Termination

by Deborah Chester

  “Oh, God, don’t cut me off yet,” Noel said desperately. “If I’m stuck here I understand. It’s my hard luck. But I need some information. Leon is already making trouble. If I don’t find him soon, he could alter some event and I—”

  “Sending now,” said Trojan’s voice over his. “We didn’t program isomorphics into this one. No molecular shift. Take care with it. It’s primitive due to…”

  “Forget all that,” Noel said with savage impatience. “Can you reopen the portal? Can I get back? Is there a chance?”

  “Verification is difficult—”

  “Damnit! Just tell me yes or no! I’m a big boy. I can take it. Just don’t leave me—”

  “Portal will not open sufficiently for successful human travel. Damage is extensive.”

  Noel let out his breath in a low whistle, feeling flattened. He’d asked for the answer. He’d gotten it. No matter how much he already suspected it, hearing it spoken aloud in Trojan’s flat tones still felt like being hit by a wall.

  “Sending now.”

  “Sending what?” Noel asked in bewilderment. “Another LOC? My God, if you can—”

  A violent pop made him jump back. He saw a tiny canister, smoking and coated with frost, lying in the ghostly light at Trojan’s feet. Noel started for it, then remembered to keep his distance.

  “It’s here!” he said, so excited his voice would not hold steady. “It got through. When I activate it, can we secure transmission contact? Will I be able to—”

  “Breaking up,” said Trojan’s voice. His image disintegrated, re-formed, and destabilized again. The light emanating from him flickered and grew dim. “Remember…necessary for…”

  “Remember what?” Noel asked. “Repeat message! I don’t understand.”

  “Stay together.”

  Noel ran toward the fading image. “Trojan, wait! Wait! I have to know if you can—”

  “Good luck, Noel.”

  The image vanished, plunging the chamber into darkness. Noel stood there with his eyes closed, feeling the pressure lift, feeling the static electricity fade. He couldn’t believe they had reached him. He couldn’t believe they were gone.

  Gone.

  It was a sad little word.

  He frowned in the darkness and hugged himself tight.

  Chapter 6

  There was no time to stand around feeling miserable. Noel forced himself to concentrate and groped forward in the darkness on his hands and knees until he found the canister. Its surface burned his fingers with cold, and he felt his skin sticking to the metal. Wincing, he peeled his fingertips free, then gathered the canister up carefully into the hem of his coat and blew on it in an effort to thaw it more quickly. Until he could handle it, he would not be able to get it open.

  The old emergency drill from training sessions came back to him. Canister shipments through the time stream were almost unheard of. Usually the Institute’s policy was to recall a traveler in trouble rather than send him or her additional equipment, but they trained for every conceivable contingency. The old drills used to bore Noel; now he found himself grateful for them.

  Grateful or not, he had to get out of here. He could not risk capture now, not with a functioning, unprotected LOC.

  The Institute’s primary concern always centered on avoiding tampering with time and history. To keep a thief from robbing a traveler of his LOC and getting access to the future, the LOCs were programmed to be isomorphic. That effectively cut off anyone but their assigned traveler from tapping into their valuable data banks.

  But an unprotected LOC would work for anyone who possessed it. It would answer any question, whether in regard to personal, political, or financial fortunes. If it fell into the hands of an unscrupulous, ambitious Venetian, the harm to the future could be greater than anything Leon might do.

  Noel slipped the canister into his coat pocket and fumbled around in the dark until he found the tunnel. He exited cautiously, moving by feel and keeping his head low to avoid bumping it on the ceiling. This was risky; he could run into the returning guards at any moment. But it was the only way out.

  By now the two guards who had seen Trojan’s hologram had probably reached the others. Who knew what kind of hysterical tales they were telling? With any luck, the others would be too frightened to continue the chase.

  Noel, of course, knew better than to trust in luck. He’d been given a temporary respite and maybe a chance. It was up to him to take advantage of it.

  He quickened his stride, bumping his head and swearing under his breath. The darkness was total, but his urgency had driven away his previous jitters. He still didn’t like being down here, but he had his imagination back under control.

  As he walked he kept patting his pocket, checking to see if the canister had warmed. It seemed to be. He closed his fingers around it. The metal was still chilly, but no longer freezing.

  Noel paused and crouched down. He took care not to get himself turned around in the darkness. It would be easy to disorient himself and head back the way he’d just come.

  His fingertips ran carefully across the canister’s smooth surface. It was small, no longer than his hand, and a narrow bullet shape. He kept exploring the sleek sides, searching for the tiny fissure and indentation that would open it.

  When he finally found it, the indentation was on the blunt end. Frowning to himself, Noel figured they had probably announced a change in design at one of the meetings he’d skipped. It didn’t matter now that he’d found the control. He pushed, and with a faint snick, the canister opened.

  Noel fumbled until his fingers closed around the LOC inside it. Holding it tightly in his fist, he said in an unsteady voice, “LOC, activate.”

  Pale, greenish light blinked on and shone out between his fingers. His old LOC had always cast a blue light, but right now Noel didn’t care if it was pink. Relief washed over him in a wave.

  He started to take off his old LOC, but something stopped him—caution or sentiment, he couldn’t say. He left it in place around his left wrist, unable to give it up, and buckled the new LOC around his right wrist. It felt warm and unfamiliar there as it pulsed steadily.

  Hope filled him. He had a chance now. Return might be only a remote possibility, but at least he’d improved the odds of surviving here. He thought of the staff at the Institute, still desperately trying to monitor him, follow him, help him despite whatever damage they’d suffered from the distortion, and his heart swelled. Maybe he didn’t get along with all of them, but they were good folks where it counted. He’d always be grateful for their efforts.

  “LOC,” he said in a swift, low voice, “scan immediate area and overlay with reference grids for Venice, circa fourteenth or fifteenth centuries—”

  “Initial reference scanning already completed,” intoned the LOC. Its artificial tones had an identical inflection to his old LOC, yet there was a difference. The new LOC sounded faster, more efficient. Its green light pulsed steadily in the narrow confines of the tunnel. “Venice is your location. The date is February 12, 1549. You are in the catacombs beneath the Ducal Palace—”

  “Stop,” said Noel impatiently. “Can you lock on to my voiceprint?”

  The LOC flashed for a moment. “There is capability for future recognition.”

  “Yes, but can you lock yourself to my voiceprint? Can you take authorization to respond only to my voice?”

  “Negative.”

  Noel frowned. “Great. Okay, skip it. Scan the tunnels and identify the nearest exit. Verify if anyone is blocking access—”

  “Instructions are not clear. Please restate instructions.”

  When Trojan had said this LOC had some primitive nodes, he wasn’t kidding. Noel tried to be patient as he said, “Scan my position point and determine nearest exit to it.”

  “Instructions are not clear. Please restate instructions.”

  “Stop,” Noel said. “Forget it. I know where the exit is. Can you scan for other humans? Can you pinpoint their coordina
tes within these tunnels?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Do it.”

  “Working. Humans located at zero nine point five—”

  “Stop!” Noel said hastily. “Translate coordinates into map references.”

  “That capability is not available.”

  “Damn.” Noel ran his fingers through his hair. “Okay. I’m going to make a run for the exit. You warn me with a silent pulse against my wrist if anyone is ahead of me. Confirm instructions.”

  “Instructions received and confirmed,” intoned the LOC.

  “Okay. Assume disguise mode.”

  “That capability is not available.”

  Noel stood up too fast and bumped his head. “Damn! Okay, then, just run without your lights on.”

  “Instructions are not clear. Please restate instructions.”

  He sighed and reminded himself that he was grateful to have this LOC. Whatever its limitations it was still better than nothing. “Can you operate without your circuitry lit up?”

  “Negative.”

  “Great.”

  No way to conceal it. No way to disguise it. Noel looked at it in disgust then shrugged. The Venetians were superstitious and had already condemned him as a sorcerer. Now at least two men had witnessed his ability to conjure up spirits. Why not run around with a LOC flashing on his wrist like a familiar? He had nothing to lose.

  “LOC, execute instructions to warn me if anyone is coming.”

  “Acknowledged,” replied the LOC.

  It was a truce of sorts. Holding his wrist out before him so that the pale green light cast a dim, lambent illumination ahead of him, Noel headed cautiously back the way he’d come.

  Every few feet he stopped and listened, preferring to depend on his own hearing for a warning. The tunnels were silent and dark. He heard nothing save his own heartbeat and worried about it. This was strange after the previous hue and cry. Where was everyone? He couldn’t believe they were frightened enough to abandon the place entirely.

  Yet he reached the fork in the tunnels without incident. Torches smoked and burned in wall sconces. The earlier commotion in the prison could no longer be heard. It was as though everyone had fled, abandoning the place to him. That, however, seemed unlikely. They were superstitious men, already half afraid of him, but surely they wouldn’t run.

  He waited, holding his breath, all his senses alert for a trap. A faint breeze touched his sweating face, cooling it. No sound broke the weighty silence. Finally, Noel emerged warily into the larger passageway, glancing in all directions. It looked okay, but he couldn’t relax. This was too easy.

  He stood there exposed for only a moment, then darted into the right-hand fork. This passageway was smoother, less crude than the one he’d taken previously. He could smell fresh air ahead, welcome and almost fragrant in contrast to the prison stench. Noel quickened his stride, starting to grin to himself. So far, so good.

  A cry of “Stregone!” came from behind him. It was all the warning he had before something hit him very hard in the back. It drove him to his knees before his senses could even register what had happened.

  All his breath left him and he couldn’t draw in more. Agony penetrated his back like fire. A clammy sweat broke out across his face. Blackness rushed at him, but a small fierce corner of his brain warned him that if he passed out now he was finished.

  “Death to the stregone!” shouted a voice that boomed and echoed fearsomely through the tunnels.

  Something whizzed past Noel’s head. He flinched sideways, saw an arrow strike the ground harmlessly. Another whizzed by, nicking his shoulder. Noel hauled himself upright, the instinct of survival stronger than the weakness sinking him. His legs wobbled and he staggered into the wall.

  Pain jolted through him in sheets, but he didn’t pass out. Clinging to the wall, letting it support him, he pushed himself forward.

  The initial confusion from the pain and shock began to fade. He hurt dreadfully. Every step jarred the agony harder. But his mind was clearing now. Glancing back, he saw silhouettes emerging into the torchlight. His pursuers shouted to each other to whip up their courage. Right now they were still frightened of him, but that would pass quickly as soon as they saw the blood he was dripping on the ground. They would know then that he was mortal. If he could be hurt, he could be killed. They would be on him like hounds.

  And he couldn’t run.

  Already he was wheezing with exhaustion. His legs tried to sink beneath him. Halting, he fought to keep himself upright. Groping across his back, he found the arrow protruding from the right side of his lower back, somewhere in the kidney region. His coat was ripped and sticky with blood. He guessed the arrow point had struck a rib, skidded, and gone into meat. There was no way to tell right now how bad it really was, or whether it had touched something vital. At least it hadn’t gone all the way through him.

  He dared not pull it out, dared not risk the additional internal damage that would result. But he couldn’t maneuver with the arrow sticking out of him either.

  Noel grimaced to himself. Dear God. Maneuver? He could barely stay on his feet.

  “Prepare what is left of your blackened soul, stregone,” called one of the men. “We are coming to send you to hell!”

  Noel could feel himself starting to float. Grimly he tried to focus. He had to hang on, had to pull himself together, had to try.

  “LOC,” he gasped, his voice strangled and tight, “retrieve reference museum file 00100011 and 101101. External projection of holograms, tight angle. Sound overlay if available.”

  He had used this trick once before, long ago, in another time and place. It had worked then. He prayed this new LOC had the necessary files and would accept his rapid-fire instructions.

  The LOC pulsed steadily on his wrist. “Stated files not in data banks. Reference files—”

  “Just play whatever you have,” said Noel desperately.

  “Acknowledged.”

  Green light filled the tunnel, and suddenly holographic images of field workers in medieval garb started walking through the walls. They were reaping wheat, some men swinging scythes while others stacked the sheaves. The women wore their sleeves rolled up and their hair bound in kerchiefs. They gleaned behind the men. There was no sound and no color, only grainy images in black and white, poorly focused. But the effect was splendid. The images looked ghostly, unreal, and somehow twice as horrifying, especially since the tunnel space was not large enough for the projection and heads would suddenly pop from the walls as someone bent over to pick up the stalks of grain, or a hand would reach out from nowhere and vanish again.

  With yells, Noel’s pursuers fell back.

  Noel commanded the LOC to maintain the projection in that one spot as long as its range permitted. Bathed in the LOC’s green light, he staggered forward, pushing himself until he was out of sight beyond a bend in the tunnel.

  Once again, he was forced to rest. Sweat poured down his face, but he was freezing. His body felt cut in half; the misery was so acute he did not know how he could endure it.

  He thought of the tiny bead of medication that he had taken from his old LOC to administer to Lady Francesca. He thought of how he could use it now. Obviously the new LOC contained no emergency aid programming.

  “Projection range fading,” said the LOC.

  “Continue projection,” Noel said through his teeth. “Move it closer within solid range parameters.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  Noel dreaded what he had to do, but he could not procrastinate. Wincing, he reached behind and gripped the arrow with his hand. Even that touch sent a twisting fire through him. He gritted his teeth, the cords in his neck standing out in an effort not to scream. Turning his body, he slammed the arrow against the wall and snapped it off, leaving the point and part of the shaft in his body.

  When he came to himself again he was sitting in a heap on the cold stone floor, sweating and moaning. He still gripped the splintered arrow shaft in his blo
odstained hands. His lower back felt heavy and aching. He no longer cared whether they came for him or not.

  But he had to care, had to keep going.

  Slowly, pushing himself past the renewed agony, he crawled, then rested, then climbed to his feet and staggered on.

  By the time he came to a flight of stairs, he was trembling with exhaustion. Again he considered giving up. Again he chose survival.

  Lifting himself up the first step made his temples pound dizzily. He paused there and counted the remaining steps. Ten more to go. His heart sank, but he could give up now and surely die or he could keep going and maybe die. Right now it was hard to make himself care much about either alternative, but he wasn’t going to die down here in a dark hole in the ground. He wasn’t going to make it easy for them to get him. No, he wanted to see the sky, to be on the surface. He would die there if he had to. But never down in a place like this.

  He wiped the sweat from his eyes and climbed another step, then another. Halfway up his legs collapsed under him and he barely caught himself from falling on his right side. Still, the jolt was bad enough. He lay there a moment, sweating and cursing, feeling clammy and weak.

  Don’t stop, he told himself.

  He crawled the rest of the way and finally made it to the landing. Beyond a wooden door he could hear water lapping. Outside, church bells rang the hour.

  “Projection range fading,” said the LOC.

  Noel swallowed, trying to catch his breath. He raised himself on his elbows and listened. He could hear the guards coming. These people were capable of figuring out that the holograms were not going to harm them. All he’d gained was a few minutes.

  “Cancel projection,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

  “Acknowledged. Projection canceled.”

  “This door,” he said, trying to conserve his breath, his strength. “It’s bolted. I have no key. Can you project an electrical field and vibrate those hinges loose?”

  “This is not within my programming parameters for standard operational functions.”

  “But can you do it?”