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The MSS Calistoga was 51 days into its journey to Lemondrop reactor site A-the reactor that was to send the Martian Counterdrop team on their journey back in time. The ship had finished its acceleration burn 43 days before and was now coasting through the vacuum of space between the orbits of Neptune and Pluto at just below 6 million kilometers per hour. Like the Ingram and the Rellington, Calistoga was a stealth platform ship, its primary mission to remain invisible deep in enemy territory. As such it was ideally suited for the mission it was embarked upon. It had traveled well over 4 billion kilometers since leaving Triad Naval Base and, by all indications, neither the WestHem nor the EastHem navies-who both kept stealth ships of their own constantly on station just outside the 100,000 kilometer limit of Martian territorial space-had any idea they had even left. Calistoga and the 45 men and women inside it were absolutely and completely alone in this region of space and would remain so until they arrived at their jump off point in nine days.

Though a stealth ship, Calistoga did not rely on its invisibility alone for protection. It was quite heavily armed, particularly for this mission, where there was a good possibility that both defensive and offensive weapons would be needed. In the torpedo hold in the bow of the ship, nine torpedoes equipped with matter/anti-matter warheads were stored, ready to be launched through one of three torpedo tubes toward an enemy vessel. Six 150-millimeter high-energy laser cannons were attached at various points on the outside of the ship. Each of these weapons had a charge rate of less than ten seconds and was capable of burning a 150-millimeter hole through the titanium alloy of any enemy ship and incinerating anything on the other side. In addition, nine 30-millimeter anti-torpedo lasers were mounted on each side of the ship and three on both the bow and the stern. These had a charge rate of less than five seconds and were capable of disabling the warhead of any approaching anti-ship weapon provided the active sensors could burn through the built-in infrared jamming device each weapon carried. Calistoga was far from helpless, its weapons technology nearly a generation more advanced than the best WestHem or EastHem had to offer.

Underscoring the importance of the mission, not a single passenger or crew of Calistoga had declined to participate in Counterdrop, despite the cultural terror Martians had about engaging in possibly life-threatening activities. All thought the interdiction of the WestHem special forces team important enough to the survival of their planet and possibly the human species to disregard their sacred safety and go forth into the unknown. This was not to say that they were reckless about their mission. Not in the least. Most of their idle time during the long journey was spent going every last detail of the coming mission, trying to anticipate anything and everything that could go wrong, and making contingency plans to deal with such situations. A good portion of each day was taken up by lectures and training sessions as each member of the intervention team went over his or her role in the mission and taught it to others in case he or she became disabled.

The section of the ship where this training took place was the wardroom, two decks below the intelligence gathering deck. This room took up nearly the entire deck and doubled as the dining room at mealtimes. On the fore and aft walls were large, interactive computer screens tied into the main computer. A lecturer could use them to outline details of his or her lesson for the benefit of those in the audience. Ken, who was considered their operational area map expert, was having his turn in the barrel and describing the geography of the target area to the special forces team to which he now belonged.

Ken had only been to the Sacramento area-of which Roseville was a part-a few times in his previous life and was completely unfamiliar with its layout when he agreed to participate in the mission. That had since changed. For the past 51 days he had been studying every available map, picture, satellite image, and old traffic report he could dig up on Sacramento's freeway and traffic system. And, though he had done precious little driving in the region for which he was training, it was still California, and California traffic was pretty much the same in any of the urban areas within its borders-crowded, congested, rude, frustrating, and something to be reckoned with in this kind of mission.

He was sitting in a chair before the lectern looking at a small screen before him. Velcro straps around his waist kept him from drifting off into the air in the zero gravity conditions the ship was currently under. Strapped into seats at the cafeteria tables (which themselves were bolted to the floor) were the five men and three women who made up Second Squad of Third Platoon of Charlie Company, of the 23rd Special Forces Battalion of the Martian Planetary Guard. The eight members of Second Squad and Lieutenant Spankworth himself were all that had come along for this mission. They had been divided further into two four-person teams-one the primary, one the reserve-although both Ken and Spankworth were slated to join whichever was the team that actually took down the WestHem team assuming, of course, such a thing became necessary.

"This is Roseville Community Hospital," Ken told them, moving the pointer on the screen before him that projected a finely detailed 2006 edition of a map of the City of Roseville, California. On the larger screen behind him was an exact duplicate of his smaller one. "As you can see, the hospital is located at the very north end of Sunrise Boulevard, a major traffic artery through the eastern Sacramento metropolitan region. This is the only vehicular access to the hospital north of this road here." He pointed to another part of the map. "This is Roseville Parkway-a major east-west thoroughfare across the suburb. That is the most important thing to remember. If something goes wrong at the hospital and the police are notified, they can easily prevent us from escaping by motor vehicle by stationing a single patrol unit at this particular intersection. Above all else, we must clear this chokepoint before a police response can arrive there, otherwise, we'll have to travel overland on foot trying to lug unconscious prisoners with us. Not an enviable situation, especially considering that there are no less than four law enforcement helicopters, all equipped with forward looking infrared pods, within a thirty mile radius."

The special forces team all nodded thoughtfully, obviously impressed by his knowledge of the target area. Ken relaxed a little as he saw the respect in their eyes. He had been nervous about giving his lecture today, particularly in light of the caliber of people in his audience. He had met other special forces members from time to time and they all had one characteristic in common-they were serious about their jobs and wanted as much knowledge as possible beforehand. These Martian special forces soldiers were, if anything, more fanatical on that subject than their twentieth century Earthling counterparts. The fact that he had impressed them did wonders for Ken's confidence and made the many hours he had spent learning what he was now lecturing on worthwhile.

"You've mentioned the traffic conditions in this time period," said Sergeant McGraw, the squad leader and leader of the primary team. She was fourteen years old and a five-year member of the MPG, signing up immediately after high school graduation. Like all special forces members, she was impressively fit, her body without an ounce of unnecessary fat. Her light blonde hair had been militarily short at the beginning of the voyage but was now shoulder length so she could pass as an average Earth woman on the mission.

"Yes," Ken said, nodding. "This is at the very end of the WestHem reliance on automobiles for transport. Traffic was horrible at best, gridlock at worst."

"How does that factor in for egress?" McGraw asked. "If our takedown isn't clean and they send the cops after us, how likely is it that we're going to get stuck in gridlock traffic?"

It was clear that the idea of heavy traffic was the single greatest worry of the both the special forces squad and the intelligence team. Earthling traffic jams were a legendary part of history and, as such things often are, had been exaggerated somewhat in stature over the generations. The Martians were under the impression that traffic was always horrible at every hour of the day and night. Ken, who knew this was not really the case, did his best to ease their minds. "I don't think traffic will be much of a concern," he said. "Our information is that the WestHem team is going to make their intervention attempt in the early morning hours-between 0100 and 0500-correct?"

"Fuckin' aye," Spankworth said from his seat near the front. "At least that's what the word is."

"If they do make their attempt in the expected time period," Ken said, "there will be minimal traffic on the roads throughout the entire metropolitan area. While it's true that traffic was quite bad, that was only during the waking hours, particularly weekdays between the hours of 0600 and 0900 and between 1500 and 1900. If intelligence is wrong and the WestHems try to make their grab during the day, then yes, traffic will definitely be a concern and I have mapped out what appears to be the least congested routes out of the area. If intelligence is correct, though, and they make the attempt at night, the roads will be almost empty and we'll be miles away from the hospital in a matter of minutes."

"Miles," McGraw said, shaking her head in frustration. "I'm having a hard time with that concept. What a fucked up system of measurement your people had, Frazier."

Ken smiled, feeling absurdly proud that he was able to grasp a concept they weren't. It had been decided that they would only use American standard measurements when planning and discussing the mission since that was how everything was going to be in the target area. WestHem would not go fully metric until after World War III so all of the street signs, all of the mapping references, all of the automobile speedometers and odometers would be in miles. "I agree completely," he told them now. "But I must admit it's comforting to talk in those terms again after so long on Mars. I was brought up with them after all."

"That's very interesting, Frazier," Spankworth said, taking a plug of WestHem chewing tobacco out of a can and putting it in his lip. "But let's get the cock back in the snatch here, shall we? Assuming intelligence is correct, what's our egress?"

"Right, LT," Ken said, looking down at the map. "We're fortunate that young Mr. Whiting is being checked into this particular hospital. It is less than three minutes drive-time to the freeway, assuming no traffic, which we should be able to assume if it takes place as scheduled. The most likely access point the WestHem team will use is the service entrance here on the east side of the main building, right next to the Emergency Room entrance. The recovery room, where Whiting will be staying, is three floors up and this is the closest access. There is also plenty of public parking and strange people loitering in vehicles will not necessarily cause undo attention because that's the sort of thing hospital security will be used to seeing outside the ER. This, of course, works both for us and the WestHems."

"True," Spankworth said with a nod.

"Once you make the takedown and we get the people back in the van, we head out this way." He began to trace their route with the cursor. "Down this long access road past the main building, back to Sunrise Boulevard. We continue south, past the chokepoint at Sunrise and Roseville Parkway, down to Eureka road, which is half a mile south of the chokepoint. We turn right, toward the west, from there. Remember, if I'm disabled and someone else has to drive, you can make a right turn on a red light in California. It would look suspicious, in fact, if traffic was clear and you didn't make the turn. Always remember that the early morning hours are when the drunk drivers are out in force. Doing something unusual, like driving with your lights out or not turning right at a red when it's clear, are things that will draw the attention of the police or the highway patrol."

"That's a Laura-damned good point," said McGraw, who was next in line to drive if Ken couldn't since she had spent the most time in the twenty-first century driving simulation program.

"In any case, we'll follow Eureka west for about a mile until we get to the onramps for Interstate 80, the freeway that will take us all the way back to San Francisco and our ride back to orbit. We will be taking westbound I-80 and the ramp is accessed from the left-hand lane here. Remember that, because most freeway onramps are on the right side."

He paused while everyone made a few notes and then continued on, giving small details of freeway nuances like road splits, toll bridges, and which lane to be in at which time, all the way across the Bay Bridge to the San Francisco city limits 97 miles away. From there, he went through the easiest possible route to China Beach in the Sea Cliff section of the city. There-on the isolated beach, though very close to civilization-is where their submergible amphibious surface-to-orbit craft would be waiting for them, staffed by two pilots waiting patiently under sixty feet of water two hundred yards off shore. That was where the details Ken was responsible for came to an end. He then went back to Roseville hospital and started over, this time pointing out some alternate routes he had put together in the event something went wrong.

In all, he talked for more than an hour and still had much that he needed to tell them. He would pick up where he left off tomorrow. Now it was Spankworth's turn for his portion of the lecture. Ken unstrapped from the Velcro and allowed himself to drift into the air. After 43 days of zero-G he was now quite used to maneuvering in it and had learned to actually like it. He was a bit sad that gravity would be returning to the environment the next day when they started their deceleration burn.

"Thank you, Frazier," Spankworth told him as he drifted over and took his place at the lectern.

"No skin off my ass," Ken replied, floating across the room and setting down in the seat the lieutenant had just vacated.

Spankworth had given the most lectures on mission requirements and procedures. He had a gruff, efficient, and humorless method of imparting information on his team. He reached into the pocket of his shorts and pulled out a small black device that resembled a PC. "I'm sure Frazier can tell me what this is," he said.

"Fuckin' aye," Ken said, recognizing it instantly and feeling a pang of nostalgia. "It's a cell phone from my day, or at least from around my day."

"This is a copy of a lower end model cellular phone from the year 2006," Spankworth said. "Each ground team member will be issued a model similar to, though not exactly like, this one. The reason they will not all be the same is that there were dozens of different cellular service providers and hundreds of different phone models on Earth during this time period. The likelihood that six random people-which is what we will be pretending to be-would all have the exact same cell phone model would be quite remote. The differences, however, will be more visual than anything else. Each of these phones will be fully functional for what they are supposed to be, and will even be assigned one of five different cellular providers who do business in the Sacramento region. To anyone examining these devices superficially, they will be indistinguishable from your average, everyday cell phone. They are, of course, a bit more than that beneath the surface.

"The most important thing they are is a fully functioning Martian PC. Each will be programmed to respond not only to the voice commands of the team member assigned to it, but to any of the other team members as well. That means that each of you can use the other's phone for any of the functions but that no one else on Earth-including the WestHem team-can. They will be linked to both the Earthling Internet and their communications satellite system. These little devices will be about ten thousand times faster and more capable then the best Earth computers of the day. They are programmed with our best hacking software so we can manipulate the Earthling databases in the event of an emergency.

"These phones also contain the weapons we will use to take down the WestHem interdiction team. Pushing 2, 3, 7, 0, on the keyboard will activate the tanner function of the device." He pushed the sequence and heard a small beep from the phone. "The button on the side-which the Earthlings of the time use for a linked one-way radio system with other users-will extend the tanner probe from the front of the phone." He did this and a hair-thin metallic strand, rigid, though it looked like it shouldn't be, extended about eight inches. "The tanner charging time is three seconds, but the battery is only capable of holding enough energy for four shots before the unit needs to be recharged. The probe itself can extend out to four meters-excuse me, about twelve feet-and you discharge it by hitting any button on the keyboard. Like a police tanner, this will work through any clothing or armor our WestHem friends happen to be wearing. After being hit with the energy our subjects will be flaccid for the better part of ten minutes, long enough for us to get them to our vehicle where we can handcuff them and restrain them chemically for the trip back to the lander.

"That's the basic plan, in a cumshot. From the moment Whiting enters that hospital, we'll be staking it out. The composition of the team that will make the attempt is unknown, but logic says it will be a small team, no more than three, and maybe only a single person. They will be disguising themselves as hospital staff-specifically, the janitorial staff, who are able to move unnoticed throughout all sections of the hospital. We will be able to distinguish them from the real janitorial staff by the genetic manipulator they possess. Genetic manipulators use a gamma ray generator powered by radioactive centuriam isotopes. This is an element that was developed in a Martian laboratory and would be found nowhere on Earth in the year 2007 except inside a genetic manipulator device from the future. We will be scanning the hospital area for this isotope and should pick it up the moment they get within a quarter mile or so. Once we've identified them, we immediately make our move. We, too, will be dressed as janitorial workers to avoid notice. We will take them down quickly and quietly-hopefully before they get inside the service entrance-and then move them to the van and get the hell out of the whorehouse."

"Do we have any idea on whether or not they'll be packing?" asked Vega Sanchez, a junior member of the team.

"There are no specifics from intelligence on that," Spankworth replied. "They will undoubtedly be armed with tanners such as ours, at the very least, and possibly with firearms, either modern ones or weapons they acquired on Earth."

"I doubt they would get weapons on Earth," Ken put in. "Unless they changed the laws significantly between the time I was shot and 2007, there was a waiting period to buy guns in California. Even if their credentials were in order they would still have to wait two weeks before they could pick up the weapons."

"No shit?" Spankworth said. "I didn't know that." Which wasn't surprising. The proliferation of firearms in WestHem society-while unquestionably bad-was another one of those things that had been wildly exaggerated in the minds of most Martians. It was generally believed you could walk into any convenience store in twenty-first century America and walk out with a handgun five minutes later.

"That's why we brought him along," McGraw said with a smile.

Spankworth ignored her comment. "Were there any exceptions to the waiting period?" he asked. "Remember, these WestHem agents, like us, can pretend to be just about anyone and use their computer technology to back it up."

"Peace officers are the only exception to the waiting period," Ken said. "I suppose they could go to the trouble of making a fake badge and programming the Department of Justice computer to recognize them as cops, but would they really go to all that trouble just to get guns?"

"A good point," Spankworth allowed. "In any case, we hope to have surprise on our side so the issue of whether or not they're armed is academic. We will be armed with nothing more than our tanners. If the WestHems have guns and we're not able to take them by surprise, the mission will be blown in any case and shooting it out with them outside a hospital will probably damage the time stream just as much as what they're intending to do anyway."

Spankworth's lecture went on for another two hours. He covered every aspect of what they planned to do in excruciating detail and then reviewed the entire strategy several more times, inserting contingency plans at each point where things could conceivably go wrong. Like Ken before him, he really only scratched the surface of preparation in the time period he was allotted. There would more lectures in the ensuing days as well as simulator training with VR goggles once gravity returned to the ship. Finally, he wrapped up and everyone took a ten-minute break-most floating off toward the lavatory where straining bladders were relieved into the vacuum tubes that served as toilets. At the end of the break everyone resumed their seats and Ron Sampson, head of the Intelligence aspect of the mission, took his place at the lectern.

"I'll be brief," Sampson told them. "I know everyone is looking forward to dinner and to the final zero-G party tonight after the dishes are done."

"Fuckin' aye on that shit," said McGraw, eliciting a chuckle from everyone else in the room, Sampson included.

"I've been listening closely to all of the planning that's been going on," Sampson continued, "and it sounds to me that you're all doing a typical bang-up Martian job of anticipating everything. My own part in this is rather small but let me explain what I'll be setting up for you down there on the surface of Dark Ages Earth.

"If Commander Huffy and her crew are unable to intercept the WestHem ship prior to their sending down their interdiction team, me and my people will hack into the Earthling Internet, much as we do when sending operatives down to the more modern version of Earth in our time. Accessing their secure databases will be quite easy for our software to accomplish. We will assign Earthling identities for each of you, complete with residence history, credit history, bank accounts, credit cards, and employment history. Frazier, it will be you who'll deal with the natives when such a thing becomes necessary, so it's your identity that needs to serve as more than just a shell. I will set up a bank account for you with about ten thousand dollars in it and give you a high credit rating. After you and the team make landfall it will be you who purchases the vehicle you'll use to travel from San Francisco to Roseville and back. Since you obviously know much more about vehicles of the time I will leave the actual make and model to your discretion. Sound like an ass-fuck?"

"Uh... sure," Ken said. "So you'll just create a bank account for me out of thin air, complete with credit history, credit cards, and all that?"

"I'll change your name and date of birth just a bit," Sampson said. "That will keep your identity from conflicting with the... uh... the other Ken Frazier, the one who is in a cryogenic warehouse in Los Angeles and who has a death certificate signed for him... but yes, that's what I'll do."

"And this identity will stand up like a real one?" he asked.

"It will be a real one," Sampson told him. "Our software will hack into every computer it needs to in order to establish your existence. A birth certificate will be recorded in the hall of records, a social security number and work history will be created, a driver's license record and driving history will be placed in the DMV, medical records will be created and stored in the appropriate places. The FBI itself could do a background check on you and would find absolutely nothing amiss."

"Wow," he said, amazed.

"We can do this same thing to modern WestHem," Sampson said. "That's how we developed the information that led us to this point in the first place. Hacking into the twenty-first century Internet will be child's play."

Dinner that night was filet mignon, artichokes, and baked potato skins with sour cream and cheese. It was served from special platters that kept the food from floating about the room. It wasn't quite up to the standards usually enjoyed aboard the ship since only those personnel deemed absolutely vital to running the Calistoga had come on the mission. The culinary department-which normally consisted of ten members-was one such victim of personnel cuts. Responsibility for the meals consumed each day was now rotated among one of seven teams that had been formed by Commander Huffy. No person on board was exempt from kitchen duty, including Huffy herself, and, while most of the food turned out to be quite palatable, since culinary skills were common and highly regarded among Martians, it would never be mistaken for restaurant chow either.

Also missing was the ability to use utensils in the normal fashion. It was extremely difficult to cut meat in zero gravity without Newton's Law of Motion causing it to go flying off across the room in a spray of particles and juice, where it would likely bounce off another person's head or get sucked into an air circulation vent. So instead of knives and forks, the members of Calistoga's crew used their bare hands, picking up slabs of meat and tearing into them with their teeth, like animals. It was crude but effective and did little to detract from the flavor of the meal.

After the last piece of meat was chewed down, after the last potato skin was swallowed, after the last artichoke heart was smeared with garlic mayonnaise and chomped to pieces, it was time for clean-up. Everyone but those who had actually done the cooking or who were actually engaged in some aspect of operating the ship was required to participate in the housekeeping chores. Dishes and utensils that had been used were carried through the rear door of the wardroom to the galley and placed in the automatic dishwashing machine. Damp towels were used to wipe down the walls and table surfaces. Finally, an automatic robotic vacuum cleaner was set loose to clean up all of the crumbs and liquid droplets drifting about in the air currents. This machine navigated freely around the interior of the room, propelling itself with small bursts of compressed air from a series of tiny maneuvering thrusters and finding its way to each individual crumb by means of an active radar dish installed on the top of it.

When the robot was finally done clearing the air in the wardroom, the recreational period for the week officially began. These periods were times set aside by Commander Huffy in which the wardroom became the scene of a Martian-style party. Alcohol and marijuana would be available for the enjoyment of a selected portion of the participants-the number allowed held at 18 since this would leave more than half of the ship's compliment sober in the event of an emergency requiring shipboard firefighting or general quarters. This particular recreational period promised to be a memorable one since it would be the last to take place in zero gravity until well after they'd passed through the Lemondrop wormhole and started heading toward 2007 Earth-which was to say, it was possible that this might be the last recreational period they would ever enjoy, anywhere.

In all, about thirty people remained for the party, including Commander Huffy, who had forbidden herself to enter the intoxicant lottery but who did like a Martian-style good time as much as anyone else on board. She sat sipping a cup of herbal tea and smoking a tobacco pipe, blowing smoke rings across the room while running her hand up and down the leg of Ron Sampson, who had entered the intoxicant lottery and was already working on his third drink. Ken and Slurry had both drawn intoxicant cards for this evening and they happily helped themselves to the rum and fruit juice concoction that had been whipped up for the occasion. Any drink with carbonation in it-such as beer or drinks with soda in them-did not maintain proper consistency in zero or even reduced gravity, so fruit juice was always the stealth ship mixer of choice. They sipped their drinks out of sealed pressure-fed containers specially designed for zero-G drinking while passing a self-contained bong of Eden green from one person to the other. Soon the entire wardroom was thick with pungent smoke and the sound of modern dance music reverberated off the walls. Things remained fairly sedate for a while, with only a few couples and triples performing mild zero-G botching moves near the ceiling.

Ken and Slurry sat together near Lieutenant Spankworth and Sergeant McGraw, both of whom were in the intoxicant pool as well. As Spacer Second Class Stinson who worked in the Engineering Department, and Yolanda Santini, a member of the Intelligence Department, twisted and squirmed above them, their mouths occasionally making brief, wet contact, their groins grinding together, the four of them discussed the upcoming wormhole entry.