“Crockett, tell me,” said Selene Aranda, her piercing blue eyes fixed on the incoming locomotive. The sun was setting behind the mountains, and the city was beginning to fade into shadow—street lights slowly turned on by operators walking down the street with long poles. “How good is your Latin?”
“I’ve rarely used it since my time in the agency. Better read than spoken,” answered Crockett, observing the engine as it slowed into the main station. They stood atop a four-story building—the tallest in the vicinity—which offered an unguarded view of the city. “But I should be able to fend for myself with the locals.”
“The locals may wish for other things,” said Selene, pointing at a group walking toward the station. Bystanders rushed into buildings. Operators abandoned their poles and retreated. The ravaged looks of the mob suggested something akin to slavery.
“A slave rebellion?”
“Looks like it. Lovely timing, wouldn’t you say?” Crockett smiled. His square jaw and short mustache made him appear friendlier than he was, though those hazelnut eyes always warmed her heart.
“We always pick the best times, Crockett,” said Selene as she lifted her binoculars. The train settled into the station. From one of the wagons—green steel, polished—the doors dropped open to reveal Roman legionnaires advancing in square formation. Their armor gleamed in the fading light. On their left shoulders: shields covering half the body, stamped with the imperial double-headed eagle in gold. On their right hands: a contraption resembling a primitive automatic firearm.
“Should we intervene or wait for the dust to clear?” Crockett lifted a book and scribbled notes—each travel, each anomaly, everything cataloged. It helped distinguish home from altered reality. Timelines could blur. Once he finished, the book shrunk and slipped into the satchel hanging at his side.
“Wait for the dust to clear. I’m skeptical of these fellows,” Selene said, watching as the legionnaires engaged the mob. The firearms—though primitive—were overkill against farming tools and bare hands. The massacre unfolded quickly, and the soldiers seemed to enjoy it far too much. “I guess we intervene, then.”
“Off we go,” said Crockett, extending his left hand. A small blue sphere manifested, and with a swift crush, they both disappeared—a blink, as they called it—from rooftop to street level in mere seconds.
“Course of action?” asked Crockett. He removed his leather jacket and tie, placing them atop a trash container, then rolled up his sleeves and stepped into the street.
“Gently as we go, Crockett,” Selene replied, her bodysuit gleaming emerald green. They stood back to back, nearly equal in height. “Gently as we can go.”
“Good luck, then,” said Crockett, pulling out a golden coin—a Real de Ocho. They both grasped it.
“Hope this isn’t the last one we handle.”