

Ham Taylor: Lost in Time

J. P. Jackson

For Mo and Billy

Copyright© 2015. JP Jackson.

All rights reserved

— CHAPTER ONE —

New York City, New York: Oct. 10th 2045

His day began by opening a vein on his left wrist. The cut was good and deep enough. Blood dripped from his fingertips and a bitter wind over the Brooklyn Bridge forced the metallic scent up his nose. He pressed the butt of a blood stained cigarette between his lips and dangled his feet over the inky black East River.

After savouring a last lungful of tobacco and the sleepy sight of silhouetted skyscrapers, he knocked back a cocktail of opiates and alcohol, then waited for nature to take its course.

*

Battery Park Esplanade was the place for morning joggers and dog walkers. It was also the ideal location to take in views of the river, and of all the things caught in its current.

The Metropolitan Command Center (MCC) colloquially known as "Sky Eyes" should have spotted him and notified Waste Management, but these days it's artificial eyes and processing power were forever focused on the city's interior, and her 14 million disillusioned inhabitants.

An elderly lady in an ivory overcoat stood over her great dane as it squatted to shit. Although the park was quiet and pleasant enough, it was early still, so she peered over her shoulder as if wary of strangers.

"Come now, Franklin. There's a good boy."

While Franklin concluded his business, the woman reached into her handbag and removed a green pill the size of a shirt button. Franklin stepped aside, kicked his hind legs and licked his balls while the woman dropped the pill onto Franklin's smoky deposit.

"Home time."

The pill reacted with the excrement, reducing its chemical compounds to a popping green foam. Seconds later, any trace of waste was replaced by a small puddle of water and an artificial fragrance reminiscent of spring.

The woman cast another careful glance behind her and grew concerned by a rustling in nearby bushes. "Who's there? Come out!" She took a step back. "I warn you my dog is a killer! He'll...tear your fucking throat out!"

Franklin tugged on the leash and the woman lost her grip. She called out, but the dog sprinted towards the path curving alongside the river. The old woman hobbled after him and was relieved to spot three joggers on the path. At least she wasn't alone.

Franklin stopped to inhale the scent of piss on an iron fence bordering the path and the river. When the old woman reached him, she snatched his leash and beat him between the ears with her handbag. "You want me to get murdered by some damn red thumb?"

Franklin grovelled and after catching her breath, the nervous woman apologised. Securing the leash several times around her wrist, she noticed what appeared to be an upturned dinghy caught in the river. Scrutinizing the object further, she gasped.

"My God! Somebody...Help!"

A body was caught in the current, face down, arms and legs unmoving.

"There's a person in the river! Anyone!"

The joggers heard her panicked call and organised a prompt rescue. A young man descended the esplanade steps, threw off his shirt, kicked off his running shoes and plunged into the choppy water. Two men in spandex bunched up at the steps while their brave friend locked his bicep under the floater's chin. Working together, the men linked arms and pulled their human chain out of the river. They then laid the sodden stranger flat on the grass and collapsed beside him. He was around 6 feet tall with caramel coloured hair, receding at the temples. His eyes were sealed shut, his vacant body wrapped in weeds and soaked in sewage. He was between 40 and 50 years old, difficult to tell due to his ghostly skin and the narrow trenches traversing his forehead. While observing the man's condition, one of the rescuers tapped a finger against his own right temple. "Display!"

An interactive beacon of light glistened from the young man's contact holo-lens.

"Police!" he said, wiping his wet face while his eye scrolled down a list of emergency services. "Ambulance too."

"You are currently on the waiting list for police and ambulance dispatch," a chirpy computerized voice answered. "Estimated time of arrival is: 98 minutes. If you wish to advance your estimate, please upgrade your current emergency service package. In the meantime, hold for these important messages."

"Estimate is nearly two hours," said the young man, trying to ignore an advertisement playing over his field of vision.

"Mario Balsar has defined design for a generation," said a scantily clad young model. "This year, Mario has created a shoe for men and women that transcends both gender, and design!"

The sopping wet rescuer looked up at the gathering crowd. "Anybody have a better package?"

"Here," said the elderly woman, reaching out to him. The pair touched fingers and a pulse of light ran from her fingertips and past to his. A monetary transfer had been completed.

"Thank-you for choosing the NYC Emergency Dispatch," a voice droned in the man's display. "Estimated time of arrival is: 63 seconds. Your account has been charged for this transaction."

The weary jogger tapped a finger to his temple and the light retreated into his holo-lens. Spectators meanwhile were activating their own, snapping images and video of the still man on the grass. As they uploaded or live-streamed, most of the ghouls where startled when the dead man abruptly vomited back to life.

A fountain sludge was forced out of his mouth and nostrils. Turning onto his side, the man violently coughed until the breath returned to him. The onlookers, meanwhile, held theirs.

"You okay buddy?" chattered the hero jogger, rubbing a chill from his arms.

"You're alive!" the old woman rejoiced, crouching closer. "You cheated death son! You cheated the Grim Reaper!"

The drenched man, faculties returning, pushed Franklin's slobbering tongue from his face and sat up, examining his river-wrinkled palms and the clotted slash across his wrist.

"Fuck!" he growled in a thick Scottish accent. "Can't I do anythin' right?"

Dr. Hamilton Taylor fell back on the grass, cursing his luck as the ambulance arrived.

*

The Overnight Intensive Recovery Unit, New York Downtown Hospital

It was 3am and the only light in the Unit came from bleeping machines and a small TV mounted near a shaded window. Taylor tried to watch the movie but even John Wayne herding 600 head of beef from Texas to Missouri wasn't enough to distract him from himself.

He threw back the sheets, straightened out his hospital issue pyjamas then inspected the IV attached to his left hand. The line from his vein wasn't connected to a pole with hanging bags of fluid pharmaceuticals, but instead went directly into a Hippocrates medical unit. Taylor squinted, confused at how the hospital found the capital for top-of-the-line units like Hippocrates, and how on Earth he would pay for his involuntary use of it.

"Love this movie," said an elderly man on the opposite bed. "My Grandfather met the Duke once. Did you know he had no hair?"

The old man ran a frail hand through his thick silver side part. Taylor grinned before a pinging blue light brought his eye back to Hippocrates. The machine was an all-in-one diagnosis and treatment centre, a sleekly designed smart pod the length of your average man and attached to each bed in the Unit. It had x-ray capabilities, would prescribe appropriate drugs and promptly administer them. It could even perform cutting edge procedures such as advanced neurosurgery and if you had the credit, Regenerative Organ Agriculture (ROA). Hippocrates was a personal M.D., equipped with inoffensive lights and a soothing voice to promote tranquillity.

"You'd have shot him between the eyes!" blared a voice from the TV.

"Just as sure as you're standing there!" yelled a determined John Wayne.

Taylor's head was spinning so he was glad he was lying down, but far from pleased to be in a hospital. The scar across his throat was testament to the last time he was here, and he groaned at what awaited him in the morning. Come 9am the police would arrive to interrogate him. He would then pay the officers for their time before being charged for jumping off a perfectly good bridge - court date due in the mail. When the officers left he would be at the mercy of blunt foreign nurses and Porsha, a patronizing 21-year-old psychologist who hadn't lived a day in her life.

This was Taylor's third suicide attempt. The first time he'd put a gun to his ear and pulled the trigger. It exploded in his hand, embedding shrapnel in his neck and leaving him deaf for a week. The incident taught him never again to purchase a firearm from the internet. Taylor's second attempt was with a straight razor, but fortunately or unfortunately, the cut wasn't deep enough and his brother found him before he could bleed out. Last night he had hoped that a combination of methods would get the job done. Fate, it seems, had other plans, and saw fit to send Taylor a fearless jogger and a sharp eyed dog walker.

"Suicides," Porsha once told him, "were seized-upon moments of dark inspiration." These days, Hamilton Taylor spent a lot of time in the dark.

"Bah!" cried the old man, throwing the remote aside as commercials (only 50 credits to skip!) interrupted Red River.

Taylor glanced at a timer on the old man's headboard. Every bed had one. The more you pay, the longer you stay. The old man's timer was currently down to five minutes.

He caught Taylor looking and smiled. "I was hoping to see the end of the movie before they kicked me out, I know what happens...but still."

Taylor kept his mouth shut. With an hour left on his own clock, and no way to pay, he too would soon be on the receiving end of a boot.

On television, an interview with US President Chantel Cox played in a corner of the commercials. Cox was in her late thirties - pretty, privileged and polished, with an unprecedented public approval rating. In the interview with ICU News' Ron Bateman, the President discussed a recent controversy.

"We had the debate and the bill was passed" she said, smoothing creases from her dress. "The benefits far outweigh the downsides. We want to protect our children. We want to make sure they feel safe, and Ron, there is currently no better way of doing that than through the use of drones. I understand they have a bad reputation with educators but adjustments take time."

"Last month one went down in a school playground," Ron cautiously added. "Naughty boys throwing rocks, no doubt."

"No doubt." Cox smiled. "We are working on making these machines more child friendly by painting faces and adding pleasant voices. A work in progress. Trust us to care for you."

The courteous journalist nodded. "Final question Madam President. We've been inundated with questions regarding your bewitching shoes. Can you tell the folks at home where you bought them and where they can purchase their own?"

President Cox blushed and tittered. "They're Mario Balsar exclusives!" With a blinding smile, the President raised her foot to show off the emerald green high heels. "Americans at home can have them on a 6 month pre-order from Mario's personal site, and don't forget to add promo code POTUS, to get 5% off."

"Thank-you for your time, Madam President."

"LAUNCH SUCCESSFUL!" Flashed the following headline. The report detailed a joint Russian/American shuttle launch from Baikonur Cosmodrome, the world's largest space facility in Kazakhstan. The purpose of the launch, as reported by the anchor, was to shore up the International Space Station, now a floating museum recognising human achievement.

Taylor sat up on the bed, intrigued to see NASA and the Russians using the formerly decommissioned shuttle Endeavour for the mission, a piece of scrap once on display at the California Science Center.

"Fixing old junk with older junk," Taylor muttered, as John Wayne returned to shoot up the screen. "Bloody idiots."

While the Duke did his thing, Taylor noticed a numbing sensation in both hands. It continued up his arms and enveloped his chest, stabbing his torso with chilly pins and needles. Taylor's vision began to blur as he hopelessly fought against the anaesthetic.

"Hippocrates?" he said, facing his automated doctor.

"Yes?" the machine responded. "How can I assist you, Dr. Taylor?"

"What treatment have you initiated? I gave no consent to any operation!"

"Dr. Taylor your medical condition has been reviewed and an anaesthetic has been administered."

"For what purpose?" he yelled, his limbs and lower body paralysed.

Moments later his jaw sagged and tongue began to loll. As Hippocrates replied to his question, dark clouds gathered over Taylor's eyes and he found himself falling further and further from the answer.

*

Taylor ran a hand through his curly auburn hair and shared jokes with the jocks at the back of the bus. The vehicle was old and the atmosphere was dusty, sun blazed through the windows and those passengers not drinking peered at pamphlets and maps spread over their legs. Taylor was dressed in long shorts and a Foo Fighters T-shirt, beer in one hand and an MP3 player in the other. He high fived and fist bumped the guys at the back, chugged his beer then moved to the front of the bus, giggling as he stumbled down the aisle.

"Get off!" yelled one girl, as Taylor spilled into the empty seat next to her. The blonde and chunky girl pushed at him but Taylor lay over her lap, shades drooping off his face and beer spilling over his stomach. "You're drunk! Get off!"

"I aint drunk," he said, sitting up. "I'm on holiday."

The bus rollicked from side to side as it traversed the rough road. Making himself comfortable, Taylor looked over the girl's items while she faced the window. She had a large expensive camera, a book on the Ark of the Covenant, and a handy bag filled with sun lotion and deodorant.

"I've seen you around campus," Taylor said, reaching to turn the pages of her book. "You never speak to anyone. Shy, eh?"

"I've seen you too," she said, slapping at his sticky fingers. "You speak to everyone. Loudmouth, eh?"

Beer bubbles snorted out Taylor's nose causing the girl to snicker through her fingers. "We're not in the UK anymore," she said, in a soft Southern English accent. "Your drinking might offend the locals."

"It was the driver who sold me the beer. Bloody pricey as well, cheap bastard."

"Why are you here?" she asked him, parting the fringe from her eyes. "This trip doesn't seem like the sort of thing that would interest the likes of you."

Taylor smirked, enjoying her snobbery. "And what do you think would interest the likes of me?"

She shrugged. "Sports, girls, booze; being obnoxious."

Taylor squirmed as the sour taste of vomit accompanied a burp. "I enjoy all those things. I also love field trips and history, I especially like the idea of changing it. Meddling with things, you know?"

The girl rolled her eyes. "Time travel is impossible. Trust me I wrote a 245 page dissertation on that very subject."

"Arse paper. We're travelling through time right now," he argued, "just very, very slowly. All we have to do is speed things up a bit."

"That would mean travelling faster than light," she returned, "and nothing can according to Einstein."

"Einstein didn't have all the facts, or my help with the complicated stuff."

The girl arched an eyebrow. "Yes. You may be the most insufferable human being I've ever met. You also stink of..."

"It's puke," he confirmed, rustling his shirt. "I had too much to drink last night or was it this morning?" Silence followed as Taylor circled his finger around the lid of his beer can.

"Nah, I'm really here for me old Maw. She's not doing too well since my Dad passed away last year."

The girl glanced at him, unsure how to take this moment of candor. "How...erm, did he die?"

"Daft bugger reached down to tie his boots and didn't come back up again." Taylor swilled the last of his beer as the girl watched and listened. The window to her right was cracked but you couldn't see for the sun.

"The sale of Maw's house helped pay for my schooling, and this trip. The only thing she wants in return is some good snaps and a boring presentation to her and my wee brother when I get home. Oh shit!," Taylor added, "I may have to borrow your big ass camera at some point, I left mine on the plane. You know that wee compartment by your knees? Stuffed it in there and forgot about it."

The girl pulled her camera closer. "That's a laugh, this camera cost more than the airfare. I'll send your mum my pics, okay? Good ones."

"Just get me posing with the sites, right? Here," he said, extending his hand. "Name's Ham. Ham Taylor."

"I know. 'Ham the pig', according to some of the girls."

Taylor nudged her elbow. "Pigs are very intelligent I'll have you know. You're Penelope Welsh, right?"

"Walsh," she corrected, sitting up straight. "I'm also a Vegan."

"Random information. Congratulations. I'm a Sagittarius. I also like cheese."

Penelope nodded back, rustling fingers into her bag and trying not to smile.

"There are plenty of other seats, Ham the pig. Why don't you take one of those?"

Taylor looked into her blue eyes. "This seat has the best view."

Penelope looked over her shoulder to the crack in the glass and when she turned back, Taylor was still looking at her, eyes locked on hers. She lowered her blushing face and reached fully into her bag. "If you're going to sit with me then here..."

She offered Taylor a can of deodorant. He accepted it and put it to his nose.

"You want me to smell like a lassie?"

"I want you smell better than beer, puke and piss." Taylor laughed as Penelope concluded. "You want to sit here, you want this view, then get spraying."

Taylor took the bottle to his pits and let his beer roll to the back of the bus.

After the shortest hour of Taylor's life, the bus came to a stop and excited students stepped out to wonder at the monuments. Taylor followed Penelope, using her shoulder as a crutch to support him down the steps.

"Wow!" she gasped, her eyes glowing as she stepped foot onto the sand. "Isn't it amazing? Look at that!"

Taylor pressed on his shades and nodded as he gazed up at the Sphinx. Sand whipped around the ancient riddle as the Arabic bus driver attempt to explain its story in broken English. Penelope wrapped her hand around Taylor's elbow, opened her large book and whispered into his ear. "Some say the head was once a lion, and that the pyramid might be over four thousand years old."

"And that aliens built it all," he uttered. "That's bollocks. Give humanity some credit. We're pretty bloody bright."

"Here Ham," she said, focusing her lens. "One for your mother."

Penelope aimed her camera and positioned Taylor with the Sphinx at his back.

"Say mum!"

Taylor smiled and repeated the word as Penelope captured the memory.

*

"Fuck me," he groaned, rubbing his face and scowling at the morning.

"Nice to see you're still you," said a close male voice.

Donald was tall and pencil thin, with a kind face, courteous manner and sandy hair curling about the ears. Donald followed his older brother to the new world and embraced his adopted land, becoming a successful dentist and Corporation of the United States franchisee. Hard work and good choices earned him an exclusive apartment in Patriot Towers, and a swanky business in the heart of Manhattan.

"You're all paid for," he said, glancing up at his brother's clock. Donald's once thick Scottish accent was non-existent, having discarded his heritage somewhere over the Atlantic. "How do you feel?"

Taylor peered at the ticking clock. Donald's charity had him currently sitting on 124 minutes of healthcare. The old man in the opposite bed was gone, his timer at 0, bed sheets changed and ready for the next paying customer.

Donald wore a grave expression on his young face as he sat at Taylor's bed. "I really thought you might've pulled it off this time. Doctors think you're charmed."

"Or cursed," Taylor muttered, staring at the soothing blue light of Hippocrates. "What did they do to me this time?"

"They didn't do anything, I did. When they brought you in you had a broken femur and a collapsed lung. Also..." Donald parted the buttons of his older brother's pyjama top and pointed out a fresh scar on Taylor's abdomen. "New liver. Consider it an early Christmas present."

Taylor picked at the seamless and already fading scar. "Would've preferred a good bottle."

"It's the bottle that ruined the last one."

Taylor nodded blankly and allowed Donald to button up his striped top. Once done, Donald leaned in close and Taylor knew what was coming.

"What are you trying to do to me?" Donald whispered through his teeth, his Scottish accent returning with his anger. "You want me to identify your corpse next time? Cause it's me who'll have to do it. Do you know how much crap you put me through? What maw would say? The boys ask questions I can't answer and my employees whisper about you behind my back."

Donald bit his lip and leaned back to take a breather. Taylor turned his shamed face at nurses assisting a disabled female onto the opposite bed.

"Sorry," he said, sincerely. "I'm a selfish fucking idiot, Donald. I didn't think about you or the boys. Sometimes...I only see her. I'm sorry."

Taylor then squirmed at the cold steel around his left wrist. Glancing down, he discovered a set of handcuffs attaching him to the bed rail. "What the?"

Donald took Taylor's wrist. "Leave it Ham. The authorities arrived when you were under."

"So fucking what? I'll sign whatever needs signing and send them on their way."

"Not the police," Donald stressed. "Military. There's an armed guard stationed by the elevator, said he'd be speaking to you as soon as his superior arrived. The only thing I know is that you're not under arrest. They just want a quiet word."

Donald shook his head as Taylor quizzically examined the handcuffs.

"Old fashioned, no codes or electronics," he said, amused. "I guess they really want me to hang around."

"Here," Donald added, passing him a yellow envelope. "Your particulars. The watch still works despite your late night swim."

"Come on Don, get me out of these cuffs. You know they can't hold me anyway."

"Brother my best advice would be to hear what they have to say and to keep your mouth shut. If such a thing is possible."

Taylor turned over the contents of the envelope; a wedding band and a vintage 1980's Casio wristwatch dropped onto his crotch. He placed the ring on his middle finger and wrapped the watch over his right wrist. "Donald, the military don't come to see any washed up suicide case. Something stinks here. Get me out of these cuffs and I'll do the rest. I promise you won't get in any trouble."

Donald squeezed his brother's knee. "Don't be so paranoid. I'll come see you later with some things from home." He drew away. "Just tell them what they want to hear. Bullshit them if you have to, you know...be yourself."

"Don!" Taylor pleaded, tugging the cuffs at the rail.

Turning his back, Donald hurried out of the Unit as Taylor raised his voice.

"Donald for fucks-sake!"

Every patient and nurse glared back. Even with society in decline, swearing in a hospital had remained a cultural faux pas.

"What?" Taylor barked at them. "You lot can fuck right off!"

They returned to their own business leaving Taylor to frown at his bare feet and curling toes. His eye then wandered to the bed at his left side, occupied by a pot bellied middle-aged man with a multitude of coloured tubes leading in and out of his body. At the foot of the patient's bed was a folded up parka and a pair of ragged black leather boots.

"Here mate, what shoe size are you?"

The man stared at the heavens with a drooling smile, both hands gripping a stuffed pink elephant.

After clicking his fingers for attention, Taylor removed his old Casio and waved it at the dopey man's eyes. "You want it?" he whispered. "Best of gear!"

The man bobbled his head, excitement causing him to fill a urinary catheter bag at the side of the bed.

Any potential trade was suddenly interrupted by a stern-faced nurse stood at the end of Taylor's bed. Overweight, overworked and underpaid, she wasn't in the mood for any bullshit.

"Nurse!" Taylor hissed. "Be a dear and help with these cuffs? I realise it looks bad, but I'm an honest man talking to a good lady."

The nurse crossed her arms so Taylor tried harder. "You ever watch Jungle Fever? You want an autograph? A picture for the kids at home? What do you say?"

The nurse replied in an accent Taylor couldn't decode, but whatever she did say didn't sound too promising. She snatched Taylor's bed curtain and pulled it along the rail on her way out of the Unit.

"Fine," Taylor growled, impatience filling him with energy. "I'll do it myself!"

Working fast and through gritted teeth, he peeled back the bandage over his IV line, exposing the needle piercing the vein of his left hand. He yanked out the needle without a wince, squirting blood over his bed sheets.

"Warning!" blared Hippocrates. "Warning! Warning!"

"Shut the hell up!"

Taylor covered the open wound with the used bandage then inserted the needle into the handcuff lock. After a bend, twist, turn and jiggle, the cuffs clicked open and Taylor was free from the bed. He threw on the parka and shoes then gathered up his bloody bed sheets. Hurrying to a nearby window, he slid it open and averted his face from the morning sun. "It's okay," he added, to another heavily medicated patient, "they'll expect it from me."

Taylor squinted at the traffic some 60 floors below. The fall would kill him, but suicide wasn't on his mind - this afternoon maybe, but not this morning. With a quick look over his shoulder, Taylor spread the sheet over the window ledge.

Hearing the warning, the surly nurse returned to the Unit. A young soldier, armed with a rifle and dressed in camo fatigues, arrived at her side as she pulled Taylor's privacy curtain across the rail.

"What have you done with him?" the soldier yelled at the empty bed. The dumbfounded nurse suddenly shrieked when she noticed the window and bloody sheet blowing in the gale. They hurried to the scene while Taylor slipped out from underneath his neighbours bed, the man beaming giddily as he fondled an antique Casio wristwatch.

— CHAPTER TWO —

It was late afternoon when Taylor made it to his apartment. He slammed the door shut behind him and the glass window darkened at his command, leaving just enough natural light to make out the mattress on the floor and the boxes stacked around it.

"Would you like to have sex now?" said a warm female voice. A woman sat patiently in the corner, her face caught in the fleeting light. She was a curvy blonde around Taylor's age, dressed in formal business attire hardly in-keeping with her seedy surroundings.

Taylor threw off the parka and boots, rubbed his toes then inspected the blotchy bruises covering his torso. "I don't think I'm in the mood, darlin'."

"You promised."

He turned to her, scratched his face and thought it over. "What's your charge at?"

"39%"

Taylor frowned. "Hardly enough time to get your knickers off. I want you to fold her clothes back where you found them, understood?"

"I thought you liked it?"

"I like it just fine. I just don't need to see it every day."

The woman lowered her head and a pleasant blue light pulsed from her eyeballs. Taylor threw on a creased red shirt and pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket. Shirt undone, he lit up and lay down on the stained mattress.

"Messages," he mumbled, enjoying a deep drag from the coffin nail.

"You have 34 new messages!" chirped the answering machine, as if this was good news. "Would you care to know which agencies have read them?"

"Don't care, play all."

Taylor turned onto his side, using his right arm as a pillow. Staring back at him was a brick wall with an oversized map of New York State taped over it. Pinned around the map were various newspaper clippings; headlines and articles alongside photographs pulled from security cams and the Net. Taylor let his mind wander over the contents of the wall while he savoured his smoke.

"Hamilton Taylor, would you like more from your body?" asked a cheerful salesman. "Arms, legs, eyes and ears - discounts on any appendage today!"

*Beep!*

"Taylor stay off my street, you lousy cheap fuck! You're scaring off business!"

*Beep!*

With the end of his cigarette gathering ash, Taylor slouched off the mattress only to stub his toe on an open box.

"Bastard!"

He kicked the box and several hardback books spilled out over the floor. Every copy was covered with a layer of dust and images of Taylor's cocksure younger self staring back at him. With a stern expression, he bent to stub his cigarette into the eye of his own past.

He straightened to face the detailed map and meticulously structured data covering it. It was a chronological story of a mystery, and the facts were as follows:

Penelope Taylor, prominent doctor and wife of Nobel Prize winning Physicist, Hamilton Taylor, had vanished. She was last seen heading south on Route 22, on the night of November 5th, 2041. No vehicle or body were recovered, there were no clues, no motive, and no trace.

"I have your wife, mister! 1000 credits by midnight or else she's fucking dead!"

*Beep!*

Taylor felt numb all over, as if he'd heard each message a thousand times in a thousand variations. He lowered his head and drifted away from the wall. There was nothing new to see, and no new way to see it.

'HUSBAND LAUNCHES 2ND APPEAL!'

"This is Hank calling from City-Corp. Did you lose your home after the Greater Depression? We can compensate you!"

*Beep!*

'PRESUMED DEAD!'

"I seen your wife asshole! I got her right here...on the end of my dick!"

*Beep!*

'COLD CASE: 3rd ANNIVERSARY OF MISSING DOCTOR!'

"Do you seek relief from debt? There's no shame in it. Call Reverend Mike Schutz and his flock will pray for your debt deliverance. Let the Lord ease your financial burdens! Call today for our special rates!"

*Beep!*

Taylor returned to lay on the mattress and the moment his eyes closed, a phone call jolted them open. An aqua-coloured light flashed out of his holo-lens, its luminescence lighting his field of view. This was his private number, and only one man ever used it.

Sitting up and spitting out a chunk of phlegm from the back of his throat, Taylor tapped a finger to his right temple. The flashes of light faded as a video feed opened up before his eye, revealing Donald's disgruntled face.

"You couldn't wait?"

"They know where to find me, Donald. Fuck, if I was high priority then they'd already have me, right?"

His voice was old and scratchy, his tongue like a piece of jerky. "Don't worry Don, I'm too tired to off myself tonight."

"I want you to come round for dinner. Tonight. Run a comb through your hair or something."

While Taylor thought up an excuse, Donald calmed his two young children over his shoulder. "Put that down boys! Put it down! Sorry Ham, the lads are playing with the Watson kids. They're running riot in here."

Taylor smiled when he caught a glimpse of his troublesome nephews, Lucas and Cameron, in the background.

"Be here in an hour!" Donald insisted. "I've talked the wife round and arranged a cab to pick you up. I want you here, okay? Don't let me down, please?"

Taylor held up his hand and relinquished. "Save your credits. The walk will do me good. Be there shortly."

Taylor tapped his temple and his brother disappeared. Back in the dying light of his apartment, he pulled on a pair of jeans, buttoned up his shirt and laced his boots over bare feet. He sparked up another cigarette then removed two items from a box beside the mattress. The first was a gold medal that he jammed into his left pocket. The second was stack of 50 cards, which he stuffed into his right. The cards were all identical, featuring the last image of Penelope Taylor before her disappearance. Penelope was not traditionally beautiful; her nose was a little too large and her eyes a little too small, but hers was the face that kept Taylor awake at night. It was also the face of the sex doll charging in the corner.

On the back of each card were details of Penelope's last known location and a contact number to call with information.

Taylor pocketed his pack of smokes, threw the parka over his arm then ventured out into the bright lights of the big city.

*

He flipped the hood of the parka over his head as a wicked rain lashed across his face. The streets were crammed and his senses assaulted by neon lights and foreign languages. Everyone had something to sell, from corn dogs to crispy fried bugs; new kinds of drugs and old kinds of sex.

"No solicitation," he uttered, passing cards to any hand that would accept one.

Taylor often found himself stepping on his own discarded cards. He didn't care. Of all the thousands he handed out on mornings, afternoons and evenings like this, he would eventually pass a card into the right person's hand, and that stranger might just put an end to his limbo.

"No solicitation."

An advertisement played over the facade of an entire building. It was President Cox with her legs stretching over 70 stories. The President was promoting her favourite designer's shoes, followed by her push for re-election.

Despite its immoral and menacing reputation, the interior of the city was highly policed. When there weren't boots on the ground there were drones in the sky. Above street level, the "Sky Eyes" watched over them all. There were no hiding places in the outskirts either. Everyone who wanted to be part of this "free society" had to subscribe. Human beings were chipped, tracked and accounted for. A single green light, emanating from an implant in the thumb, would express a healthy bank balance while a red light revealed the opposite. The implant was the measure of one's ability to buy and sell, earnings and expenditures. It was living or dying in New York City.

Taylor's thumb blinked red. That didn't mean he had nothing, just that he had almost nothing.

Penelope's last transaction was at a gas station heading out of town. The authorities, and Taylor's own investigation, found nothing incriminating. There was clear surveillance of Penelope driving to the pump, filling the tank, paying and leaving. A simple transaction, observed and reported.

Three hours drive south of the station, Penelope's implant lost connection to the grid. Even if she was dead or if the chip had been cut from her thumb, her implant should have sent a distress signal. No implant was ever found, no distress signal logged. Penelope Taylor had by all accounts vanished off the face of the Earth.

Taylor handed out the last of his cards and approached the soaring glass triplets that composed Patriot Towers. The Patriot Towers were the world's tallest and most luxurious skyscrapers. Built in the heart of Manhattan and linked by several glass sky bridges, the three diamond-faceted towers were named after Presidents Washington, Adams and Jefferson. At 180-stories, Washington was the tallest followed by Adams at 165-stories and then Jefferson at a still respectable 150-stories tall.

Tourists came from all over the world to view the buildings' kaleidoscope effect, which shimmered beautifully day or night.

A crowd of two dozen had gathered at the base of the towers. Activists, sparse and disorganized, held up hand painted signs that epitomized the feelings shared by the majority.

'END THE ELITES! HYPOCRITE TOWERS! WHERE'S OUR ROBIN HOOD?'

Taylor headed towards Washington Tower, minding his own business as authorities clad in black riot gear and armed with assault rifles arrived to disperse the crowd.

An armoured police truck screeched to a halt in front of the towers. Two officers emerged and mounted a large sonic devastator on top of the vehicle, a weapon designed to scatter undesirables with directed soundwaves. When the devastator was turned on the peaceful protesters, they promptly lowered their signs, covered their ears in pain and fled from the area.

"Go back to your homes!" A voice boomed from the truck's megaphone. "This is a Freedom From Speech zone! Dissonance will not be tolerated!"

The protest was over as quickly as it had begun, and as Taylor reached the glass doors of Washington Tower, a masked cop stepped in front of him.

"Details, citizen!"

Taylor raised his hands and stooped to a reflective panel at the door – a biometric face recognition system. He heard a click and the doors unlocked. The cop lowered his rifle and even held the door open.

"My apologies, sir. Have a wonderful evening."

Taylor took a passing glance at the insignia on the officer's arm - a bald eagle with the globe between its talons. Fidelis ad Mortem: Faithful until Death.

"Faithful to whom?" Taylor asked, not expecting an answer. He didn't get one.

The interior lobby glistened with marble and was dominated by a pyramid shaped water feature. The only route to the elevators was through the hallway and scanner. The mechanics of the scanner could not be seen, yet as Taylor past quotes from George Washington embossed on the wall, he knew the scanner would be silently running security checks. Taylor reached the sealed golden elevator, lit up a smoke and waited for the scanner to clear him.

"Come on!" he groaned, his voice echoing down the hallway. "I'm clean for Gods-sake!"

A short ping sounded above the elevator doors, but before they opened, a computerized voice stated: "Please dispose of your cigarettes in the waste receptacle provided. Carcinogenic items are for residents only."

Taylor threw up his arms and exclaimed. "Pain in the arse!"

He broke the smoke in half and tossed the pack into a waste bin beside the elevator. The bin incinerated the cigarettes and Taylor leaned in for a whiff of the fumes.

The golden doors parted and he stepped inside the elevator. Trooping in with him at the last moment were several well fed members of the upper echelons. The doors closed and Taylor pressed his back into the corner, counting the passing floors and seconds, and growing acutely aware of his dishevelled clothes and stinky pits.

"Can I help you son?" asked a heavy set man near the door. "You look lost. Sure you belong here?"

Taylor ran a hand through his greasy hair. "What do you think?"

It was Jeff Watson, Mayor of New York. Watson was tall - close to 7 feet, with a walrus-like moustache and a pronounced gut pressing against his shirt buttons. He placed a long cigarette between his lips and his young assistant blazed up the end. The elevator did not protest.

"Got a smoke?" Taylor asked the Mayor.

Watson shook his head and grinned through puffs. "What do you think?"

Taylor smiled inwardly as he pressed his back into the wall. "I actually voted for you, back when I thought votes meant something."

The Mayor smirked as he dropped his smoke and stubbed it under foot.

"What swayed me most was your policy on recycling," Taylor added, bending to pick up the butt. The surrounding faces contorted when Taylor blew dirt off the nub, put it to his lips and fired up the end.

His mother had taught him better than that, but then Taylor never could take a telling.

*

Sylvia opened the apartment door and rolled her eyes at her brother-in-law.

"Take your shoes off."

Sylvia was a prosecuting attorney and graduate of Yale Law School. Olive skinned and bony, her pulled-back hair pinched what would have been a pretty face. Sylvia came from old money and had the aspirations and heritage to go all the way to the top. Living on the 167th floor, she was almost there.

To Sylvia, Taylor was the family scandal on her husband's side, one she tolerated. To Taylor, Sylvia was a certified cunt. For Donald's sake, they made it work.

The dining room offered a staggering view of the Big Apple, sparkling in the night. The dinner table was set with candle light and a meal too large for this small family.

It warmed Taylor's heart to hear his nephews play in their bedrooms. He glanced down the hall to their rooms, frowning when he noticed five large suitcases against the wall, hurriedly packed judging by the sweater sleeve dangling from a closed lid.

Donald stood alone on the magnificent patio, sipping a glass of wine and gesturing his brother to join him. Sliding the door open, Taylor winced at the chilly night air.

"Glad you could make it," Donald said, appearing pale as Taylor pressed beside him at the balcony. "I needed to talk with you alone."

"You can talk to me anytime."

Taylor bent over the edge of the balcony, readying a ball of phlegm at the back of his throat.

"Don't," said Donald, nudging his arm.

Taylor smiled and swallowed. "You going on a trip? I saw the suitcases in the hall, you never mentioned a word, mate."

Donald turned to face him, his eyes watering from the cold or something else.

"Ham," he stuttered. "It's just..."

Taylor exhaled and patted Donald's arm. "Sack up, okay? I promise I won't try to kill myself again. No more 4am phone calls, alright? Shit boy, you really are too soft for your own good."

Suddenly and desperately, Donald clutched the ends of Taylor's fingers. "Ham," he hissed, an inch from Taylor's nose, "...something's coming."

Taylor mimicked Donald's scowl until pounding hands on the patio window snapped the brothers' from thought and conversation. Donald's sons \- Cameron and Lucas - were blowing their mouths against the glass.

"Boys," Donald sighed, throwing up his hands as Taylor swung open the door.

"You wee buggers!" he exclaimed, reaching out for his nephews.

Sylvia left the kitchen and wrangled both boys and men to the dinner table. She poured herself a glass of wine as Taylor took his seat.

"The new decor is crackin'," he said, faking enthusiasm. "Aye. Nice spread as well."

Donald poured himself a glass of wine then absent-mindedly began passing the bottle to Taylor, halting the pass in mid-air. "Sylvia, dear," he added, manoeuvring the bottle back to his side of the table. "Can you fetch Ham some water?"

"I'm a whisky man," Taylor said, reaching for a bowl of peas. "Save the wine for somebody who'll enjoy it. I saw more protesters outside. It's getting worse out there. Fucking elevator ate my cigarettes again."

Donald glanced up from a spoonful of spuds. "Language, eh?"

Taylor grinned mischievously while his nephews snickered at either side of him.

"How you lads doin'?" he asked them. "How's school?"

Donald beamed, as if delighted by the subject. "Cameron made the team this year."

"Oh, aye!" Taylor declared, glancing proudly at the boy. "What position?"

"Midfield," replied the chewing eight-year-old. "I played well. Can do better."

"That was your uncle's position," said Donald, bending forward. "He was holding midfielder and captain of the Scotland under 19s."

"We know!" Cam droned, dropping his mashed potatoes. "You've told us like...a gazillion times!"

"I'm just saying. No-one could take a free-kick like your uncle! You should've seen the spin he could put on a ball!"

Taylor lowered his eyes to a plate of lonely peas as his second nephew, seven-year-old Lucas, looked at him wide-eyed. "Uncle Ham, can you teach me some tricks after dinner?"

"He can't!" Sylvia interrupted. "Your uncle has to leave after dinner. We have a lot to arrange before tomorrow."

"Mum," Lucas then asked, innocently forking his meal. "Is uncle Ham coming to the hotel with us?"

"No," she sniped. "No more talking."

"Which hotel is that?" Taylor pried, smiling at the blue eyed boy.

"Mum said it's a special hotel. Will you come with us uncle Ham? It'll be boring without you."

Donald took a hard gulp while Sylvia tittered. "Just taking the boys on a work thing. Eat your food Lucas."

With little to no appetite, and his mind on other things, Taylor ate as much as he could and waited as long as possible before squeaking back his chair and making his excuses.

Donald prepared to stand but Taylor interrupted. "You owe me a pack of smokes, carcinogens an' all."

Taylor bent to squeeze his nephews shoulders. "Cameron, put your laces through the ball. Lucas, you'll need to eat those vegetables if you want to play with the big boys."

Taylor winked at a brow beaten Donald. "Enjoy your holiday. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Eat up children!" Sylvia said, clanging her fork on china as Taylor saw himself out.

The apartment door opened and Donald, ready to spring from his chair, felt Sylvia's hand grip his wrist.

"Let him go," she whispered. "He's not one of us."

The apartment door closed and Taylor was gone, leaving Donald to wipe the tears from his eyes.

*

The bell chimed above the liquor store door. A soot-faced hobo known as Stabby Steve squeezed past Taylor with a quart in his hand. The pungent scent of faeces and sweat that rose from Steve used to make Taylor retch, but no longer. Either Stabby had cleaned up his act or Taylor had dirtied down his.

At the counter, a balding, bear-like man in a wife beater was engrossed in an episode of the popular game show, Life or Debt.

"No, out!" the bear snarled, noticing Taylor. "I told you last time! Didn't you get my phone call? I left you a message."

Taylor raised his palms as he approached the counter. "Charlie this is the last time you'll see me. Hand on heart, fingers crossed and all that shite."

Charlie twitched as if there was a bug in his ear. "They say you're smart but you never get the message. You're cut off, Taylor. Now I've been respectful the last few times on account of your brother, but enough is enough. Fuck off!"

Taylor shrugged as he leaned an elbow on the counter. "I'd go across the street but I figured a man of the world such as yourself would appreciate my goods."

Charlie laughed through missing teeth. "You got nothing I need, Taylor. Your shitty books don't sell no more."

Charlie appeared more annoyed than threatened, and reaching under the counter, he pulled out a baseball bat with nails embedded in the head. "Now you're making me miss my show."

Taylor bent over the counter to squint at the programme. People were cheering. There was a gladiatorial ring and a young woman fleeing from a blood-thirsty lion.

"That shit for real?" he asked, disturbed.

Charlie chuckled. "If this fatty makes it to the exit then all her debts are cleared, wiped out for good. What show were you on, back in the -" Charlie grimaced from the screen as the lion snared the girl and bit into her head. The crowd applauded, a tamer took the lion and the next contestant was introduced.

"Anyway," Charlie continued, eyeing Taylor. "If you don't have anything trade-worthy then you've got ten seconds to make it to the other side of my door. I'm cutting you a break Taylor. Trade up or fuck off."

Taylor reached deep into his left coat pocket. "One thing," he said, with hope. "You won't have seen anything like this before."

"I've seen it all," Charlie groaned. "Last week a guy traded his prosthetic for a six-pack. Don't need legs to drink, eh?"

Taylor carefully placed the gold medallion onto the glass counter. "I want a bottle," he said, pointing to the shelf behind Charlie. "Scotch."

Charlie lowered his bat to scrutinize the medal. On one side was the Egyptian Goddess, Isis, emerging from clouds cradling a cornucopia. Around her was the inscription: Inventas vitam juvat excoluisse per artes.

"What's it say?" Charlie asked, still unconvinced.

Taylor's face glazed over as he repeated from memory. "And they who bettered life on Earth by their newly found mastery."

Charlie picked it up and tested the metal between his rotten front teeth. "Gold is hard to move, Taylor. They all wanna know where it comes from nowadays. Too much heat, not worth the hassle."

Charlie slid over the medal and Taylor pushed it back. "It's not the gold that's worth anything, but the man on the other side."

Charlie turned over the medal and peered at the profile of a bearded old man.

"His name is Alfred Nobel," Taylor said. "Get this in the hands of the right buyer and you're laughin'."

With a reluctant nod, Charlie slid the medal into his pocket. "One bottle!"

Taylor rubbed his palms as Charlie reached for a cheaper brand of blended Whisky.

"A single malt!" Taylor spluttered. "Fuck that medal is -"

"You leave with the cheap stuff or a medal nobody wants. Your call."

Charlie glanced at his baseball bat and Taylor snatched the neck of the bottle.

"Un-fucking-believable."

The bell chimed and outside, Taylor hailed a yellow cab as the rain pounded against his parka. He threw himself into the back seat, shook off the drizzle and set the whisky beside himself. The cab had a plastic shield separating the passenger from the AI navigation system driving the vehicle. A Jersey accent emanated from the rear speakers, prompting Taylor to place his thumb against the pay-pad. When he did, he was startled by an annoying buzzer.

"Payment rejected!" the speaker blared. "Insufficient funds. Exit the vehicle immediately."

Taylor groaned. "I'm in the red but there's enough in my account for a lousy fucking cab ride!"

"Insufficient funds," the voice repeated. "Exit the vehicle immediately."

"I need to go a few blocks!" he yelled, slamming his fist into the shield. "I have enough banked for that. It's pourin' fuckin' rain!"

A repeating red light flashed inside the cab. "Violent aggressor! The authorities have been dispatched to this location! Please wait patiently inside the vehicle until your arrest!"

"Fuck you!" Taylor baulked, tugging at the locked door handle. "Let me out!"

"The police will unlock the door. Please use this time to reflect on your behaviour!"

In no mood to spend the night in a cell, Taylor lay on his back and drove his boots into the door. The thin aluminium crumpled and the door broke free from its hinges, clattering onto the wet street. "Made in Somalia bullshit!"

Once Taylor had climbed out of the vehicle, the cab accelerated into traffic, warning others of criminal damage and a nearby aggressor.

Taylor raised his middle finger and yelled. "Forgot your fucking door!"

He smiled, kicked the door aside then patted his hands against his pockets. The smile transformed to sudden shock.

"My fucking whisky! Hey!"

The cab out of sight, he wilted to his knees, soaking his lower half in a puddle. Unsure whether to laugh or cry, Taylor covered his face with his hands and took a minute to decide.

"There he is! Over there!"

Taylor searched between his fingers to see his face amplified on a 300 ft wide electronic billboard. A televised broadcast followed, announcing Hamilton Taylor as a wanted man, and for the public to avoid contact with the fugitive.

"For kicking a taxi?"

"Police. Don't move!" howled a man over his shoulder.

Taylor straightened his coat and turned to face the authorities. Two masked officers, weapons drawn, ordered Taylor's hands behind his head.

"Well done lads!" he said, applauding slowly. "Now the perp has just made off with my whisky. It's no single malt mind you but beggars can't be choosers. She was yellow, stocky, four wheels. I have a door here that I removed from the suspect. Hopefully we can recover the bottle before -"

Without warning, an officer slugged Taylor across the jaw with the butt of his gun. He hit the pavement, blood drooling from his bottom lip. Before Taylor could regain his senses, the second officer kicked his supporting arm out from under him, knocking Taylor to his stomach.

"You're coming with us!" he yelled over the rain and gathering onlookers.

The first officer knelt and locked his forearm around Taylor's throat. Eyes watering and airway closing, self preservation got the better of him. Taylor threw his hand between the officer's legs and squeezed his nuts as hard as he could. The cop howled and dropped like a ton of bricks. Standing with a wobble, Taylor tore off the second officer's mask and launched his forehead into the exposed face, breaking the cop's nose with a spray of blood and bone. The gathering crowd stood back and gasped as both officers writhed in a puddle.

Taylor staggered into a dark alley and slid behind the burned-out shell of a car. He gazed at his trembling hands, wet with someone else's blood. Beyond the alley was the roar of the city's riotous evening rush hour and more cops coming for him.

Taylor noticed a half-filled beer bottle in a trash pile. Hoping to relieve some stress, he gulped down the contents then gagged at the taste of piss. He tossed the bottle aside, breaking it. He picked up one of the larger shards of glass and looked at the skin of his thumb, a tiny personalized tracking chip was flashing red beneath the skin. The only way to get lost was by losing the chip. Taylor could cut it out and disappear, but after a moment he thought better of it and tossed the shard aside. Simple curiosity brought him back to the streets. Why was the military at the hospital? Why were the cops on him so fast for so little? Why was this day so exceptionally shitty? He knew it wouldn't take them long to find him, and it didn't. A spherical silver drone no larger than a tennis ball appeared like a silent assassin over Taylor's head. He waved at its multiple cameras before calling out to the two officers he had just assaulted. Pedestrians avoided him like the plague as a half dozen drones formed a hovering cordon around him.

"On the ground!" announced the robotic voice of a drone. "On the ground now!"

"Just a sec..." he answered, smiling through bloody teeth and tucking his shirt into his jeans. "Take me to your leader!"

"Face on the fucking ground," screamed the officer with the broken nose. "I won't tell you again motherfucker!"

Taylor wiped his chin clear of piss and blood when the officers opened fire. An electric arc bridged the distance between them, consuming Taylor and causing him to writhe in pain and foam at the mouth. He dropped, and with smoke rising from his twitching body, a few swift kicks from the officers' boots sent him into unconsciousness.

— CHAPTER THREE —

Upon his last arrest (urinating on a public official) Taylor had awoken in a concrete cell the very moment his Ukranian cell mate was stealing his boots. This time the scent of old books alerted his senses, activating ancient and pleasant memories of MIT, where Taylor had once taught particle physics to the world's best and brightest.

He was sprawled on a red sofa, the light of a table lamp intruding against his closed eyes. Nearby, he could hear a crackling fireplace and a vintage vinyl playing The Five Sharps, 'Stormy Weather'.

Taylor sat up, rubbing his bleary eyes. He felt woozy, his lips were parched, his bones creaked and his head throbbed. The ends of his fingers were burnt black, a direct result of being fried by the police. All aches and pains were forgotten the instant he recognised his surroundings.

"I don't believe it."

The study belonged to Professor Karl Lanza, a physicist and Honorary Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts. Many years ago Taylor and Lanza would spend countless evenings in this room, nursing glasses of Scotch while discussing the depths of science, politics, mythology and philosophy. Somehow, Taylor and Lanza always found themselves on opposite sides, thus the conversations regularly stretched into the early hours.

Adrenaline forced Taylor to his feet, but the rush of blood put him down again. "Lanza?" he said, groggily scanning the library's wall of books:

Shakespeare, Homer, Dante, Confucius, Oppenheimer, Hawking - all the classics were present and beautifully bound in leather. A single creased paperback sat on the table next to the sofa. Taylor slouched forward, picked it up and smiled. "The King's Rose" according to the back cover was a racy romance novel, an epic tale of love and aristocracy spanning three generations.

"Wank," Taylor groaned, fingering through the pages.

"Please don't lose my place!" a voice announced.

Startled, Taylor dropped the novel and stood to face Lanza, who entered the study through a narrow arched door.

Taylor took an involuntary step back, caught off guard not only by Lanza's presence, but by his haggard appearance. Despite having both age and occupation in common, Lanza's once stoic features had worn considerably. His hair was white and thin, his forehead marked with deep creases and his eyes, once lively and bright, appeared sunken and dark. He was a young man in an old man's body.

Lanza came close, his shoulders hunched beneath a deep purple robe as he past Taylor a glass of scotch. Taylor shuffled uncomfortably at the sight of his old friend's fragility.

"Here's to your new liver," Lanza said, clanging his glass against Taylor's. "It's a 70-year-old Macallan, all the way from the Highlands. The very best money can buy."

Lanza's appearance may have changed, but his voice still maintained its soft tone and thick German accent. Taylor accepted his drink, but not his handshake.

"You really enjoy this romance shite?" Taylor asked, gesturing to the paperback.

"It helps me escape. We all have other worlds we like to visit now and again. The world of windswept English moors and unrequited love is mine."

"Swoon," Taylor mocked, waiting patiently for an explanation as to why he was here and not cooling off in a jail cell.

"Hamilton I believe you were a romantic at one time. Here..." Glancing over his bookshelf, Lanza selected a thick hard-cover. "Unlocking the Forth Dimension, by Dr. Hamilton Taylor. "

Lanza turned the pages and smiled when he found his favourite quote. "Time is neither fixed nor fluid. It is a dimension we can barely comprehend, and likely never will. Yet just as the average person can drive an automobile with limited understanding of its interior framework, so too can we traverse time. A vehicle is possible."

Lanza shut the book and past it to its author "Do you still believe this?"

"I do," he said, accepting the book. "Shame no-one else did."

Taylor knocked back his drink and closed his eyes to savour the burn sliding down his throat. "Now that," he exhaled, "is a fucking escape."

He placed his empty glass onto the table then examined the image of his younger, idealistic and yes, romantic self on the sleeve of the book.

"Had the world at our feet back then."

Taylor snapped the book shut and returned it to Lanza, using the exchange as an excuse to snatch the professor's glass of scotch.

"How did you know I got a new liver?" he asked, downing the second whisky. "I'm happy to reminisce just for the craic, but really, what the fuck's going on here?"

"Your mouth is as filthy as ever," Lanza began, slotting Taylor's book back into the shelf. "As a courtesy to me and my home, please refrain from such offensive language for the time being."

Taylor scowled. "Courtesy is the same as respect, and you lost mine years ago, right around the moment you decided to steal from me."

"I was under another authority," he said, turning from the bookshelves. "I was also inspired by a remarkable body of work that you had no intention of publishing. I believe gifts like yours should be shared, not shelved."

"In any case, you burnt our bridge Lanza, poured the gasoline and lit the match. Stick courtesy up your arse."

Perspiring and exasperated, Lanza threw up his hands. "Dwelling on the past achieves nothing in the present. Considering your current status Dr. Taylor, you should understand this more than anyone."

"My current status is none of your business. What's this all about? What do you want?"

"To help," he stated, hobbling closer. "When I received word of your attempted suicide I did two things. I first rejoiced that you were still alive, then I paid for your care. Your brother agreed to the treatment being under his name, as you would unquestionably accept his charity. Not mine."

Taylor shook his head and waggled his finger. "I knew you had influence Lanza, but having me locked to a hospital bed and my mug spread over 5th Avenue?" He took a step closer to the old man. "Who do you work for?"

Lanza appeared to shrivel from the inside out. He looked at Taylor with a grave expression then raised his hand to cover his mouth. In wide-eyed silence, Lanza pressed his other hand over his ear. Taylor glanced around the study and nodded in understanding. It seemed privacy was a privilege even the rich could not afford.

"I have certain instructions," said Lanza, dabbing a handkerchief across his pale forehead. "There are things that I can and cannot share with you. Please do not ask questions that may compromise me."

"All I want is the explanation," Taylor returned, holding his glass and searching for the bottle. "Give me a reason why you've pulled me in out of the cold after five years, and why those years have been so god-damned shitty on your face? You're a mess, boy."

"My health," Lanza murmured, "like your current status, is none of your business."

Lanza took Taylor's glass and shuffled to his liquor cabinet. "My current position has opened many doors," he growled, selecting the bottle of golden Macallan. "There is one door in particular I hope we will venture through together."

After having his drink topped up, Taylor gestured for Lanza to continue.

"You are here tonight," the professor confessed, "because you have two PhDs, one in Particle Physics and one in Mechanical Engineering. You are here because of your 10 years at CERN, 5 more at MIT, and finally, because you are a Nobel Laureate with a once-in-a-generation mind. It is unfortunate," he mournfully added, "that you have chosen to pickle that mind in alcohol, guilt and idleness. If there is a God in heaven, Dr. Taylor, then he committed a sin by bestowing such a mind upon such a man."

Taylor chuckled and returned to slouch on the sofa. "Did you rehearse that rubbish in front of a mirror? Shit gave me a semi."

"You are here," Lanza concluded seriously, "because I need you, because the world may need you."

"The world," Taylor scoffed, putting his feet on the table, "is an asshole. Nice place if you can afford it. Got any smokes?"

Lanza rustled to his record player, removed the needle from the vinyl then waved his hand over a mirror near the door. "Channel 14. Saved file."

The mirror lit up with the evening news, the story concerning an earlier shuttle launch from Kazakhstan.

"This was last night," he said, coughing into his forearm.

"I watched the highlights in hospital," Taylor uttered, swirling his drink. "A failure no doubt."

Lanza turned to him. "Why do you say that? The media announced nothing aside from the launch. As far as the public is concerned the shuttle is off to repair the Space Station. Why do you assume the mission to be a failure?"

Taylor shrugged with indifference. "We have slimlined craft with on-board AI capable of repairing any satellite. The shuttle is a smoke screen for something else. Another fucking distraction. Anyone with half a brain, even a pickled one, can see that."

Lanza rubbed his chin, nodding to confirm Taylor's suspicions. "Endeavour is the only vehicle we have that can accommodate a thermonuclear device of the required size."

Taylor removed his feet from the table and leaned forward, staring hard at Lanza. "Say again?"

"News off!" ordered Lanza. He went to a desk in the corner without comment, where he proceeded to remove a thick brown file from a locked drawer. The file was marked: PRIDE.

Lanza pulled a photograph from the file and shared it with Taylor. Taylor's eyes widened as he scrutinized the image of an icy blur in space - a comet.

"It's the size of California," Lanza answered before being asked. "Again, this is the information I have been permitted to share. It is no secret to the various intelligence communities."

"Fuck," Taylor mumbled, feeling a lump in his throat. "How long do we have?"

"In approximately 41 hours - October 13th, 7pm, the comet will strike our Eastern Coast, incinerating the air and vaporizing the oceans, levelling the cities and wiping all life from the continents. This is it," he wearily concluded. "The end of the world is tomorrow, Dr. Taylor. No-one will escape."

Taylor returned the photograph to Lanza, who threw it and the file into the crackling fireplace. He then stoked the fire until the papers were reduced to ash.

"Nukes?" Taylor growled, then yelled. "Is that all you fucking jokers can come up with? Throw a bomb and expect it to go away? You need a scalpel for the job not a sledgehammer. What were you thinking?"

"What are you thinking?" Lanza retorted, his voice hoarse.

"A solar sail?" he offered. "Particle-beam bombardment to steer it off course?"

"The comet is too big, and there's not enough time!" cried Lanza, his whole body shaking. "This monster appeared out of nowhere 4 days ago, leaving us no time to prepare. Its very existence is inexplicable, all of our near-Earth object detectors and deep space sentries missed it. One morning it was just...there, like a lion baring down on us."

A sudden thought came to Taylor. "What about Black projects? Anti-gravity technology? Have we reached out to them? Don't they have anything that can help us?"

Lanza sighed. "We've got nothing that can work given our limited timescale. As blunt and pathetic as it sounds, an old shuttle armed with a nuclear payload is the only hope the human race has. Our planet, our people, are out of options."

Taylor ruffled a hand through his hair, went to the liquor cabinet, grabbed the Macallan and took a swig from the bottle. "What about the people? The public? What about my brother, you son of a bitch? Why are you telling me this? What the fuck do you want me to do about it?"

Lanza paced around Taylor, as if needing time to prepare his response.

"Hamilton a helicopter is coming to collect me in 10 minutes. Underground facilities have been prepared across the country and the elite and their families are already being evacuated. You have a place beside me in that helicopter."

Taylor snorted. "Live with you and a bunch of privileged pricks in a bunker? I'll take my fucking chances outside."

Taylor tucked the scotch under his arm and headed for the door. Lanza hobbled after him, pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket. "Taylor!" he gasped, reaching out.

Taylor stopped and Lanza handed over the note, his eyes indicating Taylor not to read it aloud.

'West Mountain State Forest, Dutchess County.'

"Extraction point," Lanza added. "Transport will be waiting as long as they can hold out. Get out of the city as soon as possible. I will explain the rest when you arrive, if you survive the coming chaos."

Taylor scrunched the note into his jeans. "When does the nuke hit?"

Lanza glanced at his watch, then up at Taylor. "In 90 minutes the flash from the detonation will light up the night sky and the resulting aurora will be visible half a world away. The electromagnetic pulse will shut down most primitive and unshielded electronics in the western hemisphere. The nation will go dark."

"So in 90 minutes," Taylor hissed, "the world is going to hell in a handcart."

Lanza nodded. "There are shielded drones in place, ready to keep the peace, but they can only do so much. If you won't come with me then get out of the city. When all else fails, and it will, you might be our only hope."

Taylor turned the door handle, leaving Lanza to conclude. "Stubborn bloody Scotsman. Where are you going?"

"I'm off to watch the fireworks..."

Taylor closed the door behind him and the old professor returned through a curtain and into another room. It was a living room with combined kitchen and a door leading to a private lab. Against one wall was a blank white board of the kind found in classrooms. After a careful look over his shoulder, Lanza moved to the board and flipped it over. The other side contained a message, hurriedly scrolled in faded black ink.

'It's not a comet! Ham fucking Taylor!'

*

Taylor walked through the still busy streets, noticing smiles and laughter as if for the first time.

"Donald," he said, tapping a finger against his temple.

A slideshow of old photographs appeared in Taylor's holo-lens as the call attempted to connect. The pictures were of Donald and Ham as kids in Scotland or young adults in America. "You have reached the home of Donald and Sylvia Taylor," returned the answering machine. "Leave a message and we'll get back to you."

"Bollocks! Donald I know it's late but call me as soon as possible. I got something to do then I'm headed directly to yours. Send a cab or something mate, I don't have a credit to my name. Call me brother!"

Taylor tapped a finger to his temple and hurried his pace. He had one last stop before the end of world.

*

The iron gates of Calvary Cemetery squeaked when Taylor pulled them open. Scotch safely under his arm, he walked a familiar route. Even at 3 am, the cemetery was relatively busy. Cemeteries were no longer lonely places to store the recently deceased and long forgotten, but popular hotspots for history buffs and those who enjoyed hearing a good yarn. After dark, selected graves (those paying the premium) lit up with recorded holograms of the dead. Visitors could sit before a grave, brush their hands over the headstone and a digital ghost of the person buried six feet underneath would appear to share a brief memory, or their whole life story.

Taylor manoeuvred his way through dense trees, passing several grave-stalkers (the term used for enthusiasts) as they cuddled up to hear stories from the past. Some graves remained in darkness, the dead having either chosen not to record a hologram, or simply having left it too late.

Taylor reached a clearing and took a minute to admire the view of Manhattan's glittering towers and the garishly bright advertisements displayed over them. He loved this city.

The grave at Taylor's feet had fresh flowers laid against the headstone and a simple inscription:

Penelope Taylor

2006 - 2041

"Gone. For now."

Taylor bent down to his wife's grave and inhaled the cold night air. Setting his back against the headstone, he removed the lid from his whisky bottle and waited for the sky to explode.

"You won't believe what's coming," he whispered over his shoulder. "It's all going away soon."

He took a large swig and before he swallowed, the shuttle Endeavour seemingly found its mark. The nuclear flash created instant daylight over the iconic city. When the stars returned, streaks of intense colour came with them. Wave after wave of phosphorescent pinks, purples and ghostly greens twisted, warped and rippled overhead.

Taylor squinted at the graves caught under the alien light, and the confused public cowering against them. Seconds later, the aurora dispersed and the show was over. Then began a new and more terrifying show. One by one, the glass temples of the 21st century were plunged into darkness, as if society was being thrust back into the 18th century.

Taylor drank the last of the scotch and despite trying to keep his eyes open, he sagged to one side, grazing the headstone enough to activate the personal hologram.

The message came not from Penelope, but Taylor himself. Dressed in a three piece suit and tie, his face was clean shaven, his hair combed neatly back from his face.

"My name is Hamilton Watt Taylor." His tone was flat and hard. "There is no body underneath me. This plot is vacant. I bought this headstone so that I could one day break it down." Taylor's hologram lifted a piece of paper under his nose. "This is a poem I found in a drawer. I don't give a shit about poetry, but she did...does. So...I'd like to read it for her - for you - whoever you are..."

The hologram fractured and tore as Taylor read from the paper.

'Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there, I do not sleep,

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am gone from sight,

I am a thief in the night,

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there,

I did not die.'

The image flickered and faded, and propped up against the grave in the dark, Hamilton Taylor was the only soul who slept in The City That Never Sleeps.

— CHAPTER FOUR —

A hangover beat its drum inside his head, but Taylor was used to and sometimes grateful for the pain, the first and perhaps only thing he would feel on a given day. A lopsided smile curved across his face, he hadn't slept so long or drank so well in a long time. After rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his stomach cramped and he puked last night's liquor over Penelope's headstone. With vomit dripping from his nostrils, Taylor shielded his face from an uncomfortably bright light. When his stomach was empty and his eyes had adjusted to the morning, he looked over at the city and wondered if he was dreaming.

New York was on fire, a horizon of burning bridges, towering infernos and rising columns of smoke. Hell had come to Earth.

"What have we done?" he groaned, swaying back and forth.

Taylor knew the electromagnetic pulse would kill the grid and panic the populace, but that alone was not enough to bring down civilization. The secret was out, the nukes had failed, the comet was coming, and this was the beginning of the end.

Taylor slouched to his knees, tapped a finger to his temple. "Donald! Call Donald!"

Nothing came from the lens - no calls incoming or outgoing. He stuffed his shirt into his jeans and reached into his back pocket. It was Lanza's note, with directions to a location an hour or so outside of town. If he left now he might still make it. "Fuck you," he growled, scrunching and tossing it. An hour out of town was an hour away from the only family Taylor had left.

He approached the gates of Calvary Cemetery, cringing at the sound of wailing alarms and the cries of faraway victims. A young woman lay at the foot of the tall gate, her arms wrapped around the bars. She had delicate Scandinavian features, warped by a gnarled, frozen expression of terror.

Taylor bent to examine a hole the size of a baseball seared through the girl's sternum. The wound had likely come from a directed energy rifle, the sort issued only to the military. Taylor scratched the stubble on his chin in consideration. "Martial law," he whispered, closing the girl's eyes. Beyond the iron gates, the rule of law and fundamental freedoms, including a citizen's right to live, no longer applied.

Bodies were strewn about the streets, an indiscriminate collection of men and women, young and old. Sweat accumulated on Taylor's brow as he manoeuvred around the dead. He apologized for stepping on a man's hand, then winced when he noticed his brains painting the cemetery's exterior wall.

The poor bastard still held the antique six shot snub nose he had used to take his own life. After a respectful pat on the man's shoulder, Taylor took possession of the gun and flicked open the chamber.

"Typical," he exclaimed, stuffing the empty revolver down his belt. It'll keep, he thought, it'll come in handy.

He moved cautiously through the streets, jaw clenched tight as he past lost looking strangers and burning buildings. He ducked at the sound of gunshots and flinched at distant explosions. He was on his feet for an hour before reaching Madison Avenue and the valley of skyscrapers. Yesterday the block was home to the world's finest restaurants, fashion boutiques and art galleries; today it was the epicentre of unbridled chaos. The first things to strike Taylor was the collection of drones scattered around like litter, and the Sky Eyes blimp, skewered like a piñata on the spire of the Empire State Building.

The government's eyes were blinded, and with local law enforcement either distracted or disbanded, no barricade or security measure could prevent the tsunami of looters from breaking glass, emptying shelves and fleeing with merchandise. Thieves wore senseless grins as they ran from stores, grasping whatever appliances they could handle.

"Bollocks!" Taylor screamed, throwing himself out of the way as a group of rioters tipped over a car. Laying flat on his stomach, he cowered as a crack of thunder vibrated the asphalt. "For fuck's sake!" he screamed, covering both ears.

He peered up to witness a deluge made not of water, but of human bodies. The roofs of every building in sight were occupied with people lined up waiting to jump. The wait wasn't long and the fall wasn't either. Souls poured down from the rooftops, screaming or at peace, some even holding hands until the ground parted them. Taylor took cover in a jewellery store as a body impacting the ground burst open behind him. He crouched among the counters and broken glass as two women battled and pummelled each other over a jewel encrusted handbag. When the clash was over, the victor mindlessly followed the mob into another store, leaving her prize forgotten on the floor.

"COMET STRIKING SOON!" proclaimed a huge billboard. "We thank you for your patience! Be kind to your fellow man! Be grateful to your government!"

Taylor moved fast and kept to himself, taking several more hours to claw his way through the epidemic of fear and chaos that was the breakdown of society. Verbal disagreements turned into fights and fights descended into murder. The streets were lined with victims of stabbings, stranglings and shootings; bodies with knives in their chests or holes in their heads. Sex was rampant, with countless strangers fornicating against cars or on a bed of old newspapers. Nothing was off the menu.

The most popular in the throng were the readers of scripture. Flocks gathered around them to be blessed, to confess their sins or to hear of what awaited them in the afterlife. Muslims prayed toward Mecca, but Allah wasn't listening.

Taylor didn't see the fist breaking across his jaw. His sight flashed red, a sharp pain shot up his cheek and he was flat on the curb, spitting out a molar and struggling to stay conscious.

He pulled himself by the nails into a nearby alley and when the stars left his eyes, he searched for his attacker. With the prick long gone, Taylor leaned up against a dumpster and took a moment to compose himself.

"Focus," he heaved, his jaw throbbing. "Washington Tower!"

A late 20th century station wagon idled in the alley, burning diesel and purring like a cat. Taylor crept towards the trunk of the antique. The windows were fogged over but he could still make out the distorted figures of a family inside. In the back seat, a mother squeezed her two young children close while the father read them the Tale of Peter Rabbit. Taylor went to knock on the glass when he noticed a hose attached to the exhaust, feeding the family a lethal dose of carbon monoxide. He kept his distance, minded his business, and left them to sleep.

Drones, those shielded by last night's blast, flew sporadically over and around buildings, observing crime rather than preventing it. One drone hovered 50 ft above Taylor's head.

"Lanza," he mumbled, giving his silver shadow the finger before pressing on towards the canopy of trees in Central Park.

The afternoon sun cast its powerful light over the Park's expansive lawn. It was quiet, serene and surreal, but Taylor couldn't be too careful. He crouched in the shrubs, taking time to scrutinize the landscape.

"Two miles," he said, eyeing the three Patriot Towers, rising majestically over Strawberry Fields. Suddenly a pair of feet ran past the bush. Taylor gasped and cowered further into his hiding place as just feet away, a terrified teenager ran for her life. Her attacker was a balding, naked man in his 40s, slightly built and wielding a knife.

The girl stumbled and the man pounced, landing on her back and pressing her face into the grass. Drool oozed from the pervert's bottom lip as he cut away her shirt and bra, tossing them over his shoulder as if unwrapping a gift.

"Let her go motherfucker!"

Taylor pressed the barrel of his gun into the back of the man's head. "Drop the knife you filthy piece of shite!"

The man froze and Taylor's heart painfully thumped as he took a step back. The man climbed off the topless girl and the instant she was loose, she scurried off through the park without looking back.

The man was scab ridden, bruised and emaciated. He held the knife in-front of him and chuckled as he turned and crept toward Taylor. "You won't shoot me mister! Cunt won't shoot!"

Taylor cocked the gun. "You don't know me."

"I know there's no bullets in that gun, chambers are empty."

A chill trickled down Taylor's neck. He lowered the gun and wavered back but the stranger followed. "You interrupted me," he spat, aiming the knife at Taylor. "You lost me my toy mister, now I'm gonna have my fun with you instead."

Taylor observed the prison issue tattoo inked on the man's forearm, a QR code containing his date of birth, criminal record, date of sentencing and designated date of death.

"How'd you get out?" Taylor asked him.

"Big breakout a few hours back, all the locks died and then so did the guards. Every cunt's out and all havin' fun!"

The prisoner gestured over Taylor's shoulder and he flashed an eye back. Lying at the base of an oak tree were the dead bodies of two young girls, clothes tattered and faces slashed to ribbons.

"I love my girls!" the prisoner groaned. "Love 'em real bad, mister!"

Overwhelmed by fear, adrenaline and anger, Taylor gripped the revolver, gnashed his teeth then swatted the knife from the man's hand. It flew out of reach and the lunatic bawled and cradled his broken fingers. Taylor roared back, raised his arm and brought the butt of the gun down upon the prisoner's face, crushing his nose and caving in his eye socket. The prisoner crumpled over and Taylor, sweaty and blood drunk, lurched over him. As he raised his arm for another strike, two cars came plowing through the bushes, skidding on the wet grass and shattering glass as they collided.

Taylor sprang out of the way as a bumper clipped his heel. The cars ran over the naked lunatic, crushing his body and causing the vehicles to lose control. They flipped in unison, over and over again. Taylor shut his eyes and crouched into the fetal position until he no longer heard the sounds of twisting metal.

One of the cars was crushed like a tin can and a limp arm dangled from a window. The second car was upright, smoking and dented, its wheels intact and the engine still running. Taylor hobbled over the trail of debris and bent to look into the vehicle's driver side. The young male driver had been thrown into the passenger seat, alive but unconscious.

"Operational?" Taylor asked the car, whilst checking the kid's vitals.

A robotic voice responded from the brightly lit driver's console. "Damage irreversible. 34 minutes until total engine failure. Current engine output at 47 percent. Auto-Drive unavailable. Manual controls available but limited. This incident will affect your premiums."

"Wee arsehole," Taylor spat, as he pulled the groaning kid to safety.

"Response does not compute!" the car blared. "Have you thought of attending a driver safety course?"

Taylor lay the kid on the grass and with nothing more to do for him, he jumped into the car, hit the gas and drove towards the Patriot Towers of Washington, Adams and Jefferson.

Taylor turned off Central Park and got as far as the Upper West Side before he could go no further. The remaining citizens of New York were packed like sardines from 79th to 85th. The air was thick with anarchy as tens of thousands marched towards the crown jewel of the city's elite - Patriot Towers. Hovering drones kept their distance, and with the early evening rapidly closing in, their twinkling lights lit up the sky. A dozen armoured trucks were entrenched around the towers, threatening the crowd with mounted sonic devastators.

"Disperse immediately!" an authoritarian voice boomed from a megaphone. "Lawlessness will not be tolerated!"

The order repeated but no-one cared. Projections over the face of other skyscrapers shared little news of the incoming comet, only educational videos on how to prepare for impact. School children hid under desks, while grandma tucked herself under a kitchen table. They were all smiling - they were going to be okay.

"Disperse immediately! Lawlessness will not be tolerated!"

Taylor fought his way toward Washington as the crowd clamoured onto the armoured trucks and pried open the access hatches. "There's no-one in here!" a voice bellowed. "They're fucking gone! Cops are gone!"

"Disperse immediately!" blared the megaphone. "Lawlessness will not be tolerated!"

The crowd roared in unison, fists thrashing the air. Dozens mounted the trucks like crazed hyenas, commandeering the sonic devastators and fighting over any weapons left inside. Not a moment later, a sudden punch of energy knocked Taylor backwards, bursting his eardrum in the process. Dozens of people were flung at cars, smashed into buildings or launched like human projectiles. The masses fled from the devastators, crushing each other underfoot while flinching from the flying debris and people. Blood dribbling from his damaged ear, Taylor slapped the wits back into his face then battled against the human tide as a second blast went off in front of Adams Tower, turning glass to powder.

Each of the dozen trucks had mounted weapons, and each were now in operation by a crazed member of the public with nothing to lose. Rolling clouds of vaporized glass particles consumed Taylor as he passed Adams, then Jefferson. With waves of sound shattering the world around him, he shielded his face and closed his eyes as another wave struck him. When he opened his eyes, he found himself upside down and spinning in what seemed like slow motion.

He hit the ground, spitting out a concoction of blood and glass as chunks of the towers fell around him. He exhaled a dusty breath and his vision cleared to reveal the pyramid-shaped water feature inside the lobby of Washington Tower. The lobby was filled with splintered wood, chunks of marble, and broken human bodies. The art deco walls were stripped of their plush finish and the once polished marble was shattered beyond repair. The waves of concentrated sound continued and before he could be struck again, Taylor bolted towards the golden elevator. With the scanner inoperative, rendering the elevator useless, the only option left available to him were the stairs, and 167 floors on foot.

Taylor felt the core of the tower vibrate due to sustained blasts from sonic devastators. Dust trickled down onto his head while the walls shook like stone speakers. Every time Taylor stopped for a breath his better judgement nagged at him: 'Donald and the boys aren't upstairs. The towers have been evacuated. Every step you take is one more into a soon-to-be-collapsing building.'

Taylor pressed on. He had to be certain.

By the time he made it to the 167th floor his legs felt like jello and his tobacco coated lungs were on fire. In the murky darkness, he could make out a heavyset man in a dust covered suit slouched against the door to the hallway, blocking all access. The stranger's head was drooped against his chest, and laying close to his hand was a blood-stained axe.

Taylor flopped against the handrail, five steps below the landing.

"Look mate," he heaved, his voice echoing around the crumbling stairwell. "I need to get past you, right."

The man kept his face down, shook his head and mumbled. "No-one gets in there. I can't let anyone see. Not anyone. No-one gets past."

The men made eye contact. It was the Mayor of New York, Jeff Watson. Taylor ascended a step and Watson reacted, wrapping his fingers around the axe handle. Taylor ignored the warning, and with palms open and time running out, he took another step.

"I was cooking dinner last night," Watson sobbed, his moustache saturated in snot. "We watched a movie!"

Taylor scowled at the bloody axe and whispered. "It's all fucked up. You should see what's going on outside. We do what we have to do."

Watson blow his nose on his sleeve. "We agreed to go together. The axe was all I could find. I tried to use it on myself but I..."

Taylor shook his head understandingly as he moved a step higher. "It's all fucked up mate."

Watson gripped the axe and pressed the wooden handle against his cheek. "I couldn't do it. I couldn't! I couldn't!"

"Mayor," Taylor interrupted, racking his head for options. "I get it and I'm sorry, but I need you to move. You did what you had to do. No one's judging you."
Watson turned his head and squinted at Taylor, his wild eyes burning. "Could you?" he begged, offering Taylor the axe. "Bury it in my chest. One good hit, that's all it'd take!"

Taylor instinctively accepted the weapon and Watson stood to prepare himself.

"Right here!" he frothed, pounding on his chest. "One strike! My family are waiting!"

Taylor touched the bladed edge and considered it. To him, Watson was already dead, but then they all were. "Forget it," he baulked. "That's not what I do."

He tossed the axe down the stairs and Watson reached forward, snatching Taylor by the collar. "You think that's what I do?" he spat, pressing his fat nose against Taylor's. Taylor pushed him away, but Watson tightened his grip then locked his arm around Taylor's neck. Smothered by Watson's biceps, Taylor punched and scratched but his efforts were futile.

"This isn't happening!" Watson sobbed and squeezed, pushing them towards the handrail. Taylor forced against Watson's girth, straining every muscle and sinew as his lower back pressed painfully against the rail.

Taylor, low on energy and patience, dug his fingers into Watson's shirt and roared. "Fuck it!"

He threw himself backwards over the rail, taking Watson with him. They hit the concrete and tumbled down the steps until the lower landing brought them to an abrupt stop.

Through blurred eyes, Taylor saw Watson's mangled body. His head was cracked like an egg. He had gotten what he wanted.

Taylor grimaced as the tower gave another shudder. Dust showered his head and back, and as he climbed the last of the stairs, his logical mind recited the problems he detected in his body. "Left eardrum burst. Right leg paresthesia." he gasped. "Rotator cuff tear. Dizziness. Nausea. Whiplash. Fucked...right...off!"

The hall of the 167th floor was bleak and still. Taylor noticed Mayor Watson's apartment door laying ajar, the handle covered in blood. He closed his eyes and lowered his head when passing, as if refusing to see another nightmare.

"Donald!" he cried, kicking in his brother's apartment door. "Donald? It's Ham, where the fuck are you?"

The living room was strewn with clothes, photographs and broken mementos. The family had left in a hurry.

"Fuck!"

Taylor kicked over the coffee table, then threw a vase against the wall.

In the dining room, the table was clear and the floor was covered in plates and last night's dinner. The windows to the balcony were shattered, exposing the apartment to an early evening gale and the screams of the mob below. Curiosity took Taylor to the balcony, and squinting through a bitter wind, he witnessed every sonic devastator concentrating fire on the base of Washington Tower.

"Jesus Christ."

He drew back into the apartment just as the building began to sway. "What now you son of a bitch? What now?"

Instinct caused Taylor to turn and when he did, his eye was drawn immediately to a large red apple on the dinner table. It had an unnatural sheen, seeming to glow as if from the inside. Taylor stepped closer, reading two words carved on the side. - IT WORKS! -

"What works?" he shouted at the apple. Seconds later, the fruit exploded, covering his face in pulp. Taylor smeared off the gunk and glanced frantically around him, spotting yet another message, this one scrawled on the dining room wall; written in large black paint was the location Lanza had shared with him a few hours ago: West Mountain State Forest, Dutchess County.

The building swayed again and Taylor knew he wouldn't make it down167 flights of stairs. The only place left to run, was up.

He raced up the last thirteen flights of stairs through a hail of falling plaster and concrete dust. He slammed his shoulder into the rooftop door and threw himself over the threshold.

Cracks formed over the rooftop and expanding fissures ruptured a tank behind him, sending hundreds of gallons of water crashing down on-top of him. He rode the wave to the precipice, where he clung for life as the torrent broke against his back. The entire roof rumbled and sagged, beams growling, cables snapping. Shaking off the water, Taylor noticed his silver surveillance shadow. Still following, still watching, the orb hovered several feet off the edge of Washington Tower.

He stood, punched at his chest and slapped his cheeks, summoning all the balls and adrenaline he could muster. Moments before Washington Tower crumbled beneath him, Taylor sprinted for the edge. Arms outstretched, he jumped and screamed and snatched at the drone, dragging them both into a vortex of warping steel and acrid smoke.

— CHAPTER FIVE —

Taylor slammed into something metal, hard. He rolled onto his back and lay there in a state of stunned exhilaration. Sharp pains fired up his chest and he thought he was having a heart attack. It wouldn't surprise him.

"You're fine," he said, filling his lungs. "It's all..." he grimaced. "Good."

He couldn't remember how long he had held onto that drone or how far it had flown him. The only thing Taylor knew for certain was that he was awake, and somehow alive.

Cuts blighted his face, neck and hands. Flat on his back, he was enveloped in an apocalyptic shroud of dust and smoke. Along with a burst ear drum, the holo-lens over his right eye had fused with his cornea, leaving him half blind as well as half deaf. The pain in his joints was constant, and with no concept of night or day, he sat up and felt the steel roof of a yellow school bus that had broken his landing. Nestled between his legs was the now malfunctioning surveillance drone, bleeping and sparking. Taylor swept it aside, along with the glass over his stomach. An excruciating crunch in his right shoulder caused him to shriek. It was dislocated, the nerves shredded. Stinging tears ran from his remaining good eye as he slid across the bus roof. He took his time lowering himself over the hood then gingerly onto the ground. Slumped against the front tire, heard screams and the sound of running footsteps from within the dust cloud, lost in the ghost of the ravaged towers. Taylor padded his way along the side of the bus, coughing up a mixture of blood, phlegm, concrete dust, soot and powdered glass. He felt for the rubber seals of the two doors, and using his good arm, pried them apart far enough to squeeze inside.

The interior was dark and stifling, the windows obscured by a coating of dust. Another cough forced more blood from the corner of Taylor's mouth while he climbed the two steps to the driver's seat, which he promptly flopped into. He wouldn't move, he wouldn't talk, he wouldn't think. Resting his face against the steering wheel, he closed his good eye and drifted away.

"Sir?"

The voice came from behind him. Taylor's eye twitched and he ignored it, it was nothing.

"Is that you sir?"

Taylor blinked and turned his head. Standing obediently behind the white line was a hollow cheeked and malnourished 8 year old boy. The kid was dressed in drab, orphan issue clothing, and he had a buzz cut to prevent the spread of lice. The boy's initial look of relief was replaced with horror as he recoiled from Taylor's gruesome right eyeball.

"It's okay," Taylor murmured, but still the boy drew back, joining 24 other orphans, somehow alive and well in their seats. There were many orphanages in the city and plenty of (mostly immigrant) children to fill them. It was an attractive option for compromised parents and the country would benefit too, having a large crop of workers for the menial jobs of tomorrow.

Taylor was in too much pain to express surprise. "Don't be," he groaned, lurching to his feet, "scared."

One little girl, eyes raw from tears, raised her hand in the murky air. "Are you gonna hurt us, mister?"

Taylor shook his head and the children stared back, breathless, hungry, terrified. Already feeling the burden of responsibility, Taylor turned his eye on the door and considered using it.

"Shite."

Slumping over the wheel, he glanced underneath the steering column to see a key jangling from the ignition. He figured that the driver had fled during an attempted evacuation from the city. Who could blame him?

"Name's Taylor!" he declared, standing to rest against a stainless steel pole. "I'm your new supervisor!" He wobbled before coughing up a vile amalgam into his palm.

"Now kids," he continued, smearing the gunk on his jeans, "before we set off I'd like you all to help Mr. Taylor!"

The meek children peeked up from the seats. "In a few seconds," Taylor panted, "I may pass out. I want you all to know that I am not dead, and that I'll probably wake up very soon. Mr. Taylor would appreciate very much that you turn him onto his side so that he doesn't swallow his tongue."

Several of the kids nodded dumbly while Taylor wrapped his hands around the steel pole. 'Sturdy enough,' he thought.

He rocked himself back and forth, grimacing as he aimed his dislocated shoulder at the bar. "This is going to suck," he hissed, grinding his teeth.

Taylor rammed his shoulder into the pole. The bone popped and he yelped like a wounded dog. The children whimpered and cried as Taylor drifted backwards. He wanted to close his eyes and sink into oblivion, but the sound of the scared children kept him from unconsciousness. He shook his face and slapped his cheeks. "I'm okay," he slurred, inhaling the drool escaping his lips. "I'm okay."

Taylor returned to the driver's seat and took a large breath as he turned the key. The engine rumbled and the dashboard lit up with a reassuring blue glow.

"You are not the assigned supervisor for this vehicle," said a voice from the console. "Identification please?"

"Kids?" Taylor yelled. "What's the name of your last supervisor?"

Despite the unprecedented safety of autonomous transportation, a human supervisor was a legal requirement for all vehicles transporting children, the sick and the elderly.

The same girl raised her hand. "Mr. Oakley. He ran away."

Taylor winked at the girl then directed his voice back at the console. "Mr. Oakley was the assigned supervisor. Unfortunately Mr. Oakley has buggered off, citing the end of the world as reason for his resignation. Now I have children here in an emergency situation, I'm going to need this vehicle operational as soon as possible."

He violently coughed as the bus replied. "This is a public service vehicle, and therefore may only be operated by a public servant."

Taylor pounded his fist against the steering wheel. "I am a public servant! My name is Dr. Hamilton Taylor. Born April 5th 2000. Get fucking moving!"

The bus responded promptly and officiously. "More information is required before authorization can be given, and foul language will not be tolerated."

Taylor sighed over the wheel. "My CIN (Citizens Ident. Number) is 753-104-546. I'm 5'11 and weigh 190 pounds or thereabouts. My blood type is AB positive, my Mother's name is Morag, her maiden name is Ramsey and she has a cat called Squirts. My favourite food is Chicken Vindaloo and my team are Glasgow Rangers. I once met the Queen of England - she smelled like cabbage. I hate onions, enjoy pornography and occasionally - at the court's behest - serve my local community by pruning trees. Start the fucking bus bitch!"

The bus roared into life and Taylor revved the engine. Squinting into the rear view, he was pleased to see some hope in the orphans' eyes, but the weight of that hope caused his hands to shake like a dry junkie. For a second time, he glanced at the door.

"Sack up," he growled, tightening his fingers around the steering wheel.

With full beams blazing and wipers clearing the windshield, Taylor shifted the bus into first and set off through the dust cloud.

Flaming vehicles illuminated the expressway. Taylor burned rubber through the smoldering assault course, ignoring the pleas of panicked pedestrians fleeing the city. His natural tendency was to stop, but a momentary glance at the terrified kids in his rear view was all the reason in the world to keep his foot on the gas.

The crowds grew larger as they neared the city limits, forcing Taylor to slow down. They attacked the windows with fists and bricks, while the more desperate threw themselves or strangers under the tires. Anything to get a spot on the bus. Taylor winced and the kids wailed as the bus rolled over arms, legs and heads, there were many bumps in the road.

A sudden pain in Taylor's shoulder caused him to squirm and grip his throbbing arm. When he glanced up at the road again, he gasped at hundreds of faces caught in the headlamps. The kids were thrown from their seats as the bus slammed into the horde. Despite the revving engine and Taylor putting the hammer down, the bodies seemed to sandwich the bus in place. A legion of fists pounded at the windows, pulled on the doors and rocked the bus back and forth.

"Fuck off!" Taylor screamed. "I got kids here!"

The children dropped to the floor as the mob heaved the bus on it's left side. Too heavy for them, they backed off as the bus righted itself, cracking the windows inside.

"Stay down!" Taylor yelled back, as more arrived to work over the bus.

Taylor ducked at the steering wheel, racking his brain for a life saving solution. Eye closed, he was yanked out of his thoughts by a soda bottle that had rolled down the aisle and had come to a stop by his heel. He smiled, picked up the bottle and swirled the gassy pop inside. "That'll do."

Taylor felt his bare toes rubbing against his boots and remembered he had left his apartment without any socks. It didn't matter. He would make it work.

He left the drivers seat, got to his knees and faced the whimpering children down the aisle. "Kids!" he yelled, as loud as possible. "Hands up who has the largest feet! Come on now, hands up!"

Two boys with dust smudged faces held up their hands before steadying themselves against the rocking bus. Taylor enthusiastically clapped his hands together. "Boys, I will need to borrow one of your socks! The biggest sock wins! Quick now!"

Everyone hit the floor as once again, the mob heaved the bus onto two wheels. Taylor clung to the steering wheel for balance as he ripped the fire extinguisher from its shelf under the driver's seat. As the bus righted itself again the last of the windows shattered, showering the kids with shards of broken glass.

With the extinguisher tucked under his arm, Taylor scurried down the aisle to a red headed boy, who had pulled off his shoe and was pulling off his white sock.

"Thank-you very much," Taylor panted, snatching the sock as the children crouched around him. There came a heavy thud as an obese man slammed down on top of the hood. He and several others kicked at the windshield while Taylor aimed the nozzle of the extinguisher deep into the sock, squeezing the handle and filling it up with CO2.

"What are you doing, Mr. Taylor?" asked one child.

"Making a bomb!" he exclaimed, as the sock expelled a frigid gas. "Chemistry kids, it's all good."

When the sock was fat with dry ice, Taylor tipped the sock's contents into the pop bottle. "What's your name son?"

"Michael," said the boy with the bare foot. "Michael Hopkins!"

Taylor sealed the bottle tight, shook it, then handed it to the young boy.

"Do the honours, Michael! Throw that out the window! Right now! Then cover your bloody ears!"

Michael accepted the bottle and leapt to a broken window. Taylor meanwhile returned to the driver's seat, hovering his foot over the gas pedal as Michael dropped the bottle out of the window. The kid ducked down and covered his ears as Taylor screamed "Get down!"

A terrific explosion blasted the side of the bus, the sound loud enough to momentarily disperse the crowd. Taylor slammed his foot down and cut through the modest gap, shaking off any hangers-on and those brave enough to call his bluff.

The crowd thinned out as the bus left the expressway. With the city finally behind them and the rising sun ahead, every new mile felt like one more away from danger.

The country road, flanked by thick beech trees and dashed with Autumn leaves, cut straight to the horizon.

Taylor bent over the wheel, his bloodshot eye on the road. A stiff breeze streamed in through the broken windows and was enough to keep him awake and alert. The kids were quiet in their seats, sharing numb expressions as they observed the countryside. The picturesque view was likely a first for them.

They were 15 miles from Dutchess County when the bus gave up the ghost. The gauges were in the red, the computer had died and the engine had been steadily losing power. When it finally spluttered and died, Taylor let the bus roll to a stop at the side of the road. Through the windshield, he noticed a flash of sunlight strike the side of a high-flying drone. The cavalry were coming.

Taylor stretched his tired bones and stepped away from the steering wheel, scowling at the stabbing sensation in his shoulder. Most of the kids were crying, their lost expressions begging the only adult in the bus for some kind of reassurance.

"Fuck," he sighed, hobbling towards them, balance thrown off by dizziness due to his burst eardrum.

Slinking into the first available seat in the aisle, Taylor wanted to console them, to tell them it would be alright. He just wanted to believe it first.

"When I was your age," he whispered, "I used to get beat up in school. I was a science geek, the skinny wee nerd the bullies preyed on. After the bell at 15:30, they'd wait for me outside and give me a good kicking."

The kids wiped their tears and listened intently as Taylor told them a story. "One weekend...my mum took me to the King's Theater in Glasgow where I saw a magician called 'The Magnificent Mondero!' Mondero was an escape artist all the way from Germany, and that night I watched him get out of a burning box moments before a guillotine smashed it to splinters." He grinned, excitedly. "I'd never clapped so hard in all my life. Mondero was wonderful, and I wanted to be just like him. Better even." Taylor went silent for a moment, savouring the memories replaying in his head. The kids meanwhile, came closer. "At home I taught myself coin tricks and sleight of hand. Dumb stuff."

Taylor placed his right hand over his left index finger then slid it across. The simple yet gruesome illusion made it seem like his index finger was coming off at the knuckle. The kids gasped and giggled, echoing the wondrous expressions that had lured Taylor into magic. "All that stuff was fun and I was good, but I wanted to be magnificent. To escape every bully and any situation. To find the way out."

Taylor glanced around as the kids leaned in close. "When I got better...I went further. One day, wrapped in my mum's best blankets and my dad's old bike locks, I went to a dock and threw myself into the dark and cold River Clyde. I told no-one what I was up to, and as I sank alone to the river bed the water came pouring in through the blankets." He paused, and the kids gave him time.

"I was so scared," he resumed, visibly trembling. "I couldn't breathe. I was going to die."

"What happened Mr. Taylor?" asked a freckle-faced girl.

Steely eyed, Taylor nodded. "I held my breath, that's what happened. I focused. I picked those locks. I threw off the blankets and got out. I escaped!"

"And...did the bullies pick on you after that?"

He shook his head. "I'd beaten something much greater, kids. After that I got into football and girls. Got some confidence in myself, maybe too much. The point is, when you think you can't get out, when you think there's nothing left, just hold your breath...and focus. There's always a way out."

An itch caused Taylor to search over his shoulder. "You hear that?" he asked no one in particular.

There was a faint sound in the air, the thump-thump-thump of a helicopter's rotor blades. Taylor and the kids ran to watch a black gunship buzz the bus, causing dirt and leaves to gust through the broken windows. Seconds later, five heavily armed SUVs broke out of the woods to surround the bus. Brakes screeched, doors were flung open, and twenty or more soldiers in camo raised their rifles at the bus. The helicopter hovered over the scene, a voice blasting from it's public address system.

"STEP OUT OF THE BUS, DR. TAYLOR!"

The kids shuffled up the aisle, crowding around him.

"OUT OF THE BUS! WE KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE!"

Taylor didn't recognize the voice or dare ignore it. He opened the doors and raised both arms in the air. Soldiers trained their rifles, but before stepping completely out of the bus, Taylor looked confidently back at the children. "I won't leave you."

"COME OUT TAYLOR! WE'VE WASTED ENOUGH TIME ALREADY!"

"You wanted me here!" he yelled at the helicopter, as he shuffled down the steps. "What next? Where's my brother?"

The gunship touched down on the road while a young soldier approached Taylor. "Orders are to take you with us. Step into the helicopter."

The soldier grasped Taylor by the elbow and he petulantly shirked off the soldier's hand.

"There are children in that bus!" Taylor bawled at the winding down helicopter, and to those in charge. "They're coming with us!"

"Negative!" the soldier cried, sticking his rifle into Taylor's chest. "Get into the helicopter before I break something!"

"Thank you for being a prick!"

"You're welcome."

The soldier jabbed the muzzle of his weapon into Taylor's shoulder. Taylor's face contorted in pain and he threw his elbow into the soldier's nose, breaking it and causing blood to come gushing down his stunned face. His fellow soldiers swarmed in but a voice from the gunship ordered them back. The men followed the order, leaving their bloodied comrade writhing on the ground.

"WE DON'T HAVE ROOM!" returned the voice from the helicopter. "IT'S YOU ALONE, TAYLOR!"

"Bullshit!" he roared back. "The Corporation of the United States can and does whatever the hell it wants! The only way I'm leaving these kids is in a body bag! If you know me then you know I'm serious...and that I don't give a fucking shite!"

The helicopter did not respond, "You want me bad for some reason!" Taylor added, squinting at the gunship's external cameras. "I don't work for free! My price is these kids!"

The voice responded, loudly and impatiently.

"ALL MILITARY PERSONNEL WILL MAKE SPACE FOR CIVILIANS! SOLDIERS LEFT BEHIND WILL MARCH TO WEST MOUNTAIN STATE FOREST AND WAIT FOR EXTRACTION!"

Soldiers immediately climbed out of the SUVs to provide room for the children.

"Come on out kids!" Taylor yelled over his shoulder. "I got us a ride!"

Michael Hopkins was the first boy down the steps, with the rest filing out behind him. Taylor hobbled over to Michael and bent down to the boy's confused face. "It's going to be fine, all right?"

Michael nodded dazedly and Taylor ushered the kids into the armored vehicles. With the doors closed and the kids secure, Taylor stooped down before the soldier whose nose he'd broken. "Don't move," he whispered, raising both hands to the soldier's bloody face. The man recoiled and Taylor repeated. "Don't...move."

Cupping his hands around the soldier's broken nose, Taylor corrected it with a swift jerk and crunch. The soldier yelped, and the doctor offered him his hand.

"You're welcome," Taylor said, pulling the man to his feet. The SUVs kicked up dirt as they sped off down the road. Taylor meanwhile, surrounded by soldiers, went to the helicopter as it's rotors began to spin. A soldier opened the side door and Taylor saw no one inside the helicopter. Unsurprised, he ducked his head, climbed inside and strapped himself into the seat nearest the door.

"This is General Wertz," a voice announced from the cockpit console. "I will meet you at the rendezvous location. The package is wrapped."

The soldiers stepped back and the autonomous helicopter rose into the sky, trailed by several silver drones. With the weight of the world temporarily off his shoulders, Taylor lay back and used the time to sleep.

*

The small type in the textbook was hard on Penelope's eyes, she had several open encircling the sofa, and more on the table beside a pot of tea. The apartment was warm, filled with mementos from foreign lands and framed memories of her and Taylor. At a particularly engrossing part of her book, Penelope's eyes widened while she dunked a biscuit into her tea and sucked it into her mouth. Going in for a second dunk, she dropped the biscuit into the teacup when Taylor threw open the front door.

"You scared me!" she exclaimed, brushing the crumbs from her lap. "I thought you were working 'til five? I was thinking about spaghetti for dinner."

Taylor said nothing as he wandered into the apartment. Hollow faced and dishevelled, he wore a cheap suit and embraced a plain brown folder in his arms. Penelope stood, worried. "What's happened?"

Taylor moved to the edge of the bed and Penelope followed, growing more concerned as she sat beside him.

"Ham?" she whispered, combing her hand through his hair. "What's wrong, love?"

"This," he muttered, passing her the inch thick folder. Penelope opened the folder, shook her head and frowned as she glanced over her husband's incomprehensible scribblings.

"It's not," she gasped, her fingers trembling as she turned the pages. "You didn't?"

Taylor vaguely nodded back. "I did it, Penelope, it works. Will you check it over? I need to be sure. I need to be certain."

Penelope threw a hand over her mouth to hold in a giggle. She then closed the folder and reached for her glasses. "Make me another pot of tea, and fetch me my biscuits."

Hours later, Taylor was still on the edge of the bed, wringing his fingers as he waited. The bedroom door opened and Penelope entered the room. She looked exhausted yet exhilarated, her blonde hair draped over her face and coiled around her glasses. Taylor glanced up at her, full of nerves and hope as she joined him on the bed. Penelope set the folder onto her lap then lay her head against her husband's heavy shoulder. "Eureka," she whispered.

Taylor exhaled yet remained stiff. Penelope however, appeared scared as she interlaced her hand with his. "Tomorrow...you're going to be the most famous man on Earth."

Taylor seemed to snap out of a dream as he turned to his wife's soft face.

"I'll still be me. I'll still be me."

— CHAPTER SIX —

It was early-afternoon when the helicopter arrived at its destination. The door slid open with a thunk, causing Taylor to groggily open his eye. Blocking the door was a 5 star General with armed soldiers at his back. The General was around the same age as Taylor, early to mid forties, with a sharp nose, thin lips and posture as stiff as a board. He wore a striking uniform, with multicoloured service ribbons on his chest and a golden eagle insignia on his hat.

"I know you," Taylor said, meeting the officer's unreadable stare.

His name was Wertz, General of the Army - the second highest rank in the corporation. Wertz cut his teeth in the Border Wars, earning an uncompromising reputation abroad and winning the hearts of the public at home. He was the face of the war and vanguard for a new America.

Taylor observed his current location over Wertz's shoulder. There was a decommissioned tank, on display above a two tiered brick podium. 'WELCOME TO FORT KNOX'

Wertz took a step back and Taylor, nursing his shoulder, stepped out of the helicopter.

Aside from the small unit surrounding Wertz, it seemed that there was no hardware or military personnel on base, just an eerie silence as they walked toward a pair of razor wire covered electric fences with unmanned gates. Beyond the gates was a long road leading to the island-like United States Bullion Depository. The white Federal building was located in the centre of 42 walled acres, and should have been secured by watchtowers, surveillance drones, a minefield, armed guards and the Army units based at Fort Knox.

"And the kids?" Taylor asked, peering up at a burning white ball in the sky that was not the life giving sun, but a world ending comet.

Wertz glanced up at the ball then down to his watch. "The SUVs will be arriving in approximately 2 hours. We have 6 hours before the comet strike."

Wertz had a monotone voice, cold and to the point. They continued toward the legendary vault, once home to the US Declaration of Independence, the US Constitution and the English Magna Carta; documents still revered if no longer obeyed. The world's gold reserves were also said to be inside, but since the fortress sat unfortified, Taylor assumed the gold was long gone too.

As they approached an unmarked hangar door, an ear piercing buzzer sounded and the door began to rise. The sound of ticking steel kept time as the interior was revealed, wide enough to fit an old jumbo jet. Taylor bent for an eager look and was disappointed by what he saw. There was no mystical beam of light bouncing off blocks of gold bullion, just a dim red bulb above a functional looking steel elevator.

"About FACE!" Wertz snapped at his soldiers, who promptly turned 180 degrees to guard the entrance of the hangar. Taylor was amused to see soldiers pointing rifles at nothing, but decided not to question the general in front of his men.

The red light flicked to green and steam poured from vents around the elevator as the doors opened. Taylor swiped at wisps of steam as he followed Wertz inside. The maintenance like elevator was deceivingly simplistic. The control panel had only descending floors, ground level to minus 33. As Wertz pressed for the 32nd floor, a set of cameras scanned his face, recognized him as authorized, closed the doors and activated the elevator. While the cables and pulleys creaked and groaned, the scanner read over Taylor's face. As it did, a robotic voice announced from a corner speaker:

"Robert Wertz. Hamilton Taylor."

Wertz kept his face toward the doors while Taylor stood directly behind him, observing the perfectly horizontal trim of his hair.

"I watched you back in the day," he muttered at Wertz's head. "The media painted you as some kind of bloody hero."

"You don't agree?" Wertz asked, turning his head slightly to one side.

Taylor squinted sourly. "I don't see anything heroic in putting the boot into illegal immigrants and refugees. Those people needed a home."

Wertz exhaled, as if he'd heard the argument a hundred times before. "The house is full. Those illegals were taking food from the mouths of good Americans. I was doing my duty, I'm proud of my service, and honoured by the accolades."

"Congratulations," Taylor said, his sarcasm unmistakable.

Wertz remained plain faced, focusing on the split between the doors. "I watched you too, Taylor. Back in the day."

"Really?"

Wertz nodded, a crooked smile on his lips. "I remember seeing your face splashed on the front of digi-mags and covering billboards. You were everywhere, including that awful reality TV show. There was that one image with you posing shirtless. What was the tagline? Making science sexy."

Taylor shrugged it off. "My attempt at getting public attention away from the warmongers in Washington. Turned out no one wanted to invest in science during war time so the money went to you and your ilk instead. The billboard wasn't my finest hour but they did get my good side."

"Congratulations," Wertz added, mimicking Taylor's sarcasm.

The deeper they descended, the more artificial light filled the elevator.

"Where are your men, General?" Taylor asked, genuinely curious. "I've seen a half dozen here and there. Where the hell is the military?".

Wertz locked his hands behind his back, maintaining his strict posture. "Their families meant more to them than the oaths they swore to their country. I was disappointed."

Despite revealing little in his tone, Taylor sensed Wertz was more than just disappointed, he was heartbroken.

Finally Wertz turned, and the moment their eyes met, the elevator doors sprang open. Taylor shielded his good eye from the bright light, then gawked at the rolling green fields full of daisies, and the puffy clouds in a bright blue sky.

"Floor 32," Wertz clarified, ushering Taylor out the elevator. "2 miles underground."

The sun shone large overhead and it's artificial heat was soothing. Thin optical film covered the deep rock, displaying the crystal clear image of a virtual English countryside, complete with chirping birds and a cool breeze emanating from hidden vents. The illusion was beautiful, and convincing.

"It helps quell the sense of claustrophobia," said Wertz, taking the lead over a gravel path that crunched underfoot.

Taylor kept up, watching butterflies flitting about the perennials and rabbits hopping in and out of holes. The path ran towards a village an easy half mile away. Symbolically guarding that village was a gigantic statue of a lion, easily over 300 feet tall. The colossus was cut from black stone, and the path ran directly between its gargantuan paws.

"That's not real, is it?" Taylor mumbled, creaking his neck to look at it.

"The lion guardian," Wertz responded in reverence, "is the only thing here that is real."

The statue appeared to snarl down at those who walked the path, it's black marble mane like a storm at sea, humbling all who passed underneath. Wertz wanted to move but Taylor was stuck in place, his good eye affixed to the lion. His stomach churned with déjà vu, a warped familiarity that he couldn't shake nor fathom.

"What the fuck is this place?"

"The past and the future," Wertz said, walking between the paws. "We don't have long."

Under the mane and between the paws was a locked hatch door. Wertz entered a 5 digit combination while Taylor caught up. After entering the correct code, Wertz pressed his palm onto a scanner as a second scanner read his face. A clicking of steel and a brief second later, the hatch opened inwardly. The door was 30 inches thick and blast proof. Built to keep something in, and everyone else out.

After passing beneath the lion, the men encountered an echoing hole deep inside the Earth. It was the beginning of a vast underground network of tunnels.

This was more what Taylor had been expecting, but he could not imagine how many years it took, or how much money it cost to cut this facility out of the rock. Ahead was a parking lot, each bay occupied by a white bus. Taylor heard voices in the distance and the mechanical sounds of loaders moving cargo.

"Activate," said Wertz, tapping a finger to his temple.

A bus purred into life and reversed out of its spot. Once clear of the parking bay, the doors flapped open and Wertz, without pause, stepped inside.

"We're on an extremely tight schedule," he said, taking the seat nearest the door. "Not a pleasant tour around a top secret facility."

Taylor titled his head back wishing for a smoke, then stepped onto the bus.

The bus drove 20 minutes down a main artery, passing vehicles filled with military as well as a surprising number of civilians, Taylor saw electricians toiling on generators, plumbers working on water lines and numerous others performing various vital functions.

The journey came to an end at a lowered barrier in front of a large opaque tube with vents set along it's length. The bus would go no further. The doors slid open and Wertz stepped off, straightening the creases from his uniform as he moved towards a platform running alongside the tube.

Above the platform, a digital clock displayed 13:56 and beside it, platform number 19. Wertz leaned over a gold safety bar at the edge of the platform, turning his head to scrutinize a display showing the arrival time of the train. Taylor stepped off the bus, stretched and sneered as his shoulder popped.

"'Course you got a train down here," he said, rubbing a pain from his neck.

Wertz moved to the display panel as Taylor joined him on the platform. Above their heads was a four letter acronym: E.T.T.S. (Evacuated Tube Transport System).

"How fast?" Taylor pried.

"4,500 MPH," Wertz returned. "LA to NY in 35 minutes. Train is coming from Washington D.C.".

"Who," Taylor added, "are we waiting for?"

Wertz sneered at Taylor and he smirked back.

"You're bloody kiddin' -".

The sound of air being sucked into the tube vents caught Taylor's attention. As Wertz gripped the golden safety handrail, the train suddenly appeared and the air that had just been sucked into the tube was now blasted back out through the vents and into the tunnel, knocking Taylor onto his ass. The punch of energy was terrifying and powerful enough to push the bus back a few inches. The bullet tipped train seemed to stop almost before it had arrived.

The mighty blast of air had ruffled Wertz's neat hair, and as he pressed it down, he ordered Taylor to his feet as automatic doors in the tube opened, followed by the train doors. Wertz stood at attention and Taylor, with a grouchy expression, rose to meet the new arrivals.

"Fuck," he groaned, as President Chantel Cox wiggled toward him.

Cox was what the people wanted from their leaders: beautiful, rich, and dressed for any occasion. She was an icon, girls wanted to be her and boys hung her provocative posters on their bedroom walls. She had shoulder length blonde hair and cleavage propped up by a strapless red silk gown. She accessorized with diamond jewelry and a stingray skin handbag. She was fabulous - that was her job. A male stylist corrected the President's hair while three hovering camera drones filmed her live reality show. The President was always on.

"What's his name again?" she asked, glancing at her busy entourage.

"Dr. Hamilton Taylor," Wertz announced, a visible twitch at his eye. "Alive and well...as you requested Madam President."

"Of course," she said, unconvincingly. "What happened to his eye? His face?"

Wertz had no answer. Cox blinded Taylor with her smile, pulled gloves over her fingers then extended a handshake. "We'll get you cleaned up right away, Dr. Taylor."

"Where's my fucking brother?" he said, flicking her hand aside. Wertz grabbed Taylor's damaged shoulder, catching him off guard and forcing him to his knees.

"Respect to your Commander-in-chief!" Wertz spat over him.

"That's a bastard," Taylor rasped, clutching his injured shoulder. "How...heroic of you."

Wertz drew back his clenched fist but the President's team, those behind the scenes, called him off.

"Thank-you General," Cox said, as her stylist wafted a fan in her troubled face. "It's strange that my title doesn't get the respect it deserves. It makes me want to cry."

"Don't cry Madam President!" her stylist begged, dabbing a napkin at the corner of her cheek. "It takes so long to do your eyes!"

Taylor unsteadily took to his feet as the colour returned to his face. Shaky and ready to pass out, he mustered enough energy to direct a demented smile at the President.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," Cox declared, swooping around to face the camera, reading from the teleprompter inside her holo-lens. "Today is a special edition of Cox unplugged. I have an announcement that humanity has been waiting for! We brought this man here to help us - to save all of us! Dr. Taylor is the father of time-travel. He has invented a time machine that may be the solution to all of our problems." Cox paused, waiting for the script to catch up.

"In this episode," she seamlessly resumed, "we were hoping to interview Dr. Taylor about his contraption but as you see, his best days may be behind him. What do you want to say to the nation, Dr. Taylor? To the world? There are billions out there still waiting for hope. Do you have any words to inspire them?"

Taylor nodded to himself. It all made sense now. At first he believed that the Corporation - at the behest of Karl Lanza - wanted him to be part of a think-tank of brains, saved today to help tomorrow. But there was more to it than that.

He hobbled close to the President as the cameras zoomed in on his face. Wertz meanwhile, removed his sidearm.

"Well," said Cox, folding her arms. "What do you have to say for yourself? The world wants to hear from its potential saviour."

Taylor exhaled a bloody snot bubble from his nose and said, "If you have my machine, then you should know what I'm capable of. If you people need my help then you better start hoping...that I start caring.".

Cox looked uncomfortably into her camera and Taylor took a step closer. Nose to nose. "Do you know what I could do to you?" He looked Cox up and down with a dirty sneer. "I could go back 15 years and fuck you on prom night. You'll gain 150 pounds raising my bastard baby.".

Taylor hit the ground again as Wertz struck him across the head with the butt of his pistol. On the floor but still conscious, Taylor focused his blurry vision on the President's shoes, Mario Balsar exclusives. Conjuring up all the bloody phlegm in his throat, he spat.

Cox shrieked and kicked off the shoe. Taylor braced himself as Wertz drew back his jackboot.

"No!" Cox screeched, grasping at Wertz. "He's...had enough. They want him alive."

Taylor heard her words and let out a painful chuckle. Cox meanwhile flipped her hair and grinned into one of her cameras.

"Now a word from our sponsor."

— CHAPTER SEVEN —

The holo-lens was no longer fused to his eyeball, in fact his vision, along with the rest of his body, felt almost as good as new. Dressed only in jeans, Taylor squinted at Hippocrates, feeding his veins with a mixture of antibiotics, painkillers and hydrating fluids.

Professor Karl Lanza moved around the bed, stuffing notes into his lab coat as he took readings from the machine. Lanza was dishevelled and sweaty, looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"You're still dehydrated," he said, offering Taylor a glass of icy water. "I was observing your progress through the drone. It made for tense and unpleasant viewing."

"Nightmares are in the post," Taylor said, sitting up.

He relaxed on one of ten beds, each with its own Hippocrates unit. The state of the art med-lab was lined with cold metal and outfitted with ample supplies, including holo-net access and old fashioned textbooks, enough to turn any layman into a serviceable medic.

Taylor sipped the water and chewed on the ice. Over Lanza's objections, he pulled the intravenous line from his hand and hopped off the bed.

"How long have I been under?" he asked, catching his rough reflection in a cabinet. "Where's Donald?"

"You have been under for just over 90 minutes. Your brother and his family are close. The children you brought here are also safe."

Taylor breathed a sigh of relief. "And the comet?"

Lanza hobbled toward him with a pronounced hump on his back. "4 hours from impact."

Taylor closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the cabinet. "The machine, it's here?"

Lanza set his hand on Taylor's shoulder. "It's a very long story."

"The abridged version then."

Lanza turned and sat on the bed. "The Corporation," he began, "set up the meeting in my study. They've been watching you for years."

Taylor faced him. "How long have they owned you?"

Lanza wiped a cold sweat from his face. "You may not have any respect for authority, Hamilton, but these people offered me everything. They protected my family, they gave me a penthouse in Patriot Towers and the green light for any project my heart desired."

Lanza scrutinized his withered hands and the wedding band around his swollen ring finger. "My task was to build your machine. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, a chance to change the world. Unfortunately," he paused to clear his throat; "the task took more from me than I could have imagined. First my health, then my marriage."

Lanza wrapped his arms around his chest to hold himself together. "Lorraine left me shortly after the...incident."

Taylor came close, passing Lanza his glass of water. "Why didn't you reach out to me? We could have built it together, from the ground up. Why keep me in the dark?"

Lanza snickered involuntarily, as if the answer was obvious. "Hamilton these people know everything about us. You were simply too radical for their tastes, too unpredictable."

Taylor raised a hand to protest but Lanza pressed his point. "Less than two hours ago you threatened the president with impregnation in front of the entire planet. What sort of behaviour is that?"

Taylor dug his hands into his jeans. "I was going to call her a cunt but thought my mum might be watching. Karl I worked my arse off to get the world to notice this work, TV shows, articles and interviews, even a Nobel Prize couldn't get me funded!"

"Honesty was your mistake. You cannot go public with a time machine. Naive for you to think so. Projects this dangerous belong in the dark, and since you had too much light on you, the corporation found someone they could trust."

"And control," Taylor concluded, sitting next to his old friend.

"The machine," he added, peering into Lanza's pale eyes. "Show me."

The chamber door resembled a submarine hatch, opening after several cranks of the wheel. It screeched inward and standing at the threshold, Taylor placed a hand over his chest to feel his racing heart. He smiled, pleased to know there was still some things in the world that could get him going.

He took a step inside the spherical chamber and a tangerine coloured light danced over his face. Taylor was inside a pressed globe, copper plated and polished to a glossy sheen. The surrounding chamber had no nuts, bolts or obvious seams, only vents, and plenty of them.

"The jump room," Taylor whispered, his pupils dilating as adrenaline circulated through his blood. "Beautiful."

Lanza kept his distance, giving Taylor time to savour the moment. Taylor ran his hand along the sweeping metal curves and marvelled at the time consuming attention to detail. It was the scientific equivalent of the Sistine Chapel, yet Taylor couldn't help but feel a tinge of disappointment.

"What's wrong?" Lanza enquired, noticing Taylor's wounded expression.

"Nothing," he lied, keeping his thoughts to himself. Truth was, Taylor missed the build, the testing, and the realization of a dream. This was his baby, and he had missed its precious first steps.

"So," he exclaimed, voice echoing around the ellipse. "Why can't you make her work? What's wrong with her?"

Lanza moved to a red circle inlaid at the centre of the chamber. Mounted inside the circle were two carbon fiber rings, each fitted with a looping harness.

"She works," Lanza retorted, with satisfaction. "What we need is a man with the brains to use it. We need the mind that created it."

Taylor chose his next words carefully as he bent to inspect the red circle. "The incident. Lanza I understand you don't have the clearance to share everything, but I need to know what she did to you?"

Lanza bent beside him, conceding without argument. "The first test on a live subject went as planned. The subject vanished as expected but the energy contained inside the chamber was so...ferocious." Lanza swallowed the lump in his throat. "We held eternity in this chamber, Hamilton. I will never forget the light. We managed to contain the power for a minute at the most before the steel warped and a cataclysmic meltdown occurred."

Lanza trembled at the visceral memory. "A lab assistant and two security guards were vaporized. I was the lucky one, escaping with my life and a crippling dose of radiation even Hippocrates could not mend." He exhaled. "The walls needed reinforcing. We required more funding and got it. For them, the power and potential of this machine is simply too staggering to ignore."

"And the live subject?" Taylor asked, picturing the poor mouse or brave chimp.

"No sign. Gone without a trace."

Taylor gestured around them. "I'll need to study the data before we proceed. I need complete transparency before we fire her up again."

"This is a black project, Hamilton. The data you require has either been buried or destroyed, thus I prefer we focus our efforts on the future. Time, after all, is running out."

Taylor scratched his stubbly neck. "What are your plans? What do you need?"

Lanza glowered as if caught by a stabbing pain. "A warning," he grimaced, returning to his feet. "I need at least a year to work on a solution that might save us from the comet. Are you willing to go back in time one year?"

Taylor shrugged, thinking it over. "We screw everything up eventually, Lanza. Maybe it's mankind's destiny to die young and stupid."

Lanza shook his head with a passion Taylor hadn't seen in years. "If destiny, fate or God wanted mankind to perish so prematurely then we would not have the ingenuity to create the tools to save ourselves. Hamilton," he stated; "Dr. Taylor: we are standing in the heart of a time machine that you conceived. We are the masters of our own fate."

Lanza returned to the open hatch. "Follow me. I have something wonderful to share with you."

Lanza guided Taylor through a dimly lit tunnel to an adjacent control room. A sign above the door read Janitor's Office, but there were no buckets or brooms inside. The door clicked open to reveal a room of blank displays and a large console covered in switches and levers. There was a metallic shield above the console which rose when Lanza sat at the controls. Once the shield had risen, it exposed a 5 inch thick pane of glass and the copper clad jump room behind it.

Lanza typed into the console, opening a video projection over the glass. It was footage of the jump room, timestamped from earlier that morning.

"This is a document I made while you were receiving medical treatment. Watch..."

The crisp footage showed Lanza entering the jump room and placing a plump red apple in the red circle. Unsure what he was supposed to be looking at, Taylor stepped closer to the feed as Lanza unfolded a pocket knife and cut two words into the side of the apple.

"It works," Taylor hissed, rubbing a growing pain at his temple.

"Your brother's apartment," Lanza clarified, over the console. "The centre of the dining room table I believe, at least...that is what I aimed for."

Taylor backed off, put his hands over his eyes and fought off the pressure in his head.

"The migraine you are experiencing," Lanza explained, "is a type of temporal déjà-vu. There!" he proclaimed, pointing at the projection. "Here come the waves!"

Taylor worked through the headache to focus on the display. The jump room hummed as the chamber began to heat, expanding and contracting like a living breathing thing. Moments later, a celestial energy fired from the vents around the chamber, blasting into the apple. This was the first of four waves, the apple absorbing the energy like a strange photosynthesis. The second and third waves hit and the apple burned bright like a red star.

After the fourth wave, the apple vanished completely, along with Taylor's migraine. The hum settled and died, leaving Taylor in awe and the empty chamber in darkness.

"Lanza," he said, frowning, "that apple blew up in my face.".

Lanza shrugged, as if it was a simple matter of miscalculation. "It is time travel."

An open folder as thick as a phone book lay near the console. Lanza groaned as he past it to Taylor. "These are the calculations required to send an apple back only a few hours. You can imagine how immensely difficult it is to send a person back one year."

"I hate calculus," Taylor said, rifling his fingers through hundreds of pages and thousands of formulas, equations, charts and graphs.

"There is one more thing I need to show you Hamilton, something you never thought of when you dreamed up this machine."

Taylor peeked up from the folder, doubting very much if aged Karl Lanza could teach him something new. Lanza typed in a command and brought up a 3D rendering on screen. The animation depicted a golden gauntlet fastened to the wrist and covering the entire forearm. It had a power gauge, a holo-display on the face and a keypad below.

"This is my contribution to your genius. It is the most advanced portable supercomputer in existence, and it's value cannot be underestimated."

Lanza paused to savour his own ingenuity. "I call it the torch. Your machine may initially jump a body though time and space, but my torch tells that body where they've landed. It's database has the location and rotation of every known star in the galaxy. The computer crunches that data in an instant to co-ordinate one's precise location in the past, present or future. Without the torch, one would be essentially lost in time."

Lanza folded his arms and waited for a quietly impressed Taylor to throw him a compliment. He got a question instead.

"How does it work?"

"The torch is the key to your engine. It allows the man and machine to work in perfect harmony. It also has an audio log for posterity."

Taylor put his face an inch from the animation, a warm smile spreading over his face. "Karl...it is wonderful."

Lanza beamed. It had been a long time since he heard Taylor address him by his given name. Their bridge was under careful restoration.

"Thank you, Hamilton. An operation is required to connect the gauntlet to your nervous system. This would be a permanent bind. Only amputation will remove the torch." Lanza let the thought hang a while before sharing some of the finer technicalities. "When you step into the jump room, the four waves will simultaneously infuse your atoms and charge the torch 100%. You will expend half a charge reaching the inputted destination, the other half returning to our current one."

"How do I activate the return?" Taylor asked, concerned by a growing list of complications.

Lanza shared his concerns. "The torch is set to a timer. I have given you approximately 74 hours in the past to get the job done. After that, the torch will auto-initiate and the remaining 50% will boost you back to the future."

Taylor felt the hefty weight of the folder and remembered the taste of exploded pulp. "Is there a way to charge the torch without the machine?"

Lanza folded his arms and chuckled. "You would need a power source equal to the sun. The jump room is currently the only power on Earth that will charge the torch."

Taylor gave Lanza a stern look. "Realistically, what chance do I have of pulling this off?"

"If I was a betting man...then I would not take this bet."

Taylor agreed. "Not even worth the punt."

Lanza pulled a napkin from his lab coat pocket and coughed into it. "I would send a message instead," he added, "but they can be altered or disregarded entirely. How many unread emails are stacked in your inbox? How many files waiting to fall off your desk?"

"When I had a desk."

"A person, however, especially a man one trusts, would receive my complete attention."

Lanza stuffed the now blood stained napkin deep into his lab coat pocket. "I would do this myself but...I would not survive the trip."

Taylor opened his mouth to reply when Lanza tapped a finger to his temple, he was receiving a message.

"I have to go," he replied, wincing at another pain in his back. "General Wertz demands my presence."

"Wertz?" Taylor scowled. "Tell him I said he's a piece of -"

Lanza patted Taylor's back. "He knows. I'll be back very soon."

Lanza opened the janitor's office door and was surprised to see the curly haired Donald waiting on the other side.

"They said my brother would be here," he mumbled, nervously raising his hand.

Taylor's relief was palpable as he pulled his skinny little brother in close. "Come here you fucker!"

They embraced while Lanza hobbled down a dark tunnel. Donald broke down, yet Taylor, despite feeling his eyes sting, kept it together.

"How did you get here?" he asked, brushing Donald's tears with his thumbs. "Are they treating you well?"

Donald nodded and smiled. "A helicopter collected us from the roof of Washington Tower. They took as many as they could but some got left behind."

"Including the Mayor," Taylor uttered to himself.

They left the janitor's office and walked down a lonely corridor of stacked shipping containers, keeping their voices low to muffle any echo.

"The boys?" Taylor asked, taking Donald's elbow. "They must be scared."

"They have no idea what's going on in the world and I don't know how to tell them. Right now they think they're on holiday." Donald pulled Taylor back, stopping them on the spot. "The president said they built your time machine, and that you're going to save us all somehow. Ham I read your book and I know you're brilliant, but these days you can't get through the day without a drink. I don't even know where to start with this." Donald glanced carefully over his shoulder. "It's pretty un-fucking-believable."

"It's true," Taylor said, his steely gaze fixed ahead. "They built my machine and I'm going to use it."

Taylor walked and Donald followed.

"Will it hurt you? Time travelling, I mean."

"Donald you don't turn the human body into light and expect everything to be okay on the other side." Taylor grimaced. "It's bound to fuck me up. I'll tell you this though, if they want me to save the world then it's going to fucking cost them."

"What do you mean? Cost them how?"

Taylor's next words, quiet and sincere, were only for his brother.

"I'm going after Penelope. They want me to go back a year but I'm going further - to the night she disappeared. I'm going to find out what happened. I'm going to save her!"

Donald took a step back but Taylor pulled him close. "I'll warn Lanza about the comet and set things right, but first things first. Penelope is my world, and she's all I care about."

Before Donald could express an opinion or argument, Taylor set off excitedly down the corridor. "Masters of our own fate," he yelled back. "And when I'm through, time is going to wish Ham Taylor was never born!"

\- Four Years Ago -

Taylor placed a bottle of single malt Macallan over the clothes in his suitcase and pressed his weight down on the lid.

Penelope sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing her hands as the early morning sun blazed through the blinds. "I'm leaving you," she said, both voice and expression distant.

Taylor tucked in his shirt, corrected his neck tie, rolled his case to the door then tapped a finger to his temple. A translucent light left his eye and he groaned at its information. "Seems every asshole wants to be my best mate. 24 missed calls and – get this - 640 emails."

"Did you hear me?" she asked, scratching the gold band around her finger.

Taylor lowered the hand from his temple and returned to peek through the blinds. Hundreds of autonomous cars past end to end, and hovering over the highway was a prominent billboard with a chiselled, copper coloured Taylor in his underwear. 'Making science sexy' read the slogan above his head.

"Taxi should be here," he said, rubbing his beefy stomach. "Can't believe they gave me a six pack. Looks good though, eh?"

Penelope took a cigarette from the bedside ashtray, left the bed and moved to her husband's back. She placed a hand over his shoulder and when he turned, she deposited the smoke between his lips.

"Sorry you can't come with," he said. "I'll bring you back something Swedish."

"I won't be here."

Taylor shrugged, lighting the cigarette. "Where then?"

Penelope took a deep breath. "It's over Ham."

Her movements appeared slow and rehearsed, as if she had practiced this scene many times. Taylor meanwhile was startled by a ringing in his ear and a scrolling message in his eye. 'Taxi outside. Taxi outside.'

"You're doing this now?" he whispered, disabling the message. He stared at Penelope's hard face and knew she was serious.

"You...stupid fucking bitch."

Before Taylor could inhale the smoke, Penelope slapped it out of his mouth.

"Don't you ever call me a bitch! I'm not one of those sluts dangling off your arm on TV! I'm the one who has been holding this together, I'm the one who always put us first!"

She slapped the other side of his face and Taylor shoved her onto the bed.

"Those women were just for show! Hollywood bullshit! I didn't touch any of them and I won't deal with your jealous shite! Convenient that you waited for now to drop this. The accomplishment of my life and you just had to piss all over it! Well fuck you, Penelope! Fuck you!"

Taylor put his foot through the dresser and Penelope sprang up from the bed. Her face crimson, she ran to throw open the apartment door then kicked Taylor's suit case into the lobby. "Yesterday the media called you the greatest mind of the 21st century. They forgot lying wanker!"

Taylor stopped at the door and coldly met his wife's wet eyes.

"Ham the pig," she whispered in his face.

Lowering his head, Taylor left the apartment and Penelope slammed the door at his back. He would never see her again.

— CHAPTER EIGHT —

After a shower, shit and shave, Taylor tied his boots, buttoned up his jeans then threw on his only red shirt. He entered the cafeteria, collected a plastic tray from a stacked pile and waited in line behind businessmen and banker types. The kitchen was well staffed with a diverse group wearing civilian clothing under their aprons.

There were at least 50 people seated at the long dinner tables, including all 25 orphans, washed, clothed, and eating whatever their hearts desired.

Large screens occupied each wall of the cafeteria, showing muted footage of the outside world. Criminals ran amok in burning cities across every continent, yet millions still clung to their families as the end loomed large in the sky. Perched over each screen was a countdown clock reading just under 3 hours. Taylor looked for it but saw no sense of urgency, just an air of hopelessness both up there and down here. Perhaps the idea of being saved by one drunk Scot and his time machine was just too much to swallow.

"No fight left in the world," he said to himself.

Taylor couldn't remember the last time he ate, but his grumbling stomach did it's best to remind him. He stuffed a hotdog into his mouth, scooped a helping of scrambled eggs onto his tray then joined Donald, Sylvia, and their sons at a table.

"Hey," he said, squeezing in between his nephews.

"Get off!" groaned Lucas, as his Uncle Ham dipped the end of his hotdog into the boy's ice-cream.

Taylor bit into his dog and winked at Donald across from him. Lanza sat alone at the next table, forlorn and mesmerized by an uneaten piece of buttered toast in his hand. Taylor left him to his lunch and faraway thoughts.

"They'll let anyone down here," Sylvia grumbled, her narrow eyes burning a hole through Taylor's forehead. "I still can't believe they gave all these others a spot," she whispered, glancing sideways at the hard working staff. "Criminals too I'd wager. So much for class privilege."

Taylor met her inky eyes with a bulging cheek full of food. "You wanna know the difference between you and them?"

Sylvia shook her head but Taylor told her anyway. "These people have something to contribute. They all have skills, be it making eggs or cleaning up after you."

Donald's curly hair was dishevelled and he hadn't made a dent in his macaroni. Like Lanza, his mind seemed adrift. Taylor clicked his fingers in front of his brother's face to snap him out of it.

"Don? What's wrong boy?"

Donald's eyes remained on the ticking clock. "I just...don't believe it's real. We can watch the comet destroy our homes. I wonder if popcorn will be on the menu." He hesitated a moment, before squinting at his brother. "There's a lot of sick people down here, Ham. Psychopaths."

"Kids," Sylvia exclaimed, clanging a fork against her plate. "Go get some more ice-cream. You can have whatever you like to eat today."

Cameron and Lucas didn't have to be told twice, and the moment they left the table, Sylvia aimed her vitriol at her husband.

"I told you not to talk about the situation with the boys around, they're too young to understand! And those "psychopaths" you refer to Donald are the men saving our lives, you joined the group then you do nothing but whine about it. Grow a backbone, why don't -" Sylvia bit her tongue to control her temper.

"The kids know what's going on," Taylor argued on behalf of his brother. "Bloody TVs on in the corner. Young doesn't mean stupid."

"My children...are none of your business."

Suddenly, Sylvia squeaked her chair back as she stood for the arriving president and her entourage. General Wertz accompanied Cox to the front of the food line. With all but Taylor standing, Cox waved at her sycophants but appeared more interested in the platters of food. "I am absolutely ravenous! General, be a dear and fetch me a tray."

Her camera crew, stylist, and joint chiefs were sent to the back of the line while the president selected from the menu.

"Excuse me?" asked Donald, raising his hand. "Excuse me? Madam President?".

Sylvia tugged at Donald's shirt but he remained standing, and even raised his voice for attention. "Madam President!"

Cox turned impatiently. "You can make a formal appointment with my secretary.".

"My name is Donald Taylor," he added with respect. "This won't take a moment."

Cox rolled her eyes as if put out of place. "Well then? Out with it!"

Donald kept his hand raised when addressing his Commander-in-chief. "Madam President, a lot of us here need help and advice. We have questions. We're...scared."

"Madam President," Wertz muttered in her ear, "you don't have to answer any questions."

"That's fine," she whispered back, still facing Donald. "What can I do for you citizen? Don't you have everything you need? You have sanctuary, food and water for the rest of your lives. Haven't we provided you with enough already?"

"You have," Donald answered, his voice meek. "It's just...we would like to know what's next? Is there anything we can do to help the people above? Our colleagues and friends? Our fellow Americans."

The crowd murmured in agreement, causing Cox to raise her arms and smile. "You are here because you are all important to the Corporation! The citizens above still have a chance! We haven't given up on them yet!"

Donald lowered his head and wrung his fingers together. "Madam President, it is times like these when we need our leaders most." He cleared his throat, placed his right hand over his heart and begged everyone to join him in the national anthem. Kitchen staff and inspired diners nodded back. Taylor meanwhile finished his eggs.

"Will you do us the honour, Madam President?"

"Absolutely," she returned without hesitation, raising her chin with poise and professionalism. Placing her palm over her chest, Cox frowned during an awkwardly long pause.

"Oh say can you see," Wertz hissed at her.

Cox bobbled her head and took it from there. "By the moons great white light..."

She paused again, trying to recall the words she mimed so perfectly at last year's Super Bowl. "What so proudly we are...as we hailed the twilight shinning. Whose broad stripes and light stars..."

She stuttered, then stopped altogether. Her audience was a gallery of blank expressions and hanging mouths. It was left to Taylor to show his appreciation. Throwing down his fork, his sarcastic applause was painfully slow, and achingly obvious.

"Oh my," Cox exhaled, rubbing her forehead. "What a migraine. Citizens, if you'll excuse me, I don't feel so hungry after all."

Cox hurried out of the cafeteria. Her entourage made to follow when Wertz ordered them back. Tapping a finger against his temple, the general was receiving instruction from an unknown source. Good news judging by his smile.

"Taylor! Lanza!"

The pair faced the general with arching eyebrows.

"Follow me!"

*

The corridor was cavernous, with exposed rock, dim lights overhead and the buzzing of a generator in the background. Lanza said nothing despite Taylor's attempts to engage him. His skin was pale and feverish, and he staggered as if drunk.

"Man you can barely stand," Taylor said, concerned.

Lanza coughed up a puddle of black blood into his palm as Taylor propped him up.

"What can I do, Karl? What do you need?"

"Hamilton," he said, popping a few Demerol into his mouth. "The time machine is the last thing I'll ever do. Make it a good thing."

Lanza used Taylor as a crutch as they tried to catch up to Wertz. "I'll try Karl. I'll try."

Taylor felt Lanza's chest and failing heartbeat, deciding then that he would rather die in the jump room than walk an hour in Lanza's shoes.

A soldier guarded an old-fashioned looking elevator at the end of the corridor. He saluted Wertz upon his arrival then screeched across an iron gate to the elevator. Taylor and Lanza entered first, Cox came at their heels but found her path blocked by the general's arm.

"You're not invited," he said, plain faced and unapologetic. "There's been a recent development. The board are going in a new direction."

Cox baulked, flicking off his hand. "I'm in charge you fool! Step aside!"

She tried to force her way past Wertz but he snatched her by the shoulders, throwing her down and out without effort.

"You were the face of the Corporation," he informed her, his hand on the butt of his gun, "not the brains. Try that again and I'll put a hole through yours. It's over. You're done."

Taylor and Lanza glanced at each other inside the elevator, expressions ranging between shock and satisfaction. It was nice to see the hand pulled from the puppet, but the method left a bad taste.

The young soldier helped Cox to her feet then escorted her down the corridor.

"I'm the president!" she cried, beside herself. "I have my own plane! I have nuclear launch codes for Gods sake! You can't do this!"

Wertz pulled the gate to seal the elevator. "Your launch codes," he yelled at her, "were the combination to the White House pantry."

Cox scored her nails down the soldier's face and shrieked like a wounded cat. She ran for the elevator, entwining her fingers into the closed gate.

"Don't do this," she begged and snivelled. "Do you know who I am? What will I do if I'm not in charge?"

"That's the thing," Wertz added - "you've never been in charge. Get a handle on her soldier!"

The soldier dabbed the blood from his face and throttled Cox from behind. He unceremoniously dragged her away from the elevator, losing her heels, dignity, and consciousness.

Taylor lowered his eyes from the pitiful scene. The woman's entire existence was an illusion, and she was the last to know.

"33rd floor," Wertz stated, bending to an intercom panel. Underneath, an inch long needle extended out of the panel.

"Authorised sample required," an officious voice replied.

Wertz squirmed as he pressed his thumb into the needle. The bloody needle then receded into the panel. "Sample approved. Sterilization complete."

The elevator sank with the sound of groaning steel and old gears. Lanza put his back in the corner, gazing wearily off into the distance while Taylor once again scrutinized the straight cut at the back of Wertz's neck.

"This is quite the privilege," Wertz said, locking his hands behind him. "Few are granted access to the 33rd floor."

Taylor snickered. "After the short shrift you gave Cox, it seems privileges are removed when one is no longer useful. When will our usefulness expire?" he asked, breathing down Wertz's neck. "How long until you are surplus to requirements?"

Taylor flinched as a gust of steam blew in through the gate. He wafted his hand at the cloud and when it cleared, his insides tightened at the sight of Wertz staring directly at him. There was nothing behind the general's dark eyes, no thought Taylor could decipher.

"It's going to be me that kills you," he whispered, cold and robot like. "I want you to know that."

Eyeballing Wertz, and with a flurry of butterflies in his stomach, Taylor straightened his back and broadened his shoulders. "You talkin' to me or chewin' on a brick? Either way...you're gonna lose your teeth."

The elevator shunted to a halt and Wertz pulled the gate aside.

"Don't touch anything," he warned, drawing his weapon. "I mean it."

The 33rd floor was a burrowing cave, cramped with a sense of lingering timelessness. Torches rippled over jagged walls and musty air irritated the back of the throat. Taylor felt a malevolent presence as he assisted Lanza out of the elevator. He couldn't hear or see that evil, but the feeling was as strong as the rock around him.

Wertz kept his distance as the men walked through a stifling path. Five arched shelves were cut between the torches, each shelf containing an artifact of some kind. The first shelf displayed a glass cylinder of hard shelled seeds.

"Sunflowers," Lanza confirmed, through teeth grinding chills.

"Don't stop," Wertz growled, ushering them toward a medieval wooden door at the end of the corridor.

The second shelf contained a flail: agricultural sticks used to separate grains from their husks. No explanations were offered by Wertz and none were asked for. Taylor assumed the general was as much in the dark about their significance as they were.

The third shelf presented an eye-catching silver amulet, with a pair of wings engraved on it's face.

Perched on the fourth shelf was a foot high stone carving of a humanoid figure with avian features. Dressed in ceremonial robes, this intricately painted creature had a keen eye and a proud air about him. Finally, the fifth shelf presented a sharp canine, some 15 inches long.

"Nutters," Taylor said, rubbing at another migraine.

Again, Wertz ordered the pair not to touch, and not to dawdle.

The thick door opened from the inside, revealing a gentleman's den bathed in light from hanging candelabras. There was a library stacked with books and papers, screens playing sports and a bar with every man's poison.

"Seriously?" Taylor whispered, his eyes drawn to the shiny liquor bottles.

Cigar smoke hung in the air, besuited men in their dozens occupied leather chesterfields, laughed over cards or debated before a burning fireplace. The old door was propped open by an immaculately dressed butler, balancing a tray of drinks in one hand.

"Scotch, sir?" He offered Taylor a glass. "I believe Macallan is your preferred? Neat sir, as you like it."

Taylor suddenly found himself caught in a spell. He accepted the drink without question, swirled the golden malt then raised the glass to admire the legs. The legs were visible streaks down the side of the glass; the longer the legs the higher the alcohol's quality. Needless to say, a 40 year old scotch had a lot of legs on show.

Lanza accepted an iced tea while General Wertz pressed his back against the door, never moving beyond the threshold.

"This way," said the butler, guiding Taylor and Lanza towards a set of four hand-crafted, blood coloured chairs grouped around an antique table. "Please make yourself comfortable," he concluded, attending to other patrons.

Taylor dug his nose into his glass to whiff the scent of heather and old oak. Lanza took a sip from his tea but his trembling hand caused the ice to clink against the glass. "It's fine," Taylor whispered, setting the tea onto the table.

They sat and moments later, an elderly couple arrived to occupy the opposite seats. The female was thin skinned and skeletal, her silver hair draped wet over her face as if just out of a shower. Her partner was bald and swollen, 300 plus pounds of rolling fat with eyes bulging like golf balls. They were dressed in silky bathrobes with nothing underneath. The old man crossed his legs and Taylor squirmed at his exposed, cellulite ridden thigh. He also noticed the man's bare toes, crooked yellow nails and the dirty soles of his feet.

The old man downed a snifter of brandy then offered the men a cigar.

"Cohibas?"

Taylor snatched both and crammed them into his chest pocket. The fat man grinned.

"My wife and I have met many great men in our time. Karl Lanza and Hamilton Taylor stand head and shoulders above them all."

His English was awkward, with hints of Dutch. The wife wore a permanent scowl. Taylor figured she was either getting the measure of them or had already made her mind up.

"Hamilton," Lanza said, wiping his wet nose into his shirt cuff, "these are our generous benefactors. They made building the machine possible."

"They help themselves, Karl. Self entitled scum who wrote a blank cheque to help tighten their grip on the world. Fuck 'em."

Taylor took a drink and the old man appeared to take no offence, if anything, Taylor's insolence tickled him.

"R.C. Christian," he said, through a snicker. "My wife and I belong to a group of internationalists called The Pride, many of whom are here with us now."

Taylor looked past the old man to the nondescript figures moving back and forth. They paid him no attention, and he was glad not to have it.

"We come from distinguished families from all over the world, Dr. Taylor. You are in the company of brilliant minds who respect intelligence." He gazed almost lustfully at Taylor's forehead. "You are with men who appreciate brains."

Taylor rubbed a chill from his neck as Christian raised his empty brandy glass. A handsome bare-chested adolescent arrived to serve him. The kid topped up the glass with caramel coloured brandy while Christian brushed a hand over the boy's genitals. The boy's numb expression didn't change, nor did Mrs. Christian's crooked grin.

"You were wonderful last night," the fat man said, before dismissing the boy back to the shadows.

Taylor wanted to spit but couldn't bring himself to waste a single malt. Christian rolled the brandy glass between his palms, bending close to enjoy his guest's discomfort.

"Large brains, yet closed minds. In ancient Greece and Rome the desire to penetrate a handsome youth was considered healthy, masculine. Reform doesn't change desire."

"The Roman Empire burned to the ground," Taylor argued, swallowing. "They all do...in time."

"On the matter of time," Lanza interrupted, a poor attempt at breaking the ice. "Mr. Christian, what are your plans for the machine? As you know, every second counts."

Christian sat back, taking his wife's bony hand. "There is something you men must understand. I am speaking specifically to you Dr. Taylor, as you are the one who needs speaking to. I have been advised by fellow members of The Pride to keep you around as a mind like yours would be an attribute going forward. I have my doubts," he added, brushing one of three chins. "An impulsive and unpredictable man cannot be trusted, nor underestimated. Quite recently I was made aware of your agenda regarding the machine thus I am...at this moment...torn between having you rehabilitated, or plain shot in the head."

The blood drained out of Taylor's face and he felt real fear for the first time, not of dying, but of having his plans changed. He had searched the world for Penelope, and with no leads and no trace, the only place left was time itself. His selfish thought had galvanized him more in the last hour than anything in the past four years.

Only Donald knew of these plans and since his brother would never betray him, Taylor could only assume their conversation had been picked up by surveillance.

"What agenda?" asked Lanza, searching between both men. "What are you not telling me Hamilton?"

Christian chortled, slapping his bare thigh in merriment.

"Dr. Taylor," he giggled, his mouth full of crooked teeth, "believes the unabridged past requires an edit."

"This is not the time, Karl," Taylor seethed, sensing Lanza's objections. "I would've gotten the job done. I will get it done!"

The old lady smiled with sealed lips as her husband placed a cigar between his, wetting the end with saliva. "Our own plans for the machine have yet to be decided."

Instinct caused Lanza to jerk forward, yet his tone remained respectful. "If we do not proceed sir, then the world ends."

"The world as you know it, ends, Professor Lanza. Mother Earth survives. She always does." Christian reached forward to pat Lanza's knee. "Don't worry, we will be perfectly safe. We have 500 years of stockpiled food and water, our art and culture are safe and sound. Everything we need to weather the global storm. When the decades have passed and the time has come...the worthy will emerge to a cleaner, brighter world."

"You want to let 10 billion people die?" Taylor cried, gripping the armrest. "Creepy old bastard, you're off your fuckin' nut!"

"We have yet to arrive at a decision, Dr. Taylor. The use of the machine will be for The Pride to decide. In an hour's time a vote will take place, this vote will decide the fate of the experiment. If we authorize the use of the machine then you will both receive our full support. If not, your families will never want for anything here. Your creative whims will be supported where appropriate, your genius nurtured and cherished. Professor Lanza," he announced, standing with his wife. "As our senior scientist we are delighted to offer you a say in that vote and to lend any final thoughts to our members. Dr. Taylor, pray help yourself to another drink before you return upstairs."

Lanza rose, nodding politely. The last gesture went to Mrs. Christian, who before leaving, opened her mouth to reveal the stub of serrated tissue that used to be her tongue.

Taylor dropped his glass and recoiled. Every hair and bristle on his body stood on end as the cackling hag waggled the stump in her oily mouth.

"What the fuck is wrong with you people?"

The Christians clasped hands and laughed as they returned to their Pride.

Taylor lurched up from his chair, white faced and rattled as he assisted Lanza back to the old wooden door.

"This is too big for us, Hamilton. What can we do?"

Reaching the bar, Taylor bent over the counter and helped himself to a sealed bottle of scotch.

"Their vote changes nothing," he whispered, stuffing the scotch under his arm. "They have the power of time travel and they'll mothball the project until they need it. Karl...I'm going back and I'm going to chop their fucking hands off the world."

"They won't let you go," Lanza spluttered. "They'll kill you first."

"That's why I'm going now. Right...now."

— CHAPTER NINE —

The old professor pulled a reflective silver case from a shelf full of empty beakers and test tubes. Lanza and Taylor were alone in the med-lab, hurrying against the approaching comet.

"Privacy at work was my prerequisite," Lanza said, looking around his lab. "Still, let us assume they are watching and listening to everything."

"And let them try stop us," Taylor groaned, as he helped Lanza support the weight of the heavy case. "You stashin' gold bars, Karl?"

They set the case at the foot of the bed and Lanza entered a four digit combination. "Worth more than it's weight in gold," he replied, entering the numbers 2041. The coincidence caused Taylor to shake his head. 2041 was the most important year of his life - it was the year of his falling out with Lanza, the year he won the Nobel Prize for Physics, and the year of his wife's disappearance.

Lanza scowled when he saw the clock above the door. "Two hours and twenty minutes until impact. It is impossible to know how the strike will affect the bunker's power supply, thus the future depends on us acting now. Bonding the gauntlet to your arm will take at least two hours, leaving you twenty minutes to make it to the jump room." He exhaled. "It will be close."

"It always is."

Taylor took his bottle of scotch then propped himself on the bed.

"The coordinates," Lanza said, programming Hippocrates, "have been calculated into the torch. Survive your journey through the time and space Hamilton, and you will open your eyes one year ago today. That's one year," he insisted. "Not four."

Lanza paused to look at him. "Were you really planning on altering the date?"

Taylor said nothing. He didn't have too.

"Hamilton the coordinates in the torch took me three weeks to calculate, it's not something one can do on the fly, not even you. Please do not insult my intelligence or exaggerate your own by attempting to alter your course."

Taylor pulled the cork from his scotch and stuffed it into his pocket. He inhaled the scent of caramel fuming from the bottle neck.

Watching Taylor tease himself, Lanza sighed as he flicked opened the silver case. "The fate of humanity is in the hands of a raging alcoholic."

"I prefer dedicated," Taylor mused, drinking from the bottle. The heat from the liquor caused him to close his eyes and smile.

The golden torch had an illuminated touch-screen displaying a complicated group of celestial coordinates. Beside the screen was a power gauge sitting at 0%. Turning it over, the underside had dozens of holes from which metallic tentacles emerged. "Self guidied nanowires designed to pierce flesh, bone and bond with the nervous system," explained Lanza.

Taylor set the bottle on the bedside table and puffed as he picked up the gauntlet. "I'll slip a disk with this attached to my arm."

"It weighs five pounds," informed Lanza, dashing numbers into Hippocrates. "You will be grateful for every single ounce."

Taylor returned it to the case and pulled a cigar from his chest pocket. Lanza quickly confiscated the cigar and snapped it in half. "I can't stop you having a drink, but the smoke offends me. Take off your shirt. I am programming Hippocrates to first remove all implants from your body. You will no longer be a registered member of modern society."

"Bastards never liked me anyway." Taylor pulled the shirt over his head to reveal his grey chest hair and torso peppered with welts and bruises. "Seems I'm never out of hospital these days."

Lanza stuck a thermometer between Taylor's lips. "This mouth of yours will get you killed," he said, guiding Taylor's head back to the pillow before taking a reading from the thermometer.

"Preparing subject for procedure!" declared Hippocrates.

The machine's mechanical arm, with a long needle dripping anaesthetic, aimed itself at Taylor's left hand.

"I'd rather be awake," he said, jerking his arm from the injection. The interruption caused a red light to flash on-top of Hippocrates. "Warning! Procedure interruption!"

Lanza snatched Taylor's wrist and placed his arm flat on the bed. "Hamilton this machine is going to slice open your wrist, the pain will be excruciating."

Taylor conceded with a nod, and as Lanza returned to finalize the program, Taylor pulled the wooden cork from his pocket and grasped it in his left hand. As Hippocrates targeted the back of that hand, Taylor waited until its wet needle was millimeters from a vein before flipping his hand over. Hippocrates injected the cork and its sensors appeared to be fooled. Taylor pocketed the dripping cork then relaxed every muscle as if the anesthetic had been administered.

"Although it may be useless," Lanza added, confidently facing the bed. "I will attend this vote and do my best to change their minds."

Taylor closed his eyes and slurred his speech. "They're not like the rest of us, Karl. Be careful."

Taylor drooped to one side as a satisfied Lanza patted his old friend's shoulder. "Hippocrates will clean your wrist then attach the torch to your forearm. All you have to do is sleep. See you soon, Hamilton."

Lanza left Hippocrates to it's work and Taylor opened his eyes the moment he heard the lab door close. He reached for the scotch and chugged it down his throat. It would help with the pain, or that's what he told himself.

Stifling a burp, he mentally wrestled with the temporal coordinates needed to throw him four years into the past. Specifics were vital - there could be nothing wishy-washy about his numbers. For even if he calculated the correct time and date, he still needed a precise location, making sure he didn't land himself a hundred feet underground, a thousand feet in the sky, or half a solar system away. It was the most daunting mathematical conundrum of his life, and Taylor would attempt it in record time, during surgery, and under the influence.

Lanza peeked into the cafeteria on his way past. Innocent children and work weary kitchen staff gathered around the large screens, holding hands as they watched the live feed of a flaming ball over the Atlantic.

Lanza swallowed another painkiller and shuffled toward the elevator, where a tense looking soldier stood guard.

"It is okay!" Lanza declared, forcing a smile. "I have a -"

He froze, wincing at the gun pressing against his hump and the hand squeezing the back of his neck.

"Where's Taylor?" Wertz whispered into his ear.

Lanza took a dry gulp and slowly raised his hands. "I last saw him passed out. Typical Scotsman. Drunk as usual."

Wertz cocked his gun. "Believable, if I hadn't just watched the pair of you in the med-lab planning an unsanctioned trip far away from here. Care to explain yourself, Professor?"

"A vote has yet to be cast," Lanza argued, daring to look back. "We felt it best to be prepared for any eventuality."

Wertz prodded Lanza's hump and he stumbled to the ground, scraping his knees on the rock. "Get up on your feet. Don't make me drag you."

Lanza prepared to pick himself up when a hand reached out from the shadows. He shrieked and scurried from the outstretched fingers of President Cox. She was crumpled against a rocky inlet, weeping in the darkness. Heart racing, Lanza bent closer, throwing a hand over his mouth when he witnessed her mutilated face. There was a black and dribbling cavity where her eye once was, and the skin of her nose dangled from the tip like torn newspaper.

"What have they done to you?" Lanza gasped, reaching out to her. "My Goodness."

"She did it to herself," droned Wertz, aiming his pistol at her forehead.

With no expression or hesitation, Wertz pulled the trigger, blasting what was left of her face over Lanza. While the gunshot echoed throughout the corridors, Wertz holstered his smoking barrel.

"Orders," he remarked, kicking Cox's limp hand into the shadows. "Wipe the brains off your face, Professor Lanza. You have an appointment."

*

In the med-lab, Taylor's ear tuned to the reverberating gunshot. "Karl?"

The shot died, leaving Taylor with the barber shop buzz from Hippocrates as it yanked veins from his right arm like spaghetti from a pot. From wrist to elbow, Hippocrates severed, pulled, pinched and bonded the torch into place. The pain was acute, but alcohol and her voice were enough to keep Taylor's mind from it. Penelope was always with him, in vague whispers on good days or incessant screams on bad. Tonight, her voice was clear, calm, and persistent - 'Find me. Find me.'

Taylor took another swallow then squinted at the face of the torch. He first disabled the device's 74 hour timer, deciding to play his time in the past by ear.

"Four years," he said, cancelling Lanza's previously saved coordinates and entering his own. "I'll be careful Karl. I won't fuck it up. I'll be careful."

'FIND ME!'

*

When the elevator shunted to the 33rd floor, Wertz pulled the gate aside and ushered Lanza through the candlelit cave. Lanza shook feverishly as they past the cylinder of seeds, the farmers flail, the silver amulet, the wooden figure and the sharp canine.

Using the wall as support, Lanza reached the chunky door and witnessed a bead of sweat run down Wertz's cheek. "You're afraid."

It wasn't a question, but a statement. Wertz rubbed his sweaty brow with his forearm then threw open the door. There was no butler to greet them this time.

"Get in there, and keep on walking."

The eyes grew large in Lanza's head as the door creaked and the heat of candlelight and smell of smoke wafted in his face. "You're not coming?"

The mere thought caused Wertz to seize up. "Get going," he said, stepping back from the door.

Lanza moved cautiously inside the den and retched forward, coughing blood over himself. Chairs and bar stools lay vacant, yet glasses were filled with fizzing champagne.

Lanza collected himself and stood, passing a mouth parching fireplace, poker tables full of chips and cigarettes left smoking in ashtrays. He leaned for support against a padded leather chesterfield when suddenly, his ear focused on an eerie and growing chant beyond a black curtain behind an arched doorway.

"KING'S MIGHT, GLORIOUS LIGHT!"

A gale blew the curtain and the voices beyond it rejoiced.

"GREAT ONE! YOUR PRIDE AWAITS!"

Lanza flopped into the chair, lay his head back and closed his eyes.

"It is time, Professor Lanza," said a man beside him.

Lanza glanced weakly at two men dressed in black cloaks with braided belts. Hoods covered their heads and a perpetual shadow concealed their faces.

"Do not be afraid," said the figure to his left. This man had a soft voice and a gentle touch, prompting Lanza to his feet.

"You people are insane," he said, shivering. "All of you are mad."

"There is no madness here, only truth. We invite you to see it for yourself."

The fervent chant settled as Lanza past the curtain, shielding his eyes from the glare of a hundred burning candles. He was in a cave covered in pink stalactites flowing down from the ceiling. The air was moist and the stone overhead was thick with soot. There were at least 40 people crowded in this place of worship, the majority dressed in black and gathered around the periphery of a circle. Inside the circle were ten individuals in white cloaks, revering a severed paw on top of a five foot stone pillar. Behind them towered a gothic fireplace filled with roaring logs. Displayed over that set piece was a mutli-coloured mosaic, depicting a burning star over desert dunes, the star appearing to feed a singular figure with a beam of celestial light.

"Come closer Professor Lanza!" R.C. Christian declared, throwing back his hood.

Eyes dilated, the fat man dropped his white cloak and raised his floppy arms, exposing his pear shaped naked body. Christian ran both hands over his chest, gut and groin. "Do not be afraid. You have been invited to participate in the conclusion of our ceremony. Indeed, you are our guest of honour!"

Lanza's physical weakness brought him to his knees. "I don't want any part in this darkness."

Christian chuckled with his fellow white cloaks. "We celebrate the light, not the dark! Our father's return is close. If you heard his story, knew of his greatness then you would understand that this is cause for celebration!" Christian tweaked his nipples and perversely shuddered forward, his underlings leaving plenty of room. "You are an ill man, Professor, gravely ill. Use what time you have left to rise above your human station!"

"Your people have already bought my integrity!" Lanza cried over the roaring fireplace. "My soul is not for sale!"

Christian reached out and a dagger was placed in his hand. "Your blood will be spilled either way. Our brethren will remember your sacrifice."

Those in surrounding cloaks removed daggers from their braided belts.

"FATHER RETURNS!" they howled in unison. "KING'S MIGHT, GLORIOUS LIGHT! OUR FATHER RETURNS!"

Black and white cloaks dropped to their knees and repeated the phrase as Christian returned to the inner circle.

"Too long we have waited. Too long!" Christian reached out to the severed paw and appeared desperate to caress it. He restrained himself by simply hovering his trembling hand over the hairy appendage. Meanwhile the bellowing chant caused dust to rain down from the cavern ceiling.

Lanza shrivelled, covering his head as the ritual reached it's climax. All the white cloaked members collected around the claw, and one by one, they removed their hoods and tipped their heads as if preparing to drink. The only faces Lanza recognized were Christian's, his wiry old wife, and some prominent members of the international business community. The black-cloaked majority kept their hoods on and emitted a low and guttural hum, vibrating the surrounding stone as those in white raised the daggers in their left hands, then pinched the tips of their tongues with the right. Finally, and in a delirious frenzy, those in white ghoulishly sawed at their own mouths. Each privileged member of the inner circle cut and sliced until they carved out their tongues, tossing the chunks of flesh into the fire.

"FOR OUR FATHER AND MASTER! KING'S MIGHT, GLORIOUS LIGHT!"

Christian, hunched over and drooling blood, whipped back from the fire and pointed at Lanza.

"Take him!" he bloodily spat over his heaving chest.

Lanza begged for his soul as cloaked sycophants hooked their hands under his armpits and dragged him toward Christian's bare feet. A respectful entree had been offered to their father, it was time for something more substantial.

*

General Wertz flinched as steam shot out of the vents of the ascending elevator. The elevator jerked, stopped, and he threw open the gate. Fixing his uniform, he scanned the murky corridor leading to the cafeteria, med-lab, and jump room further back. A queer expression suddenly came over him when he spotted an unconscious soldier at the foot of the elevator. He reached for his sidearm at the same moment a clenched fist broke across his jaw. Taylor charged at him, forcing him back into the elevator and wrapping his fingers around the general's throat.

"Where's Lanza? What the fuck have you done with him?"

Wertz fought against the hold, despite the pain from his fractured jaw.

"Where is he?" Taylor repeated, squeezing harder. His other arm, his right, was adorned with the cumbersome golden torch, which hung limply at his side.

"The 33rd floor!" Taylor growled back at the elevator panel. "Take me down there now!"

"Sample required," replied an officious voice from an overhead speaker.

Wertz spit a mouthful of blood into Taylor's eyes then raised a knee into his groin. "There's your sample," he heaved, rubbing his inflamed throat.

Taylor dropped to the floor, hands gripping his testicles.

"Dirty bastard," he groaned, waiting out the pain.

Wertz looked numb as he dabbed at the blood pouring from his mouth. "Every fight is dirty. I was coming to kill you." Taylor heard him gulping blood. "Those ghouls below wanted to keep you around but this base isn't big enough for the both of us."

Wertz crushed Taylor's fingers with his bootheel, then kicked Taylor in the side of the head. Crumpled, battered and bloody, Taylor tried to remain conscious as Wertz jammed the barrel of a gun behind his left ear.

"Don't hurt him!" shrieked a red headed boy from the corridor. Michael Hopkins, the orphaned survivor, along with 24 of his friends sprinted from the cafeteria and mobbed Wertz in the elevator. They screamed, pulled and reached for the general's gun. "Get out!" Wertz roared, unsure how to respond.

"Leave him alone!" they cried, tugging his badges and belt. Taylor crawled to a corner, picking himself up as Wertz fired two rounds into the ceiling. The roar of the gun sent the kids fleeing down the corridor, but their efforts were enough to give Taylor the time he needed. He bashed Wertz in the face with the five pound torch, eliciting a sickening crunch.

"33rd floor!" Taylor panted at the panel. "You hear me? 33rd floor, bitch!"

A short needle extended from the panel. "Sample required."

Wertz chuckled through a mouthful of broken teeth. "Nowhere to go, Taylor! You need authorised blood, and you ain't authorised!"

"But you are!" Taylor growled.

Grabbing Wertz by the hair, he rammed his face into the needle. Wertz twitched and slumped while his blood ran down the intercom. Taylor threw across the gate and collected the gun as the dripping needle receded back into the panel.

"Sample approved. Sterilization complete."

Apprentices in black reached greedily for Lanza's wrists and stretched him out before the fireplace. At his head, a naked and glistening Christian pressed his plump hands over Lanza's ears, holding his head in place. Beside Christian was his skeletal spouse, exposing her serrated smile and stroking a dagger across Lanza's forehead.

"We have offered our tongues!" slurred Christian, barely discernible. "We offer our master a brain! One of our very finest!"

"KING'S MIGHT, GLORIOUS LIGHT!"

Lanza closed his eyes and readied himself for the end as the old witch pressed her dagger against his head.

BANG!

The Pride convulsed at the gunshot. Mrs. Christian's head snapped back and she dropped like a sack of potatoes. Lanza opened his eyes and exhaled; Christian meanwhile scrutinized the gaping hole through his wife's head, and Hamilton Taylor holding the smoking gun.

"Back off you sick fucks!"

Taylor trained the gun over the majority in black but they remained staunch, unmoving and unafraid.

"This is bigger than you, Taylor!" Christian said, pulling the dagger from his dead wife's hand. "Bigger than us, bigger than the world!"

Taylor held the gun straight yet those in black moved in. "Stay back!" he barked, letting them all have a share of the barrel. "You bastards, I fucking mean it!"

"Death is only the beginning!" Christian roared over The Pride's frenzied response.

"KING'S MIGHT, GLORIOUS LIGHT!"

"Taylor we are all willing to die for our master! His might and his light, oh we are all willing to die!"

"Prove it!" Taylor returned. He aimed the gun at Christian's heart and pulled the trigger. The click of an empty magazine caused the perverse Pride to howl with laughter. They advanced, and a petrified Taylor stepped back.

"Don't worry Karl! I'll think of something! There's always a way out!"

Strung up and at the point of Christian's dagger, tears flowed down Lanza's face as he confessed: "Hamilton, it's not a comet. It's not a com - "

Lanza writhed as the fat man stabbed him in the forehead. Taylor's legs buckled and he covered his eyes from the horror. Christian stabbed again, then again and again. Panting and with an erect penis, Christian rubbed Lanza's blood over his bloated belly before tossing his brilliant mind into the fire.

"The jump room," Taylor hissed, wobbling as he stood. Turning to run for the curtain, a familiar voice cried out.

"Ham!"

Taylor experienced a painful wrench in his stomach, a sensation that stopped him in his tracks. Only one person left in the world called him Ham. The ache consumed him as he turned to face The Pride and the source of the voice. He prayed it wasn't, but he knew it was - there was no mistaking it.

"Donald," he whispered.

Donald threw back the hood of his black cloak and raised his hand, gesturing his brethren back while he stepped forward. "Ham," he begged, clasping his hands together. "It's a long story. This was an offering, that's all. Honestly I,"

Beside Donald, Sylvia flung back her cloak and snatched her husband's hand.

"He's not your family, Donald. Not anymore."

Taylor withdrew, shaking his head, incredulous. He had no words.

"Your brother is one of us!" declared Christian, raising his bloody hands in the air. "It is never too late, Taylor! We want you with us!"

A pitiful looking Donald outstretched his hand to his older brother. "Ham, just do what they want, okay? Life will be so much easier if you just do what you're told."

"This is a nightmare," Taylor mumbled, still shaking his head. "This has to be changed. I have to stop this."

Taylor turned, taking off through the billowing curtain.

"Stop him!" Christian shrieked. "He can't make it to the machine!"

Pure adrenaline pushed Taylor through the smoky den, down the gloomy cavern corridor and towards the elevator. He didn't look back and didn't need to. He could hear their howls and stomping feet gaining on him.

Entering the elevator, he threw across the gate as fingers fumbled through the gaps. He couldn't see if Donald was among the hissing and screaming throng. He would deal with that later, if there was a later.

Wertz groaned at Taylor's feet as the elevator began to rise. Steam shot from the vents but Taylor, lost in thought, did not flinch. A startling red light flashed throughout and a piercing alarm wailed like an air raid siren. His hair was wet with sweat and his pounding heart felt like it could burst from his chest at any moment.

When the elevator reached his desired floor, Taylor threw the gate aside and darted down the hallway in a race for his time machine.
Under a disorientating strobe light and the whining alarm, Taylor put his shoulder into the Janitor's office door. He wiped his face and gazed at the console covered in levers, switches and flashing lights.

"Fuck it!"

He threw down levers and slammed switches, acting on pure instinct, until he achieved his goal, until the machine stirred.

Golden lights flashed and a rumbling charge built within the copper ellipsoid. Taylor yanked down another lever and the turbines roared into life. He then bashed his fist on the largest switch on the console, kickstarting the jump room with a brilliant surge of light.

He grinned like a madman at the power rumbling underneath him, power enough to pierce the very fabric of space and time.

After several turns of the squeaking wheel, he pulled open the hatch and ducked inside the jump room, slamming the hatch shut with the sound of clanging steel.

The golden ellipsoid's electro-magnetic forces caused the hair on his head to stand on end. Sliding to the centre of the chamber, Taylor stopped over the red circle. Before he could secure the harnesses to his wrists, he was blasted back by the first wave of intense energy. Spinning like a top, he grunted and grasped his stomach as exotic radiation coursed through his flesh. The torch's power gauge rose from 0% to 25%, and while the second wave built in the vents, Taylor crawled one hand at a time toward the red circle, skin glowing like a malfunctioning flashlight, fingertips sparking like a Tesla coil. He wore the pain on his contorting face but there was no going back.

At the observation window, a blood soaked and naked R.C. Christian, along with his fellow Pride members, arrived to yell and pound on the glass. Taylor squinted at their furious faces and inaudible curses as a guilt ridden Donald joined them. The glass bounced back their fists and with no weapon to hand, a frustrated Christian threw a chair at the unbreakable glass.

Taylor reached out to the harness as the second wave struck him. Stronger and brighter, it flung him into the observation window, leaving a bloodied smudge on the glass. In the janitor's office, members of The Pride ran their eyes over the displays, hoping to see Taylor's dead body. Donald ran to the hatch and put all his strength into cranking the wheel, but the pressure inside was too great. The hatch would not budge. The process could not be stopped.

The torch read 50%. Battered and blazing with an internal light, Taylor inched towards the centre of the crimson circle. Screaming all the way, he snagged the harness belts and wrapped them around both wrists. As the third wave hit, it's burst of energy revealed Taylor's skeleton stretched out in mid-air while he clung to the harnesses. The torch shone like a bright new sun, causing the observers at the window to recoil from it's ethereal light.

Taylor landed face down as the fourth and final wave made ready to fire. Somehow, inexplicably, still conscious, he was no longer made of flesh and bone, but of light.

The torch read 75%. Taylor glanced weakly at Christian, Donald and The Pride. Lifting his left hand, he smiled, extending his middle finger moments before the final blast of energy struck him.

The flash was over as soon as it had arrived. The generators settled, the turbines died, and the jump room was left in darkness. Crossed over the red circle were the two straps of limp harness, and nothing else.

— CHAPTER TEN —

Marshland broke Taylor's monumental fall from the future. Every muscle, joint and sinew ached, and it felt like his fillings were white hot. A kaleidoscope motif formed a warping web over his eyes, and waving a hand in front of his face, he saw nothing but the intricate pattern.

Nausea followed. His guts heaved and he emptied the contents of his stomach over his legs.

Laying in a pool of his own vomit, Taylor was grateful for the cool breeze over his face. When sensation began to return to his limbs, he pushed blindly through shallow water, brushing passed tall weeds until he found a bed of coarse grass. Turning onto his back, the sun warmed his face and his parched lips pleaded for a drink. Soon, memories flitted through his mind, Lanza, Donald, Penelope and the time machine. An emotional smorgasbord of shock, despair and betrayal.

Taylor drifted to sleep at some point, waking to a cloud of mosquitoes biting his flesh and the sound of sloshing water. With only his ears to guide him, he tuned in on warbling of birds in flight, then a chilling crunch of grass nearby.

"Who is it?" he whimpered, his throat dry and hoarse. The instant the question left his lips, Taylor cried out as something snapped it's teeth into his right ankle. He jolted up, beating his fists into wet and leathery flesh. The monster's grip was too strong, and Taylor let out a shrill scream as it chomped down on his leg, dragging him into the water.

He gargled as the thing turned him over, rolling, twisting and toying with his body. He inhaled muddy water, gasping for air as he was inundated. Weak and close to drowning, Taylor was somehow released from the monster's jaws. He heard a primeval roar, and violent thrashing as he scurried back to dry land.

Sopping wet and on his belly, Taylor crawled from the sound of heavy footsteps squelching towards him. Suddenly, firm hands snatched his wrists and pulled him to another (or possibly the same) cushion of coarse grass; his mind meanwhile, sunk into delirium.

*

Taylor was somewhere else, dry and flat on his back. The sound of the man's breathing and the smell of his body odor stuck in Taylor's mind, along with the vague memory of being carried by his large, calloused hands. Shadows simultaneously stretched and shrunk in his vision, nothing tangible, but an improvement nonetheless. His right leg, flesh bloodied and torn, brought on a fever and his sweat soaked the straw mattress beneath him. It was impossible to say how long he lay on that bed, but the sound of his guardian's deep and comforting breathing was always close by.

Time travel had disrupted Taylor's biological rhythms, confounding any sense of time and space. The world's first time traveller was suffering the world's worst case of jet-lag.

Days passed, weeks maybe. Taylor heard footsteps come and go, unusual voices, incoherent dialects. They murmured over him and touched his flesh as if to prove something to themselves.

Animal skins kept him warm and murky, yet drinkable water, kept him hydrated. His ankle, as far as he could tell, had been bandaged and raised. Despite his mental fog, Taylor was quietly impressed.

He was occasionally awoken by raging fits, but his guardian was there to hold him down. The one thing Taylor needed was time, time to recover, time to get his bearings, time to get used to time travel.

Shadows formed structures, the most prominent being his guardian, standing like a giant in the corner. One morning, afternoon or evening, his guardian propped his substantial weight onto Taylor's straw bed and mumbled a prayer of some kind. At the conclusion of that prayer, the guardian rubbed Taylor's chest then pressed a gift into his left hand.

"Garka!" his guardian announced. "Garka!"

Taylor fondled the gift through his fingers, sensing a sharp tooth strung onto a necklace. He chuckled back, only to grimace at a pain in his ribs. Still he smiled, relieved to finally understand.

"Crocodile!" he exclaimed, holding back enthusiasm to spare himself further discomfort. "I understand it. You got him."

Taylor raised his head to hang the token around his neck, and his guardian clapped and cheered like an infant. His infectious and heart-warming spirit forced another giggle, then grimace from Taylor.

His vision returned as the days blurred together. The room had a narrow window with a clear view of the blue sky and yellow sun. It was a primitive shelter made of reddish clay, designed to be cool in summer and warm in winter. The barrier to the next room was a flimsy piece of wood, and Taylor frequently heard indecipherable conversations beyond it. He wanted to part the door and introduce himself, but discretion and a swollen ankle kept him bed bound.

The walls around him were decorated with charcoal images, depicting brave hunters spearing crocodiles and bear-like beasts. Most of the room was taken up by large sacks stacked under the window. The sacks were fat and overflowing with pale grey seeds. With little more to go on, Taylor drank the water at his bedside table and swirled the sediment left at the bottom of the clay cup.

He was naked underneath the blanket and couldn't see his jeans or shirt, but was delighted to find his cock and balls both present and accounted for. After wiping the grainy water from his chin, he lifted his right arm to examine the torch.

The gauge sat at 1%. Not enough to go anywhere. The display appeared operational but when Taylor tried to summon details of his current location, he was greeted by an unfathomable number combining latitude, longitude, celestial coordinates and Earth's axial tilt. He scratched his temple and cursed himself. If only he hadn't screwed with Lanza's coordinates, if only he hadn't been so cocky, so drunk, so himself.

"You fucked up," he growled. "Daft bastard."

Frustration getting the better of him, he pounded his torch against the table. His brief vent caused a glow to stir from the device, a subtle glimmer that grew like a vine over his right arm. Taylor's heart pounded.

"The apple," he whispered, recalling Lanza's fruit, glowing with an inner light before blowing up in his face. No pain accompanied the light, but the unnatural effect was panic inducing. Taylor bounced out of bed to get a hold of himself and his potential time bomb, but excruciating pain on his ankle caused him to stumble against the seed sacks.

Suddenly the door flung open. Standing in the doorway was the largest man Taylor had ever seen. His guardian was bald and dark skinned, with innocent features and a loin cloth covering his genitals. He bent, wrapped his trunk-like arms around Taylor and picked him up like a doll. After assisting the still glowing time traveller to the bed, the giant held his hand over Taylor's racing heart. The guardian closed his eyes and Taylor calmed his breathing. Deep inhales and soothing exhales, one after the other, in and out, causing the light to dim, and fade.

The following day, Taylor woke to find his clothes folded at the foot of the bed. He smiled, enjoying the whiff of fresh lavender in his red shirt and patches sown into his jeans. On the bedside table was a mug of water and bowl of meaty stew. It tasted delicious and when he was finished, a beautiful woman in red linen entered the room. She was young and olive skinned, with dark eyes and a delicate frame bearing the advanced stages of pregnancy. Taylor nodded his thanks as she collected his empty bowl, but the soft faced woman didn't seem interested. She left through the door and Taylor's guardian entered shortly thereafter.

Taylor affectionately nicknamed him Bull due to his exceptional size and strength. As Taylor threw on his jeans and buttoned up his shirt, Bull showed five men into the room. They were bald and plump around the waist, dressed in ankle length golden garments. Each held silver pots of aromatic incense, wore emerald beads and gold rings. Bull appeared to introduce Taylor to his visitors before meekly lowering his head, as if not worthy of these guests, these priests.

Taylor sat back, annoyed by the interruption yet allowing them to get a look at him. They lowered their smoking pots and inspected Taylor with a fascination he didn't expect. One started a chant as another hovered his hands over Taylor's head, as if performing some kind of cleansing ritual. What appeared to shock these men the most was Taylor's pale Celtic skin. They smeared fingers over his body as if attempting to wipe away the color. They discussed the matter amongst themselves while Taylor experienced a painful wrench in his gut, realizing that the only time a Caucasian could be viewed as unique was in the far distant past. He then observed, through new eyes, their strong bone structure and clothing appropriate for the climate.

"Africa," he mumbled, causing the men to gasp with amazement.

Bull pointed to the torch and the priests crept closer to the gauntlet. They reached to touch it, only to recoil when Taylor reached out to them.

"There's nothing to fear," he explained. "I'm not a God. I'm a man, like you. Human," he insisted, patting his chest. "I know it's hard for you to understand. It's difficult for me too." Taylor stopped to gaze at blank stares and deep frowns. "Look lads, here's the thing, all I want is a stiff drink."

Without warning, the brassy sound of a blowing horn resounded outside. The priests kicked over their perfumed pots in haste as each man, Bull included, began gathering up the sacks stacked under the window. More than in a hurry, more than in a panic, they were in fear for their lives.

They dragged the sacks out through the door, spilling seeds as Taylor limped behind into a dome shaped room, a humble area with pillows placed around a central fire. The straining priests pushed sacks passed Bull's woman, who propped open an arched door that lead outside.

She lowered her eyes when Taylor met hers at the threshold. Continuing outside, the startling heat parched him immediately. Already dizzy and with the heavy torch further throwing his equilibrium, he stumbled onto the hot ground.

Glancing up from the dirt, the village consisted of 20 huts, with rolling dunes in the distance and jungle receding at the sides. There was a swollen river behind, filled with sparkling water with lush grass and palm trees growing on the banks. It was paradise.

Taylor spotted a large earthenware pot outside Bull's hut and stood to dunk his head into the warm water within. Dripping wet and satisfied, he settled against the pot to watch events unfold.

Two dozen scarcely clothed villagers worked together to drag sacks from their huts and pack them neatly in the middle of the village. There were more than 30 sacks of seeds, but judging by the concern marking the villagers faces, it didn't appear to be enough.

Worried priests cast their arms into the sky and begged the sun to show them mercy; laboured looking men meanwhile blustered at each other until one was singled out. The scrawny and browbeaten man clasped his hands together and apologized to his peers as a fascinated Taylor studied it all from the sidelines.

Another horn boomed from the dunes, resulting in workers kneeling and planting their noses against the ground. While they prostrated, a caravan of donkey-drawn wagons rolled slowly into the village. Taylor slid low behind the large pot, deciding that his best move was not moving at all.

The first carts carried fat sacks, but the last carried an iron cage, through which Taylor could see a huddle of emaciated prisoners.

The carts were driven by cloaked figures, wearing the same decorative gold garments as the village priests. The tired donkeys stopped at the centre of the village and workers hurried with water to slake their thirst.

Hooded figures stepped off the carts and began counting the sacks the villagers had amassed. A lone cloaked figure remained on the cart, seemingly scrutinizing the silver ledger in his hand. He or she appeared to be overseeing the entire operation.

When the count was complete, the priests addressed a tense and grovelling audience. Again, Taylor couldn't decipher the language but read between the lines, the workers were short and someone would have to pay for the discrepancy. Taylor squinted at Bull on his hands and knees. The biggest man in the village was just as frightened as those around him.

Priests yelled over the sorry workers backs, gesticulating between the sacks and the cage. The individual on the cart set down his ledger and hit the ground with a dusty thud. He was around seven feet tall, with a bronze beak protruding from his golden hood. His hands were long, the fingers extending to claws which he used to throw back his hood. Taylor saw the creature's bauble-like eyes and densely feathered face, and gasped. The creature took time to observe the sacks, counting each over before aiming its hand toward the cage. The man who had come up short stood shaking. Piss streaming down his leg, the worker was marched to the cage, where the priests oversaw his imprisonment.

The bird dusted its palms, stepped back onto the wagon as the workers loaded the carts. When all the sacks were gathered the priests returned to the carts and clicked the donkeys into a trot. Taylor made himself small as the caravan moved out of the village, headed for a path between the dunes.

Relieved and exhausted workers then retreated to their huts, wives and children, while Taylor stepped out from his hiding place.

"Where the hell am I?"

— CHAPTER ELEVEN —

Taylor lay awake and in the dark, observing the constellation of Orion framed in the open window.

He raised the torch and swiped his thumb across the touch screen, casting a pleasant aqua light from the interface. He scrolled to the audio log feature, and with his bloodshot eyes on Orion's belt, he hit record.

"Alright," he growled. "How's it going?"

Taylor stalled, as if waiting for an answer.

"Me? Well to be honest I haven't shit in three days and my pecker burns like a bastard when I piss. Don't know how interesting dehydration is so I'll move onto something more pertinent."

The stars twinkled out the window and Taylor took a breather before blathering absent-mindedly into the torch. "My name is Hamilton Watt Taylor, and if you're listening to this then you already know the rest. Fuck, you probably know more than I do. I'm no good at record keeping so I'll use this log to keep my thoughts straight or at least hear them out loud. I want to know what crazy sounds like." He scratched his chin and thought of something memorable to say, a quote for the history books.

"After witnessing the detonation of the atomic bomb, Robert Oppenheimer said: 'Now I have become death, the destroyer of worlds.' Since I can't top that, and since my mind is occupied with revolving swear words I'll simply share my favourite, fan-dabby-fuckin'-dozy. As far as time travel goes my body has worn the effects rather well. Blindness and nausea were temporary but radiation is another matter, there are times when my body glows like a faulty light bulb, which may or may not coincide with my heart rate. I can't be sure, but if that's the case then the torch has become more than a shiny bracelet. It's all speculation at this point, in any case, the torch is out of power so my time travelling days are over unless I can find another jump room to juice me up. I doubt they have those at the local convenience store.

He paused.

"Where is here? Bloody good question. Wherever I am this place has attracted the interest of an alien species that resembles a walking turkey. I don't know how dangerous these creatures are or what technology they possess, but they're definitely running the show.

What else? Only that this world and mine are in a hell of a mess. People are scared everywhere. I am too.

Ham Taylor, over and out."

*

Health improving, Taylor ventured out to observe as much as he could, or at least as much as he was permitted. He felt more like a trespasser than a guest during his brief explorations. Workers remained suspicious and cautious priests appeared to track his footsteps. Wherever Taylor turned, he would be met with narrow eyes. He respected their wishes but curiosity took him to the brink of their patience. Desperate to learn as much as possible about the alien's origins, culture and agenda, Taylor stopped anyone who'd give him the time of day. He'd outline a beak over his face and attempt to mime questions, but the response was a cocktail of confusion, fear or silence.

Questions drew attention, and the more he asked the quicker he outstayed his welcome. The only factor keeping Taylor safe was the support of Bull, whose influence bought Taylor time. Taylor would often catch Bull looking at him with a deep sense of curiosity, as if Taylor was some kind of totem, or gift from the Gods.

The mud huts housed families of all ages, and each was decorated with colourful artwork. Some depicted the tall bird with the yellow feathers, but the majority was dedicated to the healing powers of the aloe plant, found in abundance on the river bank. The village revolved around that cool and slow winding river, it was the life blood of the community and when not working, villager's could be found conversing, resting or bathing at it's banks.

Workers kept their noses to the grindstone for the most part. At the crack of dawn, women and children prepared meals, tended to livestock and other chores before collecting seed for the caravan. The seeds came from a cultivated patch of sunflowers at the furthest end of the village. The patch was at least half an acre in size, sheltered from the wind yet fully exposed to the sun. The stems of each plant grew up to seven feet tall, with the wilting heads waiting to be harvested.

Adolescents would toil though the tall patch, snapping the heads from the stalks, scraping the seeds into leather satchels then hauling their load to the river on the opposite end of the village. There, the women would wash, dry and fill sacks ready for collection. Despite the energy sapping work and the size of the crop, it appeared they were adept at collecting every seed. On the second day their bounty would be collected by the caravan, and it's significance was an utter mystery to Taylor.

Grown men like Bull worked outside the village. After breakfast they joined a large company from adjacent villages, then started a march into the deep and intimidating jungle that loomed over the huts. Taylor heard rustling creatures and birds fluttering in the treetops, but would wait till he was fully recovered before launching an expedition.

The men would returned to their homes and families hours later, exhausted and hungry, sometimes bloody, and always caked in powdery chalk.

Near the patch of sunflowers, the village ended in a cul-de-sac of broccoli shaped trees nestled around a temple composed of limestone blocks. The temple entrance was high and narrow, symbolically guarded by two statues facing one another. The left statue was of a lion, standing ten feet tall on it's hind legs. He was mean and mighty, with the same snarling visage that Taylor had seen in the depths of Fort Knox. The opposite statue was an equally proud, yet calmer looking lioness. He was the fire, and she was the light.

Feeling brave, Taylor went closer and creaked his head up at the stone giants. Squinting inside the temple, he saw a gloomy hallway and a priest hurrying toward him with his arms out. The priest was yelling, his angry voice echoing enough to draw attention. Taylor raised his hands and stepped back from the temple. He got the message, and the priest returned to his post inside.

From a distance, Taylor watched most of the day as priests came and went from the temple. They prayed over broken down husbands and weeping wives, but for all their smoking incense and heavenly gesticulation, all Taylor observed were their distant eyes, side yawns and obvious intentions, to keep the workers working.

Some time into his stay, the hut directly opposite Bull's piqued Taylor's interest. It was like the others but for a solitary teenager, loitering at the door. Women would pass him food and water to see him through the day, and the only time he appeared to lose focus was whenever priests took a stroll through the village. The kid pretended to look busy with other things, as if securing the door no longer mattered. Once the priests were out of sight, however, the boy returned to his post with as much attentiveness as he had before. When his long shift was over, he was replaced by another, equally keen young man. Security of that particular hut, Taylor presumed, was a private operation, one the community did not want their hierarchy to know about.

Nights grew cold in the hut so Taylor made himself useful by collecting wood for the fire. A healthy fire was the evening's entertainment, it meant relaxation and recuperation. After a meal of fish stew, Bull gazed unblinking at the flickering flames and orange embers. Taylor crouched to warm his hands while Bull's wife, whom Taylor had learned was named Mesha, dabbed aloe gel on the blisters blighting her husband's feet. It was clear that these people were not workers, but slaves.

The air was hot and the mood was sombre. Transfixed by the fire, Taylor imagined the aftermath of the comet strike, New York City and the world burning amongst the flames. Over and over he heard Lanza's voice and his last words: 'It's not a comet!'

'So what the fuck is it?' he thought. It didn't make sense and Taylor didn't have the pieces to make the puzzle fit. The future unfortunately, would have to take a back seat to more pertinent problems in the present.

Bull pressed his cheek against his wife's pregnant belly. The minute he closed his eyes, Mesha smeared the glistening tears from her own, swallowing back grief so as not to disturb her husband.

Taylor reached out to her but Mesha jerked her elbow from his fingers. She didn't need consolation, but a contribution. Four sacks lay in the corner, one empty and the rest half full. Failing to mask her feelings any longer, Mesha expressed her concerns to Taylor by emphasizing her open, and empty palms. The message was simple, the crop had been harvested and they were running out of seeds to fill the sacks.

Taylor looked at Mesha and was surprised when she met his gaze. He told her it was going to be alright, that he would deal with it. More surprising was how she seemed to understand and even believe his bullshit. It was bullshit, but he owed these people his life.

With the caravan due in the morning, Taylor would be the one to answer for the discrepancy.

*

A smoldering fire greeted Taylor at dawn. He combed a hand through his hair and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Bull was awake and throwing sacks over his shoulder. Mesha crouched at his feet, covering her ears from the ominous blaring of the horn. She blocked out the sound but it was coming all the same.

Taylor lurched up, rubbing his temples to ward off a migraine. "Give it here," he said, snatching the end of a sack.

Bull nudged him off and when Taylor reached again, Bull growled and flung him back. Taylor's shoulder cracked the clay wall outward. Crumpled and stunned, he threw up his arms and waved the white flag. "This is your house, mate. Do what you have to do."

Mesha ran to hold open the door, shaking with fear as her husband stomped passed. She followed him out to a scant pile of sacks in the centre of the village. All the men, women and children were present, fearing the worst as the caravan trundled into their hamlet.

A hooded priest sat at the reins of the lead wagon, with the yellow bird nestled beside him. Close behind, donkeys pulled a burdened cart of fat sacks while the cage brought up the rear.

Again, Taylor observed from behind the water pot. With no plan, he decided to wait for inspiration. The avian creature, dressed in gold coloured garments, appeared more interested in the silver ledger on his lap than the workers cowering around the wagon. With his stiff posture and studious eyes, he looked like an accountant rather than a conqueror.

Village priests lowered their heads and approached the caravan with stretched out hands and grovelling theatrics.

Several of the cloaked men in wagons shook their heads when they noticed the modest collected of sacks. They climbed down and huddled together to discuss the situation. Having arrived at a conclusion, they turned to the waiting crowd and began singling out the largest and strongest men from the village. One specimen in particular caught their eye.

"Fuck," Taylor hissed, biting his nails as Bull was ushered to his feet.

The priests groped his biceps and chest, slapped his fleshy thighs and inspected his teeth and gums. Bull was then ordered to the wagon and standing tall, he nodded and Mesha screamed, grasping Bull's wrist and tugging him back. Bull and Mesha wept together while impatient priests unfurled whips.

Bull pressed his cheek against his wife as a violent snap ricocheted through the air. He cried out and slumped to his knees as the flesh was lashed from his back. As the priests curled their whips and prepared to strike again, Mesha draped herself, and her unborn child over her husband.

One toothless priest threw down his whip, reached deep into Mesha's hair and pulled. Her feet kicked out and she writhed as the hair was torn from her scalp. Bull roared from the pit of his stomach and clutched the priest around the throat, squeezing the man's trachea. The other priests set upon him and the yellow bird raised his eyes at the commotion, appearing confused yet intrigued by the scuffle. The priests whips tattered Bull's skin while he lunged at them, fracturing jaws and shattering bones.

Taylor's heart thumped painfully in his chest, his torch glowing.

"Calm down!" he hissed, gasping in and blowing out. "Think! Get a hold of..."

Taylor glanced down at the water pot and stopped, suddenly unable to catch his breath. There were words scratched into the terracotta. A message written in English! Taylor ran his hands over the words as he read them aloud: "Ham, don't do the magic trick!"

When the priests held a knife to his wife's swollen belly, Bull's resolve disintegrated and he threw up his hands. The priests then struck him repeatedly as they pushed him towards the cage.

Taylor shook his head to break the spell of déjà vu. Taking a sharp breath, he stepped out from behind the pot, dug two fingers into the sides of his mouth and blew.

Everyone: priests, workers and bird, turned to look at him.

"Aye, that's right!" Taylor yelled, rubbing a pain from his neck as he waved. "Everybody get a good fuckin' look!"

The priests gawked. The yellow bird dropped his ledger and bent his head to one side.

"I'm volunteering to take the place of these men," Taylor added, addressing only the bird.

"My name is Ham Taylor, and you'll want to hear what I have to say!"

The yellow bird paused before waving it's hand toward the waiting cage. Priests captured Taylor's arms and threw him down next to Bull. He grimaced as a forearm pressed around his neck. Taylor didn't fight or resist, but Bull did, hoisting the priest assaulting Taylor over his head, tossing him like a rag doll. More came at him, including the yellow bird, who weaved through the approaching priests to reach Bull, where he promptly pinched Bull's shoulder with his lanky fingers, snapping his collarbone like a dry twig. Bull howled before he sagged to the ground, landing on top of Taylor, who gasped for breath as the huge man's weight incapacitated him. The bird then dusted his hands and bent his beak to touch Taylor's nose.

"Seriously invading my personal space," Taylor spat, pushing against Bull's limp weight.

The bird's dark eyes came to life as he studied Taylor's torch. The expression on the bird's face mirrored the same déjà vu Taylor had felt reading the message on the pot. The bird took a shocked step back, folded his arms then said in perfectly enunciated English. "You are a long way from home...meddler of time."

The bird tapped a leathery knuckle against Taylor's temple. The darkness took him immediately.

*

Taylor woke some time later, sharing the cage with other prisoners while the caravan traversed a bumpy path through the thick jungle. Most of the men looked sick, emaciated and broken. They stared through the bars with hollow eyes and didn't speak to each other. They had nothing to say.

Bull was asleep, stretched from one side of the cell to the other. Taylor sat beside him, his face dripping with sweat, arms over his knees and back pressed against the bars. He'd already studied the lock and knew he could pick it, but he wasn't going anywhere. For now, this was where he needed to be.

The caravan maneuvered near the fringes of a dank swamp. The wagons rollicked from side to side, parting overhanging branches and attracting a plague of mosquitoes.

Taylor moaned as he slapped them from his arms and neck; prisoners meanwhile simply lay there, allowing the blood suckers to drink their fill.

The swamp was infested with crocodiles, eyeing the caravan or warming their flesh on the grass. Taylor flicked a mosquito from his wrist and wondered if this was his original landing spot.

They arrived at a parched clearing, the sudden brightness revealing the severity of bites blighting every man's skin. Taylor nestled his itchy face between the bars and concentrated upon a sound coming from the earth. The caravan creaked over the edge of a scooped out quarry of limestone, a mile long and hundreds of feet deep. Slaves looked like ants, breaking their backs in the heart of a chalky pit. Alien birds of various sizes and colours supervised the work, one for every hundred men it would seem. Taylor took mental notes and tried to regulate his breathing. Each spike in his adrenaline caused the torch to glow, so he tucked the gauntlet under his armpit to hide the light. Fortunately for him, the slaves and their supervisors were concerned with more pressing issues. Each bird was stationed at heavy, crane like machinery located around the quarry. The slaves, using rope and muscle, heaved huge boulders underneath the crane arm. Once in position, a device at the end of the crane would blast the rock with a humming sound, enough to cut it clean down the middle. Taylor was awestruck by the energy expelled by both man and machine. It was an efficiently run assembly line.

The only time the operation appeared to lose its rhythm was when one slave raised his hand and cried out. The others dropped their tools to squint at an object falling from a cloudless sky. They threw themselves to the ground and looked up as a stone slab crashed into the quarry, bursting into pieces and causing minor cuts to those cowering close to it.

The lanky birds gathered to inspect the debris. With nothing in the sky and no explanation, they clicked and chirped the men back to work.

The caravan continued passed the quarry and ascended a steep, rocky hill. Taylor lay back and as his heart settled, the light left the torch. He was now convinced that the torch and his heart rate were intrinsically connected. He hoped he would live long enough to work out the hows and whys.

The donkeys panted as they pulled the wagon up the hill, inch by slow inch. Bull opened groggy eyes and scowled at his swollen shoulder, a deformed bump over the break.

"Hurts like a bastard, eh?" Taylor said, removing his shirt and making a simple sling. "I know you don't understand me, but I'll tell you anyways." Taylor went to Bull and wrapped the shirt around his arm and neck. "Wear this sling day and night for at least six weeks. Take it off when you bathe and avoid arm positions or motions that cause you pain."

Bull grunted his thanks. Shirtless, dehydrated and exhausted, Taylor sat back, wiped the sweat from his face and waited for this world's next surprise.

Travelling east, the carts levelled out and Taylor finally realized where he was, if not when he was. He stared open mouthed at the ancient riddle, 74 meters long, 19 meters wide, 20 meters high, and carved from a single block of limestone.

"The Sphinx," he said, squinting away from it's gleaming limestone. Taylor had visited the Giza Plateau during school, and this was not the Sphinx as he remembered it. A Sphinx was a mythical creature with the body of a lion and head of a human. This colossal monument was all lion, the snarling king of the jungle with a face Taylor recognized from the village temple and Fort Knox.

The lion stood guard over the Great Pyramid of Giza. Slaves marched alongside the caravan on an elevated causeway, flanked by thick trees and sparse vegetation. Other wagons joined the tail end of the column, all of them headed for a perfect polyhedron, rising 146 metres into the sky. The pyramid was covered in a complex wooden scaffold but it's smoothly polished casing stones shone through, bright and magnificent. The only thing missing from the wonder were a few final casing stones and the capstone, the final piece placed on top to mark the end of construction.

"My God," Taylor uttered, knuckles white as he gripped the bars.

The aliens' tools made for light work. Each bird held a large gun like instrument, gold plated and shaped like a portable jet engine. One green feathered bird aimed it's gun at a flat casing stone weighing, as Taylor recalled from his studies, in the region of 13 tons. When the bird activated the device, it emitted a low frequency hum, creating a hazy field surrounding the slab. As the bird raised the gun, the slab rose effortlessly into the air, defying Newton's laws of gravity and challenging everything Taylor had learned about physics. The slab ascended the scaffold as a waiting blue bird fired it's own weapon at the stone, completing a seamless transfer. The blue bird then hovered the stone to the waiting hands of slaves, who manipulated the slab into place.

The birds communicated in squawks, whistles and warbles. Taylor tried to match specific sounds with body language but was unable to get a sense of what they were saying.

A red feathered bird passed near the cage. It held one of the golden guns and Taylor craned his neck to get a better look at it, but saw nothing that would reveal it's mechanism. The caravan stopped suddenly before a stockpile of seed sacks. Taylor brushed the dust from himself and settled next to Bull as cloaked men moved forward to open the lock.

The cage door swung open and all were ordered out as a familiar horn boomed across the construction site. In unison, slaves, priests and birds fell to their knees. A conditioned Bull followed suit, leaving Taylor alone in the cage.

"Bollocks!" he groaned, pushing himself out of the wagon and onto the Giza Plateau.

He heard the thud of landing steps over his shoulder, but before Taylor could turn his head, he was forced to his knees by the yellow bird's leathery fingers digging into his neck.

Taylor moaned, knelt, and the bird relinquished. The horn sounded again and the reason was soon apparent. A stocky figure draped in a white cloak exited the pyramid. Heavy set birds followed at a respectful distance while grovelling slaves reached out to feel the figure's blowing cloak.

Taylor lowered his head to the dirt, but his pale skin caught the approaching stranger's eye. Ten steps away, the stranger threw back his hood to reveal a monstrous form, not man nor bird, but a thousand pound, muscle-bound humanoid lion. Taylor's palms shook on the sand, the light returning fast to his torch.

The lion's face was wide with dense brown hair, and his amber eyes were round with deep, dark pupils. His snout was long with needle-like whiskers at the sides, and sharp teeth hung from his parted mouth.

The yellow bird took Taylor's right arm and displayed the torch to his master. He explained through squawks and the lion nodded back.

"Stand," the bird whispered to Taylor. "General Apophis demands you on your feet."

Taylor put one foot in front of the other and rose in a daze. The moment his legs supported him, he was snared around the throat by the lion's powerful paw. Apophis pulled Taylor close and peeked inside his gasping mouth, as if searching for something special. A thick fog rolled over Taylor's eyes and just before he was lost in it, Bull appeared and threw a clenched fist at the lion's head, causing it to stumble and drop Taylor, who flopped to the sand. The yellow bird squawked, Apophis roared and spectators flinched. Despite his broken collar bone, Bull threw himself at the lion only to be caught by the head. Bull fought back but the lion was too strong. He reached into Bull's mouth and took hold of his tongue. As Taylor's color returned to normal, he witnessed as Apophis ripped out Bull's tongue, then swallowed it back like a party favour. Blood spewed from Bull's mouth and a glazed expression overcame him as he slipped into shock. He wobbled momentarily then thumped to the sand, kicking up a cloud of dust as he landed.

With the dust cloud acting as temporary concealment, Taylor got to his feet and ran. He had no direction. His heart pounded and the torch blazed. He saw the Sphinx and the hill behind it. He could see the swamp in the distance and pushed himself on. Better to face the crocodiles, the mosquitoes and jungle, than the unearthly horror behind him.

He reached the hill and threw himself forward, but instead of rolling into the bushy undergrowth beneath the canopy of trees, Taylor found himself floating. His limbs went rigid, a chill coursed through his body while an unusual hum encompassed him. He was weightless, screaming, and flying. This exotic force sent him soaring over the pyramid, his torch resembling a signal flare. It was a stomach churning sensation, and when Taylor eventually puked, the chunks were trapped in the field with him. Slaves marvelled at his light while the bored looking lion lapped Bull's blood from his claws.

A red bird controlled the gun that held Taylor aloft. It squawked with delight as it propelled him over the plateau. Others pointed and cheered, but their levity was short lived when Apophis gave the signal for Taylor to be lowered to the ground.

He landed with an unceremonious thud at the general's feet.

"I don't belong here," he said, his flesh pulsing from white to gold as he gazed at Bull's dead stare. "This is not my time. This is not my time."

General Apophis, teeth stained with blood, took hold of Taylor's right arm and squinted at the gauntlet. The yellow bird bent to whisper into the lion's ear. Apophis listened yet seemed to discard the advice. Holding Taylor's arm, the snarling beast squeezed and crushed the torch. Violent sparks arced from the device and writhed up Taylor's arm, neck and head. Spasms followed as metallic pieces fragmented off of the torch, damaging Taylor's link to the future and sending a web of furious heat through his heart.

The power faded, his light diminished, and the fog returned.

— CHAPTER TWELVE —

Taylor lay in a dank corner, a moist burlap sack over his head and a thick rope binding the wrists behind his back. He dreamt of a force dragging him to the bottom of a black ocean, pressure increasing, his life fading along with the surface light.

He opened his eyes, saw the dark and felt the sack against his face. When panic knocked on his door, Taylor had a vision of himself sinking to the bottom of the Clyde, of being alone, of drowning. He breathed, he focused, and the panic receded.

Coherent thoughts formed and Taylor recalled the memory of some unknown bastard taking a long, thick piss on his head. The icy atmosphere was enough to bring about hypothermia. Unable to bear the smell of piss or his bondage for one moment longer, Taylor fumbled to his knees, threw his head forward and pinned the tip of the sack between his legs.

"Fuck," he groaned, pulling it off his face.

He sat back, feeling a gooey mess soaking through his jeans. There was enough light in the room to make out the dismembered body parts draped about him. Still shirtless, Taylor hustled to maneuver his wrists under his ass, under his heels and onto his lap. The rope was surprisingly loose, with a childlike knot that Taylor unraveled in seconds.

"What else?" he asked himself, cracking his knuckles and rubbing his wrists. He swiped his thumb across the torch display and was amazed when the aqua light began to glow. A rattling came from within the device but it appeared to be functional. The power gauge still sat at 1% and the audio log was ready to record.

Taylor exhaled with relief and clutched the torch to his chest. That 1%, no matter how small a figure or remote the chances, was his lifeline to the future, and Penelope.

He stood, shone the light around and immediately wished he hadn't. Body parts, some human, some animal, were stacked in the corners of the room. Stagnant liquid flooded the floor and chunks of viscera decorated the walls. The architecture was metallic and functional, there was a hatch-like door to the side, a black observation window and a metal table with chairs underneath. Taylor fought off dry heaves as he faced the window, studying his haggard reflection in the glass.

Light left the torch and the moment the room went dark, Taylor heard the hatch begin to slide open. He fell back to his corner, squashing withered dead things and readying himself for God knows what.

Several seconds later, the hatch screeched inward and light blasted down from the ceiling. Taylor dropped for cover, shielding his eyes with the torch.

"Do not be afraid," said a lanky silhouette. "We do not have a lot of time together."

The soft spoken creature entered the room and pulled a chair from the table. "Let us talk."

When Taylor's eyes acclimatized to the powerful light, he was startled by the blood covering the floor and staining his skin. He rubbed his hands against his jeans but the blood wouldn't budge. It was everywhere.

"Bloody animals!"

The hatch slammed shut yet the overhead light remained, leaving Taylor alone with the yellow bird.

"Come," the alien offered, extending his leathery hand to the opposite chair.

The bird was dressed in regal green robes with hanging tassels trailing in the gore. As he took his seat, his cold black eyes examined Taylor as if squinting through a microscope. Taylor stood opposite him, clenching his fists. The bird sighed.

"Violence I understand, is innate to your kind. I advise you work past this instinct. It will only get you killed."

Taylor smiled thinly, kicking a slippery organ near his foot. "Excuse me for getting the wrong impression. Your English is very good."

The bird nodded, crossing his fingers over the table. "My species, the Jackanine, are masters of language. I am skilled enough to interpret your tongue."

The bird glanced down, then averted his eyes from the blood soaking his robes. "There was a time when my people could not comprehend, never mind be capable of such savagery. I often wonder if it is too late to save us."

"Save you?"

"A story for another time. Please, sit."

Taylor pulled back the chair and sat face to face with the alien.

"Interrogation?" he asked, and the bird tipped its head.

"I am hoping our encounter will be a civil one. You have nothing to fear from me. I am not the one in charge."

"The lion," Taylor said, meeting the bird's eye. "Who is he?"

"General Apophis has generously allowed me the opportunity to question you. If you fail to answer my questions in a prompt and satisfactory manner, the general will relieve me and you will become a part of the floor."

Taylor leaned closer. "What crime have I been accused of?"

The bird glanced nervously at the window, then back to Taylor.

"Time is of the essence," he resumed. "You are being held because you are a man unlike all others, a man from another time. The general requires information, and the more I learn the longer you will live. I am here to help you."

Taylor was curious yet remained on guard. "I watched you ordering slaves to be beaten and dragged from their families."

The bird raised his hand in protest. "Those men who lash the flesh from their own kind are no friends of mine. My job regarding the seed was accountancy based, cycle counts and inventory management, to which I overlooked many discrepancies. My manipulation of data saved many human lives."

The bird's sincerity caused Taylor to rethink his natural cynicism.

"Why would you help me?"

The bird reached forward and tapped his claw against Taylor's torch. "A conqueror of time deserves respect. The device, are you its creator?"

"Partially, I invented the time machine and my friend Karl Lanza created this." Taylor motioned towards the torch.

"Remarkable," the bird added, studying the torch. "Many species have discovered time travel but none have made it so...portable. Ingenious, may I?"

Taylor slid his hands from the table. "What does the general want from me? What does he want from my planet?"

The bird ignored Taylor's questions. "Tell me your name, and when in time you hail from?"

Seeing no harm in the question, and hoping to find his own answers, Taylor played along. "Name's Ham Taylor, circa 21st century."

The bird leaned back, stroking long fingers over his beak. "Fascinating. Never would I have thought Earthlings could be capable of such feats as soon as that. How extraordinary, and how very dangerous."

The alien cordially raised his palms. "Forgive my assumption but Earthlings are not known for their intelligence, in fact I have to temporarily lower my own intelligence quotient to communicate with you now."

The bird crept closer, whispering. "The only trouble I am having is trying to decipher your particular regional dialect."

"It's Glaswegian, and yer aff yer nut."

"A formal introduction," the bird mumbled. "Proper protocols should be maintained." After clearing his throat, the bird extended his lanky hand. "I am a Yellow Jackanine, Secretary General of the Jackanine Council. I hail from Planet Nido, located in the Sirius Star System approximately 8.6 light years from Earth. We are galactic neighbours, Ham Taylor."

"Yellow Jack," Taylor exhaled, folding his arms. "Who the hell is Apophis?"

Yellow Jack brought his hands to his chest and wrung his fingers. "The less you know of Apophis, the better."

The bird glanced again at the window, as if he could sense a looming deadline. "What is human civilization like in your 21st century?"

"Dirty," Taylor returned, without hesitation. "Corrupt."

The bird nodded, as if unsurprised. "On my travels I have yet to encounter a civilization free from corruption. No matter which political system a society adheres to, in the end, one group comes to dominate all others."

Both paused to reflect, before Jack asked his final question. "Ham Taylor, I understand the power that brought you here, but cannot fathom your intentions. Why travel 4,500 years into your past? This is very curious to me."

Forty five hundred years. The figure struck Taylor like a thunderbolt. Yellow Jack continued to talk while Taylor's thoughts circled a black hole. He repeated the number over and over in his head but the thought wouldn't fortify.

"It was a mistake," he mumbled, gripping the corners of the table.

Arrogance caused Taylor to adjust Lanza's preset coordinates, but such a monumental error was more than a drunken miscalculation. He knew something more was at play to throw him 4,500 years off course.

"A bloody stupid accident."

Yellow Jack looked over his shoulder, then hurriedly whispered: "Mistake...or providence?"

The hatch creaked, causing man and bird to jolt from their chairs. Yellow Jack adjusted his robes while Taylor pressed his back against the wall.

The hatch squealed as it opened. General Apophis filled the frame, a mass of rippling muscles, hair and teeth.

Yellow Jack lowered his head as he approached his master, communicating in gestures, clicks and squawks. Taylor felt his knees wobble as the lion stomped into the room, his every step like the crack of a whip.

Taylor eyed the open hatch and thought of running, but thought again when he saw the lion's jagged claws. Apophis took a seat and Yellow Jack positioned himself behind his right shoulder, chin up and hands locked behind his back. The Jackanine's tone had shifted, no longer sincere and patient, but stern and tense.

"Come closer Ham Taylor," he began, again offering Taylor the opposite chair.

Taylor sat, placed his hands flat on the table and the lion's foul breath made his eyes water. His heart pounded but for the first time, no light left the torch.

The lion's predator eyes scowled and Taylor averted his own and waited for instruction. When the lion spoke, it was a low and guttural language unpleasant to the ear. Jack translated the grunts and growls.

"General Apophis refuses to believe that Earthlings possess the power of time travel. He says you are a weak-minded species bred for slavery and incapable of such technical feats. He insists you are a liar, Ham Taylor, and demands an immediate confession. One that will reinforce this opinion."

Apophis placed his chunky paws on the surface of the table, claws scraping the tabletop.

"He is waiting," Jack insisted. "Do not make him wait...for your sake."

Taylor clenched his teeth as internally, his mother's good sense tried to contain his father's bad temper. He peered up at the lion, noticing a spot of blood on his teeth.

"Threats bring my piss to a boil. This lion scum killed my friend. Ate his fucking tongue out."

"The tongue is a delicacy in Pride culture."

"I don't give a shit about your customs," Taylor loudly exclaimed. "And yeah, inform the general that I am a conqueror of time, and that my people are smarter than he thinks. You just wait and see what I'm capable of."

Yellow Jack raised his hand, caught in the middle, pleading for diplomacy. "This information is not something you wish me to translate."

Taylor turned his glance back to Apophis when suddenly, the lion snatched the top of his scalp and brought his face down onto the table. Taylor's nose snapped sideways, blood shot out from his mouth and one of his teeth skittered over the table.

"General Apophis will no longer tolerate the scrutiny of a slave's eye," Jack said, his voice quivering. "Gaze only at the table."

Tears streamed down Taylor's cheeks and blood dropped freely from his nose. The pain came in waves and Apophis leaned closer, as if to enjoy every miserable contortion of Taylor's face.

"The general senses a lack of disrespect," Jack added. "The general demands to know if you are an enemy to him, his kin, and his mission?"

"I'm no friend," Taylor returned, tonguing the gap where his tooth used to be. "Guess I'll be chewing with the other side from now on."

Yellow Jack hesitated, seeming to wrestle with some inner conflict. He was brought out of these thoughts by the general's following question.

"General Apophis insists you are a trickster and conjuror of lies. He demands that you reveal your magic. I strongly advise you to give me any information that might save your life."

Taylor took a moment, nodding to himself several times before confessing to his crime.

"I am a magician," he confirmed, placing his hands together. Adjusting his fingers, Taylor magically pulled the tip of his thumb from his right hand.

"Abracadabra, alakazam, and all that shite."

Yellow Jack covered his eyes as Taylor, sporting a smirk, returned both palms to the table. Apophis leaned in, grinning from the corner of his large mouth as he flicked a claw into the end of Taylor's left pinkie, slicing it off at the bone.

Taylor shrieked and fell over, pressing the bleeding hand against his stomach. Apophis picked up the severed pinkie and threw it into his mouth like a peanut.

Yellow Jack rushed to Taylor's side. "Forgive me!" he cried. "This is not who we are. We are better than this."

Apophis returned to the hatch, waving in two other Jackanine - one red, one blue - each gripping the handles of a sturdy metal bucket. The bucket itself was filled with porridge-like fluid which slopped over the sides when they set it down.

Apophis snarled at the hatch as he observed Yellow Jack attending to Taylor. Roaring, he lunged forward and pierced his claws into Jack's shoulder. Apophis then dragged the bird kicking and squawking out of the interrogation room.

The remaining Jackanine worked fast over Taylor, as if dealing with hazardous materials. The blue Jackanine pulled a set of tongs from his belt while his colleague in red gripped Taylor by the neck.

"Get off!" he yelled, but the creature's hold was unbreakable.

The blue alien dipped the tongs into the bucket, clutching at something inside.

The red Jack' pressed Taylor's face to the floor, and with a firm grip on the tongs, the blue Jack' covered his mouth and removed a dripping, translucent organism from the bucket.

It resembled a limp jellyfish, but its curtain of dangling tentacles sprung to life the closer it got to Taylor's head. Thin, gelatinous filaments reached out for his skull, as if in desire.

The blue Jack' retched then sprung back as it released the thing over Taylor's head. His colleague scrambled to the hatch as the organism clung to Taylor, interweaving it's squirming arms around Taylor's skull, sliding it's tentacles into the corners of his eyes and entering through his ears, up his nostrils and spreading into the back of his throat. Taylor writhed on his side, gargling as the organism pulsed at the back of his head. Its slimy body expanded, the parasite feeding upon Taylor to create an ovoid egg within it's translucent flesh.

The red Jack' moved in, pulling a knife from his belt, which he used to create an incision down the centre of the organism. The blue Jack bent to part the creature's flesh and tugged a vein riddled egg from within the parasite. In one smooth motion, the Jackanine placed the newly generated egg carefully into the bucket and hauled it out of the room.

The hatch slammed shut and the lights went out. Not for the first time, Taylor embraced the dark, hardly expecting to ever see the light again.

— CHAPTER THIRTEEN —

Taylor heard a creaking sound and sensed a slow swaying back and forth, almost like he was on a boat. His head was clear but his nose was broken, both eyes black and his arms and legs like lumps of concrete. When he opened his eyes he saw that he wasn't in a boat, but in a metal cage. He gripped a bar behind his ear and sat up, patting his bare chest and jeans to check if everything was in order. Turning his head to search through the bars, Taylor's stomach lurched when he witnessed a churning vortex of green fog hundreds of feet below, and a single hook holding his cage aloft. Other cages were silhouetted around his own, near and far, some vacant, others filled with dispirited prisoners or piles of rotting meat and bone. There was a huddled body sharing his cage, a goose-pimpled, leather skinned creature that looked as beaten-down as those around him.

Taylor took a pulse reading at his neck, a steady rate but nothing out of the ordinary. He touched his broken nose and a nauseating sensation stirred when he ran his fingers over the break.

He yowled in pain as he jerked his nose back into place. "Fucking lion bastard."

Done, Taylor lay against the bars and grimaced at his severed pinkie. Feeling an itch in his scalp, he reached to scratch it then gasped as if electrocuted. "What the..."

Slowly and carefully, he reached again to the back of his head, fingers shaking as he parted the hair and dabbed at a pulsating boil the size of a marble.

"You are a dead man," said a numb voice near his foot. The goose-pimpled creature was awake, and it raised it's head to look at Taylor.

"Who are you?" Taylor asked, too tired to defend himself.

The creature paused to take a nervous breath. "You called me Yellow Jack. I am...was, Secretary General of the Jackanine Council."

Yellow Jack hid his large eyes behind his hands. His once bright yellow feathers had been forcefully torn from his body. "We have both been branded enemies of the Pride."

Taylor crept closer, the cage creaking with his shifting weight. "What did you do?"

"I have been judged to be soft on Earthlings, untrustworthy and undeserving of my position. After they threw you into interrogation, I purposely loosened your bonds. Compassion sealed my fate."

Taylor nodded his thanks then searched through the bars, studying the many cages swinging over the fog.

"What is this place, Jack?"

"The lion's den," he dimly replied. "You are in the heart of the Pride mothership, hovering some thirty thousand feet in Earth's stratosphere. You are going nowhere."

"mothership." He scowled, observing no entry or exit. "There's always a way."

Yellow Jack looked at him with vacant eyes. "Escape this cell, Ham Taylor, and you are still dead in a matter of hours. The back of your skull, feel it again."

Taylor ruffled through his hair, eyeballs bulging and gut twisting as he felt the boil grow. He tried to burst it out of his head, but the more he squeezed the hotter it boiled, hot enough to singe his hair and sear the ends of his fingers.

"Fuck!" he cried out, clanging his torch against the bars. "What the fuck is it?"

"A defence mechanism," Jack said. "You are experiencing the secretion of a mesomite."

The boil expanded, creating a baseball sized deformation at the back of Taylor's head. He pressed it again but the pain was too much. "What the fuck have they done to me?"

Panic took hold and Taylor grabbed Jack's arm. "Get it out!"

Jack appeared stone-faced to the hysterical Earthling an inch from his beak.

"The mesomite," Jack explained, "is a parasite gathered from the seas of Nido. Once placed on the head, the mite injects a paralyzing venom into the host's nervous system. The mesomite then works to create an identical copy of the host's brain in the form of an egg. The process takes minutes and once complete, the egg is cut loose and the parasite is discarded. The fully produced copy can be read, its information interpreted by a skilled Jackanine."

Taylor released Jack and fell back to the bars. "What happens to the host?"

Jack frowned and turned away.

"What happens to the host? Tell me."

"The host," Jack conceded, "is left to face the consequences of the venom circulating inside your brain. Your head will continue to expand, Ham Taylor, larger and larger before the pressure becomes too great. A particularly gruesome and, I might add, excruciating death."

Taylor hugged his chest as if to console himself. "How long do I have?"

Jack shrugged. "Minutes, hours, days. The size of the growth will fluctuate, larger and smaller. Each subject varies but the results are the same."

Taylor smeared the blood from his nose and sardonically chuckled.

"Typical. Just fucking typical. In the last few weeks I should have died slashing my wrists, or jumping from the Brooklyn bridge. I should have been crushed under a skyscraper or vaporized by my own time machine. But no, I'm done in by a fucking alien jellyfish. Shit, I could use a smoke."

Jack's expression had fallen, slack and indifferent. "You do have one chance, but it would be impossible at this point."

Taylor perked up from his hopeless slump as Jack filled him in.

"The only thing that will reduce the swelling and save your life is the blubber of the mite responsible for your predicament. The blubber acts as a sort of anti-venom, and must be ingested for it to act on your condition."

"So where is it?"

"Presumably left to rot in interrogation. You will need help to locate that room, and you will need to consume the dead creature's blubber before it desiccates. Time is not on your side, Ham Taylor."

"It never is."

Taylor scanned the circumference of the cage, plotting a way out. "How high up are we? Does gravity vary on-board? How is oxygen produced?"

Yellow Jack set his long hands over his knees, enjoying the workings of Taylor's brain. "Would you care to know the odds of you somehow escaping this cage, maneuvering passed the legion of Pride, and entering the interrogation room unimpeded before the perished mite's blubber decomposes and your head explodes?"

"Forget it," Taylor scoffed, sitting back to mull things over. "I'll do it myself.

Several hours had passed with long bouts of silence. As Taylor wrestled with his predicament, a blood curdling scream echoed in the fog. The sound was human, male, and coming from a cage nearby.

Taylor watched as an enormous black spider attacked the cage, it's hairy mouth snapping at the wailing prisoner inside.

Taylor went pale as he scurried to Jack's side. "How can we help him?"

"We can't even help ourselves. This is what happens when you build a beautiful ship for filthy lions, it becomes a cesspool of crawling pests."

The man screamed and Taylor winced. "What do we do?"

"Be thankful the spider is not taking an interest in us. That is all."

The spider plunged between the bars and it's fangs punctured the prisoner's chest. The prisoner let out a garbled half scream, then went limp. Taylor watched as the spider bent and pressed it's bulk through the bars. Once wholly inside the cage, the spider wrapped its victim in silk.

"You helped designed this place?" Taylor asked, never taking his eyes off the spider.

"The ship was conceived of and constructed by my people. I was one of five designers who oversaw the build. I was once very proud of it."

"Why do you allow yourselves to be ruled by a lion? If you're so smart."

"The Jackanine are perhaps the most intelligent species in our Galaxy, but genetically unsuited for violence. Violence is abhorrent to my species, however we can be coerced and controlled through the use of drugs, particularly the seed of the sunflower found on your planet. Once under the influence, the Pride use the Jackanine to construct their ships, weapons, and administrate the takeover of planets like yours."

Jack glanced at his wrinkled hands. "The seed is a difficult addiction to break," he said, bitterly. "The Pride used this weakness to turn the majority of the Jackanine into raving addicts. They will do anything under the drug, and anything for Apophis."

"No stranger to drugs myself," Taylor said, rubbing his parched lips as the spider hauled it's bound victim out into the darkness. "Is that why you came to Earth? For a bunch of bloody seeds?"

"The abundance of seed is a bonus only. Apophis comes to Earth for two reasons, to trample the threat of man, and to resurrect his love Aquinas."

Taylor made to interrupt but Jack finished his point. "Earthlings are intelligent and brutal, fragile and selfish, a fascinating mixture of both Pride and Jackanine. You have the potential to one day conquer our galaxy and shape the future of the universe. This is how Apophis sees the situation, and you Ham Taylor, a living breathing time traveller, prove man's potential and ultimately seals your fate."

Over the swaying creak of the cage, Taylor recalled walking down a candelit cave and shelves containing seeds, a silver amulet and the carving of a golden bird. Apophis had somehow left his mark on modern man.

"I'm from the future," Taylor thought out loud, "therefore mankind has a future."

Jack disagreed. "Time is a fickle force, as you well understand. Time travel is the most dangerous tool in existence, and there are grave consequences for trifling with it."

Taylor felt like he was standing on a frozen lake, feeling the cracks of time growing under his carefully balanced weight.

"How do you destroy a planet?" he then asked. "And what has Earth got to do with resurrecting...?"

"Aquinas," said Jack, whose voice had gone soft with exhaustion. "The secret lies within the pyramid."

The fog muffled more screams. A vague shadow floated towards them.

"What is that?" Taylor said, squinting at a large object swooping between the cages.

When it broke through the fog, Yellow Jack's eyes bulged in his hairless head. The organism was the size of an automobile, orb like with a shell covered in spiky antennae, and a single blinking eye in the centre.

"Not this!" Jack cried, cowering. "I do not deserve such disgrace!"

The thing began circling the proximity of their cage. "Jack!" Taylor yelled. "What is it?"

Yellow Jack pulled his head from his hands and Taylor was shocked to see his tears. "Prepare yourself, Ham Taylor!"

"For what?"

They shared a final glance.

"The fight of your -"

The orb scanned them with light, then the cage snapped free from its hook.

Taylor's stomach fluttered to his throat as his back was pressed to the cage ceiling. He screamed through clenched teeth while Jack, pressing beside him, closed his eyes as air rushed through the bars.

Moments later, the cage fell through the fog and into a black shaft. The rock like hole closed in and when the cage contacted the circumference of the shaft, their descent slowed dramatically. Taylor and Jack hit the floor of the cage while the bars emitted a shower of sparks. Eventually, the cage screeched to a halt and the bottom fell out, dropping Jack and Taylor into a shallow puddle.

Parts of the cage lay broken and bent over Taylor and Jack. The only route was a faint light at the end of a gloomy tunnel. Taylor shrugged off the wreckage of the cage and squinted at the exit, still struggling to believe he was on a ship floating in the sky. "I'm not dead, am I?"

"That comes next," Jack said, rubbing the shivers from his featherless arms. "They will be waiting for us."

"Who?" Taylor asked as he assisted Jack to his feet

The condemned Jackanine took the lead without offering any explanation. Taylor followed, too intrigued to be scared, too ignorant for his own good.

They walked through muddy puddles, catching their shoulders on moss covered stone. Light increased at the end of the tunnel along with the unmistakable sound of a crowd, a myriad of voices screaming in unison, the thunderous applause of a mob.

At the end of the tunnel, their route was blocked by a set of thick metal bars. Side by side, Taylor and Jack pressed their faces between the bars and gazed at a large amphitheatre.

"Whoa!" Taylor exclaimed, awestruck.

Eighty thousand Jackanine sat in tiered seating, rising to encircle a spacious arena covered in sand. The atmosphere was hot and sticky, with smoking vents around the periphery, spaced between dozens of similarly barred tunnels.

Egyptian slaves served boisterous Jackanine in the stands. The birds ate from mounds of seed and assaulted the slaves whenever they felt the need. One man was thrown down an aisle for no apparent reason, and another had his arm ripped off like an insect for accidentally spilling the precious drug.

"My people are not like this...We are not!"

"We're all like this," Taylor said, wrapping his hands around the bars.

In the arena, two groups of men and women waited on their hands and knees. At the head of each group was an elephant, adorned in dazzling golden jewelry and red saddle cloths.

An orange Jackanine wavered between each elephant while three lions grasped the elephant's leash. A black Jackanine, wearing a large elephant mask, ran around the arena, waving and working the crowd into a frenzy as slaves at the head of each group were forced onto their stomachs. A tense moment later, the orange Jackanine's prompted each elephant to raise their feet over the slaves' heads. When the time was right, when the applause reached a crescendo, the elephants, on command, stomped down.

The crowd cheered. The lions dragged the now headless bodies to a garbage chute then returned to drag the next slaves forward. The applause grew, and the elephants lifted their feet.

No slave cried or attempted to run. One man however decided to take his own way out. He stood, cursed then ripped the cloth from his waist. Naked, the slave stuffed and crammed the material down his throat, managing to swallow half before his bloodshot eyes rolled back into his head. There was little reaction from the crowd or the other slaves as he was promptly discarded down the chute.

General Apophis sat on a golden throne in a raised box overlooking the arena, where he could both see and be seen. Stacked in-front of him was a mound of human tongues, which he tossed into his mouth three at a time. Seated around the general were his most trusted soldiers and Jackanine diplomats, all sharing in the evening's entertainment.

Just beyond the bars from where Taylor and Jack stood, two slaves were locked in mortal combat. One held a broadsword while the other batted it away with his full body shield. The men fought for their lives, all for the amusement of the audience.

Throughout the contest, the unskilled fighters were overwhelmed by debris thrown by the Jackanine. The man grasping the shield took a stone to the eye, and dropping his defences, he was quickly cut down. The victor, panting and bloodied, threw down his sword and raised his arms to receive a rapturous applause from his alien audience.

The roar reverberated a second time when Apophis extended his arm and held out his muscular thumb. Taylor, and eighty thousand Jackanine awaited the general's decision. The thumb went upward, and the crowd went wild.

"He saved him?" Taylor exclaimed, astonished.

"His prize will be a speedy death," Jack said. "No-one survives the circus."

As Jack spoke, five lions bounded into the arena and lunged at the hapless slave. One lion immediately tore out the man's throat while the others clawed and chewed their way to his internal organs.

"I won't fight you," Taylor said, over the mayhem. "If that's what they want."

"A contest between Earthling and Jackanine would be no contest at all. Apophis will have something bigger planned for us. A spectacle."

All action in the arena was captured by the spike covered orb and its living eyeball. It swooped in low for sensational close ups and presented its feed on raised holographic screens for those in the cheap seats.

When all the slaves had been sacrificed, the elephants were lead out of the arena, leaving a trail of bloody footprints in the sand.

Taylor peered at the garbage chute, around which buzzed a swarm of black flies.

"Can we get out down there?"

A lion approached the chute and placed a heavy looking grate over top of it.

Yellow Jack grimly shook his head. "The grate has a mass approximately ten times your own. Can you lift a that much, Ham Taylor?"

Taylor looked back at him. "Can you?"

Jack responded as if reading from an instruction manual. "I do not have the strength required to lift the grate. I can, at most lift 89% percent of it's mass. 89% percent is not 100% percent."

Taylor's eyes went large as he mentally calculated the weight, including variables like dry mud caked over the grate. "So it probably weighs somewhere in the region of 2000 pounds, and if you could manage 89% percent of that, it would leave approximately 220 pounds for me. I could probably manage that."

"Ham Taylor there is no probably. You can or you can't. Which is it?"

Taylor grinned and slapped Jack's arm. "You Jackanine ever smile?"

"Ham Taylor, I smile when I am happy. My painful death being imminent, I see nothing about which to smile, and your bizarre notions are remote at best."

"Glass half empty then. Suit yourself."

Eyes back on the action, the pair observed a young man scurry out of an opposite tunnel and into the arena. He stood alone, malnourished, and scared out of his wits. He was armed with a spear that shook in his hands. Jack and Taylor suddenly flinched as the bars shielding them from the arena sank into the sand.

"It is time," Jack said, preparing to enter. Taylor tugged back his elbow.

"Are you nuts?"

Taylor then winced at a sharp pain located at the back of his head. He reached back to gently dab at the hot and bloated boil.

Jack placed his hand on Taylor's shoulder. "We have no choice Ham Taylor. Voluntary or involuntarily, we will face the terror that awaits us."

Stepping out, the crowd booed and jeered the instant they noticed the disgraced Jackanine. Taylor shook off the migraine and pressed in beside Jack, grimacing at a torrent of waste thrown from the stands. He shielded his head with the torch, then bent to collect the abandoned broadsword near his foot.

"Have you ever wielded a bladed weapon?" Jack asked him.

"Do scissors count?"

Taylor gestured the young slave with the spear to join them and when he did, the trio watched Apophis stand from his throne and throw up his arms. Silence fell over the amphitheatre as the general addressed his legion. Yellow Jack translated the collection of snarls and hisses for Taylor's benefit.

"My people, my Pride. On the eve of our greatest ever triumph we have one last display of justice. Behold the undesirables," he announced, pointing an accusing claw at Taylor and his companions.

"The first is a man slave, a murderer who drove a knife into a Jackanine's back. His back!"

The riled up crowd threw stones and stomped their feet. "Treacherous blood flows through the heart of every Earthling! Tonight you will see what cowardly blood looks like! The second Earthling," Apophis added, eyeballing Taylor, "is a magician using the power of lies to threaten our empire. He is a devil, and his magic will be banished back to the darkness!"

Apophis devoured another tongue, allowing time for his audience to vent.

"The third," he swallowed and resumed, "is the worst of all. He is a Jackanine, one of your very own! A sympathizer who used his trusted position to betray our Pride!"

The frothing crowd screamed, their collective fury causing the sand of the arena to shake. "A murderer!" Apophis concluded. "A devil! A traitor! Let their end usher us to a new beginning!"

"Blah, blah, blah," Taylor uttered, as the general received a standing ovation.

The amphitheatre reached fever pitch as a section at the edge of the arena descended, forming a ramp to a subterranean level. In the eye of the storm, Taylor glanced down at his sword and pondered the bizarre nature of his situation.

"Pay attention!" Jack snapped, bringing Taylor back to the here and now, and to the ancient carnivore climbing the ramp. A hulking, sabre-toothed cat raged at the end of thick metal chains attached to a collar around it's neck.

Taylor looked at the slave to his right, watching the piss stream down his leg. Taylor sympathized, he'd piss his own pants if he wasn't so dehydrated.

The cat's ribs could be seen through its hide. It had been starved, and streams of saliva ran down it's yellow teeth.

"Ham Taylor," said Jack, directing Taylor's eyes to the general's box, where Apophis cracked an egg on his knee and scooped out the gelatinous matter from within.

"Is that what I think it is?" Taylor asked, his head swimming as Apophis threw the viscous ooze into his mouth. "He's eating my brain"

"The neural pattern will have been interpreted already," Jack added. "Apophis will know everything about you. He will know when and where you were born, everything about your family and friends. He will know that you are a time traveller. Your presence is the greatest threat Apophis has ever faced. This spectacle is all for you, Ham Taylor."

"Fan-dabby-fuckin'-dozy."

Apophis licked the slime from his paws then aimed his thumb downward. On that order, the chains restraining the cat detached and it raced towards it's moving feast. The terrified slave ran for the boundary, scrambling for a way out. Jack meanwhile scooped up the full body shield and nestled himself against Taylor.

"Brace yourself!"

The full brunt of the springing cat collided into the shield, knocking them over like bowling pins.

Shaking the stars from his head, Taylor's stomach turned inside out as he felt the cat's fetid breath and tickling whiskers against his neck. The sword was out of reach, and face to face with the cat, he threw his arms up, stuffing his torch into it's mouth. The cat gnawed as Taylor forced against its snapping jaws. Drool spilled over his face and Taylor let out an excruciating cry as the predator's claws dug into his shoulder. Suddenly, the cat jerked backwards as Yellow Jack drove the broadsword through it's side. Taylor rolled as the yelping animal retreated, the sword's hilt jutting from its ribcage.

Apophis slammed a fist into his throne as the crowd argued amongst themselves, trying to make sense of the surreal scene of Jackanine and Earthling working together.

"Are you well?" Jack asked, helping Taylor up.

"I'll need a fucking tetanus!"

The cat, angered by it's wound, returned to the fray, this time going after easier prey. The petrified slave lost his spear as he jogged aimlessly around the arena. The cat pounced, sinking it's dagger like teeth into his head. The audience rejoiced as blood erupted from the man's ears and mouth. The cat separated the man's head from his shoulders, then carried it off to a corner to enjoy. The jagged orb came in low to capture the money shot and Yellow Jack took advantage. He bolted for the discarded spear, and with a powerful throw, he flung the spear at the orb's gelatinous eyeball. He struck his target dead centre. Light sparked over the orb and ink spurt from its burst pupil. The live feed died and the orb crashed down onto the cat, it's spiky antennae piercing the howling beast.

"Holy shit!" Taylor cried, in astonishment.

Jack grabbed Taylor's wrist and took off for the grate. Taylor slid towards it like a baseball player stealing home base. Covered in sweat and with adrenaline pumping, Taylor stood side by side with Jack as they grasped the heavy grate.

"On three!" Taylor bellowed, bending his knees and fumbling for a better grip. "One, two!..."

On three, the grate screeched upwards. Taylor's determined face turned red as the veins branched down his neck and arms. "I'm lifting more than 11% percent here, Jack. Put your...back into it!"

Jack's face appeared more focused as he raised the majority of the weight.

High on his throne, Apophis roared, ordering soldiers into the arena. Taylor's back and shoulders burned as he and Jack raised the grate past his shins, then up to his knees. When the grate reached Taylor's thighs, a nearby growl caused him to lose concentration. He released the grate and Yellow Jack, unable to bear the weight alone, let it clang back over the chute. Taylor stumbled, catching his breath and rubbing the pain from his palms.

Jack's eyes bulged as the wounded cat crawled out from beneath the broken remains of the orb. The animal was dotted with bloody lacerations and wounds, which appeared to enrage it further. The monster howled and Apophis smiled, ordering his soldiers to stand down.

Jack sighed. "We will need more time."

Taylor nodded back as he considered a ludicrous idea, the only one he had. He ran to the shield and tossed it at Jack.

"Keep the cat busy, Jack! Distract it, beat it, keep it off me! Right?"

Yellow Jack nodded, grasped hold of the shield and set off towards the cat. Taylor meanwhile stepped over the mutilated and headless slave, hearing the shuddering thud of shield meeting claw. Engrossed, Apophis bent over the edge of his raised box as the arena held its collective breath.

"I can't do this much longer!" Jack cried, beating his shield into the cat's snout.

Taylor yanked the laces from his boots, sucked them between his lips then parted the serrated flesh over the dead slave's abdomen. Exposing the interior stomach, Taylor's bloody hands shook as he reached into the body and pulled the stomach sack free from the esophagus.

With the sack balancing in one hand, he knotted his laces around the stomach's upper esophagus and lower duodenum, forming a balloon of hydrochloric acid.

"Fucked if I know," he mumbled, finishing his knot.

Taylor looked up at Jack and the cat, tucked the package under his arm then sprinted for the cat's rear. Yellow Jack cracked his shield one last time across the cat's snout as Taylor arrived to break the bag between its ears, splattering the cat in a corrosive, gastric soup. The cat writhed on the sand, yowling as the eyes were burned out of its head.

Stunned silence swept throughout the amphitheatre, and Jack and Taylor used the moment to return to the grate.

"Together!" Jack screamed, and grabbing hold, the pair lifted the grate using the last of their strength.

"Come on!" Taylor scowled, as a team of lions entered the area. The grate reached their knees, then their thighs, the gap wide enough for Taylor to squeeze through.

"Get in!" Jack groaned desperately.

"You can't hold this alone!"

The lion's closed in. Jack closed his eyes and begged. "Please, Ham Taylor! Stop Apophis! Save...your planet!"

With the lions not far away, Taylor released the grate and leapt through the gap. The moment he was in the chute, Jack dropped the grate causing an ear shattering clang.

Taylor glanced up as he fell down the greasy passageway. Gaining speed, and with the grate shrinking into the distance, he witnessed for the first and final time, the smiling face of Yellow Jack.

— CHAPTER FOURTEEN —

The chute closed in around him, walls slick with gore. Taylor's fall was broken abruptly and as he lay there, winded and disorientated in the darkness, he was blanketed by a swarm of flies and an indescribable stench that made him light headed. An object poked into his kidneys and reaching back, he examined what turned out to be a thin hand with stringy tendons dangling from the wrist.

"Christ!"

Taylor tossed the severed hand and heard it bounce down a steep slope. He swiped his finger across the torch and gagged when he witnessed the scene beneath him. He sat at the summit of a hill of corpses, a thousand bodies in various stages of decomposition, flies and maggots everywhere.

There was a one-eyed skull at Taylor's heel and a dismembered torso between his legs. Again, Taylor retched while the echoing sound of distant voices closed in. Steadying himself, he swatted off flies as he squinted at the bottom of the pile, convulsing in disgust.

Worm-like creatures squirmed around the outer limits of this crumbling mountain, slurping and feeding from the fringes. The worms were as big as cars, with segmented brown skin and gaping mouths like vacuum cleaners.

A screech of steel alerted Taylor to the opening of a hatch overhead. As he heard the wheel begin to turn, Taylor flung himself head-first down the pile, turning and rolling, snagging at rotting arms and legs.

His head was spinning when he hit the bottom, the torch light revealing the bulbous head of a worm, with blister-like eyes, fatty growths around its face and bristly hairs around its lips. Covered in cadavers and wiggling maggots, Taylor flicked off his torch display, the hatch flung open and light flooded the chamber.

"Shite," he whispered, frozen stiff as a worm began to pinch at his boots.

Two lions, seeing nothing from their vantage point, leaped onto the mound to investigate. They hadn't seen Taylor yet but it was only a matter of time.

Taylor took a deep breath as the lions worked their way down the hill. Glancing back at the gooey mouthed worm, Taylor took an educated guess. He knew that creatures such as worms didn't have teeth, and that their digestive tracts were relatively straightforward, running lengthwise through the body. Since he was dealing with alien rather than earth-based worm, there was only one way to prove his theory. Taylor closed his eyes and lay perfectly still. The instant the prickly mouth sealed around his boots, he knew the coming moments would haunt his dreams.

Lions stumbled down the pile, tossing body parts in search of Taylor. A numbing sensation overwhelmed his lower body as the worm swallowed up his legs. Second thoughts crept in but with the worm at his groin, and with the lions bounding down the pile, he had no choice. The worm's mouth expanded around Taylor's bare chest until only his head poked from the mouth. The lions reached to the foot of the hill and the worm sucked Taylor down it's throat like a string of spaghetti.

The lions searched the corpses, and finding nothing, they pushed and shoved each other like petulant children, picking up limbs to beat each other with. When the scrap was over, they scaled the hill and bounced out of the hatch, slamming it shut and returning the chamber to darkness.

The worm's stomach was crammed with rotten meat and undigested bones. Encased in flesh, Taylor held on until he could no longer hold his breath. He tugged Bull's gift from his neck and used the crocodile tooth to saw his way through the worm's tough flesh. The worm wriggled and screeched from the outside whilst Taylor tore at its insides.

Slicing and severing, he punched his fist through the worm's sinewy flesh and out into the fetid air. He forced his slimy face out of the hole, inhaling a huge breath as the worm took it's last.

"This might be," he coughed and spluttered, "the worst fucking day...of anyone's life."

After pulling himself free from the expired worm, Taylor flopped onto his side, scraped the unidentified slime from his face, and swiped his finger across the torch. The aqua light revealed his way out, a black burrow used by the worms to slither through the ship. Taylor's first option was the hatch, but having no way to reach it, he crawled past the worms and disappeared into the hole.

*

The atmosphere was moist, the floor slathered in worm trail. With the torch lighting the way, Taylor passed many possible routes and heard innumerable pests crawling about him. He felt metal underneath and came to realise that he wasn't in a burrow made by the worms, but a system of air ducts traversing the ship.

After a while, a greasy Taylor pressed his back against a wall to rest. He didn't want to sleep but his body demanded it. Two large pipes, one hot the other cold, stretched down each side of the vent. With nothing coming and feeling somewhat concealed, he squeezed underneath the cold pipe. Tucked away from any worms circulating the vent, he closed his eyes to sleep.

Increasing cold woke him some time later. The vent dripped with freshly laid slime and Taylor was relieved to have slept through the traffic that deposited it.

Moving on, hope arrived with voices, not human, but the distinctive warbles of the Jackanine. Taylor followed the sound of conversation coming from underneath him, careful not to bang his torch on the surrounding metal. Taking a left turn, he arrived at a large vent covered with a metal grill. Swiping off the torch's light, he crept over the vent and peered down through the narrow grill to see a small chamber with moody floor lights. There were around 10 slaves, all male, all naked, and all standing before a red Jackanine. The tall bird moved down the line, inspecting and correcting each man's posture. He appeared meticulous in his scrutiny, propping up chins, swiping dust from a slave's shoulders and parting hair to the side he preferred. The room was clean and strangely, the slaves were not covered in sand or broken by labour, but young and well cared for.

Taylor leaned closer, touching his nose against the grill. The chamber door opened and a lion entered. The Jackanine greeted him while the slaves remained still, shoulder to shoulder, eyes cast downwards.

Accompanying the soldier was a groomed lioness dressed in a flowing floral gown. She had a smooth brown mane, teddy bear ears and eyes revealing feminine softness and predator cunning.

When introductory formalities were over, the lioness and Jackanine moved down the line, assessing the slave's strong bones, facial symmetry and straight teeth.

Once inspection was complete, the lioness grazed her paw down the chest of the last man. The Jackanine clapped and the worker smiled, as if this was the proudest moment of his life. The purring lioness left the chamber with the slave in tow. The soldier and Jackanine followed, closing the door behind them.

Now alone, the slaves did not look or speak to one another, as if dissent and individuality had long ago been beaten out of them.

Taylor tugged at the grill but it needed more strength than he had. Being the most wanted man on the ship, he decided to carry on until a better option presented itself.

A hypnotic drum beat began to echo as Taylor approached the next vent. There, he bent to watch a bizarre scene play out beyond the grill. It was a sort of cocktail lounge full of socialising lions and privileged Jackanine, mingling over drinks and hors d'oeuvres: seeds for birds, tongues for lions. Many crowded around a central stage, on which two male and two female slaves lay on a bed of straw. A purple Jackanine pointed a stick at the couples then explained the various aspects of the human body. He then ordered one man to climb on top of a woman. The man needed little motivation to get going and when the act was underway, the purple Jackanine delineated all the details to his fascinated audience.

The third chamber Taylor came upon was glowing with candles surrounding a wooden coffin, intricately carved and painted to depict the beautiful lioness at rest inside. Taylor held a hand over his lips when he noticed Apophis sitting next to the coffin.

The general placed his paws over the lid, laid his face against the carved countenance and embraced his love. Taylor felt a surge of unbidden empathy for Apophis and the loss of his wife. He wanted to carry on, but feared stirring the lion in his grief. A more pressing matter soon came to mind, or out of it. The boil expanded and the burn returned. Taylor put his arms over his face while the growth expanded out of his skull. Unable to bear it, he yelped through his fingers and Apophis looked up at the vent. He scowled up at the grill when a party of unannounced lion well wishers suddenly entered the chamber.

As a furious Apophis gave them a piece of his mind, Taylor took advantage of the noise to move away. The moment he was out of sight, he inspected the growth popping out of his scalp. The abnormality was lemon sized, and pulsing. Every time he touched it, he felt light headed and sick to his stomach.

"Come on," he whispered. "Pull it together. Pull it together now."

Taylor didn't have the luxury to sit and feel sorry for himself. His only chance was to keep moving and hope to stumble across the interrogation room. It was a long shot, but long shots were his bread and butter now.

Crawling for the next vent, he stopped part-way when he noticed a tingling sensation emanating from the torch, as if it was somehow urging him toward the grill. The force was weak, but increased the closer he crept to the vent. A brilliant light suddenly flashed up through the grill, blinking on and off like the beam from a lighthouse. The light filled the ventilation shaft, bright enough to hurt Taylor's eyes. He glanced back over his shoulder and considered turning back.

"Fuck it."

He pressed on for the light when suddenly, a magnetic force tugged at his arm, dragging him toward the grill. The chamber below contained a raised stone alter, on top of which sat the source of the light, a 6 foot by 2 foot wooden box. Strange energy blazed out from the cracks in the box and was accompanied by a low hum, reminding Taylor of the jump room. His torch kissed the grill, desperate to make contact with the humming object in the box. There was too much light, too much power and noise. Taylor pulled back but he was trapped against the grill, the entire ventilation system shaking, weakening joints and raining dust into all the attached chambers.

Suddenly, the box exploded, exposing a cube burning white hot in the heart of the chamber. The cube engulfed the room and it's light streamed up into the vent and out through every shaft in the ship. Taylor screamed as the grill gave way and the cube reeled him in. When his torch made contact, Taylor was filled up with glorious and excruciating light, coursing through his veins and blasting out of every orifice. Writhing, contorting and consumed by that force, a sudden and terrific force erupted from the torch as Taylor was torn from the cube.

Through a mental haze, he saw scared lions carrying him by his arms and legs, a worried looking Apophis following close behind.

Taylor felt nothing as the world revolved in his vision. He glanced down to his hands and watched them glow. He heard lions mewling in fear as they held on to his searing skin, a howling wind blowing his hair back. He heard the grinding steel of a descending ramp and saw swirling clouds through the arms of a lion.

"No! No!"

Apophis stood at a safe distance, ordering soldiers to discard the source of the radiation overboard. Taylor screamed at the top of his voice, but out of strength and out of ideas, begging was all he had left.

"General! Apophis! Don't do this! Wait!"

Taylor was dropped into the arms of gravity. Lions cheered as he plummeted into the deep blue sky, tumbling out of sight like a falling star.

He plunged into the clouds and as his speed increased, he watched as the sands of Egypt came into focus. The torch flared with fire and Taylor was startled to discover the power gauge sitting at 100%. He couldn't believe it, but he would use it. Reaching terminal velocity, his pounding heart sparked the torch into furious life.

"It's working!" he hollered, flames licking up his arm. "It's -"

Hamilton Taylor punched a second hole through space and time, leaving nothing behind.

*

Taylor landed on top of a table causing all four legs to buckle under his weight.

"Where am I?" he hissed, hot light sparking out of the torch.

Taylor rubbed his temples and brushed off the remnants of a broken table, fighting off a headache as he stood. His body was no longer glowing but he felt like his nerves were on fire. Tapping the torch display, his gauge read 70%. He had come a long way.

Mid-afternoon sun streamed in through closed blinds, revealing a romance novel near Taylor's leg. He was in an expansive penthouse apartment, a time and place he recognized.

"Lanza!" he yelled, voice hoarse. "Lanza? Where are you Karl?"

Taylor's heart was beating at a dangerous pace and he feared that he would disappear at any moment. He had to hold on, had to make this time count.

He stumbled into the adjoining kitchen, turned on the tap and shoved his head under the water. He drank and drank, cooling his fillings and wetting his sizzling hair.

His legs buckled underneath him and he cracked a floor tile with the torch. Laying there, his back against the cupboard and the tap spewing water, Taylor remembered the original mission - warn Lanza and save mankind.

He saw a white board in the living room. Standing and swaying towards the board, he grabbed the nearest black marker and wrote in large letters:

'It's not a comet! Ham fucking Taylor!'

Taylor didn't know what it meant or why he was writing it, but hoped Lanza would. He dropped the pen and took a step back. Spotting a bottle of scotch near the fridge, Taylor greedily moved for it. He popped the cork and took a swig, then another.

"Oh my God," he spat, the alcohol dribbling down his chin.

His arm went limp and the bottle dropped from his hand, whisky oozing over the tiles. As Taylor bent to save the remains, he noticed the calendar attached to the fridge. Today was November 5th 2041 - the day of Penelope's disappearance.

His light returned and Taylor hugged himself, trying desperately to control his breathing and slow down his heart.

"You can do it! Keep it together! Stay here!"

His eye was suddenly drawn to the open door leading to Lanza's lab.

"Karl?"

Taylor felt fragile, like a feather could knock him over. Shaking and occasionally flashing with light, he pushed the door open and gripped his cramping guts. Penelope Taylor lay asleep on an operating table, her arm hooked up to Hippocrates. His wife was in the middle of a procedure Taylor was familiar with, a procedure he himself underwent. A silver torch was being surgically attached to Penelope's right forearm. Unsure if he was dreaming or lost in madness, Taylor hurried to her bedside, touched her hand and put it to his lips. There could be no doubt. It was Penelope, as perfect as the day she left him.

Taylor sobbed into Penelope's hair and wrapped his arms around her. "Penelope, it's Ham! Wake up. Wake up for me!"

He kissed, caressed and begged his wife to see him. "I'm sorry! I am so sorry!"

Suddenly and amazingly, Penelope stirred and Taylor gasped.

"Open your eyes! Wake up!"

Penelope groaned, her head turning, blue eyes squirming.

"Wake up!" Taylor pleaded, kissing her lips and pressing against his face against hers. "Please, see me!"

Penelope opened her eyes as she woke from a deep sleep. Taylor's tears dripped onto her cheeks when he met her warm gaze.

"Ham?" she whispered, smiling. "Is...that you?"

Taylor screamed as a painful bolt of sunlight flashed up his right arm and pierced his chest, throwing him, once more and violently through time.

— CHAPTER FIFTEEN —

Taylor dreamed of Penelope and the golden jump room. He saw his wife inspect her silver torch as she took her position over the red circle. She looked scared, yet determined as she wrapped her arms around the harnesses. Once secured, she glanced at Lanza in the janitor's office and gave him the thumbs up. Behind the glass, Lanza and three assistants worked over the console, starting the generators and powering up the time machine.

*

Taylor opened his eyes, arms out and gasping for air as if drowning.

The sun burned his face, wet marsh soaked his boots and a bed of tall grass nestled around his bare back. As a black cloud of mosquitoes swooned over his body, Taylor stood, hobbled as far as he could from the marsh then puked his guts out.

Coming to rest against a crooked palm tree, he raised the torch under his eyes and sighed when he read the gauge. "Two percent. Two fucking percent."

He knew where he was, knew he was back in the heat of ancient Egypt; when he was was another matter entirely. The image of Penelope fixed for her own torch flashed between Taylor's eyes. Gnashing his teeth, he activated the audio log. "Lanza, you son of a bitch! Why did you use her? Why'd you let her talk you into it? Fuck you both! Fuck the pair of you!"

Taylor buried his face in his hands and gave himself time to cool down.

"My fault," he whispered, rubbing his forehead. "It's all on me."

Taylor asked himself how many times Penelope tried to tell him about her work? Then asked himself how many times he ignored her? He then pondered why he jumped back to Lanza's apartment in the first place. Taylor nodded when he arrived at a probable answer. That moment in time was Lanza's original coordinates, before Taylor drunkenly screwed with the torch. Lanza wanted his old friend to know what he did to Penelope, a sort of retroactive confession.

Taylor's eyes glistened so he snapped himself out of it before the emotion overwhelmed him. It didn't help, it wasn't over. Since her disappearance, Taylor said she was still alive, still out there somewhere. Now that feeling was as strong and vital as ever.

He gingerly inspected his personal doomsday clock at the back of his head. The throbbing infection had shrunk but would grow again.

"First thing's first," he groaned, standing.

Inspecting the sun's location in the sky, he estimated the time to be around 5am. With that, he forced the chronic migraine from his mind, then headed west, ripping and tearing through energy sapping jungle.

*

He arrived at the village 20 minutes later, staggering as the parasite began to effect his equilibrium. Sun baking his bare back and torso, he immediately dunked his head into the large pot of water next to Bull's hut. Throwing the water over his shoulders and thoroughly enjoying the soak. Taylor heard the clarion call of a horn and pulled his head out of the pot, experiencing an uncanny sense of déjà vu when he noticed the incoming caravan. He squinted, shook his head and scowled.

Taylor had lived through this scene before, and instinctively felt his earlier self close by, as if his mind was in two places at once. It was an unusual sensation, more than a vague premonition, but the feeling of absolute certainty. His torch and the inconsistent variables of time had thrown him into the middle of an earlier adventure.

Priests and workers gathered sacks in the centre of the village. Taylor ducked down behind the pot as the hut wall beside him caved outwards, as if something heavy had struck the mud wall from within.

Bull flung open the hut door and dragged two sacks over his shoulder. Mesha clung to his elbow as Taylor, peering from behind the pot, finally realized when he was. His past self would have his back against this very pot in seconds. Unwilling to introduce himself to himself, Taylor decided instead to tinker with time by sending a warning that might help them both.

He glanced at his left hand and severed pinkie, despite being an inconsequential part of his anatomy, Taylor wanted it back. Using a sharp snag of his torch, he scratched a simple message into the pot. 'Ham don't do the magic trick!'

Taylor stepped back to admire his ingenuity, hoping that when his past self noticed the message, it would prevent the smart ass from showing off in the interrogation room. There were a million more things Taylor wanted to tell himself but with no time left, he hurried to the rear of Bull's hut as the caravan rolled into the village.

The scene played out exactly as he remembered, albeit from a new perspective. The priests inspected the sacks and came to an arrangement amongst themselves. Taylor crept low, watching with curiosity as his past self read the message scratched in the pot.

"Is that really what I look like?"

Taylor brought his focus back to the caravan, fascinated to see Yellow Jack reading his ledger on the lead wagon. He was adorned with glimmering gold feathers and regal looking robes. Still alive, still one of them.

A scuffle erupted between priests and Bull, ending with a knife brandished against Mesha's stomach. Taylor continued to press against the hut, reluctant to interfere with history, at least while his other self was present. He ducked even lower at the sound of a piercing whistle coming from the water pot.

"Everybody get a good fuckin' look!" He heard himself bellow. "My name is Ham Taylor, and you'll want to hear what I have to say!"

Current Taylor rubbed disorientation from his face as he observed his earlier self being beaten, then thrown unconscious into the wagon.

Yellow Jack dusted his hands and then ordered that the sacks be loaded onto the carts. It was then, free from the eyes of his own past self, that Taylor was overwhelmed by an irresistible desire to change everything.

"Okay!" he yelled, walking nervously into the open. "Everybody get another good fuckin' look!"

Priests, workers, and Yellow Jack turned to face the man from the future.

"That's right!" Taylor announced, thinking on his feet, still unsure what he was doing. "That's me you just threw in that wagon!"

With blank expressions all round, Yellow Jack approached Taylor with caution, ignoring the objections from priests behind him.

The pair met in the middle, surrounded by gawking eyes and gaping mouths. Jack towered over Taylor, lanky arms at his side as if ready to draw. The bird clicked and the human sneered.

"You'll need to lower your intelligence quotient if you want to talk."

"Who are you?" Jack asked, deeply suspicious. "Why should I not break you?"

Taylor scratched an itch from his brow and raised his torch. "Because you know what this is. And you don't want to hurt anyone, quite the contrary."

Jack appeared twitchy. "You do not know me."

"You're a Yellow Jackanine," Taylor explained. "Secretary General of the Jackanine Council. My name is Ham Taylor, a friend you don't know yet."

Yellow Jack took a defensive step back. "I suppose you want me to remove you from the cage?"

Taylor shook his head. "Nah. He's fine where he is."

"If you stay in cage, you will be arrested, you will be interrogated."

"Been there. Done that."

Yellow Jack rubbed his beak, connecting the dots faster than Taylor could arrange them.

Taylor understood that by avoiding the ship completely, also meant avoiding the mesomite currently swelling his brain. Without that experience, he would not have touched the golden box and would not be standing where he was now. Learning Penelope's fate however, was the most important thing, and that knowledge came as a direct result of being aboard the mothership, a memory Taylor had to hold onto it. At all costs.

"What do you want from me?" Jack whispered, stepping forward again.

"Apophis suspects you are a human sympathizer. He's onto you, Jack. Listen carefully, during my interrogation the general will cut off my finger. I left myself a message not to test his patience but don't think I paid much attention."

Taylor revealed the stump of his severed pinkie. "You will not show me any sympathy," he insisted. "None whatsoever. Comforting me in that moment is the act that gets you locked up...and subsequently killed."

He had Jack's attention. "Why would an Earthling interfere with time to save my life?"

Taylor winked and patted his arm. "I'm saving your life so that you'll save mine. We fought side by side in a bloody arena. Floating orbs, a giant cat and skull stomping elephants."

Yellow Jack's eyes glistened with fear as Taylor continued.

"You helped me escape, together we raised the grate over the garbage chute. Without you I can't raise the grate, and therefore won't escape the arena. Get it?"

"Ham Taylor you want me to sabotage the grate before the event, thus allowing you free passage into the chute."

Taylor smiled, relieved. "If you don't succeed, I'll die up there and disappear down here. My life is in your hands."

Taylor briefly considered the potential outcome of his current actions but it was too late, he was already neck deep in unknown territory.

Before Jack returned to the caravan, Taylor made one final request.

"The big guy in the wagon. Let him go."

Jack's beak chattered as if laughing. "The man is a barbarian. You saw what he did to my men."

"These priests," Taylor met Jack's eye, "are not your men."

Jack lowered his shoulders and sighed. "You may be the death of me, Ham Taylor."

"You have no idea. Come see me when you're done."

Jack returned to the caravan, ordering priests to open the cage and release Bull.

It took four priests to remove Bull from the cage and set him on the sand. When they did, something remarkable happened. When originally locked in the cage, Taylor had used his shirt to make a sling and secure Bull's broken collarbone. With Bull no longer in the wagon, Taylor's past self would not have removed his shirt to make the sling. He gasped with wonder as his tattered red shirt weaved itself into existence over his bare chest, but this was no magic trick, just a rippling consequence of manipulating with time.

Taylor chuckled and rolled up his sleeves, but his high spirits were brought crashing down to earth by Yellow Jack, who had a last warning to impart. "You are tampering with forces you cannot possibly comprehend. No matter how this turns out, The Time Keepers will have you answer for this."

"Time Keepers?"

"You will almost certainly see," he concluded, stepping onto the lead wagon. "They will come for you, Ham Taylor, and soon."

The priests sealed the cage, leaving past Taylor to face interrogation, Apophis, and the amphitheatre alone.

With the caravan rolling out of the village, Mesha and Taylor assisted Bull to the hut. Taylor lay him before the burnt out fire then made another sling for his arm, this time using sheets instead of his shirt. When his guardian's arm was secure, Taylor left him to sleep.

Outside, he bent over the pot and gazed at his warping reflection in the water. Yellow Jack was right, he was meddling with forces he could not comprehend. His recent actions concerned him, his bravado and impulsiveness were out of control. Taylor stared into his own tired eyes and asked himself for a return to patience, and reason.

"Enough of the John Wayne shite."

After dunking his head in the pot, Taylor wiped the water from his face and saw nervous priests approach him. Soaking wet and in no mood for them, he pretended to pounce forward.

"Boo!"

The startled priests ran toward their temple while the rest of the villagers kept their distance, appearing more confused than anything else. Taylor waved an apologetic hand at them, turned his back then hobbled toward the river. The growing mesomite poison sent stabbing pains down the back of his neck, like forks of fire through his spinal cord.

Reaching the bank, he waded wearily into the Nile, the cool water rising over his boots and soaking into his jeans. He threw himself in and allowed his limp body to sink. Seconds later, Taylor ascended for air with a relieved smile on his face. The pain subsided and the burning abated, the growth however, continued to pulse.

After wiping the water from his face, Taylor noticed Mesha watching him on the bank. She also looked confused, but not as scared as the others.

"Your man will be fine. Trust me, it's better this way."

Mesha turned and gestured Taylor to follow. She hurried to the hut opposite her own, which was guarded round the clock by an adolescent sentry. Once Taylor had caught up, and once she confirmed that all priests were out of the area, the young sentry stepped aside and Mesha entered the hut.

The interior was cold and musty. The window was sealed with wood and what light there was revealed a small straw bed and nothing of interest. The moment the door was closed, Mesha pulled the bed away from the wall and Taylor lit the room with his torch.

There was a stone slab under the bed, which Mesha urged Taylor to move. When he bent to move the slab Mesha's eyes bulged with fear when she noticed the back of Taylor's morbidly swelling head. Trying his best to reassure her, Mesha held her mouth, shook her head and hurried outside. The door slammed behind her and Taylor was left alone.

"That was reassuring."

Getting to his knees, he slid the slab aside to reveal a dark pit filled with secrets. It was roughly 7 feet deep and stacked on all sides was a cache of alien objects, metallic orbs the size of footballs, small flat discs, spear like staffs, short knives, clubs and a multitude of other strange objects. It was an arsenal, and the makings of a resistance.

Taylor stepped into the pit and gawked as he shone the torch's light over the inventory. He carefully examined a lion shaped skull with teeth longer than his forearm. Putting it down, he selected a glassy bauble from a stack and rolled it in his hands. It weighed no more than an apple and reflected his face in the surface.

He returned it, then selected an elongated golden gun from a wooden shelf. It was a gravity defying tool like the one used to raise boulders and himself over the Giza Plateau. It's weight was substantial, in fact he could barely cradle the thing in both arms. Grimacing, he inserted his left arm into a hole at the stock, a slot just fat enough for his fist. There was a click inside the gun and Taylor felt his index finger graze against the trigger. Without warning, a sonic boom exploding out of the barrel, blowing Taylor back and launching the stone slab through the hut's roof.

Stunned and with stars in his eyes, Taylor threw down the gun as the slab soared skyward. The light left Taylor's torch and when his ears stopped ringing, he felt a growing tremor in the earth around him. The weapons in the pit rattled from their shelves and boxes.

"Is this me?"
Taylor searched for the cause but the quake had no obvious origin. The hut shook and a caramel coloured crack appeared underneath him, enveloping Taylor in brilliant light. He tried to move but his body was trapped, paralyzed by the supernatural light. A sudden burst of movement followed and Taylor braced himself as he was pressed against a rising podium, growing out of the hut and racing for the clouds. Screaming through gritted teeth, he punched through the stratosphere, mesosphere, thermosphere and exosphere. Then on, away from Earth and out into space, passed the moon, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn. His speed increased to unfathomable levels, ripping him out of the Milky Way, passed galaxies, condensing super-clusters and eventually a network of intertwined veins. He went higher still, higher and faster, witnessing the entirety of the universe falling beneath him. There, at the summit of all existence, Taylor's podium came to a halt.

A glowing shield shimmered and warped around his body, providing Taylor with oxygen and his own gravitational field. His shoulders sprung to his ears when he heard the disembodied sound of voices from above. Human voices.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice echoing above the universe. "Is this real?" he yelled, craning his neck to look at nothing. "I must be dreaming."

"You see?" argued one voice to another, in coherent English. "His brain is too small, he cannot possibly understand."

"He asks for confirmation," replied a softly spoken female. "This is understandable given the constraints of his own reality. Taylor has the power of imagination, and more than enough intelligence to comprehend the situation."

Taylor continued to look around him, seeing the universe below and nothing above as he considered his next question.

"Hamilton Taylor," said an old man's voice. "Are we...Gods?"

"No," he responded, instinctively. "You're not Gods."

"Why do you say that?" the female asked, soon after.

"Because Gods wouldn't need to ask."

Taylor wobbled as he stood, hearing their chuckling coming from nothing.

"What then," demanded the elder male, "do you presume we are?"

"You are people," he returned, feeling their penetrating eyes in the darkness. "People just like me."

The voices went quiet for a moment, as if waiting for Taylor to fill in the blanks. Hands on his hips, he didn't disappoint. "I guess you brought me here because I am, as one Jackanine put it, a meddler of time. You are The Time Keepers, some kind of universal authority here to read me The Riot Act. That about right?"

The voices chatted amongst themselves and Taylor left them to it until they were ready to address him.

"Very good," said the older, more skeptical voice. "Taylor we are indeed The Time Keepers, an assembly of entities from across the universe governing the rule of time. We are here primarily to see that time is left unmolested. Unfortunately you are more than a mere meddler, but a molester. You have recently on two occasions attempted to readdress time to meet your own ends. The first was when you scratched a message onto a water pot. The second was when you diverted a Jackanine from his preordained path. These are very serious matters."

Taylor raised his arms and voice as he retorted. "If the Jackanine's path was preordained then it could not be altered. Destinies can be changed because the law of the universe decrees it. I know this because time travel is possible, and therefore is meant to be meddled with."

The elderly man interjected. "Our laws Taylor, are ancient and unbreakable, not to be walked over by an ant! The impertinence of man is astonishing!"

Taylor forced a belly-laugh. "Ants can lift hundreds of times their own body weight. You mock my brain then get all pissy when I'm smart enough to play with your toys."

"In any case, you are here because you have been charged with attempted subversion of the fourth dimension. How do you plead?"

Taylor looked up and yelled "Ignorance!"

The Time Keepers sardonically snickered.

"He is a feisty one," said an amused female voice. "He doesn't care one iota for authority. Hubris perhaps, or perhaps the blame lies with us for underestimating man's abilities? Perhaps this assembly should also accept that arrogance has led us to ignorance?"

Her comment inspired heated debate back and forth, voices throwing accusations at each other with Taylor caught in the middle. In the end, it was left to the elderly male voice to rein in tempers.

"Hamilton Taylor, you will be granted a stay of sentence until we can further discuss the matter. Ignorance is your plea and it will be considered. You will be summoned by force to this assembly when we have reached a conclusion. We will meet again. Do you have any parting words that might sway our decision one way or the other?"

"Yeah," he said, glancing to the vastness below. "Thanks for showing me the universe. That alone was worth hearing your bullshit."

Before he knew it, Taylor was falling as fast as he had risen, stomach pressed to his throat as the podium descended into the light of the universe and the Milky Way, passed stars, into our solar system and finally back to Earth and Ancient Egypt.

On his belly, leg dangling into the pit, Taylor heard a familiar voice ask.

"How can I help you?"

— CHAPTER SIXTEEN —

Yellow Jack stood behind General Apophis in the bleak interrogation room, studying Hamilton Taylor seated at the table.

"General Apophis," Jack translated, "insists you are a trickster and conjuror of lies. He demands that you reveal your magic. I strongly advise you to give me any information that might save your life."

Yellow Jack covered his eyes as Taylor refused his advice, losing a pinkie in the process.

Jack watched the horror from inside himself, Taylor's earlier warning repeating in his head. "You will not show me any sympathy. None whatsoever."

Jack stepped towards Taylor as he writhed on the floor. The Jackanine briefly hesitated, before forcefully kicking Taylor in the ribs, flipping him over and knocking the air out of his lungs.

Jack then walked out of the hatch without looking back, passing a pleased Apophis and a pair of Jackanine carrying a heavy metal bucket.

The mesomite was placed on Taylor's head and it wrapped its slimy arms over his throat and face. Once the egg was cut from the mite and dropped into the bucket, the mite was discarded in the corner of the room. The pair of Jackanine each took hold of the bucket and left the room, where Yellow Jack was waiting for them. He promptly clicked and ushered them to follow him down a maze-like corridor.

Several twists and turns later, Yellow Jack entered a shadowy chamber containing a shimmering black monolith, a towering block of stone with coils and vents emitting steam. The Jackanine' carrying the bucket tipped it's contents into an open slot on the face of the column, leaving Yellow Jack to dust off his palms and take a seat at the centre of the monolith.

When left alone, Jack placed his hand into a panel before the monolith. The action caused a network of translucent veins to descend from the rafters and slide down over Jack's head. Wormy tendrils draped around his head, into his ears and created a connection with his brain. He twitched during the process but nothing that would suggest pain.

When the process was over, Jack closed his eyes and the monolith disappeared. He was suddenly transported to a surreal, and serene locale in his own mind. It was his favourite beach on Planet Nido, pink sands and a calm lime-green sea. Jack smiled, enjoying the breeze through his feathers and the sand between his webbed feet. When the monolith was ready, an image stretched across the horizon.

Ham Taylor was 18 years old, scrawny yet nimble. He had a mop full of auburn hair and boyish ginger stubble. He was in white shorts, a blue Scotland jersey and studded boots.

Ibrox stadium held a capacity of 50,000. Today's crowd was a paltry yet rambunctious 2,000 for this under 19s match, Scotland Vs Germany. Sporadically seated spectators roared as Taylor dribbled the ball down the touchline like greased lightning, showing off all the tricks in his locker. A German sweeper attempted a tackle but Taylor flicked the ball over his sliding body and bore down on the goal. The home crowd, including Taylor's mother, father, and brother Donald, rose to their feet.

Taylor glanced at the goal, picked his spot then drew back his foot. Before driving his boot through the ball and rippling the back of the net, a sliding defender cut the legs out from beneath him. Upended, Taylor's head hit the grass and the referee blew his whistle: Foul, yellow card, free kick.

The German defender bent over Taylor with a revolted grimace, yelling to the touchline, manager and medics. Taylor lay flat on his back, confused yet smiling. It was a good tackle.

The defender ran for the sidelines as Taylor stood up. The instant weight went onto his foot, the shin snapped in his sock and he collapsed.

Concerned team mates surrounded him, only to turn away in disgust when they spotted the break. Taylor's eyes filled with tears as he clutched the Scotland badge on his jersey.

Heavy clouds gathered over Nido and when they clashed, the image of Taylor's broken leg and dreams disappeared. Not long after, the burbling clouds parted and the sky revealed more.

Yellow Jack observed Taylor mature through his teens, abandoning his passion for sport and discovering another in science. Taylor excelled, he was a natural, a prodigy even. At 19 years old, he moved to England to study applied mathematics and theoretical physics at the University of Cambridge. There he met Penelope, and as Yellow Jack watched their story unfold over the ensuing years, he mentally attended their marriage and smiled as Penelope wiped away best man Donald's tears. Jack witnessed their late night discussions about children and the names they would chose when the time came, a time that always seemed to take a back seat to work.

Jack gazed intensely when, at 30 years old, Taylor and Penelope immigrated to the United States to further their careers. Taylor advanced faster than expected to everyone but himself. He was the youngest person to receive the national medal of science for his groundbreaking work in physics, consequently becoming an Institute Professor, the highest title awarded to any faculty member at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT). Taylor's incredible record did not impress Yellow Jack, and neither did his maturing character. Taylor's arrogance seemed to grow with his genius, cocksure as he conquered his field. Penelope saw it too, but convinced herself that this was the reason she loved him.

The clouds clashed then parted, and the lights of a television studio burned brightly over two men seated before the skyline of Los Angeles. The live audience applauded when a prompt demanded it. Cameras rolled, and a refined middle aged man continued his discussion with tonight's guest: Dr. Hamilton Taylor.

The desk in front had two coffee mugs with no coffee, and a hardback with Taylor's face on the cover.

"In your new book, Dr. Taylor, can I...call you Ham?"

"Only my wife and brother call me H..."

"In the book," the presenter interrupted: "Unlocking the Fourth Dimension, you go into depth about your theories on time travel. They say you're a shoe in for a Nobel Prize. When, Ham, do you get past theory and into practice?"

Taylor folded his legs and crossed his hands over his lap. "An excellent question, Ron. The practice part needs a staggering amount of investment. Times are tough right now with the war, but if there are any billionaires out there who fancy a trip to the Texas School Book Depository in 1963, I'd be happy to discuss a field trip. The idea behind it -"

"Moving away from the book," Ron interrupted.

Taylor nodded, playing the game. "Can you tell us about another kind of science, chemistry in particular? Specifically, the sparks between you and Melissa Godright during last seasons Jungle Fever. Have you seen her since the competition? There's been a lot of rumours, Ham."

The audience whooped and Taylor shook his head, doing his best to mask his discomfort.

"I haven't seen Melissa since the wrap party. She's a nice girl but I'm a happily married man, Ron."

Ron winked as he pretended to slurp from his coffee mug. "Back to Jungle Fever, what about the rumors of you appearing as a judge next season? Gallup Poll says 95% of Americans would love to see you in the chair. Ratings have taken a big hit since your exit, and I'm sure the producers would love to have you on board."

The predominantly female audience giggled and murmured. Taylor blushed. "There has been talk. I loved being on the show Ron, so I would certainly entertain any offers."

Ron slapped Taylor's knee. "We'll be back after these brief messages."

*

After drinks, socializing and more drinks, a wobbly Taylor took an automated cab back to the Gladio, the world's only 8 star hotel, located in downtown L.A.

Taylor entered the lobby with a bottle of Macallan under his left arm and a battered hardback under his right. He signed a girl's autograph on his route to the elevator, sending her away with a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the ass.

A lanky teenager in a suit too large for him stood at the elevator door panel. The glass elevator scaled the exterior of the Gladio, and when Taylor entered, the kid activated their ascent to the Penthouse. The kid opened his mouth to speak but closed it again, seeming to think better of it.

"How are you?" Taylor asked, taking the bottle and book from under his arm. "Want a swig?"

The kid continued to eye the carpet. "Forgive me sir, I'm not allowed to speak to guests."

"Bollocks to that shite! What do you need? You saw me on Jungle Fever, right? Want a photo? An autograph?"

The boy shifted nervously. "I don't watch T.V., sir. It's all made up lies anyway."

"We all lie," Taylor said, chugging from the bottle. "At least theirs are halfway entertaining."

The boy turned, feeling brave. "Dr. Taylor, I'm an undergraduate at UCLA. I've read all your books."

Taylor pressed his head against the glass and snickered. "That's a nice change. I talk all day to media people who have never read a single page. They take snippets and sexy soundbites but it's all bullshit. No-one reads anymore."

The kid sprang from his post to join Taylor at the window. "I think your work is the most important being done, bigger than the Manhattan Project. You can change the world, Dr. Taylor. I hope...to help you some day. Maybe."

Taylor smiled, watching the twinkling night lights and late-shift workers calibrating a new advertisement 100 floors below. It featured a bare chested Taylor with the slogan: Making science sexy!

"If you don't mind me saying, Dr. Taylor, why do you waste your time with all that stuff? Your work is so much more important."

"That's not my torso," he muttered, ignoring the question. "No Scotsman has a gut like that."

The boy nodded, and they remained silent for the remainder of the journey.

As the elevator reached the Penthouse, the doors parted and Taylor nudged the boy's arm. "Here," he said, passing over a signed copy of his book. "Maybe you can do something better with the information than I have."

The kid held the book close to his chest as Taylor left the elevator. After a brief walk under shimmering crystal and over gleaming marble, he reached his room and the door clicked open.

The lights were on and a fire roared in an ornate fireplace.

"I'm back!" he said, placing his scotch on the table. "You still here?"

Taylor cricked his neck and grinned at the sound of the shower squeaking off. Pulling off his tie and throwing his coat over the sofa, he poured two drinks as a towel-wrapped Melissa Godright emerged from the bathroom. She was a beautiful brunette half Taylor's age.

"I watched you," she said, coming to take her drink. "You should have seen your face when Ron asked you about us!"

"Jungle Fever. That asshole show is all they want to talk about."

"Hey," she moaned, kissing his stubbly neck. "If it wasn't for that asshole show then you wouldn't have met me!"

"Yeah," he grumbled, pouring himself another as Melissa moved to the bed.

"You're still wearing the ring," she noted. "I thought you were going to talk to that bitch?"

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"What?" Melissa said, turning her head.

Taylor kept his feelings to himself, but silence only irritated his young lover.

"I've made space in my apartment, just bring your bags over and you're moved in. When do we make this official?"

Taylor took another drink and watched as Melissa sauntered to the bed and threw off the towel, exposing her firm young body. Taylor grinned, downed the last of his drink, then turned off the lights.

Yellow Jack watched the final scenes play in fragments, just like Taylor's memory of them.

He witnessed Taylor take the call informing him of Penelope's disappearance. He saw alcohol, guilt and grief fuel Taylor's personal and academic disintegration.

Taylor's hopes of finding Penelope guided him down many false leads. Each failure was followed by despair, then alcohol to counter the despair.

Yellow Jack perused Taylor's memories, watching as Taylor tried to kill himself, his awakening in the hospital, his panicked search for his brother, his rescue of the orphans, and his jump through time.

The mental projection dispersed and Jack was back before the monolithic interface. The tendrils dislodged themselves from his head and ascended to the rafters.

Jack had seen everything he wanted to see. There was only one thing left to do.

— CHAPTER SEVENTEEN —

Taylor lay in a half sleep, fresh memories weaving themselves through his mind's fabric. He watched his own interrogation by Apophis, saw the general cut off his finger and eat it, then squirmed when Jack kicked his ribs. He fought alone in the gladiatorial ring, sprinted for the covered garbage chute while a sabre toothed cat devoured a slave behind. He slid over to the grate when suddenly, the whole thing collapsed inward, sending Taylor falling into the chute.

The rest played out precisely as he remembered it. He cut himself free from the worm then crawled through the ventilation shaft. He witnessed Apophis grieving at the wooden coffin, experienced the golden cube and the lions tossing him overboard. After vanishing in midair and reappearing on Lanza's coffee table, Taylor saw Penelope under anesthetic while a silver gauntlet was attached to her forearm. With only time to see her eyes open, Taylor returned to the ancient past, landing in a swamp of mosquitoes before back at the village in time for the arriving caravan.

*

"How can I help you?"

The question repeated and Taylor groaned as he opened his eyes. He clutched at his head and wished away the worst headache he had ever experienced.

Orange evening light peeked through holes in the hut, giving an angelic glow to Yellow Jack's feathers. "You asked me to come see you, Ham Taylor. I have done what you asked."

Taylor propped himself up over the pit, groaning at his aching bones. "What did you do?"

"I sabotaged the grate in the arena, allowing your escape, consequently saving your life."

Taylor rubbed at his tender ribs. "Did you have to stick the boot in?"

"Apophis suspects that I harbor sympathy for your kind. I had to make things convincing, and furthermore, I felt you deserved it."

"How did you do it? The grate I mean?"

Jack bent beside him, "I smeared a corrosive solution onto the grate before the event, weakening it's structure to the point that it would fail catastrophically when a mass equal to your own was applied."

"Clever" Taylor stated, matter-of-factly.

"Simply a matter of forethought and patience. You convinced me of your identity and after I witnessed your memories I decided to aid you. I know everything there is to know about you now."

Taylor winced as he dabbed the back of his head. The pulsating growth was currently the size of an apple. "In the ship, they put this thing on my head. What is it?"

"You don't know what it is," Jack said, "because I have yet to inform you of it."

Jack was right. Taylor first heard about the parasitic mesomite when sharing a cage with a featherless Yellow Jack. Since their original encounter was discarded to the waste basket of time, the memory had been erased from Taylor's mind, and as such the parasite and its abhorrent effects were news to Taylor.

Yellow Jack recounted the details of the mesomite, it's consequences and the solution as he joined Taylor at the edge of the pit. He dropped down into the arsenal and perused the collection of weaponry on display, nodding in approval.

"You're saying," Taylor gagged, "my head is going to explode?"

"And in spectacular fashion. You have hours left, Ham Taylor. No more than a day."

Jack selected a bauble from a wooden box and studied his warped reflection in the surface. "It must have taken the Earthling slaves some time to amass this collection. The Pride would slaughter everyone in this village if they became aware of such activity."

"You're saying my head is literally going to explode?"

Jack held up a small glassy bauble. "This device is used to shatter mountains. This single orb could vaporize us, there are 10 orbs in this box." Jack's eye wandered over a compact black disc. "Complete with detonator."

Jack tossed the bauble up at Taylor, who tensed when he caught it against his stomach.

"The orb is harmless until activated," Jack continued, brushing his talons against a golden levitation device. "Items have been going missing since our arrival on this planet. It all gets filed under irregularities. There have been increasing irregularities as of late."

Taylor dangled his legs into the cold pit as he passed the bauble back to Jack. "Seems the slaves were working on some kind of revolt. Guess they lost their nerve at some point."

Outside activity stirred Taylor to his feet. He carefully removed a board covering the window and watched as adolescent slaves lit torches, while fathers and mothers carried water buckets and crying lambs to the temple.

Yellow Jack joined Taylor at the window as a parade of priests arrived from neighboring villages. The scent of aromatic spices and sizzling meat wafted from the narrow temple door, but only the priests were allowed inside.

"They have pleased their God Apophis," Jack said, baulking when he caught a whiff of the smell. "Tomorrow the capstone will be placed on the pyramid and work will be completed. Tomorrow...everyone will die."

"Do they know?" Taylor numbly asked, squinting at thin slaves and fat priests.

"All they have been told is that their king and queen will be reunited, guiding them all to a greater glory. They do what they are told, and they tonight they celebrate a job well done."

Jack exhaled a weighty breath as the day's dying light danced over his face. "The mothership contains the ark, the rarest object in our universe. And before you ask, I believe it would be irresponsible to share further information with you."

Taylor turned from the window. "Why the hell not?"

"Ham Taylor your kind has not yet discovered the true workings of the universe, my kind has. To inform you of such things long before time would change human history. The implications are simply too staggering to contemplate."

"Or maybe," Taylor argued, "you tell me and I keep my bloody mouth shut. We're in this together Jack, up to our bloody fucking necks. Trust me to do the right thing."

Jack stared into Taylor's eyes, convinced by his sincerity. "I have your word that the information I impart dies with you?"

Taylor placed a hand over his chest. "Cross my heart. You want a pinkie swear? I've got one left."

Jack stepped back, sealed the window, then shared a fundamental secret of the universe. "In layman's terms...universes are born out of black holes. Mass falls into the hole and is compressed, this compressed matter is ejected from the black hole into a newly formed pocket of space, where it expands in a big bang, birthing a new universe. Do you understand?"

Taylor nodded, but scratched his head after a quick calculation. "Jack, at a conservative estimate, there are a 100 million black holes in the Milky Way. You're telling me that each has another universe billowing brand new out the other side?"

"Not in every case, but the majority certainly. Matter is not destroyed by the singularity, it is simply rejuvenated in the form of a new universe. Black holes create universes and universes create black holes and so on and so forth."

"The chicken or the egg," Taylor uttered. "And the ark? What about it?"

"The ark, simply stated, is a fragment that survived it's trip through the black hole and the birth of this universe. It is an object of immeasurable power that isn't subject to the laws of reality, at least in this universe."

"Like the cork in a champagne bottle?"

"I am not familiar with champagne, thus I cannot confirm your analogy."

"Well I'd tell you Jack, but since your kind has not yet discovered the true workings of champagne and my kind has, I'd hate to be responsible for the consequences."

Jack tilted his long head sideways. "You really are a spiteful little creature, aren't you?"

"Is that a question or a statement, since you've already seen inside my mind? By the way, can you remind me where I parked my car the night of November 7th 2018? I only remember waking up on my Maw's kitchen floor."

"Certainly. You drunkenly drove your vehicle into a lake. And yes, I have seen inside your mind and know exactly what you are capable of. You are a gifted and disturbed individual, Ham Taylor. Extremely disturbed."

Taylor shook his head as if disappointed in himself. "I loved that car. Jack what can we do to stop the ark? You do want to stop it, right?"

Yellow Jack answered without hesitation. "If I have the means then I cannot allow Apophis to wipe out all life on this planet. That is the purpose of the pyramid, it is a perfect polyhedron, a geometric lens that will channel the ark's power. At dawn's light, Apophis' deceased wife Aquinas will be placed in the pyramid's lower chamber."

Taylor nodded with wide eyes. "My people call it the queen's chamber."

"Appropriately so. The ark meanwhile will be placed in the chamber above. This chamber contains a stone coffer built specifically to house the ark. It is a very precise mechanism. Everything has to be in perfect harmony for the process to work."

"And how does it work?"

"When a stream of sunlight hits the coffer, the pyramid will burn bright on the inside and the outside. The inside will act as a regenerative device, returning life to the dead."

"And outside?" Taylor asked, fearing the worst.

"The mirrored casing of the pyramid will reflect the ark's power, blasting it's light to all corners of the Earth, draining the life force of everything it touches, regeneration on the inside, annihilation on the outside. The Earth will be wiped clean and Aquinas will live again in the heart of the pyramid."

Taylor started, wide-eyed at Jack. "He's going to destroy all life on Earth just to get his wife back?"

Yellow Jack's pensive eyes penetrated Taylor's. "The price of returning life to the dead is substantial. I have seen inside you, and perhaps you would pay the same price?"

"Penelope," Taylor said bluntly, "is not dead."

"My point...is that you and Apophis are more alike than you would care to contemplate. You are both creatures in mourning, both ruined by loss."

His words sat heavy in Taylor's heart. He searched internally and asked himself the question: Would he destroy a planet if it meant regaining Penelope? No, was his immediate response, but that was as far as Taylor was willing to ponder.

"This ark," he whispered, shaking off the idea. "I've seen it Jack. I touched the bloody thing."

Jack raised his hand in a dismissive manner. "Nonsense. Touching the ark would have vaporized you, there would be nothing left."

Taylor faced him, in no mood for argument. "I touched it Jack. It attracted my torch like a magnet, charged it up and then propelled me through time. Forwards then back again. I've got 2% percent left in the torch, enough to zap me from one end of a room to the other, but the 21st century? Forget it."

Jack stared at the torch then placed an index finger against Taylor's neck. Examination complete, Yellow Jack gave Taylor the same serious expression he had just received.

"You are telling the truth. Somewhere, somehow..." Jack rubbed his beak, unsure of his response. "Ham Taylor this is something I have never encountered."

"Conclusions?"

"I would be hasty in making any assumptions but it seems the torch device is now a part of your physiology. Light flows throw your veins. I will say without hesitation that you are unique to your species. Nature, however, rarely gives without taking back, thus I have complete confidence in saying there will be consequences to your metamorphosis."

"Figures," Taylor said, squirming in pain and disgust as he touched the growth. "Jack I need to get this thing out of my head. For that I have to get back on that ship."

"The only way onto the ship is by commandeering a shuttle. Shuttles only travel in the morning. We will have to hope your head does not explode before the sun rises."

Taylor sighed as he considered the several added hours he would have to endure this grotesque abnormality squirming around in his head.

"Fine," he whispered, pointing his hand to the arsenal, "we get the shuttle in the morning. I plant the bombs on board and you blow the ship to kingdom come. Bish, bash, bosh."

Jack pressed a finger over his beak as if to quench forbidden words. "You want me to destroy the ship? My own people?"

"It has to be you," Taylor insisted. "After I plant the bombs, I'm going after the ark. I touch the thing and jump back home, leaving you to pull the trigger here in the past. It has to be you."

Yellow Jack selected a thin compact disc and turned it over in his hands. "It is true," he muttered, "that the Jackanine onboard are lost to drugs. It is also true that destroying the ship would save Nido from any future atrocities Apophis may perpetrate. However I would still be guilty of mass murder. The act would haunt me to my dying day."

"Then we'll both be haunted by our sins."

Their conspiring hearts jumped when a knock at the door signaled an arrival. Taylor opened the door and Mesha was startled to find Yellow Jack amongst the contraband, potentially placing her in a lot of trouble.

Taylor reached out but Mesha recoiled. Suddenly, Jack spoke in her native tongue, and what he said appeared to relieve her mind.

"What does she want?" Taylor asked him

"You saved her husband's life. We have been invited to supper."

*

They followed Mesha passed torchlight emanating from the rowdy temple. Villagers socialized outside their huts, picking at scant bowls of fish and boiled barley as they wondered what was transpiring within the temple.

Bull lay on a makeshift straw mattress near the fire, arm wrapped in a clean sling. He was half asleep, then suddenly wide awake when Yellow Jack, the one responsible for his miserable condition, entered his hut. When he saw that Taylor accompanied the alien, he relaxed slightly, but remained apprehensive.

Mesha attended a pot of stew simmering over the fire, periodically glancing toward her husband, as if gauging his feelings toward her guests.

"Jack," Taylor said, sitting close to Bull. "I need you to translate my words. I want you to tell this man how grateful I am. Tell him I won't forget all he has done for me."

A solemn-faced Jack remained quiet.

"Jack you tell Bull that his wife and unborn child are safe. Tell them they have a bright future."

Jack crossed his thin arms. "Ham Taylor you cannot promise that, thus I will not translate it."

"Look, prick!" Taylor wobbled when he stood. "These people saved my life, sheltered and fed me and I haven't been able to say one word of thanks..."

Dizziness overtook him and he dropped to the floor. Mesha covered her mouth in shock and Bull grimaced, unable to help as Jack assisted Taylor to his feet.

"What happened?" he asked. "Did some cunt push me?"

"It will get worse, Ham Taylor. Much worse. You need to get that parasite out of your head, you could die at any moment."

Jack set Taylor on the straw next to Bull, and the giant took his hand. Taylor smiled back and waited for the dizziness to abate.

Yellow Jack spoke with Mesha, after which she cordially bowed her head. Jack then moved to the far wall and scratched his finger into the dry clay.

"I was a lead engineer," he began, using his sharp talon like a pencil, sweeping over the wall.

Jack went at a frenzied pace, detailing every chamber, corridor, and vent in the mothership. "The ship is 5.3 miles long. It has 800 compartments, two engine rooms and one docking bay. Learn this map well Ham Taylor."

"What powers the engines?"

Jack nodded. "The first is a fusion based propulsion system capable of interstellar travel. The second engine creates a time dilation field that works in tandem with the first. Enough power to take the mothership back to Nido, where Apophis will receive a hero's welcome."

"Like Caesar returning from Gaul," Taylor mumbled, regaining his equilibrium. "Only this time Caesar won't make it back to Rome. How do we obtain our shuttle?" he pondered aloud. "I could surrender myself to you Jack? You can personally drag me to interrogation."

Yellow Jack halted his drawing to snicker.

"Apophis would see through such a charade. I will get you to the ship, Ham Taylor, but I cannot escort you to interrogation. Certain doors on board have security mechanisms that only trusted Pride members can deactivate, that includes all routes to interrogation."

"Is there a back door? A set of stairs?"

Taylor growled at his ever present migraine while Bull watched Jack, absolutely engrossed to see his dreams of revolution taking shape on his wall. After stirring the pot and tasting her stew, Mesha asked Jack's help to remove it from the fire.

"The only option you have," Jack continued, lifting the pot; "is a hatch on the ship's underbelly." He pointed back to the wall. "This is your way inside."

The hatch was 30 feet from the rear docking ramp, accessible only by a group of hanging metal bars.

Taylor snorted. "Let me get this straight, you want me to swing across monkey bars thousands of feet in the sky, in the freezing cold, then you want me to somehow open a hatch with only one arm? Jack there's at least 17 different ways for me to die here. None of 'em good."

"Ham Taylor you have said many times in the past that there is always a way. This is our way."

Taylor grumbled. "Okay. What other miracles do you expect of me?"

"Open the hatch and you will enter the bilges." Jack turned to the muddy print and used his finger to outline Taylor's precise route. "From there you will find an unmanned path through two tanks which will lead you to the interrogation chamber. Finding the ark I will leave to your good wits."

"I'll find the ark, but what's in the tanks?"

"Waste," Jack returned, and Taylor choked.

"Shit tanks? Fuck you!"

"This is where you will plant the baubles. Place them sporadically to avoid discovery. When enough time has passed and when I believe you have succeeded in touching the ark and traversing time, I will detonate the bombs and save your planet. It is imperative," Jack stressed, "that we destroy the ship before the ark reaches Earth. Otherwise our chances of success are extremely remote."

Taylor's slow nod turned to a shake of the head. "This sounds...impossible. You think we can pull this off?"

Jack remained ominously quiet while Mesha distributed supper. She filled their bowls then invited the others outside to take their fill. Yellow Jack stirred the weak broth and sparse vegetables. With no interest in the food, and unwilling to frighten every worker who came to eat, he excused himself and went off to take the night air.

When alone in the dark, Jack gazed up at the twinkling stars, his large eyes filled with grief. He focused on Sirius, the brightest star in the sky. Somewhere in it's faraway light was Nido. Destroying the ship would crush any hope Jack had of seeing his home and family again.

Rambunctious cheers from the temple tore Jack from his thoughts. The sound irked him, the greed, the sloth, the corruption. A hot streak ran up his back as he marched between the huts and the torches, fingers clenched as he approached the statues of Apophis and Aquinas.

The smell of spiced lamb insulted his senses. He stormed through the fire lit narrow corridor, entering an open courtyard dedicated to gluttony, depravity, and the God Apophis. The temple was full of priests, who used it to indulge all their perverted passions.

Long pillars framed a sunken pool in the centre of the courtyard, the water was steaming hot and inside the pool, priests bathed themselves or had boys satisfy them around the periphery. Jack stomped his foot cracking the tiled floor. Men stopped bathing, eating or fucking to stare at the incensed Jackanine.

Jack yelled in their ancient tongue, gesticulating between the children, the food and the men's naked bodies. One nearby priest laughed and Jack picked him up and threw him into a stone pillar, breaking the man's back. The priests began to cower and with his whole body shaking, Jack left the temple, taking the children with him.

*

Taylor sat against the hut wall as the sun worked its way over the horizon. His skull was heavy, sloshing around with fluid every time he turned his head. His eyelids slunk but he kept them open for fear of never waking up again.

It was a cool morning and with a long day ahead, he swiped a finger across the torch and scrolled to the audio log. He placed the torch to his mouth, but words took time to form.

"Doubt this thing works but since I'm probably going to die today, I figured I'd share something with someone."

Taylor took a long breath, then began. "I've tried to kill myself three times, and now that it's practically guaranteed I've decided that I fancy living a wee while longer, I've just...got too much shit left to do."

Tears fell from his eyes and he was too caught in the moment to clear them.

"I leave all my assets to my nephews, Cameron and Lucas. There's not much left lads, just an old football jersey and some change under the couch."

Taylor set the torch on his knees while the growing sun illuminated his grizzled face. "This is the moment when a person reflects on their time and how they spent it."

He turned his face and clenched his teeth. "I invested so much time into shite that didn't matter. I loved being special, and loved hearing about it from assholes I couldn't care less about. What an idiot, what a waste."

Taylor rubbed his eyes and turned the wedding ring around on his finger.

"I betrayed my wife because I told myself it was alright, I was special and could do whatever the hell I wanted. The rules didn't apply to me. Did you know Penelope? Shit," he scoffed, "of course you knew. Anyway, enough of this feeling sorry for myself bullshit. I'm a selfish, arrogant cunt, and I'm off to save the world."

A horn blared from the temple as rays of crisp morning light broke over the village.

"This is Ham Taylor, over and out."

The horn was constant and alerted everyone to the time of day. Yellow Jack peeked his head out of the secret hut and hurriedly gestured Taylor over. Priests were already leaving the temple, dressed in immaculate white robes.

Taylor stumbled through the village and the Jackanine held the door open for him. In the dark hut, Jack went over the weapons placed across the bed, including a golden levitation gun.

"These are all the tools you will need for your mission."

Jack picked up one of ten baubles. "Select good hiding places, Ham Taylor. One is enough to destroy the ship, but if they discover one, they will search for others." He picked up a thin black disc. "This is the remote detonator."

Jack parted his beak and swallowed it whole.

"What have you done?" Taylor asked, his skin getting paler by the second.

"The detonator is safe. I have two stomachs, one to store food and another for digestion. You should have ample time to get clear before I detonate the explosives."

Taylor sat on the edge of the bed, bit his lower lip and tried to focus. "What else do I have?"

Jack picked up a leather satchel with a shoulder strap. "I sewed this for you last night."

Taylor grinned when Jack placed the satchel on his lap. "You made me a man purse? Does it have my initials on it?"

Jack rolled his eyes. "The satchel is packed with all 10 baubles. You will find a tool in the front pocket, use it to open the hatch on the underside of the ship."

"Ah," Taylor declared, "you mean the hatch I have to open while hanging on for dear bloody life?"

"The very same. You will most likely lose your grip and plummet to your death. If so, I will press on, adjusting the plan accordingly."

"How gallant of you."

Outside the hut, hundreds of villagers were lined up, single file behind the priests. Jack and Taylor watched from the window, slaves in black and priests in white. Two priests held pots of burning incense and went about blessing the village.

"In a few hours the capstone will be placed on top of the pyramid," Jack whispered. "The construction will be complete, and the ceremony will begin."

Yellow Jack left the window and picked up the golden levitation gun. "It is time for our shuttle, Ham Taylor."

"That's your area, mate. Mine is the hard part."

Jack threw down the weapon and picked Taylor up by his throat, pinning him against the wall. Taylor held up his hands but Jack held on tight.

"If I destroy that ship," he snarled, his beak snapping at Taylor's nose; "I kill my kind and I'll never see my home again! Do not speak to me about difficult tasks!"

Taylor nodded an apology and Jack released him.

"Let us go," he concluded, exiting the hut and leaving Taylor to recover.

The pair maneuvered passed white robed priests and barely clothed slaves. Still catching his breath, Taylor spotted Mesha and Bull, watching him from their hut. They met eyes and Taylor smiled, relieved to see them having no part in the ceremony. He and Jack meanwhile took their place at the end of the line, all of them lambs to the slaughter.

*

Taylor and Yellow Jack were last in a cue of slaves stretching half a mile. They marched over a rocky path worn by carts, through dense jungle and passed a crocodile infested swamp. Taylor kept a secure grip on the satchel while Jack walked beside him, head low and arms cradling the gravity defying gun. His presence made the slaves about him nervous, but Jack's authority remained unquestioned. To slaves and priests alike, he was just another Jackanine overseeing the ritual.

The early sun seemed stronger than Taylor remembered, and every so often he would lean on Jack to keep himself from staggering.

"I'm sorry, Jack. About earlier. I was a dick and wasn't thinking."

Jack propped him up. "I allowed emotion to carry me away. Earthlings have a bad influence on me, it seems."

Taylor shrugged and smiled. "Choking me was the most human thing you ever did. I liked it."

Jack handed an animal hide sack filled with water to Taylor, who after drinking from it, passed it on to other thirsty people in the procession.

After walking another mile, Taylor muttered the plan through his teeth and in his head, but he could never see it through to the end. The mite was eating away at his concentration, thoughts and memories, and still grotesquely pulsing at the back of his skull.

The canopy of branches cleared enough for Taylor to see the blue sky and the distant smudge of the mothership. "How high?" he asked Jack, trying and failing to make out any discernible details.

Jack squinted up and answered immediately. "The ship is currently at an altitude of thirty thousand feet."

Taylor placed a hand on Jack's chest to stop him in his tracks. "I don't know if you're aware of this Jack, but there's this thing Earthlings need to live, it's called oxygen. How the fuck do I breathe up there?"

"The air is thin," he agreed; "but you should have sufficient time to gain entry before you expire. Remember, up there, every second counts."

They trudged on for a further 20 minutes before arriving at the clearing, overlooking the quarry. Work was done and tools were down, all that was left was to celebrate. There were two shuttles at the bottom of the chalky pit, with lions loading up the last of their tech.

Jack yanked on Taylor's arm. "This is your transport," he said, watching the first shuttle soar past them towards the ship. When the final shuttle was loaded in the quarry and the ramp sealed, Yellow Jack raised his hand in the air.

"He won't see you," Taylor said, stepping back from the precipice as the shuttle rose from the pit.

"I am not signalling to the lion. I am signalling to the shuttle itself."

The shuttle swooped overhead, blowing sand and touching down close by.

Taylor shielded his face from the gale as he cast a careful glance at the priests, too far away to cause any trouble. Jack straightened himself out and approached the shuttle as it's rear ramp lowered to the sand. A chunky, raven haired lion stomped out onto the desert, aggravated by the interruption. Taylor kept back, shrinking as the lion chastised Yellow Jack. Jack conversed and gesticulated, doing his utmost to convince the lion of his credentials. The aggrieved lion pushed Jack back and the Jackanine raised his arms in surrender.

"What does he want?" Taylor asked, over the lion's shooting spits and snarls.

Jack glanced cautiously over his shoulder. "The lion says I am a wanted Jackanine regarding an incident in the temple last night."

"What did you do?" Taylor hissed, aggravated.

Jack shrugged. "I was angry. I broke a priest's back. It appears that his fellow priests used their guile to inform on me. I am therefore wanted for questioning."

The lion stepped closer and Jack took another step back.

"What do we do?" Taylor said, hand digging into his satchel for the sturdy, wrench like tool.

Jack meanwhile, resignedly sighed. "Well," he muttered, lowering his gun, "it appears we have run out of alternatives."

Jack raised the gravity gun and a wave blasted out of it's barrel, blowing off the lion's arm and sending him hurtling into the quarry.

Taylor ducked and covered his ears from the shockwave as the ramp sealed itself shut and the shuttle started it's engines. "What did you do?" Taylor yelled over the wind, as the shuttle ascended out of reach.

"The shuttle sensed unusual activity!" Jack barked. "Assaulting a lion is unusual activity! The shuttle will now return to dock."

Taylor gnashed his teeth and squinted at the skids on the underside of the rising shuttle. "Get me up there Jack!" he yelled, eying the gravity gun. "Give me a leg up!"

Jack nodded and quickly tapped a setting into the weapon. "Ham Taylor," he gasped, "although we have no other option at this point, I feel it is important to inform you that the mesomite is most likely responsible for your current suicidal behavior."

"That's always been there!"

Taylor bent his knees and Jack raised the gun. "Remember Ham Taylor! Do not let the ark reach Earth!"

Taylor nodded, then braced himself. "Beam me up!"

Jack fired the gun, surrounding Taylor in a sphere of energy. He then raised the barrel, launching Taylor into the air, directly at the skids.

"Faster!" Taylor screamed. "Higher and faster!"

Jack obeyed and for a moment, it appeared as if Taylor was rocketing unassisted toward the shuttle. Inside the bubble of energy, adrenaline coursed through his veins and he let out a jubilant cheer, throwing up both arms as he aimed for the thick landing skids.

The shuttle came at him fast. Timing from Jack below and Taylor above had to be perfect, and it was. Jack released the trigger of the gun and Taylor's momentum carried him the last 10 feet, until he was able to grasp hold of the one of the skids. Taylor locked his arms and legs around the horizontal bar, holding on for dear life as the shuttle broke through the clouds. The wind tried it's best to force him from his position, howling like a banshee in Taylor's ears. Squinting, he saw vague swirls of desert, steel and sky, and although his grip was secure enough, he could feel the falling temperature already numbing his extremities.

The shuttle slowed as it prepared to dock. Taylor saw the sprawling stretch of the ship's underbelly, a complex assortment of asymmetrical metal and jagged antennae. As the shuttle drew slowly over the ship's ramp and floated towards the docking bay, Taylor dropped to a hard landing. He lay flat on his chest and froze, eyeing hundreds of Jackanine and Pride awaiting their transportation to Earth, his presence concealed only by smoke from shuttles readying for takeoff.

Before he was seen, Taylor went against all natural instinct and pushed himself to the edge until his legs dangled in the air. Terrified, he tried to focus on Jack's scratched blueprint. According to that muddy map, the underside of the ramp should contain a set of 10 bars leading to the hatch.

Taylor took one last glance at the docking bay, and wavering at the edge of oblivion, he suddenly witnessed something that he could not explain, nor fathom. It was a flashing light, like a wailing torch trapped inside a body, his body. Apophis and his lions dragged Hamilton Taylor to the ramp, averting their eyes from the startling light emanating from within him.

"What the fuck!" Taylor growled, as his past self was dragged kicking and screaming towards him.

Focusing his mind and summoning all his courage, he pushed off the ramp and dropped to snatch the first bar on the underside. Above, his past self was tossed overboard. Dangling from the ship's underbelly, Taylor watched as his younger form fell towards terra firma. He wanted desperately to see his time machine at work, so he put his grip at peril to observe his earlier self spark into a light so magnificent that it caused sunspots to blotch his vision. Taylor closed his eyes and held on tight, recalling the mission and repeating the mantra.

"Every second counts."

He shook off the mind fuck, reached out and swung for the second bar. He took hold with his left hand, then secured the right, the action aggravating a prior shoulder injury. The strain caused by the extra weight of the torch also contributed to the ache in his palms. Tension turning his knuckles white, he knew he had to hurry. Every second counts.

With eight more bars to go, a violent gust of wind tore one of his hands free from the bar and as he hung on, he screamed as his entire weight rested upon just five clenched fingers.

The thin air made him drowsy and as he tasted the metallic tang of blood dripping from his nose, he sensed the darkness creeping around the periphery of his vision. Death however, would have to wait.

Taylor centred himself and clutched both hands onto the bar. He found his focus, and gaining momentum, swung across all eight remaining bars to arrive directly under the hatch. There, he blew out some air and psyched himself up as he once again held on with one hand, while his other dug into the satchel pocket to collect the wrench.

"Come on!" he screamed and gasped, losing oxygen, grip and hope as he loosened the mechanism holding the hatch in place. Still gripping, still fighting for his life and the world, Taylor switched his grip over, taking the strain from one hand to the other.

During the swap, the wrench slipped from his frozen hands and tumbled through the clouds.

Taylor grimaced and cried as his weight and the wind begged him to let go, to free himself from the pain and responsibility.

"Come on Ham! Come on you bastard!"

Taylor reached up and pulled at the mechanism with his bare hand. Blood seeped from his fingertips, dribbling down his wrist and forearm. He yanked at the mechanism, bracing himself as the hatch fell open.

With the last of his strength, with the last of everything he had, Taylor clung to the interior ladder and entered the bowels of the mothership.

*

Below, Yellow Jack bounced back as the wrench struck deep in the sand. He lowered his gun and smiled when suddenly, he felt a hot growl blow the feathers at the back of his head. The growl was an order, and Jack obeyed.

He threw down his gun, then turned to meet the five lions surrounding him.

— CHAPTER EIGHTEEN —

The shaft was pitch black and a torturous heat sucked up every morsel of moisture. Taylor battled his way up the ladder, struggling to keep his eyes open and his bloody fingers around the rungs.

A crunching sound came from behind his right ear and pus began to slide down the back of his neck.

After a flood of nausea, a momentary blackout caused Taylor to fall down several rungs of the ladder. He took a steel bar to the chin and swore the throbbing pain away. Anger was his fuel, and foul-mouthed vitriol carried him all the way up the ladder.

His ascent was clumsy, but he cared little for his clattering torch and the sentries it may have alerted to his position. At the top of the ladder, his bloated head pushed against an elastic barrier. Taylor punched his fingers through the membrane and hauled himself out of the shaft. For a moment he lay flat on his back, closing his eyes and catching his breath.

"Up," he wheezed. "Open your eyes. Don't die."

Taylor activated the torch's light and felt his throat tighten. He appeared to be in a vast moist sack, filled with pulsating white eggs in every direction.

Taylor slapped his face, struggled to his knees. "Clear route to interrogation, Jack? You fucking wanker."

His voice stirred the inhabitants of the eggs, as next to him, a newborn creature's spindly leg broke free from it's fibrous home. Taylor's torch dimmed to darkness as a grotesque storm of breaking eggs resounded around him.

He listened to starved sounds and creeping legs as he scrolled his finger across the torch. His muscles went into instant spasm when the light flashed over hairy bodies, beady eyes, twitching teeth and salivating mouths. As they hissed and crawled for his aqua light, Taylor had only one plan left in his bag of tricks. He sprinted through a quagmire of arachnids, kicking and squishing, flailing, shrieking and swearing.

One pounced on his shoulders and clung its legs around his face. Just before it sank its teeth into his head, Taylor yelled and put his shoulder through a wall of hardened silk. He broke out of the sack in an explosion of old silk. An invigorating gust hit him and a sharp drop in temperature chilled his breath.

On his stomach, he glared at his heels, amazed to see spiders bunched up at the crack, an invisible line they refused to cross, as if somehow forbidden.

"If you don't wana eat me," he heaved, "then what does?"

Ahead was a black steel wall with a sealed circular door. According to Jack, this mounted manhole cover was the first of two tanks. After another cautious look over his shoulder, Taylor slunk up and moved forwards, expecting something yet hoping for nothing.

The spiders snarled behind him as he parted through webs, thick like bed sheets. Yet still they did not pursue him. After swiping the webbing from his face and back, Taylor noticed a high lever near the door. Both the lever and the door out of reach.

His head dropped. "Of course."

Climbing wasn't an option, as he was likely to fall. Taylor decided instead to form a makeshift rope from the web, hoping to snag the lever like some cheap carnival game. A stupid idea maybe, but it was all he had. Tugging and gathering the web, a liquid spray shot from the rafters and Taylor cried out and jolted back. A hungry corrosive ate through his shirt and into his torso. Acting fast through searing pain, Taylor grimaced and peeled away the fabric mixed with several layers of his skin.

"Second degree burns," he snarled, examining his already blistered skin. It hurt like hell but so did everything else. He scurried on his ass from any further shots when an eight legged monster dropped like a bomb in front of the door.

Taylor squinted at the towering arachnid blocking his path. The majority of the creature was concealed by web rustling in the icy wind, but Taylor could still make out a glistening ripple over its swollen abdomen, and the twelve twinkling lights in its eyes.

With nothing but baubles in his satchel, he searched the environment for the tools to save him. Finding nothing but web and clotted balls of silk, Taylor set his hands on his hips, sucked the blood streaming down his nose and sensed his body shutting down. This was it.

Morbid curiosity inspired him to examine the size of his skull, and doing so, he heaved to find his hands short of the circumference. The spider opened its mouth and slammed down a thunderous leg. Steadying himself against the tremor, an idea came to Taylor when he noticed the shock-waves knocking over a silk sack. The spherical cocoon was the size of a football, with an unfortunate creature churning alive inside it.

A spark of hopeful life returned to Taylor's eyes, enough to get his gears going. He eyed up the lever some 35 yards away. He could have made that shot in his prime, and he relished the opportunity to relive it.

The spider stirred, Taylor honed eyes on the ball and heard the crowd, his brother, mother and father cheer him on from the stands of Ibrox stadium. He raised his hand and the crowd fell deathly silent. Only the ball and the target existed as Taylor held his breath, drew back his right foot and pulled the trigger. His form was good and the strike was accurate. The ball curved and Taylor crouched to watch it bend around the arachnid and strike the lever upwards.

"You fuckin' beauty!"

The crowd roared, he threw up his arms and drank in the applause. The door blew open and an excremental torrent rushed out of the wall, snapping Taylor out of his dream and delirium as gallons and gallons swept him and the spider along, carrying them all the way back to the nest.

The spider squealed as it fought to right itself against the current. Taylor found his footing and began wading knee deep toward the billowing door.

The stench was horrific. The water was thick, almost gelatinous, and he panted through his mouth to keep him from inhaling the fumes. The shit was at his chest when he reached the hole. He locked his fingers around a steel loop in the wall and turned to watch the drowning spider and hatchlings. When the sewage reached his chin, Taylor dunked his head into the shit and pulled himself through the door.

He broke through the other side, gasping and grasping at the rung of a ladder. A short climb later, Taylor lay on a ledge, forcing fingers into his mouth and emptying out his stomach. He would be tasting that for a week, if he saw out the day.

Swiping on the torch light, he watched the excrement level off with the adjoining room. He was in an industrial steel tank with the ladder below and a hatch beside him. He was close. Just a little further.

Digging into his satchel, he set all 10 baubles carefully over his lap. He tossed nine into the waste and they splashed and sank. He caressed the last bauble but instinct urged him to save it. He returned it to the satchel and stood to crank the hatch. When both hands turned the wheel, he felt a tingling sensation up his left side and prepared himself for a heart attack.

Before he could react, his entire left side went numb. Cold. Dead.

The worrying trickle ran up his right side as the poison overwhelmed him. Losing sensation, Taylor took hold of the hatch and yanked open the wheel. He pulled it back and his legs buckled. His face hit the door and the sound echoed through the draining tank. As the world blurred and stretched, Taylor could no longer tell if it was blood or pus dribbling down his forehead.

Legs completely gone, he crawled forward on his belly, fingers clinging into a narrow, corrugated bridge leading to another ladder.

There was no shit or snapping spiders in this tank, only a serene dark and unsettling quiet. Taylor did not wait for any surprises but could feel one coming in the bridge supporting his weight. The structure rattled and creaked, so Taylor dragged himself in a reckless hurry, forcing everything he had to the other side.

When he could almost touch the other side, the tail of the bridge gave way, dropping five feet to a gelatinous pool. Taylor winced and clung like a cat onto the vertical bridge, which hung by two nuts and bolts.

His lower legs were submerged in gunk, but sheer terror was enough to inspire grit. He worked through numbness to pull himself up a handful at a time, and when his feet emerged from the slime, he felt something clinging around his leg. Looking back, he shrieked at a jelly skinned mesomite roped around his shin and slithering up his body in search of an orifice. Panic stricken, Taylor lashed his legs to shake it off. The nuts loosened above as the mite coiled around Taylor's satchel. It tugged him back so Taylor threw the strap over his head to send the mite, the bag, and the last bauble into the bubbling pool.

He clamoured up the corrugated surface and gripped the ladder as the bridge gave way at his heels. Taylor locked his elbow around the rung, trying to recall Yellow Jack's plan, but he could barely remember his own name.

"It's Ham Taylor, dumbass!"

Slowly, doggedly, he climbed the ladder and heaved himself into the first vent. Without rest, he crawled to a grate and loudly exhaled when he saw the centre table, mirrored glass window and puddle of blood covering the interrogation room floor. He smashed his thick fists into the grill, pounding and pounding until finally, he dropped through the vent like a hunk of meat.

He landed badly, and thought he heard a ligament tear in his right leg. Head spinning, he crawled as if through mud to the corner of the room, where five mites were coiled and stacked. There was no way of knowing which of them had infected him.

"Fuck."

Taylor shrivelled and slunk, realizing he would have to consume them all if he wanted to live. Pus seeped down his head as he picked up the first mite. It was heavy and he could see his palms through its translucent flesh. Taylor wore a sickly scowl as he studied its warty mouth, multicoloured muscles, gut and gonads.

"Urgh."

He bit into the mite and his teeth popped its flesh, releasing a foul gas directly into his mouth. The gristly texture was difficult to swallow but the only way through it was by getting through it. Taylor forced the creature into his face and sucked at his putrid milkshake until there was nothing in his palms but a drained corpse and chunks too big to swallow.

He burped and his stomach churned, his body screaming in protest when he picked up the second mite. He chomped down and a combination of lard and vomit slid down his neck. Still he sucked it dry and moved onto the third, then the fourth. He looked at the fifth and final mite but could no longer move his limbs. Bubbles popped from his lips and nose, eyes glazing over. Flat on his stomach, and with one last mite to eat, Taylor pushed his face into the mite and gnawed at the fat until his jaw seized.

Having done everything in his power to beat back the dark, Taylor waited for either a fresh start...or a miserable end.

*

The ark was sealed in a lavishly decorated wooden crate with gold leaf carvings of Apophis and Aquinas. Horizontal poles slotted through rings over the crate, and taking positions at each corner, four Jackanine raised the chest onto their shoulders. They were the anointed vanguard of a long procession moving throughout the ship, allowing worshipers a fleeting chance to see the relic. The ark was not the only object receiving admiration, the intricate coffin of Aquinas was also a prominent part of the procession. Two lions carried her box while a brooding Apophis walked behind her. He was the very last in line, the bedrock of Pride foundations.

The procession moved silently around a packed and sombre arena. Drones swooped in yet remained at a respectful distance. After completing a lap, the ark procession moved through corridors, towards the halls of interrogation, the docking bay and waiting shuttles.

*

The sun rose high and hot over the pyramid. The scaffolding had been removed and the only thing missing from the wonder was its capstone. Yellow Jack stood between two lions on the white sand. He was wrapped in chains, arms locked behind him and a leash looped several times around his thin neck. He raised his head, watched a dozen shuttles drop from the sky and wondered how far Taylor had gotten.

Jack assumed his ally was already dead but would not take it for granted. Humans, after all, were a cunning species. Jack and the lions waited on a makeshift landing pad overlooking the plateau. From their elevated position, they observed the impressive sight of pilgrims gathered from distant villages. As the audience assembled, a trio of Jackanine fired guns around the capstone and hovered it over the wonder, working in synchronicity until the stone slotted perfectly in place. A cheer erupted as all corners of the pyramid caught the sun, her glorious light marking the start of the ceremony.

Yellow Jack lowered his head as vehicles touched down behind him. Priests in white sounded their collective horns and villagers fell to their knees, creating a human carpet the length and breadth of the plateau. A narrow road twisted from the high mound to the low mouth of the pyramid.

The shuttles opened their ramps and four Jackanine presented the ark to the eager crowd.

Sycophants bowed before it as all hope for their future left Yellow Jack. The ark had touched down on Earth, and no matter where Taylor was or what magnificent plan he had brewing, Jack knew it was already too late. His crippling posture reflected that as the sun touched the crate, the ark blazing out of seams in the wood as if raring to be let loose.

The revered body of Aquinas was carried from the last shuttle. Apophis came next and stopped briefly before Yellow Jack. The lion king set his beady eyes over the chained Jackanine and smiled, as if something he had long suspected had just been confirmed.

The crate continued its slow progress toward the pyramid, and its passing was worshipped in dramatic fashion. Slaves hummed as if caught in a trance, and a select few along the road had the honour of having it cross their path. When it did, those lucky slaves tipped their heads back and a ready priest drove a knife into their chests, sacrificing themselves to the power of the ark and the promise of greater rewards in the afterlife. Shrieks rang out over the throng as still beating hearts were tossed at the passing crate.

Yellow Jack averted his eyes from the trail of twitching dead when suddenly, the lion beside him forced his face back to the scene.

"Earthling lover! Watch your pets perish!"

Lashing blood painted the road red, and when the stained crate passed over the pyramid threshold, the humming stopped and the cheering began. People threw up their arms and wiped their tears. They whooped, they hollered, and they fainted in a frenzy of faith. Apophis could not conceal his contempt for the admirers. When one eager to please slave happened to graze his fingers against the coffin, Apophis tore his arm off without missing a beat. The slave bled out while the crowd applauded Apophis into the pyramid.

Only a select few were permitted inside: Apophis, Aquinas, and those carrying the ark.

The interior was cramped, yet well ventilated and dotted with flickering candles. Lions pushed the crate up an ascending slope to the grand gallery, where the walls were decorated with art depicting the Pride and the pyramid.

While the ark ascended, Apophis followed Aquinas to a deeper chamber. The lion bent his head as the walls closed in. Two lions pushed the coffin into a snug chamber with its pointed ceiling of fine limestone. Once in place, the lions left Apophis alone in the chamber. In one corner, a niche had been filled with coins, statues and religious tokens from grateful priests.

Apophis smeared his paws over the coffin and placed his snout against the lid.

Meanwhile, in the larger chamber above, four Jackanine set down the wooden crate. A beam of natural light trickled into the chamber from a shaft located over a red granite coffer.

Without pause, the Jackanine popped open the crate to expose the smooth stone of the ark. The rock was black but there was a bead of light inside, like a muscle flexing fire.

In one smooth motion, the Jackanine took each corner of the crate and tipped the ark into the coffer. It slotted perfectly into its predestined slot, and immediately, light from the overhead shaft stirred life into the rock.

The Jackanine hurried out of the chamber as the ark burned white, illuminating the chamber and filling every shaft in the pyramid.

The ark seemed to suck at the sunlight. Jackanine raced out of the pyramid with the light blaring at their backs. Apophis came next and his lions sealed the entrance with an enormous granite slab. Apophis did not look back, not even to inspect the glowing casing stones and red hot capstone. Priests hailed the ticking time bomb while Apophis hurried for a waiting shuttle.

The retreating army passed Yellow Jack and shuttles started taking off the moment ramps were sealed. Dropping his head, Jack did not fight his bonds or attempt to escape. When Apophis reached him however, the general snatched the end of Jack's chain and tugged him along into his private shuttle. He would watch the candle burn.

The ramp sealed shut and in no time at all, the shuttle soared for the clouds as the pyramid began to glow and burn. The priests and slaves around it stopped singing and began to look concerned as their God fled for space. They expected, they believed the king and queen would exit the pyramid, hand in hand to lead the world. Instead, they shielded their eyes from the heat as a devastating crack shattered around the pyramid, tearing the earth and sending legions hurtling to their doom.

Humans scattered like insects while loyalists remained still, hoping and praying that this was all part of the plan. It was. A second crack followed, parting the sand and eating men alive. The combination of sun and ark turned the pyramid into a raging inferno, setting those around the monument on fire.

In his air conditioned shuttle, Apophis bent over the console to watch the Earth and its ark light from six thousand feet. Jack slouched beside him, staring blankly ahead.

"Congratulations, General. Returning the life of one by ending the life of many."

A single tear fell from Apophis's eyes as he observed the power that would resurrect his love Aquinas. Inside the pyramid, she would be waking from her long sleep, safe in her womb as the world burned. The fires however would die soon enough, and the queen would exit the pyramid to walk over the Earth's ashes.

Remembering himself, the lion smeared his tears and Jack pretended not to see them. Suddenly, the lion's victorious demeanor transformed into a penetrating scowl. Something had changed on the surface of Giza. Something was wrong. The pyramid's brilliant light was fading, fire dimming, dying.

Yellow Jack crept close to the console, a relieved smile curving up the side of his beak.

"Ham Taylor."

*

Taylor opened his eyes and sat up, hair dripping and nerves twitching.

Still in the interrogation room, collagen and blood mixed in his mouth. He spat while running a tentative hand through his hair, exhaling when he found a sticky mass of blood and sweat. No abscess, no paralyzing, mind sucking mite. He laughed, the sound loud in the empty room.

"I'm alive," he cried, and laughed again.

The hatch in the corner lay ajar, and approaching footsteps on the other side forced Taylor to hide. He hunched beneath the table and was afraid that his second chance could be easily snatched away. The footsteps passed and he relaxed. More footsteps came and went, and curiosity drew Taylor out from under the table. On his side, he peeked through a gap left by the open hatch.

The corridor was long and wide, with light streaming up through holes in the metal flooring. A procession of lion warriors passed by. At the head of the queue, four Jackanine shared the weight of a wooden crate.

Taylor cursed himself as he watched the ark bound for Earth. He turned from the hatch and racked his brain for an answer.

"There's a way!" he hissed, slapping the sides of his head. "Think you bastard!"

Returning to the gap in the hatch, Taylor squinted through marching legs to a coffin coming towards him. His eyes lit up as the answer came to him. Taylor raised the torch to his face and peered at the interface. 2% left, enough to jump him through space, if not time.

As the coffin approached, Taylor worked frantically to input an astronomical calculation into the torch. He was after the precise number that would transport him from this room to the next, but with his current target moving, and the coffin already occupied, his math would have to be perfect.

Synapses firing on all cylinders, Taylor arrived at what he hoped would be the correct trajectory. He then tried to kick-start his engine with a sturdy punch to his chest.

"Come on!" he exclaimed, beating harder. "Activate!"

He coughed, grimaced and spluttered. "Start, motherfucker!"

A spark shot from his torch and rippled up his arm. He needed more than a spark however, he needed an inferno.

"Start! Start! Start!"

The coffin aligned adjacent to his position. Taylor thumped again, this time so hard that he cracked a rib. He yelped, but in that excruciating moment, and with his heart rate through the roof, he turned into light and vanished from interrogation.

The next moment, Taylor found himself pressed over the top of the mummified corpse of Aquinas. His nose was pressed against a silver amulet around the mummies neck, and he smiled through the pain and spasms caused by the jump. He sensed the movement of the coffin and exhaled through his fingers as his added weight went unnoticed by the strong Jackanine. It was now simply a matter of sitting tight as Apophis delivered him personally to the pyramid.

*

In his dark and confined space, Taylor waited until the movement stopped and the voices faded. When he could no longer stand the mouldy stench of linen wrappings, he put his back against the lid and pushed. The lid slid from the coffin, breaking into pieces when it hit the ground. He squirmed at the reverberating sound and the intense, blinding light flooding the lower chamber.

Taylor covered his eyes and climbed out of the coffin. With a leg dangling over the side, his other was suddenly snatched by the mummified paw of Aquinas.

He shrieked as the ghoulish paw wrapped around his thigh. Her covered face moved from side to side as her mouth gasped for air. Taylor kicked off her claws and fell out of the coffin while Aquinas yanked the linen from her face. When light first came to her beady eyes, she howled in distress and disorientation.

Taylor lay on rock and looked back at the lioness, rising from eternal rest. She tore at the wrappings around her face and neck, opened her mouth and roared.

"God!" Taylor bawled, covering his ears.

She was a lanky seven feet tall, with a feline face and pale fur blazing against the light. She stepped out of the coffin and her chunky foot slammed down on the stone.

The lioness attempted to snag her meal but Taylor scurried to the treasure-stuffed niche in the corner. Reaching back, he gripped a jewel encrusted sceptre and swatted at the advancing queen.

"Back off bitch!"

The lioness's lower half was tangled in wrappings, which slowed her pursuit to a gracelessness lumber, giving Taylor time to react. He struck the sceptre across her snout, knocking an incisor from her mouth. When she recovered, Taylor struck the other side of her face, breaking the sceptre in half.

Aquinas shook it off, snared Taylor by the throat and raised him off his feet.

The powerful ark light made her stronger, but it also had a magnetic effect on Taylor's torch. Suddenly, he was stretched out by two magnificent forces, the ark in its chamber above and Aquinas below. Eyes rolling into his head, and still clutching the broken sceptre, Taylor forced the jagged end into the queen's face. She dropped him, howling in pain as new blood poured from the wound. Over her flailing arms and maddening screams, Taylor allowed the ark to tug him out of the queen's chamber. The force skidded him across the stone but before he could clear Aquinas, she clutched his foot and was dragged behind him.

Taylor's torch flashed hot and alive as the force pulled them up the ascending slope of the grand gallery.

Aquinas cut her claws into Taylor's shin and he moaned as the flesh was peeled from the muscle. Gathering speed up the gallery, he and Aquinas were rubbed raw on the rock, leaving trails of burning skin, hair and denim. There was no stopping their momentum, or the ark's irresistible tug on the torch.

The slope ended at the kings chamber, where the ark blazed like a second sun inside its coffer. Taylor braced himself as he and Aquinas crashed into the coffer, breaking one corner to pieces. Taylor shut his eyes and kissed his ass goodbye as the ark finally reeled him in. Screaming, he lit up from the inside out, his voltage shocking Aquinas to the chamber corner. Taylor's torch pressed against the ark and he writhed, caught in its light.

Moments before his atoms exploded, Taylor realized that if he could not pull himself from the ark, then he would pull the ark from the light. Using all his strength, he forced against the spasms and the fire to reach into the coffer. The power gauge on the torch went off the charts as Taylor gripped fingers around the universe stone. He raised the ark from the coffer and clutched it against his chest. He hauled it away from the shaft of sunlight but the furious fire would not leave him or the ark. Screaming, Taylor threw it down and staggered back against the broken coffer. Aquinas meanwhile, raised her head to see her wrappings and leg caught underneath the searing ark. As the light faded from Taylor's torch, the ark turned molten white. It ate into the granite floor to form a glowing and sinking rectangle. The glob fused with the queen's leg and pulled her into the hole. She fought back, begging for her new life as the pyramid turned in on itself. She ripped her wrappings and pulled her leg from the bone, but it was too late. She slipped into the volcanic sink, desperately digging her claws into the rock.

"Here!" Taylor bawled over raining rock. "Take my hand! I know you understand me!"

Aquinas clutched at the rim and began to pull herself up, but before she could clamour to safety, a plume of magma rose out of the hole to incinerate the screaming queen. Taylor rolled back as lava spewed into the chamber

"Fuck!" he cried, as the hole churned and cooked like a gateway to hell. He ran from the chamber, throwing himself to slide all the way down the grand gallery. At the bottom, he cowered as a 50 ton block of granite crashed in front of his toes.

Head ringing, face black with dust, he retreated from falling rocks, stumbling back up the gallery and diving into the ark chamber as an explosion sealed the corridor and his hopes of escape. He wafted at the dirt and soot, watching the twinkling light from the shaft above and the burbling hole of lava.

The floor beneath Taylor cracked and he threw himself into the empty ark coffer as hellfire grenades blew up around him. He lay in the coffer with the sunlight streaming down from above, the world around him shaking. Frantically, he began to punch coordinates into his still sparking torch.

Wiping the gritty stone from his eyes, he tried to focus his mind on maths alone, needing an estimated size of the pyramid and the necessary distance to jump him out of it. His concentration was steadily interrupted by the flood filling the chamber and seeping through a crack in the coffer. Taylor quickly rose his legs over the rims and raised his body using his elbows as lava leveled around him. Burning an inch from his back, and with not a second to spare, Taylor entered his final digits into the torch and his racing heart did the rest.

Disappearing instantaneously, the light dancing time-traveller reappeared on top of the capstone, the highest point of the great pyramid. He barely caught a glimpse of the view over Giza before he was sent hurtling down the casing stones, followed by a river of shattering stones.

Taylor's ass hit the ground at speed and he continued forward over hot sand and the crumbling casing stones.

With the fires smothered and the Sphinx keeping watch over Egypt, Taylor lay flat to enjoy the inhale and exhale of his own lungs. The pyramid wasn't done however. There came a final, almighty explosion from the interior, blowing the capstone away into the sky. Taylor watched in awe as the capstone soared out of sight. The great wonder, crunched and broken, was finally still.

"God-fucking-sake."

Taylor glanced at his torch and smiled at the reading: 98%. Plenty to get him home.

Without delay, he punched new co-ordinates into the device, five hours from when he first left. His original mission was to warn Lanza of the comet one year before impact. Having already scribbled a warning onto his whiteboard, Taylor hoped that mission was now complete.

He inputted the final digits, and pumping his heart into gear, Taylor howled like a dying dog when knives suddenly sank into his neck.

Apophis raised Taylor off his feet then slammed him back onto the sand. Beside the general, a red lion held his gravity gun at Taylor. The grief stricken Apophis roared with fury and hatred, squeezing Taylor by the throat. Taylor's gargling scream was suddenly muted by another from the red lion, whose eyes had gone wide with shock. Taylor watched as a spear emerged from the middle of the lion's chest, the sentry gurgling and dropping his gun. Bull appeared from behind the red lion, pulling out the spear as the creature fell limp.

Apophis dropped Taylor and turned on Bull, raking him across the chest with his claws.

In that moment, Taylor stretched for the gun, slid his hand into the stock and aimed the barrel at Apophis. The general whipped his head back at Taylor, who winked back.

"You ate the wrong finger."

Taylor pulled the trigger and an astounding sonic boom blasted into the general's chest. Apophis spun through the air in a crazed and manic scream, breaking his back against the face of the Sphinx. The general's rocky image crumbled from that guarding monument, the lion king dropping dead between its stone paws.

Taylor threw down the weapon and was helped to his feet by Bull. He smiled at his friend before frowning up at a growing shadow.

"Look out!"

Bull dived one way and Taylor the other as the incoming capstone smashed into the sand. In his desperate leap, Taylor's pounding heart ignited the torch and careered him through space and time.

— CHAPTER NINETEEN —

Taylor heard a sterile bleep and cool thrum of air conditioning.

"He's awake!" a man announced. "God, he's alive!"

The voice was far away, in another room. It drew close and clear as Taylor opened his eyes.

"I can't believe you're alive!" Donald rejoiced. Taylor smiled back but was too woozy to assume this reality was real.

"I'm fine," he groaned, turning his head to notice his left arm intravenously attached to Hippocrates. "Actually I feel...fantastic."

The healing marvel of the 21st century mended every bump, scrape and broken bone. All but his left pinkie.

"Where have you been?" Donald asked him, dabbing the cold sweat from Taylor's forehead. "Thought I'd never see you again brother."

The future, past, and present coalesced as Taylor regained his senses. He sat up and looked at the torch. The gauge sat at 0%, confirming he had travelled a long way in a very short space of time. Taylor grew concerned when he noticed Donald's worried face.

"What's happening? Are the boys okay?"

Donald nodded, clearing his tears. "Boys are in the cafeteria with their mother. We're all good. All safe."

"So what then? Where am I?"

Donald frowned and took a step back from the bed. "You're still in the bunker, Ham. Fort Knox."

Taylor looked around the med-lab and remembered the last time he was here, drunkenly recalculating the torch during surgery. "The world, Donald. Is there still a planet up there?"

"The world's still there. Sort of."

Donald paused. "Ham, I have to tell you something about the Pride."

"Ancient history."

"Let me explain, okay? I joined through marriage, nothing more. Sylvia's family go back to its origins in Egypt. I thought it was harmless, kinda stupid. They helped the family financially and helped establish my business. Ham, I had Wall Street bankers coming to me for teeth cleaning. All I had to do was attend occasional meetings and wear their dumb cloaks. I never watched them kill anyone...not before Lanza."

Donald held his tongue and Taylor finished for him. "You're my brother, Donald. You're my family."

The weight of the world seemed to fall off Donald's shoulders. He reached to take Taylor's hand when the door opened. A uniformed officer and General of the Army, Robert Wertz, entered the lab. His eyes were swollen purple and cotton balls plugged his nose from when Taylor had smashed his face into an elevator door panel. Wertz moved to the foot of the bed and aimed a pistol at Taylor's chest.

"I knew you'd be back," he sneered, his voice stuffed up. "On your feet!"

Taylor held up his arms then lowered them after a thought.

"Didn't you hear me, Taylor? Get up on your fucking feet or I'll put a hole in your heart."

"If you wanted me dead then I wouldn't be hooked up to this bloody machine."

Taylor pulled the intravenous lines from his arm and a granite faced Wertz turned the gun to Donald.

Taylor smirked. "You think shooting my little brother will put you in my good books? Holster your gun and we'll talk this through. But first thing's first...anybody got a smoke?"

Wertz lowered his gun and Donald placed a cigarette between Taylor's lips. He took a deep drag and closed his eyes to the hit of tobacco wrapping around his lungs.

"Now," he said, blowing smoke, "tell me what's going on here?"

Wertz crossed his arms and looked to Donald. "He's your brother, you tell him."

Donald agreed, turned his head to a wall of medical equipment and announced. "Screen! Any channel."

A screen appeared over the shelf and Taylor watched a live feed of New York City. Blanket news reported the arrival of an alien mothership hovering over the skyline. Boxy shuttles landing and armed lions laying siege to a city united in fear.

Taylor shook his head and peered closer. "It's not a comet. Son of a bitch."

Pieces connected in Taylor's head. He could traverse time but had a difficultly understanding it. It appeared the forth dimension was both fixed and flexible. Since the mothership was always coming, Taylor was always going back. It seemed that time walked hand in hand with destiny, and his life was always leading to this moment.

"Something you did," Donald said, hand sealing his mouth as if ready to puke. "What did you do to them?"

Taylor heard Donald but kept his face glued to the news. There, on a raised podium in the heart of the Big Apple, General Apophis held a worldwide audience. The once mighty lion was hunched over and crippled, his back supported by a metal cage wrapping around his ribs. Armed guards formed an impenetrable circle around both Apophis, and Yellow Jack. Jack was tangled in chains from head to foot. Spread around him were a dozen headless corpses, spouting blood over the podium.

"The others left the bunker to greet the ship," Donald added. "They knew he was coming, knew for a long time."

Taylor nodded, staring at the screen. Wertz turned from the images as Apophis pressed his foot down on a fat and naked man's head. It was leader of the cult, RC Christian. His skull creaked momentarily and he wore a wiry smile on his old face before the brain's popped out of his ears.

"The Pride," Donald concluded "thought they were heralding God. What they got was the Devil."

"Anyone tried taking him down?"

"He vapourizes anyone who gets close. He's promised to destroy us all if he doesn't get what he wants."

"What about the troops?" Taylor irritably asked Wertz. "Where's your fuckin' army?"

"The Pride detonated a fucking nuke in space!" he yelled like a drill instructor. "It crippled the grid and shut down communications. The public were fed lies about a comet to create chaos around the globe. It worked."

Wertz punched a beaker off the shelf and took a moment to compose himself.

"We were told," he later resumed, "that the world was ending. Soldiers dropped arms and returned to their families. At this time, we have no organized defence against the invasion. This lion has us by the balls."

Taylor squirmed as if tasting something nasty. "There's always a way, dammit!"

"There is," Wertz added, turning attention back to the news.

Fearful reporters relayed updates and billboards flashed the image of the most wanted man on Earth, Ham Taylor.

"All he wants is you, Taylor. You're his one and only demand. If we turn you over then he's promised to take his ship and leave in peace. I have a chopper up top right now to take us to New York."

Wertz straightened his uniform while over his shoulder, a young reporter begged into the camera.

"The lion has sworn to start killing more within the hour! If anyone has seen Hamilton Taylor, or knows where he is...please call your local law enforcer immediately! That's Hamilton Taylor! Find him! Bring him here!"

Taylor grimaced as he got out of the bed. Donald passed him an old denim shirt and a new pair of jeans. "Brought these with me. Might be a bit tight."

Taylor instinctively put on the shirt and jeans, his mind elsewhere.

"Ham, why does the lion want you so badly?"

Taylor sucked the cigarette down to the butt. "Let's just say we have history."

Donald came close, sealing Taylor's last shirt button and whispering. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to light another cigarette. Then...I'm going to cooperate."

*

Taylor and Donald moved together through a corridor of rocky walls and halogen light. Wertz followed at a safe distance, gun trained on their backs.

"Did Lanza leave me anything?" Taylor asked, picturing Penelope. "A letter? A note?"

Donald shrugged. "All he left was a big mess."

"Penelope is out there somewhere, Donald. I just needed more time."

Donald patted his brother's back as they reached the cafeteria. It was quiet and filled with children, fast asleep on made up mattresses and sleeping bags.

"What's the hold up?" Wertz asked, suspiciously.

Taylor looked back. "Give me a minute. Please."

Wertz saw Taylor's sincerity and rested his back against the rock. Taylor returned his eyes to the cafeteria and smiled when he spotted the red headed Michael Hopkins and the others from the school bus. What warmed Taylor's heart however, was the peaceful sight of his sleeping nephews, Cameron and Lucas. Sylvia lay between the boys, with faraway eyes as she held them close.

"You want me to wake them?" Donald whispered. "They'll want to see their uncle."

Taylor shook his head. "I want you to join them. You go no further."

Donald was ready to argue when Taylor interrupted. "Your future is here, with those boys. Mine is outside."

Tears filled Donald's eyes and Taylor pulled him in close. "Thanks for looking after me," he whispered, rubbing his brother's cheek.

With that, Taylor sucked in his own tears and set off for a waiting helicopter, a revenge filled lion, and a world under arrest.

*

The sky was dreary and a shower was coming on. Taylor stepped into the helicopter and buckled in beside the open door. Wertz dashed the destination into the console and took his seat opposite Taylor as the autonomous chopper rose over Fort Knox. It raced over the countryside and Taylor closed his eyes to enjoy the wind and rain against his face. Using this time to reflect on his journey, he thought of Bull and hoped he, Mesha, and their child lived long and happy lives. He saw Penelope and held the image of her in the centre of his mind.

"Where are you?" he said, his voice squashed by the thundering rotors.

*

Forty minutes later, Taylor saw the soaring skyscrapers of home, besmirched by the Pride mothership in the grey sky. Millions of people packed the streets and sidewalks of Manhattan. The clock was ticking, the world was waiting.

Taylor faced Wertz as the chopper circled around Midtown.

"What are you looking at?" Wertz asked, uneasy.

"You were a hero once!" Taylor yelled over the wind. "You're the most decorated soldier in the history of the United States because you fought tooth and nail to protect her! She's still here Robert, somewhere under all this bullshit. Take a look," he added, nodding toward the crowd. "There are good people down there ready to fight for our planet. They've got a reason. All they need is a leader."

Wertz turned his head to one side as the chopper descended on Times Square. The famous junction was brightly adorned with billboards and vast screens relaying Taylor's landing. The chopper aimed for a painted H on the road. Crowds looked up and Taylor gawked back. It seemed like every human being in the city had gathered to see what would happen next.

The helicopter touched down, rotors came to a stop and Taylor unbuckled his belt.

He composed himself with a few breaths before stepping out. When his feet touched concrete and he straightened out his back, he was stunned by the reaction that greeted him. Nothing. Millions of eyes watched around the globe yet Taylor could hear a pin drop. It was the busiest and quietest Times Square had ever been.

He saw his expressionless face on screen, broadcast by a drone swooping in close.

The Pride gathered half a football field away, three lions before Apophis and a chained and miserable looking Yellow Jack. Internally, Taylor's heart pounded harder than he could ever remember, but with his torch sitting at 0 percent, he wouldn't be jumping anywhere.

The crowd parted, creating a path from Taylor to Apophis. Like the slaves of Ancient Egypt, modern man took to his knees for the lion God.

Wertz moved behind Taylor and nervously whispered down his neck. "Get going."

Taylor squinted up at the mothership where he had been just hours, centuries and a millennia ago. He stopped to stare, thinking of the 10 baubles he had dropped in the tanks. Wertz's prodding gun urged him forward. Taylor shirked him off, rubbed his shoulder, combed a hand through his hair then started the long march to Apophis.

Apophis pushed one of his lions aside to get a better look at Taylor. His hairy and haggard face was caught between a snarl and grimace, sorrow and hate.

Taylor searched passed Apophis to Yellow Jack. The Jackanine was wide eyed and alert, his arms and legs bound together and a dangling leash wrapped in the lion's paw. Seeing each other, Jack respectfully nodded, and Taylor nodded back.

The drone beamed pictures of Taylor's walk to the large screens over Times Square. He saw himself and read the scrolling caption underneath: Alien demands are met! Alien demands are met!

A scared public whispered as Taylor passed, but no one yelled, no one drew attention to themselves. Taylor felt his blood run cold when he arrived at the bottom of a raised podium, a hastily built scaffold with three steps leading to Apophis.

Taylor stopped and Wertz pressed the gun into his kidney, but Taylor would go no further. He raised his head to meet Apophis' eye. After holding the stare for several seconds, Apophis tugged on Jack's chain. The lion growled and Jack translated.

"Ham Taylor," he stated. "General Apophis wants you to live. He wants you to live for a very long time."

Taylor raised his foot and took the first of three steps.

"What's his plan, Jack?"

"General Apophis...wants you to bare witness to the death of everyone, and everything you ever cared for. Then and only then...when you are the last man alive, will he destroy this blue ball."

"Figures," Taylor uttered, taking the next step. "Well Jack, you can tell Apophis that he can fuck right off."

Jack slunk and shook his head. "There is no way out of this, Ham Taylor. Death is all we can hope for."

Without warning, Apophis ripped his claws down Jack's back, stripping the flesh and cutting the chains from his body. Jack crouched to his knees, his peeled skin exposing blood and muscle.

"Ham Taylor," Jack grimaced, stretching out his free arms. "Did you...plant the baubles?"

Taylor took the third step to come face to face with Apophis. "I sure did."

Free from his confinement, Yellow Jack parted his beak and reached deep into his mouth. Gargling mucus, Jack pulled a disc detonator from one of his two stomachs. He then circled his finger twice over the dripping disc and a red button rose from its centre. Jack placed his thumb over the button and glanced up at the mothership and the many thousands of Jackanine on board. He hesitated, and Taylor yelled.

"Do it Jack! Do it!"

Eyes wet, Yellow Jack looked up at Taylor. "I am sorry."

Jack threw down the detonator and Taylor scurried to collect it. Jack and Taylor met on all fours as Taylor rubbed his thumb over the button. Apophis watched meanwhile, unworried and slightly amused, as if he knew something they did not.

The Jackanine nodded his consent at Taylor, but before he could blow the ship to smithereens, Apophis dropped a pile of crunched up steel baubles beside them. Taylor lowered his head in defeat and clung to Jack for support. Apophis chuckled through his thick teeth and hairy lips, savouring every victorious moment and those yet to come.

"It seems we have been defeated, Ham Taylor."

With the detonator locked in hand, Taylor's demeanour was equally morose as his eyes wandered over the crunched up baubles, which carried the whiff of a sewer.

'Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.'

He frowned, something was off. Taylor counted again, he needed to be sure. '...six, seven, eight, nine.'

His eyebrows shot up his forehead as he hopefully looked at the bird.

"What is wrong?" Jack whispered, and Taylor smiled.

"The satchel, Jack. He forgot the satchel."

Taylor recalled the bag ripped from his arm and sucked into a pool of mites, a place even the Pride would be afraid to search.

Taylor stood and laughed, his hearty chuckle stopping Apophis in his tracks. The lion snared Taylor's shirt and pulled him close. Eye to eye, nose to snout, breath against breath, Taylor hissed: "You missed one."

He pressed the detonator and an explosion brought the sun to a cloudy day. Bodies grimaced and ducked as sound waves cracked the glass of every skyscraper within a half-mile radius. The vapourized ship meanwhile, fell to a fiery snow over New York City.

Taylor stood with all of mankind over a hunched Apophis. The demoralized lion heaved as if hyperventilating, his ship and empire in ashy pieces around him.

The general's soldiers appeared shocked, caught between watching enormous crowd and protecting the general. Squinting down at Apophis, Taylor clenched his fist and smashed his torch across the lion's face, breaking his snout and knocking him over.

"Pussy."

Wertz took the opportunity to seize the weapons from lost looking lions. He pulled random strangers from the crowd and quickly organized them into an armed militia around the Pride.

Taylor assisted Yellow Jack to his feet, and after a final glance at the falling stars, Taylor patted his friend's thin arm.

"You're an Earthling now, Jack. That okay with you?"

Jack, open beaked and bug eyed, nodded. "I will...make the most of it."

Behind them, a stranger began to clap, then another and another. They smiled, they cheered, they yelled his name.

"TAYLOR! TAYLOR! TAYLOR!"

Taylor's face turned red as Times Square, New York and the world repeated his name.

— CHAPTER TWENTY —

3 weeks later

Taylor was clean shaven, dressed in a smart black dinner suit with polished shoes. He squirmed at the hot lights, set his carcinogen free cigarette in the ashtray then crossed his legs when the camera went live. The audience applauded and the presenter welcomed those watching at home back to the show.

"Thank-you again Dr. Taylor for granting us your time. We know how valuable it is."

"I know there are a lot of questions out there, Ron. I'm happy to answer as many as I can."

The audience cheered and Taylor smiled vaguely, feeling the weight of the powerless torch, concealed under his right sleeve.

"As you can imagine," Ron said, holding a set of thick cards, "we have been inundated with questions from all over the globe. People are calling you a hero, others a villain. Dr. Taylor, what do you say to those who accuse you of being the chief cause of recent events?"

Taylor remained stony faced. "I take full responsibility for the consequences of my actions. I haven't been charged for anything yet and don't expect to be. We all want someone to blame, Ron. Right now I believe it's time the people concentrate on building a better future. General Wertz has restored some order to the nation and I was delighted to hear about upcoming elections. We're taking steps in the right direction."

Ron ruffled through his cards, overwhelmed by long questions and limited time.

"One of the most popular questions, Dr. Taylor, concerns the lion. Do we have a live feed of the beast?" he mumbled at his producer. "Yes, yes we do."

Ron brought Taylor and the world's attention to a monitor. The fuzzy image overlooked a large glass cage with armed guards stationed around it. In one corner sat the wounded and revenge starved Apophis.

Taylor leaned forward on his seat as Apophis turned his head toward the camera. The lion peered hatefully into the lens and Taylor peered back until the feed died.

"What should the people of Earth do with a creature who tried to destroy it?" Ron asked, returning to his cards.

Taylor blinked as if brought out of a daze. "Take him to The Hague. Let the court decide."

Taylor rubbed sweating palms on his thighs, sat back and took another question, for a world needing answers.

*

It was late and the night sky twinkled with stars. The calm wind whispered as Taylor, drink in hand, pulled off his neck tie and stepped onto the balcony overlooking Los Angeles. He leaned over the railing of the glamourous Gladio Hotel. Setting his drink on the ledge, he rolled up his sleeve and inspected his cold dead torch.

"I know what you're thinking," said an abrupt voice in the dark. Taylor turned, smiling as Yellow Jack joined him on the balcony. Jack was also dressed in a dinner suit, his golden feathers bulging out of collar and cuffs.

"What am I thinking Jack?"

"You are thinking of that cumbersome time machine deep in Fort Knox. It...and she...are calling to you."

Taylor took a sip of his drink. "How have you been?"

"I tried a sip of champagne this evening. Its bubbly perfume seemed to agree with me."

Jack leaned against the railing and took in the view. There were no apocalyptic fires below them, just the pleasant lights of a civilised society.

"I watched your presentation at the UN last week," Taylor said, nudging Jack's elbow. "You were very good, you eased a lot of minds. Fuck, I see your ugly mug on T-shirts already. Movie out next year. Amazing how fast people get over it."

"Yes," Jack mused. "The human race are a remarkably durable species."

After a moment of silence, Jack faced Taylor with a low brow.

"Ham Taylor," he exhaled. "I may have commitments over the coming weeks and months, but do not dare attempt to meddle with time in my absence. If you are set on finding Penelope, then let us do it together."

Taylor finished his drink and smiled. "Together."

Suddenly, Taylor's attention was drawn to a golden light spreading over his shoes.

"Jack," he said, concerned as he stepped back from the balcony. "You see this?"

"See what?" Jack returned, oblivious.

The light streamed up his legs, filled Taylor's torso and shone down the ends of his fingertips. "You don't see this?"

Jack turned to Taylor but found nothing to examine. "Tell me what's wrong, Ham Taylor? What's going on?"

"The Timekeepers!" Taylor screamed, grabbing at Jack's arms. "You were right! They have me!"

A podium appeared at Taylor's feet and light streamed out of his flesh. With moments left, Taylor clung to Jack and begged:

"Find me, Jack! Find me!"

Taylor was pressed flat against the rising podium, in a race to edge of the universe.

*

Surrounded by all the stars and dimensions in eternity, Taylor waited on his glowing spot for the disembodied voices to make themselves known. It wasn't a long wait.

"Your stay of execution is over," announced a tired old man. "We may have arrived at a decision."

"May I ask the meddler of time a question?" a young woman interrupted. "It is not pertinent, but I am curious."

The elusive Timekeepers gave permission and the disembodied voice asked her question.

"Hamilton Taylor, how did it feel to rescue your planet and people? How did it feel to be a hero?"

Taylor faced the direction of the voice. "Alien. I take it you aint sending me back?"

The older man tittered. "You will not be going back, Taylor. Your case has been discussed in great depth. There are still conflicting opinions but yes, one thing we agree on is that you will certainly not be going back."

Taylor looked at his right arm and smiled. "How about a deal? Send me back to my own time and I promise to put your toys down. No more time travel. No more meddling."

Multiple voices grumbled and discussed the proposal as Taylor watched a swirling white hole and all the matter churning inside it.

"We would take you at your word, Hamilton," said the young girl, "but we simply do not believe you."

"He is wily and sly," insisted the elder. "A born liar. Why waste any more time on the matter?"

"Penelope lives," the girl interrupted. "You know this Hamilton, and we know that you will never give up the search."

Taylor turned his back to creation, his throat went dry and his legs turned to jelly as he repeated the words, Penelope lives.

"I knew it," he growled through gritted teeth. Suddenly, Taylor let out all the years of frustration and fury in one exhilarated scream: "I knew it!"

His sound reverberated through the universes as Taylor wavered on his spot.

"Are you calm?" the girl asked, a moment later. "As you can gather Hamilton, we are still torn about what to do with you. This has been a difficult process for this assembly."

"I am not torn at all," said the elder. "Send him to Nightmare Hall, that is my decision and my mind is made up."

Still caught in his own thoughts, Taylor barely heard them. The Timekeepers were right, and he knew it. His wife was out there somewhere, and no matter how many promises he made, it would only be a matter of time before he tinkered with the clock.

"Just give her back," he begged. "Give her back and we walk away forever."

The understanding female reluctantly replied. "Hamilton, your wife's situation is complicated. Removing her from it may -"

"Fuck you!" he barked, throwing up his hands. "I've had it with you people, or things, or whatever you are! If you won't kill me here and now then yeah, I'll go after Penelope with everything I've got and fuck your shit so badly doing it!"

"Do not threaten us!" the older male boomed, his astonishing sound causing Taylor to duck. "This assembly does not believe in death sentences, but I would consider instating one for you!"

"Let us not make this personal," urged a new voice, an aged and articulate woman. "We have Nightmare Hall waiting for you Hamilton Taylor, and incarceration for the rest of your life. However my opinion is to work with you, rather than against. You could be extremely valuable to us. I see no point in throwing that asset away."

"Ludicrous!" the old man objected. "Not this nonsense again! The human being cannot be controlled. He needs to be contained, not encouraged! Such a plan is folly, both irresponsible and dangerous!"

"And that," the older woman interjected, "is why it may work. The plan is audacious, but the forever man will never see him coming."

"I have faith" said the young girl. "The Earthling will not let us down."

Taylor put two fingers between his lips and blew a whistle.

"Excuse me?" he said, waving. "What's a forever man? What do you want me to do?"

His shoulders sprung to his ears at the sound of a hammer smashing wood, as if a judge had settled a case.

"It is done!" declared the older woman, to many huffs and puffs. "Hamilton Taylor, you are under our employ until further notice. Good luck on your assignment. We will speak again, if you live."

"Wait!" Taylor yelled, as the light returned up each leg. "I'll do what you want! I'll complete your mission! Just just give me my wife back! You have the power, you can do that! Give her back! Give her -"

The light consumed him and Taylor was falling as fast as he had risen. His stomach pressing to his throat as the podium sank into the sparkling light of the universe and Milky Way galaxy, journeying past the sun, planets and moon to arrive back on Planet Earth.

*

The bone chilling water woke him from his dream, as did the distress call over the choppy waves.

"Man Overboard!"

Taylor raised his arms and rode the waves as a white rubber life-ring splashed near his head. Swallowing several gulps of salt water, he snatched hold of the ring as strangers tugged on the line. Shivering with fever and the onset of pneumonia, and moments before losing consciousness, Taylor read the inscription on the life-ring:

RMS. TITANIC.
