Time Shards--Tempus Fury

by Dana Fredsti

  Nelly had built a career by putting herself forward, taking chances few women—and not many men—could or would. When she’d faked insanity to gain entrance to Blackwell’s Island, she’d spent ten days in hell. What if her editor at the New York World hadn’t followed through on his word and secured her release? But he had, and the story had helped secure her career.

  One that now meant nothing. How many people in the shard world even knew who she was?

  Still, she thought, I should write everything down. Just in case we manage to set things right. Although without the Vanuatu, that was highly unlikely. And even if they did succeed, would the world return to the way it had been? Would any of them remember anything that had happened when the timeline shattered?

  Her thoughts scattered when someone placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. Nellie looked up to see the Greek mathematician smiling down at her.

  “You look as though you await the return of Mehta’s flying vessel,” Hypatia said.

  “The Vanuatu? It was never his.” Nellie shook her head. “I don’t know what we will do, now that it’s been destroyed.”

  Hypatia’s face dropped. “The destruction of such an amazing vessel is a crime.”

  “Yes,” Nellie replied. “Mehta, though… being rid of him almost makes it worth it. Almost.” Another thought occurred. “If we truly are rid of him.”

  “If not the airship, then what do you look for?”

  “Blake.”

  “The soldier.”

  Nellie nodded. Hypatia looked at her thoughtfully.

  “Do you truly think he will return?”

  “If he doesn’t, he won’t go out of this world without taking plenty of them with him.” Nellie shook her head again, chasing away the thought.

  “The guard are on watch,” Hypatia assured her. “We will know as soon as they see him.”

  “What about Alexandria?” Nellie asked. “What will you do?”

  “We cannot hide in the palace and let the city devour itself this way,” Hypatia replied passionately. At her words, Orestes looked up from the map.

  “What choice do we have?” he said. “We are on the ragged edge of anarchy—the guard are stretched thin, and there are already more rioting parabolani than there are soldiers left in the Macedonian barracks. We must allow their fire to burn out naturally—let them expend their energies killing themselves, and not our remaining soldiers.”

  Nellie stood. “Prefect, you must convince the people of the city that fighting one another is suicide, when a greater enemy will be knocking at the gates soon enough. Won’t we need every one of them then?”

  “She has the right of it,” Hypatia said quietly.

  “Of course she does!” Orestes raged, slamming his hand on the table. Tokens scattered across the map. He took a deep breath before continuing. “And if they had ears to listen, perhaps I could find the words to extort them—but you know as well as I what the mobs will do if we try to keep them from shedding one another’s blood. Or have you forgotten how close you came to being dragged from your chariot and torn to pieces?”

  “Yet you are still the law!” Hypatia said. “Who else but you can rally a defense, when the true enemy comes?”

  “And what will happen if you do nothing?” Nellie asked.

  The prefect turned away from them, and laid a hand on the lion head carved into his seat of rule, as if stroking its mane.

  “So…” he said at last. “A woman’s eye finds a choice where a man sees none.” He faced them again. “Very well. We choose to ride out.”

  * * *

  Accompanied by all that could be spared of the Prefectural Guard—a handful of armored cavalry and a dozen foot soldiers—they took Oreste’s chariot, the largest quadriga in the city, pulled by four handsome Etrurian bays. Hypatia thought sadly of her own charioteer, Onesimus, and her slave Aspasius, lost in the attack on her the previous night. Their fate remained a complete mystery.

  Considering how easily the mob had overcome her guard, she was not reassured by the presence of this smaller force. Even so, through the normally-crowded theater district of Aspendia and the Soma—the sacred precinct containing the Temple of Pan and the mausoleums of Alexander and the Ptolemies— they made their way without challenge or incident. Along the great Canopic Way, the city’s major thoroughfare, windows were shuttered and the street eerily deserted.

  Finally they approached the agora, where the agitated sound of angry shouts grew steadily louder.

  “Listen to the roar,” Orestes said. “There must be over three hundred of them.”

  Hypatia leaned in to Nellie. “Do you have your weapon at hand?”

  Nellie shook her head. “The pistol? No, it was out of bullets. Useless, except for show.”

  Not the answer Hypatia had hoped for.

  They came close enough to see the two clashing factions, their quarrel having passed the boiling point. The patriarch Bishop Cyril led his black-hooded parabolani, the wild, unkempt monks who had become fanatic enforcers and foot soldiers. Yet Cyril’s forces were clashing, not with Jews or pagans, but with their fellow believers, the gray-robed followers of the Christian presbyter Novatian.

  “What on earth are they fighting about?” Orestes said in an undertone.

  Hypatia could only shake her head. She couldn’t remember how the two factions differed. Nonetheless, several men were staggering away, bruised and bloodied, while others lay crumpled on the street in spreading crimson puddles. The prefect’s guess had been correct. The mob was over three hundred strong. Closer to a thousand, in fact.

  “Sound the trumpets,” Orestes commanded, his voice quiet but firm. The fracas nearly drowned out the blare of the instruments, but Cyril noted it.

  “Prefect!” the bishop called out. “These heretics have committed crimes against the Holy Church and offense against God. Respectfully, the duty to rebuke and castigate them is ours, not yours, Dominus Praefectus.”

  “Lord Prefect!” the Novatianist leader cried out. “Help us! We are innocent citizens defending ourselves! It is they who offend God with their heresy, and they seek to murder us!”

  “Lies!” one of the parabolani shouted in the forefront. “God will smite you!”

  “Patience, Ammonius,” the bishop called, reining in his follower. “All of you, make way and allow the prefect to pass undisturbed!” The parabolani ceased their assault, and a relative silence fell over the crowd.

  “I am not in transit,” Orestes said curtly. “I would speak with you, Your Excellency. You and your flock.” He raised his voice. “Hear this, all! The defense of the city is at hand. An enemy army approaches. Every man is required to do his duty—every last one of you. There shall be no further unrest. Return to your homes and await my word.”

  A sullen grumble rose from the sea of black hoods, making the cataphracts’ horses nervous. Hypatia shared their unease.

  “Prefect, please, I implore you.” Bishop Cyril spread his hands wide. “These heretics have provoked the faithful— so grievously, I fear, that I cannot hold back their righteous wrath. Return to the palace at once, I pray you. I will come join you there in due course, to offer my counsel and support.” His followers muttered their agreement.

  Orestes narrowed his eyes. “I say again to all of you. Return to your homes and await my edict. This is my command. Obey it as Alexandrians, and as my fellow Christians.”

  “You? You are no Christian!” Ammonius yelled back. He stabbed a finger toward Hypatia and Nellie. “Look at him! See how he parades through the streets with his whores!” The bishop said nothing to restrain him, watching through lizard-lidded eyes as the drama played out.

  “Not a Christian?” Orestes shouted. “I was baptized by the Bishop of Constantinople! Who consecrated you a monk, you prating priest?”

  “Stop this!” Hypatia’s clear voice rang out. “Listen to your prefect. Our city is in grave danger from an enemy who approaches even now, and still you all bicker like hateful, quarreling schoolboys
!”

  “Keep silent, whore!” Ammonius bellowed, spittle flying from his mouth. He raised his fists in the air, stirring up his brothers. “Are godly men to listen to the authority of a woman? See how Orestes is in thrall to these vile witches—their slave! He has given his flesh over to Satan!”

  “Arrest that man!” the prefect ordered.

  Ammonius answered by grabbing a jagged, fist-sized stone from the ground and hurling it toward them. It struck Orestes in the temple, and he collapsed to the floor of the chariot like a rag doll, clutching his head, trying to staunch the stream of blood. It quickly covered his face.

  A new roar went up from the mob, and more stones came flying through the air toward them. With a howl of bloodlust, the black-robed tide of parabolani rose up again against the Novatianist heretics—and against the prefectural chariot.

  The sight of the furious mob made the horses rear up in fright, and the charioteer strained to rein them in. Then a thrown chunk of pavestone caught him in the teeth. Howling, he grabbed his bleeding face and a second stone hit his head, knocking him to the floor of the chariot alongside Nellie and Hypatia and the stricken Orestes. The panicked horses dragged the chariot for a few feet before breaking free and galloping away.

  * * *

  The foot soldiers of the Prefectural Guard rushed to form a shield wall against the rain of stones. Nellie shrieked as rocks bounded off the shields and clattered around them, dangerously close.

  We’ll be stoned to death, she thought, terrified. Out of nowhere, her panicked mind suddenly envisioned Amber, screaming her name, but the figment was quickly dashed away, eclipsed by the charging mob.

  “Oh god, this is it!” she sobbed, grabbing Hypatia.

  7

  Aboard the Egyptian barge Siu-Tuait – the Star of the Dawn

  Heading downstream on the Nile

  Nine days after the Event

  The Star of the Dawn made excellent progress down the Nile, thanks to the crew of twelve Egyptian rowers they had taken on at Giza—all worshippers of the divine and newly resurrected god Siu-Netherit.

  They had extended their services gladly. DeMetta had only to make his wishes known to the high priestess Nefer-Tamit, and the worshippers fought one another for the honor to serve. Now they made best speed for Alexandria, the dozen men propelling the barge in strong, synchronized pulls of the paddles.

  Amber and DeMetta sat silently in the bow, oblivious to the rest of the passengers. To anyone watching, the pair seemed to be engaged in no more than a friendly staring contest. Inside her mind, a new universe was being born. She had to control her breathing as she grappled with what Dee had awakened. It was as if this terrifying and awesome ability had been lying dormant in her brain, just waiting for the right signal to bring it to the surface. Could this be what they needed? What she needed?

  “Am I doing it right?” she asked.

  “Yes, loud and clear,” he responded. “Okay, come on, keep talking.”

  Amber glanced at the Egyptians manning the oars.

  “How do they do that? It seems so… effortless.”

  “I gave them a psionic push to boost their endurance. They’ll need breaks for food and water, though, or they’ll continue to row day and night as if their lives depend on it, up until their bodies give out.”

  It was a little creepy, she thought, the robotic way the men went through their paces. It felt like slavery, too, even though Amber told herself they were all volunteers. Their lives really did depend on it, too.

  All our lives depend on it, she thought.

  DeMetta nodded. “They really do.”

  A sudden wave of despair overwhelmed her—their mission seemed impossible. First, they had to find the Vanuatu—wherever it was—then, somehow rescue the others from János Mehta and take control of the ship. After that, they had to reach the South Pole to find Merlin’s lab. Unless they could reverse the shredding of space-time, the planet would continue to break into tiny fragments…What had he said? All the way down to the subatomic level…

  At most they had days.

  Perhaps hours…

  With a jolt, Amber realized DeMetta was aware of her running mental chatter. He was listening to her train of thought, could sense the anxiety radiating off her, bright as a neon sign.

  “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

  “Forget it,” he insisted. After a moment, he continued, “Focus now. It’s going to get trickier. Are you ready?”

  She nodded, and hoped it was true. There was a tingling in her head as DeMetta focused, his features perfectly still. Then it happened. A new part of her mind awakened.

  Amber gasped.

  She had seen videos of deaf people hearing for the first time, or of the moment when the bandages came off the eyes of a person who had been blind from birth. The instant when someone suddenly gained an entirely new sense that they could never have imagined before. Now she knew what that meant.

  A keen new awareness unfolded, the presence of everything around her making itself known. The darkness of the river and the empty desert to either side lit up like Times Square. It was like seeing a galaxy of stars, or maybe hearing an orchestra break into a concerto. The sensations were overwhelming— the invisible light, the silent cacophony.

  “Amber…?”

  She could feel his concern. “It’s… it’s—I can’t even describe it all.” She did her best to regain her mental balance, and pushed a collage of scattered sounds and images at him.

  ///stampeding crowds of screaming fans

  at a concert///every face and every animal

  she could call to mind///An astronaut

  murmuring, “My god, it’s full of stars”///

  “It can be overwhelming at first, I know,” he responded. “Here, let me show you how to turn down the background noise.” She felt his presence again in her mind, and just like that, she instinctively knew how to turn the roar down to a manageable level.

  Better.

  With a new, keen sense of awareness Amber glanced around at the other people on the boat. DeMetta, the twelve rowers, Cam and Kha-Hotep, Leila and Ibn Fadlan.

  “Wow, I can see—I mean, I can feel—all of us. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I do. Congratulations, Amber. You’re a telepath now.”

  Deciding to press further along, she mentally studied her friends. Their Egyptian riverboat captain Kha-Hotep was telling Cam something about the Nile. Ibn Fadlan, a medieval Muslim noble, chatted in Arabic with Leila, a student from twentieth-century Cairo, on some esoteric topic the girl didn’t seem to understand. With a start, Amber realized that she could tell that Cam was interested, while Leila was bored.

  Their emotions seemed palpable to her in a way she couldn’t quite define. No shimmering auras, no cheap special effects. It was as if she’d suddenly gained the ability to read and translate the subtlest of body language.

  Focusing on Ibn Fadlan, she saw that he was at ease, buttressed by an almost fatalistic sense of calm. Beneath that, however, she could sense ripples of doubt crashing up against his stony reserves of theological certainty. Leila’s psyche showed many of the same fears and more—shock, mourning, and uncertainty—but she didn’t enjoy Ibn Fadlan’s bolstering assurance. Her doubts were closer to the surface.

  Kha-Hotep surprised her with the depths of his feelings. The captain always seemed to be such a cool customer, but he carried an enormous burden of grief at the loss of his crew, especially his younger brother. His hidden sorrow touched her.

  Then there was Cam. He seemed even more at ease than Ibn Fadlan, but it wasn’t that he didn’t understand the gravity of their situation, or that he was in denial. He was just coping in a very different way. Cam had grown up in a less civilized time than the Arab, and his tribal values embraced a world filled with fickle magic and dark, dangerous mysteries.

  As she watched the young Celt listening to Kha-Hotep, he always seemed eager to take in more knowledge—he was like a sponge. In the midst of t
heir conversation he glanced over at her and smiled—and with a jolt like an electric shock, Amber felt the power of his feelings for her.

  She turned away quickly, unable to keep eye contact.

  “Easy now,” DeMetta sent. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded, cheeks flushed and heart thumping. In the abstract, she had known Cam had strong feelings for her. It was one thing to know, however—and another thing entirely to encounter it firsthand, so vibrantly.

  He loved her.

  He would follow her into battle if need be.

  He would die for her.

  He expected to die for her.

  DeMetta leaned in to catch her gaze.

  “You sure you’re alright?”

  “I’m… I’m okay.

  “It’s just that…”

  She struggled to send clearly, but her thoughts were agitated, flying off before she could stop them.

  ///oh crap///Cam///ohmygod///

  ///he loves me///oh god oh god///Cam///

  ///kissing him///Cam naked in the

  moonlight///oh god don’t die!///

  ///I think I love him too///

  DeMetta took her hands in his and did something with his mind that slowed the unwanted psychic torrent, until it was a trickle.

  “I’m sorry,” he sent. “I didn’t expect that to happen. I guess I take for granted the training we receive. It’s okay. You just sensed a little more than you expected, and got a surprise.” He let that sink in, then added, “You’re a natural empath, Amber. It took me a long time to learn how to properly read surface emotions, and here you are, picking them up without even trying.”

  “God, I’m so embarrassed!” she responded. “I mean, I knew, but…”

  “Yeah, it’s different when you get it straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak, isn’t it? But don’t be embarrassed. It’s all part of the process.”

  She took a few deep breaths, shook her head a bit to clear it, and smiled at him.

  “I’m okay. Thanks. Yes, it’s just so…” She realized something. “Wait—you aren’t still reading all my thoughts, too, are you?”