by Bob Mayer
It is 1828. French explorer Rene Caillie becomes the first ‘infidel’ to go to Timbuktu and come out alive; a typhoon kills an estimated 10,000 in Kyushu, Japan; the world’s population is just over a billion of which about 12 million live in the United States; Andrew Jackson’s wife, Rachel, dies less than a month after he is elected President; 32,000 slaves from Angola are sold in Rio de Janiero, Brazil; Jules Verne is born; Joshua Chamberlain, who would save the Union at Gettysburg, is born; chocolate milk powder is patented; Leo Tolstoy, who would write some books, is born.
There was a body staked down, spread-eagle in front of the King. An old woman.
Some things change, some don’t.
“Should I let you live, witch?” Shaka asked her as he stood. He was of medium height, not exactly imposing. But he had an aura that was perceptible; of course the death and suffering all around at his order was more than perceptible.
Shaka had dark brown skin and was dressed similar to Eagle. Unlike many Zulu kings who would follow, he was not fat, but well muscled. However, his nose was too big and he had a scar running from above his right eye along his scalp. He held an iklwa in his right hand, the metal glinting in the moonlight.
Eagle realized the throne Shaka had been seated upon was made of animal skins over bones tied together with sinew. Human bones. That had to be pretty uncomfortable, Eagle thought.
“My words are true,” the old woman said, her voice dry and cracking. “You see the apparition in front of you as I foretold.”
“Does the apparition speak?” Shaka pointed his iklwa at Eagle.
“I speak, great King.” Eagle, always proficient with languages, was having no trouble using the download of Zulu, a sub-tongue of Bantu.
“The witch says you come from far away,” Shaka said, “yet you dress like one of my warriors. So you are a spy?”
“I am not a spy, great King.”
“If you were a spy, of course you would say you are not a spy,” Shaka said. “There has never been a spy who admitted he was a spy. Until the pain became so great. Then they all finally admit.”
“A man will admit to anything under great pain, King. ”
“Because if I say they are a spy, then they are a spy,” Shaka said. “They should not have wasted my time lying.”
A voice cried out from the forest of the impaled, begging for the mercy of death. Shaka smiled, displaying two prominent front teeth. “A brave man does not beg.”
Dying men did. Eagle had heard very brave men cry out when mortally wounded. For God, for their mothers, for a quick ending.
“Your words have come true,” Shaka said, prodding the old woman with the tip of the iklwa . “Three prophecies, three truths. Is there anything more to your prophecy than you have told me?”
The old woman was silent. For too long as Shaka jabbed her with the short spear, breaking skin. “Tell me.”
“I would need time for more prophecy, my King. To look with my Sight.” At the last word she turned her head to look at Eagle. Her eyes implored him to help her.
“If you have no more prophecies,” Shaka said, “you have no more time.”
“But, my King! My words were true!”
“That means you are a true witch,” Shaka reasoned. “And should die.”
Before Eagle could react, Shaka slammed the iklwa into the old woman’s chest, pinning her to the ground. She squirmed for a few moments, then went still. He pulled it out and Eagle understood that the weapon was indeed named for the noise it coming back out of a body. But the metal was too smooth, too shiny. Eagle realized it was also made of Naga metal.
“Come here, spy,” Shaka said, gesturing for Eagle to come to his throne. “There is something I want to show you. Perhaps in your treasonous life, you have seen something like it.” Eagle knew he stood no chance against Shaka iklwa to iklwa .
He walked forward, stepping around the dead witch.
Shaka leaned his iklwa against the throne made of the bones of his vanquished. He reached down and tossed an object toward Eagle. It thudded to the ground and rolled once.
The hairless head was covered in dark green scales. The forehead sloped sharply back. The eyes were deep set, so far back in the sockets, they were barely visible. The wide mouth hung open, revealing razor-sharp teeth and four large fangs.
“What is that?” Shaka demanded .
Eagle knew why he was here. “That, great King, is the head of a mighty beast we call a Grendel. And if there is one, there is at least one more like it. Larger, more dangerous. Capable of bearing many, many more.”
Shaka laughed, a crazy edge to it. “At least one more? As the witch prophesized, in the Valley of Death to the west. There are dozens of these beasts, guarding a watering hole. It was a mighty fight to get this one head. They were sent here to torment me in my grief.”
“A man may think God sleeps, but God sees everything, I know it now.”
Arthur Miller, The Crucible
Salem Massachusetts, 31 October 1692 A.D.
LARA WASN’T THERE, and then she was there, but she’d sort of always been there. It was the best way to explain how she arrived, becoming part of her current time and place without fanfare or excitement among those around her, because there wasn’t anyone around her.
Except, of course, for Pandora, who was very aware of her sudden arrival out of time.
“Oh, you’re new,” Pandora greeted her with disappointment. “I was expecting Scout.”
Lara didn’t respond. She was taking in her surroundings as this was her first Time Patrol mission to a specific date in the timeline and not to the Space Between. She was in a forest clearing, hopefully on the outskirts of Salem, Massachusetts. Night. A quarter moon.
And a disreputable ‘goddess’ of myth.
“You must be Lara,” Pandora said. She was tall, dressed in a white robe. Her hair was jet black except for a single streak of silver that began above her left eye and over her shoulder. She had a Naga staff in hand, with the seven-headed snake haft on the ground, the sharp end pointing up.
Lara finally acknowledged Pandora. “Scout says you’re not much help. Actually, she says you’re a pain in the ass.”
Pandora was offended. “I helped Scout. Let me recall when. Ah. Yes. It was 480 B.C.. I assisted her in defeating a Legion. Xerxes’ Dagger he was called although one should never given things formal names. A very formidable opponent. One who, untested and unprepared as Scout was, she would not have survived without my assistance. You may tell Scout, if you see her again, her words wound me.”
“So what are you here for?” Lara asked.
“Same thing as you,” Pandora said.
A long silence played out.
“You don’t know why you’re here, do you?” Pandora asked.
“They’ve already hung all they’re gonna hang,” Lara said.
“Hanged,” Pandora said. “Things are hung. People are hanged.”
Lara continued. “I’m figuring they’re planning on hunging someone else and they aren’t supposed to do that.”
“Cute.” Pandora sighed. “If things were only that simple.”
“Scout also said you weren’t a font of information.” Lara didn’t like this forest. It was pitch black under the surrounding trees. A narrow trail ran from one end of the clearing and disappeared into the darkness on the other end. She didn’t know which way Salem lay. Lie. Whatever.
“A ‘font’ or a ‘fount’?” Pandora asked. “Language usage has changed over the centuries.”
“She threw in that you weren’t funny,” Lara said. “Why are you here?”
“Because you’re here,” Pandora said.
“You said you were expecting Scout, so that’s a lie.”
“I was using a generic ‘you’re ’,” Pandora said. “More accurately, I knew there was going to be a time bubble here and now, and I assumed one of your people would show up. I just thought it would be Scout, given the specific nature of this bubble.”
“An
d why is that?”
“When and where did Scout go?” Pandora asked. “We could only see several of the bubbles. 31 October. We know there is one in 1941. A warship. But she wouldn’t go there. That would be Roland or Eagle’s province. Not to Africa either. Perhaps the killing in India?”
“So you don’t know as much as you like others to think you know,” Lara said.
“When did Scout go?” Pandora persisted. “Ah. I bet it is 1517. The most important mission. At least you might think so. But what is apparent isn’t always so.”
“Right,” Lara said .
Pandora shook her head. “The Fates are meddling more and more. Your team was lucky to have survived your last mission. That twist was unexpected.”
“I’d love to chat—not.” Lara looked at the path.
“So, like Scout, you’re clueless why you’re bouncing around in time,” Pandora said. “I’m surprised you people have lasted this long.”
“Scout did say you were thinking Alexander Great was the One or the Two or maybe it was the Three. But he wasn’t.”
“Scout said a lot to you,” Pandora noted. “Best friends?”
“We hang together,” Lara said. “Or it is hung?”
It is 1692. A combined English and Dutch fleet defeats the French at the Battle of La Hogue; in the course of the year 20 people are hanged for witchcraft in Salem; the Massacre of Glencoe when 38 men of the Clan MacDonald are executed for not swearing an oath of allegiance to King William of England, subsequently about 40 women and children die of exposure and starvation because their homes were burned; on September 22 nd the last hanging, 8 people, occurs in Salem; A slave revolt is crushed in Barbados.
Lara noted the path to the right went down slightly, while the one to the left went up. Would a village be on high ground for protection or low ground for proximity to water?
And where the frak did all that come from , Lara wondered. Maybe they put Salem wherever the frak it is because some farmer got tired of walking and thought this looks as good as anywhere. Hell, why does anyone live in Boise?
Some things change, some don’t.
But the download intruded, informing her that Salem was located at the mouth of a river on the east coast of Massachusetts. So downhill would make more sense. Or into the rising sun, whenever that might occur. Not that she was going to hang here with this whacko broad until dawn.
“I really thought—“ Pandora began, but she paused. “Do you have the Sight?”
“Sort of,” Lara said.
“Do you sense him?”
Lara did sense something or someone. In the forest. Moving. Coming this way. She’d felt this presence before; even met it.
“Joey,” she whispered.
“Who is Joey?” Pandora said, turning in the direction of the presence, lifting her Naga to the ready. “You met one before? ”
“He is darkness,” Lara said. “Evil.”
“You do have some Sight,” Pandora acknowledged. “It is Legion.” She lowered the point of her Naga staff slightly. “It is going away. But it knows we’re here.”
“Why didn’t he attack?” Lara asked. She’d drawn her Naga dagger without consciously realizing it. She had sensed more than just the Legion. There were things out there. Not human.
“It is not here for us,” Pandora said.
“Who is it here for? And why are you calling him ‘it’?”
“I truly expected it to be Scout that was chosen for this mission,” Pandora said.
“Why is that?” Lara asked.
“Because if you fail in this mission, Scout will cease to exist.”
“You cannot shake hands with a clenched first.”
Prime Minister Indira Gandhi
New Delhi, India, 31 October 1984
NEELEY WASN’T THERE, and then she was there, but she’d sort of always been there. It was the best way to explain how she arrived, becoming part of her current time and place without fanfare or excitement among those around her, except for the other person in the room, who didn’t raise a fuss.
“Welcome,” Indira Gandhi said. “Would you like some tea? I have a pot on.”
Neeley, veteran of many extreme situations though she was, needed a moment to adjust after her first time travel. She was in an alcove next to a nondescript kitchen. Prime Minister Indira Gandhi was standing eight feet away, between Neeley and the kitchen. The Prime Minister was wrapped in a robe made of khadi and was shorter than Neeley expected although the download supplied her current exact height, weight and other details that were coming from an autopsy report, which was a bit disconcerting, even for Neeley.
“Tea would be fine,” Neeley said.
“Was it a long journey?” Gandhi asked as she turned and went to the stove. A kettle was already boiling, a flame beneath it. Two cups were set off to the side on a tray .
Definitely expecting company.
“It was,” Neeley said.
“Would you like to sit?” Gandhi indicated a chair at a small wooden table.
Neeley understood cover for action and cover for position and felt fragile on both fronts. The first rule of Time Patrol was knocking on her consciousness, a quite irritating intrusion, as if Edith Frobish’s download didn’t trust Neeley.
For a moment Neeley wondered how Roland dealt with the download, then she smiled, knowing he could shut it off much easier than she could.
“Thank you,” Neeley said. She sat, smoothly drawing her M1911 pistol as she did so and placing it on her lap, round in the chamber, her thumb on the safety, finger on the trigger.
“Sugar? Milk?” Indira Gandhi asked as she carefully poured boiling water into a cup.
“No, thank you,” Neeley said.
Gandhi nodded. She brought the tray over and placed a cup in front of Neeley. Then got one for herself. “I did not expect a woman. That makes me very joyful.”
“Yes,” Neeley said, clueless about how to proceed having tea with a woman who would be dead in the morning; 9:20 a.m. to be exact.
“I am Indira. And you are?”
“Neeley, Prime Minister.”
“There is no need to be formal, is there?” Gandhi asked. “Not now. Not this evening, actually very early morning as the hour has already passed midnight into a new day.”
“Yes ma’am,” Neeley said, not as used as her time travelling teammates to meeting historic figures.
“Indira, please. And is Neeley your first name or surname?”
“It’s just my name.”
Gandhi pursed her lips. “Curious. Surely you were born with a full name?”
“I was.”
Gandhi held up a hand. “I sense the issue is one that is sensitive to you. Forgive my intrusion. Neeley. Most interesting. You sound American, but there is a trace of an accent in your English. Having grown up here but being schooled in Europe, I have heard many voices. A bit of French perhaps? ”
“I lived there for a while,” Neeley admitted, wondering if she was breaking her cover. Then again, in covert ops, always tell the truth is the best cover. Until it was time not to tell the truth.
“Ah, France,” Gandhi said. “Joan d’Arc. A true hero. A woman ahead of her time.” There was an excitement to her voice when she spoke. The download confirmed that Gandhi had a deep interest in Joan of Arc. Gandhi glanced down. “And you brought a gun.”
Neeley put the pistol on the table. “For protection.”
“Really? And you know how to use it?”
“I do.”
Gandhi took a sip of tea. Neeley gingerly raised the fragile piece of porcelain to her lip with her off-hand. “This is very nice.”
“My own mixture,” Gandhi said. “Tea is such a strange symbol in my country. The British exploited us for it but it is still a rich export that helps drive our economy. It seems everything in life cuts both ways. Now we no longer have the British but we still have our tea.” Gandhi indicated the pistol. “Will you shoot me with that?”
“No,” Neeley said. �
�I’m not going to shoot you.”
It is 1984 A.D. Terms of Endearment wins best picture at the Oscars; the AIDS virus is uncovered; the Soviet Union boycotts the summer Olympics in Los Angeles; Bruce Springsteen releases ‘Born in the USA’; during a voice check, Reagan is overheard joking that the United States will begin bombing the Soviet Union in five minutes; Band Aid releases ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas’ to help with the famine in Ethiopia; the Bhopal industrial disaster kills over 8,000 outright in India in the worst industrial accident in history; an explosion at a Russian naval base destroys 2/3rds of all their stockpiled missiles; the space shuttle Discovery launches on its first mission; the US Embassy in Beirut is car-bombed, killing 24 people.
“Really?” Gandhi was surprised. “Then why are you here?”
“To protect you,” Neeley lied. “Why do you think you’re going to be shot?”
Some things change; some don’t.
“I was told I would die today,” Gandhi said.
“She flew the Stars and Stripes of the land of the free
But tonight she’s in her grave on the bottom of the sea.”
Woody Guthri e
The North Atlantic, 31 October 1941 A.D.
ROLAND WASN’T THERE, and then he was there, but he’d sort of always been there, except he really wasn’t aware he was there, because he was asleep. It was the best way to explain how he arrived, becoming part of his current time and place without fanfare or excitement among those around him, including Roland, because he along with everyone else in the berth was sleeping.
This was despite the fact the USS Reuben James was pitching and rolling with the North Atlantis swells. They were in a windowless berth with bunks stacked four high and a narrow space in between. Every bunk was occupied, because space was limited and with at least one third of the ship always on watch, the other two thirds was resting. This meant those coming off duty slid into what was known as a ‘hot bunk’.
Roland struggled to consciousness when someone jabbed him, hard, with a finger in the shoulder. “Get up.”
Roland blinked, coming alert, but disoriented not just from the travel through time, but being awoken after traveling through time, which raised the interesting question that since he hadn’t been asleep when he stepped into the gate, exactly when had he fallen asleep since the time travel was supposed to be instantaneous?
