Future Tense (19 page)

“Genetically cloned from the DNA of those frozen Siberian ones and the Indian Elephant, its closest relative,” said Tree. “A new species for a new climate. A lot of that malarkey went on in the third millennium. They were cloning everything from carrots to humans—till the Clone Wars. Then it was banned.”

“You mean human clones will one day fight real humans?”

“No I mean carrots will fight humans,” he said. He picked up two of the cups and set off for the sleeping quarters.

“You are joking!” I said.

“No—some smart alec developed a self-picking variety—they formed an underground alliance with the turnips and potatoes and revolted in East Anglia and the American Garden States!”

* * *

A new plan was made over breakfast. It was decided that Tree would take the time machine forward to the end of the third millennium and find out when the woolly mammoth was genetically brought back from extinction, and what date the mini Ice Age occurred. He would then go to that time period and look up the maps for the Somerset Levels. If a prison or a castle was ever built on Brent Knoll there would be some record of it somewhere. There was no risk, he assured us—he would just look it all up in a Personal Leisure Education And Simulated Ultra Restful Environment-Dome. These things were the twenty-ninth century equivalent of a phone box, the internet and an amusement arcade all rolled into one, but they had a teleportation service and access to much more information, as well as
realview
links to the rest of the world and all the new space colonies. You could receive food and drink inside them, sleep in them, obtain a divorce, or, if you were really bored with life, pay to enter a virtual reality world in which your wildest dreams could be realized. By the last century of the third millennium the old expression,
get a life
had evolved into,
have you got change for a life
? The smart answer to which was,
yes, but do you really want this change
? If there was a danger, Tree informed us, it was that some people found PLEASURE-Domes so seductive that they never came out of them again, even though they were no bigger than a seaside changing-hut. They just signed all their money and possessions over to the company that sponsored or owned the particular one they had taken a fancy to and retired in them. The late twenty-ninth century landscape was apparently littered with these strange cylindrical booths, topped with their characteristic onion domes, which Tree told me were matter transceivers. They sounded to me like the end of civilisation.

* * *

Six hours later I was blaming myself:

“I should have gone with him,” I said.

Emily was sitting on the lounge bench—crying her eyes out—being comforted by Emma.

“The best laid plans of trees and men,” I said. “We're right up the creek now. Literally. Stuck on a barge in Bristol in nineteen-bloody-sixty. Black and white telly, two lousy channels, and the worst food in Europe. Oh well, at least we've got England's 1966 World Cup win to look forward to. I checked the last time I was in the third millennium—thirty years of hurt? England won't win it again for at least a thousand years!”

“Oh, shut up, Stephen,” said Emma. “Can't you see Emily's upset?”

“I'm sorry, but this is just typical of the sort of luck I have,” I said.

“This isn't just about you, you know—we're all in this together,” said Emma. “Emily, do you want to go for a walk? We can get away from his moaning.”

Emily sniffed a nod.

I watched them climb the wooden staircase and listened to them walk across the deck and go up the gangplank. And then I went and got the big tub of pistachio ice cream from the fridge and scoffed the lot. I did start to feel a bit guilty, not just about eating Emily's ice cream, but also about not seeming to care about old Tree. Anything could have happened to him. He could have been dead for all I knew.

* * *

It was starting to get dark. I lay on the lounge bench and closed my eyes. No sooner had I shut them than I began to have the strangest, most vivid dream—a floating dream. I know I was floating on a barge, but the river was so calm and the barge so heavy that there was hardly any sensation of movement. No, this was a gentle rocking motion, accompanied by a peculiar pulsing vibration. And then I got the impression that I could hear water dripping—thousands of tiny droplets of water. It was quite a restful feeling, even though the dream was so lucid. I opened my eyes and smiled—the whole of the barge's interior, fixtures and fittings, superstructure—even the cups on the table and the little curtains at the windows—were imbued with blue, green and red light. What I mean is, certain straight lines were turning a neon red, while anything with curvy lines—like the light bulbs, empty ice cream tub, my clothes, were blue, and even green in patches, but not ordinary green, because all the backgrounds to the solids were black, so the colours looked brighter. It was as though someone had sketched the cabin on black paper with crayons made of light. I noticed the pulsing sound was getting louder and changing pitch. It sounded like someone repeatedly opening and closing a squeaky door, only the tone of the squeak was low-pitched and evenly modulated.

I sat up and looked around me. All the colours were pulsing. I reached over and drew aside the curtain and peered out. The quay was slowly sinking. Two pairs of women's legs ran by. I heard someone shouting my name. But I was unconcerned. It was just a dream. I lay back down and closed my eyes, a smug smile on my lips. And then I heard a banging on the window and sprang upright, tore back the curtain and saw Emma and Emily's horrified faces.

“It's sinking up!” I said.

I rolled off the bench and launched myself towards the stairs. The noise had become much louder now and the colours were pulsing quicker to keep up. I could hear myself clattering up the stairs, but my legs and arms felt heavy and I realized my feet were sliding off the same rung and my hands were pulling on the same parts of the handrails. I wasn't getting anywhere! Then I really panicked. The noise was now deafening—the coloured light a rapid flicker.

“I can't get up! Can't get up!” I yelled.

The barge was like a coloured X-ray all around me. Although I couldn't see the outside, I could see through the interior of it to the forward cabins and down into the bilge. I could even see through the wooden rungs I was trying to climb up. It was as if the whole molecular structure of the barge was breaking down. I was terrified. I kept trying to pull myself up but I was only able to scale a few rungs. I heard a voice above me.

“Steve! Steve! Take my hand!”

I looked up and saw Emma reaching down to me. I let go of the rail with my right hand and tried to stretch it up to her.

“I can't,” I said. “Get off! Go!”

“No!” she shouted. “You can reach! Try—come on!”

I made one last effort with what little strength I had left and blindly threw myself up, hoping she could grab my hand. I felt her hand snap around mine and hold me. And then her other hand locked onto my wrist and she was practically dragging my whole body weight up the ladder, though I was helping as much as I could by pulling on the rail and trying to kick off the rungs.

And then we were in each other's arms rolling on the deck, desperately trying to keep hold and yet stand up at the same time. I could see the gangplank was gone and we were level with the streetlights on the quay.

“It's going up,” I gasped. “We'll have to jump!”

We staggered up and were thrown against the gunwale—our bodies naturally bent over the side, like we were both being sick. Suddenly, I really did feel sick—in a few seconds we rose a hundred feet at least, but no one told my stomach. Emily's face was a pink speck on the quayside. We were rising higher and higher above the rooftops of Clifton and could soon see all the lights of Bristol laid out below us. There was no way either of us could have jumped—the river was already just a thin black ribbon we might easily miss. But then suddenly I was amazed to see Emma trying to climb up on the rail. I pulled her back.

“Are you mad?” I shouted. “You'll kill yourself!”

“We've got to try!” she cried.

But, in the next instant, there could be no second thoughts, no more arguments—the decision was taken out of our hands. The barge suddenly stopped rising and shot off to the west at lightning speed, and it was all we could do to hang on for dear life.

Chapter 11

We must have looked like a UFO to the casual observer, out walking the dog, or spending a romantic evening up some lonely country lane. The old barge was lit up like Las Vegas and we were hurtling high up in the night sky over some of the most sparsely populated countryside in England. We headed straight west above the Mendip Hills and angled down into the Somerset Levels—a distance of some thirty miles, covered in a matter of moments. Emma and I watched the whole journey, spellbound, clinging to the safety rail—too terrified to move, in case the wind snatched us away.

“What's happening?” cried Emma, as our descent speed slowed.

The landscape had assumed a sort of monochrome glow—all ghostly pale and streaked with shadows.

“I can see Glastonbury—and, look—there—is that Brent Knoll?” I said.

“The light!” said Emma. “It's getting lighter.”

She was right. The night was draining away, fading from the zenith point, and leaching back to the horizon.

“It's another day—” I started to say.

“Ice!” screamed Emma, throwing herself on me like a rugby player and bringing us both down on the decking with a double thud.

There was a huge jolt, followed by a crunching sound and then a prolonged scraping and bumping. We didn't dare look up to see what was happening, but it was pretty obvious to us both that the barge had landed and was skidding on ice.

By now the evening had peeled away and we were squinting up into a glaring grey sky. On and on the heavy boat rumbled like someone bowing a very large violin. We could feel it shudder on every uneven patch and skewing round and round as it raced along, but it was gradually slowing down. Once it had slowed to a safe speed, we both clambered to our feet. We looked around us and then at each other.

“You know where this is, don't you?” said Emma, her breath smoking in the cold air.

“Well, it's not the Ally Pally Ice Rink, that's for sure,” I said.

The barge was back to normal again—all the strange lights had vanished and whatever force had been holding us was gone.

“No sign of life,” said Emma. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. “Brrr—it's freezing. I'm going down to find something to put on.” She went below.

I blew into my hands and climbed up onto the roof. I walked forward. Though the barge was still skidding, it was now a gentle slide, and I could easily keep my balance. I was so confident I even put my hands in my trouser pockets. When I reached the end I rested one foot up on the bow, something in the manner of a figurehead. We were barely moving by now and the ice was making a pleasant groaning sound, rather like a long, comfortable fart. Finally, we ground to a halt. And everything fell silent.

“We've stopped, Em!” I shouted.

“Steve?” said Emma.

“I'm up here!” I called.

I looked back and saw her head and shoulders pop up above the flat roof.

“I brought you this.” She held up a dark brown coat. It was probably Tree's old army trench coat.

“It'll be miles too long for me,” I said.

“Who cares what you look like out here?” she said.

I walked back and jumped down to join her on the aft deck. She held the coat open for me to slip on. “There you go,” she smiled.

“Thank you,” I said, staring at her. She stared back at me for a moment or two, as though remembering something, and then looked away.

I was just enjoying being with her, without us niggling at each other. It felt just like old times—except for the very unEmma-like clothing. She was wearing a green anorak with a hood, a bit like an old-fashioned parka. It looked at least three sizes too big for her, but she had rolled up the sleeves and somehow managed to make it look quite stylish.

“Where did you find that?” I said.

“It's Tree's. Doesn't it feel funny to be here?” she said, gazing around. “I mean, after looking at all those maps.”

“It's not like I imagined,” I said. “Everything's so white—I can hardly pick anything out.”

“I'll get the shades,” she said, making her way back down the stairs.

“Good idea. And put the kettle on!”

“Watch it, Sloane.”

I turned around and leaned against the wheel, looking back out over the stern. I wish I hadn't. I wish I could have spent just a few more blissful minutes with her, undisturbed, without worrying about where we were exactly, or how much trouble we were in. Now I knew. Something very large and very fast was approaching us from what I took to be—going by the orientation of our landing and the track we had left across the ice—north, because although we had come from the east our stern had clearly slewed round to point in that direction. I was tempted to shout down to her something tough like,
we've got company
, but settled for:

“There's a big white thing coming!”

“A what?” she shouted up.

“We've got company!” I yelled.

“God—where?” she cried. I heard her clattering up the stairs.

By the time she reached me, the huge hovercraft-like vessel was alongside, towering over us like an enormous wedding cake. We were straining our necks to look up at the rail to see if we could see anybody—it must have been some fifty feet up. The next thing, there was a loud hiss and a portal opened in the hull—a metal gangplank shot out—half a dozen fur clad military types, wearing goggles and waving batons, charged out and boarded us. Four of them grabbed us by our arms; the other two started sticking slabs of what looked like plastic explosive everywhere.

I was going to say,
where are you taking us?
But, instead, I said to one of them, “I bet you listen to Neil Diamond records when you're off duty.”

They never said a word back, but made us run into their mothership with them, because if we didn't our feet would have dragged. We found ourselves in a large hangar. I noticed dozens of snazzy snowmobiles parked in bays and quaint slogans painted on the walls, saying things like,
Security is Power
,
Purity is Order
, and
Unity is a Lovely Girl
. Actually, I made that last one up, but you get the gist.

A bad-tempered looking guy with an electronic clipboard and lots of gold braid and colourful insignia on his uniform—an officer—marched up to us, looked me up and down, and snapped:

“You are Sloane!”

“Yeah,” I said. “What if I am? I'm allowed to be if I am.”

One of his men prodded me with his baton and about forty thousand volts shot up my arm and rang the bell in the fairground test of strength contraption up in my brain.

The officer stretched his neck to loosen his collar and stepped to his left to address Emma.

“And you are the pregnant female,” he sneered.

“No, that's me,” I said.

Another forty thousand volts shot up my elbow and stir-fried a few million more of my brain cells.

Emma pointed sideways at me. “He made me do it, officer,” she said.

I smirked to myself. Yeah, I remember that evening, I thought. I was like a wild animal that night. A beast.

Suddenly, we heard a series of loud explosions coming from outside on the ice.

The officer flinched each time one went off and then permitted himself a curt smile. “That was your boat,” he said. “We blew it up. No more picnics on the river for you.”

“I have a confession to make,” I said.

“Speak!” he yelped.

“It wasn't our boat.”

Our interrogator nodded and another forty thousand volts sizzled my wok. And then he began pacing up and down, talking to us, but not bothering to look at us, in a mechanical voice.

“You are mutants and time fugitives—there will be a trial, but the verdict will be guilty as charged, and you will both be taken to the Castle, from which no convict has ever escaped and lived to sell the film rights.”

I raised my hand. “I have a question,” I said. “Can you give us a ballpark figure on the length of sentence we can expect to receive?”

“Life!” he cried shrilly. “Life! You will each receive life sentences!” He calmed his voice right down. “But this may be commuted to fifty years for good behaviour and if, of course, you plead guilty.”

“And is there a rehabilitation program in place?” I asked.

“Rehabilitation? What is this?”

“Re-training, help with housing, counselling—that sort of thing,” I said.

“He means when we get out,” said Emma.

“Oh, you mean when you go to the labour camp? Yes, you will get a hut,” said our interrogator. “Now, I will conduct the trial.” He checked his clipboard. “Let me see, ah, yes—
if the prisoner pleads guilty, go directly to question five.
Do you both plead guilty?”

I looked to Emma. “Guilty, love—yeah?”

“Yes, please,” she nodded.

“So—both prisoners plead guilty—we go to question five—
Will you ever do it again?
” He looked up. “It's multiple choice. Is it:
a) Never, b) Unlikely, c) Maybe, or d) Definitely
?”

I looked to Emma to confer. “What do you think, love—
unlikely
?”

“I would have said
a) Never
,” said Emma.

“Yeah—we won't do it again, will we? Put us down for
a) Never
,” I said. “And what was it we were pleading guilty to again?”

I got the cattle prod again for that one.

The officer keyed another tick in the box and marked other places with crosses, and then handed me the clipboard and his electronic pen.

“Here, sign there, there and there—and then the female has to sign here, here and here,” he said.

I signed and talked at the same time, “I was wondering—is the captain of this old bucket licensed to conduct marriages?”

I heard a loud buzz and smelt the faint odour of burnt pork…

* * *

I came round in a metal box cell. There were no windows and little air. Emma was sitting next to me with her chin resting on her knees and her back against the wall, looking cheesed off. We were both wearing shackles on our ankles. I rattled mine.

“Hey—wow! So they married us!” I cried.

Emma elbowed me in the ribs.

“A girl's entitled to expect a nicer honeymoon than this,” she said. “Not to mention groom.”

“Oh, darling, don't go all picky on me—we haven't seen our room at the Castle yet,” I said. “It sounds kind of swish—I wonder if they have medieval banqueting nights. I hope we get the Guinevere Suite.”

“Really, Steve,” said Emma, “I'm feeling pretty uneasy about this.”

“Uneasy?” I said. “I'm bloody petrified! But we mustn't let these people see we're frightened—they like frightening people. It turns them on.” I rattled my shackles again. “All this S and M.”

“Don't get any ideas, Sloane.”

“Hey, Em. You remember in Orwell's
1984
when they've got old Winston in room 101 and they're threatening him with his worst nightmare—having his face eaten alive by rats?”

“Oh shut up!”

“No—listen—and then they say we'll stop if you say, don't do it to me, do it to Julia! You know, Julia, his girlfriend? Me Julie.”

“Yes,” sighed Emma. “Do we have to talk about this now?”

“What if they said to you, you can choose one of you to go free
—
who would you choose?” I said.

“Me, of course,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Isn't it obvious?”

“It is?”

“Yes—there's two of me, isn't there? Me and our unborn child,” she said. “You'd choose us, wouldn't you?”

“Oh, yeah—absolutely! If you put it like that. Of course—no question, Em,” I said.

The door swung open and two fur-coated guards looked in.

“Right—who's first?” one of them said.

“Him!”-“Her!” we both blurted, pointing to each other.

They pulled me roughly to my feet. “I love you, Em!” I called back, as I shuffled out with them.

“Yes, I know you do!” called Emma. “If you see Travis—tell him I love
him
!”

They led me along the wide passageway, which I noticed had sets of coloured lines painted along its sides. Like in a big hospital. I noted that we were following the white one mostly. The design of the ship was very plain, big and plain: big staircases, big walkways, big rivets, big doors—big bolts and knobs on the doors—every little thing was big! I think it was what you would call neo-Brutalism.

“Why have you split us up?” I said, desperately trying to keep up, but it was difficult with the leg-irons on.

“She goes to the women's cells,” said one of my guards, giving me a helpful push along.

“But I thought we would be together?” I said, remembering Tree's drawings of male and female prisoners enjoying free association in their open-plan dungeons.

“You might breed,” he sniggered.

The other one—a surly looking guy—said something to him in another language—I think it was a future language, called Worldese—and they both laughed at me.

We came to a big lift and they shoved me in ahead of them.

“What is so wrong with breeding?” I said. “Where I come from it's all we ever think about. What did they do to you guys—remove ninety-eight percent of your brain cells?”

“Breeding is for filthy animals of the field,” said the talkative one.

“Come on, guys—why should they have all the fun? In my time, we have magazines filled with great pictures of girls who look fit for good breeding—we even have demonstration videos showing all the best breeding techniques and variations—breeding's an art form—in fact, I have a black suspender belt in breeding—I'm a breeding master—”

“Silence! You disgust me, you degenerate!” said the other one.