The Empire of Time Page 4

  UnTrainable emigrants, en route downtime, of course wore Agency fatigues, but those returning to Earth on official business had taken pains to dress distinctively. A tall Black man glided across the Concourse in a gaudy yellow caftan, talking quietly with a Colonial Police officer. The Copo wore dress uniform: white tricorn with moa plumes, gold brocade jacket, and azure breeches tucked into knee boots. Such visitors affected a composure they rarely felt; anyone rude enough to make eye contact with a Colonial would probably find cold resentment glaring back at him.

  Macapagal and the two men in ponchos entered the Concourse and strolled about for a time, windowshopping on the commercial mezzanine above the main floor. One of the men spoke quietly to Macapagal, who nodded absently.

  Upstairs, on an Agency pistol range, Philon Richardson fired six flechettes into a five-centimeter bull’s-eye. He studied the shot group for a moment, then ejected the empty clip from his Mallory .15, reloaded, and did it again. The pistol made an almost inaudible spitting sound.

  On a still-higher floor, Wigner sipped sherry and studied the billiard table in his study. He loved the endless calculations, the estimates, the sheer precognition needed to put the balls where he wanted them, when he wanted them there, with the speed and spin he wanted. He was very good, but he played only against himself. His apartment was silent except for his good-tempered humming. He lived alone.

  Pierce, wearing a beige corduroy Mao suit, took the elevator to Judy’s apartment. His body was growing accustomed to the demands Dr. Suad had placed on it, and he found he could tune out most of the unwanted sensory input. Thank God.

  Judy welcomed him with a hug. “Hi. I’ve missed you.”

  “Missed you too. Dinner smells good.”

  “It’ll be awhile yet. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll get you a beer.” She turned on her heel and headed for the kitchen.

  “Thanks.” He removed his clothes and placed them in the wardrobe by the door. Trainables went about naked whenever possible. Returning to the room, he walked over to the holoprojector and riffled through the wall projections until he found a new one. The Mendocino cliffs on Ahania. He put it on two of the walls and the ceiling. The view was from the top of the black cliffs; waves smashed against the empty shore while gulls wheeled against the raw blue sky of early spring. Along the edge of the cliffs, grass and wildflowers bent in the wind from the sea. He muted the surf to a distant hiss.

  “Put the salt on,” Judy called from the kitchen, and Pierce touched a button on the air conditioner. It was a close-to-perfect illusion, even to Pierce’s heightened senses.

  She returned carrying two steins of Löwenbräu, and they snuggled together on the couch to watch the waves break.

  “You picked my new favorite. I hardly ever put on Pompeii or Macchu Picchu any more. But I can watch this for hours and hours.”

  “It’s very pleasant. I still haven’t spotted the recycle splice.”

  “It’s a ten-minute cycle. Cost a fortune.”

  “Worth every cent,” Pierce commented, then remembered something he had left in his pocket and went to the closet to retrieve it. “I brought you a present,” he announced, and handed her a small square locket on a fine gold chain. “Bought it from a goldsmith in Philadelphia.”

  “It’s beautiful! Thank you, love.” She put it around her neck and turned to let him fasten the clasp. The gold sparkled against her tanned skin.

  Pierce slouched farther down on the couch, enjoying the warmth of her body next to his, enjoying the wind in his hair and the sun on his face. “Well, love, how’s life?”

  “Very slow. Very quiet. No big actions, nobody coming home hurt. We’re all dying of boredom.”

  “Eric’s had me hyped to Grade Twelve, and blocked most of my Briefing.”

  She sat up, both surprised and concerned. “But you’re going on a Colonial job.”

  “I am.”

  “Then—”

  “Beats me. I suppose I’ll learn why when I need to.”

  “But what’s the sense of blocking an Agent for a Colonial mission?”

  “Maybe there’s more Secessionism in the air.”

  “On Ore?” She laughed. “Don’t be silly—not with all those loyal scientists.”

  “Mm. Let’s play chess.”

  “Sure.”

  They played quickly as old adversaries who could still outwit each other now and then. Pierce was surprised to beat her in twenty-five moves.

  “I’ll get my revenge after dinner,” she threatened. “Between worrying about you and worrying about the meal, I can’t concentrate.”

  “Nobody loves a whiny loser.” Pierce grinned. “Let’s eat.”

  As he expected, Judy had put together a good meal: hot-and-sour soup, tomato beef chow fun, green beans with pork and rice. Over coffee, Pierce described the cuisine he had been served at Monticello. “Corn bread, salt pork, and carrots. That was for guests. The old boy’s got a freezer full of gourmet food, but they like to cling to their pioneer image in front of visitors.”

  After dinner they played some more chess, and Judy did indeed take her revenge by letting Pierce outsmart himself. He spent more time watching her than watching the board: she was tense and distracted.

  “Now what’s the matter,” he finally asked after resigning the last game.

  “Hm?”

  “You know. You’re all knotted up about something.”

  “It’s you, Jerry. I’m afraid you’ll come home hurt.”

  “We’ll see. Not to worry.” He put his arm around her shoulder and tried to comfort her.

  “Comforted, but not completely satisfied, Judy led him toward the bedroom.

  They made love, gently and slowly. Any intensity would prove to be too much for Pierce’s overtuned body. His fingers and skin read her body, and the message was still there in her pulse and muscle—she was nervous and frightened, but excited as well, and not just by him.

  Afterward, he relaxed in her arms, enjoying the smell of her hair. “I froze this morning,” he confided to her.

  She suddenly became very still, worried.

  “I was getting off the shuttle from Beaulah. I froze. Just for a second.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Oh, Jerry. Did you tell Eric?”

  “No. Not Suad, either. But Suad must know. You can’t ever keep secrets from him. And if he knows, Eric knows.”

  Judy sat up, pulled away from Pierce, and turned to face him. “And they’re sending you out anyway—”

  “One last run. Waste not, want not. Then I can go rusticate and catch up on my reading.”

  “If you freeze again, at a bad time, you could get killed.”

  Pierce shrugged. “If I trip over my own feet, I could get killed, too.”

  “Are you scared,” she asked.

  “Sure.” Pierce pushed the covers back and moved to the edge of the bed.

  “What was it like?”

  “Don’t be morbid. Besides, it’s time I left.”

  “Stay over, this once.” She did not mean it.

  “No thanks.” He could not stand anyone else in bed with him while he slept. The very thought made him edgy.

  Judy got out of bed and put on a simple black kimono. Pierce dressed, watching her watching him. She was just beginning to thicken, to lose her lean, hard dancer’s waist and flat belly. He was sad to see her beginning to age. Then he realized she was studying him the same way. He laughed. “How’d we get so old, love? We’re the whiz kids, aren’t we?”

  “Not any more, Jer. We’re not kids playing games any more.” She walked him to the door, her arm around his waist, her head against his shoulder. He confirmed what he had suspected: she was upset, frightened, yet detached. He was in danger; she knew it, but wasn’t warning him except through the smell and texture of her skin, the pattern of her eye movements, the subtle tensions of a body under too much control.

  “See you soon.” He smiled, kissing her light
ly as she opened the door.

  “Bye, Jerry.”

  The door closed, and he stood alone in the quiet corridor. Then he walked slowly toward the elevators, past several intersecting corridors. Nearing the last intersection, he smelled orange blossoms, and had a whiff of beer. On one side of the intersection, he realized, someone was waiting to kill him. Which side? Left—the orange-blossom scent was stronger there. How many? Only one? Yes.

  Pierce stepped into the intersection, catching a glimpse of the man out of the corner of his eye. A pistol glinted and sighed; a flechette kissed the air over Pierce’s head as he dropped, spun to face the man from a sprinter’s crouch, and leaped.

  The man was short and thickset, with an impassive expression on his round brown face. In a fair fight he might have been a dangerous opponent, but this was not a fair fight. The man stank of orange blossoms—he had been doped with hypnine to slow his reflexes. Before the man could correct his aim, Pierce broke his wrist. The pistol fell to the carpeted floor, Pierce kicked it down the hall and extended the kick into the man’s groin.

  The man groaned, tried to say something, then collapsed. Pierce gripped him by the shirtfront and swung him head first into the wall. About three seconds had elapsed since the flechette was fired.

  Pierce went through his attacker’s pockets, found nothing. The pistol was equally anonymous, a cheap plastic job with a rough finish intended to mask fingerprints. Pierce sighed and turned on his ringmike.

  “Eric? Jerry. Sorry to bother you at home, but some fellow’s just tried to kill me.”

  “Where are you?”

  “The hundred and twenty-second floor, Southwest, Corridor J. There’s no ID on him, and he’s full of hypnine.”

  “Cat’s-paw. Okay, call Security to come sweep him up. Are you all right?”

  “Thought you’d never ask. Yeah. Adrenalin high on Grade Twelve reflexes is rough, though.”

  “Of course.”

  The unconscious man had been mugged, doped, and parked in the corridor with orders to fire at someone resembling Pierce. The real killer was far away; his cat’s-paw would not even remember being accosted, let alone how his wrist came to be broken. Pierce felt sorry for the man, doubtless an innocent citizen whose life had been so casually appropriated without his consent.

  “Who would want me dead?” Pierce murmured into the mike.

  “Don’t know, Jerry.”

  Pierce wished he could see Wigner. Over the earphone his boss’s voice sounded untrustworthy, but it was hard to be certain.

  “What am I getting into tomorrow?”

  “You seem to be in it already. Don’t worry, Jerry. Your subconscious will let you know what you need to know when you need to know it. Damned safer this way.”

  “I know. I know.”

  Pierce meant it. He trusted Wigner; he always had.

  Chapter Four

  One never called them Backsliders. Emigrants, pioneers, settlers, redeployed developmental and support personnel—but never Backsliders. They called themselves that, but Homebodies and Climbers had to maintain a genteel courtesy toward the people they deported.

  Pierce often wondered why these people resented being moved. Downtime, the air was clean, the water sweet. Fortunes were being made in hundreds of industries. Yet they resented it. In ’09, seventy thousand Calcuttans died in the Ten-Week Riot against the transfer of half the city’s population to Ahania. The received wisdom in the Agency was that the emigrants’ morale rose as their new homes began to resemble their old ones in squalor and misery. Much philosophizing was heard in Agency offices about the perversity of human nature.

  At 0545, scarcely six hours since the cat’s-paw—identified as Eusebio Macapagal, a Trainable-Gamma employee of the Agency—had attacked him, Pierce felt rested and alert. His B&C helped induce optimum sleep sequences, reducing his normal seven hours’ requirement to four. Pierce woke, dressed, packed, and dropped to the Concourse in twenty minutes. At this hour, the plaza was nearly empty.

  His documents got him through Intertemporal Customs at once past a long line of sleepy emigrants. He rode the escalator down into a tunnel just like the one to Beulah. The platform was already crowded with emigrants. They huddled on the benches that ran the length of the tunnel, or sprawled on the cement floor amid their luggage.

  They smelled. They jabbered, coughed, spat, smoked, pissed in the trash cans, laughed, wept, whined, snarled. They wore fatigues; Pierce wore a brown duffel coat over a brown-and-white sweater and tan slacks. They fell silent as he picked his way through the crowd, then joked about him once he had passed.

  Pierce did not mind—this oral abuse was only the equivalent of the graffiti they were allowed to spray on the shuttle cars. He found an empty space between an old woman snoring on the platform, using a suitcase for a pillow, and a young couple. The young man clutched a blue vinyl folder that held their emigration orders, IDs, immunization records, credit cards, and travel tickets. He was probably nineteen; the girl, obviously his new wife, seemed to be a year or so younger.

  With a grunt and a yawn, Pierce hunkered down. He turned to the young couple and smiled. He had a lovely smile, bright, humorous, and infectious, and he knew it. The couple, expecting to ignore him and to be ignored in turn, were surprised and subtly flattered.

  “Hi. My name’s Jerry. Where are you two bound for?”

  Shaking his hand, the man responded cordially. “I’m Pete, and this is Jenny. My wife. We’re s’posed to be going to Nueva Merida. Uh, what about you?”

  “Business trip to the west coast. Nueva Merida, huh? I hear it’s a great town.” Pierce looked over at Pete’s wife. “You two going to settle there?”

  “Well—Jenny’s brother lives there,” Pete answered. “He offered me a job on his fishing boat. Guess it beats just being sent any old place.”

  “Sounds good. Things are booming all around the Gulf. Fishing, oil, farming—you name it. You’ll make out fine.”

  “I sure better.” Pete sighed. “Then we can go buy a little island somewheres, and me and Jenny can live there and not have to worry about AID or Doomsday or nothin’.”

  Jenny looked scared; Pierce was obviously no emigrant and therefore was a Trainable. But Pete was emboldened by his nearness to Orc, as well as by Pierce’s friendliness.

  “Sorry to leave Earth, huh?” Pierce asked.

  “Hell. I had a good job with the New Haven City Schools—custodian’s aide. And Jenny was doin’ real good in vocational school, doin’ Homecraft. But just ’cause we got married, bam, okay, kids, here’s your walking papers.” He waved the vinyl folder. “They wouldn’t even let Jenny finish school. You know, we was too honest. Shoulda got married secretly.”

  “Honey, you know it wouldn’ of worked,” Jenny objected. “Anybody our age gets married, they know about it.”

  “Well, live together, then.”

  Jenny gasped; the boy blushed at his own gaucherie. Pierce was amused by the growing priggishness of the younger generation.

  “They’d prob’ly learn ’bout that too,” Jenny mumbled. “My folks sure would, anyways,” she added with a nervous giggle.

  “Just not fair. Know what my IQ is?” Pete asked. “One twenty-two. My counselor tol’ me when I turned sixteen and I was goin’ in for Testing. Heck, I was smarter than lots of kids, but that flickertube—wow, I could never make any sense of that in a million years.”

  “Well, only about twelve percent are Trainables,” Pierce observed. “It’s just one of those things you’re born with, like your blood type.”

  “Sit under the dumb thing for fifteen minutes and that’s all, kid, thank you, and kiss your future goodbye.”

  “Petey, honey, please.” Jenny was embarrassed, but her husband listened to her no more than he did to Pierce.

  “Just not fair.”

  “You’re kidding me.” Pierce grinned. “Your wife was studying to be a domestic servant in some rich family’s house, and you were holding a janitor’s broom for him.
On Orc you’ll own your own house in less than a year. And you’ll be making more money in a month than you’d make in a year if you stayed here.”

  Pete turned a level gaze on him.

  “Sure. And I can sit in front of the cinevision every night and watch blinkies like you tell each other what to do about duds like us.”

  Blinkies—a new term of insult. They coined a few more every week. Pierce shrugged, smiled faintly, and turned away. So much for the screened loyals who were the only ones allowed to settle on Orc.

  “Attention, please. Attention, please.” A pleasant female voice came over the PA system and made everyone sit up and start fussing with their belongings. “Emigrants to Orc, please board cars two, three, four, and five. Nonemigrant passengers, please board car one only. Line up at the orange turnstiles and board the shuttle promptly when they open. Thank you—and have a good time.”

  Some of the emigrants cheered, sarcastically; most lined up silently. Pierce discovered he was the only nonemigrant, a situation that was not unusual.

  Shuttles were necessary because I-Screens demanded a great deal of power and broke down within a few minutes unless carefully maintained. For a shuttle trip, the Screen was on for only fifteen seconds, and as many people as possible had to be hurled through in that time. After thousands of trips, Pierce was as intrigued as ever by the process and remained standing at the front of the empty car, looking out the window toward the end of the tunnel.

  Ten meters down the track, they came to a wall, its tiled mosaic interrupted by a circular metal band half a meter wide and glinting a dull gold. The circle, six meters in diameter, curved just under the tracks. As Pierce watched, the golden circle brightened. A chime sounded somewhere outside, and the mosaic within the circle disappeared. In its place, a soap-bubble film swirled for an instant before it, too, vanished, revealing a tunnel that was the mirror image of this one. A puff of wind gusted against the window as air pressures equalized.

  The shuttle banged forward through the circle; the only sensation was the thin click of the car going over the suddenly joined rails where the two tunnels merged. The shuttle stopped, having traveled about sixty meters, and the doors opened. Six burly Immigration officers in blue-and-white uniforms paced the platform. They wore sidearms, Pierce observed with surprise.