GODS OF TIME

by DG SIDNA

  Careena scolds me. "Get your hand off your face, you dolt. You're going to make us look like bloody tourists. This district is home to the city's main food processing facilities. That smell is protein. I think. Anyway, they say it grows on you."

  "I hope they don't mean literally."

  She only shrugs.

  After navigating a large boulevard, she leads us down a long back alley, paved in historic cobblestones, which is odd for a modern city at the edge of an expanding universe. We're behind what once was a ritzy theater, now left in ruination and despair. There's trash everywhere. The walls are covered in torn and faded posters, advertisements mostly. Even in death a few of them try to show moving images as we pass.

  The alley is empty save for us. It's dark, creepy, and I feel we're unwelcome. "Are we safe here?" I ask.

  Careena looks up. "Probably not. One good meteor crack on that dome and there goes the atmosphere. This city is a forking humanitarian crisis just waiting to happen, believe you me."

  "I meant this alley."

  "Oh, right. Doubtful."

  She leads us further down.

  We come to a large iron door.

  I can feel someone watching us.

  Careena knocks.

  There's a sketched drawing of a face on the center panel of the door. It's drawn in white marker with hard angles. Ordinarily, I'd think it was a graffiti tag, but graffiti generally doesn't move. Or talk, for that matter.

  "What do you want?" the face on the door asks.

  Careena answers. "We're here to see the Tinker."

  "What makes you think he wants to see you?"

  "We're old friends."

  The face looks Careena up and down. "You don't look like his type." It looks me over the same way. "Her maybe."

  "Just tell him we're here," Careena demands.

  There's a pause. Then the face responds, "The Tinker says he remembers you."

  "See, like I said, old friends."

  "The Tinker says last time you were here you shot him in the leg."

  "It's a... rocky sort of friendship."

  The face's eyes narrow. "The Tinker says I should flood this alley with fendahl gas."

  Careena's tack is now on full display. "Listen here, you rusted doorknob, tell that tosspot he owes me this visit. And he's lucky it was only his leg. Because I was aiming for his goddamn bollocks!"

  A green mist rises out of the cobblestones, clinging to our ankles. I try to kick it away, to little effect. "Um, Careena."

  She ignores me. Instead, she raises her hand to the door, exposing her ring. "Alright, ask that perverted chipmunk if he knows what this is."

  There's another pause.

  "You a fucking timecop?" the door finally asks.

  "I am. I'm also the reason no one from Tegana has ever been here kicking down this door, which is to say you. That should at least get me an audience, don't you think?"

  The mist pulls back into the stones.

  "You got five minutes," says the door.

  He opens and we're all hit by a sudden blast of dance music. After passing through a long, dark hallway and a defunct coat check, we walk up some stairs and through a velvet curtain.

  What I see amazes me, a dance club, filled with revelers grinding and dancing with fancy cocktails in their hands as laser lights shoot through generated fog. There's a stage to the left, designed to mimic the Roaring Twenties. Which makes the electronic club music all the more out of place.

  A woman cuts through the crowd toward the stage. She's petite, with high cheekbones and the aura of a starlit from the early days of cinema. Wavy blonde hair covers one eye. Or it would have been blonde, where the woman in color.

  Unlike everyone else, she's entirely in greyscale, from her lipstick right down to her gorgeous evening gown; it's as if she's just stepped out of an old-time, black-and-white television. Once on stage, the dance music is shut off and she sings something befitting of her time period, jazzy and slow.

  My mouth hangs open as the revelers' outfits morph to match this older style of music. Women sitting on bar stools grow decorative feathers from the buns in their hair. Tacky club shirts seamlessly meld into period vests. Cigarettes grow into pipes, sneakers morph into loafers. I look down, expecting my own clothes to change, but nothing happens.

  I'm sort of disappointed.

  The black-and-white woman finishes the song and the lights go up. The fog vanishes. The music stops. The revelers fade out of existence. They'd been a crowd of holograms this entire time. If the world were a stage, it feels like all the actors have gone home, and that we've been left standing behind the curtain of reality, a netherworld both quiet and lonely. The black-and-white woman remains up on stage, though.

  She smiles down at us kindly but otherwise doesn't move.

  "Did you like the show?" This comes from someone else, a man walking down a grand spiral staircase leading to the dance floor where we're waiting. He's short with unkempt hair, pudgy fingers, and a face that reminds me of a mole.

  "Put that on just for us, did you?" Careena asks.

  He joins us. "You didn't like it?"

  "I recognized your cartoons from last time I was here. When you going to get some real bloody friends?"

  The strange man points to the black-and-white woman on stage. "Oh, no. Not her. She's new. That's Veronica Lake. Besides, friends are unreliable." He eyes me and Rhoda. "Speaking of friends, who are these bumpkins you've brought? More agents from the Tegan Ministry of Evil?"

  Careena is very casual. She walks over to the bar, looking for a drink. "If we were here on behalf of the ministry, do you really think we would have knocked?"

  "Then why are you here, timecop?"

  "Information."

  "That doesn't come cheap," says the little man.

  "Neither does keeping your operation from my bosses."

  The Tinker puts a hand to his chin in thought. "I am curious why you've done that. But I'm not stupid enough to ask. What is this information you're looking for?"

  "Someone has come through recently with an awful lot of RGMs. They'll want to process it. And fast. Unless I miss my mark, they'd come to you."

  "I'm not involved in that anymore," he says. "I found it wasn't good for one's personal wellbeing. Too many ladies with tiny guns aiming for you netherbits."

  Careena pushes. "With what these people would be paying, you'd come out of retirement."

  The Tinker considers this a moment. "The information you want comes with some personal risk."

  "I'll take my chances."

  "Not for you, you old witch. For me! Honestly, I'd rather face the Tegan po-po than the wrath of the people you're after."

  "I can make it worth your while."

  "With what?" he asks. "With money? Do I look like I need money?"

  Careena reaches into her pocket for her gun. "Fine, it's the bollocks then. This time I won't miss."

  "Wait, wait. There may be one thing you could barter."

  Careena's answer is sharp. "These two girls are off limits."

  "No, not that. Your QDD. Five minutes in the Veeger."

  "Out of the question."

  "Then no deal."

  Careena stands her ground as long as she can. "Fine, three minutes and it never leaves my hand."

  The little man smiles. "Fair enough. I only need two minutes, anyway." He turns to the black-and-white woman. "Veronica, be a doll and go fetch the Veeger."

  I can't help but ask. "I thought she was another hologram."

  He eyes me with disdain. "Are you from a farm?"

  Careena cuts in. "Ignore her. Tell us what you know."

  "Very well. Your friends had enough material for three-hundred and twenty-four vests. That was the order. I didn't believe it until I saw it. I mean, I didn't even know that much timecrack existed in all the Milky Way. Someone on your end obviously sucks at their job."

  "That can't be right," Careena says. "They only stole enough RGMs to make a hundred jumpvests at best.
"

  The Tinker almost laughs. "A hundred good vests, sure. But you cut it the right way, with the right filler, and you can nearly double your yield. We do it all the time now. But it's not just that. Most jumpers want to be able to, you know, come back. Your friends were able to get three hundred vests because half of those vests are capable of only a single jump. Wherever they're planning to go, it's a one ticket for most of them."

  "And you have these vests?"

  "No. I sold them all the vests I do have, which wasn't more than thirty. I assume they cleaned out everyone in town. But the actual programming and installation, they're doing all that in-house. They don't trust anyone. They got a man who apparently knows a thing or two about jumps. Patmos is his name, I think. Never heard of him, so I can't tell you if he's any good. There's a lot of hacks out there these days, promising the sky to your grandma, so who knows. And before you ask, I don't have the RGMs either. It's all been processed and delivered. I'm fast. You should have stopped by sooner."

  Careena doesn't give up. "I need to know where they are."

  This time the Tinker does laugh. "I definitely don't know that. If I did, I assure you, I'd be dead."

  I'm suddenly anxious. The Red Man has his vests and now he has the material ready to power them. There's little holding Patmos back now. For all we know, the universe might end at any moment. If that's even what he intends to do; it's absurd that we still haven't the slightest idea what his actual intentions are. He might want to crack the cosmos open like an egg to summon Satan. Or he might have some nobler aim. But if he accidentally creates a paradox, the result will be all but the same. The end of everything.

  Veronica returns holding a clear glass orb with a hole large enough for a hand to fit in its center. The Veeger.

  Careena eyes the device. "I'm not putting my hand in there unless you give us something else. Nothing you've given us so far has been very helpful."

  The Tinker nods. "Alright, how's this—two of their technicians came by the other day to drop off the timecrack to be processed. I realized they were both noobs, so while they were here, out of the kindness of my heart, I suggested when they came back to collect the finished material, if they wanted to bring a vest with them, I could show them how to install a power matrix. After all, this Patmos guy couldn't do all three hundred vests himself, and maybe if they showed some initiative, along with a little skill, they'd get a promotion."

  "That doesn't help me," Careena says.

  "That's because you're not as clever as I am," he points out. "I can't tell you where they went after they left here. I couldn't take the chance they'd find a tracer on any of the vests I sold them. And my new life philosophy involves avoiding getting shot. But I might be able to tell you where they're planning to go. You see, the vest they brought back for a demonstration had already been programmed with jump coordinates, as I thought it might be, given this was a rush job and they seemed in a bit of hurry. It's the one thing Patmos could have gotten out of the way while waiting the several days it would take to process all that timecrack."

  "And?" Careena asks.

  "And I may have taken the liberty of downloading those coordinates while I was so kindly giving my demonstration."

  "And?"

  "The data was encrypted."

  "How bad?"

  “A Deltan-Oracle quantum encryption.”

  Careena shakes her head. “Impossible to break.”

  The mole-faced man smiles. "For you fools on Tegana, maybe."

  Careena is dubious. “Codswallop. You’re telling me you can break that level of encryption?”

  “Veronica can,” he says, nodding to the petite woman, who I still don't know if she's an android or a hologram or something entirely new that I can't even comprehend. He continues. "She's been working on it all night. Come back later this afternoon and I'll have your answer for you. I'll tell you exactly where they're going. That way you can be there waiting with the cavalry when they show up."

  "Fine, you'll get your fancy scan of Hecate then." Uncharacteristically she adds, "And, Tinker..."

  "Yes?"

  "Good work."

  He beams. Having few equals in the galaxy, praise from those who could truly appreciate his accomplishments was welcomed, even when it came from the institutions chartered to thwart his endeavors. Or perhaps, especially when it came from those institutions.

  We leave his theater to break for lunch and to plan out the rest of the day. I'm relieved once we're out of that creepy back alley and in the bustling crowds of the city again, even if the streets continue to smell like soggy potatoes everywhere we go.

  As we walk Rhoda asks, "Old maid, I take it your ring is beyond anything that strange man can produce?"

  "A tachyon-string accelerator that can fit in the palm of your hand? You better believe it, hotcakes."

  "And if he scans it, he'll be able to reproduce it?"

  "Yeap. Pretty much."

  "So is it wise to give up your secrets to a man such as that?"

  Careena takes off Hecate and hands it to her. "Here, you can have it."

  Rhoda gives a look of confusion.

  Careena winks. "It's a fake, luv. I got a whole a pocket full of them. Most are rejects, from back when I was dating one of the engineers. They'll fool the Tinker's scanners, though."

  Now I have to ask. "Is this the same sort of fake you gave Soolin back at the ministry to fool her scanners?"

  "Yeah, why?"

  I want to smack my forehead with my palm. Something tells me I should be very worried about how the rest of today is going to turn out.

  TWENTY-SIX

  With a few hours to kill until the Tinker has his findings ready, I convince Careena to take us shopping. First, because Rhoda's outfit is too suspicious; I doubt a refugee colony is the best place for a Kheltic girl to be outed. And second, because my own is starting to see quite a bit of wear and tear, which I suppose is to be expected when you're a time-traveling Indiana Jane who has been shot at, assaulted, thrashed around on a sinking ship, and forced to camp out under the stars on faraway alien worlds. A new wardrobe seems like the least the universe owes me.

  I admit that while I've never been the type of girl to have closets full of designer shoes or anything, I do enjoy a fresh outfit from time to time. Today is my chance. I indulge in a long sleeve blouse, taupe in color. The fit is nicely tailored with a somewhat conservative cut to the shoulders. There's even a short, ruffled, faux tie. I also grab some black pants, almost identical to my old ones, because in this department I'm not very original. Go with what works. To finish it off, I take a handsome white blazer.

  Rhoda is practical to a fault. The best I can convince her is to replace her military jacket with a moto jacket. At least there's no Kheltaris Mining Directorate badge on this one. She also swaps out her white undershirt with a steely grey blouse. Finally, her army boots she replaces with a slightly more fashionable version of... army boots.

  Careena keeps her tacky wardrobe, which never seems to soil or smell, no matter how much she puts it through. The only thing she buys is a handful of new hair scrunchies which, given the number she goes through in a day, I can only assume she eats. I decide not to ask how she affords everything we buy. Sometimes it's best not to know.

  "Time to head back," she tells us as we leave the shopping promenade. "That little troll should have what we need by now."

  I remark offhandedly, "You'd think with all the money he has, he'd fix his teeth or something."

  She looks at me like I've sprouted horns. "What are you talking about, freckles? No one today is born with genes that would let you get that ugly even if you tried. You have to pay out the arse to get yourself shortened like that, believe you me. And to get one eye slightly above the other! Well, that tells everyone you're absolutely made of money."

  I shall never understand the future.

  We head back to the theater. As soon as we enter the cobblestone alley, I sense something is wrong. This feeling is conf
irmed once we reach the talking door, which now hangs crooked from busted hinges, that strange graffiti face twitching and unresponsive.

  Careena does not waste a second. With Old Bessie in hand, she slips into the building. It's at moments like this that I remember she is not just some kooky old lady with a drinking problem; she's a former soldier and a world class super spy. She's trained and she's lethal. Rhoda and I follow cautiously behind.

  In the main hall, the first thing I notice, besides the eerie quiet, is that Veronica is on stage, standing like a statue, with a listless, dead look in her eyes. I smell burning rubber; to my left is a smoldering jukebox.

  It isn't much of a leap of logic to realize the jukebox housed Veronica's mind, her digital soul, developed over years by a man whose social phobias so dominated his life that he'd rather create artificial friends than open himself up to real ones.

  "Forkballs," Careena curses. "Stay here, you two."

  She runs up the grand spiral staircase. Both Rhoda and I ignore her instructions and follow after. On the second floor is a doorway into a master bedroom. The scene in that room will haunt me for all my days.

  First, there's the sound. While standing in the room, some sort of neural projector is filling my mind with the rhythmic moaning of a woman in ecstasy, as if mental porn is being beamed directly into my soul. It's revolting.

  But more disturbing is the Tinker himself. He's on his back on his bed. His pants are pulled down to his knees. I don't want to judge, but it looks as if he may have been in an act of self-pleasure. With that neural projector beaming God-knows-what into his head, he was likely too engaged in this activity to ever notice his assassin enter the room. I have to cover my mouth. Chunks of his face and skull lay everywhere. His killer went at him with a hatchet. This wasn't just murder; it was psychopathy.

  The combination of sex and violence on display is too much for me to take. It triggers memories of my own assault in the washroom aboard the Stellar Pearl. Fearing I might vomit or breakdown, I leave the room and stand over the balcony for air, only to be confronted by the dead-eyed stare of Veronica below.

  "The Red Man did this?" I hear Rhoda ask from inside the room. She seems unfazed by the scene. Perhaps having synthetic chemistry isn't so bad after all.