New Pompeii (7 page)

Then he noticed the obvious.

The glass in the front door was broken. Nick stared at it. The top section was made up of glass panels – four rows of three. But one of them was missing. The one right next to the lock.

Nick slipped his hand through the hole and flicked the Yale catch, pushing through the door into the small entry hall. He noted there was no glass on the floor, which meant the break wasn’t fresh. Typical. It looked like someone had decided to make it easier for visitors to get in without disturbing the rest of the occupants – maybe the fat guy in the basement – or perhaps there’d been a break-in and the landlord hadn’t yet got round to making a repair. Whatever the answer, he’d get the full story from Ronnie. If he got the opportunity to ask him anything before he was berated about NovusPart, or whatever else was playing on his friend’s mind.

Be here now. Urgent.

Nick headed upstairs and rapped on Ronnie’s door. It swung open.

“Ronnie?”

Nick stepped inside and tapped on the bedroom door. He heard only the barest sound of movement in response. “Come on, Ronnie. We need to talk.”

More noise from the bedroom. Nick sighed. Back when they’d lived together as students, Ronnie had developed a habit of leaving doors unlocked. At the time it had seemed harmless. But now it just seemed stupid, especially given the damage to the front door. Then again, and as Ronnie had so eloquently put it, “If you have fuck all to steal, it’s better to let them know.”

Nick knocked again, then moved deeper into the flat. The lounge smelt of stale cigarettes and beer. He made his way through the piles of clutter to the sofa, and then settled down to wait for his friend to surface. A few newspapers were pushed up against the armrest, and he noticed the top copy had an article ringed in thick, red marker. Another report of a missing child.

Ignoring it, Nick pulled out his phone and checked his email. The previous night, he’d started writing his acceptance letter. In all likelihood, he was going to join Novus Particles.

But he still hadn’t sent it. And something Ronnie had said to him at the café continued to niggle him.
McMahon must want you for something
. He let out a frustrated sigh. Why did they want him though? There were plenty of academics who had spent their whole careers researching Pompeii. He was a nobody. Why on earth did such a powerful company care about him? He wasn’t going to find out without accepting the offer. But did he want to know?

Yes.

Yes, of course he did. Just like he wanted to get to their version of Pompeii.

Nick rubbed his temples. A six-week trial. Just over a month of guaranteed work to balance against the offer from Drockley to extend his
quasi
-contract followed by a good chance of a proper research post. If he looked at the situation logically, then there was no way he’d go. But all he needed to do was press “send” and, when he next met McMahon and Whelan, his
Who’s Where
page would be trending for months.

And he’d never hear the end of it from Ronnie or his father.

Nick frowned.
Who’s Where
. Saving his email back into “drafts”, he brought up a browser page and searched for his own link. It didn’t take long to find: it was still trending nearly two days after his meeting with the men from Novus Particles.

Who?
Nick Houghton. (Falconbrook University.) [More]
Where Been?
University Park, Sunbeam Café. With
Ronnie Saunders
.
Met with
Harold McMahon
and
Mark Whelan
at Bellotoni’s Restaurant.
Where Now?
46 Westburn Avenue, London.

Nick followed the link to his father’s page. It was still a stub, but it told the ugly truth of his disgrace in just a few simple words:
Found to have plagiarised the works of several Chinese academics
. That was how his father had written so many papers in such a short space of time. All summarised in a single sentence. No one had bothered to update his entry. Which was unsurprising. Given his father had disappeared off the academic radar, there was no reason to suspect he’d make any waves in the virtual world now.

Nick switched over to McMahon and Whelan’s
Who’s Where
pages. His meeting with them was already way down their list of engagements. However, no one seemed to know where they were at the moment, and several flags had been raised asking people to keep a lookout.

Losing interest, Nick skipped back and refocused his attention on his own log. It gave his current location: 46 Westburn Avenue, London.

His page was telling people he was at Ronnie’s.

Instinctively, Nick glanced around him. His friend hadn’t appeared from his bedroom. He took a few steps to the window, but the street outside remained deserted. He glanced back down at his phone – and flinched at the sound of an incoming call.

“Hello?”

“Nick?”

“Yes.”

“Mark Whelan.” His voice was firm and confident. “You’ve made a decision?”

Nick hesitated. NovusPart. He turned to the lounge door, half expecting to see Ronnie staring back at him. “Yes… I mean, not yet. Not quite.”

“We’ll need an answer soon.”

Nick tried to keep his voice quiet. “It’s a big step.”

“So you’ve had time to think about it?”

“Yes. But you’re asking me to give up a full-time post.”

“I once heard a footballer say he’d give up his entire career for one game at Wembley.”

“Yes, but…”

“What exactly is your role at Falconbrook anyway?” asked Whelan. “It seems you’re caught in some form of academic limbo? Sustained by your father?”

“I—”

Whelan cut him off. “It doesn’t matter. Where are you?”

Nick glanced at the bedroom door. “At a friend’s.”

“If you’d prefer to talk later…”

“No.” Nick got to his feet and checked the bedroom door. It remained shut. He closed the door to the lounge, and kept his voice low. “I want to talk now.”

“Very well,” said Whelan.

“I need to know why you’ve done this. Why Pompeii?”

“I thought we’d explained…”

“You called it a pro bono spin-off. But sorry, I don’t buy that.”

Whelan gave a slight chuckle. “Glad to see you’re not naïve, Mr Houghton. And you’re right; we do intend to turn a profit on the venture. A substantial one.”

Nick felt his shoulders slump. “It’s a tourist attraction, isn’t it?”

“No,” said Whelan, his voice suddenly losing its humour. “That much I can promise you. The site will be closed to the public – and for good reason. But you can imagine, I think, the value at which we could retail a bottle of genuine Roman wine? Or a fresco? Or some jewelled metalwork? And that’s before you start thinking about the television revenues…”

Nick already knew what was coming next. “Gladiators?”

“They are part of the picture, certainly,” replied Whelan. “But fights won’t be the only attraction.”

In truth, it didn’t come as much of a surprise. He had no doubt that people would watch. And at least Whelan had given him a direct answer – not evaded the truth like some corporate automaton. But perhaps there was something that NovusPart hadn’t considered. “I’m not sure you’ll be getting what you expect,” he said. “Gladiators were highly trained and very valuable – fights weren’t often to the death.”

“Well good,” replied Whelan, “because we don’t have an endless supply. And, as I said, they won’t be the only attraction. But the real question is this: do you want to live among the people you’ve studied your whole adult life? Or do you want to have your nose in a textbook while our project makes your endeavours redundant?”

Nick gripped the phone tighter. “I want to say yes.”

“And the only things stopping you from saying ‘yes’ are your father… and the matter of working for Novus Particles.”

Nick felt himself falter. NovusPart. He thought about the small protest at the restaurant. He thought about his father. “They’re not minor issues.”

“No one’s saying they are.”

Nick looked down at the sofa. He saw the thick red mark surrounding the newspaper article and immediately knew there was another question he needed to ask before committing. And it all revolved around Whelan’s “due diligence”, and Ronnie’s insistence that people were going missing. “My mother died when I was ten.”

“I thought you said you didn’t go in for conspiracy theories.”

“She was in King’s Cross when the terrorists attacked it. No bodies were ever found.” Nick paused. Swallowed. “I just want to know.”

“That was twelve years ago, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m not sure how I can answer you. We can’t transport objects or people in the last thirty years. We’ve been pretty transparent with everyone on that issue, even if some people don’t believe us. Near-past transports are inherently risky. The odds of survival, pretty mediocre. We can’t even grab particles from those sorts of horizons.”

“I just needed to ask before I made my decision.”

“I didn’t mean to be insensitive,” continued Whelan. “But there are lots of incidents like the one that killed your mother every year. Lots of accidents in which bodies are never found.”

“I know,” said Nick, again. “But if she was transported…”

“Then we wouldn’t know about it until a few years down the line.”

“But could you rescue her? If you wanted to?”

Whelan paused. “Do you know how many requests we get from people who want us to save their relatives? Do you think we would be able to save them all?”

“No.”

“Good. Because despite what the crackpots might tell you, people only have one chance to live. Which is a good thing, Nick, because the world doesn’t have the resources to provide for two. And it would be cruel, wouldn’t it? To be zapped into the future, only to find your baby boy a full-grown man? Maybe it would be different if we could reach back a few hours. But thirty years? Isn’t that too much for people to pick up where they’d left off? Didn’t Flight 391 prove that? Isn’t that why we’ve gone to such lengths to create our Roman bubble?”

Nick suddenly felt a lump in his throat. It made it difficult to swallow, or speak. “Yes.”

“So, this opportunity of a lifetime we’re offering you: what are you going to say?”

It was time. And he had his answer ready. He took a deep breath. Tried not to think of what his father would say. “I’m in.”

“Good. We’ll be in touch.”

The phone went dead. Nick continued to hold the phone as if Whelan might call back. Finally he headed for the hallway. “Ronnie!”

No answer. He rapped on the bedroom door, then pushed it open.

The room was empty. The bedcovers were thrown back, the mattress and pillows still showing the impression of a sleeping form. Nick looked about, confused. A cup of coffee sat steaming on the bedside cabinet.

Which meant he hadn’t been gone long.

Nick hurried out of the flat and moved down the steps at speed. How much of his conversation with Whelan had Ronnie overheard?

When he opened the front door, he realised he’d made a mistake. There was a man waiting on the pavement. No, there were three. And Ronnie wasn’t among them.

The man in the centre of the group spoke first. “Mr Houghton,” he said. “We’d like a word.”

“C
HICKEN OR FISH?
”

Nick couldn’t help but be disappointed by the question. For one thing, it didn’t fit with the plush interior of the private jet. The stewardess smiled amiably and waited for his answer. If he’d been on a commercial flight, her eyes would have already been filled with impatience but, given how few people were on board, she probably had more than enough time to deal with indecisive passengers.

“Just water,” said Nick, feeling his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He’d forgotten how much he hated flying. The drone of the engines and the dry atmosphere of the cabin always seemed to give him a headache. He could feel a new one starting to drill into his temples, and it hadn’t been helped by the requirement to give a blood sample before they’d taken off.

He rubbed at the crook of his arm. “How long until we land?”

“Not long now, sir.” It was the same answer he’d been given half an hour ago; the same vagueness with which she’d answered his question about where they were heading. He let his head fall back into the soft beige leather of his seat.

Six weeks. He’d potentially given everything up for just six weeks of gainful employment. Nick rapped his fingers gently against the armrest. The throbbing in his temples seemed to turn up a notch as he went back over the last argument he’d had with his father. After all, if it all went wrong, he’d have to crawl back home. And hope everything else fell into place rather than smashing to the ground.

Six weeks. Nick massaged the back of his neck, trying to loosen the muscles in his shoulders. No, all things considered, he needed to make this move permanent. Whatever he found when the plane landed, he needed to impress McMahon. Needed to impress Whelan.

Not that either of the two NovusPart bosses were travelling with him. He glanced around, casting his eye over the four other passengers: two men, a woman and a small child. Most of the seats – about twenty in total – were empty. The aircraft wasn’t laid out as generously as he’d seen in some magazines, but it was clearly expensive. About a third the size of a jumbo, the interior had a single column of seats running down each wall. They were more like easy chairs than normal airline seats.

“Put that down!”

Nick glanced over his shoulder. The woman and child were sitting in the rear of the cabin. From the sound of it, the boy’s patience with the flight had finally run out. He was maybe eight or so, and had been remarkably quiet up until this point. The woman – probably his mother – looked to be in her late thirties. She was thin, almost gaunt. Her blonde hair was tied back into a tight bun, perhaps in an effort to keep herself looking young.

Nick turned back towards the front of the plane. The two men flying with them looked like NovusPart security. Both were thick-set, and hadn’t moved since they’d sat down.

“Sir?”

The stewardess had returned with his water. It was in a short, thick-rimmed glass more suited to holding liquor than anything softer. A couple of pills were set down beside it. Nick took them to be another round of antibiotics. The third since he’d been picked up from home. A quick flush of his system, they’d said, while they checked his blood sample. Which was all fine, given the risks involved. He swallowed the pills with a quick gulp, turned back to the window and looked down over the sea.