He looked at the old man—no, just older—and then looked again. He had a paunch accented by the period vest and then thankfully covered up by the stifling slouch coat, but was otherwise fit. For a few moments he regarded the mirror in its entirety as if it were a being, an individual that might venture an opinion about this optimistically middle-aged man setting out on such an adventure. The mirror remained silent so judgment was left to the man himself.
I am sixty years old! How can I lead an expedition under conditions that have killed 57% of the operatives?
You will do man. A man of character and honor who knows what to do and say will always have a chance of making the difference. Leave all the doubts behind. When you step away from here you must lead, and with confidence.
To steel himself he focused his inner eye on that most inspirational man, Winston Churchill, of that young man’s portrait on the cover of Military History Magazine just returned from—or had he been about to embark on—some great adventure.
What about it Winnie? Would you have gone if you had had the chance?
Sure you would have, without a moment’s hesitation. Then let’s roll old boy…
He took his old leather button-down carry-case with its precious cargo and was off to a world before briefings, abridgements of great works, and the tyranny of the rude mindless masses whose selfish impulses now governed this once great society. He passed the hardworking paraplegic maid and the drop-dead gorgeous 16th Century Indian princess as they polished the hardwood paneling in the hallway, held out his top hat in his left hand as they smiled and gave a deep bow, “Good day ladies—excellent work.”
They smiled and Tannika blurted out, “Good luck Mister Jan.”
Why did she have to make me roll the dice in my mind?
He stiffened, then smiled, relaxed, and continued on his way like the professor he was, as if precisely on time for class.
As they disappeared behind he heard a musically whispered voice that carried perfectly to his still keen ears, “Chief Cornhair go with Evil Brother?”
Chief Cornhair?
A man could get used to that. Oh yes, ‘Evil Brother’ walks this way.
A Real Live Inglorious Bastard
Randy was as tall as Jan but twenty years younger and much thinner. The man was a reformed but still frighteningly opinionated White Supremacist. He liked guns and cars, shunned women, and was Jan’s best karate student; a spare, tattooed whip-fast alley cat of man, who had exchanged his Skinhead ethos for Hinduism. He was a Krishna for God’s sake! Jan had set his sights on cultivating Randy into a respectable human being. It was hard work helping a grown man step back from the brink of a hateful abyss. But they had formed a bound of sorts.
As they stepped into the elevator Jan could hardly believe his eyes. The man was dressed like a Confederate raider turned bank robber and could have played a convincing villain in a gritty new-age western.
Randy greeted him in his usual manner in his deep raspy smoker’s voice, “Sensei.”
Jan was not the kind of man to fail to note a curious juxtaposition. “Mister Randy when you outfitted me like a cross between Bat Masterson and Sherlock Holmes I expected you had equipped yourself similarly or at least in a Watson-like fashion. Who are you, Jesses James of Wild Bill Hickok?”
Randy had obviously already calculated this question and blurted an answer apparently practiced by rote, “Cole Younger Sir, at your service.”
Jan had imagined a miniature official sendoff in the facility above, but Doc London was rushing someone into surgery and all hands were on deck—except for the ice cold picture of seduction who greeted them in the hallway halfway from the elevator to the exit.
Tina was a time-traveler—their handler actually—from the 24th Century. She stood as tall as either of them and was dressed in form fitting business attire oddly accented by lace-sleeved evening gloves. She trailed a carryon behind her as if returning from the airport and smiled demurely with her perfect mouth even as her magnetic black-on-pearl eyes twinkled devilishly. She was exotic in the extreme; a golden skinned night-haired woman with pantherish grace.
God she is gorgeous. How can she be bedding down with this man’s animalistic brother? Why wouldn’t she want a real civilized man—educated but still virile?
Tina stepped immediately towards them and extended her white-laced hand for him to kiss. Jan took it eagerly and performed the dated courtesy as he thrilled to her touch. Her voice was now lush like a late spring tree full of leaves humming in a perfect breeze, “My Mister Stevenson, you are the picture of respectability. Those backward Nineteenth Century women will no doubt wish they lived in a more forward age of amorous suffrage.”
“You are stunning as always Tina.”
As she withdrew her hand and used it to primp her nearly liquid hair she regarded Randy with unconcealed disdain. “Yes dear brother-in-law, off to slay some Yankee banker—or will it be an express-man cringing beneath the stack of mail he guards with his quivering life?”
Randy just glared balefully, barely managing to keep his mouth from articulating, “Bitch!”, and Tina brushed between them with a calculated erotic graze and intoned as hollowly as any computer program imperfectly instilled with a feminine tone, “Yes, so noted.”
Jan and Randy looked to each other as she pressed past them and said something in Korean that made Randy’s eyes smolder and then walked on gracefully in her high booted heels, “Good fortune to you Jan. I so look forward to our debriefing.”
As the elevator door closed behind them and Randy’s eyes continued to smolder Jan let him off the hook. “It is okay. She’s gone. You can say it.”
With a long venomous breath Randy hissed “Biiitch!”
Just then Thrush, the bald handicapped Indian boy, skipped by in obvious pursuit of Tina—the mother-figure to all of the primitives in this facility—imitating Randy like a lisping parrot, “Bische, bische, bische!”
At this point Jan’s lifetime of rising above the momentary disruption of class to continue teaching kicked in to rescue them from absurdity. “Are we taking your van or my pickup Randy?”
“It will have to be the pickup Sensei. I haven’t had time to remove my tools from the van. I’ve been doing a lot of customization for the event.”
“Is that what the trench coat is for? Are you armed?”
“Yes sir. I am packing a derringer and a Navy thirty-six.”
“But there are only two of us. We won’t generate the aura necessary to transport more than our clothes.”
Randy gave him a knowing wink. “Sensei, we are not going back with nothing but our dicks in our hands. I’ve worked out the parameters. Don’t worry. Just focus on Burton. I’ve got this.”
Trust him and leave him the latitude he craves.
“Sure Randy. You’re the security man and I trust your judgment, but I’m driving.”
Randy sounded relieved, and steeled by Jan’s confidence in him, “Absolutely Sensei; absolutely alright.”
Randy’s menacing swagger had returned by the time they were through the door and headed to Jan’s perky little green Toyota Tacoma pickup.
That was your first test of leadership—small as it was—and you pumped his flagging morale back up. Thanks Winnie.
He permitted himself a look back at the facility; a nondescript medical center for handicapped children.
If only the world knew that we bent Space-Time to our purpose from this humble base. But of course they can’t know.
Well Chief Cornhair, you are off, perhaps to return with an exciting tale and a fitting gift for our little princess Lady Doe-Eye.
Author's Note
For the reader interested in the Tina character see Ben's Food Lotz, The Love Police, and The King and You, #3, #6 & #7 of Out of Time . This serial is a spinoff of The Sunset Saga. The protagonist, Pozer, is a back-up time-hunter that Tina has kept inactive until needed.
