dora was mortified to hear her desperate lies memorised and repeated. ‘I would be grateful if you would forget what I said, or at the least never refer to it again,’ she said.

  ‘As you wish,’ he replied with a gracious nod. ‘We were not, I believe, formally introduced when last we met. My name is Richard Mountfort, humble servant of the Crown, and your good self.’

  He gave a small, seated bow.

  ‘Dora Predennick,’ said Dora. ‘Scullery maid of this house. Once. Now I do not know what I am. Let us say I am a traveller and leave it at that.’

  ‘A woman of mystery. How delightful.’

  ‘How came you to be sharing this kitchen with my mother?’

  ‘I was on my way here when I was apprehended by those ruffians and accused of being a spy, correctly as it happens,’ he explained. ‘Once I had gained my freedom I resumed my course and made for my intended destination – this house, and the hospitality of your fine mother’s kitchen. I carry an urgent message for your master. One of the servants has been dispatched to inform him of my arrival. While I wait at his pleasure, your mother kindly furnishes me with food, drink and good company.’

  Dora appraised her new friend. She reckoned him to be mid-thirties, with black hair and dark eyes that sparkled with a gentle, lascivious wit. His lips were thin, but curled up at the edges in a permanent sardonic grin. He gave the impression, she thought, of being an honourable libertine. His hair, moustache and beard were wild and unkempt, as if he had taken his disguise as a peasant a step too far; Dora knew many farm labourers, and they generally had more self-respect than to traipse around looking as if they had been dragged through a hedge backwards. This was a well-to-do man playing at dress-up, and none too well. Dora found the combination of artless pretend, base cunning and flirtatious charm oddly attractive. She did not consider him an immediate threat. In fact, he might make a useful ally. She would never trust him, but she was not sure she would ever trust anybody again, not after what had happened to James.

  ‘The young man who apprehended you,’ she asked urgently. ‘Did you see what became of him?’

  ‘The whelp?’ Mountfort’s voice dripped contempt. ‘I think perhaps I saw him running for the woods when the blue-faced devils began their advance.’

  Dora felt a surge of relief. That meant he was probably still alive, which meant there was a chance he could be turned from the path he had taken.

  ‘Did I hear right … he is your brother?’ asked Mountfort.

  Dora nodded. ‘He is. James.’

  ‘I would think you glad to see him burn, given how shamefully he used you.’

  ‘I would have thought so too,’ agreed Dora. ‘But I find that I cannot wish him ill.’

  ‘Foolishness,’ said Mountfort shortly. ‘Do not let it cloud your judgement should you encounter him again. There was no spark of human kindness left in that boy, and family loyalties mean little nowadays.’

  Sarah gave a soft moan and Dora, who was holding her hand, clasped it more tightly.

  ‘On the contrary, sir,’ replied Dora. ‘They mean more now than they ever did.’

  His face betrayed his scepticism. ‘Sentiment will get you killed,’ he said.

  ‘I would be grateful if you would not mention James to my mother when she wakes,’ Dora said. ‘She knows nothing of his current whereabouts or affiliations.’

  Mountfort nodded graciously. ‘As you wish.’

  Dora leaned forward and softly called her mother’s name, stroking her hair as she did so.

  Sarah’s eyes flickered open and for a moment they roved, senseless, before focusing on her daughter’s face.

  ‘Mother, it is your daughter. I have returned,’ said Dora, now unable to stop the tears from welling over and running down her cheeks.

  ‘Dora?’ muttered Sarah, her drowsiness fading into excited disbelief. She sat up and pulled Dora into a soft, floury embrace that smelt like childhood. For the second time that day, Dora held a parent as they wept for joy. This time there was nobody chasing after her, so there was little opportunity for Dora to dodge the barrage of questions her mother fired at her. All she could do was try to make her mother the centre of attention.

  ‘You’ve had a shock, Mother,’ she said, trying to help Sarah to her feet. ‘Come, sit down.’

  But Dora’s attempts to cluck and fuss her mother into momentary quiet were an abject failure. Sarah brushed her daughter’s hands away and rose to her feet unaided.

  ‘Sweet child, I am not a cripple nor a halfwit to be cosseted so,’ she said as she arranged her clothes and straightened he
r hair. It seemed to Dora that her mother’s immediate shock and joy were already beginning to shade into anger at her daughter’s unexplained five-year absence. Dora wasn’t surprised. She had little choice but to take a seat and endure the interrogation, pointedly ignoring Mountfort’s obvious amusement.

  Sarah sat herself in a chair directly facing Dora and reached out to take both her hands. ‘Now, child,’ she said, ‘you must tell me where you have been.’

  ‘I …’

  ‘And no stories, mind. I am a grown woman. I know the ways of the world and although you still look exactly like the girl who left, five years have passed and you are a woman now too. So be honest with me. Was it a man?’

  Dora answered ‘Yes’ even before she had consciously decided to lie. But once the word was out of her mouth, she was sure she had done right. The last thing her practical mother would accept was the truth. Dora was still not sure she accepted it herself – the events that had overtaken her since she had last stood in this kitchen increasingly seemed like some kind of fever dream. Were it not for the out-of-time kitchen appliances that sat so incongruously amongst the copper pots and pans, she would almost be able to believe she had imagined it all.