City Beyond Time: Tales of the Fall of Metachronopolis (6 page)

“I suppose so.”

“Can you think of any other fair way of doing it?”

“Not off-hand.”

“But, my good man–what else do you think the core timeline is? It is the alternate where everyone has the great and omnipotent gift of being a time traveler, but everyone has volunteered to foreswear and forget that selfish and self-defeating power. It is the world where hope is possible.”

“And if someone refused to volunteer?”

“That is always a possibility. But one would hope the warning would reach him in time.”

“But if you know better, I mean
really know better
, then why not?”

“Why not what? Coerce their choice? Force the future to come out as planned?" He nodded toward the icy thrones of the Time Wardens. All were now empty.

Beyond the line of desolate thrones, I saw the wide vista of emptiness. There was no land and no sea. All was dark blue sky above, and below a floor of wrinkled white, which was the tops of mist banks smothering the globe from pole to pole. The whole world was a void.

“The Time Wardens, knowing the future,
really knew better
than the men they treated like pawns. Ask them how it worked out,” D'Artagnan said sardonically.

That was good enough for me. I tossed my smartgun aside, glad to be rid of the weight, and stared into the black crystal card.

Deeply, deeply, I stared past the surface, and for a moment, my imagination went blank…

This time, she slapped my face. And maybe I leaned a little into the blow. After all, I did deserve it.

I saw her slender shadow through the glass of the door after she slammed it.

She packed quite a wallop. I rubbed my jaw ruefully, knowing I'd never see her again. There was no way to turn back time and undo what I'd done, no way to unsay what I'd said.

I looked up. I heard her heels clashing against the floorboards, receding.

On the other hand–why had she hesitated for a moment outside? And why was I so quick to say never? It's not like anyone knows what tomorrow brings. We can't change the past, but we sure as hell can try to change the future.

I ran toward the door, calling out to her.

Maybe I could catch up with her before she reached the elevators.

In the other ending, the one I'd rather not dwell on, I had no breath to scream when I saw the world dissolve into mist, the golden towers falling. For I had stooped, not towards the single black card, but toward the many shining ones. They seemed so bright, and I thought I'd always have time to change my mind later.

I hope this warning reaches you in time.

The time was Autumn, and what few beech trees had been spared released gold leaves into the chilly air, to swirl and dance and fall. Defoliants, and poisons, had reduced the greater number of the trees to leafless, sickly hulks, unwholesome to behold, and where the weapons of the enemy had fallen, running walls of fire had consumed them, leaving stands of wood and smoking ash. But here and there within the ruin, defying destruction, a kingly tree raised up a bounty of leaves, shining green-gold in the setting sun. Through the ruins of the forest came a man. He was past his youth, and past the middle of his age, but he was not yet old. His posture was erect, untiring, unbowed, and strong. His hair was iron-grey, his face was lined and careworn. The sternness of his glance showed he had been a leader of men, accustomed to command. The sorrow and cold rage kindled in his eye showed he was a leader no more. The furtive silence of his footstep, the quick grace of his flight, showed that he was hunted.

He wore the uniform of a warrior of his day and age. The fabric was soft and camoflaged, broken into unpatterned lines and shadows. The fabric faded to dull green when he stood near a flowering bush, or darkened to grey-black when he ran across an open space thick with piles of ash.

Across his back he bore a weapon which could fire a dozen missiles no larger than his littlest finger. The missiles could be programmed to seek and dive, to circle and evade, or to search out specific individuals, whose signatures of heat, or aurenetic patterns, matched those locked within the little bullets. The little bullets could fly for hundreds of yards, hunting, or, if fired with a booster, reach enemies miles away. On his shoulder he wore his medical appliance, with needles stabbed into the great veins of his arm, and colored tabs to show what plagues and viruses of the enemy had been found and contradicted in his blood.

Hanging open at his throat, there hung a mask to filter out poisoned air. He left it dangling loose now as he walked, for the wind was fresh, and smelled of the salt sea as it blew into the east, toward the patrols he fled. When he came clear of the trees, he saw a rushing mountain stream, but it was poisoned now and clogged with stinking fish and blood. He had climbed higher than he knew. Not a dozen paces to his left, the stream fell out into the air, and let a bloody waterfall tumbled down high cliffs once green with trees.

He knew these cliffs; he had climbed and played upon them as a boy. Once he had climbed their craggy sides to a high place not far from here, and felt such crowning triumph and such joy as he had never felt again, not even when the many fighting factions of his land united all beneath his hand to join in common bond to repel the invaders from over the sea.

For many years he had ruled a turbulent people, combined them in one cause, and laid down strict laws to govern them, laws he prayed were fair and just. Now, remembering the way, he climbed the rocks again to find, unchanged, that wide and grassy ledge from whose vantage long ago he once had viewed in triumph far below the wide green field of his youth.

When he turned and looked out upon the world, he saw the hills and deep-delved valleys fall away into the roads and fields and cottages, now blackened and deserted. By the river in the distance, he could see the city that had once been his capital burning. The bridges leading to the city had been shattered, the tall towers beyond had been thrown down or tilted on their foundations like senile drunks. The airfield, bare of ships, was cracked and torn. Where once his mansion stood, a crater smoked.

Sirens wailed to no avail. There was no one to answer.

On the far horizon, red with sunset, was the sea. Against the clouds stained red with dying light loomed angular, grim silhouettes; the warships of the enemy were gathered in great force. Midmost, and taller than the others, was the flagship, a giant vessel, whose every armored deck and deckhouse held up the dark muzzle bores of her many cannons.

He took his weapon into his lap and lit its tiny screen. The symbols showed the codes and life-patterns for the five highest officers of the enemy forces, as well as those for their commander. Only on this last day of the war had his spies discovered the codes; only now, too late, would vengeance be fulfilled. He gently touched the button with his thumb, programming the ammunition.

His weapon loaded, the man took out his knife and turned it on, and scratched into the rock these words:

OWEN PENTHANE SEPTEMBER THIRD STOOD HERE AND FIRED A FINAL VOLLEY INTO THE FLAGSHIP ATLAS

He paused in thought and took a moment to watch the setting sun. Already the lowlands were in shadows. The rocks and trees around him gleamed cherry-pink. He carved more words into the stone.

THAT ALL WOULD KNOW BY THIS THAT WE HAVE BEEN DESTROYED, BUT NOT DEFEATED, AND EVEN TO THE LAST MAN, LAST BULLET, FOUGHT EVER ON.

He stood and raised the weapon to his cheek. The magnified image on the screen before his eye displayed the deckhouse of the mighty warship, and the moving figures on board. Webs of wire covered all the windows; these would detect incoming shots, and control the massive counter fire.

He wondered if he should step away from the rock which bore his epitaph; were it to crack or melt under the counterfire, no future generations would read his final words.

Then again, the circuits woven into the fabric of his suit were designed to bewilder and confuse the electric brains of approaching projectiles. It was possible he would not be harmed at all.

Nonetheless, he stepped away from the carven rock, leaving many paces between it and him. He raised the weapon once again.

A touch of his finger spun tiny gyroscopes within the stock. His weapon was now as firmly locked on target as if it rested on a tripod. The computer inside adjusted for the minute pitch and roll of the warship's deck, and for the vibrations of the intervening air. The image on the aiming screen grew steady, clear, and fixed.

Then a woman's voice spoke gently from behind him: “Lord Owen Penthane. Hold your fire.”

His thumb twitched on the programming dial as he replied without turning around. “I can fire behind as easily as ahead.” He had reprogrammed the first bullet to circle him and strike to his rear.

“Fear not,” her voice answered softly. “I am unarmed.”

He looked behind him. He squinted in astonishment, switched the weapon to stand-by, and studied her closely.

Her hair was yellow as corn-silk, held on top within a web of silver wires set with pearls, but escaping on the sides to fall loose about her shoulders to her waist. Two long red ribbons dangled from the back of her pearly corona, and lifted in the breeze which stirred her hair into a fragrant cloud.

 Her face was fair; her eyes were grey-blue of a stormy sea; her lips were red as sweet roses. Down to her feet white vesture flowed, shimmering like sea-mist, made of some fabric he had never seen nor dreamed. Tight around her narrow waist she wore a wide embroidered belt of red; red slippers held slim feet. On her finger was a silver ring, whose stone gleamed with a point of light, burning like a star. It was not electric nor atomic nor any energy he could describe. He knew enough to know she came from places far beyond his knowing.

She watched him watching her, and softly smiled, as if pleased.

“There is rock wall behind you.” he said, “And no place to climb except in front of me. You were not here before I came.”

“Not before, but after,” she said, “Many ages hence, I shall stand within this place, and use the art we know to travel eons backward in a single step. I am a child of the future many centuries unborn. My name is Sigrune.” She smiled, as she looked over at the rock he had inscribed, as if pleased to see the inscription freshly cut.

“Your accent is peculiar.”

“I learned your speech from books, in my time, ancient, in yours, not yet composed.”

He glanced at the medical apparatus on his shoulder. She laughed, a gay and lovely sound, and said: “No hallucinogen is in your blood. What you see before you is most real.”

He laughed. “Flattering to think myself so famous that posterity will fly out of the deeps of time to talk to me! Flattering, but impossible.”

“Impossible to the science of this age, perhaps. Be assured your works shall not be forgotten, but preserved, and what you have said and done and thought shall shine through all the ages with clear light. In days to come, many a young student shall wonder what it would be like to see and to talk with you.”

Now Sigrune blushed and faltered. Owen Penthane was perceptive. He could imagine a young student of history dreaming over her books, playing with fanciful visions of a man whom time had lent the luster of myth and hero-worship. A famous man in his own day, he had seen such blushes, and received such worship, before.

Somehow, her shy look convinced him she was what she claimed.

“All this is most pleasing to me.” he said, nodding to her gravely. “Since all my work, until now, has proven futile and led to nothing more than ruin, I take your presence here as a sign that great things are left for me to accomplish in what few years remain. Perhaps my scattered folk will rally, or my treacherous allies repent, and combine to drive the invaders from our soil. Now stand away, for with this shot, I hope to signal the return of hope to my oppressed nation. Having seen so fair a child from the future, I now have cause to think that hope shall not be vain.”

She looked down, smiling uncertainly. It was a demure gesture, but also betrayed a strange hesitation, a hint of fear and sorrow. He stood, weapon in hand, staring at her for a long moment. Her fingers were twined together before her, and her head was bowed.

Puzzled by her silence, Owen Penthane frowned and said, “If you are a time traveler, how is it that your ventures do not imperil you? Any smallest change could unravel all the history you know, or thwart the marriage of your ancestors, undo the founding of your nations, and make you fade away like ghosts.”

“There are two precautions that we undertake.” she said, still not daring to look up. “The first is this: our grandchildren and their grandchildren have the government of our span of time, warning us of bad results to come, and wiping out mistakes, to make them as if they had never been. If any ill were fated to befall us on any of our journeyings, the Museum of Man at the End of Time would warn us of the outcome, long before it ever could arise. Their knowledge is perfect, for they cannot ever err.”

“And the second?” he said, now grimly suspicious.

Now she raised her head and met his eyes. “We show ourselves only to those who are about to die.”

He was silent, pensive, while she looked on. Her gaze was steady, calm, and sad.

“I meant to cause you no pain, Lord Owen,” she said. Soft breeze sent ripples through her hair. “Bid your world farewell: a finer world awaits you, a world which lacks no joy.”

“You have told me nothing I did not foresee. The soldier is a fool who thinks to live forever. And suppose if I do not fire upon the flagship?”

“There are enemies lurking in the woods below. The result will be much the same.”

“Indeed.” He turned and put the weapon to his shoulder. “Again I thank you, madam. Now that no hope torments me, my mind is put to rest. I am resolved.”

“Wait! I beg you, wait!” She stepped forward suddenly, and put her hands on his weapon. He caught her wrist with a hard grasp, and stared angrily at her.