Time Loves a Hero by Allen Steele

by me. Twelve noon, then.”
    â€œVery good, David. I’ll see you then.”
    â€œIt’ll be a pleasure, Dr.… Greg, I mean.”
    Another warm chuckle. “The pleasure’s all mine. See you at noon. Bye.”
    Murphy put down the phone, took a deep breath, slowly let it out as he leaned back in his chair. How strange life could be sometimes. You start the morning getting carpeted by an associate administrator for something you’ve written, then less than an hour later you receive a call from one of the world’s leading SF authors, complimenting you for the same material and requesting your company for lunch.
    â€œMaybe he’s right,” he muttered. “I ought to be a science fiction writer.”

Mon, Oct 15, 2314—1101Z
    The Chief Commissioner’s suite was located on Deck 6A, at the top of Arm 6. Like nearly half of Chronos Station’s personnel, Paolo Sanchez had been born and raised on the Moon, and therefore preferred the decks closer to the hub, where the centripedal force was one-sixth Earth-normal. Unlike most other selenians, though, Sanchez had never visited Earth. As a former starship captain who had spent most of his ninety-seven Gregorians aboard ships and orbitals, it was likely that a trip to his ancestral home in Mexico City would be lethal. If high gravity didn’t crush his bones or bring about a coronary seizure, then he would soon become fatally ill from any one of thousands of airborne microorganisms against which his body did not have any natural defenses.
    Franc and Lea entered Sanchez’s office through an antechamber that briefly subjected them to intense UV radiation. They shut their eyes and covered their faces with their hands until the humming ceased and a bell chimed, then the door slid open. The mimosaur, who had buried its face within Lea’s collar during the decontamination procedure, immediately leaped from her shoulder and bounded across the broad, semicircular room.
    â€œFranc here, Lea here!” Marcel’s voice was an excited squeal. “Lea give Marcel nuts! Franc say …” Its voice changed to a pitch-perfect imitation of Franc’s: “That’s one way of shutting him up. He’ll make a fine pair of shoes one day.”
    Franc winced. One more reason why he disliked mimosaurs in general, and Marcel in particular: they had a tendency to repeat verbatim everything they heard, particularly when it had to do with themselves. “A joke, sir,” he said. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounds.”
    â€œI certainly hope not,” Sanchez replied coldly. “I like my friend just the way he is.”
    The Commissioner was seated in a wing-back chair, surrounded by the three-dimensional framework of his desk. Writing tables, flatscreens, data units, shelves, and cabinets encompassed him like a cage; when he moved in a certain direction, his chair automatically pivoted upon six major points of axis. As Marcel ran toward him, Sanchez shifted his skeletal body slightly, and the chair rotated him from upside down to an upright position. The blue lizard leaped onto a slender bar holding a flatscreen, then bounced into Sanchez’s lap.
    â€œSing Sousa for Lea!” Marcel yelped as it nuzzled against the long, white-streaked beard flowing down Sanchez’s shallow chest. “She like! Sing for you …?” Once again, it began to whistle the archaic marching-band song.
    â€œNo, no, Marcel. Thank you, but another time.” Sanchez gently stroked the back of the mimosaur’s neck with his bony fingers. The mimosaur went quiet, save for a contented reptilian purr. “Hush now. We have many things to discuss.”
    Having soothed his pet to silence, Sanchez raised dark eyes that vaguely hinted at his Latino bloodline. “Dr. Oschner, Dr. Lu, gracias for coming here on such short notice. I hope your holiday was pleasant.”
    â€œ Muchas gracias, señor