TimeRiders: The Doomsday Code (Book 3)

by Alex Scarrow

  The dark dialogue box on the screen in front of them suddenly flickered with the movement of computer-Bob’s cursor.

  > I have a candidate time-stamp that is currently holding a solid state.

  ‘How long will it last?’

  > There is no information how long it will last. Perhaps only seconds.

  ‘Activate a ten-second countdown. NOW!’

  > Affirmative.

  She turned to see Becks splosh into the water, the Grail once more in its box, the box sealed in a plastic Ziploc bag. Cabot was standing at the top of the stepladder and regarding the chilled water at his toes. ‘But, please, young lady … why do we have to get into …?’

  ‘JUST GET HIM IN!’ shouted Maddy above the growing hum of energy building up for a release.

  Sal climbed up the steps of the ladder. ‘Mr Cabot, you have to get in the water … please!’

  She spun round to see the countdown on the screen.

  Four … three … two …

  ‘PUSH HIM IN!’

  Sal nodded and threw her weight behind a hard shove against the monk’s thighs. He teetered for a moment, arms cartwheeling for balance, before he toppled forward into the tube, sending a small tidal wave of water splashing over the side and on to the floor. The stepladder wobbled under Sal’s sudden lurching movement and tipped back against the brick wall, the legs sliding along the concrete floor, dumping her on to a storage shelf full of cables and toolboxes that cascaded down and clattered along with her to the ground just as the displacement machine discharged its energy. The perspex tube flexed violently and thudded with a boom as the water, Cabot and Becks vanished back into the twelfth century.

  As Sal rolled on the floor among spools of cable and yelping from a sprained wrist, and the echo of the flexing boom bounced around their archway, slowly fading, Maddy could only wonder how it was that mankind – perhaps even the whole universe – had ended up resting its fate in the hands of an amateur little outfit like theirs.

  CHAPTER 81

  1194, Nottingham

  They landed within the keep’s outer bailey, the splash of thirty gallons of water echoing off the tall stone walls. Cabot landed heavily on his side, grunting at the impact on hard cobblestone. Becks landed on her feet, poised and ready for action.

  The keep itself was devoid of any activity. A pair of soldiers manning the gatehouse emerged from the cool shadow of the archway to find out what the noise was all about. They gazed in bemusement at the old monk and the woman in the leather corset and dark woollen tights.

  ‘Where is the Earl of Cornwall?’

  ‘Not ’ere, love, e’s fightin’,’ one of them answered, and then suddenly it occurred to him they might not have his best interests in mind. ‘’Ere! Ye be spies?’ he barked at them. ‘Ye stop roight there!’

  Becks calmly handed Cabot the box as he got to his feet and approached the soldiers open-handed and with the most alluring smile she could conjure up.

  ‘Let me explain,’ she started to say.

  Ten seconds later, both men were on their backs, one of them out cold, the other with a broken wrist. Becks tossed Cabot one of their swords as they jogged out of the keep through the open gatehouse, crossing the bridge over the river and following the main dry-rutted track through the centre of Nottingham towards the marketplace, towards the noise of a raging battle in progress.

  The marketplace was filled with the squirming, howling wounded: men and boys missing limbs, heads and faces split open, puckered and purple wounds that were clearly mortal. Children with water and bloodstained rags moved among them providing what comfort they could, ignoring the occasional arrows that dropped down into the square and clattered on stone slabs or thudded and embedded themselves into the earth.

  Up ahead, to the right of the city’s gatehouse, a seventy-five-foot-wide breach in the wall was plugged with a rising sea of struggling humanity. Soldiers and civilians, men old and young, even some women, pressed into one enormous writhing scrum. On the walls either side, she saw soldiers and citizens firing arrows, children hurling stones down at the attackers outside – a city-wide attempt to defend themselves. And a convincing job they seemed to be doing of it thus far. The sun was well past midday in the sky and halfway into the afternoon.

  She realized the fluctuating timelines were stemming from this struggle that could go either way. Even though Richard’s army was far greater than the number of people in Nottingham, their motivation to fight would be entirely mercenary.

  On the other hand, the people of Nottingham were fighting for their very lives. If they could hold those soldiers in the breach long enough, if the battle were to spill into another day, and another day … quite possibly the assembled nobles with their men-at-arms might begin to stand down, their selfish allegiances to the king softening.

  She scanned the front line of the fighting and quickly spotted the silhouette of Bob, head and shoulders taller than anyone else.

  She took the wooden box from Cabot and tucked it under one arm. ‘Stay close to me,’ she commanded him before picking her way through the marketplace carpeted with the dead and the dying, arrow stems sprouting from the dirt like freshly grown weeds.

  She clambered up the incline of rubble, forcefully barging aside tired men from her path, scanning faces, on both sides: looking for Liam, looking for John. She collared a garrison soldier clambering downhill, blood-soaked and exhausted. ‘Where is the Earl of Cornwall?’

  He shook his head and she realized that over the din of roaring voices and the clatter and ring of blades on shields he could not hear her.

  ‘WHERE IS JOHN?’ she bellowed directly into his ear.

  The man pointed a shaking finger uphill. ‘He fights alongside us!’

  Becks pushed past him, her feet finding a soft carpet of bodies now that shuddered and twisted underfoot. Above the din she could hear the bass notes of Bob’s voice, a deep roaring anger that seemed to fill the entire space of the breach, like an echo of whale song or the trumpeting of some enraged elephant.

  She picked out his head and shoulders again – slow, shuddering, sweeping movements that told her he was fast on his way to becoming a spent force now, exhausted from exertion, or loss of blood – quite probably both.

  She was nearly at the crest of the small hill of debris and bodies when she heard the sharp peal of a distant horn above the cacophony.

  The clatter and ring of blades almost immediately ceased as both sides of the struggle on the mound halted their melee and disengaged, weary catcalls and taunts being exchanged as the men of Richard’s army withdrew to take another water break.

  Becks took advantage of the lull in the fight to push her way up the last few yards.

  ‘Bob!’ she said.

  He turned slowly. His eyes flickered recognition, perhaps even relief. ‘Becks.’

  ‘I need to locate John and Liam.’

  Before Bob could point them out, Liam’s voice rang out. ‘Becks!’

  She turned to see him squeeze past some bloody and grimy men descending the slope to get to the water-bearers. He stepped awkwardly over several entangled bodies and then with a careless relief swung his arms round her.

  ‘I thought we’d lost you, so I did!’ He lowered his voice. ‘We thought you’d open a window directly after you left!’

  She nodded. ‘There were difficulties. This battle is causing instability.’ She regarded the thick carpet of bodies beyond the city wall. ‘You are doing too well.’

  Liam snorted humourlessly. ‘Too well? You’ve got to be joking. One more push and they’ll be through for sure.’

  She shrugged. ‘Perhaps not. The light is failing and fighting will cease for the day. Another day will weaken the attacker’s resolve and strengthen the defender’s morale.’ She caught a glimpse of John, looking exhausted and drenched with sweat beneath the weight of his mail and helmet, and smeared with drying blood. He was talking animatedly with some of the other defenders, high on the adrenaline rush, sharing the
water with them.

  John is in danger of becoming an inspiring leader.

  She tipped her head his way. ‘He is becoming strong.’

  Liam followed her gaze and understood what she was saying. ‘This – this fight, it’s changing him, isn’t it? Changing his destiny.’

  She nodded. ‘It is causing contamination.’

  He noticed the box clasped under her arm. ‘You’ve brought it back. Does that mean …?’

  She finished his thought. ‘Yes. It is safe to pass on to Richard. He will get nothing from it.’

  Liam could hear Cabot talking to John now, the old friends embracing. Then the monk gestured up to the top of the mound towards Becks. Liam saw John’s face suddenly crease with relief and joy. They made their way up to join them.

  ‘My lady,’ gasped John, breathless.

  Liam and Bob silently looked on in admiration as Becks swiftly changed her manner. ‘Sire,’ she replied softly, with a tender restrained smile that lingered just for him.

  ‘Sire,’ cut in Cabot, ‘Lady Rebecca has it right there.’ He was careful not to say Grail in case the word carried down the slope to the others. ‘You can now make terms with King Richard.’

  John sneered. ‘I shall not bow down to him … to that animal. Never again!’

  Becks reached a hand to his face and stroked his cheek. ‘My dear … you have shown your honour today, shown courage. You have been strong.’

  ‘The king will respect that,’ said Cabot. ‘Ye gave him a good fight, Sire.’

  John spat a mouthful of thick phlegm at the ground. ‘I would sooner cut off his hand than kiss his royal ring!’

  ‘You have done what was necessary,’ whispered Becks. ‘Now you should make peace with your brother –’

  ‘Or you’ll risk dividing this country with a war, Sire!’ said Cabot.

  John’s eyes studied them both, then he nodded at Liam. ‘What do you say, Sheriff? You have led well here; I would trust your council as well.’

  Liam wiped grime and sweat from his forehead. ‘I think they’re right, Sire.’ He pressed his lips together. ‘Nobody else needs to die here today.’ He glanced at the box. ‘And you can parlay reasonable terms now, Sire.’

  John stroked his chin thoughtfully for a while. ‘But that brother of mine is a danger to this country. His endless wars – his crusades – his obsession with this –’

  ‘My lord?’ Becks leaned towards him and whispered something in his ear. The expression on John’s face slowly changed as her lips moved.

  ‘How would you know of such things?’ John quietly replied a moment later.

  She smiled at him. ‘You must trust me on this.’

  He regarded her in silence for a long while. ‘Lady Rebecca … I have never before encountered someone quite so …’ He shook his head, struggling to find the right word.

  ‘Trust me,’ she whispered again. ‘Your time will come.’

  He clamped his jaw and then finally, slowly, nodded. ‘I will speak with him, then.’

  CHAPTER 82

  1194, Nottingham

  John noted the look of surprise on his older brother’s face as he entered the dark gloom of the tent.

  ‘Little brother,’ his deep voice growled with amusement, ‘you look like you have finally got your hands bloodied in battle.’

  John stepped forward. He said nothing.

  ‘You surprise me,’ Richard laughed. ‘Finally, you seem to have outgrown your wet-nurse. I suppose, because you have at last managed to wield a sword in battle, that you consider yourself a man, uh?’ Richard’s smile turned to a sneer. ‘Hardly. You are still a snot-nosed whelp. But I will credit you with taking a first step.’

  John met his stern gaze. ‘Thank you,’ he uttered flatly.

  ‘Now,’ Richard stood up. ‘The matter at hand. You have the Grail with you?’

  John pulled the scroll from a fold in his tunic.

  Richard slowly nodded. John could see the stretching pink of his lips among the thatch of blond bristles. ‘Oh yes,’ he whispered. ‘You have no idea, do you, little brother? No idea of the power this … this yard of parchment conveys?’

  ‘It is just words.’

  Richard’s deep laugh filled the tent. ‘Just words, he says. Just words!’ He shook his head. ‘You are an imbecile. This is a message from God. A message given a thousand years ago – a message that was always intended for me. Do you not see? The wars I have fought, my crusade against the infidels … was at the Lord’s bidding. He spoke to me, told me where to find this message. And you thought to steal it from me? To use this to bargain with me?’

  His face darkened. ‘I would happily cut out your tongue, little brother, pluck your eyes from their sockets and hurl your head into a field for the crows to dine on, for your daring to play with my destiny. But …’ he smiled, ‘but you have shown some spirit in fighting me today. I like that.’ He held his hand out towards John. ‘Now, give me the Grail and I will consider leniency for you.’

  ‘And what of the people of Nottingham?’

  Richard’s thick eyebrows arched. ‘You actually care for those peasants?’

  ‘They fought with courage.’

  ‘They are no more than farm animals, little brother, beasts of burden. They fight because they are commanded to fight. No more brave than a horse that charges because its rider has kicked its flanks.’

  ‘I am asking for leniency for them.’

  ‘Their king has returned!’ Richard snapped irritably. ‘Those … those vermin dared to challenge my authority! A few hundred of their heads on spikes lining the road into Nottingham will ensure I have no more nonsense like this to deal with!’

  John felt his resolve weaken. ‘But they were merely defending their homes.’

  ‘Give me the Grail.’

  Push him not too far … he might still decide to have your head!

  Richard’s outstretched fingers wriggled. ‘The Grail. Now!’

  John clasped it more tightly. ‘Give me –’

  ‘Give me?’ Richard’s eyes widened. ‘Give me? You say “give me”? I will give you exactly what I decide to give you! And if it is your life, then it is only because it is – because it is not wise for the common folk to see royal blood spilled!’

  John could see his brother struggling to control a burning rage, a pinkness in his cheeks, a throbbing vein across his forehead.

  Push him more … and he might strike your head off right now.

  John felt whatever strength he’d entered the tent with, ebb quickly away.

  ‘I … I insist I have your word there will be no example made of them.’

  Richard’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do not anger me further, little brother,’ he said quietly, ‘I have been patient enough with you.’

  John quickly held the scroll towards the candle burning on the table in the centre of the tent.

  ‘STOP!’ yelled Richard.

  ‘I will burn it, brother – I will!’

  Richard’s wide-eyed stare flickered from the candle to the edge of the parchment, mere inches away. His face darkened with rage, his lips twitched, his hands slowly reaching for the sword beneath his cape. Then, like sun piercing through scudding grey clouds, his demeanour changed. He suddenly laughed.

  ‘Good God, you’ve grown some fighting spirit!’

  John held the scroll where it was.

  ‘So be it! You will have my word.’

  ‘Nottingham will not be punished?’

  Richard slowly shook his head. ‘They will not.’

  John felt his guts loosen. He struggled to keep a gasp of relief inside him.

  ‘Then you can have your piece of parchment,’ he said as calmly as he could manage. He held it out towards King Richard. Richard took it from him, unravelled several inches of it to be sure it was the Grail. He examined it in silence for a moment, before carefully rolling it up again.

  ‘As king, my word is of course law,’ said Richard.

  ‘You will honour that?’r />
  He nodded. ‘I will. Now … kneel and kiss my hand.’

  John steadied himself with a deep breath, then stooped to hold Richard’s proffered hand.

  ‘You are going to see, little brother, the making of one Kingdom stretching from this miserable wet island of England to Jerusalem. One Kingdom under God … under me.’

  John struggled to suppress a wry smile on his own face as he pursed his lips. There’d been something about Lady Rebecca’s whispered assurance – an assurance about things yet to be – something in the way she said it that he could actually believe it to be true.

  The Grail will give him nothing, John. And … you will be king in less than five years.

  ‘Kiss my hand!’ commanded Richard.

  ‘Yes … yes, of course,’ muttered John.

  CHAPTER 83

  2001, New York

  Adam stood beside Sal and gazed out at the darkness. America, at least what they could see of it, a dark wilderness of tall cedar trees beneath a clear night sky and a crescent moon that gazed down at its own shimmering reflection on the gently rippling surface of the East River.

  ‘It’s like … It’s just how I imagine America must have looked before Columbus first landed,’ Adam whispered. ‘Out there somewhere, there must be tribes of Native Americans, running around, free and living just as they were back in the fifteenth century.’

  Sal nodded. ‘I like it like this. No people.’

  ‘So … Maddy said you came from 2026?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Tell me, what’s it like?’

  She shrugged. ‘Crowded. Busy. Noisy. At least where we lived it was.’

  ‘Is there any really cool … you know, technology?’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘I dunno – flying cars or something?’

  Sal snorted. ‘No. It’s all rickshaws and battered old Nanos. The air’s thick with toxins and stuff. And there were the troubles in the north.’

  ‘Troubles?’

  ‘Terrorists, bombs. Things weren’t so good with Taliban-Pakistan. My father worried about what was going to happen in India. What with that and the flooding areas and migrants.’