"True," agreed Doctor Zee. "Which makes it all the more imperative that you accompany Troy and Dillon and help them avoid exposing their lack of knowledge of the time and the area."
"All right," said Adama. "Get her outfitted and be prepared to take off immediately thereafter."
"Yes, sir," said Troy. He and Dillon escorted Jamie from Doctor Zee's chambers and left the youthful genius deep in conversation with Adama.
"How, exactly, do we get to the past?" said Jamie as they began gathering her gear.
"According to Doctor Zee," began Troy, "time travel is possible only after we've exceeded the speed of light and . . ."
"Wait a minute!" said Jamie. "Nothing can exceed the speed of light. Einstein's theory states that when your speed approaches that of light, your mass approaches infinity, which means that to reach the speed of light you'd have to have an infinite mass, and that means that not all the energy in the Universe could power it, and . . ." Her voice trailed off and she scratched her head. "But you're here, and you had to travel at light speeds to get here, didn't you?"
Troy nodded.
"Well," shrugged Jamie. "Einstein also said that his theory might only be a local phenomenon. And Jamie Hamilton says, never spit in the eye of a fact."
"Actually," said Troy, "we achieve faster-than-light speeds by using a drive based on the tachyon, which is a faster-than-light subatomic particle. I don't understand how it works, but I do know how to pilot a ship. I'll leave the theorizing to Doctor Zee."
"So, back to time travel," said Jamie. "How does it work?"
"Well, as I understand it, merely traveling at faster-than-light speeds isn't enough to go back in Time; all it does is get you from one point to another very fast. But there is a time-warp factor dealing with stellar rotation that cropped up in Doctor Zee's equations, and he's programmed our Vipers' computers to travel back to exactly the moment he wants, which is sometime in 1944."
"And our computers are so sensitive," continued Dillon, "that we'll reappear in normal space-time over Germany. Not bad for a fourteen-year-old kid, eh?"
"Who is he?" asked Jamie. "Or maybe I should ask, what is he?"
"Hopefully he's the salvation of the human race," said Troy, carrying Jamie's gear to his Viper. "He's millions, billions of years ahead of his time on a cerebral scale. He was born in space, aboard the Galactica; without him we'd never have survived to find Earth."
"I get the very strong impression," said Jamie, "that everything we've discussed is just an appetizer, a prelude, and that your real problems have nothing to do with Earth."
"Right now," said Troy, boosting her into the Viper and then swinging his own lithe body into the pilot's seat, "our only concern is Earth. We can't solve one problem without solving the other." He turned on his radio. "Ready, Dillon?"
"Ready," came the answer from Dillon's Viper.
He turned back to Jamie. "You might be interested in keeping your eye on the scanner. You'll catch glimpses along our journey as the computer samples the coordinates to make sure we're on track. And now," he added, pressing the Viper's accelerator, "say good-bye to 1980."
She did so—but it was 1944 by the time the words were formed.
17
RECONSTRUCTED FROM
TROY'S DEBRIEFING SESSION:
Jamie opened her eyes.
"Good morning," smiled Troy from his seat at the Viper control panel. "You passed out. Welcome to June 4,1944."
"What happened?" she asked.
"I can't give you all the scientific gobbledegook," said Troy, "but when we travel through Time we move out of normal space-time, into a Universe—or rather a passage through a Universe—of non-causality."
"Non-causality?" repeated Jamie.
Troy nodded. "No cause and effect. Patternless lights, events that have no rhyme or reason, noises without a source. Your mind couldn't accept the testimony of your senses, and did the only thing it was capable of to preserve its notion of the way things are supposed to be: it passed out, went to sleep, shut down for a while in the face of a batch of data that bore no resemblance to anything familiar or logical."
"You stayed awake?" she asked.
"No need to feel ashamed, Jamie," said Dillon over the radio. "Troy and I have been conditioned for it. Believe me, the first time Doctor Zee simulated the effect of time travel, it took them three hours to wake me up!"
"Where are we now?" Jamie wanted to know.
"About thirty thousand feet above a little Bavarian village," said Troy. "It looks innocuous from up here, but I gather it's where they've got the prototypes of their more advanced V-2 rockets."
"And if you want to know when we are," said Dillon unhappily, "we're three weeks later than we should be."
"How could that happen?" asked Troy.
"I don't know," said Dillon, "except that time travel is pretty new even to Doctor Zee. Missing our mark by three weeks over a period of thirty-six years isn't so bad. I just wish if we had to be wrong, we could have arrived early."
"How do you know you're late?" asked Jamie.
"Our Vipers' computers were locked onto the electron discharge from Xaviar's ship," said Troy. "I guess even the computers must have been confused during the non-causal part of our journey."
"Well," said Dillon, "what do we do—go back and try again?"
"I don't think so," said Troy. "First of all, there's no guarantee we could get any closer to the right moment next time around. And second, whatever Xaviar's got in mind, it's going to take him a while to work his way up the power structure's ladder."
"Couldn't he just deposit some weapons and leave?" asked Jamie.
"No," said Troy. "Our weapons are pretty complex. Even if the Germans figured out how to use them, they'd need Xaviar to teach them the principles and show them how to build more."
"You're not giving the Germans much credit for brainpower," said Jamie. "They've produced some of the greatest scientists in our history."
"True," said Troy, "but they all operate on certain principles delineated by Isaac Newton and your Doctor Einstein—and our weapons aren't based on those principles. From what little I read of your history, a philosopher named Aristotle once declared that everything in the world was composed of four elements—earth, air, fire and water—and it was more than fifteen hundred years before anyone questioned that statement. No, Xaviar has got to make sure he's in a position to show them what to do with our weapons, to guide them in making more. That's probably why he's chosen the V-2 rocket to start with; since it's a prototype, all he has to do is improve its expected performance and he'll probably be given the budget and the authority to do 'research' on an even better weapon system, which is doubtless just what he wants."
"And he has a three-week head start on us?" said Jamie gloomily.
"It may not be all that difficult to hunt him down," said Troy. "After all, Dillon and I have had some firsthand experience concerning the difficulty of trying to appear inconspicuous in an alien society—and Xaviar's not trying to lose himself in a crowd. He's got to impress the German leaders with his abilities. If he makes a mistake they're going to try to arrest him, and he'll be forced to reveal himself if he uses any of our weapons or our invisibility field to remain free. Also, we know his target, so we're not going to waste a lot of time looking for him in farm fields or among the members of the underground."
"What's to stop us from giving ourselves away in the process?" asked Jamie.
"Well, we're rather hoping that you will stop us," smiled Troy. "By the way, how's your German?"
"Passable," said Jamie. "I had three years of it in high school and two in college. But I'm sure I've got a heavy American accent, and that's got to stand out like a sore thumb in wartime."
"Then let us do the talking whenever possible," said Troy.
"Where did you learn German?"
"The same place we learned English," said Dillon over the radio.
"Right," said Troy. "Ten minutes with Doctor Zee's Language
Educator and you can speak almost any tongue in the galaxy like a native. If we gave ourselves away at various times on Earth, it was our lack of knowledge of certain customs or portions of your technology, not our accents."
"True," said Jamie. "But follow my lead when we start interacting with the Germans. You may speak the language a little better, but you're going to be babes in the woods when it comes to knowing what you're talking about."
"Agreed," said Troy.
"I hate to interrupt," said Dillon, "but six German aircraft just took off from the airfield where they're keeping the V-2."
Jamie looked down. "I can't tell from here if they're Forkkers or Messerschmidts."
"What's the difference?" asked Troy.
"None, really, considering what we're flying. Let's blow those filthy Nazis out of the sky!"
"We can't do that, Jamie," said Dillon.
"Why not?"
"Our mission is to apprehend Xaviar, not to help him change the past. If we kill one of these guys, and he otherwise would have survived the war and had three kids, and each of them had grown up to have a couple of children, and . . ."
"I know," sighed Jamie. "The old rice problem."
"Rice problem?" said Troy. "What's that?"
"It's an old story about a Chinese peasant who did a service for his ruler. The ruler offered him anything he wanted in the kingdom, and the peasant said that he would like someone to produce a chessboard. This was done—it's a game requiring sixty-four squares—and he said that his wish was for a single grain of rice on the first square, two on the second, four on the third, eight on the fourth, and so on. The ruler consented, and the peasant owned all the rice in the world before half the squares were used up."
"A simple geometrical progression," agreed Troy. "And it's the same thing when you go into the past and kill someone."
"I hate to break into a charming and fascinating conversation," said Dillon, "but the German aircraft will overtake us in about half a minute."
"What are those small projectiles that they're firing?" asked Troy.
"Bullets!" exclaimed Jamie. "Let's get out of here!"
"Good advice," grunted Troy, pulling the nose of his Viper up and firing his turbos. Dillon did likewise, and an instant later they had vanished from the skies.
"Dumkoffs!" said the German ground control radio. "The Americans have no airplanes capable of such speeds. You almost shot our own rockets out of the sky!"
"But they bore no German insignia," said one of the pilots.
"What else could they have been?" snapped the officer on the ground. "Bring your planes back to base and don't mention this to anyone—or we're all going to be seeing duty at the Russian front!"
A word to the wise was more than sufficient.
18
FROM THE DIARY OF
COLONEL JOHN H. GUIDRY:
I took off from a small field in the South of France, no thanks to Charles de Gaulle, who had thrown so much red tape in our way that the project almost didn't get off the ground. I sure don't know why the French worship a muttonhead like that; I guess all the better generals and more rational men have been killed in the war.
I was flying a small Mosquito bomber with English insignia, which also didn't make much sense to me. I know it's a joint British-American venture, but hell, the Germans will shoot an English plane down just as quick as one of ours. Oh, well, I'm just the muscle; the brainpower must have its reasons.
Anyway, I used what cloud cover I could find, but it vanished when I got within about 300 air miles of Obersalzberg, Hilter's sometime-retreat that was my destination. The Fuehrer was in Berlin, but he wasn't what I was after, anyway; I think the bigwigs in Washington and London had an idea that his own generals were on the brink of murdering him for us. But Obersalzberg was also where they were working on the much-publicized but not-yet-seen V-2 rockets. And the V-2 (or V-2s, if there were more than a single prototype) was my target.
After the sky cleared, I went into a quick power dive and leveled off at about 200 feet. I knew the British radar couldn't pick up anything that low-flying, and while we assumed the Germans hadn't developed radar yet, the odds were that even if they had it, flying this low would keep me unobserved.
It worked, too—until I was within about six miles of Obersalzberg. Then a pair of Messerschmidts started zeroing in on me. They came from such a height that I suspect they were returning home after chasing some other Allied ship out of their sky, but where they came from wasn't as important as how good they were. And they were plenty good.
I banked to the left and started climbing, but I couldn't shake them. Then I figured I'd show them some old county fair flying that I used to earn meal money with, and see what they were really made of.
I pulled back on the controls, gunned the engine, and flew straight up at a 90-degree angle with the ground. I remembered to scream at the top of my lungs, but I was counting on my pals from the Luftwaffe not knowing that little trick.
They'd keep their mouths shut like the stoic little members of the Master Race that they envisioned themselves to be, and hopefully they'd pass out. The screaming and shouting isn't from fear: it's to keep your ears and sinuses open, and if you don't do it, you black out more often than not. Someday they'll invent a pressurized pilot's cabin, but until they do, this is the only sure way to keep awake when you're doing a power rise or a lot of looping.
I went straight up to five thousand feet, then, still yelling, killed the power and let the plane spin, tail first, toward the ground. I kicked on the ignition at two thousand feet, but I must have fallen to within fifty feet before I pulled out of it. I finally checked behind me and found that both Messerschmidts had crashed—but just as I was telling myself what a bright young feller I was, four more Messerschmidts appeared and took up the pursuit.
I led them a merry chase, but they were a hell of a lot faster than me, and within a few minutes I saw that my chance of getting away unscathed was just about zero. Besides, I didn't want to get away; all that would mean was that I'd have to come back to Obersalzberg again, and this time they'd really be ready for me. Once they figured out that we were after the V-2, they were going to throw every top flier they had into its defense.
I put some plastic explosives in my knapsack, made sure my parachute was buckled on securely, and took my plane over a nearby forest. I was just over the trees when I felt the right wing take about four bullets. The tail went next, and then one of the propellers. By this time the plane was throwing out the telltale trail of black smoke that meant it was going down, and I hit the door. For a minute I thought it wasn't going to open, but finally it did and I bailed out at about eight thousand feet.
I knew the Nazis would be trying to nail me as well as the plane, so I didn't pull the ripcord right away. I tried to ride the wind currents as best I could, trying to maneuver my body over a large clearing in the middle of the Bavarian forest.
Finally, at two thousand feet, I jerked the cord, the parachute ballooned open, and they finally got a bead on me. But it was too late for them. A couple of tracer bullets came within a hundred feet or so of me, but then I was hidden by the trees. I damned near impaled myself on a huge broken branch about fifty feet above the ground, but I twisted my body at the last minute and avoided it.
The parachute caught on it, though, and an instant later I found myself hanging about thirty feet above the ground. It was a grim situation. I'm no coward, but I sure as hell wasn't going to jump thirty feet to the ground; the army needed a live saboteur, not a crippled hero.
I knew I had to act fast. The Messerschmidts would radio the Nazi base at Obersalzberg that I was in the woods, and they'd have their ground troops into the forest in a mere handful of minutes.
I pulled a jackknife out of my pocket, began sawing at the cord, and when only one canvas strap remained unsevered I wrapped it around my hand and pulled myself up its length until I lay panting on the broken branch. From there it was a relatively easy matter to edge myself
to the bole of the tree and start shinnying down it. The trunk got too wide about fifteen feet above the ground and I fell the rest of the way, but falling fifteen feet is a far cry from falling thirty, and I picked myself up without any serious damage having been done.
I thought I heard a slight noise, like a cracking twig, behind me, but when I drew my pistol and turned to face it I could see nothing. Writing it off to nerves, I adjusted my backpack and began walking, determined to find some better shelter before the Nazi troops arrived. But it had evidently taken me longer to get out of the tree than I had thought, because I hadn't walked fifty feet when I heard a voice telling me, in German, to halt.
I turned and saw three Nazi soldiers about two hundred feet away. I raised my hands slowly, trying to figure out what to do next. There was no way they were going to take me alive. I may be tough, but I didn't know if I could stand up to the Gestapo's questioning, and I was fully prepared to die before giving them any knowledge of the Allies' espionage activities.
Suddenly there was a blur of motion off to my left, just where I had heard the cracking sound a few moments ago. A girl—an incredibly lovely girl—burst into view and started running toward me.
"Jamie!" called a strong masculine voice.
"He's one of ours!" shouted the girl without looking back. "We've got to help him!"
One of the Nazis whirled and trained his rifle on her, but he collapsed as though pounded by an invisible sledgehammer. Then two tall young men stepped into view, trained odd-looking hand weapons on the two remaining Nazis, and fired. I want to say "pulled the triggers," but I didn't see any triggers. I didn't hear any explosions either, but the two Germans fell to earth just like the first one had.
"Jamie!" snapped the taller of the two men. "What's gotten into you? We're not supposed to get involved!"
The girl had reached me by this time. In fact, I don't think she even knew that the Nazis had been shot down.
Battlestar Galactica 5 - Galactica Discovers Earth Page 8