by David Weber
Click.
“He’s a leader and a survivor,” Raibert observed, nodding. “I like him.”
Click-click.
Raibert scrunched his brow and half turned at the noise.
“And even if I can’t convince him to join us,” Benjamin added, “he’s a living, interactive encyclopedia for the information we need.”
Click. Click-click.
“Plus 1958 puts a good amount of distance between us and the Event,” Elzbietá noted. “If one of those chronoports spots us, they’ll still be in the dark about our final destination.”
Click-click. Click-click.
“Good point there.” Raibert rubbed his temples. “Philo?”
Click. Click-click. Click.
“Philo!” Raibert whirled around. “What the hell are you doing?”
The three of them turned to see Philo frozen with his hand against a small tab on the top of his helmet. Instead of his usual faux-Viking headwear, this one looked like it belonged to a twenty-first-century fighter pilot…except for the two horns sticking out the sides.
“What?” He slid the tab down the front of the helmet, and a reflective visor extended to cover his face.
Click.
“Would you please stop that?” Raibert asked. “We’re trying to concentrate here.”
“Sorry.” He shoved the tab up again, and the visor clicked into the retracted position.
“What is that thing, anyway?” Raibert asked.
“It’s my new helmet.” Philo pointed to Elzbietá. “She gave it to me.”
“He’s going to act as my weapon systems officer, so I thought I’d help him look the part.”
“It looks weird on you,” Raibert stated.
“Well, I like it. See, she even put horns on it for me.”
Click.
“Fine. Whatever,” Raibert fumed. “Are we all in agreement finally? Do we want to pick up your granddad when he’s a governor?”
Benjamin and Elzbietá nodded, and Philo gave him a thumbs up with his free hand.
Click.
“All right, then,” Raibert declared. “Kleio, take us to Ukraine, 1958!”
*
Elzbietá stepped into Benjamin’s quarters to find him in the midst of a dizzying array of flat and 3D virtual images. World War II Nazi uniforms, coats, boots, gloves, hats, helmets, gas masks, and an equally extensive selection of period civilian clothing were mixed with pistols, rifles, machine guns, grenades, and even Panzerfaust and Panzerschreck rocket launchers.
Benjamin stood with his back to the door and stared at a physical bullet in his palm.
“You wanted to see me?” She parted the forest of images with a gesture and came to his side.
“Yes, I did.” He held up the bullet, which she now recognized as a 9x19mm Parabellum. “I had Philo print this out for me. How easy do you think it would be for us to hide something a little more lethal in it?”
“Pretty easy, I would think. SysGov high explosives pack a hell of a punch, so it wouldn’t take much. Why do you ask?”
“I had an idea.” He tossed the bullet into the air, then caught it. “When we go into 1940, we need to minimize disruptions to the timeline, and that means we dress the part.”
“Hence all of this?” She gestured to the virtual displays around them.
“Right. I figured my time would be better spent working on this while we’re on our way to 1958, but I realized I’m going to need some help.”
“Not sure I’m the right person to help you make the costumes more historically accurate.”
“True, but that’s not what I’m thinking.” He pocketed the bullet and pulled a virtual MP40 machine pistol over. “Take this for instance. Sure, it’ll work against the assassins, but if the Admin shows up while we’re trying to set the timeline right, we’re in for a heap of trouble.”
“So you’re thinking thirtieth-century tech hidden in a twentieth-century façade.” She grinned slyly.
“Exactly.”
“Now that I can help you with.”
“I thought you might like this. You’ve taken to their technology a lot better than I have, so I’d appreciate the assist.”
“We could start by putting a prog-steel weave in the uniforms.” She pulled a virtual trench coat over and spread it out in front of them, then summoned abstract components from a catalog. Metallic gray tendrils worked their way across the lining until they covered the entire inside of the coat. “It won’t be as good as the armor we were wearing on the Lion, but it’s definitely better than plain cloth.”
“I can’t believe you did that so fast.” Benjamin chuckled and shook his head.
“Something wrong?”
“Nothing.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Just reminded of how much I don’t deserve you.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, buster. If you didn’t deserve me”—she grinned hungrily and took hold of his suspenders—“you wouldn’t have me.”
She pulled him close and let him know just how much he deserved her.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Transtemporal Vehicle Kleio
non-congruent
“So this is where you two have been.”
“Hey, Raibert,” Elzbietá said without turning. The Kleio’s six cubical bulk printers each stood nearly two stories tall and sat back to back to form a row under a high, rounded ceiling. Twelve smaller atomic printers stuck out of their sides, and Benjamin and Elzbietá had busied themselves at a table near one of the smaller output slots of Bulk Printer One. Every printer hummed with activity. Benjamin pulled a black trench coat from Bulk Printer One’s open slot while microbots flowed over the third 45mm Gatling gun suspended over other printers further down the chamber.
“What is all this stuff?” Raibert asked as he surveyed the haphazard stacks of clothing and military paraphernalia.
“Costumes for 1940.” Benjamin set the trench coat on the table, splayed it open and ran his hand across the interior. Both sides of the collar had what might have been two lightning bolts or two stylized letter S’s, and the left sleeve had a red armband marked by a white circle and a black cross with ends bent at right angles.
“Costumes with kick,” Elzbietá corrected.
“What sort of kick?” Raibert asked.
“The thirtieth-century kind.” She placed a helmet and gas mask next to the trench coat, then adjusted the straps on the mask and pulled it over her head. She turned her head from side to side, up and down, and picked up a helmet with the same two lightning runes and fit it in place.
“How’s that version?” Benjamin asked.
“Still could use some work.” She repeated the exercise, her voice muffled by the mask. “The screen fixes the visibility problem, but I’m still not happy with the lack of prog-steel coverage around the neck. Mind if I try a slight deviation from history?”
“Go ahead,” Benjamin responded. “We may have to make compromises in a few places to ensure the equipment’s effective. We’ll look it over when you print out the next one.”
“You put a physical screen in the gas mask?” Raibert asked.
“We need this equipment to work for anyone, including my grandfather, who doesn’t have wetware and may not be keen on us dousing his eyes with tiny robots.”
“Hmm, okay. Good point.”
“We’re making sure it’s as simple to use as possible because of that,” Elzbietá added. She took off the helmet and mask, set them aside, then summoned a virtual version between her hands. The straps on the mask widened until they merged and formed a hood.
“You need my help with…I don’t know, any of this?” he asked.
“We’re fine for now,” Elzbietá said. She still hadn’t looked his way.
“Okay, but is this going to slow down my next gun?” He knew the question was silly when he asked it.
“No, Professor,” Kleio reported. “The third 45mm Defensive Gatling gun will be completed well before we arrive in 1958. Their requests are h
aving minimal impact on my printing capacity. I have allotted two percent for their use, and they have yet to take advantage of half of that.”
“Okay…” Raibert frowned at the bustling activity that he was, regrettably, not a part of. “Keep it up, I guess. As you were.”
He was about to leave when Benjamin looked up.
“Hey, Raibert?”
“Yeah, Doc?” He turned around, perhaps a little too eagerly.
“Whatever happened to the ass cave?”
“Oh.” He frowned again. “You mean Lucius?”
“Yeah, that guy. Did he really get away with abusing time travel?”
“I suppose we can tell you about that. Hey, Philo?” The Viking aviator flashed into existence next to him as he pointed a thumb at Benjamin. “He wants to know what we finally ended up doing to Lucius.”
Philo’s grin almost reached his ears. Literally, since it was impossible for anyone else in the room to grin that big.
*
“You ready for this, buddy?” Raibert asked as he stood before the vaulted entrance to the newly opened Alexandria Exhibition on the top floor of the Ministry of Education. Lucius Gwon had personally organized the mission to preserve the entire contents of the Great Library of Alexandria, and soon he and his chief archeologists would begin their presentation.
Hundreds of honored guests filtered past him from the shuttles parked around the top of the Ministry, and since he was still—officially at least—a member of ART, he possessed a standing invitation to the opening ceremony for every new exhibit. He could walk right on in, and no one would think anything was out of the ordinary.
It was a perk of which he’d never taken advantage.
Until today.
“More than ready,” Philo replied through audio only. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this day.”
“Well, the wait is over. For both of us. Let’s do this.”
“Right with you, buddy.”
Raibert tossed his scarf over a shoulder, adjusted his white wide-brimmed hat, straightened his pristine suit, and strode into the exhibition. Half a million books and scrolls took up an impressive amount of space, and the Ministry had combined several reception halls to accommodate the rows upon rows of carefully laid out relics.
Physical patrons walked back and forth down the curving aisles while ACs darted through the infostructure and occasionally revealed their avatars when they found an interesting artifact and wished to converse about it.
The rows curved inward and the distance between them shrank to lead patrons toward an elevated center stage where Lucius and several of his archeologists waited to begin their presentation.
Raibert made his way slowly past the outer displays, lingered here and there for the sake of appearances, and even stopped to read about a collection of scrolls upon which Teodorà Beckett had provided analysis.
“She’s still at it,” he said with a pang of regret.
“Miss her?” Philo asked.
“Not so much anymore.” He gazed over the gathering crowd and spotted her next to Lucius. “I can’t believe she chose him over me.”
“Well, look on the bright side,” Philo added with relish. “She’s really not going to like this.”
“That’s an understatement,” Raibert chuckled.
“I’m heading off to do my thing.”
“All right. See you up on the stage.”
“See you.” The AC vanished into the surrounding infostructure.
Raibert followed the curving, contracting rows of books and scrolls to an open space around the center stage and quietly slid up to the back of the crowd. He didn’t have long to wait before the show began.
“Ladies and gentlemen and abstracts!” Lucius Gwon announced, his voice carried across their shared senses as a close-up of his face opened in front of Raibert. “Welcome to the Alexandria Exhibition! Every book opened before you, every scroll unrolled in this hall, all of it was once lost to humanity! But now, thanks to the tireless work of the Antiquities Rescue Trust, this lost heritage has been returned to us!”
A cheer rose from the crowd, and Lucius basked in their admiration, while Teodorà and the others waved.
Raibert swiped the pop-up window closed and began picking his way through the crowd. He gently urged a few people aside and made his way to the edge of the stage.
“Ready?” he asked without speaking.
“Ready,” Philo announced. “These jokers really should improve their security.”
The cheering died away, and Teodorà looked down at him with a start. She recovered, glowered at him, then sent a text that appeared in his virtual vision.
What the hell are YOU doing here? it read.
He merely dipped his hat to her.
She shook her head and looked away.
“Tonight, we have many wondrous artifacts and stories to share!” Lucius held out his arms. “But first, let us take you on a journey back to 30 BCE! Back to the Great Library of Alexandria at the pinnacle of its glory!”
The floor vanished, replaced with a sweeping flyby of cottony clouds that parted to reveal the city of Alexandria on the banks of the Mediterranean Sea. The view dipped down to sea level, shooting across glistening waters, past the Pharos lighthouse, over the harbor, and then into the city itself. The camera angle darted through empty streets, down back alleys and wide roads alike, zigzagging back and forth through ancient architecture until it returned to Great Library near the harbor’s edge.
The view dashed into a huge, colonnaded hall with racks upon racks upon racks of books and scrolls, all flashing by at high speed.
“Interrupting the simulation…” Philo said in Raibert’s brain. “Now!”
The view froze, then turned around and retreated out the way it came. It gained a little altitude, flew over rooftops, and then settled into a wide shot of Alexandria.
Lucius frowned and turned to his shadow. The star field flickered in what might have been a shrug.
Raibert grabbed the edge of the stage, hooked a leg over the side, and hauled himself onto it with a groan.
“What are you doing?” Teodorà hissed at him.
He stood up and dipped his hat as he walked past her.
“A lovely presentation, Lucius.” He clapped his hands, voice booming across same the shared audio Lucius used. “It’s a shame I had to interrupt it.”
“I’m sorry, everyone,” Lucius said, barely acknowledging Raibert’s presence. “We seem to have an uninvited guest on the stage. Please give us a moment. We appreciate your patience.”
Then and only then did Lucius turn to fix him with a glare that announced his intention. He would destroy Raibert utterly and completely, tear him down and humiliate him in front of the whole world, and take from him everything he cherished.
Raibert laughed at him, even as his heartbeat quickened.
“You’ve made a grave mistake,” Lucius sent without his lips moving. “I was content to let you enjoy your humble role in all of this. A small role for a small man. But no more. You’re finished, Raibert. You hear me? Finished!”
“I’ve made a lot of mistakes over the years,” Raibert admitted aloud. “Which is why I can’t in good conscience let this presentation continue without showing your adoring fans all the hard work ART did to retrieve these artifacts.”
Teodorà grabbed his shoulder, but he shook off her grip.
“What are you talking about?” Lucius demanded aloud.
“Come on. You led this mission yourself! Your guests deserve to know how tough this assignment was for ART’s Preservation teams.”
Lucius glared at him, but something else finally appeared in his eyes. It was the glimmer of sweet, delicious fear, and Raibert savored it. The star field within his shadow vanished, and he knew Philo would have to handle it and the security ACs on his own.
“Now, Lucius,” he continued, his voice low and menacing. “I’m going to show them exactly what ART does when it plunders the past. All of it.” He snap
ped his fingers.
The viewpoint switched to the nose camera of a TTV—one of ten flying in formation across the harbor. The view slowed, then stopped over the Library campus before four TTVs descended while six smaller craft formed a ring-shaped overwatch. Scholars and gardeners on the surface scattered as massive ovoid bulks splintered trees, and crushed statues and living, breathing people with equal disregard.
Some people in the exhibit audience gasped, and Raibert grinned cruelly. He had much worse to show them than this.
“Ladies and gentlemen and abstracts!” he announced. “I give you our dirty little secret: the hard working men and women of ART Preservation!”
Blood drained out of flattened bodies, glistening from the swaying light of oil lamps as it followed grooves in the intricate stone paths. The TTV forward ramps lowered with a crash, and ART security synthoids stormed out. Indigenes screamed, weapons barked, and hyper-velocity darts designed to punch through prog-steel body armor pulped flesh and bone. Precise gunfire silenced the cries in the gardens, and the synthoids fanned out.
Murmurs rose from the exhibit audience.
“Everyone, please disregard what you are seeing!” Lucius pleaded. “We are experiencing technical difficulties! Nothing more!”
“Why do you look so worried, Lucius?” Raibert laughed. “All those non-disclosure contracts can’t save you now!”
The view jumped to the Library interior where several scrolls had been unrolled on a long wooden table within a columned hall, its walls lined with rack upon rack of paper scrolls. A balding elderly man flung his arms wide in an attempt to scoop up the scrolls on the table when four synthoids charged into the hall and fired through his back. Viscera and bits of paper scattered into the air, and the old man collapsed over the table.
A dozen scholars ran for it, but a young librarian raced across the hall in the opposite direction, for some reason intent on reaching a particular rack of scrolls. A synthoid tagged him with a triple burst as the other three synthoids dropped the fleeing scholars.
The young librarian collapsed to the ground, but he wasn’t dead yet, and he clawed his way forward on his belly, intestines unwinding out of his abdomen. He reached up with trembling fingers toward the nearest rack of scrolls, tears streaming down his cheeks until he coughed up blood and dropped into a puddle of his own fluids.
