The Zygan Emprise: Renegade Paladins and Abyssal Redemption (51 page)

With another wave, the view shifted to show
the carousel from above, as a spinning platter. Moore pointed a
finger at the disk, then began tagging multiple spots on the
display. At each point, a duplicate spinning disk appeared, filling
the screen with randomly scattered spinning merry-go-rounds.

Moore turned to face us. “You can now abandon
the ‘string theory’ for the ‘merry-go-round reality’. A metaverse
of universes, all spinning in one direction for the riders. Time
moves forward.”

He took a puff of his cigar. “But for
travelers, voyagers can hop from one disk to another. Land on any
portion of the disk, and appear in that universe at any time, past,
present, or future.”

“Note the points I am marking with my cigar
tip.” Moore charred one edge of each disk so that we could track
the rotations.

He rested his thick finger on one charred
spot and followed it around the disk. “Traveling back in time is
impossible on each individual merry-go-round, each universe, with
just a Somalderis because it can’t fight the force of time moving
forward.”

John and I nodded. Spud’s squinting had
magnified, his eyes mere slits.

“But, if you jump over to the adjacent
merry-go-round at the right time,” Moore demonstrated by moving his
finger over to the charred spot on the next disk, “you can land
anywhere, and at any time in the neighboring universe.”

Moore bounced his finger randomly from disk
to disk on the display, finally returning to the first
“merry-go-round”—but at a different point, one behind the one he’d
left. “Ta da. You’re now in the past.”

“Which isn’t another string, but another
circle,” I offered.

“Exactly.” Moore nodded. “The metaverse is
remarkably parsimonious. Spinning orbs are effective at all sizes,
no need to reinvent the wheel.” He chuckled. “So to speak.”

John groaned appreciatively, but I was
nursing an idea, a hope. I probed, “Les, could I go back, you know,
use my Somalderis to hop from one merry-go-round to another, then
return it to Yeshua so the timeline doesn’t change?” I didn’t need
to say out loud, ‘and my family would be alive’.

Moore took a deep toke of his stogie, blew
out the smoke, and watched it curl towards the hall’s high ceiling.
A sigh. “Theoretically, assuming you had the means and methods,
such as an Ergal, to implement those universe ‘leaps’, yes.”

My spirits rose.

“But—“

My heart sank.

“There might be a complication.”

I dreaded the question I had to ask: What
could go wrong? Spud didn’t wait for me to say the words. His
voice, cold and unforgiving, intruded without mercy. “If you
succeed, John would die.”

Chapter 17

Reality Bites

“Why?” was all I could muster.

Moore scratched a bushy sideburn. “You are
familiar with the time-traveler’s paradox?”

Did Moore know about my unauthorized mission
to Zygfed’s RAM with Agriarctos to rescue Anesidora’s neurocache,
too? Benedict’d had us do an Ergal-guided time leap so that I came
face-to-face with the future version of myself—and watched her die.
Hoarsely: “Some.”

“I see two scenaria. You hop merry-go-rounds
to the past and return the Somalderis to its owner--before your
past self arrives to…borrow it. The owner now has two—and is
suspicious enough to prevent you from borrowing any. Ergo, you
can’t go to Benedict’s brane and rescue John. And, you can’t take a
used Somalderis back so the owner ends up, as before, with
one.”

I frowned. I wasn’t exactly sure I followed
Moore’s logic.

“The other viable scenario: you return the
Somalderis after its owner dies, and everything remains the
same.”

“Now wait a minute,” John interceded. “You’ve
left out the possibility that she could return the Somalderis right
after she borrowed it. Yeshua could use it—“

“No,” I muttered. “He was arrested just as I
was transporting out…”

“And would not be alone again until he’d
breathed his last…” Spud finished, focusing his gaze on John. “I
checked the records, alas.”

“Hey,” John held up a hand and stepped back,
“don’t load this on me. There’s always another solution to every
challenge. I’m not going back to that hell of nothingness.”

“Even at the cost of your family’s lives?”
Spud shot at him.

A flash of anger. “You don’t know what I
know, Escott, so keep your tight-ass out of our business.”

“It’s not just your business, Rush. There are
millions of people in this timeline, on this world.”

“Heaven on Earth.” Ice missiles in John’s
voice. “Progress, prosperity, peace. Millions of people living
happy, comfortable lives. Your brother’s life was a small
sacrifice, Escott, for the common good we’ve witnessed here.”

“You do not have the right to choose who will
sacrifice for whom,” cried Spud, flushing red from his neck to his
hairline. “’By that sin fell the angels’.”

“John! Spud!” I reached out an arm to each.
“John is right—there’re always other options. We’ll find a way to
bring everyone back. Without returning John to-to….” I couldn’t
finish.

From Moore, a crooked smile and cryptic
words, “I have no doubt that you will.”

* * *

None of us were in a mood to sample the lush
dinner Moore was offering if we’d stay. But Moore did have some
other things to offer that I found appealing. Like a connection to
this timeline’s Zygan Federation, where we might be able to repair
our Ergals; and get some obvious anamorphing and transporting
powers that might facilitate any brane-hopping, or merry-go-round
hopping, we needed to do.

“Can you take us to a Zygfed outpost?” I
asked our host. “We could get our Ergals reactivated.”

“I wouldn’t advise that,” Moore said. “You’re
under the Omega Archon’s radar now—better than being under his heel
if they become aware of what’s happened.”

Spud shook his head. “We shall all be
sentenced to Hell for the rest of our lives.”

“Well then, Les, can you fix our Ergals?
Nevada to here was bad enough in a blimp. I’ll go nuts making that
trip for two weeks over the Atlantic.”

John brightened. “Where are we going?”

Spud contributed a disgusted sigh.

“I’d like to visit the ‘scene of the crime’.”
I feigned lightness. “Perhaps we can figure out another way to
reverse what happened.”

Spud shook his head. “Jerusalem is now called
Alsharif, and is a regional capital in the province of Philaia,” he
intoned, consulting his CD. “It is also 10,000 miles from
here.”

“That’s why we need our Ergals
operational.”

Moore cleared his throat. Loudly. “Don’t
fret. I can arrange for you to get a black market tool that
performs some of the functions of an Ergal. That should let you
bypass the ‘local transportation’ and travel by instantaneous mass
transport, and make your less patient readers happy.”

“What?” I said, but Moore had already turned
his back to us and headed off to an adjacent room. Did I hear what
I thought I heard?

I glanced at Spud. The furrowed brow was
back. But John didn’t seem at all puzzled. He was leaning against
one of the holoscreens with a satisfied grin on his face.

* * *

The ‘black market Ergals’ were thin bands,
made of silver, but unlike Anesidora’s M81 Ergal, were undecorated
with writing or pictographs. We each slipped one on our fingers,
and waited for Moore’s instructions.

“They’re not quite as powerful as real
Ergals. You won’t be able to invisibilize or lev, but they’re not
bad for data mining and anamorphing. With the right settings,
they’ll provide instantaneous mass transport, across the Atlantic,
or across the centuries. If you leave soon, you’ll be in Philaia
within minutes, just before sunrise.

“And that’s where the city of Jerusalem is,
right?”

“Was,” Moore nodded. He took my hand in both
of his and brought it up to his chest. “But you’re sure you won’t
stay the night? I make a mean lasagna.”

I met his intense gaze with a confident
smile. “Only if you answer my question: what’d you mean when you
said ‘your less patient readers’?”

My hand dropped as Moore released his grip
and turned away, eyes twinkling. “Have a safe trip, Shiloh. Until
we meet again.”

Now I was the one with the furrowed brow.

Chapter 18

Everything New Under the Sun

The Middle East—alternate present day

Alsharif, née Jerusalem, was a gleaming
modern city. After promising to return our loaner CD’s to Nea
Athina’s Ministry of Intercourse, Moore had arranged for us to
M-fan in the Philaian burg in a lush park that encircled a
glistening lake, shimmering with the rays of dawn.

“I love what these alternate civilizations
have done to deserts,” John said, awestruck as we made our way onto
a broad pedestrian boulevard lined with colorful bushes and flowers
and stared at the surrounding architecturally diverse towers molded
from glass and steel. Marble statues and other
objets d’art
stood guard at the entrances and lobbies of the high-rises. At
pavement level were shops and cafes where customers enjoyed
shopping in the warmth of a sunny morning.

I noted the absence of cars. The streets were
filled with toga-sporting walkers, men, women, and children,
assisted by people-movers of various types. In the center of the
road were drivers of small personal vehicles, resembling Segways
with seats. Next to them were two rows of moving sidewalks, then
lanes for ambulation, paved as in Nea Alexandria with a springy
turf. I even noted a few bikes, three and four wheeled, with
reclining seats. What was most impressive was, despite the traffic,
I could hear drifting conversations in a variety of languages, not
noisy vehicle engines.

“Solar and wind power can fuel all of this?”
remarked John, amazed.

“Hardly,” Spud advised us. “My historical
review has revealed that the USA rejected low energy nuclear
reactions as a source of energy. Philaia obviously has not.”

“Wow. Cold fusion. Unlimited energy with
limited risks.” John’s expression was pure admiration.

Spud seemed to share the USA’s opinion.
“Though I have sometimes acceded to taking a place at the table, I
have never yet been seduced by a free luncheon.” He paused to
listen to the ambient chat for a moment, adding, “Arabic, Greek,
Latin, and Farsi. A Germanic tongue, from Prussia, I believe, and
another, from Eastern Europe, known as Yiddish. Quite a melting pot
here in Alsharif.”

“And it sure looks like everybody’s getting
along with each other. Amazing.” John pointed to a clear tablet
that a pedestrian was reading as he walked by. “Let’s see if
there’s a blog or something we can use to get caught up with the
local news.”

We trekked a few blocks past buildings
decorated with friezes honoring familiar-looking deities.

“Yes, that is Zeus and Hera,” Spud said,
pronouncing Zeus with the standard British two syllables.

“Who’s the dude with the halo?” John
asked.

“Osiris, I believe,” Spud squinted at the
writing on the base of one statue. “Across the street is the
Goddess Isis. You can also espy her on that frieze over there with
Horus.”

Osiris sure looks a lot like Yeshua, I
marveled, eyeing the massive statue. But I hadn’t seen any homages
to our Judean prophet himself. I began to worry that our trip to
these historic lands would be for naught. The prevalence of pagan
gods in the artwork of this modern city didn’t bode well for
followers of Yeshua’s prophecies.

Spud was thinking along the same lines. “This
culture is definitely committed to the Isis-Osiris team. If we are
to uncover any residua of our target, it would behoove us to locate
a local house of worship and access its library and historical
records for traces of Yeshua.”

“Fine,” offered John, “but how ‘bout we do
that
after
we’ve gotten something to eat. My stomach wants
dinner.”

We found a shop selling tablets (along with
ample servings of hummus, warm pita bread, and falafel) that was
willing to accept our USA currency, albeit with a patronizing
smirk. After uploading the news of the day on our tablets, first in
Anglish, which was a Chaucerian mix of Celtic and Germanic words,
we gave up and opted for Latin, which came up a much more readable
combination of Italian and French, especially with interpretive
help from our new Ergals.

We sat in the shade under an awning, scanning
as we munched. The news from Philaia, as well as Greater Romi to
the northwest, was glowing, literally, on our electronic pages.
Yes, there were still skirmishes raging in Asia between the Empires
of Ming and Meisho, and occasional dust clouds from nuclear
explosions in Oceania, but in what had been the Europe and Middle
East of our Earth, the reports read “peace and prosperity for all”.
Measured growth and development, a vibrant arts and culture scene,
free education for children and adults, subsidized health
care--

“This system of government appears to be a
federation of independent provinces, working together
collaboratively under the guidance of the Ministry of Synergy,”
commented Spud between bites. “As far as I can determine, the model
is most similar to that of the social democracies of Northern
Europe in the latter part of the twentieth century. A social safety
net and regulated enterprise.”

“So how do they pay for all of this?” asked
John, waving a hand at the skyscrapers and city’s well-maintained
infrastructure.

“That free lunch Spud hates so much,” I
speculated. “This society seems to have all the energy it needs. We
all know most wars are really fought for resources, land, gas,
oil.”

“Not nationalism?” John’s tone was
dubious.

“You mean Queen and Country?” I teased,
glancing at a dour Spud.