by Roger Ley
Estella arrived home, she had already heard something was wrong.
“Sonia told me you have a headache and seemed upset,” she said, but he shrugged it off. When the boys came home from school, he spent a long time on the floor with them, playing with their train set.
That night, as he lay in bed with his back turned to Estella, she leaned over his shoulder.
“You were very good with the boys this evening, it was lovely to see you getting so involved with them.” He grunted and said nothing. Riley had to deal with this himself; he didn’t want to implicate her in whatever action he took. She kissed his ear. He turned to face her, and they made love, gently, for the first time in weeks, probably months. He wondered if things would get better between them, he hoped so.
The next day the Colonel came into Riley’s office.
“Barbara’s been called home on urgent family business,” he said. “Her mother has had a stroke or something; she’ll be away for a while.” He turned, and flipping his glasses down off his forehead, he walked back towards his office, reading the document he was carrying.
When the weekend came, Riley considered cancelling the sailing trip, but decided to change events in the Timestream as little as possible. He wanted to minimize the “ripples”, so he went ahead as planned. Estella had left early for a weekend with “friends,” although Riley suspected that the “friends” were one male “friend.”
On the Saturday night, after the boys were asleep, he locked the cabin door, pocketed the only key and sat reading and drinking coffee. At about two o’clock in the morning Hank woke up, he climbed out of his bunk and, still half asleep, fumbled at the cabin door. Riley unlocked it for him and followed him up the steps. Hank stood on the deck and pissed over the side of the boat, as his father had taught him. There was no point in filling up a boat’s septic tank with unnecessary toilet flushes.
As Hank finished, Riley saw him overbalance forward. He grabbed the back of his tee shirt and hauled him upright. Hank regained his balance and stumbled below, rubbing his eyes; he probably wouldn’t remember the incident next morning. Riley followed him, and after he had settled Hank in his bunk, he poured himself a celebratory drink. It was a huge relief, he’d saved his boy; he’d been scared that he might fall asleep. If he had, and Hank had drowned, what then? He would have to send himself a TM, send it back two weeks, and make a retrospective Temporal Adjustment to save Hank, something expressly forbidden.
Had saving Hank generated a new Timestream, or a new branch? He didn’t know, although he cared deeply. What mattered most was that he’d saved Hank. He had overcome the cold-hearted indifference of the Colonel and the Committee, they were welcome to do whatever they liked when they found out; his boy was worth more than all of them put together. With trembling hands, he re-locked the cabin door and pocketed the key. He put some cushions in front of it and lay down to sleep on them. He wasn’t taking any chances.
Riley was at his desk early on Monday morning, as usual. The Colonel came into his office, he didn’t speak. Riley looked up at him over the top of his screen.
“Good morning Colonel.”
“Good weekend Martin?”
“Yes,” he said “I took the boys sailing, lovely weather.” They stared at each other for a long moment.
“Great,” said the Colonel and turned to leave.
“You know what your problem is Wilson?” asked Riley, he felt a cold, white anger.
The Colonel turned back and stared but didn’t answer.
“You’re a cunt Colonel, that’s what your problem is.” Riley wanted to knock him to the floor, kneel on his arms and choke the life out of him. He imagined his thumbs crossed over Wilson’s scrawny windpipe. He could see it happening in his mind, but knew he was too inhibited to do it.
The Colonel left the office, closing the door quietly behind him.
You conniving bastard, thought Riley, if I ever get the chance, I’ll fuck you up.
A week later, after Riley had got over his initial anger, a memo arrived from the Human Resources section. Attached to it was a copy of Barbara’s neatly typed and signed letter of resignation. It said her mother, who lived back in the UK, had suffered a stroke and needed care for the foreseeable future. As her only daughter, it fell to Barbara to return home and look after her. She apologized for any inconvenience to the team, and said she was very disappointed to be leaving etc., etc. Riley compared the signature to the one on last year’s holiday request form, it looked genuine. The Colonel came in to discuss a replacement.
“It’s very inconvenient for you Martin I know, but I suggest we follow the usual procedure and recruit somebody from one of the core technical positions, outside the TM team security bubble. It’ll have to be a Brit, of course. We don’t want to fill the place up with Yanks, do we?” He was referring to the agreed ratio of US and UK personnel. Riley realized he was making an effort to lighten the atmosphere between them. They hadn’t spoken about Riley’s unofficial TA.
“Yes, but it’s always such a pain, briefing new recruits,” said Riley. “They need days to get their heads around the time-slip thing. People find it so hard to take in, I’m sick of explaining it, to be honest.”
While they were talking Riley was wondering what had really happened to Barbara.
When he got home that evening, and hand wrote a letter to his brother Phillip, who was a sergeant in the Flying Squad back in London. He asked him to investigate Barbara’s supposed return to England, and to be circumspect in his reply. He placed the letter in the pocket of his jacket, and left the house. There was a posting box just inside the entrance to the local mall. After passing through the automatic doors, he slid the letter into it as he walked past, without breaking step. He hoped to fool the FBI agent, or anybody else, who might be following him; he was getting more paranoid every day.
Two weeks later, Phillip phoned from England. “Hello Martin, long time no chat, how’s things?”
“Fine Phil, fine, how’s the job going, caught any dangerous villains lately?”
“Not really, the only thing I’ve caught lately is a cold.” They both laughed then chatted about family matters, the weather back home and the Beijing Olympics. After ten minutes, Phillip brought the conversation around to more personal interests. “Talking of my divorce, which we weren’t, I decided it was time to start dating again. It’s been six months since Eileen left. The decree nisi isn’t through yet, but I realize she won’t be coming back. Just for a start, I wanted to see if any of my old girlfriends are free and single. You never know your luck, and it’s easier than trying to meet new women, especially in this job, working shifts. I tried to get in touch with that girl Maggie, the one I was engaged to fifteen years ago. She used to live next door, when we lived on Whitehouse Avenue, you remember?”
“Oh yes,” said Riley, “I haven’t seen her in years. How did you get on?” There had never been a girl called Maggie living next door to them. Their friend Dave had lived next door, Phillip obviously meant Barbara.
“I had her Mum’s phone number, but when I rang somebody else answered. They said they’d bought the house after the old lady died of a heart attack, two years ago.”
“So, did you find Maggie?”
“No,” said Phillip. “There was no trace of her; she left the country four years ago, and hasn’t been back since, except for her Mum’s funeral. Anyway, plenty more fish in the sea.” They moved on to other things, and after a few more minutes, agreed that they’d talk again soon. Riley replaced the receiver. He was grateful that Phillip was used to keeping his cards close to his chest.
He hoped that Barbara hadn’t suffered.
Riley had to talk to somebody, the only person with a common interest was Estella. He took her for a walk in the park near their home, he was becoming ever more worried about “bugs.” She was shocked when he told her of Hank’s accident and his intervention. She stood and stared at him with her hand over her mouth.
“You mean he drowned, b
ut then you stopped it from happening? I can’t believe it.”
“Well, I’m surprised that you have difficulty with the idea, after all, Temporal Adjustment is what we do.”
“I suppose I’ve never seen it used so close to home before,” she said. “How did you find out it was going to happen? Did the Colonel warn you?”
“No, it was Barbara.”
“The one who resigned to go back and look after her mother?”
“She didn’t resign; the US Government has assassinated her.”
“You can’t believe that Martin, you’re getting more suspicious every month. You should talk to somebody.”
“I asked Phillip to investigate; he told me that Barbara’s mother died two years ago. Barbara hasn’t re-entered the UK, she’s disappeared. Into a convenient US Government incinerator somewhere if you ask me. Keep moving.”
Estella rubbed her forehead as they walked. “What does it all mean?” she asked staring sideways at him.
“It means that we’re very vulnerable. The idea that the press might get wind of our activities must petrify the present Government. They might decide to exterminate the whole team and airbrush Temporal Messaging from history; it wouldn’t be difficult, very few people are aware of us. Or the incoming administration might expose us as a Republican conspiracy, when the CIA briefs them about TM. They could have us arrested, but if they do, they’ll make sure the story is never reported, otherwise we’d have read it two weeks earlier, and made a run for it. We have to stay alert, what else can we do?” He was trembling by now. Estella took his arm.
“I often wonder how the Timestream reacts to our interference,” said Estella. “Did it branch when you saved Hank? Are there two Timestreams now, one where he’s dead and you and I are inconsolable, and one where he’s alive? Or is there still only one, this one, which we’ve altered?”
“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,” said Riley. “If there are multiple time branches then every molecule in the universe could give rise to a new branch an infinite number of times a second. There could be an infinite number of copies of us, playing out every possible storyline. It might be a limitation of my imagination, but I just don’t see how that could be true. Perhaps all the possible realities are ghosts, and only one is real. Perhaps our actions change which one that is, crystallizes it so to speak. At least we know Hank is alive and kicking in this one, that’s the important thing.” Estella took hold of his arm with both hands and they walked on in silence.
Chapter Sixteen
USA the 2000s
Riley had always liked Peter Abrahams. He’d joined the team several years earlier, another eager young thing with a PhD in high energy physics, from Cambridge. His CV had been impressive, Riley had been part of the board that interviewed him. They’d worked closely together and Riley had mentored him through a brief but difficult period when he had lost confidence.
“The thing is,” Abrahams had explained, “everybody around me is so intelligent. They all know more than me. I don’t deserve to be here.”
“You’re suffering from ‘Impostor Syndrome,’ ” said Riley. “It’s quite common; I’ve been there myself occasionally, although my insecurities tend to concern personal relationships, rather than scientific competence. Your confidence will grow when you have a project you can immerse yourself in, something you know more about than anybody else. I’m sure you’ll begin to feel useful after a few months. In the meantime, don’t beat yourself up, enjoy the food, find yourself a girlfriend.”
Abrahams had been grateful for the support. At the time, Riley wondered if his lack of confidence might stem partly from his slight build and shortness of stature. Yet here he was, two years later, eating a working lunch with Riley, in a quiet corner of the staff restaurant, and very much the confident research team leader.
“The thing is Martin,” he said, “I’ve found a way around the two-week barrier. I think we can move information a lot further back upstream, further into the past. I realize that we never make retrospective changes, but I thought I should let you know my direction of travel, so to speak.” He looked down, picking at his food, and Riley noticed the hair grip that held his black kippah in place on the back of his head. Momentarily it took his attention, he’d never noticed it before. Abrahams was staring at him, expecting an answer.
“Er, how are you proposing to get past the two-week limit? What’s your methodology?” he asked.
“Leapfrogging Martin, we’ll be sending data through a series of linked wormholes that reach back, theoretically as far as we want. We’ll break the data into chunks, duplicate it, send it through different routes, and then join it up at the target date. The error checking is the biggest problem. I’m sure there’ll be limitations that become apparent as we run the tests.”
“Yes, I’m sure there will,” said Riley. “Nothing’s ever as simple as it seems in basic research, something always jumps out of the bushes and bites you on the arse. My problem with this is that it’s so dangerous.” Riley leaned forward and spoke quietly. “If you get it up and running, the Yanks might want to save Jesus from the cross, or warn President Lincoln not to go to the theatre, or something equally fucking stupid. Can we keep this between ourselves for the moment Peter? We need to think up a title to baffle the Colonel. Could you call it something obscure and I’ll sign the checks so to speak?” Abrahams looked doubtful, and was about to answer, but Riley stood up, patting his mouth with a paper napkin. “Must dash, another meeting, let me know how it goes? I want a weekly report for my eyes only, nothing too detailed, but come and find me if you make any breakthroughs.” Abrahams seemed crestfallen; he probably wants recognition for his efforts thought Riley, as he walked away, and if it’s kept secret, he won’t get it. Well join the club mate.
Over the months, Abraham’s research progressed well. Riley was careful to keep himself up to date with the software and procedures, almost looking over Abraham’s shoulder at times.
They hadn’t been able to keep the project secret for long, the Colonel was too efficient an administrator for that, but at least the Oversight Committee didn’t ask Abrahams to send messages deep into the past, or anything Riley found questionable. Bland messages sent back by Peter Abrahams, appeared on the hard drives from four weeks ahead, eight weeks ahead, sixteen weeks ahead and so on. The technique was seen as a powerful tool without a current use.
Hank’s near accident had been a pivotal moment for Riley. He no longer felt any loyalty towards his masters and didn’t trust them to do the right thing anymore. He constantly worried that a nutty politician might influence the Committee to use his invention for a partisan end, and bring reality crashing down around their ears. He worried that somebody else might invent the technique independently, the North Koreans for instance.
Tonight, he was alone in the lab, it was late. He’d had to wait for everybody to go home. Doug the technician had been the last, he’d hung around the kitchen drinking coffee while Riley sat in his office shuffling paperwork. Eventually he’d gone home, and now Riley had logged on to Abraham’s application, in the main laboratory. He was entering data, copied from his notebook, that would arrive on a hard disc at Cambridge University on various dates about twenty years in the past. He was sending the racing tips that had started the whole TM process. Even though it was a retrospective TM, it had to be done, if not, his earlier self would never invent Temporal Messaging, and history would take a different course. He didn’t want to risk a refusal by explaining his actions to the Colonel, and through him the Oversight Committee. He’d just pressed the return key on the final email and the progress bar was slowly filling from left to right.
“Working late Doc?” said Doug from behind him. Riley hadn’t heard his approach and jumped part way out of his chair.
“Fucking hell Doug, don’t creep up on me like that,” he snapped.
“Sorry Doc, it’s these brothel creepers, I shoulda coughed or somethin.” He peered at the flat screen and screwed
his eyes up as he read aloud.
“Frankie Detorri. Who’s this Frankie Detorri guy and where’s Ascot?”
The progress bar was full, and the text disappeared. Inwardly Riley was furious that Doug was reading his private emails over his shoulder, but he didn’t want to draw attention to what he was doing.
“It’s a Brit thing Doug,” he said swiveling around to face the other man. “A famous horse race meeting, a big celebration, dressing up, men in suits, women in fancy hats, all that sort of thing. Foreigners love it, it’s a tourist draw, like a rodeo.” He knew that he was gabbling and making himself look guilty.
“Uh-huh,” said Doug. Riley could tell that he wasn’t convinced. He was still curious about the email.
Riley shut the computer down, stood and picked up his briefcase.
“Are you going or staying?” he asked.
“I’m goin” Doc, I’ll walk out with ya. So, this Detorri guy, he’s a jockey, right?”
“Yes, probably the best jockey in the world.” They were standing waiting for the elevator by this time. Riley was pretty sure that Doug hadn’t realized that he’d been sending information back upstream.
“Look Doug, I probably shouldn’t be using US Government equipment to email my bookmaker in England, but it was only a small bet, and it’s traditional. Everybody back home has a flutter at Ascot on British Champions Day. I’d be grateful if we could keep this between ourselves.” Riley hated to grovel, particularly to an underling, but he needed to put Doug off the scent. He didn’t want him reporting his observations to the Colonel.
