Alternate Peace E-Book

Harry Turtledove

• Herausgeber: Zombies Need Brains, LLC
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 457

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Alternate histories. Alternate realities. It's said that every choice creates multiple timelines, each one exploring what could have happened if a different decision had been made. Most of these alternate histories stem from different outcomes to a pivotal battle, or to an assassination attempt, or to the ending or escalation of a war. All violent, all bloody, all brutal. But what about those choices made during peacetime, when there was no monumental, ongoing conflict? After all, everyone knows how significant the flutter of a butterfly's wings can be, how far-reaching its effects can be felt. In these pages you will find fifteen new branches of history written by some of today's greatest science fiction and fantasy writers, including Elektra Hammond, Dale Cozort, Harry Turtledove, C.W. Briar, Rick Wilber, Juliet E. McKenna, Michael Robertson, Kat Otis, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Brian Hugenbruch, Stephen Leigh, Elizabeth Kite, Ian R. MacLeod, Mike Barretta, and Kari Sperring, all stemming from a peaceful divergence in our past. Join them as they wander down familiar paths…and then swerve down roads not taken.

Leseprobe

Alternate

Peace

Edited by

Steven H Silver

&

Joshua Palmatier

Zombies Need Brains LLC

www.zombiesneedbrains.com

Other Anthologies Edited by:

Patricia Bray & Joshua Palmatier

After Hours: Tales from the Ur-bar

The Modern Fae’s Guide to Surviving Humanity

Clockwork Universe: Steampunk vs Aliens

Temporally Out of Order

Alien Artifacts

Were-

All Hail Our Robot Conquerors!

Second Round: A Return to the Ur-bar

S.C. Butler & Joshua Palmatier

Submerged

Guilds & Glaives

Laura Anne Gilman & Kat Richardson

The Death of All Things

Troy Carrol Bucher & Joshua Palmatier

The Razor’s Edge

Patricia Bray & S.C. Butler

Portals

David B. Coe & Joshua Palmatier

Temporally Deactivated

Steven H Silver & Joshua Palmatier

Alternate Peace

Copyright © 2019 Steven H Silver, Joshua Palmatier, and

Zombies Need Brains LLC

All Rights Reserved

Interior Design (ebook): April Steenburgh

Interior Design (print): ZNB Design

Cover Design by ZNB Design

Cover Art “Alternate Peace” by Justin Adams

ZNB Book Collectors #15

All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions of this book, and do not participate or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted material.

Kickstarter Edition Printing, June 2019

First Printing, July 2019

Print ISBN-10: 1940709261

Print ISBN-13: 978-1940709260

Ebook ISBN-10: 194070927X

Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1940709277

Printed in the U.S.A.

COPYRIGHTS

Introduction copyright © 2019 by Steven H Silver

“O-Rings” copyright © 2019 by S. Elektra Hammond

“A Dad Ought to Have Nightmares” copyright © 2019 by Dale Cozort

“Election Day” copyright © 2019 by Harry Turtledove

“A Fine Line, Indeed” copyright © 2019 by C.W. Briar

“Donny Boy” copyright © 2019 by Rick Wilber

“The Echoes of a Shot” copyright © 2019 by Juliet E. McKenna

“What Makes a Better World” copyright © 2019 by Michael Robertson

“Field of Cloth of Gold and Blood, Sweat and Tears” copyright © 2019 by Kat Otis

“Politicians, Lost Causers, and Abigail Lockwood” copyright © 2019 by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

“Or, the Modern Psyche” copyright © 2019 by Brian Hugenbruch

“Easter Rising” copyright © 2019 by Stephen Leigh

“The Sisters of the Hallowed Marsh” copyright © 2019 by Elizabeth Kite

“Selkie” copyright © 2019 by Ian R. MacLeod

“New Moon, Dark Skies” copyright © 2019 by Mike Barretta

“His Master’s Voice” copyright © 2019 by K.L. Maund

Contents

Alternate Peace

Also By

Copyrights

Introduction

O-Rings by Elektra Hammond

A Dad Ought to Have Nightmares by Dale Cozort

Election Day by Harry Turtledove

A Fine Line, Indeed by C.W. Briar

Donny Boy by Rick Wilber

The Echoes of a Shot by Juliet E. McKenna

What Makes a Better World by Michael Robertson

Field of Cloth of Gold and Blood, Sweat and Tears by Kat Otis

Politicans, Lost Causers, and Abigail Lockwood by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Or, the Modern Psyche by Brian Hugenbruch

Easter Rising by Stephen Leigh

The Sisters of the Hallowed Marsh by Elizabeth Kite

Selkie by Ian R. MacLeod

New Moon, Dark Skies by Mike Barretta

His Master’s Voice by Kari Sperring

About the Authors

About the Editors

Acknowledgments

Introduction

By Steven H Silver

Like science fiction, alternate history is a game of “what if.” While science fiction explores the ifs of science, alternate history explores the ifs of history, introducing points in time when the fictional history branches off from the established history of our own timeline to produce a new world, rife for exploration.

Sometimes it seems like the only historical branch points that are explored by authors are those that arise out of war. What would have happened if the Civil War had gone a different way? What if the Nazis had won World War II? What if the American Revolution had failed?

However, there are many more peaceful points of divergence which can be explored, some of which may impact world history just as much, while others may have more focused changes.

On June 5, 1858, a cub pilot on the steamboat Pennsylvania got into yet another argument with the pilot who was teaching him. The pilot, William Brown, put the cub pilot ashore and continued his journey. The cub pilot managed to continue his training under another pilot on a different steamship.

This incident can be used to explore how alternate history can work on a microscale. The cub pilot could have stayed on the Pennsylvania with Brown rather than the two men going their separate ways. If the cub pilot had stayed on board, surely nothing really would have changed. Except…

On June 13, 1858, the steamship Pennsylvania was cruising on the Mississippi near Memphis, Tennessee when its boiler exploded. The ship was destroyed and more than 250 of the 450 people on board were killed, with many more fatalities over the next few weeks, including the cub pilot’s brother, who had recently been brought on board at his brother’s urging.

The altercation between Brown and his cub had a major impact on the young man’s life. Although he lived, when he otherwise may have died, he suffered the immense loss of his brother. Still, nothing really changed the world’s history because he was put ashore. Except…

The cub pilot was a boy named Samuel L. Clemens, who would adopt the name Mark Twain. His writing, which included descriptions of the loss of the Pennsylvania, was often influenced by his training on the river and the tragic death of his brother Henry. Had William Brown not put Clemens ashore, the world would have missed out on the writings of Mark Twain, as well as all those he influenced over the years.

Many alternate histories can be written that trace the point of change to Mark Twain’s death in the explosion on board the Pennsylvania in 1858. Others could explore how different Twain’s writing might have been if Henry hadn’t been injured in the explosion and died a week later, or if Twain had never found Henry a berth on the doomed ship in the first place.

Each branch point, whether in time of peace or time of war, can lead to a myriad of stories, limited only by the imagination of the author and the plausibility of the changes they introduce into the time stream.

There is a time for war and a time for peace. This is the time for peace. This volume offers the latter, with fifteen stories of alternate history that explore changes that occurred in a time of peace. Some of the stories take place immediately after the point where the timelines diverge and will present a world which is familiar to the one in which we live. Others are set many years after the divergence and may seem to be set in practically a different world.

—Wapakoneta, OH, March 31, 2019

O-Rings

by Elektra Hammond

Letter Steve to Christa, 1/23/1986

Darling—

The kids are good, but they miss you. It’s hard for them. You’ve been gone so long it feels like forever.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m the one who pushed you into applying to be the Teacher in Space, and I still think that NASA, and the whole world, are damn lucky to have you. I just wish there was some way that the kids and I didn’t have to give you up for so long to make it happen.

I thanked Scott for spurring us to move to New Hampshire—it’s been a godsend having family nearby. You should have seen the confused look on his face! I explained that we’d talked about raising our family in New Hampshire, but it wasn’t until he was born that we really sat down and hashed it out. It made him feel really good to know that he played such an important role in our relocation, and it distracted him from missing you. I’ve really done well here, working in the AG’s office, although I can’t help but wonder sometimes what would have happened if I’d taken that position at Justice and we’d stayed in D.C. One thing’s for sure—you wouldn’t be where you are. I think you’d be a lawyer, not a teacher, maybe working with me at Justice. Maybe on civil rights? With your knack for organization you might be a judge already. But I wouldn’t take going into space away from you, not for anything.

I still don’t have the whole “running the household” thing down. I don’t know how you do it. I’ve practically been living on cornflakes for the last nine months. If not for your parents and mine feeding the kids from time to time—and taking them off my hands once in a while so I can catch up—I don’t know what I would do. There’s not enough time to work and take care of the kids and cook and do laundry. And sleep. It has been the longest nine months of my life. I am so proud that you’re doing this, but I don’t know if I can keep it up.

I so miss our old life, when we did everything together. I miss you, space lady. This is my last letter before we see you in Florida—can’t wait.

I love you, always.

—Steve a.k.a. the Cornflake Kid

MEMORANDUM

To: Jess Moore, Associate Administrator of the Office of Space Flight, NASA Mission Management Team

From: Allan J. McDonald, Senior Representative, Space Shuttle Solid Rocket Motor Project, Morton Thiokol

Subject: Shuttle Solid Rocket Boosters (SRBs)

Date: 27 January 1986

I cannot sign off on the launch of Challenger tomorrow, due to concerns about the ability of the SRBs to perform in extremely low temperatures. The Solid Rocket Boosters are only rated as low as 40 degrees—it could be as much as 20 degrees lower than that tomorrow. There have been some indications of trouble with temperatures as high as 53 degrees. This is a possible design flaw we need to investigate further.

Weather below freezing may also cause the formation of ice on the launch pad, a circumstance that we have not allowed for. It could cause unanticipated problems with the launch or, in the worst case, damage to the shuttle.

Additionally, I’ve been advised the shuttle recovery ships are experiencing rough seas. They need to check over their equipment and are currently too far out of position to support an early morning launch.

In my professional opinion, we should delay until more clement weather, ideally a minimum of 55 degrees.

[NASA News Logo]

National Aeronautics and

Space Administration

John F. Kennedy Space Center

Kennedy Space Center, Florida 32899

AC 305 867-2468

___________________________________________

For Release

Shirley M. Green Immediate

Headquarters/Washington, D.C.

SHUTTLE MISSION 51-L LAUNCH POSTPONED

Shuttle mission 51-L, originally scheduled to launch on January 28, 1986 has been postponed until Monday, February 3rd, 1986, due to unseasonably cold weather at the Kennedy Space Center.

NOTE TO EDITORS: This release and other NASA information is available electronically through ITT DIALCOM. For access to NASA NEWS through this system, contact Jim Hawley, ITT Dialcom, Inc. At 202/488-0550.

[Transcript of audio communication from Challenger]

I love you, Steve! How’re Scott and Caroline? We had a bit of excitement when we launched, made me realize how unprepared I really am, even after one hundred seventeen hours of training. One of the tool cabinets got knocked open and we ended up with some gear swinging through the cabin. The crew though is incredible. They locked it down before I could move. Ron and Judy somehow managed to grab the stuff and hang on to it, but one piece still smacked me in the arm. It could have been so much worse if they hadn’t been on the ball.

As soon as we have a good TV signal, I’ve got to give my class in space. I love you, Sweetheart. See you soon!

[Note on bottle of champagne from Barbara Morgan to Christa]

Christa—

Congrats! You did it!

It was the look on your face when you landed. I’ve heard of the look of eagles—never thought I’d actually see it. You seem…more, somehow. I was on the fence about what to do, but talking to you gave me real clarity. I’ve decided to stay in the program, train to be a mission specialist.

I’ve never been second best at anything, but it’s not jealousy. The joy you brought back—I want to follow the trail you blazed into space.

Your friend, forever,

Barbara

Concord Monitor, February 24, 1986

“Teacher in Space Returns Home” by Robert Hohler

Our newest celebrity is back. Concord High’s Christa McAuliffe returned home today after spending 6 days in space aboard the shuttle Challenger, doing what she does best—teaching. Now the whole world knows why her classes are so popular. She’s in town for a few days to spend time with her family before she goes on tour promoting NASA and the space program.

I had the opportunity to view her lessons from space, along with the students from Concord High, and the energy in the room was incredible. Her excitement about space exploration was evident in “Where We’ve Been, Where We’re Going, and Why,” the second of the transmissions from the Challenger. She looked so comfortable up there, weightless—a glimpse into our future. I could see that energy reflected on the faces of the students, as her fascination with history and science drew them into the lesson. I predict an awful lot of these kids are going to work hard on their science homework, with thoughts of being astronauts on their mind.

If only I were younger…

Letter Steve to Christa, 6/15/1986

Darling—

I’m okay, busier than usual. The kids are great—the usual end of the school year stuff is keeping them busy. Scott is doing great in all his classes, despite all the distractions. I’m afraid Caroline has been a little off—we might see some Cs on her report card this term. She’s been talking about being a teacher, just like her mom. Scott wants to be an astronaut, like his mom. No lawyers to follow in their dad’s footsteps.

I keep trying to set aside time every Sunday to write you, but I get distracted trying to catch up with the stuff I didn’t do all week. Mundane stuff like laundry and cleaning.

I’ve also been under the gun at work. We’ve got a huge case that may end up being a class action suit against one of the utilities. It’s keeping everyone occupied taking depositions and correlating information. If it’s as big as I think it is, we might end up before the Supreme Court. Or they could settle. That would be better for the clients, I think.

I miss you very, very much. Not just because the house runs so much better when you’re here. I mean, it does, but it’s empty enough to echo when you’re out of town. After the kids go to bed, I wish I could call you. But I never know the number. You’re traveling all the time. I know it’s exhausting for you, but holding down the fort is tiring, too.

I miss you more than I can adequately explain.

I love you,

—Steve a.k.a. chief holder down of Fort McAuliffe

Concord Monitor, January 20, 1987

President Reagan has announced he will nominate Steven J. McAuliffe to be Federal district judge for the District of New Hampshire. Mr. McAuliffe is currently in private practice in Concord, New Hampshire. Previously he served as an assistant attorney general in New Hampshire.

Letter Christa to Steve, 1/20/1987

Sweetheart—

It’s so exciting that you’re going to be a judge. I know it’s something that you thought would happen one day, but not so soon. That class action suit you were lead on, and the great settlement you got the utility to give up, really put you in the public eye. I know this is just the start of great things for you!

I’ll make sure that I’m in Washington for your confirmation hearing—it looks better if your spouse is there to support you. I’m sure my mom will take care of the kids. Maybe you could stay in Washington for a couple of days and we could have a weekend away, just the two of us?

Love you,

—Christa

Telegram Christa McAuliffe to Steven McAuliffe, 3/18/1987

STEVE, CONGRATULATIONS ON BEING CONFIRMED. SO SORRY I COULDN’T MAKE THE HEARING, EMERGENCY CAME UP. WILL CALL YOU WHEN YOU RETURN TO NEW HAMPSHIRE. LOVE, CHRISTA

Letter Steve to Christa, 10/18/1987

Darling—

The kids are starting to act out. They miss you. You need to call more often. Better yet, you need to visit. Sending them letters once in a while, and calling them once a week, just isn’t enough. You’ve only been home once since Christmas!

This is really, really wearing on me. It’s not that I mind taking care of the kids, but I’ve been doing this solo act almost nonstop 2 1/2 years. I’m starting to forget what you look like. The kids need their mother. Don’t get me wrong—it’s great that you’re promoting the space program and you’re writing a book, but don’t forget that you have a family. We need you, too.

There was a time when we could talk about anything. We made it through college in different states—but back then you visited me all the time. Remember coming down to VMI every couple of weeks? We had it great back then. I didn’t appreciate how lucky I was that you took the time to come visit when you had classes of your own back home. Troublemaker that I was, I was restricted to campus most weekends. And I was the only guy walking patrol whose girlfriend walked it with him, keeping him company. I set some sort of record for gaining rank and then losing it again. The high point of my entire college career was your visits.

From the time we started dating in high school, it’s always been you. I never even looked at another girl. I never wanted to.

We can work this out—I just need to see you and talk to you. Please.

I love you,

—Steve a.k.a. that guy from VMI

Letter Christa to Steve, 12/12/1987

Sweetheart—

I’ll be home from Christmas to New Year’s and we can have a mini-vacation. I’m so looking forward to finally getting home. I’m sorry I had to cancel my last two trips back—but the book is finally done. And I have just one more speaking engagement, then I’m done until next year.

I’ve missed you and the kids so much. I bought the kids little gifts from everywhere I’ve been, and I’ve got a bunch of magnets to add to the refrigerator.

I’ll set aside time to talk. And I’ll cook a bunch of stuff for the freezer. It’s not that much longer before I’ll be home for good.

Love you,

—Christa

Letter Steve to Christa, 12/13/1987

Darling—

We’re all fine here, eagerly waiting for you to get home for Christmas. I know you’ll be home soon, but I wanted to tell you again how much we all miss you. I can’t wait until you’re home full time. After Christmas, it’s just a few months and then you’re done, right? We get to go back to our rather dull, ordinary life all together in New Hampshire.

The Christmas tree is ready, sitting in the living room waiting for you so we can decorate it as a family. I’ve done all the shopping, all we need to make things perfect here is you.

Whatever you do, please don’t cancel this trip. I don’t know how I would explain it to the kids. We really need the family time. And you and I need to spend some quality time together.

How do you feel about going away the weekend after Christmas, just the two of us? We could drive down to Boston and stay in a nice hotel, maybe get tickets for a show or the ballet.

Merry Christmas. I love you,

—Steve a.k.a. the holiday cookie maker

Letter Christa to Steve, 3/30/1988

Sweetheart—

I got a job offer. I know this NASA thing was winding down, and I was supposed to be coming home for good, but I have to consider this.

Do you remember when I applied for the assistant principal job? I wanted to do more—not just teach classes but organize, run things, make a difference on a larger scale. This job would let me do that. I would be in charge of Communications—for all of NASA—helping get the message out. Think how many people I could help, how much good I could do.

But we’d have to move back to Washington. That wouldn’t be so bad—you’ve got contacts at Justice, and I know people, too. Or you could go into private practice—or work for congress. Your old boss Steny Hoyer is in the House of Representatives now, I bet he knows folks who need a good prosecutor.

Let’s talk about this.

I love you so very much. Please understand.

All my love,

—Christa

Letter Steve to Christa, 4/5/1988

Christa—

Please don’t take this job. You talked me into leaving Washington to go to New Hampshire—it was the right thing to do—but we can’t uproot again and move back. The kids are still in school. Our families are here. My job as a federal judge is here. It’s just not fair to the family. We’ve spent the last 3 years being the nonstop Christa show—is this ever going to end and go back to being the McAuliffe FAMILY?

I love you so very much, but for the sake of your children, think about this very hard.

Love,

—Steve

[NASA News Logo]

National Aeronautics and

Space Administration

John F. Kennedy Space Center

Kennedy Space Center, Florida 32899

AC 305 867-2468

___________________________________________

For Release

Shirley M. Green May 13, 1988

Headquarters/Washington, D.C.

MCAULIFFE NAMED ASSISTANT ADMINISTRATOR FOR COMMUNICATIONS

S. Christa McAuliffe has been appointed Assistant Administrator for Communications at the National Aeronautics and Space Administration. The appointment is effective May 16, 1988.

McAuliffe first joined NASA when she was selected for Shuttle Mission 51-L, beating out thousands to be the first teacher-in-space, charming the nation as she conducted the ultimate field trip aboard the space shuttle Challenger.

For the year following the launch, she proved invaluable at promoting NASA and the space program. Her book, Space: The Ultimate Field Trip, based on her selection and training for the 51-L mission, was the top selling book of 1987.

Prior to working for NASA, McAuliffe was a teacher at Concord High in Concord, New Hampshire, where she developed a class called The American Woman, showing historyfrom the perspective of ordinary people.

McAuliffe received a bachelor of arts degree from Framingham State College and a master’s degree in education from Bowie State University.

McAuliffe and her husband, Steve, have two children.

NOTE TO EDITORS: This release and other NASA information is available electronically through ITT DIALCOM. For access to NASA NEWS through this system, contact Jim Hawley, ITT Dialcom, Inc. At 202/488-0550.

Letter Christa to Steve, 5/10/1988, delivered in person with a big box of chocolates and a dozen red roses

Steve, Sweetheart—

I’m so sorry—this is the kind of job I’ve been looking for all my life. It will allow me to make a difference. Once the school year is over next month we can find a place, in the right school district, and move the kids down here.

I will spend the rest of my life working to make this move up to you. I promise.

It’ll be educational for the kids to live in Washington—they’ll love the Smithsonian and all the monuments, especially now that they’re old enough to really appreciate them. We’ll make sure you find a terrific job, too, even if I have to go door-to-door through the halls of Congress asking who’s looking for a prosecutor and telling them how great you would be.

I love you so very, very much,

—Christa

[NASA News Release ON LINE Logo]

JOHN F. KENNEDY SPACE CENTER

__________________________________________

Barbara Selby

Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

February 2, 1994

(Phone: [phone])

RELEASE: 94-21

MCAULIFFE NAMED ASSOCIATE DEPUTY ADMINISTRATOR POLICY

S. Christa McAuliffe has been appointed the Associate Deputy Administrator for Policy at the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, starting February 3, 1994.

For the last five years, McAuliffe has been serving as the NASA Assistant Administrator for Communications. Almost exactly eight years ago she made history as the first civilian in space, as part of Shuttle Mission 51-L aboard the space shuttle Challenger.

The publicity surrounding her shuttle trip was a boon to NASA, helping justify our budget requests. She’s been a part of the NASA family ever since, taking on growing responsibilities as she helped build NASA’s image into something we’re all proud of.

Prior to working for NASA, McAuliffe was a teacher at Concord High in Concord, New Hampshire.

McAuliffe has a bachelor of arts from Framingham State College, a master’s in education from Bowie State University, and a master of business administration from Georgetown University.

McAuliffe and her husband, Steve, have two children.

-end-

Letter Christa to Steve, 4/5/1995

Steve—

The kids are done with school June 10th. There are some parties that weekend they’ll want to attend.

Feel free to make arrangements for them to travel up to New Hampshire for the summer any time after that. They’ll need to be back by August 20th for me to get them ready for the school year.

—Christa

[NASA News Release ON LINE Logo]

JOHN F. KENNEDY SPACE CENTER

__________________________________________

Dwayne C. Brown

Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

April 8, 1999

(Phone: [phone])

RELEASE: 99-51

MCAULIFFE NAMED NASA ADMINISTRATOR

S. Christa McAuliffe has been appointed Administrator of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, effective immediately.

McAuliffe began her NASA career as the “teacher-in-space” aboard the space shuttle Challenger in 1986. She combined working to promote NASA to the general public with improving internal communications and organization, moving steadily through the ranks until her current appointment.

McAuliffe has a strong commitment to education. She worked as a teacher at Concord High in Concord, New Hampshire prior to joining NASA, and she has a bachelor of arts from Framingham State College, a master’s in education from Bowie State University, and a master of business administration from Georgetown University. She is currently working toward her doctor of philosophy in government from Georgetown.

McAuliffe has two children.

-end-

A Dad Ought to Have Nightmares

By Dale Cozort

Raymond Oakes, Ray to his friends, paced in the waiting room at six in the morning on February 25, 1955, as his wife had their first son. The world remembers that day for a different sun, the brief one the Nazis created in a depopulated stretch of jungle in the German Kongo.

Ray didn’t hear about the German-made sun—the first of three that blossomed within the next month—for several hours. The crowd around the TV caught his eye, but he ignored it, engaged in his own worries. He discovered what had happened when his pacing took him near the waiting room’s bulky black and white TV. The TV showed the mushroom cloud and said President Dewey would address the nation in the evening.

Ray missed the speech because he finally got a chance to see his wife and his incredibly tiny, fragile son. Nobody offered to let him hold the little boy and he didn’t feel any urge to do so. I would drop it…him.

The doctor told him to go home and get some sleep. He drove his three-year-old Studebaker sedan to an empty ranch-style house in the Misty Ridge subdivision, upper-middle class and recently torn from a cornfield. Ray hadn’t thought much about the German atomic bomb blast at the hospital or on the way home. Another piece of German bombast, like their satellites and space station and moon base. The Führer was on TV when he got home, looking old and paunchy as he spoke, and an interpreter passed on the words, touting the new German weapons as a demonstration of German power, but also a symbol of the Reich’s desire for peace.

How does that even make sense? Ray wished the fat German a massive coronary, but Herman Goering droned on. Douglas Edwards of CBS News came on. “This just in: British Prime Minister Eden has announced that the British Commonwealth has developed the same technology the Germans used for their super bomb and will be testing it in Australia within the month. French Premier Faure has announced a similar test. Neither Italy’s King Vittorio Emanuele IV nor Josef Stalin, the increasingly reclusive General Secretary of the Soviet Union, have had any comments so far.”

News anchor Douglas Edwards summarized President Dewey’s speech. A lot of nothing. Blah blah concerned this new technology will escalate tensions in Europe. Blah blah confirms the wisdom of US policies of avoiding entangling European alliances. Blah blah our technology is the best in the world. Except in ship-building, rockets, and now super bombs. Blah blah the power of the new German bomb is unknown and may or may not represent a breakthrough in power. Except it’s obvious from the pictures that it does unless they managed to fake the size of the explosion.

Ray’s engineering mind did an order of magnitude calculation. He went back over his figures a couple of times, writing them down on the back of an ink-stained receipt, and finally figured he had to have misplaced a decimal point. He tossed the paper on his desk.

Nazis. A bunch of bloody-handed idiots. And now they ruin my son’s special day. “Daniel Oakes.” He said the name out loud. There was still some question as to whether that would be the little boy’s final name. Ray liked the sound of it. Jenny, his wife, was less enthusiastic.

Ray didn’t know what to make of the new German bomb. He worried about tensions in Europe but while Europe always seemed headed toward another Great War, it never quite got there, not since the Great War’s guns fell silent.

The oceans isolated the US from Europe’s squabbles, though not as much as they once did. German, French, British, and Italian satellites passed over the US daily, advertising their owners’ global reach. The Dewey Administration mostly ignored space, leaving the field to private efforts by big aerospace and auto companies.

He didn’t intend to fall asleep in front of the TV, but he did. The phone woke him late that evening. He heard a familiar voice. “Raymond, we have a job for you. “

“I have a job. And a son. Daniel Oakes.” I hope. I love that name.

“Congratulations. You’re doing well as a commercial pilot, too, I hear.”

“Very well. I’m happy. I’m looking forward to time with my son and my wife. You aren’t part of my plans.”

“The Germans aren’t part of my plans or your plans,” the familiar voice said. “But there they are. Their rockets can send satellites over the United States. And now they have super bombs. I’m sure you calculated the power to weight ratio.”

“The bomb is too heavy to fit on a rocket,” Ray said. “We’ve stayed out of Europe’s problems. The Germans don’t worry me.” His voice betrayed the uncertainty that lurked in the back of his mind. He felt a fierce surge of protectiveness toward his son, still untouched by his hands and only glimpsed for a few minutes. Careful. That’s what he wants. A decision made from fear.

“It will certainly fit in one of their bombers. And are you sure they won’t make it smaller? Maybe not in a month, but in a year or five years? You’re in this for the long haul now. That’s what having a kid is all about, isn’t it?”

Ray leaned his head back, stared at the white-tiled ceiling, and thought about a little boy, Daniel! playing in a crib, taking his first steps, saying his first words, tossing a soft oversized ball to his dad, all in the shadow of Goering’s rockets and the big German jet bombers coming over the North Pole, equipped with the new bomb.

“There isn’t a lot I can do about it,” Ray said. “They have this super bomb and we don’t. It’s a good thing we stay out of European politics.”

“Except that we don’t have any friends in Europe and if Germany decides to put battleships off Brazil or Mexico we’ll have to keep those bombs and missiles in mind when we decide what to do about it. Or if Goering and company screw up the German economy beyond redemption, do you think they won’t come to us and politely but firmly tell us that cut-rate loans will be necessary, with their super bombs sitting at the negotiating table, with the threat of burning US cities sitting in the back of everybody’s minds?”

“What do want me to do?” That wasn’t something he wanted to ask, not exhausted, not on this special day, not with Daniel’s life just starting. He asked it anyway, his voice resigned.

The voice at the other end of the line, the voice from another life, one before wife or Daniel, didn’t change. No hint of triumph. No relief. No emotion at all. “Meet me at Eagle Park. Nine tomorrow morning. Call in sick to work. You should be done in time for work Monday. Oh, and congratulations. I’ll have a cigar for you tomorrow.” Those last words sounded warm and sincere, an oddity given their source.

Ray sat staring at the receiver as the dial tone grew angry. Finally, he put it firmly back on its black base. Thoughts of Daniel and his wife clung to a corner of his brain as he shifted to a rusty but still solid set of habits. He pulled a box off the top shelf of his closet and extracted a semi-automatic 9 mm pistol, along with a magazine and a box of ammo. He checked the mechanism, then paused and stared at the weapon. He saw the nearly hairless, fragile face of his son—still red from the trauma of birth—in the air between him and the weapon. Finally, he filled the magazine. For you, Daniel. I hope.

He put the magazine in the weapon and held it with a mix of eagerness and revulsion. Revulsion won, temporarily. He popped the magazine out and put the unloaded weapon in the nightstand drawer.

The TV was still on. He walked over and turned the dial. All four channels were filled with news of the German bomb. CBS news was calling it an “atomic bomb,” quickly shortened to A-bomb. Douglas Edwards mentioned the short time between the German test and the planned British and French ones and asked retired Air Force general Curtis LeMay if it was the result of a close-run arms race. The general shook his head. “If the British and French really do test A-bombs within a month, they have almost certainly had A-bombs for a while, but wisely, in my opinion, decided not to do a public test of them. The biggest secret about this type of bomb is that it is possible.”

“Does the US have a secret program similar to the British and French ones?” Edwards asked.

“If we didn’t yesterday, we do now,” General LeMay said. “And if we didn’t yesterday that’s the biggest and darkest secret that our government has at this time.”

The commentator went on to talk about Europe’s bloody history, about the madness of the Thirty Years’ War, the Napoleonic Wars, and the final horrible spasm of the Great War. He also talked about Europe’s bloody conquest and colonization of most of the world, and ended with the “cleansing,” the ironic term the Nazis used for their systematic deportation of black Africans from their Kongo colony to death camps deep in the interior or to be worked to death in the huge public works projects that the original Führer was so fond of.

The Nazis still denied the existence of the “cleansing,” as did their apologists in the US. Way too many of them burrowed into our society and this A-bomb will encourage them, just like the moon shots and the moon base did. They’ll claim that it’s German super-technology, from the master race, from the political and economic system of the future. The fat comic-opera figure of the Führer on TV made a mockery of that carefully orchestrated propaganda, though not in the eyes of the true believers, the inevitable discontents of society, always looking for simple answers to unanswered problems in their own lives. They aren’t so much Nazis or Commies; they simply want convenient answers, a system of beliefs to embrace the way they would have embraced religion before that went out of style among intellectual types.

Ray fell asleep with his clothes on. It was surprisingly untroubled, fueled by exhaustion. If he dreamed, those dreams faded before he woke.

The park was nearly deserted on Saturday morning, with the exception of a gray man standing by a teeter-totter, idly swinging the ends up and down. The gray man, in his gray suit, gray hat, and faintly gray complexion, turned as Ray approached him.

The men did not exchange pleasantries. The gray man said, “Are you still good at what you did?”

“I’m rusty. Why me?”

“The other side has been suspiciously successful at rolling up or turning our assets lately, enough so that we’re in a mole hunt.”

“Which other side? The Nazis or the Soviets?”

“The Nazis, which is part of the reason to suspect a mole. The Abwehr has historically not been that good. But suddenly they are.”

Ray nodded. “And you haven’t isolated the source of the problem.”

“Not yet. And now we have a walk-in that may give us a break in the biggest mystery of the last two decades. I want him alive. I want him unintimidated. I don’t want to give our mole any chance to tip off the Abwehr. So I know about this, and you. Nobody else. I called you last night from a random payphone after I made sure I wasn’t being followed.”

“How about this morning?”

“Are you trying to be insulting?”

Yeah, the thought had crossed my mind. “Everybody slips up sometime. Doesn’t hurt to ask.”

“The source checks out as far as I could tell without drawing attention to him, but you have the engineering background to know if he really has something useful. Debrief him, get the information and the source directly to me, and go home to your wife and your son. That’s all.”

Ray didn’t ask what the mystery was. He didn’t have to.

The gray man gave him the details of the mission, then forced an anomalous smile to his face and produced a pricey Cuban cigar. “Congratulations!”

The tradecraft came back to Ray quickly, too quickly to suit him. He checked his car for bugs and automatically went through a couple routines to throw off trackers. He stopped and called the hospital from a pay phone. A nurse told him that both mother and baby were resting comfortably. He gave the woman a message to pass onto his wife, a lie, that he was sick with a touch of the flu and didn’t want to give it to mother or newborn. The lie came off his lips too easily. I’ve never lied to her before. That seemed incongruous given his current employment. Just for two days, then I go back to being husband, pilot, and dad.

The source was a retired German engine technician, now in his late sixties. Ray drove to the man’s hotel, a rundown extended-stay place with thin, tired-looking hookers hanging out in the lobby, pale under their heavy makeup. The hookers looked interested, then took a closer look and headed for the door. I have cop on me somehow, the way I move, the way I’m dressed.

Ray concentrated on blending in. Horny businessman. Here to meet someone specific, someone classier and higher priced than you. Based on the reactions of the working girls he met in the stairway and the hall on the way to the contact’s third-floor room, he got back closer to the groove. Blending in. Not getting noticed by hotel security/pimps. In this hotel the two were probably the same.

The German was tall, well over six feet, and bulky. His face looked all of his sixty-plus years, wrinkled and mottled. He held a gun, a Luger, mostly hidden behind a towel when he opened the door.

Ray brought out the identification the gray man had given him. The gun muzzle moved subtly, no long quite pointing at him.

“Otto Hessler?”

“Yes. And you are the man whose name doesn’t matter, according to my contacts.” Otto spoke near perfect English with a hint of a Bavarian accent.

Ray nodded. “I imagine they would say that. Call me Ray.”

The German let him in and they sat at a once-expensive oak table, its surface marred with interlocking water-stain circles. A lamp with a crushed woven shade shot a circle of glaring light on the table. Otto insisted that they each have a beer before they settled down to business. Ray took his pick from a six pack of unopened cans and watched the German do likewise. They sat in hard wooden chairs that creaked at every movement, not saying much as Ray sipped his beer and the German slowly savored his.

Finally, Otto placed his empty can on the table and spread a taped-together collection of five lined notebook pages across the surface next to it. He pointed to a hand-drawn sketch that spanned the pages. “This is the engine layout of the pocket battleship Admiral Graf Spree, as of September 1939. I drew it from memory, so there may be small mistakes after these fifteen years.”

Ray studied the sketch. The layout looked plausible. He asked a couple of questions designed to trip up a non-mechanic and got replies that at least indicated experience with German sea-craft.

Ray nodded. “I’ll put you down as a maybe. The Nazis don’t let mechanics who have worked around their special ships or planes or rockets out of the country. How did you get here?”

Otto grinned. “They screwed up. I asked for a visa and got one.”

“The Nazis may be morons, but they’re careful with their special projects. Why did they screw up this time?”

“I got out of the navy under special circumstances. I like the beer. The brass thought I liked it too much. It was early days of the Nazi regime and they were gearing up for war, so for a while they looked the other way. But then they got the fleet up to staff and cut back naval construction after the Baltic War. I got cut back to civilian. After the Baltic War they focused on building up the army to take on the Bolsheviks for real, so not much later I was on a Panzer III assembly line sending those sad tanks to the Dnieper River. I retired as an assembly worker for the defense industry. Perhaps that took me off one special list and put me on another. The brass doesn’t care if a boozing old tank assembler comes to America for the night-life and that’s how they class me.”

Ray didn’t totally buy that, though it wasn’t impossible. The German did show signs of the heavy drinker now that Ray looked for them. Only so many fields on a Hollerith card. One for getting kicked out of the navy as a drunk. One for “worked in the war industry.” No room for the one that said, “this guy worked near the biggest secret Germany has.” Unlikely, but not impossible given the foibles of bureaucracies.

“All of that’s interesting, but unless you got a look at the private parts it doesn’t do us any good. The people at our embassy seemed to think you got a peek. Tell me about it.”

“It is not quite so simple. I mentioned a two and whole bunch of zeroes after it at the embassy. Show me the right number of Grover Clevelands and I’ll draw you a picture of what I saw.”

“Thousand-dollar bills, huh? You don’t see many of them around these days. I don’t think they make them anymore.” Ray pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. “If this is all about beer money, start by earning out a Benjamin Franklin?”

“It isn’t all about beer money. Germany used to be a civilized place, with great poets and scientists and thinkers. Now the face of Germany is rats who climbed out of the gutter.” The German drew a circle on his engine room layout. “There was a metal circle about eight feet in diameter on the inside mounted here. It was two feet thick. You could tell it was heavy because of the time it took to spin up. It would only spin up if the ship was moving fast and, even then, it didn’t spin fast, maybe once every fifteen seconds. It spun quiet. You wouldn’t hear it moving even right next to it. If you were in the engine room when it was spinning, you’d get little jolts, not unpleasant and not a shock. It was like when a car goes down a small steep place, not too long and not too steep.”

“A feel-good drop?” Ray didn’t know what the word for the feeling really was, but thought he understood what the German was describing.

“Perhaps. The jolts came more often the faster the circle spun.” The man moved his hand toward the hundred.

Roy hesitated. Everything the German had said so far had been known inside the agency when Ray left. At the same time, it was accurate and not known outside the intelligence community. He pushed the hundred to the center of the table. “So far you’ve convinced me that you may have seen their device. Convince me you’ve seen inside it.”

The old German grinned. “I know how much you want this. This one thing has let the Nazis lord it over the rest of the world and I’ve seen it. I’ve seen what lets German ships go faster than anyone else’s with less fuel. I’ve seen what lets their big planes fly further and faster than anyone else’s. I’ve seen what let them get to the moon. I’ve seen what lets that fat fool Goering tramp around like he is the master of the master race. You want what I know so bad I could ask almost any price and your Uncle Sam would pay it. Two million and a quiet place to retire. That’s not much to ask.”

Ray put another hundred on the table. “Convince me that you got a peek inside that oversized wheel.”

“I only saw inside it once, and it has been sixteen years,” Otto said, “but I can give you more than anyone on the outside has ever seen.” His eyes went far away. “There were electric cables, of course, huge things that snaked around in there, maybe two inches thick for each one of them.” He drew a rough sketch on the paper. “And there were huge capacitors here and here.” He marked them in. “Getting interested?”

“You wouldn’t have to peek inside to figure that out.” Ray shifted in his seat impatiently.

“And there was the watch. We weren’t supposed to wear watches, but I did. I hid it just because I’m a contrary guy. I’m lucky I didn’t get a nine-millimeter lesson in the back of my head. When the wheel whirled, the day ended long before the watch said it should.”

Some kind of time dilation. That was one of the fringe theories on the German advantage in large-scale transportation, which made it useless to identify the truth of the German’s statements.

As he mulled that over, Ray became aware of the noises of the hotel. A woman screamed down the hall. Something creaked in slow rhythm above them and a woman yelled “Oh yes!” over and over. She managed to sound bored. There was something missing from the pattern of sounds though, something that caught Ray’s attention. He moved his hand closer to the holster under his jacket.

Otto caught the movement. “Unless you’re reaching for Mr. Cleveland, I wouldn’t go any further.” He shifted his Luger, still in his left hand, though resting on the table. “I have what you want. No need for violence. The only problem is that once I give you the good stuff, I’m just an old drunk to you.”

“I understand. Been drunk since you got here? Or maybe on the flight over?”

“No more than usual.”

“Talk to a nice stranger? Maybe a twenty-something young lady?”

“Girls that age stopped talking to me thirty years ago,” the old German said. “Only reason they would talk to me now is if they wanted something.” He stopped abruptly and stared at the door, then stood and moved a flimsy wooden chair in front of it. “Check to see if you were followed?”

“I’ve done this sort of thing a few times.” Ray padded quietly to just inside the bathroom door, keeping half an eye on the Luger. “Things may get noisy.” He quietly pulled out his pistol. “This isn’t intended for you.” Otto didn’t move the Luger.

The thin walls of the hotel didn’t keep many noises out, but Ray didn’t hear anything in the hall. Above him, “Oh

yes!” woman or her companion was apparently taking a shower, a very brief one.

The silence in the hall lingered. Ray glanced around the room. Just the main room with the bed, a closet, and the bathroom. There was no door to an adjoining room. So, the door. No other way to get in or out. Except the windows!

Ray focused on the tacky floral-print curtain that covered most of one wall of the room. We’re on the third floor, but is there a balcony? He heard a slight scuffing outside the window, tiny but conspicuous in the silence. Simultaneous entry from the window and the door. Synchronized watches? Probably. Ray wished he knew what the old German was thinking.

Otto stood in the corner of the room, his Luger pointed upward. Unless he has been in this kind of situation before he’ll be more danger than help. My job is to keep him safe. The Luger makes that a lot harder. The silence from the hall held. No yells. No foot traffic. Ray kept part of his attention on that but focused most of his attention on the curtain.

Otto apparently noticed. The old man took two quick steps and swept the curtain open, revealing two men in black clothing and ski masks positioning themselves on the balcony, silenced pistols in hand.

Ray fired first, twice, given the split-second advantage of seeing what the old man was doing before the intruders did. The crack of the gunshots filled the tiny room and silenced, for a second, the noises from the floors above and below them. One of the black-clothed men fell in a way no conscious, living man could. The other fired two quick shots as his Luger roared.

The door splintered and slammed against the bathroom wall and three men rushed in, bunched up, with silenced pistols searching. The seconds seemed to slow. Ray fired reflexively, three times at the men rushing in the door, at point-blank range, so close that sprays of blood hit his arm and cheek. He turned, fired at the remaining man on the balcony, too late to stop the man from pumping two shots into Otto.

Balcony guy turned his pistol toward Ray as Ray shot him in the center of the chest. The pistol wavered, almost in line, then fired again and again as it sagged toward the floor. Finally, it stopped, empty or with its owner’s trigger finger no longer obeying his mind.

Time seemed to not just return to normal speed, but overshoot, turning jerky fast. Screams and running footsteps echoed from the rooms around them. Blood spread across the cheap green carpet from the three men sprawled by the splintered door, and from Otto, who was still partly upright, sagging slowly down the wall.

Ray stayed wary. He checked the three men by the door for signs of life, a formality given their wounds, and kicked their guns away. He cautiously poked his head out the door to an empty hall and checked the two guys on the balcony, both dead. He ran to the German.

Otto was still conscious, but a glance at his chest wounds told Ray the man would not be returning with him to tell his story to the gray man.

Otto raised his head, eyes unfocused. His voice came out as a wheeze. “There were crystals, long rods of translucent crystal in a triangle that just fit inside the circle. There were three green boards filled with resistors and capacitors. I could draw it, but my hands don’t seem to work anymore.” As if to emphasize that, the Luger slipped out of his hand. Ray caught it before it hit the bloody carpet. The old German grimaced. “That ought to be enough for a few Clevelands. I have a daughter in New York. She likes beer, too.”

Those were his last words. Ray grabbed the room phone. Blood dripped on the phone as he dialed and he discovered that it came from a wound high on his shoulder. As soon as he discovered it, the wound throbbed. He clapped a handkerchief over the hole and held it there until a cleanup team arrived, just ahead of the police. The gray man was with the team. He escorted Ray out, their shoes squishing on the sodden carpet.

The lies inevitably kept flowing. The bullet wound became the result of an attempted mugging. He minimized its seriousness to his wife, trying not to worry her. Debriefing took priority over seeing his son. The gray man sat expressionless through the meeting. Finally, he asked, “Any idea how the Nazis found out about your meeting and got a sleeper team there?”

“None. I know I’m not a mole. If you’re a mole the whole thing seems pointless. Maybe old Otto said something when he was drunk. Maybe he was working for them, trying to plant false information, and they decided to up his credibility by killing him. If that’s the case, this was worthless. But that doesn’t make sense. I would have to live to pass on what he told me. No way they could guarantee that in a firefight.”

“Quite a dilemma, isn’t it?” the gray man said. “Actually, the Nazis revealed a very important card. The only thing that makes sense is that they somehow tracked me to you, then tracked you to Otto and somehow figured out who he was. And how could they do that?” He pointed to the ceiling. “Think about it. You didn’t bring your man back alive, but you confirmed a theory I’ve had for the last several weeks as an alternative to the mole idea.”

“Satellites with ungodly good cameras.”

“A major advance. Far beyond what we expected. But now we can take precautions.”

“Don’t call me again.”

“Why not? You handled yourself well.”

“I lost my guy. I think he really knew what was in that German machine.”