King existed in a place above the clouds, below the ground, beneath the ocean; all at once, then and now, past and future all coalescing into the here and now so that neither existed one without the other; each tendril, each thread wove in and out of the endless tapestry, every colour, every nuance of each fibre joining in the mosaic of the others, and yet the ultimate picture remained elusive, twisted images of what he knew to be true ripped asunder by those which could not be so.
“Ben, don’t do this!”
The voice invaded his thoughts, harsh, real. He recognised it above the silent din around him and struggled to pay attention to his friend.
“Sid’s gone!”
Images spun around him, odd and twisted images. A row of hellish faces, long and drawn, glowered at him. Three mountains, blindingly white with snow, stood in the middle of a desert. Two towers with sweeping arches crept into the night sky. A bolt of fire streaked down from the heavens and ploughed into the ground!
“No,” his own voice sounded hollow to him. “I can get her back!”
He saw the face of a man, big, broad shouldered, skin as black as night. He saw a ship, a jungle, a desert. More fire from heaven, more flashes of red light. People screaming, people laughing. He saw Xibalba, but not the empty shell of an abandoned city, not the mythological realm of nightmares, but a vibrant city, full of children playing, the smell of bread baking.
He saw the Yonaguni Monument towering into the sky, the shore over a mile away. Towns and temples surrounded it, crowds of worshipers bent in prayer.
He saw Easter Island, the giant heads erected and carved in the image of a single piece of the mask.
He saw the pyramids of Giza, not the dusty ruins on the outskirts of Cairo, but shining beacons, encased in startling limestone. He saw the Step Pyramid of Djoser, the man who would become a demigod organising its construction.
And he saw a city built of stone, nestled on the banks of a river. The big man was there again — Kha’um. He wrapped his arms around a woman, he played with children, he laughed and he smiled and he—
His lifeless eyes peered up at him from the ruins of his ship, alone in the middle of the jungle, on the outskirts of the realm of Davy Jones.
“You can’t save her, Ben!”
Raine’s voice was there again, loud and bold in his ears.
“I can!”
“But you shouldn’t! She’s dead, Ben. Gone. Murdered, yes. Does it hurt? Yes. I know it does!”
“How do you know? You know nothing!”
“I know what it is like to lose someone you love.” There was pain in his voice. Anguish. “The mother of my child!”
“What?”
“You think I wouldn’t give anything to go back and save her? You think it’s easy not to step into that goddamn time machine with you, to do like Nadia said and right all the wrongs that have happened in my life? I’m a traitor, Ben, because I stopped the slaughter of innocents at the hands of my countrymen! I’m a fugitive because I escaped unjust imprisonment. I have been used and coerced and shat on by my people, my government, and my president! You think I don’t want to change all that?!”
Flashes of King’s own life assaulted him now. His temporal destination was approaching, he knew.
His mother was there, and his sister. There was laughter, there was love.
And then there was Abuku. One shot rang out, then another. Bodies fell. A ring of fire seared into his forehead, forever branded by the monster.
Then he realised the true power he had been granted! He could go back, he could save his mother and his sister, prevent his father from vanishing into the depths of Africa. No, he could do more than that! He could go back and stop Abuku from butchering not just his family, but all the other innocent lives he had taken—
He was there again, the monster’s face glaring out of his nightmares, just as he always had. Only, he was older now and his own eyes held fear! A gun planted itself firmly against his head and the last thing General Abuku saw was the ice-blue eyes of his assassin.
Nate?
“Tell me, Ben, do you believe in destiny?” Alex Langley’s words seemed to echo through his skull.
That same mission that saw Raine kill the Himmler of Africa, King somehow knew, was the same mission that saw him being convicted of treason, all because he was the only one willing to do the right thing.
Was that destiny?
No sooner had the images resolved in his mind — flashes of gunfire, a village of Africans cowering against Abuku’s forces, aided by American soldiers, CIA operatives, led by Raine himself — than they dissolved once more.
He saw his father then. They were sat by the Wassu Stone Circle, then the Cenote Sagrado. They argued about his expedition into the heart of Africa, in search of the Bouda. He left through the door, the last time he had seen him. But it didn’t have to be like that! He reached out to him, but he was gone, whisked away by the endless torrent of time.
Then she was there, her smile cutting through the darkness that had descended on his soul.
Sid.
“But I have no right,” Raine continued. “It is not down to me to decide who lives and who dies! It’s not down to me to decide what empires shall rise or civilisations shall fall. How do you know what effect it will have, saving Sid? Time is like a tapestry! All you need to do is pull out one thread and the whole thing will come crashing down!”
Sid was with him now. He felt her skin against his, her lips. He looked into her eyes. He held her close. He would never let her go. Not this time. Not ever again.
Kha’um’s lifeless eyes stared back at him!
He pushed the image aside, focussed on Sid. They were on the beach, back in England, the sun warm—
Kha’um had journeyed half the way around the world to save the woman he loved, but in the end it brought him only more sorrow—
No!
He saw the wormhole, the tunnel through time. It swirled about him, a maelstrom of colours, tendrils of energy, yet he knew Raine could not see it. But it was there! It was real!
He stepped towards it, felt the embrace as it wrapped around him.
Still, the great tapestry of time played through his mind. He was on the summit of Sarisariñama now, tumbling through a wall into an undiscovered corridor.
Pryce was there! His body decayed, his skeletal fingers still clutching the prize that had claimed his life and his soul.
Just like Kha’um.
He was in New York, then Jamaica, racing over the glacier in Chile, crawling through the mine in Cornwall, diving beneath the waters of Yonaguni—
The boat. He was on the boat.
It was now or never!
He saw Sid running. Saw Nadia fastening the harness hanging from a helicopter. Gun raised.
“No!” he screamed.
He stepped into the wormhole. The mask floated before him.
“Benny! It’s not up to us to play god!”