Read Mission: Tomorrow - eARC Online
Authors: Bryan Thomas Schmidt
Mission: Tomorrow - eARC (23 page)
His shove was so hard I fell through the glowing spot, and onto the floor of the dining room. Xavier jumped out of the way as I picked myself up, and we turned to look at the pizza pan, as a heavy weight crashed on it, and Xavier screamed and cut the connection.
We sat there for a long time, on the dusty floor of the dining room, absolutely quiet, looking at something about the size of a French loaf, but green and ending in a claw.
Then Xavier got up. He made a sound like a hiccup and returned to the keyboard, where his fingers moved, furiously. Again and again, he told me connection had been established, but nothing happened. The toe of the parrot-rex oozed a silvery bright liquid onto the pizza pan and nothing happened.
“I’ll go,” I said. “I’ll look around. I can’t understand how the two of you were so crazy as to try this out when you can’t temporally control it at all.”
“We thought”—he waved in midair—“we thought, the other side of the dining room, how dangerous can it be.”
He punched keys on the keyboard again. “And you can’t go. It’s dangerous if you go. Clearly it’s dangerous. You shouldn’t have gone to begin with.”
“I had to do something. He vanished.”
“He was supposed to vanish. If you hadn’t thrown yourself in after him, when I reestablished connection, he could easily have got back. But he saved you.”
I wanted to protest, but of course he was right. Kenyon had saved me.
I went to the kitchen, got the barbecue tongs, and moved the toe claw aside. “Fine,” I said. “So it’s up to me to go again. Maybe the parrot creature, the . . . owner of that toe, wounded him. Maybe he’s there, bleeding, and he can’t get back in. I’ll go in and pull him into the gateway?”
“But you can’t. I’ll go.”
“If you go, there’s no one who can operate the computer part.”
“Right,” he said. “Right. So . . . Try to keep very clear in your mind where you want to go.”
“You mean, remember where I was and what we saw?”
“No. This is not magic. The computer understands a set of coordinates.” He glared at the toe. “Okay, the computer is
supposed
to understand a set of coordinates. If you keep those in mind, you should get to the same place.”
“The same coordinates that Kenyon thought of?”
“Yes.” He frowned. “Thing is, you shouldn’t have been able to go back and forth through the gateway, and that”—he pointed at the claw—“should never have come through. You should have to be connected to the computer to get it, and Kenyon was wearing the sensors. You and the thing must have gone through on . . . residuals or something.” He made a sound like hiccupping again. “We shouldn’t be doing this. The process is clearly not worked out enough.”
“Yes, well, you should have thought of that before sending Kenyon to the land of the T-parrots.”
His mouth made a very thin line, but he nodded. “Right. Okay. I don’t like to do this.”
“I’m not ecstatic, either, but we need to at least try to get him back.”
So, Xavier had attached sensors to my forehead, little dots that were hidden by my hair, and told me a long string of letters and numbers to keep in mind at all times, which was rather like thinking of a pink rhinoceros in that all sorts of other thoughts kept intruding.
“Ready,” he said.
I stepped on the pizza pan. And found myself . . . somewhere. There was the moment of disorientation, while my eyes tried to process what I was seeing, and then I focused on a line of distant, coral-colored mountains. There was a dry wind blowing, and the sun in the sky looked like it was enclosed in a dark ring.
I stepped backwards into the glow, and into the dining room.
Xavier glared at me, “Ready,” he said again.
I stepped through into—nothing. And fell back again, taking gasping breaths of the living room air, which still smelled of candles, wine, bread, and soldering iron.
“Ready.”
I tripped through and into . . . salt water. Salt water around me, above me, and something huge swimming towards me even as my lungs labored to take in a breath, and—
Back into the living room, dripping water onto the floorboards.
“Damn it,” Xavier said. It was the first time I’d heard him curse. “Damn it.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I was underwater.”
“No more,” he said. “No more. Let’s call for help.”
“Who are we going to call for help?” I said. “Nine-one-one?”
He shook his head. The hiccup sound came again, and I realized that he was trying very hard not to cry. “Someone. Someone has to be able to help us. One of the other grant recipients, maybe. It’s said the grants went out to the best minds in the world.”
“Like us?”
He made a face. “Well, someone has to be able to figure it out.”
“Why? I don’t think anyone has done this before.”
“But now we’ve done it,” he said. “Someone should be able to figure it out.”
“And by then Kenyon will be gone. He thought the creature that put that toe through was a T-rex. Maybe Kenyon evaded him, but how long do you think he can survive in the Jurassic? We have to keep trying. Sooner or later we’re going to get the right time.”
“Okay,” Xavier said. He sounded hoarse. “Okay.”
He returned to his keyboard. He shouted, “Ready.” I stepped onto the pizza pan.
Fire and ice, burning and freezing, underwater and what appeared to be floating out in space. Over and over again, and I thought, well, we were in Colorado. The mountains had changed height and it had been underwater through the geological ages. I thought of the coordinates, and I thought of Kenyon, and I thought of the landcape I’d seen. On and off the pizza pan, and deserts and mountains and seaside beaches.
Dawn was a streak of light on the horizon when Xavier croaked, “Ready,” and I stepped on. And stepped back into the dining room.
“We have to stop,” I said. “This is no use.”
Xavier looked pale and exhausted and looked at me with that kind of look people get when they haven’t slept in a long time and there’s a good chance they’re never going to sleep well, ever again, “Why?” he said. “You’re the one who said we had to try and the next try could find him.”
I sat down. I felt very tired and as though I’d lost all force in my muscles. I felt as though I couldn’t communicate what I’d seen or what was so important about it.
“The last place I went to,” I said. “There was a city.” I paused. I could see Xavier try to shape the question of what city. Before he could, I said, “And two suns in the sky.”
The rest of it is in the history books, of course, though some details never made it in. For instance, the toe was not a T-rex, but no one knows what it was. The form of life might be terrestrial or simply have followed a parallel evolution.
When we called for help, there was an investigation by the best minds of our time. It turned out that Xavier and Kenyon had managed to create a teleporter of sorts, which could take a human being and take them through what might be best described as a fold in space and time almost instantly. But what they thought could control it, couldn’t.
It took the next several decades to perfect the process, but in the end we had ships that could reach the habitable worlds on the distant stars, with ninety-five percent accuracy. The vehicles that were created with the Kenyon-Xavier process were called Schrodingers, despite Xavier’s lobbying for them to be named Kenyons.
We’re credited, the two of us and Kenyon, with finding the way to the stars. It turned out it was neither a great government program, nor a directed private initiative that opened space to colonization, but accident and three young idiots playing with that which they did not understand.
We got married, of course, partly I think so we could wait together.
You see, that portal they created took him somewhere. We don’t know where he is. But Xavier has updated the system and made it better as new things were discovered. And we try. Over the years we’ve tried again and again, without ever finding the world where Kenyon disappeared.
However, as we know, it’s a matter of time. Sooner or later, the coin will fall on edge.
* * *
Sarah A. Hoyt
was born in Portugal (where her birth family still lives) and English is her third language (second is French.) This possibly explains why she’s on the kill list of most copy editors. To avoid them, she lives high and dry in Colorado with her husband, two sons and a variable clowder of cats, reading and writing, with an occasional leitmotif of pastel painting, sewing or carpentry thrown in when someone complains she’s been at the keyboard too long. Her most recent books are
A Few Good Men
,
Noah’s Boy,
and
Night Shifters
from Baen books, indie
Witchfinder
, a regency fantasy, and upcoming
Through Fire
and
Darkship Revenge
, also from Baen Books.
In another diversion from the serious, Mike Resnick’s most wanted man in the galaxy is just looking for a place to hide from the authorities when he stumbles into far more on . . .
TARTAROS
by Mike Resnick
Tarter looked back, which didn’t help much since he was in the pilot’s chair of the small ship. He cursed and turned back to the computer.
“Anybody on our tail yet?”
“I do not possess a tail, Jerome Tarter,” replied the ship reasonably.
“Is anyone following us, and you don’t have to use my name every goddamned time you speak,” growled Tarter.
“No, no one has been following us since I took evasive action in Saturn’s rings.”
“Okay, just keep going, and let me know when we get near anything you can land on.”
“We are entering the Kuiper Belt,” answered the ship.
“Fine,” said Tarter. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It houses hundreds, perhaps thousands, of minor planets and dwarf planets, many of them not yet identified or catalogued,” said the ship.
“And beyond that?”
“Nothing I can reach in less than six human lifetimes,” answered the ship. “Until faster-than-light drives are developed, the Kuiper Belt is the physical limit for human travel and exploration.”
“Big whoopee,” said Tarter. “I don’t want to go to another star system. I don’t even want to stay where we are. I just need to lay low until the cops find someone else to bother.”
“You realize,” said the ship, “that if they do apprehend us, I will be forced to testify that I had nothing to do with your crimes.”
“Crime,” Tarter corrected it. “One crime. It got a little out of hand, and I had no idea there’d be so many bystanders, but it was one crime.”
“Your biographical record shows that you were convicted and sentenced for theft, extortion, murder, and crimes against humanity on Earth, Mars, Venus, Ganymede, and Triton, and that you escaped from incarceration in all five instances, leaving a trail of dead and maimed bodies behind you.”
“It really says all that?”
“You’re quite famous, Jerome Tarter,” replied the ship. “Or perhaps infamous.”
“Makes a man feel proud to know he’s been all written up in song and story.”
“I did not mention song, Jerome Tarter.”
“Sooner or later they make up songs about everyone in my line of work,” answered Tarter. “And if you insist on calling me by name, make it Jerry.”
“Yes, Jerry. I will remember to do so, Jerry.”
“And go easy on it.”
“I do not understand you, Jerry.”
Tarter signed. “Never mind.” He looked ahead. “Show me where we are.”
A screen appeared.
“Ain’t much out here, is there?”
“There may well be tens of thousands of minor or dwarf planets, Jerry.”
“I can only see one,” said Tarter.
“That is not a planet, but an escaped moon from a minor planet, Jerry.”
“Big difference,” said Tarter. “Okay, it’s time to find us a world to hole up in for a while.”
“I do not understand ‘hole up’ or ‘a while,’ Jerry,” responded the ship.
“Then suppose you let me worry about it.” Tarter looked at the screen. “Are we the first to get this far?”
“No, Jerry. There are scientific or mining communities currently on the minor planets of Eris, Haumea, Orcus, Makemake, and Sedna.”
“Makemake?” repeated Tarter, frowning.
“It is from the religious tradition of the Rapanui people of Easter Island, Jerry,” answered the ship.
“Wherever
that
is,” muttered Tarter.
“It’s one of the few places on Earth where you have not committed a felony.”
“Bully for them,” said Tarter. “Now stop using my name for a while, and concentrate on finding a world—”
“A dwarf planet,” the ship corrected him.
“Whatever. Just start looking.”
The ship fell silent for almost fifteen minutes, then uttered two words: “That’s odd.”
“What’s odd?” demanded Tarter,
“We are 104 astronomical units from the Sun, and—”
“Translate that into miles.”
“We are approximately five billion miles from the Sun,” continued the ship, “and yet I detect a world with a core that is even hotter than the sunward side of Mercury.”
“And all the other worlds are as cold as you’d figure them to be when they’re a hundred times as far from the Sun as Earth is?” asked Tarter.
“Precisely. That’s why this is so odd.”
“Take us there. At least we won’t freeze to death.”
“I cannot freeze,” replied the ship, “and not being alive, I cannot die.”
“Thanks for that information, which is doubtless vital to my survival,” said Tarter sardonically. “Okay, you say the whole planet isn’t that hot?”
“Just the core.”
“So the surface might be livable.”
“For creatures that do not require oxygen and water.”
“I’m not staying there forever,” said Tarter, “just long enough for the fuzz and the military to get tired of looking for me and go hunting someone else. And I’ll bet none of the other worlds out here has any oxygen or water either.”
“That is true.”
“So let’s go. What did you say the name of this world is?”
“It has no name. According to all available records, no one has ever touched down on it.”
“Then I guess I’ll name it after myself.”
“Jerome Tarter?”
“What now?”
“Is that what you’ll name it?” asked the ship.
“Sounds a little formal. Maybe just Jerry.”
“Shall I enter it in my records as Just Jerry?”
“Let me think about it,” answered Tarter. “You just get us there. I’ll worry about naming it.”
It took another five days, but finally they were close enough that Tarter could observe the world on his viewscreen.
“Doesn’t look like much,” he noted.
“It looks like all the other dwarf planets,” said the ship.
“That’s what I mean,” answered Tarter. “I figured with that molten core it might, I dunno, maybe glow a little, or something.”
“That’s curious.”
“What is?”
“The core
should
be molten, but it isn’t.”
“I thought you said the world was hotter than Mercury?”
“It is.”
“Well, then?” demanded Tarter.
“I need more data.”
“Then land and start acquiring it.”
“I’ll try,” said the ship. “But . . .”
“But what?” replied Tarter sharply.
“But after you stole me during the massacre . . .”
“It was a bank robbery,” interrupted Tarter. “The bloodletting is just what happened to a bunch of do-gooders who tried to stop me from making a living.”
The ship was silent for a full minute.
“Well?” demanded Tarter.
“I am trying to equate your notion of making a living with the definition of morality that is in my data banks.”
“Forget that shit and tell me why you’re hesitant about learning why the core isn’t molten.”
“I am not hesitant about
learning,
” answered the ship. “I am hesitant about acquiring the knowledge. When you stole me and the police began firing to stop me, they destroyed some of my sensing mechanisms.”
“Improvise,” said Tarter. “That’s what
I
do.”
“I know the definition, of course,” said the ship, “but I have never actually improvised before. I don’t know if I can.”
“Work on it,” said Tarter. He shrugged. “Or don’t. As long as the damned planet doesn’t blow up while I’m on it, I don’t much give a damn about what’s causing the heat.”
“But if it doesn’t obey the laws of the Universe . . .” began the ship.
“Then me and the planet are brothers,” replied Tarter. “In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t obey them either.”
The ship entered orbit after another two hours, searching for the best place to land.
“Uh . . .Jerry,” it said suddenly.
“Yeah?”
“I hate to bother you . . .”
“I can tell,” was Tarter’s sarcastic reply.
“But someone on the planet has contacted me and is giving me landing coordinates.”
“I thought it was supposed to be uninhabited,” said Tarter, frowning.
“That’s the problem,” said the ship.
“
What’s
the problem?
“It
is
uninhabited. I have done a thorough scan, and my instruments confirm that there is no life form, at least not any I am programmed to recognize as such, down there.”
“But it’s giving you coordinates, not telling you to go away?”
“That is correct.”
“Then what the hell, let’s land.”
“Without knowing what it is or what it wants?” asked the ship.
“There are four armies, two Solar Patrol units, and a couple of thousand cops from various worlds looking for me,” responded Tarter. “I know exactly what they are and what they want. We’ll take our chances with this guy.”
“I do not know for a fact that it
is
a guy,” said the ship. “In fact, everything I
do
know tells me that it isn’t.”
“Just land where he tells you to.”
“Where
it
tells me to,” the ship corrected him.
“And shut up until we’re on the ground.”
They descended in total silence, and finally the ship touched down.
“I don’t see any spaceport,” noted Tarter, staring at a screen.
“There isn’t one,” answered the ship.
“Then why the hell did you land here?”
“You ordered me to.”
“
I
ordered you?
“You told me to land at the given coordinates.”
Tarter frowned. “Then where the hell
is
everybody?”
Suddenly, the ship shuddered.
“What was
that
?” demanded Tarter.
“An enclosed ramp has risen out of the surface—I hesitate to call it the ground, since it consists primarily of molten rock—and has attached itself to my hatch.”
“So I’m supposed to walk out through it?”
“I presume so.”
“Safe?”
“I have no idea.”
“I mean is the environment within the enclosed ramp safe?” said Tarter.
“Oxygen/nitrogen ratio similar to 3,200 meters on Mt. Everest, temperature 19 degrees Celsius, gravity 97% Earth Standard.”
“Sounds good,” replied Tarter. He began checking his weapons. “Laser pistol, fully charged. Sonic pistol, fully charged. Bullets: 19 in the gun, 25 on the belt. Yeah, I’m ready.” He walked to the hatch. “Open it, and don’t move except on a direct order from me.”
“Roger and aye-aye,” replied the ship, wishing Tarter would simply let it say “Affirmed.”
Tarter walked to the open hatch and peered ahead. The corridor, or so he thought of it, was dimly lit, and seemed to go directly down into the bowels of the dwarf world.
He paused for a moment, then withdrew his laser pistol, switched off the safety, and began walking slowly, carefully, down the gently inclined corridor.
He’d gone almost a mile, and when he had still encountered nothing but more corridor walls, he stopped.
“Come along, come along,” said a hollow-sounding voice. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Tarter spun around, looking for the source of the voice, but found he was still alone in the corridor. “Show yourself!” he grated.
“Soon,” said the voice. “You’re almost here now.”
“I’m almost
where?
” demanded Tarter.
“Your destination, of course,” said the voice.
Tarter looked around, couldn’t see any sign of life, and proceeded cautiously.
“By the way, you can take off your helmet,” said the voice. “The air is quite breathable, and the temperature is an ambient 73 degrees Fahrenheit.”
“Come on!” snapped Tarter. “According to my ship’s readout, you’re closer to a couple of thousand degrees!”
“Well, yes, part of my domain is,” agreed the voice. “But that won’t affect you.”
“Your domain?” repeated Tarter. “You sound like you rule the place.”
“Do I now?” replied the voice in amused tones.
“What do you call this world?” asked Tarter.
“Home.”
Suddenly, an agonized scream pierced the air, and Tarter froze. “What the hell was
that
?” he demanded.
“Do you really not know?” asked the voice. “You’ve certainly heard your fair share of them.”
“Answer my question.”
“Someone’s not very happy,” replied the voice with no show of concern.
“That makes two of us,” said Tarter, frowning and stopping again.
“Come along, come along,” said the voice. “You’re almost here.”
“Where the hell is
here
?” demanded Tarter.
“Just follow the chain.”
“Chain? What chain?”
But even as the words left his mouth, Tarter turned to his left and encountered a row of naked men and women, their bodies covered with welts and puncture marks, many with eyes and organs cut or gouged out, hanging in a seemingly endless row from a chain that stretched across the top of the corridor for what seemed like miles. A few of them became aware of Tarter’s presence and begged for help, but in a language—a score of languages—which were incomprehensible to him.
“What’s going on here?” said Tarter.
“Please do not expect me to believe you are at all shocked or dismayed by such a sight at this late date,” said the voice. “Just keep walking. I assure you they cannot impede or harm you, any more than they can impede or harm me.”
Tarter recommenced walking down the corridor, noting what should have been fatal wounds on still-active bodies.
“To your right now,” said the voice, and suddenly there was not a doorway but an open space to Tarter’s right, and he walked through it. Seated upon a golden throne was a man clearly showing some of the effects of age. His hair was gray, his face was lined, and his muscles had lost some of their tone. He wore a single-piece white outfit—Tarter identified it as a toga, but it wasn’t quite—and he got stiffly to his feet to face the newcomer.
“I’ve been waiting a long time for you to get here,” he said.
“I only landed an hour ago,” replied Tarter.
“Nevertheless.”
“All right, I’m here, I’ve walked by your handiwork in the corridor, and I’m not putting down my pistol until I know what’s going on.”
The older man shrugged and gestured to the corridor. “As you see.”