China Town, London

Early springtime (mid March). Dusk. Drizzling rain. A dingy alleyway in a rundown part of the city.

The ground was carpetted with sodden newspapers and rotting fish bones.

A cat sniffed cautiously at a rusting can of tuna, lying beside an over-flowing skip.
It was quiet.  The alleyway was deserted.  But the cat was cautious, on his guard.  He sniffed the can again, and moved a little closer... then a little closer.  Suddenly his ears pricked up.  He froze.  Then he darted under the skip, seconds before the first man came wheezing into the alley.  The man was middle-aged, but he was in poor shape.  Years of life on the cold streets had added decades onto him; his face was pickled and red and covered with a craggy beard.  His eyes were wild and desperate, like a starved animal.  He was wearing a grey overcoat and purple trousers, and battered boots which barely separated his soles from the pavement.  He paused to catch a laboured breath, and check how far behind his pursuer was.  Not far!  The second man was fast approaching; a younger man in a tidy suit and a dark overcoat.

The library, in The Leys

A large room. Shelves, stacked high with books. Opulent decor. Two men, gathered around a desk...

Pascal and Christian watched the screen, transfixed.
Christian’s hair was grey, and waxed back over his head; his face was chiselled into creases.  He was wearing a cravat and a colourful waistcoat.  Most people would probably put him in his seventies... but they’d be wrong – by a number of centuries.
Pascal looked much younger – maybe twenty, would be most people’s guess.  He was thin, with a mousey face and long spindly fingers.  But looks can be deceiving.  Pascal was a Iunctus; he was strong, and far older than he looked – many decades older.
It was a huge television screen: three metres wide and two metres high.  The screen was linked to a computer; two windows were open on the screen, taking up half the screen each.  One window showed CCTV footage from a camera on the corner of an alleyway.  The other window was a mass of colourful dots, which swirled slowly around each other, attracting and repelling, like a fractals on a screensaver.  Groups of dots were connected, moving with each other, forming circular shapes, as though some force of magnetism was holding them together.  The whole effect was like watching hundreds of surreal jellyfish pulsing and floating around in an endless blue sea... merging together, then separating in an endless cycle.
The letter “A” had been superimposed over one of the groups of dots; a grouping composed of weak colours, and lots of black blobs.  The letter followed the grouping as the colours swirled slowly around.
The letter “B” had been superimposed over another grouping; a grouping with bigger, brighter colours, mingled in with a few large black blotches.
Christian lowered his mouth down to Pascal’s ear and asked in a hushed voice, “Remind me, dear boy, which one is A and which one is B?”
Pascal was too transfixed on the screen to look away.  His pointed a thin finger at the window showing the CCTV footage, “The tramp with the beard is A, the younger guy is B.”

The Alleyway...

The tramp sucked in a deep breath, coughing and spluttering.  He hacked up a gobfull of brown phlegm and spat it onto the floor beside the skip.  Then he limped down the alleyway, trying to run on spent legs.
His pursuer rounded the corner, into the alleyway, moving quickly and tirelessly.
The tramp cried out as he glanced over his shoulder and saw the cold grit in the younger man’s eye.  His life may not have been worth much, but his survival instinct was still strong.  He didn’t want to die.  So he dug deeper, trying to find some strength in his tired legs.

The library...

“How long now?” Christian asked Pascal.
Pascal glanced quickly at the clock on the desk.  The time was: 5:52:23.
“Twelve seconds,” Pascal said.
Christian’s brow furrowed as he studied the screen.  Watching a man being murdered in cold blood didn't sit easily with him.  But if that did happen... oh, if that did happen...
Christian held his breath.  He knew the magnitude of this moment: earth-changing!
“Ten seconds...” Pascal whispered.

The Alleyway...

The tramp was beat.  He had nothing left.
He stumbled one more step... two... three... then he fell against the wall and slipped down the bricks until he was sitting on the cold ground, panting and coughing.
His lank hair hung in front of his face, filthy and greasy.  Tears of desperation welled in his eyes.
Finally, his fight was over.
His pursuer calmly walked the final couple of steps then stopped, towering over him; the bringer of doom.
The tramp frantically wiped his blotchy face, clearing his hair away from his eyes.
“Have mercy,” he panted, “I beg you.”
The younger man reached slowly into his inside jacket pocket.  He spoke in a cold crisp voice: “I intent to.”

The library...

“Four seconds,” Pascal whispered.

The Alleyway...

The younger man produced a small handgun and turned it through a graceful arc until the barrel was pointing directly at the tramps forehead.
The tramp cried a desperate final cry, and made the sign of the cross with battered shaking index fingers.
“You stole from us,” the younger man said, simply, “You must pay.”

The library...

“One second...”
On the left-hand window of the screen, the two clumps of coloured dots – labelled ‘A’ and ‘B’ – had come together; interacting with each other.  Black lines flashed between them.  For a moment, all the dots in both groups turned black; then they merged together, then they separated and suddenly the colours in the ‘A’ group turned bright and brilliant; like a firework, blazing and swelling... then they faded away, one by one, until there were none left.  Group ‘A’ was gone.

The Alleyway...

The gunshot startled the cat.  He scurried out of his hiding place underneath the skip, scrambled up onto a dustbin and leapt over the wall.
The younger man turned sharply as he heard the sound.  Then he looked cautiously around, slipping the handgun back into his inside pocket.
The alleyway was quiet and deserted.
He glanced down at the lifeless tramp at his feet, gazing for a second at the small red dot on his dead man’s forehead.  Then he turned on his heels and walked swiftly back up the alleyway.

The library...

Christian turned to Pascal.  His face was creased, distastefully.  But a wry smile soon replaced his revulsion.
“Goodness me,” he whispered, gazing distantly from the screen to Pascal.
Pascal’s face was a mixture of disbelief and delight.  His breathing was quick and shallow.
“I... I... I cannot believe it,” Christian said, turning from the screen and taking a step across the room.
The library, like the rest of the mansion-house – known, affectionately, as ‘The Leys’ – was plush, and lavishly decorated.  As always, soft classical music was playing in the background.  Shelves covered two of the walls, reaching up to the high ceilings, laden with books of all shapes and sizes.  Lamps were dotted around, casting a warm glow onto the opulent furniture.
Christian took another step across the room.  He stopped in front of a huge painting on the back wall – a life-size replica of Michelangelo’s ‘The Creation of Adam’, as painted on the ceiling of the Sistine chapel.
The masterpiece had always been Christian’s favourite piece of art; the symbolism never failed to provoke deep thoughts within him.  But it was not the painting now which had his attention, but rather what was hidden behind it: ‘the Navitas’; the unfathomable object which had just allowed Pascal to predict a man’s death, with pinpoint accuracy.
Christian turned slowly back towards Pascal.  Pascal was still sitting at the desk chair, slightly shocked.
“So, it is true...” Christian mused, “After four centuries of wondering, we have finally discovered a way to use the Navitas...”
Pascal nodded.   
Christian stared at him, intensifying his focus, still not quite sure whether he could believe what he'd just seen, “We can truly foresee the future?”
Pascal nodded again, “It... appears so.  Well, thirty-six hours of the future, anyway.”
Christian’s eyes drifted away, then he snapped them back onto Pascal, “And so, the other event that you identified... we have every reason to suspect that it will come to pass...”
“Yes.”  Pascal turned briefly back towards the screen, “I feel certain that it will.”
“And... are we quite sure that we wish to interfere... are we certain that we want to ‘play God’?”
Pascal frowned.
“No,” Christian mewed, “Me either... And yet, surely the Navitas came to us for a reason.  Now we have finally discovered a means of using it for the greater-good, can we truly ignore the potential we have for stopping evil?”
Christian started pacing back and forwards across the room, weighing the dilemma in his head.
He muttered to himself as he paced, “... could we... what would be the risks?... but would the benefits outweigh that?... if it works, oh, if it works... life-changing... earth-changing... yes, it would be wrong to dismiss this...”
Eventually, he turned to Pascal, and stared at the genius with his strange eyes, “I have made my decision.” he said, "We will go ahead.  We will interfere.  We will play God.”
Pascal nodded, slowly, “Are you certain?”
“Yes.  When will it happen?”
“This evening,” Pascal checked his desk clock, “In about two hours.”
Christian drew a deep breath into his chest.  “Very good.  Summon the team.  We will reconvene here, in thirty minutes.  We have no time to waste.”
Pascal nodded.
Christian strolled purposefully out of the library, leaving Pascal alone.  For a moment Pascal was too lost in thought to do anything, then he picked up his mobile phone and speed-dialled a number.  He lifted the handset to his ear as the line was connected, “Ramone, it’s Pascal.  You’d better come to the library, now...”

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