by John F. Carr
I
Verkan flew his aircar through the corridors of Old City, the last section of Dhergabar City, that still housed ground-hugging buildings, some dozen square blocks of densely packed ground level residences and commercial facilities. There were even a few buildings that could trace their history back to First Level PP (Pre-Paratime), but most only went back four millenniums to the Religious Wars, when most of Dhergabar had been leveled. Years later it had taken its present shape of tall anti-gravity towers and spires. Old City was where the infirm, those who found it difficult to live in townhouses only reachable by aircar; the indigent—even the Bureau of Psych-Hygiene hadn't been able to root out all the bums from First Level society—the out of work Proles and a small criminal element that not even the most determined Psych-Hygiene techniques could eradicate, nor the Metropolitan Police sweeps take captive.
Sticking straight up and out of the middle of Old Dhergabar City was the Paratime Commission Building, a two hundred-story edifice, protected by a next to impenetrable collapsed-nickel shield. Verkan parked his green aircar on Chief's reserved landing port and took the lift down to the hundred and eightieth floor. From there he walked to the office of the Paratime Commissioner for Security, where he was quickly ushered into Dalgroth Sorn's office.
"Chief Verkan, nice to see you," Dalgroth said, "please, take a seat."
Dalgroth Sorn was a tall, thin man with the air of a scholar, which was belied by both his piercing black eyes and raspy voice. There were still a few Paratime Police veterans who could recall, when during his term as an Inspector, that voice could peel collapsed-nickel. Dalgroth was more formal than usual and Verkan wondered if it was because he already knew why Verkan was visiting.
Verkan paused long enough to remove his pipe, load the barrel and light it. "This is not easy, Commissioner—"
"Verkan, you get right to the point. It's one of the things I like about you. But this time, I know what you're here to ask. The answer is yes."
Verkan blew out a lungful of smoke. "Thank you, Commissioner—"
Commissioner Dalgroth held up his hand to stop him again. "I hate to keep interrupting you, Verkan, but I've got some things I need to tell you.
Verkan nodded this time.
"I'm going to keep my job as Commissioner, but not just because you need my help. But, because, there are some serious problems facing First Level society, and I think I can do a better job right here at the Paratime Commission than I would be able to do as head of the First Level Social Stability Project. The job I was going to take after I resigned as Commissioner of Paratime Security."
"I'm very relieved by your decision, Commissioner. I believe I heard something about this Stability study on the evening news."
"What you heard, Verkan, from some newsie was just window dressing, as our friends on Europo-American call it. The real subject and purpose of this Project is not for public consumption."
Verkan braced himself. "I know I've been spending too much time on Kalvan's Time-Line and outtime in general, but—"
"Don't apologize, Vail. I'm one of the few people who completely understand how demanding the Paratime Police Chief's job truly is. I doubt you know this, but once—thirty years before Tortha's reign—I was offered the position of Paratime Chief. Oh, yes. I turned it down flat; I saw what it did to the man they wanted me to replace. Remember, back then I was Chief Inspector. I've seen four Chief's in my lifetime and Tortha was the only one who resigned without a physical or mental breakdown."
Verkan realized that he had never really known Dalgroth; he'd just been another useful ally who knew how to tell a good story. Verkan was beginning to realize that even with five times the normal human lifespan, there was still not enough time to do everything that needed to be done—much less what one wanted to do.
"I think your sojourns to Aryan-Transpacific are an excellent way to get away from the pressures and demands of a job that is simply too much responsibility for one man. Unfortunately, it has come to my attention, and that of several other highly placed persons that something is fundamentally wrong with our First Level culture. This is the reason behind the Social Stability Project."
"By fundamentally wrong, just what do you mean?"
"Vail, this time-line stinks! Maybe it's the accumulated sins and bad debt of ten thousand years of living off the labor of other human beings, but—whatever it is—it's beginning to manifest itself here on Home Time-Line."
"I haven't noticed anything unusual. Well, maybe crime is up a little."
"That's just one of the many symptoms. Did you know that First Level population has been dropping for the past fourteen centuries?"
"No. It certainly isn't obvious, Commissioner. There appear to be just as many Citizens as ever."
"True, but only because of the large increase in Prole citizenship—even as hard as the tests have become. The Prole problem is another part of this issue."
"I have noticed there is more actual Prole prejudice in Dhergabar than I recall growing up."
"You're right, the prejudice is growing worse. As Scholar Elltar has proposed, the Prole in our society has assumed a place quite similar to that of the Negro in the Europo-American, Hispano-Columbian Subsector, in the political entity still known as the United States, during the period they call the Reconstruction—after the War Between The States."
"The Civil War, I remember that. I did one of my first University Out-time Studies there while the War was still going on. I can see the parallels. The Civil War, in a lesser part, was about freeing the slaves. Separate, but not equal. The threat of slave rebellion."
"Exactly. As you've noticed in your Europo-American Quarantine proposal, this situation has been exacerbated with the passage of time. A number of observers believe there will be large-scale race riots on Hispano-Columbian Subsector in the next few years. There are a number of parallels to what's happening here on First Level."
"The Proles aren't slaves, but I do see similarities. So you believe that this is a threat to First Level Security?"
"Not now, but it could be. Are you familiar with a man who calls himself The Leader?"
"No. Should I be?" Verkan paused to re-light his pipe.'
"Not really. However, the man—and we don't know who he is—that calls himself The Leader is becoming more and more influential amongst the youth and the politically disenfranchised Citizens. Those who most feel threatened by the former Prole Citizens and by society as a whole. He's even encouraging his followers to wear a uniform of sorts, blue shirts and pants."
"That sounds similar to the fascist black shirts in Italy, and brown shirts of the old Nazi Storm Troopers on Europo-American." Verkan shook his head in disgust.
"You're not the only one who has come to that conclusion. There are some frightening parallels."
"Commissioner, as long as I'm Chief, I will not tolerate the harassment and murder of Proles on First Level Time-Line."
"I don't think it will come to genocide here, Verkan. We have a completely different situation here on First Level. No one here wants to eliminate the Proles, just keep them from becoming Citizens."
"Well, the whole idea of allowing outtimers to become Citizens is fairly new. Less than three hundred years old."
"Yes," Dalgroth said, "that's when it was first brought to the Executive Council's attention that the population decrease was going to continue no matter what laws were passed. To counter the steady population decline, a program was set up to administer citizenship to the best and brightest of the outtimers. It's been one of the last millennium's few successes. But the Proles are not the real problem, just a symptom. The problem is with the Home Time-Line Citizens and their growing malaise."
"How bad do you think this problem really is?" Verkan asked.
Dalgroth's brows furrowed heavily. "Bad. Bad enough that I believe it is the biggest problem facing the survival of the Home Time-Line."
"More dangerous than the possibility of the Paratime Secret being uncovered?"
<
br /> "Yes, because it threatens the very core of our society. The fact is, Verkan, our society is crumbling before our eyes. There's enough social and commercial momentum that it might last another millennium, certainly a few more centuries—but it is dissolving. That is why, for right now, I have decided it is more important for me to continue on as Paratime Commissioner to help stabilize your stewardship as Paratime Police Chief, than it is to delve into First Level social problems. Because, if you fail as Chief, the results will be so catastrophic it will no longer matter what the problem was or is. The Paratime Police is First Level's most stable institution and if the Force collapses, because it's Chief has been forcibly removed. Well—the fact is—this whole time-line will go up like a thermonuclear blast!"
For the first time that he could remember, Verkan Vail was so nonplussed he was actually speechless.
II
Kalvan walked quickly down the stone staircase, his boot steps echoing behind him. In his mind he still heard baby Demia's coughs—or croup as his Aunt Harriet used to call it when he was growing up. He remembered his younger cousins having it a lot, but then they had sulfa drugs and cough syrup. Now, of course, there was penicillin, which was the best of the antibacterial medications. Here-and-now there were a few potions and poultices, but nothing he'd risk his daughter's life on—if he had any other choice.
Note: Do research on penicillin molds, starting with common bread mold.
Of course, if he wasn't spending most of his time in weapons research and building here-and-now's version of the military industrial complex, he might get some of these less dramatic inventions out of his head and into their lives. Of course, every time he 'invented' another device, this changed the future in directions he wasn't sure were for the best.
Kalvan passed the Great Hall and went down the long corridor past three doors to Rylla's private audience chamber, stopping suddenly when he realized she had company. He was about to go in anyway; after all, he was Great King—but the note of urgency in Rylla's voice stopped him in his tracks.
"Why isn't he answering our letters, Mytron?"
"Queen Rylla, do you remember Xentos' last missive, where he stated that the Temple's business held priority over any worldly realm—including that of Hos-Hostigos?"
Rylla's voice sounded a petulant note Kalvan hadn't heard very often. He remembered Xentos' last letter, which had arrived at least a moon ago, and Rylla's white face after he read it aloud. She had left the room quickly before he could read her face. He hadn't realized just how badly she had taken Xentos' lack of support—or betrayal—only time would tell.
It bothered Rylla enough that she was still fretting over it. "Mytron, doesn't Xentos realize that he only attended the Council of Dralm on Our sufferance?"
"You know Xentos better than that, Your Majesty. He suffers no one. He has ruled the Temple of Dralm in Hostigos with an iron hand."
"I never saw that side of him, Brother Mytron. He was always my 'Uncle' who came with presents and funny stories to cheer me up, whether in the tiltyard or in the music chamber—although not so much when I sang!"
Kalvan could hear them both laughing.
"I fear that has changed, now that you have a husband and a kingdom to run. Xentos has a very stern side; I remember when he would wake us novices before daybreak and put us to work scrubbing the stone paving of the temple floors. Even now, as a grown man, I walk softly when I hear his voice rise. He never shouts, but he does get his words across and woe to those who do not listen."
"How strange, Mytron. It's almost as if we are talking about two different people."
No, thought Kalvan, just two different roles—palace sycophant and temple bully. He himself wasn't very happy about Chancellor Xentos' reluctance to help Hostigos win its needed allies in the war against Styphon's House. Kalvan had expected some act or word of encouragement from Agrys City long before now. It also hurt him to hear the plaintive little girl voice come out of Great Queen Rylla's mouth.
"I had such a wonderful life at Tarr-Hostigos growing up. Maybe because I didn't have a mother, I always had all these 'uncles' to take care of me."
Spoil you is more like it , thought Kalvan. That was one mistake they wouldn't repeat with Princess Demia.
"Bring me presents, play with me and share their knowledge. There was old 'Uncle' Chartiphon, 'Uncle Harmakros' and my favorite—'Uncle' Xentos. I never thought he'd betray my trust like this—Her voice broke.
Kalvan could almost see young Brother Mytron's fluttering hands, since the cherubic priest had little or no experience dealing with the opposite sex. Kalvan took pity on him and, after making noise with his boots, walked into the chamber.
"Oh Kalvan!" Rylla said, brushing at her eyes. Mytron, red-faced, bowed and bolted from the room as quickly as his stubby legs would take him.
Kalvan tried to wave him back. The poor little priest probably thought Kalvan suspected something was going on between the two of them.
"I didn't expect you until lunch, husband."
"I heard little Demia coughing in the nursery and I thought I ought to talk to her mother about it."
"It's just the Baby Cough; all the babies get it. Nothing much to be done about it either. Brother Mytron's bloodroot tea is too strong for babies."
Kalvan wondered about the little ones who contracted pneumonia and how their parents dealt with that. Well, he knew the answer here-and-now: it was stoically and with great resignation. There were few alternatives, since the various gods and their temples offered little religious consolation for a grief-stricken parent. He suddenly realized, as he saw the worry in Rylla's eyes, that there could be far greater losses than even those on the battlefield. Some half-remembered aphorism about children being their parent's hostage to fortune came to mind and he resolved to beef up security measures in the nursery. He doubted there were many Styphoni sympathizers in Hos-Hostigos, but all it took was one…
III
Hadron Tharn heard the portal alarm go off and looked over at the privacy screen, seeing the face of his older sister, Dalla. He tapped the release code and the door opened.
"Long time no see, Sis."
Dalla winced. She was still playing mama—a job their birth mother had rejected. They had been close during their youth, until she met the future supercop, Verkan Vail. Actually, he rather admired Verkan's single-mindedness and lack of squeamishness. Verkan's, problem was that he still retained too many of the ideals of the old nobility that he'd been born into. Whereas, he had cast off all those old-fashioned ideas when Herr Goebbels and his philosopher friend, Martin Heidegger, had introduced him to the works of Friedrich Nietzsche. 'The overman is free because all his own values flow from his own will.' He remembered those words well and lived them.
"I haven't seen you in a half-year, where have you been?"
None of your business, he wanted to shout, but Big Sis still had her uses. Without her influence, the super Paracop might be taking a closer look at his wanderings and financial dealings. That would not do, at least, now while events were still percolating. "I've been overseeing some of my outtime business affairs."
"I understand from cousin Falro that you've been causing quite a stir in First Level financial affairs."
Falro was in banking and it was useful to know that he still owed his loyalty to Dalla, who he'd unsuccessfully tried to romance—pre-Verkan era. "It keeps me occupied. And, as you know Dalla, the only things our parents left to us were credits." That was a sore spot, he knew it and smacked her with it whenever Dalla tried to play mama. The truth was mother had left the family for outtime adventure and it had been no great loss to anyone but Dalla. He'd been too young to even remember her. He saw mother once or twice every twenty years and ohhhed and ahhhed while she treated him like a distant friend.
"So what really brings you here, Dalla? I've been a good boy; no more visits to Fourth Level, Europo-American Axis Subsector." He'd been fortunate to make his first visits there, while a student at Dhergabar Universit
y, secretly ferreting out future business as an agent with Consolidated Outtime Foodstuffs before the Big War in Europo-American, when the entire Axis Sub-sector had been declared off-limits to all First Level commercial and travel bureaus. He still had his contacts, but no one knew of them but Warntha, his personal bodyguard, the only person in the universe he completely trusted.
Dalla blushed fetchingly. She was as beautiful without make-up as most women were with it. She could have been a film star on any Europo-American time-line. If she weren't so useful, he might have been tempted himself. She was so good at protecting him, protecting him from everyone and everything—but himself. It was good to know that she still felt guilty about telling Verkan about his little Axis excursions; fortunately, she hadn't known the half of it.
He decided it was time to punish her some more. "Have you told my esteemed brother-in-law about the Hadron family secret."
She gasped. "No! No one outside of the family knows about that."
"Supercop hasn't even made a guess. I'm disappointed; maybe he's more smitten with my elder sister then I surmised. Isn't it ironic that your husband's toy policeman—Kalvan, isn't it—drops off rather conveniently on the same time-line created by our esteemed great, great, uncountable great grandfather. Don't they still have some devil god named after the old fossil—rather like the family name? Must be the family curse."
Dalla nodded listlessly.
Hadron laughed. "Good old Arnall. It wasn't enough to violate the Para-time Code, but had to create his own time-line by scaring away the natives! Now, it's Kalvan—that's his name, right?—who's getting all the attention. The first Paratime time-line observed from the moment of divarication—ha! Maybe it's time we set the record straight. Told them about how 'ol Hadron Arnall arrived on a Fourth Level time-line a couple of thousand years ago and played god to one of the tribes. How he used to ride around in a big aircar taking the prettiest young girls with him and how he killed and tortured any of the tribesmen who 'objected.'