by RR Haywood
That is the ace up her sleeve.
Twenty
The Island
Hot sunshine beats down from a deep blue sky above gorgeous turquoise waters lapping at the shore. Trees, bushes and ferns dapple the island. They shield their eyes from the glare and adjust as they emerge from the cave.
‘BERTIE!’ Malcolm shouts with an edge to his voice that most of the others haven’t heard before.
‘Don’t be cross with him, Malc,’ Konrad says, still squinting. ‘It’s not his fault.’
‘He left his sister for two bloody years, Kon.’
‘He’s autistic,’ Konrad says in explanation. ‘And Ria said he put the date in wrong.’
‘BERTIE . . .’ Malcolm shouts again.
‘MALC . . . KON . . . BENHARRYSAFAEMILYMIRI . . .’ The voice comes from behind them, making them turn to see Bertie standing on a raft waving like crazy with his hands above his head a few dozen metres out to sea.
‘BERTIE, YOU NEED TO COME HERE RIGHT NOW,’ Malcolm shouts.
‘There’s no point, Malc,’ Konrad says. ‘He won’t understand what he’s being told off for.’
‘He will bloody understand. He’ll understand he needs to get his head out of his backside . . .’
‘COMING, MALC AND KON AND BEN AND SAFA AND HARRY AND EMILY AND MIRI . . . DOCTOR JOHN WATSON IS DEAD BUT RIA SAID I’M NOT ALLOWED TO GO AND GET HIM BACK . . .’
‘How’s that raft moving?’ Harry asks. ‘Tide is going out but he’s coming in.’
‘No idea,’ Ben says as the others watch Bertie on the flat raft moving towards them through the water, but without any obvious signs of propulsion. ‘Probably sellotaped it to a bloody dolphin,’ Ben says.
Bertie dives into the sea, going deep and long before surfacing to swim easily across the last expanse of water, then surging upright to his feet and running through the shallows with water pouring from his tanned and toned body and a huge grin spreading across his face. He hasn’t seen them for ages and ages. Like ages. He has so much to tell them. Like, so many things he has thought about and new ideas and fresh ideas about old ideas. Then he spots something in the long grass bordering the shore and all thoughts of everyone are gone in an instant.
‘ISAAC!’ he cries out and veers off, laughing with glee while grabbing something to lift that he turns and brings closer to his face. ‘Look!’ he says, showing the others. ‘Tortoise . . . I called him Isaac Asimov.’
‘See?’ Konrad says to Malcolm. ‘There’s no point telling him off, Malc.’
‘Well,’ Malcolm huffs.
‘You’re still hung over, you grumpy sod . . . Ah, shit . . . we left the bags of kit in Milwaukee . . .’
‘Milwaukee?’ Miri asks.
‘His idea,’ Malcolm blurts, pointing at Konrad while stepping away.
‘How did that raft move, Bertie?’ Ben asks, strolling over to look at the tortoise.
‘Haha, like, totally . . . OHMYGOD, I’ve got to show you this . . . come see . . . er . . . Hang on, I’ll just put Isaac Asimov down over here, no over here . . . Um, no . . . he can go here . . .’ The child in him shows as Bertie bends forward at the waist and gets caught in a loop of trying to decide where to put the tortoise down until Ben intervenes gently.
‘That’ll do, mate,’ Ben says, helping him lower the animal, who seems nonplussed about being hefted and shown about, but then tortoises aren’t known for their complex facial expressions.
‘So cool,’ Bertie says, standing up to grin at Ben.
‘What did you want to show me?’ Ben asks.
‘What?’ Bertie asks.
‘You just said,’ Ben says. ‘You said “I’ve got to show you this . . .”’
‘What?’ Bertie asks. ‘Isaac Asimov?’
‘No, after that. You said . . . Never mind. How are you?’
‘Fine, thank you, Ben Ryder. How are you? Ria always told me to ask the other person how they are.’
‘You’ve been alone for a month,’ Ben says. ‘Have you . . .’
‘No.’
‘Pardon?’
‘No.’
‘No what, Bertie?’
‘No, Ben Ryder.’
‘No, I mean what are you saying no to?’
‘One month.’
‘Right. Ria said you were here for a month before you went to find her.’
‘Seven weeks, two days and’ – he pauses to squint at the sky – ‘thirteen and a half hours . . .’
‘Right,’ Ben says, rubbing his face. ‘Bertie, I’m going to ask you a question.’
‘Totally,’ Bertie says, nodding quickly.
‘How did you get the date wrong? You left your sister at the bunker for two years.’
‘So, like, you know, I was working the date out when Isaac started eating my fish I caught and I was, like, “Hey, stop eating my fish, Isaac” and he was, like, totally eating it and I smudged my writing so, like, when I made the new portal and I was, like, totally going to get Ria, but I couldn’t read what I had written because Isaac had eaten the fish so . . .’ He stops to blink, then smiles.
‘Okay,’ Ben says wearily.
‘Did I do something wrong?’
‘No, no you didn’t, mate. You did well,’ Ben says, offering him a tight smile.
A day of jarring sights and weird things that tax their already tender heads made sore from the heavy night’s drinking and they traipse with a heavy tread to the shack in the clearing as Bertie chatters on at top speed, his arm looped through Emily’s.
‘. . . and, like, I was totally thinking it needs an upstairs because what if someone wants to stay the night and Doctor John Watson was always sleeping here but in the hammock so I made a new level, but Doctor John Watson is dead now, but when he comes back he can see the . . .’
‘Jesus,’ Emily whispers at the sight of it. A whole new level built on the shack with a rough-hewn staircase fitted to the side of the building going up to a new door. Shutters on the glassless windows and an apex roof covered in a dark, even coating of what looks like sun-baked mud.
‘Do you like it, Emily? You can use it too,’ he says earnestly, his attention solely on her and her alone, but Bertie does that. He pours everything into the person he is talking to, as though their very opinion means life or death for him.
‘I, er . . . I love it,’ she says, trying to sound eager and happy, but looking as jarred as everyone else.
‘Bertie?’ Konrad asks. ‘Where did you get the wood from to build that?’ He points at the new level in the shack as Bertie grins at him.
‘Trees.’
‘What trees? The trees here are . . . Well, they’re still here . . .’
‘Mainland,’ Bertie says, pointing off towards the west without looking.
‘Did you use that raft to get the wood here?’ Konrad asks.
‘Oh, totally,’ Bertie says. ‘S’anti . . . haha! Isaac Asimov mated with a lady tortoise, but the gestation period takes, like, forever.’
‘What?’ Konrad asks as Bertie rushes off into the shack.
‘He meant anti-grav,’ Safa says. ‘That lawnmower engine Konrad nicked from London. I bet he used that.’
‘Jesus, Safa,’ Ben says. ‘How did you work that out?’
‘Cos I don’t overthink stuff like you eggheads do. Bertie, where are the drinks?’ she asks, striding into the shack.
‘Jesus, is anyone else’s head spinning a bit?’ Ben asks.
‘Just a bit,’ Emily says.
‘We need to talk,’ Miri says, pulling a packet of cigarettes from a pocket.
‘Ben!’ Safa calls from the shack. ‘Come here . . .’
‘What’s up?’ Ben asks, walking in to see Safa rubbing her shin while playfully swiping at Bertie with her other hand.
‘I walked into that,’ she says.
‘What?’ Ben asks as Malcolm and Konrad walk in behind him.
‘Look properly,’ Safa says.
‘At what?’ Ben asks, then finally sees it. Two black objects hang
ing just below head height from the ceiling and two more poking up from the floor.
No strings. No rope. Nothing. Ben pushes his hand over the top through where the string should be but there’s nothing. The other one is the same too. Two small black round things, each a quarter the size of tennis balls, weirdly shaped and made from either moulded plastic or some kind of resin. He looks down to examine the other two of the same size and design, then steps back to see that the way they hang forms the shape of a doorway. ‘Fuck . . .’ He reaches out to touch one and finds it holding position. He tries to push it gently, but it doesn’t move. He pushes harder, but still it doesn’t move.
A shadow falls in the room as Harry looms in the doorway, then steps aside to let Miri in.
‘What are they?’ Safa asks Bertie, flashing a hand out to tweak his nose, making him giggle and laugh like a child. ‘Tell me before I do it again,’ she says, hovering her hand in front of his face.
‘Portal,’ he laughs.
‘Tell me properly,’ she warns with a smile.
‘It’s a portal . . . I made it for Miri . . . Do you want to see it?’ he asks eagerly.
‘Better be interesting,’ she warns, letting go of his hands. ‘If I yawn you’re getting it . . .’
‘Okay, okay . . . look . . .’ He grabs a tablet from his desk, pressing the screen, which makes a shimmering blue light form instantly between the four objects hanging in the air.
‘So?’ Safa says, starting a mock yawn. ‘We’ve got one of them. Boring!’
‘No, Safa! I’ll show you . . .’ He presses the tablet to end the blue light. Another press and the four objects collapse towards each other where they come together as one round object that makes Ben realise why they were shaped so weirdly. A perfect ball now hangs in the air and he snaps his head to Bertie’s desk and the other identical round black balls being used as paperweights.
‘See?!’ Bertie tells Safa. ‘And look . . . I can do this . . .’ He thumbs the tablet, which makes the ball fly at him as he reaches out to catch it, but Safa moves faster, grabbing it quickly and bringing it into her hand to stare at. She holds it as though examining it, glancing at Bertie, who gives fresh giggles each time she looks at him. She can feel the weight of it and gently tosses it into the air to see gravity now working as it goes up, then comes back down in the way a ball should.
‘It’s just a ball,’ she says, throwing it up in the air again.
‘It’s not . . . Throw it.’ Bertie giggles like a child, enraptured by Safa and completely unaware of everyone else watching with intense focus.
‘Fine.’ Safa chucks it lightly towards the back of the room. The ball moves as it should do: sailing up with the momentum of the throw, then reaching the apex of the climb before starting to plummet. Bertie presses the tablet and the ball splits into the four parts that shoot out to form the same size and shape as before. A second later and the Blue comes back on. Hanging in the air and bathing them all in the light.
‘Where is it open to?’ Safa asks. ‘BORING,’ she shouts when he starts to answer, making everyone else laugh at the sight. Miri thinks back to the grav boards and the things they saw hovering in London and suspects that what Bertie has done is way beyond even that technology.
‘It’s not live,’ Bertie says quickly. Ben pushes his hands through while leaning round the edge of the sliver of thin light to see his hand coming out the rear.
‘Enough?’ Safa murmurs quietly.
‘Yeah,’ Ben says. He glances at Miri, who stares back with a strange expression. ‘At least we know how to ask him stuff now,’ he adds. ‘Deploy the Patel.’
‘Deploy the Patel.’ Safa laughs. ‘I like that . . . Did you hear that, Bertie? Eh? Deploy the Patel on your nose. What now anyway? We might as well get the doc back.’
‘Not yet,’ Ben says.
‘Oh god,’ Safa groans. ‘Not this again . . . We’re not leaving him for a month so you can have a poo and think about it.’
‘Twat,’ Ben chuckles. ‘Emily, chuck us a bottle, please. Cheers . . . Where did these come from anyway?’
‘Ria must have got them,’ Safa says. ‘Loads of stuff in the back but all the labels are different. It’s really weird. Like seeing something you should recognise but it’s not the same.’
‘Rio was like that,’ Emily says. ‘All the beers behind the bar and the other drinks, then upstairs they had old posters and signs for drinks and things . . . Didn’t recognise any of them.’
‘Upstairs?’ Safa asks. ‘What were you doing up upstairs?’
‘When me and Harry . . . Oh piss off,’ she snaps at Safa, who’s bursting out laughing.
‘How’s your eggs?’ Safa asks.
‘I don’t know,’ Emily says icily. ‘How are my eggs, Harry?’
‘Ach,’ the big man says deeply with a blush spreading across his face.
‘Ben, find out where Ria got the supplies from,’ Miri says. ‘Everyone else get a drink. We have a lot to go through.’ She walks out and finally lights the cigarette she was holding in her hand and after decades of service in the most extreme of situations even she feels the shock of it. It’s too big. Way too big. Dropping a nuclear bomb on London is a statement of intent and Miri knows in her gut exactly who did it and why.
In the shack, the Blue comes on, shimmering into existence as Ben passes the controller to Safa and steps into the cave to see daylight pouring in through the opening and moves down and through the gap to look at that amazing view stretching out.
‘I said don’t come here.’ A dull voice from above and behind him makes Ben spin to see Ria perched on the top of a big flat rock above the cave opening, the rifle across her lap and that same passive-aggressive expression etched on her face.
‘How did you buy Bertie’s food?’
‘Trade.’
‘What? Where from? When from?’
‘Don’t question me, Ben.’
‘Sorry, Ria. Been a long day . . .’
She stays quiet, staring out across the vista and showing no signs of being interested in anything he has to say. ‘There was a dead guy in the bunker wearing Nazi clothes. I traded the jacket.’
‘When, Ria? Where?’
She looks down at him, holding that impenetrable gaze for several long seconds. ‘Twenty-one eleven . . .’
‘What!? Ria, what are you doing?’ he asks in alarm as Ria stands up, yanks the bolt back and aims down the scope into the vast plains.
‘I made Bertie recover the co-ordinates you used for Hyde Park. I went to the far end and walked down.’ Her voice comes out flat and dull with statements made instead of conversation given. ‘I saw Emily by a tree and Harry in that hut smoking . . .’ She goes quiet, still as rock and holding position for what seems an eternity. The shot, when it comes, makes Ben flinch. The noise is immense. A solid boom of a fifty-calibre round being fired at high velocity, which spins away through the gaps in the herd to slam into a leathered and feathered predator leading a pack towards an errant youngster left isolated by its mother. The creature screeches in alarm at the sudden pain. Ria adjusts the aim and fires again, killing another one before the pack burst away in fright and the air starts to fill with the deep brays of alarmed herbivores calling out. Ria studies the area, seeing the things filter back into the dense undergrowth at the edge of the plain and out of sight. Only when she is sure they are gone does she lower the rifle and look down at Ben. ‘The cops came and killed you all. I saw you all die . . . so I came back, got my rifle and got you out before that happened. Happy now? Or is that misusing the device? Is Miri going to execute me now?’
‘Shit,’ Ben whispers to himself at the thought of what she saw. ‘You saw us die?’
‘Yep.’
‘Thank you,’ he says simply, not knowing what else he can say to such a thing. ‘I, er . . .’
‘There’s an antique shop across the river in what used to be Lambeth. The settings are in Bertie’s device. The guy who owns it paid good money for that Nazi gear. I u
sed the credit chip to get Bertie what he needed.’
‘Credit chip?’ Ben asks.
Ria lifts the rifle to view through the scope, sweeping from far left to far right before slinging it to the rear and jumping lithely from her rock to a path that winds down the side of the hill. Every movement is assured and confident and she leaps the last few feet to land easily on the hard earth in front of the cave.
‘I need to go now. Don’t come back.’ She sets off towards the herds still braying in alarm.
‘Ria, please,’ Ben says.
‘What?’ Ria snaps, turning to glare at him.
‘What’s a credit chip? How did you . . . ?’
‘If I tell you, will you go away?’ she asks, striding back at him. Not towards him, but at him. Aggression rippling from her whole manner. Her hard eyes seemingly blazing with energy, with a look so similar to Safa when she’s been fighting that it makes Ben gawp in silence. ‘Deal?’ she demands.
‘Deal,’ he says.
‘Don’t come back here.’
‘Not unless we absolutely need to.’
‘By twenty-one eleven the advanced countries of the world use a credit system.’ She speaks clearly but in a hard voice. ‘People get credits for work. Same as money, except it doesn’t exist. It’s virtual. The problem is those countries still want tourists from other countries to visit so they use credit chips. Like currency exchanging. Tourists pre-load a credit chip to use in places that have the shared credit system. The guy in the antique shop gave me a credit chip. It’s unregistered, which means it can be used by anyone. Some of them are linked biometrically and can only be used by the person they were assigned to . . . but black markets still exist. The world will always have fucking bastards in it . . .’ She stops talking as though aiming the accusation at him. ‘Someone dropped a nuke on London in nineteen forty-five. Did you know?’
‘We just found out,’ Ben replies, stunned to the core by the woman talking to him.
