Ms. Aran Goes to Washington [Narrative]
*Samus was not, by most definitions of the word, a patient woman. When she saw a solution to a situation, she wanted to implement it at the earliest opportunity, and when she didn't have a solution, she cracking well wanted to find one, with the same alacrity. Germany, she'd seen, was coming out on the losing end of a major war--a continental war, involving every major military power on Earth. She'd been told that the next few decades of history were quite clear as well: the other major powers would decimate their longtime rival, driving the country to the brink of collapse; there, it would choose a leader who would embark on a campaign of conquest and genocide to make the first world war seem only a prequel. And Hans--dear, sweet, foolish Hans--wanted that history to remain intact.*
*Hans was wrong.*
*Samus had studied the wars and their roots, seeking a point of attack. The second war was dependent upon the accession of a certain political party. That party's rise depended upon Germany's utter decimation. That decimation was a product of a treaty, one which ended the war by assigning all blame and all debt for reparations to the losing party. But at the summit which drafted that treaty, there had been other options. The leader of another nation had come with an agenda of reconstruction, which would have given the Nazi party less squalor on which to improve.*
*Why had the reconstructionist agenda failed? Historians disagreed on the subject, although many attributed at least part of the blame to an illness. Recovery left the politician tired and irritable, limiting the effectiveness of his diplomatic overtures and contributing to the establishment of the treaty that history said would fail. There, then, was the point to attack.*
*The temporal controls for her portal device brought her to early November, 1918, while the linen closet of a nearby hospital provided her a cover--namely, a nurse's uniform, a size or two too small (that last, not by design, but by the limit of available materiel), and a black medical bag. The walk to the White House didn't even wind her, although she was aware of the many eyes following her progress. The guards at the gate seemed more interested in admiring her than scrutinizing her credentials, or checking her claims of being sent by doctor what's-his-name with a shot for the President.*
*She walked on proverbial pins the entire way, waiting for that critical breakdown most missions inevitably suffer, waiting for the violence to begin. She reached the office and her target, being granted a few minutes between one meeting and another. At least the man himself behaved like a leader, more interested in his work than her "assets," and resenting even the brief delay her visit caused. Only the promise that it wouldn't take a minute seemed to placate him, and she unpacked her bag with deft speed.*
*She had studied, carefully, everything she would need for this mission, including the contemporary procedures for inoculation. A glass syringe (sterilized to a fare-thee-well) loaded with her payload, a swab of cotton doused with ethyl alcohol, and a very little pressure saw her work done. Packing up again, she wished him well and hurried out, hoping to outrace disaster.*
*Across Pennsylvania Avenue, she paused to reflect. President Wilson wouldn't need to recover from the flu now--he'd be hard-pressed to contract any terrestrial microbe, with the antibodies she'd pumped into his system. She hadn't had to kill, maim, bludgeon, or subdue anyone, and the breaking-and-entering and larceny she'd committed were minor and more-or-less harmless. All in all, it was one of her more successful efforts of late. Nodding in satisfaction, she stepped between two buildings, into a portal, and back to Castle von Hammer, to catch up on year-ending festivities.*
*Hans was wrong.*
*Samus had studied the wars and their roots, seeking a point of attack. The second war was dependent upon the accession of a certain political party. That party's rise depended upon Germany's utter decimation. That decimation was a product of a treaty, one which ended the war by assigning all blame and all debt for reparations to the losing party. But at the summit which drafted that treaty, there had been other options. The leader of another nation had come with an agenda of reconstruction, which would have given the Nazi party less squalor on which to improve.*
*Why had the reconstructionist agenda failed? Historians disagreed on the subject, although many attributed at least part of the blame to an illness. Recovery left the politician tired and irritable, limiting the effectiveness of his diplomatic overtures and contributing to the establishment of the treaty that history said would fail. There, then, was the point to attack.*
*The temporal controls for her portal device brought her to early November, 1918, while the linen closet of a nearby hospital provided her a cover--namely, a nurse's uniform, a size or two too small (that last, not by design, but by the limit of available materiel), and a black medical bag. The walk to the White House didn't even wind her, although she was aware of the many eyes following her progress. The guards at the gate seemed more interested in admiring her than scrutinizing her credentials, or checking her claims of being sent by doctor what's-his-name with a shot for the President.*
*She walked on proverbial pins the entire way, waiting for that critical breakdown most missions inevitably suffer, waiting for the violence to begin. She reached the office and her target, being granted a few minutes between one meeting and another. At least the man himself behaved like a leader, more interested in his work than her "assets," and resenting even the brief delay her visit caused. Only the promise that it wouldn't take a minute seemed to placate him, and she unpacked her bag with deft speed.*
*She had studied, carefully, everything she would need for this mission, including the contemporary procedures for inoculation. A glass syringe (sterilized to a fare-thee-well) loaded with her payload, a swab of cotton doused with ethyl alcohol, and a very little pressure saw her work done. Packing up again, she wished him well and hurried out, hoping to outrace disaster.*
*Across Pennsylvania Avenue, she paused to reflect. President Wilson wouldn't need to recover from the flu now--he'd be hard-pressed to contract any terrestrial microbe, with the antibodies she'd pumped into his system. She hadn't had to kill, maim, bludgeon, or subdue anyone, and the breaking-and-entering and larceny she'd committed were minor and more-or-less harmless. All in all, it was one of her more successful efforts of late. Nodding in satisfaction, she stepped between two buildings, into a portal, and back to Castle von Hammer, to catch up on year-ending festivities.*