by David Weber
“Boss, I can put together a report for you to present to the chief executor, if you like,” Kloss offered.
“No,” Shigeki interjected, and his staff turned to him.
“Boss?” Kloss said.
“We’re not going to report this.”
“Then what are we going to do?” Kloss asked.
“What’s the status of our information blackout?”
“Initial containment was ninety-seven percent effective, and I have my best teams working on isolating and scrubbing the remaining outbreaks. Right now, data management is our top priority.”
“And how confident are you we can keep it that way?”
“Very. The remaining three percent isn’t regularly monitored. Pictures from weather satellites and stuff like that. We’ll have it airtight within the day.”
“Excuse me, Director,” Hinnerkopf said. “But you don’t intend to report this?”
“No, I don’t.” Shigeki surveyed the most trusted members of his staff, people who had been with him from the very beginning, back when the DTI had been nothing more than a proposal made by a young but ambitious supervisor. “We’re not going to report this to the man who wants to take our department, the same department we here built from the ground up, and waste it on archaeology.” He practically spat the word. “Can you imagine how someone who ran his campaign on the promise of ‘a kinder and gentler Admin’ would react to news like this?”
“I’m not sure how he would react,” she admitted.
“And that’s exactly the problem. We can’t let a decision like this fall into the hands of someone who might listen to Kaminski, or ever consider helping him.”
“But would anyone actually listen to him?” Jonas asked.
“We can’t take the chance because, and let’s be honest with ourselves, things aren’t exactly rosy out there. I think we can all admit that the Admin’s still having problems with the transition to this whole ‘post-scarcity’ society of ours, yes? A large portion of the solar system doesn’t work because basic human needs are so cheap they might as well be free, and then previous governments—bless their bleeding hearts—actually approved a basic living allowance on top of that, so if it wasn’t free before, it sure is now.
“And what do we have to show for it? Do we have happier, better-behaved citizens? No. The allowance only took even more people out of the workforce, and we all know how idle hands are Yanluo’s playthings. In recent years, we’ve seen”—he held up a finger and counted—“persistent economic deflation, epidemic levels of virtual-reality isolation, depression, suicide, spikes in rioting, spikes in criminal activity, and let’s not forget some of the worst terrorist attacks in the last hundred years.
“So, yes. It’s an imperfect world out there, but at the end of the day, we and the rest of the Peacekeepers are its guardians. We are the shield against the chaos that threatens to consume the world. This world. This universe. We cannot take the chance that someone will be seduced by the promise that we can suddenly wipe the slate clean and usher in a golden age of peace and prosperity where apparently everything is so relaxed that even historians get their own time machines. Likewise, we cannot run the risk that someone will sympathize with the idea that the greater good calls for us to make a noble sacrifice so that other universes, of which we know nothing, may live.
“And so, we’re going to keep this to ourselves. After all, who would we rather have make a decision like this than the people at this table?”
“No one,” Hinnerkopf harrumphed.
“But what about the possibility of finding another way?” Jonas asked. “Wouldn’t we want his help?”
“And what if he decides there aren’t any alternatives?” Shigeki pointed to Hinnerkopf. “Katja, you zeroed in on the crux of the problem with him perfectly.”
She nodded curtly. “He gets his home back if ours is destroyed.”
“Exactly. I don’t judge him to be the kind of man who would set out to deceive us, but he must have friends and family back in this SysGov just like we have here, and we have to respect the kind of influence that could have on him. What happens if we put him in contact with everyone up to the chief executor and for a while we’re all working together until he suddenly declares, ‘No, sorry. There’s really no other way.’ What do we do then, when we’ve given him the means to cut us out of the equation? How could we keep him in check?”
“Yeah, okay,” Jonas said. “Point taken.”
“All right, boss,” Kloss said, nodding. “If you want this kept quiet, then that’s how we play it.”
“We’ll need to dispose of the TTV,” Hinnerkopf said. “But I’d still like to study it first. There’s too much we could learn from it before we dump it into reclamation. And there’s the whole ‘finding another way’ to consider.”
“All right, but keep it discrete. Once you’ve squeezed everything you can out of it, get rid of it.”
“Understood, Director. Shall we prep a mission profile to 2050 to study the storm?”
“Let’s see what we can get out of the professor’s ship first, then we should be in a better position to make those kinds of calls.”
“And what about Kaminski?” Jonas asked. “What do we do with him?”
“That’s easy enough,” Kloss said. “He’s a walking, talking Yanluo Violation. Off to a one-way prison domain he goes.”
“That will do.” Jonas nodded.
“I’ll make the arrangements with one of our usual judges,” Kloss said. “He’ll be locked away before his corpse is even cold.”
“Out of sight. Out of mind,” Jonas added.
“No,” Shigeki said suddenly.
His staff stopped and turned to him. They waited for him to speak.
“We’re not sending him to something as godawful as a one-way domain.”
“Why not?” Jonas asked. “We can’t let him roam free.”
“I agree we need him out of sight. Just not that way.”
“Dad, I’m sorry, but if we’re really going to keep a lid on this, we need to go in all the way, and that means shoving Kaminski into a hole he’s never coming out of.”
“I understand that,” Shigeki said. “And I know we take a risk by not sending him to a one-way domain. But let’s be honest with ourselves. The professor’s no criminal. Does anyone here honestly think he’s anything but a harmless historian who’s in over his head? Yes, we need to keep this quiet, and we will. But I’m not going to send an innocent man to a hellscape like one of our one-way domains.”
“Dad, this is a bad idea.”
“But it’s the way it’s going to be.”
“Dad.”
“This isn’t that big a problem,” Kloss cut in. “We can make a standard prison domain work. And it’ll be much more humane than the one-way treatment, just like you want, boss. We’ll have to keep a closer eye on what he says to the other prisoners, so that narrows the list of domains we can use. But regardless, he’ll be amongst terrorists and saboteurs and other scum. Who’s honestly going to believe the crazy man ranting about the end of the universe?”
Jonas let out a long sigh and leaned back. “Ixchel’s domain?”
“Yeah, that’ll work,” Kloss said. “I can talk to the judge and make sure he ends up there.”
“Then it’s settled,” Shigeki said. “Make it happen, people.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Department of Temporal Investigation
2979 CE
The door split open, and Shigeki stepped into Raibert’s cell. The professor sat stiffly on the bed and looked up with reddened eyes. His clothes had been exchanged for a self-illuminated orange jumpsuit, and a yellow-and-black checkered collar clung tightly to his neck.
“I’ll have you know,” Raibert snarled, “that I do not feel like a welcome guest right now.”
“That’s perfectly understandable.” Shigeki pulled over the chair and sat opposite the professor. “I’m sure you’re not very comfortable right now.” He gesture
d to the collar. “I’ve been told those take some getting used to.”
“You mean this abominable thing?” Raibert raised an arm, but it froze halfway up. “What the hell? I’m not even allowed to point at my own neck?”
“The spinal interrupt is keyed to the speed and force of your movements. Try moving slower.”
Raibert did so and succeeded in touching the collar.
“See, it’s not so bad. And this is only a temporary restraint.”
“What’s to become of me?” he asked, looking down.
“You’ll be put on trial for violations of what we call the Yanluo Restrictions. The technology in your ship and even some aspects of your genetic makeup are heinous crimes in the Admin.”
“Should I expect a fair trial?”
“No,” Shigeki replied bluntly.
“I thought not.”
“The trial’s merely a formality at this point. You’ll be sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole. After your trial, your connectome will be extracted and placed in one of our prison domains, and your physical body will be disposed of.”
“Why not simply kill me and get it over with if I scare you that much?”
“Kill you?” Shigeki chuckled. “My dear Professor, why do you think we would execute a helpless prisoner?”
“Maybe because I’ve witnessed a lot of history, and you lot seem the type.”
“Well, you have nothing to fear in that regard. The power to enact capital punishment resides solely within the Admin’s member states, and not the Admin itself. It’s in our Bill of Rights. Isn’t it the same way in your SysGov?”
“No. SysGov can and does carry out the death penalty. Some crimes are so severe that they require it.”
“Ah, now that’s interesting. Perhaps your world isn’t quite the shining paradise I imagined it to be.”
“Maybe it’s not perfect, but at least I’d get a fair trial.”
“Professor, you misunderstood me.” Shigeki leaned closer and lowered his voice. “If it were a fair trial, your punishment would be much more severe than it’s going to be.”
Raibert looked up and met Shigeki’s gaze. “I don’t get it.”
“Then allow me to explain. I consider myself a fair judge of character, and I know you’re not an evil man, despite the fact that you proposed the genocide of an entire reality and didn’t even hesitate over it.”
“I didn’t know the Admin would be here! I thought the damage was contained behind the storm front.”
“But now that you’ve seen us, we must seem like some terrible mistake to you. A vile aberration that needs to be rubbed out.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? Destroying us saves sixteen universes, including your home and all your friends and family. Isn’t that what you want?”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“Is it really?” Shigeki asked. “A problem needs to be solved, and the price is a single universe. A trifle really, when you think about it. Just a few tens of billions of lives in the solar system. Hardly a concern. Oh, except for the fact that there are more stars in the Milky Way than people living around our lonely yellow sun, and any of them might harbor life. And then there are all those other galaxies filling the sky, stretching out to infinity in all directions. More stars and worlds and potential lives than the human mind could possibly comprehend. And you’re willing to offer all of it up as a sacrifice to the greater good.”
“That’s not true!”
“But it is. If you failed to find another way. If you thought destroying us was the only way to save your home and all those other realities, then this universe, my home, is very much a price you’d pay. Go on.” Shigeki spread his arms. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Raibert opened his mouth but hesitated, unable to find the words.
“Hmm,” Shigeki murmured with a smile. “Interesting.”
“You here to mock me now?”
“No, of course not. You still misunderstand me, Professor. You see, in a strange way, I respect your resolve.” Shigeki tapped him lightly on the chest. “You’re looking out for your universe, your reality, your family. You may not have realized it yourself yet, but deep down I’d wager you’re willing to do whatever it takes to protect them, and that’s something I deeply respect because it’s what I do every time I put on this uniform. It’s just a shame our goals are completely incompatible. I imagine that if we’d met under better circumstances we would have gotten along quite well.”
Raibert snorted. “Not likely.”
“You don’t think so?” Shigeki leaned back and crossed his legs. “If I were in your place. I’d do everything within my power to restore my home, and I wouldn’t let anything stand in my way. If we had both been born in your SysGov, I could easily see us working side by side, trying to unmake the Admin and restore our reality.”
“I don’t see us ever working together,” Raibert spat.
“You’re welcome to your opinion, of course.”
“You’d honestly condemn sixteen universes, including your own, to oblivion? And for what? Just so that you and your world can live a little longer? The apocalypse is coming whether you acknowledge it or not.”
“But I do acknowledge it,” Shigeki challenged. “You said this calamity will strike in thirteen hundred years, and so we will use that time wisely. We will study this storm and the Knot. We will be patient, attentive, and eventually we’ll find a way to solve this crisis, but it won’t be your way. Instead, it’ll be a solution where my home continues on.”
“But you don’t even know if that’s possible.”
“Do we not deserve the chance to try? Do we not have the same right to life as your SysGov?”
“Of course, but what if you’re wrong?”
“Then my world still has its death sentence. Either way, I’ve lost nothing.”
“But don’t you see? It’s not just your world that’s at stake!”
“I know that.” Shigeki smiled and shook his head. “It’s a shame, really.”
“What is?”
“You may come across as a pushover at first, but there’s strength hidden within you. This isn’t the first time you’ve fought for what you believe in, I’d wager.”
“What’s it to you?”
“I do have a department to run, you know. I can always use more people with fire in their bellies and steel in their spines. People like you, Professor. You see, I’m almost tempted to offer you a job.”
Raibert blinked in bewilderment.
“But I won’t. Because like I said, I’m good at reading people, and I know you wouldn’t accept it. Not honestly, at least.” He stood up and set the chair aside. “It’s all academic anyway. The truth is you’re a threat to me and everything I stand to protect. But you’re also no criminal. Not in your native reality at least, and I’ve arranged a more lenient sentence because of that. You will go to prison, and you will spend the rest of your life there. But you won’t suffer.”
Raibert lowered his head, a cowed and beaten man resigned to his fate.
“Thank you for your time, Professor. I found our talk quite stimulating, and I wish you a good day. Within the limits of your present circumstances, of course. We’ll speak again once you’re settled into prison life.”
Shigeki left the cell, and the door sealed behind him.
*
“For the last time, no,” Hinnerkopf said from the monitoring room adjacent to Hangar 4. “The professor isn’t available right now.”
“Then I am very sorry,” Kleio said. “But I am unable to help you.”
“Look, I understand you’re programmed so that the professor has to be present for you to time travel. I get it! But I’m not asking you to! I only want to see the impeller schematics, which I’m certain you have, because your ship is rigged for self-modification.”
“Can the professor please come to the bridge?”
“No, he can’t!”
“Then
I am very sorry, but I am unable to help you.”
Hinnerkopf muted the sound feed to the drone she’d sent into the TTV and let out a long wheeze that threatened to become a scream.
“Do you think she’s an AI masquerading as a nonsentient?” Nox asked.
“It’s impossible to rule it out at this stage, but I doubt it,” Hinnerkopf said. “I exposed her to the usual suite of simulations and traps, and she failed all of them spectacularly. If you want my technical opinion on her level of intelligence, I’d say she’s about as dumb as dirt.”
“Still, I’d feel better if you stay cautious,” Nox said. “There’s too much we don’t know about the TTV.”
“Oh don’t worry. I know what I’m doing, and I’ll be careful.” She smiled up at him, but the expression melted into a frown when the door split open and she saw who it was.
“Progress?” Kloss asked, walking into the room with a lopsided grin.
“Mind your own business,” Hinnerkopf warned.
“Touchy, touchy. Catch you at a bad time?”
“Sorry,” Hinnerkopf corrected. “It’s been a long day, and this TTV’s insufferable interface isn’t helping.”
“I’ll take that as a no, then.” He rounded the blown-up virtual display of the time machine that nearly filled the room. The craft’s rounded bottom sat in a cradle with four thick beams of malmetal looped around its hull. “My, would you look at this thing? Seeing the professor’s ship really puts it all into perspective, doesn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” Nox asked.
“It proves the past can be changed, that our whole reality and everything we’ve ever known and done could be suddenly swept aside.” Kloss turned to them. “Do you think there were different versions of ourselves in SysGov? Or maybe a version of Kaminski here in the Admin?”
“Doubtful,” Hinnerkopf said. “Human reproduction is too random. If the Event that split our timeline from his really took place between 1905 and 1995, then I doubt you’d find a single match in the whole solar system. Factor in quantum variations between the two timelines, and I’m guessing it’d be hard to find any matches born after the Event, let alone here and now in the thirtieth century.”
