* * *
They came to a kind of encampment a hundred meters or so from the fortress wall. Here a conical tent of netting had been erected. A group of soldiers stood casually around, smoking foul-smelling cigarettes. Lean, grimy, the backs of their necks shaven, the troops gazed at Abdikadir and Bisesa with the usual mixture of curiosity and lust.
Something was moving inside the netting, Bisesa saw—something alive, an animal perhaps—but the setting sun had touched the horizon, and the light was too low, the shadows too long for her to make it out.
At White's command, the netting was pulled back. Bisesa had been expecting to see a supporting pole. Instead, a silvery sphere, apparently floating unsupported in the air, had provided the tent's apex. None of the locals gave the sphere a second glance. Abdikadir stepped forward, squinted at his reflection in the floating sphere, and passed his hand underneath it. There was nothing holding the sphere up. "You know," he said, "on any other day this would seem unusual."
Bisesa's gaze was drawn to the floating anomaly, to her own distorted face reflected in its surface. This is the key, she thought, the notion bursting without warning into her mind.
Josh touched her arm. "Bisesa, are you all right?"
Bisesa was distracted by his accent, which sounded to her ears JFK-Bostonian, but his face seemed to show genuine concern. She laughed without humor. "In the circumstances, I think I'm doing pretty well."
"You're missing the show..." He meant the creatures on the ground, and she tried to focus.
At first Bisesa thought they were chimps, but of light, almost gracile build. Bonobos, perhaps. One was small, the other larger; the big one cradled the little one. At a gesture from Grove, two squaddies stepped forward and pulled the baby away, grabbed the mother's wrists and ankles, and stretched her out on the ground. The creature kicked and spat.
The "chimp" was a biped.
"Holy shit," Bisesa murmured. "Do you think that's an australopithecine?"
"A Lucy, yes," Abdikadir murmured. "But the pithecines have been extinct for—what? A million years?"
"Is it possible a band of them have somehow survived in the wild, in the mountains maybe—"
He looked at her, his eyes wells of darkness. "You don't believe that."
"No, I don't."
"You see?" White shouted excitedly. "You see the man-ape? What is this but another—time slip?"
Bisesa stepped forward, and peered into the haunting eyes of the older pithecine. She was straining to reach the child, she saw. "I wonder what she's thinking."
Abdikadir grunted. " 'There goes the neighborhood.' "
8. On Orbit
AFTER HOURS OF FRUITLESS calling, Musa sat back in his couch.
The three cosmonauts lay side by side, like huge orange bugs in their spacesuits. For once the coziness of the Soyuz capsule, the way they were pressed against each other, was comforting rather than confining.
"I don't understand it," Musa said.
"You said that already," Sable murmured.
There was a grim silence. Since the moment they had lost contact, the atmosphere between them had been explosive.
After three months of living in such close quarters, Kolya had come to understand Sable, he thought. Aged forty, Sable came from a poor New Orleans family with a complicated genetic history. Some of the Russians who had served with her admired the strength of character that had taken her so far—even now, in NASA's Astronaut Office, to be anything other than male and WASP was a disadvantage. Other cosmonauts, less charitable, joked about how launch weight manifests had to be recalculated if Sable was onboard, on account of the immense chip she carried on her shoulder. Most agreed that if she had been Russian she would never have passed the psychological tests required for every cosmonaut to prove suitable for space duty.
During the three-month tour on Station, Kolya himself had gotten on fairly well with Sable, perhaps because they were opposite types. Kolya was a serving Air Force officer, and he had a young family in Moscow. To him, spaceflight was an adventure, but what drove him were loyalty to his family and duty to his country, and he was content to let his career develop where it would. Kolya recognized a fierce, burning ambition in Sable, which would not be satisfied, surely, until she had reached the pinnacles of her profession: command of Clavius Base, or perhaps even a seat on a Mars flight. Perhaps Sable had seen Kolya as no threat to her own glittering progress.
But he had learned to be wary of her. And now, in this awkward, frightening situation, he waited for her to explode.
Musa clapped his gloved hands together, taking command. "I think it is obvious we won't be proceeding to reentry just yet. We should not worry. In the olden days Soviet craft would only have contact with their ground controllers for twenty minutes of every ninety-minute orbit, and so the Soyuz was designed to function independently—"
"Maybe the fault isn't with us," Sable said. "What if it's on the ground?"
Musa scoffed. "What fault could possibly take out a whole chain of ground stations?"
"A war," said Kolya.
Musa said firmly, "Such speculation is useless. In time, whatever the fault, the ground will reestablish contact, and we will return to our flight plan. All we have to do is wait. But in the meantime we have work to do." He rummaged under his seat for a copy of the on-orbit checklist.
He was right, Kolya realized; the little ship wouldn't run itself, and if it was to be stuck up here in orbit for one more revolution—or two, or three?—its crew would have to help it function. Was the compartment's pressure appropriate, was the mixture of gases correct? Was the ship rotating properly as it followed the great curve of its orbit, so that its solar panels tracked the sun? All these things had to be ensured.
Soon the three of them had settled into a familiar, and somehow reassuring, routine of checks—as if, after all, they were in control of their destiny, Kolya thought.
But the fact was that everything had changed, and it couldn't be ignored.
The Soyuz was floating into the shadow of the planet again. Kolya peered through his window, looking for the orange-yellow glow of cities, hoping for reassurance. But the land was dark.
9. Paradox
JOSH WAS INTRIGUED BY this woman from the future—if that was what she was! Bisesa's face was handsome and well proportioned, if not beautiful, her nose strong and her jaw square; but her eyes were clear, her cut-short hair lustrous. She had a strength about her, even physically, that he had seen in no woman before: faced with this unprecedented situation, she was confident, if edgy with fatigue.
As the evening wore on, he took to following her around, puppylike.
It had been a long day—the longest of Bisesa's life, she said, even if she had lost a few hours—and Captain Grove's advice that the newcomers should be allowed to eat and rest seemed wise. But they insisted they had work to do before resting.
Abdikadir wanted to check on Casey, the other pilot. And he wanted to return to the machine they called their 'Little Bird.' "I have to erase the memory banks of the electronic gear," he said. "There's sensitive data in there, especially the avionics..."
Josh was entranced by this talk of intelligent machines, and he imagined the air full of invisible telegraph wires, transmitting mysterious and important messages hither and yon.
Grove was inclined to allow the request. "I can't see how we can be harmed by allowing the destruction of what I don't understand anyhow," he said dryly. "And besides—you say it is your duty, Warrant Officer. I respect that. Time and space may flow like toffee, but duty endures."
For her part Bisesa wanted to retrace the track her helicopter had taken, she said, before the crash. "We were shot down. I think that was just after we noticed the sun dancing around the sky. So—you see? If we've somehow come through some, some barrier in time, then whoever shot at us must be on this side too..."
Grove thought this jaunt would be better left until morning, for he could see Bisesa's fatigue as well as Josh could. But Bise
sa didn't want to stop moving—not yet—as if to stop would be to accept the extraordinary reality of the situation. So Grove approved the mission. Josh's respect for the man's judgment and compassion grew; Grove understood what was going on here no better than anybody else, but he was clearly trying to deal with the simple human needs of the people who had, literally, fallen out of the sky into his domain.
A field party was drawn together: Bisesa, with Josh and Ruddy, both of whom insisted on accompanying her, and a small squad of privates under the nominal command of the Geordie private Batson, who, it seemed, might have impressed Grove enough that day to earn a promotion.
By the time they set out from the fort the dark was gathering. The soldiers carried oil lamps and burning torches. They walked directly east from the site of the chopper's crash. Bisesa had estimated the distance at no more than a mile.
The lights of the fort receded, and the Frontier dusk opened up around them, huge and empty. But Josh could see thick black mounds of cloud on every horizon.
He hurried beside Bisesa. "If it is true—"
"What?"
"This business of slipping through time—you, and the man-ape creatures—how do you think it can have happened?"
"I've no idea. And I'm not sure if I'd rather be a castaway in time or a victim of a nuclear war. Anyhow," she said briskly, "how do you know you're not the castaway?"
Josh quailed. "I never thought of that. You know, I can scarcely believe I am even holding this conversation! If you had told me this morning that before I slept this night I would see a flying machine powerful enough to carry people inside it—and that those people would, and plausibly too, claim to be from a future a century and a half hence—I would have thought you were insane!"
"But if it's true," Ruddy said insistently, jogging alongside them—never very fit, he was panting a little—"if it's true, there's so much you know, so much you could tell us! For our future is your past."
She shook her head. "I've seen too many movies. Have you never heard of the chronology protection conjecture?"
Josh was baffled, as was Ruddy.
Bisesa said, "I guess you don't even know what a movie is, let alone know Terminator... Look—some people think that if you go back in time and change something, so that the future you came from can't exist any more, you could cause a huge catastrophe."
"I don't understand," Josh confessed.
"Suppose I told you where my great-great-great-grandmother lives, right now, in 1885. Then you go out, find her, and shoot her."
"Why would I do that?"
"Never mind! But if you did, I would never be born—and so I could never come back to tell you about my grandmother—and you'd never shoot her. In which case—"
"It's a paradox of logic," Ruddy breathed. "How delightful! But if we promise not to molest your grandmother, can you tell us nothing of ourselves?"
Josh scoffed. "How would she ever have heard of us, Ruddy?"
Ruddy looked thoughtful. "I have the feeling that she has, you know—heard of me at any rate. A chap knows when he's been recognized!"
But Bisesa would say no more.
As the last daylight seeped away, and the stars receded to infinity above them, the little party grew closer together, the soldiers' bantering talk subdued, their lanterns held high. They were walking into strangeness, thought Josh. It wasn't just that they couldn't know who lay out there, or where they were going. They couldn't even be sure when they would find themselves... He thought they all seemed relieved when they passed a low hill and the rising Moon, a quarter full, shed a cold light on the rocky plain. But the air was strange, turbulent, and the Moon's face an odd yellow-orange.
"Here," said Bisesa suddenly. She had stopped before a scraping in the ground. Stepping closer, Josh saw that the earth was fresh and moist, as if recently dug.
"It's a foxhole," Ruddy said. He hopped down into the hole, and brandished a length of pipe, like a bit of drainpipe. "And is this the fearsome weapon that shot you out of the sky?"
"That's the RPG launcher, yes." She peered east. "There was a village just over there. A hundred meters, no more." The soldiers held up their lanterns. There was no village to be seen, nothing but the rocky plain that seemed to stretch to the horizon. "Perhaps there is a boundary near here," Bisesa breathed. "A boundary in time. What a strange thought. What is happening to us...?" She lifted her face to the Moon. "Oh. Clavius is gone."
Josh was at her side. "Clavius?"
"Clavius Base." She pointed. "Built into a big old crater in the southern highlands."
Josh stared. "You have cities on the Moon?"
She smiled. "I wouldn't call it a city. But you can see its light, like a captured star, the only one in the circle of the crescent Moon. Now it's gone. That isn't even my Moon. There is a crew on Mars, and a second on the way—or there was. I wonder what's become of them..."
There was a grunt of disgust. One of the soldiers had been rooting at the bottom of the foxhole, and now emerged with what looked like a piece of meat, still dripping blood. The stink was sharp.
"A human arm," Ruddy said flatly. He turned away and vomited.
Josh said, "It looks to me like the work of a great cat... It seems that whoever attacked you did not live long to enjoy his triumph."
"I suppose he was as lost as I am."
"Yes. I apologize for Ruddy. He doesn't have a very strong stomach for such sights."
"No. And he never will."
Josh looked at her; her eyes were full of moonlight, her expression empty. "What do you mean?"
"He was right. I do know who he is. You're Rudyard Kipling, aren't you? Rudyard bloody Kipling. My God, what a day."
Ruddy didn't respond. He was hunched over, still retching, and bile stained his chin.
At that moment the ground trembled, hard enough to raise little clouds of dust everywhere, like invisible footfalls. And rain began to fall, from thick black clouds that came racing across the Moon's empty face.
Part Two: CASTAWAYS IN TIME
10. Geometry
FOR BISESA THE FIRST morning was the worst.
She suspected that some combination of adrenaline and shock had kept her going through the day of what they were starting to call the Discontinuity. But that night, in the room given to them by Grove, a hastily converted storeroom, she had slept badly on her thin down-stuffed mattress. By the next morning, when she had reluctantly woken up to find herself still here, she had come crashing down from her adrenaline high, and felt inconsolable. The second night, at Abdi's insistence, desperate for sleep, she cracked her survival gear. She donned earplugs and eye shades, swallowed a Halcyon tablet—what Casey called a "Blue Bomber"—and slept for ten hours.
But as the days passed, Bisesa, Abdikadir and Casey were still stuck here in the Jamrud fort. They had no contact on any of their military wavelengths, Bisesa's phone muttered about its continuing cauterization, no SAR teams came flapping out of the UN base in response to their patiently bleeping beacons—there was no medevac for Casey. And there was not a single contrail to be seen in the sky, not one.
She spent most of her time missing Myra, her daughter. She didn't even want to confront those feelings, as if acknowledging them would make her separation from Myra real. She longed to have something to do—anything to stop her thinking.
Meanwhile life went on.
After the first couple of days, when it was obvious the Bird crew had no hostile intent, the British troops' close military scrutiny of them was relaxed a little, though Bisesa suspected Captain Grove was too wary a commander not to keep a weathered eye on them. They certainly weren't allowed anywhere near the small stash of twenty-first-century pistols, submachine guns, flares and the like that had been extracted from the Bird. But she thought it probably helped these nineteenth-century British accept them that Casey was a white American and that both Bisesa and Abdi could be regarded as belonging to "allied" races. If the Bird's crew had been Russian, German or Chinese, say—and there
were plenty of such troops in Clavius—there might have been more hostility.
But when she thought about it Bisesa was astonished even to be considering such issues, culture clashes spanning the nineteenth and twenty-first centuries. The whole business was surreal; she felt as if she was walking around in a bubble. And she was continually amazed at how easily everyone else accepted their situation, the blunt, apparently undeniable reality of the time slips, across a hundred and fifty years in her case, perhaps across a million years or more for the wretched pithecine and her infant in their net cage.
Abdikadir said, "I don't think the British understand all this at all, and maybe we understand too well. When H. G. Wells published The Time Machine in 1895—ten years ahead in this time zone!—he had to spend twenty or thirty pages explaining what a time machine does. Not how it works, you see, but just what it is. For us there has been a process of acculturation. After a century of science fiction you and I are thoroughly accustomed to the idea of time travel, and can immediately accept its implications—strange though the experience is to actually live through."
"But that doesn't apply to these Victorian-age Brits. To them a Model T Ford would be a fabulous vehicle from the future."
"Sure. I think for them, the time slips and their implications are simply beyond their imaginations... But if H. G. Wells was here—did he ever visit India?—of all thinkers, his mind might explode with the implications of what is happening..."
None of this rationalization seemed to help Bisesa. Maybe the truth was that Abdikadir and everybody else felt just as peculiar as she did, but they were just better at hiding it.
Ruddy, though, sympathized with her disorientation. He told her he was occasionally afflicted by hallucinations.
"When I was a child, stranded in an unhappy foster home in England, I once began to punch a tree. Odd behavior I grant you, but nobody understood that I was trying to see if it was my grandmother! More recently in Lahore I came down with a fever that may have been malaria, and since then, on occasion, my 'blue devils' have returned. So I know how it is to be plagued by the unreal." As he spoke to her he leaned forward, intent, his eyes distorted by the thick spectacles Josh called "gig-lamps." "But you are real enough for me. I'll tell you what to do about it—work!" He held up stubby fingers stained black with ink. "Sixteen hours a day I put in sometimes. Work, the best bulwark for reality..."
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