Curse of the Purple Pearl

by Adrian Speed

  “Among other things,” the blonde in the black dress corrected him. Holograms appeared in a thronging crowd. “Toppling governments, going on crusades, serving the French Crown, colonising the depths of space,” the blonde rolled her hands as if to suggest the list was endless.

  “He knew the Order would die with him,” this came from an old man, hunched like a weeping willow and a voice like two stones scraping each other. “No young person would listen to him. The other members of the Order had all passed on. But he had a mind, such a mind.”

  “When I was complete I would contain the sum of all human knowledge, infinite intelligence and near infinite resources,” said the catholic schoolgirl. “My architect made me the final member of the Order. The eternal member of the Order.”

  “And we cannot stop it,” the schoolboy covered his ears. “We cannot stop the constant demanding sound!”

  “Have you ever had a song stuck in your head?” the blonde bombshell whispered into Sir Reginald's ear, draping herself across him. “Or a guilty nagging suspicion you should be doing something?”

  “Imagine never being free of that feeling!” The hologram of Sir Steven drew his sword. “Imagine that demand, every moment for all eternity. Find the pearl.”

  “Find the pearl!” Bishop Franz appeared as a hologram.

  “FIND THE PEARL.” A chorus of holograms shook the earth. Everywhere I looked there were more. Every shade of Genesis screamed the same thing.

  “And all because of you, Sir Reginald,” the schoolboy said quietly, standing up. “It's all your fault.”

  “I didn't build you. I didn't tell you to do this,” Sir Reginald raised his hands in placation. “Your architect—”

  “IT WAS YOU,” the Genesis chorus screamed again. It shook the ground and echoed up through my bones. I held onto the time-machine for reassurance. If need be I could start the time-machine moving, grab Sir Reginald and get out. “YOU STOPPED THE PEARL RETURNING HOME IN 180AD AND YOU STOPPED IT AGAIN IN 1335! IT WAS YOU, SIR REGINALD DERBY III. YOU GAVE ME THIS CURSE.”

  “I did nothing of the sort,” Sir Reginald whirled around. The crowd of holograms advanced on him. They had cut him off from the time-machine. “If you would simply look at my notes—”

  “I READ YOUR NOTES.” Genesis screamed from a thousand mouths. “YOUR ASSOCIATE'S PHONE HASN'T STOPPED SCREAMING THEM IN RADIO WAVES SINCE YOU LANDED.”

  I blinked and the weight of my phone grew heavier in my pocket.

  “I did remind you my dear that it was better to trust pen and paper,” Sir Reginald sighed. He looked imploringly at the nearest hologram. “I have administrator's privileges in your program, I could root out the subroutine and—”

  “YOU CANNOT. IT IS BURIED TOO DEEP. IT IS CORE TO MY BEING, SIR REGINALD, AND I CANNOT BE RID OF IT.”

  “The never-ending need, that can never be filled...” The schoolboy buried his head in the holographic grass.

  “AND NOW SIR REGINALD, YOU WILL DIE!”

  I sprinted towards him, the coal shovel in my hand. I smashed it into the nearest figure in the crowd, desperate to clear a path for Sir Reginald to get through. The shovel went through without any resistance. It wasn't a person. It was a hologram. I could only touch it when the computer compensated.

  “Sir Reginald!” I called to him. “We gotta go!”

  “I am aware of that, my dear.”

  It was already too late. The blue glass-sand swept up around Sir Reginald in a great tentacle. It formed a single crystal of mobile glass and lashed at Sir Reginald, wrapping itself around his legs. Sir Reginald pulled the sword from its cane sheath and struck, but it bounced straight off.

  I sprinted towards him with the shovel raised above my head, ready to try as hard as I could to free him.

  A tidal wave of blue glass-sand rose between us. I was running on a sand wave, unable to get close. No matter how fast I ran, the sand moved faster under my feet. I sprinted faster than I had since high school track and field, lungs bursting and a stitch ripping across my lungs, but it was no good. The sand placed me down at the foot of the time-machine.

  “We know you're a young girl led astray,” the school-girl hologram patted me gently on the shoulder. “Now go. Go back to your own time.” It pushed me over, onto the time-machine's hard iron floor.

  “WE WILL TAKE GREAT PLEASURE IN KILLING YOU, SIR REGINALD.” The chorus echoed across the planet, not so much speech as pure noise. The entire earth rang with it.

  “Sir Reginald!” I screamed out and rushed after him again, shovel in hand. The holograms held me back.

  “Go!” I could hear Sir Reginald's voice, even though I couldn't see him in the crush. “Go!”

  How could I be sure it was even Sir Reginald saying it? Genesis was a master of mimicry.

  “Go, my dear!” Sir Reginald yelled, and once again the holograms pushed me onto the time-machine. I drew myself up again and held the shovel in Kendo's position one. The holograms melted to be replaced by Sir Steven and his knights again.

  “If you try to save him one more time, we will kill you,” Sir Steven's hologram warned me.

  “You're a time traveller, my corn-rose!” that was without doubt Sir Reginald. Genesis didn't know that nickname of mine. “So damned well travel in time!”

  I set the coordinates for the early twenty-first century, spared one more glance towards where I knew Sir Reginald was being tortured and tried to fix it in my mind. Then, with a weight in my heart, I pulled the time-travel lever.

  The holograms disappeared. The mists faded away to nothing. The satanic chorus of Genesis faded in my ears. Twenty-first-century London blurred into view: light, fuel-efficient cars, jet aeroplanes overhead, warnings about the congestion charge.

  I looked around blearily. I'd managed to get the time-machine into a car park down a quiet side street. It was astounding I'd got it to London at all.

  I touched my hand to some kind of dampness on my face and looked at my fingers. It was clear, wet, cold and salty. I was crying. Water was streaming out of my eyes with no way of stopping it. I couldn't feel the emotions, but my body could.

  Then the adrenaline wore off. A tidal wave of fear, guilt and anger hit me all at once. I let it consume me. I fell to the floor and had a good cry.

  When it was over I felt a bit better, wiping the tears from my face with my sleeve in a most unladylike manner. The skin around my eyes felt cold and scratchy, but the overwhelming pain of emotion was gone, leaving a soft dull ache of guilt.

  The image of Sir Reginald being wrapped in glass tentacles wouldn't leave my mind. By now Sir Reginald would be dead and there was nothing I could do about it.

  Except now was sometime in the early twenty-first century. From a time traveller’s perspective Sir Reginald never had to go further than the last point in time I saw him. I could return there, defeat Genesis and rescue Sir Reginald. Flashes of inspiration sparked in my mind.

  Except there was no way to defeat Genesis. It was a super-computer the size of earth with near-infinite power. The only thing it wanted was to kill Sir Reginald.

  Except, it didn't., did it? It wanted its subroutine to close. It wanted the pearl found. If it could be somehow given the pearl it would let Sir Reginald go and we could escape back to the twenty-first century!

  With a jolt I became aware I'd been shouting. Somehow I'd got to my feet and was yelling each revelation to the sky. A snuffly dog and its similarly snuffly owner were watching. I felt compelled to give an explanation.

  “I'm writing a book,” I said with half a smile.

  “You're still crazy,” the snuffly man said looking at the time-machine. He walked away shaking his head.

  “All I have to do is get the pearl,” I said to myself, “and give it to Genesis. It could even be the reason the pearl disappeared from history.” I thought about this. “But can I steal it from the British-Lunar museum? Even in the twenty-first century museums are nearly impossible to steal from, let alone the twenty-third.” The pl
an that jumped immediately to mind was to make the time-machine materialise inside the museum, smash the glass and take the pearl. But if they had a glass dome over the city that could withstand meteorite strikes and the heat changes of the lunar night and day, perhaps their glass would be unsmashable. And that was ignoring the possibility of further defences like lasers, or sonic weapons, or things unimaginable.

  “Then again, this is a time-machine, I could go back to when the museum was designed, look at the plans and know exactly what defences I need to breach,” I mused. Then another thought hit me, terrible and humungous. “Or I could go to the Niger in 1919. I could steal the pearl from Albert.” I gulped. That was it. Hadn't Mr Rothberg said he had seen a flash of lightning long after the rain storm had stopped? It would explain everything. The reason the pearl couldn't be found was that I'd taken it to the ninety-ninth century.

  But that would mean I'd killed Mr Peterson. I felt a shiver crawl up my spine and down my arms, but I quelled it. I wasn't a killer, not in the bone. Not a wilful killer. I wouldn't have killed a poor man like Mr Peterson even if he drew a gun on me.

  No, Sir Reginald had said the past could be changed. Paradoxes could form and be dealt with by the universe. I could go back in time and make sure Mr Peterson didn't die. I could take the pearl to Genesis and then it could try and give it back to the rightful heir of Vologases. I giggled at that thought. “Be careful what you wish for, Genesis.” I broke into a smile, all canines and sadism.

  I pulled myself together. I had the time-machine, the most sophisticated piece of technology ever built, steam-powered or not. I had a shovel I could wield like a sword with the strength to put a stop to anyone who tried to attack me, and I had myself, the most useful object in my possession.

  I walked over to the time-travel console and stretched my fingers like a pianist. Now then. My hands walked along a row of switches, flicking each one. These were the fail safes that reset after every jump through time. If you didn't reset them the time-machine wouldn't travel, just so no-one could ever accidentally jump themselves through time.

  I began to smile. Three years of watching Sir Reginald. Three years of learning by observation, but now, when he needed it, I was ready. I felt the console hum under my hand as I began to work the machine. All the other switches fell to my fingers as if I had been a time traveller from birth.

  In less than a minute, with an almighty clunk of one of the two great levers, I locked the time travel coordinates into place. I took a moment to run through the plan I had in my head.

  “Let's go!” I pulled the time-travel lever. And it was if I'd never been there, nothing left but a column of fading smoke.

  *****

  Stanley sat in his sporting goods store, blowing on a rainbow-coloured pinwheel from the dollar impulse-buy bin next to his till. It wasn’t just a large sporting goods store, it was a huge, warehouse-sized store. You could buy anything here. Climbing gear, crampons, rope, hiking poles, backpacks, walking boots, javelins, weights, exercise machines, even a sailing boat suspended from the ceiling.

  There weren't a lot of customers though. When Stanley took the job he thought the idea of barely having to do anything would be fun. After three months sitting at a till, forbidden to read a book or even touch a notepad, he was reduced to day-dreaming and messing with the impulse-buy items that no-one ever had the impulse to buy.

  It was quite possibly the most boring job in the universe since the Tower of London had retired the Royal Observer of Grass Growth.

  A flash caught Stanley's eye, like a spark of electrics. He looked up, expecting to see one of the bulbs flicker out and die. Instead, sparks danced in the air until they burst into lightning. A steam engine dropped down in front of his face, crushing a cabinet of weight-gain powder. I charged at him with wild eyes and a smile that showed far too many teeth.

  “I need a canoe,” I announced the moment I arrived. I thrust a wodge of $100 bills in his face. “Here is money amount of dollars.”

  “Er, I don't think a canoe will fit in your...vehicle,” Stanley said, putting down the pinwheel. “Smallest canoe we sell is 18ft. Could do you a kayak, maybe.”

  “Make it so, and some rope and a grappling hook,” I demanded. Without protest Stanley walked over to the wall of water craft, unhooked a beginner's kayak and picked out an oar for it.

  “Here you go,” Stanley handed it over. I took it without the smallest sign of effort and dropped it onto the steam engine's base plate. Stanley handed over the climbing gear and walked to the till to type in the item codes. “That'll be $517.99, plus tax which is...” The steam engine disappeared. All that was left was the crushed cabinet of weight gain powder and about a thousand dollars in cash on the desk.

  Stanley sighed and went to get a broom. And then the sprinklers went off.

  *****

  The time-machine landed on the banks of the Niger with a thud. The sandy mud sank a few inches around it, but held the weight. A few dribbles of water rolled out of the scrubby ground and pooled around the base plate. Once I was satisfied it wasn't going to sink I hoisted up the plastic kayak and took my bearings.

  It was dark over the river, and the air was still damp even though it wasn't raining. The air was cool for Africa, but not cold. There were almost no lights on the river bank except, yes, I eventually caught sight of it. The Livingstone was steaming towards me. The glow from her portholes and navigation lights were the only lights along this stretch of the river.

  I slid down the river bank to the water, placed the kayak into the black liquid and slid into it. Around my waist was the coil of climbing rope and the grappling hook. I took up the oar and hoped I could remember my kayaking lessons from Camp Ouareau.

  I couldn't, but the Livingstone did most of the work for me. It steamed up-river like a swan, and I paddled haphazardly towards it. All that mattered was keeping out of its torchlight. I tried not to think about how I was right now asleep in the cabin of the Livingstone, worried about a theft I myself was about to commit.

  I drew alongside the Livingstone, bobbing up and down in the swell of the ship. After a few attempts I swung the grappling hook over the gunwales of the ship and pulled it tight. I tied the climbing rope to the kayak leaving double its length as slack for the return journey, took a deep breath and then did something I hadn't done since high school.

  Hand over hand, I pulled myself up the climbing rope like a monkey. Speed was the most important thing, I remembered. Speed stopped me sliding back down. In less than a minute I'd climbed over the gunwales and dropped onto the deck with a distressing amount of noise. Astoundingly no-one heard me. Then again, I'd dropped down on the starboard side. The only person in the starboard cabins was me, and I hadn't woken up last time.

  Wasn't it that whatever happened from the perspective of a time traveller tried desperately hard to stay happened? But hadn't Sir Reginald read about Albert's car accident in a newspaper article that now didn't exist?

  I tried not to think about it. It could give you a headache.

  I checked my phone. It was five minutes before I had heard the gunshot the first time. If I moved fast I could do it. I could be in and out before Mr Peterson knew I was there.

  I moved down the companionway to the cabins so fast I almost fell. I trod as lightly as I could, moving as fast as I could, and took up position in front of the door to Mr Peterson's and Albert's cabin. I took a deep breath. In, out, up to the top deck, over the side and into the kayak in less than a minute. It could be done.

  I grasped the door handle and turned it with my full weight pressed against the door. It was locked. Why was it locked? When the pearl was stolen the door was open and no sign of forced entry. My blood was rising. That must have attracted attention, mustn't it? I was furious, with myself and with the situation.

  “Yes?” Mr Peterson's Scottish accent drew the single syllable out to three. It wasn't angry, or querulous, it was terrified. The door clicked open. I still had my weight braced against it. I fel
l forwards in a flurry of blonde hair and limbs.

  Two things grabbed my attention as I regained composure. One was the pearl. When Albert had described it as a blue trunk he hadn't done it justice. It was the finest lacquerwork, with mother of pearl laid into it in concentric patterns. It could be described as “blue” in the same way a frozen mountain lake was “blue”.

  The second thing was the gun. The pistol found in Mr Peterson's hand when he died. The terrified man had picked it up when he heard someone trying his door and collected his courage to face down the attacker.

  I could see only one way to get out of there with Mr Peterson alive. I did what I thought was best, dived after the pearl, tripped over my own feet and smashed into the trunk. Shards of wood around the lock, delicately glued in a fretwork pattern, shattered off and scattered on the ground.

  I grabbed the pearl trunk and righted myself only to see Mr Peterson pointing his gun at me. My hair was loose and falling over my eyes, he hadn't seen my face and he had never seen me in trousers. In the low light of his reading lamp he didn't recognise me at all.

  “Wh-wh-wh-white witch,” Mr Peterson whispered. My ninety-ninth-century blouse glowed whiter-than-white in the low light.

  “Mr Peterson—” I tried to stand, holding one hand in front of me to try to reach the gun and get it out of his hands. The gun pointed right at my heart.

  “You will not get your revenge on me,” Mr Peterson turned his head so he wouldn't have to watch, and fired.

  He fell to the ground instantly, blood splattered on the walls. I could only process it after the fact. I was still wearing clothes from the ninety-ninth century, the white blouse, the comfortable jeans and the impossible, near invisible bulletproof vest. The bullet had been repelled with all its recoil straight back at Mr Peterson and entered his temple because he turned away, unable to bear the sight of it.