by Bob Mayer
“Do you wish to see?” Valentine said once more.
The beggar was nodding.
“Duh,” Scout muttered. She was leaning toward Nada-land, that perhaps this was an elaborate con, set up by Valentine and the beggar. Glancing over her shoulder, she noted that Lachesis hadn’t moved, the rod in the crook of her arm, the hood of her white robe covering most of her face.
Valentine turned to the crowd. He pointed at the man in a fine robe, flanked by the legionnaires. “Judge Asterius has promised me freedom if I can show him the power of my faith and belief in the one true God. We have agreed that if I can make a blind man see, that will be sufficient.”
The Judge raised a hand, stopping Valentine. He gestured at one of his soldiers. The legionnaire drew his sword, walked up the beggar. He ripped the rag off the beggar’s head, and then slashed at him, halting just an inch from the man’s face.
The beggar never flinched or showed any awareness of the near strike.
Apparently Judge Asterius was of the Nada/Scout bent in terms of trust, or lack thereof.
Valentine gave the Judge a tolerant smile. “Satisfied?”
Asterius shrugged, his level of enthusiasm muted, to say the least.
A large crowd had gathered on the Malvian Bridge, caused as much by the traffic jam as the miracle in the making.
Scout checked Lachesis once more. She hadn’t moved.
The download was confirming some of what she was seeing: one legend about St. Valentine was he had been arrested by a Judge Asterius, but that he’d then preached Christianity to the Roman official. Asterius had made a deal: if Valentine could restore his adopted daughter’s sight, he would be freed and Asterius would convert.
This was a bit different, beggar not daughter, but the names were right. Except today was the day Valentine was supposed to die, not be freed from prison.
Scout recalled Dane’s favorite sayings: The vagaries of the variables.
Valentine put his hands over the beggar’s eyes.
Sensing something with the Sight, Scout turned. Lachesis was moving forward, seeming to slide along the ground in her robe rather than walk. She stopped next to Scout, almost touching. She extended her rod toward Valentine and the beggar.
“In the name and strength of my Lord,” Valentine called out, “you will now see!”
Valentine removed his hands and the beggar staggered to his feet, blinking.
“Do you see, my brother?”
The beggar cried out: “No! I can’t.”
“Uh-oh,” Scout muttered.
Valentine spun about, pointing. “It was her! The witch!”
Scout looked to her right, but Lachesis was gone. The crowd was staring at Scout.
“Crap,” Scout muttered.
Asterius showed why he was a judge, gesturing toward the same legionnaire who’d tested the beggar. His sword was still drawn and he didn’t hesitate, swinging hard, separating Valentine’s head from his body with a single blow. The head arced into the air, tumbling, and disappeared over the side of the bridge.
Then Asterius pointed at Scout. “Her too.”
Scout took a step back as a half dozen of Asterius’s guards pushed through the crowd toward her, weapons drawn. She took another step in retreat, her back against the wall of the bridge. She glanced over her shoulder. The Tiber was sluggishly flowing forty feet below.
Valentine was dead, beheaded, on this day as history decreed. Scout didn’t see any point in sticking around and adding a footnote to that history. She scrambled up onto the stone wall and dove.
She saw the Gate open between her and the water the split second before she would have hit the surface.
The Possibility Palace
Where? Can’t Tell You. When? Can’t Tell You.
Lara walked into Dane’s office without knocking. “Something’s wrong.”
Dane wasn’t perturbed or surprised. “Something is always wrong. That’s why we exist.”
Lara sat down across from him. “This mission. Something’s not right about it. You knew it in the briefing. That’s why you were acting wonky.”
“’Wonky’?”
“Can we cut the back and forth like you do with Scout?” Lara asked.
“All right.”
“Why didn’t you send me on a mission?” Lara demanded.
“Because of what you just said,” Dane replied. “Something’s off. The letter from Meyer Lansky for one. Ivar was right. That’s just weird. Sometimes things loop. We had one between Doc and Moms’ mission on Independence Day.”
“They told me about that,” Lara said. “That was quick thinking on Doc’s part.”
“There’s something about it that bothers me,” Dane said. “Once the Shadow’s bubble collapses, what happened inside that bubble is gone. Things go on as they did in history. But Jefferson remembered what Doc told him about a woman coming to him at Monticello.”
“And Benjamin Franklin remembered Doc from the Independence Day mission during the Nine Eleven mission.”
“You pay attention,” Dane said. “That’s good.”
Lara didn’t respond to the praise.
“Ivar violated the rules when he met Meyer Lansky,” Dane said. “He didn’t have much choice since we’d made a mistake and gave him thousand dollar bills printed after his mission date. A bad mistake, especially with someone as sharp as Lansky. As improbable as the concept of time travel is, Lansky knew something was, as you say, wonky. There’s a reason he never got assassinated—he was a brilliant man. A psychopathic criminal, but brilliant.”
“Perhaps Ivar telling Lansky punctured the bubble somehow,” Lara said. “Same with Doc telling Jefferson about Moms being there fifty later at Monticello. Just enough to make the loops and it lasted after the bubble collapsed?”
“Perhaps,” Dane allowed.
“So do you know what the problem with this mission is?” Lara asked.
“No.”
“You still haven’t answered why you didn’t send me on one of the missions,” Lara said. “What good does it do for me to be here?”
“You’re the wild card,” Dane said. “What you did to fix the ripple from Scout’s mission regarding Pythagoras was—“ he paused—“something I don’t understand but it helped.”
“I don’t understand it either,” Lara said. “You want me to go to the Space Between again? Hook up with Amelia Earhart? Go to the Atlantean ship?”
Dane shrugged. “We don’t know what’s wrong, so how can we know how to fix it? Maybe everything’s going fine on the missions.”
“It’s not,” Lara said. “When I affected Scout’s mission with Pythagoras, I had part of his sculpture to make a physical connection with that time and place. We don’t know what I’m supposed to do in this case.”
“What are you picking up?” Dane asked.
“Voices in the Pit,” Lara said. “There’s billions of them; all of the people who’ve lived and died.”
“One hundred and seven billion is the best guess,” Dane said. “The number of humans who have existed. It’s a rough estimate because we don’t know when our species specifically became human from what we were before. Nevertheless, that’s a lot of voices.”
“Yes, but—“ she paused.
“What?”
“There are some voices I can pull out of the torrent,” Lara said. “Team members. Not speaking. Singing.”
“Who is singing?” Dane asked. “Which team members?”
Lara closed her eyes. “Scout. I can hear Scout.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Shadows are fallin’ and I’m runnin’ out of breath. Keep me in your heart for a while.” Her eyes opened, glistening. “So sad. She’s so sad.”
“That was her song with Nada,” Dane said. “The former team sergeant.”
“Eagle said he made the choice to go back, when you gave it to him.”
“I didn’t give it to him,” Dane said. “Sin Fen did. But, yes, he chose to go back and change something. To right a wrong
.”
“I thought we weren’t supposed to do that,” Lara said. “Rules and all.”
“There are exceptions to every rule,” Dane said.
“Surprised you’d admit that.”
“And it is a true choice. An important one.”
“Okay,” Lara said.
“Who else do you hear?” Dane asked.
“Doc.”
“Is he also singing Warren Zevon? The team uses Zevon songs for different things.”
Lara shook her head. “Not a Zevon song. Dylan. Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.” She was surprised. “How did I know that was a Dylan tune?”
“Zevon did a cover of it,” Dane said. “I had to study up.”
“I don’t think that’s a good song,” Lara said. “Neither of them.”
“Anyone else?”
“No. But those two are bad enough. Sadness and despair.” She stood. “Time for me to get closer to the team.”
The Missions Phase III
“Hell must be a pretty swell spot, because the guys that invented religion have sure been trying hard to keep everybody else out.”
—Al Capone
Chicago, 14 February 1929 A.D.
Strings shoved Ivar into the back of a large, black sedan and slid in next to him, pushing him toward someone. And against the snout of a Thompson submachine gun that the guy had across his lap.
“Watch it,” the man said.
“Sorry,” Ivar said, his usual response when bumping up against an automatic weapon held by a man with dead eyes.
There was another man in the driver’s seat, slouched back, brim of his hat tipped down over his face. The muzzle of a Thompson stuck up next to him. The driver briefly lifted the brim of the hat and glanced in the rear-view mirror. Judging by how blood-shot they were, the driver wasn’t having a good morning.
Join the club, Ivar thought. But did not say.
“Who’s this?” the guy next to Ivar asked.
“Told ya about him, Sam,” Strings said. “He’s part of the deal. Capone wants him in.”
Ivar looked out the window and saw the old waitress at the window of the café, staring at him. She raised a hand and gave a wave, along with a sad smile.
She knew, Ivar thought. Which begged the question: how? Which brought up the further question: Knew what?
The driver asked: “Why?” His eyes were open all the way and he sat up straighter. “Al’s in Florida. He didn’t tell me nothing about no extra gun. When did you talk to him?”
Strings leaned over and extracted Ivar’s .45 from the holster. “He aint an extra gun.”
Just like that, his weapon was gone. Ivar could well imagine Roland’s reaction, but Roland wasn’t here and he was and there was an automatic weapon pointed in this direction.
“Then what’s he doing here?” the driver asked.
“You’ll see, Tony,” Strings said.
Tony wasn’t buying it. He shifted his questioning to the guy on the other side of Ivar. “You hear anything about this, Sam?”
Ivar was checking Edith’s download: Tony and Sam. The most likely results were discouraging: Tony Accardo, aka Joe Batters or the Big Tuna, and Sam Giancana. They were rumored to have been in on the massacre and both went on to play large roles in the mob, with Accardo ruling the Chicago Outfit starting in 1947 and Giancana taking over for Accardo in 1957.
Where were the two fake policemen? Ivar wondered. More importantly: why was he here?
And most importantly: given his present company, and the way they didn’t seem to think he was on their side, was he going to be alive when this bubble collapsed?
*****
EAGLE WASN’T THERE, and then he was there. It was the best way to explain how he arrived, becoming part of his current time and place with an appropriate degree of surprise and excitement on everyone’s part, including Eagle’s, as he suddenly appeared inside the S.M.C Cartage Garage via the Gate.
Two men, one in a cheap suit wearing a fedora, the other in an expensive suit and no hat, reacted quickly despite their shock, drawing pistols from shoulder holsters and training them on Eagle.
“Who the hell are you?” Expensive Suit demanded. “Where’d you come from? What is that thing?”
The Gate snapped shut behind Eagle.
An old truck up on jacks was to one side, and an old car to the other (old being relative, since the car was spotless and probably new). A mechanic in coveralls and dirty white t-shirt slid out from under the car to see what was happening. The garage had brick walls and a workbench littered with tools. A table was in a corner with several chairs around it, where the two men in suits had been sitting. A desk was outside a door with opaque glass that read ‘PRIVATE’. One wall had a large metal sliding door. A German Shepherd was whining, hiding underneath the truck, tied by a rope to the bumper.
Between the car, the truck, the way the two men were dressed, the mechanic and the garage, Eagle didn’t have to make much of a leap to figure out when and where he was.
He just didn’t understand why.
And he didn’t see Ivar.
The two men walked over, guns at the ready.
“Hey!” Expensive Suit yelled. “I’m talking to you, spook.”
Spook? Eagle was surprised by the term, but that was interrupted when the muzzle of the man’s pistol swung toward his head.
Eagle instinctively blocked it with an arm sweep, but didn’t follow through as the other man ordered: “Freeze or I’ll blow your brains out!”
Expensive Suit took a step back, looking Eagle up and down. “He’s a Navy boy, Goosey. How did you get in here? What do ya want?”
Eagle desired the answers just as much.
Goosey spoke “He just stepped out of nothing.”
“Nobody comes from nothing,” Suit said. “He came through that black thing. Like a door ‘cept it’s gone now. He snuck in here to steal something.” He waggled his gun. “You picked the wrong place, buddy. You know who I am?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m Jim Clark.”
Eagle accessed the backup information on Ivar’s mission. Jim Clark, born Albert Kachellek, and Bugs Moran’s right hand. The man whose death would haunt Al Capone’s dreams.
That confirmed time and place for Eagle. Chicago, 1929, which meant somehow he was indeed in Ivar’s mission. Except no Ivar. Which meant—
Eagle’s thoughts were interrupted as Clark gestured toward a nearby wooden chair. “Sit down, boy.”
With two guns trained on him, Eagle sat.
“Hands behind your back.”
Eagle complied and Goosey, whom the download identified as Peter Gusenberg, an enforcer for the Moran gang, went behind him and used a piece of cable to tie his hands behind his back. The mechanic, sitting next to the car, saying nothing, watching with wide, scared eyes, was John May.
Eagle wondered what time it was, because at 10:30 there were going to be a lot of bullets flying in here and these three men would be dead. But there was supposed to be seven.
Which also meant--
There was a crackling sound and everyone looked toward the same spot where Eagle had just appeared.
*****
ROLAND wasn’t there, and then he was there. Roland tumbled through the Gate onto the floor.
Out like the proverbial light. Switched off. Unconscious.
Goosey and Clark looked at each other, then at the large man dressed in tight white, cut off pants, unbuttoned calico shirt and with a cutlass in a leather waistband and a boarding axe loosely grasped in one hand.
Roland could still hold on to his weapon even when not conscious.
“What the hell is going on?” Goosey demanded. “Where are these guys coming from?”
“Shut up,” Clark said. “It’s some sort of magic thing maybe. Someone’s screwing with us. Come on.” He leaned over and pulled the cutlass out of Roland’s waistband and relieved him of the boarding axe. “There’s blood on these,” he added. “This guy’s a fighter. Look at the scars.”<
br />
“You think Capone sent him?” Goosey asked as the two struggled to drag Roland over to the chair next to Eagle.
“Just be glad he was out,” Clark said. “He looks like he coulda made a ruckus.”
They were unable to lift Roland up and keep him in the chair so they improvised by tipping the chair over and using some rope to tie Roland in a sitting position on his left side.
Clark went to Eagle and jammed the muzzle of his pistol into the soft spot under his chin. “Who are you guys? Who you working for? How are you just appearing out of nothing? You know this guy?”
Even if he wanted to, Eagle couldn’t have responded with the gun shoving his head back.
It didn’t matter, though, as there was another crackling sound.
Clark pulled the gun away and turned about.
*****
DOC WASN’T THERE, and then he was there. He came through the Gate cowering, with his arms over his head in a protective posture.
Doc was motionless for several moments, then he slowly straightened and lowered his arms. His initial feeling was one of immense relief not to be in the midst the Dresden firebombing. He took in the two men with guns trained on him, Eagle in the chair, Roland, unconscious, on the floor and his relief began to fade.
“What the devil?” Doc said.
“Shut up,” Clark said.
“Eagle?” Doc asked, confusion slowly giving way to awareness.
“No clue,” Eagle said.
“Where’s—“ Doc began, but Eagle cut him off.
“Roland’s right there. He’s breathing, so that’s good.”
Doc could only nod as Clark forced him down into a chair and tied him.
“So you guys do know each other,” Clark said, stepping back to survey the three of them. “Who you with? Capone? How you getting in here?” He looked over at the mechanic. “You know these guys?”
John May shook his head. “No, sir. Never seen ‘em before in my life. I swear.”
