by YS Pascal
The central holo in front of us was displaying an ancient city scene, with tunic-clad pedestrians and overburdened donkeys trudging down dusty dirt streets that were lined by small huts made of mud-bricks and stone. Women balanced baskets of wheat on their heads as their rag-robed children rolled pebbles on the road and dodged piles of equine excrement. Is that where we were headed? Foo. I’d been hoping we’d score an assignment at a luxury resort by the sea.
Gary paused to welcome us, then briskly resumed his narration. “Recent Zygint Central intelligence chatter reports that Theodore Benedict is launching a new wave of guerilla attacks in multiple locations throughout Zygfed, and, unfortunately, also throughout time. There’s a strong possibility that Earth is now in Benedict’s line of sight. As you know, one Andart operation last year in Hutunye resulted in the deaths of over one million Zygan citizens. If Benedict succeeds in destroying his target again, we could see a similar disaster on Earth.”
“What’s the target?” I asked, alarmed.
“Not what. Who,” Gary responded.
The holo over our table dissolved into a vision of a thin, wiry, dark-haired boy about, I’d guess, the age of my brother Billy. Twelve or thirteen. He seemed to be engaged in an animated discussion with a group of bearded older men in what, judging by the décor, looked like a place of worship. The chamber’s walls were lined with wood panels bearing carvings of winged figures, palm trees, and flowers, all painted or gilded with gold.
“Yeshua Bar Maryam,” Gary continued. “Our last trace of him here was from a few years ago.” He nodded at the holo. “In Av, 3778, our contact metrics in the period, he is reported to be about eighteen years of age and working as a tradesman in Sidon, one of the largest cities in ancient Phoenicia, western Lebanon today.”
I glanced over at Spud who was taking in the information in his typical pose, leaning back in his chair with his eyes half closed, his hands resting on his abdomen, fingertips together.
“We haven’t been able to track his exact location. Frankly, Zygint Central dropped the ball on this one. They weren’t expecting Andarts to be able to access time travel, so they weren’t tracking incursions into the past. Central now believes that an Andart or two might have gone back in time to ancient Phoenicia, with the mission of eliminating Bar Maryam.”
Spud raised an eyebrow. “Time travel? Without authorization or Ergals? How could that be possible?
Gary shrugged. “Don’t ask me. But Central isn’t ruling it out.”
“I’ve got another question,” I said, puzzled, “Every life is precious, and none more so than Earth’s, but I’ve never known His Highness, or Zygint, for that matter, to expend resources just to preserve one life.”
A wry smile crossed Gary’s face. “No, no, you’re right… not typically. But, the Bar Maryam you see here is a young man. As an adult, he plays a critical role in Earth’s history—” Gary seemed to stop himself. “If the Andarts were to kill him, the impact on the future would be devastating. Earth’s timeline would be changed forever.”
“That’s not good.” People were still talking about the mess Gary had made of Roswell. Changing Earth’s history thousands of years in the past might mean that Earth’s events evolve very differently and our present might never even come to pass. And neither might we. We had to make sure Benedict didn’t succeed.
“But you can’t identify any Andarts in this… Sidon?” I asked, worried. “Nothing on our scans?”
Gary sighed. “Zip. If Andarts are there, they’re under deep cover. We’ve started monitoring transport fields for time-traveling invaders now, but the only way for us to catch anybody that’s already gotten through is from inside the era. If and when they make their move against Yeshua.”
“Any estimates on when that might be?” asked Spud.
Our Head shook his. “No, based on their previous attack patterns throughout the Milky Way and Andromeda—“ he looked pointedly at me and Spud—“they like to keep us guessing.
“Okay, team, History’ll give you the upload and help you Ergal your costumes and look.” Gary stood up decisively. “We’ll need you to M-fan near Sidon within the hour. You’ll have to work your way into town in disguise—we don’t want you to arouse any suspicions. I only hope we’re not too late.” He strode to the door then turned back to us for a final word. “Remember, failure could be catastrophic.”
“Got that, Gary,” I said, warily. “Isn’t it always?”
* * *
Middle East—two thousand years ago
In 3778, Sidon was a bustling Middle Eastern port city on the Mediterranean in what was then an independent colony in the vast Roman Empire. According to our History uploads, the Greek poet Homer (who, as the joke goes, wasn’t really Homer but another poet with the same namevi), had sung the praises of Sidon’s skilled craftsmen who manufactured glass and purple dye. Think about it: if the Roman Empire had not supported its Phoenician colony’s renowned industry, all the cathedrals in western Europe today that are mobbed by tourists awed by their exquisite stained glass windows might have ended up instead with rather uninspiring wooden green shutters that wouldn’t be much of a draw.
Emperor Tiberius had newly risen to power and was experiencing a brief honeymoon, perhaps launching the Mediterranean as a favorite site for honeymooners; before his nervous breakdowns led him to attack many of his close relatives, perhaps launching the model of the unhappy marriage. Fortunately, in 3778 on the Hebrew calendar (around 18 ACE), Tiberius was busy fiddling around in Rome and Capri, and didn’t really have much influence in Sidon. His decision to stay far away was completely understandable, as I would have much preferred an assignment on the Italian coast myself, especially considering that the average temperature in midday Sidon hovered at over one hundred and ten degrees Fahrenheit.
“It is decidedly sweltering,” Spud moaned, as he mopped his forehead with his mantle, an ancient white scarf. From the zero degrees Celsius briskness of England’s moors to the zero degrees Kelvin chill of deep space, Spud was much more at home in a cooler environment.
“It’s 120 in the shade.” I nodded, shaking my tunic to create a momentary breeze. I looked down at my Ergal, whose screen displayed a detailed map of the region. “About two more kilometers due southwest.”
Spud pulled his mantle over his head and I followed suit as we trudged forward on the dirt footpath under the blazing sun. I had hoped we could have M-fanned right in the middle of town, but Gary felt our chances of discovery by an observant Andart were too great. Sure, we could invisible-ize, but if the Andarts had an unregistered holo scan pointed in the right direction, they might be able to pick up our Ergal activity and track us.
Spud and I had bronzed our skin so we wouldn’t look out of place among the locals, and our Ergaled beards and mustaches looked genuine. Yes, plural. In ancient times in the Middle East, there were a lot of things that women just didn’t do. So, like Yentl, I’d dressed up as a man. Come to think of it, in some of those countries, I’d do the same today.
Cursing Gary’s caution, we plodded slowly onward in the baking sun for what seemed to be forever. The Phoenicians were smarter than we were. Most of them wisely opted to stay indoors and avoid the heat. We’d only passed two travelers, both going in the opposite direction, until we reached the Temple of Eshmoun, the Phoenician God of Healing, a kilometer north of the city. Alongside its entrance, blocking our path, stood a wizened old man with long gray hair and a salt-and-pepper beard. Oops. So much for staying under the radar.
“Hail, journeymen,” the elderly man greeted us, eyeing us from head to toe. “I am the Keeper of the Temple of Eshmoun. What brings you to our gates?”
Despite the high quality of our disguises, I was still uncomfortable under the man’s intense gaze. I let Spud do the talking. His Phoenician was more passable and in a lower register than mine.
“Hail, neighbor,” Spud responded. (I’m giving you the English translation, of course, guessing that
most of you are even worse at Canaan dialects than me. Oh, and sorry about the stilted medieval dialogue. Phoenician is kinda short on slang.)
“I am Akbar from Berytus, and I walk with my brother Danel.” My partner continued, “We are seeking our cousin, Sakarbaal, in East Sidon.”
I know Spud chose Sakarbaal as a common Phoenician name, but, I was still annoyed. It was so hard to keep from giggling at the pun.
The aged gentleman nodded. “From which clan is he?”
“Manchester United,” I mumbled sotto voce, biting my lip to stay silent as Spud’s heel met my shin. Yow! Okay, that worked.
“Cousin of Milkpilles,” continued Spud, picking another common and funny-sounding name. This time, the pain in my leg made it much easier to maintain a straight face.
“Ah.” The old man smiled and, still watching us intently with his bright hazel eyes, stepped aside. “Then you are nearing the end of your journey, Akbar and Danel. Go forward in good health.” Acknowledging his blessing, we both bowed our heads and proceeded briskly down the path. I felt the Keeper’s eyes boring into my back until the road curved and we were beyond his sight.
The path became much wider and well-trodden as we inched—or should I say cubitedvii—closer to our goal.
As soon as we were out of earshot, Spud gave me an English earful about my lack of self-control. “You might have blown our cover! And, besides, it’s football in Britain, not soccerball.”
As if I didn’t know. I looked at him through narrowed lids. “But Milk pills?”
“Milk-pill-es is an esteemed name in this era,” Spud returned my glare, “just as Kal-el and Pilot Inspektor, names given to their children by our fellow thespians, are in ours.”
Good point, Spud.
“The rather pedestrian moniker which you have bestowed upon me,” he added, obviously referring to ‘Spud’, is no less risible. But I do prefer it to the even more pedestrian ‘Bill’. Or my middle names of ‘Sherlock’ and ‘Scott’.”
“Can’t argue with that, either,” I conceded, and we both trudged silently along the path for another quarter hour. The sparse vegetation soon gave way to irrigated land, with fruits and vegetables in neat rows surrounding small cottages made of stone and fired brick. In the town, oblivious pedestrians passed us by from all directions, many carrying sacks or baskets of what seemed to be produce or other foodstuffs, and carefully balanced containers of water. I pressed the touch screen of my Ergal, now anamorphed into a hunting knife and hidden in my clothing, and M-fanned a similar jug, drawing it out from beneath the folds of my tunic to drench my parched lips.
“Careful,” whispered Spud, who grabbed the canteen from me and gulped the fresh water greedily. “Blistering desert.”
I was about to grumble, “Ergal your own,” when I spied a ramshackle structure a couple of hundred yards down the road.
“I believe that tumbledown edifice ahead should be our inn,” Spud said without enthusiasm.
“Don’t be a pessimist,” I chided. “I bet it’ll be a two star hotel.”
Spud looked at me, incredulous. “Two stars?”
“Sure, you and me,” I returned, grinning.
“Bollocks.”
The last drops of water he poured from my canteen were most refreshing. On my sizzling scalp.
Several Ergaled shekels got us a small room with two other travelers on the first floor of the inn in the city center. We claimed a shaded corner away from the window and, after brushing a column of ants out of our spot, unrolled our blankets on the relatively cool, packed-dirt floor. Midday was fully upon us, and searching for our target would be futile with most workers hiding indoors for shade and siesta.
Spud sat cross-legged on the floor, chewing on bay leaves, and leaned against the brick wall, lost in thought. I lay on my blanket, one hand behind my head and the other brushing an annoyingly persistent fly off my face, and gazed up at the ragged wood ceiling beams that supported the cottage’s upper floor, hoping that the insect life of this city didn’t include termites. I hadn’t intended to fall asleep, and wasn’t sure that I really had, when I heard our two fellow guests in the far corner speaking softly in Aramaic.
Through the miracles of CANDI, my Ergal translated their language even when I was semi-conscious, and I recall being able to make out a few words.
“Three cubits … sunrise … bricks … masonry … Jupiter … Yeshua … death …”
Yeshua? Death? I struggled to wake up, and finally opened my eyes, only to find that our two roommates were gone. And so was Spud! His blanket rested untouched next to mine. Where did he go? Or, worse, where might he have been taken?
The sun was now lower in the sky, and I could hear a growing hustle and bustle from the street outside. I debated whether I should wait here in case Spud was simply playing the bloodhound, or whether I should start planning a rescue. I finally decided that it wouldn’t hurt to go and scope out the local territory a bit for a start.
Then the words I’d heard resonated once again in my memory. Yeshua. Could the men who’d been sitting a few feet from our blankets actually be the Andarts we were trying to catch? Nah. That would be too easy. But…
Cubits … bricks … masonry … Certainly sounded like it had something to do with construction. Gary had told us that Yeshua was likely to be working on a building site. Maybe the Andarts were canvassing those sites to find their target. And Jupiter, well Jupiter was King of the Roman gods—the Roman Zeus—but Jupiter could also be the planet. If these men were the Andarts we were after, they would know that Zygan Intelligence has an outpost on one of Jupiter’s moons, Io, and they might have been discussing how to avoid Io patrols when they made their escape. After killing Yeshua. Death—
I spun around and grabbed his muscular forearm, twisting it and sending its owner flat on his back on his blanket. With an angry “Ow!” Spud pulled his arm away and rubbed the tender tendons that I’d strained.
“Dammit, Spud. You shouldn’t have snuck up on me like that! I have razor-sharp reflexes, remember?” I countered. “And where the heck were you, anyway?”
“False alarm,” Spud admitted. “I overheard our friends over there conversing and thought we had a lead.”
“No?”
Spud shook his head. “Wrong Yeshua.”
“Oh.” I frowned. “Did you hear them say something about death, too?”
He nodded. “Apparently, one of the men has inherited some property on the outskirts of town on which he wants to build. The Yeshua they were talking about is an old squatter, living on the land, so they have to encourage him to move on, one way or another.”
I winced. “I don’t think I want to hear about their plans. I know it’s not our mission, but shouldn’t we, uh, help this other Yeshua?”
“We can’t,” Spud reminded me. “You know the rules when we’re on a mission. Observe and Preserve. No interference in local environments unless it’s an official assignment. And you know the punishment if we do.”
I shivered involuntarily. “It wasn’t the most pleasant hour of my life.” I’d already felt the wrath of the Omega Archon’s strict governance when I’d flouted a couple of the millions of Zygint “rules” as an intern, and had suffered the unrelenting agony of the burning flames of Hell. My sentence had only been for thirty minutes, but I’d resolved never to find myself “in stir” again. I stood up and stretched, trying to relieve the sudden tension in my muscles. “So, what’s our next step?”
“Gary briefed us that Bar Maryam is likely in construction work of some kind,” Spud suggested. “We could get a position with one of the local crews and see what we could, er, as you say, dig up?”
“Funny.” I shook my head. “No … it won’t work. These guys are real craftsmen. We’d never be able to look legit as construction workers with just upload learning from our Ergals.” My eyes followed a rat as it scurried from one end of our room to the other. “I’ve got it! Roman building inspectors.”
“We can pretend to be Roman building inspectors. Checking on permits, taxes, titles, all that crap. Feared by all the locals. I’ll bet they’d be happy to give up Bar Maryam just so we stay off their backs.” I nodded at Spud’s smooth hands. “We would make more convincing bureaucrats than tradesmen.”
“Good point.” Spud chewed his lip. “In fact, that might possibly work. How is your Latin, Danielis?
I smiled as I set my Ergal for the ancient language. “Praepara, Arcturus.”
* * *
A few Ergal-facilitated additions to our costumes and we were ‘praepared’. Pretending to be Roman estate and building inspectors and revenue collectors, we spent the next two days scouring the city. I don’t believe we missed visiting a workshop, construction site, or warehouse in the entire town of Sidon. By the second day, we had accumulated hundreds of shekels in bribes from anxious landowners, but, unfortunately, few real leads. None of the builders and tradesmen we met admitted to knowing a Yeshua Bar Maryam, itinerant craftsman from Judea. If we didn’t get lucky soon, an Andart or Andarts were certainly going to beat us to the young man!
Our next stop was a large structure being erected on an isolated lot near the edge of town. The base of the building was made of stone, granite, and marble. A wood frame rose out of the base, within which a cadre of brawny masons were laying kiln-fired bricks.
There was no well-dressed landowner at this site, so Spud approached the idlest of the workers, whom we assumed was the supervisor, and, in Latin, introduced us as visiting Romans. The supervisor visibly trembled, protested in Phoenician that his Latin was poor, and, before we could begin our auditors’ spiel, reached into a ragged pocket and pulled out a handful of shekels. I rolled my eyes, and Spud raised his hand to indicate our disinterest in the proffered funds.
