Time Trap
Time Trap: Book One
Deborah Chester
Copyright
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008
New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 1992 by Deborah Chester
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, email [email protected]
First Diversion Books edition January 2015
ISBN: 978-1-62681-593-3
More from Deborah Chester
Time Trap Series
Time Trap
Showdown
Pieces of Eight
Restoration
Turncoat
Termination
Ruby Throne Series
Reign of Shadow
Shadow War
Realm of Light
Anthi Series
The Children of Anthi
Requiem for Anthi
The Omcri Matrix
The Goda War
This book is dedicated to Jack Catlin,
and the rest of the gang
who stood with me on the ramparts.
Prologue
“You’re late,” said the traitor.
“What is the code phrase?”
“We won’t have enough time to accomplish everything.”
“What is the code phrase?”
Feeling slightly ridiculous, the traitor sucked in a breath and replied, “Freedom or death.”
The shadow vaguely outlined in the darkness gave the countersign: “Unless we are willing to squander lives, there can be no freedom.”
The traitor frowned. The propaganda these anarchists spouted made him uneasy. But they had offered him more money than he could refuse. His debts, his needs, made him vulnerable.
“Very well,” he whispered. He took off his identity badge and inserted it into the first set of security doors locking the Time Institute. As he led the shadow down a silent corridor, his own heartbeat thumping in his ears, he told himself that had the Institute remained strictly concerned with historical research according to its original specifications, he would never have betrayed it. But when the Institute used its resources to influence modern politics, to dare impose past structures upon today’s society, to mold the way people thought…that was wrong. The traitor unlocked three sets of security doors in swift succession. Only then did he brush his hand over the photocell to manually activate the lights.
He saw the anarchist revealed as a thin young man wrapped in a hooded cloak. The anarchist’s eyes burned with the fervor of a fanaticist.
“Quickly!” he said. “Show me the records. Show me the lab and equipment.”
A band constricted the traitor’s throat. He thought of the travelers, all eminent historians in their specialized fields, all human beings of worth and creativity. Some of them were his friends; others he merely knew as colleagues. After today, at least half of them would be dead, cast adrift forever within the time streams. Were political ideals worth murder?
“Hurry, I said!” The anarchist plucked at his sleeve. “There is less than an hour before the first work shift arrives.”
The traitor roused himself from his moral paralysis. “You’re the one who came late.”
“Never mind. I am here now. Show me the equipment.”
The traitor took him to Laboratory 14, a gleaming white expanse of assembly tracks, motionless manufacturing robots, coiled sheets of alloy, and delicate optic filaments kept sealed from dust in clear acrylic boxes.
Eight small objects stood in a row upon a polished steel table. Each was the size of a wide bracelet. Each held state-of-the-art components designed to interface with the main time computer. Each contained an advanced data retrieval, recording capability, and storage system miniaturized to the size of a thumbnail. Most wondrous of all, each possessed the capability of molecular shift. This allowed the bracelet to assume the shape and appearance of any object that would fit into the particular location and time visited by the wearer.
“The Light Operated Computer,” whispered the traitor with reverence. “The best we’ve ever devised. Refinements in these models took seven months of round-the-clock work. They’ve been tested and modified to—”
“Never mind the lecture,” broke in the anarchist. He seized one and held it up so that the light shone through its clear sides. “You may have refined the LOCs, but essentially they still operate on the same old light transmission theory.”
He drew forth a fold of waterproof cloth and unrolled it to reveal a set of highly specialized tools, some of them with points no larger than the head of a pin. From among them he picked up a slim black tube, finger narrow, and handed it to the traitor.
“These are the limiter components. Install them quickly.”
The traitor sucked in his breath as he accepted the tube. He felt the urge to take them to his microscope and check them for precise alignment of compatibility codes, but he quelled the impulse. It was not necessary.
Sweat broke out upon his forehead. “You have the money?”
“We will settle up later, old man.”
“We’ll settle now!”
For a moment there was only silence, with the traitor’s shout echoing faintly. Then the anarchist bowed his head. He produced a slim card and handed it to the traitor. “Already credited to your account.”
The thin card felt slick and cold beneath the traitor’s fingers. He checked the credit line, and felt himself breathe easier. It was worth it, he told himself. Calm returned to him.
Securing the card within his smock pocket, he clamped on a set of goggle scanners designed to magnify the microscopic-sized circuitry within the light fibers.
“Which ones?” he asked.
The anarchist smiled. He had discolored teeth, and his smile showed no amusement. “You choose.”
Although the LOCs were theoretically identical, each one contained an organic coding that linked it to its wearer. Thus, one LOC could not be substituted for another. If the wrong person attempted to use a LOC it would not activate. Because each historian on the team had a different personality and research style, the LOCs tended to reflect the idiosyncrasies of their owners.
One LOC, for example, always looked slightly more ornate than the others. Another tended to have a pink tint. Yet another resisted internal code changes and upgrade implants.
Hesitating, the traitor reached out and finally selected one. Picking up a tiny laser probe, he used it to open the casing.
“What is this one’s destination?” asked the anarchist.
“I—I don’t remember.”
The anarchist seized his smock and twisted it about his throat. “Yes, you do. Tell me!”
The twisted cloth cut cruelly into the traitor’s neck. Gasping, he stared up into the mad eyes of his co-conspirator and dropped the laser probe.
It clattered upon the polished floor, and the anarchist released his grasp. Coughing, the traitor sagged forward over the table.
The anarchist picked up the laser probe and handed it to him. “Tell me.”
“Why don’t you just have me set the LOC to destruct within the time stream,” gasped the traitor, wiping his eyes.
“We are not that crude,” said the anarchist with a quick glance at the wall chronometer. “Just make minor adjustments to skew the destinations.”
“It’s not t
hat easy,” said the traitor. “If we tamper with history in any way, we could erase our existence altogether—”
“Shut up, old man. I know the primary rule of time travel. Despite our more inflammatory rhetoric, I realize that sometimes it is better to cripple a thing than to kill it. With their best historians trapped within time loops, the officers of the Time Institute will have to mark this project a failure. It will be shut down, and our purpose will advance.”
The traitor thought he heard a sound in the distance. He clutched the anarchist’s arm. “Someone’s coming!”
“Quiet!” The anarchist ran silently to the door and listened there while the traitor felt his heartbeat thundering. It was almost time for the first shift to come in.
“Nothing,” said the anarchist, returning. “Don’t try that trick again. Get to work, and make sure they do not detect any problems with these LOCs until it is too late.”
Biting his lip in worry, the traitor began the adjustments. Tampering with destination was difficult. He needed the LOC activated and tuned to the main time computer to make a precise adjustment. As it was, all he could accomplish was a minimal shift. He finished, uncertain that he had achieved anything.
“This is very dangerous,” he said worriedly, selecting another probe. “If I don’t adjust it correctly, he could be thrown from the time stream completely, or—”
“Or what?”
“Or trapped in an incomplete time loop, or duplicated, or just killed.” The traitor swallowed with difficulty. “I don’t want murder on my—”
“Just get on with it. Install the limiter. It is the only guarantee we have of creating a broken time loop. We do not want them entering the Industrial Revolution or any moment of history past that. They might be able to repair the LOC.”
“There were no fiber optics in the Victorian era,” said the traitor harshly. “As long as the twentieth century is avoided—”
“Do not argue. Set the limiter, and hurry! You are taking too long with this first one.”
“It’s done.” The traitor laid down his tools. He felt slightly sick.
The anarchist smiled. “Whose is it?”
“Does it matter who dies first?” said the traitor wearily.
“Yes.”
“We’ll have to call up the records. Read the serial number off the LOC and find the destination—”
“No! You know them by heart, old man. Tell me now!”
The traitor envisioned a face in his mind, a lean, tanned face with clearly etched features, hooded gray eyes, a mouth more sensitive than the sardonic curl at the corners might suggest. He wanted to weep, yet it was too late.
He whispered, “Destination was…sixth century Byzantium. The last bastion of the once mighty Roman Empire. It alone stood against the crumbling of civilization, holding the last dim years before the first Dark Ages. It might almost be considered an exact parallel of our current political situation. Our best traveler is assigned to go there.”
The anarchist picked up the tampered LOC and laughed. “Not anymore. Wrong century. Wrong location. Wrong everything. When did you send him? To the Ice Age? I like that. Let him play with the Neanderthals.”
“No,” said the traitor. “It will be the fourteenth century. I—I’m not exactly sure where.”
“Good enough. Maybe he will die of the plague.”
“He’ll probably die from the anomalies in the time stream. We don’t know all the possible effects yet. We have tested and researched most carefully, but our parameters remain narrow. We can’t predict what this tampering will do.”
“Good.” Still grinning, the anarchist put the sabotaged LOC on the table and picked up the next one. He handed it to the traitor. “Do this one faster.”
A sound in the distance made the traitor glance up. This time the anarchist heard it too. For an instant they stood frozen. Then the anarchist snatched up the tube containing the remaining limiters and swore.
“You told me we had an hour, old man.”
Fear paralyzed the traitor. He stared at the door, half expecting people to come bursting through it at any moment.
“They—they must be excited, unable to wait,” he said. His voice was faint. He couldn’t draw enough breath to strengthen it. “I didn’t anticipate early…”
“Come on! Show me a way out!”
The anarchist seized him roughly by the arm and slung him around. Somehow the traitor found his wits.
“There is another way out. Don’t panic,” he said.
The anarchist glared at him. “Old fool. In a few seconds I could set enough explosives to completely destroy this lab and all your precious research.”
“No—”
The anarchist gave him a violent push. “Show me then. Damn, damn, damn! All this effort for just one. My coordinator will blame you for this.”
The emergency exit door opened beneath the swift touch of the traitor’s fingers upon the lock keypad. “You got the best one,” he said, and could not keep his own grief from his voice. “He’s dedicated to bringing back the ancient values of courage, valor, sacrifice, and achievement. He thinks our way of life is too soft, too self-indulgent. He travels more than the others. Don’t worry. What we’ve done will set the project back years.”
“That is what you say.” The anarchist shoved him through into a cramped access tunnel and closed the door after them. Just before the light from the lab was clipped off, he leaned close to the traitor with a snarl. “We do not want to set back the project. We want to stop it.”
Regret welled up within the traitor, but it was too late. He could not undo what he had set into motion. “We’ll come again,” he said. “When this travel phase is finished, we’ll sabotage more LOCs.”
Something hit him in the back. For an instant he thought the anarchist had struck him with his fist. Then there was a burst of sharp pain within his chest, a pain so great that his cry died in his throat from lack of air. His lungs were filling up. He could feel a swelling, a hot bubbling inside. He couldn’t breathe. Crumpling to the floor, he gazed up at his cloaked attacker in the shadows.
For a moment his mind focused in absolute clarity. He saw the fatal flaws in the anarchist’s position. He realized that as long as they moved on the sheer impulse to destroy, they could not be ordered enough to create serious damage. Yet once they found discipline, they would no longer be anarchists. They stood trapped in a loop of their own.
He almost laughed. Yet at the same time he wanted to weep. The heat in his chest grew into fire, warning him that he was drowning in his own blood. A clawing desperation to live went through him. He gripped the forearm of his attacker.
“Go back,” he gasped. “Tell them what you’ve done. It’s not worth this—”
“Go to hell, old man,” said the anarchist and pulled out the knife.
It was a tearing agony that wiped him in a clammy sheet of sweat. A great gout of his blood rushed forth as the knife scraped free. In that moment he knew that he had been a fool. He had destroyed a historian, a man he had known and loved as a son, and all for nothing.
Whiteness burst in his brain, wiping away all thought and feeling.
It was over.
Chapter 1
Soft background noise imitating ocean waves filtered through the speakers of Chicago Work Complex 7. Citizens glided on escalators and moving sidewalks through a spacious vista of glass and gleaming bronze. Although it was morning rush hour, with hundreds of people streaming into the complex for work, there was little noise beyond the soft chime of glass-enclosed lifts, the recorded ocean music, and the rush of real water from the half-story waterfall in the main reception lobby.
Despite the crowds upon the escalators or gathered at each lift station, there was no shoving, no insults, no sense of urgency. Most people wore bland, dreamy-eyed expressions. They moved slowly as though underwater, sufficiently aware of their physical surroundings to get off at the proper station, but focused primarily on the inward fantasy world created by
the hologram chips implanted in their brains.
Noel Kedran, however, did not wear a head chip. He was not locked into a fantasy world, but remained firmly lodged in reality. Right now reality said that he was late.
“Hold that lift!” he called, shoving past a woman and sprinting for the elevator ahead. “Please! Hold the lift!”
The passengers already inside the lift stood like cattle. One, however, reached out and dreamily caught the closing lift doors.
Noel jumped aboard, and the doors glided closed behind him. Huffing in relief, he wiped the gloss of perspiration and blood from his forehead and shifted position so the scanner beam could read his security badge. A chime marked registration of his identity. The lift started up. It would stop automatically at his floor. He dabbed at the cut above his eyebrow with a wince. It would not stop bleeding, and it had begun to hurt.
“You should start earlier, man,” said the youth who had held the doors for him. The youth’s voice was soft and helpful. “Try a time monitor. Cheap at twenty-five creds, you know? Then you always get up on time. Guaranteed not to let you run late.”
“Yeah, thanks,” said Noel shortly and glanced away to stop the conversation. He would rather be deaf, blind, and senile than have any Life-design implants. There were chips to put you to sleep, chips to get you up, chips to boost your memory, chips to keep you from getting drunk, chips to make you feel drunk without suffering physical side effects, chips to arouse your passions, chips to depress your passions, chips to manipulate and control you just about any damned way you wanted. Life by design was not for him, not in a million years.
The lift stopped at the fifth floor, and he stepped off alone, veering right toward the security lock. A beam scanned him, registered clearance, and opened the first set of doors. He passed through the entire lock system quickly, but it wasn’t quickly enough to offset his gnawing sense of urgency.
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