Steamrolled

by Pauline Baird Jones

  I lived in her head until her death and I still don’t understand the way her mind works.

  He didn’t think it, but Ashe knew he felt the same about her. She grinned, then she sighed. None of this helped with her current problem.

  If this man had been shifted, somehow they had to figure out when he was supposed to be and how to get him back there without access to any Service resources. Even the future was closed to them if time started fluxing on a large scale. During periods of severe instability, the future could become actively fluid. As far as she knew, no one could land on fluid. Even now her future could be turning unstable as the time tremors spread through the stream. If she didn’t figure this out, there’d be no family for her to visit.

  Stabilizing time is our mission.

  Our impossible mission. Ashe fought back a sigh, then before Lurch could toss it at her, she added, the impossible just takes longer. She resisted the impulse to point out that longer was relative at the moment and focused on the stricture instead. The idea that the impossible was possible did intrigue her on a gut level. It implied that with proper application of resources, the impossible was possible. The concept, she could admit to herself, appealed. She’d always hated obstacles and people telling her she couldn’t do something. Perhaps it was a genetic imperative. But before she bent her brain to the pin, she needed to ascertain he was what the Chameleon suspected—assuming it was possible to tell.

  The Chameleon and her man both stopped near a bend in the curving path they’d been following between towering stone buildings and the peaceful park that surrounded them. Five hundred years in the future, the park was somewhat different—plants were organic and therefore changeable—but the buildings looked the same, at least on the outside. The tree she’d slammed into during the time in the alternate reality looked the same—

  “There he is.”

  The tone said it all, in case Ashe had not deduced for herself that this “intersection” was not the Chameleon’s favorite person. Ashe studied the group curious which one was the noxious object of her ancestor’s disdain. Almost all appeared pleasant, bordering on pretty. He would be one of the bland ones. The Keltinarian men were meek and often on the short side, according to the news vids she’d seen and from studying the possible Keltinarian on the Council. He was so bland, she could barely recall his face. There was one exception in the group, one way more interesting than the assemblage of bland.

  He towered over his companions, was dark where they were light, garbed in leather, where they wore fabric attire. He had his back to them, which Ashe found she didn’t mind. The leather traced a body that was well formed, with broad, powerful shoulders and lean hips. His dark hair appeared unruly, an impression enhanced by the hands set defiantly on those not-unpleasant-to-study hips. Would the front view be as intriguing as the rear?

  Ashe felt tinge of regret that whoever he was, he wouldn’t see the real Ashe. Her colorful genetic pool had mixed once with the Grenardias, a race who had colonized a dead, former Dusan world a couple of hundred years after the War. It had taken three hundred years to dilute the lavender—that had so bothered the Chameleon—in the family skin tone from that first contact. The Garradians all claimed to honor strategic mating, but preferred immaculate non-conception with outsiders. Her ancestors weren’t good at immaculate anything, she’d found, no matter how much they tried to sanitize the family history. First contact and that Alliance Mating with the Grenardias was still a couple of hundred years in the future in this place. Even if that hadn’t been a problem, she’d needed to holo-camo to an aspect more socially acceptable to both time and surroundings. She’d gone a bit bland, so as not to attract a lot of attention, something she rather regretted now. Her eyes were her own, but she’d hidden them behind eyewear so no one would notice the nearly perfect match to her other ancestor.

  With some reluctance, Ashe studied the barbarian’s companions but could find no obvious genetic differences to isolate the pin. “Which one is your problem?”

  She got a rather pointed look. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “The barbarian?” Ashe couldn’t hide her shock. “That’s a Keltinarian?”

  “Have they changed so much then?” Chameleon’s man sounded amused.

  “Beyond all recognition.” How was it possible for the Garradians to evolve so little over five hundred years—if one didn’t count the lavender skin—and the men of Keltinar so much? All her instincts gave a mighty twitch. Lurch? Can you compare Keltinar male evolution to a five hundred year period on Earth? Earth history was their second largest historical database, since it had been the first inter-galactic contact. Start scanning Keltinar history, too, if you can. She didn’t know as much about Keltinar, because they had limited contact by her time, but her databanks should contain all known history.

  Wrong time could be hard to spot in historical data, but Lurch had lived those years. And he had great instincts—was she spinning hope out of nothing? Possible, she had to admit. Too much theory and too little actual experience.

  “Please tell me that you aren’t going girl on my problem?” Chameleon sounded a bit amused, a lot annoyed.

  With some reluctance, Ashe looked from one problem to the other. “I can see why you might find him challenging. You are so alike.”

  “Alike?” The word squeezed out as a muted squawk.

  Ashe returned her attention to the barbarian. “I wonder what he sees in you.”

  Not your most tactful moment.

  Ashe managed an almost apologetic look. “I mean, you are obviously unavailable.”

  Not your best save either.

  “I’m sure that’s what you meant.” Amused seemed to be winning, though annoyed still held some space in her tone.

  “I have heard of men, and cultures, that are more interested in what they can’t have. I suppose that could be the case, but the historical record doesn’t support that thesis.” Anyone who used an intergalactic dating service to rebuild their society couldn’t be too particular, or over aggressive, surely? What would cause him to fixate on the Chameleon?

  Professional curiosity overtook the other, unfamiliar interest. She refocused on him, bringing her time senses into play. The stream’s aspect around him presented close to the model of a time pin that she’d shown the Chameleon, though not a perfect match. It shouldn’t be perfect, however. Individual choice made for variations in how time moved around anyone. The range of variation in a pin should be different from a non-pin, because pins tended to act consistently. That is why they were tagged as pins.

  It required further, and closer, study. How fortunate that looking at him wasn’t painful. Ashe ignored Lurch’s almost juvenile snort. She moved closer—his stream flickered, surging in odd directions, his vortex destabilizing, and then stabilizing again, but not quite the same as before. If she hadn’t seen it, she’d have thought it not possible. If she had seen it. You saw that, too, didn’t you?

  Indeed. Lurch felt as puzzled as Ashe, not a comfortable sensation.

  She paused, waiting for it, not sure if she wanted it to happen again or not. The eddies from it lapped against her suit in ways almost as itchy as slow time. It wasn’t right time, but it didn’t present as wrong time either.

  Interesting. This could be how a shifted pin presents.

  If he had been shifted through time, but not space, then that implied he was supposed to be here. He wasn’t part of the Time Service, so it would have to be some time before this outpost became a base and after its rediscovery by the Earthlings. She felt a quiver of something, of knowledge just out of reach. I think we need a look inside. Not to invade his thoughts, but his biology, his physiology might provide useful data. At the least they’d know if he really was Keltinarian.

  The fact that he’d persisted through an alternate reality seemed to indicate that he was where he should be, but this time signature didn’t shout it and what she knew of his planet from the future screamed wrong. Ashe studied the people around him. Their
time signatures showed normal. She’d never tried to match people from the same time. Would there be differences?

  We need the data. Lurch concurred, though Ashe also sensed hostility toward Shan from the nanite.

  He had data from the Chameleon, but Ashe wasn’t sure how useful it would be since she’d shifted through time. Let’s get some comparative data from the people he’s with.

  It was a plan of sorts. She looked at Chameleon. “Can you introduce us?”

  Chameleon scowled, or possibly frowned. “Is that wise? And what name am I supposed to tell him?”

  Ashe half grinned. “Anything except Smith.” Would the name mean anything to him? If they were colluding, perhaps, but what if he was a victim of Smith, too?

  He is most likely a victim of his own arrogance.

  No question Lurch had issues with the man.

  Her gaze swept Ashe’s holo-camo. “I’ll try to stick with rank and last name, since names get tricky around him.”

  I have rank?

  I made you a private.

  Great. Before she got too deep into bitter, the focus of their attention turned, his gaze doing a homing trister to Chameleon. Seemed obvious someone had messed with his head. Way too smitten.

  Be nice.

  I didn’t say it out loud.

  Ashe might have continued the conversation, but it was more interesting to study the barbarian. So far, his front lived up to the promise of his back. Earthy and primitive he exuded stuff not present in her intellectual loving future as he strode toward them as if he owned all he surveyed. Chameleon’s man contested his confidence, though without words. They stopped short of circling and growling but the air crackled with testosterone-driven hostility. Ashe had seen that hormone in action before joining the Service but never to this extent. Had men evolved into lesser production as the need for aggression subsided? The men in her time were more cerebral and not nearly as interesting. The barbarian might not be looking at Ashe, but she felt her own hormones sit up and take notice. Still didn’t get the attraction for the Chameleon. She’d kept her looks, creepy as they were, but she was well past her prime.

  Cat.

  The barbarian’s fierce gaze shifted her direction, though his obvious reluctance didn’t flatter. It was a bit like walking up to a furnace, though the heat felt off like his time signature, which also smelled different, though she’d need to think about it, do some comparisons, to figure out how. At least he wasn’t a hideous barbarian. He had good features under the day or two’s growth of beard. Mouth was a bit on the cruel side. Green eyes were almost nice, but cool to the point of cold—not unlike the Chameleon.

  You are not here to check him out.

  Actually I think I am. She smiled at the barbarian as Chameleon made polite.

  “Ambassador, this is Private Jones. She’s newly, and briefly, visiting the outpost.”

  Green eyes assessed her with a disturbing detachment.

  He’s probably wondering if you’re fertile. He is here looking for women to repopulate his planet.

  Okay, so maybe she could see why he annoyed Chameleon.

  “Ambassador.” Ashe held out her hand. She needed physical contact for Lurch to send in a biological assessment team. He didn’t hesitate, his big hand closing around hers with some force. Thanks to the hormones—his and hers—Ashe felt a little something from the contact, but didn’t let it go to her head. He only had eyes for the Chameleon. She had enough lost causes in her life, felt no need to add another one to the mix.

  “Vidor Shan.” He maintained his grip on her hand, his gaze searing over her, though it was still too dispassionate. If he saw her as she was, would that look change? His deep voice sent some more tingles down her back. She’d heard old sound files of men with deep voices, but nothing like this in her lifetime.

  “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Ambassador.” Were they half-mated now, what Earth still called engaged? The idea did not repel as much as expected. Of course, the hormone-rich air could be clouding her cognitive centers. The assessment team went in with brief, bright flickers of light, but Shan sent something her way, some sort of chemical compound.

  He tagged you so he can track you.

  I take it he’s done this before. It wasn’t a real question, because she knew the answer, though it didn’t make sense. There was nothing in the archives about him seizing women. Of course, her gaze flicked up, then down, volunteers were probably easy to come by. He’d get mobbed in her time. Which didn’t explain the tagging.

  Perhaps he’s not sure diplomacy will work. He doesn’t know the future like we do.

  A backup plan. A bit diabolical, but interesting. Ashe didn’t know why, but the tagging made her instincts kick. Why? Was it a clue to his real time?

  The Chameleon’s man introduced her to the barbarian’s companions and Ashe sent assessment teams into them, too. It was need-to-know.

  What are you getting from the teams?

  A data stream formed inside her head, as the teams sent back data. The three women had also been tagged. No surprise the men hadn’t. Nothing particularly interesting about any of them. Ashe tried not to let her interest spike as she turned her internal attention to Shan. A pattern formed, taking the shape of the barbarian’s interior. Nothing looked out of whack—wait. What’s that near the base of his brain? The data stream reformed for tighter focus. A thin, old scar hid just inside his hairline, hidden by the tangle if his longish hair. Beneath the scar a small, brass device nestled near his brain stem. No one else had anything like that. Brass? Brass wasn’t consistent with Keltinarian tech. Is that a small trace of Constilinium I’m picking up from it?

  Lurch directed a scout to go in and they both saw it pierce the brass casing, flicker and vanish from existence.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “How can it, how can he be gone?” Faustus looked at Tobias’ impassive face, noting he couldn’t quite hide that he was puzzled. “We have the beacon in place so you can arrive almost on point there.” What should have been a side operation had turned into a major annoyance and he hadn’t been able to find out how or why. He didn’t like unanswered questions or operations going wrong.

  Time is persistent.

  Time will have to get over it, he shot back to the Time Service motto. Or learn to be persistent the way I want it to be.

  “I waited, but neither Twitchet nor Miss Carstairs returned to the warehouse. I made some discreet inquiries.” Smith shrugged. “It is possible the newspaper accounts were off about when he vanished.”

  Or they’d slightly modified the time line. Or someone else had. They couldn’t go further back in the time line. He needed both the machine and its equipment functional or it was no use to them. He’d used the brains of several scientists from that era to create his laboratory to be low tech enough to be nanite inhibiting. When one wanted to go primitive, one needed a primitive to show the way. It had been, he thought, a lucky chance that had brought the Individual Discovery Velocipediator to his attention. Even Twitchet didn’t realize what he had there. It should have been a simple matter to remove it from his control. He glanced at the guest book. Did it appear to be fluctuating even more?

  The Constilinium heavily seeded the time, but something had happened during the last test, that had sent the machine into the future. Was it part of the anomaly he’d countered by killing the Shan specimen? It was possible. He studied his most useful specimen. Tobias shifted as if something bothered him.

  “What is it you don’t want to tell me Tobias?” He didn’t move, didn’t shift his hand closer to the controls. He liked to alternate persuasion with coercion, just to keep things interesting. And because he could.

  “When I was there, in the warehouse.” Tobias hesitated, but he did not appear reluctant, so much as confused. “I felt watched, then it felt as if someone flashed out. But it also felt different.”

  “Different? How?” Was Tobias starting to become time sensitive? Or had he always been?

  He s
hifted again. “It’s been itchy, uncomfortable. It wasn’t there. And when I left, the stream was calmer for several clicks.”

  “Interesting.” He smiled, because he didn’t show weakness or frustration at being thwarted. He’d felt it before, felt his adversaries weren’t just the nanites, the Service, certain people, but also time itself. Was there a mind behind its flow? A governing force? If the gods themselves controlled it, he’d still fight them to his last breath for colluding with the Service. That’s who they should have punished, not—

  As if Tobias sensed that opposition and was pleased with it, an almost smile, flickered on that normally expressionless face. He’d failed and that pleased him. Somewhere deep inside, Tobias still resisted, though he could do nothing but struggle internally. He always did what he was told. He couldn’t help himself. Pain and the control device kept him in line, though pain had failed to break that last frontier of inner resistance. Could it subconsciously impact his effectiveness? It was an intriguing—and troubling thought. It might explain his recent failures.

  Perhaps it was time to find another way to motivate him. Tobias was clever, smart in a brutish way, and most determined. It was what made him such a useful tool and one of his finest time hunters. Others had resisted him with less focus and he’d deemed them not worth the effort of retaining their services. Deleting a specimen was a simple matter—though it was less simple for the specimen. With a feeling of remembered pleasure he let himself recall the most recent deletion of the specimen Shan. If he’d had the time—he almost smiled at that thought, because of course he had time, just not time for unproductive research—he might have tried to solve the puzzle of why the disintegration process was so prolonged or painful. Not to change it, just to know.

  Some specimens had only to see one deletion to eliminate all desire to resist. Not Tobias. One sensed he wished to be deleted. Self-preservation was a strong motivator for most life forms, but Tobias was a special case. Prior to collection he’d been a warrior, one committed to sacrificing his life for his people, trained in independent action and in taking orders. It was the skills acquired from his military training that made him so useful, that made him such an excellent hunter, but it was possible those same skills worked against them both. There was power in the subconscious. Perhaps mere survival wasn’t enough motivation.