Caesar turned to contemplate this figure. Like everyone, he was matted in dust; his helmet was badly dented and a cut on his arm was spilling blood onto his boots. After a moment Caesar realized this was Antonius speaking.
“Indeed it is final, Marce. The estimate is half of Pompey’s troops have been killed. That would bring our losses to twenty thousand souls.”
“Our losses, Caesar?”
“These were Romans, Marce. I have won the battle, but Rome has lost its bravest souls. Still,” he added, pointing to corpses whose purple togas showed that they were one-time senators, “hoc voluerunt. They wanted this.”
“And Fortuna, Caesar? What did she wish?” Antonius motioned to Caesar’s left hand which he’d kept tightly clenched through the length of the battle. Hearing this question Caesar managed a smile. He opened his hand and displayed four knucklebones.
“You guessed correctly, Antonius. Fortuna, too, desired this outcome….”
“Felix,” a voice spoke, intruding on his reading, “Carolyn Manes will be arriving in the next ten minutes.”
“That’s right,” Felix answered. He was seated at a counter and reading the Lives of the Caesars. “We’re planning to play some Halo Ball.”
“I will fix you a fruit shake and two protein biscuits. You could use caloric input and are partially dehydrated.”
“That’s a great idea, Mentor.”
“The processing time is fifty-two seconds.”
The Domestic System hummed as it set about this task. Closing his book, Felix waited for his snack, frowning because he knew what his mom would say. Mentor’s prep time was slowly slipping. His processing speed was unimpressive and his software was outdated by sixteen years. They could upload the latest upgrades, but at the cost of altering Mentor’s “profile.” Fearing Mentor would seem like a stranger, Felix had insisted that they leave “him” be — to his mom’s amusement. “I can’t believe you’re attached to a machine,” she’d joked.
“Here’s your snack,” Mentor said. A panel opened and Felix removed its contents.
“Thanks, Mentor.”
“You’re welcome. Have you figured out that question yet?” He was referring to their discussion that morning, involving one of Johann Clavius’s theories. Among his many breakthroughs, for which he’d won two Nobel Prizes, Clavius had uncovered the equations for time travel; this work had brought about the TPM, the device that had carried Felix back to the past. Intrigued by the scientist, Felix had been studying his work ever since.
“We were discussing butterfly effects,” Felix said. He was looking out the window as he sipped his fruit shake.
“Clavius calls them temporal disruptions,” Mentor observed. “By this he means the unseen effects when a subject from the future alters the course of the past.”
“Right. Like if I travelled back in time and let off a bomb. But remind me what the question was?” Felix chewed his biscuit. A piece broke off and settled on the floor. Mentor’s hygiene scan detected the crumb and zapped it with a low-watt laser.
“Can a temporal disruption be reversed? Clavius discusses this problem in the following manner. He imagines you were in the Boston airport, on September 11, 2001.”
“He’s referring to the 9/11 bombings,” Felix said.
“That’s correct. Clavius witnessed the religious wars, when the world was divided into rats and theos. 9/11 was the trigger event for this struggle. Returning to the example he uses, you see Mohamed Atta in the airport lounge.”
“He was the chief hijacker.”
“Yes. You break his hands so that he cannot work his mischief. But an instant later, Clavius supposes, you change your mind: your act might save the World Trade Center, but it will alter history, maybe for the worse. You decide it would be better for the attacks to occur. Clavius asks if there is something you can do. Can you reverse the effect of Mohamed Atta’s broken hands?”
“Couldn’t I hurry to the future then return to the past, to a time before I broke his hands? This way I can leave him be and allow him to accomplish his original plan.”
“Clavius says no,” Mentor answered. “When you broke his hands, this was registered in his timeframe. That means that the future you returned to would be the product of a past in which the towers weren’t attacked.”
“So there’s no reversing a butterfly effect?” Felix sipped his shake again.
“There’s one possibility,” Mentor replied. “Clavius wrote that you can create a wormhole — this is a ‘tunnel’ linking two periods together, even if they are centuries apart. For as long as this wormhole is open, it will ‘freeze’ the past and stop it from changing the original future.”
“Meaning?” Felix asked. He’d finished his shake. Placing the glass in a recess, he reached for a biscuit. There was a flash as the glass was sterilized.
“Let’s get back to Mohamed Atta.” As always, Mentor’s tone was patient. “You regret that you have broken his hands. You build a wormhole and bring him to your future. Once there, you heal his hands so that he can hijack the plane. You return him to his past making use of the wormhole, to the moment when you first attacked him. If the wormhole is still open, the past hasn’t changed from the moment you left it. Mohamed Atta can press on with his mission.”
“I see,” Felix said. He’d finished eating and spread his hands on the counter. Again there was a flash: the counter and his hands were instantly clean. “It’s awful to think you couldn’t interfere. But how do you build a wormhole?”
“If you create a field reversing the one that links you to the past, this would provide you with a bridge to the future. But first you would need a time machine; and we haven’t constructed any such device.”
As Felix thought of the TPM, a monitor came on and Carolyn’s face appeared.
“Your guest has arrived,” Mentor announced. “I must remind you, Felix, that you are scheduled to eat at 7:00 p.m. Your mother’s shuttle will pick her up at nine. She cannot miss her flight to Ganymede.”
“I’ll remember,” Felix said. “Want to come up?” he asked Carolyn. “You can snack before we play.”
“I like playing when I’m hungry,” she said. “Come to the courts. And prepare to lose.”
She disconnected. While Felix should have smiled, he shivered instead. Her eyes had lost their shine and might have belonged to a killer.
Felix tore straight at the wall. Leaping at its surface, he climbed four steps and threw himself off, performing a backflip in the process. Tucking in mid-air, he landed in a crouch — his vacuum shoes took most of the shock. His tactic paid off: one ball hit the wall, while a second missed his head by an inch. The Halo balls scanned the space with their sensors and, detecting his coordinates, assailed him again. He rolled two times, regained his feet and performed a handstand on a ledge in the corner. With his feet against the wall and his hands on the ledge, he moved spider-like to dodge one ball, then its partner. Thrusting with his legs, he vaulted backwards, regained the floor, and hit the deck. For the third time in fifteen seconds, the balls failed to find their target.
“Ow! Stop!”
“Stop!” Felix cried, as the three-inch balls leapt forward again. Both stopped instantly and hung in midair. A light on each began to flash, a sign they’d entered sleep mode.
“That’s five to one,” Carolyn groaned, rubbing her arm where a ball had caught her.
“Had enough?” Felix gasped.
“For the moment, yeah. Let’s take a breather.” Still massaging her arm, Carolyn sat on the ledge. Remaining on his feet, Felix eyed her with concern.
At first sight she hadn’t changed much since they’d met last year. Her blond hair was just as short, her height was the same, and her hazel stare was just as fierce, a perfect match for her sharply drawn chin. At the same time there were differences: she seemed more restless, more vulnerable, too. Although the last impression had to do with her colour: as Stephen had observed back on the transport, she was noticeably pale and also thinner
.
“You’ve improved,” she said grudgingly. A born competitor, she hated to lose.
“I’ve had time on my hands and practised a lot. And the moves you taught me come in handy. But it’s you, as well. You’re thinner and your eyes looked strained. I’ll bet you’re getting those headaches still.”
“I’m 98 percent, according to Dr. Lee.”
“You’re seeing Dr. Lee?”
“Sure. He’s still my family doctor, remember.”
“Where are you seeing him? Here on-world or …”
“Watch that,” Carolyn warned.
Felix smiled. She was reminding him about his oath of silence, how he couldn’t say anything about the TPM. As a general’s daughter, she took such matters seriously.
But she wasn’t just warning him to watch his tongue. She was also saying she didn’t want to talk about “that.” By “that” she meant their jump to the past. Their flight through time had just about killed them — Felix had been stabbed, while giant scorpions had almost eaten her alive. Whenever they’d discussed their “trip,” she’d suffered nightmares for days on end. Several times she’d mentioned the Mem-rase program, much to Felix’s disgust and distress.
“Did he say what it is?”
“It’s an infection maybe. Or a residual effect of … you know what.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t spill any secrets. I’ll keep them all herkos odonton.”
“I thought we had an agreement,” she said impatiently. “You promised not to use any Latin, remember?”
“It’s not Latin, but Greek. It means the ‘barrier of one’s teeth’ and is a way of promising to keep a secret.”
“Latin, Greek,” she sneered, “they’re both the same.”
Felix smiled weakly. It really was too bad. For a while after their return from the past, Carolyn had studied Latin with him, in exchange for lessons in karate and judo. They’d spent a lot of time together, on the Space Station, and, more often, on the Taylor terrace. They’d conjugated verbs, inflected nouns, and expanded her vocabulary. And then she’d stopped. It wasn’t because the language bored her. On the contrary, she’d found it gorgeous and admired Cicero and Caesar. But the appeal of these authors had caused her concern: if she didn’t watch out, she’d become “addicted” like Felix, with one foot in the modern world and one in the past. That struck her as unhealthy and she’d dropped the lessons.
“Stephen thinks you’ve got a screw loose,” she went on. “He says you should leave your books and return to the real world.”
“Those books saved his ass!” Felix snarled, startling Carolyn with the force of his anger. Her words pained him more than he could say. “If not for those texts, he’d have died from the plague! The same goes for everyone, your dad included. I’m amazed you’ve forgotten your debt to the past. But you’re in very good company. If President Angstrom has his way, the Repository will be shuttered soon.”
“Are you finished?” she asked, hardly impressed.
“No. I saw Stephen today. He wants you to wear something nice this evening. And he thinks you should alter your skin tone, too.”
He and Carolyn glared at each other. Like most people she’d had her ERR extended and her features were perfectly controlled. At the same time, there was a glimmer of regret that she’d spoken so glibly of Felix’s interests. She was fond of him, he knew, and was aware that they’d done amazing things together. But there was also her more practical bent. This was the part addressing him now.
“I’ve calculated the odds of the plague returning,” she said. “Can you guess the results?”
“Tell me,” Felix said.
“They’re less than a billion to one. Our reliance on the past is virtually zero.”
“And therefore we can ignore it. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes. Look, the world was lucky that you speak Latin; we wouldn’t be here if you didn’t. But Pompey’s dead, Spartacus is dead, Cicero’s dead, and Rome is in ruins. If we’re never threatened again, what’s the use of studying something so …”
“Meaningless?”
“Yes. Do you want to know what I think?”
“I don’t know. Do I?”
“You can’t go on like this. You’ll drive yourself crazy. You’ll be out of touch with everyone. As the president said today, we should try to be useful. That’s why …”
“Yeah?”
“You should submit to ERR. After that, we should have our memories deleted.”
Felix smiled grimly. For the past six months, since Angstrom had broadened all ERR limits, Felix and Carolyn had debated the issue, especially when she’d adopted the upgrades. And now they were preparing to argue again, even though they were familiar with each other’s views. Felix was about to say that their emotions meant a lot, and the past did too, while she was getting ready to “prove” that both were unimportant.
Before either could speak, the power failed. One moment there were lights; the next there was darkness. The Halo balls dropped to the floor and the vents grew silent.
“That’s odd,” Carolyn said. She was sitting nearby, but Felix couldn’t see her.
“It’s been happening a lot recently,” he mused. “My transport failed when I was returning from Europe.” He didn’t add that he’d practically died of fright.
“There’s a problem with the grid, I guess. Although it has so many fail-safes that stoppages shouldn’t happen. Still, it had better return. I have to meet Stephen and his parents at seven.”
“The failure won’t last long,” he answered tightly.
This second reference to Stephen upset him. It was bad enough she pooh-poohed his interests; her attraction to Stephen was the ultimate insult. Yes, the guy was bright, but he was also one-dimensional. He had no interest in anything that went beyond his ruthless logic.
At the same time, the question of ERR still nagged him. If he were to reduce the range of his emotions, would he appear more likeable in Carolyn’s eyes?
“Your voice is strained,” she said. “Is some-thing wrong?”
“Nothing that concerns you,” Felix replied. He was about to congratulate her for placing second in that contest when, as abruptly as they’d shut off, the lights came on. There was a hiss from the vents and the Halo balls were airborne.
Wordlessly, they left the court and entered a hallway whose lights were flashing on, one by one, in sequence. As they headed to the exit, the shadows in front of them dissolved. But as the lights returned, they affected Carolyn and helped her reach a firm decision. Something was coming, Felix could see. Sure enough, by the exit, she turned to face him.
“I just don’t see the point,” she said.
“I know.”
“We had a great adventure,” she continued. “But …”
“I understand,” Felix said. “Don’t worry. I’ll remember it for both of us.”
“Or we could forget it together.”
“It’s not in my nature to forget.”
“I suppose it isn’t. Well then …”
“Goodbye, Carolyn.”
“Look after yourself.”
She stepped outside and the door closed behind her. Felix shrugged and approached a stairwell. Of all the emotions plaguing him just then, envy was most powerful. He envied Carolyn her ability to forget. Maybe ERR and Mem-rase were worth looking into.
He didn’t want to return upstairs. In a mood like this, he hated everything modern, Mentor included. Just then there was only one place to go, even if in some ways it was the source of all his troubles.
Chapter Three
Caesar stared at the people around him. He was walking to the Senate and the streets were crowded. The people watching him looked disappointed, angry even. Some were shouting, “Restore the Republic!” while others were crying, “Death to the king!”
He was feverish. He was also thinking about his wife, Calpurnia, who’d had an awful dream the night before. In it she’d held his corpse in her arms, bloody from a dozen w
ounds. When he’d calmed her, she’d reminded him of Spurrina’s warning. The augur had told him to beware the Ides of March and now that very day had come. There were other omens, too, showing that his life was in danger. But he was Caesar. He didn’t believe in dreams. Instead he listened only to … Fortuna.
It was only mid-March, but the day was hot. Mehercule! The sun was bearing down on him with all the fury of a raging Gaul. The Via Flaminia wasn’t shaded in this quarter. There was the Porticus Minucia over on his right, and the porticus belonging Jupiter and Juno, but these were located too far from the road. Dust was in the air and the crowd was suffocating. It was lucky he was nearing the Theatre of Pompey. This is where the senate would meet while the Curia Julia was under construction.
Poor Pompey, he mused. Yes, they’d been enemies; if he’d lost at Pharsalus, Pompey would have killed him. At the same time, he’d been a good friend once and his murder in Egypt was nothing short of tragic. Where was Pompey now? At rest and indifferent to all earthly matters? Or was he angry and wishing ill on Caesar?
“Down with Caesar!” someone yelled from nearby. Because of his fever, he heard these words as if he were submerged; unfortunately they were still audible. He sighed. Did people think he was scheming to be king? Did they think he enjoyed ruling over the city? No! A thousand times no! He would give up all his power if the Romans would behave. But they were too contentious to live in peace for long. That’s why he had to sit on their heads, until he knew they wouldn’t start fighting again.
Pompey’s Theatre was coming up. A group of senators was standing before its entrance, Casca, Cassius, Galba, and others. He shivered slightly. This band had him nervous. They’d protested his rule and didn’t wish him well. Maybe Calpurnia was right and he was in danger. Perhaps he should retreat and meet these dogs when he was stronger. His fingers grabbed his knucklebones, to determine what Fortuna thought.
As his fingers grazed the astragali, another face appeared. Brutus, thank goodness. A dignified, polite young man, he’d be sure to safeguard Caesar. He waved to the leader. Caesar waved back. He abandoned the astragali and hastened forward, sure that Brutus was a better protector than Fortuna.
Fortuna Page 2
