Time Trap

by Deborah Chester

He’d wanted to be the first one in this morning. He’d wanted to get at the new assignment list before anyone else. For seven months there had been a hiatus in all time travel while the bugs were worked out of the new LOCs. Noel had hated every boring, idle minute of it. He hated the increasing softness of the twenty-sixth century, with its technology that babied mankind into becoming a race of increasingly helpless morons. The gulf between the technocrats and the laborers—who droned their way through their jobs, then went home and fantasized in the sensory-rich worlds provided for them—grew wider all the time.

  Back in the twentieth century, men had worried that their future meant being controlled by a vast, impersonal government. Instead, men had become controlled by their own dream states.

  “The ultimate vegetable,” muttered Noel aloud.

  “What’s that?” said a voice from behind him. “Talking to yourself? That’s a sure sign of—”

  Noel flung up his hand without bothering to look over his shoulder. “Don’t say it!”

  “—a worn head chip,” said the voice cheerfully.

  Noel sighed in mock exasperation and swung around to confront his best friend. “Only you could get away with old jokes this early in the morning.”

  Trojan Heitz, a burly giant with a head of frizzy red hair and a full beard, grinned broadly. Like Noel, he was dressed in conservative street clothes: trousers and a high-throated jacket in soft blue knit. His security badge provided the only ornamentation.

  As always, Trojan looked sloppy and unkempt in modern clothing. The tailoring line was wrong for him. But put him in a Tartan kilt, wide leather belt with an axe or short sword hanging from it, and sandals laced to his hairy knees, and his rugged, muscular build looked absolutely right.

  “You’re bleeding,” he said. “Or is that something I’m not supposed to notice?”

  “It’s nothing,” said Noel quickly. Dabbing again at the cut, he looked at his bloodstained fingers. “The bleeding’s slowed down. I’ll swing by the infirmary later.”

  “In the meantime you’re dripping on the floor.”

  Noel glanced down, but there weren’t any splatters of crimson on the white, polished floor.

  Trojan chuckled.

  “Very funny,” said Noel.

  They started down the hall together.

  “You’re seriously late,” Trojan said. “Want coffee?”

  Noel swore to himself. “I missed the whole meeting?”

  “Every last word.” Trojan sipped from his cup. “Rugle was at her boring best. Practically recited the whole time traveler’s creed to us. Gave us a list of admonitions and a pep talk that put Bruthe to sleep. Treated us like raw recruits.” Trojan snorted. “As though we’d forget anything in seven months. The only exciting part of the meeting was the fact that old Tchielskov didn’t show. He hasn’t missed a meeting in ten years.”

  Noel stood frozen, not listening to Trojan, aware instead of his heart thumping loud and hard against his rib cage. “How many assignments?”

  Trojan sniffed the bottom of his cup as though it had something growing in it. “Promised us eight at the last meeting.”

  “I know that.” Noel could have throttled him. He knew Trojan was enjoying this. But if he didn’t go along with the baiting, Trojan wouldn’t tell him anything. “We already figured out that the whole advanced team wouldn’t travel this time.”

  “Yep.” Trojan’s gaze came up slowly to meet Noel’s. His blue eyes twinkled. “Four assignments.”

  “Half! Only half? They are being cautious.”

  “Can’t overload the time stream—”

  “Bunk!” said Noel forcefully. He saw an official coming toward them and shifted to one side of the corridor to keep his bloody face averted. “The new LOCs are supposed to handle that little—”

  “Gossiping in corridors?” said the official snidely. “What’s your rank and grade?”

  Officials were always poking their noses about, trying to pretend that they understood a fraction of the research being conducted within the Time Institute, and feeling justified in checking on how they spent taxpayers’ money.

  Noel had little use for officials. Trying to mask his attitude, however, he faced the woman and replied, “Security grade two. Rank, historian.”

  “Same,” said Trojan.

  “Oh,” said the official with a blink. “You’re travelers.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well,” she said, impressed but trying not to show it. “Uh, why are you bleeding? Were you in this morning’s riots?”

  “Momentarily,” said Noel. He caught Trojan’s eye on him and scowled. “I missed the last shuttle flight over Lake Michigan and had to take—”

  “Never mind,” said Trojan. “I can imagine the sordid details. You saw a defenseless woman and child struggling against anarchists and you just had to step in.”

  “Well—”

  Trojan held up his hand. “Such modesty. No doubt when you pulled her to safety, the child clinging to your shoulder, she sobbed out her gratitude on her knees while the child lifted your credit card. Am I right?”

  Noel couldn’t meet his eyes. “You’re right.”

  “Disgraceful,” said the official. “But how typical of the lower orders. Well, carry on.”

  She walked on toward the security lock. Noel glared after her, making faces until Trojan’s massive hand closed on his shoulder and pushed him in the opposite direction.

  “Don’t say it,” he warned Noel. “Don’t say anything.”

  As soon as the official stepped into the lock, out of hearing, Noel hooted loudly. “Did you hear her? Carry on. As though she has any idea of what we’re trying to do here. She even believed I met a kid pickpocket this morning. You could tell her anything about the so-called oppressed rabble, and she’d believe it. I’ll bet she’s never seen anyone below a grade three rank. These official parasites are—”

  “Be serious,” said Trojan in rebuke. “Did you play the knight errant?”

  Noel snorted. “Not my period of history. You’re the chivalrous one, remember? It was just a basic traffic riot, started by some anarchist punks for general reasons. I caught a piece of brick in the face.”

  “Oh, very heroic,” said Trojan.

  Noel put his hand over his heart and bowed sardonically. That started his cut bleeding again. He swore.

  “Blame yourself for it,” said Trojan. “If you must live on the wrong side of town—”

  “Drop it,” said Noel. “We’re not all independently wealthy like you and the parasite.”

  Trojan frowned. “Don’t call her that. She’s a new representative. Came in for the meeting. And she’s pro-Institute, which is more than can be said for the last one who came by.”

  “Who, the anarchist?”

  “Don’t say that,” said Trojan, glancing overhead. “Your mouth is going to get you chopped one day.”

  “I tried to call in,” said Noel. “Did you know that the comm booths at the shuttle terminal no longer reach this section of Chicago? Overloaded lines. I ask you, how long can this—”

  “Blood pressure,” said Trojan. His blue eyes grew dim and stared into the distance. It was his way of tuning out, and it warned Noel to control his temper.

  “Hell,” he muttered. “You’re right. It’s just that I want this assignment. I can’t stand modern life. It’s ruining my nerves.”

  Trojan’s chuckle was a rumble deep in his throat. “We all know that. Here’s the infirmary corridor. Why don’t you get that cut fixed?”

  “No time—”

  “There’s time.” Trojan clapped him on the shoulder and grinned. “After all, you don’t want to be scratched from your new assignment just because you flunked your physical.”

  Noel stared at him a moment, drinking in his words, letting the knowledge, the relief, the triumph sink deep into his brain. Then he gripped Trojan’s arms and let out a muffled whoop.

  “Really? You too?”

  Trojan nodded
, his grin spreading from ear to ear. Gripping each other, they began an impromptu jig in the middle of the corridor. A couple of smocked scientists stepped around them, disinterested, and used to the aberrations of historians. Down the hall, a door opened and a gray-haired woman with a face like a mountain crag looked out.

  “Heitz! Kedran! Stop making that noise and report to your stations at once. Kedran, if you bleed on the floor I’ll have you mop this entire area.”

  They stopped dancing at once and stood shoulder to shoulder at attention, like schoolboys caught in a misdemeanor.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Trojan.

  “Yes, Dr. Rugle,” said Noel.

  “One would think, Mr. Kedran,” said Rugle, “that you aren’t interested in traveling after all, since you didn’t bother to attend this morning’s orientation meeting.”

  Noel pulled in his chin and tried to keep his dislike of the old harridan off his face. “I’m very interested, Dr. Rugle,” he said. “I got caught in a riot on the way to work.”

  “A riot?” She frowned. “Can’t you think of a less mundane excuse? Get to your stations. Tchielskov has decided to take the day off, for some inexplicable reason, leaving us short of prep technicians. Processing is going to take at least two hours longer than usual. Your cooperation will help that procedure go more smoothly. Thank you.”

  She vanished, her door closing. Noel and Trojan passed her office in silence, not daring to meet each other’s gaze. As soon as they turned the corner and entered the archives section, they glanced at each other and snickered.

  “What an old bag,” said Noel. “Our cooperation will assist the procedure of processing to proceed in an ongoing direction. I’m glad I did miss the meeting.”

  Trojan veered off to a coffee machine and got another cup. “Want some?”

  “No. You know I hate the stuff.” Noel eyed him critically. “At the rate you’re swilling it—”

  “Coffee drinking didn’t come into practice in Europe until the late eighteenth century,” said Trojan, slurping. “No coffee where I’m going.”

  “You mean when you’re going.”

  “That too.” Finishing his cup, Trojan refilled it again.

  “You’re getting Agincourt,” said Noel, unable to hold off asking any longer. “The first modern battle in Europe. One of the finest examples of courage and achievement against impossible odds. Well? If you know we both got assignments, you must know what they are. Tell me!”

  Trojan chuckled. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  “Did you get Agincourt?”

  “You know I wanted Malta.”

  “That’s just because you like the Mediterranean climate. Tell!”

  Trojan let out a mighty sigh. “Yes, I got Agincourt.”

  Noel grinned, his expectations wired tight. “And? Oh, hell, Troj, stop playing this out.”

  “You got Constantinople.”

  Excitement burst in Noel. He threw his arms in the air like a marathon winner and crowed.

  Three people instantly appeared in the lobby of the archives: the librarian and two other historians.

  The librarian shook his head indulgently and retreated without a reprimand. One historian grinned and shook Noel and Trojan’s hands. The other scowled.

  Noel made himself sober quickly, although the excitement beating inside him was stronger than his own heartbeat. “Sorry, Rupeet. No go for you?”

  Rupeet’s dark face scowled harder. He made no reply. His tall, fair-haired companion, however, shot Noel a rueful smile.

  “Nor for me, I’m afraid,” he said in a soft, singsong voice. “We’re to wait until your lot returns.”

  “We’ll only be gone about an hour, this time,” said Noel.

  “Slack,” said Rupeet angrily. “Slack thinker. Slack planner. Slack in everything you do. You’re never properly prepared. You don’t read the manuals. You even missed this morning’s meeting—”

  “Easy, Rupeet,” said Trojan.

  “Damn it all! It’s forty-nine minutes,” said Rupeet. “Not sixty.”

  Noel shrugged. “So?”

  “You see? You see? It’s a crucial variation in the time streams. With the previous model LOCs we had only a thirty-­six minute return lap. It’s significant, Kedran. If you ever did half your job, you’d know that.”

  Noel’s temper, ever quick to fly, was barely held in check. His eyes narrowed. “I know it indicates we can stay in the time stream longer with fewer adverse effects. I know it indicates a forty-nine to one ratio, with forty-nine of their minutes equal to one of ours. That gives us roughly two days in past time—”

  “Exactly 1.667 days. More than enough time for you to make a mistake that could seriously alter—”

  “Oh, give it up, Rupeet,” said Noel rudely and walked away.

  Trojan fell into step with him. “You’re making an enemy there.”

  Noel shrugged.

  “Office politics are sticky. It’s not wise to have enemies within the Institute. We have enough outside it.”

  “I hate politics,” said Noel irritably. “We each have our jobs to do. There’s no competition. Why should he care who goes first?”

  “Why did you?”

  Noel glared at him, but Trojan was staring into the bottom of his cup.

  After a moment Noel sighed. “Yeah, okay. You made your point. But Rupeet doesn’t love the past. He doesn’t have a feel for it, an understanding of its richness, of its texture. He doesn’t see the interweaving of the time streams as a poetry of the universe. He—”

  Trojan’s quizzical look made Noel realize he was getting carried away. His face flamed hot and he cleared his throat.

  “Uh, well, he just plods through and makes his recordings. We might as well send a pack mule on his assignments, for all the joy they bring him. He sees each assignment as another step to his promotion into the administration. It’s like a profanity. The whole experience is wasted on him.”

  “It’s just fun for me,” said Trojan mildly, finishing his coffee and tossing away the cup in a wall receptacle. “When it stops being fun, I shall stop traveling. You always want to turn it into a religious experience—”

  “Cute, Troj. Very cute.”

  “Poetry of the universe,” said Trojan and snorted. “That wallop you took this morning must have addled your brain. Come on.”

  Four hours later Noel strapped on his LOC, feeling it turn warm and settle around his wrist like an old friend. He walked through the sterile Laboratory 14, now filled with row after row of technicians, each sitting at a terminal, each linked into the data-retrieval-run system that supported the massive time computer.

  He wore a knee-length tunic of thin, natural-colored wool and a cloak of bright blue. The leather belt around his lean waist held a dagger and a heavy purse of coins bearing the imperial seal of Rome. He kept muttering Latin phrases to himself, testing the heavy syllables on his tongue to regain the natural rhythm of the language. Although he was implanted with a universal translator, he liked to be able to think in the old tongues.

  At the last minute before they parted, Trojan had pressed a small pouch into his hand. “Salt,” he said. “For luck…and good eating.”

  The worst thing about the past was the food. No matter how much they trained, none of the historians could acquire a taste for the bland, boiled, slightly gamey muck that passed for stews and pottages.

  Noel had forgotten to provide himself with a supply of salt.

  Gratefully he took the pouch and gave Trojan a quick hug. “Thanks, friend,” he said. “Watch out for arrows.”

  “I’ll be on the English side of the battle,” said Trojan in mock exasperation. “The French didn’t use the longbow then, remember? Really, Noel, you are pretty ignorant for a historian.”

  “Focused,” retorted Noel. “Specialized. Not ignorant.”

  “Ignorant,” said Trojan, but with gentleness. “Fly by the seat of your pants.”

  “Intuitive,” retorted Noel. “You s
hould play your hunches more and depend on your experience less.”

  “Don’t catch the pox,” said Trojan.

  They grinned at each other.

  “Get on with it,” muttered the technician Bruthe.

  They always had this little ritual of swapping insults and advice before they traveled. Stepping back, Noel watched his friend enter the portal.

  It was like watching a man walk away from you down a long hallway into the mist, becoming increasingly indistinct until the mist curled across his shadow and he was gone. The first time Noel had ever seen the time portal, he had been disappointed at the tameness of the effect. He had wanted to see lightning flash, or hear great cracks of thunder as time was rent to let them enter its stream. But no dazzling pyrotechnics happened in time travel. Only the mist and a gentle sense of being sucked away into a fuzzy nothingness that lasted a few short seconds before arrival.

  “Your turn, Kedran,” said Bruthe.

  Normally Tchielskov performed the portal duties. Noel was fond of the old man, who had taught him how to avoid the slight nausea that crossing the portal could cause, who had taught him to go in thinking in the language he was to shortly be surrounded by so that the actual transition was less of a shock. He had never known the old man to miss travel, but Bruthe—or anyone else in the room—could handle the portal controls. It was just a matter of monitoring; the time computer did all the real work.

  Adrenaline built in Noel’s veins. The center of his palms grew moist. He sucked in a deep breath and entered the portal ramp, bouncing just once on his toes and making sure he started on his left foot. It was a mindless, meaningless superstition of his, a way to distract himself as he entered the mist.

  Although it appeared to be mist to those watching in the laboratory behind him, in reality it wasn’t a ground cloud of moisture at all. In reality, it was nonreality. Tendrils of gray nothingness dissolved his tangible surroundings. The deeper he walked into it, the more he dissolved. He kept his gaze ahead, knowing better than to watch himself fade.

  A frisson of energy rippled through him, making his black hair stand on end. He could hear the pulse of the time wave, and felt it washing over him in an immense, sucking tide. Normally about now he should be nothing more visible than a vague outline. He was crossing the actual portal, the most dangerous moment of travel, when he was in neither dimension but only between.