Time travel is not a right. It is a privilege, one reserved for academics and policy makers. Formerly, history could be accessed only through the weathered pages of texts. Quite often those texts were marred by the tendencies of the authors to embellish and mythologize. Time travel, when it transcended the boundary dividing theory and application, offered an opportunity to bypass the texts to get a first hand view of some of the most monumental events in the history of humankind.
A nostalgic warmth settled over Kameron as he regarded the commendation plaque hanging over the entrance to his bedroom. The operative had spent the better part of a day in his quarters, immersed in thought. Dr. Win had given sound advice, sound options. Take less stressful assignments or take time off. Either option made perfect sense. The problem was, neither option was a solution to resolving the burning conflict raging inside Kameron. When Kameron gazed upon the plaque, however, his disquiet dimmed and memories of a less complicated, clearer cut side of him bubbled to the fore. He was honored with the plaque for saving a young Mohandas Gandhi from a hit squad of temporal renegade assassins.
Kameron’s mood took a downward turn, however, when he remembered being sent back on a later mission, to the same time frame to prevent another gang of renegades from saving the Indian nationalist from his appointed date with death on January 30, 1948.
Yes. Some time off would do him a wealth of good.
The comm unit in the main room chirped, abruptly pulling Kameron out of his reverie. An automated voice followed: “Operative Childers, the Director summons you.”
Kameron was tempted to ignore the summons. After a moment of further reflection he forced himself into motion.
The Director’s image was a black cutout on the display screen, pasted onto a white field. His voice was modified to a low pitch drone, further masking his identity.
Every time Kameron stepped into this featureless, antiseptic audience chamber, every time he gazed upon the talking silhouette on the screen, he could not shake the eerie sensation that he was some bygone acolyte communing with his god.
“Good work at Hastings,” the Director praised. The silhouetted head moved slightly forward in a most minimal of nods.
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’ve barely been back for more than a day. Yet, a crisis has surfaced and we have, yet again, a need for your invaluable service.”
Kameron raised a hand in polite interruption. “Sir, before you say more, I’m putting in for a leave. I would really appreciate it if you assigned someone else to this crisis.”
“There is no one else I trust more to get us out of the tight spots than you, Kameron. You have more than earned your leave time, a year’s worth if you ask me. But I need you…no, I’m requesting that you postpone your leave for the short duration of this mission. At least hear me out before you make a decision.”
By all rights Kameron could have turned down the Director’s request. After all, wasn’t he, as Dr. Win suggested, burning out? Hadn’t years of successive missions with little or no extended down time in between conferred oppressive scabs of wear and tear on his mind and body? A written medical authorization from Win herself would have added professional weight to Kameron’s rejection.
It’s funny how something inside Kameron responded to the prospect of a new mission like a drug addict craving a fix.
“I’m listening, sir.”
“EVNTL: 1968,” the Director began. “There were two renegade attempts to prevent the assassination of Historical Subject: Dr. Martin Luther King. First attempt was an orchestration of King’s arrest by the local authorities in Memphis, Tennessee, four hours before his scheduled termination. In the second attempt, renegades arranged for King to be checked into a different hotel, putting him out of the effective reach of his assassin. Two teams of operatives succeeded in restoring the Baseline in both episodes. However, Timeline Watch has picked up convincingly actionable chatter indicating that King’s assassin is being targeted for death. There may be a half dozen or more renegades involved in the conspiracy. If they are on the ground that means the assassin is in very imminent jeopardy.”
Kameron could not see what the Director was thinking, but he could feel currents of anticipation radiating hotly from the silhouetted image.
The fix of a new assignment clawed at the operative with equal urgency. After a moment of internal debate, Kameron succumbed to his urge. “I’ll need a complete brief.”
“Already compiled,” said the Director with a smile in his voice.
Joy, turmoil, despair, ecstasy, good, evil, apathy, concern, progress, stagnation, fanaticism, moderation. History is a landscape of opposites. There is the good and the bad. There are also the gray areas, where complexity thrives and ambiguity is nurtured. The best-intentioned renegades seek to purge the bad from history. They want to end suffering. They may prevent a catastrophic event from occurring, but all too often, the result of their interference unleashes a chain of events that directly or indirectly lead to dire consequences elsewhere. What has their intervention gained them other than reinforcing the ironclad fact that utopia cannot be imposed upon history.
EVNTL: 1968. Kameron appeared just outside the rooming house across from the Lorraine Hotel in Memphis, Tennessee. It was pitch black, the surrounding street bathed in empty silence. Kameron tapped into his optic implant and tried to scan a section of the house overlooking the hotel’s second floor balcony. His implant was on X ray mode with an infra setting. Yet, Kameron’s visual reading of the room where the assassin was supposed to be lurking came up fuzzy. Someone was using a device that most definitely was not 20th century tech to scramble the operative’s attempt at surveillance.
Kameron tensed briefly before a salve of calm cooled his rising adrenaline to a level he could manage. Temporal renegades were on site. For all he knew they may have already been inside the building. There was only one way to find out. Kameron tightened his focus, pulled out his darter pistol and proceeded with the highest vigilance toward the rooming house entrance.
Kameron paused. King’s assassin may have already been dead. The operative shot a glance toward the motel balcony where the civil rights leader’s room was located. The next day, King was going to die and this unassuming motel would be immortalized in history. Kameron resumed his approach to the entrance, uncertainty a heavy drag on his pace. Then he stopped five feet from the door. No. Kameron shook his head. What the hell was he thinking accepting this mission? All he had to do was follow the doc’s advice. He didn’t know if he could do this anymore…
A bare scratch of movement on the other side of the door graced Kameron’s keen ear like a butterfly’s whisper. Instinct seized hold of the operative. He dropped to the ground a second before a stream of neutronium glazed flechettes ripped through the door, turning solid wood into heated splinters.
Kameron rolled away from the doorway, nimbly enough to avoid being mulched, but not quickly enough to evade a hit. A flechete grazed his bicep, but Kameron didn’t feel it. He opened up on the unseen shooters before he completed his tumble. Kameron’s darter flared ferocity. He sent thirty round per second bursts chattering through the shredded remnant of the door. An answering scream came from inside.
One down.
Kameron ceased fire, jumped to his feet and crouched toward the door. Footfalls from behind. Kameron unclipped an anti-personnel charge from his belt before turning his gun on the danger to his rear. A figure with an assault weapon opened fire on him. Kameron responded, loosing a ten round ripple of metal that gouged bloody divots out of the aggressor’s center mass, sending the latter’s shots arcing wide into the night.
Kameron’s next action occurred in almost the same motion. He tossed the charge through the door’s aperture and turned his head away from the muted blast. A billow of smoke and debris ejected through entrance, incinerating what was left of the door. Kameron dove into the rooming house on the heels of the blast. Something sharp and hot bit into his leg. Kameron disregarded the pain, caught a dance of movement ten feet to his right and put a brace of flechettes through yet another body. The assailant stumbled backward, clutching a ruined area just below his throat.
Kameron leapt behind the mutilated remains of a couch. He swiftly detached a spent ammo clip from his darter and slapped in a full clip.
“Kameron!”
Kameron’s head jerked up. Someone was calling his name. Impossible. There was no way a temporal renegade could know his name. The voice did sound oddly familiar.
“Kameron Childers.”
The operative sidled closer to the couch, taking some comfort in its illusory utility as a cover. He was morbidly aware, however, that this tattered piece of furnishing was not going to protect him from a full fusillade of flechettes. He didn’t know what game these renegades were playing by repeatedly shouting his name, but Kameron was not about to indulge them with a response.
“Kameron, it’s me, Jimmy.”
