The vicar had resumed his seat. Now his face was gentle, as he raised his hands, then clamped them down decisively on the arms of his ornate work chair. “Then it is our decision that you and the other Defenders must proceed with the trial.” Nabur spoke regretfully at first, though as he went on his anger gradually returned, less vehement than it had been. “We do not doubt that he can be convicted of violating your injunction. But understand, we have no wish to visit any great punishment upon our erring son.”
Belam bowed his grateful assent to that.
Nabur went on, “In charity we grant that he intended no attack upon the Faith and no insult to our person. He is only headstrong, and stubborn, and intemperate in debate. And sadly lacking in gratitude and humility! He must be taught that he cannot set himself up as a superior authority on all matters temporal and spiritual. Did he not once attempt to lecture you on theology?”
Belam once more inclined his head in assent, meanwhile sharply warning himself that he must guard against taking any personal satisfaction in Vincento’s approaching humiliation.
Even now Nabur could not let the subject drop, not yet. “Ah, I could curse the man! In the past, we ourself have been among the first to heap praise on his achievements. We have granted him hours of private audience. We have shown him friendliness to a degree we do not always extend to princes! Before ascending to this chair, we ourself once even wrote a pamphlet in his praise! And now, how are we repaid?”
“I understand, my Vicar.”
“I see you have requested assignment to one particular time, Colonel Odegard.” Colonel Lukas spoke the words around his cigar, while at the same time using the formal style of address. He was a sometime drinking acquaintance of Derron’s, who might be finding it a little difficult to strike the right balance in his role today of examining psychologist. If he had been a close friend of Derron’s he would probably have disqualified himself as examiner. But what close friends did Derron have these days among the living? There was Chan Amling … an old classmate, yes. Bosom buddy, no. The fact was that he had none.
Lukas was looking at him. “Yes, I did,” Derron answered, somewhat tardily.
Lukas shifted his cigar. “The two days Vincento spends near the town of Oibbog, delayed on his way to his trial. Waiting to cross a flooded river. Had you any particular reason for wanting that time?”
Oh, yes, he had. He had not put it into words, however, even for himself, and was not about to try to do so now. “Just that I know the locale very well. I once spent a long holiday there. It was one of those places that didn’t change very much in three, or four hundred years.” Of course, the town and cathedral of Oibbog, like all the other surface landmarks of the planet, were now in the past tense. Derron’s particular reason was that the long holiday there had been with her. He caught himself sliding forward tensely on his chair again and forced himself to slump a little and relax.
Squinting through his cigar smoke, Colonel Lukas shuffled uncertainly through the papers on his desk and then threw one of his sneaky fast balls. “Have you any particular reason for wanting to be an agent at all?”
For Derron that question immediately called up an image of Matt and Ay, two forms blending more and more into a single kingly figure as they receded from the moving moment of the present. Their heroic image seemed to be growing steadily larger with distance, the way a mountain in the old days on the surface had sometimes seemed to swell as you hiked away from it.
But that was not the sort of reason a man could talk about, at least not without all of a sudden sounding far too noble and dedicated.
Derron made himself slide back in his chair again. “Well, as I said, I know the period very well. I believe I can do a good job. Like everyone else, I want to win the war.” He was uttering noble sentiments after all, and too many of them. Better stretch it into a joke. “I want prestige, I suppose. Accomplishment. Promotion. You name it. Did I hit the right one yet?”
“What is the right one?” Lukas shrugged glumly. “I don’t know why I’m required to ask that—why does anyone want to be an agent?” He shaped his papers into a neat stack before him. “Now, Colonel. Just one more thing I want to bring up before certifying you as good agent material. That is the matter of your personal religious views.”
“I’m not religious.”
“How do you feel about religion?”
Relax, relax. “Well, frankly, I think that gods and temples are fine things for people who need crutches. I haven’t yet found any necessary.”
“I see. I think this is a valid psychological point which should be raised, because there are dangers inherent in sending back to Vincento’s time anyone who is likely to find himself susceptible to ideological fever.” Lukas made an apologetic gesture. “You as an historian understand better than I how thick dogmas and doctrines are in the air back there. Religious and philosophical controversy seems to draw all the energy of that era.”
“Yes.” Derron nodded. “I see what you mean. You don’t want a fanatic of any stripe. Well, I’m not what they call a militant atheist. My conscience will let me play any part that’s necessary.” Maybe he was explaining too much, talking too much, but he had to make this point, he had to be allowed to go. “I’ll be a rabid monk and spit on Vincento if required.”
“I don’t suppose Time Ops will ask that of you. All right, then, Derron. You’re in.”
And Derron tried not to show too much relief.
What Operations really decided was that he would do best in the part of a traveling scholar. They gave him a name—Valzay—and started to build for him an identity that had never historically existed. He was supposedly from Mosnar, a country distant from Vincento’s but for the most part faithful to the Holy Temple. Valzay was to be one of the itinerant intellectuals of Vincento’s time, who wandered somewhat like sacred cows across minor political and language boundaries, from one university or wealthy patron to another.
Derron and a dozen other chosen agents, mostly male, were rushed into preparation. Working singly or in pairs, they were to keep Vincento under practically continuous observation during the now doubly critical days of his life just preceding his trial and during it. Each agent or team would remain on the job for a day or two and then be relieved by another. Chan Amling, now a captain, was assigned as Derron’s team partner; they would not often be together on the job, but would alternate in keeping Vincento more or less in sight. Amling was to play the role of one of the wandering friars who in Vincento’s day were quite numerous, and for the most part only loosely disciplined.
The program of preparation was hurried and rugged, beginning with the surgical implantation of communications transducers in jawbone and skull. This would enable each agent to remain in contact with Operations without having to mumble aloud or wear anything as bulky as a helmet.
There were speech and manners to be rehearsed, some knowledge of events current in Vincento’s day to be memorized, and some knowledge to be repressed, of events in the immediate future of that time. There were the techniques of communications and weaponry to be mastered—all this is a few days.
Amid his fatigue and concentration, Derron noticed almost without surprise that Lisa was now working in Operations, one of the calm-voiced girls who relayed orders and information to individual sentries and could do the same for slave-unit operators, or for live agents when some of them took the field.
He had only scraps of free time now and made no effort to use any of it to speak to her. The knowledge that he was on his way back to Oibbog had crowded almost everything else out of his mind. He felt like a man going to a rendezvous with his own true love; the people of flesh and blood around him, Lisa included, took on the semblance of shadows for him even as the dead past grew more vivid.
Then one day, as he and Amling sat in folding chairs at the side of Stage Three, resting between behavior drills, Lisa came walking past and stopped.
“Derron, I want to wish you success.”
“Thanks.
Pull up a chair, if you like.”
She did. Amling decided he wanted to stretch his legs, and he ambled away.
Lisa said, “Derron, I shouldn’t have accused you of killing Matt. I know you didn’t want him to die, that you felt as bad as I did about it. What happened to him wasn’t your fault.” She was speaking like someone who had lost a friend among other friends in war, not like someone whose life had been destroyed with the life of her beloved. “I’ve just been mastering my own internal difficulties—you know about that—but that’s no excuse for what I said. I should have known you better. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.” Derron shifted uncomfortably in his chair, sorry that she felt so bad about it. “Really, it’s … Lisa, I thought you and I might have had— something. I suppose not the whole thing there can be between a man and a woman, but still something good.”
She looked away from him, a faint frown creasing her forehead. “I had some feeling like that about Matt. But that much of a feeling would never be enough for me.”
He went on hurriedly, “As far as anything permanent and tremendous is concerned, well, I’ve tried that already, once in my life. And I’m still up to my neck in it, as you may have noticed. I’m sorry, I’ve got to get moving.” And he jumped up out of his chair and hurried to where Amling and the others were not yet ready for him.
When the day came for the drop, the costumers dressed Derron in clothing that was slightly worn but good, suitable for a fairly successful gentleman-scholar on his travels far from home. In his haversack they placed a reasonable supply of food, along with a flask of brandy. Into his wallet went a moderate sum in the proper coins, silver and gold, and also a forged letter of credit on an Empire City bank. They hoped he would not need much money, and plans did not call for him to get to within a hundred miles of the Holy City. But just in case.
Chan Amling was issued a somewhat worn and soiled gray friar’s habit, but very little else, in keeping with his mendicant role. He did half-seriously request permission to take along a pair of dice, arguing that he would not be the first friar in history to go so armed. But Time Ops was soon able to establish that such equipment was scarcely standard issue for religious, even in Vincento’s time, and he turned down the request.
Both Derron and Chan had hung around their necks abominably carved wooden wedge symbols. The images differed in detail of design, but each was big enough to conceal the bulk of a miniaturized communicator and too ugly and cheap-looking for anyone to want to steal. If any of Vincento’s contemporaries should be moved to wonder audibly why Derron wore such a thing, he was to say that it was a present from his wife.
From an arsenal assembled in Stage Three, Odegard and Amling were issued sturdy travelers’ staffs. These again were dissimilar in outer detail, but both were much more effective weapons than they appeared to be. All of the agents were armed, with staffs or other innocent-appearing devices; they were all to be dropped within half a minute of one another, present-time, though, of course, they were to arrive in different places and on different days.
Their processing for this mission had been too hurried and with too much individual attention for them to get to know one another very well. But during the last few minutes before the drop, as the masquerade-costumed group bade one another good luck and good berserker hunting, there was an atmosphere of joking camaraderie in Stage Three.
Derron felt it. It crossed his mind that once again he had good friends among the living. The launching file formed on order, and he took his place in it calmly, looking forward over short Chan Amling’s gray-cowled head.
Amling turned his head slightly. “Five will get you ten,” he whispered, “that I land up to my crotch in mud someplace. Out of sight of the bloody road, at least.”
“No bet,” said Derron automatically, as the count began. The line moved briskly forward, one figure after another in front of him abruptly vanishing from his sight. Amling made some last remark that Derron could not catch, and then Amling too was gone.
It was Derron’s turn. He swung a booted foot in a long stride out over the mercurial launching circle, then brought it down.
He was standing in darkness, and around him was the unmistakable, never-to-be forgotten feeling of open air. Except for a mere whisper of breeze and a drizzle of rain, he was immersed in an echoless silence, a great loneliness in which his materialization must have passed unnoticed. Good.
“Reverend Brother?” he inquired of the darkness in a low voice, speaking in Vincento’s language. There was no answer; Amling might well have come down in some mud hole out of sight of the road. He had a knack for achieving what he was willing to bet on.
As Derron’s eyes grew more accustomed to the gloom, he realized that the hard surface under his own boots did indeed seem to be the stones of the old Empire highway that passed through Oibbog. Operations had put at least half of the team spatially on the bull’s-eye, then. Whether they had done as well temporally remained to be seen, though rain and darkness were reassuring signs.
Subvocalizing, Derron tried to reach Operations for a routine check-in, but the communicator seemed utterly dead. Some kind of paradox loop would be blocking contact. Such things cropped up now and then; there was nothing to do but hope that the condition would not last long.
He waited the agreed-upon few minutes for Amling, meanwhile opening his staff at one end and consulting the compass thus revealed, to make sure of the direction he was facing on the road. Then, after calling once more to his reverend brother with no result, he began to walk, boots clopping solidly on the pavement. Lightning flashed distantly at irregular intervals. He drank deep breaths of the washed air.
He had not gone far before the transducer behind his ear gave him a sudden twinge. “… Odegard, can you read me yet? Colonel Odegard …” The male voice sounded weary and bored.
“This is Colonel Odegard; I read you.”
“Colonel!” Sudden excitement. Off mike: “We’ve got contact, sir!” Back on: “Colonel, it’s plus two days and three hours here since you were dropped. Time scale has been slipping.”
“Understand.” Derron kept his speech subvocal. “I’m about plus five minutes since dropping. Still on the road in the rain, at night. No contact with Amling yet.”
“Odegard, you’re blurring on the screens.” It was Time Ops’ voice speaking now. “But it looks like you’re farther from the cathedral than we intended, just about two miles. You may be outside the safety zone, so get in closer to Vincento as fast as possible.” By “safety zone,” of course, Time Ops meant the zone of protection against any direct violence from the berserker, a zone created by the intense concentration of sentry observation around Vincento’s lifeline. “We’ve just pulled out the team ahead of you. They report all’s well with Vincento. You say you haven’t seen Amling yet.”
“Right.” Derron stepped up his pace a trifle, though he was having to tap along with his staff to be sure of not floundering off the pavement into the mud.
“We haven’t found him either. Can’t see his line in this blurring on the screens. It may be just the time slippage and a paradox loop.”
Lightning flared directly ahead of Derron, obligingly showing him that his road ran straight for some distance in that direction and giving him a glimpse of the cathedral spire, which was farther off than it should have been. He supposed it was about two miles away.
He reported this to Operations, meanwhile puzzling over something else that the lightning had shown him—a dully gleaming object in the center of the road ahead, lying atop a line or thin trench that seemed to have been scratched or dug across the pavement.
“… I’m just coming up to it now. Looks like …”
It was soft to the prodding tip of his staff. He waited for the lightning, which flashed again in a few seconds.
“Never mind trying to contact Amling anymore.” The body was quite naked; it could have been here a day or an hour. Derron stood over it, describing the situation as best he could
. Human robbers might have stolen a staff and even a cheap pectoral wedge, but would they have taken a friar’s habit?
He bent to touch the deep scratch mark that cut across the road beneath the body. No medieval tool had made that ruler-straight slice through stone; quite likely it had been carved by the same cybernetic limb that had removed the back of Amling’s head.
“Ops, I think it’s marked the boundary of the safety zone for us. To let us know that it knows about it.”
“Yes, yes, you may be right, Odegard, but never mind that now. You just move in close to Vincento quickly. Protect yourself.”
He was moving that way already, walking backward and holding his staff like a rifle while all his senses probed as best they could the rainy night through which he had just passed. Not that all his alertness would do him any good, if the enemy was out there and able to strike.
But Derron lived. After a hundred paces he turned and walked normally ahead, once more making good time. The berserker had killed casually, in passing, leaving its mark like some defiant human outlaw. And then it had gone on to its more pressing business here.
By the time Derron had reached the place where the road bent sharply to the left toward the washed-out bridge, the lightning had gone on over the horizon; he felt rather than saw the bulk of the hill and its cathedral ahead of him and above. But nearer, close by the side of the road, he could make out the monastery’s high wall, the tumbled stones of what had been an arched gateway, and the remnants of a broken gate. And when he stood before the gateway he could distinguish, just inside, a coach that he knew must be Vincento’s, standing deserted in a puddle. From the shelter of a cloister came the gentle mumbling and grunting of load-beasts. Derron paused only a moment before plodding on through the gate and across a soggy garth toward what looked like the main entrance of the main building, which was a sprawling one-story structure.
Brother Assassin Page 15
