The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3)

by Charles S. Jackson

  Taking a handkerchief from a trouser pocket, he wiped heavily at his eyes and rubbed his hands through his hair, struggling to settle himself down in the emotional aftermath of the meeting. It was then that his gaze fell for the first time upon the open steamer trunk that took up most of the remaining available space around him. The drawer in which he’d kept his folded uniform still lay open, but for the first time he noticed a small, beige envelope lying at its bottom. He’d not recalled ever seeing it before, nor could he remember anything falling out of the uniform as he’d removed from the trunk, earlier, yet there the envelope lay there all the same, its presence alone somehow demanding that attention must be paid.

  Leaning forward, he reached over and scooped it up, and turning it over, he found only the name THORNE printed in large, hand-written capitals. Without a second thought or any consideration of the possibility it might be some kind of booby-trap, he tore the envelope open and unfolded the small sheet of paper inside. Upon the paper were written just a few paragraphs, all in a tight, spider-like cursive script that Thorne simultaneously found unusual and also, somehow, vaguely familiar. By the time he’d gotten through the first two lines, he’d already guessed the author well enough.

  I said I’d help you when the time was right. That time is now, if you still want it. It took a while, but you’ve finally listened, it seems, to what you friends and I had to say. This has been a tough year, but it’s also been a productive one, and there are far more difficult years to come.

  There are a set of co-ordinates at the end of this passage. You will find me there, and – if you come alone – we can talk. No more hiding. No more secrets. Just you and me. And from there, you will for the first time understand what’s really happening, and what we need to do from now on. Hindsight isn’t dead. Your mission isn’t dead. They’re both just not exactly what you thought. In fact, they never were.

  Come. In a week’s time, there will be a ship at Darling Harbour, waiting for you. You’ll know the name when you see it: I shan’t spoil the surprise. Board that ship, and it will bring you to me. There will be things you need to see that I can’t show you anywhere else. You don’t need them, but I give the co-ordinates anyway, as a sign of good faith… they’ll also let you know what to wear.

  So there you have it. Your choice, Neo: the red pill or the blue…?

  Come see how deep the rabbit hole goes…

  Come…

  45° 27 South - 167° 09’ East

  Nothing else remained in Thorne’s mind at that moment. Every fibre of his being and his consciousness was focussed on the words written before him, and the sudden surges of fear and excitement that washed over him left his entire body tingling with anticipation. Without another word – not even a single profanity of surprise – he rose and continued to change, now with renewed purpose and, for the first time in a long while, a growing sense of hope for the road ahead.

  MIT Radiation Laboratory

  Cambridge, Massachusetts

  December 22, 1943

  Tuesday

  Jack Kilby was required to show his identity papers four times as he was escorted through the grounds of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, in search of the Radiation Laboratory buildings. Although technically it was no longer wartime, the entire campus was nevertheless still under military guard, and it well known within the general scientific community that MIT – particularly the Radiation Labs – had been and still was instrumental in the ongoing development of American atomic weapons.

  At just twenty years old, Kilby had originally come from Kansas to begin a bachelor of science at the University of Illinois. It was while studying at the Champaign-Urbana campus that he’d been approached by the Office of Strategic Services – much to the young man’s surprise – and presented with an ‘offer’ that he’d found extremely difficult to refuse.

  The acceptance of that offer had bought him here to Cambridge, and to the present situation as he waited patiently at a fifth set of doors and accompanying checkpoint before being allowed into the laboratory itself. He’d been forced to sign a document regarding official secrets even though he’d not as yet been provided any inkling as to what was actually going on.

  As he and his MP escort were ushered through the double doors and on into a wide corridor extending into the distance for almost a hundred yards, two men in lab coats were already waiting for him.

  “Mister Kilby…” One of them declared, stepping forward and extending a hand in greeting. “Very glad you’ve been able to join us…”

  To Kilby’s surprise, the man spoke with a distinctly English accent. Clean shaven and with close-cropped, greying hair, he seemed to be in his mid- to late-fifties and – not that it particularly mattered – he also appeared to be of Jewish descent.

  “I’m Doctor Lowenstein – Sam Lowenstein,” he continued as they shook, the man reaching up with his free hand and clapping Kilby on the shoulder in a friendly and very American gesture. “I’m running the program that we’ve brought you to have a look at and – hopefully – to join…” Releasing Kilby’s hand, he turned and extended an arm to indicate the other man present. “May I also introduce Geoffrey Dummer, my invaluable second-in-command…”

  “Call me Geoff…” Dummer suggested with a smile, also clearly an Englishman.

  “Jack…” Kilby replied automatically as they too shook hands. Dummer looked to be in his thirties, with a hairline already receding and black-rimmed spectacles over a prominent, hawklike nose.

  “You’ve been getting some excellent marks over at Illinois,” Lowenstein declared, nodding to the waiting MP as the greetings were completed. The corporal snapped to attention in response, taking that nod as his cue to leave, and executed a perfect about face before stepping back through the main doors and leaving the three of them alone in that hallway.

  “Doctor Lowenstein…” Kilby began

  “Sam… please…” Lowenstein insisted, shaking his head genially.

  “Sam…” Kilby corrected, a little uncomfortably. “Sam, I’m not all sure why you fellas have brought me here. This is clearly a pretty big set up you’ve got here, and whatever it is ain’t likely to have much use for some poor kid like me who ain’t even finished his degree yet…”

  “Jack, you’d be amazed what you’re likely to create here,” Lowenstein countered, already well aware of what Kilby would’ve accomplished in Realtime, through his work with Texas Instruments. “Come on in to my office here, and I’ll show you something that may interest you…”

  With one arm guiding behind the young man’s back and Dummer in the lead, the trio took a few steps along the corridor and then turned right into a large, well-appointed office that was spartanly equipped with what was nevertheless clearly quite expensive furniture.

  “Over here on the desk, Jack…” Lowenstein suggested, moving across to take up his usual position behind it, as director of that particular research department. “Take a look…”

  As Kilby approached, he could see a large, spherical object roughly the size of a cantaloupe sitting alone in the centre of the desktop. As he drew nearer, he frowned at its alien appearance, with strange serrations around its exterior as if it were some huge, grey grenade. Upon closer inspection, there was also a small panel set into the flat upper face, with what appeared to be tiny buttons, although it seemed far too small to have any actual purpose.

  “Interesting, I guess…” he shrugged, not particularly impressed as yet. “What’s it supposed to do?”

  “More on that later, Lowenstein promised with a grin, enjoying himself immensely. “Go on… pick it up… tell me what you think…”

  Kilby did exactly that, gently lifting it from the desk and turning it in his hands. It was only then that he realised that the small panel in the device’s upper face was actually displaying tiny black numbers against a grey background.

  “This…” he began in surprise, the realisation taking him as he glanced around at the clock above the door and did a do
uble-take “…this is the time…today’s time… right now…!”

  “Indeed,” Lowenstein nodded sagely.

  “These tiny numbers… I’ve never seen anything…” Kilby muttered, mostly enthralled as he turned the unit over in his hands and inspected every side. “This is a clock…?”

  “Hardly,” Lowenstein chuckled as Dummer stood back and also enjoyed the show, having gone through the same thing himself, several months before. “This little thing – with enough power – can do an awful lot more than just tell time…” he elaborated just a little “…but again, we’ll come to that later. I’m more interested at this point regarding your theories regarding its construction. There’s a small catch on the bottom: open it up… you won’t hurt it…”

  It took a moment before Kilby had located the small indentation and built up the courage to actually depress it with his thumb. As he did so, there was a distinct ‘click’ and the entire flat bottom section fell free of the casing to lie in the palm of his hand. He turned the component over, inspecting it from every angle, and for a moment, he found everything quite unrecognisable other than the familiar shape of the AA-size battery clipped inside its centre. It was only as he gave more attention to the small, green circuit boards around the battery that a light dawned in his mind and he began to suspect the true nature of what he was looking at.

  “These… these ain’t transistors…” he observed slowly, turning it again his grasp. Its circuit boards all right, but these are too small… they don’t look right…”

  “Yes…?” Lowenstein urged, wanting the man to make the leap on his own. The quite new technology of transistors had been provided by the Hindsight team (and by the New Eagles on the German side), and had only come into common usage in the last two years.

  “It’s definitely a circuit…” he continued, thinking the problem through. “I can see where the connections go, and it all kinda makes sense, but…”

  “But….?”

  “There’s just too damn many of ‘em,” Kilby declared with the certainty of a man with some experience in the field. These things at too small, and there’s hundreds of ‘em connected to each of these little black things. What are they…?”

  “They’re called integrated circuits,” Lowenstein explained finally, holding out his hands and waiting for Kilby to hand the pieces over, which he did. “Inside each one – putting it very simply – is a small piece of silicon-based semiconductor that is connected to, believe it or not, some extremely small transistors that’s all housed within the flat, black plastic casings you see here.”

  “But…” Kilby stammered again, incredibly confused. “But, we can’t make transistors that small… I know we can’t!”

  “No,” Lowenstein agreed with a self-confident smile. “Right now, we can’t… but you are going to help me and Geoff and a whole laboratory of brilliant scientists do exactly that…”

  Kilby watched, almost hungrily, as Lowenstein proceeded to reassemble the Temporary Displacement Unit and return it to the desktop between them. Although he had no idea as yet what difficulties would lie ahead, the young man was quite clear about the fact that the laboratory he’d just walked into stood at the extreme cutting-edge of current research, and he suddenly realised that there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be at that moment.

  “Sam… when do I start…?” He asked with a wide, boyish grin.

  “Let me get you a coat…” Lowenstein replied with an equally broad smile, leading the group out of the office once more and off along the corridor.

  Unnoticed by Kilby, a manila folder lay to one side of the desk, a foot or so away from the TDU. Filled with a year’s worth of drawings, scribblings and calculations, the concepts and designs held within had become Samuel Lowenstein’s sole purpose in life: his raison d’être. The warning ‘TOP SECRET’ was stencilled in large, black letters across the very top of the cover, and in the centre, in the erratic, less-polished pen strokes of a driven scientist, lay one single word – a title that carried with it all of Lowenstein’s dark, desperate dreams of vengeance: PARADIGM

  Doubtful Sound

  Southland Region, New Zealand

  December 28, 1943

  Monday

  Max Thorne stood at the bow of the sailing yacht Dawn Treader and stared up at the incredible and imposing fjord that rose on either side. So close to the Antarctic, it wasn’t a warm day regardless of the fact that it was high summer, and he wore a long, woollen coat over his Levis and ‘Howard Green’ style army surplus jumper. The voyage from Sydney had taken six days, the vessel predominantly making use of the sails hanging from its three tall masts, although Thorne at least suspected that the engines they were now using to make slow headway upriver were of far more use than simply as manoeuvring thrusters.

  It had indeed been quite easy to work out which vessel was awaiting him. The ship’s name was an anachronism in that current reality, its namesake being the fictional flagship of King Caspian in the famous Narnia novels of the 1950s by C.S. Lewis. There wasn’t a single human being born in that particular timeline who could possibly have known the significance of that name, and it had therefore been a safe bet that it was indeed the ship he’d been seeking.

  The voyage itself had been pleasantly uneventful, with only the occasional whale or dolphin sighting to break the monotony. It felt unnatural to be away from business for so long at a stretch, but that being said, Thorne knew well enough that Rupert Gold could run everything just as well as he – probably better – and he was confident that his affairs were in good hands.

  Briony had been more difficult to convince, and it had been a tearful conversation indeed as he explained that he must go alone. The instructions had been specific, and he had no intention of jeopardising whatever opportunity was now presenting itself, regardless of how much he didn’t want to leave her behind. She too had been left in Rupert’s capable hands, and both of them were no doubt already back in New York and preparing for the coming New Year’s celebrations.

  Doubtful Sound had first been discovered by James Cook in 1770, who had provided its original name ‘Doubtful Harbour’ in recognition of his uncertainty as to whether it was navigable by sail. His ship never entered the inlet for that reason, and it was only later, as sealers and whalers began to arrive in the area, that the fjord was given its more lasting misnomer. The sound formed three distinct arms, named ‘First-’, ‘Crooked-’ and ‘Hall Arm’, and it was at the very upper end of the latter, some twenty miles inland, that the fjord branched off into Deep Cove; the body of water into which Dawn Treader was now motoring slowly with sails stowed.

  They’d veered off to port past Elizabeth Island, roughly halfway along the winding Hall Arm, and had then travelled another mile and a half or so south-east into Deep Cover itself, steep, tree-covered mountains above them on either side. Directly ahead, the stunning Helena Falls fell hundreds of feet from the clifftops above, emptying into the cool, clear water at the very far end of the cove. In the distance beyond lay Wilmot Pass, a walking track that wound its way past the towering Mount Mainwaring and then on to the other side, linking Doubtful Sound to the huge Lake Manapouri, seven miles to the south-east.

  The vessel ultimately hove to while some distance short of the falls, instead coming about and manoeuvring in to dock at a small jetty standing out from a rough, narrow track that ran – as far as he could tell – all the way around the water’s edge heading back toward the falls, and appeared to be the only flat surface anywhere to be seen below steep cliffs that rose hundreds of feet above. Evening was drawing near, and the shadows of the surrounding mountains were already covering the surface of the cove as he stared up and around with mixed feelings of wonder and apprehension.

  The crew spoke not a word to him as they went about the business of tying up alongside the pier. All of them appeared to be young, exceptionally fit Māori men and women, and it was clear from his experience so far that they’d all been instructed to provide Thorne with only th
e barest minimum of information required to bring him to that place. At least two or three of the crew’s command structure – presumably the equivalents of captain and executive officers – clearly spoke English well enough, as they’d been able to converse with him when necessary. It just seemed, that for the most part, they’d almost certainly been instructed not to wherever possible.

  They worked hard to moor the ship now, many of them displaying intricate Tā moko markings on their faces that were common to traditional Māori, something that Thorne had never before seen firsthand and had mostly only read about in history books as a child. There were a handful of women working aboard also – something that surprised him a little – and some of them also carried less expansive facial markings on their lower lips, or across their foreheads.

  “Time to go…” one of the ship’s commanders advised, appearing behind Thorne as he turned and gesturing toward the gangway being lowered across to the dock. “Boss is waiting…”

  Out on the track, a long-wheelbase Land Rover was already waiting, idling roughly with the unmistakeable, faint chatter of a diesel engine.

  “Thanks for the trip…” Thorne offered, holding out his hand and not able to think of anything else to say.

  “It’s all good,” the crewman responded with a big, toothy grin, almost crushing Thorne’s hand in his own as he accepted the handshake with enthusiasm. “Happy to oblige. Head on up now: they’ll have tea on already, I reckon…”

  “Sounds good, mate,” Thorne nodded, grinning too at the infectiousness of the man’s good humour. “Reckon that sounds all right.”

  His belongings – no more than a single, large army pack stuffed to the bilges – was already waiting for him on the dock as he stepped off the gangway, and he collected it, slipped it over his shoulder in one easy movement, and headed briskly up the steps at the end of the Jetty and on toward the waiting 4WD. Opening the front passenger door, he threw his pack over into the back seat before sliding in to find, not unexpectedly, another large Māori man waiting behind the wheel.