History Shattered

“God does not play dice with the universe.” – Albert Einstein

“So Einstein was wrong when he said, ‘God does not play dice.’ Consideration of black holes suggests, that not only does God play dice, but that he sometimes confuses us by throwing them where they cannot be seen.” – Stephen Hawking

Monica’s Latin was barely passable enough to gain her entrance through Caffa’s western entry gate. Had she been anything other than an unaccompanied female, she might’ve been rebuffed there. As it was, the gate guards directed her toward the inn but watched her warily until she stepped inside the place. She sat at a table in the corner of the inn’s great room and tried to let her back recover from the ordeal of hiking across the countryside with her heavy pack. It was late morning, but far too early for anyone here to be eating a meal at the inn. She had intended to spend some time observing her surroundings, but there wasn’t really much to see. A single woman was wiping off tables with a wet rag. It wasn’t a clean rag, either. Monica found herself wondering how anyone survived for long during this era. She quickly reminded herself the average life expectancy was between the late thirties and early forties during this period of history…, so they didn’t.

That realization provided her a small amount of solace. She wouldn’t really be robbing anyone she infected of decades of a prosperous and full existence. Assuming they were already adults, then she might be costing them ten or twenty years at most. Even as she was thinking it, she knew she was rationalizing, but the thought soothed her anyway. This would be the optimal location for her to spread infection quickly and broadly. She couldn’t really put the bacteria in the cooked food. The heat of the fire might kill it or render it largely ineffective. She would need to infect the drinking water supply, if there was such a thing, and the mead, the honey-wine which was popular in this region where grapes were not available. The plan seemed simple enough. Executing it might be a bit trickier.

She realized she had no coin with which to pay for anything, so she would be required to barter for any food or drink. She had bottled water with her and MRE’s for a week, but those would definitely not allow her to blend in with the current environment. That meant that the Latin she was becoming less and less confident in speaking would need to take center stage. She broke out her small Latin-English dictionary and tried to reacquaint herself with some key phrases and conjugation patterns. It would be immediately apparent to anyone she encountered that Latin was not her native tongue. She hoped that would work to her advantage in some ways, but she didn’t anticipate that it would allow for her to do anything but overpay in any kind of bartering scenario.

After first confirming that she had arrived at the winter of 1346-47 A.D., which was accomplished through an almost painfully halting conversation with the woman wiping down tables, the next step would be to establish an ability to deliver the pathogen she was carrying. She attempted to speak next to the inn’s proprietor, a shabby, smelly man who looked highly suspicious of a woman ostensibly travelling alone. Monica believed that she had successfully negotiated a trade involving her wool scarf for all the food and mead she could consume for the next two days and for a place to sleep for the night tonight. She wasn’t worried about striking the best of all bargains, and she hoped to be in this place no longer than a couple of days anyway. She also had no intention of eating any of the food, and she hoped pretending to drink the mead would provide her with access to its source for purposes of spreading the plague bacteria. The plan was flimsy at best. She decided almost immediately that she had no future as either a criminal or a spy.

Monica let the mug of mead sit on the table for some amount of time before she could even bring herself to take a sip. It was warm, but at least she could tolerate the taste. She was once again reminded that if she ended up stuck in this past time, refrigeration was not ever going to be available. She mentally waved goodbye to iced tea and Diet Dr Pepper and to sipping on a cold beer while watching a football game on TV. That triggered another wave of nostalgia as she realized virtually every form of entertainment she had ever come to enjoy would be gone. No more movies or television shows or sporting events…, they would all, somewhat ironically, become relics of her past.

No one could tell her exactly when dinner would begin being served. There were no clocks or watches or attempts to adhere to any strict sense of timing in this place. Maybe that, at least, was a plus. Deadlines would be a thing of the past, as would meetings and endless reports. Monica recognized that she was now rationalizing about the quality of life in the fourteenth century. It would be difficult. These people were involved in a daily struggle for their very existence. It was shocking to her that anyone had the time or energy to invent anything. The forward progress of man, the development of the arts and sciences…, it was really impressive to think how far the human species had come in the past seven centuries.

Man had progressed far enough that she was now able to travel back to the past, carrying a deadly bacteria, with the intent of infecting the innocent folk of Caffa. Modern technology, which these people could not possibly comprehend or likely even imagine, was permitting her to commit this deadly act of bioterrorism. She wondered if the inventors along the path of history might contemplate that the progression of man’s development they were contributing to would lead someday to this deadly attack on history itself. Monica was once again forced to stare down the morality, or more precisely the lack thereof, of what she was about to do. She began repeating a silent mantra in her head…, the greater good…, the greater good…, the greater good….

She must’ve fallen asleep, because the next thing she was aware of was the buzz of conversation occurring around her. She was still seated at the table, but her mug of mead was gone. She raised her head off her pack, which she had apparently been using as a pillow, and looked around. Evidently, she was the object of much curiosity. Every eye in the place seemed focused on her. Not only was she a woman traveling alone, but she was attired in garb that was completely foreign to this place and time. Only the clothes worn by the physician could be considered comparable. News of her struggles with Latin had already circulated amongst the townspeople. She was definitely a curiosity. It wasn’t exactly the low profile a bioterrorist should be attempting to achieve.

It was time for her to begin doing the job she had traveled back in time to accomplish. She had faith in Pat and his team’s ability to keep the wormhole open for some amount of time, but nobody could really know what a reasonable timeframe for sustaining an open wormhole might be. Every moment she remained in Caffa put her opportunity to return to the present at greater risk. She hadn’t even learned anything about Tyler’s potential whereabouts, or even if he was known to these people. Time had truly become her enemy. It was yet another irony to add to the growing pile.

She casually opened compartments in her pack. Even that act drew attention. The compartments were all either zippered or utilized Velcro fasteners, so even the act of getting into or out of the pack drew attention her way. She grabbed three vials containing plague bacteria solutions. She hoped there would be a simple way to slip the infectious solution into the open cask of mead. Monica opened and closed several compartments. Her initial intent had been to appear casual and nonchalant. She wanted to draw attention away from anything having to do with the vials. Her actions did nothing but draw further attention to herself. This was turning into anything but a covert exercise. Shit…, she was terrible at this. Was this a way God was attempting to communicate a message to her that she shouldn’t be doing what she was here to accomplish?

The woman who had been earlier cleaning tables was now functioning as part waitress and part busboy. Monica asked her where the bathroom might be and if she could get another mug of mead. The woman indicated to her that there was a trough behind the inn which served as the establishment’s restroom facilities. Sensing Monica’s lack of understanding, she told Monica to follow her. Monica rose from the table, the vials stuffed into a pocket, and began following the woman. They swept past a table just vacated, and the woman paused to look in the mugs. As she spotted mugs with remaining mead in them, she poured the remaining liquid into a single mug. Monica assumed it was simply a way to have to only dispose of the liquid in one step, but to her surprise the woman dumped all of the contents back into the cask containing the mead being served to the establishment’s guests. The cask was out in the open and any attempt by Monica to dump the contents of the vials into the cask would be viewable by everyone in the place who cared to glance in her direction. The pair kept walking past the open cask and through the kitchen, or what passed for it. Once they reached the rear door, the woman pointed to a depression near a bush about forty feet away. She then turned and made her way back inside, leaving Monica alone to handle her personal business. Privacy would not be a major factor in the bathroom process.

While feeling vulnerable and quite exposed as she squatted to urinate, an idea came to Monica. There was no way she could get away with poisoning the cask of mead directly. A better approach would be to put the bacteria into a partially consumed mug of mead, which would then be poured back into the cask by the waitress. That was a much better plan than some overt action on her part which would be almost guaranteed to draw unnecessary attention. She was drawing too much of that without doing anything.

She sat back down at the table once back inside the inn. The waitress had brought her what passed for a fresh mug of mead. No one appeared to have touched her pack, and she was different enough that none of the inn’s regulars had been so brazen as to attempt to sit at her table. She was grateful for the small amount of privacy her peculiarity provided. There was no chance of her blending in, so at least she was sticking out so much that she was being left alone.

She took the first vial out of her pocket and carefully removed the protective top. She cupped the vial in her hand, much like a magician might try to hide a coin while performing a magic trick. She extended her fingers to grab the outer rim of the mug away from her. She carefully poured the deadly liquid into the mug, clutching the vial between her palm and thumb. She pulled the mug toward her and swirled it just a bit in an attempt to mix the solutions. She transferred the empty vial to her other hand and slipped it into an empty pocket with that hand while she pretended to take a swig from the mug. She set the mug back down and let it sit for a couple of minutes before she dared to repeat her attempted sleight-of-hand a second time. It wasn’t warm inside the inn, but she was perspiring. Ten minutes later she had successfully managed to dump all three vials of bacterial solution into her mug. She was halfway to success. Now she just needed to get her untouched mug of mead back into the cask so it could mingle with and spread the deadly disease into the rest of the chosen distribution source. When the woman next passed her table, she told the woman that she would prefer to drink water. The woman pointed to the mug sitting on the table with a questioning look on her face. Monica made a gesture to indicate for the woman to take it away, which she did.

Monica involuntarily held her breath as she watched the woman stop by two more tables before she finally headed back to the cask and dumped the contents of Monica’s mug in with the large volume of liquid waiting to accept it. Monica closed her eyes. She had done it. She didn’t know whether to feel happy or appalled. Right now she just felt a wave of relief washing over her. She took a couple of deep cleansing breaths and offered a silent prayer to God. She prayed that she had done what was proper to restore balance to the world he had fashioned rather than committing the most heinous of atrocities upon his chosen people. She would not know which had just occurred until she came face-to-face with her maker, or perhaps with his fiery counterpart. That thought did little to ease her current discomfort.

Had she gotten away with it? The contents of her mug had been dumped into the cask. She had seen that happen herself. There was no undoing that, well, at least short of time traveling back to before it happened, there wasn’t. Had it really been that simple? Had she been stressing unnecessarily over such a modest act? She was, of course, referring to the simplicity of the physical act itself. She was too locked into the moment to be contemplating the longer term repercussions of what had just occurred. It was time to quickly transition to the next phase of her mission; the rescue phase. It was time to begin asking about Tyler.

She had only spoken to two people since she had passed through the entry gate upon her arrival in Caffa. Both the inn’s proprietor and the woman waiting tables seemed incredibly busy with their responsibilities to the crowd eating at the inn. This wouldn’t be a time to attempt to engage either of them in a conversation. Feeling confident about her apparent initial success, Monica decided to push her luck a bit and talk to a couple of folks seated at the table nearest to her. Perhaps she could learn enough in a brief encounter to permit her to make rapid work of this second leg of the mission.

The table was occupied by three men, all similarly attired in the drab, dirty clothing which seemed to almost be the mandatory dress code for the citizens of Caffa. Monica stood and approached the table, waiting until the men acknowledged her presence before speaking. Her Latin was not improving with the limited practice she was getting, but that deficiency in her conversational skill set couldn’t be helped. She decided to keep it simple at first. She just said two words, both in a questioning tone.

“Doctor? Tyler?”

The men reacted almost immediately with recognition, but they misunderstood completely the nature of Monica’s inquiry. They immediately assumed she had a medical condition of some kind requiring attention. Given the medical problems of so many of the town’s residents, it was a most natural assumption. One of the men replied with a rapidly uttered string of Latin which was completely unintelligible to Monica. The other two men stood, based on whatever the first man had said. One of them grabbed Monica by the arm while the other grabbed her pack from her table. She was immediately terrified. After a couple of moments, she realized the man who had grabbed her arm was being supportive rather than threatening. She surmised they must’ve misinterpreted her initial inquiry and assumed she needed medical assistance. While she searched for the Latin words to explain that she was OK and just looking for Tyler, the man who grabbed her pack leaned it to the side. She had not fully resealed one of the pack’s Velcro fasteners. When the pack was shifted to the side, the weight of the flashlight caused the Velcro holding it in place to fully release.

To Monica’s horror, the flashlight fell out of the pack. It was as if she was witnessing a slow motion video of the event. The flashlight took an agonizing second to fall to the floor. It landed in just the wrong way, and suddenly it was on, blazing a powerful, electrically-powered beam of light across the floor of the inn’s great room. Oh, Shit! Electricity would not be discovered for another five centuries. What had she just done? This mission, which she had only moments before thought of as surprisingly simple and progressing smoothly, had just rounded a dark and dangerous corner. Two soldiers who had been sitting on the far side of the great room began moving in her direction. Monica felt a knot forming deep in her gut. Things were about to get very, very ugly.

~~~~o~~~~

Tyler was still sleeping in his makeshift tent. He had picked out a great spot southwest of Caffa, with a great view of both the town and the port. It was far enough outside the outpost’s protective walls to be impractical for any of the settlement’s regular inhabitants, but for him it was perfect. The vistas were spectacular. It provided the element of isolation he so desperately needed. He knew it was imperative that he isolate himself from Caffa’s populace. Even accidentally, he was bound to pass something along to them that might inadvertently trigger another unintended curve in history.

He was also close enough, and now well-known enough to the small settlement’s inhabitants, that they would know where to find him if they required the services of a physician. He would have ready access to the settlement’s few merchants and tradesmen, and his ability to barter would be virtually unlimited in light of the special skills he had already demonstrated. Tyler was carefully and selectively cutting down trees. He had leveled an area of land and was beginning the construction of a cabin. It was winter, and the going was slow. The tent, which was the carefully shaped remains of his Hazmat suit, would be forced to serve as his home until his massive do-it-yourself effort could be completed. It might take him more than a year to complete, even without needing to build in the modern comforts of plumbing or electricity. He was alright with the pace. His life would, from here on out until his death, be one of lessened expectations. It seemed strange that after a life which had been filled with so much accomplishment through his early adulthood, that he would now be spending his arguably most productive years doing essentially nothing. Life, time and history were playing the cruelest of practical jokes on him.

He recognized the boy climbing the hill toward his encampment. The boy had fallen a few weeks earlier and broken his arm. His father had been concerned that the boy would become useless as a laborer, with an arm that would end up being dysfunctional. He had carried the boy to Tyler’s encampment, more with hope for a miracle than any real belief that the doctor could actually help his son. Tyler had debrided the wound, set the bone and crafted a combination splint and cast. The break had been in a bad location, but Tyler was confident the boy would make a complete recovery in four-to-six weeks. The father had been skeptical, but grateful nonetheless. The boy now seemed to be scrambling hurriedly up the hillside.

Perhaps his rush was so that he could reach Tyler before darkness made the path up to encampment difficult to follow. Perhaps there was a new injury or illness which had occurred at the settlement. Tyler couldn’t remember the boy’s name, but he hoped the child hadn’t reinjured the bone while it was still healing. That would complicate his recovery greatly. The boy waved to Tyler when he got closer, using the arm in the cast. Evidently that was not the reason for his visit. Tyler returned the wave and waited as the boy dropped his hands to his waist and stopped to catch his breath before covering the last bit of the path to the top of the hill. His look was entirely earnest as he approached the doctor. Apparently Tyler would be correct in assuming this wasn’t a social call.

Two minutes later, Tyler was following the boy back down the hill. Darkness was falling. Tyler had his flashlight with him, but he was still in battery conservation mode. He wanted to make it down the hill before it became necessary to use the flashlight. Once they reached level ground it was possible that he wouldn’t need to use the device. He didn’t care to have to explain the flashlight to Caffa’s townsfolk, and the magic light was a sight the boy would definitely tell his father about. The boy had mentioned the name Monica and had also mentioned both poison and going against God. Was it possible? Could PD have sent a rescue mission? There was no way that Monica would be the one to attempt to time travel, was there? It seemed unlikely, but it also seemed like it was the most logical explanation he could come up with. If Monica had traveled here, and if she was in any kind of trouble, then there was no way he could cover the ground between his encampment and Caffa swiftly enough.