Visitors

Chapter 28 Face to Face

Param insisted on visiting the battlefield immediately after victory was assured. “They have to see me there,” she told Olivenko. “I’m in no danger, but the soldiers need to see me there with the dead, with the wounded.”

She was relieved that before Olivenko could answer, both Rigg and Loaf came in on her side. “She’s the one they fought for,” said Rigg. “They’ll love her for it,” said Loaf. And Olivenko could only smile and say, “I salute the Queen-in-the-Tent for her courage and generosity of spirit. I would never advise her to go against her own noble instincts.”

“Olivenko, you are so full of poo,” said Param.

“I meant every word,” said Olivenko, smiling even more broadly.

Now, the sights and smells made her wish she had not been so noble, or that someone had argued against this. Every corpse told a story to her soul: This was someone’s son. This man had hopes and dreams. Even if his only joy was to drink and carouse, those days are over.

“I can see that the smell bothers you,” said Loaf quietly. “But I assure you, today the bodies are still fresh and the rot has not set in. Tomorrow I would urge you strongly not to come. You would vomit, and that is not something your people need to see.”

Param had been trying not to think of vomit, since, as with yawning, the very thought made it more likely she would do it. But she understood his point, and stopped allowing herself to imagine these as living men. She cast her eyes toward them, but did not allow the sights to register. She was not here to learn about all the positions a broken body can collapse into when death comes by sudden violence. She was here to be seen caring about the fallen. So she fixed the proper expression of sympathy and barely-contained grief on her face, and allowed herself to be led where there were the most spectators to see how the Queen-in-the-Tent loved her soldiers.

And when a particularly pungent spot made her gorge rise, she allowed herself to burst into tears so she could be led away from the malodorous spot. Thus she prevented herself from throwing up and disgracing herself. Vomiting was not sympathy. Nausea and nobility were not compatible. But weeping went well with both sympathy and nobility, especially because she was a woman. She noticed that Umbo matched her step for step, but did not weep. She didn’t know if this was because he had seen worse, or smelled worse, or cared less, or was simply stronger than she was. Probably all of those were true.

This is why she was on the battlefield when the emissary arrived from Mother’s army. Param did not recognize the man, but that did not surprise her. In Flacommo’s house she had seen only sycophants, and mostly those who were in favor with the People’s Revolutionary Council. None of those would be in General Haddamander’s army.

“Hagia Sessaminiak sees no reason for this war to continue,” said the emissary. “She is ready to recognize her daughter, Param Sessamin, as Queen-in-the-Tent-of-Light, and her husband as Umbo Sissamik.”

The names were right: “Sissamik” as the male consort of a reigning queen; “Sessaminiak” as a former queen, now rightfully deposed. Deposed, not abdicating voluntarily; that would have been Sessaminissa, and it was a decision that could be rescinded. Mother was saying that she was prepared to recognize that she had been thrown down, and could not rise again.

“I am sure that Mother has terms and conditions to propose,” said Param to the emissary.

She noticed that none of her own people showed the slightest sign that they were worried she would say the wrong thing or agree to too many concessions—or, even worse, needlessly prolong the war out of some point of pride.

“Hagia Sessaminiak wishes to meet with her daughter and her son face to face to make the formal surrender,” she said. “Whether her consort, Haddamander Citizen, should be with her is a point on which she will gladly bend to your will.”

“Such a meeting will not be pleasant for anyone, but it is wise for there to be a public ritual of surrender, and for Mother to do it personally,” said Param. “I commend her courage and generosity to our people. Let the time and place be worked out with General Olivenko or someone he designates. I will attend, as will my brother. Now you must excuse me. I am visiting wounded soldiers, and must not be delayed any further.”

With that, Param swept away, leaving Olivenko to deal with the logistics of the meeting.

That evening, in the meeting of the council of war, it was Param who broached the obvious problem. “Of course it’s a trap,” she said. “I’m assuming it’s an assassination attempt, though they must know it’s impossible to kill us.”

“It is far from impossible,” said Olivenko, “and you can be sure they’ve been wracking their brains for a long time, devising a foolproof plan.”

“And they are not fools,” said Param, “so it may work. Therefore, before Rigg and I go, we will publicly invest Umbo as Sissaminkesh, heir to the Tent of Light if both Rigg and I die.”

Umbo gave a bark of laughter. “If you die,” he said, “I might as well call myself Ring-in-the-Sky for all the attention anyone will pay to me as king.”

“They aren’t going to die,” said Square. “My Masks and I will never allow it.”

“You and the Masks will not be there,” said Param. “It will be only Rigg and myself, along with a few witnesses. There will be no fighting.”

“But if it’s an assassination attempt!” Square cried.

“It is an assassination attempt,” said Param.

“Or a kidnapping,” said Rigg.

“But between us, Rigg and I can get ourselves out of anything. All that anyone else would be is a distraction, someone for them to hold hostage in order to get us not to resist them.”

“No one can stand against facemask soldiers,” said Square.

“So far, you’re right,” said Loaf. “But imagine that you fought, and were victorious. Then everyone would say it was Captain Toad and his Masks who broke the truce and slaughtered Hagia’s men.”

“There will be witnesses!”

“Their witnesses will say whatever they’ve been told to say,” said Loaf. “And their supporters will believe any lie.”

“There has been enough killing,” said Param. “They will try to kill us, and they will fail.”

“Or they’ll succeed,” said Rigg. “Either way, they’ll be the ones who betray their word, not us.”

“You speak blithely of dying,” said Loaf, “because you’ve never done it.”

“Neither have you,” said Rigg.

“But I’ve seen it more often,” said Loaf, “and I’ve never seen any of my friends who was happy to do it. Or any of my enemies, for that matter—they seemed to be quite reluctant to begin, and it took a good deal of exertion to get them to change their minds.”

“We won’t die,” said Param.

“Everyone dies,” said Loaf. “But it’s also true that there’s no escort we could give you that would improve your chances. What we will do is station Umbo in a location that you know about, but they do not—right, Umbo? You’ll go there in the past and then jump forward?”

“Will I be able to see what happens?” asked Umbo.

“If you’re close enough to see,” said Loaf, “I imagine you’ll be close enough to be seen. What matters is that they’ll know where you are. So if things go badly wrong, but one of them survives, they can go to where you are and put a message into your hands, warning you to warn them about the danger. Then either they don’t go after all, or they go in prepared.”

“Good plan,” said Umbo. “But I also want to be able to see.”

“We’ll look for a hiding place that can do that,” said Rigg. “Once we have some idea of where it will be.”

It turned out to be a place that was far from any of Hadda­mander’s army camps, far from any major cities. As they approached along a road in deep woods, Rigg looked at the ­tangle of paths up ahead. “I think they’ve prepared this place especially for us, to block our escape.”

Param was not surprised. “How can they block an escape into the past?” she asked.

“They dug a deep, wide pit,” said Rigg. “I can see the paths of the men who dug it out. If I jump us back into the past, it’ll either be underground, killing us instantly, or it’ll be in the midst of the men digging—who were warned, I’m sure, to watch for us to appear suddenly among them.”

“Interesting,” said Param. “And we can be sure they’ll have barriers made of stone or metal to keep me contained.”

“They promised,” said Olivenko, “to have no one carrying any kind of metal or stone larger than a single coin within a walk from the place.”

“It’ll be interesting to see what they’ve devised,” said Param. “They made their plans based on what they knew of our abilities. But those have changed. Noxon and I worked on my slicing. I can go backward, for one thing. And I can slice forward at such a pace that they could pass iron bars through me for hours without my heating up more than a degree or two.”

“And if they find some way to defeat that,” said Rigg, “remember that I have a facemask and I’m trained as a fighter now. Not just the boy they knew in Aressa Sessamo.”

“Armed only with a knife,” said Loaf.

“A knife in the hands of a masker is like a hundred arrows,” said Rigg.

“Is that a quotation from something?” asked Olivenko.

“From me,” said Rigg. “It’s a thing I said while approaching the trap laid by my mother and General Citizen.”

“I’ll write it down,” said Olivenko, “so other people can say it again, quoting you.”

“That’s assuming anybody ever reads anything you write,” said Param. “I’m sorry, Olivenko, but scholars are rarely read by anyone but other scholars.”

“But I’m a victorious general,” said Olivenko. “And Rigg is a great timeshaper. Even if they don’t read my works, they’ll want to remember him and his.”

“Enough,” said Loaf. “I think when we crest this rise, they’ll be visible to us and us to them.”

“Time for you to all drop back into the past,” said Param.

“Not yet,” said Loaf. “Not until we’ve seen the place. So Umbo can come back and hide and watch.”

They reached the crest and looked down into a narrow ­valley, with a deep pit in the middle. The pit was nearly filled by a large one-story house with a sturdy-looking roof.

“First time it rains,” said Rigg, “that pit’s going to fill with water.”

“Maybe they’re hoping it’ll do that, and we’ll drown while slicing,” said Param.

“Don’t point, Umbo. Just tell them where you’ll be.”

“The trees on the north end of the pit,” said Umbo. “I’ll pop in there just about two minutes from now.”

“We’ll notice the spot as we go down to the house,” said Param. “Thank you, Umbo. Thanks to all of you. Either we’ll come out of this with a treaty of surrender—their surrender—or we’ll have Umbo popping up in front of us to tell us not to do this.”

But Umbo was already gone. As were the others. Param and Rigg walked down the hill without anyone close at hand. A few witnesses had been sent ahead and were seated with a few unarmed men from Haddamander’s army on a platform overlooking the pit.

“There’s no one at all inside the house,” said Rigg. “No one in hiding places, not even in the roof.”

“I’d say Mother and Haddamander missed some opportu­nities there.”

“Or they’ve had good reports on Captain Toad’s ability to see where everyone is hiding.”

“You’ve never been Captain Toad, as far as they know,” said Param. “Square did the job, the only time they remember.”

“Ah, but he has a facemask, and nobody can hide from a facemask. Not if they’re breathing or their heart is beating.”

A voice came from the platform of observers. “Hagia Sessaminiak is approaching from the other side! Please wait to enter the house until she is there!”

Param and Rigg waited outside the open door. They could see right through the large room to the door on the other side as it opened and light streamed in. There stood Mother, looking as she always had, and a step or two behind her, General Haddamander Citizen, a bit more posh than in his old People’s Army uniform.

Mother and Haddamander stepped into the room. “Please come in,” Mother said.

Param stepped forward, holding tightly to Rigg’s hand. If she had to slice time, she didn’t want to have to search for his hand before disappearing.

Mother and Haddamander walked to the center of the room. Mother held up a paper. “Here is our instrument of surrender. For all of us to sign.”

“Perhaps if we had a table, Mother,” said Param.

Haddamander turned and shouted toward the other door. “Bring in the table!”

“We wanted the room empty when you arrived,” said Mother. “So you’d see there was no trap.”

“Which means,” murmured Param, “that there’s a trap.” She spoke so softly that she couldn’t hear her own voice—but she knew that Rigg’s facemask would let him hear.

He squeezed her hand in reply.

A servant came into the room, carrying a very small table with only a single leg. He fitted it into a prepared notch in the floor.

Param wasn’t a genius of mechanical reasoning, but even she could see that the table would easily serve as a lever now, if there was some sort of control embedded in the floor. But could they really expect she and Rigg would fall for such an obvious device?

Well, yes, they could, because they were falling for it, not in ignorance, but with eyes wide open.

“What a clever little table,” said Param. “Mother, you planned for everything.”

“Come and sign, my dears. When the war is over, I hope we can sit and have a wonderful conversation.”

“That would be very nice, Mother,” said Rigg.

Param and Rigg now stood right up against the table.

Haddamander, reached across the small table, gripped the side nearest Rigg and Param, and pulled the whole thing toward himself.

There were sounds of shifting metal from the walls, the ceiling, the floor.

“Good-bye, Mother,” said Rigg.

Param took that as her cue, and began slicing time, not the way she used to, but so deeply that Mother and Haddamander were barely a blur as they threaded their way out of the room.

No one else came in. No one had to.

For the shifting metal had been a series of counterweights and controls. Thick slabs of metal rose up out of the floor and down from the ceilings. None were right where the table was—nothing would have struck their bodies immediately. But if Param were still slicing time the way she used to, she would have recoiled from this metal, because the pain of trying to pass through it would have been excruciating.

It was possible to thread their way out the way Mother and Haddamander had gone, but Param was quite sure there were archers ready to shoot them if they appeared through that door.

To go through any other door, however, would have forced them to pass through metal.

Even at this level of slicing, there was some heat from passing through the metal bars. But it was trivial—rather as passing through plaster walls had been, back in Flacommo’s house.

The only problem with slicing time at this pace was that their movement across the floor was maddeningly slow. Especially considering that only moments after Mother and Haddamander had left, the house caught fire.

The wood of the house must have been soaked in something highly inflammable. The fire seemed to start everywhere at once.

Param sliced time even more sharply.

The fire was out in only a few moments, though they felt the searing heat of it, like one blast of hot air from standing too close to a furnace.

The ceiling collapsed onto them—with all its metal bars and the heavy framework holding it together from the top. But slicing time this drastically, even the frame caused them little pain.

Days and nights passed by in flashes of light and dark. It rained and then stopped raining, but only a little water got to them. It occurred to Param that she ought to be thirsty. But no. She had only been slicing time for a few minutes. The world around her might have gone through half a year by now, but…

Snow fell around them and lingered for a few minutes. Then again, deeper, and staying longer. When winter ended, they were only halfway through the forest of metal bars and burnt wood.

How had this looked to Umbo? They went into the house. A few moments later, it burst into flame… and they never came out. Umbo would know, of course, what they were capable of doing, and that her time-slicing could easily take all this in stride. Still, there was a limit to how long he would wait.

Had he gone back to join the others and decide what to do? Or had he already decided to warn them not to go in? Fire and an elaborate metal framework—not worth the effort? Perhaps Param and Rigg had already been warned, had not come into the house this time through. But this iteration of Param and Rigg had not been warned, and so they would continue in this futile evasion of a danger that their alternate selves would never face.

I was once murdered in the Odinfolders’ library, by the mice, Param remembered. She remembered it as information she had been told, for Rigg had shown up to rescue her before the mice could bring in the metal bar to kill her. But there had been a version of her that died. Rigg had seen the body. Her corpse. Nobody in this timestream had ever had to deal with burying that body, because this was the timestream in which she did not die in the library. Instead, this was the timestream in which she would die here in this burnt-out, metal-lined pit. For there were archers stationed around the edges of the pit, and torches burned every night to make sure they did not escape under cover of darkness. Mother was not giving up. She and Haddamander had learned their lesson back at the Wall, when they had waited for days and yet Param and Umbo had never come to the ground where they jumped from the rock. Mother was going to have her assassins wait till the end of the world, if that’s what it took.

The end of the world.

Winter again, as they reached the edge of the burnt-out building and passed beyond the metal frame.

And still the archers waited, watching. Still there were men with heavy metal swords waiting just beyond them.

They were into their third summer of slicetime as they faced the spot where once a wooden stairway had carried them down into the pit. The stairway was gone, taken away as the observation platform had been. The walls of the pit were cut sheer, unclimbable—especially unclimbable as they were, clasping hands. If they let go of each other to climb, they would become visible to the archers. If Rigg jumped them back in time, they’d either be buried over their heads in undisturbed earth, or surrounded by the workmen digging the pit or building the house.

Rigg turned to face her, and winter came again as they changed hands and stood facing the other way, toward the south now, their faces into the sun as it rose, fell, rose, fell, sliding across the sky like butter across a hot pan.

She could see that Rigg was shaking his head and tightening his grip. She did not understand why. Until there was a sudden bright flash and a wave of heat washed over them. Far more intense and longer-lasting than the heat of the burning house.

The world was ending. They were slicing time right through the coming of the Destroyers.

Rigg had kept count of time. He had been expecting them. He had shaken his head to tell her not to stop slicing.

The forest all around them had been knocked down by the distant blast, but the wall of the pit had sheltered them. The heat had been so intense that the fallen trees burnt up like paper, and even the metal inside the pit had grown soft, had bent and collapsed toward the ground like sugar candy melting in the rain.

But they had only endured a few microseconds of the heat before it passed away, and so they were not consumed like paper or melted like sugar.

This is the end of the world. And we, the unwarned ones, must continue to exist like this, surviving what killed most others.

But not all. For the people who had written the Future Books to the Odinfolders had hidden somewhere to write of what happened and then send the books into the past to give warning. So… how did they die, those who managed to survive the first blast? What would happen now, to end their lives?

Rigg pulled on her gently and they walked away from the edge of the pit, whose lee had protected them. They did not walk back into the ruins of the house. Param wondered why they did not simply return to regular time. Why keep slicing? There were no archers at the edges of the pit now. They had been blown away by the first shock wave of the blast, and no doubt quickly burned when the heat arrived.

Out of the lee of the pit wall, they had a good view of sky in all directions, and Param joined Rigg in scanning the sky for… for something. Had he somehow used the knife or the jewels to summon a flyer from the buried starship? No, impossible. The Destroyers would have found the buried ships right away and eliminated them. The Visitors from Earth might have been surprised by the nineteen wallfolds, each with an exact copy of what had left Earth as a single starship. But the Destroyers came already knowing. The ships were gone; the expendables and flyers and orbiters were gone.

But there were people in caves who might still live. People in pits. Were the Destroyers so thorough that they would now come to search for the survivors and kill them, too? Were they so angry or fearful of the inhabitants of Garden that they could not bear the thought of even one staying alive? Even this brother and sister who survived one assassination attempt already?

There was something moving across the sky. Far too fast to be a bird. Yet it looked nothing like the flyers from the starships. It was smaller—that became clear as it came closer.

Rigg resumed walking. That made sense—even slicing time at this pace, if they held still they would be visible.

But the aircraft came directly toward them. It was drawn by something else. Not sight, because they were invisible. Or were they? Could this machine “see” what was only in existence for one nanosecond per second? Or was it sensing the heat their bodies gave off? It must be faint, with such brief existence. Yet it might be detectable.

The aircraft came to the pit and hovered over it. It was much smaller than the flyers. It began to settle toward the ground.

Rigg was tugging on her hand, signaling her. Winding his hand around so she’d know he wanted her to keep walking. Well, of course she would!

Then he let go of her hand.

In that instant he became visible to whatever or whoever was in that aircraft. She did not stop, though. Her slicing continued and so did her walking. Whatever he was doing, he did not want to have to worry about her becoming visible. He was the one with the facemask, the ability to jump back and forth in time; and he was body enough to explain their heat signature, or whatever else had drawn the aircraft.

Now that he was not attached to her, he moved around in a blur as other people had done.

The aircraft dropped to the ground like a stone. But no, it must have settled gently; its descent only seemed like plummeting because Param was slicing time.

The side of the aircraft opened up and…

Param had expected a man to come out.

Instead, it was something low and sleek, many-limbed. Like a roach, like a centipede, a fast-moving thick-bodied short-legged spider. It charged straight at Rigg.

Only Rigg wasn’t there. Someone beside Rigg pushed him out of the way. And the someone was… Rigg.

He had jumped back in time and pushed his former self out of the way faster than his reflexes, even enhanced by the facemask, could have done. Now there were two Riggs, each armed only with a jeweled knife.

And now there were four Riggs. Eight. To Param they seemed to appear rapidly, but of course it must have been at least minutes between appearances; maybe an hour. The fight was a blur to her. She wanted to slow down her slicing in order to watch, and she did so, but not so much that she was in any danger of being seen.

At least two dozen Riggs were fighting the thing. It was ­firing some kind of weapon—she could see beams of light—but whenever they shot at a Rigg he was no longer there. And after a while, two of the Riggs, acting together, cut off an arm holding the weapon. Then two of the Riggs turned the weapon on the creature and killed it.

They stood still, all two dozen Riggs. Then they began to carve the thing open, using the jeweled knives, until it was open and eviscerated on the ground.

It was not a machine, as she had at first supposed. It was not a creature from any wallfold on Garden. Or from Earth.

The Visitors had been human. But the Destroyers were not.

Several of the Riggs turned toward her—for of course they could all see her path—and held up a hand, signaling her to stop her time-slicing.

She did.

The air stank worse than the battlefield had, a few days ago. A few years ago.

“Not human,” said one of the Riggs.

“There are so many of you,” she said.

“Maybe,” said Rigg. “Or maybe none of us exist. Depends on what Umbo did. Or didn’t do.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know,” said Rigg. “But in case we can get back in time and give warning, I’m going to leave the jewels. Or one of these knives. So let’s get inside that aircraft and let the logs record as much as possible.”

“Won’t there be more? Won’t they come to kill us?”

“Probably,” said Rigg. “So let’s not be here. But first, this machine.” He turned to his other selves. “Only one knife, the one we’re going to take back and leave with Umbo.”

“He’s already got one,” said a Rigg, then laughed.

“I’ve got such a sense of humor,” said the Rigg who was speaking to Param. “I really enjoy my own company.” But he said it wryly, as if it were not quite true.

“I don’t know quite what this knife can do,” said a Rigg inside the aircraft. He was pushing the blade point into various things that might or might not have had something to do with computers on the ship. “If there are radio communications, maybe it’s catching them. Maybe it’s interfacing with the computer. Maybe this is all wasted time.”

Another Rigg called from outside. “They’re coming.”

The Rigg holding the knife that had recorded the inside of the aircraft came and took Param’s hand, as she looked to the sky and saw at least ten of the same kind of aircraft racing toward them. Not as fast as it had seemed when she was time-slicing—but it must be going much faster than the first one had come, to seem so fast to her even in realtime.

“Should I slice again?” she asked.

“It tracked us even when we were slicing,” said the Rigg who was holding her hand. “So we’re just going to go.”

“But the archers, the—”

“I’m not going back that far,” said Rigg. “Give me some credit.” And with that, he jumped them back and the alien aircraft disappeared. He pointed toward where they had waited for the firestorm to end. “It’s about a week ago. We’re still there.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Climb out of here,” said Rigg. Almost at once he had bent over and made his hands into a stirrup for her foot. She stepped and he boosted her up to where her hands could reach the edge of the pit. Then he raised her foot higher, then gripped her thigh, her shin, to push her higher, higher.

“Just clutch at the grass, dig, whatever it takes. Get over the edge. Get up onto it.”

She obeyed, feeling even more urgency than his voice suggested.

Then she stood atop the pit, looking down at him. “Now what?” she said.

“Now lie down and reach one hand over. Get a good grip with your toes and the other hand. Don’t try to pull me up. Just stay in place and I’ll try to climb your arm till I can get a good grip.”

It took him several tries, but he ran at the wall and scrambled up it until he gripped her hand. He was heavy, and it felt as if he were going to pull her arm out of its socket, but then, a moment later, he was pulling himself over the edge. It was almost easy-looking, to see him do it. But then, he was trained as a soldier. He was a boy. A man. He had climbed a lot more things in his life than Param ever had.

“Let’s get away from the pit and into the woods, so we can go back in time before the Destroyers. Preferably before they built the pit.”

“And find Umbo?”

“Find him,” said Rigg, “but not talk to him. Not appear to him. We’ll see where he hides, and then we’ll go back earlier and leave him a message.”

It took very little time then, to make several jumps. Rigg knew right where Umbo had hidden, because he could see his path. Then he jumped back to about an hour before Umbo would arrive, and left him a note wrapped around the knife.

The note said: “Stop us from going in. Get this knife to the ship. Saw the Destroyers. Not human. Not from Earth. Maybe Earth was destroyed first. Very hard to kill them. You’ll see. Hope Noxon succeeds in stopping them before they get here.”

“You didn’t sign it,” said Param.

Rigg looked at her in consternation. “Umbo knows my handwriting.”

“It was a joke,” said Param. “What now?”

“We leave here before he arrives.”

“And go where?”

“Our place is in the future.”

“Why there?”

“Because in the future we won’t inadvertently change the past any more than we already have by leaving that note and the knife.”

“But now you don’t have a knife,” she said.

“If we’re lucky, we’ll cease to exist as soon as he finds the knife.”

For the moment, though, he jumped them back in time to an innocuous era, an empty stretch of forest with no recent paths in it. It might be centuries ago, for all she knew.

“Why can’t we stay here?” she asked. “If no one visits here.”

“Because we didn’t.”

“But if we don’t change anything…”

“Even sophisticated know-it-alls like us need more human company than each other to survive. As leftovers, as extras, we need to go to a time where we can live without changing history.”

“Rigg, I don’t want to die.”

“The human dilemma. None of us wants to die, but all of us have to do it.”

“What about another wallfold?” she asked.

“All occupied.”

“Vadeshfold?”

“Square is going to put a colony there. It belongs to them.”

“You have a facemask. I’ll get one, too.”

“No,” said Rigg. “And you know why.”

Param couldn’t help it. She started to cry.

“Param, we always knew that what mattered was the survival of the human race on Garden. Not our individual lives.”

“Well, we’ve either saved the human race or failed again, but what about us? Our mission’s over, and here we still are.”

“Once we get past the Destruction,” said Rigg, “the Destroyers will hunt us down and then our troubles are over.”

“And those other Riggs?”

“I think they put up a good fight but the ten aliens who were converging on them killed them all.”

“Couldn’t they have kept duplicating till they outnumbered them all?”

“Could have,” said Rigg, “but to what end?”

“To stay alive!”

“I was staying alive long enough to get information about what that creature was. Its biology. How it could be killed. How its weapons worked. What was inside that aircraft. And to keep it from killing you. And to live long enough to pass all of that on to Umbo and stop us, the real us, the earlier us, from getting trapped in that pit.”

“What will they do? The earlier us, when they get the warning?”

“Well, you’re the Queen-in-the-Tent,” said Rigg. “What would you order?”

“I’d ask for advice.”

“Nobody has any,” said Rigg.

Param thought for a moment. “Just get away?”

“Not a bad plan,” said Rigg. “But that leaves Mother and Haddamander to proclaim that we refused their surrender.”

“Bring an army and trap them in their own firepit,” said Param.

“More satisfying, but then we’re the ones who betrayed and assassinated them.”

“What, then!” Param demanded.

“As I said, I have no idea. No advice. So… aren’t you glad that you and I don’t have any such decision to make?”

“Because we’re just going to go into the future and die!”

“The simplest thing would be to let the Destroyers strike while we’re right out in the open. Let the blast take us the way it did the archers.”

“Was it painless for them?” asked Param.

“I doubt it, but I bet it was quick.”

“Why don’t we just disappear?”

“Should we go back and leave another note saying that when a timestream is changed, we don’t disappear, we’re still around trying to figure out how to stay out of the way?”

Param sighed. “What would that accomplish?”

“We don’t even know if it’s true,” said Rigg. “Maybe Umbo hasn’t found the note and the knife yet. Or hasn’t given warning to our earlier selves.”

“What does ‘yet’ even mean?” said Param. “When are we? In the past or the future from that moment?”

Rigg laughed. “I wish I’d thought to bring a book to read.”

“That’s how we’re going to face the end of the world? Reading a book?”

“What’s your plan? To quarrel right up to the last moment?”

“Yes,” said Param. “That’s what I command.”

“Let’s go for it, then,” said Rigg. He took her hand and they jumped into the future.

The woods around them had changed. The path that had been near them was overgrown now.

“So how long till the fire?” asked Param.

“I’m not Umbo. I can’t jump into the future with any kind of precision.”

“Well, I certainly picked the wrong person to die with, didn’t I.”

“Sorry,” said Rigg. “If it’s any consolation, the you that survives will have Umbo to console her.”

“I hate her,” said Param. “The selfish, privileged, ungrateful idiot.”

“Well, I love her,” said Rigg. “I admire her. I think she did amazingly well with everything life dealt her. And I’m reasonably sure she’ll go on making good decisions, even when they don’t work out as hoped.”

“If they don’t work out, they weren’t good.”

“Yes they were,” said Rigg. “Always good, because you’re good.” He touched a finger to her forehead. “In here.” Then he kissed her forehead and hugged her. “Slice time, by Silbom’s left elbow! Slice us up to the moment of the flash and then we can face it like…”

“Men?”

“Like extra copies of good men and women,” said Rigg. “Like expendables.”