TW01 The Ivanhoe Gambit NEW (2 page)

They were all in various modes of dress, a cross section of history on parade. Dollies shuttled around, carrying all manner of weapons and equipment. Men and women were loading up on cigarettes and coffee. Drugs were prohibited, but easily available. There was that same metronomical voice announcing codes and grid designations over the P.A. He had arrived, by chance, right back where he had started from, the Quantico Departure Station.

The snap-back hit. The old "it's-like-you-never-left" feeling. He felt vaguely disoriented with a heavy touch of
deja vu.
He had some time left before he was due to pick up his new tags with a new code designation or to apply for a furlough. Some time. It seemed ironic. He was now eligible for a furlough, but most soldiers never took them. What was the point? The army gave credit only for time spent on active duty and time was precious. What he wanted, just that minute, was a drink.

He crossed the giant plaza and headed for a bar. It looked familiar and well it should have; it was where he had met Jesse Fain. Feeling a bit nostalgic for the present past, he headed for a certain table in a certain booth. The same booth he had shared with Jesse. It was unoccupied, but they hadn't had time to clean it off yet. On the table was an empty ale tankard and a single glass of scotch.

The ice was almost melted.

He checked the time. It couldn't have been more than a couple of minutes since she'd left. And he had been away six months. He sat down wearily and ordered an ale and a computer terminal. Both were brought to his table almost immediately. He plugged into the line and voiced his request. There were one or two people he wanted to check up on. At the same time, he almost didn't want to know. He took a gulp of ale, then gave their names and serial numbers.

The data was quick in coming. Johnson, Robert Benjamin, serial number 777334-29-181-999-285-60............CS (current status) active duty Napoleonic Wars—

That was all he wanted to know. At least Bobby was still alive. So far. Some of the others weren't so lucky. Deacon Bailey was MIA, Liz Carmody was KIA, Josh McKenzie was KIA and Jesse Fain never even made it to wherever she was going. She was lost in transit, somewhere in the dead zone. Her waiting was over. He didn't have the heart to continue. He was about to turn off the terminal and have it taken away when an update flashed across the screen.

Bobby Johnson had just clocked back in.

Master Sergeant Robert Benjamin Johnson sat on his duffel bag, a longbow resting across his lap.

The plastic duffel, which had just been drawn from supply, made slight crackling noises as he shifted his weight upon it. Beside him was Finn Delaney, Pfc, dressed in the garb of a Saxon peasant and fast asleep on the plastic bench. Johnson heard someone call out his name and looked up to see a non-com dressed in transit fatigues threading his way through the crowd toward the bank of vending machines near which they waited. It took him a moment to recognize the man; Lucas Priest had aged.

"Lucas! Jesus Christ, you're still alive!"

"Only just barely," Priest said. They clapped their arms around each other in an awkward bear hug.

"God, it's good to see you," Lucas said. "I wasn't sure I'd make it back from that last one. Nothing like a four week long forced march to prime you for facing Hannibal and his damn elephants. If it wasn't for the historical preservation regs, I'd have murdered that bastard, Scipio."

"That rough, huh?"

"Don't ask."

"I don't have to. You look all done in." He glanced at Priest's insignia. "I see you made sergeant major."

"And you've been bumped a grade or two as well. How long has it been?"

"It's been a while," said Bobby, grinning. "I haven't seen you since this morning."

They sat down to compare notes. The last time they saw each other, it had been at 0900 September 17, 2613. But that was Plus Time. Since then, Lucas had sailed with Lord Nelson, fought under General Pershing, picked up a saber scar in the Crimea and helped to kill Custer at the Little Big Horn. Now he had just clocked in from fighting in the Punic Wars and it was 1435 September 17, 2613. Lucas Priest had aged ten years. He and Johnson had been the same age five Plus Time hours ago, but now Lucas looked older. He had put in much more Minus Time. Lucas had about three days of Plus Time left to serve and Bobby had four days to go.

"It's great to see you again, Lucas," Bobby said. "I wish to hell we had time for a drink, but my code's on stand-by."

"I know," said Lucas, lifting his tags out and twirling them between two fingers. Bobby made a grab for them.

"Green 44! We've got the same departure code!"

Lucas smiled. "Well, fancy that."

"You knew!"

"Of course I knew," said Lucas. "I checked the data on you as soon as I clocked in. I told you I'd be doing it, didn't you believe me?"

"Yeah, well, everybody says that, you know? But it gets depressing, seeing all the KIAs and MIAs...."

"I know," said Lucas softly. "My list of friends keeps getting shorter."

There was an awkward pause. Bobby finally broke the silence, anxiously trying to change the subject.

"How in hell did you come up with Green 44? You had a code choice? You look okay, but—"

"I never exercised my option after I got wounded in the Crimea," Lucas said. "I decided to hold off until the time was right."

"But why did you go for a code choice instead of bonus Plus Time?"

"If you had a choice between a lousy hour of bonus time and friendship time, what would you choose?" Lucas said.

"Well, since you put it that way, I guess I'd opt for spending a hitch together with a friend. But I'd still cry about the bonus."

"So you pick up another wound."

"Thanks, but if I can, I'll pass. I've been lucky so far, knock on wood." He glanced around. "You see any wood anywhere?"

Lucas grinned. "Tap on some plastic and cross your fingers."

He turned to see his squire pulling up on a dolly with his gear all packed. He had left word where he could be found so that he wouldn't have to wait around to meet whomever it would turn out to be. It was one of the few advantages of being a non-com. You could get an enlisted man to draw your supplies. In this case, the enlisted man was part of the supplies, since he would be going along as Priest's orderly.

Lucas Priest's squire was a whipcord thin young corporal named Hooker. It came as a surprise to him that he was not expected to call Lucas "sir" or "Mr. Priest." Where they were going, the term was probably going to be "milord," but Lucas tried to avoid military protocol as much as possible. He passed Hooker a cup of coffee. The corporal cracked the seal on it and the cup began to steam. They woke up Finn Delaney. It took some doing. Delaney was a surly lifer who was built like a gorilla. He immediately got into Priest's good graces by offering him a Diehard. Lucas pulled one out and rubbed it along the side of the pack, igniting it.

"Code Green, Forty Fowar, Code Green, Forty-Fowar, report to Seven Yellow, Grid Six
Hundred, Seven Yellow, Grid Six Hundred."

"Well, that's us," said Lucas, taking several quick drags on the cigarette before stubbing it out with his boot. It would probably be a long time before he had another one, assuming he made it back alive.

The chronoplate left Lucas feeling slightly vertiginous, as it always did. He had never been able to get used to it, but his reaction was less severe than Hooker's.

"Didn't anyone tell you not to eat anything within two hours of clocking out?'' he said.

Hooker looked puzzled for a moment, then got the joke. It was rare for the army to leave anyone waiting around at a departure station for much more than an hour. So long as a soldier was in Plus Time, the clock was ticking away. If a soldier was in Minus Time and had ample warning of a clock out, there might be two hours during which he could refrain from eating, but the pickup squads rarely gave anyone that much notice. They liked to cut it close.

"I think the last time I ate was a couple of thousand years ago," said Hooker, grinning weakly. "I could've saved myself the trouble. I didn't even get a chance to digest anything."

"Welcome to 12th century England, gentlemen," said the referee.

Lucas was surprised. Very surprised. It was not unusual to run across observers in the field, but what sort of hitch required the presence of a ref in Minus Time?

"Questions can wait a while, gentlemen," said the ref, a soft-spoken, professorial sort. "First things first. Mr. Hooker, you'll be pleased to know that we have third mess laid on for you and that you'll have the opportunity to digest your meal this time. If you'll follow me, please?"

Hooker and Delaney began to pick up the gear, but the ref told them to leave it. "It will be taken care of," he said. They glanced at each other, shrugged, then followed Priest and Johnson.

"We must be the last ones through," said Bobby. "Everybody else must already be at mess. With our luck, all we'll get is table scraps."

But such was not the case. They trudged a short distance to a prefabricated hut where they were served venison, kidney pie, roast pheasant, squab and potatoes cooked in an open fire so that their skin was black and crackly. They drank a truly potent ale. It was one of the best meals Lucas Priest had eaten since he had joined the service. That made him worry.

The referee sat with them, but did not eat and except for the orderlies who served them, no one else was present.

"Excuse me, sir," said Johnson, "where is everybody?"

"There is no one else, Mr. Johnson," said the ref.

"You mean that there are only
four
of us on this hitch?"

"Essentially."

"I don't get it, sir."

"All in good time," said the ref. "Meanwhile, don't feel that you have to stretch out your meal. There's plenty more where that came from and that goes for the ale, as well. You don't have any duties until tomorrow morning, so relax and enjoy yourselves."

He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a silver cigarette case. "Would any of you gentlemen care to smoke?"

Now Lucas
knew
they were in trouble.

"With your permission, sir," he said, accepting the cigarettes. "I mean no disrespect, but I've been in the service long enough to know that this sort of treatment is hardly s.o.p. This is the first time I've seen a referee clocked out to the Minus side. Somehow I have the feeling that this hitch is hardly going to be a soft assignment."

The ref smiled. "Your point is well taken, Mr. Priest. You're quite correct in assuming that this is going to be an unusual hitch. There will be some risk involved, but you gentlemen should be accustomed to that. However, there are compensations. If you succeed in your objective, then the completion of this assignment will also constitute full completion of your tour of duty. That goes for all of you. The remainder of your service time, whatever it may be, will be waived and you will be given the option of retiring with the full pensions and benefits of first lieutenants or reenlisting as captains. And that goes for you as well, Mr. Delaney, even with your rather remarkable disciplinary record."

Delaney spoke the first words Lucas heard him utter. "Shit," he said. "We're dead."

Between the two of them, Lucas and Bobby had put in some pretty heavy service. Hooker was still fairly green, but Delaney was on his second tour of duty and had seen a lot of action. In spite of that, the training period that followed was the toughest any of them had ever gone through. Their drillmaster was a tough old bastard of indeterminate age. The antiagathic drugs made it difficult to accurately guess how old a person was, but the drillmaster looked like Methuselah himself. His name was Major Forrester. He was bald as an egg, wrinkled as a prune and as mean as a bear with hemorrhoids.

"You men might think you're old hands at this sort of thing," he told them. "Well, you're in for one great big fucking surprise. I'm going to work you till you drop and then I'll kick your asses right back up again and you'll work some more. And just for starters, I want a hundred push-ups, two hundred sit-ups and thirty chins."

"That's not so tough," Bobby whispered to Lucas.

"And if you're not done in six minutes, you'll do it all again! Time starts right
now!"

They were all used to strenuous demands placed on their bodies, but Forrester ran them ragged.

Every night, they went to bed so sore that they could hardly move. The nature of their training left no doubt in their minds that they had been selected for a commando assignment. They were worked in the finer points of medieval combat, becoming accustomed to moving about in full armor and learning to control their horses by pressure of the knees. They were drilled in the use of weapons such as the broadsword, the axe, the mace, the crossbow and the long bow, as well. They trained with daggers and Hooker proved to be a surprise even to Major Forrester. He could throw almost any sort of knife with unerring accuracy. Lucas wondered where he had grown up and what sort of childhood he must have had. Hooker was barely nineteen.

Due to their varied past experiences, some things came easier to some of them than they did to others. Lucas had brought to the assignment extensive experience in fighting with all manner of swords, from foils and sabers to the Roman short sword. Bobby was an accomplished archer, surpassing all the others with his skill. As an expert in several of the Oriental martial arts, Delaney took to a quarterstaff like a duck took to water and he brought some innovative techniques to fighting with a broadsword.

A great deal of time and money had been invested in their training. They were subjected to everything from implant programming to conditioned reflex training, but it was not until they went in for cosmetic surgery that Lucas finally realized the true nature of their mission.

It was going to be a fix-it job. Somehow, someone had screwed up in this time period and a little Trans-historical Adjustment and Maintenance was called for. Lucas had often wondered how such things were accomplished. Now he was about to find out first hand.