In his room, Felix stripped down to his Protek underwear and reached for the tunic, which was two linen squares sewn simply together, with two rough holes for his arms and head. Pulling on the garment, he bunched its folds around his waist and tied these in place with a thin, leather strap. His feet groped for the sandals, which fitted him well — instead of buckles, there were straps that he could tighten at will. That left him with the toga.
He was acquainted with togas because he had woven one once, just to see what the effect would be. It was two metres long and a metre wide, with three straight sides and a semi-circular one. The trick was to secure one end to the shoulder and wrap its length maybe twice around the waist, draping the loose end in the crook of one’s arm. It took him half-a-dozen attempts before he felt its folds were decently arranged. As an article of dress it was ridiculous and cumbersome.
He had barely finished dressing when a knock rang out. A moment later, General Manes walked into the room.
“Hello, sir,” Felix spoke. “What do you think? Does the toga suit me?”
“Very much so,” the general replied, attempting a smile but barely succeeding.
“Is it time?”
“I’m afraid so. Carolyn is waiting at the TPM and I decided to escort you myself.”
“I see. That’s kind of you.”
Following the general, Felix stepped into the hallway, his movements uncertain because the toga kept slipping. As they proceeded to the Vacu-lift, he could sense the general had something to say, but that he wasn’t sure how to broach the subject.
“Is something on your mind, sir?” he prodded him.
“You’re intuitive,” the general said with approval. “That’s one advantage of being ERR-free. I’m worried about my daughter, of course. Since her mother’s death four years ago, she is all I’ve got. She means the moon and sun to me.”
“I’ll do my best to keep her safe,” Felix promised. “Although she seems pretty good at looking after herself.”
“True enough,” the general agreed, with the tiniest smile. A grimmer expression quickly returned, “More to the point, the news from earth is very worrying. The infection rate stands at sixty-eight percent — it has increased by ten percent these last six hours. Not too many victims have died, but that will change within a week at most. I don’t mean to pressure you, son, but you’ve got to find that flower. Otherwise …” The general left this sentence hanging.
There was nothing else to say. Felix accompanied General Manes the rest of the way in silence.
A mere two minutes later, he and Carolyn were poised in front of the TPM. He felt like a sailor on the shore of the sea: on one side was the tranquil present; ahead was the future’s choppy expanse.
Carolyn stood behind him. He could see her reflected in the TPM’s dome: her palla was a perfect fit and she was utterly composed: she reminded him of the goddess Diana. Her father was watching from a distant console, with the same detachment and self-control. He was possibly about to kill his child, but his gaze was unwavering and his features calm. Even as he envied them their ERR, Felix suspected that they’d been robbed of something crucial.
A flashing light disrupted these thoughts. The TPM was primed and it was time to enter. With nods to the general, doctor, and professor, Felix inhaled deeply and crossed the threshold. His nose was itchy and wanted scratching but even as he raised his finger, a light burst forth and an electrical surge ripped through him.
In the hollows of the TPM, Felix Taylor was no longer to be seen.
Chapter Seven
Teleportation was usually a humdrum affair. The process was so blindingly fast that the passenger hadn’t time to feel his atoms dissolve, travel through space, and reassemble elsewhere. But Dispersion Portals were one thing, the TPM was something different.
While the machine’s operations were lightning-fast, they seemed to transpire in slow motion. As a result, Felix saw his surroundings “melt” into a single point, the TPM, the space station, the earth, the sun, the solar system, and Milky Way. A storm of sound engulfed him, a mix of roars, cries, laughter, and eruptions, as worlds were born and destroyed in an instant, coming to be and expiring in a flash, like an infant’s puny wail of frustration. A million points of light tore at his “fabric” and spread it over an impossibly great distance, kilometres — no — light years in length: his limbs, his torso, his head ran on and on, all connected to each other still, but stretched like taffy over time and space. His senses were intact and he controlled his movements, even as a force ushered him forward, along a path of light that was wobbling like jelly. His index finger was still in front of his nose and was long enough to reach the sun as well as every other star at large.
And then it was over. Like a stretched elastic snapping back to normal, his atoms reassembled in the blink of an eye. He inhaled deeply, coughed once or twice, and felt his limbs over to check that he was … solid.
It was dark around him. Before he could puzzle his surroundings out, he was struck from behind. Stumbling forward, he bumped into a smooth, hard surface. What …?
“Felix?” Carolyn gasped. “Where are you?”
He started at the sound of her voice, and realized just as quickly he was glad to hear it. Reassuring her he was there, he again looked his surroundings over. By now his eyes were adjusting to the dark and the object in front of him was coming into focus. It was a statue as far as he could tell, a female with a helmet and…. His body tingled.
“Is that what we’re looking for?” Carolyn asked.
“Yes,” Felix croaked. “It’s a statue of Minerva.”
“The Roman goddess of wisdom,” she said.
“We’re in a cella,” Felix said, ignoring the scorn in her voice. “That’s the inner room of a Roman temple and the place where the statue of the god is stored.”
“So we’ve arrived.”
“It looks that way. Let’s get out of here. Do you see a door?”
They glanced around. There. Five metres in front of them was a square outline of light. They moved toward it cautiously and worked the heavy planking open. Scouring sunlight poured into the room.
Blinking hard, they surveyed their surroundings. Before them was a stylobate or elongated floor that carried lines of marble columns. Above them was the architrave, or beams, that supported the temple’s elaborate frieze: these marble blocks were handsomely carved and depicted myths from the life of Minerva. Felix wanted to study them, but a shove from Carolyn brought him to his senses. There was work to be done. Inching forward, they reached the stylobate’s end and a flight of marble stairs. Both of them gasped.
The temple stood on a hill. Below them was a series of fields that rolled on forever, bursting with wheat and other produce. Far off in the distance, on the edge of the horizon, stood a line of intoxicating blue: the sea. A golden sun illuminated this landscape, its rays teasing the odd meandering cloud.
Neither Felix nor Carolyn could speak. While comfortable, their world was overcrowded. There were very few open areas left, where tracts of land greeted the eye and nature could assert itself so freely. Even the sun and sky were different, were richer in tone, more deeply hued, because they weren’t subject yet to human control.
Human control. A mile to their right stood a square-shaped town with a collection of houses and buildings at its centre. It was surrounded by a wall, with a gate on each side, through which multitudes of people were exiting and entering. An army had pitched its camp outside the town and the locals were anxious to trade with the soldiers. Lots of men were riding about on horses. Felix and Carolyn stood agog: horses were very rare in