by Dana Fredsti
CONTENTS
Cover
Also available from Titan Books by Dana Fredsti and David Fitzgerald
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
1
2
3
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Acknowledgements
About the Authors
Also available from Titan Books by Dana Fredsti and David Fitzgerald
The Time Shards Novels:
Time Shards
Shatter War
ShatterField (forthcoming in 2020)
Also by Dana Fredsti
The Lilith Novels:
The Spawn of Lilith
Blood Ink
The Ashley Parker Novels:
Plague Town
Plague Nation
Plague World
A Man’s Gotta Eat What a Man’s Gotta Eat
TITAN BOOKS
SHATTER WAR
Print edition ISBN: 9781785654541
Electronic edition ISBN: 9781785654558
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP
First edition: September 2019
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2019 Dana Fredsti and David Fitzgerald. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
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Imagine time seen as a continuum—an infinite line containing everything that was and everything that will be…
Time perhaps as a tangible object. One that can be touched, like a mural on a wall that stretches infinitely in both directions. Portraying everything that has happened, is happening, and will happen. In one direction is the future unfolding. In the other direction the past, much of it forgotten, back to the beginning of time itself.
Imagine time as a stained-glass window. The story of everything laid out in a glittering mosaic of trillions upon trillions of moments, from the big bang to the fiery death of the universe.
Finally, imagine the fragility of such a window.
1
Advanced Transpatial Physics Lab, Antarctica
February 2, 2219
One hour before the Event
This is the day the universe changes.
The realization hit him just as he awoke. Future generations of students would be taught about this morning the way he learned about Archimedes leaping from his bath to run naked through the streets of ancient Syracuse yelling “Eureka!” Or Benjamin Franklin flying a kite in a lightning storm, or the day the apple fell on Newton’s head.
The day Meta launched humanity on the path to the stars…
Dr. Jonathan Meta slipped out of the covers and sat up. The clock in his cerebral implant advised him it was 6:45am, New Zealand Standard Time. He spoke quietly to the window blinds. They obediently polarized out of existence, and his quarters filled with pure Antarctic sunlight.
The dazzling tableau outside his window revealed unrelenting whiteness and a crystal-sharp blue sky. The inescapable sun hadn’t dipped below the horizon for five months, and wouldn’t until the end of March. To better preserve their sanity, many of the station’s personnel had opted to change their window displays to more festive holographic options, such as a vintage view from pre-Warming Hawaii, or a live-feed of the scintillating nightlife on the canals of New York.
Dr. Meta kept his window unadorned and his quarters austere. He found that the polar seasonal alterations between stark brightness and near-endless darkness suited him. For five years, he had been the director and the leading researcher of the Omnia Astra Project—the search for faster-than-light interstellar travel. A monk-like existence with a minimum of distractions helped him focus on the lab’s mission—which finally was coming to fruition.
Rather than risk the media circus waiting to ambush him in the lab commissary, he had the room whip up a quick breakfast of hot chai and a plate of mandazi, fried doughnuts flavored with cardamom and coconut. Kenyan cuisine was all the rage this season.
After a quick shower he dried off with a freshly-fabricated towel, still warm, and called up a mirror in the shape of a holographic half-shell. It shimmered into existence and he examined his face. Meta had no sense of vanity, but he knew that today of all days it would be important to look good for the cameras. His fox-like brown eyes had a strong Asian cast to them, though like most of the population, his bronze skin and blend of features no longer fit neatly into the largely obsolete categories like Caucasian, Negroid or Mongoloid.
There was no need to shave, since his facial hair would only grow if he gave it permission. His somewhat longer-than-normal hair was his only indulgence—it gave him a professorial air to let it grow down to his collar. Among his straight-laced and close-shorn colleagues, a striking mane of silver provided a heraldic sui generis touch.
Meta tossed the towel into the fabricator. With a soft hum, it swiftly disassembled the fabric while he dressed, choosing shades of charcoal and black to reflect the gravity of the day. He stepped into his shoes as the fabricator finished reweaving the towel into a fresh new lab coat. After one final check in the mirror, he told it to go away.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of his quarters.
A trio of sleek black spheres, each slightly more than twice the size of a billiard ball, hung perfectly still, suspended in the air. They had been waiting for him with unfailing patience.
Don’t look at the cameras, he reminded himself.
The rover drones were for the documentary. Instead of using a neural link to record th
rough his eyes, the producers had chosen to do a holo, preferring a more retro look to give the footage a timeless quality. Meta did his best to ignore the drones as he proceeded down the corridor. Moments later he encountered the first of the station personnel.
“Good luck, Dr. Meta,” the man said earnestly.
More colleagues, technicians, and research assistants smiled and offered words of encouragement as he and his floating entourage continued on their way. The excitement in the air was palpable, and beneath his normally calm exterior even he found himself struggling to tamp down a growing sense of exhilaration.
Reaching the intersection that would take him to the station commons, Meta stopped, listening to the press conference commencing inside. After a brief internal debate, he retreated. Better to face the reporters after the morning’s experiment was a success. He’d take the long way around, past the labs and conference rooms.
He had nearly navigated the entire labyrinth when the first of the rovers, seeking a long tracking shot, sailed past an automatic door. As it slid open, muffled voices came from inside.
Meta paused. Something wasn’t right.
Without warning, a plump little Adélie penguin—its head barely reached his knee—nonchalantly waddled into the hallway. The bird peered up at him for a moment before toddling off back through the doorway.
Meta stared after the bold little bird.
Did the film crew stage this? If so, he wasn’t sure how he felt about the artistic choice.
“Dr. Meta!” a voice called out from the open door. Before he could hurry past, a generically handsome man stuck his head out into the corridor.
Gifford, the resident biologist.
Meta couldn’t stand him.
“Didn’t think we’d see you down here,” Gifford exclaimed, voice filled with artificial bonhomie. He seemed oblivious to his colleague’s frown. “I thought you’d be in the commons with the paparazzi. This is a lucky surprise!”
“Yes, well…” Meta smiled weakly. “If you’ll excuse me, I—”
“Come meet my students.”
“Well, I—”
Gifford grabbed Meta’s arm before he could refuse, pulling him into the classroom where a dozen or so eager young faces turned toward their professor.
“Here’s Dr. Meta, the man of the hour.” At once, the students turned their attention to the startled director and gathered around him. Gifford beamed, adding, “These are the grad students visiting us from University of New Fiji.”
Meta tried to mask his irritation with the unctuous biologist. No sense in taking it out on these chipper young innocents. Besides, he was genuinely happy to encourage future scientists in his field.
“You’re all doing Transpatial Physics?” he said. “That’s splendid!”
“Actually,” Gifford said, cutting in again, “this batch is with the anthropology dept.”
“Anthropology?” Meta replied, surprised. “The Tierra del Fuegians are quite a ways off. Or are they here to study Antarctic physics researchers?” He smiled. “That’s an isolated test group, if ever there was one.” As the students laughed, Meta wondered which of the attractive young grads Gifford had his eye on. At least three appeared to fall within his chosen target demographic.
As if on cue, the biologist sidled up to Meta like the bosom chums they weren’t, putting a hand on his shoulder and leaning in conspiratorially.
“It’s a special academic field trip I helped arrange,” he said, then he straightened. “So Meta, I promised this bunch you’d take time out from the celebration tonight, and join us for a less stuffy party on their expedition craft. You have to see it—it’s an Avialae StratoYacht. Absolutely top of the line—delta-field, multi-pterophase energy wings, just a gorgeous piece of aerodynamics.”
“We’ll just have to see how it goes,” he replied noncommittally.
“Of course, of course—you have to make your appearances,” Gifford said with a wink. “Anyway, we already have you down as our very special guest of honor. I know you won’t let us down.” Without waiting for a response, he turned back to the grad students. “We’d better let Dr. Meta get back to making history. But we’ll all be celebrating with him tonight.” The knot of well-wishers erupted in cheers.
Meta tried for a smile, failed, and gave a weak wave.
I’ll get you for this, you conniving weasel, he thought.
“After today you’re going to be the world’s biggest rock star—at least until the first interstellar starship captain comes along!” Gifford laughed a bit too loudly and clapped Meta on the back just a bit too hard. The director gritted his teeth and tried to exit gracefully.
“Alright then,” he said, nodding to them. “I really must head out. Wonderful to meet you all, and good luck with your studies.” Before he could make his escape, Gifford intercepted him, seizing him by the shoulders and pinning him with a terribly serious gaze.
“Jonathan,” the biologist said intently, loud enough for the drones to pick up his words. “I just want you to know… I’m behind you. No—the world is behind you as you change the course of human history. Now go, my friend, and show us the way to the stars.” The more sentimental students sighed at this touching display. Meta gave a silent, tight-lipped nod, gently but firmly extricating himself from the man’s grasp. He walked across to the door, but paused before exiting and turned back.
“Gifford?”
“Yes, Jonathan?”
“Someone let a penguin out. Make sure you take care of that, will you?” Meta left before the man could respond.
The Kuruman Hills, Northern Cape Province, South Africa
Approximately 1.5 Million Years B.C.
Twenty-two minutes before the Event
The brothers’ hunt has been successful. The pair had stolen the haunch of a leopard’s freshly killed gazelle, chasing the big cat away with shouts and thrown stones. Returning to the cave, they kneel by the warmth of the fire and begin to eat, messily tearing apart the raw flesh. Their younger brother watches them, his mouth watering, hoping to snag a scrap.
The two older males ferociously quarrel over a choice piece, each trying to wrest it from the other’s grasp. Slick with blood, the morsel suddenly shoots away, landing into the heart of the fire with a puff of ash and sparks.
Enraged at their loss, they turn on each other—howling with rage, snarling and clawing at each other. Their younger brother pays no attention and stares in dismay at the meat in the fire, sizzling and popping on the red-hot coals. The smell is tantalizing.
His gaze falls on a piece of antler, left from an earlier kill.
Licking his lips, he braves the flames, quickly spearing the blackening chunk and then rushing to a darkened corner with his prize. The meat is hot, burning his lips when he tries to bite it, but soon cools enough for him to quickly devour it.
So delicious.
2
The Vanuatu
40,000 feet over the African continent
Morning – Six days after the Event
“Help me, Amber…”
He stood in front of her, a tall man in a spectral black shroud, dwarfed by the massive stone paws of the Great Sphinx. Beckoning to her, staring at her with blue-violet eyes, pinpoints of light dancing there like a cascade of stars falling down an endless well…
* * *
Amber woke with a start, hands in a death-grip on the sheets, bedclothes plastered to her sweat-soaked body. Her heart pounded so rapidly, it felt as if it might burst out of her chest. Screwing her eyes shut again, she concentrated on deep, even breaths until her pulse slowed to something close to normal, and she could relax back into the bed.
The mattress beneath her was firm, the pillow and bedding soft and comforting. Eyes still shut, Amber could almost imagine that she was back at her aunt’s house in Romford, getting ready for another day of the science fiction convention. The very thought, however, reminded her of the harsh reality.
Neither Romford nor her aunt’s house existed any
longer.
Slamming the door on that horrifying thought, Amber turned her attention to the dream—yet another one about their host, Dr. Meta. Somehow, she’d dreamt about the man even before she’d met him, and even afterward the strange visions had continued. When she told him about them, Meta had no explanation, yet without a doubt they were about him. The eerie blue-violet eyes and the pinpricks of light that seemed to move through them, as if passing through a tunnel.
Only Merlin—as she called him—had those.
Giving up on sleep she sat up and rubbed her fingertips over her face, trying to shake off the surreal images. In the dream he looked like the Grim Reaper, but why was he in Egypt? What did he want from her?
“Help me, Amber…”
“What the hell does it mean?” she said out loud.
“Can I assist you, Ms. Richardson?“
At the sound of the electronic voice, she jumped. The disembodied voice of the ship, gentle as it was, took her by surprise. She’d forgotten it could talk.
“Ahhh… good morning,” Amber replied—and how weird was it to be talking to thin air? Feeling as if she should give the ship something to do, she added, “Um, could you open a porthole for me?”
The Vanuatu’s artificial intelligence obliged. Next to her bed a window appeared like an iris in the cabin walls. She had no idea what material the ship was made of, but it reminded her of an amoeba made of Silly Putty, able to alter its shape and texture. The rising sun flooded bright morning light into her cabin.
“Thank you,” she said, shielding her eyes.
“You’re welcome, Ms. Richardson. Please let me know of any items you might need to have cleaned, repaired, recycled, or created. Each cabin has a nanofabricator for your personal use.”
“Created?”
That was new. Then again, they hadn’t had time for a full introduction to the ship’s capabilities.
“Yes, and for larger items beyond the scope of your personal unit, there is a larger nanofabricator available, as well. Would you like to see it?”
“Ah, no thank you,” Amber said. Her mind boggled at the possibilities, but it was too much to process at the moment. “Maybe later.”
