About Time, page 21
Tucker stared at him for a moment. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘Built my own pod.’
‘You?’
‘Well, not just me. I usually just do the theory. My sister did most of the work.’
‘Your sister?’
‘My little sister.’
‘With her baby doll and her glitter pen.’
‘Not that I saw,’ said Matthew, on whom sarcasm rarely worked. ‘Although she is very innovative. She once installed an entire surveillance system using an old TV monitor, ten feet of cabling and a breadknife.’
Tucker loomed ominously. ‘You taking the piss?’
‘Strangely, that was what the Time Police said. Just before we jumped away and left them standing.’
A low rumbling indicated either that Tucker was amused or that a small earthquake was in progress. He addressed Jim. ‘Take him in to Clore. Bastard pod’s playing up again.’ He turned to Matthew. ‘It’s never been right. Not since the day we . . . acquired it.’ Tucker seemed quite aggrieved that the former owners hadn’t given the pod a quick service just prior to having it stolen from them. ‘See what you can do and I’ll consider letting you live.’
He walked away and Jim ushered Matthew into the second pod.
Clore proved to be a heavy, thickset man with heavy, thickset fingers. Matthew had no clear idea what he looked like since about sixty per cent of him was under the console. Dismantled boards and discarded tools lay scattered around him. He was cursing in a long, slow, continuous mutter that showed no signs of ever running down.
Jim kicked his ankle. ‘Hoi. Got you an assistant.’
For a moment Matthew thought Clore was experiencing some sort of convulsion but this turned out to be the complicated manoeuvres necessary for a very large man to extricate himself from a very small space.
Clore squinted up into the light. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
Correctly divining this question was directed at him, Matthew said brightly, ‘Adrian.’
‘What sort of name is that?’
‘My name,’ said Matthew, making a mental note to be kinder to Adrian when they next met.
‘Tucker sent him to have a look,’ said Jim.
‘Well, thank Christ for that,’ said Clore, heaving himself to his feet. ‘This is killing my eyes.’ He looked Matthew up and down. ‘Where are your tools?’
‘Didn’t get a chance to bring them,’ said Matthew, very carefully not looking at Clore’s. He’d once been in the Pod Bay when someone, either deliberately or otherwise, had picked up someone else’s tools and like everyone else, he’d backed away from the ensuing . . . dialogue, was a good word. He certainly wasn’t going to ask Clore if he could borrow his. You didn’t do that. People had their own tools, familiar, worn to the shape of their hands, more precious than members of their own family in some cases. All the techies at St Mary’s and the mechs at TPHQ had their own toolbelts which anyone else touched at their peril.
Clore nodded at the tools. ‘Don’t use the ones with the blue handles.’
‘Understood,’ said Matthew, dropping to his knees and crawling under the console. ‘Any chance of more light?’
Clore pulled off his headtorch and passed it over. Matthew called down silent blessings on long hours in Hawking with both his father and Mikey, rolled on to his back and got stuck in.
Time passed. Matthew, hard at work, was almost completely oblivious to the outside world, until the outside world intruded on him.
‘Hoi,’ said Jim, sticking his head through the door. ‘Pack up now.’
‘I haven’t quite finished.’
‘No one works after dark.’
Matthew remembered the generators. ‘Why not? You’ve got plenty of power.’
‘Kept for emergencies. We only light the mess hut. Can’t afford to waste power here.’
Matthew, careful to keep his attention on wiping down and replacing Clore’s tools, enquired casually, ‘Where’s here?’
‘Here,’ said Jim again, as unhelpful as ever.
‘Why can’t you afford to waste power?’
‘We keep the gate lit and there’s power to the mess hut and that’s it. Oh – if you’re still alive after supper – no wandering about after dark. Not for any reason.’
Even Matthew dared not ask why not. Not again. ‘What if I want to pee?’
‘Buckets in the huts.’
‘Do I have a bed?’
‘Dunno. Up to Tucker. You done here?’
‘Nearly. Some refinements tomorrow and I think it’ll be good to go.’
‘You’d better be sure cos you’ll be the one making the test jump.’
‘OK,’ said Matthew carelessly. ‘Have I earned supper? I’m starving.’
‘Yeah,’ said Jim, suddenly friendly. ‘Come on.’
The atmosphere outside had changed. It wasn’t just that the temperature had dropped – although it had – it was more that the walls, for some reason, seemed suddenly taller. Closer. Darker. Threatening.
Matthew stopped. ‘Are we safe here?’
Jim, master of the evasive answer, didn’t even bother to try.
Compared to the gathering dusk outside, and even though it was lit only by a solitary lantern on the counter, the interior of the mess hut seemed bright and cheerful. Work lights had been hung from the ceiling and a heavy-duty portable field cooker stood at one end. Three lanterns and a row of sand buckets were ranged against one wall with no less than three fire extinguishers within easy reach. Matthew was impressed, despite himself. It would appear that Mr Tucker ran a tight ship.
The atmosphere was warm and a little steamy, but somehow cosy. Rough hangings at the window shut out the cold night.
A counter divided the hut in half. Cooking took place at one end and eating at the other. Thick white plates were stacked on the counter, together with a tray of cutlery and a rough basket piled high with bread rolls. There were four tables, each with four chairs. Seating for sixteen people. But there weren’t sixteen people present. Had there once been? Did people come and go? Like Plimpton and his team. Bringing back stolen pods. Yes, that would work. Henry Plimpton would steal any pod he could get his hands on and then bring it back here for repairs or reprogramming. Was he building a fleet? Was this his main base of operations? Unlikely. This was a depot, perhaps. Again, Matthew wondered where and when he was. And Henry Plimpton. Where and when was he?
The mess hut was sturdily built with its floor and walls made of some modern material. For ease of transportation and erection, obviously. There were two windows set in opposite walls and that was it. No books, music, holo streamers, nothing. Unless people had personal effects in their huts, of course. Although hadn’t Jim said there was no power to the other huts?
At that moment, he heard the generators start up. The overhead lights flickered. Jim looked at his watch. ‘Six o’clock. Bang on.’ A few lights came on outside, mostly around the gate area. He could hear men calling to each other. Clearing things away for the night. They entered in groups of two or three, rubbing their hands against the chill.
Something smelled good. Matthew forgot to be curious and sniffed appreciatively. ‘What is that?’
Jim shrugged. ‘Stew. A bit of this and that. We all take it in turns to cook. As will you. If Tucker lets you live. And just a word of warning – we like our food here. If you can’t already, learn to cook, or the boys’ll kill you deader than even Tucker could manage.’
‘I saw the veg beds,’ said Matthew, changing the subject from his possibly imminent demise. ‘Do you hunt? Is there fresh meat? Or fish?’
‘No,’ said Jim shortly. ‘Not any longer.’
An ambiguous reply if ever there was one. Why did they not go hunting any longer? Was there no longer a supply of fresh game to hunt? Or was there some other reason?
‘Stand still, everyone,’ said Tucker, coming in and closing the door behind him. He seemed to be performing some sort of headcount. ‘Nine, plus Andy checking the gate. Ten.’
‘Eh?’ said someone. ‘That’s one more than yesterday.’
‘Would you rather it was one less?’
The man seemed to draw into himself. ‘No.’ He stared at Matthew. ‘Who’s this?’
‘New boy,’ said Jim, gesturing to Matthew. ‘His name’s Adrian.’ Someone sniggered. No one else introduced themselves.
Matthew reflected briefly. This wasn’t the first time he’d pitchforked himself into a situation with no thought as to how he’d get himself out. Yes, he was currently alive, but that could change at any moment. He sighed. Well, at least the situation couldn’t get any worse.
About which he was completely wrong.
‘We serve ourselves here,’ said Jim, making his way to the counter and taking a plate. Matthew stayed close to him but there was no pushing or shoving. Today’s cook heaved a vast cauldron of steaming stew on to the counter and doled out generous portions. They helped themselves to a couple of bread rolls and took it all back to the tables. Matthew found himself sitting with – or possibly sandwiched between – Clore, Jim and Tucker.
So, including himself, there were nine men altogether. Ten, if you counted the absent Andy. No one spoke as they sat down to eat. Matthew found himself wondering about the position of the tables. There was plenty of room in the mess hut and yet the tables were almost huddled together in the centre of the room. These were big, tough men. Surely they weren’t intimidated by their surroundings?
‘How’d he do?’ said Tucker, picking up his fork and not even looking at Matthew.
Before either Clore or Jim could answer, someone from the next table got up and switched on the coffee machine. The hut was suddenly full of the smell of coffee and Matthew was instantly transported back to the illegal coffee machine in their office. And Luke and Jane. And North and Ellis negotiating their daily dose. And Team 235. All of which seemed a very long time ago now. For a moment he had to work very hard at not wondering if he’d ever see them again. And this certainly wasn’t the moment to think about Mikey.
It was Jim who answered. ‘Pretty good. Seems to know what he’s doing.’
‘Clore, give it a good going-over tomorrow, first thing.’ Tucker stared stonily at Matthew. ‘I’ll decide about you then.’
‘Tools?’ said Clore, seated on Matthew’s right hand.
‘All put away,’ said Matthew, careful to concentrate on his stew.
‘Cleaned?’
‘Of course.’
Clore nodded. No more was said.
The meal was simple but good. Matthew recognised standard compo rations, tarted up with some fresh herbs and onions. There was no alcohol. Matthew suspected another Tucker rule.
They’d been eating for a few minutes when suddenly someone looked around and said, ‘Andy’s not back yet?’
The room went very still.
‘Told you,’ said Tucker, his tone casual but his shoulders tense. ‘He’s checking the gate.’
‘That was more than five minutes ago. He should be back by now.’
The atmosphere had changed completely. Suddenly this was no longer the warm, bright, slightly steamy mess hut. Everyone stopped eating and looked around as if Andy might be discovered hiding unnoticed in a corner.
Someone sucked in their breath. ‘Not again.’
‘Shut up,’ said Tucker. Pushing his plate aside, he stood up. ‘Jim, Clore, Otto – with me. Everyone else stay here.’
He crossed to a metal locker in the corner and unlocked it with a key from his belt. Four smallish blasters were stacked inside. Tucker took them down and handed them out, saying, ‘Lock the door behind us. Don’t open it for anyone without the safe word. Geranium. That’s an order. Lights.’
Matthew, nearest to the switch, turned out the lights, leaving just the dim lantern standing on the counter where the men had queued for their food.
Tucker eased open the door and the four men disappeared into the night. Only the gate was lit up, which made the rest of the compound seem even darker. Matthew could see the beams from their torches criss-crossing the night. Someone shut the door behind them and dropped a crossbar into place. Two more men crossed the room – one to each window – pulled aside the hangings and peered outside.
Matthew was bursting to ask what was happening – and where the hell they were – but no one would have answered. Every single man was rigidly still, his head cocked to one side.
Listening.
Listening to the silence.
In Briefing Room 3, what had become known as Team Tesla were assembling for their briefing. Lt North would lead. Officers Rossi, Socko and Hansen were to accompany her, together with Amelia Meiklejohn – the technical consultant, as she had designated herself.
Major Ellis entered the briefing room.
‘Good afternoon, everyone. Sit down, please. You all know why you’re here.
‘One – Nikola Tesla, personal papers for the retrieving of.
‘Two – Henry Plimpton, for the possible apprehension of.
‘A word before we begin. We will be operating in mid-20th-century New York. Yes – I am aware that’s in America. Yes – I am aware there is a treaty. Yes – I am aware we will be contravening said treaty in many, many ways. And you – all of you – should be aware that if anything goes wrong, the Time Police may not be able to retrieve you successfully. Or even at all. You will, therefore, oblige me by making certain nothing – absolutely nothing – goes wrong with this mission. Is that clearly understood?’
Heads nodded around the room.
‘However, before you panic utterly – we leave that sort of thing to St Mary’s – America in 1943 is not yet reduced to the condition in which she finds herself today. The southern states are habitable. California is still attached, and radiation, pollution, corruption and civil war have not yet taken hold. The Statue of Liberty still stands. At this point in their history, America is a young, strong, vibrant, optimistic country, taking its place in the world and eager to do so. For everyone’s sake, you will keep all interaction with contemporaries to a minimum, and any discussions as to their future are strictly forbidden. There is to be no contamination of any kind. Even if it means your lives. Is that clearly understood?’
Heads nodded again.
‘Good. This briefing will be presented by Lt North. When you’re ready, Lieutenant.’
North stood up and faced the room. ‘Thank you, sir.’ She flashed a face on the screen. ‘Nikola Tesla. Born 10th July 1856 in Smiljan, Croatia. Died in New York, 7th January 1943. His legacy is sometimes overshadowed by his former employer, Thomas Edison, but Tesla was a prolific and imaginative inventor. Sadly, at the end of his life, he fell on hard times, and for the last ten years, his circumstances forced him to live in two rooms at the New Yorker Hotel.’
She brought up an image of the hotel – a massive, art-deco-style building.
‘He can’t afford to pay his bills and is living on the promise of something extraordinary, the notes about which he has been keeping in his safe. He suffers from OCD, sleeps badly, compulsively polishes his cutlery and has a phobia about touching hair. There’s also a rumour he fell in love with a pigeon.’
She smiled slightly. ‘For those of you who think he’s just a broken and bonkers old man – he wasn’t always so. In 1893 he built the world’s first hydroelectric plant at Niagara Falls. He constructed a twenty-storey tower in Colorado that could build up huge electrical charges. There were rumours it could shoot lightning bolts one hundred and thirty-five feet long. He discovered alternating current. He was also very concerned at the rate with which the world’s resources were being used up. About which, as we now know, he was absolutely correct. At least two of his projects, however, caused significant concern. He was working on a method of providing wireless electricity – something that would have been years and years ahead of its time had he been successful – and also . . .’
North paused significantly, closed her eyes, and with the air of one taking a bull by the horns, said, ‘He claims to have invented what newspapers at the time referred to as – and please excuse the capital letters – a Death Ray.’
A stir of excitement ran around the room. It was immediately apparent that, like it or not, the capital letters were there to stay.
‘What?’ said Socko, sitting bolt upright. ‘You’re kidding. An actual Death Ray. How cool is that?’
‘Seriously?’ said Rossi. ‘Does it work? Can we try it out?’
‘Tesla himself didn’t actually think of it as a Death Ray. He called it his teleforce weapon, the purpose of which was to knock enemy aircraft out of the sky so no country could ever be invaded again.’
‘Yeah,’ said Rossi, sourly. ‘And how do we all think that would have worked out?’
North sighed. ‘I shall assume your questions are rhetorical, officers. If I might continue . . .’
Team 235 subsided.
‘On 8th January 1943, a maid will ignore the Do Not Disturb notice which has been hanging off his door for several days and find Nikola Tesla lying dead on the floor. A sad end to an extraordinary life, but, from our point of view, this is where the fun really starts.’
Rossi was tapping at his scratchpad. ‘Do we know how he died?’
