The Time War Ch 42

Chapter 42: The End of the Luddites

Luddites:

"My friends, it is time to begin our greatest and boldest project ever!" said Tom.

Peter Orinda's stomach tensed, as did the bodies of several of the others around the conference table. They had already been quite uncomfortable with the last mission, to prevent the discovery of antibiotics. They hadn't defied Tom openly, but Bob Novato had stayed behind to tell the Continuity Service what changes they had made in the timeline and how to undo them.

The plot to change the timeline had been foiled, but Bob had never returned. No one knew what had happened to him.

And now Tom had a new and even "bolder" project in mind. They all waited, with knots rapidly forming in their stomachs.

"My friends, when you think of the evils of technology, what comes to mind? The stratoliner? The world data network? Power plants? All these things are evil, yes, but they are mere branches of the tree, which spring from one profound wickedness, a wickedness which started this road to madness in the first place." He paused, seeing he had their full attention. "I am of course referring to the invention of the printing press."

"The printing press?" said Boris Vallejo.

"Exactly!" said Tom, grinning broadly as he put an arm around Maggie. Donna's eyes narrowed.

"Why the printing press?" Peter Orinda asked.

"The printing press, my dear Peter, was the foot in the door, the beginning of all evil. It's what the collaborationists used to exchange information, to make so-called scientific advancements. If we can shut that down, we can keep everyone in the dark for centuries to come!"

"But... Tom...." Donna uncomfortably felt all eyes on her. "Won't that keep the entire world in the Middle Ages?"

"For centuries and centuries to come!" said Tom. "Think of it, Donna! No factories belching out pollution. No power plants destroying the environment. No air cars! Just fresh air, and a simple, clean living lifestyle. We'll all go back to nature, as it was all meant to be!"

They all knew better than to ask what would become of medical advances which would be lost, given that Tom had already tried to uninvent penicillin.

"So? What do you think?" Tom asked.

Everyone nodded and gave cheery smiles.

********

They were meeting in secret, again.

"It's gone too far," said Peter Orinda.

"I agree, but what can we do about it?" Oscar Wood asked.

"We have to go to Tom. Tell him we want to decide things democratically," said Carole Wells.

"Are you crazy?" said Boris Vallejo. "He'll do to us what he did to Brad."

"Boris is right," said Peter Orinda. "We need to go in there with guns."

"A coup?" said Donna. "You're not going to hurt him!"

"No, of course not," said Peter. "We'll simply put Tom in confinement until he agrees to a broader command structure." He looked around. "Well? The alternative is to sit around and let Tom to destroy society. I'm an environmentalist, even a radical one, like many of you: but what Tom is proposing is too radical, even for the likes of me!"

The others slowly nodded their head. One by one they agreed.

"Do it."

"Yes"

"Do it."

"Do it."

Peter Orinda turned to Donna, who had been silent. "Well?"

Donna took a deep breath. "All right. I guess it has to be done."

********

They found Tom, alone, working on the controls in the control room. Ever since they had tragically lost Brad, Tom had been forced to work double duty. He smiled at them even as they entered the control room, apparently not noticing or caring that they were all holding compression pistols.

"Tom?" said Peter Orinda.

"I'm having a bit of difficulty locking on to the year 1440, when the printing press was first invented," said Tom. "The farther back you go, the harder it is to lock on to a precise temporal target. I only wish Brad were here to help."

"Tom, we have to talk," said Peter.

Tom smiled at Peter, at all of them--Peter, Oscar Wood, Boris Vallejo, Carole Wells, and Donna--all of who were clearly holding compression pistols.

"Of course," he said, his smile growing broader. "What's on your mind, my dear friends?"

Something was wrong. Peter Orinda recognized that immediately. Tom was acting like he had the upper hand. And yet, they were the ones with the guns and Tom was sitting there, totally unarmed, apparently without a care in the world. Surely he knew what they had come for. Surely he knew-

"Come now, speak up. I always want everyone to speak their mind!" said Tom. "Oscar! You looked perturbed. Unburden yourself, my friend. What's bothering you?"

"Tom" said Oscar slowly. His voice was thick. He was finding it difficult to speak. "We...."

"What is it, Oscar?"

Peter Orinda spoke up for him. "We want a change in the command structure."

"Really?" said Tom. "What kind of change, Peter?"

"We want decisions to be made democratically."

"Democratically," said Tom. He mouthed the word, again and again. He raised his eyebrows. "Are you staging a coup against me, Peter?"

"No!" Oscar Wood cried. "We simply want to adjust the command structure."

Tom looked at their frightened faces. "And... if I don't agree to this?"

"You... you will be confined. Until you change your mind," said Peter.

Tom nodded. They all waited for the inevitable explosion. But he seemed remarkably calm. He turned to each one in turn.

"Oscar, do you agree with this?" he asked.

Oscar nodded.

He turned to Boris Vallejo. "Boris, I brought you into the group. I sponsored you personally."

"I... I know Tom."

He turned to Carole Wells. "Carole, could you really do this to me?"

She sniffled, but nodded. "I'm... I'm sorry, Tom."

"So am I," said Tom. He turned to Donna. "Donna, my dear, loving wife. Please don't tell me you're part of this. Please don't tell me that you agreed to do this to me, your loving husband."

Everyone knew that Tom had dumped Donna from his bed and taken up with Maggie. But Donna had tears in her eyes and spoke in a choked voice when she said, "I'm... I'm sorry Tom."

"What is your decision?" Peter Orinda asked.

"My

decision

," said Tom, stretching out and pronouncing the word in a decidedly odd way. "My decision my decision my decision. Hm...." He got up and walked around them in a circle, somehow symbolically showing them that while they had the guns, he had the power. At least that's how it felt to them. Finally Tom stopped right in front of Peter. "My decision, Peter, is to decline your generous invitation."

Peter raised his compression pistol. "T-then... you must be confined."

"I don't think so," Tom said. He snapped his fingers.

The door behind him opened, and Maggie, Garret Arnough and Gerstad Mueller all entered, carrying compression rifles. The coup plotters turned to cover them.

"We don't want to hurt you," said Peter Orinda anxiously.

"We

do

want to hurt you," said Gerstad Mueller.

"Go ahead, Peter," said Tom, being bold enough to walk forward and put an arm around Peter. "Go ahead, and open fire on Gerstad. He won't mind it. Trust me."

Peter looked unbelievingly at Tom for a moment, and then his weapon. He raised it, and cautiously fired it into the air.

Nothing happened.

"You'll find all your compression pistols in a similar state of disrepair, I'm afraid," said Tom, quickly walking away from Peter, to give Gerstad and the others a clear line of fire. "But you'll find that Gerstad and Garret and Maggie's weapons are substantially more effective."

They had been tricked. And now they were trapped.

"How?" Peter Orinda asked.

"Come here, Donna," said Tom, opening his arms.

Donna walked over to Tom, lowering her compression pistol. He took her in his arms, and gave her a big kiss.

"Donna?" said Peter. "It was you? I don't believe it! He abandoned you for Maggie. How could you betray us like this?"

Donna turned around and faced Peter, her arm wrapped around Tom's waist. "Because I love him," she said simply.

Tom gestured with his hand, and Gerstad Mueller went to the controls, and started to activate the Time Shaft.

Peter and the others started to tremble. "Tom, we never meant you any harm."

"You never meant me any harm," said Tom. With his eyes he gestured what he wanted next, and Maggie and Garret Arnough started to push the coup plotters towards the embarkation ramp.

"We were never going to hurt you," said Peter.

"You were never going to hurt me," said Tom, as Peter and the other plotters started to be pushed up the ramp. The Binochi Corridor suddenly sprang to life.

"Please, show us mercy," said Peter, as he and the others were herded up the ramp. They could feel the heat wafting from the Corridor, right in front of them.

"Mercy," said Tom, looking down for a moment. Then he put an arm on Peter's shoulder. "Maybe you're right, Peter. My motto is, forgive and forget."

Tom smiled at him.

A nervous smile started to break out on Peter's face.

And then Tom pushed him into the Corridor.

In seconds, the only ones left in the control room were Tom, Donna, Maggie, Gerstad Mueller, and Garret Arnough. The Binochi Corridor flicked off with the lightest touch of Tom's index finger.

Tom looked over at his supporters. "I don't know about you, but I'm hungry! Who wants lunch?"

********

All Johannes Gutenberg wanted was to live in peace and write pornography.

He had discovered a passion for it, in his teenage years, after he learned how to write. While his fellow students were dutifully copying down sonnets and poems, young Johan was writing short stories about the sexual awakening of a young lass with pendulous breasts named Greta.

Johan's stories were popular, and spread among the small class of people who could read. But his circulation was necessarily limited since he only had time to produce a handful of copies of his story, and copies were inevitably lost or stained in inevitable ways.

And so it was

need

, and inspiration, which drove Johan to invent the printing press. Not to write pornography, of course; at least that's what he told the Bishop. It could be used to reproduce psalms and prayers. The Bishop was ecstatic.

And so Johan's project was officially sanctioned by the church, and by day he grinded out prayer books, and by night he published his own works. "The Conquest of Greta and Hilda by the Big Bad Forest Troll", perhaps tame by present day standards, was instantly a best seller all over Prussia.

Trouble began, however, the day fliers started appearing around Mainz with the message "Fuck the Pope." Johan looked at them and realized they were set in the very same typeface he used for the church. How could that be?

He knew he would be the natural suspect, and not just because of the font. At the moment, he was the only one with an operational printing press. So Johan ran around town pulling down as many fliers as he could.

It wasn't enough. A few hours later, angry soldiers broke down his door. "Is this yours?" one of them said, holding up a flier.

It featured a crude illustration of the Pope, with a giant erection, being fellated by a goat. Underneath it, in Johan's classic font, were the words, "The Pope tending to his flock."

********

John Calle was conflicted. If what John Locke had told him was true, then the Continuity Service wasn't really a service about continuity, at least, not in part. Could the CS really be a front, a facade, so Colonel Strayker could manipulate the timeline to create the present and the future of his own choosing? Could it be true that the World Government was not even supposed to exist?

As far as John Calle knew, the World Government had existed all his life. But given the nature of time manipulation, what he knew or remembered could no longer be trusted.

And even if Locke had been telling the truth, what could Calle do about it? He was only one man. He couldn't change things. And he suspected that trying to resign from the Continuity Service could be dangerous to his health.

On the other hand, the Continuity Service clearly did some good things. Many good things, actually. And so for now John Calle decided to continue to work for them, at least until he learned more of what exactly was going on.

Right now he and Major Castleman and his team were in 15th Century Prussia in a city called Mainz. They were visiting the local jail, where a very frightened looking Johannes Gutenberg was babbling about fliers. They had no idea what he was talking about until one of the jailers showed them a piece of paper which had a crude illustration of the Pope, nude, on his hands and knees, with a man making love to him from behind, with the caption, "The Pope would never turn his back on the followers of Laquinta."

"I didn't do it! It was not me!" a wide eyed Johan babbled in between the bars of his cell. And wide eyed he should be. He was sentenced to death; the only matter in doubt was the manner of execution: hanging, beheading, or being drawn and quartered.

Calle turned to Castleman and spoke in a low voice. They had learned that the fliers started appearing three days ago. What they needed to do now was to go back in time and catch one of the distributors of the fliers in the act of distributing them.

"But how will we find him in a city of this size?" Major Castleman asked.

"Leave that to me," said Calle.

********

Those glowing orange eyes.

Calle was becoming more practiced in activating his talent. He found if he relaxed enough, he could truly let it just flow into him. Through him. He let it point him in the right direction, exactly where he needed to go. He felt like a tool, a tool letting himself be used, as he was meant to be used: to find the key element, the focal point, upon which two different timelines precariously balanced.

And so at two o'clock in the morning in 15th century Mainz, Prussia, Major Castleman and his team stood perfectly still as they watched Calle, with his eyes closed, reach out with his hands. They waited patiently for nearly an hour, and Castleman had to restrain his impatience. Maybe Calle couldn't do it. Maybe-

And then John Calle abruptly opened his eyes, and pointed down an alley. "There!"

The chase began.

********

Ten minutes later they passed a poorly dressed beggar walking in the other direction. Calle walked past him, looked back at him, and then looked back at him a second. And then he raised his eyebrows, ever so slightly.

Major Castleman grabbed the beggar and slammed him against the wall.

"Hey, what are you doing?" the man protested, in fluent German.

Castleman reached into the man's coat, and pulled out fliers showing an illustration of the Pope with a sagging erection and the caption "The Pope will never let us down."

The man growled and reached for his pocket, but Castleman was quicker, pulling out the man's compression pistol and recall device.

"We'd very much like to talk to you," said John Calle.

********

Gerstad Mueller screamed as he felt another wave of the Time Lash rip through his body.

"Is this really necessary?" said Calle. "We have his recall device."

"Yes, and we can activate it, but what then?" said Strayker. "If we go through their gateway one by one, they could pick us off easily. Or even worse, it could be another trap."

"Please, we don't want to hurt you," said Doctor Vladek sincerely, with true anguish in his voice. "Just tell us where your point of origin is."

"Fuck you!" Gerstad Mueller spat.

"It's very sad that you've chosen a confrontational attitude," said Vladek. "It hurts me deeply that you make me do what I most don't wish to do." He pressed a button, and another wave of pain shot through Mueller's body. He screamed in agony.

Mueller blinked as he recovered, and saw Calle. "You! You're the cause of everything!"

"Yes, Captain Calle located you," said Colonel Strayker.

"We're going to be dealing with you soon, Calle!" said Mueller. "We're going to be dealing with all of you, real soon!"

"Brave words from a man in a distinctly unenviable position," said Strayker. "Doctor, what setting is the Time Lash on?"

"Setting 7, Commander."

"Could you bring it up to setting 8?"

"I really wouldn't like to do that, Commander," said Vladek, his eyes full of empathy for his fellow man.

"But he's being so uncooperative," said Strayker.

Vladek bit his lip, and slowly nodded. "You're right, of course." He pressed a series of buttons, and another Time Lash burst through Gerstad Mueller's body, stronger, this time. His screams echoed throughout the room.

Calle left the control room. He realized this had to be done. The Luddites were a danger to humanity. Outside the CS Headquarters, technology had once again been reduced to the Middle Ages. There were no air cars or electricity or stratoliners or medicines. The Luddites had to be stopped. But he didn't have the stomach to watch anyone being tortured, not even Gerstad Mueller.

********

Two hours later Calle was called to the control room. Major Castleman was there, with nine operatives armed with compression rifles.

"We have the location?" said Calle.

"We do," Castleman confirmed.

Colonel Strayker sized Calle up. "Are you up for this?"

"I am," Calle confirmed.

"Good," said Strayker.

Major Castleman turned to Colonel Strayker. "What are your instructions, sir? Should we take prisoners?"

Strayker bit his lip. "If you really do find yourself in their main base, there's no need."

"Sir?"

"Wipe them out," said Strayker, his blue eyes looking hard. "All of them."

********

They exited the gateway inside a large kitchen larder, filled with cheeses and hanging meats and hams. Major Castleman led the way, silently gesturing with his raised hand for the team to follow him.

They found themselves inside an empty cafeteria, which led to a long hallway. They were in an underground base. They heard talking ahead of them, past a large doorway. Major Castleman gestured for his team to get ready, and then they burst in.

It seemed like all of them, or almost all of them, were in the control room. They seemed to be having a meeting of some kind. Most of them seemed to be unarmed.

"Now!" Castleman cried, opening fire. An instant later everyone joined in, including Calle.

It was a slaughter. With their compression rifles on setting 8, most of the Luddites were killed in a single shot.

Oscar Wood was shot in the chest. So was Peter Orinda and Boris Vallejo.

Bob Novato was shot in the back while he was trying to escape.

Garret Arnough tried to reach for a weapon, but was shot three times, once in the arm, the leg, and then the chest.

Carole Wells was shot in the back when she tried to flee.

Maggie raised a compression pistol but was shot in the head before she could fire.

Donna cried out, "No!" as she was shot in the tits and then fell lifeless to the ground.

And then suddenly, standing in a mass of bodies, was Tom Stoyer, with a compression pistol in each hand. He had a maniacal expression in his eyes, and he cried out a word, a word that Calle couldn't quite make out, maybe a word like "Love!", as he raised his pistols and aimed them at the attackers.

He never got the chance to fire.

One compression round after another fired into his chest. Pop pop pop pop pop! Tom Stoyer jerked around like a puppet on abruptly tugged strings as one, two, three, four, five rounds shot into him, turning his chest into a bloody mess.

Tom Stoyer looked down, his mouth agape, and then up at Major Castleman, who, stepping calmly up to Tom, aimed again and blew his head off. Tom's headless corpse fell on top of the body of his followers.

Major Castleman looked around at the bodies and the control room and the humming Time Shaft, and uttered three words only. "Mission accomplished, men."