The Woman Who Died a Lot

  “Okay,” I said, “so what’s the plan? Evacuation?”

  “Total evacuation within the zone of destruction and for a hundred yards beyond it.”

  This explained the lack of any large-scale evacuation plans from the council. A smiting was both hideously destructive and peculiarly precise. The Smite Zone ends so abruptly that houses— people, even—have been known to be sliced cleaned in half.

  “So we’re going to lose the financial center?”

  “Not if we can help it,” said Bunty with a faint smile. “The technicians at Smite Solutions have offered us an alternative to losing anything at all. They have a novel and proven method of luring a smiting away from a city.”

  I stopped pacing around the room and stared at her. She was looking straight ahead, unwilling to catch my eye.

  “What’s the plan?”

  “I’m not fully aware of the technique,” she said quietly. “I am here only to organize evacuation policy in the city, and I must respectfully demand that library staff be evacuated from the building an hour either side of the time of smiting. We’re extending the evacuation zone.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “As a precautionary measure.”

  She gave me a memo outlining when we should evacuate the building and where to. It was less rigorous than the Smite Zone downtown, but still quite large.

  “You’re not going to tell me any more, are you?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry. The less people who know, the better.”

  “Fewer,” I said. “The fewer people who know, the better.”

  “Right,” she said. “Well, I’ll be off then.”

  “How much?” I asked as she hurried out.

  “How much what?”

  “For Smite Solutions to fix the problem.”

  “It’s no secret,” she said. “A hundred million pounds. Considering the potential damage to property, it’s a snip.”

  “Goliath is like that,” I said sarcastically. “Magnanimous and generous to a fault.”

  “If you were in our shoes, you’d do the same, Thursday. They offer a solution, and we take it.”

  “You can’t trust them,” I said.

  “We don’t have a choice,” she replied pointedly, and she was right. I’d do exactly the same.

  I saw her to the door and then walked through to Duffy’s office, where everyone there abruptly sat down. Like all good assistants, they had been listening at the door.

  “Right,” I said, looking at the large map of Swindon stuck to the wall in that office, “let’s see what Bunty and Smite Solutions are up to.”

  Duffy, Geraldine and I plotted the places that were listed on the memo’s distribution list. There were about sixty in total, and it looked as though Bunty were visiting companies and private residences on a swath a half mile wide leading from the financial center toward Wroughton, a few miles south-southeast of the city. It looked like a corridor of sorts—and if Smite Solutions planned on luring the smiting away, it had to be drawn away to somewhere.

  I tapped the map at the disused airfield in Wroughton. “Something’s going on here,” I muttered.

  “Any idea what?” asked Duffy.

  “None—but I aim to find out.”

  “Chief Librarian?” said Geraldine, the other assistant.

  “Yes?”

  “Your son is waiting in reception. About a trip to the Kemble Timepark.”

  I asked her to tell him I’d be straight down, then asked Duffy to cancel all appointments for the rest of the day. He looked faintly annoyed but agreed—and then reiterated how important the budget meeting was the following morning.

  “That’s the one where we learn how much our budget is cut?”

  He nodded.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

  26.

  Wednesday: Wroughton

  The decidedly unsporty Griffin Sportina, like all cars built in the Welsh Socialist Republic, had a projected design life of a century, or 5 million miles. With a chassis designed for a dump truck and with a body of heavy-gauge steel, the car was almost indestructible—and hard to drive. Newcomers to Sportina driving were excused for thinking the steering lock was on when it wasn’t, and an hour of clutch and gearshift selection exceeded the surgeon general’s minimum daily exercise recommendations for a week.

  Euan Lloyd, Griffin Motors: Cars for Eternity

  “So why are we heading up here?” asked Friday as we drove up and out of the Wroughton village and toward the disused airfield.

  “Goliath has a company named Smite Solutions, and I don’t like the sound of them. We’ll have a quick look and then do your thing over at the timepark. Is there something wrong with the gearbox? It’s making a lot of noise.”

  “It has to,” he said, “or you’d be annoyed by the incessant whirring coming out of the back axle.”

  Friday drove a Welsh-built 1967 Griffin Sportina. He loved it despite its many strange idiosyncrasies, such as a better drag coefficient when in rain and the Pencoed V8 engine that could run on anything from high-quality aviation spirit to powdered anthracite. Although the car had done over five hundred thousand miles, it was only just considered broken in.

  We topped the hill and came within sight of the deserted airfield. I sank lower in my seat.

  “Drive past the gates, slowly the first time.”

  Friday did as I asked, and I stared out the window in a bored fashion so as to not attract attention. The front entrance of the disused airfield, usually just chained and padlocked, was being guarded by two Goliath security personnel. I tried to make out what was happening on the airfield itself, but the land rose ahead of the runway and it was difficult to see anything.

  “Turn around and go past again,” I said.

  “I’d prefer to find a roundabout,” he murmured. “Only bodybuilders and ex–tank drivers attempt three-point turns in a Griffin.”

  “Tank drivers? Then let me try, you great big soft baby, you.”

  “You drove armored personnel carriers,” said Friday, smiling. “Hardly the same thing.”

  “It had tracks and a V12,” I said, “so do as you’re told or I’ll stop doing your washing.”

  “Okay, turning around.”

  He didn’t need to do a three-point as it developed, because a gate was open to a field, and he drove in and began to turn the Sportina around in a large arc.

  “Isn’t that . . . ?” I said, pointing to a car hidden from the road inside a clump of birch saplings.

  “Yes it is,” said Friday. “Uncle Miles.”

  We parked the Sportina next to Miles’s car and climbed out. Initially he seemed surprised to see us, but soon he realized that if there was any Goliath mischief kicking around, then I’d doubtless be involved somewhere.

  Miles Hawke had worked in SpecOps Tactical Support after a brief career in professional croquet. His midair roquet in the 1984 SuperHoop was the high point of his career, as he succumbed to a knee injury soon after. He and my brother Joffy hooked up in 1986 and were married two years later. He had resigned from SO-14 soon after to help Joffy raise the Church of the Global Standard Deity from obscure religious group to the world-dominating force it was today. Of course, this didn’t mean that Miles was involved in the day-to-day running of GSD—he wasn’t. He was simply support for Joffy and looked after his partner’s spiritual and emotional well-being. And on occasions like this, it seemed, he also did a bit of hands-on surveillance. SO-14 training can be useful.

  We greeted Miles, and after exchanging pleasantries and the almost mandatory short conversation about the weather, I asked him how Smite Solutions intended to lure the smiting from Swindon.

  He pointed at a camera attached to a tree branch high above us. “I have an eye in the sky,” he said. “Take a look.”

  He was holding a miniature flat-screen TV in his hand, and the camera above gave us a good view of the airfield. A good but unremarkable view of the airfield. Even when he remotely zoomed the camera, i
t was quite unexciting—just a large marquee that had been set up right in the middle of the main runway.

  “That’s it?” I said.

  “You don’t actually need a marquee,” said Miles, “but Goliath knows full well that not even the supremely sinful will wait to be scoured from the face of the earth by a flash of energy without at least a choice of drink and a sports channel to watch.”

  Friday understood first.

  “Are you telling me,” he said, “that Goliath aims to divert the smite by having a few immoral people collected together?”

  “It’s precisely what they intend,” said Miles. “When He has decided to undertake a smiting, it is only ever for one reason—to rid the earth of sin and cleanse the land so the meek and righteous can walk free and unfettered by the dark shadows of the wayward. In technical terms what this means is that the pillar of all-consuming fire can be swayed from its course by a point source of concentrated sinfulness. A television tube works on the same principle, but instead of having a beam of photons shifted by an electromagnet, you have a pillar of fire moved ever so slightly by an unrepentant ax murderer.”

  “A single ax murderer is going to shift an entire pillar of fire?”

  “No, you’ll need more sinners than that—and we’re not talking simply immoral people or even questionable thought crimes such as blasphemy, apostasy or ox coveting. No, we’re talking about the big ones: murder, thievery and sadistic violence. And only in those who are evil beyond measure. The sort of people who are so twisted and degenerate they can never find redemption for their crimes.”

  Miles spread a map of the local area out on the hood of his car. He had already drawn several circles and lines upon it, plus some simple geometry.

  He pointed at his calculations. “Since smitings originate at one lakh feet, they need to deviate the groundburst by a little over four miles, or thirteen point two degrees of arc. That will probably require eighteen mass murderers, six stranglers, five poisoners, sixteen con men and eight career bank robbers.”

  I stared at the screen again. “Does England even have that many?”

  “I think we’re short on poisoners,” replied Miles, “but France has a few they’ll let Smite Solutions use, and I think the ‘Butcher of Naples’ is being imported from Italy to make up the shortfall of ax murderers. Since Goliath runs the prison service, there shouldn’t be a problem getting them all together.”

  “Do they know they’re going to be vaporized in a sudden flash of God’s wrath?” asked Friday.

  “I’d not think they’d take to it that kindly,” replied Miles. “No, my guess is they’re being brought here on the pretext of ‘outdoor rehabilitation’ or ‘fresh-air therapy’ or some nonsense like that.”

  “But that’s . . . murder,” said Friday. “They’re in custody— doing time. They can’t be just used as smite bait.”

  “I know,” said Miles, starting to pack his stuff up. “It’s wholly immoral, despite their crimes. Which really leaves us with only three options. One, Tuesday figures out the Unentanglement Constant between now and midday Friday and the Anti-Smite Shield functions as normal—the city council saves a hundred million pounds, and the searing heat of His unbridled frustration at His creation’s inability to stop its morally questionable behavior is transferred into a useful twenty-two point six megawatts of electricity.”

  “And option two?”

  “We let Smite Solutions do their thing, and fifty-three irredeemable felons are vaporized for cash.”

  Friday and I exchanged glances. No one likes ax murders— not even their mothers, if they survived—but as Friday had pointed out, the sinful were in custody. It would be like killing POWs. Murder.

  “The third option is that we nobble Smite Solutions’ plans and allow much of downtown Swindon be laid to waste.”

  “It would be shame to lose the cathedral,” I said, “but it’s less than fifteen years old and we could always build another. With almost six billion followers of varying enthusiasm, the GSD has certainly got some cash. And Goliath can certainly afford to rebuild the Greed Tower.”

  “That’s what we thought,” said Miles as he folded up the map. “And to be honest, we never liked the cathedral much anyway— too gloomy and no provision for a canteen or Wi-Fi.”

  “How do you nobble Smite Solutions?” asked Friday as Miles placed the TV screen, remote control and maps in the trunk of his car.

  “Simple,” he said. “With a strategically placed righteous man.”

  “A righteous man?”

  “Or woman. It doesn’t matter which. Find one of those, place him or her near the sinful, and bingo— the Lord cannot smite the righteous on a matter of principle, so Goliath can kiss our arse and the downtown gets a serious smiting instead.”

  He looked at us both in turn. “You don’t know of any, do you? Righteous people, I mean. We’ve a got few penciled in, but it never hurts to have a few more in reserve.”

  “I know some self-righteous ones,” I said.

  “That’s not really the same thing at all.”

  “What about you or Joffy?” I suggested. “I don’t know anyone more selfless than you two.”

  “You’re very gracious,” said Miles, “but I killed two people when I was SO-14, and although Joffy is good and just and wise, I think he actually enjoys the possibility of having a round table with God to discuss the Ultimate Question of Existence.”

  “The sin of pride?”

  “Right. And he’ll hide chocolate in the back of the fridge so only he can find it—something that a truly righteous man would never do. Besides, the righteous man has to be good in all known dimensions, since the Almighty is pandimensional. If our righteous man put a cat in a wheelie-bin in Dimension FX-39, then His Great Omniscience would see it and know. And the problem with Joffy and me is that there are at least seventy-eight dimensions where our relationship is seen in the eyes of some to be a heinous sin almost as bad as murder.”

  “You’re kidding? Why?”

  “Not a clue. But there are some seriously weird dimensions out there. Did you hear that HenshawF76+ had two heads?”

  “Argued with himself, I heard.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Where do you usually find righteous men?” asked Friday.

  “There are a few professionals about, but Smite Solutions is smart—they’ve booked them for other jobs at the same time as the smiting: helping a lady across the road, being with someone in a difficult moment, reminding someone of the path, that sort of thing. Trivial, one might think, and easily canceled for this job. Trouble is, righteous men would never back out on an agreed appearance—and you can’t offer them more money, because they won’t take it.”

  “And if they did, they wouldn’t be righteous.”

  “Exactly.”

  I should have known there would be one or two snags.

  “So, as you can see, we should have a few subs in case of mishaps, just in case. But they’re tricky to find, as they don’t draw attention to themselves and would never volunteer themselves as righteous because they would never see themselves as such. Plus, we have the usual problem of being swamped with volunteers, eager to promote themselves as righteous.”

  “And all who can be instantly rejected for that very same reason.”

  “Right.”

  “Luckily for us, we’ve got a seriously righteous man lined up. He’s a real pip—not even a shred of malice, ego or selfishness. Even a whiff of him will be enough to divert the stream of destruction away from the sinful.”

  “Don’t let Goliath find out,” I said.

  “Don’t worry,” he said with a smile, “we’ve got him in a safe house where he is being looked after by semirighteous people— who are in turn being protected by people who are quite happy to be not righteous at all when it comes to protecting the main guy.”

  He climbed into his car, slammed the door and wound down the window.

  “Give my love to Landen and Tuesday, won’t you
?” he said. “And although I don’t want to add any pressure, if Tuesday could find the value of Uc before midday on Friday, it would save a whole lot of uncertainty—and we can keep our righteous man in reserve for another time.”

  “She’s doing her best,” I said, “but she is only sixteen. Most scientists don’t start achieving this level of success before they are old, gray, cantankerous, forgetful and smelly.”

  “I know,” said Miles. “The planet’s lucky to have her. Cheerio!”

  He started the engine, and we waved as he drove off.

  “So, Mum,” said Friday, “the timepark?”

  “The timepark.”

  27.

  Wednesday: Kemble Timepark

  The C-90-F Reverse Fluxgate time engines, despite being shown to not work, still maintained a residual capacity to bend space-time and exhibit time-dilation phenomena. Physicists had argued long and hard over the apparent contradictions, and concluded that time travel might exist in an entangled intermediate state of working and not working, with no apparent contradiction. In that respect time is very like a tiresome soap star: wayward, petulant and unpredictable.

  Norman Scrunge, Time Industry Historian

  Kemble was situated about twelve miles to the northwest of Swindon. The 720-acre site had been home to the Main Temporal Transport Device ever since the service was inaugurated in 1932 and had seen six different engines built on its land. The last ones built here had been the C-90-Fs, which had been used for only three years until decommissioning. Since then they had remained empty and abandoned. The engines were silent, and the massive seven-story containment domes dominated the surroundings. The interior of the base was designated a no-go zone, but trespassing wasn’t a problem. The hazardous nature of the timepark was well known, even to idiots with mischief on their minds.

  “So,” I said as soon as we had made our way back on to the A419 and were heading north, “why am I missing the Wingco’s pizza evening to take a trip to visit the Kemble Timepark?”