Resisting Fate: Paradox, #5

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. Events, characters and organizations depicted herein are products of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously.

Heap big thanks to John Earle, for proofreading the entire Paradox Series (no small task!).

FOR ALL THE YOUNG MEN struggling to find their way in this toxic misandrist dystopia: learn from the mistakes of those who came before you.

After nightfall, I geared up. My weapons of choice were a silenced pistol with subsonic rounds, and Double Threat. I donned a loose Predator suit over my load-bearing equipment, and replaced my polarized shades with thermal goggles.

I stalked the roving guards first, who patrolled a perimeter outside the camp. I got close enough to execute perfect head shots. The silencer on the pistol was exactly that: a silencer—not just a suppressor. Each time I fired a subsonic round, the only noise was the oily metallic shik-shik of the bolt cycling in the chamber.

I moved into the camp and took out the cage area sentries. Some of the Americans watched it happen, in amazement, but kept quiet.

I had timed it so that all this action took place at the beginning of a new guard shift. I crept around the area just to make sure there were no enemy assets unaccounted for, then returned to the cages.

Brock Dozier, I whispered. Lieutenant Brock Dozier, USMC?

Holy shit, where are you? one of the caged Americans asked. I heard you Sneaky Petes took camouflage seriously, but...

I shushed him, while drawing a knife to cut through the ropes that held the bamboo together. I'm setting you all free, but I need to find Lieutenant Dozier.

It took some time, because the prisoners were more interested in escape than in helping me find my friend.

What are you, Ike—a ghost? Dozier asked, when he saw my goggles and weapon floating on the night air but heard my voice speaking to him.

I freed all the prisoners, and guided them to the guards I had eliminated, so they could procure weapons and ammo. I inquired as to whether they were all pilots, or if any had experience in the jungle. One of the wounded men, his head wrapped in a filthy bandage, had been an infantry scout who lost consciousness from a head wound near the DMZ and had been captured by the Cong. I gave him a compass and advised the others to let him take charge of getting them back to a friendly base camp.

It was during this whispered conversation that an NVA officer emerged from the CP, headed toward the latrine. We could have escaped detection, but for some reason he chose to detour by the cages. When he saw them empty, he began to yell and blow a whistle.

I shot him down with the rifle, then loaded a grenade in the launcher and lobbed it at the CP. It exploded just outside the hut, knocking one wall in. Damn goggles made it hard to aim right.

I loaded and fired again. This time, the high explosive shell blew the CP to splinters.

Guards began swarming out of their barracks. The four Americans with captured AK-47s opened fire on them. I fired a grenade into the barracks and blasted it wide open.

"We need to di di mau!" the scout cried.

Let's get the hell out of Dodge! another POW agreed.

Chapter 1: Lurking at a Nexus

Vivian and I sat at a patio outside a café on the Appel Quay on the morning of June 28, 1914.

Even mummified in the period-correct bustles, petticoats, and ankle-length dress, she was magnificent. It was hard to not fall into the trap of thinking I was lucky to have her—that she was above my station, deserved a better man, and my capture of her affections was some kind of coup.

Vivian wasn't as tiny as Madalina. She was booming in all the right places like Juanita was when I met her, though I doubted Vivian (or anybody) could match Juanita's singing voice. Her features were markedly different from the smooth, rounded contours of Niki's face, but still exquisite. She was passionate like Blanca. Uninhibited like Saffron. Mentally, well, Vivian didn't have the chip on her shoulder like Juanita. Vivian was very clever; but without Niki's uncanny intuitive abilities. Her eyes could twinkle with mischief, like Madalina's did; but there was an aptitude for cruelty in the mischief that Madalina lacked.

Like all the vamp types I had been drawn to, Vivian had an aura of mysterious entitlement. Somewhere at her core was an absolute self-assurance that she was wanted by the opposite sex. Not because of anything she had aspired to accomplish, or would. Simply because of what she was. I guess all women I'd known had at least a trace of it; Vivian had it in spades.

Vivian leaned over and whispered in my ear.

There's one of them—the young, nervous-looking bloke with the brown shoes and the gold tie, right there on the sidewalk, facing the street. His jacket is overly loose. No doubt to conceal a revolver.

I scanned the street and spotted the young man she had to be referring to.

The one flexing his knees and checking his pocketwatch?

Yes, she replied. Don't turn around, but I see another one down the street behind you. And up the street, about 100 yards...I think he is one, too. Another young chap in an oversized gray jacket, full of nervous energy. You see him?

I nodded.

Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the throne of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, had arrived by train in Sarajevo that morning, He should be on his way by car to the Bosnian Governor's house in the city, before observing some cavalry training at the local army base. Seven members of the Black Hand learned of the automobile route and spaced themselves along the Appel Quay. If Vivian was right, then three of the secret society's assassins were within visual range of where we sat then and there.

Vivian apparently liked the moniker I chose for her. On the few occasions when propriety demanded introductions, she gave Vivian as her name. We masqueraded as a married couple: Pieter and Vivian Pluskat. I kept my period-correct hat tilted low over my brow to avoid facial recognition by any TPF (Temporal Police Force) informants we might encounter.

However, we mostly spent that week in her hotel room; only interrupting our hedonistic entertainment to eat. And now, of course, to observe history being made.

The café crowd, pedestrians, and other nearby people buzzed with excitement as a vehicle appeared down the street. The second in a procession of six automobiles was the Royal Limousine—a luxury roadster with the top down. It cruised slowly along, so that Franz Ferdinand and Sophie could wave to the citizens. We saw this happening as the motorcade drew closer. We could see onlookers waving back, blowing kisses, saluting, or bowing. We heard cheers and fragments of shouted greetings.

They seem frightfully popular, don't they? Vivian remarked. Quite well-received.

It does seem that way, I replied, reminding myself that there were at least seven young men who weren't so impressed with the Archduke.

Franz-Ferdinand marrying Sophie infuriated the Emperor. But the commoners love that the Crown Prince married a woman of lower station, who is not a Hapsburg.

I nodded, marveling at how different this old European world was from anything I knew.

As the motorcade approached, people emerged from buildings on both sides to line the street and gape at the Archduke. There remained no gap between the people in the throng.

The Royal Limousine passed our location. A woman in elegant hat and clothes, and a stocky man with a handlebar mustache in a fancy uniform with an elaborate ceremonial hat waved to us (and everyone else) from the back seat.

I felt a pang of sickness, guilt, and sadness that this couple who just gave us a friendly greeting would soon be murdered.

The other cars passed us by as the convoy slowly rolled toward the police station up the street. I watched them shrink as the distance increased, wishing I could use binoculars without drawing suspicion.

Still, my eyesight was better than 20/20. Right as the motorcade passed the police station, a quick figure ran onto the street toward the vehicles.

What a stupid place for an attempted assassination, I thought.

A surreal sensation overwhelmed me. This was not like watching some historic snuff film such as the Zapruder footage. This was a momentous event that would shock the world to its foundation, playing out in real time before my own eyes.

The charging figure threw a spherical object at the Royal Limousine. His aim was off, and the driver must have seen it and accelerated. The bomb bounced off the rear quarter panel and thudded onto the street. There was no explosion, except from the voices of onlookers who cried out in panic or shouted warnings. The motorcade picked up speed to clear the area.

The bomb detonated under the fourth vehicle, lifting it into the air atop a billowing cloud of fire and smoke. Women all along the street screamed. Even Vivian, who knew what to expect, cried out.

What a dumbass, I muttered. Picks a police station for his ambush site, then throws a bomb with a ten second fuse. Doesn't compensate for the delay...

Vivian clamped her hand on my wrist, eyes wide with unbelief at what I was saying. Shh! She glanced around to see if anyone noticed what I said. I followed suit.

Nobody was paying attention to us, that I could tell.

I looked up the street. The bomber ran from the scene, popping something in his mouth. The suicide pill?

Other figures pursued Nedeljko Čabrinović on foot. He sprinted onto a bridge, vaulted over the railing, and into the Miljacka River.

He hit the water, crying out in pain, with a big splash. Rather than sink, he resembled a child sitting in a mud puddle after a comedic pratfall. He scrambled to his feet. The water barely reached his ankles.

Čabrinović glanced down, then all around, confused and frustrated.

Police and other men surrounded him, some also stalking out into the shallow water to tighten the cordon. He was trapped. A struggle ensued, but the desperate young bomber was dragged onto the bank and restrained. Police questioned him for a while; then escorted him to the police station. He began to vomit. Evidently, swallowing the poison was just as effective a method of suicide as trying to drown himself by jumping into four inches of water. He now had an upset stomach and perhaps sprained knees.

It was like watching Wile E. Coyote trying to ambush the Roadrunner. I might have laughed, had I not known this wasn't the end of it.

Victims of the bombing were carried into intact vehicles and whisked away—presumably to a hospital. The Royal Limousine had disappeared while I watched the plight of the bumbling, bomb-throwing buffoon.

Vivian and I finished our tea, paid the waiter, and strolled over to another café on Franz Josef Street. We ordered breakfast and eavesdropped on the conversations around us. Other cafe patrons conversed excitedly about what they'd seen and heard, speculating on what it all meant. Even if nothing else happened that day, they would have exciting news to share with friends and relatives outside Sarajevo for at least a year.

Unfortunately, more would happen that day, leading to the death of millions in a horrific ordeal that would live in infamy until the end of history.

Vivian tugged on my sleeve and motioned with her eyes when Gavrilo Princip trudged up to a nearby table and took a seat. But I had already spotted him, and nodded.

Our breakfast arrived; and we ate. Princip ordered some tea and sat there silently, scowling, wrapped up in his own thoughts.

How weird was this?

Just a few yards away sat an angry, disappointed young man who seemed perfectly normal despite his mood...who would soon set the world aflame.

He was a member of the Black Hand. They had failed to assassinate Franz Ferdinand. But Fate was going to step in and drop a second chance right in his lap.

It would be easy to take Princip out. I could incapacitate him any number of ways—some of them not even deadly. Then, when the time came, he would not be able to strike. Then no Balkan crisis between Serbia and Austria-Hungary. No blank check from the Kaiser of the Second Reich. No mass mobilizations across Europe. No four years of massive-scale slaughter, trench warfare, and poison gas. Therefore no Bolshevik Revolution or USSR, or National Socialist German Workers' Party or Third Reich or Adolph Hitler.

Well, Hitler would remain an aspiring artist in Vienna. The world didn't need another self-absorbed, grandiose Bohemian socialist with artistic pretensions; but it could tolerate one more, until he died in obscurity.

I didn't take down Gavrilo Princip. I ate breakfast with Vivian while the Serbian nationalist nursed his tea.

While we faffed around at the café, Franz Ferdinand would have his luggage unloaded at the Governor's house, then ride to the hospital, where he and Sophie (over her protests) would visit those who were wounded by the bomb.

I guess he didn't want to repeat the blunder of Tsar Nicholas II, who tastelessly attended his coronation ball hours after Russian peasants were trampled at his coronation banquet. The Russian people would forever after regard him as an out-of-touch tyrant with no regard for human life. Listening to his advisors would ultimately doom Nicholas, his family, and the Russian Empire. Franz-Ferdinand avoiding the same type of blunder would doom him, his wife, and the Austrian Empire just as surely; but on a much shorter timetable.

Franz Ferdinand's driver took a wrong turn from the updated route. The Royal Limousine rolled right past our café. People buzzed as they recognized the car and its passengers. From inside the car, with its top still down, there was a terse verbal exchange between the driver and somebody else. Princip's eyes widened in astonishment. No doubt he couldn't believe his luck.

Incredibly, the car braked to a stop right in front of us. I heard gears grinding as the chauffer struggled with the shifter.

Princip shot to his feet, his chair flying backwards, and ran toward the car.

The chauffer finally sank the gearshift lever into reverse and got the limousine moving to the rear.

Princip reached inside his jacket on the run and pulled out a pistol.

The chauffer spotted the gun-wielding Serbian running toward him. He popped the clutch but failed to hit the gas while doing so.

The engine stalled and the Royal Limousine lurched to a stop.

Princip reached the car. At point blank range, he shot Franz Ferdinand in the neck. He fired again, hitting the Archduke's wife in the stomach.

Princip, also, threw a pill in his mouth and swallowed. Somewhere within the next few weeks, the suicide pill manufacturer might just receive angry letters demanding refunds.

Bystanders overcame their paralysis and surged toward the assassin.

Princip raised the gun to his own head. Before Princip could pull the trigger, men swarmed him and wrestled the gun from his hand.

As it happened, Vivian said, dabbing her lips with the café's cloth napkin.

We watched people swarm around us, eventually including police, who apprehended Princip, and hauled him away. The crowd was horrified and outraged.

I sighed and stood, poised to handle her chair. Would you care for a walk, Mrs. Pluskat?

Indeed I would, Mr. Pluskat, she replied. Your timing is impeccable.

She stood and I pulled her chair out while she swept a hand back to ensure her dress hadn't snagged on anything.

There was no sense hanging around in Sarajevo anymore. In a matter of weeks, all of Europe would be caught up in war fever and a man of my age, not in uniform, would begin to draw unwanted attention.

I had restored sufficient charge in my portable warp generator for another jump; but planned to use the portal with Vivian. As long as our bodies were connected—even just by holding hands, her cranial implants would geospatially locate me accurately enough to transport my body with hers. That's what I gathered, by analyzing what she told me about the portal.

As we strolled toward her hotel, a man in a police uniform trotted across the street to intercept us.

Excuse me, sir, madame, he said, nodding at both of us in turn, I need to ask you a few questions.

Why? I asked.

The police uniform and shoes looked like what the other Sarajevo cops wore. And it didn't appear to be brand new, like it had just been pulled off the rack in a costume shop. But he was nearly my height—considerably taller than the average man at these coordinates. This didn't mean much all by itself; but he was also obviously built like an athlete under the uniform. Not a 1914 athlete. More like a 2004 jock, who was able to isolate muscle groups with high-tech weight machines, and maintain his physique with a specialized diet that wasn't possible for the average dude before, say, the late 1970s.

I didn't have a specialized diet, per se, and my musculature was shaped from years of MMA training, not weights. Still, nobody I'd seen at these coordinates was in the kind of shape I was, either

You're aware of the attempt on the Archduke's life...? the cop probed, studying our faces intently.

My word, yes! Vivian exclaimed. How is he? How is Sophie? Have they caught the man yet?

Her performance was solid, but the cop still looked suspicious. Honestly, that was to be expected.

What are your names? he asked.

I gave him our aliases, while he stared intently at me.

He probably shouldn't have done that. I noticed a perfectly circular edge of something stuck on his eye, larger than his pupil, but smaller than his iris. It slightly altered his eye color.

Who the hell had polarized contact lenses in 1914?

I glanced around the area. When I turned to check behind us, I saw two cloaked Erasers rushing toward us.

Erasers was the term for the TPF's elite time-traveling death squads. They wore light-bending active camouflage that polarized lenses could render starkly visible. They normally targeted people who split the timestream...plus any witnesses to the execution, friends, family