by Bob Mayer
“The odds of us succeeding on all six were the same,” Dane noted.
“That’s the odd thing,” Doc said. “The data from Black Tuesday means the odds are in our favor on every one. Somehow.”
“It’s our timeline,” Dane said. “Home field advantage.”
“True.”
“Or—” Dane paused. He shook his head. “Nothing.”
Doc knew it wasn’t noting but didn’t press it. Dane was not a man to be pressed.
“If we do have the advantage,” Doc said, “and the numbers indicate that is so, then the Shadow’s odds are infinitely less to get six on a single date. But increase the number of dates and . . .” He left the rest unsaid.
“That’s why this is called the Possibility Palace,” Dane said. “But, again, our most immediate problem is to make sure the Shadow doesn’t win any of the attacks they’re making on this mission.”
“I agree absolutely,” Doc said. “But I think we need to build our own version of the Turing Machine. A Time Turing Machine. We need to research this further.”
“Could you do that with what you have right now?” Dane asked.
“Of course not,” Doc said. “I don’t have anywhere enough data.”
“You’re going to get a chance to gather more data,” Dane said.
“How so?”
“The best possible way,” Dane said. “You’re going back on this next mission.”
New York City, The Present
AS WAS HER HABIT, AND SHE was a woman of habit, Edith Frobish halted briefly at Cleopatra’s Needle, located in Central Park, right behind the Metropolitan Museum of Art. A psychiatrist might have told her that the needle was her subconscious anchor in the present. Since she dealt with history for the Time Patrol and actually traveled to the Possibility Palace as required, she needed an anchor, since her brain, never mind her body, was rarely in the present.
But she could never tell a psychiatrist about the Time Patrol, because that would entail a visit from the Cellar, which would entail the end of her timeline. And the psychiatrist’s.
Not that doing such a thing would ever occur to Edith Frobish. It would be like cheating on her taxes or jaywalking. Some things just aren’t done.
The Time Patrol actually had a psychiatrist, but he scared Edith and she doubted very much that his job was to help untangle the psyches of the members.
Edith was a tall woman, with a long beautiful neck and figure, elegant enough to be a fashion model, something else she couldn’t imagine.
Besides being a psychological anchor, the Needle served a practical purpose for Edith. She was an art historian The Patrol had realized early on that art is one of the best recorders of human history. If the art changed, whether it be a sculpture, a painting, a novel, a play, etchings on a cave wall, a clay pot, etc. it meant the timeline had changed.
As Edith perused the very faded hieroglyphics, moving from one side to the next, it looked the same as it always did, to Edith’s relief. Secretly her fear, what a shrink would never quite understand unless they knew her job, was that some day she’d walk by and it would simply be gone.
The shrink would probably want to put her in the loony bin, not understanding such a possibility was real.
It did bother her that it was called ‘Cleopatra’s’ when that particular hussy had had little to do with it. It had been carved long before Cleopatra’s time. Only after her demise had Augustus, who’d caused her death and her lover’s, Marc Antony, well, lover after Caesar’s death, and Edith was sure there’d been one or two more in between, she was quite disapproving of such dalliances. Edith forgot for a moment her train of disapproval, as the image of Cleopatra shagging Caesar and then Marc Antony caused some quaint disturbance in her body. Ah, yes, she got on board the train: After Cleopatra had her date with a snake, Augustus had the Needle moved it to Alexandria to a temple he built and dedicated to himself.
Men.
Edith made it to the fourth side, ready to move on the job, when she gasped.
It was smooth.
This was not good. Not good at all.
The art had changed.
Thus, the history had changed.
She barely heard the helicopter landing in Central Park behind her and certainly didn’t register it consciously.
With both hands, she clutched her old leather satchel tight to her chest, trying to get her rapid breathing under control.
“Are you all right, miss?”
Edith almost dropped the satchel. It was a New York City policeman.
She was so discombobulated, she pointed. “Do you see?”
The cop looked at the Needle. “Yeah?”
“It’s blank! There should be hieroglyphics on it.”
“There are markings on it.”
“This side,” Edith said, taking a step closer to the Needle and shaking her finger. “It’s blank.”
“No,” the cop said. “It’s not.” The cop stared at her, then at the Needle, then back at her, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “What’s in the case?”
Was she losing her mind? Edith re-grouped. She saw it. He didn’t. “I work in the Museum,” she said, nodding toward the massive building. “I’m carrying very important material.”
“’Material’?” the cop asked, taking a step toward her. “Mind if I take a look?”
“I do mind,” Edith said, vaguely remembering something in the news about ‘stop and frisk’ being done away with. Which meant this might be something different? And one side of the Needle was blank, but he said it wasn’t. The cop might be someone different, which meant--
“She’s with us,” a woman’s voice came from behind Edith.
Neeley was standing there. Next to her, Roland had an arm around an inebriated Mac.
“What’s wrong with your friend?” The cop asked, taking a step back, his hand edging toward his gun.
Neeley pulled out a wallet and flipped it open, revealing a badge and an I.D.. “CIA. We’re escorting our friend, and Ms. Frobish, to the Museum. National Security matter.”
“Let me see that,” the cop said, indicating the I.D..
“They’re with us,” another voice said, and the cop turned, facing Eagle and Moms.
Moms had her own I.D. out. “National Security Agency. We’re on a Task Force. At the museum.”
Eagle went to Roland and looped Mac’s other arm over his shoulder.
The cop took two steps back. “What’s going on? Who are you people?”
Another voice: “Let’s all chill out.”
The cop turned the other way. Scout was standing there, looking much older than she had when they’d all departed on leave. Ivar was behind her.
“And who are you with?” the cop demanded. His one hand was on the butt of his pistol, the other ready to press transmit on his radio.
Scout spread her arms wide and smiled as she stared at him. “I’m peace and love, man. No one here means you or your city any harm. We just need to go into the museum. Do you dig it?”
The cop blinked. The hand fell from the radio. The other from the weapon. He nodded. “Sure,” he said vaguely, not sure at all. “Sure. I dig it. You folks have a nice day.” And then he walked off, a little unsteadily.
“What the hell was that?” Moms demanded of Scout.
But Edith Frobish was too excited. “The Needle!”
They all turned to her.
“What?” Eagle asked.
“This side! It’s blank. Someone chiseled the hieroglyphics off.”
“I guess that’s bad?” Roland said.
“Duh.” Mac wasn’t that far gone to ignore an obvious Roland dig.
Edith grabbed Roland’s shirt with one hand. “You see it, right?”
“Sure,” Roland said, smiling reassuringly. “I see it.”
Edith let go. “But the policeman didn’t.”
“Curious,” Ivar said. “We all see it being blank, but you say he saw the markings the way they should be?”
�
��Yes!” Edith was relieved that she wasn’t crazy.
“Everyone see blank?” Moms checked.
She got a positive from every team member. “Well, that’s certainly interesting,” she said. “Let’s find out with this is all about.”
Without another word, they trooped over to the south side of the Met. With more force than usual, Edith shoved open a metal door labeled: ‘Authorized Personnel Only’.
The Security Guard barely looked up, but Edith showed her badge anyway.
The rest of the team didn’t bother, but Edith was big on routine.
The guard knew better than to ask questions of anyone who came in with Edith. She led the way down a hall, then turned right into a dimly lit corridor marked: ‘Closed For Construction.’
Still not a word.
They got on an old freight elevator, ignoring its ‘Out Of Order’ sign.
Edith pressed a spot, allowing her fingerprint to be scanned, then pushed the ‘Fire Department Use Only’ key opening. The elevator descended six hundred feet, deep into the bedrock that was Manhattan, deeper than any of the myriad of man-made tunnels below the streets of the City the Never Sleeps.
Six hundred feet of bedrock was enough for the place to survive a direct nuclear strike.
The doors opened to a brick-lined, narrow corridor. They took a left. A guard clad in black body armor, and the deadly accouterments of his trade, had his automatic rifle trained on them. He never said a word to Edith. Never acknowledged her in any way.
But he nodded as the team went by, recognizing kindred souls lost in the wilderness of violence from their past, and pending violence in their future.
Eagle, as team sergeant, nodded back, soldier to soldier.
Edith pressed her face to the eye scanner, got green, and a steel door slid open. The team piled in the space between it and the next steel door. The first slid down. Edith put her hand over the next ‘key’, her skin was pricked, her DNA was scanned, and the second door opened.
A spotlight was focused on the HUB, in the middle of large, otherwise empty cavern in the bedrock.
Since no one seemed very talkative, Edith didn’t ask if they were ready, as she usually asked those who passed through. She had a feeling they were always ready. They went up the ramp toward the pitch-black circle.
Moms went past Edith, because now it was her turn to lead, and stepped into the darkness. She’d always been first to have boots on the ground for every Nightstalker mission.
Just as Eagle and Roland were about to haul Mac through, he broke the silence.
“Hold on.”
With everyone else backed up behind them, they did so.
Whereupon, Mac puked all over them.
The Possibility Palace
Where? Can’t tell you. When? Can’t tell you. (Or it might be Roland who visits)
“THE PROBABILITY IS HIGH ONE won’t be coming back,” Dane said.
“Why do you say that?” Frasier, the Nightstalker and Time Patrol psychologist, asked. He had seven folders on the table in front of him.
“Because they all made it back the last time. Doc’s been lecturing me on statistics. He does have some valid points.”
Frasier snorted. “Doc. More curious than he is cautious. Almost got him killed several times with the Nightstalkers. Almost got all of them killed, except Nada preferred to shot first, ask questions later.”
They were in a bland, off-white room, a door in the center of each wall. Dane and Frasier sat on opposite sides of an old wooden table.
“Doc gets one of the missions,” Dane said.
Frasier raised the remains of an eyebrow, his left one, revealing a solid black orb, an implant surrounded by scar tissue, which, apparently, could still mimic raising an eyebrow. It wasn’t the only part of him that was no longer flesh and blood. “Thought he was doing research for you. Didn’t like his lecture?”
“Actually, he might be on to something.”
“Then—”
“He needs first-hand experience,” Dane said. “He’s theorizing. Theories get people killed. Experience keeps them alive.”
“Sounds like a Nada-Yada.”
“Nada was a good man,” Dane said.
“At least on missions and at the very end,” Frasier said. “With his family before—”
“Never speak ill of the dead,” Dane said. “How is Scout?”
“Different,” Frasier said. “But we already knew that.”
“Did she go back to UCLA, her Black Tuesday scene, like the others?” Dane asked.
“No. She went to Arlington.”
“To Nada.”
Frasier didn’t answer the obvious. “She came back on the same chopper with Ivar.”
“He stays this time,” Dane said.
“Because of the trauma of his last mission?”
It was Dane’s turn to lift an eyebrow. “Is that a factor I should be concerned with? He’s the other scientist. And he had a unique experience in North Carolina. I want him to keep digging into Doc’s findings. Get his take on it.”
Frasier pulled one of the files and slid it to the left. “Down to six agents for six missions.”
Dane waited.
“The missions this time . . .” Frasier began, but didn’t finish the sentence.
“Yes?” Dane finally asked.
“Last time some seemed a bit mundane. This time, though. There’s some heavy stuff going down. One Emperor, the last Tsar, a future President, two Kings. And the guy who discovered America.”
“And?” Dane pushed.
“Maybe the Shadow is going for it all?”
“That’s not your concern,” Dane said. “Who goes when is what we have to decide. Remember, like Ivar’s mission to Black Tuesday, or Scout’s to UCLA, what appears to be the mission sometimes isn’t.” Before Frasier could speak, Dane raised a finger. “There’s another reason I’m holding Ivar back.”
Before he could continue, Frasier supplied the answer. “Because he lied in debriefing.” Frasier pointed at his prosthetic eye. “I can see things others can’t. Body temperature through thermal, pulse by the pace of the carotid, breathing via chest movement. There was something hinky about his story.”
“Yes. I think he lied about what he told Meyer Lansky during the interrogation when the two of them were alone.”
Frasier nodded. “I doubt someone like Ivar could stand up to a psychopath like Lansky.”
“Which makes for some interesting historical possibilities,” Dane said.
“Are you going to call the Cellar on him?”
“We only have so many bodies. We need him. For now.” Then Dane shrugged. “And this is a case of it is what it is. None of the desks had an alert on a ripple coming out of 1929 forward. I had them double-check, with a focus on Lansky. Nothing out of the norm. What Ivar said didn’t change the history that was in place before he went back, so his role, whether it affected things or not, played out like it should have. But we need to keep an eye on Ivar. No offense intended,” Dane added.
“None taken.”
“However, combine that lie with North Carolina and Ivar might not be what he appears to be.”
“Even Ivar has some issues with that,” Frasier said. “It was a traumatic event for him.”
“We’ve all had trauma,” Dane said.
“Not like his. Imagine being surrounded by multiple copies of yourself? You start to doubt who you are. Almost getting killed by Lansky’s goons didn’t help.” Frasier waited for any more on Ivar. Then he grabbed the top file. “Mac is in bad shape.”
“He was in bad shape before he went,” Dane said. “I was rather surprised he didn’t go back and save his brother when given the option.”
“He had no love for his brother or his family,” Frasier said.
“Sometimes it’s not about love,” Dane said. “You should know. A pathological need can drive someone to do things that don’t make sense.”
“True.” Frasier said. “I propose we give Mac
the year least fraught with danger. Apparent danger at least. Columbus.”
“All right.”
Frasier scrawled the year on the cover and Mac’s file went to the right.
Before Frasier could continue, Dane reached out and pulled a file out of the stack. “Scout goes to Leonidas.”
“Why?”
“Because it is what it is.” Dane wrote the year and tossed the file on top of Mac’s.
“Roland,” Frasier said. “Odoacer.”
“That fits. Murder and mayhem, his forte. And Moms gets Caesar.”
“Why? I was thinking—”
“Because Moms and Roland have a bond,” Dane said. “Both going to the Roman Empire, even five hundred years apart, will affect them positively. Especially Roland.”
“Moms bond for Roland is as deep as his is for her,” Frasier said. “She saved his life a long time ago, before they became Nightstalkers, but he’s saved her ass a number of times since then. He’s her personal pit bull.”
“He’s smarter than a pit bull,” Dane said. “People underestimate him. The fact Neeley’s hooked up with him says a lot.”
Frasier nodded. “Neeley is brilliant. Flawed, but brilliant. You know, she’d be a good addition to—”
“The Cellar needs her more than we do. For now.”
Frasier slid two files out, wrote on them, and put them on the growing pile. “That leaves us Eagle and Doc.” He paused.
“Yes?”
“Forgive my ignorance,” Frasier said, “but there are aspects of these missions I don’t understand. The mechanics of them.”
“We don’t know much about the mechanics,” Dane said.
Frasier tapped the files. “Eagle is African-American.”
“Yes?”
“When the members of the Time Patrol travel back, do they appear inside their bubble in time the same as they look here? We dress and equip them as if they do, so I assume that—”
“We assume the same,” Dane said. “That they look the same.”
“But, the people around them—”
“It is what it is,” Dane said. “The time bubble isn’t real in a sense.”