would say nothing to them and they kept well apart, both holding lasers at the ready, so that if one was jumped, the other could fire, killing his shipmate if need be. Drakov had not exaggerated. He was taking no chances whatsoever.
Each of them, in their separate areas of the ship, kept thinking the same thing. Whether Martingale could bring help or not, the missiles must not be fired. There was only one way to guarantee that. Kill Drakov and destroy the sub. There were three against more than a hundred and that number would grow sharply when they reached the secret base in the volcano off New Guinea. And they could not act, even if they were able to, before they reached that base. For the present, there was nothing to do but wait.
They did not have to wait for long. Soon after they had submerged, the transition signal sounded throughout the submarine. They each felt the effects of temporal teleportation as the mammoth sub translocated to another time. Lucas bit his lower lip and stared at his two guards, who returned his gaze unblinking, both their lasers pointed directly at his midsection.
Whatever happens, Lucas thought, it won’t be long now.
Moses Forrester sat in a straight-backed chair behind a small table on the raised stage of the briefing room on the sixty-third floor of the Temporal Army Corps Headquarters building at Pendleton Base. On the table before him was a steaming mug of coffee, which was periodically freshened by his orderly. Beside the coffee mug was an ashtray into which he tossed his wooden matches, an archaic affectation, and tapped out his pipe. He smoked continually and, to pass the time, watched the terminal before him, which he had switched to outdoor scan.
The cameras showed him different views of the Departure Station sixty-three stories below. There was no sound, for he wanted none, but he could imagine the sounds out there. It was part of the world he lived in every day. Down there in the Departure Station, men and women of the Temporal Army Corps congregated in groups in the center of the giant plaza as ground shuttles zipped through the crowds, carrying the supplies and personnel to their clockout points. Many soldiers sat in the bars which ringed the plaza, enjoying a last drink or two before being clocked out to their missions. Overhead, skimmers wound their way through the maze of pedestrian spans which connected the various buildings of the base. A computer-generated voice announced departure codes and grid designations for the soldiers to report to.
Code Yellow 38, Grid 600. To the Spanish-American War. Code Green 67, Grid 515. To an arbitration action in Korea. Code Indigo 14, Grid 227. Destination-the Asteroid Belt in the 24th century, scene of the last modern, non- temporal war.
Soon it would change. The departure grids would be replaced by warp discs, but meanwhile, the new technology had not reached the regular corps yet. Only the First Division had them. Only the temporal adjustment teams and a group of renegade time pirates led by Forrester’s own son.
The soldiers sitting before him in the briefing room were very different from the regular troops assigned to arbitration conflicts, though they had all come from those ranks. Unlike those outside in the plaza, who were dressed either in disposable green transit fatigues or in period costumes-Cossacks, Mongols, Waffen SS, Rainbow Division, Vikings, Celtic knights-the commandos in the briefing room were dressed for action in blue battle suits woven from nysteel, lightweight, flexible one-piece garments that would deflect most ammunition but not, they all knew only too well, laser beams or plasma from an auto-pulser. All the commandos had their equipment at their sides, weapons and floater-paks, ready to be donned in an instant. Each had programmed his or her warp discs with the partial coordinates for the attack. They lacked only the final coding for the sequence-the precise time.
As they sat there, some napping, some talking quietly, some smoking, some eating sandwiches, others just simply staring straight ahead, the time had already passed long since. But the event of that long past time they were awaiting had not happened yet. They waited for history to change. Each hoped the change would not be significant enough to overcome temporal inertia and affect the timestream. History did not report a battle taking place in the interior of an extinct volcano on an island off the coast of Papua, New Guinea, in the 19th century. With luck, history never would report it.
Sergeant Wendy Chan, a small raven-haired, delicate-looking woman whose outward appearance gave the lie to her thin, yet exceedingly fit body which had been wounded scores of times in temporal conflicts, sat talking quietly with Staff Sergeant Martin, who nibbled on a pastrami sandwich. Captain Sullivan kept running his hands through his close-cropped black hair and rubbing his temples, trying to calm his nerves. It had been a long time since he had seen any action and he fervently hoped his battle instincts were still sharp. Lieutenant Bryant, his face calm-looking and world-weary, sat staring off into infinity, creating an aura of dispassionate isolation about himself. They were all in the same unit, yet they had never gone into battle together en masse. Outside the briefing room, the hectic activity of the base proceeded as usual. Only a few were aware of what was about to take place.
Forrester would be leading his people into battle. No one could guess his thoughts as he sat there, waiting with the rest of them, smoking his pipe and sipping coffee. He appeared perfectly composed. No one knew he was being eaten up by guilt. None of the people in the briefing room knew Drakov was his son. The last time they had met, father and son had confronted each other in deadly combat. Forrester should have killed him then, but he had been unable to. Now the time had come to pay the price, and he stared at the screen before him to avoid seeing the faces of those under his command, many of whom would soon be dead because he had failed to kill his son when he had the chance. A part of him had not been able to do it, even while another part told him that he must. He had hesitated, and he had lost. As the minutes lengthened into hours, he steeled himself for what was to come. He did not wonder if he would survive the battle. He no longer cared.
They were brought out on deck, still under guard, for their first glimpse of Drakov’s base. Verne and Land, neither of them knowing what to expect, were both awed by the sight which greeted them.
The submarine was on the surface of a giant lake inside the volcanic crater. High above them, the walls of the hollow mountain tapered to the opening, across which birds flitted as they darted from one side of the volcano to the other, their cries echoing down to them. To their left, they saw the tiers of buildings that were the quarters of the base personnel, modular units built into the rock, with catwalks connecting them. Above them, spanning the lake, were the pedestrian cable bridges across which people walked several abreast, carrying equipment or pushing dollies. To their right, the larger area of the complex was the heart of Drakov’s base. In the water near the dock was a submarine tender, toward which they slowly moved. The crewmen of the tender stood ready to receive them. Beyond the tender, in a large slip, was berthed the Valkyrie, her sails neatly furled. Overlooking the entire complex, like an eagle’s aerie, was Drakov’s house, partly carved out of the stone wall and partly built of white brick. It looked like a cross between a cliffside Pueblo Indian dwelling and a lamasery.
“Unbelievable,” said Verne, his voice almost a whisper.
“You will experience much that defies belief here, Mr. Verne,” said Drakov. “Pay close attention. You shall record all this for posterity. Here, in this burnt-out caldron, an age will end and a new one will begin. You shall see history in the making and I shall be the one to make it. Literally to make it, to shape it out of nothing.”
Finn glanced at Drakov sharply. “What are you talking about?”
“You will soon see,” said Drakov. “The time has almost come.”
The submarine was made fast to the tender and they disembarked. With Drakov leading the way, they walked down the dock and across a short stretch of beach to the main building.
They entered a large hall, with several corridors branching off from it. Lucas fought the temptation to look over his shoulder at Martingale. Their guards conducted them through the building, past the mess hall and recreation rooms, past a library, a computer center and a generating plant, toward the rear of the building and an elevator which took them up to Drakov’s house. They came out directly underneath it and circled round to a wide stair cut into the rock face, ascending to the entrance of the house.
They climbed the stairs to a small portico and a large, carved wooden door, which one of the men opened for them. They entered into a foyer with a mosaic floor and large planters placed around it. A winding stairway led to the upper story of the house. Thick carpeting covered the stairs. Oil paintings hung on the wall, mostly Pre- Raphaelite art. There were several busts, one of Julius Caesar, another of Napoleon. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. Drakov’s boots echoed on the tile floor as he turned to the left and walked out onto the veranda, a wide, tiled plaza with a brick wall running round it at about waist height. The view was spectacular. They were halfway up the side of the volcano, looking down onto the lake, the submarine and the schooner, the cable span-bridges not far below them. Drakov leaned on the wall and looked out over his domain.
“Today is T-Day,” Drakov said, still looking out over the base. “T for Transition. Transition from one age to
