Authors: Alex Scarrow
CHAPTER 57: 2001, Dead City
CHAPTER 58: 2001, Dead City
CHAPTER 59: 2001, Dead City
CHAPTER 60: 2001, New York
CHAPTER 61: 2001, New York
CHAPTER 62: 2001, New York
CHAPTER 63: 2001, New York
CHAPTER 64: 2001, HMS Defiant
CHAPTER 65: 2001, New York
CHAPTER 66: 2001, New Wellington
CHAPTER 67: 2001, New York
CHAPTER 68: 2001, New Wellington
CHAPTER 69: 2001, New York
CHAPTER 70: 2001, New Wellington
CHAPTER 71: 2001, New Wellington
CHAPTER 72: 2001, New York
CHAPTER 73: 2001, New York
CHAPTER 74: 2001, en route to New Chelmsford
CHAPTER 75: 2001, New York
CHAPTER 76: 2001, New York
CHAPTER 77: 2001, en route to New Chelmsford
CHAPTER 78: 2001, New York
CHAPTER 79: 2001, en route to New Chelmsford
CHAPTER 80: 2001, New York
CHAPTER 81: 2001, New York
CHAPTER 82: 2001, near New Chelmsford
CHAPTER 83: 2001, New York
CHAPTER 84: 2001, New York
CHAPTER 85: 2001, New Chelmsford
CHAPTER 86: 2001, New York
CHAPTER 87: 2001, New York
CHAPTER 88: 1831, New Orleans
CHAPTER 89: 2001, New York
CHAPTER 90: 2001, New York
CHAPTER 91: 1831, New Orleans
CHAPTER 92: 2001, New York
CHAPTER 93: 11.31 p.m. 11 September 2001, Police Precinct 5, New York
CHAPTER 94: 2001, New York
CHAPTER 95: 1831, New Orleans
ALEX SCARROW used to be a graphic artist, then he decided to be a computer games designer. Finally, he grew up and became an author. He has written a number of successful thrillers and several screenplays, but it’s YA fiction that has allowed him to really have fun with the ideas and concepts he was playing around with when designing games.
He lives in Norwich with his son, Jacob, his wife, Frances, and his Jack Russell, Max.
Praise for TimeRiders:
‘A thriller full of spectacular effects’
– Guardian
‘Insanely exciting, nail-biting stuff’
– Independent on Sunday
‘This is a novel that is as addictive as any computer game’
– Waterstone’s Books Quarterly
‘Promises to be a big hit’
– Irish News
‘A thrilling adventure that hurtles across time and place at breakneck speed’
‘Plenty of fast-paced action … this is a real page-turner’
‘A great read that will appeal to both boys and girls … you’ll find this book addictive!’
‘Contender for best science fiction book of the year … an absolute winner’
– Flipside
Winner of the Older Readers category, Red House Children’s Book Award 2011
Books by Alex Scarrow
TimeRiders
TimeRiders: Day of the Predator
TimeRiders: The Doomsday Code
TimeRiders: The Eternal War
Sign up to become a TimeRider at:
Dedicated to the ‘Secrets Club’: Shannon, Wendy and Rowan … the three other people on planet Earth who know how this tale ends
PROLOGUE
2051, New York
Joseph Olivera looked out of the small round window at the flooded cityscape of New Jersey below. The Atlantic was gradually biting chunks out of the east coast of America, leaving tall city blocks emerging in orderly rows from the glistening sea. But ahead of him, where the drop-copter was taking him, he could see Manhattan. The island was still keeping its head above water. Levees built all the way round were going to keep it dry for a decade more, or so the experts were saying.
The copter swooped in over the skyscrapers of Manhattan and headed towards the distinctive convergence of streets that was Times Square. On his left, he spotted Central Park, filled with abandoned cars stacked one atop the other and rusting like a child’s forgotten toys.
Joseph cursed his nerves. He was trembling like a woman at the prospect of a face-to-face meeting with the enigmatic man … the legend …
Roald Waldstein
.
I will not stutter. I WILL make a good impression.
Joseph vowed to himself once again that he wasn’t going to stammer as he normally did under pressure. He was going to avoid the tricky words, those that started with a strong ‘S’. Joseph had rehearsed his greeting over and over. It involved no ‘S’ words. He almost sounded normal.
The copter was now circling above the flat roof of the tallest building overlooking Times Square, circling the helipad like a dog preparing to settle in its basket. Times Square was a lifeless ghost of itself. He could see pedestrians, one or two electric buses, a lot of places boarded up. The levees may have been holding back the rising sea, but Joseph realized it was a futile endeavour.
This city’s dying already.
The copter touched down gently and the pilot shut off the engine, letting the rotors spin themselves out before pulling open the slide door and gesturing for Joseph to follow him.
‘Mr Walds-s-stein is s-s-staying here?’ he uttered. ‘The Marriott hotel?’
‘Mr Waldstein lives here now. He bought the hotel last year.’
The pilot ushered him inside the building, down a breeze-block stairwell to a small foyer, a pair of swing doors ahead of them.
‘Through those doors are his private quarters. He lives entirely alone.’ The pilot looked at him curiously. ‘You know, you’re very privileged to see him face to face. He doesn’t do that …
ever
.’
‘He lives in this hotel all on his own?’
The pilot ignored his question. ‘A little word about meeting him. He can come across as quite abrasive and rude. That isn’t his intention; he just has no time for small talk.’
‘O-OK.’
‘Don’t try and flatter him, either. I wouldn’t bother telling him he’s a genius, or a visionary or a … a wonderful guy. He’s heard it all before about a billion times over. You’ll just irritate him.’
Great … there goes my rehearsed greeting.
‘Most important of all … do not discuss the “incident” with him.’
‘The … incident?’
‘Chicago.’
Joseph nodded. Of course, he was talking about the Chicago incident, 2044. The day Waldstein first came to public attention.
‘Right … OK.’ Joseph was trembling.
‘Be polite and honest –’ the pilot offered him an encouraging smile – ‘and you’ll do just fine.’ He pressed an intercom button beside one of the doors. ‘Mr Waldstein … I have Dr Joseph Olivera here for you.’
Joseph looked in a small mirror on the wall beside the door. He straightened his tie, patted down a wayward coil of black hair and wished he’d done a better job of trimming his dark beard this morning.
A small green light winked on above the double doors. ‘You can go through,’ said the pilot.
Joseph pushed the doors inwards and his feet clacked off linoleum on to soft carpet.
Daylight flooded into a circular room from all sides. Joseph found himself squinting back at the glare. He could just about make out a head and a pair of shoulders silhouetted against one of the large floor-to-ceiling panels of glass that made up the walls of the penthouse.
Joseph shaded his eyes with a hand as he walked slowly over. ‘Mr Walds-s-stein?’
The room was large. Forty, perhaps fifty feet in diameter. His eyes beginning to adjust, Joseph noted a bed on one side, a desk, several cardboard boxes full of papers, but nothing else. A very empty space.
Closer now he could see a little more detail: the distinctive shock of wavy, wiry, uncontrollable hair, the narrow shoulders.
‘It is an honour … to meet you, Mr Waldstein.’
The silhouette shifted and turned. He’d been gazing out of the window at New York.
‘They say Lady Liberty walks on water now.’
Joseph had no idea at all what he meant by that. His dumbfounded shrug gave him away.