chapter four
–––
Gwon Tower
SysGov, 2980 CE
“He thinks we should do what?” Lucius Gwon exclaimed.
“Prevent the Great Plague of London,” Teodorà said.
“The hell we will!” Lucius shook his head and stepped onto a balcony high up the Gwon Estate tower’s eastern facade.
She frowned stubbornly and followed him out. She hadn’t expected him to leap at the chance, under the circumstances. Yet she was determined to convince him. She needed him if her and Samuel’s plan was to succeed. She knew that.
Winter had lingered, and the March air was frigid, but a transparent dome shielded the balcony from the outdoor air, processing it into a cool breeze, and shafts of setting sunlight blazed through the dense New York City skyline. Consolidation Spire, the seat of SysGov governance, rose high above all others, surrounded by lesser satellite structures. One of them housed ART’s own Ministry of Education, while others served other ministries, including one of the ground stations for the Consolidated System Police.
She’d thought long and hard about how to present this to Lucius. At first, she’d tried to talk Pepys—Samuel—out of it, but she’d soon realized her heart wasn’t in it. Not really. It couldn’t be, when it was so wounded by what she’d done, the atrocities for which she was responsible. And his own burning passion had astounded her only until she saw the ghosts in his eyes. Only until she remembered that this was a man who had lived through the nightmare of the plague as it happened.
That was one horror of the past Teodorà had avoided, but Samuel had brought it home to her in searing detail. The “Great Plague” was scarcely the only time bubonic plague had ravaged London. True, it was one of the worst episodes, but it had also been only the last major outbreak in Great Britain, not the first. In 1636, the year Samuel had been three years old, plague had killed ten thousand Londoners. Thirty years earlier, it had killed thirty-five thousand, and others had died, albeit in smaller numbers, in other years. But in the Great Plague, a hundred thousand people, almost a quarter of the city’s entire population, had died in less than a year.
And Samuel Pepys had been there. A young man at the time, only in his thirties, he had already assumed his duties as Secretary of the Admiralty Board, and unlike many of his superiors—including King Charles II—he’d remained at his post, in London, even as death stalked the stews and tenements of England’s largest city with merciless efficiency. According to the records Teodorà had researched since, up to eighty percent of all inhabitants had died in some of London’s most crowded districts. And then, like the capstone to a year of horrors, Samuel had watched the Great Fire of London destroy almost the entire Old City of London not twelve months later. He’d helped lead the vain efforts to fight it; he’d watched the heavens blaze with reflected flame for four endless days and three terrible nights. And he’d walked the smoldering ruins afterward, just as he’d seen the death carts rattle through those same streets with the victims of the Black Death.
No wonder those horrors were so deeply engraved upon his heart and soul. And no wonder the thought of stopping them—of sparing some other London . . . some other Samuel Pepys from that hideous nightmare—blazed so fiercely within him.
Teodorà Beckett had felt that fire. The wounded part of her, cringing from the horrors she had unwittingly wrought, had seen salvation in the same vision. Not salvation which would undo her own crimes or magically absolve her of her guilt, but one which would prove she could do good, as well as evil. She’d known his dream was impossible, that they could never convince her superiors to try such a thing. Yet that messianic fire had called to her, and so she’d delayed his transfer to Retirement. She’d used her authority to keep him in Guest Retention, instead, where they could continue their conversations.
It had been an abuse of her position, she supposed, but it wasn’t as if anyone really cared what happened inside ART anymore. And keeping him there had given time for those conversations to deepen and their relationship to shift. His gentle sympathy and understanding—his refusal to condemn her for her crimes—had done more than she would have believed possible to heal her soul. It couldn’t expunge her guilt or her sorrow, but it could bring light into her darkness . . . and draw her even more strongly toward the beacon of his insane, audacious premise that good could come out of ART after all. And in the course of those conversations, they’d become not researcher and subject but allies. Friends, really, in a way Teodorà had never known with any of the other temporal indigenes with whom she’d interacted.
The truth was that Samuel Pepys had become one of the closest friends she had ever had.
In the process, Samuel’s command of Modern English had increased dramatically. Indeed, one of her official, if feeble, justifications for delaying his transfer to Retirement had been to see how quickly and thoroughly an indigene without wetware could truly master modern language and concepts. He’d done remarkably well at that, and as his mastery improved, they’d finally realized that if they were truly serious about acting upon his proposal, it was time to move to the next step. But Teodorà was an academic, and although Samuel had been one of the greatest administrators of history and deeply versed in the politics of seventeenth-century London, he knew nothing about the inner workings of SysGov and its ministries. No, they needed someone proficient in the machinations of politics and policy formation in the thirtieth century, not the seventeenth.
And it was impossible for Teodorà to imagine anyone more proficient in those arcane arts than Lucius Gwon.
Now Lucius gripped the railing and glared at the SysPol ground station. He wore only a pair of black pants, and his chiseled physique matched those of the Greek sculptures she’d studied over her career. His IC, united so thoroughly with his mind that no one bothered distinguishing between the two, represented itself as a shifting star field within his shadow.
“To be fair,” Teodorà began, “stopping the Great Plague was only his first suggestion.”
“Oh? And were any of the others more reasonable?”
“Not really,” she admitted. “We’ve talked it over—a lot—and he eventually latched onto the idea of going all the way back to the sixth century, before the Plague of Justinian, and immunizing the entire human race.”
“Oh, is that all?” Lucius smiled scornfully. “Well, in that case, why not? He doesn’t exactly think small, does he?”
“Come on, Lucius. I’m being serious here.”
“So am I. Why would you even consider this when the Gordian Division is breathing down our necks every hour of every day? I can’t take a shit without asking their permission.”
“It’s not that bad,” she protested. “Granted, it’s bad, but not that bad.”
“Oh, I beg to differ! You haven’t had to sit through one of Vice-Commissioner Schröder’s meetings. I swear, that man can flay flesh from bones just by staring at you. It’s sometimes hard to believe he’s nothing more than a displaced indigene from the twentieth century.”
“But don’t you see? This is what we’ve been searching for. This is how we revitalize ART!”
“No, I don’t see. How are we supposed to rebuild ART by committing the same acts that got us into trouble in the first place?”
“Because this is different.” She put a hand on both his shoulders and turned him so he faced her. “We got into trouble because of all the wreckage we left strewn across history when we didn’t know what we were doing. But this time we do know, and we’ll be a force for good, not destruction. This time we’ll go back with full knowledge of what our actions mean. And with the respect the past deserves. We need to show people that our errors were committed in ignorance and nothing more. And beyond that, we need to . . . to pay back this debt we’ve accrued. Don’t tell me all the blood we’ve shed, all the blood we have on our hands, doesn’t weigh on you the same way it weighs on me, because I know better than that. I’ve watched you trying to make some sort of restitution right here in the True Present. But think about it. What better way to compensate for some of the harm we’ve done could there possibly be than to use our power to affect the past to do some good for a change? You, of all people, should know how important that is.”
Lucius grimaced, downcast eyes refusing to meet hers, but then, slowly, he began to nod. His abuses of time travel—including everything from sexual escapades with famous women to dropping modern war machines into ancient battles just to see what happened—had led to the ugliest scandal in ART history. The Gordian Knot wasn’t really what had ruined ART and everyone associated with it. The near disaster of the Knot might have brought ART’s “rescue missions” into the past to a screeching halt, but what had truly destroyed it were the ways in which some of its personnel had amused themselves . . . and the realization that every single thing they’d done had actually happened to someone, even if that someone lived in a different universe. Lucius was scarcely the only offender, but she had to admit he’d probably been the worst offender.
She’d heard rumors of his perversions even before he’d invited her to that first candlelit dinner in Renaissance Italy. For that matter, Lucius himself had never made any attempt to hide them from her after they started dating, and he’d even invited her along for some of his tamer adventures. She’d demurred every time, but he’d never taken offense. She supposed he’d treated it as just a difference in tastes.
Warning signs had swirled around him, but she’d ignored them because Lucius wasn’t just a charming and enthusiastic lover. Oh, he was both of those things, and smart, with a sharp and biting wit, whenever he chose to use it. And for all his occasional . . . quirks, he’d been not simply a brilliant and capable researcher but a superb and gifted administrator. Whatever else might be said of him, and making all due allowance for the Gwon family’s wealth and influence, Lucius had earned his post as Chairman of the Antiquities Rescue Trust and every one of the other accolades he’d received over the decades of his career.
All of that was true, and it had made him as intriguing as he was attractive. But it was also true that their relationship had been the fast track for her own career, as well. And, if she was being honest with herself, she’d allowed that consideration to guide her actions far more than it should have.
Still, the price had seemed worth it. She’d been able to choose any expedition she wanted, and she’d always received top billing for the ART exhibits those expeditions produced. Her career had soared to meteoric heights. But then, just when she’d thought it could get no better, her dream had crashed back to earth in destruction and horror.
The Gordian Protocol had changed everything. Time travel wasn’t consequence-free, and it certainly wasn’t safe. Instead, it was a sinister hydra that could consume whole universes if roused, and it needed to be approached with the utmost care.
Every shortcut ART had taken, from kidnapping indigenes to ransacking ancient wonders, had flipped from efficient mission design to monstrous atrocity. The blood on her own hands had kept her awake at night—so much so that she’d updated her synthoid with a forced sleep mode.
And it had taken its toll on Lucius, too. More so, in fact, given his history of abuses and his responsibility, as ART’s chairman, for every single thing it had done.
Teodorà’s career had lain in ruins and her lover had been outed as a mass murderer (even if said murders had been committed in ignorance), but she hadn’t left. She’d stuck by both ART and Lucius, and she’d had no plans to leave either of them. Half of that was because no one wanted to hire ex-ART, even if she’d been willing to go, but the other half was because she’d seen a genuine change for the better in Lucius.
It was painfully true that many organizations were leery of hiring ex-ART, but Lucius had used the Gwon family’s vast network of government and corporate contacts to find positions for those staff members who’d wanted out. He wasn’t always successful, but more often than not his persistent efforts had paid off. He’d even found a way to slip Teodorà into a low-level position in President Byakko’s administration. She’d declined the offer, but she’d appreciated the gesture.
Lucius had taken up a few political causes, as well—most notably the Mercury Historical Preservation Society. She wasn’t sure why he’d become one of their spokesmen. Some people, like those members of ART who would never forgive him for their collective fall from grace, contended that he had to have an ulterior motive and pointed out that the Society had a habit of looking the other way when evaluating potential allies. What better or easier place for someone like him—which was to say a calculating narcissist—to seek at least a form of public image rehabilitation? But Teodorà had seen his face, listened to his voice . . . and seen even more of the Gwon fortune flowing into the Society’s coffers. And at the end of the day, did his reasons truly matter? He’d become a prominent activist on the side of preserving Mercury for future generations and even used his history with ART to make his case. He’d pointed out that ART’s fall from grace was one more reason everyone in SysGov should be cautious of unfettered progress. Everyone had thought no one could damage the timestream, but they’d all been wrong. Would SysGov one day discover that demolishing an entire planet simply as a source of raw materials had been . . . similarly unwise?
He’d traveled extensively throughout the solar system in the weeks leading up to the critical Senate vote, a taxing task for someone still in an organic body, and his eloquent pleas had even met with some success. Teodorà was certain his influence had led directly to all three Venerian senators flipping their votes. Of course, the Society’s membership had always contained a disproportionate number of Venerians. They didn’t care that Mercury was uninhabitable, which wasn’t too surprising, perhaps, given their indifference to the terraforming of their own planet. Most were perfectly happy to live in aerial paradises over a molten hellscape—indeed, it was a part of their own world’s self-image, and Sky Pirates of Venus was one of the most popular VR games in the entire solar system. Lucius knew that, and he’d tapped exactly the right cultural notes to sway their senators.
The final vote had still been 28 to 14 in favor of Mercury’s destruction, but it would have been even more lopsided without his efforts. And the number of nays had not only prompted additional scrutiny of the entire concept but led directly to the creation of the Mercury Oversight Commission, which would be required to sign off on every stage of the project.
All in all, his efforts to help ex-ART staff and his surge of activism had led Teodorà to a simple, inescapable conclusion. Lucius truly felt remorse for his actions, and she’d watched him come to terms with his crimes, piece by piece, as he strove to make whatever amends he could. He might still be more self-focused and self-absorbed—even petulant—than she could wish, from time to time, yet she found it increasingly difficult to hold her own temper when someone started in on him again. Yes, he’d made plenty of mistakes. So had everyone else, hadn’t they? And at least he’d faced his past and was trying to do something about it!
“I see your point,” he said finally. “Maybe there’s something to his suggestion after all.”
“Then you agree with us?” she asked eagerly, but he held up a finger.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You explained to Pepys that we can’t change history? Not really.”
“I did. I told him we can cause it to branch, but that’s it. The concept of the multiverse was a lot to take in on top of everything else, but he managed just fine. The truth is, he’s a remarkably intelligent, mentally flexible man. He certainly grasped the essentials of the concept faster than I would have in his place!”
“I’ll bet.” The edges of Lucius’s lips curled upward. “Okay, let’s say I’m tentatively on board with this. We still have the problem of getting approval.” He stared off into the distance, his eyes narrowing. “Unless . . . ”
“Unless what?”
Lucius rubbed the stubble on his chin. He turned to the SysPol tower once more, his eyes fixed on it, and his expression took on an air of intense contemplation.
“You have an idea?” Teodorà asked.
“Maybe. Just give me a moment to think this through.” He closed his eyes and bowed his head. The stars in his shadow flew with ever increasing speed, becoming short lines of blurred motion, and she leaned back against the balcony railing and waited. After what seemed a very long time, he opened his eyes once more.
“There’s a way we can make this happen,” he declared then. “But you’re not going to like it.”
“And why’s that?”
He snapped his fingers. The dome over the balcony turned opaque, and the star field in his shadow vanished. Teodorà had seen that happen enough times to know his IC was locking down the surrounding infostructure. Whatever Lucius was about to say, he wanted to make certain only she heard it.
She swallowed and something fluttered in her synthoid stomach.
“Let’s step inside for this.”
He beckoned for her to join him, and she followed him into the bedroom where crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the expansive oval bed.
“All right,” she said. “What are you thinking?”
“Look,” he began, “we both know this proposal has a snowball’s chance in hell of getting approved. I mean, you do realize that, right?”
“Of course I do,” she conceded. “But we have to try.”
“Trying is all fine and good, but if we want it to succeed”—he flashed a sly grin—“we may have to take an . . . unorthodox approach.”
“How unorthodox?” she asked.
That flutter in her middle was getting worse.
“First, before we can present this idea at all—in any form—I’m going to have to do some spadework. I’m still chairman of ART, but I have exactly zero influence with that bastard Schröder, and he’s the real keeper of the keys now, damn it. On the other hand, I do still have friends at the ministerial level, and some of their assistants owe me favors, too. If I can work on them for a few days, Shadow and I can probably bring several of them onboard. Not enough to shift the committee, but enough to give us some subtle cover for what we’ll actually have to do.”
“You’re making me nervous,” she told him frankly.
“Good. You should be. This isn’t going to be a game, Teodorà. Not if you’re really serious about it. Are you?”
She looked up into his face, seeing the challenge in his eyes, and thought long and hard. Yet the truth was that her sense of guilt and the searing possibility of doing something about it never left her final decision in doubt.
“I am,” she said firmly.
“All right, then let’s assume they shoot down the plague cure proposal, even after I’ve had time to do that spadework. We’ll need a fallback. Something innocuous, at least when compared to spawning a child universe. But what could . . . Ah!” He clapped his hands together. “Perhaps we suggest returning Pepys to the past.”
“Are you sure? I mean, we have the phase coordinates from when we picked him up, so I guess it’s technically possible to return to the right cord variant. But he’s a very significant historical figure, and now you’re piling his return on top of the original change of pulling him out. That might be enough of a disruption right there to create a new universe.”
“True enough.” He waved dismissively. “But it doesn’t matter. We can mull it over and decide what our backup proposal will be later.”
“I don’t get it. Why doesn’t it matter?”
“Because all we really need is a TTV. Once we have that and we’re on our way, we can proceed with curing the plague.”
“What? Without SysGov’s permission?”
“Yes.”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely,” he replied flatly, and she stepped back and shook her head.
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this!”
“Once we’re back in the past, there’s nothing they can do to stop us. All we need is permission to leave and a time machine. After that, we can create this plague-free Utopia Pepys wants.”
“But Lucius, what you’re proposing is illegal! It’s profoundly illegal, and Samuel and I want to do this openly, legally, without the kind of shortcuts that got all of us into so much trouble in the first place!”
“I know it’s illegal,” he said patiently. “But what you have to know—what you have to admit—is that there’s not a single chance in hell that anyone is going to let us do something that’s guaranteed to split off a child universe. Not after what happened with the Gordian Knot.” He shook his head. “I know there’s a huge difference between this—simply creating a single child universe—and the kind of massive temporal disruption that created the Knot. But everyone—and I mean everyone—in SysPol and SysGov is running scared of any possible repetition. And that bastard Schröder is keeping the heat turned up as high as he can, too. So, if you and your friend Pepys are serious about accomplishing this, you have to face the fact that no one is going to let us do it legally.”
“Violating the Gordian Protocol carries the death penalty!”
“Believe me, I know that, too,” he said with an edge of exasperation. “Vice-Commissioner Schröder’s made his intentions abundantly clear on that point. He’s not taking any chances. He’ll pursue the maximum penalty against any violators, and as much as I hate him, I take him very, very seriously.”
“Then why are you even suggesting something this crazy? I don’t want to die, Lucius!”
“Because you’re right. Because it’s the right thing to do. And you’re the one who convinced me of that. Why do you think I was so resistant at first? Because I didn’t think it was worth doing? The hell I didn’t! You’re not the only one who’s felt guilty over all the things we’ve done, Teodorà. And I’ve got a hell of a lot more to feel guilty over than you do. So of course I want a chance to make amends. But I’m not really the bravest person I know, and the thought of what Schröder will do to us if we try this and we screw it up is pretty damn terrifying. That’s why I didn’t want anything to do with it.
“But the more I told you why it couldn’t be done, the more I realized it has to be done. Or that something like it has to be done, anyway. We owe too much to too many people, Teodorà. I can’t put the life back into all the people I killed or helped kill. I wish to God I could! But this . . . Maybe we can do this, and if we can . . . ”
He gazed deep into her eyes, and she felt the pain inside him reaching out to the pain inside her. Felt the determination radiating off him like smoke. It wasn’t the same as Samuel’s. It was . . . harder. Or sharper, perhaps. Samuel had the strength of bedrock sincerity, but Lucius had the power of his passion, as well. He always had been fiercer than she was, she thought. Always the hawk, the raptor, riding the wind and embracing the challenge—driven to triumph. Whatever else might have changed inside him, he still retained that need to show the universe—the entire multiverse—what Lucius Gwon could do when he set his mind to it. It was what had made him so dangerous when he yielded to the darkness in the belief that he was actually harming no one by what he did.
But that belief had been taken from him by the proof of how many people he had harmed, and the fierceness needed a different challenge. It needed absolution, she thought, and she and Samuel had offered it to him.
“So there it is,” he said now, gripping her upper arms, looking down at her. “ART does have a debt—I have a debt—and you’ve found a way for me to pay it down by doing some real good. By changing the past for the better!”
She looked up into those eyes, into the crystal-clear purpose blazing like a nova’s heart in their depths.
“So which is it going to be?” he asked. “What’s legal? What’s safe? Or what you know in your heart—what we both know in our hearts—is right?”