Between the two of them, Lucas and Bobby had put in some pretty heavy service. Hooker was still fairly green, but Delaney was on his second tour of duty and had seen a lot of action. In spite of that, the training period that followed was the toughest any of them had ever gone through. Their drillmaster was a tough old bastard of indeterminate age. The antiagathic drugs made it difficult to accurately guess how old a person was, but the drillmaster looked like Methuselah himself. His name was Major Forrester. He was bald as an egg, wrinkled as a prune and as mean as a bear with hemorrhoids.
'You men might think you're old hands at this sort of thing,' he told them. 'Well, you're in for one great big fucking surprise. I'm going to work you till you drop and then I'll kick your asses right back up again and you'll work some more. And just for starters, I want a hundred push-ups, two hundred sit-ups and thirty chins.'
'That's not so tough,' Bobby whispered to Lucas.
'And if you're not done in six minutes, you'll do it all again! Time starts right now!'
They were all used to strenuous demands placed on their bodies, but Forrester ran them ragged. Every night, they went to bed so sore that they could hardly move. The nature of their training left no doubt in their minds that they had been selected for a commando assignment. They were worked in the finer points of medieval combat, becoming accustomed to moving about in full armor and learning to control their horses by pressure of the knees. They were drilled in the use of weapons such as the broadsword, the axe, the mace, the crossbow and the long bow, as well. They trained with daggers and Hooker proved to be a surprise even to Major Forrester. He could throw almost any sort of knife with unerring accuracy. Lucas wondered where he had grown up and what sort of childhood he must have had. Hooker was barely nineteen.
Due to their varied past experiences, some things came easier to some of them than they did to others. Lucas had brought to the assignment extensive experience in fighting with all manner of swords, from foils and sabers to the Roman short sword. Bobby was an accomplished archer, surpassing all the others with his skill. As an expert in several of the Oriental martial arts, Delaney took to a quarterstaff like a duck took to water and he brought some innovative techniques to fighting with a broadsword.
A great deal of time and money had been invested in their training. They were subjected to everything from implant programming to conditioned reflex training, but it was not until they went in for cosmetic surgery that Lucas finally realized the true nature of their mission.
It was going to be a fix-it job. Somehow, someone had screwed up in this time period and a little Trans- historical Adjustment and Maintenance was called for. Lucas had often wondered how such things were accomplished. Now he was about to find out first hand.
By now, it was clear that they had been selected for their skills and general physical characteristics. With the sole exception of Finn Delaney, all of them were smaller than average. The physical size of a soldier had a great deal to do with his assignments. In the past, people were smaller and it wouldn't do to send a mess of six footers back into a time where they would stand out like sore thumbs. Most soldiers still wound up being somewhat larger than most people in the past, but within limits, this did not generally present a problem. Most soldiers were cannon fodder to begin with. History could not be changed, there was far too much risk involved. What modern soldiers could do on the Minus side was strictly defined within the parameters of what was known about their period.
Cosmetic surgery was not unusual in the army. Lucas had been a Sioux at the Little Big Horn. In order to allow him to properly play the part, they had changed his hair from blonde to black, enlarged his nose slightly and flattened out the planes of his face, as well as darkening the color of his normally fair skin with pigmentation treatments. When he rode out to do battle with Yellowhair, Lucas knew that history did not report that a particular Indian had killed him, so if he was presented with a clear shot at Custer, his course of action was entirely up to him. However, in battles that had been fairly well documented, a soldier's options were limited considerably. In such cases, they were always placed in relatively insignificant positions, historically speaking. They were, to all intents and purposes, expendable. History was never especially strict about such things as body counts. Therefore, soldiers from Plus Time fought side-by-side with their ancient counterparts and, if they were killed, their cybernetic implants relayed that information to the observers in that time period. MIAs, soldiers sustaining injuries, all went into the tally that became the basis for the complex point spread that governed the arbitration proceedings of the referees.
Being a veteran of many cosmetic surgical procedures, Lucas knew that in this event the changes made were subtle ones, rather than a general, superficial alteration. They were being made to resemble specific individuals, people who were either known to history or to certain key people who would be involved with them during their mission. This would not be a simple case of infiltrating a few soldiers-insignificant pawns from the point of view of history-into a Roman legion. This would be a covert operation. He wondered what the mission was going to be. If the training had been so intensive, what did the mission itself hold in store for them?
They had not been coached to play the part of certain individuals, at least not consciously. There was, however, the implant programming. Much of that information was already at their beck and call, but it made sense that a great deal of it was filed under 'need to know,' to be brought forth at the proper time, probably the mission briefing, by a key word or a key phrase. It made Lucas very apprehensive. Who were they supposed to be? When he found out, he almost wished that Hannibal had killed him back in Carthage.
It was the last day of their training. They were led into a small prefabricated building that had been, up to that moment, off limits to them. They were brought into a, room which contained nothing save several chairs, a table, a couple of army cots and four cryotanks, with all the attendant readout screens and servo-mechanisms. The two medical technicians paid them absolutely no attention as they entered and the referee, in turn, did not acknowledge the technicians' presence. The cryotanks were occupied by four men who looked exactly like them. Or, more to the point, they looked like the people in the cryotanks.
They sat down in the chairs and the ref perched on the edge of the table, leaning forward toward them, resting his hands upon his knees. He was the perfect picture of a kindly old professor. An old man with snow white hair, blue eyes, sunken cheeks and crow's feet. An old man who had total control over their lives.
'Gentlemen,' he said, 'in the year 1189, Richard the First, also known as Richard Plantagenet, Coeur de Lion, ascended to the throne of England. While he was off fighting in the Third Crusade, his brother, known as John Lackland, revolted against the justiciar, William Longchamp, and effectively took the place of the king. He thereupon embarked upon a series of intrigues to keep his brother from the throne. Richard had been captured and was held prisoner by the Duke of Austria. In time, the king was ransomed and he returned to England to pardon his brother, John, and to resume the throne. When Richard died at Chaluz in 1199, John finally realized his ambition and became the king of England.
'As king, John was, to put it mildly, something of a disaster. He warred on his nephew Arthur and eventually murdered him. He quarreled with Pope Innocent III, succeeded in getting England placed under an interdict in 1208, screwed up six ways from Sunday and generally bled the country dry to the extent that his own barons finally rebelled against him, forcing him to sign the Magna Carta at Runnymede on June 15, 1215. That, in a nutshell, is the story. Except, as you have doubtless deduced by now, we have a problem.
'The year is 1194. Duke Leopold has delivered Richard to Emperor Henry VI, who has released him for ransom and Richard is supposed to be on his journey back to England. Supposed to be. Here's where things get a little sticky.
'To my everlasting sorrow and deep, professional embarrassment, a member of the referee corps has gone rogue. To be quite blunt, he's gone off the deep end and has decided to live out some sort of Walter Mitty fantasy. His name is Irving Goldblum and he has succeeded in kidnapping Richard of England a second time. It's entirely possible that he has even killed him. In fact, it's highly probable, but I don't know for certain. Needless to say, in so doing, he has endangered history. His intention is to take the place of Richard Plantagenet and become the king of England. Nothing quite like this has ever happened before. It's a frightening situation. A highly complex situation, to say the least.
'What we have on our hands at this moment is a threat to the continuity of the timestream. There could be a massive split, the effects of which are completely unpredictable. Fortunately, we became aware of Irving's demented plan before he clocked out to Minus Time. He has studied this period extensively via computer tapes and he has had cosmetic surgery. The necessary preparations he had to make alerted us. Unfortunately, he was able to clock out before we could stop him. We acted immediately to organize an adjustment, hoping we could pull it off before any anomalies began to show up. We, meaning myself and my support team here with me on this desolate piece of rock, have already undertaken several attempts to rectify the situation.'
