Three hours later we were hidden in the cargo hold of the huge container ship Spirit of Fishguard. It wasn’t the fastest way back to Wales but Gwen assured me it was the safest. The Consortium would be watching all known gates and airports – we didn’t want a run-in with Finch’s employers. I got the distinct impression they made our friends back in Jacksonville look like boy scouts in comparison.
Gwen had used this method of travel before. After reaching one of her contacts at the docks we were ushered into a dingy back room and introduced to the laconic captain. A big wad of money changed hands. It was made clear we were stowaways, strictly off book, and told to stay out of the way of the crew. Half of them were robots anyway. A short time later we were spirited aboard the vast ship lying at anchor in the harbour. Just another consignment lost amidst the rows of steel shipping crates filled with industrial components and spent J-Drives heading home for recycling.
With the esoteric power sources driving the vessel the crossing could be made in well under a week. Not ideal, but it gave us time to think and plan our next move. Gwen took the opportunity to catch up with her fitness regime. The rest of the time she was lost in thought – some thorny problem playing on her mind. On our third day out I had more practical concerns on mine.
‘Do you want the last enchilada?’
She pushed her plate towards mine. The food wasn’t great, but it was hot and there was plenty of it. Our meals were left near our hiding place, the only sign we saw of the ship’s tiny crew.
‘So I guess this means you’re done with the Consortium. Who the hell were those guys, anyway?’
Gwen looked glum; it didn’t suit her delicate features. ‘Not the sort of people you’d want to cross in a hurry – powerful people. This won’t be great for my career prospects. We can assume I’m off their Christmas list. The global deep state doesn’t forget a slight in a hurry.’
I did my best to sound sympathetic. ‘I feel bad for you. What did they want with me anyway?’
Gwen lay back and stared up at the cavernous ceiling far above. ‘In your world, what happened? I don’t mean the grand sweep of history – I mean, what happened to you and your family?’
That was an easy one. ‘I won’t lie to you: not very much if I’m honest. My relatives are small-time crooks, for the most part. I did five and a half terms at Telford Art School before heading home to look after my mum. We hardly set the world on fire. Maybe in time one of Uncle Genghis’s schemes could have –’
Gwen waved me into silence. ‘Exactly my point. While in this world your rellies run the greatest corporation known to man; transforming the lives of billions, saving mankind from an environment-wrecking fixation with fossil fuels, reaping untold profits in the process. What’s the difference between these two worlds, apart from that trifling detail?’
I struggled to come up with an answer. Instead settling for letting rip with a heroic enchilada burp.
‘It’s you, Kev.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. Here, Kevin Gwydion Jones was never born, never to darken this dusty Earth with his shadow; never to graduate from Telford Art School. Isaiah never had any children. Neither you nor your mam ever existed.’
‘It was five and a half terms, and I didn’t technically graduate, but I still don’t get your point.’
Gwen sighed. ‘There’s something about your existence which stops the Jones Corporation becoming the global juggernaut it is in this here and now; something which stops Wales’s ascent to its position as global hegemon.’
‘Hold on a sec. It’s funny you mention Mum – I’ve not seen her for a few days. You don’t think…?’
‘In my line of work it’s best not to speculate. Who runs your world, Kevin? Who calls the shots?’
I thought for a moment. ‘Some say it’s the corporations or global bankers, maybe the Illuminati. I guess the Americans and Chinese still hold some sway.’
‘Don’t you think those same people in this world want to know what went wrong? How a bunch of rain-soaked sheep worriers wound up running the planet. We’re just learning how to move between worlds using gate technology. Every single reality downstream of your date of birth, apart from the one where your mam actually pops you out, ends with Wales as the dominant superpower. It’s a deterministic multiverse trend which seems inevitable, like death and taxes, but in a shawl and funny hat.’
‘Wait, what – there’s more than two worlds?’
She looked at me as if I was a bit twp, a fair reflection of how I was feeling. ‘Of course there is. Think about it – if there’s more than one universe there’s bound to be –’
‘Five or six?’
‘Don’t be daft. There’re untold millions. Billions. They’re finding more every day. Some ahead of us in time, some behind. Why do you think they call it the Multiverse?’
I got that sinking feeling again. Talking to Gwen could do that to a guy.
She went on, ‘So far the only world anyone’s discovered where Wales does not end up dominating is the one you come from. The one where you exist. Don’t you think the CIA, KGB, both Popes, Google, Standard Oil, Big Pharma, Grand Duke Henri of Luxembourg-and-all would want to understand why? Of course they would – of course they do. Kevin, you’re the key.’
No matter how much blinking I did it didn’t seem to make things any clearer. ‘So that’s what the Consortium is – a syndicate of shitheads?’
She nodded. ‘Plus a few others. The Scientologists never like to be left out. Together they believe they can weaponize your existence. Maybe not fix this world, but help alter the others we’re finding every day. These lovely chaps think on a bigger scale than you or I.’
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Blubbering a bit, I tried to take it all in. ‘But if it’s already happened here, what good will having me do them?’
Gwen lined up our cutlery in four neat parallel lines, then pushed one knife an inch ahead of the rest, moved a fork back a smidge. ‘All worlds are parallel, right – but they’re not temporally in phase.’
‘I think I might have gone temporarily insane. Please explain.’
‘Time moves on a consistent vector, but out of sync in each reality. When we jump between worlds it doesn’t stay the same date, not even the same year. We keep finding major differences.’
‘I think I need a stiff drink. Just not one of those leek monstrosities.’
‘Explorers have gone through gates that lead back to 1492, but it’s not our 1492 – torpedoing Columbus doesn’t do any good. Looks like time travel, but it’s not. They’re just altering a non-synchronous parallel universe. Simples.’
‘And they know this how?’ I had to admire Gwen’s patience.
She spoke slowly. ‘When they come back, everything’s the same here. They’ve just altered the destiny of some other world.’
I thought back to every time travel book or film I’d consumed. ‘That’s good, because I’m guessing if you changed your own past it wouldn’t be pretty.’
My companion’s face darkened. ‘What’s known as a paradox. Not something you’d want to mess with.’
I was on more familiar ground here. ‘Yeah, cos if you handed your grandfather a rubber johnny you’d wink out of existence, right? That’s a bad day at the office.’
Gwen shook her head. ‘I’m afraid it’s worse than that. Current theory predicts any sort of entropy inversion, however minor, would fold space-time in on itself, triggering the heat death of the local universe. The stars would turn black in a shockwave of destruction rippling out through your galaxy and beyond. Messy doesn’t begin to cover it.’
I think Gwen was a little concerned at my sudden change of complexion. She brightened. ‘But don’t worry, sport – paradoxes are not possible. All the boffins anyone pays attention to agree. Our past always stays the same because if you mess with one of those other streams you’re just messing with an alternate universe. Time travel is not possible. Any other outcome wouldn’t make sense. Capisce?’
From where I stood none of this made much sense. ‘So let me get this straight – The Consortium wants me to give them a detailed breakdown of my life story? For clues and whatnot.’
Gwen grimaced again. ‘Nothing so benign. I imagine enhanced interrogation and deep hypnosis play a big part in their plans. How do you feel about large needles full of Sodium Pentothal? You wouldn’t come out the other side in one piece. Not that they’d care. You’re just a source of data to them.’ She rapped me on the skull with a knuckle, a little too hard.
It might have been in slow motion but the penny was finally dropping. ‘And these are the good guys, the ones who want to rescue me?’
‘They’re the ones who don’t want you dead – at least not right away. There’s some ugly fish at the bottom-most depths of the deep state ocean – ugly horrors that never see the light of day. Angler fish in suits and ties.’ She shuddered.
Bravely I made a supreme effort to regain control of my breathing. ‘So this other faction, the ones actually trying to kill me – we’ve still got those jokers on our tail?’
Gwen nodded. ‘I believe pro-Welsh forces – perhaps the Gorsedd, maybe J-Corp itself – want to thwart the Consortium. Easiest method is for you to end up with a thoroughly ventilated head. Llywsiffer Pendragon has put a fatwah on your head. Your existence is an embarrassment to too many people.’
If only this was the first time I’d heard those words spoken. I began to appreciate the sacrifice Gwen was making on my behalf – this wasn’t her fight. ‘So now we’ve got this world’s most deranged power-brokers hunting us down, and their rivals trying to wipe us out to boot? We’re not doing things by half.’
Gwen looked as sick as I felt. ‘That’s about the long and the short, sport – yep.’
There was a long, glum silence. Weirdly there was one small detail in this volcanic eruption of woe that troubled me more than most.
‘Everyone says you’re such a professional – why didn’t you hand me over? You could have been counting your fee right now.’
My companion got a faraway look in her eye. ‘That’s a story for another day.’
I knew not to push it when she got that glint in her eye. Perhaps best to change the subject. ‘So what are we going to do when we get to Wales? We stand no chance. Best to put me out of my misery now.’
Gwen reached out and squeezed my hand. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not over yet, kiddo. You’ve got me on your side now – we outnumber them.’
For a moment I could almost believe her, then the ship’s deck rolled beneath us on a mighty Atlantic swell and the spell was broken. Something flickered deep in Gwen’s eyes and she looked away. She sprang to her feet and went for another run around deck. I went to sleep and tried not to think about elite corporate hit squads and large needles full of truth serum.
* * * * *
The next day I wasn’t feeling any better. I’d spent an exhausting night tossing in my sleeping bag, dreaming about parallel universes and mad druids bent on my destruction. The floor had been as cold and hard as a sacrificial altar. I awoke with a scream on my lips and an icy sweat clinging to my body like a shroud. My nightmare’s parting shot was the image of a ceremonial sickle plunging towards my waiting chest. Not the best way to start the day.
I rubbed my eyes and wiped the dribble from my chin. Gwen was fiddling with one of the video screens mounted around the cavernous compartment; she’d told me they were used for relaying messages to the crew. With some tinkering she managed to switch it to a satellite news channel. Was there no end to her talents? President Barry Island was giving a major speech as part of his re-election campaign. It seemed to be a cry for national unity.
‘… No man is an island, and as we all know, Barry Island isn’t one either. And neither is a Nation…’
Gwen snorted; she didn’t seem impressed. ‘What about Fiji?’
‘… We must never forget the fine principles for which this great Republic stands.’
‘Good luck with that. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity and Profit.’
‘Let us ask, not what this country can do to them, but what our enemies can do to us… if they stop squabbling and get their act together…’
Gwen shook her head. ‘Bless him, but he’s more Bill Clinton than John Kennedy.’
‘We all know world opinion looks unfavourably on our regrettable police action in Patagonia. That’s why I stand before you today, to promise to bring the boyos back home…’
‘Fair play to him, maybe he has balls of steel after all –’
Gwen’s commentary was cut short. Something small and fast fizzed across the screen. The camera trained on President Island was zoomed in from far away, so it was hard to get the bigger picture. A moment later the device was back – it looked like a small quad-copter drone. It plunged towards the stage, as the crowds in the front row scrambled for cover. A swarm of security personnel dived for the President, trying vainly to bundle him from harm’s way. With sickening inevitability the drone dissolved in a blinding flash. The screen filled with smoke and dust, there were screams and sound of panic. If the President had been trying to channel JFK this was taking it too far.
Gwen stood up and put her hands on her head. ‘Well, looks like the nutters finally got to him. All bets are off now.’
‘The nutters?’
‘Our friends in the Gorsedd. They don’t take kindly to talk of winding down the war in South America. That’s ethnic nationalism for you. One minute it’s all folk dancing and language revivals, the next it’s armoured divisions rolling across the pampas on a crusade for lebensraum – arse cancer for the human soul.’
Gwen got over the shocking news quicker than I did. She did some star jumps then went for another run around the deck. This was a girl who certainly liked jogging.