All’s Fair in Love and Prison Breaks

By Katie Hanna

“I’m Luke Skywalker, and I’m here to rescue you!”

I stride through the doors of my time machine, my compact, titanium blaster swinging jauntily from my hand.

Beneath her white lace cap, the young woman’s eyes widen. She scrambles to her feet. The iron chains clamped to her wrists rattle loudly.

“Who are you?” Charlotte Corday gasps in a heavy French accent. I didn’t expect her to speak English, but it’s a good thing she does, because I’m hopeless at French. She gazes at my sleek blue machine in wonder. “What is that—that thing?”

“I’m, uh, Hernandez, ma’am, and that’s, uh, my time machine.” I lick my lips. What’s with the stammering? Blue eyes and a round, sweet face never tied my tongue before!

This is all your fault, Miss O’Reilly, I think sourly, remembering the Green Room travel agent who sent me hurtling from the twenty-sixth century to the French Revolution. She convinced me she was doing me a favor. And now look at me, the big gibbering idiot!

I attempt a cocky smile, but I probably look like a stupid jack-o’-lantern.

“A time machine? You come from the future, monsieur?” Charlotte bites her soft, full lip. “But how did you pass the prison guards? I don’t understand!”

“Well, my ship travels through time, not space, which means, uh—” Great, now I’m babbling. With a deep breath, I set my blaster to “dissolve” and clomp across the flagstones toward the young woman.

“Ma’am, I’ll explain as soon as I can, but we’ve only got ten minutes for this rescue mission, so let’s make it snappy.” I gesture to her iron shackles. “I promise this won’t hurt. But I’ve got to shoot those handcuffs to get you out.”

“Rescue mission?” Charlotte shakes her head firmly. The lace ruffles on her cap flop back and forth. “Monsieur Hernandez, I do not intend to be rescued.”

I gape like a dying fish. “What?”

“I have made my sacrifice for France, monsieur.” The young woman raises her chin. “I have accepted my sentence as the price of freeing this nation from a tyrant.” Faint light from the dirty window shines in her beautiful eyes. “I am not afraid to die.”

“But you don’t deserve to die! Innocent people are dying in this stupid revolution every day, and you stepped up to do something about it.” My face flushes, and I blurt, “You’re a hero!”

Charlotte’s cheeks turn pink, but she shakes her head. “You are very kind,” she begins.

“Kind? More like stubborn.” I aim at the metal shackles. “Miss O’Reilly sent me to rescue you, and that’s what I’m going to do!”

Behind me, the door bursts open. Three guys in blue coats and cocked hats flood the prison cell, waving bayonets and cursing in French. Time to party, I guess.

“Sorry!” I yell at Charlotte.  I fire two quick shots at her handcuffs. The iron bands split neatly down the center and clatter to the floor. I set the blaster to “stun” and face the oncoming storm.

A bayonet blade hurtles toward my throat. I aim for its owner’s chest and pull the trigger. He slumps to the ground—out cold. There’s enough power in this baby to put an elephant to sleep.

The second man makes a beeline for Charlotte. I pivot and fire, but the blast bounces uselessly off the wall. The third guy leaps on me from behind, hooks an arm around my throat, and wrestles for my blaster. His arm tightens against my windpipe. Guy number two brandishes his blade, ready to stab Charlotte.

“Look out, ma’am!” I gurgle.

Charlotte Corday seizes the chains that shackled her and swings them like a lasso.

“I agreed to be guillotined for my crimes,” she shouts, her French accent thicker than ever, “not stabbed to death in a dirty prison cell!”

The iron cuff strikes her attacker in the forehead with a satisfying crack.

He reels backwards, moaning.

“That’s the way to treat ‘em!” I twist and elbow my attacker in the stomach hard enough to produce a similar groan. His grip loosens. I wrench my blaster free and shoot him in the nearest available spot—which happens to be his ribs. His limp body slides off my back.

The remaining guard lunges toward Charlotte again, but she wallops him in the stomach with the iron chains. It stops him cold.

Before he gets any more bright ideas, I shoot him.

He topples over, joining the other two guards sprawled on the floor. It’s a beautiful sight. But not half as beautiful as Charlotte Corday, standing over him, her weapon clutched in her fists. Her cap has slipped sideways, her auburn hair tumbles over her shoulders, and her eyes fairly glow.

I stretch a hand toward her.

“You still want to stay with these goons?” I wheeze. “Or have you changed your mind about dying?”

Charlotte’s lips curve, hesitant but hopeful.

“Ma’am, I know you’re not afraid to sacrifice yourself. I know you’ve accepted your fate. But your story doesn’t have to end on a chopping block. Together, you and I could change the script.” I hold my voice steady, though my tired arm trembles. “We could change the world.”

“Change the world,” Charlotte whispers.

Time stands still.

She reaches for my hand. Her thousand-megawatt smile stuns me like a blast from my own elephant gun.

My knees weak, my head fuzzy, I whisk her through my time machine’s doors. I’m babbling again, but who cares?

“Before we start the heavy, world-changing stuff, we’ve got to go on vacation in the Byzantine Empire, okay? It’s pretty boring there, but I promised the Green Room folks …”

Charlotte isn’t listening. Her eyes are saucers, drinking in the polished chromium interior of my time machine.

Our time machine.

With her hand safely tucked in mine, I flip a lever to start our journey through the vortex.

Under my breath, I mutter, “Thanks, Miss O’Reilly.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Katie Hanna is a writer in her spare time and a Hufflepunk all the time.  She has a Master’s degree in history from the University of Memphis, and puts it to work writing historical fiction and historical fantasy.  Katie likes strong women in her adventure stories and Oreos in her ice cream.

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