Chapter Four

Like Darkon, the Z Batch materialised in Paris, but it was not the busy and sophisticated city he knew, it was at night in a dirty, dark cobble-stone alleyway that smelled appalling.

Zara almost gagged as the barrage of smells hit her highly refined senses.

“What on earth it?” she gasped.

Zac wrinkled his nose in disgust. “By the pungency of the uric acid I’d say it was raw sewage,” he said. “It comes from over there?”

He pointed to the left where in the dim light that filtered in through the alley entrance they could see an open trench and hear the glug of the invisible mess that was trying to flow toward the main street.

“Raw sewage? This late in the 19th century? What sort of a country is this?” said Zara in horror. “It’s wonder the people aren’t all dead of those dreadful old diseases.”

Zoltan wasn’t listening though, for he was making his way to the end of the alleyway, where a noise, dull at first was increasing in intensity. Zara and Zac quickly followed him, hoping to get away from the smell that was making them feel sick.

Cautiously Zoltan stopped at the bottom of the alley and poked his head round the corner. The cobblestones glistened, wet from a recent shower of rain. The street was empty. The houses on each side, tiny and cramped, showed no sign of life and no light shone from any window.

The trio stepped out into to street, shivering in spite of their thermal body-suits. The noise was coming from down the street and they could see reflections of lights flickering in the roadway.

“What’s going on?” asked a puzzled Zara.

Zoltan shrugged and turned to Zac, who was going through his memory. Then he shook his head. “Nothing,” he said,” I can’t find anything to connect with the place or the noise.

“I’ve been right through 19th century France. At this time, they had gas lighting in street, even electricity in the centre of the city.

“I don’t understand it.”

“We’ll just have to move on and find a more civilised spot,” said Zara. “Come on. We need shops.”

“Are we going shopping?” Zac’s eyes gleamed, for shopping was his favourite historical thing, next to food made from ancient recipes.

Zara glared at him. “We need to dress for the period. Darkon will be on to us in no time if we are seen like this.”

“Can you sense him anywhere?” asked Zac.

Zara shook her head. “My brain is so raddled with the disgusting smell I can’t think about anything but getting away from them. Come on.”

She stepped into the main street and hesitated. She looked up the street, which was dark and foreboding and then down, from which the noise and the light was coming.

“Which way?” asked Zoltan.

She made a decision. “That we have to go that way, towards the noise.”

They set off, keeping close to the sides of the houses, deep in the shadows.

The noise increased as they came to the end of the street. It was the noise of people shouting and screaming, and of explosions.

They peeped round the corner and saw a large crowd, some dressed in rags who were trying to attack others in finer clothes, who sat, pale faced and terrified in the windows of a carriage, which was led by two terrified horses that squealed and reared between the shafts.

Around this stood several soldiers, dressed in torn and dirty uniforms and wearing tall, mitre-shaped hats. They were firing into the crowd that attacked them.

“I don’t get it,” said Zac. “They’re using muzzle loading muskets, pretty primitive stuff for these times.”

A shot rang out and a man screamed and clutched at his shoulder. He ran out of range of the shots towards the Z Batch. He lurched to a halt when he saw them, his eyes bleary and hate filled in his dirty, creased face.

Then his eyes ranged over their bodies and then widened. He opened his mouth as he pointed at them. He bellowed out in French: “Aristos, aristos trying to escape from Madame. No soldiers.”

“What was that about?” asked Zoltan.

Zac flicked his mind to translation mode and then repeated what the man said.

“What in Level Zero’s name does that mean?” Zoltan was so exasperated that he lapsed into blasphemy.

“Zoltan!” admonished Zara.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But it’s so frustrating. Nothing seems to be right.”

The man called out again and a group of the attackers broke away from besieging the carriage and ran towards him.

“The terminology’s wrong,” said Zac. “Aristos was a term used by the proletariat during the French revolution of the 18th century.”

He didn’t have time to say any more however, for the man lurched at them and grabbed at Zara. Zoltan then leapt on the man, but four of his companions joined the fight and the Z Batch was overpowered in a matter of seconds.

Violence was not something they could cope easily with.

Gasping, they stood as the wounded man confronted them. He gabbled away in French, which Zac was able to translate instantly.

“He told his friends he knows we’re aristos because of our silken underwear. He said we must have run away when our mansion was attacked by the people.’

“That’s mute,” said Zoltan. “Underwear!”

“Silence,” roared the wounded man. There was no need for a translation of his words. His tone was enough and the Z Batch stopped talking instantly. “Bring them along. They look as rich as Citizen le Roy and his Madame.”

With those words he spat on the ground. “Maybe we’ll get a good ransom for them.”

Another man thrust his face close to Zara, who retched as the smell of foul breath washed over her. “She looks ugly enough to be one of them,” said, leering. “Maybe we will.” He stepped back and ran his eye approvingly over her body.

Zara suddenly felt violated.

“But they might not get back what they lost, I’m not all that fussy when it comes to young girls” he said, making an obscene gesture to the other men, who burst into laughter.

“After that, if we don’t get any money, they’ll still be good food for Madame.” The men laughed harshly and they forced the Z Batch into a trot.

The next half an hour was a nightmare for the trio. They were man-handled roughly into an old wagon where they were trussed like turkeys and tossed into the back. They were taken on a lurching journey over the rough cobbles through streets that reeked of violence and smoke from burning houses.

The screams of women and roars of men in pain were everywhere and they were too shocked to take note of the route they were travelling.

They finally arrived at a well-lit building and the wagon stopped. Once more they were frog-marched across a pot-holed street but this time they were thrust through a doorway into a noisy, crowded room.

The atmosphere was overpowering as the heat from bodies and a huge open fire that blazed on one wall combined.

When Zara’s eyes adjusted to the light she was amazed at what she saw. Dozens of men were dressed in rags, while others, rough looking men and women, wore exotic finery. Wigs sat on faces that would have been more at home pushing a plough. Others looked villainous with swords or pistols thrust through tricolour waistbands.

The walls of the room were festooned in paintings in gold leafed frames and rich wallpaper, and a huge crystal chandelier hung, untended from the ceiling. The light came from dozens of oil lanterns scattered around the room.

The furniture looked too delicate for the brutes that were using it. It was rich man’s wares abused by peasants. The wounded man and his companions thrust the Z Batch forward towards a desk that was inlaid with delicate patterns of white wood.

Behind the desk sat a huge man, hair long and a patch over one eye. A foul-smelling cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. The unusually dressed trio were thrust in front of him and he crushed the cigarette out onto the top of the desk.

“Aristos,” muttered the wounded man. “Look at the underwear. Pure silk I swear, they could be from the palace.”

He thrust Zara forward. The big man stood and came round the front of the desk. He looked hard at the trio and Zara in particular. He then ran his hand over the front of Zara’s body suit. She shuddered.

“What’s wrong,” he boomed. “Is the touch of an honest citizen not good enough for you?”

Zac spoke. He could now speak in perfect French; too perfect in fact.

“The girl is not an aristocrat,” he said gently. “She is from England and is visiting her aunt. We are all English.”

The huge man boomed with laughter.

“English are you? he bellowed. “With such an aristocratic way of talking our own language I doubt it.” He spoke to the man who brought them in.

“I think you’re right. They could be from the palace. They’ll bring good ransoms.” He turned to one of the armed men. “Throw them in with the others.”

The Z Batch was forced to march again, this time through passageways, down dark, damp stairways until they reached the cellars of the house. They never had the chance to link hands, but even if they had there would have been no way of using the Time Trekker.

Finally they reached their destination. An armed man sat on a wooden chair by a large oaken door. He was on his feet in an instant as the party approached him, but he relaxed when he recognised the armed man with the trio.

“More rats for the cellars Citizen Bernard,” said the man.

“Plenty of room for rats monsieur,” said the guard taking a large key from his pocket. He unlocked the door and opened it a fraction. He peered inside and then opened it wide. “Your pleasure awaits you your highnesses,” he said in mocking tone.

The man who was escorting the Z Batch laughed and roughly pushed the trio inside the door. The guard then slammed it and locked it again.

In the cellar oil lamps cast a gloomy glow over the scene. There were eight other people in the room, all dressed in what was once expensive finery, but was now dirty and crumpled.

Trays of half eaten food lay near the doorway along with empty wine bottles. There were two men, a boy, and five women in the party and they stared listlessly at the newcomers, who stared back with frank curiosity.

One of them stood. He was tall and arrogant looking, but dressed in the gaudy livery of a servant.

“Don’t you know better than to stare at their majesties,” he said reprovingly.

“Bow your heads like true subjects - or are you spies sent to pry by the traitors outside?”

Zac played the diplomat as the other two looked on in puzzlement. “I beg your pardon,” said Zac. “But we’re strangers to this country. We’ve been kidnapped by the people you call traitors.

“We don’t know who ‘their majesties’ are.”

He stopped, hoping his words would be accepted. The servant took a step forward, but the man sitting on a chair close to the wall waved his hand wearily.

“It’s all right Phillipe,” he said. “Our bad times don’t intrude on the entire world.” He stood. “Now you may introduce us properly,” he said. He indicated to the woman who sat by him and she got haughtily to her feet.

She was a dishevelled and dirty too, but there was a glint of beauty about her careworn and dirty face.

Phillipe turned to the Z Batch.

“May I present his majesty King Louis XVI and her Majesty the Queen Marie Antoinette.”

Zac gasped.

“Something’s gone badly wrong,” he said. “The Trekker brought us to the right spot all right, but to the wrong time. This is 1791, not 1891. We’re living in the middle of the French revolution...”

Darkon’s work in Paris was almost at an end and he was ready for his next step. He had laid the foundations of a rich and expanding chemical industry, one that would prosper and expand and, in the next century, be one of the biggest and most powerful chemical companies in the world, and one which would be at the cutting edge of scientific experiment and research.

He intended, when he had finished his manipulations, that it would be the only company in the world with enough power and influence to allow him to dictate the way of science and research into the origins of humanity - with genetic experiments his paramount interest.

His next destination would be England, another small state of modern Great Euroton, in the year of 1928. His exact point of entry into the 20th century was to be St Mary’s Hospital in the capital city of London.

But his life of luxury and the adoration of his friends and acquaintances, not to mention the attention of beautiful women and the champagne made it difficult to move on. M,

However he had his Time Trekker, which was on his wrist at all times, set at the precise coordinates. One slight hint of trouble, and he would press the transporter button and be gone. His identity already established in the new century, thanks to his earlier movements.

Although the Z Batch was no longer deemed a problem, their potential to interfere with his plans still hovered at the back of his brain.

His other problem, his appetite for violence, he treated in his own way. His need to perform extreme acts of violence was like a drug, a need which had to be filled.

There had been the occasional slip, like when he threw a hotel maid from the balcony of his hotel because she hadn’t cleaned his room properly, but the authorities were quick to believe Mr Konrad’s story of a vain attempt to stop the young woman from committing suicide.

A generous donation to her family answered the question of any possible interference from her husband or her family.

But the incident had shaken Darkon. In future times when he felt his lust for violence becoming too strong he changed his time zone and for a while lived out his fantasies and lusts.

He felt a chill of satisfaction when he read of the results of his trips in the history books of the time. He was particularly proud of the puzzles he set and of the way he baffled the authorities, sometimes for centuries afterwards. He became the psychopath of legend, the ghostly visitor and sometimes an invader from outer space. But the mystery he created that gave him the most satisfaction in all ways was what the newspapers of the time called the Jack the Ripper Murders.

But, enjoyable as the life was, the development of his dream was going not moving fast enough, and patience was never Darkon’s strong point.

So, it was with some reluctance, but also more feeling of excitement that he decided to move on. He told his friends that he was going back to America, where he was planning a scheme to increase efficiency on the ships that carried on the slave trade from Africa to the plantations of the South.

“I’ve worked out exactly how much room each slave needs to survive the trip from Africa to America so that the death rate will be less than five per cent.”

His business colleagues’ eyebrows had risen at this piece of information, for the survival rate among slaves then was as low as 50 per cent on some runs.

“If you’re right, information like that would make your fortune, Mr Konrad,” said one of is colleagues.

“Sir, my fortune is already made,” said Konrad, following his statement up with one of his most chilling laughs, something that made anyone who knew him feel chilled and uncomfortable.

That night he sat his room, went over his plans once more, and transported to another century. He had only been gone a few minutes when a dirty, bruised, and terrified Z Batch materialised.

In the revolutionarys’ dungeon the captive King was puzzled.

“You speak strangely,” he said. “My English is good and yet I don’t fully understand what you say. What is this ‘wrong century’? This is 1791; therefore it cannot be 1691 or even 1891.”

Zara took up the conversation. “You’ll have to forgive us your majesty,” she said. “We don’t really understand what’s going on. We told them we’re from England and are not part of your trouble but because my brother speaks such perfect French, they didn’t believe us.”

Zac’s mouth fell open. He was shocked at such blatant untruths. He had not heard so much since he visited the Creators’ Room at the Holopic studios. He was about to say something but Zoltan, who had seen the shock on his batch-mate’s face, grabbed his arm and whispered urgently.

“Different approaches for different times,” he said. “Go with the flow. Escape is the prime motive.”

Zac nodded, suddenly understanding.

“Indeed the boy does speak with the voice of authority, of aristocracy.” Marie Antoinette came to greet them. She stood haughtily, staring intently, until Zara realised what she was waiting for. She bowed low, an action that was quickly copied by Zac and Zoltan.

The Queen was studying the trio’s body suits intently.

Then she turned to her husband. “When this trouble is over my Lord, we must talk more with these strangers. Those undergarments have a look about them which pleases me.

“Tell me; is this the latest fashion in London, such body hugging underwear for both male and female?”

“It is, yes,” said Zara, turning round. “But if it pleases your Majesty could be perhaps borrow some outer garments to cover ourselves, we find it an embarrassment to be in public so dressed.”

Zoltan hid a chuckle behind his hand at Zara’s quaint talk.

The King sighed. “Unfortunately we can’t help,” he said. “We were brought to this prison with nought but what we stand in, but I expect the loyal troops to attack at any moment and release us. By the Good Lord, when that happens the lamp posts in the streets will look like gaudy trees filled with fruit.”

“Aye,” said Marie Antoinette fervently. “But the stink will be worse than the tannery as those peasants swing and rot in the wind.”

All three Zs felt their heads whirl at such vehement and aggressive talk.

Phillipe noticed their distress. “This is France,” he said, “not your civilised England. Here the peasants feel they are fit to rule. But not all join the revolution.

“When it is over it is only those who rob and steal and murder will be dealt justice. Madame will see more action when the revolution is crushed than ever she is seeing now.”

Zara could not help but pity these people, for she knew the true result of the revolution, but Zoltan’s curiosity came to the fore. “This madam,” he said. “We’ve heard a lot of talk about her, about her appetites, now you talk about her action, who is she?”

The King gave a wry smile. “Why Madame la Guillotine,” he said. He raised his hand slowly over his head which he bent slightly. The hand came chopping down quickly to land on the back of his neck.

Zac spoke. “The guillotine,” he explained, “an instrument of death. It was used for many centuries in the country of France to execute transgressors. The blade rises; the head is placed on a block and...”

“I get the picture,” said Zara hurriedly. “I think it might be time to get out of here.”

Phillipe smiled. “You speak the sentiments of all of us,” he said. “But there is no escape I’m afraid, not for the present anyway.”

“We can’t go until I’ve checked the Trekker,” muttered Zoltan loud enough only for Zara to hear. “Let’s ask for somewhere to rest and then I’ll take a look at it while you cover me.”

Their request was granted and they were given a small piece of the floor close to the rear wall.

The excitement of the arrival of the Z Batch had palled and the royal family and their attendants reverted to what they were doing before, sitting and staring moodily to the front.

The Z Batch sat in a huddle as Zara slid the Trekker from her arm and, with his trusty thred-driver Zoltan opened the back. A cursory examination found the problem.

“The malium crystal was pulled out of alignment by the electro magnet”, he said, touching the tiny crystal with his thred-driver. It slid tightly into its correct position.

“That should fix it,” he said, handing the time machine back to Zara, who slipped onto her wrist. She studied the dial. “The setting hasn’t changed,” she said, “so we can go any time we like.”

“There’s no time like the present,” said Zac.

“Unless it’s a hundred years ahead,” muttered Zoltan dryly.

His small joke brought a smile to Zara’s face. She held out her hand and Zoltan reached out for it, but they leaped apart, scared by a sudden crash.

The door had opened and guards came rushing in, seven of them. Snarling and lashing out with muskets they grabbed the five maidservants.

Before they knew what was happening the Zs were also captured, hands tied behind their backs. The one who fronted them was the huge man with the eye patch. He leered at Zara.

“You spit on the touch of a peasant, mademoiselle, let’s see how you face the touch of Madame la Guillotine.” Brutally he pushed Zara to the front of the cell and almost instantly Zoltan and Zac were staggering after her.

The servant girls wept and pleaded with the guards who took great delight in slapping them with their muskets. Cruelty seemed to be bred into them. But one stood her ground and spat into the face of one of the men. He moved to smash her face with the butt of his musket, but the big man stopped him.

“She’s got fire, that one,” he said. “Maybe I’ll steal from Madame and keep her for myself.”

The girl lifted her head high. “I’d rather face the guillotine than spend a single second in your company,” she said.

The tall man shrugged his shoulders. “So be it,” he said, “servant girls are easy to come by.” He stared insolently at the Queen. “So in fact are aristocrats. You’d be surprised at what a titled woman will do to save her life.”

He gave a mock bow and marched through the door. The party of captives followed and the last sight that Zara had of the cell was of Marie Antoinette, as she leant on the shoulder of the king and wept openly while the young Dauphin stood by trying to be brave.

It was a nightmare trip up the stairs and out into the cold night air. They were once more roughly thrown on a cart, but this time they were standing, huddled together as two soldiers, one with a drum, the other a fife, marched slowly in front, playing the solemn music of a death march. Two other soldiers marched alone side and an ugly old woman who was smoking a foul-smelling clay pipe drove the horses along.

“You’re very brave,” said Zara to the girl who had preferred death to the man with the eye patch.

“Not so much,” she said in excellent English. “I have a knife in my pocket and I have friends in the crowd.”

Zara frowned. There was something peculiar about the girl’s speech. She noticed the look.

“Don’t be alarmed, I’m not a girl. It’s a disguise. I come regularly from England to rescue my friends from the madness that has over run the country. My name is Sir William Darwin, I’m called the Scarlet Pimpernel by many.”

The name meant nothing to Zara or Zoltan, but Zac cast through his history.

“The Scarlet Pimpernel was the creation of a Hungarian born English novelist named Baroness Orczy,” he said. “You didn’t exist until 1905. And then your name was Sir Percy Blakeney”

“1905,” the Pimpernel looked askance at the boy. “What sort of talk is that?”

Zara spoke quickly. “Many books were written in which legendary figures were given reality. It seems like the Baroness hit on a legend that was truly real.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a roaring noise ahead.

“We’re getting close,” said the man who called himself the Pimpernel. “Get the knife from my belt. It’s hidden at the back.”

Zara scrambled frantically closer. She was hampered by the ropes, but she managed to pull the sharp dagger from the man’s belt. She cut his chords and he in turn, unseen by the guards or the soldiers, cut everyone else’s bonds.

“Now,” he whispered, “When we approach that corner get ready to jump, my men are in the crowds, and they’ll rescue us.”

But Zara didn’t intend to take any more chances. Making sure that she, Zoltan and Zac were touching, she pressed the transporter button.

Then the wagon tipped and the whole party fell into a heap. It was this heap that materialised in Darkon’s hotel room.

The servant girls untangled themselves and stood up, wondering what had happened. Sir William was on his feet instantly, poised and ready to fight.

The Z Batch just checked each other. Pleased to be safe.

There was a moment of silence, and then the girls began to weep and wail and back into a corner. Then they began to gabble in their own language.

“What’s wrong with them?” asked Zara.

“They think they’ve died and are in Hell,” cut in Sir William. “Me I’m not such a religious man, but this is peculiar to say the least.”

He raced to the window and looked out, and then he turned back, his face pale.

“What is going on? he askerd. “Where in the Devil’s name are we?”

Zara tried to explain, with Zac translating into French, which brought more wails and crossing of chests. Sir William was less afraid. He listened with scepticism, but at least he listened.

“If this is true,” he said finally. “We must go back, there’s no place in this 1891 for us. Can you do that?”

Zara nodded. “I’ll make a minor adjustment, take you back to your own time, but in a safer spot.”

“Don’t,” said Zoltan. “Think of the danger.”

“I have to,” said Zara. “I can’t leave people out of time.”

Grudgingly Zoltan and Zac agreed to await her return.

She managed to get the weeping girls to hold hand hands and then took that of Sir William, but he broke off.

“Wait,” he said, pulling a small package from a pocket under his dress. “I like the idea that I might become immortal. This is a journal I wrote over the past months. I’ll leave it. Maybe your Baroness will find it and write my story.”

He laid the package on the desk near the window and then joined the circle. Zara pressed the button. There was the familiar muted flash and the group was gone.

Zoltan opened the package, which was a small diary and found pressed inside the centre pages a small flower that had faded to pink.

“A pimpernel,” explained Zac.

“I suppose we ought to hide it so it can be discovered sometime in the future,” said Zoltan. He looked round the room and then pushed the diary deep inside the back cover of the arm chair that glowed with its polished leather in front of the writing desk

Then Zara arrived back safe and sound.

“That,” said Zac “was absolutely thermal.’

“There was no choice,” said Zara, “but they’re safe now, we landed right in the centre of their band of friends.

“Madame la Guillotine won’t make a meal of any of those people.”

“Thank Nirvana for that,” said Zoltan. “What an awful time to be alive.”

“Most of history is like that,” said Zac. He rubbed his hands together. “So, what now? Can we eat something? I’m starving.”

But Zara was prowling the room.

“No time,” she said. “Darkon was here in the immediate past. His vibrations are very strong. Take these down...” she barked out a set of numbers which Zac translated into coordinates.

“Here we go,” she said and, with stomach rumbling, Zac gripped her hand and Zoltan completed the circle. Once more the time travellers were on their way in another attempt to bring Darkon to justice.