TimeSplash

by Storrs, Graham

  Now F2s were the size of a filing cabinet and the very latest models could produce 20

  megawatts of power. The eight reactors in the two trucks Jay’s team had seized would be enough to power a town of one hundred thousand homes. Each one of them was worth about half a million euros, but money seemed to be no object to the bricks they were tracking. Overman seemed to understand Jay’s sense of anticlimax. “Don’t worry. We just need to keep the technology out of their hands long enough to round them up.”

  Jay climbed down out of the truck to let the forensic team in. “We can watch the new high-tech stuff, but they can buy them second-hand from Russia, or China, or anywhere. How do we keep track of that?”

  Overman didn’t seem upset by Jay’s negative attitude. “We just do our job and we do it well. Right? Anyway, the boss wants to see you, in that limo over there.” He pointed to a long black vehicle parked unobtrusively at the edge of the dock.

  “Sir?”

  “Hurry up now. Don’t keep him waiting.”

  Jay wanted to ask what it was about, suspecting he was in some kind of trouble, although unable to see what he might have done that would require a reprimand from the boss himself. He walked briskly to the car, feeling the cold again now that the excitement was over. When he arrived, a rear door opened and there was Holbrook, looking up at him.

  “Hurry up, lad. Don’t let the cold in.”

  Jay hadn’t seen the old man’s face for almost two years. It was after his friend’s funeral, at the reception at Spock’s parents’ house in Cambridge. A white-haired stranger, a man of about sixty, he guessed, approached him while he stood alone in the garden. Holbrook immediately struck him as a shrewd and careful man, even though he had the round-faced, smiling appearance of a jocular old uncle. The old man had suggested that they take a walk together so that they could talk privately and Jay had agreed, happy to get away from Spock’s family, who looked at him through eyes filled with open hurt and veiled recrimination.

  Holbrook had rambled on about what a waste it was that such a young man had died. He talked about some of the other casualties of the Ommen splash—a woman who lost a leg in a car crash, a number of artworks destroyed in a gallery fire, some cracks that had appeared in the ancient town hall that would cost the town a small fortune to repair. Eventually, he got to the point.

  “So far, timesplashing has been something of a nuisance,” he said. “But Ommen has taken it to new heights. There will be a concerted effort now to stamp it out. I imagine the whole thing will move deeper underground as it becomes more criminalised. There are even some who suspect that timesplashing might stop being just a sport and start to become something altogether more serious.”

  They had stopped by this time, standing together on a street corner in that quiet, leafy suburb.

  “I work for the government, Jay, in a branch of the security services. We’re putting together a bit of a team to keep on top of this thing and to provide intelligence to other services that might need it. I wonder if you might like to join us? Help out? We need young people who know what all this stuff is about, to offset the old buggers like me who aren’t really into it. What do you say?”

  Throughout Holbrook’s meandering speech, Jay had listened with only half an ear. He thought maybe he’d picked up some dotty old relative of his late friend who just wanted to talk about the Ommen disaster. The offer got his attention though and, when he looked into the old man’s face, he knew he meant it.

  Two years had passed since that moment. Two years of training and study, intelligence gathering in clubs and bars, and analysis work in the bowels of the HQ building. Two years that had taken him from that relaxed afternoon chat, to this night of tension and excitement.

  “How have you been, lad?” Holbrook asked, as Jay climbed into the limo.

  “Er, very well, sir.” Holbrook, of course, would have access to all Jay’s training and operational reports, his psych evaluations and his officers’ reports. He would know full well how Jay was doing.

  “Nasty rumours we’re hearing about this new kind of timesplash.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Part of Jay’s work of late had been to hang out with local bricks and stay in touch with the splashparty scene on the UK side of the Channel. Some of the rumours to which Holbrook referred came from Jay’s own reports.

  “Do you think they’re true?”

  The service, Jay knew, had many analysts working on just this question. “After tonight, I’d definitely say so, sir.”

  “Really?”

  “It confirms there’s at least one European group trying to assemble enough generating capacity for the kind of lob people are talking about.”

  Holbrook nodded but said nothing. Jay wondered if the boss could possibly have sent for him just to chat about this.

  “You did well in your training, Jay. And I’ve heard good things about your undercover work.”

  Now Jay really was confused. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’ve got another job for you.”

  “Sir?”

  “Ever hear of the Daleks?”

  Chapter 7: Beijing

  “This is the Nine O’clock News.”

  Sandra Malone glanced at the screen. She had been working on her physics assignment for the past hour and she was keen to be distracted.

  “Reports are just coming in from Beijing of violent disturbances in China’s capital city and throughout the North China Plain. Reporters in the capital are saying there appear to be seismic and temporal disruptions similar to the backwash from a timesplash but on a massive scale. Chinese officials have yet to make any comment but netlogs and biologs from the area include reports of bizarre physical phenomena and massive destruction. One netlog, from a financial analyst in the commercial centre of Xidan, close to the city centre, tells of buildings collapsing and bridges melting and even has vidstream of what looks like a marauding army of soldiers shooting civilians as they flee for their lives. To view this footage, select Xidan from the context menu.”

  Sandra rose to her feet, her assignment forgotten. The images on the viewer drew her toward them. In the city of Beijing and in the towns and country all around it for tens of kilometres, chaos ruled. The ground rippled as gravity fluctuated, buildings tumbled, crowds of fleeing people grew and shrank as space distorted.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered, her hands clutching her head. “Oh God, not again.”

  She watched the panic and the fear, the cancellation of all physical normality. Once more she relived the horror she had felt two years ago. On the screen Beijing tore itself apart, but in her mind she fled with the terrified people of Ommen, running, hiding, trying to get away from the lethal madness all around her. Her name was Patty again and she was scared, more scared than she had ever been in her life. Sniper lurked in the shadows and Patty ran and ran, the way she had run in her nightmares every night since that awful day.

  * * * *

  “It’s a backwash,” Colbert said, entering Bauchet’s office. “The Chinese have confirmed it.”

  “Impossible! On such a scale?”

  “Official estimate is thirty thousand dead. Maybe a hundred thousand injured. The numbers keep growing. Beijing is a ruin. Total devastation in central Beijing. A hundred square kilometres flattened. Partial destruction stretching out to a thousand square kilometres.”

  Bauchet said nothing for a long while, staring at nothing, trying to take in the enormity of what had happened. “So someone’s managed it,” he said at last. “Now every damned brick on the planet will want to do it too.”

  “Maybe not. The Chinese say they found the cage and it had five dead bodies in it. As far as they can tell, no one survived. Even the tekniks died in the backwash.”

  Bauchet’s mood grew darker. “That won’t stop them. You know they all think they’re invulnerable, better than the rest. They’ll all want to be the first one to come back alive.”

  Colbert was flicking through the briefing. “Be
ijing’s out of action for a while. They expect a stock market meltdown. This is going to be bad.”

  “Has the Prefect of Police seen this yet?”

  “He should have it by now.”

  Bauchet’s compatch chimed, and he smiled grimly at Colbert. “Yes, sir,” he said into it, listening through his earpatch. “I agree completely. Absolutely. Thank you, sir. Yes, at once.”

  He looked up at Colbert, the call over. “Seems Europol wants to confirm my appointment and get things moving.”

  “Congratulations. And money is no object, I suppose.”

  “Quite right. Whatever I want, I get. No questions asked. The budget is already sanctioned under the Emergency Powers Act of 2026.”

  “I hope it isn’t too late. We should have started on this weeks ago.”

  “Failure is not an option, Colbert. The Prefect just told me.” He allowed himself a small smile. “Get someone in here to pack up my stuff. Yours too. We’re moving to Europol Headquarters in Brussels on the first flight. Laroche will take over the team here in Paris. He knows how I want things organised at this end.” He was already on his feet. “Tell Brussels we’re on our way and make sure they’re ready for us. I need to get over to the Palais Bourbon for a meeting. I think the president herself wants to wish me bon voyage.”

  “More likely it is the DCRI, DRM and every other intelligence agency in France wanting to know why they appointed a plod to head up Europol’s brand new Temporal Crimes Unit and not one of their spooks.”

  “Especially when they hear about the funding, eh?”

  “Don’t let them worm their way in. They were all happy to sit on the sidelines and let you do all the work until today. They don’t deserve a seat at the table.”

  Bauchet headed out the door. “Anyone who can really help now is welcome, Colbert. What happened to Beijing is as bad as if someone exploded a nuclear bomb in its heart. We can’t let that happen to Paris—or Rome, or Berlin, or anywhere else.

  Get that flight to Brussels organised, and I’ll see you at the airport.”

  * * * *

  Jay had been watching the news on his compatch ever since he got off the plane at Brussels Airport. The vids of refugees fleeing the ruins of Beijing were playing almost constantly on the news streams. There wasn’t a lot of verified detail yet, but what he saw of the twisted remains of the great city brought back heart-thumping flashbacks to that night at the hospital in Ommen. A timesplash had done this. But it was something new, something people in the know had been expecting for some time now.

  In the cab to Europol HQ, he tried to contact his parents again. He hadn’t been able to let them know about his reassignment, and he was supposed to be meeting them in the evening for dinner. His relationship with them had been strained even before Ommen, but especially in the past couple of years. It hadn’t helped that he couldn’t talk about his work with “Five” and the official cover they’d concocted for him—that he had joined the Metropolitan Police—had never seemed the least bit credible to anyone who knew him, least of all his mum and dad. The dinner that evening was one of his many bridge-building attempts but, like so many others, it was about to fall flat on its face, doing more harm than good. With this overseas posting on secondment to Europol, it was going to look as if he was drifting even farther away from them, that he really didn’t care about rebuilding a relationship. Yet, since the shock of Spock’s death, he had wanted more than anything to feel the solidity and comfort of close family bonds. That night in Ommen had changed him in all kinds of ways.

  He hefted his luggage and walked in through the big glass doors of the old Berlaymont building where the European Union had had its headquarters for so long. The centre of European government had moved east to Berlin almost twenty years before, although Brussels remained a major part of the administration. Across town, the old Parliament building no longer served its original purpose, the New European Parliament building in Berlin having taken over its functions. Now the old Parliament building was sublet, and the Parliament chamber itself and several other rooms had been turned into the Museum of European Government. Much of the Berlaymont building was also sublet to commercial operators, but there were still many current government functions within the building’s massive bulk, including Europol Headquarters.

  Jay looked around at the grand foyer in dismay, wondering where the hell to go, before noticing the huge wooden reception counter at the far end. He trudged across the busy space to announce himself, only to be told to wait.

  So he waited.

  In the clubs and bars in which he spent so much of his time, sniffing for information, the bricks had become known as the Time Lords and that made the group he was about to join the Daleks—the Time Lords’ sworn enemies. Jokes from the old Doctor Who vid shows.

  “Bonjour,” an elegantly dressed, middle-aged woman spoke from behind his left shoulder. He’d been sitting on a padded bench, his bag between his feet, for at least ten minutes. “You are Mr. Kennedy, yes?” He jumped up and shook her hand. “I am Marie, personal assistant to Chief Inspector Bauchet.” Jay did not know the name. “If I may…” She held up a small scanner and made two passes with it; one across his chest from left to right, and the other down from his face to his abdomen. It looked for all the world like a benediction. But it was not. He had seen such devices many times since joining the service. They did a scan for ID chips, an iris scan, a facial recognition, a sweep for concealed weapons using terahertz radar and, as a final check, a DNA analysis. Without needing to be asked, he placed his finger in the little hole in the side of the device and felt the gentle touch of the dermabrasion.

  The secretary considered the display for a moment, tapped the controls a couple of times and then smiled. “If you’ll follow me, Mr. Kennedy.” She moved off across the great expanse of marble floor with a click of heels. Jay grabbed his bag and hurried after her. “Your ID chips have been updated,” she told him. “Someone will explain your security clearances and so on later. Welcome to the Temporal Crimes Unit.”

  * * * *

  Sandra had to get out of there. She couldn’t stay. Not with what was going on in Beijing. It could happen here next, she told herself, her thoughts skittering on the edge of panic. It could happen everywhere. If this was the end of the world, she didn’t want to be here, trapped in a psych ward, waiting for it to happen. Movement was what she needed. Escape. The Porringer Institute of Mental Well-Being was a big old building that used to be a country hotel way back when. Three storeys high, with bars on its windows and the slightly dilapidated look of a horror-vid mansion, it sat behind a high brick wall in several acres of lawns on the edge of Bodmin Moor in Cornwall. Sandra had not been outside those walls since they locked her up on a Custodial Rehabilitation Order, eighteen months ago.

  The Institute was a low-security establishment and its patients were allowed many freedoms and comforts. Sandra, for instance, had her own small room, with a bed, chest of drawers, wardrobe, and tiny en suite bathroom. It was a humane and well-run establishment and Sandra had been planning to escape from it since the day two prison officers had brought her there from the juvenile remand centre in Plymouth.

  She brought a chair up to the wardrobe and opened the doors wide. Taped to the inside at the top were the things she would need: a torch, a craft knife, two folded-up plastic bags, a length of string, a wire coat hanger bent into a hook, and an envelope stuffed with money. She pulled them all free and unfolded the plastic bags.

  She didn’t have many clothes, but she put on what she could—it was November and bitterly cold—and stuffed the rest into the bags. She put some of the money into her pockets and the remainder into one of the bags. The Institute gave all of its patients an allowance each week with which to buy things from the vending machines, and from the little shop that sold stationery, makeup, magazines and such. Each week, Sandra hid half and spent the rest. No one had noticed, and, after eighteen months, she had accumulated a thick wad of Euros. Enough to get away, sh
e hoped.

  Next she moved her chair to the corner of the room, beside the window, and climbed up. The curtains were drawn, so no one outside would see her. Her room was on the top floor and that had made the planning so much easier. She had long ago worked out where the rafters were in the ceiling above her by looking for the subtle indentations the nails made in the plasterboard from which the ceiling was made. Now she used her craft knife to cut through the plasterboard between the rafters. The board cut easily with the sharp, thin blade and it took her barely ten minutes to make an opening almost a metre long and as wide as her shoulders.

  Carefully she pushed the rectangle of plasterboard up into the roof space and slid it over to one side. A shower of dusty, grey granules came raining down on her, making her gasp with surprise and breathe some of the stuff in. Choking, she smothered her coughing and tried to stay calm. It was only the roof insulation. The fine, light, paper-based material was nothing to worry about. It was so lightweight it barely made a sound, although masses of it had rained down on her and the floor. She took a deep, steadying breath and pulled herself up into the blackness above. Once inside the loft, she turned on the torch. She was in a huge space, so large the torchlight revealed only her immediate surroundings. It was cold up there above the deep insulating layer of grey granules. Wooden beams arched overhead, receding into the darkness on either side of her in neat, parallel ranks. Thick cross-members braced them at chest height and they in turn were braced by diagonal struts that tied them to the joists and rafters. Above her head where the roof was, there was a layer of tarred, papery stuff between the roof joists and the tiles. She hadn’t expected that, but she reached up and scratched at it with her fingers and it tore to reveal the dark slates beyond. She breathed again in relief.