by Ben Jeapes
On her right, Daiho; opposite her, Su Zo; on her left, two young people she didn't know. All parties were looking around with equal confusion; all presumably were like her, pinned down somewhere in the College by a containment field and represented here in symb only.
Daiho seemed to recover first.
'Well, that was quick,' he remarked.
A calm, strong voice spoke to all of them out of the dark. 'Testimony has been received from Field Operative Su Zo that has led to the convening of this emergency hearing to investigate possible malfeasance.'
'And you are?'
'We are the World Executive.'
Wow, Marje thought. The World Executive was the only thing higher than the patrician class: the collective consciousness of the ecopoloi, formed from the collective thoughts and desires and memeplexes of the millions of residence clusters and billions of inhabitants.
'And this wrongdoing is?' Daiho said.
'Endangering the security and stability of the timestreams, in violation of the first article of Morbern's Code,' said the calm voice.
'What!' Daiho exclaimed. Marje frowned: it wasn't as if he were outraged to hear of malfeasance, but that he had expected something completely different.
'We will begin. The following report was received from correspondent RC/1029 . . .'
And Marje suddenly knew, as the knowledge was taken from Su and symbed into her brain. This was the story that had been told to Rico Garron, and symbed to Su Zo, and uploaded in her report upon her arrival back in the Home Time. She knew about RC/1029's arrival in Persia. She knew about the interrupted interview with Avicenna, and she recognized the newcomer as Hossein Asaldra. She knew about the correspondent's further wanderings, all his other interviews, and Asaldra's attendance at all of them too, throughout the next six centuries. Until Descartes in 1646, where it all went wrong, and Asaldra told the correspondent what was happening. Marje winced as she saw the secrets of the Home Time poured out to a bygoner, but it got worse with the far chummier rendezvous after that. Pascal in 1657. Spinoza in 1670. Malebranche in 1698. And Leibnitz in 1700.
'Oh, Hossein,' Daiho murmured, shaking his head when he saw how that last had ended. 'Oh, Hossein, you idiot.'
'How do you respond, Li Daiho?'
'I take full responsibility for the actions of myself and of all my associates in this affair,' Daiho said simply.
The testimony went on: how the correspondent had thought upon the few clues left by Asaldra as to the nature of the Home Time, and his work. How he had plotted and planned for the next three hundred years; how he had identified BioCarr as a likely target; and how, right on schedule, Hossein Asaldra had appeared to Matthew Carradine and made his proposal.
Morbern's Code lay in pieces.
The World Executive went around everyone else to take their own memories. From Daiho, the entire plan to rekindle the Home Time at the appropriate time, which had meant enlisting the help of a powerful group of patricians to deal with the nitty gritty. For one thing, the plan would lead to an open-ended disappearance from the present, with no guarantee of returning: so he had procured a clone of himself from Holmberg-Chabani-Scott and instilled his own basic brain pattern in it, so that from a forensic point of view there would be absolutely no doubt that it was the body of Li Daiho lying at the foot of the mountain.
Unavoidably, that made the clone at least semiconscious, certainly self aware . . . and that made what Daiho had done murder.
Daiho just looked straight ahead, calm and collected, as the story fed itself into each of their minds. Finally, he turned his head again to meet Marje's gaze and she felt that she was the only one there whose opinion mattered to him.
'I've saved the Home Time,' he said simply. 'One life for the sake of our civilization, Marje. Can't you accept that?' He held her gaze for a moment, then looked away, obviously thinking he had made his irrefutable point.
But Marje surprised them both by saying: 'Maybe.' Daiho looked back at her, eyebrows raised. He opened his mouth.
'But the choice should be informed and voluntary,' Marje went on. 'No one has the right to ordain who should make that sacrifice.'
The truth-gathering went on. From the two youngsters, their experiences of being taken from the plantation back to the Home Time. From Su came her account of the meeting with Marje in Daiho's villa; the stream of small details that weren't quite right; her constantly suspicious, volatile partner. And finally, from Marje herself, the flip side of Su's testimony: the shock of the news of her superior's death; encounters with Op Garron; a similar sense that something, somewhere wasn't right.
And more, of course, for which Marje had already steeled herself. The approach by Yul Ario, the not-so-subtle hints that she should drop the case, the attempt to recall Garron. Marje shut her eyes, knowing that not only were the others getting the bald facts but her accompanying self-loathing with it. She had been right, she had been on the right trail, and yes, there had even been a murder . . . and she had been prepared to throw it all away for the convenience of the patricians.
But lurking behind it all was the small item of knowledge – which surprised her, but for which she was glad – that, like Daiho, she was prepared to pay whatever penalties came her way. She still felt like the world's vilest traitor but there was one crumb of self-redemption in her testimony.
It stopped. The whole thing had taken only a few seconds but everyone was looking at everyone else, reassessing and re-evaluating their thoughts and opinions of the people around them. Su in particular met her eyes, held her gaze, nodded slightly and then looked away. That counted for more than anything else in Marje's opinion. Su wasn't holding her weakness against her.
And the World Executive spoke.
'We have made our decision,' it said.
'Su,' said Marje. 'Hello. Come in, take a seat.'
Marje didn't sound very interested in Su's presence. She stood with her back to the door, gazing out across the white landscape beyond the window. Su did as she was told.
'Commissioner Daiho . . . ?' she said.
'Some Security Ops came for him about ten minutes ago. They took him away.'
'I've just come from the transference hall,' Su said. 'The equipment's under guard by Security. It'll be used by the College, not Daiho's friends.'
'Good.'
'And the Specifics are going to try and get Rico back.'
'Good.' Marje still sounded numb, disinterested.
'I was just wondering . . .'
Marje finally turned round. 'Yes?'
'Will you stay on as Rico's sponsor? The thing is, Marje, Holmberg-Chabani-Scott have filed suit against him for Scott's death, they say he was negligent, and they don't have a leg to stand on, but they could make life very unpleasant for him, so—'
'No,' said Marje.
There was a silence.
'I'm sorry.' Su stood up again. 'I won't bother you again, Commissioner.'
'Wrong,' Marje said. 'Sit down, please, Su.' And while Su sat, slowly, and stayed still, something seemed to snap inside Marje at long last and she paced about the office. 'I'm not a Commissioner any more,' she said. 'I've just symbed in my resignation. No Commissioner, so no patrician membership, so no sponsorship for Op Garron. I'm sorry.'
'Marje, if it's about—'
'Su, I've been used from my very first day on this job! I've been lied to, I've been blackmailed, and the worst of it is, it came damn close to working. I wanted to be a patrician so I could help others but all that happened was I got caught up in the whole sick powerplay at the top. Oh yes, it's everywhere! They were all in on it. Yul Ario, for a start—'
Who just happens to be Commissioner for Fieldwork. Rico's boss. Su's heart hit bottom and started to dig.
'—and I suspect the rest. And will any of it come out? Will any heads roll? Of course not. Everyone involved was a patrician and they should all be above reproach. The people can't be allowed to see their failings. No, Su, I haven't been impressed by what I found out about t
hem and I don't care too much for what I found out about myself. I'm not going to take that any more.
'And that is why I can't help.' She looked at Su and sighed, her energy expended for the time being. 'I'll be glad to offer what testimony I can, but I can't give Rico patronage. He'll have to defend himself against Hoon with the facts.'
'Marje,' said Su, 'we all know they don't need facts to make his life very unpleasant.'
One corner of Marje's mouth smiled. 'Op Garron has worked his way up from the orphan's crèche to this place, and he's done it on his own. I have a feeling he'll get through this too.'
Su quietly took her leave.
After Su was gone, Marje took a couple of deep breaths and looked again around the office. The old fashioned bookcases and panelling; the furniture and carpet; the clash of styles she had never got round to changing.
And the hourglass on the wall, with its prominent '27'.
All someone else's problem. No more politics for her. No more manipulation. No more correspondents.
Or, in other words, no more playing God with the lives of people who couldn't make it in the Home Time. Now, she would help them make it in the Home Time. Her work had given her enough insight into the problems of people in the lower social levels. People who didn't have patrician power or patronage to ease their way in the system. She could set up a practice, she could help these people instead of consigning them on a one-way ticket to the past, to satisfy the needs – no, the wants, there was a big difference – of the present.
There were almost tears in Marje Orendal's eyes when she left the office, but also a spring in her step.
Twenty-four
The sadly familiar feel of a hypo on his skin. Hands lifting him up. Rico seemed to float in the chemical smog around his brain.
'Wha—?' he said.
'I'm not a murderer,' said a voice. Whose? He knew it, and he knew there was something he wanted to do to its owner, like kick its butt.
'Bully for you,' he mumbled.
'All that about timestreams, and what will happen if I try and stop the Home Time happening?'
'All true.'
'I know. You convinced me. Wait here.' The hands released him, and his knees buckled. He floated gracefully down to the floor and bounced slowly. The impact of his head against the tiles tickled and he giggled.
Another touch of metal against his arm; yet another blast of pharmaceuticals into his system to do battle with the cocktail already coursing through his veins.
'This should help,' said the voice.
Alan, Rico remembered. Its owner was called Alan – or rather, chose to be called Alan nowadays.
He was a correspondent.
He had handed Rico over to the interrogators.
Rico's mind told his body to lunge up and hit the man, hard. Rico's body preferred to imitate a jellyfish.
But Alan was holding a hand out to him.
'You and Asaldra both said exactly the same thing,' he said. 'You couldn't have lied with what you went through and I'm sorry I doubted you. But I've got two more questions for you.'
Rico glared at him, but took the hand and let himself be hauled up. Alan set him down into a chair. Rico looked around. He was back in what Alan had euphemistically called a guest apartment. Then Rico saw the two unconscious figures of his guards.
'They'll live,' Alan said, following his gaze. 'Just two further questions, Mr Garron, and then we get out of here.'
Rico looked from the interrogators, to Alan, to the interrogators, then back to Alan again. He shrugged.
'Shoot,' he said.
'You said there were two kinds of correspondents. Psychopaths and misfits. Which kind am I?'
'Dunno. I don't know when you came from.' Rico lifted his hands up cautiously and held them in front of him, wiggling his fingers. Then he held his arms out to either side – he was strong enough to do that, now – shut his eyes and touched his nose with both hands. Yes, it was all coming back. 'Still, you've been here a good thousand years. How many people have you killed?'
'One hundred and seventy-two,' Alan said at once. 'All in self defence.'
Rico laughed weakly. 'Not even two a decade. You're the second kind. Does that make you feel better?'
'Not really. A bit, maybe.' Alan leaned closer. 'Second question. When is Recall Day?'
'I haven't already told you that?' Rico said, surprised.
'I didn't believe in it, so I didn't include it in the list of questions for the interrogators,' Alan said. 'When is it?'
'No,' said Rico.
'I beg your pardon?'
'If you want to know that, put me back under and ask, but I'm not telling you that of my own free will. I'm a Field Op and I have obligations.'
Alan was quiet for a moment. 'Well, one out of two isn't bad and I've lived through worse odds. But it must be close, or Daiho wouldn't have been counting on it, would he?' Rico just looked at him and said nothing. Alan sighed. 'All right, all right. Can you stand?'
Rico cautiously pushed himself up out of his chair. He was unsteady on his feet but he could walk.
'Good enough,' said Alan. He checked one of the unconscious guards, then the other. 'This one's about your size. Give me a hand.'
Alan was undoing the man's jacket; Rico knelt down and started on the boots.
'Where are we going, out of interest?' he said.
'You, that's up to you. Me, I'll think of something.' Alan lifted the man's torso up and began to tug the jacket off. 'A holiday. A binge at Monte Carlo. A Caribbean cruise. A golf-and-fishing holiday in Scotland. Anything to while away the time until Recall Day, when I go home.' He looked up at Rico. 'You could come with me, if you like.'
'Me?' Rico exclaimed.
'You've missed your boat back home, haven't you, thanks to me? And I want to make amends, and I got the idea from the interrogation that you don't like the Home Time that much. You'd need an identity, but I've got a few stacked up that go back for years. You can have one of them.'
'Stay here,' Rico mused. It had honestly not occurred to him and he fantasized briefly. If he stayed here until Recall Day, his savings back in the Home Time would have been growing uninterrupted for 27 years while he was away. When he returned, still much the same physical age as now, then based on the date of his birth he would be that much closer to retirement. He would get off Earth, out into space, still young, and start his life all over again. It was a tempting prospect.
But . . .
'No,' he said. 'Thanks, but no. For a start, I've got to contact the Home Time and tell them what's happened here.'
Alan stopped. 'Why?' he exclaimed. 'No, don't tell me. Obligations.'
'I can't leave the situation as it is,' Rico said. 'Carradine knows about the Home Time, and so do these two, and I expect a lot of other BioCarr people, and by now that information will be stored on servers and mainframes all over the planet. I have to let the Specifics know.'
'Who are they? The time police?'
'Something like that.'
'And they take you back?'
'And they take me back,' Rico agreed, still with a tinge of regret. 'Look, life in the eleventh century was a lot simpler, but which period would you rather be living in, then or now?'
'Now,' Alan said without hesitation. 'They know about hygiene and no one tries to kill you very often.'
'Same argument,' Rico said. 'I belong in the Home Time. I'm sorry.'
'Well, it was just a thought.' Alan held Rico's gaze for a moment. 'But I am sorry for what I did to you.'
'No hard feelings. Oh, and I'm taking Asaldra with me.'
Alan seemed to deflate as the last traces of his once great plan evaporated. 'Ah, you're welcome to him. So, how do you contact your people?'
'I don't,' Rico said. He couldn't help a grin. 'You do.'
The road looped around the edge of the landscaped bowl in which the hall stood. The car drew to a halt at a point overlooking the grounds. The headlamps flicked off, its hydrogen-powered turbine whispe
red to a standstill and the doors gullwinged open with a quiet hiss. Two passengers got out and one of them turned to give a hand to the third, who staggered on rubbery legs and had to lean against the side of the car.
Alan had raged. 'Call the Home Time? Me? You're mad! They'll just reprogramme, or—'
'Simmer down, simmer down,' Rico had said. 'You don't have to be here when they arrive . . .'
'You have to admit, it's attractive,' Alan said now. He stood with his hands in his pockets, looking down at the hall, ablaze with light. 'Wouldn't you agree, Mr Asaldra?'
'Get on with it, for God's sake,' Asaldra muttered. Rico remembered how he had felt on his post-interrogation wakening and for the first time ever he felt a measure of sympathy for the man. He had the world's worst hangover and the only cures for it were back in the hall or in the Home Time.
Rico was looking at the sky.
'You can see more stars on a night like this than you could fifty years ago,' he said. 'BioCarr had its faults but it did help clean the world up.' He added: 'And, if you've missed it, the moon's up there.'
'I know, I know.' Alan looked up. A couple of seconds later: 'it's done.' He squinted at the hall again. 'It doesn't look that different.'
'Trust me,' said Rico. 'They'll have edited it into a separate stream, cleaned up, changed memories, wiped records, and then spliced the stream back into the alpha stream again. The bygoners will have a brief moment of déjà vu when the streams merge, but that will be it, and to outside observers it'll seem that no time passed at all.'
'So much for not fiddling with time.'
'They won't have caused any new people to exist, or deleted any existing ones. The Code allows that.
And just in case they miss out on any records, if there's still something left, they'll implant engrams that prevent the person who sees them from making any sense of them. Or even being interested in them. It works.'
'You've done it yourself, haven't you?'
'Once or twice.'
'Freeze!' A man's voice behind them. They froze. 'Put your hands on your heads. Turn round.'
Alan, Rico and Asaldra obeyed the orders in succession, Asaldra stumbling and almost falling over. Two figures had come out of the trees behind them and were standing on the other side of the road. Their feet were apart and their hands raised, covering them.
