One hour to get breakfast before the countdown. After checking in with his system, he opted for coffee only. He could always eat when and if his appetite ever returned.
Archer had lined up twenty sacrificial lambs except that, unlike ancient tradition, they weren’t lambs and they weren’t healthy. They were men who were walking around in bodies that had medically-established expiration dates. Yeah. Terminal illnesses.
The new Ralengclan government made deals with the guys. If they survived transport and returned, they’d be given the opportunity to serve their clansmen in a legendary way. The new offer was that, either way, the families’ circumstances would be elevated to a state of luxurious security. Archer’s superiors hadn’t been happy about coughing up funds for the program, but he’d played the old we’re-better-than Laiwynn card, which usually turned the key in the lock. And, truthfully, he’d been surprised by the number of volunteers.
Right on schedule the first walking dead was escorted in. The guy was tall, fortyish and lean in a way that suggested either illness or a very hard life. Maybe both. His cheeks were gaunt and the skin around his eyes was gray, but he was upright with an alert gleam in his eye that looked out of place with the rest of him.
Archer offered his hand out of courtesy and motioned for the man to sit for final instructions.
“I know you’ve been through this many times, but just to be sure, let’s go over it once more. When all motion has ceased, step outside the device and run the locator program exactly the way you practiced. Don’t linger. Don’t walk around. Don’t spend time looking around. The transport is programmed to open and readmit you in three minutes. Turn around and get back on the machine.
“If the light is red, you will automatically proceed to the next stop and repeat. If the light is green, board the transport and push the big green button. You’ll return immediately.
“If all goes well, I’ll see you back here shortly and we’ll have a drink. Questions?”
The man – his name was Tarriman – just shook his head no. Archer started the tumbler rotating and motioned the man to enter. Unlike the pre-experimental version that had taken Elora Laiken to another life, the new transport was equipped with a smooth titanium lining that remained both stationary and stable while the tumbler moved around it.
When the tumbler was whirring so fast that it was no longer visible without mechanical apparatus, Archer closed the door and nodded to his assistant to enter the countdown sequence. As the panel slid to lock position, his eyes locked with Tarriman’s. He’d sworn he wasn’t going to look any of them in the eye, but when it came down to it, he couldn’t treat the poor devil like scrap metal. The least he could do for the guy was give him the respect of looking at him as he sent him to his f**king useless death. If Archer had been a gambling personality he might have held onto some hope of seeing Tarriman again, but he was too well acquainted with the odds to let himself go there.
The prospect of sharing that drink depended on Tarriman making it to the dimension where there was both a placeholder for his life signature and a version of Elora Laiken Laiwynn whose anatomical makeup matched Stagsnare biology and whose presence had not been detected earlier than two years before, to be confirmed by the biolocator. Of course it was possible. They just might have to go through a couple hundred termies on the way to bingo.
Ninety-six minutes later, the transport “docked” with a roar and a power surge before the whirring of the tumbler slowed. Five people waited with eyes glued to the panel door: Archer, three assistants, and Rothesay. It slid open with a hydraulic-sounding hiss. Empty. The compartment was empty.
Rothesay turned away throwing Archer a menacing look like it was his fault and strode toward the exit while barking out two words. “Tomorrow! Again!”
Archer stood looking at the empty cylinder, feeling as tired as a man who had never slept once in his whole life. He hadn’t expected to see Tarriman again so he couldn’t explain the sudden onset of bone-crushing weariness. He heaved a sigh and gave a simple order over his shoulder, “Notify the family.”
Number 17
By the seventeenth day, Archer was in the throes of his predawn ritual, staring at the LED light on his alarm clock and thinking about how he would go about committing suicide, if he should ever decide to check out. He wasn’t serious. It was a game, albeit a morbid one. Just something to occupy his mind, a way to fill the hours of silence and loneliness while trying to elbow guilt and remorse aside.
Archer hadn’t had a day off since the death parade began. By the time they reached the eleventh guy he’d stopped asking their names. It was easier to think of them as numbers. He worked harder at not making any kind of connection with them. He didn’t shake their hands. He didn’t look in their faces. He ran through instructions like an automaton and pointed to the tumbler.
So far as Archer was concerned he was no longer a scientist or inventor or investigator. He was an executioner, the modern equivalent of a shirtless guy wearing a hooded mask, carrying a nice sharp ax.
When number seventeen was escorted in, he didn’t look up. He spoke the text of the instructions by rote, in a monotone, and waved toward the machine. Forty-seven minutes later the interdimensional transport returned. Archer looked at the clock so that he could log the time, but didn’t bother to turn around when the door hissed open, at least not until he heard cheering and clapping. His head came around to see number seventeen shuffling toward him offering the biolocator.
Rothesay was beaming, no doubt imagining his next promotion.
So Archer looked at number seventeen, really looked. He accepted the biolocator with thanks and verified that the light was indeed green. There was a match between number seventeen and the first stop on his tour. The first stop.
Archer had thought it so unlikely that Phase Two would ever be implemented, that he hadn’t given much thought to how he would feel about the inherent operations of a third mission. It was looking like he’d better get with the program fast. Because that’s how things were going to start moving. Fast.
CHAPTER 6
BLACK SWAN TRAINING MANUAL, STANDARD PROCEDURES.
Section II: Knights. Chapter 1, #2
A knight of The Order of the Black Swan comports himself with honor, dignity, and in accordance with the wisdom of the guiding principle, that service is a privilege.
Glen had found that there were a lot of surprising things about performing the day-to-day duties of Sovereign. It didn’t take long to figure out that it wasn’t a glam job. First, it involved lots of lonely butt-in-chair hours staring at spreadsheets on a monitor. Second, when he did get to interact with other people, it was usually under circumstances that were unpleasant for the person on the other side of his desk.
That was never more true than in the case of disciplining trainees. He’d never really given much thought to the fact that the Sovereign of a training facility acted in a capacity corresponding to that of Principal or Vice Principal in more typical schools. Dressing down a seventeen-year-old when he could only claim to be older by the technicality of two plus years? It went beyond feeling ridiculous, past preposterous, and kept going right on into the sublimely silly.
The day that he had to discipline Kristoph Falcon and Rolfe Wakenmann, a.k.a. Kris and Wakey, gave him reason to rethink his suitability for the Sovereign gig. Kris was seventeen. Wakey was sixteen, but just three months younger. The two of them had sneaked out of trainee quarters and stowed away on a Manhattan-bound Whister, behind the back seats of the last row. They’d gotten a quiet, smooth state-of-the-art ride to the city and weren’t nabbed until they tried to disembark or decopter or get off or whatever you call it when you leave a Whister behind. They were promptly returned to Jefferson with the promise of punishment, to be determined by the acting Sovereign.
The next morning they were escorted to the hallway outside Sol’s door where Glen was inside feeling like a kid playing “dress up”. The trainee who had been assigned as Sovereign’s gofer from eight to eleven knocked on the door.