Ides of March (Time Patrol)

by Bob Mayer

  It left behind only a handful.

  A flash of the North American continent, but things were no better there as different diseases left behind by Columbus’ crew spread from the island to the mainland.

  That time tunnel narrowed as Mac went further forward, until it simply snapped out of existence.

  Mac closed his eyes.

  At peace.

  *****

  Scout was sliding through space, not time. Through a gate, into the Space Between, the sphere in both hands. She was in a tunnel, just above the dark water of the Inner Sea, the smell distinctive. There were two people standing waist deep in the black water directly ahead. One of them had his hands up and as Scout went by, he snatched the sphere from her, but she knew it was all right to let go, it was the entire purpose of this journey.

  She turned to look and could have sworn the man was Dane but then she was swept up into another the tunnel. Moving forward in time.

  Heading to her own time.

  What did I just do? Scout wondered.

  She ‘looked’ about, at the boundaries of the time tunnel. Running in the same direction, moving forward in time, were innumerable tunnels, all threads of timelines. So many they were almost a solid mass. But the threads were pulsing, alive, radiating an array of colors, indicating time was a variable, not constant. That there were possibilities.

  An infinite number of possibilities.

  But as she sped forward, she saw more and more lines that simply ended. Sometimes fading out. Other times terminating a splash of red or black.

  How many timelines were there?

  How many had been destroyed? How many had destroyed themselves? How many were fighting the Shadow?

  And then the most chilling possibility: How many constituted the Shadow?

  *****

  For Eagle there was nothing. Unconscious, bleeding out, he was pulled forward through the tunnel of time, life draining away.

  *****

  Roland was sliding forward through the tunnel of time. To his own time. There were images of possible timelines flickering off to his right.

  A timeline where it was Theodoric who died and Odoacer who ruled, trying to keep his kingdom together, but being subsumed by competing tribes in just a few years.

  Interestingly, it curved back into this timeline, snapping into place.

  It would have made no difference.

  There was another, further away.

  Theodoric and Odoacer as co-consuls, ruling an amalgamation of the old Western Roman Empire and the Goths laying siege to Constantinople.

  A new Roman Empire arising, east and west combined.

  An Empire responding out of eastern Persia, uniting with a fledgling Islamic Caliphate.

  The images were going by faster and faster as Roland got closer to his own time. Concentrations camps. Guard towers topped by a blue flag and a crucifix on it; planes with Arabic writing and strange symbols on the sides, attacking Rome, the Vatican fire-bombed. Flames.

  But that was not a timeline the Shadow had tried to push.

  Unless. Somehow? Roland shook off the frightening possibility that Telelcus’ words had been accurate and somehow, Roland was the true target.

  He couldn’t be that important.

  Roland turned away from it. Not real. Possible changes that hadn’t occurred. Were they any worse than World War I? World War II?

  Were they—

  Off to the left all he saw were stars. Glittering. A brilliant nebula full of color.

  There was God?

  Debrief

  DOC HELD A COMPRESS AGAINST the side of his head. Roland wore just a dirty loincloth and hadn’t bothered to clean up. He was covered in blood, dirt and other material that defied easy defining; not that anyone wanted to try. He’d come back without sword, armor and a sense of humor.

  “What happened to your shoulder?” Moms asked him, indicating a line of blood. She was intact, uninjured, appearing much the same as when she left, although she was no longer self-conscious in the Amata outfit.

  Roland ran his finger along the cut. “Huh. Didn’t feel it. Arrow. Guess it missed as I was getting pulled into the tunnel.”

  They all turned to Mac, who seemed very calm, wearing a pair of Time Patrol grey coveralls since he’d arrived buck-naked, with just the Friar’s purse. Waiting for him to comment on Roland’s surprise at having been wounded.

  “Are you all right, Roland?” Mac asked, with real concern.

  Roland blinked. “Yeah.”

  “Who shot at you?” Mac asked.

  “Some chick,” Roland said. “I think she was from the Shadow.”

  Scout looked up from her hands. The skin was burned from the map. The equivalent of a bad sunburn. She hadn’t felt it until she arrived back. “What was her name?”

  Roland shrugged. “Guy said her name was Diana. She was there when I arrived and there when I left. She had a bow and arrow and took a shot at me. I was lucky.”

  “We were all lucky,” Moms said. “Except Eagle.” She looked at one of the doors. “Dane said he’d let us know as soon as possible.”

  “He looked pretty bad,” Roland said. “He’s got to be okay.” That was as close as Roland could come to prayer, but it was as surprising as Mac’s lack of snark.

  Moms reached out and picked up Doc’s coat. She wiggled a finger through a hole. “What happened?”

  “Firing squad,” Doc said.

  “But the bullets didn’t hit you,” Moms noted. “Just the coat.”

  “I don’t pretend to understand this.” Doc was staring at his hand, at the fingernail marks the Count’s hand had made when it clinched just before the first rifle in the firing squad went off.

  One of the four doors open and Dane walked in. “Eagle will make it,” he said. “He’s stabilized and will need shoulder surgery.”

  “Can we see him?” Moms asked.

  “Not yet,” Dane said. “There are some loose ends from your mission debriefs we need to cover.”

  “Really?” Doc said. “How about the fact my Time Patrol contact had his own plan for the future?”

  “Mine too,” Moms said.

  Both of them briefly explained Golovkin and Spurinna.

  “That’s not good,” Dane understated, when they finished. “But not unexpected. They’re doing the best they can without any idea what the future is to be. Like we are right now with our own future. It’s natural that some would try to be pro-active.”

  Doc stuck a finger through the hole in his coat. “This is what pro-active causes.”

  “But you made it,” Dane said.

  “I did,” Doc admitted. “But the agent didn’t. And the Tsarina and the Duchesses and Alexei and—” his voice broke.

  “You knew their fate going in,” Dane said. “It was their fate before you left and—”

  “And Anastasia,” Doc said, ignoring Dane. “I swear she knew what I was. And she knew that Rasputin wasn’t of her time.”

  Dane’s voice was firm: “I don’t think Rasputin was from the Shadow or a time traveler. Like Mac’s missions to Raleigh on Black Tuesday, and with the Friar this time. I suspect Rasputin was visited by a Valkyrie and received messages he thought were sent by God. Give visions to a man who was most likely bipolar and you’ve got a dangerous mixture.”

  He shifted from Doc to Mac. “You were right in your suspicions. Analysis of the syringe reveals a recombinant virus that would merge with the syphilis. Make it much more virulent and contagious. It’s an ingenious biological weapon.”

  “Not from that time period?” Mac asked.

  “The syringe is time appropriate,” Dane said. “But the top genetic scientists today would be hard pressed to come up with this virus. That’s definitely not of that era. It’s from the Shadow. Again, a Valkyrie most likely gave it to the Franciscan.”

  “Who else could it be from?” Scout demanded. “Who else do we need to be worried about on these missions?”

  Roland spoke up. “There was
someone from another timeline on my mission.”.

  “Diana?” Scout asked.

  “No.” Roland shook his head. “She was probably Shadow. There was someone else. Another timeline. A warrior. Said he was from Sparta, but in a timeline where Sparta ruled the world. But they owed tribute to the Shadow and sent warriors as payment. He said he was taking orders from Diana.”

  “We know there can be an infinite number of timelines,” Dane said. “The Shadow has destroyed some. Conquered some and holds them as vassals. Some are moving forward, unaware of other timelines.”

  “You know,” Moms said, ignoring Dane, “this Diana sounds a lot like the way her namesake is described in Roman mythology. Goddess of the hunt. In Greek mythology, she was called Artemis.”

  “How’d you make that connection to mythology?” Scout asked.

  Moms turned to her and before she could say anything, Scout said: “I ran into Pandora.”

  “I met Pyrrha,” Moms said. “Pandora’s daughter. And she knew your name,” she added. “And my name.”

  “And Pandora had the Sight,” Scout added.

  “I’ve got your report,” Dane said.

  “That’s not an answer,” Moms said. “What’s going on?”

  “This is something new,” Dane replied. “We don’t know what it means. We don’t know if this Diana is even connected to Pandora and Pyrrha.”

  “But those two are definitely connected,” Moms said. “Are they Shadow?”

  Scout cut in. “I’m not sure they are. Pandora seemed to have a different agenda. And she killed a Valkyrie that was coming for me.”

  “We’ll look into it,” Dane promised vaguely, which caused Scout to roll her eyes.

  “You don’t know squat, do you?” Doc said. “You not only don’t understand the science of the time travel we’re playing with, you don’t know who or what the Shadow is. You don’t know—”

  Dane angrily cut him off. “I know the Shadow wants to wipe this timeline out. Isn’t that enough? It is for me. My timeline was annihilated by a Time Tsunami while I was in the Space Between. Everyone I knew, my family, every living being, gone. Nothing left. Just a dead Earth. My Earth.” He glared at Doc. “I might not know ‘squat’ but I do know that.”

  There was a long silence.

  Moms broke it. “Could you please take us to see Eagle?”

  Dane looked as if he were going to protest, but the five team members were on their feet and he bowed to the inevitable. “Come on.”

  He led them out of the team room, along the spiral deck, to another of the numerous ubiquitous white doors. He opened it. An ascending staircase led outward, away from the pit of the Possibility Palace.

  “The future?” Doc asked, his scientific curiosity punched through the morbid reminders of his mission.

  “No,” Dane said. “We’re going to the outer rim of the Possibility Palace. There’s more to Time Patrol headquarters then just the inside.”

  “Apparently,” Scout said.

  Dane briskly climbed the stairs, the team wearily following. They went up for several minutes, before reaching another door. Dane opened it and indicated they should pass through.

  Dane shut the door behind them.

  “To the left.” He led them along a slightly curving corridor lined with doors on the right.

  He paused at one door and knocked.

  Eagle’s voice replied. “Come in.”

  Moms shoved past Dane and led the way. The team piled into the room, Scout last in line, slamming the door in Dane’s face. They all halted, not at the sight of a bandaged Eagle reclining in a hospital bed, a Kindle on the covers over his lap, but at the view through the bay window and the vista below and beyond: A wind swept undulating plain, covered with towering grasses. Almost as far as the eye could see, but in the distance, a mountain range soared into the sky above the prairie. It was impossible to discern how far away the mountains were, and thus, how high, but they were majestic. The sun was setting behind them, casting long shadows.

  “Something, eh?” Eagle said. “I don’t know where or when we are right now, but it’s not populated as far as I can tell. Haven’t seen a single contrail in the sky. There’s no sign of civilization outside of here. Seen some birds at a distance but couldn’t tell what they were. Haven’t spotted anything on the ground yet, but sometimes the tall grass moves as if something is pushing through.”

  “The past.” Doc walked to the window and put a hand on the glass. “The distant past. Has to be.”

  “Most likely,” Eagle agreed.

  “How are you?” Moms asked.

  “Got some shoulder surgery coming up,” Eagle said. “I’m tired. But otherwise, I’m good.” He held up the Kindle. “I’m more than good.” He put it back down on the covers.

  “What are you reading?” Scout sat on the foot of the bed, as the rest of the team crowded round.

  Eagle didn’t have to look at the screen to tell them the title, even though it was long. “The Life of Josiah Henson, Formerly a Slave, Now an Inhabitant of Canada, as Narrated by Himself. Published in 1849.”

  “That was your mission?” Scout asked.

  “Thought it was George Washington,” Roland said.

  Eagle smiled. “It was Washington. But it was much more than that.” He thumped the Kindle with his good hand. “Harriet Beecher Stowe used this book and Henson’s life story as the basis for Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Which was the strongest contributing factor to the abolitionist movement in the North.”

  “Was he there? Where and when you went?” Moms asked. It was growing darker outside, the sun halfway down, behind the mountains, a single peak silhouetting it on the right side.

  Eagle’s smile disappeared. “I convinced Josiah Henson’s mother, Nancy, not to escape, on the promise that her son, who hadn’t been born yet, would be very, very important..” He tapped the Kindle. “This proves he was.”

  “Except she had to stay a slave,” Doc noted. “And I let everyone who I met die. Including Anastasia. Maybe I could have saved her at least?”

  “You not only couldn’t have,” Moms said, “it would have compromised the mission.”

  “’The Mission’?” Doc said. “People die because of—”

  “Now you know why Dane sent you,” Moms said. “You had to understand first-hand what this means. The implications of the Patrol.”

  “They would have died regardless,” Eagle said. “We kept things as they were. Are. Good and bad.”

  “We’re playing God,” Doc argued.

  Roland snorted. “God? Where is God?”

  Everyone turned to him in surprise.

  “What?” Moms asked.

  “That’s what the king asked,” Roland said. “Odoacer. After I betrayed him and just before Theodoric killed him.” He looked at his teammates. “Is there a God? Is there some being controlling all of this? Pulling our strings? Someone besides Dane?”

  “I don’t know about God,” Scout said. “But I think there is something more.”

  “Fate,” Moms said. “Or more appropriately, the Fates.”

  “What do you mean?” Scout asked.

  “Pyrrha said the Fates were powerful,” Moms said. “She said there are things that cannot be changed. Things that the Fates have made as part of a higher law.” She glanced at Scout, not adding the part about the ‘forever death’ that had been threatened.

  “Who are the Fates?” Roland asked. “Some sort of Gods?”

  “Not Gods,” Eagle said. “In a way, the Fates were the checks on the Gods. A principal of natural order being supreme.”

  “In other words, God, but not God,” Roland said. “Nature.” He turned from them and walked over to the window, where night now covered the land outside. “Look.” He pointed up at the stars. “There is God. The Fates. Whatever you want to call it. Something bigger than us. Smarter than Dane. More powerful than the Shadow.”

  The rest of the team joined him, except Scout, who reached out and took Eagle’
s good hand and squeezed it tight. They all looked out at the stars.

  “Pandora left one thing in her box,” Scout said. “I believe it ties in to what Roland is saying. I believe it’s the thing we have that will save us.”

  The four by the window turned to face her.

  “What was that?” Moms asked.

  “Elpis,” Scout said. “Hope.”

  New York City: The Present

  “THE NEEDLE’S FINE,” Edith Frobish said.

  The hieroglyphics were back. Edith, not trusting her eyes or Ivar’s, had asked three different passerby’s. All confirmed they saw what she and Ivar saw, then hurried away from the crazy couple standing next to Cleopatra’s Needle.

  “The team did it,” Edith said.

  “They did,” Ivar agreed. “I hope everyone is all right.”

  Edith had her satchel and Ivar had a large backpack full of notes over one shoulder. They’d come back to the here and now do some research and had just met back up at the Needle.

  “We’ll know shortly,” Edith said. “Let’s get out of here before we run into another policeman wondering why we’re wondering.”

  She had an extra bounce in her step now that all was in place in her world. She pushed open the metal door on the side of the Metropolitan Museum of Art labeled: ‘Authorized Personnel Only’.

  There was no security guard on duty.

  “That’s odd,” Edith said.

  Ivar shifted the heavy load he was carrying. “Let’s go. I want to look at this data for—”

  “No,” Edith said. “This isn’t right.”

  Ivar sighed as Edith led them down a corridor but turned left instead of right.

  “Edith,” Ivar began, but then she pushed open a door and stepped through. Having no choice, Ivar followed. They were on a balcony overlooking one of the exhibit halls. A throng of people were milling and moving below them taking in the paintings and sculptures.

  “Everything’s fine,” Ivar said. “Can we—”

  Edith gasped. She lifted a hand, finger trembling. “Look!”