Black Tuesday (Area 51: Time Patrol)

by Mayer, Bob

  Roland tested the ropes binding his wrists, but couldn’t get them to budge. He looked at Tam Nok, but she was staring at the horror unfolding before them.

  Roland considered ripping free of the man holding the end of the rope and charging Halverd. Perhaps he could batter the man into the ground with a bull rush?

  Hrolf the Slayer appeared with a solid squad of Vikings, forming a shield wall in front of a large doorway that led into the monastery. The battle became more balanced now and Roland had hope that the shield wall would hold.

  But then the flank parties Halverd had sent earlier appeared behind Hrolf and the squad, coming from inside the monastery. Surrounded, Hrolf and surviving Vikings began to fight back-to-back.

  Halverd seemed uninterested in all of this. He walked around the swirling battle, the two controlling the ropes forcing Roland and Tam Nok to follow. Just before they entered, Roland saw Hrolf go down, an axe sticking out of the top of his head.

  Candles flickered here and there, intermittingly lighting the stone interior. Halverd didn’t hesitate. He stepped over a monk, whose head had been savagely separated from his torso. He turned right at a junction where several bodies were clustered. Tam Nok was bumping against Roland as they maneuvered around this, and he felt her half turn her back to him and then a sharp pain as a blade scraped along his arm, drawing blood. He couldn’t see what she was doing in the dark, but then again, neither could the two guards. The blade went from his flesh to being jammed into the knot binding his wrists together. Stumbling their way down the stone corridor behind Halverd, Tam Nok was trying to cut Roland’s wrists free.

  Roland saw the stone hall widen ahead to a tall set of wooden double doors. Two Vikings were standing guard and they spotted the berserkers. Halverd stopped. “Attack,” he ordered the two holding the ropes. They let go and ran forward.

  Tam Nok increased her speed, cutting through the rope as a brief battled erupted. By the time she was done, everyone was dead except Halverd. He finished slicing the throat of one of the Vikings and stood up, turning to face them when Roland placed the blade of Tam Nok’s dagger against his throat.

  “You’ll never get inside,” Roland said.

  Surprisingly, Halverd smiled, a cheerful fellow for a berserker. “I do not wish to go inside. That is your task.”

  Roland had been ready to cut the berserker’s throat when the import of those words struck home. “Who are you?”

  “Halverd of the Patrol,” the berserker leader said. He looked past Roland at Tam Nok. “You picked the wrong man to lead you here. In fact, you led the wrong man directly to the wrong place, but fate is strange in that way. We are all here now. I suppose that is what is supposed to happen.”

  Roland tossed the knife back to Tam Nok and grabbed an axe from one of the bodies. He pulled open one of the large doors. Numerous candles lit the interior of the chapel, just like his vision. The nun was cowering in the corner, holding up her cross, pleading for mercy. But now what had been just a dark silhouette in the vision became a man: Ragnarok.

  “Do not touch her,” Roland warned.

  Ragnarok spun about, Skullcrusher in his hands. He was splattered with blood. He nodded. “Ah, the strange one from another place and another time. You fools brought me here. I suppose I should thank you for that. Go back to your bitch.”

  “You do not get her.” Roland pointed at the nun. “Your men are all dead. The berserkers have killed them all.”

  Ragnarok shrugged. “A small sacrifice for what will come of this.” He nodded toward the nun.

  “Your death will come of this,” Roland said and then he charged.

  He swung the axe and it hit Ragnarok’s own swing, the two heavy heads of metal clanging loudly. Roland’s arms shivered from the impact and he almost dropped the axe.

  Ragnarok seemed unaffected and he shoved his axe forward, the flat top slamming into Roland’s chest, knocking the wind out of him. As Roland gasped for breath and brought the axe up to defend himself, Ragnarok exclaimed in surprise.

  He turned, staring down at the slender form of Tam Nok. Her dagger was stuck in his side and seemed more an unexpected irritant than a serious wound.

  Roland took advantage of the moment and attacked.

  Ragnarok swung back to him and blocked his swing, the impact knocking the axe from Roland’s numbed hands.

  “You’re a fool,” Ragnarok said as he lifted Skullcrusher to deliver a final blow.

  A blow that never landed as a half dozen arrows snapped past Roland and into Ragnarok’s chest. The Viking staggered back a single step, looking down at the shafts protruding from his body.

  Halverd was next to Roland. “I am not impressed with what has been sent from the future to deal with this,” he said as if commenting on the weather.

  A group of berserkers were next to him, their bows already notched for a second volley.

  Ragnarok was shaking his head. “No. No.”

  Then he fell to his knees.

  Tam Nok stepped forward and slid her dagger across his throat. Blood spurted forth and he tumbled forward, dead at their feet.

  “It’s done,” Roland said.

  “No,” Halverd said. “It is not done.” He was looking at the nun.

  “Surely you—” Tam Nok began.

  Halverd signaled and the second volley went into the nun, pinning her against the wall. The cross tumbled from her lifeless hand. Tam Nok took an involuntary step back, shaken by the ruthless act.

  Halverd turned to Roland. “My time is a dark and vicious era. I don’t know of yours.” He nodded at Tam Nok. “You believed the wrong man. And you, my large friend, must understand there is no mercy in time. There is only the time that must be protected. She was half of a dangerous equation. It is best to eliminate both elements.”

  “She had the Sight,” Tam Nok said. “The blood of a Defender in her veins.”

  “What?” Roland was a bit behind.

  Halverd turned for the door. “I wish both of you well.”

  “Wait,” Tam Nok said.

  Halverd turned. It seemed as if he were looking at her with not only his one eye, but also his dead socket.

  “Let me come with you?” Tam Nok asked. “This was my task and it is done.”

  “Not done well,” Halverd said

  Roland stepped up. “But it is done. And it would not be so if she hadn’t shown me the vision of possible futures. You were standing outside, waiting for me to come in and deal with this.”

  Halverd frowned. “I would have entered if you had not shown up.”

  “But you didn’t,” Roland said. “So it has turned out as it had to turn out. The mission has been accomplished and Tam Nok was a key element in that.”

  Halverd nodded. “Her vision could be useful.” He smiled. “As I have only one eye, an extra set will be helpful.” He looked at Roland. “And you, warrior, I wish you a safe journey back to whence you came.”

  And then they were gone, leaving Roland alone amid the bodies.

  Los Angeles, California, 1969. 29 October

  The place was a hole in the wall. Literally a hole in the wall. Either they didn’t have health inspectors in 1969 or the city didn’t know this place existed. The smell reminded Scout of the alley that Luke had taken her into.

  Luke. He seemed forever ago as Scout slumped into a seat, her back to the brick wall, her front to the hole in the wall that seemed to be the only way in or out. It was filled with students eating with relish stuff that looked like relish. Old relish. No kale, no arugula, no finely raised baby leaves of anything.

  Scout had a beer in front of her, still in the bottle, because no way would she trust anything supposedly washed in this joint. The drinking age was eighteen in most of the country in 1969, but not California. When Prohibition was repealed in 1933, California made the age twenty-one and stuck with it.

  But no one cared here. No asking for a driver’s license, just money.

  Scout was surprisingly hungry. She yearned fo
r a Big Mac at a time when that would have actually consisted of real meat and real Mac, whatever that was. She was willing to put a lot on the line for a mission, but eating here wasn’t one of those things. Besides, checking her watch, it wouldn’t be long before she was gone from 1969.

  So much for the age of free love. The year 1969 would always be associated in her memory with death.

  Her cheek throbbed from the cut, but it hadn’t been deep and she’d gotten the blood to stop seeping out of it.

  Some guy sat down across from her and tried to strike up a conversation above the sound of music blaring out of a jukebox. “Where you from?” “What’s your major?” Scout didn’t answer but it didn’t bother the guy. He started talking about himself, which made him both a narcissist and an asshole. As he rambled on she knew he was lying. His voice had the sing-song cadence of a story memorized and now being regurgitated. And he was trying way too hard.

  She assumed this was the backup third stringer. He was very bad at it.

  Or maybe she was so much better?

  There was the briefest of lulls as the 45 changed over on the jukebox, a little scratchy sound, and then Grace Slick was singing “White Rabbit.”

  Scout finally spoke. “She wrote that in an hour, you know.”

  He didn’t seem surprised or care. “Really?”

  “And the Airplane becomes a Starship.”

  That seemed to puzzle him and she wondered where and when he really came from. No Jefferson Airplane or Starship in his timeline? Of course, without the former, there probably wouldn’t be a latter.

  “You like music?” he asked.

  “Someone doesn’t?” Scout returned.

  “How do you know all this?”

  Read it on Wikipedia? Nope. Got it downloaded into my brain by a machine. “I heard it somewhere.”

  Scout was growing weary of the game.

  “You want to blow this place?” he asked. “I’ve got some good weed in my room. And a reel to reel.”

  Seriously, was this accurate in 1969? Why didn’t guys just say, “Hey, let’s do it right here?” Scout wasn’t so sure free love was a good idea.

  He was cute, just like Luke, and she considered his proposal, but not at all in the way he would be imagining.

  Did she want to kill another person tonight?

  She glanced at her watch and there were only a few more minutes.

  She thought about a short story she’d read once about time travel. Some scientist had invented a time machine in his basement. But it only went back forty years and traveling was limited to a one-block radius. She liked the idea of such strict rules better than Dane’s vagaries of the variables. The inventor didn’t see much upside to going back forty years until he mentioned to his wife there was a butcher shop just down the street forty years ago inside his time bubble.

  Suddenly nice thick pork chops and steaks were right there and within their small budget. And that was it. They were perfectly happy with good, cheap meat. Scout liked the simple story and how happiness really was in the small things.

  She seemed to have food on her mind a lot, and Nada could have told her that after the shock of killing wears off, the body reacts in very strange ways. Frasier could have told her that she was subconsciously seeking some form of solace and how that was manifesting itself in hunger. Regardless of her reason, Scout was sure her mother would disapprove of her hunger.

  Whatever.

  There were no small stories here. Just this sap’s tale of lies and whether he was going to stay alive.

  He was asking again, a slight irritation in his voice.

  Scout leaned across the table and spoke through Grace Slick’s singing. “What is with you people? You failed. Why are you still bugging me?”

  The guy blinked. Then his eyes hardened and Scout knew he was a killer. The big difference now, though, was that she was too. She had the stiletto in her hand and she slid her hand under the table and pressed the point into his crotch. Those killer eyes widened, tinged by the flicker of fear. He had to wonder where the A and B team were.

  “Sure you want to fool around?” Scout asked.

  And then the place and the man were gone and everything went black for Scout.

  London, England, 1618. 29 October

  Mac looked up at the execution platform. Raleigh was dressed in a doublet, a black embroidered waistcoat, black taffeta breeches, a ruff band, and ash-colored silk stockings over which he wore a black velvet gown.

  It was daylight, roughly 8:00 a.m. A contingent of guards had accompanied Raleigh out of the gatehouse and then spread out around the scaffolding. They seemed more focused on keeping the crowd away than guarding the prisoner. The crowd filled the yard.

  A cluster of nobles were on horseback and Mac wasn’t surprised to see Beeston among them with two of the other conspirators. Beeston had offered Mac a mount, but he’d declined, knowing he needed to get as close to the scaffold as possible along with the other conspirators, whose job it would be to rush the platform.

  That wasn’t Mac’s intent.

  One of the officials on the scaffold called out for quiet, and a hush settled over the crowd. The official gestured and Raleigh stepped forward to make a statement.

  It was no Gettysburg Address of a mere 272 words.

  Raleigh spoke for three quarters of an hour, addressing the various charges against him. During it he mentioned that he wanted his friends to be sure to hear, so Beeston, two other conspirators, and several other knights and lords were allowed to mount the scaffold to be nearer his voice.

  Pretty slick, Mac thought.

  The speech covered the past, as Raleigh tried to put to rest allegations and rumors that had been made about him. It was as if he were laying the groundwork for future acts, and Mac knew that was exactly what he was doing. Raleigh finally wound up his speech. He knelt to pray, but Mac caught the sideways glance he gave to Beeston. The Nightstalker also noted his drunken compatriots in the crowd elbowing their way forward. One had taken the bridle of Beeston’s horse and another horse, and was slowly moving the animals closer to the scaffold.

  Raleigh stood and gave away his hat and some money. He shook hands with all who had come up onto the scaffold and they all came back down, except Beeston. Raleigh even shook hands with the two sheriffs.

  Then he took off his cloak and doublet. He turned to the executioner and asked to see the axe. An odd request, and the axe man was hesitant.

  “I pray thee,” Raleigh insisted, “let me see it.”

  The executioner held out the weapon and Raleigh ran his thumb along the blade. “This is sharp medicine,” Raleigh said, “but it is a physician for all diseases.”

  Turning to face the crowd, Raleigh then went to each corner of the scaffold, kneeling, and asking for them to pray for him.

  This is better than pro wrestling, Mac thought. Raleigh was putting on a great theatrical performance and an excellent camouflage to lull the guards’ suspicions that anything amiss was afoot.

  As Raleigh came to the corner closest to Mac, barely four feet away, and with only a guard between the two, Mac spoke in a voice that didn’t carry far, but far enough.

  “Croatan!”

  Raleigh was startled. He was still on his knees, but his head snapped up and he looked directly at Mac.

  “You abandoned them,” Mac said, “and for that, God requires punishment. As you know from the prophecy I am his hand here on Earth to bring you God’s word through time. You will not lose your head today for treason. You will lose your head today for abandoning those colonists who trusted you.”

  Mac could see that Raleigh registered the words, but was not shaken, so he went in with the final blow. He pressed forward between the two guards. “Your wife has no promises nor a prophecy. Take the axe now or she pays your fee to God for abandoning those in Roanoke.”

  Raleigh’s eyes grew wide. He opened his mouth to speak and Mac held up a single finger to hush him, and then pointed at the executioner’s blo
ck. “Take your fate and she will be spared God’s vengeance.”

  Mac knew that was the last person Raleigh had met before coming out here: Elizabeth Throckmorton, the one-time maid of honor to Queen Elizabeth. The woman whom Raleigh had secretly bedded, married, and had a child with, facing the Queen’s wrath afterward. Only a great love would cause a man like Raleigh to offend the Queen to which he owed everything.

  Leverage.

  Raleigh stood and for the first time his confidence seemed shaken. One of the sheriffs stepped up next to him and asked him something, pointing at Mac. Raleigh shook his head. He put his right hand to his temple and pressed. A twitch rippled just underneath that eye.

  Raleigh looked over his shoulder to the waiting executioner and the block. Then back at Mac. Then over at Beeston. He gave the slightest shake of his head to his chief conspirator. Then he walked over to the block. Mac could see Beeston, confused, waiting for a signal, his hand under his cloak on the hilt of his sword.

  But Raleigh gave no other signal.

  The executioner asked Raleigh if he would like a blindfold.

  Raleigh refused.

  Beeston edged forward, but one of the sheriffs put out an arm.

  The executioner spread his cloak on the ground for Raleigh to kneel on. But first, the axe man knelt and asked Raleigh for forgiveness.

  Raleigh put both hands on the man’s shoulders. “When I stretch forth my hands, dispatch me.” Then he knelt and put his head on the block.

  “Thou should face east!” someone cried out from the crowd. “East for our Lord’s arising.”

  Mac saw that Beeston was confused. One-Hand was up on the scaffold now next to Beeston, whispering harshly in his ear, probably urging him to strike. But such was Raleigh’s power over the man that he would not act without the proper signal.

  Raleigh lifted his head off the block, clearly perturbed. “So the heart be right, it is no great matter which way the head lie.” Nevertheless, he got up and without fully straightening, scuttled around the block and lay in the other direction.

  “A moment for prayer,” Raleigh said in a low voice, heard only by those closest to the platform. He raised his head slightly and caught Mac’s eyes. Mac nodded. Raleigh closed his eyes and put out his arms.