Timelike Infinity

by Stephen Baxter

  Parz said, "Aren't you concerned about these local craft?"

  "They cannot harm us," the Qax said, sounding uninterested. "We can afford to take time here, to check through the Spline's systems, before the cross-system hyperspace flight."

  Parz smiled. "Qax, listening to you I can hear the voice of the commander of a twentieth-century atomic carrier disdaining the painted dugout canoes of islanders, drifting out to meet him on the curve of some sea. Still, though, the most primitive weapon can kill...

  "And I wonder why they don't attack anyway." He pressed his face to the cornea and glanced around the sky; now that he looked for them he saw how many of the strange local ships there were, and how diverse in design they were. The political structure in this period was chaotic, he recalled. Fragmented. Perhaps these vessels represented many different authorities. Governments of moons, of the inner planets, of Earth herself; as well as of the central, international agencies... Perhaps no war-footing coalition existed here yet; perhaps there was no one to command an attack on this Spline.

  Still, Parz was irritated by the Qax's complacency.

  "Aren't you at least worried that these vessels might be raising a System-wide alert? Maybe the inner planets will be able to pack more of a punch against you," he said grimly. "And if they're allowed to prepare..."

  "Jasoft Parz," the Qax said with a trace of impatience, "your death-seeking fantasies are beginning to grate. I have monitored none of the dire warnings you seem to yearn for."

  Parz frowned, absently scratching his cheek through the thick, clear plastic of his face-mask. "The situation doesn't make sense, actually, even given the political fragmentation. The Friends have been in this time period for a year. They've had plenty of time to warn the human natives of this era, to coordinate, assemble some sort of force to oppose you... perhaps even to close the Interface portal."

  "There has been no evidence of such coordination," the Qax said.

  "No, there hasn't, has there? Is it possible the Friends haven't warned the natives? — perhaps haven't communicated with them at all, even?" Parz could still make out the Friends' craft against Jupiter, an island of green on a sea of pink. What were the rebels up to? The Friends must have had some project in mind when they made their desperate run to this period... but they had not felt the need to enlist the resources of the natives of this period.

  Parz tried to imagine how a handful of rebels on a single improvised ship could hope to strike across fifteen centuries at an interstellar power.

  "It makes little difference," the Qax murmured, its disembodied voice like an insect buzzing somewhere behind Parz's eyes. "The second Occupation craft is minutes away from the rebel craft, now; this absurd episode is nearing its climax."

  * * *

  "Michael Poole. Miriam."

  Poole dragged his eyes away from the astonishing sky. Shira stood before them; Poole saw that the customary blank composure of her skeletal face was marred by a tightness of the mouth, a pink-white flaring of her small nostrils. Beyond her, Poole saw now, the earth-craft was full of motion; Friends bearing slates and other pieces of equipment ran across the wiry grass, converging on the stones at the heart of the craft.

  Berg snapped, "Shira, those are Spline warships up there."

  "We understand what is occurring, Miriam."

  "Then what the hell are you going to do about it?"

  Shira ignored this and turned to Poole. "You must stay inside the teepee," she said. "The surface of the earth-craft is not safe now. The Xeelee construction material will shield you from—"

  Poole said, "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what you're going to do."

  Harry, his image restored to brightness outside the hut, folded his arms and stuck his jaw out. "Me too," he said defiantly.

  Shira's voice was fragile but steady enough. "We are not going to respond directly to the incursion of the Qax," she insisted. "There is no purpose—"

  Berg shouted, "You mean that after bringing them here you're just going to let them walk in and do what they want?"

  Shira flinched away from the other woman's fury, but stood her ground. "You do not understand," she said, the strain still more evident in her voice. "The Project is paramount."

  Harry tried to grab Poole's arm; his fingers passed through cloth and flesh in a cloud of pixels. "Michael. Look at the Spline."

  The first warship had crossed the zenith now and seemed to be receding from the earth-craft. As it worked its way through the sky it rolled, as if peering from side to side like some obscene eyeball; deep in craterlike pores Poole saw the glint of blood and metal.

  The Spline's partner, the second warship, was clear of the Interface. It was already the size of a large coin, and it grew visibly.

  The second ship seemed to be coming straight down at them.

  "Only two," Berg muttered.

  Poole glanced at her, startled; her face was screwed up tight around peering eyes, a mask of appraisal. "What?"

  "No sign of any more coming through the portal. There's already been time for a third to start appearing."

  Poole shook his head, amazed at her ability to think her way through the looming threat from the sky. "Do you think something's stopping them, at the other end?"

  Berg shook her head with a brief, dismissive jerk. "No way. Two is all they think they need."

  Shira's hands climbed over each other like anxious little animals. "Please," she said. "The teepee."

  Poole ignored her. "What do you think they're doing?"

  Berg, her fear gone now, or at least suppressed, tracked the silent motion of the Spline. "The first one's leaving Jovian space."

  Poole frowned. "Heading where? The inner Solar System?"

  "It's logical," Berg said dryly. "That's where Earth lies, fat and waiting."

  "And the second?"

  "...Is coming down our damn throats."

  Shira said, "You need not fear. When the Project comes to fruition these events will be... translated into harmless shadows."

  Poole and Berg, dropping their heads from the ugly movements in the sky, studied the Friend.

  "She's crazy," Berg said.

  Shira leaned forward, her blue eyes pale and intense. "You must understand. The Project will correct all of this. The continuance of the Project is — must be — the top priority for all of us. Including you, our visitors."

  "Even above defending ourselves — defending Earth — against a Spline attack?" Poole asked. "Shira, this may be the best chance well have of defeating the assault. And—"

  She didn't seem to be hearing him. "The Project must be seen through," she said. "Accelerated, in fact." The girl looked from one to the other of them, searching their faces, pleading for understanding; Michael felt as if he could see the practiced phrases rolling meaninglessly through her mind. "You will come with me now."

  "What do you think?" Poole said to Berg. "Will they force us? Do they have weapons?"

  "You know they do," Berg said calmly. "You saw what they did to my boat."

  "So we've no way of impelling them to do anything." He heard the frustration, the despair in his own voice. "They're not going to oppose the Spline at all; they're putting all their faith in this Project of theirs. The magic Project that will solve everything."

  Berg growled softly.

  She lashed out sideways with her bunched fist.

  She caught the Friend squarely on the temple. Shira fell loosely, crumpling, as if supporting strings had been cut; she lay with her small, skull-like face fringed by pink-stained grass.

  Harry, staring down, said, "Wow."

  "She won't stay out long," Miriam said. "We need to move fast."

  Poole glanced up at the still-growing, rolling form of the Spline warship. "What do we do?"

  "We have to take out both Spline," Berg muttered. "That much is obvious. As long as either of them is loose In the Solar System, the whole damn race is in peril."

  "Oh, sure." Harry said. "Let's take 'em both out.
Or, on the other hand, why don't we think big? I have a cunning plan..."

  "Shut up, Harry," Michael said absently. "All right, Miriam, we're listening. How?"

  "We'll have to split up. Harry, is the Crab's boat ready to lift?"

  Harry closed his eyes, as if looking within. "Yes," he said.

  Shira stirred on the grass, moaning softly.

  "Maybe you can get away in the boat," Miriam said. "While the Friends are still running about confused, trying to stow everything. Get back to the Crab and go after the first Spline, the one that's heading for Earth. Maybe you can catch it before it engages its hyperdrive."

  "And then what?"

  Berg grinned tightly. "How should I know? I'm making this up as I'm going along. You'll have to think of something."

  "All right. What about you?"

  Berg looked up. The second Spline, advancing on the earth-craft, loomed still closer; it was a fleshy moon above them. "I'll try to do something about that one," Berg said. "Maybe I can get to those singularity cannons."

  Shira moaned again and seemed to be trying to raise her face from the grass.

  Poole said, "And her?"

  Berg shrugged. "Take her with you. Maybe she'll be able to help you."

  Poole bent, picked up the girl; her protruding eyes, trying to fix on his face, slid across the sky like poorly tracking cameras.

  Berg searched Poole's face. "I need to say good-bye, Michael," she said.

  Harry looked from Poole, to Miriam, and back to Poole; and he winked politely out of existence.

  Michael looked beyond the village of Xeelee-material huts, toward the center of the earth-craft. Three burly Friends were running toward them. No, four. And they were carrying something. Weapons?

  He turned back to Berg. "You'll never make it to the center of the craft," he said. "Come with us."

  Harry's head popped out of space, close to Miriam's ear. "Sorry, folks," he said, "but you haven't a lot of time for this."

  Miriam grinned briefly, ran her hand through her stubble of hair, and took a deep breath. "But I'm not going to the center of the craft. Good-bye, Michael." And she swiveled — away from Michael, away from the approaching Friends — and started to run, toward the edge of the world.

  Michael Poole stood watching her for one second, mouth open.

  Shira wriggled harder in his arms, kicking like a stranded fish.

  There was no more time. Michael turned on his heel and ran for his boat, the ungainly burden of Shira flopping in his arms, the disembodied head of his father floating at his side.

  * * *

  The rim of the craft, ahead of her, was a fringe of grass, incongruous against the bruised-purple countenance of Jupiter.

  Her mind raced.

  From the circular village of the Friends of Wigner, Berg had about a hundred yards to run to the lip of the craft. Well, she could cover that distance in maybe ten seconds, on the flat. But the weakening of gravity as she approached the edge ought to let her speed up — as long as she didn't fall flat on her face — but on the other hand she'd be climbing out of the earth-craft's gravity well, so she'd feel as if she were running uphill...

  Yes. Already the ground seemed to be tipping up beneath her.

  She tried to work with the weakening gravity, gain whatever advantage she could: she consciously slowed her pace, letting her stride broaden and carry her farther.

  She risked a glance backward. The posse of pursuing Friends had split, she saw; two of them had concentrated on Michael and the girl, and the other two were coming after her. They were fit and covered the grass fast.

  They carried laser-guns, of the type that had turned her boat to slag. She imagined coherent photons surging from the weapons and arcing into her back, faster than thought. You don't dodge a light weapon... She felt her back stiffen and tense, the muscles locking up. Her stride faltered, and she tried to empty her head of everything but the next step.

  She seemed to be climbing a one-in-three slope now. She didn't dare look back again, for fear of seeing the earth-craft apparently tip behind her, of tumbling helplessly backward, her balance lost. And, damn it, her chest hurt. Her lungs were dragging at thinning air; coming this far out of the earth-craft's tiny gravity well was like climbing the mountains of Mars.

  She wondered why the Friends didn't just open up. No need to aim; they could just hose her down, slicing her spine the way they'd cut open her boat. But they were hesitating. Thinking twice.

  They wanted to stop her, not murder her, she realized; they were reluctant to use those weapons.

  She didn't have much time for the Friends, but at least they weren't killers. Maybe it would be better if they were.

  Perspective was starting to work on the approaching edge of the world, now. She could see individual blades of grass, rushing toward her.

  Her lungs hurt like hell. She felt her tongue protrude from her mouth. Her whole chest ached, including the muscles of her back and her upper arms. And her legs, stiffening as they climbed the steepening hill, were shivering, as if they knew what they were approaching.

  She ignored it all; her arms flailing at the thinned air, she drove her feet down at the grass, pushing the earth-craft below her.

  The plane reached a crescendo of steepness; she was flying up a bowl-shaped Alp —

  And then there was no more grass beneath her boots.

  She tipped forward, stumbling over the edge of the world; her momentum carried her away from the earth-craft and into the pink light of Jovian space, arms and legs spread wide like some unlikely starfish. As she spilled slowly forward she saw her posse sprawl against the grass, weapons abandoned, the thin air drawing their mouths open in cartoon masks of amazement.

  She was lost in space, her lungs empty. She hung, seemingly motionless, between the earth-craft and the bulk of Jupiter. Darkness crowded the edge of her vision.

  Oh, Jesus, Michael, maybe this wasn't such a good plan after all.

  * * *

  Michael Poole, running around the rim of the earth-craft village toward his boat, arms aching with the weight of the semiconscious Shira, was exhausted already.

  He saw Berg go flying over the edge of the world. He found time to wonder if she knew what she was doing.

  He glanced over his shoulder; the twist of his muscles only added to the breathless ache across his chest. Two of the Friends were still chasing him. Even as he ran he stared with a strange fascination at the encroaching detail of the Friends: the mud spattered over their light pink coveralls, the set grimness of their hairless faces, the glinting plastic of their laser-rifles...

  Harry hovered beside him, his legs whirling propeller style in a cartoon running motion. "I hate to be the bringer of bad news," he panted, "but they're gaining on us."

  Poole gasped between footfalls, "Tell me something... I don't know."

  Harry glanced easily over his shoulder. "Actually I don't know why they don't just lase you down where you stand."

  "Save the... pep talk..." Michael gasped, his shoulders and arms encased in pain, "and... do something!"

  "Like what?"

  "Use your... initiative, damn you," Michael growled.

  Harry frowned, rubbed his chin, and disappeared.

  Suddenly there were wails from Poole's pursuers, arcs of laser light above his head, the sizzle of ozone.

  Legs still working, Michael risked another look back.

  A ten-foot edition of Harry, a shimmering collage of semitransparent, fist-sized pixels, had materialized in front of the two Friends. Startled, they'd stumbled to a halt before the apparition and had let rip with the lasers. The pale pink beams lanced harmlessly through the grainy image, dipping slightly as they refracted out of the atmosphere.

  But within seconds the Friends had dismissed the Virtual, Michael saw. Shouting to each other they shouldered their weapons and set off once more; Harry materialized before them again and again, the basic template of his Virtual body distorted into a variety of gross forms, but t
he Friends, their strides barely faltering, ran through the ineffectual clouds of pixels.

  Poole tucked his head down and ran.

  "Michael!"

  Poole jerked his head up. The boat from the Crab was speeding toward him, a gunmetal bullet shape that sped a few feet above the plain. The English grass waved and flattened beneath it. An inviting yellow light glowed from the open airlock.

  Harry's amplified voice echoed from the distant Xeelee-material buildings. "Michael, you're going to get approximately one chance at this... I hope your timing is better than your stamina."

  Michael pounded across the grass, the girl an ungainly bundle in his arms. His breath scraped through his throat. The boat swept toward him at fifty miles per hour, the open hatchway gaping like a mouth.

  A flicker of pink-purple light above his head, a whiff of ozone, and there was a small hole in the gray-white carapace of the boat. Smoke wisped briefly; the boat seemed to falter, but kept coming.

  It looked as if the Friends were shedding their scruples about using their weapons. Or maybe they were just trying to disable the boat...

  The boat filled his world.

  Poole jumped.

  The door frame caught his right shin, his left foot; pain blazed and he felt the warm welling of blood. He fell hard on the metal floor of the airlock, landing heavily on top of Shira. The girl gasped under his weight, her eyes widening. They slid in a tangle of limbs across the floor, Poole's damaged legs leaving a trail of blood; they were jammed against the back wall of the airlock, and for the second time the air was knocked out of Poole's laboring lungs.

  A laser bolt flickered at about waist height, a few inches above Poole's head.

  The boat surged away from the ground, the hatch sliding closed slowly; Poole, struggling to rise, was slammed to the floor again, this time away from the girl. His chest strained. He hadn't been able to draw a single decent breath since his last desperate few strides across the grass of the earth-craft, and now he felt as if he were in vacuum.