Beyond Yesterday

By Tim Beresford

Mason Tyler’s discovery, tachyonic time- messaging, is still a secret to all but a few; but its effects have changed the world significantly.

The future of mankind can now go one of two ways.

Either the errors of the past will be repeated, in an endless cycle of rise and fall...

Or man can choose to embrace a new form of organisation; a better and a fairer way for everyone on the planet to live their lives.

The action escalates steadily throughout this last volume, as amazing new technology propels the clash between the old and new cultures toward its inevitable climax...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tim Beresford
• Release date: May 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9780957696228

Tim Beresford

I didn’t set out to be an author... But when an opportunity presented itself to leave behind the world of commerce and grab a chance to do something creative, I took it. I had always wanted to explore a particular science fiction idea, which I originally had when I was much younger. (I am still surprised that none of the great writers in the field had already tackled it.) It’s the possibility of sending messages back in time using tachyons. (This IS a possibility - recent events at CERN show that many serious scientists take the idea of particles moving backwards in time seriously. It does not contravene general relativity, or quantum mechanics - at least as far as I am aware at time of writing. It is certainly far more plausible than faster-than-light spaceships; artificial gravity, transporters, and inertial dampers). (Inertial dampers - hah! Gimme a brake!) However, by the time I was ready to begin work on my magnum opus, I had also become concerned with some real-world problems. The ones we all face here on Earth - now, and in the near future. After considerable thought and planning, I realised I could combine the serious scientific speculation about time-messaging with my concerns about mankind’s future, by having the story examine the potential effect of time-messaging on our global social and political setup. It seemed that I finally had a framework for my first novel! However, soon after I started writing, I realised that the scope of this story would be too large to fit comfortably into just one novel. The result is, The Yesterday Trilogy. Three full-length novels which, together, tell one possible outcome of what might happen if we managed to send a message just a few hours backwards in time. What would you do with such a capability? What might you tell yourself in such a message? Whether it’s going to rain on you today? Winner of the 2.30? Lottery numbers? But what if everyone got to know about this capability? What then? If you’d like to know what I imagined on the subject, during five years of research and writing, then I think you know what to do! ENJOY! Tim Beresford.

Book preview

Beyond Yesterday

By Tim Beresford

---------------------------

The Third Volume

of

The Yesterday Trilogy

---------------------------

Published by

TIMBER PUBLISHING

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Tim Beresford 2013

The right of Tim Beresford to be identified as

author of this work has been asserted.

All characters in this publication are fictitious

and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,

is purely coincidental.

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Problems cannot be solved by the same level of thinking that created them.

Albert Einstein

Chapter One

Mark Wright woke suddenly from a restless sleep. He opened his eyes; sat up on the wooden lounger on which he had been napping, and looked around. There was no-one else in sight; but he could hear the muted sounds of conversation from within the residence. He rose to his feet and walked the few paces to the front of the veranda. Leaning on the balustrade rail, he stared down the gentle slope to the distant beach, and the hazy blue of the southern Pacific beyond. Gradually he leaned farther out, peering into the distance, until his eyes strayed beyond the protective shade of the veranda roof and were suddenly hit by the full force of the late-morning tropical sun. He jerked his head back and blinked slowly several times to clear his vision of the myriad dancing spots of light. When he could see again, he turned and walked back across the wooden decking toward the open double doors leading into the lounge. He was about to walk inside, but then hesitated on the threshold. He stood motionless for a moment, then leaned toward a nearby table top and picked up a pair of all-around sunshades, which he fitted firmly in place before turning back to the yawning doorway and shouting into the gloom within. I’m going to have a mooch around.

Don’t be late for lunch. Jane’s voice carried softly to him from the kitchen area within.

He nodded to himself; turned and walked back across the veranda. He emerged into the hot sun as the soles of his leather sandals clattered down the four long plank steps to the packed dirt road which ran past the front of the imposing wooden house. He walked quickly around to the side of the building; to the rectangle of clear ground where his Moke basked in the morning rays. Ducking his head under the silver solarcloth canopy, he eased his tall, slim frame into the driving seat of the little white vehicle. The electric engine started with the touch of a button and hummed into life. He sat for a moment, staring through the dusty windscreen at the tall stand of growth on the plot across the road. Then with a small shrug he shifted the stick into first gear and eased the car out of its parking spot, turning it to the right and heading westward along the track they called Residence Road.

---

The conversation in the kitchen paused while Jane listened to the sound of Mark’s footsteps on the stairs outside, and then the electric engine of the little vehicle as it coughed into life and slowly receded into the distance. When it could no longer be heard, she turned once again to Laura. He’s been like that for the last couple of days.

You mean, unfriendly?

Jane shook her head and her long blonde hair flicked about her tanned shoulders. Not exactly unfriendly… more… distant. Introverted. Not his usual affable self.

I suppose we’re none of us on particularly good form right now, given recent events.

Sure; we’re all finding it tough to adjust. But you know Mark; while he was never one to indulge in pointless chatter about the trivialities of life; money; possessions; shopping; he always had something to say. He was always prepared to talk to me about whatever was occupying his mind at the time.

Laura rose from her tall stool at the breakfast bar and walked across the polished wood floor to the freezer, from which she extracted an ice tray, and then returned; dropping a fresh ice cube into each of their drinks. Well, we’ll none of us be talking about shopping or money any more. Not for a while, anyway.

You know what I mean. Mark and I could always discuss the more important things; or just make amusing small talk. But he’s been closed up like a clam these last three days. I’m beginning to think he actually blames himself for what’s happened.

Laura raised her dark eyebrows. That’s ridiculous.

I know it is. But I get the impression he feels he should have worked harder to find a solution to the Financial Markets problem. That maybe if he’d succeeded with that, before Mason made his great announcement to the world, that the train of events would somehow have been different.

Laura shook her head. He can’t really believe that, can he?

I’m pretty sure he does. And while he’s in this sort of mood, I don’t want to add to his worries.

Add to them? Laura examined her friend’s face closely. Oh; I see. You’re expecting… but that’s great news.

Is it? I’m not sure Mark will see it that way, given the way things are.

So you haven’t told him yet?

No. There hasn’t been a time that seemed… right.

Laura considered that for a while. But this might be exactly the sort of boost he needs. Give him something close to home to focus on, rather than the chaos everywhere else.

You think so?

Yes, I do. You should tell him right away. At lunch. Or right after lunch. I’ll manoeuvre Simon away somewhere after we eat, and you can break the news to Mark then.

---

As the little white vehicle trundled along at its sedate top speed, Mark turned to gaze over the passenger seat to his left, toward the beach almost two kilometres away. The land in between, which sloped very gradually down toward the sea, was divided into ‘streets’ of carefully managed cultivation, laid out in straight lines, running parallel to Residence Road. Unlike the giant monotonous blocks of commercial monoculture, this fiesta of flora was a kaleidoscope of colours and shapes, and endowed the soft breeze wafting up from the sea with a thousand subtle scents. In little more than a minute he had covered the kilometre to the end of Residence Road and turned left down Western Avenue; another dirt track roadway which was the main street and centre of activity of the island project.

The little car ran easily down the gentle slope, needing only the occasional pressure on the steering wheel to keep it on course. On the left, every 30 metres or so, he passed the western end of one of the fifty narrow dusty streets which ran across the width of this face of the island, and joined at their far end with Eastern Avenue; another dirt track at the farther boundary of the roughly rectangular area of cultivation. The streets gave access to the thousands of separate growing plots in this southern section of the Starfish Island Project. The plots held a wide variety of crops, from experimental varieties of vegetables, grains and fruits, to the more common export crops of Tonga such as vanilla, copra, squash and bananas.

Street after street of cultivation slipped past on the left, with the regularity of telegraph poles set alongside a railway line. There was no such visual rhythm in the assortment of wooden structures set to the right of the road. Mark had felt oddly disturbed by the randomness of these buildings when he had first visited the island. To an Englishman accustomed to neat rows of look-alike houses, they had seemed incongruous. They were irregularly spaced; of different sizes and designs, and even faced in different directions. It was as if someone had set up a competition for a dozen architects each to design a different wooden residence, and had then scattered the resulting entries at random down one side of the road. The only apparent uniformity, aside from the materials of their construction, was in their colour. They all had white walls and silver roofs.

The irregularities of that row of buildings had now become so familiar to Mark that they seemed almost harmonious as he sped by on this early December morning. Nor was he actually conscious of the cornucopia of fragrances hanging on the warm breeze, which wafted through the open sides of the vehicle. His attention was focused in the distance, on the beach at the bottom of Western Avenue. His thoughts on more recent incongruities; on the several thousand tons of wrecked freighter which sprawled like a beached whale; its tail still trailing in the water, while the bulk of its broken body lay collapsed across the remains of the wooden jetty which had stood at the western end of the southern beach. And beyond this; the greater monster. The burned remains of the warship which thrust out of the waters a kilometre offshore, like a parody of a shipwreck. Too tall to sink in the shallow waters, the separated halves of its smashed keel rested askew on the coral beds below. The waves lapped across its former decks, and broke against the remnants of its superstructure, the towers and turrets of which were bent, twisted and blackened by fire. Now they were skeletal hands of charred metal, reaching out of their watery grave and pointing ghastly, dead fingers at bizarre angles into the sky.

His deep anger at the attack of this monster, just three days before, was beginning to wane. But it was being replaced not by calm, but by another, slow burning anger. A rage at the stupidity which had allowed a flawed economic and political system to collapse almost overnight, and cause the civilisation of Earth to crash and burn. That grotesque wreckage sitting offshore would be a constant reminder of this greater folly. It dragged the eye from the calm natural beauty all around, just as the knowledge of the carnage and chaos which now ruled across the horizon in every direction had robbed his mind of any peace, and repeatedly dragged it back to the wreckage of civilisation now strewn across the entire globe.

He glanced to his left as he passed the end of one of the streets, and rapidly hit the brakes, bringing the Moke to a sudden, slithering halt which spewed a cloud of dried muddy dust from the roadway. Putting the gear lever into reverse, he backed slowly up a few feet until he could again see down the length of the street. He had been right; he had indeed seen what he had thought he had seen. One of the electric goods carriers, which they called floats, since they’d been modelled on the old British electric milk float, was lying on its side about half a kilometre along the street. There were two figures standing by the vehicle. He couldn’t see from this distance exactly who it was, but he could tell from various visual clues that they weren’t any of the thirty or so local Tongan staff who worked on the island.

They were clearly men, and well built men. But their tanned skin was too light in colour for them to be local. They didn’t have the deep chestnut-brown hue of a native Tongan. They were dressed in the usual brightly coloured short-sleeved shirts that the locals favoured, and also the calf-length tupenu; a type of skirt which Tongan men habitually wore, but their shape appeared somehow ill-suited to these lower garments. Perhaps because they were taller and less stocky in build than the locals tended to be. Mark guessed they were two of the nine former employees of his company, International Guard, who had come to Starfish Island on various errands in the days preceding the global collapse.

He backed the Moke a little further up the Avenue and then turned it into the street, noting as he did so the number 33 painted on a board set into the ground at the corner. He headed along 33rd street towards the scene of the incident. As he drew nearer, the two men standing by the stricken vehicle must have heard him coming, because they turned and waved. Mark drew the Moke to a stop a few feet from the toppled float. He could now make out that the two men were Gary and Mick; two of the three man crew who had acted as his bodyguards in London, and had since assisted him in various errands.

Mark pulled the Moke to a halt and jumped out. Are you fellows alright?

Fine Mark, thanks. Gary, marginally the larger of the two formidably-built former servicemen, had a broad smile on his face. We were trying to clean some mud off the canopy and she tipped over.

You both got up on the same side of the float? At the same time? Mark shook his head and grinned. You should have guessed it wouldn’t handle your combined weight. Still, at least you’re not hurt.

No, said Mick, it was just the canopy that fell onto us, so no damage. Except the wing mirror. That flew off into this plot. He indicated the nearby area of maize, the stalks of which rose about seven feet from the ground and created a thick wall of bright green foliage.

A section of the living wall parted at that moment and Stu, the third of their working team appeared, looking triumphant and holding the main part of a black, moulded wing-mirror unit. I found it… oh, hi Mark.

Hello Stu. I take it you’re undamaged from this… he waved his hand at the toppled vehicle, …this.

Oh yes. Not a scratch. I wasn’t silly enough to get up on the side of a little float at the same time as these two. He grinned at his partners, as he placed the plastic mirror housing on the ground. Let’s get ‘er back up on ‘er feet then.

The three men dispersed around the low vehicle and lifted it, twisting it through ninety degrees and setting it gently upright on its tyres. They made the operation look a lot easier than it must actually have been, like a well-rehearsed team of acrobats forming a pyramid. Mark glanced about him. There was no sign of any cargo spillage, just a few empty plastic containers scattered around in the road.

Gary read the concerns in his face. We didn’t have anything onboard. We’d already offloaded the main morning collections; then Netina asked us to fetch some maize stalks for the animals.

Stu returned to the edge of the maize plot and picked up the wing mirror housing. He stepped over to the bonnet of the vehicle and examined the break, experimentally trying to fit the unit back into place against the broken base which was still attached to the wing of the vehicle. It should tape back on, O.K., he said, but the mirror’s broken.

Mark nodded sombrely. We’re all going to have to... He didn’t finish the sentence. He realised he didn’t need to. He could see from the faces of the three men that they also understood only too well the position they all were in. There would be no more supplies from the outside. No new vehicles. No more shipments of spare parts. No new mirrors. No new tyres. Yes, tyres, he thought. They’d need replacement more quickly than metal or plastic parts. He’d better talk with Netina. He wasn’t sure how soon they might expect usable output of rubber from the trees they had here on Starfish; and he had no idea how they might then turn that raw material into the finished items they would ultimately need.

We’ll be extra careful from now on, Mr. Wright, said Mick.

Mark couldn’t help smiling at the man’s tone of genuine contrition, and his reversion to the formal manner of address. You don’t have to call me Mister Wright anymore, Mick. That’s all in the past now.

The young ex-soldier smiled back. Then appeared puzzled. But you’re still in charge, Mark. It’s still your project; your island.

Not really, Mick. If anyone is in charge here, it’s Doctor Lamisisi.

Eh? Oh, right, Netina. Well, I know she runs the research and she’s in charge of the local workers. But I thought…

It’s all changed, Mick, said Mark. I know it takes some getting used to. For me too. It’s all different now. I don’t own anything anymore. None of us does. Money is a thing of the past. At least for a time, anyway. We’re just lucky to be somewhere where there’s adequate food and water, and renewable power resources. But we can’t afford to take anything for granted. We may find ourselves with more visitors like them. He gestured southward, without looking, toward where he knew the wreck of the warship sat. Mick followed the pointed finger, and his gaze met the solid wall of greenery which ran for a hundred metres in each direction along the south side of the street. Mick stared at the wall of maize stalks then back at Mark.

The warship, said Mark, in clarification.

Oh, yeah. Well, we beat them, though, didn’t we? Mick gave a small nod of defiance.

Yes, we did, agreed Mark. A little surge of renewed pride in their recent victory suddenly made him feel more buoyant. But some of the threats we face from now on may not be so obvious. We need to take great care of all the resources we have here. And we all need to be on our toes.

Nigel’s got the teams pretty well organised, said Gary, injecting his own note of optimism. The ‘A’ team are on sentry duty today. The ‘C’ team are still checking out the wreck; and the mighty ‘B’ team, he indicated himself and his two companions, with a mock heroic flourish, is on important veggie duties, as you can see.

And doing a great job, said Mark. Don’t think I’m displeased, chaps. You’ve all adapted well, and Nigel has my full confidence to organise the teams. He shrugged his shoulders. Well, while I’m here, can I help with the harvest?

Why not? said Gary. Let’s get those crates back on board first.

Mark and the large ex-serviceman collected the dozen or so containers scattered nearby on the ground, and stacked them on the flatbed base of the float. Stu and Mick set off in opposite directions along the south side of the street, visually checking the ground at the edge of the plots. About ten metres away eastward, Stu stopped and knelt by a small board set in the earth with a code number painted on it. He read the code and then shouted back down the street. It’s here. 33-S-54. This is the one. He waited while Mick doubled back toward the float, started its motor, and drove it, with exaggerated care, the few metres along the dirt road. Mark and Gary walked along behind the vehicle until it stopped at the indicated spot. Gary reached into a toolbox set behind the cab and pulled out a couple of small hand tools, tossing one to Mark. It was a standard-looking trowel.

Mark and I will select and you two can clean and crate, said Gary. He indicated with a gesture to Mark that he should follow him, and walked into the little forest of green stalks. By the time they’d penetrated just a few feet into the plot, the road had disappeared from view, and they were surrounded by a wall of thick green foliage. Gary stopped and took hold of one of the stalks. Can you just loosen the earth around the base of this one, please?

Mark knelt and dug carefully around the base of the stalk for a few moments. Then, with a quick jerk, Gary lifted it out of the ground, sending a little shower of earth in all directions. Mark was surprised to see that there was practically no root bole; just a shaggy collection of thin white fibres. He wondered how these could hold such a tall plant upright. Gary had changed his grip on the stalk and he hefted it spear-like into the air, over the tops of the still-growing stalks and back towards the road. He selected another plant close by, took hold of the stalk and waited for Mark to repeat his efforts and dig this next one out.

Within a few minutes, they had removed a couple of dozen stalks, and Gary nodded in satisfaction. That’ll do, I think.

He led the way back to the roadway, where Mick and Stu were leaning nonchalantly against the side of the float. Mick appeared to be cleaning his fingernails with a machete. The mini harvest had apparently been processed and packed already.

You guys actually know what you’re doing, don’t you? Mark was genuinely impressed.

We’ve done this before. Stu looked smug.

And it’s not exactly rocket science, said Gary, holding out his hand for Mark’s trowel. Mark handed it over. Gary picked a couple of maize leaves from one of the stacked crates and used them to remove traces of soil from the tools before replacing them in their box on the float.

The most important thing we’ve learned, said Gary, is to follow Netina’s instructions to the letter. That’s why we made sure we took these from the right plot. He slapped the side of one of the crates. That’s one mistake we made early on and won’t do again. This street of maize looks all the same to me, frankly, but each separate plot has a different variety, or was planted at a different time, in different fertiliser, et-cetera, and it matters a lot, apparently, to get the right stuff. If you go back to Netina with the wrong stuff, well… she tells you straight. She’s amazing at this. Keeping track of all of these thousands of different plots.

Mark knew well the Tongan’s capabilities and her dedication to the project. He was more surprised at the way these tough ex-servicemen had so quickly accepted their changed circumstances, and at their willingness to turn their hands to unfamiliar tasks. So where do we have to take this stuff?

The couple of crates of ears are for Netina at the office, said Mick. The bulk of it, the stalks and leaves, are to go up to Animal Farm.

Opposite directions, said Mark. Well, look, I can take the two crates down to the office in my Moke. I want to have a talk with Netina anyway. Are you happy to take the animal feed to the farm?

Sure, said Gary. Hop on. He indicated the back of the float. Mark sat on the edge of the flatbed, while Mick perched on the opposite side. Gary and Stu jumped into the front seats and they turned the float carefully around, running back along the street to where Mark had left his little car. He quickly transferred the two crates to the back seats of his vehicle and the three guards set off along the street in the float with a cheery backward wave.

Mark eased into the driving seat of the Moke, turned it around and then stopped. He sat quietly, watching the float as it diminished along the street, finally turning right and disappearing out of sight, heading for the opposite side of the island where the livestock were kept. The haze of dust from the vehicle’s passage, which hung like a pale brown ghost along the roadway, gradually thinned and disappeared. He could once again see clearly along the length of the street. Nothing moved. The breeze had dropped away. There wasn’t a sound to be heard. He might be alone on the planet. He had remained quite still, in the silence, for some little time, when there was a sudden sound and rush of air just above the vehicle, and two small, brightly-coloured birds flew close by in a corkscrew aerial dance, twittering and singing to each other as they sped southward and disappeared over the tops of the maize stalks. He started the Moke’s engine and headed off along the hard earth track.

---

The structure they called the office was the largest building on the island, and sat opposite the western end of 25th street. It was much more than just an office. Its many rooms, on two floors, were home to a variety of vital functions. These included a hospital and dispensary, as well as the facilities necessary to carry out all of the administration work for the Starfish Island Project. The nerve centre was the large room occupied by Doctor Netina Lamisisi, the young female head of the project, and her key administrative staff. This room was also, rather confusingly, known as the office. When Mark arrived, this hub of activity was packed with people, all busy at various tasks. He stopped in the doorway, holding the two crates in front of him. Netina was half leaning against, half sitting on, the front of her desk, in conversation with two male colleagues. She had her back to Mark, but he knew even from that