by Matt Hilton
A flutter of unease went through him, someone walking over his grave a second time. Something flashed inside his skull, like a grenade going off. A memory. This was followed by another flash and another memory. Then again and again. It was as if someone was jogging on the spot on his grave. He jerked and convulsed, and his hands made claws on the steering wheel. The recollections came at him like stuttering strobe lights; something had occurred to align the memories of David Johnston with James Rembrandt’s and he remembered.
Recollections from childhood came at him fast and furiously. He was a little boy, and in seconds had progressed through adolescence to teenager, to a young man in the British Army. He was Sergeant David James Johnston, and he was in the Tempus chamber, and in the next memory he was standing at the edge of a massive crater at the heart of a devastated nuclear landscape, lightning flashing, acid rain falling. Then he was on his side, in a ditch and the pain was tremendous as the acid slop breached his protective clothing. His skull was split, and he struggled to remain conscious as he peered up at the two ogres standing over him with weapons poised to beat him again. Through their visors he recognised their faces, and in that moment an epiphany struck him as hard as the truncheon and rifle stock. He’d been betrayed. He understood now why the giant orderlies had looked younger in 2018 than they had back in Old City. They had been sent back from the future on a mission to slay him, and had been stuck there alongside their prey for the next thirteen years and had aged appropriately as had he. Because both men existed in the same timeline as he in 2018, their sending back must have tripped the timelines and brought his memories thundering down on him.
Recollection piled on recollection, and he saw himself crawl from the acidic puddles and pull himself up onto a piece of fallen masonry, where he fell into a feverish state. There was no way to tell how long he’d lain there, but his next conscious thought was one of agony, and he’d stripped the rubber suit off, watching the pink froth from his own burning hide drip onto the stones as he staggered away. He found a stairwell, leading down into pitch darkness, and thought it would be best to die down in the hole in the earth than be stripped to the bones out in the open by the frequent acid rain.
People were in the hole.
They weren’t in a much better state of health than him, but they still retained enough of their humanity to give him clean water, to wash and dress his wounds. He did not learn their names. Days later when he’d the strength to ask who they were, the people had already left. He was alone. He was alone for a long, long time, but he’d endured, he’d survived. It was days before he realised he did not know his own name. He had no recollection of the days before he went down into that hole. In a pocket of his trousers was a folding wallet. Inside it was a photograph. His reflection in a sliver of broken mirror told him that the clean cut man in the photo had the same face as his, but the acid had even breached his billfold and all that remained of the name on the back was the single name of ‘James’. James, he took it was his name, even though there was no familiarity with the word whatsoever.
Days. Weeks. Months. All passed in a blur, marked by hunger, thirst and sickness. He’d no comprehension of time or distance, and was starving and cold when he’d staggered into the ruins of the National Gallery and sought succor from his hellish existence. He thought to make a fire, but he was too weak to strike sparks from flint and steel, or even to rub two sticks together, and instead crawled under a pile of junk to die.
He’d wakened to a group of men gathering up lost treasures.
Two giants flanked a stern-faced man, and he did not know them for the ogres who’d left him for dead…
But he knew them now.
Rembrandt sucked in a deep inhalation, and then collapsed forward over the steering wheel. Miller’s concerned voice filtered to him once more, but he could not make sense of the words. He remembered. He remembered everything.
The two men who had become companions of Guvnor Semple, who had become his personal manservants and bodyguards in Old City, were the same two men who’d served the future Terrence Semple in the Tempus facility. There was only one explanation for the anomaly: the giants had been transvected in order to slay him. Was it a contingency plan to halt the breaches back in 2018? By murdering Rembrandt before he was ever brought back and the breaches to Old City opened? Well, the fuckers had failed in their mission.
One thing he was certain of: the giants hadn’t made the decision to jump to Old City by themselves. They’d been sent. They were in full kit and came prepared to do violence on David James Johnston, and there was only one man he could think of who would have given them their orders, only one man who they would have obeyed.
‘Semple, you son of a bitch…’
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
Rembrandt shook his head, and turned around to peer at Barry Miller. He must have appeared insane, because the man flinched, fearing being struck. Rembrandt couldn’t blame Miller for being perturbed, he felt that way himself.
‘It’s OK,’ Rembrandt said. ‘I’m OK. Don’t worry. Everything’s fine.’
‘Everything’s fine, is it? You were screaming as if you were being murdered.’
‘What?’ Rembrandt rubbed a hand over his face, and his palms came away slick with cold sweat. ‘I, uh, must’ve fallen asleep. I guess, uh…I guess I was having a nightmare.’
Miller peered at him doubtfully.
Rembrandt gave himself another shake. He slapped at the steering wheel. ‘Forget about it. I’m OK. I’ll get your family out for you.’
‘Look at the time.’
His watch told Rembrandt that he’d lost another three minutes.
‘Fuck,’ he spat. Two minutes until show time. He grabbed at the gun concealed under his jacket. Then he craned around, holding Miller under his gaze. ‘Stay here. Don’t do or say anything to anyone. Your wife and child are relying on us. You understand?’
‘I’m with you. Don’t worry. But…but are you well enough to save them?’
‘I told you; it was only a nightmare. I’m fine. Now sit tight, keep your head down and I’ll have your family back with you in a few minutes.’
He got out the van, closed the door behind him, and again checked his gun, concealing it with the fold of his denim jacket. He began the walk towards the furthest tenement building, his mind only partly on the men he was prepared to kill. The identity of another enemy distracted him.
Chapter 32
April 5th 2018
Tempus Facility, England
Terrence Semple showed the MoD man, Sterling, into his private study, having collected the observer from the laboratory. Semple dwarfed the diminutive man in stature, but it was easy to see who thought themselves the biggest and most important man in the room. From the way Sterling conducted his business, displaying aloofness towards Semple that was more than aggravating, you would guess that the greasy little man believed he was the prime minister and not merely a flunky tasked with reporting his findings back to Drake. Semple hated the way the self-important prick made himself at home, taking Semple’s seat at his desk while laying out his Ipad and Blackberry devices. For decorum’s sake, he didn’t object, he walked away and busied himself by pouring a brandy. He didn’t offer Sterling a drink. Sterling eyed the glass, but didn’t comment on it. Likely he would refuse if offered, just to be contrary.
‘Why did you ask me to your private quarters, Terrence?’
Semple bristled at the man’s use of his first name. This was no place for informality, as Mr Sterling had already established.
‘Bringing me here out of the way doesn’t change anything.’ Sterling smiled smugly. ‘I know what’s going on and nothing will be left out of my next report.’
‘I wanted to make a few things clear to you, Mr Sterling.’
‘Yes. It’s time for answers, Terrence.’
‘Answers? I’ve told you everything you’ve required of me.’ Semple took a slow drink, eyeing Sterling over the rim of his glass.
‘Which hasn’t amounted to much more than I could have learned from the incomplete reports you have been supplying to Prime Minister Drake.’
‘You know what I know. And I object to your accusation that those reports were incomplete.’
‘Your objection is noted; however the accusation still stands. You have not necessarily been untruthful, just selective in your filing of certain details concerning the results of your experiments here.’
‘My reports are purposefully obtuse. Need I remind you that the Tempus project is designated Top Secret?’
‘I’m well aware, but both the PM and I both have the necessary clearance level to be trusted with a full and concise report. There is much you are hiding from us, Terrence.’ Sterling leaned forward and traced a finger along the edge of his phone. ‘Did you think that I was so overwhelmed by the technology on display that I would miss the whispered conversations going on behind my back?’
Semple placed down the glass. He’d drained its contents and the fiery liquid helped bolster his next words. ‘Mr Sterling, those conversations were not for your ears, and quite frankly it disturbs me that one in your lofty position of trust should lower themselves to eavesdropping. But then I always suspected you were a little sneak. Are you also a rat? Is it your intention to scurry off to Drake with your ill gotten nuggets comprised of half truths and suppositions?’
For the first time the MoD man seemed aware of how Semple towered over him. Semple moved around the desk and glared down at him. Sterling leaned back in the chair, so he didn’t have to peer up at the larger man from under his eyebrows. ‘How dare you,’ he spluttered.
‘How dare I? I dare much more than to tell you a few home truths. Believe me.’
Sterling made as if to stand. ‘I’m not sure how Mr Drake is going to take the news that you made veiled threats to me.’
Semple shoved the little man down, holding him in place with one hand on a shoulder. ‘There was nothing veiled about them. What have you heard that you shouldn’t have, Mr Sterling?’
‘Enough to have your project closed down for good, and for you to be dealt with in a court of law. The oversight committee instated by Drake will be horrified to hear how flagrant you’ve been with the truth. The timings of the environmental destruction were far too coincidental not to have been a result of your experiments here, and I will report that the committee’s suspicions about the source of the problem lay here. Damn you, Terrence! You should have admitted this sooner so that something could have been done to stop any further harm.’
‘Something is being done…’
‘And I fear I won’t like what that is. I no longer feel you are of sound enough mind to make decisions of this magnitude! In fact I’m going to contact Mr Drake right now and recommend that he has both you and Major Coombs removed from this place. The Minister of Defence needs to take charge of this facility now.’
‘And you believe any of that is going to happen? Has it escaped your notice that within a few hours there will be nothing left here, and nobody left to go running off to?’
‘If time is such an issue then it’s time I left.’ Sterling again made to rise and was pushed down.
Semple shook his head. ‘Sorry, but you aren’t going anywhere.’
Sterling attempted to shove the governor’s hand from his shoulder, but Semple merely leaned in, placing more weight on the small man.
‘Take you hands off me,’ Sterling demanded.
‘Shut up,’ Semple snapped. ‘I’m done listening to you and your bloody demands.’
‘Prime Minister Drake will hear of this!’
‘Will he now? Then tell him about this too.’ Semple swiped the Ipad and Blackberry from the desk. He raised a heel and stamped down repeatedly on the objects, even as Sterling again struggled to rise.
‘Governor Semple! You’re out of control!’
‘So now you choose to address me in the correct manner, with the correct amount of respect?’ Semple bunched his fist in the MoD man’s collar, twisting it savagely. ‘I am not out of control. I am in total control. Don’t you see?’
‘You’re insane! To be honest, I doubted my own ears when first hearing of your plans, and couldn’t believe that you’d try to cover up the destruction your experiments are causing. But now I know different. Now I know.’
‘I am not going to allow you to ruin my reputation, or to put a stop to my experiments.’ Semple could feel panic boiling over inside him. His eyes were swollen and there was spittle on his lips. He looked away from Sterling once, as if to gain some self control. But, to hell with it, he was in control. Even if the world was going to hell, the opportunity for escape was still within his reach, but that would be snatched from him if he allowed Sterling to rat him out to Drake. If Drake and the oversight committee sent their own people to take charge of the Tempus Project then his escape route out of here would be closed down. He lifted the brandy tumbler off the desk and held it by its heavy base. ‘I won’t allow you to speak to Drake or to anyone else. Not now, not ever again. Is that clear?’
‘Please. Governor Semple! This has gone too far.’
Semple had ordered the murder of David Johnston. He’d condemned his personal servants to a life of living hell. He’d made those decisions with a clear head and with the best intentions – in regards his own welfare and the survival of his project, at least – but his next actions were made based purely in the fires of passion and not a little madness. So, Sterling thought things had gone too far?
‘Not yet it hasn’t. Not yet, Mr Sterling.’
Semple rammed the brandy glass into Sterling’s face.
The tumbler struck the man in his open mouth, jagged shards breaking loose. The glass cut into Sterling’s lips and gums, grated against his teeth. Sterling was too shocked to shout out in either pain or alarm. He sank back in the chair as Semple released the hold on his collar. Tremulously, the MoD man reached for his ruined mouth.
‘Who are you going to speak to now, you rat?’ Semple demanded.
Blood poured from between Sterling’s fingers. His eyes welled with tears.
Stepping back, Semple blinked in an emotion close to dismay. It was as if the fog of panic that had invaded his mind had suddenly been swept away by a stiff breeze, and he saw with clarity the insanity he’d been driven to. What had he done?
‘Oh God,’ he moaned under his breath.
Sputtering through a mist of blood droplets, Sterling said, ‘You…must…help me.’
Semple reached for him, but his hand fell short. He stepped away, head shaking as if he suffered an ague.
‘Help…me…’ When Sterling took his hands from his face, strips of flesh hung from the corners of his mouth. The blood glistened on his chin and stained the collar of his shirt and neatly knotted tie.
Semple looked down at the base of the tumbler that he still clutched in his right palm. He shook his head, but even he was unsure if he was denying assistance to the injured man or it was incredulity at his actions.
But the Tempus project was his.
Drake had merely accommodated the whims of an old friend in giving him access to Naze Top Bunker. Never had the PM genuinely believed that there was any hope of making the transdimensional time machine work, though he’d been happy for Terrence Semple to funnel billions of pounds into its development. Semple knew that Drake had always considered the project a madman’s folly, but he’d allowed Semple to privately fund and run the project anyway. If the prime minister had given the Tempus project any credibility, he would have ensured that his own people were at its helm from the beginning, he’d have ensured that the oversight committee had permanent residence on site. Semple had always known that Drake was secretly chuckling behind his back at the absurdity of his claims, but that he’d always been sitting in hope that there was a break through…at which point Drake would have accepted the kudos and acclaim. Well to hell with that!
The PM wouldn’t be as quick to accept responsibility for the destruction wroug
ht by the project as he would in stealing the accolades if everything had gone to plan. He’d ensure that Semple took the fall for it.
But that was OK. This was his work, his, and nobody was going to take it away from him, particularly when it was his best avenue of escape.
Sterling rose from the seat at last, and staggered out past the edge of the desk. Dark crimson droplets plopped on the carpet. He held both hands cupped over his mouth.
‘Where do you think you’re off to?’ Semple strode in front of him.
Swiping with one blood smeared hand, the MoD man tried to shove Semple aside. But the governor was too big, too sturdy, and he stood his ground. ‘No one is going to ruin me or my work.’
‘Please…you must let me go. I need help…’
Semple shook his head and took hold of the smaller man’s jacket, almost as if he meant to steady him.
Previously his mind had been a whorl of emotions – panic, fear, rage – but now clarity settled in as a cold wave of surety washed through the governor’s body.
Semple rammed the broken glass into the side of Sterling’s neck. With his other palm he caught hold of Sterling’s head so there was no escape.
‘No one,’ he growled, grinding the sharp edges into Sterling’s neck.
The MoD man struggled to get away, but Semple was as relentless as his madness. He twisted and ground the broken glass deep and was rewarded by spurting blood from a severed artery. Sterling fell to his knees, crying out in terror as his lifeblood painted ribbons on the carpet.
Semple looked quickly at the door. It was closed tightly, and beyond it a hallway and elevator shaft separated them from those within the facility. He grimaced as he leaned down and placed his left palm on the back of Sterling’s skull, pushing his face into the carpet, muffling the man’s cries. With his other hand he sawed, and within little time he’d opened up the entire right side of Sterling’s neck from ear to collar bone. Blood now gouted, but the spray diminished with each pump of Sterling’s failing heart.
