The Doomsday Code tr-3

by Alex Scarrow

  Ahead of him he saw the crowd part, making space around the flat top of a broad tree stump. It was about a yard across and a yard high — like a roughly hewn table-top.

  ‘Send his head back to Oxford!’

  Head? Oh God please no …

  Liam saw someone place a wicker basket beside the base of the stump. He began to buck and squirm against the grasp of the men dragging him, causing them to wrench him forward more roughly.

  ‘Come on, pig! We’ll put ye on a spike when we’re done!’

  Strong arms pushed him against the tree stump and grabbed his shoulders to bend him down over the rough flat top.

  Liam frantically worked his tongue against the gag, pushing the material bit by bit out of his mouth. But even then, even if he could scream something, he was sure nothing was going to stop them now. They wanted their dark-haired Norman head.

  His arms were twisted behind his back and the jagged splinters of wood from the stump ground and mashed away against his cheekbone as several hands firmly pressed his head down. He rolled his eyes to one side to look up — and wished he hadn’t. A thickset man was standing beside the stump, enjoying the moment and flexing his muscular arms as he wielded a broadsword in both hands.

  ‘One stroke! One stroke!’ several in the crowd began chanting.

  ‘Aye! ’Tis always one good stroke!’ the man roared in reply.

  ‘Not so, Seth!’ another man bellowed. ‘Did take more than three on the last!’

  Close your eyes, Liam, he told himself. Best not to see the blade coming down.

  But he couldn’t. He couldn’t take his eyes off his executioner. The man making a big show for his crowd, stepping round the stump and limbering up with long swooshing swoops of the sword.

  The material of the gag was now almost entirely pushed out of his mouth, but still over it. He tried screaming at them to stop, but his words were muffled.

  In his peripheral vision he spotted the tall man, looking down at him with a stern expression. And beside him, a foot taller, the sinister form of the Hood, motionless, a face lost in the dark shadows of his cowl. Their presence hushed the baying crowd until it was quiet enough that Liam could hear the soft rustle of a breeze chasing through the oak leaves far above them.

  ‘You wish this?’ said the tall man. ‘You wish to send his head as a message to those who rule yer country?’

  The crowd roared in response.

  ‘So be it, then,’ he said with a tone of regret in his voice. He nodded slowly at the executioner. ‘See it done. And mind it’s a clean blow. This young Norman deserves a quick death.’

  ‘Aye,’ nodded the executioner. He took a couple of steps over to Liam and gently rested the sword’s cold blade against the back of his neck. Liam felt its weight, the razor-thin edge biting into his skin.

  And then he felt the weight of the blade being lifted.

  Lifting for the swing.

  Oh God, oh Jay-zus …

  Liam jerked his head, bucking and kicking as hands pressed harder to hold his shoulders still.

  ‘Best hold still!’ one of the men holding him warned. ‘Unless you want him to hack at you like a hog on a spit?’

  As the executioner sucked in a breath and his sword hovered for a moment above his head, Liam jerked his chin once more, finally freeing his mouth above the cloth gag.

  ‘Please! I’m not French!’ he heard himself screaming, shrill and terrified. ‘I’m — I’m — from the future!’

  CHAPTER 53

  1194, Sherwood Forest, Nottinghamshire

  ‘Stop!’

  Liam heard the blade coming down, a long deep swoop that sounded like the wingbeat of Death itself and then the wooden stump his head was pressed against vibrated with the jarring impact. He heard the blade clang and hum and the executioner curse as the blow vibrated his hands.

  Liam tried to focus on the wobbling metal blade right beside his nose, reflecting his own face back at him. And that was the very last thing he remembered before he fainted.

  Water splashed across his face, and Liam came to screaming, ‘Nooooo!’

  He opened his eyes to see he was in a dark place, his bonds now removed. It was a round room of wicker walls caked with mud. Above him, sunlight dappled through a crude thatch of twigs and reeds, and beams caught dust motes and pollen gracefully floating through them.

  ‘In case you’re wondering,’ said a voice calmly. ‘You’re not dead.’

  Liam looked around the room, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. The first thing he saw was the hooded figure squatting on the mud floor of the room. Beside it, sitting on a wooden stool, was the tall man with the long sandy hair, studying Liam intently and stroking his bottom lip thoughtfully.

  ‘Who sent you?’ he asked after a while.

  Liam struggled to gather his senses. A moment ago, seconds ago, he’d been awaiting the downward strike of a sword on the back of his neck.

  ‘You said “I’m from the future”,’ the man said. ‘The only person in the twelfth century likely to comprehend the notion of time travel is someone who, indeed, has come from the future. Therefore, I completely believe you. Now,’ he went on, sitting forward, ‘who sent you?’

  Liam looked up at him. ‘You — you … you’re a traveller too?’

  The man nodded.

  ‘Are you … are you one of us?’ asked Liam.

  ‘Us?’

  ‘The — the agency?’

  He cocked his head. ‘Agency?’

  Liam bit his lip. Perhaps he’d just blurted out too much.

  ‘Agency …? Hold on.’ The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not talking about …?’ He smiled, then laughed. ‘You can’t possibly mean … The Agency?’

  Liam shrugged. ‘Yes … I … no, I don’t know. I — ’

  ‘There were rumours … back in the 2060s. A secret agency set up to track down and terminate illegal time travellers. They were just rumours, mind.’

  Liam said nothing, but the man seemed wholly intrigued by him. ‘Of course, everyone suspected that was propaganda — a deterrent, something to scare off any tech companies thinking about secretly developing a machine. But you’re here …’ His eyes narrowed. ‘So … is that it? Is this agency actually for real? Is that where you’ve come from?’

  Liam’s eyes darted towards the hooded figure. Menacingly large in such a small hut, it sat silently poised in a squatting position. So far the man was asking questions … not demanding. He wondered how long that was going to last.

  ‘It’s true,’ whispered Liam. ‘I’m with that agency.’

  ‘My God!’ The man laughed again. ‘It was real! I knew it! Tell me … who’s behind it? The North American Federation? Is it the Sino-Korean Bloc? New Europe?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ Liam replied.

  ‘Or is it a corporation?’

  Liam shook his head. ‘I don’t know … we just work on our own. I don’t know who organizes us.’

  ‘You’re just a grunt, then?’ He smiled, not unkindly. ‘A foot soldier.’

  Liam shrugged. ‘I … I suppose.’

  ‘And I presume you’ve come back here because I’ve altered history somehow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A lot?’

  ‘Enough that there’s been a time wave. The present has been changed.’

  ‘And your mission was to come back here to kill me?’

  Liam closed his mouth. There was much too much he’d be giving away with an answer. Instead, he asked a question. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘That’s rather direct of you. I like that.’ The man smiled. ‘So I suppose I shall tell you. My name is James Locke.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Locke,’ said Liam, gingerly offering a hand. ‘I’m Liam O’Connor.’

  A grin slowly spread across Locke’s face. He reached out and shook the proffered hand. ‘I recognize that accent,’ he said. ‘You’re Irish.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A pity, eh?’

  Liam frown
ed. ‘Pity? Why?’

  ‘Why?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t know … do you?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘Much of Ireland’s gone now. I think some peaks remain still in County Kerry, but the rest is all underwater.’

  Liam stared at the man, wondering if he was playing a joke with him.

  ‘A lot of other places have gone too, mind. But you really don’t know about any of this, do you? What year exactly have you come from?’

  He wondered if there was any point in keeping that from Locke. ‘2001.’

  ‘2001? Really? Why so far back? That’s over forty years before the first-ever test machine was functional.’

  ‘As good a place as any other, I suppose.’ He looked at Locke. ‘Did you just say Ireland’s underwater?’

  ‘Systemic climatic failure. It used to be called “global warming”. The ice caps melted decades ago; the sea ended up rising by about a hundred metres. We’ve lost about a fifth of the world’s land mass — the most densely populated fifth. What’s left is crammed full of people. Standing room only, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Jay-zus!’

  ‘Oh, you got that right,’ Locke said, pushing wisps of hair out of his eyes. Liam looked at his lean face more closely and realized he was a lot older than he’d first guessed. Forty, maybe fifty. His long hair threaded with greys and silvers, and criss-crossing lines splayed out from the corners of his eyes.

  ‘In my time the world’s dying, Liam. And it’s all our doing. It’s overheating and every ecosystem is gradually failing.’

  Liam rubbed his head, still thudding with a dull ache. ‘So, when have you come from?’

  He laughed a little sadly. ‘The end of times … I suppose.’

  ‘The end? But when?’

  Locke said nothing. Outside the hut, there was a growing clamour of voices.

  ‘What do you mean by the end, Mr Locke?’

  Locke waved the question away. ‘Maybe I’ll explain later. For now, though, I better tell that crowd of barbarians outside that there’ll be no Norman nobles beheaded today.’

  ‘You’re not going to kill me?’

  ‘Depends if you get in the way or not.’ He splayed his hands. ‘My advice? Don’t get in the way.’

  ‘Why? What’re you up to? Why did you come back here?’

  He smiled again. ‘I came back to find out about something. Originally. But my plans have changed somewhat.’ He got up off his stool. ‘Be a good man and stay here … and don’t try and run or I’ll set Rex on you.’

  The hooded figure stirred at mention of the name.

  ‘Is that a — a support unit?’

  Locke clearly didn’t know what he meant by that.

  ‘A … clone,’ Liam added, unsure whether Locke was familiar with that term either.

  ‘A gen-engineered product? Good God, no. They’re far too expensive and far too unreliable. No, this is something altogether more practical. Do you want to see?’ Locke asked with a glint in his eye.

  ‘Errr … all right.’

  He reached over and with a theatrical flourish he tugged the hood down to reveal a dented and rusted metal skull. Metal, that is, down to where the bridge of the nose would be on a human skull. From that point downwards, a synthetic skin cover descended, starting as a scorched and partially melted, jagged edge and becoming a waxy plastic-looking version of a nose, mouth, cheeks and jaw — an almost convincing facsimile of the lower half of a human face.

  ‘The people that sent me back … well,’ he sighed, ‘in the year I come from, we were lucky to get our hands on this model.’ He rapped the metal skull on the top, and the robot stirred with a soft whir of servo-motors. ‘Army surplus combat cyborg. Insurgency model with a synthetic plastene skin sheath … or at least what’s left of it. Used in the last Oil War. He’s not a particularly pretty boy but he’s as tough as a tank.’

  ‘Those people outside? They follow him … they seem to — ?’

  ‘Worship him?’ Locke shrugged. ‘Yes … “worship”. I think that about sums them up. The simple fools think of Rex as some sort of a God-sent instrument of justice sent down to lead them in a war against their Norman overlords. They’ll do anything he tells them.’

  ‘You mean, anything you tell them?’

  He laughed. ‘Indeed. Rex is programmed to take my verbal commands only. They think “The Hood” is leading them. And that works just fine for my purposes.’

  ‘And what’s that, Mr Locke?’

  He tapped his nose. ‘We’ll talk later.’ He got up from his stool and stooped down to exit the small hut. Liam could hear the crowd outside and Locke’s voice explaining something about the ‘sheriff being a useful hostage’.

  Liam turned to look at the robot’s face. Half human, half rusting metal dappled with peeling army-green paint. And two small and faint pin-points of blue light: LEDs that glowed dully, just like the power-up indicator on the displacement machine back home in 2001.

  Liam nodded gingerly and waved. ‘Uh … so, errr … hello.’

  It continued to stare at him, motionless and silent.

  CHAPTER 54

  1194, Nottingham Castle

  Bob surveyed the recruits as they trained, standing in the middle of several dozen of them, paired and sparring with wooden baton swords and wicker shields. The sun had climbed high enough now that it shone down into the castle’s main bailey, making the men perspire under the weight of their chain mail.

  He observed their leaden and clumsy swordplay and evaluated their abilities as individual combat units.

  [Evaluation: combat efficiency — insufficient]

  There was no numerative score he could sensibly apply to them yet. They were that bad. Barely better than malnourished old men and young boys, struggling to remain standing under the weight of their armour, let alone able to sustain effective melee combat with properly weighted swords and heavy iron shields.

  However, merely having columns of men tramping around the Nottingham countryside wearing the royal burgundy tunic sporting three amber lions and managing to approximate the look of soldiers seemed to have had the effect that Liam was after. The banditry, the raids, the lawlessness had receded from the town and the surrounding farming villages and disappeared deep into the woods.

  Bob’s AI took a moment to shuffle through a high-level menu of mission objectives. The current primary goal of subverting a peasant uprising originating from Nottingham appeared to have been met. But until he received a tachyon signal from the field office confirming that history had realigned itself, it remained a mission goal yet to be struck off the list.

  Liam O’Connor seemed content to leave the majority of the logistics of running the castle, leading the garrison and overseeing the feeding of the people of Nottingham to him. The fleshy part of Bob’s mind seemed to want to communicate something to him about that. An emotion of some sort. He tried to identify it, tried to find a human label for it, and finally came up with one.

  Pride?

  His silicon mind stepped in and decided to phrase that more concisely.

  [Analysis: mission achievement verification bonus]

  He tried out one of his library of smiles — one of the smaller ones that looked less like a horse flashing its gums. It matched that small buzz of satisfaction he was feeling. He decided the smile worked and matched this mild emotion he was currently experiencing. He labelled it: [Proud-Smile-001].

  A voice calling down from the gatehouse disturbed his musing. He looked across at the gatehouse’s entrance archway to see a wounded man being helped through the gates by several others.

  ‘You may now rest,’ he instructed the drilling recruits, and stepped across the courtyard towards the new arrivals.

  Drawing closer, he could see the burgundy and amber colours on the man and recognized the face as one of the dozen men assigned to escort Liam to Kirklees Priory. He was aware that Liam was a day late but had assumed he had decided to stay with Cabot a second night. Bob’s pace quicken
ed until he stood beside the man being lowered gently to the ground by several men from the town.

  ‘Sire,’ said one of them, ‘we found ’im collapsed in the marketplace.’

  Bob knelt down and inspected him. Blood soaked half his tunic, turning it almost black.

  ‘He will not survive for very long. He has lost too much blood.’

  The soldier was one of the first intake of recruits; Bob retrieved the man’s name from his database. ‘Henry Gardiner, you must tell me what has happened.’

  The man looked up at him. ‘Sire … sire … they ambushed … us! They …’ He coughed, spluttering a dark spray of blood down his chest. ‘A … a … drink … please.’

  Bob called for one of the water-bearers and then carefully helped the man to sip a ladle of water.

  ‘Continue when ready,’ he said as the man finished and let the ladle go.

  ‘Ambushed us … yesterday. The Hood’s men …’ he panted in short rattling breaths. ‘The sheriff …’

  ‘What has happened to the sheriff?’

  ‘Took … took him …’

  ‘He is alive?’

  Henry Gardiner appeared to be waning fast, his eyelids fluttering, his face pinching from the pain.

  ‘He is alive?’ Bob repeated insistently.

  ‘Aye … y-yes … they took … they took him …’

  Bob nodded. ‘Understood,’ his deep voice rumbled. He turned to one of the recruits standing nearby. ‘Fetch this man some mead from our store-room.’ He estimated the dying man had another hour of life left in him. The alcohol would at least make it a comfortable hour. Bob evaluated the man deserved at least that for dutifully struggling back to make his report. His grey eyes swivelled on to the townsfolk who’d helped him in. ‘You are good civilians. I am grateful for your assistance. You may also drink some mead.’

  The men tugged their forelocks with gratitude.

  Bob rested a hand on Gardiner’s shoulder and squeezed it gently. ‘You have functioned well, Henry Gardiner.’

  He stood up, his mind already shuffling through a decision-tree of actions he was going to need to take. There wasn’t a great deal of calculative effort required to come up with the conclusion that retrieving Liam alive was the preferred course of action. It didn’t conflict with the primary objective; what’s more, Liam O’Connor’s role as sheriff had proven to be effective among the local population. The people appeared to like him and would want their sheriff back.