by Zack Mason
The static hisses of shifters crackled beyond the walls of his stall on all sides. He couldn't see them yet, but multiple shifters could only mean Rialto and his crew. He was getting sick of Rialto's tracking devices…and fast.
When Hardy had gripped Mark's shoulder, it had been out of reflex. As they arrived, he let go, dropping to the floor in readiness. He hadn't intended to bring them both back to 1100 AD, but that had been the last setting on his watch.
To Hardy's dismay, Mark faded in and out with a delay of only one second. His finger had already been in motion to press his own button. If Hardy hadn't grabbed him, they would have shifted to separate times, but Hardy must have hit his first, dragging Mark back with him to 1100 before Mark's shifter activated.
So, where had Mark gone? Probably 1814. That would have been the last setting on Mark's watch. Hardy went to change his own settings to 1814, but stayed his hand in mid-motion.
The display glowed red. It was inoperable.
The only thing separating him from Rialto's men were thin wooden planks, and he now had no escape. These horse stalls weren't very large, and while those walls would conceal Hardy’s position within the stable for the moment, they would hear him if he weren't careful.
From the orientation of the static he'd heard, he guessed Rialto and crew were on different aisles from him, but they would know roughly were he'd been, so as stealthily as possible, he scurried down his own row to a stall about ten doors away, buried himself under some hay, and waited.
***
They'd come armed to the teeth. Each had an Uzi, several smaller firearms, and a few hand grenades. Graves had even brought along some nasty looking knives. Rialto had outfitted Torino with a duffel bag filled with other goodies, including several sniper rifles and an RPG launcher.
In addition to their handheld detectors, Stanley Irvine, their in-house physicist, had designed a satellite-based detection system for Rialto. From space, this system could detect a shift signature on the ground accurate to within one hundred feet, provided the shift occurred outdoors and was not shielded by metal.
Once the system was complete, Rialto had transported it back to 1987. Irvine had determined that was the first year satellite technology would be sufficiently advanced to support their package. Paying NASA to send a satellite up for him wasn't a problem.
What was a problem were the results once it was operational. First, he was limited to covering the eastern United States. He'd have to put up more satellites if he wanted to cover more territory. The worst part, however, were the results themselves.
Tens of thousands of 'shifts' were detected by his satellite between 1987 and 2013. There was simply no way to know if a shift signature detected by the satellite was caused by him, his men, Carpen, Carpen's crew, or even somebody he himself might 'hire' in the future. Though the satellite had recorded shifts which occurred in past years, those shifts might still be something he himself would do in his future. The only way to know who had caused a shift signature was to travel to the actual location and time of that shift. However, the very act of shifting in and out of a time in order to investigate would cause a shift signature detected by the same satellite, which might have been what it was detecting in the first place.
He chalked the satellite idea up as a temporary failure. It might prove useful in the future, under the right circumstances, but for now it was useless.
In the end, he tracked Carpen down in London the old fashioned way. He'd tapped one of his contacts at the IRS (whom he paid handsomely) to constantly monitor the electronic activity on Carpen's bank accounts. The moment Carpen used his debit card to purchase a couple of beers at that pub, Rialto had him.
It was the simple things that always tripped a criminal up, he laughed to himself.
The horse stalls annoyed Rialto the moment he saw them. It was the first inconvenience in this leg of the chase. They'd positioned themselves to have Carpen and Phillips surrounded when they shifted in, but the walls were blocking their line of sight. Not to mention the hay dust, the stench of manure, and other unpleasantries which accompanied a site like this.
Carefully, Rialto made his way down a row of stalls until he found a break. He met Torino two rows over, and Graves joined them shortly after. There was no sign of Phillips or Carpen anywhere.
"They're gone, Rialto."
"How do you know?"
"There was another shift signature almost immediately after we got here. Looks like they shifted forward to 1814."
Rialto sighed. "All right. Let's go."
"Uh...boss."
"What?"
"My shifter's not working. It's all red."
Rialto and Graves hastily checked theirs and saw they were in the same boat.
"What's that mean?" Graves asked suspiciously.
"Not sure. We haven't shifted six times yet, but it's acting like we have."
"You think they did this?"
"Like a trap?"
"Yeah, maybe they know something we don't."
"Or maybe they remotely disabled our shifters somehow."
Rialto reclaimed control of the conversation. His men were obviously disconcerted — and with good reason.
"Look, I don't know why the watches shut down, but they've never shut down for more than 24 hours before. Let's go get some beer and relax. We'll get another chance at ’em."
"We're in the Middle Ages. You think they've invented beer yet? "
"Man, there's always been beer."
September 17th 1814, London, England
Mark was back in the alley again, but now it was dark and damp. There were no electric lights in 1814, and it was raining again. Heavy droplets quickly soaked his hair, running rivulets down his face.
He was alone.
At first, he thought Hardy hadn't shifted with him at all, but then he understood. Hardy was still in 1100 AD.
Mark needed to shift back immediately. Hardy was surrounded by three armed men intent on killing him. His concern turned to alarm when he saw the face of his shifter burned red. It was inoperable.
What's the matter with it? He hadn't used it six times yet. Was it running out of juice? Was the trip back to the Middles Ages too much? A panicked thought trampled the normal calm he maintained. What if it were dead for good?
Regardless, he needed to get out of the alley. If Rialto followed him, he'd know where Mark's last position had been.
The business adjoining the alley in 1814 was still a pub, just like it would be in 2013. The establishment was closed at the moment, the hour being a little past three in the morning.
Mark left the alley.
The street in front of the pub was deserted. Ducking under an overhang, Mark hugged the building as tight as he could to ward off the bone-chilling rain. If anyone came after him here, he would be able to see them before they saw him. Unless they set up a sniper post in one of the windows across the street.
Best not to think about possibilities like that. But that was all he could do at the moment...think. He didn't want to stray too far from Hardy's position in case his shifter reset. He had nowhere else to go.
He shivered in the wet cold as he dwelt on Hardy and whether or not he'd survived Rialto's attack. He wondered about Ty, where he might be. About Laura and their brief, but fiery, relationship...and about Savannah and how much they could have used her on this crazy venture, though this mission would have been far too dangerous for her.
In spite of the small awnings covering his head, the rain's icy fingers still managed to find their way under his heavy woolen clothing. The feeling was thoroughly miserable.
After what seemed an eternity, joy finally burst through the gates of his doubt when he saw his watch had actually reset. It was back to normal.
Breathing a sigh of relief, he checked the hour. How much time had passed since he arrived? Four or five minutes? It seemed so much longer than that. He'd never had the shifter reset itself so quickly...but then again, he'd never had it malfunction after only on
e shift either.
It didn't matter. It was time to help Hardy.
***
Mark hastened down the row of hay-filled stalls hunched over to avoid being seen. His shifter had gone red again, but he'd just have to worry about that later.
He stopped in front of a stall about ten doors down from where he started.
"Dude, if you're trying to hide, at least do a good job of it," Mark whispered when he saw the toe of Hardy's boot sticking out from the hay.
Red-faced, Hardy stood, brushing straw off his shirt and pants.
"Man, you stink too!"
"Comes free with the hiding place," Hardy replied grimly. "Did you see any of Rialto's crew."
"Nope. You?"
"No, but I heard them. They were in the aisle behind me, and then they moved off. I thought you were them at first."
"Is your shifter functional?"
"No. Yours?"
"Mine's dead too. I shifted forward to 1814, and it died on me for about 5 minutes then reset. It was really weird."
"Well, maybe mine will come back online after five minutes too then. I heard Rialto and his boys complaining about theirs not working either."
"Well, that's a relief. There must be something unusual about this time which shut all our shifters down. You think they're still here?"
"Unless theirs reset faster than mine, they're out there somewhere." He pointed at the main exit.
"Then let's avoid making ourselves a target and find another way out of here."
There was a smaller door on the back side of the building, so they used it. Outside, on the opposite side of the road, was a large medieval festival attended by at least several hundred people. Yet, he realized that what he and Hardy considered medieval, these people would consider modern.
Twelfth century London was quite a sight to take in. Like it or not, Hardy had gotten his wish.
It was like being at the Renaissance Fair. Everywhere he looked were rows of single story wooden houses and buildings. Every roof was made of thatch. Even here in London, stone was not yet a common building material.
One building in the skyline stood out, the only building he could see, in fact, that was made of stone besides a couple of larger churches. It was a large, multi-storied squarish, castle-like fortification, its stones white in color. Mark recognized it as the White Tower, which in modern times was the central portion of the Tower of London.
The streets were not teeming with people, but there was plenty of activity. Men, women, and children were dressed in rough, woolen clothing for the most part. For all the care that had been put into their making, their attire might as well have been made of sackcloth.
Children were helplessly dirty. The stench of the unwashed was everywhere as people passed by on the street. Mark and Hardy remained in the recessed side street, still hidden from the sight of most, which was good because their attire did not match the era.
A couple of more nicely dressed gentlemen were engrossed in a conversation on a corner up the hill about two hundred feet away. One of them was vested very colorfully in what appeared to be silk.
Across the street at the festival was an open forum and small stage. About a hundred men, and a few women, were gathered in front of it. The stage was occupied by several men dressed just as humbly as the crowd. The "bard" on the stage was telling some story which had the crowd fascinated. They alternately laughed, then yelled along with the thread of the tale.
Wooden steins, undoubtedly filled with grog, filled the fists of all these merry men, golden liquid sloshing and spilling as they made jokes and carried on. They were celebrating something.
Mark and Hardy were beginning to receive more and more prolonged glances from the people passing by. A young child spied them and panicked, running off down the street yelling for somebody.
"We need to get some local clothes, fast."
Hardy nodded in agreement. They backed further into their side street away from the people.
"How do you want to do it?"
"We may have to grab a few passersby and knock ’em out."
Their reflexes weren't fast enough to react to the all-too-familiar shriek of an RPG plowing through the air before the house next to them exploded in a cloud of fire and splintered timbers.
The joyful London peasants were suddenly scrambling for cover, abandoning the streets. Mark and Hardy did the same, pistols drawn, withdrawing, seeking cover. Rialto had seen them before they'd seen him.
They raced for the other end of their street, only to see "Grey Patch" block their exit wielding an Uzi.
"This way!" Hardy yelled, throwing himself through the thin wooden slats which made up the wall of a house to their left. They burst through wall after wall, randomly changing directions, gaining access to new buildings and unpredictable pathways, shocking not just a few unsuspecting medieval serfs. Mark's shoulder burned from the impacts with these walls. Though they were thin, they still resisted brute force. Thankfully, adrenaline numbed most of the pain.
The benefit of this tactic was that Rialto and crew would not be able to guess accurately where they were, in spite of the racket they were making. They were creating an urban warfare maze.
Still, they were the rats in the maze and they needed to get out.
Random machine gun fire tore through the air and wooden homes at random. Rialto didn't know where his prey was exactly, but that didn't stop them from firing indiscriminately, caring not at all who might get hurt in the crossfire. One stream of bullets hit too close to home, striking planks a few feet from Hardy's head.
"Go!" Mark ordered, pointing in the direction of the main street.
Hardy followed him as they plowed new entranceways to their objective. If they could cross unseen, they might conceivably take up sniper positions, though they had no rifles. Thankfully, no one was in sight when they made their move.
The main thoroughfare was completely abandoned. Mark and Hardy rushed across it and through the front door of a house on the opposite side, hoping Rialto would not expect them to have crossed. To their dismay, the home was not empty. A lone woman began to scream bloody murder, terrified by their unexpected appearance in her living room. Well…it was actually her only room.
Hardy put his finger to his lips and made a threatening gesture with his pistol to shut her up, but she only screamed louder.
"Knock her out," Mark said.
"Mark..." Hardy hesitated.
"Knock her out!"
Hardy obliged. They could only hope she hadn't given them away.
The cracks between the slats in the walls were large enough to sight and fire their pistols if a target presented itself. A moment later, Mark was rewarded with the sight of Rialto himself searching for them. The screams of the woman had drawn him out.
Mark depressed his trigger. A pistol was never as accurate as a rifle, and thus never a good choice for sniping, but here the distance was close enough he wouldn't miss. Just as he fired, though, the woman jumped on his back and began flailing at his head, causing his shot to go wild.
Either she had recovered very quickly, or Hardy hadn't hit her very hard. Either way, she was now in crazy mode, attacking him without regard for her own safety.
"Hardy!"
"Sorry, Mark." He conked her good this time and she fell limp.
Mark's shot hadn't completely missed. A trail of blood showed where Rialto had dragged himself into a darkened recess.
"Cover's blown, Mark. We've gotta get out of here."
Their enemy was armed with Uzis, RPGs, and who knew what else, while Mark and Hardy only had a couple of handguns. The wood which made up the walls of these buildings would shred like paper under a barrage of heavy fire.
"Bring her along," Mark commanded.
"She'll slow us down."
"They're going to strafe this house. She'll die for sure if we leave her."
Hardy hoisted her onto his shoulder and they ran out into the street again.
"Lay her down over t
here. She'll be all right there."
Hardy did so hastily, and Mark signaled they would head back to the stables again. There were lots of stalls and they'd have more hiding places.
A shout went up from behind. They'd been spotted. Machine gun fire splintered the stable's door frame as they dove through it.
Once inside, Mark pointed to the rafters above. It was a risky move, but probably their only real option. People never thought to look up. If they did, however, Mark and Hardy would be sitting ducks.
They scrambled up as high as they could and laid themselves in position, each with his own rafter below him. Thankfully, the rafters were fairly massive and concealed a good portion of their bodies.
Rialto, Usher and Grey Patch entered warily, Uzis at the ready. Rialto limped in, a cloth tied around his thigh. Blood heavily stained his pant leg.
All three of the men held what looked like hand grenades. Pulling the pins, they launched all three of the mini-bombs toward the far end of the building. Timber, hay, and horse blood filled the air as they detonated. One of the grenades must have fallen near a support post, because the far side of the building suddenly collapsed, closing off the only other door of escape. As the roof at the opposite end dropped closer to the ground, Mark and Hardy were almost shaken from their posts, but they held on with grips of death. To fall off would mean annihilation.
Usher and Grey Patch unleashed a hail of devastating machine gun fire through all parts of the stable, while Rialto lobbed a few more grenades into the far end. The Uzis strafed through every board in the place. They did not aim high, but low. If Mark and Hardy had tried to hide themselves under the hay anywhere in the stable, they would have been decimated by the continuing fusillade.
After the men had exhausted several clips, their weapons fell silent. They advanced into the havoc they'd wrought, looking for bodies.
As fortune would have it, their advance gave Mark and Hardy the perfect opportunity to turn the tables. For just a moment, one perfect moment, Usher stood directly below Mark, and Grey Patch was lined up under Hardy.
