Time's Chariot (6 page)

They turned abruptly left, then right again into
an identical tunnel. They seemed to have ducked
through a hole cut in the wall between the first
tunnel and the second – not a door, not a hatch,
not even a planned junction, to judge by the rough
look of the edges, but a definite hole.

Then they came to a ladder and had to climb
down it into the darkness. The lights at the bottom
were much dimmer and, wherever they were now,
Jontan was sure it was old. Possibly the foundations
of the College. The walls weren't artificial any more
– they were stone, the carved bedrock of Antarctica.

Then light began to grow around them and
suddenly they were in a high, smooth-walled
cavern. It was well lit and well ventilated, and a
shining metal dome took up most of the centre of
it. Two clam-doors were set into its side, gaping
invitingly open. The dome was empty, though a
jumble of crates was piled up next to it. Banks of
antiquated-looking machinery with lights and displays
glowing merrily lined the walls, broken here
and there by the black rectangles of doors that led
only into darkness. Jontan got the impression they
were at the inhabited heart of quite a large, unlit
and otherwise empty complex.

'You'll be here until tomorrow morning,' Scott
said, encompassing the whole room with a gesture.
'There's a couple of cots set up in the next room,
foodfac over there, washing facilities through there.
Your first job is to check these crates against this
inventory, and when that's done, get them loaded
into there.' He pointed at the shining dome. 'Keep
me informed of your progress. Here's my symb
code.' He turned to go, then half turned back.

'By the way,' he said, 'if you had any Union Day
plans, cancel them.' Then he was gone.

Cancel them!
Indignation welled up in Jontan but
was swept away in a moment by another thought.

His hopes had been high for getting near to Sarai
at the Union Day party, but this was even better – no
one else but each other in this strange labyrinth
beneath the College. Things could be worse.

So, he checked the inventory he was holding.
'Biotech kit,' he said.

'That makes sense,' Sarai said, 'if they want
biotech journeymen.'

'Yeah.'

They looked at the crates some more. 'Do you
think,' Jontan said, 'that we'll find out what all this
is about after this?'

'It'll be fun to guess, won't it?' said Sarai. Neither
of them yet knew why Scott had had them whisked
away from the plantation, but it was enough of an
adventure for them not to worry. And the sponsorship
of a patrician didn't come your way every day.

'S'pose we'd better get started, then. Crate one,
item one . . .'

It took the rest of the day.

When the last crate was resealed, they looked at
each other.

'It's what we'd expect,' said Sarai. 'I mean, it's
our job.'

'Yeah, but why bring 'em here?' Jontan shrugged
and opened a symb link. 'Mr Scott, please.'

Scott's eidolon appeared in front of them. 'Yes?'
he said abruptly.

'Journeymen Baiget and Killin, sir . . .' Jontan
said.

'I can see that. Report?'

'Um, everything present and correct, sir.'

'Good, good. Got it loaded yet?'

'Loaded, sir?'

Scott's impatience was almost tangible. 'Have
you put the equipment in the cham— the, uh,
dome yet?'

'Um, no sir . . .'

'Then do it! I'll see you tomorrow. Out.' The
eidolon vanished again.

'So then what does he expect us to do?' said
Sarai.

You have to ask?
Jontan thought. 'Ah . . . um,' he
said. Sarai looked at him thoughtfully. Was she
maybe thinking . . . ? he wondered.

As it turned out, no, she wasn't. 'He said we
wouldn't be doing anything for Union Day,' she
said.

'Uh-huh?'

She smiled. 'He said there's a foodfac.'

'Yeah, but . . .'

'Think it could produce a sort of mini-feast?
Booze, too?'

Jontan's eyes widened. 'Um, yeah.'

'So we have our own party a day early.'

His heart pounded. 'Great! That'd be great. Oh.
No music.'

'We symb the music. Take me to the ball, Mr
Baiget? When we're done loading.'

He grinned. 'I'd be honoured, Ms Killin.'

Jontan and Sarai woke up the next morning to the
same symbed time signal. Jontan stirred and rolled
over in his cot and looked at Sarai, in her own cot
across the room by the other wall. Bleary eyes,
tousled hair: she had never looked more beautiful.
He could feast his eyes on her forever.

So,
part of him chided,
you were alone in a room all
night with the girl of your dreams and what did you do?
What happened? You slept. Oh, won't the lads back home
be proud of you
. . .

We didn't just sleep
, he answered himself, just a
touch defensive. They had . . . well, danced. It had
been quite a satisfactory two-person Union Day
party, complete with low lights, slow music and
cheek-to-cheek dancing towards the end . . . after
which Sarai had pointedly kissed him on the cheek
and retired to her own cot.

And they had talked. They had a lot to talk
about. The advantage of being madly in love with
her was that they had so much of their shared childhood
to talk about. The disadvantage . . . was that
they had so much of their shared childhood to talk
about.

'Hi,' he said.

She smiled sleepily. 'Hi,' she said.

'Time to get up.'

'Yep.'

While Sarai was washing, Jontan wandered idly
into the main chamber and ordered up a breakfast
sandwich from the foodfac. He munched slowly as
he walked into the large dome that dominated
the place, and looked around him. Apart from the
lights that were set in a circle around its highest
point, flush with the metal, it was featureless.
Standing inside it, he could see it was actually a
complete sphere – the floor was a metal mesh that
cut the globe in half. It seemed there was a faint
vibration, a hum, at the back of his mind, only
noticeable when he thought about it. The crates
were stacked inside, put there by himself and Sarai
the previous day.

'Any guesses?' Sarai stood in the wide doorway.

'None,' he said. 'Is it some kind of vault?'

'I remembered something,' she said. 'Look.'

Jontan symbed with her and an image came to
mind of hundreds of shiny metal balls in racked
layers, one above the other, stretching into the
distance. Then he noticed people moving among
them and realized the balls were spheres like this.
The place where this was happening must have
been huge.

'What's that?' he said.

'The transference hall at the College. I saw a
picture of it once.'

'Then this . . .' Jontan did a double take and
looked around, as though expecting the sphere to
have changed somehow. If this was like the spheres
in the picture then it could only be one thing. 'But
if all the transference chambers are in that
room . . .'

'Yeah, I know.' Sarai shrugged. 'Maybe it's a
mock-up or something. We could ask the Register.'

'What's the Register?'

Sarai looked askance at him. 'It's the intelligence
in charge of the College, Jontan. It handles all the
transferences and everything and nothing works
without it.'

'Oh.' Jontan wasn't really listening. It had
dawned on him that Sarai was standing closer to
him than at any time since last night and his mind
was racing with possible ways of rekindling that
romantic mood.

'Impressive, Ms Killin. Tell me more about the
Register.' They both jumped. Phenuel Scott stood
in the entrance to the sphere, arms folded.

'Oh, um . . .' Jontan was pleased to see that
Sarai's assurance fled just as fast as his own in
Scott's presence. 'It's, um, like I said to Journeyman
Baiget, sir. The Register handles all the details of
time travel, and . . .'

'Who created it?'

'Oh, Jean Morbern, sir . . .'

'And no one can travel through time without it?'

'No, sir.' Sarai was beginning to look confident
again. 'The banks were very clear on that, sir. No
one can travel without the Register knowing. It
makes sure no timestreams cross and no one meets
themselves and—'

'So how did Morbern manage it, before he
created the Register?' Scott said. Sarai went quiet,
with the stricken look of an advocate who has
suddenly found a gaping hole in her own case.

'I, um, don't know, sir,' she whispered.

'Nor does anyone, Ms Killin. Morbern was a
genius who worked by luck and intuition and
serendipity; the Home Time was an accident
and Morbern destroyed all his records. Come out
here, you two.'

Two more men were waiting out in the cavern.
One was Asian and old – almost old enough for
emigration, Jontan thought – and was dressed in
casual slacks. The younger man was dressed in the
yellow and red that Jontan knew was the uniform of
College staff. The College man spoke first.

'Everything's ready. The charges are set so you'll
be untraceable.' He handed Scott a green crystal.
'Here's the lingo. These two . . .' He looked at the
journeymen.

'These two won't need it,' Scott said. 'I'll do the
talking.'

'They'll need this, though,' the man said. He
took a medfac from his pocket and entered
commands into it. After a moment it beeped to
show it had synthesized the correct drug. 'Your
shots. Hold still a moment.' He walked around
them all and pressed the medfac to each neck.
Jontan heard it hiss and felt a slight tingle which
meant he had just been injected with something,
but he had no idea what. He felt slightly annoyed
that someone would pump something into him and
take his consent for granted, but – as he reminded
himself yet again – he was a journeyman, Mr Scott
was a patrician.

The younger stranger was speaking again. 'On
arrival, just ask for Ms Holliss. She's in charge there
and she's expecting you.'

'Excellent. Now?'

'No time like the present.'

They filed back into the dome – Jontan, Sarai,
Scott and the old man, while the younger man
crossed to a control panel outside. He was the last
thing Jontan saw, and hearing him wish them luck
was the last thing Jontan heard, before the doors
swung shut. He swallowed as his ears popped with
the changed pressure.

'Don't be alarmed, my dear.' The old man spoke
for the first time, addressing Sarai who was looking
just as unsettled as Jontan felt. He was smiling like
a benevolent uncle. 'Transference involves manipulation
of probability within the chamber, and for
that reason no quanta of any kind can get in from
the outside. We're completely isolated from the
control room. Everything is powered internally.'

'Transference?' said Sarai, too surprised even to
add the 'sir' which the man surely merited. So it
wasn't a mock-up, it was real, but where was the
Register, and why was this chamber all on its own
down here, and . . .

'I told you Morbern destroyed his records, Ms
Killin,' Scott said as the background hum in the
chamber changed in tone, beginning to ring like a
bell. 'No one said he destroyed his original
equipment.'

And then complete disorientation took Jontan's
mind and the walls of the chamber faded away.

Last case,' said Hossein Asaldra, in a bored
monotone. 'Alicia Gonzales/Zeng.'

Marje Orendal stretched her arms out and
arched her back with a sense of accomplishment.
One more of these and the backlog that she had
been hacking through ever since taking over Li
Daiho's job would be cleared. 'Let's see it,' she
said.

Alicia Gonzales/Zeng had worked for the civil
administration of Cuzco ecopolis. She was 27 years
old and four months previously she had locked herself
in her suite, refusing to come out or let anyone
– including her bond partner – in. Security had cut
their way in and found her catatonic, curled up in
a foetal ball in the corner of her bathroom.

The case was depressingly familiar, and the
equally familiar and depressing routine had swung
into action. Gonzales/Zeng was remanded for
psychological evaluation. Reports indicated a complete
mental freeze-up and inability to face living a
normal life in an ecopolis any longer. Enhanced
social preparation hadn't worked and, not having
committed any crime, she wasn't eligible for
personality reinforcement. She was too young for
the retirement worlds, even as an exemption case.
Inevitably her case had been referred to the correspondents
programme.

'We get the dregs again,' Marje said.

'Academic.' Asaldra waved the problem away,
clearly impatient to get this over with. They both
knew Alicia Gonzales/Zeng would be a new woman
after passing through their hands. The difference
was, in her previous job, Marje's responsibility had
ended at this point, with the psychological profile
prepared and all appropriate recommendations
made. For the first time, now, she would be the one
to speed the woman into her new existence.

Marje studied the specs. The woman was
physically robust – correspondents were remodelled
to a great extent, but it helped if they had
a good frame to hang the extra work on in the first
place. That wasn't really her concern. Her problem
was: if this woman's social preparation had broken
down once, could her mind retain the far more
intense conditioning required of a correspondent?
The fact that social preparation hadn't taken wasn't
necessarily a bad sign – a correspondent's
personality, such as it was, was practically rebuilt
from the bottom up anyway, while social preparation
was just a gloss laid down on top of an existing
human mind. But experience had shown that the
deepest layers of the human mind persisted,
despite all attempts to eradicate them, and could
sometimes push themselves up even through a
correspondent's conditioning.

Marje felt sorry for the subject and she felt sorry
for the other half of the Gonzales/Zeng partnership,
the woman's husband; very likely neither
would ever see the other again, and even if Alicia
did make it to Recall Day at the end of the Home
Time, it would be the new correspondent's personality
that would be in charge. The woman had had
her go at life in the Home Time and she had been
found wanting, yet here was her chance to make a
real contribution. The data she supplied would be
snapped up by the people of the Home Time: the
entertainment networks would base shows on it,
fashions and trends would derive from it, society
would be enriched by the understanding gained
from this peek into its past. Terrible things had
happened in humanity's history when people lost
sight of their past – where they came from, what
mistakes had been made on the way. The College,
and the correspondents especially, helped prevent
that happening ever again.

Marje spoke. 'Subject Alicia Gonzales/Zeng
accepted for the correspondents programme.
Authorization Orendal.'

'Witness Asaldra,' Asaldra said. The business was
done. 'If that's all . . .'

'Apparently.' Marje herself still had to catch up
with a lot of her predecessor's affairs, but the end
was in sight. And she could tell from the way
Asaldra was, well, hovering, in the polite way that all
assistants had, that he had more in store for her.
'Well?'

'Just that the Patricians' Guild would like to send
someone to introduce you to your responsibilities
as a member of the patrician class. No time
has been set but you have a free slot at 14:00
tomorrow.'

'Patricians' Guild?' Marje exclaimed.

Asaldra raised an eyebrow. 'Naturally. A
commissioner must be a patrician.'

'I . . . I had no idea. And I'm only Acting.'
Marje's thoughts were whirling. She had known she
could bring something to this job, but
patrician
!
The perks – and responsibilities – of a patrician
were enormous. A vastly increased salary, which she
would be expected to use to sponsor and support
deserving individuals. Close social contact with the
great and the good of the Home Time, an apartment
like Daiho's, increased allowances of just
about everything – and the expectation that she
would allow the power and privilege that accrued to
her to trickle down to the sponsorees she took
under her wing. Being a patrician could be a full-time
job in itself.

'Even so,' Asaldra said. 'What answer should I
give?'

Thus bringing Marje back to the matter in hand
– the Patricians' Guild. 'Delay them,' she said.
'Same excuse – I'm waiting to see if it's permanent
or not. They'll understand.'

'Of course.'

The conversation had reminded Marje of a
question that had occurred to her earlier.

'Hossein, I have to ask . . . um, I'm sorry, there's
no easy way: is there a reason why you weren't considered
for this position? You'd have been a far
more logical choice than me. You were Li's
assistant, for one thing.'

Asaldra smiled. 'Not a problem, Acting
Commissioner. My wife works for the World
Executive – she's on the Oversight Committee.
There would have been a clash of interests.'

'Oh.' Marje sighed in relief. So, no hidden Asaldra
skeletons – just the fact that his wife helped run the
College. 'I wasn't aware. But it seems unfair. Why
should I jump to the head of the patricians queue?'

'Ekat – my wife – is a patrician,' Asaldra said,
'and I'm happy to serve the College. I'll get my due
reward.' He stood decisively. 'I'll be off, if I may.'

Marje waved a hand. 'Of course. Will I see you at
the ball tonight?'

'We'll be there,' Asaldra said with a nod. 'My wife
and I.'

'Of course. I look forward to meeting her.' Apart
from anything else, Asaldra could be so unresponsive
that Marje looked forward to finding out
what kind of woman could put up with him, but she
kept quiet about that thought.

Asaldra smiled with his mouth, but his eyes
stayed the same. 'I'll see you later, then.' He bowed
slightly and left.

Marje stood up and began to pace around the
conference table. It wasn't much but her legs and
her spine welcomed the exercise. She would have
to deal with this office, she thought, looking
around her. Li Daiho had decorated his office as he
had decorated his Himalayan home, with books
and shelves that gave it an almost dusty feel clashing
with that ghastly twenty-first century carpet.
There was also a real-time window giving a view of
the Ross Sea outside, and on one wall an hourglass
– the logo of the College. It was cleverly arranged so
that the sand appeared to be rushing from the top
to the bottom, yet if one looked closely it seemed
the sand wasn't moving at all. And yet again, Marje
knew it was moving, but too slowly for the eye to
detect. The top half was almost empty and the sand
would be completely gone in another 27 years. To
remind the onlooker of this fact, the hourglass was
superimposed over a large 2 and a 7, side by side.
They too changed with each passing year, as Marje
knew from previous visits to the office.

It was twenty-seven years until the end of the
Home Time, but the thought had never really
bothered her. By then she would be comfortably
settled on a retirement world.

Enough daydreaming, back to work.

'Display incoming,' she said, and the latest batch
of in-mail that was yet to be dealt with appeared in
front of her as she walked. She frowned at one of
the items; she had already seen, and ignored,
several like it. 'Query: why do I keep getting reports
from this correspondent?'

All the reports of all the correspondents had of
course been logged long before she was born, but
the Register only released them little by little,
giving them the illusion of news just in. It was one
of the quirks programmed into it by Jean Morbern,
and something no one had the know-how to alter.
This correspondent had begun reporting in the
eleventh century and its stories had so far been of
negligible interest to her.

The voice of Records spoke to her through her
symb. '
Commissioner Daiho asked to be apprised of all
reports coming from this particular correspondent. Do you
wish to discontinue?
'

'I do,' Marje said. Clearly the correspondent had
had a pre-programmed disposition which had been
of interest to Daiho, but she was more interested in
cutting down on the workload. 'No further reports
as of now. Move this one and all previous to
archive.'

'
So noted
,' Records said.

Pre-programmed dispositions. That was something
else she would have to get her head around.
There was always a pile of petitions from various
societies and interest groups to have one or more
correspondents from the next batch to go
upstream predispositioned to their own particular
concern. Right now, for instance, the Technological
History League of Russkaya ecopolis wanted a
correspondent who would seek out the great
engineering thinkers of their day. The Association
for Atonal Composition had supplied a list of
musicians and composers that it wanted
interviewed. And so on. Selecting which groups to
favour and which not was a politically fraught
occupation and Marje decided to put it off until she
had more practice. Maybe she should investigate
that patrician thing . . . make friends, get an idea of
how it was done . . .

'
Marje Orendal, may we talk?
' said another symb
voice.

'Commissioner Ario,' she said. 'Of course.'

The full red-outlined eidolon of Yul Ario,
Commissioner for Fieldwork, appeared in front of
her. 'Marje,' he said. 'We have been remiss in not
welcoming you into our midst yet.' He had a wide
smile that seemed quite sincere.

'I've been busy . . .' Marje said.

'Of course, of course.' Ario held out his hands.
'Anyway, welcome to the office of Commissioner.
Did you know we have monthly briefings? The next
is tomorrow and we'd like to see you there – you
know, get to know you socially . . .'

'I'd be delighted.'

'Good, good! Tell me, how's young Hossein
coming on?'

'He's doing nicely, thank you,' she said. 'You
know him?'

'Oh, yes.' Ario looked surprised. 'Didn't you
know? I'm his sponsor. He used to be with me in
Fieldwork. Miss him, sometimes. Surprised he
transferred. I was going to give him a timestream. I
suppose he just wanted a change.'

'Yes,' said Marje, surprised. She hadn't known.
Maybe Asaldra had felt he was going to be promoted
too high. Perhaps being an assistant was
simply his preferred station in life.

This conversation was going somewhere: she
could feel it. Ario was the kind of man who had to
spiral up through the pleasantries to get to the
point.

'So, Marje. Have you been thinking about
sponsorship yet?' Ario said.

'Yes, I've been thinking,' Marje said, with a sinking
feeling. The patrician thing again. A good
patrician was expected to take on at least twenty
sponsorees, though she knew some who had something
like fifty. From those to whom much was
given, much was expected.

The question was, where to start?

'The one thing you don't do,' said Ario, 'is take
on unsolicited applicants. Well, you can, if you want
the extra work. But you want to make sure you can
take on people you can work with and approve of,
and that usually means people you know. Of course,
I've got some overflow sponsorees that I could let
you have to get started.'

'That's very kind of you,' Marje said.

'And . . .' Ario gave a reluctant frown, the kind
that said he really didn't want to have to interrupt
the flow of bonhomie with something distasteful.
'Marje, I thought I should give you a word of advice,
just between the two of us. There's a friendly bit of
rivalry between the wings of the College, you know,
Fieldwork and Correspondents and Social Studies
and . . . but by and large, if you're actively dissatisfied
with the actions of one of our staff, you
should come straight to us. Don't have your office
issue a complaint. It's bad form and, well, it detracts
from the mystique of being a Commissioner. It
shows us up to our juniors.'

'Well, thank you,' said Marje, baffled. 'I'll
remember that if I ever want to complain about
someone.'

'It's –' Ario gave a dry little laugh – 'it's a little
late for that, Marje.'

'It is?'

'Isn't it?'

'Isn't what?'

They looked at each other for a few seconds in
the silence that comes from a complete lack of
communication. Marje broke the silence.

'Yul – I may call you Yul? – what exactly are you
trying to say?'

'I'm trying to say that your office recently issued
a complaint against one of my Field Ops, and I'd
really rather you had brought it straight to me.'

'Is that a fact?'

'The Op in question has . . . well, a reputation
for difficulty, but if he's to get into trouble I'd like
it to be because of his professional conduct, not
what he does in his time off duty.'

'I'm not dissatisfied with one of your Ops!' Marje
said. 'I don't know any of them.'

'But if a complaint came from your office . . .'