In Retrospect

Copyright © 2019 by Ellen Larson

All rights reserved.

Published by:

Savvy Press

Salem, NY 12865

http://www.savvypress.com

Cover art by:

Mike Sissons

ISBN: 978-1-939113-36-8

LCCN: 9781939113351

Printed in the United States of America

For T.L. McKeighan Wesley

The most courageous person I know

PROLOGUE: THREE DAYS LATER

Monday, 17 April 3324 1:10 p.m.

A stately room. Black-lacquered cabinets flank a massive desk. Maps and oil paintings hang on pale green walls. Burgundy woodwork. Globe, grandfather clock, and a fireplace with brass andirons cast in the shape of lions, teeth bared. A room steeped in the past. Except in the sunny east bay, where a closet-sized polyhedron will float a handbreadth above the carpet.

Three men in sage-green uniforms will stare at the Vessel. One, a sneering rat of a man, will peer through the open hatch and see the sole of a boot.

Is she dead? he will ask, hopping closer to get a better look.

Back off, snitch! The man with the sentry’s insignia on the sleeve of his beefy arm will step in front of the hatch and shove him back.

The snitch will stagger against the clock, but he has seen enough. He will grin as he straightens the curved blue half-shield that covers his forehead and eyes. I knew she’d botch it. I told her—I warned her! Skank. Who’s a heap of dung now?

A choking sound will escape the throat of the redhead at the comm. His mouth will work as he looks pleadingly at the sentry.

The sentry will shake his head and glance at the thing on the floor of the Vessel. She’s gone. Torrified. He will take a deep breath, hold it, then exhale explosively through clenched teeth. Get the Marshall. Now!

Blinking away his tears, the redhead will remove his comm set with shaking hands and stumble away.

Hey! the snitch will cry. That’s my job! I get to tell the Marshall, not you! Hey! He will follow the redhead through the door and down the stairs beyond.

The sentry will wait for the tap of footsteps to fade, then squeeze through the hatch.

Above the console, the mission chronometer will show all zeros. The lower panel will be mangled, as if someone has bashed it in with a heavy object. He will glance at the pilot’s chair, unclamped and upside-down.

He will kneel beside what is left of the body.

Except for the black pendant on its silver chain, pillowed in the ash that had been her neck, there will be nothing there to remind him of the woman he had known. He will ease the plasma gun from her holster and note that two bolts have been fired. His brow will furrow, and his gaze will dart from the canted walls to the crumpled sage uniform. Then he will grunt and replace the gun.

Thanks, Reb, he will whisper.

The sound of running feet will remind him he has no business being in the Vessel.

He will clap the ashes from his hands as he rises. I guess you got your wish.

DAY ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Saturday, 15 April 3324, 10:07 a.m.

The slight woman with the dark eyes hesitated at the door of the Locutory, taking in the changes. Unbroken glass in the windows along the south wall and an array of glowing light-pods affixed to the ceiling. A bank of cabinets—new enough that the door handles had not yet been mounted—set against the north wall. The oblong conference table was an old friend from her years as an elite operative for the Okuchan Civil Protection Force, but its surface gleamed with fresh varnish and it was surrounded by new chairs—chairs with the Rasakan state seal on their backs.

The featureless gold shield on the man at the head of the table extended from hairline to chin; an opaque oval mask that obscured his face as a window shade veils the room inside. But the woman had no trouble identifying him by the bouquet of medals on the breast of his russet-red uniform: John Frey, Marshall in the Rasakan army, head of the Joint Civil Protection Force, the fledgling organization charged with keeping the post-armistice peace in ravaged Oku City.

Seated on the Marshall’s left was a man dressed in the gray and black of Rasakan Authority, his face hidden by a silver shield. He was identifiable by nothing whatsoever, though even a casual observer would not have missed his inner tension. His back was ramrod straight; his hands pressed against the top of his briefcase as if he thought it would fly out the window were he not there to pin it down.

The Marshall stirred as he noticed the woman at the door. So kind of you to join us, Officer Rafi. His voice—all there was to judge his mood—was soft, his tone sardonic.

Steeling herself, the woman entered the Locutory. Have I kept you waiting, Marshall Frey?

No more than usual. Please be seated. He nodded to the chair on his right. As his head moved, little white highlights, reflections from the overhead pods, chased each other across the curved shield like fireflies.

The woman pulled out a chair at the foot of the table and sat—a minor show of resistance, but all that remained of her once-formidable arsenal. Folding her hands on the table, she fixed her gaze at the wall above the Marshall’s head. Another act of defiance, even more feeble than the first. But she would not look at his shield; would not give him the advantage of peering into her eyes with eyes she could not see.

I’ve called you here because a serious crime has been committed, said the Marshall. Do you understand what this means?

Understand? Idiot. Had he forgotten who she was—who she had been? Merit Rafi, graduate of the Oku Science Conservatory; officer of the Civil Protection Force; Select. Or did he think she had forgotten? She wanted to laugh in his face. But she replied only with a dry, So far.

You may find this distressing, said the Marshall. Omari Zane was shot twice with a plasma gun last night, once in the back of the head and once in the neck. He died instantly.

Though the news was shocking, Merit did not react or shift her gaze. She had long since learned that focusing on trivialities made it easier to appear indifferent. So she concentrated on the newly renovated wall, noting that the Rasakans must have skimped on the plaster, for a spiderweb of cracks was visible through the mustard-yellow paint.

Although I fought against him, said the Marshall, I considered him a worthy general, and an even greater peacemaker. My sympathies to you and your people.

Merit’s gaze drifted to the sturdy table between the windows. On it sat a coffee urn. Her brow puckered. How long had it been since she’d had a cup of real coffee?

The Marshall’s tone switched to one of disapproval. I see I need not have wasted my condolences.

Merit shrugged. She hadn’t known him long, but had summed up John Frey as more politician than policeman. Not a man to fear. Plenty of Oku have died under the Rasakan occupation.

"Protectorate, I think you mean, said the Marshall. He waved a hand as if dismissing an underling. I was notified at five past eleven. A JCP Documentation Team was at the Priory within half an hour. They were unable to determine the identity of the killer."

So. A tingling lifted the hairs on the back of her neck. It had come. She tugged at the cuffs of her jacket, lest the Marshall somehow see her throbbing pulse, and shifted her gaze to the windows. The spring sky was bright blue, unmarred by darkish clouds. Lucky sky.

You’ve been out of the loop, but you must realize that this could have serious repercussions, continued the Marshall. Zane has been a symbol of peaceful coexistence since the Treaty of Byzantion. It would be bad enough if he had died of natural causes, but this—a violent death by an unknown hand? The fireflies danced as he shook his head. The last thing we need is renewed rioting in Oku City or the reawakening of insurgent sentiment.

Merit smirked. "Resistance sentiment, I think you mean."

The Marshall’s bemedalled chest rose and fell, but he did not take the bait. He nodded to the silent figure at his side. Authority agrees that with so much on the line we must follow Oku jurisprudence and defer the announcement of Zane’s death for three days, which is as you know the time deemed sufficient to investigate the crime and identify the killer—if we use Forensic Retrospection.

Even though she’d seen it coming, Merit raised a hand to the silver chain around her neck and clasped the opal pendant that it held. If only she could be...not there.

The cool voice droned on: You are the only Retrospector to have survived the war. The success of this investigation depends entirely upon your cooperation.

Collaboration, she might have said, but didn’t. Not even to herself.

An impatient sigh escaped the Marshall’s unseen mouth, and he pressed his palms on the table. Dr. Castor warned me you might find this development stressful. He admits your rehabilitation has been progressing...slowly. But still, I find your silence juvenile.

A surge of anger engulfed her, and she shifted her gaze to stare him down, only to be stymied by the gold shield. The emotion receded as quickly as it had rushed in, leaving her adrift with the more familiar emptiness. She steepled her fingers and frowned at them.

What’s done can’t be undone, said the Marshall. The war is long over. You’ve been given a chance to make a new life for yourself. That’s no small thing, considering that you were a member of the Oku militia for years and fought on as an insurgent even after the armistice.

Had she done those things? She remembered the doing of them as from a distance, but the person who had done them— she was long gone.

We’re trying to move forward, the Marshall was saying, and you should be too.

He made a gesture to the Authority man, who released his briefcase long enough to pop it open and retrieve a large envelope. The Marshall took it and slid it down the length of the table, where it came to a stop against Merit’s hands.

Authority has approved the Retrospection, said the Marshall. That’s your copy of the documentation.

She touched the embossed insignia on the envelope: the letter A set in an elaborate wreath. Cupressus rasakanus, she said. Rasakan cypress. Did you know it was bred in an Oku nursery?

Your resentment is misplaced. Rasakans and Oku have been working side by side in the JCP for a peaceful and secure Greater Rasaka for over a year.

In different-colored uniforms, so that no one could possibly mistake who’s who.

That was not a Rasakan idea, said the Marshall. The Oku members of the JCP refused to wear the russet.

That’s news to me. She nudged the envelope away with her knuckles. That must have happened when I was—what did you call it—out of the loop.

You’ve been out of prison for two months. Take a look around. The JCP is a working model of the success of the Articles of Protection: Oku superior know-how, Rasakan superior strength. Together we rise or fall. Together!

Merit ran a finger along a deep gouge in the tabletop. It looked nice, that table, but the glossy varnish could not hide the scars.

The Marshall leaned forward. Just consider, for a moment, that what I’m saying might be true. Can you do that? His pause seemed to force upon her the appearance of compliance. Yes, we fear that Zane’s murder could result in Oku violence. But don’t you see? Someday our peoples’ differences will be forgotten, and we will be truly united, true equals for the first time in the Post-modern Era. This is our chance to cast a vote for a peaceful future.

You know I’m not allowed to vote.

He waved aside her quip. Retrospection technology is the jewel of Oku science, salvaged from the ruination of ancient Earth. You Oku used it wisely when you were in charge. We Rasakans need to prove that we can be trusted to use it properly too. We want to show that we trust you—in a way you Oku never trusted us.

Trust. That a Rasakan would have the gall!

Zane’s death gives us a high-profile opportunity to use this precious technology together for the first time. Together! The Marshall paused, letting the word echo around the silent room. All we need is the right answer from you. His fingertips disappeared behind the edge of the gold shield as he wiped his lips. No? Well, if the appeal to your sense of history fails to move you, I have more practical incentives to offer.

She glanced up quickly. You got soap?

Agree to undertake this Retrospection! Agree to flex back in time, identify the killer of General Zane, and you will be immediately reinstated to your prewar rank, privileges, and salary.

She smiled disdainfully. Fool. As if fidelity could be bought.

And the same for every member of your Unit.

Ah. Merit’s chest tightened. She could scorn the Marshall’s implication that she might be bought, but could she ignore the chance of advancement for her crew?

She forced her gaze to drift back to the wall. The spiderweb of cracks seemed to grow darker, larger—and was that something creeping along it? Something with red eyes and a gaping mouth. She blinked rapidly until the phantom eyes and mouth disappeared, leaving only a tracery of cracks beneath mustard-yellow paint. Her hand strayed to her jacket pocket, and to the pillbox inside.

It’s all there, in writing. The Marshall pointed to the envelope. Along with a letter of intent from Authority giving you carte blanche to command any and all JCP resources upon request.

She touched the envelope without thinking, then marveled that it did not burn her hand.

Just say you’ll do it, said the Marshall.

It had taken him an age to get to this point, but still it had not been long enough. Merit’s gaze darted around the room, to the coffee urn, to the windows, to the walls—anywhere but at the two shields, gold and silver. Her heart pounded as if her chest would burst.

The man in gray and black, so long silent, finally stirred.

Marshall, he said, perhaps if I...?

At the sound of his voice, Merit flinched.

Of course. The Marshall gave a curt nod. Officer Rafi, let me introduce you to your Authority liaison. He’s a newcomer to your city, but I understand there’s no Rasakan alive who knows more about flexing than Agent Torre.

Assailed as she was by a rising tide of panic, thought was impossible, but as it had done all her life, her quick tongue came to her rescue.

Eric? she said in exaggerated astonishment. Is that you under the hood?

The hands that had pressed so hard against the briefcase finally relaxed. Hello, Merit.

The Marshall’s gold shield snapped to the left. I wasn’t aware you’d met.

The silver shield nodded. At a metachronics conference in Rasaka before the war. Later on, we collaborated on a research paper.

I see. Well, perhaps that will be beneficial. The gold shield turned back to Merit. Since working with Agent Torre will be a familiar experience, perhaps it will be easier for you. Don’t you think so, Officer? Or should I say, Select?

The two shields fronted her, paired in aloof imperative. It didn’t matter that she had once known the man behind the silver shield, since by the act of putting on that shield, he had made himself a stranger. He was just another Rasakan, trying to force her to do the unthinkable.

Her glance darted around the Locutory a final time, seeking helplessly for guidance. The door to the west annex was boarded over—just as well, since the west annex itself was a crater from which the rubble had not yet been cleared—and the old octagonal clock on the wall was a faceless shell. They had destroyed her world, and she was only a pawn in theirs.

The Marshall’s cool voice floated across the table. I need an answer.

An answer. He needed an answer. But she had no answer. For two months she had lived in dread of this moment, unable to see beyond it. For two months she had gone through the motions, doing more or less as she was told, walking the once-familiar halls like a ghost, dragging her heels against the coming of this day. She was not ready to answer; to look past the moment into the future. And yet she could no longer avoid it.

Or could she? At least, for another three days. Enough time, perhaps, to face it. To think it through.

She picked up the envelope, her face as expressionless as any shield.

Yeah. Why not? It’ll be just like old times.

CHAPTER TWO

Eleven years earlier

The sun bobbed in and out as cottonball clouds played tag across a lapis sky. On the ground beneath, half a dozen young men and women dressed in varying degrees of academic ineptitude sprawled upon a carpet of grass.

The boy with the wavy yellow hair gave an argumentative snort. "But you haven’t addressed the question! Why can’t you change history?"

Because you just can’t. Trust me. I’ve been there. Having settled that issue, Merit raised a paper cup to her lips. Damn, the Rasakans made good wine. She breathed in the sweet summer air and let her gaze roam across the rolling meadows of Bergama. It never ceased to amaze her. Though half the Earth had been destroyed eight hundred years ago by the insanity of their forebears; though the coasts had been redrawn and the climate changed, this land called by the ancients Anatolia, then Asia Minor, then Turkey, had survived, flourished, and—eventually—regained its plenitude. It was a fine day to be sitting on the grass beneath an almond tree drenched in blossoms, a fine day for shooting the metaphysical breeze with new colleagues over a bottle or two between seminars. A damned fine day to be alive.

But the boy didn’t seem to have noticed that the debate was over. That’s pretense, not proof, he insisted.

Merit’s attention snapped back into place. I beg your pardon? She peered more closely at his freckled face. It looked mighty stubborn, in a cheerful sort of way. If somebody asks you why she can’t walk on water, don’t you simply roll your eyes and say, ‘Trust me, you just can’t’?

No. He shook his finger back and forth—shook it at her, Merit Rafi, graduate of the Oku Science Conservatory, officer of the Civil Protection Force with a full nineteen months’ experience, Select. I tell her that water molecules are not cohesive enough to support the mass of a human body, nor is the surface tension high enough to resist the static shear—but that if she were a waterbug she could do it.

Merit fairly choked on her fine Rasakan wine. You can’t compare four-dimensional isochronous physics to—

A plump girl with curly hair chucked an empty bottle into her satchel and scrambled to her feet. I really gotta, uh.... Go. It’s been fascinating, really. Chronatomics..., chronomatrix.... Sorry to leave you.

Merit acknowledged the girl’s departure with the scantest of courtesies, then got back to the business at hand. You can’t compare four-dimensional isochronous physics to three-dimensional fluid mechanics. That’s stupendously simplistic.

An athletic youth called after the plump girl. Wait up! I’ll go with you! He shot an apologetic grin at the argumentative boy. See you tonight, Eric?

The boy Eric nodded, but did not take his eyes off Merit. I’m not comparing anything. I’m just answering your question. I’m just trying to point out that if you view the problem from an alternative perspective, its attributes change. If the paradigm shifts, it’s statistically possible that there may be nothing to prevent you from altering the past. Theoretically speaking.

And I’m telling you, practically speaking, you’re wrong. She stretched out her legs and gestured with her cup. There are rules about these things. I couldn’t leave the Vessel if I wanted to. Even if I entered synchronicity with a past time-frame, even if I managed to unlock the hatch, I still couldn’t get out without ripping the security net.

Tch. These are rules imposed by the mandarins. The security net is junk tech stuck onto the Vessel to keep the Retrospector from remaining in a past time-frame. It’s immaterial to the flex.

Oh really? Is that what you’ll tell me when I get immaterialized on the reflex and have to leave the Vessel in a dustpan?

"Tch. Immaterial to the flex