by David Weber
“The future’s awesome,” Raibert remarked with a casual shrug. “What can I say?”
“They’re also linked together via a computer network,” Elzbietá continued, “so if one of you can see a target, it will be highlighted for all of you. And they’ll also help you see past the camouflage the Admin uses.”
“What about the weapons?” Klaus-Wilhelm picked up an MP40 machine pistol.
“They may look the same as the guns you’re used to,” Benjamin began, “but they’re made of better materials and have tighter tolerances. The feed won’t jam, even if you pull on the magazine. It’s also substantially more accurate.”
Klaus-Wilhelm selected a magazine, shoved it in, and yanked on it. It stayed ramrod straight, without even a quiver, and he nodded in satisfaction before he pulled it back out and set it down with the others.
“Half of these have a red stripe down the side. What’s that mean?”
“Ah. Right.” Benjamin picked up an unmarked magazine. “This is a regular thirty-two-round magazine. Nothing special about it. If the Admin hasn’t shown up, this is what we use. It’s historically accurate.” He set it down and picked up one with a red stripe. “This one, on the other hand, can kill a twentieth-century tank, so it should work on just about anything the Admin throws at us. The bullets can also make limited self-correction, so they can turn near misses into hits.”
“The bullets seek their targets?” Anton picked up one of the red magazines.
“To a limited degree, yes,” Elzbietá said.
“But the straighter your shot, the harder they hit,” Raibert warned. “They shed less kinetic energy that way. So remember to aim the way you always have.”
Benjamin sidestepped along the table’s edge and picked up a grenade.
“Unmarked grenade,” he said. “Standard Model 24 potato masher, just like the originals. The only difference is the fuse and casing are better. These won’t go off unless you arm the ten-second fuse.” He set it down and picked up one with a red stripe. “This, however, is basically a guided missile you throw. High yield and very dangerous. There’s no need to arm it, and it does come with built-in friend-or-foe detection. Just throw it at high-priority targets like enemy STANDs.”
“What’s a STAND?” one of the soldiers a few rows back asked.
“The big, scary skeletal things,” Raibert replied. “They zip around really fast and carry a lot of guns. Can’t miss ’em.”
“And the Panzerschreck?” Klaus-Wilhelm asked. “I see it has multiple red stripes.”
“Hands off.” Raibert strode up to the table and pointed down at the rocket launcher. “This one’s mine. No one touch it. It’s dangerous.”
“What’s so special about it?”
“These are canisters of weaponized self-replicators.” Raibert tapped a rack with multiple 88mm rockets, each almost as long as his arm. “They’ll eat anything and anyone they hit, and they’ll keep making more of themselves and spreading until their generational count runs out. This one weapon, fired at the wrong target with the wrong setting, could end our entire mission. So no. The only person I trust with this thing is me.”
“But just in case, we added these small numbered dials.” Benjamin indicated the dial near the fins on both rockets. “The number selected determines the yield on an exponential scale.”
“Which no one but me should even think about touching,” Raibert stressed, pointing a stern finger at Benjamin. “Got that?”
“I got it. But if you’re”—Benjamin tried to pick a good word to use—“busy for some reason, I can act as the backup grenadier. It’s always good to have a fallback plan, right?”
“I guess so,” Raibert huffed.
“That body of yours is tough, but not invincible, and the Admin’s already blown your arm off once.”
“Fine, whatever. Have it your way.”
“Question,” Anton said. “What’s a weaponized self-replicator?”
“The stuff of nightmares.” Raibert picked up the stovepipe launcher effortlessly. “Listen, I could literally turn the entire surface of the Earth into pinballs if I toggled this thing to the wrong setting. So, all of you better respect the doomsday weapon on the table, go it?” He set the launcher down.
“Actually, you’re the only person who’ll be on the ground who could do that,” Benjamin corrected. “Ella and I capped the dial so the max manual yield shouldn’t eat more than a few acres at most.”
“Excuse me?” Anton scratched his head. “Did you say pinballs?”
“Don’t make me show you the video with the dog.”
“He’s serious,” Benjamin warned. “It’s horrible.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Klaus-Wilhelm ran a hand over the other weapons. “It would seem its MP40s and grenades for my men.”
“One last thing.” Elzbietá picked up a tube with milky fluid inside. “Everyone gets a medibot injection. Don’t worry about what it is. Just know it’ll give you an overall physical boost. Dull your pain, clot your blood faster, help you stay alert. Stuff like that. We’ll also have extras for stabilizing more serious wounds during combat.”
“Shall we take them now?” Klaus-Wilhelm asked.
“Go right ahead,” Raibert said. “It’ll stay in your bloodstream for weeks.”
“In that case, I’ll go first.”
Elzbietá administered Klaus-Wilhelm’s injection, and then stepped aside as Anton and a few others began distributing gear amongst the troops. Benjamin stepped off to the side and caught Elzbietá’s attention with a quick wave. She nodded and came over.
“Can we talk for a moment?” he asked.
“Sure. What’s on your mind?”
He nodded to the side and guided her over to one end of the room where they could have some privacy.
“I just wanted to talk to you before we reach the Event.” He spoke in hushed, cautious tones. “There are a lot of unknowns, and I don’t think any of us can predict what will happen next. To the universe. To me.” He paused and looked her in the eyes. “And to you.”
“I know. It’s been on my mind, too,” she admitted. “I know I’ve been putting on a brave face, but what happens next scares me.”
“Me, too.”
“But whatever happens, I’ve made my choice. I’m not turning back.”
Benjamin nodded. “I’ve…had some doubts.”
“It was Shigeki’s message, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.” He glanced away. “I’m wondering if there might be some other way out of this. One where you survive.”
“I told you before. I’m not about to place the few short years of my life over so many others. If that’s what it takes to set things right again, then I will gladly pay that price.”
“I know you would. It’s just…”
“Ben?”
“Yeah?”
She gently turned his face toward her, brow creased with concern, and ran the backs of her fingers across his cheek. He took her hand in his and squeezed it.
“Ben, whatever happens to me, I want you to always know that I love you.”
He smiled sadly at her.
“And if I do…cease to be when the Knot unravels, then the way you honor that love is to live your life to the fullest. No matter what may come next.”
“I don’t want to lose you.” A tear trickled down his cheek.
“Promise me, Ben. Promise me you will.”
He swallowed, and she wiped the tear away with her thumb. He sighed and slowly began to nod.
“I will, Ella. I promise.”
*
Dahvid Kloss watched the TTV’s signal pass 1950 from Pathfinder-2’s non-congruent position.
“And…send it,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir. Dispatching telegraph now.”
“Follow them, but don’t let the distance drop below one month.”
Kloss pushed over to his seat and strapped in. The chronoport’s impeller spun up faster, and both Pathfinder-2 and Pathfinder-4 acce
lerated into a pursuit course.
“Message coming back from Pathfinder-Prime. All chronoports to converge on the TTV’s position. We are not to engage until ordered to.”
“And here we go,” Kloss whispered.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Stendal, Germany
1940 CE
The TTV glided through the air above the city of Stendal. A dense sprawl of reddish-brown roofs transitioned in the distance into a patchwork of farmland and undeveloped woods that ran along the banks of the Elbe River. A noon sun shimmered on clear waters, and a two-track railroad ran out from the city to cross the river on a sturdy truss bridge.
Benjamin stood by his grandfather’s side in the Kleio’s cargo bay and clutched the MP40 simulacra in his hands. Twenty-four men and one synthoid in SS trench coats and helmets waited together under the mass driver’s looming bulk.
“You ready for this, Doc?” Raibert shifted the thick strap of the Panzerschreck across his back, then rested his own submachine gun in both hands.
“No,” Benjamin said honestly but quietly. He didn’t want his grandfather to hear.
“Yeah,” Raibert sighed. “Me neither. Whole thing scares the hell out of me.”
“This is what you wanted, right? We’re all here because of you.”
“I know. But that doesn’t change all the little doubts bouncing around in my head.”
“Like if this will actually fix the timeline?”
“More like what will happen to me in this Admin body when we succeed.”
Benjamin nodded. “I guess we’ll find out.”
“Doc, I’m so nervous right now, I think I’d puke if I were in my old body.”
“And you’re still going through with this?”
“Well, yeah. Of course.” He fiddled with the cocking handle on his rifle. “Some things in life are more important than your own…life. Damn, that sentence could have come out better.”
“I think I know what you’re trying to say,” Benjamin whispered and knuckled the big guy in the arm. “We’ll get through this.”
Raibert flashed him a lopsided grin.
“There should be a two-story farmhouse south of the tracks,” Klaus-Wilhelm said.
“Yeah, I see it,” Elzbietá replied from the bridge.
“That’s where the security force should be.”
“Should be and is. I’ve got eyes on a dozen SS in and around the farmhouse.”
“What about Hitler’s train?”
“It’s fifty-six minutes out.”
“Then we should stay clear of them until we know more,” Klaus-Wilhelm declared. “Set us down in the wooded area north of the tracks. We’ll move through it under cover and keep an eye on the situation from there.”
“Roger that.”
Benjamin brought up an external view in his lenses as the TTV dipped down and slipped invisibly across the rooftops. The ship slowed over the fields of wheat and corn, then settled next to a dense expanse of beech trees.
The metamaterial shroud parted around the nose, and Benjamin switched off the external view. The cargo bay split open, and a ramp extruded down until it touched against a strip of sun-starved grass on the edge of the woods.
“Go!” Klaus-Wilhelm ordered, and his troops flowed down the ramp and across the grass. Benjamin kept pace with them as they hurried into the woods and then took positions behind trees. Benjamin crouched behind one of his own and held his submachine gun ready.
He glanced over his shoulder. The TTV closed its shroud and lifted away, appearing in his vision as a faint outline.
“Move up,” Klaus-Wilhelm called out, and the rough line of soldiers advanced through the dense forest with practiced, veteran caution.
Sunlight spilled radiant shafts through the thick cover of leaves, splashing the ground with patterns of light and shadow. Leaves rustled and a cool breeze blew across Benjamin’s cheeks as he moved up, mimicking what he saw from the professional soldiers.
“Hey, Philo?” Raibert asked.
“Yeah?”
“How’s the nearby timestream look?”
“The array is clear, though I’m still worried about that burst of telegraphy we picked up when we passed 1950.”
“Any idea what they were saying?”
“No. It’s heavily encrypted, and I still haven’t been able to crack it.”
“We don’t need to crack it to know what they said,” Benjamin cut in. “The Admin spotted us when we passed 1950, and that means trouble’s coming our way.”
“Yeah, probably,” Raibert admitted with a frown. “Keep an eye on it, Philo.”
“I will.”
The line swept forward. Boots crunched on twigs and fallen leaves, breeze whispered in the branches, and the dark of the woods eventually gave way to the clearing on the far side.
The troops crouched on the edge of the woods, and Benjamin knelt with his shoulder against a gnarled trunk. A harvested wheat field spanned the distance from the edge of the woods to the railroad tracks and the farmhouse.
“Security detail in sight,” Klaus-Wilhelm said.
“And very much not stuck in the architecture.” Benjamin turned to the synthoid. “What does that mean?”
“How should I know?” Raibert demanded.
“Well, if you don’t know, who among us would?”
“TTV,” Klaus-Wilhelm called in, “any sign of the assassins?”
“Negative,” Elzbietá responded. “There are quite a few farmers out there. Some of them are clustered together strangely and might be the assassins, but it’ll be hard to tell until they make their move.”
“Let’s lie low for now,” Raibert suggested. “The security detail’s still intact, so we’re not in the right part of the timeline yet. We don’t want to cause undue interference.”
“Hold position, men,” Klaus-Wilhelm said.
Benjamin zoomed in on the farmhouse. The building stood two stories tall, but the second story was entirely contained within the heavily slanted roof. Dark horizontal and diagonal timbers broke up the whitewashed exterior. Some of the SS watched from the windows, but a few stood outside and shielded their eyes as they watched the rail line for signs of an approaching train.
Benjamin zoomed in further on the men outside.
“Damn it,” he hissed.
“What’s wrong?” Raibert asked.
“I got the uniforms wrong.”
“You did?” Raibert peered at the farmhouse, then looked Benjamin up and down. “They seem accurate to me.”
“The SS markings are different. Their coats don’t have the runes on the collar.”
“Oh? Is that all?”
“What do you mean ‘is that all’? I worked really hard on these.”
“Well,” Raibert shrugged. “No use worrying about it now.”
Benjamin sighed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“Guys, problem!” Elzbietá called in.
“Oh, what now?” Raibert complained.
“Chronoports incoming! Multiple signals! They’re converging on our position!”
“Damn it!” Raibert exclaimed. “How many?”
“A lot! Precise count unknown! They’re almost on top of us!”
“Ella, you’ll need to draw them away from 1940,” Raibert said. “We can’t do our job with a horde of chronoports overhead.”
“Understood. I’ll get their attention. Dropping the shroud and pulling away from your position.”
“Masks on,” Klaus-Wilhelm ordered crisply. He pulled his mask on, adjusted the hood so it extended beneath his collar, and fitted his helmet back on over it. Benjamin did the same, then removed his MP40’s regular magazine and slid in one with a red stripe. Even with their masks on, he could easily tell who was who by the names that hovered over each man’s head. Adrenaline surged through his body and his heartbeat quickened.
“They’re phasing in to the north!” Philo said. “Count is eight!”
*
Admin chronoports sp
ed across the scattered pockets of farmland and forest in a line abreast.
“TTV spotted, sir. It’s pulling away from us.”
The large red icon glowed angrily in Shigeki’s virtual vision. He and the rest of the bridge crew wore their pressure suits and were strapped in, ready for whatever the enemy threw their way.
“First things first,” he said coolly, and marked a rough circle around the TTV. “The professor may already be on the surface somewhere. Deploy all ground forces and have them sweep this entire area clean. I want nothing left to chance.”
“Yes, sir,” Durantt replied and opened a channel. “Pathfinder-Prime to Pathfinder Squadron: release all Cutlasses and deploy in marked area. Kill all threats on sight. No restrictions.”
Transports loaded with 88 special operators, 130 drones, and 8 STANDs in combat frames dropped from the chronoports and accelerated ahead of the formation.
“Incoming fire!”
The mass driver slug punched through a fusion thruster underneath Pathfinder-7’s wing, and the thruster exploded in a flash of escaping plasma. The chronoport tilted to one side, its underbody seared and blackened, and began shedding altitude. Weapon pods broke off, armor rattled and slipped away, and the second thruster sputtered as its output dropped. Another explosion shredded the rear fuselage, and the impeller warped and began oscillating wildly, its edges losing definition.
“Pathfinder-7 is going down, sir!”
“Return fire!” Shigeki snapped. “Weapons free!”
“All craft, open fire!”
Railguns split the air, and kinetic slugs battered the TTV’s frontal armor. Missiles streaked ahead of the chronoports, and the TTV accelerated erratically to the side, then climbed straight up.
Pathfinder-7 left a wavering, uncertain wake of warped light as pieces broke off its impeller and phased out of existence. The chronoport’s wide nose plowed into a two-story farmhouse, and its impeller shattered into wandering fragments of unreality. Sections of the farmhouse, ground, and people in black uniforms phased through each other. The chronoport barely cleared a pair of railroad tracks and smashed into the ground beyond. Topsoil and shorn wheat exploded upward, and the craft bulldozed a long groove through the ground before it came to rest.
