The Time Stone (The Time Stone Trilogy Book 1)

by Robert F Hays

  Redmond leaned forward and touched Jim lightly on the shoulder. “Jim, the police found a bomb in my transit. They’ve advised me to move into the library with the encyclopedia for a while. Everyone there I’ve known for twenty years or more.”

  “Probably can’t trust them either,” Jim said. “My kids?”

  “Just fine. Only three people know where they are. Myself, the inspector here, and my wife.”

  “One other,” Ouimet said. “Harry Lang, the officer that helped you with your vehicle on the throughway.”

  “Should we be talking about that here?” Jim said. “They listened in last time we talked in the hospital. Inspector, have security measures been taken?”

  “We’re not at the hospital. This is the clinic at city police headquarters. We’re arranging for your transportation to a safe place.”

  “Amy, how’s she?” Jim said.

  “Already gone, we transported her last night,” Ouimet said. “I put Harry in charge of that. We’re limiting information to those we know can be trusted. Your accounts are now under the control of her partner. Fortunately you’ve never met him.”

  Jim lifted an arm and placed it across his face to shield his eyes from the light. “Doc, of those options we talked about, I’m convinced now that it’s Religion. Can’t see why, they’ve all survived scandal before. One of the Catholic popes ran a whore house.”

  “Mr. Young,” Ouimet said, “my police analysts have come to the same conclusion, mainly based on the fact that some were suicide attacks. It’s possibly nothing to do with the past, a radical group that considers your very presence an offense to God.”

  “You mean a sect that thinks I came from hell and not the twenty first century.”

  “That’s the opinion of the analysts, supported by the police computers, but we have nothing much to go on. That man Carson had no religious affiliations. “

  “Oh hell. A bunch of religious wackoes after me.”

  “Yes, it explains the murders of anyone who has talked to you. They probably fear a spread of some diabolical doctrine.”

  “Well, here’s one antichrist that’s going to get the hell out of Dodge. What is it? Did the numbers of my name add up to 666?”

  “We’re arranging that,” the Inspector said.

  “No, no,” Jim said. “I’ll do it myself. Don’t trust anyone. Just give me some fake I.D. and let me go.” Jim swung his legs out of bed and tried to sit.

  “No, Jim,” Redmond said, grabbing him by the shoulder. “This is not like the medical procedure you had at the university. In this case it’s an injury. It takes longer.”

  Jim eased back to a lying position. “How long?”

  “The doctor said at least three days before you can move around.”

  “Mr. Young,” Ouimet said. “Only the doctor, two nurses and three police officers know where you are. All others here believe you to be a felon awaiting transportation to a rehabilitation facility.”

  Jim closed his eyes. He was becoming drowsy. “I want my shooter, ah..., my revolver.”

  “Mr. Young. That’s not wise. You’re under the effect of medications. There’ll be a guard in this room at all times.”

  “Carson,” Jim’s voice was becoming dreamy, “avoided me since the first day. He asked who had sent me on my trip. I told him Uncle Sam. Could that be a local term for the devil? He seemed a little upset when I told him.”

  “Doctor Redmond, could you check on that? It’s more in your field than mine,” Ouimet said.

  * * *

  The room was dark, a shadowy figure sat on a chair, his face lit by the grayish glow of a pad. Jim didn’t recognize him.

  “Who are you?” Jim asked, still half asleep.

  The man looked up. “Police officer Rollinson, Mr. Young.”

  “Oh. How long are you going to be here?”

  “Until morning.”

  “Oh,” Jim replied.

  * * *

  Jim awoke to voices. “You’re not supposed to be relieving me; Jenkins is the one on the roster.”

  “Jenkins is sick,” a second voice said. “Ouimet sent me.”

  “I’ll have to check,” the first replied. “You’ll have to stand outside while I do.”

  “No need. I told you, Ouimet sent me.”

  “Jorn, stand outside as I told you. We have to follow procedures.”

  Jim opened his eyes and looked in the direction of the voices. Two dark figures stood silhouetted by the light from the open door, their shadows appearing on the wall close to the foot of Jim’s bed. One shadow unexpectedly raised an arm followed by the sounds of a scuffle then a snapping sound. Jim saw one of the two men fall to the floor. Rolling himself to the side of the bed away from the remaining man, he slid to the floor. The figure approached in the dark.

  “Mr. Young?” The sound of rustling sheets told Jim that the man was searching the bed. “Where are you?”

  Running footsteps came from the hallway beyond the open door. Jim’s right hand searched frantically for some sort of weapon. The room lit, temporarily blinding him.

  “Rollinson, what the hell happened?” came Ouimet’s voice from the door.

  “Jorn attacked me sir. I had to stun him. Now I can’t find...., oh, here he is.”

  Jim felt a hand on his upper arm aiding him to his feet. Blinking his eyes, he saw Ouimet bending over a body on the floor.

  “At least we have a live one this time. Damn! Jorn Holber.” Ouimet looked up at Jim. “He’s been in my department twelve years, most reliable.” He then turned to the officer in the room. “Rollinson, can you pull a double shift? I now know you can be trusted.”

  “Yes sir,” said the officer helping Jim to an armchair.

  “Inspector,” Jim said, nursing his left arm and moving his position to find the most comfortable. “You could test your men.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Put them in a room alone with me for half an hour. If I come out alive, they can be trusted.”

  Ouimet folded his arms and looked down at the limp officer on the floor. “I see what you mean.”

  Rollinson righted a chair that had been knocked over in the short scuffle. “Sir, is Jenkins really sick?”

  “No, he’s in the duty room reporting in.”

  “Then we could trust him. They wouldn’t have sent Jorn if Jenkins was in whatever this is.”

  Ouimet nodded. “You’re right. I’ll have him come in. Both of you can pull duty. Stay right here.”

  Ouimet left. A few minutes later he returned with a second officer and removed the unconscious body.

  Jim turned to Rollinson. “I guess I can trust the doctor and nurses. One of them could have killed me while they took the bullet out. Does anyone else know I’m here?”

  “Just the third officer, but he was here alone with you for eight hours. Also my um..., wife. I tell her everything. She’s not the gossiping type.”

  Jim frowned. “Was she ever in trouble when she was younger?”

  “Yes, her parents tell me she was a real problem, depressed and moody all the time. All of a sudden she came out of it. That was just before I met her.”

  Jim felt a jolt of recognition hearing the, now familiar, background. “That’s exactly what they said about two other intended assassins.”

  Rollinson pulled out a pen phone and gave it a string of numbers. Two minutes later he was still waiting.

  “She.. ah.. should be home. She never goes out this early.”

  * * *

  When the other officers returned, Rollinson left with Ouimet. Jim sat for two hours without taking his eyes off Jenkins.

  Ouimet returned, his sullen look confirmed Jim’s suspicions. “Mr. Young. You were right, the same history with all of them. The man at the mall, Carson, Holber, now Rollinson’s wife is missing. Left two young children at home and just disappeared.”

  “That officer that got stunned?” Jim said.

  “Jorn woke up. He’s now in a catatonic state. Just star
es at the walls, will not say a word. I can not figure this one out.”

  “I can, religious mental conditioning. We had cults on Old Earth whose followers would do anything they were told. Maybe that’s what they want to stop me from revealing, another Jim Jones.”

  “No, we’ve had them come and go too. That information would not cause any problems. Their intentions and practices are blatantly obvious.”

  “Why couldn’t I have brought the recipe for cool aide with me?” Jim thought for a few seconds. “I’m getting out of here,” he announced, inspecting his hospital style outfit.

  “Mr. Young. You do not know how to get along in this time.”

  “I’ll learn,” he snapped. “Do you have something like cash here? I don’t want to use a bank account, too easily traced.”

  “Yes, we have G disks. But you can not carry many of them, too hazardous. You would be a target for criminals.”

  “I’ll take my chances. I’m a target anyway.”

  “Mr. Young. The police force can not hold you. You’re a private citizen, but we advise against it.”

  “Where’s my gun?” A firm resolution on the decided course of action was now showing in Jim’s tone of voice.

  “All of your firearms, and ammunition, are in the impound room in this building.”

  “Bring me my Colt, my cloths, my I.D. and show me the back door.”

  “Ah..., it is illegal to carry a weapon without a permit.”

  “It’s not a weapon. It’s an ancient artifact, a work of art, a museum piece, and I’m a collector.”

  “Well... Mr. Young that’s a fine point of law but...”

  “Would you get me my museum piece?”

  “Yes Mr. Young. I can not say I agree with this, but... have you any plans?”

  “Yep, best you don’t know.”

  * * *

  Jim dressed, restricted by the mild discomfort in his shoulder. He checked his pockets. In the first he found four styles he had been using for inventory. In the second was his pen phone and in another the short distance remote control for his transit.

  Ouimet left the room returning a few minutes later with his Colt and an identification disk along with a style which he was told contained his new, but temporary, family history.

  The Colt fit neatly inside his inner jacket pocket. He found that if he left the jacket half open the bulge was barely noticeable.

  Jim followed the inspector to a lift tube, then down to the first floor and to a door that didn’t open on their approach.

  “Do not tell anyone I gave you these. They’re from the impound room, stolen property.” Ouimet handed Jim a pile of small green plastic chips. They were each printed with denominations, fives, tens and fifties. “There’s about three hundred G there.”

  “Thanks, but will people take these? They look easier to forge than those invitations.”

  “Their looks are deceptive; the imprinted coding is very complex. The people who use them are mainly those who have just arrived on planet who do not as yet have a local bank account.”

  “Thanks again inspector. Could you open the door?”

  “Voice print Ouimet, open.”

  The door opened.

  “See you later inspector, good luck.”

  “You’re the one that’ll need the luck. I would like to try one more time to talk you out of this foolishness.”

  “No.” Jim reached out and gripped the inspector’s shoulder. “Tell Doc Redmond what’s going on.” He then turned and walked out the door which slid shut behind him.

  Chapter 11

  It was a beautiful day. It always was. The planet’s weather control demanded it. The late afternoon sun gleamed from the facades of the immaculate glass buildings. Greenery was the most impressive aspect of the city. Trees bordered the street. The roofs of buildings accommodated exotic gardens. Recessed entrances, their walkways lined with shrubs and a fascinating array of flowers led to ornate lobbies.

  The design of the buildings themselves displayed gentle curves which blended one to another, as well as with the greenery. The only straight lines he could see were purely utilitarian. The subtle undulation of the skyline was in distinct contrast to the annoying sharp angles of Old Earth cities. Jim’s eyes followed the side of a nearby building and continued in an upward curving but unbroken line to the roof over an outdoor restaurant next door. The shapes and contours changed as he walked and observed the city’s features from different perspectives, but no matter where his location the structures blended and complemented their surroundings.

  Jim’s head jerked to the side. A building which, at first, seemed to harmonize with the ones to its left, suddenly, visually divorced itself from that system and became part of a small cluster to its right rear. Jim took a few paces back to again observe the perceptual affect, then mentally slapped himself for acting like a Kansas farm boy on his first trip to New York.

  He wandered along the relatively crowded sidewalk of the business district, observing the people as they passed going about their normal routine. He needed to accumulate as much information on their habits as possible. His first simple observation was that, even though their vehicles traveled on the right hand side of the road, they walked on the left. They didn’t walk quickly; they strolled, as if in a park. This was possibly due to a more relaxed way of life in this time. Jim slowed his pace to match the lethargic tempo of the crowd.

  Transits and utilities dashed past, all carrying equally unruffled people. Jim thought that if it wasn’t for his present problems he might like it here. Jim’s chemically assisted, three week old beard seemed to be working as a disguise. After half a kilometer, no one had given him so much as a second look. The occasional male passer-by also exhibited a growth of facial hair. Jim studied them out of the corner of his eye. The fashion seemed to be short on the sides and long at the bottom. He took a mental note to trim it slightly to conform.

  Another thing he noticed was that people made eye contact with complete strangers. When it happened, a simple smile and a slight nod seemed customary. This was something he thought may cause a problem under his present circumstance, so he issued himself an order not to indulge in instant paranoia when this occurred.

  He had no immediate plan; just walk and see what turned up. The overall strategy required careful thought. There were a few things he wanted from his house and transit, but that could wait until tomorrow.

  He walked for three hours, occasionally taking a moving sidewalk. There were discrete areas where one had to travel by foot. Moving sidewalks connected these sectors.

  A woman stopped on the side of the road and pulled out her pen phone. Jim strained an ear to hear her talk. “Traffic net,” a couple of seconds pause. “Sara Shepard,” a few more seconds then. “Come to this location.”

  Jim thought ‘could she be calling for her transit?’ He waited trying his best to act nonchalant. Three minutes later a passenger-less transit arrived. After giving the open command she got in. It pulled away from the curb, accelerated to match the speed of the passing traffic, then disappeared around a corner.

  “Interesting,” Jim thought.

  A blue bench seat by the roadside caught Jim’s attention. He was tiring so it was a convenient place to sit and observe. Within a few minutes a large vehicle pulled up. Jim had seen these before and had correctly guessed that they were busses. A wide door in the side opened directly in front of him. He sat and waited. So did the bus. Several passengers turned in their seats and glared at him. One stood, stuck his head out the door and announced: “Well, get in.”

  “I… ah… don’t need to go anywhere right now,” Jim said.

  “Don’t?” the man said. “Hey farmhand, get the yack off the seat! You’re holding us up!”

  “Oops.... sorry.” Jim hastily apologized and jumped to his feet, briskly moving a short distance away.

  “Wait for your tractor some place else,” the irate passenger called after him.

  His eyes met with a female
bystander’s smiling face. She pointed to the seat. “Pressure sensitive. Sit on it and the bus stops for you. Don’t worry, did the same thing myself when I first moved here from Concord.”

  Jim kicked a foot in an aw shucks fashion. “These big cities take a lot of getting used to.”

  “You’ll catch on,” she flashed him a quick wink, turned, and continued on her way.

  Jim had plenty to learn about the simple art of being inconspicuous. He looked around to see if anyone else noticed what had happened. There were no eyes aimed in his direction. A feeling of anxiety compelled him to walk as close as possible to the line of bushes in front of the buildings. The bus incident had been his first screw up and it bothered him.

  At about noon Jim decided it was time to eat. He had not eaten breakfast at the police station. Too afraid someone would try to poison him. A restaurant sign caught his eye, so he entered. People sat at tables around the room in exactly the same fashion as a restaurant on Earth. Jim picked a vacant seat at the far end where he could watch the front door. A pad hung on the wall next to the table. He picked it up and read the menu.

  “Are you ready to order sir?” asked the computer voice from a cube in the middle of the table. Jim opened his mouth, then shut it again. ‘voice print’ he thought to himself. ‘They’re all over the place and into everything. They could have voice print identifiers anywhere.’

  He got up and left. For another hour he strolled the streets. Another restaurant sign caught his attention. ‘Jenny’s Old Earth Diner’. In small print beneath the sign he read: ‘A Young Franchise Restaurant.’ It was new. Jim took a quick glance in the window catching sight of a waitress in a light blue dress.

  “Take their franchise if I see one talking computer in the place,” he muttered.

  At least a dozen people stood at the ‘Wait Here to be Seated’ sign. Jim took his place at the end of the line. Thirty minutes later a hostess led him to a seat and handed him a plastic coated menu.