The Shadow Dragons - James A. Owen [13]
Their legs were those of birds, and ended... with
wicked-looking talons.
The quick, curt shake of Ransom’s head told John to stop speaking. It was a secret that needed protecting, and even here, in a small, out-of-the way tavern, sitting with an agent of Jules Verne, it was too great a risk to say some things aloud.
“Timelines must be protected as much as possible,” Ransom went on, “and even when changes are made, they must be done with an eye toward the ebb and flow of events that have already occurred—past, present, and future.
“You were brought together by the murder of Professor Sigurdsson, but you were already marked as potential Caretakers.” Ransom’s voice dropped to a whisper with the last word. “The, ah, problem was that you weren’t actually supposed to meet for a number of years. You two”—he indicated John and Jack—“in or around 1926, and you”—he pointed at Charles—“in 1936. The Winter King changed all of that. So the fact that some things have been kept from you is no commentary on your worthiness, but rather an effort by Verne to keep the fidelity of this timeline as pure as possible.”
“So the me who met them isn’t the me who was originally, ah, me?” said Charles. “Does that mean we changed time, or switched dimensions? I’d hate to think there’s another me running around somewhere.”
“There already is,” Rose said. “He’s you, but not the same you. I did like him quite a bit, though.”
“She’s right,” Jack declared, his face ashen with realization. “There is another Charles—or was, anyway.”
John nodded. “Chaz. We took him back in history, where he became the first of the Green Knights. He was from another dimension, but he’s still in our recorded Histories in this dimension. So there have been, in fact, two of you, Charles.”
“But not at the same time,” Charles retorted. “That’s impossible—isn’t it?” he asked, looking at Ransom.
The companions all paused as the barman approached. “Another round of drinks?” he asked.
“Yes please, Mr. Lampwick,” said Ransom. “And don’t forget the milk.”
Lampwick went back to the bar, and the companions again huddled closely around the table.
“Hasn’t Bert explained it to you?” Ransom began, leaning in to whisper. “Surely you have had occasion to meet with H. G. Wells at one time or another, and surely you realized they were not the same man.”
“I had, years ago,” said Charles, “and on occasion since.”
“As have I,” said Jack, “but Bert told us when we first became Care—uh, when we first met, that he was not the same person as our Wells. He told us that he was the time traveler from his book, and that he’d come from eight hundred thousand years in the future.”
“I’d always figured that he was exaggerating, for effect,” said John.
“He wasn’t,” said Ransom. “Didn’t you ever think it strange that Wells never mentioned you, or your group, or the book?”
“I did,” said Charles, “but I assumed it was for one of two reasons: Either he was being discreet, because we were always in some public place and were not able to address those topics; or he was not yet privy to, ah, our secret society. Our Bert is quite a lot older than Wells, you know.”
“So you think that his being recruited by Verne hasn’t happened yet?” asked Jack.
Charles shrugged and took a long draw from his ale. “Anything is possible with time travel.”
“It doesn’t fit,” said John. “He told us he wrote the books after having the real experiences, which he then fictionalized. So he had to have been recruited at a much younger age, as were we.”
Charles and Jack looked crestfallen. “I hadn’t thought of that,” Jack admitted.
“So what does that mean about our Bert?” asked Charles. “Is he or isn’t he H. G. Wells?”
“That’s the point I was bringing you to,” said Ransom. “He’s exactly what he said—he is H. G. Wells, he’s just not the one you know of.”
“My head is spinning,” said Jack.
“Think of dimensional travel as a sort of ‘Othertime,’” Ransom said as Charles jumped up to bring the new tray of drinks to the table. “Not going