by RR Haywood
They sit quietly, observing, to absorb and see it all as their minds work to understand the world around them.
People with distant, far-away expressions on their faces with a distinct pattern of their eye movements, looking left then right, up then down. Ben looks round to see more people doing it and spots a woman mid-way through a conversation muttering an apology to the man with her before adopting the far-away expression and weird eye movement. A few seconds later the man does the same.
‘Retina interface,’ Miri says quietly. ‘Has to be a retina projection linked to an operating system . . . like a smartphone interface only they can see.’
‘From contact lenses,’ Ben says. ‘Makes sense . . . Haven’t seen anyone pay either. Everything must be automated.’
‘A personal system unique to the user,’ Miri murmurs. ‘We’re not far from it in our time.’ She takes in the sweep of the café seating area extending round and seemingly over the water. A tranquil gorgeous evening and a marked change from the bunker or Bertie’s island. Noises of people, the smells of people, the essence of a city.
‘This isn’t what Bertie recorded, that’s for sure,’ Safa says. ‘Are you sure we’re in the right place?’
‘Definitely,’ Ben says. ‘We both checked it,’ he adds, looking to Miri. ‘Something we’ve done must have put it back to how it should be.’
‘Should be?’ Miri asks. ‘There is no should be. Perhaps the world Bertie saw was the original timeline and what we are seeing now is a result of our interference.’
‘Don’t be so picky. You know exactly what I mean,’ Ben says. ‘Bertie went to twenty-one eleven and saw a dead world. We’re now in twenty-one eleven and it’s thriving.’
‘We are in one part of the world, Mr Ryder. We cannot form a full judgement from seeing one café . . .’
Safa tuts softly, smiling to herself at Miri and Ben descending into another deep discussion. She sits content in the warm evening air, half listening to them while watching the world around her. She used to spend hours standing static guard in a silent house, waiting with dread in her gut for any chance encounter the PM might engineer to trap her alone. Those days seem a lifetime ago and without thinking she moves her hand to press against Ben’s thigh simply for the pleasure of the touch. He looks down, then smiles at her before returning to counter whatever Miri just said.
Harry sits with his back against a tree, tutting at the winks and smiles from men passing by while Emily lies down with her head on his leg so they can both see the others and the gardener’s hut. She reaches out to take his hand, entwining her fingers in his huge hand, then laughs when someone whistles at Harry and calls out ‘Hey, Affa’.
Harry was here before, in this same park. He was on a few days leave. It looked so different then. Anti-aircraft batteries everywhere and it wasn’t summer either but mid-winter. Cold, bleak and bitter. Remembering that makes him think of Edith and he frowns as he tries to recall what she looks like. It’s getting harder to summon her image and hold it clear in his mind. Whole days and weeks will go by, then he’ll realise he hasn’t thought of her and be flooded with guilt before forcing his mind to focus on the job at hand. Now he looks out to a London that doesn’t have a war going on. A London in the distant future from his own time where things float and men wear make-up. The same but different.
‘That’s nice,’ Emily says quietly, tilting her head back to look at him.
He glances down, unaware that he was drawing circles on her arm with his fingertips. An absent-minded thing born from the familiarity of constantly being next to her on the big leather sofa watching holo movies.
‘Kon, now that’s enough . . .’ Malcolm says, casting a nervous glance at the door. ‘If Miri catches you stripping it down . . . Is that it? That’s the engine? Now that is a thing.’
‘It is, Malc. Look at that. Anti-Magnetic Field Displacement Unit,’ he reads from the side of the exposed inner engine. ‘Now I bet it’s the same as what powers all those grav things out there.’
‘Not very big, is it?’ Malcolm says.
‘Wonder how it works exactly,’ Konrad says, staring at the unit with a look in his eye that Malcolm has come to recognise. ‘I reckon we can have that off, Malc.’
‘No, Kon. We ain’t having anything off.’
‘We can put it on Ria’s bed, float her outside or to see Bertie. Like a medical thing, yeah? Might help her get better . . . Keep an eye out, Malc. Take me a jiffy to have it off.’
At the café Safa tunes back in to the conversation between Ben and Miri, leaning forward a touch to watch them. ‘Can’t we just bring Bertie here and ask him?’ she says.
‘Pardon?’ Ben asks.
‘He went forward twice, right? The first time it wasn’t ruined, the second time it was, which to be totally honest confuses the hell out of me, but why don’t we just bring him here now and see if this is what he saw the first time?’
Silence for a second as both Ben and Miri reflect on why the hell neither of them came up with that solution.
‘Yeah, I was waiting for someone else to think of that,’ Ben says, sighing heavily with a self-effacing wince.
‘Idiots,’ Safa laughs. ‘You two overthink it all too much.’
‘I think we do, Mr Ryder.’
‘I think she’s right, Miss Sanderson. So my suggestion is we check it a bit more, look at Piccadilly and make sure it’s all safe, then bring Bertie here . . .’
‘Cheeky twat, I just said that,’ Safa says, swatting his leg.
‘Er, excuse me, I’m not the cheeky twat . . .’
‘UNKNOWN ADULT MALE. THE USE OF REVOLTING, ABUSIVE OR INSULTING WORDS IS PROHIBITED IN THIS PUBLIC PLACE.’
‘Bet that was Safa,’ Emily says, smiling up at Harry.
‘Bound to be Safa,’ Malcolm says, frozen in position staring at the door while Konrad grunts to free the engine from the hover mower.
‘Stop swearing,’ Miri whispers again.
‘Sorry,’ Ben says as Safa laughs at him.
Miri looks round, seeing the same lack of reaction to the automated voice. It looks fine and Ben is correct that this appears to be life as it should be. Something doesn’t feel right though. A nag inside. A disjointed unsettled feeling that the game isn’t over yet, but then, right now, it looks like it is. Is that what she wants? For it to be over so soon? What now? Retirement again?
‘And the world being fixed doesn’t explain why we have a dead Nazi in the bunker,’ Safa says by way of casual observation.
Ben tuts in reaction, thinking for a second it was over and done, while Miri’s eyes twinkle and her lips twitch in the hint of a smile at the lure of a new game.
‘Piccadilly then?’ Ben asks. ‘Might as well go and look if we’re here.’
‘Agreed,’ Miri says, pushing up from the bench with Ben.
‘Not agreed,’ Safa says firmly, going after them. ‘We’re going to Rio. We can do that tomorrow.’
‘Mission first,’ Miri says.
‘We did the mission,’ Safa says firmly, all trace of humour now gone. ‘Cavendish Manor was the mission. This is a new mission and we need a night off.’
‘This first, then Rio,’ Miri says.
‘No,’ Safa says. ‘Harry needs a fucking night off. I need a fucking night off. We all need a fucking night off . . .’
Miri and Ben pause, waiting for the automated voice to boom out but it doesn’t come.
‘He hasn’t smiled in days,’ Safa whispers angrily as Harry and Emily stroll down the bank towards them.
‘Safa, this is important,’ Ben says. ‘This is what we came here to do . . .’
‘This is work, Ben . . . Being here is work. We need a night off. We’re having a night off . . .’ she says as Harry and Emily reach them.
‘What’s going on?’ Emily asks.
‘They want to see Piccadilly now,’ Safa explains. ‘And I said no because we need a night off.’
‘I agree,’ Emily says, glancing at Harry.
>
‘I mean this is as important but, fuck me,’ Safa says as everyone else waits again for the automated voice, ‘we trained solidly for weeks for Cavendish Manor. Give us a break . . . Actually, sod it. As team leader I am saying my team is not fit for duty until we’ve had some downtime.’
‘Nothing,’ Ben says, looking round. ‘How the fuck are you . . .’
‘UNKNOWN ADULT MALE. THE USE OF REVOLTING, ABUSIVE OR INSULTING WORDS IS PROHIBITED IN THIS PUBLIC PLACE.’
‘Hey, Affa,’ a man says with a nod at Harry.
‘I AM HOLDING HIS HAND,’ Emily snaps.
‘Alright, love,’ the man says with a defiant sneer.
‘It’s predatory,’ she fires back. ‘The poor bloke can’t have a simple stroll without men coming on to him . . .’
‘He’s six foot five and built like a fucking tank,’ Ben says.
‘UNKNOWN ADULT MALE. THE USE OF REVOLTING, ABUSIVE OR INSULTING WORDS IS PROHIBITED IN THIS PUBLIC PLACE.’
‘Fuck’s sake . . .’ Ben mutters.
‘UNKNOWN ADULT MALE. THE USE OF REVOLTING, ABUSIVE OR INSULTING WORDS IS PROHIBITED IN THIS PUBLIC PLACE.’
‘I’m just saying they should bloody leave him alone . . .’
‘UNKNOWN ADULT FEMALE. THE USE OF REVOLTING, ABUSIVE OR INSULTING WORDS IS PROHIBITED IN THIS PUBLIC PLACE.’
‘. . . especially when he is holding hands with his bloody girlfriend . . .’
‘UNKNOWN ADULT FEMALE. THE USE OF REVOLTING, ABUSIVE OR INSULTING WORDS IS PROHIBITED IN THIS PUBLIC PLACE.’
‘You’re not his girlfriend,’ Safa points out.
‘They don’t bloody know that . . .’
‘UNKNOWN ADULT FEMALE. THE USE OF REVOLTING, ABUSIVE OR INSULTING WORDS IS PROHIBITED IN THIS PUBLIC PLACE.’
‘Covert,’ Miri whispers angrily. ‘We are covert.’
‘Yeah,’ Safa says with a smug look. ‘So stop fucking swearing, you two . . .’
‘Nothing,’ Ben says at the silence. ‘How?’
‘Cos I’m special,’ Safa says as they stroll up the bank to the gardener’s hut and a frozen Malcolm looking very nervous while behind him Konrad stands in front of the hover mower now in bits while holding the inner engine block behind his back.
‘What the fuck?’ Miri snaps.
‘UNKNOWN ADULT FEMALE. THE USE OF REVOLTING, ABUSIVE OR INSULTING WORDS IS PROHIBITED IN THIS PUBLIC PLACE.’
‘Covert?’ Safa points out. ‘Gosh, you lot are just awful at being discreet . . . It’s a fucking embarrassment . . .’
Miri rubs her forehead, looking round at the state of the hut and Emily and Ben still glaring while Harry looks ready to jump off a cliff. ‘Night off . . . We need a night off.’
Eleven
Thursday, Day four
‘Bit bloody cold on the old chap though,’ Bravo says, rubbing his hands together while Charlie, Echo and Delta snort quiet laughs that blast mists of air from their mouths and noses. ‘I think he might withdraw inside like a tortoise,’ Bravo adds, reaching down theatrically to check his penis is still there.
‘Aren’t you wearing boxers?’ Charlie asks him. ‘I’ve got boxers on,’ he adds, looking round at the others.
‘Same,’ Delta says.
‘And me,’ Echo adds.
‘I was told we need to be authentic,’ Bravo says with a comic shrug.
‘When do they invent trousers?’ Charlie asks Rodney.
‘Good question,’ Bravo says. ‘We should ask that nice filly Rodney works with in the history department. Eh, Delta? Mission for you, that is. Infiltrate the trouser secrets of the history department.’
‘They’ve already invented them,’ Rodney says, blushing deeply at Bravo’s joke and the five agents all staring at him.
‘Then why the buggering hell are we in skirts, my dear Rodney?’ Bravo enquires.
‘Tunics,’ Rodney says. ‘People wear tunics here and wrap their legs in wool to tie off with string. It’s correct to the era,’ he adds quickly as the five agents look down at their bodies. Rough woollen tunics, undyed and the colour of faded straw. Untreated woollen wraps on their legs held in place with bindings. Socks made from rough material stitched together. Ill-fitting and nowhere near as good as modern thermal protective clothing.
‘Wasn’t it a thing for the Romans?’ Charlie asks Rodney. ‘To show how tough they were by always having their legs bared.’
‘That’s just a myth,’ Rodney says, turning round to look again in the vain hope of seeing just a glimpse of the newly constructed Hadrian’s Wall. 126 AD.
A frozen mud track snaking between tall trees with barren branches and the ground covered in patches of snow. Northern England close to the border of Scotland. Rodney blinks and gently bites the inside of his cheek to remind himself this is happening, that’s it’s not a dream. He is actually here, in Roman Britain, dressed to the exact specifications of the era. That he feels conflicted is hidden behind the excitement of being on a live mission. On the one hand, this is a historian’s wet dream; to have a working time machine and visit points of history. On the other hand, and the cause of the internal conflict, what they are doing goes against every moral and ethical bone in his professional body. He didn’t think anyone other than the agents would actually deploy outside the complex too, but Mother said it would do him good to get some field experience.
‘Wish I could see it,’ Rodney murmurs.
‘The wall?’ Alpha asks.
‘Be amazing,’ Rodney says eagerly. ‘Hadrian’s Wall in use? Oh my god. Like . . . just oh my god . . .’
‘Like, totally oh my god,’ Bravo mimics, giving Rodney a wink as the young historian blushes again.
‘Be, like, totally rad,’ Echo joins in.
‘Like, epic dude,’ Charlie adds.
‘Sorry,’ Rodney mumbles, dropping his gaze in shame.
‘Only playing, mate,’ Delta says, patting Rodney’s shoulder.
‘Maybe we should see this wall if we get time,’ Bravo says, looking at Alpha.
‘We’ll see how it goes,’ Alpha says.
‘How far is it?’ Echo asks.
‘One point three kilometres that way,’ Rodney replies instantly, pointing down the track.
‘Bloody hell, he is eager,’ Delta says.
‘Sshhh,’ Alpha says, striding out a few feet as Rodney blinks at the instant change in the way they switch from genial men chatting and joking to hardened agents glaring down the road with heads cocked while they strain to listen. ‘Incoming,’ Alpha says calmly. ‘Positions.’
‘Go down the bank,’ Delta tells Rodney, motioning with his head towards the green shimmer reflecting off patches of snow on the ground in the tree line. ‘Stay out of the way.’
Rodney rushes to do as he’s told. Sliding and tripping down the verge with a thrum of adrenaline. He runs into the tree line, his breath misting rapidly as he breathes faster before tucking up behind the wide base of a tree. His heart booms and thunders and the blood pounds through his skull, but he hears feet crunching within a few seconds. A perfect rhythm of men marching at a fast pace and the sound seems to carry far and deep in the still winter air.
It takes time for them to come into view. Time enough for Rodney to see Alpha and Bravo adopt a stance in the middle of the track with Charlie, Delta and Echo seemingly disappearing into the undergrowth on both sides.
When they do come into sight, Rodney’s eyes go wide and his mouth hangs open. Every term of reference goes out of his head and right now he couldn’t tell a cohort from a legion. A Decanus from a Centuria. What he sees is a real Roman officer leading a unit of real Roman soldiers. He expected a Centurion in full battle gear with plumes of red feathers standing proud on a shiny metal helmet. He expected big red shields, men in tunics with interlocking armour, gleaming swords and a standard bearer holding the golden eagle aloft to carry forth the power and might of Rome.
What he sees is an unshaven mean-eyed man in the lead with filthy woollen leg coverings underneath a tunic
that could have maybe once been red but now looks more brown. A heavy cloak wrapped over his shoulders and a dull, metal, somewhat battered helmet without any feathers at all.
The dozen or so men behind him look the same. Dull colours. Dull helmets. The shields are big and square but without any decorations at all and there is no standard bearer either. They look dirty, hardened and suddenly that sharp dose of reality kicks in as Rodney thinks they’ve made a very bad mistake and checks the distance and route to the portal a dozen or so metres away.
He hears a shout and looks up to see the lead officer of the Roman unit yelling at Alpha and Bravo in a harsh tone. Latin is a dead language, but the intent is clear. The officer is screaming for the two men to move aside and those orders are getting louder the closer they get with an expectation that everyone moves aside for the Roman army.
Alpha and Bravo do not move, but stand with their feet shoulder-width apart and their hands behind their backs. They project an air of disinterest. As if being faced with such a thing as a dozen armed men marching at them is entirely without alarm or concern.
The officer screams again. His eyes set. His facial expression twisting. His cloak moves aside with a vicious yank of his arm to show the two men the pommel of his sword. They don’t flinch or move. The officer grips his sword pommel, ordering them to move aside, but still they don’t comply. He is pissed off, cold, tired and his hands and feet have chilblains from being posted in such a vile, nasty, disgusting horrid place as this. Northern Britain is the worst posting in the Roman world. There is nothing good about it and now he has two idiots trying to defy his right to pass unhindered. Everyone must give way to the army. There is no question about this.
‘HALT,’ he screams. The soldiers behind him come to a perfect stop. ‘YOU TWO,’ the officer shouts, turning to look at two leading soldiers in the column under his command, ‘BEAT THOSE IDIOTS ASIDE . . .’
Rodney watches the two soldiers run out, both swinging their shields into position and clearly intending to use them to batter Alpha and Bravo aside and the belief that this is a mistake only amplifies. The Romans number more than a dozen heavily armed men. He can’t believe Alpha and Bravo aren’t turning to flee. They don’t move a muscle, but simply wait as the two soldiers charge at them.