Timediver's Dawn

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  After dropping under the now as quickly as possible, I slid across the undertime from the hills of Bremarlyn back to Mount Persnol where the assistant armourer waited.

  My second exit was still smooth.

  “Quick there, Trooper.”

  “Hope we can keep it that way,” I reached for the next of the black mushrooms. Janth clipped two of the second batch of grenades to my belt as I did two.

  “Good—“

  His sendoff was cut short as I dropped under the now, threading my way back along the silvery/grey/black undertime line I had travelled just moments before.

  From what I could sense from the undertime, nothing in the underground ConFed base had changed between my departure and return.

  Again, breakout was uneventful, and, in the second major ventilation duct, once more fighting the wind and odour of metal and oil, I placed and armed the grenades. This time my nose itched, almost enough to cause me to sneeze before I dropped undertime.

  The trip back to Base was unpleasant—annoying, if you will. Imagine being suspended with the terrible itchy feeling and anticipation that comes just before a sneeze.

  Kkkkatchbewww!!!

  I felt like I had bruised every bone in my body, but I wiped my suddenly running nose on my sleeve and grabbed for another grenade.

  “Cold there?” asked the assistant armourer as he clipped a second grenade to my equipment belt.

  “No. Damned allergy . . . dust . . . oil . . .”

  With that, I was gone again, back along the same track toward the real ConFed base to plant four more grenades in the third tunnel.

  Again, there were no signs that my entries had been detected, or that the first two sets of grenades had exploded.

  This time, fighting the wind and arming the grenades seemed harder. My nose itched and ran from the dusty metallic wind that swirled around me, but I still managed to get back undertime on schedule.

  Breakout in the armoury was a little rough. I came out above the floor level and staggered.

  “Easy, Trooper.” Janth steadied me.

  I wiped my streaming nose on my sleeve again and grabbed for the next grenade.

  “You all right?”

  “So far. So far.”

  The fourth breakout in the ventilation system was even rougher.

  Again, I was high, and dropped. It sounded to me like an explosion.

  Clank.

  I knocked over the last grenade as I tried to arm it.

  CRRRUMMPPP!

  The sound of the first grenade going off in the other duct sent me undertime, with the fourth grenade rolling free and unarmed. But there was no way I was staying.

  The return was the worst yet. My head was beginning to ache. I wanted to tear my nose off because it itched so badly. While I didn’t break out high, I did lurch out of the undertime off-balance, almost knocking Janth over.

  KKKAATTCCHEWWH!

  “You all right?”

  “No, but it’s all shot if I don’t make the last one.”

  I could tell the fifth dive would be my last for awhile. I could only fasten one grenade in the time Janth did three. But I staggered back undertime and let my mind carry me back to the ConFed Base.

  I could still sense no action, but I wasn’t looking for action, only for the two main exit locks.

  No careful placement of grenades this time. I broke out in the empty centre lock, and yanked the grenades off my belt, one after the other, arming them and dropping them on the floor.

  The second lock was worse. I fell, bashed my elbow, and rolled over, yanking the first grenade clear.

  BRINNNNGGGG!!!

  Even I could tell that was an alarm.

  I sort of flung the second grenade behind me as I dropped under the now.

  Bratttttttt. . . .

  Whether the flechettes missed or I had ducked undertime before they reached me, I didn’t know, and didn’t care. White spots flickered in front of me and my head felt like it would explode.

  Literally sliding out of the undertime, I ended up in a heap under the edge of the armourer’s work bench, sneezing with the little energy I had left.

  “Verlyt! You look like hell, Trooper.”

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, still pretty much in a heap.

  Click.

  I could see a pair of trousered legs on the other side of the work bench, trousers and booted feet.

  “Who are you?” demanded Janth, reaching for the projectile pistol.

  “It’s all right,” I rasped, trying to sit up.

  “Dr. Relorn,” snapped Wryan, “and if you want Sammis to recover, you’d better let me give this to him.”

  Janth stood back, hand still on the gun, as Wryan put a beaker of the bitter-tasting stuff she had poured down me once before under my nose. I didn’t wait this time. If I did, I wouldn’t be in any shape to drink it.

  “You push yourself too hard,” she said quietly.

  “Not much choice,” I said, between small sips.

  “There’s always a choice.”

  I didn’t want to talk about it. “Janth?”

  “Yes, Trooper?”

  “Might as well stow the rest of the stuff back in the vault for now. It either worked or it didn’t.”

  “How soon will we know?”

  “As soon as Odin Thor lets us know, or as soon as I recover enough to check on it. But that won’t be for awhile.” I managed to struggle into a half-sitting position.

  Janth peered down at me. “I can see that.”

  “Take some more of this,” ordered Wryan.

  Janth took another look at me before beginning to replace the seals on the grenade storage cases.

  Thump. Creak. . . .

  As the armourer worked, I took a mouthful. The liquid wasn’t as bad as swamp water in the damps, but the taste had little to recommend it. The results were better than the taste. The flickering lights before my eyes had disappeared.

  “Can you get up?” Wryan asked.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Not for awhile, you won’t,” she corrected.

  She was right. It took her hand, surprisingly strong for all its softness, to help me to my feet.

  “How did you know?” That question had escaped me while I was trying to pull myself together.

  “I just did.” She shrugged. Her tone and gesture told me that she wasn’t about to say more.

  I looked over at Janth. “If the colonel-general is interested, I’ll be recovering.”

  “I think you could use it, Trooper.” He shook his head. “There’s a lot more to that mental travel business than meets the eye, that’s for sure.”

  Nodding at that, I took a first step toward the doorway. “Janth? The seals?”

  For a moment, the assistant armourer looked blank. “But she got in.”

  “Sorry,” I apologised. “I thought you knew. This is Dr. Relorn. She’s the head of the entire travel lab.”

  The armourer inclined his head. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognise you, but I hadn’t expected you . . .”

  “That’s all right. I’m not at my best this early in the day.”

  But she was at her best. Without the makeup, she looked scarcely older than either Mellorie or Amenda. I’d thought she would look years younger without it, but this was the first time I’d seen her naturally in full light.

  Her hair was mussed as well, and her tunic and trousers slightly creased, not quite up to the immaculate impression she usually projected.

  Janth was still shaking his head as he undid the seals.

  From the armoury up through the tunnels to the first floor of the barracks had never seemed such a long walk. Outside, however, waited the steamer, the one I had first seen on a cool evening.

  Wryan had said nothing since we had left the armoury. Nor had I.

  “How do you feel?” she asked once I was seated next to her.

  “Better. Still shaky.”

  “I’ll have some high-energy food sent to your room. You’l
l need that, and some sleep. By yourself,” she added.

  “Do you know everything?”

  “No. But I’ve waited a long time, and seen a great deal. It’s not surprising, and it’s necessary. Whether I like it or not.” While her tone was matter-of-fact, her voice did not ring quite true.

  “Necessary? Whether you like what?”

  She ignored my question. “You need to recover. I’m sure Odin Thor will want a report on the situation inside the ConFed redoubt, although he knows what it is. And you need to see for yourself. From the undertime.”

  The steamer was moving faster than I had expected, and Wryan took some of the corners nearly on two wheels.

  “You never answered my question. What’s necessary?”

  “Mellorie, of course.”

  I decided not to ask any more questions of that nature, knowing I might not like the answers. Before I could have formulated any, the steamer screeched to a halt before the travel lab quarters.

  “Are you all right to get up the stairs?”

  “I’m fine. Just fine.”

  “Good. When you scout out the fortress, let me know what you find.”

  “I will. I certainly will.”

  “That would be helpful. Now, get some rest.” She gave me a fleeting smile before speeding away in the steamer.

  She was definitely not happy about my relationship with Mellorie, and didn’t care if I knew it. Yet she had been there when I collapsed.

  My steps up the stairs were slow. Very slow. I didn’t see Mellorie. A tray of steaming food, including hot chyst cider, was waiting on my desk.

  I pulled up one of the wooden armchairs and began to eat. Slowly. Although the amount of food seemed excessive, I ploughed through it all. But I barely managed to get out of the uniform before sinking into the bed.

  XXXIV

  I SLEPT FOR most of the day, because it was late afternoon when I finally woke out of some nightmare I could not remember.

  “You’re finally awake.” Mellorie’s voice was a welcome relief. “You must have had some strange dreams.”

  “How long have you been here? Did I say anything?”

  “Not long,” she laughed softly. “You are suspicious.” She paused, then uncrossed her legs, and moved from the chair to the bed next to me, running her fingers over my bare shoulders. “You were groaning, and I was about to wake you.”

  She wasn’t saying something, but her fingers felt good kneading out the stiffness. So I waited.

  Mellorie’s hands stopped, and she put her arm around me and squeezed before letting go. “Your mind is somewhere else.”

  I nodded, stifling a yawn. “On food . . .”

  “And?”

  “I still have to find out how effective . . . my efforts . . . were . . .”

  Mellorie stood up, not exactly looking at me or out the window, or anywhere. “Just what were you doing this morning, Sammis?”

  “Killing people.”

  “Be serious.”

  “I am being serious. I killed some of the people who were killing our troops. I just don’t know how many.”

  “The other ConFeds?” She was wearing a dark blue tunic and trousers, with matching, if scuffed, blue boots.

  “You’ve heard about them?”

  “They’re the real ConFeds, aren’t they?”

  “Both groups are real. The others were in Eastron and did all the dirty work, though. At least from what I can tell.”

  “I hope you killed them all.” Her voice wasn’t husky. It was hard. “I hope you killed every single one of them.”

  The coldness of her words gave me a shiver, even as she turned to look directly out the window.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I’m very certain, Sammis. Don’t ever ask me again. Not if you care one bit for me.” She still kept her face from me.

  “That was why I asked . . .”

  “I understand. But . . . just don’t ask.”

  “All right. I won’t.” I slowly swung my feet onto the floor.

  “If you don’t mind . . . I don’t feel well. . .” Her voice was brittle as well as hard. “I’ll see you later.” She walked to the door and let herself out without looking back.

  Whatever had happened to her at the hands of the ConFeds was internal, or long ago, because there weren’t any scars on her body. Scars on her soul—that was something else.

  The light outside was dimming as another late afternoon storm built up.

  The door Mellorie had left ajar blew shut with a gust that also brought the odour of rain into my room.

  I was hungry, again. So I looked around. While I had been sleeping, someone had removed the tray and its dishes and replaced it with some fruits—chyst and pear-apple—and cheese, flanked by a small pile of biscuits. I sat down at the desk, uncomfortable chair and all, and ate every last bit, alternating the biscuits and cheese with the fruit.

  A hot shower in the antique tiled stall remedied some of the lingering stiffness. After towelling myself dry, I pulled on another undress uniform.

  Despite my growing dislike of the uniforms, I had nothing else to wear.

  The roll of thunder outside indicated the oncoming storm might drop some needed rain.

  I found myself licking my lips, staring at nothing. Should I report to Wryan? Odin Thor? Finally, I slipped under the now and out toward the hills of Bremarlyn. A ghost of a greyish thread was all that marked my morning route, probably invisible in the undertime to any diver who was not looking for it. Not that I was looking, suspended in the motionless chill of that place between worlds, between time, but the more I dived, the more I saw with my mind, rather than my eyes.

  As I reached the underground redoubt, the silence struck me—the absolute lack of energy, almost that same lack of energy that had marked those places the enemy had obliterated. Here, near Bremarlyn, the grass waved in the breeze, and the trees gathered the sunlight, and Odin Thor’s armoured steamers and their crews lounged in the last warmth before twilight.

  And beneath?

  Nothing. Nothing but chill, silence, and darkness.

  I reached out without breaking from under the now, trying to capture a mental image of the underground retreat of the real ConFeds, at-tempting to find those who had survived.

  Nothing. Nothing but motionless machinery, and scattered lumps of flesh that had been men. Even in the sensationless undertime, the odour of death clogged my nostrils.

  Knowing my time was limited, my strength not restored, and also aware that I needed to know what had happened, I eased myself back-time, red direction, careful that I should not overlap with my previous visit, even though you cannot contact yourself in the undertime . . . or in the now.

  AAAAAAeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. . . . . . .

  Nooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  . . . . . Verlytttt!!! . . . .

  . . . dying . . . dying . . . dying . . .

  Red lenses slashed across my eyes. Needles lanced my lips, and acid etched my throat. Breathing fire, I tried to rip my guts out, spew my innards across the cold of undertime . . . trying to escape the pyramiding agony . . .

  Flares flashed across my visions . . . . . . a thin man slashing his own throat . . .

  . . . a woman grabbing a brain-spattered projectile gun from a dead ConFed’s hand, to turn it against her own skull . . .

  . . . a man with shaking hands injecting himself, biting his lips raw and trying to keep from screaming . . .

  . . . a young soldier, crawling, scrabbling, leaving a pink frothed trail on the stone behind him . . .

  . . . a captain, standing in the doorway of an underground barracks, propped against the casement, bringing up the heavy riot gun while trying to keep from shaking, trying to bring the gun to bear on the men writhing on the floor . . .

  AAEEEIIIIIIlllllllllllllllllllIiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii . . . The silent screams from the und
ertime chased me all the way back to the camp.

  Uuuuuthuuuuuuppppp . . . uuttutthhhuuuupppp. . . uuupppthuuuuppp . . .

  Despite the violence of the contractions and eruptions within me, it took a long time to empty my guts, and even longer for the dry retching to subside.

  Longer still was it before I could stand and peel off my dishonoured and soaked uniform and wad it up and stuff it into the empty rubbish bucket. I had to lean on the tile wall to be able to lather and wash myself clean. Hot as the water was, I shivered, and my teeth chattered. My knees threatened to buckle with each shiver, and each breath felt like it rasped my throat raw.

  Would I ever feel clean inside again? I wondered, but not for long, because I needed every jot of strength I had to wend my way stark naked down the hallway to my room.

  I did not make it under the quilt. Lifting even the coverlet was beyond me.

  When I woke, I was in a strange room. Hanging tubes connected to needles seemed to run ice into my veins.

  A cold sweat beaded on my forehead as I shivered under the weight of blankets that did not keep me warm.

  I opened one eye.

  A woman saw the gesture and scuttled from the light-walled area.

  I licked my too-dry lips, swallowed, and waited for the room to stop circling around me.

  While waiting, I fell asleep again.

  The next time, I drifted into consciousness, feeling a hand that was simultaneously warm and cold upon my forehead.

  “Sammis?”

  “Ummmmm . . .” I meant to say “yes,” but my tongue didn’t fully co-operate.

  “Just rest. You’ll be just fine.”

  “. . . uuuhhmmmm . . .” My mouth was swollen, and my tongue still refused to co-operate.

  Why wouldn’t I be fine? I’d just overextended myself by a factor of ten or so, but rest and intravenous replenishment should help.

  At some point, I actually woke up clearheaded, and I was hungry—until I thought about food. I decided not to think about food and looked around.

  Through the half-shuttered window blinds I could tell it was night. Clearly, more had affected me than simple exhaustion. Because I had not breached the undertime barrier, I could not have been poisoned by the gas grenades. The food left for me?