TIME PRIME (20 page)

“Why don’t you and Vall go to my farm on Fifth Level Sicily,” Tortha Karf suggested. “I own the whole island, on that time-line, and you can always be reached in a hurry if anything comes up.”

“We could have as much fun there as on the Dwarma Sector,” Dalla said. “Chief, could we take a couple of friends along?”

“Well, who?”

“Zinganna and Kostran Galth,” she replied. “They’ve gotten interested in one another; they’re talking about a tentative marriage.”

“It’ll have to be mighty tentative,” Vall said. “Kostran Galth can’t marry a Prole.”

“She won’t be a Prole very long. I’m going to adopt her as my sister.”

Tortha Karf looked at her sharply. “You sure you know what you’re doing, Dalla?” he asked.

“Of course I’m sure. I know that girl better than she knows herself. I narcohyped her, remember? Zinna’s the kind of a sister I’ve always wished I’d had.”

“Well, that’s all right then. But about this marriage. She was in love with Salgath Trod,” Tortha Karf said. “Now, she’s identifying Agent Kostran with him—”

“She was in love with the kind of man Salgath could have been if he hadn’t gotten into this Organization filth,” Dalla replied. “Galth is that kind of a man. They’ll get along all right.”

“Well, she’ll qualify on IQ and general psych rating for Citizenship. I’ll say that. And she’s the kind of girl I like to see my boys take up with. Like you, Dalla. Yes, of course; take them along with you. Sicily’s big enough that two couples won’t get in each others’ way.”

A phone-robot, its slender metal stem topped by a metal globe, slid into the room on its ball-rollers, moving falteringly like a blind man. It could sense Tortha Karf ’s electro-encephalic wave-patterns, but it was having trouble locating the source. They all sat motionless, waiting; finally it came over to Tortha Karf ’s chair and stopped. He unhooked the phone and held a lengthy whispered conversation with somebody before replacing it.

“Now, there,” he explained to Dalla. “That’s a sample of why we have to set up this duplicate organization. Revolution just broke out at Ftanna, on Third Level Tsorshay Sector; a lot of our people, mostly tourists and students, are cut off from their conveyers by street fighting. Going to be a pretty bloody business getting them out.”

He finished his drink and got to his feet. “Sit still; I just have to make a few screen-calls. Send the robot for something to eat, Vall. I’ll be right back.”

Verkan Vall stood at the front of Tortha Karf ’s white mansion and thought— not for the first time—at how much it resembled one of the Southern plantations he’d seen so often during his service as a drummer boy in Virginia during the War Between the States.

The war had been over on most Subsectors by the time he had reached recruitment age, but had still been raging on Europo-American, Confederate States Subsector, where the Confederacy had kept the war going for another six years, finally forcing the Union into a draw. With both sides bled white, the United States and Confederate States of America had both been thrown into an economic depression that neither country would recover from until after what most subsectors on Europo-America called the First World War.

Verkan Zolth had believed that by exposing his son to war he would experience war’s horror and senselessness. His father had been a lifelong pacifist and believed, as strongly as any Quaker, that early exposure to the ugliness of war would bring about a lifelong aversion. So, against the wishes of his mother, his father had dropped him off on a Confederate States time-line and had him mustered in as a drummer boy in Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia. There, Vall had learned courage as well as a close-at-hand knowledge of fear and death, as well as admiration for his fellow comrades.

Obviously, his father’s plan had backfired. After finishing his schooling, Verkan had joined the Army Strike Force at his majority, but had not reenlisted as his service had been during a very peaceful period; the prole problem was just beginning to rear its ugly head. And he craved danger and action.

Vall and his father hadn’t exchanged a civil word, much less seen each other, since he had joined the Paracops over seventy-five years ago.

Having vacationed at Tortha’s Fifth Level Estate for almost a ten-day, he was already bored to distraction. Dalla and Zinna were off at the beach, enjoying a warm summer’s day sunbathing, while he and Kostran were supposedly relaxing. Kostran, who was still discovering the delights that were Zinganna, was having the time of his life; Verkan wished he could say the same thing. True, he was enjoying the time alone with Dalla, but he was unable to take his mind off recent events.

He was absolutely convinced that the Organization was a cancerous blight that threatened not only the Paratime Secret but the very fundament of Home Time Line itself. Nor did he believe that their First Level operation had ended the Wizard Traders operation, no, they had just driven it further underground, where it would fester and erupt anew.

Vall was supposedly out here to plink at rabbits, which were savaging Tortha’s truck gardens and newly planted lemon tree seedlings, with a .22 caliber rifle—more of a toy than a weapon, unless used up-close. In reality, it was just an excuse for him to get away from Tortha’s servants, who appeared offended if he did not visibly appear to be having a good time twenty-four hours a day.

The Altides were descended from a Madagascar tribe, from a time-line on the Afro-Sinic Sector, who were about to be taken as slaves by Chinese pirates when they were rescued by Tortha Karf ’s father. The Chief ’s father had been a shipping magnate, owner of Trans-Planetary Lines, and wealthy enough to own his own Fifth Level time-line. After he’d rescued them, he’d had the Altides sleep-gassed and transposed to Fifth Level Sicily where they had resided ever since. They now numbered in the tens of thousands, but only the most comely and industrious were “invited” to work on the Tortha Plantation.

It wasn’t surprising the Altides viewed their master as some sort of minor deity and showered his guests with the same largess. Somehow all that attention and obsequiousness got Vall’s dander up; he supposed that some of his father’s egalitarian teachings may have taken root after all.

As timeliners they lived a bountiful but precarious existence, living off their hosts’ sustenance while at the same time keeping the Paratime Secret inviolate. It was a stressful ploy, and one he personally believed was unnecessary. Home Time Line had access to unlimited Fifth Level uninhabited time-lines, with far more resources than they could ever use. Parasitism had not been needed for mere survival for millennia. No, living off host time-lines, had become a way of life. It was also, as the Wizard Trader case had demonstrated, outmoded as well as corrupting.

This is what brought him to calling an ad hoc meeting of all the high level Paracops that he trusted with his life. And, here-and-now was the time and place.

Vall turned and walked back into the mansion. The inside was filled with Greek and Roman statuary and other antiquities, such as a Minoan wall frieze and a row of Roman death masks that included originals of Caesar, Mark Anthony and Augustus. He paused to call out to Kostran Garth, who was eating in the kitchen, which he determined by the fawning sounds coming from that direction of the mansion.

Kostran emerged from the hallway with a mug of steaming coffee. “I don’t know where Tortha gets his beans, but I’ve got to find his supplier!”

“Jamaican Blue Beans, only the best for the Chief. Tortha says good coffee and blended Scotch are the only two liquids worth imbibing.”

Kostran hoisted his mug. “I’ll drink to that! I must say, I’m getting spoiled by the Chief ’s domestics; I only wish my robot servant was half as attendant.”

Vall turned away from the sweeping staircase that rose to the second story mezzanine to traverse the long corridor past the spacious kitchen, which led to the basement entryway. The entrance was blocked by a collapsed-metal door, meant to keep out any curious servants or unexpected visitors.

He pressed the thumb-lock and the door pneumatically opened; he was one of only three people who could open that door—the other two were his wife, Dalla, and Chief Tortha. He walked downstairs to the small conveyer-head with a fifteenfoot mini-conveyer sitting on one of two permanent pads. The other pad was big enough for a fifty-foot conveyer, and was where his guests would be arriving shortly from Fifth Level Police Terminal. Besides the landing pads, there were stands of weapons, a large food pantry and kitchen, multiple doors leading to storage rooms and a meeting alcove large enough for twenty chairs and a circular table.

The outline of a large conveyer dome suddenly appeared, coruscating and shimmering, as it materialized in the basement. Subchief Ranthar Jard, pipe in mouth, was the first one out of the conveyer; he was followed by Altarn Vor, whose sharp nose gave him the appearance of a vole, Field Agents Dalon Sath, Vordran Larn, Kiro Soran, Maldar Dard, Skordran Kirv and finally Dr. Nentrov Dard, the Paratime Police Psychist.

“What’s going on, Vall?” Ranthar asked.

“It looks like a Paratime Police palace coup!” Maldar Dard joked.

“Close,” Vall replied. He turned and activated the robot bartender with a push of his hand controller. The robot squawked and beeped; in response, a full service bar folded out of one of the walls.

“Sing now or be sorry later,” he cried.

Everyone called out a drink order, as they took a seat at the table. The headless robot squawked again, turned on its wheels and waited while the autobar filled the appropriate glasses with the requested colored fluids. Once the drinks were done and put on a tray, the robot bartender wheeled around and served each man his drink using its spindly arms and graspers.

“Take a seat,” Vall said. “This is the most secure room on the time-line.”

“What’s this about? asked Nentrov Dard.

“I’m sure you’re all wondering why I called you here together.”

“You got it, Vall,” Ranthar said, as he removed his pipe and began to tap it against the heel of his hand to remove the dottle.

“Why isn’t the Chief here, Chief ’s Assistant?” Vlasthor asked.

“I wanted to get the ball rolling before I involve Chief Tortha. Also, because I think he’s part of the problem.”

There was a hushed silence.

“No, I don’t mean he’s lost his marbles, or has started dribbling down his chin in public. I just think Tortha’s taking the wrong approach to shutting down the Organization. We don’t need a second Paratime Police Force. If the Organization has infiltrated the Force, what’s to keep it out of the new one.”

“We’ve got to do something, Vall,” Kiro Soran said. He was a tall man, half a head taller than even Ranthar Jard, and wore a short goatee. “This Wizard Trader outfit’s big enough to practically quarantine an entire sector by itself! What’s wrong with doubling the Police Force; you all know we can use more field agents and detectives.”

“I agree,” Verkan said forestalling more questions. “However, where are we going to get them from? Recruitment for the Paratime Police has been down for the past three centuries; we’re lucky to muster two million agents. One third of these are desk bound, either on Home Time Line or Pol-Term. And, considering the number of sectors and time-lines we have to police, that’s just a drop in the bucket. To recruit more staff, we’d have to lower our admission standards, allowing even easier access to criminal organizations such as the Wizard Traders.”

Everyone nodded in agreement. The Paratime Police had been understaffed probably since the first century after the discovery of the Ghaldron-Hesthor Paratemporal Transposition field.

“We’d probably accomplish more against the Organization by having all of our officers put under narco-hypnosis. Isn’t that right, Dr. Nentrov?”

The lantern-jawed Psychist nodded. “Yes, I already suggested that, but the Chief won’t go for it. I told him, from the way the Organization was able to penetrate Police security and kill Salgarth Trod with fake officers, they’ve clearly infiltrated the Paratime Police. The moment I brought up the possibility, the Chief blew his stack.”

“And, that gentlemen, is why we must take matters into our own hands.”