by Bob Mayer
“I’m sorry,” Edith mumbled, turning away, unable to meet his stare.
“The art is important,” Dane said, softening his voice. “I understand. That’s why we have you. And you are important.”
“Which gets back to what can we do about it?” Edith asked.
“We’re try to figure out what she can do about it,” Dane said.
“’She’?”
“Our newest team member,” Dane said. “She’s being trained right now and we have to wait until our next opportunity.”
“What opportunity?”
“The next day the Shadow attacks us.”
“Maybe it won’t attack again?” Edith hoped.
“There’s always going to be another attack,” Dane said. “Until we can take the war to Shadow, it’s never going to stop. I know that from my own experience and my timeline being wiped out.” He turned toward the elevator to take him to the HUB and to the Possibility Palace. “I’m heading back. We’re working on it, Edith.”
The Possibility Palace
Where? Can’t tell you. When? Can’t tell you.
“Still Not Enough Data,” Doc said, tapping the chalkboard.
“I’d be glad if we didn’t get any more data,” Ivar said. “How are you feeling?”
They were in one of the many rooms off the top level of the Possibility Palace; one Dane had set aside for them to work on their Turing Time Computer concept. Given no actual computers were allowed here, they were back to the drawing board, or more accurately the blackboard. As Eagle had pointed out when he visited them the previous day, Turing had also started on the blackboard.
“The meds make me sick,” Doc said. His parents had emigrated to the United State from India and he had dark skin, straight black hair meticulously combed and sprayed into place and thick, black-framed glasses. “Dane brought me some that he got out of the Space Between from Amelia Earhart. She said it was from the Ratnik camp. Stuff they came up with to deal with their radiation poisoning from Chernobyl. I don’t even know what a couple of the pills are, but so far, things seem under control. The dose wasn’t fatal.”
“Right,” Ivar said, not exactly the world’s smoothest with person-to-person etiquette. “That’s good.”
They were looking at the three Time Patrol missions conducted so far, broken out by date, location and the operative who’d conducted it.
“I don’t think who the operative was is important.” Doc said.
“We don’t know what’s important,” Ivar said. “Turing focused on letters because he was cracking an encryption machine. Language. The alphabet. We’ve got a lot more variables here.”
“Not really,” Doc disagreed. “He had to deal with twenty-six letters. Take away one, because the Germans didn’t want to chance a letter actually being enciphered to itself, and that’s a factorial of twenty-five. Add in the other layers of encoding for the Enigma machine and the possibilities were in the quadrillions.”
“How many timelines are there?” Ivar asked, then answered it himself. “An infinite number. We don’t even know if the Shadow is a single timeline or a federation of them. We do know they use one timeline of Spartans as mercenaries. Who knows how many others they use or are allied with?”
Doc was still focused on the diagram. “Eighteen missions. Let’s start with the basics, because it’s from the basics that we find the obvious that isn’t so obvious.”
Ivar smiled. “Sounds like an old professor I had in grad school.” He was a tall, thin young man. Who used to appear perpetually nervous, but a couple of Time Patrol missions under the belt will either kill someone or make them gain confidence. For Ivar, it had been the latter. It was manifesting itself in more than just mannerisms as he was physically blossoming from lab geek into good looking young man; although he still needed to pack on some more weight.
“Which grad school?” Doc asked, because Ivar had bounced between a few. Ivar had been on the team long enough to know that Doc would work in however many PhDs he had sooner or later.
When Ivar didn’t reply, Doc reluctantly moved on, the window of opportunity to boast gone. “The Rule of Seven. Six Ripples to a Cascade. Six Cascades to time Tsunami. The end of our timeline. As far as we know, we’re still at zero Cascades.”
Ivar pointed at the bottom, left mission: 478 BC Greece. “One Ripple. I hear Edith is flipping out.”
“She’s meticulous,” Doc said, and there was admiration in his voice.
“What’s interesting,” Ivar said, “is that Scout didn’t fail because of any action on her part. The Oracle betrayed her before she even arrived. Human error on the part of the Time Patrol.”
“Eagle said the Rule of Seven for plane crashes always has human error as one of the six cascades leading to event seven, the crash,” Doc said.
“But—” Ivar was thinking.
Doc had a difficult time not filling the silence with a theory, an answer, a suggestion, something, because that was Doc. A man with answers. Nada had taught him that most trying of things: to remain silent and let others contribute. It had enough positive results that Doc had grudgingly been forced to admit it was a viable tool.
“It shouldn’t have evolved that way,” Ivar said. “Scout’s mission. If the Shadow is causing the bubble, and our missions go in at the start of that bubble, how could Pythagoras have already been dead?”
They both were startled when Dane spoke up from behind them. “Have you considered the possibility that the sculptor Pythagoras wasn’t the Shadow’s real target for Scout’s mission?” There was an open door behind him, one that led to another room, not the deep Pit of the Palace.
“What was it then?” Ivar asked.
“A good question,” Dane said. “Sin Fen is discussing that with Scout right now.” He looked at the board. “But keep up the good work. And we’ll undoubtedly be getting more data.”
“What kind of data?” Doc asked.
Dane looked at him in surprise. “More missions, of course.”
*****
Eagle was alone in the Time Patrol team room. He traced the two names carved into the top of the wood table, NADA and MAC, with his fingers. The beginning of the legacy of the Time Patrol.
He wondered briefly when his name would be added. It had been unspoken in the Nightstalkers and was now in the Time Patrol: once you were in, you had no future. Eagle smiled at the irony of that considering their missions consisted of going into the past.
Nobody on the Time Patrol was marking days on a calendar until retirement, nor did there seem any room for ‘advancement’. Dane was the Administrator and that seemed to be the extent of the bureaucracy. He imagined there were people who coordinated all those analysts sitting at their desks in front of their filing cabinets in the Pit that covered all of recorded history, but the team wasn’t exposed to that part.
Eagle was a bald, black man. He moved slowly and deliberately, thinking every movement through. He’d been chosen years ago for the Nightstalkers, the predecessors to the Time Patrol, for his vast memory, sporting a hippocampus that would put the best London cab driver to shame. He had a vast reservoir of knowledge, practically a living computer. The left side of his head was scarred, the result of an IED years ago in Iraq, in a different kind of war.
Eagle had no idea what was north, south, east or west here. Just a square, off-white room with a door in the center of each wall. One door led to the Pit. One led to the corridor off of which the team went to get geared up. One went to the Gates through which the team deployed into the past. And one led to quarters for the team when they were here in the Possibility Palace, which for most of them was as little as possible. They all preferred going back to the present.
A blackboard stood in one corner, where Dane would list the date and location for the six missions after they were alerted. Pulling a heavy wooden chair with him, Eagle went to the door that led to the Gates. He stood on the chair, took a thick, black permanent marker out of his pocket, uncapped it, and went to work.
An Island in the Caribbean
An Expensive One The Average Tourist Can’t Afford
“This Isn’t The Past,” Neeley said as she checked the syringe, lightly pressing the plunger until a drop of clear liquid appeared. She shook it off, then put it back in the specially designed holder inside her handbag. “This is the present. So all we’re changing is the now and the future. We’re not violating your precious First Rule of Fight Club.”
“Time Patrol,” Roland said, not grasping her reference. “First Rule of Time Patrol. And it’s not the first rule. That’s not to let anyone know about the Time Patrol.” He frowned. “You know, the first rule should actually be to not change history.”
Neeley wasn’t a woman who carried handbags unless they contained killing devices, guns, syringes, knives and the sort. She had no idea it was a Louis Vuitton, modified by Support. “I believe that not changing history was implicit in the Choice you were given by Dane when he asked you to join the Time Patrol.”
Roland’s forehead furrowed, and Neeley explained implicit. “It was a given.”
“Yeah,” Roland said, all the time watching the target, his eyes hidden behind his Oakley’s. “Except Nada. He went back.”
“He had to go back and change things,” Neeley said. They sat in a beach cabana, with just a tiny slit open via which Roland could maintain surveillance. Roland, all six and a half feet of him, wore shorts and a T-shirt strained to the breaking point over his muscles, along with a pair of sandals. Not his usual attire for a killing, a Sanction, a whack, wet work, whatever one wanted to call it.
Dead was dead to the target.
His gun was in Neeley’s purse, which bothered him, but he was trying not to let on.
Neeley also wore clothes she’d never put on other than for a mission. A one-piece bathing suit covered by a flimsy robe. Not that she didn’t look as great, her tall, lean body had caught many an appreciative glance when she and Roland walked to the cabana. She had short, dark hair, with a tinge of gray at the temples. There were lines around her eyes and at the edge of her mouth, the one aspect that didn’t fit the cover for this op, since the typical woman with that bag, on this island, on this beach, would have a plastic surgeon on permanent retainer and there would be Botox in that syringe, not Neeley’s special mixture.
“You sure your boss said this was okay?” Roland asked.
“Yeah,” Neeley said. “Hannah authorized the Sanction.”
“Good,” Roland said. His forehead furrowed once more and he conjured up some old advice from Mac. “I like your shoes.”
Neeley smiled. “Thank you.” She wore expensive sandals and both of them would have been shocked to find out they cost mid-four-figures. In the big picture, though, the expense the Cellar, the organization Hannah headed and Neeley worked for, would put into a Sanction was a pittance compared to a single cruise missile.
And much more effective and specific.
“I’m gonna miss Mac,” Roland said.
“He was always picking on you,” Neeley said, leaning back on her chaise, enjoying the moment. It wasn’t often, okay never, that she got to be in a place like this.
“Someone’s coming,” Roland said, tensing for action.
Neeley turned her head. “He’s bringing our drinks. Don’t kill him.”
“All right,” Roland said, his voice serious.
The cabana boy was more interested in checking out Roland rather than Neeley, a fact to which Roland was oblivious.
Neeley searched the purse, then withdrew a wad of currency. With no idea what the exchange rate was, but knowing they weren’t going to be here much longer, she offered it all to the boy. His eyes went wide, it must have been a lot. He thanked her, took one last lustful look at Roland’s chiseled body, and left.
“Have a sip,” Neeley said, putting a straw to her lips.
“It’s a mission,” Roland said.
“Sometimes,” Neeley said, “you have too many rules, Roland.”
He pulled down the top of his sunglasses and looked her. “Really?”
“Really.” She smiled. “But I bet I got you to break a few last night.”
Roland blushed. The barbed wire tattoo across his forehead, which did a poor job of masking an old scar, stood out. “I didn’t have any rules. I just didn’t know you could do—” He shifted gears. “Target moving.”
Neeley also changed in an instant.
They’d planned the mission after observing the target the previous day. They didn’t need to discuss what to do. They stood. Neeley put the bag over one shoulder—she’d asked who brought a purse to the beach, and was told by a snooty woman in Support that it was a bag, not a purse—and made sure she had ready access.
They left the cabana and strode across the beach, angling until they were parallel and behind the target. He was an old man, his dark brown skin wrinkled, with wisps of white hair blowing about in the light off-shore breeze.
They came up to him from behind as he took the steps from the beach to the walkway in front of the five-star hotel. Neeley stepped next to him, with Roland behind her.
“General Raju?”
The old man was startled, but responded as most people did when someone said their name. “Yes?”
Neeley slid the needle into the exposed skin on his neck, pretending to shift the bag over her head to her other shoulder, a move she’d practiced many times the previous night. Before and after teaching Roland how to break rules. “You’re dying.”
The old man blinked. “What?”
Neeley kept going.
As Roland went by he said: “For Zoreed Ghatar and her children.”
Raju opened his mouth to say something, but his muscles were beginning to lock up. His face froze a few seconds before the serum reached his heart.
By then Neeley and Roland were ten meters away, chatting, his arm around her shoulder.
Neeley had mixed a special. It stopped the heart, but a person could live for four to six minutes without a heartbeat, until the lack of oxygen to the brain shut it down.
General Raju tumbled backward, down the two stairs, landing in the soft sand, clutching his chest. He had five minutes and six seconds in which to reflect on those he’d killed.
The Possibility Palace
Where? Can’t tell you. When? Can’t tell you.
“Scout and I need some answers,” Moms said to Sin Fen, the ‘oracle’ of the Time Patrol who’d been absent for the last couple of missions. Scout stood next to Moms, letting the team leader lead.
Sin Fen was one of the few women who could look Moms in the eye; both of them were six feet tall. Beyond that, though, the two had no similarities. Moms was rangy and plain-looking. She was originally from the flatlands of Kansas and did nothing to enhance her appearance. She cut her own short, salt and pepper hair, while looking in a mirror. She didn’t have time for make-up or accouterments of any kind. She wore a plain gray jumpsuit like everyone else in the Possibility Palace.
Sin Fen on the other hand, had been blessed with exotic genes, a mixture of Oriental and French. Her carefully cut jet-black hair framed high cheekbones, while her almond-shaped eyes drew attention from both men and women. She wore tailored black slacks and turtleneck.
Scout was younger, shorter and somewhere in between the two. Brightly-dyed red hair was her current mode, but it had been blue when she first met the Nightstalkers during The Fun in North Carolina.
For Scout, that seemed a lifetime ago.
The three women stood on the edge of the massive pit at the center of the Possibility Palace. They were at the very top of a spiral ramp that went all the way down to the first Analyst Desk at the beginning of recorded history. The pit went deeper than that, into pre-history in a gray cloud that was impossible to fathom very deeply. How far down it went below that was anyone’s guess.
But Moms had traveled into pre-history on her last mission, an event that had strained her capabilities to the extreme.
The fut
ure was above them, a swirling mess of gray that they were trying to make happen by keeping this Earth timeline intact. There was a flickering spot of red in the gray.
The Pit In The Possibility Palace
“If you want some answers,” Sin Fen said, “I need the questions.”
Moms’ left shoulder was lightly wrapped in bandages, her wound from the previous mission almost completely healed. Scout had a thin red scar across her forehead, courtesy of ‘Legion’, an assassin. They were both healing much faster than normal, with Sin Fen’s assistance and access to Atlantean technology and techniques.
The team had come back from D-Day with three WIA and one KIA in 1944 Normandy.
Mac.
And one mission failed.
Scout’s.
Moms and Scout exchanged a look, passing the initiative back and forth while Sin Fen waited.
Scout spoke first. “Who is Pandora?”
“She’s like me. Like you.”
“She’s more than me,” Scout said.
“She’s been more than you each time you’ve met,” Sin Fen said. “She’s had a lot more time to become, than you have.”
“Become what?” Scout asked. “What are you exactly?”
“We’ve had many names over the millennia,” Sin Fen said. “Oracle. Seer. Priestess. We’ve been called witches in some places. Sometimes we’re killed as such by those who fear that which they cannot understand. We’re revered as goddesses by others. The original term? The line from which we’re descended? The Defenders of Atlantis.”
Scout shook her head. “My mother wasn’t a Defender, a priestess, an oracle or any of the others; well, except maybe a bit of a witch.”
“You mean the woman who raised you,” Sin Fen corrected.
“Yeah,” Scout said. “I’ve been picking up that she isn’t my birth mother.”
“It doesn’t seem to bother you much,” Sin Fen noted.
