What kind of shit was all that?
A terrible thought came to mind. I didn’t know much about the effect of Psi synergy between two dueling Gaussicals (of course, neither did anyone else), but it wasn’t written anywhere that it couldn’t produce a sort of collateral clairvoyance. So were these visions glimpses of the future? Advance notices of our inexorable defeat and Makrow’s victory, in spite of it all?
I hesitated, I admit. For one terrible instant, everything I had been fighting for seemed stripped of meaning and the cold tentacles of defeat and dismay gripped me tight. Nothing but chaos, destruction, war, death? Was there no way out? After all we’d been through? After Slovoban’s last-second lifesaving intervention, after he’d kept himself alive through I don’t know what miracle?
Then I noticed that, emerging from the whirling blades, between scenes of chaos and death were other images, less distinct: a human delegation touching down on a planet that I knew from its heavy, rough landscape and overwhelming illumination to be Colossa, even though I’d never seen it before; a string of megastations like the Burroughs spread across the entire Solar System, all operated and occupied by humans; my own gilded face in a silver holographic frame; the Trade Confederation Council awarding a recognition to Old Man Slovoban, who wore a dress uniform that must have consumed more fabric than the sails of a brigantine.
Perhaps all was not lost yet.
“I know what you’re thinking, Raymond.” For the first time, the Old Man had called me by my name. “I also think those are possible futures,” he said thoughtfully, verbalizing my intuition. “In fact, though I’m no expert in Psi, I’d dare to hypothesize that a Gaussical’s power consists in being able to select among them all through some unconscious means, or something of the sort. Take a good look, buratino. If we survive, we’ll have been eyewitnesses to one of the most mysterious forces in the galaxy.” He lifted his mask, his wizened and misshapen face twisted into a caricature of attentiveness. “But really look. I think things are changing. Maybe Vasily isn’t getting the best of it after all. What do you think?”
Silently, I had to agree: judging from the simple proportion between visions of hypothetical bright tomorrows in which we were triumphant and dark ones where Makrow had won, the Cetian was prevailing. In the blades of light, the alternatives in which Vasily, Slovoban, and I managed to muddle through somehow grew progressively smaller and fainter, while there were more and more visions of chaos, death, war, Makrow as emperor of the universe, the end of the Trade Confederation and of life on Earth, the bizarre spiny insect-lizard creatures laying waste to the universe….
“Yes, it looks like Makrow will win after all,” I had to admit at last, and it depressed me to do so. But hope dies hard. “If the cavalry doesn’t arrive first, of course.” Then another terrible certainty began to emerge in my positronic circuits. How had I missed it earlier? If Slovoban had taken so long to get here from as nearby as Module 15, it meant that….
“Well, that’s was I wanted to talk to you about. I don’t think Vasily can expect help from anyone but us.” The Old Man’s words fell like a bucket of ice water on the flickering embers of my optimism. “Haven’t you figured out yet that something very weird is going on with time? I was less than a hundred yards away when the bomb went off, and I ran straight here with all the strength of my suit. But by my watch, it took me more than two hours to arrive. The funny thing is that I never had the impression that I had slowed my pace at all. And look at these two—”
“You mean they’re generating some kind of… temporal discontinuity? That’s nonsense! Outside of a hyperspace portal, it’s theoretically impossible. Time is relativistic,” I started to say, quite sure about the small bit of physics I knew. But when I looked where he was pointing, I shut up immediately: not at Makrow 34 and Vasily, but at one of the side entrances to the module’s transit hall.
Two survivors of the white-robed human-bomb were just about to leave the module, looking exactly like people who were running as fast as their legs could carry them.
Except that, from my perspective, they were practically motionless; one of them was even suspended impossibly in midair. Only with my acute electronic vision could I perceive that his legs and arms were indeed moving, infinitesimally.
I shouldn’t have been surprised—not after seeing the orange Pegasus, the hail, the flying ants, and all the rest, right? But all the same, it simply floored me.
“You’re right. This is a time acceleration zone. Time is passing at least ten thousand times faster than normal, and those two are the epicenter,” I heard myself say, in the pedantic, neutral tone I’ve always hated. “Remarkable. Very interesting.”
“Maybe, for a physicist. For us, and especially for Vasily, it’s terrible.” Looking at me sidelong, Old Man Slovoban again unsheathed his long sword and lowered the fierce Japanese war mask over his already masklike face. “Okay, buratino, what are you planning to do? This means that if we don’t help him ourselves… ” His voice was distorted by the metal sounding board inside the mask. “I still think we most likely have a bit of a chance, though. There’s a possible future which, from what I can tell, neither of them has taken
