by Simon Hawke
Shortly after the Temporal Crisis, as the media had dubbed it, had been publicly announced, a reporter had cornered Delaney at a bar near Pendleton Base, frequented by soldiers of the First Division. She was eager for the "simple truth," as she had put it, that a "frontline soldier" could provide.
"How much time have you got?" Delaney had naively asked her.
"Take as much time as you need," she said. "We'll edit it together later for the broadcast. We just want to hear the simple truth about the Temporal Crisis as a frontline soldier sees it."
Delaney had emptied his glass in a long swallow and leaned back against the bar while they trained the camera on him.
"Well," he said, "the simple truth is not so simple. Basically, the Time Wars were a terrific risk right from the start, but people were either willing to accept the risk or else they simply didn't want to hear about it. I suspect the truth is they just didn't give a damn until something went wrong. And something was bound to go wrong, because we were screwing around with temporal physics."
"What does that mean, exactly?" she had said.
"Well, let's take a real basic example and I'llmake it as simple as I can, okay?" Delaney had said. "Let's say that our country had a difference of opinion with the Nippon Conglomerate Empire. It got intense, no negotiated settlement could be reached, and so the grievance was submitted for arbitration to the Referee Corps. A ref was assigned to arbitrate the temporal action that would settle the whole thing. He asked the Nippon government to provide five hundred grunts and he asked our government to provide five hundred grunts. He selected an historical scenario for the arbitration conflict or the time war, as it’s more popularly called. He decided to use World War II. The troops were
cybernetically indoctrinated and clocked back into the past, to fight among the
troops of World War II. One of our guys got a bit carried away and used a warp grenade instead of a regular 20th century hand grenade. He didn't exactly set off a multimegaton nuclear explosion, he only used a small portion of the energy released by the grenade, no more than would have been released by a conventional 20th century hand grenade. The only problem is, he killed General Dwight D. Eisenhower, who went on to become the President of the United States."
"
Did this actually happen?" said the reporter.
"No, of course not, it's only a hypothetical situation," said Delaney. "Well, now we've got a problem. We've got a fairly large temporal disruption and it has to be adjusted. So an adjustment team is clocked hack into the past, in the hope that something can be done about it before the damage becomes irreversible and a timestream split occurs. Let's say we get lucky. We're able to replace the late General Eisenhower just in time with one of our own people, someone from a special unit formed to deal with just such a situation. It's not an easy job. This person has been surgically and cybernetically altered to become General Eisenhower. He has to live out the rest of Eisenhower's life,
exactly as Eisenhower would have lived it, based on what we know of history.
A chancy proposition, at best, but it's the most we can do. There are certain to be at least minor discontinuities as a result, but we can bring all of our resources to bear on this and hope that the discontinuities will be relatively minor.
"Meanwhile, things like this have been happening all throughout the timestream, every time we've had a temporal conflict. Sometimes we've adjusted the disruptions. Sometimes we've had to replace historically significant individuals with people of our own. Sometimes we haven't caught the disruption, because it was really very minor. It all started to add up. Maybe it put a strain on temporal inertia and something happened to disturb chronophysical alignment in time and space and another universe somehow came into congruence with our own. Isuppose it really doesn't matter how it happened, the point is that it happened. Somehow the timestream became unstable and our timestream intersected another timestream and now the two parallel universes are crisscrossing in time and space, intertwining like a double helix strand of DNA. Every now and then, there occurs an event- location at which both timestreams exist in the same time and space. Crossover becomes possible. And the people in this other timestream are not very happy with us.
"To anticipate your next question, the reason they don't like us very much has to do with that warp grenade our temporal soldier blew up General Eisenhower with. The way a warp grenade works, you set it for the amount of energy you want to use. Let's say you only need about one-tenth of one percent of the energy of the grenade's nuclear explosion. The rest of it is warped into outer space where it goes off, theoretically, without doing any harm. Only as it turns out, the surplus energy of that grenade didn't just go off with a big bang in outer space, as we had thought. Because of the congruence, most of that energy was teleported directly into the alternate universe, where there was one hell of an explosion. And we've been setting off more than just one warp grenade. In other words, we were bombing the hell out of the alternate universe without even realizing it and, understandably, they're somewhat annoyed with us. So now we're at war with them. The Temporal Crisis, as you people in the media call it. Only neither side really wants an all-out war. Nobody could survive that. So instead they concentrate on screwing up our history, in the hope that they can split our timeline and somehow force our universe away from theirs, and we do much the same to them."
"Where does it all end?" the reporter said.
"The hell of it is, it probably doesn't end." Delaney told her. "You see, you could wind up with timestream splits all over the damn place and nobody knows what effect that would have. We could wind up with all of them intersecting. A real mega-Tine War. Their universe is almost a mirror image of ours, but it's not exactly the same. The trouble is, the forces of temporal inertia in both universes are working to bring our two timelines together, so the only thing we can do to keep that from happening is to continue creating disruptions in their timeline while they continue creating disruptions in ours. In order to keep our two timelines from becoming one timeline, we have to maintain the instability. But if we maintain the instability, we're threatening our own temporal continuity. It's a Catch-22 situation. The whole thing is liable to collapse at any minute like a house of cards.'•
"So what's the answer?" the reporter said, growing impatient.
"What makes you think I've got an answer?" said Delaney.
"Yes, but surely you must have some ideas about how to resolve the Temporal Crisis. There has to be an answer."
Delaney shrugged. "Not really. In a complex world, I'm afraid there are no simple answers."
"So where does that leave us?" the reporter said, still pressing for an
answer.
"I guess it leaves us with a lot of questions to which there are no simple answers," said Delaney wryly. "And that's the 'simple truth' as a 'frontline soldier' sees it."
He watched the report later that night. They had, indeed, edited his answer. It ran like this: "We just want to hear the simple truth about the Temporal Crisis as a frontline soldier sees it."
"Well, the simple truth is the Time Wars were a terrific risk right from the start.
They just didn't give a damn until something went wrong. And something was bound
to go wrong. It’s a Catch-22 situation. The whole thing is liable to collapse at any
minute like a house of cards. And that's the simple truth as a frontline soldier sees it."
Delaney had to explain to Forrester about the editing. He received an official reprimand, which Forrester promptly "filed," and specific orders were issued to all military personnel not to speak to members of the media without special authorization. Paranoia settled in to stay.
Delaney wondered what would have happened if he had told them about the Special Operations Group, the First Division's counterpart in the alternate universe, and Project Infiltrator, a genetic engineering project headed by Dr. Phillipe Moreau, aimed at creating genetically engineered soldiers to be infiltrated into their timeline?
What if he had told them that Drakov had kidnapped Moreau from the Project Infiltrator labs and set him to work creating hominoids, creatures bioengineered from human clones and modified with advanced surgical and cyber- netic techniques, turned into monstrosities that were no longer human, but something else entirely? And what if he had told them that aside from the Temporal Crisis, they were all fated with the threat of Nikolai Drakov, an insane criminal genius who wanted nothing less than temporal anarchy, or failing that, an apocalyptic entropy, an end to all of time?
He imagined the reporter saying, "Yes, but what's the answer?"
He imagined himself replying with a variation on an old zen koan. "If the shit hits the fan and there's no one left to smell it, is there a stink?"
He checked his watch. Ransome was late. He should have reported in by now and gone off to relieve Rizzo at Hesketh's apartment. And it would soon be time for him to wake up Steiger, catch a couple of hours sleep himself and then relieve Andre at Conan Doyle's house, so that she could get some rest. It was monotonous. Watching and waiting. Something had to break soon. The
bathroom door opened and Christine Brant came in. having been relieved at
H. Wells' house by Linda Craven.
They wereusing the bathroom as a clocking in point, with each member of the team assigned a "window" during which they could make temporal transition. Using the bathroom as a temporal staging zone meant that they could all freely move about the rest of the apartment without having to worry about when someone might be clocking in at a certain point—it wouldn't do to be standing on the same place where someone was trying to clock in. The results would be very messy and very fatal. It also meant that in the unlikely event that someone else was present in the apartment, with the bathroom door closed, they would not see anybody suddenly materializing out of thin air. Someone clocking in could simply wait inside the bathroom until whoever it was had gone. As far as using the bathroom for its intended purpose was concerned, they resorted to the one in the adjoining suite.
"Anything?" said Christine Brant.
Delaney shrugged. "Ransome's late reporting in. Otherwise, no changes."
"How's Colonel Steiger holding up?" she said.
"I'm due to wake him in another hour. He's holding up about as well as could be expected, I suppose. He's getting anxious, as are we all. Any sign of Wells?"
She shook her head. "Not yet. Of course, there's no guarantee he'll be coming back to his house. Can I have some of that coffee?"
"Help yourself."
"Thanks." She sat down and poured herself a cup. "What do you think Moreau's going to do with him?" she said.
"I have no idea what to think," Delaney said. "I still don't see how Wells would fit in with what Drakov seems to have planned. Unless he's planning something separate that has to do with Wells." He shook his head. "There are just too many variables. The best we can hope for is that Wells will show up again, with Moreau, and we'll get a shot at taking out Moreau and snatching Wells. The problem is, what do we do with Wells once we've snatched him? He already knows too much, but can we risk having him conditioned to forget his part in all of this? Would that affect his writing?" He shook his head again. "I don't know, Christine. It's going to be very tricky. The waiting's hard, but it's not the hardest part.”
You know, a very unpleasant thought occurred to me while I was on the
watch for Wells," she said. "It's bad enough that Moreau snatched him from right under our noses, but what are we going to do if he doesn't come back?"
Delaney's hand froze with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. "Don't even think about it," he said.
6 ___________
They met in the rooms of the Beefsteak Society. The Sublime Society of Beef- Steaks was not in session at the moment. The tradition dated back to 1735, when John Rich, manager of the Covent Garden Theatre, founded the club for "men of noble or gentle birth," which net for a beefsteak dinner every Saturday from November to June. The badge of the society was a gridiron and its members wore blue coats and huff waistcoats, buff being a light yellow napped leather properly made from buffalo skin, though other skins were sometimes used. The motto of the club was "Beef and Liberty" and it met at the Lyceum Theatre. Grayson thought the whole thing was rather juvenile, but then there had always been a ritualistic fervor among the upper classes that he had never fully understood. If you want to meet once a week for a steak dinner, he thought, why not simply meet once a week for a steak dinner? Why make a bloody boys' club formality of the whole thing? In any case, it was a question that was never liable to concern him personally, as it was highly unlikely that he would ever he invited to join a gentleman's club. He was just a simple working class sod, happy with his station in life and if he wanted a steak dinner, he could bloody well just go down to the pub and get one.
Bram Stoker beckoned him to one of the chairs placed around the table. "Please sit down. Inspector. May I offer you something to drink?"
"No, thank you very kindly. Mr. Stoker, not while I'm on duty."
"Are you making any progress with your inquiries, Inspector'?" Stoker said. "I take it that is what you wanted to speak to me about?"
"As a matter of fact, yes, it was," said Grayson. "Itrust, Mr. Stoker, that we may speak in confidence?"
"Certainly, Inspector," Stoker said. "However, I should tell you that if what you have to discuss with me should happen to concern Henry Irving, I would be both honor and duty bound to take the matter up with him. He is both
my employer and my closest friend."
Grayson nodded. "I quite understand. However, I don't think we will need to concern ourselves with Mr. Irving. There is certainly nothing to suggest that he is in any way involved."
"Involved in what. Inspector?" Stoker said.
"Well, frankly Mr. Stoker. at the moment Iam not quite sure, but I suspect it may be murder."
Grayson watched Stoker carefully. The man suddenly became silent, but he did not avoid Grayson's steady gaze. He pressed his lips together and gave a couple of curt nods.
"I see," said Stoker. "Then if I understand you correctly, Inspector Grayson, you believe that Angeline Crewe was murdered, but you have no proof."
"No proof that I would feel comfortable presenting at the Old Bailey," Grayson said. "At least, not yet. However, there is no question but that Miss Crewe was subjected to at least one violent assault shortly prior to her death and it appears possible that she may even have cooperated in it."
Stoker frowned. "Exactly what are you implying, Inspector?"
"Those wounds on her throat were made by teeth. Mr. Stoker," Grayson said, watching the man for a reaction. "Human teeth."
"You're certain of this?" Stoker said.
"Beyond a shadow of a doubt," said Grayson.
"You are telling me that she was bitten in the neck by someone and, as a result, she died?" said Stoker.
"She died from loss of blood," said Grayson.
Stoker took a deep breath. "Is each of us wondering who will say it first?" he said. "Wry well, then. I will say it. Her killer bit her in the neck and drank her blood. In other words, a vampire?"
Grayson pursed his lips. "I sec that the thought had already crossed your mind," he said. "Tell me, are you a superstitious man, Mr. Stoker?"
"People in the theatre are always superstitious." Stoker said. "But let's speak plainly, shall we? If you're asking me if I believe in the existence of such creatures, 1 can only answer by saying that I would be disinclined to, but to my certain knowledge, I don't know. There are many things in this world which we cannot explain to our satisfaction. Frankly, when I saw those marks upon Angeline's throat, it was the first thing that crossed my mind, but then I had only recently read a novel by Sheridan Le Fanu about a woman who was a vampire. Are you familiar with the work?"
"You mean Camillo?" Grayson said.
"Yes, that's the one. You've read it then?"
Grayson nodded.
"So what do you think?" Stoker said.
"I found it entertaining, but to borrow your own words,•" said Grayson. "I am disinclined to believe in the existence of such creatures.—
"You would prefer to seek a more rational explanation." Stoker said, nodding. "Has it occurred to you that there are legends about vampires dating all the way back to ancient times, to Greece and Rome? And that there have been many apparently reliable reports concerning vampirism scattered throughout history since then'? Even up to and including recent times?"
"Yes, I am aware of that,” said Grayson. "In fact, I recently had an interesting conversation concerning that very topic with Dr. Conan Doyle and he was able to explain to me convincingly how such stories might have been sustained as a result of ignorance and improper observation."