Chapter Five
He was standing in a desert. Around him was a crowd of legionnaires, who looked tired and … apprehensive. They were staring in front of them, with such concentration that they failed to notice Felix. Curious, he moved through their ranks, and still they continued to direct their gaze forward. What WERE they looking at?
Wait! The troops were suddenly changing: their faces were spotted, their fingertips were reddening and many were collapsing! He sprinted toward the foremost ranks where a figure was surveying the plain before him. Felix knew this was Marcus Crassus and that the battle of Carrhae was about to begin, one of Rome’s more troubling defeats. Even now the Parthians were approaching, with their fifteen-foot pikes. What was on the end of each? It couldn’t be! Hoisted on high, beneath the blinding desert sun, his father’s head stared lifelessly at Felix.…
Felix awoke with a cry. He’d been napping on the couch and, with the night’s onset, the unit was steeped in shadow. Wait, no. A flashing light intruded from outside, and an angry buzzing was making his ears ring — as if a hive of bees had broken into their dwelling.
“Mentor? What’s happening?”
The flashing light grew brighter. The buzzing, too, rose in volume, until Felix could feel his insides tingle. He struggled off the couch and studied the room. His instincts told him something was wrong.
“Mentor! Answer me! What’s going on?”
Wait. Mentor’s light ports weren’t blinking; a sign his power had been cut. But how? The system was linked to three separate generators, and a short like this was out of the question — unless it had been engineered.
Felix’s hair stood on end. Somehow someone had … murdered Mentor!
“Felix Taylor!” a voice hailed him from outside, “This is Medevac 125037. We are here to transport you to a health facility.”
A Medevac? Here? It was going to transport him? Felix felt his neck and scalp bristle. There could only be one explanation: he’d come down with the virus!
He hurried to a mirror beside the front entrance. Although the only light was from the flashers outside, he peered into it anxiously and tried to spy his features. Were there blisters on his cheeks? Had his fingertips turned red? It was difficult to tell, but everything seemed normal. And far from feeling tired, he was filled with nervous energy.
“Please step onto the balcony. We have dispatched a stretcher.”
No sooner were these words announced than a stretcher hovered into view, its retractable arms as threatening as ever. With a quiet but insistent hum its miniature jets steered it straight onto the balcony. Watching it with bated breath, Felix thought he must have missed his next exam and the authorities were closing in. Mentor, poor Mentor, had been right all along and …
How odd. The old-fashioned clock read 8:46 p.m. So he hadn’t missed his appointment yet. But then why was a Medevac paying him a visit …?
“Please step onto the balcony. You are wasting precious time.”
Felix unsealed the balcony door — a task Mentor would have normally performed. As he stepped outside and savoured the fresh air, the stretcher’s lid opened with a snake-like hiss. Spying it, Felix was taken aback. Once he climbed inside it and the lid wheeled closed, he’d be linked to a series of soul-less machines.
“Lie down on the stretcher,” the voice enjoined him.
He didn’t want to go. Earlier, he hadn’t cared if the authorities swooped in, but now that his freedom was endangered he was sorely afraid. And not just afraid: he was angry and defiant.
“Lie down on the stretcher,” the voice insisted. “We are falling behind schedule.”
“You’re mistaken,” he yelled back. “I don’t have the disease.”
“Lie down!” the voice repeated. “We will not ask you again.”
“Can’t you hear me? I’m not sick. And why did you disable my domestic system?”
He sensed its approach at the very last instant. Glancing around, he saw a fist-sized sphere had stationed itself behind him. It was a BISDM — a Brain Interference Signal Delivery Mechanism. Before he could duck or jump to one side, a wall of energy seemed to engulf him.
As a wave of black struck him, he was thinking he’d never open his eyes again.
“You can open your eyes.”
There was a high-pitched whine far in the background and the continuous beeping of a signal exchange. A blast of air felt nice against his cheek.
“Come on. Hurry. My father’s going to test you once we’ve reached the stratosphere. Open your eyes and talk to me.”
Without stirring, Felix struggled to puzzle things out. His brain had been shocked and his body flung onto a stretcher. And now a Medevac was conveying him to a facility in orbit, unless his refusal to co-operate would land him in jail. Either way, he didn’t care. The trick was to keep his eyes firmly closed.…
“Open your eyes!”
“Stop bossing me around!” he shouted, opening his eyes in spite of himself. To his surprise he was staring at a girl his age, with short, blonde hair, hazel-green eyes, and a chin that suggested she was very self-composed. He also noticed the stretcher’s lid was open.
“The lid is open,” he stated. “So I’m not infected.”
“No.”
“So why am I here? Why did you shock me? Why did you kill Mentor? And who are you anyway?”
“My name is Carolyn Manes. But never mind that. You sound angry, emotional.”
“What do you expect?”
“I mean, you haven’t undergone ERR.”
“No. On my father’s advice, I dispensed with it.”
“It must be odd to experience emotion. My father says it can hamper one’s judgment, but at the same time it can lead to valuable insight.”
“Who’s your father?”
“He’s a general and is in charge of the Temporal Projection Matrix.”
“This is all very interesting, but what’s it all about? Why did a Medevac …?”
“No one can know about the TPM. That’s why we’ve faked that you’re ill and hauled you off in a medical transport.”
“You’ve lost me …”
“My father’s coming,” she said. “We’ll talk later.”
Without another word, she hurried to the far end of the Medevac.
Seconds later, a large, well-groomed man approached. He had short, grey hair, light green eyes, a chiselled chin and, apart from his Chromine uniform, looked the spitting image of his daughter. Beside him was an older man with a lavish white beard. He was thin and wrinkled, and was dressed in a suit that Mr. Taylor might have worn. Although Felix had heard of glasses before, he’d never met anyone who actually wore them. The lenses were distorting the man’s bloodshot eyes.
“I’m General Manes,” the man in the uniform announced, grasping Felix’s hand and yanking him out of the stretcher.
“Hello,” Felix said in a strangled voice.
“This gentleman here,” the general continued, “is Professor MacPherson. Like you, he joined our project only recently.”
“Project?”
“I’ll explain in good time. Just now I’d like you to say something in Latin.”
“Excuse me?”
“You