A Window Into Time

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Michael went to lunch at twelve forty-one—so, slightly later today, then. It was just him and one other bloke this time. I sat on a bench and watched the pair of them go past. I guessed they were talking about work; both of them were looking very serious, and there was plenty of hand-waving.

  And I’d been right. Just the sight of him was bringing back another memory. I was remembering the time not long ago when Michael caught sight of Vladimir—

  —then I wasn’t remembering anything at all, because I was looking across Jubilee Park at one of the big curving entrances to the Tube station and saw him standing just inside the arch. Vladimir McCann! Right in front of me. He was stalking Michael.

  —

  I left right away. Dad’s advice wasn’t going to help. By the time I got to the security people outside Michael’s office and told them, Vladimir would be gone, and they’d be super-suspicious about me.

  The new Michael memory was from three and a half weeks ago. I know that because Michael was sitting in a coffee shop in Docklands reading the paper, so I knew the date the stories were from, just before school term finished.

  Some animal instinct makes me look up from the news about an East London MP’s expenses scandal and there is that piece of scum Vladimir, standing outside the window, looking in at me. Scruffy little nonentity in his mid-thirties, with thinning brown hair that hasn’t been washed for a while, and stubble that isn’t yet a beard. Baggy gray-green corduroy trousers and a suit jacket that is several years out of style, with sleeves that are all creases. He isn’t making any attempt to hide, just staring in at me.

  Some of the other customers have noticed him. They nudge one another uncomfortably. Vladimir doesn’t quite come over as a typical homeless type, but he is disturbing enough to rattle the cozy mums having their coffee break after getting the kids to school.

  So now what do I do? Go out and confront him? Just sit tight? I have to admit, some part of my brain is playing an enjoyable fantasy of me marching out there and smashing the crap out of him. But he is a genuine nutter; Jyoti had to shut her Facebook page down after that second rant he posted. Not that the police did anything about that, either. Idiots!

  We stare at each other for a few seconds. I keep my expression completely emotionless, then I fold my paper up, keeping eye contact with him. When I stand up, there is a flicker of panic on his face, and he turns away. I walk to the door, all calm and cool. I’m not going to shout or threaten, I am determined about that, but I am going to do my best to be utterly intimidating. Hopefully even his junked-up brain will have enough basic animal self-preservation instinct left that he’ll know not to come near either of us again.

  By the time I get outside, he is twenty yards away. I don’t chase after him; that would be stupid. But I do keep that level expression in place. And—yes!—he looks back, seeing me all unruffled and cold-eyed. I swear he starts walking even faster after that.

  That’s right, freak, run. Go plague your therapist.

  When I finished writing all that up in the Michael Finsen file, I read it back carefully. What Michael did in the coffee shop, trying to alarm Vladimir…I don’t think he thought that through properly at all. I mean, the other day when I saw him for the first time, he was still checking to see if Vladimir was still stalking him. So (1) he now knows that quite clearly wasn’t the end of it, even though he missed seeing Vladimir today. (2) How come Vladimir (2a) knew who he was, and (2b) knew where he was?

  Obviously Vladimir is being a whole lot more active than just sending out weird Facebook posts. He’d discovered that Michael was Jyoti’s new boyfriend, discovered either where Michael worked or, more worrying, where they both lived. Now, I did the same thing quite easily, because I have Michael’s memories. But to do that without insider knowledge is more difficult by a whole order of magnitude. You’ve got to be seriously obsessed to accomplish that.

  And Vladimir hasn’t stopped following Michael about. It was so creepy seeing him there at the Tube station. I mean, it was weird when I saw Michael for the first time, but this was frightening and weird. What did Vladimir want? Or did he even want anything? He was in the middle of some kind of breakdown, so he wasn’t rational.

  I wondered if he was going to mug Michael or, worse, put him in hospital? Maybe he thought if he got rid of Michael, then he stood a chance of getting Jyoti back. From what I knew, I didn’t think so. For a start, they were engaged. But perhaps Vladimir didn’t know that.

  I opened my laptop and went on to my Big Russell Facebook page. I stared at it for a long time, trying to decide if I should help.

  I pictured Vladimir as a dinosaur-killer asteroid—one big enough to wipe out all the life on Earth if it crashes into us. Like the voice-over says at the start of Armageddon: It’s happened before, and it will happen again. But here’s the thing. If an asteroid ten kilometers in diameter is streaking toward Earth, it’s very difficult to knock it out of the way when it’s close—say, inside the moon’s orbit (like they did in Armageddon). By then, it’s too big and too close and too fast. That much inertia is way too difficult to alter, even if you hit it with a dozen nukes. So if you look up what NASA suggests, you’ll see they want to target it with smaller kinetic impacts while it’s a lot farther out, which only delivers a tiny change of course. That way, by the time it reaches Earth, the course change has grown enough that it sails harmlessly past us. They’re even researching how to do it: a joint mission with the European Space Agency called AIDA, scheduled for a 2020 launch.

  That was what Vladimir needed. Right now he’s this massive ball of anger and madness heading straight for Michael; and nukes (common sense / the police) wouldn’t stop him. But a small kinetic impact now, before it got out of hand, should deflect him.

  I figured this was it. This was the reason I was getting Michael’s memories; future-me remembered where they take me (Jubilee Park this lunchtime). Seeing Vladimir today was such a small subtle thing. It made me the tiny, early kinetic impact, the deflector who averted catastrophe. If I intervened, Michael Finsen could go ahead and lead a normal untroubled life.

  So Big Russell sent a message to Vladimir McCann’s Facebook page: Hi, I heard Jyoti and Michael are engaged. That’s really good news. In the future, they will be happy together. We should all wish them well and let them get on with their new life.

  That should do it.

  Chapter 14

  Target Practice

  Dad and Rachel were going away to Ibiza for a long weekend with a whole bunch of their friends—well, mainly her friends.

  “Sorry, son, that’s a nonstarter,” Dad said on Wednesday evening when I asked if I could stay in the flat by myself. “We arranged this little break months ago. Can’t get out of it, and it’s not fair to Rachel to try.”

  “I get it.”

  “You don’t mind staying with Uncle Gordon, do you?”

  “No.” Which was true. What I did resent was missing seeing Michael every lunchtime. I was learning so much from his memories. What I wanted now was more details dating between Vladimir’s second Facebook post and now. I wouldn’t get that if I was stuck up in Lincolnshire with Uncle Gordon. On the other hand, it was only until next Tuesday. In espionage, patterns betray you to enemy agents all the time, and I had been going to Docklands on a regular basis.

  I took an hour to pack that night, making sure I had enough clothes, and that they were the right ones, and then added extra in case of emergencies, like Dad’s plane crashing. They were flying in an Airbus again.

  I was checking Big Russell’s Facebook page in bed when I heard Rachel say: “Can’t he go by himself? Gordon will be there to pick him up.”

  “Ha!” Dad grunted. “That stoner couldn’t pick himself up off the floor.”

  Vladimir hadn’t replied to Big Russell’s message. I put my headphones on and started streaming Supergirl.

  Dad came with me on the train to Peterborough. Uncle Gordon was waiting for me on the other side of the station ticket barrier. D
ad gave me a hug and said, “Call me if you need me. I’ll have my phone on the whole time. Promise.”

  I hugged him back; it was hard to let go. I guess Dad was my new normal now. Actually, he was my only normal.

  Even with my memory, I miss Mum.

  “Don’t forget to charge the phone at night,” I told him when I let go. “Put it on before you go to sleep.”

  His mouth did a funny little half smile. “I’ll remember, Jules.” Then he went back out on the platform and caught the train that was going back to London. He’d only been in the station for seven minutes.

  Uncle Gordon took the sleeping bag off me and put his arm around my shoulder as we walked to his car. “How you doing, Jules?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “I heard there’s an offer on the house.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to swing by for a last look?”

  “No point,” I told him. “It’s in my head.”

  He nodded slowly. “She’s in there as well, isn’t she?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m glad you’ve still got her, Jules. That’s nice.”

  We arrived at the car and put all my luggage in the boot. “I’ll remember you when you’re dead,” I told him reassuringly.

  Uncle Gordon laughed. “Good to know.”

  His kitchen was even more cluttered now that he had all Mum’s old appliances. The lounge was hot, hotter than it’d been in Spain.

  “Got to keep the wood burner on,” he said with a shrug. “That’s what heats the hot water.”

  He went to get lunch ready. I opened my MacBook and used the cottage Wi-Fi to log in to Facebook.

  Vladimir McCann > Big Russell.

  I know you. Liar! I know what you are. Liar! They will never be happy in the future. Liar! They will never be happy anywhere. Liar! She is my eternal love, she has been my love a thousand times in a thousand lives already. Don’t you understand that, you maniac? I am Mark Antony and she is my Cleopatra; I am JFK and she is my Marilyn; I am Captain Kirk and she is my green-skinned alien dancer. She will be mine a thousand times again in the real future of every life I will live. You cannot stop this, for our love is blessed by gods and angels alike. Don’t try to lie to me again. Don’t try to hide. You are nothing. I laugh at you. You are the darkness at the end of time. I am the light. I am the truth. You will know me. You will know my wrath.

  I closed it down fast.

  “Chicken soup all right? The tins are still in date,” Uncle Gordon called from the kitchen.

  I nodded.

  He came into the lounge. “Chicken soup—Aw, Jules, what’s wrong, man?”

  “I’m wrong,” I stammered. Talking was hard. My throat had all tightened up. I was crying. “I got it wrong. I don’t do that. I’m not wrong. How did it happen?”

  “Naa.” He sat on the sofa beside me and put his arm around my shoulders. “You don’t get nothing wrong, Jules. There’s just a few bumps on every road, that’s all. I think you hit one.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s okay to get worked up about your mum. It’s only been a couple of months. I’m never going to forget her, and I don’t have anything like your memory.”

  “All right,” I mumbled.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Jules. Here is where you get to chill and be yourself, understand? You don’t have to put a brave face on everything. You can be real here, man.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Gordon.”

  “All right then.” He gave me a big squeeze. “Chicken soup it is. I’d give you something else that’d help, but you’re not really old enough, and your dad would kill me.”

  “Uncle Gordon,” I said when he got up.

  “Yeah, man?”

  “I won’t ever want any of that, thanks. Mum was really against drugs.”

  “Er—what?”

  “I know that’s not really spinach you grow in your greenhouse. I am thirteen, Uncle Gordon.”

  “Riiiight.” He grinned, then laughed. “I love it. Nothing gets past you, ’coz you are the best, Jules. Really, the best.”

  I started to tidy up the sofa bed. The whole place was a complete tip. Even as I was doing it, I had trouble focusing. Vladimir was coming to get me. I would know his wrath, he said. I sat down and opened the MacBook again. I closed down Big Russell’s Facebook page, then canceled the Gmail account. Just to be certain, I ran a virus check as well. The MacBook was clean. Vladimir had no way of tracing me now, I was sure.

  When I’d finished, I felt a bit safer. It was frightening, though. If he did trace the IP address (somehow; maybe friends in that hacker group Anonymous?), there’s no way he could know it was me. But he might think it was Dad. If he was good enough to hack the IP, he would be able to check who lived at the flat, so he’d see no one called Russell was there. So I guessed it would be okay.

  I heard Uncle Gordon yell angrily from the kitchen. I yelped in fright: He’s here already, Vladimir has found me!

  There was a strange twang sound, and Uncle Gordon was shouting: “Get out of it, you little sod! There’s plenty more of those coming your way. Go pee on someone else’s garden.”

  I was shaking badly when I peered around the door. I saw Uncle Gordon standing by the back door, which was open. He was holding a thick black plastic catapult.

  “What’s happening?” I asked.

  “Bloody cats. This village is under siege from them. They come in my garden and crap all over the potato beds.” He turned back to the open door and raised his fist. “I eat those potatoes, you know.”

  “Cats?”

  “Yeah. There’s a whole load of mad old cat women around here, they let them run about all over the place.”

  I stared at the catapult. It was quite big, and the elastic was thick and powerful. “Won’t that hurt them?”

  “That’s the idea, Jules. I only use gravel, mind. It’s ball bearings that are lethal. Hell, put one of those in a top-of-the-range catapult and they’re like bullets. Gravel’s milder, but any cats get hit by gravel, they think twice about trespassing here again, dig? It stings like a bastard.”

  Which wasn’t very nice. Cats are pets, and you can’t keep them inside like you can dogs. But I suppose if they’re using his garden as a toilet, he’s entitled to take precautions. Especially as he eats the potatoes.

  Actually, I eat those potatoes, too.

  My stomach gurgled in reaction, and I felt mildly sick. “You do wash your vegetables, don’t you?” I asked.

  “ ’Course I do.”

  I saw the small pile of gravel on the work surface near the door; the stones were bigger than I expected. “Where did you get the catapult from? It looks…dangerous.”

  “Ah ha! You haven’t seen my new toy yet, have you?”

  Uncle Gordon had a 3-D printer.

  “I got it to make my own specialist cable clips,” he told me as it buzzed away behind his servers, creating a new batch of clips. “But the Internet has a million files of stuff you can print, including catapults. You need to buy the elastic, mind. Can’t print that. Not yet anyhow.”

  “People have printed guns,” I told him.

  “Bloody hell. Well, we’re not printing a gun, Jules. What else do you fancy? I’ve only got black plastic, mind. Darth Vader, maybe?”

  “A catapult like yours,” I told him straightaway.

  We made three that afternoon. It was brilliant. Uncle Gordon showed me the design program, and we customized them for me. The handle on the first was too big for my fingers; then we adjusted the length. We wound up with one that was modeled exactly on my grip.

  There was some elastic left over from his, which we used. Then I went out into the garden to practice. Uncle Gordon set up some old plastic milk cartons for me to shoot. Pulling the elastic back for the first time and taking aim, I felt like Katniss Everdeen in the Hunger Games arena. So slick and cool.

  The first four shots missed completely. Uncle Gordon told me to move closer. I
managed to hit a bottle on the seventh go.

  I think they must use a lot of CGI to help Jennifer Lawrence in the films. That or catapults aren’t as accurate as her bow and arrow. The gravel doesn’t help; the stone is always an irregular shape, which throws everything off.

  After ten minutes, Uncle Gordon went into his shed and produced a box of one-centimeter ball bearings. “These won’t tumble in flight,” he said confidently. “Good for your confidence when you’re training.”

  We made a new target. First we rigged up an old blanket between wooden posts to capture the ball bearings—like sandbags on a firing range. Then we got one of his giant marrows from the garden and propped it up in front of the blanket.

  He was right. Ball bearings are much better projectiles than gravel. I learned how to draw the elastic back level, centering it between the fork prongs. Then you had to hold it steady when you released; I’d been flinching a lot before.

  The ball bearings didn’t just hit the marrow. They actually penetrated it and got stuck inside the pulp—which was kind of scary but fun. I kept shooting until I could hit the marrow every time.

  “I think that’s enough for today,” he said eventually.

  My arms ached. I’d been using the catapult for ninety minutes. I felt really pleased with myself. I’m never any good at physical sports stuff, which is why I hate them. But this I could do properly. If mad Vladimir stalked me now, he’d never know what hit him.

  We had pizza and chips for supper. Afterward, Uncle Gordon lit one of his spinach cigarettes, then flicked through the Freeview TV channels until he found a repeat of Big Bang Theory. I don’t like watching repeats. There’s no point, especially not with sitcoms. A joke is never funny the second time you hear it. And I remember all the dialogue. But Uncle Gordon chuckled away at it.

  “We’ll work on distance tomorrow,” he said.

  “Sounds good.”

  “You just have to keep steady. Need to build up your muscles a bit for that, Jules.”