Time Salvager (9 page)
The latter part of the twenty-first century was known as the Final Golden Age, a half century blessed with peace, cooperation, and innovation. During that era, the nations of Earth rose up against the threats of environmental catastrophes, famine, and greed. They ushered in an era of many great technological and cultural wonders. Unfortunately, it was short-lived. The Nutris Platform was one of the last relics of that time.
“Why am I dropping so far away from the platform?” he asked as he pulled up the job briefing. For some reason, the physical insertion point was thirty kilometers farther out than usual.
“There are concerns with the military facility’s advance surveillance,” said Smitt. “We’re just being extra cautious on this job.” James grunted in disbelief but continued reading, skimming over the general overview and digging in to his mission parameters. A massive secret military facility off the coast of Russia, the platform had sunk into the Arctic Ocean days after it went online. According to public documents, a faulty experimental power source—the progenitor to the Titan source—was the culprit. Over three thousand scientists, military personnel, and crew were lost.
He frowned. “If a power generator was the catalyst of the disaster, I can’t extract the energy source that caused the explosion. Isn’t that why Nutris has been off-limits from salvages all this time?”
Smitt nodded and looked over at Sourn, the head suit. Sourn was a representative of Valta Corporation, one of the three largest mining conglomerates in the solar system and majority owner of Europa colony. The company also held 14 percent of Jupiter’s mining rights, 21 percent of Neptune’s mining rights, and owned outright fourteen of Jupiter’s sixty-seven moons.
By the looks of Sourn and how labored his walking was, this was probably the first time he had ever set foot on Earth. James doubted the man had ever been in a full-gravity environment. Europa, where Valta was based, ran only a third of Earth’s gravity on the colony. His face was particularly pale, even by spaceborn standards.
“Chronman James Griffin-Mars, we’re fully aware of the Time Laws and the limitations of our rights from the purchase of the Nutris contract. We understand that the power core is off-limits. We don’t want that.” He transmitted several images to James’s AI band. “We want these.”
One was a stock photograph of a data core, and the other two were drawings of what looked like machinery: one a series of small machines connected by tubes and filters, and the other a circular contraption centered around a crystal in a container. James studied the picture and then the drawings. The images were so basic he couldn’t make out what each machine’s purpose could be.
“Seems pretty straightforward,” said James, bemused, not quite sure what the big deal was. “You want me to obtain industrial equipment from an isolated military platform in the Arctic Circle within a two-to-three-day window?”
“Technically a four-hour window, between when the explosion is first reported and when the platform sinks into the ocean,” Smitt corrected.
James’s jaw fell open. “After the explosion? Why not the night before?”
Sourn shook his head. “It has to be in that window. There’s too much time line risk if you initiate early.”
“That makes no sense,” James said, looking over the data more closely. “Unless taking these three units would prevent the explosion, I can just grab them the night before and avoid the chaos. I don’t see the—”
“It has to be after!” Sourn cut him off. He looked over at Smitt. “Moving on.”
“There are concerns about breaking the data core’s uplink prematurely,” Smitt said.
James wasn’t sold on their logic. That was something the time line could have easily healed over, but if this was the way they wanted it done, he would accommodate them.
“Fine. After. What about the layout of the place?”
“The facility was highly classified, so no blueprint survived,” Smitt said. “You’ll have to scout the platform on-site.”
“Small window, zero scouting report, classified military installation?” James ticked off each finger. “This whole thing is literally fucking impossible.”
Sourn shrugged. “When we purchased this contract from ChronoCom, we were assured one of their best would be assigned to it. We have every confidence in your ability to carry this out successfully. After speaking with your associate here, we believe our added incentives should be adequately persuasive.”
Smitt leaned in. “Remember what we talked about last night? On top of the payout that effectively buys out four years of our contract, Valta is also offering us residency on Europa if we hit all the objectives. You said you wanted out of ChronoCom; this is the way.”
Sourn nodded. “As you know, Europa is an exclusive colony; not anyone can just migrate there. If you perform as expected, Valta will gladly extend an invitation and offer employment at a salary commensurate with your status as a ChronoCom operative.”
These buyouts, commonly referred to as golden ticket jobs, were extraordinarily rare. The guaranteed pay at his current scale on Europa was just icing on the cake. It sounded way too good to be true. All chronmen’s accounts were held and controlled by ChronoCom, and all the funds reverted to it if the chronman died. A chronman could get control of his account only after buying out his contract. And considering that the life expectancy of people in James’s line of work averaged less than ten years, it was a long shot for anyone to get a chance to earn out of ChronoCom.
James was pushing fifteen years. He was considered one of the seniors and even then, he still had five more years left on his contract. For Valta to purchase four of his last five years, especially with the recent dearth of Tier-1 chronmen, they would have to be paying an exorbitant sum. James tapped his finger on the table, lost in thought. Something smelled foul here; he just couldn’t put his finger on it.
“Why?” he asked finally, arching an eyebrow. “Buying us out must cost Valta a fortune. What’s the catch?”
Sourn smiled. “Consider it extra incentive. Valta knows how delicate this job is. We wish to guard against any decisions to abort. Just get us what we ask for and we will deliver as promised.”
James looked at Smitt, who nodded. “Central’s already confirmed the terms. We just need to come through.”
James bit his lip. With this much scratch being offered, who cared about things being off? Nothing else mattered now except for finding the fastest way to escape his current hell. He was exaggerating when he said it was an impossible job; it was just a very difficult one. James had beaten difficult before. This couldn’t be harder than surviving Mnemosyne Station, after all.
“Sounds like I have no choice,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”
They spent the rest of the morning working through the logistics. The more James learned about the salvage, the more uneasy he felt about the job, but he had learned years ago that reservations meant little to chronmen and even less to the megacorporations.
The long briefing ended at ten, giving him sixteen hours before mission got the job. James hadn’t had breakfast yet and was starving. He needed another drink too. Both of these issues would need to be rectified before he could begin the rest of his day. His body informed him of its priorities and he headed toward the Never Late. A drink came first; sustenance later.
“Where you off to, my friend?” Smitt said, falling in next to him.
James grunted. Go figure, he’d get handled by his handler even when not on a job. He imagined Smitt being particularly unbearable for the next few days. The success of this job affected them both.
Smitt wanted to get out of here almost as badly as James did. Almost. While handlers didn’t have to put up with the trauma of the jumping into the past, they were the lowest tier of the agency and were barely treated better than pesky caretakers. After almost twenty years, some of them could almost get as suicidal as chronmen. Bottom line, both of them could use a change of scenery.
“Whoa, whoa. You are not going to the Never Late right now, James.” Smitt jumped in front of him. He spread his hands out as if that would actually bar the way. “No drinking tonight. Not before an important jump. In any case, this salvage is important enough the director wants you to meet with Levin in an hour before even clearing you to go.”
“Fuck Levin,” James snarled. “Besides, I have an hour to get a couple drinks and lunch in before the audit anyway.”
Smitt pointed a finger at him. “Check yourself, James. You want out? This could be it. Just play nice with Levin and maybe you might reduce our sentence from five more years to just one and change. Just smile and be on your best fucking behavior with Levin. Do the job, and we’re in the clear, got it?”
James tried to pass him again, but Smitt would have none of it. He kept his arms out and almost tried to tackle him when James pushed through. It would be comical if it wasn’t so sad. James saw the desperation in his friend’s eyes as he tried to keep him from his booze.
“After my audit with Levin then,” he grumbled, turning around. “I’m going to take a nap in my quarters.”
“I’ll be right outside waiting for you,” Smitt said, following him every step of the way.
Levin watched as the prison collie took off from the landing pad and shot toward the sky, a small yellow streak disappearing into the morning, joining the thick caravan of ships constantly streaming through the atmosphere.
The trial should have been short. ChronoCom trials were usually just formalities. After all, the agency never acted until it was sure. Otherwise, they’d just be wasting scarce resources. In this case, though, Levin had a personal stake in the outcome and argued for it until he got his desired result. It took him all night to get what he wanted.
Officially, Levin’s role in this audit retrieval was only a moderate success, with the ripples caused by the fugitive an unfortunate but not unexpected aftereffect. The time line was restored, though never fully healed. That would be a minor black mark on his record.
Levin had his own reasons for personally taking on this job. He had restored his honor for having a rogue nephew, his sister Ilana was able to see her son one final time, and Levin had somehow saved Cole from death. That in itself was a minor miracle, considering the ripples caused by his romp through the Ming Dynasty.
The prison transport finally left the atmosphere, its light no longer visible. It would take the ship a few days to reach the penal colony on Nereid, where Cole was sentenced to do hard labor in the gas-processing plants for the rest of his life. Levin had saved his nephew from capital punishment, though in a way, Nereid was a fate far worse.
Levin looked over at his weeping sister. “It’s over. We’ve done all that we could. Will you stay the night before you head back to Oberon?”
Ilana wiped her face with her sleeves and shot venom at him with her eyes. “You should have let him be, Levin. Why didn’t you let him stay in the past? He wasn’t going to hurt anyone.”
“He broke the Time Laws,” Levin said. “Bringing him back was the right thing to do.”
“Protecting your flesh and blood was the right thing to do,” she lashed out, jabbing her finger at his face. “He didn’t need to join your damn agency. He had options. Now look what’s happened to my baby! I’ll never forgive you.”
New tears streamed down her face as Ilana fled the landing pad, cursing him every step of the way. Levin watched as his sister disappeared into Earth Central, knowing full well that she was a woman of conviction. He gave himself slim odds of seeing her alive again after today.
He sighed. Bringing in Cole had been the right thing to do. There was no doubt about it in his heart. Still, it didn’t make the burden weigh on him any less. He looked up at some of the engineering crews staring at the spectacle of his family grief. Anger burned through his veins and radiated to the surface of his skin—and not a small amount of shame. After all, he might have removed some of the stain on his honor, but Central was still abuzz with talk of this scandal, and every word from these gossipmongers was about him.
Quick, harsh words bubbled up to his lips, but instead, Levin returned the gaze of their judging eyes. He stared them down with a cold rage, daring them, daring any of them to maintain eye contact. He knew his shame was misplaced. It was not he who had broken the Time Laws, only his blood. He didn’t bring his own nephew in because he was overreacting; it was because it was the right thing to do. So for that, there was no way in the abyss he would let any of these lower tiers inflict shame upon him.
The engineering crew wilted before him and dispersed, each realizing he or she had something more pressing to attend to than mock the high auditor of Earth. Let them have this one moment where they could feel superior to him. It was likely the last one any of them would ever get.
It wasn’t until he was back in his office that he relaxed, and let a few moments of grief pass over him. Ilana wasn’t wrong. It was his fault. Cole had joined because of him, because of his uncle who had regaled him with stories of the past when he was a boy. Unlike most other chronmen, Cole did have other choices for careers. Levin, through his work as a chronman and later as an auditor, had lifted his family from the cesspool on Oberon to a better life. The boy could have been something else. Anything else.
Levin went behind his desk and poured himself a glass of bourbon, a rare Pappy Van Winkle retrieved from a salvage back in the late twentieth century. He had been saving it for a special occasion. Today was as good as any, though the occasion was not what he had imagined. He tossed back the glass and poured himself another.
Against the wishes of both his mother and uncle, Cole had joined the Academy of his own volition and had had the talent and skill to rise to the chronmen tier. It was after he began to run jobs that his sensitive soul began to suffer and unravel under the strain. The deterioration was quicker than with any other chronman in recent memory.