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Message-ID: <49978asstr$1103645405@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Al Steiner" <do_not_resuscitate_ever@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} A Perfect World by Al Steiner, Ch 14
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Date: Tue, 21 Dec 2004 11:10:05 -0500
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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A Perfect World

By Al Steiner



Chapter 14



Slurry, Ken, and Rigger Johannesburg, Slurry's boss, stood atop the elevated
first tee block of the Point Three-Eight Golf and Country Club. Their golf
bags, which were strapped securely into robotic wheeled transporters, sat
idly behind them. The grass of the tee block and of the fairway that
stretched out before them was a lush and rich green, neatly trimmed and
maintained by an army of city paid landscapers. The ceiling over the golf
course was very high, almost 500 meters up.



Slurry was peering through a set of digital enhancement binoculars and range
finders that had been issued to each member of the threesome along with the
transporter carts. "It looks like they're far enough away now," she told her
companions, referring to the foursome that had set off on the hole in front
of them. "Go ahead and fire it up, Ken."



"Fuckin' aye," Ken said, plugging a white golf ball and a plastic tee into
the springy grass between the championship tee blocks. He stepped back from
the ball and peered down the straight fairway. He could not see the pin but
he could make out two lakes and three sand bunkers in the general vicinity
of the landing area. "What's the range on this hole again?" he asked Slurry.



She consulted her PC, upon which a course schematic and ball locator program
had been loaded. "768 meters from the blue tees," she told him. "Par four."



"768 meters," he said wonderingly. "Ain't that some shit?"



Though Ken and Slurry were both golf enthusiasts, this was their first trip
to the infamous Point Three-Eight Club, which derived its name from the fact
that it was the only course on Mars to utilize natural Martian gravity
instead of the artificial kind. Mars gravity was .38G, equal to about a
third of standard Earth gravity.



"Remember," said Rigger, who had invited them and had paid the outrageously
high price demanded for a round, "air pressure friction will be the same as
on any other course. We're still at Earth sea level standard. It's just the
gravity that's different. This means your ball will go a little more than
twice as far as on a regular course and any mistakes you make in aiming or
slicing will be compounded by a factor of two."



"As if I wasn't bad enough as it is," said Ken, who was exaggerating
considerably. Since starting his career as a Hummingbird pilot he had ample
free time to perfect his golf game. His Martian Golf Association official
handicap stood at a solid 9, much better than the 21 he had maintained in
his previous life.



He lined up for his shot and took a few practice swings, getting the feel of
the club in the reduced gravity. Finally he addressed the ball and took a
deep breath. Slurry and Rigger stood silently behind him, not wanting to
disturb his concentration. He took one last look down the fairway and then
at the ball. Smoothly and confidently, he took his shot, the driver making
good contact and blasting the ball away from the tee with a resounding and
satisfying smack.



"A tight pussy of a shot," Rigger said, impressed. "I think you're gonna
like it."



Ken just stared, amazed, as the ball flew effortlessly in a high ballistic
arc, still going up after passing the 200-meter mark. It dwindled with
distance and soon disappeared from his sight entirely. The monitor on his
PC, which was tracking the ball by means of a cellular triangulation
receiver, told him it had landed 538 meters from the tee block and rolled
another twenty meters after that. He had just hit a golf ball more than half
a kilometer.



Rigger, a veteran of this course and a 4-handicap player, quickly outdid
him. He blasted his tee shot 567 meters directly down the center of the
fairway.



"Nice fuckin' shot," Slurry said, putting her own ball into the ground.
Though she was a 6 handicap herself, she was quite unused to maneuvering
about in reduced gravity. When she took her swing her weight shifted more
than she wanted it too. She lost her balance and fell to the ground next to
the tee, uttering a grunt of embarrassment. Her golf ball traveled less than
a hundred meters, arcing off into the deep rough alongside the fairway.



"That's an ass-fuck with a reversible drill," Rigger commented as his
protégé picked herself up off the ground. "Don't worry. You'll get used to
it."



"Now I know what the WestHem marines went through when they tried to jack
the planet from us," she said good-naturedly. One of the major factors in
the WestHem defeat during the Martian Revolution had been the unfamiliarity
of the invading marines with reduced gravity. They had found it difficult to
walk on the surface and up and down hills, frequently stumbling and falling.
They had also found it hard to hit the dirt when under attack since the
gravity pulled them much more slowly toward said dirt than they were used
to.



The threesome walked off toward their balls, their electric carts trailing
obediently behind them. All three were sipping from bottles of beer even
though it was only 0800 in the morning. Ken had long since learned to
disregard the taboo against pre-noon drinking he had been raised with.



Slurry's second shot was a bit smoother. She blasted it out of the rough and
back into the fairway 340 meters downrange. They then had to wait a bit
while the group in front of them cleared the green. As they did they all
passed a joint back and forth, getting pleasantly stoned.



"You know what smoking bud does to me," Slurry warned Ken after exhaling her
last hit.



"Why do you think I gave you some?" he asked slyly, knowing that before the
round was finished she would be giving him a blowjob at the very least.
Marijuana made her extremely horny.



"Schemer," she said, slapping at him playfully. It was a gesture that was
mostly sincere but Ken, even through his own stoned haze, was able to see
the underlying dread that seemed to pop up in her more and more frequently
these days. Their relationship had never completely recovered from whatever
had happened to Slurry that one awful night.



In most aspects they were still happy newlyweds. They spent as much time
together as they possibly could. They went golfing at least once a week and
botching every weekend. Every night after work they ate dinner together,
either a home cooked meal or one prepared at one of the many favorite
restaurants they had discovered. Most importantly, however, their ability to
communicate with other-the foundation of their relationship-was still
intact. They still loved talking to each other and were still best friends.
Their favorite activity remained nothing more than simple conversation. It
didn't matter if the subject was historical literature or aspects of the
Martian constitution or who had the nicest tits at each other's respective
workplace, they could and did still talk.



But at the same time, something had definitely changed about Slurry. She had
clearly marked certain conversational subjects as off limits and she
absolutely refused to talk about them. The most significant of these
subjects was whatever it was that had pissed her off so badly on that night
two months before. True to her word, she would not discuss it, would, in
fact, hardly acknowledge that the incident had even occurred. If he tried to
bring it up, either directly or in a roundabout way, she would change the
subject, clam up completely, or, if he persisted, simply leave the room. The
other taboo issue was that of children. Any attempt he made to reopen that
topic was just as neatly cut off at the knees.



Still, things had gone as they should as long as Ken stayed away from those
forbidden topics. Most of the time he was able to forget about the dark spot
on their marriage, as Slurry seemed to have done. As she had said she would,
it seemed she had forgiven him in advance for whatever it was that she
thought he was going to do to her. At least that was how things had been
until three days ago.



On that day, Slurry had called him at the end of her workday and told him
she had an emergency meeting to attend and would be home late. She had come
home at the time she said she would, and didn't smell of intoxicants, but
ever since then her attitude had undergone another significant change. It
was subtle, something only her husband would have noticed, but to Ken it was
as plain as the nipples on her tits (as the Martian expression went). She
didn't smile as much and her conversations with him seemed strained, even
when discussing benign and neutral things. She wanted to spend more time
alone, often shutting herself into the study for hours. He had even detected
the swelling and redness of eyes, the telltale symptoms of crying. As with
everything else that fell under the umbrella of being related to that night,
she refused to discuss it with him or to even acknowledge there was anything
to discuss. Even when asking him to go on this golf trip-something that had
once been a high point of their relationship-he sensed an air of dread and
sadness about her. The smile and affection he'd just enjoyed-though a shadow
of its former self-was the best he'd had from her all week.



Rigger finished up the hole by sinking a neat, twelve-meter putt for birdie.
Ken, though he had put his ball on the green in a regulation two shots,
still ended up with a bogey since he was unfamiliar with putting in .38
gravity. Slurry, even more unfamiliar with reduced gravity, finally managed
to chip on the green with her fourth shot and three-putt for a triple-bogey.



"You'll get the hang of it, Slurry," Rigger promised as they cleared the
green and headed for the next hole.



She gave him a sour look, the same one she'd been sporting for most of the
past seven days. "Yes," she said. "If there's one thing I'm getting good at,
it's getting used to things, huh?"



Ken let the comment lie, even though he knew it was directed at him. They
mounted the next tee block, which overlooked a monstrous 876-meter par five
that doglegged 45 degrees to the right. Slurry employed her binoculars and
found the foursome in front of them was just approaching their initial
drives. They settled in to wait, Rigger pulling out a cigar and Ken pulling
out a cigarette. They sparked up, puffing fragrant tobacco smoke into the
still air. Rigger and Slurry passed a few looks between them, seeming to
employ some sort of silent communication Ken was unable to fathom. He was
just about to ask what was going on when Slurry spoke up.



"Ken, there's something that... well... that Rigger and I want to ask you,"
she said, having trouble getting the words out.



"What's that?" he asked, looking at them carefully. Their expressions were
pained and serious at the same time.



Slurry sighed. "Because of your... well... your background, the MHAD has
asked me to ask you if they could... well... employ you in a certain
capacity."



"My background?" he said, raising his eyebrows. "Do you mean my..." he cast
a look at Rigger. "My origins?"



"Rigger knows about you," she said. "I hope you don't mind, and I know I
should have asked you first before sharing details of your life with my
co-workers, but it seemed like a very important thing."



He was a bit taken aback by the fact that she had done this. Though he was
not nearly as paranoid as he had once been about revealing his background,
it was still something he preferred to keep close, if for no other reason
than to avoid being labeled as different. "It's all right," he said. "Kind
of, anyway. But what exactly do you mean about... employing me? Does someone
want to interview me?"



"Not exactly," Slurry said. She looked to Rigger for help and he promptly
picked up the thread.



"Ken," he said, "please don't be angry with Slurry for sharing your unique
upbringing with us. She did keep your personal life to herself until a
certain issue recently came to our attention at the MHAD. This is an issue
she felt you would be able to assist us-and subsequently the Martian
government itself-with. That is the only reason she let us know where you'd
come from."



"What issue are we talking about here?" he asked.



"I'm afraid I can't really give you any details at the moment. If you agree
to help us you will be cleared for top-secret material and then everything
will be explained in detail."



"Well, what is it you want me to do?" he asked next. "I'm not going to agree
to anything if I don't know what it is first."



Slurry and Rigger looked at each other again, both sharing another moment of
silent communication that ended in mutual shrugs. "Let's just say," Rigger
finally said, "that your intimate knowledge of twentieth and early
twenty-first century life in America would be invaluable to a project being
put together. You don't have to decide whether or not to do it right now.
All we ask for is your agreement to go through the security clearance
process so we can then explain what we wish you to do. If, at that point,
you do not wish to help us, it is your right and obligation as a Martian
citizen to tell us to go fuck ourselves. Every other member of the project
would be expected to do the same."



"I see," he said, although he really didn't.



"So... so... what do you say?" Slurry asked, her eyes giving Ken mixed
messages. She seemed to be desperate for him to agree and disagree at the
same time.



He looked at Rigger, seeing he was eagerly anticipating a reply as well. He
obviously wanted Ken to say yes. Rigger was one of the most emotionless
people Ken had ever met. Whatever this project was, it had to be big to make
him act antsy like that. He looked back at Slurry. "Can I talk to you alone
for a minute?"



"Uh... sure," she said.



They stepped off the tee block into the shadow of a portable restroom about
30 meters away. Rigger stayed behind.



"What do you think I should do?" Ken asked Slurry. "I presume you know
exactly what's going on here, right?"



"Not exactly," she said. "But I know most of it. Enough."



"I can see you have mixed emotions about... about whatever we're not talking
about here. Tell me what's on your mind."



She sighed again, going through some sort of internal struggle. "Part of me
wants to say you should tell us to take a flying fuck at Phobos. But that's
the personal part of me, the heart." She shook her head. "Oh fuck it, I
won't be violating anything by saying this much. What we're going to ask you
to do is dangerous, Ken, maybe one of the most dangerous things ever
attempted."



"Dangerous in what way?" he asked.



"Physically, emotionally, metaphysically, every which way," she said. "I
don't think I can say any more at the moment, but my point has been made, I
think. This is not just an interview for your knowledge. You'll be asked to
put your life on the line."



Metaphysically? What the hell did that mean? He let that lie for the moment.
"Well, I do have some common sense, Slurry," he told her. "If I think
whatever you're talking about is too dangerous, I will say no."



"You won't think it's too dangerous," she said gloomily. "If you agree to
hear what we have to say, you'll say yes. I already know that."



"You can't know that," he said.



"I do," she said stubbornly, insistently.



"So you want me to turn you down?" he asked. "I will if you ask me to. This
isn't hydro-diving into Saturn, apparently. If you really think it's too
dangerous, if you really don't want me to do it, I won't."



She let her head fall down for a moment, so she was staring at the cement
path that led to the shithouse. "Oh Laura," she moaned. She looked back up
at him. "That's what my heart is telling me to say," she told him. "But I'm
also a Martian and I have to listen to my brain as well."



"And your brain says?"



"My brain says this is something that could potentially affect the entire
history of Mars. It's that important. And your involvement in what we want
to do is a vital part of what is being planned. You could mean the
difference between Mars standing and Mars falling."



"You're shitting me," he said.



"I wish I were," she replied. "I'm not. You really would be a key part of
this... this mission. And so, even though I know the danger, even though I
know what you're going to..." she trailed off, as if she had almost said too
much. "Even with all that, I have to ask you to come in and hear what we
have to say. I have to beg you to do that, in fact. Mars needs you, Ken.
Please help us."



"Are you sure, Slurry?" he asked, unconvinced of her sincerity.



"Yes," she said with a nod. "I'm sure."



"Okay," he said. "I'll go in."



+++++



The next day the process of granting Ken one of the rare top-secret security
clearances issued by the Martian government was undertaken. Since Ken was a
first generation Martian, meaning he had been born on Earth, he technically
did not qualify for such a clearance since virtually all of the spies who
passed information to EastHem and WestHem were first generation. Common
sense, however, was something that could be applied to any rule and used to
overrule it and such was done in this case. This did add an extra layer of
scrutiny and bureaucracy to the process, which, in turn, meant the process
took nearly three times as long as usual. As such, it was nearly two hours
before all of the background checks were done and the order granting his
clearance was signed by Governor Mitsy Brown herself.



That night Slurry told Ken he had been approved and would accompany her to
the capital building the next morning to take the secrecy oath and receive
his briefing. Though he was scheduled to work at his normal job, the
executive branch of the Martian government intervened with the head of the
construction department and he was removed from the flight schedule and
reassigned to Martian government service. He would continue to draw the same
salary and his job would be held for him until his return. It was the same
process used when one was assigned to jury duty or to legislative service,
so no one thought it unusual.



He rode downtown with Slurry the next morning, catching the 0900 train and
entering the capital building by 0930. She accompanied him up to the 96th
floor, where the Martian Intelligence Services utilized most of the office
space. After clearing a security checkpoint they were directed to the office
of Flint Packing, the director of the MIS. He was a short, rounded man of
Pacific Islander ancestry. He directed Ken and Slurry to sit before his desk
and then explained the ramifications of the top-secret security clearance to
Ken.



"What this means is that you will be privy, not only to sensitive
information but also the means by which it was gathered. There is not much
we consider worthy of this distinction under our constitution and, in the
early post-revolutionary days we actually attempted to make all such
distinctions illegal. What we have found, though, is that there are certain
things a government does in the protection of its citizens that simply has
to remain secret when an antagonistic relationship is going on with another
government, or, as is the case here, with two other governments. The lack of
secrecy in our early days is what led to the problem we are facing now,
Ken."



"What do you mean?" he asked.



"You'll find out later, I'm sure," he said. "In any case, that is why a
certain select few, most in the Intelligence department and the upper
reaches of government, are given a top secret security clearance. Your wife
Slurry, as I'm sure you know, is neither a high ranking government official
nor an intelligence officer, but she and her colleagues at the MHAD are
privy to the methods with which we gather information about EastHem and
WestHem and that is why she is restricted from talking about it."



"What methods are those?" he asked carefully, thoughts of torture and truth
serums going through his head.



Packing seemed to read his mind. He chuckled in amusement. "Nothing cloak
and dagger like what you're thinking," he replied. "Most of what we get is
from our computer technology, isn't that right, Slurry?"



"Fuckin' aye," she agreed. "It's uh... quite a bit more advanced than what
most Martians think."



"Exactly," Packing said. "And if Slurry or anyone else at the MHAD were
allowed to talk about how they came by their findings, it wouldn't be long
before either a WestHem or an EastHem spy heard about it as well. If the
Earthlings actually knew how much of their computerized information we were
actually able to read... well, who knows what would happen? In any case,
that's the reasoning behind the top-secret clearances. Now let me explain
just what the clearance means to you. You down with it?"



"I'm down with it," Ken agreed.



"Fuckin' aye," he said with a satisfied nod. "If you lay some derm on the
clearance screen, what you'll be agreeing to is this: You will be privy to
sensitive information in your capacity as an intelligence consultant-which
is what your title will be. You will agree not to discuss or otherwise
disclose anything you hear or see in this capacity with anyone who does not
possess a top-secret clearance as well. This includes all forms of
communication-verbal, written, photographic, drawing, even forms of
communication that have not been developed yet, such as telepathic. The
duration upon which you are not allowed to discuss any particular subject is
infinite, or, until such time as the information becomes
declassified-something that does happen from time to time.  Furthermore, you
are discouraged from even mentioning that such a thing as a top-secret
security clearance even exists in the first place and, if such a thing does
exist, that you hold such a clearance. Are you down with what I'm saying
here, Ken?"



"Yes," he said. "You're saying that I need to keep my freakin' mouth shut,
no matter what."



"You're down with it," he said. "Now if you do not keep your freakin' mouth
shut and you release any forbidden information, whether willingly or
unwittingly, you will be subject to criminal charges that carry a penalty of
five years in prison at the very least. Furthermore, you will be kept in
isolation if convicted in order to prevent you from revealing any other
information. And if the information you do reveal results in the death of
someone, you will be charged with murder as well. I'm sure you're aware of
the penalty for that."



"Fuckin' aye," he said.



"Now of course, common sense still applies here, as it does in any
situation, and can be used as a defense for violation of the secrecy oath."



"What do you mean?" Ken asked.



"Well, for example, suppose the government was doing something illegal, or
immoral, or something that had a high potential for causing harm. Let's say
you went to your briefing and were told that we were developing a
genetically engineered virus that was going to be released on Earth and kill
large numbers of their population so we could then invade. That's an extreme
example, of course, but in that case your common sense would tell you that
violation of your secrecy oath was the right thing to do, right?"



"Right," he agreed.



"In fact, in that case, I imagine you could be subject to criminal charges
if you did not violate the secrecy oath. That is a precedent that goes all
the way back to the Nuremberg trials in 1945."



"I understand," Ken said.



"Good," Packing told him. "So, now that you understand the ramifications of
the secrecy oath, let's go ahead and review it and you can lay some derm."



This took less than five minutes to accomplish. Ken read through the actual
text of the oath on Packing's computer screen. It was four pages in length
and basically spelled out exactly what Packing had just explained. Like all
Martian documents, it was written in plain language instead of
indecipherable legalese, as an Earth document would have been. When he
finished reading it, he put his fingerprint on the pad, signing it. And just
like that, he now held a Martian top-secret security clearance.



"Let's get to the briefing," Slurry told him. "It starts at 1000."



They thanked Packing for his time ("No skin off my ass", he replied) and
then left the office, heading back to the elevators and going up to the
118th floor, only two stories from the very top. Ken began to feel a bit
nervous as the doors opened up and they emerged into a carpeted hallway. The
upper five floors of the capital building, he knew, were all assigned to the
executive branch of the government, which meant the governor's office.



"Just who is going to be at this briefing, anyway?" he asked Slurry, who
seemed a bit nervous as well.



"Some very important people," she told him. "Very important."



It was 0958 hours when they came to the door where they had been told to
report. EXECUTIVE BRIEFING ROOM was printed on the panel. Two uniformed
Martian Planetary Guard security police stood outside, sidearms strapped to
their waists and M-24 assault rifles slung over the shoulder portions of
their body armor. They were polite and efficient as they ran weapon and
explosive scanners over Ken and Slurry and then checked their fingerprints
on a computer screen for confirmation.



"Go on in," the first guard said when the process was complete. "The
governor is expecting you."



"The governor?" Ken asked incredulously.



"Fuckin' aye," the guard replied, pushing a panel and allowing the door to
slide open.



The briefing room was fairly large, taking up enough square meterage to
accommodate four or five standard offices. The centerpiece was a large
table, about twenty meters long by five meters wide, with about fifty chairs
arranged around it. Each chair had a small computer screen mounted on the
table before it. The front and back of the room both contained large,
wall-mounted screens big enough to watch movies on. Gathered near the front
of the table, sitting in the chairs just under the northern screen, was a
group of people of varying ages. Ken instantly recognized the woman sitting
at the head of the table as the governor of Mars. The guards had not been
kidding.



"Come in, come in," the governor told them, waving them over. "You must be
Ken and Slurry Frazier, our twentieth century experts. Rigger told us about
you. What the fuck's the haps?"



They both muttered that nothing much was the haps and shuffled their way
over to the table, taking seats next to Rigger Johannesburg, who was the
only other person Ken knew by face. Rigger greeted them quietly and thanked
them for coming.



"Ken, Laura," Mitsy Brown said, "Can we get you some coffee? Or maybe a
cigarette?"



"No, thank you, Governor," Ken replied nervously, awed to be in the presence
of such an important woman.



"No, thank you, Governor," replied Slurry, who was, if anything, even more
anxious.



"Oh fuck that 'Governor' shit," Brown said. "Call me Mitsy. I'm an ordinary
citizen. I swallow cum one jizz at a time, just like everyone else, okay?"



"Yes, Gov... uh... Mitsy," Ken stammered. "I'm sure you do."



"And she's pretty fuckin' good at it too," one of the other meeting
participants, a man in his twenties, said, causing a round of laughter to
erupt at the table. Ken blushed, trying to imagine having a meeting with the
President of the United States in his day and having someone make such a
remark. But Mitsy Brown didn't seem to mind. She was laughing as much as
everyone else.



When the laughter trailed off, Mitsy Brown put on her time-for-business
face, signaling to the other participants to do the same. She picked up her
coffee cup, took a sip, and then looked at the group that had gathered
before her, making a point to meet each set of eyes one by one. "Now that
we're all present," she said, "we will begin. The first thing I'd like to do
is go around the table and have everyone introduce themselves and get
everyone down with what you do." She turned to the man on her right, the man
who had made the remark about her being pretty fuckin' good. "Roscoe, why
don't we start with you?"



"Fuckin' aye," he said. "I'm Roscoe Reamer, Planetary Security Advisor."



Brown turned to her left, where a black man in his late teens sat. He caught
the look and introduced himself next. "I'm Ron Sampson," he said. "I command
a field intelligence contingent with the MIS. My guess is that I will be in
charge of the intelligence aspect of whatever field operation is being
planned."



"Very insightful, Ronnie," Brown told him. "You are indeed correct." She
turned to an early twenties woman of Hispanic origin who sat next to him and
gave her the look.



"I am Commander Margo Huffy, Martian Navy, special operations division. I'm
the captain of the MSS Calistoga, one of the stealth monitoring platforms."



Seated directly across from Commander Huffy was an exquisitely fit man in
his mid-teens. Brown looked at him next and he introduced himself as
Lieutenant Jiffy Spankworth of the Martian Planetary Guard special
operations division. He commanded a special forces platoon-the MPG
equivalent of US Navy Seals or US Army Rangers. Brown then turned to Slurry
and Rigger, each of whom introduced themselves as members of the Martian
Historical Advisement Department. At last she turned to Ken.



"I'm Ken Frazier," he said. "I'm a Hummingbird pilot for the construction
industry. I'm not exactly sure why I'm here but it seems I've been tagged as
a historical expert of some sort."



"Indeed you are, Ken," the governor said. "Perhaps you should tell us why
you're such an expert in twentieth and early twenty-first century culture."



"Oh... uh, sure," he said, flushing a bit. "I am one of the people awakened
by Dr. Karen Valentine at Whiting University-a cryogenic person. Perhaps
you've heard of us? In any case, I was born on Earth in 1969 and lived out
the majority of my life in the San Francisco Bay area until I was... uh...
well killed, for lack of a better term, in the year 2003."



This revelation caused a look to be passed between Commander Huffy and
Lieutenant Spankworth, a look that implied some dreadful suspicion of theirs
had just been confirmed. Ken felt his uneasiness deepen. Just what was being
planned here anyway? Obviously it was enough to make a special forces member
and an elite ship captain nervous.



"For those of you who already know what this is about," Brown said, "you can
obviously see what advantage our Dawg Frazier will bring-assuming he's down
with what we're planning."



"Fuckin' aye," muttered several people-Rigger Johannesburg and Roscoe Reamer
chief among them.



"In any case," Brown said next, "everyone who we hope will be directly
involved in the mission has been introduced. These other two motherfuckers
here..." she indicated a man and woman who had yet to be introduced, "are
Senator Dianne Mingus and Legislature Reef Haverty. They represent our
constitutionally mandated congressional oversight for classified material in
government and have been observers throughout the long process that has
brought us to this meeting. Is everyone down with it?"



Everyone indicated they were down with it in the Martian manner, by keeping
their mouths shut.



"Good," Brown told them, taking another quick sip of her coffee. "In that
case, we will begin." She instructed the computer to invoke the secrecy
clause, which it did after receiving confirmation from Mingus and Haverty.
She then turned the chair over to Roscoe Reamer.



"Thank you, Mitsy," Reamer said, giving his crotch a suggestive squeeze,
which, on Mars, was taken as a deep gesture of affection.



"Ain't no skin off my ass," she replied, sitting back in her chair and
kicking one of her feet up onto the table.



Reamer then stood and looked over the assembled team. "Okay then," he said.
"As Mitsy said, some of you already know why you're here and some of you do
not. For the sake of this latter group I will start at the beginning and let
you know just what kind of shit is going down and what role we hope you will
play in it. We are facing a gnarly-ass crisis here on Mars-potentially the
gnarliest-ass that has faced not only the Martian people but the entire
human race since the beginnings of the nuclear age."



"The Lemondrop Reactor," Commander Huffy said. "Oh Laura. Tell me that's not
what this is about?"



"I'm afraid you've hit the pussy right on the clit," Reamer told her. "We
have confirmation that WestHem has developed and built a Lemondrop Reactor
in deep space beyond the orbit of Pluto and that they plan to activate this
reactor in less than four Earth months."



This caused an uproar around the table, and more than a fair amount of angry
profanity. Ken realized that everyone seemed to know what a Lemondrop
reactor was except him. Though his usual posture in such settings was to
keep quiet he was forced to interrupt and ask exactly what they were talking
about.



"Something that shouldn't have been researched and developed in the first
place," Mitsy Brown said angrily. "Something we have no one to blame but
ourselves for allowing those WestHem idiots to get their hands on."



"What's done is done, Mitsy," Reamer said matter-of-factly. "We've been over
this point a thousand times before." He turned to Ken. "A Lemondrop reactor
is something developed by Martian physicists shortly after our revolution,
as the first generation of our people became highly educated for the first
time and were released from the constraints of WestHem influence into their
research and development of physics."



"What do you mean?" Ken asked.



"Prior to the revolution," he explained, "all research was controlled,
either directly or indirectly, by WestHem corporations, who, as I'm sure
you're aware, are who really runs the WestHem nation. They weren't
interested in anything that didn't have the potential for profit. And they
were absolutely opposed to anything that would serve to extend human life or
significantly improve the quality of life. After the revolution, as we
became the most highly educated culture in human history, exponential
advances were made in the fields of medicine, biology, life sciences of all
kinds, and particularly physics-both hard physics and quantum physics. A
truly unified theory was developed and proven for the first time in history.
The fledgling Martian government put no restraints on any field of study
and, as such, the Lemondrop project-a direct application of the unified
theory-was born. No one ever thought it would actually bear fruit but, much
to the surprise and horror of those in government and even those involved in
the project, it worked perfectly."



"What worked perfectly?" Ken asked. "What in the hell does a Lemondrop
reactor do?"



"It uses a controlled and channeled matter/anti-matter reaction of
tremendous proportion to create an artificial and stable wormhole in the
space-time continuum," Reamer said.



"The space-time continuum?"



"Fuckin' aye," he said. "In other words, it opens up a pathway to the past."



"The past?" Ken said slowly. "Are you telling me that you have invented a...
time machine?"



"Fuckin' aye," Reamer said. "An actual, working time machine, although it's
actually more of a time tunnel. We developed it but, realizing the danger of
such a thing, we outlawed any further research into it or use of it.
Unfortunately, however, WestHem spies stole the technology from us. Now
they're planning to utilize their own reactor to go back in time and undo
the entire Martian Revolution."



"Holy Laura," whispered Slurry beside him. "I was afraid that's what they
were going to do."



"Wait a minute," Ken said, momentarily forgetting he was in the presence of
high Martian officials. "You're telling me you can travel back in time? That
you can actually go back to the past and change things?"



"We actually can and have gone back in time," Reamer confirmed. "The
Lemondrop reactor our physicists and engineers built in year 8 was
functional and did operate. As to whether or not you can change the past...
well... that's simply unknown, but our assumption has to be for the
worst-that the past can be changed and even the slightest change could have
disastrous consequences here in the present. Consequences up to and
including extinction of the human race."



"You went back in time?" Ken asked, fascinated, half convinced this was an
elaborate practical joke. "Who went back? What did they do?"



"A person was not sent back," Mitsy Brown told him. "The machine was nothing
more than a prototype, capable of generating a wormhole of only ten
centimeters in diameter and burrowing back in time only three Martian years.
Even so, it took nearly a quarter ton of anti-matter to fuel the reactor for
the 30 seconds the wormhole was open. This took place in far solar orbit,
out beyond Pluto, which is the only place such a thing can be opened due to
the extreme gravitational waves that are generated. What they put through
was a recording device that would just drift in space. It was programmed to
record all communications on a certain frequency and to then send out a
homing beacon precisely three years and one hour after making the trip. Sure
enough, one hour after being sent through the wormhole the homing beacon
came to life. It was picked up by a shuttlecraft and, when analyzed, was
found to contain three years worth of communications signals in the
specified frequency. This proved the time tunnel worked just as theorized."



"Wow," Ken said, amazed. They had a time machine! An actual, working time
machine! "But you've never sent a person back?"



"We've never sent anything else back," Reamer said. "That recording device
was the only thing that ever made a trip through time. As I said, the
Lemondrop team never thought their invention was going to actually work.
Sure, the physics made sense and told them it should work, but it was
assumed at the time that time travel was impossible, that some undiscovered
aspect of physics would prevent it. That was actually what they were trying
to discover. When they saw that time travel was not impossible they
immediately realized the implications of what they had done. Our scientists
and our government were smart enough to close the lid on this particular
thing because of the huge unknowns involved. WestHem, on the other hand, is
quite a different story. They were able to get a copy of the research and
reactor schematics sent off to Earth before the files on the Lemondrop
reactor were sealed. Their industrial and technological capabilities were
not up to the task of building and fueling such a reactor at the time, but
that has since changed."



"So... do we even know if it's possible to send a person back?" asked
Commander Huffy. "No experiments have been done with animals or anything?"



"Just the recording device," Reamer repeated. "There were not even bacteria
present on it when it was sent through since all such things are sterilized
before making a trip like that. However, there is nothing in the theory that
suggests living beings cannot go through the tunnel. The trip itself is
nothing more than a quick acceleration of eight to ten G's, well within that
stress levels of modern spacecraft, and, even without inertial damping, well
within the survivability limits of human beings as long as the acceleration
is brief, which, I might add, it is-less than thirty seconds worth. The
recording device that went through our experimental wormhole was thoroughly
analyzed for damage and none was found."



"Has WestHem tested a reactor of their own?" Slurry asked. "Have they sent
anything back yet?"



"No," Reamer replied. "They have not. You need to understand a few things
about a Lemondrop reactor. In the first place, they are extremely complex
and time consuming to build. The engineering of the specific components
stretched even our advanced capacities to the limit. An entire new
generation of centrifuges, synthetic alloys, and fabrication machinery
needed to be developed first. WestHem had to duplicate this effort and
assign a sizable portion of their high tech industrial capacity toward it.
The reactor also destroys itself during use, which makes a test run
impossible unless you build two. Then there's the factor of the antimatter,
which must be manufactured in huge quantities to produce the tremendous
amounts of energy required for the wormhole to open. The larger the wormhole
you want to produce, the longer you want it to stay open, and the further
back in time you wish to go, the more antimatter you're going to need. We
used a quarter ton of antimatter just for a ten centimeter, thirty second
duration wormhole going back three years. The WestHems are planning a
wormhole sixty meters in diameter burrowing back nearly seventy times as far
and will need it to stay open at least one minute for a spacecraft sized
body to successfully make it through. This will require approximately three
tons of antimatter."



"That's a lot of fucking antimatter," said Commander Huffy, who was
intimately familiar with matter/antimatter torpedoes, the likes of which
produced a Herculean explosion capable of destroying a California class
superdreadnought from 200 kilometers away by utilizing less than a kilogram
of the material.



"Fuckin' aye," Reamer agreed. "It's taken WestHem nearly two years, using
every one of their available particle accelerators to manufacture antimatter
in this amount. This means they've been able to produce no new AM weapons or
anything else that requires particle accelerator use in that time period.
That factor alone should serve to tell you how dedicated to this project
they are. Three different competing corporations own those facilities, all
of which control different aspects of the WestHem government. They are
usually bitter enemies to each other. For them to pull together for a common
goal is unheard of in WestHem culture, and goes to prove just how
desperately they view their situation."



"Is their situation really that desperate?" asked Lieutenant Spankworth.



"I'm sure our homies from the MHAD here could give you a detailed answer on
that, am I right?"



"Fuckin' aye," Rigger said. "Our best estimates are that both WestHem and
EastHem are within a generation of complete economic and sociological
collapse."



"So yes, they are that desperate," Reamer said. "And not only that, they
blame us Martians for the coming collapse of their society. They believe
that by undoing our revolution they will reverse the spiral they are
currently in and allow the perpetual continuation of their way of life."



There was a moment of silence at the table as everyone let that soak in.
Finally Commander Huffy asked, "What are they planning to do? Are they going
to go back and warn the pre-revolutionary WestHem government about Red
Seizure so they can prevent it?" Red Seizure was the name of the operation
that had initially captured the planet Mars from WestHem on that day-January
1, Year 1-when federal troops had tried to take Governor Laura Whiting into
custody.



"No," Reamer said. "Their plans are a little more complex than that. Here is
where we get to WestHem delusionary thinking at its finest. You see, they do
realize there is significant danger in messing around with the past. They
even acknowledge the fact that any radical changes in the time stream may
lead to some fucked up consequences for the future. This thinking caused
them to rule out some obvious ways of trying to undo our revolt-sharing Red
Seizure plans with the WestHem government of the time, killing or
discrediting Laura Whiting before she is elected to her first political
office, or arranging for the veto of the formation of the Martian Planetary
Guard force after the Jupiter War. All of these scenarios were recognized by
the WestHem think tanks to be too unpredictable. What they eventually
decided to do was make a very subtle change to the time stream that will
serve to remove an important factor in our revolt but will not involve the
sharing of future knowledge with any members of the past and will not
involve the killing of anyone."



"Anything they do could have disastrous consequences," Rigger protested.
"Hell, even our sending of that simple recording device back three years
could have potentially caused a paradox."



"Yes," Reamer said, "that is exactly why we stopped fucking around with this
time travel shit. We were smart enough to close Pandora's Box once we
creaked it open and saw what was inside. The WestHems, however, have
convinced themselves that if they only make a minor adjustment to the time
stream and don't kill anyone, everything will turn out just like they want.
As I said, their thinking is quite delusional."



"And do we know exactly what they're going to do?" asked Slurry, who had
figured out that if they knew exact details they might be able to counter
it.



"We believe so," Reamer said. "That is why you are all here today. You see,
our intelligence network on Earth, both in EastHem and WestHem, is quite
extensive. We have people working in their particle accelerator facilities,
people working in their physics labs, even people serving as elected
officials in their government. The fact that they were building their
reactor and planning to use it did not escape us for very long. The exact
details of just what they were going to do with it took a bit longer to
ferret out, but eventually we managed to get that as well. I won't tell you
just how we did this, but let's say we got someone close to one of their
physicists and this person was eventually able to extract the details of
their plans."



"She probably gave him some good old Martian sex," Lieutenant Spankworth
said with a grin. "That'll open anyone's mouth on that flying ball of
hypocrisy."



"No comment," Reamer replied with a confirming chuckle. "In any case, the
information developed from this source is the only intelligence on specifics
we have and are likely to get. That's the bad news. The good news is that
it's rated as an eight on the reliability scale. We're reasonably certain
that what I'm about to describe is what they're going to attempt. If that is
the case, we stand a very good chance of stopping them before they can do
any damage."



"So what is it?" Rigger asked. "How do they think they can prevent our
revolution?"



"Well, their plans, as you might have guessed, focus around the single most
important factor in our revolution."



"Laura Whiting," several people said at once.



"Fuckin' aye," Reamer said. "Perhaps the most significant person in Martian
history. I'm sure Slurry and Rigger here will agree that without Laura
Whiting's influence, Mars would never have become free."



Rigger looked over at Slurry, inviting her to answer the question. She
flushed but did so. "That is generally accepted as a fact at the MHAD," she
said. "Laura was able to stir the resentment the Martian people had for
WestHem from a simmer to a full-blown boil. She did this by carefully
concealing her Martian nationalism for more than twenty Earth years until
she was elected to a position where she could effect change. She then riled
up the population into an anti-WestHem frenzy, making possible the
solidarity that allowed us to capture the planet on Red Seizure Day and,
more importantly, to defeat the WestHem marines when they landed on the
planet. She was also the prime mover for the formation of the Martian
Planetary Guard in the first place. This, as you will recall, was in 2132,
right after the Jupiter War. Disgusted with the way Mars had been left
undefended during this conflict because WestHem thought it too expensive to
station troops here, she rallied for a volunteer force of Martian citizens
to be formed to help repel any invasion. The MPG was born because of her and
it was the MPG that took the planet on Red Seizure Day, twenty years later.
Without Laura Whiting we may have still revolted at some point-after all,
WestHem pushed us pretty hard-but it is likely the revolt would have been
crushed and we would still be under WestHem rule today."



"Exactly," Reamer said. "So Laura Whiting is the one single person whose
removal from Martian history could prevent our revolution. The WestHems know
this as well as we do. They also have the advantage of her being a revered
person. We worship her the way they worship Jesus and Allah and Buddha. This
means that virtually every detail of Laura Whiting's history, even the
history of her family, has been written down somewhere and is available in
easily accessible public records."



"So what are they going to try to do to her?" asked Commander Huffy. "You
said they weren't going to kill her."



"They're going to do nothing to Laura Whiting herself," Reamer said. "In the
scenario they've worked up, Laura Whiting will still live, she just won't
live on Mars."



"Huh?" Huffy said, confused. "How are they going to do that?"



"Well, I must give them a bit of credit," Reamer said. "Their plan is rather
detailed and fairly well thought out for the goal it seeks to achieve. Once
again, in manner of explanation, perhaps I could bother our Dawg Slurry
Frazier for a synopsis of just how Laura Whiting came to be a Martian in the
first place. Would you do me the favor, Slurry?"



"Uh... fuckin' aye," she said, still nervous but warming up to her role as
lecturer. "Laura Whiting was a fifth generation Martian. Her
great-great-great-grandfather, Mark Whiting, was an orbital engineer who
helped build Triad when the planet was first colonized in 2048. The Whiting
family settled in New Pittsburgh once the surface was colonized and stayed
there ever since."



"Exactly," Reamer said. "Mark Whiting was the first of that family to come
to Mars and it is with him that the WestHems hope to divert this path."



"They're going to keep Mark Whiting from leaving Earth?" asked Slurry.



"That is their plan," Reamer said. "Tell us more about the history of Mark
Whiting, Slurry. That will help everyone understand exactly what they're
going to change."



"Uh... okay," she said. "He was born in 1997 in Roseville, California,
United States. His father was a federal law enforcement officer-a US Customs
agent to be exact-and his mother was an elementary school teacher. This was
before the birthing restrictions so he had one older sibling, a brother.
Mark was twelve years old when World War III began in 2009. His mother was
killed in 2012 when a Chinese bomber was shot down and crashed into the
school where she was teaching a class. After graduating high school in 2015
he signed up for the armed services, hoping to join the army and be sent to
the front line. Instead, his ASVAB indicated high potential for pilot
skills. The Asian Powers had enjoyed air superiority over the battlefield
since the beginning and by that point in the war the WestHem air forces had
been decimated and pilots were in short supply. For this reason, there was
no longer a college degree requirement for pilot training and the training
itself had been shortened to a matter of months instead of the two-year
program it had been before the war. Mark Whiting was trained as a pilot and
flew A-21 Owls-which were medium range tactical bombers. He flew many
missions during the trench warfare period and was a squadron commander in
the Northwest Breakthrough when planes equipped with the first laser weapons
smashed the Chinese air superiority and annihilated their airfields in
occupied Washington and Idaho. He also flew missions on I-day, when WestHem
forces invaded South Korea and pushed toward Beijing at the end of the war.
He was discharged from the service in 2019 and went to the University of
California at Davis in 2020 on the GI Bill. He obtained a masters degree in
Orbital Engineering and was involved in the WestHem space program his entire
career. He helped build Departure in Earth orbit in 2030, and in 2047 he
came to Mars to help build Triad."



"Thank you, Slurry," Reamer said, giving her a respectful crotch squeeze as
praise. He then turned back toward the rest of the table. "The key to the
WestHem plan lies in Mark Whiting's career goals and the path he follows as
a result of the war. Laura's ancestor, you see, was a born engineer. Slurry,
what does the literature say about his childhood days?"



"His memoirs indicate he was interested in engineering principals since the
age of eight Earth years. His parents used to buy him toys to encourage this
development. He knew by the age of twelve, when the war started, that he
wanted to be an engineer one day. Though he was a natural pilot as well, he
left that skill behind the moment his service to WestHem was no longer
required. He never piloted a plane again after his last mission in
2019-which was a bombing run over Beijing 12 hours before the cease fire
went into effect."



"Right," Reamer said. "So here we have a young man who wants to be an
engineer more than anything else in life. Had the war not interrupted him,
it is likely he would have started college in 2015 instead of 2020. It is in
this five year period that the destiny of the Whiting family became written
in history, as it were."



"What do you mean?" Slurry asked, now quite fascinated herself.



"Suppose that Mark Whiting did not go into the service of his country upon
graduating high school, what would have happened to him then?"



"Why wouldn't he have gone into the service?" Slurry asked. "The war was
raging. Everyone went into the service. If he wouldn't have volunteered, he
would've been drafted."



"True," said Reamer. "But let us just suppose he could not join the service.
What would've become of him?"



Slurry glanced at Rigger for help but he gave her a look that said she
should field this one on her own. She thought for a moment and then said,
"Well, he would've gone to college right away, I suppose. There would've
been no reason for him not to."



"Exactly," Reamer said. "The Whiting family wasn't rich by any means, but
they were certainly well off enough to send Mark to college for an
engineering degree."



"So how would that change anything?" Slurry asked. "The drive for
engineering was still there so he would've..." she stopped, slapping herself
in the forehead suddenly as she realized what he was getting at. "Wait a
Laura-damned minute!" she yelled. "He would've gone into Structural
Engineering instead of Orbital Engineering! There were no Orbital
Engineering programs at a school Mark could've gotten into in 2015. It
wasn't a common field."



"Fuckin' aye, Slurry," Reamer said, giving her another crotch squeeze.
"You've got a knack for this sort of thing. Anyone ever tell you that?"



Rigger, Mitsy, and Slurry herself obviously knew what she was talking about.
It was quite clear that everyone else around the table was missing the
point, however. Slurry was encouraged to explain.



"Before and during World War III," she said, "the United States space
program wasn't much of anything. It existed to keep satellites in orbit and
the only manned program was the International Space Station, which was
notoriously underfunded. There wasn't that much of a demand for orbital
engineers so the only place you could get a degree in such a thing were
places like MIT or Cal-Tech or some other ritzy-ass college that only the
elite could afford. Structural Engineering, however, was available at just
about any college and it was this field that Mark Whiting was interested in
during that time period."



"But this changed after the war?" asked Huffy.



"Fuckin' aye it did," Slurry said. "By war's end it was realized that the
planet's petroleum reserves and easily accessible iron ore reserves had been
seriously depleted. The only place to replace a primary fuel supply and a
supply of iron for industry was in space. The stage was set for the space
race between EastHem and WestHem, the victors in the war. Realizing this,
there was suddenly a great demand for orbital engineers to help design and
build space dwellings. They began offering the program at nearly every
college, including UC Davis. That was why Mark Whiting became an orbital
engineer-because it was an up and coming field he'd developed an interest in
during his years as a pilot."



"You got the cumshot right on the bunghole, Slurry," Reamer told her. "If
Mark Whiting doesn't go to war, he'll go to college right out of high
school. If that happens, he'll get his degree in structural engineering
instead of orbital engineering. He will more than likely earn his masters in
the field and be committed to it by the time orbital engineering is the up
and coming thing. Since he'll be a structural engineer he'll more than
likely be involved in the massive rebuilding effort that took place in the
post-war years. He'll help design and construct launching facilities and
hydrogen processing plants maybe, but his work will keep him firmly on the
ground. When the time comes to build Departure and Triad, he won't be
involved in it. Nor will he be on Mars to help build New Pittsburgh or Eden
since those were designed by orbital engineers as well. In short, he'll stay
put on Earth and, by the logic of the WestHems anyway, his great-great-great
granddaughter will still live, but she'll be on Earth, a part of WestHem
culture, incapable of developing the anti-WestHem point of view that led to
her successful fomentation of the Martian Revolution."



"And they think that doing that is not fucking too much with the timeline?"
Rigger said in a tone that could only be described as horror.



"That is their thinking," Reamer confirmed calmly. "It makes perfect sense
to them."



"Morons!" Rigger screamed. "Don't they realize the exponential effect of
changing history? They really could destroy all life in the solar system.
They could put us back to the Laura fucking Stone Age! They could..."



"How are they going to do it?" Slurry interrupted, also horrified but
keeping her cool for the moment. "How are they going to try to keep Mark
Whiting from joining the service?"



"Again," Reamer said, "by utilizing a little bit of technology they got from
us, in this case, something we gave them instead of something they stole."



"What?" Rigger asked.



"A genetic manipulator device," he replied. "As you know, our medical
technology is significantly more advanced than WestHem's. We have shared our
knowledge with them in the interests of bettering their people but they have
such a horrid population problem they have no interest in prolonging human
life on their planet. The genetic manipulation we routinely use to prevent
disease and aging is not offered to the average Earthling and, as a result,
their average lifespan is still in the neighborhood of around eighty Earth
years. But there are still genetic manipulators in use on Earth."



"For the rich," Mitsy Brown said cynically.



"Who else?" Reamer said. "The heads of corporations and government leaders
and the extremely wealthy make frequent use of our medical technology to
keep themselves young. Private medical centers typically charge around ten
million dollars to eliminate each particular malady. I myself have had the
genes for hypertension, male pattern baldness, arthritis, and macular
degeneration turned off. This is fairly typical for a Martian citizen but on
Earth it would've cost me forty million dollars for this alone. This is not
to mention all of the other traits of aging we routinely shut down and all
of the cosmetic things we have done."



"That's obscene," Ken said. "They're letting people die at eighty while
those who have money get to live to be a hundred and fifty?"



"That's WestHem for you," Reamer said. "But my point is not that the rich
are utilizing our genetic manipulation technology, it's that they possess
the technology in the first place and that it's very easy to use. And the
technology works in both directions. They can use it to turn on genes that
otherwise would have been dormant. That's what they plan to do to Mark
Whiting."



"They're going to make him ineligible for the armed services," Slurry
guessed.



"You're down with it," Reamer said, smiling. "On October 26, 2007, Mark
Whiting-who was ten Earth years old at the time-developed his third case of
tonsillitis in two years. His doctor recommended he undergo a fairly common
surgical procedure for the time and have his tonsils removed. He was
admitted to Roseville Community Hospital on October 31 of that year to
undergo this surgery. That is the target date for the special forces team
the WestHem government is planning to send. They plan to infiltrate the
hospital in the early hours after his surgery and apply a genetic
manipulator to him, which will activate genes that will cause him to develop
a case of type-2 diabetes by age fifteen. Being a diabetic will disqualify
him from military service of any kind when he graduates high school. He will
therefore go to college in 2015 instead of 2020 and will study structural
engineering instead of orbital engineering."



"That's their fucking plan?" Rigger asked incredulously. "It's insane! The
entire timeline could alter from the second they walk into that hospital.
And it will sure as shit alter from the moment he develops diabetes. His
complete life history will be different, not just in the matter of his
college admission date. What about all of those missions he flies in the
war? What about the lives he is supposed to interact with? What about his
wife? He meets her in flight training and marries her after the war. If they
keep him from going to war that will never happen. He'll marry someone else
and she'll marry someone else, and with each life that doesn't go the way
it's supposed to, an exponential amount of other lives will be affected
since the people they do end up marrying and having kids with won't be
marrying and having kids with the people they're supposed to, either. This
will reverberate upward toward the present, impacting more and more lives
with each generation. Thousands, maybe millions of people who are supposed
to be alive will be simply removed from existence. Some of those people will
undoubtedly be figures who are important to scientific or medical or
sociological development. They might erase key members of the engineering
team that developed artificial gravity. That would affect the entire history
of space development. That's just the first scenario I can think of off the
top of my head. The possibilities are infinite and none of them are good."



"That has been our evaluation from the start," Reamer said. "There is no
such thing as a subtle change to the time stream. Not only will millions of
people who are supposed to live be erased from existence, millions more who
were not supposed to live will be generated to replace them. Who is to know
what some of those people might do? One of them might be another Adolph
Hitler, or another George W. Bush. That's why we have to stop them before
they can do any damage, and that's why all of you have been called here
today."



"Are we going to do a military strike on their asses?" asked Lieutenant
Spankworth. "Hit their reactor before they have a chance to activate it?"



"I'm afraid not," Reamer said. "The possibility of military intervention has
already been evaluated and rejected as either impractical, too costly in
terms of losses, or not sure enough. No, there is only one reliable way to
stop them."



"Activate a reactor of our own," Slurry said slowly.



Reamer looked at her in surprise, and more than a little alarm. "Yes," he
said. "That is what we are planning. It was realized when we outlawed
research into the Lemondrop project that WestHem or EastHem might try to
utilize the technology for their own means. As such, the components for
building the reactors were kept in storage just in case. We have secretly
assembled two reactors in deep space so an intervention team can be sent
back to prevent WestHem for initiating their plans. The question is, how did
you know that, Slurry? Has our security been breached?"



"My own common sense," she said carefully. "That's the only way to be sure."



Reamer gave her a stern look and then seemed to accept her explanation. Ken
didn't. He knew her well enough to know she wasn't telling the complete
truth. She knew something she wasn't supposed to. Before he could speculate
too much about this, Commander Huffy cut in.



"Two reactors?" she said. "Why do we have two?"



"I would think that would be quite obvious," Reamer answered. "Unlike the
WestHems, we intend to bring our intervention team back after their mission
has been completed. That will require one reactor to send them and one to
open a reverse wormhole so they can come home."



"You mean the WestHems aren't going to be bringing their team back?" Rigger
asked. "What are they going to do? Surely they're not going to just leave
them on twenty-first century Earth with complete knowledge of the future?
That's more insane than changing Mark Whiting's future in the first place.
The temptation to take advantage of stock trends and other bits of knowledge
in order to achieve money and influence would be tremendous. Those people
could end up with an infinite amount of wealth and power!"



"Our source tells us that WestHem has thought of this contingency," Reamer
said.



"Oh?" Rigger asked. "And how do they plan to deal with it? Ask their people
not to take advantage? Say pretty please with a blowjob and an ass-fuck?"



"Well... yes and no," Reamer said. "The individuals who will be undertaking
this mission are a special forces team and a navy stealth ship crew. All of
them understand it is a one-way trip. WestHem resources are just not enough
to get them back. They will be told that they are to blend in with Earthling
society after the mission and not do anything that will adversely affect the
time stream. Just live out their lives anonymously. Their ship will be
auto-programmed to break orbit once they're all down and crash into the
sun."



"So they're just trusting almost a hundred people not to take advantage of
their pre-knowledge?" Slurry asked. "Surely they're not naïve enough to
think they won't do it?"



"No," he said, "they're not that naïve. It is the members of the crew and
the special forces team who are the naïve ones. Each of them will be given
an inoculation prior to going through the wormhole. They will be told this
inoculation is to prevent them from inadvertently spreading viral infections
among the Earth people. What it is actually is a time-release poison that
will cause them all to drop dead 400 hours after landing on Earth."



"Nice," Ken said, shuddering to think he had actually been a part of that
same military once.



"That's WestHem for you," Reamer said, seemingly unfazed by this
callousness. "In any case, what WestHem plans to do with these people is
neither here nor there. If things are allowed to get to that point it will
be too late for us anyway. What we must do is make sure things do not get to
that point."



"And that's where we come in," said Lieutenant Spankworth resignedly. "You
want to send me and my team back in time."



"That is what we hope to do," Reamer said. "Although, with any luck, the
interdiction of the WestHems can be made before the Earthlings get close
enough to send their teams down."



"But it's my ship you wish to put through," Commander Huffy said pointedly.
"My ship and my crew."



"You're down with it," Reamer said. "We want to activate one of our
Lemondrop reactors in deep space and send the Calistoga through, where it
will arrive several months before the WestHem team goes through their own
wormhole. Our hope is that the Calistoga will be in position and be able to
detect the WestHem ship as it approaches Earth orbit. If that is done you
can either capture it or destroy it before it can offload the special forces
team. This, obviously, will be the easiest solution to the problem, and the
one with the least potential impact on the time stream."



Commander Huffy had a few thoughts on this matter and didn't hesitate to
make them known. "Assuming I would even agree to go along with this," she
said, "something I'll have to really think about, I'm sure you realize how
difficult it is to detect and intercept a WestHem stealth ship? They call
them stealth ships for a reason, you know. Even with their inferior
technology and our superior passive sensor arrays, trying to find a stealth
ship in Earth orbit is like trying to find a can of tuna in a botch club
using only your nose. Wouldn't it be easier to simply hang out in deep space
where we know their wormhole will open and hit them there, a couple billion
kilometers from Earth?"



"It would be easier if we knew exactly where and when they were going to
materialize," Reamer said. "But, unfortunately, we do not. The WestHems'
engineering of the reactor components and the energy burst that fuels the
wormhole is not as exact as ours. As a result, this gives them a relatively
large degree of inaccuracy as to the exact time the wormhole will open in
the past and the exact geographic location."



This was yet another truly alarming thought. "Just how large of a margin for
error are we talking?" asked Huffy.



"Not as large as you might think," Reamer said. "They won't accidentally
open the wormhole into the solar system and pull one of the planets or a
moon out of orbit, nor will they accidentally end up in the Stone Age. We're
talking twenty to thirty days margin for error chronologically and twenty to
thirty million kilometers geographically. And they will adjust so this
margin will be well within a safe zone, meaning if they're thirty million
kilometers off target, they'll end up thirty million kilometers further out
in space instead of closer in. And if they're thirty days off target,
they'll make sure it's thirty days before their target date instead of after
it. What this does mean, however, is that it will be impossible for you to
station your ship exactly where they're going to appear and wait for them
there because they themselves do not even know where and when that will be.
You'll have to arrive far enough in front of them to get to Earth and try to
detect them during their deceleration burn as they approach the planet."



"What are the odds of being able to do that?" Mitsy Brown asked Huffy.



"Ten to one at best," Huffy replied. "Maybe eight to one if they don't
realize we're looking for them."



"Which, hopefully, they shouldn't," Reamer said. "If you do detect them, you
draw a bead on their ship and order them to surrender and be boarded. If
that is successful, our special forces team can secure the ship and we can
bring it back to deep space for extraction when we open the return wormhole.
If they refuse to surrender, you are to destroy the ship by whatever means
necessary and then vaporize the debris as much as possible with an AM
warhead detonated in the midst of it."



"And if we don't detect them?" Huffy asked.



"Then I'm afraid you'll be forced to go with plan B," Reamer told her.



"Going down to the surface," said Lieutenant Spankworth.



"Fuckin' aye," Reamer said. "If the ship cannot be intercepted prior to
sending its team members down, we will have to send a team of our own down
to stop them from completing their mission. That's where you and your team
come in, Lieutenant." He turned to Ken. "That is also where you come in, Mr.
Frazier."



"Me?" he said. "You want to send me back in time? I'm not a special forces
member. I'm not even in the service."



"But you are from the twentieth and twenty-first century," he said. "When we
sought advice on this matter from the MHAD, they assigned Rigger and his
young assistant-your wife, Slurry-to provide us with historical details.
Until today we haven't told them exactly what was going on-just the fact
that we would need to travel back to the year 2007 in order to prevent
WestHem forces from committing a crime against history. Slurry immediately
suggested your potential usefulness to the completion of this mission."



Ken's mind was spinning. They wanted him to go back to the past, back to a
point just four years after he had been shot? Back to Earth and its traffic
and its hypocritical attitudes? "Why?" he asked. "How would I be helpful?"



"We study Earth history, Ken," Slurry told him. "You have actually lived it.
There are hundreds of things we don't know, hundreds of things that would
keep us from blending into that society. Slang terms, language nuances,
cultural references are only a few. You know how to talk to people from that
time period like no one else we have available."



"You also know how to drive a motor vehicle, do you not?" Reamer said,
picking up the thread. "A large part of this plan would involve securing
transportation and driving it to various locations. We could build a
simulator and train Lieutenant Spankworth's people to do such a thing, but
that would hardly be the same as actual experience. You spent years driving
in the traffic of the time period. You know how to navigate twenty-first
century cities, how to go through the ritual of refueling the vehicle, the
various laws regarding speeding and parking. It goes without saying that
having you pilot a vehicle would make the most sense."



"Fuckin' aye on that," Spankworth said. "The first principal of special
forces is to assign the right person for the job. If I'm going to agree to
this mad scheme, I want a native on the team."



Ken looked at Slurry for guidance. She looked sad at the thought of him
going but determined. "It's the right thing to do," she told him. "You know
me, I wouldn't suggest it if I didn't think it was right."



"No," he said. "I guess you wouldn't."



"You don't need to make a decision right this second, Ken," Reamer said.
"None of you do. We are all Martians here and Mitsy and I both understand we
are asking something undeniably dangerous and unsure in a society where we
loathe such things. Every person involved will have the opportunity to
refuse participation in this mission if he or she feels it is too
dangerous."



"And everyone will have an opportunity to listen to a lecture by Dr.
Xandude, the physicist in charge of the Lemondrop reactors we've assembled,"
said Mitsy Brown. "He will explain the construction of the reactor and the
physics of it so you have a complete understanding of just what you're
getting into. He is pretty sure of the safety of the process but you have to
keep in mind that no living beings have ever been put through a wormhole.
There may be factors that haven't been encountered."



"That's a nice thought," Spankworth said sourly.



"And we would be derelict in our duties if we failed to mention it," Reamer
said. "That's how things work on Mars. So for now, we'll adjourn. Lieutenant
Spankworth and Commander Huffy, the rest of your respective crews are being
assembled in briefing rooms down the hall where you may fill them in on what
is being asked for this mission. The same rules apply to them. Participation
in the mission is voluntary, but I would like to point out the importance of
what we're trying to accomplish. The entire fate of the human race may very
well depend on our success. Please try to keep that in mind and to impart
that to your people."



Huffy and Spankworth both agreed to accept that responsibility.



"As for you, Dr. and Mr. Frazier, Dr. Johannesburg, you will be assigned to
guest quarters on the 93rd floor of the building. I am sorry to say that no
matter what you decide, you will not be allowed outside the capital building
until the mission is either aborted or the stealth ship enters the
wormhole."



"What?" Ken said. "Are you saying we can't leave? Even if we decide not to
go?"



"You're fuckin' aye right," Reamer told him apologetically. "Don't take it
personally, but common sense dictates we take no chances whatsoever that
word of what we're planning leak out. You will be kept in isolation until
the mission is completed."



Slurry and Rigger didn't seem surprised by this. They simply nodded their
acquiescence. Ken had much more he wanted to say, but he already knew it
would be futile.



"Dr. Xandude's lecture on the Lemondrop reactor will be at 1900 tonight,"
Mitsy said. "We'll give everyone a night to think on things and then we'll
ask for your decisions in the morning. Until then, this meeting is
adjourned. Have wet dreams everyone."



+++++



Slurry and Ken were given a rather nice room overlooking Capital Park. It
had all the amenities they could possibly need for an extended stay,
including a fully equipped intoxicant bar and cooking facilities in case
they wanted to skip the food in the cafeteria or one of the three
restaurants they were allowed to use. The only thing they were not allowed
to do was to leave the 93rd floor without being accompanied by an armed MPG
guard, or to leave the capital building at all.



"I'm sorry for dragging you into this, Ken," Slurry said for perhaps the
tenth time. "I didn't know they were going to confine us to the building."



"It's okay," he said, stretching out on the bed and sipping from the scotch
and soda he'd made at the bar. "You were doing what you thought was right.
I'll never come down on anyone for that. This is gonna get kind of boring if
we decide not to go, though. How long will it take for the ship to reach the
reactor site?"



She set her own drink on the nightstand and then lay down next to him.
"About sixty days," she said. "Another two days to get the reactor spun up
and the ship through. Six hours later, the return wormhole is opened and
they either come back, or they don't. If we're still here, we can go home at
that point."



"If we're still here," he said.



"Right," she said, her hand reaching out to stroke his hair.



He enjoyed the sensation of her hand for a moment, his eyes closed. Slowly
he opened them back up. "Did you follow that lecture any better than I did?"
he asked her.



"Not much," she admitted. "Physics has never been my thing. I can't even
tell you how the artificial gravity field works. I understand the wormhole
is a basic principal stemming from the concept of E=MC squared. A controlled
singularity is created, burrowing into the fabric of space-time. And Dr.
Xandude seems to think the resulting wormhole will be stable enough to suck
a ship through and spit it out the other side without damaging it or killing
everyone inside. At least there's no reason to think it won't. It's untested
 and incapable of being tested before use."



"That's pretty much what I got out of it," he said. "It's FM."



"FM," she agreed. "Fuckin' magic."



Another silence. Finally Ken said, "You don't think I should go, do you?"



She took a deep breath, releasing it in a sigh. A tear momentarily formed in
her eye and then dissipated. "You have to go," she said. "It's common
sense."



"Screw common sense, Slurry," he told her. "They can pull this mission off
without me. If you don't want me to go, I won't. I'll stay with you."



"No," she said. "As much as I want you to stay, I know this is for the best.
You have to go. I have to go too, even though the very thought of going
through a wormhole scares the living shit out of me. It's meant to be, Ken.
We have to." She took another deep breath. "And you want to go. I can tell.
You want to travel back to your own time again."



He couldn't deny that-didn't even try. Yes, he did want to go, despite the
many unknown factors, despite the obvious danger. He wanted to walk on his
home planet again, in his own time. He wanted to gaze up at a moon not
choked with city lights, to smell air polluted with hydrocarbons. And there
was another reason as well, something he'd barely even admitted to himself.



But Slurry knew this as well. "Annie will be very close to your operational
area," she said. "And she'll still be alive. That's a part of it too, isn't
it?"



"I won't be able to see her again," Ken said. "We'll be less than two
hundred kilometers from her... but it will really be no closer than I am
now. It's not like I'll be able to go wandering around California. And even
if I could..." he shook his head. "I'm just torturing myself, and you too,
aren't I?"



"I'll be fine," she said hollowly. "And my mind is made up in any case. The
mission needs a historical expert. That's the role I'm best suited for, so
I'm going, for better or worse. You're the best person to help accomplish
the mission on the ground-I would even say you're vital to its success. If
you think it's too dangerous, if your common sense tells you that you might
die by coming along, then you should stay. But if you're worried about my
feelings, one way or the other, that's not a reason to stay. Mars has been
good to you, Ken. It's time for you to pay us back."



He nodded, not feeling right about it, but not feeling wrong about it
either. "Okay," he said. "I'll go."



She didn't smile. Instead, another tear tracked down her face.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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