Ivanhoe Gambit

1

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.

By now, it was clear that they had been selected for their skills and general physical characteristics. With the sole exception of Finn Delaney, all of them were smaller than average. The physical size of a soldier had a great deal to do with his assignments. In the past, people were smaller and it wouldn't do to send a mess of six footers back into a time where they would stand out like sore thumbs. Most soldiers still wound up being somewhat larger than most people in the past, but within limits, this did not generally present a problem. Most soldiers were cannon fodder to begin with. History could not be changed, there was far too much risk involved. What modern soldiers could do on the Minus side was strictly defined within the parameters of what was known about their period.

Cosmetic surgery was not unusual in the army. Lucas had been a Sioux at the Little Big Horn. In order to allow him to properly play the part, they had changed his hair from blonde to black, enlarged his nose slightly and flattened out the planes of his face, as well as darkening the color of his normally fair skin with pigmentation treatments. When he rode out to do battle with Yellowhair, Lucas knew that history did not report that a particular Indian had killed him, so if he was presented with a clear shot at Custer, his course of action was entirely up to him. However, in battles that had been fairly well documented, a soldier's options were limited considerably. In such cases, they were always placed in relatively insignificant positions, historically speaking. They were, to all intents and purposes, expendable. History was never especially strict about such things as body counts. Therefore, soldiers from Plus Time fought side-by-side with their ancient counterparts and, if they were killed, their cybernetic implants relayed that information to the observers in that time period. MIAs, soldiers sustaining injuries, all went into the tally that became the basis for the complex point spread that governed the arbitration proceedings of the referees.

Being a veteran of many cosmetic surgical procedures, Lucas knew that in this event the changes made were subtle ones, rather than a general, superficial alteration. They were being made to resemble specific individuals, people who were either known to history or to certain key people who would be involved with them during their mission. This would not be a simple case of infiltrating a few soldiers-insignificant pawns from the point of view of history-into a Roman legion. This would be a covert operation. He wondered what the mission was going to be. If the training had been so intensive, what did the mission itself hold in store for them?

They had not been coached to play the part of certain individuals, at least not consciously. There was, however, the implant programming. Much of that information was already at their beck and call, but it made sense that a great deal of it was filed under "need to know," to be brought forth at the proper time, probably the mission briefing, by a key word or a key phrase. It made Lucas very apprehensive. Who were they supposed to be? When he found out, he almost wished that Hannibal had killed him back in Carthage.

It was the last day of their training. They were led into a small prefabricated building that had been, up to that moment, off limits to them. They were brought into a, room which contained nothing save several chairs, a table, a couple of army cots and four cryotanks, with all the attendant readout screens and servo-mechanisms. The two medical technicians paid them absolutely no attention as they entered and the referee, in turn, did not acknowledge the technicians' presence. The cryotanks were occupied by four men who looked exactly like them. Or, more to the point, they looked like the people in the cryotanks.

They sat down in the chairs and the ref perched on the edge of the table, leaning forward toward them, resting his hands upon his knees. He was the perfect picture of a kindly old professor. An old man with snow white hair, blue eyes, sunken cheeks and crow's feet. An old man who had total control over their lives.

"Gentlemen," he said, "in the year 1189, Richard the First, also known as Richard Plantagenet, Coeur de Lion, ascended to the throne of England. While he was off fighting in the Third Crusade, his brother, known as John Lackland, revolted against the justiciar, William Longchamp, and effectively took the place of the king. He thereupon embarked upon a series of intrigues to keep his brother from the throne. Richard had been captured and was held prisoner by the Duke of Austria. In time, the king was ransomed and he returned to England to pardon his brother, John, and to resume the throne. When Richard died at Chaluz in 1199, John finally realized his ambition and became the king of England.

"As king, John was, to put it mildly, something of a disaster. He warred on his nephew Arthur and eventually murdered him. He quarreled with Pope Innocent III, succeeded in getting England placed under an interdict in 1208, screwed up six ways from Sunday and generally bled the country dry to the extent that his own barons finally rebelled against him, forcing him to sign the Magna Carta at Runnymede on June 15, 1215. That, in a nutshell, is the story. Except, as you have doubtless deduced by now, we have a problem.

"The year is 1194. Duke Leopold has delivered Richard to Emperor Henry VI, who has released him for ransom and Richard is supposed to be on his journey back to England. Supposed to be. Here's where things get a little sticky.

"To my everlasting sorrow and deep, professional embarrassment, a member of the referee corps has gone rogue. To be quite blunt, he's gone off the deep end and has decided to live out some sort of Walter Mitty fantasy. His name is Irving Goldblum and he has succeeded in kidnapping Richard of England a second time. It's entirely possible that he has even killed him. In fact, it's highly probable, but I don't know for certain. Needless to say, in so doing, he has endangered history. His intention is to take the place of Richard Plantagenet and become the king of England. Nothing quite like this has ever happened before. It's a frightening situation. A highly complex situation, to say the least.

"What we have on our hands at this moment is a threat to the continuity of the timestream. There could be a massive split, the effects of which are completely unpredictable. Fortunately, we became aware of Irving's demented plan before he clocked out to Minus Time. He has studied this period extensively via computer tapes and he has had cosmetic surgery. The necessary preparations he had to make alerted us. Unfortunately, he was able to clock out before we could stop him. We acted immediately to organize an adjustment, hoping we could pull it off before any anomalies began to show up. We, meaning myself and my support team here with me on this desolate piece of rock, have already undertaken several attempts to rectify the situation."

The ref paused to take a deep breath.

"Our attempts, so far, have failed. We were able to estimate the time of his arrival in this period and we tried to intercept him. We did not succeed. We also tried to prevent his capture of Richard and we failed there, as well. He has the odds in his favor. He also has a chronoplate. This makes our job extremely difficult. He has used his chronoplate to outmaneuver us at every turn.

"We can travel through time, obviously, but that's how things can get completely out of hand. I am not about to become involved in a leapfrog race through time with him. That's sheer insanity, to say nothing of the dangers it presents. There is simply no way we could prevail under such circumstances. He knows it and I know it. Therefore, we must confine ourselves to doing battle, as it were, within this time period. Irving has gone to a great deal of trouble to set up this scenario and he won't move ahead in time unless I force his hand. At this stage of the game, we are fighting a limited war. It's our only chance to preserve the timeline, to prevent the potential split."

"Sir?"

"Yes, Mr. Johnson?"

"I realize that we're probably on a need-to-know basis here-"

"You are quite free to ask questions, Mr. Johnson. It's imperative for you men to thoroughly understand the situation within which you must function. What confuses you?"

"Well, we've all heard about adjustments before," said Bobby. "Nothing quite like this, but… What I'm trying to say here is that none of us really understands the process. You say this ref managed to stay ahead of you so far. What's to prevent you from using your plate to clock back and try to take him out again?"

"The mechanics of timeline preservation, Mr. Johnson. You see, I'm handicapped by the fact that I'm the one who's trying to preserve the timeline. Irving is the one who wants to change it. He wants to create that split. I'll attempt to explain it as simply as possible. The fact that we are here is the result of nothing less than an amazing piece of luck. We've been able to attempt this adjustment because Irving has not yet managed to take an action that would result in a timestream split. At this moment, the time from which we came is in a potential state of flux. You men are the third team to attempt this adjustment. The others have failed."

He paused a moment to let that sink in. It meant that they were dead.

"Now, remember that I have the not inconsiderable task of preserving the timeline. Suppose, upon learning of the failure of the last team, I used my chronoplate to go back into the past and try again. That, in itself, would create a split, a parallel timeline. That must be avoided at all costs."

"Sir?"

"Mr. Priest?"

"Hasn't this Irving character already changed the past, just by interfering with history?"

"Not yet. So far, there has been no paradox. The situation, as it stands, is as follows: Irving has clocked back into this period. So far, no paradox. He has not yet interfered with history. He has managed to intercept Richard on his way back to England. A potential paradox, but so far the timestream remains unaffected. My job is to keep it that way."

"Good luck," said Delaney.

"Yes, quite," said the referee, dryly. "I see you understand the situation, Mr. Delaney. However, let's make certain that we all understand it. The fact is, our fake Richard can kill the real one and take his place, even regain the throne of England as Richard Plantagenet. With all that, the timestream still remains unaffected. There is a Richard on the throne of England. It's not the real one, but that creates no paradox in and of itself. What would create a paradox is if Irving were to take some action that would significantly alter the course of history. Let's set up a hypothetical situation. Suppose we're out of the picture. Suppose, also, that Irving takes the place of Richard and acts in exactly the same manner as the real one did, according to our history… up to a point. Let's pick Chaluz for the purpose of this discussion. The real Richard the Lionhearted died at Chaluz. Knowing this, the fake Richard will obviously avoid that fate, probably by the very simple expedient of staying out of France. It's still possible that the inertia inherent in the timestream could work against him, but that's all highly theoretical and I wouldn't want to bet on that. So now, we have a paradox. The real Richard was killed at Chaluz in 1199, but Irving, as Richard, lives on. Suppose he remains king for a long time after that. Suppose John never ascends to the throne. Suppose the Magna Carta is never even written, much less signed. Now we're talking about major paradoxes, gentlemen.

"The past is absolute. Irving's past is absolute. His timeline-and ours-has Richard dying at Chaluz, John becoming king, etc. That cannot be changed, it already happened. The moment Irving takes an action that is significantly contrary to our history to create a paradox, he splits the timestream and creates a parallel timeline. And that means we've lost. If I clock back at a point beyond which he has done that, I'll only wind up splitting it again, creating yet another parallel timeline, which will only make things worse. I have only one course of action open to me and that is to proceed in a linear fashion through this mission. The first team failed. At the point I became aware of that, I sent ahead for another team. When that team failed, I put in a call for yet another team and you men arrived. Should you fail, I will try to get yet another team, providing that Irving has not yet split the timeline.

"You see, gentlemen, in a way it's very much like playing Russian roulette. All it takes is for that one possibility to arise in which I am not sent another team and Irving will have won. I have absolutely no idea what action he may take that would result in a change significant enough to create a parallel timeline. Nor do I know when he will take that action, when he will have the opportunity. It might even be happening right this very moment, in which case this is all a pointless exercise. In that event, I haven't the faintest idea what we would do. I don't even want to think about it."

He paused again, observing the men. They were grimly silent, all save Delaney, who groaned and put his head in his hands.

"There is, of course, another possibility," said the referee. "Once Irving splits the timeline, it is theoretically possible to clock back to a point before that split occurs and attempt to prevent it from occurring. However, that raises some very unpleasant possibilities. Split timelines must eventually rejoin. The moment Irving succeeds in creating the split, its effects show up in the future. It isn't possible to prevent the future from happening, but it is possible to warp our history and hurt a great many people. A great many. The moment the split occurs, from the standpoint of the future, an entire separate timeline already exists, incorporating God only knows how many lives. To go back and prevent it means to destroy everyone within that separate timeline. That would be nothing less than the most massive genocide in the history of the human race," said the referee, "and there's no telling how that would affect the future. Allow me to illustrate with yet another hypothetical situation. Suppose I send for another team, unaware that by that time, Irving has already created the split. Suppose I am sent a team. It could happen. The people who clock back could very well be coming from a future already affected by the split, for better or for worse. If I were then to attempt to eradicate the parallel timeline by preventing the split in the first place, a.-I would be risking causing a split myself and, b.-the people coming from a future affected by that split might never even have existed had not the split occurred. I would then be threatening their history, not to say their very existence. Under such circumstances, I expect that they would do their level best to kill me. Perhaps those would even be their orders, regardless of the problems created by the split. They would want to preserve their status quo, no matter how chaotic it might be."

"Christ," whispered Hooker.

"Scary, isn't it?" said the referee.

"How are we supposed to stop it?" Hooker said.

'' I thought that was obvious,'' the ref said.

"We're a hit squad, son," Delaney told Hooker. "We're supposed to try and kill this Irving person."

"The rather archaic phrase is 'terminate with extreme prejudice,' " said the referee. "Should you succeed in doing that, I will then become Richard the First and act accordingly, as per our history." He grimaced. "I would prefer not to have to die in France in another five years, but I have no choice. So you see, gentlemen, I may be sending you out on an extremely difficult assignment, but I don't think you'd want to trade places with me."

"Sir?"

"Mr. Hooker?"

"Why only four of us, sir? Wouldn't we stand a better chance with more men?"

The ref smiled. "A good question. Yes, perhaps. Frankly, I wish I could have had an army at my disposal. However, I am somewhat handicapped-as are you-by organizational paranoia. It has been decided that the optimal number of men for this mission, in order to minimize the chances of temporal contamination, is four. Plus a support team, the other people whom you've seen here. Why not five, you ask, or six or seven or three, for that matter? Well, I argued that point, but.. The situation calls for a small, highly effective unit that could be infiltrated into key positions in this time period. There is such a thing, the reasoning goes, as having too many spies. It was felt that a larger team would introduce a greater element of risk into this operation."

"Chickenshit bastards," mumbled Delaney.

The ref smiled. "You're insubordinate, Mr. Delaney. However, I can't help but to concede the point. Nevertheless, that's how it stands." He indicated the cryotanks. "We have here four people who are of some significance in this scenario. These people are the ones whom you will be impersonating in this operation, so play your parts well, gentlemen. Your lives depend on it."

He got up and motioned to the technicians, acknowledging their presence for the first time. One by one, they swiveled the tanks into vertical positions.

"Mr. Delaney, you are now this man's twin," the ref said, pointing to the first tank. "His name is John Little, but he is better known as Little John. Mr. Johnson, if you have a touch of the romantic in you, you may be intrigued to learn that you will be assuming the role of the Baron of Locksley, otherwise known to history as Robin Hood."

"Holy shit," said Bobby.

The ref chuckled, in spite of himself. "Do try to maintain a sense of perspective, Mr. Johnson. Folklore notwithstanding, this man is only human, as are you. Mr. Hooker, you will notice that your counterpart has a fresh scar upon his face. I'm afraid we shall have to give you a matching one before we send you out. He gave us some difficulty. He proved highly resistant to drugs and we had to subdue him forcibly. You will take his place as squire to Sergeant Major Priest. Your name, the only one you're known by so far as we have been able to ascertain, is Poignard. Your not inconsiderable skill with knives will no doubt serve you well. And now, Mr. Priest…"

The final cryogen.

"I understand that your assignment to this operation came about as a result of your exercising a code choice option. You may be regretting that now. As it happened, rather ironically, you were ideally suited for this mission, better qualified than the man you have displaced. The moment you punched in, some soldier got off easy. He'll never know what he missed. Do you believe in fate, Mr. Priest?"

"Yes, sir, I think I do."

"Well, in that case, meet yours." He rested his hand on the edge of the cryogen. "Sir Wilfred of Ivanhoe."