Newsgroups: alt.ql.creative From: mdryden@cix.compulink.co.uk ("Martyn Dryden") Subject: 'Ace' Message-Id: Organization: U.N.C.L.E. Date: Fri, 23 Dec 1994 17:57:50 GMT A QL story for Christmas - or it will be if I can finish it in time. Criticisms to Wolf+ at this address: mdryden@cix.compulink.co.uk References to the Germans are not intended as racist, merely in keeping with the story. ACE *** The first thing Sam noticed was the noise. There were about a dozen men in the room, all talking at the tops of their voices. Almost, but not quite, drowned out, an old-fashioned gramophone was playing 'Silent Night'. The room was warm, and there was a pleasant smell of alcohol. Sam looked at his companions. All were young, and most were dressed in flying gear. Photos of aeroplanes lined the walls, interspersed with an occasional naked girl cut from a magazine. Suddenly, a boy who could have been no more than twenty came in, pale-faced. He headed for the bar. "Harris's gone West," he announced. "Poor sod copped it flying too low over the Jerry lines." There was instant hush. At last one of the drinkers lifted his glass and said uncertainly, "To Harris, then." "Harris!" "Good old Harris!" Glasses were raised, and the party was resumed. Sam examined one of the photographs, frowning. The aeroplane was an ungainly thing, an awkward biplane with a large propellor and no canopy. He turned to find a fair-haired youth grinning at him. "You all right, Sammy?" "Yeah. I'm fine. Uh - could you tell me what year it is, please?" The boy hooted. "Sammy's soused!" he crowed. Sam blinked at the smell of whisky on his breath. "He can't remember what year it is!" He leaned over Sam and put an arm round his shoulder. "Nineteen hundred an' seventeen," he whispered hoarsely, "but don't tell anyone - 's a secret!" He fell forward into Sam's lap and went to sleep. "Oh, boy." breathed Sam. "I'm a World War One fighter pilot!" (*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*) Sam shook his head incredulously. 1917! The First World War! This would be giving them some headaches back at the Project. There was no guarantee that they would find him - which meant no Al. He would just have to guess his way through this Leap without guidance from Ziggy. As to the problem of how he had Leaped beyond the start of his own life, it would have to be shelved. From what he knew of WWI pilots, staying alive would require all the luck and skill he had. The door of the mess swung open, and a young man came in, smiling shyly. He was greeted by a roar of "Hey, Nick!" "It's Naughty Nick!" "Wotcher, Nicky!" "Well, so long, you chaps." said Nick. "I'm off on leave. Happy Christmas, everyone!" "Don't forget you're on patrol in ten minutes." counselled a pilot dourly. "Best not to count your chickens before they hatch, old boy." The young man's thin face grew anxious. "There won't be any trouble, will there?" he asked. "Not on Christmas Eve? I - I've got to get home. I'm spending Christmas with my fiancee - we're getting married in the New Year - If I don't make it..." He tailed off, looking as though he were about to burst into tears. "I'm sure it'll be fine, er, Nick." Sam said. "Just be careful." There was a chorus of agreement. "Old Jerry'll be hanging his stocking up!" "Don't worry if you're shot down - Father Christmas'll bring you home!" When the noise had died down to its normal level, Nick had gone. But there was a new arrival. His checked shirt and pink tie standing out among the khaki and leather, Al moved unnoticed through the throng and came to rest at Sam's side, looking happy. "Al! I thought I'd never see you again! What happened?" "Oh boy, isn't this great? You're living history, Sam. Do you know where you are?" "Yes, I do. I'm in 1917, which is impossible. The String Theory, Al! It's wrecked! How have I ended up in the middle of World War One?" Al shrugged. "Guess your string got frayed. You're lucky we found you - the guy in the waiting room would only give his name, rank and serial number. Fortunately, that was enough." "Ziggy doesn't know what I'm doing here?" "Well, we don't know how you got here, but we know what you're here to do." Al pressed a button on the handlink, then looked up. "Ah, Sam, this is fantastic! You know, I idolised these guys when I was little." Sam looked around at the drunken airmen. "*These* guys?" "Sure. Flying aces. Going up there in those tiny little planes and kicking ass. They knew the odds were against them, and they didn't care." Al thumped his palm. "Al - what am I doing here?" "Sorry." Al resumed his scrutiny of the handlink. "Your name is Samuel Ives, and you're a pilot in 266 Squadron of the Royal Flying Corps. Your friend here," he indicated the sleeping boy, "is Robert 'Sandy' Smith, aged seventeen. And the jumpy guy who just went out the door is Nicholas Naughtie, otherwise known as Naughty Nick, and he's - " Al's expression clouded over. "He's gonna be dead in twenty minutes if you don't do something, Sam!"