scientists he understood, the technicians, the thinkers.
One of these technicians was holding up a rifle, much like the one this creature had carried, showing it to one of the Ytraxorian elite.
The two of them began to talk and, though the barking and gestures meant nothing to Jack, their meaning seeped into his head along with the images.
‘What’s this?’ asked the elite.
‘A weapon, sire,’ the technician replied, ‘bred by the time-travel research team.’
The elite – ArchDuke, thought Jack, they think of him as the ArchDuke – tilted its head on one side in a manner that Jack understood to be sceptical. ‘What does it do?’ it asked.
‘Removes its target from its current position in space/time and sends it elsewhere.’
‘Really?’ the ArchDuke replied. ‘If we can do that then why don’t we just shoot ourselves back a few thousand years, before the ice?’
‘Ytraxorian tissue still isn’t stable when exposed to Chronon radiation, sire,’ the technician replied, and Jack suddenly experienced a mental picture of an Ytraxorian technician exploding as the rifle’s beam was turned on it, showering the lab in guts, sucker and fin. ‘Also there is a question of aim.’
‘Aim?’
‘While it’s possible to control the degree of time shift, the physical location is hard to fix. Put simply the target could end up anywhere, and the odds of them arriving somewhere safe, not way above our heads or embedded in the rock beneath our feet, are impossible to predict. Of course when using it as a weapon…’
‘Who cares?’
‘Precisely. It can also project a far weaker beam that temporally alters the matter it’s aimed at.’
‘Temporally alters?’
‘Ages or rejuvenates it, sire.’
‘I could shoot myself with it and have the body of a podling?’
‘You could, sire, but considering the likely life span of our planet, I wouldn’t recommend it. What would be the point?’
‘So it’s just a vicious bastard of a gun then, really?’
‘A very vicious bastard, sire, yes. Programmed as always, with the appropriate Honour Filters.’
‘Oh yes, heaven forbid we should kill in cold blood.’
The concept of honour filters circled around Jack’s head for a moment before coalescing in a concept he understood. The Ytraxorians, once a proud feudal race, believed that the burgeoning potential of technology shouldn’t entirely rob the battlefield of skill. All weaponry came preloaded with software that graded the payload according to the bloodthirsty intent of the Ytraxorian holding it. A soldier on an Ytraxorian battlefield couldn’tjust pull the trigger. He had to be really good at pulling the trigger.
‘Ytraxorians are crazy,’ said Jack. ‘It’s a wonder you have a planet left.’
And then the dying alien’s song built in volume, and Jack flinched as the image of Ytraxor burning filled his head. Line after line of Ytraxorians marched on rival factions, the air filling with the dull throb of rifle fire as the population swiftly eradicated itself.
‘Oh God…’ Jack cried, the roar of battle so loud in his head he could swear the tiles beneath him were rattling themselves loose.
In no time, there were only two Ytraxorians left, facing one another across the battle-ravaged cavern of their long-dead ruling elite.
‘Look,’ said one of them, the Ytraxorian that was now singing to him, Jack realised. ‘Maybe this has gone a bit far.’
‘Arrgghh!’ screamed the other and shot his fellow being so hard and so successfully that it ended up several parsecs away in Cardiff, its head in a dirty deep-fat fryer in the sort of nasty fast-food dive you needed to be drunk to eat from. All things considered, a good shot.
The song finished. The creature died.
Jack looked at the rifle that had, indirectly, caused the death of its owner. After taking a moment to get his thoughts together, he got to his feet and picked it up. A light electric charge passed through his fingers and the fronds of
One of these technicians was holding up a rifle, much like the one this creature had carried, showing it to one of the Ytraxorian elite.
The two of them began to talk and, though the barking and gestures meant nothing to Jack, their meaning seeped into his head along with the images.
‘What’s this?’ asked the elite.
‘A weapon, sire,’ the technician replied, ‘bred by the time-travel research team.’
The elite – ArchDuke, thought Jack, they think of him as the ArchDuke – tilted its head on one side in a manner that Jack understood to be sceptical. ‘What does it do?’ it asked.
‘Removes its target from its current position in space/time and sends it elsewhere.’
‘Really?’ the ArchDuke replied. ‘If we can do that then why don’t we just shoot ourselves back a few thousand years, before the ice?’
‘Ytraxorian tissue still isn’t stable when exposed to Chronon radiation, sire,’ the technician replied, and Jack suddenly experienced a mental picture of an Ytraxorian technician exploding as the rifle’s beam was turned on it, showering the lab in guts, sucker and fin. ‘Also there is a question of aim.’
‘Aim?’
‘While it’s possible to control the degree of time shift, the physical location is hard to fix. Put simply the target could end up anywhere, and the odds of them arriving somewhere safe, not way above our heads or embedded in the rock beneath our feet, are impossible to predict. Of course when using it as a weapon…’
‘Who cares?’
‘Precisely. It can also project a far weaker beam that temporally alters the matter it’s aimed at.’
‘Temporally alters?’
‘Ages or rejuvenates it, sire.’
‘I could shoot myself with it and have the body of a podling?’
‘You could, sire, but considering the likely life span of our planet, I wouldn’t recommend it. What would be the point?’
‘So it’s just a vicious bastard of a gun then, really?’
‘A very vicious bastard, sire, yes. Programmed as always, with the appropriate Honour Filters.’
‘Oh yes, heaven forbid we should kill in cold blood.’
The concept of honour filters circled around Jack’s head for a moment before coalescing in a concept he understood. The Ytraxorians, once a proud feudal race, believed that the burgeoning potential of technology shouldn’t entirely rob the battlefield of skill. All weaponry came preloaded with software that graded the payload according to the bloodthirsty intent of the Ytraxorian holding it. A soldier on an Ytraxorian battlefield couldn’tjust pull the trigger. He had to be really good at pulling the trigger.
‘Ytraxorians are crazy,’ said Jack. ‘It’s a wonder you have a planet left.’
And then the dying alien’s song built in volume, and Jack flinched as the image of Ytraxor burning filled his head. Line after line of Ytraxorians marched on rival factions, the air filling with the dull throb of rifle fire as the population swiftly eradicated itself.
‘Oh God…’ Jack cried, the roar of battle so loud in his head he could swear the tiles beneath him were rattling themselves loose.
In no time, there were only two Ytraxorians left, facing one another across the battle-ravaged cavern of their long-dead ruling elite.
‘Look,’ said one of them, the Ytraxorian that was now singing to him, Jack realised. ‘Maybe this has gone a bit far.’
‘Arrgghh!’ screamed the other and shot his fellow being so hard and so successfully that it ended up several parsecs away in Cardiff, its head in a dirty deep-fat fryer in the sort of nasty fast-food dive you needed to be drunk to eat from. All things considered, a good shot.
The song finished. The creature died.
Jack looked at the rifle that had, indirectly, caused the death of its owner. After taking a moment to get his thoughts together, he got to his feet and picked it up. A light electric charge passed through his fingers and the fronds of
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