Down the Corridor
Malory’s body flowed along the eerily luminous Corridor, following the trail that had been deeply scored into its intangible surface by Vickers’ flight. There was little concept of time here and, as a result, he needed to concentrate in order to maintain his successful pursuit and not drift down the line, past Vickers’ exit point and probably beyond any hope of ever picking up the trail. Right now it was a bright yellow meandering streak but Malory knew that it would soon fade, blend back into the surrounding glow.
Vickers was a day-tripper. For seven years he had been a member of the scientific team responsible for research of the interspatial wormhole referred to as The Corridor, an unintentional creation resulting from an overzealous series of super-fission tests in New Mexico. It was only later realised how close they had come to turning the world, and a fair amount of local space, inside out. The Pandora’s Box that had been left to them was a closely guarded secret, the scientists allocated to it the most brilliant minds that could be persuaded to forego all links with the outside world.
Forays along the Corridor were strictly planned and monitored, but it had become more and more obvious that the presence of the anomaly had a serious effect upon the psyche of those who remained within its proximity, an ever increasing desire to step inside, to make a secretive unscheduled trip.
Vickers had been gone for no more than twenty minutes when the alarm was raised. Malory thought that even this was too long. But his colleague had covered his tracks well, had even created a dummy inverter to replace the one that he had removed. And then, unable to resist the compulsion any longer, he had gone day-tripping.
The trail began to circle the Corridor walls, a sign that Vickers had slowed down, searching for an exit. Malory traced its course meticulously, trying to ignore the protestations of his stomach which was becoming increasingly insistent regarding the rejection of his earlier breakfast.
There! A series of ripples in the trail before it dove straight down through the (surface?) of the wormhole and out…..where? Malory angled himself to follow its course.
His breakfast arrived upon a cobbled pavement and Malory rejoined it about half a second later, cursing in response to the impact of his knees upon the stones as well as to the hangover from hell that he had instantaneously acquired. He was a veteran traveller in comparison to most of the others, but never would he get used to it.
He scanned the vicinity quickly, taking in his surroundings. The road before him consisted of equal parts mud, straw and what he presumed was horse shit. His ears verified this by the recognition of hooves upon an adjacent main road.
He drew his inverter from its webbing at his side and triggered its display which was preset to locate its counterpart. A red light shone whilst an arrow indicated direction. Good, he wasn’t far away.
He made his way out onto the main thoroughfare and into the shadow of what he realised, after a moments careful contemplation, was St.Paul’s Cathedral. Horse drawn carriages passed up and down the street before him. London. But when?
He searched the pavements to his left and right, his eyes alighting upon the remains of a newspaper in the gutter. He ran to it and scooped it up, uncaring of the filth that besmirched it, and sought out a page that retained some legibility. All he needed was an approximate date. He soon found what he was looking for, March Thirteenth Eighteen Eighty.
Right, now for Vickers.
He consulted the inverter once more. It indicated that he needed to cross this street and presumably enter one of the rather grand looking establishments situated upon the other side. He strode out into the muddy road, hoping that his idea of universally non-descript apparel wouldn’t draw too much attention.
He gained the opposite pavement and allowed the inverter to lead him up a flight of stone steps and through a pair of ornate doors. An attendant stood to one side, gawping at him, seemingly perplexed that this new visitor carried neither cane nor hat, a collection of which were neatly arranged upon a stand behind him.
Malory continued into a spacious dining area from which a low hubbub of conversation emanated.
“Charles! At last, I’ve been expecting you,” Vickers was seated alone at a window table, “come and take tea.”
Malory strode towards him. “Back! Now! Do you not realise the possible consequences of even your slightest actions?”
“But, they shut us away,” Vickers complained. “And all this,” he gestured expansively, “it belongs to us, surely?”
“No Peter, it does not. Now come on.”
Vickers rose sulkily to his feet and, with Malory’s hand clamped upon his shoulder, they left the building.
Malory guided his charge back across the mud strewn road, but, as they regained the far side, Vickers jerked away from him.
“I came through over there,” he gestured down the street in the direction of the immense Cathedral.
“There’s a closer place….” Malory began, but, as he reached for Vickers’ arm, his inverter fell from its webbing, clinked once against the cobbles, and rolled into the gutter.
The next moments occurred as in slow motion. A small child, of perhaps seven years, had obviously seen the inverter and was stepping out into the road to recover it.
“No,” Malory shouted, reaching for the boy. He gained purchase on his cloak, but this came away in his hand as the child fell forwards into the mud and into the path of oncoming hooves and carriage wheels.
Malory could spare only a glance for the broken body as he regained his gadget and then his hold upon Vickers.
Having utilised the inverter to re-open the Corridor, they were now being swept back upstream, but something was amiss. The wormhole appeared constricted. Was it shrinking?
Malory kicked himself forwards, uncaring of his colleague. Must get out!
He was, at last, regurgitated from the wormhole, but not into the research complex. There was smoke, heat, a dreadful sulphurous stench and the sound of Vickers’ wheezing. He attempted to breathe, but the air was poison to his lungs.
In his final moments of clarity he realised that he still clung onto the child’s cloak and his streaming eyes fastened onto the name that had been sewn into it: W. L. Churchill.