detect any problems with these LOCs until it is too late.”
Biting his lip in worry, the traitor began the adjustments. Tampering with destination was difficult. He needed the LOC activated and tuned to the main time computer to make a precise adjustment. As it was, all he could accomplish was a minimal shift. He finished, uncertain that he had achieved anything.
“This is very dangerous,” he said worriedly, selecting another probe. “If I don’t adjust it correctly, he could be thrown from the time stream completely, or-”
“Or what?”
“Or trapped in an incomplete time loop, or duplicated, or just killed.” The traitor swallowed with difficulty. “I don’t want murder on my-”
“Just get on with it. Install the limiter. It is the only guarantee we have of creating a broken time loop. We do not want them entering the Industrial Revolution or any moment of history past that. They might be able to repair the LOC.”
‘There were no fiber optics in the Victorian era,“ said the traitor harshly. ”As long as the twentieth century is avoided-“
“Do not argue. Set the limiter, and hurry! You are taking too long with this first one.”
“It’s done.” The traitor laid down his tools. He felt slightly sick.
The anarchist smiled. “Whose is it?”
“Does it matter who dies first?” said the traitor wearily.
“Yes.”
“We’ll have to call up the records. Read the serial number off the LOC and find the destination-”
“No! You know them by heart, old man. Tell me now!”
The traitor envisioned a face in his mind, a lean, tanned face with clearly etched features, hooded gray eyes, a mouth more sensitive than the sardonic curl at the corners might suggest. He wanted to weep, yet it was too late.
He whispered, “Destination was… sixth century Byzantium. The last bastion of the once mighty Roman empire. It alone stood against the crumbling of civilization, holding the last dim years before the first Dark Ages. It might almost be considered an exact parallel of our current political situation. Our best traveler is assigned to go there.”
The anarchist picked up the tampered LOC and laughed. “Not anymore. Wrong century. Wrong location. Wrong everything. When did you send him? To the Ice Age? I like that. Let him play with the Neanderthals.”
“No,” said the traitor. “It will be the fourteenth century. I–I’m not exactly sure where.”
“Good enough. Maybe he will die of the plague.”
“He’ll probably die from the anomalies in the time stream. We don’t know all the possible effects yet. We have tested and researched most carefully, but our parameters remain narrow. We can’t predict what this tampering will do.”
“Good.” Still grinning, the anarchist put the sabotaged LOC on the table and picked up the next one. He handed it to the traitor. “Do this one faster.”
A sound in the distance made the traitor glance up. This time the anarchist heard it too. For an instant they stood frozen. Then the anarchist snatched up the tube containing the remaining limiters and swore.
“You told me we had an hour, old man.”
Fear paralyzed the traitor. He stared at the door, half expecting people to come bursting through it at any moment.
‘They-they must be excited, unable to wait,“ he said. His voice was faint. He couldn’t draw enough breath to strengthen it. ”I didn’t anticipate early…“
“Come on! Show me a way out!”
The anarchist seized him roughly by the arm and slung him around. Somehow the traitor found his wits.
“There is another way out. Don’t panic,” he said.
The anarchist glared at him. “Old fool. In a few seconds I could set enough explosives to completely destroy this lab and all your precious research.”
“No-”
The anarchist gave him a violent push. “Show me then. Damn, damn, damn! All this effort for just one. My coordinator will blame you for this.”
The emergency exit door opened beneath the swift touch of the traitor’s fingers upon the lock keypad. “You got the best one,” he said, and could not keep his own grief from his voice. “He’s dedicated to bringing back the ancient values of courage, valor, sacrifice, and achievement. He thinks our way of life is too soft, too self-indulgent. He travels more than the others. Don’t worry. What we’ve done will set the project back years.”
“That is what you say.” The anarchist shoved him through into a cramped access tunnel and closed the door after them. Just before the light from the lab was clipped off, he leaned close to the traitor with a snarl. “We do not want to set back the project. We want to stop it.”
Regret welled up within the traitor, but it was too late. He could not undo what he had set into motion. “We’ll come again,” he said. “When this travel phase is finished, we’ll sabotage more LOCs.”
Something hit him in the back. For an instant he thought the anarchist had struck him with his fist. Then there was a burst of sharp pain within his chest, a pain so great that his cry died in his throat from lack of air. His lung was filling up. He could feel a swelling, a hot bubbling inside. He couldn’t breathe. Crumpling to the floor, he gazed up at his cloaked attacker in the shadows.
For a moment his mind focused in absolute clarity. He saw the fatal flaws in the anarchists’ position. He realized that as long as they moved on the sheer impulse to destroy, they could not be ordered enough to create serious damage. Yet once they found discipline, they would no longer be anarchists. They stood trapped in a loop of their own.
He almost laughed. Yet at the same time he wanted to weep. The heat in his chest grew into fire, warning him that he was drowning in his own blood. A clawing desperation to live went through him. He gripped the forearm of his attacker.
“Go back,” he gasped. ‘Tell them what you’ve done. It’s not worth this-“
“Go to hell, old man,” said the anarchist and pulled out the knife.
It was a tearing agony that wiped him in a clammy sheet of sweat. A great gout of his blood rushed forth as the knife scraped free. In that moment he knew that he had been a fool. He had destroyed a historian, a man he had known and loved as a son, and all for nothing.
Whiteness burst in his brain, wiping away all thought and feeling.
It was over.
CHAPTER 1
Soft background noise imitating ocean waves filtered through the speakers of Chicago Work Complex 7. Citizens glided on escalators and moving sidewalks through a spacious vista of glass and gleaming bronze. Although it was morning rush hour, with hundreds of people streaming into the complex for work, there was little noise beyond the soft chime of glass-enclosed lifts, the recorded ocean music, and the rush of real water from the half- story waterfall in the main reception lobby.
Despite the crowds upon the escalators or gathered at each lift station, there was no shoving, no insults, no sense of urgency. Most people wore bland, dreamy-eyed expressions. They moved slowly as though underwater, sufficiently aware of their physical surroundings to get off at the proper station, but focused primarily on the inward fantasy world created by the hologram chips implanted in their brains.
Noel Kedran, however, did not wear a head chip. He was not locked into a fantasy world, but remained firmly lodged in reality. Right now reality said that he was late.
“Hold that lift!” he called, shoving past a woman and sprinting for the elevator ahead. “Please! Hold the lift!”
The passengers already inside the lift stood like cattle. One, however, reached out and dreamily caught the closing lift doors.
