Sunset of the Gods

CHAPTER THREE





The following day, they underwent the biological cleansing process of which Rutherford had spoken—painless, but involving a certain degree of discomfort and indignity. In accordance with his usual policy, Rutherford also hastened them through something he had no desire to let them stew about.

“The temporal retrieval device, or TRD, is very tiny.” He held up a metallic object no larger than a small pea. “It can be implanted anywhere; we generally prefer to use the inside of the upper left arm. It is a very simple in-out surgery.”

Landry rubbed his itchy face (Rutherford had ordered all three of the men to start growing beards), scowled, and asked the question they always asked. “Do we have to have it implanted?”

“The Articles of Agreement you signed state that you consent to it.”

“Yes, yes, I know. But is it really necessary?” Landry’s uneasiness was reflected in Chantal Frey’s face and, to a lesser extent, in Mondrago’s. They had all grown up in post-Transhumanist society, and to them anything that blurred the line between man and machine was both illegal and flesh-crawlingly obscene.

“The Authority,” Jason explained, “is responsible for getting you back to your proper time. Yes, we could build the TRD into some in-period object that you could carry. But then you might lose it, by inadvertence or theft. And with no TRD to restore your temporal energy potential, you’d be marooned in the fifth century b.c. permanently.” He saw that he’d gotten through to them. “You can’t lose something that’s inside your flesh.”

As was often the case, Chantal’s voice was so quiet and hesitant as to be almost ignorable. “But . . . didn’t you say that the third member of your expedition remained in the Bronze Age. How could that be, if—?”

“That was due to unforeseen circumstances, Dr. Frey.” Jason’s features and tone were carefully neutral. “The Teloi detected Dr. Sadaka-Ramirez’s TRD and had it cut out of her.”

Chantal’s color didn’t look particularly good.

“That sort of thing doesn’t normally happen,” Rutherford put in quickly. “In point of fact, that was the only time it has ever happened. At any rate, you now understand the importance of this procedure. And please be assured that the implant is a totally passive one, not involving any kind of direct neural interfacing.” Their expressions combined relief with revulsion at the very concept. “The TRD activates at a predetermined moment, timed by atomic decay, at which moment you will find yourselves back on the displacer stage.”

“And until that moment,” said Jason, forestalling another question that always got asked, “there is no way to return to the present. You’re going to be in the past for a fixed duration, come hell or high water. This accounts for the stringent health and fitness qualifications you had to meet, and the low-tech survival course you had to pass . . . and also for the non-liability clause the Authority has written into the Articles of Agreement.”

“But,” Landry persisted somewhat peevishly, “why can’t you take along a . . . er, switch, or whatever, so you can activate the TRDs and bring us back if we find ourselves in difficulties?”

“Retrievals must be according to a rigid, entirely predictable schedule. That way, the Authority can assure that at the time you are due to return the displacer stage is clear of all other objects—objects with which you might otherwise find yourself sharing a volume of space.” Jason smiled at his listeners’ expressions. “Admittedly, the likelihood of this happening is small. But its consequences don’t bear thinking about.”

“One problem, Commander,” said Mondrago. “We don’t have inner atomic clocks. Isn’t it going to be kind of startling when, to our eyes, the universe suddenly disappears without warning and is replaced by what we can see from the displacer stage?” From their expressions, it was clear that Landry and Chantal found the prospect unsettling to say the least.

Jason’s eyes met Rutherford’s. This could no longer be put off.

“It won’t be without warning,” said Jason. “I’ll give you advance notice—not only to preserve your mental equilibrium, but also to make sure we vanish in private, so as not to alarm the locals.”

“But how can you predict when the moment is going to be?” Mondrago persisted, in the tones of a man who was more than half sure he already knew the answer, at least in its broad essentials.

“My ability to do so relates to what I said before about recordings of the aliens we encountered in the Bronze Age Aegean. The fact of the matter is that I have an actual, neurally interfaced computer implant. Among other things—and this is almost the least of its functions—it provides me with a countdown to the time all our TRDs activate. It also has a recorder feature, spliced directly onto my optic and auditory nerves: whenever I activate that feature by mental command, it records everything I see or hear on media that can be accessed after I return to the present.”

He studied their faces. Mondrago was taking it with equanimity—he had doubtless heard Service rumors about this sort of thing. The other two bore the excruciatingly embarrassed look of people who were too polite to reveal the prejudice they felt.

One of the human race’s keys to survival is that human beings almost never carry any idea to its ultimate logical conclusion. There are, of course, exceptions: the Nazis and the Khmer Rouge come to mind. So it had been with the Transhuman movement, which, in the two or three generations it had ruled Earth before being swept away in fire and blood, had sought to exploit to the fullest the possibilities inherent in late-twenty-first-century cybertech and genetic engineering, splintering humanity into specialized castes serving an elite of supermen. The human psyche had never recovered from that abuse. The result had been the Human Integrity Act, which by now enjoyed the kind of quasi-sacred status the people of the old United States of America had accorded their Constitution. Any tampering with the human genome was forbidden. So was anything that blended human brains and nervous systems with computers. So was any application of nanotechnology that made nonlife difficult to distinguish from life. All of this had been seared into the human soul by the Transhumanists and their experiments upon themselves; legislation was almost superfluous.

“It has other useful—in fact, indispensable—features,” Jason continued before the abhorrence could crystallize. “It gives me access to a great deal of information. For one thing, it can project directly onto my optic nerve a map of our surrounding area. We’ll never be lost. And the recorder function is especially necessary in an era like the one we’re going to, when paper and other such conveniences don’t exist. Remember, what you bring back to the present, like what you take into the past, is limited to what you can carry—which, like the clothes you’re wearing, is effectively part of the same ‘object’ as your body, as far as temporal energy potential is concerned.” He saw that he had scored a point with the academics.

“So,” Rutherford said briskly, “you can see why the Authority was able to make a case for the kind of limited exemption from the Human Integrity Act enjoyed by certain law enforcement agencies. And now, let us proceed to have the TRDs implanted—a very brief, practically painless procedure.” He ushered Landry and Chantal out of the room. Jason was about to follow when Mondrago caught his eye.

“Question, Commander,” he asked when the others were well out of earshot. “This computer implant of yours: as a fellow Temporal Service member, do I also get one?”

“No,” Jason stated flatly. “That limited exemption Rutherford mentioned is very limited, and subject to constant scrutiny. We have to demonstrate a genuine need. As a practical matter, this means only the mission leader has one. You’ll get one at such time as your seniority and experience qualify you for the mission leader function.”

Mondrago looked thoughtful. “If you should buy it, sir, then as next senior Service member I’ll be acting mission leader, and if so—”

“—You’ll just have to get by without it. Sorry. We couldn’t justify extending the exemption to cover potential acting mission leaders.”

“Understood, sir.” Mondrago’s expression was unreadable.

“However,” Jason continued, “as you’ve pointed out, you’re a Service member, unlike Drs. Landry and Frey. So there’s something you need to know and they don’t. I’ll take this opportunity to reveal it to you. Their TRDs—and yours—incorporate a passive, microminiaturized tracking device. Remember what I said about the map I can summon up? Well, the current locations of the three of you are going to appear on that map as little red dots.”

“I can see how that might come in handy.” Mondrago showed no sign of resentment.

“Extremely handy. Especially when a member of the expedition is lost or a prisoner.” And most especially when the TRD in question has been chopped out of its owner and we’re trying to recover it. Jason’s hand strayed toward his pocket, but he was getting better about halting it. “Drs. Landry and Frey are having enough trouble accepting the necessity for any kind of implant. The fact that it has an additional function would only upset them unnecessarily. So you won’t reveal it to them except with my permission. Clear?”

“Clear, sir.”

“Good. Now let’s get to the lab.”



There followed the standard three-week orientation period . . . only in this case it lasted a little more than three weeks. The reason became apparent when Rutherford discussed the matter of language.

“The obvious pointlessness of sending people into the past unable to communicate in the target milieu,” he declaimed, “enabled us to obtain yet another variance of the Human Integrity Act—a minor one. In the interest of practicality, the Ionic dialect of Classical Greek—the speech of Athens—will be imposed on the speech centers of your brains by direct neural induction. The process is harmless and non-invasive, although it can be disorienting, which is why our standard procedures call for rest and, if necessary, antidepressant drugs afterwards.”

Landry was clearly unconcerned. In his excitement, he reflexively fumbled for the pipe that was no longer there. “Yes! Of course, this process won’t enable us to speak the language like natives. But that works out perfectly, since we’re supposedly from Macedon. Fifth century b.c. Greek was divided into four distinct dialects: Ionic, Doric to the south, Arcado-Cypriote (a survival of the old Mycenaean idiom) and North-West Greek. The last one—of which we’ll supposedly be native speakers—was the most divergent. In fact, Athenian snobs affected to be unable to understand it at all.”

Rutherford’s intellectual forebears, Jason thought with a mental snigger.

“Our very thoughts,” that worthy acknowledged with a gracious nod to Landry. “In this case, however, we will also be providing you with a second language, which you will find more difficult to assimilate: that of the Teloi.”

Chantal—who clearly hadn’t shared Landry’s Classical Greek enthusiasms—now showed definite signs of interest at the prospect of learning a nonhuman tongue. “But how is this possible?”

“I was, for a time, a prisoner of the Teloi, Dr. Frey,” Jason explained. He didn’t elaborate. “In order to expedite interrogation, they rammed their language into my brain by a brute-force version of what you are going to be undergoing, with no chemical cushioning. The language’s utterly alien structure didn’t help either. Nevertheless, I came through the experience with about the level of comprehension that would be expected of a reasonably bright secondary-school graduate in a foreign language. By a reversal of the process, this was downloaded from me, and can now be provided to you—with great gentleness, of course. If we do encounter any surviving Teloi, you ought to be able to haltingly communicate with them . . . if the opportunity to do so should arise, and if you should want to.”

Chantal, in her excitement, ignored the cautionary tone of Jason’s last few words. With her and Landry both properly motivated, the team proceeded to the labs.



The rest of their linguistic preparation was relatively free of emotional hurdles, involving as it did conventional learning techniques supplemented by the kind of neuro-electronic “sleep teaching” technology that was an accepted part of their social background. They acquired a basic ability to read the Classical version of the Greek alphabet—unnecessary for Landry, who would be available to see them past any difficulties—for literacy was widespread among Greeks of their assumed social status. It was an accomplishment that Athenians would find impressive in natives of an ill-regarded place like Macedon, and would help offset the social stigma of such an origin.

Also, Rutherford drilled them in the Ionic Greek speech that had been impressed on their brains, assuring himself that they could actually converse in the language. This was more difficult for Chantal and Mondrago than for Landry, who already knew it as a written language, and Jason, for whom it fell somewhere between his own ancestral Demotic Greek and the harsh ancestor of Mycenaean Greek he had acquired for his last expedition.

For the Teloi tongue, Jason was of course the only one who could perform this training function. He took them through exercises, playing the role of a Teloi.

“Is something bothering you?” Landry asked him solicitously during one of these sessions. “A few times I’ve noticed—”

“No,” replied Jason, more curtly than he had intended, for in fact he did find this more disturbing than play-acting should have been, awakening memories that he’d thought he had suppressed, and other memories he’d forgotten—or never known in the first place—that he had. His annoyance with himself for feeling this way, and for taking it out on Landry, helped clear his mind of his distaste. “All right,” he said briskly, “you next, Chantal.”

She stepped forward eagerly, showing no signs of having shared Landry’s observations. It was during this part of the training that she seemed to truly come alive, and this, too, disturbed Jason, for reasons he could not put his finger on.