Fantasy The Time War

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The Fine Dutch Whores of Arlington, Virginia​

It was the second anniversary of Marion's death. Usually, on this dreaded anniversary of her death, he thought about her, and he did, but he also thought about another date, much more recent in his mind. Calle shifted restlessly in his bed, remembering the day he had joined the Continuity Service....

"I'll join you, but under one condition," Calle said.

"Name it," said Strayker.

"Marion."

Strayker leaned back and wet his lips. "Marion Thomas. The love of your life. Died in a tragic air car accident in New Paltz, New York, on..." he read from a Pad, "March 3, 2050."

"You didn't just research that now, did you?"

"No. We've had our eye on you for a while, John," said Strayker quietly.

Calle paused. "Well, that's my price. Go back in time, and save her."

"I'm sorry, but we can't," said Strayker. "The entire purpose of the Continuity Service is to prevent changes to the timeline. Not to cause them."

"But this is such an incredibly small one!" said Calle.

"If we brought Marion Thomas back to life, it would have a profound effect on her parents. It would have an effect on her fellow students. It would have a pronounced effect on you, as well as everyone she came into contact with. People would make different decisions in life. It would cause a great ripple effect which could radically change the timeline."

"She's just one woman," Calle whispered. He paused. "Wait a minute. I'm not asking you to change the past. Go back, right before the accident, and bring her now, to the present." He saw the reticence on Strayker's face. "Why not?"

"We can't do that either," said Strayker sadly. "She would change the future."

Calle made a face. "Change the future? The future hasn't happened yet!"

"Yes it has, and we've seen it," said Strayker. "We are only one part of the timeline. It's our duty to protect not only what has happened, but what will happen."

"Who is to say that the future would be a better place without Marion than with her?"

"We don't make value judgments," said Strayker. "The minute we start making value judgments, we start changing the timeline. The only way to keep everyone safe is to never make any value judgments. That means we don't prevent wars, or famine, or genocides from happening... and we don't save fiancées from tragic car crashes. I'm truly sorry."
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********​

"He was killed by the Luddites," said Daniel.

Calle stifled a yawn. He hadn't slept well. He never did, on the anniversary of Marion's death. But the minute Daniel spoke, he sat up in his cafeteria chair, and was suddenly wide awake. "Are you sure?" Calle asked. "How did it happen?"

Daniel was telling him the story of how John Collier, Calle's predecessor at the Continuity Service, had been murdered by the Luddites. The same Luddites, presumably, who had had the chance to kill Calle on his last mission... and didn't.

Daniel frowned. "The Luddites were trying to prevent the invention of the transistor. We went in to investigate. John went into a lab, we heard the sound of a compression pistol, and when we got there, he was already dead."

Although Donna hadn't killed Calle when she had the chance, that didn't mean her fellow Luddite fanatics wouldn't have shown the same restraint. And yet....

"What's wrong?" said Daniel. "You look like you don't believe me."

"Oh, I believe you," Calle said reassuringly, even though he didn't believe Daniel at all. For one thing, Doctor Vladek had told him that John Collier had retired due to stress issues, and Calle didn't think he meant the stress of being shot in the chest with a compression pistol. Perhaps Doctor Vladek had merely been trying to conceal John Collier's unpleasant fate. Or... perhaps something else was going on at the Continuity Service that they didn't want him knowing about.

Calle felt that he was being observed. He always felt that Doctor Vladek was watching him, taking mental notes, as if he were the subject of some great experiment. And when Colonel Strayker looked at him, he wouldn't merely make eye contact, but would glare at him. Calle quickly learned that the Colonel was an impatient man, but he never seemed to smile in Calle's direction.

And then there were the little things. One time Commander Strayker made reference to Maine being an independent country at one point in time. When Calle called him on it, he said he meant to say Texas. Another time Doctor Vladek seemed to imply that the tallest memorial in Washington DC was the Grant Memorial. When Calle said that it must be the Washington Memorial, Vladek had quickly agreed. It was almost as if his coworkers had slightly different memories of history than he did.

Calle had to admit that given how rapidly timelines changed back and forth that it was easy to get confused. But it also started him wondering. Perhaps the Continuity Service hadn't been fully successful. Perhaps there had been some efforts to change the timeline that had succeeded. And the worst part of it was, if these efforts had been successful and the Continuity Service didn't know about it, then no one would ever know.
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The Black White Supremacists:

Ken Larson loved playing golf. He couldn't smell the grass, of course, but he loved the big, open spaces of the Monterey Golf Range, and the company of his very white male golfing partners, Addington Fitz III, Walter Remington, and Blase Hampton II. Golfing was such an incredible, wonderful sport... such a wonderful white sport.

Ken loved talking with his good friends about thoroughly civilized, white topics. He chatted with Fitz about his favorite white wines. He talked to Remington about their respective stock portfolios. He smiled as he and Hampton shared their love of literature written by the smartest white men. Ken was enjoying himself so much that he lost track of time.

"Dad, you're late for your own meeting," said Jamal, entering the golf course through the front door.

Ken frowned and checked the chrono. He hated to leave a game before he had finished. "Sorry guys, got to go. We'll have to finish this later." His good white friends smiled at him knowingly. Then Ken looked up and said, "Computer, save program. End."

The golf course vanished around him, leaving him and Jamal in a bare room. "All right," Ken sighed. "It's time to save the planet again."
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********​

The Black White Supremacists had a new plan to change the timeline. They had tried and failed to end the slave trade in the year 1708. But Ken had a new scheme to thrust a dagger deep into the heart of slavery in the New World.

"My friends, I give you... pussy!" said Ken, revealing a holographic image of an 18th century woman wearing a very revealing dress which showed off her large, Dutch breasts.

To his side, his wife Velma frowned. But Kevin Myrtle smiled and Mel Watts, their financier, actually clapped aloud.

"What is this all about?" Roy asked.

"Dutch whores," said Ken, speaking in a low voice. "The finest whores in the world." They all nodded in agreement. "My friends, Dutch whores are going to save all our black brothers and sisters from the foreman's whip."

"How?" Mel asked.

"My friends... why did white people in the Deep South create large cotton plantations? Was it because they were in love with cotton?"

"No," said Mel Watts. "They wanted to make money!"

Ken's eyes widened and he pointed at Mel excitedly. "Exactly! But... what if they found a way to make money, a lot more money, other than by growing cotton?"

Mel started to understand. "You... you're going to encourage southern plantation owners to switch from growing cotton to running whore houses?"

"Exactly!" said Ken. "Isn't it brilliant?" He looked around at the mixed expressions. "It is brilliant!" he said with resoluteness, answering his own question.

"Dad, where are you going to get these whores from?" Jamal asked.

"From the very place where prostitution was born, my son: the Netherlands!"
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********​

Nelly Van Houten was intrigued by the black man who spoke perfect Dutch.

"How much do you make here?" Ken Larson asked. "Four guilders per customer? Five?"

"Sometimes nine or ten," said Nelly, raising her chin. Ken Larson had been closer to the truth, though, but Nelly was loath to admit that.

"A woman of your charm, of your class, of your sophistication, making only ten guilders per trick?" Ken said.

Nelly felt a chill go down her spine. What a charming black man! Truthfully Nelly had never even seen a black man before, certainly not wearing European clothes and one who had such a gifted tongue. She began to wonder about what other skills he might have.

"There is a lot of competition here, sir," said Nelly.

"But what if you were in a place, a warmer place, where there was little or no competition?" said Ken. "Here there are ladies less skilled than you, packed to ten every block. What if I could take you to a place where you would be the only... woman of your kind for miles? You would have your pick of the litter. You would be able to turn away customers."

Nelly's jaw dropped open. To be able to turn down customers was a luxury she could never afford, no matter how fat or ugly they were, no matter how smelly their penises were, Nelly always had to ignore her revulsion and suck it in to make a living.

"Where is this magical place, sir?"

Ken said exactly four words which made Nelly smile. "In the New World."
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It didn't take long for Ken to fill a ship full of willing Dutch whores eager to climb their way to a higher place on the supply/demand curve for prostitution and gifted pillow talk. Ken wanted to name the ship "I Love White People", but realized that would be too conspicuous, so instead named it "The Whitest Smile".

The ship was Captained by Ken himself, and crewed by his own people: Kevin Myrtle, Sharice Robinson, Roy Beck, Turner Alston, and a few others. Including his own son Jamal.

Ken had wanted Jamal to accompany him on the voyage. He knew that his son didn't fully embrace his venture as much as he did. He had hoped that the fresh sea air and the sun and wind on his face would evoke some enthusiasm from him. He put an arm around Jamal as they set sail.

"Just think, son, we're going to be like Christopher Columbus," said Ken.

"Columbus? How?" Jamal asked.

"We're opening up a new world, a brave new world," said Ken.

"It's already open, Dad. There are people there already."

"Yes, but son, prostitution is in its infancy in the Americas," said Ken. "Experienced whores like Nelly can take it to an entirely new level. We're pioneers like Columbus, opening new lands, or Neil Armstrong, setting foot on the moon."

"Helping Dutch whores set foot on virgin territory," said Jamal glumly.

"Virgin territory--I like that!" said Ken, hugging his son. "There's hope for you yet!" His smile grew broader. "Just think of it! We're the vanguard of a mass migration of whores seeking freedom from oppressive pimps for sexual freedom in the New World. Son, all these white women in the cargo hold... we're taking them to America, to have sex with white men. Think of how many white people we're going to make very, very happy!"

"Is that what gets you off, Dad? Helping white people fuck each other?"

"Yes, Son," said Ken. "You know what happens when white people fuck each other, don't you?"

Jamal looked quizzically at his father.

"They create even more white people!" Ken saw the expression Jamal's face. He sighed. "Someday, son, when you're older, you'll appreciate white people like I do. White people gave us the light bulb. White people gave us the airplane and the rocketship. White people gave us vanilla ice cream. We owe them so much, Son."

But the voyage wasn't without problems. A number of the whores got seasick and could be seen on deck, throwing up over the side. Others hadn't laid in nearly enough sanitary products for the journey to the Promised Land, and were forced to use cut up pieces of sea sponge, which didn't work nearly as well for them. And then some of the whores became... restless... in the ways that whores sometimes do.

They started to sniff around some of the men, Ken, Kevin, Roy, Turner, and even Jamal. Ken felt compelled to give Jamal strict instructions not to sleep with the cargo.

Nelly whined with frustration over her inability to score some interactive penis on the long sea voyage.

"You'll have more than enough to make up for it when we get to the Promised Land," Ken assured her.

"It's not just that," said Nelly. "It's... it's like a muscle of a blacksmith. If we don't use it, it starts to get weak."

Ken didn't really understand that. Nor did he need to. He just smiled and assured her that she would be getting all the hammering any blacksmith could ask for once they reached the New World. In the meantime, he ordered baby cucumbers from ship's stores to be distributed to every passenger belowdecks.
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But one evening, a week later, even a baby cucumber didn't do enough to satisfy Nelly's needs. She prowled around on the deck shortly after sunset, looking for a likely target.

What she found what Ken's 16 year old son, Jamal.

"The night is dark and full of terrors," said Nelly, grabbing him by the waist.

Jamal jumped instinctively. "What?"

Nelly smiled, removing her hands. "I'm just being, how you say, friendly?" She spoke in a heavily accented Dutch. "You are the boy of Ken, are you not?"

Jamal nodded.

Nelly ran her hands over his arms. Jamal shivered. "What a fine young black thing you are. Tell me, have you ever been with a woman?"

Jamal shook his head.

Nelly smiled. "Dutch women are the best. You know what is said, 'Once you have gone Dutch, you will never like other girls nearly as much.'" She leaned closer to Jamal. "Would you like me to teach you how to polish your shiny black wand? I have very skilled hands." Her hands moved down... down... down...

And were pulled away by a new pair of hands. Ken stood there, looking furious. "What are you doing?"

"Just talking," said Nellie.

"Talk to someone else." He glared at her as she went belowdecks. He had never been so angry with a white person before.

He turned to Jamal. "Are you all right, son?"

Jamal nodded. "Dad, is she really going to make love to white men in the New World?"

Ken nodded. "Yes son. A whole lot of them."
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They reached landfall in northern Virginia 44 days later. "Virginia is for lovers," Ken grinned, as they made landfall. Step one of his plan was now complete. It was time for step two.
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Two days later, Ken was speaking before a group of white plantation owners. It was times like this that he wished he were white. He knew he would have more credibility. But they listened, politely, at least, while he made his pitch.

"So let me see if I understand this correctly, Mister Black Man," said one of them, who was the spitting image of how Ken always imagined Samuel Clemens must look like. "You want us to abandon our fields, our livelihood, and open... whorehouses?"

"It sounds extreme, I know," said Ken. "But cotton is a very volatile commodity, is it not? You never know what the price will be from year to year." There was murmuring of agreement. "The North, which controls the supply lines, manipulates prices." More agreement. "And the British also manipulate the price with their own suppliers." Even more agreement. "And for all this uncertainty you have to spend so much money, invest so much backbreaking labor to grow a plant." He could see he had their full attention now. "But gentlemen, there is no deep pocket investment with whores. All you need are a few tiny bedrooms, and the money pours in. Crops fail. Whores don't. Crops get bitten by Boll weevils. Whores don't. Cotton dies during droughts, or floods. Whores don't. Cotton only makes money once a year, when it's sold. Whores make money every hour. Whoring is the world's oldest profession... won't you at least give it a try?"

The white people were almost literally eating out of his hands. Ken had such natural charisma, he realized he was wasted as a Galactic Physicist. He could have been a politician.

They launched a test brothel. Word spread quickly. Within days there were long lines of shy faced men waiting to use their services, and even Nelly had more business than she could handle.

Ken put his arm around Jamal, as they stared at the long line of men waiting to get into the whorehouse. It was one of those special father and son moments he would relish forever. "Son, look at all the white people, having sex and relaxing. White people really need to get out and have more sex and enjoy themselves. Doesn't it make you feel proud, Son?"

Jamal watched a white man leaving the whorehouse. He looked around nervously as he adjusted his pants. Then he smiled and marched to his horse, walking with an unusually wide stance.

"I guess," said Jamal. "But can a hundred whores really replace all these plantations?"

"A hundred whores?" Ken chuckled. "Son, this is only the beginning."
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"I'm getting fucking tired of this!" said Major Reynolds. "I was in bed with Sue-Ann last night, you know, being... intimate, and then she just disappeared right from under me!"

"It seems black people have once again disappeared from the United States," said Sarah, sifting through the holochannels rapidly. All the faces on it were... white. Reynolds winced as he saw a hoverball game where all the players were white.

"Well, get to the bottom of it," said Strayker, glaring at Sarah to help encourage her. An Indian woman with long black hair and juicy buttocks handed Strayker a cup of atomic coffee, and he stood there, sipping at it, while tapping his foot impatiently.
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********​

Two hours later, Sarah had answers. Some of them, anyway.

"As you know, our Time Shaft can only allow us to go back to the early 18th century, which is also the limit of our monitoring ability. We know that slavery in the colonies started in the late 17th century, and that seems to be the case now as well. But something happened in the early 18th century, something which caused Southern farmers to abandon plantations, and obviate their need for slaves."

"What happened?" Strayker asked.

"I don't know," Sarah.

"Well, let's send a team in to find out," said Strayker. He looked at Reynolds. "Major?"

Reynolds nodded.
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"Are you ready to have sex with me?" Sarah asked Calle. He stood in the control room with Erica Green and Daniel Acton. They were waiting for Major Reynolds to start their journey to 18th century Virginia.

"In case you didn't notice, I'm about to go on a mission," said Calle, with a quick glance at his companions. Sarah seemed totally, totally unembarrassed to have the others listening in on their increasingly public conversation.

"We can make them wait. It won't take long."

Calle looked at Sarah.

"I can be very quick," Sarah promised. "Especially for our first effort."

"Why are you pushing this so hard?" Calle asked.

She came close to him, and played with his collar. "It's that vision I had in the Binochi Corridor... I have a feeling it's going to happen fairly soon... your hair was parted in exactly the same way it is now."

"My hair is always parted the same way," said Calle.

"Exactly," said Sarah, smiling at him.

Major Reynolds marched into the control room. "All right, are we ready? Sarah?"

"Yes, sir," said Sarah, sitting down at the controls, but not before giving Calle a look of longing.

She pressed some buttons, and the Binochi Corridor lit up. Even from 20 feet away, Calle could already hear the whispers....
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*********​

They arrived in early 18th century Virginia. The team decided to split up, each exploring a different plantation, to see what they could find out.

Calle walked for about twenty minutes down a dirt road. He came to a plantation which stood idle. But there was much greater action from what looked like a recently constructed saloon in front of it. At least, Calle thought it was a saloon.

When he went inside he found himself in a parlor. There were a half dozen scantily clad women giving him provocative looks. As he entered he saw a woman leading a man into a backroom.

A brothel.

One of the women came up to Calle. "Well hello there," she said, in heavily accented old English.

"Hello," said Calle, in old English. He couldn't quite place her accent, but it sounded European.

"Have you come to relax?" she said, looking at him knowingly.

Relax.

Suddenly Calle understood. The plantation was abandoned, but the whorehouse was operational. Somehow, Southern plantation owners had been persuaded to switch from one cash crop to another, from harvesting cotton to harvesting orgasms.

Calle thought quickly. It would be useful to find out where the prostitutes were coming from, and when they had arrived.

"Sure," said Calle.
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