Breathe Easy with TimeGuard

David Gray

 

“Saturn!” I say with no hesitation, answering Sarika’s question. “What about you? What flight do you want?”

 

“Not the gas giants,” she answers. “You’d need to sign up for a twenty-year loop, not ten, or maybe even longer. That’s only three, maybe four round trips in your lifetime.”

 

“Totally worth it,” I say. “I want to see the rings in person.”

 

She continues, “I’ll be happy with a regular run to Mars colony. Or the Belt Outpost. Anything to get away from Earth.”

 

I think that’s why all three of us are here, sitting nervously with dozens of other cadets, waiting for our turn at the Chronoton. We toiled through four years of intensive flight training, suffered all the belligerent instructors and hair-raising checkrides, all for the chance to get away from smelly, dirty earthworms and live a life in the clean sanity of space. And today, after those years of study and practice, we’ll finally see if all the training pays off.

 

Connor is his normal annoying self, crossing his arms and grumbling, “It’s not like you’ll have any choice. We’ll all be paying off our debt to Zodiac for years, so you’ll take whatever they give you.”

 

He’s completely right. My knees go weak thinking about the magnitude of that debt, but practically, it was the only option. Nobody’s hiring pilots who can’t ensure a zero-accident record, not even for simple hops to the space stations, much less flights to the moons and planets. And Zodiac is the only spaceline with the TimeGuard technology. As they say in their promotional literature, “Breathe easy with TimeGuard, the safest way to fly,” and customers are listening. Nobody wants to take a chance with unguarded spaceflights, so as a pilot, it’s Zodiac or a lifetime of seeing the stars through the muddy atmosphere of Earth.

 

Sarika says, “Cool your jets, Connor. You know that’s not true. Ever since we started, you’ve been setting yourself up for an exploration gig, with all those planetary geology classes.”

 

“Yeah, well, I’ll believe it when I see it.”

 

The announcement squawks over the loudspeaker: Cohort 437-ABX, to the Chronoton.

 

That’s us. It’s weird to be so excited and so anxious at the same time. We’re about to discover where we’ll be flying the rest of our lives…or if we’ll be flying at all. What will I do if none of my futures show up, dooming me to a life on the ground?

 

* * *

 

I’ve seen loads of vidcasts of the Chronoton, but nothing could have prepared me for the sheer size of it. The three of us load into the elevator, descending for what feels like an hour, then a Zodiac representative escorts us through three checkpoints bristling with armed guards, scrutinizing our idents at every step. Finally, we emerge into an echoing chamber filled with people in black overalls, the Zodiac logo splayed in silver across their backs. A control area sits behind a glass window on the right, with half a dozen people in formal uniforms, also black with the Zodiac logo on the lapels.

 

On our left, the coffins stand in orderly lines. I wonder which one is mine? They all look the same: two meters tall and smooth curves, like a melted sarcophagus made of translucent amber. Two muscular dudes are busy wheeling one into the entanglement chamber, a massive metal construction surrounded by wiring and ductwork. A truck-sized apparatus hangs over the coffin, bristling with what must be the ring lasers. To think I’m going to be in the middle of all that in a few short moments.

 

But the entanglement chamber is only a small part of Chronoton machinery. It will make the connection to our future selves, but the city-sized accelerator will bring them to us.

 

“Let’s go look,” Sarika says, and we wander over close, peering down the accelerator tunnel, disappearing far into the distance into a gentle curve. A deep hum permeates the room, and a continual draft of cooling air carries the smell of ozone.

 

Sarika has a look of sheer wonder in her eyes, and even Connor’s frosty demeanor is thawing. I feel tiny, and inconsequential, and so, so ready for this.

 

When the first coffin is in place, a speaker over the control room window crackles: Candidate 437-ABX-alpha, Sarika Patel.

 

“Wish me luck,” she says, taking both of our hands.

 

“May the stars be bright,” I say.

 

“And the airlocks tight,” Connor finishes with a grin.

 

We all practiced this many times with the training coffin back in our classes, so she doesn’t hesitate. One of the handlers offers her a pair of dark goggles, but she waves him off, pulling her own pair of mirrored wrap-around sunglasses out of her pocket.

 

That’s Sarika: time traveling in style.

 

She steps confidently into the coffin, turning to face us and holding up her hands with two thumbs up. The coffin hisses closed and the entire apparatus immediately clanks into action, noisy motors scanning the massive ring down from head to toe of the coffin. Brilliant amber light reflects off the few visible surfaces, and in a matter of a minute, the ring whirrs its way back to the starting position at the top. The coffin hisses again, opening, and Sarika steps out, looking none the worse for wear. She’s called out to her futures, and now it’s time to see if anybody is listening.

 

She joins Connor and me, hopping with excitement, as we hear the low thrum of the accelerator powering up. Suddenly, the coffin disappears with the crack of a gunshot and instantly reappears with a second report, and a sharp gust whips at our hair. We all breathe easier. Sarika has at least one future, so she has a career waiting in space.

 

The coffin pivots smoothly open, and a woman steps out, taking off the same wrap-around sunglasses and crossing the floor to us. She’s confident, wearing the Zodiac uniform and looking every inch a space captain. Sarika, our Sarika, is uncharacteristically silent, perhaps only now believing it would be true. Here’s living proof she survived all her flights, at least until she gets to this age.

 

Future Sarika reaches for our Sarika’s hand, lifting it and dropping a rock in her palm. It looks like a piece of coral, with smooth, wavy fingers, all pale pink.

 

Our Sarika gushes, “Mars!”

 

Her older self says, “Yep! The locals scrounged up one of these wind-eroded beauties for me. Pack your flight bag, because we’re leaving next week.”

 

The coffin gives another double bang, and an older woman steps out, also in the Zodiac uniform, but with an additional silver stripe on her sleeves. And again, and again. These older versions of herself are tangible evidence of safe flights over a career of decades. A final one, sporting a shock of steel-gray hair and an implacable air of authority, climbs from the coffin and shouts to the control room, “That’s the last of us.”

 

The youngest future says, “Let me introduce everyone. You probably guessed we’re on a ten-year contract and we’ve been flying the inner system our whole life. You’ll learn the ropes with me on the Mars shuttle for most of your first contract. Sari-3 has gotten rather good with solar sails, so she’s been tending to the solar observatory on Mercury for most of her cycle. Sari-4 and Sari-5 scored a cushy spot on luxury liners to the floating resorts of Venus, so that’s something for us young ones to look forward to. And Sari-6 has decided to retire her thrusters and fly a desk here on Earth.”

 

During the introductions, the Chronoton staff wheels Sarika’s coffin away, off into storage for the ten years of their contract, and situates an identical one in the entanglement chamber.

 

The control room announces: Candidate 437-ABX-beta, Connor Duval, we’re ready for you.

 

Connor dutifully takes his place in his coffin and the entanglement lasers scan. After clanking to the top, there’s a long, heart-stopping pause, and everybody holds their breath. Then, the apparatus scans again. That can’t be a good sign. After it finishes, there’s another long pause, and I send a wish out to the stars. For Conner, let the next one work. The whole thing resets and grinds through a third scan.

 

After returning the top, the coffin opens, and the speaker announces: Negative entanglement.

 

Connor slouches back to me and the Sarikas, taking off his goggles. He looks disappointed, but not surprised.

 

He must feel terrible! None of his futures showed up at the Chronoton, so he’s stuck in linear time. He doesn’t have any TimeGuard loops to ensure the safety of his flights, so he won’t be working in space. After all our training, I can only imagine what a terrible blow this is.

 

I say, “I’m so sorry, Connor! I wonder what happened?”

 

“Could be anything,” Connor says. “My scores have been borderline, and there’s a lot of competition. Maybe I chicken out. Maybe I die. Maybe I meet the girl of my dreams and give it all up for love.”

 

Sari-3 chimes in here and says, “Hey Connor, I wouldn’t give up so easily. In about seven years, keep your eyes open for a job listing for a security officer with flight training. The ad won’t mention it, but it’s the first interstellar colony ship. It wouldn’t hurt if you knuckled down in your studies and improved your navigation skills.” Then, she winks and adds, “I have it on good authority you’ll get the job when you apply for it.”

 

Connor looks dazed, but then slowly, a smile curls on his lips.

 

Sari-3 says, “Let’s chat over a beer later. Your future caught me at the spaceport a while back and gave me a few pointers to pass on to you, to nail down the position.”

 

The speaker announces: Candidate 437-ABX-gamma, Theodore Sharpton, you’re next.

 

That’s me. It’s time to find out if I’m waiting there, somewhere in the future, ready to come back.

 

* * *

 

I step into my coffin and slip on my protective goggles, gripping the handholds and bracing myself as the lid hisses closed and locks me inside. This is it.

 

This close to the mechanism, the whine of moving metal sets my teeth on edge, but it’s nothing I can’t manage. I’ll suffer through worse at every take-off from Earth. The brilliant light scans across my body, briefly flashing through narrow gaps where my goggles don’t quite fit, but I feel only the slightest tingle. Please, please, please, I pray to the gods of interplanetary space, let this be the only scan.

 

I hear the hiss of the coffin opening and a burst of ozone-laced air, and I know my future is secure. They’ve made a connection to my future self, or selves. I have at least one cycle of accident-free space flight ahead of me.

 

Much relieved, I join Connor and the Sarikas to await the news. The double bang echoes off the walls, and there I am stepping out of the coffin, looking slightly squarer in the jaw, sporting a short crew cut and wearing the junior Zodiac uniform. Damn, I look good in uniform. My older self grins at me, perhaps remembering that exact moment, that exact thought. He looks maybe 30 years old. So, a ten-year cycle. My future life is coming into focus, one small piece of information at a time.

 

He approaches, holding out his fist, so I open my palm.

 

A gray rock. He says, “It’s just mare basalt, but I did pick it up myself at the Tranquility Memorial after my first solo run.”

 

I ask, trying to hide my disappointment. “So, the Lunar Shuttle?”

 

“Yes.”

 

I notice he has a ring on his finger. I ask, “And we’re married?”

 

“Also yes, to the most wonderful person in the worlds.”

 

I suppose it could be worse. The Earth is beautiful from space, and I’ll be seeing a lot of it. And my future self seems happy.

 

The coffin bang-bangs again, and this time, my 40-year-old self steps out, still with the crew cut but sporting a goatee striped with gray, still cutting a trim figure in his uniform, and still wearing the ring. Another ten-year cycle, and judging from the sparkle in his eye, I’m still happy.

 

He walks over and says, “You’ll be glad to know, young self, that we pay off our Chronoton debt halfway through the cycle, so we’re living in luxury.”

 

My youngest future adds, “Or, at least, living in comfort. Luna City is damn expensive.”

 

The coffin noisily transports a third time, and a much older man steps out, maybe 60, and radiantly happy. He’s still recognizably me, but it’s jarring, seeing my eyes below that gray hair. He calls to the controller, “I’m the last.”

 

He takes me by both shoulders, saying, “The things you’ll see, young self. Totally worth every minute of shuttling people back and forth to Luna.”

 

I ask, hoping, “Saturn?”

 

“I simply can’t describe the majesty of it, but as the others will tell you, you’re going to get sick of me trying. But remember, you’ll get to live it all. Sling-shotting around Jupiter. Six full circuits of Saturn. The rings, oh the rings…every time you see them, it’s like the first time.”

 

“And Titan?”

 

“Almost three years at the station before Jean and I returned. We got rather good at piloting their moon hoppers, so they’ve invited us back. We’re leaving as soon as the next flight window opens. A one-way trip this time. Wait until you see the sunrise through the…”

 

Sari-6 interrupts, saying, “So, they’re finished with us here. I’m ready for some real Earth seafood, not something freeze-dried from a pouch. Let’s head off to Tilly’s and see if that chowder is as good as I remember. Then we can let the elder Theodore try yet again to describe the indescribable beauty of Saturn.”