Alex Scarrow - The Doomsday Code

‘Og gub ber smuh,’ gurgled the clone in agreement.

‘And just as moronic as he was last time,’ she added. ‘Come on, let’s get him cleaned up and dressed, then we can get the software upload started.’

Liam placed a hand under one bulging arm, Becks the other and together they helped him to his feet. Liam winked at the bewildered-looking giant. ‘Welcome back, Bob.’

Half an hour later, hosed down and no longer stinking like a pile of rotten meat, dried and dressed in a mix-and-match collection of oversized clothes, Bob sat motionless on Liam’s bunk. His eyelids flickered rapidly as terabytes of data filled the empty silicon wafer embedded in his skull. Becks was overseeing the software transfer process while Maddy had called the other two to join her around the kitchen table.

‘So you see … we’ve got to at least go and take a look. Make sure this Voynich Manuscript isn’t going to totally give the game away.’ She shrugged. ‘It isn’t going to be a particularly secret agency much longer if one of our teams is blabbing away all our secrets in that document. Right?’

Liam nodded. ‘Sure.’

‘Does that mean Liam might meet another “operative” like himself?’ asked Sal.

Maddy shrugged. ‘It’s entirely possible he’ll make contact.’ She turned to him. ‘And, if you do, then obviously the most important thing you need to communicate is that they can’t use the Voynich Manuscript any longer. It’s been compromised, OK?’

‘Right.’

‘So …’ Maddy consulted a pad of paper on the table. ‘So the time we’re sending you back to, Liam, is 1194 — that’s when this Adam Lewis said the document carbon dates to.’ She looked up from her notes. ‘I don’t think carbon dating can be that precise … but it’s a specific year to aim for. And we’re sending you to a place called Kirklees. That’s in England.’

‘Ahh now, I’ve been to England before. With me uncle and me dad, so.’

‘A place called Kirklees Priory. I did a search on it. It’s famous because it’s the place where Robin Hood died and was buried. Supposedly.’

Liam’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Robin Hood, did you say?’

Maddy laughed at his response. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, Liam. From what I’ve pulled up, there seems to be a lot of evidence that Hood’s just a myth: a story made up from a whole bunch of different sources. From old Saxon-aged myths to, like, seventeenth-century highwayman stories.’

‘Oh.’ His face dropped. ‘And there was me hoping to become one of his Merry Men.’

‘Sorry. Now, listen closely. Historical records show this is a dangerous time. The king of England is Richard and he’s abroad fighting some crusade. At home, there’s a lot of unrest and stuff — bandits, anarchy, that kind of thing. So for safety I’m going to send both support units along with you, OK?’

Liam smiled. ‘I’ll be fine, then. Me own little army.’

‘And, remember, all this is a quick look-see. If you can, I want you to find who or what “Cabot” is, and talk to him. See if you can find out who’s writing this Voynich Manuscript, and if it’s another team like us then you’ve got to make contact and warn them that the code’s been broken, right?’

‘Aye.’

‘A secondary objective, Liam — if you can locate the manuscript, or come across whoever’s writing it — is … if you can, find out how to decode that manuscript so we can see what else is in it.’ She glanced at both of them. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of being totally in the dark about this agency. I want to know more, and if there’s more we can find out …’

‘Yeah,’ said Sal. ‘I want to know too.’

The three of them were quiet for a moment.

‘I don’t know where this is taking us,’ said Maddy. ‘History has been changed a little. There’s a movie out there that wasn’t there yesterday. And maybe that’s all that’s going to happen with this time wave and we don’t need to correct things again. As Foster once said, history can tolerate some change. Maybe this Adam guy got lucky with those couple of sentences, and that’s all anyone is ever going to get out of the manuscript. But I think we have to just take a look. Agree?’

Liam nodded. ‘It’s the time of knights an’ all. I wouldn’t mind seeing some of that.’

‘Cool. So … when Bob’s ready, Sal, I want you, Liam and the two units to go locate some clothing that’ll not attract attention. God knows what they wear then,’ she said, shrugging, ‘potato sacks and sandals, for all I know.’

‘OK. What about you?’

‘I need to put together a data package for Bob and Becks so they’re, you know, up to speed on all the relevant history.’ She looked at her watch. ‘It’s just gone ten. If we say launch time after lunch?’ She nudged Liam. ‘Might as well get some pizza in before you go.’

2001, New York

He was watching the row of archways, not entirely certain which one they’d disappeared into last night. He’d let them get too far ahead, they’d turned into that backstreet and, by the time he’d arrived and looked down past the wheelie bins and bags of festering rubbish, they were nowhere to be seen.

Nerves had got the better of him; he’d allowed himself to fall too far behind.

He could have gone down there, knocking on each shutter door, but he’d wimped out. Back at his apartment in the early hours, unable to sleep as New York finally stilled itself for a new Monday morning, he’d paced his living room angry with himself. Seven years of waiting for this moment; seven years waiting to talk to the girl again — and he’d wimped out and lost them down this street.

In all that time he’d played the memory of that night in his bedsit over and over in his head, trying to understand what it had been about. Trying to keep the memory of their faces fresh and vivid. Preparing himself to accept the possibility that this was for real, that that little ticket stub was actually going to reunite him with someone who’d travelled across time.

Adam had called work this morning, told them he was feeling poorly. Told them he might not be in for a couple of days. Sherman-Golding Investment would cope just fine without their IT systems security consultant for a couple of days.

Seven years. It felt like a lifetime ago, those unhappy university years. He’d never kept in touch with those moronic beer-heads he’d shared digs with. Couldn’t care less what they were doing now. Because he was doing just fine. A nice Manhattan apartment, a gold American Express card, membership of an exclusive gym that overlooked the Hudson. He earned more money a year than his old man earned in a decade. And all he was really was a hacker in a smart suit.

But then this life, this career, everything he’d planned and done since he was twenty-one, had been so he’d end up here in New York, so he could be there at that club on that night. His whole career, his life, governed by the faint print on a crumpled stub of coloured paper.

Totally mental.

Now, watching this little backstreet in the morning, Mr Sensible urged him to make a move. Mission Control toAdam, time to go and say hello now, don’t you think?

The thought sent butterflies fluttering in formation around his gut.

Come on, Adam, you’re a confident man now. Not that nerdy little weasel, not any more. Right? A player. Not a loser — a WINNER! And winners don’t sit around whining.

He nodded. ‘Right.’

Mission Control says we’re good to go. Time to go.

It was then that he saw them. Four of them emerging from one of the archways. He spotted the tall girl who’d twisted his finger nearly out of its socket. Looking no different. Wearing exactly the same clothes she’d been wearing that night — the very same clothes she’d been wearing seven years ago … and it looked like she’d not aged a day! With her was a small Asian girl, thirteen, maybe fourteen. A young man perhaps a couple of years older, and next to him a giant of a man. He had to be seven foot tall, at least a yard across the shoulders and over two hundred pounds of muscle.