Free Market

“Honey Jacks are sugar sweet, the tasty treat that’s good to eat! Kids and grown-ups love them so, the wholesome snack that’s good to go...”

An idiot cacophony. Over and over the crowd chanted the words as though it were a litany, an affirmation of their deepest beliefs.

“Honey Jacks are sugar sweet, the tasty treat that’s good to eat...”

As he looked at their faces he was overcome by vertigo. Yarrow Harkins — 22nd century historian and explorer — felt sick. Here he was at the apex of his career, the first historian to travel in time, to ancient Egypt no less, and yet something was very wrong.

“Honey Jacks are sugar sweet, the tasty treat that’s good to eat...”

* * *

Two weeks ago (subjective). Conference room three. The UTC building. Forty floors of smoked glass and chrome penetrating the smog like a Satanist cathedral.

There were twenty people around the conference table; Yarrow was the only one not wearing a suit.

“HOW LONG?!” shouted Braun, his face scarlet with indignation, his jowls flapping in the cool conditioned air.

“Three months,” said White. He looked bored and unimpressed by Braun’s outburst.

“We were under no obligation to tell you we were doing it,” he said. “To be frank, Mr Braun, I didn’t want to inform the government at all.”

“You didn’t want to inform the government?”

“No, if it weren’t for my lawyers then I wouldn’t have. But it seems that under the Trade Monopolies Act I have to inform you eventually. As a courtesy, you understand. The government has no authority to stop the project.”

It was the wrong thing to say. To remind the government’s head of trade and industry that he had no power — no authority. That the United Trade Conglomerate ruled the world, generated the power, grew the food and purified the water. The government was a squatter on UTC territory — living rent-free and at their whim.

Braun shook a ham-hock fist. “Now wait a goddam minute! I- I can’t believe I’m hearing this! You mean to say that you’ve built a time machine — a goddam time machine — and you weren’t going to inform us! Three months you’ve had this thing! Didn’t you think this could have consequences? W-What if something goes wrong? You can’t possibly make this flight, I- I won’t allow it!”

White looked down at his feet, at the Italian shoes that would have cost Yarrow a month’s wages. He was smirking. It made him look like a naughty schoolboy waiting to be reprimanded by the teacher.

“Actually it’s gone a bit further than that,” he said. “We’re past the prototype phase and have carried out a number of... missions you might say.”

Braun sat down hard. The fight seemed to have gone out of him. He looked frightened and stunned, deflated.

Yarrow stood up and cleared his throat, “If I might say a few words. Yarrow Harkins, Mombasa University — Mr Braun asked me along as an observer — I’m head of the History Department.”

Heads nodded in acknowledgement. “I’m no physicist, but isn’t there a risk of creating a... a paradox? Isn’t going back changing the future?”

A bald-headed man rose shakily to his feet. He unfolded a pair of spectacles — an affectation in these days of cheap laser surgery — and balanced them on his nose.

“Doctor Milson, UTC Research and Development,” he said. “I’ve been on the project since the start and I assure you there’s is no risk of paradox. The... fabric of time is a lot more robust than you may think, Mr Harkins. Even so we take precautions. The civilisations we encounter are carefully vetted. We only approach those who are already... cosmopolitan — used to trade with other peoples. The goods we exchange are sufficiently advanced that there’s no risk of their reproducing them. Luxury goods, items which will generate the profits our shareholders demand and yet won’t alter the rate of the civilisation’s evolution. We even ensure that the goods are biodegradable. No trace will ever remain.”

Now it was Yarrow’s turn to be stunned. He could feel his jaw hanging open. He realized he must look idiotic, but could do nothing; such was his shock at the doctor’s words. Braun did the talking for him.

“You’re trading with them?” he said, “You’re trading with people from the past! Are you insane?! I’ll see to it your precious project is cancelled! I don’t care that you people think you’re hot shit; I’ll have the whole thing shut down. DO YOU HEAR ME? SHUT DOWN!”

* * *

A week of court hearings and arraignments. Of arguments and counter-arguments.

The upshot — the UTC programme stands, but with a concession, a sop to the government lawyers — an observer.

Yarrow, an historian, could judge if the programme was damaging.

As he stood there now, squinting against the grit of the desert, he watched the crew unload crates of goods.

There were thousands gathered around the ships, their hands outstretched, their eyes glinting with need. The sight reminded him of refugees in Britain after the ice caps melted. They looked desperate, elbowing one another out of the way as the crew distributed chocolate bars and iPods, hand-held games and tee-shirts.

When the white settlers had arrived on the shores of the New World they had brought plague with them. The natives had never encountered it before, had no defence against the disease. Well, they had brought their own particular brand of plague to these distant shores Yarrow realized. Consumerism.

The crowd took up the chant again. A thousand Egyptians, their linen loincloths replaced by Bermuda shorts and polyester trousers, their hardened feet in loafers and space age sneakers.

“Honey Jacks are sugar sweet, the tasty treat that’s good to eat...”

Someone opened a box of them and tossed them into the crowd. They cheered; they fought one another for the privilege of paying for them.

In the distance Yarrow could make out the shape of a half-built pyramid. Somehow he doubted it would ever be completed.

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