Touchstone

10

The Golem alert subsided at exactly 2100 hours GMT, and the systems at Lawrence Berkeley Labs returned to a low standby mode. Paul got the system status call on his cell phone, and he telephoned the lab to leave a few instructions with the student interns supervising consoles there. As exhausted as they all were that night, the project team members each seemed to have something that pulled them along. Maeve took some time to settle into the meaning of all that had happened, her mind constantly diverted from the conversation with thoughts of Kelly. She decided to drive back to University Hospital and check on Kelly one more time before she turned in. They all agreed to meet at the lab at ten the following morning, where they would decide what to do about everything that had happened.

“Read every word,” she said, pointing at the scattered pages of the Golem report. “If we have to make an intervention I want temporal and spatial targeting points in the morning—and a damn good reason for any action we take. Now we don’t have Kelly, so for heaven’s sake use a computer for the math. Clear?”

Robert and Paul poured over the Golem report, for an hour, searching the data for variance flags and discussing anything that sounded serious. Amazingly, the Meridian was holding good integrity, and they had nothing above a .0013 variance report to bother with.

“These numbers are cleaner than the probabilities we ran for the Shakespeare mission,” said Paul. “It doesn’t seem like your Rosetta Stone was all that important.”

“I wouldn’t be so certain,” the professor warned. “Sure, I’ve looked at dates from 1799 to the present and found little to get upset about. Did you read the bit on Champollion?”

“I’m just getting to that.”

“Don’t bother. He leads a humdrum life, publishes a few more compilations of his findings on Egyptian artifacts, and dies three weeks early.”

Paul raised an eyebrow. “That’s odd.”

“Yes. It seems that even if you make a great discovery it only ends up extending your expected life span by three weeks. So much for the bounty of fame.”

“Then why all the fuss and bother over the hieroglyphics? How do we justify opening the continuum again with variance data this weak? You heard Maeve when she left. It’s going to be like pulling teeth at the lab with her tomorrow. She still thinks our tampering could bring Kelly down again, and that isn’t something we can dispel with good numbers.”

“She’ll just have to get over it,” Robert insisted. Besides, she’ll want us to fix this because she just can’t bear to have things amiss. It was the only reason she agreed to allow the project to continue—to keep a watch on the history and defend the integrity of the Meridian we knew.”

“True, but suppose you start by convincing me—just in case we meet resistance because of the Kelly thing. Here, I’ll play devil’s advocate.” Paul folded his arms. “Why do we need to investigate this Rosetta Stone thing? You’re off the hook, Robert. We’ve already determined that your trip did nothing to cause the damage. Why push this?”

Nordhausen gave him a long look. He started to say something, then caught himself and reached for a pen and paper instead. Paul craned his neck to see what he was writing, but the professor waved him away until he was finished. He slid the paper across the table to Paul, a smug look on his face. “Remember that?” he challenged.

The page was covered with a few neatly drawn lines of the ancient Egyptian writing. “Cute,” said Paul.

“More than that, my friend. Those are the very same characters on that scroll I found in Rasil’s backpack.”

“How could you remember something like that?”

“How could I remember? What street do you live on, Paul?” The professor wore a miffed expression.

“Alright,” Paul conceded. “So you remembered what you saw. I’ll grant you that. But what’s the big deal?”

Nordhausen frowned. He leaned heavily on the table and pointed to each character in turn as he spoke. “Here follows the word of the Lord of Time… That’s this fellow here,” he said, pointing at a larger character he had drawn. “At the time of great struggle… Eternity lies in the shadow of the Wolf… The Wolf shall go forward and prey upon the bounty of the lord… Yet if he be slain for his misdeed… For his sin,” he corrected himself. “Then all will be overthrown. Therefore—That’s this line here, Paul, and now it reads: When the Old Man returns, the Lord’s Army shall come to the Gate of the West. The Temple Priest of Time proceeds with two eyes to the Lord of Eternity. That’s the literal translation, but I would paraphrase the bit about the eyes to mean ‘look’ or perhaps ‘meet.’ Let’s read it this way: The Priest of Time shall go forth and meet the Lord of Eternity.”

“The two eyes,” Paul nodded, suddenly absorbed in the translation Nordhausen was making. “You really can read these things.”

“I’ve been saying that all along. In fact, I may be the only person on earth in this milieu who can read them.”

“So you’ll live three weeks longer,” Paul teased.

“Well, are you telling me you aren’t curious about the references to time and eternity in those symbols?”

“Of course I am, but what does it all mean?”

“What does it mean? Think, man! You were the one sitting in Castle Massiaf. The Wolf was the nickname the Arabs gave to Reginald of Kerak. They called him Arnot—the Wolf, and his behavior made the handle quite appropriate. He raided the sultan’s caravan, capturing Saladin’s niece in the process. The sultan was so enraged that he invaded the Christian lands, which led to the great battle at the Horns of Hattin. Remember?”

Paul’s eyes had a distant look in them as he recalled the breathtaking sight of the host of Teki Ad Din riding down from the north. The sound of the horses hooves still beat in his mind, and he could see the sinuous line of the rider’s torches as they made their way through the valley. “Right…” He was piecing the message together with the history in his mind now, following the professor at last. “Reginald was a Primary Lever on that event. If he hadn’t looted that caravan—”

“Exactly!”

Nordhausen hurried along. “Now remember this bit here… ‘Yet if he be slain for his sin, then all will be overthrown.’ That sure sounds like a warning to the operatives in that castle to keep their bloody hands off Reginald.”

“Are you suggesting—”

“Of course I am! They’re using the hieroglyphics as a code. Maeve suggested it herself in the debriefing sessions, and I’m convinced of it now. Then I go off to look for some primary source material and when I get back none of you have even heard about the hieroglyphics. But I was in the Nexus this time. I know. I can read them, damnit, so the rest of you will just have to believe me on this.”

“Calm down, Robert. Nobody is questioning your take on this.”

“That’s encouraging. Then you can see why they wanted the stone damaged, right?”

Paul paused rolling his eyes, a look of recognition on his face. “It sure is a good way to preserve the secrecy of these message scrolls.”

“Yes! Rasil was carrying that scroll as a message. Didn’t you say this Kadi figure questioned you about it? You said they called you a Gray Walker on the eternal Hajj. How’s that for a nifty metaphor for a Time Traveler?”

“Yes! In fact they called me the Walker come from the Valley of the Moon.”

“That’s what the Arabs call Wadi Rumm.” Robert fanned the flames of Paul’s thinking, trying to build heat for his argument. “They expected Rasil, and they were supposed to get this message. The Wolf shall go forward and prey upon the bounty of the lord… Yet if he be slain for his sin, then all will be overthrown. It was a warning for them—a set of instructions, if you will. These guys were Assassins. It was warning them not to exact revenge upon Reginald!” The whites of his eyes added emphasis to his conclusion. “Therefore,” he pointed at his drawing again, “When the Old Man returns, the Lord’s Army shall come to the Gate of the West.”

“The Old man was Sinan,” said Paul. “The Gate of the West was the Horns of Hattin.”

“Precisely. Maeve and Kelly will both agree on that. They found it in the variance reports they ran during your inadvertent mission. So we have a warning, and consequence if that warning instruction is followed. It was an outcome favorable to the Arabs. The whole Christian army was slaughtered at Hattin and ninety years of Western occupation was ended in the holy lands. Rasil was carrying a message intended to make sure that happened.”

“It certainly seems that way,” Paul agreed.

“Why, there’s no question about it! Now then—” The professor clapped his hands, rubbing his palms together with anticipation. “The writer of that scroll would have to be from the future to be aware of the importance of Reginald in this matter.”

“Yes,” said Paul. “The scroll identified a Primary Lever and warned against contamination. It clearly predicted the outcome if the instruction was followed. But what’s that last bit you translated?”

Nordhausen looked at his drawing again. “Ah, yes. It reads: The Priest of Time shall go forth and see the Lord of Eternity. It could also read ‘to meet the Lord of Eternity. The Temple Priest was equated with the Old Man in this symbol.” He fingered his diagram. “The Lord of Eternity… Hummm, I wonder who that was?”

Paul took a deep breath. “Me,” he said glumly.

“Oh?” Nordhausen was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, eager to have his support for his interpretation.

“Sinan was on his way to the castle—probably to intervene in the quarrel between the Sami and the Kadi. That was why Jabr ali Sad smuggled me out of the castle and hid me away in the library. But he was also going to eyeball me, I’m sure of it. Word certainly reached him of my unaccountable arrival. He was coming to take a look for himself.”

“Sinan is from the future, Paul.” The professor’s voice was hushed with the implication of his statement. “He’s like a permanent CIA agent assigned to a given Milieu—and look what he does in the history: he sets himself up in these secret mountain strongholds to recruit and train Assassins to carry out operations aimed at influencing events.”

“It sure looks that way. The Assassin cults survived for over 200 years, until the Mongols finally stomped them out for good.”

“Who knows if they really succeeded?” Robert had the bit between his teeth now. “Good lord! I’ve almost forgotten it, but Rasil said something—more to himself than to me. He blew up the entrance to the Well of Souls, as he called it, and said something like: ‘It will never again deliver the souls of the faithful to our agents in Massiaf.’ Yes! Then he said: ‘I wonder how Sinan will fare without the scrolls to guide him now?”

They looked at each other, and the conclusion was plain on both their faces.

“Sinan is an agent,” Paul agreed. “From the future.”

“And Rasil was sending instructions from Egypt. That threw me at first, but the more I thought about that scroll the more I was convinced that it was a rubbing.”

“A rubbing?”

“Yes, you hold the papyrus up to carved stone characters and the pressure of your rubbing imprints the images, like modern printing, only without the ink. It was a rubbing, Paul, and that meant the original message was carved somewhere, carved in stone. That’s why I wanted to look through the collection in the British Museum. I couldn’t find any reference to these characters in the existing data. If Rasil’s scroll was a rubbing then—”

“The touchstone had to be somewhere…” Paul reached the obvious conclusion. “Good for you, Robert. You’ve convinced me. Rasil opened his big mouth and now someone has run a mission—at least according to this Golem report—to the year 1799; to Egypt, to Rosetta.”

“They broke it,” Nordhausen nodded. “They’re trying to preserve the integrity of their code.”

“Interesting,” said Paul, his tone hinting that he had some clear conclusion in mind. “Why would they be using stone carvings to keep a record of the history? Because that’s the real touchstone. It has to be. It’s not the Rosetta Stone, but this hidden record of the history.”

“Are you suggesting they have some kind of archive or something?”

“Well, Kelly came to the conclusion that we needed a reference point on the history that was stable if we were to have any success guarding the Meridian. Otherwise how would we know if something changed? That’s what this Golem report is all about. But it seems to me that our Arab adversaries, if indeed they are Islamic radicals like the Assassins, are using a low tech approach to this whole process. They’ve got these Oklo reaction chambers rigged up to provide enough power to open the continuum at selected points. They’ve established these one way gates, a natural Arch opening a breach to a selected time. They’ve got little reception committees set up for the Walkers, as they call them, and they’ve got agents and supervisors and God only knows what else! I only saw a few rooms of that castle.”

Nordhausen gave him a grave nod of assent. “And while I was watching H.M.S Pinafore at the opera house someone from their side ran a mission—to wipe out the primary key to their record of the history. They’re using the Egyptian writing as a code, damn it. And if we go back tomorrow we can see about stopping them!”

“To Rosetta?”

“Where else? We have to see if the stone was broken upon discovery. If it’s whole, we have half a chance at fixing this thing. But what if it’s broken when they dig it up? That would mean the damage could have been done at any prior point in the history. We’d never find that needle in the haystack.”

“That would be hard to pull off,” said Paul. “No one knows when the stone was placed there. If they weren’t careful they might do something that would affect the discovery in 1799.”

“Ah,” Nordhausen countered. “But they know where it is—where it was discovered. They could go back a year earlier, dig it up, damage it, and then bury it again. And they know exactly what that stone said—in fact, I know what it said. I still remember it.”

“Tell me.” Paul was suddenly curious.

“Well nothing really mysterious or important. It was really just a sign, a proclamation by Ptolemy V Epiphanes laying out all his good deeds in regards to the temples and priests to buy their reciprocal good will and cement his legacy. The last line even states a possible point of origin for the stone. It read: ‘This decree shall be inscribed on a stela of hard stone in sacred, native and Greek characters and set up in each of the first, second and third rank temples beside the image of the ever-living king.” He gave Paul a satisfied look, pleased with his recollection of the history and taken with the notion that he was the only one alive now that knew this.

“So they had clues enough to look for it deeper in the past as well,” he concluded.

“Possibly, but that’s a much more difficult operation,” said Paul. “You just said that they were going to carve this message in each of three temple sites. They would have to get just the right one—the exact stone that eventually wound up in Rosetta, wouldn’t they? Otherwise they’d have to damage all three to be sure none of them was ever found intact. There’s just too much variation and haze in that direction. I like the idea of damaging it after it was dug up in 1799, or perhaps just a year before as you suggested—something very close to the discovery date. That has much more clarity—much more likelihood of success.”

“Well, there’s one way to find out,” said the professor with a gleam in his eye. “Now all we have to do is convince Kelly and Maeve.”

11

The next morning the four team members met at the Lab as planned. This time Paul was the last to arrive, still yawning when he came through the door and found the others milling about the main control consoles, already deep in a discussion over temporal coordinates. Nordhausen was standing with an armful of books, volumes dragged from his well stocked library. He was pushing one on Maeve, trying to gesture with a free hand while she flipped through the pages. Kelly was seated at the console, and Paul gave him a hearty ‘welcome back.’

“We didn’t think we’d have you here,” he said. “This is great! Now I don’t have to run the numbers.“

“There you are, Paul.” Nordhausen was on him at once. “I realize these volumes have been altered slightly by that last time mission, but they’ll give us a good starting point on the history, and we can look up details in Kelly’s RAM bank to verify things.”

Paul glanced at Maeve, obviously checking her reaction to all this.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “He’s been arguing his point for an hour now and—”

“—She’s agreed to approve the mission,” the professor put in excitedly.

“She’s agreed that 1799 is the key target date,” Maeve corrected him quickly.

“Right—well we aren’t throwing darts, Maeve.” The professor pressed on. “It’s the date we need for the mission. Kelly’s already working up the preliminary numbers.”

“Right,” said Kelly, bent over his laptop. “But I’ll need time on an Arion to solidify all this.”

Paul gave Kelly a curious look. “You sure you’re OK, buddy?”

“Me? I’m fine. A complete recovery. Whatever you guys did it was pure genius. I think you’ve protected my integrity in this Meridian for good, but I’ll tell you, the thought that someone was digging up my grave…”

“I had the same feeling,” said Paul. “In fact… This may be my imagination, but I think I was being followed on my way over to the lab this morning.”

“Followed?” Maeve did not like the sound of that.

“Well, I may just be paranoid but I stopped for a Bagel and coffee at Peet’s, and there was this guy in a car parked across the street. He was just sitting there, smoking a cigarette, but when I came out he started his engine and I swear he was behind me all the way until I hit Cyclotron Road and the outer security shack.”

“Spooky,” said Nordhausen.

“It’s got me thinking about security issues now,” said Paul. “We’re going to have to be more careful than ever.”

“You think they may have spies right here in Berkeley—a permanent operation running here to keep an eye on us?” Kelly looked up from his laptop, clearly unhappy, as he had been the first target. “You think they may try a hit or something—on the facilities here?”

“I don’t know,” said Paul, “but consider this: Suppose that guy was an operative from the future. He could have been verifying something as simple as my arrival time for this meeting. You said it yourself, Maeve. Most of all the history is unknown to us. It’s made up of all the little nothings of the hour that surround the big moments—but that’s where the key Pushpoints are. Hell, Graves came back the night of our first planned mission intent on saving Kelly’s life. All he had to do was step in front of him near an off ramp and delay him for a few brief seconds. You can’t run an operation like that without knowing a lot of precise details.”

“Well, how would they know about this meeting?” Maeve asked. “We aren’t keeping minutes anymore, and nothing is hard scheduled.”

“How could they know? Just by watching the four of us arrive here, that’s how. That takes reconnaissance, surveillance, a lot of sleuth work. You follow me?”

“Right,” said Nordhausen. “Hell, they ran an operation last night to strike at Kelly. I suppose it makes sense that they might have someone posted here to do the equivalent of a damage assessment. You know,” he looked at Maeve now, “to see what the consequences of their mission were. They ripped off Kelly’s DVD and thought that would be the end of it, but the Nexus must have still been in force for a time, because Paul and I were here, and the Arch was spinning at near 100% after my mission.”

Paul smiled. “You’re getting the hang of this at last,” he said. “That’s just another positive outcome from your illegal mission. Yes, we were in the sphere of influence of the Arch, and that made us Free Radicals. We got Maeve’s call about Kelly while we were still in the Nexus, and we resolved to go to Kelly’s aid then and there. That resolve was enough to put the issue in doubt. Time was not ready to close the continuum, so she put Kelly into a Schroedinger’s Box and we made sure that cat stayed alive!”

“So now they realize their plot against Kelly failed,” Maeve breathed. “They know we are on to them, and if what you said is true they are looking for verification on the events surrounding this meeting.”

“Exactly,” Paul agreed. “They want clarity. It’s the only way they can plan any counter-operation against the action we decide to take here.”

“But they can’t have spies everywhere,” said Kelly. There’s no one here now but the four of us, for example, and this is where the real decisions will be made.”

“True, but you would be amazed what a good historian can dig up,” said Nordhausen.

“A lot of trouble!” Maeve harried him, and the professor waved her off.

“The point is well taken,” said Paul. “We leave subtle clues on the world, almost without a second thought. The phone calls we made last night make an easy example. There’s a record of them somewhere now, with exact times. The queries we run on the Internet can be data based.”

“Not!” Kelly protested. “I’ve got our systems locked up tighter than a witch’s—” He caught himself, realizing he was not just out with the boys. “Well you know what I mean.”

“OK, so our systems here are secure,” Paul continued. “Yet every time we spin up the Arch, Con-Edison knows about it, right? Our damn electric bill could stand as a record of our operation times. Last night we all signed in at the hospital registration desk to go visit you, Kelly. And Robert—didn’t I see you swipe a credit card for the meals we picked up on the way over to your place?”

“Well all I had with me were British pounds and shillings left over from my mission,“ said the professor.

“Fine, but there’s a record of that transaction—timed and dated. We drive, we buy gas, groceries, we go through intersections that have been rigged with cameras for years now. We pass through RFID chip readers every time we go into a store. Beyond that, we scribble notes and just toss them into trash cans like they were gone. Hell, we leave fingerprints on everything we touch. A good gumshoe and a forensics team could learn an incredible amount of detail about our lives if they set their mind to it. Look how we solved the spatial and temporal coordinates for the mission to the Hejaz? It was just an errant note scribbled on a receipt. And speaking of Mr. Graves: when he showed up seven years ahead of schedule what did he do? He holed up in a monastery to leave as little impression on the Meridian as possible. The almost invisible wakes we leave while going about ordinary activities could be the crucial elements of a breaching plan.” He halted, out of breath, but it was clear by the look on their faces that he had made his point.

“He’s right,” Maeve concurred. “If we’re going to take on a responsibility like this we have to start being very careful—very precise.” She looked at Nordhausen.

“And get the numbers right,” Robert whispered in Kelly’s direction.

“Oh, be quiet, or I’ll send you back to the dinosaurs again!” Kelly smiled, but his point was made.

“That opens another issue,” said Maeve. “Robert thinks he has the temporal and spatial coordinates figured out for this trip to Rosetta, but who’s going?”

There was a moment of silence and Nordhausen was the first to speak. “I’m the obvious choice,” he said. “I know the history and I can read the hieroglyphics.”

“And you have a strange propensity to wander about and tip brandy with Primes,” Paul put in.

“What?” Maeve was on alert at once.

“Never mind,” Nordhausen hushed her, covering his tracks. “He’s just needling me, and I suppose I have it coming. I can promise you that the events of recent days have made a profound impression on me. I realize what we’re dealing with now, Maeve. I’ll be very careful—very precise in anything I do.”

“Of course you will,” she said. “Because I’m going too.”

Nordhausen’s eyes widened. “What? Who’s going to run the monitors?”

“I suppose that gets dumped on me again,” Kelly complained.

Robert looked at Maeve and said, “Do you realize what you’re saying?”

“Of course I do.”

“But we aren’t just going to sit in a gallery and watch a play. This is going to be dangerous.”

“Of course it is.”

“But you’re a—”

“A woman? Yes, you’ve got that right as well. And don’t try to tell me that there was no place for a woman in this Milieu, because I know the history as well as you do.”

Nordhausen gave Paul a frustrated look. “Do we really need three people on this operation?”

“Three people? Hey, who’s gonna stay and help me here?” said Kelly.

Everyone was looking at Paul, who stood with his arms folded, his brown eyes shifting from Robert to Maeve to Kelly as he sorted something in his mind. “OK,” he said at last. “Let me hear the approach scenario.” He wanted to catch up on anything he may have missed by coming late.

“Savants,” said Robert. “We’re going in as members of the philosophers, scientists and literati that tagged along with Napoleon during his invasion of Egypt.”

“Won’t the names of all the passengers who booked transport with the French fleet be in a register?” Paul probed. “Won’t they have assigned quarters, liaisons with the French Army? How will you pass?”

“There were many that landed later, coming over on courier ships and independent transport.” Maeve explained her rationale. “I’ve done some research on this, and it solves our language problem. We can say we were Americans visiting relatives in France when we heard the proclamation announcing the expedition and simply had to return home by way of Egypt.”

“Americans? Details,” said Paul. “You’ve got to ring true.”

Maeve reached into the pocket of her khaki shirt and drew out a paper. “The Perla,” she said with a smile. “A Spanish 34-gun frigate out of Malaga making a courier and supply run to Cyprus for a plantation owner there. She put into Mallorca, then ran up to Toulon, where they took on six more passengers, including three Americans. They went on to Sardinia, and then Tripoli, where one of the Americans got off. The ship hit foul water during a squall in the Gulf of Sidra and three passengers were lost, including the last two Americans—swept right out to sea and never heard from again. The Perla continued on and docked at Aboukir Bay three days before our planned entry date. She was there very briefly, before fleeing at rumors of the imminent approach of the British and Turkish fleets. She made her delivery but, nearing home on her return leg, she was caught in an engagement with a British squadron in the straits of Gibraltar and fled to the Barbary Coast, where she sunk. We can pose as those two lost souls, and just say we got off at Aboukir Bay. The ship will be gone. There would be no one to dispute our story. Who will be the wiser?”

She had a pleased expression on her face, and was glad she had taken the time to do the initial research the previous night, after leaving Kelly at the hospital. The others were all somewhat surprised to hear this.

“I stopped at the University wardrobe on the way in,” she pressed on.

“So that’s what you dragged in with that duffel bag!” Nordhausen wagged a finger at her. “You were planning this all along. You just wanted to hear our arguments.”

“No, I was planning it all last night, and I was just trying to make up my mind whether to let you go or not, Robert.”

“What?” Nordhausen started to warm up for another argument but he held himself in check, looking at Paul to referee. “Well, say something, Paul!”

“Alright,” Paul obliged him. “You want the mission, you’ve got it, Maeve. You’ve obviously been thinking about this, and the only experience you’ve had in the Arch was the Spook Job that fixed my position in the library so Kelly could bring me home. I owe you one. It’s all yours. I’ll stay here and ride shotgun with Kelly on the consoles.”

“But—” Nordhausen had a pleading look on his face.

“She’s in,” Paul said firmly. “So get used to it, Robert.”

“You mean to say you’d give up on an opportunity to see Napoleon?” The professor knew that Paul had always admired the little French dictator.

“See Napoleon?” Maeve jumped on that notion at once. “Not on my watch.”

Nordhausen sighed heavily. “She won’t let me do anything!”

“Of course I won’t.”

Paul and Kelly just smiled.

They were some time working out the details of their planned entry to 1799. Nordhausen nailed down the situation they were likely to find, and dreamt up a reason for their need to observe the activities at Rosetta.

“The history is not very detailed,” he complained, “but we know that a French officer in the Corps of Engineers, one Bouchard or Boussard, was responsible for the find, in August 1799. They were improving fortifications against an expected invasion from the sea by the Turks, at a place called Fort Julien, Rosetta.”

“August?” Maeve questioned. “I’ve got a better reference than that. The RAM bank has two references that show the stone was discovered by a Captain Pierre Bouchard on July 15, 1799. It was unearthed during a demolition of a wall at the fort you mentioned.”

“That’s odd,” said Nordhausen. “All my references indicate August. And none of them have that level of detail.”

“Captain Pierre François Xavier Bouchard, to be more precise.” Maeve smiled.

“Very well,” said Nordhausen. “What else did you find?”

“Well, the stone was sent to the Savants in Cairo, so it probably arrived there in August. This other article says that it was received there by Jean-Joseph Marcel and Remi Raige, and they identified the middle script as Demotic. An article publicizing the incident was published in the Courrier de l’Egypte in September of 1799.”

“You’ve done your research,” said Nordhausen.

“Details,” Maeve winked. “I’m betting July 15 is good data. If you go with August there simply isn’t enough time to get it to Cairo, study it, and put out an article by September. Besides, when in doubt we have to begin at the earliest possible target date. In fact, I’ll wager that the trip from Rosetta to Cairo would have been the ideal time to damage the stone—assuming it is unearthed with the hieroglyphics intact as you are obviously hoping.”

“Hummm… Then we’ll have to arrive July 15—perhaps even a day earlier.”

“Guys—” Kelly gave them a frustrated look. “Make up your mind. I’ve got the prelims in for August and now I need to shift everything two or three weeks.”

“It can’t be helped,” said Nordhausen. “Go with July 14, 1799. We’ll linger in the vicinity of the fortification and see what we can learn—that is if you can at least get us to within a few million years of the target this time.”

“Very funny.” Maeve was quick to defend Kelly. “Remember, he got you back, and Paul as well—and that was no small feat.”

“I was only kidding. OK, we’ve got our breaching point. Now what about language? Your take on us being Americans is a great way to cover for our English without being taken for the enemy. I can manage a little French, but not enough to converse fluently.”

“I’m good for some French as well… and of course, German,” said Maeve.

“Not very useful in this instance, I’m afraid.”

“Then we’ll just have to keep our conversation to a minimum, won’t we? The less you say the better, if you want my opinion.”

“And I don’t.”

“Then we’ll just have to rely on your French, if we must. Kelly, how long before we have good numbers?”

“Give me a few minutes to program this change, and then I can send the file over a secure line to the Arion system for processing. I would guess it might take another couple of hours before we get a solution firmed up for the targeting vectors.”

“Good,” said Maeve. “That’s enough time for some more food, coffee, and costume inspection.”

The professor looked over his shoulder. “Inspection?”

“That’s right. No PDAs, cell phones, wrist watches, Parker Pens—you get my drift?”

Robert rolled his eyes and walked off.

12

The numbers came back just under two hours later, and they looked very good. The entry variance data showed a discrepancy factor of only 0.00017, and that was clean as far as Paul was concerned. He was satisfied that they would hit the target date, assuming all went well with the equipment.

Robert and Maeve were already decked out in costume. Maeve wore a blue silk corset undergarment with hand sewn stay pockets and an accent of lovely mustard colored thread about the buttonholes. A Tonder lace was added to the chemise and was matched with embroidered stockings with a similar pattern. The outer garment was a simple dress of striped Poplin with a quilted petticoat, more suitable for travel, and she selected skirts that would not need hoops, thinking more of comfort than fashion at this point. She had spent some time curling her auburn hair and topped it all off with a lovely hat.

“I could add a waistcoat,” she said as much to herself as anyone else. “Being July in Egypt I would imagine the temperatures will be somewhat fierce. The silk is fine in the undergarments, but I won’t be lacing my corset very tightly.”

Paul was taking the spectacle in as she paraded about the room. “What about a wig, hats, a parasol?”

“I’m afraid I just couldn’t bear up under a wig,” said Maeve. “A parasol is a good idea, and I managed to find something appropriate—see?” She opened a small blue parasol and spun it about, delighted with herself. “And I’ve a nice beaded purse to finish the whole thing off.”

“But won’t that linen be a bit warm?”

“Possibly. If I can’t take the heat I’ll just shed a layer or two. There wasn’t a hard distinction between outer and underwear at certain levels of society in the Eighteenth Century. We have decided to go as landed gentry, but not high society. A working woman might shed her outer layer, her gown or jacket, in certain circumstances, and work in her shift, stays and petticoat. I suppose it all depended on the public space she was in and by whom she expected to be seen. Under the circumstances I’ve chosen a rather plain waistcoat on the middle ground between outer and underwear. I can’t imagine exposing myself too much with the Moslem culture thing. I’ll be accompanying the good Professor Nordhausen as his sister—strictly middle class with this outfit.”

The professor wore a gentlemen’s suit of pale blue silk, with nicely brocaded cuffs and collar. Maeve found him comfortable boots, knee socks and a matching set of trousers that fit just right. He plopped on a white styled wig and was laughing at himself in the mirror when Paul saw him. A carved walking stick completed his accessories.

There were just a few more details to work out on the spatial placement before Paul would be satisfied and give a final go for the mission. Maeve went off to confer with Kelly, and Paul pulled Robert aside in the auxiliary room. “Where are you manifesting at the target milieu? What time of day will it be, and how can we minimize observation by locals?”

“We’ll be northwest of the town,” said Nordhausen, “on the road that runs along Aboukir Bay towards Alexandria. We’ll arrive in the pre-dawn hour, 5:00 AM, so observation should not be a problem.”

“You’re sure about those coordinates?”

“As sure as I can be under the circumstances. We won’t really know what’s there until we manifest… What’s wrong, Paul?”

“Well, it’s just that all the other breaching points were quite remote from populated areas. What if you were to appear right in front of some passer by, or a French soldier patrolling the road?”

“That sort of speculation is useless. How can we know?”

“Recon,” Paul asserted. “We can certify the breaching coordinates with a Spook Job—a quick ten second manifestation before we run the final operation. You appear, take a quick look, and we yank you back. If the coast is clear, as they say, we rev up for a full breach and insert the team.”

“Won’t Kelly need to adjust his numbers?”

“Nope. We’ll use the exact same data he has planned for the mission. All I have to do is get the Retraction Module to wink appropriately. Spinning out a singularity for ten seconds involves—” The look on Robert’s face made it plain that the professor did not want to know anything more about the physics.

“I’ll tell Maeve,” Paul concluded. “In the meantime, I suppose you two can get ready to go down to the Arch.” There was a perceptible change in his voice, and the professor noticed it at once.

Nordhausen gave him a long look. Paul met his gaze, a solemn expression on his face. “So I’ll miss this one,” he said.

“You’ll miss the French Army,” said Robert. “The Battle of the Pyramids, French Squares, thousands of Mameluke Cavalry making their furious charges under the angry glow of the hot desert sun….”

“That was all over in 1798,” said Paul. “In fact, Napoleon had already been checked at Acre and he was making his retreat back to Egypt in May of 1799. By June it was clear to him that the campaign in Egypt was a disaster. He was already planning his exit strategy.”

“Yes,” said Nordhausen. “Secret instructions involving the frigates La Murion and La Carrière, to be ready to make sail at a moment’s notice.”

“But there was the Turkish Army of Rhodes to worry about first,” Paul continued.

“I see you’ve been reading the history.”

Paul was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Robert, the Turkish anchored a fleet of sixty troop transports off Aboukir Bay on the night of July 11^th. They were landing initial shore parties within hours. Just how far west on the road to Alexandria will you be?”

“Not far.” The professor’s voice tried to persuade that all would be well, but he knew what Paul was driving at now.

“The Turks had 15,000 troops ashore by the morning of the 12^th of July. You’re going in just two days later.”

“The French garrison held out at Aboukir Castle until the 18^th and by all accounts the Turks just sat on the beaches.”

“By all accounts…” Paul had a worried expression on his face. “Remember that 99% of everything that has ever happened is unknown to us. Why, 99% of your own lived experience is forgotten. Sure you have a recollection of the day you graduated college, but what did you do the previous afternoon? What did you have for breakfast the day before that? What book were you reading that week?”

“I get your point,” Nordhausen stopped him.

“Well, they could have pushed out patrols to reconnoiter the road. It could be very dangerous. The French effort to improve Ft. Julien at Rosetta was being hastened by urgent need. They were under threat of imminent attack, and Napoleon was not yet on the scene.”

“Napoleon arrived on the 24^th of July, Paul. The battle of Aboukir wasn’t fought until the 25th. That’s when the real danger will present itself.”

“Yes but—”

“We’ll be out of there by then. The retraction is set to give us a 48 hour window, just like my mission to London. We’ll be gone by the 16^th. I’ll bet Kelly was glad to hear that I had all those calculations worked out for duration timing and all. He said he could use my numbers on the retraction scheme, and it saved him hours. Don’t worry, Paul. We’ll be fine.”

“What if something goes wrong? Have you considered that? The first time we tried to open the continuum here the two of us ended up in Jurassic Park because Kelly made a typo! Lord, he was barely able to talk last night and—”

“That won’t happen this time. Kelly is fine. Is that what this is about? You’re worried about Kelly, aren’t you?”

“I’m worried about you all.” There was a moment of silence. “Look—if something does go wrong, you will need to stay with the stone. It arrives safely in Cairo, so they had to get it out of there somehow—most likely under escort. Stay with the stone, Robert, especially if you find it undamaged on the 15^th. Get to Cairo.”

“Paul!”

“Here me out. You get to Cairo and lay low. Stay out of trouble. In particular, be wary of a man named Ahmed.”

“Ahmed? Who’s he?”

“Nobody knows. He was a mysterious figure that appeared in Cairo just before the Turks were set to land. He called himself the Mahdi, and he stirred up insurrection in the city.”

“The Mahdi? Oh, the Muslims always call on the image of the Mahdi when they want to stir up trouble. Remember that Shi’ite Mullah in Iraq?”

Paul thought for a moment. “Muqtada al Sadr? Yes. He raised his Mahdi Militias and raised hell for a while. Holed up in An Najaf, if I remember. That was quite a scene at the Shrine of Ali.”

“Exactly. These Muslims are always calling up images from their religious mythology to add propane to their politics. This Ahmed was probably just the same. What would you say to the disaffected masses of Cairo if you wanted to ignite a revolution against their oppressive Western occupiers? You’d claim to be divinely guided; you’d claim to be the Mahdi they have been waiting for all these centuries to liberate them from the deceivers and infidels. The Arabs have been wrapping their politics in religion for millennia, but I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Be watchful just the same.”

Nordhausen seized on Paul’s concern and drove home a point. “You think this man… you believe he may be an Assassin—an agent from the future?”

“I have my suspicions.” Paul folded his arms, one hand stroking his chin. “There were several odd things in the history that began to stick out in my mind when I bored into it again. Did you know that there were at least two obvious assassination plots against Napoleon during this campaign? The first incident occurred just after he landed and seized Alexandria. Upon entering the city Napoleon and his party were making their way through a very narrow street and they were fired upon by a man and a woman with a musket. The second incident was an ambush by a Nablousian on the 24^th of May, 1799, as Napoleon’s troops retreated from Syria. The shot barely missed Napoleon’s head; they caught the man; four Guides put their carbine muskets to his back and pulled the triggers simultaneously. Now get this… All four guns misfired and the man leapt into the Red Sea, swimming for all he was worth. The entire troop fired at him as he went, but not a single shot hit home. He escaped.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Nordhausen said, giving Paul a mollifying glance. “What are you suggesting?”

“It’s odd, that’s all. It has a smell about it I don’t like. There were two attempts on the life of a Prime Mover and both failed. Either Napoleon’s Penumbra was already solidifying his position in the Meridian or… Well that second example was ludicrous! Very suspicious.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can see one of the carbines failing to fire at the assassin,” Paul concluded, “even two. But all four?”

“Are you suggesting the carbines were… tampered with?”

“I don’t know what I’m suggesting, but it seems that the assassin was living a charmed life too.”

“Assassin—“ Nordhausen was quick to pick up on that, the connection obvious to Paul’s discovery at Massiaf.

Paul nodded his agreement. “I’m just worried. This is shaping up to be a crucial Nexus on the Meridian. This business about the Rosetta Stone is becoming a magnet. Both sides could be at play in this, Robert. They could have agents there for the same reason we’re planning to go. In fact, they have decades to try and figure out what we’re up to here tonight. Suppose they do? If anything goes wrong, I’ve got these fallback extraction coordinates programmed, just in case. Be in Cairo, at the fountain square in the city center, on the night of August 1^st. Be there at sunset. Can you remember that?”

“August 1^st? But we’re only going to be there 48 hours, Paul.”

“Assuming all goes well.”

The professor stayed his effort to placate his friend and nodded his assent. “You really are worried.”

“I’ll run a Spook Job at sunset on the 1^st of August to see if you made it,” Paul continued, “and every night thereafter until we spot you there.”

Robert had a wan expression on his face. “Can we survive that long—in the past, I mean.?”

“What?”

“Remember your mission to Massiaf? That Jabr fellow told you that the Walkers had but seven days. You started to fade, and it was just our good fortune that Kelly snatched you out before…” he seemed to stumble over his own thought now.

“Before Paradox took me?” Paul pressed on.

“Yes. Paradox. Well if we get stranded there how long will we be able to sustain ourselves in that Meridian?”

“We really have no way of knowing. Remember, they were using the Well, and I was not prepared to go through. In fact, I went through prematurely. Here we have the Arch.” He was trying to shore up his friend’s resolve now, and bolster his courage. “We’ll have solid pattern signatures on the two of you. That means we can run Spook Jobs and use the quantum scan feature of the Arch to try and locate your patterns. Besides, I don’t see how Paradox would come into play here.”

“You forget that I know all about the glyphs. It’s all in my head, Paul. How will time account for that when the Arch plops me down a day before the damn Rosetta Stone was even discovered!” A long silence settled between them until Paul spoke again.

“No worries,” he began. “You’ll be protected in a Nexus for the duration of the mission—at the very least. After that, you’ll be back here and…” he stopped himself, needing truth now as he was sending his friend off to centuries past. He looked at Robert a long time before he spoke again.

“You know what they say about discretion being the better part of valor. Just be careful, Robert. Hear me?”