CHRONOSCAPE: The future is flexible we can change it

by Roger Ley

  Oakwood sat back, “You must have conjectured how you can achieve it though, surely you’ve thought about it,” said Oakwood.

  “I’ve thought of little else for months now. We need to use wormholes at the quantum matrix level; we might be able to send information back through them using high frequency electromagnetic radiation, X rays or gamma rays, I’m just not sure yet.”

  “If we can send information back through time Dr Riley, then we would have control of the future. The idea is extraordinary; we could change the course of history. Have you discussed it with anybody, apart from your partner, Ms Pearson?”

  “Talking about ‘messages from the future’ in the senior common room wouldn’t do me any good professionally, would it?”

  “No, I don’t suppose so,” said Oakwood, “but a discovery like this would largely obviate the need for intelligence work. Normally, the spooks are trying to get information so they can stop unpleasant things from happening. Foreknowledge would change everything, prevention would be relatively easy.”

  “Yes,” said Riley, “but don’t you see how dangerous that would be. Changing the future will have unpredictable consequences further down the line.”

  “Yes, well we would need to put on our thinking caps wouldn’t we Dr Riley? But first we need to see if we can do it, then cross our bridges as we come to them.”

  Riley leaned forward, “Yes but remember it’s my idea and I want to be in charge of it.”

  Burnley drove Riley back to Cambridge alone.

  “Not bothering to tie me up this time?” asked Riley as they turned out of the driveway.

  “People only make a fuss when we collar them Doctor. They’re usually relieved when we take them home.” Riley wasn’t sure if he had heard a slight chuckle.

  During the rest of the journey Burnley was as taciturn as ever, but when they stopped outside Riley’s flat he spoke again. “Apologies about before Dr Riley, I expect we’ll be seeing more of each other, so I’m sorry if we’ve got off on the wrong foot.” He reached across to open the passenger door and Riley thought he wanted to shake hands, after a clumsy moment he climbed out.

  “Mind how you go,” said Burnley, as he slammed the door. The Range Rover drove away; its rear lights disappeared as it rounded the corner at the end of the road.

  Riley’s expensive new bicycle had disappeared. He saw it leaning against the shed in the back garden and assumed that Estella had moved it. As he let himself into the flat, she came out of the lounge to meet him.

  “Bloody hell Martin, you look terrible. Where have you been?”

  He walked past her and sat in an armchair. “I think I may have solved the funding problem,” he said, massaging his wrists absentmindedly.

  “Well, you don’t look thrilled about it.”

  “No, it was all a bit sudden, I need a drink.”

  “I’ll get you one,” she said, “and then you can tell me all about it.”

  The speed of events, after Oakwood became involved, surprised Riley. He was given an immediate leave of absence from his faculty at Cambridge University. Called to an office in Whitehall two days later, Riley watched a jacketless Dr Oakwood make hurried calls as he walked back and forth, his movements limited by the length of his telephone cord. Riley sat, making notes as he picked a team of scientists and listed equipment he needed to start the project.

  “My name will be mud or worse at Cambridge,” he said. “I’m denuding my former department of most of its mathematical and scientific talent.”

  “And that bothers you?” asked Oakwood, pausing with his hand over the mouthpiece.

  “No, this project is too important to worry about details like that. You do realize that if I’m successful, this discovery would be worth a Nobel Prize?” said Riley.

  “You won’t be publishing scientific papers Doctor, the ramifications are far too sensitive,” said Oakwood. “I advise you to get used to the idea, it’s quite normal with Government scientific work. Academically speaking you will drop out of sight like a stage magician through a trap door.”

  Riley knew that he had no choice, he wanted that Nobel Prize but needed Government funding. If he made TM work, perhaps they would eventually release the technology to the United Nations, and then he would get the recognition he deserved.

  Chapter Three

  England the 1990s

  A week later Oakwood rang Riley at his flat.

  “I’ve found a suitable venue for the project,” he said. Riley heard the satisfaction in his voice. “The Martlesham Heath research station in Suffolk has spare capacity, it’s part of the Government’s signals intelligence network, and very secure. There are useful facilities, computers, telecommunications, all that sort of thing, and it’s an easy run up the A12 from London.”

  They met outside the Martlesham facility a week later. Oakwood had clearances that got them through the main gate. They walked through the complex to the recently vacated building that was to be the home of the new project.

  “It’s standard Government construction, built in the sixties, rather stark I’m afraid, economy block work,” said Oakwood. He produced a set of keys from his raincoat pocket and unlocked the entrance doors. They walked along a corridor with small individual offices leading off on either side.

  “I’m disguising Temporal Messaging as a communications project, for funding purposes, and hoping the accountants don’t ask me for too many details,” said Oakwood.

  “Tell them it’s all done with laser beams, that’s what I do,” said Riley trying and failing to get a laugh out of his new boss.

  “Good idea, I’ll call it a ‘Laser Communication Project.’ Anyway, I will avoid explaining TM to my masters until we’ve proved the theory. We’ll need something convincing to show them.”

  “I’m surprised that you’re taking such a risk Dr Oakwood,” said Riley as they continued along the corridor towards a second pair of double doors. “I’ve always assumed you civil servants were conservative in your habits.”

  “This will house the main research lab,” said Oakwood, making an expansive gesture as they stepped through into a large empty workshop with a high, framed roof. He stopped and turned to face Riley, his expression intent. “You don’t get to be Chief Scientific Adviser to the British Government without taking a few professional risks along the way Dr Riley. It’s a matter of picking the winners, to use a metaphor close to your heart. You were right when you said this technology might be more important than the atomic bomb; I believe it could be the discovery of the century.”

  Oakwood’s commitment impressed Riley, but he felt exposed, knowing failure would leave him unemployable as a research scientist. He had committed professional suicide by poaching so much talent from his previous employer. If he didn’t succeed, he would end up as a school science teacher. There was nothing for it, he had to make TM work.

  He walked over to the electrical breaker board and peered up at it. “Three phase power,” he said, “we’ll need plenty of that.”

  In the two months that followed, Riley assembled his small team and their equipment. There was the irksome business of identity cards, chain link fences and even guard dogs patrolling the Martlesham facility. After Riley delivered his welcome speech and pep talk, they all understood the need for security. It had been strange to see so many familiar faces looking at him as he addressed them. Estella had been standing at the front smiling encouragingly. His explanation of the project up to that point had been as nonspecific as he could make it, and he was pleased at the number of his workmates that had still been willing to sign up with him.

  In the center of their large laboratory space the team put together the jury-rigged collection of racked hard drives, digital computers, scanners and most important of all, the cyclotron particle accelerator. They jokingly called the arrangement the “Transmogrifier”. Nobody remembered who had come up with the name.

  “I’m surprised that you haven’t thought of a more, er, aptronymic title, something mor
e accurately descriptive,” Oakwood said, as he stood looking at it on the second of his monthly visits.

  “It’s good security,” said Riley. “The name gives no clue to the machine’s function.”

  “Ah, yes, I suppose you’re right,” said Oakwood. “Like ‘tanks’ in the first world war. The fewer clues to our activities here the better.” He surveyed the team working at their benches and computers. “So, Martin, any progress yet?”

  “Yes, there is. When we bombard a thin gold specimen and raise its charged state instantaneously we’ve been able to detect a raised charge in parts of the crystal structure a short time before we initialize.”

  “What is the time interval?”

  “About a nanosecond. We appear to be detecting the ends of charged wormholes with one end in the present and the other a nanosecond in the past. Frankly I’m surprised that they haven’t been detected before now. I can only assume that nobody’s been looking for them.”

  “Being able to send information a nanosecond into the past isn’t very useful Martin. It could even be an experimental error. Why can’t you detect wormholes that are further displaced in time?”

  “We’re not sure yet, we might need to use higher energies, different frequencies or possibly different materials.”

  Riley escorted Oakwood to the staff car park where his uniformed driver, standing next to his car, was hastily stepping on a cigarette. The scientists shook hands.

  “I have a lot riding on this Martin,” Oakwood said, his expression serious. Riley couldn’t think of a suitable reply. There was a slight pause before Oakwood got into his car.

  That evening Riley and Estella sat in the local McDonald’s.

  “You certainly know how to spoil a girl,” said Estella as she bit into her burger.

  Riley felt slightly sick and toyed with his. “Oakwood is already pressing me,” he said. “He can only continue funding us unofficially for a limited time. We need to make progress, show some useful results.”

  “Get the team together and have a brainstorming session,” she suggested. “You never know what the young geniuses will come up with.”

  They finished their meal and went back to the laboratory for another late session.

  Riley became more edgy as the end of the month and Oakwood’s next visit approached.

  “I need something to show him,” he told Estella. “We’ll all be out on our fucking ears if were not careful.”

  Oakwood phoned the next day. “I’m travelling down the A12 Martin so I thought it would be economical to make this month’s visit a few days early. I hope it’s not inconvenient?”

  “Not at all Dr Oakwood, when can we expect you?” Riley’s felt the beginnings of panic, his mouth felt dry.

  “We’re approaching the car park now; I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

  Riley made frantic phone calls. The visit was not a success. They had made little progress and, although Oakwood was polite, he was less patient than before as Riley escorted him to his car.

  “Martin, this experiment is costing a lot of money and currently we have nothing to show. The Government will be happy to fund it once we have some results, but you really must come up with something soon.” Riley noticed that he left without shaking hands this time.

  Estella walked into Riley’s office to find him with his head in his hands.

  “We’ll never get it to work. I feel as if I’m committing career suicide here.”

  “We all understand how important this is Martin,” she said. “The team have been working twelve-hour shifts but we need better detectors. We’re pretty sure we’re on the right track but the wormholes become more difficult to find as we move further along the time axis.”

  Riley worked longer and longer hours; his moods developed a monthly cycle synchronized with the imminence of Oakwood’s next visit. When he shaved in the morning, he could see that he was looking gaunt. He needed to pull in his belt by an extra notch. His anxiety wasn’t helping his relationship with Estella; he was too tired for sex.

  It was the middle of the fourth month, he was in his office examining columns of figures on a stack of computer printout when Estella breezed in.

  “Good news,” she said, “one of the geniuses had the idea of trying spent Uranium as the medium, and lowering the excitation frequency. Apparently, it’s not just a question of higher energies, there seems to be an element of tuning. Different materials need different frequencies for us to detect wormholes at varying temporal displacements.”

  He looked up, his expression resigned.

  “So, what’s the time shift now, two nanoseconds, three?”

  “A second,” she said.

  “A second, a whole second? Bugger me, that can’t be experimental error, I need to see this.” He moved rapidly out into the laboratory. “Which display are we talking about?” Estella pointed, he stood behind the operator and read the column of figures over his shoulder.

  “Show that graphically and give me a printout,” he ordered as he picked up a nearby phone and rang Dr Oakwood.

  Oakwood arrived the next day, a measure of his level of anxiety thought Riley. They looked at a series of sheets that Estella had pinned to the notice board in Riley’s office. They showed a three-dimensional graph with peaks and valleys scattered, seemingly randomly.

  Riley pointed to it, “Were beginning to get a grip on the situation, we’ve been working all night in shifts, you can see the relationships appearing. The major factors seem to be the density of the medium, the charge levels, and most importantly the excitation frequencies. If we can get hold of a bigger cyclotron with say, double the power, I’m sure we can make significant progress.”

  “What sort of temporal displacement would you be able to achieve?” asked Oakwood.

  “I’m confident we can make the signal jump back a day.” Riley’s hands were resting openly on his desk but mentally they were behind his back with their fingers crossed.

  “That would justify much more serious funding Martin. I’ll go back to London and see if I can call in some favors.”

  A new cyclotron arrived from ALCEN Technologies, its manufacturer in France, a month later.

  “It’s on loan,” Riley told Estella as they watched it being craned into the space they had made for it, next to its smaller cousin. The rest of the team were waiting impatiently for their opportunity to start wiring it up. “You can’t buy these things off the shelf, but ALCEN’s client has a delay in their building project, and won’t be able to take possession for two months. We’ve got six weeks to nail this.”

  “What do you mean by nail it?” asked Estella.

  “I mean, produce a significant temporal displacement. I promised Oakwood a day. He needs something to show the Cabinet Secretary before he can hope to start funding us officially.”

  Estella pulled a wry face. “Let’s get on with it then.”

  The team worked over the weekend to connect and calibrate the new machine. Oakwood called Riley two days later.

  “How is the project progressing Dr Riley?” he asked.

  “It’s not progressing, the bloody things broken down. I’ve been on to ALCEN, they can’t send a tech rep to fix it for weeks. All their people are busy working on other machines in different parts of the world.”

  “Leave this to me.”

  A technician arrived two days later, and the machine was on line within twenty-four hours. He left, but the lab smelled strongly of Gauloises afterwards. They had to hunt out all the flattened cigarette butts and bin them.

  The new results came quickly. Riley was leaning over Estella’s shoulder, looking at her computer monitor.

  “The graphs extend very nicely Martin. As we get the tuning more exact, we find wormholes with greater temporal displacement.”

  “What’s the maximum displacement now?” he asked.

  “About four thousand seconds, a little over an hour. The problem is that the charged wormholes are more and more difficult to find as the temp
oral separation of the ends increases. We think we’re detecting clusters but as we increase the separation, the numbers of individual wormholes in a cluster reduces. It’s a law of diminishing returns. I’ve done some statistical work, there will be an upper limit of about two weeks and we’ll need a much bigger cyclotron to achieve it.”

  “What’s the limiting factor?”

  “Well, at a displacement of two weeks, we’ll be at the theoretical limit of our ability to detect the cluster. It’ll also give us a limited bandwidth for sending digital information through it.”

  “Okay, when can we show a one-day separation?”

  “Probably next week, but don’t go phoning Oakwood until we’ve got it all sorted.”

  It took a little longer than a week. Oakwood and the Cabinet Secretary, Robin Buckley, arrived at Martlesham ten days later. Riley met them in the car park. Buckley seemed too young to be the most senior civil servant in the land, he was shorter than average and dark haired, Riley thought he had a mid-European look and smiled a lot. He appeared relaxed as he shook Riley’s hand, smiled and nodded as Oakwood introduced him. The three men walked through the building to the main laboratory.

  “I’ve brought Mr Buckley here by himself because the security implications of the TM project are so critical,” said Oakwood. “I’ll leave the demonstration to you Dr Riley.”

  Riley knew that despite the veneer of good manners and mutual deference this meeting would be the most important of his career so far. His chest felt tight, and he’d already given the visitors noticeably sweaty handshakes.

  The three men stood beside a bulky monitor and keyboard. Riley hoped that his voice wouldn’t quaver as he began an explanation of the equipment and process. He’d worked on his presentation for hours the previous evening, trying to simplify the science, but Buckley interrupted soon after he’d started.