The Zygan Emprise: Renegade Paladins and Abyssal Redemption (5 page)

The central holo in front of us was
displaying an ancient city scene, with tunic-clad pedestrians and
overburdened donkeys trudging down dusty dirt streets that were
lined by small huts made of mud-bricks and stone. Women balanced
baskets of wheat on their heads as their rag-robed children rolled
pebbles on the road and dodged piles of equine excrement. Is that
where we were headed? Foo. I’d been hoping we’d score an assignment
at a luxury resort by the sea.

Gary paused to welcome us, then briskly
resumed his narration. “Recent Zygint Central intelligence chatter
reports that Benedict is launching a new wave of guerilla attacks
in multiple locations throughout Zygfed, and, unfortunately, also
throughout time. There’s a strong possibility that Earth is now in
Benedict’s line of sight. As you know, one Andart operation last
year in Hutunye resulted in the deaths of over one million Zygan
citizens. If Benedict succeeds in destroying his targets again, we
could see a similar disaster on Earth.”

“What’s the target?” I asked, alarmed.

“Not what. Who,” Gary responded.

The holo over our table dissolved into a
vision of a thin, wiry, dark-haired boy about, I’d guess, the age
of my brother Billy. Twelve or thirteen. He seemed to be engaged in
an animated discussion with a group of bearded older men in what,
judging by the décor, looked like a place of worship. The chamber’s
walls were lined with wood panels bearing carvings of winged
figures, palm trees, and flowers, all painted or gilded with
gold.

“Yeshua Bar Maryam,” Gary continued. “Our
last trace of him here was a couple of years ago.” He nodded at the
holo. “In Av, 3778, our contact metrics in the period, he is
reported to be about eighteen years of age and working as a
tradesman in Sidon, one of the largest cities in ancient Phoenicia,
western Lebanon today.”

I glanced over at Spud who was taking in the
information in his typical pose, leaning back in his chair with his
eyes half closed, his hands resting on his abdomen, fingertips
together.

“We haven’t been able to track his exact
location. Frankly, Zygint Central dropped the ball on this one.
They weren’t expecting Andarts to be able to access time travel, so
they weren’t tracking incursions into the past. Central now
believes that an Andart or two might have gone back in time to
ancient Phoenicia, with the mission of eliminating Bar Maryam.”

Spud raised an eyebrow. “Time travel? Without
Ergals? How could that be possible?

Gary shrugged. “Don’t ask me. But Central
isn’t ruling it out.”

“I’ve got another question,” I said, puzzled,
“Every life is precious, and none more so than Earth’s, but I’ve
never known His Highness, or Zygint, for that matter, to expend
resources just to preserve
one
life.”

A wry smile crossed Gary’s face. “No, no,
you’re right… not typically. But, the Bar Maryam you see here is a
young man. As an adult, he plays a critical role in Earth’s
history—” Gary seemed to stop himself. “If the Andarts kill him,
the impact on the future would be devastating. Earth’s timeline
would be changed forever.”

“That’s not good.” People were still talking
about the mess Gary had made of Roswell. Changing Earth’s history
thousands of years in the past might mean that Earth’s events
evolve very differently and
our
present might never even
come to pass. And neither might
we
. We had to make sure
Benedict didn’t succeed.

“But you can’t identify Andarts in … Sidon?”
I asked, worried. “
Nothing
on our scans?”

Gary sighed. “Zip. If Andarts are there,
they’re under deep cover. We’ve started monitoring transport fields
for time-traveling invaders now, but the only way for us to catch
anybody that’s already gotten through is from the inside. If and
when they make their move against Yeshua.”

“Any estimates on when that might be?” asked
Spud.

“A week, give or take.” Our Head shook his.
“That’s the best we can guess based on their attack patterns—“ he
looked pointedly at me and Spud—“throughout the Milky Way and
Andromeda.”

“Okay, team, History’ll give you the upload
and help you Ergal your costumes and look.” Gary stood up
decisively. “We’ll need you to M-fan in Sidon within the hour.” He
strode to the door then turned back to us for a final word.
“Remember, failure could be catastrophic.”

“Got that, Gary,” I said, warily. “Isn’t it
always?”

* * *

Middle East—two thousand years ago

In 3778, Sidon was a bustling Middle Eastern
port city on the Mediterranean in what was then an independent
colony in the vast Roman Empire. According to our History uploads,
the Greek poet Homer (who, as the joke goes, wasn’t really Homer
but another poet with the same name
^vi
), had sung the praises of
Sidon’s skilled craftsmen who manufactured glass and purple dye.
Think about it: if the Roman Empire had not supported its
Phoenician colony’s renowned industry, all the cathedrals in
western Europe today that are mobbed by tourists awed by their
exquisite stained glass windows might have ended up instead with
rather uninspiring wooden green shutters that wouldn’t be much of a
draw.

Emperor Tiberius had newly risen to power and
was experiencing a brief honeymoon, perhaps launching the
Mediterranean as a favorite site for honeymooners; before his
nervous breakdowns led him to attack many of his close relatives,
perhaps launching the model of an spectacularly unhappy marriage.
Fortunately, in 3778 on the Hebrew calendar (around 18 ACE),
Tiberius was keeping himself busy in Rome and Capri, and didn’t
really have much influence in Sidon. His decision to stay far away
was completely understandable, as I would have much preferred an
assignment on the Italian coast myself, especially considering that
the average temperature in midday Sidon hovered at over one hundred
ten degrees Fahrenheit.

“It is decidedly sweltering,” Spud moaned, as
he mopped his forehead with his mantle, an ancient white scarf.
From the zero degrees Celsius briskness of England’s moors to the
zero degrees Kelvin chill of deep space, Spud was much more at home
in a cooler environment.

“It’s 120 in the shade.” I nodded, shaking my
tunic to create a momentary breeze. I looked at my Ergal. The
screen displayed a detailed map of the region. “About two more
kilometers due southwest.”

Spud pulled his mantle over his head and I
followed suit as we trudged forward on the dirt footpath under the
blazing sun. I had hoped we could have M-fanned right in the middle
of town, but Gary felt our chances of discovery by an observant
Andart were too great. Sure, we could invisible-ize, but if the
Andarts had an unregistered holo scan pointed in the right
direction, they might be able to pick up our Ergal activity and
track us down.

Spud and I had bronzed our skin so we
wouldn’t look out of place among the locals, and our costume beards
and mustaches looked genuine. Yes, plural. In ancient times in the
Middle East, there were a lot of things that women just didn’t do.
So, like Yentl, I’d dressed up as a man. Come to think of it, in
some of those countries, I’d do the same today.

Cursing Gary’s caution, we plodded slowly
onward in the baking sun for what seemed to be forever. The
Phoenicians were smarter than we were. Most of them wisely opted to
stay indoors and avoid the heat. We’d only passed two travelers,
both going in the opposite direction, until we reached the Temple
of Eshmoun, the Phoenician God of Healing, a kilometer north of the
city. Alongside its entrance, blocking our path, stood a wizened
old man with long gray hair and a salt-and-pepper beard. Oops. So
much for staying under the radar.

“Hail, journeymen,” the elderly man greeted
us, eyeing us from head to toe. “I am the Keeper of the Temple of
Eshmoun. What brings you to our gates?”

Despite the high quality of our disguises, I
was still uncomfortable under the man’s intense gaze. I let Spud do
the talking. His Phoenician was more passable and in a lower
register than mine.

“Hail, neighbor,” Spud responded. (I’m giving
you the English translation, of course, guessing that most of you
are even worse at Canaan dialects than me. Oh, and sorry about the
stilted medieval dialogue. Phoenician is kinda short on slang.)

“I am Akbar from Berytus, and I walk with my
brother Danel.” My partner continued, “We are seeking our cousin,
Sakarbaal, in East Sidon.”

I know Spud chose Sakarbaal as a common
Phoenician name, but, I was still annoyed. It was so hard to keep
from giggling at the pun.

The aged gentleman nodded. “From which clan
is he?”

“Manchester United,”
^vii
I mumbled
sotto
voce
, biting my lip to stay silent as Spud’s heel met my shin.
Yow! Okay, that worked.

“Cousin of Milkpilles,” continued Spud,
picking another common and funny-sounding name. This time, the pain
in my leg made it much easier to maintain a straight face.

“Ah.” The old man smiled and, still watching
us intently with his bright hazel eyes, stepped aside. “Then you
are nearing the end of your journey, Akbar and Danel. Go forward in
good health.” Acknowledging his blessing, we both bowed our heads
and proceeded briskly down the path. I felt the Keeper’s eyes
boring into my back until the road curved and we were beyond his
sight.

The path became much wider and well-trodden
as we inched—or should I say cubited
^viii
—closer to our goal.

As soon as we were out of earshot, Spud gave
me an English earful about my lack of self-control. “You might have
blown our cover! And, besides, it’s
football
in Britain, not
soccerball.”

As if I didn’t know. I looked at him through
narrowed lids. “But
Milk pills?”

“Milk-pill-es is an esteemed name in this
era,” Spud returned my glare, “just as Kal-el and Pilot Inspektor,
names given to their children by our fellow thespians, are in
ours.”

Good point, Spud.

“The rather pedestrian moniker which you have
bestowed upon me,” he added, obviously referring to ‘Spud’, is no
less risible. But I do prefer it to the even more pedestrian
‘Bill’. Or my middle names of ‘Sherlock’ and ‘Scott’.”

“Can’t argue with that, either,” I conceded,
and we both trudged silently along the path for another quarter
hour. The sparse vegetation soon gave way to irrigated land, with
fruits and vegetables in neat rows surrounding small cottages made
of stone and fired brick. In the town, oblivious pedestrians passed
us by from all directions, many carrying sacks or baskets of what
seemed to be produce or other foodstuffs, and carefully balanced
containers of water. I pressed the touch screen of my Ergal, now
anamorphed into a hunting knife and hidden in my clothing, and
M-fanned a similar jug, drawing it out from beneath the folds of my
tunic to drench my parched lips.

“Careful,” whispered Spud, who grabbed the
canteen from me and gulped the fresh water greedily. “Blistering
desert.”

I was about to grumble, “Ergal your own,”
when I spied a ramshackle structure a couple of hundred yards down
the road.

“I believe that tumbledown edifice ahead
should be our inn,” Spud said without enthusiasm.

“Don’t be a pessimist,” I chided. “I bet
it’ll be a two star hotel.”

Spud looked at me, incredulous. “Two
stars?”

“Sure, you and me,” I returned, grinning.

“Bollocks.”

The last drops of water he poured from my
canteen were most refreshing. On my sizzling scalp.

Several Ergaled shekels got us a small room
with two other travelers on the first floor of the inn in the city
center. We claimed a shaded corner away from the window and, after
brushing a column of ants out of our spot, unrolled our blankets on
the relatively cool, packed-dirt floor. Midday was fully upon us,
and searching for our target would be futile with most workers
hiding indoors for shade and siesta.

Spud sat cross-legged on the floor, chewing
on bay leaves, and leaned against the brick wall, lost in thought.
I lay on my blanket, one hand behind my head and the other brushing
an annoyingly persistent fly off my face, and gazed up at the
ragged wood ceiling beams that supported the cottage’s upper floor,
hoping that the insect life of this city didn’t include termites. I
hadn’t intended to fall asleep, and wasn’t sure that I really had,
when I heard our two fellow guests in the far corner speaking
softly in Aramaic.

Through the miracles of CANDI, my Ergal
translated their language even when I was semi-conscious, and I
recall being able to make out a few words.

“Three cubits … sunrise … bricks … masonry …
Jupiter … Yeshua … death …”

Yeshua? Death?
I struggled to wake up,
and finally opened my eyes, only to find that our two roommates
were gone. And so was Spud! His blanket rested untouched next to
mine. Where did he go? Or, worse, where might he have been
taken?

The sun was now lower in the sky, and I could
hear a growing hustle and bustle from the street outside. I debated
whether I should wait here in case Spud was simply playing the
bloodhound, or whether I should start planning a rescue. I finally
decided that it wouldn’t hurt to go and scope out the local
territory a bit for a start.

Then the words I’d heard resonated once again
in my memory. Yeshua. Could the men who’d been sitting a few feet
from our blankets actually be the Andarts we were trying to catch?
Nah. That would be too easy. But…

Cubits … bricks … masonry … Certainly sounded
like it had something to do with construction. Gary had told us
that Yeshua was likely to be working on a building site. Maybe the
Andarts were canvassing those sites to finid their target. And
Jupiter, well Jupiter
was
King of the Roman gods—the Roman
Zeus—but Jupiter could also be the planet. If these men
were
the Andarts we were after, they would know that Zygan Intelligence
has an outpost on one of Jupiter’s moons, Io, and they might have
been discussing how to avoid Io patrols when they made their
escape. After killing Yeshua.
Death
—