CHAPTER 31
Martin Spencer was tense. Three minutes to go. No apparent threats. No one making a break for it, people on watch. Just wait for the recall, like last time.
Two minutes. He watched time tick down, second by agonizing second.
One minute. This was it, they hoped. Unless something went wrong.
10, 9, 8, 7…6……5….……4….….….…3….….….….……2….….….….….….….….….1…
Nothing.
No need to panic. It could be wrong by few seconds, minutes, or hell, even days. They got us back last time. They’ll do it this time.
“Shit, they’re late,” Oglesby said.
Cryder calmly replied, “There’s a window. That was the soonest we could expect connection. Remain calm and wait.”
Martin echoed the sentiment. “Don’t alarm anyone. Remember last time it was a significant span.”
Lozano had to open his yap and ask, “So, a minute? A week?”
Cryder said, “I expect it within a few minutes. Refinement has improved, but every jump is different, and, of course, you’re all new elements for them to calculate around.”
Lozano asked, “Can they see us?” He looked around, perhaps for a drone.
“They can read the signatures we emit, but only for a moment before transition.”
“So you don’t know how long then.”
BANG!
They dropped about two inches to the floor, along with a layer of grass and dirt.
“About now,” Cryder said, deadpan and flat.
The Byko hangar was becoming a familiar, welcome sight.
Researcher Larilee Zep was there to greet them.
“Soldiers! Welcome. Will you all please come with me?”
The other element followed nervously, glancing around. Martin remembered that tension from their first trip. He and Elliott brought up the rear.
Behind them a squad of what were obviously Guardians filled in, in tactical uniforms with batons.
They followed markers into a hall like the one his unit used. As they entered, all the collars and restraints fell off. Lozano and Munoz rubbed at their wrists. All of them rubbed at their necks, looking surprised.
Martin explained, “There’s nowhere to go. But this is a very nice waiting area.”
“Cell,” Munoz replied.
“If you like. Though part of the restriction is for your safety. This place is part science lab, part desolate wilderness. Anyway, House, please introduce yourself.”
The entity replied, “Greetings, soldiers. I am the patron for this facility. I can address you all individually. I provide food, beverages, entertainment, furniture, light or dark for activities or sleeping. You can ask for anything, and if it’s within our rules you can have it, pursuant to your own guidelines.”
It only took a few minutes to explain House and the holding room to them. They didn’t have the immediate trouble with food and beverage that Martin had had. The acclimation before the jump had helped.
Martin asked, “House, can we get a lollipop for Kita, please? Shug’s dialect is close for her, she doesn’t speak English well yet.”
A fruit lollipop of some kind, in generous size, appeared on the servace. Martin called her. “Kita! Shooshi.” He handed it to her and she was delighted.
The unit seemed more impressed by the House patron than their element had been. They were giddy about the food choices, but House knew what to expect and kept the portions small.
Oyo loudly exclaimed, “Oh my God! Flush toilets and tiled showers! First!”
Elliott grinned and ordered, “As you were. Showers in a few minutes.”
He turned and addressed Cole.
“I will try to check in at least daily. You should maintain a schedule of meals, PT, and sleep. There are no assigned duties at present, but you might want to conduct whatever regular training you have. Most of our manuals are on file with House. Video is possible, often reconstructed but usable.”
The LT looked a mix of relieved, overwhelmed, and still ashamed. Maybe Dalton should talk to him about that last.
The man replied, “Yes, sir, I got it. It’s…odd. One moment in the Stone Age, then you arrive, now we’re here.”
“I’m always impressed by this place. Just make sure they remember they’re soldiers.” And you, too, pal was unsaid but implied.
“Will do. Thanks, Captain.”
Martin noted the squad of enforcers had slowly moved into the background and away. He expected the doors here wouldn’t open to the recoverees unless they were escorted.
Elliott finished with, “We’ll be nearby and House can call me as needed. Hopefully, you can acclimate, rest, and handle routine alone for a couple of days.”
He turned. “Sergeant Spencer, please lead the way to our quarters.”
“Yes, sir.”
It actually did feel a bit like a home, rather than just a barracks. “House, I need a guide, please.”
In under a minute they were in their own dome, less restrictive than their charges, but he was now aware again that there were restrictions. But why not? It wasn’t their home and they were visiting allies. There were always controls on those.
He just noticed it more.
Sean Elliott was glad to be here. The retrieval had gone nearly perfectly, though that delay had been a bit nerve-wracking. They’d accounted for everyone, recovered all except one, returned Shug to his people, recovered all the gear possible.
They’d also identified another element.
He already had the lengthy narrative of events from his point of view, and input from his soldiers. He had trouble reading the technical reports from the two scientists, but he’d skimmed them and noted the details he could.
He assumed there’d be a lengthy debriefing, as the local experts went over all the reports for everything. This was an entire scientific village, after all.
House had a beer waiting for him on the table. He took a refreshing slug, noted the others also had beverages, and turned to their human hosts. Larilee Zep was present, as were two other scientists he recognized from their previous visit.
“Good day,” he greeted. “I recall you, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your names. Please forgive me.”
“That’s okay,” said the male. “I am Ed Ruj.” He wore a bit more clothing than last time, shorts and a pouch, with platform shoes. His hair was again styled, this time into steps like a flowerpot.
Behind Sean, Spencer muttered, “Are we not men? We are Devo.”
He tried not to snicker.
The woman introduced herself. “I am Gella Xing.” She wore a very elegant tunic in layers of blue. She was darker than most here, with obvious East Asian ancestry.
Sean replied, “Thank you, and it’s good to meet you again, researchers.”
“It should be an easier interface this time,” Ruj noted.
Sean offered, “I hope so.”
Before he could raise the matter, Researcher Zep asked, “There’s another displaced element?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sean said, defaulting to his forms of address. “Sergeants Spencer and Oglesby are under the impression they’re Germanic or Old Norse, based on what language hints and equipment they had.”
She nodded. “Understood. What documentation do you have?”
“I have a report, and I believe Shuff Cryder does, also. We have video and audio.”
Her smile seemed genuine and interested. “Excellent. We will review those.”
Larilee was apparently in charge now, at least as far as liaison and interface.
She told him, “There will be official notice soon, but for now, commendations on an optimally run mission.”
“Thank you.”
“Please relax for the rest of the day. We will schedule interviews and summaries for tomorrow. We will copy all your data and return the originals.”
Her statement was neither request nor order. It was just a fact. He knew better than to attempt to argue. Though it wasn’t his report he was worried about. What had the scientists discovered, and how much of that was of concern to Byko OPSEC?
She turned, and continued. “Sergeant Spencer, an aspect of your previous report is still of interest in this community.”
“Oh?”
“Would you consent to demonstrating iron ore reduction?”
Spencer paused for a moment, then nodded.
He said, “I’m agreeable. I need several people to help and it’s a process that will take at least two days, and several hours over both.”
“You may ask anyone of your people you wish, and we will certainly have volunteers if you can instruct them.”
“Okay, then. When?”
“Shorter is better, as we will need to address the other element.”
“Okay. Day after tomorrow to start the charcoal, the day after that, and possibly the one after that. Then we’ll need to do the iron reduction after I get some ore.”
“That is workable. We can record for those otherwise engaged. There will be several observers, though.”
“That’s great.”
Sean offered, “I’d like to help. Last time I mostly watched while you and the young bucks did the heavy lifting.”
“Certainly, sir, and thanks.”
The Byko wasted no time debriefing. Sean Elliott could still taste the breakfast waffles when he was ushered into the circular theater they used for these meetings. He recalled how he felt last time, like a bug on a microscope plate.
He was a bit less nervous this time. He wasn’t the subject of the discussion, nor was he sitting in the middle.
He was informed that the recovered element was getting med checks, including scar removal, tooth repair, everything to make them healthy and fit as they had been, and a bit better. That was definitely one benefit of this.
Someone told him, “The lengthy disconnect was unfortunate, and probably complicated by your additional personnel. We’d tried for a span between six months and eighteen months after.”
He didn’t like the implication that was the fault of he or the US. The Byko had never been forthcoming, and this was all their tech. For that matter, the root error was theirs.
His own pages and images scrolled across the wall, each one for only a few seconds, with a translation into their text next to it. That also was sort-of English, the letters simplified and overlapping so entire words looked like diphthongs. It would take a short amount of time to fit in here linguistically. Though he suspected Spencer or Oglesby would have it down in a week.
While he was beginning to grasp their dialect, they were talking very quickly, over one another, and there were certainly technical, cultural, and colloquial terms he wasn’t getting. He understood a handful of words here and there, and all he could decipher was that it was about a return trip for the other displaced element. Which he knew.
He did wonder why the displacees seemed to cluster. Though it was only two groups this time, not four, and Shug had been a lone individual. So maybe not. There could be a lot of factors. He doubted calculus and diff eq would get him anywhere close to comprehending the math involved.
While he tried to sort out the overlapping voices of this council, Larilee Zep’s cut through directly to him.
“The summary is we need to go back and retrieve them, of course. Are you and your people available?”
He’d expected that might be the case.
He replied, “So who do we send back this time? I would prefer to have all of us, for backup and cohesion.”
“That’s what we would prefer. We have your signal, aura, definition—there is no exact word—programmed. Transitioning you all is easier in that regard. Also, the fewer transfers the better. It would be ideal to send you all either there, then back. Or just send you all home. Splitting the element into multiple tracks is undesirable, and you have some experience.”
“And the civilian scientists aren’t an issue?”
“Possibly, but removing them now would be a different issue.”
“Well, that simplifies that discussion, then. Though our two attached experts do get a vote. I’ll check with the soldiers. I can’t really order them. I can’t really let them vote, either.”
“I comprehend.”
How was he going to raise this?
Their council was more like a mob or a party, with people walking about, talking into the air, their voices shifted wherever needed by the patrons. Several attendees appeared to be holograms or similar presentations, not present.
Suddenly Zep was in front of him.
“There is one matter we will need to address in person, for courtesy.” It was immediately a lot quieter. Some sort of silencing screen was in use.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Crossbred offspring can’t return to your time frame. They must remain here for the time being.” Her statement was direct and factual, but she sounded embarrassed.
He understood what they meant, but not the details. “How long a time?”
“Until she is old enough to decide certain matters.”
“Adulthood, then?” he asked.
Zep elaborated. “She can’t reproduce in your time frame. She must be old enough to agree to sterilization, or to remain here permanently. I’m sorry.”
That wasn’t totally unexpected.
“I would guess that once raised here, she’ll be uninterested in our time.”
“Probably,” Zep agreed. “Though the choice exists and is hers.”
“And her mother?”
“She may return, or remain.”
“I can guess what she’ll choose.”
“Likewise,” the woman agreed. “We don’t always have choices in these matters. The pretense must be acknowledged.”
He understood the concern. That didn’t make it easier to tell a young woman her life was fucked up and she wasn’t going home. Unless she actually wanted to abandon her kid, in which case she was already fucked up.
“That’s going to be a tough discussion. Can I give them a day to get settled in?”
“Or two,” she agreed.
Goddamn, he needed a drink.
Back at their quarters he announced, “I have some issues to take care of tomorrow, and we need to ensure we return all the gear and get it signed for…yes, Doc?”
The doctor said, “Sir, Sergeant Spencer and I took care of that. House confirmed return of everything we were carrying, and our twenty-first-century stuff is here ready when we are.”
Good, though he’d hoped it might take a little bit of time. There was so little work to do here it was a problem.
“They’re organizing a trip to recover the Germans. They prefer to send the entire unit to eliminate a few variables, I gather. I told them I couldn’t order any soldiers on a second excursion, and I’d have to check with our attached contractors.”
“We’re in,” Raven said.
“Yup,” Sheridan echoed with a nod. It was apparently her turn to pet the cat, and she seemed very interested in his development. She had a hair sample, and was getting images and measurements while he was in her lap.
All the soldiers offered a “Hooah” or a nod. Everyone was in. He was pleased, and had expected it, but it was still good to see that level of confidence.
He simply said, “Excellent, thanks. We’ll need to help the Byko with further debriefing of our other element. I have some items personally on that list. If everyone is ready tonight, I’m authorizing recreation. Don’t exceed a BAC of point zero eight, that includes me. House, can you monitor that?”
“One of our network can, yes.”
“Thanks. Return by oh one hundred, reveille oh seven hundred. Sign out with House as previously. Oh, and Dr. Raven, they’ll fix your ankle tomorrow.”
“In what way?”
“I gather some sort of surgery, internal cybernetic stuff, and such. They said you’d be fine by lunch.”
“Yes, but will I be able to lift a car?”
“Your ankle might, but I suspect your wrists will break.”
She giggled. “I always hated the physics of shows like that.”
“Good luck, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Captain.” She turned, looking a bit nervous.
More softly, he said, “House, I’d like a quiet place for a drink, possibly with low background music or landscapes. If any of our people or our assigned staff wish to find me, they can.”
“Certainly, Sean. Please follow the guide to the Overlook.”
Amalie Raven wanted away from Sheridan, and didn’t want to deal with any of the low-level twits. That left Sergeant Spencer, Doc, or the captain. The captain seemed pretty reserved. She assumed he wanted to be left alone.
Spencer had some personal issues and she didn’t want to be involved.
“Armand,” she called. He turned and faced her.
“Yes, Dr. Raven?”
She tried to smile. “Amalie. I want to have someone with me while I go nerding about. Would you join me?”
“Sure,” he agreed. He didn’t sound enthused. He rarely did. He seemed agreeable, though.
“Thanks, one moment. House, screen please.”
The air shimmered and opaqued. “Can I have one of those western mountain tunics in deep greens, please? And blue jeans.”
“At once.”
In moments a servace rose up with jeans that actually fit her hips and a tunic that concealed them. She’d never look slim, but she felt much more presentable.
She pulled them on, then asked, “I’d like comfortable footwear that looks like what we call cowboy boots.”
Those arrived moments later, in green and brown leather.
“Thank you,” she acknowledged. “Done.”
She stuffed her feet into the boots as the air cleared, and yes, they felt very flexible.
Armand had changed into a high-necked shirt with flaring shoulders.
“Very sci-fi,” she grinned.
He smiled. “Yeah, I was copying one of the old hip-hop artists I followed as a kid.”
“It works well here. Shall we start at the Mad Lab and work out?”
“Sure,” he agreed. “House, guide please.”
The light pinged on the floor, pulsing and waiting for them.
She felt short next to Devereaux. The local men were taller up to another six inches. It wasn’t intimidating per se, but it was uncomfortable.
As they walked, he asked, “How’s your research? I helped briefly and then got tied up with Army stuff.”
“It’s a pile of data still to process, and we’ll still be doing some of that here while you do Army stuff. Of course, they already pulled some of my files.” She didn’t say she had a hidden backup, written notes, and a near photographic memory.
He smiled. “I’m not sure which I’d dislike more.”
“I enjoy my work,” she said. “I keep hoping they’ll relax some of the medical standards and I can get on a mission to Mars.”
“That would be cool,” he agreed. “One-way trip, though. Would your boyfriend go with you?”
“No, that would be an issue, but he would support me anyway. And I’d go anyway, once my daughter is grown. It’s Mars. I can’t really explain it beyond that.” He really would. She loved him, and missed him. If only he could be here. But Mars…
“I get it,” Devereaux said with a nod.
They crossed the walkway, now edge illuminated. The stairs were as wide and long as before, then the cursor led them along a mezzanine.
There was a different club, HEISENBERG’S, with a front display of a maze of rolling balls clattering around on tracks.
“A Rube Goldberg machine!” she exclaimed.
“Like the cartoons?” Devereaux asked.
“Exactly.”
The balls rolled, bounced, pinged keys, arced across gaps, and the track went all the way around the room.
“That’s neat.” It was something that hadn’t changed in concept since their time. She followed it along part of one wall, realized it could take all night to track, and headed for the bar.
She was instantly jealous of the woman serving. Tall, dark, busty, tight waist, oval hips, long legs, with a shifting black gown that showed most of her off as she moved. Her hair was in long streams that stayed separate, but unbraided.
As they reached the bar proper, the woman smiled. “Oh, Americans! I hope my accent is okay.”
Devereaux said, “It’s very good.”
It was. There was a definite accent, part Asian, part German, maybe? It wasn’t Arabic.
“Thank you. What can I mix?”
Amalie carefully said, “I need a cider, or a perry. Dry and without additives.”
“Sure! We have a late-autumn tart apple cider with a hint of effervescench. Is that how you say it?”
“Effervescence. Thanks, I’ll try it.”
The woman turned, waved a control, pulled a tap over a glass, and turned back with a beautiful cut-crystal tumbler.
She took a taste, and it was perfect. One of those was plenty.
“Very nice, thank you,” she complimented.
“You’re welcome. And you, sir?”
Devereaux smiled that huge white-toothed grin. “I’m a simple man. Lager, cold.”
“At once.”
In moments he had his.
She suggested, “Let’s find a table near the wall.”
“Right there,” he pointed.
“Good.”
It was a tall table with high-backed seats. It gave them a view while being out of the way. It appeared some sort of performance was going to happen soon.
A man walking by stopped suddenly, stared for a second, and then continued walking slowly.
House spoke in her ears. “A scientist would like an introduction to you. May I acknowledge you and invite him?”
“Oh, please,” she agreed. Scientists here were much more her crowd. She might enjoy more temporal liaison work. And, she could not worry about her ankle they were going to carve up.
The passerby changed direction, came back, and said, “Thank you for accepting. I believe you’re one of the American life scientists? Or both?”
“I am Amalie Raven, a paleobiologist,” she agreed.
Devereaux said, “I’m a physician. Armand Devereaux.”
They shook hands briefly. She gathered it wasn’t common for them, and being done as a courtesy.
“Wolgem Kam. I’m a forensic climatologist.”
That sounded way too cool.
Out loud, she said, “Oh, that’s fascinating. Can we discuss any of it?”
He agreed, “Some. If you tell me what you know, I can more easily tell the limits.” He had a tall drink in a black, obsidian-looking tumbler.
She pulled at files in her mind. “Where to start? We are, or were, in a glacial interstadial. There are at least four solar cycles at play. The geological factors include tectonic. Critical atmospheric elements are water vapor, methane, and CO2. Multiple processes are not well understood and are outside my expertise, but I read up on them.”
“Okay, that establishes quite some baseline. Certainly the solar cycles are critical. I think I can safely admit we’ve resolved much of the pollutant issue.”
“Oh? Fossil fuels do seem out of fashion here.”
He smiled. “They are, though that wasn’t the primary factor. I am plotting curves of change based on incomplete historical data.”
“Are you able to use empirical data? Core samples or tree growth?”
He nodded. “Yes, though there’s less of that than we’d like, and less accurate than we want.”
“Ah. Were our measurements off by a lot?”
He seemed very irritated.
“You could say that. All the data we have from the mid-1980s until…a later time are completely untrustworthy.”
“That bad?”
“Worse. Your climate scientists were so desperate to prove their points that they threw out data, changed archives without notation, recycled used data, even fabricated some. It’s not all, or even most, but so much of it is contaminated, none of it is trustworthy. We’re having to go through archive by archive, reconstructing to determine if the base figures are relevant. And, of course, almost all the models were completely wrong. There are multiple factors you don’t know about. But rather than say, ‘We don’t know yet,’ they felt compelled to force the data to fit.
“So with that problem—which was ephemeral, and should have been understood so by anyone with a grasp of the history of science—out of the way, we’re trying to engage in long-term trend lines. As we go back through records, though, they get less and less reliable, then they get less and less accurate. Then, as you say, we’re stuck using secondary attributes, but the eras with the least reliable and confident data also have the least of that evidence to work from. So there’s a massive gap of incongruity we can’t confidently assign.”
She admitted, “I knew we had some falsifications, and even a couple of trials. I didn’t think it was that bad.”
He took a pull at his drink. “It’s worse. Your entire era until…later is only usable in part, and questionable even then. One of our teams just cleared another paper. It was an excellent treatise, and even acceptable as a first-order estimate in its predictions. Except it was based on entirely fabricated data from the outside source.”
Amalie blushed. She knew about the NASA archive that had retconned data, and had no extant copies of the originals. That was apparently an endemic matter.
“Can you tell me what you do know about the future trends?”
“Possibly. Our current research is attempting to confirm when the next glaciation is supposed to commence. Then, we need to determine if we should permit it with either relocations or oases, or if we should counter it. There are philosophical, climatological, and societal matters involved.”
“I can understand that,” she agreed. “We have an estimate of five thousand to fifty thousand years for onset of glaciation.”
“That is a correct approximation. Ours is revised and narrowed somewhat.”
She asked, “Is any of the temporal displacement helping with data?”
“Only as…bitshots?”
“Snapshots,” she offered.
“Yes. They’re narrow, instantaneous grabs that we can insert into matrices, when we have them. As much as we urge people and outfits not to attempt temporal translations, we ask that they furnish any and all data if they do. It’s a complicated matter since some are hoping to sell the data, or use it as justification.”
Devereaux laughed.
“There’s always someone angling for a buck,” he said.
Kam turned and said, “I deduce the phrase. Yes. Whether financial or positional.”
“Researcher Kam,” she said to get his attention back. “I will furnish whatever data I have from known, trusted sources, and if we return I will attempt to bring…well, as many summaries of every science I can acquire and load. I gather some are actually missing.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Thank you. Yes, a lot of data has been a combination of misplaced, lost, unarchived, misattributed, became apocryphal, and unsourced. Obviously, your future, our past, has had incidents. That’s all sciences, not just mine.”
“I’m fascinated that you have a culture focused on science and research.”
He said, “Not entirely. We have a substantial development sector.”
Devereaux asked, “Who does all the menial work?”
The man sipped his drink and replied, “Machines mostly. The patrons control a lot of that via…I don’t know what I can say. Their machine aspects. Apparently that’s acceptable.”
“So what about people who aren’t brilliant enough to do research or fabrication?” Armand was digging, she realized.
“There are people who focus on arts, handwork, support. They sometimes operate in groups with direction. You’re meeting a very elite here, if I can put it in those terms.”
She noticed he hadn’t really answered the question. Did they have eugenics here? Controlled gene selection for reproduction? Almost everyone she’d met was high end of the curve by her contemporary standards, but unless there had been drastic changes in genetics, some sort of radical cleansing, or it was a lot further in the future than all her studies showed, a tend toward the mean should lead to people of normal or subnormal intellect who needed either simpler work or caretakers. He’d hinted at that, but what did they do?
More important, why did they all need to hide it? Especially from what they’d regard as simpler people?
She glanced at Devereaux and his fractional nod indicated he had the same question.
Kam said, “We can talk more later, and you can always page me. Looks like entertainment is about to start.”
“Have you all learned our dialect?” she asked.
“Oh! That.” He seemed surprised. “It’s not terribly hard. English is functionally the same, we just slur and abbreviate a lot. Think about the difference between your common daily texts and say….those of your early colonial era. Those who were literate practiced it. As it became more common, it became more mundane and simplistic.”
“That makes sense.” At least that was a straight answer, and one she understood.
She added, “I’ve been watching our Internet do that for twenty-five years, and evidence suggests it started before that.”
They were interrupted by sweeping chimes, resonances, and notes. The entertainment was music played on something like a theremin but with much more tonality.
“Well, that’s cool,” she said aloud.
She sipped her drink and tried to discern the shapes of those waveforms.
Rich Dalton was outside Heisenberg’s at a bar served through a window. It was quieter out here than inside, and less intense. He’d gotten used to the quiet.
He was watching passersby. Most wore what he’d consider street clothes, though there was even less distinction between male and female here. Some, though, were dressed up and he couldn’t tell the difference between evening wear, costume, or cultural. He recalled Zep had worn feathers when they first met last time. Had she come from some event with no time to change? Or didn’t think it was an issue? Or wanted to gauge their response?
An amazing looking brunette strode by apparently nude, but groin and nipples blurred by some visual effect. Another woman had blue skin with a brushed texture, and her male partner green with scales. Then a guy in a perfectly normal kilt, one in pants, a chick in a tunic and shorts. They were all over.
He saw Alakri Mommed approaching. The man fairly glowed.
“Mommed!” he shouted. “You look very pleased.”
“I am most pleased, Rich!” the man replied. “Today I have achieved jihad!”
What? Was that still a thing, as secular as this guy was?
“Um…what’s that?”
He gestured to the table and Mommed sat down.
“It means a struggle, a fight against a chosen enemy. Thank you for the seat.”
That was a sudden revelation and he wasn’t sure about sharing. What happened?
He said, “I know what it means. But I thought you said that wasn’t a thing anymore?”
Mommed shook his head. “I did not fight a person. This goes back many years. When I was six my mother died of thalamic glioma. It is a very rare, vicious cancer that attacks the thalamus. Once within the tissue, it is almost impossible to fight, even with very fine nanoneurotracer inhibitor biophages. They destroy the cancer, but damage nearby neurons to the point where the thalamus is unrecoverable, and death follows. It doesn’t destroy the cortex, the reasoning part of the brain. It destroys the autonomic nervous system. Occasionally, there is sufficient substance to allow an implant to take over the base functions and life of a sort is possible with proper support. In her case…it did not help. She showed symptoms, and was dead within days.”
“I am very sorry for your loss,” he said.
The man looked focused and intent as he said, “I swore before God I would find a way to eliminate it at the genetic level, to drive it into extinction.”
“Very good.” That was. Had he?
The man nodded reflexively and continued. “Thank you. Today, both patients treated with my mitochondrial therapy tested clean, and a reconstructive nano was able to align new, healthy neurons their existing tissue has exploited. They are fully, permanently cured with no side effects.”
The man grinned, spread his arm, and announced, “Sergeant Rich, I have destroyed a disease!”
Again the man glowed as only a true believer can.
Damn. Just, damn. And why couldn’t that be a thing in his own time? What could a million fanatics do with years of study and determination, with money and facilities? How many diseases, how much poverty could be eliminated, and how much great art and science could be created?
“That is absolutely amazing,” he said, and realized he had damp eyes.
“It is not entirely my work. I organized a team, but I feel validated that my determination and direction was a key part that made it possible.”
There was one thing Rich could offer in the physical realm. “Will you join me in a drink?”
“I will absolutely join you. May I see if they have a good rum punch?”
“Please!”
He turned to the bar, and the server approached.
Alakri asked, “Can you show me options for rum, please?”
“And me.” Rum was very much a thing here, it seemed.
“Yes.”
A screen appeared in the air, and he chose ingredients, keeping the booze on the light side, keeping the pineapple down as it was very sweet here, adding a touch more lime.
“That should do it,” he said.
“At once,” the bartender agreed. He flipped glasses and bottles even more elaborately than show bartenders back home, and furnished two glasses on delicately folded cloth napkins.
Rich raised one and toasted, “To your success, Mommed, and to your faith in God for it.”
“And to you, Rich, a valued friend, and your faith.”
The drink was just about right, even improvised from guesses.
Mommed took a sip, then a full chug.
He said, “Very tasty and refreshing. I’ll remember this.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
“I do. And now I have to find another challenge, something else to focus my efforts on. I’ve spent forty-three years fighting this fight. Now it is complete.”
They sat for a moment, and Rich pondered that.
“Mommed, two things come to mind.”
“Go ahead.”
“You could mentor others into their own work and accomplishments. Or find another child who has lost a parent, and take up their cause for them.”
The man raised his eyebrows and smiled. “That is an excellent idea, Rich. I like that very much. I will start on that tomorrow.”
“You might rest for a few days to let your spirit relax and be sure of your direction.”
Shaking his head, the man replied, “No, you are correct. God clearly made this discussion happen, that I might find a new direction. We still have disease and death, and the survivors are still hurt by it. I will find a case tomorrow, of a child who has been orphaned, and I will begin anew.”
“Well, good.” Damn. That was truly inspiring. God had made this conversation happen, that Mommed might find a new cause, and Rich could learn from it.
Rich would have to consider how the closest person here to his moral and theological position was a Muslim.
But it just showed that God was everywhere, if people would only listen.
And how could he deliver that message in a way people would hear?