Black Tuesday (Area 51: Time Patrol)

by Mayer, Bob

  He was elated to finally meet one.

  Roland jabbed the point of his sword directly into the mouth end of a tentacle, right between the teeth, as it came straight for him. The sword went in and then farther in, the teeth snapping down on the steel, getting closer and closer to his hand, finally stopping at the cross-shaped haft before the tentacle pulled back, dripping gore.

  Ragnarok was everywhere, swinging his massive axe and yelling orders. “Arrows! Spears! Into the water!” He was pointing over the starboard side with his axe, the head dripping gore.

  Roland dropped his sword and grabbed a nearby spear. He jumped to the side next to Ragnarok and looked down. Just below the surface, in a swirl of blood, was a large eye peering up at him, part of a deeper, darker shadow from which the tentacles lashed up.

  One of the tentacles darted toward Roland but never made it as Ragnarok swung his axe and severed it with one blow.

  With all his strength, Roland thrust down with the spear, almost following it overboard, releasing it at the last second. The tip hit the eye dead center.

  There was a flurry of tentacles and then nothing as the creature dove.

  For a moment, all was still, the surface of the water settling down to a dead calm.

  “Bowmen.” Ragnarok was pointing with the tip end of his axe.

  To the starboard side, floating in the air, was a ghostly figure about fifty feet away.

  This Roland had seen before. “A Valkyrie.”

  Ragnarok spared him a glance. “You’ve met such before?”

  “I have.”

  “Since you are here, that means we can defeat it.” Ragnarok said it as a statement and Roland didn’t have the heart to tell him it had taken a 40 mm grenade and a lot of bullets to do that.

  Blood-red hair flowed over a smooth face with two red bulbs for eyes. Roland knew there was a human inside that articulated, white armor suit. A human from where and when he had no clue.

  The twang of bowstrings was the only sound. The arrows hit and bounced harmlessly off the armor.

  Tam Nok called out. “You cannot hurt it with your arrows.”

  “Stop!” Ragnarok called out.

  Roland went to the Viking’s side and they stared at the creature as Tam Nok joined them.

  “It sent the kraken,” Tam Nok said.

  “Why doesn’t it attack?” Ragnarok asked.

  There was no answer.

  The Valkyrie remained still for a long minute, and then the creature slowly faded away, floating backward into a fog bank.

  “Someone knows you’re coming,” Ragnarok said to Roland. “Other than me and her.”

  “Why would it retreat?” Roland asked. “We have no weapon to stop it.”

  Ragnarok hefted his battle-axe and kissed the gore-covered head. “I can hurt it with Skullcrusher.”

  Roland had seen 5.56 mm rounds bounce off the Valkyries’ armor. While he respected Ragnarok’s power, he had a feeling the white armor could withstand the axe. “This doesn’t make sense.”

  Ragnarok slapped Roland on the back. Not softly. “You hurt its pet with your mighty spear thrust. It is probably going off to sulk. You are a worthy warrior.” He walked off, issuing orders for the boat to get underway. The crew was tossing severed pieces and parts of the kraken overboard.

  Tam Nok put her hand on Roland’s chest. “You have the heart of a warrior.” She tapped the side of her head with her other hand. “I have the Sight. Together we can do what has to be done. It is the way it should be, seer and soldier as one.”

  “Except you can’t see the goal of my journey,” Roland muttered.

  “We’ll know it when we see it,” Tam Nok said.

  “I do not think you will be able to control Ragnarok and his men.”

  “They are transportation,” Tam Nok said. “Nothing more.”

  The vagaries of the variables, Roland thought, a rather profound thought at that. He didn’t like it. Roland was well trained and experienced in combat, which is controlled chaos, but he usually had a good idea of his mission and who the enemy was.

  Whatever happened when they reached England wasn’t going to be pretty.

  It is 999 AD. In China, Bao Zheng is born and would become renowned for his honesty and fairness to the point where he would be woven into Chinese legend. Saint Adelaide, the second wife of the Holy Roman Emperor Otto the Great, and then regent of the Empire for her grandson from 991 to 995, passes away just before the turn of the millennia, which she had believed would bring the Second Coming. Panic over the end of the millennia has many flocking to monasteries and churches, turning over all their worldly goods in exchange for the blessing of eternal life.

  Some things change; some don’t.

  And here, on a Viking longship, Roland was facing creatures of legend while on a mission whose objective he wasn’t exactly certain of. But he had a shield and a sword and he was in the company of fierce warriors in the midst of a battle.

  Roland was at home.

  And there was a seer. With the Sight. Who couldn’t see what he needed.

  Roland shrugged. This was going to be all right, he thought as he hooked his shield over the bulwark and put the sword down at his feet.

  He grabbed his oar and put his back into it.

  Los Angeles, California, 1969. 29 October

  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. She was in the bubble of this day, not before, and hopefully she wouldn’t be here afterward.

  Scout lifted her head and felt the drool parting from the side of her mouth and the page of the open textbook. She could tell it was a textbook because the pages were of good-quality paper and had no smell at all. She blinked, focusing, and figured it was a physics book from the confusing equations that covered the open page. Something Doc or Ivar might scrawl on a whiteboard. And actually understand. She flipped it shut and the title confirmed the subject.

  She was sitting at a desk. A rather neat desk, one her mother would be proud of. She glanced out the open window and realized it was morning, the sun slanting across the UCLA campus. Something about the fact it was morning worried her for a moment, as if she should have been up earlier, but she shunted it aside.

  The vagaries of the variables as Dane was so fond of saying.

  She had time to do whatever it was she had to do. Or more accurately to make sure what was supposed to happen happened.

  Whatever.

  From the attire of the people meandering about with their wide-bottomed jeans and with patches on said jeans, such as Snoopy or that guy with the big nose who wanted you to just keep on truckin’, she figured they’d gotten the time right.

  It is 1969, California.

  The weather was nice, but Scout had never been to California, so she assumed it was always nice. They made songs about that, especially in this era. Were the Beach Boys hitting it big now, she wondered, conjuring up the only old California band she could think of? Then she realized she’d never heard of the Beach Boys back in her old life, so that must have been something they downloaded. With a rush, the information tumbled through her brain: Formed in 1961; Hawthorne, California; three brothers, Brian, Dennis, Carl Wilson, cousin Mike Love, and friend Al Jardine.

  Scout rolled her eyes as she stopped the cascade of thoughts. Now she was truly a nerd. A walking Wikipedia. What every young woman aspires to.

  She even had the frakking songs in her brain, so she shut that down right away. No “Good Vibrations” echoing through her gray matter.

  But . . .

  It was a pretty good tune, she allowed.

  She was alone in the room, but there were two beds. Twins. They were plain; just sheets and blankets because it was decades before helicopter moms hovered in and outfitted college beds with dust ruffles, duvet covers, and twenty matching pillows. Scout thought how the pillow business in 1969 had no idea ho
w bright their future was and briefly considered whether there was a way she could invest in the market.

  But that would be breaking the rules and the Administrator had been quite explicit about not breaking the rules.

  Good luck with that, Scout thought.

  Shouldn’t have brought the Nightstalkers in if he wanted rule followers.

  Shifting her focus, Scout caught her reflection in the mirror and grimaced. Her hair was brown, very brown, with no colored streaks, because the hair-streaking business was still in the future. She had a part in the middle. Most unattractive and nondescript. But one did have to fit in. Her thin little peasant top revealed she was braless, but her breasts were small, so no issue there.

  So. She was a feminist. Victoria’s Secret was still a few decades down the road too and maybe braless was the way to go until someone thought up a pretty bra. She checked the waistband of her low-riding jeans and sighed. Yep. Cotton bikini panties. Gross, but thongs were as far off as pretty bras. And thus is the place of underwear in history, she thought.

  The sacrifices she made for her duty.

  The pants were a bit loose and she noticed the insanely wide leather belt lying on the desktop next to the textbook. Certainly not a coincidence, she knew right away. She checked the jeans and the loops were big enough to accommodate the belt, as the one she’d been issued was also wide. By its look, the belt on the desk was hand tooled. There were a few marijuana leaves carved in it, dyed an atrocious green. She picked it up and noted a name etched into the inside: Luke, and then some hieroglyphics.

  Which her mind automatically translated.

  WELCOME TO THE REVOLUTION

  Funny guy, this Luke. But the hieroglyphics indicated he was her contact.

  So where the frak was he?

  Someone had made the belt; her first order of business would be to find him, then find Luke.

  What a strange era when belts were the cutting edge of individuality, but hair was long and straight and plain.

  No wonder there was so much turmoil going on with the kids here and now. They had few resources to makes themselves special, so they used the time to read stuff and make their minds unique, rather than bowing to social media, which hadn’t been invented yet.

  Yet.

  Which reminded her.

  Scout sighed. Duty waited.

  Watching the students going back and forth across campus, she pondered their situation. They all wanted to be different from the Establishment. That was a word that really wasn’t bandied about in her time. She wondered what had happened to it? Too many letters? MSM, perhaps in her time? Main Stream Media. The idea was the same.

  The Man.

  She searched and found a drawer stuffed with cheap cosmetics. She accessed the data that had been downloaded into her brain and carefully made up her eyes to match the time. Gross. Baby-blue eye shadow wasn’t a good match with dull brown hair and no hair products. Her mother would be appalled, and that made Scout feel slightly better about the look.

  Prepared to sally forth, Scout checked herself once more in the mirror. She didn’t like what she saw, so she figured she was ready.

  It is 1969. Muammar Gaddafi stages a coup and comes to power in Libya. The “Miracle Mets” win the World Series. Wal-Mart incorporates. The Boeing 747 makes its first passenger flight. Charles Manson and his followers murder Sharon Tate and others. Dwight D. Eisenhower passes away. Yasser Arafat is elected leader of the PLO. Hurricane Camille, a Category 5, makes landfall along the Mississippi Coast, killing 248 people. Rupert Murdoch purchases Britain’s largest Sunday paper. Midnight Cowboy, rated X, is released. The first ATM in the United States is installed. Two Black Panthers are shot dead in their sleep by police officers. Sesame Street is broadcast for the first time.

  Some things change; some don’t.

  As she went toward the door of the small room, it also occurred to Scout that this was the era of free love, which Scout doubted was ever free.

  But still. She was only here for a day and then she would be gone.

  Scout had a strange feeling. It took her a moment to recognize it: excitement. This could be interesting.

  She was sure her mother wouldn’t approve of the feeling or the thought.

  London, England, 1618. 29 October

  Mac wasn’t there, and then he was there, but he’d sort of always been there. It was the best way to explain how he arrived, becoming part of his current time and place without fanfare or excitement among those around him. He was in the bubble of this day, not before, and hopefully he wouldn’t be here afterward.

  “Let them at least comb it, if they are to have it!”

  Mac saw the reason for the man next to him crying out, although it took him a second to process what it meant based on the data that had been downloaded to him. On the stone walkway, surrounded by guards with pikes, an old man was being escorted back to his prison in the Westminster Gatehouse, his white hair unkempt and in disarray. The sky was dark, not long after midnight, and torches lined the walkway. Despite the hour, a small crowd had gathered and the originator of the complaint was standing next to Mac.

  The prisoner was about six feet with soft brown eyes. He was worn and tired, and his face twitched as he tried to smile at the outburst. But there was also a surprising confidence about him given his dire circumstances.

  The prisoner was brought to a halt on a small dais.

  “Beeston,” the prisoner called out to the man who had protested, “do you know of any plaster to set a man’s head on again when it is off?” The man’s voice was small, a surprise given his stature and his reputation.

  Some in the crowd laughed and the condemned man smiled.

  Gallows humor, Mac thought. Except the man wasn’t destined for the gallows, but rather the chopping block not long after daybreak, scant hours away.

  The Clerk of the Crown stepped up next to the prisoner along with the Lord Chief Justice. The Clerk held up a scroll and read from it: “Sir Walter Raleigh has been a statesman, and a man who in regard to his parts and quality is to be pitied. He has been a star at which the world has gazed; but stars may fall when they trouble the sphere wherein they abide. It is, therefore, His Majesty’s pleasure to call for execution of the former judgment, and I now require order for the same.”

  The crowd murmured, but Mac couldn’t tell whether it was with approval or dismay. Mac was dressed in the Elizabethan attire of the time and continued to feel quite awkward. His hand drifted down to a rapier stuck in his belt, the only thing he approved of in the outfit. He remembered dressing like this in high school, when he was in the drama club. His father had given him unbearable grief about the “girlie” costume. And Mac’s fledgling acting career had ended right there.

  Who knows? In another timeline he could have been a movie star. He was very good at pretending. He had the looks. But the drive had been sucked out of him that moment his father belittled him. Replaced with a different drive to prove his worth, a drive which had propelled him into the Army, into volunteering for Special Forces, to being drafted into and then accepting assignment with the Nightstalkers.

  And now here he was.

  “Raise your right hand,” the Clerk of the Crown ordered.

  Sir Walter Raleigh did so.

  “Do you have anything to say as to why execution should not be awarded against you?”

  Mac thought Raleigh looked sick. His white hair was unkempt, his visage haggard. A red flush was in his face. He spoke, his voice low and harsh. “As concerning the judgment, which is so long past, I think His Majesty, as well as others, have been of the opinion that in my former trial I received but hard measure.”

  The information tumbled through Mac’s brain, even as he marveled that he was here, in London, staring at a man he’d read about in history books: After Queen Elizabeth died in 1603, Raleigh’s enemies, and there were many, had him arrested and imprisoned in the Tower of London. He was tried for treason, convicted, and sentenced to death.

 
; But he was not executed for a variety of reasons.

  So Raleigh remained on the Elizabethan-age equivalent of death row for thirteen years, writing his first volume of The History of the World.

  Some make the most of their time.

  Strangely, he was released by King James in 1616 and led an expedition to South America in search of the famed City of El Dorado and its gold. In ill health and advanced years, Raleigh remained in Trinidad while his son led an expedition into the interior of South America.

  His son was killed, no gold was found, and his forces attacked a Spanish fort, thereby violating a treaty and almost causing war between the two empires.

  What Mac found amazing was that despite the failure, the political blundering by attacking the Spanish, and living under a death sentence, Raleigh actually returned to England, where he was promptly arrested and thrown back into prison, with the sentence reinstated at the Spanish ambassador’s insistence.

  Was it pride? Was it ego? Was it a sense of duty? Sense of loyalty? Family? Why would a man who had just failed return to a death sentence?

  Mac stared at the man on the dais, trying to reconcile him with the dashing explorer and Elizabethan courtier. Perhaps all the years imprisoned in the Tower had broken something in Raleigh?

  But strangely, he didn’t look broken to Mac. Physically he was beaten down, but there was a glittering look in his eyes that didn’t match the despair a condemned man in his last night should be showing.

  It is 1618. Osman II deposes his uncle, Mustafa I, as Ottoman Emperor. An avalanche buries the town of Piuro in the Alps, killing over 2,000. Chief Powhatan (father of Pocahontas) dies. The first dredger is patented. The Ming Chinese embassy of the Wanli Emperor presents tea to the Russian Czar.

  Some things change; some don’t.

  The Lord Chief Justice took a step forward. “Sir Walter Raleigh, you must remember yourself; you had an honorable trial, and so were justly convicted; and it were wisdom in you now to submit yourself.

  “I pray you attend what I shall say unto you. I am here called to grant execution upon the judgment given you fifteen years since; all which time you have been as a dead man in the law, and might at any minute have been cut off, but the King in mercy spared you. You might think it heavy if this were done in cold blood, to call you to execution; but it is not so, for new offenses have stirred up His Majesty’s justice, to remember to revive what the law had formerly cast upon you. I know you have been valiant and wise, and I doubt not but you retain both these virtues, for now you shall have occasion to use them. Your Faith has heretofore been questioned, but I am resolved you are a good Christian, for your book, which is an admirable work, does testify as much. I would give you counsel, but I know you can apply unto yourself far better than I am able to give you.”