Page Title

THIS TIME AROUND
Prologue ADMIRAL OF THE OCEAN SEA
By Brent Dorian Carpenter

1492
  In Fourteen Hundred Ninety Two, Columbus sailed the Ocean blue…

  Or so, he tried to.

  By the end of the 15th Century, A.D., the sentiment of the peoples of Western Europe was as black as the Plague that ravaged them in the hundred years gone
before. Christian civilization was caught in a menacing Islamic crescent pincer; the Moors had swept westward, advancing all the way into the Iberian Peninsula, and
the Ottoman Turks had extinguished the smoldering remnants of the Byzantine Empire, gobbling up Greece, Serbia, Albania and much of Austria. Despite frantic
calls for crusade upon crusade by a succession of popes, every effort to recover the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem had been an abject failure.
  The moral authority of Christendom was severely eroded by the Great Schism that permanently cemented divisions in place. In 1492, this situation was
exacerbated by the ascension to the papal throne of Alexander VI, one Rodrigo Borgia, a member of the notoriously corrupt and depraved noble family responsible
for some of the more noteworthy atrocities committed in the name of God. Political intrigue, never in short supply in Europe, led to endless invasions, calamitous
wars, civil tumult, degeneracy and darkmost despair.
  In Castile and Aragon, the union of Queen Ysabella and King Ferdinand II led to the creation of a Spanish nation that was rapidly growing in prestige and power.
The Sovereigns were cleaning house, having successfully launched the Inquisition designed to weed out and expel the Jews and other undesirable heretics. Next they
turned their attentions to the campaign to liquidate the Moorish kingdom from its stronghold in the city of Granada. These internal tasks complete, freeing up
millions of maravedis for foreign adventures, the royal Spaniards were at long last financially prepared to entertain notions of fructification, expansion and conquest.
  Into this scenario, history saw fit to deposit a mariner from Genoa, Cristoforo Colombo (in his native Italian), a man of achievements both towering and dubious,
depending on which side of the yawning racial divide one belonged. Inspired by Marco Polo’s fanciful tales of spice and gold from the faraway mythical lands of the
Indies, Cathay and Cypango, Columbus yearned to discover a westward passage by sea that circumvented hostile Muslim forces. Accepting Polo’s erroneous
location of Japan 1500 miles east of China, and Ptolemy’s underestimation of the size of the Eurasian landmass, the would-be explorer successfully pleaded his case
before the Spanish Royal Court, convincing them that the seemingly impossible endeavour was indeed doable with the existing naval vessels of the day.
  And thus the Great Enterprise of the Indies, to win recognition and wealth for Columbus and his adopted country, was underway. A bold undertaking that would
breathe new life into a moldering Christianity and the decrepit European civilizations—but one that would ultimately prove ruinous to peoples of darker color on no
less than three continents.

IN THE NAME OF OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST

       “<Because, most Christian and very exalted excellent and mighty Princes,
  King and Queen of the Spains and of the islands in the Sea, our Lord and
  Lady, in this present year 1492, after Your Highnesses had made an end to
  the war with the Moors who ruled in Europe, and had concluded the war
  in the very great city of Granada, where in the present year, on the second
  day of the month of January, by force of arms I saw the royal standards of
  Your Highnesses placed on the towers of Alahambra, and I saw the
  Moorish King come forth to the gates of the city and kiss the royal hands
  of Your Highnesses and of the Prince my lord, and soon after in that same
  month, through the information that I had given to Your Highnesses
  concerning the lands of India, and of a prince who is called “Grand Khan”
  which is to say in our vernacular “King of Kings,” how many times he and
  his ancestors had sent to Rome to seek doctors in our Holy Faith to instruct
  him therein, and that never had the Holy Father provided them, and thus
  were lost so many people through lapsing into idolatries and receiving
  doctrines of perdition;
       And Your Highnesses, as Catholic Christians and Princes devoted to the
  Holy Christian Faith and the propagators thereof, and enemies of the sect
  of Mahomet and of all idolatries and heresies, resolved to send me
  Christopher Columbus to the said regions of India, to see the said princes
  and peoples and lands and to observe the disposition of them and of all, and
  the manner in which may be undertaken their conversion to our Holy Faith,
  and ordained that I should not go by land to the Orient, but by the route of
  the Occident, by which no one to this day knows for sure that anyone has
  gone;
       Therefore, after all the Jews had been exiled from your realms and
  dominions, in the same month of January Your Highnesses commanded me
  that with a sufficient fleet I should go to the said regions of India, and for
  this granted me many rewards, and ennobled me so that henceforth I might
  call myself by a noble title and be Admiral-in-Chief of the Ocean Sea and
  Viceroy and Perpetual Governor of all the islands and mainlands that I
  should discover and win, or that henceforth might be discovered and won
  in the Ocean Sea, and that my eldest son should succeed me, and thus from
  rank to rank for ever.
       And I departed from the city of Granada on the 12th day of the month of
  May of the same year 1492, on a Saturday, and came to the town of Palos,
  which is a seaport, where I fitted for sea three ships well suited for such an
  undertaking, and I departed from the said harbor well furnished with much
  provision and many seamen, on the third day of the month of August of the
  said year, on a Friday, at half an hour before sunrise, and took the route for
  the Canary Islands of Your Highnesses, which are in the said Ocean, that I
  might thence take my course and sail until I should reach the Indies, and
  give the letters of Your Highnesses to those princes, and thus comply with
  what you had commanded.
       And for this I thought to write down upon this voyage in great detail
  from day to day all that I should do and see, and encounter, as hereinafter
  shall be seen. In addition, Lord Princes, to noting down each night what
  that day had brought forth, and each day what was sailed by night, I have
  the intention to make a new chart of navigation, upon which I shall place
  the whole sea and lands of the Ocean Sea in their proper positions under
  their bearings, and further to compose a book, and set down everything as
  in a real picture, by latitude north of the equator and longitude west; and
  above all it is very important that I forget sleep and labor much at
  navigation because it is necessary. All of which will be great labor.>”

                                                  Christopher Columbus
                                                  Book of the First Navigation and Discovery
                                                  of the Indies
                                                  3 August 1492

      At sunset of the first day of his epic voyage, Admiral Columbus leant against the mizzenmast amidship the gently rocking Santa Maria, watching the landmass
of his adopted Spain quietly slip beneath the eastern horizon. Finally underway after six years of dithering, hostage to the whims of the Spanish aristocracy, he
mouthed a silent prayer of gratitude to his creator:
      Jesus cum Maria
      Sit nobis in via
      “Por Castilla y por Leon,” for Castile and for Leon, he added for good measure, casting a thoughtful eye upward at the royal standard flapping in the ocean
breeze abovehead. He buttoned his naval waistcoat to insulate himself from the encroaching evening chill. Then the tall Genoan with long face, ruddy complexion
and red hair turned to note the approach of Peralonso Ninos, Santa Maria’s 24-year old pilot. It is fair to say that despite whatever early trepidation this young
mariner harbored toward his untested captain had long since dissolved away into respectful awe.
      “<Good tidings, sir>,” Ninos said in Spanish, eager to please his superior. “<All is in good order, as you commanded. The armada is on steady course for the
Canaries>, sur cuarta del sudoeste.”
      “<Aye, lad. South and by West.>”
      The young Spaniard studied the pensive Columbus intensely, trying to ascertain something of the man’s character. These ninety men and boys of the Nina,
Pinta and Santa Maria had embarked on the adventure of a lifetime, placing their lives in the hands of a man most of them hardly knew, searching for bounty that
could not be proven for a certainty to exist.
      “<How long do you reckon afore we fall over the edge, Admiral?>” Ninos jested. Columbus was far from amused. He had grown exceedingly weary of small-
minded men making game of him and his precious enterprise. To the good fortune of young Peralonso, the 41-year old explorer had mastered the slippery art of
patience, so invaluable at navigating the infinitely more treacherous waters of courtier negotiation.
      “<The issue at hand, Senor Ninos, is not the sphericity of the Earth, for Eratosthenes tells us it is so. No flat-world nonsensicalness, no bogey terrors of sea
monsters and shoals. Rather it is the width of the Atlantic Sea that concerns us.>”
      “<Aye, sir, a distance you make to be 750 leagues.>”
“<By my dead-on reckoning, a journey to the easternmost edge of the known world navigable in forty days with a sound and steady leeward wind, God willing.>”
  “<I trust your judgment, Admiral, and that of the Queen’s mathematicos. My interest lies in your inspiration. The Portuguese have repeatedly availed themselves
of naught upon this course…>”
  His eyes twinkling and pulse quickening, Columbus responded, “<In my travels, I came upon a most vexing sight at the westernmost isle of the Azores, said island
of Corvo. Thereupon hewn of natural rock rests a statue of a horseman pointing out into the sea. His immortal spirit beckons us ever westward, into the
unthinkable fathoms. Our logic, stout hearts and these sturdy ships shall carry us to that destination.>”
  “<To fortune and glory>,” Ninos sighed, his breast swelling with a glowering conviction. In his mind’s-eye, he envisioned himself wallowing in treasures as yet
unimagined. These brave sailors would be forever enshrined in history, a manifest destiny as certain as the sunset into which they sailed.
  Notwithstanding, “forever” is an abstract and subjective concept, as vulnerable to the vicissitudes of temporal mischief as its sister notion “reality.” Racing across
the waves off the starboard of the armada’s lead ship Nina, a strange 110-foot long hydrocraft of indeterminate origin came forth into view. It matched the speed and
bearing of the Spanish vessels precisely. On its surface, a hatch opened, and two figures in windbreakers peered out with binoculars from the belly of the fiberglass
and steel beast.
  “Is it really him, professor?” Terry asked his mentor in utter astonishment.
  “It is,” the elderly man replied with grim certitude. “The greatest criminal in the history of our race—guilty of crimes against humanity that cry out over the gulf
of 500 years. There is no more decisive moment in our mission than the one we now face. Are you ready to take fate by the throat and strangle it to your
indomitable will?”
  It was an unspeakable step for Terry Montgomery Tarrant. The fate of hundreds of millions—twenty-five generations—were in his hands. Everything he and the
professor had executed up until now was mere dress rehearsal. Although they had already played God with their disingenuous machinations, he was now going to
have to take human life. He was going to become a mass murderer. The man-child knew he had to do this thing. But the knowing and the doing are such drastically
different creatures. Nothing in his twenty-year existence could prepare him for a moment like this. He was once again becoming overwhelmed with anxiety.
  “Professor, I—” The words caught in his throat . He looked to his elderly counterpart for reckoning.
  “I know, Terry. You know that no one will ever understand better than I do. Just as I know you understand why we must do this monstrous thing. It is for the
greater good—to free ourselves from the tyranny of genocide and oppression. Pick up the rocket launcher—you’ve got some wet work to do.”
  “Wet work”—the professor’s macabre euphemism for an unsavory chore. Terry reached down into the bowels of the Manatee hydrocraft and produced the
cylindrical weapon, carefully mounting it on his shoulder as his military trainer Colonel Pinderhughes from the mid-21st Century taught him. He peered through the
crosshairs and aimed it directly at Nina’s bulging side.
  “Every day comes with its own little surprise.” The professor placed a reassuring hand upon the youth’s shoulder and gave him a gentle squeeze, leaning in to
whisper in his ear. “Aim just below the water line. Pull the trigger and know that history—the new history—will record us as the greatest heroes of the black race
for all time.”
  Terry Tarrant swallowed hard and stared for a good long time at that wooden bulk splashing about in the midst of this watery nowhere. His heart pounded
mightily against his ribcage. How similar, he realized, Columbus’ ships are, precursors though they were, to the wretched slaving caravel in which Terry had been
imprisoned and humiliated not so terribly long ago. Finally, drawing a deep breath, he capitulated to his conviction and did the dark deed. From the end of his
bazooka, an Exocet rocket blasted noisily to life, it’s short sweet journey demarcated by a fiery plume tracing its malevolent path. Although well braced, the force of
ignition jolted Terry backwards, slamming him into the bulkhead hatch.
  In the blink of time’s eternal eye, it happened.   The deadly missile tore through Nina’s hull and the body of the hapless sailor who had the misfortune of being in
its path. It slammed into the ship’s ballast and exploded with a stunning force sufficient to raise the 60-ton craft entirely, if momentarily, out of the water. More
than half of her compliment of twenty-four were killed or hopelessly maimed instantly. The collateral force of impact with the ocean surface broke the wounded
vessel in twain. In the toldilla, the captain’s stateroom, the ship’s skipper, Vincente Pinzon was thrown from his chair in front of his dinner table and brutally
smashed into the wall. None aboard ever knew what hit them.
  “Jesus Christ!” Terry exclaimed, stunned by the magnitude of his own handiwork.
  “Yes!” the professor screamed in delight, pumping a defiant fist at not just the enemy ship but at history itself.
  A few dozen yards away, the crews of the other ships reacted in sheer terror and dumbfoundedness. What in God’s name could have caused such an explosion?
The armada was not carrying gunpowder. Columbus tightly gripped the rope railing for balance as he watched aghast the final moments of his sister ship,
eyewitness to the impossible. A handful of Nina’s crew was thrashing about in the ocean, trying desperately to escape the ruined remnants of the rapidly sinking
hulk.
  “<Men overboard!>” Columbus rasped. “<Bring us about!>” There was so much confusion and chaos on Santa Maria’s deck that if anyone heard his barked
commands, it was unlikely they would gather their wits in time to do anything of use.
  As the destroyed ship slipped beneath the waves, a crewman on Pinta’s starboard was the first to glimpse the bizarre craft that had attacked them. “Madre di
dios!” he screamed, pointing frantically at the unknown object hovering just above the water’s surface.
  Pinta’s Captain Martin Pinzon, older brother of Nina’s slaughtered commander, saw it too. “<What—what is it?>” he wondered after the hovercraft. Its shape,
its symmetry and design were completely alien to him. Fear descended across his heart like a drawn curtain, an irrational terror akin to nothing ever produced by his
many journeys out to sea.
  “Lovely,” the professor purred, foregoing all attempts at suppressing a Cheshire grin.
“Load another rocket, Terry! They must all go!”
  “Jesus! Jesus!”
  “Stay calm, Terry. Don’t get bipolar on me now. You can freak out later when we get back to shore. I’m going below to bring us in closer.”
  Without uttering another sound, Terry fumbled with the latchbox containing the second Exocet, and despite his violently trembling hands, somehow managed to
insert it properly into the bazooka tube. My God, he thought, what do the history books look like now back in 2003? Once again he took careful aim as the
professor adjusted their course, tracking their next target on the Manatee’s sophisticated panel of infrared radar screens.
  “I’m ready,” Terry shouted.
  “Wait for me,” the old man demanded, scrambling to regain his topside view. “I want to see this! I want to hear every scream!”
  Again, young Terry’s mind raced across the ramifications of his actions. The professor is so bitter—so bloodthirsty! Is this really what I’m destined to become?
  The second missile was fired. This one penetrated the Pinta’s forecastle and exploded against the wall just above her firebox, where the cook prepared the crew’s
meals. One thing was for certain: they were all cooking now! A column of fire erupted up through the deck, incinerating Captain Pinzon and hurtling his flaming
body and parts of other crewmens’ exploded bodies high into the empurpled sky. An aqueous grave greedily embraced them into its clammy bosom. Pinta listed
painfully, her fine Castilian wood groaning and crackling as she was first engulfed by flame and then by the unforgiving sea.
  On Santa Maria’s bow, a tearful Admiral Columbus was again muttering his good Christian prayer to any god who was willing to listen. A devastating realization
was sweeping like wildfire through his fear-addled consciousness; we’re next! His only hope was to try to escape. His ship was a goodly distance further away
from the other two. If he could sound the retreat, open full sail and reverse course—speed back to the distant shore two leagues aft…
  The old professor was having none of it. He scrutinized the activity upon Santa Maria’s deck through his binoculars. This was undoubtedly the most supremely
satisfying moment in his entire eighty-six years upon the mortal coil. He had spent a lifetime studying, watching—hell, living the injustice endured by those whose
skin was dark, inflicted by those whose skin was not. And now, fate had chosen him alone of a billion billion souls throughout all of time to strike a blow of
retaliation deep into the gullet of the white horde. Never had any action he had undertaken been so syrupy-sweet as this, an intoxicating liqueur of engulfing
orgasmic delight.
  Resuming the pilot’s seat inside the future-born hovercraft, the professor set out to overtake the fleeing historical menace whose very existence he sought to un-
create. He turned the Manatee hard, indignantly passing over the bodies of those hapless men in the water, many dead, some struggling hopelessly to stay alive.
  To his credit as a mariner, Columbus made quite a go of preserving his crew from this “bogey terror.” All forty members of his crew were on deck attempting to
make Santa Maria come about, scudding before the wind. He frantically ordered the foresail blanketed and the mizzen furled, allowing the mainsail and the main
topsail do all the work. It was an awful prospect, racing back to the rocky Spanish shore at full speed in the dark of night. Better to run aground, he surmised, than
to suffer the fate of those poor devils caught in Poseidon’s jaws.
  Unfortunately for the hapless Genoan, the matter was not up to him. The strange beast pulled up alongside his vessel, close enough for him to see the faces of the
two men who were going to kill him. His eyes grew wide as saucers and his medieval mind strained to grasp the enormity of what lay before him. “<Mary, mother
of Jesus>,” he gasped in disbelief, “<African savages!>”
  Terry took aim at the most famous ship in naval history, and prepared to erase it and her despicable captain from the rostrum of chronicled human events. At the
last second, the professor removed the youngster’s hand from the trigger. Second thoughts? Terry wondered. Hardly. The old man gripped the bazooka handle
himself.
  “This one’s mine,” he growled venomously. “Motherfuck you, Christopher Cocksucker!”
  It the waning light of that late summer day, a third angry flaming projectile streaked low across the eldritch sky on a direct course for Columbus’ head. The
Admiral ducked at the last second and rather, the rocket planted itself into the helm compartment, blowing it apart with bone-shattering concussive force. Most of
the crew was blasted overboard in whole or in parts. Columbus himself was dashed to the deck, senseless. The last sight to which he would bear witness, the
toppling mainmast that crushed down upon his head and chest, ending his dream of fortune and title ever and anon. In a final fit of irony, that heraldic royal banner
meant to trumpet the arrival of the neo-masters of the New World instead draped the corpse of their uncovenanted ambassador.
  “She’s still afloat,” Terry observed soberly.
  “Hit it again,” came the matter-of-factly reply.
  A final Exocet reduced Santa Maria into charred beams and splinters. And thus, on the evening of August 3rd, 1492, ninety men and boys went into the water,
swallowed up into the inky icy depths of the Sargasso sea. In time, several of their bodies would wash up on the Iberian shores, the first of many signals to the
denizens of Europe that future incursions westward into the Ocean sea would not be tolerated by the angry spirits of the raging Atlantic.
  The two time-displaced interlopers stared out onto the watery golgotha silent as twin golems. The future (if such a thing exists) would be of their design. The
New World was an unsullied canvass upon which they would paint an indelible imprimatur. They were gods now, masters of the dominion of Time.
  Evermore and evermore.
  Two thousand miles to the south and east, another armada of three ships, the Atakpame, the Tanda and the Assini Swedru, leapt forth from the shores of Africa
westward-bound on their own exploratory voyage of discovery…