Corrupting Dr. Nice Read online

  He thought of her often after that, with longing, regret, rage, and confusion. Was Dahli using Adam, or was he using her? Owen could never figure women out. He still hadn't.

  After the third time jump Wilma began a continuous keening. When they hit the stage at the Near Pleistocene station Owen crouched and cleared a window into the case. Wilma was trying to nibble the padding. "Something the matter?" the man at the control board asked.

  =What's wrong?= Bill asked.

  "She's not taking this too well," Owen sub-vocalized. "I think she's hungry."

  =She ate just before we left.=

  "She's a growing girl." Owen turned to the man at the board and said aloud, "Look, I know I was supposed to switch to short hops from here up. But how about shooting me all the way up to 2062 in one jump?"

  =Not a good idea,= Bill said. =Naked bed men love screaming wicked God women! We should just stop here for now.=

  "Cost a lot more to do a big jump," the controller said. "We're on the edge of the historical periods. There are stations every thousand years, then every hundred. Why waste the energy?"

  "I'll pay for it," Owen said.

  The man at the board shrugged. "It's your money." He touched the controls and disappeared. Owen, Wilma and their baggage fell away again with a lurch. Owen's stomach turned. Wilma bounced against the side of the case. From falling away they were jerked back to reality in a sudden acceleration. They arrived.

  Except something was wrong. The stage they stood on was more elaborate than the ones at the scientific stations. On the window wall behind the board "30 C.E" was displayed in large, stylized figures. A couple of well-dressed tourists, a middle aged man and a young woman, were being helped by the stewards.

  And instead of arriving more or less stationary, Owen came in with a forward momentum, as if he'd been dumped onto his feet from a moving train. When Owen hit he tumbled forward, buckling as he tried to get his resisting legs in motion. Bill took over, sending him into a controlled tumble. Wilma's case shot out of his hands and skidded on its side across the tiles toward the woman, who did a nice two-step to avoid it. Owen did a deft tuck and roll and came to rest poised on his haunches, fingertips on the floor, inches away from the hem of the woman's yellow dress.

  One of the transit stewards rushed forward to help him. His partner behind the control panel frowned and messed with his keyboard. "Something's wrong with the momentum compensator," he said.

  Bill let go. =I think he's trying to kill us.=

  "You made me drop the case!" Owen muttered. "Wilma!" The case vibrated with the apatosaur's thrashing.

  The young woman righted the animal case. "The name is Genevieve."

  "Excuse me," said Owen. She had startling violet eyes.

  =Don't tell her about the dinosaur!=

  "Will you please be quiet," Owen muttered. "I'm not an idiot."

  She took his arm and helped him to his feet. Dizzy already, Owen was fuddled by her perfume. "I don't doubt it," the woman said. "But we have to stop meeting this way."

  When Owen started to apologize, she patted him on the shoulder, smiled, and left with the older man. The steward asked Owen if they could help him with his bags.

  "I don't intend to stop here," Owen said.

  "I'm afraid we can't let you continue until we find out what's wrong with the stage," the steward said. "The Saltimbanque Corporation will of course pay for your hotel room. Perhaps you can do some touring while you wait. Meanwhile we'll take your animal to our kennels."

  =He's carrying heat. That's a magnum charge dispenser at his hip.=

  "I don't care if it's a loaded banana," Owen subvocalized. "Don't take over again."

  =His kinesthetic semiotics indicate he's on guard. I'll take care of this.=

  "No!" Owen said.

  "I assure you we have the best of facilities," the steward said. "We can take care of any sort of animal."

  "Not this sort," Owen said. "This is a unique species. It's--"

  =A python,=

  "--an Andalusian dog," Owen said. He had to get assertive or Bill was going to cause a scene. "A razor eyed Buñuel, to be precise. And if you are not going to send me forward, you can bloody well allow me to keep this valuable specimen in my rooms." He fumbled for his credit reader. "I will be glad to pay any additional cost it takes to secure a suite."

  When the steward saw Owen's unlimited E-cash card, he simmered down immediately. "Of course, sir. Matthias! See that this gentleman--and his dog--get checked in right away."

  On the way up in the elevator, Owen thanked Bill for keeping him from getting hurt.

  =Believe me, boss. Nobody cares about your body like I do.=

  THREE: ROMAN HOLIDAY

  The Palace of Herod the Great had been constructed in 23 B.C., then taken over by the Romans as headquarters for the Prefecture before the time travelers showed up and kicked out the Romans. Now it was a hotel. At first Herod the Great's son Herod Antipas had insisted that the invaders from the future restore him to the palace along with the monarchy, but a few gadgets and the air conditioned villa they'd built for him on the hills east of the city had won him over. Now he greeted specially honored guests in the King David room. He had a little speech he had learned in English.

  The palace was built of freestone, faced with marble. A double portico gave onto the raised courtyard where Pilate had once dispensed justice. It was now the lobby. The futurians had roofed over the space between the three Herodian towers with glass, turning it into a huge atrium. The floor sported an elaborate abstract mosaic, and gold and precious gems gleamed everywhere. The pools that the hellenized Herod had constructed had been expanded and converted into modern swimming pools. Saunas and steam baths had been added to the hypocaust, plus suites of private rooms. At the south end the famous stables remained, where guests could rent horses to ride into the countryside. Onto the old structure the corporation had attached a tower of luxury suites.

  In theirs, August found Gen wearing Roman period costume. "The Spanish stimstar Antonio Borracho is here," he said. "They say he dropped a megabuck at the blackjack table last night."

  "Never mind that. I've already got a line on a hot one," Genevieve told him. "You know that clown we ran into in the transit room? He's rich."

  "How rich?"

  "Billions." She showed him the hard copies she'd downloaded from the 2062 social register. Dr. Owen Beresford Vannice. Thirty years old. B.S. in biology, Phi Beta Kappa, Dartmouth, 2054. Ph.D., Reconstructive Paleontology, Harvard, 2059. His mother Rosethrush Vannice was the most powerful theatrical agent in Hollywood and head of Vannicom Pix. His father, Ralph Siddhartha Vannice, was C.E.O. of The Harmony Group, a biosoftware empire. A third of the people in the Roman Arms must have had their personalities improved by Harmony programs. Together the Vannices owned the developed world's fifth largest personal fortune.

  Gen leaned over her father's shoulder, adjusting the strap on her chiton. "I spent some time down in the lounge talking to one of the off-duty transit stewards. Half the women in the hotel are downloading Harmony personalities in the hope of tripping up the young doctor. In ten minutes I spotted four Marilyns and two Garbos. The Marilyns perched at the bar making naive double entendres and falling out of their dresses, while the Garbos sat at tables in the corners, watching the doorway through a haze of cigarette smoke and half-lidded eyes."

  August paused to look at her. "No personality from a bottle is going to match up against you, dear."

  "I love you too, dad." Gen tugged at the stola. "The steward tells me the time travel stage will be out of commission until they check the momentum compensator, but they're still running the tours to unburned M-Us. Dr. Vannice is signed up to see Caesar's assassination. Get dressed."

  "Do you have something in particular in mind?"

  "According to the steward he was mighty protective of that 'dog' he arrived with. Plus, he's just returning from the Cretaceous. I don't think they had any dogs back then."

  #


  They sat among the tourists sat in the theater-like lounge, waiting for the Caesar Assassination tour to begin. Gen and August had a good grasp of period Latin and Greek from the Constantine con they had pulled three years before, but looking at the twitchy faces of the others Gen could tell their downloaded language mods were fizzing away at the top of their brains like club soda. As usual, despite the numerous amusements offered by the first century--Imperial Rome, bustling Alexandria, exotic India and the rough Americas--the Holy Land was the main attraction. The hotel was crowded with holiday spenders from up and down the timestream, throwing around their money like they owed it to Caesar, besieging the markets for videodisks of the Sermon on the Mount (with subtitles) and after-dinner entertainments in the court of Caligula (without).

  Gen wanted nothing to do with the crucifixion. She'd seen plenty of Jesus's talk show back in the 21st century. And reports of the older one, the recluse. In a charisma-based society, where anyone with enough money could have himself genetically altered into a duplicate of the famous or dead, she had gotten tired of celebrities a long time ago.

  There were only ten people on the Caesar tour. Genevieve had braided her hair and piled it high on her head. She crossed one leg over the other and bounced her foot up and down, holding onto the sandal she wore by the toe, as she watched the door for Vannice's entrance.

  The photo they downloaded from the social register showed a man much more handsome than the clown who'd sprawled on the floor of the arrival chamber. At first Genevieve thought it must have been enhanced, but when Vannice entered the briefing room she realized that in person the good looks of his photographs were negated by the prim set of his mouth, the awkward way he carried himself.

  He wore a toga and blue robe, his hair disheveled, and muttered in a distracted way as if carrying on a conversation with himself. One of the Marilyns from the bar sashayed conspicuously by, but she might as well have been invisible. He stumbled over another of the tourists on the way to his seat, apologized awkwardly, then sat in silence while the tour directors got organized. He'd lost the mood boots but was no more graceful in an outsized pair of sandals.

  "I wonder how much of a tool he really is," Gen muttered.

  "A significant one, I'd wager," August said.

  "I hope so. I hope he doesn't know a thigh from a drumstick."

  "Calm down, my dear. You don't want to appear overeager."

  "Don't worry about me, I'll be calm as old smoke. Only I wish we'd get going!"

  Finally the tour director climbed to the podium. The room quieted.

  "Good afternoon. Welcome to the first century C.E. As you know, from the Herod Palace in our safely settled Moment Universe we can take you to any of the splendors of Rome, the spiritual glories of the Holy Land, the vital cultures of central Africa and India. From here the more daring can visit virgin Moment Universes at any time from 100 B.C.E. through 200 C.E., a period that covers the slave rebellion under Spartacus, the last days of the Roman Republic, the emperors from August to Severus, including such illustrious figures as Tiberius, Caligula, Claudius, Nero, Trajan and Hadrian.

  "Those of you who've visited a virgin M-U before are perhaps familiar with procedures, but even so we do ask that you give your best attention to what we have to say here today. Here in the 30 C.E. Moment-Universe Jerusalem we have established a beachhead. The historicals have had ten years to get familiar with visitors from the future and used to friendly commerce with people of the twenty-first century. Most significantly, they know the consequences should they harm a visitor. But in a virgin Moment Universe no one will ever have seen a person from the future before.

  "The key to safe travel to a virgin M-U is to minimize the contact you have with historicals. First of all, we ask you to remain in character at all times. The biosoftware we have distributed will give you a limited vocabulary in period Latin vernacular, plus a superficial knowledge of local customs and the city's layout. But it's best not to push the limits of that knowledge. Trust your guide.

  "Remember that we are visiting a real world, not a virtual reality. A wound from a Roman sword is a real wound, a disease contracted is a real disease. If you are careless, you could be hurt. Those of you interested in a more adventurous past experience are welcome to investigate our 'Intervener Specials': The Battle of Actium, The Siege of Masada, A Night with Messalina--information is available on the videolog in your room. If you want to see what would happen if you turned a machine gun on Brutus and the conspirators, we can arrange that--but not on this tour! We don't want to have too much fun, do we?"

  The tourists laughed.

  Next came a vid about Roman history, with information about Julius Caesar, Marcus Junius Brutus, Gaius Cassius Longinus and the other principals of the historical incident they were about to witness. Then the attendants checked the tourists' costumes and equipment. They were led through the doors to a dimly lit transfer room. The attendants had them assemble within the circle outlined by a finger thick cable spread out on the floor. The ends of the cable were plugged into a portable time travel unit built into what looked like a suitcase. The tour guide, his toga falling in folds on the floor, crouched over the keyboard of the unit and typed in some commands. He stood.

  "Remember to keep your hands and clothing inside the perimeter," he said. Gen and August nudged themselves closer to Vannice. The tour guide touched a key on the portable unit, and the room disappeared.

  They materialized outdoors, in the atrium of a private villa. It was overcast, and a fine mist filtered down through the skies to fall on their heavy woolen winter cloaks. Water drizzled from the roof tiles into the slate gutters of the paved courtyard. "Welcome to 44 B.C.E. Rome," the tour guide said. "This is a private home that will be unoccupied for the duration of our visit. Get in under the eaves while I pack up this equipment."

  They moved out of the rain. One of the Marilyns was breathlessly bouncing in front of Vannice, who seemed completely impervious to her simulated charms. She had the genetically altered body, and the software had given her the right ditzy demeanor, but apparently pure sex on the hoof was not his style. A second candidate, this one a gamin Gen could not identify as any specific historical model, shyly asked him for a light, which he gave her with relatively little reaction. Strike two. The tour guide, having put aside the portable unit, hustled over and asked her to put out the cigarette before they left the building.

  As they entered the streets the rain began to let up. The villa was in a wealthy quarter of the city; the water coursing through the gutter in the middle of the paved street had washed the air fresh and clean. A matron, her slave holding a shawl above her head to ward off the mist, gave them a glance and passed on. In the distance, the clouds were breaking up and a shaft of sunlight shot down like an image from Michelangelo’s heaven.

  August made sure they were close to Vannice. "Beastly weather!" he said to Genevieve. "You'd think that with time travel they could at least find us a pleasant morning to arrive. It's pure incompetence."

  "They must have their reasons, Daddy."

  The opportunity to explain something, apparently, was the right bait. "Excuse me, sir," Vannice interrupted. "They can't take us to another time. Not if we're here to see Caesar assassinated, since it happened on this particular rainy day."

  August turned to him, squinting. "Of course, of course, young man. How foolish of me."

  Genevieve smiled at Vannice. "This is our first tour. Have you traveled in time before?"

  "I guess you might say I'm an expert on time travel."

  "That's right! You're the gentleman we met at the time stage. When you . . . arrived."

  Vannice blushed.

  "My name is Genevieve Faison." She touched August's arm. "My father, August."

  "I'm Owen Vannice."

  "A pleasure, son," August said. He appraised the cloudy skies. "I wish it were warmer."

  "It will be, sir. It due to be a very nice afternoon."

  The guide broke them into tw
os and threes so as to attract less attention. They walked through the muddy streets of midmorning Rome. Genevieve and August got themselves paired with Owen.

  "What I don't understand," Genevieve asked him, "is, with all these tourists going back to see the same assassination, why aren't there hundreds of us gathered here? Tours have been going on for years, haven't they? By now most of the people in the Roman Senate chamber ought to be from the future."

  "It would be that way if time weren't quantized," Owen said. "But every instant of time is discrete, separated from every other instant. If we affect a single instant, by coming here for example, it does change the future proceeding from that instant. But the adjoining instants have entirely separate futures, which are unaffected."

  Gen played the innocent. "I'm afraid I don't follow you."

  "Okay, suppose we arrive in Rome at exactly ten a.m. local time. We go out on our tour and see the assassination, come back and return to the hotel in Jerusalem of the settled moment universe. Another tour group comes tomorrow, and they arrive at exactly one minute after ten. Because 10:01 is an entirely separate time quantum from 10:00, they don't even see us. In our stream we're still standing around the rainy atrium; in theirs the place is empty except for them. So they go to the senate and see the assassination too, but in a way it's a different assassination than the one we saw."

  "How clever!"

  Vannice became more excited the more he got into his explanation, and his awkwardness faded. Or didn't fade exactly, but changed from a detriment to an asset.

  "Each moment of time is connected to an entirely different time continuum. In practice the size of the quanta depend on the reciprocal of the fine structure constant--137.04 Moment Universes are packed into every second. So in a way there are a 137 separate worlds per second, and simply by sending each tour group to a slightly different arrival moment, we in effect send them to a different--but identical--past. So we never meet any of the other tour groups."