Saskia flexed her shoulders. The suit was tight. It pushed her arms back and her chest out. The legs felt like orthopaedic stockings. There were reinforced pads at the knees and elbows. Something called a hard hood was stowed in the collar. Along her left forearm was a computer display. It showed a schematic of the West Lothian Centre. On her shoulder was a satellite transceiver. There were no Galileo satellites in 2003, so it would piggyback the American military’s Global Positioning System.
David tightened the strap around her waist. ‘Owah,’ Saskia said.
‘Sorry.’ He patted the clasp and it melted to a flush finish. ‘One more thing. The red button on your sleeve will lower the refractive index of the suit to zero.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘The suit will become almost invisible. You’ll look like a clear plastic bag filled with water. Treat it like instant camouflage. The suit was designed to protect and conceal pilots behind enemy lines.’
‘I see.’
‘One small step for a woman, eh?’
‘I don’t understand.’
David lost his smile. ‘My wife is in that research centre. Was. She died in the bombing.’
‘You want me to give her a message.’
‘No. I just want you to make sure you don’t die too.’
Saskia put a gloved hand to his cheek. ‘David, you could shoot me right now and the bullet will miss. There is an effect whose cause I must supply, remember?’
‘Hurry,’ said Jennifer. She indicated a monitor. ‘Personnel are returning.’
Saskia looked from one to the other. Jennifer had David’s mouth, but it was harder for her to smile. Saskia considered asking them, as a favour to her, to stay together, but it was a decision they had to make for themselves. ‘Auf Wiedersehen, meine Freunden,’ was all she could say.
‘Wait,’ David said. ‘I almost forgot.’ He passed her a pink sheet. It held a child’s crayon drawing of a house. Inside were a stick mother and father. Between them, a girl. ‘When my house in Oxford burned, I risked my life to take this off the fridge. I guess it’s a key to…memories. What we used to be.’ David looked at his daughter. ‘I was going to return it to Jennifer, but you’ll need it, Saskia.’
‘For what?’
‘The number on the back, TS4415, is a hijack trip-code used by the Lothian and Borders Police Service. It’s difficult to explain, but you’ll need to give it to me during my rescue from the West Lothian Centre.’
‘I hope I don’t forget.’ Saskia unzipped the map pocket on her thigh and pushed the paper inside. ‘You’re talking about something that is twenty years ahead of me.’
‘So you’ve got twenty years to remember. Easy.’
Jennifer shouted, ‘Hurry, Saskia.’
She waved and left the control room. As she jogged down the runway, she heard the raised voices of personnel. She began to sprint. She slipped through a gap between the baffles and skipped up the steps to the gondola. It rocked as she clambered inside. The door closed automatically.
She heard Jennifer’s voice in her ear. ‘Saskia?’
‘Go,’ she replied. The motor of the centrifuge wailed like a jet. The gondola lurched forward and she fell onto the watery acceleration couch. Through tiny windows, she watched the world tilt. She tapped her wrist computer and the hard hood closed over her head. Its arch-like sections blended to form a seamless, transparent bowl. The motor noise muted.
‘Whatever you do,’ said Jennifer, ‘don’t turn your head to either side or you’ll be sick. You’re at two gees. Still reading me?’
‘Reading you, yes.’ Her jaw ached and her cheeks felt baggy. Her head pressed against the hood.
‘Three gees,’ David said. ‘Remember, when you land, put your feet together and roll.’
‘Reading you.’
She struggled to take a full breath.
‘Four gees.’
‘Still reading you.’
Her vision began to lose colour. The ceiling of the gondola blurred.
‘Saskia,’ said Jennifer. ‘I’m sending you back one half hour before Hartfield. That will give you the best chance of intercepting him.’
‘Rea’ing you.’
David’s voice: ‘My God, Jenny. Look at the time. That’s…’
Chapter Thirty-Six
It was a disappointingly mechanical affair. A hatch opened in the bottom of the gondola and she tumbled into a bright, cold sky. She opened her arms and legs to form an ‘H’ as David had described. Webbing stretched between her elbows and her chest.
The tumbling stopped. She was still falling, but more slowly. There was a Heads-Up Display on the inner rim of the helmet. The text read:
Attempting to contact GPS… stand by.
Without the Global Positioning System, she could miss her landing by hundreds of metres.
Saskia looked down. The Earth was rising.
New text:
Contacted. Acquiring locks… stand by.
The ground seemed to expand. The horizon flattened.
Locks acquired.
The display marked her drop-zone with a green circle. A ghostly figure representing her body overlapped with a solid figure. She tilted until the two aligned.
The parachute opened and she was jerked skyward. Sudden calm. She aimed for the green circle but the drop-down cords were difficult to use. As she pulled right, she banked steeply and swung towards the ground. She had barely enough height to curse the design of the parachute before her boots hit Scotland. Remembering David’s instructions, she held her feet together and rolled to one side. After the silence of the slow parachute descent, her impact was as startling as a gunshot.
She detached her parachute, gathered it, and switched off her hood. She had landed in the valley on the south side of the research centre. The young David Proctor and his colleagues were working directly beneath her.
Help was twenty years away.
If Jennifer had been correct in her calculations, Hartfield would arrive at the centre in twenty minutes. Saskia fantasised that she would hide nearby, tackle him, and destroy his notes on the nanotechnology, thus creating the future she knew. But she also knew that she was destined to write a message for her future self, place it under a rock outside Proctor’s laboratory, and paint a prophecy on the wall.
So the guards came. She smiled. They ignored her German apologies.
They led her downhill towards the river and up again, past the tennis courts, until they arrived at the hotel entrance. An unarmed guard walked alongside her while three others walked ten paces behind. There were no blind spots. Again, she felt the gravel crunch under her feet. Again, she smelled the pine. The hotel loomed.
She passed the fountain with its stone Prometheus. She imagined him chained to a rock and tormented by the hawk sent from Zeus, but the thought was the key to a room that was long unlocked.
They entered the lobby. It still had twinned staircases that rose like the edges of a cobra’s hood, and brown and black tiles. Her boots were silent as she approached the desk. The man behind it was had grey-black hair, bleached eyes and a heavy moustache.
‘Can I help you, miss?’
McWhirter.
She faltered. Why hadn’t he recognised her in 2023? Then she remembered. She had worn glasses. Now she beamed at him. ‘Ja, ja. Ich weiss nicht, wo ich bin. I am…lost. Understand?’
He twitched. ‘You’re German.’
‘Ja. Genau.’
‘My name is Harrison McWhirter. I’m in charge of the hotel.’ To the guards, he said, ‘Back to your duties.’ They fell away. The foyer was soon empty but for herself and McWhirter. She shook his hand.