“You too. Stay close to Blood, if you can. He seems to be the most important figure in this scenario.”
“Got it.”
Assembly blew.
“Got to go,” said Finn. “I’ll meet you in Chakdarra.”
Outside, there were the sounds of horses and pack animals massing as the 11th Bengal Lancers prepared to ride out to the relief of Chakdarra.
“I wish we were going with him,” Andre said.
“So do I,” said Lucas, “but this improves our chances. If anything gets out of whack up ahead, Finn can scout the situation and clock back to let us know. Besides, he’s right. We’ve got to protect the important figures in this scenario. And Blood’s the most important one on hand right now.”
The door burst open with a slam. Standing in the entrance was a dashing young blond officer in the uniform of a subaltern in the 4th Hussars. He saw Lucas and Andre and politely removed his shako.
“Excuse me, Father, madam. I wonder if you could tell me where I might find General Sir Bindon Blood? I’ve just arrived to join the march. My name is Winston Churchill.”
Chapter 4
Sharif Khan was a self-made man. He began his khanate by the simple expedient of stealing a rifle from one of the British pickets at Landi Kotal. In the dead of night, while the picket slept, he had crept up to him and stolen his breechloading MartiniHenry, as well as several belts of ammunition. This made him a man to be reckoned with in the small Afridi village where he had settled. With the rifle to back up his new important status, he prevailed upon several of the young men in the village to build a gun tower as an addition to his small brick house, and he instructed them in the proper way of loopholing the walls to provide embrasures, as well as in constructing a high, surrounding wall around the entire dwelling. Thus ensconced in this miniature fort with its gun tower overlooking all the village, he proclaimed himself a khan.
Within a short time of arriving in the village, he had led its people in an attack upon a neighbouring settlement. In this manner he quickly increased his domain, making feudal vassals of those he subjugated. Within a short time he had gained a reputation in the region as a chief to be feared and respected. He lived in a bigger house now, a small fort that was opulently furnished, as befitted the status of a khan. He had well-trained bodyguards and he obtained more money through his raids, which he used to purchase more rifles, ammunition, and supplies. He had acquired a harem, small, but of extremely high quality. And now he waited to be noticed.
Sharif Khan was not his real name. He was last known as Reese Hunter, a captain in the First Division of the Temporal Corps. Yet that was not his real name either. The real Reese Hunter had died in 17th century France, his throat slit by an assassin. Sharif Khan had been known by many names. One of them was Barry Martingale, once a sergeant in the Temporal Corps. Barry Martingale had been a cover identity, carefully constructed to allow an agent of Temporal Intelligence to infiltrate a terrorist organisation headed by a man named Drakov. The man who had been Barry Martingale, then Reese Hunter, and who was now the Afridi chieftain, Sharif Khan, was a TIA agent known by the codename Phoenix.
The TIA’s senior field agent before Phoenix had been murdered by an assassin who had insinuated herself into his private life. It was a mistake Phoenix would never make. He trusted no one except one man—the enigmatic Dr. Darkness, the man who was faster than light.
Manifesting from the tachyon state that allowed him to cross the boundaries of space and time in a near-zero interval, Darkness appeared in Sharif Khan’s bedroom like a ghost materialising from the ether. Dressed in a long black Inverness and a wide-brimmed black slouch hat, he looked incongruous in his surroundings. His appearance was a marked contrast to that of Phoenix, who wore baggy white linen trousers buttoned at the ankles, curl-toed boots, a wide blue sash, and an embroidered vest over a loose white shirt. Cosmetic surgery had darkened the pigmentation of the agent’s skin, and his normally blond hair was now jet black and worn down to his shoulders. His blue turban was fastened by a golden clasp. He smiled and gave Darkness the traditional Islamic greeting of a slight bow and genuflection with the ope
n hand.
The gaunt, lugubrious features of the scientist seemed to blur for an instant before they resolved themselves into a grimace of distaste. He gestured with his blackthorn walking stick, indicating their surroundings.
“This place looks like a Persian whorehouse. And what is that hideous smell?”
“It’s dinner, I’m afraid,” said Phoenix. “It smells like goat meat boiled in Cosmoline, but it doesn’t taste too bad once you get used to it.” He smiled. “I’d have them set another place, but my wives might become upset if you suddenly appeared out of thin air at the dinner table.”
“Yes, I believe I saw two of your wives leaving this room before I manifested,” Darkness said. “They looked all of fourteen.”
Phoenix shrugged. “In their prime and eminently marriageable by Afridi standards. I could hardly have allowed the most desirable young women in this village to marry someone else. Sharif Khan has to maintain a certain image.”
“I’ll refrain from commenting on the nature of that image,” Darkness said wryly. “Did you have much trouble disposing of your identity as Barry Martingale?”
“Some,” said Phoenix. “The commandos complicated matters by giving me a new identity. I would have died of plasma burns if they hadn’t clocked me to that army hospital. They bought my cover and believed I was a deserter. They didn’t want me to be arrested, so they altered official records, believe it or not, and gave me the identity of an MIA. They thought they were helping me when they switched the data in Martingale’s jacket with Reese Hunter’s. Instead they created an official file through which I could be traced if I ever slipped up. I had to make sure Hunter was accounted for somehow.”
“So what became of your identity as Hunter?” Darkness said.
“He checked out of the hospital and requested a brief reorientation leave.” Phoenix grinned. “After all, he’d been out of action for a while. I managed to stage a convenient accident. Captain Hunter died in a skimmer crash in San Diego. No trace of the body after the explosion. That way, no one asks any questions, and both Martingale and Hunter are disposed of. After that it was a simple matter to wrangle this assignment. The Referees have given over jurisdiction in this matter to the army, which made it the First Division’s mission. You can imagine how Temporal Intelligence took that. They can’t infringe upon an adjustment mission assigned by Vargas himself, but they could send a covert team back to gather information. I was the logical person to head up that team.”
“How many agents have you brought with you?” Darkness said.
“Five. Two in my bodyguard and three posing as my senior lieutenants. I picked the men myself. I think that’s enough to handle the situation if it becomes really serious.”
“It’s more serious than you know,” said Darkness. “My instruments have detected massive fluctuations in the timestream. I’ve been attempting to pinpoint the source, but it’s impossible. The effect is not a static one. The entire timestream is rippling. It’s Mensinger’s worst nightmare come true.”
“Jesus,” Phoenix said. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” said Darkness. “I’m not in the habit of making theoretical pronouncements. Not even Vargas suspects how serious it is, and he has a doctorate in Zen physics. He believes it can be resolved by a temporal adjustment. He doesn’t understand that it’s gone beyond that. I think he’s afraid to admit it to himself. He’s been a bureaucrat too long. The truth is staring him right in the face, but he doesn’t want to see it.”