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Authors: Steve White
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given to those who surrendered; a red flag meant no quarter, period.
Practice in seamanship was—and had to be, considering that they were in the middle of a desert—done by means of virtual-reality technology. Going into it, Nesbit recovered some of his animation. “Will I get to, ah, man the steering wheel?”
Grenfell rolled his eyes but explained with his usual patience. “The steering wheel was an early eighteenth-century invention. Before that, they used what was called a whipstaff, attached to the tiller, which moved the rudder.” He used a remote control unit to activate a cursor on the holographic ship-image they were studying. “As you can see, it’s below the quarterdeck. The steersman, unable to see outside, was dependent on commands from above.”
“And at any rate,” Jason added firmly, “that isn’t going to be your job. In fact, while we’re having to acquire certain basic skills, I have no intention of unnecessarily putting us in positions where we’ll have to use those skills. Our guiding principle is going to be just enough to get by .”
Nesbit looked slightly deflated. Jason had a feeling that his disappointment, and his fantasies, would vanish once he saw the seventeenth-century Caribbean at first hand. At least he devoutly hoped they would.
* * *
“I wish I could have been more help,” said Chantal Frey as they walked toward the displacer stage. “But Franco never said anything about any scheme resembling this one—and certainly nothing about temporally displacing a spacecraft!”
“Which, given his propensity for boasting, suggests that this Transhumanist operation originates in his future . . . and perhaps our own,” said Rutherford, who was also accompanying them. His brow was furrowed with worry as he mulled over the implications.
“You’ve been a lot of help,” Jason assured Chantal, “with general background information about Transhumanist organization and procedures and ways of thinking. You never know when that kind of thing is going is going to come in handy.”
“I hope so.” She hesitated. “There was just one thing. It probably has nothing to do with this. But one time Franco said, while we were . . . well . . .”
“Yes?” Jason prompted, helping her past her embarrassment.
“He mentioned that he had left a message drop—they use the same technique as we do—letting his superiors uptime know about something he had learned from his Teloi allies. He didn’t say anything specific, you realize; he never did really trust me. But he was even more self-satisfied than usual about it. He bragged that it would cause the Transhumanist underground to make their biggest investment in time travel yet, and that he would be remembered as the Transhuman Movement’s greatest hero. He went on like that a lot, you know.” All at once, her face took on an expression not at all like its usual shy diffidence. “Give them one in the eye for me, will you?”
“At every opportunity,” Jason promised her.
The six members of the expedition received the traditional handshake from Rutherford and stepped up onto the stage. Nesbit spoiled the solemnity of the moment by tripping over his musket and almost falling on his face. Jason gave Mondrago and Da Cunha a stern look, and they kept their features expressionless. Then Rutherford and Chantal turned away, and the displacer began to power up.
“Hey, Chantal,” Jason called out, remembering his last retrieval, “do you think I look ‘dashing’ in this getup?”
She turned and gave him a cool once-over. “I think the word I’d use is ‘piratical.’”
“Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!” he intoned.
Her smile was the last thing he saw before the indescribable dissolution of reality that was temporal displacement took him.
CHAPTER SIX
For an experienced hand like Jason, the disorientation of temporal displacement only lasted a few moments. But not even he had ever entirely gotten over it. No one ever did.
An
Practice in seamanship was—and had to be, considering that they were in the middle of a desert—done by means of virtual-reality technology. Going into it, Nesbit recovered some of his animation. “Will I get to, ah, man the steering wheel?”
Grenfell rolled his eyes but explained with his usual patience. “The steering wheel was an early eighteenth-century invention. Before that, they used what was called a whipstaff, attached to the tiller, which moved the rudder.” He used a remote control unit to activate a cursor on the holographic ship-image they were studying. “As you can see, it’s below the quarterdeck. The steersman, unable to see outside, was dependent on commands from above.”
“And at any rate,” Jason added firmly, “that isn’t going to be your job. In fact, while we’re having to acquire certain basic skills, I have no intention of unnecessarily putting us in positions where we’ll have to use those skills. Our guiding principle is going to be just enough to get by .”
Nesbit looked slightly deflated. Jason had a feeling that his disappointment, and his fantasies, would vanish once he saw the seventeenth-century Caribbean at first hand. At least he devoutly hoped they would.
* * *
“I wish I could have been more help,” said Chantal Frey as they walked toward the displacer stage. “But Franco never said anything about any scheme resembling this one—and certainly nothing about temporally displacing a spacecraft!”
“Which, given his propensity for boasting, suggests that this Transhumanist operation originates in his future . . . and perhaps our own,” said Rutherford, who was also accompanying them. His brow was furrowed with worry as he mulled over the implications.
“You’ve been a lot of help,” Jason assured Chantal, “with general background information about Transhumanist organization and procedures and ways of thinking. You never know when that kind of thing is going is going to come in handy.”
“I hope so.” She hesitated. “There was just one thing. It probably has nothing to do with this. But one time Franco said, while we were . . . well . . .”
“Yes?” Jason prompted, helping her past her embarrassment.
“He mentioned that he had left a message drop—they use the same technique as we do—letting his superiors uptime know about something he had learned from his Teloi allies. He didn’t say anything specific, you realize; he never did really trust me. But he was even more self-satisfied than usual about it. He bragged that it would cause the Transhumanist underground to make their biggest investment in time travel yet, and that he would be remembered as the Transhuman Movement’s greatest hero. He went on like that a lot, you know.” All at once, her face took on an expression not at all like its usual shy diffidence. “Give them one in the eye for me, will you?”
“At every opportunity,” Jason promised her.
The six members of the expedition received the traditional handshake from Rutherford and stepped up onto the stage. Nesbit spoiled the solemnity of the moment by tripping over his musket and almost falling on his face. Jason gave Mondrago and Da Cunha a stern look, and they kept their features expressionless. Then Rutherford and Chantal turned away, and the displacer began to power up.
“Hey, Chantal,” Jason called out, remembering his last retrieval, “do you think I look ‘dashing’ in this getup?”
She turned and gave him a cool once-over. “I think the word I’d use is ‘piratical.’”
“Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!” he intoned.
Her smile was the last thing he saw before the indescribable dissolution of reality that was temporal displacement took him.
CHAPTER SIX
For an experienced hand like Jason, the disorientation of temporal displacement only lasted a few moments. But not even he had ever entirely gotten over it. No one ever did.
An
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