Sean Dalton - Restoration.rtf

RESTORATION by Sean Dalton.

CHAPTER 1

Noel Kedran shivered in the winter darkness of the unlit alley. The icy winds coming off Lake Michigan sliced down the streets, and stabbed through his protective clothing like a sti­letto through paper.

Trojan, his best friend and backup for tonight, was late. Noel checked the time again and cursed to himself. Trojan had promised to be here, after Noel spent several days talking his hairy friend into it. Now Trojan had failed him.

Bitterness welled up in Noel, a sour, raging anger that seemed to catch him without warning more and more frequently of late. He bottled it, knowing that he had to keep his wits about him now. Tonight was his one chance of revenge. He'd worked for twelve weeks for this chance—twelve weeks of dogged searching, bribing snitches, hacking into the police informer networks, and scouting through the roughest parts of the old city to unearth this one particular cell of Anarchists. If they stuck to the typical Anarchist pattern, they would disband the cell soon and re-form elsewhere. If that happened, he'd never again find the individuals who had killed his old mentor Tchielskov and sent Noel spinning into a closed time loop for all eternity.

More shivers wracked him, shivers that had less to do with the bitter Chicago cold than the mess he had become inside. He blamed the Anarchists for that as well. As he stared up at

the dingy, second-story apartment where a feeble light glowed around the edges of a blackout curtain, he could feel the shakes grow worse. He didn't have to be asleep for the nightmares to haunt him. Clawing, desperate dreams of scourging lash or howling mobs. Without warning, he would see the lovely faces of women he'd met in those travels to the past, women who bent down to kiss him, then turned abruptly into serpents and struck his lips with their fangs. The poison would fill his mouth, and he'd wake up choking for breath, his hands clawing his throat, his heart racing. In other dreams he stood trapped in a chamber of mirrors, seeing his reflection no matter which way he turned, a reflection that jeered and cursed him as it grew progressively distorted.

"Leon," he whispered aloud, while his hands trembled uncon­trollably and the hatred inside him burned like acid.

The Anarchists had done that to him as well, had saddled him with a mirror image, a duplicate copied from him dur­ing his plunge through the time stream. Leon was a com­plete reversal of Noel—from his name to his personality. Noel was left-handed; Leon was right-handed. Noel believed in the purpose of the Time Institute, which was to bring mankind back to the virtues of courage, honor, and valor by witnessing and recording examples from the past. Leon's conscience was nonexistent. If he wasn't trying to destroy Noel, he was busy trying to destroy history.

And yet, Leon—despicable, cowardly, scheming—was more than a blurred copy. Leon was a part of Noel, a part he did not want to admit.

He would never forgive the Anarchists for bringing him face-to-face with that side of himself. Never.

Above him the dim light went out. Noel crouched lower in the shadows, his entire body tensed. The meeting was over. The Anarchists would be slipping out one by one to the land­ing. They would go down the rusted, ancient fire escape like shadows.

He was mature enough to know that revenge was never all it promised. Revenge couldn't undo what had happened, couldn't bring Tchielskov back to life, couldn't take the nightmares away, couldn't find Leon where he still romped unchecked in the past. The shrinks at the Institute had talked to Noel long and hard about the futility of tracking down those who

had hurt him. But revenge was what he wanted, and what he meant to have.

Noel reached beneath his jacket and pulled out a Fabric 94. It was a very illegal weapon, bought off the black market yesterday, its modern heft and shape alien to his hands, which had been trained to use the ancient weapons of sword, dagger, and bow. This gun had laser sights, loose-jacketed ammunition with homing sensors, and aim-tracking assist. It was a powerful and deadly weapon, one favored by Anarchists. The irony of that appealed to him. He would pick them off one by one as they came down the fire escape, and they would die in silence in the darkness.

A hand closed upon his shoulder from behind. Noel jerked in alarm and nearly fired the weapon.

"Easy!" rumbled Trojan's deep voice in his ear.

The wild hammering inside Noel eased off. He gulped in a breath and barely stopped himself from jabbing the Fabric's muzzle into Trojan's chest.

"You took your sweet time!" he whispered angrily. "They're coming out."

Above, at the window, mere was a slight flutter of move­ment. The curtain slid aside, and a shadowy figure appeared in silhouette.

"I was in a briefing," murmured Trojan. "Couldn't get away until late. Sorry."

Aflare with fresh resentment, Noel turned his head away. Briefings meant travel, something denied to him now. He didn't want to be angry with Trojan, but his friend still had access to a world and all its wondrous events that was now closed to Noel. It had placed a rift between them, a rift Trojan tried to ignore, but Noel couldn't

He wished suddenly that he hadn't asked Trojan to help him tonight. He knew the feeling was unfair, but he went on feeling it anyway.

The first Anarchist had emerged now on the landing. He was cloaked in a night suit, a special fabric that absorbed almost one hundred percent of the light spectrum and made its wearer practically invisible. Raising the weapon, Noel squinted through the sights, which were calibrated in compensation, and found his target.

He held his breath and started squeezing the trigger.

Trojan's powerful hand clamped hard around his wrist and pulled the gun down.

Furious, Noel tried to wrestle free. "Damn you!" he breathed. "What are you doing?"

"Since when did you become an assassin?" retorted Trojan, equally quietly. "Where's the honor in shooting them in the back?"

The first Anarchist was nearly to the ground, his weight on the ancient ladder making the metal squeak and groan. A second Anarchist had started down, and the third and last member of the cell stood on the landing. In seconds they would be gone. Noel went wild inside, but Trojan's muscular arm was clamped around him like a vise. Struggling would give their presence away; Noel could do nothing.

He relaxed in Trojan's hold, his muscles aching from the strain to break free. Sweat had broken out on his face. He could feel time passing with every heartbeat, and his sense of urgency increased. He should have known Trojan would betray him. He should have done this alone.

"Back off," he whispered. "I—"

Trojan's other hand was still clamped on his wrist. The pres­sure there was intolerable, as though Trojan meant to crush his bones. Noel gritted his teeth against the pain. Trojan shook his arm, trying to make him drop the gun. But Noel hung on. Had Trojan become an Anarchist sympathizer? The very suspicion was infuriating. Noel hit him with his free fist, the blow thud­ding into solid muscle and numbing his hand. Trojan increased the pressure, and Noel felt his fingers losing circulation, losing the grip that was so vital.

The first Anarchist was on the ground, hurrying away. Noel reared up.

"No!" he shouted, and his voice echoed off the alley walls.

He pulled the trigger, although Trojan had the gun's muzzle aimed at the sky. There was a muted flash, and the Fabric recoiled against Noel's palm. The shot went nowhere, wasted.

With shouts, the Anarchists scattered.

Trojan heaved Noel to his feet. "Come on! Now it's fair."

Noel wrenched free at last, so furious it was all he could do not to shoot Trojan. "You idiot! You've let them—"

One of the Anarchists shot back, and fire scorched Noel's arm. He twisted and went down, his left side awash with agony,

his body barely registering the impact with the ground.

Trojan rolled to the other side of the alley and dived for cover behind a pile of frozen garbage.

Overcoming the pain that had him gasping and writhing, Noel raised up on his good elbow and aimed at the third figure now scrambling back up the fire escape. The Fabric bucked in his hand, and the Anarchist screamed and fell.

Another shot whizzed by Noel's head. He ducked.

Across the alley, Trojan let out a bloodcurdling war cry and threw a dagger, which thunked solidly into its intended target.

He ran forward, yelling, "Last one is yours, my friend!"

Noel's earlier fury faded, and he had to grin at his crazy friend. Trojan's insistence on fighting with medieval tactics in the middle of the twenty-sixth century spoke of his com­mitment to old-fashioned valor.

The one remaining Anarchist had given up fighting. He ran full tilt up the alley. In seconds he would be out on State Street, lost forever in the confusion and jostle of the Red Booth District.

Noel scrambled to his feet and lurched into a run after him. The Fabric had a very limited range. He had to get closer before he could fire again. He had to get his target while they were both still in the alley.

As he ran he kept one eye on the distance counter on the side of the gun. When it started flashing acquisition range, Noel sucked in a deep breath and raised the weapon. It wasn't even necessary to stop and assume a shooter's stance. All he had to do was aim and fire, and the homing sensors would zero in on his target.

Just as he squeezed the trigger, however, the ground van­ished beneath his feet. The distant glow of the streetlights zoomed at him, and the alley walls twisted as though they would fall on him. He felt intense pain, as though his body were being turned inside out, then he fell and hit solid ground with a thud that wrung a grunt from him.

The blinding lights receded, and the walls straightened back to where they belonged. Noel lay there, gasping for breath, and tasted the sickly sweetness of blood. Alarms wailed in the distance.

Footsteps came running, then Trojan was kneeling over him. "Noel! Are you all right?"

His hands gripped the back of Noel's jacket and pulled him up. Noel blinked hard, trying to bring himself back into focus. He stared up into the worried face of his friend. Craggy of feature, built like a slab of rock, and covered with a pelt of red hair, Trojan Heitz was a man designed for another century. He was as solid and loyal as they came. Noel was ashamed that he'd doubted Trojan even for a moment.

Noel spat out a mouthful of blood. "What was that?" he asked thickly.

Trojan's nose was bleeding, and he wiped it impatiently. "Are you shot? Did you fall? What happened? You missed him, you know."

Scowling, Noel worked his tongue busily around his teeth in search of a loose one. They all seemed solidly attached. He spat out more blood and pulled himself up with Trojan's help. A moment of dizziness made him sway, then he straightened and shook off Trojan's supporting hand.

"I'm okay. Now. I think." Noel put a hand to his head for a moment, trying to work it out. 'That was a doozy. I've heard about them in theory, of course, but—"

Trojan took his arm again. "You'd better sit down."

Noel shook him off. "Quit grabbing me. I'm fine. How about you?"

"You're the one not making any sense. Aha, you are shot I figured as much when you fell down."

"I didn't fall down," said Noel impatiently. Trojan probed his forearm, and Noel winced. "Leave it alone. It's a graze. The distortion is more important."

"What distortion?"

Noel stared up into his friend's puzzled eyes, and his own frustration grew. "The distortion. You know, a few seconds ago, when the world turned inside out?"

Trojan snorted. "You were shot, and you fell down. That's all, Noel. Let's not get dramatic."

"Dramatic?" Noel heard himself shouting, but he didn't care. He couldn't believe Trojan was shrugging this off. "Do you know how rare a time distortion is? Do you know how unlike­ly? Do you know how dangerous?"

"Of course I know. Calm down, and let's get out of here before those sirens come any closer. I want to recover my dagger. If it's traced to the Institute, Dr. Rugle will—"

"You're not listening to me," said Noel through gritted teeth. He followed Trojan down the alley, clutching his wounded arm and feeling increasingly baffled. "Didn't you experience it?"

"Experience what?"

"The distortion!"

Behind them an air shuttle swept over State Street, its search­light stabbing down. Trojan glanced over his shoulder. "Quick. Let's get out of here."

They paused only to recover Trojan's dagger, then ran from the alley into the warren of shadowy streets beyond. Minutes later, Noel wiped down the Fabric and tossed it into the river. They stood at the bridge, and Noel felt a fresh series of shivers go through him. He was getting light-headed from delayed reaction, while Trojan seemed to have suffered no ill effects at all, other than the nosebleed, which had stopped.

"Killing makes a bad night's work," said Trojan moodily. "Let's go home."

"Home?" said Noel in surprise. "But don't you think we should report to the Institute?"

"Why? Do you intend to confess your—"

'Trojan, will you cut this? A time distortion is serious. You can't ignore it. Rugle will have the whole Institute on alert—"

"Hold it," said Trojan firmly. His blue eyes caught Noel's. "You must—"

"Trojan, I'm telling you, it—"

"Noel! Calm down."

"How can I calm down? The time fabric has pulled apart. There's trouble. Do I have to spell it out? Leon has prob­ably changed history. Our present could be ending right now. We—"

"Nothing is ending," said Trojan firmly. He gripped Noel by the shoulders and shook him. "Nothing! Listen to me."

"No, you listen to me,'' said Noel urgently. "I experienced it. And you did, too, only you won't admit it."

"Nothing happened, my friend," said Trojan.

The gentleness in his tone sent Noel's blood boiling. "Don't try to humor me, damn you!"

"I'm not humoring you. I'm trying to get you home so we can treat that arm. You're going into shock, and we're both going to freeze to death if we stay out here all night."

He tugged at Noel, but Noel planted his feet and didn't budge. "I don't get this. Are you telling me you didn't feel the distortion?"

Trojan emitted a gusty sigh. "Exactly. It didn't happen."

"But it did\ I fell right through it. And you... you must have. Your nose was bleeding."

"That's because I banged it when I dived for cover during the shooting," said Trojan.

Noel frowned, and for a moment he was shaken into doubt­ing himself. Maybe Trojan was right. Maybe it hadn't hap­pened.

"No," he said firmly, squaring his shoulders. "I'm not crazy. Maybe it was tiny. Maybe it only happened to me. Maybe whatever Leon's doing back in the seventeenth century is only going to affect me. I—"

"Noel!" said Trojan in concern. "Stop it. He's gone. He cannot hurt you. He cannot affect you."

"But he's still back there!" cried Noel. "The instruments can track him."

"It's a shadow. The technicians have gone into that again and again. There's a tiny bit of essence still left in the time stream, but not enough to matter. He can't be tangible, Noel. He can't affect anything. He probably isn't corporeal. If he were, history would have changed by now. Think about it. How many times did he try to change things, and you were always there to make the save. Weren't you?"

Noel shrugged. He kept his gaze turned stubbornly on the Chicago River, flowing oily black beneath the reflection of streetlights.

"Nothing has changed," said Trojan persuasively. "We're still here. There's been plenty of time for him to make a dif­ference if he was going to. But he can't. He's gone. He's smoke. There isn't even enough of him to suffer. You're back, and you're whole. That's all that matters."

Noel felt the old fear uncoil inside him, a fear that told him every assurance Trojan offered was false. They could postulate their theories forever, but still Noel knew that Leon continued to exist... somewhere ... back there.

He curled his fingers around the cold steel railing of the bridge. "I'm not whole," he whispered, his voice catching on emotions he didn't want to reveal. "They won't let me travel."

Trojan sighed. After a moment's hesitation, he gripped Noel' s shoulder. "You'll be certified fit one of these days. It hasn't been long enough."

Noel whipped his head around and glared at his friend. "And how many weeks will it take? How many months? How many years? They don't trust me. They'll never trust me again."

"They will," said Trojan with conviction. "You're too damned impatient. You always want things to happen immedi­ately. The hag is too cautious for you, but it's her job to be careful."

Noel frowned. Part of him knew that Trojan was right. But the rest of him had to believe his own instincts. "You're traveling soon, aren't you? The briefing that made you late tonight—"

Trojan dropped his gaze away. "I travel tomorrow."

It came back, the resentment, sour and burning in Noel's throat until he could barely contain it. His hands shook, no matter how hard he gripped the railing. But beyond that, a new worry reared its head.

"You can't," said Noel unsteadily, keeping his gaze away from Trojan so as not to betray too much. "It's not safe."

"Noel, don't get started on that again. You've been obsessed with tracking down these Anarchists. You've worked way too hard to find them. But now that's done. You succeeded. You got the creeps who killed Tchielskov."

Noel swallowed hard, letting himself be diverted for a moment. "Most of them."

"One got away. He's gone. You won't find him again."

"I know."

"You have to accept that."

Noel nodded. "I do."

"You did your best."

"Yeah, with your help."

Trojan hesitated. "I had to even the odds, my friend."

Noel looked him dead in the eyes then. "For a moment there I thought you were on their side."

A trace of anger smoldered in Trojan's blue gaze for a moment, then vanished. "Never."

"Yeah," said Noel. "Sorry."

"I wanted you to be able to live with yourself in the morn­ing."

"They're scum! They don't deserve—"

Trojan held up his hand. "No, but you deserve a clear con­science. There is justice, and then there is selling your soul for expediency. You know what I'm talking about. Do I have to explain it further?"

"No," whispered Noel, and felt the shame of what he'd nearly done. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. Now, it's late and I'm freezing. I want some coffee to warm me up. We'll" go to my place."

'Thanks, but I'd better head across the lake."

Trojan shook his head as though in exasperation, but his smile was kind. 'That dump you call home is too far away. Shuttle traffic will be jamming up at this hour for the next work shift. You come home with me and stay tonight."

"I don't need a nursemaid," snapped Noel.

"A drinking companion, maybe?" suggested Trojan slyly.

Noel's annoyance softened. Maybe, if he got Trojan good and drunk, his friend wouldn't be certified to travel tomorrow. That would give Noel time to talk to the technicians about the distortion. He looked at his friend and finally grinned. "Yeah, now that's the best idea you've had all night. Let's go."

CHAPTCR 2

Chicago Work Complex 7 was an edifice of bronzed steel and glass sprawling over multiple acres of prime west-side real estate. It held the offices of sixty-two international cor­porations, a promenade of retail shops and restaurants, three hotels, several theaters, fourteen banks, the Museum of Politi­cal/Social History, the Library of Antiquities, and the Time Institute.

An international science symposium on mutations of aquat­ic single-celled life-forms was being conducted at one of the hotels. Marine biologists, salt tanned and chattering, filled the escalators and slidewalks, hurried past office workers dream­ily spaced out on their Life-design head chips, and jammed the lifts.

"Come on, fella!" one called to Noel, holding open the door and waving to him. "There's room to squeeze you in!"

Noel, his head aching from a brandy hangover, his mouth sour from the aftertaste of painkillers, and his arm sore no matter which way he held it, smiled a no-thanks. Normally he would have sprung for the lift. Today, however, he preferred to glide slowly along among the cattle, quiet and c...