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.
* * *
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.