Timeline

by Michael Crichton

  The black bars of the cage were slippery in Chris’s hands as he swung the cage overhead, away from the pit. Slime and black water dripped onto the dirt floor of the dungeon, leaving little pools. Chris went back to the winch; he and Marek cranked the cage down, lowering it to the floor. The Professor was soaked, but he seemed relieved to be on solid ground again. Chris went back to open the cage, but he saw that it was locked. There was a heavy iron padlock the size of a man’s fist.

  “Where’s the key?” Chris said, turning to Marek.

  “I don’t know,” Marek said. “I was on the ground when they put him in, I didn’t see what happened.”

  “Professor?”

  Johnston shook his head. “I’m not sure. I was looking there.” He nodded toward the pit.

  Marek clanged his sword against the lock. Sparks flew, but the padlock was solid; the sword only scratched it. “That’s never going to work,” Chris said. “We need the damn key, André.”

  André turned and looked around the dungeon. Chris said, “How much time is left?”

  “Twenty-five minutes.”

  Shaking his head, Chris went to the nearest dead soldier, and began searching the body.

  00:21:52

  In the control room, Stern watched as the technicians dipped the pale rubber membrane into a bucket of adhesive, and then placed it, still dripping, inside the mouth of the glass shield. Then they attached a compressed-air hose and the rubber began to expand. For a moment, it was possible to see that it was a weather balloon, but then it expanded still further, the rubber spreading and thinning, becoming translucent, assuming the curving shape of the glass shield until it had reached every corner of the container. Then the technicians capped it, clicked a stopwatch, and waited while the adhesive hardened.

  Stern said, “How much time?”

  “Twenty-one minutes to go.” Gordon pointed to the balloons. “It’s homely, but it works.”

  Stern shook his head. “It was staring me in the face, for the last hour.”

  “What was?”

  “Blowouts,” he said. “I kept thinking, what are we trying to avoid here? And the answer is, blowouts. Just like a car, when the tires blow out. I kept thinking of car blowouts. And it seemed odd, because blowouts are so rare now. New cars hardly ever have them. Because the new tires have an inner membrane that’s self-sealing.” He sighed. “I kept wondering why this rare thing was on my mind, and then I realized that was the whole point: there was a way to make a membrane here, too.”

  “This is not self-sealing,” Kramer said.

  “No,” Gordon said, “but it’ll add thickness to the glass and spread the stress.”

  “Right,” Stern said.

  The technicians had put balloons in all the tanks, and capped them. Now they were waiting for the glue to harden. Gordon glanced at his watch. “Three more minutes.”

  “And then how long for each tank?”

  “Six minutes. But we can do two tanks at a time.”

  Kramer sighed. “Eighteen minutes. Cutting it close.”

  “We’ll make it,” Gordon said. “We can always pump the water faster.”

  “Won’t that stress the tanks more?”

  “Yes. But we can do it, if we have to.”

  Kramer looked back at the monitor, where the field was undulating. But the peaks were clearer now. She said, “Why are the field bucks changing?”

  “They’re not,” Gordon said without looking back.

  “Yes,” she said. “They are. The spikes are getting smaller.”

  “Smaller?”

  Gordon came over to look. He frowned as he stared at the screen. There were four peaks, then three, then two. Then four again, briefly. “Remember, what you’re seeing is really a probability function,” he said. “Field amplitudes reflect the probability that the event will take place.”

  “In English?”

  Gordon stared at the screen. “Something must have gone wrong back there. And whatever it is, it’s changed the probability that they will return.”

  00:15:02

  Chris was sweating. He grunted as he flopped the soldier’s inert body onto its back, and resumed his search. He’d spent frantic minutes going through the maroon-and-gray uniforms of two of the dead soldiers, trying to find the key. The surcoats were long, and underneath that, the soldiers wore quilted shirts; all in all, a lot of cloth. Not that the key could be easily concealed; Chris knew that the cage padlock would require a key several inches long, and made of iron.

  But Chris didn’t find it. Not on the first soldier, and not on the second. Swearing, he got to his feet.

  Across the dungeon, Arnaut was still fighting with Oliver; the clang of their swords continued ceaselessly, a steady metallic rhythm. Marek was walking along the walls, holding a torch, searching the dark corners of the dungeon. But he didn’t seem to be having success, either.

  Chris could almost hear the clock ticking in his head. He looked around, wondering where a key could be hidden. Unfortunately, he realized, it could be almost anywhere: hanging on a wall, or tucked into the base of a torch holder. He went over to the winch and looked around the mechanism. And there he found it—a large iron key, at the foot of the winch. “Got it!”

  Marek looked up, glanced at his wrist counter as Chris hurried over to the cage to insert the key. The key went right in, but it wouldn’t turn. At first he thought the mechanism was stuck, but after thirty agonizing seconds of effort, he was forced to conclude that this was not the key, after all. Feeling helpless and angry, he flung the key to the ground. He turned to the Professor, locked behind the bars.

  “I’m sorry,” Chris said. “I’m really sorry.”

  As always, the Professor was unruffled. “I’ve been thinking, Chris,” he said, “about exactly what happened.”

  “Uh-huh . . .”

  “And I think Oliver had it,” the Professor said. “He locked me in himself. I think he kept the key.”

  “Oliver?”

  Across the room, Oliver continued to fight, although he was now obviously losing. Arnaut was a better swordsman, and Oliver was drunk and winded. Smiling grimly, Arnaut drove Oliver back with measured blows to the edge of the pit. There Oliver, gasping and sweating, leaned on the railing, too exhausted to continue.

  Arnaut gently put the point of his sword to Oliver’s neck. “Mercy,” Oliver said, panting. “I beg mercy.” But it was clear that he did not expect it. Arnaut slowly pressed harder with the sword. Oliver coughed.

  “My Lord Arnaut,” Marek said, stepping forward. “We need the key to the cage.”

  “Eh? Key? To the cage?”

  Gasping, Oliver smiled. “I know where it lies.”

  Arnaut jabbed with the sword. “Tell us.”

  Oliver shook his head. “Never.”

  “If you tell us,” Arnaut said, “I shall spare your life.”

  At this, Oliver glanced up sharply. “Certes?”

  “I am no treacherous, two-faced Englishman,” Arnaut said. “Give us the key, and I swear as a true gentle of France that I shall not kill you.”

  Panting, Oliver stared at Arnaut for several seconds. Finally he stood once again and said, “Very well.” He threw away his sword, reached under his robe, and brought out a heavy iron key. Marek took it.

  Oliver turned back to Arnaut. “So: I have done my part. Are you a man of your word?”

  “In deed,” Arnaut said, “I shall not kill you . . .” He moved forward swiftly, and clasped Oliver’s knees. “I shall bathe you.”

  And he flipped Oliver bodily over the rail, into the pit. Oliver landed with a splash in the black water below; he came up sputtering. Cursing, he swam to the side of the pit and reached toward the rocks to get a handhold. But the rocks that lined the pit were dark with slime. Oliver’s hands slipped off. He could get no purchase. He treaded water, slapping ineffectually at the surface. He looked up at Arnaut, and swore.

  Arnaut said, “Do you swim well?”

  “Very well, y
ou son of a French pig.”

  “Good,” Arnaut said. “Then your bath will take some time.”

  And he turned away from the pit. With a nod to Chris and Marek, he said, “I am in your debt. May God grant you mercy all your days.” And then he ran quickly away to rejoin the battle. They heard his footsteps fading.

  Marek unlocked the padlock, and the cage door creaked open. The Professor stepped out. He said, “Time?”

  “Eleven minutes,” Marek said.

  They hurried out of the dungeon. Marek was hobbling, but he managed to move quickly. Behind them, they heard Oliver splashing in the water.

  “Arnaut!” Oliver cried, his voice echoing from the dark stone walls. “Arnaut!”

  00:09:04

  The big screens at the far end of the control room showed the technicians filling the shields with water. The shields were holding up fine. But nobody in the control room was looking at the shields. Instead, they stared silently at the console monitor, watching the undulations of the shimmering, computer-generated field. During the last ten minutes, the peaks had become steadily lower, until now they had nearly vanished; when they appeared at all, they were just occasional ripples in the surface.

  Still, they watched.

  For a moment, the ripples seemed to grow stronger, more definite. “Is something happening?” Kramer said hopefully.

  Gordon shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think that’s just random fluctuations.”

  “I thought it might be getting stronger,” Kramer said.

  But Stern could see it wasn’t true. Gordon was right; the change was just random. The ripples on the screen remained intermittent, unstable.

  “Whatever the problem is back there,” Gordon said, “they still have it.”

  00:05:30

  Through the flames that leapt up in the central courtyard of La Roque, Kate saw the Professor and the others come out of a far doorway. She ran to join them. They all seemed to be okay. The Professor nodded to her. They were all moving fast.

  Kate said to Chris, “Do you have the ceramic?”

  “Yes. I have it.” He brought it out of his pocket, turned it to press the button.

  “There’s not enough space.”

  “There’s space . . .,” Chris said.

  “No. You need two meters on all sides, remember?”

  They were surrounded by fire. “You won’t find that anywhere in this courtyard,” Marek said.

  “That’s right,” the Professor said. “We have to go to the next courtyard.”

  Kate looked ahead. The gatehouse leading to the outer courtyard was forty yards away. But within the gatehouse, the portcullis was up. In fact, it didn’t look as if the gate was guarded at all; the soldiers had all abandoned it, to fight the intruders.

  “How much time?”

  “Five minutes.”

  “Okay,” the Professor said. “Let’s get moving.”

  :

  They moved at a trot through the fiery courtyard, sidestepping flames and battling soldiers. The Professor and Kate were in the lead. Marek, wincing with the pain in his leg, followed behind. And Chris, worried about Marek, brought up the rear.

  Kate reached the first gate. There were no guards at all. They ran through the gate, passing beneath the spikes of the raised portcullis. They entered the middle courtyard. “Oh no,” Kate said.

  All of Oliver’s soldiers were garrisoned in the middle court, and there seemed to be hundreds of knights and pages running back and forth, shouting to the men on the battlements, carrying weapons and provisions.

  “No room here,” the Professor said. “We’ll have to go through the next gate. Outside the castle.”

  “Outside?” Kate said. “We’ll never even get across this courtyard.”

  Marek came hobbling up, panting. He took one look at the courtyard and said, “Hoarding.”

  “Yes,” the Professor said, nodding. He pointed up at the walls. “The hoarding.”

  The hoarding was the enclosed wooden passageway built along the outside rim of the walls. It was a covered fighting platform that enabled soldiers to shoot down at attacking troops. They might be able to move along the hoarding and make their way to the far side of the courtyard, and the far gatehouse.

  Marek said, “Where’s Chris?”

  They looked back into the central courtyard.

  They didn’t see him anywhere.

  :

  Chris had been following Marek, thinking that perhaps he would have to carry Marek and wondering whether he could, when suddenly he was shoved to one side, slammed bodily against a wall. He heard a voice behind him say in perfect English, “Not you, pal. You stay here.” And he felt the point of a sword jabbed in his back.

  He turned to see Robert de Kere standing in front of him, holding his sword. De Kere grabbed him roughly by the collar, shoved him against another wall. Chris saw with alarm that they were just outside the arsenal. With the courtyard in flames, this was not the place to be.

  De Kere didn’t seem to care. He smiled. “In fact,” he said, “none of you bastards are going anywhere.”

  “Why is that?” Chris said, keeping his eye on the sword.

  “Because you have their marker, pal.”

  “No I don’t.”

  “I can hear your transmissions, remember?” De Kere held out his hand. “Come on, give it to me.”

  He grabbed Chris again, and shoved him through the door. Chris stumbled into the arsenal. It was empty now, the soldiers having fled. All around him were stacked bags of gunpowder. The basins where the soldiers had been grinding still lay on the floor.

  “Your fucking Professor,” de Kere said, seeing the bowls. “Think you know so much. Give it to me.”

  Chris fumbled under his doublet, reaching for his pouch.

  De Kere snapped his fingers impatiently. “Come on, come on, hurry up.”

  “Just a minute,” Chris said.

  “You guys are all the same,” de Kere said. “Just like Doniger. You know what Doniger said? Don’t worry, Rob, we’re making new technology that will fix you up. It’s always new technology that will fix you up. But he didn’t make any new technology. He never intended to. He was just lying, the way he always does. My goddamn face.” He touched the scar that ran down the center. “It hurts all the time. Something about the bones. It aches. And my insides are screwed up. Hurts.”

  De Kere held out his palm irritably. “Come on. You keep this up, and I’ll kill you now.”

  Chris felt his fingers close around the canister. How far away would the gas work? Not at the distance of a sword. But there was no alternative.

  Chris took a deep breath, and sprayed the gas. De Kere coughed, more irritated than surprised, and stepped forward. “You asshole,” he said. “You think that’s a bright idea? Real tricky. Tricky boy.”

  He poked at Chris with the sword, jabbing him backward. Chris backed up.

  “For that, I’m going to cut you open and let you watch your guts spill out.” And he swung upward, but Chris dodged it easily, and he thought, It’s had some effect. He sprayed again, closer to de Kere’s face, then ducked as the sword swung and struck the floor, knocking over one of the basins.

  De Kere wobbled, but he was still on his feet. Chris sprayed a third time, and de Kere somehow remained standing. He swung, the blade hissing; Chris dodged it, but the blade sliced his arm above the right elbow. Blood dripped from the wound, spattering on the floor. The canister fell from his hand.

  De Kere grinned. “Tricks don’t work here,” he said. “This is the real thing. Real sword. Watch it happen, pal.”

  He prepared to swing again. He was still unsteady, but growing stronger quickly. Chris ducked as the blade whined over his head and slashed into the stacked bags of powder. The air was filled with gray particles. Chris stepped back again, and this time felt his foot against a basin on the floor. He started to kick it aside, then noticed its weight beneath his foot. It wasn’t one of the powder basins, it was a heavy pa
ste. And it had a harsh smell. He recognized it immediately: it was the smell of quicklime.

  Which meant the basin at his feet was filled with automatic fire.

  Quickly, Chris bent over and lifted the basin in his hands.

  De Kere paused.

  He knew what it was.

  Chris took the moment of hesitation and threw the basin directly at de Kere’s face. It struck him in the chest, the brown paste spattering his face and arms and body.

  De Kere snarled.

  Chris needed water. Where was there water? He looked around, desperate, but he already knew the answer: there was no water in this room. He was backed into a corner now. De Kere smiled. “No water?” he said. “Too bad, tricky boy.” He held his sword horizontally in front of him, and moved forward. Chris felt the stone against his back, and knew that he was finished. At least the others might get away.

  He watched de Kere approach, slowly, confidently. He could smell de Kere’s breath; he was close enough to spit on him.

  Spit on him.

  In the instant that he thought it, Chris spat on de Kere—not in the face, but in the chest. De Kere snorted, disgusted: the kid couldn’t even spit. Wherever spittle touched the paste, it began to smoke and sputter.

  De Kere looked down, horrified.

  Chris spat again. And again.

  The hissing was louder. There were the first sparks. In a moment, de Kere would burst into flames. Frantic, de Kere brushed at the paste with his fingers, but only spread it; now it was sizzling and crackling on his fingertips, from the moisture of his skin.

  “Watch it happen, pal,” Chris said.

  He ran for the door. Behind him, he heard a whump! as de Kere burst into flame. Chris glanced back to see that the knight’s entire upper body was engulfed in fire. De Kere was staring at him through the flames.

  Then Chris ran. As hard and as fast as he could, he ran. Away from the arsenal.

  :

  At the middle gate, the others saw him running toward them. He was waving his hands. They didn’t understand why. They stood in the center of the gate, waiting for him to catch up.