The Corps of Discovery Trilogy Box Set: Books 1-3: A multiverse series of alternate history

by James S. Peet

  Brown and Drew made for the front desk while Monk headed toward the colored entrance. The two police officers followed the two CBE agents.

  Inside, Brown showed the desk clerk the drawings of Clark and West, setting his CBE badge wallet, with the badge displayed, on the desk as he did so. “These two stayin’ here?”

  The clerk nodded, a bit intimidated. It wasn’t often desk clerks at the Peachtree Palace were confronted by the Confederacy’s most famous law enforcement agency.

  “What room?” Brown continued.

  The clerk swallowed nervously before answering. “Suite 410. It’s on the fourth floor.”

  “You know if they’re in?”

  A bit more assuredly, the clerk nodded. “Yeah. This guy,” pointing toward the image of Bill, “just went upstairs.”

  Brown nodded his thanks, put his badge wallet back in his pocket, and holding the drawings, headed toward the elevator. Pointing at one of the police officers, he said, “You stay here.” To the other, he said, “You, head up those stairs to the fourth floor. Anyone come barging out, you stop ‘em.”

  Both officers nodded. By the time the elevator had arrived, the officer had already started up the stairs.

  Within minutes, Drew and Brown were standing outside the door of Suite 401.

  69

  When Bill opened the door, he was confronted by two men, one older, wearing a wrinkled linen suit and a younger man behind him, wearing a relatively stylish (for this planet) suit. The old man held up a wallet with a gold badge that Bill could see had Confederate Bureau of Enforcement on it in raised gold letters.

  “I’m Special Agent Brown, and this is Special Agent Peters. Mind if we come in a talk a bit?” It wasn’t really a question, as the man was already walking into the room, practically forcing Bill to back up. As the younger man made his way into the room, Brown, who by now was practically standing in front of Lane, started pulling a pair of handcuffs from his belt. “William Clark and Lane West, I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Memphis Police Officer Cr—”

  Brown didn’t get any further because that’s when Bill and Lane reacted, striking like pit vipers. Bill had dropped his pack and with both arms held up in front of him, elbows bent so his forearms were parallel with his torso, slammed into the younger of the two men, forcing him against the wall with a resounding thud. Before the man could even respond, Bill had wrapped both hands behind his man’s head and, as if trying to force it through the floor, slammed him onto the floor, face down. Bill didn’t watch what Lane was doing but suspected it was the same maneuver on Agent Brown. As soon as Peters hit the ground, the wind knocked out of him from the double body slams, Bill, still holding onto his neck, released it with his right hand which immediately became a fist that Bill drove straight into the base of the man’s head.

  Bill didn’t care if he had killed the CBE agent or not. Maybe it was the adrenalin, or the fact that he was just plain pissed off at him and his crew being hounded by racist cops. All he knew was that the CBE was on his tail and there was no way he was going to wind up in a CBE prison, especially because of some racist Southern cop. Another hard rabbit punch and the cop was no longer moving.

  Glancing over at Lane, he saw the other agent also sprawled out on the ground. He had managed to get his revolver out, but that was about it. The close-quarters unarmed combat training the Explorers had spent hours on before the mission had just proved itself useful again.

  “Cuff ‘em and stuff ‘em,” Bill said, “while I see what I can salvage from this mess.”

  While Lane handcuffed and stuffed socks into the mouths of the two unconscious men, Bill picked through their pockets. He was soon in possession of the drawings of the four Explorers, two wallets with badges, two revolvers, two handcuff keys, and two other sets of keys, which he suspected were for home, office, and cars. He also found notebooks in each agent’s inner coat pockets.

  Holding up the revolvers, he quipped, “We’re getting quite a collection of these.”

  Lane just grimaced.

  Bill put the two revolvers down on the bed and held up the keys. “I bet one of these is to a car downstairs. I’m thinking we should take it, at least until we’re in Columbus, and ditch it there. We can catch the train the rest of the way.”

  “Probably for the best. Now, put those guns away, and let’s get moving before anyone says anything.”

  Bill packed the revolvers, handcuff keys, and badges away inside his pack. He shoved the notebooks into his jacket’s inner pocket.

  When all was ready, Bill hoisted his pack again, and Lane hoisted the other two. Stepping out the partially open door, Bill started toward the elevator when he heard a shout behind him, from the direction of the stairwell. “Y’all hold it right there or I’ll shoot!”

  Threatening a man with death after said man had recently crossed almost 10,000 miles of wilderness occupied by all manner of dangerous fauna from the late Pleistocene isn’t a sure way to live long.

  Bill whipped around, drawing his pistol. As soon as the police officer, who was holding a revolver pointed in his direction, came into view, Bill fired. Twice. The two shots seemed as one they were fired so fast, and the sound slammed his ears in the confined space. The police officer was slammed back into the stairwell door, falling partially through the now broken upper portion, which had previously been glass. Moaning and twitching came from the officer, which Bill and Lane ignored, as the elevator door had just opened. Luckily, it was empty.

  They stepped into the elevator, and Bill touched the button for the ground floor with his still-smoking pistol.

  Rather than place it back in its holster, Bill elected to keep it down by his leg, not very visible, but ready if needed.

  Jordan had just stepped into the waiting room of the Colored section with Summer when he was approached by a large white beefy man who reminded him of a caricature of a gorilla, or even Mongo from Blazing Saddles. Jordan’s SoCal spidey sense kicked into overtime. What’s wrong with this picture? He casually shifted his pack off his back so he was holding it by a shoulder strap with his left hand, looking and smiling at Summer as he did so. Anything to throw that gorilla off his guard.

  “All right, boy. Stop right there,” the gorilla said in a smoke-damaged gravelly voice.

  Jordan stopped, expecting more conversation. “You’re under arrest, Jordan Washington” was all the gorilla said as he reached out and grabbed Jordan’s collar with his left hand while bringing his right back to punch the young Explorer.

  Monk learned the same lesson Brown and Drew were learning at the exact same time: don’t mess with a trained Explorer.

  Dropping his pack, Jordan grabbed the CBE agent’s forearm with his left hand, holding it in place, while simultaneously lashing out with the heel of his right hand as fast as he could. His speed and reaction, honed by months of conducting ground surveys on planets inhabited exclusively by animals who had no fear of man, and in many cases, considered them prey, was astonishing to see for those who witnessed the event. It didn’t hurt that he had practiced this particular move over three thousand times while preparing for this exploration. The heel of Jordan’s hand slammed into the left elbow of Monk so hard that the cracking of bones could be heard throughout the room, followed shortly thereafter with screams of agony. Before Monk could do anything but scream, Jordan, still holding onto the agent’s wrist, kicked him as hard as possible in the groin, causing the big man to double over. Jordan struck again, this time with a fist straight into the throat, crushing the larynx. Another punch, this time in the side of the head, right behind the ear, caused the man to fall to the floor on his face. Jordan, still holding on to his arm, stepped behind and over Monk, reefing his arm around so hard that it completely broke the elbow, the broken ends of the bone sticking out of the upper arm, distorting the man’s jacket sleeve.

  Jordan stepped back, then delivered a killing blow to the temple with his foot. Looking around the shocked crowd, he said calmly, “If they�
��re going to kill me, might as well be for something I actually did.” At that moment he heard what sounded like two gunshots. With that, he picked up his pack and started for the door between the Colored and White lobbies. He glanced back to see if Summer was following, and was pleasantly surprised to see that she was.

  Before he could make it to the door, she came up beside him, and in an angry hushed voice said, “I thought you said your name was Marty King.”

  “Long story. Tell you later.”

  He stepped through the door and saw a lone police officer standing in the lobby, looking toward the elevator. The officer glanced over at Jordan, but seeing he was accompanied by a female, promptly put him in the non-threatening category, not even recognizing Jordan from the drawings he had seen earlier.

  Jordan capitalized on this. “Excuse me, officer.” The young policeman turned toward him.

  “I’m supposed to wait for my bossman here. Would that be all right?”

  Glancing between Jordan and Summer, he didn’t really see much of a threat. “Yeah, whatever, boy. Just stay outta the way.”

  “Yessir,” Jordan said, as the elevator doors opened and the other two Explorers stepped out.

  The police officer turned around to see who was getting off the elevator, and when he recognized the two murder suspects, began to draw his revolver.

  He didn’t have a chance. Before the gun could clear the holster, Jordan slammed the man’s elbow with a punch, stunning the arm and causing the officers’ hand to reflexively open, dropping the revolver. Before he could turn or do anything else, Jordan slammed him on the side of the neck with a knifehand strike paralyzing the young man even more. A final punch behind the ear finished him off, dropping the young police officer like a sack of rocks.

  By this time, Bill and Lane were practically running. “Let’s get the hell outta here!”

  Jordan turned and followed, but turned back to see what Summer was doing. Skirt held up with one hand, luggage in the other, she was running to catch up.

  The desk clerk just stood there behind the desk, mouth gaping, as he watched the foursome disappear out the front door.

  Bill was the first out of the hotel and spotted the CBE car parked in front. The license plate didn’t match those of the other cars; it was from Alabama. This had to be the CBE car.

  He rounded the hood, opened the driver’s door, and threw his pack onto the seat, toward the middle. Sliding in, he pushed down on the brake and clutch pedals, thankful that his dad had made him learn how to drive a stick-shift. From the first set of keys, he tried the one that looked like a car key. No joy. He then tried a similar-looking key from the second set. This turned out to be it, and the engine started right up. Meanwhile, the other three had also scrambled into the car. Jordan and Summer were in back with their luggage and the two packs Lane had tossed in with them. Lane had his pistol out, held under the window, out of sight.

  Backing the car up, Bill told Jordan, “There’s some guns in my pack. Pull ‘em out and keep them ready.”

  Bill put the car in first gear and then began driving. Not too fast, but not too slow.

  “Head west, then turn south at the first intersection,” Lane said.

  Waiting for a break in the uncontrolled intersection, Bill did so.

  “Now, go several blocks, turn west again, then south again. We’re gonna eventually head east and north, but we want to throw them off the trail, first.”

  Bill followed Lane’s plan. As they finally began heading north, only a couple of blocks from the hotel, they could hear the sound of sirens converging on the scene.

  Fortunately, it was dark, so identifying their vehicle, let alone anyone inside an unlit car, would be near impossible. Bill knew this, so keeping just slightly above the speed limit, he made his way across the city until he was on the highway leading toward Columbus.

  70

  Five hours later, before the sun had even begun to lighten the eastern horizon, they pulled into the outskirts of Columbia, South Carolina. Along the drive, they had decided to strip the car of all possible identification and leave it in a bad part of town. The hard part would be getting out of the bad part of town safely.

  Jordan suggested he drop Bill and Lane off near the railroad, while he and Summer found a black part of town. “If they’re looking for you, they won’t be looking in the black part of town. Besides, if this is anything like home, the car’ll be stripped in thirty minutes.” Jordan did not mention that the home of which he spoke was the Southern California of his birth Earth’s timeline.

  Jordan had also spent part of the trip telling Summer what his real name was, and where he was from (Republic of California). He didn’t tell her he was from Hayek, other than to say that where he was from was a lot freer than the Confederacy, and a whole lot safer for blacks.

  “If that’s the case, then I want you to take me with you,” Summer said. “Especially since we got the same last name. I can be your wife.”

  That took Jordan aback and caused Bill to burst out laughing.

  “What’s so bad about that?” Summer demanded.

  “Well, first off, I’m too young,” Jordan began.

  Bill and Lane stayed out of the very vocal debate that ensued from the back seat until they pulled into a part of town along the Congaree River that looked very much like Bill expected to see of a poor, black neighborhood here. Most of the houses were run-down, with shacks built from scrap lumber and sheets of tin common. Several dirt streets had abandoned cars on them, their hoods and trunks raised. Nobody was up at this time of the day, at least, nobody was on the streets and no lights were shining in any windows. Nor were there any streetlamps.

  “Whaddaya think?” Bill asked the group.

  “Looks likely, but how do we know it’s the black part of town?”

  “Why you sayin’ black instead of colored?” Summer asked.

  Jordan informed her that black or African-American was the designation of choice where they were from, and that colored was considered derogatory. He didn’t bother getting into the differences between colored and persons of color, not wanting to throw any more confusion into the discussion than necessary.

  “Well, this is the colored section, all right. Just look at them headwraps hanging on them clotheslines. Ain’t no respectable white woman gonna wear one of them.”

  Looking closely, Bill could barely make out the headwraps hanging on the clotheslines of a nearby house. As they made a slight turn, the headlights showed them to be brightly colored. He remembered that it was an article of clothing passed down for generations in the black community, owning it like they owned certain words.

  “Tignon Laws,” muttered Jordan.

  “Tee-yon?” Lane repeated.

  “Tignon, French word,” Jordan expanded. “Came from a law passed by some Louisiana governor back in the 1700s. Forbade blacks and mulattoes, even free ones, from wearing fancy, plumed hats or going bareheaded. Supposed to show everyone they were second class. Blacks pretty much took it as their own. That’s why you see ladies still wearing them today, bright colors and designs, and all.”

  Bill had never considered any of this aspect of American culture. He just knew blacks wore them on his Earth, never understanding why. It was only on this exploration that he was becoming more aware of his friend’s history and culture. Guess you can learn anything if you’re slapped in the face enough times with it, he thought, as he slowed down.

  “Mark this spot,” Bill told Lane, “and give me directions to the train station.” Turning slightly back, he told Jordan, “Make sure you pay attention to the route. I’m gonna want you bringing this car back here.”

  “Yassuh, Masta!” Jordan replied. Usually, this was funny. Not on this trip, though, no matter how much Jordan had tried to lighten the mood.

  Not long after identifying the drop-off spot for the car, they had arrived at the train station, circled about it, and pulled into a darkened alley nearby. As Bill and Lane got out, to be replaced by
Jordan and Summer, Bill suggested they check the trunk and take whatever they didn’t want getting into the wrong hands.

  In the trunk were a small suitcase and what appeared to be two rifle bags; long, zippered bags designed to hold a rifle or shotgun. One of the bags had several pockets on the outside, which Bill suspected of housing magazines, but these were thinner than the typical AR-15 magazine width that he was used to seeing, and were closed with a brass snap rather than with Velcro, which didn’t exist on this timeline. Bill unsnapped the pocket lid and extracted a loaded magazine, the brass casings reflecting the weak light of the street lamp at the head of the alley. He shoved the magazine back into the pocket and unzipped the bag. Inside was a submachine gun, similar to the one he had trained on.

  The other bag held a pump shotgun with a pistol grip. Good for close-quarter action, but not suitable for anything in the open. Holding up the shotgun to Lane, he asked, “You want? I’m taking the sub-gun.”

  Lane nodded. Setting his pack down, he opened the top and managed to squirrel the shotgun into it, although the pack bulged at the top. It wouldn’t exactly hide the shotgun, but it also didn’t make it so visible that it drew attention.

  Bill didn’t see any alternative other than to carry the sub-machine gun in the gun bag. Fortunately, there were no patches or markings on the bag indicating that it was property of the Confederate Bureau of Enforcement, so he wasn’t too concerned about anyone calling him out on it.

  A quick search of the luggage found nothing worthwhile or identifying, so Bill left that. After he closed the trunk, he handed the car keys through the driver’s window to Jordan, telling him to be sure to leave the trunk open when he abandoned the car.

  “We’ll wait for you on the steps in about an hour with tickets. It’s best if we’re probably not seen together too much.”

  Jordan agreed, and in his best John Wayne voice, said, “Well, Pilgrim. I reckon I better hit the trail.”