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 3
MHA 3. The Carthaginians. 213 B.C
The Man from Historical Accuracy lay back on a comfortable couch next to the General’s bathing pool. Here and there couples lingered on similar couches caressing and whispering; the odd giggle, a sudden guffaw erupting now and then. The red wine of southern Spain flowed, spilled and lent Bacchanalian authority to the scene.
He was glad he’d got into the habit of leaving his real reproductive parts up in orbit on the time ship. He waited until the girl gave up trying to arouse him.
‘Shall I get you a boy? A man? Do you want to visit the stables? Or the kennels?’ she said in a hurt tone.
He was glad for three reasons:
One. It wouldn’t do to leave his offspring down here so early on in civilisation.
Two. For the last few minutes, even though he sat with another girl, his girl’s husband or guardian was sneaking glances at him and playing with a very sharp knife in a meaningful way. He would either have to kill him, an act that would upset history; which in turn he would then have to disentangle. Or,
Three. If he were killed himself, he would have to be sought out, found elsewhere in the time lanes and still have to put this one right.
The General came in. His retinue took up stony-faced positions blocking the light in their armour and ceremonial helmets; casting both real shadows and a shadow of jealous disapproval over the proceedings. Some with hot dusty feet eyed the pool. Others glanced sidelong at the maidens. The General waved a hand for people not to get up; looked annoyed because they hadn’t even stirred in readiness to do so. He dismissed the retinue; light returned to the scene.
‘My brother has been assassinated. This means I am left to invade Italy with his foolish plans or face exile. Do I have to bail him out on everything?’
He paced up and down, kicking slaves and overturning vases of flowers and water bowls in his temper.
‘Do I get a drink or do I have to slit someone’s throat and drink his blood!’ he roared.
MHA groaned to himself. Maybe I’ll mention he needs to take elephants over the Alps a bit later on.
* * *
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.
The Portly Politico 