“Stop, “ said Forrester. “General background on the Scarlet Pimpernel.”
“Working,” said the computer. “The scarlet pimpernel: a common pimpernel (Anagallis arvensis), having scarlet, white or purplish flowers that close at the approach of rainy or cloudy weather-also called poor man’s weatherglass, red pimpernel. In conjunction with the French Revolution, the insignia and alias of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, a group of British adventurers involved in the smuggling of French aristocrats to England, specifically, the alias of the leader of the group, Sir Percy Blakeney-”
“Visual, please,” said Forrester.
A second later, a holographic image of Sir Percy Blakeney appeared before the podium. The projection was that of a tall, broad-shouldered, athletic-looking man with fair hair, blue eyes, and a strong jaw. He looked handsome, but he had a look of vague boredom on his face, giving it a slightly sleepy, insipid air. He was dressed in a short-waisted satin coat, a waistcoat with wide lapels, tight-fitting breeches, and highly polished Newmarket boots. His sleeves and collar were trimmed with fine Mechline lace and he stood in an affected posture, one leg slightly before the other, one hand on his hip, the other bent before him and holding a lace handkerchief in a loose, languid fashion.
“There’s a pretty flower,” said Delaney.
“There’s your assignment, Delaney,” Forrester said. “In several hours, that’s what you’re going to look like.”
“Why me?” Delaney said, chagrined.
“Because Priest’s too short and you’re about the right build,” said Forrester.
“Hell,” said Delaney. “All right, let’s have the rest of it.”
“The adjustment stems from the temporal interference of one soldier, named Alex Corderro, assigned to the War of the First Coalition arbitration action,” Forrester said. “It was his first hitch in the field and subsequent investigation shows that he never should have been accepted in the service in the first place. Too unstable, a high potential of cracking under stress. Unfortunately, the corps is so badly in need of cannon-fodder that we’ll take just about anyone these days. As a result of that sterling policy, we’ve got an adjustment on our hands.
“Corderro violated the noninterference directives,” said Forrester. “He attempted to prevent the capture of some escaping aristocrats and, in so doing, he shot a captain in the Army of the Republic. Blakeney and his wife were on the scene and what seems to have occurred, as best as the Observers can reconstruct it, is that Lady Blakeney was wounded in the exchange of gunfire and Blakeney was trampled by a horse. Corderro escaped through the West Barricade in the Blakeneys’ coach, but he was shot several times. Evidently, he lost consciousness and bled to death. The Observers found the coach in a wooded area several miles outside of Paris. The horses had run themselves out and had wandered off the road, somehow managing to wedge the coach between two trees. Inside the coach, they found Corderro, dead. Lady Marguerite Blakeney was alive, but badly wounded and unconscious.”
“What about Sir Percy?” said Delaney.
“He was left behind in Paris,” Forrester said.
“And where is he now?”
“Well, the Observers managed to remove his body-”
“His body! You mean he’s dead?”
“Chest completely crushed by a horse’s hooves,” said Forrester.
Delaney swallowed heavily. “Wait, now, let me get this straight, sir. You’re telling me that my assignment is to be a plant? A temporal relocation?”
“That’s right.”
“For how long?”
“Well, that remains to be seen,” said Forrester. “We have to make certain that the aristocrats who were smuggled out of France by Blakeney and his group don’t wind up on the guillotine. He was also instrumental in the fall from power of a certain French official named Chauvelin an agent of the Committee of Public Safety. Since Blakeney’s operations were of a covert nature, we don’t have a great deal of information on him and his group.
“We have since obtained further data, courtesy of our friends at the TIA. At any rate, even though it may not all be cut and dried, at least you won’t have anyone from our time working against you, as you did in several of your previous assignments.”
“Still,” said Delaney, “what you’re telling me is that I may wind up taking Blakeney’s place indefinitely.”
“That’s essentially correct,” said Forrester “at least until the TIA can determine exactly what his activities were in the years following his involvement in the Revolution. However it should not be all unpleasant,” he added. “Computer, visual on Lady Marguerite Blakeney.”
The holographic projection of Sir Percy Blakeney disappeared, to be replaced by one of his wife, the former Marguerite St. Just. Delaney gulped and Priest gave a low whistle.
Forrester smiled. “I shouldn’t think that life with Lady Blakeney would be very hard to take,” he said. He chuckled. “Frankly, Delaney, I think you’ll have your hands full.”
2
Since Delaney would be the only one impersonating a figure of historical significance, there had been no need for the others to submit to cosmetic surgery. Consequently, after they had gone through mission programming and while Finn was being transformed into the image of Sir Percy Blakeney, Lucas and Andre went down to supply, drew their gear, then took the tubes down to the ground-level Departure Station.
As members of a First Division adjustment team, they had priority status, so there was no waiting for their departure codes to be called. Instead, they were shuttled directly to the nearest grid area, to be clocked out together to the 18th century. As they passed soldiers in transit dressed in period, the soldiers came to attention and saluted them. Both Lucas and Andre were also dressed in period, but Lucas’ insignia of rank was clearly visible on his armband and the fact that they were in a shuttle normally reserved for officers clearly labeled them for the groups of soldiers waiting to clock out. Those who were close enough as the shuttle passed to see their silver dog tags, worn on the outside of their garments, and their divisional insignia added small, respectful nods to their salutes. From the point of military etiquette, it wasn’t strictly proper to give a nod of greeting while saluting, but it had become an informally established practice among the members of the corps to single out those in the First Division in this manner. The silver dog tags stood out in marked contrast to the color coded ones issued to the regular troops. Members of the Observer Corps wore gold tags and only soldiers of the First Division wore silver. The tags meant that the wearer was about to clock out to the Minus Side and silver tags meant an adjustment team was on the way to deal with an historical discontinuity. There wasn’t a single soldier in the Temporal Corps who did not know the meaning of those silver tags and the nods were both a greeting and an unspoken wish of good luck.
Andre still marveled at the sight of all those soldiers dressed in period, waiting around the sprawling plaza beside their piles of gear. Some smoked, some drank, others chatted, a few slept, and the green recruits were easily identifiable by their air of nervous tension and their restlessness. They passed a group of Roman legionnaires in breastplates, sandals, and plumed helmets gathered around a video game machine. They took turns pitting their skills against the game computer and they laughed and shouted like small children, slapping each other on the back and calling out encouragement. A platoon of Visigoths snapped to a