by Chuck Dixon
Up on the aft deck, Lee Hammond was working with the Rangers and other crewmembers to raise the huge aluminum-magnesium alloy balloon. The orb would rise to a height of one hundred feet above the Raj. There it would double for the orb that would normally rest atop a Tesla tower. The creation of the famed Serbian genius was the source of the gigawatt charge the Tube required to open a gate in time. Bat Jaffee leaned on the rail of the weather deck behind the bridge. She watched the process with the same feeling of disbelief as the very first time she’d seen the field deployed. It all seemed so jury-rigged and impossible. That a shiny balloon could gather, from thin air, the force necessary to punch a hole in time itself. What a ridiculous idea. And yet she’d seen the effect. She had traveled back to the past with these mental cases on two suicide missions and was now trapped with them in this ugly era of carnivorous monsters.
It was wearing on her, and she felt it in body and mind. Bat knew the others were affected by the horrors they’d seen in 1800s China and in their current situation. But they were men and made a show of hiding their concern under a mask of jokes, insults, and plenty of alcohol consumption. They lost themselves in the tasks ahead; the job of survival. The challenge of getting all of them out of this place and time consumed them. As much as the men extended their camaraderie to her, Bat could only find so much comfort in that.
The balloon jerked skyward, trailing across a following sea, borne by a strong headwind. Heavy steel cable looped out behind it from a winch bolted to the deck. The cloud cover was low with a massive black thunderhead to the north. Anvil lightning was illuminating the front all along the horizon. The rainfall was building from a drizzle to a downpour. The deck was slick with fresh rain. Even with the wind rising, it was still stifling hot with no relief from the humidity.
“When this is over, I’m going to go somewhere with a desert,” Jimbo said.
“Or someplace with snow,” Chaz said.
“I’ll be happy when we can start using the AC again,” Lee said.
The radio on Lee’s belt squawked. He plucked it off its clip. “Can anyone up on deck hear me?” It was Morris.
“Go for Hammond, Mo,” Lee said. “I have a concern.”
No one liked hearing that. Doc Tauber’s concerns usually turned into ballbusters.
“Go ahead. We’re all listening,” Lee said. And they were. Jimbo and Chaz crossed the deck to listen. Byrus followed, but without knowing why.
“We’re opening a field to a time where there is no life. Not a single life form to be found on the entire planet.”
“That’s a good thing, right?” Lee said.
“For our immediate concerns, yes. But we’re opening a field that might extend to the area behind or below the Tube chamber. I really haven’t had time to work out the full ramifications of operating the field in an aquatic environment.”
“That hasn’t been a problem so far, Doc.”
“No. But we didn’t have to think about it before. And I wasn’t concerned about accidentally introducing species from our period into this one. They simply couldn’t survive, or more precisely, compete in an environment as hostile as the Cretaceous.”
“And we’ll be sucking water from a sterile environment.”
“Then you follow my reasoning, Lee. We’re looking at a possible catastrophe if a species of plant or animal life were to enter the field and contaminate our target era.”
“Could a critter from here survive there?”
“Not a larger species. The Precambrian’s seas are without salt.”
“Or anything to eat,” Lee said.
“Yes. But if a plant, a single-celled organism...”
“It’s a chance we have to take. Personally, as much as I like you guys, I want to get back to a time where there’s cheeseburgers.”
“I suppose.”
“Tell the Iranians the balloon is deployed. Hammond out,” Lee said and replaced the radio on his belt.
The big orb bobbed and wobbled way over the Raj’s wake, awaiting the initial charge which would begin the chain reaction that would draw electro-magnetic energy from the surrounding air for a seconds-long surge of power.
“We better get under cover,” Lee said.
The Rangers, Bat, Byrus, and crewmen made for the compartments that had been shielded as a Faraday cage with aluminum sheeting. It would protect them from the web of static electricity that would engulf the ship when the reactor loosed its burst of wattage up the line to the balloon.
“I’ve been thinking,” Jimbo said. He was struggling to pull off a wringing wet t-shirt.
“Bad habit,” Chaz said.
“What if some bug or plant or germ or something does go back to the past through the field? You know, backwash,” Jimbo said. He accepted a mug of coffee offered by one the crewmen.
“Okay, what if ?” Lee said.
“Well, what if that’s how life was introduced on the Earth? By some assholes fucking around where nobody should be fucking.”
“And we’re the assholes?” Chaz said.
Jimbo nodded.
The other Rangers looked at him blankly.
“You make me want to get drunk,” Lee said after a beat.
They laced their coffee with tots of rum and waited for the storms, both man-made and nature’s fury, to hit.
19
Break Point
The sun rose on all hell breaking loose in Aztecland.
The priests caught on that someone was messing with their calendar.
Screeching voices echoed off the walls of the pyramids. The break in the usual morning silence drew everyone to the source. Dwayne joined the women and guards to watch the priests shouting and shoving around the bas-relief calendar. Things were getting hot.
Eagle Head stamped his feet and pointed from the sun to the counting stone. Another old guy wearing a terrapin headdress spat words at him. This only stoked Eagle Head’s rage higher. He broke a feathered staff over Turtle Head’s back. Other priests jumped in, and spindly arms and legs were soon flying. Feeble punches and kicks landed. Two of the priests rolled on the cobbles with grips in each other’s hair. Feathers and beads flew everywhere. The beefy guards glanced at one another. They weren’t certain how to break up a scuffle among such holy personages. They decided to just watch.
The gist of the argument was, from what Dwayne could understand of the rapid exchange, not over whether or not the counting stone was in the wrong place but over how it came to be in the wrong place. One faction’s opinion was that the gods themselves moved the stone back five days. Perhaps some changes in the firmament created a glitch in the system that could only be corrected by divine intervention. Eagle Head and his supporters suspected an evil spirit in the form of a human trickster.
The theological debate wheezed to a stop as the old guys ran out of energy. They came to an agreement that, no matter which side was right, a guard needed to be placed on the calendar to watch it day and night. Calculations were made, prayers were offered, and the stone was moved to its proper place.
Dwayne needed a new plan. Any plan. He figured a few more weeks wouldn’t hurt. Time enough to convince his captors that he was a god who knew his place, knew how to behave. Hell, he’d act eager to play a part in his own bloody demise.
Five slaves were brought over from the city just before noon. As the sun rose to its zenith above the grand pyramid, the slaves were hauled up to the altar at the crest of the structure. The goons dragged them, kicking and terrified, up the steps to the top. The priests waited for them in full feathered splendor. They were dressed in what looked like wrinkly jumpsuits. Other guards came for Dwayne, bowing and gesturing. They made it plain that he was expected to bear witness.
Halfway up the steep set of narrow steps, Dwayne wondered how these old fuckers managed the climb without heart attacks. The sun broiled down. The stones under his bare feet were like the floor of an oven. He was bathed in sweat before he reached the top.
The priests mumbled chants and waved staffs and lo
ops of beads. The goons held the terrified slaves firm. All the victims were men. Four Indians and a man who had East Asian features. If an Arab could be here, why not a Chinese? They stared at the bloody altar in terrified fascination. Flies gathered in clouds as if they knew they’d be feasting soon.
The wrinkly jumpsuits turned out to be made from full human hides. They were flayed from larger men than the spindly priests and hung from them like clown suits. Eagle Head wore the palest skin of them all. Dwayne saw a kind of hood hanging behind the priest’s shoulders. It bore the features of a blond-bearded face and a long mane of yellow hair. The empty eye sockets stared lifelessly from the mask of the face. A Verangi. Dwayne’s stomach turned at the idea that he might be the next wardrobe change for this pious bunch.
Eagle Head howled at the sky before bending to fetch a broad wooden bowl from a niche under the altar. The curved bowl had a spout at one end. He held the bowl braced on his forearms and whispered prayers; head bowed. A second priest poured the bowl full to the brim from a clay jar. A nasty stew sloshed in the bowl. It was deep green with bits of something floating atop an oily surface.
The goons yanked a slave forward and, squeezing hard on the side of his jaws, forced his mouth open. They tilted his head back. Eagle Head released a long pour into the open jaws. The slave sputtered and gagged but got most of it down. The goons released him to drop on his knees. The slave hawked and spat and shook his body like a dog does after a bath. The fear faded from the slave’s eyes; his chin went slack. A dreamy expression stole over his face. He tried to stand and failed, dropping to his knees again.
One by one, each slave was dosed and left to kneel, sit, or lie catatonic on the altar floor. The priests brought their prayers to a close, and the first slave was lifted into place to lie atop the altar. A goon stepped forward with a stone ax at the end of a long, curved handle. He stood behind the head of the supine slave and raised the ax high over his head. The slave gibbered and mewled, eyes glassy, mind a million miles away from what was going on around him.
With a grunt, the goon brought the ax head down to crush the sternum of the slave with a single expert blow. Eagle Head approached the slave with a blade curved like a skinning knife. The slave was convulsing, his body aware of the punishment it was suffering if not his mind. With the skill of a surgeon or a tanner, Eagle Head cut an expert pair of incisions and peeled the flesh away from the broken ribs. Two other priests stepped up to help him part the ribs and expose the organs underneath. The slave’s legs moved in a final involuntary dance. Piss rushed from him and ran into drains that carried it away from the altar. The steaming yellow fluid joined the blood that ran along runnels gouged from the rock at their feet. Dwayne watched the stream find its way to the gutters that ran down either side of the steps.
Within seconds, arms up to the elbows in the man’s open chest, Eagle Head severed the vessels to free the heart. He held it high above his head. Blood was everywhere. It sprayed in a fine mist from the chest wound. The slave vomited up a shower of it as his body jerked under the brutal attentions of the priests. The old men were painted in blood, their feather finery matted and dripping. The whites of their eyes blazed at the sky from crimson masks.
The whole time the remaining slaves watched with unconcern. Somewhere in their minds, the idea that they were next for the chop was repressed under a psychedelic haze created by the priests’ cocktail of ’shrooms and God knew what else.
Dwayne watched with revulsion, willing himself not to look away. He forced himself to maintain a bland, indifferent expression. The countenance of a living god. His roleplay as a willing zealot was being tested. He’d seen his share of atrocities and carnage. More than his share. Hell, way more than his share. But nothing like a systematic, ritualized murder like this. Even the cannibal proto-humans he’d run into back in prehistoric Nevada didn’t make a party out of killing to this degree. At least they were preparing dinner. These assholes just loved killing, pure and simple.
The heart was tossed into a waiting basket crusted black with old blood. A pair of goons took the limp corpse by the ankles and wrists and tossed it tumbling down the steps where it came to rest shy of the bottom. Each slave was brought forward for the same procedure until the flagstones of the altar floor were greasy with blood. The sluices ran full, and the retaining pools below swelled. The flies arrived by the millions in a storm of swirling black, drawn by the rich smell of blood and sharp stink of loosened bowels.
The ceremony ended with a shrieked incantation chanted in unison to the sky from the throat of every priest. They inspected the basket piled with hearts, looking for portents and signs. They appeared to be satisfied. Eagle Head, sticky from his bath in blood and crawling with flies, proclaimed that all was well, and the gods were pleased. The days of man would continue until the end of days. It was time to eat, drink, and fuck like there was no tomorrow.
At least, that’s what Dwayne gathered from the words he could understand. He was just glad it was over. His vision swam a bit, from the unforgiving heat or from the horror show or both. He made sure to place his feet carefully on the blood-slick steps as he climbed down behind the goons. They walked ahead, kicking the gutted corpses to flop away before them. One of the dead struck a step with the full weight of its inert form on its head. The skull cracked with a wet pop. That was the final insult, and Dwayne turned to bend double and spew up a breakfast of boiled eggs and ham.
The goons looked from him to the priests still gathered at the top of the steps. Was this an omen? The gods vomit, and it means... what to mortal men? The old guys didn’t notice Dwayne’s hurling, so the goons shared a shrug and continued on to the bottom.
Dwayne went immediately to the embarcadero and leaped into the still water. He used handfuls of sand to scrub the blood from every pore. He swam the length of the stone pier to where some flat-bottomed boats were tied up. They were punts, dug-outs, fashioned from single pieces of timber. Most were in sad shape from neglect and half sunk in the brown water. He dove beneath the surface again and again to test the hulls. He chose an eight-foot boat with the least amount of rot. It was still afloat and showed signs of recent use. A punting pole and pair of broad-bladed oars lay inside. The interior was musty but dry.
Back at the hut, Wahid was napping in the shade, a woman lying with her head in the crook of his arm. Dwayne prodded him with a toe. Wahid shoved the woman away and looked up, blinking.
“What is it?” the Arab said.
“Fuck this place,” Dwayne said. In English.
Wahid squinted at him.
“We are leaving here. Tonight,” Dwayne said. In Arabic this time.
20
The Thirsty Blaze
The drone soared, straight and true, through the billows of frigid mist and into the barrel of the Tauber Tube. Every surface had been sprayed with a dilution of chlorine bleach just prior to launch. No stowaway bugs or bacteria to pollute the pristine past.
Up in the control cabin, Jimbo sat at a monitor and guided the drone with a joystick. The others crowded behind him to get a glimpse of the world before life arrived. They even let Jason Taan watch the launch. All were there but Boats, Byrus, and three of the crewmen who stood below on the entry platform readying the lines and pump. And, of course, Quebat and Parviz monitoring the reactor in their shielded section of the hold.
The image on the monitor showed nothing but clouds of icy mist, the lens rimed with crystals. The image brightened then cleared, and the drone was sending back images of a virgin planet. A low sun turned the ocean bronze under a cloudless sky of gunmetal grey. There was little chop, and the view was clear to the horizon in every direction.
“Is there any land at all?” Lee said.
“There’s only one continent at this point. It would be a long way to the west of us. Maybe a few volcanic islands here and there. But most of the surface is water at this point, covered in shallow seas,” Morris Tauber said.
“We’re all clear. Tell Boats to run out
the pump,” Jimbo said.
“And you’re sure this water is good?” Lee said.
“Sterile and salt-free,” Morris said.
Jimbo piloted the drone home through the field. Boats ducked his head as it buzzed past to hover near the ceiling of the Tube chamber. Boats fired up the pump. It chugged as it sucked air, creating eddies in the cold mist. Boats rolled the pump down the entry ramp and gave it a mighty shove that sent it out of sight. The pump’s weight took the slack from the line as it sank into a lifeless sea billions of years in the past. The others began shoving hose into the field to feed the pump more line. The line bucked and straightened as it swelled with water under pressure.
Down on the engine deck, Geteye heard the big reservoir tanks gurgle then roar as water surged into them. He checked a glass bulb at the end of a connection near the bottom of a tank. The water inside swirled clear as crystal. He radioed to the control cabin that the water purity looked one hundred percent.
Outside, the superstructure and railings of the Ocean Raj still bristled with the static electricity cast by the surge from the metallic balloon bobbing high above the water in the teeth of a monsoon storm. The blanket of electromagnetic energy that enveloped the ship was a reaction to a gigawatt kick from the mini-nuke. This jumpstarted the Tesla effect that drew the massive clap of energy from the surrounding air that was needed to drive a rift in the time continuum. It was the combination of 19th-century electrical technology married to advanced quantum physics that made the Taubers’ theory a working reality.
The field could only be held stable and open for thirty minutes maximum. Not enough time to fill the ship’s tanks and auxiliaries to capacity. Boats and the crew ran out two more pumps. The SEAL kept his eye on the dive watch on his wrist and ordered the lines and pumps drawn back in at the twenty-five-minute mark. He gave a thumbs up to the observation port that fronted the control cabin.