New Pompeii Page 4

  Nick nodded. “Like you said, only one of them is my friend. And just for the record: I don’t buy into all that conspiracy crap.”

  Whelan wasn’t listening. He was already halfway through a dismissive wave. “I think it’s rather clear where the lack of brains sat last night,” he said, before turning towards his boss. “Should we continue?”

  McMahon grunted as he swallowed. He stared out from eyes that looked small against the fleshiness of his face. “You ever met a guy called James Harris?” he asked.

  Nick shook his head. “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  McMahon didn’t look too convinced. He glanced towards Whelan, and pushed away the remains of his starter. “It’s your call. But you’re making a pretty big leap of fucking logic.”

  “Okay,” said Whelan, turning back to Nick. “So what do you know about NovusPart?”

  Nick hesitated. “You can transport things. Objects. People. From the past into the present.”

  “And what do you think about that?”

  “I think it’s probably wasted on putting on shows at the British Museum.”

  “The Peking Man? That’s just a PR exercise.”

  “Still…”

  McMahon took a large gulp of wine. “Don’t ask us about the gold,” he said.

  “I suppose the more interesting question,” Nick said, his voice quiet, “is what if, without NovusPart, those bones were meant to have been found by someone else. By taking them from the shipwreck, aren’t you altering the timeline? Something you claim not to be doing?”

  “Good question,” said Whelan. He smiled again, seeming to relax. “And you’re right; it’s one of the reasons we employed Professor Samson. Basically put, our priority is to eliminate potential changes to the past as per the UN mandate. The present, like the future, can take care of itself.”

  “A philosophy that justified saving the passengers of Flight 391?”

  Whelan nodded, but didn’t reply straight away. Instead, he allowed a waiter to clear his plate. Even though he hadn’t touched his food, Nick leant back so his own plate could be taken.

  “Most of those passengers are now living productive lives,” Whelan said. “That’s something the press likes to ignore.”

  Nick nodded, feeling his throat tighten. How far could he push it? He tried to swallow. His father wouldn’t forgive him if he didn’t take the opportunity to press home at least a few points. “Some of them committed suicide,” he said, softly.

  Whelan stopped, and took a slow sip of wine. “Which is why we haven’t done anything like that again,” he said. “Dislocation from the past to the present is too much for some people. They couldn’t cope with a world that had moved on by fifty years. All the small things we take for granted such a short time after they’re invented. We know we made some mistakes with Flight 391 – but we also learned valuable lessons. And the important thing remains that the timeline isn’t threatened, because all events between their transportation and the day they arrived are unaffected. It’s the same with the Peking Man.”

  “But…”

  “We’re aware that some people, like your father, would prefer this power not to be left in the private sector. And we’re aware what we’ve been doing is controversial, as it poses certain… questions.”

  From beside him, McMahon growled. “It’s a little bit rich to be criticised every day for not saving someone’s relative.”

  Again, Nick nodded. Because if you could pull people from an aircraft just moments before it crashed, why not save everyone who died in such disasters? Thousands of survivors, all without any potential paradox. And if you could snatch people from disasters, what was stopping you from taking people off the street? Just like Ronnie kept banging on about. Just like he was trying to prove last night. “As I said, I’m not a big fan of conspiracy theories.”

  Whelan smiled. “Well, good, Mr Houghton. Because we want to discuss our latest project with you.”

  9

  WHELAN LEANT BACK and took a large mouthful of wine. For a second, the restaurant lights picked out the few flecks of grey in his hair. “It’s something Harold and I feel everyone will be able to get behind,” he said. “A truly spectacular demonstration of our technology.”

  Nick felt himself tense. This was the point of the meeting, he could sense it. This was the reason he’d signed the non-disclosure agreement. Everything up to this point was probably fair game. Something to tell Ronnie. Something he could maybe even admit to his father.

  “We’ve created a unique research environment.”

  Nick’s mind blanked. “What do you mean, ‘unique’?”

  “A replica historical setting – to avoid the problem of dislocation.”

  For a long time, Nick didn’t say anything. Finally, he turned to face McMahon. “But after Flight 391 – we were told there’d be no more human transportations.”

  McMahon didn’t reply. He just turned an indifferent eye to his colleague. Whelan leant forward. “We have a special dispensation. It’s a sort of pro bono publico spin-off from our other activities. Something that academics can use to talk to people from the past and to answer… points of interest.”

  Whelan paused as the waiters returned with plates of sautéed chicken liver garnished with fashionably bitter leaves. McMahon looked at his serving like a child might survey a new toy; then he started to slice into his food.

  Nick was no longer hungry. Plus, the front of the restaurant was getting busy. A handful of people were milling by the door and the maître d’ was having trouble clearing them. It wouldn’t take long for a protest to form. Or maybe two. One set of people calling for NovusPart to be shut down; another asking for them to intervene in whatever tragedy was personal to them. The security guards flanking their table stepped closer. McMahon and Whelan would probably be whisked out the back; but where did that leave him? Nick forced his attention back to Whelan. “It won’t work,” he said. “You can’t isolate a few people and expect to recreate a historical environment.”

  “What if we recreated an entire town?”

  “No. You couldn’t do it. In a plane crash – like Flight 391 – you know exactly how many people died and the envelope of the event is well defined. But there’s no way you could pull so many survivors from a disaster zone. You couldn’t be certain about who lived and who died. You’d end up with timeline problems.”

  McMahon spoke up. “I’m glad you know so much about our technology.”

  “I’m familiar with the arguments.”

  “Hiroshima?” Whelan asked.

  Were they serious? The people who’d been vaporised? Could some of them have been pulled forward in time?

  “No,” Nick said, regaining his composure. “It’s a case in point. Many people survived very close to the blast. It would be risky. And, anyway, there’s lots of footage and documents from that time. There would be no academic interest.”

  “Please save our daughter!”

  The shout had come from near the maître d’s lectern. So at least one of the two sides of the coin had arrived. The people who wanted NovusPart to go further. Nick looked over towards the restaurant door. A man was being thrown out. Waiters were moving to guard the entrance. People were gathering outside. The other diners had stopped eating. They probably knew they were now trapped in the restaurant. Until McMahon decided to leave, or the people outside broke in.

  Whelan leant closer. “Mr Houghton, you’re working at a third-rate university, and we know you’ve had all your research applications turned down.” His voice didn’t betray any urgency. He didn’t appear to have noticed the mix of anger and desperation forming in the lobby. His eyes remained relaxed, his tone firm. “To my mind, and from what you’ve said tonight, you deserve better. But we want your situation to be our gain. So can you think of anywhere else, Nick? Somewhere you might be interested in? Somewhere that litters your academic CV?”

  Nick flinched.

  Bodies.
Bodies made of plaster cast. Choking on the ground.

  “Pompeii,” said Nick. He closed his eyes.

  “Dr Houghton…”

  “I’m not a doctor…”

  “But you could be. And can you think of a better way than by walking the streets of a living, breathing Roman town?”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Why not?”

  Nick winced. “Pompeii had a population of thousands,” he said. “More in its hinterland. But there’s evidence of only a few hundred bodies. Most of its inhabitants likely fled in the days leading up to the eruption.”

  “Really?” replied McMahon. He didn’t bother to raise his head, concentrating on his food. “Or were they transported? This academic paradise; it’s already up and running.”

  10

  KIRSTEN TOOK A deep breath. She couldn’t just stay in the corridor. Couldn’t spend any more time in the bath. And she was just so damn cold.

  Looking down, she knew the door handle wasn’t an option. But if her hand could pass through metal, then it stood to reason the rest of her body could follow through a simple barrier of wood and paint. She took another deep breath, and walked forward.

  Sure enough, as soon as she lifted her right leg, she felt a soft tingle in her toes. The sensation pushed quickly on through her ankle, and then her calf. She closed her eyes as the tingle reached her hips. Let her weight slowly transfer from one leg to the other. About halfway through the movement, she felt a pressure on her chest… face… neck.

  And then she was through. But she wasn’t in her room, at least not how she remembered it. And she wasn’t alone. A young man was sitting in an easy chair pushed up against one of the walls. A girl sat on the bed, her knees drawn up under her chin. Both were wearing jeans and T-shirts. Both looked like students. It took a while for Kirsten to tune in to what they were saying, but it turned out to be something related to their lectures. They sounded like they were studying maths – or maybe one of the sciences. She didn’t understand a word of it.

  She ignored them. It was clear her room had been taken over. Someone else’s personality had been plastered over the walls. After she’d first arrived, she’d hung a series of posters to remind her of her trips to America. But they had been replaced with movie posters. She didn’t recognise any of the film titles, but some of the actors’ faces were familiar.

  Kirsten felt tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. This change had taken some time. It hadn’t been done in the forty-eight hours mentioned by the policeman. Probably not even forty-eight days. If her room had been taken over by students, it likely meant the whole floor was now reserved for them. More than a year could have passed since she…

  “Can you pass me my jumper?”

  The girl was waving a hand towards her friend.

  “How can you be cold?” he said.

  “I just am. Look, don’t be a dick and pass me the jumper.”

  “It’s the hottest day of the year.”

  “I suddenly feel cold, okay?”

  The lad smirked. “Maybe she’s here? You know, the bedder in the bath?” He was clearly enjoying making the girl uncomfortable.

  “Quit it. That’s too recent to be a joke, right?”

  He laughed. “She could be in there: the next time you go take a pee. You could ask her who did it.”

  “Shit, Lee. You know I’m not happy I got assigned this room.”

  Lee shrugged. The girl pulled her knees tighter to her chest. “Would you think me stupid,” she asked, “if I said I’d already seen her?”

  11

  POMPEII. THE LOST Roman town, buried under ash and pumice, its inhabitants killed by a mixture of heat and suffocation. The images of its streets and buildings were fresh in Nick’s mind. He’d visited the site many times. Walked its pavements. Read the graffiti left on its walls. And now? Could the town and its population be reunited?

  Nick leant forward. His forehead creased. The table in front of him could seat about sixteen people, but only three of the places were taken. Aside from himself, a couple of female students occupied the far end of the table. He didn’t pay them too much attention. Although presumably in the library to work, they seemed more interested in sending messages to each other on their phones than doing any reading. Occasionally, they issued a stifled giggle. On a normal day it would have irritated the hell out of him. But today wasn’t normal.

  He looked down and continued reading his favourite book about Pompeii. Written forty years earlier, it had been at the very top of the undergraduate reading list. Back then he’d appreciated its clear diagrams and the fairly dismissive passages about the Italian tourist board. As a researcher, he still regularly used it to check his own work. So much so, he usually returned the book a couple of shelves above where it should be kept. Just so he would have a good chance of getting hold of it when he needed to. Just like now.

  Nick ran his finger down the index, searching for Pliny the Younger – a Roman magistrate, and one of the few people who’d actually witnessed the eruption of Vesuvius first hand. Finding the name, he flicked through to the critical quotation:

  You might hear the shrieks of women, the screams of children, and the shouts of men. Some wishing to die; some lifting their hands to the gods; but the greater part convinced there were now no gods at all, and they would disappear into the final endless night which had come upon the world.

  For a time, it grew lighter. However, with sparkling flashes, the fire fell again and we were immersed in thick darkness. A heavy shower of ashes rained upon us, which we were obliged every now and then to shake off – otherwise we should have been crushed and buried.

  In the darkness, I was convinced by that miserable, though mighty, consolation, that all mankind were involved in the same calamity, and that I was perishing with the world itself.

  The words looked as familiar as ever. He’d read them many times. Somehow though, the account still made his heart race. Although writing some years after the event, Pliny had provided the best record of the disaster. The event wasn’t just some date on a calendar. It had affected real people.

  He read the extract again. Felt the words burn into his eyes. A man’s thoughts transmitted from the distant past. But could he trust them? Or had they been for ever mangled by the actions of NovusPart?

  He’d never know. Even though he was familiar with every line, he scanned the page again just to make sure. At least there was no mention of people disappearing into thin air. But what about the reference to sparkling flashes? It had never seemed strange to him before, but was this evidence of transportations?

  One of the girls at the far end of the table issued another excited shriek. Nick cast them a wary glance and then picked up another book. He flicked through it until he came to a photograph of a plaster cast of a dog. It had died still lashed to a post. Curled in a ball, the animal had suffocated just before the town had been buried. It was still choking, all these years later.

  Nick grimaced. The casts had been made by filling with plaster the voids in the hardened ash left by long rotted-away bodies. The archaeologists who’d first explored the site had recognised the pumice shells as natural sarcophagi. A true miracle, even though the resulting plaster casts were now nothing more than a morbid tourist attraction. And yet only a few hundred remains had been found. Where had everyone else gone? Had they deserted the town in the days before the eruption like so many researchers assumed? Or had they been transported?

  Nick shook his head. He didn’t know. Didn’t know enough about the technology. The debate had always centred on the ethics rather than the practicalities – and NovusPart didn’t exactly advertise how they pulled off their trick. Still, Whelan would contact him again soon for his decision. And that raised its own question: because they should have had him arrested, not offered him a job.

  Even if it was subject to a six-week trial period.

  Nick gave a sigh. Six weeks.

  Setting the book to one side, he stood up. H
is sudden movement caused the two girls to stop giggling. As he turned to the nearby window he could hear them whispering. He didn’t much care what they were saying.

  Although the number of books in Falconbrook University’s library made a good show of it, there was little to be done to hide the fact they were sitting in a cold, concrete shell. It was an unattractive working space – all fluorescent tubes and dry air. Poorly adapted to a world where everything was available online, and people could work from home.

  Six weeks.

  His mind swung back to the dinner with McMahon. The speed at which that protest had formed. The mix of desperation and anger in those people’s faces as they’d begged for the lives of their loved ones.

  But did they really expect NovusPart to rescue everyone?

  * * *

  Nick ate his lunch slowly. He’d headed to a small café just off campus but wasn’t enjoying any peace. The food was cheap enough for the place to be busy, and he’d soon found himself penned in by a melee of other students. At least he had a couple of limp cheese sandwiches for company.

  And an envelope. It had been waiting for him in his pigeonhole in the History Department. He’d recognised Drockley’s handwriting and had assumed the worst. But on opening the letter, he’d found the exact opposite. His contract was being renewed. The paperwork sat before him. All he had to do was sign. Which meant Ronnie had been right. His dad had pulled some strings and again saved him from the dole queue. But now it seemed second best to what NovusPart were offering him.

  Nick spread out the flyer from the British Museum on the table in front of him. He focused on the bones of the Peking Man, but all he could think about were the survivors of Flight 391. All of whom were now walking around, just like they’d never actually boarded the plane. Or, at least, most of them were. Some just hadn’t been able to survive in the modern world.