Day of the Predator - Alex Scarrow [64]
> Negative. However, it might be possible for my AI duplicate to compare the density of tachyon particles in the vicinity of the explosion and the arrival point. The decay attrition is constant and this would give a fairly precise indication of when they are.
She stared at the screen. ‘Really?’
> Affirmative. It will depend on how accurate the reading was.
If Bob was right, if that was true and they had a time-stamp, then getting some sort of message through time to her was the only course they could take. And Liam and the version of Bob’s AI that was with him were smart enough to come to the exact same conclusion.
‘I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be all right, I really do.’
> I hope you are correct, Maddy.
She nodded, wishing she had just a little of Liam’s laid-back devil-may-care attitude. She tilted her can and swilled another mouthful. ‘Let’s have some music … It’s like a freakin’ graveyard in here.’
> I have an extensive database of music. What would you like for your listening pleasure?
‘Something heavy … something rocky.’
> Clarify ‘heavy’, ‘rocky’.
‘Bob … just give me something lively, then.’
> I can analyse the audio files in my database for variables such as beats-per-minute, wave-form, volume, number of times played.
‘Do that,’ she cut in. ‘Do that … number of times played. Give me something the previous team liked to listen to.’
> Affirmative.
She heard his hard drive whirring softly, then a moment later the speakers on the desk either side of the main monitor began to chug with a heavy drum beat.
> Is this acceptable?
She sat back in her chair and put her feet up on the desk. It sounded pretty good to her, a bit like Nine Inch Nails, Marilyn Manson … a bit like Chilli Peppers. ‘Yeah, cool … I like it.’
The music echoed around the archway, bouncing off the cool brick walls, making the place feel a little more alive.
CHAPTER 35
65 million years BC, jungle
Liam watched Becks and the men lowering the bridge between them. He was surprised at the strength of the vine rope, showing no signs yet of fraying and snapping despite the tree trunk having been raised and lowered a dozen times already. It thudded down on the boulders on the far side of the river, bouncing and flexing as it settled into place.
‘All right,’ he shouted over the roar of the river. ‘Everyone who’s not staying … let’s go.’
The first of those that were going along on the trip began to carefully bum-shuffle their way along the log, getting damp with spray from below. Twelve of them in total, leaving four behind to man the camp: Joseph Lam and Jonah Middleton, Sophia Yip and Keisha Jackson. Lam, as the only adult, was in charge, and Becks had made sure he fully understood how important it was to keep the ‘windmill’ rotating its arms.
The contraption was a post with a balanced crossbar like a pair of scales and someone’s rucksack on one side slowly leaking – one at a time – pebbles on to the ground. As the weight adjusted and the ‘scales’ slowly tilted, it turned a simple windmill: a long, thin spar of wood that swung through the air with a regular rhythm. Every few hours the rucksack needed to be topped up again to maintain the blade’s swinging action. It couldn’t be allowed to stop.
Lam understood enough of its purpose already – maintaining a regular metronome-like signature of movement. Becks also briefed him on the warning signs that the area in the immediate vicinity was being probed: heat, a momentary localized jump in temperature of about ten degrees and a slight visual shimmering. If a probe actually did occur while they were gone, she’d continued, there would almost certainly be another one directly afterwards to ‘double-check’ the rhythmic interference. And, provided the windmill was still waving and duplicating the same unnatural pattern, he could expect a two-yard-wide time window to open and for someone to emerge from it, looking for them.
Lam assured them he’d set up a rota to keep the contraption turning and then wished them all luck.
They’d spent a few days preparing to set off