“Okay, Joad,” Gallie says. “I know.” But I don’t know what she knows: whether she’s agreeing with me or just saying there, there.
“The more I think about it, the more I think you’re right, Toad” Zhivov says. Gallie and I look at him with surprise. This is a different Boris. It makes me wonder if this timeline, whichever one it is, still takes him to the directorship of TMA. His heresies of the past few days have astonished me. “Asmus, and us too, we’ve lived a timeline in which the colonists won the Revolutionary War. So Asmus’s version of vandalism is to change that. Yet, now it’s looking like he’s the reason they won. And now our smoldering crater may reverse all of that. Maybe.”
“That’s all speculation,” Gallie says.
“Sure it is,” I say. “But so is any other explanation of a timeline. At least it hangs together ... sort of.” I slide down the wall and sit up against it. “And what does it matter in the end?”
“Why does what matter?” Gallie asks.
“Whether there’s an American flag or British flag flying over us.”
“But it’s not that simple, is it?” Gallie says. “Do you think we might accel home and the only thing that’s changed is that there’s a different flag flying over TMA? A change in the timeline that big is going to have an exponentially increasing domino effect on events over two centuries. It could create a history that doesn’t even produce us–you, me, anyone we know.”
“Then wouldn’t that mean we’d already have seen the effect of ...” Pursuit of temporal logic is futile.
“But there’s the theory that timelines like to heal themselves,” Zhivov says. This one has already been tried on me. “That they repair the temporal perturbations and reconverge–wind up in the same or a similar place when everything sorts itself out. It’s like biological evolution. You know, like placental mammals and marsupial mammals. They split apart a couple of hundred million years ago, yet when they evolved, they converged into modern animals that are pretty close to each other. Marsupial mice, moles, wolves, you know.”
“You think timelines are like marsupials?” Gallie says with a faint smile.
“It’s a theory.”
“So if we get home alive and they ask why we fucked the timeline, let’s be sure to bring up kangaroos.”
It’s a long night. The question of sleeping arrangements turns out to be moot as there’s no sleeping going on. Zhivov stands by the window, Gallie is sitting on the bed knees pulled up to her chin and I’m sitting up against the wall, legs splayed. I revolve through our worries and it’s the turn of the warhead that’s about to replace us with a crater.
“The screw up on the aircraft tachyon beam. The miss. How do you feel about that?” I ask.
“She got it second time,” Gallie says. “And she seemed pretty confident.”
“Yeah, but she didn’t know that missing her target by just two days over a range of more than two centuries would mean the difference between–”
“No, she didn’t,” Zhivov says. “There’s no argument for us not trying to get out of here as fast as we can.” Gallie and I agree.
“And the barn-full of TMAers?” Gallie asks.
“It was never our plan to rescue them on this little outing,” Zhivov says. “Prasad has that in hand. We stick to that part of his plan. For now, we just need to get ourselves out of here.”
“I’m curious,” Gallie says. “What was the plan for your little outing?”
“To bring you back,” I say.
“Ah,” Gallie replies. “Good plan. Meticulously thought through.” Our conversation tapers off and I drift in and out of sleep. The only sounds are the heavy tick of a wall clock and the occasional call of a soldier from the camps.
I’m startled awake by a thud followed by a clatter on the other side of the door. I stand and back away. The door opens and in steps the guard. “Good morning,” says Gerard Bruce. He steps out and reappears dragging the unconscious sentry by the feet.
“We wondered where you got to,” I say.
“Now you know.”
“How did you find us?” Zhivov asks.
“You’re the talk of the town,” Bruce says as he ties and gags the soldier. “The mystery men with the swift guns is all they’re talking about out there. And with just two rooms in this place guarded by sentries–doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes.”
“The barn,” Gallie says. ”They put you in the barn?”
“Yeah. Everyone’s the worse for wear, but surviving.” Bruce says, anticipating Gallie’s next question. “The army’s feeding us.”
“Looks like you stepped out and borrowed some clothes,” I say. Bruce opens the door and scans the corridor before beckoning us to follow. He leads us into the room containing Asmus. We step over the body of a second sentry to be greeted by the wide, partially-toothed grin of Mack McEwan who’s in full bluecoat regalia. He’s holding Asmus by the scruff of the neck.
“My deputy,” Bruce says.
“What a splendid asshole you are, Mack,” I say.
“Back at ya.”
Asmus looks bemused. “This is very touching, but–” he says before Mack’s forehead crunches fast and hard into his nose. Asmus’s legs give way and he’s kept upright only by Mack’s grip. Gallie gives an unconvincing look of disapproval.
“You captured the sentiment of the moment, Mack,” I say. That had been a glorious sound.
“I’m guessing the house is littered with guards,” Zhivov says.
“It is,” Bruce confirms. “I’m thinking we escort you out.”
“Risky,” Gallie says. “Two guards no one recognizes escorting out their prize prisoners.”
“Well, whatever we decide on, let’s decide soon,” Mack
