by Alex Scarrow
CHAPTER 32
2001, New York
Maddy realized she must have been lost in some sort of a daze. The night had passed without her really even being aware of it. She vaguely remembered settling down in the corner of some bomb-damaged warehouse, gathering her knees to her chest for a little warmth and crying. She must have fallen asleep at some point and now it wasn’t daylight that had woken her up — it was someone’s boot, roughly kicking her side.
‘Hey, wakey, wakey.’
She looked up to see two men staring down at her. Soldiers, by the look of them. They both wore something that approximated a uniform: dark blue, almost black tunics; belts; buckles; pouches; and cloth slouch caps. She blinked back at the brightness, reached for her glasses and wiped dust from them.
‘Come on, sweetheart,’ one of them said. His face seemed to be mostly beard beneath the peak of his cap. ‘Gonna have to take you in, girl. Colonel’s gonna want to talk to you.’ He offered her a hand.
‘I’m sorry … am I … am I in the wrong place or something?’
‘Wrong place?’ Beardy-face laughed. ‘Hell, girl, the whole darned sector’s the wrong place.’
She let him pull her up. ‘I’m sorry … I don’t …’ She looked at him. Beneath his peak, his skin was dark, his cheeks speckled with grey stubble. ‘Am I in some sort of trouble?’
‘You’re a civilian in a front-line Union defence zone.’ He shrugged. ‘If the colonel reckons on yer bein’ a Southern spy, you gonna be in a whole world o’ trouble, girl.’
‘S’right,’ said the other soldier, pale as cigarette ash and surely only a couple of years older than Sal. ‘Had us a spy through this way coupla months back, didn’t we, Sarge?’
‘Uh-huh,’ replied the black soldier. ‘Weren’t no girl, though.’ He studied her suspiciously. ‘Either them Southern boys’re gettin’ clever, or they gettin’ desperate.’
‘I’m not a spy,’ said Maddy. ‘I’m just …’ She realized she had no answer that wasn’t going to sound utterly unconvincing. ‘I’m just … lost,’ she said finally.
‘Well — ’ he pursed his lips — ‘reckon we’ll be lettin’ Colonel Devereau be the judge a’ that, huh? Come on now, miss.’
The two soldiers led her through the bombed-out ruins on to a street temporarily cleared of rubble. She looked up at a warm morning sky dashed with pink clouds and for a moment savoured the warmth of the sun on her face.
‘You ain’t gonna run on me, are you, miss?’ asked the young one. ‘Only, we gotta shoot at yous if ya do, see?’
‘Hey now, Ray … she look to you like she gonna run?’
Maddy shook her head wearily. She wouldn’t know where to run even if she had the will to do so. ‘I’ll be a good girl,’ she said quietly. ‘I promise. What’s your name, by the way?’
The black man looked surprised at the question. ‘You lookin’ for introductions?’
She nodded. ‘I’m Maddy.’
He laughed. ‘Well, since you insist on bein’ all so formal an’ all. Name’s Sergeant Freeman, an’ this young drainpipe is Private Ray Calder.’
‘Fellas just call me Ray,’ grinned the young man.
Colonel Devereau sat down to enjoy his mug of coffee. A rare treat. Real coffee beans shipped in from some far-off exotic country. He was just beginning to conjure up the swaying palm trees and golden beaches and turquoise lagoons of some distant tropical French colony in his mind’s eye, stirred by the aroma of the strong black brew in his chipped enamel mug, when his adjutant rapped knuckles on the bunker’s metal door. The door rang like a tuning fork.
‘Yes?’ he sighed. The door creaked heavily open.
‘Sorry to interrupt, sir. Patrol in sector five picked up a non-combatant. A girl, sir.’
‘A girl?’ He made a face. ‘She out there in the corridor?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He sighed. Right …
He waved a tired hand. ‘Best bring her in, then.’
He picked up his mug again and held it beneath his nose, enjoying the smoky aroma once more, while outside he heard orders being barked down the concrete passage. A moment later the girl in question stepped over the lip of the doorway.
She looked a sorry sight: a bespectacled child, thin, pale and grubby. She was wearing what he would consider to be a workman’s trousers — faded blue canvas. And her top was a smudged white shirt with no buttons, or loops, or any sign of feminine embellishments of lace or ribbon, just a printed word.
Intel.
‘Take a seat,’ he said.
She stepped forward and slumped in the wooden chair in front of his desk. Very unladylike in her posture.
‘So, are you going to give me your real name? Or am I going to get your spy name?’
‘Maddy,’ she uttered. ‘Madelaine Carter. It’s my real name.’
He shrugged. ‘OK. There’s a start, then … Maddy.’ He took his first tentative sip, testing the hot water with a top lip covered in drooping bristles.
Maddy looked up at him, her eyes narrowing as she studied him silently. ‘You and your men are dressed up … like civil-war soldiers. Like from the 1860s or something. Except — ’ she shook her head — ‘I don’t see any muskets. Your soldiers have weird-looking assault rifles.’
Devereau laughed. ‘Good God … civil war! That’s a very old-fashioned term you’re using, young lady. Civil war? This war hasn’t been called that in well over a century.’
She frowned, puzzled. ‘You’re telling me that this … this is the same war?’
Devereau’s turn to look perplexed. ‘You’re asking me that, young lady?’ he said, pulling on the handle of his moustache. ‘As if … you actually don’t know?’
‘Yes.’
He sipped his coffee, swilling the rich bitter taste around his mouth. ‘So, I presume this is how you were instructed to behave, then … if you got caught? Hmm? To act the fool? To appear quite mad?’
‘You don’t know the half of it.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘Maybe I am.’
‘Well — ’ he put down his mug, spread his hands — ‘why don’t you tell me the half of it, as you say?’
‘You’ll only think I’m completely mad, or lying.’ She shrugged. ‘Because I’m not from this world, see? I’m from another world. Another time really.’ She shook her head. ‘What’s the point? You’re not going to believe anything that comes out of my mouth, right?’
He stroked his beard in silent contemplation for a full minute. ‘Here’s the thing … if I were sending you to spy on the South, I’d dress you anonymously. I’d pick someone who looked and behaved quite normally. You on the other hand, young lady, are neither.’ He pointed a finger at her shirt. ‘And it seems quite foolish to me to be putting that badge on the front of you. It would be a bit like a thief wearing an I AM A BURGLAR sign round his neck.’
She looked down at her sweatshirt. ‘Intel?’ she smiled. ‘Oh, you’re thinking it’s short for intelligence, right?’
He returned her smile. ‘Indeed. Military intelligence. You might just as well have put the word SPY on your shirt.’
‘Intel, they’re a manufacturer of silicon chips,’ she said. ‘In my world.’
He frowned.
‘Silicon chips? You know, like in computers?’
‘Computers? What is one of those?’
‘You serious?’
They sat in silence for a while. Outside the colonel’s bunker, a muted clunking of metal on metal could be heard starting up, machinery somewhere in the subterranean nest of rooms and passageways.
‘Well now,’ said Devereau, sipping his cooling coffee. ‘I’m halfway to believing, Miss Carter, that you’re not a spy, or, at the very least, if you are one … not a very good one. And that might just spare you from going in front of a firing squad.’
Her jaw dropped a little. ‘Firing squad?’
‘Ahhh, I see that seems to have focused your mind a little. Yes, I have ordered men to be executed, an unpleasant and occasional
ly necessary part of being a front-line commander.’
‘I … uhh … look, I’m not a spy! God no! That’s … that’s not me … I — ’
‘Actually, you needn’t be alarmed. I suspect as much. You really are far too odd, young lady. However … I think it’d be a good idea if you start telling me — ’
‘Time traveller!’ she blurted out. ‘I’m a time traveller! I travel through time!’ Then winced at how ridiculous that must sound to him.
Devereau could have laughed at her ingeniously novel reply. But he rather fancied seeing how well thought out her outburst was. ‘Indeed? Now … is this the same notion as is used in that famous work … The Time Machine?’
‘The Time Machine?’ Maddy’s mind raced. Yes, that old book had been written in 1895 — the correct 1895, that is. Perhaps even in this corrupted timeline the same author, H. G. Wells, could have been inspired to write the very same, or a very similar book?
‘Yes!’ she replied. ‘Yes … the technology exists to move backwards and forwards through time. Well — ’ she shrugged — ‘it will do. In the year 2044 they’ll work out a way to do it.’
Devereau nodded patiently. ‘And, let me see, you’re expecting me to believe you are from the year 2044, I take it?’
‘From the future, yes. But, actually, I kinda work in 2001. But not this 2001, if you see what I mean. A very different one.’
She was confusing him.
‘See, this is wrong. It’s all wrong! This … this … room, that ruined New York outside, this war! It’s all wrong. It shouldn’t be like this!’
‘Oh? How should it be?’
Maddy leaned forward. ‘Your side won! It won … over a hundred and thirty years ago! The North beat the South! America became one big nation. It became the world’s most powerful nation! Do you know this nation even managed to send a man to the moon?’
‘Miss Carter — ’ he smiled wryly — ‘you’ll never know how much I’d love to believe a fanciful story as that, but — ’
‘It’s true! Honest to God, it’s — ’
‘This nation is a mongrel nation, and that’s all it’ll ever be. Too busy fighting itself, state against state, brother against brother. And now — ’ Devereau lowered his voice to a more cautious level — ‘and now we’re all but governed by France and Europe … and the Southern Confederacy is little more than a mere colony of Great Britain.’
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘No. You’re so wrong! This … is wrong! There’s a correct history, a way it should go. And in the correct history the North wins in 1865. And do you know why? Do you know how it wins?’
‘Go on.’
‘Because it made the issue of slavery — abolishing slaves — a war aim. It decided to make that the main reason for the war. And it worked!’
‘Slavery?’ He shook his head. ‘There’s no slavery. There hasn’t been since, well now … since 1871 when the South signed an alliance with Britain’s King Edward VII.’
‘The South, the Confederates, don’t have slaves?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then … then why are you guys fighting each other?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s a question I ask myself every day.’ Devereau sighed. ‘Truth is, we’re underdogs of the British and the French. We’re fighting their war for them.’
‘My God … this is so wrong. This is all to do with Lincoln.’
‘Lincoln?’
‘A man called Abraham Lincoln. He was your president when the civil war started.’
Devereau shook his head. ‘There’s never been a President Lincoln — ’
‘Not in this timeline, no. But in mine — in correct history — it was his idea to make it about slavey! He’s the reason the North won the war!’
Devereau stroked his beard. ‘Now what a lovely idea that would be.’ He looked at her. ‘Timeline? What is that?’
‘It’s, uh, sheesh, it’s really hard to explain. It’s the way events in history go. They go in one way or another. We call each possible way in which a history happens a timeline. We have a machine that can transport you from one timeline to another.’ Maddy smiled. ‘You know, in my timeline this war ended in 1865. The North won and the states came together again. The United States will go on to do some incredible things …’ She held herself back from saying and some bad things.
Devereau looked down at the battered enamel mug in his hands and sighed, the deep wistful sigh of someone who wished he could share in this fantasy. Actually believe that it had a shred of truth to it.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘I can actually prove all of this to you. I really can.’
He looked up at her. ‘And how could you possibly do that?’
‘I’ve got things I can show you.’
The girl, this Madelaine Carter, supposedly from another time, another place, had walked into this room five minutes ago with a listless, almost defeated way about her. But now it seemed she’d found a spark of something inside; something quite infectious. Something he longed to feel himself.
‘What things?’
She grinned. ‘How would you like to see my time machine?’
CHAPTER 33
2001, New York
Becks stood up the aluminium shelving unit that had been knocked over by falling bricks. Picked up loops of cable on spindles, dusty old motherboards, a box of electrical components, electronic gadgets and gizmos brought back to 2001, all stamped with the W.G. Systems logo.
She set these things back on their shelves, tidy and orderly, just as they had been before the archway had landed in this timeline with a crash.
She found the broom behind the cracked perspex displacement tube and began methodically sweeping the fractured and uneven concrete floor, pushing the fallen bricks and mortar into a pile in the middle. She swept the broom with a rhythmic rasp in the darkness, her eyes adjusted to the faintest glimmer of moonlight that found its way through the cracks in the archway above.
Her eyes dilated in the dark and registered little. They were glazed over. From the outside, looking to all intents and purposes like someone in a deep state of shock. Traumatized. A lost soul seeking solace in the simple task of tidying up.
But inside her head the silicon wafer computer hummed with activity, lines of code chasing each other in tireless loops as she tried desperately to make sense of the situation she was now in.
Alone.
Maddy was gone. There was no strategist. There was no team. There was not even a field office any more. This dark hole was nothing but dust-covered second-hand furniture, an old high-school desk and a row of computers that more than likely were never going to work again.
[DATA]
She shook her head. She didn’t want to acknowledge the data.
[DATA]
She closed a silicon-synaptic data gate, not wanting the machine code to tell her what she already suspected. That somehow this was all her fault. That she had provided inadequate information or, worse, inaccurate information to Madelaine Carter causing her to make an erroneous judgement call. That the team was now no longer operational.
She and Bob had both failed to apprehend the target: Abraham Lincoln. She realized that was perhaps the first error in a string of errors that had led them to this point. And now she was here sweeping bricks in the dark.
[DATA]
The stream of hexadecimal data had found another way through the myriad circuits to get her attention.
[Assessment: end-of-run condition = TRUE]
End-of-run Protocol
Extract hard drives from system computers. Destroy
Retrieve tachyon phase accelerator and displacement attenuation boards from displacement machine. Destroy
Self-terminate
The protocol left no vital technology behind; all the rest, the computers, the growth tubes in the back, the generator, even the rest of the displacement machine, used circuitry that could be assembled from components bought from any electronics store. The question was … was t
his really an end-of-run condition?
She looked around at the dark corners of the archway. Her memory spooled a million different moments from the last few months of stored data:
The first time she’d made a hot drink for Maddy and added coffee granules, tea leaves and chocolate powder, not realizing the hot drink was meant to be just one of those, not all of them.
The time Liam had got her and Bob to play Mario Kart on the Nintendo and they’d spent seven hours straight playing on the machine, beating Liam to last place every race.
The first time she felt something that was more than the code of her operating system or her AI plug-in. In the prehistoric past, a moment of … affection? When Liam had told her that she wasn’t a mistaken addition to the team. That she’d done well. That the team should have two support units in it. A Bob and a Becks.
Sal teaching her swearwords in Hindi, and Mumbai street slang. She had a whole database of curses and insults she could hurl, could sound as convincing as any other put-put rickshaw driver in the downtown smog.
She even had her ‘borrowed’ memories as Bob; they felt almost as real as her own: duplicated video and sound files of Bob observing the assassination of President John F. Kennedy from the Dallas book depository; Bob making the choice to search every internment camp in the Washington area to find and save Liam.
Hadn’t Bob changed a mission priority then? Actually decided his own mission priority? Rewritten code?
She stopped sweeping. Stood statue-still in the dark, the broom still held tightly in her hands. Her internal clock passed the better part of an hour with her frozen like that before, finally, a string of characters broke the deadlock.
[Assessment: end-of-run condition = FALSE]
She stirred, looked up from the floor.
Mission Priority
Damage assessment, recovery analysis
Locate and retrieve Strategist Madelaine Carter
CHAPTER 34
2001, somewhere in Virginia
