But it was not. In 2514, scientists had finally understood the full effect of Fusion XJ. The lauded genetic splicing that had bred out the propensity for vascular disease and tumour growth, had had an insidious side effect. The offspring of parents who had been treated had little interest in sexual coupling.
It had taken generations for the effect to become widespread, though not everyone was desensitized. A small segment of the population remained untouched by the genetic alteration. But they were in the minority, so, over time, sexuality had fallen into disfavour. It was considered a necessary evil by society at large, and very few Federees would practise any form of it without good reason: an obligatory pregnancy.
D499 was not desensitized, but there was a dearth of stimulation in the Federation’s world, so his libido was rarely a problem. He had told no one that he was a Deviant, because it was no one else’s concern. And, besides, he didn’t want to deal with the stigma of Deviance. Even though his genes were intact, he and everyone like him needed to be circumspect in order to avoid alienating their friends and co-workers. He kept his sexual urges to himself, as did every other Deviant.
Certainly, the gradual population control that had occurred without war and epidemics had been a welcome relief from continuous growth. But in two centuries hence, human life would arrive at a critical point. The decline in numbers would wreak havoc with civilization. There would be insufficient numbers of people to maintain life as it was known. There would not be enough workers to produce necessities or consumers to use them. Humans would retreat into small, subsistence enclaves, separated by thousands of miles. There would be no world community.
Cloning had been considered a fair solution to the drop in population, but there were flaws — especially in the intellectual capacity of the subjects. And until those flaws were corrected, the Federation could not rely upon clones for the perpetuation of the human species.
The group had decided that the creator of Fusion XJ could not be allowed to invent his process. GreenPiece’s scientists had calculated the likely consequences of Fusion XJ’s absence. Population growth would remain steady, due to death from war and disease. There would be no artificial decline due to a genetically engineered aversion to sex.
“Correct. D499-DG-098 is the logical choice to go. He is a temporal-spatial physicist,” said M277, sitting on her sleek white sofa, wearing the white uni-suit that was identical to everyone else’s, “and with his interest in history, he knows States better than any of us.”
“United States,” D499 muttered. He’d studied the available information, but the documentation was fragmented, with very few info-discs that survived the terrible wars of the twenty-third century. D499 believed the year he needed to visit would be fraught with the dangers of violence and disease. The people of that long-ago era allowed their emotions — and their libido — to rule their actions. It was likely to be absolute hell.
“My mistake,” M277 said. “United States. Now that our data is in, it is imperative that we act.”
D499 knew it was his duty to go. Someone had to stop the man who would invent Fusion XJ, and change the course of the world.
Time travel was not exactly trivial, but it was not the impossibility pronounced by scientists all through the Technical Age. Certainly, it posed problems, but they were solved by the advent of the computrons, the thinking machines that were immeasurably superior to the computers of the Technical Age. He was a physicist in the Knowledge Age and, as every Federee knew, knowledge was power.
“I’m prepared to go,” D499 said. He knew that people of the distant past used family names. There were no Identi-Checks, and people exchanged currency for goods and services.
“Do you need time to make preparations?” M277-CZ-398 asked.
D499 shook his head. Expecting to be the one chosen to go, he’d already considered what he needed to do to fit in. He’d made arrangements. “No. Just a few hours to assemble what I’ll need to take with me.”
“Then we’ll meet in the Old Town factory at first light.”
For the past two years, D499 had added an additional hour of exercise to his daily regimen of swimming and running, in the likelihood that he would be called upon for this mission. He’d wanted to be ready, both physically and mentally, for the task. An added benefit of his weight-lifting and vigorous Aten-Ra exercises was that his physical fatigue had helped him control the lust that often plagued him when he retired at night.
He left the group and took a transit to the Restoration Center for one last workout before his departure. Though he was the lead scientist on the Federation’s Temporal-Spatial team, he was vaguely nervous about the undertaking. “Sliding” through time was not something to be taken lightly. Creating a wormhole was no simple feat.
And there was a possibility that they had some of the historical details wrong. Andrew Gibson-Booth might not have done his breakthrough work on Fusion XJ in the year 2015. If that was the case, D499 might arrive a year or two late, too late to do what he needed to do. To compensate for this, his colleagues agreed that he should arrive a few years early.
He’d chosen a name, one that he’d found in his own sketchy family records. He would be Sean Dugan, and once he arrived in 2010, he would be able to use the rudimentary computers of the Technology Age to locate Andrew Gibson-Booth, and make any necessary arrangements. Perhaps the old machines could be used to create the credentials he needed to become one of Andrew Gibson-Booth’s colleagues. However he managed it, he would stop Gibson-Booth before he ever got started.
Chicago. April 2010
“Where’s your backpack, Drew?” Erica Gibson-Booth asked her son. “Hurry up, honey. Mitch’s guy will be here in a minute!”
“Who is Mitch’s guy?” asked five-year-old Drew as he went into his bedroom for his pack.
Erica didn’t want to frighten her son with talk about stalkers and bodyguards. She just hoped her smarter-than-average little boy would accept a bare-minimum explanation. “He’s just a good friend of Mitch Crandall who wants to come to work with me.”
She heard a knock at the door. Looking through the peephole she saw that it was indeed the bodyguard, a man she’d never seen before, and she would have remembered this one. The guy must be six-five. He had a face that looked like it had been chiselled from granite, and those shoulders.
Erica felt a twinge of something that hadn’t been active in her life in a very long time, in spite of the profession she’d been forced to turn to. She hadn’t felt the pull of attraction since Andy’s fatal car accident five years before, when they were both grad students and had a promising future ahead of them.
Back when she was pregnant with Drew.
She took a deep breath and opened the door. “You’re right on time.” She put out her hand. “I’m Erica Gibson-Booth. And we’re almost ready.”
Her bodyguard’s formidable dark brows lowered over his brown eyes and he hesitated for a moment before taking her hand and looking into her eyes. “Sean Dugan,” he finally said, his voice deep, his hand warm. “Is Andrew here?”
The bottom of Erica’s stomach fell out at the strength of the man’s gaze. His hair was thick and nearly black, and he wore it short, almost military. He seemed to be in complete command, and yet he stood quietly, as though waiting for.