The Fires of Paratime

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  How about coming out next to the flag at a slight angle in order not to be where the course designer planned for me to arrive? I was supposed to touch each point. How close?

  Finally, and the moments hung like icicles while I de­cided, I skipped through. My second guess had been cor­rect. One of the largest rock-suckers I'd ever seen was draped flat over the rugged rocks, with a tentacle loosely circling the white flagstaff.

  I was back undertime virtually instantaneously, but even so, the rock-sucker's sting-arms whipped through the space where I'd been fast enough for me to sense a sudden rush of air as I slid undertime.

  The fifth flag was not at sea, nor high in the cliffs, but straight along the beach line to a level space on the sand.

  I studied the flat circle around the flag from the under­time, but couldn't see anything out of order. I jumped onto the sand as close to the flagstaff as I could manage, focused on the vector arrow, and tried to locate point six.

  I didn't get that far before I was tossed head over heels into the air by a blast of wind. I felt strangely light.

  I'd managed to memorize the directions, although I hadn't seen the flag for the next point. I slid undertime from my midair tumbling and reoriented myself.

  The farther along I got, the less happy I was about this test. The air blast generator or whatever wasn't a test. Deliberately designed to see if I could slide undertime after I'd been bushwhacked.

  I put it behind me and slid half-blind in the direction the arrow had pointed. Seemed longer, but since it's all subjective in the undertime, the unseen examiners couldn't tell my fumbing so long as I located the seventh point.

  The obstacle for point seven was clear. They, whoever "they" were, had lowered the flag from an overhanging cliff, letting it float in midair, a good fifty feet above a loose talus pile. No way in the world I could obtain mo­mentary footing, let alone a firm stance. I hovered there, though that's not precisely how it works, in the undertime, trying to figure out how to get a look at the vector arrow.

  I could give up, but somehow, someway, I'd be damned if the unknown "they" were going to get the best of me.

  Well if I could hang in midair while undertime, why not in real time? Not exactly the same, but it was worth a try. Maybe I could leave my heels sort of undertime as an anchor.

  I tried it ... and damned if it didn't work. I wasted no time and studied the locator diagram, glanced along the vector path, saw the glimmer of white and jumped back undertime.

  As I slid on a low angle back down to the surf line, I wondered what was next. The white flag was there, all right, and I reached it before I thought I would.

  Again—for some reason—I hesitated on break-out. Dim­ly from the undertime I could see the flag whipped by the spray and wind, located as it seemed to be in the middle of an overactive surf line. If I broke-out there, I'd be pounded by the surf and tossed onto the rocky shore. But was that the test?

  I wanted to kick myself when it penetrated. No small white rectangle where the vector arrow should have been. A phony point eight, short of where the real point eight was.

  The actual point eight was in the middle of the waves farther out, the tall flag anchored from beneath the water with no place to break-out. I did the split-entry trick a second time, leaving my heels locked in the undertime, and studied the vector arrow pointing to the ninth flag as quick­ly as possible. It pointed up the coast and right into the middle of the lava cliffs.

  Right in the middle of the cliffs was an understatement The break-out point was a small cubical room hollowed from the solid rock without any windows or doors. I could tell as I circled the space in the undertime that it was sur­rounded with machinery of some sort.

  Beginning to feel more than normally nervous about the last stages of the damned test, I became more convinced than before it wasn't any ordinary test.

  From the undertime I could sense the power of the machines buried in the walls of the rock chamber. Even though I couldn't determine anything, I was betting they would be focused on me the minute I appeared.

  They were bending the rules, and so would I. I slid back undertime to the beach below. I didn't exactly break-out, but I did manage to get a good chunk of rock, shuttled back undertime to point nine, and studied the chamber.

  By wandering around the limp flag and straining to pierce the uncertainty that separates the "now" from the undertime, I could see a vector arrow sheet attached to the rock wall behind the staff.

  Still skeptical, I pitched the rock into the chamber. For a long moment, nothing happened. A greenish light filled the other side of time, the "now," pervading the space in the rock.

  Gas! If it were a test of capabilities, nothing fatal would be employed, only something painful or humiliating.

  While the gas swirled around and clouded the chamber, I decided, perhaps foolishly, to flash-slide by the vector arrow and get a peek at the directions.

  I made one pass, less than a unit in real time, and managed to absorb the direction and approximate distance. The almost instantaneous slide still left my face stinging.

  That's a disadvantage of time-diving. You're left sus­pended with whatever hurts until you break-out. True of pleasure as well, which leads to some interesting permuta­tions, I'd been told, but that was locker-room gossip.

  Point ten took awhile to pin down, subjectively, that is. The directions were confusing, and damned if I was going back for a second look and more gas burns.

  The last point, once found, was simple enough. Location was what took the time. The vector arrow had indicated an incredibly long, virtually vertical direction. If the scale was correct, and I had no reason to disbelieve it, my last point had to be well above Query's surface.

  In the dark above Query, I located an orbiting structure. Through the silver haze that divided the undertime from the objective "now," I could sense that the space station, if that was what it was, had been there for eons, if not longer.

  The outer spokes of the wheel were gouged and pitted, and one of the arms was holed through.

  Groping around half-blind in both the space darkness and the hazed undertime, the subjective time dragged out before I pinned down the elusive tenth flag in a small com­partment with heavy metal doors at each end.

  I hesitated. Every other spot had been trapped. By then, of course, the gas burns were getting to me. Subjective feelings, because the intensity was constant. I just wanted to get the test over with.

  I knew whoever set the course was playing on my im­patience, and I was tempted to sit up there in orbit for what seemed subjective hours until I figured out the latest catch. I snooped around as well as I could, discerned no equipment, could sense no energy concentrations.

  Finally, I decided it had to be the location and the air­lessness which were the tests. I made a flash-through ap­pearance in the chamber, long enough to register if anyone had left any device to record my presence, and slid back down to the beach where it had all started.

  Sammis was waiting, sitting on the sand with his head in his hands and his knees drawn up, a morose look on his elvish face.

  Some of my pent-up anger lessened on seeing him in the unguarded position, strengthening my suspicion that he had not been the sole architect of the test course.

  "Sammis," I said, my resolve to keep my mouth shut evaporating rapidly, "who the Hell designed your little course?"

  He scrambled to his feet. I had the feeling I wasn't sup­posed to be back yet.

  "Are you all right? How far did you get?"

  "All ten. At least, if that airless hulk of a space station was number ten, I got through all of them."

  He made me recite all of them, and I did, rather im­patiently.

  "Look," I snapped as I finished responding to his grilling, "if I said I did all ten, I did all ten. I'm not about to lie to anyone about it. Damned if I'll lower myself by lying."

  "What?" he asked. He paled slightly, I think.

  Abruptly, I realized I was still a trai
nee, and fairly junior at that.

  "I'm sorry. I'm a little keyed up."

  "I can understand that, Loki."

  He still hadn't answered my question. Tried once more. "Sammis, who designed that course?"

  "The final responsibility for evaluating the attitude ad­justment skills of his trainees rests with the instructor."

  That, or some variation, was all he said. I knew some­one else was involved.

  I just didn't know who.

  V

  There's a Hell of a lot to Temporal Guard training. Ad­vanced training is practically always on a one-on-one basis. It has to be. Abilities vary so greatly from individual Guard to individual Guard that a standardized program would fail.

  Freyda stayed on as my field diving instructor. She wasn't as good as I was even then, but she was well-ac­quainted with the impetuousness I displayed, acted as a brake on my lack of caution. Freyda was nothing if not cautious.

  She was so cautious I was stunned to find out through casual gossip that she'd spent a short contract with my grandfather Ragnorak before he had disappeared on a long-line, back-time dive.

  Later, it made a bit more sense, when other trainees hinted that the Counselor was cautious in all areas but one.

  On Guard matters, however, she was all business and didn't hesitate in using whatever or whoever was best for the Guard.

  "You're going to Sinopol with Baldur. Procurement. Re­quires a complete cosmetic," Freyda announced one morn­ing as I entered the Training Rooms.

  "Sinopol?" I'd never heard of the place.

  "Hunters of Faffnir, high-tech, a million back. Get a briefing from Assignment and a full language implant. I mean full, with complete fluency. Then report to cosmetics. You two leave tomorrow."

  I got the picture. I was the porter for the heavy tech­nological gadgets. Could be interesting even for a coolie. I buttoned my lip and marched over to Assignments, where Heimdall motioned me to an end-console with, a single abrupt gesture.

  After I had the briefing tapes firmly in mind, Heimdall shoved me out the archway toward Linguistics. There was I laid out under the Gubserian language tank to absorb a complete dosage of Faffnirian.

  The language tank is an experience in itself. When I tottered to my feet after an afternoon of high-speed im­plantation, I muttered my thanks in gibberish—gibberish to anyone in the Tower. It would have meant "thank you ... I think" to a Hunter of Faffnir.

  Recalling the elaborate code duello of the Hunters, I belatedly noted that the doubt in my voice would have earned an immediate challenge from any full-fledged Hunter in Sinopol, but the young Guard tech, Ordonna, just smiled. She was used to the disorientation.

  It was late by the time I reached Cosmetics, and I hoped everyone had disappeared. No such luck. Two Guards were waiting. They popped me into a conditioner, pulled me out thirty units later, and shoved me in front of a mirror. I had dark brown skin.

  After covering my hair with gunk, they stuffed my head under some sort of electronic gadgetry. I came out with hair so black it was that incredible tinge of blue.

  I trudged to the east portal of the Tower and slid straight to my rooms in the West Barracks. I collapsed on my couch, barely remembering to set the wake-up for the next morning.

  Baldur was waiting for me at the Travel Hall.

  "What did they tell you?"

  "Standard briefing."

  Baldur shook his head. "How's your hand-to-hand? Any good with a knife?"

  "Nix on the knife. All right on the hand-to-hand."

  I was being modest. I was good on the hand-to-hand, partly because I cheat. I can't explain it, but I used my diving/sliding ability to speed up my reactions and mo­tions. Never met another diver who could do it the way I can. Sammis could anticipate, and he was the best I knew.

  "I hope you're better than that. The odds are a hundred percent you'll have to fight at least once on this trip."

  "I'll do all right."

  He pulled me over into a corner.

  "Loki, I've heard you're the hottest Guard since Odinthor or before. I've also heard that you forget to listen. Listen, please, and save us both some trouble ... "

  He was off and running about the fantastic technology of the Hunters of Faffnir, their ultra-courteous social structure, and their nasty habit of challenging each other to fights on the slightest pretext. I tuned it out because I'd already gotten it from the briefing tapes.

  Baldur meant well, but he went on and on.

  "Loki, I give up. You know it all. I hope you don't have to pay for it like Mimris did. You ready?"

  "Sure." Who was Mimris? I wanted to know, but after that sermon I wasn't about to ask.

  "We're sliding to the objective 'now' site of Sinopol be­fore diving straight back. I'll need a breather in between. As it is, I can barely reach High Sinopol. That's one of the reasons for the trip and your presence." Baldur gri­maced and brushed his long blue-black hair out of his eyes. Usually it was white-blond.

  I knew I was diving along as a glorified porter, but why the rush? Heimdall and Freyda hadn't said a word, just pushed the buttons and sent me off. Baldur was bluntly ad­mitting this dive was almost beyond him.

  I looked at Baldur again, as if he were a different man.

  "Beginning to wonder, aren't you?" He smiled wryly. "I should have started with our politics. Remember, we're a totally parasitic society. We're moving into a time phase where the average diver can't reach many high-tech cul­tures. The Guard is reluctant to meddle and create artifi­cially spurred high-tech systems. In the meantime, Terra and possibly Wieren may develop into high-tech cultures. Predicting is chancy, especially when our own lights could go out if we're wrong."

  "What lights?" Baldur's words made sense, but not too much.

  "Loki, can you build a generator, make a glowbulb, even forge a knife?"

  "No, can you?"

  "As a matter of fact, I can. But I spent four years on Ydris learning how before old thunderbolt Odinthor de­cided to undo the place. As far as I know, I'm the only one on Query who can build anything from scratch, and that's the point. We beg, borrow, and steal."

  "But we have the copier."

  "We stole that, too." Baldur cut off the philosophy with a smile. "I'd rather not have to go to Sinopol. It's at the fringe of my ability. We need a certain compact generator, and you're the only one who can lug that much metal a million years. So we're going. Please keep your lip sealed and act insignificant."

  I nodded. What else could I do? Baldur was overdrama­tizing, but who was I to dispute it? He'd convinced the Counselors and the Tribunes. Besides, I liked the thought of being indispensable.

  "We'll break-out in a small room I rented on a long contract. We'll round up enough stellars to pay for the generator, pick it up, and return to the Travel Hall. Hope­fully, you'll return to regular training better equipped to understand than before."

  I nodded politely again.

  We walked over to the Travel Hall and suited up with outfits Baldur had obviously brought back on a previous dive.

  I dressed. Someone had taken the time and care to tailor the gear for me, and I wondered who. Either that or it ad­justed to the body size of the wearer. Basically, the Hunters wore a black bodymesh suit which covered everything but hands, feet, throat, and head. The material was a flexible synthetic patterned in octagons. I tried to knick the stuff with the razor knife that was part of the equipment and couldn't even peel a sliver from it.

  A pair of shorts, a sleeveless overtunic, a wide equip­ment belt, and boots completed the uniform. Our wrist gauntlets were disguised as ceremonial bracelets.

  "You look like you've worn that all your life," com­mented Baldur.

  I couldn't say much to that, and didn't

  Baldur gestured, and we slid to Sinopol "Now."

  Sinopol of the present is nothing more than a handful of hovels crouched around a shallow inlet of the Sea of Tarth, a pile of brown heaps perched on a plateau above the choppy black water
s of the dead sea.

  The Hunters of Faffnir had founded Sinopol a million and a half years earlier. Then the high plateau was lower, the air clearer, and the water dark green and filled with fish.

  For five thousand centuries the Hunters hunted and conquered the systems of the Anord Cluster. In the Five Thousandth Century, the Hunters overran the Technocracy of Llord, and there were no more conquests left in the cluster. Anord Cluster is isolated by the Rift and impass­able to large fleets.

  Without conquest, the Hunters turned on themselves, first on the fringes, then at the capital, and in the end, the tallest towers of Sinopol were fused flat into a silicon block.

  Sinopol the Fair in the Five Thousandth Century, the Great Millennium, was ringed with the eight glass blue towers of dawn guarding the corners of the city. For all the brightness of the towers and walls, for all the armed strength represented in the steelglass battlements, the city laughed, breathed with the laughter of happy people who sold the tools of war with a smile, their hair, that universal blue-black, cropped short, and their eyes flashing as they talked of the art of war and, sometimes, the war of arts.

  Strangers were prey. The slightest offense under the elaborate code duello led to a public challenge at any one of the many corners arenas, where smiling Hunters chose one of the two parties and laid bets on the outcome.

  Strictly speaking, the Palace of Technology wasn't. It was a city within a city, surrounded with a force screen shimmering green in the dusk and gold in the sunrise. Kilos of closed and cool arcades, scented year around with the smells of a summer evening, were lined with store­fronts.

  Did a Hunter want battle armor? The nearest informa­tion corner contained computerized directories of the enter­prises located in the Palace.

  After this build-up, arrival in Sinopol came as a shock. Baldur's rented room was a hole in the wall, a clean hole in the wall, but a hole in the wall nonetheless.