Vestiges of Time (23 page)

began to search out the bright points of consciousness, of self-awareness.

On the surface of the planet below he found those points of light, a familiar kind of mind now, the Krithian mind. He found clusters of these lights, apparently strung out along an archipelago, clusters that in most cases consisted of no more than a few dozen individuals each, though toward the center of the curved line they formed was a larger cluster, and wit
hin
that cluster was a group of ten minds that glowed more brightly than the others, that were more aware, more powerful, that reinforced one another through psionic interchange, through something that might have been called resonance but was not quite the same as that.

In their total, the Shadowy Man thought as he lowered his focus of consciousness still closer to the surface, as he withdrew his probes so that the ones below would not yet become aware of his presence, there were no more than a few hundred of the colonists, and knowing what great handicaps had been placed on their reproduction, he wondered how it would be possible for so small a group to survive even the next fifty or sixty years, much less commandeer a spaceship to carry them to Earth. But they would do that, both survive and eventually leave this world, he was certain. The histories of hundreds of Timelines bore ample witness to that.

With electromagnetic vision but remotely akin to human sight, the Shadowy Man looked as he lowered himself through the perpetual overcast and saw below him the dark world under .the clouds, saw the wind- whipped rain charging in near-torrents across the far southern archipelago, as thunder rolled across the sky and great bolts of lethal lightning crackled between the clouds and the stunted growths of trees that huddled close to the damp land.

On one of those islands, amid a cluster of supple reeds that bent with the force of the wind, a dozen or

more naked Kriths, bigger and physically stronger than most men, were struggling in the downpour to draw in a net that contained a score or more large crustaceans, lobsterlike animals with bulging eyes and long, dangerous-looking pincers that snapped at the ropes that held them and at the fingers that held the ropes. More than one of the Kriths was missing a finger or two from each of his hands.

As the Shadowy Man watched, one of the struggling Kriths lost his footing on the muddy soil as he tugged at the net, stumbled, fell, then slid, foundering into the water, flailing about with his arms and prehensile tail, to no avail. His companions saw -what had happened, but none of them dared release his grip on the net. The struggle was already so awkwardly balanced that the loss of another pair of hands would have certainly meant the loss of the net and its contents. They fought to pull the net from the water, perhaps hoping their companion could regain land without their help.

The Krith who had fallen into the water surfaced, gasped for air, and fought to stay afloat. He did not cry out for help. He seemed to know that his companions would help him if they could, but now could not. For a few moments he seemed to have gained some control over the situation. It appeared that he might be able to make his way back to land without help. But that changed in moments. As he half swam, half crawled toward the higher ground, an expression of astonishment, then pain, crossed his flat features. He flailed again and fell backward, the water around him turning to a muddy crimson. He screamed, again screamed, again struggled awkwardly toward land.

Now the other Kriths had managed to conquer the struggling crustaceans within the net, exerted an enormous final effort, and drew the net from the water onto the soggy land. While three of them hurried to secure the net to pegs driven into the ground and hold the crustaceans within their fibrous prison, the others

dashed back to the edge of the water, formed a living ladder of themselves, moved toward the weakening, wounded Krith, touched hands with him, and pulled him to safety.

When at last they had him out of the water and he lay on the damp earth, gasping for air, sobbing in pain, the Shadowy Man could see what had happened. Teeth or pincers, claws or tentacles, he could not tell which, had fastened onto the Krith, had torn away most of his tail, the toes and most of the flesh of one foot, strips of flesh from both calves and thighs, and had left his genitals an unrecognizable mass of mangled flesh. He probably would live, had not poison been introduced into' his system, did not infection enter the wounds. But whether he would wish to live in such a fashion was another question.

There was perhaps in the Shadowy Man a new understanding, a new appreciation of the Kriths, as he moved his consciousness away from that spot. It had not been easy, nor had it been pleasant, that first century or two of their racial existence. Mere survival had been a hard-won prize. And along with that understanding there came to him a glimmering of admiration. Under such conditions could another sapient race have survived at all? Could humankind have done as well as the Kriths had?

Above the islands he moved again, across them, toward the center of the long, slightly curving archipelago, toward the place where he had detected the largest cluster of minds, where he had detected the brighter points of psionic light, the more intense concentrations of mind that were the Tromas, or the proto- Tromas, the ten females of the race. And he asked himself: With such attrition as I have just seen, how can
they
even maintain the race, much less increase it?

One of the islands jutted a little higher above the level of the sea, provided a greater slope for the runoff

of rain water, and was a bit dryer than the other islands. And on the highest point of the curving, domelike island stood a cluster of rude huts, jerry-built affairs of reeds and vines, thatched with the broad leaves of some low-growing plant, huts without windows, but with doors covered with the colorful hides of some semiaquatic mammal-like creatures.

At first sight there was no indication that these people were the product and the agents of a civilization with the capability of crossing twelve parsecs of space in huge, plasma-powered spaceships. But on closer examination, in the center of the cluster of huts there stood something that could have come only from a highly advanced technology. A metal cylinder just slightly taller than the largest of the huts, of gleaming metal and glass that would have sparkled brightly had there been sunlight rather than this perpetual gloom, that did reflect brilliantly the flashes of lightning across the sky, an artifact from distant' Earth that could have been nothing less than a communications center, a radio/video/laser transceiver of great power, a holographic tank that would display images sent down from the orbiting platform, from the overseers who commanded from many miles above in the comparative safety of their metal cocoon.

Not far from the cluster of huts was a cleared area where the dirt had been packed firmly, then covered with broken bits of stone and shell, obviously the landing field for the cargo shuttles that passed between the islands and the orbiting platform. But it was not the landing field that attracted the Shadowy Man’s attention.

Rather, it was the largest of the huts, the one nearest the communications cylinder. Even without probing, he was aware that in that hut dwelt the females of the race, who had already, even this early in their history, become the directors of the actions of the proto-Kriths, the givers of wisdom, and who might now have some

glimmerings of tomorrow and the awesome powers they and their people would one day wield. . . .

Would wield, unless the Shadowy Man could stop them now.

Now he paused, hovered, analyzed. He was far, far from home, in frames of reference that encompassed space and time and paratime. The nexus that connected him with his corporeal bodies was now a tenuous one, stretched across great five-dimensional distances. And he was aware of the lessening of his powers, of how far across the continuua he would have to draw the forces with which he was to do battle.

Yet, he was not pitting his strength against the Tromas of KHL-000 on their own world, their own time, with centuries of experience behind them. He was pitting
hims
elf against ten tired female Kriths who huddled in a rain-drenched hut, who had never had enough to eat, who had never received proper care or medical attention, who were lashed by weather and heat and parasites, who did not yet fully comprehend the potentials within themselves.

He could defeat
them.

Couldn’t he?

And as he took a brief glance at them, as he flashed his electromagnetic vision into and then out of the hut, as he saw them huddling in the semidarkness of the hut’s interior, illuminated feebly by two sputtering oil lamps, he felt a great sense of pity, of sympathy, even of concern for their wretched condition. Could he bring himself to strike against
them,
these pitiful half-humans who had been bom to suffer and to die as lonely, hopeless castaways over 19X10
¹²
miles from the homeworld Earth?

Yes, he could.

Now they were exactly as he saw them. But . . . looking across time and space and paratime, he saw other things through the vision of Eric Mathers’ memory: he saw the vast armies of Timeliners moving

from parallel Earth to parallel Earth to alter the histories of uncounted worlds in accordance with a plan the Tromas had developed in order to increase
their
chances of survival, heedless of what their meddling might do to millions upon
milli
ons of innocent human beings; he saw wars and death and destruction; he saw the deaths of a girl named Kristin and of a girl named Marissa, of a man named Hillary Tracy and- a man named Jock Kouzenzas, of the men and women of New Anglia, and of so many, many others that he could not distinguish all of them; he saw the dark- uniformed bodyguards of the Kriths, men like Pall and Marth, no longer human except in their bodily forms, more Krith than man in their minds; he saw armies of the Mager-types, the Companions, who were not men at all but something the Kriths themselves had created or had had created for them; he saw all the lies and deceptions that the Kriths had perpetrated over the years; and most of all he saw the Tromas in their “palace” on KHL-000 and sensed the power they possessed and would use to destroy the Shadowy Man and anyone else who stood between them and the future as they envisioned it, a future that, when the universe had reordered itself toward greater simplicity, would have the Kriths supreme on all the Lines of Time.

Yes, he would do it. He would attack and destroy these pitiful wretches. He had no other choice if man was ever to be free of them and be allowed to seek his own multiple destinies across the Lines of Time.

From remote distances across time and space he drew toward him energies, forces, powers, shaped them into lances of fire and spears of fury. He drew them back, tensed, and then for a moment, before he launched his attack, he projected out of the sky and into the hut this mental construction:

If you can see into tomorrow, you. will know who I

am and why I have come. I do not do this for pleasure, but because it must be done. . . .

And he was briefly aware of their astonishment, their fear.

Then his probe was gone, his shields were up, and toward and into the hut he hurled his psionic blasts.

The inside of the hut shimmered with auroral brightness, sparks and
stre
ams
of
lightning
flickered across the interior walls, the dryer reeds inside smoldering and then be
ginning
to bum. The ten females of the proto-Tromas writhed in agony, curled into balls, tumbled grotesquely across the floor, screaming in pain and terror.

For an instant he lowered his shield and peered into the hut.

Sisters
... A mental voice was crying out of its pain.
Sisters, rally to me, to me.
. . .

Incoherent mentations. Pain climbing toward the sky. One figure ceasing its horrible writhing, falling still, silent, the brightness of its mind fading to blackness, nothingness, death.

Sisters,
he
has come. Rally to me. We can still fight back. .
. .

Nine consciousnesses now, through their pain seeking one another, converging, melting, blending, becoming one.

The Shadowy Man reached out into space/time, a minor sensation of triumph in him. He had killed one of them; their collective strength would not be as great as it could have been. Their collective strength was . . .

Now, sisters! .
. .

As he gathered new energies into himself, as he forged new weapons to dash against them, the females as a single entity struck, battered against his not fully sustained shields, broke through them, hurled
him
backward.

Damn you! he cried to
him
self, now feeling pain as

they did, pushing away their force, bringing his shields back up, completing the manufacture of his weapons, deploying them, using them.

The invisible shields of the females shimmered with furious incandescence. Around them, the walls of the hut began to catch fire.

Outside, the male Kriths of the village, who had some awareness of what was happening, rushed to offer what help they could to their females, their guardians.

Tear down the walls, brothers/husbands,
they cried.
Keep the fire away from us. . .
. Out of their pain and their fury they screamed.

With bare hands, two dozen or so male Kriths attacked the burning hut, ripped away portions of it, threw them across the damp earth, and let the rain do its work.

The females were hurt, were in pain both psionic and physical, for the males had not acted quickly enough, despite their swiftness, and the flames had licked across them, embers had scorched their flesh. But still they had repelled the blasts he had thrown at them, had held their shields.

Damn you! the Shadowy Man said to himself again, throwing up his own shields to ward off the flames and fury they cast at
him
. Now the pity and the sympathy were gone from him; now there was only his own fury and a desire to destroy them.

Again he reached out, again sought raw energy from which to build more weapons, groped across darkness, found . . . found dwindling supplies. He was too far away. Too far. And the females were rallying again.

Know this, thou force from out of time . . .
they cried at him.
Know this: you cannot now defeat us, now or ever. Have done with it. Let us be. .. .

What energy he could he took and brought it to this place, molding it, shaping it, propelling it against the shields of the females, which again flickered and burned brightly. Once again they held off the bulk of his at