“Just what is the truth, exactly?” said Phoenix.

“Exactly? I don’t know,” said Darkness. “An alternate universe exists in a timeline parallel to ours. Perhaps it came about as a result of a massive disruption which overcame the inertia of the timeflow. Perhaps it always existed. Any number of alternate universes can exist, completely independent of each other. Something has happened that has caused two separate timelines to be brought into very close proximity. That would account for the rippling effect, the inertia of one timeline acting upon the inertia of the other, like opposing magnetic fields. Under such circumstances it would be possible for people in one timeline to travel to the other, if they could pinpoint the focus of the disruption that brought the phenomenon about. Even if they couldn’t, it could still be possible, although whether or not they could do so with any degree of control, I cannot say. I, for one, am not about to attempt the experiment until I have more information. You see before you the result of what happened the last time I tried something like that. You have no idea how maddening it can be, being able to travel anywhere I please, teleporting to any point in time and space, yet not being able to walk so much as one step once I get there. I failed to anticipate the influence of the Law of Baryon Conservation, and the result was a permanent alteration of my subatomic structure. Before I make any reconnaissance of a parallel universe, I wish to be certain of the variables. And that’s where you come in.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” said Phoenix.

“Relax, I won’t be asking you to do anything so esoteric as teleporting to another timeline. I need you to pinpoint a confluence for me.”

“A confluence? What’s that?”

“A point at which two timelines intersect,” said Darkness. “There are two possibilities inherent in this situation. One is that agents from the parallel timeline have been able to identify the focus of the original disruption and can travel to this timeline by clocking directly to that point. However, given the rippling effect, I believe the second possibility is more likely that there exist a number of points of confluence where the two timelines intersect as a result of an imbalance in the flow of temporal inertia. One of those points is undoubtedly located in this time period, somewhere nearby. I want you to find it.”

“How?” said Phoenix. “I mean, how the hell would I recognise a point of confluence, or whatever the hell it is?”

“Good question,” said Darkness. “Since such a phenomenon has never previously existed, I obviously haven’t seen one. In fact, I doubt it would something one could see.”

“How the hell am I supposed to find it then?” said Phoenix.

“You expect me to tell you everything?” said Darkness. “You’re an intelligence agent. Go out and gather some intelligence. And try displaying some on occasion. Use your initiative. The next time I see you, I’ll expect some results. Good day.”

Darkness tached, translating into tachyons that departed at six hundred times the speed of light. Phoenix took a deep breath and expelled it slowly.

“How the hell do you find something you can’t see?” he said to himself. “And how do you find it without stumbling into it?” He looked around nervously. “I’m liable to turn a corner and wind up in another universe. That ought to be good for a few laughs.”

“Your Holiness,” cried the tribesman, out of breath from having run all the way from his observation post, “lancers approach!”

The man named Sadullah, known to the British as the Mad Mullah, slowly raised his head to stare at the Ghazi sentry. His deeply sunken eyes were dark and their gaze was indeed mad. They never seemed to blink. His dark skin was etched with lines of age and his hair was long, almost to his waist, and utterly white. His head was bare, as were his feet. He wore a long white robe and many amulets and charms around his neck. He sat cross-legged on a rug inside his tent, which was filled with the fumes of bhang. His eyes glittered.

“How many?” he said, his voice soft and low.

“Three, perhaps four squadrons, Your Holiness,” said the sentry. “You have but to give the word and we shall sweep down upon the infidel firinghi and destroy them before they can arrive at the Malakand fort!”

“No,” said Sadullah.

The sentry was taken aback. “But Your Holiness, if we do not attack now, they shall surely reach the Malakand fort! Then they can join forces with the firinghi soldiers there and march to relieve Chakdarra!”

“I want them to reach the Malakand fort,” Sadullah said.

“But … why, Your Holiness?”

“Do you question me?” Sadullah said, his voice deadly.

The sentry dropped down on all fours. “No, Your Holiness! You speak with the voice of the Prophet! It is not for one so humble as I to question your methods. I only seek understanding.”

“It is well,” Sadullah said. “All men should seek to understand, though few succeed. Understand this, then. When the time is ripe, I shall destroy the British. I will not require the help of followers such as yourself. You may all do as you please. Your faith shall be judged in Paradise. Come the Night of the Long Knives, I shall call forth and the heavens shall open. A great host shall descend and slaughter the infidel to the last man, woman, and child. They shall be driven from our land and their blood shall nourish the soil. Those who join with me in that great, final battle shall win their way to Paradise. They shall be invulnerable. With one wave of my hand the bullets of the British will turn to water. With another their shells shall disperse upon the wind. Only those who lack true faith will be struck down. The pure of heart shall be immune to death. Thus it is written, thus it shall be.

“In the meantime, let the lancers pass. Let them ride on to the fort at Malakand, and with them, the foot soldiers who will surely follow.” Sadullah slowly raised his hands and cupped them. “The Malakand is a great cup. At its bottom, there lie the infidel firinghi. At its rim, all around upon the cliffs, are we. Let the soldiers go into the cup, together with those who are already trapped there. When they are all together in one place,” he slowly raised his hands to his mouth, “we shall take this cup … and drink.”

“I do not understand,” said Winston Churchill. ‘We have made almost our entire journey unimped

ed. Where are the mujahidin of the jehad? Why have they not tried to stop us?”

“They’ll be up there in them bloomin’ rocks, sir,” said Mulvaney, “starin’ down at us an’ smirkin’ up their sleeves.”

“Smirking?” Churchill said. “I fail to see what there would be to smirk about, Private. Sixty-eight hundred bayonets, seven hundred sabres, and twenty-four guns would hardly seem a smirking matter.”

“Begin’ your pardon, sir,” Mulvaney said, “an’ if you don’t mind me speakin’ frankly, not meanin’ to sound insubordinate— which ain’t ‘ardly on me mind —but I’d say your green was showin’.”

Churchill frowned. “My green? Explain yourself, man.”

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