The Fires of Paratime

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

Frey arrived with murder in his eyes.

  "I should be supervising the hunt for an escaped male­factor, but I am waiting for equipment which should be repaired and apparently is not, and now I find myself sum­moned here."

  "Perhaps Loki should summarize the charge," com­mented Baldur.

  I went through the whole thing, how year after year Frey never took care of anything, how I'd recommended, sent notes, pleaded, and how the situation never changed.

  "So you refused to repair the Locator equipment?" cut in Eranas.

  "No, honored Tribune. I refused to repair it until note was taken by the Tribunes that this type of procedure is not only detrimental to Maintenance, but inhibits the time­ly performance by Domestic Affairs. Even if I had started immediately on the damaged equipment, it would not be ready now. And the Guard Ferrin informed me that the defective Locator packs have been known to have been damaged for years, yet were never turned in to Main­tenance for repairs."

  "I see your point," said Eranas drily, "but we really don't have time to play around with this. Guard Loki, you will, of course, attend to repairs immediately."

  He turned to Frey.

  "Senior Guard Frey, you will consider yourself repri­manded, and after the conclusion of your search, will in­ventory all your equipment within the coming season to assure its function. You will eliminate unnecessary equip­ment and turn all necessary but non-functional gear over to Maintenance for repairs."

  Frey was white, sheer white, whether from rage or fear, I wasn't certain. I knew he'd hear about it from Freyda as well.

  Heimdall hadn't said anything.

  I could read between the lines as well as anyone. If I'd had repairs to do before, they were going to be as nothing compared to what would be landing in my in-coming bin.

  Repairing the Locator packs wasn't all that difficult; it took maybe fifty units after I got back to my spaces. I sent Narcissus across the Square to Domestic Affairs with them.

  I wished that had been the end of it, but what made Frey's attitude toward me even worse was that Ayren Bly escaped, didn't register on the locator screens anywhere, as if he'd vanished from the galaxy.

  Frey was called on the glowstones for that, and Eranas made the point that it might not have happened if Frey had taken better care of his equipment.

  Needless to say, Frey wasn't speaking to me, and for some reason neither was Heimdall, I guessed because in a strange way he and Frey were friends. Frey was a disciple of Heimdall's, and, like Heimdall, felt that Guard discipline should be stronger, that a more authoritative leadership was required, and that the routine dirty work ought to be done by non-Guard Queryans.

  After the turn of the year, Baldur spoke to the Tribunes and Brendan was assigned to Maintenance. That was be­fore Frey had gotten his equipment housecleaning fully underway, and for a time, I thought I might be able to keep ahead of the busted junk flowing down from Domestic Affairs.

  But the word spread, and I started seeing long-broken equipment coming in from odd places like the Archives, and Observation. Nobody else wanted to end up shamed like Frey.

  The hours I spent got longer and longer, and the sleep became less and less.

  I shouldn't have tried to undo a century's neglect in less than a year, but where would I have put all the junk? Be­sides, Eranas kept dropping in to check on me.

  Usually, I staggered into the Tower bright and early, right after dawn, but the morning came when I slept late. Not that I had slept well, but the shadows of the canyons below were already shrinking into black traceries when the midmorning sun hit me full in the face.

  Even with the continuing lack of sleep, I had been a sound sleeper and early riser, but that night or morning my dreams had been filled with visions of crimson skies and screaming night eagles tearing at my guts. Most mornings I could have overslept my own time limit by fifty units and still arrived before I needed to, but I'd overslept more than a hundred.

  I was halfway down the ramp when I met Heimdall coming up.

  "Loki's here at last! Good day, night owl, or is it night eagle, perched up in your hidden Aerie?"

  "Good morning, honored Counselor."

  Heimdall wasn't through, and blocked my path on the ramp.

  "Being in charge of repairs in Maintenance, taking ad­vanced instruction, living up to your responsibilities aren't too important, is that it?"

  I kept my mouth shut. Heimdall was out to get me.

  "Rather go out and fly with the angels of Heaven IV than stay in and do the dirty work? Rather blame others when your own lateness could be the cause? Is that it?"

  The glint in his eye told me he knew it was unfair and was daring me to refute it. Damned if I would.

  I could sense someone heading down the ramp from be­hind me, but Heimdall was so intent he didn't look up.

  "Lateness shows no respect for the Guard and its tradi­tions, and you show little enough, Loki."

  "Enough," cut in Freyda's voice from behind me.

  "Don't take the youngster's case, Freyda," boomed Odinthor. "He may have all the talent in the universe, but he needs discipline."

  By this time Baldur had shown up as well.

  "Loki," spoke up Heimdall, and his tone was all busi­ness, no malice, which set me further on edge.

  I nodded.

  He handed me a wrist gauntlet.

  "Frey says the tracking functions are off. He's replaced what he can, and it still doesn't function. Nicodemus can't figure it out either. Obviously, replacement isn't the answer. Needs to be fixed."

  I took it.

  "Frey needs it today, before you leave."

  Set up, I thought, and no way out. Heimdall had pro­vided the scene, with all the props, even the rationale why Frey couldn't fix it himself.

  "Now I certainly hope you'll find time to do it right," was his parting shot, "since you've made such an issue about the importance of directional and locator equip­ment."

  Dumb statement by Heimdall. He couldn't find his way out of the nearest system without an electronic arsenal and five different directional fixes. Neither could Frey. But because I was late, I'd have to shove everything else aside to fix what was obviously a problem gauntlet, which meant more time. And I'd end up working even later for days or falling further behind with Eranas always looking over my shoulder.

  I could have protested again, but I didn't think either Baldur or Eranas would have stood for it—especially not when I'd been late.

  I carted the gauntlet to Maintenance and dumped it on my workbench, although the continually cleaned and ster­ilized surface no more resembled a conventional bench than I did Odinthor.

  Suppressing a groan as I took in the overflowing "in" bin, I called up the gauntlet specs on my console. On the oft chance the malfunction might be simple, I placed the wrist band in the diagnostic center, punched the stud, and waited.

  "No circuit malfunction," the console informed me in its precise flowing script.

  That figured. The gauntlet didn't work and didn't seem to have anything wrong with it.

  I scanned the area around me. No one around. Ducking behind one of the old behemoths that bordered my space, I slipped on the gauntlet and dived backtime, watching the dials and the directionals.

  Sure enough, at about a quarter million back, they be­gan to fluctuate. Since it might be a function of diving speed, I forced myself fore-time until I felt shrouded in the bright blue of high-speed fore-diving. I braked just short of break-out and checked the dials. The face of the indicators was black.

  I broke-out of the undertime right where I'd gone under. I didn't see anyone nosing around so presumably my un­toward dive had been unnoticed.

  Back at my bench, I tossed the gauntlet back into the diagnostic center, black indicators and all.

  I punched the stud and was greeted with a fizzling sound and a totally dead diagnostic center, followed by heat and the smell of burnt and fused electronics.

  Item: The gauntlet hadn't done anything to the center
before my dive.

  Item: The dive had created enough power to overload the center, but hadn't burned me.

  As it dawned on me, I looked down. Down at the insula­tion laid over the out-of-time-phase flooring. Of course, I wouldn't get burned, not in Maintenance. I shivered. The innocent-looking gauntlet didn't seem nearly so innocent any more.

  With all that in mind, I began to break down the gaunt­let step by step. It was close to midafternoon before I found what I knew had to be there.

  Someone had removed the power source insulators on one side and wired a microfilament antenna across the underside of the gauntlet. If I'd broken-out anywhere out­side the grounded confines of the Maintenance Hall, I'd have been lucky to escape with as little as severe burns around the arms and wrists—if not worse.

  Since Heimdall didn't know the extent of my diving ability, the gauntlet had to have been a damned setup. Without a time-dive the problem couldn't be detected, and since no one had been burned, it wasn't a real problem, but a phony one foisted off on me.

  The more I thought about it, the madder I got. Heimdall wasn't just out to bury me under a pile of work. He was out for blood, and if that was what he wanted that was what he was going to get.

  First, I fixed the gauntlet, after carefully recording how it had been altered. Then I refixed it, with his microfila­ment antenna keyed to a false boss. If anyone besides me wore the gauntlet and didn't set the boss correctly, they were going to get the treatment that had been scheduled for me.

  Late afternoon arrived before I completed my micro-engineering, but I knew Heimdall would still be waiting in Assignments.

  Heimdall was at his desk, leaning back in his high padded stool.

  "Heimdall," I said respectfully, knowing that the failure to use his title would infuriate him, "I think I've got it fixed."

  "Just think?" he snapped. "You should know!"

  "I've rechecked the calibration, which was defective. I've replaced the power cell which was sending an uneven flow to the instrumentation, and replaced the missing in­sulation."

  "Are you sure it's fixed?"

  "As sure as I can be without a test of some sort."

  "Well," drawled the master of the sarcastic, "you don't think I'd let Frey try it just on your say-so, do you?"

  "No. But would he trust it even if I said I'd tested it?"

  Heimdall frowned. "I see your point. Tell you what. Let's go over to the Travel Hall. You test it, and if it seems all right, I'll test it, and then Frey should be satisfied."

  Heimdall could be so smooth sometimes.

  I trooped after him, down the ramp, and out to the Tower wing.

  I slipped on the gauntlet, adjusting it, and making sure the false boss was in the correct position.

  The dive was uneventful. I broke-out on back-time Al­maraden to pick a bouquet for the all-seeing schemer, but Heimdall laid them aside when I presented him the flowers.

  "You didn't notice anything unusual about the gauntlet when you fixed it?" he asked worriedly as I handed it to him. I'd already twisted the boss to its "loaded" position.

  Strangely enough, Frey arrived at the Travel Hall about that time.

  I decided Heimdall needed a push. Besides, I didn't want Frey to get zapped. Frey couldn't have put the gauntlet on without help from his mommy or from Heimdall, let alone rewired the microcircuitry.

  "Heimdall," I began, knowing he'd be irked again by the lack of formality, "it was a simple job. Some fool had left some stray filaments running along the inside of the gaunt­let. I cleaned up the loose ends, checked the insulation, and made the recalibrations. I did what you asked for, the way you asked for it, in the time you asked for it, and it works fine.

  "I know you have better things to do than stand and check the quality of my workmanship, and your talents are better suited for those. So if you're done, why don't I just give it to Frey and let him check it out?"

  If Heimdall handed it back to me, I could twist the false boss before Frey made a dive.

  That strategy went sour with the arrival of Sammis and Wryan. Wryan had caught the end of my remarks and chuckled. Heimdall turned and glared at her, but the way she returned his look—no way I could describe it—Heim­dall was shamed on the spot.

  I had this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, but it was too late. The results couldn't be that bad, I figured.

  Heimdall yanked on the gauntlet, without looking at anyone, and disappeared.

  As he broke-out at the far end of the Travel Hall, the gauntlet exploded off his wrist, and blood and fire spewed all over everything.

  "Loki!" he screamed before he collapsed.

  I slid to the end of the room, catching his still form before he even hit the floor, and made a second undertime slide straight to the Infirmary. Had to have been less than two units between Heimdall's return to the Travel Hall and the instant Hycretis started transfusions with his shattered wrist and broiled arm under the tissue regenerator.

  About that moment, the floor rose up and struck me down.

  When I woke, I was in the cell-block under the Tower. Lovely place it was, with a single bright and recessed light in the ceiling, solid glowstone bunk without furs, barred doors, and a handy-dandy automatic restrainer field to scramble my thoughts and keep me in.

  When I'd seen Ayren Bly years back, I hadn't antic­ipated being on his side of the bars. What was done was done.

  Having nothing better to do, I tried concentrating hard enough to negate the scrambling effect of the restraining field. Didn't seem to take too long before I could shut out the automatic nature of the scramblers and slide into the corridor outside the cell. I heard footsteps and slipped back into my cell.

  I got back where I was supposed to be just in time. Freyda, Odinthor, Eranas, and two hefty Guards I didn't know arrived to march me up to the Hall of Justice.

  Since it was a Guard affair, the proceedings weren't public.

  Freyda, Kranos, and Eranas, as Tribunes, sat up on the dais facing the Hall. I was placed at one side in the red-railed box reserved for the nasty malefactors. Frey was seated across from me behind the silver podium reserved for the prosecutor. Although the Hall could accommodate thousands, only a few Guards sat in the front rows.

  "An informal Guard procedure," announced Eranas in his raspy voice.

  Frey bowed and scraped, and the two Guards yanked me to my feet so I could bow and scrape. And I bowed and scraped.

  "Counsel for the Guard requests disciplinary procedures for Guard Loki."

  I was on my own. Under disciplinary procedures, I didn't rate counsel, not that it would have mattered.

  "Senior Guard Loki," I began, automatically promoting myself for no good reason except that I was angry, "declares his innocence by reason of extreme provocation and fear of grave physical and bodily harm threatened by Counselor Heimdall."

  Odinthor, sitting in the front row, snorted loudly and looked at Eranas. Eranas nodded at Frey.

  Frey climbed to his feet, for once without the light saber, and made it very simple, and he was good at being simple.

  Loki was a Guard. Loki was responsible for important repairs. Instead one Loki had booby-trapped a gauntlet which had harmed a Counselor seriously.

  Frey used the big wall screen sparingly and basically to display shots of Heimdall collapsing in a shower of fire and living blood, followed with a shot of the poor as­saulted Counselor lying in the Infirmary surrounded with all types of medical support equipment.

  As Frey continued, I realized the dope had been used. He honestly didn't know that the gauntlet had been double-trapped for me.

  Finally, it was my turn.

  "Tribunes, my defense is simple. First, Heimdall in­tended that what happened to him should happen to me. Second, he waited for perhaps seasons for an excuse to administer such an assault disguised as routine Main­tenance work. Third, when my repairs were completed, he knew there was a chance I would still be hurt and he forced me to test the gauntlet."


  "Can you prove any of this?" rasped Eranas.

  "Yes, Tribune. First, I carefully recorded the internal structures I found in the gauntlet I received from Heimdall, and the records from my diagnostic center will show that the gauntlet was altered to focus time energy on the wearer. I suggest you examine the records before they become unavailable."

  Eranas might be thinking of stepping down, but he was nobody's fool. He disappeared straight from the dais, pre­sumably time-sliding straight to the mech shop.

  "We wait," noted Freyda. She looked at her son.

  Eranas was back in place at the center of the Tribunes in a handful of units. "Loki, you are a damned fool. Heimdall may have deserved what he got. But without order, the Guard has nothing, and if your example were followed, there would be no order—"

  "But—" I protested.

  "But nothing!" rasped Eranas. "Heimdall will be in the Infirmary for another ten days. You will spend half that time on Hell, and the other half recovering from Hell."

  He flipped the black wand out of its holder and jabbed it at me to emphasize his point. Neither Kranos nor Freyda had said a word.

  I started to my feet to protest, but didn't get very far. It felt like the entire Hall of Justice hit me in the face. I came to in Hell, or rather, on it.

  The sky is a scarlet black so bloody deep it curdles your soul. The ground is all sand and rock, and little scavenger rats scurry out from under the rocks to bite with needle teeth anything that is there to bite—insects, grubs, legs, toes, arms, what have you.

  I couldn't see much of that, chained as I was to a large black chunk of mountainside. Could barely think, because the Guard hadn't taken many chances. This time, unlike the period in the cell-block, someone had set an entire bank of restrainer fields up and focused them all on me. I wasn't thinking the same thoughts twice, but four or five times, and in fragments.

  Somewhere I was being supported by a concealed cel­lular regenerator, but the water tube in the mask that covered most of my face didn't function.

  The restraining fields prevented enough coherent thought to keep me from time-diving off the planet of the damned, and the regenerator gadgetry was supposed to keep me in one piece.