mountain over a hundred years ago to make space for the political elite of the time — generals, congressmen, senators and their families — in the event of a thermonuclear war with the Russians.
He shook his head. Nothing changes. The politicians are always the first in line.
The hangar, perhaps a shade larger than a football pitch, was illuminated from the sides by floodlights erected on tripods. Pools of retina-achingly bright light stretched across a cold concrete floor, scuffed and grooved here and there decades ago when this installation was stripped bare of equipment and mothballed.
An empty floor… right now.
Rashim sat down among the cluster of cubicles and desks deployed in this corner of the hangar. First in again this morning, as always. He activated his terminal with a waft of his hand. His iris flickered momentarily as the terminal scanned and confirmed it was Dr Rashim Anwar issuing the command.
Project Exodus: Mass Translation Simulator — the words glowed crisply in the air in front of Rashim.
‘Activate the floor mark-up.’
The hangar’s concrete floor suddenly became a glowing chequerboard, criss-crossed with an intricate mesh of pulsing neon blue lines cast from a series of holographic projectors suspended from the cavernous ceiling. Grid- markers: squares varying in size from several inches across to several yards.
‘Overlay marker details.’
Above each square floated holographic displays of columns of numbers: vital statistics for what was one day going to occupy each square.
‘And give me the content icons.’
Above most of the various-sized grid squares, hundreds of them, glowing blue silhouettes suddenly appeared. Some of them the outlines of boxes and crates, several large icons depicting the profiles of vehicles, but the rest displaying the shimmering but clearly discernible outlines of human figures.
‘Bubba, can you show me who’s decided to be a nuisance this morning and drop out?’
‘Aye aye, skippa!’ SpongeBubba saluted playfully.
Eleven of the human icons glowed red.
Rashim got up from behind his desk and wandered across the hangar floor, the beams of light from above projecting down across his head, shoulders and back. He squatted down in front of the first human icon that had turned red. Rashim read the display of information floating in the air beside it. Candidate 165: Name — Professor Jennifer Carmel Age — 28 Assignment — Biochemist Mass Index — 54.4959
Beneath the display an envelope icon flashed, one of the notifications that came in during the night. Rashim touched the envelope and a message opened in the air beside his finger. Candidate 165 Carmel, J., deceased. Food riots in Puerto Rico, yesterday. One hundred and fifty-six fatalities. Cause of death — head trauma, gunshot wound. No information on whether she was part of the riot or accidentally caught up. Next of kin informed.
‘Sorry, Jennifer Carmel,’ he said, sighing, ‘I guess you won’t be coming along with us after all.’ His finger hovered over a delete icon and her outline disappeared along with her vital statistics. The grid square was empty now.
Rashim cursed softly. Not that he knew or cared who Jennifer Carmel had been. His frustration was more to do with the fact that unless they could find a replacement candidate with a close enough build and mass index, he was going to have to work through a lot of tedious number crunching and recalibration for this one square.
He looked up at the other ten human silhouettes dotted randomly across the hangar floor, outlines glowing red, candidates who for one reason or another were no longer going to be able to join Exodus in six months’ time.
Six months to go. Six months until T-Day. Transmission Day.
So much could happen in six months.
The world seemed to be utterly determined to destroy itself in the meantime. The Pacific War between Japan and North Korea seemed to be flaring up to a new level of intensity. While neither of them had any nuclear weapons left to use, there were far worse things they could unleash on each other.
The rest of the world seemed no less bent on its own demise. Rashim’s own country, Iran, had led the charge there and destroyed itself thirty years ago in a war that started as a dispute with the Arabian Coalition. A war over fresh water no less. Not even oil.
Water. Drinking water.
Iran, Iraq, Israel… were now three countries that were too irradiated for anyone to live in even thirty years after the exchange of tactical nuclear missiles. Even if they weren’t irradiated, the few mountainous areas that hadn’t been flooded by the rising waters of the Mediterranean and Red Seas and the Persian Gulf would be far too arid to support life. The millions that died in that one-day exchange of tit-for-tat warheads perhaps were the lucky ones, weren’t they? Death in the blink of an eye instead of this long, slow, global death.
‘Skippa?’
He looked up. SpongeBubba had waddled across the large grid-crossed floor to join him.
‘What is it?’
‘Dr Yatsushita has sent a message. He’s on his way into the facility and wants to run a transmission simulation this morning.’
‘Well, he’ll have to wait until I rework the figures without these candidates!’ Rashim snapped irritably.
‘Shall I send that message to Dr Yatsushita, skippa?’
He stood up. ‘No, I’d better talk to him when he gets in.’
‘Aye aye,’ his unit replied and waddled back across the hangar floor.
He sighed. There was so little margin for error. A miscalculation on the total mass index even by the tiniest percentage could send them out of the receiver station’s snap range. Not for the first time he was amazed at the foolhardy courage of that incredible man Waldstein.
The reluctant father of time travel.
Twenty-six years ago now, wasn’t it? The very first successful demonstration of time displacement. There and back again. Of course the man had never spoken about where or when he went. But he’d done it. More importantly he’d survived it. He’d come back in one piece and not turned inside out like burger meat.
Their own initial experiments here in the Cheyenne Mountain facility had turned a succession of animals small and large, genetically engineered human prototypes, even several real human volunteers into the equivalent of living pate.
Living… for a few ghastly moments… actually alive.
Rashim marvelled at Waldstein’s incredible genius. Dr Yatsushita was a brilliant man, but even with billions of dollars of funding and almost limitless resources at his disposal, Project Exodus still felt horribly like a large scary exercise in trial and error. Guesswork.
Waldstein, though… Waldstein had built his machine on his own. In his own garage, for Chrissake!
Or so the legend supposedly went.
Rashim often wondered what happened to that man. He’d been such a prominent figure for so many years. Meeting with world leaders, the very last guest speaker at the United Nations before it was finally dissolved in 2049. Then he seemed to disappear. Became something of a recluse. Rashim wasn’t even sure if Waldstein was alive still. There were rumours.
Rashim pushed a lock of hair behind his ear and turned to head towards the nearest glowing red ‘human’ icon a dozen yards away. Another candidate to delete.
What did you see, Roald Waldstein? Hmmmm? What did you see with those mad eyes of yours? What did you see beyond these three spatial dimensions we can comprehend? It was perhaps the most frequently asked question during the ’40s and ’50s when Waldstein’s face seemed to be on almost every media news-stream…
What did you see, Mr Waldstein? More to the point: Why did it frighten you so much?
CHAPTER 6
2001, New York
Liam watched the data slowly spooling down the screen — packets of hexadecimal data that made no sense to him whatsoever. Every so often the spooling stopped and lines and chunks of the meaningless alphanumeric text
