“Old Alexander’s told you a lot, hasn’t he?”
Eric said nothing.
“You’re wrong, you know. He won’t unmake me. He’s afraid to do it. He’s had his chances, hundreds of them.” Coyle raised his eyebrows. “Where is he now? Is he here?” When Eric didn’t answer, Coyle tapped the hot muzzle of the gun against his chin. “Is he with you?”
“No.”
“He sent you to do his dirty work, didn’t he? To steal my scroll?” He studied Eric carefully for a moment. “But I suppose he said it was his. We worked on it together, didn’t he tell you? It’s mine as much as his.”
“He said you were his research assistant. You stole his working notes.”
Coyle’s pupils contracted like dark whirlpools. For a moment, it seemed he was trying to remember something, but quickly gave up. “Well, that’s wrong,” he said harshly. “He lies a lot, you know. You can’t trust him. We were partners. But when we finished, he wanted all the credit for himself. We weren’t even going to try to use it. But he broke his promise, and tried to hide it from me.”
Eric’s stomach felt queasy. Had Coyle really forgotten everything, as Alexander had said? Was he just making this up? He said it with such conviction.
“He was the first to make himself,” Coyle said again. “He didn’t tell you that, did he? That cough of his? It’s TB. Tuberculosis. He was sick. He knew he’d die soon if he didn’t make himself immortal.”
Eric thought of the blood on the handkerchief. The wasting illness, Alexander had said. It made sense. Anyone would do something drastic if they knew they were going to die otherwise. Was that all it was? Coyle’s version made sense, too! How would he ever know who was telling the truth?
He let his eyes flick to the computer tower. How much longer before it overheated?
“And there was another thing,” Coyle said softly. “Greed. Did he show you his private hoard in the cellar? He just keeps it all to himself, doesn’t he?” Coyle tapped the side of his skull. “He’s crazy. That stuff was just falling apart.”
Eric was beginning to feel lightheaded. He thought of Alexander, walking through his cellar, speaking Latin to his treasures—the things he was letting tarnish and rot in the damp.
“At least he didn’t smash them,” Eric said hoarsely. He had to talk, to convince himself that Alexander wasn’t mad. “I saw what you did to those things.”
Coyle’s smooth face tightened. “They were old and ugly and broken,” he said in a dangerously soft voice. “There’s no point to them anymore. Alexander doesn’t see that. He’s crazy. What else has he told you, what other lies?”
“Everything about you,” Eric said contemptuously.
“Really?” There was a look of amusement on Coyle’s face. But the smile contracted into a snarl. “Did he tell you about this?” With his free hand he reached for his T-shirt hem and yanked it up. A broad, jagged line of scar tissue ran from his navel to his breastbone.
Eric felt his stomach rise.
“He didn’t tell you about that?” Coyle said, letting his shirt drop again. “He was waiting for me in the dark. He slammed me through with a spear. I was pinned to the wall like a bug. It didn’t kill me, but the pain! He wanted to see me suffer, kept twisting the blade in my guts. Then he locked me in a cell.”
The Louvre. Alexander had trapped Coyle, and sealed him in an underground vault. But he hadn’t said anything about stabbing him. That scar. Eric tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry and he thought he might choke. Could Alexander really have done that?
“You were trying to steal the scroll,” Eric said, locking his eyes on his sneakers. “You wanted to unmake him. He was just trying to protect himself—the museums, too.”
“No,” Coyle said. “He’s dangerous. He’s got to be unmade. Don’t you see that? He’s lost his grip.” His voice was like a whisper in Eric’s ear now. “How can you believe anything he says? He sends you down here alone to steal back the scroll, to do his dirty work! Why didn’t he come himself? Didn’t he tell you the danger? He’s a coward. He’s using you.”
Eric had known as much all along. But he’d still decided to come down and try to stop Coyle from translating the live-forever machine. Why? He forced himself to go over the reasons. For the museum. For the old things. Discovery of King Tut’s tomb, 1922. War of the Roses, 1450. And for the first time he wondered if he was doing it for his father, too. Would Dad be proud of him, wanting to save all the things he talked about his whole life? Would doing this change anything between them?
“The live-forever machine,” Coyle said, poking at the white canister with his rifle. “Did Alexander tell you that’s what he called it? He doesn’t know what a machine is! This is just crumbling paper. I could tear it to pieces! A machine is metal guts, it’s steel cable, it’s silicon chips, it’s heat and smoke!” He nodded in the direction of the memory tower. “That,” he said, his neon blue eyes gleaming, “is the true live-forever machine.”
Eric looked at the technical manuals stacked on the table—thick coil-bound volumes on electrical engineering, computer languages, artificial intelligence—sheaves of paper covered with columns of numbers and complex formulae. Coyle had built the thing himself.
Some kind of genius—wasn’t that what Chris had said?
“Poor Alexander,” Coyle said patronizingly. “Spending all his time slinking around rotting old things! They’re useless to us now; their time is over and done with! How can we plunge ahead into our glorious future if we’re always looking back over our shoulders, being pulled back by the dreary, dead past. Alexander hates the present and fears the future. The future! Bigger, faster, better. The glorious future soars forward at a million kilometres a second. The past stands still, frozen. We must press ahead! Forget everything. Destroy it all!”
Coyle shouted out his words with the ferocity of a fanatic, sweeping his arms back and forth, waving the lightning-maker. Maybe he was right, Eric suddenly thought. What use was the past? Look at Alexander, coughing up sixteen-hundred-year-old blood, trying to remember everything, treasure everything—except people. He didn’t know what being alive was. And you, Dad, he thought: wouldn’t it be better if you could stop thinking about her, dying over and over again in your mind. Just forget her.
“Do you see it?” Coyle cried out. “The world is new and improved every day. There are machines all around us, wonderful, beautiful machines that power cars and jets, build buildings, open doors, send images across the world! Forget about the past! Let me tell you about optical fibres, genetic engineering, super aluminum and space probes! I’m talking about androids and artificial intelligence, machines that can talk, shop and walk the dog. I can see cities a thousand storeys high. I can see vehicles faster and sleeker. I can see the future bigger and brighter!”
Perspiration beaded his forehead. Spit was collecting in a white rim at the corners of his mouth. Television light played over his face.
“We have to start right away! Right now!” Coyle roared. “The glorious future awaits us. We have to build and rebuild new cities—the towering triangles of steel and titanium. We’ll start with the museum! Think of how many buildings we could put in that space! All old things must be destroyed! Jettison the past!”
There was a centre of perfect blackness, like a drop of tar, in each of his eyes. Eric felt as if he were drowning in them. Chris, when is the tower going to overheat? he thought desperately. Why isn’t it working?
“And Bob’s going to spin for the bonus!” wailed a game-show host from one of the televisions. The studio audience sent up a huge groan.
Coyle’s eyes flicked to the screen. “Don’t do it, Bob!” he shouted. “You’ll lose it all! Happens every time!”
Eric was startled by the intensity in Coyle’s face. He was completely absorbed by the game show, his eyes locked to the television. Bob spun the wheel; the pointer missed the bonus mark and all his money was taken away from him by a beautiful woman. Coyle snorted in disgust.
&
nbsp; “Protex laundry detergent,” crooned another television, “is the detergent you’ve been dreaming about all these years.”
“It’s better than the leading brand!” Coyle chanted, snapping his gaze to the next screen. “Cleaner, faster, cheaper!”
“Don’t leave me, Walter,” pleaded a woman in a satin dress. “We can talk, we can work this out.”
“Leave her, Walter!” raged Coyle. “She’ll whine you deaf!”
Eric felt a chill pass through his body. It was as if Coyle had been mesmerized by the televisions. Symbols from the computer monitor swam across the ranting man’s face, and as Eric watched, a green word wavered on his cheek.
WARNING.
Eric watched as it began to flash. Another message appeared across Coyle’s mouth, distorted by the smile that was twisting his lips.
SYSTEM ERROR.
It’s happening, Eric thought. Chris, it’s working! He eyed the canister on the table. Should he make a run for it?
Coyle’s gaze was fixed on another television screen. A bovine man dressed like Henry the Eighth was gorging himself on macaroni and cheese.
A horrible groan issued from the computer tower. Coyle whirled in alarm. One of the huge levers was grinding around laboriously. It faltered, turned a little more, then jammed. A jet of scalding oil shot from the machine’s side.
“It’s overheating!” Coyle hissed, looking down at his monitor. He saw the warnings, but before he could do anything, another message flared on the screen.
PURGING MEMORY.
“No!” Coyle shouted. “No!” His hands flew over the keyboard. Eric looked back to the memory tower. Wisps of smoke were lifting from its bristling mechanical surface. He saw Chris lean out from behind the base, flash the thumbs-up signal, and run for cover into the tangle of pipes and cables. They had shut it down, Eric thought jubilantly, but when he looked back at Coyle’s computer monitor, the smile died on his lips.
EMERGENCY BACK-UP.
DOWNLOADING DATA TO MONITOR.
And then, before his amazed eyes, the translated contents of the live-forever machine began to scroll across the screen. His heart sank. They had been too late.
Coyle switched on the printer. A shriek rose from its insides and the machine went dead. “Come on!” Coyle growled, hitting buttons. “Work!”
The text was gradually filling the screen.
Coyle looked in a frenzy at his failing computer equipment. He knew he was going to lose the translation if he didn’t hurry. His neon-blue eyes shone with terror. He grabbed a pen and a piece of paper. Eric watched as Coyle held the pen awkwardly, slowly forming his letters one at a time like a child. Eric couldn’t believe it. So out of practice he’d almost forgotten how to write words.
The text of the live-forever machine had now filled the whole screen and was erasing itself as it scrolled. It was impossible for Coyle to keep up.
“You do it,” he said, turning to Eric in pleading desperation.
Eric felt the slightest twinge of pity.
“Do it!” Coyle bellowed.
Eric shook his head, his knees trembling. Would he be shot?
But Coyle turned back to the screen and tried in vain to keep up. Now was the time. Eric snatched the canister and ran.
Chris emerged from their hiding place to meet him.
“It’s done,” Eric panted. “He’s lost it.” He looked back and saw Coyle still staring feverishly into the computer monitor. The screen suddenly exploded outwards, sending glass and sparks into his face. A horrible bellow rose from his throat.
“Back to the stairs,” Chris said. And then they were running, ducking and veering around hanging cables, hurdling over pipes. Eric had to push himself to keep up.
A sound like ripping fabric echoed through the concrete cavern, and a jagged spark flashed past them and arced down into the water.
“What was that?” said Chris.
“Lightning.” Eric said breathlessly. He cast a glance over his shoulder and saw Coyle sprinting after them, the long rifle slamming against his ribs. His face was scored with glass cuts, oozing blood. “Just keep going! We’ll outrun him.”
Another spark shot past and struck a huge pipe. The pipe swayed slightly, and then the metal clamps holding it to the wall gave out, and it came crashing down across the cavern floor. Scalding steam filled the air. Eric raised a hand in front of his eyes and turned away, cursing. They’d never get through that.
He glanced at the water boiling through the storm drain. Too fast, too fast. He looked up. About five metres overhead, a pipe spanned the cavern.
“Up,” Eric said to Chris. He found footholds in the wall. His hands grasped cables for support. Chris clambered up beside him, his useless gun clattering against the concrete and metal. They finally reached the pipe. It was thick enough to walk across, but it would be a tough balancing act. Coyle was gaining fast.
One foot darting in front of the other, Eric teetered across the pipe, afraid to slow down in case he lost his balance. The far wall slipped and shimmered before him.
“Hurry!” Chris shouted behind him.
“Stop!” Coyle roared. “You’re very easy targets! I’m going to count to ten—no, let’s make it backwards from five for novelty.”
Eric could see their pursuer at the edge of the storm drain, shouldering his lightning-maker. The glass cuts on his face had completely disappeared.
“Don’t stop!” Eric called to Chris. “Keep going.”
“Five … four …”
“We’re not going to make it,” Chris spluttered.
“Come on!”
“Three …”
“Eric, we’re not going to make it!”
“He won’t do it! He needs the scroll!”
“Two …”
“Eric—”
“One!”
Eric made it to the wall and looked wildly back over his shoulder. Chris was only about halfway across.
“Come on!” Eric yelled.
But Chris didn’t move. Instead, he unslung the machine gun from his shoulder and, as Eric watched in horror, levelled it at Coyle, as if he were going to open fire. The air began to crackle with electricity.
Chris threw the gun into the air.
The bolt of lightning arched towards it and, in a flash, incinerated it. Eric looked back to Chris in relief, but his friend was swaying on the pipe, his arms flailing for balance.
“Chris!” Eric cried.
Another stroke of lightning slammed against the pipe and Chris fell forward, his hands grabbing air. Then it was all slow motion. Eric saw Chris’s feet slip off the pipe. He saw his friend’s mouth move, no sound, saw him hit the water below with a silent splash. And the current swept him away into the darkness.
Eric felt his throat constrict. Then his voice seemed to surge out of him.
“You bastard!” he screamed.
“The scroll!” Coyle wailed up at him. “I need the scroll.”
“You killed him!” His mind had fogged with hatred.
“I’m promising you a glorious future, better than ever before, new and improved, bigger, faster, brighter. Don’t you see the things I’ve been telling you?”
Eric looked at the trembling hand that clutched the canister, then down at the swirling water of the storm drain.
“You’re running out of time!” shrieked Coyle. “I’m offering you the way of the future! Give me the scroll or I’ll shoot!”
“I’ll drop it!” he bawled back.
“No you won’t,” Coyle said with a sly smirk. “You’re like old Alexander. You wouldn’t ever do that.”
Let it go, Eric commanded his fingers; just let it go.
“You won’t do it,” Coyle repeated.
Tears of frustration sprang up in Eric’s eyes. Why couldn’t he let it go? Come on! he raged inwardly. What does any of it matter now?
“You see,” said Coyle. “You can’t. Give it to me!”
And then Eric saw it: a glittering in the air in fro
nt of him, a bright sparkle.
Jonah’s fishing hook.
In a single overhand swing of his arm, he plunged the canister’s leather handle onto the hook and gave a sharp tug. And then the line was being reeled in and the scroll was drawn swiftly upwards.
And Eric started to laugh, a deranged laughter that he didn’t even understand. It just tumbled out of his mouth, echoing against the walls of the cavern.
“No!” Coyle roared.
He heard the electric snap of the lightning-maker, and a spark hammered against a pipe next to his head. He pressed himself into the tangle of cables, tears streaming down his face. He could see Coyle on the far shore, waiting for his gun to charge up again.
“You’ve only wasted your own time,” Coyle roared. “It’s only a matter of years before I find the scroll again. I’ll live forever!”
Eric was barely listening. He was moving fast towards a pipe that would shield him from the next blast.
“And do you know what else?” Coyle shrieked like an enraged child. “I’m going to make a fire like none you’ve ever seen! I’m going to burn the museum to the ground!”
A lightning bolt seared the wall and Eric was enveloped by smoke. Everything metal that he touched sent a shock through his fingers. The bitter smell of electricity clogged his nostrils.
“I’ll raze it!” Coyle was shouting below. “I’m going to destroy it all.”
“You can’t!” Eric shouted back at him, hardly realizing what he was saying, forcing words through his burning throat.
“It can all be destroyed!” Coyle bellowed. “Like the rare-book library, like the antiques shop. Everything must be forgotten!”
He fired his rifle again and again. And then the air seemed to short-circuit and the lightning really started to fly, arching across the cavern with terrifying, sky-rending cracks.
“You can’t destroy the past!” Eric shouted above the storm.
“I have!”