The Lord of the Sands of Time (6 page)

Though Orville never mentioned it to Sayaka, fertility was a topic of debate even among other Messengers. Opinion ran the gamut. Some wanted the ability to reproduce, some said it was not critical, others thought it should be forbidden. Alexandr believed in platonic relationships and emphasized the tie between soulmates. But when he dragged the concept of Original Sin into the discussion, Orville gave him a friendly warning: “No one doubts the nature of your relationship with Shumina. Just leave it at that.”

On this point, Sandrocottos was unyielding. The ability to reproduce sexually was the critical distinction between humans and AIs. It was a line that must not be crossed.

The importance of leaving descendants often came up when Orville and Sayaka discussed the value of resurgent humanity. For Sayaka, humanity meant not only the several hundred million people alive today. It meant a vast continuity, flowing from the past into the future—an ocean of more than five hundred billion individual lives. Orville liked that majestic image.

Sayaka had been born aboard Pluto Convoy, at the height of humanity’s withdrawal to the far reaches of the solar system. Her mother had died in combat when Sayaka was small, and so she was raised by her historian father. As she moved with him from base to base, she developed an understanding of the flow of people and goods. When she reached adulthood and began searching for work, she realized her place was in the Supply Section.

By nature, Sayaka yearned for a return to something bigger than just community. Orville surmised that this desire had crystallized when she was a young girl. She was inclined to agree. That, she said, was why it was important to hold on to that idea from her childhood and turn it into something nobler, something bigger.

“These are strange days. A person can give their all to society, without a trace of misgiving.” Sayaka sprawled languidly across her bed beneath the skylight. “No worries about being duped into serving tyranny or corruption. The results, the effects of all our actions will be made clear to us. Armies of virtuous AIs, and an almost too perfectly despicable enemy, will rectify all our mistakes with mild punishment or a defeat so clear anyone will be able to recognize it. Even the most cynical person and the biggest anarchist can believe in the rightness of their rulers, the way we can today. My father says there’s been nothing like it in history.”

“So that’s why you think about what will come afterward. Even if circumstances or ideologies change, you want something everyone can value, right?” said Orville.

“Yes, I keep saying I’m hoping that day will come.”

“But actually, that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“Afraid? I don’t think so. No, I’m sure I’m not.”

Orville casually rolled on top of her. His chest pressed into delightful softness. He stroked her hair—now undone, finally. “Humanity has been fighting and winning ever since you were born. Winning the war means any victories after that will pale in comparison. There might be civil strife, there might be secession. Doesn’t that scare you?”

“Sure, I suppose that could happen. If there’s no enemy, creating one is something we humans do. But that doesn’t scare me,” she answered.

“You’re one tough lady.”

“What? No, just the opposite. What I mean is, next to losing you, nothing could scare me.” Sayaka cradled Orville’s face in her hands and looked into his eyes. She chuckled dryly, then expression left her face. “We could always run away.”

“Not a good idea,” Orville said, and he kissed her deeply. Then he whispered in her ear, “I can’t lie to you. I don’t want to run away. The human species needs Messengers to fight for them. I have no doubts about that. I couldn’t throw that away and choose you, even if the people who made me allowed it. I’m at peace with my mission.”

“So much for seduction.”

“Damn it, can’t you understand?”

He embraced her powerfully and she responded. When words failed them, they communed with their bodies. But no matter how much this taught the lovers about each other, it left them both resigned to the impossibility of knowing everything.

Their four months together were over all too soon. As Orville’s deployment crept closer, they quarreled occasionally, but never enough to drive them apart. Once, however, Sayaka suggested they take a shuttle to tour one of the huge, near-lightspeed vessels docked in space. Orville sensed what was on her mind but said nothing till she’d circled the giant ship once, then veered away. After insertion into the return trajectory to Triton, Orville finally spoke.

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For turning back. You were thinking about stowing away, weren’t you? Once you’d boarded one of those ships, you would never come back. Not in this lifetime. But I’m glad you didn’t.”

“You really think so?” said Sayaka.

“Yes, because every one of those ships orbiting the Sun is restricted to port until we Messengers are deployed. They don’t want us running away. There’s no way we could have gone.”

“They think of everything.” She exhaled as if surprised and shook her head. “But that’s not what I meant. I was asking whether you really thought I wanted to run.”

“Don’t you?” said Orville.

“No.” She shook her head. Orville knew she wasn’t telling the truth, but he didn’t want to deny her decision to lie. “We’re counting on you, Orville.”

We, as in humanity.

Two-tenths of the Messengers slated for deployment—nearly fifty thousand—were on Triton. There were many couples like Orville and Sayaka, and as the day approached, the change in the city’s mood was apparent. Each couple had felt as if the world were theirs alone. Now they all knew that was impossible.

On the day of deployment, Orville spotted Sayaka from the gangway leading to his ship. She was part of a crowd—an astonishingly large crowd—united in the sorrow of parting. Orville called to Alexandr boarding ahead of him. “Shumina is here.”

“I know.” His massive bulk disappeared into the ship without looking back.

Orville turned. His keen vision picked out Sayaka looking toward him bravely, without tears.
Of course
, he thought. They had said their farewells quite exhaustively the previous night. Orville would hardly have minded if she hadn’t come today.

But she did come. She had something more to say to him. She opened her mouth wide and slowly formed the words.

“See you. Again. Someday.”

The instant Orville saw that, he felt a stabbing pain in his chest. He fled into the ship.

Orville was not well versed in the technology of temporal upstreaming or the theory of spacetime on which it was based—the technology had been perfected by human scientists working with specialized AIs—but as a Messenger, he understood and could pilot the hardware that made the theory’s predictions manifest reality. Orville was not particularly interested in the underlying ideas. If the ETs fled backward in time, he knew how to follow them. That was enough.

“You will now upstream into the past and defeat the enemy, supported by all the matériel and AIs that Sol System has been able to assemble. The situation on the ground, and the enemy’s strength, are completely unknown. You may well find your forces inadequate. Therefore, your prime objective isn’t to engage the enemy directly, but to alert the local population to the danger and assist them in developing their fighting capabilities to the highest possible level. You will inform and guide, so humanity can fight to defend itself and its future.”

But that future was not this present. Orville’s face twisted with the pain of that knowledge. Spurring humanity to fight the ET in the past would change history, generating new timestreams. Even if Orville survived the fighting, entered cryostasis and waited long enough, he would not be able to return to
this
present. Regardless of the war’s outcome, a completely transformed Sol System would await the Messengers.

He would never see Sayaka again. But if that were all he had to bear—as if that weren’t enough—he could have borne it.

“Please access AI Prime and authenticate.” At these words from the human officer assigned to see them off, the Messengers closed their eyes and contacted the fleet command AI through their internal comm links. They verified their mission and its implications: they were soldiers who would never return. Using the comm link had been an occasional necessity on Triton, where someone might have been listening, but at this point it was an empty ceremony.

“Authentication is complete. I will now reveal a piece of highly classified information. Our scientists and AIs have just concluded with a high degree of certainty that humanity in this timestream will soon be extinct.” The officer choked with emotion. As the one designated to deliver this message, he would have been chosen for his steady nerves, but his voice was trembling.

“The basis for this conclusion is the fact that no Messengers have arrived from our future. If we had been successful against the ET, mankind should also have sent additional Messengers from our own future to help deal with the conflicts we now face. Techniques to determine the timing of arrival of these new hypothetical Messengers have advanced significantly. But as of today, no new Messengers have upstreamed to our present. This means that the ability to deploy new Messengers into the past is not a part of our future. That means we have no future.

“We will be extinct before long, either through defeat or self-destruction. It does not matter.” In point of fact, for Orville and the other Messengers about to depart into the past, this was not critically important. Their efforts would spawn new timestreams, in one of which humanity might survive, and that was all that mattered.
If only those four months had never been…

Sayaka, her friends, and all Triton would vanish in fire. Orville had known this was likely since his inception, but he had pushed it to the back of his mind; conditions might have changed for the better during the past four months. But in the end, the miracle was not to be. Now there was nothing for the Messengers to do but leave these people to their fate.

Orville clenched his fists.
Sayaka,
he cried out inwardly.
Forgive me.
He couldn’t save her, but he could take her hopes with him, graven on his heart.
Devotion to humanity.

“Therefore, we who are about to die entrust our hopes to all humanity across the multiverse, and command you: Carry the word. Triumph. Farewell.” The officer disembarked.

The command AI spoke:

“Good morning, Messengers. I am Cutty Sark, Mission AI. I will accompany you to the ends of time, coordinate Upstreamer Force operations and provide support through a wide range of resources. Please initiate sensory suspension. This fleet will now upstream into the past.”

The fleet’s ships, fortresses, and mobile bases powered down and engaged their chronoshift devices. In the darkness, Orville clamped his teeth and suppressed a scream.
What am I supposed to save?

Then consciousness winked out. The fleet dropped into the well of time.