Saskia Brandt: Deja Vu Part 26

'd.a.m.n.'

David smiled grimly. He tried to ignore the hurried footfalls of the approaching personnel. 'I think the twenty-year mystery of the bombing is solved. Would his arrival be sufficient, you think?'

Jennifer looked into the distance. 'Let's do the math.'

'Maths, love,' David corrected.

'An object leaves this centrifuge at one hundred and forty-four kilometres per hour. It enters the wormhole at the same speed. For a ma.s.s of, say, seventy-five kilograms, that's a kinetic energy of almost one hundred kilo-Joules, which is more than enough to trigger an explosive chain reaction if the target is selected carefully. Hartfield must have materialised near a power plant.'

'How very accommodating of him,' David said. The circular nature of this business was bewildering. After all this, throughout the trial, the accusations, the damage a even the death of his wife a Hartfield had been the true cause. Ah. That was not an accurate statement. The cause could be traced back to the agent who had forced Hartfield to veer so fatally off course. It was Ego who changed the coordinates.

Jennifer said, 'Saskia got him, alright.'

A group of technicians entered the control room. Ignoring Jennifer and David, they inspected the consoles and called abbreviated instructions. Syncomp is green. Y-vib is off-the-scale low. David watched without comment as Jennifer tried to explain herself to a stern, suited gentleman.

'I think,' interrupted the man, 'you should talk to Ms Castle.'

David and Jennifer sat at the narrow end of a conference table. Rembrandt's The Philosopher in Meditation hung behind them. David was tired. He lacked the energy for lies. Half-thinking, he took his daughter's hand, and waited for the third occupant of the room to speak.

'Let me summarise,' Castle said. She was a sharp, professional woman in her early sixties. 'Jennifer, you used government resources without permission, created an Einstein-Rosen bridge without presidential authority, and aided the illegal entry of two other persons into a secure government property. Professor Proctor, you entered both this country and this property illegally. Those need to be dealt with first. In good time, I would also like to discover the whereabouts of John Hartfield and Saskia Brandt.'

'Look,' said David, 'I could answer most of your questions by joining the dots. May I?'

Castle sipped her tea, no milk, and raised her eyebrows. 'You have half an hour.'

Jennifer looked on as David extracted Ego from his wallet. 'This is my personal computer. Ego, switch to presentation mode, please. I would like you ill.u.s.trate my story with pictures as you see fit, and audio and video where possible.' He turned to the women. 'My personal computer has been recording every step of my journey. It is equipped with iWitness software. The British police use it. It is tamperproof.'

'I'm aware of that, Professor,' said Castle. 'Tell your story. This is a modern facility. It will accept communications from your computer.'

'Very well. Ego, dim the lights. Thank you. Show Talbert Grove. This, Ms Castle, is where our story begins. The house on fire is mine.'

Half an hour later, Jennifer was chewing her hair. Castle would surely make a decision about their future based on her father's testimony. She stole a glance at him. He smiled and concluded his story.

'This means that Hartfield was sent back in time to the precise point of the explosion. He caused it. The time machine's computer was hacked by my own personal computer just before we entered the cavern.'

'I see. You believe that Brandt carried out her mission after all. She sabotaged his time travelling at source. By all accounts an exceptional woman.'

'Agreed,' Jennifer said.

'Your case would be aided by physical evidence, Professor. After all, even with a plausible story, we must fall back on the available facts: the computer is in your possession. You must accept responsibility for its actions. The 2014 Automaticity Act, I believe.'

David lifted a hand and let it fall. 'Well, whatever. All I can do is provide you with the information I have.'

A new voice came from the conference speakers: 'Excuse me. I am Ego, the personal computer involved. I am now authorised to tell you that, one year ago today, Saskia Brandt sent three hand-written copies of her testimony to legal firms in New York, London and Geneva. They are now available for your perusal.'

Castle smiled. 'Perhaps we could also meet Ms Brandt.'

'That will not be possible,' Ego said.

There was a long silence. 'Well,' Castle said. 'I have a meeting.' She stood and collapsed her computer. David scooped Ego from the desk and dropped it in his wallet.

'What happens?' asked Jennifer.

'For the time being, you'll stay in guest quarters here. They are quite comfortable. I have to speak to the board about this. At the very least, we need to discuss future funding proposals, if Mr Hartfield's absence proves to be permanent.'

'I've no doubt,' David said.

'I will also need to speak to our legal team. However, I will advise the board that no charges be pressed. Professor, you will be expelled from the USA immediately. You will answer any charges in Britain. I will ask the board to provide legal representation for you. As a recipient of monies from the Hartfield foundation, I'm sure the board will agree that we share some responsibility for your present predicament. Dr Proctor, you will have your security clearance suspended. Again, I'm sure this will be temporary.'

Jennifer asked, 'How temporary?'

'Two months. Take a holiday. I hear the weather in Britain is awful.'

'And my funding?'

'Jennifer, you have invented a time machine. You'll get your money.'

Castle shook their hands. 'The guards will take you to your quarters. You can speak to n.o.body apart from each other. I'll see you tomorrow. Oh, David?'

'Yes, Ms Castle?'

'Keep an eye on your wallet.'

Chapter Thirty-Eight.

Saskia lifted her head and licked her dust-covered lips. Her eyes were dry and raw. She looked around for Bruce and saw that he had gone. She must have lost consciousness and been unable to answer his calls.

As much as she was scared, she was satisfied. The coincidence was extraordinary but the explanation clear. Hartfield was dead. The time machine had redirected him according to Ego's instructions, who in turn had been carrying out her own plan.

That said, it was difficult to feel responsible.

The structure seemed solid again. Though, moments before, the walls and ceiling had ground together like teeth, they were now still. The illusion of immobility had returned. Saskia stood.

Ahead of her, southwards and away from the nearest stairway, the emergency lighting had failed. She had seen Helen Proctor fall into that blackness. Saskia clambered over. She stepped on cabling, masonry and other debris. Her intention was clear. She would save this woman's life and repair the lives of David and Jennifer. She would give them the opportunity to avoid the pain that was in store.

But no.

Helen was destined to die and Saskia was destined to survive, just as the young girl called Ute Schmidt was destined to be raped and another woman was set to be killed, diced, and live again as data.

A tear cut through the dust on her cheek. She collapsed, defeated.

'Are you okay?'

She wiped the hair from her eyes. There was a woman standing before her. It was Helen Proctor. 'Listen to me, you're going to be fine.'

'You listen,' Saskia said. 'Your daughter, Jennifer a'

The woman frowned. 'Jennifer?'

'My name is Saskia. Your daughter will grow into a beautiful young woman. I am from the future a Jennifer loves you.'

Helen smiled. Saskia smiled too. She had got through. 'You're going to be all right,' Helen said. 'You've had a knock on the head.'

Saskia's smile switched off. 'No, listen to me.'

The ceiling opened. Saskia saw the steel joist fail. Fist-sized pieces of concrete began to rain. She pulled Helen to the floor and flung herself on top.

She turned to look up into the abyss. Daggers of twisted steel reinforcement were poised.

Kill me, then. Prove me wrong.

She screamed as the ceiling buckled and fell. Ribbons of metal stopped centimetres from her neck, her abdomen and her legs. The dust was as thick as smoke. Coughing, she remembered her hood and pressed the b.u.t.ton to close it. Nothing happened. The computer was broken.

She wafted the dust away. 'Helen, come on.' But as the murk thinned, Saskia turned and knew that Helen was dead. The ceiling had fallen to leave her own body untouched, but a finger of steel had pa.s.sed through Helen's skull above the eye. Her breathing was shallow.

Saskia put a hand to her cheek. 'I am so sorry.'

She heard a man calling, 'Helen! Helen!'

It was David. His face was young and angry. She stepped back. David looked at Saskia once, questioning, then turned to Helen. He took her hand and held it to his lips.

Saskia touched his shoulder and left. She was not destined to know him. She found a stairwell and pushed at a door marked with a green exit sign. Then she remembered. She still had to write the message to herself.

The door immediately to her left was hanging from its hinges. She wandered inside. It was a storage room. There were cans of spray paint on a far shelf. She put her hand among the cans, closed her eyes, and pulled one at random. She checked the label. It described security paint visible only in infra-red light. She remembered her confusion when she had read that cryptic message on the wall, seconds after McWhirter left her alone in the darkened corridor. And she remembered the envelope.

There was a door in the cupboard, and it led to a room full of office supplies. She felt dizzy with fatalism. Even the hand of the architect had not been his own.

She took a pen, an envelope, a plastic folder, and printed the word 'Munin' on the reverse of her ID card, which was useless in the year 2003. The word would be read in twenty years' time. She tried to write something else a as an artistic flourish, a token rebellion a but could think of nothing to add. She sealed the envelope, addressed it, and returned to the corridor.

David had gone. Helen remained. Saskia put the envelope inside the plastic folder. She put the folder underneath the rock that had killed Helen. On the wall, she wrote, in German: By the p.r.i.c.king of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes. Then she drew an arrow pointing to the rock.

She dropped the can and ran away from Helen. Her breath stuttered with sobs. She made it to the stairwell and, from there, to the surface. The exit was at the rear of the hotel. Saskia emerged into weak daylight. A temporary field hospital had been erected on the lawn. Army ambulance crews stood by. Shocked personnel walked slowly and silently nowhere. Some cried. She saw McWhirter on a stretcher. He wore an oxygen mask. Inspired, Saskia feigned a breathing problem. An ambulance took her to a nearby hospital. Within the hour, she had escaped.

Night came to the woodland. The moon was large. Saskia built a fire. She remembered the life of Ute as though it were a huge, cherished novel from her youth. One of Ute's many foster parents, Hans, had been a Wandersmann. He had taught her how to make fire using a wooden bow drill. Instead, Saskia selected the fire-starter in the small survival kit in her flight suit. Nothing else in the suit worked. It was smashed and torn. She collected moss, dry kindling, and some logs.

The fire-starter was spring-loaded and efficient. The fire caught and she tended it.

The stars were closer in 2003 than they would be in 2023. The sphere of humanity a the reach of its radio and television signals a was smaller. She looked now at the trees around her. Conifer, oak, sycamore, beech and horse chestnut. She remembered them all from the life of Ute.

She noticed the pink sheet protruding from the map pocket on her thigh. The crayon drawing reminded her of David and Jennifer; a crude home; a memento. On the reverse, David had written a list headed 'Financial Times for the Lady What Bets'. It contained a list of British prime ministers and American presidents since 2001, some British Grand National winners, and all of the football world cup winners, prefixed with 'b.l.o.o.d.y'.

On the final page were these words: So good luck and bon voyage!

Love David PS If you could stick a flask of soup in the shed for when it gets chilly, I'd be much obliged! And one of those 's.p.a.ce blankets' like they have in marathons.

PPS Nothing vegetarian, mind a I'll be weak enough as it is.

Epilogue.

Westminster, London: November 6th, 2023 From his bench next to the Thames, David saw a pigeon flutter to a stop near his feet. The special committee was due to reconvene at 2:00 pm. He had fifteen minutes to finish his lunch. He watched the pigeon fly away. The MPs had been unimpressed by his ethical choices, even with the motivation afforded by the loss of his house to fire. It would take more than Ego's pictures and crackly audio to exonerate David from the crime of detonating that second bomb in the West Lothian Centre. David's best intents were of little import.

'h.e.l.lo,' she said.

David laughed. She was there, finally. 'You look a'

'Familiar?' She kissed him and sat on the bench. She wore a black greatcoat with the collar turned up. Her hair was short. She smiled as he stared, and he noticed the lines at the corners of her eyes and dimples in her cheeks. Her face was thinner and more striking. 'It's been a while.'

'I thought it was best,' she said.

'Walk me back?'

He broke up the remainder of his sandwich and scattered the pieces. He and Saskia then made their way towards Westminster Bridge.

'You lost your accent,' he said.

'It's still there. Today, I'm playing British.'

'And what could be more British than a stroll along the river?'

'Where are you going?'

'Westminster,' David said. Unconsciously, his hand rubbed his chest, where pre-cancerous growths had been found a month before: a vestige of the radioactive dust in the West Lothian Centre. His nano-treatment was scheduled for January. 'I'm still trying to explain myself.'

'To whom?'

'A closed parliamentary enquiry. Closed to the public, that is. Ostensibly, they want to find out what happened at the West Lothian Centre. The Chairman is Lord Gilbert. A Lib-Dem guy. He's OK.'