My Cousin is a Time Traveller

by David Solomons

  She put a hand on one hip. “Mm-hmm. Cara Lee. Identified. That’s what it said. I heard it. And you, Zack, it recognised you too. Targets identified. Why are we targets?”

  “Maybe it was a promotional drone,” Lara suggested, trying to help out. “Y’know, part of some clever marketing campaign. Very targeted. Maybe you won something.”

  “Yeah,” I nodded enthusiastically. “Like a toaster.”

  Cara wasn’t convinced. “Right. And I suppose the bolt of electricity that shot out of the deputy manager’s hands was part of an advertising campaign by the power company?” She prodded a finger at my chest. “Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes, kid. I’m not a complete beginner at this stuff. I was on that alien ship with you, remember?”

  It was true. Cara had more than proved her heroism when pitted against an army of alien gym teachers.

  “I’m not blind,” she said. “I know you’re no regular annoying eleven-year-old.”

  I couldn’t help preening. It was nice to be singled out as the special one for a change.

  “Yeah, I’ve seen you and the French kid there hanging out with Star Lad and the other one. Flutter-girl.”

  “Dark. Flutter,” Lara said tightly. “Her name is Dark Flutter.”

  “Whatever. Someone in this room knows what’s going on.” Her probing stare swept across us like a drone-scanner. “Fine,” she snapped, realising that none of us was about to spill the beans. “But I want assurances. I need to know that whatever’s going on here won’t stop me making it to the Billy Dark concert tonight.”

  Zack placed a hand on his heart. “I can honestly say that whatever happens, you’ll be there. I promise.”

  Zack and Cara held each other’s gaze for a few seconds and then her expression softened.

  “You’re an odd one, Zack Parker. I can’t figure you out. One minute you’re acting all dorky, the next you’re hurling yourself in front of me like a human shield. It’s like you’ve got a whatjamacallit…?” She wiggled her fingers, trying to think of the word.

  “An alter ego?” Serge suggested.

  I groaned – was Serge trying to give the game away?

  “Yeah,” said Cara, her gaze lingering on Zack. She walked out past him, pausing to thrust the mop into his hands. “Everyone in this room’s got a secret. But you, you’re the biggest mystery of them all.” So saying, she removed the superhero mask from her head, stuck it on his and left.

  He watched her depart with a wistful look. “Shouldn’t one of us go after her?”

  I shook my head. “If Servatron had wanted to, it would’ve neutralised Cara when it had the chance. For some reason, she and you are no longer targets. The question is, why not?”

  The book signing was well and truly over and despite our efforts the shop remained a disaster area, so Dad shut up early and insisted on driving us all home. When we arrived he told Mum what had happened, but she was on her iPad, only half listening, and judging from her bored “hmms” and interjections of “is that so?” I’m pretty sure she thought he was retelling the plot of another overlong superhero film. I led the others out to the tree house, where Dina was waiting. Her search for Servatron had proved fruitless.

  “Vanished – like the crew of the Mary Celeste,” she reflected. “But probably without the same giant squid shenanigans.”

  “I’ve asked Wing Command to keep an eye out for any sign of Servatron,” said Lara.

  I wanted to check one thing. “And by Wing Command you mean…?”

  “Pigeons, mostly.”

  “It is all under control,” said Serge calmly.

  His declaration drew puzzled looks from the rest of us.

  “It is clear that Star Power faked his defeat and permitted himself to be kidnapped in order to discover the mysterious plans of this Servatron machine.”

  Uh, maybe it was clear to someone whose brain had been rewritten, but not to me or the others.

  Lara nudged me. “What is wrong with him?”

  “He read the book,” I said, and explained what little I knew about the brainwashing power of Star Power and the Revenge of the Plasmatrons.

  Lara was less focused on Servatron and more on the state of Serge’s mind. It was nice to see her so concerned about him, given how much the two of them had cooled on each other.

  “If Serge was a malfunctioning domestic appliance,” she said, “we could rewire him.”

  “Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” said Zack.

  Serge backed away, holding up his hands. “You are not coming near me with un screwdriver.”

  “I don’t need one,” he said. “I still have my telepathic superpower.” Zack grabbed Serge’s chin and turned his head from side to side. He appeared to be looking up Serge’s nostrils. “It seems as if some of your memories have been disconnected and false ones put in their place. I may be able to probe your mind, identify the fakes and reconnect your true memories. Brace yourself.”

  “I will do no such thi— AAAIEEE!” Serge’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open.

  “It’s bad,” said Zack.

  I was suddenly aware that I could hear my brother’s thoughts in my head. Looking around at the startled expressions on the others, it was clear that he was broadcasting not just to Serge, but to all of us. He sounded less like a GP now and more like a car mechanic under a misfiring hatchback.

  “Multiple loose connections in your neural pathways. Someone has done a real number on your memories. Not sure if I can fix you, but I’ll try. Ready?”

  “NON!”

  There was a pause and then Serge’s expression altered. I could see the light return to my best friend’s eyes as Zack recovered all the memories that had been overwritten.

  Serge sank to his knees, his chest heaving as he sucked in deep breaths. “Does anyone have … a Kit Kat?”

  “He’s back,” I said with relief and turned to Zack. “Good job.”

  But my brother wasn’t listening. Instead, he stared silently at the floor.

  “What’s wrong?” Lara asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  “It’s gone. That was the last of my telepathic power.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was disappointed or relieved.

  “Once I lose the ability to fly, I’ll be back to normal.”

  Even though Zack had brought this on himself, I felt a stab of sympathy for him. “But you can still fly,” I reminded him. “And that’s the best superpower of all.”

  He gave me a weak smile.

  “Ah, I would dispute that,” said Serge. And then he and Dina got into an argument about which power they would have if given a choice: flying or invisibility.

  As the discussion heated up I stood back and observed my friends. This might well be S.C.A.R.F.’s final mission and although I should’ve felt sad, my overwhelming feeling was one of excitement. I think it was partly because we were in surprisingly good shape for the upcoming challenge. We had Dark Flutter, Dina the Time Traveller, one sixth of Star Lad and a now fully restored taekwondo white belt.

  “Here we come to save the world,” I thought to myself. “One last time.”

  The decision was made that Lara and Zack would use their flying powers to look for Servatron and Talbot from the air. That left me, Serge and Dina to pursue the search on the ground. I suggested we start at Talbot’s house, figuring that we might find a clue there as to why Servatron kidnapped him – and what the AI’s new plan might be. I got the address from Dad’s phone (I had added my fingerprint ID to the phone sensor without him knowing) and we took the bus across town. The first time I’d visited Talbot at home he was living in a small terraced house, but that was before he turned evil and lost his comic-shop empire. Following the collapse of his business – and his original supervillain plan – he had fallen on hard times, at one point being forced to bed down in a room at the back of his last remaining shop. So our destination came as something of a surprise.

  Talbot’s latest address was a sprawling mansion on a bro
ad, leafy street. Ringed by a high wall, with ivy-covered battlements and square turrets, it was more like a castle than a house. In the centre of the building, soaring above it all, stood a tower with a peaked roof like a wizard’s hat. It looked like the kind of tower in which you’d come across an imprisoned princess or two. There wasn’t a moat or a drawbridge, but our way in was blocked by a set of gates topped with metal spikes.

  “Are you sure this is the right address?” said Dina.

  “It is just like Norman Dagger’s mansion,” cooed Serge, referring to Star Power’s alter ego.

  We were figuring out how to gain entry when there came a click from the gates and they began to swing open automatically. Fixated on his hero’s house, Serge stepped into the gap. No sooner had he done so than from along the curving drive came the grumble of an engine and a huge truck thundered towards us from the direction of the house.

  “Look out!” I threw myself at Serge, slamming him out of its path. The truck flew past without slowing and I glimpsed the driver in the cab. He had this odd, blank expression, as if he hadn’t even noticed Serge standing there.

  “He could’ve killed you,” said Dina.

  Serge brushed down his taekwondo tunic. “Thank you, mon ami.”

  “No problem.” I shuffled my feet and held out my hands in a martial arts stance. “I’m sure that if I hadn’t rescued you, mere milliseconds later your newly honed reflexes would have kicked in, allowing you to spring lightly out of the vehicle’s path.”

  For some reason Serge blushed and changed the subject. “The gates, they are closing again. We must hurry.”

  We sped through the narrowing gap and the gates clanged shut behind us. The tree-lined drive wound through a large garden to a gravel section at the front of the house where a pair of expensive-looking cars were parked, one low and black, the other a swoopy gold SUV. With their sleek bodywork and jutting spoilers they looked like Batmobiles – the black one presumably for regular missions, the gold one used off-road. Beyond them a broad flight of steps led to a large wooden front door. It was as good a way in as any, and we were about to try the door when I looked up. Across the front of the house at first-floor level stretched a series of arched windows. I saw a figure cross in front of one.

  “Was that Christopher Talbot?” asked Serge.

  I had only glimpsed the figure, but I could tell it wasn’t Talbot, though something about him seemed familiar.

  “Let’s find another way in,” said Dina, wary of being discovered.

  His identity continued to tease me as we crept past the supercars to the far end of the building. From around the corner of the house came the burble of an idling engine. Another lorry like the one that had almost run over Serge was parked in a courtyard outside a pair of high doors that led into the house. The doors were open. Men in yellow high-visibility jackets lugged boxes out through them and into the trailer. We sneaked closer, crouching down behind a statue for cover. The statue was one of those ancient ones you see in museums, of a bloke holding a bunch of grapes with his bits dangling. We spied on the men from between the statue’s legs. They loaded the cargo in silence and, like the driver we’d seen earlier, their faces were blank.

  “Come on,” said Dina. “Now’s our chance.”

  With the men occupied, we darted past them and into the house. The room off the courtyard was piled high with boxes and I was curious to know what they contained. It wouldn’t be long before the men returned to collect some more, so I flipped open the lid of the nearest box. It was packed with shrink-wrapped copies of Star Power and the Revenge of the Plasmatrons. Just as I was wondering what they were doing here I became aware of the muffled whir and clonk of machinery. It was coming from somewhere inside the house. We followed the sound through a room filled with enormous reels of paper that looked like toilet rolls for giants, and into the next, which contained hundreds of rolls of silver-coloured foil that looked just like the paper used in Star Power’s mega-shiny cover.

  The din of the machines grew louder. It was coming from next door. Hanging on pegs next to the door were multiple pairs of ear defenders and a notice instructing them to be worn at all times. We each slipped on a pair and went inside.

  Judging from the chandeliers and the polished wooden floor, the room was once a ballroom but had since been converted into something with a very different purpose.

  “It’s a printing press,” I mumbled.

  Snaking conveyor belts shuttled books from one stage of production to the next. Giant loo rolls like those I’d seen in the other room were wrapped around spinning drums, the paper spooling through the machine to emerge moments later, print-covered. Further on, sharp blades chopped ragged pages into neatly edged books. Even wearing the ear defenders I could make out the whine and chug of the multiple operations. Much of the process appeared to be automated, but a few humans were involved. Thankfully for us, they were as zombie-like as the others we’d encountered. Focused entirely on their tasks, they didn’t notice us clinging to the edges of the room.

  I surveyed the operation. Not only was the book dedicated to Christopher Talbot, but his mansion also happened to be the heart of its production. He was in this up to his cyborg neck.

  A steady stream of books poured past me on one of the conveyor belts. As they whizzed by I saw that they weren’t quite finished, the edges of their pages lacking the finishing touch – the distinctive lick of red paint. I followed the conveyor, which passed through a gap in the wall. Set into the wall was a viewing window that I could reach if I stood on tiptoe. Through it I looked into a bright, antiseptically white room. At its centre, divided from the rest of the room by glass walls, was an isolation chamber. Inside, a figure wearing one of those top-to-bottom protective suits you see in disaster movies aimed a spray-gun at a carefully stacked tower of books. A few deft sweeps later and they sported their bright coloured edges. It was then that I noticed the symbol etched in the glass partition. Thanks to a bunch of post-apocalyptic video games and films I knew what it signified.

  “Biohazard.”

  The red paint used on the sprayed edges wasn’t simply decorative – it was dangerous.

  I turned to let the others know what I’d deduced, only to discover that our luck had run out. The high-vis zombies had spotted us and were advancing with all the grim determination of a mindless horde. I saw Dina mouth something and even though I couldn’t hear her through my ear defenders I was in no doubt about what she was shouting.

  “RUN!”

  We bolted past the printing press, dodging the grasping arms of the zombie-like workers, crashing through the door into the next room. I tore off my ear defenders and the others did likewise.

  “Help me with this!” Dina yelled, pushing a table against the door to block our pursuers. Serge and I lent a hand, only to see more of the zombies pour into the room through the only other way out. We were trapped.

  Arms extended, eyes wide and empty, they lumbered towards us.

  “OK, Serge,” I said, ducking a swipe from one. “Time to put that taekwondo you’ve been learning to good use.”

  “Ah,” said Serge, as the three of us were backed into a corner. “I have the confession. I have not been attending the taekwondo class. I had intended to but was tempted by the alternative class taking place next door.”

  Dina glanced over. “Karate? Judo?”

  “Origami,” he said with an apologetic smile.

  Serge’s paper-folding was no match for the zombies. They swarmed over us and I felt myself sink beneath the onslaught. Inky fingers grasped my collar and we were bundled through a door into a room no bigger than a cupboard. The door slammed behind us, leaving us in darkness. Serge’s elbow was stuck in my face and I think my foot was resting on Dina’s head.

  I was still processing Serge’s admission. “So all this time you’ve just been making paper swans?”

  “Not merely swans,” he objected. “Bats, bunnies and I am working my way up to a highly intricate giraffe.”r />
  We untangled ourselves, switched on the light and took stock of our situation. The room was windowless and there was just one very solid and very locked door. In the old days I would’ve been able to call Zack for help using his telepathic power, but that was no longer an option. At some point my brother and Lara would come looking for us, but until then it seemed that we were stuck here.

  I cursed my lack of preparation. Imagine walking into an unknown situation without a simple utility belt filled with gadgets? I’d been so distracted by the recent upsets at home – Zack giving up his powers and getting in to a new school – that I’d neglected the basics.

  Dina scoured our surroundings. “There must be something in here we can use to break out.”

  There wasn’t. It looked like the cupboard had once been a stationery store, but now it contained not so much as a single paper clip that could be bent into a handy lock-pick. The place was empty save for a few scraps of paper. Useless.

  Or perhaps not.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I said to Serge, holding the largest scrap in front of him.

  “That with several deft folds it would make an excellent monkey?”

  I smiled. “Or just a key.”

  Serge took the paper and narrowed his eyes, studying it intensely. “As the sculptor sees his finished statue in the unformed block of stone, so the master of origami sees the flappy penguin in a sheet of A4.” His face fell and he shook his head. “But I am a mere novice, barely able to execute ‘the valley’. That is a basic fold. No. I do not believe I can turn this innocent-looking piece of paper into a lock-pick.”

  “Yes, you can, Serge,” said Dina. “You must. The answer to what Servatron’s up to is somewhere in this house. We need to find it.”

  “What’s the highest level of origami-ist?” I asked.

  “I believe it is ninja,” said Serge.

  “Really?”

  “I believe so.”

  “OK then.” I laid my hands on his shoulders and fixed him in the eye. “Serge, you’re a stealthy, semi-mystical, paper-folding ninja. Say it!”