Stephen Baxter - The Time Ships

I looked more closely; it was difficult to be certain in the light of the remote electric lamps, but I thought I could see an odd green translucence about the sections of quartz and nickel — a translucence which looked more than familiar!

“It is Plattnerite,” I hissed at Moses. “The rods have been doped… Moses, I am convinced — I cannot be mistaken, despite the uncertain light — those are components taken from my own laboratory: spares, prototypes and discards I produced during the construction of my Time Machine.”

Moses nodded. “So at least we know these people haven’t learned the technique of manufacturing Plattnerite for themselves, yet.”

The Morlock came up to me and pointed at something stored in a darkened recess in the engine compartment. It took some squinting, but I could make out that that bulky shape was my own Time Machine! — whole and unbroken, evidently extracted from Richmond Hill and brought into this fort, its rails still stained by grass. The machine was wrapped about by ropes as if confined in a spider-web.

I felt a powerful urge, at the sight of that potent symbol of safety, to break free of these soldiers — if I could — and make for my machine. Perhaps I could reach my home, even now…

But I knew it would be a futile attempt, and I stilled myself. Even if I could reach the machine — and I could not, for these troopers would gun me down in a moment — I could not find my home again. After this latest incident, no version of 1891 which I could reach could bear any resemblance to the safe and prosperous Year I had abandoned so foolishly. I was stranded in time!

Filby joined me. “What do you think of the machinery — eh?” He punched me in the shoulder, and his touch had the withered feebleness of an old man. He said, “The whole thing was designed by Sir Albert Stern, who has been prominent in these things since the early days of the War. I’ve taken quite an interest in these beasts, as they’ve evolved over the years… You know I’ve always had a fascination for things mechanical.

“Look at that.” He pointed into the recesses of the engine compartment. “Rolls-Royce ’Meteor’ engines — a whole row of ’em! And a Merrit-Brown gear-box — see it, over there? We’ve got Horstmann suspension, with those three bogeys to either side…”

“Yes,” I cut in, “but — dear old Filby — what is it all for?”

“For? It’s for the prosecution of the War, of course.” Filby waved his hand about. “This is a Juggernaut: Kitchener-class; one of the latest models. The main purpose of the ’Nauts is to break up the Siege of Europe, you see; they can negotiate all but the widest trench-works with alacrity — although they are expensive, prone to malfunction, and vulnerable to shelling. Raglan is rather an appropriate name, don’t you think? — For Lord Fitzroy Raglan was the old devil who made such a hash of the siege of Sebastopol, in the Crimea. Perhaps poor old Raglan would have—”

“The Siege of Europe?”

He looked at me sadly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Perhaps they shouldn’t have sent me after all — I keep forgetting how little you must know! I’ve turned into the most awful old buffer, I’m afraid. Look here — I’ve got to tell you that we’ve been at War, since 1914.”

“War? With whom?”

“Well, with the Germans, of course. Who else? And it really is a terrible mess…”

These words, this casual glimpse of a future Europe darkened by twenty-four years of War, chilled me to the core!

We came to a chamber perhaps ten feet square; it was little more than a box of metal bolted to the inner hull of the ’Naut. A single electric bulb glowed in the ceiling, and padded leather coated the walls, alleviating the metal bleakness of the fort and suppressing the noise of the engines — although a deeper throb could be felt through the fabric of the vessel. There were six chairs here: simple upright affairs that were bolted to the floor, facing each other, and fitted with leather harnesses. There was also a low cabinet.

Filby waved us to the chairs and started fussing around the cabinet. “I should strap yourselves in,” he said. “This time-hurdling nonsense is quite vertiginous.”

Moses and I sat down to face each other. I fastened the restraints loosely around me; Nebogipfel had some trouble with his buckles, and the straps dangled about him until Moses helped him adjust their tightness.

Now Filby came pottering up to me with something in his hand; it was a cup of tea in a cracked china saucer, with a small biscuit to one side of the cup. I could not help but laugh. “Filby, the turns of fate never cease to amaze me. Here we are, about to journey through time in this menacing mobile fort — and you serve us with tea and biscuits!”

“Well, this business is quite difficult enough without life’s comforts. You must know that!”

I sipped the tea; it was lukewarm and rather stewed. Thus fortified, I became, incongruously, rather mischievous — I think on reflection my mental state was a little fragile, and I was unwilling to face my own future, or the dire prospect of this 1938 War. “Filby,” I teased him, “do you not observe anything — ah — odd about my companions?”

I introduced him to Moses — and poor Filby began a staring session which resulted in him dribbling tea down his chin.

“And there is the true shock of time travel,” I said to Filby with feeling. “Forget all this stuff about the Origin of the Species, or the Destiny of Humanity — it’s only when you come face to face with yourself as a young man that you realize what shock is all about!”

Filby questioned us on this issue of our identity for a little longer — good old Filby, skeptical to the last! “I thought I’d seen enough changes and wonders in my life, even without this time business. But now — well!” He sighed, and I suspected that he had actually seen a little too much in his long lifetime, poor fellow; he always had been prone to a certain brain-weariness, even as a young man.

I leaned forward, as far as my restraints allowed. “Filby, I can scarce believe that men have fallen so far — become so blind. Why, from my perspective, this damnable Future War of yours sounds pretty much like the end of civilization.”

“For men of our day,” he said solemnly, “perhaps it is. But this younger generation, who’ve grown up to know nothing but War, who have never felt the sun on their faces without fear of the air-torpedoes — well! I think they’re inured to it; it’s as if we’re turning into a subterranean species.”

I could not resist a glance at the Morlock.

“Filby, why this mission through time?”

“It isn’t so much you, as the Machine. They had to ensure the construction of the Time Machine, you see,” Filby began. “Time technology is so vital to the War Effort. Or so some of them feel.

“They knew pretty much how you went about your research, from the bits of notes you left behind — although you never published anything on the subject; there was only that odd account you left with us of your first trip into the remote future, on your brief return. And so the Raglan has been sent to guard your house against any intrusion by a Time Traveler — like you…”

Nebogipfel lifted his head. “More confusion about causality,” he said. “Evidently the scientists of 1938 have still not begun to grasp the concept of Multiplicity — that one cannot ensure anything about the past: one cannot change History; one can only generate new versions of—”