The Time Travel Chronicles by Robert J. Sawyer, Stefan Bolz, Ann Christy, Samuel Peralta, Rysa Walker, Lucas Bale, Anthony Vicino, Ernie Lindsey, Carol Davis, Tracy Banghart, Michael Holden, Daniel Arthur Smith, Ernie Luis, Erik Wecks Page A
Authors: Robert J. Sawyer, Stefan Bolz, Ann Christy, Samuel Peralta, Rysa Walker, Lucas Bale, Anthony Vicino, Ernie Lindsey, Carol Davis, Tracy Banghart, Michael Holden, Daniel Arthur Smith, Ernie Luis, Erik Wecks
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could cause trouble for me, if he ever decided to run his mouth to the admins at CHRONOS. He could possibly even get me grounded, stuck here at HQ doing background research with no travel at all. The man has connections.
But he won’t. We want the same thing, even if we have different ideas on how to achieve it.
So I push a bit harder. “Personally, I think it’s a sin to be yammering about questions with no answers when my mouth”—I rest my eyes momentarily on the girl again, on her lips, and feel a rush of satisfaction when her blush returns—“could be otherwise engaged with the much better brand of whiskey you stash behind the bar.”
He’s been known to pull out the good stuff, the stuff that isn’t doled out by the food dispensers, on the evenings when we’re running historical simulations, but he keeps those bottles hidden when he hosts the entire Objectivist Club. I grab the bottle anyway and toss back a shot without even bothering to savor it, just because I know it will piss him off.
Tate Poulsen, resident Viking historian and my roommate for the past year, is seated at one of the low tables near the bar, talking to Esther, who studies ancient African civilizations. He laughs, shaking his head when I offer him the bottle, and then asks in a low voice. “Are you done? Or do you want to stick around to see if you can raise Campbell’s blood pressure even more?”
Over Tate’s shoulder, I see the blonde girl with the new historians—her name is Cassie, Kathy, something like that. She looks away when I catch her eye, but she was clearly watching me. That fact is almost incentive enough to stay, but Campbell will be too wound up to keep his mouth shut. If I don’t duck out soon, he’ll try to pull the conversation back toward one of his philosophical circle-jerks.
“No point. Grab your jacket and let’s go.”
Esther gives me a reproachful look as she watches Tate’s well-muscled back retreat. “Thanks, Saul. I was actually making progress this time.”
“No, you weren’t. Sorry, Ess. The boy has eyes for only one woman these days.”
Since we’re technically supposed to keep our libidos zipped when in the field, I don’t add that the woman in question is half Esther’s age and lives in a tiny Viking village over a thousand years in the past. But she probably suspects. In fact, knowing Esther, she’s broken the rule with more than one Akan warrior.
I nod toward the corner. “I see some lonely virgins over there. And if that doesn’t work out, buzz me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Still, she runs one long nail along the inside of my leg. We both know she’ll buzz if no one else distracts her.
Tate is leaning against the back wall of the lift when I catch up. “ Confess your sins at the throne of Cyrus, so that you may receive his blessing,” he says, mimicking Campbell’s pompous tone. “Should we add that one to the book?”
He smiles at our little in-joke, a game the big lunk thinks he understands. He doesn’t add much of value, but he’s someone to bounce ideas off. And he’s dumb enough to believe the Book of Prophecy and all of my research is only for my weekly simulations with Campbell.
“Should have taken the drink I offered. You never come up with anything decent when you’re sober. I prefer this one: Those who are capable of greatness but settle for mediocrity have sinned in the eyes of Cyrus. ”
“Not bad.” Tate grins, and I join him, even though it’s not a joke. It’s the honest truth, the God’s honest truth, if you like.
The only sin I could commit in the eyes of any creator worth worshipping is failing to live up to my own potential. Failing to act, failing to achieve, failing to overcome the hurdles set by lesser minds.
Accepting mediocrity when you are capable of greatness is a sin.
But watching mediocrity play out over the course of centuries, watching as fools stumble over
But he won’t. We want the same thing, even if we have different ideas on how to achieve it.
So I push a bit harder. “Personally, I think it’s a sin to be yammering about questions with no answers when my mouth”—I rest my eyes momentarily on the girl again, on her lips, and feel a rush of satisfaction when her blush returns—“could be otherwise engaged with the much better brand of whiskey you stash behind the bar.”
He’s been known to pull out the good stuff, the stuff that isn’t doled out by the food dispensers, on the evenings when we’re running historical simulations, but he keeps those bottles hidden when he hosts the entire Objectivist Club. I grab the bottle anyway and toss back a shot without even bothering to savor it, just because I know it will piss him off.
Tate Poulsen, resident Viking historian and my roommate for the past year, is seated at one of the low tables near the bar, talking to Esther, who studies ancient African civilizations. He laughs, shaking his head when I offer him the bottle, and then asks in a low voice. “Are you done? Or do you want to stick around to see if you can raise Campbell’s blood pressure even more?”
Over Tate’s shoulder, I see the blonde girl with the new historians—her name is Cassie, Kathy, something like that. She looks away when I catch her eye, but she was clearly watching me. That fact is almost incentive enough to stay, but Campbell will be too wound up to keep his mouth shut. If I don’t duck out soon, he’ll try to pull the conversation back toward one of his philosophical circle-jerks.
“No point. Grab your jacket and let’s go.”
Esther gives me a reproachful look as she watches Tate’s well-muscled back retreat. “Thanks, Saul. I was actually making progress this time.”
“No, you weren’t. Sorry, Ess. The boy has eyes for only one woman these days.”
Since we’re technically supposed to keep our libidos zipped when in the field, I don’t add that the woman in question is half Esther’s age and lives in a tiny Viking village over a thousand years in the past. But she probably suspects. In fact, knowing Esther, she’s broken the rule with more than one Akan warrior.
I nod toward the corner. “I see some lonely virgins over there. And if that doesn’t work out, buzz me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Still, she runs one long nail along the inside of my leg. We both know she’ll buzz if no one else distracts her.
Tate is leaning against the back wall of the lift when I catch up. “ Confess your sins at the throne of Cyrus, so that you may receive his blessing,” he says, mimicking Campbell’s pompous tone. “Should we add that one to the book?”
He smiles at our little in-joke, a game the big lunk thinks he understands. He doesn’t add much of value, but he’s someone to bounce ideas off. And he’s dumb enough to believe the Book of Prophecy and all of my research is only for my weekly simulations with Campbell.
“Should have taken the drink I offered. You never come up with anything decent when you’re sober. I prefer this one: Those who are capable of greatness but settle for mediocrity have sinned in the eyes of Cyrus. ”
“Not bad.” Tate grins, and I join him, even though it’s not a joke. It’s the honest truth, the God’s honest truth, if you like.
The only sin I could commit in the eyes of any creator worth worshipping is failing to live up to my own potential. Failing to act, failing to achieve, failing to overcome the hurdles set by lesser minds.
Accepting mediocrity when you are capable of greatness is a sin.
But watching mediocrity play out over the course of centuries, watching as fools stumble over
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