by Bob Mayer
It is 1863. The Conscription Act of 1863 allows one to buy an exemption from the draft for $300; Draft Riots in New York City kill over 100; Samuel Butler publishes Darwin Among the Machines, postulating that machines are undergoing constant evolution and will eventually supplant mankind (still getting there); the USS Wyoming engages Japanese warships; Henry Royce is born (when he’s older he’ll also make some engines and cars).
Ivar didn’t think he was here about a boy and his dog. But you never knew on a Time Patrol mission.
Some things change; some don’t.
“You don’t sound like you’re from around here,” Joey said.
“I’m not,” Ivar said.
“I means, you don’ sound like you from the South,” Joey said. “You almost sound like a Yankee.” Joey looked Ivar up and down. “And you look pretty healthy. Not hungry at all. You a spy?”
Ivar laughed at the ‘look healthy’ part, because this was one of the few places where he could actually accomplish that. “I’m not a spy. Not like that at least. I have done some spying, but for General Johnston. Been out beyond the lines. Taking a look-about. General Johnston sent me here.” Ivar realized he was subconsciously pushing an Australian, not southern, accent into his voice, and wondered what that was about as he put a stop to it. “Like General Pemberton, I was born up north, Ohio, just over the river from Kentucky, but my folks originally came from Georgia. I’m a Southerner at heart.”
Joey seemed to buy off on that as he released Buster’s leash. “Good. ‘Cause if you was a spy, I’d have to gut you right here with my knife.”
“You have a knife?”
Joey revealed a silver pocketknife in one hand. It had been there all along, and Ivar hadn’t seen it. He knew what Nada would say about that, but he was getting real tired of worrying what someone else would say about the here and now in which Nada was neither.
“It’s a good one,” Joey said. “Engraved and everything.”
“Your father’s?” Ivar asked.
Joey’s head dropped. “No, sir. My daddy, he got his’self killed at Shiloh. At least we thinks so. He went off with the great General Sidney Albert Johnston and the Army of the Mississippi, and never did come back. In ’62, that was. Spring. Bunch of dads went off and never come back. Word is, damn Yankees wouldn’t allow the decency of claiming the dead. Just tossed our mensfolks’ bodies into a trench.”
The download confirmed what had happened to the bodies. Grant, who’d been in command at Shiloh, had claimed it was too hot to leave the corpses exposed, and by the time representatives from the Southern side approached him about recovering their dead, he informed them his men already buried them.
Of course, Ivar thought, Grant’s own dead were out there, rotting.
“Here. Take a look-see.” Joey held out the knife with his fingers on either side of the blade, the handle toward Ivar.
Ivar took it and angled it so he could read the engraving.
He felt a rush as he read the name: John C. Pemberton.
“You know Pemberton?” Ivar asked.
“He’s in our cave a lot,” Joey said, his tone indicating he didn’t like that one bit.
“The General,” Joey said, taking back the knife, “he ain’t acting right in the head.”
Mantinea, Greece, 4 July 362 B.C.
Scout wasn’t there, and then she was there, but she’d sort of always been there. It was the best way to explain how she arrived, becoming part of her current time and place without fanfare or excitement among those around her, mainly because most of those on the plain below her were too concerned about possibly dying later in the day. She was in the bubble of this day, not before, and hopefully she wouldn’t be here afterward, because it looked like there were going to be a lot of dead people by the end of the day.
Plus she could sense the presence behind her.
“Hello, Pandora,” Scout said, without looking over her shoulder. “Waiting for me?”
“Waiting for fell deeds to befall,” Pandora answered. “Is that redundant? Arrayed in front of us are the Spartans, Athenians and their allies, readying for battle.”
Scout was on the slope of a ridge, to the west of a plain two kilometers wide. There was a ridge on the other side, making this a choke point for advancement either way, north or south. The ridges and hills were covered with short trees. The plain was dusty and brown, the stunted grass scorched by the summer heat. Several rocky, dry creek beds crossed it. In the late morning sun, a large army was ending a road march and deploying. They were forming east to west, oriented to face the south. Most of the soldiers had long spears, hoplites, forming phalanxes where the spears and the mass of the men gathered shoulder to shoulder, the essence of the most efficient fighting formation of the era. Scout recognized red-cloaked lochoi of Spartans among the hoplites, armed with spear, sword and shield.
Pandora continued. “King Agesilaus II of Sparta commands them, but he is an old man who cannot wield a sword in battle any more so he has divided command between Podares of Mantinea and Cephisodorus of Marathon. Never a smart move. And, unfortunately for him, Sparta is not the power it was last time you saw them in battle under King Leonidas.
“Great Epaminondas, leader of the Thebans, served up a great defeat to the Spartans nine years ago at Leuctra. But he did something even more devastating. He freed the helots, slaves, of Messenia. More than any victory on the battlefield, and he has had many, that act diminished the power of Sparta. For without the slaves to do the work, it is much more difficult for Sparta to maintain a standing army, which has always been its advantage. Slave power, not force of arms as they would have everyone believe. It the base of the pyramid that must be destroyed for victory, not the top of the pyramid.”
“Thanks for the lesson.” Scout turned to face Pandora and was surprised that the older woman wasn’t alone. A younger, redheaded woman was next to her. Both wore black cloaks and held Naga staffs. Pandora was tall and thin, with thick black hair bisected by a distinctive streak of white from above her left eye flowing over to the end of her locks on her back. The other, younger woman, was tall, not quite as tall as Pandora, with pale skin and bright flame-colored hair that went down to her shoulders.
“Pyrrha, your daughter,” Scout said. “You gonna introduce us?”
“You already know her name,” Pandora said. “And she, of course, knows yours.”
“It is nice to be recognized,” Pyrrha said. “Your team mate told you of me?”
“Yeah,” Scout said. “She said you threatened me with the ‘forever death’. What’s that?”
“Dead,” Pyrrha said. “Forever.”
“Wow,” Scout said. “Deep. Everyone is dead forever.”
“Not necessarily,” Pandora said. “Since we know time is a variable, that means our concept of death is also a variable.”
Scout rolled her eyes, but thought of Kirk, when the Time Patrol was first started. He was killed by a Valkyrie, yet after Nada reset everything, he was alive, back in Arkansas with his family. But Nada was still dead, forever dead. “First history, now quantum physics. You guys must be a hit at parties. Why are the two of you here?”
Pandora smiled. “Why are you here?”
“You know my mission,” Scout said. “To maintain my timeline. Have you been here since my last visit? That would make you quite old. Maybe you don’t die?”
“I’ve gone and come,” Pandora said. “As you have. How long has it been for you?”
“Not long enough,” Scout said.
“Did Pythagoras’ death affect the timeline much?” Pandora asked. “I did have the right Pythagoras, correct? The sculptor, not the philosopher?”
Scout shrugged, going for nonchalant. “There’s a missing statue from the Pythian games, but is that important?”
“Is it?” Pandora asked. “One never knows about the variables in time. What is important, what isn’t? Who is? Who isn’t?”
“Except Alexander,” Scout said. “He’s important, co
rrect?”
Pandora and Pyrrha exchanged a look. The elder woman replied. “Perhaps. Except he’s not born yet. But this battle is critical. In many ways.”
“Yeah,” Scout said. “Both sides kinda lose and that opens the door for Philip, Alexander’s father to conquer Greece.” Edith had put an asterisk in the download that led to a footnote she’d thought was important. It was Scout’s turn to smile. “It’s kind of funny. I think that could be called a pyrrhic victory. But King Pyrrhus doesn’t suffer that for another eighty years or so. He named after you?” she asked Pyrrha.
“Coincidence,” Pyrrha said.
“Right,” Scout said.
“Neither Philip or Alexander ever conquered all of Greece,” Pyrrha said. “Neither ever conquer Sparta. Philip will send them a message, warning that ‘If I win this war, you will be slaves forever’.”
Edith’s download was up to speed. “To which Sparta replied: ‘If’. Pretty cool,” Scout said, thinking that was something Roland might come up with. “Nice attempt at a diversion from my question. That’s not here or now. In the future. How do you guys know about the future? When are you from? Where are you from?”
It is 362 B.C. In North America, farming cultures are springing up in the southwest, while hunter-gatherers are in the northwest. In China, Duke Xian of Qin dies, and is remembered fondly by all those who weren’t buried alive with him, since he’d outlawed the practice of funeral human sacrifice of slaves and retainers that had existed for three centuries before him.
“We’re your sisters,” Pandora said.
Some things change; some don’t.
“Yeah, yeah,” Scout said. “You’ve said that.”
“This battle is critical,” Pandora said, “because there are junctures where a single significant event led to parallel timelines. This is one of them.”
“Hold on,” Scout said. It was growing warmer as the sun rose. The sounds of soldiers aligning themselves in tightly packed phalanxes, orders being shouted, horses racing back and force, echoed in the distance. “I thought those threads were what happened if we failed. Possibilities.”
“The Shadow is trying two things,” Pandora said. “One is taking shots in the dark, trying to disrupt your timeline in order to terminate it. But it’s also taking some aimed shots. Going to places where history, the history of the timelines that reached the same point, show there were splits into parallel worlds. It’s trying to shatter your timeline at one of those key junctures.”
Just great, Scout thought. “Hold on.” If what Pandora was saying was true, then the Rule of Seven didn’t apply on this mission. “How do you know that?”
Pyrrha fielded that, or rather didn’t. “We don’t know. It is what we speculate. Are not your people speculating?”
Scout pointed at her. “My teammate said it seemed like you were working for the Fates. Making sure Caesar went to his date with death.” Scout remembered exactly what Moms had said. “Or were you trying to grab Caesar, like you want to get Alexander, but Fate wouldn’t let you?”
Once more mother and daughter exchanged a glance, and mother fielded that: “Sometimes our goals align. Today is one of those fortunate occasions.”
Pyrrha spoke up. “Have any of your people run into Spartan mercenaries?”
“Perhaps,” Scout said, realizing she’d violated Rule One from the moment she’d arrived. But Pandora, and her daughter, were outside of the rules since they too were travelers in time.
Pandora spoke: “Epaminondas, leader of the Thebans is a great warrior. Very near here, twenty-three years ago, the Spartans, who are out there—” she indicated the aligned forces—”were allied with the Thebans, who are approaching. During the battle, Epaminondas, while trying to save his king got surrounded, and was about to be killed. He was saved by the Spartan king. Epaminondas always remembered that. What if, instead of giving battle today, Epaminondas reaches out to the Spartans? Finds the son of the man who saved his life? Sparta and Thebes ally? This battle, which is brewing, never happens in that timeline. Sparta and Thebes unify Greece, with Sparta becoming predominant after Epaminondas’ death. Greece defeats Philip II and Macedonia, and in the process wipes out Alexander who is not yet born until six years from now. The Greeks, not the Macedonians, crush the Persian Empire. They go on to conquer much of the known world like Alexander, except their empire lasts longer, until—” she stopped.
“Until what?”
“The Shadow defeats them, but can’t conquer them, much like Philip and Alexander. From that point, their timeline brokers a peace and becomes vassals of the Shadow. Supplying mercenaries in order to remain viable and not be wiped out.”
“Nice story,” Scout said, but it fit with what Roland had said about the Spartan he’d encountered during his Ides mission to Ravenna. Then again, why was she even listening to Pandora?
“As good as any story you might tell,” Pandora said. “But when you encounter the reality, it is no longer a story.”
“So what’s the story today?” Scout asked, fingering the Naga staff, thinking that she had little chance of taking out both Pandora and Pyrrha.
“You have no chance,” Pandora said.
“Get out of my head,” Scout said.
“You’re not very disciplined,” Pandora said.
“And now?” Scout said, imagining a wall between her and the two women.
“Very good,” Pandora said. “How much focus does it take? It should be instinctual.”
“I’m full of surprises,” Scout said.
“Perhaps.” Pandora pointed to the right of the encamped army. “Over that rise to the south. What do you sense? Expand your Sight.”
Scout turned in that direction. Closed her eyes. Thought about how Sin Fen could have been more helpful with the whole ‘Sight’ thing, wiped that thought clean, and opened herself up to the world beyond, reaching outward.
“Men marching this way,” Scout said. “Many are afraid. Most are. Fear of death. Being wounded.” She realized something. “Even more afraid of being cowards. Of letting their comrades down.”
“That is the fuel of combat,” Pandora said. “What else?”
The aura of fear was so great that Scout couldn’t—”A small blank in the midst. Nothingness. Darkness. No soul.” She opened her eyes. “There are Legion among them.”
“That is why we are here,” Pandora said.
Our Present.
Camp Mackall, North Carolina
Lara spit sawdust and a little bit of blood out of her mouth, She smiled as she got to her feet and once more faced the hulking hand-to-hand combat instructor. She was barely five and a half feet tall, slender, actually below healthy thin, her skull sporting a fine fuzz of hair growing back, beginning to hide the jigsaw puzzle of scars.
They were in a pit full of sawdust illuminated by the glow of a sputtering arc light. A rappelling tower reached up into the sky next to the pit. In the other direction were the buildings that compromised the Special Operations compound on the western edge of the sprawling Fort Bragg reservation.
The North Carolina forest surrounding the perimeter fence was pitch black, foreboding. There were lights on in some of the buildings inside the compound, because training, especially Special Operations training, is a nonstop endeavor. There were no days off here, no holidays, no slack time. Someone was always teaching someone else the dark arts of covert operations at Camp Mackall.
There was no one else in the pit. Personnel that were sent here by Hannah, under the auspices of the Cellar, always received individualized instruction. It was faster, more efficient, but more importantly, it was more secure. They had no names, just a code affixed to the order for the training.
None of the instructors wanted to know these students’ names. Nor did they want to know where these trainees were going to be assigned. The orders were brief and to the point, specifying what skills were to be taught as quickly and efficiently as possible.
Hand-to-hand was a given, since it was the fin
al line of defense. So far, Lara had eaten sawdust four straight times.
“On guard,” the instructor ordered.
Lara assumed the position he’d taught. Sort of.
He attacked, slowly, giving her time to employ what he’d shown her.
Once more she failed and ended up spitting out sawdust.
“Listen, girl,” the instructor said. “In combat, it’s going to be a lot faster. A fight like this is usually over in less than a second. Forget all that movie BS where they fight on and on. There’s the quick and the dead. Right now, you’re dead.”
“There are better ways to resolve conflict,” Lara said, still smiling, a trickle of blood on the left side of her mouth meandering its way south.
“I’m sure there are,” the instructor said, “but my job is to teach you not only how to defend yourself, but to kill. With your hands. Some people can’t do it. Can you do it? Can you do it? You got the guts to kill someone, girl?” With that last sentence he showed her shoulders and she staggered back.
“Yes,” Lara said in a very soft voice, so soft he didn’t hear.
“What was that?” Another shove and another step back. “You got the guts to kill? To rip someone’s throat out if you have to?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not showing it.”
Lara shrugged. “You haven’t asked me to kill you. You’ve just been asking me to defend. I don’t see the point of having to defend if I kill you first.”
The instructor frowned, trying to process her logic.
“Wouldn’t killing someone attacking me before they got to me be a better way to defend myself?” Lara asked. “Or perhaps simply make them stop attacking?”