Constant

By Jon Ricson

Peter Poole is a Constant. His genetic makeup, family history, and a hundred other things make him different than most. He can time travel, and without the side effects that drive most time travelers to insanity or death. He’s also Interplanetary Police, and that makes him the perfect agent for a desperate mission.

Constant details the events surrounding ThreeSix, the name for the infamous date of March 6th, 2097. The day took its place among other infamous dates such as December 7, 1941, September 11, 2001, and July 7, 2077 (The Sevens).

One of the inventors of a new process called time-streaming has hijacked the tech to save his son from the fate of this terrible day. But even the small change of saving one person has big implications of the future of the young League of Sol Planets, the burgeoning new government in the Sol system.

Peter Poole is the Constant that will be chosen to go back and put things right to save all of humanity from a coming dark fate.

An epic story that spans the solar system, from Mars, to Earth, to the Moon, and back again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jon Ricson
• Release date: Jul 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005021108

Jon Ricson

Jon Ricson writes Science Fiction, Detective, and other entertainment literature. He resides outside Orlando, Florida and you can often find him walking the streets of Disney or Universal soaking in the creativity.

Book preview

Constant

By Jon Ricson

First Edition

Royal Dominion Press

Orlando, FL

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2020 by Jon Ricson. All rights reserved, including the right to publish this book or portions thereof (except for reviews, news media reports, brief quotes with attribution, and purposes of promotion of this book or other novels by Jon Ricson) in any form whatsoever.

Find out more about the author Jon Ricson and read more stories at

http://www.JonRicson.com

The Streams of Mars

"When you make a choice, you change the future."

- Deepak Chopra

Marstown, May 2099

/ Stream 3

Things seemed slightly different this time.

He heard the klaxon and the boom outside the tavern. Again.

And again, he rushed outside and saw the hover transport vehicle smashed into the building across from the tavern. The hover engine wheezed and was no longer keeping the vehicle off the ground.

Peter walked around the vehicle and noticed the featureless auto-driver. It was a mess. Maybe more this time? Wires and sparks flew from the chest of the driver bot, but nothing dangerous. Still, it seemed more torn up from the wreck than the last time. He walked to the front where the old man was crushed against the steel portable building. The old man, Clem, was breathing laboriously.

Somebody get a medic! another man yelled in the small but growing crowd. There weren’t that many folks out in the streets of Marstown during the day, much less this time of night. Regardless, many of the dozen or so patrons of the tavern had heard the crash and were checking it out, many with their drinks in hand. First generation Martians were a surly lot.

How you doing, old-timer? Peter said to the man pinned between the vehicle and the metal wall.

Well, Clem croaked weakly, been better.

Peter didn’t bother with the hold on, help is coming bit. He knew what was coming. Peter knelt down as the old man signaled him closer. Clem coughed, and some bloody spittle popped out of his mouth and onto the dusty Mars soil. The old man looked at it. Damn dirt…won’t let… He coughed viciously and grimaced. It don’t…want…

Peter nodded sympathetically. The old man had spouted nonsense like this the last time he died, but this time he grabbed Peter, his eyes wide with panic. I’m telling you, they are hiding it…they don’t want us to…

What do you mean, Peter said, steadying the old man. Who is hiding what? Clem’s grip released, and his body relaxed, though his lips kept moving, mumbling, his words trailing off. Peter caught him as he fell back against the building, and then he died for the third time tonight. Well, at least the third time for Peter.

Just as before, the emergency vehicle pulled up, and a medic rushed over. And also just as before, they were too late, not that he could have done anything for an old man basically cut in half by a large rogue vehicle.

~

After calling in the event to the local IP center and answering the same questions to the other IP and med staff, Peter returned to his seat in the tavern and finally to his sixth mug. He took a drink of it and started looking towards the door, waiting for the lanky Dr. Hunt to show, as he would moments later. This time, instead of approaching the older man, Peter just waved him over to the seat next to him at the bar. Hunt seemed a little shocked by this action, but slowly walked over.

You…know me? Hunt asked cautiously, searching his pockets. He wore a loose, worn suit, which didn’t take any years off him. He definitely did not wear the latest Prime wardrobe, which made sense for an aging LSP scientist who likely spent his days happily holed up in a laboratory.

This is the third time we’ve met tonight, Hunt. I don’t think I need your Ident, Peter laughed, took a swig of ale, and then wiped his mouth. I think we can dispense with the pleasantries. It helped that Peter was slightly buzzed through all that was going on tonight. At this point, the events of the evening were starting to seem a bit funny, and he was past the puzzlement of it.

The third time? Hunt looked incredulous. Officer Poole, we’ve never met. The tall, graying man settled into the seat and looked over the bar at the paltry options.

Call me Peter, and I suggest the ale, Peter said. It’s not much, but at least they make it here. Hunt put a hand up and nodded towards the bartender, pointing at Peter’s mug of beer. Then the scientist sighed.

So maybe you should catch me up, Hunt said.

All right. This is my third go round tonight, Doc. It started about an hour ago right here when an old dirt farmer asked me if I was a cop. Next thing I knew, he was dead in the street outside, crushed against a building by a transport.

Yes, Hunt nodded, pursing his lips. That’s how…

…how you found me, yes I know. It’s how you find me each time apparently.

Each time. So, this is your third…stream? Hunt asked, half-smiling and looking off into the air.

Stream? Peter asked interrupting the man’s reverie.

"I have come to call them time streams. Each time you experience a specific moment of time, you likely make different, small decisions, and it causes a different stream to deviate from the timeline before it. Hunt, seemingly excited, pulled a small, clear pod out that created a small holo in his hand, and tapped on it. Without looking up he said, Have you done anything different in one of the other streams?"

Actually, yeah. In the last one, I stopped the old man from getting hit and walked him home. But that didn’t go so well. I think somebody may have it out for this old guy.

Interesting, Hunt said and then entered more data. And you personally, did you notice anything different? Feel different? Any sickness? Any dizziness?

Not sure, although I was pretty tipsy each time. This is my sixth one tonight, Peter said proudly and tried to summon a burp. It didn’t come.

So this third stream, you didn’t save him? On purpose?

Well, something different happened, Peter looked down the bar. A fight broke out down there at the end of the bar, and I went to break it up. After I had separated the two is when I heard the crash. I guess he slipped out during the melee.

Hunt seemed bothered by this last fact.

What? Peter asked.

So, the fight didn’t happen the first two streams?

Peter thought for a second. I don’t think so...

/ Stream 1

Hey, buddy, are you a cop? the unshaven, old man in grimy clothes slurred. Probably a soil specialist (or ‘dirt farmer’ as they called themselves. They were trying to figure a way to grow crops in the Martian soil.)

Yeah, off duty. Peter said, taking off his IP patch and sticking it into his pocket. He surveyed the red-eyed man, and the vials of some kind of dark liquid probably passing itself off as whiskey. How you feeling, old-timer?

The old man blinked, pursed his lips, and then licked them. Well, let’s see…no wife, shit won’t grow, probably won’t see home again, haven’t heard from my kids in years. Might even have grandkids I don’t know about, but otherwise, just dandy. He took a last sip and began to stand up, not doing that well at it.

Easy there, Peter said, stabilizing him with a hand to the shoulder and pulling the old man’s plaid jacket up where it was falling down.

Well, that will do it for me, the old guy said. I think I’ll walk home. Wouldn’t want to drink and hover, the older man said and laughed and then burped. Composing himself, he walked to the door, and Peter briefly thought about making sure the old coot got along okay. Instead, he turned back to his beer and took another gulp.

Looking past the bar to a mirror, Peter noticed his own dirty face. The reddish-brown dust was freaking everywhere and took some good washing to get off every day. He was more than ready to get a post back on Earth or least Luna. When the post on Mars came up, he had needed to get away. Now it had been almost a year, and the isolation sat on him like an elephant.

Then, as he did a lot when he drank, he thought of Luna, how alone he was now, and although he really didn’t want to, he thought of Daria.

His only marriage had ended, and he had run away. He mockingly congratulated himself on this stunning achievement, toasting his mirror image and drinking again. Finishing it off, he signaled the bartender for another, his sixth mug of the night. A few more and he’d be stumbling out of the bar like his previous elder bar mate.

The sixth mug came, but so did the commotion, a warning klaxon and boom outside the tavern. Voices were screaming inside and out. Peter cursed to himself and ran to the door. Off duty or not, he knew he had better see what was up.

Outside, a hover transport truck had barreled into the outside of a nearby building. It sat smoldering with a few people standing around looking to see if anyone was in the wreckage.

Peter tried to shake off the alcohol’s effects and walked over to the wreckage. The auto-driverbot behind the controls was barely moving and slightly smoldering. Several people were congregating in front of the truck near the impact of the building. As Peter approached, he saw a plaid jacket.

Oh, crap, Peter said to himself recognizing the old guy from the bar. He separated a few onlookers to see where the old man was pinned. Amazingly, the geezer was still alive, just a small bit of blood trickling from his mouth. Everybody back! Peter shouted.

Somebody get a medic! A bystander shouted from the crowd that was growing. Peter got closer to the old man, who now was breathing harder and faster.

Hey, old-timer, how you holding up?

The man’s eyes slowly focused on Peter, and he blinked, painfully. Well, been better.

Hold on, we are getting help, Peter said, knowing help would be woefully late for this guy. Anything I can do, anyone I can contact?

The old man grunted. His midsection was crushed between the front of the transport and the metal building. By the time help came, he would have bled out, basically cut in half by the transport.

My kids, back in Philly. They might want to know their old man bit it on fracking Mars.

Peter nodded. I’ll get word to them, old-timer.

Then the old man motioned for Peter to come closer. Peter leaned in as best he could over the crumpled front of the transport vehicle. The old man was whispering at this point.

...soil. Don’t want it. They know...

Peter shook his head. One more time. What?

The old man gasped and cringed. After a few seconds, his lips moved again, ever so silently, yet his eyes were wide.

Soil doesn’t want…us…here. They know…don’t care... need to... The wide eyes fluttered and closed. His shoulders slumped. He was gone.

An emergency vehicle pulled up, but it was too late. Peter briefed them on what had happened. A drunken old man most likely walking out in front of a late-night transport vehicle. He lucked out of doing paperwork. Apparently, the guy had a history of drunken nights. No one seemed too concerned, and Peter tried not to be as well. The old guy had seemed a pitiful but decent soul; nevertheless, he had learned a long time in this work you can’t save everybody, or really most anybody. It was the one constant in his job.

Back inside the bar, he had lost the taste for his drink and paid his tab. As he began to walk out, he noticed a man who looked quite out of place in a dive like this standing near the door and looking at him. As he got closer to the door, and the guy didn’t move, Peter stopped and looked at the man.

Can I help you, sir? Peter asked.

Um, yes. The man fished in his pockets, a heavy coat over a shabby suit. He produced a clear, glowing Ident card, and handed it to Peter. Then he looked around the bar suspiciously and back at Peter. Mind if we go outside?

Peter nodded and followed the man outside, reading the card that flashed his picture, LSP clearance, and title.

Dr. Melvin Hunt

Director of Quantum Science Studies

League of Sol Planets Laboratories, Boston, MA

They went outside, and Hunt sat on a large rock. Probably one that had sat here for millions of years before humans put a dome over it and called it Marstown. Peter handed his card back to him.

How can I help you, Dr. Hunt?

I apologize for being so forward, but frankly this was the only time and place I could identify to find you. He wiped his forehead with a small, old-fashioned handkerchief. He was a tall man and seemed to be in good shape for man in his mid to late sixties. His full head of dark but graying hair and smooth skin may have suggested some alteration, which was not unheard of in the Prime world these days. His clothes, however, left something to be desired. Looking at Hunt’s wedding band, he guessed the wife must have not dressed him today.

Wait, time and place? Peter asked.

I’m afraid what I may have to tell you may cause some confusion, Officer Poole.

Wait, how do you know…?

Hunt held up a hand. Please, I have a lot to explain, and I daresay you won’t believe me.

"I daresay. Believe what?" Peter said impatiently.

The doctor stood and pulled on his coat. There is just no time, or there is a lot of it. The doctor cursed himself and then shook his head. I…have a mission for you, Officer Poole, and it’s quite crucial.

A mission? Peter asked. Why wouldn’t that come from IP?

Well, I’m afraid the reason for that is a bit detailed. You see one of my associates…

Then the doctor’s voice tailed off, and Peter felt dizzy. He tried to shake off the feeling and briefly wondered how much of that damn ale he had consumed tonight. The doctor was fading both in sound and sight. In fact, the whole scene around him was blurring. He shook his head again and gulped, tasting beer.

Then he was sitting. The old man sitting next to him at the bar leaned over and said. Hey buddy, are you a cop?

/ Stream 2

His IP patch was back on, and he was taking it off. He looked at the old man, his beer, and turned to look at the door. What in the blue blazes? (As his father used to say). He shook his head and closed his eyes tightly. Was he having some kind of crazy deja-vu?

So, you are a cop, eh? The old man smiled.

Uh, yeah, said Peter. Say, what is your name, old-timer?

Clem Logan, the man said and extended his hand. Nice to meet ya. Always happy to shake the hand of a law man. Then he looked around the room and leaned into Peter. We are about to need you around here, I think.

Peter ignored him and briefly looked towards the door to see if Dr. Hunt was standing there, waiting for him. Or did he imagine meeting Hunt before? What the hell was going on?

Clem took a last sip of his whiskey and got up off his stool. Not that steady though, just like before.

Well, that will do it for me, he said and saluted Peter. Evening officer. Then he sauntered towards the exit.

Peter, looked at his beer and then