When this is all over, I wonder if I’ll get back my school uniform from Miss Wells. Or if we’ll have to buy a new one.
Miss Wells called for them.
She led them through corridors to a narrow balcony that overlooked a larger chamber. On the balcony, a metal table and chairs had been set up under a screen, like a small cinema screen.
They sat down uneasily, Mum, Laura, Agatha, Miss Wells. Like Laura and the others, Miss Wells wore a steel-grey coverall that zipped up the front. But Miss Wells had epaulettes and shoulder flashes, like Flash Gordon.
Bernadette was led out by a nurse in a white uniform.
Laura ran to embrace her. Bernadette, still sore and a bit woozy from anaesthetics, was stiff. “No fuss,” she said. But she hugged Laura back.
There was no sign of Nick.
The balcony overlooked the heart of Miss Wells’s complex. “We call it the Hub,” she said proudly. “A little bit of 2007, built under Liverpool, 1962.”
The Hub was a mess of cramped tunnels, probably cellars and sewers and drains. But they had plated some kind of silvery cloth over the walls, and there were bright striplights everywhere, so it was all flooded with light. It was like a cross between a hospital and a milk bar, Laura thought.
In the big central chamber under the balcony, computers hummed away, big boxes the size of wardrobes, with tape reels, flashing lights, and chattering teletypes. There was a smell of electrical gear, sharp like seaside air.
There was also an odd sort of doorway that seemed to lead nowhere, just a frame filled with a milky light.
And there was a pool, that glowed blue.
Technicians crawled all over the place, working the computer consoles, taking the temperature of the pool. The technicians wore all-over suits of clear plastic, with sealed helmets. Miss Wells said they were NBC suits, for protection from nuclear, biological and chemical contamination.
In the middle of the floor they had actually put up a flagpole, with a black flag held out with a bit of wire. The flag had that Earth-and-fist symbol. Above the planet was one word in spiky silver letters: HEGEMONY. And below it the slogan: PEACE THROUGH WAR.
It was incredible that all this was stuck down a hole, somewhere under Liverpool.
They all carried guns.
At the table they sat and looked at each other. Laura. Mum, Laura’s mother. Agatha, Laura’s daughter, from one timeline. Miss Wells, Laura’s older self, from another.
“What a freak show,” Bernadette said, and she laughed.
“Well, we’ve a lot to talk about,” Miss Wells said briskly.
“First things first,” Bernadette said. “How’s Nick?”
“Recovering,” Miss Wells said. “No thanks to whoever kicked him in the head.” She reached under the table and pulled out a tray, on which sat a keyboard, like a typewriter’s. She tapped at this, and the big screen above their heads lit up with an X-ray image. It showed a man’s skull.
“We have other scanning techniques, actually, in 2007,” she said. “We brought some gear back. I don’t suppose you know what a CAT scan is, do you? Or MRI? Never mind. The X-ray will do. Look here.” A small arrow appeared on the image and pointed to the curve of the skull. “See the indentation in the skull? The pressure on the brain was causing bleeding of the right ventricle. He should have gone to hospital.”
“Try telling Nick that,” Bernadette said.
Laura asked, “But Nick will be OK?”
“Our doctor operated. Non-invasively. He ought to recover. As for you,” Miss Wells said to Bernadette, “you’ve needed a few stitches. But the internal exam showed you haven’t done any lasting harm to yourself, or your baby. You were desperate. But you weren’t very determined, were you?”
Mum said, “Leave her alone.”
Bernadette’s face was twisted. “You don’t know what was going on in my head,” she said to Miss Wells. “You don’t know what it felt like.”
“No. I don’t. And I’m glad, frankly.”
“You’re a cold woman,” Agatha said, unexpectedly. She stared at Miss Wells, with a complicated mixture of longing and loathing. “You’re cold. You don’t care about Bernadette, or that boy who might have died. All you care about is using them to get to Mum—Laura. That’s true, isn’t it?”
“So in another timeline,” Miss Wells said, “in which I spent my life scratching in the dirt of some dismal farm, I spawned you. And here you are, scrawny, skinny, self-pitying. How repulsive you are.”
“I’m your daughter.”
“Not my daughter. I have no children. You’re a time-travel accident. You shouldn’t even exist.”
Laura said, “I can’t believe I will ever become you.”
“Now, now, ladies,” Bernadette said. She looked at Agatha and Miss Wells. “You both want this stuff out of Laura, the Key and the codes in her head. Why didn’t you just pounce on her? You’ve been sniffing around for days.”
Agatha shook her head. “It doesn’t work like that. As soon as you go back in time, you start to change things. History unravels a different way.”
“We had to be careful,” Miss Wells agreed. “Remember, we’re both trying to make history come out the way we want. If we were too drastic, we might have made changes we didn’t intend.” She glared at Agatha. “We’re on opposite sides. But we share that much.
“Just by being here we changed things. You’d think I’d be able to find you, Laura, because I’d remember what you did, when I was you. But things have changed just enough to make that impossible.
“And anyhow,” she said, smiling at Laura, “isn’t it better this way? I don’t want to take the Key from you, Laura. I want you to give it to me of your own accord. I’ve spent my whole life working to avoid war. That’s why I’m here. I’d have thought you’d be impressed by that. And, after all, we’re the same person, you and I. If we can’t work together, who can?”
“Go on then,” said Bernadette. “Tell us your master plan for taking over the world.”
Miss Wells looked at her in disgust. “I can’t
