Downtiming the Night Side

by Jack L. Chalker

  Nikita was by her in an instant. “Just fine,” he whispered. “He’s out for a half-hour, won’t know what hit him, and he’ll think he tripped and fell. You all right?”

  She nodded. “Knocked out my glasses for a minute. It’s coming back now.”

  “O.K. Help me roll him over into the grass here, so anybody coming by won’t see him right away.” They did it, although the man was quite heavy. Marx, she was relieved to see, was breathing, but in his tumble to the pavement he’d struck his head, and there was an ugly, if superficial, gash on his right forehead.

  “You want to keep safety watch here instead of me?” the little man asked her. “It’s O.K. if you do. I don’t mind.”

  “No, we’ll go as planned,” she told him. “I’ll be all right.” And, with that, she left him and went on down the walk toward the town.

  It was an eerie wait, back in the shadows of an alleyway looking on the square. All was silence, and there was no movement except for those shadows and the noise of the multiple fountains pouring into the catch basin. In the stillness they sounded like huge waterfalls, the noise caught by the buildings and echoed back again and again.

  It was a short wait compared to London, but it seemed forever in the stillness. When the church clock struck the three-quarter hour, Moosic tensed, checked his pistol for the hundredth time, and began to look for signs of another, either Sandoval or Marx. At approximately 1:50 the policeman patrolling the area walked into the square, panicking him for a moment. The cop checked all the doors facing the square, looked around, and finally made his way from the square and down a side street, but not before the clock chimed two. The minutes now crept back as the patrolman’s footsteps receded and finally died away in the distance, but there was still no sign of anyone else in the square.

  Then, quite suddenly, he heard the clicking of shoes on cobblestone. Someone was coming down the same street the policeman had used to leave, coming towards the square. He tensed, praying that Marx had decided not to come after all, and waited until the oncoming figure strode into the square. He strained to catch a glimpse of the newcomer, and saw him at last, in the glow of a street lamp.

  It was certainly no one he’d ever seen before. He was tall, thin, and at least in middle age, with a long and unkempt black beard and a broad-brimmed hat that concealed much of the rest of his features. He was dressed in the seedy clothes of one who was used to sleeping in his only suit. He didn’t seem armed, and he certainly didn’t have the time suit with him, if indeed he were Sandoval and not just some bum avoiding the policeman.

  Moosic stood up and was about ready to go out and confront the man, when there was a sudden noise behind him. He felt a pistol at the back of his head, and quietly the man’s voice whispered, “I think you better remain where you are and not make a sound. Put the gun down, nice and quiet, on the ground. No false moves, my friend! At this range I could hardly miss.”

  He did as instructed, then slowly got up as the pistol was pulled away. He turned, and saw his captor. The man was tall, lean, and dressed entirely in black, in a uniform rather similar to the one his mysterious woman in London was wearing. But this was no ordinary-looking chubby woman; this man was extremely muscular, with a strong face like a Nordic god’s, his pure blond hair neatly cut in a military trim. Behind him lurked two large black shapes that looked somehow inhuman, but whose features were impossible to determine in the near total darkness of the alley. One thing was clear, though—from the blinking little lights—all three wore belts similar to the one the woman had worn. This, then, was the true enemy.

  Knowing it was hopeless, he turned again to watch the scene in the square. More footsteps now, and the seedy-looking man leaning on the lamppost stiffened, then stepped back into a doorway for a moment. In another minute, Moosic saw Marx walk nervously into the square from his right and look around. He appeared alone and unarmed.

  The twin personalities inside the Neumann body converged in an emotional rage. He glanced back briefly at the mysterious blond man, and noted with the professional’s eye that his captor was looking less at him than at the scene in the square. The time agent was larger and more powerful than Neumann, but if he could just idly get one step back, just one step, that might not mean a thing. Pretending to watch what was going on in the square, he measured the distance and moves out of the comer of his eye.

  Quickly he lunged around, his knee coming up and hitting the blond man squarely in the balls. The man in black cursed in pain and doubled over, dropping his strange-looking pistol. Quickly Moosic rolled, picked up his own pistol, and was out of the alley and to his right.

  “Heir Marx! It’s a trap! Drop to the ground!” he shouted.

  Marx was about ten feet from Sandoval, and at the noise and yell he froze and turned to look back in utter confusion. Sandoval reached into his pants and pulled out a gun, while behind Moosic, in the alley, two strange figures ran out into the light. Two figures out of nightmare.

  They seemed to be almost like living statues, black all over, although they seemed to wear nothing except the time belts, their skin or whatever it was that was glistening like polished black metal. Their features were gargoyle-like, the stuff of nightmares in any age. Both had automatic rifles in their hands.

  They had, however, overrun Moosic, who unhesitatingly brought up the pistol and fired at them. The strange pistol seemed to chirp rather than explode, but a tiny ball of light leaped from it and struck one of the creatures in the back. There was a scream, and the thing collapsed in pain.

  At the same moment, a dark figure came up behind Sandoval. “Don’t move or you’re a dead man,” Dawn said, rifle trained on him, this time with the setting on lethal charge. The man froze, then slowly turned, looking for an opening.

  At the same time, the remaining gargoyle turned to fire at Neumann, but the other man in the square, whom they’d all taken to be Marx, turned and fired a bright blue ray that enveloped the creature. The thing’s body shimmered, and then vanished, leaving only a scorch mark on the ground and an acrid, burning odor.

  Taking advantage of the confusion, Sandoval turned to look directly at his captor. “Vas ist…” he began, confused, and she stopped him. She did not remember him consciously, but something came from deep inside her.

  “Moosic,” she responded, and fired. He flared as had the creature, again blinding her. She smelled him, though, and dropped to the ground just in case there was any more danger.

  Back in the alley, Eric Benoni started to take aim at the figure who had pretended to be Marx, but some sixth sense warned him and, instead, he quickly pressed his “Home” key and vanished.

  Herb, dressed in period clothes and with a false set of whiskers, ran to the alley, but he only met Faouma there. “Missed the bastard by a hair,” she grunted and cursed.

  Herb gave her a sharp look. “Neumann’s already on the run. Let’s collect our own and get the hell out of here. This was much too easy.”

  Holger Neumann was in a state of panic and confusion, but he at least had seen the job done. All he wanted now was out, out and home—but would they let him?

  The ancient city had become now a nightmarish place, a surreal horror whose shadows reached out and threatened him at every turn. Behind, and possibly from above him, he thought he heard the sounds of pursuit.

  The central square of Trier looked eerie and threatening in the early morning hours, lit only by a few huge candles in the street lights, their flickering casting ever-changing and monstrous shadows on the cobblestones and the sides of the now dark buildings.

  Moosic gave the square a professional going-over between midnight and one, noting the rounds of the local policeman. He wanted no repetition of the debacle in London. This time there would be one target and one target only, and that target would be taken out as soon as positively identified. That should not be too difficult, he thought, if he could shoot straight. He already knew the policeman, and he knew Marx, so anyone else likely to be here at two almost had to
be his quarry.

  The hotel door was locked, of course, at this time of night, but he’d made certain he had a key, telling the proprietor earlier that he had a very late party. He fumbled in panic with the key, finally got it in and shut the door behind him. He almost ran up the stairs until he realized that he hadn’t his room key, went back quickly and got it from behind the desk, then bounded up the stairs not caring whom he awakened. He unlocked the door and went immediately to the steamer trunk, where he’d locked the suit. Fumbling for yet another key in the darkness, he dropped it twice and had to calm himself down before he could find it again and fit it in the large brass lock.

  A scratching sound caused him to turn towards the window, and in a split second he saw the horrible face of the second gargoyle framed in it, gun coming up. He picked up his own and fired, and the thing was gone. He didn’t know if he’d hit it or not.

  He kicked off his shoes and got into the suit, which fit his new frame rather well. Placing the gun so he could easily pick it up again, he put on the helmet as he heard noises and shouting both in the hall and outside. The noise had apparently roused half the town.

  He got the helmet on and sealed it, then adjusted the small pentometers for across-the-board zeroes, then pressed “Activate.”

  Inside the helmet, a little message flashed saying, “Insufficient power.”

  He cursed. The dials still said ninety-five percent power reserve. That should be more than enough to get back home! He tried again, and again the little words flashed inside the suit.

  He reached up to adjust them again, and at that moment another, perhaps the same, grinning black monstrosity showed in the window. He spun the damned controls and activated.

  The creature got off a shot, but where its target had been, there was suddenly nothing at all but an empty room. Behind, there were loud yells and curses and somebody shouted, “Break the door down!”

  Satisfied that the proper result had been obtained, Lucia ducked back from the window and pulled off the grotesque mask she had been wearing, then moved swiftly along the ledge and around a corner, out of sight of those breaking into the room. There, before this had even started, she’d anchored her line, and now she slid down it to the street level, gave a yank, and it fell out, then neatly reeled itself into a device in her hands which she had clipped to the belt.

  “All in, all in,” she heard Herb’s tinny voice on the belt communicator, which should have been the signal for her to jump back to home, but she did not. Like Herb, she felt it had been too easy.

  Back in the square, Herb and Faouma ran to assist Dawn, who got up unsteadily. She could see again, although it was still somewhat dim. In the distance, they could hear footsteps running towards the square, and in a few of the upper floors of buildings facing it, lights were burning now.

  Herb gestured to a dark street nearby. “Back in there, quick! We’ll jump as soon as we’re able!” The two women followed him without another word.

  They got about a block from the square when a woman’s voice they had not heard before said, in the accented manner of time travelers and in English, “Freeze! Just where you are!”

  They stopped, and all three fingered their guns nervously, looking for a chance.

  “There are savants on all sides of you,” the woman warned. “You will drop your weapons and raise your hands—now!”

  “She’s right,” Dawn whispered. “I can see two of them just ahead on either side.”

  They dropped their weapons.

  It was too dark for normal sight in the tiny street, but Dawn’s special vision made her out. Medium build, dark hair; good build, but an ugly face. It was one she’d never seen before. The mystery woman did, however, wear a time belt.

  “Now, just unhitch your belts and let them drop; then kick them away from you,” the woman instructed. “Remember—the savants will shoot at the first sign of trouble.”

  “Let ’em shoot, then,” Herb told her. “That way you don’t get the belts.” Faouma seemed in agreement. All Dawn could think of was that she would never see the kids again.

  “Groak! Stun beam!” the woman ordered, and there was a loud flash of rays. Dawn, like the other two, braced for it, but when it didn’t come, she just dropped to the street anyway. The ray, of course, had blinded her again. Shots crackled in the air, and she felt half her body burn and then go numb.

  Herb practically fell over her, but both he and Faouma had wasted no time in dropping, rolling, and coming up with their weapons. Rays crackled all over the tiny street, and there were sounds of stirring from inside the buildings. Suddenly, it was over, and Lucia from one side and Nikita from the other ran to them.

  “You all right?” Lucia asked Herb, but he was lying on his side, fumbling with his belt.

  “Everybody—jump now! Home! Don’t wait! Lucia— punch out anybody who can’t do it themselves, dead or alive!”

  Somebody ran to Dawn, punched in a set of numbers, and pressed the “Home” key.

  She was falling downtime.

  “The plot all along,” Chung Lind commented, “was the capture of the squad’s belts, that’s clear. And in spite of knowing we were set up, we almost fell into that trap.”

  “My fault,” Herb said flatly. “I just got overconfident, that’s all. They must have been on the rooftops around the square all the time. As soon as we picked an exit route, they moved to seal off the far end of that street. It was a clever setup, I got to admit. If Nicky and Lucia had obeyed orders and jumped, we’d all be happy little citizens of Prussia right now.”

  “Or dead,” Faouma added. “It was doubly lucky that they were all set to stun instead of kill.”

  “Not so much luck there,” Lind responded. “They could have their cake and eat it, too. Get the belts, keep the scan on tight, then come back and pick you all up in your Trier identities and take you forward on their belts. In any case, they couldn’t risk a killing beam for fear of destroying those belts. It was close.”

  “You’ll never know how close,” Nicky told them. “There were two of us and four of them. When the woman gave the orders to stun, I told Lucia on the personal band we’d better move in. We just figured that they’d stun the squad, so they couldn’t bring their own weapons back up on us. We just did a wide spray and prayed for the best.”

  Chung Lind sighed. “Well, enough recriminations. History is composed of a series of lucky breaks, and this one was ours. The point is, they have the capacity to stage this again and again. The next time might be different. The only way to be secure is to turn the tables on them.”

  “You got a line on who that woman was?” Herb asked them all.

  Everybody shrugged or shook their heads. “Never seen or heard of her before. They’ve let Benoni run a one-man show up to now,” Nicky said.

  “I don’t like it,” Lind told them. “Up to now, we’ve been pretty secure, believing that they didn’t have sufficient power to mount two simultaneous teams or the expertise to handle them. Well, now we know we were wrong. Makes me worry what else we don’t know.”

  Lind’s attention turned now to Dawn. “Are you O.K.?”

  She nodded. “I think so. I thought we were gone for sure there, though. Half of me couldn’t move. It was like I had nothing below my stomach at all.”

  “Partial stun effect,” Herb told her. “We all got it. Faouma was out cold. It wears off, though—like it did with our friend Marx.”

  She looked at Lind. “It’s O.K., then?”

  He nodded. “The loop’s closed. Marx will live and do his major work. I admit the irony that we just accomplished something which, in the long run, will strengthen the enemy and prolong the war, but it was necessary. We’ve bought several years of absolute time to continue our work, and time is pretty much back on its original mainline track. Everybody relax and get some rest. We’ve got a lot of work to do yet, and I want you all fresh and ready to go.”

  Dawn sought out Doc and asked about the children, whom she didn’t see.
>
  “They’re uptime, under guidance,” the physician told her. “Don’t worry about them. They’re safe and secure.”

  “I—I may not even know them when they’re through this. It worries me.”

  “You and I know it’s the only way. Get some rest now, and we’ll close that second loop tomorrow.”

  “Uh—Doc?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m worried. I—I don’t know, I just am. Killing that man back there—I wanted to do it, and I don’t really understand why.”

  Kahwalini sighed and sat down beside her. “Long ago I told you that none of the people I’ve been are dead. They’re all still here, locked in my mind, a part of me in some way or another. We forget it, because we no longer feel it. They’re not separate anymore, and maybe it’s only small parts of them, but they’re there. You didn’t know him, but a little bit of Ron did, a little bit of hate born of what he’d seen that man do. Now it’s over. Mission accomplished. Now you can sleep.”

  But she couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t the killing anymore, not really. She could understand at least the basics of what Doc told her, and accepted it. No, it was lying there in the permanent darkness, feeling very alone. Ron was gone, and would never be back. Any last remnants of him had been purged by the killing of Sandoval. She didn’t have to have it proved to her—she felt it. He, through her, had finally done his job, and there was no more reason for him to exist except as a memory in her mind.

  Doc, however, for all her wisdom and genius, couldn’t really understand the basic problem now. Maybe Kahwalini had been somebody like her once upon a time, but, if so, it was a long time ago. Doc was strong, and smart— somebody who made things happen. She, Dawn, was not, and could never be.

  The world was made up of survivors and victims, she thought glumly. She wasn’t a victim—at least, she didn’t think she was, in the sense of personality—but survivors survived in different ways. Doc, Herb, Lind, Nicky, Lucia, Faouma—they survived by being tough, by being leaders. Ron had been a leader-type, and that’s what had made him strong.