why Dane wants me to go. I’ve got a lot of—”
Another door opened, cutting off his whine.
“Whoa!” Roland exclaimed.
Scout was dressed in a long white robe underneath a red cloak, wearing leather sandals. Her hair was bright red and cut tight to her skull. But what drew the exclamation from Roland was the Naga staff in her hand.
“Why don’t they give me one of those?” Roland wondered out loud. “I mean, I like the sword and all, but that thing can cut through pretty much anything.”
“I bet you’re not going back to 1969,” Doc said.
“Could be Woodstock,” Mac offered.
“Not with the Naga staff,” Roland said, a surprising observation from the big man.
Through the same door Roland had entered, came Eagle, his lips tight in anger.
“Whatever and wherever that is,” Doc said, “it’s not good.”
Eagle wore homespun breeches and a shirt, which looked like it, had been stitched together from parts of three other shirts. He had rough leather shoes, the big toe poking through on the right foot. His hat was the only decent piece of clothing, black felt, with a wide brim, but heavily sweat-stained. Eagle took the hat off, tossed it on the table, and sat down.
Then he looked around. A slight grin broke his anger as he saw Roland and his sword. “Rome. Late in the Empire judging by the weapon.”
“Huh?” Roland said.
“It’s not a gladius ,” Eagle said. “It’s a spatha . Longer. The Roman Army adapted it in the Second Century.”
“I like it,” Roland said. “Not as nice as the axe last time, but, still. It feels right. Good balance.”
“A rock would feel right to you,” Mac said.
Eagle checked out Mac’s outfit. “A monk? Stranger things have happened, I suppose.”
Mac fingered the cross. “Never liked going to church much. My parents and brother…” but he fell silent.
The last member of the team, Moms, came in and it was Mac’s turn to be surprised. “I can see your—”
“Shut up,” Roland said. When Roland said something in that tone, it was advisable to one’s health to listen, so Mac shut up.
Moms wore a sleeveless white tunic that went to her knees. It had a gold border on the hem and edge of the shoulders. A narrow girdle on the outside went right below her breasts, cinched tight. The fabric was sheer, leaving little to the imagination.
Moms surveyed the room and began to speak, more to distract them from her outfit than having something to say since they didn’t know the missions yet. “All right, listen up. We—” she paused as Dane and Edith Frobish entered.
Dane went to the chalkboard. “Everyone take a seat. You’ll get knowledge downloads for your mission after this mission briefing.” He picked up a piece of chalk and moved to write something, when Eagle suddenly spoke up.
“That was BS.”
Dane turned to him. “Go on.”
“The ring tones. That was our tradition. The Nightstalkers. You programmed those satphones. Put those ring tones in. You want to Zevon us, do it right.”
“Or don’t do it all,” Moms added.
Scout spoke up. “That song, the one you put on mine, that was between Nada and I. Personal. You intruded.”
Dane’s nostrils flared. Edith was next to him, giving him a glare, which for her was more like a school-marm sniff of disapproval. Dane didn’t notice it anyway. But the team did.
Dane looked each member of the team in the eyes, before finally nodding. “You’re right. That was wrong.” He waited a beat. “Can we move on?”
Moms curtly nodded.
“You all know how this works now,” Dane began.
“I don’t,” Doc said.
“That’s why you’re here,” Dane said. “Following the Rule of Seven, where Six cascades can form a Time Tsunami, we’re sending you back to the same date, in different years, to stop the Shadow from altering history in those six years.”
“Get to the headline,” Mac said. “I’ve got a headache.”
“It could have been much worse than a headache for you,” Dane
Another door opened, cutting off his whine.
“Whoa!” Roland exclaimed.
Scout was dressed in a long white robe underneath a red cloak, wearing leather sandals. Her hair was bright red and cut tight to her skull. But what drew the exclamation from Roland was the Naga staff in her hand.
“Why don’t they give me one of those?” Roland wondered out loud. “I mean, I like the sword and all, but that thing can cut through pretty much anything.”
“I bet you’re not going back to 1969,” Doc said.
“Could be Woodstock,” Mac offered.
“Not with the Naga staff,” Roland said, a surprising observation from the big man.
Through the same door Roland had entered, came Eagle, his lips tight in anger.
“Whatever and wherever that is,” Doc said, “it’s not good.”
Eagle wore homespun breeches and a shirt, which looked like it, had been stitched together from parts of three other shirts. He had rough leather shoes, the big toe poking through on the right foot. His hat was the only decent piece of clothing, black felt, with a wide brim, but heavily sweat-stained. Eagle took the hat off, tossed it on the table, and sat down.
Then he looked around. A slight grin broke his anger as he saw Roland and his sword. “Rome. Late in the Empire judging by the weapon.”
“Huh?” Roland said.
“It’s not a gladius ,” Eagle said. “It’s a spatha . Longer. The Roman Army adapted it in the Second Century.”
“I like it,” Roland said. “Not as nice as the axe last time, but, still. It feels right. Good balance.”
“A rock would feel right to you,” Mac said.
Eagle checked out Mac’s outfit. “A monk? Stranger things have happened, I suppose.”
Mac fingered the cross. “Never liked going to church much. My parents and brother…” but he fell silent.
The last member of the team, Moms, came in and it was Mac’s turn to be surprised. “I can see your—”
“Shut up,” Roland said. When Roland said something in that tone, it was advisable to one’s health to listen, so Mac shut up.
Moms wore a sleeveless white tunic that went to her knees. It had a gold border on the hem and edge of the shoulders. A narrow girdle on the outside went right below her breasts, cinched tight. The fabric was sheer, leaving little to the imagination.
Moms surveyed the room and began to speak, more to distract them from her outfit than having something to say since they didn’t know the missions yet. “All right, listen up. We—” she paused as Dane and Edith Frobish entered.
Dane went to the chalkboard. “Everyone take a seat. You’ll get knowledge downloads for your mission after this mission briefing.” He picked up a piece of chalk and moved to write something, when Eagle suddenly spoke up.
“That was BS.”
Dane turned to him. “Go on.”
“The ring tones. That was our tradition. The Nightstalkers. You programmed those satphones. Put those ring tones in. You want to Zevon us, do it right.”
“Or don’t do it all,” Moms added.
Scout spoke up. “That song, the one you put on mine, that was between Nada and I. Personal. You intruded.”
Dane’s nostrils flared. Edith was next to him, giving him a glare, which for her was more like a school-marm sniff of disapproval. Dane didn’t notice it anyway. But the team did.
Dane looked each member of the team in the eyes, before finally nodding. “You’re right. That was wrong.” He waited a beat. “Can we move on?”
Moms curtly nodded.
“You all know how this works now,” Dane began.
“I don’t,” Doc said.
“That’s why you’re here,” Dane said. “Following the Rule of Seven, where Six cascades can form a Time Tsunami, we’re sending you back to the same date, in different years, to stop the Shadow from altering history in those six years.”
“Get to the headline,” Mac said. “I’ve got a headache.”
“It could have been much worse than a headache for you,” Dane
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