by D. J. Gelner
“Well, Rolfe, let us celebrate!” the older man removed his hat to reveal a horseshoe of grey male-pattern baldness. “My treat.”
“Thank you, Colonel Schaffer,” the handsome younger man responded.
The older man’s smile hardened into a scowl as he pounded on the bar, “Bar wench! Give us your finest bottle of whiskey. Two glasses.”
The woman blew a cloud of smoke out of the side of her mouth. “Sorry, no drinks without pre-payment,” the woman answered with the condescension usually reserved for beggars and vagrants. It was especially odd given that we hadn’t paid for our own bottle of wine ahead of time.
The older officer’s eyes bulged with surprise before he let out a forced chuckle, “Surely, fraulein,” Must be that the holotran can only handle one language at a time, I thought, “you would not refuse service to officers in your Fuhrer’s employ?” He patted the luger in his holster for effect.
Without thinking, I got up and interjected myself into the situation. Corcoran followed close behind; his hand already reached toward his jacket.
Unfortunately, the old Nazi’s reflexes were still those of a man many years his junior. In one motion he spun and brought the barrel of the luger to rest next to my forehead. Judging by the fact that Corcoran hadn’t already dispatched this man, I figured that “Rolfe,” or whatever the younger officer’s name was, had his own sidearm trained on the Commander.
I raised my hands and slowly turned to face the Nazi bastard. Though I was certainly fearful, my fear was somewhat buffered by the numerous times my life had been in danger over the past few days, as well as my hatred for all things Nazi.
“I’m not looking for trouble,” I said.
“Apparently you found it,” the Nazi officer said. “Though I must admit, your German is quite excellent for a foreigner. You aren’t citizens of the republic, are you?”
I shook my head. I wasn’t going to give this Nazi dog the courtesy of a response in his native language.
“French? No, your face is far too taut and angled. American? Doubtful. Though these two,” he motioned at my companions, “play the part of fat little American piggy and OSS officer rather well…you have the lean face of…a Britton?”
“Don’t answer him, Doc!” Corcoran yelled. For his troubles, both the older officer and Rolfe unfastened the safeties on their most hideous-looking pistols.
“Ah, a physician!” the German’s expression brightened. “A doctor, are we now? We could use another set of hands at our field hospital near the western front…”
“What makes you think that I’d work for you?” I offered.
“It’s amazing what a man will do to save his own skin when threatened, isn’t it, Rolfe?” he asked the junior officer. The younger man didn’t so much as flinch. The older Nazi moved the gun under my chin, “Especially in such an unpleasant way as being shot like a common dog—”
He stopped and ducked his head down to my neck level. My breathing increased in rapidity, though my bodily functions were somewhat more under my own control than they had been when I was being chased by dinosaurs.
“What is this?” When the older officer had brought the luger to my chin, I had straightened my neck somewhat, inadvertently revealing the holotran beneath my lapel. “Who exactly are you? Where are your papers?” He pulled the holotran off with his off-hand.
“Inside my coat pocket.” I thought I was done for when he heard me speak the King’s, but thankfully no shots were fired. I slowly reached toward the laser pistol I had fitted comfortably against my ribs. The only thought that consumed my mind at that moment was that I had little or no shot of taking down both this older Nazi and the younger one who currently held my comrades hostage. It was extremely likely that at least one of us would leave this room in a box.
I secretly hated myself for hoping that it was Bloomington.
My hand inched closer to the prize. Slowly, steadily, I kept it firm, unshaking, in an effort to not betray my thoughts. Calm now, Fin. Easy does it, I thought.
“Halt!” the older German shouted. It may as well have been a gunshot. “Err bekomt sie,” he nodded toward Bloomington, who was perspiring like a water buffalo, or “only slightly more than usual.”
Bloomington looked to Corcoran for approval, and received a nod in return. Steven slowly made his way toward the older Nazi and me. Rolfe kept his pistol trained on Corcoran; it was rather clear that the men didn’t regard the bumbling, pudgy scientist as nearly as much of a threat as the Commander and myself, perhaps with good reason as Bloomington continued to shake as he drew near.
I hoped that my coat was open to the proper angle so that Bloomington could see the laser pistol inside. I nodded as if to indicate that the “papers” were indeed in my inside coat pocket. Bloomington outstretched a tremulous hand toward my chest and—
He reached past the pistol and into my pocket. I shot him daggers, practically willing him to just grab the damnedable gun already!
“Coat pocket?” he asked.
“Somewhere in there…” I kept my voice as even as possible through gritted teeth. He fumbled around in my jacket for several more seconds; I no longer felt the cool metal of the luger as it had grown warm against my skin.
Suddenly, as sure as I would’ve bet on my life that the Nazis were about to waste the lot of us, Bloomington raised an eyebrow. His expression changed from one of deep-seeded fear to a mischievous, dare I say Corcoran-esque glare.
“Found them!” He exclaimed as he unholstered the laser pistol. Corcoran and I ducked as he held down the trigger and a barrage of laser fire shot entirely through the older Nazi and into the bottles of liquor behind him (with a rather satisfying, classic laser “pachoo!” noise, if I do say so myself). Rolfe fired two shots, high, as Bloomington hit the floor. I grabbed for the pistol in the small of my back and levelled it on the blonde Nazi. I fired two rounds, though I’m afraid that Corcoran had already unleashed his own pattern into the younger man’s chest before my slugs found their mark. The powerful man’s dying body somehow pulled the trigger several more times and scattered gunfire about the room until he fell, lifeless, in a pool of his own blood.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Eat laser bolt, you Nazi shitfaces!” Bloomington screamed at the corpses. We checked around to make sure that none of us had been hit by the wild final twitches of “Rolfe’s” horrible existence, and saw that the only (still regrettable) casualty had been the bottle of expensive scotch that the barmaid had been carrying to the soldiers (Macallan, unfortunately, I believe), which now was little more than a dripping neck of jagged glass.
“Took you long enough,” I couldn’t help but complain to Bloomington. I attempted to nonchalantly dust myself off and straighten my tie, though I fear the end result appeared somewhat less calm and cool than I would have hoped.
“That’s for giving me shit about my special lady,” Bloomington said. “Maybe next time you’ll be nicer.”
I could have strangled the man at that moment, but thought the better of it since he had just saved both of our lives.
“Heads up next time would be ‘preciated,” Corcoran scowled, “But that was one hell of a job, Bloomy.” He grinned and extended his hand toward the portly scientist, who grasped it heartily. I got the sense that whatever tension had caused the riff between the two the previous evening had finally dissipated.
The older Nazi was carved clear through by several small, straight holes, each one cauterised by the bolt as it had entered and left. The younger one was riddled by bullets, though Corcoran put one more in the man’s head just to be certain that he was dead.
Upon this final gunshot, the door to the back of the pub flew open and a middle-aged woman ran out to survey the carnage. I expected her to be furious, but her eyes were sunken and kind, as if she had been up far too many long nights already but couldn’t care less about enduring another. She crouched and cradled the old German’s head in her hands as she took first his pulse, then Rolfe’s.
Equally curious, the Frenchmen in the booth in the corner continued their muffled conversation, as if nothing had happened at all.
“Etes-vous temps voyageurs?” She asked.
“Beg your pardon?” I replied. Without the holotran, my pigeon-French was virtually useless.
Her lips tightened into a kind smile as she offered the familiar Vulcan hand symbol to which we had become accustomed. Though I had thoroughly had it with all manner of time travellers, something was different about this woman. She merely nodded at me and pointed to the bodies, still smiling.
“Il lever,” the woman pretended to grasp two imaginary poles and lifted her hands up before she pointed at the bodies.
“I do believe she wants us to carry the bodies,” I said.
“‘Course she does, Doc—she just said as much!” Corcoran said.
I decided that it would take too long to remind the Commander that I was without use of my holotran for the moment, and instead crouched at the legs of the older Nazi and, along with Bloomington, lifted him into the air. His lifeless corpse was surprisingly heavy, at least to us. Frustratingly, the Commander and the kindly woman had no trouble moving Rolfe’s even larger body.
We carted the corpses through the door through which the woman had emerged and down a staircase to what appeared to be a dusty storeroom. A few bottles of wine stood upright on a simple shelving unit, and though a simple lightbulb dangled from a chain at the bottom of the staircase, a candelabra curiously stuck out of the right side of the cool stone wall.
The woman dropped her half of Rolfe, which hit the ground with a simple, disconcerting “thud.” She pulled on the candelabra and the back wall and the shelving unit swung ajar. We jimmied the bodies through the opening and into the other side.
What we found was straight out of Hogan’s Heroes. Perhaps half a dozen people, men and women, dressed in drab, inconspicuous attire feverishly shuffled all manner of papers and worked two antiquated radios in one of the far corners. Next to the radios was another, longer tunnel, which, presumably, was also obscured by a secret door that now swung open.
The woman walked over to a box and knelt next to it for a moment. She emerged with a plastic-wrapped patch that she threw at me. I’m proud to say that I caught it, and recognised the tell-tale shape of the holotran immediately. I wasted no time as I unwrapped it and placed it on my neck.
“Better?” The woman asked.
“Quite,” I replied with a nod.
“So, it appears we share a common origin,” the woman said. Her English was impeccable, or I should say the holotran’s translation was.
“Somethin’ like that,” Corcoran nodded.
“Your names?” It was a nurturing suggestion more than a command.
“I’m Doctor Phineas Templeton,” I extended a hand toward the woman.
“Very pleased to meet you, Doctor.” She took it warmly, with just the right amount of pressure.
“These are my colleagues, Commander Richard Corcoran and Specialist Steven Bloomington.”
“Commander…Specialist…” She took each of their hands in the same warm, yet firm, manner with which she had taken my own. Corcoran appeared to be irked for several moments; perhaps he was peeved that this woman hadn’t showered him with adulation as nearly every other time traveller on our journey had previously.
I like this woman already, I thought.
“And you are…?” I asked.
“Violette Segal,” the woman smiled once more. “Pleased to meet you gentlemen. What brings you to this time?”
“You don’t know us?” Corcoran asked. I was glad the Commander finally got a taste of what it felt like to be me in all of these time periods.
Violette shook her head, “Can’t say that I do, Commander.” Corcoran bristled once more.
I practically clasped a hand over my own mouth to prevent from laughing with glee, “We’ve been on a long and exhausting scavenger hunt of sorts through time—”
Violette looked around the room. We were beginning to get some curious looks from her compatriots, so she grasped my arm and indicated that we should follow her to a more secluded tunnel within the complex.
“Now, you were saying, Doctor?”
I explained the situation to the kindly older woman as quickly and concisely as possible given the circumstances, which must have taken a good half-hour or so. It didn’t help that Bloomington or Corcoran would often “butt in” to correct some otherwise meaningless detail.
“And so now you’re here to…do what, exactly?”
“Likely to meet with you. Your initials are ‘V.S.,’ correct?” I asked.
She nodded silently.
“Then perhaps it would help if we asked you some questions. Maybe we can ferret out our precise purpose from your responses.”
“I shall do my best, Doctor.”
I began to ask a stock “when are you from?”-type question, but the Commander preempted me.
“Hold on. You really don’t know who I am?” Corcoran finally expelled the words that had been gnawing away at him for the past half-hour.
“Commander, of course I know who you are. I also know that you’re a very private man—downright reclusive when I’m from. There was a big parade when they announced time travel had happened, and was to be deregulated, and of course you gave that famous interview—” I did my best to steady my involuntarily rolling eyes, “—but to be honest, there’s not that much to know about you, and I cannot know you. So though I’m very grateful for your contributions to our society, forgive me if I’m less than starstruck at making your acquaintance.”
“If only we could know this ‘reclusive’ Commander Corcoran,” I muttered.
“Hey, you’re the old codger yellin’ at kids for throwin’ rocks,” he shot back.
I pushed my glasses up on my nose, “At any rate, perhaps we should start with a little bit about you. When are you from? What did you do? Why did you come back here?”
Violette laughed, “Always the same questions!”
“I apologise, Miss Segal—”
“Please—Violette. And no need to apologize—I just find it funny that any number of time travelers have been through here, and each one wants to know the same few things about me.” She chuckled once more. “Very well—I came back from the year 2040. I was a nurse in the French army, and a damned good one at that. Always prided myself on volunteering to go to the forward areas; Syria, Saudi Arabia, Israel; post-radiation control, of course.”
“Of course…” Bloomington said, perhaps a bit too sarcastically.
“When the U.S. Government legalized time travel and effectively ended the war, they—”
“Ended the war?” I asked.
She nodded, “Once the Americans had future firepower at their disposal, they were pretty much able to dictate terms to the rest of the world. Fortunately, there are still enough people in power in that country with old-fashioned ideas like ‘liberty’ and ‘egalitarianism’ to ensure that—”
I saw Bloomington open his mouth to interrupt, but I cut him off, “It’s not a form of government run by intelligent birds, Steven.”
“I…uh…knew that,” he replied, unconvincingly. I could only imagine the picture he had formed in his head.
Violette could hardly contain her laughter as she continued, “Ensure that the new pax Americana was mostly civilised, much as the Chinese and Russians didn’t care for it. Once the war was over, though, the French government forced those of us who had stayed in the service for a number of extra years into retirement.
“At first it was enjoyable: long days out on the beach in Cannes, basking in the glow of happy young people a quarter my age…”
Sounds dreadful, I thought.
“But after several years, I felt so damned useless. I wanted to help people once more. I yearned for the kind words of those I had helped, the smile of a
child whose suffering I had helped ease if only a bit.
“So I cashed in my pension, bought a ticket to Baltimore, and decided that I could best be of service in the second most horrific time in history. When these Nazi monsters traipsed around my wonderful homeland, taking what they pleased, executing people for…well…” she looked upward, “…you saw above. Though I regret that Johann and Rolfe were so stupid as to force you gentlemen into such a tough spot.”
“You knew those guys?” Bloomington asked, though I noticed he glanced in my direction to gauge my reaction, and perhaps to confirm that his question was not, in fact, stupid.
“Of course! They came by the bar most days to enjoy a few glasses of whiskey. Pleasant men. Not good men, mind you, but pleasant enough, most of the time.”
“Sorry we had to waste ‘em,” Corcoran offered.
Violette shook her head, “Don’t be. Ultimately, they were Nazis. Who knows what kinds of atrocities those two were capable of? And even if not, they were getting to be a bit of a pain in my ass,” she said.
“Asking questions?” I (somewhat ironically) asked.
“Something like that,” she responded. “When you’re running a French resistance outpost in a secret room under your bar and trying to shuttle Jews out of France, it’s better not to have a couple of nosy Nazi officers poking about most of the time.” Her expression turned dour for a moment, “Unfortunately, the Germans will be back in another day or so. We need to pack this room up and shuttle the equipment elsewhere, somewhere safe.”
“Do you know of such a place?” I asked.
“No, this is the only resistance base in the entire city,” Bloomington replied for her, sarcastically.
Violette smiled once more, “Your friend is correct. We have several more outposts around the city, all connected by a secret system of catacombs and tunnels. It will be tough, but we will cope.”
