Nine Eleven, page 8
part #5 of Area 51- Time Patrol Series
“We don’t know,” Dane said. “Cyra had some of the Sight also. We don’t think Neeley does. Plus, it’s a bubble in the past. You succeed, nothing’s changed.”
“I fail, and Roland will kill me,” Scout said. “He really likes her.”
“You fail,” Dane said, “and Roland won’t have to kill you.”
“That’s cold, dude,” Lara said.
“It’s the reality we work in,” Dane said. He forestalled any more discussion by opening the door, letting Moms and the rest of the team back in.
“You’ve got three minutes,” Dane said. He pointed at Lara. “I’ll be outside. After they’re gone, we’ll discuss what you’re going to do.”
“I can’t wait,” Lara said.
Dane and Edith slipped out of the room.
Moms looked at Scout. “You all right?”
Scout nodded. “Yeah. Fine. Peachy keen. Clock’s ticking.”
“You dudes are nuts,” Lara said.
Moms pointed at the Op-Board. “Dane likes to talk about the vagaries of the variables. I notice he didn’t bring that up this time, but it’s implicit, as is the nature of our missions. I don’t know why he had to separate Ivar and Scout, but it is what it is. We deal with it. We know what’s at stake. But these missions are changing. Evolving. I don’t agree with Dane about what Doc did, looping his mission into mine on Independence Day. It was the smart move because it worked.”
Moms reached out to either side then gripped hands with Roland and Eagle. All seven formed a circle.
“We’re a team,” Moms said. “We can work as a team, even across time. I want everyone back here, no later than twenty-four hours. Clear?”
“Clear,” Eagle said. The rest responded the same.
Moms let go. As always, she was first through the door, slapping the Time Patrol tab as she led them out. One by one, they left, leaving Lara standing alone in the Team Room.
The Missions Phase I
“...a powerful white flash over the horizon and after a long period of time I heard a remote, indistinct and heavy blow, as if the earth has been killed!”
—a distant observer on 30 October 1960, when Tsar Bomba was detonated
Airspace, Barents Sea, 11 September 2001 A.D.
EAGLE WASN’T THERE, and then he was there, but he’d always sort of been there, in more ways than one, since he was in the cockpit of an aircraft. It was the best way to explain how he arrived, becoming part of his current time and place without fanfare or excitement, which was irrelevant, since there was no one else around him. He was in the bubble of this day, not before, and hopefully he wouldn’t be here afterward.
His hands were not on the controls, but the autopilot was engaged, and the aircraft was flying level, so Eagle took a second to get oriented. It was a Sukhoi Su-27, code-named “Flanker” by NATO. Eagle recognized the cockpit layout. Edith’s download had all the specs on the Su-27, but Eagle had flown a simulator of the aircraft. Of course, a simulator wasn’t the real thing. It had a very good reputation in the fighter pilot world, able to hold its own with the best fighters the United States could put in the air.
It is 2001 A.D. Wikipedia launches; George W. Bush becomes President; the Taliban begin destroying the Bamiyan Buddhas; Timothy McVeigh is executed; the first self-contained artificial heart is implanted, and the patient lasts 151 days; the Office of Homeland Security is established; the Netherlands becomes the first government to allow same-sex marriage since the reign of Nero; Picasso dies; a suicide bomber kills Ahmed Massoud of the Afghan Northern Alliance, primary enemy of the Taliban, on 9 Sept.; Robert Ludlum dies; the U.S. War in Afghanistan begins; the Patriot Act; the Green River Killer is arrested; Enron; the Indian Parliament is attacked, and Pakistan and India come close to war again, not for the last time; the last male survivor of the Titanic dies.
Eagle scanned the instruments; first priority: fuel. Three-quarters left. The Flanker had a range of 1,340 kilometers at sea level and much better at altitude: 3,530. Eagle got the other vital data of altitude, heading, and speed: Fifteen thousand feet, 47 degrees, 1,350 kph. The twin engines were a steady roar behind him. Eagle rolled his shoulders, settling into the seat, at home in the cockpit.
Some things change; some don’t.
Eagle looked outside. Visibility was unlimited, with scattered clouds. He was over ocean, no sign of land in any direction.
The sun was low in the sky to his left rear, and the chronometer indicated that it was 13:46. The Barents Sea was plus three from Zulu, the military designation for Greenwich Mean Time. Edith’s download did have the tidbit that the Russian military used GMT as a standard, given that the country covered nine time zones.
Eagle looked at the control panel and realized there was no computer display receiving external data, and no GPS showing his location. The radio direction finder was dead. The radar screen was an unintelligible haze as if it were being jammed. There was just white noise static in the audio from the helmet. Eagle knew he was somewhere over the Barents Sea, but he had no clue where, exactly, and from what he had in front of him, there was no way to find out.
The display read 13:46 GMT, 11 September 2001. It wormed in Eagle’s prodigious memory, never mind Edith’s download, triggering memories.
At this moment, American Airlines Flight 11 was flying into the North Tower of the World Trade Center, eight time zones east.
“They met, they talked, they parted. And now nothing remains but to fight it out.”
— British report after the Staten Island Peace Conference
Staten Island, Colony of New York, 11 September 1776 A.D.
Doc wasn’t there, and then he was there, but he’d always sort of been there. It was the best way to explain how he arrived, becoming part of his current time and place without fanfare or excitement among those around him, with one notable exception. He was in the bubble of this day, not before, and hopefully he wouldn’t be here afterward, because the second-story room was hot, smelly, and littered with trash. The only light came from a single, sputtering candle, masked on one side from a window by a piece of wood.
The one exception was Thyia, sitting at a table in the corner.
“What took you so long?” she asked. Dressed in a dark cloak, she had her hood pulled back, revealing short, white hair and fair skin. Her skin was so smooth, she could have been anywhere from twenty-five to sixty.
“Frak me,” Doc muttered. “Where’s your bow?”
She tapped the cloak. “In here.”
“Am I about to get killed?” Doc asked. “Is there a Legion about?”
“I don’t know,” Thyia said. “Always possible. Sometimes likely. You seem very nervous. And you don’t look well.”
Doc couldn’t hear anything outside the room. The grimy, thick glass window was dark, indicating night. The room was twenty by ten, with only the one window facing west. There was a fireplace against the shorter, outside wall with cold ashes in it. On the other, interior short wall was a door, which the download confirmed led to the stairs to the main level below. Above was darkness, no ceiling, just empty space to the rafters holding up the roof of the house.
Doc needed a moment to collect himself. He’d met Thyia upon arrival at his last mission, this same year, but on the Fourth of July in Philadelphia. On that arrival, she’d shot an arrow just past him on a pretense that his life was in danger. At least this was a peaceful encounter. So far. She was Thyia, daughter of Pyrrha, granddaughter of Pandora according to myth and legend, if one believed in that sort of thing.
Doc believed. Everyone on the Time Patrol believed, because they’d run into enough myth and legend to make any other determination foolish. Myth and legend were often birthed from reality that was so ancient, the legends were the only “historical” record.
“Are we alone?” Doc asked.
Thyia indicated the room. “Soldiers were billeted here. They were ordered out yesterday. One room downstairs has been cleaned for the meeting later today. But it’s empty for now.”
“Have you been here all this time?”
Thyia cocked her head as if he’d asked a strange question. “All what time?”
“Since the Fourth of July. Earlier this year. 1776.”
“Here? In this room? No.”
“Funny. Not. Have you been here, in time, since July?”
“No.”
Receiving no further explanation, Doc searched for something else to say. “I am sorry about your mother,” he said as the info from the download reminded him of Scout’s debrief from the Battle of Mantinea.
Thyia didn’t react. “What do you mean?”
“We were told Pyrrha was killed by a Legion at the Battle of Mantinea.”
“You were? Did one of your comrades see that?”
“No, but—”
“But you are assuming something,” Thyia said. “My mother is fine. She was wounded, but did not suffer the forever death.”
“What is the forever death?” Doc asked, curiosity winning out.
“Dead,” Thyia said. “The forever death is the end of all. The spirit is gone.”
“Is there another kind of death? Not forever?”
“Certainly,” Thyia said. “If there weren’t, why would we distinguish a forever death?”
She reminded Doc of the professor in the single philosophy course he’d been required to take in pursuit of one of his several Ph.Ds. Quick with words, not impressive with substance and facts. But Doc was also beginning to understand there was a reason physicists needed a philosophy course. There was more out there than numbers and equations could explain.
“So what is the death that isn’t forever?” Doc asked.
“A death that isn’t sanctioned by Atropos.”
“Atropos is the third Fate, the cutter of the thread of life.” Edith’s download was dumping information. “The Romans called her Morta.”
“Yes,” Thyia said. “A daughter of the night, like her sisters.”
“She’s from the Shadow?” Doc asked.
“No.” Thyia frowned, a crease on her perfectly smooth forehead. “We know little more about the Fates than you do. They seem to have always been.”
“Always is a long time,” Doc said. “There was a beginning to everything.”
“Perhaps,” Thyia said. “Are you sure of that? Perhaps what is, was always.”
“Did you know a Fate was in Philadelphia? I saw her as I was leaving.”
Thyia didn’t seem surprised. “Which one?”
“She had a book.”
“Clotho,” Thyia said. “She spins the thread of life.”
“Appears we have the same mythology,” Doc said. “Even the same names. Clotho also has influence on decision-making. Is that why she was in Philadelphia? To see what decision the Committee of Five made?”
“I don’t pretend to understand the Fates.”
Doc sighed, frustrated.
“Do you come in peace once more?” Thyia asked with a smile, referring to his answer about why he was there when confronted on his last mission. “It appears this is the right place for that. Since they will be speaking of peace below us soon, will they not?”
“They will,” Doc said.
“And will there be peace?”
Doc spread his hands. “That’s not up to me. That history has already been written.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Why are you here?” Doc demanded. He grabbed a chair then sat across the table from her. “Why were you in Philadelphia? You did nothing there.”
“I did something,” Thyia said. “I shot an arrow near you.”
“You lied to me.”
“Just so I could have the pleasure of your company,” Thyia said, her voice betraying no sarcasm.
“Right.”
Thyia leaned forward. “I did lie to you. When I told you I lied to you. There was a Legion present when you arrived in Philadelphia. I didn’t miss. I killed him before he could kill you. He was dust before you were even aware what was happening.”
“Why’d you lie to me then?” Doc asked.
“So you would be afraid he was still around, and I could stay by you under the pretense of protecting you, and thus see what you were going to do.”
“Why?”
“I’m curious.”
“Why should I believe you now?” Doc shook his head. “You’re asking me to believe you lied about lying. I’m really tired of these games. Who are you? Your grandmother, Pandora, speaks of Gaia. Is that your timeline?”
“Do you have a label for your timeline?” she asked in turn. “Isn’t your timeline ‘home’ and all other timelines, ‘not home?’ So, my timeline is home.”
“We’re in my ‘home,’” Doc said, “so maybe you should answer my questions. When I come to your timeline, I’ll answer yours.”
“An arbitrary set of parameters for a discussion,” Thyia said, “but yes, my timeline is Gaia.”
Finally, a slight concession. Doc looked out the window. He saw water, then a few dim lights on a not-too-distant shoreline. The download oriented him. That was Perth Amboy across the Arthur Kill, separating Staten Island, controlled by the Crown, from New Jersey, controlled by the Colonists.
This was Billop House, home to an infamous colonel who commanded a Tory unit, loyal to Britain. Over 900 acres around the house, almost all of the southwestern tip of Staten Island, was his estate, granted by the King. It would eventually become the southern- and westernmost point of New York City.
Someday.
Maybe.
“We’ve run into other women with bows like yours,” Doc said, “but we don’t think they’re from Gaia. They work with Spartan mercenaries who come from what we think is another timeline where Sparta became the predominant power, but now pays tribute to the Shadow.”
“Those women were from Gaia, but are not of it anymore,” Thyia said. “They’re rogue.”
Two pieces of information. The inquiring scientist in Doc was excited, but the time traveler was leery. “Was one of them named Diana?”
“Yes.”
“She took a shot at one of my teammates.”
“Is your teammate still alive?”
“Yes,” Doc said.
“He’s fortunate. She rarely misses.”
Doc brought the conversation full circle. “What are you doing here?”
It is 1776 A.D. The British evacuate Boston; Richard Henry Lee tells the Second Continental Congress that the Colonies ought to be free states; The Declaration of Independence is signed (by most); the Invasion of the Cherokee Nation by Patriots results in the burning of thirty-six Cherokee villages; Manhattan is taken by the Hessians (not long after this meeting—not so good for New York); Phi Beta Kappa Society is formed at the College of William and Mary; Marquis de Lafayette joins the Patriot army; North Carolina reorganizes from a colony to a state.
“Sitting here. Chatting with you.” Thyia smiled. “And you? You didn’t know I’d be here, so you didn’t come here to meet me.”
“How did you know I’d be here?”
“I didn’t know it would be you. I knew it would be someone from your Patrol. We know when the Shadow opens bubbles in a timeline. It’s an opportunity.”
Some things change; some don’t.
“It’s an opportunity for our timeline to be destroyed,” Doc said. “That is what the Shadow is trying to do, correct?”
“Appears to be so,” Thyia said. “Its methods here are rather indirect compared to what it has done to other timelines.”
“Like the Grendels and Aglaeca it sent to the Jagers’ world?”
“Yes. And other worlds besides that one.”
“Why are you here?” Doc asked for the third time. “You—”
Thyia held up a hand, silencing him. She stood, pulling a short bow out from under her cloak, a hand swiftly darting over her shoulder, and before Doc could follow, an arrow was notched. He was about to protest that she could fool him once, but not twice, then the hair on the back of his neck tingled, and he swore the temperature in the room dropped a couple of degrees.
Thyia focused on the door at the top of the staircase, her bow at the ready.
There was no noise, no indication of anyone moving, nothing other than vague feelings to indicate there was someone else in the house.
There was someone else in the house. Doc was certain of it. He drew his dagger, feeling useless. He understood the bow as a weapon of choice: from all descriptions, going blade to blade with a Legion was akin to suicide. Thyia had standoff range with the bow.
All was still for long seconds, then Thyia slowly released her draw.
Doc was silent, not sure what was happening, but the feeling was gone.
Thyia slid the arrow back into the quiver inside her cloak, then the bow disappeared.
Feeling it was finally safe, Doc asked, “What was that?”
“A young girl,” Thyia murmured. She sat back down.
“Where’d she go?” Doc was confused.
“Nowhere,” Thyia said. “She’ll be here until he comes, and then they will both be forever dead.”
“Who?”
Thyia sighed. “The girl who was killed here.”
“Vengeance is mine and I have taken a little.”
— Brigham Young at the site of the Mountain Meadows Massacre, 25 May 1861.
Mountain Meadows, 11 September 1857 A.D.
Moms wasn’t there, and then she was there, but she’d sort of always been there. It was the best way to explain how she arrived, becoming part of her current time and place without fanfare or excitement among those two hundred meters away in the gully, gathered round a blazing campfire. They were too busy arguing life and death to notice her in the dark, anyway. She was in the bubble of this day, not before, and hopefully not afterward, although she would like to exist afterward, the paradox of her own direct ancestor being here, somewhere, most likely around that campfire, causing her no small degree of angst.
