The Eternal War tr-4 Read online

  The Eternal War

  ( Time Riders - 4 )

  Alex Scarrow

  Alex Scarrow

  The Eternal War

  PROLOGUE

  2051, New York

  Joseph Olivera looked out of the small round window at the flooded cityscape of New Jersey below. The Atlantic was gradually biting chunks out of the east coast of America, leaving tall city blocks emerging in orderly rows from the glistening sea. But ahead of him, where the drop-copter was taking him, he could see Manhattan. The island was still keeping its head above water. Levees built all the way round were going to keep it dry for a decade more, or so the experts were saying.

  The copter swooped in over the skyscrapers of Manhattan and headed towards the distinctive convergence of streets that was Times Square. On his left, he spotted Central Park, filled with abandoned cars stacked one atop the other and rusting like a child’s forgotten toys.

  Joseph cursed his nerves. He was trembling like a woman at the prospect of a face-to-face meeting with the enigmatic man … the legend … Roald Waldstein.

  I will not stutter. I WILL make a good impression. Joseph vowed to himself once again that he wasn’t going to stammer as he normally did under pressure. He was going to avoid the tricky words, those that started with a strong ‘S’. Joseph had rehearsed his greeting over and over. It involved no ‘S’ words. He almost sounded normal.

  The copter was now circling above the flat roof of the tallest building overlooking Times Square, circling the helipad like a dog preparing to settle in its basket. Times Square was a lifeless ghost of itself. He could see pedestrians, one or two electric buses, a lot of places boarded up. The levees may have been holding back the rising sea, but Joseph realized it was a futile endeavour.

  This city’s dying already.

  The copter touched down gently and the pilot shut off the engine, letting the rotors spin themselves out before pulling open the slide door and gesturing for Joseph to follow him.

  ‘Mr Walds-s-stein is s-s-staying here?’ he uttered. ‘The Marriott hotel?’

  ‘Mr Waldstein lives here now. He bought the hotel last year.’

  The pilot ushered him inside the building, down a breeze-block stairwell to a small foyer, a pair of swing doors ahead of them.

  ‘Through those doors are his private quarters. He lives entirely alone.’ The pilot looked at him curiously. ‘You know, you’re very privileged to see him face to face. He doesn’t do that … ever.’

  ‘He lives in this hotel all on his own?’

  The pilot ignored his question. ‘A little word about meeting him. He can come across as quite abrasive and rude. That isn’t his intention; he just has no time for small talk.’

  ‘O-OK.’

  ‘Don’t try and flatter him, either. I wouldn’t bother telling him he’s a genius, or a visionary or a … a wonderful guy. He’s heard it all before about a billion times over. You’ll just irritate him.’

  Great … there goes my rehearsed greeting.

  ‘Most important of all … do not discuss the “incident” with him.’

  ‘The … incident?’

  ‘Chicago.’

  Joseph nodded. Of course, he was talking about the Chicago incident, 2044. The day Waldstein first came to public attention.

  ‘Right … OK.’ Joseph was trembling.

  ‘Be polite and honest — ’ the pilot offered him an encouraging smile — ‘and you’ll do just fine.’ He pressed an intercom button beside one of the doors. ‘Mr Waldstein … I have Dr Joseph Olivera here for you.’

  Joseph looked in a small mirror on the wall beside the door. He straightened his tie, patted down a wayward coil of black hair and wished he’d done a better job of trimming his dark beard this morning.

  A small green light winked on above the double doors. ‘You can go through,’ said the pilot.

  Joseph pushed the doors inwards and his feet clacked off linoleum on to soft carpet.

  Daylight flooded into a circular room from all sides. Joseph found himself squinting back at the glare. He could just about make out a head and a pair of shoulders silhouetted against one of the large floor-to-ceiling panels of glass that made up the walls of the penthouse.

  Joseph shaded his eyes with a hand as he walked slowly over. ‘Mr Walds-s-stein?’

  The room was large. Forty, perhaps fifty feet in diameter. His eyes beginning to adjust, Joseph noted a bed on one side, a desk, several cardboard boxes full of papers, but nothing else. A very empty space.

  Closer now he could see a little more detail: the distinctive shock of wavy, wiry, uncontrollable hair, the narrow shoulders.

  ‘It is an honour … to meet you, Mr Waldstein.’

  The silhouette shifted and turned. He’d been gazing out of the window at New York.

  ‘They say Lady Liberty walks on water now.’

  Joseph had no idea at all what he meant by that. His dumbfounded shrug gave him away.

  Waldstein chuckled. ‘Sorry … I confused you. I’m referring to the Statue of Liberty. Liberty Island and the plinth she stands on are all below sea level.’ He spread his hands. ‘So … it looks like she’s actually walking on water.’

  ‘Ahhh,’ Joseph nodded. ‘I unders-s-s … s … s …’ Joseph struggled with the infernal word. He felt his cheeks burn hot as he wrestled with the ‘s’ and shook his head angrily.

  The word was left unfinished. ‘I am s-s … I apologize. I have a … problem with — ’

  ‘Stammering?’ Waldstein gestured to a chair. ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s not important. Take a seat.’

  Joseph sat down. Waldstein flipped open a folder and flicked through some pages of printed paper. ‘Dr Jose Olivera …’

  ‘I anglicized my name to Joseph, Mr Waldstein. It … uh … people assume there’s a language barrier if your name s-s-sounds foreign.’ He scratched his chin self-consciously. ‘I talk in English just as easily as my native …’

  ‘Spanish.’

  Joseph nodded gratefully at being saved the trouble of speaking the word.

  ‘Dr Joseph Olivera … you’re arguably one of the most knowledgeable people on genetically imprinted artificial intelligence.’

  Be confident, Joseph.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘It seems you’ve done very impressive work for some leading military contractors. Working on genetically engineered combat units being trialled right now by the US military?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And … it says here that you are a firm supporter of the anti-time-travel movement?’

  ‘I am.’

  Waldstein sat forward, his eyes unblinkingly on his. ‘I’d like you to tell me why.’

  Waldstein was testing him.

  ‘Anyone with a s-s-scientific background under-s-stands this. Temporal dis-s-s … s …’ Joseph abandoned the word. He took a breath to steady his nerves, to settle his stammer.

  ‘Time travel … theory is potentially the most lethal technology ever invented. Theoretically, it has the kinetic energy to be the end of, well … of everything.’

  Waldstein said nothing. He obviously wanted to hear more from him.

  ‘I believe, Mr Waldstein, very much s-so, that there are s-s-some things that should never be fooled around with. In the pursuit of knowledge … there are s-some doors that should remain firmly closed. If there is a God … IF there is a God, then this technology, this knowledge should be for Him, and Him alone. I believe this.’

  He paused and realized the next thing he was planning on saying would be tremendously stupid. Hadn’t that pilot specifically warned him not to mention this?

  And now I am going to do just that?

  His heart flipped in his chest. ‘What you did, what happened in Ch
icago in ’44, was very dangerous. But all that you have done s-since that, Mr Waldstein, has been the right thing. I believe your campaign to prevent further experimentation is all, literally all, that s-s-stands between mankind and …’ Joseph spread his hands as he fumbled to finish. What word to use? What word?

  ‘The end?’ Waldstein offered.

  Joseph nodded. ‘Yes, that is it … yes … the end.’

  Waldstein was perfectly still, his rheumy eyes giving away absolutely nothing, a tableau of silence that seemed to be lasting forever. Joseph was beginning to wonder whether he’d completely blown it by mentioning the Chicago incident when Waldstein finally stirred.

  ‘Joseph …’ he began, ‘I have a — what shall I call it? — a project that I am working on. And I would like you to be a part of it.’

  ‘A project?’

  Waldstein nodded. ‘Something that requires absolute secrecy. A project that is of immense importance.’

  Joseph’s jaw dropped open. ‘Work with you? I … I would be honoured … to …’ His mouth was flapping uselessly.

  ‘Don’t be so quick to accept, Joseph. This is a one-way ticket. Absolute secrecy. You would never be able to talk about this project to anyone, ever. You will be working with me in complete isolation.’

  Waldstein’s intense gaze was on him, watching him closely, searching his face for the slightest hint of doubt. ‘Joseph, once you’re in on this — if I decide I can completely trust you — you must understand that there’ll be no walking away from this.’

  Joseph wasn’t entirely sure what ‘no walking away’ actually meant. An implied threat of some sort? Waldstein was a billionaire, a powerful man. Not someone to cross.

  Not that it mattered. Betraying confidentialities, stealing secrets for a commercial rival, was of absolutely no interest at all to Joseph. His passion was his science. A hunger for knowledge.

  And this man, Waldstein … the Visionary. The Genius. To have such a privilege to meet the legend himself … and now the possibility of actually working alongside him. There was never going to be a moment’s doubt, not in Dr Joseph Olivera’s mind.

  Absolutely no doubt, and yet burning curiosity prodded him to ask one last question. ‘Is there anything you could tell me … Mr Waldstein, about this project? The general nature of the work … perhaps?’

  Waldstein steepled his fingers beneath his chin and closed his eyes in silent contemplation. Joseph took the moment to look around the enormous room, glowing from the flood of daylight streaming in through almost three-sixty degrees of panoramic spotless glass. This man with his portfolio of technology patents was fast on his way to becoming one of the richest men in the country. And yet there was a simplicity to this room and its comforts.

  A bed.

  A desk.

  A couple of chairs. No more than that. After all, what more does a true genius want? The mind itself is the palace where all the real treasures, the works of art, the indulgences exist.

  Presently Waldstein lowered his hands and opened his eyes. ‘The work, Joseph … is really quite simple. It is the business of saving mankind from itself.’

  Beyond Waldstein’s narrow shoulders, Joseph caught a glimpse of the mint-green outline of the Statue of Liberty. So faint, she wavered and undulated in the distance — what? A mile away? — And, yes, Waldstein was right, she really did look as if she was standing directly on the water.

  Like Jesus, walking on water.

  ‘So, tell me, Joseph, will you help me? Help me save mankind from itself?’

  From the first moment he’d stepped into this room and come face to face with this brilliant man, there really was only ever going to be one answer Joseph could give.

  ‘Yes.’

  CHAPTER 1

  2001, New York

  Sal stared at it through the grubby shop window.

  She was standing outside Weisman’s Stage Surplus on a pavement filled with bric-a-brac that the owner had allowed to spill outside: an old five-foot dime-store Indian carved out of mahogany, a treasure play-chest full of children’s dressing-up clothes, dusty books stacked in greengrocer’s crates.

  It was the store fifteen minutes away from their archway that she’d used to find suitable clothes for Liam, Bob and Becks’s recent mission. That last visit, she hadn’t been sure this little place would have what they’d need to go about their business anonymously in the twelfth century. But, surprisingly, among the laden racks of clothes reeking of mothballs and lavender soap, she’d managed to find enough bits and pieces for them to pass unnoticed as three grubby peasants.

  A good place to use again, she’d noted as they’d made their way home through the backstreets of Brooklyn with their medieval costumes in plastic bags.

  But today she wasn’t here looking through the dusty window at the pitifully sad-looking store display to find something for the others to wear. She was here because of the thing she was looking at now, the thing sitting on the rocking-chair just inside the window. A row of soft toys and dolls sat together on the worn wooden seat side by side like they were posing for a family photo. Several dolls, a clown that would give any child nightmares, an elephant with big ears, a frog with stuffing bursting from a torn seam … and one small sky-blue teddy bear with a single button eye and the loose strands of stitching where another button eye must have been once.

  ‘I know you,’ she whispered.

  She’d spotted this teddy bear the last time she was here. But with one thing and another she’d forgotten about it, let it go.

  Now here she was, drawn to the shop, drawn to gaze at this sad-looking bear. It reminded her of something. A digi-stream show from her time maybe? A character in an old cartoon? Something, a wisp of a memory that vanished from her mind like a curl of smoke as she reached out to grasp it.

  Last night she’d had that dream — no, not dream … nightmare — again. The moment the old man — Foster — had pulled her out from certain death to be recruited to the agency. Their apartment block, one of the super-tall glass and steel tenement towers that you saw everywhere in Mumbai nowadays, was on fire and its steel superstructure had been buckling, preparing to collapse in on itself.

  Nowadays? She checked herself. She came from 2026. Nowadays was where she was based, 2001. Her new home … of sorts.

  Foster had plucked her from the very last seconds of her life. Given her a choice: to work for the agency or join her family and die in the flames of the collapsing building.

  Some choice.

  Not that she actually got to choose. Dadda had chosen for her, thrusting her towards the old man … Mama screaming and crying to hold her one more time.

  Stop it! Stop it!

  Sal bit her lip. She didn’t need to replay the memory again in her head. It was all still fresh enough, thanks. That awful moment was done, her parents gone, dust, and she was here in New York instead of Mumbai. All done. Or, more accurately, yet to be done. Yet to happen twenty-five years from now.

  Yet to happen … that at least stole some of the sting of losing her parents, of knowing that they died along with everyone else when that tower block collapsed in on itself. Because — and this is the bit that really messed her head up — they were alive right now. At this moment in time they were children, her age, and they were yet to even meet each other. That was going to happen in twelve years’ time, 2013. They were going to meet at a consumer electronics show in New Delhi. Both their families were going to thoroughly approve of the match, and within the very same year Sal was going to already be a bump growing in her mama’s tummy.

  And now she was looking at a small blue teddy bear that had absolutely no logical reason to be sitting here in New York in 2001. A bear, unmistakably the same bear, that she’d seen her neighbours’ — Mr and Mrs Chaudhry — youngest boy, Rakesh, always clinging on to and slobbering over.

  Unmistakably.

  The same teddy bear.

  It was the very last thing she’d seen from the final second of her old life of 2026 �
�� that teddy bear, spinning head over heels into flames as the floor had suddenly collapsed beneath their feet and the building shuddered in on itself.

  Then she’d awoken here in New York, 2001.

  ‘It’s the same … I’m sure,’ she whispered to herself, a confused frown stretching from one brow to the other. Her eyes had never let her down. She saw little things, the tiny details: the way the button eye drooped at an angle, the stitching through only three of the four holes; the bear’s pale blue material threadbare on the left arm but not the right, as if the right had been replaced at a later time.

  The tiny details. Her eyes and her mind were compulsively drawn to those sorts of things. An obsessive habit. She tucked her drooping fringe back up behind one ear and leaned forward until her forehead thudded softly against the shop window. She’d always been able to spot the little things that others missed, seen patterns in a seemingly random mess. That’s why she’d been so good at playing Pikodu.

  ‘It’s the same,’ she whispered.

  How the shadd-yah is that even possible?

  Her mobile phone suddenly vibrated in the pocket of her jacket. She fished for it and pulled it out.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Had you forgotten?’ Maddy sighed impatiently.

  ‘Forgotten? What?’

  ‘Today? This morning? Trip to the museum? Remember?’

  Sal winced then bumped her head against the window again. Yes of course, they’d been discussing it last night before turning in. But with her dream … no, nightmare … that horrible memory … she’d completely forgotten. She cursed under her breath. ‘I’m on my way back.’

  ‘Meet us there if you like. On the front steps of the museum?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘About an hour?’

  ‘OK.’

  Sal snapped her cell closed, once again faintly amused at how old-fashioned it looked compared to the T-buds almost everyone back in Mumbai had looped over their ears.

  She looked once again at the blue bear. The blue bear that shouldn’t be there.