by Alex Scarrow
Chapter 69
15 December 1888, Holborn Viaduct, London
‘What we’ve got on the Ripper murders isn’t a lot,’ said Maddy. She’d grabbed the information and dumped it into Bob’s head from Wikipedia back in 2001. Which, given that the site had only been running since January, wasn’t a hugely detailed article.
‘The night of the eighth of November… the early hours of the ninth of November is when the last victim, Mary Kelly, gets murdered. There’s no precise time, just that she was supposedly last seen at midnight and was discovered dead by a neighbour at eight thirty in the morning.’
Maddy pulled up two grisly black-and-white photographs on one of the monitors. ‘These were both taken by the Metropolitan Police.’
‘Jay-zus,’ whispered Liam.
‘Yeah, not very nice I’m afraid.’
He looked at Sal queasily. ‘I feel sick.’
‘Well, you need to get over it, Liam,’ said Maddy. ‘You’re gonna see this for real very soon.’
‘Is that her face?’ asked Rashim.
Maddy nodded. ‘What’s left of it. The Ripper seemed quite keen for some reason to completely disfigure her face.’
Rashim leaned closer. ‘My God, it looks like he was trying to remove it.’
‘So, now that’s how the crime scene is supposed to look. In correct history, her body is found in her room, lying diagonally across her bed, her lower torso opened up and the contents, her organs, placed on the bed beside her.’ Maddy reached across the desk and picked up a pad with notes on it. ‘But this is the description I’ve summed up from the recent newspaper articles.’
She looked down at her notes. ‘So, this bit I’m about to read to you is the contamination bit, what shouldn’t have been found at the scene of the murder…’ She began to read.
‘… on the floor beside Kelly’s bed in her small rented room off Miller’s Court was found the body of her attacker. At first glance a wealthy gentleman in his middle years, wearing an evening suit and thick coat, his top hat placed on a small table beside the bed. His manner of death — a crushing of the cranium — was believed to have been caused by the swinging of a coal shovel or similar device. Although Kelly claimed she had no memory of the struggle with Lord Cathcart-Hyde, it is clear she must have struck him once to the side of his head to render him unconscious, and then repeatedly as he lay on the floor, until his head was completely stoved in as if some workshop vice or similar device had been applied to the skull and wound tight until it was crushed out of all recognition… ’
‘Good God,’ whispered Rashim.
‘A crushed head.’ Liam had once seen Bob do that. A German guard in one of those concentration camps back in America. Bob had squeezed the poor man’s head in one of his big hands: squeezed like it was nothing more than a ripe tomato. ‘Bob? Could Becks do that?’
‘Affirmative. Even partially grown she has enough physical strength to deploy that kind of damage to a human skull.’
‘Then it really is Becks!’ said Liam.
‘If that is Becks then she may have flipped out,’ said Maddy cautiously.
‘May have? Jeez…’ Liam all of sudden wasn’t quite so keen on the idea of a reunion with their lost team member, even if she supposedly had some sort of weird, twisted digital version of a schoolgirl crush on him.
‘Her AI must have been unstable,’ said Maddy. ‘I’m sorry, it’s my fault. We shouldn’t have tried loading her up with the stuff from the hard drive.’
‘We’re going to need to kill her, aren’t we?’ said Sal.
Maddy nodded. ‘We can’t leave her running around out there.’
‘We could attempt to incapacitate her,’ said Rashim. ‘We may even be able to reset her.’
Maddy looked at him. ‘How?’
‘Your support units are older-generation units,’ said Rashim. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps twenty-year-old technology. I would say engineered around about the 2050s. Not like the support units you encountered in Rome. The ones procured for Project Exodus.’
Bob nodded. ‘This is correct.’
‘OK, so Bob and Becks are older models,’ said Maddy. ‘So what does that mean?’
‘The computers are dense silicon wafers. The circuitry is mainly a graphene construct with some conventional silicon that is tightly meshed. Very tightly meshed. It is those small silicon portions which are vulnerable to power surges that can cause instances of micro-welding.’
Maddy noted Liam’s eyes already beginning to glaze over. Mind you, she wasn’t actually any the wiser herself. ‘So? What are you getting at?’
‘The older wafers in your units have a built-in trip switch to hard-set the chip into an “off” state to protect these weaker silicon parts from that kind of surge damage. During the Russian-Chinese conflict over the Caspian oilfields, it was a common insurgency tactic by the Chinese to stun or incapacitate Russian hunt-and-kill squads with taser darts, and then later reprogram and reboot them with trojan viruses that made them turn on their own side after some trigger event — a word, a noise. There was a very famous incident of one squad that returned from a mission behind Chinese lines, passed through the sentry posts into the camp and nearly wiped out an entire regiment of Russian conscripts as they slept in their beds.’
‘So, what are you saying… we taser Becks?’
‘Well… yes.’
‘That’ll turn her computer off without, you know, completely trashing it?’
‘Yes, that’s exactly right. You see, the later-generation military units, the ones we had for the Exodus Project, designs from 2069, had chips made entirely of graphene circuitry. Those are completely resistant to that kind of surge-welding.’
‘So we taser her. That means she’s switched off? I mean properly off. She’s not going to reboot, wake up, or anything like that, then, is she?’
‘No. It is a hard-reset. A tiny physical switch is flipped and it’ll stay flipped until someone physically gets into her head and flicks it back on.’
‘Can you make something zappy like that from the bits we’ve got lying around?’
‘There’s no need. You already have one.’ Rashim nodded at one of the boxes of gadgets and spare parts piled beneath the desk, still patiently waiting to be sorted through.
‘When we were packing up, I was emptying that old filing cabinet,’ he shrugged. ‘I found one in there. I thought you knew we had one?’
Maddy rolled her eyes; yes, of course they had one. She’d never used it. Never thought to. It had sat in the filing cabinet with all the other junk, waiting to be useful.
Well, now it was.
‘All right, let’s get it out, check the thing works. Meanwhile…’ She turned to address the bank of computers. ‘Computer-Bob, start charging up; the sooner we go back and get this done, the better.’
‘Maddy, what if that taser thing doesn’t work?’ asked Liam.
‘You’re taking Bob along, aren’t you? I’m sure he can handle little Becks.’
‘Aye. But… she’s quick. She’s very agile.’
‘Look, Liam, if for some reason you guys can’t incapacitate Becks — if Bob can’t wrestle her to the floor… or she looks like she might be doing a runner — she’s got to be killed. Do you understand? If her mind has gone wonky, she’s a contamination worry. More than that… whatever crazy stuff she gets up to may attract attention to this moment in time. She could blow our cover. Either you grab her and taser her, or you take her down.’
She looked at Foster’s old pump-action shotgun leaning against the wall in the corner. Although why she still thought of it as his, she didn’t really know. ‘You should take the gun along with you. Just in case you need it.’
She was expecting an argument from him. She knew Liam was fond of her, it, the unit. She knew he’d have reservations about gunning her down in cold blood.
‘Aye, the gun.’ He eyed the weapon nervously. ‘Good idea.’
Or actually, on the other hand… maybe he wouldn’t.<
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Chapter 70
12.32 a.m., 9 November 1888, Whitechapel, London
Liam was soaked to the skin. This dark little corner of Miller’s Court where they’d chosen to huddle and wait for Jack the Ripper offered little protection from the fine rain. It was as if God was hanging over London with a giant fine-nozzle plant spray, gently wafting aerosol clouds of moisture down on to the city. Moisture that seemed to find its way into every nook, crack and crevice.
They were beneath a lean-to: little more than four rotting posts of wood supporting a roof of rain-slick slate tiles that all seemed to be conspiring to channel bulbous, greasy drops of rain on to Liam no matter where he chose to crouch.
In the stillness of the early hours, the only sound to be heard was the soothing symphony of a rain-damp city fast asleep: the soft hiss of persistent drizzle; a dog far away with an intermittent worrisome bark; the soft cooing of pigeons tucked away under guttering, pleased with themselves for being dry.
Liam groaned.
‘You must remain very still,’ whispered Bob.
‘My legs are killing me. I’m cold, I’m wet and I’m getting pins and needles.’
‘Nonetheless you must be still,’ said Bob.
He sighed and resumed his uncomfortable vigil on the narrow entrance to this godforsaken courtyard. They’d been huddled here since 11 p.m. Watched a steady procession of drunks stagger home and noisily fumble their way through front doors. A dozen or more dosshouses seemed to have openings on to this place. And everyone, it seemed, in each dosshouse, seemed to enjoy drinking the night hours away.
‘Bob, what’s the time?’
He consulted his internal clock. ‘12.32 a.m.’
‘Maybe we missed it? Maybe it’s been and done?’ He looked at the small dark square that was the window on to Mary Kelly’s downstairs room.
Maybe she’s already in there? He shuddered at the thought of that. Beyond the pale ghost of a net curtain was a small bedroom that quite possibly resembled an abattoir right now. A body almost unrecognizably human slowly losing the last of its warmth. Dots, commas and question marks of blood in arterial lines up the walls, now drying and crusting.
‘Information: someone is approaching,’ said Bob.
Liam heard the clack of footsteps. A shadow cast by one of the gaslights on Dorset Street danced down the rat run, then a moment later the long shadow was followed by the outline of a woman. He could hear the woman’s soft voice, chattering to herself. Clearly, utterly, completely, passing-out drunk.
Mary Kelly.
She stopped outside the front door to her dosshouse, pushed the creaking door in and staggered clumsily inside.
More footsteps, quick, light, pattering down the rat run. Liam saw a long, thin shadow dancing along the wet brick opposite, then a man came into view. Tall and slim, a top hat cast a shadow across his face. He was wearing a thick cloak, but Liam managed to catch a glimpse of a leather surgeon’s bag under one arm. He quickly stole across the courtyard, and caught the front door to Mary’s dosshouse with the toe of his boot before it slammed shut.
The man wrestled the door open and Liam heard a muttered exclamation from the hallway inside. The man pushed his way in and the door shut behind him. A moment later there was life in the room to the left of the front door. A gentle orange bloom appeared behind the tatty net curtain. Liam saw foggy movement going on inside: shadows cast up the walls, across the low ceiling.
‘Jay-zus, this is it,’ whispered Liam. ‘That poor lady’s going to die in a minute. Not just die, Bob, but die horribly!’
‘Affirmative.’
A gnawing sensation had been eating at Liam for the last few hours. That there must be some other way to put history right. ‘Ahh, this feels all wrong, so it does.’
‘We must not intervene,’ cautioned Bob.
Liam ground his teeth. His mind was replaying those two horrific photographs that Maddy had presented him with earlier, but now colouring in the black and white with vivid reds and intestinal purples. But then… wasn’t something else meant to happen? Wasn’t Becks somewhere close by? Perhaps mere seconds away from altering this scene somehow? Saving Mary Kelly? Killing this evil, psychopathic predator.
Where the hell is she?
‘Ah Jay-zus! I can’t do this. I can’t just let that poor lady get carved up right in front of my eyes.’
He’d started to get to his feet when a shrill scream came from behind the fogged window. He saw a lurch of movement obscured by the net curtain and the scream was cut off. A shadow sliding across the ceiling, a sudden jerking movement, then another, and another, and another.
Liam felt the acid burn of bile in his throat, his stomach rejecting food.
Ah Jay-zus, I’m letting this all happen!
He heard a soft keening moan from inside the room.
‘Oh God, she’s still alive!’
Enough.
He got to his feet.
‘Liam!’ growled Bob, reaching out for him.
‘Stuff this, I can’t just watch!’ He ducked out from under the low slate lean-to and darted across the small courtyard, the shotgun in his hands and ready to use.
And it was then, just then, that he noticed a figure to his right, striding quickly down the rat run towards him.
Both Liam and the other figure stopped. The figure wore a dress and a bonnet. Her face, what he could see of it, was so very familiar.
‘Becks? Jay-zus! Is that you?’
Chapter 71
12.37 a.m., 9 November 1888, Whitechapel, London
Faith’s mind was all of a sudden inundated with too many simultaneous decision loops running, each one of them furiously demanding all of her processor time.
Even only as a silhouette she instantly recognized the young man standing in front of her.
[Target acquired: Liam O’Connor]
Not only that, the target was a mere ten yards away AND in a dead end from which he had no hope of escaping her. Command imperatives screamed inside her head to step forward quickly and get on with the job. One of her fists balled and flexed, keen to get on with the task of killing him. But her eyes darted to the door that led to Mary’s room. The very room Faith had been sharing with Mary Kelly… her friend… for days now.
Her… friend… yes. And her ‘ friend ’ had screamed just moments ago.
Her friend needed help.
Now.
Even now might just be a second too late to save her.
‘Becks?’ whispered the young man. ‘We have to help her!’
Faith realized that he’d misidentified her. He thought he was addressing the child support unit. It was a mistake she could take advantage of right now: draw closer to him while he still thought she was the other unit, perhaps close enough that she could quickly strike with a jab to his fragile neck before he could react and try using that gun he was holding.
But…
But…
Another desperate, dying gurgle from within the room.
But her friend needed help. Now.
‘Jesus! Becks! C’mon… gimme a hand here!’
One imperative won out over the other.
Faith nodded. ‘Agreed.’
No sooner had she taken three steps forward when she sensed movement to her left. A dark blur. Something large and fast looming towards her. She turned to face the threat and was halfway towards adopting a defensive combat stance when every process in her mind, every spinning loop of code, every circuit running hot and over-clocked, every data bus clogged with shuttling bytes like a highway jammed with rush-hour traffic… all of it came to a shuddering, grinding halt, as if an iron bar had been shoved through the spokes of a spinning bicycle wheel.
Several thousand volts locked her body rigid.
Her grey eyes fixed on Liam’s for a moment before she keeled over, stiff as a board as the taser bolt, fired into her waist, rendered every muscle in her body as rigid as granite. She landed on the ground like a felled tree. And Liam, close enough
to see her face clearly, took a backward step.
‘Jay-zus! It’s not Becks!’ Liam turned to Bob. ‘It’s one of them!’
‘Correct.’
He heard movement behind the window. The Ripper was busy.
‘All right, she’s down! Now let’s go and catch that murdering — ’
‘No!’ Bob reached out for Liam’s arm.
Liam backed away, stepping up against the window. He turned to look over his shoulder — and got a second’s glimpse through a ragged gap in the net curtains of a scene lit by a single oil lamp inside. A scene of ghastly crimson spattered across exposed ghost-white flesh.
My God…
Bob stepped forward and grasped his arm.
‘Let me go, goddammit!’
‘Negative.’ Bob pulled Liam back towards the unconscious body of the unit. ‘Both mission parameters have been satisfied. We have what we came for. We must let this happen.’
‘The man’s an animal! No, worse than that! A monster… a… a…’ Liam realized he was crying; there was a vague acknowledgement that his cheeks were damp with tears for — how crazy’s this? — a complete stranger. A woman he’d glimpsed for less than ten seconds. A poor wretch immortalized in the black and white grains of a scene-of-crime photograph. Forever frozen in her own timeless horror.
Bob gently eased him back from the front door. ‘We must let him go. The killer must escape and must not be discovered or identified.’ His voice managed to soften from its usual Dobermann growl to something resembling empathy. Understanding even.
‘I am sorry. We have to let him go, Liam. And we have to let Mary Kelly die in that room.’
Otherwise stupid, powerful men in the future will blow each other to pieces, right? And not just themselves, but women, children… even innocent young librarians. Why? Because their ideologies don’t agree. Like children who can’t agree on which toys to have at playtime and decide instead to set a match to the lot of them.
Children. No better than children.
He let Bob pull the shotgun out of his hands. The support unit stooped down, picked up the unconscious body of their pursuer of the last few months, their assassin, and hefted her over one shoulder as if she was a pillowcase stuffed with charity shop seconds.
