TimeRiders: The Pirate Kings (Book 7)

by Alex Scarrow

  ‘True.’ Maddy nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s got to be worth a try, I guess.’ She leaned forward. ‘Computer-Bob, how accurate is the signal?’

  > I can attempt to triangulate this last signal. It may be possible to be quite precise.

  ‘How precise? I mean, are we talking an image taken within a yard of the transponder signal? Or a hundred yards? Or a mile? What?’

  > I cannot say before calculation.

  Maddy ground her teeth with frustration. ‘All right, you do that. Let’s see if we can get a look.’

  > Affirmative.

  An hour later they had a candidate location: a string of coordinates that computer-Bob estimated was within fifty yards of the signal’s origin.

  ‘A single signal. That’s all we seem to have here,’ said Maddy.

  ‘Liam’s or Rashim’s?’

  ‘The transponders aren’t that sophisticated, Sal. Rashim had them leaking a breadcrumb trail of tachyons, that’s all. They don’t say whose breadcrumb trail, I’m afraid.’

  Neither of them decided to say out loud whose signal they hoped they’d locked on.

  ‘It’s possible one of them has failed or got broken,’ she added. ‘That they’re both together still.’

  Sal nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘OK, Bob, let’s grab an image and see what’s what.’

  > Affirmative.

  The distant rhythmic thud of Holborn Viaduct’s generator was momentarily blocked out by the hum of energy discharging into the displacement machine. A hum that lasted a second, no more. On one of the monitors in front of them a pixelated image began to appear. They waited a few moments as image compression adjusted itself and the blocky image resolved into something clearer.

  A square of deep ocean blue.

  ‘Sea,’ said Sal. ‘Jahulla!’ she cursed, forgetting for the moment her vow to abandon the Hindi she’d been programmed to use. ‘We missed the ship!’

  ‘Not necessarily. Maybe we just need to adjust the viewing angle. Bob, can you do that again and give us the reverse angle?’

  > Yes, Maddy.

  They waited, then again the second-long hum, and a few moments later a new image began to arrange itself on the screen beside the first. Blue again, but this time with a blur of something dark running diagonally across it.

  She looked at Sal. ‘What is that, do you think?’

  ‘A rope?’

  She nodded. Yes, it could be. A bit of rigging perhaps. A spar of wood. Something boaty, she guessed.

  ‘Maybe we’re far too close. Can we do another? Offset the pinhole by, let’s see, twenty, thirty yards?’

  > We can obtain another image, Maddy. But each time we open a pinhole we’re discharging our own minute trace signal of particles. This will compromise the accuracy.

  ‘Do one more. Back up by twenty yards so we can get some more detail.’

  Computer-Bob once more released a short burst of energy into the displacement machine and, a moment later, a third blurry image assembled itself on-screen. This time they had something quite clear: a boat. A very small one, little more than a dinghy, with a solitary mast and a triangle of cloth. And there, sitting at the back of the boat, the head and shoulders of someone wearing a hat.

  Maddy squinted at the pixelated image, trying to squeeze more detail from it than was actually there.

  Liam? Is that Liam?

  ‘Just one of them,’ said Sal.

  ‘There could be someone else in that boat out of view. Lying down, sleeping or something.’

  ‘Bob, can we go in a bit closer?’

  > Information. The precision is already being compromised. If we get too close, we might endanger the person in that image.

  He was quite right, of course. Too close and, with decreasing precision each time they took a snapshot, they might just open a mini-portal right inside whoever that was, almost certainly killing them.

  ‘Someone on a dinghy in the middle of the Caribbean. That’s really not a great deal to go on.’

  ‘It doesn’t look good,’ said Sal. She studied the image again. ‘Is that even Liam or Rashim?’

  Maddy couldn’t tell. It was a blurred bunch of pixels of a person’s head and shoulders; even if the image had a greater granularity and there were more details to pick out, the face was shaded beneath the brim of a three-cornered hat. A dark smudge that, quite frankly, could be anybody.

  ‘All right, this probably isn’t helping much. I guess we’ll just have to keep tracking this signal until it comes to a full stop somewhere. Meanwhile, maybe we should read up a bit on the history.’ She looked up at Sal and the two support units. ‘You should go to the British Museum reading room. Take these two munchkins with you to look at whatever history books they have on pirates and stuff. They can scan ’n’ brain-dump the information for you.’

  She looked at Bob and Becks again, standing like useless bookends behind them.

  ‘Besides, looks like the pair of them need to be taken out for their daily walkies.’

  Chapter 15

  1889, London

  Sal’s head was swimming. They’d spent the afternoon in the British Museum’s reading room ploughing their way through all the books on piracy that the librarian had been able to muster. Unlike trawling through modern-day encyclopedias or databases, the information was haphazardly organized at best: a mélange of personal accounts, biographies, works of dubious fact – more likely fiction – ships’ logs, clerks’ accounts of court cases, diaries, despatches from governors and ambassadors, and most of this material in a flamboyant and inventively spelled language that seemed to require several readings of any given sentence to actually extract the meaning.

  The clarence carriage rattled noisily over tram rails as they turned right off Southampton Row on to High Holborn.

  ‘So, I hope you two at least managed to make sense of all those books.’

  ‘Affirmative,’ rumbled Bob.

  ‘We are collating the data,’ said Becks, her eyelids fluttering like some Jane Austen heroine about to fall into a theatrical swoon.

  ‘We are currently assembling a database of the social, political and economic conditions of 1667.’

  ‘Cross-referenced with acts of piracy in the areas of the West Indies, the Caribbean and the Indian Ocean,’ added Becks.

  ‘Great,’ said Sal with a nod. Not for the first time, she wondered why whoever had ‘designed’ her had not thought to give her a computerized mind. But then perhaps that made sense. Bob and Becks were essentially walking, breathing, eating, farting computers. Designed to process data, not so great at intuitive thinking. And that was something reassuring. That perhaps she was more human than she’d been feeling lately. More human than ‘product’.

  ‘So, what situation is Liam facing, then?’

  The clarence creaked as Bob twisted in the leather seat to face her. ‘Can you be more specific, Sal?’

  ‘No. Not really. Since I haven’t got a clue about this time. I mean … ’ She tapped her gloved fingers on the sill beside her with frustration. ‘Is there a war going on or anything?’

  ‘There has been a recent war,’ replied Becks. ‘A proxy war between England and Spain fought mainly along the various trade routes across the Atlantic. Both sides attempted to sabotage the other’s ability to maintain effective trading conditions with their colonies.’

  ‘The war with Spain ends in 1660 after the death of Oliver Cromwell in 1658,’ added Bob. He looked at Sal. ‘You know about the English Civil War?’

  ‘Not really.’ Sal made a face. ‘Is it relevant?’

  Bob cocked his head. ‘What is relevant is that after the Civil War the leader, Oliver Cromwell, being Protestant by religion and secular in his authority, was ideologically opposed to the Catholic Spanish-Habsburg Empire. After Cromwell’s death, we have a destabilizing power vacuum within England that could have led to the country falling back into a state of civil war again.’

  ‘This power vacuum ends,’ said Becks, ‘with
the restoration of the monarch. Namely King Charles the Second. Charles the Second is Catholic and inclined towards peace with Spain. So, the war between these two countries ends in 1660.’

  ‘So, there’s not any war going on when Liam is?’

  ‘Not officially,’ said Bob. ‘But it does continue in a covert manner in places like the West Indies, the Caribbean, along the coast of Central America. Independent ships are given licences by regional colonial governors to prey on the merchant ships of other nations. These licences are called letters of marque.’

  Becks nodded and continued. ‘Ships with this licence are known as privateers. And in the year 1667 the governor of English-held Jamaica – Sir Thomas Modyford – is granting these licences to as many ships as apply for them, in order to attack Spanish merchant vessels.’

  ‘King Charles the Second instructs his governor to stop doing this,’ said Bob, ‘as it is endangering the peace with Spain. But the governor of Jamaica ignores this.’

  ‘Why?’

  Bob looked at her. His eyes flickered as he retrieved data. ‘Jamaica was only recently captured from the Spanish in 1655. The Spanish, despite the peace, want it back. Governor Modyford fears they will attempt to retake it. His only way to defend the island and its principal settlement, Port Royal, is to attract a fleet of privateers with a vested interest in it remaining under English control: to remain a safe haven for privateers.’

  Sal nodded. ‘Right.’ She looked out of the grubby window as they clattered up High Holborn. ‘So, Liam and Rashim are heading towards a part of the world where there is something like a war still going on?’

  ‘Affirmative. A proxy war,’ corrected Becks. ‘A privatized war.’

  Sal sighed. ‘Why is it that this kind of screw-up, when one of us ends up stuck somewhere, never happens in somewhere peaceful and safe and, you know … generally nice?’

  Both support units shrugged. ‘We don’t have the data to answer that,’ said Bob.

  The clarence dropped them outside their side door in the shadow and beneath the broad iron arches of Holborn Viaduct. Sal paid the driver, unlocked the small arched door and let them in. The dark hall beyond was thankfully empty. She rapped her knuckles on the smaller arched door to their dungeon.

  ‘Maddy? Hello? We’re home!’

  She heard the faint tap of a footfall inside, the snack of a bolt sliding quickly and the door creaked open. She could see Maddy’s face lit by a gas lamp. She was grinning excitedly.

  ‘You’re looking happy. What is it? What’s happened?’

  ‘We’ve got a steady, motionless signal. Computer-Bob’s locked on to it and says it’s viable and safe.’ She ushered Sal and the other two inside. ‘We’re good to go back and get them!’

  Maddy centred herself in the square marked on the floor. She’d already had Sal on her case arguing that it made sense to send just the support units. It wasn’t exactly a complicated mission as such. Just home in on the signal and, hopefully, come across Liam and Rashim and bring them back. No complicated, tactical decision-making required, just a straightforward go-and-get. But she rationalized, not entirely convincing Sal, that it made sense to have a pair of human boots on the ground. What if something had gone wrong: if Liam or Rashim were hurt or in a bad way? She even considered the possibility that Liam might have ‘gone native’, and might need convincing to come back with her. After all, how many times had he told her in the last few months that he wished he’d stayed on in Nottingham as the sheriff?

  ‘I’m ready,’ she said, sucking in a breath to steady her nerves.

  Bob readied himself in the square next to hers. ‘I am also ready,’ he grunted.

  Bob and Becks had given Maddy a half-hour briefing on where they were going. Port Royal. She wasn’t sure whether she felt terrified or thrilled at what they’d told her. She was trembling, that much was true.

  ‘A minute countdown,’ said Sal. ‘Maddy, seriously … Bob and Becks can do this.’

  ‘It’ll be fine, Sal.’ She offered a flickering smile. ‘So, it may be a bit rough and ready, but I’ve got Bob with me.’

  Rough and ready? From what the support units had told her, Port Royal sounded like some sort of Wild West frontier town. Lawless, chaotic. But then she’d quickly had a look at a map that Becks had Bluetoothed on to one of the monitors. There were streets, with names like Queen Street, Lime Street, York Street. There was a courthouse, a church, a merchants’ exchange, even a school, for God’s sake.

  Jesus … if kids can survive living there, I’m sure I’ll be fine taking a five-minute stroll.

  ‘It’ll be fun,’ she added, more for her own benefit than Sal’s.

  ‘Forty-five seconds.’

  Yep. Fun.

  Just like going to watch the Fire of London. That kind of fun?

  She silenced that hectoring voice in her head. That was a screw-up, maybe not even hers, though. The map depicting the fire’s progress over time must’ve been wrong. After all, come on, fire’s unpredictable. No fire this time. Just a rather lively and lawless town, and surely no worse than Rome under Caligula had been, right? Surely no worse than that?

  ‘We’re at thirty seconds,’ said Sal. ‘Hands and feet …?’

  Maddy nodded. She placed her hands by her side. She looked down at her clothes. Again, they were going into a past that they were not specifically dressed for, but wearing clothes generic and nondescript enough to pass, hopefully, without attracting any attention. A plain brown dress with a cinched-tight corset, laced boots and a white linen bonnet. Her glasses, of course, were sitting on the desk. She wasn’t planning on reading anything and Bob’s eyes were going to be better at scanning the world for Liam than hers anyway.

  Three feet away, Bob was dressed equally neutrally. A pale grey linen nightshirt with a belt cinched round his waist, into which was slotted a butcher’s knife, and dark pantaloons tucked into a pair of dockers’ boots. His thick, dark, coconut hair could do with trimming, she noted, as Sal marked a ten-second warning.

  ‘And … remember, return windows in one hour, two and twenty-four hours as agreed,’ she called out above the increasing hum of energy getting ready to discharge.

  Maddy nodded. She could feel the hair beneath her bonnet lifting from the nape of her neck as static electricity danced around her.

  ‘Five … four … three … ’

  Once more into the milk … here we go.

  Chapter 16

  1666, aboard the Clara Jane

  Liam sat cross-legged on the deck working in a small circle with three other crewmen, carefully re-nipping the buntlines. His lap was filled with coarse, scratchy, thin strands of hemp rope that he deftly wound in a coil round the end of the much thicker rope – the buntline – and secured firmly in place.

  The men worked methodically with him, sharing dirty stories that he imagined would turn both Maddy and Sal crimson with disgust and outrage. Across the deck, William – the young boy he’d saved from the fire – was working alongside the ship’s cook, scouring and cleaning pots and pans with sand and seawater.

  William was speaking now. Not many words at any one time, and always in reply rather than initiated, but at least it meant the trauma he’d experienced hadn’t rendered him some kind of mute.

  A brisk downdraught from the mainsail above cooled them all and sheltered them from the baking sun, tossing Liam’s mop of hair from one side to the other. On the foredeck one of the sailors was playing a fiddle, something light and whimsical that reminded him of Cork, or rather, his coded memories of Cork. The ditty came and went as the wind carried it.

  He finished securing the end of the buntline and stretched his aching back, casting a glance at the quiet industry going on all around him. Maintenance mostly. Another team of men were busy tarring the shrouds and anchor line, another group securing the stitching around the hemline of a sail. And all of them were gently leaning into the soothing sway of the ship as she crested and broke through shifting hillocks of deep blue sea. />
  Under slightly different circumstances, Liam decided, I think I could get used to this.

  ‘Liam, lad, those ladies’ fingers of yers holdin’ up to the task?’ asked one of the men sitting beside him. Henry Bartlett – formerly pressed into His Majesty’s Royal Navy for a number of years, but now enjoying the much easier regime of a privateer.

  ‘Aye, it’s hard on your hands, so it is.’ He looked at the blisters on his fingers. ‘I’m pretty sure I’ll never be able to play Mario Kart again.’

  Henry and the others laughed at that. Not that it made any sense to them.

  ‘There ya go again with another one of yer pecul-ee-ar sayin’s.’

  That seemed to be the trick, of course. That seemed to be what worked. His peculiarity. The men around him, the crew by and large, seemed to have warmed to him, even to Rashim. Born out of curiosity mainly, in the way a pack of laboratory monkeys might view a new plastic squeaky toy thrown into their cage. Liam had quickly figured out that the best way for them to be accepted – adopted more like – by this intimidating crew of grizzly veterans and lowlifes was not to try and blend in, but instead to stand out. Be eccentric. They seemed to love that. Although Rashim (equally odd in their eyes) they viewed with some caution. He seemed to have acquired the role of ‘Captain’s Regular Dinner Guest’. While Liam was one of the lads, albeit an extremely odd addition to their fraternity, Rashim was still held somewhat at arm’s length.

  ‘Here,’ said Henry. He reached for the large flagon of watered-down ale that sat on the deck between them and passed it to Liam.

  ‘Thanks.’ He took a swig. Something of an acquired taste. But marginally better to suffer the sun-warmed sour and yeasty flavour of ale than the bottom-of-the-pond tang of the ship’s store of drinking water.

  Nearly a month now, Liam figured. A month since they’d set sail from London and yet how quickly the shipboard routine had begun to seem quite normal. The first few days had been the hardest to cope with. He’d been unwilling to accept they were stuck there, every minute looking across the ship’s decks, impatiently waiting for a portal to open; to see the shimmering image of Maddy frantically waving at them to hop through and come on home. But Rashim had pointed out – and had to do it several times – that there was no way they could safely do that. A portal was a fixed object in space. Not something that was going to travel along with the ship. If they even managed to precisely target a portal on the ship, it would be like a giant cannonball travelling down the length of the moving vessel, sucking whatever it bisected along the way (hull, deck, mast, rigging, sailor – or parts of sailor) back to 1889. Worst-case scenario: the portal might gouge enough of the ship to actually sink the thing.