become Prime Minister in 1940. England will lose the war with Germany, and your United States will turn its back on Europe in order to prevail against the Japanese in the Pacific.”
“But, the Paradox Law ...” Whitefeather unconsciously repeated his earlier protest.
“Yes, yes, it will restore history,” Gallubin returned impatiently. “In general terms . But, extrapolating forward based on the data supplied by 1946 London, when the Change reaches here, there will be unalterable changes in the Present.”
After being rescued from certain death on 1 December, 1890, at Wounded Knee Creek, South Dakota, Whitefeather had been brought forward to this Home Culture and recruited for the Temporal Warden Corps by his rescuer. He was a bright, curious boy of thirteen at the time, son of a Sioux war leader and a captive white mother. He went on to be graduated near the top of his class at the Temporal Warden Academy. Thus, he needed no more prompting.
“And I am to go back and take charge of eliminating the ripples?”
Gallubin’s eyes twinkled. “That’s why I like you, Whitefeather. It may be a gift you inherited from your Red Indian ancestors, but you have the quick wits and wisdom of what we call in Russian a proetoy babushka, a—how you say?—grandmother of the common people.” One big palm enthusiastically slammed flat on the desk with a report like a small cannon. “That is exactly what you are to do. You will be sent back to take charge as Resident Warden. This will be before the discrepancy occurs. It is your present assignment to put your identity in place, and also to remove the impediment in Churchill’s path to 10 Downing Street. Then, you are to work your way into a position to see that history is righted, and also to protect any stray travelers that may come into danger.”
“Do we know why Churchill is not in place, sir?”
“Yes,” Gallubin told him. “It is supposed to be the doing of one Sir Rupert Cordise, a member of the House of Commons who is believed to be a Nazi sympathizer. He is also known to hate Churchill. Something to do with Winston’s father.”
“Who will I be, sir?”
“Brian Moore. A rather interesting fellow, I’m sure you will find.”
First, Whitefeather went to the Language lab to have his Elizabethan RNA language implants dissolved and others, for the English of 1940, installed. He listened to an extensive briefing on proper costuming, class divisions, how to order in a restaurant, and other aspects of British society while he went to the Medical Facility to receive his inoculations for the common diseases of the period he would occupy, including smallpox. He then outfitted himself with the proper period clothing at Central Wardrobe. To his regret this new assignment made him miss a lunch date with a lovely Temporal Warden friend named Dianna Basehart. Even so, Whitefeather had everything he needed assembled by 1330 hours and departed for the past.
Time: 1721, GMT, February 23, 1938
Place: Outskirts of Lichfield,
Staffordshire, England
Using the Warden Central Beamer, Brian Moore abruptly appeared outside the small town of Lichfield in Leicestershire. Crusts of rotting snow hugged the north side of everything. He congratulated himself for the forethought of selecting a thick, warm topcoat. For all his many journeys through time, Brian could not avoid the sense of unreality and dislocation that came with being at a point in time before he “officially” existed in the future. And, to be here and in the future of 1939-40 London at the same time. Paradox of paradoxes! Yet with the Temporal Collision Avoidance Fields (TCAFs) and Personal Time Travel Devices (PTTDs) it was all paradoxically possible.
Although contemplation of all that did not give Brian Moore a headache, it did highly motivate him to go in search of a pint of bitter. He found it close at hand, in the form of the John Bull, obviously a pub with an owner who totally lacked imagination or
“But, the Paradox Law ...” Whitefeather unconsciously repeated his earlier protest.
“Yes, yes, it will restore history,” Gallubin returned impatiently. “In general terms . But, extrapolating forward based on the data supplied by 1946 London, when the Change reaches here, there will be unalterable changes in the Present.”
After being rescued from certain death on 1 December, 1890, at Wounded Knee Creek, South Dakota, Whitefeather had been brought forward to this Home Culture and recruited for the Temporal Warden Corps by his rescuer. He was a bright, curious boy of thirteen at the time, son of a Sioux war leader and a captive white mother. He went on to be graduated near the top of his class at the Temporal Warden Academy. Thus, he needed no more prompting.
“And I am to go back and take charge of eliminating the ripples?”
Gallubin’s eyes twinkled. “That’s why I like you, Whitefeather. It may be a gift you inherited from your Red Indian ancestors, but you have the quick wits and wisdom of what we call in Russian a proetoy babushka, a—how you say?—grandmother of the common people.” One big palm enthusiastically slammed flat on the desk with a report like a small cannon. “That is exactly what you are to do. You will be sent back to take charge as Resident Warden. This will be before the discrepancy occurs. It is your present assignment to put your identity in place, and also to remove the impediment in Churchill’s path to 10 Downing Street. Then, you are to work your way into a position to see that history is righted, and also to protect any stray travelers that may come into danger.”
“Do we know why Churchill is not in place, sir?”
“Yes,” Gallubin told him. “It is supposed to be the doing of one Sir Rupert Cordise, a member of the House of Commons who is believed to be a Nazi sympathizer. He is also known to hate Churchill. Something to do with Winston’s father.”
“Who will I be, sir?”
“Brian Moore. A rather interesting fellow, I’m sure you will find.”
First, Whitefeather went to the Language lab to have his Elizabethan RNA language implants dissolved and others, for the English of 1940, installed. He listened to an extensive briefing on proper costuming, class divisions, how to order in a restaurant, and other aspects of British society while he went to the Medical Facility to receive his inoculations for the common diseases of the period he would occupy, including smallpox. He then outfitted himself with the proper period clothing at Central Wardrobe. To his regret this new assignment made him miss a lunch date with a lovely Temporal Warden friend named Dianna Basehart. Even so, Whitefeather had everything he needed assembled by 1330 hours and departed for the past.
Time: 1721, GMT, February 23, 1938
Place: Outskirts of Lichfield,
Staffordshire, England
Using the Warden Central Beamer, Brian Moore abruptly appeared outside the small town of Lichfield in Leicestershire. Crusts of rotting snow hugged the north side of everything. He congratulated himself for the forethought of selecting a thick, warm topcoat. For all his many journeys through time, Brian could not avoid the sense of unreality and dislocation that came with being at a point in time before he “officially” existed in the future. And, to be here and in the future of 1939-40 London at the same time. Paradox of paradoxes! Yet with the Temporal Collision Avoidance Fields (TCAFs) and Personal Time Travel Devices (PTTDs) it was all paradoxically possible.
Although contemplation of all that did not give Brian Moore a headache, it did highly motivate him to go in search of a pint of bitter. He found it close at hand, in the form of the John Bull, obviously a pub with an owner who totally lacked imagination or
Similar Books
Wicked Lies: A Dark Mission Novella
Karina Cooper
Underworlds #2: When Monsters Escape
Tony Abbott
Restoration
John Ed Bradley
Risky Business
Nora Roberts
Beluga
Rick Gavin
For my Master('s)
Linnea May
Reality Check
Kelli London
Defeat
Bernard Wilkerson
Bittersweet Hope
Ryann Jansen