by Neal Asher
Polly nodded and started walking towards some nearby trees, since there she might find some shelter from the cold, and might even be able to get a fire going. At the forest edge she found it heavy going, as the snow had drifted thickly against boulders and fallen trunks. Eventually she reached a clearing and scanned the surrounding vegetation.
Looks like bamboo over there. That’s odd.
Polly immediately spotted what Nandru was referring to: the segmented trees spearing up like telegraph poles. Below these she discovered mounds of dry tendrils—light as balsa and only the thickness of her finger, segmented like the trunks they had dropped from. These fragments ignited easily and they burnt with a smell of pine. Polly was quickly able to build up a big fire, since it was apparent that every tree here was dead and their wood freeze-dried. It rapidly made the transition from campfire to bonfire: flames roaring up from the plentiful fuel. Polly sat on a nearby stump to soak up the heat. Scraping up handfuls of melting snow, she quenched her thirst. Then she noticed a strange regularity to the stump, and abruptly stood and stepped away. The fire’s heat continued to melt the snow and reveal what lay underneath it.
It was soon revealed as the head and forelimbs of some huge creature. The beaked head was covered by a large bony shield adorned with three lethal-looking horns.
Triceratops. Polly had seen enough films to recognize it.
‘I bet dinosaur meat tastes like chicken,’ she said, trying to find some levity to quell the panic growing inside her.
Sixty-five million years.
Polly was appalled; she almost instinctively reached out to shift, and again found that glassy cage materializing around her. The shift this time was brief and the grey was suddenly displaced by a subliminal glimpse of burning jungle, furnace red, choking smoke and hot ash below a cyanosis sky. Intense heat washed over her, flames clawing in through the glassy structure around her, before she shifted again just to stay alive. Again jungle: cycads and tree ferns and horsetails, huge, strangely shaped trees which were mostly trunk and bole, with a minimal head of greenery. As the cage disappeared, smoke dissipated around her—having been transported through with her. She collapsed on her knees, coughing desperately.
It brought the atmosphere of that last place along with it. It’s almost as if the scale has conceded to your needs, so it can get on with its own journey without you fighting to control it.
That was not Polly’s most exigent concern at that moment.
You know, I think you just witnessed the dinosaur extinction.
Polly knew that. Her concern was that she was on the side of it she would rather not be.
PANICKED BY HER DISCOVERY of the frozen triceratops, the girl shifted back beyond the vorpal sensor, and Silleck did not know if she survived the meteorite impact and firestorm that had preceded that killing winter and placed a full point at the end of the dinosaur aeons—that mercy killing of the diseased and dying populations of the great beasts. This, as Silleck knew, ended another of those long-drawn-out evolutionary wars between the large animals of Earth and their constant viral killers. Only humans had survived such a conflict, just.
Silleck now drew herself back down the aeons to where Sauros settled into the soft ground of the Jurassic. The city’s bones were still creaking, and the inner sphere had not yet turned to bring the floors level, but already Engineer Goron had abandoned his station to head for his customary place at the viewing windows. But the interface technicians remained where they were: Sauros, though slowly building up its energy reserves after such a journey, was still vulnerable to attack.
Silleck scanned the nearby slope, where the city was multiplied to infinity in all its incarnations, as if sitting between two facing mirrors. She scanned up and down time as far as she could without using sensors dropped in other ages, but there seemed no danger. Then she pushed her awareness downtime to a vorpal sensor often visited by her fellow technicians, to a brief period at the end of the Triassic and somewhat downslope, which had been named by them ‘the boneyard’.
Here there was some wrinkle in time that many torbearers missed. But it was a trap for many others, which killed their momentum should they fall into it. Thus they were caught for many days and without nutrition became the food for their own parasitic tors. Many of them were starving and half-dead when they arrived, and found no succour in this barren place. Silleck gazed down at the hot dry landscape, where human bones had been cleaned by grave beetles and small vulpine pterosaurs. She chose one scattering of bones and tracked it slowly back in time, seeing it reform, become fleshed and reinflate with moisture, and the brief instant when the tor reappeared enclosing the arm it had later torn away and disappeared with.
The man, who wore a turban and sarong, had walked for many days following a half-seen figure, before just giving up and sitting down to die. The figure, Silleck discovered, was an Australian aborigine, who survived and prospered in this arid hell, before being again taken away by his tor. There were other scatterings of bones, and other desiccated corpses. But it was all too grim, and the interface technician took herself back to one of the furthest sensors resting in the Permian epoch, where she knew another torbearer had been observed, but even as her awareness arrived in this sensor she began to pick up the waves of disturbance travelling uptime and upslope, through interspace, and knew that something was coming.
GAZING ACROSS THE WAVES to where the plesiosaurs were mating—rolling in the sea, their great flukes arcing up fountains of water, their long necks slamming against the surface, and then rising and intertwining—Tack found he had acquired a deep and secure certainty about so many things. Foremost was the conviction that Cowl had to die, there was no question of that, and any of the wretched Umbrathane who got in his way should be eliminated as well. Raising his gaze to the dome enclosing the aquapark, and to the hard starlight beyond, he felt impatient to be on his way. At the sound of someone stepping onto the viewing deck behind him, he turned whip fast.
‘Be calm, Traveller Tack,’ said Maxell.
She much resembled the woman who had slammed him against a corridor wall in Sauros. Her skin had that same amber translucence, though her eyes were blue and her hair a straight waterfall of white. But unlike the other, she would not be slamming him into any walls. For, since being taken offline from Pedagogue and coming out of the regrowth tank, Tack had quickly discovered that he was now the physical equal of many of the Heliothane, and superior to very many more. His musculature had been boosted, his martial skills greatly enhanced, and the body of knowledge now available to him was huge. However, he realized that many of these people still viewed him with hidden disdain, for to attain such new heights had required his body to be stripped down and totally rebuilt, with everything from bones being increased in density to cerebral grafts. He even possessed implants, which were anathema to them. Their pragmatic view was that if any man was not strong or clever enough to survive using his natural gifts, then he died—plain and simple.
‘What type of plesiosaur are they?’ Maxell asked him, nodding at the sporting creatures.
‘Elasmosaurus,’ Tack said quickly, giving them their twenty-second-century name despite her having asked in the language of the Heliothane, and despite his having access to over three hundred other languages.
Maxell frowned at this. ‘Still keeping to your old habits, I see,’ she said, now switching to the same language. ‘It appears we could not root everything out of you.’
Tack held up his left arm, displaying the tor, which had now attained full growth. ‘Does that really matter? I know what I have to do now, and you know that you can do no more to improve me. This thing on my arm started to reject once you tried genetic recombination. And no one else can wear it.’
He had been told that they had first tried to remove the parasitic scale from him in order to place it on someone else, but had failed. He also knew that, had they succeeded, he would have been dispensed with like so much garbage, and there remained in him a core of resentment ov
er that. What puzzled him was why this knowledge had not been kept from him.
‘We already know why it started to reject. Cowl is using them to sample the future, so recombination would have defeated the tor’s initial purpose. It read your genetic code the moment it attached.’
She came up to stand right beside him and pointed down at the sea, where a huge shark was cruising past, doubtless attracted by the thrashing of the plesiosaurs. There was no guard rail along the edge of the platform, but that did not surprise Tack from a people who walked bare-faced through vacuum. The Heliothane did not coddle themselves with their technology. The lack of a rail was just another sign of their life view—if you’re stupid enough to fall in, you deserve to get eaten.
‘There will be sharks in that era, but no elasmosaurus—they were most prevalent in the late Cretaceous.’ She turned to look at him. ‘I sense you have been impatient, and wonder why we delay. The simple answer is that Engineer Goron’s shift back into the Jurassic has not been without some difficulties. Even now the tunnel has not restabilized, though we predict conditions will be ready for your transit through it in eighty hours.’
Holding up his tor-covered arm again, Tack asked, ‘Do I use this thing to take me from Sauros onwards?’ An implant kept the tor in abeyance, but he could still feel the thing’s temporal field webbing the inside of his body.
‘No, because your supplies will be limited by what you can carry, and though you can obtain food during much of your journey, there is still a large stretch of it where food would not be easily available. Saphothere will take you, by mantisal, as far back as he can.’
Tack was glad to hear that—if there was ever such a thing here, he considered the man his friend. Saphothere no longer showed disdain for Tack, rather respect. But then those entitled ‘Traveller’ were not so insular in their thinking as the rest of the Heliothane.
‘After that I go on by myself—and tear Cowl’s throat out,’ said Tack viciously.
‘Oh yes, certainly that.’ Maxell smiled.
TACITUS PEERED DOWN THROUGH the spray at the rowers and damned himself for the sudden sympathy he felt for them: they were the spoils of war, slaves and the property of Rome, not citizens. Anyway, should they be freed from their chains their ending now would be no different from everyone else on this galley if it went down. In this sea they would all drown. He looked up to where the weird lights still played about the mast and reefed sail, asked a blessing from Mithras then made his way forward.
His sodden cloak flapping in the gale, he gripped the safety ropes tightly as he edged along the gantry above the rowers. It was then, in the howling night, that lightning struck the mast and leapt down to the prow with a sound like mountains breaking. Tacitus went down on his knees, thinking this must be the end of him. Behind he could hear some of his men shouting prayers at the storm. Looking ahead again, he kept blinking to try and clear his vision, for surely he had seen something looming there out of the night, but then he saw only smouldering wood and sylphs of flame. He continued forging ahead until on the foredeck he found wreckage and the bodies of two of his men, their armour smoking and their skin blackened. This was a cursed voyage, he knew that now. Then his gaze fell upon the strange object cleaving to the wooden rail like a burr.
It was a vambrace, he knew it at once. It was a gift from Mithras for some battle yet to come. He reached out to grab it and yelled as its thorned surface cut into his hand. A big wave hit the side of the galley and, swamped in water, the galley slaves screamed and struggled. Falling down, Tacitus held onto the object, and it pulled from the rail. Without hesitation he thrust his arm into it. Agony, and a deep gnawing pleasure that was almost sexual. Blood poured from his arm and the vambrace closed about it and bonded to him. In only minutes it was firmly in place and his blood washed away by the sea and the rain. He held his arm up in a fist salute to his men at the stern of the ship. Then the jealous god Neptune sent one of his monsters against the ship.
The giant serpent rose up out of the sea, the great loop of its body curving up into hazy night, then its eyeless head and awful vertical maw turned and slammed down on the edge of the galley. Tacitus was again knocked off his feet. Struggling up and stumbling to an inner guard rope, he looked down and saw that the monster had taken out the side of the ship and was now feasting on the slaves. The inner parts of its mouth revolving like some engine, it drew them in, screaming, by their chains. There was no question that the ship would go down, so perhaps this was the battle he was being called to. He drew his gladius and leapt down into the chaos. Knocking aside those begging him in pidgin Latin to release them, and grabbing at him in desperation, he made his way to the horror that was chewing on the ship. He raised his weapon and drove it into a wall of flesh. Once, twice, but seemingly to no effect. Then a tentacle snapped out of darkness beside him and knocked him past a revolving hell of teeth and out into the storm. He struck a scaled flank that lacerated his legs as he fell past it, and then he was down into the sea, still clutching his gladius. He could not swim and he prepared himself for death, relaxed for it. And something took him away from the storm, into some nether hell, then out into bright sunlight.
Tacitus fell face first onto a soft surface, coughed and gasped as he fought for breath, then hauled himself upright and turned, ready to attack the figures that loomed over him. Then, in the presence of gods, he went down on his knees, his blood leaking into briny sand.
‘So this is the torbearer,’ said the tall golden woman in her strange white clothing. Tacitus did not understand the words then, but the time would come when he did.
The man, who had to be Apollo, said bitterly, ‘The galley went down—that was always a matter of historical record. The beast didn’t cause any paradox it couldn’t sustain by eating everyone on board.’
The man now reached down, grabbed Tacitus by the shoulder, and with infinite ease, hauled him to his feet. In the Roman’s native Latin he said, ‘You will help us to better understand that thing on your arm, before it takes you on your way again.’
‘Thank you, Lord … for saving me,’ Tacitus replied, bowing his head.
‘You may yet wish it otherwise,’ the woman told him.
Tacitus did wish it otherwise when these beautiful violent people learnt all they could from him with their strange questions and stranger engines. And when they then paralysed him and probed him and tried to take the god’s vambrace from his arm. Evidently failing in this endeavour, they freed him, handed back his sword, and told him to enjoy his journey to hell. It was a journey he could never have imagined—the time he spent with them being a comparatively harmless interlude—and throughout it he came to understand what the woman really meant.
12
Two Heliothane on Station Seventeen:
‘The Engineer wouldn’t let me see the recording from the internal security system—all we managed to get out before some sort of temporal barrier shut off all communication with the facility.’
‘Brother, I want to know.’
‘Goron’s been otherwise occupied, trying to push his project, so I managed to break into the system …’
‘What happened?’
‘Cowl’s creature killed Astolere.’
‘That can’t be … the amniotic tank was supposed to vent onto the surface of Callisto, where the beast would have died.’
‘That didn’t happen.’
‘Then the creature must be destroyed.’
‘There’s more than that.’
‘Show me.’
‘What is that?’
‘Some kind of feeding mouth that can be extruded from the main body. It wasn’t there before.’
‘That glass should have been able to withstand any force the creature could exert.’
‘Yeah, does that include displacing parts of its molecular structure through time so that those parts aren’t even in the same location?’
‘Scan shows this?’
‘Damned right it does.’
‘Co
wl does not try to help her.’
‘No, he just allows it to consume our sister. She was the brightest and best of us all, and though she was there to supervise the shutdown, she was perhaps, excepting the failed preterhuman, Cowl’s greatest advocate.’
‘Then Cowl must die.’
ENGINEER GORON GAZED FONDLY upon the Jurassic, where giants were demolishing a forest to fill their titanic ever-hungry stomachs. Even with the damping fields of Sauros operating, it was possible to feel the vibration of their gargantuan progress—what palaeontologists of Tack’s time gave the overblown term ‘dino-perturbation’. This herd of camarosaurs, though impressive, was nothing to what he yet had a good chance of seeing, for he had arranged for Sauros to come out in this specific locale: where brachiosaurs roamed. He could also have aimed to bring them out twenty million years later, in the time of the seismosaurs, but conditions had been optimum for this time and place, and he doubted he would have got that one past Vetross. Goron also hoped that when Tack returned there would be a chance for the twenty-second-century primitive to view these creatures along with him, as Tack, stupid in ways Goron could not even conceive, seemed to possess an appreciative awe of these giants that Goron’s fellows did not.
‘What is it, Vetross?’ He’d spied her edging towards him. ‘More calculations for me to check? More energy measures for me to approve? I appointed you as my second for a good reason, you know.’
‘It’s coming,’ Vetross replied.
Goron turned towards her and read the fear in her expression. This moment had been inevitable as soon as they had begun the push. Cowl would not countenance them getting close, without attacking. And attacking meant only one thing.
‘On our time?’
‘Ten hours. It’s pushing up the slope towards our Carboniferous, otherwise it would not retain the energy to bring enough of itself to bear. We’ve got travellers located back every fifty million years. Canolus slowed it with a neutron warhead quarter-slope relative to our Silurian, but while he recovered ground, it got him in transit.’
