Uh-oh. While Karyn had been reviewing her options, she had been spotted by a bodyguard. As 11:58 ticked over, three of them began moving in her direction, leaving a single thug guarding Zhukov. Perfect – this gave her an ideal opportunity. All she had to do was outflank the three coming towards her and she had an almost free run at the would-be president.
Karyn slipped to the left, pushed one highly-botoxed woman just so, triggered a domino effect as the protesting dowager toppled off her Manolo Blahnik heels and fell headlong into her bejeweled drinking companions, sending them all tumbling to the ground directly in the path of the approaching bodyguards.
Karyn quickly threaded her way through the crowd, one eye on the bodyguards still attempting to intercept her, the other on Zhukov. Thus preoccupied, she was caught by surprise when a strong hand grabbed her arm.
She spun round, intending to administer a lethal blow – but found herself face to face with a tall young man, his eyes boring into hers. Somehow, she could feel her spirit being drained by this mysterious stranger – whoever he was, she could feel that he now knew her innermost secrets. Under his unrelenting gaze, she relived the painful death of her husband, then the trauma when her young son first discovered that she was an assassin. Karyn could feel her soul slipping away to this man. She tried to pull away, to escape the memories, to reclaim her life – but his grip was too strong.
Suddenly the bodyguards were upon her. With a last, despairing gasp, Karyn attempted to pull free and then …
Timeslip.
FOUR
New Phoenicia Headquarters, Millennium Eve, 11:20 am local time, 0920 GMT
Lord Rachon, leader of New Phoenicia, stormed through the corridors of the underwater city, ranting and raving as he did so. Though he was only 5 foot 2 and uncomfortably obese, Rachon was a formidable enemy in any mood. When he was angry, heads would roll. If Rachon was incandescent with rage – as he was at this moment – not even his most loyal followers were safe.
Unsurprisingly, as Rachon arrived at his destination, the New Phoenicia control center, the room was deathly silent. Every head was bowed over its designated station, monitors were being avidly scrutinized. No-one moved. Word had travelled fast.
Rachon glared, fumed, looked for a target. Not a sound, not a movement, except for the schools of fish placidly swimming their way over the top of the massive transparent dome that encompassed the entire command center.
Momentarily deprived of an obvious victim, Rachon strode to his own command desk in the center of the room. His chubby finger stabbed a button, summoning his top aide.
Less than 30 seconds elapsed before the unfortunate General Kruger arrived. He had been well warned, so he came to immediate attention in front of the little tyrant. Ramrod straight, black uniform immaculate, fist grasped to chest in the expected New Phoenicia salute.
Rachon was unappeased. He strode over to Kruger and virtually spat into his face: “Did you know about this? Yeltsin’s resignation? Why am I only hearing about this now?”
To his credit, Kruger was unfazed by the explosion of fury. “Your lordship, our Russian operatives have only now reported the news. Moscow Television just broadcast his speech a short time ago.”
Rachon was not to be deterred. “Was the speech live?” he shouted.
“Ah … no, your lordship. I am informed that it was recorded in Moscow earlier this morning.”
“Then why were we not warned? Surely, even with our diminished Soviet infrastructure, we still have assets in place in all Russian media?”
“In place, yes, Lord Rachon, but they were not able to communicate with us until now. The entire facility was locked down from the moment the speech was recorded until it was broadcast.”
“Hah! At least the Russians have finally learnt something from us about information control. So what about our own presidential candidate, what’s his name? Can we get him in place in time for this new March date?”
“His name is Anatoly Balantov, your lordship. We had planned to begin his campaign next month,” noted Kruger. “Unfortunately, now that Yeltsin has resigned and has endorsed Prime Minister Putin as his successor, realistically the only presidential candidate in a strong enough position to challenge Putin is Viktor Zhukov.”
“Can this Viktor be bought – or blackmailed?”
“Unlikely, your lordship. I understand that he has aligned himself with the LOA.”
Rachon spent the next couple of minutes denouncing the LOA, using every obscenity he could summon, including a great many in languages that General Kruger had never heard before.
Finally, Rachon paused. “Kill him. Take Viktor Zhukov out of the race, permanently. Today, before the media can anoint him as the official challenger. We’ll worry about Putin later.”
Kruger nodded, spoke briefly into the microphone of his headset, listened, snapped back: “Kill him in London, then . . . yes, it has to be done today . . . what do you mean, no-one . . . very well, use a mercenary . . . and arrange a backup as well.”
Conversation completed, Kruger reported back. “Viktor Zhukov is in London tonight, your lordship, at the grand opening of the Millennium Dome. We are arranging an assassin.” Rachon was finally mollified.
FIVE
The Millennium Dome, London, 11:56 pm once more
On the other side of the Dome, the White team had no idea what was happening. The aernote was silent. No messages, either from Jesse or from Grayson back at Headquarters.
All that Azor and Molon knew was that the band had kept playing the same song, over and over. Would that infernal song never end? And why did the countdown timer keep jumping back to 11:56?
Molon was particularly jumpy. He hated being out in public. Whatever evil the New Phoenician scientists had done to his genetic cell structures when he was a child – he’d heard whispers of DNA modifications and cross-breeding using wolf genomes – had altered his appearance so much that his fellow humans were at first disgusted and then terrified if they saw him in daylight. Even though it was now nearly midnight, the Dome lights were far too powerful. Molon’s hat helped to hide his facial features, but if any of the beautiful people out there managed to see the man-wolf clearly, all hell would break loose.
Onstage the band fumbled momentarily. Once again, they’d just been about to sing the last line as the millennium came to its end, and then, again, they were back at the very beginning. The lead vocalist shot a despairing glance at the band leader. Couldn’t they at least try another song? The band leader shook his head imperceptibly. This was the only possible song to close out the millennium, even if they had to sing it a thousand times. So once again the opening words rang out: “I was dreamin’ when I wrote this . . .”
Alongside Molon, Azor was beginning to reconsider his earlier obstinate opposition. Whatever was happening here, Jesse needed all the help he could get. Azor took out his aernote and, using the ‘dot’ and ‘dash’ keys, painstakingly began to tap out a message to Jesse. It was seriously annoying that they had to send messages in Morse code rather than texting, but with Grayson on Communications that couldn’t be helped. Despite his recent training, Azor was not terribly proficient in the old code, so precious minutes ticked by as he composed his comments.
Suddenly, just before midnight, a small explosion rocked the Dome. From what little Azor could see, it had taken place not far from Jesse and the Blue team. Azor stuffed the aernote back into his pocket and raced towards the scene of the blast. As he did so, out of the corner of his eye he spotted a purple flash and then . . .
Time reset.
SIX
Wapping, London, England, 8.45 pm Millennium Eve, 2045 GMT
Jesse stood on the deck of the eighteenth-century British ship of the line HMS Orion and thought, not for the first time, that the ship still looked stunning, despite its advanced years. And why shouldn’t she? thought Jesse. She survived the Battle of Trafalgar without too much damage and she’s mostly been safely moored at this indoor dock ever since I resc
ued her from the wrecker’s yard in 1814.
The Orion, headquarters for Jesse’s London-based operations, did indeed look to be in fabulous shape, protected from the elements inside a cavernous if increasingly derelict warehouse within the former London Docks area of Wapping. The 170-foot-long warship was firmly anchored, but still swayed in sympathy with the tides of the nearby river Thames, providing occasional challenges in choppy weather for those attempting to move about inside the ship. In Jesse’s opinion, such minor inconveniences were a small price to pay for the privilege of enjoying the comfort and style of the refurbished warship.
Jesse turned to look up and over the masts of the Orion, watching his newest and youngest trainee, Weebles, as she leapt through the air from mast to mast, using her four arms to grab secure handholds in the ship’s rigging. Thankfully, there were no sails to get in her way – they were safely stowed below.
At times like this, Jesse was glad that he still retained his prophetic gifts, otherwise, more than once he would have feared Weebles was going to miss the rigging and plunge to the deck below. It would have been somewhat embarrassing if Jesse had flown up to “rescue” her, only to find Weebles safely arrived at her intended target.
Suddenly Jesse frowned, reached into his pocket and withdrew a small metal device. A few moments later, a small bell attached to the device obligingly rang out, crisp and clear in the cool December air.
Weebles had never before seen such a device. She aimed herself at the rigging closest to Jesse, leapt towards it with heart-stopping abandon, snagged the right ropes almost without looking and then slid her way down to the deck beside him.
“What’s that?” she asked, peering at the small, mechanical – something – in Jesse’s hand. It seemed to be a small polished-brass box, with three typewriter keys on the top: –a dot, a dash and an O for OK, as Weebles would find out later.
As Weebles looked on, fascinated, Jesse took out what looked like a very old door-key, inserted it into the device and wound the key round and round several times. Suitably powered, the mechanism began emitting clicking, clanking and whirring sounds, followed by a flurry of muffled noises, like rain hitting a windowpane. Finally a strip of paper slid out of one end of the tiny machine.
Jesse tore off the paper and then tapped the “O” key. Responding to Weebles’ question, he showed the device to her and said “We call this an aernote. Grayson uses them for sharing messages.”
“Why doesn’t he just use a cellphone?” Weebles started to ask, then realized. “Oh.”
Jesse looked down at the young girl or, more accurately, at the poor child that New Phoenicia had turned into – what did the briefing papers call her? – a “hybrid plant/cephalopod”. Weebles might be only eleven, and not from around here – Jesse could tell that much from the four arms – but she wasn’t slow. A little green, sure, but only in skin color.
Jesse confirmed Weebles’ thought. “As you’ve just realized, Grayson sends aernotes because he can’t speak. Even so, he’s greased lightning on a Morse key. He’s not our usual Comms operator, but he’s just as effective at communicating with me and the others.”
“Ah,” said Weebles, “that’s why we all had to learn that silly code. Easy peasy, but pretty boring.”
“Boring?” asked Jesse. “Remind me to tell you sometime about its inventor, Samuel Morse, and the tragic tale behind the code. Anyway, the message I just received is an urgent assignment. Come along, you can help round up everyone.”
Finally, an adventure? Fantastic! Weebles was positively bouncing along the deck on her way to the control room, even before Jesse had finished talking.
A few minutes later, after Weebles had both alerted and annoyed most of the other trainees, they were all crammed together into the Orion control room. The room was dominated by what looked like a massive church organ but was in fact a highly sophisticated communications system, currently manned by trainee Grayson Ford. Grayson was a communications genius but socially awkward and simply incapable of speaking with others. Jesse had cleverly retrieved several aernote devices from the LOA archives, to enable Grayson to function effectively as part of the Orion team.
Once everyone was assembled, Jesse cut straight to the chase. “As you know, the Raiders are on their way to Moscow. I just spoke to Ravid, mind to mind. Their plane was very late taking off so it probably won’t land in Russia until shortly after midnight our time.
“Unfortunately, that will be too late. Grayson has just received a second message from LOA Russia. They’ve now learned that our preferred Russian presidential candidate, Viktor Zhukov, has just had a contract put on his life. It’s not definitely confirmed, but Russian branch believes that the assassin known as the Sheriff has accepted the contract.
“To make matters worse, Zhukov is over here in London. We don’t know exactly where he is right now, but he’s due at the Millennium Dome tonight for a private function. We’ll need to be there too. According to LOA Russia, the hit is expected before midnight tonight.”
By this point, Weebles was jumping up and down with excitement. “A party! I love parties!”
Jesse had to break the bad news. “I’m sorry, Weebles. You’re just too – well, young – to come along tonight.”
Jesse couldn’t quite bring himself to point out that a green, four-armed Weebles would be nearly impossible to hide in such an enclosed arena, and far too disruptive once noticed. Unobtrusive surveillance would be out of the question.
Weebles was of course devastated, but Jesse could offer no alternative, except to give her an aernote so that she could keep informed about the mission as it progressed. Weebles grumpily accepted the device, unimpressed.
The conversation then turned to the practical aspects of the mission. “We’ll take two cars. I’ll bring the Wolseley. Molon, is your night vision good enough for you to drive the Rover?”
Molon had limited long-distance vision, but he reassured Jesse that it was more than satisfactory for the well-lit London streets.
“Okay, then let’s get ready – this is a black-tie event. We’ll leave here just after 10; Zhukov isn’t due at the dome until around 11:30.” With that, Jesse dismissed the trainees.
Weebles, alas, was left with nothing to do but sulk.
SEVEN
The Millennium Dome, London, 11:56 pm yet again
Jesse quickly walked over to Natasha and Sophie.
“What happened that time, Natasha? What caused the explosion?”
“It must have been the Sheriff. Zhukov’s bodyguards had her surrounded. I assume she decided to take everyone with her. From the reports I’ve read, the Sheriff is a weapons and explosives expert. I doubt that explosion was an accident.”
“I don’t need to tell you that we cannot let this happen again. Our task has changed. We can no longer assume that Zhukov is the only one in danger. We now have to protect everyone else in here as well. What weapons do you have in the wheelchair, Natasha?”
While Jesse, Sophie and Natasha were taking stock of their combined arsenal, Cathair joined the group. He was the one who had grabbed the Sheriff two timeshifts ago. “I managed to make physical contact with the Sheriff and sense her chi. Her real name is Karyn. She is a trained killer, a mercenary, and, as you mentioned earlier, she has been contracted to kill Zhukov tonight – her client was most emphatic.”
“Really?” said Jesse. “I wonder why the urgency?” He left the others inventorying the weapons and instead focused his attention on Viktor Zhukov, whose bodyguards were once again stalking their deadly prey.
Jesse discarded Zhukov’s most obvious future, imminent death on the floor of the Millennium Dome, and began peeling back layers of possibility, examining a number of alternative futures that might otherwise lie in store for the charismatic candidate.
“Jesse,” called Natasha, “we’re running out of time. It’s nearly . . .”
“Wait, just wait.” Jesse brushed aside her summons, scrolled through Zhukov’s possible futures unti
l he was satisfied he’d examined the most likely outcomes.
Jesse took a deep breath.
Then time shifted again.
EIGHT
Grosvenor Crescent, London, 3 pm Millennium Eve, 1500 GMT
Indalrion Tay was bored. Twenty-two years old, rich and spoiled, Indalrion (“Indal” to his few friends) had a double pass to the swankiest event ever, tonight’s Millennium Dome party, but no-one to accompany him.
Samantha, his most recent “girlfriend”, had dumped him two days after Christmas, telling him in no uncertain terms what a jerk he was. Yes, even though he’d given her that diamond necklace as a Christmas present. Women!
Indal was half-inclined to turn back time and reclaim the necklace, but he was afraid that the most likely result would be that Samantha would dump him even sooner. And Indal had really enjoyed those two Christmas Dinners with her, firstly when his mother took them to lunch in that restaurant overlooking the new London Eye and then again for the Christmas evening meal with dear dad at The Cellars. Both those memories were very pleasant, and not worth disrupting, even for the ten thousand pounds that the necklace cost.
No, decided Indal, let her be. Who knows, I might find an even more stunning young lady at the Dome. If it turns out that we’re having a lot of fun together, I can simply turn back time and enjoy the experience over and over again.
On that hopeful note, Indal turned his attention to choosing his wardrobe. White tux or black? Or perhaps that blue one he wore to the Harvard Masquerade Ball? While he pondered his various sartorial options, Indal absentmindedly conjured up purple flames that flickered harmlessly across his fingertips.
Time Loop: An Outcast Angels Fantasy & Science Fiction Tale (Realms Of Our Own) Page 2
