Yours portly made a major error last week: I hastily posted the fifth chapter of The Man from Historical Accuracy and called it “Chapter 4”—d’oh! To maintain the schedule, I’m posting Chapter 4 today and re-posting Chapter 5 in the same post. My apologies! —TPP
The English writer Sudo Nonym, a regular over at Free Speech Backlash, sent yours portly a treasure-trove of fiction stories for readers here to enjoy. Many of these stories have already run at FSB, but Tom, the proprietor over there, is cool about cross-posting and republishing, and I’m never one to say no to intriguing content—especially when someone else has done 90% of the work for me!
Also, he has two eBooks on Amazon (that’s an Amazon Affiliate link; I receive a portion of any purchases made through that link at no additional cost to you—TPP)!
But I digress. Today’s story is the third chapter of a longer piece, The Man from Historical Accuracy. The premise is simple: a bureaucratic agency, Historical Accuracy, tweaks history to keep things trucking along as they should.
If you’ve missed previous chapters, you can find them here:
With that, here is Sudo Nonym with Chapter 3 of The Man from Historical Accuracy:
Chapter 4
MHA 4. Germany. 1942.
The Man from Historical Accuracy has work to do in Germany at the height of the Second World War. American bombers are pounding the cities in the day. The RAF come at night.
He materialized in his spacer over Berlin in the late morning. He asked the console,
‘What is the time?’
‘Winter, 1942,’ the disembodied voice said.
He was high enough to avoid the last few squadrons of B17s turning for home. He caught sight of and flew close to the underside and right of a P51 Mustang fighter escort. The pilot didn’t see him but one of his friends did. The spacer’s scanning receiver tuned itself to their frequency.
‘Hey Mac! Hey, buddy! You got one under your wing!’
Without a second’s pause, the fighter rolled over and broke left. MHA was impressed with the pilot’s reactions. He was sure he couldn’t have handled a Mustang like that. But his spacer was now locked to the antique machine and shadowed every move. The frantic Mustang pilot dived into a cloud but not before the other – his wingman? – bracketed MHA with cannon fire. The high explosive shells hit the field surrounding him and disappeared into some time a week before. Someone on the ground last Wednesday may be surprised by phantom cannon shells dropping from nowhere but in reality, the chances of a similar aerial battle last week were strong enough.
MHA cancelled the lock and separated from the first plane. He braked to a halt inside the cloud. The two Americans flew on, racing to catch up with the bombers. They would report UFOs – Foo Fighters would come a couple of years later – when they got home again but in the heat of the moment…! The Germans would think the two radar targets becoming three was a break up in mid air; if they noticed anything peculiar at all.
He slanted down and braked to a halt over the Reichstag roof. He landed in a nook behind the cupola out of sight of the ground. There was a service door. He scanned the walls with his wrist scanner. With nobody about, he adjusted the wrist and a powerful magnetic field unbolted and unlocked it. He was inside now. He erected a holo plan of the building.
Selecting a little used storeroom on the top floor, he made his way there. Identifying the correct door he found it was unlocked. He went in and switched on the lights. Perfect! It was large enough. Dusty drapes shaded the windows; piles of chairs and bric-a-brac lined the walls. A central table looked strong enough to support the spacer. If not he could always adjust the weight.
He tapped on his wrist holo sensor, selected co-ordinates, stabbed at an icon labelled “Transfer” and stood back. A shimmer, a tremor in the time fabric then the spacer materialised centre stage on the table. The table seemed strong enough. He climbed into the cabin, adjusted the recliner and settled down to wait. In the evening, von Braun would gain all the resources he needed for his rocket program. When they saw the spacer, their sneaky little eyes would gleam with greed. They would do what he asked. Anything he asked.
* * *
Chapter 5
MHA 5. Dallas. Texas
Just before noon, Dallas, 1963 November 22nd, The Man from Historical Accuracy materialised his spacer on the sixth floor of the Texas Book Depository. He flipped up the clear canopy up and climbed out. The slightly built man came to greet him. He’d seen this trick before. He was not so spooked now but he still plucked up the courage to ask;
‘How do you do that?’
‘Russian; you’ve been to Russia, you know how advanced they are over there.’
The slightly built man nodded but didn’t care to contradict. Instead, he asked;
‘Did you bring the rifle?’
‘Here, it is; a 1940 vintage 6.5 mm caliber Carcano, otherwise known as, inaccurately, I hear, a Mannlicher Carcano.’
‘I won’t be able to hit jack shit with that.’
‘You were in the US Marines, a marksman…’
‘Yeah, I guess, but it’s been a while.’
‘Well, try anyway.’ There’s a backup, he thought. Whatever, it will make them come down hard on Cuba and stiffen their resolve, their stance against the Russians.
‘And you get me outa here in your flying torpedo boat?’
‘Sure. The place will be swarming with cops and FBI in minutes after the gunshot. Wouldn’t do to have you found here… OK, this window should do it, one two, three…yes, this one…’
‘Does it matter which? All look the same to me…’
‘The reflections will hide you in the glare best from this one.’
‘Right. Got the ammo?’
‘Yup, here you go. Are you going to check the weapon over?’ He watched as the man stripped the gun down. Competently enough, he thought. He was reassured as he wiped the parts clean. His eyes narrowed slightly and then he relaxed as the man failed to wipe clean that part of the barrel shrouded by the stock. His palm print was there for the record. History was satisfied. He relaxed.
As 1230 drew nearer, MHA checked all was in order. Sixth floor? Check. Right window? Check. Right weapon? Check. Right year? He backed off a way to stop the man peering too closely at his timepiece. There was a shudder.
‘Earthquake?’ said the man, alarmed.
‘Yup, just a tremor…’ but now MHA was worried. It was a tremor all right. A time tremor. This was a significant part of history. MHA desperately wanted to be here to witness it but he was overstaying his welcome.
Time was a little tight. A message from the time ship up in orbit; back in 1943, the RAF were nearly finished loading the Anthrax containers on the Lancasters and Halifaxes; that Churchill was holding out to the last minute to give them the go ahead. He must go straight away to London and persuade Mr Bloody British Bulldog to stand down from madness.
Trouble was there was a comet coming through and the time strings were vibrating and shuddering like mad.
It would not do to be late.
Late! How could he, a time traveller, a manager of time itself, be late?
He tried to explain the theory to Einstein earlier in the century but the genius rejected his explanation, shaking his head when MHA refused to divulge his written workings. In the future, even Hawking queried him, so he stopped trying.
The presidential cavalcade appeared. 12:28. He looked down at the man with the rifle.
‘You ready down there?’
‘I guess…’
The big open limousine swept into their line of sight. The crowd were cheering frantically, drowning out anything as noisy as a gunshot. MHA watched the Secret Service men running, jogging alongside the President’s car. They looked mean and tough with their dark shades and hawk-like scanning of the crowd.
Up on the sixth floor MHA watched the man’s finger on the trigger. He watched as his trigger finger knuckle whitened, as he breathed in, as he let the air out slowly then held the last of his breath. The man fired, the rifle kicked. It was done. MHA, looking through his binopters, hissed in dismay and exasperation.
‘Idiot! You’ve just shot the President of the USA!’
‘Shee-it! Show me! God dam! We gotta get going, sheeee-it and damn!’
‘You were supposed to kill Jacquie Onassis, you fool!’
The man looked at him, uncomprehending. He’d flung the gun down. His eyes wild, he clawed at his hair and danced around in frenzy.
‘Do something! You gotta do something! Get me out…for Chrissakes!’
He paused, calming himself. MHA was striding towards his spacer that was doing peculiar things; changing colour, going transparent. Frightened he may be left behind, he ran to join him. MHA was aboard, strapping in, flicking switches. The rear half of the machine was semi transparent and the slight man hesitated in fear.
MHA shouted. ‘Don’t get in while it’s immaterial! You’ll die!’
The man who would go down in history as the killer of JFK stepped back.
The machine pulsed in and out of reality, getting fainter.
‘You said “Onansis”, “Onartis”, something! She is Jacquie Kennedy, Bouvier Kennedy!’
‘Yes, yes,’ said MHA irritably. ‘Look, I can’t take you – I-I-I’m sorry!’
He was getting fainter by the second. The time ship up above was preparing to transfer him.
‘If it means anything, I really am sorry – you will not stand trial for this! I promise!’
He was gone. The slight man fled. Fled into the future at normal human pace, a one way trip for most.
* * *
Sudo Nonym to protect the innocent in a dubious world, he has 3 grandkids and lives with his wife of 40 years in a secret location with a cat and untidy workshops where he finds it easier writing about his inventions than actually making them work.
Writing themes include time travel, spies, speculation over other worlds and, not to chase or challenge the climate change theories, to complain bitterly were something to go wrong we’re not going the right way to prepare for it. Houses that float on water or tall pilings at least, boats to move about and inexpensive flying machines rather than the preserve of the rich or those with the application to fly them. Money where mouth is, he is a licensed private pilot.
