"Oh Lord, that crazy viking is in trouble again!"
At times of great crisis, sometimes it is a good idea to relax and take stock. Doc does so. He takes a deep breath. He freshens the chew in his mouth. He looks about the room.
There is a small window just large enough for a small man to squeeze through seven feet up along the back wall of Dr. Ritenrong's cell. It is fitted with iron bars and no glass. The walls of the office are lined with wanted posters, news clippings, a map of the area, and other posts and notices. The surface of the sheriff's desk is cluttered with quills, logbooks and pipe cleaning equipment. The desk its self is locked. There's a small pantry in the corner messily laden with tin plates and cups along with bags of oatmeal and cornmeal, plus a few potatoes and some onions rotting away at the bottom. Nearby is an iron stove still warm with dying coals.
Doc cracks the wooden shutters on the front windows to look outside. Sheriff Jones is leaning up against the wall, blocking his view through the window. There is obviously some commotion. He can see Michigan Militia troops shouting and pumping their fists in excitement.
Doc opens the door and steps out. The dozen militia men surround Thunderhorse in a semicircle shouting and encouraging a fight between him and one of their own. The small keg of whiskey is smashed on the ground nearby, with surprisingly little wet around it. On second thought, that's not so surprising.
The Sheriff spits a bit of chew. "Yer brother's a piece a' work. He was out here drinkin' when he up'n shouted some gibberish at them boys when they was walkin' by. Well one thing led to another an', well, there y'are," Jones nods towards the ruckus. "I'd arrest 'im fer bein' a nuisance and brawlin' in public, but I think them boys'll teach him a lesson well enough."
Thunderhorse is standing his ground silently as the militia men holler at him. The other man in the ring is not small; he's just as tall as Thunderhorse but lanky and wiry instead of hulking and huge.
"Get 'im, Earl!" shouts another man. "Show that gimp not to lip off!"
Earl stands in fisticuffs position, ready to box. Thunderhorse stands ready, brows furrowed. Before anyone can react, Thunderhorse launches his fist into Earl's face. His nose gives way with a pop.
Earl staggers back, grasping his bleeding face. He throws a wild right hook, dizzily, before collapsing on the ground.
The crowd gasps and hushes, but only momentarily. Another man is peeling off his jacket, getting ready to step in for his buddy.
That Crazy Viking
No Time for a Life Story
"Who are you?" Doc asks.
"There's no time for my life's story," Dr. Ritenrong responds. "I am a time traveler. I have seen the destruction of Earth in the distant future, and I am trying to stop it, or at least avoid it."
"What do you want with a corncob pipe?"
"It is a vessel. I can use it to travel through time. My device creates a static temporal bubble on any concave surface. Unlike the generators in the Smithsonian, the wormhole persists throughout the existence of that object. Instead of reaching from the time the cavity formed to the time the generator is turned off, my wormholes reach from the creation of the cavity until the cavity is destroyed. Entering into the wormhole at the moment of the cavity's destruction will take you to the moment of its creation, and vice versa. Entering at the apex of its existence will put you right back to the moment you entered.
"As long as you know where and when a particular object was created, and where and when it will be destroyed, you can use it to navigate through time and space. The corncob pipe is one of those objects. We are very close to the beginning of its life, now, and I happen to know it will be destroyed in the year 2299. By creating a wormhole in it and jumping in now, we will arrive in that future.
"But that is a secondary goal. We do not need to be in that future if we cannot change the pa- ...er, present. Our main objective is to spill blood at Phillip's Corners."
"Spill blood. We don't need to kill anyone?" Doc asks.
"No, I suppose not. Although, the more of a frenzy we can stir up, the better."
"Why?"
"Governor Lucas and President Jackson will respond to the attack by sending ten thousand men to Michigan. The Michigan Militia will try to fight them off, but lose quickly resulting in only abut three hundred casualties, total. Everything will be as it was ...er will b- should be, except that the Upper Peninsula will become part of Wisconsin instead of Michigan. Wisconsin gets the iron there, thrives on the steel business, and Milwaukee becomes a much larger city. This increases immigration, and as a result a particular individual will be born-"
There is a sudden scream from outside. Not a scream, a battle cry. A Nordic battle cry.
Training Addendum
In creating the character sheet for Dr. Ritenrong, I've discovered some possible imbalances with the current Training rank system. This addendum is to repair these imbalances.
Spending Skill points on Non-Combat Training will increase that training rank by one plus the appropriate ability modifier. If the ability modifier is negative, it will cost additional skill points to gain one training rank of that ability.
For instance, a character has a 16 (+3) Strength, 12 Dex (+1), 10 (+0) Con, 10 Int (+0), 8 Wis (-1), and 6 (-2) Cha. This character may spend 1 Skill point on a Strength-based training class and receive 4 ranks in it. For Dexterity based skills, the same character can spend 1 Skill point and receive 2 ranks in that Training. For Constitution and Intelligence training, 1 Skill point buys 1 Training rank. For Wisdom training, the character must spend 2 Skill points to get 1 Training rank. For Charisma, the character must spend 3 skill points to receive 1 training rank.
When purchasing training from an NPC, ranks may be added one at a time at a discount or possibly for more than normal price, depending on the modifier. For example, the above character need only spend $250 to learn to swim, but must spend $2000 to learn to survive in the woods, or $3000 to learn to sing. Time taken for training is also adjusted by the same percentages.
Specialization multipliers still apply to these additional ranks. Ability modifiers still apply to rolls.
This change should allow non-combat characters to advance in training more rapidly as they level, and thus overcome the more difficult challenges required to gain higher levels.
I will adjust character sheets accordingly and the new system will be used from now on.
Dr. Steven Ritenrong, PhD
Name: Dr. Steven Ritenrong, PhD
Occupation: Quantum Theorist, Inventor, Professor
Origin: San Fransisco, California, Earth
Era: 1980 CE
Sector: E116-67.5
Description:
Steven Ritenrong was born in San Fransisco in 1980. His lifelong dream of designing a time machine was realized when one day in 2041, the day he figured out how to create such a device, he was visited by himself and given the Quantum-Temporal Interference Projector as well as a dire warning about the future. Since then, Dr. Ritenrong has been traveling time in an effort to save himself and mankind from destruction. He currently holds tenure at Europa University in 3133 CE, as well as Cambridge University in 1670 CE.
Level 4 XP: 6000 Next: 10000 Skill: 0
Str: 8 (-1) HP: 16/16
Dex: 12 (+1) Chi: 12/12
Con: 11 (+0) Ref: 0(1) Fort: 0(0) Will: 0(2)
Int: 18 (+4) Atk: 1 Melee: 0 Ranged: 2 (6 firearms)
Wis: 15 (+2) Def: 10 Dodge: +1 Armor: +0
Cha: 9 (-1) Init: 0 (+1/-1) Move: 5
Training
Physics 25 (+29)
Computing 25 (+29)
Research 15 (+19)
Electronics 20 (+24)
Mechanics 20 (+24)
Chemistry 10 (+14)
Pilot Spaceship 2 (+4)
Firearms
HUD Glasses: Advanced Targeting (+4 Firearms)
Powers
Dexterity Focus
Constitution Focus
Faults
Absent Minded
Introverted
Small Stature
Equipment
Sheriff Jones
"Ah, just the man I wanted to see," Doc says as he pockets his I-Browse before getting up and turning around. "Name's Shaw. Doc Shaw. And you are?" he extends his hand for a shake.
The man's thumb remains firmly hooked. "Jones. Monroe County sheriff. Whadder you doin' prowlin' round back here?"
Doc instinctively reaches out with his mind to sense the man's emotions. Suspicion, stress, and a general feeling of grumpiness, probably stemming from poor gastric health, judging by the smell.
"I'm looking for my uncle, Dr. Ritenrong. We just got in from Cleveland, and I heard he's being tried for murder!"
"That's right. Fraud, too. Can't make the Pains and Penalties stick, seein' as he wasn't here on no official Ohio business. That still don't 'splain whatcher doin' sneakin' 'round the church."
"A passing stranger told us he was in the courthouse basement."
"He ain't down there no more, jes his effects. They's evidence. He's over at my office, behind bars. You wanna see him, you follow me."
Doc whistles to Thunderhorse and waves him over.
"Keep that horse off the grass!" Sheriff Jones yells at Thunderhorse. "Got two gol'darn Governors in town." He gets upset when Thunderhorse does not obey. "Hey! What'd I jus' tell you?!"
"Sorry, sir. My half brother is a bit touched in the head. Chew?" Doc offers the sheriff some of his Mail Pouch.
"Don't mind if I do." The sheriff accepts his offer, grabbing a pinch while examining the anachronistic packaging. "Ain't that some fancy stuff," he remarks as he shoves the stuff into his cheek. The gift does not seem to appease the man's grumpiness, but at least he's laid off Thunderhorse for now.
The Sheriff leads Doc and Thunderhorse down the road towards the river. Doc takes the opportunity to press the old man for information.
"What are the particulars of the case against my Uncle?"
"Perticulers? Wadd'ya mean?"
"What evidence do you have against him?"
"Whatter you, a lawyer?"
"Does he have legal representation?"
"Said he'd represent his self. 'Sides, ain't no lawyer 'round here has any interest in keepin' him alive. Why? You gonna be his lawyer?"
"I guess I'd like to talk to him, first."
"Ain't no wrong in that, by me. You ain't the first visitors he's had. Matter 'a 'fact ol' Lucas his self was there talkin' to him just an hour ago."
The Sheriff's office is a small brick building near the edge of the river, just across the street from the ferry docks. There's a beautiful steam powered paddle-wheel river boat named the Chesapeake resting in the waters. Dockworkers are hastily unloading its cargo, while the militiamen Doc and Thunderhorse ran into earlier oversee the proceedings. A dockworker drops a small crate into the water. The Captain heartily chews him the fuck out.
Doc instructs Thunderhorse to wait with Lightning in the stables as he follows the sheriff inside. The sheriff's office is a small thing, one room hardly 20x20 feet with a row of iron bars sectioning off the back third into two cells. Dr. Ritenrong is lying in a bunk, but he gets up when he sees Doc enter.
"Hello, Uncle," Doc calls to him, catching him up on the lie. "My brother Don and I just got in from Chicago to pay you a visit."
"So I see," the Doctor replies. His once nice suit is down to just a shirt and tattered trousers. His ankles are shackled. He leans against the bars. Doc steps up close. "It's good to see you." They shake hands.
"What happened?" Doc asks.
"It's hard to say." Dr. Ritenrong nods towards the Sheriff, who's leaning back in a chair watching them.
Doc calls to the Sheriff. "Can we have some privacy? Attorney-client privilege."
The Sheriff looks at him hesitantly, then gets up and steps outside.
"So what happened?" Doc asks again in hushed tones.
Dr. Ritenrong whispers back. "I came here attempting to acquire a specific antique in the possession of one Mr. Joseph Brown. A corncob pipe, to be exact. When I learned he'd been found dead in the river, I posed as a coroner in an attempt to... extract it from his person. Unfortunately, I did not properly research the ruse beforehand. The sheriff arrested me under the Pains and Penalties act, but when they found out I wasn't really sent by Governor Lucas, they changed the charges to fraud. And now, they suspect me of murdering the poor man!"
"Why do they think you did it?"
"I don't know! Probably because they've got no other suspects and because I'm the most suspicious person in town. Did you tell them you were going to be my lawyer?"
"Not as much as they assumed I was."
"Well, we don't have time to wait for an acquittal. We don't have time for the trial. If we're not out at the Phillips farm by nine-o'clock tomorrow morning, this entire mission will be a failure."
"Why, what happens tomorrow at nine?"
"The Battle of Phillips Corners. A pivotal moment in this time sector. Your history records that this was a brief affair, some shots were fired, no one was hurt. This path of history leads to certain destruction. We need to alter this path to save our future. I've done the calculations a thousand times, there's no other choice. We must make sure at least one bullet finds a target. We must turn this war bloody."
Toledo, 1835
The fresh smell of lake air and the acrid stench of sulphurous, burning coal wrestles Doc's nostrils, overpowering the understated scent of drowned worms and horse shit lining the streets as the Operatives walk down Monroe St. towards the center of town. The houses are brick and wood. Many along Monroe are well built, expensive mansions. As they approach downtown, the family houses give way to simple apartments and shops. Butchers, bakers, apothecaries, general merchants, a bank, all tidy and neat brickwork with glass windows and hardwood floors.
The streets are filled with passers-by waving how-do at the curious pair. Most people here are well dressed, relatively middle class shop owners and service industry folk. A few are well-to-do factory and land owners dressed to the nines for a Saturday afternoon stroll through town, others are poor farmers or employees of those wealthy people. Most are friendly, a few heads turn, and Doc picks up bits of conversation as they pass.
"That's an odd pair, ain't it? Look at the size a' that galoot."
"Where, did he get those awful trousers? And that hat, my God!"
"Some people have no sense of decent fashion, my dear."
"Don't see that sort'a horse breed 'bout these parts, much. An' look at that bardin'. 'Taint right fer a horse like that to be carryin' such a load."
"More strangers, today. I wonder where they're all commin' from?"
"Must be part'a Lucas's crowd. Heard he's bringin' ten thousand men to take back the strip."
Thunderhorse remains silent. He seems to be experiencing an extreme case of culture shock. He is eying everyone with suspicion, and continually stares at trivialities. Women and men scoff when he stares to long at their dresses and shoes. Doc keeps leading him away from shops and barkers as he is continually drawn towards baubles and trinkets the likes of which he's never seen before.
"Uh, nahe zu mir," Doc attempts to tell Thunderhorse to stay close. Thunderhorse is at first confused, but understands.
As they turn down Ontario, they find themselves walking behind a dozen rag-tag militia men carrying rifles fixed with bayonets. They're being led by a man in a blue uniform with the stripes of a captain on his shoulder. Thunderhorse is startled by the sight.
"Bleiben Sie ruhig," Doc tells Thunderhorse to remain calm. They keep their distance and try not to attract attention. They don't seem to notice them. Eventually, the militamen turn towards the river.
They almost pass the "courthouse." It turns out to be a church with a sign out front that says "Monroe County Court and Episcopal Church, Honorable Judge Reverend Jacob Olden presiding." Below that is a smaller sign reading: "Court in session 9 am to noon, Monday through Friday. Church services Sundays 8 am to 11. Closed Saturdays."
"Aufenthalt hier," (Stay here) Doc instructs Thunderhorse. He approaches the church door. There's a post nailed to it.
"Special Trial tomorrow: Territory of Michigan vs. Steven Ritenrong for the Murder of Joseph Miller. 12 pm after regular Services. Fricassee potluck to follow."
The door is locked. Doc knocks, but there is no answer. "This can't be right," he mutters to himself. He secretly checks his I-Browse for more info. It turns out Toledo doesn't have an official courthouse until the 1850's. In fact, the first official business of Toledo as the seat of Lucas county takes place in a ramshackle wooden schoolhouse.
Doc checks his hand-held further. He asks it to find Dr. Ritenrong on the GPS map. A red dot blinks, pointing out a spot just a few meters from where he stands. Doc walks around to the side of the church. There's a small cellar window which Doc peers into, but it's too dark to see.
"Whadder you doin'?" A gruff voice yells, startling him. He's an older, gray haired, wiry bearded man in a leather hat and vest. He's carrying a rifle in one hand, and his free thumb is hooked into his belt. A tin star is pinned to his vest.
The Edge of Town, pt 2
"Hello Friend! Come and have a cool drink and tell me of the news," Doc calls to the old man. The mention of a drink seems to accelerate the farmer's lumbering pace.
Doc turns to Thunderhorse. "Relax, and don't get violent unless I yell 'Gott in Himmel,' got it?"
"What god, where?"
"It's just a signal. Now hush and get the whiskey." Thunderhorse nods and obeys. Doc secretly turns off the translator.
The old man arrives at the crossroads. "Well, how-do, stranger. Ain't seen yer likes 'bout here b'fore. Name-a Abraham, Abraham Hicks. But everyone jes' calls me Abe."
"Nice to meet you, Abe. I'm Doc Shaw, and this is my, uh, half-brother, Don." Doc leans in close and whispers. "He doesn't say much, he's a bit touched in the head."
Abe nods and smiles at Thunderhorse. Thunderhorse furrows his brows and snorts as he pours a drink from the small keg into the old man's tin mug. Thunderhorse proceeds to chug straight from the barrel.
"Yew fellers jus' in from Indiana?"
"Yes. We're on our way in from Chicago to find a lost relative, and to help people. See, I'm a medicine man. That's why they call me Doc. I've got the secret formula to cure a hundred ailments and put all good people at ease. Well, most of it. My long lost Uncle's got the final secret ingredient for my family's elixer. I need to talk to him to finish the recipe." Doc plays the part of snake-oil salesman convincingly. "Meanwhile, I've got some things for trade, if your interested."
"Yeh got anything fer my corns?"
Doc ponders for a moment. "Unfortunately, we're under-supplied at the moment. I've got some other wares, though."
Abe is not interested, and has nothing to trade. "I just stopped by the market to get some 'baccy seed, the missus will be mighty upset if I turn up with a barrel of whiskey instead." He motions towards the canvas sack in his lightly loaded cart. The wagon is old and about ready to fall apart, much like the horse that pulls it. "So, who's yer Uncle? Maybe I know 'im."
"He's a doctor, too. Don't know his name, exactly," Doc replies, lying on the spot. "I got a letter from him here in Toledo, but the bottom half of the letter was washed out by rain. But my poor, dying mother told me what he looks like. Said his name was Steven. Shorter man, about fifty, white hair and a beard, dresses well. She said he'd probably be in trouble with the law if I found him."
"Oh, you mean that Ohio doctor? Sho'nuff, your momma was right. He's locked up in the courthouse basement right now. Whole damn town is up in arms about him. First person to be arrested fer Pains and Penalties. Now he might be facin' trial for murder."
"What happened?"
"Well, sir, Ol' Joe was a farmer, owned some wheat fields a couple miles south a' here. Wound up dead in the river with a bullet in his head. When they pulled him out, here shows up this new doc no one ever seen before. He said he'd just been sent by Governor Lucas hisself, appointed county coroner. Well, Sheriff Jones goes an' arrests him on th' spot. He's been in jail fer three days now. Word is Governor Lucas denies he ever met the man. They say he's gonna be charged with Ol' Joe's murder, now."
"Why would they charge him with murder?"
Abe sips on the whiskey. "Way I see it, it's awfully suspicious him jus' showin' up in town and Joe a'gettin killed like that. He was a quiet old man, didn't have no enemies. Didn't have much friends, neither, but nobody 'round here 'ed kill him fer that. This ol' Doc's story don't check out, neither. No one from Columbus ever heard of 'im, least that's what I hear. Yessir, seems mighty suspicious. Trial's tomorrah right after church."
"Well, I best get that recipe from him before he's strung up. Which way is it to the courthouse?"
"Jes' head on down Monroe here and turn left at Ontario. It's at the end of the road."
"Is there a hotel nearby?"
"Matter'a'fact, there's rooms fer rent right across the street from the courthouse. Just tell Miss Jenkins ol' farmer Abe sent yeh, she'll fix you up nice. Well, it's nice meetin' y'all. Good luck with the medicine business. Maybe I'll look yeh up tomorrah 'bout my corns. 'Bye, now."
With that, the old man heads on down the road back towards the swamp.
