Timekeepers Read online

  Never pick up an old coin

  An outsider in his own time, Jack finds himself a stranger in the distant past, then a pawn in a dark, dystopian future where rebels struggle to overturn an ancient and ruthlessly oppressive empire.

  Jack has an exceptional gift: a remarkable ability to absorb and memorise facts instantly and without effort.

  A lonely teenager, he has had little control over his life, having to leave behind friends and everything familiar, in the move to a new town, a new school, a new start. Jack misses his old life. He knows that his immediate future will not be easy – his astonishing memory has not always helped win him friends – but he can never have anticipated the incredible events that are about to befall him.

  Discovering what appears to be an ancient coin, Jack finds himself abruptly hurled back and then forward through time, by a technology and an intelligence beyond his control. Jack’s extraordinary memory, and his fascination with history, are to prove vital as he is thrown back across the centuries, to the early years of the Roman occupation of Britain, then forward to the heart of a vastly powerful totalitarian state.

  In both past and future, manipulated by opposing factions, Jack’s life is under constant threat. He will need all his ability and courage to survive.

  Whom can he trust?

  Can he save those he cares for?

  Will he ever return home?

  Elsewhen Press

  Also by Dave Weaver

  Jacey’s Kingdom

  Japanese Daisy Chain

  The Black Hole Bar

  The Unseen

  TIMEKEEPERS

  First published in Great Britain by Elsewhen Press, 2018

  An imprint of Alnpete Limited

  Copyright © Dave Weaver, 2018. All rights reserved

  The right of Dave Weaver to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, telepathic, magical, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  Elsewhen Press, PO Box 757, Dartford, Kent DA2 7TQ

  www.elsewhen.co.uk

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-911409-23-6 Print edition

  ISBN 978-1-911409-33-5 eBook edition

  Condition of Sale

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  Elsewhen Press & Planet-Clock Design are trademarks of Alnpete Limited

  Converted to eBook format by Elsewhen Press

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, empires, AIs and events are either a product of the author’s fertile imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, computers, realms, places or people (living, dead, or not yet born) is purely coincidental.

  For my mother, Violet Mary

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 1

  Although the gloom of the museum contrasted with the bright glare of the summer’s day outside it matched Jack’s mood perfectly. After yet another rough morning at the new school he felt like turning it in and escaping back home to Nottingham, although of course that wasn’t his home anymore. This was: Fulchester, a cold and snobby dormitory town to which his father had, in his wisdom, moved them all. But if that wasn’t bad enough there was, of course, the other thing.

  The memory thing.

  Jack had a naturally good memory. Well, that’s a bit like saying Andy Murray’s a fair tennis player. It wasn’t just ‘good’ but spectacularly good, champion-like good. He could take in any fact just once and remember it, fully detailed and without effort, for…well forever he guessed. It had made him top of the class in Maths, History and the Sciences; not so much English and the other disciplines where perception and creative skills play a broader part but in the fact-based subjects it was enough to make him virtually unbeatable.

  Fulchester High didn’t exactly warm to him for this random quirk of nature. In fact, in the three months since he’d started his first term there, the curiosity at his ability (he’d tried to hide it too late) had gradually turned to mistrust and avoidance. No one wanted to be seen hanging with the class swot, or, in his case, the class freak.

  There was one exception to all this but it didn’t work in his favour.

  He knew Bruce Willis (yes, his real name) was obviously bright from the occasional questions showing he understood far more than any of the others. A keen intelligence would fleetingly replace the hostility but then the doughy face would shut down again and he’d revert to the big awkward boy with a bad attitude whom everyone tried to avoid. The name didn’t exactly help with the older teachers either.

  And Bruce seemed to hate Jack, or at least dislike him on a higher level than the others’ unfocussed resentment. A dig in the ribs at assembly, a trip in the dinner queue, a sarcastic comment to the others when the teacher’s back was turned or other more subtle things. It was starting to wear him down and he was gratefully looking forward to the end of term.

  “Johnson?” Ms Timpson’s voice cut through his self-pitying reverie.

  “What…? I mean, sorry Miss?”

  His History teacher repeated the question. “What were the Roman gods of the household called?”

  He didn’t have to think for a moment. “The Lares.”

  “And… more detail?”

  He sighed inwardly. “Vesta was the goddess of the hearth-fire, the Penates were the spirits of the storeroom and Janus with two faces was guardian of the door.” Too much information; the rest of the class, at least the ones within earshot here on the upper floor of the museum, would assume that he was coming the big I-am again. Perhaps they were right: he’d always liked being considered clever even if it was merely the unavoidable result of a gift.

  “Well done Jack, dead right as usual.” The pretty young teacher congratulated him, naively unaware of the eye-rolls of pure spite going on around her. She really wasn’t helping matters.

  “Tosser!” Bruce whispered in passing, giving his left ankle a kick for good measure.

  “Ah!”

  “What is it Jack?”

  He grimaced. “Kicked the table leg Miss.” He indicated one of the cabinets lined up along the walls, with their neat rows of ancient Roman coins. The whole of the top floor was a celebration of Fulchester’s well documented past as one of the main towns in Roman Britain. The town was an odd mix and quite unlike anywhere else he’d lived. Ruined stone ramparts and archways lo
oked as though they’d been thrust up through the earth into the concrete and glass sprawl of the modern town; a fossilised fantasy world bisecting the twenty-first century one. Odd, but interesting.

  Timpson gave him a strange look but nodded. She turned it into a general ‘please be careful in here’ warning to the rest of the group. “The museum has kindly given their permission for this private visit so we don’t want to go knocking over their priceless relics, do we?”

  There came a clang directly behind Jack. He span round to see Bruce step hurriedly away from a life size mannequin of a fully-garbed Roman soldier: breastplate, helmet and all. The spear propped up in his fibreglass hand toppled over in slow motion to hit the floor with a loud slap. Timpson’s eyes widened in horror as she looked down; Jack followed her gaze to the tessellated illustration laid out beneath Bruce’s feet. Costumed male and female figures were vaguely picked out in the dull glass pieces. He was about to ask her about it when she exploded at the unfortunate Bruce.

  “Willis, for God’s sake try be more careful in here! The school can’t afford to be sued and I’m damn sure your parents can’t either, okay?”

  Bruce’s expression of hurt was quickly replaced by one of sour indifference before anyone apart from Jack could notice. “Whatever…” He stared over at Jack as if it had been his fault. Jack gave a shrug and turned away. He went over to study the other cases along the far wall, more to get away from the other’s hostility than through interest.

  He sensed a figure at his side: a girl. None of the females at Fulchester paid him even the scantest attention so it was probably a member of the public. He’d thought, as Timpson had said, that the place was off-limits to others whilst the school was there. He felt an indefinable sensation but didn’t look round. A pale hand entered his vision and laid itself on the glass top next to his. He glanced across. She was wearing a large ring with an exotic blue stone in a golden clasp; her fingernails were painted mauve but not with nail varnish; it looked more like actual paint.

  He turned. The girl was quite beautiful. That was his first reaction. Secondly, her appearance; she wore a thin white dress of a silky material which clung to the perfect contours of her body. She stepped backwards into a shaft of sunlight and her form seemed to turn to silver, a naked statuette. Another step and she was in the museum’s gloom again, the dress this time more like a shroud. He lifted his perplexed gaze to her face. She was indeed beautiful, the features perfectly in balance. Cobalt blue eyes held an expression of intelligence and playfulness framed by honey-blonde hair in carefully contrived ringlets. Full lips held a warm inviting smile.

  Jack saw them open; she spoke. “Hello Jack.”

  He was struck hopelessly dumb. She breathed deeply, her small chest rising, and repeated the words. “Hello Jack”.

  “Hello… er…do I know you?”

  “My name is Honour.” That warm smile again; the sense of a promise, the sudden flare of her eyes like electric blue laser beams strafing him. The expression ‘goddess’ came to him; she was like some un-earthly goddess, right down to the name.

  “Right, hello… Honour.” Silence between them as they stared at each other. He was aware they were alone in the room. The rest of the class, and presumably Timpson, must have gone back downstairs; he could hear muted voices from the stairwell outside. It was just the two of them: him and ‘Honour’. He searched for something else to say, settling for a slightly pathetic “That’s a lovely name”.

  The smile went up another dozen megawatts. “Thank you Jack.”

  She hadn’t answered his previous question yet. “How do you know my name?”

  Apparently she wasn’t going to. “I have something for you.”

  Weirder and weirder… “Oh, great. What’s that then?”

  She held out a slender arm, palm upward, fingers curled around something. She opened her fingers slowly, like a spider on its back uncoiling its legs. One of the old coins from the display cases rested in the middle of her palm. She moved towards him again, offering it. Now she was a mere step away. He could smell a heady perfume; not what other girls used but a subtle fragrance, almost incense-like. It began to make his head swim. He automatically stepped back so that he was up against one of the cases.

  “I…don’t think the museum will like you nicking their stuff.”

  She blinked, for the first time, as if amused. “I’m just taking back what is mine.”

  “Yours?” She was mentally disturbed then, not a goddess at all. Maybe she was from the local hospital. He felt himself relax as he looked into her eyes again. Was she on drugs? Should he tell someone, Ms Timpson? Was she actually dangerous?

  He reached out to take the coin. “Why don’t you just go back to where you came from and I’ll put this…” A jolt of electricity exploded along his arm, smacking into his chest. There was a split-second flash of dazzling white light then he was on the floor, shaking. Incredible pain split his head; his legs kicked out as the shock ricocheted around his body. He blacked out.

  Returning to consciousness again, Jack continued to lie on his back as the pain gradually drained away. Something inside him had changed. Now every muscle felt alive, like he’d been connected up to some supernatural energy grid.

  Then it all happened again.

  There was another flash of white light and a rustle of static. Again he blacked out.

  Coming to, this time he felt weightless, airless, as if his whole body was changing. He looked around. The museum had vanished; now he was outside somewhere. There were trees, green fields, houses; not normal modern houses though, very old ones, ancient. He raised a hand to prove to himself that he was actually there, wherever ‘there’ was. The hand was translucent; he could see straight through it. There was a high stone wall directly in front of him, only the wall was wrong. It looked almost newly built but it should have been very old indeed because he now recognised his surroundings. He was in the local park, on the cycle-track running alongside the ruins of the wall surrounding Fulchestorium, the city’s old Roman town.

  He turned to take in the strange panorama. There had been an estate of semi-detached houses nearby; that was gone. In its place were Roman-like villas and beyond them neat gardens and olive groves. Humble timbered buildings stretched before him on a muddy path no longer asphalt. Mid-morning had turned into evening as the sun began to set behind the nearby wood. A surrounding stillness was barely broken by neighing horses, cart wheels rattling; an owl’s hunting shriek.

  Jack turned again and froze.

  Ten yards above him on the slope stood a Roman soldier in full battle armour. The face was tanned, the legs tautly muscled; he seemed as real as the rest of his surroundings.

  Now the soldier had apparently seen him too. He looked surprised rather than fearful. He made a grab for his short sword.

  “Who goes there?” He barked then incredulously as he fully took in what he was seeing, “Praise to the gods, what are you…?” Those were the words Jack heard, but the man’s lips continued to form different shapes like a badly dubbed movie actor.

  Jack opened his mouth in response then realised that he had no words. Instead he raised watery arms to the sky in a gesture of surrender but this seemed to traumatise the soldier even more. The man’s bewildered gaze followed them then returned to Jack’s face. Still staring, the soldier took a faltering step forward.

  The ground between them rippled. It began to melt. Colours fused; the soldier’s red cape, his silver armour, the dark green trees behind, the yellowy track and grey stone wall; all merged back into the blinding white light again. Jack was lost in its brilliance. He felt his body begin to rise, then, with another burst of static, found only the darkness of oblivion.

  Chapter 2

  “Jack, are you sure you want to go in today?” His mother’s voice came through the wooliness in his head. It sounded more than usually anxious. He hated that fringe of nervous uncertainty it had carried since the move down from Nottingham.

  “Yes, I
told you last night I was alright. I’ve just got a headache.”

  She attempted to shrug off her concern. “Better get up then or you’re going to be late. It's the mocks today isn’t it?”

  He nodded distractedly.

  “You won’t have any problem with them will you?”

  He shook his head. They both knew that he wouldn’t.

  She still looked concerned. “Jack, you’re not being bullied or anything like that are you?”

  “No.” He hoped she didn’t notice the slight hesitation.

  “I know its rough starting all over again, but we’ve just got to make the most of it. Try and make some new friends.”

  “New friends, right.” He thought of ‘Honour’. “Not always a good idea.”

  “Well just…try. Look, are you sure you’re alright? That was a nasty thing at the museum yesterday; you fainted, you could have hit your head or…”

  “Yes but I didn’t. It was hot in there; we’d been standing around for hours listening to Timpson gabble on about Romans and all that guff. I just lost it for a moment. It’s no big deal, Mum.”

  “You were on your own, what if no one had heard you falling?”

  “Then I would have come to and got up on my own. I wish I had, it would have been far less embarrassing. That was all I needed in front of that lot.”

  “What do you mean?” She asked suspiciously. “What I said before…”

  “Look no, ok! Everything’s just dandy, I love Fulchestorium…”

  “Where?”

  “I mean Fulchester, this great place we’ve been shipped off to.”

  “You don’t have to be so resentful; we’re trying our best to make this work for you.”

  “I know, I know.” She seemed about to burst into tears. The move had been tough on her as well, Jack considered; maybe tougher. Like him she’d had to give up all her friends, or at least her own social life, and the part-time job. Now she was stuck in this partly-moved-in-to house until she could find another one. Knowing her as Jack did that was no doubt making her even more frustrated by the day. He wondered if he should tell her what really happened in the museum. Or appeared to happen; had it been a dream, an ‘episode’ as his grandmother would have termed such a thing? Jack felt he might burst if he didn’t tell someone about it but perhaps this wasn’t a good time. Perhaps there could never be a good time. Would people think him as mad as that girl, Honour, so clearly was?