Alex Scarrow - Time Riders

He smiled at the notes scrawled across the draftsman’s sheet on the desk.

It fits together now, though, Paul. Doesn’t it?

Some of it did — the ‘Waldstein displacement field’. It had taken Kramer fifteen years on and off, thinking the problem over in his privatemoments. A personal hobby, an affliction, perhaps.

The field — the Waldstein field — in theory, on paper, was merely a method tocrack open the tiniest gap in space-time. That alone didn’t make a time machine, just away to open a peek-hole into the very fabric of space-time. Kramer needed computing power athis fingertips to make a time machine. Computing power to precisely navigate through theswirling chaos of a dimension that mankind had no business entering. There were no Apple Macshere in 1956, no PCs, no palmtops or organizers that could be cannibalized, adapted.

The schematic sketched out on the sheet of paper in front of him was for a device he couldconstruct merely allowing him to open a tiny window and tap infinite energy from the swirlingchaos beyond.

There’d been something Waldstein had once said to him: ‘To open time-space is toopen a door into Hell itself.’

You’ve been through that door before.

‘Yes,’ he uttered softly, ‘stepped into Hell.’ His voice trembledwith a mixture of fear and excitement. Waldstein had also once said something to a muchyounger Kramer, something that had unsettled him back then, and did so now.

‘ Consider this, Paul… If a man can place a foot in Hell,then whatever exists there might just as easily use the same door and place a foot in ourworld. ’

Those words tormented him now because he realized it was something far worse than some agentfrom the future after him. Something far more frightening.

You must hurry, Paul… before it seeks you out.

‘To work,’ said Kramer, pushing a forgotten plate of food aside on his desk.

1957, New Jersey

Bob studied the map in front of him. A dozen crosses scrawled on the map indicatedthe locations of other prison camps between Washington DC and New York. Simple logic dictatedthat Liam O’Connor had to have been taken to one of these. So far nine of these scrawledcrosses had been paid a visit: nine prison camps broken into, searched and left behind in astate of chaos, prisoners surging out the way he’d smashed in, buildings on fire, thebodies of guards and unfortunate civilians littering the ground.

And so far he’d been unlucky. Nine camps… no sign of Liam.

[Mission evaluation: success probability reduced to 31 %]

The camps were becoming harder to break into. There seemed to be more guards stationed ateach now and they were more alert — ready and waiting to be attacked. After the lastraid Bob had walked away with at least a dozen bullet wounds across his body. It had takenfive days for the wounds to heal. Five days of lying still, devoting all of his body’senergy towards the process of recovering.

The small man who had decided to tag along with him, Raymond Panelli, had watched over him,taken care of him as he lay motionless in a state akin to suspended animation, healing. Bobwondered why Raymond Panelli would care to do that. For that matter, he wondered why a growingband of humans was following him around from camp to camp. With each of hisraids, he seemed to be picking up more and more of them. Tactically speaking they were, ofcourse, useful ; they drew some of the enemy fire from him.

His stomach rumbled noisily and Bob’s computer brain reminded him that it was time torefuel his body with some protein. The food being served up by his growing band of campfollowers — a variety of stews, broths and soups — wasn’t as nutrient-richas the highly efficient protein solution he was used to consuming back in the fieldoffice’s birthing tubes, but it would do as a stopgap.

He folded the map carefully and emerged from his tent, stepping through the briar andundergrowth, stooping beneath the low-hanging branches as he made his way towards thecampfire.

As he approached, one of his followers hurried over to him with a steaming bowl of soup.

‘For you, Captain Bob , sir.’

Bob took the bowl and stepped towards the fire, finding a space on the ground amid the silentcrowd of men. They followed his every movement with wide eyes. He sat down heavily,cross-legged, stared at the flickering fire and began mechanically spooning soup into hismouth.

The human called Raymond Panelli leaned forward. ‘Captain Bob, we’ve gotourselves another bunch of fighters for the cause. Joined us just this evening.’

Bob stopped mid-spoon and looked up from the fire at him.

‘These guys right here,’ said Panelli, pointing out some men clustered near thefire. They stared in awed silence, clearly wondering what to make of the large muscularsuperhero in front of them.

Bob’s eyes panned across them, one to another. He identified tattered US army uniformson seven of them. They looked physically fit and by and large of optimumcombat age. More bodies for the enemy guards’ fire to be distracted by, more bodies forthem to aim at and fewer shots directed specifically at him.

[Mission evaluation: success probability increase +1 %]

Bob nodded. ‘That is good. With more men, probability of mission successincreases.’

A softly taken gasp rippled around the campfire at the timbre of his deep rumbling voice, acommanding sound.

One of the men, a young corporal, turned to Panelli. ‘Can… can I ask him, askCaptain Bob a question?’

Panelli gave it some thought, then nodded reluctantly. ‘Just one, OK? The hero needshis rest, needs to be thinking about our raid tomorrow.’

The young man swallowed nervously. ‘Excuse me, s-sir?’

Bob’s steel-grey eyes slowly swivelled towards him.

‘Word’s been spreadin’ across the state… you’re some kindasuperman, can be shot over and over, an’ never die.’

Bob stared at him silently, his face devoid of any emotion or reaction.

The young man’s lips twitched anxiously. ‘I’m… I’m a… Ibelieve in the Good Lord, and — ’

‘Well, that’s great, son,’ said Panelli, ‘but the captain’s gotbetter things to do than listen to your Bible-thumping.’

‘I gotta ask you, Captain Bob,’ the young corporal interrupted, ‘did Godsend you to save us, sir?’

Bob’s silicon mind momentarily suspended work on an array of mission assessmentcalculations to deal with the curious question posed by the young man. His computer offered alist of the most appropriate replies to the question.

The fire crackled noisily in the silence. Far away through the trees an owl hooted, as ifurging Bob to hurry up and say something appropriate.

He picked a biblical quotation from his database that seemed to have themost relevance at this moment.

‘When trouble comes, the Lord is a strong refuge. He will sweep away His enemies in anoverwhelming flood,’ he replied, his deep voice like a roll of thunder. Bob wasn’tentirely sure what the words meant, but it seemed to have a suitable effect on the mengathered around the campfire.

‘Amen,’ someone muttered after a while.

2001, New York subway

Foster’s torch probed the darkness of the subway station. The beam picked outthe glint of twin metal rail tracks to their left over the edge of the platform and theglimmer of pools of stagnant water between them.

Further along the tracks Sal could see an old pram lying on its side, half in, half out ofthe water.

They could hear skittering sounds along the rails, in, around and under the rotting woodensleepers; the pattering of little vermin feet and the steady metronome-like drip, drip,drip of moisture from the curved tunnel roof above them echoed through thestation.