Quantum Poppers (26 page)

‘John Johnson
has come home,’ said the man behind Tony.

‘Why has he
come back now?’

‘For an overdue
explanation,' said Bartley. He turned away from the screen as the figure
continued to wave and yell. ‘Frank, come with me.’

‘Yes sir,’ said
the new addition who almost saluted before halting his incessant pacing and
stepped out in the corridor in wait for Bartley.

‘Tony, stay
here.’

‘Stay here?’

‘Yes. I need experience
on this. I’m sure your youthful enthusiasm will come in useful afterwards, but
for now, I must face him alone.’

‘He looks like
he wants to rip your head off.’

‘I’m sure he
does, but the reason he is here is for answers. Not only will I tell, I will
show him.’

‘What, all
this?’

‘Not quite.
Just enough information for him not to destroy our universe. I’m sure he
doesn’t want that. Do you?’

Tony didn’t
reply, just gave an accepting nod and turned back to the monitor. John had
calmed, probably exhausted, and was now looking away from the camera towards
the end of the alley from where he came.

‘I’m sorry
John,’ Tony heard Bartley say. ‘Let him in,’ he then said to Brian.

Brian returned
to his computer and keyed in a command. Tony could still only see the black and
white image of a man seemingly more calm, but at the stroke of the return key
on Brian’s computer the man paused, and turned. He glanced up to the camera
which now remained still, even zoomed in slightly on the man’s upturned face.
He looked below the camera at something new. He breathed heavily, before
walking forwards and out of shot. Brian hit a key again, shutting the door.

‘If our
calculations are correct, this meeting will avert the disruptions we’ve been
receiving for so long. Afterwards, lunch, and then your career will begin. I
promise.’

Bartley headed
out of the office to the waiting Frank. They turned left towards the door and
the staircase which took them down to the basement.

Back inside,
Brian began making a coffee, topping up a cup with three quarters milk and at
least three sugars. There was movement on one of the monitors. What looked like
a deserted hotel room grew lighter as if the door had been opened, bathing the
room in a gentle glow. It was still too dark to make out many of its features
(not helped by the black and white display) but one thing it did show were legs
laying on the foot of the bed. They grew into prominence as light from the
doorway swept over them. The owner sat up, his face not visible as he muttered
words to whoever was at the door. Brian paid no attention.

‘Drink whilst
we wait?’ said Brian.

‘I’m good
thanks.’
That bloody princess is jumping all over the place.
He hoped
she was. ‘So what do we do?’

‘We do what we
always do - we wait.’

Tony could see
Bartley and Frank descending stairs at pace and then fly past a camera that
appeared to be set in a circular corridor within the basement. He couldn’t
believe his luck, it was simply him and Brian alone.

The general hum
of servers and the coffee machine releasing pressure from its valves was joined
by the sudden ignition of a printer. The motor whirled into life and the steady
hum of its wheels turned to produce a printout. Brian removed it from the tray
and glanced over it casually before placing it on his desk. It was joined by
the coffee cup which splashed a few brown stains on to the sheet. He picked it
up and attempted to wipe the worst onto his jeans. ‘Another successful return,’
said Brian who keyed in some strokes to his keyboard with his left hand whilst
waving the sheet for Tony’s eyes with his right.

‘What’s that?’

‘Each time a
successful extraction takes place, this system registers it. All details -
personnel, popper, location, where and when - are recorded to our database. A
hard copy is automatically printed and I attempt to piece together a pattern,
with the hope of one day being able to forecast them.’

‘Like the
weather.’

‘Yes, forecast
them as accurate as the weather. Which basically would mean saying, there’ll be
some popping tomorrow...possibly, and if there isn’t, fall back on the old
classic of how this isn’t an exact science.’

‘Can I see?’

‘Of course.’
Brian pushed his chair to the side as Tony squeezed in next to him. The system
was Windows based but the only program open was a general database. Search
fields for names and dates appeared with a current empty window for results.
‘This is q-MAN - our quantum management system. A fairly simple database of
where all our information is recorded. We can view all previous pops, all
current open jobs.’

He pressed a
combination of buttons. The screen displayed an image that looked like a
waveform. A red line ran horizontally through the centre as a jagged green line
ran almost in tandem to it. The graph was continually updating as time passed,
each second the green line shimmered minutely around the zero state. To the
left of the screen, just about to exit, was a jagged peak that almost touched
the top of the screen before returning to zero. Tony watched it disappear as
time continued to pass.

‘This,’ said
Brian, ‘is the most basic output The Device shows. A graphical representation
of the space-time continuum, complete with disruptions. At present all is
relatively calm. That peak that just went off screen was the successful return
of candidate’ - he glanced at the paper - ‘Ricky Woodland who joined us back on
the plain four minutes ago.’

The screen then
returned to its more rudimentary database layout. Within seconds Brian had
brought up Ricky’s details showing age, address, plus a box labelled
unaware
which had been ticked. Across the top of this record in bold green type was the
word
successful
.

Brian typed in
a search name of Kelly Simpson and a similar looking entry appeared, again this
was successful and had taken place six years ago. Tony noted the
unaware
box for this one wasn’t ticked. ‘Here, feel free.’

He pushed the
keyboard over to Tony before glancing up at the monitors - each remained static
and silent and there was no sign of anyone, except the continual image of the
receptionist now polishing her nails.

Tony brushed
the keyboard with his fingertips before typing in the most natural name of all:
Tony Ward. It returned no results. ‘You’ve clearly never been popped,’ said
Brian. ‘I searched for myself the first time I was shown the system. I was
stunned to find I had been; the unaware box was ticked.’

Tony then
searched for Bartley Robinson. This name did produce a result, an aware jump
from around fifty years ago.

'Thought you’d
try that,' said Brian. ‘He was one of the first recorded, was added after the
automatic system was created for reporting and testing purposes. Tony continued
to search a few more random names, including friends, family, the occasional
celebrity, most producing no found results. He mentally took note of the
details of the ones he did find. Brian glanced at the last name he had
searched. ‘Bet you never thought he’d have jumped. The quantum alignment
seemingly has no preference to race, colour, creed, or in that case, royalty.’

‘We’re all
susceptible,’ Tony echoed.

‘With varying
results.’

Tony pushed
back from the desk to view the monitors in order to capture Bartley, to try and
maintain perspective. The quantity of information was bordering on torrential.
It was as if he was floating out into an ocean of information and beginning to
lose his depth.

‘Do we all get
one of those portable time travel gizmos?’

‘Are you
referring to The Device?’ Brian opened his desk draw. It was swamped with
papers but on top of it lay one of the portable devices, like a discarded
office accessory rather than the world altering technology it was. ‘We all get
one, I just don’t get to use mine much. Company policy though, in order to
maintain constant and immediate extraction from any potential time travelers.’

‘May I?’

‘Go ahead.’

Tony picked it
up. It was identical to the one which Bartley had sent him back to Emma with.
He felt the weight in his hand and noted the workmanship of its design. It was
sleek black and metallic and Tony wandered which government department got the
contract to mass-produce these.

‘For the most
part they’re automatic,’ said Brian, ‘but we can obviously program in
destinations via the display.’ He then took it from Tony, tossed it up in the
air and caught it with clear disregard, as if it were a lowly TV remote control
before dropping it back into his draw. ‘I’m sure you’ll be getting one soon.’

‘Would be
pretty cool.’

‘Right, that’s
my cue,’ said Brian who stood.

‘Cue for what?
Is it all about to kick off?’

‘Only in my
pants. Bathroom,’ he said. ‘Too much coffee.’

And with that
he left, leaving Tony alone in the office with its gentle hum. The monitors the
only source of light, ensnaring him in their radiating glow. Tony sat, newfound
knowledge swirling in his mind like a cyclone as he stared at the centre
monitor. Figures, one of which was Bartley, could be seen walking the corridors.
They reached one door in particular before disappearing into darkness.

Without pausing
to talk himself out of what he did next, he opened Brian’s desk draw, picked up
The Device, and left the room.

The only thing that John was aware of
as he ascended the steps, was a sense of freedom. There was something
liberating about him choosing to return to the scene of torment and ill-will,
and whilst the faces of Jessica, Jennifer and Caroline each battled for
prominence within his mind, the sense that this was the right thing to do was
the clearest thought of all. He couldn’t go on with the constant fear of the
unknown. He couldn’t live a life that could be taken away from him so freely
again. And what it may ultimately lead to in duration would be constantly
clouded by his incessant need for the truth.

He had crossed the road in a daze.
Traffic was light but it didn’t stop him from coming in close contact with a
couple of unwary drivers.

He soon saw the barrier over which he
had leapt. It linked a network of walkways which roofed
a car park and an alley
which faded to darkness the further it protruded away. He had paused after
crossing the road to gaze up and play over everything that had happened since.
In the short space of time he had been away, not only had he deduced another
had replaced him, but he himself had been irrevocably changed forever. He began
to walk along the alley, noting the silence and darkness which even in daylight
had nested here, unable to flee. There was no light source the further in he
went and it wasn’t until he was halfway along that he noticed the metallic
staircase. Up it he climbed to reach the level from which he had jumped and
once more noticed the view of buildings and traffic he once thought would be
his final sight.

The raised
concourse led him closer to that door, echoes of his name being shouted
returned. It was as he turned into the final straight that he noticed the first
camera. He knew there were plenty trained on him but this was the first to be
clearly visible. He stood under its gaze at one end of the walkway; at the
other stood the door to the complex from where he had first tasted freedom
after his year of solitude. Another camera stood sentinel by the door. He
glared at it from a distance, almost attempting to see through it and to
whoever may be at the other end. Between him and the door lay the discarded
remnants of the alley as it was. He imagined the cameras and staff that would
sweep the area for trespassers who wandered up here, but left largely untouched
for verisimilitude purposes of those housed within. Bins, rotting garbage, and
graffiti flanked the alley – all were enclosing walls of dirt to lead him along
the final steps. The lack of security at this point also felt like one last
push from these people to allow him to reach that door. There was no backing
out now, and with slow but purposeful steps he edged forward.

His eye
sporadically flashed from door to camera and back again, half expecting it to
burst open with armed guards led by Bartley, leashing him, bringing him down in
regimented shouts and grappling moves, whilst in acceptance he, John, pleaded
for an explanation. But the closer he got, the more he knew this would not be
the case. He realised he had been spotted when the camera tilted - it had
sensed his movement of passage. Perhaps it was only motion sensitive and had
picked up a body approaching, or maybe those inside were onto him, guiding the
camera to follow this stranger’s return home. He stared at the camera before
adrenaline and an overburdening need for the truth took control.

He slammed his
fist upon the door, which being as severely bolted as it must be, didn’t budge.
No rattle or loose shake, just a solid thunk. The pain of hitting a solid metal
door not even registering in John.

‘Hey, I know
you’re in there,’ he shouted, first to the door then up to the camera.
‘Bartley, open up, now. You owe me.’

He waved his
arms over his head to indicate to whoever may be watching that he was here with
a purpose, not just a rogue element who had stumbled upon the unprotected
alleyway. He banged again on the door, each movement targeted by the camera
which panned and tilted, like a solitary head on a spike, following, judging.

‘Bartley, I
know you’re in there. Here I am. There was a time you couldn’t be without me.
Someone even opened fire on me last time I was here, and now nothing? I know
you want me back. Well here I am. Bartley, open this fucking door!’

He slammed his
fist harder than ever upon the metal, pain finally registering, and he stepped
back holding his bleeding knuckles in the palm of his other hand. His heavy
breathing almost reached a point of hyperventilation.

‘Please,’ he
whispered, this time only to himself. He calmed by casting his mind back to the
last twenty-four hours with his family, easily the happiest and on some level
simplest time of his life. It was as if only now had he realised this was all
he ever wanted - all he ever needed. The potential to cheat on Caroline and the
kids with Kerry, with anyone, were the actions of a madman. The idiot he no
longer was. And with this thought came the first realisation of what he was
doing. Was he jeopardising all this new found love and affection for a few
solitary answers that he wouldn’t even need? He could go home now. If Bartley
or his team came, then they came. But they must know where he lived. And they
must know he was here now. The silence told him that. This could all simply be
a silent warning to stay away, all would be well. If they wanted him then they
would have taken him by now.
Get
out
, this silence said.
Your
time with us has ended. Live your life
. The only side effect being that
word: why? Constant doubt into what the hell had happened. He turned, his back
to the door, one thought in his mind. If he truly was happy now with Caroline
and the kids, then who cared? Some good had come of his incarceration; he had a
life to lead. Who really cared why certain things had transpired if he was
finally happy.

The snap of
bolts unlocking triggered a release inside him, and from the faint light which
emanated at his feet he sensed all his considerations melt in one foul swoop.
He turned back to see the door open, the camera trained on him, almost daring
him to enter. He glanced at what little of the corridor he could see, then up
to the camera - knowing it was just an extension of Bartley. He was watching,
he was waiting.

John was close
to tears as he walked through the door and it automatically slammed shut behind
him.

He had never
seen the corridor so dark. On the few times he had been able to experience
freedom (the freedom of a lengthy corridor rather than the width of a room) it
had been brightly lit, always containing at least two other people to guide
him; making sure he went exactly where they wanted him to. Whilst he still
believed this was happening now, the corridor was dark. It was dimly lit by
minute green LEDs that lit a path along the floor without actually giving
luminance ahead. From these lights he could see the bend of the corridor as it
faded clockwise around a corner, orbiting whatever the complex housed within.
He walked carefully. Not afraid of threat, but hesitant as to what he expected
to be told. Perhaps his desired explanation would turn out to be more
problematic than the random thoughts he had built to house his suffering.

Around him hung
a gentle hum and the occasional vibration of a wall mounted light, itself not
supplying enough luminescence to be entirely useful. He knew that above him
hung fluorescent strips which would almost blind him if triggered now. There
was a dead stillness in the air, as if the very building was holding its breath
for what lay ahead. He passed door after door, each unlabelled and closed. He
didn’t need labels to tell him which door he was searching. It was surprising how
quickly he had grown accustomed to this place when he was prisoner. Always
finding his way back to his exact room without the help of his captors. Perhaps
that was why he had learned so quickly; the thought of them doing anything
positive for him was almost perverse in this world of theirs. Finding his way
home was all the power he had, and a right any man should attain.

The door was
shut and conflicting thoughts as to whether or not he wanted it open pressed
upon him as he reached out to it. Without pause he turned the handle and
pushed. The door swung open. Again the room was dark, the security lights of
the corridor were not strong enough to illuminate what was hidden within. Yet
stepping in was easier than he would have imagined. Not knowing whether this
was the path he was supposed to be taking, he still strode in with purpose,
reaching for the desk lamp which lay on a side table and flicking it on with a
well rehearsed swipe.

The room was
almost unchanged. In his two weeks away the layout had not altered, yet there
were signs of life. The bed was unmade. A glass of water sat by it and a musky
and familiar odour plagued the atmosphere indicating the place had recently
been frequented. The room however was empty. No guards charged him down or
appeared in time to lock him in. Even the sense of being watched had seemed to
drift from him, perhaps because the cameras in this room had always been less
obtrusive, but perhaps he really was alone in this facility and his return
would be for nothing.

Back in the
corridor he continued to follow the dim lights that looked like fallen green
stars upon the floor. It continued to curve, almost to a point where he must
soon return full circle to where he had started, before a glimmer of light
faded into vision around the bend. It was as if a vertical sunrise was
welcoming his journey's end.

Only now,
walking these corridors free of fear, near trance-like, did he question how
large this complex was. The circle he had lapped must have been at least half a
mile in circumference. He had never questioned it before, but now,
understanding the context of this maze from the perspective of an outsider, it
must flank out under all nearby buildings, across the road, out towards the
front of the building and beneath the foundations of all those that stood
around it. Whatever was housed within its core must have been huge. He assumed
whatever it was would be physically great, but perhaps it was only
theologically huge, a core which housed an idea more than a technology. And
this didn’t take into account the doors that stood off the corridor to his
right, away from the circumference. Even if these only contained similar rooms,
perhaps more hotel-like prison cells like the one he had been so close to
referring to as home, then it greatly increased the size further. A jagged
sphere, with pinpoints of rooms located beneath Bressingham Town, hidden from
an unquestioning public.

The light ahead
grew brighter as he neared. It emanated from a door to his right, one of the
doors leading away from the core and the epicentre of the circular, literally
never-ending corridor. He approached it, uncertainty over whether or not he
actually wanted any answers increased. It stood open, its contents for now
still blocked, just another blind alleyway leading to a future. Without
breaking stride he entered.

From what he
could make out, the room was vast, yet the bulk of it faded to darkness as only
a row of lights immediately inside lit his peripheral vision. Just enough to
spill out into the corridor like liquid. Dust mites flew in the air and his
footsteps echoed in the approaching darkness as he ventured forward a couple of
steps.

‘Bartley,’ he
called, and stepped in even further. Uncovered floorboards creaked in
submission under his weight and the walls and ceiling drifted into focus as his
eyes grew accustomed to the dark. ‘Bartley,’ he repeated.

Half expecting
the room to light up he eventually stopped when, if anything, the darkness grew
thicker. He was now standing on the edge of where what little light there was
hit a barrier of darkness. The door behind him remained open, offering an
optimistic sign of hope. It was a way-out, he hadn’t been completely imprisoned
this time.

‘Who’s that?’
came a voice from the darkness. It was eerily familiar, like the odour back in
the room. It too echoed, its sound creeping around John alongside the shadows.
‘Is that you Bartley?’ it asked.

‘No,' said
John. ‘Who is this?’

‘I don’t...’
was all the voice could say before the lights above suddenly exploded in high
contrast beams. Shooting away from overhead, rows and rows of industrial
halogen bulbs snapped on one after the other, lighting the length of the room
to show its true length; the size of a couple of tennis courts, but which in
darkness and silence had seemed so much larger. But John didn't care about the
size of the room, not even the door behind him as it slammed shut coupled by
the footsteps of at least one person entering. All that mattered was the figure
standing in front of him. Dressed in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt stood the
man who had cared for his children for the last year, the man who was fathering
his child. At the other side of the room stood John Johnson, a being who was
the exact double of himself, right down to the confused and scared expression
he had worn for days on end when first imprisoned within this place. They
paused, each looking at the other, no sound, sharing identical thoughts as well
as features, but it was John’s twin who reacted first - with a smile and a
shrug which deflated his taught stance and relegated his fear and confusion to
annoyance and humour.

‘What is this?
Some kind of sick joke? Bartley, Bartley, where are you?’ said the twin.