Jaunt (49 page)

Centimeters from Gilmour’s haz suit, Nicolenko’s arm and gauntlet were swiftly, and unexpectedly, knocked away by Gilmour’s outstretched right arm, throwing Nicolenko off balance and into the swirling hurricane stream. Quickly gathering himself, Gilmour rose to his haunches and waited for Nicolenko to return again a few seconds later. Readying his gauntlet, Gilmour balled his hand into a fist and smashed it into Nicolenko’s faceplate, causing the lieutenant to tumble into the stream for another revolution.

Waiting again, Gilmour gathered his strength, then piled another punch on Nicolenko, cracking his faceplate. Nicolenko came around for a third trip three seconds later, and this time Gilmour leapt out to the orbiting lieutenant, grappling him and forcing both into the circling stream.

Bounding end over end, Gilmour gained control early, leveraging his mass with his left arm, holding onto Nicolenko’s torso ring while lobbing punch after punch upon the lieutenant’s faceplate, widening a spiderweb crack. With an opaque fracture developing over the entire faceplate, Gilmour extended the talon on his right index finger and repeatedly rammed it into the white fault with all the gauntlet’s mechanical power until powdery pieces flew away, revealing Nicolenko’s bloodied face once more.

“Dddddddddddddddddddddiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeee

yyyyyyyyyooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuu

bbbbbbbbbbaaaaaaaaaaaaaassssssssssssssttttttttttttttttaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrddddddd!!!!”

With the pulped Nicolenko lapsing into a coma, Gilmour looked up to the north pole of the neutron core. Above the trio, the fountain of light still shone as it had the moment he and McKean opened up the core’s metallic shell, a stream of luminescence leading to the unknown. Glancing down to Nicolenko again, and with the lieutenant offering no resistance, Gilmour punched the RCS thruster on Nicolenko’s right flank, which burst to life with a white flare. Gilmour released his hold on the man, throwing himself to the mercy of the hurricane’s streaming current, while Nicolenko was blown to the top of the core in an evertightening current. In the span of two seconds, Lieutenant Vasily Nicolenko was sucked up through the north polar wall, disintegrating into a shower of particles.

Outside the spinning neutron core, a small figure was expunged from the sphere’s polar fountain, launched into a sea of stars. A fiery polar streamer carried the form aloft for a nanosecond until the universe took its toll, rendering the tiny speck into a trillion quanta with a spectacular explosion.

A cry split down the middle of Gilmour’s brain. Holding on to his consciousness with determination, Gilmour rolled from head to foot as the neutron core’s spinning increased, trying to lessen the forces on him while nearly being killed from battery alone. Locking his eyes on the core’s walls, he saw the numerous facets bulge wildly, viciously. What was wrong? Was the core in pain? Would it rip itself apart? Would they die here, tearing another hole in spacetime?

“You, you told us the jewels were a part of this core, just pieces of this sphere.Would the core have the exact properties of the jewels?”

“You know in your heart the answer.”

Securing his sliced left shoulder closely, Gilmour closed his eyes; he knew what had to be done, what would end this all. He reached for his supercavitating engine sled’s release toggle, just behind his left arm. Tapping it hard with his right gauntlet, the sled broke away with a hiss, setting it free into the stream. With blinding pain, he ran both arms up his chest to his shoulders, reaching the Casimir chamber release straps. Pulling these at once, the Casimir chamber on his back came loose in his hands. He flung the chamber over his right shoulder and hugged it close, making sure it wouldn’t leap from his arms. Carefully, he led his right index finger, talon still extracted, to the holographic interface. Tapping that, he activated the Casimir chamber, whose display indicated a flashing “0,” for no jewel located inside. He proceeded to a second window, accessing the Casimir chamber’s EM frequencies. A red button below gave him access to the chamber’s memory settings, a list of frequencies Gilmour had programmed into the interface for later use. Scrolling down the list, he found the precise frequency de Lis and Waters employed during their first examination of the jewels, then set a return date. He immediately tapped both, sounding the Casimir’s trademark hum and sending the virtual particle stew flying in the chamber he hugged to his chest.

Hurling through the core centrifuge, Gilmour fought to keep his mind from blacking out. A progressively higher pitched chirp filled his ears as the Casimir plates neared the widest gap. Each chirp echoed in his brain, sending spikes of pain up and down his nerves.

“Ccccccccoooooooommmmmmmmmeeee ooooooonnnnnnnnnnnn

dddddddddddaaaaaaaaaaammmmmmmmmmiiiiiiiiiiiiiittttttttttttttttttttt!!!”

With every last cell of his body shaking itself to the tearing point, Gilmour let out a primal, visceral cry, ripping his lungs and innards apart, a last gasp of the weak, the mortal.

Particles of light shimmered within the facets of the neutron core, an excitement not known for two centuries. Rippling in harmony, the core danced within its lattice, sending shocks of concentric waves ringing throughout the intricately delineated sphere.

At once, Gilmour and the Sherpa spun beyond human capacity, their forms melding in a single ring inside the core’s heart. Accelerating faster, the pair no longer existed as human, but were now quanta, beating the circulation of the universe. The ring converged at the core’s center, growing tighter until both shone as a newborn star, their quanta collapsing unto a single point....

A single strand descended in the darkness, lit by the luminosity of its own quanta. Dripping onto an ocean of stars, the strand expanded, forming the skeleton of a great and ancient vessel. Hundreds, then thousands, of spindly metal filaments gushed forth from the center of this craft, birthing a massive framework. After a nanosecond, flesh formed over the skeleton, germinating a solid black hull from its bones, coating the hulk with a proper face. A string of circular windows dotted the revitalized organism, revealing a vast central nervous system of decks and corridors, the heart of which was a beating core suspended in its own cavity at the plexus.

Unfolding its invisible wings, the craft soared through this ocean of stars, swiftly cruising past a dusty silver orb, then into the influence of a distant blue planet, its swirls of whitecaps and green lands beckoning the craft and all its inhabitants, native or not, to it.

Reflected in a mural of this azure globe were the visages of Gilmour, the Sherpa and a trio of beings clad in white light, all of whom bathed in this world’s beauty. It revolved slowly under them, such peace having been unknown for so long. Waves crested upon verdant shores. Winds blew dust into open continents. Warm air rose to mix with cold clouds. And below, unseen, billions of lifeforms lived, breathed, ate, loved, died, fought, hoped. As they went, invisible to the eye, so did time, passing in increments too small to measure, too stretched to parse. And here, above it all, none of it mattered. Time was not the enemy, time was the medium of these, and more. Time was that wave, that wind, that warm air. Above the blue planet, none of that which Gilmour had fought all his life mattered. It was not essential, it did not have to be the way it was.

How did one explain such things? How did one look upon the world of one’s birth, the giver and taker of life and convince them?

Gilmour looked down to his hands, battered, bruised, calloused, coarse, scarred, torn, but here, now. Alive. He had done it. He had saved them. His eyes flitted back to the blue planet and fathomed the billions these hands had pulled from the edge. And he wondered if he was good for anything else.

Gilmour felt the presence of the trio of beings like a child feels the strength and confidence of his parents. With one look, he understood what it was all about, this living, this universe, what he had sacrificed for. Now, they had come to the mural at his request, because he felt the need to have absolution, to know what he had orchestrated to end the stalemate was right. Selfishness was a trait he did not relish in himself, let alone others. He had to know if he was right.

“Your world is remarkable,” the tallest being spoke at last, like a wave of sound through water. “You have much with which to be proud.”

Gilmour met the being’s gaze, not even sure if he could communicate with something so heightened. “It is my home. I have to be thankful of what I am.”

“Your friends miss you,” another one said. “You have been gone too long, as have they.”

Gilmour kicked at the floor, almost shuffling. “Have things been set right? Did I serve good?”

A third being glided towards him. “You still inhale a breath. Your home still provides haven. The one who serves self-interest has been equaled, bettered. It is in your heart to decide, to forgive yourself.”

“You have spent many of your days with us, you have learned much,” the first one pronounced. “Now it is time to spread that wealth.”

Gilmour nodded. “Thank you.”

The trio of beings nodded softly—and Gilmour thought—smiled. But then, perhaps he read too much into their warmth. Gathering his haz suit and helmet into his arms, Gilmour detected a hint of lilac, a breeze of cool air that sent him swooning, and the rest, a memory....

His coffee smelled particularly pungent in this early morning, not at all like the sweet scent he had lodged in his head, a remnant of his sleep, maybe. In the jumpjet, Special Agent James Gilmour sat reclined, the latest cineweb stuck in his mind from a day before, scenes of a once long-lost film produced in the early twentieth century, a monochrome production that spoke to him how quaint life was twenty decades ago, before life accelerated to its too quick pace. For once, he remembered life before the IIA and how much simpler it once was. Even the dreaded R-word came to mind in the jumpjet seat.

“Hello...Gilmour, where you been?” the voice in the seat across from him beckoned, his hand waving.

Gilmour shook his head and blinked. “Sorry, Greg. What were you saying?”

Special Agent Gregory Mason smiled and repeated, “I said, I hope this meeting you’ve set up with us in Ottawa gets us some action. Been in Leeds’ starched office too long.”

“Don’t get your hopes up. I’ve got a message to relay to an old acquaintance. Just wanted to let him know our progress on a project I’ve been consulting on.”

Mason picked up a holobook and scrolled through its text. “This Doctor de Lis, huh?

You know this guy?”

“Yeah. Been communicating with him for about a year. He’s been expecting you, and Chief, Will and McKean, as well.”

“So how long’s this going to last?”

“Long enough to update him.”

Mason laughed. “You couldn’t web him?”

“No, not this time. After this, I won’t be going as a special agent.” Gilmour glanced out the window, then sighed. “This is it, Greg.”

“Surely, oh...you can’t—”

Gilmour nodded. “I’ve done it all, mate. There are things outside of the IIA I want to do, like begin a life.”

“Yeah, heard that one before.”

“No, this is it. Have to re-evaluate things, see where they fall.” Gilmour leaned forward. “I’ve done everything, Greg. Things you can’t know about, won’t ever hear about. Now it’s my turn to rest.”

“All right, all right. I understand.” A smile cracked over Mason’s face. “Don’t go getting all domestic on me. We still need a guys’ weekend retreat, okay?”

“Deal.”

“Are you sure you don’t remember?” Gilmour asked Doctor Richard de Lis, in the privacy of de Lis’ theoretical studies office.

De Lis read the sizable report on the holobook. “Trust me, I would remember something like this, Agent Gilmour.”

Gilmour rubbed his palms together as he listened. In U5-1, he watched Mason fraternizing with Doctor Stacia Waters. “It’s all true. Every one of my colleagues...Mason, Constantine, McKean, Chief, they’re all dead where I come from. Now, I awoke after returning from this experience, and they’re alive.”

“I’ll see what I can do to make sense of this, although I might be hard-pressed to come up with a satisfactory explanation for your experience.”

Gilmour turned back to de Lis. “Just make it so my head will quit hurting whenever I think about it.”

“I’ll be in contact with you. Now, as your doctor, I suggest getting some rest. Go enjoy life...sounds like you’ve been quite busy.”

“You could say that.”

“Oh, just one more thing, Agent Gilmour.”

“Hmm?”

De Lis laid an index finger on the holobook. “I’ve never employed a Lionel Roget at the theoretical studies laboratory. Or am I reading this wrong?”

Gilmour felt a sense of justice creep into him. “No. I’d say you’re reading it right.”

De Lis raised a puzzled eyebrow. “Get you some leave. I’m sure Agent Mason will take quickly to our projects.”

“He’s a good agent, a good man. It’ll be good to have him back around.” With that, Gilmour shook de Lis’ hand, then departed his office and walked over to Mason and the other senior staff, introducing himself a first time, for the second time. It was all good again.