by Bob Mayer
“It’s real enough that Ivar almost died,” Frasier noted.
“I’ve explained as much as I can explain,” Dane said.
Frasier thought that was a carefully worded sentence, but he knew better to push. “In that case, Eagle is a problem because—”
“He’s black,” Dane said. “Doesn’t fit in Russia at that time, or even in the other times, does he?”
“He fits,” Frasier said, “but only if he’s a slave. There were free blacks, but a very low percentage. He’d draw more attention if he goes back as a free man. The problem is Eagle might not handle going back the other way well.”
“He’s a consummate professional,” Dane said. “He’ll do his duty.”
“Then how does Doc’s appearance fit into Russia?”
“They’ll think he’s from far Eastern Russia.”
Frasier shoved the last two files to his right. “We’re set.”
*****
“That outfit doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out,” Mac observed as Roland joined him in their Time Patrol team room, another bland, non-descript square off the top balcony of the Possibility Palace. Roland was beaming, sword in hand, encased in armor that had seen better days, or, more accurately worse days, given the number of dents and scrapes in it. “Sure whoever wore it before you survived?”
Roland took a look at Mac and smiled. “Found God? Decided on a new path in life?”
Mac was dressed in a brown robe, with a wood cross dangling off a rope tied around his waist.
“Why didn’t they shave your head?” Roland asked.
“I’m not that kind of monk,” Mac said, although he had no idea what kind of monk he was. If shaving his head were necessary, shaved it would be. He held a cup of coffee in his hands, fingers cradled around it. The surface of the coffee was jiggling from Mac’s shakes, but Roland didn’t mention it.
Mac knew his teammate saw. “For a moment in London I thought you and Neeley were there to kill me.”
“If we’re sent to kill you,” Roland said, rotating his arms, getting the feel of the armor, “you won’t see it coming. Don’t worry.”
Mac rolled his eyes, knowing Roland said that to make him feel better. He wrinkled his nose. “Where did they get those clothes under that armor? From a re-enactor? Because they stink. Do they pick you for the year based on level of smell required to blend in?”
“You didn’t smell too great on your last mission,” Roland noted.
Which was true; Elizabethan England had been a bit odiferous.
One of the four doors opened and Doc came in, dressed for winter, some time ago. He removed a fur hat, put it on the table, took off a heavy, black woolen coat, and draped it over a chair, before taking a seat. He squirmed, bothered by the rough cloth.
“Lucky you,” Mac said. “Moms got to freeze last time. Look like it’s your turn.”
“I don’t feel lucky,” Doc said. “What’s it like? Going through?”
“Lots of pain and suffering,” Mac said. “Feels like your body is literally being ripped apart cell by cell for an eternity and then you’re suddenly there. Horrible. Worst thing I’ve ever experienced in my life. And let’s not even get into how bad it is coming back.”
Roland stopped playing with his sword and frowned. “That wasn’t what it was like for me. It was like, I went into the Gate, then bam, I was just there. And coming back was cool. Seeing all those possibilities I prevented.”
“Geez, Roland,” Mac said. “I was messing with him.”
“He didn’t know that,” Roland said.
“Really?” Doc asked. “It’s not bad?”
“Nah,” Mac admitted. “Like Roland said, you’re just there. The weird thing is, for the people around you when you arrive, it’s like you’ve always been there.”
“That’s cause that day is a bubble in time,” Roland said. “At least that’s what Dane briefed us.”
“But I don’t understand the physics,” Doc said, always a sticking point for the scientist.
“You didn’t understand a lot of things we did as Nightstalkers,” Roland noted. “But you’re still alive.”
“That’s cause you tend to shot first,” Mac said to Roland. “Or stab,” he added, nodding at the sword. “I don’t think Dane understands the physics either. I don’t think anyone does.”
Doc still wasn’t happy. “I don’t know why Dane wants me to go. I’ve got a lot of—”
Another door opened, cutting off his whine.
“Whoa!” Roland exclaimed.
Scout was dressed in a long white robe underneath a red cloak, wearing leather sandals. Her hair was bright red and cut tight to her skull. But what drew the exclamation from Roland was the Naga staff in her hand.
“Why don’t they give me one of those?” Roland wondered out loud. “I mean, I like the sword and all, but that thing can cut through pretty much anything.”
“I bet you’re not going back to 1969,” Doc said.
“Could be Woodstock,” Mac offered.
“Not with the Naga staff,” Roland said, a surprising observation from the big man.
Through the same door Roland had entered, came Eagle, his lips tight in anger.
“Whatever and wherever that is,” Doc said, “it’s not good.”
Eagle wore homespun breeches and a shirt, which looked like it, had been stitched together from parts of three other shirts. He had rough leather shoes, the big toe poking through on the right foot. His hat was the only decent piece of clothing, black felt, with a wide brim, but heavily sweat-stained. Eagle took the hat off, tossed it on the table, and sat down.
Then he looked around. A slight grin broke his anger as he saw Roland and his sword. “Rome. Late in the Empire judging by the weapon.”
“Huh?” Roland said.
“It’s not a gladius,” Eagle said. “It’s a spatha. Longer. The Roman Army adapted it in the Second Century.”
“I like it,” Roland said. “Not as nice as the axe last time, but, still. It feels right. Good balance.”
“A rock would feel right to you,” Mac said.
Eagle checked out Mac’s outfit. “A monk? Stranger things have happened, I suppose.”
Mac fingered the cross. “Never liked going to church much. My parents and brother…” but he fell silent.
The last member of the team, Moms, came in and it was Mac’s turn to be surprised. “I can see your—”
“Shut up,” Roland said. When Roland said something in that tone, it was advisable to one’s health to listen, so Mac shut up.
Moms wore a sleeveless white tunic that went to her knees. It had a gold border on the hem and edge of the shoulders. A narrow girdle on the outside went right below her breasts, cinched tight. The fabric was sheer, leaving little to the imagination.
Moms surveyed the room and began to speak, more to distract them from her outfit than having something to say since they didn’t know the missions yet. “All right, listen up. We—” she paused as Dane and Edith Frobish entered.
Dane went to the chalkboard. “Everyone take a seat. You’ll get knowledge downloads for your mission after this mission briefing.” He picked up a piece of chalk and moved to write something, when Eagle suddenly spoke up.
“That was BS.”
Dane turned to him. “Go on.”
“The ring tones. That was our tradition. The Nightstalkers. You programmed those satphones. Put those ring tones in. You want to Zevon us, do it right.”
“Or don’t do it all,” Moms added.
Scout spoke up. “That song, the one you put on mine, that was between Nada and I. Personal. You intruded.”
Dane’s nostrils flared. Edith was next to him, giving him a glare, which for her was more like a school-marm sniff of disapproval. Dane didn’t notice it anyway. But the team did.
Dane looked each member of the team in the eyes, before finally nodding. “You’re right. That was wrong.” He waited a beat. “Can we move on?”
Moms curtly nodded.
“You all know how this works now,” Dane began.
“I don’t,” Doc said.
“That’s why you’re here,” Dane said. “Following the Rule of Seven, where Six cascades can form a Time Tsunami, we’re sending you back to the same date, in different years, to stop the Shadow from altering history in those six years.”
“Get to the headline,” Mac said. “I’ve got a headache.”
“It could have been much worse than a headache for you,” Dane said.
“The date,” Eagle prompted.
“15 March.”
Eagle looked at Moms. “Rome. 44 B.C.. When’s he going?” he pointed at Roland.
“A bit later than that,” Dane said. “One at a time and we’ll start with the most obvious.” He wrote on the board: 15 March 44 B.C.—ROME
“As we all know,” Dane began, “on that date—”
“Don’t assume Roland knows,” Mac said.
“Enough!” Dane said.
“Sucks to get poked, don’t it?” Mac asked. “You poked us with the ring tones.”
“I apologized,” Dane said.
“Not exactly,” Eagle said. “You said it was wrong. You didn’t say you were sorry for doing it.”
Moms walked up to Dane, inside his personal space, which made him even more uncomfortable the way she was dressed, or rather not dressed. “We have to trust you, Dane. You’re sending us on these missions. Giving us this briefing. We’ve got to trust you have our backs. Someone who jerks our chain like you did with the ring tones; that gives us a moment of doubt. You were MACV-SOG in Vietnam. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. So. Can we trust you?”
Dane took a deep breath, let it out. “Yes. I understand. Yes. I apologize.”
Moms went back to the table and sat down. “All right. Let’s move on. 44 B.C.. What am I? Some sort of courtesan?”
“The furthest thing from that,” Dane said.
“A Vestal Virgin,” Eagle said, earning a snort of surprise from Mac.
“Not exactly,” Dane corrected. “An Amata. In training to be one.”
Mac couldn’t hold back. “How do you train to be a virgin?”
“Shut up, Mac,” Scout said, and that startled everyone in the room. Moms looked at her, then over at Eagle. He shrugged and gave a slight shake of his head.
“44 B.C.,” Dane said, tapping the piece of chalk on the board. “The day everyone remembers as the Ides of March. Caesar is assassinated. A critical juncture in history, to say the least. It led to civil war, then Antony and Cleopatra, and eventually Octavian becoming Emperor Augustus.”
“And you have no idea what I’m supposed to do,” Moms said, not a question.
“That’s the way it is,” Dane said. “You’ll get all the possible information about that day and that event in your download.”
Moms held up a hand. “Let’s back up a little. On Black Tuesday, a Time Patrol agent from the era met four of us. Pablo Correa was there, waiting for me to show up. I assume he sent the report forward in time, somehow, here, so that you knew where to send me.”
“They weren’t all Time Patrol agents,” Scout corrected. “The guy who I met worked for the Shadow. As did the second guy. And I think there was a third Shadow agent. I figure they killed the real Agent I was supposed to meet.” She pointed at Roland. “And Ragnarok, the Viking on whose ship Roland came to, also worked for the Shadow. He didn’t meet his Time Agent until later on. The Berserker.”
“Halved One-Eye,” Roland said admiringly. “He was pretty bad ass.”
“You thought Ragnarok was a bad ass when you met him,” Mac pointed out.
“I’m sure they both were,” Moms said, “but that’s exactly the point. It was pretty hit or miss. Out of six of us, two met Time Patrol Agents who helped, two met Shadow Agents who betrayed us, and two of us didn’t meet anyone from the Time Patrol or the Shadow. So what’s the deal?”
Dane sighed and looked off into the nonexistent distance in the room, framing what he was going to say. “I’ve admitted that what we don’t know about all this is a lot more than we know. We’re working a lot with inherited technology from Atlantis. Ancient, but more advanced than the world outside of here has. This is all on a level we don’t quite comprehend. We can break down the physics to a certain point, but then it falls apart.”
“Quantum and general relativity,” Doc said. “Physicists have been searching for a unified—
“Both are missing a piece,” Scout interrupted.
Everyone turned to her.
She tapped her chest. “The spirit of humanity.” She pointed at Moms. “None of the survivors of that plane crash that she kept from being killed by the Shadow have shaped world history. Except as Moms realized: they inspired hope. Think on that. The Shadow was attacking hope, not an event. Why would it do that?”
Silence reigned.
Surprisingly it was Roland who broke the quiet. “Maybe it’s more than hope? Maybe it’s, you know, spirit, or guts, or whatever it is, that makes people different? Makes us better? We’ve all seen it in combat. Where we’re willing to put our lives on the line for each other. That’s bigger than, well, bigger than . . .” and then he ran out of words.
“Roland’s right,” Moms said. “It’s an intangible.” She turned to Dane. “Back to the original question. Will there be Time Patrol agents meeting us?”
“Certainly, for some of you,” Dane said. Before anyone could object, he continued. “We don’t know. There should be an agent there, but as you’ve noted, sometimes the Shadow gets to them first. Sometimes, something happens to the agent that has nothing to do with all this. We try to get a message back to them, giving them what we know about where you’ll end up. But you have to remember the main problem: these missions come to us inside a time bubble. A bubble that the Shadow creates. How? We have no idea. All we know is we’ve inherited the technology to send you back in time into that bubble. But it’s not our bubble.”
“So we’re bursting their bubble?” Roland said.
Mac groaned, but Dane nodded. “In essence. Yes. The Agents we have in the past are from their era. They don’t know how things are supposed to play out. They just know something isn’t right. My advice, which you already know from listening to each other’s debriefings, is to be leery of anyone who approaches you pretending to be an Agent. And some of you will undoubtedly be on your own.”
“Hold on,” Doc said. “When the Shadow invades our timeline with a bubble, it only lasts twenty-four hours, right?”
“We don’t know,” Dane said. “We know each of you will be back for a maximum of twenty-four hours. Based on the debriefing from Black Tuesday, some of you were snatched back faster than the full twenty-four hour cycle.”
“Why?” Moms asked.
Dane shrugged. “In a way, the bubble doesn’t exist in reality. It’s an intrusion into our timeline. A timeline that has already been laid done. It’s a false reality. You succeed, it’s as if the bubble never happened.”
“If we fail?” Moms asked.
“We try to fix the ripple,” Dane said. “You haven’t failed yet, so let’s not start.”
“But dead is dead,” Eagle said. “Those men who died on my mission. They died. Right?”
Dane nodded. “Yes.”
There was a pause, and this time it was Edith who filled the vacuum, speaking to Moms. “It should be thrilling for you to go to Rome at that time,” Edith said, her face immediately turning red for her intrusion and because her blatant attempt at misdirection.
“It will be fascinating at least,” Eagle said, throwing her a bone for giving Dane a dirty look about the ring tones. “I imagine a lot more than my mission.” He indicated his clothes.
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Dane quickly wrote on the board: 15 March 1783 A.D. NEWBURGH, NEW YORK
Everyone on the team waited for Eagle to chime in with the event from his vast wealth of knowledge. Even Dane and Edith waited.
“Gen
eral George Washington,” Eagle finally said. “He had his headquarters there in 1783.”
“Yes,” Dane said. “The Battle of Yorktown was in 1781 and most people think the Revolutionary War was over there and then.”
“Treat of Paris wasn’t until fall, 1783,” Eagle said. “That officially ended the war. After Yorktown there was a truce, but not actual peace.”
“Correct,” Dane said. “But in 1782, since the war pretty much appeared to be over, and peace negotiations were underway, the politicians started doing what politicians tend to do to the military when they don’t need them at the moment.”
“Screw ‘em over,” Roland said.
“Exactly,” Dane said. He nodded at Edith to pick up the story.
“Since they didn’t have the revenue from the states, Congress stopped paying the Army,” Edith said. “There were a considerable number of disgruntled officers. On 10 March, an anonymous letter began making the rounds of Washington’s camp at Newburgh. He was in that location, fifty miles up the Hudson, because the British still occupied New York City.
“Aware there were peace negotiations and that a treaty would soon be signed heightened tensions among the officers. They knew they were running out of time and leverage to get Congress to act. Once the treaty was completed and most of the officers cashiered out, they would have nothing they’d been promised for their service during the Revolution.”
Edith reached into her satchel and pulled out a file. “You’ll get this data in your download, but I think the original helps focus.” She pulled out an old document encased in hard plastic. She handed it to Eagle as if passing a fragile golden egg. “That’s the original letter written by Alexander Hamilton to George Washington asking him to ‘take the direction’ of the Army, particularly the officers. Hamilton was in Philadelphia getting the direction of the Congress.”
Eagle looked at the letter. “He was asking if they were going to munity?”
“In essence,” Edith said. “But there is more to Hamilton’s letter than concern for the officer’s welfare. He was implementing a clever political maneuver, using the threat of this mutiny, which had vast ramifications, to push for the formation of a stronger Federal government. He would use the threat to get Congress to enact the Articles of Confederation, which would eventually lead to the Constitution and the government as we know it.”
