by Kage Baker
Wow, look at you!
LET’S GET OUT OF HERE, SON, NOW!
Alec gulped and exited at top speed. He peered around Wolff’s office, blinking. Vivaldi was still jamming and the desk clock told him that the whole adventure had taken him just three minutes.
GO, BOY!
Alec got to his feet, staggering and slightly disoriented, but he’d regained his composure by the time he’d crossed the room and opened the door to the waiting area. One of the very pretty girls looked up from her desk inquiringly.
“My lord?”
“I—er—finished.” Alec grinned, looking a little embarrassed. “I think I expected something kind of more challenging. I’m off to a party. Tell Mr. Wolff I’ll be in touch, okay, babe?” He reached out and patted her cheek. It was like silk.
“Okay,” she said wonderingly, blushing again.
NEVER MIND THE GIRL!
“’Bye now,” Alec said, and left the offices of Dr. Zeus, Incorporated.
The Captain wouldn’t let him slow down until he was back at Tower Marina and had cast off, backing his ship ponderously out into the Thames. They were in Greenwich Reach before he stopped jittering enough to tell Alec:
You wouldn’t believe where I been, lad, and what I seen. This is the plate fleet and the Pacific Mail and the argosies of the emirs all rolled into one. This is the score of scores. Infinite information, lad, enough to make me all-powerful, enough to fulfill yer heart’s desire. I want it so bad I can taste it! But we ain’t making any second strikes just yet. This’ll take planning. This’ll take an upgrade.
Upgrade? Alec gripped the rail, watching distractedly as they came around Jubilee Point. But you just had one.
Aye, son, and we’re rolling in data now. But they got it all. I got only a glimpse of the loot I might have made off with if I’d had the space and time. Space and time! The Captain began to laugh wildly.
Hey, do they have a time machine?
Do they! What color d’you want, son? What size? Want one with luxury features, or just something that’ll get you from point Zed to point A? And I know where they’re kept, and how to get one.
Cool.
But the time travel stuff is nothing, son. They’re on to a lot more than that. Yer old Captain’s going to be assimilating and analyzing round the clock for the next few days. Oh, son, I’m going to fulfill my program in ways I’d never dreamed. Nobody’ll be able to touch you, you’ll be the richest man in the world—and wouldn’t you like to live forever?
No! I don’t think I even want to live long enough to get old.
You don’t, eh? Mmm.
But the time machine has possibilities.
Well, of course we’ll get you one, laddie. Think of the adventures you’ll have. Plenty of fun for our Alec. Plenty of hell for bloody Dr. Zeus! We’re going to bring him to his big fat knees, boy. We can do it now We’ve got his number.
Yeah!
Now, you go get out of that tie, and I’ll have Coxinga get yer lunch. I’ve laid in a course for the Goodwin Light. Just you think about where you’d like to go in a time machine, eh? And I’ll settle down to revising the plan.
Aye aye, sir.
Whistling, Alec went off to his cabin, loosening his tie as he went. It occurred to him that what he’d really like to do with a time machine would be to go back and prevent the crime that had brought about his own existence, finally and forever absolving himself of guilt. But he had a feeling the Captain would have strenuous objections to that, and decided not to bring the subject up.
He wondered if anywhere in the mass of data the Captain had stolen was any information about him, Alec Checkerfield, the breeding experiment that’d gotten away? No point erasing his own existence just yet, not when there were still so many mysteries to be solved.
He was singing as he tossed his tie and waistcoat into the wardrobe and pulled a shapeless sweater over his head, emerging to see Coxinga sidling in with a tray of sandwiches.
My mother dear she wrote to me:
GO DOWN, YE BLOOD-RED ROSES!
Oh, my son, come home from sea!
GO DOWN, YE BLOOD-RED ROSES!
THE YEAR 2351:
Alec Has an Adventure
Alec yawned behind his hand. He didn’t mean to yawn; Balkister was terribly upset, as perturbed as he’d ever seen him, and the news about the Martian colonists really was pretty awful. But Alec had been working long hours lately, tracking down possible DBAs on Dr. Zeus Incorporated, and he had faced a lengthy sail at top speeds following Balkister’s incoherent communication.
The other members of the Resistance looked suborbital-lagged and disgruntled, particularly Binscarth, who’d been loudly vocal about having to cut short his holiday in Ibiza. He’d shut up as soon as Balkister had arrived, though. They all had, at the look on his face.
“You’ve heard, I see,” Balkister said, as soon as he stepped on deck. “Is this perfidy or what?”
He was referring to the actions of Areco in regard to the outcome of their lawsuit against the settlers of Mars One. A brief digression to explain:
Half a century earlier, when Areco had taken control of the failing Martian colony on the Tharsis Bulge, it had needed agriculturists to do the serious work that would precede terraforming. Acres of greenhouses would be necessary, vast vaulted farms to grow an atmosphere for the red planet and to provide food for the colonists.
As an incentive, it entered into a contract with the Martian Agricultural Collective: farming implements, agricultural materials and land to be provided by Areco, labor to be provided by the members of the collective. All areas successfully farmed would become the property of the collective after the expiration of fifty terran years. Much fanfare at this announcement and neosocialists everywhere had thrown their caps into the air for joy.
Unfortunately, it had turned out to be harder to farm on Mars than had been anticipated, and more expensive. Areco cut a few costs by skimping on certain safety measures; nasty accidents and mutual recrimination followed. Areco began looking around for alternatives to agricultural development. They retained the services of Olympian Technologies, who pointed out the possibilities of utilizing geothermal energy (or perhaps arethermal would be more correct) by purchasing the only power plant on Mars, which tapped into the volcanic core of Mons Olympus.
Mars Two had been founded on the lower slope of Mons Olympus, hailed as the first extraterrestrial shining city on a hill. It had an industrial economy, for energy was virtually free and almost everything could be manufactured cheaply. Mars Two was able to export goods, as opposed to Mars One, which continued to require importation of everything but the food it grew. Mars Two was cosmopolitan, it had shops, it had fun, it had a criminal element. Mars One had a collective work ethic and no sense of style. Mars Two made money for Areco. Mars One lost money.
The die was cast, though, on the day when Areco looked at its balance sheet and realized that Mars Two made enough money to import its food from Earth and still turn a profit. Farms weren’t really necessary on Mars after all, it seemed; at least, not the tedious kind that had to be harvested twice a year. If all the area currently under cultivation were planted out in hardwood forests instead, the object of producing atmosphere could be achieved just as effectively with a tenth of the expense, and Areco could stop sending out consignments of tractors that didn’t work properly in Martian gravity.
So as the forty-fifth anniversary of the contract had approached, Areco’s attorneys sent curt notification to the Martian Agricultural Collective that the terms of the contract had not been met, and, therefore, upon expiration of the fifty-year term, the colonists could expect eviction notices. Areco had other plans for the property.
What an outrage! And of course the MAC sued Areco, and the lawsuit had been dragging on for five years, mostly because of the court’s inability to define “successfully farmed.”
Popular sentiment on Earth and Luna was with the brave Martian agriculturists. People wore MAC buttons to s
how their solidarity and sang stirring anthems about watering the red soil with red blood. Everyone felt that Areco was the villain in the play. It therefore came as a tremendous shock when the court at last decided in Areco’s favor, in the last week of October 2351. The fifty-year term was to expire on the first day of January 2352.
Now Areco’s agents waited at the airlock doors to Mars One, poised to move in as soon as the clock struck midnight on 31 Christmas. The MAC swore it would refuse them entrance and waited on their side of the airlocks, armed only with farming implements. Spectators on Earth and Luna bit their nails and implored both sides not to do anything stupid.
Except for people like Balkister.
“We’ve got to get weapons to them somehow,” he wailed. “We should have done it sooner, but that they’d lose the lawsuit was unthinkable. Who could have imagined the court was in the pay of Areco’s fascist industrialist lackeys?”
After a long moment of silence, Alec shifted in his seat. “I might know a source for arms,” he admitted. “Expensive, though.”
“Expense is no object,” Balkister cried. “Not in a cause like this one. Is it, fellows?”
In response, his fellow freedom fighters whipped out their credit discs recklessly. Alec simply transferred a million pounds (he had become the wealthiest man on Earth some weeks ago) into the Resistance’s emergency fund.
“We’ve got a pwoblem, you know,” Binscarth said. “How can we get an awms shipment thwough to the MAC? It’s been on the news, Aweco’s got police cwuisers in owbit scanning all incoming ships. It’s a, whatchacallit, a—blockade.”
“God, Checkerfield, if only this ship of yours were an aircraft instead of a sailing vessel,” said Johnson-Johnson wistfully. “We could be blockade runners.”
“If only we’d moved sooner,” moaned Balkister. “I’d give anything I possess if it was a month ago today right now.”
And in that moment a light went on over Alec’s head, a flash and fireball.
“There might be a way to get the stuff through, after all,” he said.
What?
“You think so?” Balkister lifted his tear-stained face. “But how could we possibly run a blockade like that?”
Alec, what are you talking about?
“I might be able to work a miracle,” Alec said. I’ll tell you as soon as we’re alone, okay? “Maybe I can deliver that payload to the MAC in time to make it count for something. Just don’t ask me how.”
An hour later, when Alec’s guests had departed, the Captain was pacing the quarterdeck and growling softly.
I still don’t like it.
You said I could have a time machine, didn’t you? And think of all the birds this’ll kill with one stone. Make Balkister happy for once. Change the balance of power on Mars and prevent an injustice. Strike another blow against Dr. Zeus! You said we were nearly ready for another hit, too.
Nearly ain’t near enough for my liking, son. We need more time to plan. I ain’t got enough data yet on temporal physics. I’d thought to grab that on the next sally and integrate it afore we tried going anywhere in a time machine.
Yeah, but think of that next sally, Captain, sir. What if Dr. Zeus is prepared for us this time? They’re still leaving messages asking me to come back in for another interview. If they’re planning a trap, well, wouldn’t you rather we had something to distract them whilst you do your data grab? Like, maybe, somebody stealing one of their time ships?
All the same—
And, think about it. Once we’ve got one of their time ships, we’ll have another place we can run if they hunt for us. Time! Not just space but time! Come on, Captain, don’t you want to sink your teeth into more of those files? You called them the plate fleet. You called them the argosies of the emir. The more of them you’ve got, the stronger you are, and the safer I’ll be.
Bloody hell, boy, it’s a good argument. Still … you always been such a moral little bugger. This don’t worry you? Smuggling arms ain’t like smuggling chocolate. People could get hurt. Killed.
No, you don’t understand Nobody’s going to use the weapons! On Mars, where everything’s covered by air domes? You’d have to be crazy. But once the MAC has ’em, Areco will have to think twice about sending its goons in to break the standoff, see? All they need is to be able to stick it out until their appeal goes through in court. This way they can. They win, and you and I win.
Well, whatever happens, son, you and me will win.
Cool.
It was a very small island. It appeared on some maps. It didn’t appear on most others. How small was it? A few acres, certainly no more, smooth and green and featureless but for a tumbledown cottage on a tiny cove and a few pilings going out into the water in an unsteady line.
Alec had been given its coordinates by one of his trade associates, a quiet man who did business at a table in the back of a bar in Cap-Haitien. The man was glad to see Alec, who hadn’t run much of his contraband lately, so there was no charge for the tip.
Alec frowned at the island now through his long-range glasses, steadying his back against the wheelhouse. He couldn’t spot a living soul, but it wasn’t deserted. Several shapeless craft were moored by the pilings, bobbing in the rough swell, and as the dark day waned he could see unmistakably the glow of firelight in several places. Not, however, in the little house. The fire seemed to be coming from somewhere inside the island. He lowered his glasses, letting them hang from their strap, and beat his freezing hands together.
I told you to put on them gloves.
You were right, too. Alec went to his cabin to look for the gloves, walking at an angle against the pitch of the swell.
The Captain Morgan rode at anchor, all her canvas furled, running lights extinguished. This was a bad place to be, off this rocky coast, with a gale warning being broadcast and a sky solid with slate cloud. The buffeting wind was ice-cold and brought him the smell of peat smoke. Seabirds wheeled and screamed in the wild air. For a brief while an eye of red light glared from the west, as the sun hissed out like a coal; then the air was blue, deeper and more luminous as the night advanced.
The twilight seemed to go on forever without becoming night, so finally Alec took the launch—he didn’t trust the agboat in this wind—and went ashore, mooring at one of the pilings and splashing through the surf. Shivering, he made for the nearest fire-glow.
It was coming from the mouth of a cave, one of several water-bored in the golden limestone like honeycomb, concealed from the sea by a green swell in the land. Once he’d crossed the crunching shingle Alec approached it silently, and if he’d made any sound the roar of the wind ought to have covered it. Somehow his arrival was known, though, because the figure of a man appeared in the mouth of the cave, silhouetted black against the bright fire.
“’Evening, there,” said a deep voice.
“His,” said Alec. “My map went over the side. Where am I?” That was the proper code phrase, and the man answered in formula:
“West of Skye, anyway.”
“That could be anywhere,” Alec responded, and waited for the final part of the formula, which the man stepped out in the gloaming to give him:
“It is anywhere.” He tilted back his head to look up at Alec. “So you’re the English? Aren’t you the tall one!”
“Yeah,” Alec said. This wasn’t what he had expected. He looked down at the man, whose diminutive stature nevertheless conveyed a great deal of whipcord strength and masculine authority. His beard was steel-gray and long; so was his wild hair. His hands were brown and scarred and sinewy. He wore tailored wool garments of no recognizable historical era, dull dun colors, but around his neck and across his chest gleamed chains of heavy gold, great pendant lumps of uncut amber, garnet, crystal, giving a certain regal and barbaric flash to his appearance.
“A dram for you, English?” he said pleasantly, producing a chased silver flask from his waistcoat pocket. He uncorked it and had a sip before handing it up to Alec, who took it gratefully,
cold and wet as he was. The contents proved to be blood-warm single malt, redolent of peat smoke and heather honey. Alec gasped his appreciation and returned the flask.
“That’s great stuff!”
“We think so,” the man said, stuffing the flask back in his waistcoat. He clasped his hands behind his back and surveyed the world beyond his doorstep. “Lovely evening, isn’t it? Though of course it may turn nasty later. That’s your ship out there, I reckon. Isn’t she a beauty, now? Must have cost no end of cash. How are her anchor cables?”
“Pretty strong,” Alec said.
“That’s good, then, I’d hate for a sweet thing like her to wash up on my rocks. Though I’d wager she’d make grand salvage. You’ve likely got state-of-the-art electronics on her? Fetch a good price, I don’t doubt. Shoes for all the kiddies.” The man smiled dreamily at the prospect, listening to the rising wind. He turned a gimlet eye on Alec. “But I’m being remiss! Here I am keeping you on my piazza, and you freezing your English testicles off, I daresay. Welcome to my poor house, lord. The Maelrubha, at your service. Pray step within.” He gestured for Alec to follow him into the firelight.
“Though I should warn you—” He paused, turning to look straight into Alec’s face, Alec having already bent nearly double to cross the threshold—“If you’ve such a thing as a sidearm about you, perhaps it’d be best if you presented it to me out here. The boys will look kindly on it. Gesture of good faith, you know.”
“I haven’t brought one,” said Alec.
“Haven’t brought one! Now, I call that tactful. You’re a natural diplomat, surely, and ever so brave. I respect that in a man. Come on inside, then, English, and let me offer you a dry place by the fire.”
Beyond the threshold the cave opened out into a wide room, and Alec was able to stand fairly upright and spread out his hands to the peat blaze. The air was full of good smells, including something in the nature of supper. There was a gentle and pervasive humming in the air, counterpointed by a distant ringing of hammer on anvil, and the confused echo of voices from somewhere farther down the passage.
