Time Rep

by Peter Ward

  “Let me see,” the Defence Minister said, looking up in the air as if the answer was written on the ceiling. “At the last count, I believe there were 258 medical frigates, 584 assault cruisers, 817 heavy artillery ships, 900 capital ships, 2590 support fighters, and of course, the Concordia—the pride of the fleet.”

  “Just don’t ask him how much it cost to build,” Tim said.

  “Why?” Geoff said, leaning forward to try and get a better look at the flagship in the distance. It was so big, it still didn’t seem to be getting any closer, despite the fact that the tractor beam was now pulling them towards it at quite a high speed. “Was it expensive?”

  “You could say that,” Tim said. “The cost of building the Concordia makes that ‘rare’ copy of Keio Flying Squadron for the Sega CD you bought off eBay look like an absolute bargain.”

  Twenty-One

  Under normal circumstances, Geoff would have immediately rushed to defend his decision to purchase Keio Flying Squadron for the ridiculous amount of money he paid for it. He would have argued about how rare it was, even though deep down, he knew it wasn’t that rare, and that he’d been stung by an unscrupulous seller and a lack of research on his part.

  But Geoff didn’t say a word. Didn’t respond to Tim’s taunt. There were bigger things to worry about as far as he was concerned, and right now he was marveling at the mother ship of Earth’s battle fleet—the Concordia.

  The thing that struck most people when they first saw the Concordia was just how bloody big it was. And we’re not talking “big” in the conventional sense, like saying, “Those pants are a bit big for you,” or, “My meal was so big I couldn’t finish it.” This was in a different league of big. This was a ship big enough to eclipse the sun when it was orbiting the Earth—a ship big enough to warrant its own currency. Just to put things in perspective, the bottle of champagne used to christen it on its maiden voyage was the size of an apartment building.

  The second thing most people noticed about the Concordia was its elegant design. Like most of the other ships in the fleet, the Concordia was almost tortoise-like in its appearance with a sleek, reflective shell arching over a black, angular hull. Upon closer inspection, it was clear that there were actually several ridges and grooves stretching widthways across the shell, as if it could somehow fold back on itself like the roof of a convertible, if say the weather was nice. In reality, however, the shell had no such capability—it had just been decided in a preliminary construction meeting that a few ridges here and there would save a few million tonnes of titanium, which was pretty expensive stuff to come by at the best of times.

  Of course, something as big as the Concordia needed some serious horsepower if it wanted to go anywhere—preferably in the form of an engine, since using actual horses to pull a ship the size of a city across the vacuum of space would have proven to be a bit of a logistical nightmare for obvious reasons. Fortunately, the Concordia was well equipped in this department, sporting not one engine but twenty. Each engine protruded from the rear of the craft like some sort of bulbous, metallic growth, and the amount of heat and energy they generated was quite staggering—at full power, the Concordia could toast a marshmallow two thousand miles away, although why a marshmallow would be floating around in deep space was anyone’s guess.

  The shuttle glided peacefully into the Concordia’s enormous hangar bay, touching down gently on one of the many raised parking platforms.

  The pilot unbuckled her seatbelt and stood up.

  “We’ve arrived,” she said, as if no one had noticed.

  Geoff peered out of the cockpit window and watched as the red glow of the tractor beam faded away.

  “Please make sure you take all your personal belongings with you,” the pilot said, flicking a few switches over her head, “and I hope you had a pleasant flight.”

  Everyone got to their feet and stood impatiently by the hatchway for a few moments.

  “So … what happens now?” Geoff said.

  “We wait,” the Defence Minister replied.

  “For what?”

  “The valet service.”

  “There’s a valet service?” Geoff said. “On a spaceship?”

  “What’s wrong with that?” the Defence Minister said.

  “I don’t know,” Geoff said. “I just thought a valet service was something you usually got in hotels and restaurants. Places like that.”

  The pilot began to adjust all the seats back into their upright position.

  “Parking on the Concordia is a real nightmare—especially in the evening,” she said, plumping up one of the headrests. “You’ve got to use the valet service, otherwise it’s impossible to find a space.”

  The shuttle’s hatchway was soon opened up from the outside by a tall, well-dressed attendant, who offered his arm as support for everyone to jump down onto the rubbery hangar bay floor. Geoff couldn’t believe his eyes: the guy was wearing what looked like a morning suit, a waistcoat—even a top hat.

  “Welcome to the Concordia,” the attendant said, handing the pilot a valet ticket. “Do you have any baggage?”

  “Only of the emotional kind,” the Defence Minister said.

  “In that case,” the attendant said, gripping both sides of the hatchway and hoisting himself up into the shuttle, “if you’d like to make your way over to the check-in desk at the far side of the hangar, the concierge will be with you in a moment.”

  “There’s a concierge as well?” Geoff said.

  “Thank you,” the Defence Minister said, reaching into his pocket and handing the attendant a small tip.

  The attendant crouched down at the hatchway to take the tip from the Defence Minister and in turn tipped his hat. That is to say, he lifted the hat slightly from his forehead as a gesture of thanks—in no way was there some sort of bizarre tipping hierarchy whereby the hat received a percentage of the money the Defence Minister had given the attendant, because that would have been ridiculous.

  “Shall we?” the Defence Minister said, leading the group over to the check-in desk on the other side of the hangar bay.

  “BLACK ROD ONE NOW DEPARTING TO PARKING LEVEL SEVEN,” a voice echoed over the loudspeaker. “PLEASE STAND CLEAR OF LANDING BAY FIVE.”

  Geoff looked back as the valet attendant fired up the shuttle’s secondary engines and piloted the craft swiftly down one of the many passages leading deeper into the Concordia.

  “ICARUS TWELVE NOW CLEAR FOR LANDING,” came the voice again. “COULD A VALET PLEASE MAKE THEIR WAY OVER TO LANDING BAY FIVE.”

  Almost immediately, another shuttle glided in and landed where their shuttle had just been sitting. As instructed over the loudspeaker, a valet attendant rushed over to meet the ship as the encompassing tractor beam evaporated into thin air.

  Not that the air was thin in here, mind. Despite the fact that the entrance to the hangar bay seemed to be exposed to the cold vacuum of space, the air was just as clean and plentiful as it was in Geoff’s own home, unless you were talking about one of the many days when Geoff had let the laundry pile up, in which case the atmosphere in the hangar bay was actually a marked improvement. Presumably there must have been some sort of invisible force field that prevented the air from escaping into deep space, which was quite handy really, as anyone not strapped to the floor might have otherwise been in a bit of a pickle.

  The fact that you could walk around without suffocating wasn’t the only good thing the hangar bay had going for it. It was warm, brightly lit, and spacious enough to accommodate several landing craft at once. As the group followed the Defence Minister over to the check-in desk in the far corner, there must have been at least twenty or thirty shuttles flying in and out at once: some landing, some taking off, and others just passing through. It was like watching a well-choreographed dance routine, with the added bonus of not being able to embarrass yourself by trying to replicate it in your bedroom.

  The Defence Minister approached the che
ck-in desk and rang a small bell. A girl came out of a side door and walked over to meet them. She wore a similar styled uniform to the valet, with a knee-length shirt, a gray jacket, and a small hat on her head.

  “Good evening, Minister,” she said, looking a little surprised. “Is everything all right? We weren’t expecting …”

  “I need to speak to Captain Holland urgently,” the Defence Minister said, cutting the girl short.

  “The captain?” The girl said. “You … you want to speak to the captain?”

  “Yes, the captain,” the Defence Minister repeated.

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now!” the Defence Minister said impatiently, “Tell him to come down and meet me as quickly as he can.”

  “Of … of course,” the girl said nervously, opening up a large book on the desk and handing the Defence Minister a pen. “If you’d just like to sign in, I’ll contact the bridge.”

  Captain Holland didn’t seem too happy about being called down to the hangar bay at such short notice, stepping out of the lift in a huff and striding aggressively over to the Defence Minister. He must have been in his late fifties, perhaps even early sixties, but his body language belied his age—the way he walked towards them looked more like a petulant teenager who’d been called into the kitchen to help with the washing up. For a man of his age he looked to be in good shape, with a broad set of shoulders and a muscular neck. He had a broad mouth, his skin was tanned, and his eyes had a certain intensity to them that suggested his was always on alert.

  “What’s all this about, David?” he said, running his fingers through his distinguished gray hair and flicking a speck of dirt off his otherwise immaculate uniform. “I heard you flew in on a priority override four-seven-niner-bravo?”

  “That’s correct,” the Defence Minister said.

  “May I ask why?”

  “I need you to mobilize the fleet.”

  The captain laughed.

  “You must be joking.”

  “I wish I was.”

  Captain Holland looked at the Defence Minister in silence for a few moments, the smile on his face beginning to think about sitting this one out.

  “This is a drill, right?” he said, looking hesitantly at the rest of the group. “You’ve come here to test us?”

  “This isn’t a test,” the Defence Minister replied. “This is the real thing. I need you to mobilize the fleet immediately.”

  “David, you know the rules,” the captain said, shutting his eyes. “Article seven, sub paragraph B states that unless the planet is in imminent danger, the military are to receive two weeks notice for things like this. Two weeks notice, minimum.”

  “I’m well aware of the rules,” the Defence Minister said.

  The captain frowned.

  “You mean … the planet is in imminent danger?”

  “I’m afraid so. Look—I don’t have time to explain everything,” the Defence Minister said, “but we have reason to believe that history has been changed.”

  “Changed? Changed in what way?”

  The Defence Minister took a deep breath.

  “Remember the Varsarian invasion of 2181?”

  “Of course,” the captain said. “It’s one of the first things I studied at the academy. The fleet was sent through a temporal vortex and destroyed six hundred years later.”

  “Not any more,” the Defence Minister said. “It now seems that the aliens will invade Earth in the twenty-first century, two hundred years before the human race is technologically advanced enough to create temporal vortexes. If our calculations are correct, humanity is about to be wiped out, 1050 years in the past.”

  The captain’s eyes widened.

  “But … how is that possible?” he said.

  “Someone worked out how to cheat the supercomputer,” Mr. Knight said, interjecting from behind.

  Captain Holland moved a little closer to the Defence Minister.

  “Who are these people?” he whispered, looking over the Defence Minister’s shoulder at them all.

  “They work for Time Tours Inc,” the Defence Minister replied, looking back at the group.

  “Time Tours Inc?” the Captain replied. “You mean—the holiday company?”

  “That’s right. These are the people who discovered the plot to change history and brought it to my attention.”

  “I see,” the captain said, giving a brief nod to everyone in the way people do when they can’t be bothered to say “hello.” Everyone nodded back.

  “So, what do you need from me?” he said, leading them over to the elevator and pressing a small button on the wall.

  “As I said before,” the Defence Minister said, standing to one side as the elevator doors slid open. “I need you to mobilize the fleet. We have to go back to the twenty-first century and destroy the Varsarian fleet before they get the chance to invade.”

  The captain sighed.

  “What you’re asking isn’t going to be easy,” he said, motioning everyone to step inside the lift. “Unfortunately, your little surprise visit has caught us in the middle of shore leave. Most of the ships are either completely empty or operating on a skeleton crew. We’re in no state to go back and defeat an alien invasion.”

  “Can’t you call back your personnel?” the Defence Minister said. “This is an emergency!”

  “There’s no time,” the captain replied. “A full recall could take days, and if what you’re saying is true, we need to get going immediately.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “The only thing we can do.”

  “Which is?”

  “Please state your destination,” the lift said. Geoff recognized the voice. Familiarly calm, synthesized, female. Weren’t there any male lifts in the future? How were they supposed to make any baby lifts?

  “Take us to the remote operations deck,” the captain said.

  Twenty-Two

  “This is madness,” the Defence Minister said, pacing up and down nervously as the lift maneuvered its way through the ship. “Are you seriously suggesting we hand over control of the entire fleet to the ship’s computer?”

  Captain Holland steadied himself as the lift abruptly changed direction. Much to Geoff’s surprise, this lift didn’t just go up and down—it could move side to side, forwards and backwards, and even diagonally if it really wanted to show off. It was also capable of moving at quite a high speed, jerking its passengers around uncomfortably with every erratic change of direction. It reminded Geoff of the last time he’d taken a driving lesson.

  “I don’t see any other option,” Captain Holland said, lurching against the wall as the lift violently changed direction again. “As I said before, we’ve got hundreds of thousands of personnel away on shore leave at the moment. If you want to confront the Varsarians with a full fleet, and you want to do it now, you’re going to have to let me relinquish control of every empty ship over to the computer.”

  The Defence Minister sighed.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “We’ve already been let down by one computer today. I’m a little nervous at the prospect of being let down by another.”

  “There’s really nothing to worry about,” the captain said. “Mai is more than capable of coordinating the fleet in battle.”

  “Mai?” Geoff said.

  “It stands for Military Artificial Intelligence,” Tim whispered in Geoff’s ear. “She’s the ship’s computer.”

  “She?” Geoff said. “You mean you actually give computers a gender in real life as well? And why are they all female?”

  “Mai is programmed to adapt to every possible attack scenario,” the captain said, “and she’s never let us down in the past. If you ask me, we’re almost better off in her hands.”

  “So how exactly does this work?” Mr. Knight said. “You mean to tell me the computer will have complete control over every ship in the fleet?”

  “Every empty ship,” the capta
in said, holding up a corrective finger. “She’ll be able to control propulsion, weapons systems, shields, everything. With Mai in command, there’s no need for a ship to have its own crew.”

  “How many ships are we talking about?” Ruth said.

  “Oh, I’d say about 90 percent of the fleet,” the captain replied. “Couple of thousand, maybe?”

  “Interesting,” Ruth said.

  “Sounds to me like we’re putting all our eggs in one basket,” the Defence Minister said. “Can this computer cope? What if something goes wrong?”

  “Relax,” the captain said. “Mai won’t let us down. And I think you forget—this fleet is far superior to the one that defeated the alien invasion in 2781. Considering the technological advances we’ve made since then, this operation shouldn’t pose too much of a problem.”

  “I still don’t like this,” the Defence Minister said.

  “It doesn’t matter whether you like it or not,” the captain said. “The fact of the matter is we’ve got no choice. It’s either Mai or a four day wait.”

  “Then I guess it’s in the hands of the computer,” the Defence Minister said, a slight hesitancy creeping into his voice as he edged back into the corner of the lift and drummed his fingers on the wall.

  Once again, Geoff could sense a feeling of tension in the air and decided to try and diffuse the situation by changing the subject. He’d done such a good job at it in the Defence Minister’s office earlier, after all.

  “Have you ever wondered,” he said, “why people in supermarkets feel uncomfortable about putting their shopping behind someone else’s on the conveyor belt if there isn’t one of those little plastic separators?”

  Everyone looked at Geoff blankly for a few moments.

  “Funny, isn’t it?”

  “Nice to know you haven’t changed too much,” Tim said.

  “Good evening, Captain,” said a sultry female voice as they all staggered out of the lift, their limbs shaking as if they’d just stepped off a roller coaster.