by Patti Abbott
Ashurbanipal's richly cadenced voice, ever-present throughout Continuity Inc.'s headquarters, answered him. "That's a relative question, isn't it, Kyler?"
"I mean in the usual sense." The new AI had a quirky sense of humor.
"Per Greenwich Mean, it's 3:45 a.m., April 14th, 2223 A.D.—"
"Got it. Just turn the lights on, okay?"
"Another bout of insomnia, Kyler? You Dreamers are prone to that, you know."
"Lights."
White glare spilled from a dozen concealed niches, illuminating Kyler's cramped living quarters. He muttered a curse. Sennacherib, the old AI, would've brought the lights on gradually, to the gentle strains of Bach or Liszt. But that was before the government had deregulated the Time Corps, before Continuity Inc. had snapped up the contract for policing past, present, and future. Happier days. Now a corporate mentality dominated.
He pulled on a pair of coveralls, followed by soft boots. "Coffee," he told the wall dispenser, which thankfully, did not have the capacity to talk back. A stream of black espresso squirted into a mug. Not Synthi-Caf or Neo Postum, but the real deal, grown and harvested beneath geodesic domes in Ecuador. Nothing but the best for employees charged with what was arguably the most important assignment in human history.
Protecting human history.
Kyler downed his expensive eye-opener and set off into the complex.
* * *
Constructed within lava tunnels of the Kerguelen Plateau, a micro-continent submerged beneath the Indian Ocean, Continuity Inc.'s headquarters sprawled over hundreds of square miles. Kyler took a shuttle from General Quarters to the Core, where the staging areas were set up. Even at this hour the complex buzzed with activity, as orange-smocked technicians hustled equipment through the honeycomb of hallways and chambers.
Ashurbanipal accosted him at the Core's first gate. "Kyler, what are you doing in this section? Your shift at the Precog bays is not due to begin until 8:00 a.m."
"I've got clearance."
"Yes, but your behavior is unusual. I might add: caffeine consumption at this stage during your sleep-cycle will likely disrupt productivity."
"Take it up with my supervisor."
"I will, Kyler. A Violet Level alert has already been sent to your personnel file."
"Noted. Now open the goddamn door."
The titanium valves of Gate One slid open. Invisible beams reached out to caress Kyler's body, assuring themselves of his unique biometrics. As a functioning pre-cog, he had enough value to the company to warrant advanced clearance. Anything less, and the short corridor he walked would be flooded with sarin in seconds.
Gate Two and Gate Three opened without further protest from Ashurbanipal. Kyler stepped out into Staging, his favorite part of the complex. A reinforced cavern the size of an aircraft hangar, the vast space echoed with the whine of multiple drills and auto-ratchets clanking as technicians tore down and put up sets.
He passed a mockup of Paddington Station circa 1884, featuring a Victorian era smoking car set on rails of authentic British Steel, ready to roar off into time and space. There was a cave from prehistoric France covered with soot-traced paintings (and littered with priceless flint artifacts), the shipboard cabin of Sir Francis Drake, an 'ultra-modern' living room from late 1950s North America, and the biggest set-piece of all, a marketplace of mud brick stalls and worked paving stones, dwarfed by the holographic image of a massive ziggurat, blazing in the artificial distance.
Kyler stalked by all these wonders, intent on a tarp-shrouded section marked with 'CLOSED SET' signs. The pieces he'd seen so far dealt only with the past, but he knew his uncle, Damon Cole, was assigned to a top-secret jaunt into the future.
He lifted a corner of tarp and ducked inside. The set appeared small when compared to the marketplace of Nineveh, but what it lacked in scale it made up in bizarreness: the holo backdrop depicted the landscape of Caliban Four, a moon of a white gas giant twenty light-years from Earth.
"Kyler!"
Damon had eased up out of a folding chair and was stepping toward him, moving with infinite caution in a pair of hip-high G-boots. For good reason: the boot's powerful servos, mimicking his thigh and calf muscles, would send him hurtling toward the cavern roof if he moved too fast. Watching him, Kyler felt the same flush of admiration he always did for his uncle, a top-rated Continuity operative. Dark-eyed and dark-bearded, he struck a physical contrast with Kyler's narrow build and high forehead. They shook hands like long-lost brothers.
"What are you doing here, Kyler? I'm supposed to jaunt in thirty minutes."
"That's just it. I had a dream …"
His voice trailed off as he recalled the image: Damon, his legs shattered, lying sprawled on an alien world as an unseen presence came scuttling close.
"It's the boots," Kyler blurted, making a connection. "There's something wrong with them. Sabotage, maybe, I don't know. You're going to break your legs."
"What're you talking about? These boots were just checked out."
"It's going to happen. Dreams that clear never lie. You've got to abort, tell them you're sick or something."
Damon shook his head. "Can't do that, nephew. You know how important this jaunt is."
Kyler had been assigned precognitive duty with the Caliban Four project, and understood what was at stake. Continuity Inc. needed super-dense fissionables to power the Zygma Process, and the mining colony on the gas giant's moon had an abundant supply. Without such exotic fuels, all jaunts through time and space would cease. History would be vulnerable to any upstarts who had stumbled onto the secret of Zygma travel.
"No worries, Kyler." Damon clapped him on the shoulder. "You've warned me, so now I'll know to be extra careful."
His uncle's confidence failed to convince him. Unless he could do something, Damon would be jaunting off to his doom.
A glance around the set showed a pressurized suit and helmet, standing erect in a frame. Kyler recalled the CO2 content of Caliban Four's atmosphere was too high for sustained breathing. An idea began to form.
"You got time for some coffee?" he asked Damon.
"Why not? I'm going to need to be alert, seeing as how I'll be impersonating a heavy-fuels buyer from five centuries in the future."
Damon sent a technician scurrying to fetch two fresh mugs. Kyler found a spot in one corner with crates stacked high, blocking casual view and any spy-beams from nosy Ashurbanipal. When the coffee came, they sat atop a holo-casing and sipped.
"You nervous?" Kyler asked, trying to conceal his own anxiety.
"Me? Nah. I've jaunted to the future before."
"What's the focus object?"
"An interesting little tidbit. I'll show it to you."
He left the corner, and his steaming mug. Kyler reached into his coveralls and took out four tablets of fast-dissolving Ultrazepam. One was usually enough to banish his insomnia. He slipped the little ovals into Damon's coffee just as his uncle was returning, wheeling over the pressure suit on a dolly.
"Take a look at this." He unclipped a chevron-shaped badge from the suit and tossed it to Kyler. A three-headed eagle had been sculpted onto the front.
"That," Damon said, "identifies me as a free trader from the Merchant House of Dorr, with a credit rating of up to one trillion Standard Monetary Units."
Kyler flipped the badge over. "I understand how Continuity Inc. gets their hands on focus objects from the past, but the future …?"
"Don't think too hard about it," Damon said, reaching for his coffee. He sipped. If he tasted the Ultrazepam over the espresso, his face didn't show it. "Only Ashurbanipal has the brains to understand all this time-travel stuff."
Five minutes later he was slumping forward, his eyelids fluttering shut.
Kyler caught him and eased his unconscious body behind the holo-casing. He felt a twinge of guilt for tricking family, but told himself there was no other way. He pulled off the treacherous G-boots and slipped them on after a moment's hesitation. Somewhere inside the mec
hanics a short or a faulty lead must be waiting. He switched off the power; the boots became harmless pieces of metal attached to his legs.
"Hey, Damon," a voice called. "You're needed on the set."
Panicking, Kyler reached for the pressure suit and fumbled his way inside. The leggings fitted themselves neatly over the G-boots' bulk. He remembered to opaque the helmet before stepping out from behind the crates; a reasonable facsimile of Damon Cole. The suit's padding made up the difference in their physiques.
"Over here," a technician said, waving to a spot in the center of the stage. "Your mark's right there."
Kyler toed the neat X made by two pieces of tape. It occurred to him that he knew little of the jaunt's specifics, beyond Damon making some kind of deal for fuel. His heart began to thud against his ribs. Maybe he should've taken a tab of Ultrazepam for himself. He'd never jaunted before. As a Dreamer, his place was back at base, trying to peer into the future.
A Zygma projector poked toward him from among a bank of spotlights, its lens looking like a giant kaleidoscope pattern. He realized with a dull shock his job at Continuity Inc. was over. Finished. Even if he somehow managed to pull this mission off himself, management would never forgive him. Come to think of it, neither would Damon.
If he could pull this mission off.
"Alright, that's good," the technician said. "You okay in there, Damon? Ready?"
Kyler made the helmet nod.
"Great. Lights."
The rest of the stage darkened, as two lamps on either side of the Zygma projector slid open. Twin beams stabbed out, to focus together on the identification badge attached to his chest.
"Bring up the intensity on the background a little more," the technician called. "Perfect. Projector."
The kaleidoscope lens began to swirl, its snowflake patterns spiraling in on themselves. Kyler felt like he was being scrutinized by a diamond-eyed Cyclops. His stomach lurched.
"And … action!"
The Zygma projector hummed and cracked. Invisible radiation streamed from the lens to pour over Kyler. Though no one but an AI could fully understand how the process worked, Kyler grasped the theory. The projector was forming a 'picture' of him and the background, with the badge as a focal point. At the same time, Zygma particles were subtracting every other element existing around him. The 'picture' became a puzzle-piece, with unique edges. In theory, this piece could only exist in two places: the Continuity Inc. set, and the actual time and space the set depicted.
But an object can't be in two places at once, so …
Kyler shuddered, as the immutable laws of the Universe wrenched him from one reality and smoothed him into another. God's own fingertips seized the puzzle-piece and placed it where it would fit best.
The fourth moon of Caliban, 2750 A.D.
Kyler blacked out somewhere along the way.
* * *
An immense ball of white gas filled three-quarters of alien sky. Yellow, wispy clouds drifted, and on the horizon shone the double glare of a brilliant class F star and its red dwarf companion. Kyler squinted; even the opaque visor couldn't hold back the flood of light.
He forced himself to look down at the talc-fine powder beneath his feet. Caliban Four's heavy gravity seemed to reach up and grab him. While smaller than Earth, the gas giant's moon was several times denser. Kyler's one-hundred-fifty pound frame weighed two-twenty-five here. Not crushing, but his knees buckled with the added burden. He felt a sudden temptation to switch on the G-boots and squelched it. The damn things had started this whole mess.
Keeping his gaze from the dazzling sky, he looked around. About three hundred yards in the distance loomed a pyramid of black steel. The mining colony proper, he figured. Between it and him stretched a fenced walkway. Posts strung with shining wire—either charged or honed to molecular sharpness—separated the narrow path from the rest of the landscape, an endless vista of rolling hills. In the near-distance a forest of skeletal derricks jutted.
Simple enough. He started shuffling down the path. Moving under 1.5 G's felt like wading through waist-deep water. Ten steps and he was already winded. The steel pyramid seemed to recede another hundred yards. He felt truly sorry he hadn't ditched his G-boots; the inert metal clinging to his legs slowed him further.
And what are you going to say when you get inside? Please hand me over half a ton of Palladium 23? He wasn't a natural diplomat like his uncle Damon. Hell, he got tongue-tied talking to girls.
He recalled one important fact: Continuity Inc. had sent an agent here already, about a week prior to Damon's scheduled jaunt. Recon mission or some such. With luck, he might still be around. The agent's name was Huxley, and there was something unusual about his appearance … Kyler didn't remember what, exactly.
A sign attached to one of the fence posts halted his thoughts. The strange Anglic characters took a moment for his helmet-visor to translate.
WARNING! FENCE COMPROMISED NEXT 100 YARDS. BEWARE VELOCIPEDES.
The visor's translation neglected to explain what a 'velocipede' was. But sure enough, the wires ahead had been snapped in places and lay in glossy snarls. He patted at the side pockets of his pressure suit. No weapons. And why would a free trader on a peaceful mission of commerce need any?
He took a tentative step forward. White sand rose in a little puff from a nearby hill. Movement? Or maybe it was just wind. He continued his shuffling pace from before. About thirty yards down the walkway several more white puffs appeared, closer.
He tried to break into a run. It felt more like a spirited walk. The approaching puffs became a miniature sand storm. He heard a rumbling sound at first, but moments later it grew more distinct. Scuttling. The same noise he'd heard in his dream. Low-slung shapes appeared within the whirling powder.
He'd never reach the steel pyramid before those creatures. Instinct made him veer off the path through a section of sundered wire. The shadows of the tall mining derricks fell across him. He'd make for those; it might be possible to climb the lattice of beams to safety.
A glance over his shoulder brought a horrifying sight. The dust was being churned by hundreds of pairs of bowed legs, attached to the slick gray carapaces of ten-foot centipedes. They came swirling after him, legs undulating like the ranks of oars on an Old Earth trireme. Mandibles the size of pruning shears flashed open and closed. The pack was less than fifty yards away, and gaining.
He wouldn't make the derrick. Not at this pace. Only the G-boots could give him a fighting chance—if they didn't shatter his legs. He reached for the power switch at his waist. Hesitated.
The velocipedes were at thirty yards. Close enough that he could see the clockwork of their smaller mouthparts, meshing together in anticipation.
"Get down" called a gruff voice.
Near the base of the closest derrick a woman was waving at him. 'Woman' being a guess; she had a bull-neck and squat, blocky body. Instead of a pressure suit she wore reflective coveralls.
"I said down."
She'd unslung some type of rifle. Kyler let himself stumble midstride and hit the sand. Heavy gravity made the impact hurt more than it should have. He heard a sharp snap and felt something molten pass over his back. Keeping flat, he scrabbled around to get a look. Several more snaps, several bolts of crimson plasma, and the velocipedes were reduced to swirling ash.
The woman jumped down from the derrick and waddled over. "You alright?"
"Nothing broken." Kyler got to his feet.
"They were gonna kill you. You saw that, right? You'd vouch for that?"
She wore a pair of bubble-shaped goggles over her eyes, and a tiny respirator covering her nose and mouth. But for that and the reflective clothing, her burnt-bronze skin was exposed to the elements of Caliban Four. "There's a fine," she said, "for every velocipede you kill. It's in the charter. Part of that bullshit 'Indigene Protection Act.' But it's justified, if they're fixing to kill you."
The voder clipped to Kyler's ear translated her Anglic speech, right down to t
he accent. And it translated his words back. "Thanks. I'll make whatever kind of statement you need."
"What're you doing out here, anyway?"
"I'm, ah, a free trader from House Dorr …"
"Where the hell's your ship?" She looked up first at the sky, then the surrounding hills. "Or your landing boat?"
"I was dropped off."
Beneath the goggles, her eyes narrowed. "Alright. Be mysterious, even though I just saved your life." She held out a thick hand. "Name's Emma."
"Kyler." He couldn't think of anything else. Her grip felt like a hydraulic press.
"If you're the free trader everyone's been talking about, the CFO will want to meet you, stat."
He looked glumly at the black pyramid, still a ways off. "Don't tell me you hoofed it here."
"Nah, nah. Not with dangerous indigenes about." She waved toward a six-wheeled buggy parked just behind the derrick. "We'll take you back on that."
Kyler's heart lifted at the prospect of motorized transport. Emma closed a panel at the derrick's base, picked up a toolbox, and shuffled toward the buggy. More tools jangled from her belt. Walking behind her, Kyler eyed the still-hot barrel of the plasma rifle nestled between her shoulder blades. Back in 2223 A.D., the technology to accelerate plasma would require at least five feet of magnetic coils.
"I noticed you had trouble running," she said, when they reached the vehicle. "Something wrong with your exo?"
She meant the G-boots. "Yeah, a short, I think. I've been afraid to turn it on."
"I'll take a look when we get back. Real uncomfortable, a skinny-legger like you trying to move around without one."
"I appreciate that. You've been more than helpful."
"Us frontier types usually are." She started the buggy's engine. "Give my boss a fair price on that fuel, and we'll call it even."
* * *
The "boss" of Caliban Extraction and Refining, Ltd., turned out to be Hyram Gose, an older man built like Emma, but with a near-spherical belly and legs thick as tree trunks. He wore a black cape to distinguish himself from the rest of the mining stiffs. They were all built like Emma, adapted to the gravity of Caliban's fourth moon by aggressive gene engineering. Kyler felt self-conscious of his narrow limbs when he removed the pressure suit.