Infinity Cage (15 page)

‘… the growing threat of a full-scale war in the Pacific region. With Wednesday’s pre-emptive drone-swarm attack on the Pacific Union’s refinery super-platform, resulting in over four hundred fatalities and the destruction of the platform and nine navy skimmers … and the retaliatory assault on the North Korean city of Hyesan, there is increasing concern that the conflict will escalate. FSA President Gonzalez, Defense Secretary Goodman and ECC Premier Schenk have united in condemning North Korea’s actions and called for the Pacific Union’s navy to withdraw from the contested waters to allow time for emergency negotiations to take place.

‘In domestic news … the Department of Nutrition has cautioned that lower-than-expected yields of nitrate-resistant, protein-bulking algae will result in higher prices of many standard food products, possibly even tighter rationing in the coming months. Food riots in Indianapolis, Des Moines and Oklahoma City are expected to be exacerbated by this news and martial-law restrictions are anticipated to be scaled up. Many of the protestors are blaming the constant and steady inflow of eastern-seaboard migrants beyond the
Median Line and refugees from Pan-Mexicana for the shortages.

‘Here are Friday’s weekly info-stats. Global sea-level average … up one point three centimetres. Acid-precipitation average … up three per cent. Local air-quality index: Denver 565, Santa Fe 676, Salt Lake City 456, Wichita Falls 593. Mortality rates: environmental, up three per cent; violent cause, up nine per cent.

‘And, finally, today’s message from the administration.
Fellow citizens, the storm brewing in the Far East, although a cause for concern, once again demonstrates that, in a troubled world, our federal states are a continuing oasis of order and stability …
’

‘Rashim … what the hell is going on?’ Maddy glared at him through the wire-mesh visitors’ screen. ‘It’s been weeks and we’re still sitting in here like a bunch of frikkin’ idiots!’

He nodded guiltily. ‘I know, I know. I am trying my very best to get you all out. But it is not as easy as –’

‘So? What have you been frikkin’ well doing?’

‘I have logged a second appeal with the Department of Immigration. But, you know, it is difficult. I cannot be too forceful on this.’

‘Why the hell not?’

‘There are two of me here, remember? If I press the issue, Maddy, there may be confirmation emails sent that the other
me
will pick up. He will query that. He will think his digital space has been hacked into by someone pretending to be him. It will cause problems.’

Rashim told her he’d been staying at his old apartment: a small single-unit near the top of a government-owned accommodation tower. He wasn’t supposed to be there. Right
now his other self was working hard on mass-displacement calculations with Dr Yatsushita for Project Exodus, sleeping over at the facility now that the big day was approaching. But from his apartment he’d been accessing the same personal digi-mail-space that his other self had access to, sending emails to any high-ranking officials who could pull strings, then immediately having to delete them from his ‘sent’ folder. Deleting the few replies he’d managed to get back before – hopefully – his other self could spot them in his inbox and wonder what the hell was going on.

‘I am doing my best, Maddy.’

She closed her eyes and her head rocked forward until it bumped softly against the mesh between them. ‘We’ve only got a few weeks left before all hell breaks –’

‘I know!’ He leaned forward, as if that was going to make any difference to her hearing him. ‘Look, I have managed to do
something
useful …’

‘Like what?’

‘I have managed to locate Waldstein’s campus.’

‘You know where it is?’

‘Yes. As soon as I can get you out of here, we can make our way straight there.’

‘How far away is it?’

‘About seventy miles south-west from Denver. It’s not actually that far from where Project Exodus is based.’

‘And what are we talking about? Is it some high-walled fortress or something? Are we going to even be able to get in to see him?’

‘There will be some security, of course, I am sure.’ He shrugged. ‘But he invited us, did he not?’

There was that. He’d extended an open hand to them to
come and join him. If they turned up at some remote mountainside guarded entrance and announced who they were, presumably Waldstein would instruct his security people to let them in.

‘Rashim, we’re running out of frikkin’ time. You have to get us out!’

‘I know!’

‘And if you can’t swing it for us … we’ll have to –’ She stopped herself. She was going to say they’d have to find a way to bust out, but she was pretty sure there were officers listening in on the dozens of conversations going on in the cubicles of the visitors’ hall.

Rashim nodded. He knew exactly what she was going to say. ‘It won’t come to that, Maddy. I promise. I assure you I do have some influence. I am an important government asset.’

‘Yeah, you told me that already –’ she lowered her voice – ‘you told me when we first met that a number of
important people
were scheduled to go along with you … on your little Exodus “trip”?’

The president, the vice-president and their families for a start. Project Exodus was basically a get-out-of-Dodge-City ticket for the administration’s top brass.

On the other side of the mesh, he glanced around nervously. ‘Yes, Maddy. Some very important people. No names? All right? Don’t say their –’

‘Well? Can’t you give one of them a call?’ She shrugged. ‘You needed loads of info right? For all your mass calculations? Can’t you just ring one of them up to ask a technical question … I dunno … How heavy their wife is, or something?’

He stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Yes … perhaps …’

‘Then you can ask a favour for a favour … right?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well, for Chrissake … get on with it!’

Waiting …

Waiting …

Connection established.

Authority verified.

Recipient [Defense Secretary Jonas

Goodman] accepts connection.

You are in an appointment queue.

Waiting time approx. 4 minutes.

At last!
Rashim stared at the screen. How many goddamned days had he been trying to get hold of the Defense Secretary? The man never seemed to be in his office.

As the waiting time counted down, Rashim’s focus switched from the holographic dialogue screen projected on the small window of his single-unit to the view beyond the smoked glass. Fifty-four floors up, he was just above the ever-present thin veil of smog. It hung like swamp mist in pools between the many tall towers of Denver, thin and wispy like a layer of tainted tissue paper.

It had been a vaguely comforting experience, returning to his old apartment. For the last two and a bit years he’d been
either living in a damp brick archway beneath a Victorian viaduct or on some mode of transport: carts, trains, steamships, horses … even, once, an Indian elephant. Now he was back among modern, comfortable conveniences.

Sitting in one of the recessed storage cubbyholes there was a 3D holograph of his family. A picture taken back when they lived in a well-to-do suburb of Damascus. Rashim aged seven, his two sisters and his parents. They’d emigrated from Iran the year before Iran and Israel went and nuked on each other. Father had seen that coming.

Father was dead now, of course. The Syrian Partition War in ’57. Father had seen that storm cloud coming as well, but failed to act quickly enough. They’d been living in a divided town, Muslims and Christians. Former neighbours turned into enemies. The militia came one day and executed every adult male they could find. Rashim was sixteen at the time but he’d looked a couple of years younger. He’d barely escaped the same fate.

He stared at the holograph and moved his head from side to side – there was a limited 3D effect in the image. He could see just a little of the sides of his late father’s head, the silver beard clipped tidily all the way up to his fleshy ears. That wide closed-lip grin of his.
I am mischief
, that’s what the smile said.
Watch your back … because I’ll sneak up behind you and tickle you when you least expect it.

Rashim’s memories of him were mostly that: Father playing pranks on him and his sisters.

There was another picture from seven years later: his mother and sisters in New London. He’d been doing his PhD in Massachusetts that year.

Rashim had checked his personal email account, gone looking through recent mail and came across a quick message he remembered sending to his mum just before he relocated to the
Cheyenne Mountain facility permanently. It was essentially a carefully worded goodbye. He’d known, once he was embedded there for the last few months of the project, his emails would be scrutinized … and there probably wouldn’t be much time for writing personal messages anyway.

He smiled. Remembered tapping it out on his touch-pad, his personal possessions in one shoulder bag, dirty dishes sitting in his kitchenette sink, sad as he typed, knowing he was going to miss her, knowing that the change of timeline was probably going to result in her life, and his sisters’ lives, being erased.

And yet excited. Excited that he was just a couple of months away from travelling back in time to Ancient Rome.

Waiting time approx. 1 minute.

Rashim figured that round about now his
other
self was busy calibrating and testing the receiver beacons that would be deployed back in the time of the Roman Emperor Caligula. Cursing with every last-minute personnel change, having to recalculate the collective body mass they were sending back in time.

Arriving back here, he’d found himself chuckling at the messy state he’d left this single-unit in: pants and balled-up socks on the floor, his quilt in a pile at the end of his bed. He’d left here knowing for certain he’d never be returning, that no one would witness this messy apartment … because it would cease to exist.

And yet here I am. Back home.

It had been a very different adventure from the one he’d been mentally preparing himself for. Instead of being one of the political elite lording it over a rebranded Roman Empire, he’d met three quite remarkable young people: Maddy and Sal – his new sisters – and Liam, just like a younger brother.

And what a journey they’d been on.

The most incredible journey … because they’d stumbled on something, stumbled upon a mystery that spanned – no,
enveloped –
the last two thousand years. Perhaps Maddy was right. Perhaps Waldstein was the one person who understood the purpose of those large tachyon transmitters that stood either end of two millennia of history, like bookends on a library shelf.

Call connection activated.

The projected image on the small window of his single-unit flickered and the face of Defense Secretary Goodman appeared on the glass. Rashim moved closer so that his computer cam would pick his face up clearly.

‘Ahh, Dr Anwar, is it?’ Goodman frowned. ‘I thought this was a call from Dr Yatsushita.’

‘No, it’s, uh … just me, sir.’

‘Well, this is … unusual. What can I do for you? You after more damned vital statistics from me? You want my inside-leg measurement now?’

‘No, I have all the information I need for the moment.’

‘I presume there are no hold-ups on the project?’ The defence secretary leaned closer. ‘I hope not anyway. The amount of money we’ve already thrown at this project –’

‘No, sir … no problems. No delays. Everything is on schedule.’

‘Good. The way things are going in the east, the sooner we’re out of here, the better.’

‘I am calling because I have … I have a favour to ask.’

The man cocked a smile. ‘Let me guess … there’s a
special person
you want to take along with us. Dr Yatsushita told you “no” and you’re going over his head?’ Goodman laughed. ‘Don’t be shy, Dr Anwar. You’re not the only one pulling rank. My
“technical assistant” on the
guest list
? She’s … errr … she’s more than just an assistant, if you get my drift.’

Rashim shook his head. ‘No, that’s not it.’

‘Well, spit it out. I’ve got a busy morning ahead of me. I’m catching a low-orb shuttle across to Tokyo with the president this afternoon. Trust me, not something I’m particularly looking forward to. Three hours with that guy. He’s got the personality of a slug.’

‘I have, uh … friends … no,
colleagues
; they are being held in an immigration camp and –’

‘You want me to expedite their application to enter?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Goodman shrugged. ‘
Mi casa es su casa
. No problem. Immigration’s as tight as a camel’s ass right now, but I’m sure I can swing something for you. How many “colleagues” are we talking about here?’

‘Four. Three adults … one child.’

‘Four? Jesus!’ He pursed his lips. ‘You moving your whole damn family in from wherever-the-hell-istan?’

‘Can you do this for me, sir?’

Goodman shrugged. ‘Well, seeing as how I’m counting on you to get my vitals right and not turn me into a steaming pile of mush … then, yeah … OK. I guess I’ll see what I can do.’

Rashim smiled. ‘Thank you.’

‘Blip over their names and which internment camp they’re being held in. I’ll see if I can flag them for a fast-track before I have to leave this morning.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘And hey, Anwar?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘You need to go get some sleep. You look like you’ve aged ten years.’

‘Oh … I’m quite all right.’

‘Yeah, well … I don’t want your maths not quite adding up right on the day and your machine turning me into pastrami.’

‘Right, yes. I will get some rest and –’

Call disconnected.

The small window of his apartment flickered and went blank. Once more he was staring out through the smoked glass at the towers beyond and the lemon-coloured swamp mist hovering over Denver.

He hoped to God the man was going to stick to his promise. They were counting down days now, not weeks any more. Days. If Maddy was right … just a few days left before the first news report was going to break, a story about a mysterious viral outbreak in a place called Kosong-ni.