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 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.