The Trouble With Time (16 page)

Floss said, “Can I see?”

He got his phone out again and handed it to her. He watched her study its sleek lines, and move her fingers over the screen. Her hands were competent, Elizabethan slim and pale.

“That is so cool. Why are they called dataphones?”

Quinn said, straight-faced, “They were originally designed and used exclusively for organizing one’s social life.”

“Really?”

“No. I’ll get you your own tomorrow once you’ve got a chip. You can’t function without one.”

“A chip?” Floss’s face screwed up. “You’re telling me I have to be
microchipped
? Like a . . .
pet?
”

“Correct,” he replied. “Life here is not possible without a chip and a phone. Only vagrants and outlaws don’t have a chip. Together, they replace ID cards, credit cards, cash and a lot of security stuff. Book a ticket to a theatre and you can walk straight in. Their reader will recognize your chip and know you’ve paid.”

“Does that mean terrorism is a thing of the past?”

He smiled at her naïvety. “No; foiling terrorism was one of the benefits politicians promised that nobody in his right mind believed would actually happen. Terrorists have no difficulty removing their chips and acquiring fake ones.”

The pod passed his building in City Road, and a few minutes later pulled in to the brand new high rise where Floss would live. He showed her how to use the temporary card that would let her in until she had her chip and phone. The elevator whizzed them up to the forty-second floor and a long white corridor. Quinn opened the door labelled 633 and said, “Light.”

It wasn’t too bad; small, of course, not more than two hundred square feet, but with nine-foot ceilings and stylishly fitted out with every modern amenity. He looked at Floss to see what she thought of her new home. She walked to the big picture window leading on to a Juliet balcony and gazed out at the night view of London. Something seemed to strike her. She moved to one side and put her face at an angle to the glass, then turned to him.

“It’s not real!”

He joined her. “You’re right, I hadn’t realized. It’s a virtual window.” He doubted they would have had them in her day, so he explained. “It livestreams the view from a camera on the outside of the building. Makes interior apartments less claustrophobic.”

Her face was appalled. “People here live in flats with no windows?”

“It’ll have adjustable air conditioning.”

“Oh God, I can hear it.” Indeed, there was a very slight background hum.

“Look on this as a temporary measure. If you still hate it once you’ve settled in, I’ll see what I can do to get you moved. I think you’ll find the area convenient. I live only five minutes away, in City Road.” He showed her around. “Bathroom through here. You should find everything you need in the cupboards. This is the kitchen, fully robotic so just ask for what you want. Wardrobe and drawers here . . .” He gestured to a desk, chair, screen and keyboard. “This is your computer.” At the flick of a switch on the wall a double bed slowly lowered itself, ready made up, a folded pair of white pyjamas lying on the duvet. “Bed.”

“Thank you.”

She looked young and lost standing there in her quaint old-fashioned clothes. Even while enjoying their tête-à-tête, Quinn had been aware at the back of his mind of her fortitude in the face of what must seem a disastrous change in her life. She made him feel oddly protective; he wanted to comfort her, get her out of here and back to his spacious apartment with real windows. Take her to bed and make love to her gently until she forgot her troubles and fell asleep in his arms.

He got out the temporary phone he had brought for her, keyed in his number and address and handed it to her. “Call me at any time, if you need me. I can be round here in minutes.”

“Thank you,” she said again.

“I’ll collect you tomorrow morning at nine.” He hesitated, and said quietly, “Being the entirely selfish person I am, I cannot regret the strange circumstances that enabled me to meet you.” He half smiled, and left her alone in the tiny flat.

Back home, Quinn had a shower and brooded on a less agreeable topic, his loss of face. It occurred to him that he had the ability to fix this. Once Ryker had repaired the TiTrav, he could travel back in time and warn his former self that he’d got it wrong about the cause of depopulation. Leave Miss Dryden in her own time.

Two objections: one, he had never done this before, and was not sure how it worked. If he went back and did something to change the future, presumably he would return to an altered future where he had not obtained permission to remove Floss; but supposing his action inadvertently changed something else in an undesirable way? To take an extreme example, if he had died in the new future, it would not be possible to return and resume his life. The further back in time one went, the greater the risk of unintended consequences. Ten minutes, an hour would be unlikely to cause problems; a fortnight was a different matter. Ryker might well know the answer, but Quinn did not want to ask him. It would show weakness. Bad enough that he depended on the man to keep the thing working.

The other objection was that, having met Floss, he was unwilling to write her out of his life. She was the most interesting woman he’d met since Kayla five or six years ago; she was his treat, his reward, though for what he did not specify. Quinn was used to getting what he wanted; he was not good at forgoing possible pleasure. He decided to let things be.

As soon as she was alone, Floss allowed her face to fall. Fear and dismay flooded back, and she fought them off, staring out of the fake window. There was the Shard glowing blue in the dark, now accompanied by even taller skyscrapers new since her day. She turned away. The bedroom and bathroom were pristine and equipped with everything she might need. Floss sat at the flash computer screen mounted in silver metal and looked for the On switch. There wasn’t one. She’d poked fruitlessly about for a couple of minutes before it occurred to her to say, “Computer.”

Instantly the black screen blossomed into cantering horses, which morphed into birds, flew into the sky and fell as snow covering the hills. Winter turned to spring, and the horses reappeared. It was beautiful. Floss watched the sequence three times, before saying, “Google. Records of deaths. Emma Elspeth Dryden.”

After ten minutes spent getting used to an unfamiliar interface and hunting about, the page came up that Floss had hoped not to find. Her mother had died on August 3rd, 2029, aged sixty-three. Tears filled her eyes and ran down her face. She walked to the window and stared into the dark city alive with lights.
I’m going to get back. She’ll live longer when she’s not grieving for me
.

Floss returned to the computer and looked up her old boss at Zadotech. Bill Caldecot had retired the year before aged seventy, but was still doing some consultancy work. He still lived in the same cottage outside Oxford, where she had once visited when he threw a party for the department. It was strange to see him so old in the photos.

Floss suddenly realized she felt exhausted, wiped out, ready for the temporary oblivion of sleep. Quickly, before going to bed, she looked up her own name. Google offered her various other Florence Drydens, mostly from the nineteenth century; Florence was an old-fashioned name. But though she searched for quite a while, she found nothing about her disappearance.

In a way it was a relief; but odd. Very odd.

In spite of his avowed inexperience, Quinn proved fun to go shopping with. He took Floss to exclusive boutiques in Bond Street and picked out garments for her with a flourish, some of which she liked and some she laughed at and replaced with her own finds. He sat on small buttoned sofas outside fitting rooms, looking both out of place and completely at ease, insisting she emerge to model everything for him, and egging her on to be extravagant.

“Take both,” he said, when Floss was undecided between two silk tops. “After all, how often does a government department buy you clothes? Make the most of it. Try this next.”

He handed her a dress on a hanger; blue/grey, floor length, cobwebby. Floss took it into the changing room. There was no doubt Quinn had a good eye; the dress might have been made for her. Fitted to the waist, floating as she moved, drifting round her shoulders, it made her look like a ragged angel. She gazed at her reflection, then went to show him.

“That one you must have.”

“It’s awesome, but the price . . . and when would I wear it?”

“Dinner at the Ritz with me. We’ll take it. I think after this we should get you a hat. Either something huge and shady, or tiny and ridiculous worn above one ear.”

“I think not.” Floss gave him a quelling glance. “I am not minor royalty.”

“As you wish. We’ll do boots and shoes instead.”

They spent all morning shopping, then Quinn took her to a restaurant. Floss wore one of her new outfits; beautifully tailored trousers, wide in the leg and fitted to hip and waist, neat ankle boots, a plain top and a cashmere coat. Quinn arranged for her old clothes and their new purchases to be sent back to her flat. Over their second meal together, Floss tried to analyse Quinn’s charm; perhaps it was the way he focused his entire attention on you, listened to what you said, and always had an interesting response. He did not seem to regard this as an investment on which he would expect a speedy dividend.

After lunch he took her to be registered and have a chip implanted in her arm. He bought a dataphone, used it to open Floss a bank account and transferred £500,000 into it.

He handed her the phone. “You are good to go. Welcome to 2050. Now for your new job.”

Back at IEMA’s headquarters, Jess was waiting in the lobby looking restive, as if she had been there some time. At their approach she rose and smiled with annoying solicitude at Floss, as if she was recovering from an illness, and pretty much ignored Quinn. He left for his office, after telling Floss he had not realized shopping could be such fun, and they must do it again in the near future.

Once they were alone, Jess said, “Florence! You look very well. 2050 seems to suit you. I hope you are nicely settled in in your new flat?”

Floss’s suppressed resentment at her abduction bubbled up.
Bloody counsellors, paid to pretend to be your friend, thinking they know best the whole time, treating you like a child
. . . Unable to make herself be pleasant to this woman, she decided not to care. Let her earn her money. “Not really. A, I don’t want to be here, and B, if I
am
stuck here, I’d prefer a flat with real windows. Can you get me one?”

“Now that might be a little difficult. We did use the whole of the housing budget allocated –”

Floss looked her straight in the eye and lied. “I suffer from claustrophobia.”

“Oh. Well, in that case I’ll see what I can do. We might have to move you a little further out . . . Leave it with me. Now, I’ve found you a job with a pharmaceuticals company. Let me just order a pod, and I’ll take you there and introduce you to everyone.”

The company occupied a modern building in Leytonstone, with BIOPHARM in big steel letters above the entrance. Floss’s spirits lifted; this looked promising. She had enjoyed her work, and looked forward to finding out about all the fascinating discoveries that must have been made in the past thirty-five years. Inside the spacious lobby, Jess spoke to the man behind the desk and he logged their chips. Then they went up in the lift to the first floor, a vast white space with windows all round and a vista of grass and roads. Jess led her past glass-walled offices with elegant desks, all appropriately futuristic, to an area at the far side with ranks of work stations in white and raspberry. Jess stopped at an unoccupied desk.

“This is yours. And you’re next to a lovely view!”

Floss, who had been expecting to be taken to a laboratory, became suspicious. “What is my actual job?”

“You’ll be Junior Operations Manager, working with the C.O.O. – the Chief Operating Officer – for the senior management team.”

There was an ominous pause while Floss deciphered this information. “So you have found me a job working as a P.A. to a P.A.?”

“I wouldn’t exactly describe it that way . . .”

Floss scowled. “I am a fully qualified research scientist, and this was the best you could find for me?”

Jess’s lips pursed. “It is a pharmaceuticals firm.” The Teflon smile reappeared. Unlike most people, Jess was able to smile and talk simultaneously. “I’m afraid you’re forgetting your qualifications are thirty-five years out of date, Florence. You wouldn’t be able to cope with the equivalent of your 2015 job.”

“I’m fast. I’d catch up. I’m prepared to work as many hours as that would take.”

Jess was already shaking her head. “I think we have to face facts, here, Florence. No one’s going to employ you without an up-to-date degree or recent experience. Why don’t you just give this a go for a week or two and see how you get on? You might find it more rewarding than you think.”

Floss took a deep breath and made up her mind not to bother. Did it matter, really? She was not intending to stay in 2050, after all. Though she would have loved to find out about the advances in her field, she could always look them up on the internet.

“I’ll give it a trial for a few days,” she said, grudgingly.

A few days was all it took for Floss to decide she had had enough. That Thursday, her tasks for the day completed early, she waited for five thirty and brooded. Not only was she over-qualified and underused, but here there were zero opportunities to get her hands on a TiTrav. She was marking time. Now if she worked at IEMA . . . Suddenly she thought, why not? Why not try to manoeuvre Quinn into giving her a job? Subtly, so he’d think it was his own idea . . .

She called into the C.O.O.’s office, then left the building, ringing Quinn’s number as she walked along the road in the early spring light. His pleasant low voice answered immediately.

“Floss. How nice to hear from you. How can I help?”

“I’ve done something dreadful. I hardly like to tell you.”