Nine Eleven, page 14
part #5 of Area 51- Time Patrol Series
The Possibility Palace
In the spiraling labyrinth of the outer edge of the Pit of the Possibility Palace, one room had an ordinary, unpainted wooden door. There was a brass knocker and a mail slot, and one could almost expect a little porch to enclose it with some large hanging ferns, and maybe a cat curled up on the corner of a banister. The door was distinct, and maybe the intent was that it be the door of all doors, or perhaps give the occupant the illusion that the room behind it was “home.”
Inside the room, everything was designed around the man in the wheelchair. A bed with a bar, so he could get into it from the chair. A desk he could park at. Within arm’s reach of the desk, a pneumatic tube linked the occupant to the vastness of history in the Pit.
His name, known only to a few, was Dominic. He was skinny, with straight, dark hair, the first streaks of gray lightening it slightly. His skin, despite not having encountered the sun for too many years, was a pleasing olive tone. His eyes, though, were most interesting. They seemed too large for the sockets, as if they wanted to leave his skull and go wandering.
While the Pit represented history and the past, that was all just the force that pushed forward to the present and out to the future. If, as George Orwell had so brilliantly written in 1984, “he who controls the past controls the future, then he who controls the present controls the past,” there was a intriguing un-mentioned possibility: he who could see the future could change the present to change the future.
That required two types of people: first, someone who could see the future.
That was Dominic.
Second, someone with the power to change the present.
Dominic had been told that person existed. It had been a man named Nero. And to him, a decade and a half ago, Dominic had sent his first scroll, via Dane, via some means in which Dominic had not been included.
The fact that what Dominic had predicted had occurred anyway, caused Dominic to spend many, many days, weeks, months, and years in dark self-reflection, unable to tap into his Sight and produce another scroll.
The Sight only seemed to see bad things, and they happened anyway.
Perhaps the future was immutable?
Or had they lied to him about Nero and the Cellar?
But then Dane told him Nero had died. And now there was Hannah.
Dominic couldn’t really blame Nero for not acting on the scroll. The old man hadn’t known about the Time Patrol prior to getting the scroll. Too much information after the fact. Additionally, Dominic knew Dane hadn’t really believed it, either. Why would anyone? It had taken his mother something terrible to believe him.
Nevertheless, Dane had given Dominic this room, and allowed him access to all the Analysts in the Pit and their data. Which meant all of history. They sent scrolls with whatever he requested, the documents coming in through the tube.
There was an aspect to the room that Dominic had never shared with Dane: a connection to the Pit. To Dominic, it was a living entity with whom he shared a bond. He could pick up the history of the timeline directly in a way he would never be able to describe.
Eventually, he’d had small visions over the following years, but nothing as significant as the one in the first scroll. When those became true, as the gray cloud in the Pit rose higher, and the present revealed the future becoming now, Dane put more and more trust in them.
But Dane hadn’t forwarded another. None had passed that bar of necessity.
Until yesterday. Dominic had written his vision onto a scroll, tied a seal around it, then handed it to Dane, telling him it needed to be forwarded for action.
Dane had nodded and said he’d take care of it.
Like he had last time.
The future was now, literally, out of Dominic’s hands, and heading for Hannah’s.
Right now, Dominic worried not about the future, but the past. He always felt it when there was an alert and the Time Patrol was sent into the past. But this was different. This was personal, because one of the missions was his own past. His very existence lay in the balance. He knew what had happened, what he had experienced. How it had brought him here.
But now?
What would happen?
And someone else was here. He could feel her. He had a connection with her. Someone named Lara.
Two anomalies, in the space of hours. Could that be coincidence?
Dominic doubted it.
The Missions Phase III
Airspace, Barents Sea, 11 September 2001 A.D.
AMELIA EARHART IN 1937. At the very end of her flight.
Nineteen? Flight Nineteen in 1945, lost off the coast of Florida.
Eagle assembled the pieces even though they made no sense. Amelia, transmitting. Fort Lauderdale Air Station, trying to reach Flight Nineteen. Voices from the past, heard by someone from the future, in the now, 2001.
Angkor? Eagle knew that referred to Cambodia somehow, but didn’t know who would be transmitting something about it.
How far ahead is the AN-225 carrying the bomb? Eagle pulled back on the stick, gaining altitude and giving the Flanker more throttle.
The static was uneven, not the steady white roar it had been. He pressed transmit. “Any station this net, any station this net. Request radio confirmation. Over.” But he didn’t let go of the button. “Amelia? Are you out there? Over.”
No reply.
History recorded that Earhart disappeared on the 2nd of July, 1937, while in transit from New Guinea to Howland Island, a tiny speck of land in the Pacific. According to the Amelia Earhart Eagle had met in the Space Between, the Shadow had intercepted her aircraft, swallowing it up inside a huge craft shaped like a massive black sphere. The speculation was that the Shadow had also intercepted the Amelia Earhart of Eagle’s timeline, and she was never heard of again.
Eagle squinted. There was a smudge on the horizon. A cloud?
The static ceased for a moment, and Eagle very clearly heard Amelia Earhart’s voice. “K-H-A-Q-Q calling Itasca. I see smoke. Are you making smoke? Over.”
Then he heard a series of dots and dashes, very clearly. Morse code, still a staple of Special Operations training. As he tried to discern the growing cloud, his mind translated:
T-U-R-N-O-F-F-R-A-D-I-O-O-R-D-I-E
The message began to repeat, but Eagle cut it off as he obeyed.
The cloud was billowing up at an unnatural rate on the far horizon. And it wasn’t a cloud. There was a yellowish tinge to it. It was only five minutes ahead at the speed he was flying.
Then he saw a black speck outlined against the growing formation: the AN-225. It was below, at 10,000 feet altitude.
Eagle hit the afterburners and was slammed back in the seat as the Su-27 bolted forward.
He gained rapidly on the cargo plane. As he closed, he saw it was banking left, trying to avoid the “cloud” that was now so large it blocked the horizon to the northwest. Eagle estimated it was passing through 25,000 feet in altitude and still climbing. He’d never seen the like, but he’d heard of it.
Amelia Earhart had reported she’d flown into a similar formation and ended up in the Space Between, barely escaping capture by the Shadow.
Eagle finally understood what it was all about: The Shadow wants the Tsar Bomba.
It was 14:37 GMT. American Airlines Flight 77 was hitting the western façade of the Pentagon.
Staten Island, Colony of New York, 11 September 1776 A.D.
“That can’t be,” Doc protested. “This is the time bubble. The Shadow made it. Our timeline is still intact.”
“I said the initiating event for the change already happened,” Pandora corrected. “I didn’t say it had taken effect yet. That’s why the Legion is here. He’s here to protect what is, right now, inevitable.”
“Nothing is inevitable,” Doc said.
Pandora gave a weary smile. “Some things are inevitable, but you are correct. This isn’t one of them. Note I said ‘right now.’”
“You’re here for a reason,” Doc said. “And the bubble is still open, so this isn’t done yet.”
Pandora nodded. “Not yet.”
“What happened a year ago?” Doc asked.
Pandora glanced at Thyia, who was standing ten feet from the door, all her focus on it, her bow in hand, arrow nocked. Light was beginning to seep through the window as dawn crept in from the east.
“You know the history that you know,” Pandora said. “The history that was recorded. However, there is always a great deal that isn’t recorded. That is lost in the dust of time. Hidden in the darkness of neglect. There is also the history that is kept secret.”
Doc thought of Eagle’s Entebbe mission with a group of Israeli commandoes who had simply disappeared that day, and their loss never made public. “Yes. Of course.”
Pandora nodded. “Let me supplement what you may know about this event. To do so, we must go back slightly in time. The Congress of these rebelling colonies sent a petition to the King of England last year.”
“The Olive Branch Petition,” Doc said. “I know about it.” In excruciating detail, from Edith’s download, if he so desired.
“Yes,” Pandora said. “I’m just giving you the framework. A worthless document for a number of reasons, but still, an attempt. Much like today is supposed to be. Worthless, but a gesture. Except it’s not going to be worthless, as things stand now.”
Doc shook his head. “How? Neither side has the power for real negotiation.”
Pandora held up a hand. “Patience. Congress sent the Olive Branch Petition on the 5th of July, 1775, yet declared rebellion before there was a chance to get a reply from England. Thomas Jefferson, whom you’ve had the pleasure of meeting, drew up the first draft of the Olive Branch. It was deemed by the moderates to be too inflammatory, so another member of Congress rewrote it. Made it more conciliatory, suggesting the colonies did not want independence, but simply the ability to negotiate trade and tax regulations with Great Britain.”
“As you said,” Doc interjected, “a worthless document. The King refused the meet the bearers of it or even read it.”
“True,” Pandora said, “but others did read it, and thought it could hold the key to peace, based on something they already had in hand.”
Doc searched through the download, trying to find the thread. The facts were there, but he couldn’t tell where she was going with this.
“Another gentleman you met, a Mister Franklin, who will be downstairs shortly, is the next piece in the puzzle,” Pandora said. “He traveled to London two years ago; that is two years in this time. Near the end of 1774. He became acquaintances with Miss Caroline Howe, sister to a certain Admiral Howe, who will also be here this morning, and General Howe, who will not be here this morning.” Pandora shook her head. “Do you know why General Howe will not be attending?”
Doc tried to search through the download, but Pandora didn’t wait before answering her own question. “Ostensibly, because he is having what your timeline calls an affair. Apparently, that is causing notoriety,” Pandora said. “Isn’t it odd, that as life and death is to be discussed, there are some so concerned with matters of the body, that it takes precedence?”
Doc didn’t think she expected an answer.
“However, while that is the rumor, it is not the true reason General Howe is not attending.”
“He’s the less even-tempered of the brothers,” Doc said as a piece of information from the download came to the forefront. “He—”
“He is,” Pandora said, “and General Howe possesses great anger toward Mister Franklin. The Admiral is not sure he can contain his brother, which is ironic, because the matter of the General’s affair, and his hatred of Mister Franklin, comes to bear because of what isn’t written in the history books, although it’s hinted at: Mister Franklin’s libido.”
“He was—” Doc began, but she cut him off.
“He had relations with Miss Howe. The brothers, Admiral and General, were outraged when they found out. Mister Franklin went to great pains to make amends. Unfortunately, as a result of his actions, and hers too, to be fair, there developed the reason General Howe isn’t here today, and Admiral Howe is. Miss Howe became pregnant with Mister Franklin’s child. A boy was born six months ago. Thus, Franklin and the Howes are now linked by blood.”
There was nothing in the download about that; history recorded that Caroline Howe had learned of Franklin’s prowess at chess, and had invited him to a match at her home, which even to Doc sounded kind of thin. History did recall Franklin having an illegitimate son in 1731, most likely with a maid. He took that child as his own, but history said nothing about a more recent bastard.
“What does that have to do with a peace conference?” Doc asked.
“Miss Howe is thus personally involved,” Pandora said. “She became very keen on there being peace between the Colonies and the Crown. Between her country and the land of the father of her son. Mister Franklin joined her in that. He wrote something titled Hints for Conversation upon the Subject of Terms that Might Probably Produce a Durable Union between Great Britain and the Colonies. It listed seventeen terms the Colonies required for peace. He, and Miss Howe, presented it to Lord Howe on Christmas Day, 1774.”
“I know about it,” Doc said.
“Did you know about the child?” Pandora asked.
“No,” Doc admitted.
Pandora snuffed out the candle by pressing two fingers together on the flame. There was enough daylight to see the room without it. According to the download, Franklin, Adams, and Rutledge were across Arthur Kill in New Jersey, being met by Admiral Howe’s personal barge. A British officer had been sent along to be held by the colonists as a hostage, standard fare for a parley in these times.
“Mister Franklin and the Admiral went back and forth on the Hints for several months,” Pandora said. “They—” She paused. Boots thudded on wood below them, then came muffled voices.
Thyia came to the table beside Pandora. “Hessians,” she whispered.
Pandora nodded. She spoke in a low voice. “They are setting up the meal for the meeting. We have about two hours before it starts.”
Doc leaned toward Pandora. “Enough with the history. What’s going to be different about today?”
Pandora seemed disappointed that she wasn’t able to spin out the entire story. “Admiral Howe is bringing a document with him. There is only the original, signed by King George and protected by his royal seal. Only the Admiral and the King know of it: a version of Franklin’s Hints. It is an actual proposal for peace between the Colonies and Great Britain. It is a document that will adequately address all the major issues that caused the rebellion. In short, it is an acceptable treaty that will bring peace to the Colonies without Independence.”
Mountain Meadows, 11 September 1857 A.D.
‘The vagaries of the variables,’ Dane liked to tell the Time Patrol.
Moms was vagaried out as she and Lee approached the Mormon camp. First, the Spartan tried to kill her, then literally threw himself on her sword. Now, it appeared the Time Patrol agent, who seemed a little twisted in his understanding of how things worked, was the one man on the attacking side who would become the scapegoat for all that would happen. He would face a firing squad, right here, in twenty years.
Moms tried to collect herself. “So, the Paiutes were going to attack you and the other Mormons?”
“I’ve warned against riling the red men,” Lee said. “They are not simple tools, to be used for dark and dangerous work and then tossed aside. It is not that easy. And then, they”—He indicated the wagons in the distance—“sent some men to Cedar City, asking for help. Further blood was spilled. One of their men was murdered by one of my brethren. Lines have been crossed that cannot be uncrossed, but now my brethren want to compound death with more death.” He shook his head. “I went to Major Haight. Refused to lead the Indians against the trespassers.”
The voices got louder, one in particular. A man stood next to the fire, facing the others, slapping one hand into the other as he made his points. He was a young, tall, thin man. His pants, shirt, and tunic were as black as the night around them.
“Before I can take a life,” the man argued, “I must be certain our lives are in danger. Who here can say with certainty that these people have had any hand in the killing of any of our brethren? They are stories, rumors blown in from the trail. We know how such can contain falsehoods. But we know for certain we already have their blood on our hands!” With that, he smacked one hand into the other to make his point.
“Oh, Brother Turner,” Lee whispered to Moms as they halted on the outer edge of the circle of Mormons. “I fear he sees too narrowly, and does not clearly discern the perilous path his words set him on.”
Moms stared at the man from whom she was directly descended, unsure what she was experiencing, and without time to dwell on it as a Mormon on the opposite side of the fire rebutted Turner’s argument.
Stocky, muscular, his beard and hair totally gray, he took a step forward, almost into the flames, his face reflecting the glow. He wore a blue uniform, his sleeves adorned with some insignia Moms couldn’t make out. He had a sword strapped to his belt. “I desire to see all the Gentiles stripped naked as the day they were born, before God. They should be lashed to the bone and staked out in the sun, burned by its power, inch by inch, to their deaths. We must pay them back for what they have done to us.”
Nothing subtle or merciful there, Moms thought.
“Are you a man of conscience, Major Haight?” Turner shouted back. “It is a stretch of imagination to believe these people, who hail from Arkansas, had anything to do with the murder of Brother Smith in Illinois. That is pure supposition, and that is not enough upon which to rest murder. I cannot in good conscience kill civilians.”
