by Glenn Smith
1340, Monday, March 21, 2168.
He’d made it! A little farther back in time than he’d hoped for, but God help him, he’d actually made it. He’d traveled more than twenty-two years back through time, and now he had a good three months to infiltrate the Mars shipyards crew and carry out his assignment.
“Are you all right, sir?” the receptionist asked, staring at him.
Dylan’s gaze fell to the young woman in the nurse’s uniform behind the desk. “What?”
“I asked you if you’re all right,” she told him. “You look a little pale, like you’re about to pass out or something.”
“Oh. No, I’m... fine,” he assured her. “Just a little tired. Thank you.” And with that he turned his back on her and walked away, but as he approached the exit he felt her eyes lingering on him, almost as though she knew he didn’t belong there.
Ridiculous, he told himself. How could she possibly know that he’d come from another time? She couldn’t, of course. He was just being paranoid, and he realized immediately that if he was going to succeed, if he was going to fit in with the people of this time period and not draw any undue attention to himself, then he was going to have to relax. He was going to have to act as though everything were normal and routine.
Then again, perhaps a little bit of paranoia might be a good thing. It might just keep him on his toes. Might keep him sharp.
The lightly tinted plastiglass doors swung open ahead of him and Dylan walked out of the Medical Sciences building into the middle of a bright sunny day. Not a single cloud blemished the turquoise sky, at least not anywhere he could see, and the air felt still and unseasonably warm for the middle of March. As he strolled along, following the doctor’s directions straight across the center of the beautiful campus grounds, he walked past numerous groups of casually dressed students, many of whom had kicked off their shoes, sitting here and there under the shade trees that lined the fine gravel pathways, or among the few large, decorative boulders scattered across the soft green grass. Most were dressed in simple shorts and tee shirts, but some of the girls were wearing the kinds of short skirts and tight spaghetti-strapped tops that had turned Dylan’s head for as long as he could remember. Some of them appeared to be studying, while others snacked on various foods and drinks or simply socialized with their friends.
Whatever they were engaged in, virtually all of them stopped what they were doing long enough to throw him a curious glance when he walked by. It made him feel a little bit like a captured soldier being paraded through the streets of the enemy’s capital city, but he could certainly understand their curiosity. While they were probably used to seeing Aerospace Force R.O.T.C. cadets sitting in class and wandering around campus, it wasn’t every day Earth-bound university students got a glimpse of a Solfleet Security Policeman marching through. Not since those years of martial law had ended anyway.
He arrived at the building the doctor had described to him, looked over the schedule—the next shuttle bus for the Philadelphia Aerospaceport would arrive in about twenty minutes—and then took a seat on the bench to wait. Finally. He finally had time to sit and think about what he was doing here, and about what lay ahead.
Twenty-two years in the future—actually, it would be closer to twenty-three years to that point in time from which he’d left, or rather from which he would leave, or... At any rate, back home the Earth and the rest of the surviving Coalition worlds were losing the war against the forces of the Veshtonn Empire. By the time he left, or would leave... Before he’d left, whole planets had been burned to cinders or blasted into rubble. A number of protectorate worlds had fallen as well, their governing bodies massacred, their populations enslaved. And probably worst of all, the Tor’Kana themselves, the founders and most powerful members of the Coalition, had been all but wiped out as a species. They had been the only means by which the Coalition member governments could access the ancient Tor’Roshan technology that had enabled what was left of the Coalition to stand and fight as long as it had, and without them what remained of that great body of allied worlds, including Earth herself, had been facing imminent and total defeat.
Vice-Admiral Icarus Hansen, Chief of the Solfleet Intelligence Agency, and Commander Elizabeth Royer, his executive officer—particularly Royer—had gone to great lengths to recruit him into the agency after he was wounded in action, with one single purpose in mind. To send him back in time through an ancient and top secret alien device known as the Portal to the year 2168. His mission, to prevent the destruction of his father’s vessel, the starcruiser Excalibur, in late June of that year—of this year, he reminded himself—thus saving his father’s life, the lives of his father’s crew, and if the mighty brainiacs who’d come up with the admiral’s plan in the first place were correct, potentially the entire Coalition. They’d put it on him to save more than a dozen worlds. Tens of billions of lives. Perhaps more than a hundred billion. Whole species of sentient beings and their entire civilizations!
“No pressure,” he mumbled.
So now that he’d actually made it back, just how exactly was he supposed to pull off such a miracle? How was he, one lone agent, a new agent no less, supposed to prevent the Excalibur’s destruction? By using the tools Hansen and Royer had provided him with to infiltrate the Solfleet armed forces of this era and get himself assigned to the security police unit at the Mars Orbital Shipyards. There he would babysit the starcruiser Albion, the ship that had led the attack against the Excalibur... according to Admiral Hansen’s information. While it was true that Solfleet records indicated the Albion was still in dry-dock at the time of the attack, the accuracy of those records had become suspect when conflicting information was received from an alleged eye-witness. At least that was what Hansen and Royer had told him during his mission briefing. So in short, his mission was to ensure the Albion didn’t go anywhere, thus preventing it from carrying out the attack. Hopefully.
Just how all of that was supposed to save the Coalition of his own time from facing its inevitable defeat, he had no idea. He had asked, of course, but the admiral’s non-reply had been short and to the point. “The details aren’t important to your mission,” he’d said. And one bizarre trip through a Portal later, here he was.
A Portal that probably wasn’t there anymore, he recalled with sorrow. At least not in his own time—not in the time he’d left. Poor Benny. The old engineer who’d flown him to Window World at Admiral Hansen’s request had laid down his life to see to it that he made it through the Portal. How many more had been lost, Dylan couldn’t even guess. Certainly Commander Akagi and everyone else on the surface of that dark world had been killed by the Veshtonn nuclear barrage. Damn lizards probably glassed the whole planet before they were finished. More than likely no one had survived.
One thing Dylan felt quite sure of. If the Portal had operated even one second slower, he never would have made it. That last detonation had been close and would have vaporized him right along with everything else in its path. Fortunately, he’d fallen through just in time.
And thank God he’d come through it clean, too, because if he hadn’t... if he’d been even slightly contaminated with radiation, the doctor would have discovered it. He’d have been able to decontaminate and treat him easily enough, of course, but once he finished he’d have had no choice but to turn him over to the authorities, and the authorities would have held him in custody until he spilled his guts as to how he’d been exposed in the first place.
But that hadn’t happened, so there remained at least a chance that he might complete his mission successfully and return home to a better world... and to Beth.
Leaving his new fiancée behind had easily been the most difficult part of taking on the mission. In fact, when Admiral Hansen had initially given him a choice, he’d declined the mission so that he wouldn’t have to leave her. But then the admiral had taken away that option—at that bitch Royer’s recommendation, no doubt—and had ordered him to go.
He missed her even mo
re than he missed his fellow Rangers.
Speaking of the admiral, and assuming he was still alive in the future, Dylan needed to signal him somehow to let him know that he’d arrived. Royer had conveyed the importance of that requirement by repeating it at least three times in her recorded instructions, but she hadn’t explained how he was supposed to do that. Sure, she’d made a few suggestions as to what he might do. He could write the admiral a note and hide it somewhere or make some kind of mark on a building, but the chances that Hansen or one of his people might actually find a note or a mark on a building were virtually nil, even if there were some way for them to figure out where to look for it. How was he supposed to...
He started looking around, surveying his surroundings more closely, for all the good that would do. How was he supposed to signal the admiral? The method should have been specified in his instructions. Royer should have told him what to do and where to do it, but she hadn’t. She should have...
His eyes fell on a pair of workmen in orange coveralls who appeared to be cleaning up after themselves about half a block up the street to his left. As he watched, they collected various tools, rinsed them off in a bucket of water or some kind of solvent, and then loaded them into the back of their vehicle—a city-owned truck it appeared, although Dylan couldn’t see the logos on the sides from his angle. What he did see, though, was that their coveralls and boots were heavily stained with what looked like gray-white paint or dried-on plasticrete.
Plasticrete. The sidewalk. That had to be it. What else could a pair of workmen have been doing along the side of the road with tools of the kind they had just been putting away? They’d been repairing or replacing a part of the sidewalk, and that meant there was at least one section of wet plasticrete sidewalk up there, nice and fresh and ripe for writing in with a stick... provided he could get to it within the next few minutes before it dried.
Admiral Hansen was going to get his message... he hoped.
He waited for several more minutes while the workmen strung yellow ‘caution’ tape up around their work area, finished packing up the rest of their equipment, and then finally climbed into their truck and drove away. As soon as they pulled out of sight he hurried up the sidewalk, well aware that he only had a few more minutes before the fresh plasticrete would be too firmly set to scratch anything into.
As if warning him to hurry, the newly surfaced section’s corners and edges had already lost their temporary luster by the time he reached it. Fortunately, a roughly two foot in diameter shine remained in the center, so he still had a minute or two to work with. He glanced around the immediate area but saw no heavy sticks or sharp rocks or other objects that would do the job. So, with no time left to waste, he looked around one more time to make sure no one was watching him—particularly the police—and then got down on his hands and knees and started scratching his message into the sidewalk with his finger.
It wasn’t easy. The mixture was thick and was setting quickly, and he wasn’t able to scratch very deeply, but he managed to finish before the mixture set. He stood up and brushed off his trouser legs, took a quick look at his handiwork, and then headed back to the bus stop.
He’d kept it short and to the point, and completely innocuous. As far as any of the locals who might see it would know, it didn’t mean anything significant at all. To them it would simply look like one more defacement of property in a city full of defacements of property—likely just some kid’s initials and the date he’d scratched them in.
Lt D-G, 21 Mar 2168.
Chapter 4
Thursday, 12 May 2191
“Mister Hansen,” the senior judge called out.
“Yes, Your Honor?” he replied as he stood up again.
“I have here, in my hand...” He raised the document for a brief moment, then set it aside as he continued, “...a presidential decree concerning your sentencing. It is not a reversal of your conviction. Nor is it a pardon. Rather, it is a short letter of explanation reemphasizing the reasons why you did what you did, and a set of guidelines that we on the panel have been asked to abide by in passing sentence. We have discussed it amongst ourselves and have decided to do so. In light of this, your sentence is hereby amended as follows.
“Effective immediately, your Solfleet commission is retired rather than revoked. You are ordered to forfeit all active duty pay and allowances, but your retirement benefits, to include full payment of all pension installments under the standard plan, will commence immediately. In addition, your sentence of confinement is hereby commuted. You are instead sentenced to military probation for the same period of thirty-one years.” He paused a moment, then added, “Go home, Admiral. Leave all of this behind you and start a new life with your daughter.” He raised his gavel into the air once again, proclaimed, “Now this court is adjourned,” and struck it.
Hansen practically collapsed back into his chair and sighed with relief. He felt as though a million pounds had just been lifted from his shoulders. Next thing he knew, he was on his feet again, holding Heather close and lovingly stroking her long strawberry-blond hair while she squeezed him as tightly as she could. His ever faithful younger brother and his sister-in-law made their way to him and reached over his weeping daughter to hug him as well. Then they all headed for the exit together.
Hansen recognized nearly all of the military personnel he came into contact with on the way out. Most of those he knew by name congratulated him on his sudden retirement, shook his hand, and wished him luck in his new life, but a select few flashed him dirty looks. No matter. He’d grown used to that years ago. Some enemies would always remain enemies, regardless of the passage of time.
He caught up to Mirriazu in the lobby before her security detail could whisk her away, introduced her to Heather’s aunt and uncle, and thanked her for her incredible thoughtfulness. When she graciously accepted his thanks, he followed up by inviting her to visit them in their new home at any time, wherever that new home might end up being, but her response to that invitation wasn’t at all what he expected. She stared at him for a moment, then turned her back and walked off, surrounded by her ever-present security team.
He couldn’t blame her, he supposed, considering that he’d lied to her and betrayed her trust, but the moment carried with it a certain feeling of finality that he found...regretful. He gave Heather one more gentle squeeze and kissed the top of her head, then nodded to his brother and sister-in-law and led them out of the building for the very last time.
He was pleased to see that the chilly, damp, overcast morning had turned into a warm and beautiful sunny afternoon. He unfastened his collar and the top part of his jacket. So what if that wasn’t the proper way to wear the uniform? He was retired and was wearing it for the very last time, so what did he care? It didn’t mean he wasn’t proud of it, or of what it stood for.
“What do you want to do first, Nick?” his younger brother asked as they walked casually toward the parking lot.
“You know what, Jason?” he responded as he decided he liked the idea of not having to work for his pay anymore. “I think I’m in the mood for a great big pepperoni pizza.”
“Me, too!” Heather added enthusiastically. “I’m starving!”
“Sounds good to me,” Jason’s wife agreed.
“Then I guess it’s lunchtime,” Jason concluded.
“Yes it is,” Hansen confirmed.
The Earth wasn’t safe. The war between the Coalition and the Veshtonn Empire wasn’t over. It would continue to rage on and on until one side or the other finally emerged victorious. But for this one very small moment in time, everything seemed right with the world.
“Admiral Hansen,” someone called out from behind them as they crossed the street.
All four turned to find a well-dressed young man hurrying toward them, though he wasn’t actually running, carrying something flat and square in his hand.
A picture frame? “Do I know you?” Hansen asked him when he reached them.
“I doubt
it, sir,” the man answered. “I’m new to the, uh...to the...to the department you used to work in, sir.”
“What can I do for you?”
“My supervisor asked me to give you this,” he answered, holding the picture frame out to him. “Said to tell you it was taken a few days ago near Drexel University in Philadelphia.”
Hansen accepted the frame and gazed down at the holophoto, and an icy chill suddenly climbed the length of his spine. “Oh my God,” he uttered neutrally, being careful not to display the utter shock he was feeling at that moment.
“What is it, Dad?” Heather asked, looking up at him with concern. “What’s wrong?”
A wide city sidewalk, much like any other, except for the brief message that appeared to have been scratched into the plasticrete when it was still wet.
‘Lt D-G, 21 Mar 2168.’
Hansen drew a deep breath and exhaled very slowly.
He’d made it.
Lieutenant Dylan Graves had traveled back in time to 2168.
“Dad, are you okay?” he heard his daughter ask him.
“Yeah, Heather, I’m... I’m fine,” he replied. He stared at the photo for several seconds, then finally turned his eyes to the young agent. “Where’s the president?” he asked him.
“She’s already gone, sir,” he answered. “She didn’t waste any time leaving, either. She looked pretty angry about something.”
All right. So he’d missed his chance with her. He had ways to reach her. People he could go through. Like the young agent’s supervisor, for example. Yeah, maybe. He didn’t know who that supervisor might be, but he or she was apparently someone who still felt some measure of loyalty toward him—he or she wouldn’t have sent this young agent to find him otherwise—and that was exactly the kind of person he needed.
He handed the photo back to the agent, saying, “Give this back to your supervisor and tell him or her...”
