Chapter 10:
Nathanial Caudell's face went paler by sever shades as he blanched. Even Mollie looked shaken.
"How on God's green earth did you get hold of Forrest that fast? It's only been fifteen minutes!" Caudell was doing his best not to look queasy, but his best wasn't enough. Nathan Bedford Forrest had remained in the army even after the war had ended, having found it more to his liking than civilian life, but the years since the end of the war had done nothing to dull his ruthless ability, or his personal lack of civilized polish. Men had followed Lee because they loved him, and followed Jackson because they respected him – but they followed Forrest because they knew better than not to. He was among the few general officers remaining in Confederate service who kept his commission once the fighting had ended, by Lee's order; few men had it in them to rise more than three or four grades in rank, even during the war when promotions came thick and fast. Forrest had started as a buck private, and had ended the war a Major General.
Pleasants shook his head tiredly. "I thought Forrest was still out fighting Indians in Sonora. I was rather hoping to have gotten the ear of General Johnston, myself. I don't think he would have drafted me into the army, at the very least. I figured on getting someone high up, though. If I were in their shoes, I'd have any message about the Rivington men sent straight on up to Lee." He chuckled sourly, then continued, "I was the one who sent the message, so it was me he drafted, along with 'whomever else you can rely upon in this matter.' But…"
Caudell winced, but Molly looked oddly excited. The passage of time had a way of dimming memory into nostalgia, and while she was perfectly content as the schoolmaster's wife, she remembered the war years with more fondness than most; although her sordid background played no small part in that feeling.
"Forrest wants us to follow them to Rivington, then?" she asked gamely.
Pleasants laughed uncomfortably. "As I was about to say, I'm not Forrest, and while I'm stuck with this, you aren't. If you don't want to get involved, I won't tell a soul you were ever here. But if you're willing, I'd be much obliged."
Mollie looked far too enthusiastic for Caudell's peace of mind; which meant that she'd certainly go with Pleasants whether or not he went as well. And truth be told, he was having serious thoughts about going along with this mad venture anyway. He was curious about the four people they were tailing, and coupled with his suspicions about the true nature of the Rivington men, he wasn't about to let his friend run off to face them alone.
"It's a good thing I won't have to miss any classes for this," he said, somehow dredging up a smile. Mollie whooped.
Pleasants grinned hugely. "Thanks Nate, I really appreciate this. I just hope we don't all get killed."
"You're a regular fountain of cheer, Henry," Mollie called half-teasingly as she started walking in the direction of the train station. "Ya'll coming? It sounds like they might be making last call right now. I'll go get Ruffin, see if he's too old for this kinda thing yet."
Caudell laughed, following her path with his friend still beside him. "What about weapons, Henry?"
Holding open one flap of his vest, Pleasants tapped his finger against the solid black butt of a pistol nestled securely in an inner pocket. Light glinted briefly from it, as if from metal, before he let the concealing cloth fall closed.
Impressed despite himself, Caudell felt his own eyebrows climb. "That's a pretty odd kind of pistol there, Henry. Where'd you get it?"
Pleasants shrugged, but a humorless smile crossed his face fleetingly. "It belonged to a Rivington man. He didn't need it anymore." There wasn't anything else to say about that. It seemed grisly in the light of a warm summer evening, but when hard times had stalked the Army of Northern Virginia, soldiers got their arms and supplies where and when they could. Caudell and the other men of the Castalia Invincibles had become familiar with those kind of dire straights – and when Henry Pleasants had been stuck in a shallow dirt wash with them for the more than a month, bullets from a Rivington endless repeater whipping overhead near constantly, he'd become familiar with it too.
"That's all well for you, but what about the rest of us?" Caudell waited expectantly. He wasn't afraid to go back into combat against the Rivington men, but he wasn't keen on doing so unarmed.
Pleasants shrugged again, this time looking uncomfortable. "Truth to tell, Nate, I don't rightly know. There's supposed to be a garrison in Rivington, so we should be able to get what we need there. We're just supposed to follow them though, so if we're fortunate, we won't have to bother. I'd offer to buy something right here for the rest of you, but just the stabling for the horses and the train tickets are putting a pretty dent in my funds."
"Oh."
Hearing the train whistle, both quickened their steps as the platform came in sight. Before they reached the steps, Caudell had thought of something else, and stopped just short of the lowest stair.
"Say, Henry?"
"Hmm?" Pleasants stopped also, though the impatience on his face was clear.
"Does this mean I've got to start calling you 'Colonel' again?"
A wolfish grin split Pleasant's features, and he took the steps two at a time without answering. Groaning theatrically, Caudell followed. A selfish hope ran through his head that the train would suffer a sudden breakdown and they'd just have to give up the chase knowing they'd done the best they could.
The train only whistled again.
*****
"No! Absolutely not!"
With look of pure desperation on his face, Jake Sisko went on pleading his case. "Well why not? I thought you were my friend!"
Nog shook his head even more forcefully, and bared his pointed teeth. "If I was not your friend, I would have handed you over to Worf for even suggesting that I smuggle you aboard. And you know very well why not. I can't believe you're even thinking about beaming down there. Do you have any idea what they'd do to both of us if we were caught?"
Jake snorted. "Like what? There are laws you know. Besides, by now, I'd almost welcome a change of scenery to the brig. I'm going stir-crazy in here!"
"This is not a laughing matter!" Nog hissed. "I know your Federation laws as well as you do, hu-mon, and Worf could have us both shot if he wanted to! You're a civilian who smuggled his way onto a starship on active duty, and I'm your accomplice. Did you even think of that?"
With a breezy wave of the hand, Jake dismissed that possibility. "C'mon Nog, it's Worf we're talking about here. We've both known him for years. He wouldn't do something like that."
"Wouldn't he?" Nog countered. "He's also still a Klingon, Jake, and he's been living on Qo'noS for the past two years. How do you know what he would do? This was a mistake, and I never should have agreed to it," he moaned again. "And that's exactly what I'll tell them at my court-martial."
"What's the big deal? We beam down, take a look around, and beam back. Q hasn't made another appearance for almost three days now, and I've got to have something to go back with. My readers will string me up if I don't, and I can't write a good story locked in this room!" Jake's mounting frustration was pouring out now, and he started pacing the utilitarian quarters furiously.
Nog was not in the least sympathetic. "Maybe you should have thought of that before you talked me in to this," he pointed out acidly. "Besides, even if you did get down there, what then? You did even worse in Earth history than I did. You wouldn't know what to expect, I wouldn't be able to beam you back up until my next shift no matter what happened, and we could be thrown into some other dimension while you're there, and strand you there permanently!"
Jake started to object, but his memory fished up too-clear recollections of Keiko O'Brien's classroom, and his own grades. Worse still, he knew Nog was right – going down would be an unnecessary risk, and he really could not remember much about Earth history before the twenty-first century, and that only because of the role his own father had played in it. But in his friend's words he sensed an opening.
"We could look that kind of stuff up in the databanks," he said dismissively. Almost as an afterthought, he added, "You know, I wonder how much a genuine mint-condition ancient Earth artifact would go for in the Alliance." Relics could be replicated easily enough, but despite that, or perhaps because of it, original items held a great deal of value just about everywhere in the quadrant that held wealthy collectors. The temporal prime directive banned interference in the time stream, but there was nothing about snagging a few souvenirs – at least nothing Jake could remember. He could see Nog's ears visibly twitch at that thought, and his eyes widen at the tantalizing prospect.
Then his training kicked in, and his face went hard. "No. I won't be a part of this. If you want to go down there so badly, you can get out and swim there yourself." Nog's voice wavered slightly in spite of his resolve, and Jake noticed that immediately.
"Nog, just think of how proud your father would be if you managed to acquire some valuable human relics for him!"
"I'm thinking of what he'd do to me if I were thrown out of Starfleet," Nog grumbled. But Jake could sense that resolve crumbling before his eyes.
"The riskier the road, the greater the profit," Jake quoted solemnly. "Rule of Acquisition number sixty-two. And don't forget number nine –"
"I know, I know," Nog replied testily, "Opportunity plus instinct equals profit. But we both know that I don't have the lobes for business… and I am still a Starfleet officer."
Jake heard the hesitation, and grinned, knowing he'd won.
"If we do this," Nog said, lowering his voice into something resembling a conspiratorial whisper, "we're going to do it my way, understand?"
Barely containing a triumphant shout, Jake's grinned widened, and he nodded vigorously.
Noting his friend's reaction, Nog mumbled something darkly in Ferengi. At Jake's uncomprehending look, he clarified, "I was just reminding myself of the two-hundred and eighty-fifth Rule of Acquisition: No good deed ever goes unpunished."
*****
"Hey, Marcus, wake up." A pause. "Marcus!" This time the word was accompanied by a none-too-gentle nudge, and Marcus Cole's hand was halfway to his concealed pike before he recognized Garibaldi's voice.
He sat up straighter from where he'd slumped sideways in his seat, rubbed the numb spot on his cheek where it'd been pressed against the dirty glass of the window, and took in his surroundings. His eyes adjusted quickly – the only light he could see came from a swaying overhead lamp, whose wick burned low and dimly. In the gloom, he could see Garibaldi keeping a wary eye out for trouble while Sheridan stifled a yawn, and Doctor Crusher set about gathering the folds of her dress about her. Marcus took some morbid comfort in knowing that he hadn't been the only one to catch a quick catnap, though Garibaldi's contrasting alertness irked him.
"Why the wake up call?" he asked fuzzily. "Are we there yet?" Almost as soon as he said it, the absence of the clacking and rattling that had marked their passage registered on his semi-conscious mind.
"You could say that," Garibaldi answered, pointedly looking down to the end of the car where a porter was making his way forward, marked by a bobbing lantern.
"All out fer Rivington," he called out softly as he passed them, slipping between Garibaldi and Sheridan, and continuing down the aisle. "We're not stopping here, so if this ain't where you want to be, jus' sit tight."
"That sounds like our cue," Sheridan muttered, motioning for them to follow him to the exit at the far end of the car. They piled out of the train car on to the mostly deserted platform; a few more candle lamps in the station's windows providing the only light in the murky gloom that pervaded the atmosphere. The temperature had gone down since sunset – now it was only muggy and warm, as opposed to scorching – but clouds or fog had rolled in with the nightfall, and there were no stars; only the faint, fuzzy glow of the moon provided any other light.
The design of the station and platform itself was not dissimilar to the one they'd come from in Rocky Mount; though if that one had looked weather-beaten, this one simply reeked of neglect. Paint peeled in swatches from the shingled walls, and the floorboards beneath their feet felt the slightest bit slick, as though the boards played host to a thin layer of slime. Beverly Crusher was relieved to see that they weren't the only ones jumping train at this unlikely destination – further down the platform, another group of four stepped out onto the platform, though at this distance and in the low light, she could see nothing specific about them. Two other people embarked the train through the same door the other group had come through.
From out of the darkness down towards the front of the train, its whistle shrieked like a lost soul, a lonely sound that seemed eerily appropriate for their locale. The sun hadn't been down for too long, but even with the extended daylight of midsummer, none of them were used to such an oppressive blackness.
Of course, Sheridan realized with a start, there's nothing bright enough to create any light pollution here. Even having grown up in a relatively rural area, they sky was still often too bright to see stars clearly, on those nights when the cloud cover wasn't cast in a pale brown glow. Judging by the reactions he was seeing from both Marcus and the Starfleet doctor, he guessed that the situation on Minbar and her Earth weren't altogether different.
Garibaldi cleared his throat suddenly, snapping Sheridan out of his introspection. "Well, any ideas where to now?"
Sheridan frowned and shook his head, irritated at himself. After all the trouble they'd gone through to avoid making themselves objects of suspicion, that would be exactly what they were doing if they continued milling around a nearly deserted railroad platform. "Follow me," he said confidently, leading them to the stairs, only a few feet away. Descending the steps to the bare ground below, Sheridan turned a corner around the stationhouse, and stopped short, barely feeling someone bouncing into him.
Behind them, the train whistle howled again, and the locomotive began to roll off in a hiss of released pressure and grinding of iron wheels on a length of steel track, but four pairs of eyes were riveted to their immediate front.
"Bloody hell," Marcus exclaimed in a stunned whisper.
One whole side of the train station on the lower lever was bashed in, as though struck by a tremendous hammer. Burnt and splintered wood littered the ground near the gaping hole, though it hadn't reached as far as the ticket booth up on the platform; which seemed to be the only part of the station in operation anyway.
"It looks like somebody set off a bomb in there," Crusher remarked, still looking at the damage through wide eyes, while already reaching for her tricorder.
It looked that way to Sheridan too, though something about it struck him oddly. Garibaldi put his doubts into words a moment later.
The security chief had already picked up and was examining one of the shards of charred wood, simultaneously swinging around and taking a closer look at their surroundings. "Whatever did this was from the outside. Look at where most of the debris is – inside. But whatever happened here, happened a long time ago." He pointed to the splintered boards that ringed the hole, saying, "See how weathered those pieces are? They look almost like the outside wall, which means they've been exposed to the elements for a while."
Crusher brushed an errant strand of hair out of her eyes, fingering her unopened tricorder in surprise. Michael Garibaldi had already told her just about everything her medical scanner could have in less time than it took for her to get the device out of her handbag. She had a fleeting thought that Worf would have approved. "Why haven't they bothered to repair the damage, if it's been like that for so long?" she wondered aloud. Garibaldi could only shrug at that.
"I think the better question would be what caused that," Marcus said.
"A big artillery piece could have managed that," Sheridan responded. Then he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing in the opposite direction from the station. "But I don't think artillery did that."
His gaze directed their eyes to a point directly across from the stationhouse where a neat row of wide, scorched beams stabbed the air, looking like a row of jagged obsidian headstones. Directly across from the hole in the station wall, however, that row was interrupted by the burnt and shattered remains of a smaller building – still a sizable structure in its own right – and Garibaldi pointed it out at once.
"Anything that blew in that wall would have come from right there," he said, pointing out the obvious. "But those buildings look like they were burned down, not demolished."
"Well, we were looking for something unusual," Crusher said philosophically, walking purposefully to the small building's rubble. "I'd say that this qualifies."
The three men followed along, drawn by their own curiosity, and it was Marcus who first spied something interesting in what was essentially a great mound of ash and charred wood. Stooping to pick up one particular bit of wood which seemed to have escaped some of the worst of the fire, he turned it over in his hands, brushing some of the encrusted grit off. "That's odd," he muttered to himself.
"What is it?" Sheridan asked, sparing Marcus a glance before surveying the ground at his feet more carefully.
Instead of answering right away, he turned the piece over in his hands again, squinting at something on it, something that remained elusive under the faint, baleful glow of the lamps in the station office, behind and above them. "There's something written on this, but I can't read it. I'm afraid I forgot to bring a flashlight. Didn't think we'd need one."
"Good thing I'm not as forgetful then," Garibaldi jibed, withdrawing a small but powerful light from his belt. At Sheridan's surprised look, he explained conversationally, "I make a point of carrying one around. There are some parts of Downbelow that you just don't go near unless you bring your own light."
"I'll keep that in mind, Chief," Sheridan replied thoughtfully.
"You know, I told Jeff I should clean that place out completely, and the offer stands. Especially now, when we aren't even being supported by Earth anymore, we sure as hell can't afford to – whoa, hold on just a second. This can't be right." Garibaldi's voice tapered off when he got a good look at the board Marcus was still patiently holding. "Captain, you'd better get a look at this."
Sheridan peered over Garibaldi's shoulder, and took in the broken board, now brightly illuminated by Garibaldi's flashlight beam. Like theirs, his eyes were immediately drawn to cleanly stenciled letters that read, MEALS – READY TO EAT.
*****
Susan Ivanova hit the ground in a tangle of limbs, grunting as the breath was driven from her lungs by the powerful blow that had felled her. Her only weapon flew from her fingers like a thing possessed, and the velocity of its departure convinced her that she'd never recover it. At the last moment, she was able to turn the headlong tumble into something approximating a roll. Before she could congratulate herself on the ungainly movement, a second blow brought an end to the second wind she felt coming on. This time there was no recovering from the fall, and only the helmet she wore saved her from a ringing headache. The tough, resisting mat beneath her certainly would not have.
"Enough!" she called out to her assailant, sitting up and yanking the offending headgear – and its accompanying blinders – free of her hair. Rolling over, Ivanova sat up, propping herself up on the palms of her hands, and glared.
When Will Riker pushed back his blinders and grinned at her, she felt a momentary flash of satisfaction that he at least looked winded.
"That was much better," he told her truthfully, extending his free hand to help her up.
She accepted the help as graciously as she could manage, and said, "Right. That's why it took you all of fifteen seconds to smear me across the mat."
Riker's grin widened, but his tone was serious. "I did warn you earlier that I've been doing this since I was eight years old. I may not be in quite as good shape as I'd like to be –" he'd long since accepted the fact that he was no longer the lanky, wiry officer he had been when he'd first reported aboard the Enterprise more than ten years ago. "– but if I couldn't still beat a complete novice, I'd really be in trouble. And like most novices to anbo-jytsu, you're still relying too much on your sight." He hefted his own three-meter staff, and gestured to one of the wide, blunted ends. "The proximity sensor on the end will only give you a general idea about where your opponent is – but it won't tell you anything about where their weapon is. For that, you have to rely on your other senses: sound, vibrations in the mat, and air currents, among others."
Ivanova cocked her head and gave him a thin-lipped smile. "In that case, how about this time you wear the blinders and I don't?"
"Won't that kind of defeat the purpose?" he asked, watching her retrieve her fallen staff and helmet.
Ivanova pushed the helmet back down on to her head, and slid the opaque visor up and out of her eyes. "Not really," she told him, "since my purpose right now is to take you down at least once."
"I see," Riker said, cocking an eyebrow at her. "Do you make it a habit to cheat?" he goaded, testing her reaction. He was curious to find out if his counterpart was as intemperate as the woman who'd almost needed to be carried out of the holodeck a few nights before.
"Of course not," Ivanova replied sharply. "But all's fair in love and war." She spun the staff easily in one hand, and tried to look as menacing as she could, knowing that she was moments from another embarrassing defeat.
Pulling the visor down over his eyes, Riker asked, "And just which of those applies here?"
Ivanova waved dismissively though Riker could no longer see it, and then lunged suddenly, hoping to catch him off guard.
He twisted, catching the broad end of her weapon with his own, and brushed it aside almost contemptuously. His own counterattack was a sudden flurry of strikes that left her staggering, even with the tremendous advantage of sight.
Risking a feint that left her open to another punishing blow, she rolled hard, narrowly avoiding a searching sweep from the shrilly beeping sensor at the end of his staff, and swung upwards in a short arc. Ivanova felt a flash of fierce satisfaction – that one had gone home, and Riker staggered. The movement was barely perceptible, but she knew it was no figment of her imagination.
However rusty it might have been, Riker's training kicked in though, and he turned the stumble into a sidewise lunge. Ivanova's exultation dried up as she registered the rapidly descending thrust, the fact that her last attack had placed her face directly in its path, and the sheer futility of stopping or dodging it – and Riker paused uncertainly at the jarring shock that ran up his arms. After a moment in which the faint drone of his sensor confirmed that its target was no longer within the sparring circle, he made to remove his helmet and examine the damage.
"I'malright," Ivanova said mushily, working to uncross her eyes. She blinked several times, and told herself that the stars would go away soon enough.
"Sorry about that," Riker offered contritely. He waited, still concerned, to be sure that she wasn't more injured than she thought. He had never pulled blows against his father, and the thought of doing so against anyone else had never occurred to him.
Ivanova shook her head, then stopped abruptly when the motion made the stars she was still seeing change color and swirl madly. "That's ok," she enunciated more clearly, "that was my own fault. I should've moved faster. Although I'd be appreciative if you'd help me snap my jaw back into place." The stars had faded completely by the time she finished speaking, and she pushed herself to her feet.
It was a relieved Starfleet officer who helped her stand completely, and only the chime of an open communications channel prevented him from insisting that she go down to sickbay.
"Picard to Commander Riker."
Her head finally clearing, aside from the ache where Riker's weapon had struck the point of her chin, Ivanova smirked at him as he glanced up at the ceiling to reply. He didn't even realize he was doing it.
"Riker here, Captain."
Contact established, Picard's tone became conversational. "We've just heard back from the away team, Will –" Out of the corner of his eye, Riker saw Ivanova react to that news, and squashed a grin. "and Captain Sheridan has elected to remain on the surface tonight. He says they've confirmed a temporal incursion, and they'll be looking for some clue as to what Q intends for us in this reality. I have already informed Ambassador Delenn, but Commander Ivanova proved somewhat more elusive. If you see her, I'd like you pass this along."
"I'll do that, sir," Riker responded with a smile directed at the named party. "As a matter of fact, she's right here. We were having a… first officer's meeting."
There was the tinniest of hesitations from the other end. "Understood, Number One. They should be contacting us again shortly, and when they do I plan to convene in the conference room to consider the situation further."
"Yes sir, we'll be there. Riker out." He turned then to Ivanova, and suggestively asked, "Another match?"
Ivanova made a show of shifting her jaw back into its proper place and laughed; then winced as the bruise forming on her chin twinged painfully. "Maybe another time, Commander." She suddenly looked devilishly thoughtful. "If you're still interested when this all blows over, though, I'm sure Marcus would give it a try. I don't know what it is about men and big sticks, but he's pretty good with his Minbari pike. And that would be a win-win situation for me, since I'd get to watch at least one of you get kicked around like a rag doll!"
Riker grinned more broadly. He was starting to see just what Sheridan saw in his executive officer. Even so, he was unfairly glad that she didn't want a rematch – this way she'd never know how effective her one landed blow had been, since he could have the bruised ribs seen to before she found out.