can it be the wrong path when it is different?” Saturn asked. “Every change we make carries us farther from what will be if nothing goes unchanged.”
“But the Peace Rebels already altered the course of history by traveling back in time and sharing their knowledge and infecting us with fear, greed, and wonder. What was to be will not be. At least not precisely so.”
“The greater the change,” Bingham said calmly, “the greater the chance of utopia.” He fairly choked on the word, as if he gave a rat’s arse, but the sparks in the others’ eyes urged him on. “Had the Peace Rebels not intervened, the world would be destined for destruction in 1969, blown to smithereens by nuclear bombs. Thirty-one years after the Mods’ invasion, we are not, as you said, what we had once been. In their history books, the four-year transcontinental Peace War did not exist, the American Civil War lasted four, not three years, and Prince Albert, rest his soul, died in 1861 instead of 1869. History has been altered. But has the course of mankind? Knowledge is power, and the more advanced we are, the wiser our actions. If we embrace twentieth-century knowledge now,” Bingham said with more conviction, “we could be populating other planets by 1969. Discovery, not destruction, would be our focus. Living in hope, not fear.”
“Hear, hear!”
They applauded his views, and, for their benefit, Bingham smiled in appreciation. On the inside he was laughing. How gullible these New Worlders were. “Now,” he said, while he had their ear and favor, “as to where to strike, I have a suggestion.”
C HAPTER 6
“Said it before and I’ll say it again: A woman on board is bad luck.”
Tuck pushed aside his plate of food, his appetite slim as a bed slat, and frowned across the table at Axel. “Near as I recollect, that’s the sixth time you’ve mentioned that superstitious crock since we sat down to eat.”
“Yeah, Ax,” Eli groused as he peppered his stew. “Give it a rest.”
The big man who’d escorted Concetta to the safety of a village had returned three hours ago, his normally jovial mood unusually prickly. Eli had yet to shake his irritation. Then again, Tuck thought, Concetta had been as thorny as a bramble, and now Ax was bitchin’ up a dust storm.
“Thing is,” Tuck went on, “that’s a sailor’s myth. We’re not at sea. We’re in air. We’re not sailors; we’re skymen.”
“But this here is a ship.”
“A flying ship,” Eli clarified.
“Mark my words,” Axel said while tossing a handful of salt over his hunched shoulder, “we’re in for some rough weather, thanks to her.”
“Not that I’m siding with Axel,” Doc said, “but Miss Darcy could prove a distraction for the crew. Considering our cargo, we need to be extra vigilant.”
Tuck couldn’t argue with that. Amelia was distracting for a whole lot of reasons.
“All that sass irritates my bowels,” Axel added, then drank deeply from his iron mug.
“That sass might be what makes her a tolerable guest,” Eli said. “Least she’s not fragile.”
“That’s for sure and certain,” Doc remarked.
“Still think you’re funnin’,” Axel said as he tore off a chunk of brown bread. “That piece of metal was wedged deep. She didn’t whine? Or give you hell when you did your mendin’?”
“Not once. No crying either. Nor would she allow me to numb the pain. As I’ve stated before.”
Four times exactly, to Tuck’s recollection.
“Impressive,” said Eli.
To say the least. For the second time in a day, Tuck had been stunned by Amelia’s courage and stubborn determination. He’d been the one to buckle. When he’d seen her blinking back tears, the sweat on her brow, the greenish tint of that creamy white skin, he’d given Birdman a silent order to put her under. Proficient in the Chinese art of acupressure, Birdman had used a mere tap to render her unconscious, putting both Amelia and the men out of their misery.
“But the Peace Rebels already altered the course of history by traveling back in time and sharing their knowledge and infecting us with fear, greed, and wonder. What was to be will not be. At least not precisely so.”
“The greater the change,” Bingham said calmly, “the greater the chance of utopia.” He fairly choked on the word, as if he gave a rat’s arse, but the sparks in the others’ eyes urged him on. “Had the Peace Rebels not intervened, the world would be destined for destruction in 1969, blown to smithereens by nuclear bombs. Thirty-one years after the Mods’ invasion, we are not, as you said, what we had once been. In their history books, the four-year transcontinental Peace War did not exist, the American Civil War lasted four, not three years, and Prince Albert, rest his soul, died in 1861 instead of 1869. History has been altered. But has the course of mankind? Knowledge is power, and the more advanced we are, the wiser our actions. If we embrace twentieth-century knowledge now,” Bingham said with more conviction, “we could be populating other planets by 1969. Discovery, not destruction, would be our focus. Living in hope, not fear.”
“Hear, hear!”
They applauded his views, and, for their benefit, Bingham smiled in appreciation. On the inside he was laughing. How gullible these New Worlders were. “Now,” he said, while he had their ear and favor, “as to where to strike, I have a suggestion.”
C HAPTER 6
“Said it before and I’ll say it again: A woman on board is bad luck.”
Tuck pushed aside his plate of food, his appetite slim as a bed slat, and frowned across the table at Axel. “Near as I recollect, that’s the sixth time you’ve mentioned that superstitious crock since we sat down to eat.”
“Yeah, Ax,” Eli groused as he peppered his stew. “Give it a rest.”
The big man who’d escorted Concetta to the safety of a village had returned three hours ago, his normally jovial mood unusually prickly. Eli had yet to shake his irritation. Then again, Tuck thought, Concetta had been as thorny as a bramble, and now Ax was bitchin’ up a dust storm.
“Thing is,” Tuck went on, “that’s a sailor’s myth. We’re not at sea. We’re in air. We’re not sailors; we’re skymen.”
“But this here is a ship.”
“A flying ship,” Eli clarified.
“Mark my words,” Axel said while tossing a handful of salt over his hunched shoulder, “we’re in for some rough weather, thanks to her.”
“Not that I’m siding with Axel,” Doc said, “but Miss Darcy could prove a distraction for the crew. Considering our cargo, we need to be extra vigilant.”
Tuck couldn’t argue with that. Amelia was distracting for a whole lot of reasons.
“All that sass irritates my bowels,” Axel added, then drank deeply from his iron mug.
“That sass might be what makes her a tolerable guest,” Eli said. “Least she’s not fragile.”
“That’s for sure and certain,” Doc remarked.
“Still think you’re funnin’,” Axel said as he tore off a chunk of brown bread. “That piece of metal was wedged deep. She didn’t whine? Or give you hell when you did your mendin’?”
“Not once. No crying either. Nor would she allow me to numb the pain. As I’ve stated before.”
Four times exactly, to Tuck’s recollection.
“Impressive,” said Eli.
To say the least. For the second time in a day, Tuck had been stunned by Amelia’s courage and stubborn determination. He’d been the one to buckle. When he’d seen her blinking back tears, the sweat on her brow, the greenish tint of that creamy white skin, he’d given Birdman a silent order to put her under. Proficient in the Chinese art of acupressure, Birdman had used a mere tap to render her unconscious, putting both Amelia and the men out of their misery.
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