The Pimpernel Plot

by Simon Hawke

  “Stop,” said Forrester. “All right, those are the highlights, you’ll get the rest during mission programming. The key point here concerns the fact that the Referee Corps had assigned an arbitration action to take place during the War of the First Coalition. There was a call for voluntary enlistment in France and soldiers of the Temporal Corps were clocked back to various locales in key municipalities to be infiltrated as volunteers for the French Army of the Republic. Continue, computer.”

  “August 10, 1792,” said the computer, “rioting mobs broke into the Tuileries, killed the Swiss Guards, and forced the king to turn to the Legislative Assembly for protection. The Assembly imprisoned the king and took away all of his remaining powers. There were mass arrests under the provisional government headed by Georges Jacques Danton. September 2 to September 7, 1792, the September Massacres—”

  “Stop,” said Forrester. “Now by this time, there was total panic among the aristocrats remaining in France. Computer, general overview concerning aristocratic emigration circa 1792.”

  “Emigration of ci-devant aristocrats was forcibly prevented by the provisional government,” said the computer. “The Committee of Public Safety, under the leadership of public prosecutor Fouquier-Tinville, appointed to preside over France’s internal security, was charged with power to arrest and execute enemies of the Republic. Mass attempts by members of the aristocracy to escape France, some aided by foreign nationals—”

  “Stop, “ said Forrester. “General background on the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

  “Working,” said the computer. “The scarlet pimpernel: a common pimpernel (Anagallis arvensis), having scarlet, white or purplish flowers that close at the approach of rainy or cloudy weather—also called poor man’s weatherglass, red pimpernel. In conjunction with the French Revolution, the insignia and alias of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, a group of British adventurers involved in the smuggling of French aristocrats to England, specifically, the alias of the leader of the group, Sir Percy Blakeney—”

  “Visual, please,” said Forrester.

  A second later, a holographic image of Sir Percy Blakeney appeared before the podium. The projection was that of a tall, broad-shouldered, athletic-looking man with fair hair, blue eyes, and a strong jaw. He looked handsome, but he had a look of vague boredom on his face, giving it a slightly sleepy, insipid air. He was dressed in a short-waisted satin coat, a waistcoat with wide lapels, tight-fitting breeches, and highly polished Newmarket boots. His sleeves and collar were trimmed with fine Mechline lace and he stood in an affected posture, one leg slightly before the other, one hand on his hip, the other bent before him and holding a lace handkerchief in a loose, languid fashion.

  “There’s a pretty flower,” said Delaney.

  “There’s your assignment, Delaney,” Forrester said. “In several hours, that’s what you’re going to look like.”

  “Why me?” Delaney said, chagrined.

  “Because Priest’s too short and you’re about the right build,” said Forrester.

  “Hell,” said Delaney. “All right, let’s have the rest of it.”

  “The adjustment stems from the temporal interference of one soldier, named Alex Corderro, assigned to the War of the First Coalition arbitration action,” Forrester said. “It was his first hitch in the field and subsequent investigation shows that he never should have been accepted in the service in the first place. Too unstable, a high potential of cracking under stress. Unfortunately, the corps is so badly in need of cannon-fodder that we’ll take just about anyone these days. As a result of that sterling policy, we’ve got an adjustment on our hands.

  “Corderro violated the noninterference directives,” said Forrester. “He attempted to prevent the capture of some escaping aristocrats and, in so doing, he shot a captain in the Army of the Republic. Blakeney and his wife were on the scene and what seems to have occurred, as best as the Observers can reconstruct it, is that Lady Blakeney was wounded in the exchange of gunfire and Blakeney was trampled by a horse. Corderro escaped through the West Barricade in the Blakeneys’ coach, but he was shot several times. Evidently, he lost consciousness and bled to death. The Observers found the coach in a wooded area several miles outside of Paris. The horses had run themselves out and had wandered off the road, somehow managing to wedge the coach between two trees. Inside the coach, they found Corderro, dead. Lady Marguerite Blakeney was alive, but badly wounded and unconscious.”

  “What about Sir Percy?” said Delaney.

  “He was left behind in Paris,” Forrester said.

  “And where is he now?”

  “Well, the Observers managed to remove his body—”

  “His body! You mean he’s dead?”

  “Chest completely crushed by a horse’s hooves,” said Forrester.

  Delaney swallowed heavily. “Wait, now, let me get this straight, sir. You’re telling me that my assignment is to be a plant? A temporal relocation?”

  “That’s right.”

  “For how long?”

  “Well, that remains to be seen,” said Forrester. “We have to make certain that the aristocrats who were smuggled out of France by Blakeney and his group don’t wind up on the guillotine. He was also instrumental in the fall from power of a certain French official named Chauvelin an agent of the Committee of Public Safety. Since Blakeney’s operations were of a covert nature, we don’t have a great deal of information on him and his group.

  “We have since obtained further data, courtesy of our friends at the TIA. At any rate, even though it may not all be cut and dried, at least you won’t have anyone from our time working against you, as you did in several of your previous assignments.”

  “Still,” said Delaney, “what you’re telling me is that I may wind up taking Blakeney’s place indefinitely.”

  “That’s essentially correct,” said Forrester “at least until the TIA can determine exactly what his activities were in the years following his involvement in the Revolution. However it should not be all unpleasant,” he added. “Computer, visual on Lady Marguerite Blakeney.”

  The holographic projection of Sir Percy Blakeney disappeared, to be replaced by one of his wife, the former Marguerite St. Just. Delaney gulped and Priest gave a low whistle.

  Forrester smiled. “I shouldn’t think that life with Lady Blakeney would be very hard to take,” he said. He chuckled. “Frankly, Delaney, I think you’ll have your hands full.”

  Chapter 2

  Since Delaney would be the only one impersonating a figure of historical significance, there had been no need for the others to submit to cosmetic surgery. Consequently, after they had gone through mission programming and while Finn was being transformed into the image of Sir Percy Blakeney, Lucas and Andre went down to supply, drew their gear, then took the tubes down to the ground-level Departure Station.

  As members of a First Division adjustment team, they had priority status, so there was no waiting for their departure codes to be called. Instead, they were shuttled directly to the nearest grid area, to be clocked out together to the 18th century. As they passed soldiers in transit dressed in period, the soldiers came to attention and saluted them. Both Lucas and Andre were also dressed in period, but Lucas’ insignia of rank was clearly visible on his armband and the fact that they were in a shuttle normally reserved for officers clearly labeled them for the groups of soldiers waiting to clock out. Those who were close enough as the shuttle passed to see their silver dog tags, worn on the outside of their garments, and their divisional insignia added small, respectful nods to their salutes. From the point of military etiquette, it wasn’t strictly proper to give a nod of greeting while saluting, but it had become an informally established practice among the members of the corps to single out those in the First Division in this manner. The silver dog tags stood out in marked contrast to the color coded ones issued to the regular troops. Members of the Observer Corps wore gold tags and only soldiers of the First Division wore silver. The tags meant that the
wearer was about to clock out to the Minus Side and silver tags meant an adjustment team was on the way to deal with an historical discontinuity. There wasn’t a single soldier in the Temporal Corps who did not know the meaning of those silver tags and the nods were both a greeting and an unspoken wish of good luck.

  Andre still marveled at the sight of all those soldiers dressed in period, waiting around the sprawling plaza beside their piles of gear. Some smoked, some drank, others chatted, a few slept, and the green recruits were easily identifiable by their air of nervous tension and their restlessness. They passed a group of Roman legionnaires in breastplates, sandals, and plumed helmets gathered around a video game machine. They took turns pitting their skills against the game computer and they laughed and shouted like small children, slapping each other on the back and calling out encouragement. A platoon of Visigoths snapped to attention as they passed, quickly palming several tiny metal sniffers which they had been passing back and forth. On past a group of Crusaders, with red crosses on their chests, among whom was an obvious green recruit who, in his nervousness, had been swinging a short mace about. At the sight of the shuttle, the recruit snapped to attention and, without thinking, tried to toss off a sharp salute. Unfortunately, he had tried to salute with the hand that held the mace and the resulting “bong” as he coshed himself and fell to the floor with a clatter of metal brought about hysterical laughter from his companions.

  The ground shuttle brought them to the gate of the departure grid, a large, permanently installed chronoplate that differed from the portable personal units in that it could transport whole platoons of soldiers at a time. The Barbary pirates standing by to clock out next hurriedly made way for them as they walked through the gate to report to the grid transport detail. The OC came to attention and saluted. Lucas returned his salute, then removed his armband with his rank insignia upon it, surmounted by the divisional pin, and handed it to the OC along with his silver dog tags. Andre did the same.

  The Officer in Charge separated the dog tags, taking one each off the chains and then placing the single tags with the chains along with their armbands and insignia in separate plastic boxes. With a “By your leave, sir,” he then proceeded to search Lucas quickly and efficiently, as per regulations, to make certain that no unauthorized effects would be clocked out along with him, either intentionally or unintentionally. Another member of the detail observed the same procedure with Andre. The man who searched Andre came up with her credit disc, to her embarrassment. She had forgotten all about it.

  “Sorry, sir,” she said to the sergeant. “I must have transferred it to my pocket without thinking when I changed.”

  “Don’t worry about it, soldier. Happens all the time.” He placed the computer disc into the same plastic box containing her armband and dog tag.

  The OC then took the two tags that he had separated from the neck chains, each containing their respective codes, and inserted them one at a time into a tiny slot in the grid control bank. He waited for a moment, watching the readout screen then nodded.

  “Stand by, sir,” he said to Lucas.

  A couple of seconds passed and the borders of the grid began to glow softly.

  “Staged, “ said the OC. “Good luck, sir.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Lucas said. “All right, Andre let’s go.”

  They walked forward into the field generated by the grid and disappeared from view.

  Delaney stepped out of limbo and onto soft, damp grass. An old veteran of time travel, the chronoplates did not affect him as profoundly as they did most soldiers, who usually vomited upon arrival and suffered from temporary bouts of vertigo and myoclonus, as well as double vision and ataxia. He did, however, feel slightly disoriented and off balance. He staggered momentarily, taking several uncoordinated steps and swaying in a drunken fashion until he was able to shake off the effects and become orientated to his new surroundings

  He saw that he was in a small clearing in a forest, more properly, a wood, since he knew that he was not far outside of Paris and he could see the road leading to the city through a clump of trees. The Pathfinders had cut it fairly close with the coordinates. Still, Finn had clocked in with much less room to spare before. One of the nightmares every soldier had from time to time involved a vision of clocking in at the same time and location at which another person or object occupied that space. The Pathfinders were usually extremely efficient at avoiding such occurrences, but there were still the inevitable accidents. The closest Finn had ever come to one was when he clocked into a forest clearing much like the one he now found himself in. The instant before he had materialized, a rabbit had run across the spot. As Finn clocked in, he had stepped forward and his foot had come down upon the running rabbit, crushing it. It gave off a pathetic squeal, a sound strikingly similar to a baby’s cry, and for a horrifying moment, Finn had thought it was an infant. It had been necessary for him to kill the poor animal to put it out of its misery and ever since, he had felt jumpy at the moment of materialization.

  This time, however, it had gone well and as he looked around, he saw the Observer, disguised as a peasant, approaching him. There was nothing to distinguish the Observer from any other peasant of the time; but the fact that he had just seen a man materialize out of thin air and was approaching him purposefully, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, marked him for what he was. He was leading a chestnut mare on a rein as he approached.

  “Major Fitzroy,” he said.

  “Sergeant Delaney.”

  The Observer nodded. “The coach is about two hundred yards down the road, off to the side,” he said. “You can’t miss it. It was stuck, but we’ve taken care of that. Now pay attention, this is where it stands. We’ve removed Corderro’s body. Lady Marguerite Blakeney is all right. The pistol ball grazed her skull, but it was only a scratch and we’ve patched her up. We applied some plastiskin to her forehead and she’ll never know that she was hit. There’s a hole in the inside of the coach where the ball went after passing through the window and skipping off her skull, so if she has any memory of being shot, show her where the ball went and tell her that she must have fainted and struck her head. That will account for any pain that she might feel later when the dope wears off. The coach horses must have bolted when the shot went off, so it’s highly unlikely that she saw what happened to Blakeney, even if she was still conscious at the time. Your story is that you were knocked down by the horse, but only winded. You took the captain’s horse and chased after the coach as soon as you got your breath back.”

  “What about Corderro?” said Delaney. “What do I tell her if she asks about him?”

  “Chances are she won’t,” said Fitzroy. “She was probably already unconscious when he jumped onto the coach. If she does remember anything about that, you saw him leap from the coach and take off running into the woods as you were riding up. That same story will serve you if there’s any pursuit from the city that catches up with you. If that happens, they won’t have any reason to detain you, but you might advance the theory that Corderro was a disguised aristocrat. That should spur them on to look for him and let you continue on your way.”

  “Got it,” said Finn. “We’re heading for Calais?”

  “Right. Blakeney’s yacht will be there to take you across to Dover. You’ll be picking up your support team at an inn called The Fisherman’s Rest in Kent. Let’s just make sure you’ve got their cover straight.”

  “They’re family servants who were looking after my property in Rouen and they’ve been sent ahead to England to make things ready for us at the estate now that my land in France is forfeit to the government.”

  “Good. You’ll want to be very circumspect with Lady Blakeney,” said Fitzroy. “Several months ago, she denounced the Marquis de St. Cyr for seeking support from Austria to put down the Revolution. He was arrested, tried, and guillotined along with his entire family.”

  “Nice lady,” said Finn.

  “Blakeney seems to have shared
your sentiments,” Fitzroy said. “He only recently found out about it and when he did he turned off to her completely. Their relationship has been a little strained since then, to say the least. Blakeney’s been attentive and polite to her, but evidently that’s about as far as it went. She’s taken to sniping at him in public lately.”

  “So much for Lady Blakeney not being hard to take,” said Finn.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing, really. Just thinking about something my CO said.”

  “Just be very careful around her,” said Fitzroy. “Remember that she’s a Republican and not to be trusted. If she finds out you’re smuggling aristocrats out of France, there’s no telling what she might do.”

  “Terrific,” said Finn. “Got any more good news for me?”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Fitzroy. “We don’t yet have a complete list of all the aristocrats Blakeney smuggled out of France. The TlA’s still working on it, but it’s a hell of a job and they’ve got to separate the ones Blakeney’s group got out from the ones who got out on their own. We also have to be especially careful that you don’t wind up rescuing anyone who wasn’t supposed to be rescued.”

  “That’s a cheery thought,” said Finn. “How am I supposed to figure out whom to smuggle over?”

  “You’ll be contacted at the appropriate time,” Fitzroy said. “If it isn’t by me, then the codeword will be ‘wildflower.’ That will identify your contact.”

  Finn grimaced. “That’ll work just great unless someone happens to mention wildflowers in the course of a conversation Do me a favor. Forget the cloak-and-dagger stuff, Fitzroy. If someone should happen to come up to Percy Blakeney and address him as Delaney, I’ll assume that it’s my contact, all right?”