Time Machines Repaired While-U-Wait

by K. A. Bedford

  It took a long time. At length, he checked the map again, nodded, and took a deliberate step in the direction of the Engineering Department. That bomb had to be neutralized, he told himself, so that he could then kill Soldier Spider himself, with his own hands. That thought kept him moving. The air, not that there was much of it, thin and metallic, was so cold it burned in his nose and lungs.

  Spider was in sight of the main entrance to the Engineering Department, easily more than two hundred meters from Soldier Spider’s workshop when—

  The sound of the blast, a flat, heavy eruption of low-frequency noise, followed by the howling of emergency sirens and klaxons, reached him moments before the blast’s shockwave. Channeled through more than two hundred meters of tight, confining passageways, when it reached Spider it knocked him against a bulkhead, and he fell in a heap onto the deck, stunned, shocked, and wondering what the hell had just happened. After a minute or two he was able to get to his feet, dizzy, his head hurting, and he started to make his way back to the workshop, full of confused dread and rising panic. His first thought was that Soldier Spider, the treacherous bastard, had just “thrown himself on the grenade”, just like a heroic soldier in one of those ancient World War Two movies Spider remembered from his childhood. “You mad bastard!” he muttered, making his way through the baffling, twisting corridors, everything in smoky darkness. He knew he was getting close when he could smell fire, smoke, bitter explosive residue, and some other strange noxious chemical odor he guessed was some kind of fire suppression system doing its job. And, once he was aware that something really had happened up here, something bad, Spider felt something in his heart flip over. Where before he’d been a guy completely out of his depth, doing what he was told, not really believing in any of this crazy nonsense about the End of Time and the Vores and all of that — now, viscerally aware that a man had sacrificed himself for the greater good, Spider felt as if he was only now finally arriving in this present moment, in this situation. And, worse than that, the man who had been his only reliable source of information and guidance about this world was gone. As much as Spider had hated his future self always droning on about everything, now he felt a piercing anxiety. He was on his own now. “Oh, shit,” he said to himself, breathing fumes, feeling woozy, like he was starting to drown in future shock.

  A figure in black spec-ops gear like Soldier Spider’s, but wearing a face-mask against the smoke, appeared out of the darkness and intercepted him. “Mr. Webb? Are you okay? Can you hear me?”

  It took him a moment to register that someone was speaking to him. “Oh. Right.” He coughed, a horrible wet sound. His eyes were sore and he was constantly rubbing at them. “I hit my head.”

  “You need to come with me, okay? It’s not safe here.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Pretty bad. The whole sector’s trashed. Huge damage, we’re still working out how bad it is. Here,” he said, handing Spider a mask and showing him how to put it on and make it work. The air it produced had an unpleasant but familiar bitter, rubbery taste Spider could have done without, but at least he could breathe properly.

  “I’m guessing your illustrious leader…” he said, and immediately regretted his tone, and felt like a shit.

  The soldier couldn’t speak for a long, agonizing moment. “I need you to come with me. Oh, and by the way, I’m Cavers. Call me Steve.”

  “Spider.” They briefly shook hands. Cavers’ gloved hands were enormous. “Lead on,” Spider said, and Cavers set off, with Spider in tow, through a different set of passageways, in the frosty darkness. Spider felt utterly lost, confused, aware that enormous, complex emotions were swirling around over his head, and would at some point swoop down and envelop him like a giant hot wave of wretchedness. So far, he only felt numb, shocked, a little strange. It had occurred to him that everyone on the ship would look to him to take over where his future self left off. That, he resolved, was not happening, no matter what. He was just some idiot who fixed time machines, and that was all, he told himself. No way was he some kind of military leader, no way in hell. He wanted no part of any military service. Yes, he’d been a policeman, but that was entirely different, he told himself, very convincingly, he thought. He was not necessarily doomed to become Soldier Spider. He clung to that notion, a life-belt in rough seas.

  It also struck him, as they made their way forward, that Soldier Spider had deliberately waited until he was well clear of any possible blast effects before letting the bomb detonate. The old bastard trying for some kind of redemption? Possibly, he thought, trying to think his way into the other Spider’s devious mind. It did make him think twice about what he’d been told about Molly. Could the old man have lied about Molly’s death as a way of getting Spider out of the room? He remembered that strange feeling he had, just before Soldier Spider revealed that little nugget, like something was wrong. He wanted Spider to go and fetch some stupid tool that anybody on the ship could have located for him, and much faster than he could. “You mad, crazy bastard,” Spider said, thinking about him, and thinking that Soldier Spider must have remembered standing there with his own future self, and having that same intuition, that something was up, something bad.

  Could Molly still be alive? Would Soldier Spider lie about her specifically to get Spider so furious that he’d leave the workshop? The answer, it seemed to him, was hell, yes! He would know that Molly was Spider’s most fundamental vulnerability — was, in fact, his own vulnerability, too, for that matter. Why wouldn’t he use it against Spider to get him moving, out of harm’s way?

  Chewing this over, Spider found himself not sure what to think about his future self; it felt like a million different feelings and thoughts all jammed together, trying to figure out what was true, what was lies, and what it all meant.

  Cavers’ voice came to him through a radio connection in the mask. “You still with me, Spider? You okay back there?”

  Startled out of his reverie, he said, “What?”

  Cavers was right in front of him, and Spider hadn’t noticed. “Are you okay? You’ve been very quiet.”

  “No, I’m, well, lots to think about.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I reckon.”

  “Where are we?” The sirens had subsided; the stink of smoke and burning had dissipated. Now it was cold and dark, full of memories and torments and things he didn’t want to think about.

  “You still got the screen he gave you?”

  “You know about the screen?”

  “Standard issue. Everyone gets one.”

  Spider checked his pockets. No, he did not still have it. “Shit,” he said, with feeling, and was surprised at how upset he felt at having lost something Soldier Spider had given him. It was only something simple, he told himself, yet now it seemed as if it was heavy with significance. He had to get it back, he thought, and felt ridiculous for feeling like this. His eyes stung, but he couldn’t wipe them with the mask on.

  Cavers gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay. I’ll get you settled and head back for it.”

  “You really don’t have to,” he said, now channeling his mother, never wanting anybody to go to any fuss over her. “It was just a map. I’ll get another.”

  Cavers said, “Ah, no, mate. Not just a map. Trust me.”

  Spider nodded, baffled, and let the guy lead the way. Soon they arrived in a makeshift sickbay, no bigger than Spider’s office back at the shop, lit with handheld lanterns hanging from bits of wire. There were three beds, two of which were occupied with unconscious patients, members of the crew. Cavers indicated that the ship’s medic wanted to give Spider a quick once-over before certifying him okay to join the assault on Dickhead’s flagship. “He’ll be along in a jiff. Meanwhile, I’ll just duck off and get that screen for you. Take it easy.” And, before Spider could say anything, he’d left, leaving Spider on his own, listening to strange new sound
s creaking, groaning and sighing through the ventilation system. He wondered how bad the damage might be. Wondered what it must have felt like, for Soldier Spider, when the bomb detonated. Wondered, in fact, about death itself. So far he’d been confronted with the prospect of his own death in various ways, an utterly unnerving thing. Was there an afterlife at the End of Time? Had Heaven dissipated along with all the universe’s protons? Not that Spider had ever been religious, but he had often speculated and pondered what might await those who passed from this life. He had a horrible feeling that out here, beyond all that was rational, beyond any trace of light or heat, there was only the abyss — and the constant chewing of the Vores, coming to get you.

  The ship’s medic turned up, an exhausted, pale, young man whose lab coat did not fit well, with a stethoscope slung around his neck, and who gave off a sense that he’d been awake for four straight days now, and was hanging on out of sheer bloody-minded persistence, and probably a lot of caffeine and God knew what else. Spider had a feeling this was not a guy with whom to engage in light chat. He answered the medic’s questions as honestly as he could, told him about hitting his head, but was told he did not have a concussion. The medic listened to Spider’s booming heart, took his racing pulse and checked his respiration. “You’re clearly in shock. That much I can tell you for sure, Mr. Webb. I’d like you to stay put in here for the night, get some rest, okay?”

  “I don’t feel too bad, really,” Spider said.

  The medic had no time for this. “My order is final, Mr. Webb. I’ll try and get the galley to send you something to eat later. For now, you need to keep warm, I’ll fetch you a nice hot cuppa—”

  “I used to be a policeman, Doc. I know about shock.”

  He nodded but looked at Spider, unconvinced. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Cavers reappeared after a moment, bearing Spider’s screen, and handed it over. “Sorry,” he said, “gotta go. Briefing.”

  Spider said before he left, “Really? You all carry on like nothing’s happened?”

  “Not out of choice, believe me, Spider.” And with that, he was gone.

  The medic returned after about half an hour, gave Spider an insanely sweet cup of steaming hot tea, and told him to sip it slowly, and keep himself rugged up. “And if you need anything, use your screen there to give us a shout, okay? Questions?” He clearly wanted to be gone.

  Spider let him go. The ship continued groaning and heaving; Spider shuddered and shivered. One of the two other patients snored loudly and murmured obscenities. The other, by contrast, just lay there, her mouth wide open, taking loud, slow breaths. When Spider finished his tea, he tried to settle back on the bed and get comfortable, but couldn’t. The bed was very narrow, more of a shelf, he thought, and hard. In any case, there was no prospect of sleep, not after a day like this one. Too many voices yapping away in the back of his mind — and too many of those voices were various versions of his own voice! He kept thinking of Soldier Spider, the way he’d looked in those reading glasses, tinkering with the causality weapon, so much like his own father. Spider wondered if he’d ever see his family or anybody ever again. If he’d ever find out who the hell killed Clea Fassbinder. He hadn’t forgotten her. Everything, even all of this nonsense at the End of Time, was bound up with the Fassbinder matter, Spider could see that. But for her decision to go back and look for her own killer, he wouldn’t be here right now. It did occur to him that as he became more a part of the furniture around here, and everyone got used to his presence, they might let up on that operational security thing, and give him access to Clea Fassbinder’s file. A boy could dream, he thought.

  He drifted off to sleep without ever becoming aware that he was doing so. Only when a bot in an apron woke him up to ask if he wanted something to eat did he realize he’d actually been asleep. He said no, he was fine, thanks, and the bot left, whirring back to the galley, whistling. Spider muttered and went back to the dark, dreamless sleep of the abyss.

  CHAPTER 21

  Almost immediately, someone was trying to wake him up. Spider did not take this well, until he saw it was Cavers, in full military kit, and Cavers told him, “Spider, power-output levels on the Destiny are crashing. Something’s up. McMahon’s people are prepping for something. We have to move now. You’re with me.” There was no further explanation offered. Cavers helped Spider get dressed, then dragged him to a nearby compartment where several tall figures stood around in what Spider took to be some kind of black EVA suits, going over checklists, loading gleaming rounds into weapon magazines, testing helmet subsystems.

  A female technician who’d been assisting two of the others came over to talk to Spider. “Mr. Webb? Hi. Remember me? I’m Wendy. I’ll be helping you get kitted up.”

  Bewildered, still half-asleep, Spider blinked a lot, very distracted by the sight of hardened military types and their weaponry. “I’m getting kitted up because…?”

  Cavers came over. “Spider. You’re on my assault team. Come on, we’re leaving in ten.”

  Before he had time to formulate even simple thoughts like, “Assault team?” Wendy and two of the troopers cheerfully took command of Spider and helped him squeeze into a suit.

  Cavers told him, “This is the suit the Skipper used to wear, Spider. Wear it well.”

  “The Skipper was a lot — ouch! — fitter than me,” Spider managed as many hands operated straps, latches, clips and system connections — and it wasn’t easy. There was a lot of squeezing, pushing, wincing and grunting to make it all fit. When they were done, Spider found he could breathe, but not easily. The hardest part to get used to was the weird smells inside the suit, the sense of constant pressure all over his body, yet a surprising freedom of movement. The helmet was a different matter: even before they finished latching it together under his chin, Spider panicked and insisted they take it off, and take it off now!

  “Problem, Spider?” Cavers asked, checking the time.

  “Helmet makes me feel like I’m suffocating. I can’t do it.”

  “Spider, it’s like this. You find a way to deal with the helmet, or you’re off the team.”

  “What about Molly?” He wanted to collect her body.

  “We’ll do our best to find her, no worries. But our primary objective is capturing McMahon.”

  “So it’s possible you won’t get around to Molly, is what you’re saying.”

  “Priorities, Spider. Move it or lose it.”

  Wendy helped him with the helmet, showed him how to make sure he had a good air supply, even if it did taste like burned plastic, and that helped him overcome the worst of the anxiety. It was like learning to breathe again. After a moment, sealed in, at least somewhat aware of how to use the interface projected onto the clear face of his helmet visor, Spider was about as ready as he was going to get.

  Wendy helped with last-minute checks, certified him ready to go, handed him back his Destiny remote. Wendy had hacked this remote and made copies, he learned, and each member of the squad had one. This was the key to the whole plan, to get Dickhead to give him access to his ship. Without that remote, this entire operation could never take place. She wished him “good hunting”, and, looking sicker by the moment, excused herself and ran off through a hatchway, a hand over her mouth.

  He watched the troopers— “Time Marines”, he’d been told to call them. There were five of them, including Cavers. Wendy had told him they were one man short, who was sick. These five, many of whom were probably sick, too, were on edge, revved up, ready to go, nervous. Two, he noticed, were using a set of rosary beads, and murmuring quietly. Spider asked if he’d be getting a gun; Cavers said they could only let him have a pistol, solely for defensive purposes. Spider said, “Sure, no worries,” and tucked the proffered gun into a holster on his left hip.

  Cavers went through a last-minute run-through with his troops, discussing the pl
an and all expected problems. He had a three-dimensional map of the Destiny’s interior, and designated each of the soldiers to specific points of the ship. “Any questions?”

  There was only one, from Spider. “Where would they be keeping Molly?”

  Cavers indicated her likely location, and sketched in the best route to get there from where they would “land.”

  “Got it,” Spider said, bouncing on his toes, fidgeting with the Destiny remote, and pronounced himself ready.

  “All right, then,” Soldier Spider said. “On my mark.” The marines had their cloned remotes at the ready. “This includes you, too, Spider. Listen up. Okay, then. Mark!”

  The Destiny, when they arrived, was a mausoleum: crewmembers, some in groups, others off on their own, lay dead everywhere they looked. The time marines were too late. Jonestown, Spider thought, horrified to see it. Hundreds of bodies strewn about, as if they’d simply laid down and died, probably poisoned, and the poison was probably taken willingly. Cavers swore. Spider knew that if they’d just gone without him, they might have gotten here in time to stop it. He felt guilty, but mostly he simply felt an aching sadness. What had Dickhead told these people to make them do this? he wondered. The Jonestown victims had been told that their numerous and unstoppable enemies were coming to shut down their little paradise in the jungle. They had to die to prevent this. Dickhead, fourteen years older than Spider, certainly knew the Jonestown story. Had he always seen himself as a charismatic Jim Jones figure at the center of a little bit of paradise under siege from outside forces who’d never understand? Spider had often wondered what the hell went on in Dickhead’s mind, but he had never expected anything quite like this, this silent horror. Then again, the way Dickhead went into raptures when he described the Vores, angels of destruction, burning down the universe for the greater good, he realized he only barely knew Dickhead, and that anything at all was possible. Spider suspected Dickhead had persuaded these poor buggers to take their lives by telling them he’d received transmissions from the Vores, telling him that the Final Secret of the Cosmos was now available, like a song you could download from the tubes.