D-Day

by Bob Mayer

  “You wanted the map,” Scout said. “That was your mission at Thermopylae.”

  “Oh, no,” Pandora said, offended, or feigning it very well. “That was a target of opportunity. One rarely sees a Gate map. Few and far between, they are. Very valuable. I knew you were up to something, so I just hung around for it to develop. As I told you then, my mission was complete before you even arrived. And, might I ask, why are you back?”

  “Why are you back?”

  “What makes you think I ever left? Are you here to save someone?” Pandora smiled. “Ah, that’s it. A rescue mission.”

  “Get out of my head,” Scout said.

  Pandora shifted her focus. “Cyra, daughter of the Oracle. How is your mother these days? Still extorting the nobles of Greece for her words of wisdom?”

  “You just saw her.” Cyra’s voice was tight. “You were in the Corycian Cave. You murdered a man there. If I call out, the crowd will be on you. If you stab either of us, you violate the Truce of Hierominia. You’ll be torn limb from limb. You’ll be tried and executed anyway, for the murder.”

  “‘Murder?’” Pandora laughed. “Speaking of murder, watch.”

  A bell rang in a field, just in front of them and about ten meters lower. A line of men bolted forward, racing barefoot across the packed dirt.

  “Men compete with each other so directly,” Pandora said. “They are such simple creatures. Yet they’ve managed to take over everything. That reflects very poorly on us women.”

  The crowd cheered as the runners crossed the finish line, a tall, muscular young man managing to lean forward at the very end to take the victory.

  “What does that have to do with murder?” Scout asked. She considered options, countermeasures she’d been taught in the sawdust pits at Camp Mackall to disarm someone armed with a knife. She could—

  “You’ll be dead if you make any move,” Pandora said, “along with your friend here. And that would be a waste of two such talented young women. There are so few of us, we really can’t go around killing each other. Not unless absolutely necessary.”

  Pandora moved forward, between Scout and Cyra, the daggers still pressing against their flesh. “The young man who just won..”

  Scout waited. “And...?”

  “The baby I saved two years ago?”

  “Yes?”

  “The child is his son, which makes it the great-great-grandfather of Alexander, who will become known as the Great. Which makes that man the great-great-great-grandfather. It is hard sometimes to keep track of such family trees, especially royal ones.”

  “And...?” Scout asked again, noting that the point of the dagger was perfectly steady, no tremor, no increase or decrease of pressure. Pandora would kill both of them in an instant, if she desired.

  “Did you go to the Temple here?” Pandora asked, reverting to her standard of answering questions by asking questions.

  “No,” Scout said.

  “Ah. You should go before you depart. If you depart. Note what is carved in the stone on either side of the entrance. One is very applicable to you.”

  Scout accessed the download. “Gnothi seauton. And Meden agan.” Edith had kindly included the translation. Know thyself. Nothing in excess.

  “I told you the last time we met,” Pandora said, “that you had little clue who you are. What your power is. You still don’t, or we wouldn’t be wasting time having this conversation. Neither of you really understands. Your mother is a poor teacher,” Pandora said to Cyra, “but that is to be expected.”

  “Easy,” Scout said, sensing the priestess’s surge of anger.

  “My dear Scout,” Pandora said. “Do you remember, at least, the stages of awareness as I told you?”

  “I do.”

  Pandora pressed the blade a little bit harder against the base of Scout’s spine. “Speak them.”

  “Awareness of self,” Scout said, her voice tight. “Awareness of others. Awareness of the world. And fourth, awareness beyond the world.”

  “But you are so unaware,” Pandora said. “Both of you. You were looking for me, but couldn’t see me.”

  Another race was lining up, the men’s bodies oiled and sleekly muscled.

  “Note that no women are racing,” Pandora said. “This was once the center of worship for Gaia, and now look. Men have taken it all over.”

  “That seems to bother you,” Scout said.

  “It should bother you also,” Pandora said, “since you are a woman.”

  “My mother is honored here,” Cyra said.

  “Your mother is used here,” Pandora said. “It is well known that the Oracle dies young. Used up by the supplicants, all male, who come to her with their pathetic need for advice.”

  “Why did you kill him?” Scout asked, trying to focus in the face of Pandora’s apparent ramblings, which Scout knew had a purpose. She was afraid of what that purpose might be.

  “Kill who?” Pandora didn’t wait for an answer. She was watching the winner of the last race as he walked away, surrounded by a small entourage, including a woman and a very young boy, barely able to walk. “An assassin is going to try and kill the man and the child today,” Pandora said. “I’d prefer that not to happen.”

  “Why should I believe you?” Scout asked.

  “Because I think that same assassin is going to kill whoever it is you’re here to save.”

  “A fine story you spin,” Cyra said, “since you’re the assassin.”

  “You’ve already killed who I was supposed to protect,” Scout said.

  “Really?” Pandora said. “That explains your bad mood. And who have I killed?”

  “Pythagoras,” Scout said.

  “Who?” Pandora said.

  “Pythagoras of Samos,” Scout said.

  “The painter and statuary?” Pandora asked.

  “And mathematician and philosopher,” Scout said. “He founded an entire school of—”

  Pandora cut her off. “Yes, yes, he’s dead.”

  “And you killed him,” Cyra said.

  “Such ignorance for two who have the Sight and are sisters is appalling.” Pandora laughed. “Pythagoras of the Theorem has been dead for almost twenty years.”

  United States Military Academy, West Point, New York, 6 June 1843 A.D.

  Roland wouldn’t have fit on board, was Ivar’s first thought as Jackson helped him onto York. The three cadets, weighing less than 350 pounds combined, didn’t seem to bother the horse at all as Grant, in the front, twitched the reins. They began the long climb from the Hudson River toward the Academy, or rather York did, and the three did their best to remain aboard, Ivar hanging on to Jackson, who had his hands clasped around Grant’s midsection, who had his thighs tight around the beast and his rear firmly in the saddle.

  They passed McClelland and his two comrades, who were working hard to keep from falling off the trail and tumbling down to the river.

  “I’ll be keeping an eye on you,” McClelland said to Ivar, but Grant nudged York, and they quickly left the walking cadets behind.

  Halfway up, the storm broke, unleashing torrents of water so thick, Ivar could barely see the head of the horse when he looked around Jackson.

  “Hang on,” Grant shouted.

  As if I had other options, Ivar thought as the horse reached a particularly steep section of the path. It felt as if they were going vertical for a little bit, the rain pelting him in the face, but then they leveled out. Grant had the horse on a dirt road, and York picked up the pace.

  “Superintendent’s somewhere ahead,” Grant shouted over his shoulder. “Let’s beat him back to the stables.”

  “Let’s not,” Ivar muttered.

  Jackson had no comment on the matter.

  Grant directed York off the road into the woods on the left.

  “Why take a road when there’s a forest?” Ivar wondered out loud.

  “Never take the expected way,” Grant said, “unless you have the advantage of numbers.”

&nb
sp; “Right,” Ivar said.

  “Did you forget about the bridge?” Jackson asked.

  The rain had lightened slightly. No longer a Biblical deluge, it was more a shower.

  “I did not forget about the bridge,” Grant said.

  “What bridge?” Ivar asked.

  “The one on which the road crosses the stream ahead of us,” Jackson said, “and that we won’t be going across if we aren’t on the road.”

  “We’re wet already,” Grant reasoned.

  “But we’re not drowned,” Ivar said.

  “Not yet,” Grant said with a laugh. “But we’re about to find out how strong York really is.”

  Ivar leaned to one side and peered ahead, water dripping down his face. “Let’s take the bridge, sir.”

  The stream was now a torrent of water, cutting across their path.

  “Just think,” Grant said, halting York for the moment, twenty feet short of the stream. “That water came from the sky, flowed off the sides of the mountains, into the stream, which descends to the Hudson, where it flows out past New York City, eventually into the Atlantic Ocean. What a journey for a drop of water.”

  “Fascinating,” Ivar muttered, his wool clothes chafing, and the ridge of York’s spine not the most comfortable perch he’d ever experienced.

  “We’ll jump it,” Grant decided.

  “We might end up in the Atlantic,” Ivar cautioned. “Eventually, you know.”

  “Perhaps back to the road,” Jackson suggested.

  “This is the path I’ve chosen,” Grant said. “You are both free to walk back to the road and across the bridge to the Academy. You’ll probably run into Mister McClelland and friends.”

  Ivar considered it, but he hesitated a moment too long as Grant leaned forward and whispered into York’s ear.

  The horse bolted forward, the three cadets simply appendages. It reached the near side of the creek, jumped, and cleared the distance with room to spare.

  “Easy enough,” Grant said.

  They set off at a gallop for the Academy then rode through the front gate. As if ordained, the rain stopped, and the sun punched through a break in the clouds.

  “The Lord smiles on us,” Jackson said. “The storm has passed.”

  Ivar didn’t see a connection between the two statements, but he could tell Jackson was certain there was. Ivar had to admit there was a degree of glory in the rays of sun slanting through the clouds and the mist rising from the ground, with the Plain of West Point ahead, the looming bulk of Storm King mountain beyond to the left, and the Hudson River meandering north directly ahead.

  Grant halted the horse on the hard-packed road. Ivar slid off the back, glad the other two couldn’t see his discomfort. Jackson dismounted, then Grant.

  “It’s been a most interesting morning,” Grant understated as he led York toward a large building, perched on the edge of the plateau overlooking the Hudson River.

  Despite having the data in the download, actually seeing the Academy and the terrain on which it perched was rather impressive to Ivar. He allowed Edith’s notes into his consciousness as they walked toward the stables.

  The name West Point came from the fact that it stood on a point of land on the west side of the river, where the Hudson narrows and makes a sharp turn to the west, a strategic position for control of the river and the boat traffic on it. During the Revolution, both the Americans and the British saw the value of occupying it. The Americans got there first, before the British could do so and cut the troublesome New England colonies from the rest.

  A ship passing up or down the river had to slow to negotiate the bend, and given this was prior to steam engines, it entailed a complicated maneuver for sailing vessels. The colonists built a fort at West Point and extended a massive chain across the river, kept afloat by log rafts. Then they designed positions for gun batteries to cover the river on either side of the chain. Finally, to protect the batteries, redoubts were built inland all around West Point.

  There was a lot in the download on Benedict Arnold and his attempt to betray the place to the British during the Revolution, but Ivar skipped that as they entered the stables.

  “Whoa,” Ivar said as they entered. “It stinks.”

  Both Grant and Jackson looked at him in surprise.

  “I’ve never—” Ivar began, but realized saying he’d never ridden a horse or been in a stable was like saying he’d never been in a car back in his time.

  “If you want a place that smells horrible,” Grant said, “try a tannery. My father owned one, and if I never come across that odor again, it will be too soon.” He smiled as he checked the stalls. “We arrived before the Superintendent.” He nodded at Jackson and Ivar. “Thank you for your amiable company, gentlemen. It’s best if you return to the barracks, especially you, Mister Ivar, before some upperclassmen finds you out of limits. I’ll put York up.”

  Jackson gave a short bow toward Grant. “The pleasure was mine.” He nodded toward Ivar, then headed toward the Plain and the barracks beyond.

  Ivar wanted to stay near Grant, but the dismissal had been clear. “Good day, sir,” he said, not sure what the protocol was. “Oh,” he added. “You might give this back to Cadet Hill.” He pulled the pistol out of his waistband then handed it over.

  Grant looked at it. “I appreciate you seconding me. Do you know you rode with this loaded and primed the entire time?”

  “No, sir.”

  Grant was examining the firing mechanism. “You have a lot to learn here, but the powder is most likely wet from the storm, so I doubt it would have gone off.” Grant tucked it in his belt. “Thank you.”

  Ivar walked out of the stable, making a mental note for flintlock firearms training. He paused, then went around to the side, looking for a window from which to keep an eye on Grant. There was nothing on this side. He went toward the river side of the building, and as he turned the corner, an axe handle caught Ivar in the midsection, doubling him over and knocking his forage cap off.

  As he gasped for breath, a hand grabbed his hair and pulled his face up so the handle could smash into his nose. Ivar heard the bone crack, and the sharp sting of pain brought tears.

  Ivar staggered back, trying to blink the tears away to see who was attacking him.

  “You’re off limits, plebe.”

  Ivar recognized the voice and the large form: McClelland. He had the axe handle ready to strike once more. He swung.

  Ivar surprised McClelland, and himself, by parrying it with a sweep of his left forearm. The blow stung the arm, but prevented it from hitting his head, where it had been aimed.

  They take this hazing thing a bit too seriously, Ivar thought, shaking his head to clear it, blood flying from his broken nose. McClelland swung again, and Ivar hopped back, the handle whooshing by, just missing.

  All those hours in the sand pits during training at Camp Mackall were finally paying off. Ivar adjusted his stance, legs the correct distance apart, right slightly forward, hands raised, ready to attack or defend.

  McClelland swung again. Ivar ducked under the axe handle and threw two quick jabs into the larger cadet’s ample gut. McClelland retreated a step, and Ivar knew he could take him. Pressing the attack, Ivar moved forward, tripped over a rock, and tumbled to the ground at McClelland’s feet.

  “Your luck has run out,” McClelland said, and raised the axe handle over his head.

  “McClelland!” The voice was sharp with command.

  The cadet froze. “Grant. This is none of your business.”

  “He stood for me,” Grant said. “Makes it my business.”

  Ivar looked up, the blood dribbling down his face. McClelland glanced at him, back at Grant, then down once more, as if calculating what to do next.

  “You’re drunk,” Grant said. “You’ve assaulted another cadet. If I report you to the duty officer, you won’t graduate, not that the Army will miss you.”

  Ivar wanted to say that he didn’t get the impression McClelland cared t
hat much, and this was more than an assault.

  McClelland lowered the axe handle, then tossed it aside. “We’ll meet again.” He walked past Grant, toward the barracks.

  “Was he talking to you or me when he said we’ll meet again?” Ivar asked, as Grant knelt next to him and helped him sit up.

  “Ignore him,” Grant said. “He imbibes too much, and he’s the goat of the class. He’s barely scored high enough to graduate. Let me take you to the surgeon.”

  Ivar forced himself to stand. He gingerly touched his nose. It moved, and for a moment, Ivar thought he might throw up.

  “No. No surgeon,” Ivar said, figuring he could live with it for however long he had left here and get someone with a bit more expertise to realign the bones, rather than spend the rest of his life looking like a boxer with a bad career. Then again, that might make him look tougher. But his nose had always been too big, Ivar thought, and this could be a good time for a little reduction via a visit to a plastic surgeon when he got back.

  “Look at me,” Grant said.

  Ivar turned to him. A nose job was something Ivar had always considered and—

  Grant reached, and before Ivar could object, placed a hand on either side of the nose then pressed. With an agonizing crack, the nose was set.

  So much for plastic surgery.

  “I think McClelland is dangerous,” Ivar said.

  “He’s just drunk.” Grant took Ivar’s elbow, and led him toward the Plain and back toward the barracks. “I have to jump York later today. I need to relax. I believe some time in Kosciuszko’s Garden is appropriate.”

  I think McClelland is from the Shadow, Ivar really wanted to say, but he didn’t think that would go over well.

  Chauvet Cave, Southern France, 6 June 32,415 Years B.P. (Before Present)

  Was she the Shadow’s version of Moms? An agent who led a team? Were these her men? Who she was responsible for?

  Moms stared at the woman. Her face was bisected by the blade of the Naga staff. The eyes on either side of the wound were vacant.

  Moms grabbed the haft of the staff then rocked it back and forth, pulling. It took a few seconds, but it began to move, and she was able to pull it out of rock, flesh, bone, and brains.