Alex Scarrow - Gates of Rome

Maddy glanced across the archway at where the carrier bag had been by the shutter door; a bag containing something the size of a basketball, tied up and put inside yet another bag. Thankfully it was gone now. Bob had taken it away earlier. They’d discussed whether her head deserved some sort of a burial, a ritual, a few words said. But none of them could decide how to do it or what to say. In the end Bob just took it away. Maddy didn’t want to know what he did with it. It wasn’t Becks any more; it was just ten pounds of meat, bone and cartilage.

‘Data retrieval,’ she muttered, blanking out the memory with technical terms. ‘That’s all it is,’ she told herself. ‘Just like pulling the motherboard out of a PC. No big deal.’

She’d discovered Becks’s body almost completely buried beneath a mound of other bodies, several separate, distinct entry and exit wounds to her head. Any one of those would have been fatal to a normal human. But her genetically engineered, thicker skull and much smaller organic brain meant that she could suffer catastrophic cranial trauma and still be viable. But clearly she was not immortal. Her body had sustained enough damage and blood loss that it had finally closed down and died.

Sal settled on the arm of the threadbare sofa beside Maddy. ‘Think her chip’s OK?’

Maddy nodded towards the bank of screens across the archway. Several of them were spooling streams of encoded data. ‘Computer-Bob’s running a diagnostic on her chipset right now. I don’t know. I hope so. It’s gonna take a while. The silicon wafer casing’s dented. A bullet must have hit it on the way through. I don’t know what that’s done to the drive inside. We’ll just have to wait and see.’

The three of them silently watched the spooling screens, a flickering stream of letters and numbers, data: countless terabytes of stored memories of dinosaurs and jungles, knights and castles.

All that made Becks… Becks.

‘We’ll re-grow her, though,’ said Liam. ‘Aye?’

Sal nodded. ‘Yeah, two support units are better than one.’ She looked down at Maddy. ‘Right?’

‘Sure we will. But…’

‘But what?’

‘There’s no certainty that we can use her AI. If there’s too much damage, if it’s an unreliable AI, she could be a hazard to us. We may need to work from default AI code.’

‘That won’t be our Becks, then,’ said Liam.

Both support units, Becks and Bob, had developed distinctly different artificial intelligences despite running the very same operating system. Maddy’s best guess was that it was something in the way the small organic brain interacted with the silicon, that it was the ‘meat’ component of their minds that ultimately defined them, gave them their individual personalities.

‘You’re right,’ she replied, ‘it wouldn’t be the same Becks.’

‘I really hope her computer’s all right,’ said Liam wistfully.

Sal looked at him. ‘She was a bit… I don’t know, a bit cold, though, sometimes, don’t you think?’

He shook his head thoughtfully. ‘I think she was beginning to learn how to feel things.’

Maddy thought she’d seen something of that in the support unit, the emergence of behaviour that might be described as an emotion — a desire to please, to seek approval.

‘We’ll just have to wait and see what we get. If the data’s good, she should be pretty much the Becks we know and love.’

If the data’s good.

But Maddy’s mind was on something else, on that portion of the hard drive Becks had partitioned off and encrypted. Several millimetres of silicon that contained a secret so important that it had become the source of the legend of the Holy Grail, caused the very existence of the Knights Templar and compelled King Richard to launch his own crusade to retake Jerusalem. A secret transmitted across two thousand years of history. A secret meant for them.

But not yet apparently.

What was it Becks had said? That the message contained instructions for the truth not to be revealed just yet.

‘ When it is the end… ’

‘I hope the message from that old manuscript isn’t all messed up,’ said Liam as if he was reading her thoughts. ‘I’d love to find out what it said one day, so I would.’

Maddy smiled. ‘Me too.’

The shutter door rattled gently as a fist banged against it outside.

‘I’ll get it,’ said Sal. She hopped off the sofa’s arm, crossed the archway and hit the shutter’s button. It cranked up noisily, letting in daylight and revealing Bob’s thick, hairy legs. In an attempt to make him blend in more with the tourists in Times Square, Sal was trying out the shorts-and-flip-flops-and-Hawaiian-shirt look on him. Maddy wasn’t entirely sure that was working. He looked like a freakish version of Clark Kent taking a vacation.

Bob ducked down under the shutter, holding a cardboard take-away tray in his ham-shank-sized hands.

‘Who requested the caramel frappuccino?’

2001, Central Park, New York

They walked slowly round the duck pond, kicking the first dry leaves of autumn aside. They watched a young couple rollerblading ahead of them. Maddy smiled sadly, envious of the pair of them, both about her age and seemingly without a solitary care in the world. She watched the young man, tanned, lean, handsome, with long wavy blond hair and a small goatee, leading his unsteady girlfriend by the hands, her feet splaying and weaving uncertainly, laughing at how terrible she was.

To have that moment. Just that one moment.

Foster touched her arm sympathetically. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

‘What?’

‘You’re thinking ignorance is bliss.’

She offered him a confessional shrug. ‘I wish I was someone else, Foster. Anyone else.’ She nodded at the couple, their legs beginning to tangle, the young man laughing along with his giggling girlfriend. ‘Being either of them would be nice.’

‘They’ll never experience anything like you’ll experience. What you’ve experienced already.’

Maddy sighed. ‘But it’s too much. I can’t cope with all of it.’ She looked at his old face, sunken cheeks and eyes framed by a fan of wrinkles, ‘laughter lines’ if one was being kind. ‘Every time I come and visit you… it seems I’ve got more and more to unload on you.’

He cackled. ‘It must get annoying, having to repeat yourself.’

She shrugged that away. That was the deal. That’s how it was. Foster was here at this time in Central Park. Mid-morning, feeding the pigeons, then on his merry way to live out whatever time he had left however he wanted. For him an hour that came and went, but for Maddy — reliving the same two New York days, the 10th and 11th September 2001 — it was a repeated chance to see him again. To get his advice. But every time they met, it would be the first time he’d seen her since walking away from the team and leaving her in charge. So their conversation began with an ever-increasing recap from her of the events she and the others had endured.

‘You guys do seem to have been through quite a lot,’ he said.

‘Tell me about it.’

His face, skin like fine parchment, creased with a grin. ‘Abraham Lincoln sounds a character, so he does. Did he really outrun both your support units?’

‘Oh yeah, the guy can run like a kid chasing an ice-cream van.’

They both laughed.

Foster nodded at a bench beside the path in the shade of a maple tree. ‘Can we sit? My old legs aren’t what they used to be.’

‘Sure.’

She looked at him, wondering how many days he had left, wondering how much life the displacement machine had stolen from him. A couple of meetings ago, here beside this same pond, he’d admitted he was only twenty-seven years old. More than that — something that had rocked her to the core — he’d told her that he was once Liam. He’d not explained how that could be; in fact, he’d refused to explain. But he’d told her because he wanted her to know that every time Liam went back into the past, the process was gradually killing him: ageing him before his time. That he would all too soon end up like him. She alone needed to be the judge of how much his body could take. That’s why she had to know.