Chapter 19

Sixty-five miles west of the Golden Gate, in the near absolute darkness of a moonless night out in the Pacific Ocean, a hair thin periscope poked its way upward from the gently rolling waves. Outfitted with visual cameras, infrared imaging systems, and one of the most modern passive electromagnetic detectors ever fashioned, it spun slowly around, checking the patch of ocean from horizon to horizon for the slightest sign of any vessel or aircraft. It detected nothing in the danger zone, which had been expected since passive sonar sensors in its ship below had already confirmed nothing but biological sound sources in the surrounding one hundred kilometers.

"Surface search checks clear within parameters," reported Diffy Kalahari inside the landing ship. "There's a flock of seabirds eighteen klicks to the northwest, a pile of floating garbage twelve klicks to the south, and an airliner cruising at eleven thousand meters 145 klicks southeast. Other than that, we're alone."

Cindee Marshall, the pilot, nodded happily. "That's a wet tongue on a hard clit," she said. "Let's surface and get our asses off this planet." She flipped a switch on her panel and compressed air was pumped into the ballast tanks, ejecting the water and changing the buoyancy of the spacecraft from neutral to positive. The ship rose up and a minute later they were on the surface, bobbing up and down in the waves.

The sickening, nausea-inducing motion roused Ken from the doze he'd been enjoying for the past ninety minutes. He opened his eyes slowly and looked around the cramped confines of the landing ship. Behind him, Spankworth and Bingbutt were coming out of their own slumbers. Behind them, McGraw and Wing were still fully awake and keeping an eye on the two recently revived WestHem operatives.

"I'm gonna throw up if this rocking doesn't stop," whined the larger of the two. His name, they'd learned, was Lieutenant Meckle. "This is against the Geneva convention, you know."

"I demand a safer form of transport back up to space," put in the other one. He was Lieutenant Plusman. "You can't just put us in some greenie-built spacecraft. Section 5-A, subsection 3 of the International Rules of Warfare clearly states that..."

"Oh shut the fuck up," growled McGraw, who was quite tired of listening to the two WestHems whine. It was virtually all they had done from the moment their sedation had been reversed shortly after boarding the landing craft.

"That's abuse of a prisoner," Plusman accused. "Using profanity in the presence of POWs has been deemed upsetting and abusive. It can lead to post-traumatic stress syndrome!"

"Oh Laura," McGraw said, leaning her head back and closing her eyes for a second. "If you two are the best of the best in the WestHem military it's no fucking wonder we kicked your asses from Eden to New Pittsburgh during the revolution."

"You greenies didn't win that war!" Meckle said. "We simply had to pull back for logistical reasons."

"It wasn't a war anyway," Plusman added. "It was a hostage rescue mission. The marines were simply trying to rescue all of those citizens that Laura Whiting bitch was holding in bondage."

"Holding in bondage?" McGraw said, rolling her eyes. "It's really scary how brainwashed you two are, you know that?"

Both of them opened their mouths to counter this statement but Spankworth, tired of the whole discussion, stepped in at this point and threatened to sedate them again if they didn't keep their fucking mouths shut. After only two threats of what their lawyers were going to do and one demand to be taken to the nearest friendly embassy, they took his warning to heart and kept quiet.

Finally, just as McGraw and Bingbutt were about to reach for the vomit bags, Marshall finished the pre-flight check and powered up the hydrogen engines. "We're ready for lift-off," she told Sampson up on Calistoga, which was even now breaching over the coastline of Ecuador.

"We're down with it," Sampson replied. "We're tapped into all appropriate detection satellites. Your thermal plume will show up on all of them but they'll never see it in the monitoring stations."

"Laura bless modern technology," Marshall said, advancing the throttle and getting them moving.

The ship streaked across the waves, bouncing and shuddering violently until it achieved a velocity of 200 kilometers per hour. At this speed the air moving past the unfolded wings was sufficient to provide lift and the spacecraft rose into the air, smoothing the ride out considerably. Marshall turned to a northeasterly heading and leveled off at 4000 meters. She then turned control of the ship over to the computer, which already had an intercept course laid in for a rendezvous with Calistoga over the Bering Straight. A clock ticked slowly down to zero and the engines-which had been running at less than ten percent thrust-kicked into high gear. The ship nosed up and all inside were pushed forcefully back in their seats at just over 3Gs. Higher and higher they climbed, streaking into the stratosphere and out the other side, finally clearing the atmosphere altogether and achieving orbit. The engines shut down, returning them to zero-G conditions, and they drifted along, waiting for Calistoga-which was moving slightly faster-to catch up with them.

Catch up it did twenty minutes later. The navigation had been right on the mark and Calistoga passed over the top of them at a range of 459 meters. Marshall assumed control of the spacecraft once more and used the maneuvering thrusters to match velocities. Slowly, inch by inch, she brought them in for a smooth docking on the underside of the stealth ship. The mechanical arms latched on and pulled them inside the belly. The docking bay was recompressed and that was that. They were back safe, another triumph of Martian engineering and navigation.

Huffy, Sampson, and two enlisted crewmembers with police tanners entered the docking room just as Marshall opened the hatch.

"Welcome back," Huffy greeted, suppressing a yawn. It was obvious by looking at her that she was on the verge of total exhaustion.

"Thanks, Huff," said Spankworth, who was almost as exhausted. "It's good to be back in what passes for home."

"Good flight?"

"As fine as nine year old pussy," Spankworth assured her, allowing himself to float free into the room. "Where do you wanna put our WestHem friends?"

"Take them to sickbay first," Huffy ordered. "We'll have the doc neutralize the poison they were given and then Sampson and I have a few questions for them about Dr. Lindley."

"Poison?" said Plusman, who had been trying to squirm out of the hatch with his hands cuffed behind his back. "What do you mean, poison?"

"Ahhh, you haven't told him yet?" Huffy asked Spankworth.

"We only woke them up a few hours ago," Spankworth replied, grabbing Plusman by the upper arm and yanking him free into the room. "They didn't seem to be quite in the mood for that yet."

"What about poison?" asked Meckle, his head appearing in the hatch. He turned toward Spankworth. "You gave us poison?"

"Not us," Spankworth told him. "Your government did it. They didn't want you lingering around in the past after your mission and botching things up for the present."

"That's a vicious lie!" Plusman shouted angrily. "How dare you greenies make accusations like that!"

"Remember the inoculations you received before the mission?" Huffy asked. "The ones that were supposed to protect you from past diseases? Well they had more than vaccine in them. You were given a time release poison that will activate and kill you in about ten more days if we don't neutralize it."

"Lies!" Plusman shouted again.

"Nice try," Meckle added, although he looked like he might be considering the matter.

Huffy simply shrugged. "What makes more sense?" she asked the two soldiers. "That your government would allow nearly a hundred people to go down to the surface of Earth in the past and trust them not to change anything or take advantage of their situation, or that they would take steps to insure that any damage caused would be minimal and short-lived? Think about it, gentlemen. Is your government really that trusting?"

Both of them gave the standard denials of course. But it was quite clear they had been given some fairly nutritious food for thought. As the two enlisted crewmen assisted them up the hatch and out of the docking area, they exchanged a few troubled looks, as if they'd always suspected their release on an unsuspecting past was something a little too good to be true.

"A typical response so far," Sampson said when they were gone. "Some part of them has suspected the truth all along. They'll bluster and spout the WestHem line for a while, but they won't refuse the neutralization procedure."

"So all of the other crewmembers have been neutralized?" Spankworth asked as Ken and Bingbutt emerged into the room.

Sampson nodded. "We're keeping them over on the Rumsfeld, all except Captain Stanhope anyway. We had to put him into protective custody once his crew found out he knew about the poison all the time and had it reversed only in himself and the doctor. Our doc spent the day over there shooting everyone up with the antidote."

"The reserve team is over on Rumsfeld keeping an eye on them?" Spankworth asked.

"Fuckin' aye," Huffy said. "When it comes time to leave, the WestHem crew can operate the ship for us under the supervision of you and your people. So far they're pretty cooperative. A lot of them weren't too wild about the idea of being left in the past, especially not once they found out they were all gonna die in a few days."

"That does tend to put a damper on things," McGraw observed.

"So what now?" Spankworth asked. "We still have that doctor down there. Any luck in pinning down his whereabouts?"

"Don't worry about that right now," Huffy told him. "I have but one order for you and the rest of the away team. Take twelve hours to get yourself fed and rested. You've all been up for almost forty-eight hours and you must be exhausted. I know I am. So let's all drop everything for now and get refreshed so we can think the problem through with clear heads. We'll have a staff meeting in the wardroom after lunch tomorrow."

"But what about..." Spankworth started.

"Tomorrow," Huffy insisted. "Nothing is going to change with the situation in the next twelve hours. Get some rest. That's an order."

Spankworth cracked a smile. "If you insist," he said. He turned to the rest of his team, who by now had all come out of the landing ship. "You heard Huff," he told them. "Get yourselves fed and rested. Staff meeting at 1330 tomorrow."

Ken, who was more exhausted than hungry, decided he would ignore the first part of the order and go immediately to the last. He pulled himself through the hatch and propelled himself across the staging room toward the inter-deck ladder. Using his hands to propel himself, he moved downward, toward his berthing area. He passed other crewmembers on his way, each of whom took the time to welcome him back. He returned their greetings listlessly, grateful when he finally arrived at his room.

Slurry was in the rack, strapped in but not sleeping. He expected her to smile as she saw him but she didn't. She looked as if she had been crying.

"I'm back," he said, wondering why she was upset. Was it the thought that they might all die in space if the wormhole didn't open? That seemed logical but somehow he knew it wasn't the case.

"I know," she said, her tone expressionless. "I've been waiting for you."

He floated over and embraced her, feeling her familiar body against his, smelling her familiar smell. She thawed a little at his touch, her arms going around him, her face burying itself in his neck. He felt the coolness of fresh tears on his flesh.

"Slurry? What's the matter? I'm back safe. We kept the WestHems from changing Mark Whiting. Everything is going to be okay."

"I know it is," she said. "That's why I'm sad, Ken. Everything is going to be okay."

"I'm not following what you're saying," he said. "Why would that make you sad?"

"Never mind," she said. "Just hold me. Hold me while we've got the time."

"While we've got the time? What do you mean?"

"Never mind for now," she said, sobbing a little, but squeezing him tighter. "You'll find out soon enough."

"Slurry, what is going on?" he asked.

But she wouldn't answer him.

Soon, despite his worries, despite the strange behavior of his wife, fatigue had its way with him and he drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep. He would not so much as stir for the next ten hours.

As was the custom at a Martian meeting in which important information was to be discussed, everyone showed up a little early in order to dispense with the small talk and preliminaries before the business at hand was mulled over. Huffy was the first to arrive. She came floating in the door at just after 1300, looking refreshed for the first time in days. She had taken her own advice and crashed out in her quarters after the interrogation of the two WestHem operatives, finding the time for a solid six hours of slumber. Rigger Johannesburg arrived next, floating in the door just ahead of Lieutenant Spankworth. Next came Ron Sampson carrying a fresh supply of coffee and garlic bread from the galley. The last to arrive were Ken and Slurry, both of them freshly bathed, both looking vaguely troubled.

They spent ten minutes complimenting each other's various body parts and sexual skills with typical Martian crudity. Spankworth, Rigger, and Huffy then engaged in a brief flatulence contest in which the smell, decibel level, and duration were the main factors affecting the score. Spankworth, who had eaten nothing but processed Earthling food for the past 48 hours won quite easily, earning the respect and admiration of all. The preliminaries were wrapped up with a discussion period of past experiences with alcohol and marijuana intoxication and the bizarre sexual encounters that resulted from over-intoxication. Huffy easily took the best story prize here with her narration of the time she'd gotten stoned with a group of workers in a Martian chicken farm.

"Okay then," Huffy said when her tale was told. "It looks like its 1330. How about we get down to some serious cock sucking here?"

And with those words, everyone put on a serious face and settled in. The official meeting was begun. Huffy immediately turned the floor over to Sampson.

"Thanks, Huff," he said, allowing himself to float a bit above his chair. "As you all know by now, we have ourselves a bit of a clusterfuck in the making down on the surface. Spanky, you and Frazier and the rest of the interdiction team did an ass-kicking job down there, especially considering the twist of events with the native police officer. What you didn't and couldn't know, however, because we didn't know either, was that the WestHems sent three people down to the surface in that escape pod, not just two. The third person was this man..." He clicked a few spots on his PC and a holographic face appeared above the display. "This is Dr. Stephen Lindley-a career naval physician for WestHem, which means he's more than likely a pretty shitty doctor, since career naval physicians in that system tend to be as such. Shitty or not, he managed to discover that everyone sent back in time aboard Rumsfeld had been inoculated with a time release poison."

"How did he discover this?" Spankworth asked.

"According to Captain Stanhope, whom we've spent a considerable time debriefing, it was entirely accidental. One of the engineering crewmembers was infected with a case of gonorrhea prior to the mission and did not manifest symptoms until after they were underway."

"Gonorrhea?" asked Spankworth. "Isn't that a sexually transmitted disease?"

"Fuckin' aye," Sampson said. "We, as you know, have wiped out all forms of STD long ago, but such things are allowed to exist in WestHem culture because they believe it is a punishment from God for immoral sexual activities. Those who contract it are routinely arrested and charged with violation of the Public Morals Act."

"Barbarians," Spankworth hissed, appalled at the thought of allowing a disease nicknamed "the drip" to exist when you could prevent it.

Sampson-who had spent his entire career studying Earthling culture-simply shrugged. "The practices of WestHem culture are not important to this discussion," he said. "What is important is that this disease does exist and this crewman did contract it before leaving. By the time he began to show symptoms of it, they were halfway to their Lemondrop reactor site. Since this crewman was somewhat vital to the engineering department and it was unfeasible to replace him, the decision was made to treat him on the ship and forget about any formal charges.

"During the routine blood work Dr. Lindley discovered a strange protein in the crewman's blood-something that turned out to be synthetic," he continued. "That was the time-release coating for the poison. After analyzing it and making the determination of what it was, he tested the rest of the crew and found everyone aboard had been infected. From there, the thought that their release into an unsuspecting past was too good to be true, finally hit home.

"Dr. Lindley told Stanhope about this discovery and they decided to keep their findings secret from the rest of the crew. Lindley reversed the poison innoculations in both of them and they began to plot with all the zeal that two men who discovered their country had betrayed them could muster. Their plan was to proceed with their mission and then allow the crew to succumb to the inoculations. At that point, they would set themselves up as wealthy investors using computer hacking technology that, while nowhere near as good or intrusive as ours, is efficient enough to penetrate the most secure systems of 2007. Their plans were nothing short of complete world domination within a decade of the end of World War III."

"Ambitious little fucks, aren't they?" Ken said.

"Indeed," Sampson agreed. "Dr. Lindley was sent down to the surface with the interdiction team. This was ostensibly to monitor the medical aspects of the genetic manipulation process, but in reality his job was to begin setting up a safe haven for the crew while they underwent their "orientation."

"Their orientation?" Spankworth asked.

"They were told they were going to be held in this camp for a few weeks so they could be indoctrinated in life in the past before being released into it," Sampson said. "After the indoctrination they would be given forgettable identities and enough money so they would never have to work and they could then settle wherever in the world they wished."

"They told the crew exactly what they expected to hear," Ken said.

"Fuckin' aye," Sampson said. "In reality, the property Lindley was working on purchasing was an old campground in the remote Sierra Nevada Mountains. The plan was to take the entire crew there, put them through some bullshit indoctrination classes just to pass the time, and just wait for the poison to kill them all so they could bury their bodies in secrecy and then go about their own plans. Lindley assumed an identity under the name of Stanley Stevens, complete with good credit rating, lots of money in reserve, and a first-rate cover story to dump on the real estate agents involved. He was actually well into the acquisition process on the day the WestHem team made their attempt to alter Mark Whiting's genetics."

"But we screwed that all up," Huffy said.

"We did," Sampson said. "They abandoned their plot the moment it became apparent they had been followed into the past and intervention had been done. Lindley fled the motel room the moment he got word, though he didn't change his identity until we bracketed the WestHem ship and Stanhope sent that second message, telling him to disappear. It would seem he took that advice to heart. The Stevens identity has been erased from existence and Lindley is now presumably operating under a new alias, complete with financial and personal background. We do not know what this identity is, nor does Captain Stanhope."

"And therein lies our problem," Huffy said. "We must leave orbit and start heading back to deep space in eight days in order to be in position for our wormhole opening. If we disregard our safety cushion and assume that absolutely nothing will delay our return trip, we could stay as long as eighteen more days. Either way though, it seems unlikely that we will be able to locate and neutralize Lindley in that time period. If we leave without doing that, logic tells us that the time stream will be altered enough that the wormhole will not open because in the present time there never would have been a mission sent back in the first place."

"That would be bad," Ken said.

"That would be the worst thing imaginable," Huffy said. "As I told Stanhope, we would be effectively stuck out there. The fuel tanks do not hold enough propellant to get us back to Earth quickly enough to avoid starving to death out in space. Not that we would come back to Earth even if they did. We have no place in this time period."

Everyone considered that unpleasant thought for a few moments. Finally Spankworth spoke up. "We have to find him then," he said. "That's all there is to it. We need to scour that fucking planet until he turns up."

"Easier said than done," Sampson said. "He knows we're looking for him. He has already changed his identity and is unlikely to do anything in the next few months to draw attention to himself. I have my people using our computers to pour through every Earthling database in search of some anomaly that will shed light on his new identity, but I fear we're doing nothing more than pissing up a flagpole."

"Do we know anything?" Spankworth asked. "Anything at all Stanhope or one of the Rumsfeld crew told you that will help us find him?"

"Yes, there are a few things we know," Sampson said. "First and foremost, we know what he looks like and have digital images of his face. We're now tapped into multiple databases that will inform us if that face walks in front of any one of more than a million security cameras throughout the United States. The problem here is that unless Lindley is a complete and total moron, he will have anticipated us doing this and will stay away from any place that has an Internet linked security camera.

"Another thing we know for sure is that Stanhope did not completely trust the man. For that reason, he was sent down with only a single PC and a single battery to power it. Once that battery dies-something that likely has already happened-he will no longer be able to manipulate the Earthling databases."

"Won't he be able to recharge the battery?" Ken asked. "I mean, can't he just get an AC adapter and plug in to an outlet like everyone else?"

"No," Sampson said. "The electrical delivery system is completely different in this time than what is used for a modern WestHem PC. While a modern electrical engineer would probably be able to construct an adapter of some sort to convert primitive electrical delivery to a modern device, Lindley is not an electrical engineer, nor would he dare trying to enlist an electrical engineer from this time period to help him. It would reveal his futuristic status and the engineer from this time period probably wouldn't be able to help him anyway since the principals would be far too advanced."

"So he's stuck with the identity he has," Spankworth said. "That's good news, isn't it? Even if we can't find him, it limits how much damage he'll be able to cause to the time stream."

"It limits it," Sampson said, "but it certainly doesn't eliminate it. Whether he has the ability to manipulate computer data or not, he still has his pre-knowledge of history. That is his most valuable possession. Even the dumbest, most unresourceful person could take tremendous advantage of such a thing and we already know that Lindley has every intention of doing so. My guess is that by the end of World War III he will already be a multi-millionaire. All he'll do from there is get richer and more powerful. Each share of stock that he acquires is a share that won't go to someone else. Each contract whatever corporation he sets up is awarded is a contract that won't go to someone else. The reverberations won't seem like much here, but they'll have exponential effect further down the time stream."

"You're describing a hopeless situation then," Ken said. "You're saying we won't be able to find him before its time to leave. If we can't find him before we leave, there will be no wormhole to open for us. If there's no wormhole to open for us, we'll all die out in space."

"And be crashed into the sun," Spankworth added helpfully. "Don't forget about that part."

Ken shot him a sour look. He had been trying to forget about that part.

"There is one thing that nobody else is considering here," a voice said. It was Rigger Johannesburg, who had not fastened his Velcro and was therefore hovering just above the table. Until this moment, it was the first time he'd spoken during the meeting.

"What's that, Rigger?" Huffy asked him.

"There is a solution to our dilemma," he said. "There has to be."

"What do you mean there has to be?" Sampson asked, irritated. "There doesn't have to be anything. The only sure things in life are death and masturbation."

"And ordinarily that would be true," Rigger said. "But we're not dealing with mere life here, are we? We are dealing with metaphysics-specifically time travel. All of you seem to have forgotten that what is going on here is not just a quirk of fate. It is something that was meant to be, something that, in our time, has already happened and was already solved long before any of us-with the exception of Ken Frazier-were even born."

"Huh?" Spankworth said.

"We have established that everything else that occurred down on the surface-the encounter with the Roseville cop, the burning of the WestHem's car, the pursuit and the perimeter-are things that were written into the history of time before we even left Mars. So why is it that you all seem to think that this situation with Dr. Lindley is not something that is meant to occur, too?"

Everyone exchanged looks as they considered this possibility. Huffy looked at Rigger and said, "If you know something, you old fuck, how about you get to the point? We don't have time for any mysterious Buddha-figure shit."

"Old fuck?" Rigger said, feigning bruised feelings. "My my, Huff. Did we forget that this old fuck was able to give you sixteen orgasms in a twelve-minute time period? I recall you telling me that was a record breaking event for you."

Surprisingly, Huffy blushed, something that many would have said was an impossibility. "Forgive me," she said. "I think perhaps the pressure is getting to me."

"Sixteen?" Sampson said, raising his eyebrows. "My Laura, Rigger. That is impressive, even for a Martian."

"Never mind the sixteen orgasms," Huffy snapped. She took a deep breath and calmed herself. "Rigger, you seem to know something. Please enlighten us."

Rigger smiled mysteriously and then nodded. "Since you asked politely," he said. "I believe that Slurry and I already know how this problem is to be solved. Before we left on this mission, before we even heard of it, in fact, Slurry uncovered some rather startling facts while doing personal research in the WestHem history databases."

"What did you find?" Huffy asked.

"We'll get to that," Rigger replied, answering for her. "One orgasm at a time here, shall we?"

Huffy gave him another sour look but said nothing.

"There is a location and a time," Rigger said, "where we know Dr. Lindley will show up, correct?"

"You mean at the Washington Monument on June 1?" Huffy asked.

"Correct," Rigger said. "The day he is supposed to meet up with Captain Stanhope so that the two of them can begin their bid to rule the world. Now I suspected at first that Lindley would have no intention of keeping that appointment. Why should he? He already has his own identity and he probably realizes that Captain Stanhope was either killed or captured trying to make good his escape. However, this information about the PC battery has made me re-think this supposition. I now believe that he likely will show up at this appointment just on the off chance that he'll be able to acquire more batteries or another PC. Having a functioning, modern computer would make his plans so much easier and faster to accomplish. Lindley also has no reason to believe that we monitored the communication that sent him to this appointment. As you found out from Captain Stanhope, our decryption technology was quite a surprise to the WestHem mind."

"I really don't see how this is helpful in any way, Rigger," Huffy said. "June 1 is eight Earth months from now. Our wormhole is scheduled to open April 15. We'll be long gone by then."

"Yes," Rigger agreed. "We will be long gone by then, hopefully approaching Mars in our own time."

"So please explain how knowing that Lindley will be at the Washington Monument two and a half months after our wormhole opens is going to help us?" Huffy asked patiently.