Free TS01 Time Station London by David Evans

Sandy acknowledged, but hot and filling. Her thoughts drifted to a different place; a different time…
    She was thirteen and gawky. Her name was not Sandy Hammond then. And she was not English. She knew the boot of the oppressor, though, when it trod on the backs of her people. Most of them came from an island nation, called the Commonwealth of Great Britain. She hated and feared them with an intensity hard to imagine in one so young. Most of all on this particular day.
    She had been forced to stand, along with her parents, in the dooryard of the family cottage to witness the punishment of her older brother. Oh, how she loved and adored Garak. He was strong and handsome, and had a devilish sense of humor. None of it showed now as the occupation troops lashed his arm to the toprail of the picket fence.
    Garak made not a sound as the cords bit into his wrists. His eyes glared defiance. Only a white tightness around his lips revealed his true feelings. Bowed horizontally at the waist, head up at an uncomfortable angle, the girl who became Sandy Hammond looked on in horror as the leader stripped the shirt from the back of her brother. Then a burly sergeant stepped forward and raised the lash.
    “Twenty of your best, if you please, Sergeant Major,” the foppish officer commanded.
    Later, after the oppressors had departed, stripped of his flesh, bleeding, and in shock, Garak died. When he did, there was born in the eventual Sandy Hammond a fierce resolve to somehow even the score…
    … And she had found that way. Brushing off her vision, she looked up at her man, smiling even with her hazel eyes, as he reached down and began to play with her hair.
    “This is cozy,” she murmured.
    His light blue eyes fixed her. “Yes, it is. Though my taster is hinting at a need for a pint or two. What say we take in the Blind Goose?”
    Sandy turned slightly to face him. “Do you, really? I thought we’d stay in and ... do other things.”
    Wendall’s eyes glowed. For all his trying, she had never let it get this far before. “Such as?”
    “Ummmm. Fun things, like we’ve been doing, don’t you know? And ... maybe a bit more?”
    Wendall felt his throat tighten. Could it be tonight? He’d only just touched her so far. Stroked one precious melon of a breast, a hand on her thigh. He cleared his throat, though to no avail. His voice came out a squeak anyway. Sandy came to her feet with him.
    “I’ll get us a bottle of beer to split.”
    “Good. Bring it to the bedroom.”

    Time: 2110, GMT, June 22, 1940
    Place: A Row House in Soho District,
    London, England

    Clive Beattie passed his cool, blue gaze over each of the five men seated with him around a table in the basement of a Soho row house. His sandy-brown hair stood nearly upright above a wide forehead and pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. He carefully kept his expression neutral, masking the contempt he felt for these minor Nazi agents he operated for his control, Major Karl Webber.
    Three of them were convicts. Dull of wit and long on brute force, they had been released from prison by the Gestapo. One, Dieter Ganger, an arsonist, had to be constantly watched. Clive had detailed Reiner Holst to that duty. Holst was the most intelligent of the quintet. Twice he had reported that he had been compelled to physically restrain Ganger to keep him from setting fire to unessential targets. One of them had been a school.
    None of them had any idea about the history of Clive Beattie. Born Gunther Bewerber, in 2575, to parents of German descent, he was an avid reader, of history in particular. He had become a fanatic admirer of Adolf Hitler. In his real persona, Clive/Gunther was the recruiting poster image of the ideal Aryan superman, with clear blue eyes, nearly white blond hair, and fair complexion. At six two, he made the perfect SS type. He also became a rogue time traveler at the age of thirty-one. He made it his goal to “correct” the events of which he did not approve, in order to