Time Siege (61 page)

“Come in,” the director said from the other side of the room. At least he was still alive. Levin had considered the outside possibility that Young had committed suicide, but the director was too tough to do something like that. It just wasn't the old bastard's style.

The double doors creaked as he walked in. Levin closed them behind him. Young was sitting at his desk reading a book and drinking a dram of whiskey. There were half a dozen other bottles lying about his desk. He must have spent most of the night trying to drain his entire collection. Levin went to the other side of the desk and stood patiently.

Young, as he often did, took his time, licking his fingers as he flipped the pages. The two continued for another fifteen minutes until it seemed the director found a good stopping point. He closed the book and set it aside. He picked up the glass of whiskey and took a sip.

“Still a stick up your ass, I see. You can sit.”

“Thank you, Director.” Levin sat down in the chair opposite the director.

“It's been a while since the last time I hauled you in here.”

“I haven't had much opportunity as of late. I see you redecorated. New doors and a new desk?”

Young scowled. “Courtesy of that Valta bitch. No respect for real wood.”

Levin pointed at the wide assortment of bottles on the desk. “I also see you're trying to drink it all before we take you away.”

The director snorted. “Damn straight. I spent half a century collecting this shit. Do you actually think I'm going to let it all go to waste on you hooligans?” He leaned back in his chair. “So what will it be? Firing squad? Are you going to hang me?”

“Not even going to try to ask for a pardon or some sort of forced retirement?”

“I did try to have you shot on the spot.”

“That does put a damper on our relationship, though not much. I've known you long enough to expect certain things.”

“What are you going to do to me, then?”

Levin considered his options. Most of the others in charge wanted to execute or at the very least imprison Young. As the High Director of Earth, he was integrally linked to the corruption within the agency. Levin recalled something the director once told him here in these very chairs.There was more to this office and position than just being a good administrator.

The rebels' survival over the next several months would depend on how they fared negotiating new terms with the megacorporations and governments that depended on their salvage to survive. He hated to say it, but with two ChronoComs to deal with, all those entities could demand better rates and terms from both. Now with competition, it would be capitalism at its finest. There was some heavy irony here. These were skills Levin simply did not have. There was a man sitting opposite him, however, who had the right experience.

“How about a job?”

Young frowned. “Doing what?”

“Similar to what you're doing now. We need someone skilled in negotiating terms with the corporations and colonies.”

Young took a sip of his whiskey and pondered. He poured some into another glass and pushed it toward Levin. “Let me get this straight. You lead a rebellion against the agency and throw the entire solar system into complete chaos just so you can put the same people who you believe are the source of this so-called corruption back in power? I don't get it.”

Levin took the glass and toasted Young with it. He took a sip. Whatever whiskey was in here was amazing. He found himself distracted by it. “What is this?”

“Luxe Empire. You'll find none better.”

Levin took a few moments to savor the drink before continuing, “You'll be operating in the same capacity, but following new rules. If you accept the position, you follow the Time Laws to the letter. We protect the chronostream and the integrity of the agency. This ChronoCom cannot be bought.”

Young laughed. “You don't even realize what you've done. Negotiating new salvage terms for your rebel agency won't be a problem. You have much bigger issues to deal with.”

“Like what?”

The director shook his head. “I assume you've cut off the master chron database access to the rest of the agency. That means they won't be able to maintain integrity with the chronostream. You think they're just going to stop salvaging because they don't have access? What about the megacorporations and governments? If they see that the other ChronoCom isn't following the rules, why should they? You're going to have every jackass with jump bands trying to do their own salvages. The chronostream is going to be devastated. Are you going to be the one policing it all?”

The ramifications of what the director said hit Levin like a bucket of cold water. He felt his nerves go numb as he considered those words. It wasn't just possible, it was probable. Had his actions just destroyed the one thing he was trying to protect? At the very least, he would have to give the chron database access to the other ChronoCom just to help maintain the chronostream, which eliminated any advantage he had over the other faction.

“I didn't think of that,” he admitted.

“That's always been your problem, Levin,” Young snapped. “You only think two steps ahead when someone in your position and in my position needs to think ten steps ahead. You don't think about the long-term effects of your actions. Anyway, I accept your job offer. I assume I'm being stripped of my directorship. Am I reporting to you now?”

“Actually, I have someone else in mind. You'll be reporting to the Mother of Time.”

For a second, Young looked confused, and then his eyes widened and his face turned pale.

*   *   *

James woke up under a bright light, freezing and in a lot of pain. Maybe he was dead. He recalled stories about a centuries-old religion that spoke of dying and moving toward a white beam at the end of some tunnel. He guessed it was fitting that death would suck as much as living. So much for finally being at peace once a person crossed the threshold. He tried to look at the bright light again and couldn't. At first, he thought his eyes hurt, but then realized that it was his entire face. And legs and stomach and shoulders and arms. Basically, James hurt all over.

He tried to sit up. Strong hands held him down.

“The elder is up,” a voice called out.

For a second, James regretted still being alive and having to deal with the bullshit of the wastelander tribes and ChronoCom and Valta. Then he thought of Elise and panic gripped his chest. He fought past the hands holding him down and sat up, and was instantly hammered with fresh waves of pain. He nearly passed out again as he laid back down on his back.

“Stop moving, you flaming idiot,” Titus's voice said from somewhere close by.

James forced his eyes open and saw Titus and Grace hovering over him. Franwil appeared on his other side.

“You're all still alive,” he whispered. “Does that mean we won? Where's Elise?”

“One thing at a time. Stop moving doesn't mean keep moving,” Titus snapped. “You've got a half-dozen broken bones and possibly a lacerated spleen. Whoever you were fighting kicked your ass really good.”

Lead Monitor Pollock appeared next to Franwil. “By the time my men got to him, the securitate had beaten him to within an inch of his life. She killed three more of my men before she fled in the collie.”

James grimaced. That had been probably his only chance to avenge his friend. He had come so close, only to fall short. “What about Sasha? And Elise? Are they all right?” he asked.

“Sasha is fine. We're keeping her upstairs so she doesn't have to see you like this,” Franwil said. “The girl is asking for you.”

“As for Elise.…” Grace paused and exchanged weary glances with the others. “Valta has her.”

James's heart stopped and he felt as if his head were about to explode. He tried to sit up again. It was a testament to how weak he was that three geriatrics were able to hold him down.

“We have to get her!” he screamed. “How could you let this happen?”

“I'm sorry, chronman,” Pollock said, holding him down by the shoulders. “We were barely holding on. My men did not realize her importance until it was too late.”

“No!” James screamed again until his voice gave and he fell into a fit of tears and sobs. He had failed her just like Smitt, just like everyone else in his life. He struggled against his friends as his crazed mind lashed out at everything and everyone.

Grace appeared right above him, and with a stern look, she raised her hand in the air and brought it down on his face. Fresh waves of pain shot across his entire body, nearly sending him into shock.

“No,” Titus barked. “That's the side with the broken orbital bone. His other side next time.”

“Good,” she replied. “Maybe he'll stop throwing a tantrum.”

A small voice in his head tried to speak over the screaming in his broken heart.
She's right. Take responsibility for yourself. Pull yourself together and do something about it.

James latched on to those words. Memories of the fight flowed back into his head, and he knew it was his fault. His body had grown weak, and he had allowed it. Whether it was accumulated lag sickness or alcohol abuse, maybe just the years of wear and tear finally catching up to his body, this was all his fault. When Elise and Smitt and everyone else needed him the most, he had checked out, fallen into the bottle and fallen apart. He broke down in tears once again as all hope suddenly escaped him.

“I'm sorry,” he said, his voice barely audible.

“Stop saying sorry, James,” Grace said. “Nobody cares about your apologies. Figure out how to make things right.”

“I don't know if I can…”

“I swear I will smack more sense into you if you keep this up,” Grace growled. “We need the old James right now.”

“She's right,” Franwil said. “The Manhattan Nation won a major battle today. We've defeated our invaders, and scouts have reported that the enemy have all left the Mist Isle. Victory is ours, and the people celebrate. However, a lot of chiefs are dead, and with Elise gone, they're looking for someone to lead. Many are looking to you, chronman.”

“I can't lead them,” he said. “They don't trust me. They never have. Black abyss, I don't trust me.”

“I wouldn't be so sure about that,” Franwil said. “Everyone is crediting you with taking back the All Galaxy. Eriao has already said the tribe will be better served with you as war chief.”

“Eriao has been dying to pass that buck along for months.” Grace chuckled.

“You have to think about the larger picture as well,” said Franwil. “There's hundreds of wastelander tribes, all part of the Manhattan, looking for guidance. This whole alliance will fall apart without strong leadership.”

“I don't care about the alliance,” he cried.

Franwil grabbed him by the shoulder and stared into his eyes. “You lie with your mouth, chronman, but not your heart. You do. I know it.”

Grace didn't word it so kindly. “I swear I'm going to hit you again, James. Do you want all of Elise's hard work to fall apart because you were too weak, too afraid, and too full of self-pity to step up? Besides, if we're going to get her back from those bastards, we're going to need all the help we can get.”

“What's the point of all this if she's not here?” James asked.

Titus put a hand on James's shoulder. “The point, son, is there's a chance we can get her back. Don't let it slip between your fingers.”

Those words hit close to home. He did care about everything they'd built more than he was willing to admit. And finding a way to rescue Elise right now was the only thing that pulled him away from total despair. He swore he would do whatever it took to get her back. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, taking his time to collect his thoughts.

“What do you need me from me?” he asked. “I'll do whatever it takes.”

“Take over as the war chief for the Nation and be the figurehead that Elise was. The people need someone to look to and give them confidence and hope.” Grace smiled. “The three of us will actually be the ones running everything.”

“We will guide you like we did Elise,” Franwil said.

She and Grace looked at Titus, who shrugged. “I guess.”

James looked at his advisers. Together, they were just shy of three centuries old. “We're going to need more than just the Manhattan Nation if we're going to go up against a megacorporation.”

“Auditor Levin from Earth Central has sent word,” Pollock added. “He says ChronoCom wishes to ally with the Manhattan Nation. He wants a meeting with your leaders immediately to discuss the defense of the planet as well as continuing pursuit of a cure for the Earth Plague. How should I respond?”

James looked at everyone looking expectantly at him. He finally nodded. “Tell Levin that the war chief of the Nation of the United Tribes of Manhattan looks forward to meeting with him.”

*   *   *

Elise woke up in a white room also thinking she was dead. First she noticed the shiny white walls and ceilings, then she looked to her left and saw that the floors, doors, and even the furniture were all the same impossibly pure white. She thought the color was impossible because in all the times she had been in this present, she had not seen anything so … not dirty.

Except once. That shiny white building-ship thing back in Chicago.

She sat up. She was in a bed, in a square room, with only a table and two chairs. Nothing else. Everything was snow white, even her clothes, from her pants to her shirt to—she checked—her underwear. For a second, she was ecstatic that she was wearing clean fresh underwear. This pure white room was what she had imagined the future would look like.

Then terror gripped her. Where was she? Who had her? The last thing she remembered was fighting those Valta jerks—those white-uniformed Valta troopers—in Aranea. More memories returned. Her mechanoid was split open and she had lost consciousness. Now she was here.