The Well of Time

by Robert I. Katz

  The Eastern continent crouched over the planet’s equator. Much of it was mountainous but the westernmost portion narrowed into a peninsula that then widened out into a fertile plain, over a thousand kilometers in extent and three hundred wide, flat and covered in grasslands. The entire peninsula hummed with activity, including a shipyard on the edge of an enormous military base that lay next to Killaway, Croydon-4’s capital city. The base consisted of barracks, administration buildings, training facilities and a large landing field covered with hundreds of ships.

  Most of the ships were converted merchants, outfitted with gun ports and missile tubes. A few were old style military, obsolete corvettes and destroyers. Ten, however, were the same approximate design as the ones that had attacked Gehenna at Akadius. There were three of the big ones, over three thousand meters.

  “There is no evidence that they’re preparing to attack the Second Empire,” Michael said.

  By now, they had come across dozens of similar worlds and groupings of worlds, most of which, long ago, had been members of the First Interstellar Empire of Mankind.

  But the First Empire had fallen more than two thousand years in the past, and the Second Empire was still far away—for many of these worlds, barely a rumor and of no concern. No, these worlds had more immediate concerns, because many of them had neighbors and those neighbors were all too often aggressive, acquisitive and territorial.

  Croydon-4 was not preparing to attack the Second Empire. They were preparing to attack their neighbors.

  “Why can’t we all just get along?” Commander Dumas said with a wolfish smile.

  Michael shook his head. It is a truism that peace requires two parties but war needs only one. If someone attacks, you’re at war, whether you want to be or not. And so, if you are a wise leader, you prepare to defend yourself, your property and your world, and sooner or later, some leader or other would look at all that military capability and think, why waste it?

  “Their principal target would seem to be the Navarre Protectorate, only twenty light-years away and almost undefended.”

  Someday, the Second Empire might decide to follow the example of its predecessor and declare that all human beings, wherever they might be, are under its sway and will follow its rules. It might, in the end, be the only way to stop this internecine carnage among the stars. But that day, if it ever came, was in the future.

  “We can’t stop a war,” Michael said, “not here. We don’t have the resources.”

  Captain Thorenson shook her head. The others frowned but had nothing to say.

  “Why did that ship come here?” Michael said. “That’s what we need to find out. That is our mission. The rest of it can wait.”

  Croydon-4 had been a modified democracy, with a king elected for life from among a group of nobles. Then, seventy years ago, Carl Hauser, the second most popular (and recently defeated) candidate for the throne, rebelled. His rebellion succeeded.

  Carl Hauser proved to be a relatively benevolent autocrat. He took care not to abuse the commoners and appeased the merchant class with tax abatements and government subsidies. He had died in his sleep thirty years previous. His oldest son was now King Gustav.

  Gustav, unfortunately, had larger ambitions than his father. He dreamed of conquest and glory and had a fervent desire to spread the light of his magnificent reign among the stars. The First Empire, after all, had begun as one tiny, little world: Earth. Gustav was starting with five. Now, it was seven. Why should Croydon be less successful than their ancestors? King Gustav had been bribing government officials on at least a hundred worlds. He had been doing so ever since he assumed the throne.

  Then, only three years ago, a man named Jeffrey Salazar had come to Croydon-4 and begged an audience with the King. Jeffrey Salazar had immediately been appointed First Advisor and the Imperial shipyards began turning out ships of a new and more advanced design. They had also begun buying older vessels from their neighbors and paying very attractive prices for merchant ships that could be converted to military use.

  “This guy,” Commander Dumas said, “is out of his mind.”

  Anson gave him a brooding look. “Is he? Napoleon and Genghis Khan started with a lot less. If you have a yen to conquer the galaxy, he’s going about it the right way.”

  Commander Dumas shrugged. “For every Genghis Khan, there are a hundred others who tried and failed and whose names have long since been forgotten.”

  “And every one of them caused chaos in their wake,” Captain Thorenson said. “King Gustav may not succeed in conquering the galaxy but he can cause a lot of damage while he’s trying. And anyway, he’s not preparing to conquer the galaxy, he’s preparing to conquer his neighbors.”

  The Navarre Protectorate was a small, two-planet confederation that possessed a miniscule military of its own, ripe for the plucking.

  Michael had a headache. He was depressed. Was this it? This lousy, two-bit little Empire? Was this the source of all their troubles? His own attitude bewildered him. He should be elated. It seemed too good to be true. And that was the point. If something seemed too good to be true, it probably wasn’t.

  “He is going about it the right way,” Michael said. “The officials that he’s bribed, both in and outside the Empire, were all mid-level and grateful for his help. After forty years, many of them are no longer mid-level. They occupy high positions in their respective governments.

  “And he hasn’t overextended himself. He’s been careful to work within his limitations. King Gustav is dangerous.”

  “Gustav would be considerably less dangerous if he was working alone,” Captain Thorenson said. “The real problem is this Jeffrey Salazar. Who is he? Where did he come from?”

  “Let’s find out,” Michael said.

  Jeffrey Salazar was rarely seen in public. There were only three pictures available on the web. All three showed a tall, well-built man with brown hair, brown eyes and even features. Facial recognition software revealed no match.

  “Facial sculpting could have taken care of that,” Anson said.

  Michael shrugged. “There are trillions of people, both in and outside the Empire, who aren’t in our database. We’ll have to get closer.”

  Jeffrey Salazar had a spacious suite within the palace, but the palace was well shielded. Their drones could not enter and Jeffrey Salazar did not exit. People, however, could. Visiting nobility, trade delegations from a hundred different worlds, and even tourists were welcome in the public areas of the palace.

  The Lady Luck was about to head down, once again posing as a merchant vessel, when Michael received an urgent message from Romulus. “Observe your screen.”

  Michael, sitting at his desk, turned toward the holoscreen. Andrew Sloane walked out of the palace. He turned his head upward toward an almost microscopic drone hovering overhead. The drone received a message: Meet me at the Charter Arms at 9:00 tonight. Andrew Sloane smiled, apparently basking in the fresh air and the sunshine on his face. Then he slid into a waiting car.

  Their drone followed the car. It drove to the spaceport, checked in through the main gate and stopped at a merchant ship. Andrew Sloane exited, smiled once again at the hovering drone, and entered the ship. The hatch spiraled closed behind him.

  Michael sat back in his seat, considering. Finally, he shrugged. “Break out some bodies,” he said, “and prepare one of the boats.”

  “Of course,” Romulus replied.

  The Charter Arms was a restaurant, a large, high-end establishment with a reputation for serving some of the best food in the city. Michael, accompanied by Curly, Frankie, Henrik Anson and Twyla Thorenson, arrived at the Charter Arms fifteen minutes before 9:00. A hostess showed them to a table in a large, circular alcove, from which they could see the street, and sat down to wait.

  “Pleasant enough,” Captain Thorenson said. The restaurant had soft seats, a tiled floor, a large wooden bar and semi-private booths separated from each other by padded wooden backs. Flowers peaked out of alcove
s scattered around the room.

  They ordered cocktails with unrecognizable names, which arrived within a few moments.

  At exactly two minutes past 9:00, Andrew Sloane walked in. Michael felt something unwind at the sight of him. Andrew Sloane had left the London on a spying mission, nearly three years ago, to join the crew of a ship that they had strong reason to believe was a pirate vessel. They had not heard from him since.

  As Arcturus had said, Andrew Sloane was an alien masquerading as human. He had seemed, in the brief time they had known him, to be a loyal member of Michael’s crew but he had not been human for long and his motivations were at least questionable, if not incomprehensible. And now, here he was, mingling freely with what appeared to be the enemy. Michael would not have been surprised if Andrew had arrived with a battalion of King Gustav’s troops.

  “I like the bodies,” Andrew said, and slid into the booth. “They look like you.”

  Michael grinned. He pressed a button and a privacy screen shimmered across the table. “So, Andrew, how have you been?”

  “I have enjoyed my time among you humans. Your behavior is almost always fascinating.” Andrew Sloane smiled ferociously. “Primitive, but fascinating.”

  Frankie frowned. Captain Thorenson, who had never met Andrew Sloane but knew his story, stared at him.

  Andrew Sloane picked up a menu and examined it carefully. “I have come to believe that political power should be apportioned according to some random mechanism, maybe a lottery. Those who seek it are almost always narcissists and sociopaths. Those who do not seek it and never wanted it are more likely to not abuse it.”

  “I don’t think you’re the first to have had that thought,” Michael said.

  Captain Thorenson, who frequently dealt with the military hierarchy, grimaced. Anson, also no stranger to the ways of politicians, reluctantly smiled.

  Andrew Sloane shrugged. “I have grown tired of pretending to be human.” He stopped talking as a waiter approached. They all gave their orders and said nothing until the waiter was outside the privacy screen.

  Michael did not have a choice about being human. Andrew Sloane did. Not necessarily a comforting thought. “Why haven’t we heard from you?” Michael said.

  “I was busy.”

  Andrew Sloane had changed, not surprising, since when he left them, he had been very young. From the beginning, Michael had had doubts about Andrew’s mission. Andrew had been a happy, eager young alien. He no longer seemed either young or happy. He seemed harder.

  “What is your status here?” Anson asked.

  Before he could answer, their food arrived and the table fell silent. When the waitstaff left, Andrew said, “One thing that I have truly come to enjoy is the process by which you carbon based entities ingest energy.” He grinned around the table. “First, the anticipation. Will this dish be as good as I remember? Will it taste the way I imagine it? And then the food arrives, arranged like artwork on the plate.” His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath and the smile spread across his face. “The scents, the flavors, the entire ritual of the meal, the feeling repletion that when the last bite has finally been consumed.”

  He glanced around the table. “Let’s eat, and then we can talk.”

  Why not? Michael, like most soldiers, had often been required to eat some fairly disgusting things, but like most soldiers, he had learned to appreciate a good meal. All of them dug in, and kept their thoughts to themselves.

  Finally, Andrew pushed his plate away and sighed.

  “You may recall that the ship I left on was called the Traveler’s Fortune. Her captain was a human named Carl Severs. The Traveler’s Fortune was a merchant ship, trading mostly in furs, gems, exotic spices and mid-level computer systems that had value on low technology worlds.

  “As you surmised, the Traveler’s Fortune was not above a bit of piracy when she could get away with it. Her cargo holds could easily be converted into detention facilities. When opportunity presented, Carl Severs traded in slaves, mostly kidnapped from low tech worlds—part of the reason he preferred dealing with such worlds—and occasionally crewmembers from small vessels that they waylaid and either captured or destroyed.

  “The crew was in on it. They operated as a partnership, a common arrangement on such vessels. The profits were divided up and distributed according to rank aboard the ship. The Captain received ten percent of the total, the highest share.”

  Andrew fell silent. At the end of the meal, he had ordered a glass of very expensive brandy, which he now sipped, looking thoughtful.

  “Where were these captives taken?” Michael asked.

  Andrew reached into a pocket and pulled out a data-chip, which he handed to Michael. “The information is all there: worlds, cities, all the buyers, all the sellers, all the ships I know of.” He shrugged. “I’m certain that there are many more.”

  “This is good,” Michael said, weighing the chip in his palm and then carefully tucking it away. “It’s very good. It’s a lot more than we had.”

  “Carl Severs had a common weakness. He was greedy. He withheld certain items of merchandise and sold them privately, keeping most of the credits for himself. The ship’s other officers were all included in this scam. It was stupid, but then, such men often are.” Andrew chuckled.

  “What happened?” Frankie asked.

  “I was the one who discovered his thievery. By this time, my fellows regarded me as a loyal and exemplary member of the crew. I alerted my colleagues. We mutinied. I had the honor of strangling Carl Severs.” Andrew frowned. “I enjoyed that much more than I expected to. The rest of the ships’ officers were shot and their bodies ejected into space. The crew then elected me Captain.”

  Somehow, Michael suspected that there was much more to it than this simple story.

  Andrew Sloane sat back in his seat. He grinned, though the grin seemed strained. “Have you ever considered the so-called ‘fallen’ nature of mankind? The attraction of sin? The pleasure of letting loose one’s deepest, most depraved impulses? Of reveling in the forbidden? Of taking and destroying at one’s whim and without remorse?”

  Anson stared at him. Captain Thorenson frowned.

  “What exactly are you getting at?” Michael asked.

  “My people have no such temptations,” Andrew said. “Our animal nature, if it ever existed, lies a billion years in the past. The sheer pleasure that I received as I watched the light fade from Carl Sever’s eyes, the exhilaration…this surprised me. I would not have expected that such an atavistic act would convey such absolute joy.

  “Why is that?” Andrew looked around the table. “Do you know? Can any of you tell me?”

  “Civilization imposes restraints on our behavior,” Anson said. “Civilization could not exist if we all behaved like animals.”

  “Animals…animals behave according to their nature, but even an animal is capable of compassion, of caring for others, at least others of their own kind.” Andrew sighed. “I have read everything that every human philosopher has written on every possible subject. I know all about original sin and the last temptation of Christ, but it is one thing to have an abstract knowledge of a phenomenon and quite another to experience it,”—he grinned—“in the flesh.”

  He fixed Michael with a burning gaze. “You and I once discussed this subject, long ago. Do you remember?”

  Michael remembered. Andrew had been drunk for the first, and perhaps the only time. “Yes, of course.”

  “I was sent among your people to discover the true nature of carbon based intelligent life—specifically, mankind—though it has been my observation that organic, intelligent beings other than humans share, to one degree or another, all of your principal attributes.

  “I have accomplished my mission. I have discovered within myself the capacity for evil, and I have seen this capacity displayed many times in many other beings.” A pained expression crossed Andrew Sloane’s face. “But I have also seen the capacity for what a human philosopher would call
‘good.’ I have seen generosity and kindness. I have seen dedication to an ideal. I have observed courage and sacrifice.”

  He looked around the table.

  “My mission is nearly over. I find that I miss the song of the stars, the hum of cosmic radiation as it sleets against my wings, the company of my own kind. It is time that I returned to my father.”

  “Why did you ask us here?” Michael said.

  Andrew grinned. “Human beings have come far in a short period of time, but your evolution has further to go. I find, all things considered, when the bad is weighed against the good, that I approve of your nascent, so-called civilization. Humanity has risen and fallen and risen once again, many times, but each time, the heights it has achieved have been greater than the last. I will tell this to my people. We shall not destroy mankind.”

  Well, thought Michael, that’s good to know. “Thank you,” he said.

  “I owe you a debt,” Andrew Sloane said. “I wanted to tell you everything that I have discovered or suspect regarding your adversary.”

  “Excellent,” Michael said. “Please begin.”

  They had returned to Gehenna and put their temporary bodies back into storage.

  Frankie was morose. Frankie had always regarded herself as the practical sort. Down to Earth. See a problem, fix a problem. It was not so easy when the problem lived within herself. It was even harder when she couldn’t quite figure out what that problem was.

  But then again, she pretty much had figured out what the problem was. She just didn’t know what to do about it.

  Frankie had been with Michael Glover for over three years. Frankie had no doubt of her feelings for Michael and she had until very recently had no doubts about Michael’s feelings for her.

  Four hundred years was a long time. People changed a lot over a life-span that stretched over four hundred years. You lived with somebody, you loved somebody…a few dozen years pass, and maybe you couldn’t stand them. Some relationships lasted, most didn’t. You tried to maintain your dignity. No hard feelings, that’s just the way it was.