“LOC,” he said, “is self-repair possible?”
“Negative.”
“Find parameters. Specifically: Is safety-chain programming still operational? Can safety-chain programming be shut off? Can destination and time codes be set at will? Or are those codes on random placement? Run.”
“Running…safety chain is operational. It cannot be canceled. Destination codes…destination codes…destination—”
“Stop!”
Frowning, Noel hugged his knees against his chest in a futile attempt to stay warm while he considered his options. Right now, they looked unappealing.
Travel operated on a forty-nine to one ratio, with forty-nine minutes of travel time equal to one minute of normal time. Usually a normal research mission took place in about one and a half days of travel time, and then the traveler returned home with his data and recordings. If something went wrong, say a LOC was lost or removed from the traveler’s possession for a short time, then the safety-chain program was designed to build in a longer stay in the past by adding tiny time loops within the original one. Noel’s LOC was programmed with three safety chains, with each chain lasting about twelve hours in travel time. At the end of the chain, he was either yanked home or he had to stay forever in the era he was visiting. Any alterations to history would become permanent, and the time-paradox principle would go into effect.
Now, although it seemed he could never return to the Time Institute, or to his home, friends, and fellow historians, he still had to contend with the fact that he wouldn’t be allowed to stay here permanently either. Safety chain would yank him out, sooner or later, to drop him elsewhere. His LOC was telling him there was nothing he could do about it.
Even throwing the LOC away was an option denied him.
He had an implant that conditioned him to never let the LOC willingly out of his possession.
Noel stared around at the bleak night landscape. Stars dappled the sky. The jutting mountains, the deep gash of canyon, the tumbled thrust of boulders…the silence, the emptiness, the loneliness.
He shivered. It was an alien land. He might as well have been sitting on Mars, for all the comfort he found here. By training and inclination, he felt comfortable in Rome, among the legions of her army, or garbed in toga and sandals, speaking the heavy Latin phrases. He felt comfortable among the Greeks of legend, scrambling over mountains rich with honey and almonds, a wineskin slung over his shoulder and a bow in his hand. If he had to live in a desert, let him live among the pyramids, where bewigged officials in linen gauze and gold collars drove their chariots at breakneck pace along the banks of the Nile.
He did not belong here in this bleak land of rattlesnake and scorpion, this land of gun and arrow. Men were too few. The only law was survival. Death came from animals, snakes, insects, sudden flood, or gradual dehydration. Death came from other men—white or Indian made little difference.
This was a land of silence. Men talked little, too Lisa-Marieen by the merciless sun and heat, too aware of the need to conserve energy.
“LOC,” he said, “how much time remaining in this location?”
“Unknown.”
“What do you mean, unknown? I’ve been here a day and a half already—”
“Thirty-two hours, fifteen minutes—”
“Stop. How many more hours before the safety chain yanks me out of here?”
“Unknown.”
“You have to know. Run diagnostics.”
“Running…Anomaly warning.”
“What? Oh, hell. What has Leon done?”
Noel asked the question, but he already knew the answer. Before the LOC could reply, he said, “I know. He kidnapped Lisa-Marie Trask. I’d like to know how long I’ve got to find her and get her home to her folks before my time runs out.”
“Anomaly warning.”
He sighed, trying to put a lid on his impatience. “Specify.”
“Actions to change history have already occurred.”
“I know that, you piece of junk. I saved Cody’s life and Leon carried off Lisa-Marie. Are you trying to tell me that she dies? Is she killed by the Indians? Relate specific history of Trask family.”
The LOC remained silent.
Alarmed, Noel said sharply, “Are you malfunctioning?”
“Negative.”
“Relate specific history of Trask family.”
“No data.”
“Wait a minute. You had data before. You told me that Lisa-Marie inherits the old man’s ranch and she marries Don Emilio, who then ends up with the place. I don’t know why anyone would want a piece of ground that looks like this, but everyone here seems possessive.”
“Rhetorical,” said the LOC.
“No, I’m not being rhetorical,” retorted Noel. “I’m asking for data. Spit it out.”
“Parallel history alternatives. Anomaly warning. No data.”
Noel chewed on that a moment, fighting off a growing sense of dismay. “You mean we’ve messed up history again.”
“Affirmative.”
“Damn.”
Noel thought about how they’d spent the last couple of hours of daylight casting about fruitlessly for the tracks. It was as though Lisa-Marie and Leon had vanished into thin air. The trail was gone, and although Don Emilio searched for bent weeds, horse droppings, even a scuff on the ground, there was nothing. The dirt here in the foothills was stone hard and littered with shale that shifted and crunched under foot. No tracks showed on it, not even their own. Of course the LOC’s directional finder could scan for Leon. But when Noel had pointed at the mountains looming above them, Don Emilio had slapped the dust wearily from his hat and suggested that they camp for the night.
Skeet had veered off and vanished once they spotted him. Noel didn’t like him hanging around somewhere out in the dark, but there wasn’t anything they could do about it. Don Emilio seemed nervous. He said they were close enough to attract the notice of Apache scouting parties. He’d let them have a fire just long enough to burn the rabbit he shot, then the ashes had been smothered with dirt.
The owl hooted again. Maybe it had lost its roost. Reluctantly Noel went back to his questions. “So we’ve changed history. What happens if we don’t change it back?”
The LOC hummed for a while.
Remembering how fast it used to function before it was sabotaged, Noel gnawed on his lip and tried to be patient. They used to be a smooth team. He’d even been considered one of the top historians in the travel department. He had empathy with his specialty area. He never failed to bring back useful, often unusual, data.
Had they figured out yet at the Institute that they’d lost him? he wondered. Did they care?
“LOC, reply to question,” he said. “What happens if we don’t change history back?”
Something tapped him on the shoulder. His heart shot into his throat, and he whirled around.
A shadowy figure stood before him, a figure lean and straight, clad in a breechclout that hung to his knees. The moonlight glinted off the tip of an arrow nocked back and aimed at Noel’s heart.
He froze, his heart pounding. The LOC glowed on his wrist, casting an eerie light over the ground.
I never heard him, Noel thought furiously to himself. “LOC, deactivate. Disguise mode,” he said swiftly.
The LOC’s circuits dimmed, and it shimmered briefly on his wrist as it resumed its shape of silver and turquoise.
The Indian’s bow and arrow lowered slightly. “Power maker,” he whispered in awe. “Much Power.”
He spoke in Apache, but Noel’s translator handled it. Eager to snatch any advantage given, Noel said, “Yes, I possess much power. You have disturbed me. Go away.”
“All clan leaders have a Power,” said the Indian. His eyes shifted like liquid darkness in the moonlight. “Kansana has Power over rattlesnakes. They do not bite him, and his touch can cure others of the venom. I am Tahzi, his son. Someday I will be a clan leader, too. What is your Power?”
For a moment
Noel was afraid the Indian might throw a snake on him to see what would happen. “If you do not recognize my Power,” he said with all the arrogance he could muster, “then I cannot speak of it to you. It is not discussed. You have seen it, and that is enough.”
The Indian stared at him for what seemed like an eternity, then he turned away.
Noel took a quick half step after the man and said, “Wait! We are looking for an Apache brave who has taken two white captives. A man and a girl. Are these captives in Kansana’s camp?”
The brave scowled. “We do not take slaves from the Pinda-lick-o-yi.”
“Someone has taken them. We have been following their trail all day. Has another band of Apaches camped in these hills?”
“Some Tchiene,” said Tahzi with scorn. “An old man and three toothless women.”
Noel frowned. He didn’t think an old man could capture Leon. “The girl is the granddaughter of Tom Trask. He will pay a large ransom for her safe return.”
“I know nothing of this girl,” said the brave flatly. “Ransom is a matter for Kansana to decide.”
What did that mean? Noel wondered. White men might have the reputation for double-talk, but this character was as slippery as they came.
“I’d like to speak to Kansana,” he said. “Would it be possible for me to go to his camp? Would you take me there?”
“Ask your Power these questions,” said Tahzi with scorn. “Kansana does not speak to a White Eyes.”
“But—”
The Apache turned and melted soundlessly into the shadows. Noel hesitated only a couple of seconds. He thought the Indian was lying about Leon and Lisa-Marie. Although he could follow the directional on his LOC in the morning, he had serious doubts now about the wisdom of riding any closer to the Apache camp in broad daylight. Scouts would alert the camp, and Leon and Lisa-Marie could be killed quickly.
Maybe it was time to do a little sneaking around himself. Reluctant to desert his sleeping companions, he couldn’t afford to waste the time telling them his plan. Besides, with some luck, he might be back by daylight.
“LOC,” he whispered, “activate a directional sweep. Is Leon’s location in the same direction the Indian is going?”
“Affirmative.”
“Maintain disguise mode,” Noel said. “Extend electromagnetic field, human body level, around me. Guide me by pulse code. Voice activation off.”
The LOC acknowledged by emitting a single warm pulse against his wrist. Noel set off after Tahzi, following him at a prudent distance, and keeping to all the cover available. He wasn’t certain the electromagnetic field would work as a true shield, especially since the Apache’s survival senses were so sharply attuned to his environment, but it was worth a try.
After a mile or two, Noel relaxed a fraction, deciding the Apache wasn’t going to circle back and ambush him. The trail grew steeper and more treacherous. A thin layer of cirrus clouds obscured the moon. Coyotes wailed in the distance, making Noel shiver.
He topped a ridge and crouched low to keep himself off the skyline. The Apache ahead couldn’t be seen, but the LOC was still pulsing steadily against his wrist so Noel wasn’t worried about losing him.
Then Tahzi veered off the trail. Whether he was hunting or circling back, Noel couldn’t tell. He decided he didn’t want to find out. Swiftly he left the trail and scooted his way down a steep slope of juniper and rock to a hollow of concealment deep in the shadows between two boulders. He pressed his shoulders tight against the rock and held his breath.
After a few seconds, he heard a faint scuff of moccasined feet over rock. Glancing up, he saw Tahzi pass by on the mountain trail, illuminated briefly in the moonlight. Noel froze, his heart whamming in a harsh rhythm. The Indian didn’t detect his presence, didn’t falter. Within seconds, the brave vanished from sight.
Maybe he was going back to scalp Don Emilio and Cody, sleeping without a sentry to warn them of attack. Noel felt guilty about that, but he squelched the feeling and climbed back to the trail.
Within another hour he crawled on his belly over an escarpment of cold stone and peered down into a canyon divided by a rushing mountain stream. Indian wickiups stood scattered about on the level ground, looming large and indeterminate in the shadows. The moon had vanished; it was hard to see anything.
Patience wasn’t one of Noel’s best traits. But he forced himself to lie there and keep quiet. There had to be scouts posted about the camp for protection. He didn’t want to encounter one and end up with his throat cut and his scalp lifted.
The camp smelled faintly of ashes, horse dung, and untanned leather. Across the canyon a bird twittered sleepily from a juniper thicket, then burst into sweet, piercing song. A trio of hunters armed with bows and arrows came into camp, one bearing a deer across his shoulders. He threw it down, and his companions knelt at the stream to drink thirstily.
Watching, Noel licked his dry lips. The very bubble and murmur of the stream tormented him with thirst. He was hungry, for he’d barely eaten any of the stringy rabbit they’d had for supper. Right now, venison looked tasty.
The captives weren’t in sight. As he waited he tried to think of a plan. All he had was a pistol and a handful of bullets. The last thing he meant to do was start shooting at sunrise. It would be better to scoot back to Don Emilio and get reinforcements, but first he needed definite proof that the captives were alive and well.
One of the hunters thrust aside a door flap and crawled into a wickiup. The others flopped down on the ground near their kill and slept there like dogs.
By the time the sun finally came up, Noel was bleary-eyed and tired of lying on the cold ground with his face being scratched by sticker weeds. A scorpion crawled over his fingers, its yellow tail curled over its back, and Noel barely kept himself from flinching.
Below, the camp stirred and came to life. Soon cooking fires were sending up tempting aromas. Brown, sturdy children scampered in play. A pair of squaws dragged the deer off into the shade of some mesquite trees and began skinning it. Their laughing chatter drifted up to Noel.
He frowned, his gaze searching among the half-dozen wickiups and beyond. No sign of captives. No evidence of people being tortured. No moans for mercy. No cries for help. No long reddish-blond scalps hanging from the lodge pole.
For the first time Noel allowed himself to doubt his LOC. Just about everything else on it was malfunctioning. Maybe the directional locator was, too. This could be a major wild goose chase.
With a sigh he decided to get closer, when female shrieks rent the air and one of the wickiups rocked. Women kneeling at metates, grinding dried mesquite beans into flour, paused in their work. Others put down the moccasins they were making or stopped filling pitch-coated water baskets. Children gathered swiftly. Even some of the men strolled over.
The wickiup rocked again. Sounds of violent argument punctuated by screaming rose in the air. Someone laughed. Then without warning the door flap flew aside, and two figures locked together in mortal combat came rolling out. Both women were scratching, pulling hair, gouging, kicking, and yelling curses. They went over and over in a wild tangle, stirring up dust and scattering the onlookers.
It wasn’t until then that Noel got a clear look at them. He realized that one of the women had red-gold hair. At once he stiffened, his interest intent. It had to be Lisa-Marie, and she was winning the battle.
By now she was on top and had her opponent pinned.
She slapped away the brown hands reaching for her throat and landed a punch that her brother must have taught her. The Apache woman gave up, coughing and spitting, and Lisa-Marie scrambled to her feet. She bolted for freedom like a gazelle, her pale slender legs a blur of moccasins under the beaded leather skirt.
One of the braves, a bronzed youth with a scarlet cloth twisted about his black hair, went after her. She ran with the speed of desperation, not bothering to glance back. She almost reached the edge of the canyon, but the brave’s easy lope was faster.
He
caught her by the hair, giving a swift, harsh yank that pulled her off balance and sent her sprawling at his feet. She yelled at him and tried to scramble away, but he planted a moccasin on her shoulder.
Lisa-Marie threw her arm across her face and sobbed. The brave bent and slipped a leather noose around her slender throat. He tugged lightly, then harder as she ignored him. With a growl, he gripped her arm and pulled her to her feet. He spoke roughly to her, shaking the end of the leather thong in her face in admonition. Lisa-Marie stood with her head averted. Dirt was smeared across the fine beadwork of the leather dress she wore. Her bare arms gleamed white and vulnerable in the sunshine.
The brave led her back to the center of the camp and tied her to a stake driven in the ground. The children circled her, jeering.
Noel decided he’d seen enough. He wasn’t going to leave without her. She was brave and a fighter, but they might kill her at any moment.
Drawing his pistol, Noel slithered back off the escarpment and turned around. He made his way to the trail, keeping to cover and trying to make no sound in the rocks. He was way too close to the camp, and now it was broad daylight.
The sun wasn’t hot yet, but he was sweating heavily. Ahead, he could see a jumbled pocket of boulders that looked like a good place for an ambush. Maybe he could hide there until he figured out how to rescue the girl.
It took him half an hour to reach the spot, for he took great care not to show himself. Once he had to dive flat to the ground behind a fallen yucca log as a pair of chattering boys went by, their bows in hand. They failed to see him, however, and Noel crept on, his heart pounding overtime.
He reached the rocks at last, eager to dig in, but just as he did so, an Apache warrior in a white man’s shirt and a long breechclout rose from the rocks and trained an Army rifle on him.
The gun was battered and rusty. It probably hadn’t been cleaned in years. But at this angle, the long bore of the muzzle was at Noel’s eye level. It looked enormous, and lethal. He froze, the blood draining from his head in a rush that left him slightly dizzy. Slowly, he put up his hands.
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