“Washington state,” I reply. The general’s expression is unperturbed.
“What did you say about Washington?”
“It’s ... it’s the place I’m from. Originally. Traveled around a bit. Needed to get away from home for a while. But I landed back in Washington.” It wasn’t a well thought-out tactic but perhaps babbling will make me seem open, safe and responsive. Or just too unbalanced to press. “A lot of people wind up where they grew up. Maybe it’s just lack of imagination but I think a person is attracted back to their roots. I have friends from Ohio who–” The general raises a finger to stop me. I’m grateful. Gallie is looking at me incredulously. I shrug.
“General Penrose, may I?” It’s Asmus. I brace myself. The general nods.
“This fellow is a close friend of mine. I’m pleased you found him. I’ve been quite worried about his welfare. And Mr. Zhivov is also an acquaintance.” He grins. “You’re looking well Boris. You seem more youthful and healthy than when I last saw you. Good for you, good for you.” One of the officers behind the general steps forward to whisper something in his ear. Penrose raises his finger again.
“You were in possession of the swift guns. May I enquire what you intended to do with them?”
“We surrendered them to your troops General,” Zhivov says. “They were for our self defense.” Penrose calmly assesses this response.
“You may be aware that Mr. Asmus has made some rather outlandish claims about his origin,” Penrose says. Asmus begins to pipe up but Penrose raises the shut up finger. “You will be quiet Mr. Asmus.” Asmus looks like he might be about to protest, but then thinks better of it. “Mr. Bevan, Mr. Zhivov, I’ll ask you again. Where are you from?” His calm belies the possibility of him ordering something dire.
Zhivov and I look at each other, and then at Gallie. She gives an almost imperceptible shrug. “It may seem an unlikely story,” Zhivov says, “but we’ll be truthful with you, sir. My colleague–”
“The future,” I say. “Well, your future. That’s where we’re from. Twenty-first century to be specific. I am anyway. We traveled back in time to be here. The guns we were carrying we brought with us.”
Penrose raises his eyebrows. It’s the first human response I’ve seen from him. Asmus is grinning. I take this to mean my story is consistent with his.
“If I may General,” Asmus says. There’s no finger raised to stop him. “It does seem implausible, I know. But could there be a plausible explanation of the swift guns? These weapons incorporate inventions unknown in the here and now, I’m sure you’ll agree, sir.” Penrose neither agrees nor disagrees.
“And what is your purpose?” Penrose asks. A bloody good question. Asmus grins. Penrose holds out his hand and one of his officers places a semi-automatic pistol in it. He weighs it and then looks at me. The weapon appears to be racked and the pit of my stomach tingles. This guy has no clue what he’s doing. He has the pistol lying on the palm of his hand. He’s tracing his silencing forefinger over the surface of the weapon: the sight, the barrel, the grip, the trigger guard, the ... The gun fires and I wince. There’s a collective gasp and one of his soldiers is thrown backward against the wall as blood splatters over the cleavage of the woman’s portrait behind him. The soldier slides to the floor looking more bewildered than hurt. His neck pumps blood over his coat, forming a pool on the floorboards. Gallie lopes toward the general’s victim and puts the palm of her hand flat on his neck, attempting to staunch the flow. The general has thrown the gun to the ground and the facade of calm has evaporated.
“Get the physician,” he barks at the officer who had handed him the pistol. After a few seconds, Gallie stands up and shakes her head.
“Not your fault,” Asmus says, wearing a sympathetic expression. “Very sensitive trigger. You’re not used to it, General. You and your men need training.” Penrose seems to be in shock and Asmus takes advantage of it. “That pistol can fire a hundred shots a minute. Can you imagine the military advantage of having weapons like those? What’s the firing rate for a flintlock musket? Three or four shots a minute? And we have guns far more–”
“Shut up,” one of the officer roars and points around the room. “Take zeez these people away.”
FORTY-NINE
I fear we’re being taken to the barn, but it’s in the library that we end up–the one with bookshelves to the ceiling and no books. Gallie, Zhivov, Asmus and I are left looking at the door as it shuts behind us. I grab Gallie and hold her tight against me.
“Thank you,” she says. “Thank you both.” Zhivov shrugs. “But coming here now was a little crazed.”
I turn to Asmus. “Can you think of one reason I shouldn’t pummel your saggy face into pulp?” He smirks.
“Oh Joad, you know you wouldn’t do that to a frail codger like myself. What would Ms. Galois think of you?” He sinks into a plush Queen Anne chair. “And by the way, I really do want to thank you for ridding me of that monstrous whore. I can’t believe you stuck with her for ... how long was it? Ten years? What an appalling timeline that must have been for you. In ten years she could have courted most of Risley. And you never noticed?”
Gallie is looking at me and shakes her head. “One. You’re a sad, delusional asswipe,” Zhivov says. “And two, is this really what you want to talk
