Chapter I - A Return to Earth

The 6 o’clock train from Chatham slowly pulled away from the station, sending up clouds of steam as the fireman retracted control rods from the miniature reactor and the enriched Uranium core pushed the boiler straight back up to its working temperature.

Deep inside the system, agents performed split-second calculations to maximise the grip of the wheels against the steel rails, compensating for the over-enthusiasm of the human crew. In less than a second, gearing changes and subtle adjustments of the control rods brought the systems of the heavy engine back into optimal alignment and the train began to accelerate smoothly with the comforting ‘chuff-chuff’ of the ancient machines from which it was descended.

In a First-Class cabin, the Peregrine felt his heart race at the metallic scream as the wheels fought for traction and finally the engine started to accelerate. His tension had been building ever since he left the space-port. He did not trust this bizarre mishmash of technologies, especially when it involved radioactive isotopes. Somewhere at the back of his mind, a very sensible and rather self-important voice reminded him that the anti-matter technology he favoured was largely more experimental and dangerous, but what the deuce did that have to do with it? If he blew himself up, he wasn’t going to irradiate a chunk of the Kent countryside after all. No, the little voice said, but you might not leave much countryside to irradiate either.

Irritated, he pulled out his pocket-watch, a 21st-century copy of a 19th-century design which was currently in favour within the more fashionable circles of Privilege. As he expected, the train had left on-time to the very second. It was largely an affectation, since there were few places one could visit without at least one visible clock, but the Peregrine justified his watch as a necessity for foreign travel. Real clockwork drove the device, unlike the caesium-atomic precision of the public clocks, which meant rewinding the mainspring each morning and correcting the time every-so-often against a more accurate device. This was balanced by the peace of mind which came of not carrying radioactive materials in his waistcoat pocket.

The Peregrine sighed at the realisation that he was letting his past get to him. The psychologists of this era, or at least those of sufficient Privilege to know that it had a name, referred to it as the ‘Chernobyl syndrome’ and made some very patronising noises toward its unfortunate sufferers. Most sufferers referred to it as ‘just damned common sense’ and adjusted their lives accordingly when technologies they found offensive, usually the ones based on micro-reactors or excessive precision, started encroaching on their low-technology lifestyles. It was considered an illness of the old and the highly-privileged, which sufferers often pointed out conversely suggested that it came of knowing enough; specifically, anyone of sufficient Privilege to access the files on Chernobyl tended to suffer from it.

Deep breathing, forcing his mind into a meditative state, brought the Peregrine’s heart-rate to a more manageable level and he stared out of the window at the as-yet un-irradiated Kent countryside. Farmers drove ploughs through the soil, precision-engineered blades which would never dull or deform were drawn behind draft-horses and oxen genetically-engineered to the point of perfection. Genetically-modified cows squirted vitamin-enriched milk into anentropic containers which could easily prevent any spoilage of their contents, even should the buxom milk-maids (supported more by grants from the ministry of tourism than by the dairy-farmers who nominally employed them) leave them sitting in the middle of a swamp in the heat of summer.

The quaintly pastoral scenes that rushed past his window did little to quiet his cynicism; he remembered, in a depressing inversion of a certain 20th-century stereotype, when all this was cheap housing and over-priced parking. He remembered the days when proud councillors spoke of the ‘concrete collar’ which would save the commercialised town, even as he watched its theatres fall and the fields being converted to car-parks and novelty theme-parks where bored citizens could race industrial machinery around beside a silty river.

So much had changed, much of it for the better, he mused reluctantly. He saw a gentleman at leisure on the river, dressed in the obligatory boater and day-cravat, rowing a young lady along its glittering blue-green waters. He magnified the image quietly, making use of certain high-Privilege body-modifications, and saw an expression of pure adoration in her eyes. She was not acting simply for the onlookers, not in a culture where telescopic vision was even rarer than hen’s teeth, but he could not be sure that she was not acting for the sake of her gentleman-friend. He did not want to believe that she was a paid escort, but he did not doubt it was possible.

Out there in the water, he knew, micro-cellular organisms and nano-scale agents would be fighting a constant battle to keep the river so beautiful. He remembered too well the stench that had accompanied the river in his own childhood, but that was a lifetime ago now. Ah, the changes he had seen in his short time. Legally a pensioner at one-hundred and ninety-four, his physical age was considered closer to forty by the doctors of the Commonwealth Health Service, an unavoidable side-effect of his vocation. Each visit to the capital brought with it new differences, from simple changes in fashion right up to new changes such as the micro-reactor train in which he was sitting.

“Tickets, please.” the guard called as he entered the Peregrine’s compartment.

He authorised a micro-agent, allowing it to silently hand-shake with the carriage’s internal systems, and silently made the arrangements which would identify him and confirm his booking. Within moments, the guard would be informed of his credentials. The seal of the Royal Exploratory Corps would be displayed together with his reservation, which would usually lead to some kind of curiosity or lunacy and then he would hopefully go about his business.

After a moment, the guard glanced at his ticket machine and nodded. Judging by what he could see, the Peregine assumed that either a hidden screen or agent-paper had told the man what he needed to know. Whatever he saw there seemed to satisfy him and he backed out of the compartment.

“Captain.” the guard said as he left, offering a swift palm-down naval salute.

The Peregrine managed to suppress the urge to roll his eyes at the gesture and returned a salute with the palm outward, watching to see the guard’s reaction. As expected, he looked suitably embarrassed and bustled out of the room, loudly exhorting the passengers of the next carriage to present their tickets.

What interest would I have in rum, sodomy or the lash he silently asked, then tensed briefly. Finally, after waiting in vain for the inevitable retort, he sat back with relief that the question was allowed to remain rhetorical. Deciding that he had no interest in seeing the further attempts of Her Majesty’s Government to reverse the flow of time, the Peregrine sent a silent message to one of his specialised agents and slipped into a dreamless sleep.