Simon Hawke: Lilliput Legion

"Oh, very well," Pontack said, relenting as he saw that the prevailing opinion stood against him. "But can't you at least prop him up and wipe his chin or something? Tidy him up a bit, can't you?"

"No, I shan't," said Swift. "Dr. Gulliver should not, even in his unfortunate condition, stay a moment longer where his presence is not wanted. We shall take our leave and dine elsewhere."

This elicited a storm of protest, though Swift showed no sign of leaving.

"Perhaps, sir, I could offer a small compromise," said the fair-haired young man, stepping forward. "Surely Dr. Gulliver would be more comfortable sleeping it off- uh, taking his ease in a coach rather than atop a hard wooden table or in a refuse-strewn alleyway. I would be pleased to let him rest a while in mine. "

"You, sir, are a gentleman," said Swift, rising to his feet to shake the young man's hand. "May I have the honour of knowing your name?"

"Steiger," said the fair-haired young man. "Alexander

Steiger, at your service, sir."

"Well, Mr. Steiger, it is a genuine pleasure to meet you, sir," said Swift. "Allow me to buy you drink?"

"Thank you, that would be most kind," said Steiger. "I will join you as soon as I have seen to the comfort of your friend. Perhaps one of these gentlemen would be so kind as to assist me?"

A man stepped forward and together they took the unconscious Gulliver and lifted him up, holding his arms across their shoulders. They took him outside. dragging him along to Steiger's coach. The driver jumped down and opened the door, then moved to help Steiger with Gulliver, laying him out upon the cushioned seat.

"Thank you for your assistance," Steiger said to the man who'd helped him. "Please tell Mr. Swift that I will merely see to this man's comfort and then I will be back inside directly."

Steiger watched the man go back inside, then he turned to the driver and said,

"Threadneedle Street, quickly." He got inside the coach and the driver whipped up the horses. The coachman drove quickly to Steiger's rooms in Threadneedle Street, and by the time they arrived, Dr. Gulliver had come around, though he was still groggy and hungover.

"What… where am I? Who are you?"

"A friend," said Steiger, helping him inside and up the stairs. "A friend who believes your story, Dr. Gulliver." "You… you believe me?" Gulliver said, astonished.

"Yes," said Steiger, helping him into the bedroom and easing him down onto the bed. "Yes, I believe you. Here, lie down. Rest a moment."

He went over to his desk, sat down and started writing quickly.

"Wh- What are you doing?" Gulliver said.

"I'm making out a report," said Steiger, writing furiously. "A report?" said Gulliver, frowning.

"Never mind, I'll explain later. I want to make certain that

I have all this written down, and then I'm going to read it back to you and I want you to tell me if I've got it all right. Are you sober enough to do that?"

"I.." Gulliver sat up in bed, felt suddenly dizzy, leaned back and closed his eyes. "I am not very sober, I'm afraid, but I think I can manage. "

"Good." Steiger tossed a tiny snuffbox to Gulliver. It landed on the bed. Gulliver picked it up.

"What's this? Snuff? No, thank you, I don't-"

"Just swallow two of them. It will make you feel better.". Gulliver opened the box and glanced inside. "What… what is it?"

"Aspirin," Steiger said, distractedly, concentrating on his writing. He was trying to recall every element of Gulliver's story and note it down in shorthand.

"Ass-prin?" said Gulliver, staring at the pills dubiously.

"What… I don't understand. What manner of-"

"Just swallow two of them, all right? Don't chew, just swallow them quickly. Trust me, it'll make you feel better. It's… it's an old family remedy. It's quite safe, I promise you."

"Safe? Gulliver snorted. "No one is safe. Nothing and no one." He took two of the pills and swallowed them. He made a face. "Ugh. Bitter."

"You didn't chew them, did you? I told you not to chew them."

"Who are you? Are you an apothecary?"

"My name is Alexander Steiger," he said, still writing quickly in the precise characters of shorthand. "My friends call..me Sandy."

Gulliver leaned back against the headboard and closed his eyes once more. "Mine call me Lem. You are very kind, Sandy. I don't know why. Why should you believe me? Even I would never have believed it had I not seen it all with my own eyes. I would have thought anyone telling such a tale quite mad." He swallowed hard and brought his hands up to his face.

"Ohh, my head is splitting. Sandy, tell me truthfully, do you think I'm mad'?'"

"No,' said Sandy. "In fact, I'm certain that you are absolutely sane." He glanced up at Gulliver. "Whatever happens now, Lem," he said, emphatically, "you must promise me that you will not forget that. You are not insane. I have no doubt that you have seen some astonishing things that seem impossible to explain. You've been through a terrible ordeal. It took a great deal of courage to get through all that. You must hold on to that strength, resist the temptation to drown your memories in wine and keep telling yourself that you have not gone mad.".

"How can you be so certain?" Gulliver said. "You have but my word!"

"And I'm sure it's the word of a gentleman," said Steiger, turning back to his report. "I must complete this, Lem. Please, be patient with me for a few moments and I will try to explain later, after I have-"

Gulliver cried out suddenly. The terror in his cry made

Sandy spin around. He felt a sharp, searing pain across his cheek, as if an extremely fine filament of superheated wire had been drawn across it. As he cried out with pain and brought his hand up to his face, he saw his attacker firing once more-a tiny man, no more than six or seven inches tall, firing a miniature laser pistol.

The beam struck him in his left eye, and Sandy screamed in agony as his eyeball was cooked right out of its socket. More tiny people were materialising out of thin air. They were equipped with floater paks and firing tiny weapons. The air in the room was filled with a criss-crossing web work of brilliant light. Sandy grabbed his chair and hurled it at the miniature invaders, then grabbed his report and dove onto the bed, covering the terrified Gulliver's body with his own. He stuffed the report into Gulliver's pocket and then snapped a small metallic bracelet around his wrist.

"General Forrester!" he shouted. "Get that report to

General Moses Forrester!"

He felt a barrage of tiny laser beams slicing through his flesh. Dozens upon dozens of them. He screamed in agony and activated the warp disc.

Gulliver disappeared.

As the first light of dawn washed over the jagged, snow-capped peaks of the Hindu Kush, General Blood gave the order to advance. The pipes and drums struck up and the main body of the expeditionary force moved off down the graded road in perfect fours formation. At the same time, an assault team of three hundred picked men, taking advantage of the dim light and the early morning mist, silently crept up the slopes toward the stone sangars, snipers' nests of piled rock that the Ghazis had erected on the cliffs above the fort. The Ghazi sentries were taken completely by surprise. They were busy watching the crazy British firinghi assembling below them and marching to their apparent doom when all of a sudden the assault team was upon them. The troopers charged, spreading out and moving in from opposing flanks, scrambling up the rocks and firing at will, engaging the Ghazis at bayonet point. Surprised, and with no one to direct their movements, the Ghazis gave ground before the furious assault and the ridge was captured completely without losses.'

Andre Cross had seen it all before. She had experienced it all before, and she was reliving it again as she tossed in bed, moaning in her sleep. She had relived this scene countless times in the recurring nightmares that had plagued her ever since she had returned from that assignment. The year had been 1897, and the place was the Malakand Pass on the north-west frontier of the British Raj, in the high country of Afghanistan. The fanatic Ghazis, led by their insane holy man, Sadullah, had risen up to drive the infidel firinghi (their word for foreigner) out of their desolate land forever. The blood lust was upon them as the tribes all joined in the jihad, the holy war against the British. For the 19th Century British Raj, at stake was the security of their north-west frontier. For the Time Commandos from the 27th Century, at stake was the entire future.