Nine Eleven, page 17
part #5 of Area 51- Time Patrol Series
Doc looked at Pandora, then at the door, then back at her. She closed the cover to the dumbwaiter. Pandora tapped Thyia on the shoulder then pointed at the rafters.
The younger woman moved swiftly, stowing the bow, then stepping from a chair, to the table, then grabbing one of the beams. She swung up then hid in the dimness, behind one of the large roof supports. Pandora stood to follow her. Doc got up also, but Pandora put a hand on his chest and shook her head.
He heard Franklin’s heavy, slow footfalls on the stairs.
“You stay,” Pandora whispered. “This your time.” She stepped onto the table then joined Thyia in the rafters.
Great, Doc thought. Now it was his time. He walked toward the door, stepping just to the side of it. Franklin’s climb was getting closer. The door swung open, and Franklin came in, breathing hard. As soon as he cleared the doorway, Doc gently closed it behind him.
“You!” Franklin was startled. “I sent men looking for you on the Fourth. You—”
“Shh,” Doc said. He indicated the floor below. “They can’t know I’m here.”
“What do you want?” Franklin asked in a low voice. He had a thin leather case in his hands.
“We both need to see that.” Doc indicated the case.
“I need to sit down,” Franklin said. He hobbled to the table then collapsed on a chair, the floorboards creaking in protest under his prodigious weight. He was heavier than Doc remembered. Franklin placed the case on the table, then pulled out a kerchief and wiped the sweat off his forehead.
Doc sat next to him.
“I don’t even know your name,” Franklin said. “The events of that early morning on the Fourth sometimes seem to me as much a dream as the one that prompted us to write that document which Mister Jefferson took with him.”
“It was real,” Doc said. “I’m real.” He tapped the case. “This is real, but it’s not supposed to be. Just like the Declaration of Emancipation.”
Franklin frowned. He fumbled in a pocket then produced a pair of fragile spectacles which had seen better days. He unfolded them then perched them on his bulbous nose. “Before we spin further afield, let us see what this is about.” He opened the case then slid out a letter, sealed with an ornate stamp. “From the King himself. Such an honor.” Franklin patted his pockets, looking for something. Finally, he turned to Doc. “Sir, do you have a device with which I might open this letter?”
Doc produced his dagger.
“A bit much for just a letter,” Franklin muttered as he slid the blade under the lip of the envelope and through the seal. He handed the dagger back. “Let us see what wise words are descended upon us from on high.”
Franklin began reading. Doc edged closer so he could read over Franklin’s shoulder. The old man gave him a dirty look over his spectacles, but didn’t say anything. Muffled voices echoed from the room below.
When he finished reading, Franklin took a deep breath then let it out. He took off the spectacles, holding them in one hand, then used them to tap the document. “I made seventeen points in my original Hints. Admiral Howe and I went back and forth several times. We got it down to fourteen.” He hit the glasses on the parchment a bit too hard. “This grants all fourteen. Signed by the King. I never thought...” Franklin faded into silence, deep in thought.
Doc waited, because Franklin’s response was the key. Perhaps the old man would reject the treaty and—
“It is more than we could have dreamed for,” Franklin said. “A step short of true Independence, but it gives us everything else we’ve requested.”
“It must be Independence,” Doc said.
Franklin put the glasses down and turned to Doc. “Sir, you appeared on the early morn of the Fourth. Talked us into shelving an important document. I agreed at the time, and I agree in retrospect, that it was the correct move. Nevertheless, I have not the slightest clue who you are or where you come from.”
“As I told you then,” Doc said, “and must repeat now: who I am is of no consequence. I have only the benefit of the United States, indeed all mankind, at heart and in my mind and in all my actions.”
“Rather magnanimous of you,” Franklin said.
Doc accessed the download. “‘It is impossible we should think of submission to a government that has with the most wanton barbarity and cruelty burnt our defenseless towns, excited the savages to massacre our peaceful farmers and our slaves to murder their masters and is even now bringing foreign mercenaries to deluge our settlements with blood.’”
“Words I myself might utter, if the need be,” Franklin said.
“You will. When you destroy that document, Admiral Howe reverts to his other plan, which is to offer pardons if you repudiate Independence.”
Franklin didn’t blink at that. “Interesting. You know the future?”
First Rule, Doc thought. “Some of it. A man can see the future if he is aware enough of the present.”
“Perhaps,” Franklin allowed. He tapped the treaty. “But this offers peace, excellent terms, and will save lives. War is such a terrible business, and there is no guarantee the correct side, which is always ‘ours,’ will prevail. Being right does not equal being the superior martial force. And I did see Admiral Howe’s fleet, despite my eyes not being what they were. Impressive, indeed. What if we lose this war? We will never get terms like this in defeat. Indeed, the burdens imposed will be worse than before.”
“You won’t lose,” Doc said.
“Are you some mystic from the Far East?” Franklin asked. “I have seen people from that part of the world, and they resemble you in skin tone and hair.”
Doc considered answering in the affirmative, but Franklin was a scientist, and Doc sensed a trap. “No, sir, I am not a mystic. I believe in the power of observation and empirical deduction. Upon reflection, you agree that my recommendation about the Declaration of Emancipation was proper and correct, do you not?”
“I do. Our—Jefferson, Adams and my own—brains were muddled from our similar dreams. Yours was the voice of reason when we could not think clearly.”
“Did you not have a similar dream about the Hints?” Doc asked.
Franklin gave a slight nod. “Do you know what these dreams are? Where they come from?”
“I do,” Doc said, “and it is not a benign power.”
“Are you speaking of the Devil?”
“Close,” Doc said, “except it is real and means mankind ill.”
“Hmm,” Franklin murmured. “Perhaps. It is all very strange.”
Doc indicated the treaty. “The United States must have independence from Great Britain, not be its vassal. The Declaration of Independence, so eloquently written, will serve as a beacon to many others in the world. Drive many people to seek their own independence.”
Franklin wiped the sweat off his forehead once more. “This document has a heavy weight. The King signed it. He knows of it. There will be—”
“It is the original, and there are no copies,” Doc said. “If you destroy it, it will be done as if it never existed.”
“A very heavy weight,” Franklin murmured. “The souls of all those who will die in this war will rest on my shoulders.”
“As will the souls of many more who will know freedom for generations to come,” Doc said.
“Ahhh.” Franklin groaned as he got to his feet, using the table as support. He picked up the treaty.
Franklin shuffled toward the fireplace, Doc at his side. They stopped a couple of feet from it.
Franklin shivered. “Has it suddenly grown chilly in here? More the reason for a fire.” He pulled a match from inside his vest then held up the document.
Before he could strike the match, the room exploded with action: Thyia dropped out of the rafters in front them, landing lightly, rolling onto her back then launching an arrow. The shaft angled upward, into the fireplace’s flue.
As Thyia loosed the arrow, Pandora landed next to her, shoving Franklin and Doc back, her Naga staff at the ready in her other hand.
A Legion, stained head to toe with soot, dropped down into the fireplace from the flue, a dagger in each hand and an arrow in one side. He attacked, slashing at Thyia, who was nocking another arrow, neatly slicing her bow a third of the way from the top. It collapsed in her hands, pulled inward by the taut string.
He used Thyia’s body on the floor as a platform to leap at Doc and Franklin, both daggers leading.
Mountain Meadows, 11 September 1857 A.D.
“That’s not right,” Moms said. “That’s not right.”
The group around the fire had dispersed, some seeking a few hours of sleep, if any could, others in small groups, talking quietly among themselves. Some men and boys were checking their weapons.
Turner sat in the dirt, holding his stomach.
“None of this is right,” Lee said in response to Moms’s murmurings. He sat next to Turner, shoulders slumped. “Why is this burden on me?” he asked. He looked up at Moms. “Why are you here? What is your purpose? What is the Lord’s will?”
“They can’t kill all of them,” Moms said, realizing the implicit acceptance of the deaths of all the others in the statement. “The young children must live.”
Turner found his voice. “In the morning, I will stand between my brethren the Gentiles. They will have to ride over me to get to them.” He turned toward Lee. “Where will you stand, brother? Will you stand with me?”
“They will ride over you,” Lee said. “It’s no use. Brother Haight would not be so insistent if he did not have Brother Young’s permission to do this in some form or manner. It is what must be done.” He shifted his attention back to Moms. “I don’t understand why you’re here. What prayer have you answered? Certainly not mine.”
“We must save the young children,” Moms said. “Those under seven. Who cannot speak of what happens, and who will forget who was part of it.”
“Brother Haight was adamant,” Lee said. “How will you stop him?”
“We’ll stop him,” Moms said. “The three of us.”
“How?” Lee asked.
Moms looked over the Mormon camp. There were at least sixty men and boys, most in the uniform of the Nauvoo militia. “How many Indians in their camp?” she asked Lee.
He shrugged. “Twenty or thirty. They come and go. But those who stayed want the livestock that has been promised them, and vengeance for those braves who’ve been killed so far. We must make sure they do not ravage the women. A quick death. We must ensure the women and girls receive a quick death. We must not allow the heathens to have their way with the women.”
Turner was muttering something, his head bowed, and Moms realized he was praying.
She knelt in front of Lee then grabbed his chin, forcing him to look her in the eye. “When you go to the emigrants, you get all the children under seven together, next to one wagon. In it, if you can. Do you understand? That is the Lord’s will.”
He gave a barely perceptible nod. Moms let go of him.
“So, I am to do as ordered otherwise?” Lee asked.
Moms stood. “Yes.” And with that, she was condemning him to death. Not for two decades, but eventually.
We all die eventually, she thought.
“Then why are you here?” Lee repeated.
“To save the children,” Moms said. She looked at Turner, still mumbling his prayers, worthless. She needed to understand this group better, to find the weak point she could leverage in the morning to stop a complete massacre, to ensure history stayed on course. She’d seen mobs like this; she wouldn’t deign to call it an army. They were feeding off emotion and belief, the latter very powerful. She’d seen firsthand the sectarian fighting in Iraq between Sunni and Shiite. Once the blood began flowing, it was difficult to stop, and blood had already been spilled here.
But every group had key individuals.
“Stay here with him,” she ordered Lee.
He nodded.
Moms went off into the dark. Haight seemed to be in command. She accessed the download, searching for something she could use because she had little confidence that Lee, even with her at his side, could do what was needed in the morning to keep the youngest alive.
Moms approached the fire and looked about. She could tell some of the Mormons were troubled about what was coming, whether about those they would kill, or whether they might find resistance if the plan went awry, it was hard to tell. Either way, it didn’t matter.
She spotted Haight sitting on a campstool, talking to several other men. The download didn’t give her much to work with. Haight was one of the earliest converts of Joseph Smith. He’d been on duty at the Nauvoo Temple when word of Smith’s death was delivered. After the Mormons immigrated to Utah, Brigham Young had dispatched Haight and fifty others to found the City of Parowan.
Moms looked east, noting the slightest tinge on the horizon. Dawn wasn’t far off. Haight gestured, and one of the men walked over then leaned close. Haight whispered to him.
The man shook his head, obviously disagreeing. Haight stood then put an arm around the man’s shoulder. Moms followed as they walked out of range of the fire, and out of earshot of the rest of the company.
They went about fifty feet, around the edge of a spur that came down off the western ridge of the meadow. Moms moved stealthily, finally dropping to her knees and crawling, her rifle cradled in her arms, to get within earshot.
“I cannot do that,” the man insisted to Haight.
“You must,” Haight said.
“The Gentiles are one thing,” the man said, “but they are our brothers.”
“Brother Turner has made his position clear,” Haight said. “His mind is stone. We must make a solemn vow soon, every single one of us, to never speak a word of what happens this day. I don’t believe Brother Turner will take that vow. If he doesn’t, you must silence him. It is his decision, not yours.”
The other man was quiet for a few seconds, then he replied. “I will watch him and do as you ask. If he does not take the vow, I will kill him. But Brother Lee? He has served long and—”
“Brother Lee is not right in the head,” Haight said. “He told me in private that he has visions. That he speaks to God. Yesterday, he told me God will send him an angel to put him on the path of righteousness. To give him instructions.”
“But you’re sending him as emissary to the Gentiles to fool them into giving up their arms,” the man argued. “If you don’t trust him, why would you give him that task?”
“Because if he fails, it is his fault,” Haight said, “and then you kill him. If he succeeds, you don’t, but then if fault needs to be laid at some point in the future, it will be laid on him.”
That made perfect sense to Moms. Too perfect. She crawled away, hurrying back to where she’d left Turner and Lee. As she looked about for them in the growing daylight, officers called out orders for assembly, and the Nauvoo Legion began forming up.
Neither Turner or Lee were where she had left them, and they were no longer in the Mormon camp.
Teutoberg Forest, Germania, 11 September 9 A.D.
“You’re Romans?” Varus grasped at the tenuous lifeline.
“I don’t care who he is,” Jager said. “The beast is ahead. We must hurry. It will spawn before noon, if not sooner.”
“My family is wealthy,” Varus said. “They will pay you a fortune to return me safely.”
Severus and Rufus exchanged glances.
Dawn was beginning to tint the eastern horizon. Roland checked the download, sifting through the copious amounts of data Edith had bestowed on him, accessing the “Cliff Notes” version Eagle had insisted upon: Varus was reported to have committed suicide when he realized there was no chance of victory or escape.
According to the download, Varus’s body was recovered by the Germanic tribes, and Arminius cut Varus’s head off and sent it to the leader of another tribe as an offer of alliance. The offer was rejected, and that Germanic leader sent the head to Rome, indicating his true allegiance.
Varus’s head was very much on his shoulders at the moment. Roland wondered if his mission was actually Varus’s head. But then, why would there be a Grendel? And an Aglaeca? And a Jager?
“I will go on without you,” Jager said, forcing the issue.
Roland gently pushed Rufus’s blade down from Varus’s chin. “Come along with us, sir. We’ll see you’re taken care of.” To emphasize his words, he turned Varus around then gave him a slight push.
Jager was already moving, Berta at his side.
Varus numbly fell into step with Severus and Rufus behind Roland, allowing him a little more time to try to figure this clusterfrak out. They moved along the path, and now they were passing Roman and Germanic bodies mixed together, the outer fringes of the great battle of the previous two days.
“Much food for Aglaeca’s spawn,” Jager commented as they went around a cluster of dead. “That is why it traveled here.”
“To the right.” Berta indicated a lesser trail that went off under the trees. “Wetlands are not far, that way. There are several pools and streams as you describe.”
Jager knelt at the junction of the paths. He traced his fingers lightly over the dirt. “It went this way,” he confirmed.
Varus was muttering something, but Severus hushed him.
Roland used the time to make a few basic decisions. First, Aglaeca had to die. That was the most immediate threat. Second, Varus would not live through the day. He had no idea how Varus surviving the battle could affect history, and he didn’t waste any energy on imaging the possibilities. History said the man fell on his sword; Varus was going to fall on a sword, willingly or not.
Satisfied his immediate course of action was decided, Roland moved up and joined Jager and Berta in the lead.
“Only the two came through the Gate?” Roland asked Jager.
The hunter gave Roland a sharp glance. Now that it was lighter, Roland saw a jagged scar on the right side of the man’s neck. “Only the two, before I followed.”
“What Gate?” Berta asked.
“The place the beasts escaped from,” Jager said. “It’s very, very far from here. You should not see the likes of them again.”
