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. "Channe
l 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!'