The Gordian Protocol

by David Weber

  “Look, I appreciate the sentiment,” Philo said, recovering. “But if I’m right, there’s a militarized time machine out there, and it nearly killed us once. Kleio’s no good in a fight, and I’m a historian. Most of the action I’ve seen is from ancient Greece. I don’t know the first thing about flying a ship like this in actual combat! In fact, I barely got us out of the thirtieth century, and half of that was dumb luck!”

  Elzbietá put both hands on her hips, tilted her head to one side, and fixed him with a glare that could melt prog-steel.

  “What? Why are you staring at me like that?”

  She widened her eyes and leaned uncomfortably close to his face.

  “What?” he asked. “Seriously, what?”

  *

  “Five hundred meters to target.”

  “Switchblades hold here,” Agent Cantrell ordered.

  “Four hundred meters. Switchblades breaking.”

  “All operators, stand by,” Cantrell said. “Move into the Lion on my order only.”

  Red lights illuminated the cramped interior of the Cutlass troop transport, their dull light revealing twin rows of heavily armed and armored special operators, light combat drones, and a lone STAND crouched in her combat frame. A tense air hung wordlessly over them, and she waited for the inevitable release of combat.

  She wasn’t human. Not right now, anyway. Her body, or at least the one that most resembled Susan Cantrell when she’d possessed flesh and blood, had been left on board Pathfinder-12. In its place was a cold, mechanical shell that existed for only one purpose: Killing any enemy of the Admin that crossed her path.

  She was a machine, and this was her purpose.

  But that was fine with her. She’d come to terms with her own inhumanity long ago, and her mind floated comfortably within a sea of senses many would find alien. The combat frame possessed no sense of touch, but its audio and visual inputs revealed the world in ways no natural body could.

  “Three hundred meters.”

  She wasn’t human anymore, but one didn’t have to be human to serve with purpose and honor.

  “Two hundred meters. Braking.”

  The Cutlass spun around. Squirts of thrust slowed the craft, and it eased toward the open launch bay.

  She rose from her crouch, not as an eternally young woman, but as a black skeletal machine with weapons and boosters strapped to its limbs and back.

  “I’ll take point,” she declared.

  No one objected. The human operators checked their weapons behind her, but she didn’t need to. Her whole body was a weapon, and if it had possessed a pulse, it would have quickened at the promise of action.

  “One hundred—”

  The side of the Cutlass blew inward, and operators exploded in showers of gore.

  Cantrell sprang into action without thinking. Her shoulder boosters flattened her against the floor as continuous fire raked across the interior and tore clear through the other side. A rain of heavy shells blew every operator to bits, then pulverized the tumbling pieces of their bodies to a crimson spray, slickening the walls with guts and blood and bits of broken hardware.

  She felt nothing. Didn’t have time to. She had to act quickly if she was to survive. That was all that mattered now.

  The doomed Cutlass yawed, and the cannon fire cut through at a different angle.

  She fired her leg boosters, slid along the floor to a mangled hole in the side, and shot through. The dark outline of the Lion loomed ahead, and she angled her flight path toward the safety of the nearest launch bay.

  She’d almost reached it when weapons still chewing the Cutlass to pieces suddenly slewed toward her. Impacts blasted off two of her limbs, sent her spiraling out of control, and another explosion tore open her chest.

  A long list of malfunctions flashed through her virtual vision, and she spun away into the cold dark of space.

  *

  “What just happened?” Hinnerkopf demanded as the Cutlass and both Switchblades disintegrated under a sleet of metal.

  “New contact near the launch bays!”

  “Is it the TTV?” Okunnu asked.

  “Unknown. Signal is weak and intermittent. I…I’ve lost it!”

  “Find it again!”

  “Working on it, sir!”

  Okunnu faced her. “Strap in, Director, and get your helmet on!” He pushed off the ceiling and landed in his seat. The harness deployed around him and tightened.

  Hinnerkopf quickly did the same.

  “Stand by all missiles!” Okunnu ordered. “All hands, prepare for combat maneuvers!”

  Hinnerkopf put a hand to her chest. The cold touch of anxiety tightened the muscles around her ribcage, and she tried to regain her composure. Yes, the TTV had spotted their drones and the transports, but it had no way of knowing where the chronoport was. They just had to stay quiet, keep their drives and impeller off, and wait for the right moment to strike.

  That’s what she kept telling herself, at least. She tried not to look at the status display for the operators, but finally glanced quickly at them. Every silhouette was filled with a baleful red, and she swallowed as icy fear gripped her mind.

  “Where’s my target?” Okunnu growled.

  “Still searching, sir, but the signal vanished shortly after it finished firing.”

  “I want a targeting solution on the TTV as soon as we spot it. We’re not letting it get away again.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hinnerkopf put her helmet on and sealed the pressure suit. Cool, dry air tickled past her face, and she tried to slow her panicked breathing.

  “Where are they?” Okunnu asked.

  “Sh-shouldn’t we back off?” Hinnerkopf asked.

  “No, that’s about the worst thing we could do,” Okunnu stated, forceful and in control. “They spotted our drones when they got close, but they can’t have any idea where we are. Backing away now might reveal our position, and I’d rather—”

  “Sir, new contact! Seventy-seven kilometers off the Lion!”

  “Show me!”

  “It’s coming right for us!”

  A visual of the craft appeared on Hinnerkopf’s virtual display. Stars shimmered around an unseen rounded shape, then began to bunch up. Tears opened in space itself, revealing seams of rich, metallic gray that at first formed a circular grid, then expanded to fill in the whole shape.

  The metamaterial shroud retracted into blisters on the TTV’s hull, gun ports snapped open, and it charged forward.

  “Full power to the thrusters!” Okunnu shouted. “Evasive maneuvers!”

  The TTV opened fire with a 45mm Gatling gun that showered Pathfinder-12 with over fifty rounds per second. Armor piercing heads quaked against the malmetal hull, and high-explosive payloads shuddered through the ship. Hinnerkopf screamed as shells began punching through their armor and systems winked out one by one.

  The TTV closed aggressively, and its fire grew more accurate as it added its surviving 12mm Gatling to the mix. The whole chronoport convulsed from an unending stream of impacts, almost as if it were a wild beast trying to shake her from her seat. The harness straps bit painfully into her shoulders, and hot, glowing pieces of shrapnel shot through the walls and ricocheted around the bridge.

  Crewmembers cried out. A severed head floated up from the seats. Blood spurted out to collect in wobbly globules, then funneled into a breach in the ceiling that suddenly burst wider. An explosion rocked her from behind, and debris scythed through the back of Okunnu’s seat.

  The seatback—and the top half of the captain—floated up and away and tumbled through the breach.

  The pilot fired the chronoport’s thrusters, and acceleration pinned Hinnerkopf in place. Blood or some other fluid splashed against her visor, but the terrible, ceaseless pounding had ended.

  “Orders, Captain?” the pilot shouted.

  Hinnerkopf touched the blood obscuring her vision with quivering fingers and slowly drew four ragged lines through it. Didn’t they know he was d
ead?

  “Orders, sir!” the pilot repeated.

  Hinnerkopf smeared the blood aside and stared at the lower half of Okunnu. She suddenly remembered the bright and eager young man whom she’d taken on as a research assistant all those years ago. Something hot and vengeful ignited within her, and its fury pushed aside the fear and anguish that clouded her mind.

  “Fire the missiles,” she ordered in a clear and strong voice.

  “Director?” the pilot turned around in his seat, then gasped when he saw what was left of Okunnu.

  “Fire them, damn you!” Hinnerkopf roared, rage overtaking everything. “Fire all of them!”

  *

  “Oh, they didn’t like that!” Elzbietá worked the virtual controls Philo had spawned for her and looped the TTV around behind the chronoport.

  “How did I ever let you talk me into this?” the avatar moaned.

  “Because you know I’m right, that’s how!”

  “We hurt them, but they’re not down yet.”

  “Then let’s swing around and finish them off!”

  The TTV accelerated hard at her command, but her body didn’t feel any g-forces. Or rather, her abstract body didn’t feel it. She wasn’t entirely certain what Philo had done once she’d sealed herself in the compensation bunk, but this virtual version of the bridge looked and felt real.

  Only it wasn’t.

  She glanced over her shoulder and saw her own body suspended in a glass casket filled with microbot-infused goo.

  Talk about an out-of-body experience.

  “They’re firing missiles at us!” Philo exclaimed. “Count is thirty-two!”

  She took in the distances, vectors, and acceleration factors before her, and a cruel smile slipped over her lips.

  “Perfect,” she declared and adjusted course away from the chronoport. The TTV’s omni-directional graviton thrusters responded instantly.

  “How exactly is this perfect?”

  “Watch and learn. You handle the guns. I’ll make sure none of them get close.”

  The Admin missiles accelerated at twenty gees, and that seemed impressive next to the TTV’s five, but whoever was in charge of the chronoport must have fired them in panic, because they’d launched them in the wrong direction. That meant the missiles and the TTV were accelerating away from each other at twenty-five gees, and those missiles, while fast, couldn’t switch their boosters off once lit.

  The missiles swung around, imparting lateral velocity that also had to be corrected for. Elzbietá flew perpendicular to her original path, turning against them, and managed to delay their approach even further.

  “Are these controls the best you have?” she asked as she worked to keep the distance open. “They’re a bit clunkier than I was expecting.”

  “Sorry!” Philo protested. “It’s the best I could come up with under pressure!”

  “You going to fire at them?”

  “I was about to!” He targeted the nearest projectiles and showered them with cannon fire. One by one, they flickered off the display. Another group of missiles came into effective range, and he hosed them down as well. He whittled through the entire volley that way until none were left.

  “See?” she said. “Nothing to it. It’s just positioning and momentum. Not too different from dogfighting in my F-21.”

  “Are you actually having fun right now?”

  “I might be.” She quirked a smile at him. “How many missiles do you think they have left?”

  “A chronoport’s weapons are modular, so there’s no way for me to know.”

  “Then they might be empty?”

  “Maybe,” he warned.

  “In that case”—she worked the controls and powered toward the chronoport—“let’s find out!”

  *

  Hinnerkopf watched in horror as each and every missile vanished from their scope. The TTV danced away from them and zipped about with insane agility, almost as if it was laughing at their efforts to destroy it.

  “Thruster Two isn’t responding well. I can’t maintain full power.”

  Hinnerkopf shook her head in dismay, the rage that had buoyed her minutes ago drowned in the reality of the broken, bleeding, weaponless chronoport she now commanded.

  The TTV turned once more and accelerated straight for them. She watched it come in and knew it intended to finish them off. Her heart sank, but she wasn’t beaten yet.

  “Director?” the pilot asked urgently.

  “Spin up the impeller!” she ordered. “Get us out of here! Get us out of here!”

  But it was already too late.

  The TTV strafed past her battered chronoport. A rain of 45mm shells bashed one of the wings off and cracked Thruster Two’s plasma containment. A stream of plasma hotter than the sun cut through the ship, and she turned to see a blinding light that charred her eyes to ash.

  She wailed as the torrent stripped flesh from bone.

  Then ate the bone as well.

  *

  Plasma leaks shredded the chronoport, and its impeller burst into a sprinkle of glittering, phasing fragments.

  “Take that!” Elzbietá pumped the air triumphantly.

  “Okay, I’ll admit it,” Philo said. “You’re really good at this.”

  “See? Told you so.”

  “Hey, what the hell is this?” Raibert demanded. “We’re at the bay but there’s no fucking time machine!”

  “Sorry.” She adjusted their heading back to the Lion. “Change of plans.”

  “Well, can you unchange those plans and come pick us up?” Raibert asked. “These Peacekeepers are getting really insistent, and I’m running low on ammo!”

  “Sure thing. We’re heading back now. Is Ben okay?”

  “I’m fine,” he said, and Elzbietá smiled at the sound of his voice. “Got hit a few times, but the suit did its job. It’s pretty amazing how fast it repairs itself. I’m going to have a few bruises after this, though.”

  “Let’s make it quick,” Philo said. “Some of the really big, really mean-looking ships have started heading our way.”

  “What about that chronoport?” Raibert asked.

  “I shot it down,” Elzbietá said succinctly.

  “Oh…” Stunned silence filled the channel for several seconds. “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “Wow.” Raibert seemed to struggle to find the words. “Uhh, good job. That’s…yeah, good job, there.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Philo, how the hell did she…” He trailed off again. “And didn’t I tell you not to…”

  “We’re coming in to pick you up,” Elzbietá announced. “Stand clear.”

  “We’re in the hallway,” Benjamin said. “Come on in.”

  Elzbietá eased the Kleio into the same launch bay they’d started in.

  “What about the weapon?” she asked as the cargo bay opened and the internal gravity switched off, which didn’t affect the version of herself on the abstract bridge.

  “We’ll grab it after we microjump.” Raibert hurried up the ramp. “That way we won’t have the indigenous Admin breathing down our necks.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean by that, but okay.”

  “Kleio, get ready for a negative one-second microjump. I’m coming up to the bridge.”

  “Yes, Professor.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  DTI Chronoport Pathfinder-Prime

  non-congruent

  “Transfer the data, Captain.” Csaba Shigeki unstrapped himself and kicked off to the front of Pathfinder-Prime’s bridge. He wore a stern face as he girded himself for the bad news.

  “Yes, Director.” Durantt pulled out the data case loaded with Pathfinder-10’s findings and slotted it into Vassal’s access port with all the delicacy of a punch to the face. The presence of the AI clearly unnerved him, which was why Shigeki had given the man control over what data the AI could access and what interface restrictions were lifted.

  Durantt placed a hand o
n the PIN interface. The UNBOXED warning glowed red and the green STASIS indicator switched off.

  “This is Admin-sanctioned AI Vassal. I stand ready to receive your orders.”

  “Vassal,” Shigeki said, “Pathfinder-10 has returned to the picket after searching 2018 and the surrounding years for Pathfinder-12. We have provided you with their complete records. Analyze their findings.”

  “Yes, Director. A few moments please.”

  Durantt pushed away from the AI and joined Shigeki, as if the added distance somehow protected him.

  “Preliminary analysis complete.”

  “Begin your report,” Shigeki ordered.

  “Temporal disruptions in 2018 caused by the TTV and Pathfinder-12 have once again altered the timeline. These changes, both from their insertion into 2018 and subsequent combat, have propagated downstream into an altered timeline that ends at a current point of temporal discontinuity in 2051. No changes have propagated beyond the storm front, and I surmise this phenomenon is responsible for preserving the thirtieth-century Admin as we know it.”

  “What about Pathfinder-12?” Shigeki asked, even as he dreaded the answer. “Why haven’t we heard back from them?”

  “I calculate the odds of Pathfinder-12’s survival at seventeen percent.”

  “There’s no way it could be that low,” Nox protested from Pathfinder-6. The text from the telegraph had been rendered into deadpan vocals, but Shigeki doubted the original had been so calm.

  “I believe I have accurately accounted for all known variables,” Vassal stated. “The TTV was damaged by Pathfinder-12’s missile attack, phased out, and fled down the timeline. Pathfinder-12 pursued it and, very likely, was destroyed.”

  “But you just said the odds aren’t zero,” Nox sent. “Director, we should dispatch one of our chronoports to search the timeline downstream.”

  “And increase the chances of Kaminski slipping past us here in the twentieth century?” Kloss sent from Pathfinder-2. “No, we need to face the facts. We would have heard from them by now if they were still alive.”