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  Emboldened by his obvious lack of any weapons, one of the cops came round the door and edged towards him.

  Frustration welled up inside Callendro. He didn’t have time for this. The minutes were ticking away on his life and these two fat cops were going to get him killed. With a jolt, he realized that everyone he had seen since arriving in 2025 was fat. Everybody. Living high on the hog, spending the energy from all that oil on making food to stuff their faces with, while just forty years into the future . . . And then he noticed that the police car’s engine was still running. They had not turned it off. The incredible profligacy of burning petrol like that, without a thought, just because it might be a tiny bit inconvenient to stop the engine, hit him like a blow to the chest. This greedy world had destroyed his own, stolen his future, taken a world of peace and plenty and squandered it on fast food and air conditioning, cars and shrink wrap.

  “Down on the floor. Now!”

  He looked into the man’s eyes. “All I want is to get a spacesuit and go away.”

  The cop blinked and, apparently reassessing the situation, frowned. “Chuck, it looks like we’ve got ourselves some kind of crazy guy.”

  “No kidding?” said the other cop. “From the way he’s dressed I thought he might be one of those NASA eggheads.”

  “Says he wants a spacesuit.”

  The other cop came out from behind the door and joined his partner. “We got great spacesuits back at the station, buddy. They got arms that tie up at the back and everything. Now get down on the floor like the man told you.”

  “I‘m going to die if I don’t get a spacesuit,” he said, kneeling on the hard concrete, still managing to keep his anger under control. “I‘m here from the future.”

  “Yeah? And there’s me thinking you was an extraterrestrial.” The cop stepped forward to cuff him but looked up sharply at the van.

  The rear doors burst open and Rebekka began firing from inside. Callendro threw himself to the ground while the cops ducked and ran, returning fire as they went. The one called Chuck fell, dead or wounded, Callendro didn’t care because the man had dropped his weapon.

  Callendro got his legs under him and ran towards the gun, with Rebekka and the other cop still exchanging shots. He scooped up the gun and dropped behind Chuck’s body. Taking careful aim, he fired maybe a dozen shots before the other cop fell down dead.

  But the body didn’t stay down. It bounced back up, sucking sprays of blood out of the air back into itself and then spurted them out again as it fell. Then it did it again, and again.

  Callendro cursed and ran. Another splash had begun. A crack tore through the pavement and tripped him, sending him rolling across the ground towards the van, so close he could smell the oil and metal of its underside. The twitching body of the painter was nearby, the ground still rippling in concentric circles all around him. As Callendro scrabbled to get up, he saw one of the rear wheels. It had sunk to its axle in the concrete. He reached out a hand and touched the ground around the wheel. For all that it was rippling, the concrete felt completely solid. There was no way they could drive away the van now.

  He got up and looked into the back of the van. “Come on. We need to get you into the police car, somehow.” Maybe she could take off the suit while they drove around looking for Building 9. On the other hand, maybe he should just leave her here. “Rebekka.” She was leaning against the wall, staring at the ceiling of the van. God damn the woman! This was not a good time to be having a breakdown. “Rebekka, we need to get moving.” He reached in and shook her. She toppled over and lay still on the floor of the van.

  His heart thumped. Thumped again. Then he climbed into the van and lifted her head. She was big and awkward in the spacesuit, almost impossible to manoeuvre. He pushed her back up against the van wall and felt her neck for a pulse. Her skin was clammy and cold but she was still alive.

  His relief lasted only a second or two before the realization struck him. Frantically, he felt around on her suit until he found it. The bullet hole. It had gone through the front at about waist height. He heaved her forward. The life support pack was positioned near where the bullet might have come out. The chances of it working properly with a bullet lodged in it were slim. And, even if he could mend the hole at the front somehow, the suit was almost certainly compromised at the back too.

  Now both of them were without a suit. Not that Rebekka would need one if he didn’t find her medical care very soon. He could still use the police car. Its engine was running and it looked OK, even though mayhem was breaking out around the cop who was still flipping up and down. If Callendro was quick, he might get the cop car away from there before it too sank into the pavement, or a street light fell on it or whatever.

  He lay Rebekka down as gently as he could and then sprinted for the cruiser. The ground was shaking as if gigantic animals were burrowing just below the surface. He leaped into the driver’s seat and looked at the displays, all lit up to display an array of dials and buttons. There should have been pedals on the floor. He was pretty sure he’d heard about that. A gas pedal and a brake. But there were none. He scanned the displays again. He had never seen technology like this. It was far more advanced than what he was used to in 2066. The cop car might as well have been an alien spaceship for all the sense its controls made.

  He pushed some buttons at random and the car spoke to him.

  “Only authorized drivers may operate this vehicle. Please identify yourself and speak your security code.”

  He almost screamed in anger and frustration. “This is a medical emergency. A matter of life and death. Just give me control of the car.”

  “Only authorized drivers may operate this vehicle,” the car repeated, without rancor. “Please identify yourself and speak your security code. Failure to comply will mean all systems will be locked down in twenty seconds and the authorities informed. You are advised that attempting to operate a police vehicle without permission is a crime punishable by up to three years imprisonment.”

  Callendro jumped out of the car. He was scared that a lock down might involve closing the doors too. After a few seconds the engine stopped. He walked back to the van over ground that was cracked and distorted, past the flapping cop and the twitching painter. He didn’t go inside to sit with his dying companion but went to find his discarded spacesuit. In one of the document pockets was a small notebook and pencil. He moved away from the van, away from the shifting ground and the spreading splash. He found a shaded spot in a doorway at the other side of the street. Then he took the pencil and paper and wrote:

  Tell him the mission was not a complete failure. We got back to 2025 and we started a splash. Just not the one we planned for. Tell him not to waste any more lives on trying to get this right. Tell him to go to Plan B. I don’t know if he has a Plan B, or what it might be. All I know is that anything has to be better than this.

  Tell him goodbye from someone who never even met him but who would do it all again if he thought there was the slightest chance of it helping him get the job done.

  Isaac Callendro

  In the strange calm he now felt, an astonishing thought occurred to him. Even if he’d found a new space suit, it wouldn’t have done him any good at all. He’d have left it behind like the rest of 2025 when the yankback pulled him home. He’d felt so rational and purposeful and yet he’d been in the grip of some kind of mind-numbing panic all along. For a while, he sat there laughing at his own stupidity. He laughed so much he ended up crying.

  It was just fifteen minutes now until the yankback. No time to do much at all except wait. There was only one thing he needed to do, though. He got up and walked back towards the cop called Chuck. He didn’t want to find himself in the void, almost naked, with no air and no heat. He picked up the gun he’d dropped earlier and checked the clip. There were three bullets left.

  One would be enough.

  Chapter 2: Embarkation

  Leaving Boston in the summer of 2067 without the proper papers was no
easy matter, but Zadrach Polanski had many friends who would give their lives to help him. One of his friends had introduced him to Captain Lee Xiangpo. Captain Lee—“Wayne” to his friends half a world away in Sydney—was Master of the handymax bulk carrier Lucky Country. And the Lucky Country was due to depart soon. With a Filipino crew and a cargo of fifty thousand tons of Montana corn bound for Liverpool, England, the Lucky Country was sailing with the morning tide. Meanwhile, she waited heavy and low in the Port of Boston’s Black Falcon Terminal while the Massachusetts rain scrabbled against her superstructure and along her decks.

  From an old customs shed, Polanski and his companions watched the docks through infrared binoculars. It was two in the morning and the wharf was quiet. Much farther away, floodlights lit up the container docks where ships were still being loaded and unloaded despite the late hour.

  “I make it two on patrol at this end and two more in the hut.” The speaker behind Polanski was a large and strong young man of eighteen, with fair hair and clear skin. He looked every inch the Kansas farm-boy he was, but his voice had the hard-bitten self-assurance of a man who had been fighting a guerrilla war since the age of twelve.

  “Why so few?” Polanski asked, thinking out loud the way he often did. He turned to address a bulky, middle-aged man, crouched beside him in the cold, dark shed. “You did most of the recon work, David. Did you ever see just two SOBs patrolling this wharf?”

  The big man shook his head, looking concerned.

  Polanski turned back to the glistening wharf and peered again through his binoculars. “Could just be the rain, I suppose.”

  They waited in silence as the two Sons of Joshua trudged along the quayside. They hunched against the rain in their brown uniforms, their long cloaks slick and wet. They passed within a hundred meters of the abandoned customs shed, then turned and trudged back the way they had come.

  “So it’s a trap then?” the farm-boy asked.

  “Looks like,” said Polanski.

  “Do we call it off?”

  “Nope. We just tread careful, that’s all.” He turned to the young man with a grin. “I promised you the flesh-pots of Europe, Peter, and I aim to make sure they’re yours.”

  The young man grinned back. It was a private joke between them. No-one on this mission expected to have any time for pleasure.

  “It’s time for that distraction now, David,” Polanski said.

  His taciturn companion nodded.

  David was part of a local chapter of the sprawling, loose alliance of resistance groups of which Zadrach Polanski was the nominal leader. The reality was that that the local chapters pretty much led themselves. But Polanski was changing that. In the past couple of years, he had coordinated several brilliant attacks on State and Federal Government facilities. He was making their presence felt. People were talking. For the first time in thirty-five years, the idea of taking America back from the Lord’s True Path Party seemed like something more than a crazy pipe dream.

  Polanski’s new plan was as daring and original as his others—and every bit as risky. He listened with half an ear as David murmured through a compad to his team, keeping his eyes on the docks. Somewhere out there, Federal agents were in hiding, waiting for Polanski to make his move. He knew with the certainty that only a lifetime of evading the Feds could give a man. Someone had tipped them off. Someone had betrayed him. It had happened so often in his life, it didn’t even hurt anymore. He hoped it hadn’t been David. He liked the big guy. Chances were it was someone in David’s chapter—or maybe a spouse or sibling, even a child. There would be an investigation, and David would have to do whatever needed doing to protect the rest of his team.

  “Sixty seconds,” David said.

  Polanski and the young man, Peter, put away their binoculars and adjusted their backpacks. They moved to the door. Polanski looked back at David. At the same time, David looked across at him. Even if things went well, Polanski might never see the Bostonian again. They exchanged a small nod, each acknowledging the other.

  Then the sky brightened, lighting the side of David’s face. Peering through the door, Polanski saw the patrolling militiamen stop and turn to look just as the thump of a large explosion shook the air. Pulling snub-nosed machine guns from under their cloaks, they began running away from Black Falcon Terminal. They were heading towards the Conley Terminal container facility, where a fireball was rising among the cranes. The two guards in the hut burst out onto the quayside and joined their companions in a dash towards the containers. The rattle of machine-gun fire could be heard in the distance.

  Polanski waited, a steadying hand on Peter’s shoulder. Perhaps a full minute passed before David, still at the window with his infrared binoculars, said, “There.”

  Following the direction of David’s gaze, Polanski saw a half-dozen black-coated men. They emerged from whatever shadows had held them, cautious as cats on the hunt. They looked all around, but mostly at the container docks. Some of them held handguns in two-handed grips, pointing the muzzles at the ground. FBI for sure. Polanski watched as one of them spoke urgently into his compad. After a moment, he shouted at the others and they all ran off towards the fighting.

  “Time to get your people out,” Polanski said over his shoulder. Without looking back, he and Peter slipped out of the shed and ran at a crouch through the cold rain towards the Lucky Country.

  -oOo-

  “That’s far enough, mate.”

  Captain Lee was not a big man but the way he blocked the top of the gangplank left no doubt that the only way to get past him would be the hard way. Behind him, two men with machine guns stood ready to back him up.

  “Can we come aboard and discuss this?” said Polanski, glancing pointedly at the commotion farther up the wharf.

  “Not till I’m happy with your credentials.”

  Polanski reached into his jacket, causing the armed sailors beside Captain Lee to stiffen. He pulled out a small black bag, weighed it in his hand for a moment, then handed it to Lee. The captain took a look inside. Polanski watched in silence. The bag held twenty carats of cut diamonds, the price of his and Peter’s passage to Liverpool. Each stone had been donated by a supporter of the resistance, each taken from an engagement ring or brooch, each torn from the heart of someone who had clung to such mementos despite all the privations and necessities of life in modern America. Polanski had written each and every donor a personal IOU. He doubted that Captain Lee had the slightest notion what that bag of gems was really worth.

  “Happy now?” he asked.

  With a smile, the captain stood back and said, “Welcome aboard, Mr. Smith. These men will show you and your mate to your cabin. I’ll be along in a while to explain the ground rules. Until we’re under way, don’t leave your cabin for any reason. Understood?”

  Polanski nodded. “Sure.”

  “Not exactly friendly, is he?” Peter said as the Filipino sailors—one in front and one behind—led them into the bowels of the great ship.

  “It’s a business transaction, that’s all. He’s taking a big risk,” Polanski said. “So is his crew. I don’t expect any of them to be happy about it.”

  They were taken to a small cabin with bunk beds and very little else. They stowed their gear and lay on the hard mattresses. Neither of them were speaking nor sleeping, instead listening to the sound of water slopping against the steel hull, breathing air that smelled of oil.

  After a long time, Polanski heard the boy’s breathing deepen into a steady, regular rhythm. He gave it another half hour and then climbed out of his bed and crept out of the room. The ship was large and lightly crewed. Its five massive holds were forward. The bridge, engines, crew quarters, galley, and everything else, were crammed into a relatively small space aft. Polanski made his way up to the deck without challenge and climbed up into the superstructure. There he found a quiet place to hide, a place where he could keep an eye on the docks and the gangplank. He settled down to keep watch. The rain had stopped but the wind was
chilly and the painted steel he sat on was wet and cold.

  At about four AM, a military vehicle drove down the quayside from the direction of the container docks and pulled up alongside the Lucky Country. A couple of Feds with a squad of Sons of Joshua militiamen at their heels got out of the armored vehicle and marched purposefully to the gangplank. Polanski eased himself into a crouch, ready to do whatever needed doing. Floodlights from the ship snapped on and caught the Feds in the glare about halfway up the gangplank, where their troops were forced into single file with nowhere to run. On the deck, Polanski could just make out the captain and several of his crewmen. He relaxed a little.

  For a while, no-one spoke and no-one moved.

  “God be with you,” the Fed at the front said. He waited for the reply but none came. He pulled a badge out of his coat pocket and held it up for Captain Lee to see. “I’m Special Agent Cartwell. This is Special Agent Drake.” Drake also held up a badge. In the bright lights, Polanski could see the silver crucifixes on the two agents’ coat lapels. The very sight made his jaw clench.

  “And you are?” Cartwell asked and began walking up the gangplank again.

  “Stop where you are!” The captain’s command was loud and sharp and was accompanied by the sound of bolts being slid on several firearms. Cartwell obeyed immediately. “No-one comes aboard this ship without my permission, Agent Cartwell. What do you want?”

  Polanski couldn’t help but smile. The FBI was used to being met with fear and submission, not open hostility. It was good to see how angry it made them. Let the bastards fume, he thought. Boarding an Australian ship against the captain’s wishes was the kind of thing that sparked international incidents. And, now that Australia was a member of the Chinese Pacific Alliance—effectively a vassal state of the ever-expanding Chinese hegemony—the excrement would come pouring from a great height onto any FBI agent stupid enough to stir up that kind of trouble.

  “We believe there are terrorist traitors in the area,” Cartwell said. “We would like your permission to search your ship in case any of them have stowed away with the intention of leaving the country. It’s in your own interest that these dangerous men are captured as quickly as possible.”