Debt of Ages (4 page)

"Unknown. The fact that it came before deflectors in
our
history is immaterial; our development was shaped by a quirky genius working with archaeological hints. But even if they do have it, it's of limited use to them in the current tactical situation, because they have no knowledge of where we come from in realspace."

Heads nodded around the table. Exploration was something that the League did with great caution. Survey ships carried no astronomical data that were not rigged for instant cybernetic lobotomy in the event of probable capture.

"We, on the other hand, know exactly where they are," Draco continued. One of the holographic star-symbols flashed obligingly. "And we
do
have the continuous-displacement drive. This sets them up for the classical trap used in the liberation of Raehan by Eric and Aelanni DiFalco."

Tiraena's great-grandparents
, Sarnac thought. Aloud: "Yes—come at the defenders of a displacement point from a direction where you've got no business being, and
then
come through the displacement point like you're supposed to. One problem, Captain: we're talking a displacement connection that bypasses a realspace distance of over three hundred light-years. Any units we send there via continuous-displacement drive are going to have to be units built for speed and endurance and little else."

"Yes, sir," Draco acknowledged unflinchingly. "Also, there's the possibility of an additional problem: if they
do
have continuous-displacement drive, the maneuver won't come as a surprise to them. Even if they've never used it themselves, the theoretical possibility should be apparent to them, and we have to assume that they'll have taken precautions against it.

"But," he continued after letting the silence stretch just long enough, "we've developed an operational plan that takes both of these considerations into account and, I believe, offers a very high probability of success. I invite your attention to the folders in front of you, marked 'Most Secret.' "

He continued, holding everyone's attention. Sarnac found himself admiring not just the plan itself—without question a brilliant piece of work—but also the dynamism of Draco's presentation. No doubt about it, he was a man who had that indefinable thing called "charisma" coming out his ears.

And he was also a man Sarnac had known before. He was surer of that than ever. But every time a gesture or a mannerism awakened the insubstantial wisp of familiarity, it flitted elusively away like the tatters of an old dream.

But the dream didn't lie comfortably in the past—it was new and it came to renew itself more and more.

* * *

Blossoms swirling in the wind of our passage as we rode through the spring under a cloudless sky when the world was young . . .

Armies grinding together in a roar of pain and terror and blood . . .

The circle of faces wavering ghostlike in the flickering campfire . . .

The still lake . . . the sword tumbling end over end through the air, flashing in the westering sun, dazzling my eyes so that I nearly miss the ripples spreading from where it had struck the water—where surely it
must
have struck the water . . .

Sarnac's head jerked upward from his desk, spinning with the disorientation of sudden awakening. For an instant his skin prickled as he looked beyond the pool of light from the desk lamp into the shadows. Then he shook his head in annoyance as the familiarity of the office registered. Served him right, working late and falling asleep at his desk!

He shook his head again, to clear away the last cobwebs of sleep. What was he going to do? He couldn't fight a war distracted by insomnia! He knew he'd been resisting sleep lately, since the recurring dreams had ceased to be the once-in-a-while thing they had been over the years. But eventually his body's need caught up with him—like just now. And the dreams would come again, leaving him with an aching need to find a missing part of himself.

What's the matter with me? In the Middle Ages they would have said I was being tormented by demons. In the twentieth and twenty-first centuries they would have said the same thing, only phrased in terms of their established religion of psychoanalysis. Either way, I could have gone to the local priesthood and gotten sprinkled with holy water or psychobabble. Nowadays, we've finally admitted that we really don't know diddly about what goes on underneath the surface of the human mind—which is wise but not too awfully helpful.
Tiraena had always been a willing listener but an uncomprehending one, for she had never had such dreams herself. It was something she couldn't really share with him, and that inability had come more and more between them.
And, at any rate, she's not here now.

He straightened. He certainly wasn't going to get any more work done tonight. He needed to get back to his quarters; maybe, having gotten in its licks already, the dreams would leave him alone for the rest of the night. He stood up.

It was then that he saw the figure in the open door, silhouetted against the light from the outer office.

"What the . . . who are you?" he demanded. There shouldn't be anyone else in this office, they'd all gone home earlier.

Instead of answering, the figure stepped forward into the private office, entering the circle of light from the desk lamp. He was a nondescript middle-aged man in nondescript civilian clothes, medium-tall and ethnically unidentifiable—he might have had some Raehaniv blood, but Sarnac couldn't be certain. What
was
certain was that he had no business being here.
I'm gonna have a few words for Security
, Sarnac vowed to himself . . . but then the thought died as he realized he was feeling the same thing he always felt in Captain Draco's presence: a tantalizing certainty that he had seen the face before, in the country of his dreams.

The man smiled gently. "Good evening, Admiral Sarnac. I apologize for approaching you in this manner. But you're an important man, and it was the only way I could catch you alone."

"If you're a reporter, this is
not
the way to get an exclusive interview," Sarnac snapped. "And you never answered me. Who are you? And how did you get in here?" He made the unobtrusive jaw movement that activated his implant communicator, and was about to subvocalize a call to Security when the stranger replied.

"To answer your questions in order, Admiral, I am not a journalist; and my name is Tylar."

"Just . . . Tylar?"

"Actually, my full name is rather long. But 'Tylar' is quite sufficient."

"I'm relieved." It didn't come out as sarcastic as Sarnac had intended, and he missed the fact that Tylar had omitted to answer his final question. For the sense of recognition was back, this time with the force of certainty.

"May I sit down, Admiral? I'm afraid I'm not as young as I once was." Evidently taking assent for granted, Tylar lowered himself into a chair. Feeling slightly foolish, Sarnac followed suit. As he did so, he subvocalized a code which would bring a Security team. There was no acknowledgment. He frowned with a puzzled annoyance which Tylar's gentle smile did nothing to ameliorate. Could the man read his mind?

He forced patience on himself. "All right, Tylar. Tell me what you're doing here."

"I'm here in connection with a matter of mutual interest, Admiral: the dreams that have been troubling you."

There was a long moment of absolute silence. "What are you talking about?" Sarnac finally managed.

"Come, now. We both know. And we also know that you need help. I'm here to offer it."

"Why should you want to?"

"A matter of ethics, Admiral. I'm fulfilling a moral obligation. You see, I'm responsible for the fact that you're having the dreams." Tylar raised a forestalling hand as Sarnac's mouth started to open. "Let me hasten to add that this result was entirely unintended on my part. The fault lies with an inherently fallible process—to wit, selective memory erasure. I'm afraid yours simply didn't take very well. This became clear upon your return to the Solar System fifteen years ago, when you rendezvoused with the battlecruiser
Excalibur
."

Sarnac was in the process of signalling Security to send medical personnel as well—for Tylar clearly was raving mad in a calm, professorial sort of way—and wondering why he was still getting no acknowledgment, when the stranger's last sentence brought him up short. It had been years since he'd thought of that rendezvous, at the conclusion of his uneventful voyage from Sirius. But now the memories came flooding back, bearing with them the certain knowledge that there was a connection with the dreams.

It had been customary in those days to decorate the wardrooms of Sword-class battlecruisers with murals illustrating the legends of the blades after which the ships were named.
Excalibur
's wardroom had been adorned with a painting of Sir Bedivere throwing his dying king's magical sword into the water, to be caught by the Lady of the Lake. He had no clear recollection of what the sight of that mural on the comm pickup had awakened in him. All he could remember was regaining consciousness in Tiraena's arms and being asked what he had meant about the artist not having gotten things right, and about the sun having blinded him. . . .

. . . The flash of reflected sunlight, strangely dazzling considering that the blade had been encrusted with dried mud and gore . . .
He shook himself free of the maddening half-memories. Tylar was smiling his irritatingly gentle smile.

"Yes, I see that you remember. It was just one of those things. No one could have foreseen that out of the entire Solar Union fleet you'd be met by that particular battlecruiser! I suspect it was that instant of recollection that prevented the unavoidable mnemonic residue from dissipating over time as it usually does, crowded out by the press of day-to-day sensory impressions—"

"Wait a minute, Tylar! Talk sense!"

"Believe me, Admiral, everything will become clear after it has been adequately explained . . . for which purpose, I must ask you to accompany me."

"What? Look, Tylar, I admit you've displayed knowledge that requires me to take you seriously. But I can't just go off with you to God knows where! In case you hadn't noticed, we've got a war on here—and I, God help me, am the on-scene commander! I don't know if a sense of duty has any place in your value system, but—"

"Be assured, Admiral, that the twin concepts of 'honor' and 'duty' are basic to my culture—as they must be to any culture which lasts long enough to contribute to that ongoing accumulation of worthwhile ideas that certain immature societies try so gropingly to conceptualize with the notion of 'progress.' " The voice had ceased to have anything of the absent-minded professor about it. Indeed, it was as the voice of many trumpets. But then the moment was past, as was Sarnac's memory of it, and there was only Tylar, sitting across the desk and looking faintly embarrassed.

"But, my dear fellow," he said diffidently, "you need have no worries concerning your discharge of your duties. When our business is concluded, I will return you to this place and time . . . whatever time this is." He glanced at an ordinary-seeming timepiece. "Loriima III's 28.6 hour rotation period is frightfully confusing, don't you agree?"

Sarnac blinked. All right, that settled it: Tylar was mad as a hatter. But then the stranger rose and reached into a pocket. Sarnac stiffened . . . but the device Tylar produced was clearly not a weapon. He placed it on the floor. Sarnac waited for him to do or say something. But all that happened was that a doorway-sized rectangle, outlined in glowing insubstantial bars of refracted light, formed with its lower left-hand corner resting on Tylar's device. Sarnac blinked repeatedly, for through that outline he saw not the room beyond but . . . what?

"Shall we go, Admiral?" Tylar asked pleasantly, and stepped through the immaterial portal. Then he turned and beckoned. "Here lie your dreams."

As though in a dream, Sarnac followed him.

They had passed through two more of the portals before Sarnac called a halt. One had led into a corridor in what Sarnac was somehow sure was a space vessel—although there were no sensations that he could have pointed to in support of his conviction—and the second had given entry through what had been a solid bulkhead into . . . this place.

"Wait! Wait, Tylar!" He stood stock-still in the gentle breeze under the blue vault of sky, looking around at the intricately landscaped grounds of what seemed to be a villa whose gracefulness transcended all canons of architectural form and, indeed, somehow incorporated them. He tried to speak again, but no words would come—how does one frame questions about the patently impossible? He could only drink in the heart-stopping loveliness of it.

There was an indefinable oddness about every perspective, and an even more indefinable sense that there were things here he was not seeing, not because they were invisible but because they were incomprehensible—his brain simply edited them out, refusing to process the input of his eyes. But none of this detracted from the almost unendurable perfection of the scene.

Tylar turned around and faced him. "Yes, I know this is all a bit much, Admiral. For now, suffice it to say that we are in an artificially-generated pocket universe . . . and that you have been here before."

The odd thing was, Sarnac never for an instant doubted him. For this was one of the impossible settings he glimpsed in his dreams as if by flashes of lightning. But he could accept no more. He closed his eyes, shutting out the vista of achingly unattainable beauty, and forced himself to speak.

"Tylar, before I go another step you've
got
to tell me more. I want to know who you are and where you're from and what you once did to me."

Tylar regarded him for a couple of heartbeats, then spoke briskly. "If you think about it, I'm sure you'll conclude that the question of my origin can have only one possible answer, however fantastic that answer may seem in light of your civilization's understanding of reality. I am from your future—your quite remote future. As for what I did to you, I took you and your Tiraena into the timestream that my people have learned to navigate, after rescuing you from your Korvaash captors near the end of your voyage from Sirius to Sol fifteen years ago—"