Nagasaki Vector

by L. Neil Smith

  Yeah, that’d do it, all right. Sink Columbus on his first trip, scuttle John Cabot for good measure. You’ll have wiped out all subsequent history in a couple of clean strokes, meaning no preliminary ripples to warn the Academy upstairs. The alarm bells on that fancy reality-lock could shrill forever—there’d be nobody left to hear ’em.

  Could be we were doomed.

  As if on cue, there was a blood-curdling scream from belowdecks. Heplar scrunched his head down between his shoulders even farther than usual. Kent blinked and turned white as a boiled cow’s stomach.

  The scream hadn’t been female.

  Cromney recovered first. “In answer to the question you’ve undoubtedly been asking yourself, Captain, there are, indeed, a pair of individuals aboard who are not a party to our... enterprise. Those two old fools from the museum.”

  “They had their, uh, chance, sir,” interrupted Kent. “I practically, well, begged them to—”

  “That will do, Denny. I believe that was one of the old gentlemen we heard just now, responding to our little Edna’s tender ministrations. She is practicing, no doubt, the powers of persuasion she plans bringing to bear on you, Captain, should you remain uncooperative.”

  Another scream. This one shut off like a politician’s smile when the polls close. I tried not to gulp visibly. “Oh, I convince real easy, Doc. Just try me.”

  Behind him, Kent nodded with dumb enthusiasm. Real class outfit I was dealing with here.

  Cromney smiled sadly. “I rather doubt that, Captain. Be that as it may, young Heplar here will reprogram this vessel as far as 1492. You will be asked simply to inspect and confirm—or correct—his calculations. It is remotely possible, should you sincerely join the spirit of the occasion, that we may yet find a niche for you in our New Secular Order. Although, in honesty...”

  He straightened, inhaled briskly. “No matter. For the nonce, we shall remand you to our little Edna’s custody and let you think. Gentlemen?”

  Silliest-lookin’ strongarm men I ever laid eyes on; coupla wimps whose faces even Mr. Peepers coulda thrown sand in. But I wasn’t quite myself that afternoon, an’ they trussed me up some more, using side-cutters to detach me from my chair, picked me up bodily, and carted me outa the control cabin.

  I banged a still-tender ear on the door-frame.

  Across the after pilot’s lounge, at the opening of the rear ladder-well, they simply tossed me down into the messroom. It deserved its name.

  I landed on my right side in a quarter-inch-deep, roomsized pool of blood, Edna Janof standing over me, a pair of glittering tiny manicure-scissors in her scarlet hand.

  4 Harry’s Other Shoe

  EDNA'S LOVELY VIOLET-COLORED EYES CONtrasted nastily with the crimson running down her upraised forearms. At the elbows, it dripped off onto my uniform. Absently working the tiny scissors open and shut, she bent over me, a little foamy spittle showing at the comers of her mouth.

  I was helpless to do anything but keep a wary eye on her. Something had sprayed scarlet freckles all over her face. One of those “somethings” lay crumpled along one wall, its cruelly bound arms at unreal angles. A naked foot stretched up across a lightweight plastic chair, wired in place. Was it Merwin or Hulbert? Whoever it was, he didn’t seem to have toenails anymore.

  Or any eyes.

  She’d accomplished a whole lot more between those extremities. That’s probably what started the screaming. I know I’d have screamed. My coverall was soaked through to the skin along the side I was lying on, and something seemed to be dripping on my forehead. Despite myself, I glanced up: an arm, ending in the tortured mockery of a hand, hung limply off the edge of the dining table I’d skidded halfway under. I found myself wondering if anybody was attached to it. Funny, the things you think of. It was gonna take a total refit to clean Georgie up after this.

  If there was an after this.

  Another scarlet droplet from the table overhead caught me squarely in the eye.

  And that did it. Okay, Captain Bemie M-for-meathead Gruenblum, maybe you gotta take it lying down, but by Ochskahrt’s Awful Accident, there’s gonna be a pile of bastards horizontal with you!

  I gathered my knees to my chin slowly, faking an abject terror I was trying pretty hard not to really feel. Edna leaned closer; the scissors nibbled the air in front of my eyes. Her own were whirling pools of insanity. I managed a little whimper.

  She laughed.

  I’ve heard it said you can drive somebody’s nose-bone into their brain with an energetic, well-placed blow. Not being sure about that, I aimed the heels of my number nines right at the point of her cute little chin, figuring to fracture her neck.

  And kicked!

  I caught her on the lunge. She slipped on the blood-soaked carpet, taking my bone-crushing strike on her shoulder and flopped over hard. I stayed down, heels being my only advantage, and waited for Round Two.

  It never came.

  There was a curious thumping scuffle, a muffled female protest. I lurched up onto an elbow, sawing the cords painfully deeper into my flesh, and—

  It was the Yamaguchian Ambassador—or one of his compatriots—plastered firmly over Edna’s pretty little mug. She fought feebly, trying to tear him away, but the Freenie clung like an abalone. I felt something scrabbling at my wrists and looked down just in time to see another alien withdrawing a dangerous-looking crablike appendage back under his shell.

  My hands were free!

  I worked my stiffened fingers like a milkmaid practicing arpeggios. The cord was sheared through cleanly, the end of each filament like a tiny mirror. Nor did my miniature alien worshippers leave much doubt what they wanted their God to do now. It was thunderbolt time: Freenie Number Three had broken into my private locker and was skriddling liis gory way toward me with my old Milt Sparks pistol belt tentacled high above his shell to avoid getting blood all over it There were four spare clips in that combat rig, eight big I .it cartridges apiece. I hoped I’d need ’em all.

  Freenie Number Two unbound my legs, numb and practically useless. By now, Edna had stopped struggling and lay still, a sight that did my heart a lotta good. I dragged myself toward her, assisted Number One off her face, and Iclt for a carotid pulse. Rats! Still there—but just barely.

  I considered replacing His Ambassadorship, thought better of it, and then wondered why, finally evading difficult ethical questions by taking it out on my legs. I kneaded and punched them until it felt like my skin was carbonated, and took a fling at standing up.

  Sevefal attempts later, I was leaning shakily against a chair, trying to strap on the gunbelt. Levering the Colt out of its shoulder-holster (two spare magazines there, as well, under the off-armpit), I thumbed down the safety and gently pinched the slide back to check the chamber—dunno why I bother, it’s always full of cartridge.

  The slide shuffled forward again with that Cadillactic Gold Cup clank, but I left the safety off, resting my trigger-finger on the guard, and squished a path across the tiny messroom to the ladder. I took the treads slowly, quietly, and two at a time until my eyes were on a level with the deck above.

  No one in the after lounge.

  Up the remaining steps and onto dry carpet, leaving tracks Jack the Ripper would’ve envied. Heplar and Kent were still present on the flight deck, but Cromney was the one I worried about, with that heavy-duty Navy burner of his. Parked in my chair, he toyed absently with the DreamCap, not wearing it. The laser was out of sight.

  “Gentlemen, it’s just occurred to me that we might modify this vile device and use it to indoctrinate—”

  While Cromney babbled, Heplar turned, glommed a horrified eyeful of me: soaked in blood, murder in my heart, and a cocked and loaded two-by-four-sized blue-steel automatic in my hand. The way his eyes widened, I thought he was gonna skin himself. His mouth started moving. I shot him.

  —and connected with Denny Kent just as the idiot crossed the hatchway. He went down, half an ounce of lead buried in his adipose. I pivoted. The pistol bel
ted my hand again, filling both rooms with its bellowing. Cromney clapped a hand to his ear—I’d been aiming for the bridge of his nose, but my fingers were still unmanageable—let the DreamCap fly, and snatched for his blaster. My old Colt bucked and roared a third time, and Cromney’s fancy ray-g,un burst in his hand, spraying components, meat and bone, all over the cabin. He screamed and lurched backward against Heplar, who stumbled against the console—

  And the entire planet slammed down on top of me, grinding me into a million agonized fragments!

  ... I clambered back to consciousness, hurting all over from injuries of three or four distinct vintages. The .45 was still clutched in my hand. I flicked the safety up, not trusting my nerves, swapped for a full magazine, and stepped forward into the control room.

  Georgie was in full flight.

  ’Course I’d realized that from the moment I’d awakened. There’s no mistaking the feeling. And no confusing the distinct sensations of traveling in time with those of moving spacewise. We were doing both, and in a hell of a hurry.

  The remainder of the cast was horizontal, draped at random over furniture, floor, and fixtures. Kent was still breathing. Thing about a .45 is, if you survive the first thirty seconds after being shot, you’ll likely live out your normal span. Cromney lay unconscious and leaking—-outa one ear and between what was left of his fingers. Made my whole goddamned day. I stepped over my former assistant, only treading on two of his ankles by unfortunate accident, and checked the board—

  And looked up at the screens!

  The numbers were reeling by too fast. An initial acceleration of eleven or twelve G’s had tripped Georgie's overrides. The momentum we’d acquired was something pretty tierce. That numbskull Heplar had left all the arming-covers flipped open while he fumbled with the settings—a lazy kaydet’s trick—and then had fallen against every go-button Georgie's got.

  But that wasn’t what worried me now as I stabbed buttons, vainly trying to slow us down. See, you pass through time and space at the same time, on a complicated vector, passing over mountains and cities and rivers as you slip through history. Sometimes you gotta be careful what you pass over.

  Georgie's shields are powerful, but even they have limits.

  Heplar had plotted in an error so incredibly moronic, only flying over Krakatoa or Santorini on Boom Day could’ve compared. While I struggled helplessly, the dials whizzed around to the twentieth century, August 9, 1945. The map said Kyushu, the western fringe.

  Nagasaki.

  THERE WAS A WHITE LIGHT.

  5 A Grizzly Tale

  SHHHWAAAP!

  The eleven-thousandth picture-postcard pine-bough slapped me in the puss. Too played out even to feel particularly resentful about it, I finished putting my left foot down in front of me. Somewhere above the needle-carpeted floor, a goddamn bird was singing.

  I ducked another branch. The Freenies waited impatiently on the trail a hundred yards ahead—there are advantages to being only fifteen inches tall. Clear of the trees at last, I ignored their minuscule intrepidity and picked out a nice, sun-dappled, lichen-encrusted parking place. Looked to be midmoming, though it’d been full light already when the pesky little critters rolled me out, and in this forest, I couldn’t be sure. Couldn’t be sure of anything: we were lost in a wilderness where there should have been a city.

  Springtime in the Rockies. Fed by slowly melting patches of dirty snow, the aspen-lined creek paralleling our game-track gurgled cheerfully, mocking me. I leaned over and spat pink, from where the ten-thousand nine-hundred and ninety-ninth pinecone-laden tree-appendage had smacked me in the mouth.

  I glanced at my wrist again, rewarded only with a hairy fishbelly strip where my Academy-issue Nukatron was missing, then spent a consoling moment dedicating unprintable free-verse to all but two of my former passengers. This was the third crummy, miserable day—not to mention two crummy, miserable nights—I’d spent wandering along what appeared to be the prehistoric Continental Divide. Trouble was, Georgie's read-outs had been quivering at A.D. 1993 when I’d whispered my last reluctant good-bye.

  I’d fingernailed my way up outa pole-axed disconnection from reality—it was getting to be a perversion with me— sprawled across the copilot’s couch, pistol in hand, teeth in mouth, and confusion in what passed for mind. “Spectacles, testicles, vallet und..Didn’t seem to have many more contusions and abrasions than I’d already collected. Helluva tribute to Georgie’s defensive magnetogravitics.

  Viewscreens coulda been an excerpt from The Sound of Heidi: a saddle-shaped stretch of breathing-space between the lofty cliche-capped peaks—the kinda flower-speckled meadow where they make beer commercials. Real scenic, it was: as close to 105°30' West Longitude as’d matter to anybody but a stake-and-chain man; 40°30' the other way. Call it a quarter past Wyoming, somewhere along the eastern slope of the Colorado Rockies. A large mustard-colored fly buzzed the outside pickups.

  But, incredibly, Georgie was claiming it was 1993— half past teatime, April first, t’be exact. All Fools’ Day, and for the moment, that seemed to include me. I knew this era better’n I wanted to. Shoulda been a countyful of subdivisions here, crackerbox houses row-by-row, semivan-dalproof public schools, nondenominational churches, shopping centers the size of Greater Mesopotamia, and about a million square klicks of bumper-to-bumper parking lot.

  Yet it wasn’t any weirder than what greeted my perplexed inspection of the interior of the timebuggy. Cromney, Hep-lar, and Kent had vamoosed, leaving some impressive bloodstains slowly fading into the housecleaning systems. My own uniform was dry and stiff with the stuff until I started moving around and it powdered off and fell away. This was turning out to be a messy assignment.

  I checked the Gold Cup, filling the gunbelt’s vacant clip-pouch from the shoulder rig, which I unzippered my coverall to shrug out of. Ain’t the most comfortable way to haul a piece around, anyway—but highly concealabie. Looked like the big autopistol’d carry three small oval etchings from now on, where my bloody fingertips had rested while I was dozing. Honorable battle-scars. We all got a few.

  Okay, one mystery at a time.

  If my would-be hijackers had recovered already, why had they left me armed and on the loose? Or still alive, for (hat matter?

  I verticalized myself and limped toward the after lounge, discovering not one muscle, joint, or sizable surface anywhere that didn’t inspire a groan when I moved it. Surprisingly enough, I was hungry, which probably meant I was gonna live. I lifted a swollen ankle over the doorsill—

  "Hail, O Mighty Gruenblum, puissant and indestructible!"

  “Errrk!” My right hand clawed convulsively for the armpit where my pistol wasn’t, anymore—a gesture appropriate to shock-induced coronaries, as well.

  “O Lord”—there came a high-pitched but exceedingly reverent squeak—“who endureth through great travail, wilt Thou guide Thy humble servants even as Ye did in days of yore?” All three Freenies had gathered in the after lounge, which was otherwise devoid of inhabitants. The suddenly-talkative individual among them swiveled an eyestalk at its companions: “Rejoice, ye people, for our Creator awaketh at last!”

  “O Magnificence,” uttered a second Yamaguchian, rolling forward as if he were on ball-bearings. His legs wiggled like cheap rubber special effects. “Deignest Thou to speak unto Thy worshippers, revealing now Thy Holy purpose and design?”

  “C’mon, guys, knock off the Charleton Heston crap, willya? My head hurts!” Which was true, all of a sudden, bringing me to a state of anatomical unanimity. My hand brushed idly along the steel and black rubber of my pistol grip. “Seen anything of Cromney and the rest of his bug collection?” I pulled a cigar from its waterproof—and bloodproof, it appeared—pocket case.

  The third alien piped up, just like the others, Mickey Mouse breathing helium. “Lord, Thy servants hath immured the Evil Ones, with the victims of their late foul butchery, in the chambers beneath Thy locomotive extremities.” It pointed its turkey-neck toward
the after stair-well. “Have we acted rightly?”

  All three looked up at me with anxiety-filled optics.

  What was I gonna say? The little farts’d saved my life— twice, now—and, thinking back on it, had tried to warn me even before the fireworks started. Shucks, standing there it took me several seconds to figure out that we were in even worse trouble than before. So why take it out on the Freenies?

  Y’see, omnia Georgia in partes tres divisa est, to wit: the uppermost deck where we presently found ourselves; a larger middle deck for the paying customers—staterooms, dining area, etc., and, grandest of all, the lowest level, reserved for the engines, cargo, and maintenance supplies ...

  And Auxiliary Control. That was the cockroach in my enchilada: up here on the control deck were two separate hatches, one aft between the pilot’s lounge and the bunkie where I’d hang my hat if I had one. That led to the passenger level and nowhere else.

  But amidships was a second ladder-well, theoretically accessible only to the crew, which dropped directly to the lowest deck, the idea being to keep curious amateur fingers outa the bright pretty machinery. If things worked out as spiffily in practice as they do in theory, my tiny worshippers woulda had the badguys boxed and locked.

  However.

  On the tubular outer surface of the ’midships ladderway, as it passed through passenger-country, was a four-foot curving plate bolted on, clearly labeled in bright orange letters six inches high:

  EMERGENCY ENGINE-ROOM ACCESS AUXILIARY CONTROL AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

  Somehow, even without Rand Heplar’s contribution to this farce, I had the feeling Cromney was gonna figure things out and consider himself authorized. After all, y’can’t make a New Secular Order without breaking regs.

  In the couple of seconds it took all of this to whip past iny little gray cells, I practically teleported back through to the console, quick-twisted two pairs of thumbscrews, and slammed up the panel they held down. In the recess underneath was a fist-sized module amongst all the spaghetti and shirt-buttons. I pushed it down a quarter-inch, turned it to the left. It popped out into my hand as half a hundred dashboard lights went yellow. I crammed it into a pocket with a long, grateful sigh of relief.