The Basingstoke Chronicles (18 page)

"For a time-traveler, history and the future exist within that same spin, each time within
the same reach. Think of a time machine as being at the center, able to speed or slow the spin at
will. Of course, it is not that simple, but in the crudest sense a time-traveler lassos his spoke and
reels it in. Ha! Remember, though, time is brought to the traveler, not he to it.

"Hmm...in that sense we are not time-travelers at all.

"There are mechanics underpinning the universe a thousand times greater than you
realize. For instance, the gaps in your logic and mathematics--any encounters with the
infinite--are the vital laws of opposition. Creation destroys and destruction creates. One day your scientists
will put these oxymorons into formulas hundreds of symbols long. What a long way you have to
go. What a slow and troubled way. Ha! But how wondrous the journey will be.

"Right, right, the time machine. I was among the last to linger in our cities beneath the
sea. The rest had moved on to explore the universe. Oh, there is no telling how far they will
reach. Those explorers! Those scientists! Those intellects! But I digress. I was a historian and did
not wish to leave my home. Oh, my family stayed with me, of course, but the cities were no
longer able to support human life. Therefore, we had a single choice--to escape through
time.

"Now, the time machines had been in service for many thousands of years, for scientific
purposes. How excited we were! I wanted to spend my final days above the waves, in a land
plentiful with life and possibilities.

"Apterona! O, flightless Apterona! The place where knowledge began. That is what we
called this land in my time. The word
apterous
means 'without wings'. What more
fulfilling prospect than to see out its final days, and watch its great fleet sail the crest of history.
Ah, what dreams I had before the forest took them. What fabulous dreams."

Abrasive at first, the old fellow's honesty had become oddly beguiling. There was
something pitiable in his lonely reminiscences. For one so superior to lose his family to such a
primitive forest I found quite moving. I wanted to tell him the whole story of our adventure, in
the hope that he might have a solution to our riddle. His eyes turned to mine, as though he knew
precisely how and when to engage me. Exactly how advanced his intellect was I could only
guess.

"Now tell me, Englishman," he said, "what fluke landed you at my door? A time
machine is capable of visiting any eon of the universe, yet your shadow sullies not only
Apterona, but another time-traveler's final days here. Hmm...the probability is ridiculous, unless
my time machine is the common link. Oh, I can deduce, Englishman, but I would rather you
explain it to me. Well?"

I gave a brief account of the finding of the time machine, excluding only the identity of
its occupant. A clever tactic. I felt it would be wiser to tell that to the old man in private, away
from Pacal Votan. After all, my very existence here depended on the native's timely escape and
death.

Naturally, the old man assumed it was he who would meet a fiery end and thus
precipitate the whole affair in 1979, as he was the only one who knew where
his
time
machine was hidden.

My plan was for him to solve my quandary with
his own
fate in mind. In truth, I
didn't have a clue what would happen to him. He might indeed meet a fiery end. "Now that I've
told you our story, and you can change the events, have I not put my existence in jeopardy?"

"Wicked presumption to carry around, that is. Wicked, but not necessary," he
replied.

"What do you mean?" interrupted Pacal, intrigued by the paradox.

"Ha! Well, we're still here, aren't we? What better answer is there than that. Hmm...
You're still clinging to that silly idea of a single time line. Ah, well, I gave you too much credit.
Never mind. Born a mudskipper, die a mudskipper. Hmm... Alpaca, have I not explained this to
you before? Obviously not.

"You will not cease to exist just because your future from this point is not the same
future you left. Time is made up as we go. It forms around us and the choices we make. We each
shape the universe. Nothing
depends
on another spoke in the wheel. You can change
whatever you like now, on this spoke, and not affect the future you left behind.
That
time has been imprinted already. The time machine can lasso it exactly as you left it. Infinite, I
say!

"You are not aware of time because its spokes are a blur beneath the hubcap, remember?
Good, good, now we are up to speed. But you must not forget that all past and future moments
co-exist side by side, like the spokes spinning from a centrifuge. Indeed, the universe ran its
course an incalculable time ago; we are simply living in its past.

"Think carefully on that, primitives. The time machine operates
outside
of time.
A million years ago is as a second ago with that perception. In basic terms, that is the secret of
time travel. Now, how well do you ride a horse?"

Rodrigo and I glanced at one another then at Pacal Votan, whose fascination with
science now made perfect sense. He had quite a teacher.

In trying to unravel these theories, my mind spun like the old man's car wheel. I realized
my pretentious theory on board the
Moncado
was indeed the extent of a primitive brain.
Even so, I still had a choice to make, a choice that might at least shape the future of everyone in
the room.

Whether or not to save Pacal Votan.

"I can ride," said Rodrigo.

"Me too," I affirmed.

"And you know I can," agreed Pacal.

The old time-traveler leapt out of his chair and scurried by us, one webbed hand
clutching a telescope, the other ruffling my hair as he passed.

"Well, then, come along," he said. "Come along or be fools here, it makes no difference
to me. Ha! Not you, Alpaca. You have a fleet to prepare. These two will not be far behind. Go
now, but be careful, and remember this. You will not be able to save everyone, and not everyone
will want to be saved. A pity."

The old man scurried out through the door in such a hurry that Pacal had no time to
respond. Rodrigo and I bade our young friend farewell. We then followed our eccentric host to
the stables. The three of us were soon galloping toward the eastern mist, away from Pacal Votan
and the looming tumult in the west, on the tallest, swiftest mares I have ever encountered.

Neither Rodrigo or I knew how much time we had left before the cataclysm. We should
have been fleeing Apterona, not delving further into her secrets. But my curiosity took the reins.
This
was why we had traveled through time. The grassy isthmus between flanking
forests slowly narrowed.

The old man broke ahead and slowed his horse to a canter on the edge of the mist. He
was an excellent rider, if a little unsightly as a derby jockey. I wished I had worn something more
suitable than a t-shirt, as the fog was both cold and damp. The temperature of western Apterona,
though, had rarely fallen below that of a cool breeze; I was simply caught off guard.

"Stay alert," said the old man.

"Where exactly are you leading us?" asked Rodrigo.

"Why, into the mist. I thought that was painfully obvious. Be ready to bolt at a moment's
notice. There's something of a migration afoot, in case you hadn't realized. East leaves for west,
just like the sun, so be ready to do likewise."

I wasn't entirely sure if he was speaking to us or his horses. I plumped for the latter. Ten
minutes or so passed at this slow pace. I could see nothing beyond a few meters in any direction.
The occasional howl or rustle kept me on tenterhooks, while only the rhythm of hooves on
churned earth seemed predictable. I was, quite literally, ready for anything.

The old man's horse suddenly reared and then settled, shaking its head. Our two steeds
immediately froze. I realized Rodrigo and I weren't riders on these beasts, merely passengers. We
dismounted at the old man's command, and followed him as he scurried into the mist.

Late afternoon diminished to an eerie half-light. Rodrigo was the first to point out a few
scattered rocks to our left. These increased in both number and size, until a smashed stone
column of staggering size lay parallel to our path. It took me by surprise. Though fractured--I
guessed by its collapse--it stretched a long way into the mist. Dry, grey moss covered its surface.
I scraped a layer into my hand and blew the particles into the air. The place was well and truly
dead.

Our path grew hazardous, clusters of brick and overgrown stone blocks reducing the
route to an assault course. The old time-traveler fared exceedingly well, even having to wait for
us to catch up. This was ever accompanied by the muttered phrase, "Old jackass? Old jackass?
Ha!"

My eyes fixed on the rubble and ruins about my feet, I scarcely noticed when the old
man stopped altogether. He perched atop a fallen archway across a narrow rivulet. He was
roughly the size of one of its bricks! Nonetheless, he stared ahead as though he were Alexander
beholding Babylon for the first time. Rodrigo and I collected our breaths after the brisk jog.

"My dear Einsteins," he began, "you have no idea where you rest. You really did travel
eleven thousand years in the dark. Ha! You are bold indeed. I suppose you deserve to see this,
after all. Einsteins, I give you the great civilization of Atlantis!"

So this was it, the famous empire of lore. I glanced around, tried to drum up a little
excitement, but there was still nothing much to see. My head dropped. The fog remained a wet
blanket over the whole show, and I felt deeply disappointed. Then Rodrigo remembered what the
villagers had told us about the forbidden valley to the east.

"Why is this off limits to the natives?" he asked the old man.

"Because the Kamachej says so. Hmm...let us walk a little further, and a big piece of
your puzzle should be revealed."

A further fifty yards saw us standing on the steps of a large temple. The mist obscured its
roof, but three magnificent upright columns remained intact. At one time green, burgeoning
creepers and twining vines, the vegetation which lined the surface of these columns now flaked to
the touch. The plants were little more than dry memories clinging to this ancient tomb.

Inside, the mist thinned to a pallid wisp, yet grew denser toward the ceiling.

"Rodrigo, what do you make of this fog?" I whispered. "It collects at the roof but stays
thin on the ground."

"It's definitely fog. But it might be something else as well," he replied. "Gas
fumes?"

Our footsteps crumpled dead leaves as we went. I tiptoed, alert, an interloper in the
long-lost history of this forgotten past. I wondered what magnificent sights might have existed in the
temple's heyday, in the very spot where I walked. Festivals, coronations, religious ceremonies,
even market bazaars. The exoticism of each boggled my mind.

A smaller building loomed ahead. It was an enclosure inside the enclosure--a miniature
temple in the centre of the hall itself. Dozens of columns supported its roof, spaced close
together. Inside this marble cage lay a peculiar grey shape, rather like a giant anvil covered with
eons of dust. My first thought was that a part of the roof had fallen at an unusual angle.

I soon realized how wrong I was.

The old man beckoned us over and wiped an arc in the dust with his sleeve. The glint
almost blinded us. Crystalline material similar to what had greeted us from the roof of his home,
the light shining through it struck my eyes like a camera flash, damn near scarring my retina.

"I'd forgotten how long it has been," he said. "The material stores its own heat and light
for when there is none. That discharge is its release after being covered for many decades, and
won't happen again, I assure you."

"What the hell is that thing?" snarled Rodrigo, rubbing the sting from his own eyes.

"Hmm...let me show you."

The object was roughly twenty-five feet long, eight feet across and seven feet high. Its
shape was neither sharply edged nor perfectly rounded. Neither an oblong nor a cylinder. An
extension protruded from the top of one end, rather like a swan's beak.

The old man traced his finger across the dust until he reached a spot a quarter way up the
left side. Clearing this area with his sleeve, he then pressed the tips of his fingers against the
crystal surface and sharply rotated his hand, anticlockwise. A section of the top began to lift.
Rodrigo and I stepped back. The nose slowly dipped toward the ground and, as the dust slid
away, we gained our first real view of the object.

Its interior appeared so ostentatious I took it for an elaborate sarcophagus. Nonsensical
black swirls and angular patterns adorned its inner panels. The most remarkable feature of these
was that no two lines intersected, or even touched--amazing, considering their complexity. I
thought back to the symbols on the time machine's panel.

It was some sort of craft. Elegantly designed, smooth metal, it left no clue as to its
method of propulsion.

"What say you to that? Hmm?" The old man chuckled, obviously pleased with
himself.

"Bizarre, yet...somehow familiar," said Rodrigo. "Is this another time machine?"

"Ha! Very predictable response, very predictable indeed. Come to think of it, that was
my first reaction, too. We are both logical, Rodrigo. I knew there was a reason I liked you.
Though I am by far the most logical person on Apterona."

"If you've quite finished," I said, "kindly tell us if he's right or not. Is it a time machine or
isn't it?"

The old time-traveler drew back his arm as if to throw something at me. But when he
saw his hand was empty, he quickly changed tack.

"Look more closely, mudskipper. Look inside, tell me yourself if Rodrigo is right.
Well?"

My heart jack-hammered as I climbed inside. It was the only way I could see properly,
and I felt sure it would rankle the old fool. But he didn't seem to mind. I even heard him chuckle
as I crouched on the cold metal floor.