“You see,” said Ophon, “There was still one southern general who hadn’t surrendered his army. When the news reached Joe Johnston that a bunch of Yankees in Washington had celebrated Lee’s surrender by murdering Johnston’s favorite actor, John Wilkes Booth, it was one thing too many for him. General Johnston refused to order his men to lay down their arms. Instead he ordered them into the hills as guerrillas to begin organized resistance against the Union occupation. Lee joined Johnston a few days later, and there it was.”
It had made the troubles in Northern Ireland look like a barroom brawl by comparison, especially after the resistance spread to the north and west. Lincoln, his health failing, left the suppression of the resistance to then Secretary of War Stanton who instituted a rash of harsh measures that resembled the Spanish Inquisition.
Crippled by repression and constant terrorism, the United States of America never became the home of freedom or opportunity. In fact much of the world’s wealth and power became mired in the American tarbaby by supporting one side or the other. Eventually, with the rise of the Twentieth Century dictators, the planet became economically and politically bankrupt. Two fellows named Hitler and Stalin never did come to power. The monsters who rose in their stead, however, eventually reduced the world to militaristic horror and grinding poverty.
Roger frowned and looked up at the time Warden. “The event ripple; where is it? Things really suck in this time. Has it already passed?”
Dalik Ophon shook his head. “It’s passing through the late Nineteen Nineties right now, which is neither here nor there, because the human race became virtually extinct during the Nineteen Sixty-seven world holocaust.” He held his hand out indicating the city of Portland, such as it was. “In another twelve hours or so this won’t exist either. In another thirty hours neither will even the hope of time spanning. Once that happens, everyone loses his ticket on the ride.”
Pushing himself to his feet, Roger Alfred looked warily from Dalik Ophon to Isa Childs and back to the time warden.
“So, go back and waste Peter Ryan before he goes rogue, right? Cancel the event ripple?”
Dalik raised his eyebrows and cocked his head to one side as he held out his hands. “He’s already wiped himself out in a manner of speaking. Thanks to the ripple, he was never born and the ripple has already passed though his local time departure point. His only existence, therefore, is in the timewave.”
“Which can’t be touched by the other time surfers,” interrupted Roger.
Dalik winced. “I wish you wouldn’t refer to them as surfers. In any event, Peter Ryan cannot be touched unless we know where he is.”
Roger held up a hand, “And the only time appearance we know about is when Ryan killed Booth.”
“Exactly. It was outside the front of Ford’s Theater shortly after ten at night on the Fourteenth of April, 1885.”
“So what do you need me for? Just have one of your shooters take out Ryan before he has a chance to smoke Booth.”
“We can’t take the chance of frightening Booth by having a shoot-out in front of the theater,” answered Dalik. “It’s still necessary for John Wilkes Booth to assassinate President Lincoln. The only way to assure eliminating both Ryan and Lincoln is for you to impersonate Booth.”
“And there isn’t but one way to impersonate Booth, right?” Another killing spree, thought Roger/Richard. It was everything that had caused him to take the wipe two years before. Then a thought crossed his mind. “I’ve seen pictures of Booth. I don’t see any resemblance.”
Dalik Ophon turned to Isa Childs and held out a hand. “The file, please.”
“Certainly.” The therapist went to his desk, picked up a screen board and handed it to the time warden. Dalik punched in a few numbers and handed the board to Roger.
Taking the screen board, Roger Alfred looked at a picture of a man in a squat crowned hat, long coat, and baggy trousers. He was leaning his left elbow on an urn of some kind and his legs were crossed in a cavalier pose. He had a heavy black mustache and the face upon which that mustache hung was Richard Dreyfuss’s. “I’ll be damned.”
Roger’s head went back as one of his eyebrows arched. “Just a minute. Let me get this straight. You want me to kill this Peter Ryan and President Lincoln?” The eyebrows crashed into a frown. “You expect me to assassinate Abraham Lincoln?”
“Booth as well,” added the time warden. “After all, we can’t have two John Wilkes Booths wandering around the president’s box brandishing pistols, can we? You’ll eliminate Booth and take his place, draw Ryan out and neutralize him, then dispatch Lincoln. We’ve made all the arrangements with the April 1865 liaison, Jason Wells. He’s a detective on the city police and he can snip off any loose ends you might leave behind.”
“You want me to assassinate Lincoln? Why in the hell don’t you just give me some nails and a hammer and send me back to Golgotha to tack up Christ?”
It was quiet for a long moment, then Dalik said, “It’s not like you haven’t done this kind of work before.” He turned toward Childs. “Is he all right? He seems a bit slow.”
“He’s confused. The Dreyfuss thing. He’s been thoroughly obsessed by thoughts of being Richard Dreyfuss for the past two years. Of course, he’s been wiped twice, as well, and as you implied, the D-70 wipes aren’t exactly Memorex. I’m afraid all of this is rather an abrupt change of direction for him. He might not be completely up to the task.”
“We are totally out of options,” answered the time warden. “We’re not going to wipe him for this mission. Even so, the amount of time we have left leaves us no room at all.” Ophon rubbed his chin as he studied Roger. At last he blinked and smiled sympathetically. “You’ll have to snap out of it, my boy. We can’t use you as Richard Dreyfuss. We need you as John Wilkes Booth, and soon.” He pointed at the spot on Roger’s arm where the inject-pac had been applied. “The injection contains all of the personality data and information on Booth and it should be taking effect in another minute or two.”
“I thought you said you weren’t going to wipe me for this.”
“We’re not. The data shot is in addition to your normal memory, not in place of it.”
Great, thought Roger/Richard. In another two minutes I’ll be John Wilkes/Roger/Richard.”
Dalik Ophon retrieved his screen board file and pointed toward a door in the rear of Childs’s office. That was, Roger realized, where Isa Childs kept his time stage. “Back into the timewave, Roger. None of us have much time left at all.”
9:29 PM, 14 April 1865
The world of the theater thrilled son of slaves, John Miles. Since he was not allowed to perform on stage at Ford’s, and certainly could not sit in the audience, he fed off the actors by sitting high in the flies above and behind the stage, among the suspended sets and the smells of hot gas lights and cigar smoke, watching the players. There was little to like in the comedy being performed, but the relative merits of Tom Taylor’s Our American Cousin did not concern John Miles one bit. It was the laughter of the audience that captivated him. If he could trade his life for just one night upon such a stage he knew he would do it.
The applause and cheers from the audience as the president and his party made its way through the dressing circle to his box had been quite exciting, despite the odd disappointed grumble that the real hero of the moment, General Grant, had not been with the president, as advertised.
From where he sat, Miles could not see the president’s box, which was all right with him. His real heroes were the actors, and those he could see. As the beautiful Laura Keene prepared to make an entrance, Miles heard a sound coming from the rear of the theater. He turned and looked down through the tall cathedral window at the alley below. His heart almost stopped. Although he was not in the cast of tonight’s performance, the famous actor John Wilkes Booth was standing in the dirt road of the alley looking as though he was waiting for something. The way he patted his coat pocket and jerked his head around at every little sound made him look very nervous. Well, it was well known the actor drank to excess. That sort became nervous sooner or later. Too bad, really. He was such a fine performer.