Chapter One

 

"Ms Jones, the Director will see you now," announced the receptionist.

Elvira Jones, blonde and statuesque, uncoiled herself from the depths of a settee.  "Finally!  Wish me luck, Charlene."  An inner door opened and she disappeared inside.

"She’s so beautiful," said the office junior enviously.  "She could be a model."

"She’s in marketing," Charlene explained.  "The Simply Qubit division.  She gets to show off our quantum products."

"And she wants to work here – underground?"

"It’s cutting edge.  And she’s ambitious."  Charlene paused.  "That might not be enough to convince the old man, though."

Elvira, aware that the door had closed silently behind her, confronted three individuals seated at a long table.  One vacant chair was positioned in the centre of the room.  She took it, surveying her interviewers.  An anonymous woman from HR; a security officer; and, the focus of her attention, the thin angular figure of CoherenceCo's exec, Rafe Bridgenorth.

The woman shuffled her paperwork.  "Could you remind us please, Miss Jones – "

"Ms."

"Ms Jones.  Can you tell us why you’re seeking a career change from a secure, lucrative post to an as yet experimental branch of science?"

"Certainly.  To be frank, quantum computing has stalled.  Qubits are notoriously unstable.  At the current rate of progress, we’ll need decades before we can rival binary systems.  Particle physics, on the other hand, has already transformed medicine and communications. The space industry has to be next. I'd like to be part of that."

"I value your enthusiasm," said Bridgenorth unctuously.  "However, having considered your application carefully, I regret you have been unsuccessful on this occasion."

Elvira’s cool expression didn’t change, but inwardly she was seething.  "Then with respect, Director, why bring me here?  You could have said that in a memo."

"Because an unexpected matter has arisen, necessitating your presence.  Your reply will be in confidence."

"Go on."

"We have offered the post of project leader to Clive Brightlingsea, and he has accepted, but has made an unorthodox request."

"Which is?"

"That you work alongside him as a senior analyst.  We’d like your thoughts on this.  How you would feel, for instance, working for someone younger than yourself?  It would also mean a drop in salary."

The HR woman glanced at her watch.  "What Director Bridgenorth is endeavouring to say is, has Mr Brightlingsea ever behaved in a way that would make it difficult for you to work with him?  Such as innuendo, unwanted sexual advances – "

"No," Elvira interrupted.  "Nothing like that."  He knows what I’d do if he tried, her thoughts added.

Bridgenorth steepled his fingers.  "Then do you wish to accept the offer?"

"If it’s permitted," said Elvira carefully, "I’d like some time to think it over."

"Understandable.  Would a week be sufficient?"

"Er … yes."

"Thank you, Ms Jones.  I’ll await your decision."

The trio rose and, without a backward glance, left via a private exit.

Elvira stormed back into the reception area, wishing she could slam the automated door.

"I assume that went badly?" inquired Charlene.

"Yes, but not in the way you might think.  That self-serving little creep Clive’s still trying to build his career on the back of other people’s honest toil.  He wants me as his subordinate, which means he’ll take the credit for any success I might have."

"Isn’t that a bit harsh?"

"No, it isn’t.  Clive’s programs don’t work.  Do you remember Gwen Morrow?"

"Just about.  Quiet and shy."

"And clever.  When she was at Simply Qubit she wrote a paper challenging current thinking on entanglement.  And suddenly there was Clive, cosying up to her, giving her the chat, taking an interest in her thesis.  The next thing we knew, he’d laid claim to it.  Even had the cheek to say she’d made a contribution.  Gwen resigned."

"Did Bridgenorth know why?"

"Probably.  But as far as he’s concerned, Clive can do no wrong.  I don’t know whether to cut my losses like Gwen, or stay put and fight my corner.  I’ve one week to decide, and since I’ve some leave owed, that week starts now.  Bye!" 

"Do you think she’ll be back?" asked the typist.

"I hope she will," Charlene replied soberly.  "We need women like her."

Elvira retrieved her jacket from its locker and approached a row of sturdily built elevators.  One, she observed thankfully, was already at the lower ground floor, home to Simply Qubit.  She knew from experience how long it took for the lifts to ascend from below.  She presented her palm print to the scanner, noting – as she always did – the buttons marked Control, Basement and Sub-Basement.  There were several other unmarked destinations.  She had, of course, tried pressing them all, only to be told she didn’t have clearance.  Maybe that was about to change.

At street level was a covered parking area with an exit post manned by one attendant. It looked no different to any other industrial car park.  Nearby was a small office block identifying itself as Bull and Bush Market Analytics.  It was the type of building no-one looked at twice.

Elvira’s silver Volvo halted at the barrier.  The attendant was on his landline, and remained on it for over three minutes.  She beeped at him impatiently, and at last he came to the window.

"Sorry, princess, that was Downstairs.  Some particles got uppity and spoilt their experiment, and the CCTV – mine included – got messed up for the same few seconds.  Did you see anything unusual?"

"Such as?"

He shrugged.  "I’m not allowed to guess."

"I saw nothing and no-one, Max.  Now stop interrogating me.  I’d like to go home!"

"No kung fu tonight?" Max inquired.

"It’s Mixed Martial Arts, and no.  But I’ve time for a quick demonstration if you don’t open that gate!"

He grinned and raised the barrier.

Elvira eased the Volvo out of the complex, accelerated, then braked a few seconds later.  Someone was lying in the slip road.  She pulled over and opened the door cautiously, suspecting a set-up.  But there was nowhere for an accomplice to hide, and the fairhaired young man on the ground was genuinely injured.  A gash over one eye oozed blood.  Dazed and dishevelled, he flinched as she leant over him.

"Good lady, forgive.  I was clumsy."

"What happened?  Were you mugged?"

"I was running from bad people.  To prevent them following I had to launch without a receptor.”

"Receptor?  What’s that?"

"The entangled opposite.  Time’s … forward … arrow …"  A thin trickle of blood ran from his nose.

"Oh, great."  Elvira contrived to sit him up.  "Can I call anyone for you?  Focus, dammit.  Focus!"

He focused.  "I need to find CoherenceCo.  I know it’s here.  It has to be."

Elvira reached an instant decision.  "Right, you're coming with me.  We'll talk some more later.  Can you stand?  OK, I've got you.  Now slide into the passenger seat."  She rummaged in the glove compartment and found some tissues.  "Here, use these, and try not to bleed on the upholstery.  Seat belt on.  No, not like that."  She returned to the driver's seat, then ensured he was strapped in.  "My flat's six minutes away.  We'll get you sorted and then you can tell me all about the bad guys and what they have to do with CoherenceCo.  Don't argue, that's an order."

"Your servant, good lady."

She wondered if he was being sarcastic, but thought it best not to ask.

Her flatmate's car was in the drive.  Relieved, she parked alongside and called her.  "Vivette, I'm home.  Can you come down?  Now?  I've someone here who's in a spot of bother.  His name's …"  She held the phone toward the young man.

"Paris Evason," he supplied shakily.

"Paris?" queried Vivette. "Nice.  I'll be with you in a tick."

They bundled their mysterious guest up a flight of stairs to the first floor flat.  "Hey, Paris," said Vivette once they were indoors, "before I allow you anywhere near my bespoke cushions you'll have to lose that overall.  It's a mess.  Mud all down one side and the sleeve torn open. Where's the zip?  Buttons?  Anything?"

Paris lifted his right hand fractionally, and the material parted from collar to waist.

"Magnets.  Cool," said Vivette imperturbably.  "Now off with the rest of it."

Disappointingly, he was wearing a plain grey vest and knee-length shorts.  "Is this indecorous?" he inquired.

Vivette arched an eyebrow.  "I think you could do with a make-over."

Elvira left her to her ministrations and went in search of a first aid kit.  When she returned, Paris had been allowed to sit down.

"Why are you so woozy?"  Vivette was asking.  "Are you on something?"

"I swear I'm not, Face of Plessis."

She stared.  "How do you know my surname?"

"Not now, Viv."  Elvira came forward and began to clean the grit and congealed blood from Paris' forehead.  "Make yourself useful and get him some brandy."

"But didn't you hear what - "

"Brandy!  Move it!"

Vivette's annoyance lasted precisely one minute.  Paris' look of pure gratitude was an ample reward.  She held the glass steady while he sipped, and gradually some colour returned to his face.

"So, mystery man," Elvira said gently, "would you mind explaining yourself?  That was the deal."

"If you insist," answered Paris, avoiding her gaze.  "Some criminals in my workplace were defrauding rich clients out of their money and then killing them.  I tried to get evidence but I wasn't careful enough.  As I told you earlier, I launched myself without a receptor, to avoid pursuit.  I'm a time traveller, Ms Jones.  From your future.  Without a receptor, one's body weight displaces the continuum on arrival, and this creates a series of ripples which is disorienting – even painful – for the traveller.  You don't believe me, do you?"

Elvira said nothing, recalling the energy burst that had cost CoherenceCo a day's work.

"I believe you," said Vivette.  She'd retrieved the grimy overall.  "This hole's busy repairing itself.  And we all know that can't happen – yet.  I insist on knowing how it's done!"

"I will tell you," he promised.  "But first – what year is this?"

Vivette tossed a copy of Vogue at him.

He scanned the cover, then thrust it aside with an oath neither of the women recognised.

"Sounds like you screwed up," Vivette said impishly.

"You could say that.  I thought I'd reached 2073, the year the Time Travel Institute was founded.  Instead, CoherenceCo is still in its infancy."

"In-house experiments," Elvira confirmed.

"Forgive my ineptitude," Paris said dully.  "If it's any kind of excuse, I was in fear of my life."

"If you were heading for 2073," began Elvira carefully, "what year are you actually from?"

"2584."

"Yet you still speak twenty-first century English."

"I'm speaking standard protocol 2000 London.  Every TTI employee has sleep tuition in language variants.  Time tourists have to blend in and we have to monitor them."  He held out his glass for a refill – his second.

"Before you drink any more of that," said Elvira, "tell me when you last ate."

"Er .. oh."  He summoned a grin.  "Not since breakfast, and that was only Vegi-sim.  Seven hours?"

"Just as well I asked.  I'll order in."  She readied her phone.  "Any preference?  Pizza, curry, fish and chips?"

"Real fish and chips?" he echoed.

Elvira didn't inquire what a fake version was like.

"Ladies," Paris said formally, "may I be permitted to bathe before the meal arrives?  The launch set-up was messy and I probably smell of tungstron relay oil."

"Oh, so that's what it is," trilled Vivette, propelling him toward the ensuite.  "Do you know how everything works?  In the bathroom, I mean."

"I've read the history manuals," he responded through the closed door.

"Must you keep winding him up, Viv?" Elvira said reprovingly.

"He's kind of cute," said Vivette by way of an excuse.

"Yes, and he's also tired, hungry and scared.  There's a lot more he needs to tell us, so enough of the teasing."

"OK," agreed Viv unrepentantly.  "But let's see if we can dress him up a bit."

"In what?"

Vivette rummaged through a capacious wardrobe.  "Some of Hercule's clothes."

"That waste of space!  I wonder if he's still sofa-surfing?"

"Probably.  Anyway, I'm confiscating these.  Just the thing for our Paris – a new image.  Geek chic."

Elvira continued to frown.

"And I'll let him choose," Vivette added.

"He might surprise you," Elvira said.

Paris obligingly chose an outsize Hawaiian shirt, drawstring linen trousers and ill-fitting white flip-flops.  No-one commented.

The promised meal of cod, chips and mushy peas duly arrived.  The women expected Paris to wolf it down, but instead he displayed exemplary table manners.  After coffee he began to paint a vivid word-picture of CoherenceCo in the twenty-sixth century.  The road where he'd landed so unceremoniously was in the same physical space as the time terminal which had dispatched him into the past.  And that terminal was one of a vast array, serviced and maintained by technicians like himself.  Beyond them was a ring of security; above, the plush reception areas where time tourists were processed and costumed; below, the particle accelerator which powered the complex.

"What about Strictly Qubit?" asked Elvira.

"It was sold off."

"All the more reason to switch careers, El," Vivette remarked.  "Or is there something you're not telling us?"

Elvira reluctantly explained how her dream job had been hijacked by the duplicitous Clive.  "I've a week to make up my mind," she continued.  "I suppose I should put in one appearance, just for the chance to slap him."

A flicker of hope had appeared on Paris' face, only to disappear again.

"You want me to accept the terms, don't you?" Elvira asked quietly.

He looked away.  "I'm sorry."

"Stop saying that!  CoherenceCo's the only link to your time, isn't it?"

He nodded.

"And you need me to be your contact."

He repeated the nod.

"Be careful what you're getting into, El," Vivette advised.

"I intend to be.  And that's why I need to know exactly how Paris discovered this crime syndicate and who's involved."

"And if they'll be expecting him to turn up again," added Vivette shrewdly.

"I promised I'd tell you everything, and I will," Paris said earnestly.

"We're waiting," said Vivette.

"First, you'll need some background.  Have you heard of the Many Worlds Interpretation?"

"Yes," said Elvira.

"No," said Vivette simultaneously.  Elvira went to make more coffee.

"Some theorists," began Paris carefully, "believe there are an infinite number of universes.  And that when a time traveller interferes with the past – simply by going there – another reality is created.  And it's the new version, with his visit included, that our traveller goes home to.  Only, he doesn't.  We at TTI have been time-conversant for hundreds of years, and in our experience people always return to their point of departure.  So it's fair to say there's only one universe."

"And you're sure about that, are you?"

"There's no evidence to the contrary.  But, the authorities don't take anything for granted.  Every time trip has to be logged in, logged out, filed, checked and double-checked.  We have statisticians who do nothing else."

"Figure - figure guys are a pain," Vivette remarked.

"Figure - figure girls," Paris corrected her.  "And they're remorseless.  That's how my involvement began – with a rant from the Stats department over a discrepancy.  Over the course of a month there had been three more departures than retrievals.  Three, out of several thousand.  But there shouldn't have been any.  The  error – or the collusion – was attributed to my section, and that angered me, because I'd done nothing wrong and I was sure my team hadn't either.  I checked the manifests, found the identities of the three missing people, and realised I knew one of them, Gil Hannason.  I'd studied alongside his son Eadwine, who was later to die in a skiing accident."

Elvira, in the kitchen, heard his voice begin to tremble and added a slop of brandy to his coffee.

"On an impulse I visited Jenufa, Gil's wife," Paris was continuing.  "And I found he'd left her a message which couldn't be opened for another three months.  She asked if I could override the program."

"Which, of course, you could," Elvira said, setting down the drinks.

"Of course," Paris confirmed with no trace of conceit.  "The home AI did its best to stop me but I accessed the sub-routine that ran all the timers.  And the message played.  Someone at the Institute, someone at executive level, had claimed that a way into the multiverse had been discovered – a myriad different realities.  In one of them, Eadwine had reputedly survived the avalanche.  Gil had died on the mountain instead.  The unknown exec was offering, for a massive fee to cover the energy output, to send Gil there to resume his interrupted life.  The operation and others like it were still classified, so he was to tell no-one."  He paused, remembering.  "That poor man.  So hopeful, yet so wretched.  I think he knew he was being scammed but he'd have done anything if it meant seeing his son again."

"Only he broke the rules."

"He did.  He couldn't simply vanish without telling his wife." 

"And you're sure the multiverse project is fake?"

"Absolutely.  I haven't told you how this ends.  If it ends.  Please be patient."

They waited.  Vivette fidgeted.

"I went back to the Institute after-hours and retrieved Gil's metadata," Paris continued, forcing the words out.  "They'd sent him to Point Nemo in the mid-Pacific, the furthest distance from any land.  They'd sent him there alive.  I felt sick.  I tried to leave, but hadn't even accessed a conveyor buggy when I saw two strangers, a man and a woman.  They weren't from security and wore no ID.  The man's expression was cold, hostile; the woman seemed...almost amused.  A synapsyn gun appeared in her gloved hand."

His listeners looked puzzled.