Battle For Atlantis a-6

by Robert Doherty

  On the following day, Lee began to withdraw his forces back to Virginia, and McClellan failed to press the battle against his retreating foe, resting his bloodied and weary · army. Lee’s wagon train carrying his wounded stretched for over fourteen miles.

  * * *

  It was not a victory. Abraham Lincoln knew that as he sat at his desk in the Oval Office and read the tersely worded dispatches from Sharpsburg. There had been no victories since the Rebels fired on Fort Sumter in Charleston Harbor in 1861. A few minor skirmishes here and there won, of course, but every major battle had been a Union defeat.

  And the Europeans were waiting on the sidelines like vultures, staring across the Atlantic, waiting for the opportunity to wade in. It was about economics and cotton for them and a chance to get their feet back on the continent. Lincoln knew that. And he knew that he had to change the playing field. Take it all to a higher level to keep the Europeans at bay.

  And the dead and wounded laid out in the cold numbers in the telegrams — the numbers were staggering. And if his experience with such dispatches was to be trusted, they were understated. The truth would not be revealed for weeks, but already the newsmen were saying it was the bloodiest day of the war so far.

  It was also not a defeat, though. Lee was retreating. And, truth be told the North could accept high casualties more than the South could.

  Lincoln put down the telegraphs and leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out so that the tips of his worn boots appeared on the other side of the desk bottom. He heard a door open to his left and he twisted his head. He got to his feet as he recognized his wife’s diminutive form. Just two inches above five feet, Mary had clear blue eyes and light brown hair that was now beginning to show hints of gray. They’d met when she was twenty-one, living with her sister in Springfield. She was beautiful, but it had been her sharp wit that had captivated Lincoln on their first meeting.

  She was from high society and he, as he liked to tell friends when recounting the tale of their courtship, was a poor nobody. Their courtship lasted three years. There were aspects to it that Lincoln never related when speaking of the past. The first time she’d come to him after hearing the voices. The time he broke off the engagement in dismay. Only to be drawn back to her by a force greater than his fear. In a way, they were the perfect match, as she had an unshakeable belief in his abilities and his gentle demeanor allowed him to tolerate what others politely called her excitability.

  Their early years of marriage had been difficult because his circumstances brought her down quite a few notches in the social circles. The war had not made things easier. As Southerners claimed she was a traitor. Since her family came from Kentucky; Union papers assailed her attempts to bring the White House up to what she considered an acceptable level for the leader of a great country.

  “Mary.” Lincoln strode across the room. “Are you all right?” He wrapped her in his large arms and led her over to a couch.

  “I hear them,” Mary Todd Lincoln whispered. “I hear them.”

  Lincoln placed a hand on the back her neck, massaging. “The voices?”

  “Yes.”

  Lincoln closed his eyes and counted to ten before speaking, a habit he had begun early in their courtship and maintained ever since. “And what are they telling you?”

  Mary turned her clear blue eyes toward her husband. It had been those eyes that he had first noticed so many years ago in Illinois, looking at her across a room full of people. They had been a magnet that had drawn him to her and kept him at her side all these hard years. This past year had not been easy, especially with the death of their son Willie earlier in the year. Mary had always heard voices, but the strange tiring was that Lincoln had learned to separate out the different types she heard, because some of them were very accurate about the future. Some he knew came from a part of her brain that she could not be accountable for. She had told him the first time they spoke that she knew he was bound for greatness. Then she had been told he would be president, at a time when he had never even considered running for any office and was just trying to eke out a living as a lawyer in Springfield. Such a bold, and apparently outrageous, prediction coming true had certainly made him take her much more seriously.

  “You should sign the proclamation,” Mary said. “That’s what they tell me.”

  Lincoln frowned. He had penned the preliminary proclamation in the spring but kept quiet about it, showing it only to Mary. In July, he had finally read it to Secretary of War Seward and Secretary Wells. Both men had been shocked speechless for over a minute, and then Seward had voiced his protest, while Wells seemed too confused to say anything.

  Slavery was a difficult issue that had to be handled delicately. In the early days of the war, large numbers of slaves had fled to Union lines. Technically, according to the law of the time, even though the two sides were at war, those slaves should have been returned under the Fugitive Slave Law on the books in the federal government. Lincoln had managed to dodge that issue by getting the Fugitive Slave Law annulled. Then he’d gotten a law passed allowing the federal government to compensate owners who freed their slaves — this allowed all the slaves in the District of Columbia to be freed in April of this year.

  Then he managed to pressure Congress into passing a law forbidding slavery in U.S. territories, which flew in the face of the infamous Dred Scott decision by the Supreme Court. Despite all this, the core issue of slavery was still being skirted by the Union, thus Lincoln had sat down and written the proclamation.

  The curious thing about the proclamation was that it freed slaves only in specifically named states-all parts of the Confederacy. Those border states that the Union was trying to keep in the fold were not affected.

  “It’s a dangerous thing, Mary,” Lincoln said.

  “Everything’s dangerous. But the time is now. Call this battle a victory” — she raised a hand to stifle his protest — “Lee is retreating, is he not? So many men died. I’ve seen the papers. And we both know the truth will be far worse than what the reporters scribble in their dispatches. Don’t let them die in vain. Sign the proclamation.” She put her hand on his ann. “And it will keep the Europeans at bay. It will raise the war to an entirely new level. A moral level at which they cannot get involved on the side of the Southerners. It will identify any who side with the South as siding with slavery.”

  Lincoln stared at his wife, surprised that he was surprised. She had had so many great ideas over the years, but it still amazed him at times the way her mind worked. He had just been thinking along the same lines but she had cut right to the core of the matter. He walked over to his desk and pulled out the document that had so disconcerted his two secretaries. He set it on top of the desk. He considered it some of his best writing.

  “And change the name,” Mary added.

  ‘’To what?”

  “Call it the Emancipation Proclamation.”

  EARTH TIME LINE — XIV

  Zulu Territories, 22 September 1823

  A million dead in the Zulu nation. And that was just the estimate. No one knew the real number. A rough estimate could be made of those killed in battle, but the hundreds of thousands who died after the battles of starvation and disease could only be guessed. There were so many dead that one could not travel without feeling the presence of ghosts all about. The mfecane, the warfare and forced migrations that was being enforced by the king on his people, was destroying both the land and the people.

  Had it been only twelve years since his half-brother Shah had been crowned king of the Zulus? Dingane wondered. For him it had been an eternity. He sat in the darkness away from the fires that marked the king’s kraal (encampment), his iKlwa across his knees. It was a wide, heavy-bladed thrusting spear, an invention of Shaka’s. Most warriors carried it now, instead of the traditional assegais, the long, thin throwing javelin that had been the weapon of choice of the Zulu before Shaka. The iKlwa, in combination with the heavier cowhide shields Shan had also develope
d, allowed mass formations of Zulus to smash their lighter armed enemies into submission. That, along with the ironclad discipline and innovative tactics with which Shan had molded his army, made them the most potent military force in Africa.

  Before Shah, battle had been mostly a ceremonial event, with both sides posturing. Some blood was drawn, true, but few deaths occurred. Shaka had changed all that. Now battles were fought to the point of annihilation. Dingane knew of entire tribes that now ceased to exist, that had been wiped out to the last man, woman, and child. While he had little sympathy for those the Zulu had vanquished, he was dismayed to see Shaka turning that same deadly focus against his own people.

  Dingane was discontent, as were many. For years, they · had tried to get Shaka back on the path of light. Away from the dark path of the mfecane. But to no avail. The last straw though, was the white men. They’d arrived four years ago and at first had been treated with suspicion by Shaka and all around him. But then the king had been wounded in battle and the Europeans nursed him back to health — and things had never been the same. Shaka had signed over vast amounts of Zulu territory to the whites, something Dingane saw as ultimately only bringing great trouble to the land. Yes, the whites were few in number now, but like the dung beetle, he had a feeling they would multiply. And they had different, powerful weapons that could kill at great ranges, beyond even the range of an assegais thrown by the strongest warrior.

  Also, the way of the whites was different. Dingane and others saw them as a corrupting force with their religion, which they did not hesitate to press on those who were willing to listen to them. He did not see the path the whites called “Christian” and the path of the Zulu warrior heading in the same direction. And if the Zulu warrior lost his edge in battle, there were many all around their territory who could not wait to wreak revenge on the Zulu.

  Shaka was — had been — a great leader, of that Dingane was one of the first to admit. But the last several years, particularly since the death of Shah’s mother, had seen the great man deteriorate. Shaka had had seven thousand people put to death when he’d heard his mother was gravely ill, in the hopes such a sacrifice would bring her back to health. And then. After her death. had ordered a nationwide fast that had lasted three months and almost destroyed the tribe with starvation. It had only been when Dingane and the other war chiefs had begged Shaka for several days straight, that the king had lifted the fast. But then he kept the army on the move, attacking, always attacking, even when there was no need. Even when the next opponent threw open their kraals and begged for mercy, still Shaka attacked and killed as if blood were a salve for his grief.

  Dingane heard movement in the bush and sprang to his feet, the iKlwa at the ready. His nostrils flared as he sniffed the air and his eyes darted about, trying to see in the dark. A slight figure ran by, less than two feet away and Dingane stuck out his leg, tripping the intruder. He had a knee on the person’s chest and the tip of the iKlwa against the throat in a second.

  In the moonlight, a young woman’s scared face looked up at him, eyes wide. “Please, great warrior, spare me.”

  She Was holding something tight to her chest, a bundle wrapped in a blanket. Dingane poked at it with the tip of the iKlwa and was rewarded with a baby’s yelp of pain.

  “I know you,” Dingane said as he saw her features more clearly in the moonlight. “You belong to Shaka’s seraglio.” He knew he should return her to the kraal, but he truly could not blame her for trying to get away. Just two days earlier, Shah had had twenty-five members of his seraglio (cluster of wives) executed because he’d found a locust in his sleeping mat.

  “Please,” she repeated once more, getting to her knees, the baby held tight against her chest.

  “Whose child is that?” Dingane demanded.

  She lowered her head. “It is Shaka’s daughter.”

  “You lie.” Dingane put the sharp tip of the iKlwa against her throat. “Shaka does not have intercourse, only the ukuHlobonga.” The latter, external intercourse, was the only sexual contact allowed among unwed couples, and Shaka had always been adamant that he would not father a child, given his own horrible childhood. Dingane also knew that Shaka feared bringing a son into the world, because that would automatically be a threat to his own rule. As long as there was only Shaka, with no clear heir, he felt his position to be safe.

  The woman met his gaze, not flinching at the added · pressure of the blade at her throat. “I do not lie.” She held out the baby. “This is Shakan, daughter of Shaka. And I am Takir, princess of Butelezi and possessor of the Sight.”

  Dingane pulled the blade back. The Sight was a rare thing, and those that possessed it very dangerous. Some said Shah himself had it, and Dingane thought it might be true. Certainly, the king had made many wise decisions, particularly in combat, when the way to be taken had been anything but clear.

  “This is not about Shaka,” Takir continued, “or about me. This child, my daughter, Shakan, will one day, many years from now, do something very important. Something more important than Shaka or even the Zulu people.”

  Dingane felt the power of her words. He pulled back the iKlwa as he remembered what he had been contemplating alone here in the dark before Takir and the child stumbled by. “Apparently the Sight does not help to see in the dark,” he muttered.

  To his surprise, Takir laughed. “No, it does not. It is not very useful at times.”

  “Tell me something,” Dingane began, but then he halted.

  “You want me to tell you of Shah and what the future holds,” Takir said as she got her feet, holding the bundle tight.

  “Your Sight told you this?”

  Once more Takir quietly laughed. “No. I just speculated what Shaka’s half-brother would be doing sitting alone in the dark with a weapon in his hands. Even one without the Sight knows there is much trouble about.”

  “Does your Sight see Shaka’s future?”

  Takir looked down at the iKlwa. “Shaka’s future is in your hands.”

  “What do you — ” Dingane halted as he realized he was gripping the iKlwa so tightly his fingers were screaming with pain.

  “You are doing the right thing for the people,” Takir said. She turned and then was gone into the darkness.

  Dingane waited a few moments, and then turned toward the kraal. He hefted the iKlwa and headed to meet Shaka for the last time. He paused as he heard the rumble of thunder to the south and west, then continued to his half-brother’s tent.

  * * *

  Isandlwana. The rocky outcrop near the border of Zulu territory was so named because its outline resembled a wrist and clenched fist. It was a place of little interest to the Zulu except that it lay along the main route from the center of their nation to neighboring Transvaal.

  It was, however, of interest to others.

  Three miles below the rocky outcrop was one of the world’s largest concentrations of pure diamonds. They were suspended in rock in a curious latticework formation, present nowhere else on the planet except on a large scale at the very center.

  While Dingane was going to visit his brother for the last time, a storm was raging over the Isandlwana area. Dark clouds covered the moon and stars. And bolts of lightning streaked across the sky. At the highest point of Isandlwana, a small dark circle appeared. The circle grew wider until it elongated to eight feet high by three in width.

  A figure shielded in a pure white suit of some kind of armor appeared, stepping out of the gate. Two more followed it, taking up flanking positions with strange spears at the ready.

  The center Valkyrie, as they had been named so long ago by the first Vikings to see the creatures, was not armed with a spear, but with a gold, glowing tube five feet long and six inches in diameter. It placed one end of the tube against the stony ground. On the other end was a small display, and the creature watched the display as it sent a pulse of subatomic particles called muons into the planet. The muons reached the diamond field and confirmed its presence and arrangement
— as expected.

  Satisfied, the creature made an adjustment on the buttons along the top side of the tube. Then it fired another pulse, a stronger one into the rock, penetrating the planet to the lattice field. The tube went dead, all its energy having been sent out in that pulse.

  The thousands of diamonds that made up the lattice field began to glow ever so slightly.

  The Valkyries turned and disappeared back into the gate, which snapped out of existence.

  In the lattice field not only were the diamonds now · charged but ever so slightly the charge was extending from one to another. The process was so slow, it would take decades, but the Shadow was patient. It could wait decades to reap the crop it had just sown here.

  EARTH TIMELINE — III

  Antarctica, July 2078

  Colonel Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain IV knelt next to the fledgling plant, marveling at it, not daring to touch it with his armor-gloved hand. He had not seen green outside of the hydro farms for over twenty years. He was, of course, in full battle kit. One could not be on the surface Without it. Standing orders that had been drilled into Chamberlain since he was seven and taken from his parents to live in the agoge, the barracks where he had lived ever since.

  The suit he Wore was painted flat black, the external material a ceramic polymer that provided protection against both weapons and weather. Beneath the armor, the suit was cutting edge technology, the result of decades of work. Battery-powered strips of ionic polymer metal composites added power, magnifying the wearer’s own strength when activated by movement.

  The inner layer was airtight, fitting against the skin. The suit was designed to be used in all terrain, even under water. A backpack contained both the computer that operated the various systems and a sophisticated rebreather that could sustain oxygen for over twelve hours when operating on total seal. If operating in a safe environment, a valve in the back of the helmet could be opened to allow outside air in.