10. ST MARY’S INSTITUTE OF HISTORICAL RESEARCH INCIDENT REPORT
Competition entry by Abigail Smith
“Well, sir, this was not my fault,” Rebekah Moore says defensively, following a 4 minute rant by Dr. Cartwright, Chief Pathfinder at St. Mary’s Institute of Historical Research.
“It wasn’t mine!” objected fellow pathfinder, Cameron Hill.
“Yes it was! YOU went inside”
“Only because- “
“ENOUGH. Tell me what happened. From the beginning. So I might hopefully prevent the onslaught of another World War, the conclusion of which we will all certainly not survive long enough to observe,” Dr. Cartwright’s stare could kill.
Rebekah sighs, takes a deep breath, and begins…
It began when she and Hill landed in London outside Parliament in 1833. They were prepping for a minor assignment on the circumstances surrounding the 1832 Representation of the People Act. All was well… until they turned on the cameras.
Hill gasped and pointed at the image of the crowds passing outside the Parliament building. “Look! Is that…Alexis de Tocqueville!?”
“What, here? Where?”
“There!” Cameron pointed to a young man with black hair standing against the wall, talking animatedly to a young woman. “I’d recognise him anywhere. My dissertation was on his role in the June Days uprising in 1848 in France. He’s known to have visited England for a few weeks to study England’s parliamentary system! That must be Mary Mottley with him. She’s his wife…future wife. This is exciting! Let’s get a closer look!”
“We’re not supposed to leave the pod.”
“But this may be our only chance! Please!”
Against her better judgement, Moore agreed, and they cautiously exited the pod. Rebekah was thankful she had persuaded Mrs. Enderby to let them dress in period-appropriate clothing. She’d claimed it was to get in the right mental space. Mrs. Enderby was unconvinced, but knew no true historian could pass up an opportunity to explore, and they’d do less damage if they fit in.
Cameron took Rebekah’s arm and they began to wander down the street, apparently engaged in frivolous conversation, but heading closer to the Frenchman and his English fiancée.
Another couple, dressed in slightly outdated clothing, stood a little ways from Tocqueville speaking in quiet French to each other. They seemed to be arguing about something, and Cameron tried to ignore them, but they kept gesturing and blocking his view of de Tocqueville. He shot a judgemental frown at the man’s back, but stopped short when he heard the woman say “Il n’écrira pas La démocratie en Amérique avant deux ans.”
“Rebekah…” he hissed in her ear.
“What?”
“That couple just mentioned one of the books Tocqueville wrote.”
“So? They must know of him.”
“He hasn’t written it yet…”
“Oh.”
They exchanged glances. Cameron said, “They must be French historians! I wonder where they’re from, because the woman’s accent sounds strange.”
“Or when they’re from. They could be hundreds of years in our future! Wait…leave them alone!”
But Cameron was already moving towards the couple. He tapped on the man’s shoulder, and, simply oozing tact, said, “Bonjour, Venez-vous du futur?”
The man started. Then he tapped the brim of his hat and both of them turned and strolled quickly through the busy streets.
Cameron gazed dumbfoundedly after them. “What did I say?”
“Your social skills are exemplary.”
Cameron took off after them. Rebekah sighed. They should’ve stayed in the pod.
They followed the pair down four cobblestone streets until they finally caught up with them just as they entered what looked like an old wooden shed. Cameron jumped for the door and caught it just as it swung shut. He squeezed inside, and the door shut in Rebekah’s face.
“Wait! Cameron! COME OUT!” She banged on the door. Why was he always getting her into trouble?
Long minutes stretched by until the door finally reopened. Cameron called weakly from inside, “Ms. Moore, you may want to get in here.”
Rebekah walked inside. All around her was the vaguely familiar contents of a pod, but the console controls were all different, and it looked rather sparse with bare steel and plastic. There was a metal bunkbed screwed into the right wall, and lockers. A whiff of something faintly like tobacco.
But the strangest feature of the pod was the giant American flag hung on the back wall.
Rebekah’s mouth fell open. Americans? From the future? Here???
The woman was speaking English. She’d said something about being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but Rebekah missed most of it. Her mind was reeling. The borders of North America were closed to international time travel. They’d had that drilled into them since they arrived at St. Mary’s. No one went in or out, especially into the past. What were they doing here?
“We’re sorry we couldn’t chat outside. One must always be careful of inquisitive ears. My name is Leanna, and this is my colleague.”
“James Montgomery Jones.” the man said in a smooth drawl. “Welcome to our hopper!”
“I think that’s what they call their pod.” Cameron said. Rebekah looked like she’d encountered aliens. Or a ghost. Or an alien ghost.
“Would you like something to drink?” Leanna said, walking over to what looked like a minibar.
“Do you have tea?” Rebekah was able to say.
“Of course!” Leanna opened a small fridge and pulled out a large jug of brownish liquid.
“Umm… what is that?”
“It’s tea! Sweet tea, of course. James, would you get the cups?”
“You know what… I’m okay.”
“Suit yourself. Anyway, as we were telling your friend here, this was all a big accident. We didn’t mean to end up in England. Our hopper malfunctioned. We were trying to follow Alexis de Tocqueville to France, but we think our homing device failed. Or we made a mistake in the calculations.”
“Homing device…?
“You don’t track by biosignature?”
“Track what?”
“People.”
“What?”
“We’re with CID.”
“CID?”
“Chronological Intelligence Division. We’re a branch of the CIA. I’m Agent Leanna Brown, historical reconnaissance specialist. Mr. Jones is my partner, senior temporal political analyst. We’re breaking all kinds of laws by being here, but really, we intended to be in France.”
“CIA? Historical reconnaissance? Why are you here? We should call the Time Police!”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, honey,” James spoke again, but this time, he was leveling a gun in her direction.
…
“And that’s when she passed out,” finished Cameron.
“How did you get away?” Dr. Cartwright said in a strained voice.
“Oh they let us go!”
“Did they?”
“It was all a misunderstanding really. They were simply observing Alexis de Tocqueville. He’s a brilliant mind who wrote The Text on what made American democracy work, and since it’s failing so abysmally now, they were returning … ad fontes. They claimed to have ended up in England by mistake. They assured us they’re trying to solve an internal domestic problem, and are in no way trying to meddle in international affairs again.”
“So they say.” Dr. Cartwright frowned. “Tell me… how many stars were on their flag?”
“I counted 68, sir.”
“Bloody Bollocking-Hell.”
“Yes, sir.”
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I love the stars on the flag!!!!