The Khyber Connection (TimeWars 6)

“That’s crazy,” Lucas Priest said. “There has to be some mistake.”

“The results were checked and rechecked,” said Forrester. “There’s no doubt. The Referee Corps has determined that two possibilities exist that might explain this situation. You’re not going to like either one of them.

The first possible explanation is that someone has figured out a way to alter implant signals and is experimenting with a procedure meant to sabotage temporal conflicts by somehow programming individuals to carry out certain tasks. In the case of Court, the theory is that someone might have gotten their hands on him in Plus Time and brainwashed him into going back into the past, programmed to kill ‘himself’ while he was involved in a temporal campaign. A sort of test case. Since both Courts died at the same time, or at roughly the same time, temporal paradox was avoided. Or perhaps the brainwashed Court, assuming that was the case, would have died upon clocking back to Plus Time, in which event the end result would have been the same.”

“It could be possible,” Delaney said. “We experimented with similar problem modules in RCS and determined that it could happen, theoretically. Only this isn’t theory. I can think of only one other possible explanation. A timestream split.”

“Precisely,” said Forrester. “I told you that you wouldn’t like it. If a timestream split has occurred, there are no indications to show at what point it occurred. In that case, the fact of a non-standard implant indicates something even more frightening. If a timestream split has gone down, assuming the people in the parallel timeline are aware of it, then their e

ntire existence depends upon that split.”

“Which means they have to prevent us from adjusting it,” said Andre.

“Exactly,” Forrester said. “The second Thomas Court could have been from that second timeline, a parallel universe created by an historical disruption. There is a possibility that in spite of our defeating Drakov during our battle with the Time Pirates, a split might still have occurred, but the Referee Corps has determined that clocking back to that ‘battle would be too hazardous. We barely got through that one by the skin of our teeth, and trying to go back to it again would increase the odds of creating even more temporal splits. And there’s no way of determining if that particular scenario was the cause. It could have occurred in any of a dozen temporal campaigns, or hundreds, or even thousands. Without knowing for certain, no standard adjustment operation can be attempted.”

“With all due respect, sir,” said Delaney, “if that’s the case, what the hell are we supposed to do?”

“You will have the unenviable mission of trying to determine whether or not we’re dealing with a massive timestream split, Mr. Delaney,” Forrester said. “If that’s the case, then there’s a good possibility that people from that second timeline are conducting some sort of subversive action on the northwest frontier of the British Raj. If, in fact, that’s what we’re faced with, then the Time Wars are about to be escalated into an entirely new dimension. The people from the parallel timeline will be trying to interfere with our history in order to preserve their own. Your job is to find out who they are and stop them.”

“And if we can’t?” Delaney said.

“Then we may wind up with a fullscale time war between two parallel timelines,” Forrester said. “Apparently the first shot of that war has already been fired in the Khyber Pass.”

Chapter 2

The city of Peshawar in the Kashmir was the point where the trade routes from China, Turkestan, and Persia intersected. Its colourful bazaar was a cacophony of Bokhara rug dealers, Chinese silk merchants, almond growers from the valleys of the Hindu Kush, horse breeders from Turkestan, brass and silver merchants, fruit sellers and pilgrims on their way to Mecca. The square teemed with beggars and fakirs; charm sellers and holy men; Afridis from the Khyber Pass armed with jezail rifles and long knives; white-robed Afghanis from Kabul, gray-clad Orakzais from the Bolan, and mysterious, wraithlike Kashmiri women cloaked in veils and silks; all intermingling beneath the white-stone minarets of the mosque of Mahabat Khan. British Royal Cavalry rode with tack jingling and banners rippling in the wind through packed streets where Mongol hordes once left their hoof prints.

To the northwest of the city lay the Khyber Pass, the most direct route east into India. The Khyber was only thirty miles long, but it was like a jagged crack through solid walls of rock, a twisting, turning gorge above which towered sheer cliffs that seemed to stretch up into eternity.

The people who lived there were as wild as the country they inhabited. They ceaselessly fought foreign invaders and each other, governed only by the Koran and the Pakhtunwali, their unwritten laws of social conduct, which were composed of three main dictums. Melmastia demanded that anyone who crossed the threshold of a Pathan dwelling be treated as an honoured guest, even a sworn enemy. Nanawatai dictated that asylum must be granted to anyone who sought it, whether it was a fugitive from foreigners—firinghi—or from other Pathans. And Badal, the strictest commandment of them all, called for revenge, payment taken in blood for any wrong done to a Pathan, any personal affront, any infringement of those things most precious to a mountain tribesman: zar, zan, and zamin—gold, women, and land.

Into this country and into their domain came the British Royal Indian Army, prepared to pit its might against a half dozen rebellious mountain tribes. In the north there were the Mohmands and the Yusufzais in the mountains of Bajaur, Buner, Dir, and Swat. In the Khyber Pass there were the Afridis. The domain of the Orakzais was in the high mountain valleys of Tirah, country they shared uneasily with several Afridi tribes. In Waziristan and Bannu, to the south, were the Mahsuds and the Waziris. Come to pacify their region were Gordon Highlanders and Gurkha regiments; Sikhs and Punjabi Muslims in the Queen’s Own Corps of Guides; the renowned native Khyber Rifles; seasoned British infantrymen and young, green subalterns sent to reinforce the edicts of the government, or Sirkar, with the strong arm of the Raj, with the dreaded curved kukri of the Gurkhas and the MartiniHenry rifles of the British infantry. They came with Hindu infantry called sepoys and with Indian cavalrymen called sowars. They came with saddle-mounted guns called zomboruks and French Maxim machine guns. They came with mules and camels, horses and attendants, cooks, mahout elephant drivers, stewards, bhisti water carriers, and supplies. And unknown to any of them, they came with three commandos from the 27th century.

Finn Delaney was dressed in the khaki uniform of a subaltern in the 11th Bengal Lancers, while Lucas Priest and Andre Cross were attired in civilian clothing, their cover being that of a Christian missionary and his nurse. The setup would allow them considerable flexibility, as the Bengal Lancers were a highly mobile regiment, and Christian missionaries, while having extremely limited success in converting adherents to Islam, were welcome among the mountain tribes for setting up hospitals and providing basic medical care, which was otherwise non-existent. The three of them strolled through the bazaar, examining the multitude of weapons on display in the cloth-covered booths. Curved swords called tulwars gleamed in the bright sunlight. Jazail rifles were on display side by side with local imitations of British ordnance such as the “Brown Bess” muskets, and even copies of the Snider rifle. Knives of all lengths and styles were to be had cheaply, as was hashish, smoked in small water pipes called chillums. Arrack, an alcoholic drink distilled from rice, was offered for refreshment along with a hemp infusion known as bhang. Risaldars, Indian cavalry officers, moved through the streets along-side local residents dressed in long gowns called chogas. The wealthier locals rode in covered litters known as doolies. The atmosphere was clamorous and festive. Everywhere one looked, there was a new exotic sight to greet the senses.

A crowd of onlookers had gathered around an emaciated fakir dressed in nothing save a turban and a dhoti, a small loin cloth he wore wound around his waist and between his legs; it looked like a diaper. He had loosened the dhoti and shoved the material between his legs to one side, exposing his buttocks. He squatted down in a puddle and assumed a lotus posture, sitting in the filthy water. He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his forehead, just beneath his turban. Then, with a heavy exhalation, he assumed an expression of utter serenity and sat still. As the onlookers talked amongst themselves, wondering what he was doing, someone suddenly noticed that the puddle the fakir was sitting in was beginning to grow smaller. It was another moment or two before anyone realised what the fakir was doing. He was performing an astonishing feat of yogic control. He was taking in the water of the puddle through his anus.

“Neat trick,” said Delaney.

“Yes, but what’s it good for?” Andre said, staring at the fakir with disbelief.

Delaney shrugged.”I don’t know. Suppose it would come in handy if you had a sore throat and you wanted to take a drink.”

Someone standing just behind them in the crowd of onlookers guffawed. “A drink, ‘e says! Lord, an what’s the good o’ that, eh? It’s a neat trick, sure enough, but you show me a way to squeeze me arse into a pint o’ bitters and then I’ll shake your bloomin’ ‘and!” The remarks were punctuated by a hearty laugh and a slap on Delaney’s back that almost sent him sprawling.

“Mulvaney, you bloody fool!” another voice said. “Have you lost your mind to go pummelling subalterns?”

Delaney turned around to see three infantrymen standing behind them. All were privates. One was tall and slim, built along the same lines as Priest, with dark hair, black eyes, and a cleft chin. Another was blond, shorter in stature, broad-shouldered and blue-eyed, with a go-to-the-devil insouciance about him, the unmistakable stamp of a hell-raiser. The third was built like a bull, with a barrel chest and arms like an ape’s. He was red haired, like Delaney, only where Finn’s hair was a dark red shade, his was so bright as to be almost orange. All three immediately stiffened to attention as Finn turned to face them.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” said the redhead. “If I’da known you was an officer, I’da never been quite so familiar, nor spoke barracks talk in the presence of a lady. Forgive me, mum, I didn’t see you for the other gentlemen.”

Despite the obvious Irish in the voice, the delivery was pure cockney, half brogue, half burr, a bastard amalgam of army accents stirred so thoroughly as to create a unique and not unpleasant-sounding result.

“Stand at case, men,” said Delaney. “No offence meant and none taken. And the lady’s heard far worse, I can assure you. Wounded soldiers speak plainly enough while they’re being tended to. What are your names?”

“Privates Learoyd, Ortheris, and Mulvaney, sir, of B Company,” said the blond, whose voice seemed to hold a natural tone of insolence. “I’m Learoyd, the tall drink of water is Ortheris, and this horse is Mulvaney. A bit slow, Mulvaney is, but he’s a good Tommy in a pinch. Good of you to overlook this, sir, there’s a lot that wouldn’t. Can we offer you some drink by way of thanks?”

“I’m never one to turn down a drink,” Delaney said. “But I must bring my friends along. They’re new to Peshawar, and the Father here doesn’t know his way around quite yet. My name’s Delaney. This is Father Priest. He’s come to do missionary work and start a hospital up in the hills. Miss Cross will be his nurse.”