by Steve White
“Their hangar is over in that direction,” Jason told Rojas as they passed the last of the shanties and approached the bridge. “Now we need to decide—”
At that moment, with a grinding scream of tortured driving machinery, the car came to an instantaneous, shuddering stop, sending Jason and Rojas forward against their safety belts while Mondrago, seated in the rear, tumbled against the back of their seats. Before their minds had fully registered what was happening, the grav repulsion expired with a wheeze and a cloud of acrid smoke, and the front end slewed into the dirt road just short of the ditch.
Grav snare, flashed through Jason’s brain. Someone concealed in one of the shanties had had one of the small, portable devices that could project either a continuous tractor beam, holding a person immobilized, or a brief, high-powered one that could stop a vehicle and set up destructive harmonics in its gravitics. And in this case, they’ve used the latter. So . . . “Out! Out of the car!” he shouted as he slapped at the catch of his safety belt.
They all tumbled from the crazily canted car, and Jason drew the guass needler pistol at his side. Mondrago, he noted, was already holding his, and crouching behind the car as he exchanged fire with a couple of goon-caste types who had emerged from a shanty with similar weapons. There was the characteristic snapping sound as the steel slivers broke mach, and a metallic whining as several of them whanged off the roof of the car.
Jason immediately dropped beside Mondrago in the shelter of the car. But Rojas, who had gotten out the other side, had no such protection. Standing exposed, she brought her needler up and opened fire, getting one of the goons. But then a sleet of the vicious little flechettes swept across her body. Blood sprayed from tiny holes and, with a gurgling scream, she toppled over the edge of the drainage ditch and was lost to sight.
“Bastards!” yelled Jason as he and Mondrago fired on the remaining goon, who ducked back into the shanty. Jason spared a fraction of a second for a look across the bridge. The Transhumanist car had stopped. Stoneman—yes, it was definitely him—was standing beside it and giving directions to his underlings, who were scrambling down into the ditch from their side. Jason endeavored to keep out of his line of sight, on the chance that he hadn’t already been recognized.
Yes, thought Jason with bitter self-reproach. He always was the careful type, and he was sure he had spotted something in the market the other day. So he set up this little ambush here in case he was followed. And we fell right into it. And even if these goons had been close enough for my implant to detect them, it probably would have been too late by then.
“Sir!” said Mondrago. “Let’s get out of here while that goon’s taking cover. I think we can make it to those shanties over there, across from his. And . . . it’s too late to help the major, even if we could.”
Jason nodded. “On my count of three.” He counted, and they sent a fusillade of flechettes toward the shanty, forcing the goon to keep his head down. Then they sprang to their feet and sprinted toward the nearest alley on their side of the road.
They entered a noisome maze, where the few Zirankh’shi they saw scampered away at the sight of armed humans. Because they had no TRDs, Jason’s neural map display was useless in helping them find their way. “I think,” he said after a while, “if we turn here we’ll—”
“Freeze,” came a cold voice from behind them.
He must know a shortcut, thought Jason sickly. Beside him, Mondrago tensed almost imperceptibly and drew a breath.
“Don’t be stupid even for a Pug,” said the voice, sounding almost bored. Mondrago sighed and relaxed muscle by muscle. “Now drop your guns and turn around slowly.”
They obeyed, to face the goon and his pointed needler. He stepped closer, coming into the range of Jason’s implant. A little late, he thought at the mocking blue dot.
“Now come on. You’re wanted for—”
Something flashed in the corner of Jason’s right eye. All at once the goon’s throat sprouted the handle of a knife, and his blood spurted. With a convulsive movement, he yanked the knife out, and the bloodflow immediately began to slacken as his life-preserving implants kicked in.
But by then Jason and Mondrago had dropped to the mud, scooped up their needlers, and fired as one. Jason’s shot hit the goon’s head. The little flechette was not one of the heavy slugs of military-grade gauss weapons, which would have blown out the top of the skull with hydrostatic pressure as it made its hypervelocity way through. But it went straight into the goon’s brain. He was dead before his legs had finished buckling under him.
From the shadows between two buildings, a Zirankh’shi stepped out, retrieved the throwing knife, wiped it on the goon’s shirt, and hung it beside two others dangling from his harness. Then he turned to Jason and made an unmistakable follow-me gesture.
Jason, who was getting better about individual Zirankh’shi characteristics, recognized this one as a small specimen even for his race, and wiry. But what was most noticeable was that his tapering snout terminated in a pattern of scar tissue where a nose was supposed to be. Evidently someone, at some point in his career, had decided he was in need of chastisement.
But Jason was neither in the mood to be particular nor in any position to do so. “I think I know where he wants to take us,” he told Mondrago. “And it’s exactly where we need to go just now.”
Without another word, they followed the little Zirankh’shi into the squalid maze that was Khankhazh’s criminal district.
Night had fallen by the time they reached Lizh’Ku’s shack. Jason used the communicator he had given the aged Zirankh’shi to inform Captain Chang of what had happened and assure him that he and Mondrago would be back in the legation before morning. Now he sat and drank dugugkh. The stuff was repulsive. He didn’t care. Up until now he and Mondrago had had other things to occupy their minds, but now Rojas’ death was sinking home and they had nothing to shield themselves from it except alcohol.
Lizh’Ku was having a muttered colloquy with No-Nose. Over in a corner, the hulking Luzho’Yuzho was sitting and writing. He often did that, Jason had observed. Lizh’Ku must have taught him the skill, which was almost unheard of among the Manziru Empire’s peasant class. Jason wondered what he was writing down. The tales of his master’s cases, perhaps. This one ought to be one hell of a novelty, Jason thought. He took another gulp of dugugkh and managed to avoid gagging on it.
No-Nose departed, and Lizh’Ku walked over to Jason and snagged the bottle. “Zhagk’Urv is an old acquaintance,” he explained between swigs. “He fancies to consider himself in my debt for a few favors I’ve done him in the past. And he has . . . contacts. After informing you of the Transhumanist activity at the market, I asked him and a couple of his associates to keep watch there and also at the approach to the spacefield that they generally use, as a precaution.”
“A necessary one, as it turned out. I’m sorry I couldn’t thank him.” Jason took another vile-tasting swallow. He needed it, for now the mortification of having had to be nursemaided was added to everything else. “But now we have to get back to the legation.”
“Luzho’Yuzho will guide you.”
“At least I can thank you . . . for everything. I only wish I could repay you.”
“Where will you be going now?”
“I’m not supposed to tell you, and if I did you wouldn’t believe me. Let’s just say it’s a matter of when as well as where.”
Lizh’Ku thought a moment. “If you really wish to repay me, do me one favor. On your return, tell me the story of your travels. You may be surprised at some of the things I can believe. And Luzho’Yuzho will need it to complete his narrative.”
Hey, I was right about Luzho’Yuzho’s subject matter! “Very well. I can’t promise that we’ll ever see each other again, but if we do you’ll hear the full story. Then we’ll see how far your capacity for belief really goes!”
“Grave,” was Narendra Patel’s lugubrious assessment of the situation. “Very grave.”
> He and Captain Chang sat across a small table from Jason, Mondrago and a very subdued Chantal Frey. “Did Stoneman recognize you two?” Chang asked anxiously.
“I can’t be sure,” said Jason. “It was at a distance, and I tried to keep out of sight behind our car.”
“Although,” Mondrago added drily, “we had other things on our minds at the time, what with being in a firefight.”
“So,” said Chang, “we don’t know whether or not they know that you personally—or the Authority, for that matter, is involved.”
“Right,” Jason agreed. “And given that the possibility exists, we have to act without further delay. The three of us will take our Comet class into orbit tomorrow morning and rendezvous with De Ruyter. As soon as preparations can be completed, we’ll set her down at our displacer and proceed with the mission.”
“Yes, yes,” muttered a still shaken Chang.
“One other matter, you’re the senior surviving IDRF officer here. But your assignment is here on Zirankhu. Even though I’m not IDRF, I’ve been acting as Major Rojas’ de facto second in command for our team. As such, I’m assuming command now that she’s dead.” Jason looked Chang in the eye. “It would probably help if you’d so instruct the IDRF personnel aboard De Ruyter.”
Chang hesitated momentarily at the prospect of a non-IDRF officer in command of IDRF personnel. But he knew Jason’s reputation. And there really was no alternative.
“I’ll cut the necessary orders,” he said, after only the briefest pause.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Hawke class (one of several classes named after wet-navy admirals from Earth’s history) was not a major space combatant, intended to deal out cataclysmic violence in fleet engagements. It was fast, compact, and versatile, with enough ship-to-ship firepower to overcome even the most well-armed smuggler, and also capable of surgical planetside strikes, but optimized for stealthy insertion of ground-assault teams, for whom there was a bunkroom just aft of the almost equally Spartan quarters of the ten-member crew. In shape it was a thick, blunt arrowhead just under a hundred and fifty feet long, with the bulges of twin drive nacelles on the sides near the stern. A dorsal turret held an X-ray laser, ideal for space combat but essentially useless in atmosphere, which absorbs X-rays. This deficiency was supplied by two waist turrets mounting lasers that could be adjusted up and down the electromagnetic spectrum from visible light through IR and UV, as conditions required. Under the chin was a retractable missile launcher with a nasty variety of munitions. Nestled in a ventral housing was a sleek gig.
Of course Jason and his companions could see none of this as their Comet class courier approached De Ruyter, for the latter circled Zirankhu under full stealth, including invisibility, even though its orbit was practically at right angles to the one used by the Transhumanists’ cargo carriers. But Van Horn and Tomori, using De Ruyter’s tight-beam transponder, rendezvoused expertly and extended a passage tube between airlocks.
“Who was this De Ruyter, anyway?” asked Jason as the connection was established.
“Michel Adriaanszoon De Ruyter,” said Van Horn (whose probable ethnic origin Jason belatedly remembered). Seeing Jason’s blank look, he kept his expression respectfully expressionless. “Well, sir, let’s put it this way. The only question about him is this: was he the greatest fighting admiral in history, or merely the greatest fighting admiral of the seventeenth century?”
Jason glanced at Mondrago, who nodded in agreement. He decided he’d better leave well enough alone.
Passing through the always-queasy sensation of transition from one artificial gravity field to another, they entered De Ruyter and requested permission to come aboard from Captain Jared Palanivel, the pilot/captain. In this case, at least, there was no naval nonsense about rank titles versus the sacrosanct title of a ship’s skipper. The IDRF used the traditional army titles for all purposes, and Palanivel was a captain—the equivalent of an old-time wet navy lieutenant senior grade, which meant he was fairly junior for command of a Hawke class. But Jason had been assured of his competence, and what he saw in that young predominantly Malay face inclined his instincts in the same direction.
“Captain Chang has been in communication with you, has he not, Captain?” asked Jason.
“He has, Commander. He explained the situation. And he indicated that you wished to address the Commandos.”
Commandos. That was the term—Marines was not permitted, lest jealousies be aroused—for the IDRF’s planetary assault units. “Yes. In the flesh.” Jason had decided he’d better start establishing a rapport with this commando squad, and the sooner the better. “The ship’s company can listen in via intercom.”
“Certainly, Commander. The commandos are already waiting in the wardroom.”
The five-member commando squad rose to attention as they entered De Ruyter’s tiny wardroom. The squad was standard for ships of this class, consisting of two sections. The first, of three members, was armed with standard gauss battle rifles with integral underslung electromag grenade launchers. Then there was the two-member special weapons section, one with a Mark XI plasma gun and the other with a shoulder-fired missile launcher. They all wore fatigues at the moment. For EVA, they did not use the massive space marine powered combat armor, but rather the kind of combat environment suit with which Jason and Mondrago were already familiar, and which could function as a vacuum suit.
These were not people you really wanted to trifle with.
“As you were,” said Palanivel. “This is Commander Jason Thanou of the Temporal Service. He has been assisting Major Rojas, due to the special nature of this mission. He wishes to address you on certain matters of which you have not yet been apprised.”
Jason let them have it point blank. “Major Rojas has been killed in action. I have assumed command of this expedition.” He let the stunned silence last a second or two, during which he ran his eyes over the five faces, silently asking if anyone had a problem with that. The staff sergeant in charge, who doubled as leader of the rifle section, looked vaguely familiar . . .
“Yes, sir,” was all the sergeant said, and suddenly Jason remembered him: Emil Hamner, who had led a squad in the attack on the Transhumanist base under the southern Andes. Jason decided he might not have so much trouble after all.
“This,” Jason resumed, “is Superintendent Alexandre Mondrago of the Temporal Service. He will function as my ADC.” He didn’t think Hamner would have any objection to an outside aide-de-camp. “And this is Dr. Chantal Frey, who will accompany the expedition as a consultant on Transhumanist matters.” Again he scrutinized the commandos’ faces, not knowing if Chantal’s name meant anything to them. But all he saw was the expected grumpiness at having to be responsible for a civilian’s safety.
“Due to certain security concerns,” he continued, “we must proceed immediately. You already know that the mission involves time travel, having volunteered for it with that understanding. As soon as possible, we will descend to a desert area of the planet below, where a temporal displacer has been constructed that is capable of sending this ship back slightly less than five hundred years in time. Now, as some of you may know, a temporal retrieval device is required to restore the temporal energy potential of a displaced object and return it to the displacer stage from which it came, in its proper time. This ship has such a device, and everyone and everything inside it will be retrieved with it.”
“Question, sir,” said a member of the rifle section—a stocky female PFC. “What if the ship comes to grief in the course of the mission, while we’re separated from it?”
“This is a genuine possibility, Private Armasova,” said Jason, reading her name tag. “Against such a contingency, we will also have individual TRDs implanted in us. This is a very simple, painless procedure which the ship’s surgeon will perform presently.” The five faces showed less distaste than might have been expected in products of their culture; worse things happened to these people. “These TRDs are of the ‘controllable�
�� variety used by the Service’s Special Operations Section. What this means is that they are not timed to activate at a preset moment as is usually the case. My own TRD is a special one which I can activate by direct neural interface at my discretion—and when I do so, all the others, including the ship’s, are simultaneously activated, as long as they are within a rather short range.” It had always been a source of potential awkwardness, with Rojas in command but Jason holding the power to terminate the mission at any time. That problem, at least, no longer existed.
“Uh . . . but what if something happens to you, sir?” Armasova persisted.
“That,” Jason deadpanned, “is something they didn’t emphasize when they called for volunteers.” They all chuckled with the grim cynicism of veterans. “I assure you that I’m renowned for my caution concerning my personal safety.” He stonily ignored the faint choking noises from Chantal, behind him. “But it has to be this way, because as on-scene commander I need to be able to exercise my judgment on the basis of the situation as we find it. We have no way of knowing in advance how long this mission is going to take. The displacer stage will be kept empty until such time as we return—which isn’t a problem, inasmuch as we’re the only traffic it has to handle.”
“Speaking of the mission, Commander,” said Hamner, “we’ve been told very little about it. Can you fill us in?”
“Not as much as you—or I—would like. After our temporal displacement, we will proceed to the star HC+31 8213, just under nineteen and a half light-years from here. That should come to about five days for this ship.” Jason glanced at Palanivel, who nodded in confirmation. “We know nothing about this star except that the Transhumanist underground commenced some kind of project beginning a little over ten years before our target time period, on some planet of that system that we’ve been calling ‘Planet B’ for convenience. We don’t know what this project is, or why they’ve gone to enormous trouble and expense to go back so far in time. So I can’t tell you even approximately what kind of opposition you’re going to be facing. But we have reason to believe that whatever they’re doing is—or, I suppose I should say, was—vulnerable in its early stages, and that after those stages they left it alone. The magnitude of our displacement represents out best guess as to when their ships had ceased going there, for we want the Transhumanists in the present era to be unaware that their project was aborted.
