Soldiers Out of Time (11 page)

“Just a moment.” Rojas manipulated her wrist computer, which projected a holographic display of stars in the air above the table. She made various calculations. “Yes. From HC-4 9701 to HC+31 8213—that is, from Zirankhu to Planet B—is nineteen point forty-five light-years, a figure which the proper motions of the stars won’t have changed much in merely five hundred years. A considerably shorter voyage than from the Solar System or anywhere near it. Less than a third as far, in fact.” She must, Jason decided, be sold on the idea. She had forgotten to glare at Chantal on general principles before supporting her.

“I think Chantal may have hit on something,” he said.

“But,” Rutherford objected, “we don’t precisely own Zirankhu. How will we induce the Manziru Empire, which claims to rule the entire planet, to permit this?”

“The same way everything else is done on Zirankhu,” said Jason with a grin. “Bribery. We can go under the table and offer the imperial officials some high-tech goodies if they’ll go along.
Not
up-to-date weapons,” he hastily added in Kermak’s direction. “But there are other things that they’d like to have. And since those things are forbidden by their own laws and import restrictions—and also because they’ll think they’re swindling us by leasing us some patch of worthless, out-of-the-way desert—the individuals we deal with will agree quickly, before we come to our senses. For the same reasons, they’ll be sure to keep the whole thing under tight security.”

“Speaking of security,” Mondrago cautioned, “what about the Transhumanists on Zirankhu. Won’t they notice what’s going on?”

“I don’t think so—not if we handle it right, using dummy private shipping outfits to clandestinely bring in the components. Remember, they’re just coming and going to buy provisions. They don’t have any kind of ongoing intelligence operation in place there. Why should they? They have no interest in the planet, as such.” Jason smiled reminiscently. “And remember, Alexandre, we know some people there who might be of assistance in the security department.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“I had a feeling I’d find you like this,” said Jason with a
tsk, tsk
. “Or else dead.”

“Fortunes of war,” sighed Mario McGillicuddy, leaning back on the cushions. He reached for his cup of
tchova
with his left hand, awkwardly but unavoidably inasmuch as his right arm was no longer there. His features were still somewhat pale and drawn, but his characteristic cocky enthusiasm was unabated. “We had some successes at first, and I can’t deny that I may have gotten a trifle overconfident.”

“Just a trifle, from what I’ve heard of your attempt on that last Dazh’Pinkh-held town,” said Jason drily.

“I tell you, if that fathead Patel had given me any support—”

“Come on, Mario. You know he can’t.”

“All right, all right—I overreached. But damn it, we managed an orderly withdrawal back here to the Khankhazh area. And I’m learning from my mistakes.”

“As long as they don’t kill you.”

“This one
was
close,” the mercenary admitted. “Fortunately, I lasted long enough for Captain Chang to get me into the infirmary at the legation. Damned good of him, too; if it had been up to Patel, I would have been left outside to rot. Seems I’m an embarrassment, making it harder for him to maintain his pose of neutrality. Anyway, the infirmary is small, but they’ve got some basic field versions of regen devices—dermal closers and skeletal knitters and such.”

“So what now?”

“Now I’m going back to Earth for a while to get the arm regrown. Naturally they don’t have that kind of regen equipment here.”

“Naturally,” Jason nodded. The Human Integrity Act’s prohibition of bionic replacement limbs and organs had been one of its most controversial provisions, for they were one of the more defensible forms of man-machine interfacing. But the framers of the Act had been adamant. And after a while the issue had been rendered moot by the development of regeneration technology. Portable versions like those at the legation infirmary could take care of most wounds in short order. But to regrow whole limbs required a short stay in a reasonably well-equipped hospital. It was less expensive than bionics would have been, but . . . “Won’t the trip cost money?”

McGillicuddy flashed a grin. “Didn’t I tell you I had the backing of the merchants that do business here? I still do. They’ve still got confidence in me, in spite of this recent mishap. They paid me one hell of a commission for rocking the Dazh’Pinkh back on their heels with those early victories. And now they want me be back here on Zirankhu, good as new, as soon as possible.”

“Back here—!” Jason took a deep breath, leaned forward, and spoke earnestly. “Mario, please listen to me. You’re a good sort, as raving lunatics go, and I’m going to give you some sound advice. Go back to Earth, grow a new arm . . . and stay there. Enjoy your ill-gotten gains. You were lucky this time. But if you keep on pressing your luck, you’re going to end up—”

“—In Shandu, accepting the emperor’s appointment as commander in chief of his armies! I tell you, Jason, the other mercenary companies are coming around to my idea of a kind of cartel, under exclusive contract to the empire. The promise of financing from the merchant houses works wonders. When I come back here I’ll put together something that will sweep the Dazh’Pinkh out of existence, and then there’s
nothing
I won’t be able to do here!” McGillicuddy’s black eyes gleamed with a light Jason had seen too often for him to entertain any further hopes of talking sense to the man. But then the mercenary abruptly took on a shrewd look, and his tone shifted.

“By the way, Jason, speaking of returns to this planet, I can tell you that Captain Chang was very relieved to see Major Rojas again. He was wondering what had become of her, since you and she had been away for so long. In fact, he was afraid he’d seen the last of you.”

“Well,” Jason temporized, “we were sort of drawn away, following a lead.”

“But now you’re back.” McGillicuddy paused and gave Jason a quizzical glance. “I can’t help being curious about what you and Rojas have been doing all this time—and what you’re doing here now. I’ve heard rumors . . .”

Jason maintained a poker face but swore inwardly. Aloud: “What kind of rumors?”

“Oh, nothing definite. Just an increase in off-world traffic—and still more buying up of food and other basics. And then you arrive. People can’t help wondering.”

Uh-huh!
thought Jason dourly.

So far, everything had gone according to plan. An advance party of negotiators had gingerly approached the imperial bureaucracy, working up through well-known channels as high as necessary—but no higher, for the functionaries were firm believers in not bothering their superiors with things they didn’t need to know. So, without disturbing the blissful oblivion of the imperial court, they had leased a stretch of land in the barren Xinkhan Desert, halfway around the planet and uninhabited even by the scruffiest of nomads, but sitting atop an underground aquifer, accessible to modern drilling equipment though unreachable and in fact unknown to the locals. They had also bought secrecy, which the officials involved had been only too willing to sell as long as it had been clearly understood that it worked in both directions. Then, working through layers of small private shipping lines following indirect routes, the initial personnel and components had been inconspicuously brought to Zirankhu and transported to the site. After the installation had acquired a certain minimum of accommodations, ships began to drop unobtrusively down from orbit directly to it, safe from detection because the only traffic control for the planet was handled by the legation in Khankhazh.

It must, Jason thought, have been in the early stages that they had, despite all precautions, begun to attract notice.

He himself had only just arrived, in the same
Comet
class as before, and once again in the company of Rojas, Mondrago and Chantal. They had landed with no attempt at dissimulation. But in orbit, the
De Ruyter,
the small
Hawke
class IDRF warship that had accompanied them remained in cloak, awaiting the signal to descend to the Xinkhan Desert and be hurled five centuries into the past.

He became aware that McGillicuddy had been giving him an inquiring look. “I don’t suppose,” said the mercenary with elaborate casualness, “that you’d care to—?”

“Sorry, Mario. I can’t tell you anything about what we found, or what we’re doing now. You haven’t got a need to know.”

“I figured that,” sighed McGillicuddy.

“But I’ll tell you what. As soon as I’m able to give you any information, you’ll get it—if you’ll tell me something I’m particularly interested in knowing.”

“Which is . . . ?”

“These rumors you’ve been hearing—have the Transhumanists been taking any interest in them?”

“I wish I could help, Commander, but I won’t lie to you. I don’t even know if there are any Transhumanists currently in Khankhazh.” McGillicuddy paused. “Of course, if there’s anyone who
does
know, it would be . . .”

“Yes. I know who you mean.” Jason stood up. “And I know the way, now. You just get some rest.”

“Yes,” said Lizh’Ku in his odd but intelligible Standard International English. “My informants have recognized certain Transhumanists among the
fahnku
currently in the city. Among the humans, I meant to say,” he added smoothly.

“Of course,” said Jason, with a smile at Lizh’Ku’s lapse. He didn’t know the literal meaning of the Zirankh’shi street term for the human species, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. “How could they be sure? I imagine it’s not always easy to tell individual humans apart.”

“I assure you, only the ignorant are of the opinion that all humans look alike. My sources are familiar with Transhumanists who have already been here, and have identified several.”

“But are these Transhumanists merely buying more food, or have they taken an interest in our activities?”

“Who can say?” Lizh’Ku paused and spoke briefly in the Zirankh’shi language to his assistant Luzho’Yuzho, who had been crouching in a corner of the shack. Then he turned back to Jason. “I almost forgot. One member of the Transhumanist party is new to us. Evidently he has a rather distinctive appearance.”

“Hmm . . .” This was bad. If they had found it necessary to bring in someone new, he might be an intelligence specialist. “What do you mean about a ‘distinctive appearance’?”

“Well . . . you must understand that to us, your skin seems quite . . . well, smooth.”

“Right,” said Jason. “No fur.”
Naked apes
, he did not add
.

“But this one was . . . shiny, over certain areas. Slick. My vocabulary fails.”

“I see.” Jason really did see, or was fairly sure he did. What Lizh’Ku seemed to be trying to describe reflected one of the limitations of regen technology. Really serious burn tissue was very resistant to the more cosmetic aspects. It could be regrown . . . but there was no mistaking what it was.
This individual must be important
, he thought
, or they wouldn’t have risked bringing in anyone with such a readily identifiable peculiarity.

“I’d like to get a look at him,” he said.

“That can be arranged . . . as long as there is no IDRF involvement. Or at least, none that can be traced to me.”

“That goes without saying.” Jason paused, curiosity overcoming caution. “I’m grateful for all the help you’ve been willing to extend to me. Grateful . . . and a little surprised.”

A moment passed before the aged Zirankh’shi replied. “All things considered, I take a favorable view of the human presence here. Before you arrived, we were getting . . . stale. That’s not a fashionable view, you understand. Most of our educated class like to bemoan the way you’re corrupting and mongrelizing our ordained, immemorial social order.” Lizh’Ku spat a two-syllable sound in his own language. Jason suspected it was so obscene as to defy translation. “The truth is, what was once a great civilization had settled into dry rot. We needed something to jolt us out of our smug complacency.”

“Aren’t the Dazh’Pinkh rebels trying to do that?”

Lizh’Ku expelled a non-verbal sound of scorn. “Lunatics like that only strengthen the reactionaries by seeming to confirm their argument that social stasis is the only alternative to chaos. No, the needed stimulus could only come from the outside. You humans were a breath of fresh air. Of course, a breath of fresh air can be chilling, and blow things over. But . . .” He lapsed into silence until Jason wondered if he had dozed off. But then his huge eyes twinkled. “At any rate, I have a clear conscience in helping the Temporal Regulatory Authority. You have no interest in our past, even though I gather you will soon have the capability to journey back into it.”

“That’s true. However, my particular branch of the Authority does have an interest in safeguarding the future.”

“Yes. From what I know of the Transhumanists, I think that may include everyone’s future—including that of Zirankhu. I wish you well.”

“Rojas won’t like this,” Mondrago predicted dourly.

“She’ll get over it,” Jason assured him, projecting more confidence than he felt.

They moved as inconspicuously as possible through Khankhazh’s central market commodities exchange, a vast, noisy outdoor expanse cluttered with stalls and teeming with Zirankh’shi and a smattering of humans. Moving parallel to them, without emphasizing the connection, were Luzho’Yuzho and Lizh’Ku, the latter in his usual traveling position on the former’s back. In response to subtle signals from Lizh’Ku, they worked their way toward one of the exchange buildings. As they neared it, three humans emerged, bending over to exit the door. This gave Jason and Mondrago the chance to duck behind a stall where they could watch unobserved.

As the trio came closer, a cluster of flashing blue dots appeared at the lower left of Jason’s field of vision. He didn’t even need his implant’s notification of nearby bionics to know that these were Transhumanists. The two he could clearly see had the look of the middling varieties, higher than the goon-caste types and a good deal cleverer, if one knew the signs to look for. The third was behind them and could not be clearly seen.

They came abreast of the stall, and Jason and Mondrago flattened themselves to stay out of sight. Then, as they walked past, the third member of the trio paused, turned, and looked around with a sharp, suspicious expression. Then he shook his head, annoyed, and continued on after only a second or two.

But he had been in plain sight long enough.

The left side of his neck and head did indeed bear the look of regenerated burn tissue, and no hair grew on that side. His mouth was somewhat twisted, and his nose slightly crooked. But his features, at least on the right side, were still recognizable.

Jason and Mondrago stared at each other.

“Stoneman!” they breathed in unison.

“Who?” demanded Rojas.

“Of course that’s not his real name,” said Jason. “He naturally has one of those Transhumanist designations. But it was the name he used when I knew him, in Virginia, North America, in the winter and spring of 1865. It was the name of a certain Union cavalry officer. Coincidentally, as I’ve subsequently learned, it was the name of a character in an early twentieth-century silent motion picture. For whatever reason, it tickled him.” He took another gulp of much-needed Scotch.