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WITH MALICE AFORETHOUGHT
(part 1 of 2)
Nik Morton
The Temporal Module suspended in space on the rim of the Andromeda
Spiral two million light years away from Earth required continuous maintenance
and Morgan Bland was one of the ninety-nine mechanics detailed for this
purpose.
He was proud of his Personnel papers and of
the fact that he had been selected for the job. It was one of the most
sought-after posts in the Space Federation. Naturally, a lot of applicants
thought it would involve free trips in the Module...
They couldn't have been more mistaken.
There was a Universal Code for such an
eventuality as a time machine. The concept that time could be conquered had
been accepted for centuries, but overcoming the inherent problems, both
physical and moral, had only made time travel possible towards the end of the
twentieth century - four hundred years ago.
By interfering with the past, by simply
existing in the past, the future was in some way altered, fundamentally
changed.
So the Universal Code covered it.
The Temporal Module was used strictly for
observation. In its present form it was only capable of transporting a
traveller into the past and returning him. Time-travel into the future was
forbidden, excepting for the Recorders.
Nobody knew the kind of punishment the Twenty-Eight Intergalactic Jurists would mete out to any transgressor of the Code, for
no-one had yet dared to time-travel without express permission and under
constant surveillance.
Apart from the technicians concerned with the
Module's rudimentary workings - simply a few buttons and levers - and
authorised travellers, only the mechanics were allowed anywhere near the
machine.
Not a soul beyond the Inner Sanctum of
Jurists knew the whereabouts of the blueprints for the Module and the space
station in which it operated. Somewhere, rumoured to be on the very edge of the
outermost galaxy, the plans were sequestered.
But that was none of his business, Morgan
reflected. He had to check the manifold in Section 14G 3Y of the Module. Even
with gallium arsenide chip technology it was a gigantic brute of a machine,
each riveted panel requiring location code-numbers.
Morgan eyed his watch as he descended the
steep ladder into the Module itself. Almost Breaktime; he wondered how Naomi,
his wife, was getting on in the experimental lab which abutted onto the Module
House.
The Temporal Module was held within a
half-mile wide hollow metal case, a mile tall, sealed top and bottom. Adjoining
this outer shell were several cylindrical spokes, each an access tunnel. These
tunnels led to living quarters, canteens, amusement areas, recreation centres
and various separate laboratories, mostly associated with the information
gleaned from time-travelling into the past.
One lab was studying the rock formations of
the Jurassic age; another the gases of the Earth’s creation; and another was
concerned with the beginnings of Uranus. In yet another lab Naomi, as chief
chemist, worked on the chemicals that generated the Module itself. These
substances were highly dangerous in their raw state, prior to being fused with
stabilising agents equally necessary for the Module to function properly.
When the Module operated, only the Booth,
nine feet by four, within the Module’s core, actually time-travelled.
Meteorites, atomic rays, nothing could affect the Booth; it was impervious to
every known element and force. Only through the joint application of many
varied forces was it built at all. The Booth was self-propelled and could
travel round any chosen planet unseen and undetected by sensors due to a
special shielding process.
Observations, mainly using sensors and remote
collecting robots, were made from this Booth. Nobody had ventured outside the
Booth’s confines; outside was the unknown, the great mystery.
There was no way of discovering how the
time-travelling process might affect the body or molecular structure if you
actually stepped outside the Booth’s protection. You might cease to exist – or
the body’s inbuilt clocks might simply dysfunction.
Damage-control alarm sirens froze Morgan's
blood. Other technicians on catwalks around the Module Booth looked up at the
bulkhead chart. A red blip of light - indicating an atmosphere leak - flashed
in Section K3.
Naomi's lab!
The tannoy, her voice calm, unmistakable:
‘Chemical reaction - isolate - decontamination team close up - Prime One!’
The life-support systems had a leak; the air
would be sucked out.
Morgan climbed the ladder and barged his way
towards the linking corridor, K. Stopping at a decontam cabinet, he broke the
seals and withdrew two suits. Panting now in one of the suits, he raced down
the catwalk, jolting as he went, lumbered with the spare suit for Naomi in case
she couldn't get to hers.
Then the explosion hit him.
No sound. Just an impenetrable, invisible
force. Blasted back down the tunnel, he was concussed and bowled over and over,
bashing bulkheads and deck as he rode the shock waves.
He came to, opened his eyes and realised he
could see stars, stars in the deep firmament... He peered round. The space
station was a distant speck, slightly buckled it seemed at one of the outer
radials... Still gripping the spare suit, he was travelling through space,
carried by the explosion.
The rescue shuttle was alongside him as he
remembered why he was carrying a spare suit. ‘My - my wife, Naomi - ?’ he
demanded on his helmet radio.
His rescuer hauled him inboard, slammed shut
the hatch. ‘Sorry, she's dead - didn't have a chance.’
Morgan sank to his knees, eyes wet and
red-rimmed; he was trembling and shivering - until the onboard doctor
administered a sedative.
In the space station's sick-bay he went
through a bad period, suffering repetitious nightmares, undergoing the violent
explosion night after night.
As he nervously fidgeted in his waking hours,
a scheme formulated in his mind. But in order to put it into effect he must
first pass his medical check-up.
From that moment he concentrated on getting
his riddled nerves back into shape. Finally, the Doc passed him fit enough to
return to work.
Whilst going about his
maintenance tasks, he began making a mental note of timing, causation; in his
bunk, he jotted down these notes, in a private code. In the quiet periods he
slipped down to the Inquiry Library and consulted the reports on the accident.
Surreptitiously, he
observed various technicians operating the Module Booth on routine journeys. It
was easier than piloting a spacer! He decided. He would do it. He would project
himself back in time - about half an hour prior to the explosion. He would save Naomi: Morgan knew
the risk. He was violating the Code's Fundamental Commandment: Thou shalt not
meddle with time, merely observe and learn. With the utmost caution, he
prepared himself. There was plenty of time! During most free periods he busied
himself getting fit, dieting and losing weight. He wanted to be in peak
condition for the trip; it was reportedly quite an ordeal until you got used to
it.
The moment arrived. He’d
planned to enter the Booth during a Breaktime. Only Technician Rawlings was
left in the core-room's entranceway to the Booth.
Morgan greeted him and
explained that the Head Technician wanted a word with him. ‘Go on, I'll stop
here while you're away.’
Rawlings didn't question
him; they were both security- and stability-cleared as high as possible.
Anyway, he knew Morgan very well: he could be trusted.
Alone now, Morgan entered
the Booth, adjusted the various levers and gauge dials on the console. He set
the place he wanted to arrive in - the core-room - and estimated the time,
thirty minutes before the explosion hit corridor K. He had cut it as fine as he
thought possible so he wouldn't unbalance the time-scales more than he could
help.
He switched the Module on
from the core console and then leapt inside the Booth, shut the entrance,
sealed it, clipped the head-phones in place and flipped the switches. He
strapped himself in with seconds to spare.
The sensation was
bizarre, as though he were sitting in a centrifuge. The transparency of the
Booth grew opaque; console lights changed colour rapidly; some colours he
couldn't identify: the natural laws of light were turned upside down in the
time vacuum.
At least he could think,
he could register what was happening, though the blood swam in his head, made
him nauseous. His stomach squirmed uncomfortably.
The process reversed,
slowed and then stopped. He could not detect at which precise moment the Module
Booth halted; one instant it was moving, the next, stationary. Now, it just
didn't seem possible that he had travelled through time. It was more like being
in a space-fairground's whirligig.
He opened the
entranceway, stepped out gingerly, a little unsteady. He eyed the bulkhead
clock in the core-room. A minute later than he had planned. That left him
twenty-nine minutes - if in fact he had time-travelled!
Climbing the ladder,
Morgan left the Module House and sped down the tunnel corridors; he would have
to hurry! On his way, he was brought up to an abrupt halt, looking at himself
collecting tools together and placing them in a bag. His other self was quite
unaware that he was being watched, oblivious of the drama soon to erupt. A feeling
of pity filled Morgan's gullet: he was going to lose his beloved wife... It was
an eerie feeling, overpowering himself. It took ten precious minutes to drag
his alter-ego back into the Module. He set it in motion, to travel fifteen
minutes hence... That should give his other self time to get out of the Booth,
hear the alarms, rush to his wife and relive the past he himself had been
through. He ran on.
Breathless, he burst into
Laboratory K3.
Naomi was struggling with
the corpulent assistant, Gregory. The man's lips curled in a travesty of
passion.
‘Hey!’ Morgan leapt.
As Gregory released
Naomi, Morgan clamped onto his neck and they pitched against the workbench,
spilling dozens of chemicals that sent up a nauseating mixture of fumes on
shattering. Naomi stumbled into some experimental apparatus, sobbing.
In staggering succession,
Gregory elbow-jabbed Morgan's stomach, karate-chopped his face, barely missed
the bridge of nose. Winded now, aching, Morgan scuffled back, catching his
breath. Gregory charged him again but slipped on the fallen chemicals. His foot
glanced off Morgan's thigh, sent him sprawling too. They both upset yet another
rack, containing highly unstable phials which instantly burned a hole in the
pressure hull!
The ominous hissing
alerted Morgan and Naomi at once. She shouted the alarm over the tannoy.
Gregory must have realised too, judging by
the aghast look on his face. But he had nothing to grab onto and was suddenly
sucked head-first shrieking piercingly, into the rent. Swiftly losing
consciousness, his large bulk temporarily blocked the hole; the hissing sound
diminished. Air-pressure dials continued to drop.
Morgan snatched his wife's space suit, threw
it to her and then stepped into Gregory's - he wouldn't be needing it.
In their cumbersome suits, gasping for oxygen
after their strenuous fighting, they both drunkenly bundled through the
emergency exit hatch at the precise moment that the lab's mixture of spilt
chemicals erupted. The wind was knocked from him; blindly he grabbed Naomi's
hand, held tight and blacked out.
To be concluded
tomorrow…
