+++North Korean Premier Ye-jin Kim issues final demand for Pacific Alliance navy vessels to withdraw immediately from what have been claimed by N. Korea as territorial waters. Japanese Prime Minister Tomozawa contends that the shale-oil super-reservoir lies fifty miles beyond the N. Korean sea boundary+++
‘And that?’ she muttered to herself, ‘that’s our ticking clock.’
How much longer do we have before that shouting match between those far-off countries turns into a deadly bioweapons war? And how long before Kosong-ni breaks out?
‘It’s totally crazy,’ she muttered again, more to herself than anyone else.
We end up all but wiping ourselves out because two nations decide to squabble over the last scrap of oil. She sighed. Six months from now over nine billion people are going to be just rags and bones.
She wondered if, right now, Waldstein was sitting comfortably in some ivory tower not so far away from here, watching the very same news feed. She’d seen a couple of blurred video grab-frames of the man stored on their database. One of them taken from Montreal, the very last of the TED Talks, the one where he’d claimed his own work, the discovery of a viable time-travel technique, could destroy so much more than just humanity.
She could imagine him now: twenty years older, his wild, frizzy hair now snow-white and yet those manic wide, watery eyes still intense, still burning. The enigmatic genius. The recluse. The one person who could choose to change the course of history. But was deliberately choosing not to. Just sitting on his withered old hands and waiting for the end to come.
She read the ticker-tape headline again. Two countries happy to annihilate each other over the last of the oil, like children fighting over a packet of sweets in a playground.
What are you thinking, Waldy? Huh? Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Are you thinking that maybe we all deserve to go out like this?
CHAPTER 24
First century, Jerusalem
They finally managed to squeeze their way into the temple compound. This morning it seemed the entire courtyard was crammed with people, standing room only. It looked like every last person in Jerusalem, Jews and Gentiles, had converged on this space within the walls.
Beneath the porticoes of the northern wall something was already going on. Liam looked up at the top of the wall and could see a knot of Roman legionaries gathered there and looking warily down on what might be the beginning of something they’d need to come down and deal with.
Liam turned to Bob. ‘We should get closer.’
‘Agreed.’
‘I guess we won’t need the goats any more.’
Bob looked down at the animals that he was leading, relaxed his grip and dropped their tethers. The goats clattered on their hooves, bleated angrily, then skittered away into the crowd, trailing their tethers behind them.
Bob led the way, shouldering his way forward with Liam following in his wake. Presently they emerged into the shadow of the wall at the front of a crowd of onlookers. There was a space around Jesus. He was standing on one side of a wooden table, remonstrating with a couple of traders behind it.
‘This is unacceptable! This is … you are turning my father’s house into a marketplace!’
‘Your father’s house?’ One of the men stood up. ‘Your father’s house?’ He laughed incredulously. ‘Who do you think you are?’
‘You know who I am!’
‘We’ve heard what people have been saying. You’re that one from Nazareth, aren’t you? You’re that troublemaker!’
‘You want to know who I am?’ Jesus shook his head sadly. ‘Is it not bad enough that you soil sacred ground by making a profit from the faithful? That truth alone is not enough no matter who points it out?’
‘You’re the speaker who has been claiming to be born from God. Aren’t you?’
Jesus’s eyes narrowed. ‘You are wanting me to blaspheme, aren’t you?’
‘If you are the son of God …’ The trader’s expression was a challenge, a dare. ‘What would you have to fear?’
Jesus smiled. ‘Nothing.’ He turned to the crowd of onlookers. ‘I am the son of Jehovah … and my father wants these profiteers removed from his house!’
At the mention of God’s name a collective intake of breath from the onlookers was followed by a silence that rippled out across the crowd, like a pebble tossed into glass-smooth pond water.
The tradesman’s eyes widened. ‘You all heard that? You people! You heard this man?’ He stepped out from behind his table, more assuredly now. There was a hint of a smile there; this fool of a country peasant had just sentenced himself to death. ‘You all heard him?!’
Voices whispered and muttered. Liam looked around. The gathered crowd suddenly appeared uncertain. A moment ago it seemed like they were united behind Jesus, united in their resentment of this trader and his fellow profiteers. Ready to rally behind this troublemaker from Nazareth and kick every last parasitic tradesman and money-changer out of the compound. But this unexpected announcement, this bold claim in front of too many witnesses … the forbidden utterance of God’s name – Jehovah – that was a foolish misstep.
Right then it seemed Jesus was entirely alone. Dangerously alone.
The tradesman cupped his hands. ‘Someone call for the priests! Call the temple guards!’
But Jesus appeared to welcome that. ‘Yes. Why not?’ He smiled, quite calm. ‘Bring them here; bring all of them right here! The priests, the Pharisees – they, just as much as you, are guilty of turning an act of devotion to my father into a filthy money-making business!’
‘This fool claims he is the son of God! He uses the Lord’s name openly! He blasphemes in this holy place!’
The crowd looked on uncertainly. Liam glanced up at the wall again; he could see a centurion had been summoned and was regarding the altercation below with growing concern.
‘Who will help me throw these profiteers from my father’s house?’ called out Jesus. ‘Who will stand with me?’
The silence was deafening. Not even the minders, his ‘disciples’, who had entered the city with Jesus, dared to step forward.
Bob tapped Liam’s shoulder and leaned down to whisper. ‘Liam, you should take advantage of the fight and attempt to enter the temple.’
Liam looked towards the tall building. There were still people queuing to get in, still temple guards standing beside the entrance, so far completely oblivious to this exchange going on beneath the porticoes of the north wall.
‘What fight?’
Bob strode forward out of the crowd. ‘I will help you!’
Hundreds of pairs of eyes widened and jaws hung slack and open at the size of the support unit as he crossed the paved ground and stood next to Jesus.
To Jesus’s credit he retained his calm composure and merely smiled up at the giant. ‘Bless you,’ he uttered to Bob under his breath.
Bob nodded. ‘You are welcome.’ He leaned forward, picked up the wooden table and swung it up, causing a cascade of shekels, talents and sestertii to arc up into the air and shower down on to the onlookers, then hurled it across the shaded cloister against the back wall where it shattered.
Liam looked up and saw the legionaries beginning to react. When he turned to look at the temple building again, he saw a flurry of capes as the temple guard began to hurry over.
‘Oh, I get it … this fight.’
CHAPTER 25
2070, Denver
29 days to Kosong-ni
‘… the growing threat of a full-scale war in the Pacific region. With Wednesday’s pre-emptive drone-swarm attack on the Pacific Union’s refinery super-platform, resulting in over four hundred fatalities and the destruction of the platform and nine navy skimmers … and the retaliatory assault on the North Korean city of Hyesan, there is increasing concern that the conflict will escalate. FSA President Gonzalez, Defense Secretary Goodman and ECC Premier Schenk have united in condemning North Korea’s actions and called for the Pacific Union’s navy to withdraw from the contested waters to allo
w time for emergency negotiations to take place.
‘In domestic news … the Department of Nutrition has cautioned that lower-than-expected yields of nitrate-resistant, protein-bulking algae will result in higher prices of many standard food products, possibly even tighter rationing in the coming months. Food riots in Indianapolis, Des Moines and Oklahoma City are expected to be exacerbated by this news and martial-law restrictions are anticipated to be scaled up. Many of the protestors are blaming the constant and steady inflow of eastern-seaboard migrants beyond the Median Line and refugees from Pan-Mexicana for the shortages.
‘Here are Friday’s weekly info-stats. Global sea-level average … up one point three centimetres. Acid-precipitation average … up three per cent. Local air-quality index: Denver 565, Santa Fe 676, Salt Lake City 456, Wichita Falls 593. Mortality rates: environmental, up three per cent; violent cause, up nine per cent.
‘And, finally, today’s message from the administration. Fellow citizens, the storm brewing in the Far East, although a cause for concern, once again demonstrates that, in a troubled world, our federal states are a continuing oasis of order and stability …’
‘Rashim … what the hell is going on?’ Maddy glared at him through the wire-mesh visitors’ screen. ‘It’s been weeks and we’re still sitting in here like a bunch of frikkin’ idiots!’
He nodded guiltily. ‘I know, I know. I am trying my very best to get you all out. But it is not as easy as –’
‘So? What have you been frikkin’ well doing?’
‘I have logged a second appeal with the Department of Immigration. But, you know, it is difficult. I cannot be too forceful on this.’
‘Why the hell not?’
‘There are two of me here, remember? If I press the issue, Maddy, there may be confirmation emails sent that the other me will pick up. He will query that. He will think his digital space has been hacked into by someone pretending to be him. It will cause problems.’
Rashim told her he’d been staying at his old apartment: a small single-unit near the top of a government-owned accommodation tower. He wasn’t supposed to be there. Right now his other self was working hard on mass-displacement calculations with Dr Yatsushita for Project Exodus, sleeping over at the facility now that the big day was approaching. But from his apartment he’d been accessing the same personal digi-mail-space that his other self had access to, sending emails to any high-ranking officials who could pull strings, then immediately having to delete them from his ‘sent’ folder. Deleting the few replies he’d managed to get back before – hopefully – his other self could spot them in his inbox and wonder what the hell was going on.
‘I am doing my best, Maddy.’
She closed her eyes and her head rocked forward until it bumped softly against the mesh between them. ‘We’ve only got a few weeks left before all hell breaks –’
‘I know!’ He leaned forward, as if that was going to make any difference to her hearing him. ‘Look, I have managed to do something useful …’
‘Like what?’
‘I have managed to locate Waldstein’s campus.’
‘You know where it is?’
‘Yes. As soon as I can get you out of here, we can make our way straight there.’
‘How far away is it?’
‘About seventy miles south-west from Denver. It’s not actually that far from where Project Exodus is based.’
‘And what are we talking about? Is it some high-walled fortress or something? Are we going to even be able to get in to see him?’
‘There will be some security, of course, I am sure.’ He shrugged. ‘But he invited us, did he not?’
There was that. He’d extended an open hand to them to come and join him. If they turned up at some remote mountainside guarded entrance and announced who they were, presumably Waldstein would instruct his security people to let them in.
‘Rashim, we’re running out of frikkin’ time. You have to get us out!’
‘I know!’
‘And if you can’t swing it for us … we’ll have to –’ She stopped herself. She was going to say they’d have to find a way to bust out, but she was pretty sure there were officers listening in on the dozens of conversations going on in the cubicles of the visitors’ hall.
Rashim nodded. He knew exactly what she was going to say. ‘It won’t come to that, Maddy. I promise. I assure you I do have some influence. I am an important government asset.’
‘Yeah, you told me that already –’ she lowered her voice – ‘you told me when we first met that a number of important people were scheduled to go along with you … on your little Exodus “trip”?’
The president, the vice-president and their families for a start. Project Exodus was basically a get-out-of-Dodge-City ticket for the administration’s top brass.
On the other side of the mesh, he glanced around nervously. ‘Yes, Maddy. Some very important people. No names? All right? Don’t say their –’
‘Well? Can’t you give one of them a call?’ She shrugged. ‘You needed loads of info right? For all your mass calculations? Can’t you just ring one of them up to ask a technical question … I dunno … How heavy their wife is, or something?’
He stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Yes … perhaps …’
‘Then you can ask a favour for a favour … right?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, for Chrissake … get on with it!’
CHAPTER 26
2070, Denver
10 days to Kosong-ni
Waiting …
Waiting …
Connection established.
Authority verified.
Recipient [Defense Secretary Jonas
Goodman] accepts connection.
You are in an appointment queue.
Waiting time approx. 4 minutes.
At last! Rashim stared at the screen. How many goddamned days had he been trying to get hold of the Defense Secretary? The man never seemed to be in his office.
As the waiting time counted down, Rashim’s focus switched from the holographic dialogue screen projected on the small window of his single-unit to the view beyond the smoked glass. Fifty-four floors up, he was just above the ever-present thin veil of smog. It hung like swamp mist in pools between the many tall towers of Denver, thin and wispy like a layer of tainted tissue paper.
It had been a vaguely comforting experience, returning to his old apartment. For the last two and a bit years he’d been either living in a damp brick archway beneath a Victorian viaduct or on some mode of transport: carts, trains, steamships, horses … even, once, an Indian elephant. Now he was back among modern, comfortable conveniences.
Sitting in one of the recessed storage cubbyholes there was a 3D holograph of his family. A picture taken back when they lived in a well-to-do suburb of Damascus. Rashim aged seven, his two sisters and his parents. They’d emigrated from Iran the year before Iran and Israel went and nuked on each other. Father had seen that coming.
Father was dead now, of course. The Syrian Partition War in ’57. Father had seen that storm cloud coming as well, but failed to act quickly enough. They’d been living in a divided town, Muslims and Christians. Former neighbours turned into enemies. The militia came one day and executed every adult male they could find. Rashim was sixteen at the time but he’d looked a couple of years younger. He’d barely escaped the same fate.
He stared at the holograph and moved his head from side to side – there was a limited 3D effect in the image. He could see just a little of the sides of his late father’s head, the silver beard clipped tidily all the way up to his fleshy ears. That wide closed-lip grin of his. I am mischief, that’s what the smile said. Watch your back … because I’ll sneak up behind you and tickle you when you least expect it.
Rashim’s memories of him were mostly that: Father playing pranks on him and his sisters.
There was another picture from seven years later: his mother and sisters in New London. He’d been doing his P
hD in Massachusetts that year.
Rashim had checked his personal email account, gone looking through recent mail and came across a quick message he remembered sending to his mum just before he relocated to the Cheyenne Mountain facility permanently. It was essentially a carefully worded goodbye. He’d known, once he was embedded there for the last few months of the project, his emails would be scrutinized … and there probably wouldn’t be much time for writing personal messages anyway.
He smiled. Remembered tapping it out on his touch-pad, his personal possessions in one shoulder bag, dirty dishes sitting in his kitchenette sink, sad as he typed, knowing he was going to miss her, knowing that the change of timeline was probably going to result in her life, and his sisters’ lives, being erased.
And yet excited. Excited that he was just a couple of months away from travelling back in time to Ancient Rome.
Waiting time approx. 1 minute.
Rashim figured that round about now his other self was busy calibrating and testing the receiver beacons that would be deployed back in the time of the Roman Emperor Caligula. Cursing with every last-minute personnel change, having to recalculate the collective body mass they were sending back in time.
Arriving back here, he’d found himself chuckling at the messy state he’d left this single-unit in: pants and balled-up socks on the floor, his quilt in a pile at the end of his bed. He’d left here knowing for certain he’d never be returning, that no one would witness this messy apartment … because it would cease to exist.
And yet here I am. Back home.
It had been a very different adventure from the one he’d been mentally preparing himself for. Instead of being one of the political elite lording it over a rebranded Roman Empire, he’d met three quite remarkable young people: Maddy and Sal – his new sisters – and Liam, just like a younger brother.