Time Shards--Shatter War

by Dana Fredsti

  On a normal night, she would have waited along with everyone else for the cry of the muezzin summoning all for the evening’s final prayer. But now, sitting out in the night air by herself, she decided to make the call on her own.

  * * *

  Only a week ago, Leila could not have imagined spending a night unchaperoned, let alone in the company of foreign unbelievers. In the face of all that had occurred, however, it didn’t seem important anymore.

  There was a comfort in feeling the river beneath her. Her uncle owned a felucca and the gentle rocking of the waters was a familiar friend. She was also used to sleeping under the stars—on the hottest nights in Cairo her family often slept on the rooftop.

  Morning approached, the star-flecked cobalt of the sky softening to a pale sapphire. Rolling over on her mat of rushes, Leila rested her head on one arm and watched her new companions sleep. Amber lay closest to her, with Cam and Kha-Hotep closer to the bow.

  She felt strangely safe.

  Suddenly Kha-Hotep sat up and stretched his arms with a yawn, causing Leila to stifle a startled shriek. Turning at the sound, the captain smiled in embarrassment, touching a hand to his eyes, and then his heart, in a graceful gesture of apology.

  “Ii-ti em hotep, Nebet-i,” he murmured, bowing his head.

  Leila blushed and sat up, waving her hand. “La, ’ana asif,” she said, then tried again. “No, no, I’m sorry.”

  She stopped, realizing neither Arabic nor English would help, and just gave him a shy smile. Even as she did, part of her was mortified. Her mother and aunts would never approve of her talking to a foreign man like this.

  No, not foreign.

  She couldn’t deny he was more truly Egyptian than she was. She also couldn’t deny how striking he looked in his ancient garb—which seemed so natural on him, she’d slowly stopped thinking of it as a costume. Kha-Hotep busied himself with the boat, weighing the anchor and pushing them off the bank into the river again, quietly, so not to wake the others.

  “Nebet-i Leila,” he said softly, and pointed up at a point in the sky. “Siu-Tuait.” Then he pointed to the deck of the barge. “Siu-Tuait.” He pointed back and forth between the two. “Siu-Tuait. Siu-Tuait.” He raised an eyebrow hopefully.

  Leila was baffled until she realized what he was pointing to in the sky—the planet Venus. Her eyes lit up.

  “Oh! The Star of the Dawn—your ship’s name, yes! Siu-Tuait!”

  He grinned and nodded. Another realization hit her.

  The dawn!

  It was time for her morning prayers. She quickly got up and excused herself.

  * * *

  Leila had just begun the second round of prostration in her morning prayers when a heavy thump rocked the boat. She steadied herself, tamping down an instant of panic. Had they hit a rock, or run aground on a sandbar?

  No, the boat was still moving freely, so that couldn’t be it. She waited for a few moments longer, then returned to her salah.

  The deck pitched violently as a great humped shape rose up in an explosion of water and smashed down on the barge’s timbers directly in front of her. Screaming, Leila frantically scrabbled for purchase on the heaving deck to keep from being swept toward the outstretched mouth. Then it released its hold and the boat flipped back up again.

  Twisting, she scrambled to her hands and knees, crawling alongside the cabin. The strip of deck was narrower there, the footing more treacherous, but she pulled herself up and ran to the foredeck where Kha-Hotep, Amber, and Cam were stumbling to their feet as well.

  “Faras!” she screamed, too rattled to recall the English word. “Faras-El-Nahr!”

  Another impact slammed the barge from the starboard side, dumping everyone to the deck and nearly capsizing them. Their bodies struck hard, slamming against the bulwarks and each other. Then the deck rocked back again, and the culprit emerged from the river—a massive hippopotamus, solid as a truck and aggressively intent on defending its territory.

  Leila watched in horror as the bull clambered over the side and planted one huge web-toed foot on the deck, and then another, trying to pull the rest of its lumbering girth up as well. The barge’s timbers groaned beneath the sheer weight of the onslaught, threatening to swamp the entire barge—or snap it in half.

  Improbable jaws, filled with thick, stake-like yellow tusks, yawned open in a challenging bellow as it scrambled on the uneven surface, trying to reach its closest target—Kha-Hotep. The Egyptian fought to secure his own footing, bringing up an oar and jabbing the long timber like a spear, trying to aim for the hippo’s eyes.

  * * *

  Amber rolled on the wildly pitching deck, trying without success to steady herself long enough to draw her crossbow. Cam managed to unsheathe his blade, but couldn’t get footing on the bucking deck, which threatened to break apart at the seams.

  “En joue!” A loud voice echoed across the river, then rang out a second time. “Feu!”

  * * *

  A rapid drumroll of thunder erupted—a fusillade, hammering the air all around them. The hippo roared like an enraged ox, its mouth stretched wide as a dozen fresh red wounds burst across its wide flanks. It shuddered and toppled over, falling back into the river with a great splash.

  The captain and passengers of the Star of the Dawn turned toward the riverbank. A line of a dozen soldiers stood on the rise, their slender, long-barreled muskets still smoking. Each was uniformed in plumed helmet and smart blue jacket, with white sash and white trousers. Their commanding officer—a lean, tall man with long sideburns on his aquiline face—stood to one side, his long-tailed, red-jacketed uniform completed by gold epaulets, a silver gorget around his neck, and a black bicorn hat.

  He raised his saber.

  “Deuxième ligne, présentez armes!” Amber’s implant translated. Second line, present arms! In perfect order, the soldiers withdrew their spent muskets and took a step back. A second line of soldiers marched up and took their place, training their weapons on the crew of the barge.

  Their commander stepped forward. “Blanc, noir, roux, et brun—quel curieux panier de poissons nous avons attrapé ce matin…” he said, clicking his tongue. White, black, red, and brown—what a curious basket of fish we’ve caught this morning! Then he addressed them directly.

  “Êtes-vous Turcs? Anglais? Pourrions-nous peut-être espérer que vous parlez français?” Might we possibly hold out hope that you speak French?

  Taking a step forward, Amber smiled. “Bonjour!” she said, waving. “Nous ne sommes pas anglais. Je suis américaine.”

  Pleasantly astounded, the officer raised his eyebrow, then with a slight smile of his own, doffed his hat.

  “Salutations! Bienvenue à La Nouvelle-Memphis!”

  36

  German Afrika Korps Encampment

  Between Alam el Halfa and El Alamein, Egypt

  Seven days after the Event

  Nothing distinguished the command tent from any of the others, which was as he preferred it. Inside, the German officer in jacket and breeches sat writing on a simple foldout table. A stocky figure, just turned fifty, he was good-looking in a serious, stalwart sort of way, his face lined with heavy responsibility.

  On the table next to him lay an Afrika Korps officer’s cap with a pair of sand goggles pushed back over the brim. His throat was bandaged from desert sores, though he suffered other less-obvious maladies—violent headaches, chronic stomach pains, nervous exhaustion. Above the bandages he wore a checkered scarf, a stern black Knight’s Cross pinned beneath it. The braid of a general hung on his shoulder.

  Field Marshal Erwin Rommel never neglected writing to his wife.

  Dearest Lu,

  I cannot imagine how this letter is to reach you, but neither can I find it in me to stop writing to you, no matter our circumstance. It has been one week since the bizarre event that interrupted the very heavy fighting at El Alamein, and we are no closer to finding an answer. On the contrary, questions continue to mount.

  We appe
ar to have been snatched from the battlefield—though truly, I should say our battlefield has been snatched along with us and dropped… somewhere. I can only suspect this was the work of some enemy Wunderwaffe, some experimental super-weapon. I have no better explanation than that.

  Nonetheless, we are currently well, and morale is good enough among the men. There has been no sign of the enemy whatsoever, and we are taking advantage of that happy fact to recover from our most recent ten days of battle. We are garrisoned in a native village that has mysteriously sprung up near us. The people are not Arabs, and speak some language we cannot guess, though they have strong Semitic racial features. Perhaps they are some lost Berber tribe.

  I am happy in my own conscience that we have fully done our duty to the Fatherland and will trust in God to see that you receive this letter somehow, and likewise, my men and I will discover how to return home ourselves, so that you and I may be reunited soon.

  All my love to you and our son,

  He paused, wanting to say something more about the local elephants, but his thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of soldiers outside. One stepped into the tent, seeking permission to enter.

  “Come!”

  A pair of Panzergrenadiers entered, escorting a man wearing an unfamiliar and immaculate black uniform. Rommel studied him with interest. He was negro, or perhaps mulatto, although with strong cheekbones and a rather oriental cast to his oddly-glittering eyes. His silver hair was straight, not negroid, and close-cropped in a military cut. He seemed unperturbed to be held in custody.

  The ranking soldier saluted.

  “Herr General, this man was captured nearby. He appears to be a survivor from the unidentified downed aircraft we spotted to the east.”

  “By no means,” the stranger corrected the soldier in flawless German. “I was not captured. In fact, quite the opposite. I came specifically to see you, Field Marshal.”

  “And have you provided your name, rank, and serial number?” Rommel asked.

  The man smiled and offered a quick salute and bow of his head. “My name is János Mehta. No rank or serial number. I’m not a soldier. I’m here to help you.”

  Rommel waved to the field chair in front of the little table. “Please, sit.”

  Mehta took a seat. The general remained impassive, observing his guest carefully. Finally, the man broke the silence.

  “Field Marshal, as I said, I—”

  “I find your name intriguing, Herr Mehta. And your appearance.”

  “Yes, I imagine you have a great deal many questions,” the man replied. “I certainly would, in your place.”

  “Just so. I am impressed, Herr Mehta. Your grasp of our language is very good, but you’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you are German. Unless… one of your parents—or a grandparent, perhaps?”

  “No, General. To be honest, I believe I do have some German ancestry, if one traces back far enough, but I was born in Eastern Kalimantan.”

  “Kalimantan? In the Netherlands East-Indies? Extraordinary. The area is currently under Japanese occupation, no?”

  “I assure you, that is the least interesting thing I am about to tell you.”

  Rommel cocked his head slightly to one side. “Perhaps you can start by explaining your presence here, please.”

  “Of course, Field Marshal. It all begins with something called the Brahmastra project.”

  “The… Brahmastra project, you say?”

  Mehta nodded. “That is what all this is about. It’s what created this chaotic situation in which we all find ourselves.”

  Rommel leaned in. Now they were getting somewhere. Mehta’s expression became thoughtful.

  “Let me see… before I explain all that, I suppose I should start with my medical equipment.”

  Rommel raised an eyebrow. “What kind of medical equipment would that be?”

  The first German soldier stepped forward and presented Mehta’s shoulder satchel.

  “Sir, he was carrying this case. With your permission?” Rommel nodded. The Panzergrenadier set it on the table and opened it up, revealing a sinister-looking pistol-shaped hypodermic and a brace of ampules, along with several other strange devices, then stepped back again. This time Mehta leaned in, reaching forward.

  “Herr General, now, if you will just allow me—”

  Rommel raised a hand. “No, that will not be necessary. Sit back, please.”

  The soldiers tensed behind him. Mehta froze, then after an awkward pause, slowly brought his hand back. He wore a look of contrition.

  “Ah. My apologies if that appeared a bit sudden, Herr General. Please let me explain. I am a doctor. I can show you—”

  “I have no interest in that,” Rommel replied firmly. “I will ask you not to reach for anything on the table again. If you do, my men will be obliged to shoot you.”

  The slightest flicker of displeasure crossed Mehta’s face, quickly replaced by the meekest of smiles. “Of course. Absolutely.”

  The field marshal kept his expression inscrutable. “So, you were about to tell us about the—what did you call it?—the Brahmastra project.”

  Mehta said nothing, but his amiable facade slowly soured. Finally, he sighed.

  “You know, Herr General, I feel as if I would be doing you a disservice if I didn’t start by showing you just one item from my medical case—”

  Rommel held up a hand again.

  “Stop talking, please. Dr. Mehta, you say you are not a soldier, but that is a uniform, is it not?”

  Mehta frowned. “Well, yes, I can see why you’d say that, but let me assure you—”

  “No, please don’t. I don’t know what country you serve, Dr. Mehta, but whoever it is, I have the distinct impression you are either some sort of Bolshevik political commissar, or an intelligence officer of their version of the Gestapo.”

  Mehta stared at him for an unduly-long pause, then he laughed out loud, clapping his hands in a mock applause.

  “Well, bravo, Herr General. Well done. Honestly, my hat is off to you.”

  The field marshal’s expression did not change. “That will be quite enough, Dr. Mehta, or whatever your actual name is.” He stood up and addressed his two troopers. “Take this man out at once and shoot him as a spy.”

  “No, I don’t think they will.” Mehta’s mocking smile melted away, revealing the coldness beneath. He stood up as well. The two Panzergrenadiers remained where they were, standing at attention.

  Rommel frowned as Mehta locked eyes with him.

  “Take him.”

  The two German soldiers obeyed instantly and seized Rommel, one of them slapping a hand over his mouth to prevent him from calling for help. Mehta wasted no time removing and loading the injector pistol. He stepped over to the struggling general.

  “Now let’s try this again, from the beginning,” he said softly, bringing the pistol to bear on Rommel’s neck.

  37

  The French Colony of New Memphis, Egypt

  Eight days after the Event

  The officer bowed and introduced himself in French. “Sergeant-Major Durand, Eighty-Eighth Line Infantry Demi-Brigade, Third Battalion, Seventh Fusiliers Company—and your humble servant.”

  “Bonjour, Sergeant-Major.” Amber considered attempting a curtsy, but immediately reconsidered. “I’m Amber Richardson—um, civilian.”

  “Enchanté,” Durand said. “My commanding officer will have many questions for you, Mademoiselle Richardson. I confess that I am quite curious to hear the account of your appearance here myself.”

  Not good, Amber thought. They didn’t have time for an interrogation—not even a friendly one. “We’d love to meet him,” she replied carefully, “but we’re on an urgent mission. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  A pained expression crossed Durand’s face.

  “My profound apologies, Mademoiselle,” he answered. “Circumstances demand that your mission be delayed until our lieutenant is satisfied with your answers. I am obliged to ask you
and your companions to turn over your swords and firearms until such time as he orders them returned to you. In the meantime, please be good enough to accompany us to our humble bivouac.”

  * * *

  Cam stared around in awe. For the first time since he and Amber had left the veldt for the desert, the line between different shards was clearly delineated.

  A mighty city had stood here once, filled with tall limestone and granite statues of gods and kings, crowned hawks and sacred bulls, hieroglyph-covered columns and stelai, temples and palaces, all encompassed by the remnants of once-tall shining white walls.

  Before that, acres of fertile farmlands, stands of palm trees, and pastures of cattle dominated the black earth. Even earlier, lush prehistoric jungle-forests held sway, sheltering a huge variety of reptilian animal life under cool green canopies.

  A vast patchwork of these eras and more lay spread out before his eyes. The scraps of quirky, segmented architecture made the piecemeal remains of the city resemble a sculpture garden for giants. Fields, pastures, jungles, and pools were liberally scattered throughout. The shards varied in size from an acre or more across to some merely a few paces wide.

  Everywhere Egyptians were at work. Some tended the fields. Others were busy rebuilding the city, both newly carved and freshly painted structures, and dusty, rust-colored, millennia-old ruins, the dry bones of the city. A high stockade of cut palm trunks surrounded the shard of jungle. The row of sharpened points looked ominously like teeth raised up to keep out monsters.

  “Allow me to be the first to present the French colony of New Memphis,” Durand announced with the delight of a proud father. Kha-Hotep’s eyes widened in shock.

  “Cam, my brother,” he whispered as they proceeded, his voice raw with emotion, “this chaos is all that remains of Men-nefer, the great capital city. Its great port, gone. Inbuhedj, we called it. Its high walls, gleaming white as my teeth, white as my eyes, all gone. In my time, it had already stood for two thousand years. The warring gods Horus and Set made their peace here, at the center of the world. I thought the city would surely last forever.”