The Depths of Time
Page 10
Try again. If the Artlnt had gone off script, he could as well.
ANTON KOFFIELD COMMANDING UPHOLDER REPORTS SITUATION URGENT AND DANGEROUS IN EXTREME. KOFFIELD ORDERS NEXUS CONTROL SYSTEM TO DEACTIVATE PORTAL NEXUS “D” PERMANENTLY AT ONCE. DEACTIVATE NEXUS “d” NOW. portal nexus control acknowledging, attempting to comply, stand by.
Thirty seconds. Who would not be born who should have been? What invention would be left uncreated, or created in the wrong time or place? What tiny chance encounter would be altered, changing all that came after? What small cause would lead to huge effects, like a deflected pebble setting off a landslide? What paradoxes would be sent caroming through the years?
“Intruder Five on final approach,” the detection officer announced. “Centered on standard insertion vector. Twenty seconds.” portal nexus control still attempting to comply with previous order, stand by.
“Fifteen seconds. Intruder entering timeshaft in ten seconds. Nine. Eight. Seven.”
History itself was about to be attacked, and there was nothing to be done.
“Six. Five. Four.” portal nexus control still attempting to comply with previous order, stand by.
Too late. There wasn’t time.
“Three. Two. One. Zero.”
And it was over. It would take several seconds for the confirming data to reach them at the speed of light, but it was over. The Intruder was in the wormhole, dropping into the past. Defeat. It was over.
Koffield switched on an exterior-view camera and pointed it at the utterly invisible spot in the sky that was the singularity. Out there, an equally invisible Intruder had left this time and entered—
A sword of light, impossibly brilliant, flared out into the darkness.
“Telemetry from Nexus D is going crazy!” the detection officer cried out. “The readings are all over the place. I’m— I’m picking up a debris cloud coming from the nexus. Trying a pattern match. Stand by.”
The story of my life, Koffield thought. Stand by. “What the devil just happened?” he demanded. “Comm! Do you have anything?”
“No, sir.”
“Sir, all telemetry from Nexus D is at zero. No carrier, no signal, no data. It’s like it’s not there.”
And then, another message appeared on the nexus control Artlnt’s screen. portal nexus “d” deactivated permanently.
Short, sweet, and to the point. “It isn’t there,” Koffield said. “Not anymore. I think—never mind what I think. Detection—where’s that pattern match?”
“Sir, I’m only at about eighty percent confidence, but that debris cloud looks a lot like what we got when the other Intruders went up. I think it blew right inside the timeshaft wormhole.”
The light flare faded away, to be replaced by flickers and sparks of light concentrated in one tiny point in space—debris reimpacting on the singularity. Bits of this ship and that, this Intruder and that, dropping down onto the event horizon of the wormhole, letting out a last burst of energy as they were torn to pieces by the massive tidal effects.
The nexus must have closed down, deactivated, just as Intruder Five was going through. With the protection of the nexus gone, the Intruder would have been shredded to bits in a nanosecond, setting off a half dozen kinds of violent energy release.
It was as close as Koffield ever wished to cut anything.
Another heartbeat, another millisecond, and the Intruder would have been free in the past, and all would be in vain.
But even if their losses had given them victory, still the price was far too high.
The past had been spared. But at what cost to the present, and the future, to the Standfast, to the Upholder, to the five convoy ships, to the planet Glister?
And, Koffield could not help but ask, in the very core of his soul—at what cost to himself?
What blood and doom had he just put on his own hands?
Four standard days later, the Upholder boosted away from the ruined domain of the Circum Central Wormhole Farm, into the uptime future where/when Anton Koffield had stranded her. She quite literally left nothing behind, as the singularity swept up the wreckage of the battle. Nothing at all but the singularity, that point of deepest, and most absolute, nonexistence, remained.
The crew spent the better part of the first two months’ boost repairing their battered craft as best they could. Then, in groups of eight or ten, they entered their cryosleep canisters, each group assisting those who went before. They would sleep away the long decades until they reached the Solar System, and Earth.
If all went well, they would be ninety years in transit, ship’s time. A run through the 89.8-year timeshaft at Sirius Power Cluster would bring them to the outer approaches of the Solar System in about three months, objective time.
Then it would be up to luck, and fate, and the crew members themselves to build whatever lives they could build, seventy-nine years uptime from where they had started. If all went well.
But Anton Koffield had no illusions. Bad luck and ill fate had already shaped the form of his existence in the future. He was, he knew, marked by what had happened, by what he had done. When every other fact about him had been forgotten, he would be remembered—:as the man who blew the timeshaft, the man who killed the convoy, the man who had faced and fought and killed a mysterious force of Intruders.
No one, much as he might wish it, would ever forget what he had done. No one.
Least of all, Anton Koffield himself.
INTERLUDE Grand Library Habitat Orbiting Neptune
Oskar DeSilvo stared thoughtfully at the spherical image of the planet Solace that hung before him in the center of the room. The image was not of the planet as it currently existed, but as it would be, decades from now. By then, his work, his creation, would be all but complete. By then, Solace—his world, his laboratory, his monument to himself—would have come fully alive, have bloomed and commenced to flourish.
Baskaw’s ideas were working—though no one but DeSilvo need ever know the ideas were Baskaw’s, and not DeSilvo’s. Indeed, DeSilvo himself was close to forgetting himself that he had not thought of it all on his own. He saw no need to share the credit, or the glory, with a long-forgotten crackpot researcher who had been dead for centuries.
But he dared not forget that what he looked down on was not real. Not yet. Until the terraforming of Solace was largely finished and complete, there was precious little point in worrying over who would eventually get the credit—or the blame—for it. What he saw was a mere ghost of what might be in a far-distant star system. Solace was but half-built, still a dream, decades in the future and light-years away. Reality was a holochamber in DeSilvo’s office, center, aboard the Grand Library habitat, orbiting Neptune in the outer reaches of the Solar System.
And there was much to do in that reality. Reluctantly, DeSilvo turned his back on the glory that was to be and stepped from the holoprojection chamber into his elegant, well-appointed office. Solace was well on its way, but there was still endless work to do. There was no point in reflecting overmuch on glories to be, though he -was supremely confident of the outcome. Once Solace was complete, all of Settled Space would ring with his name.
DeSilvo sat back down at his desk, taking care to sweep his flowing robe up smoothly as he did so, to avoid sitting on it and wrinkling the splendid pale yellow fabric. Whatever others might say of Oskar DeSilvo, for good or ill, all would agree on the man’s vanity, though of course his enemies were more likely to dwell on that aspect of his personality.
DeSilvo was of medium build, his bronze skin firm and his physique well toned. His thick shock of hair was jet-black, and showed no sign of thinning. He wore it to flowing shoulder length. He was clean-shaven, square-jawed, high-cheekboned. His bright blue eyes were set off dramatically by his thick black eyebrows.
It would be impossible to judge DeSilvo’s age based on his appearance. Nearly every part of him, from his heart to his fingernails, had, in one way or another, been replaced or revitalized repeatedly over the
years. Nor did DeSilvo make it easy to establish his own age. His biographies were quite vague on the point, and his extended use of temporal confinement, cryosleep, and timeshaft-wormhole transport had done nothing to clarify the point.
Still, even DeSilvo himself knew something in his appearance whispered that his seemingly ageless, vigorous youth was at least in part deceptive. His eyes were too bright, his teeth too white and perfect, his muscle tone too good. He was the product of regeneration, transplant, and stimulation therapy, rather than of healthy living and good diet. His appearance was meant to be of youth and vigor, but it was in fact the face of wealth and age. Oskar DeSilvo was far from the only wealthy old man who sought to buy youth.
A practiced eye would have spotted the signs at first glance. DeSilvo’s skin was drawn too tight, and its slight yellowish cast was a clue that repeated skin regenerations were reaching the point of diminishing returns, where the regen damage was more serious than the cellular decay it was meant to forestall. Oskar DeSilvo was hearty and hale, but the hints were there for those who could read them. The very fabric of his body had come close to the end of its capacity for absorbing the stress and shock of repair.
They called it Gray’s Syndrome, after some long-forgotten near ancient who had first described the process of sudden aging onset, when decades of decay seem to sweep across the body in hours or days. One day, in a year, or a century, some part of his body would decide to refuse further regen, and that would set the age toxins flowing. The collapse would come fast.
But for now, all was well, and DeSilvo cut a splendid figure in his scholar’s robe—and knew it.
He leaned forward over the desk and studied a data pad that was displaying the Master Action List, the long list of items awaiting his attention. A hundred subprojects of the Solace project, each in and of itself an enormous undertaking, awaited his consideration.
He scrolled down the action list. Massive excavations, comet diversions, gigantic interstellar transshipments, the construction of whole cities. And, last, but far from least, the chronicling of it all, the setting down in history of how such great things were accomplished. There would be the true monument, in the history books. DeSilvo smiled at the list and reached out to touch it, almost caressing it.
It gave him vast pleasure to think on the incredible resources at his command. The energy sources, the political authority, the masses of powerful machinery, the army of workers spread out over the generations that were required to rebuild a world—all were at his command. It was satisfying indeed to have such facilities, such resources, such power at his personal disposal. There seemed no limit to what he could accomplish.
But there were limits. Yes. Things could go wrong. He considered the news reports concerning the conclusion of the inquiries into the Upholder incident. It was good to have such reminders. The datapages were full of her ordeal at Circum Central, of the way she had been marooned eight decades into her own future, and of her harrowing journey back to the Solar System. He had read somewhere that the ship’s commander, Koffield, was to be assigned to some sort of meaningless desk job, pretending to do research, here, aboard the Grand Library.
DeSilvo stared out his private viewport at the spectacular view of Neptune. The mystery of what had happened at Circum Central would remain unsolved for a long time to come, perhaps for all time. As long as it did, and perhaps long after, the whisperers would point at Koffield. Not many would have much to do with the man who had destroyed a timeshaft wormhole and cut off a whole world from the outside universe.
Someone ought to help the man. Encourage him. There could be no doubt at all that Koffield was competent. And there was certainly work that needed doing. DeSilvo nodded to himself. Yes. He would approach Koffield. Invite him to join the project. Let the whisperers whisper. He would reach out to Koffield and allow him to work with Oskar DeSilvo.
DeSilvo puffed up his chest a bit, and smiled proudly to himself, congratulating himself on this latest act of goodness and charity. It would be a good and generous deed, one worthy of the praise it would no doubt inspire.
How lucky for humanity, for the universe, that there was such a splendid being as Oskar DeSilvo in it.
The speeches were over, and the guest of honor had received his award, and given his eloquent thanks. The ceremonies being complete, the informal part of the evening had begun. All around the newcomer, a splendid party, a sparkling celebration, was happening, swirling about its still center, a merry storm of light, color, and music that filled the largest and most ornate ballroom aboard the Grand Library habitat. But, there, at its center, Anton Koffield, recently promoted to the exalted rank of rear admiral, handsome in his dress uniform, stood alone, and still. All was quiet about him. No one went to him. No one even dared come near.
He was the silent eye of the storm, and, as he moved, the quiet moved with him. Voices faded away, and knots of conversation dissolved at his approach. Even the robotic waiters seemed reluctant to tarry long in his presence, and scurried away the first moment they could.
He should have known better than to come, should have known this time would be no better than the last time, or the time before that. The fact that his actions had been officially approved and endorsed by the boards of inquiry made no difference. No one wanted to make small talk with a man who had blood on his hands. And Koffield could not truly bring himself to blame them. He knew what they saw when they looked at him. He saw it himself whenever he looked in the mirror. Guilt. Blame. Failure. No official finding could hide or disguise the shadows that hovered about him.
What, he wondered, for the hundredth, the thousandth, time, was the point of surviving an ordeal as harrowing as the return trip from Circum Central? Could there be any point when the only role life had to offer him was as a focus for the whisperers, the pointers, the ones who stared at his back as they listened eagerly to a friend telling the tale yet again? What point in determination, endurance, leadership, if the reward was this? The partygoers would look haughtily in the other direction if he, Koffield the butcher, had the temerity to so much as catch their eyes, return their gazes.
His crew had spoken well of him through all the inquiries. They had called him courageous, even heroic, and still spoke up for him, even if no one listened. But his crew were not here, and were not, in truth, even a crew anymore. They had retired or resigned or been reassigned. Scattered, as lost to him as the Upholder, and the Upholder had been written off as a total loss, not worth repairing.
He let out a weary sigh and decided to give it up. There was nothing for him here. He caught up with a passing service robot and set his drink down on its upper tray. Time to go. He started to make his slow and quiet way to the exit.
“Excuse me,” a voice said behind him. A man’s voice, the accent warm and sophisticated.
Koffield turned around to see a handsome man in a burgundy scholar’s robe. It was DeSilvo himself, he realized with astonishment. “Yes?”
The scholar smiled, his teeth blinding white. “I am Dr. Oskar DeSilvo,” he said, the needless introduction charmingly modest. “You are Rear Admiral Anton Koffield?”
“That’s right,” Koffield replied, bracing himself for whatever bit of theatrics this DeSilvo had in mind. He had been through it all by now. Would it be another drink thrown in his face? Another outburst of verbal abuse? This fellow didn’t look the sort to splash simulated—or real— blood onto Koffield, but it was hard to know. But if DeSilvo had intended a direct physical attack, he wouldn’t have gotten Koffield’s attention first. And the man’s manner was distinctly friendly. Koffield decided he could relax his guard a bit, at least. “What can I do for you?”
DeSilvo smiled again. “Possibly, quite a lot,” he said. “I have a large project under way. I am here at the Grand Library to turn over my archives of the Solacian Terra-forming project. I was wondering if you would care to help prepare those archives.”
Koffield frowned in surprise. “I’m not quite sure I understand.”
And those were words that Rear Admiral Anton Koffield had never expected to hear again.
SOLACE--127 YEARS LATER 5339 A.D.
CHAPTER FOUR Loss of Confidence
They were dying before her eyes. Neshobe Kalzant stood on the observation deck and watched the stampede for the last shuttlecraft. They were shoving, screaming, shouting to get past each other, clawing at each other in a futile attempt to win one of the pathetically small number of seats on the shuttle—seats that were already taken, and already being defended by determined men and women at the shuttle hatch. Neshobe had counted at least four people crushed to death already.
The proud citizens of Solace were trampling one another in the rain-darkened night, forcing past one another in a futile attempt to get aboard what was merely rumored to be the last ship out. The public-address system bellowed its promises that there would be more transport on the way, that the rumors were false. But the crowd could not hear, or would not believe, the mechanical voice.
The storm shouted and thundered over and around the mob outside on the spaceport landing pad, and the rain surged in harder, pummeling the observation-deck window, making it all but impossible to see the madness outside.
For one brief, cruel moment, Neshobe wished that she herself could be on that shuttle. She could do it. Neshobe Kalzant’s word was law on Solace. She got what she wanted. Even now, at this late moment, she could give a quiet order to the spaceport guards, and they would bash through the crowd for her, let her take her place aboard that shuttle. She could get the devil off this miserable planet. Even in the midst of this mob, this chaos, none would have dared oppose her. No one could have stopped her.