Black Tuesday (Area 51: Time Patrol) Read online

  “Are you him?” the man gasped.

  Ivar knelt, trying to find the source of the blood, but it was everywhere and he hadn’t taken the emergency medical training as seriously as he should have. Then his hand sunk into the guy’s stomach, intestines like soft, warm snakes, and Ivar realized the man had been gutted. And there was a gurgling noise and Ivar knew the guy had been stabbed several times, including at least once in the lung as the sound indicated a sucking chest wound.

  So some of the training had stuck.

  The stranger held out a canvas bag. It was smeared with blood, but Ivar automatically took it. Might be a bomb, he heard Nada warning, but Nada wasn’t here. Wasn’t around in the then (or was it now?) either.

  “What is it?” Ivar asked.

  The man was looking over his shoulder. “Run. Run. They’re coming.”

  “Who’s coming?”

  “Them.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  The man winced in pain. “The mission is more important. Go!”

  Ivar looked past the man and saw no one, but he had no doubt that whoever had wielded the blade would be following the blood trail.

  Every instinct he had pressed Ivar to run away and leave the man as requested.

  Ivar ripped off his overcoat and tied the arms tightly around the stranger’s chest and stomach, partially staunching the flow of blood.

  “Come on.”

  There was no protest. Ivar wrapped his arm around the man’s shoulder and headed down Wall Street. Past the statue of George Washington, marking his inauguration at this very spot where slaves had been bought, sold, and rented. He turned into a dark alley, searching for a door or window.

  It is 1929. The British High Court rules that Canadian women are persons. The first Academy Awards are given out and Wings wins Best Picture. The Graf Zeppelin flies around the world in twenty-one days. Stalin sends Trotsky into exile. All Quiet on the Western Front is published. Popeye appears for the first time in a comic. The Dow Jones peaks at 381.17, which it will not reach again until 1954. The first patent for color television is submitted. Rioting breaks out in Jerusalem between Arabs and Jews over access to the Western Wall.

  Some things change; some don’t.

  The world was indeed never, ever, going to be the same.

  The Possibility Palace

  “You know the Nightstalkers as well as anyone,” Dane, the Administrator of the Time Patrol said. “You were a major part of their initial selection and assessment and are responsible for their psychological status. Who do we pair with which year?”

  “Should we even call them Nightstalkers anymore?” Frasier asked. “Wouldn’t Time Patrol be more appropriate?”

  Frasier tended to disconcert those who sat across a table from him, but Dane wasn’t the type to get disconcerted. Frasier’s left eye was solid black, the implant surrounded by scar tissue. It was a very sophisticated device, capable of measuring the slightest of changes in body temperature of whomever it observed, zero in on the beat of a pulse in a person’s throat, and scour other data, effectively making the cybernetic eye a lie detector. His left arm, covered by his black suit, was also artificial.

  “What we wish to call them isn’t important right now,” Dane said. “I need to make some decisions on these assignments. Quickly.” They were in a bland, off-white square room, a door in the center of each wall. A wooden table was set in the middle of the space, and Dane was on one side, Frasier on the other.

  Frasier looked down at the single piece of paper in front of him. “Obviously, Doc would be best suited for the California operation, but—”

  “I have other plans for Doc,” Dane said. “He won’t be deploying. Choose among the remaining six.”

  Frasier’s voice showed the slightest taint of irritation. “As I was going to say, that means he shouldn’t be the one for it. It’s about computers and science and Doc gets too caught up in the technical aspects of his surroundings, so he would lose sight of the mission.” Doc had a number of PhDs, a topic he managed to insert rather quickly into conversation with anyone who wasn’t already aware of that, and sometimes with those who were, on the off chance they might have forgotten. His parents had emigrated from India when he was young and he’d immersed himself in the academic world until the Nightstalkers, perhaps now the Time Patrol, came calling. Frasier shook his head. “We need someone who will find the era interesting and will fit in. Someone young, since it will be on a college campus.”

  “Scout,” Dane said. Not a question, as he wrote down her name on his own single sheet of paper.

  Scout was the youngest member of the Nightstalkers, recruited by the team two years ago when they parachuted into a gated community in North Carolina to battle Fireflies, energy creatures that had come through a Rift. She was just past her eighteenth birthday, and while her recent Special-Ops training had tried to shake off her rebellious edge, it hadn’t taken. She colored her hair depending on her mood, and then put streaks in it to rebel against her own rebelliousness.

  “Although she’s the youngest, Scout is the most astute of them,” Frasier said. “She has an instinct that,”—he shrugged—“well, I can’t explain. Intuitive.”

  Dane nodded. “All right. Next. Elizabethan England.”

  Frasier took the opposite reasoning on this one. “First, who can’t go? Moms. Female; a second-class citizen in that era, even though the recently deceased Elizabeth had ruled for decades. Eagle is African American and that’s a no-go for that time and place. Roland? This mission requires some subtlety and let’s say that’s not Roland’s forte. That leaves two. Ivar, but his ability to blend in is doubtful. That leaves us Mac. It’s a perfect fit for him. He’s been acting all his life and this will be no different.” Frasier smiled. “A critical moment in Mac’s life occurred when he was in high school. He landed the lead in his high school play. Shakespeare. The second his father saw him in costume, he lost it. Called him all sorts of things. Made what he considered derogatory comments about Mac’s sexuality, which, actually, were rather on the mark, but even Mac suppressed that.”

  “Won’t that be a problem then?” Dane asked.

  “Mac isn’t suppressing that part of himself anymore. He’s accepted who he is.”

  “Fine.” Dane wrote the second name on the sheet. “The Andes mission?”

  Frasier didn’t hesitate. “Moms. It has nothing to do with her personality, although I do have some concerns after her recent foray to Kansas. She has the training for the weather and the altitude. I think that trumps everything else.”

  “What happened in Kansas?” Dane asked, obviously not overly curious.

  Frasier sighed. “She corrected some trauma from her childhood using her training. Killed a man who had assaulted her mother many years ago.”

  “Is the Cellar after her?” Dane asked, now concerned about losing an asset to the organization that policed covert organizations and rogue operatives.

  “No,” Frasier said. “It was a justified kill. Long overdue. I haven’t had a chance to follow up with her to see what the psychological ramifications have been, but we don’t have the time for that. Bottom line, she’s trained in Winter Warfare, which requires a specific set of skills. Perfect for the Andes.”

  “All right.” Dane wrote down the third. “Eglin Air Force Base?”

  “Eagle,” Frasier said immediately, referring to the Nightstalkers’ pilot and resident genius.

  “Good.” But then Dane frowned. “That leaves two missions and two names.”

  “That’s the math,” Frasier said, which earned him an irritated look from Dane.

  “Manhattan?” Dane asked.

  “Ivar. Process of elimination.” Ivar was on the team by default, a former graduate student who’d been used by his professor to help open a Rift at the University of North Carolina. Ivar was the only member of the team to go through a Rift and come back, although no one, even Ivar, was quite sure who exactly had come back. “We haven’t quite been able t
o”—Frasier halted as he searched for the right words, an unusual sign of uncertainty on his part—“determine how he was affected by his experience, but he proved capable on the last mission into the Space Between. Besides, Foreman requested him for the Manhattan mission.”

  Dane raised an eyebrow. “Indeed? Why?”

  “Foreman has his own reasons,” Frasier evaded.

  Dane didn’t have time to probe deeper. “That leaves Roland going to England, long before Mac’s mission. But it’s also the vaguest mission. Is it wise to send Roland on the one with the most possibilities?”

  Frasier almost laughed. “Roland is gifted with the least imagination on the team. Psychologically, it actually makes sense to send him on the mission with the greatest number of variables. He won’t be overwhelmed. He won’t overthink it.”

  Roland was the Nightstalkers’ weapons guy. A huge, muscle-bound man, he was, as Frasier said, not overly gifted in the thinking department. But he had other talents.

  “Roland is going into a violent era,” Frasier said. “Of all the members of the team, he is the most capable once blood is drawn. And I would make it a safe bet that blood will be drawn quickly and often during his twenty-four hours in the past.”

  A door behind Dane opened and a woman dressed in a bland gray jumpsuit walked in. She leaned over and whispered something in the Administrator’s ear. He nodded. The woman left, and then Dane stood. “I’ll keep your recommendations in mind. They’ll be here shortly.”

  New York City, The Present

  Cleopatra’s Needle was bathed in sunlight and Edith Frobish took the extra moment to circumnavigate it, checking all four sides of the obelisk in Central Park with more than the usual perusal. It was as it always had been.

  For now, Edith thought as she turned for the Met with a bounce in her step. For now. Who knew? Some day Caesar might just turn out to be alive and ruling in Egypt. She was pretty sure Dane had gotten that little wrinkle from some other timeline for Foreman to play on the Nightstalkers.

  With extra vigor, Edith shoved open the blank metal door.

  “Hello, Burt. Beautiful day outside.” She held up her badge, but the guard didn’t even look at it.

  “Hey, Edith. It sure is.”

  She walked down the hallway, turned right, past the CLOSED FOR CONSTRUCTION sign, and got on the OUT OF ORDER elevator.

  She rode down patiently.

  The doors opened and Edith walked out. She came to the guard post and the heavily armed man did his checks without a greeting or how-do-you-do. But Edith looked at him differently now, recognizing his real job. So she paused, and graced him with a smile and a “Have a wonderful day” before breezing down to the next steel door.

  She stepped in and waited for that door to shut behind her. Passed the DNA test. Then opened the next door.

  A spotlight was focused on the HUB. The gate was where it should be. And standing by it were Moms, Eagle, Mac, Roland, Ivar, Doc, and Scout. The Nightstalkers. And now also the Time Patrol. Edith Frobish walked across the cavern floor to the gate and joined them. She paused, as she always paused. “Are you ready?” An unfair question, Edith knew, because they still really didn’t know what they needed to be ready for. They walked up next to her. And then they all stepped through . . .

  . . . into a bland room with a wooden table in the center and chairs surrounding it.

  The gate they’d come through faded out of existence.

  The walls were off-white, a color a shrink might recommend if you want no reaction at all from people suddenly appearing in the middle of the room. There were no windows. But there was a door centered on each wall. Four ways to go. Who knew what lay beyond each?

  “This way,” Edith said, leading them to one of the doors. She pushed it open and they were immersed in the quiet hum of a lot of people working without some of the sounds one would be used to, like phones ringing or music being piped in.

  They were on a wide balcony that extended left and right, curving, overlooking a massive space.

  “Whoa!” Scout said.

  “Organized madness,” was Eagle’s take. “Ascending and Descending.”

  “What?” Roland said, clueless as to who and what Eagle was referring to.

  As usual.

  But there was a pattern amid the chaos. The basic structure was a huge, ascending outward spiral from a center pit, so far down and away they could barely make it out. A single ramp rose along the edge, going clockwise, with different widths and angles in places, circling again and again, rising up over three thousand feet from the bottom and crossing over itself, wider and wider, dozens and dozens of times. The track was sometimes accentuated by overhanging balconies of various sizes. Desks were crowded along the track and on the balconies, manned by personnel in various outfits. Along the outer edge of the apparently unending spiral were filing cabinets stacked precariously high.

  Ladders ascended and descended here and there. Staircases cut through spots with no apparent rhyme or reason.

  “Check it out,” Scout pointed, as someone rode a zip line on an angle from one part of the ramp to another.

  Overhead, the ceiling arced high above them. The entire area was so large, it was generating its own weather system with wisps of clouds. It was as if someone had taken the largest quarry on the planet and turned it into a madhouse with a purpose.

  “Welcome to the Palace,” Edith said.

  “Palace of what?” Scout asked.

  “Possibilities,” Edith said. “The Possibility Palace.”

  “Are you serious?” Scout asked.

  Edith looked insulted. “Of course.”

  “I think she’s always serious,” Mac noted.

  “I have a sense of humor,” Edith said without much conviction.

  “Right,” Scout said. “Keeping it close, aren’t you?”

  “No computers or phones,” Doc noted, indicating the ramp and the desks.

  “No,” Edith said. “We don’t use computers. And there’s no need for phones since everyone is here in the Hall when on duty; messages are sent on paper through pneumatic tubes. This is the brain of the Time Patrol. And the repository of all our knowledge.”

  “Battlestar Galactica?” Scout asked.

  “Excuse me?” Edith was confused. Besides humor, she also didn’t have cable TV.

  “You don’t use computers because the Cylons can hack into your system?” Scout asked. “Or the Valkyries in this case.”

  Edith shrugged. “We just don’t use them. I suppose the people are the computers.”

  “Like you?” Moms asked.

  “I suppose.” Edith didn’t seem very interested in pursuing that line of questioning. She was a tall woman, just shy of six feet, with short hair. Lengthy and lean described Edith, from her form, to her face, to her slightly too-long nose. She pointed down to the barely visible bottom three thousand feet below. “It begins there.”

  “What begins there?” Mac asked.

  “History,” Edith said. “And then it spirals upward and outward along the ramp. The timeline. And the people who study it.”

  “Is there a desk for every day?” Doc asked, grasping the geometry of time laid out in front of them.

  “No.” Edith shook her head. “That would be too much, although there are some days in history, significant ones, with a single desk assigned to them. There are actually long stretches of history when not much happened. But then . . .” She peered out, and then pointed at a particularly large balcony not too far below. It looked jury-rigged, with cables stretching back to bolts on the wall and several ladders hanging over the edge to the spiral level below. A staircase cut through the ramp, then zigzagged up to another portion of the ramp above. “That’s World War Two.”

  Looking more carefully, they could now see that many points along the spiral were accessorized by the people who worked there, manning various times and various places.

  Eagle spoke up. “How are these people part of the Time Patrol?”

&n
bsp; “We’re all part of it,” Edith said. “We all have different roles to play in the larger scheme of things.”

  “How do the people down there,” Scout asked, “get up here? Or we get down there?”

  “We don’t and they don’t,” Edith said. She pointed to a round tube on the wall. “Old-fashioned, for our present: pneumatic delivery. The folders go back and forth inside little tubes. Intelligence.”

  “What’s in all the rooms up here?” Mac asked, pointing at the numerous doors off their overlooking balcony.

  “Some are rooms for Time Patrol agents and teams. Some are for supervisors. Some contain other things.”

  “Vague much?” Mac said.

  Doc had a question. “Where and when is this place?”

  “Ah,” Edith said. “That I don’t know. And even if I did know, I could never tell you. The location and time of the Palace is the most heavily guarded secret and our ultimate defense.”

  “Has to be in the past,” Doc said. “Right? You said that we can’t travel forward in time, so this has to be some time in the past. And the location has to be hidden from those in the local time.” He had a thought. “Unless we’re in prehistory.”

  Edith ignored him and gestured out to the Palace. “We track our timeline’s history here. Operatives like me come and go from various times and deposit our summaries. Six pages. No more; less is preferred. It’s all catalogued and cross-referenced. I suppose one reason we rely on people rather than computers is that some of the connections between ripple events aren’t logical, but they are there. You get a feel for it after a while. And there are patterns. Patterns that—” She suddenly halted, as if she’d said too much. “I’ll let the Administrator explain that to you.”

  “Dane?” Moms asked, referring to the man they’d met in the Space Between who’d given each of them a choice. The ultimate choice: whether to move forward and be part of the Patrol or go back and change something in their past.

  Only Nada had gone back.

  And Moms missed him terribly, with a depth of feeling she’d never experienced before for a fellow warrior. His calming presence, his Nada Yadas, which had preceded her—and every other member’s—time on the team.