Tempus: The Phoenix Man

by Matt Hilton

  ‘The Castle,’ Rembrandt emphasized, ‘it was the police HQ in Old City. You probably know the place as Oxford Street: I’m sure it will exist here too?’

  ‘It does indeed, and I’m very familiar with Oxford Street. My wife drags me there at least once a month in search of a new handbag or pair of shoes.’ Coombs chuckled to display male camaraderie and brotherhood when it came to trying to understand a female’s penchant for expensive matching accessories. Rembrandt barely gave a flicker of emotion. Back where he came from, women scrabbled for existence the way men did. Coombs carried on, ‘It doesn’t surprise me that Semple took himself a castle. He’s an ambitious man with a great sense of grandeur, there’s no denying that.’

  ‘You sound as if you don’t like him,’ Rembrandt said.

  ‘Liking or disliking him isn’t an issue. I work alongside him, and while I’m ordered to do so, I’ll do that to the best of my abilities.’

  ‘Spoken like a true soldier,’ Rembrandt said, echoing Coombs’s earlier words. He smiled to show he wasn’t being disrespectful. ‘Can I ask a question, sir?’

  ‘I assumed that was why you requested a meeting. Go on, ask.’

  ‘How is it that Terrence Semple – from what I’ve gathered since arriving here, an ordinary man – is in charge of this facility? It doesn’t take a genius to figure this is some kind of secret military complex. I’d have thought that you, or another senior officer, would oversee the running of such a place.’

  ‘On a day to day basis I do run this base, and those within it, though of course I’m answerable to others higher in the military pecking order, and not to mention an MoD oversight committee. Semple, on the other hand, manages the operation of the Tempus Project, having been given almost carte blanche authorization to get it up to speed. His machine, his responsibility, so to speak.’

  ‘You’re telling me that Semple is the inventor of the machine, or that he simply funded its construction? I’d have thought that Professor Doherty…’

  ‘Doherty is a government sponsored aide to Semple, on hand to explain the science where and when necessary. In part you’re correct when you assumed that Semple funded the project, he did invest massively in the project, while the facility itself is centrally funded via defence budgets. But Semple is only partly credited as its inventor. Are you ready to wrap your head around the craziest thing you’ve ever heard?’

  ‘Crazier than me jumping timelines and parallel dimensions you mean?’

  ‘I’m a simple man,’ Major Coombs admitted, ‘and still find it difficult to accept what I’ve been told. Don’t worry; you’ll understand what I mean when I get to it. Everything I learn about Tempus makes my head hurt.’ He laughed at his apparent iniquity. ‘Professor Doherty assures me that it makes perfect sense when you think about it, but to me, the way Semple came across the technology to build the Tempus chamber still gives me migraine. Doherty brushes off anything I find impossible by explanation of temporal paradoxes. You know what they are, right?’

  Rembrandt thought of the jottings he’d made on the notebook in his room, and understood that he was living proof of a paradox. He nodded.

  ‘OK. Then try to understand this,’ Coombs said. ‘Imagine if you will, Terrence Semple sitting in his mansion study one night. He is alerted to a knock at his door, and on opening it discovers an old man looking back at him across the threshold. Only the old man is no stranger, it is Terrence Semple himself, a decade-or-so older, and he hands over a briefcase and tells his younger self that the contents are self-explanatory. Then,’ Coombs clicked his fingers, ‘the older version of Semple disappears and our Semple is left holding the briefcase. Inside are the blueprints to an honest-to-God time and dimension portal, and the instructions on how to construct it. As nuts as it sounds, that’s the truth of how the Tempus Project came into being. A future Terrence Semple, from an alternate dimension, brought back the technology and handed it over to his younger self. No one invented the damn thing; it was invented by way of a paradox loop – according to Doherty. The machine only exists in the future due to being constructed now in the present time, Semple having had the knowledge to build it passed back down the line from his future self who already had himself a working model.’ Coombs halted, checking the vacant expression on Rembrandt’s face. ‘Glad to see I’m not the only one who struggles to make sense of it. Have you heard of the grandfather paradox?’

  Rembrandt shook his head.

  ‘Well, it kind of goes as follows: if a person travels back in time and kills his grandfather before he meets his grandmother, then the person will never be born because one of his parents didn’t exist to give him life. Therefore, if the person was never born, then how could he travel back in time and kill his grandfather? If the grandfather survives, it would mean the person was born after all, and so on, into infinity. In other words, a paradox would be an impossibility. But…’ he shrugged ‘…according to Doherty; the same doesn’t apply when we throw infinite dimensions into the loop. It’s all hypothetical, apparently, but Doherty is positive that an alternate version of one’s self could go back and kill your grandfather, thus ending your line, but not affect theirs, due to there being a limitless version of each and every person throughout history. I can see you’re confused…I don’t blame you.’

  ‘It’s fucked up,’ Rembrandt stated.

  ‘It surely is. But there’s no denying that bucking the paradox trend is possible.’ Coombs reached out and touched Rembrandt on the shoulder, a single brusque tap. ‘And you’re the living proof that it actually works.’

  Without being conscious of doing so, Rembrandt sank down onto the previously declined seat. He hung his head, thinking furiously, but as Coombs did, he found it difficult to imagine how such impossibility could happen.

  ‘Semple had the kind of money available to fund the building of the machine,’ Coombs went on. ‘He simply didn’t have the experts required to do so. That’s why he took the project to his personal friend, Prime Minister Drake, who gave him access to this decommissioned bunker and the personnel required to man it. There’s a government committee that oversees the project, although they tend to keep things at arms length and allow Semple, Doherty and their team of experts to run it on a day-to-day basis. They have trust in those around Semple, and are happy that we conduct our experiments, as long as the committee and Prime Minister Drake are kept in the loop via their man here: I’m sure you’ll meet Mr Sterling along the way.

  ‘To date the committee has had nothing to worry about. Professor Doherty is preeminent in his field; Doctor Heller, well what do I say about her?’ He shook off the remark, replacing it with one less personal. ‘Other than that she’s very good at her job. And then there’s me, ordered to supply assistance and troops to a man supposedly one of the greatest minds of all time, but who’s actually a big fat fraud. Hell, they even gave Semple an honorary doctorate, and he now has letters after his name.’

  ‘I’m glad I came to you, sir,’ Rembrandt whispered. ‘I’m not sure that Guvnor Semple would have been as forthright with the truth.’

  ‘I suspect you might be correct. But, Chief Rembrandt, you didn’t come to me to hear how the Tempus Project came into being, you came for other answers.’

  Rembrandt brought up his head, facing the astute major and holding his gaze. ‘I want to know why I was brought back, and what happens next. I’ve spilled my guts, told everything I know about my world, delivered the report that David Johnston was unable to do. But there’s more expected of me, isn’t there? From what I’ve gathered from the whispering I’ve overheard between the doctor and her team there’s another mission planned for me.’

  ‘You’re not fit for another mission yet.’ Coombs studied the hollow cheeks and sunken eyes of a man still half-starved and dehydrated.

  ‘I’m as fit as I was when I was policing Old City,’ Rembrandt countered, ‘and that means more than a clean bill of health from Doctor Heller.’

  Coombs tapped the side of his own head.
‘In body perhaps, but up here?’

  ‘I’ve amnesia. I’m not insane.’

  ‘I was referring to your overall mental health. The things you’ve been through, the revelations you’ve had to contend with in the past few days: perhaps you don’t realise it, but you must be in shock?’

  Rembrandt knew it would be a lie to argue, but, despite all that, he knew that his mental state had not made him fragile. In his world, anyone who fractured at the first indication of trouble didn’t last very long, and he’d shown he could contend with anything that was thrown at him for the best part of thirteen years. Well, discounting a fragmentation grenade.

  ‘If there’s no immediate requirement for my services, then I’d like to put forward another mission. It’s, well, it’s kind of personal, sir.’

  Coombs waited, and Rembrandt was glad to find that the major wasn’t the type of officer to blow off any idea that wasn’t his.

  ‘You’re familiar with the details of my debriefing sessions?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then you’ll know that in Old City I commanded a five man team.’

  ‘Yes. They sound like an admirable group of soldiers.’

  Rembrandt didn’t correct the major’s slip this time; in hindsight the team he’d commanded was better described as a paramilitary squad than what passed as police in this present world. ‘They were,’ he said. ‘But more than that, they were my friends and the nearest thing to family I knew. They deserved a better life than the one they endured. Sir, I want to go back to Old City and pull out my team.’

  Coombs shook his head. ‘It’s a commendable thought but I can’t authorize that. There are consequences involved in opening a wormhole to Old City that-’ Coombs caught himself, and changed direction ‘-will be revealed along with the details of your next mission.’

  ‘Consequences. Like what?’

  ‘All will be revealed soon. But knowing what I know, I can’t promise you that I’d authorize another trip there.’

  ‘Who can authorize it?’

  ‘Only one person, and I can’t see Semple going with your wishes. He wants you for another mission, I’ll admit that, and won’t risk you on a fool’s errand. Your team, if your story is to be believed – and I do believe you – probably didn’t survive the firefight at the British Museum. For all intents and purposes, your friends have likely been dead for sixteen years.’

  ‘Isn’t that the beauty of time travel, though?’ Rembrandt countered. ‘If I’m sent back to a point shortly before they were ambushed, I could save them all.’ Rembrandt placed his right palm flat to his chest. ‘You say Semple wants me for another mission, well I’ll gladly accept it, but only if I’m given the opportunity to save my team. And imagine, Semple thinks I’m an asset, a team of six battle-hardened soldiers has to be much better?’

  ‘What if you fail? Where does that leave us then?’ Coombs demanded.

  ‘I assume Doctor Heller has the coordinates logged from when she jumped me here last time; she could simply do so again. Isn’t that the magic of bucking the time travel paradox? If you don’t get it right the first time, you have the opportunity to try again, and again, and…’

  ‘No. It means that we would forever fail, caught in the same loop of failure time and again.’

  ‘I’m not talking about pulling me out from the point of the grenade explosion, I’m talking about pulling out this version of me.’

  ‘I get the idea. Don’t labour the point. But the thought of opening all of those wormholes terrifies me, and doesn’t necessarily strengthen your argument.’

  ‘I plan on getting things right the first time, Sir,’ Rembrandt reassured him, holding the major’s gaze.

  Coombs shook his head softly, but didn’t deny him outright.

  ‘There are no promises, as I said, but let me speak with Semple and I’ll have him get back to you with a decision.’

  Rembrandt came up out of his seat, ramrod straight and right arm locked in a salute. ‘Thank you, Major Coombs.’

  Chapter 11

  Bloomsbury, London – Old City

  July 12th 2002

  Dressed in full battle dress, in kit well in advance of that he’d worn last time he went up the front steps of the British Museum, Rembrandt held his carbine tight to his shoulder as he scanned the area ahead of him for scavengers. He felt driven, determined to see this through, even though the thought of what was ahead of him made his guts clench. He’d brought law and order to Old City with an iron fist, but the actions he contemplated now went beyond anything he’d dished out before. His Kevlar armour and helmet, his top of the range breathing gear, his futuristic weaponry, all gave him an edge in the battle ahead, but they didn’t make him superhuman, and he could die as easily as he had last time when caught by a frag grenade. But that wasn’t what gave him pause.

  He moved between the stumps of pillars, the shattered remnants of the pediment, Sir Richard Westmacott’s “The Progress of Civilisation”, recalling how last time he’d thought of the irony of the name given the fine statuary. He entered through the original entranceway, and the Great Court was spread out before him. As he’d found last time, a shantytown encampment was built towards the back of the old hall. However, the difference now was that the two-dozen or so scavengers were just leaving their camp, preparing for an ambush. Fleet-footed watchers out in the ruins of the city must have warned them that the police were approaching.

  When Rembrandt had received confirmation that he’d be allowed to undertake this mission, it was with a hiss of warning from the old professor, Doherty. He’d said that by going back and changing things, he chanced forming a paradox loop that might not allow escape. Rembrandt might be caught forever in a never-ending circle of death, rebirth and death, the groundhog day of all groundhog days. It was a chance that Rembrandt was prepared to take.

  Moving to crouch by a fallen jumble of masonry, he worked the carbine, clicking the selector switch to semi-auto.

  Fearful of the consequences of opening another wormhole into Old City, Terrence Semple had argued against Rembrandt going back, had refused and was adamant about his decision, until Rembrandt reminded him that he could lay his hands on a troop of deniable operatives the likes of which Major Coombs couldn’t field. Give me this one opportunity, Rembrandt promised, and I’ll give you a team you’ll be proud of.

  It took a further twenty-four hours until Rembrandt heard that his request had been given the go ahead. In that time he’d rested, recuperated, and grown antsy. By the time he was checked over by Doctor Heller, had a new bio-rhythmical tracker introduced intravenously into his system, and announced fit for purpose, it was as if fire ants were crawling through his veins. His teammates had most likely died in the catacombs beneath the bombed museum, because he could not imagine a way out of the tomb. He knew they’d have given their best, but trapped with no way out, faced by overwhelming numbers, and no chance of reinforcements, they’d have been torn to shreds when their ammunition ran out. The scavengers would have picked their corpses clean. Rembrandt couldn’t allow such to happen to his friends.

  As much as he wanted to mow down the scavengers before they could initiate their attack, Rembrandt turned and headed outside, ready for phase one of his plan.

  He didn’t return across the plaza to Great Russell Street, but turned immediately right and cut through the grounds where once private buildings had been closed off from the public. They were now mounds of fallen sandstone and tiles. He clambered over the wasteland, peering up at the back of the terrace row of shops and offices that had survived the nuclear devastation. He saw no sign of those lurking within. He stumbled out onto Bloomsbury Street at the lower end of Bedford Square, checking behind for pursuit. There was none. He began jogging down the litter-strewn Bloomsbury to where the burnt out shell of a once proud five star hotel held sway, where he again crouched among the rubble.

  He could hear the thrum of an approaching vehicle, thick tyres over broken tarmac.

  Now the t
rue weirdness began.

  The police van turned into Bloomsbury from New Oxford Street. It was painted black, and had a motif of a white letter ‘P’ emblazoned on the bonnet and sides. The anti-riot cage was in the lowered position, anticipating makeshift missiles. The van came to a halt, and nothing happened. Rembrandt knew that inside the van the team was taking their final orders from him. He closed his eyes briefly, wondering if catching sight of his other self would be enough to do what everything else had failed to do before: completely shut down his mind. On second thoughts, seeing a living, breathing reflection of himself would be nothing to having witnessed the fragged chunks of steaming humanity he’d seen in the Tempus chamber. He opened his eyes, concentrated and watched as the team deployed.

  Walker and Bowlam came out first, followed by their chief. Rembrandt checked out his other self, and was shocked at how emaciated he appeared. A few seconds later Kwolek was out and Big Ox stepped down, lugging the bright orange Universal Key, the only splash of colour in the otherwise ashen landscape. As defensive formations were taken up, and Ox hauled the door ram to a point of cover, the van was reversed away to a safe distance by Jamal Dhand. Rembrandt watched the van come to a halt at the junction with New Oxford Street, momentarily shrouded behind a billow of stirred ashes. As he returned his gaze on the rest of the team, he saw the chief turn his way and he jerked his head down, knowing that to be seen now might throw everything into chaos. Between two chunks of stone he peered back at himself, recalling now that when he’d stood on that very spot he’d felt the presence of a watcher, but had shrugged off the sensation when there was nothing malevolent in the gaze. He realised then that Doherty’s paradox loop was indeed a powerful thing. Chief Rembrandt had been feeling the presence of his future self, peering back at him from the rubble. Weirder and weirder.