by RR Haywood
‘Affa. That’s new too,’ Ria says. ‘A Roman army patrol near Hadrian’s Wall in one-two-six AD was killed by a small group of locals led by a man called Affa. It caused a mass civil uprising and changed the course of history. Affa became famous . . . like Spartacus was in our time . . .’ She stops talking and waits, but Ben holds off the urge to fill the silence to see if Ria will continue. She smiles instead. ‘That’s why I don’t want you here . . . This place is lethal, but it doesn’t manipulate . . .’
‘Ria,’ Ben calls as she turns to walk off.
‘Do not come back.’ She tugs something from her pocket and turns as she walks to throw it at Ben, who catches it from the air. ‘The credit system is confusing, but think of it as money and that has about a grand on it . . .’
Ben looks at the small flat card. Half the size of a credit card and matt black with delicate golden lines criss-crossing the centre. A logo in the corner with the words LONDON TOURIST CREDIT CHIP printed in clear letters.
‘Oh, and if you go back to London don’t take a weapon with you because I won’t save you again . . . The drones scan everyone and mark their targets with lasers. Even if you shoot them down you’re still marked.’ She walks off, leaving Ben as stunned as before.
Twenty-One
Bertie’s Island
‘I know we’re all tired, but this has to be done now,’ Miri says in the shack on Bertie’s island an hour after coming back from Hyde Park. ‘There are two changes to the timeline that we are aware of. The Affa incident in one-two-six AD and a nuclear bomb dropped on London in nineteen forty-five. We need information on those incidents to find out where we can deploy to monitor them and establish who caused them.’
‘I think it’s bloody obvious who caused them,’ Emily says. ‘You said it yourself, Ben. Affa must be Alpha . . .’
‘We will investigate and draw conclusions from fact in place of guesswork, Tango Two.’
Emily bridles, ready to snap back, but swallows the rebuke and stays silent.
‘Why are we rushing?’ Safa asks, clocking the look between Miri and Ben.
‘We’re detached from the timeline,’ Ben explains. ‘And if we are then whoever else has a time machine is also detached . . . and there’s a risk we’re both now on our own timeline and we just lost two months. Why make two changes to the timeline? Miri and I discussed it and one of our theories is that they dropped the nuke because we failed to react to the changes in Roman times . . .’
‘Because we were gone for two months?’ Safa asks.
‘Possibly,’ Ben says. ‘We need to find out. Hence going into the place Ria used.’
‘Ready?’ Miri asks, not waiting for a response as she activates the portal that comes to life with the blue doorway shining between the floating devices.
The settings were stored in Bertie’s controller as Lambeth-not-Lambeth, with an entry point at the end of a deep dog-legged alley and they go through to venture out with Safa in the lead.
‘Harry, Emily . . . you two hold the alley,’ Safa says. ‘This our fall-back position. If it goes bent we do the same as before . . . Emily, you come to us if we need you. Harry, you protect the Blue. I am team leader. I have control on the ground.’
‘Give me a minute,’ Ben says quietly, sweeping his eyes over the street, the buildings, the people, the forms, structures, noises, sights, smells and a thousand other things all at the same time. Miri does the same, examining and assessing to absorb and understand the new environment.
‘You and me again then, Harry,’ Emily says from behind him.
‘Aye,’ the big man says.
‘Bring your smokes this time?’ she asks lightly.
‘Aye,’ he says, eyeing her suspiciously at the good-natured question that seems to be lacking any dig at their increasingly confusing situation.
‘Good,’ she says, nodding at him. Ben de-tunes from studying the area, waiting for the dig. Safa too. Miri just tuts to herself.
‘Nothing?’ Ben asks, turning to glance at Emily when no comment is forthcoming.
‘Nope,’ she says, looping her arm through Harry’s. ‘We’re all good today.’
‘Right,’ Ben says. ‘Great.’
‘All good,’ Emily says.
‘Awesome,’ Ben says.
‘Unless, you know, Harry gets drunk and wants to have sex with someone . . .’
‘And there it is,’ Ben says, facing back round to carry on studying the area.
‘Ach,’ Harry says. ‘You’ve said it enough now.’
‘Nowhere near enough,’ Emily replies sweetly. ‘My big handsome lover . . .’
‘Yeah, that’s just creepy,’ Safa says.
‘I meant it sarcastically,’ Emily says quickly.
‘It didn’t sound sarcastic,’ Ben says, looking back round at her.
‘Well, I meant it sarcastically. I did! I was being mean, not creepy . . . It came out wrong . . .’
‘What like it went in wrong?’ Safa asks as Ben bursts out laughing.
‘I don’t get it,’ Emily says primly.
‘You got it the other night . . .’
‘Safa!’ Ben says. ‘Right . . . ready?’
‘That’s what she said,’ Safa says.
‘Fuck off, Patel . . .’ Emily says.
‘UNKNOWN ADULT FEMALE. THE USE OF REVOLTING, ABUSIVE OR INSULTING WORDS IS PROHIBITED IN THIS PUBLIC PLACE.’
‘Fucking awesome . . .’ Safa adds with a laugh as the others wait for the automated voice that still doesn’t come. ‘I think it likes me.’
‘This is not the time for a test,’ Miri snaps.
Ben smiles and looks on in awe at Lambeth-not-Lambeth and the wide road running through made to feel narrower by the towering architecture. Not towering, he corrects himself. More imploding, or exploding. A riot of colours and noise. A futuristic film set of Oriental-pagoda-style houses with tiered roofs built in amongst concrete, glass, steel and sleek modern things and those buildings seem to grow out as they rise with what look like bolt-ons and additional structures fitted to the sides. Vehicles glide here and there in the chaos of a long thoroughfare packed with people. Gliding food stalls hover next to shouting merchants. Fronts of shops stand wide open with retractable concertina walls pulled back.
Music everywhere, people shouting to buy, to sell, calling names and every few seconds the automated voice booms out telling someone the use of revolting, abusive or insulting words is prohibited. Drones swoosh and glide overhead. Some at ten feet high, others at fifteen, more at twenty feet high and yet more above them. Some hold payloads, clutching parcels and packages. Others are small and veer faster through the busy sky-lanes with what must be connectivity to an interface that plots courses, speeds, trajectories, angles and take-off and landing points with a processing power far beyond anything a human mind could do.
Ben spots a heavyset bearded guy wearing a canary-yellow sarong and a blue vest with tattoos covering his upper body leaning over a hovering stall bearing stacks of brightly coloured fruit. He laughs and chats with a woman, selecting huge red tomatoes that he puts in her open bag. She laughs back, joking in a way of familiarity born from years of cohabitation.
A drone holding position over the woman lowers down as she lifts the bag to a metallic-looking arm fitted with gripping claws extending from the underside. She carries on chatting and laughing while the drone lifts back to where it was.
‘Best go then,’ Ben says, leading the way out into the street.
‘Bye, my big handsome lovers,’ Safa says.
‘Seriously, Safa. It was sarcastic.’
‘Sure,’ Safa laughs.
‘It was! Harry, it was sarcastic,’ Emily tells him. ‘Whatever, give me my arm back . . .’ She goes to tug it free, glaring at him when he presses his arm closer to his body, trapping it in place. ‘Harry! Give me my arm back . . .’
‘Ach, stop going on,’ he says with a deep sigh.
‘Fine.’ She stops squirming to stand with her arm still looped i
n his. ‘Could have let me sleep on you last night though. I’ve got a stiff neck now.’
‘I said you could,’ he retorts.
‘You didn’t mean it,’ she says. ‘Whatever. I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Hope so,’ he mumbles.
‘I heard that,’ she snaps.
Safa grins, seeing them bickering as she walks up the street with Ben and Miri. What she also notices is the way Emily and Harry have their eyes up, watching every angle and studying every person that passes by and that squabbling by no means detracts from their ability to work.
‘This is nuts,’ Ben says, marvelling as they pass the mouths of junctions and see the same thing in the side streets. The same packed environment of stalls, drones, people and colours. Music playing from shops and even from some of the drones moving slowly over their owners. Old tunes he recognises mixed in with ultra-fast synthetic beats. Opera blasts from a storefront that he peers into to see a bald man using an old-style cut-throat razor over the stubbled head of a beautiful woman. Men in make-up, the same dark eyes they saw in Hyde Park. Men with breasts, women with luxurious facial hair. Children with tattooed faces and bodies running through the crowds with parents yelling for them to slow down.
Scents of herbs and spices hang in the air. Aromatic and enticing. The smells of Chinese, Indian, Asian and Mexican foods. They pass vendors with floating stalls filled with sizzling woks, pots and pans, which give steam and smoke into the air.
Everywhere he looks there is something new to see. Something uniquely different. Something captivating that makes him want to stop and stare and understand and seek knowledge on how the intricacies of this world take place.
‘Look for a bookstore,’ Miri says, bringing Ben’s focus back to the job and mission at hand, having already discussed that trying to access whatever internet system or interface in place might leave them open to tracking.
‘Course,’ Ben says.
‘Try down here,’ Miri says, spotting a side street. ‘Looks less crowded.’
‘Safa to Emily and Harry . . . We’re going down a side street . . . Fourth on the right from your position . . .’
‘Received. Harry said bring some food back. He said it smells nice. I said he should only try new things when he’s drunk in case he doesn’t like them . . .’
Safa bursts out laughing, shaking her head as they stroll into the junction to see chairs and tables set outside cafes and restaurants. Ben notices people eating and drinking in the same way with an equal split between the use of cutlery and chopsticks.
‘You wanna table? Table for three? Yeah?’ A waiter steps out to block their path with an action that makes Ben think of European city centre cafés and their staff vying for the lucrative passing tourist trade. ‘Come on, Affas! Have a table, yeah? Best locusts in London . . .’
‘Locusts?’ Ben asks.
‘Yeah,’ the man laughs. ‘Table for three.’ He ushers them with the expert precision of a guidance missile. Swarming round like a sheepdog to herd them to his establishment. ‘Best fried locusts in London . . . All in the sauce, yeah? Family secret though so don’t get all Affa about it, haha! Oleg? Oleg? These are my new friends . . . You want locusts? Three for locusts? Oleg! Three for locusts for my new best friends. On holiday, yeah? Got your two beautiful sisters with you, eh, Affa?’ He nudges Ben, winking with an infectious laugh while nodding at Safa and Miri. ‘Eh? Beautiful ladies. Oleg? We’ve got two beautiful ladies here. Mind you, you’re a handsome Affa too, eh?’ He winks at Ben again, pulling chairs out, then pushing them back in as they sit down. ‘What you want to drink? My name is Jerry and I’ll be your waiter today, haha! Bit early for a beer if you ask me, but I can get them in for you. Three beers? Want beer? On holiday so have a beer . . .’
‘Er, have you got coffee?’
‘Coffee! Oleg? Affa wants to know if we’ve got coffee! Have we got coffee? Actually, no, mate. We don’t have coffee.’
‘Oh,’ Ben says.
‘Haha! Course we got coffee. Best coffee in London . . . Well, I say London, but the best coffee this side of the river . . . or in this street anyway . . . Well, let’s just say it’s the best coffee in this café, haha! Only joking, Affa. Three coffees. Three fried locusts. You’ll love it! Oleg? Three coffees and three fried locusts for my best friends here . . .’
‘Say, honey,’ Miri drawls, her accent nasal and thickly American. ‘Where do we get local history here, huh?’
‘History, love? What you wanna know about? Just ask! Oleg? We got an American wants to know about history. They love their history the Yanks do.’
Safa leans over, trying to see anyone called Oleg in the café.
‘We wanna read up on the local stuff,’ Miri says. ‘London is so small. I love that about it here. I love your history and I promised the girls back home I’d take them a book. You got books here?’
‘Books! Oleg? She wants a book!’
‘Hard to get, huh?’ Miri asks, taking her cue from his reaction.
‘Hard to get! Nah, just pricey. Know what I mean? Download it. What you want? I can do it while you eat.’
‘Ah, that’s very kind of you,’ Ben says, smiling at Jerry as he bustles back and forth bringing cups and jugs to the table. ‘We promised my aunt we’d try and get a proper book.’
‘Know what you mean. Say no more,’ Jerry says. ‘Hope you got deep pockets though, Affa . . . haha! Oleg . . . is old Ruben still trading, is he?’
‘YES,’ a thunderous voice roars from the depths of the building.
‘Fuck me,’ Safa says. ‘Was that Oleg?’
Jerry pauses, looking round in obvious surprise. ‘Eh, you don’t set it off.’ He grins, winking at Safa. ‘One in a million can do that. Cor, got a rare one there, Affa,’ he adds with a grin at Ben. ‘Oleg? She doesn’t set it off when she swears . . . Anyway, so you want old Ruben. Back on the main road. Go down to Slatty the fishmonger’s, but then come back cos you gone too far! Haha! Nah, but seriously, Ruben’s got a bookshop down on the right side. Can’t miss it, but the greedy sod’ll take a kidney for a book. You sure you don’t want a download? While you’re down there have a look at Mishka’s Antiques if you like old stuff. They got a genuine Nazi uniform in there. Ain’t seen nothing like it. Pristine it is. Still got the blood stains on it. Mishka’s got folk coming from all over the world to see it. Be able to retire on that he will.’
‘Ria,’ Ben says under his breath.
‘You know her?’ Jerry asks, snapping his attention to Ben on hearing the comment. ‘You know Ria, do you? Oleg? This Affa knows Ria so he does. How do you know her? Where is she then? Ain’t seen her for a few days. She tell you to try our locusts, did she? She likes them she does. She loves them! Ria, eh? Love that girl.’
‘Holy shit,’ Safa says at the man mountain coming from the café door. Seven feet tall and with shoulders that make Harry look like an underdeveloped schoolboy.
‘Locusts?’ the man rumbles.
‘Oleg! Over here for my new best friends. Just telling ’em about that Nazi stuff. They know Ria they do.’
‘You talk too much,’ Oleg grumbles, putting the plates down. ‘He doesn’t talk to me that much at home, you know. Goes all quiet he does. How do you know Ria?’
‘Oh, here we go,’ Jerry huffs, throwing his arms in the air. ‘Don’t be telling ’em our domestic situations now.’
Oleg waits for an answer in the way of a mountain waiting for passage of millennia.
‘Erm, she, er . . .’ Ben thinks fast, showing surprise at the plate of locusts to buy time.
‘Niece,’ Miri drawls. ‘Gotta love that girl.’
‘No way,’ Jerry whispers. ‘She’s your niece? Like family, yeah? Holy Affa. You hear that, Oleg. We got Ria’s family here. Ria’s family! Eating here! Ere, don’t suppose you can get your hands on any more of those dinosaur claws she sells?’
‘We’ll ask her,’ Miri says as Ben chokes on his coffee.
‘Enjoy your food,’ Oleg says
, giving Ben a strange look. ‘I shall take my husband away to give you some peace.’
‘Did that just happen?’ Ben asks, wiping his chin.
‘What the fuck?’ Safa asks, staring at her plate. She lowers her head to sniff a few times, peering at the insects arranged on her plate with salad and dressings. ‘Smells nice . . . Fuck it . . .’ She grabs one, mouths it and starts chewing, slowly at first then faster as the taste hits. ‘Best locusts in London . . . seriously . . . Ria, eh? She’s a sod.’
‘Oh no, he’s seen us,’ Emily groans. ‘Just don’t talk to him.’ She rolls her eyes as the man starts making his way over. It might be the future and a landscape shaped and changed from anything she ever knew, but one thing apparently remains the same.
‘Hello,’ the man says sincerely. Small build, short, neatly cropped hair and dressed in an off-white flowing robe.
‘Hello,’ Harry says as Emily groans inwardly.
‘Have you heard the word of our Lord?’ the man asks, staring up at Harry with that clean-living, slightly feverish aura that Emily, and anyone with half a brain, can spot a mile away.
‘God?’ Harry asks. ‘Aye.’
‘You are a believer?’ the man asks hopefully.
‘No,’ Emily says. ‘He’s not. We’re atheists.’
‘What now?’ the man asks.
‘Atheists.’
The man frowns gently, adopting a reflective manner. ‘Forgive me, I am not familiar with that religion? Are you of Christ our Lord and Saviour?’
‘Aye.’
‘No! We’re non-believers. Atheists.’
‘Oh, my child,’ the man says softly. ‘There is only one path to redemption.’
‘Tell him,’ she says, nodding at Harry. ‘He needs bloody redeeming.’
‘UNKNOWN ADULT FEMALE. THE USE OF REVOLTING, ABUSIVE OR INSULTING WORDS IS PROHIBITED IN THIS PUBLIC PLACE.’
‘Oh now, such strong words from one of Christ’s own children.’
‘We’re busy. Go away.’
‘We are all busy, my child. We are all rushing to gather possessions and baubles that glitter to fill our empty voids where there should be only love and the word of our Lord Christ the Saviour . . .’