Ides of March (Time Patrol) (6 page)

Frasier pulled one of the files and slid it to the left. “Down to six agents for six missions.”

Dane waited.

“The missions this time . . .” Frasier began, but didn’t finish the sentence.

“Yes?” Dane finally asked.

“Last time some seemed a bit mundane. This time, though. There’s some heavy stuff going down. One Emperor, the last Tsar, a future President, two Kings. And the guy who discovered America.”

“And?” Dane pushed.

“Maybe the Shadow is going for it all?”

“That’s not your concern,” Dane said. “Who goes when is what we have to decide. Remember, like Ivar’s mission to Black Tuesday, or Scout’s to UCLA, what appears to be the mission sometimes isn’t.” Before Frasier could speak, Dane raised a finger. “There’s another reason I’m holding Ivar back.”

Before he could continue, Frasier supplied the answer. “Because he lied in debriefing.” Frasier pointed at his prosthetic eye. “I can see things others can’t. Body temperature through thermal, pulse by the pace of the carotid, breathing via chest movement. There was something hinky about his story.”

“Yes. I think he lied about what he told Meyer Lansky during the interrogation when the two of them were alone.”

Frasier nodded. “I doubt someone like Ivar could stand up to a psychopath like Lansky.”

“Which makes for some interesting historical possibilities,” Dane said.

“Are you going to call the Cellar on him?”

“We only have so many bodies. We need him. For now.” Then Dane shrugged. “And this is a case of it is what it is. None of the desks had an alert on a ripple coming out of 1929 forward. I had them double-check, with a focus on Lansky. Nothing out of the norm. What Ivar said didn’t change the history that was in place before he went back, so his role, whether it affected things or not, played out like it should have. But we need to keep an eye on Ivar. No offense intended,” Dane added.

“None taken.”

“However, combine that lie with North Carolina and Ivar might not be what he appears to be.”

“Even Ivar has some issues with that,” Frasier said. “It was a traumatic event for him.”

“We’ve all had trauma,” Dane said.

“Not like his. Imagine being surrounded by multiple copies of yourself? You start to doubt who you are. Almost getting killed by Lansky’s goons didn’t help.” Frasier waited for any more on Ivar. Then he grabbed the top file. “Mac is in bad shape.”

“He was in bad shape before he went,” Dane said. “I was rather surprised he didn’t go back and save his brother when given the option.”

“He had no love for his brother or his family,” Frasier said.

“Sometimes it’s not about love,” Dane said. “You should know. A pathological need can drive someone to do things that don’t make sense.”

“True.” Frasier said. “I propose we give Mac the year least fraught with danger. Apparent danger at least. Columbus.”

“All right.”

Frasier scrawled the year on the cover and Mac’s file went to the right.

Before Frasier could continue, Dane reached out and pulled a file out of the stack. “Scout goes to Leonidas.”

“Why?”

“Because it is what it is.” Dane wrote the year and tossed the file on top of Mac’s.

“Roland,” Frasier said. “Odoacer.”

“That fits. Murder and mayhem, his forte. And Moms gets Caesar.”

“Why? I was thinking—”

“Because Moms and Roland have a bond,” Dane said. “Both going to the Roman Empire, even five hundred years apart, will affect them positively. Especially Roland.”

“Moms bond for Roland is as deep as his is for her,” Frasier said. “She saved his life a long time ago, before they became Nightstalkers, but he’s saved her ass a number of times since then. He’s her personal pit bull.”

“He’s smarter than a pit bull,” Dane said. “People underestimate him. The fact Neeley’s hooked up with him says a lot.”

Frasier nodded. “Neeley is brilliant. Flawed, but brilliant. You know, she’d be a good addition to—”

“The Cellar needs her more than we do. For now.”

Frasier slid two files out, wrote on them, and put them on the growing pile. “That leaves us Eagle and Doc.” He paused.

“Yes?”

“Forgive my ignorance,” Frasier said, “but there are aspects of these missions I don’t understand. The mechanics of them.”

“We don’t know much about the mechanics,” Dane said.

Frasier tapped the files. “Eagle is African-American.”

“Yes?”

“When the members of the Time Patrol travel back, do they appear inside their bubble in time the same as they look here? We dress and equip them as if they do, so I assume that—”

“We assume the same,” Dane said. “That they look the same.”

“But, the people around them—”

“It is what it is,” Dane said. “The time bubble isn’t real in a sense.”

“It’s real enough that Ivar almost died,” Frasier noted.

“I’ve explained as much as I can explain,” Dane said.

Frasier thought that was a carefully worded sentence, but he knew better to push. “In that case, Eagle is a problem because—”

“He’s black,” Dane said. “Doesn’t fit in Russia at that time, or even in the other times, does he?”

“He fits,” Frasier said, “but only if he’s a slave. There were free blacks, but a very low percentage. He’d draw more attention if he goes back as a free man. The problem is Eagle might not handle going back the other way well.”

“He’s a consummate professional,” Dane said. “He’ll do his duty.”

“Then how does Doc’s appearance fit into Russia?”

“They’ll think he’s from far Eastern Russia.”

Frasier shoved the last two files to his right. “We’re set.”

*****

“That outfit doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out,” Mac observed as Roland joined him in their Time Patrol team room, another bland, non-descript square off the top balcony of the Possibility Palace. Roland was beaming, sword in hand, encased in armor that had seen better days, or, more accurately worse days, given the number of dents and scrapes in it. “Sure whoever wore it before you survived?”

Roland took a look at Mac and smiled. “Found God? Decided on a new path in life?”

Mac was dressed in a brown robe, with a wood cross dangling off a rope tied around his waist.

“Why didn’t they shave your head?” Roland asked.

“I’m not that kind of monk,” Mac said, although he had no idea what kind of monk he was. If shaving his head were necessary, shaved it would be. He held a cup of coffee in his hands, fingers cradled around it. The surface of the coffee was jiggling from Mac’s shakes, but Roland didn’t mention it.

Mac knew his teammate saw. “For a moment in London I thought you and Neeley were there to kill me.”

“If we’re sent to kill you,” Roland said, rotating his arms, getting the feel of the armor, “you won’t see it coming. Don’t worry.”

Mac rolled his eyes, knowing Roland said that to make him feel better. He wrinkled his nose. “Where did they get those clothes under that armor? From a re-enactor? Because they stink. Do they pick you for the year based on level of smell required to blend in?”

“You didn’t smell too great on your last mission,” Roland noted.

Which was true; Elizabethan England had been a bit odiferous.

One of the four doors opened and Doc came in, dressed for winter, some time ago. He removed a fur hat, put it on the table, took off a heavy, black woolen coat, and draped it over a chair, before taking a seat. He squirmed, bothered by the rough cloth.

“Lucky you,” Mac said. “Moms got to freeze last time. Look like it’s your turn.”

“I don’t feel lucky,” Doc said. “What’s it like? Going through?”

“Lots of pain and suffering,” Mac said. “Feels like your body is literally being ripped apart cell by cell for an eternity and then you’re suddenly there. Horrible. Worst thing I’ve ever experienced in my life. And let’s not even get into how bad it is coming back.”

Roland stopped playing with his sword and frowned. “That wasn’t what it was like for me. It was like, I went into the Gate, then bam, I was just there. And coming back was cool. Seeing all those possibilities I prevented.”

“Geez, Roland,” Mac said. “I was messing with him.”

“He didn’t know that,” Roland said.

“Really?” Doc asked. “It’s not bad?”

“Nah,” Mac admitted. “Like Roland said, you’re just there. The weird thing is, for the people around you when you arrive, it’s like you’ve always been there.”

“That’s cause that day is a bubble in time,” Roland said. “At least that’s what Dane briefed us.”

“But I don’t understand the physics,” Doc said, always a sticking point for the scientist.

“You didn’t understand a lot of things we did as Nightstalkers,” Roland noted. “But you’re still alive.”

“That’s cause you tend to shot first,” Mac said to Roland. “Or stab,” he added, nodding at the sword. “I don’t think Dane understands the physics either. I don’t think anyone does.”

Doc still wasn’t happy. “I don’t know why Dane wants me to go. I’ve got a lot of—”

Another door opened, cutting off his whine.

“Whoa!” Roland exclaimed.

Scout was dressed in a long white robe underneath a red cloak, wearing leather sandals. Her hair was bright red and cut tight to her skull. But what drew the exclamation from Roland was the Naga staff in her hand.

“Why don’t they give me one of those?” Roland wondered out loud. “I mean, I like the sword and all, but that thing can cut through pretty much anything.”

“I bet you’re not going back to 1969,” Doc said.

“Could be Woodstock,” Mac offered.

“Not with the Naga staff,” Roland said, a surprising observation from the big man.

Through the same door Roland had entered, came Eagle, his lips tight in anger.

“Whatever and wherever that is,” Doc said, “it’s not good.”

Eagle wore homespun breeches and a shirt, which looked like it, had been stitched together from parts of three other shirts. He had rough leather shoes, the big toe poking through on the right foot. His hat was the only decent piece of clothing, black felt, with a wide brim, but heavily sweat-stained. Eagle took the hat off, tossed it on the table, and sat down.

Then he looked around. A slight grin broke his anger as he saw Roland and his sword. “Rome. Late in the Empire judging by the weapon.”

“Huh?” Roland said.

“It’s not a
gladius
,” Eagle said. “It’s a
spatha
. Longer. The Roman Army adapted it in the Second Century.”

“I like it,” Roland said. “Not as nice as the axe last time, but, still. It feels right. Good balance.”

“A rock would feel right to you,” Mac said.

Eagle checked out Mac’s outfit. “A monk? Stranger things have happened, I suppose.”

Mac fingered the cross. “Never liked going to church much. My parents and brother…” but he fell silent.

The last member of the team, Moms, came in and it was Mac’s turn to be surprised. “I can see your—”

“Shut up,” Roland said. When Roland said something in that tone, it was advisable to one’s health to listen, so Mac shut up.

Moms wore a sleeveless white tunic that went to her knees. It had a gold border on the hem and edge of the shoulders. A narrow girdle on the outside went right below her breasts, cinched tight. The fabric was sheer, leaving little to the imagination.

Moms surveyed the room and began to speak, more to distract them from her outfit than having something to say since they didn’t know the missions yet. “All right, listen up. We—” she paused as Dane and Edith Frobish entered.

Dane went to the chalkboard. “Everyone take a seat. You’ll get knowledge downloads for your mission after this mission briefing.” He picked up a piece of chalk and moved to write something, when Eagle suddenly spoke up.

“That was BS.”

Dane turned to him. “Go on.”

“The ring tones. That was
our
tradition. The Nightstalkers. You programmed those satphones. Put those ring tones in. You want to Zevon us, do it right.”

“Or don’t do it all,” Moms added.

Scout spoke up. “That song, the one you put on mine, that was between Nada and I. Personal. You intruded.”

Dane’s nostrils flared. Edith was next to him, giving him a glare, which for her was more like a school-marm sniff of disapproval. Dane didn’t notice it anyway. But the team did.

Dane looked each member of the team in the eyes, before finally nodding. “You’re right. That was wrong.” He waited a beat. “Can we move on?”

Moms curtly nodded.

“You all know how this works now,” Dane began.

“I don’t,” Doc said.

“That’s why
you’re
here,” Dane said. “Following the Rule of Seven, where Six cascades can form a Time Tsunami, we’re sending you back to the same date, in different years, to stop the Shadow from altering history in those six years.”

“Get to the headline,” Mac said. “I’ve got a headache.”

“It could have been much worse than a headache for you,” Dane said.

“The date,” Eagle prompted.

“15 March.”

Eagle looked at Moms. “Rome. 44 B.C.. When’s
he
going?” he pointed at Roland.

“A bit later than that,” Dane said. “One at a time and we’ll start with the most obvious.” He wrote on the board:
15 March 44 B.C.—ROME

“As we all know,” Dane began, “on that date—”

“Don’t assume Roland knows,” Mac said.

“Enough!” Dane said.

“Sucks to get poked, don’t it?” Mac asked. “You poked us with the ring tones.”

“I apologized,” Dane said.

“Not exactly,” Eagle said. “You said it was wrong. You didn’t say you were sorry for doing it.”

Moms walked up to Dane, inside his personal space, which made him even more uncomfortable the way she was dressed, or rather not dressed. “We have to trust you, Dane. You’re sending us on these missions. Giving us this briefing. We’ve got to trust you have our backs. Someone who jerks our chain like you did with the ring tones; that gives us a moment of doubt. You were MACV-SOG in Vietnam. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. So. Can we trust you?”

Dane took a deep breath, let it out. “Yes. I understand. Yes. I apologize.”

Moms went back to the table and sat down. “All right. Let’s move on. 44 B.C.. What am I? Some sort of courtesan?”