Soldiers Out of Time

by Steve White

  “We’re going to reconnoiter the system very cautiously and ascertain what the Transhumanists have there. We will then do whatever seems indicated. If we have sufficient force to destroy whatever it is, we will go ahead and do so. But if it looks like more than we can handle, we will depart without making our presence known—quite easy, inasmuch as the ship’s temporal retrieval will snatch it instantaneously back to the displacer stage from which it departed, here on Zirankhu.” They all goggled a bit at that. “After which, an expedition strong enough to do the job can be dispatched. If that happens, I for one would like to be on it. I’m thinking you might, also, after . . . what happened to Major Rojas.”

  There was no bloodthirsty bluster, no dramatics. These were professionals. But their expressions told Jason all he needed to know. Yes, he thought. We’ll get along just fine.

  “One final point. At the beginning, I mentioned security concerns. The Transhumanists have known for some time that the IDRF has been taking an interest in their activities on Zirankhu. But now there is a possibility that one of them has sighted me—and my face is rather well-known to them. If I’ve been recognized, they may have put two and two together and concluded that we know their little game involves time travel. This, in turn, could result in them being put on the alert at our destination system, even though there’s no indication that our displacer here has been compromised.”

  “Well, then, sir,” said Hamner, “it ought to be all right if we act quickly enough, when the ones at Planet B haven’t been alerted yet.”

  “Whatever ‘yet’ means in this context, Sergeant,” Jason pointed out. “They might go back from sometime in our future to a point prior to our arrival at Planet B.”

  Hamner opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.

  “But what we call the Observer Effect will prevent them from giving the warning early. Because if the Transhumanists at Planet B had already gotten the word, then they would have been able through the regular supply runs to inform the ones back here, who would then have made it their business to sabotage our displacer before it was finished—which, in fact, they haven’t.”

  The commandos’ eyes were starting to glaze over.

  “But don’t worry about any of this,” Jason concluded reassuringly. “There are no paradoxes. We have a saying: ‘Reality protects itself.’”

  “Sir,” said Hamner with out-of-character plaintiveness, “I’m very confused.”

  Jason grinned. “That means you’re starting to get it.”

  De Ruyter was, of course, under maximum stealth for her descent from orbit. But Jason was taking no chances. It was midnight over the Xinkahn Desert when they swooped down under grav repulsion and approached the lights of the displacer facility.

  Had it been daylight, Jason knew he would have viewed a scene of raw, crude newness. To call this a no-frills installation would have been an understatement. As it was, the lights were all that was visible. They made for a circle of them that defined the perimeter of the two-hundred-foot-diameter displacer stage. Off to the side, a cluster of lights marked the powerplant and massive capacitors that would provide the energy surge to send them back in time.

  In what Jason was already thinking of as the old days, when the Authority’s Kasugawa/Weintraub technology had required a bigger power plant than this to displace a few humans, the idea of displacing De Ruyter’s almost three thousand tons of loaded mass almost half a millenium would have occasioned howls of laughter. Even with reverse-engineered Transhumanist technology, it required an antimatter powerplant which had presented the biggest engineering problems in the whole clandestine construction project. In particular, the converter which processed the sand of the Xinkhan into antimatter had not lent itself to modular construction techniques.

  But now all was ready. And as De Ruyter settled down in a cloud of dust, Jason radioed the chief technician and confirmed that the capacitors were fully charged.

  Jason turned to Palanivel. “With your permission, Captain?”

  Palanivel nodded, picked up his intercom mike, and spoke a command he had never dreamed he would give. “All hands, this is the Captain. Prepare for temporal displacement. You will receive a ten-second countdown.”

  Jason spoke again to the chief technician, then patched him into Palanivel. The two coordinated, and the countdown commenced.

  Jason had never been inside a vehicle that was being temporally displaced—the Authority had never even considered such a thing until now. He wondered if the sensation would be the same as his accustomed individual displacements—an indescribable dreamlike disconnection of reality—or if everything within the ship would remain normal to his senses. He eagerly awaited the answer to this question.

  The countdown ticked down to zero . . . and afterwards he couldn’t remember. He should, he ruefully realized, have expected it. As always, there was no sensation of time having passed, and no recollection of anything having happened.

  There were only the snowfields of Zirankhu’s north polar region, gleaming below in the control room’s viewscreen in the early-morning light.

  After such a profoundly unnatural experience, there was the inevitable moment of sickening disorientation which all personnel had been briefed to expect. As an old hand, Jason came out of it first. He waited until Palanivel had recovered his equilibrium, then spoke formally.

  “The displacement has been completed, Captain. We are now in what is, by standard Earth dating, the late 1890s. Please ask your navigator to shape a course for HC+31 8213.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Astronomical observations had long ago determined that HC+31 8213 had at least one gas giant planet, and that that planet was not a “hot Jupiter” that had migrated inward and settled into a close orbit around its sun after wiping out any potential life-bearing worlds. De Ruyter was no survey ship, but as she approached the system even her necessarily compact instrumentation was able to detect the small terrestrial planets, and ascertain that one of them showed the spectroscopic lines of free oxygen—a sure indication of life.

  As they drew closer, details of that planet began to emerge. It orbited at an average radius of almost exactly one AU. But its primary was a G3v star, slightly less massive than Sol and only seven-tenths as luminous, so this put it near the outer limit of what was traditionally held to be the “Goldilocks Zone.” However, it was somewhat more massive than Earth but not significantly larger, yielding a surface gravity of 1.12 G and suggesting both a higher allotment of heavy elements and a denser atmosphere; the range of temperature should be more or less Earthlike. Likewise, the two moons—relatively small, but close—had slowed its rotation to a diurnal period of thirty-five and a half hours. Those moons also served, like Earth’s Luna, to stabilize the planet’s axis in its nineteen-degree tilt, which should produce interesting but not extreme seasons.

  All in all, a prime world. This, beyond doubt, was Planet B.

  Palanivel disengaged the drive field sooner than strictly necessary, outside the star’s Secondary Limit. He then performed the pseudovelocity-cancelling maneuvers with great caution, with all stealth measures engaged. But nothing triggered De Ruyter’s array of sensor-detectors. It seemed the Transhumanists were relying on the supposed secrecy of their presence here.

  And of that presence there was no doubt. Their sensors picked up low-level but inarguable energy emissions from Planet B as Palanivel inserted them into a hyperbolic orbit outside the plane of the ecliptic but eventually intersecting Planet B’s orbit. This would give them time for further observations, and also for deciding on a course of action.

  “The great imponderable,” said Chantal thoughtfully, “is whether or not they really have stopped coming here yet. The fact that we haven’t detected either of their transports doesn’t prove anything.”

  “Well,” said Mondrago, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table the three of them sat around in the wardroom, “it stands to reason that they must have, doesn’t it? I mean, we caught them
coming here from our era, so as far as they’re going to know then . . .” His brow furrowed, as it often did when he contemplated the logic of time travel. “What I mean is, if any of them come here after we’re finished, then they could go back and report that—”

  “Not necessarily,” Jason cautioned. “A Transhumanist ship here now could come from a time a little in advance of our own. Not much, I think, given all the indications we have that The Day isn’t all that far in our future. In that case, they could have been—or will be—retrieved into their own time, and not have an opportunity to go back and warn their buddies in our time.”

  “Or,” said Chantal gloomily, “it could simply mean that our mission here is going to fail.”

  “I prefer not to assume that,” said Jason firmly. “Let’s not theorize in advance of the evidence. Let’s wait for some hard data.”

  That data was not long in coming.

  “We’ve detected a ship entering this system and going sublight,” said Palanivel as Jason, Mondrago and Chantal crowded into the control room. “It’s making no attempt at stealth.”

  “Does its profile match the figures I gave you?” asked Jason.

  “That’s affirmative, Commander.”

  “So it’s one of their transports,” said Mondrago, sounding as glum as Jason felt. “Which means they’re not quite finished here after all.”

  “Our options have suddenly become more limited,” said Jason grimly.

  They watched in silence as the new arrival proceeded sunward. It was no surprise that its projected course not only intersected with Planet B’s orbit but was calculated to accomplish an exact rendezvous. Jason studied the system display, comparing that course and their own orbit.

  “It looks,” he said to Palanivel, “like it ought to be possible for us to follow that ship in. Please do so—very cautiously, and at a safe distance.”

  Palanivel applied the requisite vector, and De Ruyter eased out of its orbit into a course that would converge with the transport and Planet B—not that Jason had any intention of going that far, at least not until he had more information.

  Observing from afar in their stealth cocoon, they watched as the transport, puzzlingly, took up a geostationary orbit around Planet B. Given the sophistication and power of De Ruyter’s sensors, they were able even at this range to make out a shuttle lifting off from the planet’s surface.

  “This isn’t right,” Mondrago stated. “Why don’t they land on the planet? They’ve got no security worries here, like they did on Zirankhu.”

  “I don’t know,” said Jason slowly.

  Palanivel eased them into a fairly distant matching orbit, and they watched as the shuttle rendezvoused with the transport. The two vessels remained linked for a surprisingly short time, after which the shuttle departed from orbit and descended toward the surface. And the transport simply remained in its orbit, seemingly dormant and lifeless.

  “What’s going on here?” Mondrago demanded irritably of no one in particular. “Did the transport’s crew take the shuttle down and just leave their ship deserted in orbit?”

  “I hope to find out.” Jason turned to Palanivel. “Captain, please ready the gig. I’m going to take Superintendent Mondrago and the commandos and reconnoiter.”

  “Very well, Commander. Ah . . . you realize, of course, that the gig doesn’t possess this ship’s stealth features.”

  “I do. But I don’t expect to need them, given its small size and the fact that the Transhumanists aren’t expecting intruders here.”

  “But Commander, if I may ask, what do you plan to actually do?”

  “That depends entirely on what we find the situation to be. Which is why I’m taking the commandos. I want as many options as possible, and the gig is unarmed.”

  “So why not take the ship in, under stealth?”

  “Too risky. We still don’t know what they’ve got on the planet. And we also don’t know what kind of Observer Effect-related obstacles we’re going to encounter. So I don’t want all our eggs in one basket. You will remain out here and simply observe. And Captain . . . if anything happens that causes you to lose contact with us, you will take no action, but rather remain out here where you’re safe from detection and wait for us. In fact, in such an event I want you to move into a new orbit—one that I don’t know about.”

  For an instant, Palanivel’s dark eyes held a mutinous spark, as though he wanted to ask just exactly what Jason thought De Ruyter’s weapons were for. But he restricted himself to a stiff nod. “Very well, Commander. I will do so . . . under protest.”

  “As I would have expected,” said Jason with a conciliatory smile.

  He and Mondrago went to the ship’s locker, where they donned combat environment suits and drew gauss pistols. Mondrago also took a satchel of highly specialized tools. They were checking each other over when a small female voice was heard from the forward hatch.

  “I wish I was going with you.”

  “Hey, the gig can only hold seven passengers—us and the commandos,” said Mondrago to Chantal with a grin. Then, more seriously: “Anyway, this may not be any place for a non-combatant.”

  “I know,” sighed Chantal. “I’d probably be useless, and certainly in the way. But . . . I’m worried. Frightened, in fact. I just hate the thought of not knowing what’s happening to you.”

  Jason frowned. Chantal wasn’t usually like this. “Don’t get yourself into a state. We’ll be in tight-beam communication with the ship.”

  “I know.” She didn’t really seem reassured, but she put on a brave smile. “Good luck,” she said to Jason. Then she turned to Mondrago and said nothing, except with her eyes. Jason looked away as they embraced. Then she was gone.

  They walked through a hatch into the gig ready room, just forward of the locker. The commandos were there, fully beweaponed. Jason had had time to get to know them all. Besides Hamner and Armasova, the rifle section included PFC Anton Bermudez. The special weapons section consisted of Corporal Askar Bakiyev, a chunky flat-faced Kirghiz, and PFC Raoul Odinga, predominantly African and giving the impression that he could have handled the missile launcher even without the combat environment suit’s strength-amplification feature. There was barely room for them all in the tiny ready room.

  “Stand easy,” said Jason, before Hamner even had a chance to order attention on deck. He then gave them a quick run-down on the arrival of the Transhumanist transport and its enigmatic behavior. “We’re going to take a closer look, without committing this ship. As I told you at the outset, I can’t tell you what to expect. Just be ready for anything.”

  They took a grav tube down through the lower deck and into the gig’s dorsal airlock. The slender diamond-shaped craft was eighty feet long, with a photon thrusters for space propulsion as well as for atmospheric maneuvering under grav repulsion. Forward of the engineering spaces and a small cargo bay was the cabin into which they now filed, with seating for seven passengers and a pilot, who was already seated at her console and was running through her checklist. Jason settled into the foremost passenger seat, to her right.

  “Everything on the green, Lieutenant?” he asked.

  Lieutenant Sita Hansen nodded. “Yes, Commander. We’re cleared for departure whenever you give the word.” Jason nodded in turn, and she activated the “detach” sequence.

  The gig’s maneuvering thrusters nudged it far enough from De Ruyter’s hull, and the photon thrusters kicked in. The artificial gravity’s inertial compensation feature prevented them from feeling the G-force as the gig accelerated on its new course.

  The gig was definitely not intended for long-term occupancy. This was an exceptionally extended trip for it, and they were all stiff and cramped by the time the transport grew in the viewscreen, silhouetted against the cloud-swirling blue day side of Planet B, about twenty-two thousand miles below—or “away,” if one chose to so view it, for at the distance required for a geostationary orbit it could be thought of either way.

  “You r
ealize,” said Hansen, “they’re orbiting well outside Planet B’s Primary Limit. So at any time, they could accelerate away at over a hundred Gs.”

  “Yes,” nodded Jason. “If, that is, there’s anybody aboard. It doesn’t look like it.”

  “So you think they all went down in the shuttle?”

  “I don’t know.” Jason peered at the planet. The gig’s sensor suite was rudimentary, but they had been able to ascertain that the transport’s orbit kept it over a point on the west coast of one of the continents, and that this was the point from which the fairly weak energy readings emanated. There was some kind of small base or camp or something down there.

  He reached a decision. “I want to investigate more closely—see if that ship really is as deserted as it seems. And if it is, we can use a paratronic lockpick to board her. Bring us a little closer.”

  Hansen obeyed, and the gig drew into a range where it was surely visible to any operating sensors aboard the transport. Jason, Mondrago and the commandos attached modular EVA packs to the backs of their suits and, with a rattle of equipment, went single-file through the cabin’s after hatch into the cargo bay.