by D. J. Gelner
I didn’t hear any objections, so I pushed the button and the ship took off.
“Computer, three hundred sixty degree view, please.” I suppose the computer may have been happy at the rare display of courtesy and politeness I exhibited toward it.
The walls faded away to reveal the full landscape around us. I took one more look at the mulberry tree, the final resting place of the most odious time traveller whom we had met to date.
Yet as I studied the shallow grave, something was off. The mound appeared to be far shorter than I had remembered leaving it, and the fresh, loose earth atop it was less compacted than I recalled.
I shook my head, but when my eyes had refocused, we were out of range of the tree. We hurtled toward space for what would presumably be my second-to-last time jump, hopefully for a good long while.
And I was left to silently wonder if the Vizier was dead after all.
Chapter Twenty-Five
My relief escalated after we emerged from the vortex and I realised further that I would no longer need to wear those bloody contact lenses for the rest of the expedition. As poetic as it had seemed earlier to preserve those millions of years worth of grains of dirt and muck for experimentation’s (and, honestly, posterity’s) sake after I had removed the first pair of lenses, I now wanted nothing more than to forget the last several time periods, and was more than ecstatic to practically rip the little plastic discs out of my eyes and discard them in the bin.
As I placed my spectacles comfortably on the bridge of my nose, we already had entered the atmosphere and were beginning our descent toward the continent. A squadron of planes flew in formation some distance beneath us, and I realised that we were likely already visible to any other aircraft, and even potentially the radar of the day.
“Computer, engage cloaking device,” I said. Thankfully, the craft had enough power, and confirmation of our cloaked status appeared on the right console.
We descended toward the pastoral farms of rural France, and for once I was happy for the reminder that we were back in civilisation. The rolling hills and carefully-carved out rectangular parcels of various sizes and colours nearly made me forget that this civilisation was currently embroiled in one of the ugliest, most racist, bloodiest conflicts that the world would ever see.
We cruised on approach toward Paris, and in short order the familiar sights of the Eiffel Tower and Champs d’Elysees came into focus. One thing that stood out was the Nazi flag that sat atop L’Tour Eiffel. It waved sinisterly over the city, and allowed not only every Frenchman to know who watched over him constantly, but also provided all of Europe with a preview of what lay in store should any of the remaining allied countries fall.
“You’re welcome,” I muttered at the city, a special sentiment I imagined countless Brittons had wanted to direct at the French of this era through the years.
We settled down in the middle of a grassy park that I didn’t immediately recognise, and, much to my pleasant surprise, one that didn’t appear to be particularly infested by Nazis. An odd patrol would skirt around the area from time-to-time, but otherwise we were in a blissfully forgotten corner of Gay Paree.
I fastened my holster around my torso and concealed it under the camo jacket from our forays into the Yucatan. I walked toward the gangway, and was about to command the computer to open the door when I heard a voice.
“What’re you doing?” Bloomington asked.
“Whatever do you mean?” I asked, somewhat annoyed by the rotund little scientist.
“I think he means why are you going into 1940s Paris dressed like Marty McFly at a ‘Nam rally,” Corcoran said.
I looked at my clothes and saw that I had indeed forgotten to change, and was still wearing the comfortable t-shirt and blue jeans. Not to mention that I hadn’t put two and two together regarding the camouflage jacket, and the potential military overtones associated with such a getup.
“I, uh…” I thought briefly about breaking out the old, “Just testing you guys!”, but decided that it was far too ridiculous for even this scenario. Instead, I shrugged and marched over to the glove box, more embarrassed than anything else.
“Computer, 1940s-era France appropriate garb.” There would be no “please” this time.
The little vacuum-packed clothing file whirred to life, and produced three rather dapper three-piece suits, one brown, one light grey, and one charcoal pin-striped, with matching shirts and ties, as well as well-polished shoes and tasteful-looking spats.
I surveyed the sizes and tossed the appropriate suit to each fellow. I had been hoping for the pin-striped number, but it apparently belonged to Corcoran, and I had to settle for the light grey ensemble.
“From the Al Capone collection, I assume?” Corcoran asked.
“Derringer, I believe,” I deadpanned.
We dressed quickly and exited to a rather dreary day, the type of day that seemed fitting given the Nazi occupation. As sparse as the red swastika’d arm bands and goosestepping pairs of boots were in this part of the city, it still gave me the willies to be in a point in time where such an evil, ugly ideology could not only take root and survive, but also flourish and spread across some of Europe’s most vibrant cultural centers.
Perhaps the most troubling part of it all was that in my time, nearly one hundred years later, the world hadn’t learned its lesson. People continued to kill others based on nothing other than the religion under which one decided to live his life. Little was different in 2032 other than the manner in which both sides decided to meet their ends. Though being vaporised in a nuclear blast was hardly pleasant, for my money it was quite a bit less dehumanising than the atrocities that these Nazi monsters committed.
The end result’s the same, though, I thought, more than a bit influenced by the dreary scene.
Then, it dawned on me: the firepower of whatever Nazis with whom we may come in contact would, for the first time, likely be somewhat greater than the sum total of our two pistols. I held up my hand to the access panel and re-entered the ship. I unlocked the armory and grasped the prototype laser pistol. It felt surprisingly light, if a bit unbalanced, in my hand. I decided to holster it, and placed my Baretta inside my waistband, nestled against the small of my back.
I opened my jacket to show Corcoran the laser pistol safely lodged in its holster. I felt like a futuristic Elliot Ness, displaying the laser gun to a gangster to indicate that I meant business. Instead of showing any kind of respect or fear, Corcoran merely nodded matter-of-factly.
I closed the ship’s door and we took in the verdant landscape, dotted with a smattering of trees to provide some much-needed height to the otherwise pleasant little park. It was the first time I had smelled anything clean and modern since, ironically, I had been at Chronobase Alpha some sixty five million years ago (I didn’t count St. Louis since the simultaneously pleasant and revolting smell of the brewery pervaded the entire landscape). The few trees meant that only the odd chirp of a songbird here or there shattered the otherwise eerie silence that hung over the scene like an ominous cloud that had strayed a bit too far from the heavy, grey banks above.
A woman in a suitably drab, neutral brown outfit walked along one of the paths not but thirty feet away from us. Her nose was pointed skyward in that perfect French manner that simultaneously caused me to both deride and desire her. I patted the holotran on my neck and thought of what exactly I should ask her. “Pardon me, darling, we’re three time travellers trying to figure out what the devil this eccentric billionaire’s clue means. Do you have a moment to help us?” probably wasn’t the best way to go.
To my shock, Bloomington of all people waddled over to the woman and struck up a conversation.
“Pardon, madmoiselle,” I looked for the tell-tale patch on Bloomington’s neck, but found none.
Could it be? Could he actually have spoken perfect French?
“My friends and I are looking for perhaps a place with French food and wine as fine as you are beautiful,” my holotra
n had adjusted, and made it seem as if Bloomington was speaking in English once more, but his mannerisms were far more polite, his demeanor more gentlemanly than I had ever seen previously. His voice gained a rich baritone quality that made him seem positively adult; to be fair, it was probably the first time that I realised that the man truly was an adult, and not some Peter Pan-inspired perpetual adolescent.
The woman laughed and blushed, “Oh my!” Bloomington grasped her hand and brought it to his lips to give it a genteel kiss.
Corcoran and my jaws may as well have had weights attached to them.
“Well…it depends on what you seek…” the woman was suitably cryptic before she tilted her head to one side, “You men are foreigners, no?”
“Americans,” Corcoran answered. I wondered if she heard the reply in English or French.
“Oh! I see…” The pleasant surprise was evident on the woman’s face.
“He’s British,” Corcoran stuck out a thumb at me.
“Oh…I see…” her tone was somewhat less-than-enthused.
I wanted to trade barbs with the tart, but thankfully Corcoran intervened.
“Looking to keep a low profile, if you catch my drift,” Corcoran whispered.
The woman nodded, her eyes wide. She looked around for several moments before she whispered back, “The Earth, Candlelight Cafe, even The Dragon’s Tears sound like places that may interest you.”
It took me a moment to realise that the rather inelegant sounding establishments likely rolled off the tongue in her native French.
“Thank you, madame,” Bloomington kissed her hand once more. She couldn’t help but giggle like a schoolgirl, despite being roughly the same age as myself and the Commander. “We shall be enjoying a drink at the Candlelight Cafe. I expect to see you there once you are free, that is so long as your mother will let you out!” Bloomington added a smile that I considered downright creepy, but one that this woman must’ve found charming, as she laughed again.
“You are too much! Perhaps I will. Good luck, gentlemen,” she locked eyes with Bloomington and blew him a kiss before she walked through our little group. Perhaps thirty feet down the path, she turned and made eyes at Bloomington once more before she waved at him over his shoulder.
I could’ve knocked Bloomington over with my pinky. He sighed a self-satisfied breath as he stared dopily at the retreating woman.
“What the fuck was that?” Corcoran beat me to the punch.
“What? Sometimes it pays to pay attention during French class in high school.” Corcoran and I looked at each other and shrugged. “Fortunately for you two, I spent a semester abroad here in college.”
“You didn’t find this pertinent to explain to us before we got here?” I asked.
“I discussed it with the Commander!” Bloomington looked toward Corcoran, who smiled a helpless grin and shrugged once more.
“So neither of you found it—”
“I was gonna tell ya’ once we got in the city,” Corcoran said. “Unfortunately, Casanova over here got distracted as soon as we got off the ship, so I didn’t exactly have any time, okay?”
I shook my head and maintained a stony expression that I hope indicated disdain, even as I chuckled inside at how much the three of us kept using the excuse that “we didn’t have enough time,” even though we were travelling in a bloody time machine.
“Anyway,” Bloomington shot Corcoran and me a particularly nasty and over-exaggerated eye-roll, “I think we’re up in Parc Monceau, which is in the northwest part of the city. I think some asshat [there’s the old Bloomington, I thought] told me that the Candlelight Cafe was some kind of an underground base during the war, or led to a tunnel or somethin’. I dunno. After chatting…err…’confirming which kindsa places we should be looking for’ with that hot chick, I think it’s our best bet, right guys?”
I nodded without looking at the Commander. He did the same.
“Great!” Bloomington could hardly hide his glee. “Let’s go then. This way, fuckheads!” He waved us onward, and practically skipped down the path. It was as fast as I had ever seen the little ogre move, but Corcoran and I still tottered along behind him at an artificially retarded pace.
We eventually emerged on a street that, though far from “bustling,” was somewhat abuzz with foot traffic. Unfortunately, three Nazi officers were among the throng of people; I had to physically steer the otherwise oblivious Bloomington away from them.
We made a roundabout path through the plaza and came to a bank of row buildings with stonework foundations and recently replastered exteriors. One of the edifices was a light rose-coloured shade pocked by patches of unfinished white plaster, and had a sign with a picture of a candle upon it, and “Cafe Chandelles” written in pretty, flowing script.
Bloomington pointed at the sign perhaps over-emphatically; I had to reach out and pull his arm down, lest he attract undue attention.
“What the fu—?” Bloomington began to raise his voice, but I clasped my hand over his mouth, and brought the pointer finger of my free hand to my lips to signal quiet. The shorter scientist nodded in agreement and raised his eyebrows with a head bob toward the sign once more.
We entered the establishment to find it rather empty, aside from two exceedingly French-looking “gentlemen” seated in a booth in a corner, smoking like furnaces as they muttered unintelligible French at one another. The room was dark and cozy, made all the more so by the candlelight that danced off of the box-like booths and along the shabby, splintering bar.
A (and I’m usually loathe to use this word with regard to women due to the ire it normally inspires, but it really is the best adjective to describe her) handsome fortiesh woman with a decent-sized mole on her right cheek leaned up against a support beam past the booze, at the far end of the bar. She eyed us with suspicion as Bloomington plodded toward her. Corcoran and I tried to appear as nonchalant as possible behind him.
“Hello, miss,” Bloomington said with a smile. “We would like a bottle of your finest wine, please.”
The woman stared at Bloomington for a moment. She took a long drag off of her cigarette and blew a large cloud of smoke in Bloomington’s face.
“Have a seat,” she said as she turned toward a spiral stone staircase at the far end of the bar.
“Friendly enough,” Corcoran said with a smile. Bloomington didn’t take the sleight in stride.
We sat at one of the booths in silence for several moments before the woman reemerged carrying a bottle of unmarked red wine, and three less-than-spotless wine glasses.
“Thank you,” Bloomington muttered. The woman poured out three healthy portions of wine before she retreated to her former position along the upright beam and lit another cigarette.
“To one hell of a journey,” Corcoran offered as he raised a glass.
“And to its conclusion,” I completed his toast (or so I thought) and took a healthy portion of the wine in my mouth. It was actually surprisingly good, as far as French wines go. Though I tend to downplay my American ancestry, during the course of my work across the Atlantic at Hopkins, I had developed an affinity for richer, bolder cabernets in the Napa model, as opposed to the “understated,” rather chalky-tasting French reds. This wine had much better mouthfeel, much more substance, much more—
“And, here’s to Bloomy over here gettin’ laid for once in his life,” I nearly spat out my wine as the Commander made his snide remark.
“Fucker!” Bloomington looked ready to hit his superior, but he must have remembered the licking I had given him back in Mayan times, and reasoned that the Commander could likely work him over far worse than I had.
As if to underscore that last point, Corcoran offered Bloomington his usual rakish grin, followed by an expression of mock surprise.
“What? All I said was I hope the guy gets some ass. She was a looker, Bloomy. Way out of your league.”
“Will you shut the fuck up?” Bloomington was growing rather red. I found it funny that his bulb
ous little head was beginning to look like a radish atop his rotund body…which I suppose also looked like a much larger, well-fed raddish that could feed twenty families of rabbits for weeks.
“Aw, come on now, Bloomy, just bustin’ your chops. I think she was into ya.”
“Really?” Bloomington’s hostility melted away almost immediately. “You think so? I think she’s pretty great, too.”
“You spoke with her for what, three minutes in the park?” I asked before I downed another large draught of wine.
“And you talked to that old chick in St. Louis for what, an hour or so—?”
“I beg your pardon?” I was close to belting the insolent little shit on the spot. “Cynthia’s no…no common French whore!” Regrettably, my gaze turned toward the smoking woman up against the support beam behind the bar at that instant. If she heard me, she offered no indication.
“Neither is…my girl!” Bloomington was starting to raise his voice once more, though I nearly laughed in his face when I realised that he hadn’t even gotten her name.
“Goddamn it, enough!” Corcoran hit the table once, hard, and shook the accoutrements set atop it. He stared at each of us with laser-like intensity for a moment before he relaxed his jaw to form his trademark grin, “There’s plenty of women around here for all of us.”
I affected a smile in the hopes that Bloomington would see it as a peace offering, “I’ll drink to that.”
Bloomington broke his brood as well, “Me too.” We clinked glasses once more and drained nearly half the bottle.
The front door flung open and two immaculately-uniformed Nazis waltzed in the bar as if they owned the place. They sang some damned awful German folk song that hurt my ears; their singing was so off-key and screeching that even though the words were being translated into English, I couldn’t understand what in God’s name it was about.
One of the men had a face that was long and lean with a hook nose. He was perhaps ten years older than I, though surprisingly undecorated given his advanced age. The other man was blonde, blue-eyed, and likely stepped out of one of Hitler’s recruiting posters. I mean that quite literally; I believe he was the model for the recruiting posters we had passed on our way to the bar.