“That’s ridiculous,” I grumbled.
“Is it?” Rooster replied, like a smug college professor. “I’ll give you an example. Sunlight.”
“What about it?”
“Sunlight travels through space, and by the time we see it on Earth, it’s already eight minutes old.”
“So?”
“So, we’re literally seeing eight minutes into the past every time we look at sunlight. But, if we perceive sunlight as instantaneous — we could literally see any point in time.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, that if time and space are linked — or more specifically, they’re the same thing — then why can’t people with the ability to perceive reality differently just place themselves in another place or another time as they see fit?”
“Because, people can’t perceive reality differently,” Doc said, catching onto the plot, “But I’m guessing angels can.”
“Yes. Yes, they can. Angels and a very rare species of nephilim,” Rooster added. “The tempus phasmatis. Also known as—”
“Time phantoms.”
“Yeppers. Time phantoms, or temporal jumpers as they’re also known, can, quite literally, move at will through the space time continuum. Or, in the case of Richard Ronkowski, choose to stay in a single day — or even a single moment.”
“But wouldn’t they be continuously rewriting history?”
“And that’s the real magic in the paradox. By virtue of their very nature, they exist everywhere and they exist nowhere. They can’t impact the timeline as they move through it because everything is happening in a single simultaneous moment. Awesome, right?”
“Not awesome,” I grumbled.
“But it makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“Not so much,” Erin muttered.
“So,” I said, trying to wrap my head around Rooster’s magical mystery tour mashup of Dr. Who, Stephen Hawking, and every episode of Quantum Leap, “In order for us to get back to Ronkowski and snatch the Ark from his sorry ass, we need our own time phantom to take us there.”
“Exactly,” Rooster affirmed.
“Damn. So, no DeLorean, eh?”
“Sorry, man. No DeLorean.”
“That blows.”
“So, what next?” Doc asked, clearly not as upset about the lack of a DeLorean in this time travel equation as I was.
Spinning around on his stool and turning his attention back to his array of dust covered electronic gadgetry, he said, “Time to find us a tempus phasmatis.”
“How do we do that?” I asked.
“I’ve got a plan.”
“Which is?”
“I’m going to fire up RoosterRadio and call Big A.”
“And then?”
“I’m going to ask him to find us a time phantom using the nepher scanner in the Reliquary.”
“And then?”
“Still working out the finer details, but off the top of my head it goes something like—then, we go and find the time phantom, press-gang his ass into joining our crew, and make him take us back to 1975.”
“Does that make us time pirates?” Erin asked.
“Pirates or no pirates,” I muttered, about at my wits end, “That plan needs some serious work.”
“I haven’t gotten to the best part yet,” he continued undeterred. “Before we do all that — we choke down some pizza and have another beer.”
“Although, it may be just the kind of outside the box thinking that we need at the moment.”
“We’re out of beer,” Erin sadly announced.
“Or not.”
Chapter 20
“Gray Fox, Gray Fox — This is Red Squirrel. Over.”
As the monochrome screen to Rooster’s archaic Commodore 64 flickered to life, he methodically spun a few dials on the radio base station connected to it, and carefully depressed the transmit button on the World War II vintage microphone.
“Gray Fox, Gray Fox,” he repeated. “This is Red Squirrel. Do you copy, Gray Fox? Over.”
And before I had the opportunity to offer snide commentary on his prolific set of call signs, a distorted image began to form on the oversized VGA monitor accompanied by an unmistakable, brogue laden voice barking at us through the metal speaker.
“Aye, Wee Squirrel. This is Gray and Foxy. Ye copy me, do ye? Over the hill, yeah? Bloody hell, is this thing on?”
“What the frig did he just say?”
“Big A’s never really grasped the whole concept of proper radio etiquette,” Rooster muttered, shaking his head.
Trying again, he said, “Roger that, Gray Fox. This is Red Squirrel. Copy you loud and clear. Is the line secure?”
“Aye, Jackie,” Abernethy responded, as his black and white image came into full focus to reveal the burly Scotsman in all his bearded glory. “It’s secure. How are ye, laddie?”
“We’re doing okay, boss. Not dead — yet. How’re things on your end?”
“Aside from the occasional archangel crawling up me arse, things are no different than when ye left — which is the primary problem. Is that Deannie and the wee bonnie lass I see with ye?”
“It’s us, sir,” I answered.
“Bloody hell, lad. Ye look like shite.”
“Thanks?”
“Nonetheless, I’m happy to see ye. Thought fer sure you’d be gutted like a wee fish by now. Half of the Heavenly Realms are on the lookout fer ye — the whole lot of ye.”
“Really? Haven’t noticed. What about Stephen? Have you heard from him?”
“Nae. Not a peep. Was hoping ye would have some news on the matter.”
“Negative.”
“We’re running out of time, lad.”
“Any luck tracking down the anakim?”
“Crockett thought he’d found something in the Grand Canyon but nothing definitive — yet.”
“The Grand Canyon?”
“Aye, he’s posted there with a team of clerics in the event they show themselves again, but there’s less than four hours until Azazel’s wee deadline and it seems we’re no closer to locating the daft scunner — or his legions of beasties.
“Hence the reason for my call,” Rooster said. “I think we have a way to expose the traitor.”
“About bloody time. What is it, Jackie?”
“It’s kind of a long story. But we need your help — to find a temporal jumper.”
“A phantom? What fer?”
“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Right,” Abernethy grumbled, figuring he was better off not knowing. “Let’s see if we can track one down then.”
Fumbling around with his phone-sized nepher computer thingamajig for a second or two, Big A carefully ran his mammoth fingers across the screen.
“Bad news,” he said, “Not picking up any signatures on the scanner. Seems they may have all fled the present and made fer greener pastures in other time periods. Given the current state of affairs, ye can hardly blame ‘em.”
“Fuck,” I muttered, which was immediately echoed by Rooster and Doc in ominous unison.
“Just a wee second,” Big A said, focusing intently on his gadget, “I may just have one after all. He’s trying to ward himself but thankfully doing a piss poor job of it. His identity is coming up as — bloody hell, Jackie, it’s Owen Trask.”
“Wait, what?” Rooster said, elated. “That’s great!”
“Great? Did ye not hear me, lad? I said it’s Owen Trask.”
“I heard you. Where is he?”
“Can’t be sure. His signature’s weak. He’s somewhere in North America, but that’s the best I can do. Trask is a tricky blighter, Jackie. He’ll be a needle in a haystack if he’s even that. And not to mention yer sordid history with him.”
“That’s okay. I’ve got an idea.”
“I’d be keen to know what it is.”
“Trust me, boss. You really don’t.”
“Aye. Ye best get on with it then,” Big A grumbled. “You lot be wary. Watch yer
arses.”
“Do the same. I’ll be in touch.”
As Big A’s chiseled face began to fade from the screen, he said, “And Deannie, whatever it is yer planning on doing — do me a wee favor, and hurry the hell up and do it already!”
“Roger that, boss,” I affirmed, despite the fact I really had no earthly idea what it was we were doing yet.
“So,” Erin said, “What now?”
“You want the good news or the bad news?” Rooster replied, spinning the radio dial to a different frequency and banging some keys on the old ass keyboard.
“The good news,” I muttered. “Please.”
“Well, as the fates would have it, Owen Octavius Trask, or Double OT as he’s better known in most circles, is one of Coop’s old drinking buddies. Back in fourteenth century England those two were thick as thieves. Mainly because they were actual thieves.”
“Coop? Was a frigg’n thief?”
“Yeah, long story. He went by a different name back then. Dude was a straight up arrow slinging outlaw. Wasn’t too popular with King Richard. Stole from the rich to pay the poor. Blah, blah, yada, yada. Instead of his usual crimson, he used to wear green.”
“Are you saying he wore a green hoodie?”
“What? No. Obviously, there were no hoodies at the time. He used to wear an actual—”
“Don’t say it,” I grumbled, making the mental note that if Cooper Rayfield actually spurred the legend of Robin Hood I didn’t want to know. Mainly because I didn’t want to start picturing him in tights.
Goddamn it, I just did.
Ugh.
Awkward.
“So,” Doc said, thankfully moving the conversation along, “You think Cooper will know where this Owen guy is?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Then what’s the bad news?” I grumbled.
“You want the first part or the second part?”
When I offered him nothing in response besides an icy stare, he said, “Gotcha. So, firstly, Owen and I had a bit of a minor disagreement a few years back, and he most likely won’t be all that excited to see me.”
“Minor disagreement, eh?” I asked, with a detectable hint of skepticism.
“Wasn’t a big deal. Just a difference of opinions … during a rather heated game of backgammon.”
“Backgammon? Were you drinking?”
“French wine. Lots of it.”
“And I’m assuming there was a woman involved?”
“Perhaps.”
“You didn’t happen to go all big, red, and scaly on his ass did you?”
“It was an accident.”
“Son of a bitch,” I grumbled. “What the hell happened?”
“Wasn’t my fault,” Rooster sheepishly replied, “Okay. Maybe it was a little my fault but Double OT was being a total dick. First off, he was hitting on my special lady friend the entire freaking day, then the bastard accused me of cheating, and then he had the audacity to try and steal my damn horse and skip town.”
“Your horse?” Doc scoffed. “When was this, John?”
“Late Middle Ages. Big A had me in northern France trying to infiltrate a cell of rogue gothen posing as knights in the employ of the Duchess of Burgundy. I bumped into Owen at a tavern in Cambray. After he moved on from Coop’s merry band of woodland robber barons, he evidently took a gig working for Charles V as merc in the French Army. It was right at the tail end of the Hundred Years War. All kinds of crazy shit going down.”
“Is he making this up?” Erin asked me, looking exceptionally unconvinced.
“Trust me, Doc, you can’t make this kind of shit up,” I muttered. “So, this Owen dude — He was a frigg’n mercenary?”
“Yeppers. Double O’ bounced around the ages fighting in just about every major war in human history. He was kind of the ultimate soldier of fortune for a solid millennium. Total badass. Swords, guns, knives, bows, nunchucks, bo staffs … you name it.”
“Bo staffs?”
“Yeppers. He was especially gifted with the bo staff. Had some sweet skills.”
“Did he work with the Guild?”
“Sometimes. If the price was right. Had more than a few run ins with us as well.”
“So what happened with you two at the tavern?”
“Well, one thing led to another, and the next thing I knew we sort of ended up in the middle of town — jousting each other.”
Glaring at Rooster, I asked, “Jousting, eh? Like actual jousting, or is that some kind of phallic reference?”
“Phallic?” he scoffed, “No. It was actual jousting. Anywho, I was kicking his ass until he time phased his lance through my armor and impaled me like a metal cased shish kebab. That, unfortunately — made me angry.”
“And I’m guessing the situation degraded pretty quickly from there.”
“Yes. Yes, it did. I neph’d out. Went full on liderc in front of an entire town.”
“What does that mean exactly?” Doc asked, trying her damnedest to follow the plot.
“Well, basically it means that our friend Rooster here lost his shit and transformed from his stringy, jovial ginger self into a nightmarishly buff, red scaly behemoth with talons the size of machetes and a really gross toothy beak thing for a mouth. Pretty nasty.”
“Oh,” Doc muttered, in a manner that indicated she wished she hadn’t asked. “And what happened next?”
“Well,” Rooster continued, not entirely pleased with my description of his liderc form, “After I beat Owen to a bloody pulp, he managed to time jump himself out of there. Unfortunately, that was the last I saw of him. Oh, and he may or may not have sworn to kill me in a very descriptive and unnatural manner if he ever saw me again.”
“Christ,” I muttered, “We’re screwed.”
“Did you say there was a second part to this bad news?” Erin asked.
“Yeah. From what I’ve heard, Double O turned a new leaf at some point over the past few centuries. He evidently traded his militant ways for a more peaceful existence. Considers himself to be some sort of a time hippie, rock and roll demigod nowadays. As such, he basically zips around the time space continuum focused on one thing — his music, his hair, his whiskey, and his multitudes of groupies spread across the different eras.”
“That’s at least four things.”
“Not the way Owen does it.”
“Interesting,” I muttered, making the mental note to figure out what the hell that meant at a later time.
“So you don’t think he’ll help us?” Doc asked. “Even with the future of mankind at stake?”
“Dunno. He’s a lover not a fighter nowadays. Views himself as a neutral. Doesn’t care about the light or the dark anymore. He just sort of — is.”
Clenching my hands into fists, I grumbled, “Then we’ll be persuasive.”
“He’s a quirky dude. It’ll be tricky. Double OT’s not likely to be talked into anything he doesn’t want to do. And not to mention, if you piss off a time phantom he might just jump your sorry ass to the beginning of time itself, or to the bottom of the Pacific Ocean in 1942, or worse — New Jersey.”
“So we’ll be very frigg’n persuasive. He and Coop are still buds, right?”
“That’s what I’m hoping,” he replied, spinning around on his stool and fumbling with the radio. “Let’s find out.”
Punching the ‘Enter’ key on the blocky keyboard, Rooster turned the dial to the proper frequency and depressed the button on the microphone.
“Lost Sheep, Lost Sheep — this is Red Squirrel, over. Do you copy, Lost Sheep?”
After a few excruciatingly long couple seconds of static, the radio crackled to life with the voice of a familiar country boy.
“Howdy, howdy, Red and Squirrely. This here’s Crazy Cooper coming at ya. Dagummit, is this thing on? Y’all hear me?”
Within a quick second, a vision of the maroon hoodie wearing, wiry bow-man manifested on the monochrome screen. Sitting in front of what appeared to be a ping pong table in a d
esigner log cabin, Coop ran his fingers through his scraggly ginger goatee in eager anticipation of our message.
“Roger, Lost Sheep. This is Red Squirrel. We read you loud and clear, Over.”
“Roger dodger, good buddy. I got my ears on. How’re y’all?”
Shaking his head and muttering, “I’m so reviewing our radio procedures with everyone when this is over,” Rooster then said, “We’re okay, Coop. How’s things with you and the boys?”
“We’re a’ight. Getting a little antsy though. And about tired of Duncan whooping up on us in ping pong.”
“Duncan — plays ping pong?” Erin asked.
As a little white ball slammed into the side of Coop’s head followed by a giggly snort from somewhere in the background, I said, “And he’s evidently pretty good at it.”
“Y’all got any good news?” Coop asked, glaring offscreen at what I presumed to be the minuscule table tennis marauder.
“We’re not sure yet.”
“Damn, hoss. You look like death on a cracker.”
“So I’ve heard,” I replied, making the mental note that I evidently needed to clean myself up a bit.
Nodding his head at Erin, the redneck romeo said, “Ma’am. You, on the other hand, look dagum—”
“Don’t make me whiny, Coop.”
“My bad.”
“We need a favor,” Rooster chimed in.
“Name it, pard,” he replied, spitting a healthy wad of chew into a styro-foam cup.
“You still tight with Owen Trask?”
“Double OT? Sure am. Caught his new show a few weeks back before all this nonsense started.”
“His show?”
“Yessir. He’s been doing some kind of one man band rock opera bit down in Tallahassee. Some sort of a death metal rendition of the Jimi Hendrix Experience with a Neil Diamond slant. And there’s this Mary Poppins thing where he floats around on an umbrella and spits on folks.”
“That sounds frigg’n awful,” I muttered.
“It was crazier than a sack of ferrets. But, I really enjoyed it — after a bottle of bourbon or six.”
“Tallahassee,” Rooster rhetorically muttered, evidently not impressed by the thought of a metal mashup of Sweet Caroline and Voodoo Chile.
“Yeah buddy. He’s been held up at the MidKnight Jayde for the past few weeks.”
Wrath of the Fallen: The Guild of Deacons, Book 2 Page 18