Authors: Alex Scarrow
She set these things back on their shelves, tidy and orderly, just as they had been before the archway had landed in this timeline with a crash.
She found the broom behind the cracked perspex displacement tube and began methodically sweeping the fractured and uneven concrete floor, pushing the fallen bricks and mortar into a pile in the middle. She swept the broom with a rhythmic rasp in the darkness, her eyes adjusted to the faintest glimmer of moonlight that found its way through the cracks in the archway above.
Her eyes dilated in the dark and registered little. They were glazed over. From the outside, looking to all intents and purposes like someone in a deep state of shock. Traumatized. A lost soul seeking solace in the simple task of tidying up.
But inside her head the silicon wafer computer hummed with activity, lines of code chasing each other in tireless loops as she tried desperately to make sense of the situation she was now in.
Alone.
Maddy was gone. There was no strategist. There was no team. There was not even a field office any more. This dark hole was nothing but dust-covered second-hand furniture, an old high-school desk and a row of computers that more than likely were never going to work again.
[DATA]
She shook her head. She didn’t want to acknowledge the data.
[DATA]
She closed a silicon-synaptic data gate, not wanting the machine code to tell her what she already suspected. That somehow this was all her fault. That she had provided inadequate information or, worse, inaccurate information to Madelaine Carter causing her to make an erroneous judgement call. That the team was now no longer operational.
She and Bob had both failed to apprehend the target: Abraham Lincoln. She realized that was perhaps the first error in a string of errors that had led them to this point. And now she was here sweeping bricks in the dark.
[DATA]
The stream of hexadecimal data had found another way through the myriad circuits to get her attention.
[Assessment: end-of-run condition = TRUE]
End-of-run Protocol
The protocol left no vital technology behind; all the rest, the computers, the growth tubes in the back, the generator, even the rest of the displacement machine, used circuitry that could be assembled from components bought from any electronics store. The question was … was this really an end-of-run condition?
She looked around at the dark corners of the archway. Her memory spooled a million different moments from the last few months of stored data:
The first time she’d made a hot drink for Maddy and added coffee granules, tea leaves
and
chocolate powder, not realizing the hot drink was meant to be just one of those, not all of them.
The time Liam had got her and Bob to play
Mario Kart
on the Nintendo and they’d spent seven hours straight playing on the machine, beating Liam to last place every race.
The first time she felt something that was more than the code of her operating system or her AI plug-in. In the prehistoric past, a moment of … affection? When Liam had told her that she wasn’t a mistaken addition to the team. That she’d done well. That the team should have two support units in it. A Bob and a Becks.
Sal teaching her swearwords in Hindi, and Mumbai street slang. She had a whole database of curses and insults she could hurl, could sound as convincing as any other put-put rickshaw driver in the downtown smog.
She even had her ‘borrowed’ memories as Bob; they felt almost as real as her own: duplicated video and sound files of Bob observing the assassination of President John F. Kennedy from the Dallas book depository; Bob making the choice to search every internment camp in the Washington area to find and save Liam.
Hadn’t Bob changed a mission priority then? Actually decided his own mission priority? Rewritten code?
She stopped sweeping. Stood statue-still in the dark, the broom still held tightly in her hands. Her internal clock passed the better part of an hour with her frozen like that before, finally, a string of characters broke the deadlock.
[Assessment: end-of-run condition = FALSE]
She stirred, looked up from the floor.
Mission Priority
CHAPTER 34
2001, somewhere in Virginia
‘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.