by RR Haywood
Gasps sound in the room. Others stare in horror while some turn their heads away as the pictures on the screen change to show their offices and rooms filled with their own dead bodies clearly shot and killed. Tears flow, faces become instantly pale and Gunjeep shakes his head when the screen changes to the portal room and the sight of his own dead body lying next to the green shimmering light.
‘That,’ Mother snaps with anger radiating from her, ‘was done by Maggie Sanderson . . .’
The ripple of surprise spreads out. Muttered comments, heads shaking, people clearly in shock and struggling to understand.
‘A blueprint was found in the remains of Cavendish Manor,’ Mother says. ‘That blueprint was used to develop a time machine and this complex was built to house that time machine. I sanctioned that development along with Roger Downtree and the Prime Minister. Everything you saw on the news about me being discredited was to make Maggie Sanderson think we are in disarray and to deflect attention away from this project. Gunjeep, you built the device. Many of you have worked here since the project began and some have joined more recently as it reached the final stages . . . so you are all familiar with this facility and you know the security measures in place . . .’ She pauses, waiting to make sure they understand.
‘Settle down,’ Gunjeep says again. ‘We’re not dead now, are we?’ He tries to smile, forcing a weak joke that falls flat, but the quietness spreads once more as Mother continues.
‘Maggie Sanderson and her team came here and killed you all. We believe they kept one of you alive to operate the security system to wipe all the camera feeds. They then executed whoever that was and, at the same time, they appeared in Downing Street and killed the Prime Minister and most of the cabinet office, including aides and staff . . . QUIET!’ she shouts at the growing noise. ‘Maggie Sanderson told us not to build a time machine. We did. She found out and that was her response . . .’ She points at the screen, knowing the impact it will be having, cementing the fear within them. ‘It was determined that I would take control of the complex now,’ she continues. ‘To that end, I extracted Alpha from a mission I knew he was on before any of this happened. In turn he extracted the other agents who then extracted all of you.’
‘But . . .’ a woman says from the audience. Her face as stricken as everyone else’s, a shaking hand rising as though wishing to make a point, then looking like she instantly regretted calling out.
‘What?’ Mother demands.
‘They could come back,’ the woman says, sending another ripple of fear through everyone.
‘No,’ Mother says firmly, looking at Gunjeep.
The big man clears his throat and steps closer to the centre of the stage. ‘What none of you knew was that this complex wasn’t just built to house a time machine . . . This complex is a time machine. The same technology was fitted to the outside and has now been activated. We are currently about fifty million years in the past . . .’
Alpha shares a look with Bravo, both of them staying impassive as they watch the scientists and staff in the seats react.
‘Heavy stuff,’ Bravo whispers.
‘Say that again,’ Alpha replies. The agents were told everything as soon as they entered the complex, from Berlin to Cavendish Manor then to Maggie Sanderson finding this complex and killing everyone while murdering the PM.
‘Why didn’t they kill Mother?’ Bravo asks quietly while Gunjeep and Mother let the audience have a few minutes to absorb it all.
‘She was on the move apparently,’ Alpha says. ‘No precise location to fix on.’
‘Oh, I see. Damned lucky then, I’d say,’ Bravo says as the others nod. ‘I can see our Delta is eyeing up a few of the fillies in here.’
‘I’m bloody not,’ Delta whispers quickly.
‘Mucky sod,’ Bravo tells him.
‘Okay, settle down,’ Gunjeep calls from the stage. ‘From this point on the mission is live. This entire site is now sealed to the outside world and we are not going home until the mission is complete, no matter how long that takes, as per the agreements you all signed. None of you have families or children so we are in it for the long haul . . . Mother?’
‘Thank you, Gunjeep.’ She presses the tablet to change the image on the screen to those of Maggie Sanderson, Ben Ryder, Safa Patel, Harry Madden and Emily Rose. Each picture carefully selected to make them look hostile and angry, even brutal in the case of Harry. Images taken from archives or pulled from the satellite feeds of the assault on Cavendish Manor. A rogues’ gallery of criminals with hard eyes and scowling faces.
The five agents look harder at Tango Two. One of their own. Mother explained what happened, but still.
‘They are the enemy,’ Mother announces. ‘They have a time machine invented by this man, Bertram Cavendish.’ The screen changes to show an image of Bertie. ‘Our mission is simple. We will locate and kill them and recover or destroy the device they hold. We will not stop until that is done. They are not the saviours you have been told by the media, they are terrorists and we must lure them out . . . and mark my words . . . there is nothing we will not do to catch them . . . Terrorism knows no rules and for the purposes of this mission, neither do we . . .’
A heavy silence. Weighted and awful. The faces of Maggie and the others glaring out from the screen, people they all thought were heroes but who came here and killed them.
‘You can go and get a drink,’ Gunjeep says after a nod from Mother. ‘Be in your stations in one hour so the agents can be taken round for introductions . . . and one more thing before you go. The agents are active operatives. Do not ask their names. Do not ask them anything. If they want to talk to you, they will.’
‘Nineteen twenties, nineteen thirties . . . forties and so on . . . Each section is clearly marked for decade and nature of use, be that casual, formal or business . . .’
The agents listen intently, nodding and making sounds to show they understand, but then they all know Gerry. A small, neat man, fastidious in his attention, who was several years into his career with the BBC costume department when he was quietly approached by the British Secret Service to provide very discreet technical help with details of clothing, props and equipment for various missions.
‘This way,’ Mother says, holding the door open. ‘Thank you, Gerry.’
‘Anytime,’ Gerry calls out as the five agents follow Mother down the corridor to the next set of rooms.
‘Kate and Rodney, history department,’ Mother says, not bothering to knock before pushing the door open.
‘Hi!’ A pretty blonde-haired woman stands quickly from a desk filled with glowing tablet screens. The same woman from the audience, who asked if Maggie Sanderson would come back. She still looks shaken to the core but is clearly trying to be brave and friendly as the agents peer round at the shelves on the walls filled with old-fashioned books and the maps from different eras pinned to the walls. She looks nervously at the agents, her gaze lingering on the handsome Delta with his chiselled jaw and deep brooding eyes that have the whole pained, vulnerable snap-your-neck-with-my-bare-hands thing going on. Then she looks at Alpha, swallowing at the sight of him.
Bravo grins, striding ahead to shake her hand. ‘Well, hello, my dear. I say, do you like Italian?’
‘Jesus,’ Delta groans as Charlie and Echo chuckle quietly.
‘Kate is an expert in English and European history,’ Mother says. ‘We’ve got every event ever recorded at our disposal.’
‘Won’t it be relative?’ Alpha asks.
‘Relative?’ Mother enquires.
‘May I?’ Kate asks quickly, half lifting a nervous hand then dropping it when the five agents look at her. ‘So, er . . . Gosh, right . . . History is relative to the viewpoint of the one experiencing it, yes. And, er’ – she swallows, seemingly very aware of the agents’ hard gazes – ‘tests have shown us that even if we become detached from the timeline our history will always be our history. Does that make sense? It baffles the shit out of me. I said shit. I mea
nt poo. Not shit. Poo. Oh dear . . . I am so sorry.’
‘Understood,’ Alpha says as the other four agents give a single confirming nod. ‘Thank you, miss.’
‘Physics in there,’ Mother says, pushing open the next door to show several bearded men huddled over a table. ‘Don’t even bother speaking to them unless it’s life and death,’ Mother adds, closing the door without a single bearded man looking up. ‘Medical bay in there run by Doctor Holmes . . .’
‘Not Doctor Watson then?’ Bravo asks.
‘No, I just said Doctor Holmes . . . This is Gunjeep’s office.’
‘Chaps,’ Gunjeep says, ushering them in. ‘Everyone being nice, are they? I bet they are – the sight of you five is enough to scare anyone. The shock will wear off in a day or two and they’ll be back to the noisy, chattering sods they normally are. For my part, the only thing I really need to say is don’t break my fucking portal. Seriously, they are the nastiest, hardest most bastard things to make ever. We had a scrap of paper all burnt at the edges. Have you seen it? Did Mother show you? Look, it’s on my wall. Come on in and see.’ He points at a single sheet of paper pulled from the ruins of Cavendish Manor.
‘That’s it?’ Alpha asks, leaning forward. All five agents are intelligent, with developed skills in many areas, but four of them shake their heads, not understanding a word on the crumpled, marked sheet. They all look to Bravo, who lifts his eyebrows and blasts air through puffed-out cheeks.
‘I can follow maybe two or three per cent of that,’ he admits.
‘Heady stuff, that’s for sure,’ Gunjeep says. ‘And I tell you what, chaps, credit where credit is due for our British Secret Service. I had no idea Mother knew and that whole public disgrace thing was incredible. I feel awful now the way they did that,’ he says earnestly. ‘But all for the greater good, eh?’
The agents nod and make the same noises as Alpha clocks the tension in Mother’s face. Whatever they did to sell the ruse, that she was responsible for the failings has clearly taken its toll on the woman.
‘Living quarters down there for the general teams,’ Mother says tightly a few minutes later as they continue the tour of the brightly lit, well-ventilated, ultra-modern bunker. ‘All of the women here have been injected to prevent pregnancy . . .’
A nudge from Bravo to Delta as the other agents smile discreetly and follow Mother through the tour.
‘That’s enough for now. You’re all good at what you do, despite Berlin and Cavendish fucking Manor . . .’ She stops to glare, making them hold still. ‘We will be starting first thing tomorrow with a test on the timeline so we can fully grasp the complexities of what we are dealing with.’
The five wait, knowing Mother well enough not to interrupt without very good reason.
‘Your time is your own until then,’ she says curtly, walking into her office and slamming the door.
‘Great,’ Bravo says, the first to speak. ‘Coffee, chaps?’
Ten
The Bunker, Wednesday
Silence in the portal room. Harry stares down at his hairy legs poking out of the tight denim shorts cut down by Emily with a pair of scissors. He glowers, huffs, breathes out noisily through his nose and finally glances up.
‘Don’t look at me,’ Ben tells him bluntly, also in denim shorts cut from normal jeans. He fingers a shred of fabric hanging down and tries to yank it free but just ends up cinching the material together. ‘Cock it.’
‘This is shit,’ Safa mutters.
‘You look lovely,’ Emily says.
‘I don’t,’ Safa says. ‘Too baggy,’ she adds, tugging the material of the trousers out from her legs. ‘These are like pantaloons . . . I’ll take off if I run or kick anyone.’
‘Don’t run or kick anyone then,’ Emily says, the only one out of all of them feeling remotely comfortable.
‘You’ve cut Harry’s too short,’ Ben grumbles. ‘He looks . . . You know . . .’
‘What?’ Emily asks with an arched eyebrow.
‘You know what,’ Ben says, grumbling again.
‘Don’t be homophobic.’
‘I’m not being homophobic. I just meant his jeans are too short.’
‘You were going to say he looks gay,’ Emily says.
‘Well, yes, because he does . . . That’s not homophobic.’
‘It’s so homophobic,’ Emily fires back.
‘Alright?’ Malcolm asks, walking into the portal room with Konrad.
‘What the fuck?’ Ben asks as the others turn to look at the two workmen dressed in coveralls with tools belts hanging from their waists.
‘What?’ Malcolm asks, stopping dead at the looks.
‘We look like the Village People,’ Ben groans.
‘Now that’s homophobic,’ Emily snaps.
‘We’re in disguise as workmen cos, er . . . well, you know . . . it’s a workmen’s hut,’ Konrad says, pulling a wrench from his tool belt.
‘Least you’re not wearing the Widow Twankey’s pants,’ Safa says.
‘Are we looking for the YMCA?’ Miri asks, balking at the sight of them all as she walks in.
‘Is that a skirt?’ Safa asks, staring at Miri’s bare calves poking out from under the knee-length denim skirt.
‘Good observation, Miss Patel. Ben and I will take the lead with Safa . . . Hairy will . . .’ Miri stops to stare at Harry’s huge thighs bulging from the shorts.
‘Who?’ Ben asks.
‘Harry,’ Miri says, aware of what she just said and choosing to ignore it, which also means everyone else should ignore it.
‘You said hairy,’ Safa points out helpfully.
‘Harry will follow behind with Emily and keep line of sight on the gardener’s hut and the portal. M and K will remain within the hut ready to deploy back here. Clear?’
Miri activates the Blue and steps forward ready to go first as Safa does the same, the two women staring at each other in full expectation of the other giving way. Neither does.
‘Team leader,’ Safa states.
‘CO,’ Miri counters.
‘It’s a mission,’ Safa states.
‘Of which I am a part,’ Miri counters.
‘A part, not leading, Miri. I go first . . .’
A second’s worth of thinking and Miri steps back with a sudden switch to a warm grin. ‘Of course . . .’ she says happily as Safa goes forward. ‘Cannon fodder . . .’
‘What did you bloody sa—’ Safa snaps, her voice cutting off as she steps through the portal.
A few minutes later and the Village People covertly exit the hut to blend, by way of experience and disguise, into the local population in Hyde Park on a balmy summer evening. A place full of families with children chasing balls and older kids weaving and snaking through the strolling crowds crouched low on grav boards while older citizens ride the same things with wider platforms, seats and handlebars to hold.
‘Excuse me, Affa, can we get through,’ a woman asks, making them turn to see a smiling woman and man trying to get past with a hovering baby basket a few inches in front of them. They pass by with polite nods in a world that has moved on and evolved with a hundred or more fascinating things to see and watch.
Miri and Ben take it in with Ben pointing out things he saw earlier and Safa checking back towards the others with a snort at the sight of Harry looming over Emily in his tiny denim shorts and tight white top.
‘Third one,’ Harry mutters.
‘Third one what?’ Emily asks, looking round with interest.
‘Man.’
‘Man what?’
‘Winking at me,’ the big man says gruffly.
‘Oh no,’ she says, bursting out laughing. ‘Oh bless, you look so unhappy . . . Come here, hold my hand so people think we’re a couple.’
‘Hi there, Affa,’ a man says, nodding at Harry with a quick smile as he walks past.
‘Blimey,’ Emily says at Harry pulling her closer to his side.
‘Denial,’ the man calls back, laughing at Harry. ‘Re
volt and be happy.’
‘We’re together,’ Emily calls out, lifting her hand in Harry’s to show the man.
‘Sure. Did you choose his outfit, honey?’
‘Yes, I bloody did actually,’ Emily calls back. ‘Now piss off . . .’
‘UNKNOWN ADULT FEMALE. THE USE OF REVOLTING, ABUSIVE OR INSULTING WORDS IS PROHIBITED IN THIS PUBLIC PLACE.’
An automated female voice booms clearly from every direction making Emily look round in surprise as Ben, Miri and Safa stop and hold position, ready to abort and run for the portal.
Everyone else walks on, paying not the least bit of attention other than a few smiles and eye rolls. A few more tut and show irritation with nuances picked up on by Ben and Miri, but those nuances are directed at the automated voice, not the offender.
‘No swearing,’ Miri whispers.
‘It’s like that film Demolition Man,’ Ben mumbles.
‘Well, that was classy,’ Emily says sheepishly, walking with Harry over the grass towards a raised bank. ‘How is it I get told off for swearing and not Safa?’
‘You hear that, Kon?’ Malcolm asks, peering out the open door of the gardener’s hut. ‘They got a voice telling people off for swearing, they have . . . Kon?’
‘Huh?’
‘Kon, you can’t do that,’ Malcolm says in alarm, rushing back inside at the sight of Konrad taking the engine cover off the hover mower.
‘Benches,’ Miri says, making for a series of low wooden benches situated at the edge of the lake and close to the café seating area.
‘Bloody hell,’ Ben mutters to himself. He lowers down on the bench between Safa and Miri. ‘Seen that? In the café . . . now that’s clever.’
Ben stares over to a hatch in the side of the café building and observes a member of staff place a plate down on a tray, then tap something on a screen on the wall. As the worker steps back so the tray rises and sets off on a short unmanned flight across the café to the waiting table where it lowers with a piped automated voice warning, ‘Do not touch . . . do not touch.’
