by Jaxon Reed
With coaxing and encouragement, Jason managed to drag Booker away from the terminal. Niko and Toya accompanied the men as they headed to the residence hallway.
Several minutes passed, and Cait’s human interface followed the data flashing by, silently.
Half an hour later she reached out with a finger in the middle of the holograph, stopping the flow. She stared at a series of numbers floating in the air.
“That is noteworthy.”
-+-
The sensor looked like a rock.
It lay in a field on the European continent completely unnoticed by humans or animals alike.
The Great Flood came, wiping out the warring tribes of Nephilim nearby, and it moved with the water. Years passed and runoff from strong storms moved it again.
It went into the bottom of stream and spent quite some time there.
Eventually, the stream moved, leaving it underground.
Here at last it settled into the soil a few miles from the coast, near a body of water that was to become known as the English Channel.
Its weight, combined with the ground shifting above it, sunk it deeper, until its location became relatively stable.
There it remained as years turned into centuries, and centuries turned into millennia.
The land became known as Gaul, and became a Roman province.
God visited earth in human form, appearing in a minor corner of the Roman Empire for a while before offering Himself as a final blood sacrifice. The eras were divided in two, from before His visit to after.
The western half of the Roman Empire fell as Goths sacked its great cities. The former provinces, including Gaul, learned to govern themselves.
A thousand years later, the eastern half fell, too.
The western provinces adopted Romance languages as their mother tongues, shaped and influenced by Latin.
The Germanic provinces in the central and northern parts of Europe resisted.
Led by Hermann, the Germans tribes had repelled occupation, using Rome’s own military tactics against her Legions and exacting terrible tolls.
So, Rome abandoned the German provinces and the Germanic tongue prevailed there.
It prevailed in the northern islands, too, after Rome abandoned Londinium. Later, the islands were invaded by various waves of people from the continent, including the Normans who brought the French tongue with them.
Thus, the language of English became a curious mixture of Germanic roots with heavy Romantic influence and spellings.
Plagues roiled Europe and the former Roman provinces grew in power and reach. Colonies were established in the New World as sea powers stretched across the Atlantic.
England adopted technical innovations and capitalism, thus growing in wealth and power. This led to a British Empire spread around the globe that competed with Spain, Portugal, and others.
And still Cait’s sensor lay buried under the soil of France near Paris, sending data back to a computer terminal located outside of time and space.
The American Revolution started, as Britain’s New World colonies broke away by force and set out on their own in a bold experiment with representative democracy.
A few years later the French Revolution temporarily led to chaos, then a dictatorship and widespread war.
German principalities united, leading to more war. At last the Great War occurred as the kingdoms of Europe, and for a brief moment the United States, fought it out in the trenches of Belgium.
After the hostilities, Germany rose again, led by a brutal dictator. The Second World War was even worse than the First.
Then, the peace and relative stability of the latter half of the 20th century commenced.
And deep underground, after millennia of monitoring, the sensor finally noticed something . . . different.
-+-
Rick woke up to the sound of someone tapping a billy club on the bars of his cell.
He frowned at the older Nazi staring down at him. Then he yawned and stretched.
The cell was dirty, cramped, and had only a small rusty drain in the middle for waste.
Rick stood and stretched some more. Then he noticed the two SS goons behind the officer, staring at him with hands near holstered Lugers.
“What do you want?” Rick said. “I was enjoying my nap.”
The German cocked an eyebrow, and Rick was immediately reminded of Hollywood portrayals of Nazi officers.
This one spoke in proficient, yet accented English, lending more weight to the movie stereotype.
“I am sure you had a long and weary night, Mister . . .?”
Rick waggled a finger at him and smiled.
He said, “Nice try. I’m not telling you anything.”
The officer nodded over his shoulder at the SS guards and said, “My subordinates can be quite persuasive, should the need arise.”
Rick continued smiling and said, “I won’t hurt a teenaged boy who doesn’t even know what he’s fighting for yet. But I’ve no compunctions against killing SS swine.”
The guards bristled. One of them pulled out his Luger and worked the action, a round sliding loudly into place.
The officer turned and made a calming gesture. Reluctantly, the guard holstered his gun again.
Turning back to Rick, the officer said, “They do not understand much English. But that word is practically the same in both languages.”
“Good. I’m serious, too.”
“My name is Franz Schmidt.”
“The composer?”
“Ah! Ha. Nein, although you must realize it is a common name.”
“The Executioner of Nuremburg?”
Schmidt’s face lit up in pleasant surprise.
“Oh, you know that one? An educated man, I see. Highly educated. That Schmidt, as you know, passed in the 17th century. Ah . . . how do you know about him?”
Rick shrugged. He said, “I read a book.”
“I see, I see. Which one?”
“I really don’t think you would recognize the author. I can’t remember right now, anyway.”
Schmidt looked disappointed.
He took a deep breath and held it while giving Rick a speculative glance.
At last he let it out. He turned to the guards and spoke a few words in German.
They protested. One shook his head vigorously.
But the older officer prevailed and eventually the two walked out, leaving Schmidt to face Rick and his bars alone.
“I thought you said they couldn’t understand English,” Rick said.
Schmidt shrugged and said, “One cannot be too careful.”
Rick pushed his chin with one hand and popped his neck.
He said, “You have my attention.”
Schmidt gave him another appraising glance and said, “You know, I think you were serious about killing them.”
“Of course. I’m only in here so the boy wouldn’t get in too much trouble. When I’m ready to leave, I’ll leave. If I can kill any Jew-hating, Hitler-loving National Socialist on the way out, all the better.”
Schmidt’s head moved back as if Rick had slapped him.
He said, “Even me, Herr Strickland?”
Rick smiled. He had not given the man his name.
He grabbed both bars and pulled himself closer while looking Schmidt in the eye.
“What do you want?”
“I am part of the Ahnenerbe, the German paranormal research group.”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve heard of you guys. Literally searching for the Holy Grail, Noah’s Ark, the Spear of Destiny and such, aren’t you?”
Schmidt nodded and smiled, acknowledging the statement.
“That is correct, but we are interested in much, much more than the Grail, Herr Strickland. We pursue anything . . . extraordinary. And, as it turns out, you are one of those extraordinary things.”
“Do tell.”
“At the start of this war, Oberfuhrer von Ribbentrop was at the heart of a plot to wipe out the Allied diplomatic co
rps before the fighting commenced in full. Instead, he was stopped by you, the Texans, and a group of Indians who traveled to our embassy grounds through a rip in time.”
At this, Rick stared back silently, unwilling to say anything.
Schmidt said, “I understand the Indians were quite impressive. Like something out of a Karl May novel. Afterward, more people appeared, some of them with advanced medical training who healed everyone up.”
“If I recall correctly, no Nazis survived that night. Including Ribbentrop.”
“The Fae of Eden?”
Schimdt watched his eyes carefully, but Rick maintained a poker face.
Schmidt said, “We learned of the incident through diplomatic channels. Now, imagine my surprise when the local authorities capture a saboteur who happens to take out three submarines during a British bombing run, submarines that would normally survive the bombing unscathed.
“And imagine my further surprise when I learn this saboteur is wearing an iron mesh undersuit, just like our informants described one Rick Strickland back at our embassy wore.
“Rick Strickland, who also foiled a plot to have the Texan ambassador die in a tragic plane crash on the way to London. Rick Strickland, responsible for the death of the most powerful creature from legend, from the Garden of Eden, even. And I begin to put things together.
“I begin to think, ‘Franz . . . you should go see this Rick Strickland for yourself and talk with him.’”
“And I’m thinking, ‘Franz . . . you’re an idiot. Because Rick Strickland hates Nazis and would just as soon kill you, jailed or not.’”
Schmidt nodded. He said, “You know, I believe you could walk out of this cell right now if you wanted to. I believe no matter how many times the guards shot you, you would still live. I have read the reports on you.
“But I do not believe you would kill me, Rick Strickland. Not yet, not yet. Not when you hear what I wish to discuss with you.”
“Okay, fine. But make it snappy, I’m getting bored.”
The Nazi SS officer leaned in toward the bars and lowered his voice.
“Does the name Tiffany Valor mean anything to you?”
4
Rick woke up again, this time in the back of a German truck. He stretched, ignoring the manacles clasped around his wrists. The truck hit a pothole, making the other two passengers jostle against each other on the opposite bench.
He stared back at one of the SS guards, currently giving him a death glare. The man sat with a submachine gun across his lap, and his finger twitched over the trigger, as if looking for an excuse to shoot.
Rick yawned while eyeing the trigger, wondering if the bumpy road would cause the man to misfire.
The other occupant was none other than Franz Schmidt. He stared at Rick too, but with more of a speculative look.
Rick heard a voice in his head, as Nancy Chance took this opportunity to speak over his mental link.
“Rick? We’re going to get you out of there.”
“What? No, wait!”
In his haste, Rick spoke out loud.
The SS guard stirred, moving his gun. Schmidt’s eyebrows rose, questioningly.
WABOOM!
Buddabuddabuddabuddabudda!
The truck veered to the right, running off the road and plowing into an embankment.
Rick heard breaking glass from the windshield exploding in a hail of bullets.
The canvas flap covering the back of the truck ripped open. Before the SS guard could move his gun, Nancy Chance shot him in the head.
Bang!
He slumped over, a look of surprise plastered on his face and blood sprouting from his forehead.
She shifted her aim to Schmidt.
Rick said, “Wait! I was trying to tell you, I want to go with him. He knows something about Tiff.”
Schmidt held his hands up and smiled nervously at Nancy, which seemed remarkable under the circumstances, staring into the muzzle of her Colt 1911.
“My name is Franz Schmidt. You are . . . Nancy? Nancy Chance?”
Nancy’s eyes shifted back to Rick.
“Who is this guy? The composer? Did everyone in Germany turn into a Nazi?”
Rick said, “It’s a different Franz Schmidt. It’s a common name, evidently. He’s with their Ahnenerbe.”
Nancy turned back to Schmidt and grinned.
She said, “So, you want to know where the Ark of the Covenant is, don’t you?”
Schimdt’s face grew very serious, despite the gun pointed at him.
He said, “Do you know where the Ark is?”
Nancy’s grin grew wider.
She turned back to Rick and said, “You can’t be serious.”
Rick said, “He brought up Tiff’s name on his own, Nancy. Without any prompting from me.”
“Yes, that is correct,” Schmidt said. “Tiffany Valor. Come to my facility and I will show you everything, Nancy Chance.”
Nancy sighed and holstered her weapon.
She said, “Great. I wondered why you let yourself get captured then put on a truck bound for Paris. Hang on a minute and we’ll dispose of the bodies. Pierre! Get over here and pull this dead Jerry out of the truck.”
In a matter of minutes, the driver and the guard were dragged out and placed in shallow graves, hastily dug by Pierre grumbling about the French doing all the work in this war.
Cait used artificial microbes to repair the truck’s windshield and eliminate bloodstains. Pierre took over as driver, wearing a stolen SS uniform, which somehow fit despite his smaller stature. If he knew more about Cait, he would thank her for arranging that via the tiny robots, too.
Nancy made Schmidt go up front to provide Pierre with directions. He climbed in the passenger seat as the last of the windshield seemed to patch itself up with help from the microbes.
He looked at Pierre, who eyed him behind the steering wheel warily.
Schmidt said, “How does the truck repair itself?”
Pierre looked back, uncomprehending.
When Schmidt realized Pierre was a member of the French Resistance, he rephrased the question in broken French.
Pierre shrugged and said, “La magie.”
Schmidt considered the word. Magic. It was spelled the same in German as in French.
Not knowing the proper French, he resorted to German.
He said, “Magie oder Technologie?”
Pierre shrugged and said, “Quelle est la difference?”
For that, Schmidt had no answer.
Meanwhile, Nancy crawled into the back of the truck and hugged Rick. He hugged back, awkwardly with his restraints.
“I kind of like having you in shackles,” she said as Pierre ground the gears and drove them back onto the road. “It leaves you rather helpless.”
-+-
The trip was a long one, about 500 kilometers. The roads were in deplorable shape, and at times required a detour around bomb craters or other obstacles.
There were no signs at crossroads, but somehow Schmidt seemed to always know the proper direction to take.
“We go east, then slightly north,” he said, although Pierre could not understand him as he babbled to himself in German.
They passed through several roadblocks manned by soldiers. Each time, Pierre presented his papers along with Schmidt’s.
Pierre let the Nazi officer do all the talking, since French was the only language in which the little Resistance fighter was fluent.
The combination of their SS insignia and Schmidt’s high rank resulted in quick passage through each roadblock.
They reached the outskirts of Paris well after midnight. Pierre yawned as he pulled into the final roadblock, a young German guard yelling at him to stop.
He stared at the guard through the open window with a stony face, saying nothing. It was a very intimidating look, as if Pierre had little regard for anything the other man had to say. Since he did not understand the language, it seemed appropriate.
He listened to the yo
ung man babble on in German for a while, noting the hostility in his tone.
Pierre had spent enough time around Rick and Nancy to learn not to become very worried about anything. Even gunshot wounds he had taken were quickly healed by magic or technology, whatever the difference.
He held few concerns, even if he did not understand much of what the angry German guard was saying to him.
The guard stopped ranting when he noticed the SS insignia on Pierre’s cap.
Schmidt leaned forward and explained they were carrying important cargo.
He said, “Inspect our papers and let us past, bitte.”
The guard, now suddenly nervous, glanced over the documents and returned them quickly to Pierre.
He said, “Keep all lights hooded. Blackout restrictions are in effect. Heil Hitler.”
Pierre gave a half-hearted salute back to the guard and shoved the gear stick into first. They slowly drove into a shelled out, German-occupied wartime Paris.
Schmidt directed him down several dark blocks until at last they came into a warehouse district. Many buildings here had been bombed, either when the Germans invaded years ago, or when the Allies tried to destroy facilities used in the war effort.
But the destruction, Pierre noticed, was far less than that of Lorient’s. Somehow, evidently, the Brits could not bring themselves to rain too much devastation down on Paris.
When they came to a large undamaged building with an arced metal roof reminding Pierre of a dome, Schmidt directed him to stop the truck at a metal gate.
The officer hopped out and fished a key from his pocket. He fumbled with the lock for a moment in the dim light before popping it open and unwrapping the chain. He pulled the gate back on rusty hinges, then relocked the chain once the vehicle trundled inside.
Moments later Schmidt jumped out again and raised a large bay door in the side of the domed warehouse, letting the truck drive in.
He pulled the door’s chain and closed it as Pierre killed the engine.
Schmidt threw a switch and dim overhead lights snapped on, lighting up the interior. Then he pulled open the flap on the back of the truck, expecting to unlock Rick’s shackles. But Rick stood, completely free of restraints. He jumped out and gave Nancy a hand down.