Barrington Bayley - Collision with Chronos

Heshke framed a further question, but before he could speak he was astonished to hear a whining sound from above. They all glanced up, and what they saw made them shout incoherently and cringe back in sudden fear, seeking the useless shelter of the time traveller.

Against the blue of the sky a metallic shape was falling rapidly toward them. They all fumbled for their weapons. Heshke was debating the futility of fleeing when the oncoming missile, with extraordinary agility, braked and came to a landing only a few hundred yards away.

“Looks like those damned aliens are back to get us,” Ascar said through gritted teeth.

The Titan laid a cautionary hand on Heshke’s arm. “They mustn’t take us alive,” he said evenly. “It’s our duty to die by our own hands.”

“Yes, of course,” Heshke muttered.

But they all delayed the fatal moment. Heshke fingered his gun, secretly fearing to put a bullet through his own brain. Ascar snarled and stepped out a pace or two in front of the others, facing the vessel defiantly and hefting his weapon.

He’s going to try to take one or two of them with us, Heshke thought, admiring the man’s irrational courage. Perhaps I should do the same.

It surprised him that the machine standing out in the desert bore no resemblance to any of the time travellers he had seen. Vaguely, it reminded him of a space shuttle. It had an ovoidal shape and stood on its tail, supported by piston-powered legs. Just like something a human engineer would design that landed from space, he thought.

His perplexity was increased when a hatch opened and down stepped human figures. Ascar let his gun sag in his hand, while Lieutenant Gann started forward, his sharp features creasing into a frown of scrutiny.

“I’ll be damned!” Ascar exploded.

Heshke started to laugh weakly. “And you said we wouldn’t be rescued.”

“Shut up!” snapped Ascar irritably.

And Heshke did stop. The men who came toward them were not wearing either Titan uniform or Titan insignia. Neither, for that matter, did they wear the familiar combat suits.

There were three of them (three of them, three of us, Heshke told himself with relief; they must be friendly) wearing what appeared to be light, one-piece garments without badges or symbols of any kind. On their heads were simple bowl-shaped helmets each sprouting a feathery antenna. And as they came closer they held up their hands palms outward, smiling and speaking in strange, singsong voices.

Heshke put up his gun; their friendly intent was obvious. Now he could discern their faces.… Their skin was sallow, virtually yellow; their cheekbones were unnaturally high, their noses some-what flat, and they were slant-eyed.…

Heshke felt a long moment of uncontrollable nausea.

Beside him Lieutenant Gann drew in a loud, shuddering breath.

“Devs!”

Ascar fell back to join them, his pistol wavering. “Who the hell are those animals? Where did they come from? What are they doing here?” He stared wildly, half out of his mind.

There could be no doubt about it. The newcomers were not of the race of True Man. True, their points of physical difference did not make them as grotesque as some of the races mankind had fought recently, but even so anyone with even a smattering of racial science could see that they were beyond the pale of true humanity as defined by Titan anthropometricians. In other words, they belonged to a deviant subspecies.

A loud report banged in Heshke’s ears. Lieutenant Gann was firing, his face hard and determined. One of the devs spun around and fell, holding his arm where he had been hit.

Heshke drew his gun again, confused but thinking that he, too, should help fight the enemy. As it was he was given no time to fire. The two unhurt devs dropped to one knee and took careful aim with objects they held in their hands, too small for him to be able to see properly. He felt a momentary buzzing in his brain, before he lost consciousness.

Awareness returned suddenly and clearly, like a light being switched on. Nevertheless Heshke knew that there had been a lapse of time.

The strange surroundings took a few moments to become familiar with. He lay, half reclined, on a sort of chair-couch, in a room that was long and narrow, decorated at either end with burnished gold filigree. He was alone except for a yellow-faced dev who stood by an instrument with a flat grey screen, and who gave Heshke a distant, rather cold smile.

“You—all—right—now?” he asked in a weird, impossible accent, pronouncing each word slowly and carefully.

Heshke nodded.

“Good. Solly—stun.”

Heshke studied the offbeat face that belonged to his slim, youthful captor. These devs reminded him of something.… They were not representative of any modern subspecies, but he believed he had seen something like them in photographs of subspecies long exterminated. What had they been called? Shings? Chanks? It had been only a small grouping, in any case. It was perplexing to find them operating a time traveller – or spaceship? – now.

“Where are my two friends?” he demanded.

The other listened politely but did not seem to follow him. Apparently his grasp of the language was limited.

Nothing bound him to the chair-couch; he stood up and approached the dev threateningly. “What have you done with my friends?” he said, his voice rising to a shout.

The dev staved him off with a gesture; an elegant, flowing gesture.

“You–have–nothing–fear,” he said, smiling broadly. He pointed to a table on which stood various articles: a pitcher, a cup, plates of food. Then he sauntered away from Heshke, opened a door Heshke had not noticed before, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Heshke went to the table and sat down at the chair provided, inspecting the fare with great interest. From the pitcher – in passing he noticed its almost glowing glaze, its light, almost fragrant yellow colour, its fine shape – he poured a lemon-coloured liquid into the wide-brimmed cup and drank greedily. It was delicious; heavenly, unsurpassable lemonade. He drank again, and only then did he pause to examine the excellent craftsmanship involved in the cup. It was of a feather-light, bone-like material, but so thin and delicate that it was translucent. It had no decoration; its whole form was so perfect that it needed none.

He realised that he had fallen into the hands of a people who knew how to gratify the senses.

Next, being ravenously hungry, he attacked the food. It was a mixture of spiced meat, vegetables, and a near-tasteless mass of white grains he couldn’t identify. At first he was disappointed to find the meal only lukewarm – he liked his food hot – but the flavours were pleasing and he gulped it swiftly down.

Afterward, his stomach satisfied, he felt much better. He could not altogether quell his alarm at having fallen into the hands of devs – but after all, this was such a totally mysterious situation.

And he was alive – and, hopefully, would remain so. Things were much better than they had been a short while ago.

He sat brooding, exploring the room with his eyes. Its shape was pleasing, he realised. A ratio of – four to one? Hardly the proportions he would have chosen, but somehow it worked; it was aesthetic. These people, dev or not, were artists.

He remembered Blare Oblomot, and felt a sudden pang for that rebel’s protestations regarding the deviants. Poor Blare.

He became aware of a murmur of energy, barely audible through the floor. The room suddenly seemed to shift, to tilt. Then it became steady again.

Of course. He was in some kind of vehicle.

He paced the room, which was lined with horizontal slats of a honey-brown material, and stopped before the instrument the dev had been standing beside when he awoke. It was mounted on a pedestal, like a washbasin. As he came near, its flat grey screen glowed with neutral light; words appeared.