Reality unfolded.

Smoothed and spread itself out anew. The world worm, Ouroboros, swallowing its own tail.

Chronometers aboard the carapace measured a mission time of thirty minutes. Information acquisition devices were activated. An attempt was made to capture transmissions. A soil sample was obtained.

No one left the vessel.

Revelation, when it came, was the butterfly's broken promise to the chrysalis.

IV.

February 13, 2011 Red Rock, Nevada They sat close by the embers. They might have been mistaken for pagans worshipping in the shadow of a single raised obelisk. The rock towered over the landscape. Night had bled all colour out of the formation.

If anyone noticed anything different about the sand, they weren't talking, but it was there for all to see. The shiny scar of earth around the tarpaulin had widened; shards of time, encroaching upon the adobe wall.

Kennedy had been planning this discussion since the previous night, grasping at each thought, pursuing it to a conclusion that seemed reasonable enough to be said aloud.

"It rained here yesterday," he began. "Check the papers a year from now and it will still have rained. That's a constant truth. That's unchangeable." He paused, thoughtfully. "It's supposed to be unchangeable."

No one said a word.

"A ship leaves Southampton dock, bound for New York. She's the most magnificent means of transportation constructed to date. She's supposed to be unsinkable. She had design flaws, but it would have taken a certain perspective to recognise them."

"Cue Doctor Wells," Hardas said.

"She hits an iceberg. She sinks like a stone. And within three years the world is plunged into the worst war it has ever known. We have dates, we have a hit list. We have the agenda of a psychopath." He tossed the journal onto the sand before him. "I thought that was enough."

"Enough for what?" Morgan asked.

"Enough to justify stopping him."

"What more do we need?" Shine asked.

Morgan climbed to his feet, sniffing the air. He took a few steps towards the tarpaulin and the time shards cracked like dry twigs beneath his feet. He looked back from the darkness at Kennedy. "Christ. You did it, didn't you?"

"Yesterday," Kennedy replied.

"When?"

"Early afternoon."

"No, damn it." Morgan came stamping back to the fire. "When? When did you go to?"

"I'm getting there."

"You're taking your sweet fucking time."

"We're not talking about a stroll through the park here." Hardas's voice rumbled menace.

Morgan ignored him. "What did you see?"

Kennedy noted how tired, how worn, Hardas looked. He said, "Seeing isn't always believing." He gestured towards the tarpaulin. "This is beyond our understanding. It was beyond the understanding of the people who built it. This isn't science, Darren. It's magic."

"Bullshit. When did you go? What did you see?"

"A year, nearly two," Hardas said, and gazing at Morgan's expression he added, "Into the future."

The fire had died but no one seemed to notice. They might have thought the chill was brought about by Kennedy's words alone.

"We were there for thirty minutes. The transition was smoother than we expected." Kennedy glanced at Hardas, who nodded back stonily. "We went forwards about twenty months. We were aiming for eighteen."

Doc shrugged.

"Has to be more reliable than that," Morgan muttered.

"It will be," Doc replied.

"When the viewscreen activated, it was all just black smoke and dust. Within moments it was caked all over the screen. Something kicked in, a low-level vibration, and the screen cleared itself. The smoke was still there. At first we thought it was an effect of the journey, but it stayed that way the entire time we were there."

"And by there," Morgan said quietly, "you mean right here, don't you?"

"That's right. The carapace was programmed to maintain the same location-which, of course, meant it had to move in order to stay in the same place."

"You've lost me," Shine said.

"Doc?"

"The Earth is hurtling through space. We're constantly moving. Fast. If the carapace doesn't compensate for that movement, it inserts itself into empty space. Or worse."

Morgan was looking around into the shadows as if he could already see licks of black smoke in the darkness. Shuddering, he said, "It's getting fucking cold."

"Let's get inside," Kennedy said.

They shuffled into the adobe. A single light shone weakly from a lamp on the table. They huddled around it, scraping their chairs together into a circle.

"We made out some prefabs through the haze," Kennedy continued. "A few of them resembled designs Doc and I have been working on, a couple I didn't recognise, but they were all in ruins. Sand piled up against the walls, broken windows-"

"Maybe you went further ahead than you think?" Morgan prompted.

Doc shook his head.

"I mean, if you jumped further ahead than we expected-"

Hardas gave him a surprisingly compassionate look, actually reached across to squeeze his shoulder. He said, "No, Darren." And just as swiftly, the mask dropped back into place.

Kennedy knew what the look was for. They had made a deal before disembarking from the carapace, on shaking legs. They would tell the others what they'd seen, but they wouldn't tell them everything. And Doc... Doc could make what he wanted from the footage.

"Ruins and black smoke," Morgan said.

"Major," Shine asked hesitantly, "was there anything else? I mean, did you see anybody?"

That was a question of semantics. Did silhouettes etched onto the wall of a burnt-out shack count as "anybody"? How about white bones in the dust?

"We didn't see anyone," Hardas said. "And no one saw us."

"We got a sample of the soil for testing," Kennedy continued after a moment. "It's still in the lab."

"What do preliminaries show?" Morgan's voice held no emotion now.

Doc had been examining the carriage portion of the model, rotating it in his hands. Without looking up he said, "The levels are through the roof. It's hot-real hot."

"Christ," Morgan moaned. "Radioactive ruins. This just gets better and better. When does it happen?"

"We can't possibly know," Kennedy said.

"Sometime late next year, as close as we can estimate," Doc said. "When the base is up and running."

"Who would use atomics to bomb a place like this? I mean, I know this is big. The carapace and everything-"

"Calm down," Shine said.

"No. You calm down. Fuck. Someone is going to destroy this place. Destroy everything."

"We're not going to let that happen, are we?" Kennedy said gently.

He told them all that he could. About the information acquisition devices, about the fact that despite thirty minutes of monitoring all radio and television bands they were unable to detect any transmissions. From anywhere on the planet.

A crater-ridden plain both recognisable and alien at once. Twisted metal and the remains of tanks ... and something else that had fallen from the heavens. White bones blanched by more than sunlight in the sand's sluggish tide. Waste Land.

The journal alluded to future technology, to a world that had endured at least two global conflicts but at least endured. Yet all Kennedy had found was death and silence.

They didn't shake hands that night, nor was any pledge sealed in ink or blood. But a pact was made. Silently, nodding to each other as they left the adobe and made their ways to the campsite, each made and confirmed his promise. World without end, hallelujah. Amen.

A GAME OF CHESS IV.

Forced Moves.

I.

April 25, 2012.

Pleasant Valley, Tennessee.

Kennedy had been talking for more than an hour. He spoke about the expedition to the carapace and beyond with a detachment that belied the fact that he'd kept this secret to himself for so long. It might have been coldness, that presentation of data with order and clarity. It might have been because he admitted to details he'd never revealed to Shine or Morgan or even Doc. More likely it was the sheer corrosive effects of the last few days. Regardless of the cause, the effect was undeniable. Lightholler finally found himself able to consider certain possibilities.

Consider was the key word here. Anything more than that meant stepping beyond the bounds of sanity. It wasn't the road to Damascus, but it was a start. Yet even consideration led to one unavoidable question: If Kennedy's words were truly gospel, did a world need to be sacrificed in order to be saved?

"My apologies for the delay," Watanabe said, sliding into the seat next to Kennedy. His glance fell upon the open newspaper. "Is this where you get your information these days?" He traced an article down the page. "How are the mighty fallen."

Kennedy let the comment slide. He said, "I didn't know politics interested you."

"Only when they impinge on my trade. In times of war, people get excited, foolish. Patriotism rears its ugly head and poor Watanabe goes a little hungrier than usual."

"You really look like you're suffering," Lightholler murmured.

"Captain, tell me, are you a patriot?"

"Maybe," Lightholler replied. "The lines have become a little blurred of late."

"You've spent too much time with the major."

"If you feel that way, why are you helping us?" Kennedy asked.

"I help you because you pay Kobe a substantial fee of which I will receive no mean portion. And because I believe that you might find a satisfactory end to all of this, before it has gone too far."

Lightholler's mind flitted back to Kennedy's deal with the Shogunate. He wondered how such an end might look to the gangster, and envisioned an endless tide of rice paper and curlicued red-tiled roofs.

Kennedy spoke again. "The papers are calling me a murderer and a traitor."

"I would be more concerned if they were praising you, boss. Kobe says he knows what you are, and what you might be capable of accomplishing. He is my Oyabun, you understand? If he tells me that a crow is white, then as far as I am concerned, it's white." He flashed them both his golden smile. "So far we have made good time, but you must never cease spurring a running horse."

He looked at the tab and peeled some notes from a billfold, which he scattered on the table. "Let's go. It's my treat."

"He's so generous with my money," Kennedy said to Lightholler, but his smile was one of relief.

They followed Watanabe to the door. He ushered them towards a tan Pierce Arrow sedan idling by one of the gas pumps. It had Tennessee plates. Watanabe climbed into the front seat.

Lightholler whistled softly, getting into the passenger seat.

"Nice ride."

"Good enough for Babe Ruth," Watanabe replied.

"Where's your driver?" Kennedy asked, climbing into the back.

"Inconvenienced." Watanabe threw an arm across the seat, turning to face them. "From here, it's just me and you."