by Brandt Legg
“A large area.”
“It is, but, as I said, we are closing in.”
“Good. Time is short.”
Someone else might have asked her why Trynn hadn’t been arrested yet. They certainly had enough evidence, but Weals didn’t care. That was up to her, and he preferred Trynn on the loose for his own job security. “There is globotite missing.”
“Yes . . . Has it turned up in any . . . ” She didn’t like the terms assigned to the black markets and the Havlos exchanges.
“None as of yet,” he replied. “Which means there is a chance Trynn has them.”
“Find out,” she hissed, impatient. “It is the most important information, do you understand?”
“Of course.” And he did. He was smarter than she thought. If Trynn had enough globotite, together with the other materials he’d already acquired, there could be seven far future insertions. The ramifications were astonishing. “I’ll be at his residence tonight.”
“The launch is tomorrow,” she reminded him. “Don’t jeopardize it.”
He shook his head, as if this were insulting.
“You must find the location tomorrow,” she said. “After the launch, time speeds up . . . but for Trynn, it will stop.”
Kavid found a miner he knew had helped Prayta smuggle globotite in the past.
“The guardians took Prayta,” he said.
“What of her children?” the man asked.
“They are with Arso.”
He nodded, as if he agreed with the answer, but said nothing.
“Prayta was carrying at the time,” Kavid added.
“She’s done then,” the miner said, as if it was a trivial thing, yet anguish filled his face.
“I have it,” Kavid said hesitantly. “She gave it to me just before they took her.”
The man looked around, as if they might be overheard or even arrested any moment. “Trynn needs that, you must get it to him.”
“I tried, but the trails, the roads, everything is crawling with guardians. There are so many checkpoints . . . I could not get through.”
“Give it to me.”
“But you’re a miner,” Kavid protested. “They’ll pull you just for that.”
“I’m not going to take it,” he said, as if that were an insane notion. “I’m going to get it to the one person who can get it to Trynn.”
“Who?”
“It’s far better that you don’t know.”
Fifty-Seven
Grayswa completed his task. It wasn’t a typical delve into the far future, where he would plant ideas, inspiration, and light. This time he’d undertaken a rescue mission.
He explained it to another shaman, a woman who would replace him one day.
“To convince a man to risk his life for a stranger is no simple thing.”
“But it is possible, because inside each person is the seed of a hero,” she said, brushing flower petals out of her long, gray, braided hair, which reached her waist.
Grayswa nodded. “A hero who would never understand, but had been made to do heroic deeds nonetheless.”
“To save three strangers.”
“More than that,” Grayswa said. “To save us all.”
“Let us hope . . . I am glad you returned safely.” Her warm green eyes always soothed him. They had been friends for longer than Trynn had been alive. Grayswa relied on her companionship and counsel more than any other.
“Thank you,” he said, returning her smile. “I am tired now, and must rest. The Imaze launch is in the morning.”
“Did you see any evidence of their work?” she asked.
“No, but I wasn’t really looking for that.”
“I know,” she said, sounding sad.
“And yet we should be grateful that those in the far future were still there. At least for now, humanity is surviving.”
“That may change soon,” she said. “Trynn is in extreme danger.”
“Yes,” the old shaman sighed. “The present is always trickier than the future.”
Markol closed his eyes before responding to Shank’s lethal order. “Across the void of eleven million years, this is not an easy task—personally or technologically.”
“But it is possible,” Shank said, knowing it was.
“Yes.”
“Then use your knowledge of the Eysen and remove him. He is a threat.”
Markol nodded again, unconvinced, yet resigned. However, after a few moments of silence a question formed in his mind that he could not suppress. “And what of Trynn?” Markol, like so many, had been a student of the dedicated scientist. He had learned so much from the master, the great Eysen maker.
“What of him?” Shank asked, as if vomiting the words.
“I cannot help but wonder, knowing Trynn the way I do—respecting, even revering him, as I always have—it is possible . . . likely, that Trynn will succeed.”
“We cannot allow that.”
“Trynn is not one to bet against.”
“Why do you broach this?” Shank asked, clearly taken aback and puzzled by the question.
Markol lowered his voice. “Would you kill him?”
Shank stared at the young scientist angrily, indignant. “What?”
“Would you have me do it?” Markol pushed. “Or someone else? An assassin from Havlos?”
“It should not ever be necessary.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is an answer,” Shank snapped. “Do your job. We all have a role to play in this. If you succeed in yours, then this outrageous question need never be asked.”
“Even if I remove the archaeologist, and even if we can stop Trynn from inserting any others, that old Eysen maker will find a way.”
“You credit him too much.”
“Trynn has seen things no one else has,” Markol persisted. “He can do incredible things with Eysens. He understands how to change circumstances, to transform time . . . he swims in the secrets of the universe.”
Shank stared at him. “There are thousands of Eysen makers, experts and scientists such as yourself, who can do magnificent things as well.”
“Yes, but none of us gets even close to what Trynn has done, what he can do. You say I credit him too much. It is you who discounts him too much. Trynn is the greatest of technological wizards. There is a reason why his life intersects with this point in cosmic existence, why the fate of all of humanity and the force of the Terminus Doom rests in his hands.”
Shank shook his head.
Markol moved next to Shank so the two men’s faces were only inches apart, and whispered firmly, “And we may be too naïve to realize the reasons, to understand his power.”
“No,” Shank spoke louder. “His way is not sanctioned, and you . . . do not dare defy me.”
“I will not defy you, Shank.” Markol’s expression turned sad. “You must know my loyalties, but please never deny me the ability to debate, to speak my mind.” He paused, and then, without attribution, quoted Trynn: “‘There is nothing more important than the explorations of one’s own mind, and how it mirrors that of the universe.’”
Fifty-Eight
Trynn looked at the results of Leonardo da Vinci’s work with the Eysen and felt as if he’d been cut in half with an Infer-gun laser. “It didn’t work . . . the Leonardo da Vinci Eysen failed!” he shouted as Cardd returned from the analyzing room. “I thought for sure Leonardo could reverse the Nostradamus disasters.”
“What did we do wrong?” Cardd asked.
Trynn shook his head. “A thousand things we’ll never know.”
“We can figure it out,” Cardd said hopefully, moving a large swath of hair from his eyes.
“I know we could, but there will never be enough time to uncover all our errors.”
“At least the Terminus clock improved. We’re back to fourteen days.”
“Not nearly enough. Leonardo should have moved us back to years remaining. Fourteen days . . . Fourteen sunsets until we never were
. . . and look.” Trynn pointed to the ceiling. “Rip still finds his Eysen.”
“So that means we’re dead?” Cardd asked.
“The only way I can fix this is to change everything that comes after the moment Rip discovers his. The only way to do that is to put in another Eysen.”
“We don’t have enough globotite.”
“Then we’ll just have to get some!” Trynn barked.
“But . . . where?”
“Where? I don’t know, we’ll launch an armed insurrection, take every Eysen, raid the confiscated holdings of The Circle. Nothing can stop us because everything will be lost if we fail!”
“I meant where will we send the next Eysen?”
Trynn, finally on his way home, desperate to see Shanoah, had one more stop—to get the next name. Shanoah wouldn’t be there yet anyway, her mission already on its final countdown stage.
After they reviewed all the data, it turned out that there were many improvements. Although it had not completely corrected the Nostradamus incident, it had lessened its impact on the far future.
He stopped at a slight they had never used before. The places where almost no light reached in the underside of the Cosegan cities always made him feel strange. This one seemed the darkest of any he could recall. The glow from the ambient city light was so low, he almost stumbled into Ovan.
“It didn’t finish it,” Trynn said, his voice edged with both sadness and excitement. “But it went better than Nostradamus.”
“Considerably better?” Ovan asked. “Because if not—”
“Yes,” Trynn interrupted. “I learned many things.”
“You can keep working Leonardo,” Ovan reminded him. “Once we give an Eysen to a person, we can still make adjustments.”
“I know, but . . . ”
“We play with time, with their interactions, events, lives . . . everything.”
“Eventually, it must be finalized,” Trynn said. “And I must throw the switch.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve run everything. We cannot fix it with Leonardo. We must do more.”
“Another insertion?” Ovan asked, as if surprised, but they both knew he wasn’t.
“We need to go earlier.”
“I do just happen to have an earlier name.”
“Excellent. Tell me.” Trynn had studied far future history more than any other Cosegan, and had begun to consider the personalities who came before Leonardo da Vinci. Time periods cycled through his mind. Kings, popes, inventors, explorers captured his imagination as he pondered the possibilities.
“This one is different.” Ovan’s tone and face signaled warning.
Trynn frowned back at him. “How so?”
“More dangerous.”
Trynn moved back half a step and sunk cold hands deep into his pockets. He recalled the devastation following the Nostradamus incident; The Circle’s hammering decrees preventing further work in the far future, the forced isolation, running, lying, secrets and all the pressure that one more mistake would mean the end of everything.
“Why is it so?”
“This one comes with more hazard than Nostradamus.”
Trynn closed his eyes and pursed his lips. “Is there no other candidate?”
“The risk/reward ratio that is necessary . . . circumstances demand boldness.”
“I understand, but—”
“The depths at which we find ourselves requires a dramatic shift.”
“Eleven million years . . . ” Trynn repeated the three words which haunted his sleep. Moving an incident, even making a subtle change over so long a period, took intense concentration and great calculations. Removing an entire life of a person, creating a long and brutal war, sometimes had little or no effect on events so far away. “Okay,” he relented at last. “Who and when is the name?”
“The year they refer to as 4BC, and the man is called Jesus of Nazareth.”
“Jesus Christ . . . You speak of their great holy prophet and savior?”
“I do.”
“That is too dangerous a task.”
“You insert the Eysen while he is still but a young, unknown carpenter.”
“Is there no one else?”
Ovan cocked his head. “We are trying to save humanity. Could you imagine a better choice than one they say is the son of God?”
Trynn stared at him.
“It must work,” Ovan added. “Each insertion is far more complicated than the last one, because, as you know, it carries the weight of the previous ones—their ramifications, complexities, and knowledge. This will be number three, and . . . ”
“Four.”
“Ah, yes, the archaeologist, but that may yet be prevented.”
“Let us hope.”
“Right, but four Eysens floating around in the far future . . . ” He met Trynn’s eyes. “The Circle may have been right in their ban.”
Trynn immediately shook his head. “No.”
“Four Eysens that you can never retrieve, wreaking havoc in the far future, with the ability to affect our time and theirs, as well as all the ages in between . . . This must be the last insertion. Jesus will save us.”
Fifty-Nine
Working Rip’s Eysen at a secret island lab Booker had built, Huang was excited by the breakthrough he’d made, and couldn’t wait to tell Rip and Gale. But before he called them, he wanted to be sure.
I’ve got to lock in the secondary sequence, he thought. He referenced similar points recorded by Savina. These definitely resemble her findings . . . but I’ve gotten farther.
It had been so long since they’d had any contact from Crying Man, Huang hardly believed it was possible anymore. He’d explored theories that there might be an expiration built into the Eysen. Crying Man had told them he was real and still alive. However, Huang now wondered if that may have just been part of the program. Several more on Booker’s team were following other possible explanations for the silence.
In recent years, Huang had become the third leading Eysen researcher after Rip and Savina, and had been with Booker’s Eysen project longer than anyone other than Rip and Gale.
“Where are you Crying Man?” Huang asked out loud, hoping the theories were wrong. It was harder to believe that a man who lived eleven million years ago could still be communicating with them in an interactive manner than it was to believe it all just might have been some incredibly sophisticated AI program. Gale was the only one who had never expressed any doubts that Crying Man was real.
Huang manipulated the sphere with both hands while at the same time sweeping through his mind. He was one of the best at neural interfacing. The Eysen seemed to allow much greater exploration and success through mind connections and commands rather than its physical touch points.
Suddenly he saw something he’d not seen in the tens of thousands of hours he had spent gazing into the techno-crystal ball. It was as if he had opened the inside of the actual mechanical sections of the Eysen, the machine itself, something they had never been able to penetrate. It all seemed virtual, more like a portal. Huang had once noted in his journal, Once you look into an Eysen, you travel to the reality of other places.
This time, he’d somehow gotten inside. He quickly noted in the tracking journal, a mental recording of the interface, This is the equivalent of walking on a CPU motherboard.
Afraid to turn away, knowing how sensitive the Eysen was, he focused in the deep view. It wasn’t like looking into the small sphere, it had opened up to an endless tunnel filled with glowing components. Huang had long ago installed foot keyboards for just such occasions.
He began tapping his feet on the various large keys so he could record all the steps that it had taken to get to where he was. Thinking it and tapping it, the tracks would immediately go through data channels, with a seven minute latency built in for server security, and arrive to the supercomputers at Savina’s research station on the other side of the planet. She could then process the same steps in her Eysen.
/> Huang knew she would have it soon. If Savina’s awake, she will immediately join through her Eysen. Then she can assist and amplify the power.
He was getting closer and closer to the heart of what controlled the Eysen. They had been able to replicate and build their own, but they lacked the endless power and, more importantly, the infinite sourcing of all knowledge. Booker’s team had been able to get enormous amounts of both into the consumer models, and yet they were absolutely nothing like the authentic Eysens.
Markol, from his lab beneath Lumen Tower in Solas, watched as the man came deeper and deeper into the Eysen. He felt guilty luring the excited scientist into this trap. He wished there had been another way. Although Markol did not agree with the method, he had come to accept that Rip’s Eysen needed to be extinguished, and not even Trynn could do that.
Markol had hoped to avoid this path, but at least for now, events were dictating their course. “Apparently he is on a quest to locate the Nostradamus Eysen,” Markol said to his assistant, Vide.
“It would help if he did locate it, right?”
“Definitely, that is why this all may work out better than the original plan,” Markol said with some remorse.
“Can the Archaeologist see you?” Vide asked.
Markol looked into the projection, watching Huang staring back. “No, we would have to enable the second wave. And even if we wanted to, we cannot spare the globotite to open the channel.”
The assistant looked back at Huang, who they believed to be Rip, and wondered what awaited the world if the most brilliant of those in the 21st-century could not solve their problems. “Why is their knowledge so limited? They should be so far ahead of us by now . . . ”
“Something happened, something in the Missing-Time,” Markol replied, having said the same words hundreds of times.
“Maybe everything we’ve learned, our whole Cosegan society, ends in the Terminus Doom, and they,” he motioned to Huang inside the projection, “somehow survived.”