The Gordian Protocol Page 35

Not that I need the help, Raibert thought.

  “Well, I can tell you’re quite dedicated to the Observation branch. Of course, I have to admit that while it isn’t the most exciting part of what we do, it’s still very important work.”

  “Thank you, sir. That means a lot coming from you.”

  “Still, there’s nothing wrong with shaking things up a little.”

  Raibert frowned at this.

  “Tell you what.” Lucius rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “A mission I’m personally supervising is slated to leave for the battle of Marathon in a few days. I want you on the Observation team that goes in first.”

  “Me?” Raibert blurted. “But I haven’t prepped for Marathon!”

  “Consider it a challenge,” Lucius stated. “One I’m confident you’ll rise to meet.”

  “But why me? Can’t someone else do it?”

  “Of course, but it’s you I want to work with. Besides, I have a few special assignments I think you’ll find…interesting.”

  “I don’t know about this.”

  “Did I just hear you say yes?” Lucius asked as if Raibert’s response didn’t matter.

  “I—”

  Teodorà jabbed him in the ribs before he could get another syllable out.

  “Ouch.” He rubbed his side. “Sure. Why not? I’m in.”

  “Splendid. I’ll forward you the details of your special assignment when we’re close to the appropriate year.”

  “I don’t find out what I’m doing ahead of time?”

  “What would the fun in that be?” Lucius quirked a smile. “A challenge, remember?” He nodded to both of them, then took the counter-grav tube up.

  Raibert deflated with a long sigh after he was gone. “What the hell was that all about?”

  “This is great!” Teodorà slapped him on the back. “How does someone like you get noticed by Chairman Gwon?”

  “Just lucky, I guess.”

  “Well, you’d better use that luck for all its worth and impress the hell out of him.”

  “Sure. I’ll get right on that,” he replied sardonically. “Do you have any idea what he’s going to have me do?”

  “Not a clue, though Fran has heard about him handing out special assignments like this in the past. He might be sizing you up to see if he wants to work with you more in the future.”

  “Well, that’s just great,” Raibert grouched. “Why did you have to tell him I’m in a rut? I could have done without that part, you know.”

  “Come on.” She kissed his cheek. “We’ve talked about this before. It’s good for you and good for your career to take some more risks. Preservation work isn’t nearly as bad as you think.”

  “Really?” Raibert raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Then why does ART seal the recordings from Preservation missions and make everyone involved sign nondisclosure contracts?”

  “Look, all the Ministry and our sponsors want are the artifacts. They don’t care how we get them. They don’t want to know, and it works fine that way. Besides, it’s not like we ever do any permanent harm when we go back.”

  “Is he gone?” Philo asked, materializing in their shared virtual vision.

  “Yes, and where the hell have you been?” Raibert snapped. “The ART chairman shows up and you scamper off to who knows where?”

  “Something came up.”

  “Uh-huh. I bet.”

  “It was really important.”

  “Fine. What was it, then?”

  “Can’t say. It’s personal.”

  Raibert sighed and rubbed his forehead.

  “So, what happened?” Philo asked.

  “Here.” Raibert opened the firewall around his short term memory. Philo dipped into it, and his eyes widened into saucers.

  “Something wrong?” Raibert asked.

  “I don’t think you should go,” Philo said softly.

  “What are you talking about?” Teodorà crossed her arms. “Of course he’s going.”

  “It’s a…” Philo seemed to struggle with his words. “The whole thing seems shady. You should turn him down.”

  “I already said yes.”

  “Then call him up and tell him no.”

  “And kill his career in the process?” Teodorà warned. “No way! He’ll be stuck in dead-end Observation missions for the rest of his life!”

  “Doesn’t sound so bad to me,” Philo countered. “That’s where you like it, anyway.”

  “But what if he changes his mind in a decade or two? Do you really want to burn that bridge and forever lose the chance of taking on more exciting missions?”

  “Look, I appreciate the concern, Philo, but Teodorà’s right. The chairman just came down here and personally asked me to help him out with a special assignment. How do I say no to that? Besides, even if it is a little shady, how bad could it be?”

  *

  “So how bad was it?” Benjamin asked before taking another bite of his tuna salad sandwich.

  “Pretty fucking terrible,” Raibert replied. “The day before the Kleio reached 490 BCE, I received a telegraph from Lucius with my instructions. The Kleio was to enter a separate instance of the battle from the other Observation TTVs, and my job was to research the Marathon runner, whether he really existed or not, whether he ran to Sparta before the battle or Athens after the battle or both, and most importantly, Lucius wanted to know the man’s real name, assuming he existed in the first place, of course.”

  “That doesn’t sound bad at all.” Elzbietá stabbed a fork into her creamy Caesar salad.

  “I thought the same thing at the time,” Raibert said. “It seemed like Teodorà was right, that Lucius wanted to challenge me with an assignment I hadn’t prepared for to see if I really was like my father. I also learned that Lucius’s own TTV, the Aion, would phase-lock onto the same instance of the battle and watch my progress.”

  “Okay, now that’s a little creepy,” Elzbietá said. “No one likes the boss looking over their shoulder.”

  “My task started well enough,” Raibert continued. “The Kleio phased in above the Plain of Marathon just south of the city, and we watched the battle through our remotes. Phalanxes of Athenian hoplites advanced under a hail of arrows. But they were undaunted by the Persian horde’s greater numbers. They charged in, and when they finally smashed into the Persian ranks, the sound was almost indescribable. Metal and wood crashed against flesh and bone. Spears skewered flesh. Iron clinked off bronze armor. Men screamed. Bones broke. The Athenians rolled forward in an unstoppable mass of spears, shields, and men that crushed the wounded Persians underfoot.

  “Late into the battle, Philo and I spotted a runner heading south from the plain. I left the ship to make contact with the man, still thinking this was some test.”

  “And was it?” Benjamin asked.

  “No.” Raibert shook his head and leaned forward with one elbow on the table. “It wasn’t anything of the sort.”

  *

  The runner sprinted through a grassy plain dotted with trees and bordered by foothills to his right. His chest heaved with each stride, and sweat glistened on his brow. The sun beat down on him. His muscles ached, but the message of victory that he bore filled him with vigor, and he refused to let his legs falter.

  He continued across the field and rounded a hill when he spotted a man sitting atop a wooden barrel. He slowed to a jog, wary of this new fellow after nearly being killed by Persian archers earlier that day, but the man bore no weapons he could see. In fact, he seemed dressed like a common farmer, and the runner relaxed a little.

  “Good day to you!” the farmer greeted him with a wave of what looked like a canteen, then raised the container to his mouth. Water gushed out, and the farmer gulped most of it down while the excess dribbled down his chin and soaked into his tunic.

  The runner licked his parched lips, suddenly conscious of how thirsty he was. The farmer continued to chug the water down for several long, delicious seconds, and the runner found himself slowing to a halt next to him
.

  “Ahh!” the farmer exclaimed and wiped the spilled water from his lips and chin. “Hot today, isn’t it?”

  The runner worked up a bit of spit and moistened his cracked lips.

  “It is,” he agreed, his eyes fixed on the canteen. He wanted to ask for a taste, but a sense of wrongness stayed his speech. Was this man really a farmer? He was dressed like one—that much was clear—but his skin hadn’t been baked by days in the sun, and though he had commented on the heat, his clothes were unstained by sweat.

  What was he doing out here? And where did that barrel come from? Had he rolled it all the way here by himself? With those scrawny arms? Perhaps someone else brought it out here for him. Was he an aristocrat, then? If so, then why dress in such a humble manner? And for that matter, where were his servants?

  None of this made sense.

  The farmer brought the canteen up to his lips again, and the runner swallowed spit down a dry throat.

  The farmer stopped, glanced toward the runner, then lowered his canteen.

  “Ah, pardon my rudeness. You’re probably thirsty.”

  “I am,” the runner managed.

  “Here, let me fill it up for you.”

  The farmer stood off the barrel and crouched next to it. He turned a valve at the bottom, and water gurgled into the canteen. What luck was this? The whole barrel was full of water?

  “That should do it.” The farmer closed the valve and held out the canteen. “Help yourself to as much as you want.”

  The runner took the canteen, and his fingers brushed against the other man’s palm. Aha! He may have looked like a farmer, but his hands were too soft to have seen much labor. Still, water sloshed within the canteen, and the runner brought it gingerly up to his lips.

  How cool and clean it tasted! Like water from a mountain stream! His body rejoiced with each gulp, and not just because of the heat and his exhaustion. He had never tasted water so pure, so delicious, and he began to wonder if this out-of-place man and the perfect water in the barrel had a supernatural origin.

  Was this farmer a divine being masquerading as a man? The runner pondered this as he emptied the canteen.

  “You can have more if you like,” the farmer said. “I imagine you have quite the run ahead of you.”

  “That’s right. And thank you.”

  “Oh, don’t mention it. Help yourself to more.”

  “Again, thank you.”

  “But first…” the farmer began, and the runner felt his muscles tense at the change in tone.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “Would you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “Questions?” the runner echoed.

  The farmer nodded. “Just a few. I promise they’ll be easy.”

  “Well, friend,” the runner replied, relaxing. “If that is the payment you request, then I’ll gladly pay it.”

  “Wonderful. Now, for the record, would you please state your name?”

  “My name?” the runner asked.

  “It’s Pheidippides, isn’t it?”

  “Pheidippides?” The runner shook his head. “No.”

  “Really?” the farmer frowned. “I could have sworn that was it. It must be the other one, then. Philippides, am I right?”

  “Philippides?” What sort of strange questions were these?

  “You’re not Philippides?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Huh.” The farmer slouched. “Well, then. I’m out of guesses. Shows what less than twenty-four hours of mission prep will do. So what is your name?”

  “Well, good sir, my name—”

  His head suddenly exploded.

  *

  Raibert recoiled as the headless corpse collapsed to the ground, gore spurting from the ruined stump of his neck. Blood splattered Raibert’s face and tunic, and a piece of spongy brain slid down his cheek like a misshapen slug before finally dropping off.

  “What…” he muttered, his mind struggling to push through the image of an earnest face bursting like overripe fruit. He shook his head and tried to wipe the blood off his face, but only succeeded in smearing it.

  He stood up and turned in a circle, looking for the source of the carnage.

  “What just happened?” he demanded. “Philo?”

  No answer came. He reached across the firewall, but couldn’t find the connection.

  “Anybody?”

  Nothing.

  And then laughter, over his virtual hearing.

  “Oh, you should have seen your face. Here, let me show it to you.”

  A window opened in his virtual sight, and the runner’s head exploded again in slow motion. Raibert watched the replay of himself flinching back before his face finally settled into a fishlike O.

  “Lucius?”

  A figure in a metamaterial suit rose from the grassy plain and rested a sniper rifle on his shoulder. He walked casually up to Raibert and peeled back his hood.

  “You killed him!” Raibert snarled.

  “Oh, please! Don’t be so dramatic.” Lucius prodded the runner’s corpse with a boot. “I couldn’t kill this man if I tried. He died thousands of years ago, and the way he died is impossible to change. Even with all of ART at my command, there’s nothing I could do to change his life.” He smiled and snorted. “Or death.”

  “But that’s still no reason to brain him!”

  “Why does there have to be?”

  “Because it’s pointless and wrong!” Raibert spat. “And why can’t I reach Philo?”

  “I put a block on the connection to your TTV,” Lucius said. “Chairman privileges, you know. That killjoy doesn’t need to be a part of this. I take it he never told you he used to be my companion.”

  “What?”

  “Still keeping secrets, I see.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at a shadow swirling with starlight. “My current companion is such an improvement. We share everything. No mental boundaries; no secrets. That’s the way it should be. So much healthier than what Philosophus and I had, though he went by a different name back then. Honestly, his old moniker was better. Philosophus makes him sound too self-important.”

  “But you told me to learn the runner’s name! Why kill him?”

  “To have some fun, of course,” Lucius chuckled. “But also to make a point for you. All of this”—he stretched out his arms and turned in a circle—“is our playground. We can do whatever we want, take anything we see, satisfy any desire we have, and all of it without any consequences. We’re more powerful than any deity these indigenes could ever conceive. All of history is here, perfectly preserved for our taking. So why not take? Why be squeamish about it? Your father never hesitated.”

  “I am not my father!”

  “Look, I know I won unfairly this time. How about this? Let’s jump out and start over. This time, you try to keep me from learning his name.” He offered the weapon. “You want to use the rifle?”

  “No!” Raibert pushed it back. “I’m not playing your stupid game!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I have someone’s brains on my face! This is wrong, Lucius!”

  “Wrong? But that’s exactly what I’m trying to show you. None of this is wrong. Everything is ours for the taking. Want to bed Cleopatra or Helen of Troy? Just hop in a time machine and do it! Who’s going to stop you?” He put a hand to his chest. “I sure won’t. In fact, I’ll even help cover your tracks.”

  “I will not use my time machine to have sex with famous people!”

  “Well, that’s probably for the best,” Lucius dismissed. “A lot of them are letdowns.” He leaned in and whispered conspiratorially. “If you ask me, Helen is really overrated. Still haven’t tried Cleopatra, but she’s on the list. I’ll get to her eventually.”

  Raibert recoiled. “You mean you actually—”

  “And why shouldn’t I? For that matter, why shouldn’t you?”

  “Because I’m here to study history!”

  “So am I, but why not have a
little fun while we’re at it?” He chuckled and shook his head with a bemused expression. “This one time I dropped a fifty-ton mech armed with lasers and microwaves into the middle of the Battle of the Bulge. It was hilarious! Everyone was scurrying around like ants trying to dent the thing, while it’s flash-vaporizing the water in their bodies and popping them like zits, one after another after another.” He started laughing so hard he had to catch his breath. “Oh, wow. Whew! You really should have seen them. So funny.”

  “That’s monstrous! How could you do something like that?”

  “Come on, Raibert. Don’t be like that.” He looked him square in the eyes. “Your father’s the one who got me started on this.”

  Hot rage flared inside Raibert, and he punched Lucius in the jaw with all his might.

  It barely fazed the man.

  “I see he never shared that little secret with you.” Lucius rubbed his cheek. “Oh well. This mistake is on me, thinking the cloned son would be just like the father.”

  “Well, I’m glad I’m such a disappoint—!”

  Lucius smashed the rifle butt against Raibert’s skull, and the world went dark.

  *

  “What an asshole,” Benjamin remarked.

  “Yeah, tell me about it,” Raibert said.

  “So, did your father really abuse his power as a time traveler like that?” Elzbietá asked.

  “I don’t know. I never asked him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, for one, even if he had abused his authority, he’d clearly moved on with his life. Two, Lucius was right, none of that was technically illegal. Just completely immoral. And three, can you imagine having to wait eight years for the response to a question like that? I wasn’t just afraid of the answer, but the waiting itself. And what if his answer only raised more questions? I’d have to wait another eight years to hear back on those.” Raibert sighed and shook his head. “No, it just wasn’t worth it. He was busy building a new world for humanity, and he didn’t need me dragging up the past. So instead, Philo and I did our best to expose Lucius’s abuses.”

  “How’d that go?” Benjamin asked.

  “Not very well.” Philo materialized in a virtual chair at the table. “At least initially.”

  “Good of you to finally join us,” Raibert said.