Anvil of Fate

Chapter 22

The name immediately struck Nordhausen, and he looked at Paul as he spoke. “Rantgar? Impossible!”

“One might think so,” said the visitor. “But we’re getting very clever these days—or perhaps very desperate. I suppose the latter gives rise to the former. Or how is it Plato put things? Ah… Necessity is the mother of invention.”

Paul’s eyes narrowed. “Appearances aside,” he said flatly, “it’s clear you’ve come here from the future.” He knew this was no native of the 8th century. Anyone from that era would have been utterly terrified had they come through the Arch as this man obviously did. His swagger and jaunt, and the relaxed, cool way in which he took in the surroundings immediately spoke of familiarity. “Then you found a way to penetrate Palma’s Shadow?”

Rantgar smiled. “Ah, always juggling with the physics, eh Mr. Dorland? Well, not exactly. We haven’t been able to get anyone through at all. Actually, I was ready for a good night’s sleep after matins in Heristal when we got wind of your operation. Really splendid work, if I may say so. Simply outstanding!”

“What are you saying, man?” said Robert. “You mean to say that—”

“That I’ve come from the past,” the visitor said quickly. “The year 705, to be precise. As I say, we got wind of your operation—just another of those unlikely Pushpoints in the Meridian I suppose. Someone saw you arrive! Yes, and he was quite terrified, as you might expect.”

“The footprints!” Robert looked at Paul. “We saw other footprints near our entry point when we returned.”

“Just a simple peasant returning from the fields,” said Rantgar. “God’s will, he happened along just as you shifted in and cowered in the hedge until you left. Then he ran to the Abbot and told him what he had seen, afraid that there were angels or demons about. Well, the Abbot and I are thick as thieves, as it were. It took some time to calm the man down, but once we convinced him he would have the protection of the Saints, as well as my sturdy javelin, he led us to the place. Then we got him safely away and off to sleep with a jug of mulled wine. Of course we immediately notified the Order, and just after matins we received some rather alarming instructions. A really first order emergency appears to be in the works.”

“You’ve come from the past?” said Paul. “How is that possible?”

“Well I shifted in on your retraction scheme!” the visitor replied, clasping his chest with a gloved hand. “At least I think I’m all here. It’s very experimental, you see. We tried several times and failed before we got it right. Yes, Mr. Dorland. Palma has been a real nemesis. In fact, that was its purpose as the Assassins initially conceived it. They had to create such a cataclysm that the penumbra would become impenetrable, and hinder our counter operations into the past. So we decided to try and move someone forward, given the right opportunity. Ms. Lindford’s retraction shift filled the bill nicely.”

“Then how did you get back to the year 705 in the first place?”

“I was there before these unfortunate events reversed the outcome of Palma again. We have people posted all over the continuum now you know. The other side has men at large as well. I believe you encountered a few in your last mission to Rosetta. The Time War began the instant your initial operation concluded. Time travel was proved possible, and of course at our point on that Meridian we developed the technology as well. The other side used it to take a swipe at some events during the Crusades, and then both sides went at it in earnest. After you stopped Palma on that initial operation it became possible for both sides to send operatives to all the key crisis points. I’m posted to the early 8th century. In fact I live there, permanently. Though I’m afraid this business you’ve uncovered has complicated things for me a bit. I’ll have to be on temporary leave here for a brief spell, if you don’t mind.”

Paul had a hundred questions roiling in his mind as he gestured to the elevator. “Well, come up and meet the others,” he said, and they started the journey up to the lab again.

“What about the Assassins,” Paul asked as they walked. “It’s obvious that they’ve been conducting operations as well. How are they getting through Palma’s Shadow?”

“I’d love to tell you,” said the visitor. “But we don’t really know. The theory is that they’ve managed to devise some kind of mobile equipment that allowed them to get inside the natural Nexus Point of Palma. It opened the instant those atomics went off on the flank of Cumbre Vieja, but the Shadow doesn’t start forming until the tsunami actually strikes home in the Western hemisphere. That left a void, as it were, between the moment you first breached the continuum and the actual formation of the Shadow. We believe they shifted back in that interval and established an operational Arch somewhere, and that it may be serving as a kind of relay center for them. The instant you shifted back on the first mission, it became possible for them to use it. They can shift people in to that location because the Shadow hasn’t formed yet at those target coordinates in space-time, and then they send them on to destinations further back on the continuum.”

“Ingenious,” said Nordhausen. “An eye in the storm. They clearly had something like that set up at the Well of Souls we stumbled upon while I was out trying to recover that Ammonite fossil, Paul.”

“That was on another Meridian,” said Paul. “But it may persist in this one as well.”

“The Well of Souls?” Rantgar did not understand.

“Yes, we found just such an operation or outpost, hidden in Wadi Rumm and powered by a natural Oklo reaction,” Paul said to Rantgar. “In fact, they could have used it to shift people back for this Tours operation before we found it. We thought it was a one way ticket to a single location at Castle Masyaf in Syria, the year 1187, but we could be mistaken on that. And if you don’t mind my saying, you’ve been using our complex here in the very same manner.”

“Big of you,” Rantgar smiled.

But another question remained unanswered in Paul’s mind. “You said you just shifted from the year 705 on our retraction scheme? That’s not possible. We had no pattern signature on you. The Arch won’t simply grab any matter it finds at the breaching point. It has to be precisely matched to an exact signature. So be frank with me, sir. We’ve cooperated with you closely in these matters, and though I know there are certain facts you cannot divulge, at the very least you owe us some honesty here. ”

“Correct again,” said Rantgar. “I assure you that I’m being entirely candid with you, Mr. Dorland. You had my signature! We sent the information directly to your computers.” The visitor smiled. “I hope you’ll pardon the intrusion, but this really is somewhat of an emergency. Palma is quite a nuisance where human travel is concerned, but we can get information through, and objects, messages as it were.”

They were up and through the long corridor now, just outside the heavy security door that opened on the lab. As they went through Maeve and Kelly turned to look, their faces registering obvious surprise.

Rantgar made a courteous bow. “Mr. Ramer,” he said. “Good to see you are back. Ms. Linford, my humble apologies for that mad dash as you shifted out, but I had to get inside the radius of your retraction. I hope I didn’t cause too much alarm.”

Kelly and Maeve just looked at one another, clearly bemused. Paul introduced the visitor, sharing some of what he had told them on the way up.

“It seems we still have a few tricks to learn about Time travel,” he concluded.

“You sent your pattern signature directly to our computers?” said Kelly. “How?”

“Actually… We used some of those nifty little programs you designed, Mr. Ramer.”

“The Golems?” Paul was very surprised.

“That’s what they call them, yes! We distributed the information in files we were certain the Golems would harvest, and they brought it to you. Nice of them, don’t you think? That base data and one little worm to activate it at the desired moment was all that was necessary.”

“Worm? You mean you used a virus to collate the data—“ Paul’s eyes narrowed, and he smiled. “Because your associates in the future discovered the exact moment of Maeve’s retraction, and the virus was keyed to assemble your pattern signature and send it to the retraction module at that time. Then you used the energy of our Arch to shift here when we brought Maeve home!” He had suddenly pieced the scheme together.

“I did say we were getting very clever,” said Rantgar.

“Clever is a word and a half for it,” said Paul. “This is the second time we’ve had unexpected guests come in through the Arch. The thought that we would find an Assassin there has also crossed our minds. This is maddening! What’s to stop them from shifting in here and killing us all? We thought we were indispensible, but that’s clearly no longer the case.”

“Oh, I’m sure they would love to do just that,” said Rantgar, but they can’t. They based their technology on quantum string theory. We use the singularity that you first developed. So our Arch corona is fully compatible with yours, but their system is… well, on another wavelength, as it were. Think of it like the AM and FM band on your radios. The two wavelengths can’t be tuned in at the same time. They did this deliberately, you know. Otherwise we would have just shifted in commandos and taken out all their Arch complexes when we had the upper hand on them. Now, when they have the advantage, the situation affords us some small measure of protection. So have no fear. Besides that, you can stop an incoming shift at your whim, as you probably know. Though I’m very grateful you allowed me to come through. Things were about to get very complicated for me on my assigned Meridian, and this seemed a safe way to solve the problem.”

“Well you should have sent commandos to take out all their Arch sites while you could,” said Robert.

“The trouble, of course, is finding them,” said Rantgar. “Look how long it took your whole American Army to hunt down Bin Ladin, ten years! In like manner, their Arch complexes are deviously hidden, as are ours.”

“Rantgar…” Maeve suddenly remembered the significance of this man’s name. “That’s the name of Grimwald’s assassin! Are you saying that you are the man responsible for his death?”

“Forgive me, but yes. I am Rantgar of Frisia, the ‘impious wretch’ spoken of in the continuation of the Chronicles of Fredegar. I was sent back to assure the death of Grimwald in the year 714, though my post starts much earlier. I arrive in the year 700, you see. It does take some time to worm one’s way into the thick of the weave in any given milieu. So I lived out my time there until things started to change. We got word that Lambert’s martyrdom had somehow been prevented by the other side. The ramifications were severe, as you undoubtedly know, because it affected my mission assignment considerably. So the Order was establishing an alternative scenario concerning the elimination of Grimwald, when, well, someone took a shot at me with a poisoned tipped arrow while I was out hunting one day! It seems the Assassins are keen on eliminating me from the picture. But at that very moment I had stooped to tighten a strap on my leggings, and the arrow whizzed harmlessly by. Needless to say, I have been told to be on guard.”

“The Assassins were trying to kill you?” said Paul. “Then I guess the gloves are coming off in this difference of opinion. When I fell through the Well of Souls I was treated with the utmost respect and deference by my captors.”

“Things have changed,” said Rantgar. “I’m afraid they are not so polite now. This is war, ladies and gentlemen, and I’m afraid you’ll have to pick a side. We know your actions to date have been in the interest of preserving your own view of things, the history that you have stored here in your computers, but I’m afraid you’ll have to make some hard choices in the days and years ahead.”

“Then you were sent here for your own personal safety?” asked Maeve.

“Precisely,” said Rantgar. “Once warned that all operatives were now considered at risk, I tried to keep a very low profile. You’ll see that the history has very little to say about this man, Rantgar. He appears at a critical moment, slays Grimwald, and then just seems to vanish. No mention of him in any other narrative on the period. He disappears, you see, because I’m the man who ends up killing Pippin’s legitimate son, and then, immediately afterwards, I’m scheduled to shift safely away to my home Meridian.”

“To the future,” said Paul.

“Yes, but I can’t get back there now. No one can. Palma’s Shadow is simply too intense. So when the Order discovered that you good people were running an intervention they bent all their remaining resources to assisting its successful completion. We saw the continuum open at the dates presumed for the Battle of Tours, and at first we wondered what you were about there, because we knew the real problem started much earlier, with the Bishop Lambert. But it seems you are as resourceful as we had hoped, and you managed to identify the crucial Nexus Points in play here. Bravo! Our heartfelt congratulations.”

He nodded his head with a smile, then sighed heavily. “But I’m afraid they’re trying to kill me now that you’ve reassured Lambert’s death. At first I received instructions to head east and get as far away from Gaul as possible. But one leaves a subtle impression on history, in spite of every effort to remain anonymous and unseen. So the only real way to assure my safety was to remove me from the Meridian entirely. When research determined the most likely hour and place for Ms. Lindford’s retraction, an opportunity arose to try and move me forward. And so here I am. On ice, as it were.”

“Rantgar….” Nordhausen turned the name over in his mind, trying to remember source material he had uncovered in the research. “Yes, he was a Frisian, the son of Belial, a pagan of the house of Ratbod of Frisia, who remained unconverted and at odds with Pippin when he came to power. The two reached an accommodation when Ratbod betrothed one of his daughters to Pippin’s son Grimwald. Our history seems to think Rantgar assassinated Grimwald because of some conflict surrounding this daughter. Yes, the heathen Rantgar, or so he was called. One of history’s rogues, I suppose.”

“Well they can’t very well know the real reason we had to kill Grimwald, eh?”

“You’re murdering Primes?” said Maeve, with just a hint of derision in her voice.

“When we must,” said the visitor. “Grimwald isn’t really a Prime, however. Unlike the good Bishop Lambert…” He let that dangle a moment. “No one is going to build a shrine to Grimwald, or a chapel that becomes a city in future days, as with Lambert. But when our enemies act to preserve the life of a man fated to die, then we must have no scruples in setting that history right again. It may be very uncomfortable, but there it is. I only just learned that your intervention in the case of the Bishop Lambert was successful. I’m sure it wasn’t the most pleasant experience for you, but your screen there clearly shows the awful consequences were this man allowed to live out his life. So we have hardened ourselves with the understanding that we must sometimes do some very despicable things to preserve the lives of countless billions, and the culture and history we hold dear.”

“You keep saying you were warned about these events,” said Paul. “That you received instructions; that you already knew Maeve’s intervention was successful.”

“As I said,” the man continued, “we can get information through Palma’s Shadow. The other side can as well.”

Paul was suddenly very curious. “How?” he asked. “Have you mastered quantum entanglement across Space-Time?”

“Well, wouldn’t that be nice!” said Rantgar. “No, I’m afraid we just do things in a fairly straightforward manner. We shift back messages. Dull but effective. The other sided uses rubbings from their hidden touchstone, in a language we’ve been unable to decipher, the ancient Hieroglyphics of Egypt.”

“You haven’t been able to decipher them?” said Robert. “Well I can read them.”

“Indeed? How useful. I must make a note of that. We use a similar method to send messages, though I’m afraid we rely on the King’s English more often than not, or just use the language native to the milieu we are targeting. The destination is usually fairly secure—the temporal and spatial coordinates of certain archives, libraries, monasteries and abbeys all serve to be fairly long-lived in their respective continuums. Alas, that isn’t always the case—the Library of Alexandria being a perfect example. But when we do find a stable and safe place that we are certain we can control in a milieu, we shift in messages, information, written instructions to operatives and Agents in Place. And Agents posted to the past have a way of sending us messages as well.”

“Notes in apples,” said Paul.

“I beg your pardon?” Rantgar did not understand.

“We first thought the Death of Lambert was prevented by an engineered mishap involving an Arabian horse he was to have secured while en-route to the murder scene.”

“Oh? I was not aware of that,” said Rantgar. “Or at least there was no mention of it in the messages I received.”

“When that intervention failed to impact events as we anticipated, we had to… improvise,” said Paul. He told him of the apple and the note to Maeve.

“I see,” said Rantgar. “Then your exploits are even more remarkable, Madame,” he said to Maeve.

“She’s a resourceful lady,” said Kelly.

“You all are,” said Rantgar. “You have been instrumental, essential to all our efforts thus far, and believe me, we are deeply grateful—Time and History are deeply in your debt as well…. But speaking of that. I was told not to linger here, as it seems you have a fuel problem.”

Kelly looked at the power station readouts. “We’ve got about ninety minutes in the tank,” he said. “After that we’ll have to shut down to secure fuel on whatever Meridian we find ourselves—assuming we survive the effects of Paradox.”

“Exactly,” said Rantgar. “So… If you would be so kind as to send me back, I have an appointment with Grimwald I would dearly like to keep.” His hand moved to rest on the hilt of his sword as he finished.

“But our Golem reports indicate Grimwald lives,” said Kelly. “Your mission fails.”

“Now, now… they would have to show that at the moment, wouldn’t they? Because I’m here! But I assure you. I’ll get the job done. You’ll see. The target has changed since Ms. Linford’s intervention, but it’s only a small variation in the spatial coordinates. The temporal data is perfectly sound. I believe if you will allow me to activate another of our worms, the information has already been fetched by your Golems and can be assembled forthwith and sent to your breaching module.”

“You’re going back to kill Grimwald?” said Robert.

“Indeed,” said Rantgar. “You gentle people have done your part. I’m afraid this bit is on my shoulders. It’s what I’ve trained for, and why I was sent. And given that I vanished from the Meridian in the year 705 and that you will be shifting me back in the year 714, our adversaries have undoubtedly spent themselves in a fruitless search to locate me in all those years in between, and they have failed. By now they are undoubtedly planning some other way to preserve the life of Grimwald, but if you can get me to the Arch and on my way again, I’ll finish the job and make an end of that, God willing. What comes after will be up to you.”

He bowed low and seemed to sway as he rose, a bit giddy and off balance, an odd look on his face. Maeve instinctively approached him to render assistance, but as she did so there was an odd cellophane crackle and an odor of ozone permeated the room. It was suddenly very cold.

“Oh… Dear Lord,” said Rantgar. “There seems to be a problem…”

They stared, amazed, as Rantgar seemed to flutter, like a badly tuned in image on a TV screen. His image wavered, faded, winked, and then he simply vanished with an audible snap. The last they saw of him was the wild eyed surprise on his face. Then there was sharp clank and they looked to see his javelin and sword had fallen to the floor where he once stood. Nothing else was there.

He was gone.

Chapter 23

“What the hell happened?” Kelly looked at Paul, dumbfounded. “Was this guy a hologram or something?”

“Do those look like holograms?” Paul pointed at the weapons Rantgar had been carrying. He was as surprised as the rest of them, but his mind immediately went to the physics. “It looks like he lost integrity, even here in a safe Nexus Point. His pattern just seemed like it could no longer hold together. Perhaps there was an error on the data they sent through the Golems, and he failed to re-materialize completely when he came through the arch. Very strange about the weapons, though. Perhaps something about their mass density…”

“Could have been a bad shift,” said Kelly.

“Could have been anything,” said Paul. “I was warned about this when I was at Castle Masyaf. They told me that if your weren’t properly pattern sampled you had a limited life span in the milieu where you shifted. I think they said seven days.”

“He barely lasted seven minutes, “ said Maeve. “Was this Paradox at work?”

“Not within a Nexus Point,” said Paul. “No matter what happened to him the effect is the same. He’s gone.”

“Gone where?” asked Robert, clearly uncomfortable.

Paul had no answer for him. They stood there, still feeling the tinge of cold in the room, smelling the odd odor of ozone.

“Well, maybe the Order pulled him out,” Kelly suggested.

“Not likely,” said Paul. “Not from within our Nexus. Remember, he was expecting us to send him back. It was all they could do to get him here, and he said his shift was very experimental—a new method. And the look on his face spoke volumes. He wasn’t expecting to be pulled out at all. He was as surprised as we were—terrified even. I think something went haywire, and frankly, I don’t believe he’s likely to make his appointment with Grimwald now.”

Maeve had a very serious look on her face. “Then we’ll have to do it,” she said firmly. “Hopefully we still have the fuel.”

“Kelly?” Paul looked at his friend, who was still mulling over the Retraction monitors, thinking he might spot some obvious error in the numbers.“Can we do it? Do we have the fuel?”

“We’ll have the power, alright. As for the Quantum matrix, that’s another matter. The singularity is still stable, but it’s been losing integrity with every shift.”

Paul pursed his lips, thinking hard. They had no other clues of their own to follow, and even their own discourse was wending its way to the mysterious figure of Rantgar in the history, the impious wretch who eliminated Grimwald and thus aided Charles ascension to the position of Mayor of the Palace.

“Maeve,” he decided. “Could you see about some wardrobe. Robert and I will draw lots. You and Kelly remain here to monitor results.”

He looked from one to another, and heard no protest. Exhausted from all they had endured that night, the team was quietly thankful that their unseen allies in the future were able to offer some assistance. Yet now the prospect of another mission weighed heavily on them, particularly one involving murder. Robert leaned heavily on the desk, obviously weary and looking for his coffee mug again.

“Can you do this?” asked Maeve. “I mean… we’re talking about a man in his prime, fairly hardy, and most likely wearing some sort of medium weight armor, a leather jerkin at the very least, possibly even a hauberk. He’ll be armed, and he’ll know exactly how to use whatever weapon he wields. And he won’t be alone. They’ll be a body of retainers, perhaps even a troop of soldiery with him. He was making an official visit to his father’s bedside, and he was the heir apparent of Pippin the Fat. Now… Just how do either of you—or even both of you—propose to kill this man? Ever used a sword? A Javelin? Ever fired an arrow at something with intent to kill?”

“You’ve made your point,” said Paul. “But if Rantgar has evaporated into the ether, we have no other choice but to shift in and see that the job is done. And it’s not as grim as you paint it. He was killed at the shrine. He’ll probably be kneeling before Lambert’s tomb, and most likely alone at that point. The retainers and soldiers will be outside.”

“Pick up that thing and see what you can hit with it,” said Maeve pointing to the javelin Rantgar had left behind.

“It doesn’t have to be all dash and valor,” said Paul. “We can use our heads, be stealthy, and we can use a reagent…”

“What?”

“Poison,” said Paul. “Whatever weapon we use will have to possess a lethal bite, even if it is something as small as a needle. I’ve got compounds down in the lab that would be absolutely fatal. All we have to do is deliver the barb somehow. Our task is to eliminate Grimwald, by any means possible. His presence in that Meridian was apparently a heavy stone on Plectrude’s side of the scale. If he lives, then Charles fails to secure power before Abdul Rahman’s invasion in 732. So we’ll have to shift in and see what we can do about it. It may be that we won’t be able to do a thing. Yes, we may fail. If we lose the singularity we’ll have to shut down and it could take days to regenerate—that’s assuming we have a viable world to live in here, and the food, fuel and freedom to continue operating.”

“Well, we’d better draw lots then,” said Robert. “There’s no point risking two of us on a venture like this, as much as moral support might make that more comfortable.” He reached into his pocket, recovering the pencil he had put there earlier, and he put it back in the cup with the others, willing to leave the matter to chance as it should be. There was no way, he realized now, that he could cheat his friend. So if fate chose him, he resolved to go, though he could not even begin to contemplate what he may have to do. Could they find allies there, other agents of the Order who might render assistance? He shared this idea with Maeve.

“It’s very likely that they have an operation planned, and so yes, there will probably be agents there. Identifying them is the trick, I suppose.”

“Don’t bother with the lots, Robert,” said Paul. “I’ll take care of this myself.“

“Now, now, my man. I’m perfectly willing to stand this watch as well.”

“You said it yourself, Robert. No need to risk the two of us, particularly after what we just witnessed with Rantgar. I have a good idea of what I will do here, so I’m going down to wardrobe. I’ll be in the Arch Bay in ten minutes, Kelly.” He picked up Rantgar’s javelin.

“But where are you going? What’s the target? I’ll need time with the Golems to process everything.”

“Look in the Retraction Module. Rantgar was certainly going to go somewhere, right? Put me right on those temporal coordinates. As for the pattern buffer, you’ll just have to purge his data and substitute my pattern.”

“Alright… I’ll clear extra RAM so I can store a double pattern sweep before you shift. Don’t worry. I’ll keep a firm hold on you.”

“Double or nothing,” Paul smiled. Then he turned and headed for the great titanium door.

Maeve was on the intercom a few minutes later. “Kelly? we’re good to go down here. You can ramp it up at your discretion.”

Kelly looked at Robert, and received a thumbs up for reassurance. He toggled on the power systems monitor and began to take the Arch up to 80%. The wine of the turbines harried them all as they listened, feeling the thrumming vibration.

“Looks like that little worm just activated,” said Kelly. “Golems just fed a huge block of data to the breaching module, undoubtedly the coordinates for this shift. I’ve got a good pattern on Paul, double sweep, and he’s installed. OK, Robert. Get ready on the Golem Module and watch for variations. On my mark… Three, two, one. Initiating Time shift… Looks good, a little bump there on the integrity line but it’s settled down now. I think he made a good shift.”

A few moments later Maeve was on the intercom confirming that Paul was gone. “We’ve launched our torpedo,” she said. “He’s on his way, God help him…”

It was completely dark when he manifested on the coordinates, and Paul spent a breathless moment regaining his senses, stooping low and groping about on what was obviously a firm wooden floor. As his eyes adjusted to the light he saw he was in a circular enclosed room, with walls of hard stone and three tall embrasures or slits in the upper wall, open to the cold night air. Something loomed before him in the darkness and he reached out, tentatively, trying to feel what it was. The cold touch of metal was the last piece of the puzzle he needed.

I’m in a bell tower, he thought. Thank God I didn’t walk right into the bell and announce myself! He moved, ever so cautiously, and peered out of one of the three window slits. He could dimly see the gleam of moonlight on water, and he guessed that he must be in the chapel that was built to house Lambert’s tomb and shrine on the banks of the River Meuse. He had no idea what time it was, but reasoned it might be the hour before dawn. The coordinates clearly meant to put Rantgar here, in a position to possibly fling his javelin or fire an arrow from one of these windows. They wouldn’t want him lurking here very long, he thought, so the hour of Grimwald’s arrival must be very near, possibly at dawn.

He had little time to waste, so he felt his way along the wall for a door, but there was none. Then he looked down and saw a knotted rope at his feet off to one side, and realized there was a trap door in the bare wooden floor. Sweating and very nervous, he took something from beneath the folds of his robe and laid it softly on the floor, right beneath the window that opened directly above the chapel entrance, about twenty or thirty feet below.

Maeve’s challenge concerning the javelin echoed in his mind. Yes, he knew there was no way he would ever have been able to hurl the weapon through the embrasure with any hope of hitting someone. Rantgar had undoubtedly trained to perform this task to perfection, over all the many years he lived out his assignment here. But Paul had no such training, nor even the strength that would be required to make for a lethal throw. So it was not the javelin he set down, but something else, and thankfully, Maeve had not been so meticulous about screening him before the shift. She noticed the slight bulge beneath his cassock, assuming it was the weapon.

“Oh, Paul,” she had said. “Sorry about being such a curmudgeon, but what in the world are you going to do with that?”

“Leave it to me,” he told her quietly. But what he didn’t tell her was that he was concealing his .22 caliber rifle beneath his robe. It was the only weapon he knew anything at all about using, and it now had a very deadly bite. He had coated the tips of three bullets with a lethal compound from the lab, and slipped them ever so carefully back into the ammo clip. They would be the first three rounds fired if it came to that, but his primary plan involved a less direct approach.

He hesitated as he set the rifle down, afraid to leave it out of his sight for a single instant. Then he slowly pulled on the trap door rope, opening it quietly. A ladder led down into the neck of the bell tower, and he slipped his narrow frame easily through the opening, gathering his robes tight about him as he descended. His feet, in woolen slippers with leather soles, were whisper quiet. Stealth was his one advantage. Who would think anyone was up in the bell tower at this hour?

He was down, feeling his heartbeat increasing, more from fear than any real exertion. There was a single door there with an iron latch. He tried peering through a knot hole in the wood, but could see little in the inky darkness. Then, trusting to fate and his own star, he lifted the latch very slowly and pushed open the door. It made a slight creek on its hinges, freezing him in a moment of uncertainty. He waited in the silence, hearing nothing, then slipped through the opening.

He was in a small alcove that probably served as the sacristy of the chapel, he reasoned. Perfect! He could see shelves on the wall in the dim light, goblets, a chalice, a gourd of water, wooden pegs holding plump skins with a corked spout fitted at one end. He took one and opened it with a dull pop, muffling the sound in his cassock. A sniff told him it contained mulled wine, exactly what he was looking for!

He took the chalice and quietly poured a small serving of wine. Then he looked about until he had found a small brass dish, used for holy water at the cisterns. Undoubtedly the gourd of water would be used for these, so he poured out a small quantity of water as well.

Right outside the room he could see the shrine to Lambert, and it chilled him to think that Maeve was standing very near this place, just hours ago in his chronology, yet nine long years ago here on this Meridian. Dodo and his men were riding hard to this very place back then, and she had bravely set loose the barge that removed Bishop Lambert’s last route of escape. His followers eventually found the bodies of Lambert and his family, carrying them off to Maastricht. But the Bishop there, seeing that he was likely to cultivate sainthood, had wisely returned them to this place, first building a shrine, then this very chapel.

Paul approached the shrine, the brass dish in one hand, the chalice in the other. He saw the kneeler there before the altar, which was really the bishop’s tomb, and two low stools to either side, perhaps there to hold flowers, candles or allow visitors to leave offerings. He set the water dish on the rightmost stool, and the chalice on the left. In spite of the cold, his brow was wet with sweat.

Now he reached carefully into the pocket of his cassock, where he had secreted away a special metal cylinder containing another pen-like object with lever handled cap. It was clear glass, half full, and contained a very dangerous agent. The cap was designed to rotate slightly to one side by means of the lever that looked like a pen clip. It extended down the side of the pen so that he could lever the cap open without having his fingers anywhere near the tip, then use his thumb at the other end to squirt out precisely measured amounts of the contents.

He slowly levered it open and seconds later he had made an offering of his own, one dose in the water, one in the wine. The sacrilegious nature of his crime was apparent to him, there before the tomb of the sleeping saint. With his lethal agents now in place, he put the pen-like container back into the metal cylinder, screwed the cap tightly shut, and slipped it into his cassock. How long would it be now? The agents would have a limited potency in the new medium of wine and water.

He took a deep breath, looking furtively about as if he expected to be discovered and called out for his sin at any moment. Murder and assassin—that was his lot now. How was he any different than the cult they had opposed these weeks past, struggling to reverse one intervention after another in the convoluted history? This life for a billion more, he thought, consoling himself. Yet now, more than ever, he found solidarity with Maeve, knowing exactly what she must have felt like.

The soft early light of pre-dawn filtered through the stained yellow glass window behind the altar, and he immediately wanted to be gone from this place, hidden, secreted away again in the tower.

An inner voice whispered to him, replete with recrimination in spite of all his rationalizations. He crept slowly off, a sallow, dull feeling in his gut, and made his way back into the tower and up the ladder, his heart beating fast with fear and anxiety as he went. Once safely up, with the trap door sealed, he sat down on the rough wood floor to catch his breath, shaken by what he had just done. I didn’t even have the courage to face the man, he berated himself. Yet Maeve was right. What could he have done in a face to face confrontation? No, stealth and guile was his only option here, but he still felt like a slinking rogue.

Look what we have become, he thought. We were such children. We thought we’d go see a Shakespeare play, that was all. Now look at us… murders, assassins, rogues in the dark corners of history. I am Rantgar, he realized, an impious wretch indeed.

He did not have time for further reproach. The sound of horses on the hard cobbled road was crisp on the morning air. The light of early dawn now streamed through the embrasure and he got up on his knees, which was just high enough to peer out the window. Moments later men came riding on sleek black horses, their flanks wet with the sheen of sweat in spite of the morning chill. Three riders, then four came up, and he noted one man, more powerfully built than the others and wearing a dark gray cape, dismounted first.

He spoke in a deep voice, casting back his riding hood and shaking loose long black hair which fell on his broad shoulders. Maeve had been correct. He was wearing a leather jerkin, laced at the sides, but draped over this was a fall of fine laced mail that covered his chest and back. It was tied off with a thick, black stained belt.

Paul did not understand what the man was saying. But he seemed to make some jest, as the other three men laughed quietly in the misty dawn, their foggy breath clearly evident. Then the leader looked over his shoulder, and Paul caught a glimpse of the man’s face, dark eyes, sharp features, wide nose over a thick, short cropped beard. He must have been six foot three, he thought, and all of 200 pounds. Paul realized again how ludicrous it would have been for him to try engage this man in a death duel before Lambert’s altar.

The man had turned to look at other riders, clerics, and one man all in white with what looked like a bishop’s miter in his hand. These might be officials of the chapel here, come to bear witness to Grimwald’s visit, and duly note the homage he has paid. It was all lip service, of course. Grimwald was here to make a political statement, not a religious one. By making his contrite visit to Lambert’s tomb, he would reinforce his alliance with the cult of sainthood that had grown up around the man—the bishop who had condemned the harlot mother of his greatest rival, Charles.

He would soon go into the chapel and kneel before Lambert’s tomb. Hopefully he would see the dish of holy water there, and dip his hand in to make the sign of the cross in prayer. Hopefully he would take notice of the chalice there, and drink. Yet if hope would not prevail on this grey morning, Paul was up in the tower waiting. If Grimwald emerged, alive and well, he still had his rifle…

The man greeted the clerics with a strained smile, then proffered a subtle bow and entered the chapel. Paul’s heart thundered as he watched the others waiting outside in silence. The horses chafed and snorted, and one seemed particularly unsettled.

Oh, no, thought Paul. Not another unruly beast! What was going to happen? Was there another hidden Pushpoint here that they could not possibly have seen or predicted? The horse snorted, and for a moment Paul thought it was looking up at him in the bell tower. He hid himself at once. His back pressed flat against the cold stone wall, cowering in the shadows. Stooping, he reached for his rifle, and saw his hands trembling as he clutched it again, trying to impose a measure of calm on himself. He knew the animal was already well aware of his presence, though he hoped no one else had seen him. Kelly’s voice returned to him concerning this whole affair—It’s the damn horses!

Then he heard voices from below, and cautiously knelt again to peer out the window. Grimwald had emerged from the chapel, obviously alive, and Paul was crestfallen. Apparently the water and wine were not sufficient lures, or perhaps Grimwald was not so pious, seeing fit to ignore them. So he had only one recourse now, and his hands were tight on his rifle as he slowly forced himself to stand on unsteady legs.

He positioned himself to one side of the tall, narrow embrasure. Damn, he thought. Here I am, another Lee Harvey Oswald! His mouth was dry, his throat tight. Sweat dotted his brow. He peered out to see Grimwald clasp the arm of the chief cleric, smiling. It was now or never, he thought, and he aimed his rifle, sighting down the thin, cold metal barrel. He knew what the next moment might mean for him. He had no idea when his retraction might occur. He had only told Robert and Maeve to watch the Golems closely, looking for any sign or variation, and the many problems they had that night with the Golem module haunted him now. What was it Kelly had said—there could be a lag time between intervention and the appearance of a variation in the Golem reports? In those seconds or minutes, his life rode in the balance.

The moment he pulled the trigger the gun would surely fire with an audible crack. He knew heads would instinctively snap toward the sound, and then how long would it be before these men at arms were up the tower ladder, growling and shouldering their way up through the trap door to get at him? He thought he might stand on the door, but he weighed all of 165 pounds. They would get to him soon enough, even if they had to hack the trap door to pieces with an axe. He could defend himself with the rifle, but what good would it do? It would only introduce yet more disastrous variations in the time line. He had little doubt that within ten minutes of firing his lethal round, he, too, would be a prisoner of Grimwald’s retainers, or worse, he would join the dark captain in the cold clutches of death. Grimwald was to meet his rightful death here and, if need be, Paul would die himself before he killed anyone else.

All this passed through his mind in a heartbeat as he watched Grimwald leave off his clasping handshake and move to the side of his horse. A retainer held the reins as he made ready to mount. Paul slipped off the safety and his finger tightened on the trigger, his chin close by the rifle’s bore. Then, just as he was about to fire, he stayed his hand when he saw Grimwald sway on his thick bowed legs, then stagger, falling against the side of the horse, which skittered back with alarm. The big man fell heavily to the ground, with a dull thud. Immediately his retainers were at his side, aghast.

There was shouting, hard words that Paul did not understand. Fearful that he might be seen, Paul cowered back away from the embrasure, hiding the rifle beneath his cassock again. He heard quick footsteps in the chapel below. They were in through the sacristy and into the tower now! Had he been seen?

Then something creaked and the hanging bell moved, clanging loudly. Paul stopped his ears with the palms of his hands, a look of anguish and fear on his face. They had seen him, and by God, they were raising the alarm, ringing him out, dulling his senses with the hard peal of the bell. Again and again it rang, accusing him, singling him out, shouting in his weary mind—murderer, assassin, wretch! And the sound of the bell was a hammer on the anvil of his soul as he coward against the wall there, the rifle tight between his knees as he waited for his inevitable doom.

Chapter 24

They had little more than a minute to rest after Paul’s shift concluded, for a moment later the Golems were already signaling variations in the Meridian.

“Hold on!” said Nordhausen. “Something’s up!”

Maeve was at his side immediately. They were looking at the chart again, and were relieved to see that the line of green that had been stubbornly stuck in the year 714 was now again on the move. The shades of green darkened and migrated further along the Meridian, passing through the years 720, then 725 and moving towards 732, the pivotal date for the Battle of Tours.

“This is looking very promising,” she said. “Any documentation on what has happened?”

“Searching now,” said the professor. “Let me see if I can get something from the continuation of Fredegar’s Chronicle… Here, I’ve got the file up…. “Grimwald was assassinated, poisoned, while praying in the Church of St. Lambert. This while his father lay ill at Jopille on the Meuse… By God, he’s done it!”

“Then our torpedo struck home,” said Maeve. “Paul made it through and delivered his javelin dart to Grimwald. God, I wonder how he managed it? So what about the battle?”

“Never mind that now!” Kelly shouted. “I’m pulling Paul out right away.” He was working feverishly at his console, checking readings, toggling switches, adjusting dials. “Someone get down there, will you!”

Minutes later Maeve watched Paul step over the event horizon and appear in the whirl of light and color, a thick acrid fog in his wake, resolving to blue mist. She went to the intercom to send up word that all was well, then came up and gave him a big hug, surprised to feel something hidden under his monk’s robe.

“Bring that bloodied javelin back with you?” she asked, curious.

“Well…” Paul gave her a sheepish look, opening his robe to reveal the .22 caliber rifle.”

“You took that through?”

“I had to be sure,” he said. “You made your point too well, Maeve. Was I supposed to rush the man and try to best him at arms? You should have seen him!”

“You killed him with the rifle? That will leave a slug in his corpse!”

“No, no, no,” Paul held up a hand. “I didn’t fire a shot.” He told her what had happened, and she slowly regained her composure, suddenly realizing what he had gone through, and remembering what it was like herself, at that very place, yet nine years earlier on the Meridian.

“So you’re Rantgar now,” she said softly. “Well you can join the club. I suppose I’m just another of Dodo’s retainers.”

Paul smiled, “It was risky, Maeve, I know. But it was all I could think of—all I could do.”

She nodded solemnly, understanding. They were about to leave when Maeve caught something out of the corner of her eye. She turned to squint at the Arch, advancing cautiously towards the event line, stooping to get a better look at something on the floor. “Now what in God’s name is this?” She could hardly believe her eyes.

Could there be a feedback loop in the system? She had no idea how the physics worked and the equipment had been running fitfully all night, relying on secondary power sources and invaded by a virus sent from the future, albeit a benign one if they were to believe Rantgar.

“Did you take that through as well?”

Paul turned and looked, puzzled, shaking his head in the negative. But what he saw, sitting square on the middle of the yellow event horizon line, set his mind spinning again, and gave rise to a thrum of anxiety in his chest. “It couldn’t be,” he said aloud. “It just couldn’t be…”

Maeve started to reach for it, her fingers enshrouded by the fading mist and pricked by the remnant of icy frost there, then she drew her hand back, afraid to touch the thing.

“What do you make of that?” She looked at Paul, extending her arm pointing at the floor in the arch. “It appeared just after your retraction,” she said.

Paul stepped over to the ready line again, Maeve advancing cautiously behind him.

“Be careful,” she whispered. “I went to pick it up and things didn’t feel right.”

Paul looked at her, then waved his hand cautiously over the object, as though testing the air. There was a residual feeling of cold there, but this was normal for the Arch just after a shift.

“Can we touch it?” asked Maeve.

“I don’t see why not,” said Paul, reaching. A second later he had hold of it, and they both stood up.

Maeve looked at him, eyes wide, arms crossed, and obviously curious. “Well?” she said.

“Let’s take it upstairs,” he said. “The others won’t believe this!”

Back in the main operations room Robert was still fiddling with the Golem module. “Getting up information on the battle now,” he said. “The system seems sluggish. Can you put more Golems on this Kelly?”

“No problem,” said Kelly as he grabbed a mouse and clicked on an icon to activate his primary Golem interface. The expression on his face changed immediately. “I take that back,” he said.

That got Robert’s attention immediately.

“Problem,” said Kelly. “Big problem…”

“Trouble getting data from the Golems?”

“Trouble finding the Golems,” said Kelly.

“What are you talking about?”

“Well I put the bulk of the installed user base to work as a remote supercomputer so I could process calculations we needed for the shift. But I can’t find the little buggers now. They don’t answer my command calls.”

“Maybe it’s the Internet,” said Robert.

“No, the network is wounded, but it’s still functional. I can ping lots of primary hub servers and the latency is still tolerable. Packets are moving on the net as normal, but I’ve lost contact with a huge chunk of my flock. All I seem to have control over now are those lost sheep that came on line after I gave the initial command for the Golems to begin processing shift algorithms. I banked then into one group but that’s no more than ten percent of the installed user base, now.”

“What about the worms and viruses Rantgar was talking about?” said Robert, wagging his finger excitedly.

“Good point,” said Kelly. “That pissed me off, frankly, though I’m glad we got the data that enabled Paul to shift in. But a virus is a virus, and it can do unexpected things if it tangles with security software. It’s designed to penetrate supposedly secure systems, and that means it has to be able to defend itself. The damn thing could have caused mutations in my Golem code, and that would be a real problem.”

“Could our friends in the future be using the Golems somehow?” Robert was considering every option. “Is there a way they could get control of them?”

“God only knows,” said Kelly. “All I know is that I can’t get control of them. All we’ve got now are those lost sheep.”

“Well, well, well…” The Professor was tapping his monitor now. “It’s not the little lost sheep I’m worried about, it’s the big bad wolves. It’s Tours. I’ve got an account of the battle here from the altered Meridian, and apparently Paul’s poison dart wasn’t sufficiently lethal. Abdul Rahman still prevails and the Franks flee north. Nothing has changed! We need to verify this. What’s wrong with the bloody Golem module, Kelly?”

Kelly gave him a blank look, clearly upset. “I tell you I just don’t know what happened!” Kelly had had enough with the speculation. He was tired and his temper always got the best of him when he was frustrated like this. Losing his hold on the Golems was a hard blow, coming at a critical time, and he felt like someone had severed his right arm. Now this! “Maybe the damn Assassins did something. They know how crucial the Golems are for us.”

Paul and Maeve had come up, padding quietly into the lab to find Robert and Kelly still squabbling about the missing Golems and the slow data rate and whether or not the green line on the variance monitor was going to eventually migrate to the right, through the end of the year 732.

“Can we rely on this data now with that virus is at large in the system?”

“How the hell do I know?” Kelly said with obvious annoyance.

“I mean the Internet is full of crap. Remember the big scare about Nibiru that had all the doomers up in a fit in 2011 when Comet Elenin paid us a visit? Well how do we know this is reliable information? I mean the file says it’s from the Chronicles of Fredegar, but how can we be sure it isn’t something someone just threw up in a blog somewhere?”

The professor turned, seeing Paul and Maeve, and waved them over, intent on enlisting some support for his argument. He didn’t even notice what Paul was holding.

“Welcome home, Paul. You got rid of Grimwald, alright. Good Man, but you can tell us the tale later. The job is still not done. We need to be certain we have good information here,” he went on. “There’s been entirely too much speculation pushing this mission, and look at the results!” He had pointed at the screen. “It’s still not green…”

Paul gave him a sharp wave of his hand. “Time Out, gentlemen!” he yelled. “Look what I found—well Maeve found it I suppose, but what do you make of this?” He thrust his arm out, boldly, showing them the object with a wry smile. “It apparently manifested just after I shifted back successfully.” He looked at Kelly. “And brother, I was never more grateful to feel that retraction shift kick in. Let’s hope my integrity is good and I don’t suffer Rantgar’s fate.”

“No problem there,” said Kelly. “Your numbers were rock solid. “Remember, I took a double sweep on your pattern.”

Robert gave Paul a puzzled look. “That came in through the Arch with you?”

“It appears so,” said Paul, holding up the apple. It was a plump, round Pippin, nicely ripened, and there was a thin slice on one side with a piece of paper tucked into the crevasse, an obvious note. Paul could make out handwriting on the paper as he peered at it, smiling.

“Well open the damn thing!” said Kelly. “Someone obviously has a wry sense of humor, but it’s clear they want to get our attention.”

Paul slipped out the note and they all drew closer. It felt vaguely like that moment, so long ago now it seemed, when Maeve had come upon a paper in Mr. Graves overcoat. It had contained numbers that led them to decipher the exact physical coordinates of their initial shift in time, to Minifir, where Lawrence of Arabia would lie in wait for an oncoming Turkish train. The note in the apple was an obvious message from Rantgar’s unseen. associates. Perhaps he didn’t simply vanish after all, though he was clearly not at the scene of Grimwald’s death. Yet, he must have told them the story of how Paul shifted in on a brief Spook Job and tossed the apple to Maeve, hoping against hope that she would decipher its meaning and find a way to take some decisive action. As he slipped the note paper out, Paul was struck by the thought that this was an equally urgent appeal.

He opened the page and read the few words that had been written there: “Congratulations! And now the pleasure of your company is requested. Send R.N.”

“Send RN?” said Robert. A Registered Nurse? It must be shorthand for help.” They were all looking at him, eyebrows raised with some astonishment.

“You’re thinking that means me?” he said.

“R period, N period, and it’s underlined,” said Paul. “Aren’t those your initials, Robert?”

“Me? What would they want me to join them for? Join who? Where?”

“Good questions,” said Paul. “Perhaps they’ve found a way to shift you forward in Time to a safe Nexus Point. This could be exciting, Robert! It’s just what you’ve been wanting, a nice close look at a future no man of our era would ever have the opportunity to see.”

Kelly cleared his throat, noticeably.

“Except Mr. Ramer here,” Paul corrected himself quickly.

“Well it could mean Ramer and Nordhausen,” said the professor. “The both of us.” The look on his face was somewhat squeamish, and he seemed to be looking for allies in an ever closing circle of foes.

“I doubt that,” said Paul. “It looks like an invitation to take a trip through the Arch. But where indeed? Noticing Robert’s discomfiture, he chided him a bit. “Are you telling me you don’t want to go with that sad face?”

Maeve jumped right in. “The man who’s become famous for unauthorized use of the Arch for personal business!”

“Now, now… We have no idea what that note means,” said Robert, increasingly leery. “Why, we have no idea who even sent it! Suppose it’s from the Assassins, and they’re inviting me to a lynching party or some other mischief?”

“Not possible,” said Paul. “You heard Rantgar explain it. They can’t shift anything into our Arch. The two systems are incompatible.”

“Well suppose they’ve gotten hold of one of the Order’s Arch complexes in the future. That’s entirely possible, yes?” He looked from one to the other, but was seeing no second to his proposal.

“And how would they know about the apple?” said Paul. “The Order didn’t even know about it until we told Rantgar, and he seemed to get a kick out of it. No, my guess is that this was back fed on the shift stream using a narrow emission bandwidth before the continuum closed.”

Deflated, Nordhausen shrugged and steeled himself to the possibility that he would have to make another Time jump. “Very well then,” he said grudgingly. “But you haven’t the slightest inkling of where I’m to go?”

“I think we may have an answer soon,” said Kelly. “I just discovered that my missing Golems, aren’t really gone. They seem to be very, very busy right now. I did a little hacking and was able to scan the hard drive of an unsecured computer running my Golem software. The program is there, and its running, but in a kind of null state where it will not respond to outside commands. And it’s using quite a bit of the local CPU capacity as well. Whatever it’s doing, it’s working very hard on something.”

“It must be related to the Battle of Tours somehow,” said Paul. “It’s clear on our monitors that the line of variation has been cured all through the years 705 to 732. But it still hung up at Tours. You say Abdul Rahman remains victorious, so there was something we missed, or were just unable to know at all at our point in the Meridian—something they may be privy to given their vantage point in the future.”

“Well then they should have the decency to just send us a FAX or something,” Robert complained. “An email would do just as well. Rantgar said they could get information through the Palma Shadow. Why all the drama?”

“I think this shifted in from the past, Robert. What do you make of this parchment?”

Paul handed Robert the note, and the professor studied it closely. “Freshly inked, and much too clean, he said. This would be thought of as a fraud if I tried to pass it off as an 8th century artifact today. But then again, this is probably what it looked like freshly written on clean parchment back then. But it still doesn’t answer my question. If they can get information through, why don’t they just ring us up on the telephone?” He folded his arms, frowning.

“They’re playing it safe,” said Paul. “Any electronic transmission could be intercepted in the resonance. This is a low tech approach that is more secure. It got our attention, didn’t it?”

“Hello…” Kelly was looking at his console monitors again. “And this is certainly getting my attention. Look here, Pablo. The missing Golems have suddenly reappeared on the network and they are sending a large block of data—”

“To the breaching module,” Paul finished.

“And look at this!” Kelly pointed to the screen and saw a chronometer had appeared in a popup window and was displaying a time countdown. It began at ten minutes and the numbers continued to diminish as he pointed.

“That has to be our launch time,” said Maeve.

They all looked at Robert.

The professor was looking over the rim of his reading glasses, from one to another, still looking like a scholarly monk in his cassock, the hood thrown back and drooping on his back. He took off his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Very well,” he sighed. “A few hours ago I was arguing with Maeve that I should be the one to go, but that brief look at the landscape of 8th century Gaul has dampened my enthusiasm for a re-visit to the dark ages. Not to worry,” he said, standing up and fussing with the prayer beads Maeve had slung on his waist sash. “I’m well and good, and… Well I suppose I’d best be getting on down to the Arch.”

Paul gave him a smile, then a firm hug. “Go with God, professor. I hope you don’t have to murder anyone. I can tell you. It’s a most uncomfortable experience.”

“Anything in your pockets?” Maeve gave him a suspicious look as she finished her hug. After what Paul has secreted away she was being a little more careful.

“Not a thing, Madame,” said Robert.

Kelly got up and embraced him roundly. “Hey, he said I was in the damn sphinx for months on that mission. But you come home soon now. We’ll be right here waiting.”

They were walking him towards the heavy security door. “You’re certain you have the fuel and all,” he asked sheepishly as he shuffled along with them.

“I’m going to be right on that final backup generator in case we need it,” said Paul. “There’s at least an hour’s worth of gas in that tank now, don’t worry.”

“What about the quantum fuel,” Nordhausen craned his neck, looking over his shoulder at the quantum matrix station as they passed it. “Will you be taking a double pattern of me as well?”

“I’ll take care of it,” said Paul. “But if anything happens you’ll know how to reach us,” he smiled, “because we’ll be scouring the history from the moment you shift. If you can get to a safe place, just drop us a note.”

“Yeah,” said Kelly with a wink. “Just send us a hieroglyphic or two!”

“And by all means stay put!” Maeve admonished him. “Don’t go wandering about.” She jabbed him with a firm finger.

“But what if I manifest in a muddy field?”

“Surrounded by a pack of hungry wolves?” Maeve had the apple they received, and handed it to him. “Give this to them—and then get yourself to a safe place, OK? Just remember your entry point. You’ll know what to do.”

“Well I haven’t a clue!” said Nordhausen.

“It’s an invitation,” she finished. “You’ll probably have company real soon. Fear not.”

The time was counting down through seven minutes and they let him go, through the great titanium door and down into the bowels of the Berkley Hills to shift into infinity.

Back at the monitors Paul leaned in to watch Kelly on the shift station. His ears were still ringing from that clanging bell in the chapel tower, and the haunting echo still bothered him. Thoughts of what he had done plagued him, but he pushed them out of his mind, trying to focus on the moment. “Will we be able to see where he goes on these readouts?”

“It looks like a normal block of breaching data. The checksums are perfect,” said Kelly. “Yes, we should get his target in space-time just after data goes live. I better feed the turbines some gasoline and rev this baby up again. I hope the singularity can take this strain, Paul.”

He dialed up the power, pleased that everything seemed to be going smoothly. “But Robert had some justification to be worried,” he said. “The quantum fuel is the issue now. The singularity has developed a small wobble. It will still open the continuum, but it’s a sign the process is decaying. I’m not sure how long we’re going to be able to hold it steady, and if it disintegrates we won’t be able to bring him home until we regenerate.”

Paul nodded gravely, fully aware of the situation.

“Ah!” said Kelly. “The data is going live now.” The countdown was passing through the three minute mark. “I’m taking the power to 100%, just in case he needs a little push for safety’s sake.”

“What’s the target?”asked Paul, very curious.

“Well that’s interesting,” said Kelly. “Look at the date on the temporal readout! Here, let me get the spatial coordinates and overlay a map…”