Yelén Korolev looked calm, but Wil knew her well enough to recognize the signs of an impending explosion: there were rosy patches on her cheeks, yet her features were otherwise even paler than usual. She ran a hand through her blond hair. “Mr. Fraley, I really do know the history of your era. Remember that almost all of us—no matter what our present age and experience—have our childhoods within a couple hundred years of one another. The Peace Authority”—her lips twitched in a quick smile at the name—“may have started the general war of 1997. They may even be responsible for the terrible plagues of the early twenty-first century. But as governments go, they were relatively benign. This group in Kampuchea”—she waved toward the north—“went into stasis in 2048, when the Peacers were overthrown. That was before decent health care was available. It’s entirely possible that none of the original criminals are present.”
Fraley opened and closed his mouth, but no words came. Finally: “Haven’t you heard of their ‘Renaissance’ scheme? In ‘48 they were ready to kill by the millions again. Those guys under Kampuchea probably got more hell-bombs than a dog has fleas. That base was their secret ace in the hole. If they hadn’t screwed up their stasis, they’d’ve come out in 2100 and blown us away. And you probably wouldn’t even have been born—”
Yelén cut into the torrent. “Hell-bombs? Popguns. Even you know that. Mr. Fraley, getting another hundred people into our colony will make our settlement just big enough to survive. Marta and I haven’t spent our lives setting this up just to see it die like the undermanned attempts of the past. The only reason we postponed the founding of Korolev till megayear fifty was so we could rescue those Peacers when their bobble bursts.”
She turned to her partner. “Is everybody accounted for?”
Marta Korolev had sat through the argument in silence, her dark features relaxed, her eyes closed. Her headband put her in communication with the estate’s autonomous devices. No doubt she had managed a half dozen fliers during the last half hour, scouring the countryside for any truant colonists the Korolev satellites had spotted. Now she opened her eyes. “Everybody’s accounted for and safe. In fact”—she caught sight of Wil standing at the back of the amphitheater and grinned—“almost everyone is here on the castle grounds. I think we can provide you people with quite a show this afternoon.” She either hadn’t followed or—more likely—had chosen to ignore the dispute between Yelén and Fraley.
“Okay, let’s get started.” A rustle of anticipation passed through the audience. Many were from the twenty-first century, like Wil. But they’d seen enough of the advanced travelers to know that such a statement was more than enough signal for spectacular events to happen.
From his place at the top of the amphitheater, Wil had a good view to the north. The forests of the higher elevations fell away to a gray-green blur that was the equatorial jungle. Beyond that, haze obscured even the existence of the Inland Sea. Even on the rare, clear day when the sea mists lifted, the Kampuchean Alps were hidden beyond the horizon. Nevertheless, the rescue should be visible; he was a bit surprised that the bluish white of the northern horizon was undisturbed.
“Things will get more exciting, I promise.” Yelén’s voice brought his eyes back to the stage. Two large displays floated behind her. They made an incongruous contrast with the moss- and gold-encrusted temple that covered the land beyond the stage. Castle Korolev was typical of the flamboyance of the advanced residences. The underlying stonework and statuary—modeled vaguely on Angkor Wat—had been built half a thousand years earlier, then left for mountain rains to wear at, for moss to cover, for trees to penetrate. Afterwards, construction robots hid all the subtle machinery of late twenty-second-century technology within the “ruins.” Wil respected that technology. Here was a place where no sparrow could fall unremarked. The owners were as safe from a quiet knife in the back as from a ballistic missile attack.
“As Mr. Fraley says, the Peacer bobble was supposed to be a secret. It was originally underground. It is much further underground now—somebody blundered. What was to be a fifty-year jump became something…longer. As near as we can figure, their bobble should burst sometime in the next few thousand years; they’ve been in stasis fifty million years. During that time, continents drifted and new rifts formed. Parts of Kampuchea slid deep beneath new mountains.” The display behind her lit with a multicolored transect of the Kampuchean Alps. The surface crust appeared as blue, shading into yellow and orange at the greater depths. Right at the margin of orange and magma red was a tiny black disk—the Peacer bobble, afloat against the ceiling of hell.
Inside the bobble, time was stopped. Those within were as they’d been at that instant of a near-forgotten war when the losers decided to escape to the future. No force could affect a bobble’s contents; no force could affect its duration—not the heart of a star, not the heart of a lover.
But when the bobble burst, when the stasis ended…The Peacers were about forty kilometers down. There would be a moment of noise and heat and pain as the magma swallowed them. One hundred men and women would die, and a certain endangered species would move one more step toward final extinction.
The Korolevs proposed to raise the bobble to the surface, where it would be safe for the few remaining millennia of its duration. Yelén waved at the display. “This was taken just before we started the operation. Here’s the ongoing view.”
The picture flickered. The red magma boundary had risen thousands of meters above the bobble. Pinheads of white light flashed in the orange and yellow that represented the solid crust. In the place of each of those lights, red blossomed and spread, almost—Wil winced at the thought—like blood from a stab wound. “Each of those sparkles is a hundred-megaton bomb. In the last few seconds, we’ve released more energy than all mankind’s wars put together.”
The red spread as the wounds coalesced into a vast hemorrhage in the bosom of Kampuchea. The magma was still twenty kilometers below ground level. The bombs were timed so there was a constant sparkling just above the highest level of red, bringing the melt closer and closer to the surface. At the bottom of the display, the Peacer bobble floated, serene and untouched. On this scale, its motion towards the surface was imperceptible.
Wil pulled his attention from the display and looked beyond the amphitheater. There was no change: the northern horizon was still haze and pale blue. The rescue site was fifteen hundred kilometers away, but even so, he’d expected something spectacular. The minutes passed. A cool breeze swept slow around the theater, rustling the almost-jacarandas that bounded the stage, sending the perfume of their large flowers across the audience. A family of spiders in one tree had built a for-show web in its upper branches. The web silk gleamed in rainbow colors against the sky.
The elapsed-time clock on the display showed almost four minutes. The Korolev pattern of bomb bursts was still thousands of meters short of the surface.
President Fraley rose from his seat. “Madame Korolev, please. There is still time to stop this. I know you’ve rescued all types, cranks, joyriders, criminals, victims. But these are monsters.” For once, Wil thought he heard sincerity—perhaps even fear—in the New Mexican’s voice. And he might be right. If the rumors were true, if the Peacers had created the plagues of the early twenty-first century, then they were responsible for the deaths of billions. If they had succeeded with their Renaissance Project, they would have killed most of the survivors.
Yelén Korolev glanced down at Fraley but didn’t reply. The New Mexican stiffened, then waved abruptly to his people. One hundred men and women—most in NM fatigues—came quickly to their feet. It was a dramatic gesture, if nothing else: the amphitheater would be almost empty with them gone.
“Mr. President, I suggest you and the others sit back down.” It was Marta Korolev. Her tone was as pleasant as ever, but the insult in the words brought a flush to Steve Fraley’s face. He gestured angrily and turned to the stone steps that led from the theater.
Wil was more inclined to take her w
ords literally: Yelén might use sarcasm and imperious authority, but Marta usually meant her advice only to help. He looked again to the north. Over the jungle slopes there was a wavering, a rippling. Oops. With sudden understanding, Wil slid onto a nearby bench.
The ground shock arrived an instant later. It was a soundless, rolling motion that took Fraley’s feet right out from under him. Steve’s lieutenants quickly helped him up, but the man was livid. He glared death at Marta, then stomped quickly—and carefully—up the steps. He didn’t notice Wil till he was almost past him. The Republic of New Mexico kept a special place in its fecal pantheon for W. W. Brierson; having Wil witness this humiliation was the last straw. Then the generals hustled their President on. Those who followed glared briefly at Brierson, or avoided looking at him entirely.
Their departing footsteps came clearly from beyond the amphitheater. Seconds later they had fired up the engines on their armored personnel carriers and were rumbling off to their part of town. All through this, the earthquake continued. For someone who had grown up in Michigan, it was uncanny. The rolling, rocking motion was almost silent. But the birds were silent too, and the spiders on the for-show web motionless. From deep within the castle’s stonework there was creaking.
On the transect, magma red had nearly reached the surface. The tiny lights that represented bombs flickered just below ground, and the last yellow of solid earth just…evaporated.
Still the nuking continued, carving a wide red sea.
And finally there was action on the northern horizon. Finally there was direct evidence of the cataclysm there. The pale blue was lit again and again by something very bright, something that punched through the haze like a sunrise trying to happen. Just above the flashes a band of white, almost like a second horizon, slowly rose. The top had been blown off the northern foothills of the Kampuchean Alps.
A sigh spread through the audience. Wil looked down, saw several people pointing upwards. Faintly purple, barely brighter than the sky, the wraith extended almost straight overhead from north to south. A daytime aurora?
Strange lightning flickered on the slopes below the castle. The air in the amphitheater was charged with static electricity, yet all was unholy silent. The sound of the rescue would come loud even from fifteen hundred kilometers around the earth, but that sound was still an hour away, chugging across the Kampuchean Alps towards the Inland Sea.
And the Peacer bobble, like flotsam loosed from ice by a summer sun, was free to float to the surface.
2
Everyone agreed with Marta that the show had been impressive. Many didn’t realize that the “show” wouldn’t end with one afternoon of fireworks. The curtain calls would go on for some time, much more dismal than impressive.
The rescue blasting had been about a hundred times as energetic as the nineteenth-century Krakatoa blow-off. Billions of tonnes of ash and rock were pumped into the stratosphere that afternoon. The sun was a rare sight in the days that followed, at best a dim reddish disk through the murk. In Korolev, there was a heavy frost on the ground every morning. The almost-jacarandas were wilted and dying. Their spider families were dead or moved to burrows. Even in the jungles along the coast, temperatures rarely got above fourteen degrees now.
It rained most of every day—but not water: the dust was settling out. When it came down dry, it was like gray-brown snow, piling obscene drifts on houses and trees and the bodies of small animals; the New Mexicans ruined the last of their jetcopters learning what rock dust does to turbines. Things were even worse when it came down wet, a black fluid that changed the drifts to mud. It was small consolation that the bombs were clean, and the dust a “natural product.”
Korolev robots quickly rebuilt the monorails. Wil and the Dasgupta brothers took a trip down to the sea.
The dunes were gone, blasted inland by the rescue-day tsunamis. The trees south of the dunes were laid out flat, all pointing away from the sea. There was no green; all was covered with ash. Even the sea had a layer of scum on it. Miraculously, some fishermonkeys lived. Wil saw small groups on the beach, grooming the ash from each other’s pelts. They spent most of their time in the water, which was still warm.
The rescue itself was an undoubted success. The Peacer bobble now sat on the surface. The third day after the detonation, a Korolev flier visited the blast site. The pictures it sent back were striking. Gale-force winds, still laden with ash, drove across gray scabland. Glowing orange-red peeked through netted cracks in the scab. At the center of this slowly freezing lake of rock sat a perfect sphere, the bobble. It floated two-thirds out of the rock. Of course, no nicks or scour marred its surface. No trace of ash or rock adhered. In fact, it was all but invisible: its mirror surface reflected the scene around it, showing the net of glowing cracks stretching back into the haze.
A typical bobble, in an untypical place.
“All things shall pass.” That was Rohan Dasgupta’s favorite misquote. In a few months, the molten lake would freeze over, and an unprotected man could walk right to the side of the Peacer bobble. About the same time, the blackout and the mud rains would end. For a few years there would be brilliant sunsets and unusually cool weather. Wounded trees would recover, seedlings would replace those that had died. In a century or two, nature would have forgotten this affront, and the Peacer bobble would reflect forest green.
Yet it would be unknown thousands of years before the bobble burst, and the men and women within could join the colony.
As usual, the Korolevs had a plan. As usual, the low-techs had little choice but to tag along.
“Hey, we’re having a party tonight. Want to come?”
Wil and the others looked up from their shoveling. After three hours mucking around in the ash, they all looked pretty much the same. Black, white, Chinese, Indian, Aztlán—all were covered with gray ash.
The vision that confronted them was dressed in sparkling white. Her flying platform hovered just above the long pile of ash that the low-techs had pushed into the street. She was one of the Robinson daughters. Tammy? In any case, she looked like some twentieth-century fashion plate: blond, tan, seventeen, friendly.
Dilip Dasgupta grinned back at her. “We’d sure like to. But tonight? If we don’t get this ash away from the houses before the Korolevs bobble up, we’ll be stuck with it forever.” Wil’s back and arms were one big ache, but he had to agree. They had been doing this for two days, ever since the Korolevs announced tonight’s departure. If they could get all the gray stuff pushed back from the houses before they bobbled up, it would be sluiced away by a thousand years of weather when they came back. Everyone on the street had pitched in, though with lots of grumbling—directed mostly at the Korolevs. The New Mexicans had even sent over some enlisted men with wheelbarrows and shovels. Wil wondered about that: he couldn’t believe that someone like Fraley was really overcome by a spirit of cooperation. This was either honest helpfulness on the part of lower officers, or else a subtle effort to bring the other low-techs into the NM camp, future allies against the Korolevs and the Peacers.
The Robinson girl leaned on her platform, and it drifted closer to Dasgupta. She looked up and down the street, then spoke with an air of confidentiality. “My folks like Yelén and Marta a lot—really. But Daddy thinks they carry some things too far. You Early Birds are going to be at our level of tech in a few decades anyway. Why should you have to slave like this?”
She bit at a fingernail. “I really wish you could come to our party…Hey! Why don’t we do this: You keep working, say till about six. Maybe you can get it all cleaned by then, anyway. But if you can’t, don’t worry. My folks’ robots can take care of what’s left while you go get ready for the party.” She smiled, then continued almost shyly. “Do you think that would be okay? Could you come then?”
Dilip looked at his brother Rohan, then replied, deadpan, “Why, uh, yes. With that backup, I think we could make it.”
“Great! Now look. It’s at our house starting around eight. So don’t w
ork past six, okay? And don’t bother eating, either. We’ve got lots of food. The party’ll go till the Witching Hour. That will leave you plenty of time to get home before the Korolevs bobble up.”
Her flier drifted sideways and climbed beyond the trees that encircled the houses. “See you!” Twelve sweaty shovel pushers watched her departure in numbed silence.
A smile spread slowly across Dilip’s wide face. He looked at his shovel, then rolled his eyes at the others. Finally he shouted, “Screw it!”, threw the shovel to the ground, and jumped up and down on it.
This provoked a heartfelt cheer from the others, the NM corporals included. In moments, the newly liberated workers had departed for their homes.
Only Brierson remained on the street, still looking in the direction taken by the Robinson girl. He felt as much curiosity as gratitude. Wil had done his best to know the high-techs: for all their idiosyncrasies, they’d seemed united behind the Korolevs. But no matter how friendly the disagreement, he saw now that they had factions, too. I wonder what the Robinsons are selling.
The public area of the Robinsons’ place was friendlier than the Korolevs’. Incandescent lamps hung from oaken beams. The teak dance floor opened onto a buffet room, an outdoor terrace, and a darkened theater where the hosts promised some extraordinary home movies later.
While guests were still arriving, the younger Robinson children ran noisily about the dance floor, dodging among the guests in a wild game of tag. They were tolerated, more than tolerated. They were the only children in the world.
In some sense, almost everyone present was an exile. Some had been shanghaied, some had jumped to escape punishment (deserved and otherwise), some (like the Dasguptas) thought that stepping out of time for a couple of centuries while their investments multiplied would make them rich. On the whole, their initial jumps had been short—into the twenty-fourth, twenty-fifth, twenty-sixth centuries.