Matt Reilly Stories Read online

  Like a slow-falling tree, the staircase fell, crashing down onto the silver spaceship and the web formation on the floor, crushing through the suspended catwalk on the way.

  No man would be going down there ever again.

  THE RACE OUT

  Armstrong found his two rear-guards—Twohy and de Souza—lying dead at the top of the (now destroyed) spiral staircase, their corpses being eaten by three of the smaller dragons!

  Disturbed by Armstrong’s sudden arrival, the three mini-dragons looked up from their gobbling—their snouts smeared with fresh blood. Then, with astonishing speed, they made for Armstrong and his two surviving men—Doc and Rockmeyer.

  The three Marines ducked as one and the dragons overshot them. Then the Marines turned and firing their MP-5s after the beasts, ripping them to shreds, causing them to peel downwards like three damaged fighter planes.

  Running again.

  Hard and fast.

  Desperate now.

  Into the giant receiving dock…and Armstrong saw the exit doors and thought of the safety of the outside cold beyond them.

  At which point, the super-adults emerged from the depths of the complex. One landed on the concrete floor of the loading dock with a great boom, upturned its massive head and roared fiercely.

  The deep-bass sound of its roar shook the walls.

  And suddenly, as he turned to look back, Armstrong tripped on a corpse and fell awkwardly forward, flat onto his face.

  The fall saved his life—but not so Doc and Rockmeyer.

  For as Armstrong had fallen, a super-adult creature had come swooping down and had sliced the other two Marines in half, clean across the waist.

  They fell, in pieces.

  Armstrong—alone now—ran, staggered, stumbled, the last few metres, clawing his way out through iron doors of Complex 13, under the words abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

  He dived into the doorway, into the long tunnel his men had bored, and immediately felt the colder air, spun to look back—

  —just in time to see the wide-open jaws of a super-adult come rushing at his face! All he saw was teeth and tongue and the monster’s deep dark yawning throat and then—

  * * * *

  CHOMP!

  The jaws clamped shut, one single inch away from Armstrong’s nose.

  And John T. Armstrong lay there…on his butt, on the icy ground… right in front of four of the gigantic winged super-adults, these great alien dragons, all of them towering over him, looming over him, glaring at him with their foul evil faces and their bloody man-eating grins.

  But they didn’t step forward through the great iron doorway.

  Couldn’t step forward.

  It was too cold.

  Armstrong had made it. Just.

  And so he left the tunnel, left Complex 13, with a backpack full of information.

  Once outside, he was collected by a long-range pick-up chopper, from which he radioed his prized information back to the States…

  …back to Groom Lake, Nevada…

  …the home of Area 51, the notorious secret base, where a group of American military scientists were currently under attack from a rapidly-multiplying colony of dragon-like aliens that they had disturbed from their slumber in the lone alien ship that was kept in the underground hangar there.

  ________________

  TIME TOURS

  _____________

  Time Tours

  OFFICES OF TIME TOURS INTERNATIONAL

  AUSTIN, TEXAS

  12 noon

  1 JANUARY, 2006

  The giant letters blared ‘WELCOME TO TIME TOURS!’, and in front of the great billboard stood Mitch Raleigh, along with five other celebrities.

  An army of media photographers and reporters took photos of them and yelled questions.

  ‘God, I hate these things,’ Raleigh muttered.

  ‘Oh, come on, Mitch. Lighten up,’ the pretty blonde beside him whispered as she smiled for the cameras. ‘This is going to be awesome. And we’re going to be the first to experience it.’

  Mitch Raleigh was a novelist from Australia, here in Texas on a book tour for his latest novel, Seven Deadly Wonders. The current success of that novel had got him an invitation to this, the much-hyped launch of Time Tours.

  He turned to the girl beside him. An old family friend, Laura had done very well for herself. Not only was she a Calvin Klein model, she was also—

  ‘So, Humbert! How do you think you’ll review this!’ a reporter shouted from the crowd.

  The hunch-backed, bespectacled man to Mitch’s right cleared his throat. In his mid-fifties, Humbert Hughes was a much-feared book reviewer from the New York Times. It was a very brave move by the people at Time Tours to invite him.

  Interestingly, Mitch Raleigh knew something about Humbert Hughes that few others did: a year ago, Hughes had submitted a manuscript for a novel to publishers in New York and London. It had been awful, unreadable, and had been rejected by everyone.

  Today, however, the usually dour Hughes was in fine spirits.

  He’d even brought a bottle of vintage 1932 Dom Perignon to celebrate the occasion with his fellow travellers—Mitch, Laura and three sporting stars.

  Suddenly, the lights dimmed, and a new figure stepped up onto the stage: Tad Ellis, the dashing CEO of Time Tours Inc. ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ he proclaimed. ‘Welcome...to Time Tours!’

  He raised his hands, and the giant billboard on the stage divided into two halves, revealing the Travelling Room.

  The Travelling Room

  It looked like an ultra-modern laboratory.

  In its centre was a ring of six silver recliner chairs, each of them bolted to the floor like dentist chairs and each fitted with a dome-shaped device on the headrest.

  ‘This is where the magic happens!’ Tad Ellis proclaimed. ‘This is where our guests will commence their journeys to…’

  A video screen sprang to life, a voiceover man intoning:

  ‘… The Ancient Empire! Go to the world of Ancient Egypt, where you will live like a pharaoh. Overlord: experience the action of World War II first hand! Or Dinosaurland: for the naturalists, take a scenic tour of the Earth as it was 75 million years ago. Or, for the not-so-naturalist, how about going on a T-Rex hunt?’

  There were three more worlds: including one called Superstar where you lived in a world where you were the most famous person alive.

  Tad Ellis said, ‘To create our worlds here at Time Tours, our expert programmers have joined forces with the world’s foremost historians, scientists and satellite surveyors. Our proprietary engine program, Ultimate World v.2.0, uses their input to create realistic environments based on the actual terrain and cityscapes of our planet. So when you storm the beach at Normandy, you’re storming a replica of the actual beach.’

  The media wrote frantic notes, filmed the images.

  During the pause, Mitch turned to Tad Ellis: ‘Sounds a bit like The Matrix.’

  ‘This is way better than the fucking Matrix,’ Ellis whispered before moving away and continuing his presentation. ‘Ladies and gentlemen! You can do all this and more at Time Tours! How?

  Well, it all takes place in your mind.’

  All in Your Mind

  Humbert Hughes popped the cork on his 1932 Dom Perignon and the six celebrity time tourists toasted each other and drank.

  Then they all stepped into the Travelling Room.

  Mitch reclined in one of the dentist’s chairs, while a technician lowered the chair’s dome-like headpiece over his face.

  Tad Ellis proclaimed, ‘Our patented non-invasive headpieces beam microwave signals directly into the client’s cerebellum, disrupting cortical activity and slowing the synaptic pulse-rate, inducing a quasi-coma. We then replace real-world sensory inputs with our own constructed ones: convincing the client that they are in another world.’

  A journalist asked, ‘What do you say, Mr. Hughes? How’s it feel to be going back to World War II?’

  ‘I sh
all reserve my judgment.’

  Another reporter called to Laura: ‘Hey Laura! What’s your uncle think about you participating in this?’

  Laura turned. ‘My uncle has always supported American innovation. He’s thrilled. As for me, I’m ready to be a superstar.’

  ‘Okay, everyone!’ Ellis called. ‘It’s time for our celebrity guests to head off on their journeys!’

  At that moment, the technician standing over Mitch switched on the headpiece—and for a fraction of a second, Mitch felt a strange buzzing in his head. He felt instantly tired, drowsy. Then darkness overcame him.

  Land of the Dinosaurs

  When he opened his eyes, he was in another place, another time.

  He was standing on a modern helipad on a hilltop overlooking a verdant river valley. A hovercopter stood beside him, rotors turning.

  A polite (computer-generated) pilot invited him aboard.

  ‘Hello, Mr. Raleigh, I am PI-5A26X, and I shall be your guide and pilot program for today.’

  ‘Great. What was your name again? PI-5A2…’

  ‘PI-5A26X. My programmers have not yet given me a formal name yet.’

  ‘How about I just call you Pi.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Within moments they were zooming low over the treetops, scanning the plains and riverbeds. Plains and riverbeds that were filled with—

  Dinosaurs. Lots of dinosaurs.

  ‘Mother of God…’ Mitch breathed.

  Global Superstar

  Laura stepped out of the limo onto the red carpet—and was instantly assaulted by a lightning storm of flashbulbs.

  The red carpet led to the Odeon Theatre in Leicester Square in London, and her face was on every poster in the square. People everywhere were shouting her name.

  Photographers: ‘Laura! Laura! Over here!’

  Journalists: ‘Laura! How does it feel to have the number one movie and the number one album in America!’

  Awesome, Laura thought. Just awesome.

  Austin, We Have a Problem…

  As the media watched the monitors in awe, a technician came alongside Tad Ellis and whispered,

  ‘Sir. We might have a problem.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘We’re getting some strange synaptic readings on Mr. Hughes’ monitor.’

  They came to the computer monitoring Humbert Hughes, where they saw him in a command room, directing Operation Overlord, the Allied invasion of Europe in World War II.

  The tech said, ‘Have a look at his synaptic pulse-rate. It’s slowed to sub-normal levels.’

  ‘He’s going into a deep-state coma…’ Ellis said softly.

  ‘He’s going into a very deep-state coma, sir. Mr. Hughes must have taken some kind of sedative before he went under, and a large amount of it.’

  ‘He drugged himself? Why?’

  ‘I have no idea. But with his synaptic pulse operating as such low levels, we can’t extract Mr. Hughes from the program, not without causing serious brain damage. He’s essentially locked himself inside the program—’

  Suddenly, insistent beeps began trilling all around the room.

  ‘Holy shit! Laura’s synaptics are dropping…’

  ‘So are Raleigh’s…’

  ‘Oh my God! Everyone’s pulse-rates are dropping! They’re all going into deep comas!’

  Humbert Hughes’s Note

  The police would find the note in Humbert Hughes’s apartment the next day.

  It read:

  Dear World,

  You weary me. Nay, you have finally worn me down…with your astonishing adoration of the mediocre.

  Great art is ignored. Great literature is overlooked.

  What is Beethoven when you have American Pie. Why appreciate the opera when you can have Jim Carrey doing fart jokes. The world has become a utopia for cretins.

  And I have finally tired of it.

  So, today, I go to a better place, where the world is mine, to shape as I please. I’d apologise to the President for stealing his niece, but the President is an ass.

  Good-bye cruel world. Wallow in your own filth.

  Humbert Hughes.

  Several empty sleeping-pill bottles lay alongside the note…and a wine-bottle-opening device that had been used to open and then re-seal the cork on a bottle of 1932 Dom Perignon.

  The Sleeping Guests

  Ellis had the media removed from the display theatre, then he turned to his team of programmers and scientists: ‘Okay. Why would Hughes drug the other guests?’

  No one knew.

  ‘ What the hell…’ another technician said from his computer console.

  ‘What now?’ Ellis said.

  ‘Sir, it’s Mr. Hughes. He’s, er, done a deal with the Germans.

  He’s ended the war in Europe and united all forces under him.’

  ‘He what?’

  ‘The program allows it. As the commander of Operation Overlord, he just called up his opposite number and did a deal: decided to share France with the Germans and they agreed. But that’s not the biggest problem.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘He’s just brought his combined invasion force to London, to Trafalgar Square.’

  ‘Trafalgar Square, but that’s one of the—’ the chief tech froze.

  ‘Good God. He knows about the portals. He’s going to take his invasion force into another world.’

  The Portals

  ‘Remind me about the portal structure,’ Ellis said.

  The chief tech explained, ‘The six virtual worlds of Time Tours are all actually connected—rather like a six-storey car park with ladders linking each floor.

  ‘In effect, the master program lays six identical “Europes” on top of each other and connects them with these virtual ladders, which we call portals. The portals are located in the same spots in each world: Trafalgar Square, inside the Sphinx—’

  He pulled up a screen on a nearby computer:

  Ellis said, ‘So they’re all in the same spot in each world?’

  ‘Yes. They’re like ladders between floors—you could conceivably climb right down from World War II to Dinosaurland if you wanted to. It was inserted into the program as a stabilising feature.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’ someone asked.

  Ellis bit his lip. ‘Get Mr. Black.’

  Mr. Black

  Mr. Black was Nathan Black, formerly a Marine, now head of

  ‘Rescue and Recovery’ at Time Tours.

  In the early stages of Time Tours, the company had experienced some unexpected problems with their virtual worlds.

  The worst was known as ‘Lock-In’ and it had first arisen when a staff member had come to work stoned and subsequently experienced a psychotic episode while inside Superstar.

  He had refused to come out.

  And due to his psychosis, they couldn’t extract him without inflicting serious brain damage on him. It was soon discovered that the same thing happened when a guest went into a deep-state coma: they became psychologically ‘locked’ in the world.

  So Mr.. Black had been sent in to get the man. To reason with him, inside the world, and get him to come out by his own will.

  That, in the end, was what mattered. To avoid brain damage in such a situation, exit had to be voluntary.

  In that case, Black had successfully guided the man out via an

  ‘Emergency Exit Portal’ (an EEP was located in a central place in every world, usually a major landmark: in Superstar, for example, it was atop the belltower of Westminster Abbey in London).

  While Black came, Humbert Hughes’s progress was monitored.

  ‘He’s taken his entire army through the Trafalgar Square portal,’ a young tech reported. ‘He’s bypassing Submarine Odyssey, Monaco and Egypt…wait! He’s stopping. His army is moving out of the portal…into Superstar.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ Ellis said, realising. ‘He’s going after Laura.’

  Superstar

  Modern London had never
seen anything like it.

  Hordes of 1940s-era German and Allied troops stormed out of Trafalgar Square, guns blazing, shooting anyone in their path. In their midst, their Supreme Commander: Humbert Hughes.

  And since there was no armed force of any kind in this world, nothing and no-one could stop them.

  They headed directly for the Odeon Cinema.

  The Rescue Begins

  Mr. Black arrived in Lab Two, a working lab.

  He strode casually into the lab, tall and fit, and slid into the lone dentist’s chair. ‘All right. Who’s the target?’

  He was informed of the situation.

  ‘I don’t give a shit about Humbert Hughes,’ Tad Ellis said.

  ‘It’s Laura Bush I care about.’

  Indeed, it was the danger to Laura Bush that terrified them all.

  For if Humbert Hughes captured and killed Laura inside Time Tours, it would cause a paradox in her heavily-sedated brain.

  Hughes hadn’t been trying to drug all the celebrity guests—just her. He just needed her in a deep-state coma. The others were collateral damage.

  At which point, like an overloaded computer, her brain would freeze up and go into meltdown. Brain death. She would become a vegetable, or worse, suffer a cerebral aneurism.

  And that was Time Tours’s worst nightmare.

  Black was set to go.

  He said, ‘Send me into Dinosaurland. I don’t want to go directly into Superstar and bump into a divison of Mr. Hughes’s Nazi troops. The EEP in D i n o l a n d is identical to Superstar’s—plus I can also pick up some heavy-duty weaponry from the hunters’ armoury. I’ll sneak into Superstar from there.’