The Well of Time

by Robert I. Katz

  The man smiled. “And you must be Martin Gaynor.” He looked toward Anson. “Mr. Smythe?” Anson nodded. “Please sit down.” They sat in two very comfortable chairs opposite the work-station.

  “Can I get you anything?” Smirnov asked. “Chocolat? Tea?”

  “No, thank you,” Michael said.

  “Well, then…” Smirnov smiled. “What can I do for you?”

  Michael leaned forward. “What do you know about us?”

  “Very little,” Smirnov said. “Rostov is hardly the center of the Universe and our data regarding outside corporations is not exactly up to date. The web says you run a salvage company.”

  “This is true. There’s always a market for ancient artifacts. Most of these are decorative only. Their functions have long since degraded. Still, there are plenty of collectors willing to pay good money for even a useless symbol of our glorious past.” Michael smiled. “The more arcane, complicated and mysterious the artifact might be, the better.

  “However, every once in a while, we come across something truly interesting.” He shrugged. “Rarely, but it happens.”

  Michael paused.

  Smirnov nodded. “Go on.”

  “Now and then, we find some bit of ancient technology that might have been routine to the citizens of the First Interstellar Empire, but is now beyond our current knowledge and abilities.”

  Smirnov blinked. “What does this have to do with Rising Sun?”

  Michael glanced at Anson, who frowned.

  “You have ships,” Anson said. “Your reach extends far beyond Rostov. Your contacts, and your ability to make new contacts, offers the possibility of opening new markets for our goods.”

  Smirnov appeared doubtful. “Your goods, if I understand you correctly, are all one of a kind.”

  “Not all of them,” Michael said, “but most. All are at least exceedingly rare. Some are unique, in fact.”

  “How many contacts do you need? How many such artifacts could you possibly have?”

  Michael pursed his lips. He leaned back in his chair and searched Smirnov’s face. “Many,” he said. “We have located an abandoned city on an abandoned world. The city is well preserved. This is a major find for us. We’ve come across nothing else like it.”

  Complete garbage, of course. The First Empire had comprised over two thousand worlds, but the first Empire had collapsed into anarchy and civil war over two thousand years in the past. There were hundreds of abandoned worlds, thousands of abandoned cities and many millions of ancient artifacts. Tthe market for these artifacts was large but largely unprofitable. It might be different if some really advanced technology might have survived, and some of it had, but very little of that technology came from abandoned worlds. The more advanced worlds with more advanced technology had suffered an economic catastrophe when the First Empire perished, but the overwhelming majority of these worlds had survived and recovered.

  Smirnov frowned. “Give me an example.”

  Anson leaned forward. “In the ruins of what appears to be a research establishment, we have discovered a metallic substance that is harder than steel or titanium, lighter than adamantium and has almost zero resistance to electron flow. Such a substance would be useful, indeed.”

  “Do you have the formula?”

  “No.” Anson shook his head. “Merely samples.”

  The substance that Anson mentioned did exist, but it was the product of the Naval Research Institute on Reliance. While it did have the properties that Anson described, it also had an unfortunate tendency to lose molecular cohesion after a few years and crumble into dust.

  “Limited value, then,” Smirnov said, “if you can’t make more of it.”

  Anson glanced at Michael, who grinned. “We have so-far found one small, self-repairing AI, that has personal knowledge of the events surrounding the collapse.”

  Smirnov sat back in his seat. He shrugged. “Useful to historians, perhaps.”

  Anson frowned. “We know many collectors who would pay a fortune for such a device.”

  “But as you’ve said, it’s one of a kind. Frankly, gentlemen,” Smirnov said. “I am not convinced that you have the gold-mine you seem to think, and I still don’t see why you need us.”

  Michael and Anson exchanged glances. Some wordless communication seemed to take place. Michael grinned. “We also have a ship.”

  Smirnov blinked. “A ship…”

  “A fully functioning First Empire scout ship. It’s not a large ship but its design is advanced. It’s faster than any ship we’ve ever heard of. Its functions are fully automated, under the control of its own AI. It requires no crew, whatsoever.”

  Smirnov stared at him. “Where is this ship now?”

  Michael smirked. “Here,” he said. “On Rostov.”

  “Are there more such ships?”

  Anson chuckled. “Many more.”

  Smirnov let out a long breath. “That puts a different light on things.”

  “We figured it would,” Michael said.

  Chapter 7

  “Isn’t she a beauty?”

  Yevgeny Smirnov walked all around the little ship, which was sitting on the tarmac next to the Shiloh. He seemed entranced by it.

  “We’ve named her the Wasp,” Michael said. The ship was long and narrow, twenty meters in length, seven around the middle, with tiny sensor ports that fed 360-degree views of the outside onto the ship’s screens, but no actual windows.

  “What is a ‘wasp?’” Smirnov asked.

  Michael smiled. “An ancient Earth insect: very fast, with a very painful sting. It seemed appropriate.”

  Smirnov grunted.

  The little ship was indeed a beauty. Her composite alloy hull gleamed in Rostov’s tepid sunlight. Both forward and aft, small gun tubes extruded.

  “And she’s fully functional?” Smirnov said.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Let’s try her out.”

  “Of course.”

  An hour later, the little ship settled back to her spot next to Shiloh. Michael and Smirnov emerged and the entry port closed. Smirnov laid a possessive hand on the Wasp’s hull. It seemed to be an unconscious gesture. “Impressive,” Smirnov said.

  The ship’s AI had easily responded to voice commands. Following Smirnov’s verbal orders, they had flown twice around Rostov’s one tiny moon, blasted a small piece of space junk into microscopic bits, carried out a series of acrobatic maneuvers and then returned. Everything had worked to perfection.

  “And you have more.”

  “Yes,” Michael said.

  “Why do you need us, with ships like these?”

  Michael shook his head. “These ships are small. They were meant to be military scouts. They’re fast but they won’t carry much cargo. We’re a salvage company. We don’t have the resources to build larger ones. You trade in ships. You have customers who would be interested in buying them. We don’t.”

  Smirnov nodded. “Let’s talk business,” he said.

  Michael sometimes missed the old days, when it was just Curly and Rosanna, then Gloriosa and Richard Norlin, then Andrew Sloane and Frankie. Gehenna carried over five thousand marines. It was a real crew but the old crew of mismatched parts that nevertheless had worked so well together, seemed now to be almost redundant. Michael still thought of them as his people, however. He had picked them (or they had picked him). He felt comfortable with them. Almost like family.

  A family that was growing up and growing more distant, however. Andrew Sloane had already left, on a spying mission that even at the time had seemed like a long-shot. It was almost three years and they had not heard from him again. Richard Norlin would probably be next. Richard was intelligent, easy-going and good in a fight. An asset, but Richard’s debt to Michael, if one had ever existed, was long since paid. Richard now spent most of his time in his own quarters, wrapped up in his music. Richard, Michael thought, would leave them soon. He would find some situation on some civilized world, stay there and buil
d his reputation. Richard was absurdly talented. He deserved it.

  And Gloriosa…Michael sighed. Gloriosa seemed depressed. Beautiful, small, angry, she had no training in combat other than what they had given her aboard the London and now Gehenna. This was a lot of training, and she had dedicated herself to it, but not because of any real inclination or desire. It was a part of her job, but Gloriosa had no real love for her job.

  Perhaps she should have gone with the young couple she had met on Cassidy. She had seemed happy with them.

  Marissa and Matthew Oliver came from a martial culture. They fit right in, but both expected to return home, someday. Their father was the most important man on Illyria, a proud new member of the Second Empire.

  Curly and Rosanna had signed on to get away from a boring life on a boring little world. They had wanted to see the Universe. Well, now they’d seen it. They hadn’t discussed it with Michael but from a few overheard bits of conversation, Michael knew that Rosanna was trying to get pregnant. If it didn’t happen soon, they would have to resort to an external incubator, none of which were available on Gehenna.

  He sighed.

  Frankie, curled up in a corner of the couch, reading a book projected into the air, gave him a questioning look. “You all right?”

  “Sure,” he said. He shook his head. “I think I was happier on the London, when it was just us.”

  After the Imperium’s attack on the Second Empire, Michael had given the London to the Navy. During the subsequent war, Gehenna had been, to a large extent, kept in reserve, never traveling alone, her function almost always more intimidation than actual combat. High Command had wanted her out of the line of fire, just in case, and Michael had agreed. He had accepted a marine contingent of a few hundred men but considering Gehenna’s appointed role, had seen no need for a larger crew. Things were different now. Now, the new ships were entering service. Gehenna was no longer irreplaceable and Michael Glover could go where he pleased.

  Frankie smiled and the book vanished. “I feel the same way. It’s like moving from a small town where you know everybody to a big city, where everybody is a stranger.”

  Michael considered this. “I don’t think it’s that, exactly, not for me. For me, it’s the sense that time marches on and all good things come to an end.”

  Frankie frowned. Michael, Frankie well knew, had lost more than most men would ever have. Once, very long ago, Michael Glover had been a general in the armies of the Empire. Books had been written about his campaigns. A world was named after him…and then he was betrayed. Michael’s home world was a radioactive ruin, his family and friends two thousand years in the past, his universe vanished into time.

  Frankie stretched, then rose to her feet, padded across the room and straddled Michael’s legs. She gave a slow smile and wriggled her tight little rear end on Michael’s lap. “Sometimes even heroes need cheering up,” she said. She grinned and kissed him, her tongue tickling his lips. “Does my big hero need cheering up?” She kissed him harder.

  Michael sighed and put his arms around her and kissed her back. “Yeah,” he said. “I do. I need cheering up.”

  “I can do that,” Frankie said.

  “So far as they know, we’re a group of hard-bitten spacers,” Richard Norlin said.

  Michael frowned at him. Richard did not look ‘hard-bitten.’ His clothes were of the finest quality. His posture was erect, his hair and short beard neatly groomed. Curly perhaps looked the part, big, with a barrel chest, broad shoulders and a shaved head. He was well-dressed, however, and any sense of danger he might have exuded was mollified by Rosanna, large and not quite plump, blonde and wearing skirts, clinging to his arm. Anson wore a suit, very expensive, very restrained.

  Frankie, Matthew and Marissa Oliver wore uniforms, playing the part of private security. They were the only ones who carried weapons.

  “How do you think they’ll play it?” Matthew asked.

  “Depends on who knows what,” Anson said. “If they’ve corrupted the local authorities, they’ll take us captive and torture us for the information. If they’re acting on their own, they’ll be more subtle.”

  “Oh, joy,” Matthew said.

  “It’s always possible,” Michael said, “that they’ll play it straight. We’ve offered them a partnership. It’s to the advantage of both parties. Maybe they’re legit.”

  Anson gave a tiny snort. Richard smiled. “Maybe.”

  Their airpod landed on the roof and they took a lift down to the offices of Rising Sun Trading, where they were ushered into a conference room. A buffet of cold meats, cheeses and various salads had been set up against one wall, along with coffee, tea, chocolat and rooibos. Three bottles of champagne sat in coolers. The secretary who had shown them in said, “Please help yourselves. Mr. Smirnov and the solicitors will be with you shortly.” She smiled and closed the door behind her.

  “Well, this is pleasant,” Frankie said.

  Michael frowned. If Rising Sun Trading meant to go through with this fictitious deal, he was going to be embarrassed. He shrugged, fixed himself a sandwich and sat down at the long table. The others all watched him. He took a small bite, nodded, and tried each of the salads. “Seems to be fine,” he said.

  They rest nodded. Curly, Rosanna, Richard and Anson prepared food for themselves and sat down at the table. Frankie, Matthew and Marissa stationed themselves in the far corners of the room.

  A few minutes later, a small hiss came from the ceiling. Michael sighed to himself. Marissa blinked and Matthew’s head jerked up.

  “Oh, well,” Richard muttered.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Anson said. “Right now.”

  Curly pushed back his chair, ran to the door and grasped the handle. “It’s locked,” he said. He rammed the door with his enormous shoulder. The door didn’t budge.

  Michael sniffed. He didn’t recognize the gas but he did recognize a few of its components. Effective, but not too dangerous in moderate dosages. All of them by now were standing, but there was nowhere to go and nothing they could do. Frankie stared at him as her eyes shut and she crumpled to the floor. One-by-one, the others fell. Michael was the last. His head slumped down to the table. He closed his eyes and the darkness closed in.

  Chapter 8

  Michael groaned. He couldn’t help it. Dizzy and nauseous had never been his favorite sensations. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them. He was strapped down to what appeared to be a padded, adjustable chair in a room that resembled an operating theater. A helmet was fitted over Michael’s head, with wires trailing off to the sides. Two men fussed over a bank of instruments along one wall. The doors to the room slid open and two other men and a woman walked in. One of the men was Harold Crane, or Dimitri Sokolov. The other two looked to be bodyguards. Sokolov gave Michael a brooding look. There was no recognition in his gaze. Michael smiled to himself. No reason there would be, after all.

  He took a deep breath and tried to still the swirling in his head.

  “So,” Sokolov said, “you are awake.”

  Michael blinked at him, his eyes very cold, and Sokolov frowned.

  Might as well play the game… “Where am I?” Michael said. “Where is my crew? And what do you think you’re doing?” He strained against his straps. They gave just a little. The straps were more than adequate.

  The man and the woman who had come in with Sokolov glanced at each other. Sokolov puffed up his cheeks and stared at Michael. Then he grinned. “That’s not how this works. We ask the questions. You answer them.”

  He seemed very satisfied with himself. He continued to stare at Michael. Michael stared back.

  “So,” Sokolov said after a moment. “You have a very advanced little ship and you know where to find more.” He looked around the room and raised his eyebrows. The male bodyguard quickly pulled over a chair from the instrument bank. Sokolov sat down. “How many more?”

  “Dozens,” Michael said.

  “Dozens,” Sokolov repeated. “How ma
ny dozens?”

  “We didn’t count them all. There are hangers full.”

  “Give me an estimate.”

  “The ones we could see…?” Michael shrugged. “Perhaps three hundred.”

  “What do you mean by the ‘ones you could see?’”

  “We found an abandoned First Empire military base outside an abandoned city. We didn’t bother to explore it all. It was too big. We saw what we needed to and we left.”

  Sokolov gave a happy little sigh. He rubbed his hands together and leaned forward in his chair. “And where is this mythical base on this mythical world?”

  Michael smiled. “I’m not going to tell you.”

  Sokolov glanced behind him at the technicians. One of them frowned at his instruments. “His brainwaves are curiously even. The instruments are having difficulty getting a fix.”

  “Try harder,” Sokolov said.

  The technician nodded. Sokolov turned back to Michael. “Now,” Sokolov said.

  The technician pressed a button. An electric shock jammed itself into Michael’s arm. The arm quivered and shook and every muscle contracted. Michael cried out.

  The technician stared at his board. “I still can’t read him.”

  “That’s unfortunate but it hardly matters.” Sokolov drew a deep breath. “You see what we can do to you,” he said to Michael. “You will cooperate, or it will go very badly for you.”

  “You won’t get away with this. Our colleagues know exactly where we are. They have instructions to notify the authorities if we don’t return in a reasonable amount of time.”

  Sokolov gave a tiny, dismissive snort. “The authorities on Rostov have been playing the long game for decades. They will do nothing. Nothing at all.” Sokolov shook his head. “Nobody is coming to rescue you. You are entirely at our mercy.”

  Such as it was…and speaking of clichés.

  Michael laughed out loud. He couldn’t help it. Sokolov stared at him.