Sean Dalton - Time trap

“You’re late,” said the traitor.

“What is the code phrase?”

“We won’t have enough time to accomplish everything.”

“What is the code phrase?”

Feeling slightly ridiculous, the traitor sucked in a breath and replied, “Freedom or death.”

The shadow vaguely outlined in the darkness gave the countersign: “Unless we are willing to squander lives, there can be no freedom.”

The traitor frowned. The propaganda these anarchists spouted made him uneasy. But they had offered him more money than he could refuse. His debts, his needs, made him vulnerable.

“Very well,” he whispered. He took off his identity badge and inserted it into the first set of security doors locking the Time Institute. As he led the shadow down a silent corridor, his own heartbeat thumping in his ears, he told himself that had the Institute remained strictly concerned with historical research according to its original specifications, he would never have betrayed it. But when the Institute used its resources to influence modern politics, to dare impose past structures upon today’s society, to mold the way people thought… that was wrong.

The traitor unlocked three sets of security doors in swift succession. Only then did he brush his hand over the photocell to manually activate the lights.

He saw the anarchist revealed as a thin young man wrapped in a hooded cloak. The anarchist’s eyes burned with the fervor of a fanaticist.

“Quickly!” he said. “Show me the records. Show me the lab and equipment.”

A band constricted the traitor’s throat. He thought of the travelers, all eminent historians in their specialized fields, all human beings of worth and creativity. Some of them were his friends; others he merely knew as colleagues. After today, at least half of them would be dead, cast adrift forever within the time streams. Were political ideals worth murder?

“Hurry, I said!” The anarchist plucked at his sleeve. “There is less than an hour before the first work shift arrives.”

The traitor roused himself from his moral paralysis. “You’re the one who came late.”

“Never mind. I am here now. Show me the equipment.”

The traitor took him to Laboratory 14, a gleaming white expanse of assembly tracks, motionless manufacture robots, coiled sheets of alloy, and delicate optic filaments kept sealed from dust in clear acrylic boxes.

Eight small objects stood in a row upon a polished steel table. Each was the size of a wide bracelet. Each held state-of-the-art components designed to interface with the main time computer. Each contained an advanced data retrieval and storage system miniaturized to the size of a thumbnail. Most wondrous of all, each possessed the capability of molecular shift. This allowed the bracelet to assume the shape and appearance of any object that would fit into the particular location and time visited by the wearer.

“The Light Operated Computer,” whispered the traitor with reverence. “The best we’ve ever devised. Refinements in these models took seven months of round-the-clock work. They’ve been tested and modified to-”

“Never mind the lecture,” broke in the anarchist. He seized one and held it up so that the light shone through its clear sides. “You may have refined the LOCs, but essentially they still operate on the same old light transmission theory.”

He drew forth a fold of waterproof cloth and unrolled it to reveal a set of highly specialized tools, some of them with points no larger than the head of a pin. From among them he picked up a slim black tube, finger narrow, and handed it to the traitor.

“These are the limiter components. Install them quickly.”

The traitor sucked in his breath as he accepted the tube. He felt the urge to take them to his microscope and check them for precise alignment of compatibility codes, but he quelled the impulse. It was not necessary.

Sweat broke out upon his forehead. “You have the money?”

“We will settle up later, old man.”

“We’ll settle now!”

For a moment there was only silence, with the traitor’s shout echoing faintly. Then the anarchist bowed his head.

He produced a slim card and handed it to the traitor. “Already credited to your account.”

The thin card felt slick and cold beneath the traitor’s fingers. He checked the credit line, and felt himself breathe easier. It was worth it, he told himself. Calm returned to him.

Securing the card within his smock pocket, he clamped on a set of goggle scanners designed to magnify the microscopic-sized circuitry within the light fibers.

“Which ones?” he asked.

The anarchist smiled. He had discolored teeth, and his smile showed no amusement. “You choose.”

Although the LOCs were theoretically identical, each one contained an organic coding that linked it to its wearer. Thus, one LOC could not be substituted for another. If the wrong person attempted to use a LOC it would not activate. Because each historian on the team had a different personality and research style, the LOCs tended to reflect the idiosyncrasies of their owners.

One LOC, for example, always looked slightly more ornate than the others. Another tended to have a pink tint. Yet another resisted internal code changes and upgrade implants.

Hesitating, the traitor reached out and finally selected one. Selecting a tiny laser probe, he used it to open the casing.

“What is this one’s destination?” asked the anarchist.

“I–I don’t remember.”

The anarchist seized his smock and twisted it about his throat. “Yes, you do. Tell me!”

The twisted cloth cut cruelly into the traitor’s neck. Gasping, he stared up into the mad eyes of his coconspirator and dropped the laser probe.

It clattered upon the polished floor, and the anarchist released his grasp. Coughing, the traitor sagged forward over the table.

The anarchist picked up the laser probe and handed it to him. “Tell me.”

“Why don’t you just have me set the LOC to destruct within the time stream,” gasped the traitor, wiping his eyes.

“We are not that crude,” said the anarchist with a quick glance at the wall chronometer. “Just make minor adjustments to skew the destinations.”

“It’s not that easy,” said the traitor. “If we tamper with history in any way, we could erase our existence altogether-”

“Shut up, old man. I know the primary rule of time travel. Despite our more inflammatory rhetoric, I realize that sometimes it is better to cripple a thing than to kill it. With their best historians trapped within time loops, the officers of the Time Institute will have to mark this project a failure. It will be shut down, and our purpose will advance.”

The traitor thought he heard a sound in the distance. He clutched the anarchist’s arm. “Someone’s coming!”

“Quiet!” The anarchist ran silently to the door and listened there while the traitor felt his heartbeat thundering. It was almost time for the first shift to come in.

“Nothing,” said the anarchist, returning. “Don’t try that trick again. Get to work, and make sure they do not 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-”