by Alex Scarrow
‘I’m going to read you what I found,’ said Liam. He shuffled closer to the fire in the middle of the room.
After exploring the deserted hamlet, they decided to settle in the kitchen of a farmhouse. Aside from the chapel, it was the largest building around. They found a pantry full of old dust-covered tins of food. Everything else in there had long ago perished or been scavenged by rats or wild animals.
Now, as the afternoon sun waned and a cool wind began to whip up over a decade’s worth of dead leaves, they had a fire going in a rusting brazier as Sal, Lincoln and Liam hungrily spooned at mouthfuls of a tepid, tasteless stew.
Liam put down his bowl and picked up the old dog-eared child’s school exercise book he’d found in what had clearly once been a young boy’s bedroom. The brittle pages were covered with the untidy pencil scribbles of Liam’s handwriting.
In the farmhouse they’d come across a study lined with shelves full of books and magazines and a stack of old newspapers tied up with twine.
He looked up at Sal and Lincoln, both eager to hear what notes he’d made. Bob, meanwhile, stood in the corner of the kitchen, the shotgun nestling in his thick arms, looking out through a grimy window across a backyard full of weeds.
‘Now, we know in correct history the American Civil War was meant to end in 1865.’ At least Liam did — he’d been reading up on that period of history a few weeks ago. He’d surprised himself with how much of that information was still in his head. Better memory than he thought he had. ‘The deciding battle of the war was the Battle of Gettysburg. In correct history the Confederates lost that battle badly and the army of southern Virginia under General Lee never really recovered. Well …’ He looked down at his notes, flipped through a couple of pages. ‘Well, in this timeline, it seems they managed to win. The Union army retreated back to Washington in disarray. And — ’ he looked up at Lincoln — ‘President John Bell’s government made a hasty retreat north to New York to make that city the new seat of government.’
‘You are implying that President Bell, that man … should have been me?’
‘Yup.’
Liam returned to his notes. ‘So, after the Union defeat at Gettysburg, Great Britain finally comes out in open support of the Confederate South.’
‘So they were already on the South’s side?’ asked Sal.
Liam shrugged. ‘Kind of. Not openly, though, just helping a little, discreetly.’
‘Why secretly?’
‘Slavery. The British public were appalled by it. They’d demanded its abolition at home years earlier. And because the South still used slaves Britain couldn’t bring themselves to fully support them. But, on the other hand, the British felt threatened by the growing industrial power and influence of the North, the Union.’
‘All that changed when, after Gettysburg, the British made an offer to Jefferson Davis …’
‘And who’s this Jefferson Davis?’ asked Lincoln.
‘The Confederate’s president. The offer was a clever one …’ Liam fumbled through the pages of notes he’d made this afternoon and finally found the paragraph he was looking for.
‘To … announce the first measures of “a post-slavery economic reformation”.’
Lincoln’s eyes widened. ‘Good God! An end to slavery in the south?’
‘The beginning of the end. It was enough of a gesture,’ said Liam, ‘for the British public to allow their government to openly ally with the South.’
‘And this Confederate President Davis went on to put an end to slavery?’
Liam nodded. ‘So it seems. There was an uproar among all the slave owners in the south, of course. But then when convoys of British ships stuffed with money and food and weapons started arriving, I suppose the poor common people of the South figured out maybe supporting the arguments of the rich slaveholders wasn’t doing them any favours!’
‘1865,’ Liam said, looking down at his notes. ‘Davis announces the Freedom Act. It made it a crime for one man to be owned by another. There were still many who claimed by doing this the southern states’ economy would completely crash. That freed slaves would kill their former masters … run riot in the streets.’
Lincoln raised a shaggy eyebrow. ‘And did they?’
‘No.’ Liam shook his head. ‘It all seems to have worked out well. By then, though, British money and troops and supplies were flooding in. The Confederacy held together and the freeing of slaves was not the end of the world for them … as they’d feared.’
Sal leaned forward. ‘So go on.’
‘The year after, in the north, President Bell made a similar announcement, the Proclamation of Liberty. Which looks like it was almost, word for word, a copy of the South’s one. But it was enough of a gesture to encourage the French and several other European nations to put their support behind the North.’ Liam looked up from his exercise book. ‘And from that point onwards the war wasn’t about slavery any more, because both sides of the struggle had turned their back on it.’
He put his notes down and reached for his bowl of stew. He hungrily spooned in a mouthful.
‘So, that as far as you got?’ asked Sal.
He nodded, his mouth full. ‘I’mnnn goinnnnn to mmmeeeed sommme mooore ’ater ommm,’ he sputtered, juice dribbling down his chin.
Lincoln gazed into the flames in front of him. ‘I have, I must admit, not dwelled a great deal on the notion of slavery. Just that it is the way of things. The order of things. That a white man is better suited to spend his time on matters of the mind, the black man to be merely a beast of burden. Just like a farmyard, every beast has its particular role to — ’
‘Chuddah!’ Sal’s jaw hung open. ‘How could you actually believe something like that?’
Lincoln stroked his bearded chin thoughtfully. ‘It is a commonly held perception. After all it is white men who enslaved black men with their superior technology. Is history not the story of more advanced races and civilizations conquering other — ’
‘Oh, right! Does that make me a beast of burden?’ she said sharply. ‘Because my skin’s brown?’
‘On the contrary.’ He shrugged casually and offered her a well-intended smile. ‘Despite your brown skin — being a half-negro? A mulatto? — it seems quite clear to me that you are in fact a very bright child. I — ’
Liam winced at Lincoln’s choice of words.
‘Ughh! I don’t have to listen to this!’ Sal placed her bowl of stew on the floor and stood up. ‘People like you don’t exist in my time! It may not be such a great time but at least we don’t have to listen to … to ignorant pinchudda like that!’ She turned away and stormed out of the kitchen.
Lincoln looked at Liam, perplexed. ‘What is the matter with the girl?’
‘The way you said what you said. It … well, it could’ve come out sounding better.’
Lincoln’s brow lowered into a dark scowl as his gaze returned to the fire. ‘I meant praise by what I said.’
Liam finished his stew and set his bowl down. ‘We should all get some sleep if we’re to get going again tonight.’ He got up. ‘Bob, how long have we got until it’s dark?’
‘Four hours and fifty-two minutes, Liam.’
‘All right, will you wake us up then?’
‘Affirmative.’
Liam headed out of the kitchen’s back door into the weed-strewn yard to find Sal sitting on a squeaking swing.
‘You all right?’
‘He’s a racist!’
Liam stood beside the frame. He rested his hand on its paint-flecked surface and felt its unsteady sway. ‘He’s from 1831. That’s the way people speak and think back then. They didn’t know any better. He didn’t mean anything nasty by it.’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve never been … never had something like that said to me before!’ She looked up at him. ‘I feel like he’s just rubbished me … my parents … everyone I’ve ever known, just by saying what he said. Judging people by the colour of their skin!’
‘I think he was trying
to be kind.’
‘Kind?! Jahulla …’
Liam shrugged. ‘Ah well, I’ve been mistaken for Welsh before, would you believe? I’ve heard many a silly Englishman lump us Irish, north and south, Welsh and Scottish even, altogether in the same pot. Imagine that?’
And many an Irishman confused the Chinese with Japanese, he mused. Quite probably many a Chineseman confused Turks with Persians; and many a Persian confused Celts with Saxons.
He reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘Come on, Sal. Let’s go back inside. We need to get a little rest, so we do … before we start out tonight.’
CHAPTER 35
2001, New York
‘You realize, young lady, that this is the dead zone?’ said Colonel Devereau.
She stopped and turned. ‘Dead zone?’
He pointed across the landscape of ruins leading down towards the East River. Beyond the river’s smooth dark water lay the skeleton of Manhattan. ‘We’re just about within range of their snipers. One of them might try and take a potshot if he’s bored enough.’
‘What?’ Maddy ducked down to the ground, her bound hands crossed over her head. Neither Devereau nor any of the other soldiers moved. A murmur of laughter rippled up and down the patrol line as they watched her fidgeting on her haunches.
‘Relax,’ he said. ‘It’s well beyond accurate range. All the same …’
He took off his forage cap, reached to his side and unclipped a carbine bayonet, popped the hat on the tip and raised his arm, sweeping the hat slowly in a figure of eight.
‘What are you doing?’ hissed Maddy. ‘You’re attracting attention!’
‘Indeed … I’m signalling the enemy.’
Maddy looked up at him as he stepped forward across the rubble, up on to the top of the low uneven wall of loose bricks. In the stillness, broken only by the tidal lapping of poisoned water nearby, she expected a shot to ring out and this reckless officer to drop, headless, like a butcher’s carcass.
Across the river, her eyes picked out faint movement, the glint of metal.
‘There,’ he said, stepping down. ‘They’ll spread the word on their side. We should be safe from potshots for a while.’
‘But — ’ she got to her feet — ‘but that’s the enemy, isn’t it?’
‘I know the colonel over there. Pleasant enough fellow.’
‘Know him?’
He sighed. ‘We’ve been staring over this wretched river at each other for years. Decades, actually. We meet once a year … for Thanksgiving.’ He turned to his men. ‘Don’t we, Sergeant Freeman?’
She recognized the bearded man who’d found her earlier this morning. ‘Aye, sir.’
‘A chance for the boys on both sides to let their hair down.’ Devereau pulled up some field glasses and inspected the Southern lines briefly. ‘In fact, a … couple of years ago, East River froze right over … the lads had a snowball fight.’
‘Whupped ’em good too,’ said Sergeant Freeman, grinning.
‘Indeed we did.’ He lowered his field glasses. ‘A good day,’ he added wistfully. He turned to her. ‘Now then, you say your “base” is here somewhere. And this miraculous time-travelling device of yours?’
She heard barely concealed amusement in his voice.
He’s humouring himself. For a moment she wondered what her fate was going to be if she failed to convince him that the broken machinery in the archway was what she said it was.
And what about Becks? Presumably she was still sitting inside awaiting further orders, or perhaps she was nearby, watching them even now. She wondered how the support unit would act once she spotted Maddy in cuffs being led towards the archway by men with weapons.
‘It’s around here somewhere,’ she said, looking across the wasteland towards the collapsed remains of the Williamsburg Bridge. That was her only way of orienting herself. The only landmark she could recognize. ‘Not too far from the support-works of that bridge over there.’
‘Right.’
‘I have a … a friend over there, though.’
Devereau looked at her sternly. ‘You’re not alone?’
‘Look, she’s not a spy either.’
‘Is she armed?’
Maddy shook her head. ‘No … no weapons, but she … well … she can be dangerous.’
Devereau seemed amused by that. ‘Twenty men … I think between us we can handle an unarmed woman.’
‘No … really,’ said Maddy, ‘trust me, she’s really nothing like me. She, well, she can be kind of deadly. I should call out to her first. Let her know it’s OK.’
The colonel eyed her suspiciously for a moment.
‘I won’t call out for her to run or anything … I promise.’
He stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘All right, then. But, to make it perfectly clear, I hear anything out of your mouth that sounds like a codeword or a warning, I shall be inclined to shoot you.’
‘Right. I promise.’ She cupped her hands round her mouth. ‘BECKS!’ Her croaky voice echoed off the shattered corner wall of a nearby warehouse; it bounced and reverberated through the rubble and maze of half-standing buildings, through dead Brooklyn, fading slowly like the memory of a dream. Finally, there was only the mournful whisper of a breeze teasing a window shutter somewhere to clap insistently against a rotten frame.
‘It’s Maddy! Are you there?’
Her voice faded.
‘It’s OK … I’m OK … these soldiers aren’t going to hurt me!’
Nothing but the far-off clatter of the shutter, the tidal hiss and draw of the languid East River nearby lapping at the shore.
‘It appears that this friend of yours has abandoned you,’ said Devereau.
Maddy shook her head. ‘No, she wouldn’t do that. She’s out there somewhere,’ she said, pointing towards the ruins of the bridge. ‘There’s this big shallow crater over there somewhere and our archway’s at the bottom of it. If we go a bit closer …?’
It was then a solitary sound caused Devereau’s men to drop to their knees and raise their carbines: the clatter of a loose slate tile sliding down a mound of rubble. Then silence once more.
‘Becks?’ Maddy called out again. ‘Is that you?’
The men were looking in all directions, up and around at the broken walls and exposed half-floors of gutted buildings, perfect positions from which a sniper could pick them all off. She heard some of them racking their carbines ready to fire, the click of safety nubs coming off.
‘Becks? You there?’
The stillness was broken by another sound of movement, the direction confused by echoes bouncing off the pockmarked walls of buildings either side of them.
‘Why did you leave me?’ a voice echoed across the stillness. The colonel and his men were turning, looking around nervously — here, there, everywhere — trying to determine where the voice had come from. It sounded almost sexless. Neutral. Unwelcoming. Almost hostile.
‘Becks? Where are you?’
‘Your departure was … inappropriate.’
‘I … I’m sorry, I just … I dunno what happened, Becks. I freaked out, I guess.’
A long silence.
‘Becks?’ Her cry faded to nothing, leaving Maddy with an unsettling thought flitting around in her head.
Becks doesn’t sound right. She sounds different. Her voice, normally so clinical, so reassuringly logical, seemed to carry the hint of a human emotion in it. Anger? Resentment? She’d never heard that in Becks’s voice before.
‘Becks? Please … come out!’ She glanced at the soldiers — all of them it seemed were fingering their triggers anxiously.
She’s spooking them.
‘Please! Tell your men not to shoot if she comes out,’ uttered Maddy to Devereau. ‘She won’t hurt anyone. I’ll instruct her not to.’
‘Instruct her?’ Devereau’s eyes narrowed. ‘You make her sound like a guard dog.’
She ignored him. ‘Becks! Please! Come out slowly! These soldiers aren’t going to hurt you or m
e. They’re not a threat!’
A few moments later the fading echo of her voice was answered with the sound of clattering rubble and then Becks’s face emerged from the gloom of the corner of a bombed-out basement to their right.
‘There!’ shouted one of the soldiers, and a moment later the air was split by the crack of two rapid-fire shots. A plume of cement dust exploded from a breeze block beside Becks’s head as she clambered out of the darkness into the pallid daylight.
Sergeant Freeman immediately bellowed a cease-fire.
She stepped forward down a slope of rubble towards them, unperturbed by the near-miss, her cool grey gaze on Maddy alone.
‘Raise your hands where we can see them!’ barked Devereau.
Becks approached slowly until she was no more than half a dozen yards from them, then stopped, calmly evaluating the threat level of the soldiers for a moment.
‘Becks!’ said Maddy. ‘It’s fine! These guys are friendly … just show them your empty hands!’
Becks slowly raised her arms and opened her hands to show her palms, then turned her attention on Maddy, cocking her head curiously. ‘Why did you leave me?’
She seemed to need an answer, as if nothing more could be discussed until the question was answered satisfactorily. Maddy could imagine the software in her head was stuck on a loop of code, running over and over in an infinite circle, unable to escape it until it had some relevant data to process.
Best to be honest with her.
‘I … I just wanted to go home. I …’
‘Information: you are not permitted to leave the agency.’
‘Come on, Becks, cut me some slack here! You said everything was all smashed up! Didn’t you?’
Becks nodded. ‘Affirmative.’
‘Well!’ Maddy shrugged. ‘So, I suppose I figured … I thought our team was all finished. That’s why I — ’
‘A mission is still in progress.’ Becks’s gaze flickered across Devereau then back to her, ‘and there is still a time contamination event that must be corrected, Maddy.’
‘Yeah? And how’re we supposed to do that, huh? Some other team’s going to have to sort this one out, because we’re totally freakin’ ruined, aren’t we?’
