Ian Hocking - Déjà Vu

‘That is quite acceptable. I have been driven faster.’

David walked down the central aisle towards them. He was pale and sickly. ‘Cars drive in a straight line, dear. This will feel like the mother of all corners.’

‘Dad’s right,’ said Jennifer. ‘You will experience almost four gravities.’

‘What does that feel like?’

‘It’ll hurt. But you’ll be wearing a pressure suit and we’ll release you almost immediately.’

‘Through time?’

Jennifer smiled. ‘Through the wormhole—through time.’

Over the next few minutes, Jennifer patrolled the rows of computer screens. Occasionally, she called to her father and explained, in simple language, aspects of the procedure. Saskia remained at the prow of the control room. She watched the huge arm as it began to turn.

‘Wait a minute,’ said Jennifer. She had stopped at a terminal. ‘In which year did Hartfield receive his nano-treatment?’

‘1999,’ said David.

‘The readout says he went back to 2003, four years later. Why would he return to a time after the damage was done?’

‘Perhaps the new treatment can reverse the old,’ said Saskia.

‘I don’t think so,’ Jennifer said. ‘If that were the case, he would have taken the treatment now.’

‘When in 2003, Jenny?’ asked David.

‘May 14th.’

‘That’s the day the West Lothian Centre was bombed.’

‘Fine,’ said Saskia. ‘He wants to stop the bomb.’

David shook his head. ‘No. Hartfield is interested in one thing: himself. He can be cured with the correct nano-treatment. It no longer matters to him that the centre will be destroyed.’

Jennifer tapped the readout pensively. ‘There’s more. This date was entered into the computer only two minutes before Hartfield went through the wormhole.’

‘Meaning?’ asked David.

‘Hartfield must have been in the gondola when the insertion data were changed by a third party. He didn’t intend to return to this date.’

‘Do you remember when we came down here from the lab?’ said David. ‘Ego stopped working briefly.’ He paused, listening to the voice in his ear. ‘Yes, Ego says he hacked the time machine’s computer and changed the date. He won’t tell us why.’

‘This is part of my future self’s plan, is it not?’ said Saskia. ‘She sent you that Ego unit.’

‘Very probably. I hope you’ll know what you’re doing.’

‘We need to keep moving,’ Jennifer said. She pulled a two-piece flight suit from a locker at the rear of the control room and brought it to Saskia, who accepted it apprehensively. ‘Dad, explain how the suit works. I’ll start the ignition sequence.’

David got up from his chair, where he had been making notes on a pink sheet of paper. He pinched the rubbery flight suit between his finger and thumb. ‘Oh, I wish I had one of these.’

Saskia flexed her shoulders. The suit was tight. It pushed her arms back and her chest out. The legs felt like orthopaedic stockings. There were reinforced pads at the knees and elbows. Something called a hard hood was stowed in the collar. Along her left forearm was a computer display. It showed a schematic of the West Lothian Centre. On her shoulder was a satellite transceiver. There were no Galileo satellites in 2003, so it would piggyback the American military’s Global Positioning System.

David tightened the strap around her waist. ‘Owah,’ Saskia said.

‘Sorry.’ He patted the clasp and it melted to a flush finish. ‘One more thing. The red button on your sleeve will lower the refractive index of the suit to zero.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘The suit will become almost invisible. You’ll look like a clear plastic bag filled with water. Treat it like instant camouflage. The suit was designed to protect and conceal pilots behind enemy lines.’

‘I see.’

‘One small step for a woman, eh?’

‘I don’t understand.’

David lost his smile. ‘My wife is in that research centre. Was. She died in the bombing.’

‘You want me to give her a message.’

‘No. I just want you to make sure you don’t die too.’

Saskia put a gloved hand to his cheek. ‘David, you could shoot me right now and the bullet will miss. There is an effect whose cause I must supply, remember?’

‘Hurry,’ said Jennifer. She indicated a monitor. ‘Personnel are returning.’

Saskia looked from one to the other. Jennifer had David’s mouth, but it was harder for her to smile. Saskia considered asking them, as a favour to her, to stay together, but it was a decision they had to make for themselves. ‘ Auf Wiedersehen, meine Freunden, ’ was all she could say.

‘Wait,’ David said. ‘I almost forgot.’ He passed her a pink sheet. It held a child’s crayon drawing of a house. Inside were a stick mother and father. Between them, a girl. ‘When my house in Oxford burned, I risked my life to take this off the fridge. I guess it’s a key to…memories. What we used to be.’ David looked at his daughter. ‘I was going to return it to Jennifer, but you’ll need it, Saskia.’

‘For what?’

‘The number on the back, TS4415, is a hijack trip-code used by the Lothian and Borders Police Service. It’s difficult to explain, but you’ll need to give it to me during my rescue from the West Lothian Centre.’

‘I hope I don’t forget.’ Saskia unzipped the map pocket on her thigh and pushed the paper inside. ‘You’re talking about something that is twenty years ahead of me.’

‘So you’ve got twenty years to remember. Easy.’

Jennifer shouted, ‘Hurry, Saskia.’

She waved and left the control room. As she jogged down the runway, she heard the raised voices of personnel. She began to sprint. She slipped through a gap between the baffles and skipped up the steps to the gondola. It rocked as she clambered inside. The door closed automatically.

She heard Jennifer’s voice in her ear. ‘Saskia?’

‘Go,’ she replied. The motor of the centrifuge wailed like a jet. The gondola lurched forward and she fell onto the watery acceleration couch. Through tiny windows, she watched the world tilt. She tapped her wrist computer and the hard hood closed over her head. Its arch-like sections blended to form a seamless, transparent bowl. The motor noise muted.

‘Whatever you do,’ said Jennifer, ‘don’t turn your head to either side or you’ll be sick. You’re at two gees. Still reading me?’

‘Reading you, yes.’ Her jaw ached and her cheeks felt baggy. Her head pressed against the hood.

‘Three gees,’ David said. ‘Remember, when you land, put your feet together and roll.’

‘Reading you.’

She struggled to take a full breath.

‘Four gees.’

‘Still reading you.’

Her vision began to lose colour. The ceiling of the gondola blurred.

‘Saskia,’ said Jennifer. ‘I’m sending you back one half hour before Hartfield. That will give you the best chance of intercepting him.’

‘Rea’ing you.’

David’s voice: ‘My God, Jenny. Look at the time. That’s…’

It was a disappointingly mechanical affair. A hatch opened in the bottom of the gondola and she tumbled into a bright, cold sky. She opened her arms and legs to form an ‘H’ as David had described. Webbing stretched between her elbows and her chest.

The tumbling stopped. She was still falling, but more slowly. There was a Heads-Up Display on the inner rim of the helmet. The text read:

Attempting to contact GPS… stand by.

Without the Global Positioning System, she could miss her landing by hundreds of metres.

Saskia looked down. The Earth was rising.