Time Shards--Shatter War

by Dana Fredsti

  He pointed to the inner cylinder. “The rotating barrel has nine separate chambers for the bolts, each bolt propelled by its own bowstring, which, thanks to an internal mechanism, is automatically and effortlessly drawn back for re-firing when the bolt clip is inserted. The cylinder rotates with splendid rapidity, enabling an astounding rate of fire and a most impressive lethality. I’ve never seen the like.

  “Here is our greatest obstacle,” he continued, lifting a long loop of some sort of cord. “These circular bowstrings are marvelous creations. As flexible as caoutchouc rubber, as strong as steel. C’est manifique. I cannot fathom the material from which they are constructed, or how.”

  Géroux nodded, finger against the bridge of his nose. “Perhaps we can circumvent that problem,” he said. “I have a hypothesis, Sergeant. I believe once we locate this aerial ship of theirs, we will find an entire arsenal of such weapons, and who knows what else.”

  “So you believe them, then?”

  “About this cosmic madness, this ‘Event’ of theirs, wreaking havoc upon time itself? Undoubtedly—we have seen too much that corroborates their account. Their ability to speak every language? Quite patently evident. About their incredible flying ship? Of that, I have every confidence.”

  “And the rest of it, sir? That the world will end unless we allow them to continue on with their mission?”

  “On that account, I find myself not entirely convinced. I think it rather more likely that they merely wish to leave and return to their lost ship—or at any rate, back to wherever they have come from, bidding us adieu.”

  He ran his fingertips over the tabletop, past the components of the strange new weapon.

  “In truth, Sergeant, all I know for certain is that going forward, we will gallantly offer them aid at every turn. Once we locate their vessel, with its store of fabulous devices and wondrous weapons, we shall immediately declare it under French protection.”

  “And the newcomers, sir?”

  “Either they will become our newest citizens, or a cautionary tale.” Géroux shrugged. “I shall leave the choice to them.”

  42

  German Afrika Korps Encampment

  Eight days after the Event

  Blake had nearly reached the sea. He couldn’t see it, but could smell the closeness of the salt on the dry wind. Despite the rocky terrain, finding the main body of the German encampment had presented no problem at all. He’d only needed to keep following the ruts gouged out by the mass of heavy tanks. His hunch had been right, too.

  Much more remained of the Afrika Korps forces.

  Too bad the Event didn’t take out more of the Nazis.

  There they were, a leaguer of at least another two dozen Panzers, aligned in a protective square surrounding the main camp. The tanks formed the outer wall, then the smaller vehicles, and then the bulk of the improvised military tent city—camouflage awnings for shade, fuel and supply dumps, repair workshops, surgeries, and all the other miscellany needed to support an armored division.

  To his right, north of the leaguer, was a coastal oasis with native tents and open air markets. Both camp and caravanserai were well-occupied with figures moving about or clustered in groups. Probably worth checking out the Arab market, but first things first. He revved the engine and started straight for the enemy camp.

  It was abuzz with activity—they were preparing to move out. Mechanics made last-minute repairs to tank treads or stripped armor plating off of tanks that had been irredeemably damaged to weld onto others. Crews loaded fuel and water cans. Blake blended in without difficulty. Swarms of lorries and motorcycles just like his were moving all around, like industrious bees.

  Blake kept his eyes peeled and his cycle moving—the last thing he wanted was for someone to start asking questions, or worse, have some officer commandeer him for chauffeur duty. He spotted a promising target of opportunity, a helmeted soldier lugging ammo crates, and pulled up alongside him.

  “Hey Kumpel,” he said in perfect German, “I’m out of rounds for the fifty cal. Have you got any there?”

  The soldier put down his load with a loud grunt and gave Blake a dirty look. “Denkste! What do I look like, der Weihnachtsmann?”

  “Don’t be an asshole.” Blake looked both ways and leaned in with a conspiratorial glance. “You know how it is. The req situation is ridiculous right now. Look, there’s half a bottle of Schnapps in it for you if you can help me out.”

  The trooper raised an eyebrow, though he remained dubious. “What can I do?” the soldier shrugged. “You’ll have to take it up with the supply officer, but that ink-pisser’s gonna say no, I promise you.”

  “Kein Problem. You let me worry about dealing with that Nichtsnutz. Come here, throw those on the bike, hop in and tell me where all this scheiße is supposed to be headed. I’ll take you there myself.”

  “Ja, what are we waiting for?” The man hefted the two heavy metal cases and loaded them onto the back of the bike, behind Blake. He held up a finger and backed away.

  “Hold on, I just have two more—be right back. Right back!” The soldier turned and hurried off to the staging area behind them, coming back toting two more ammo cases, which he put into the sidecar before squeezing himself in, as well. “This way!” he said, pointing ahead of them.

  Blake nodded. “Jawohl.”

  The man led them to one of the last lorries, parked near the corner of the leaguer. The division’s support teams had been doing triage on all the surviving vehicles—not all of them were going to be making the trip. This last one had barely made the cut, and the mechanics were still underneath it, finishing up the final repairs. The helmeted soldier made quick to hop out and grab the ammo cases from the sidecar. He hauled the crates into the back, and gestured to Blake.

  “Here, give me a hand getting the other two loaded, and then we’ll find the requisitions officer for you.”

  Blake nodded, more than happy to assist.

  “You’ve still got that bottle of Schnapps, right?” the soldier asked warily.

  “Got it right here,” Blake answered easily, pulling the canvas flaps closed behind him.

  * * *

  There was a brief, furious commotion, easily missed in all the noisy hubbub of the military camp.

  * * *

  Moments later Blake emerged alone from the back of the lorry, cracking his knuckles. Sauntering around to the mechanics up front, he rapped sharply on the mudguard.

  “Hey, you two lovebirds about done down there, or do you need to go get a room? We’ve got places to go.” The pair of mechanics slid out from underneath, their unamused faces streaked with grease and sweat. The older of the two squinted up at him.

  “Ja, ja, that’s funny,” he said. “Why don’t you tell that to your mother? She can hear you—she just can’t answer because she’s down here with my dick in her mouth.”

  Blake grinned.

  “Take your time, gentlemen, she’s a delicate old lady,” he replied jovially. “But in the meantime, the Stabsgefreiter wants to know how much longer you will need to get this bitch of an engine back up and running.”

  “You can tell the staff commander—” the younger mechanic began.

  “You can tell the staff commander we’ll have it fixed in an hour,” his partner said.

  “That’s too bad,” Blake answered. “You won’t have a chance to grab any chow if you’re not done in twenty-five minutes—and here I had a half bottle of Schnapps, too, as a thank-you.”

  “Mach keinen Scheiß! Alright, alright, we’ll have your precious engine going—but you’ve got to give us a half hour here, you damn slave driver.”

  “I’ll just go get that bottle,” Blake said as he turned and walked back toward the motorcycle. Handy thing, the language implant. Commando work was so much easier when you spoke the language.

  The thought was interrupted by his worst fear realized—a non-commissioned officer in a bad mood. From the insignia on the man’s DAK cap and jacket, Blake realized it wa
s the Stabsgefreiter himself, speak of the devil. The irate staff commander was coming straight toward the lorry, his disapproving gaze darting around the camp.

  No doubt looking to commandeer a driver, Blake suspected. Avoiding the slightest trace of eye contact he did an immediate about-face toward the back of the lorry, careful to keep his pace even and unhurried. He stepped up and pulled aside the canvas to enter.

  “Hey!” the commander called out. “Who left this motorcycle here? You?”

  Blake shrugged, not turning. “No idea, sir,” he answered, and quickly slipped past the flaps into the back of the truck. Inside, the dead German soldier sat, propped up against the cab, staring idiotically back at him. Blake regarded him with a frown. He needed to find a better place to stash the corpse. But where?

  Best to hide him in here, he decided. He maneuvered his own body to a place where he could slip his hands underneath the armpits and haul the man up. It was awkward work, heaving the limp corpse off the floor, cradling the body against his chest while the legs dragged along behind. If he could just move it over a few feet, he’d be able to stow it behind the furthest stack of crates.

  Someone cleared their throat.

  The Stabsgefreiter peered into the lorry. His arms still wrapped around the body, Blake found the barrel of the German’s pistol, pointed right at him.

  43

  At the Hikaptah, New Memphis

  Evening – Eight days after the Event

  The temple-turned-feast hall was lit by a festive constellation of oil lamps. Its high walls echoed with the revelry of the celebrating French soldiers, and a heavenly aroma of roasting meat rose from the fire pits in the side chambers.

  Amber’s group sat as special guests at the lieutenant’s table, along with Sergeant-Major Durand and a stoic Ibn Fadlan. Though he made no complaints and kept his face serene, Amber thought he looked acutely uncomfortable.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked under the cover of laughter from the soldiers.

  He gave her a gentle smile. “Diplomats know all too well how alike the words guest and prisoner can be.” The truth in his words made Amber more uneasy than she already was.

  A stream of Egyptian servants attended to the revelers, bringing in platter after platter of food—meaty helpings of fish and fowl, vegetables, ceramic bowls of hummus-like concoctions, as well as baskets of various warm flatbreads, freshly baked in round cakes, triangles, crispy little cones, and sweet pastries. They also brought in bowls of rich blood-red beer, though Ibn Fadlan and Leila were offered tea and honey instead. A smiling young woman wearing a linen tunic so sheer it was transparent went from table to table offering blue lotus flowers. Leila turned beet red and averted her eyes.

  Géroux stood and called for silence.

  “Attention! Attention!” he shouted. “I propose a toast! We fighting men have come far and through much to be here this night, and there are many brave and honorable men who did not. To absent friends and comrades!”

  The soldiers echoed the sentiment.

  “These are revolutionary times. The Ancien Régime is long defeated. The times of tyrannies are no more. As the words of the song ring clear—tremble, enemies of France! The victory is ours!”

  The soldiers cheered, and spontaneously broke into song.

  La République nous appelle

  Sachons vaincre ou sachons périr

  Un Français doit vivre pour elle

  Pour elle un Français doit mourir!

  The Republic is calling us!

  Let us conquer or perish!

  A Frenchman must live for her,

  A Frenchman must live for her!

  The stanza ended with more cheers from the men. Géroux quieted them, and continued.

  “Another toast,” he called out. “To our honored guests, who have shed much light on our current state of affairs. Cheers!”

  The rest of the hall joined him in the salute.

  “You look upon these strangers,” he continued, “and are filled with questions. Who are they? Where are they from? I know the rumors that have been flying about the camp all day. Incredible rumors, unbelievable and unthinkable. Sheer madness.” He paced up and down the lines of tables as he spoke. Every eye in the great hall was on him.

  “Well, the rumors are true,” he said solemnly. “Our future and our past have joined us here in the present—history and destiny have become one and the same. The old world has given us the best of its bounty, and the unseen future has revealed its wisdom to us—yet to what end? To effect a new creation, a second Eden, a new chance for everyone. To shatter the mold of yesterday and tomorrow, and give rise to a shining new nation, a new people, a new Republic.”

  He again lifted his drink.

  “To the new world we are building from the scattered shards of the old, here in the French-Egyptian colony of New Memphis,” he said. “À La Nouvelle-Memphis!”

  Géroux’s men had listened in silence, taking in the full weight of his words. Now they stood and roared their applause in a standing ovation. Amber and Cam looked at one another, the same nagging concern reflected on each other’s face. The lieutenant stood, nodding his approval, and then raised his hands for silence again.

  “On a more immediate note, we also have our guests to thank for our main entrée tonight—Hippopotame braisé et grillé! Enjoy, and bon appétit!”

  The hippo that had attacked them that morning provided the feast with a ton of fresh meat—in actuality, nearly two tons. Durand and Géroux enthusiastically debated its culinary virtues, comparing its taste, consistency, and marbling with that of elk, moose, and pilot whale. Their discussion ended without a resolution, as a sudden cheer went up.

  A group of young women filed into the room, dressed in the same sheer linen as the lotus-flower servant. They came with drums, clappers, and frames stringed with tiny bells, followed by harpists, lute-players, and pipers. An even louder roar of approval greeted the arrival of a line of lissome Egyptian dancing girls, all dressed in little more than jewelry around their wrists and ankles.

  An awed silence fell over the hall as the exotic and ancient music started up, every man riveted at the spectacle of the dancing, the almond-eyed girls aligned in pairs, moving in subtle, hypnotic arcs back and forth across the temple floor, swirling their arched bodies, their outstretched arms twisting with sinuous, serpentine grace.

  On a capricious whim, the regimental musicians nudged each other, and spontaneously rose to join their Egyptian counterparts, accompanying them with military drum, fife, and hurdy-gurdy. The native musicians laughed and nodded, encouraging them. The dancing girls carried on, their eyes sparkling at the novel sounds coming from the strange new instruments, especially the violin-like music of the hurdy-gurdy.

  When they finished, the dancers froze in the final positions before raising their arms in reverence and bowing to their appreciative audience, who hooted, whistled, and applauded with lusty vigor. The dancing girls took their leave, to the displeasure of the soldiers, and the French musicians quickly came to the rescue with the opening strains of La Marseillaise, causing the soldiers to stand and break into song again. The Egyptians listened, and then joined in with their own instruments, giving the anthem an exotic new flair.

  All across the echoing hall, the music cast the same chill on newcomers and natives alike. Something new was being born there that night, a mélange of Europe and the ancient Orient. Their descendants would tell stories about this night.

  Then the moment passed, and after another round of applause, everyone returned to the feasting.

  * * *

  At the lieutenant’s table, Leila seemed quietly mortified by it all, barely picking at her food and avoiding eye contact with anyone. At the same time Ibn Fadlan was using all his diplomatic expertise to conceal his multiple discomforts. Here, inside a pagan temple filled with cruel idols and covered in demonic symbols, sitting at a mixed table of women and infidel Franks, where near-naked houris cavorted without modesty, instilling
lust with their nubile bodies and tempting them with opium flowers, unclean foods, and alcohol the color of blood.

  Long ago he had discovered a useful expedient whenever he was called upon by duty to travel to foreign climes—to the lands of the Khazars, to filthy heathen Turkic khanates, the Varangian trading posts of the barbaric Viking Rus. He found it most helpful to simply observe their customs without judgment, no matter how foul, impious, or disgusting the people he encountered.

  * * *

  Kha-Hotep was also deeply disturbed. These strange soldiers from the future had desecrated the holiest site in the very capital of Egypt, and set themselves up as gods. Where were the priests? Although only part of the enormous temple complex remained, dozens of the temple priests should also have survived.

  What had happened to them?

  The Egyptian frowned to himself. So much had changed in the span of a few days, it was hard to grasp it all. He took comfort in the thought that if Amber and Cam were right, Ma’at, the divine order and harmony, would soon be restored.

  After all, order—not chaos—was the will of the gods, if not always that of their servants.

  He put aside such seditious theological musings and decided to make the most of the situation. All around the hall the music, feast, and above all the rich red Egyptian ale were having great effect, with the men by turns feeling patriotic, maudlin, libertine, raucous, or euphoric.

  Some sang, some staggered, some fell asleep right at the table. Others looked for a fight or loudly declared eternal friendships—sometimes both within the space of minutes.

  * * *

  Géroux watched the room with the same intensity as the statues of Ptah looming above them, carefully gauging his audience. He rose and raised his hand once more, calling for silence.