The Chariot
Chapter Eight
Critical Mass
The Chariot speaks of mastery—
of forces within and without.
Victory through will.
Motion harnessed rather than surrendered.
But even triumph demands direction, and Jim had yet to choose his.
Jim stood at the helm of the yacht, staring out over the open Pacific. The water shimmered like molten glass beneath the afternoon sun. The horizon was endless, directionless—and for the moment, so was he.
He tried to feel troubled by that, but found he couldn’t.
No plan means no constraints, he thought. If nothing is set, anything is possible.
“Idiot,” he said aloud, “what time constraints are there on this visit?”
The Box’s voice answered with its usual cool precision. “That depends on the future state of my power reserves. I am recharging. At the current rate, I will reach full potential in approximately nineteen point seven earth years.”
Jim snorted. “Not exactly useful.”
“I calculate,” Idiot continued, “you are concerned with the period before your return to Artemis.”
“You calculate correctly. Intelligence status?”
“Earth networks remain simple to infiltrate. Access is trivial. We can gather any information you require.”
“And who on Earth will be least receptive to us?”
A pause. “Those whose agendas conflict with yours.”
“Well,” Jim said dryly, “that narrows it down to half the planet.”
He turned from the console to watch Helen. She was laughing in the water, spinning among the dolphins as though she had always belonged here—warm sun, blue sea, effortless joy. Tonight she would want to dance on the beach. For a moment he almost let himself relax into that future.
But Isis hadn’t given him twenty years. She expected him back on Artemis within days, and the time-reversal window was hard—the Box had always been strict on that point. Two days. He had two days to create a miracle.
“Idiot,” he said quietly, “we need to return to Artemis within forty-eight hours. Analysis.”
“John must arrive within that timeframe. Probability of success is high. He is initiating contact now.”
“So we wait?”
“For only a short period. Transmission incoming.”
Good. Progress at last.
“Open a channel to Antiope.”
In seconds, Idiot had her voice routed through the yacht’s cabin speakers. She was in the middle of a board meeting, but excused herself the instant she heard Jim was calling.
“Where have you been, lover?” she said, half-amused, half-accusing.
“Maui,” Jim replied. “Can you fly here tonight?”
“What’s wrong with your Box? I’d expect you to whisk me there faster than twelve hours.”
“Possibly. If John gets here soon, you might arrive quicker than that. Any loose ends you need to tie up before leaving?”
“I’m ready. Just waiting for your chariot.” Her tone warmed deliberately.
Jim smiled despite himself. “While you’re waiting, buy power-generation companies. We’ll be expanding our stake in that sector. I’ll need access to large-scale production facilities.”
“What’s your strategy?”
“We’re redirecting the world’s power and energy-distribution industries,” he said simply.
“Redirecting or controlling?”
“Safeguarding,” he countered. “Our friends will need energy—massive amounts. Better they draw from dedicated infrastructure rather than strip Earth bare.”
“My researchers are close to a semiconductor light-to-electric breakthrough. They’re begging for a fusion advance.”
“Then we’ll give them one. What threats do you see to our project?”
Antiope exhaled. “Plenty. I already have enemies—particularly in the Middle East. They don’t care for dealing with a woman in my position. Some of the slander is remarkable. They incite conflict simply to avoid acknowledging me.”
“And me?”
“They distrust you even more. Your existence contradicts their preferred worldview.”
Jim shook his head. “They’ll adjust. Or they won’t. Either way, I’m moving forward.”
“I know,” she said fondly. “And yes—count me in. I enjoy adventuring with you far more than running empires.”
“How is the antimatter facility progressing?”
She hesitated. “John is there now. He claims he can produce ten kilograms of antimatter, but I don’t know where he expects to store it. Nothing known to Earth science could contain that.”
Jim glanced toward the cabin ceiling. “Genie, how much antimatter do you need?”
“Ten kilograms.”
“Of course,” Jim muttered. “And if you receive it?”
“I will achieve full repair and return you to Artemis tomorrow.”
That settled it.
“Antiope, where is the facility?”
“Chicago. Fermilab. John’s increasing antiproton production—something absurd, ten-to-the-thirtieth charges per second. He’s powering it with his Box. He’s been upgrading ever since you defeated the fleet.”
“Understood. Arrange transport for Helen and me from Honolulu to Chicago. No scans. No names.”
“I can do better. I’ll ask General Armstrong for a military flight from Maui. You’ll be invisible.”
“That works. I’ll pose as Helen’s assistant.”
“Then don’t forget your money belt.”
Before Jim could respond, Idiot chimed in. “Incoming transmission from John.”
John sounded pleased with himself. “I assumed you’d need antihydrogen for repairs. I didn’t have any when I traveled back in time, but you do. I can fetch you in a couple hours—no need for flights. I’ve locked onto the Dutchman’s coordinates.”
“Much appreciated,” Jim said. “Need anything from me?”
“Yes. When you return from Artemis, bring back the energy I’m giving you. A pass by Cygnus should do it.”
“It shall be done. Idiot, record that.”
“At your command.”
Jim continued, “Idiot, you’re about to absorb ten kilograms of antimatter. Can you contain it?”
“I am integrating with John’s controller. We are finalizing the governor matrices. After the antimatter burst, I will reach critical power levels within two hours, then spend twenty-five hours rebuilding reserves. Estimated full capability: twenty-seven hours post-absorption.”
“Good. Prepare.”
He shut down the consoles and stepped into the golden afternoon. Helen was still with the dolphins, the sea glittering around her. She looked up when he waved.
She said her farewells to the dolphins and swam back. Water streamed down her shoulders as she climbed aboard, radiant in the fading sunlight.
“Well?” she asked. “Decided our next move?”
“Chicago,” Jim said. “We’ll need to secure the yacht.”
“Can’t we take it with us?”
Jim considered. “Maybe. If John can manage the mass.”
“When do we leave?”
“Two hours.”
She stepped close, smiling with blatant intent. “Then perhaps,” she murmured, “you could find a little time for me now.”
Qblh followed her below deck.
“Grant me a wish,” she said, turning toward him. “Isn’t that the custom?
”
He brushed a hand along her cheek.
“Your wish?”
V
