Three hours and twenty minutes before the Advisor's departure, Reva began assembling the IDP materials in a workplace provided by Karuu. It was painstaking work with delicate materials; an unsteady hand could lose her a finger or a limb. But her hands were steady, and the time patch assembly went like a manufacturer's demo. When done, she had two hours and twenty minutes to plant the device in a critical place on the Advisor's hydroskiff. When Albek Murs was twenty minutes short of his destination, over the deep ocean drop, his ship would suffer a fatal hull breach.
Two hours, twenty minutes. Reva was dressed in an aqua-colored cold-water bodysuit, a breather mask at her waist. The outfit was common in Amasl, and no one paid attention as another R'debh native took the magtube to the waterfront, the thronging interface between sea-people and landers. Concealed inside her suit was the time patch, a slender packet of death lying between her breasts. A slight unsealing of her bodysuit and the patch could be pulled out when needed; in the meantime, there were no odd lines to arouse suspicion.
Reva left the tube, checked her breather, and allowed herself to submerge in the nearby watercourse. She had forgotten this feeling and reveled in old sensations renewed: the contrast of cool water against her exposed skin and warmth inside her bodysuit; city sounds carrying through liquid to thrum, magnified, in her ear; plankton and microorganisms dancing like silt in the rich water. Then, focusing on her job, she kicked out with long legs and swam for the marina.
It was supposedly a secure area, with controlled-access gateways abovewater and a caged-off boundary below. A simple bypass wire fooled the perimeter alarm into ignoring the gap Reva made with fusion cutters. She was undetected. There were few passersby in this part of the harbor, and though she was in plain sight, the depths at twenty meters were ill-lit by sunlight. And of course, she monitored the Lines, ready, if need be, to move to a Mainline where she would pass unnoticed.
She had identified Murs' slip and learned the maintenance routine long before she picked the time to do this job. She looked up to get her bearings. Docking slips hung overhead, dark, irregular grid slashes rippling against the watery sky. She headed for the slip she needed and rose slowly through the water until she could read the underhull registration marks. Yellow alloy, black markings were clearly visible this close to daylight. This was the right skiff.
One hour, fifty minutes until the Advisor's departure. The assassin rose farther, until she was an arm's length below the skiff hull. Its hydroplane struts were extended, part of the maintenance check. She moved between them toward the drive, where the re-pulsor nacelle joined the skiff's hull at an angle more vulnerable than most to water pressure. It was only a hazard if the skiff exceeded its rated depth, of course. Or suffered a hull rupture there.
Her hand was reaching for the seal on her bodysuit when a splash in the water made her freeze. Less than five meters in front of her, a man had jumped into the sea feet first. The bubbles of his descent swirled around him, bobbing to the surface before his plunge stopped. His back was to her. Intent on placing the IDP, Reva had not sensed this approaching event. She moved behind a hydroplane strut before the stranger saw her. Floating there, she tried to slip into timetrance. It was a useful monitor when she was at rest or barely active, and had attention to spare. But it was terribly draining to see alternative Nows if she was concentrating on something else, or being physically active. If she was emotionally distraught or exerting herself, it was almost impossible to do.
Reva's concentration was off: her adrenaline rush of surprise following the man's entry into the water made it difficult to see Lines. She consciously slowed her breathing, trying to study the intruder while staying concealed behind the strut.
He was abnormally tall and wore a buoybelt, a flotation device for offworlders who sink because their bodies are denser than water. As he turned to face her way, Reva realized the red and black pattern she had mistaken for a bodysuit was his natural skin coloration. An alien, then. His face was hidden behind a breather, but she realized at once who this must be. Yavobo, the Advisor's new bodyguard. He was not mentioned in Murs' dossier; she had learned of him on her own. He was said to have a nasty temper, and the speargun he carried attested that he was ready for trouble.
Yavobo slowly swam the length of the hull, checking it out, looking for something amiss. He looked closely, carefully, and Reva was glad she hadn't planted the IDP yet. The device lay warm against her body, sticking to her skin, waiting to be used. All she had to do now was keep out of sight of the bodyguard until he was done with his inspection of the vessel.
She bobbed closer to the surface than she cared to be. She was out of sight of the alien, sticking close to the hull. More relaxed now than she had been a moment before, Reva slipped into time-trance. Pushing herself along the hull, she stayed as far from Yavobo as possible as he made his circuit underneath the skiff. She used her foresight to see when she should move, and when to remain in place. Her subtle dodge was soon finished. She heard the alien splash to the surface, and she sank again below the concealment of the underhull.
Cold water flowed against her chest as she pulled the time patch from its hiding place. Bodysuit resealed, she could live with the chill for her short time left underwater. One hour, twenty minutes before departure. She activated the adhesive backing with a stroke of her fingers, and laid the time patch against the hull. She smoothed it down, pressing it firmly into place, then drifted back a few meters to look at the patch.
Yavobo couldn't have missed it, not looking as closely as he had. Coincidences like that couldn't be helped, but they nettled Reva just the same. This time, at least, she didn't have to Lineshift to get out of trouble.
With a final grin at her handiwork, the assassin swam downward into the marina bay. She had time to get ashore, have dinner, and make a codecall. There ought to be an interesting lead story on the Selmun net in the next few hours. It would be a nice touch if her client could catch the vidnews himself.
XI
The Advisor's skiff was at 800 meters and descending toward Bolan Dome when the strut mount failed.
The first warning was the groan and screech of tortured alloy, yielding to the pressure of the deep water. A klaxon signaling hull breach went on automatic alert. Power conduits shorted and orange emergency lighting kicked on inside the vessel.
Murs leapt from his jump seat, turned to his bodyguard.
"What is it? What's going on?" he demanded, managing to block the copilot's path as that officer rushed to assess damage. The woman shoved Murs rudely aside and ran aft past Yavobo.
"Blowing ballast tanks," the pilot reported tersely, barely heard over the strident alarm.
The Aztrakhani pulled away from Albek's grasp, turning aft where cold waters spewed madly up between deck plates. There had been no shock of impact: no missile or explosion. The bodyguard immediately dismissed the possibility that it was a natural accident, a failure in hull integrity. They had been hit. In spite of his precautions, they had been hit.
Aztrakhan was a desert world. Its natives were used to the thought of death by thirst, by desiccation, by the rending of a maddened herd beast or one's own clanmates during the Frenzy. But never a death by drowning. Few Aztrakhani could swim. Fewer had ever seen more water than that contained in an isolated watering hole, or the meager streams called rivers by Imperial surveyors.
A death by drowning would not happen to Yavobo.
"Tanks blown," the white-faced pilot bit out the words. "We're over the Lip and still going down."
The alien glanced once at Murs. He had a contract, but this foolish man had refused his advice to secure a second craft. If they had had one, Yavobo could be assisting the distressed vessel right now. Instead, his own life was endangered in a way that never would have happened if he had been master of his own fate.
“Ayesh-kha.'' The alien spat the phrase at Murs with a sideways slash of his hand.
"Do something!" the Senior Advisor screamed. The rushing waters were up to mid-th
igh and continued to rise. More metal surrendered to the sea with a hull-shuddering groan.
Yavobo exposed his canine fangs in an angry grimace. "I rescind my contract," he loosely translated the ritual phrase. "I owe blood-debt to your heirs. You I can no longer help."
"We had a deal!" Murs shrieked, terror raising his voice two octaves in pitch.
Yavobo slipped into the airlock, half-filled with water, and punched the cycle button. Nothing happened. As Murs struggled after him against the rushing water, the Aztrakhani gripped the hatch and pulled it shut with brute force, overwhelming grudging hydraulics with inhuman strength.
Murs pounded on the plasglas view port while Yavobo yanked the breather locker open. Muffled screams and pleading curses came from the Advisor while the red-skinned bodyguard affixed his flotation belt. Breather mask secure, he turned to the outside hatch. A quick jab on the cycle button showed that system was shorted, too, but for that lock there was an emergency lever to the right of the door.
Yavobo looked back at Murs, afloat now in the sea-filled skiff, his face with wide, frightened eyes bobbing in an air pocket near the top of the airlock view port. Albek's fingers scrambled for a grip on the plasglas as the Aztrakhani turned away and heaved upon the manual lever for the external lock.
The hatch gave way. A sudden rush of water slammed Yavobo against the far wall, then the pocket of displaced air belched him out of the lock of the doomed skiff.
He ignored the sudden shattering pain in his ears and smothering pressure on his chest and organs. Aztrakhani were made of tougher stuff than mere human tissues. He adjusted one float on his belt and, with lighter weight, began a slow, controlled ascent to the surface.
Remember to exhale, he cautioned himself, continue to exhale. Like the other land-dwellers he had traveled at one atmosphere of pressure, so didn't fear sudden decompression—but breather gases expanded in his lungs at a rate greater than normal as he ascended tens of meters every minute. He concentrated on his breathing and glared at the murk below.
Only one flickering orange light from within the water-filled cabin marked the vessel's final descent into the abyss. That, and a flurry of air bubbles as the broken hull was crushed in the depths below.
XII
Reva had a good sense for these things. She was lounging in her hotel room when an androgynous vidcaster interrupted the regular newscast only twenty minutes after the time patch did its dirty deed.
"While en route to the Obai Economic Summit, a vessel bearing Senior Advisor Albek Murs experienced mechanical failure and is believed to have sunk into the Alauna Abyss. One emergency hail was received from the hydrocraft before transmissions ceased. The skiff is feared lost with all hands. Air and sea vessels are quartering the area now, searching for survivors. Stay tuned for further updates as they happen."
Reva congratulated herself, and found she had nervous energy that needed burning up. There was Alia Lanzig yet to go, but she could think about that later. For now, it was time to hit the nightlife. Amasl had been forbidden ground to her when she grew up on R'debh, but there were no longer disapproving parents to make her stay away from the clubs and trip-dens.
Parents. She shrugged a grim note from her mood and headed for the door.
XIII
Reva was twelve and learning to control the secret she hid from others. It terrified her at times, but she couldn't get rid of it: where others would daydream, she would fall into timetrance, and see the alternative Nows like strobe-action figures overlaid one atop the other, interbranching pathways that only she could walk upon. It seemed her consciousness traveled the Timelines, moving from this subjective point of view to that one there. Discomforted, she wanted to talk to someone about it but had no words to explain.
For a time she wondered if everyone went through this, this "seeing" of the present in different ways. Once she asked her mother, "How do you get back to the Now you used to have?" but Niva failed to understand the question.
"You can't, dear," her mother replied. "You just make the best of every moment you have, and then go on."
Make the best and go on. It was not exactly the answer Reva needed to hear, but somehow apt. She wondered, after Lita lost her arm, if she could go back to another Now where her schoolmate was whole and uninjured. But it seemed she had passed a major juncture: all the Nows around her included the crippled Lita, and she had no way to spot the stream of reality she had departed from in the kelp beds. It was sobering, and scary.
And even that knowledge didn't help in the least when she became furious with her family.
"I wish you were dead!" Reva remembered shouting from the door of their habitat, before turning and running out to the compound waterlock. She couldn't recall what started it; her temper had always been sharp. That night it flared. Wishing them gone, wishing them away, she fell into the split vision of different Nows. Her dash down the compound passage became a time-distorted run through a nightmare tunnel of light and dark, past rippling half-seen forms, gripped by a confusing sense of shifting as she fled the unpleasantness behind.
The family watersled wasn't at the waterlock. She stumbled to a stop, hot tears streaking her face, and looked for it, disoriented. Had someone borrowed it? Her father had just come home on it. Now she couldn't take it and go for a ride away from the horrible people she had to live with.
She kicked aimlessly around the lock for a time, her quick escape frustrated and her anger spent. Grudgingly, she turned her slow footsteps homeward.
No angry shouts greeted her return. There was a different smell in the air: beldy cakes in moril sauce? A good dish, like restaurant food, and one her mother never bothered to make. Reva walked slowly into the kitchen, expecting the storm of family recrimination to continue.
Niva wasn't there. Someone who resembled her stood at the counter, busy cooking. The woman smiled and frowned at Reva at the same time.
"You're late. Dinner's ready. Go sit."
The girl's mouth opened; nothing came out. This was her Aunt Teana, not her mother. Talking like her mother, though.
The dinner table held only two plates.
"Where is everyone?" Reva ventured.
"It's just us. Jerrik's staying overnight at the deep domes."
Jerrik. Her father. Who had just come home.
With time, Reva learned that her mother had died in childbirth. She had never had a brother named Calin. Her father had asked Teana to raise the infant, because his work took him so often away from home.
With one mad uncontrolled dash, Reva had fled her family, and gone so far across the alternate Lines that she could never hope to pick that one thread out that had been home to her and her family.
She tried to spot the Line, and failed. And didn't dare go hunting for it, for fear of losing even Teana, a familiar face, and ending up even farther from her own reality than she had come already. There was not even the crippled Lita to be her friend in school. Lita did not exist here, either.
Reva never let her anger get the better of her again. But it was weeks before she stopped crying at night, mourning people who had never breathed in this world, and whom she would never see again.
XIV
By the time Yavobo reached the surface the sky had turned aqua, bleaching into orange and yellow clouds where the sunset line Med over the horizon. In the east and overhead a high purple-gray overcast shut out sight of the stars. Dark waters rocked the drylander in a rhythmic chop, an icing of phosphorescence from the plankton-rich sea shining atop each wave crest.
He tore the breather from his face, gasped in clean ocean air with a near-claustrophobic joy, then sculled in circles and tried to get his bearings. The closest shore was at least 100 klicks to the northeast. The only habitations nearby were either too deep to dive to or so far away that Yavobo could not see their dome lights during his ascent. There was no safe haven for him to go to.
Aztrakhani are not noted swimmers. Alone on the darkening sea, only the warrior's iron will kept panic in check
. After another few minutes of treading water, he loosened his flotation belt, recinching it around his chest and under his arms. In that position he could breathe without treading water, an action that would drain his reserves of energy in very little time. Able to think beyond the moment, then, Yavobo drifted with the waves.
The water did not seem too chill, and his leathery skin that protected him from loss of moisture in the desert in some ways now served like the insulating bodysuits the thin-skinned humans wore on this waterworld. The wind was hardly blowing and no storm was brewing, so he was not in outright danger from the elements. He looked to the northeast, where Amasl and safety awaited, somewhere over the curve of the horizon.
His chances of getting there were slim. But better to be striving than to surrender to a fate handed out by nature or an ocean predator. As long as the glow of sunset remained in the west, he could mark his direction. He faced where the distant port must lie, and began to swim with measured, powerful strokes in that direction.
As long as he could swim, he had a fighting chance. But when the sky fell black and overcast hid the few remaining stars from sight, Yavobo had to stop lest he waste his strength moving in circles. Frustration set in, and panic, quickly subdued, and a growing anger. Anger at himself, that he had overlooked whatever ploy had struck down Albek Murs, whom he had vowed to protect. Anger at whatever person had thrust him into this precarious situation, where even a mighty warrior was helpless against the elemental force of the sea, and only chance and the smiling gods could help him.
Most of all, anger that he was forced to terminate a contract he could no longer honor—no, had failed to fulfill—and thus was bound to repay blood-debt to some thin-skin with no understanding of integrity and principle.
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