required?’
CHAPTER 12
2070, Project Exodus, Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado Springs
Rashim took his space on the translation grid, a yard square, as it was for every other personnel slot. Enough of a safety margin to ensure no one became ‘merged’ during the journey. Of course nothing was certain. Rashim knew that better than anyone else standing on the hangar floor. The laws of physics and its predictability had a way of breaking down in extra-dimensional space, or
chaos space
as the enigmatic Roald Waldstein had once named it.
There was no knowing if any of them were going to survive this. Worse still, with his estimates of the total mass being translated – his precious mass index – now being more a thumb-in-the-air approximation than a precise figure, they could quite possibly overshoot or undershoot the receiver station. Or – Jesus … it didn’t bear thinking about – they might never even emerge from extra-dimensional space.
Dr Yatsushita’s voice echoed across over the hangar’s PA system announcing the ten-minute warning.
‘Excuse me … no one’s told me anything about what’s going on.’
Rashim turned to look at a man standing in the floor grid beside him. The floating holographic data block floating abovethe ground said he was Professor Elsa Korpinkski: Physicist. Clearly he wasn’t her.
‘Excuse me, sir! You know what’s happening? What’s gonna happen in ten minutes?’
The man was wearing olive fatigues – an army corporal by the chevron on his arm. He was one of the last-minute ‘volunteers’ they’d rounded up as they’d sealed and locked down the facility. Effectively
ballast
, that’s what these last-minute personnel were – equivalent mass for the many empty grid spaces of those candidates who’d failed to make it to the facility in time.
Although Kosong-ni virus blooms had already been spotted in Denver, and a dozen miles further south in Castle Rock – perilously close given the blooms were airborne – they’d hung on until Vice-president Greg Stilson and his wife had arrived by gyrocopter before the facility’s nuclear blast-proof and airtight concrete doors had swung to, sealing off the world outside.
The corporal looked round the hangar floor. ‘What’s all these holo-lines and displays for? This some kind of inoculation for that Korean virus or something? That it? This a cure?’
‘We’re leaving,’ said Rashim.
‘Leaving?’ He wiped sweat off his top lip. ‘What? How? Leaving … what’re you talking about?’
Rashim could see a name on his pocket: North. ‘We’re all going into the past, Corporal North.’
‘The past? What … er … what’s that? You just say
past
?’ He took a step closer to Rashim, an army boot stepping across the line of his grid square. A soft warning chimed across the PA system. The calm, synthetic female voice of the launch computer system. ‘Proximity warning, grid number 327. Please remain inside your location markers.’
‘You need to step back,’ said Rashim, pointing down at his boot. ‘You need to be in your grid.’
North looked down. Did as he was told. ‘Did you just say … the past? Like –?’
‘Yup. Like back-in-time past.’
The man swore. ‘You telling me this … this is some sort of time machine? But that’s … that’s –’
‘A direct violation of international law. Yes, I know.’ Rashim pointed at the glowing holo-projected line hovering an inch above the concrete floor. ‘You should try and remain calm. And at all times, until we have safely
translated
, you must remain within your grid square. Is that clear?’
Corporal North looked at the square of light on the floor around him. ‘Or what?’
‘Or whatever’s hanging over the line isn’t coming with you.’
‘Jesus!’
‘That or it ends up stuck in the middle of the poor guy in the next square. Just stay still.’
‘No one told me nothing. They just grabbed me and a bunch of others out of the compound
CHAPTER 12
2070, Project Exodus, Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado Springs
Rashim took his space on the translation grid, a yard square, as it was for every other personnel slot. Enough of a safety margin to ensure no one became ‘merged’ during the journey. Of course nothing was certain. Rashim knew that better than anyone else standing on the hangar floor. The laws of physics and its predictability had a way of breaking down in extra-dimensional space, or
chaos space
as the enigmatic Roald Waldstein had once named it.
There was no knowing if any of them were going to survive this. Worse still, with his estimates of the total mass being translated – his precious mass index – now being more a thumb-in-the-air approximation than a precise figure, they could quite possibly overshoot or undershoot the receiver station. Or – Jesus … it didn’t bear thinking about – they might never even emerge from extra-dimensional space.
Dr Yatsushita’s voice echoed across over the hangar’s PA system announcing the ten-minute warning.
‘Excuse me … no one’s told me anything about what’s going on.’
Rashim turned to look at a man standing in the floor grid beside him. The floating holographic data block floating abovethe ground said he was Professor Elsa Korpinkski: Physicist. Clearly he wasn’t her.
‘Excuse me, sir! You know what’s happening? What’s gonna happen in ten minutes?’
The man was wearing olive fatigues – an army corporal by the chevron on his arm. He was one of the last-minute ‘volunteers’ they’d rounded up as they’d sealed and locked down the facility. Effectively
ballast
, that’s what these last-minute personnel were – equivalent mass for the many empty grid spaces of those candidates who’d failed to make it to the facility in time.
Although Kosong-ni virus blooms had already been spotted in Denver, and a dozen miles further south in Castle Rock – perilously close given the blooms were airborne – they’d hung on until Vice-president Greg Stilson and his wife had arrived by gyrocopter before the facility’s nuclear blast-proof and airtight concrete doors had swung to, sealing off the world outside.
The corporal looked round the hangar floor. ‘What’s all these holo-lines and displays for? This some kind of inoculation for that Korean virus or something? That it? This a cure?’
‘We’re leaving,’ said Rashim.
‘Leaving?’ He wiped sweat off his top lip. ‘What? How? Leaving … what’re you talking about?’
Rashim could see a name on his pocket: North. ‘We’re all going into the past, Corporal North.’
‘The past? What … er … what’s that? You just say
past
?’ He took a step closer to Rashim, an army boot stepping across the line of his grid square. A soft warning chimed across the PA system. The calm, synthetic female voice of the launch computer system. ‘Proximity warning, grid number 327. Please remain inside your location markers.’
‘You need to step back,’ said Rashim, pointing down at his boot. ‘You need to be in your grid.’
North looked down. Did as he was told. ‘Did you just say … the past? Like –?’
‘Yup. Like back-in-time past.’
The man swore. ‘You telling me this … this is some sort of time machine? But that’s … that’s –’
‘A direct violation of international law. Yes, I know.’ Rashim pointed at the glowing holo-projected line hovering an inch above the concrete floor. ‘You should try and remain calm. And at all times, until we have safely
translated
, you must remain within your grid square. Is that clear?’
Corporal North looked at the square of light on the floor around him. ‘Or what?’
‘Or whatever’s hanging over the line isn’t coming with you.’
‘Jesus!’
‘That or it ends up stuck in the middle of the poor guy in the next square. Just stay still.’
‘No one told me nothing. They just grabbed me and a bunch of others out of the compound
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