The Time Surgeons

A ping in his ear announced an incoming call, the tone of the ping telling him it was someone on his prequalified list of callers. He clicked the earbud to accept the call.

“Dr Harlington?” a female voice asked.

“I am he.”

“It’s Vickie Gray here, Dr Harlington.”

“Oh, good morning, Vickie. You have called me Ravan on at least two occasions, Dr Gray. You do not have to be so formal.”

“I feared it would be an impertinence, given those occasions.”

“Nonsense. I am happy to be reminded of it.”

“Thank you. Ravan.”

“That’s better, Vickie. Now that the informalities are over, what can I do for you?”

“I have finished my investigation into the start of the War. Before I submit it to the authorities, I thought as a courtesy I should tell you my basic findings. They are quite fascinating!”

“Why, yes. Everyone is interested in the War. It is quite a scar on the collective psyche. But wait a minute while I return to my office.”

Once there, he transferred the call to his office system, and he saw her looking at him from across her own desk.

“So! You have results! Please tell me.”

“First, I managed to trace the original trigger for the war,” she said, proceeding to tell him the history she had deduced.

“I see. Quite tragic. But you said ‘first’?”

“Yes. I almost left it there. But then I wondered about the individuals, and I decided the story wouldn’t be complete without a bit more insight into their decisions. A finer grained view of history, as it were, in a unique case. And such insight may well be useful in its own right.”

“Their actions seem almost inevitable in the circumstances they faced, but yes, I see. And what did you find?”

“It was even more tragic than you could imagine. I must confess I wept when I discovered it.”

“Go on.”

“Some Russian submarines, like this one, were armed with what they called their ‘Special Weapon’, a nuclear torpedo. It seems that if they were unable to receive instructions from their government, then a nuclear attack could be launched if both the Captain and the Political Officer on board agreed it was warranted. On that submarine, both the Captain and the Political Officer were convinced that war had begun, and believed they should attack.”

“Well that is what we expected, surely? We know from your original findings that the submarine was under attack. These were military men, who made the standard decision for military men. It would be unusual, and uncommonly lucky in this case, to encounter one with a greater flexibility of mind and, shall we say, more prudent wisdom. While tragic, yes, I don’t see that we have learned much more, merely confirmed our obvious deductions. Though in itself, that must have interest for theoretical history, of course.”

“So you might think. But this submarine was different. There happened to be a third man involved. Because he was in command of the entire flotilla of submarines, on this one vessel he had to agree too. He was not convinced. The other two finally convinced him, but he had been wavering, and as far as we can tell from analyzing their conversation, almost vetoed the attack.”

“Oh my God! It was that close run a thing?”

“I’m afraid so. If he hadn’t been there the attack would certainly have occurred. But he was there, and he nearly prevented it.”

For a few seconds she remained silent.

“Ravan, the whole damn war came down to one man. One man. Of course many men were involved: the Americans, the Russians, all the way down to the US fleet commander who decided to drop the depth charges, to the Captain and Political Officer. All playing their part, all pretty much following an inevitable script. But one man could have stopped it, and he almost did. He almost did, Ravan!”

She stared, not at him but into some space only she could see, before continuing in a leaden voice.

“But he didn’t.”

The man sat nervously, holding his hat in his hands, in great danger of squeezing it into shapelessness.

He was successful enough in his profession, a linguist who had a great ear for languages. He had even been retained recently on a mysterious government project, in which he had helped adapt an auto-translator to understand some archaic Russian conversations, recorded on a rather patchy video. He had wondered where the historical relic had come from, but it had been made clear to him that such questions were best not asked at this stage, and all would be addressed at the right time. He had of course now heard of the Time Lord and his Machine, and that had prompted excited imaginings on the recordings’ origins. But he knew not to wonder or speculate when so instructed, and thus had kept his thoughts to himself.

He had never been invited into high circles, and frankly he liked to keep it that way. The higher you were drawn into such circles the further you had to fall, and the more people were happy to kick you off; and he liked his modest, safe life. He had a profession he enjoyed, a wife he loved, children he adored, and enough money to live well. He sought no more from life.

Yet here he was, in a reception room to which he had been summoned by Dr Ravan Harlington himself. His suspicions as to the provenance of the videos firmed up under that fact, as did his fears of why he would be summoned. He wondered what secret project Harlington could want him for now, and why Harlington wanted to see him in person. He hoped it was a new secret project, and not something he had done wrong on his previous secret project.

He was not a brave man. In his mind bravery was a noble quality, but one best observed in others.

Finally the receptionist looked up. “You may go in now, Doctor.”

He stood nervously, still mangling his hat, and nodded his thanks. When he didn’t move, she smiled and pointed to the door. “That way.”

“Er, yes, of course. Of course.”

He entered timidly, and saw the Time Lord himself, sitting at a desk.

“Come in, Dr Stavanski, come in. Sorry to keep you waiting, something came up that I had to deal with immediately.”

“Certainly, certainly, no problem at all, sir. I am at your service. How may I assist you?”

“Why, I would like to learn how to speak Russian, Dr Stavanski. Mid Twentieth Century Russian. I understand you were recently involved in a project where you excelled yourself in the very dialect I am interested in. I think you’re just the man.”

“What is your interest, may I inquire?”

“You may not. The fact of my interest is all you need to know.”

He nodded. “I understand. But do you understand? It takes months, often years, to become fluent in another tongue. If your need is urgent, perhaps you should retain me, or some other, more directly?”

“Perhaps I misspoke myself somewhat. I fully intend to use a real-time translator. But they are only as good as their training, and I need you to train the device so its translations and accent are as accurate as possible. And I need to know the basics so I can use the translator most efficiently. You have already shown your competence in adapting such a machine to understand the language, but there was no need for it to go in the other direction and speak it. Now I have a need.”

“But I don’t understand, sir. Nobody, outside of a few experts such as myself, speak the language any more. Its modern descendants are quite different, as different in accent and idiom as say modern English is from the language of Shakespeare. I can understand your interest in understanding the spoken language, since you have found some old recordings. But why speak it? There is nobody to speak it to.”

“True, true, Dr Stavanski. But I could also ask why do you speak it? It interests me, as a challenge, and kind of a hobby. Sometimes a man feels like a new challenge, no?”

Stavanski stared at him briefly. One possible, or rather impossible, use flitted across his brain, but skittered away with the rapidity of a forbidden thought in a nervous man. Then he nodded again. “Of course, sir. I did not mean to pry. I am, as always, at your service.”