The Time Stone (The Time Stone Trilogy Book 1)

by Robert F Hays

  “Your call?” the computer asked.

  “Transportation net,” Jim replied, imitating the lady he had overheard the day before.

  A couple of seconds later he heard a second computer voice. “Voice print identification please.”

  “Jim Young.”

  “Your vehicle command Mr. Young?”

  “Come to this location. What is the travel time?”

  “Fourteen point two minutes. Any further commands?”

  “No.”

  The next part of the plan was to wait for the transit to pass with his short distance remote in hand. After ten minutes he saw it on the off ramp of the throughway. As the vehicle approached to within a block he activated the remote. “Temporary stop at this location.”

  The transit immediately pulled over right in front of him.

  “Open right,” Jim commanded when it came to a halt.

  The door opened and Jim dove in. Grabbing a small carry bag from one case he filled it with the necessary items. First was a change of clothing and half a dozen styles containing general information he had recorded. The final item was a small china plate, carefully wrapped in packing material. While exiting the vehicle Jim noticed an Old Earth style paper note stuck to the dashboard. He grabbed it and put it in his pocket. No time to read until clear of the area.

  “Main, continue to destination, wait five minutes, then go home.”

  The door shut and Jim turned and sprinted toward an alley. He was following an escape route described to him in detail by Phil. They met at a predetermined rendezvous point, an alley, some distance away. Jim’s three friends were already there when he arrived, sitting on plastic packing cases, good stuff in hand.

  “Anyone come to meet my transit?”

  “Sure did,” Halbert said, reaching for a container. “Mean looking guys, three of them. Hung around for five minutes then they got a call on a pen phone and took off in a hurry.” Halbert opened the container and took a drink. “Phil recognized one of them.”

  “Sure did,” Phil said, reaching for the container. “Have seen him a couple of times at a mission. He is an elder at the Children of the Prophet Elijah Church.”

  “Bingo!” shouted Jim while clenching a fist and waving it in the air.

  “Who’s Bing?” Alfred asked.

  “Just an Old Earth expression. Did they see you?”

  “Yes.” Halbert leaned back against the building wall and grinned. “But who takes any notice of three drunks sitting in the entrance to an alley, passing it around?”

  “One thing I noticed,” Phil added. “That elder, he had the strangest look on his face.”

  Jim remembered the mind control angle he had thought of the day before. “What, sort of dopey, like he was in a trance or something?”

  “No, it was kind of mean, like he would have killed his mother. At the mission he always had a pleasant smile and a soft voice and said kind things like ‘are you well brother’ and ‘anything I can do to help?’ This time he was giving orders like a Ranger combat instructor.” Phil mimicked a sneer and looked around pointing a finger here and there.

  “My next task is money,” Jim said, taking out his pen phone. “I suppose I just stick this thing in a bank outlet then grab the money and run for it before someone comes.”

  “How much money?” Alfred asked, taking his turn at the good stuff.

  “Five thousand I suppose.”

  “Takes too long. They would be on you before you got it.”

  “How come, doesn’t it just pop out when you stick the pen phone in?”

  “Not that much. First it takes a retinal scan for anything over one hundred G. Then it has to wait for that amount to arrive. The machine does not carry much in cash; it comes from a bank through a series of pipes.” He turned to Phil. “How long would you say it took them to get to the phone?”

  “About eight minutes.”

  “Jim, it takes six to ten minutes to get that amount of cash from a machine. That would be cutting things a little close.”

  “Damn!” Jim exclaimed and started pacing. Phil offered him the container, but Jim shook his head. A clear mind was needed for the things he had to do today. Everyone was silent and deep in thought. Jim sat on a vacant packing crate and leaned up against a wall.

  “I have got it,” Halbert announced, waving a hand like a young schoolboy wanting to use the restroom. “There’s a one way back street with a machine. Every evening a transport stops to unload at the entrance to the street. The place it services has no docking bay and the transport blocks the street. I guess they re-route the traffic. That’d give you the time. They’d have to walk. Even at a full run it would give you the extra minutes you need.”

  “Hmmm, that could work. Escape routes?”

  “Plenty. You can go down the street and through a narrow walkway. We could stand guard and warn you if someone comes.”

  “Shall we go?” Jim said, standing and dusting his backside through force of habit even though it was unnecessary.

  Phil peered at the almost empty container. “Are we picking up something on the way?”

  Jim smiled. “What else?”

  * * *

  They entered the selected street. Halbert pointed out where the truck would stop. One hundred and fifty meters from the entrance they turned right into a small side street. The machine was in a wall five meters from the corner so Jim could not see where the transport would park. Alfred acted as lookout around the corner, while Phil and Halbert positioned themselves at the end of the side street, covering that approach. Halbert carried Jim’s bags just in case, so it wouldn’t slow him down if he had to run for it.

  They were in an area where the business district gave way to residences. Some distance down the street he could see children playing. This worried Jim. In case of a gun battle it would be preferable to have no one in sight.

  The foursome had walked through a section of low income housing on the way. The area surprised Jim. On Old Earth, a classification of middle class residential would have applied.

  “It just arrived. Do it now!” Alfred called from around the corner. Jim immediately inserted his pen phone into the appropriate slot of the machine.

  “Type of transaction?” the machine asked.

  “Withdrawal, cash disks.”

  “State your name for voice print identification.”

  “Jim Young.”

  “Amount?”

  “Five thousand G.”

  “Denominations?”

  “Thousand G disks.”

  “Look into the green panel marked scanner for retinal scan.”

  Jim looked.

  “Identity confirmed. It will take eight minutes thirty seconds to complete the requested transaction.”

  Jim folded his arms and paced nervously. “Anyone coming?”

  “Not yet!”

  These were some of the longest minutes Jim had ever spent. He glanced at his watch. Seven minutes down.

  “Someone’s coming!” he heard Alfred’s warning and thumped on the machine with his fist.

  “Come on, come on,” Jim muttered. “How many of them?”

  “Just one and he’s running fast.”

  Jim heard a buzzing noise from the bank outlet and drew his Colt. “This’ll be close.” He glanced down the side street to verify his escape route. “No time Alfred, I’m going to have to shoot it out with him.”

  Jim heard Alfred’s voice around the corner. “Spare a disk for an out of lucker sir?”

  Then a different voice. “Out of my way!”

  “Just a ten MG disk sir it will bring you luck.”

  “Get out of my way! I have no cash!”

  The machine buzzed again and the disks dropped into a receptacle. Jim grabbed them and sprinted for a recessed doorway. He ducked to his right just as he heard the crack of a laser pistol and saw the beam pass over his shoulder. Taking cover in the recess, he raised the Colt.

  A quick peek attracted another shot which burned a
hole in the wall. His action had been a success, he had located the attacker. Sticking his Colt around the corner he took a blind shot. The sound of a bullet hitting flesh, a sort of thwack announced a hit. Jim dove around the corner, gun at the ready. The man’s face was a mess. The snap shot had resulted in a direct hit. He lay on his back in the roadway, obviously dead.

  “Get him Jim?” came Alfred’s voice from around the corner.

  “Sure did!”

  A moment after Jim replied he heard a loud pop from behind. Turning around, pistol at the ready, he looked down at a second man, sprawled face down on the ground. Behind the man stood Phil and Halbert. Phil had a broken container in his right hand. Liquid splattered the back of the man, as well as the sidewalk and nearby walls.

  “Such a waste,” Phil said despondently while looking at the now empty, broken container.

  A laser pistol lay a few centimeters from the man’s hand. He made a motion toward it.

  “Don’t try for it. As you can see, this relic does make big holes.” The man looked up and glared in silence. “Sorry for asking, but I’m curious. Why are you trying to kill me?”

  The man continued to glare for a moment then said: “You’re the son of Satan.”

  Jim shook his head. “A little mistaken identity here. My father’s name was Robert.”

  The man grabbed for the pistol but Jim’s Colt was faster. He lay just as dead as his partner.

  “Shall we get out of here?” Alfred slapped Jim on the back. “There was a third one, remember?”

  The four men bolted down the side street which came to a dead end. A narrow walkway ran between two buildings. The other end of the walkway emptied into a main street. Turning right, they slowed to a walk.

  “What now?” Jim asked.

  Alfred lifted a hand and raised his index finger. “Just wait. It’s a little bit further.”

  Two hundred meters down the road, Alfred stopped at a door. He gave it a thump with the butt of his fist and slid it open. “In here. Wait until about three in the morning, then come out and take a bus to the spaceport. We’ll take off. If the police stop us, we’ll tell them about the tall, short, fat, thin man we saw headed that way,” he said jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

  Jim exhaled; he knew that this was their parting. He had grown fond of his new friends and didn’t know what to say. “Thanks for everything.” He reached in a pocket and retrieved a handful if disks. Sorting through them he picked out a thousand. Handing it to Alfred he said. “Here, take this, divide it up.”

  All three shook their heads. “If the police find that much cash on us we’d be run in for sure. But...” Alfred reached out and took a ten G disk. “...this much’ll buy us tomorrow’s good stuff.”

  The three turned and quickly walked away. Jim watched them go then shut the door.

  He found himself in a small empty room, a storeroom by the look of it. He set his alarm wristwatch for 3 a.m., then picked a corner, sat and tried to sleep.

  * * *

  Jim awoke to the twittering sound of the watch alarm. He looked at it. 3 a.m. Getting to his feet, he stretched then winced at the pain in his back and injured shoulder. “Fine way for a billionaire to spend the night.”

  He opened his bag and took out his newer outfit. One shake removed all the wrinkles and creases. Changing quickly, he left the old outfit in a corner, hoping that Alfred, or one of the others, would find it.

  The door opened easily and Jim first looked left and right then took off at a walk down the road.

  It was a pleasant night. Jim strolled the streets. The soft yellow lighting reminded him of the sodium street lights of Old Earth. Due to their placement, they cast little in the way of shadows from any object in the area. He felt safe at this late hour, thinking to himself that even crazed killers have to sleep sometimes.

  He found a blue bench and, looking around, saw a box on a pole. A sign marked INFORMATION was above it with a touch pad in the center.

  Jim thought: ‘Is this a self-contained thing or does it hook up with a central system? If there is a hook up, is there some damn computer laying in wait for my voice print. Better not take any chances.’

  Jim sat on the bench as far from the box as possible. Two busses came and went. Each time, Jim jumped up and walked away from the bench to let them pass.

  “Come on, come on,” he said to himself, “when will someone show up. I can’t sit here all night.”

  Suddenly he remembered the piece of paper he had found in his transit. He took it from his pocket and read.

  Mr. Young

  My name is Silus Roundtree. I am Amy’s partner and am now handling your account. To give you an update, I have, using your power of attorney, formed the Young Art company. We have your art books on Vincent Van Gogh, Maxfield Parrish, and Peter Paul Rubens. The paintings have been reproduced and enlarged. Advanced sales have, so far, amounted to four point two million Gs.

  We have a problem with your volume The Complete Works of Shakespeare. Much of the language cannot be understood now and requires your services to translate. An offer of four million G is under consideration from the Regalis Players, depending on the conversion. The Young Encyclopedia has stressed the importance of this author, so we are anxious to create an understandable version.

  Your containers of beer have caused quite an uproar. New strains of brewers yeast have been reconstituted from DNA fragments, which I understand can reproduce the distinctive flavors of the products. It was also a surprise to find out that rice was one of the ingredients. To take full advantage of this, I have purchased a small brewing company on Regalis. I have sent them one of your paper books entitled, Home Brewing Made Easy. It has an extensive chapter on some commercial procedures, which I understand are quite helpful. Hoping we are able to keep in touch.

  Silus Roundtree.

  Jim laughed out loud. “They keep throwing money at me. Hope I live to spend it.”

  After twenty minutes of waiting a man sat down at the same bench and started to read the pad he was carrying. The man was wearing a business suit, but was out somewhat earlier than most office workers. He seemed aggravated about something, possibly the early hour he was on his way to work.

  “Excuse me sir,” Jim said, making his best representation of a blank look. In a slow voice he asked: “How do I get to the spaceport?”

  The man, without looking up, jerked his right thumb in the direction of the box. “Just touch the control and ask it. All the information you need is in that.”

  “I don’t know how it works?” Jim’s blank look changed to one of pitiful questioning.

  The man reached out and touched the pad.

  “Destination?” the box requested.

  “Tell it.”

  “Ah... spaceport,” Jim mumbled.

  “No, louder... oh...” The man turned and in a brusque tone said, “...Spaceport.”

  “Take the 216A bus which arrives in six minutes. Transfer at the Colby terminal to the 34 tube train. The trip will take one hour and forty eight minutes and will cost eighteen transport credits. Make sure you use the transfer payment scanner. Thank you for riding the city transport.”

  “Thank you sir. I’m new here. I’m from Concord.”

  “I never would have guessed if you had not told me,” the man said then returned to reading his pad.

  The 216A bus arrived. Jim jumped up quickly so that he could get on first. He climbed the step and stopped at the two scanners, one marked local, the other transfer. He placed his card in the one marked transfer and stood waiting. He knew nothing would happen but he stood there anyway. After a few seconds he turned to the man now standing in back of him and gave the same pitiful look.

  The man slapped the handrail in exasperation, leaned around Jim and yelled. “Spaceport!”

  The box announced: “Eighteen credits deducted, use your card again when you board the 34 tube train. Please take a seat.”

  The bus was empty so Jim sat in the first seat. The man passe
d. Jim looked up and smiled. “Boy, will I have some stories to tell when I get back to Concord.”

  The man passed him without a word and took a seat at the very rear of the bus.

  * * *

  The trip to the spaceport went smoothly. Jim located desk thirty five and asked for Charlie Bonthrone. Presently, a neatly dressed, balding man of approximately Phil’s age appeared and identified himself.

  “What can I do for you sir?”

  “Phil Raphael sent me. He said you could get me on a liner to Gato on La Raza by the back door.”

  The man smiled. “Oh yes, how is the old inebriate?”

  “Last time I saw him, he was inebriated.”

  “Pity, Phil’s a good man and a good friend.”

  Jim smiled. “You can say that again.”

  “I am sorry; I did not know you were hard of hearing. Should I speak louder?”

  “No... ah... no... I’m agreeing with you.”

  “First class or tourist?”

  “The least expensive possible.”

  Bonthrone tapped at the touch pads on his desk. “That will be three hundred and seventy five G sixty MG. He told you about the... ah... surcharge.”

  “Yes.”

  Jim handed over a one thousand G disk. Bonthrone placed it in a slot behind him, waited for the change to appear in a receptacle beneath, extracted one disk, which went into his pocket and returned the rest to Jim.

  “You understand sir that what we’re doing is not illegal. It’s just against spaceport regulations. I do it for celebrities, notables, and businessmen who for some reason or other do not want the media, or public, to know their travel details. Mr. um...” Bonthrone took a long look at Jim. A slow smile grew. “...ah, I see. Grown a beard have we. Mr... um... what name will we be using this trip.”

  “How ‘bout Mick Jagger?” Jim said trying not to laugh.

  “Good choice. A nice nondescript name. Now, city of residence?”

  “Concord.” This time Jim couldn’t control himself. He doubled over quietly laughing, resting his elbows on the desk he wiped tears from his eyes. The stress he’d been under was affecting his emotional balance. He had been trying desperately to create at least a small bit of humor from the predicament he was in. The thought of Mick Jagger living in a backward farm community was too much for his delicate mental state.