by Alex Scarrow
‘Yes… Paul.’
‘The American people, it seems,’ continued Kramer, ‘have already acceptedthe way of things.’
Karl stirred uncomfortably. Except, of course, those troublesome peopleattacking the prison camps.
‘So,’ said Kramer, ‘shall we get on with this morning’s briefing? Ihave other matters to attend to.’
‘Of course. I have the usual stack of papers for you to sign; most of them areapprovals for regional state governors — sympathetic politicians mostly.’ Karlleaned over and placed the papers on the desk. Kramer got up from the window seat and sat downat the desk, flicking wearily through the forms and signing them absent-mindedly.
‘So much paperwork these days,’ he sighed.
‘The remaining US military forces regrouped in Texas have agreed informal terms forsurrender. I believe it’s General MacArthur who’s in charge there.’
‘Good… good. Silly their fighting on needlessly.’
‘He’s hoping that we’ll grant clemency for the senior officers, allow themto return to their families.’
Kramer continued scribbling his name as he talked. ‘To be honest, it’s the seniorofficers I don’t trust. Tell MacArthur his troops will be disarmed and allowed todisband, to go home. But I’m afraid he and his high command will be interned along withall our other political prisoners,’ uttered Kramer, leafing impatiently through thepapers. ‘Until, that is, I’m satisfied they won’t be tempted to lead anytroublesome uprisings.’
Karl shuffled uncomfortably. ‘On that subject… we are having afew problems in the Washington area.’
‘Hmm?’
‘Raids. Some insurgents attacking our prison camps.’
Kramer looked up at him, his pen poised.
‘Five camps have been raided so far,’ Karl continued. ‘The garrisons wereover-powered and quite a few detainees managed to escape on each occasion.’
‘I presume these insurgents are some rogue US army unit? How many of them are wetalking about?’
‘Well, there’s some confusion there, sir,’ said Karl awkwardly.‘Eyewitness reports on the earlier raids indicated a very small raidingparty.’
‘How small?’
‘Well, actually, just one man.’
‘What?’
‘Clearly it can’t be just one man. That would bemadness. But among some of the prisoners that we’ve managed to recapture there’s aspreading rumour that some sort of… of a superman… hascome to their aid. They describe a large figure off which bullets bounce — ’
‘A superman?’
Karl smiled. ‘Clearly it’s wishful thinking, a fantasy. The Americans have alwaysliked their comic-books, their heroic figures in silly costumes. It’s not unreasonablethat their hopes and prayers have taken the form of this kind of mythical figure.’
Karl was unsettled by the sudden look of distraction on his Fuhrer’s face, as ifhalf his attention was elsewhere, listening to a faintly heard tune, or a conversation comingfrom the room next door.
‘In all likelihood, sir, the insurgents may well be a small group of well-trainedsoldiers, US marines… US airborne, highly motivated and well equippedand so far they’ve just managed to be very lucky.’
Kramer nodded. ‘Yes… yes. Perhaps you’re right.’
‘Nonetheless, sir, I suggest it would be wise to double the garrison strengths on theother camps in the region. Too many successful raids like these might just encourage otherinsurgents to join in.’
Kramer was silent, his face clouded, his brows locked in a frown of concentration as if hewas trying to listen to someone else. Karl noticed he’d not shaved this morning, a faintblur of silver-grey bristles on his chin, and he spotted the slightest sporadic tremble in theman’s jaw. Small things that only a close friend would notice.
Small things that worried him.
He’s having some kind of a breakdown?
‘Paul? Are you all right?’
‘Yes… yes, of course,’ said Kramer absently. His gaze returned from whereit had been and focused back on to Karl. ‘Take what action you think is necessary withthese raids.’
Kramer hastily scribbled his signature on the last few sheets of paper, handed them back andoffered him a flickering smile. ‘Thank you, Karl. You may leave now.’
‘Yes, sir.’
He offered a clipped salute, turned on his heel and departed the observation lounge.
Kramer waited until he heard the footsteps recede down the hallway outside.
To work.
‘To work,’ he agreed, stepping quickly across the polished floor towards hisstudy door. He turned the brass handle and stepped through into his sanctum sanctorum: book-lined walls, several leather armchairs anda work table littered with drafting materials. It was very much a replica of his private studyback in the Reich Chancellery in Berlin, a place to think, to tinker with his weapons designs,to ruminate on empire-wide policy.
From his desk drawer he pulled out a little black notebook, the corners curled and scuffed,the pages of handwritten notes beginning to yellow with the years now. A precious book ofthoughts and ideas, theories and secrets. His younger handwriting so scribbled andimpatient.
In the year 2056, he’d been barely twenty years of age and such a devout fan of themysterious inventor Roald Waldstein. His reputation as an elusive genius, the one and only manto mathematically formulate a displacement field that could fold a gap through space-time. Theonly man to have actually tested the theory with a workingprototype. An honorary director of the International Institute of Quantum Research, and theAmerican Museum of Natural History, a wealthy entrepreneur, a scientific adviser topresidents… a complete enigma.
Kramer’s hard work and promising talent had earned him an internship atWaldstein’s prestigious New Jersey research centre, several months in the company of thegreat old man himself. Waldstein liked to be in the company of keen young minds. He’dtaken warmly to Kramer. The other keen young minds, jealous fellow interns, suggested thatPaul Kramer reminded the sentimental old man of the son he’d lost many years before.
Kramer smiled at the pleasant memories, those weeks with that great mind, earning hisconfidence, listening to his theories about how the unseen dimensions of the metaverse heldeverything together in a way beyond the comprehension of most human minds. Struggling to keepup with him, yet understanding just enough, parts of it fittedtogether in his young head.
The old man’s over-riding passion, though, what kept him awake lateat nights and fired him up with a preacher’s zeal, was to bury the technology he alonehad pioneered — the potential for time travel. To ensure absolutely no one followed in his footsteps. For Kramer, it had been frustrating to bediscussing with this great man his most advanced theoretical work and then for Waldstein tosuddenly grow cautious on the subject of displacement theory.
An old man. He must have been about sixty then, but he seemed so much older and frailer thanthat, with hands that shook and trembled constantly, and watery eyes that always seemed todart towards dark corners. And his bizarre rituals — every morning after breakfast,Kramer watched him shuffle towards a curious sheet of yellowing newsprint, framed behind glassand hung on his wall. Waldstein stared at it for several minutes every day with eyes thatleaked tears down his sunken cheeks.
Kramer had glanced at it once, nothing more than a page of personal ads from some oldnewspaper, lonely men seeking lonely women.
Waldstein was losing his mind… and in the quiet moments, sitting with young Kramerbeside the warming fire, he let slip perhaps a little too much. Old enough and perhapstrusting enough of Kramer to let him know a little more than he should have.
Kramer fingered his tatty old notebook now. Pages of mathematical characters and equations,the parts of the old man’s puzzle that he’d carelessly let go, interspersed withpages and pages of angrily crossed-out formulae that Kramer himself had worked on over theyears. Pieces of equation that he’d tried to squeeze into the spaces, to make right with Waldstein’s elegant w
ork… and that alwaysseemed to not quite fit.
He smiled at the notes scrawled across the draftsman’s sheet on the desk.
It fits together now, though, Paul. Doesn’t it?
Some of it did — the ‘Waldstein displacement field’. It had taken Kramer fifteen years on and off, thinking the problem over in his privatemoments. A personal hobby, an affliction, perhaps.
The field — the Waldstein field — in theory, on paper, was merely a method tocrack open the tiniest gap in space-time. That alone didn’t make a time machine, just away to open a peek-hole into the very fabric of space-time. Kramer needed computing power athis fingertips to make a time machine. Computing power to precisely navigate through theswirling chaos of a dimension that mankind had no business entering. There were no Apple Macshere in 1956, no PCs, no palmtops or organizers that could be cannibalized, adapted.
The schematic sketched out on the sheet of paper in front of him was for a device he couldconstruct merely allowing him to open a tiny window and tap infinite energy from the swirlingchaos beyond.
There’d been something Waldstein had once said to him: ‘To open time-space is toopen a door into Hell itself.’
You’ve been through that door before.
‘Yes,’ he uttered softly, ‘stepped into Hell.’ His voice trembledwith a mixture of fear and excitement. Waldstein had also once said something to a muchyounger Kramer, something that had unsettled him back then, and did so now.
‘Consider this, Paul… If a man can place a foot in Hell,then whatever exists there might just as easily use the same door and place a foot in ourworld.’
Those words tormented him now because he realized it was something far worse than some agentfrom the future after him. Something far more frightening.
You must hurry, Paul… before it seeks you out.
‘To work,’ said Kramer, pushing a forgotten plate of food aside on his desk.
CHAPTER 56
1957, New Jersey
Bob studied the map in front of him. A dozen crosses scrawled on the map indicatedthe locations of other prison camps between Washington DC and New York. Simple logic dictatedthat Liam O’Connor had to have been taken to one of these. So far nine of these scrawledcrosses had been paid a visit: nine prison camps broken into, searched and left behind in astate of chaos, prisoners surging out the way he’d smashed in, buildings on fire, thebodies of guards and unfortunate civilians littering the ground.
And so far he’d been unlucky. Nine camps… no sign of Liam.
[Mission evaluation: success probability reduced to 31 %]
The camps were becoming harder to break into. There seemed to be more guards stationed ateach now and they were more alert — ready and waiting to be attacked. After the lastraid Bob had walked away with at least a dozen bullet wounds across his body. It had takenfive days for the wounds to heal. Five days of lying still, devoting all of his body’senergy towards the process of recovering.
The small man who had decided to tag along with him, Raymond Panelli, had watched over him,taken care of him as he lay motionless in a state akin to suspended animation, healing. Bobwondered why Raymond Panelli would care to do that. For that matter, he wondered why a growingband of humans was following him around from camp to camp. With each of hisraids, he seemed to be picking up more and more of them. Tactically speaking they were, ofcourse, useful; they drew some of the enemy fire from him.
His stomach rumbled noisily and Bob’s computer brain reminded him that it was time torefuel his body with some protein. The food being served up by his growing band of campfollowers — a variety of stews, broths and soups — wasn’t as nutrient-richas the highly efficient protein solution he was used to consuming back in the fieldoffice’s birthing tubes, but it would do as a stopgap.
He folded the map carefully and emerged from his tent, stepping through the briar andundergrowth, stooping beneath the low-hanging branches as he made his way towards thecampfire.
As he approached, one of his followers hurried over to him with a steaming bowl of soup.
‘For you, Captain Bob, sir.’
Bob took the bowl and stepped towards the fire, finding a space on the ground amid the silentcrowd of men. They followed his every movement with wide eyes. He sat down heavily,cross-legged, stared at the flickering fire and began mechanically spooning soup into hismouth.
The human called Raymond Panelli leaned forward. ‘Captain Bob, we’ve gotourselves another bunch of fighters for the cause. Joined us just this evening.’
Bob stopped mid-spoon and looked up from the fire at him.
‘These guys right here,’ said Panelli, pointing out some men clustered near thefire. They stared in awed silence, clearly wondering what to make of the large muscularsuperhero in front of them.
Bob’s eyes panned across them, one to another. He identified tattered US army uniformson seven of them. They looked physically fit and by and large of optimumcombat age. More bodies for the enemy guards’ fire to be distracted by, more bodies forthem to aim at and fewer shots directed specifically at him.
[Mission evaluation: success probability increase +1 %]
Bob nodded. ‘That is good. With more men, probability of mission successincreases.’
A softly taken gasp rippled around the campfire at the timbre of his deep rumbling voice, acommanding sound.
One of the men, a young corporal, turned to Panelli. ‘Can… can I ask him, askCaptain Bob a question?’
Panelli gave it some thought, then nodded reluctantly. ‘Just one, OK? The hero needshis rest, needs to be thinking about our raid tomorrow.’
The young man swallowed nervously. ‘Excuse me, s-sir?’
Bob’s steel-grey eyes slowly swivelled towards him.
‘Word’s been spreadin’ across the state… you’re some kindasuperman, can be shot over and over, an’ never die.’
Bob stared at him silently, his face devoid of any emotion or reaction.
The young man’s lips twitched anxiously. ‘I’m… I’m a… Ibelieve in the Good Lord, and — ’
‘Well, that’s great, son,’ said Panelli, ‘but the captain’s gotbetter things to do than listen to your Bible-thumping.’
‘I gotta ask you, Captain Bob,’ the young corporal interrupted, ‘did Godsend you to save us, sir?’
Bob’s silicon mind momentarily suspended work on an array of mission assessmentcalculations to deal with the curious question posed by the young man. His computer offered alist of the most appropriate replies to the question.
The fire crackled noisily in the silence. Far away through the trees an owl hooted, as ifurging Bob to hurry up and say something appropriate.
He picked a biblical quotation from his database that seemed to have themost relevance at this moment.
‘When trouble comes, the Lord is a strong refuge. He will sweep away His enemies in anoverwhelming flood,’ he replied, his deep voice like a roll of thunder. Bob wasn’tentirely sure what the words meant, but it seemed to have a suitable effect on the mengathered around the campfire.
‘Amen,’ someone muttered after a while.
CHAPTER 57
2001, New York subway
Foster’s torch probed the darkness of the subway station. The beam picked outthe glint of twin metal rail tracks to their left over the edge of the platform and theglimmer of pools of stagnant water between them.
Further along the tracks Sal could see an old pram lying on its side, half in, half out ofthe water.
They could hear skittering sounds along the rails, in, around and under the rotting woodensleepers; the pattering of little vermin feet and the steady metronome-like drip, drip,drip of moisture from the curved tunnel roof above them echoed through thestation.
Along the tiled walls of the station’s platform Sal was fascinated by long-fadedadvertisement billboards. She passed by the faded image of a happy family gathered around atraditional oak kitchen table, all smiling, with well-scrubbed rosy cheeks, enjoying all thepleasures a tin o
f Colonel Johnston’s Oatmeal Cookies couldoffer.
‘What’re you expecting to find down here?’ asked Maddy.
Even though she spoke in little more than a tremulous whisper, her voice seemed to echoendlessly down the station’s walls and curved ceiling and off into the dark tunnelbeyond.
‘An emergency storeroom of some sort,’ whispered Foster. ‘I rememberreading that most of New York’s subway stations had back-up generatorsinstalled during the Second World War. Hopefully we’ll find one and, along with it, somecontainers of fuel.’ Foster looked back at them. ‘I know. It’s a longshot.’
‘I never knew they had an underground system back then,’ said Sal.
‘Yeah, of course they did,’ said Maddy. ‘I did a school project on the NewYork subway once. They started digging out the tunnels as early as 1904, I think.’
Foster nodded. ‘That’s right. Brought in Irish workers by the tens of thousandsto work on it…’ Foster was about to say more, but stopped himself.
So far, mercifully, they’d yet to encounter a single one of those creatures.They’d come across signs of them on the streets above: clusters of small bones, ratcarcasses, remains of cats and even dog carcasses. And of course, more ominously, here andthere discarded piles of larger bones, sometimes carefully stacked or arranged by size. Salfound that even more unsettling — the thought of several of those creatures sitting downand carefully sorting through the bones of someone they’d eaten.
She shuddered.
On 5thAvenue she thought she’d seen a pale face peeking out at her beforeit dipped back into the dark shadows beyond a department-store window frame. And on Broadway,the faintest slither of movement among some storefront mannequins, their plastic scorchedblack in places, fingers and thumbs little more than melted stubs. But she was prepared tobelieve she was mistaken. Preferred to believe that, in fact.
Mind you, if those things were really there, watching from the darkness, then at least theywere keeping their distance, still very much wary of Foster’s gun. She wondered, though,how long that would last. How long before insatiable hunger for theircomparatively plump, well-fed bodies would overcome their caution.
