Time Travel Omnibus, page 1154
To his surprise, because it was a special private prison, they took him straight to Tarpauling Hill. Or meant to. Escaping his escort had not been difficult. Escaping a planet was going to be harder.
This was his eighth Martian day on the run. There were no real maps of the hinterland. He knew the Interplanetary Military Force. They let their big robot Bannings loose if they thought that someone was hiding in an area. He could have stayed in RamRam City, hidden in the Tanks, but it would get expensive in terms of human lives. He’d had to lead them into wild, unpopulated country or they might have killed half Low-Canal’s population. Out to the wide valleys and high mountains of the Monogreanimi, where, it was said, the old high queens of Mars still dreamed in the deep ice.
Mac was trying to find one of the legendary “blowholes,” sunk by Mars’s last race, who had been seeking air for the shelters in which they’d taken refuge from the Long Rain, the incessant meteor storms pulverizing the planet. The falling meteors had destroyed almost every sign of the dozen or so major civilizations that had once ruled a Mars almost as lush as Venus.
Mac hated Venus. He hated her fecundity as well as her unpredictable gas storms, which regularly wiped out hundreds. Terran Venusians went crazy just to survive the extremes. He hated native Venusians, the smelly little green people nicknamed leprechauns by Terrans. He hated Terrans, too. And he really hated Mercury. Mars, he could not help loving. He loved her vast, tranquil deserts, her hills and high, wild mountains where nothing breathed. Once he’d longed to make her self-sustaining again. He’d dreamed of bringing in enough water to make her bloom as she had in the days when the few surviving pictograms and engravings had been created. When she still had seas. There were other legends of how she had been, but these could all be traced back to myths created in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.
All Mac wanted was the reality. To see the canals running again while sun and moons illuminated blue forests and small fields of brass-colored crops. To settle down on a few acres of land, growing enough to sell and sustain himself. Then maybe a family. To make a new Mars, a peaceful Mars where kids could grow. That’s what he’d dreamed. That’s what had kept him alive all these years. He let out a brief, not particularly bitter, laugh. Now the best he could hope for was a quick death.
He wondered if he could gain any time by giving himself up in the hope that he’d find another chance of escape. It would avoid what was probably an inevitable death out here. He had to take control of his own determined soul, which would rather fight and die than wait for another chance. But that was all he could do. He got hold of himself and, disgusted by his chosen action, he snarled and pulled a big white silk scarf out of a leg pouch in his leathers.
He was tying this to the barrel of his Banning when he felt something moist, cold, and scaly slip around his ankle and give it an experimental tug.
He yanked free. It took a tighter hold. It seemed patient. It knew he couldn’t escape. He’d done his best to keep clear of the wombot’s sensors, but his movement had already alerted the thing. It chickled out a challenge. Again, he tried to yank his leg away.
The wombot spit a bubble of death syrup all over the nearby rocks. They weren’t going to waste valuable gas or darts on him unless they had to. At least he wasn’t going to need a white flag. Now he knew that they wanted him dead rather than alive.
Below Mac, the ground powdered. The tentacle tugged harder and the area beneath him broke open, dragging him down a fissure, scraping every inch of his day suit. The suit’s circuits wouldn’t survive another attack. Suddenly, it was inky-dark. He heard the odd rattle and boom of the thing’s heart-lung. He forgot the native name someone had guessed at, but it was without doubt an ock-croc.
Mac Stone prepared himself for death.
2
To Destroy the Future
HE WAS STILL TRYING TO POINT HIS PISTOL WHEN THE FISSURE became a tunnel, thick with something caked around its sides. The worst stink in creation. Croc dung! Threat of death really did sharpen the memory. That’s what it coated its long burrow with. The Martian wanal or ock-croc was the only large predator left. These giant, tentacled reptilian insects drove deep burrows using old blowholes or wells; they weren’t particular. They hibernated for years, woke up very hungry. The first hatchling typically ate all its siblings and sometimes its parent. Then it ate whoever was still hibernating. Although not radioactive themselves, they preferred areas still “buzzy” and lethal to humans. If the croc didn’t eat Stone right away, the chances were he’d soon die painfully of radiation poisoning.
“Oh, damn!” He couldn’t do anything with his holstered gun. The thing seemed to know precisely how to catch him so he did it the least damage. He had to be many meters down now, the Banning long since passed out of sight and no longer his main fear. A bionic wombot might follow him, but so far he felt relatively sanguine about that. The chances were the croc would also eat the wombot, built-in explosives and all. The thought gave Mac a brief moment of satisfaction.
The tunnel opened into a pit occupied by a huge pulsing head with six round eyes the size of portholes, which slowly retreated from him as a single tentacle—one of many—dragged him deeper.
Mac did all he could to slow his descent into the pit, where its own green-yellow luminescence revealed the croc’s enormous carcass. A nightmare of snakelike waving arms with a long snout full of dagger-size needles for teeth, the wriggling body a black blob of scaly horror. More tentacles snared him so that he couldn’t move any part of his body without making things worse. He was resigned to what must happen next.
He heard a double click as the thing disconnected its jaw, ready to swallow him. Then he thought he heard human speech. One tentacle released his right arm. If he could only get hold of his gun, he might not kill the croc but he’d give it the worst attack of indigestion it had known in all its long, quasi-reptilian life. He made one last lunge. His fingers clutched for the butt.
As his Banning came loose, something else fell out of the air and rattled on the rock. He looked down and saw a tiny blue flickering of flame. Voices seemed to jeer inside his head.
He felt horribly cold. At this rate, he’d freeze to death before the croc ate him. The questor had found him just as he was making camp. He’d had to move fast. When the Martian night caught him without his Hopkins blanket, it would be over anyway. The wanal only had to wait for him to lose a little more heat. They were famous for their cunning patience. Once, there had been a dozen varieties of the creature. Mac had seen pictures of them in the old hunting cubes of the Sindolu, the extinct nomads of the northern hemisphere, from whose encampments a few artifacts had been miraculously preserved. The wanal they had feared most had massive mandibles and ten tentacles. This was that kind of wanal.
It reached out for him again, giggling its nasty pleasure. Then it hesitated. Something red and dripping was thrown to it over the edge of the pit. Then a sharp command came from the darkness and it backed off, peering hungrily from him to the meat.
Snagging the hard case containing the flickering blue flame, Mac pocketed the thing and made haste to clamber as best he could up the other side of the rough pit. The slippery shale made climbing difficult, but he virtually levitated himself out of there. He took the case with the flickering flame out of his glove and put it on the palm of his hand. It made a small hiss. What in the nine inhabited worlds was it? He sensed danger, glanced to his right.
Mac glared in utter disbelief at a bulky “noman” staring down at him from illuminated eyes, hooked hands resting on its metal hips. A type of robot he’d never seen. It looked local. Like something he’d come across in the Terran Museum of Martian Artifacts. Only that one had been about a foot high and carved from pink teastone. The archaeologists thought it was a household god or a child’s toy.
Just above the faceless noman, a pale green pillar fizzed like bad Galifrean beer. Then it coalesced into a figure that Stone was surprised to see was human. A bronzed man in the peak of physical condition, wearing less than was considered seemly even on Jam-bock Boulevard. Except for the little signs of regular wear and tear on his leather harness, the man looked like something out of a serial V-drama. At his right hip was a big, old-fashioned brass-and-steel pistol. Scabbarded on his left was some kind of long antique sword. For a wild moment, Stone wondered if he had been captured by those crazy reenactors who played out completely unlikely battles between invented Martian races. He’d seen groups of them in Sunday Field on vacation afternoons.
The guy in the green pillar fizzed again and broke up a few times before he stabilized long enough to say clearly: “You can’t fight me. I’m not actually here. I’m a scientist. I’m from Earth like you. I came to Mars millennia ago, long before the meteor storms. I’m projecting this image into my future. It’s interactive.”
He smiled. “I’m Miguel Krane.” Evidently, he expected Mac to know the name. He had an old-fashioned accent Mac associated with Terra. “We call this little device a chronowire. It sends images and sounds back and forth across time. It is the nearest we’ve been able to come to time travel. Living organisms get seriously damaged. We discovered to our cost that people and animals can’t travel physically in time. The wanal won’t bother you now. Her old responses are still reachable in her deep subconscious. In our time, we domesticate and use her ancestors to find lost travelers. Their natural instinct is to eat us, but thousands of years of training changed their brains. We found her down here with our explorer noman. We sent her for you. In case of any problems, we fed her some sleepy meat. I’m sorry about the crude robot, too. Believe it or not, he’s code-activated! We have to work through remote control with what we can find. In this case, very remote! What do you want to know from me?”
Mac shuddered as he scraped gelatinous stuff from his battered day suit. He looked around. A man-made room. Two doors. A kind of stone box at his feet. He was surprised how warm it was. “You’re not fooling me. Time travel? How the hell could you have gotten from Terra to Mars thousands of years ago? Before anyone had space travel?” He looked around at the cavern. Ingeniously reflected light. The walls were bright with luminous veins of phosphorescent ore and precious stones sparkling like stars. If he kept his knife, he might be able to dig out a few long diamonds and get away. Assuming he could dodge this madman.
The man in the projection shrugged. “Malfunctioning matter transmitter. Lost control. I traveled backward to Mars. One way. You’ve probably heard of me. Captain Miguel Krane? Haven’t you read my books? About my life on Mars? I’m surprised you don’t know them. They didn’t appear under my name, but I dictated them myself.”
“I don’t listen to books much.”
The man in the green pillar seemed thrown by Mac’s illiteracy. But Mac could read forty-seven interplanetary languages and write fluently in most of them. He had taught himself for purely practical reasons. He wasn’t a scholar. He was a thief. He would have been insulted to be thought of as anything else.
For his own part, Mac was uneasy, still checking for his gun, reassured by the feel of a knife in his boot. Miguel Krane’s voice was amused, but Mac didn’t like to hear it in his head like that. Too creepy.
Yet Krane had been instrumental in saving his life. Somewhere over their heads, on the Martian surface, a wombot was still searching for him with the objective of covering him with jelly that could seep through his skin and eat his bones from the inside out. He was in no doubt about his preference. He’d take his chances here.
“Those chances aren’t much better, Stone.” Krane’s voice was still amused. “Let’s just say you’d be dying for a good cause.”
Mac laughed. “When I hear words like that, I reach for my Banning. Where is my gun, by the way?”
“Look for yourself. I didn’t take it. Neither did the noman. Want to know why I sent the wanal after you?”
“I guess.” Mac looked down into the pit, where the nasty thing was finishing its bloody meal. He saw his gun some way up, where it had lodged on a shelf of rock.
“Do you recall a lep coming to see you a few weeks ago?”
“Yeah. Little green man about so high. One of those freaks from Venus. Had some sort of deal. I wouldn’t go for it. I didn’t like the smell of it. Thought he was lying. Too dangerous.” He was on his belly, stretching for the Banning.
“So you told him.”
“Was it him fingered me to the IMF?”
“Not exactly, but you didn’t do yourself any favors turning him down before you listened.”
“He was lying. I know leps. I didn’t want to know what his pitch was. I used to get crazies like him all the time, offering to cut me in on some fantasy in their heads.”
“The poor little guy was scared out of his wits. He’d found one of our time seeds and he thought we were magic. Ghosts of ancient Martians or something. Still, he did what I told him to do and he only once looked inside the bag. That nearly killed him. He almost dropped it and ran. The lep wasn’t just bringing my message. He had a bag of indigo flame sapphires with him.”
“A bag?” Stone laughed. The rarest jewel in the system, indigo flame sapphires couldn’t be cut, polished, or broken up. They had extraordinary properties. There were three known existing sapphires. One was in the Conquest of Space Museum on Terra, one was in the hands of United System President Polonius Delph—he was the richest man in seven worlds, or had been until he’d paid cash for his jewel. The other had been stolen soon after its discovery. Maybe Delph had it. “There’s no such thing.”
“There is. And Delph wants them. He thinks you’ve got them on you. They tortured Gunz, the man I sent after the lep. He told them you had them.”
“Oh, great! So I was set up by a Venusian leprechaun who was set up by a V-Image! That’s why they’ve been willing to spend so much money hunting me down. They just want to know where those mythical jewels are. They don’t care if they kill me. It’s just as easy to interrogate a fresh corpse using a couple of ccs of dreme. You remind me of my mother!”
“I can only guess what strange patchwork of information comes through the time seeds. We scatter them into our future, more or less at random. Often they are destroyed or are recalled, damaged. Enough land unharmed to broadcast back. We aren’t talking linear time as you imagine it, but radiant time. From what I understand of your world, Delph isn’t the only one who wants the sapphires. He has rivals in the Plutocracy. Another mysterious collector? Or those rivals are competing for the presidency or they think they can ruin him. As you know, it’s a vicious circle in politics. You can’t get to be president unless you have the wealth, and you can’t make really massive sums until you’re president. It was much the same in my day.”
“Your day?”
“That depends where you’re counting from.” The more he listened, the more Stone recognized the tone coming through the old accent. Miguel Krane spoke with the economical style of an army man. “Or which planet. So. Was this particular scenario set up by the IMF in order to trick you into giving up the jewels? No. The Interstellar Military Force has nothing to do with us. That was not an IMF ship pursuing you. Probably it’s Delph’s. I know you don’t have the sapphires. The lep was too scared to keep them. He brought them back and left them with the noman.”
In spite of this denial, Stone grew cautious again.
“Then who are you with?” he challenged. “And why are you so interested in me? Someone’s spending a great deal of dough on hunting me down. A real pro, that’s for sure. So—really—who are you?”
“My military experience was in Korea, in the middle of the twentieth century,” said Krane. “I’m a scientist. Later, I worked on a matter transmitter for the Pentagon. I tested it on myself. It went wrong. I was dragged back to old Mars instead. The Karnala—the clan I fell in with—have access to ancient knowledge and technology left behind by an earlier intelligent race, the Sheev. This machine is some of it. We call it a ‘memory catcher’ in Karnalan. This is the most sophisticated type.
“What is it? It’s an interactive device that can communicate across time. We’ve been studying them for years. We’re not sure we’re using the technology appropriately, but we’ve rigged it so it works for us, after a fashion. We have clear visuals and, when we get over language and other problems, can exchange information or even casual ideas! The Sheev scientists were masters of time. Many believe they abandoned Mars for past eras or the future of another planet, wherever conditions were ideal! Some think they had colonies on ancient Earth or in our future! But that is unlikely. This is about the best use we’ve found for their technology. And it’s to ask of you, Mac Stone, something that I would do myself if I weren’t merely an ethereal image in your world.”
“So you want to make a deal. Isn’t that usually the size of it? What can I do for you that you don’t want to do yourself? Isn’t that usually the deal?”
Krane’s image smiled. There was a sense of rapport between the two men. “Usually.”
“OK,” said Stone. “What’s the score? Oh, and don’t forget to tell me more about those indigo flame sapphires. Presumably they come into your deal at some point. Let’s hear it. I have plenty of time to listen.”
Krane did not smile in reply. “Unfortunately,” he said, “you haven’t.”
3
The Star Bomb
