Island in the Sea of Time

by S. M. Stirling

  “That’s torn it,” Alston said, sparing the carved stone altar a single disgusted glance. “Run.”

  They did, at as fast a jog as was possible. When the Olmecs came across the bodies of their fellows and saw the prisoners-vessels of sacredness to them-gone, their shrieks of rage sounded trumpet-loud. They pelted after the Americans, closing the distance fast. Alston reached the retaining wall, leaped down, and calculated the times.

  “Damn,” she said mildly. Aloud: “Swindapa, Pulakis, get Martha and the prisoner back to the boat. We’ll take rear guard.” When the Fiernan hesitated, she put a whipcrack into her voice: “Now!”

  The three of them turned back to watch the pursuers. “All right,” Alston said as the others behind them crashed down through the scrub on the hillside. “Let’s discourage this lot.”

  Some of the Olmecs running toward them were carrying torches. All of them were backlit as the wood-and-thatch buildings burned out of control. She drew the Colt and leaned forward, her chest against the logs of the retaining wall and both elbows on the clay of the roadway. She wasn’t an expert with the pistol, but this was as straightforward as any shooting range-silhouetted men running straight toward you. Beside her Alonski aimed his crossbow and Hendriksson reached over her shoulder for an arrow.

  Crack. She slitted her eyes against the muzzle flash of the magnum. One of the men with torches down. Crack��� crack��� crack��� Let the pistol drop back naturally after each shot. Crack��� crack. Open the cylinder, work the ejector to spill the spent brass, slip in two speedloaders each holding three rounds. Snap it shut and get back into firing position. Spears whistled overhead in the dark, but the Indians were shooting blind. One of them landed uncomfortably close; well, they had the muzzle flashes to aim at. She shifted a few feet along the wall, firing steadily. The crossbowman and the archer shot, shot again, steady as metronomes. Damn fine work, both of them. Closer��� then the enemy were tumbling backward.

  “Go, both of you, go!”

  They went, sliding down the trampled path on their backsides. Alston followed. Behind her she could hear voices, shouting, whatever the Olmecs used as officers rallying their troops. They certainly didn’t lack guts; the past few days had shown that for certain. More war whoops through the darkness behind her. Branches and thorns clawed at her face, at her limbs, at her feet. Torches broke the darkness, cast wavering red gleams of light through leaves and vines. Mistake, she thought, turning to shoot. An atlatl dart thudded into a trunk near her. She crashed downward another dozen feet, shot again, retreated. They were down on the flat below the hillslope, mud catching at her boots; she turned and emptied the revolver, never knowing if she struck anyone. Back toward the edge of the water a little moonlight came in, reflected off the river. The pistol clicked empty.

  Her hands swept the sword out. Starlight glimmered on its clean arc. She filled her lungs, gave a kia, and rushed forward. The Olmecs hadn’t been expecting that; tateki no kurai, the way of fighting multiple opponents. The first took her point right in the face. She jerked it free and slashed another across the chest and upper arms. Damn, but I’m glad Master Hishiba made us practice outdoors and in the dark.

  “Diiiiissaaa!” Alston shrieked.

  She retreated a step, another, dodged a rake, beat a spearhead aside, and slashed the hand that held it on the backstroke. The Indians had never met anything like the continuous whirling menace of the katana; however brave they were, it threw them off their balance for a few crucial seconds. There was no way she could tell what her comrades were doing. Behind her something went pop and brilliant light washed across her shoulders, throwing her shadow stark before her. Flare pistol. The leading Olmec stopped, staring goggle-eyed at her face. Never seen a black before, she thought. Her hands took advantage of the moment and slashed the sword in a horizontal cut. The falling body tripped the man behind as he stumbled squint-eyed in the sudden light. The katana came down in the pear-splitter. She lost a crucial second as she tugged it free from his skull.

  Something stung in her leg. The damp ground hit her as she fell and she was looking wide-eyed at a spear driven into her leg six inches above the knee. An Indian loomed over her, raising another spear in both hands. Then something silvery slashed across him and he staggered back. Swindapa came leaping after her sword-strike, darkness save for starlight on her katana and wisps of hair leaking out from under the wool cap, screaming something saw-edged in her native language. The Indian came back at her, snarling and drawing back his spear to thrust.

  Above and behind him a great winged shape slid down out of the night like the god of all owls, its wings black against the bellowing inferno that topped the plateau. Red dots fell from it, to blossom into fire amid the scrub of the slope, and then it was by only a few feet over their heads and banking out over the river. Swindapa caught the spearman as his head whipped around in shock, a gash across neck and chest that sent him back gurgling and thrashing; the sword in her hands swung in red arcs that drove the Olmecs beyond arm’s reach for an instant. Other hands grabbed at Alston, and she bit her tongue in the effort needed not to scream; the shock was wearing off, and the pain of the wound flooded into her.

  Water, then inflated rubber flexing under her back, firelight red all around them. The flat twanging snap of crossbows; the whaleboats were out on the water where they’d been waiting all night, just beyond spear range. Swindapa tumbled over her, bringing an involuntary grunt of agony as the haft of the spear was jarred, and paddles dug frantically at the water. Indians waded into the river after them, fell as the Americans in the longboats pumped crossbow bolts into them. Darts fell around the rubber boat, struck into the body of it, and it hissed as air began to escape.

  The last nicker of consciousness left her as she was dragged again, into the whaleboat. Her mind clamped down on her right hand, bringing the sword with her, and then there was darkness.

  “She won’t live long,” someone was saying in a hushed voice.

  Marian Alston knew where she was without opening her eyes-in the flag cabin aboard Eagle. Her thoughts seemed clear enough, but distant and slow. She forced her eyelids up.

  “Surely not that bad,” she said quietly.

  The ship’s doctor was there, and most of her officers; also the Arnsteins, and Swindapa sitting beside her bunk. Hendriksson had her arm in a sling and a bandage around her head.

  The voices fell silent, then all broke out at once for a moment. The doctor overrode them: “Not you, ma’am. Pamela Lisketter. Javelin under the short ribs as you were leaving. Alonski was wounded badly too, but he ought to pull through. You lost a lot of blood, though-one of the big veins got nicked. Be thankful you’ve got a fairly common type.”

  Swindapa smiled at her and held out her left arm; there was a patch of gauze taped over the inside fold of her elbow.

  Alston nodded slowly; that seemed to take an inordinate amount of effort. “Ms��� Cofflin?”

  The doctor smiled. “Fine, ma’am, and the baby.”

  “Mr��� Hiller?”

  “We’re under way, ma’am. Heading north-northeast. I don’t like the look of the barometer. We’re in for a blow, and I wanted sea room.”

  “Very well,” she sighed, closing her eyes again.

  Martha Cofflin clung to the line as the quarterdeck canted under her feet. No nausea, thank God, but the sky looked dirty, clouds brassy and black at the.same time. The wind was increasing as well, a shrill piping sound in the rigging. David Lisketter went by between two sailors, his hands-hand and stump, rather-bound before him.

  “Hello, Mr. Lisketter,” she said flatly, and just loud enough to be heard above the gathering scream of the wind. “There was something I wanted to ask you.”

  His eyes stared at her like those of an ox in the slaughter chute, and she almost left it at that. No. It’s necessary. This musn’t happen again, and Jared might be too forgiving. Her hand rested on her stomach; it would have been so easy to lose it��� />
  “Have you-ever had mumps?” she asked.

  Slow thought stirred. “Mumps?” he said. “I’m��� I think so. Most people do, don’t they?”

  “Most people aren’t asymptomatic carriers,” she said. “A few are. I noticed several of the Indians showing the symptoms, though. So one of your party must have been; but you were here long enough for the eight-day minimum incubation period to run��� and of course, eating undercooked meat is a wonderful way to catch something. Congratulations, Mr. Lisketter.”

  “Con��� gratulations?” he whispered.

  “On your revenge.”

  “People don’t die of���” He stopped, appalled.

  “Oh, the fatalities will be heavy,” she said. “But it’s the long-term effects I was thinking of. You do know that adult-onset mumps often causes male sterility, don’t you? I expect that in a population that hasn’t been previously exposed, that will be nearly universal. Congratulations, Mr. Lisketter. You’ve avenged your sister and your friends quite thoroughly. You’ve single-handedly wiped out the first Mesoamerican civilization, and all the ones which followed from it. Genocide.”

  Martha turned and headed for the companionway down to the cabins. She had the captain’s, with Alston recuperating in the flag suite. There was a shout behind her, and a scream. The splash did not carry over the noise of the birthing storm. Some people were simply too dangerous to have around her friends and family.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  October, Year 1 ��� February, Year 2 A.E,

  Jared,” Martha said, stooping to kiss his forehead where he sat in the wheelchair.

  “Martha,” he replied.

  Thank You, he added in silence to God; he wasn’t much of a praying man, ordinarily, but this was a special occasion. Jared cleared his throat and looked up the gangplank at the Eagle and her crew. It was a cool, bright day, and the flags were flying at her masts in a wind that smelled of salt and fish.

  “Best we get out of the way, I suppose,” he said.

  She nodded, and they stood to one side as the others came down-crew and cadets by squads, and the wounded, limping or on stretchers. He tried to look each one in the face and print the features on his memory forever, returning their greetings with solemn nods. The crowd spilling up the dock behind him, filling it and Broad and Easy streets behind him, was almost equally respectful, parting for the ambulances��� and nobody begrudged the precious remnant of gasoline they burned.

  “Eagle departing!” the boatswain’s voice barked.

  A pipe shrilled, and the ship’s bell rang three times and once again. Marian Alston stood at the top of the gangplank, crutches under her arms. She blinked as a voice called from among the cadets and crew crowding the dock:

  “Three cheers for the skipper!”

  Cofflin joined in the three crashing shouts, selfconscious but loud as he felt his wife’s fingers squeeze his. Alston nodded, then drew herself up slightly and saluted the dock; those who’d sailed south with her answered in snapping unison. Swindapa came up to steady her as she maneuvered slowly down the gangplank, then sank into a wheelchair beside the Chief’s.

  “Christ, we’re a matched pair,” she muttered, as they endured the necessary formalities.

  “Not all that long, I hope,” he said.

  “The medic says it was a nice clean puncture-blade went in with the grain of the muscle, not across it. Should heal without any loss of function.”

  When the street emptied somewhat, their partners wheeled them about and began pushing them up it.

  “You up to that, Martha?” Cofflin asked anxiously.

  “Jared, I’m pregnant, not ill,” she replied tartly, then stroked his head for an instant. A smile went between her and Swindapa.

  Cofflin’s head turned to Alston. He swallowed. “There���” He cleared his throat and began again. “There aren’t any words except thank you, and that isn’t enough,” he said. “And, ah-”

  Alston’s broad-lipped mouth quirked. “You’re welcome, Jared.”

  He turned in his chair and reached out a hand. “Look, I mean it. I owe you Martha’s life, and our child’s. That’s one hell of a big debt. When you need me, I’ll be there, whatever it is. All right?”

  She took his hand in reply; it was narrower than his, the fingers long and slender, with a grip like steel wire in his big fisherman’s paw.

  “I was doin’ my job��� but I may take you up on that, someday.” She sighed. “It’s going to be a while before we can go after Walker and finish the job,” she went on. “We aren’t ready. Weren’t ready for what we just did, but we were lucky.”

  Martha snorted. “I don’t believe in unearned luck,” she said.

  “Earned or unearned, we were still lucky.” She looked down at her leg. “Well, I’m not going anywhere for a while. Spring, then.” Alston looked over her shoulder and smiled. “By the way, you should probably thank ‘dapa here, too. She saved me, at least.”

  The Fiernan beamed. “Yes, I did-Marian was hurt, and all at once Moon Woman filled my bones with fire and my liver with strength��� We’re here.”

  The two women watched the Cofflins negotiate the stairs; someone had put in a ramp for the chair. Swindapa frowned slightly as she pushed Alston’s back down Orange toward the junction of Liberty and Main.

  “They didn’t say much when they saw each other,” she said.

  “Well, they’re Yankees,” Alston replied, smiling. “They like to squeeze all the use they can out of a word, or an expression.” Then she yawned. “Tired.”

  “Of course you are. Home soon, and you’ll get better fast.” She shook her head. “You need lots of sleep, and-” She continued in her own language. Alston looked over her shoulder and raised her brows. The Fiernan continued: “Someone to��� keep your spirit warm. Cuddle, you’d say. Everyone knows that speeds healing.”

  Alston laughed. “I believe it may,” she said. “It very well may, ‘dapa.”

  Her head turned eastward, and her voice went harsh and flat for an instant. “And I’m going to need all my strength. Yes indeed.”

  With the Tartessians acting as go-betweens, the formal meeting with Daurthunnicar was delayed several days for ceremony’s sake. When all was arranged the sun was nearing the edge of the world, on an evening that fell clear and warm for autumn.

  “Glad of the delay,” Walker said, looking critically at the quarterhorse stallion. “Bastard here needed to get his land legs back.”

  The horse still wasn’t fit for hard work; standing idle in a cramped stall in Yare’s hold all the way across the Atlantic had lost it some condition. Still, it had enough energy to try to rear a little. Walker slugged it down with a hand on the bridle, pulling up and back as it rolled an eye and stamped.

  “None of that, Bastard,” he said. “You’re not some yuppie’s pet now.”

  He’d been raised a cowboy on an old-fashioned working spread, and didn’t have sentimental illusions about horses. They were near-as-no-matter brainless, often malicious, and dangerous, a primitive, less valuable form of organic pickup truck. Rich hobbyists could afford to spend years coaxing a horse into doing tricks; when you worked the range, you needed it to do what you wanted, right then and there.

  Walker swung into the Western saddle and looked behind. His followers were drawn up, except for the few on the ship; he’d left them the firearms, save a Colt and shotgun for himself, but everyone wore island-made armor and carried spear, sword, crossbow. They marched across the fields in good order, following a beaten track that ran down to the beach. Isketerol walked at his stirrup, with his cousin and a clump of men from the ships.

  The rahax came a third of the way to meet him, standing tall in his chariot; a considerable concession, implying that Walker was a guest of rank, rather than merely a suppliant. The American swung down from the saddle, put his hand to his heart and bowed.

  “Greetings. The favor of your gods-” he listed them, which took a whi
le-“and great good luck be with you always, Daurthunnicar son of Ubrotarix, rahax of the Iraiina.”

  The shrewd little eyes in the heavy, bearded face blinked at him. After a long moment, he nodded. “Come, you are peaceholy in my steading, welcome beneath my rooftree. Be my guest, drink and eat of my bounty, and we will talk.”

  “Okay, boys, we’re guests,” he said, turning to his followers. “Keep your hands off the women, unless you hear me say different, and watch your manners. This is tricky and I don’t want any of you queering the deal.”

  Jared Cofflin reached out and cut the ribbon. Above him the vanes of the new windmill began to turn with a rumbling of gears. Water gushed from a thick pipe onto the sloping inner face of the holding tank. Cheers rang out behind him, first from the crews who’d built the pumping engine, then from hundreds of islanders behind them, most of whom had spent pick-and-shovel time on the basin that would hold the water. The big wind machine was much like the eighteenth-century Old Mill in outline, a round cone of beams and planks on a circular base of mortared stone, ending in a timber circle twenty feet above.

  Steel ground on steel from within. The wind was brisk out of the north, carrying scudding tatters of iron-gray cloud with it, from a dark horizon. A few spatters of cold rain came flicking into their faces. Hard to believe it’s November already. It seemed longer than eight months since the Event; and it seemed sometimes as if it were still a dream, that he might wake any morning to the sounds of cars and television.

  Cofflin turned to face the crowd, leaning on his stick to spare the healing knee. Coleman allowed that, as long as he didn’t overdo it. He smiled inwardly; Alston was still on strict bed rest, and snarling abominably. Swindapa must be a saint.

  “When the rest are finished,” he said, pointing to the foundations of five more spaced along the earth berm of the reservoir, “we’ll have twenty-four-hour running water again throughout the town. Three cheers for Ron Leaton and Sam Macy and their teams!”