by Peter Ward
“No. Still counts though,” Geoff said. He got to his feet and walked towards Tim. “The condition to getting my memory back was hearing myself say the words: ‘I bring a message from Tringrall. In the year of Dranculees, you must revert.’ No one said anything about hearing those words in a simulation.”
“So what do you think it means?” Tim said.
“Not sure. Tringrall must be the person who killed Eric and attacked me because that was the person who gave me the message. As for the rest, I’ve got no idea.”
“But that would mean ‘Tringrall’ is the person on the inside who leaked the algorithm!” Tim said. “You mean to tell me that the mole in the organization is a fucking Varsarian?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Tringrall is trying to change the course of history so that the alien invasion succeeds, right?
“Right …”
“Don’t you get it? Tringrall must be a descendant of the Varsarian crew that crash-landed on Earth all those years ago—the crew who molecularly rearranged themselves to look like human beings! Remember? Someone high up in this business is a fucking alien!”
“Oh dear,” Geoff said.
“Did you recognize who it was?”
“No—they were wearing a hooded cape. In fact, I think it was the same guy we chased during the Great Fire of London.”
“What about their voice? You said they hypnotized you. Did you hear their voice? Did they sound familiar?”
“They did sound familiar now that you mention it,” Geoff said. “But I can’t quite remember.”
“Was the voice male … or female?” Tim said.
“I don’t know,” Geoff replied. “Who do you think it could be?”
“Who knows?” Tim said. “It could be Ruth, it could be Mr. Knight … It could even be me, for all you know …”
“I doubt that,” Geoff said, “Besides—you were the one who chased Tringrall in 1666, remember?”
“I know. But time travel does allow you to be in two places at once.”
“No, it can’t be you,” Geoff reasoned. “Unless of course you like thwarting your own plans for fun.”
“I suppose you have a point there.”
“What about the Defence Minister? Could it be the Defence Minister?”
“I don’t know,” Tim said. “I just don’t know.”
“Maybe it was that fat guy who was in here earlier,” Geoff said. “You know—the fat, sweaty official?”
“Will you stop with the fucking fat guy!” Tim said. “It wasn’t the fat guy!”
“I was joking,” Geoff smiled.
“We’re wasting time,” Tim said, pacing up and down. “Are you going to tell me how this Varsarian bastard tricked the algorithm, or are you just going to stand there and look pleased with yourself?”
“I’d quite like to stand here and look pleased with myself a bit longer, if that’s OK,” Geoff said. “I don’t get to do it very often.”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Tim said. “Aren’t you feeling a slight sense of urgency to all this?”
“I suppose,” Geoff replied. “OK—bring up the final nanosecond of the supercomputer’s simulation, one hundred thousand years in the future, and I’ll show you how they did it.”
“I don’t get it,” Tim said, rubbing the back of his head. “Everything looks fine.”
Everything did indeed look fine. The planet was exactly as it should have been: peaceful, green, blue skies—returned to Mother Nature. The only difference was the seagull in Brighton, which was still insisting on looking right instead of left.
“This is the final nanosecond of time that the computer can predict,” Geoff said, looking up at the simulation. “Remember what Eric said the last time we were here? If there are any changes to this moment in time, even at the most infinitesimally small molecular level, the computer detects that the space-time continuum has been altered and stops anyone from traveling.”
“I still don’t get it,” Tim said, looking closely at the screen in case he’d missed something. “If the Varsarians managed to invade Earth in the twenty-first century and wipe out humanity, how can everything still be the same?”
“Let me ask you a question,” Geoff said. “What if you could change the course of history, but only so it took a diversion?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what if you could change history in such a way that everything returned exactly back to normal at a certain point?”
Tim laughed.
“That’s impossible,” he said.
“Eric didn’t think it was. In fact, that was the loophole in his algorithm. If the final nanosecond in the new simulation remains the same as the original one in the computer’s memory banks, the computer assumes that the course of history hasn’t changed. Only when there is a difference between the two versions does it know to go back through its calculations and raise the alarm. But if someone worked out how to divert the course of history rather than change it completely, the computer would happily allow that person to travel back in time. After all, as far as the computer’s concerned, its job is done. If the final nanosecond looks the same, it can go home early and catch the last ten minutes of Dallas.”
“But no one could work out how to do that,” Tim said. “You’d need to be some sort of mathematical super genius.”
“You’re absolutely right. No one is that smart.”
“Well there you go.”
“You’d need to have access to a supercomputer ‘powerful enough to predict the vibration of every molecule on the planet for the next one hundred thousand years,’ as Eric put it, to make those sorts of calculations. A bit like the one we’re standing in.”
“You mean … someone could manipulate the supercomputer to work out how to cheat its own algorithm?” Tim said.
Geoff nodded.
“But only someone with access,” he said. “That’s the reason Eric thought it was an inside job. It had to be someone with access. Remember when we were driving to the party? Eric told us that the computer’s own powers of prediction could be used against itself—that someone had hacked into the mainframe and modeled a scenario in which the computer could be tricked. That was what he was worried about—someone was using the predictive powers of the computer to tell them how to alter history in such a way that it would return back to normal by the time it reached the final nanosecond. Once they’d worked out how to do that, he knew they’d be able to walk straight through the paradox scan undetected.”
“Or get someone else to do it for them,” Tim said.
“Exactly. And that someone turned out to be me.”
“That’s quite unbelievable,” Tim said, “This alien—Tringrall, or whatever his name is—has basically used the computer to work out how to completely change the course of history and then return it back to normal?”
“Well, I’m only telling you what Eric told me,” Geoff said. “Shall we work our way back from the final nanosecond and see if he was right?”
Tim and Geoff didn’t have to work their way back for very long to find out what had happened. In fact, they only had to go back by one hour to see how the supercomputer had been tricked into almost allowing Geoff to go back and change everything.
The loophole had been exploited exactly as Eric had predicted. If the computer had had a face, there wouldn’t just be egg on it—there’d be bacon, sausages, beans, waffles, and maybe another egg for good measure. And a pancake.
Tim and Geoff watched the screen. A huge Varsarian fleet was sweeping from one side of the planet to the other, each ship firing some sort of particle beam at the Earth’s surface. As the beam passed over the ground, the landscape was instantly transformed: one minute there were huge, sprawling metallic cities, evidence of thousands of years of alien occupation; the next minute there was nothing but green fields, thick forests, and beautiful mountain ranges. Even the sky was turning back from blood
red to pale blue as the ships sailed through it, purging any evidence that the aliens had ever invaded the planet.
“I’m guessing this is the year of Dranculees,” Geoff said.
“And that must be reverting,” Tim said, pointing at one of the ships on the screen as it transformed a whole city into a forest. “They must have their own way of knowing what the planet should have looked like if they hadn’t invaded! They’re using their molecular rearrangement beams to turn everything back to how it should have been!”
“This is crazy,” Geoff said. “How can they possibly transform a whole planet?”
“If we managed to use that technology to recreate London exactly as it was,” Tim said, “then there’s no reason why they can’t do it on a much bigger scale. That’s why the final nanosecond looked so perfect, right down to the last molecule.”
Geoff felt like he was watching a sinister version of one of those horrible home-makeover shows. Then again, home-makeover shows were pretty sinister themselves—at least the aliens weren’t barging into someone’s lounge and painting the skirting boards green. In the end, he couldn’t decide which was worse.
Within a few minutes, the entire planet was almost completely back to normal, with most of the ships making a few finishing touches here and there with their molecular rearrangement beams. Some were taking great care over recreating the rainforests; others were repositioning every single grain of sand on the world’s coastlines. One ship over Brighton had the thankless task of recreating all the seagulls, making sure they were in exactly the same position as they would have been before. When it had finished creating the final seagull on the end of a small outcrop of rock, the spaceship switched its engines to full power and ascended into the sky, its molecular rearrangement beam following closely behind. As it blasted out of the Earth’s atmosphere, the seagull on the rock looked round as the molecular rearrangement beam retracted into space, repositioning all the clouds into their original size, shape, and color. It even removed the ship’s ionisation trail.
“Well, that explains a lot,” Tim said, turning his attention to Geoff as the simulation ended.
“It certainly explains why that bloody seagull was looking the other way,” Geoff added, “and why everything else in the simulation looked exactly the same.”
“OK,” Tim said, standing up. “‘Tringrall’ must have worked out that the only way to get you through the paradox scan and change history was if he made sure you told the aliens to put things right again, one hundred thousand years in the future—‘In the year of Dranculees, you must revert.’ If he didn’t, the computer wouldn’t have let you go back to the twenty-first century to change whatever it is you changed to let the Varsarians invade in the first place.”
“I still don’t understand what all this has got to do with me,” Geoff said. “How could my hand possibly be responsible for changing the date of an alien invasion?”
“I have no idea,” Tim said, scratching his head. “The only way we’re ever going to find out is if we can work out who this ‘Tringrall’ really is. He must have used the computer to work out what he needed to do, and somehow, it involved your right hand. We’ve got to try and figure out who he is, but it’s not going to be easy—this ‘Tringrall’ has managed to keep his true identity hidden for years and years.”
Geoff sat in silence for a moment.
“I think I may have just had a brilliant idea,” he said.
Tim looked at Geoff skeptically. The last “brilliant idea” Geoff had come up with was tea lollipops.
“Can’t we use the computer to simulate last night’s party?” Geoff suggested. “If we can, we might be able to see Eric’s murder and find out who the killer was …”
“That is a pretty good idea actually,” Tim said in surprise, making some quick adjustments to the computer. “I’ll just tell it that you’re not going back in time anymore—otherwise, all we’ll see is some horrible, alien-infested version of Earth …”
The screen popped up again but didn’t look like it was showing them much of a party. Instead, it showed them a horrible, alien-infested version of Earth. All around, the world was covered in twisting alien architecture with swarms of leathery-skinned Varsarians living under a blood-red sky. If it was showing them a party, it must have been some sort of fancy dress party where everyone had decided to go dressed as a Varsarian. Either that, or the computer was still showing them a version of the space-time continuum where the alien invasion had succeeded and the human race had been wiped out.
“I don’t understand,” Geoff said. “Shouldn’t it be showing us the party from yesterday? I thought you told the computer I wasn’t going back in time anymore.”
“I did.” Tim said, checking a computer panel on the wall and looking back up at the screen.
“You did?”
“Yes.”
Geoff looked at Tim in silence for a few moments.
“Honest?”
“What do you mean, ‘honest’? Do you really think I’d pick this, of all times, to play a practical joke?”
“So … why are there still aliens everywhere?” Geoff said.
“There’s only one explanation,” Tim said, sitting down on the floor and putting his head between his knees. “History must now be changed whether we choose to send you back or not.”
“Meaning, what?” Geoff said, raising his eyebrows. “Does this mean that this has nothing to do with me after all?”
“I don’t know, Geoff!” Tim sighed, crossing his hands over the back of his head. “I need to think!”
“OK, OK. It’s just that … if history’s changed, why are we still here?”
“What?”
“I mean, shouldn’t we be dead? Are we going to disappear?” He held up his hand and looked at it for a few seconds to make sure it wasn’t going transparent.
“It doesn’t work like that,” Tim said. “The computer is showing us what will happen if history continues to run along its present course. But two timelines can exist alongside each other as long as there’s still a way to change things back.”
“So … what do we do?”
“I have an idea,” Tim said, getting to his feet. “But we’ll need to speak to the Defence Minister.”
“The Defence Minister?” Geoff replied. “But I thought … What if he’s really a Varsarian in human form? What if he’s ‘Tringrall’?”
“Unless you know someone else with military connections, I think that’s a risk we’re going to have to take.”
Geoff used to know a guy in the police, but he wasn’t sure how effective pepper spray would be at destroying a fleet of invading alien warships.
“Right, we’d better get going,” Tim said, switching off the computer simulation.
“Where?” Geoff asked.
“Where do you normally find government ministers?” Tim said.
“I don’t know,” Geoff said. “In certain establishments that encourage the exchange of money in return for sexual favors?”
“Possibly,” Tim replied, “but I was thinking of the Houses of Parliament. We should call Ruth and Mr. Knight. Get them to meet us there.”
“Good idea.”
“I have to say, Geoff—that was some good work you just did there. You’ve changed. Even Eric couldn’t get to the bottom of this plot, and you‘ve just cracked it in the space of a few minutes. I never knew you had it in you.”
“Thanks,” Geoff said, “although there’s still one thing I don’t understand.”
“What’s that?”
“When we were in the car earlier, Eric said he had already witnessed the scenario we’d just seen—he just didn’t tell us what it was. So here’s my question—if he already knew what the aliens were planning, why didn’t he say anything? Why didn’t he try and put a stop to all this?”
Tim stopped walking and thought about what Geoff had just said.
“I have absolutely no idea,” he replied.
<
br /> Eighteen
The Houses of Parliament were quite impressive when they weren’t being blown up by a Varsarian spaceship. As the sky turned to dusk, the tall, gothic architecture was lit up by a golden array of floodlights, the building casting a beautiful reflection across the River Thames. And although Geoff knew it was only a reconstruction, he was amazed at how similar it was to the Houses of Parliament of the twenty-first century—every detail was perfect, from the honey-colored stonework right down to the fact that Big Ben was still running two minutes slow. The only real difference he could see was a shimmering dome of light that stretched over the building, which apparently acted as a protective shield against laser beams, hijacked spaceships full of explosives, and bird droppings. Other than that, everything was practically identical.
After making their way through several security checks and explaining why they were here, Geoff and Tim were conducted through a large set of double doors into the Defence Minister’s private office, where they were told to sit and wait. Or stand and wait. Either way, they had to wait.
“He’s locked away in some budget meeting,” they were informed by the spotty office junior who had acted as their escort. He had greasy hair, wore a suit two sizes two big for him, and smelled faintly of egg mayonnaise. “Shouldn’t be long.”
“Tell him it’s urgent,” Tim said. “We must speak to him right away.”
The office junior nodded and left, closing the large double doors behind him with a click.
The Defence Minister’s private office was one of the most ostentatious old-fashioned examples of interior design that Geoff had ever seen, with a broad oak desk, a thick red carpet, and a ceiling so high it was a wonder the room hadn’t formed its own weather system. A set of arched windows offered a stunning view across the River Thames, and along the left wall stood a row of enormous bookcases, which were neatly stacked with shelves and shelves of pristine, leather-bound literature. None of the books looked as though they’d ever been read. Geoff picked one off the shelf and flicked through it to make sure it actually was a book and not one of those stupid video cases people used to buy to make themselves look more studious than they actually were. Satisfied that the book in question was genuine and not actually hiding a copy of Police Academy 3, Geoff replaced it on the shelf and strolled over to one of the tall windows with his head in the air and his arms behind his back, much like the way people walk around in modern art galleries when they feel a little out of their depth and want to disguise the fact that they have no idea what to make of some flowers sprouting out of a ceramic female bottom.