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This is my third Carnival of Mirrors tale. The others, also available on fictionmania, are: Carnival of Mirrors: Four Fates. Carnival of Mirrors: Generations. Like those, this one is a standalone tale. You don't have to have read them to follow this tale, but if you enjoy this one you'll probably enjoy them, too. If you like stories with a World War II setting you might also like my story: Mantra: Day of the Storm God Most of that one is set in Berlin during the final days of the Third Reich. Carnival of Mirrors is an 'open universe'. If you want to write a story using Solomon and the Carnival, the updated rules can be found at the end of 'Carnival of Mirrors: Generations', and 'Carnival of Mirrors: Four Fates' is probably the best story for demonstrating its possibilities. * CARNIVAL OF MIRRORS: HERO by BobH (c) 2005 '...the Battle of France is over...the Battle of Britain is about to begin...The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned upon us. Hitler knows he will have to break us in this island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands; but if we fail then the whole world, including the United States, and all we have known and cared for will sink into a new dark age, made more sinister and perhaps more prolonged by the lights of a perverted science. Let us therefore address ourselves to our duty, so bear ourselves that if the British Commonwealth and Empire lasts a thousand years, men will say "This was their finest hour".' ...Winston Churchill, 18 June 1940. * Essex, England, Saturday 7th September 1940 Slumped in an armchair out on the grass near the dispersal tents at Hornchurch, an RAF sector airfield to the east of London, Pilot Officer Paul Masterson stared at the scene before him. He was utterly exhausted, as were his fellow pilots. Paul glanced around at those pilots now, lying on the grass or sprawled across chairs and, like him, clad in their full flight gear. Some were smoking cigarettes, some taking slugs of whiskey from hip flasks, some playing cards, but few were saying much. It was hardly surprising their mood should be so subdued. They were all dead on their feet. What they needed was several weeks rest, but with the shortage of experienced fighter pilots this was not possible. The very survival of the nation lay with them and their fellow pilots. It was a responsibility they would not shirk, whatever the personal cost. A hundred or so yards away, riggers and fitters clambered over the surface of their Spitfires, making sure everything was as it should be while beneath them armourers busily reloaded the machine guns in the wings, and hoses snaked from tenders, filling the fuel tanks that fed their mighty Rolls-Royce Merlin engines. "God, I don't miss having to do that!" said Tom Mason from deep within the armchair next to Paul's. Tom was a Pilot Sergeant and had started out in the Royal Air Force as a rigger. Dark-haired and ruggedly handsome, Tom was a lot more solidly built than Paul, and his closest friend among the pilots of their squadron. "Rigging is probably easier on the nerves than being up there," said Paul. "Some of us seem to be better at staying up there than others, old boy," came a laconic voice from a nearby chair. The other pilots chuckled appreciatively at this good-humoured putdown. "Oh leave him alone, Brocky," said Jack Kendrick, the squadron's American pilot. "It could've happened to any of us." "Could have, yet didn't," came the reply. Paul had been shot down on Thursday, baling out and parachuting safely into a farmer's field in Kent, covered in oil and glycol. Two hours later he had been in the air again, in a new Spitfire. Along with crash-landings, this was an event so common among the pilots as to be barely worthy of comment. Unfortunately, that second Spitfire had been shot out from under him barely a half hour later. Losing two Spitfires in one afternoon was cause for (mostly amused) comment. Jack Kendrick, an American volunteer who had joined the RAF and been assigned to the squadron, had bagged the Me 109 that had got Paul on that occasion. Kendrick was a good man and one of their best pilots but he was also a bit of a puzzle. Paul fought to protect his country, but Kendrick had come to Britain hot from Spain where he had been fighting as a volunteer with the Abraham Lincoln Brigade in the Spanish Civil War. A brave man, but that level of ideological commitment, of belief in a cause, was alien to Paul. "Jerry's late today," observed Tom. "Hey, don't complain, buddy," said Jack. "Just sit back and enjoy it." "Perhaps they're getting as fed up with fighting us as we are with fighting them," said Tom. "That would be nice," said Paul, "but I'm not holding my breath." As one of the fighter squadrons that made up 11 Group, which was responsible for protecting the skies over south-east England, they had flown three or four sorties on every one of the previous five days, engaging the enemy on each occasion. It seemed like they were under constant attack both in the air and on the ground, often returning from a sortie to find their bases bomb-shattered and ablaze. Six months and a lifetime ago this had all been a thrilling adventure. Since then they had lost too many of their friends, and facing death was something they now did many times a day. Only yesterday one of their number had bought it, his Spitfire diving to the ground in flames. For some reason today had so far been unexpectedly quiet. It was already four in the afternoon and the operations phone had yet to ring. Perhaps this meant the German pilots were as exhausted as their British counterparts. Paul hoped so. It was pleasant dozing here in the hot sunshine under cloudless azure skies, and they could certainly do with the rest. "It's a crying shame we don't have one of those death rays from that crazy Buck Rogers stuff you're always reading, Masterson," murmured Jack Kendrick, "it would be great to be able to sweep the krauts from the sky that easily." His fellow pilots ribbed him mercilessly over his interest in the science fiction pulps, what with their lurid covers and often badly written prose, but Paul saw pointers towards a possible better future in them, and that ultimately was what they were fighting for, after all. There was a copy of 'Amazing Stories' on the small, folding table beside Paul's chair. It was lying next to a semi-complete model of a Spitfire he had been carving for several weeks. He had not had the energy to do much work on the model recently. He wondered when he would again. Paul's reverie was abruptly interrupted by the ringing of the operations phone, the direct line between the airfield and the 11 Group HQ at Uxbridge. Everyone stopped what they were doing, waiting with bated breath for the command to scramble. Then it came, the orderly manning the phone shouting "Scramble!" at the top of his voice. In an instant, the pilots were all on their feet and running for their aircraft. By the time they reached them, their mechanics had already started the engines, climbing out of the cockpits as the pilots climbed in. After his mechanic had helped him strap into his parachute, then passed the seat straps and helped him fasten them, so Paul gave him the thumbs up. On seeing this, the mechanic shut the side door, jumped to the ground, and ran around to the front of the port wing. As he was doing this, so Paul tightened his various straps, pulled on his leather helmet, and plugged in the R/T lead. After checking the engine was running properly, he waved the ground crew to pull away the chocks, opened his throttle, and moved forward out of his blast pen. Taxiing swiftly across the grass to his take off position, he lined up the aircraft, opened the throttle wide, and began his take off run. His was the third Spitfire to take to the air. From the scramble order to the last Spitfire leaving the ground took a minute and a half. When the squadron was airborne and formed up, their Squadron Leader, Christopher De Vere-Brocklehurst - known to one and all as 'Brocky' - contacted Operations, giving the squadron's radio call-sign. The reply came back from the Sector Controller over the R/T. A vast force of bombers with a full fighter escort had crossed the Kent coast and were heading for London. They were fifteen to twenty minutes out, which just barely gave the squadron time to climb to 20,000 feet, a good attacking height. After taking to the skies with the rest of the squadron, Paul had fallen into formation behind Ted Mason. Now, opening up to a high throttle setting to get to altitude as fast as possible, the squadron raced into the heavens together. Twenty minutes later they engaged with the Luftwaffe. "Bloody Hell!" said De Vere-Brocklehurst over the R/T on sighting the armada they faced. And what an astonishing sight it was. The sky before them was black with aircraft. They filled their field of view, stretching to the horizon. They were all there; Heinkel 111's and Dornier 17's, Junkers 88's and Messerschmitts - both the Me 109 and the twin engined Me 110 fighter-bomber. There was no way the squadron could ever hope to stop such a swarm by itself, or even with the assistance of the other squadrons of Spitfires and Hurricanes already racing to join them, but hopeless odds had never stopped them doing their duty before and would not stop them now. They had the advantage of both height and the sun at their backs. The Germans had not seen them yet, would not even know the Spitfires were there until they were among them. "OK, this is it, lads! Bandits at four o'clock!" said, Brocky, peeling off to starboard and going into a dive, "Tally ho!" The other Spitfires peeled off one by one, selecting their prey and diving straight at them. As the Me 109 he had chosen came into range and into his sights so Paul pressed his machine gun firing button.... * Little Horstead, Kent, Thursday 8th September 1990 Standing at the kitchen sink, gazing out the window at her son racing around their back garden, arms held straight out to simulate wings and yelling out machine gun noises at the top of his voice, Jill Holden smiled and shook her head ruefully. Steven had really been fired up by the preparations the village was making for next week's 50th anniversary celebrations for the Battle of Britain, and by the news his beloved great-grandfather would be visiting then, too. Her husband, Gerald, was the serious World War II buff in the family and a prime mover on the celebration committee. That their son would have developed an interest in the war growing up in a house filled with all manner of WWII paraphenalia, and with shelves groaning under the weight of books and videos on the conflict, was not surprising, but that interest had gone into overdrive as the anniversary approached. Then again, for a 7 year-old boy what could possibly be more glamorous or exciting than the fighter pilots who, like knights of old, rode out to engage in single-combat with the invader who threatened their homeland? This was the stuff of legend, and of boyhood fantasy. "He looks like he's enjoying himself," said Gerry Holden, coming up behind her and sliding his arms around his wife's waist. "Too much," said Jill, leaning back into Gerry's embrace. "If we can't calm him down he's going to burn himself out before tomorrow." "Oh, I don't know," chuckled Gerry, "I was a bit like that myself at his age. Of course, back then we didn't consume the vast amount of crisps, burgers, and soft drinks kids do today. I suppose all that junk food must make them hyperactive." "Well, as long as he's not too tired for our trip into London tomorrow," said Jill. "He's been excited about visiting Heathrow and the RAF Museum for weeks." "Hey, I'm pretty excited about visiting the museum again myself," said Gerry. "I always meant to go back, but what with one thing and another I haven't visited it since before Steven was born." "Shall I get him in from the garden now?" asked Jill, turning to face her husband. "Yeah, I think so," said Gerry. "I need to set off soon for Maidstone to pick up our costumes for Saturday's dance. I probably shouldn't have let him talk me into taking him with me so he could see the toy shops, but he's hard to say no to." "*I* never have any problem," said Jill. "You're just a soft touch. And no more Airfix model kits, OK? There's no room to hang any more plastic aeroplanes from his bedroom ceiling." "As always, your wish is my command!" he said, kissing her on the lips. "Yeah, right," she said, ruefully. Disengaging from his arms, she opened the back door. "Time to go into Maidstone with your Dad, young man!" she said, and Steven came carooming into the kitchen, still pretending to be a Spitfire. "See you later, darling," said Gerry, grabbing their son's hand and heading for the street, their car being parked in the road in front of the house. A minute or two later, Jill heard the engine start up and listened as the car headed out of the village, the sound of its engine gradually fading away to nothing. Now that the men of the family had gone, Jill had chores of her own to attend to, not the least of which was a trip to the village shop to pick up some fresh vegetables for lunch. In her bedroom, she sat at her dressing table and examined her reflection critically, taking in her long blonde hair and her slender figure. She was not cursed with false modesty about her looks. She knew she was pretty, and without any effort on her part she had the sort of body most women would kill for. There was one thing that was annoying about it, however. At 28, and despite having given birth to a son, she still could have passed for someone ten years younger without her make-up. This was one of the reasons she liked it so much. Without her make-up on she had more than once been refused service at pubs where they had assumed she was too young to drink, and people often took her for Steven's sister rather than his mother. No, looking young might be something most women aspired to, but looking like a teenager at her age was more of a nuisance than a boon. After applying lipstick and mascara, she decided she was satisfied. Throwing on a light leather jacket over her blouse, jeans, and trainers (why did Americans call them 'sneakers' anyway, she wondered briefly?), she grabbed her shoulder bag and headed for the door. Little Horstead was rare among villages in the South-East in that it had managed to survive until now largely unchanged. Unlike neighbouring villages which had been 'developed' and expanded to provide more satellite accomodation for London, it still consisted of the same couple of streets and score or so of houses, still the same single church and pub, that it had for centuries. The houses all had thatched roofs, and the main street was still cobbled. That street was hell to walk along if you were wearing high heels, but fortunately the pavements on either side of it consisted of mostly-level flagstones. Heading for the village shop - which was also the village Post Office, newsagent, and chemist - Jill had to pass the church. Their house was on Church Lane, one of two short streets that branched off the village's main street. The Church of St. Michael & All Angels - known to everyone as 'St. Mike's', of course - was as much the village's community centre as it's dispenser of spiritual sustenance, and in many ways was the heart of the village. In the field behind the church, a small fair was setting up. Jill remembered reading something about this in the minutes of the last meeting of the local parish council, a document that got posted through every letterbox in the village. The council had booked the fair for a week to tie in with the Battle of Britain celebration, something which struck Jill as one of their better ideas. The attractions of the fair would be supplemented on Battle of Britain Day itself by traditional staples of village fetes across the land such as raffles, tombolas, and tables selling cakes and preserves made by members of the local Women's Institute. Curiosity getting the better of her, Jill wandered over to where the roadies - or whatever they were called - were putting the final touches to the various attractions. These included rides, stalls, and the inevitable 'bouncy castle'. One attraction that already seemed to be finished, to judge by the figure sitting at a small folding table by its entrance, drinking a large mug of tea, was a striped tent about ten feet square in plan, over the entrance to which was a gaudily painted sign that declared it to be 'The Carnival of Mirrors'. A smaller sign on the table itself, propped up against a metal cash box, read: 'Adults ?1 admission, Children 50p'. "Not a lot, I know," said the man at the table, "but these days there's a limit to how much you can charge for entry to a simple mirror maze. The name's Solomon, by the way." He stood up, unfolding to his full impressive height, and held out his hand. "Jill Holden," said Jill, shaking his hand but somewhat taken aback by Solomon. He was tall, bald, pale, bug-eyed, and gaunt, quite a striking and imposing figure. "Pleased to meet you," he said. "I love this village of yours and I'm glad I got booked for your celebration. Honouring the sacrifice made by those brave young men is something I feel privileged to be a part of." "Yes, they were young weren't they?" said Jill. "My husband, Gerry, is the aviation buff in our family and I'd never really paid a lot of attention to it before - boy's stuff, you know - but with the anniversary coming up I got interested in the men who fought back then. Men. Most of them were in their late teens or early twenties; little more than boys, really." "I suppose they were the ones who had the best reflexes when it came to throwing about high-performance aircraft in combat", said Solomon. "I suppose so," said Jill, "but Lord they were young! Lots of them died without ever really having tasted life or known the love of a partner. They gave so much - everything in some cases - yet got so little. Gerry is really into the strategy and the tactics, of course, how one aircraft measures up against another, but it's those young pilots and what they sacrificed I can't get out of my head." "If you could help them, maybe just one of them, experience a life he would otherwise never have known, would you do it?" asked Solomon, staring at her intently. "What sort of a question is that?" asked Jill, confused. "A hypothetical one, of course," said Solomon. "How could it be anything else? So, would you?" He was staring at her even more intensely now, almost as if he was trying to peer into her soul. "Hypothetically?" said Jill, feeling uncomfortable under his gaze. "Yes, yes I would. They gave so much; it would be wonderful to be able to give something back." "I see," said Solomon, smiling. He tore a ticket off the roll on his table. "One free admission," he said, handing her the ticket. "On the house." "Thank you," said Jill, accepting the ticket uncertainly. When she had wandered over to check out the fair, Jill had not intended sampling any of the attractions, but she did not want to offend Solomon by turning down his offer. With the tent being so small it could not take too long to traverse the maze, she reasoned. So, ticket in hand, she tentatively entered The Carnival of Mirrors. To her surprise, the maze seemed much larger than the tent it was in should have been able to contain. After several turns she was convinced she must have reached the far side of the tent but there was no sign of it, the corridor she was walking down stretching an improbable way into the distance. Part of this was illusion, of course, an artifact of the mirrors reflecting each other, but Jill soon realized her first impression was correct. The maze *was* larger than the tent. A cold sweat trickling down her back, she picked up her pace, taking the turns at random and at speed in her haste to exit the maze. Turning one corner that looked no different to the others, Jill halted in her tracks, She had arrived at a chamber, one that by itself was larger than the tent. It was lined with mirrors and, standing erect and in a row in the middle of the chamber were six more mirrors. These were different, however. These mirrors had people in them. What she was looking at were reflections, Jill realized, relections held in the mirrors like a fly in amber, frozen images divorced from those who had cast them. All the images had in common was that in every one the person had a hand pressed to the glass on their side of the mirror. In the first mirror was a young girl of six or seven, dressed in a pretty party dress; while the second showed a twentysomething black man in flared trousers and a leather jacket, sporting the largest afro Jill had ever seen. It was the figure in the third mirror that caught Jill's attention however. It showed a young man maybe twenty years old with a weary, haunted look in his eyes. He was dressed in the blue-grey uniform of the RAF, the wings on his breast showing he was a pilot, the top button of his jacket undone. Without even looking at the images in the remaining mirrors, Jill knew this was the one Solomon had intended for her. An odd calm descended on her, washing away the rising fear that had gripped her as she realised the supernatural nature of the maze. Without knowing quite why, she reached out, laying her fingertips over those of the pilot. And then she was somehow stepping into and through the mirror, feeling a strange sensation almost is if she had brushed past someone headed in the opposite direction. She blinked, looking into the mirror before her and now seeing not the pilot's reflection but her own. However, the obviously male hand whose fingertips touched those of her reflection now lay at the end of an arm sheathed in the sleeve of a blue-grey uniform. "What the hell...?!" said Jill in an oddly deep voice, snatching that hand from the mirror, away from that frozen image of her female self. She looked down at her new body in shock, taking in the crisp RAF uniform, that flat chest missing the lovely curves and comforting weight of her breasts. Raising a hand to her face, she ran it over those unfamilar contours, that alien angularity, and the beginnings of a scratchy stubble. "This can't be happening!" she whispered, hoarsely, turning her hands over before her, marvelling at them. Fumbling in the pocket of her uniform, she pulled out a folded grey card that bore the legend: 'National Registration Identity Card'. Opening it she discovered that the person this body belonged to was named Paul Masterson. "Oh no," she said, "no, no, no!". She couldn't be this man, did not want to be this man. Since it was touching the image that caused the body switch the first time, touching the frozen image of her own body should reverse it, she reasoned. Putting the identity card back where she had found it, Jill reached out for her own real reflection. As she did so, the image in the mirror faded and vanished. * Rainham, Essex, Sunday 8th September 1940 As the two-seater sports car sped through country lanes heading for Rainham, a few miles from Hornchurch, with Brocky at the wheel, him in the passenger seat, and Jack Kendrick and Ted Mason sitting precariously on the rear, only anchored in position by their legs jammed into the narrow space behind the seats, Paul Masterton thought about what an odd trio the Britons made. Squadron Leader the Right Honourable Christopher De Vere-Brocklehurst was a baronet, the son and heir of Lord Brocklehurst, the oil and steel tycoon, and about as blue-blooded as they came. Paul himself was an Oxford graduate, the son of a doctor and a school-teacher, while Ted Mason was the son of a welder. Drawn from the aristocracy, the middle-class, and the working class, they represented Britain in microcosm. What united them all was their passion for flying. Paul had learned to fly when he joined the Oxford University Air Squadron, while Lord Brocklehurst had bought his flight-obsessed son his own aircraft and hired a private instructor. When war broke out, Paul and Brocky had been among the first to join the Royal Air Force. Ted Mason's experience had been very different. Just as flight obsessed but without the means to afford flying lessons, he had joined the RAF in 1938 and been sent to their main apprentice school at Halton Park in Hertfordshire to train as a rigger. At that time, the RAF apprentice schemes included flying training for a certain number of riggers, fitters, and other tradesmen. Two places were set aside at the cadet college at Cranwell each year for the top performers from Halton. Ted Mason had been one of these, going on to achieve his dream of being a fully-fledged RAF pilot. Such wide divergences of rank, wealth, and privilege made Fighter Command the most socially diverse elite the British military had ever seen and an oddity in a country still locked into a rigid class system whose strict social mores defined how people behaved towards each other. Among the fighter pilots, all that mattered was whether or not you had what it takes. In the air, facing the enemy, class distinctions were irrelevant, and how good you were had little to do with where you came from. All three of the pilots were twenty-one years old, all three had what it took, and that was all that mattered to them. "Here we are, chaps!" said Brocky as the car screeched to a halt outside the Red Bull, throwing up a spray of gravel in the process. The Red Bull was a pub much beloved of the pilots and a regular squadron haunt. They clambered out of the car, brushed their uniforms down and donned their caps. "First round's on me," grinned Brocky. "Go ahead without me," said Paul. "I think I need to wander around out here for a few minutes first. Clear my head." "You OK, Masty?" said Ted, concerned for his friend. "Yes, I shall be quite fine," said Paul. "Just be sure you leave some beer for me." "Oh we'll do that alright, old boy," laughed Brocky, "just don't expect us to leave any girls for you." "Why are we still yakking out here," said Jack Kendrick, "when the booze and the dames are inside?" "Jolly good question," said Brocky. "See you later, Masterson!" With that, he put his arms around the shoulders of the other two and sauntered into the Red Bull. Paul knew his companions would have no trouble at all attracting women. Hell, they would be falling over each other to get to the pilots. The fighter boys were loved the length and breadth of the country for what they were doing, and that admiration had gone into overdrive since the Prime Minister's speech last month praising them with the immortal line: "Never in the field of human conflict have so many owed so much to so few." "Uh oh," Brocky had said, listening to Churchill's speech on the wireless, "it looks like someone's told him about our bar bills." Paul actually found the public admiration, which bordered on adulation, difficult to take, particularly the female attention. Unlike his comrades, Paul did not want that attention from them. No, what he wanted was to *be* them. A few weeks ago, Paul's batman had discovered a pair of silk stockings while packing his effects for the squadron's posting to Hornchurch. He had grinned, winked at Paul, and doubtless spread word of this evidence of an amorous conquest. It would never have occurred to him that they had not been worn by a lover but by Paul himself. It was his duty to defend his country, one he performed gladly, but more than anything Paul was fighting for the future. He had no idea what that future might look like, had not seen it in any of the science fiction stories he devoured so avidly, but it was one in which he could be himself, could be the person he really was inside. This was assuming he lived to see any sort of future at all, of course. Paul held his hand out in front of him. It was trembling uncontrollably. He had managed to keep this from his companions, but it would be impossible to conceal if he was holding a pint of beer. He knew he was losing it, that the constant fear and danger was finally getting to him. If he had to fly again any time soon in this state there was a good chance he would be killed. He had seen the signs in others just before they bought it. He knew what they meant, that he was getting close to cracking up. Taking long, slow, deep breaths in an effort to calm the trembling, he wandered into the field behind the pub, where he was surprised to see a small travelling fair had set up shop since they had last visited the pub two days earlier. There were few people around yet - which was good. He did not think he could have handled their adoration in his current state. Wandering over, Paul was disappointed by how meagre the fair was. Given wartime rationing and restrictions this was not too surprising, but still; a fair should consist of more than a couple of stalls and a few tents. One of these tents, which was striped and around ten foot square in floor area, attracted Paul's attention. The painted sign over the entrance identified it as 'The Carnival of Mirrors', while next to that entrance was a small sign that read: Adults 3d, Children 1 1/2d. Standing next to this sign was one of the oddest looking people Paul had ever seen. Tall and gaunt, he was pale skinned with large, bulging eyes, and completely bald. "Is business any good?" asked Paul, by way of conversation when the man noticed his attention. "Not too bad at all, sir," said the man. "A bit quiet tonight so far, but with the war and all, people are happy for anything that takes their mind off it, even if only for a few minutes. I'm Solomon, by the way." "Pleased to meet you, Solomon," said Paul, shaking his hand. "Pilot Officer Paul Andrew Masterson at your service." "At the service of all of us," said Solomon, "and doing a splendid job of it, too. We've been watching the dogfights between you boys and the Luftwaffe take place over our heads all summer. Only last week a Heinkel that had been shot down crashed into the marshes, barely a mile from here. Members of the Home Guard watched over it until the military came and took it away. I expect they examined it to see if they could learn anything from it that might help you and your comrades, then had it melted down to make more Spitfires." "I expect so," said Paul, who did not really feel like talking shop. Like the civilians who visited the fair, all he wanted was to forget about the war for a few minutes. On impulse, he reached into his pocket and brought out a shilling. "Haven't been in a mirror maze since I was a boy," he said, handing the coin to Solomon. Solomon took the coin, noting how Paul's hand was trembling, giving him back his ticket and change - a tanner and a thruppenny bit. "You look like you could do with a rest," he said. "All of us in Fighter Command could," said Paul. "Fighting Uncle Adolf's Luftwaffe is a full-time job, and we don't knock off at five o'clock or get weekends off." "I think the Carnival of Mirrors will let you put that all behind you," said Solomon. "For a few minutes, at any rate," agreed Paul. "Oh, for rather longer than that, I should think," said Solomon, mysteriously. Not knowing what to say in response to this odd comment, Paul merely shrugged and entered the tent. He had not penetrated far into the maze before realizing that something was very, very wrong. After several turns, it became apparent that, impossible as it seemed, the maze was larger on the inside than on the outside. Then there were the odd smells, drifting up on strange breezes from turns not taken. What the hell was going on? Paul was a strict rationalist. He did not believe in God or in the supernatural, but something was going on here he did not understand, that did not fit into any rational frame of reference. He should be frightened, and yet he was not. Instead he felt exhilarated. Even the trembling in his hands had ceased. When he came at last to the centre of the maze, to that mysterious chamber with the row of mirrors running down its centre, a reflection from some other time caught in each of those half-dozen glasses, his reaction was one of fascination. He examined every one of them with great interest. They contained a young blonde woman wearing trousers and a leather jacket; a middle-aged man in sandals and a toga; someone dressed as a captain in the army of the Confederacy; a young girl of maybe seven or eight, dressed in a school uniform; an old black woman in Carribean garb; a stern faced young man about Paul's own age, wearing the uniform of someone in Oliver Cromwell's New Model Army. It was the image of the young woman in the first mirror that drew his attention. She was very pretty, her face lightly made up, and looked to be in her early twenties. She had a lovely figure, though Paul was puzzled by her attire. Why would a woman who looked like that wear a leather jacket, the sort of trousers only a farmhand would be seen in, and those clunky running shoes? It was a puzzle. Nevertheless, in that face and body was everything he had ever wanted to be. Slowly, almost reverently, Paul reached out, laying his hand over the woman's slender fingers. As he felt himself stepping into and through the mirror, sensing rather than feeling someone heading in the opposite direction, Paul knew instinctively what was happening. Opening his eyes on the other side, he stared first at the reflection of his old self now trapped in the mirror before him, then down at his body. He whooped with joy at what he saw, hugging himself and marvelling at the feel of breasts on his chest, at the way his weight was now distributed about his body. Looking at his new reflection in the ordinary mirrors lining the walls of the chamber, Paul could not stop grinning. What had happened to him was incredible, impossible, and totally wonderful! After five minutes or so, he tore himself away from his reflection long enough to rummage through the shoulder bag he was carrying. In it he found a letter, still in its envelope. On the front was written: Ms Jill Holden 3 Church Lane Little Horstead Kent The postage stamp bore an image of what was clearly an older version of Princess Elizabeth. What really gave him pause, however, was the postmark: 3rd September, 1990. He was in the future! He was a woman and he was in the future! Yes, he was a woman. And if he - no, *she* - had any say in the matter, she was going to stay that way. Looking at the envelope again, she read the name out, trying it on for size. "Jill Holden," she murmured. "Yes, I can live with that. Hello, my name is Jill Holden. But 'Ms'? Is that some new-fangled abbreviation for 'Miss' or for 'Mrs'?" A quick glance at her left hand confirmed the presence of engagement and wedding rings she had been too excited to notice before. "Looks like Mrs it is," she said, uncertainly. It was one thing becoming a woman but if a husband was part of the package this might not be quite the deal she had thought it was. Shrugging, she took the letter from the envelope. It was from a friend, telling her how much she and her husband had enjoyed spending a weekend with Jill and her family. She was able to glean from the letter that her own husband's name was Gerry and that she had a young son named Steven. "Well, I can't put it off any longer," murmured Jill. "Time to go out and see what the world of 1990 looks like." * Little Horstead, Kent, Thursday 8th September 1990 Exiting the Carnival of Mirrors, the new Jill Holden was surprised to see Solomon standing next to the entrance. Save for his clothing, he looked exactly as he had in 1940. Seeing her, he smiled. "Yes, you really have travelled fifty years into the future," he said, shrewdly reading the doubt on her face. "I don't have the same, ah, relationship with time that everyone else does. So, is your new situation to your liking?" "God, yes," said Jill, "but...I never told anyone, so how did you know?" "I didn't," said Solomon. "After you've been judged by the Carnival of Mirrors I know all about your life up to that point, but before then I know nothing. It's the Carnival of Mirrors that picks who will be judged and gives them a choice of fates, but how these things are determined is as much a mystery to me as it is to you. I am the servant of the Carnival of Mirrors, not its master." "Hmmm," said Jill, digesting this. "Does this mean that the original Jill Holden is now in my body, back in 1940?" "As it happens, yes," said Solomon, "but a one-to-one body switch is not how the Carnival of Mirrors usually works, which makes this one a bit of a rarity. What usually happens is that that person A switches into the body of person B, who switches into the body of person C, who switches into the body of person D, and so on for what can sometimes be very long chains." "Do people switch genders in many of these exchanges?" said Jill. "It happens more often then you'd expect," said Solomon, "sometimes because of the person's own desires and sometimes because that is the judgment of the Carnival of Mirrors itself, or so I believe." "So what do I do next?" asked Jill. "Next?" said Solomon. "Why you go home to your family, Mrs Holden, and you enjoy what has been given to you." "Yes," said Jill, "yes, that is what I should do." Turning to leave she paused, and gazed back at Solomon. "The war," she said, "what happened?" "The Allies won," said Solomon. "They defeated the Axis powers in 1945." "It took that long?" said Jill, aghast. "The casualties must have been enormous." "They were," said Solomon. "As it happens you've arrived here in time for a major World War Two remembrance. Seven days from now, people will be celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of the Battle of Britain." "It warrants its own celebration?" said Jill. "Was it that significant, then?" "Oh yes," said Solomon, "far more so than any of you pilots realized at the time. But, that's something you should find out about for yourself. Go now, and explore your new life." "Yes, thank you, Solomon, I will." Walking across the field and exiting via the gate, Jill was accutely aware of her changed centre of gravity, of the greater swaying of her hips as she walked, and the pleasing feeling of long hair flowing across her shoulders. Not that she was oblivious to her surroundings. Quite the contrary. The village itself looked little changed from those she had known half a century earlier, though she was puzzled by the aerials and what looked like small radar dishes on the roofs and walls of the houses. Had wireless technology advanced to the point that there were now powerful transmitters and receivers in every home, she wondered? A greater shock, however, were the clothes people were wearing, particularly the young. She stopped in the street, mouth agape, at the sight of one young couple. They looked to be around 16 years-old and were walking towards her, holding hands. Both were dressed head-to-toe in black and wearing what looked like the sort of leather collars you would put on a dog, studded with spikes. He had shoulder length hair but shaved at the sides, and was wearing earrings. She had multiple rings in each ear, one through her right nostril, an elaborate tattoo on her left bicep, and was wearing black lipstick and black eyeshadow. Could this pair be with a circus, Jill wondered, speculating wildly to fight off the feelings of vertigo she was experiencing, or did every teenager dress this way in this era? "'Morning, Mrs Holden," said the girl, cheerily as they swept by. Jill managed a weak smile and a feeble wave in return. At the edge of the village green was a war memorial. Every village had one, a stone obelisk with a plaque recording the names of everyone from there who had been killed in action during the Great War. Jill walked over to it to pay her respects, momentarily surprised to see a second plaque listing those who had fallen during World War II then realizing that, yes, of course such plaques would have been added at the end of that conflict. She stood there for a long time, staring at the plaque, eyes brimming with tears. Jill had experienced shock in the RAF, knew what it felt like, and knew this was what she was feeling as she unlocked the door to the house on Church Lane. This was all too much for her, all too much to take in at once. She needed a stiff drink and, locating the drinks cabinet in the main room, poured herself a shot of whiskey. She threw it straight back, then started coughing uncontrollably. This was not the most pleasant of ways to discover she now had the body of someone who did not drink. Her eyes streaming, she could see her hands were trembling again. Dropping into a large armchair, she forced herself to calm down. Eventually, she had calmed enough to start looking around her, at last taking an interest in the house around her. There was a small writing desk in the corner of the room. On it was a family photograph showing her, a man who had to be her husband, and their son. Jill picked it up and examined them curiously. Her husband and her son. Well, she could have done much worse, she thought. Though there had only been a few hundred televisions in the entire country before the limited broadcasts had been suspended with the outbreak of war, Jill recognized the large screen in the corner for what it was. She could not get over how large it was. In her own time a nine inch screen had been considered impressive. Gingerly, she pressed what seemed to be the on/off button, expecting to have to wait several minutes while the valves warmed up. She was shocked when the picture sprang into being within seconds, and stunned by the quality of the colour image. It was almost as good as a technicolor film in a cinema. As it happened, she had turned the TV on during a news broadcast and this she watched avidly, desperate for information about this wondrous new world she found herself in. The biggest surprises were discovering that Germany was now a respected member of a peaceful and prosperous Europe; that the country had a female Prime Minister; and that homosexuals were no longer persecuted criminals but openly campaigning for the same rights as the heterosexual majority. These all struck Jill as good things, as evidence the world had actually moved forward, but the conflicts raging in parts of the globe beyond Europe seemed depressingly familiar. Only the names had changed. In the cabinet below the television was a device Jill did not recognize. The label on it read 'video recorder', and there was a slot at the front the size of the 'video cassettes' shelved alongside it. From these names, Jill deduced the device must enable you to record television shows onto the cassettes in some fashion. The concept was utterly incredible to her, but this did appear to be what it must do. Having no idea how to operate it, she left the device well alone. Better to play safe than take a chance on wrecking it. Jill wandered over to the bookcase on the far wall. It was full of volumes devoted to World War II. One in particular caught her eye: 'Fighter Squadron - the memoir of a Battle of Britain Spitfire pilot, by Air Vice-Marshall Sir Edward Mason, DFC, OBE'. "Air Vice-Marshall, and a knighthood!" grinned Jill, delighted by this discovery. "Ted, you old dog, I never knew you had it in you!" The squadron in question was Paul Masterson's squadron, which meant this book would record what had happened to Jill's old comrades. She opened the book, intending to read it, then paused. The book would almost certainly reveal details of the deaths of dear friends, and Jill was not sure she was up to reading these just yet. She carefully placed the book down on the coffee table and sighed. She stared into space for a moment, then shook her head vigorously. She had just been granted her heart's desire yet here she was wallowing in unhappiness. Yes, the war memorial and the book were a shock but those events now lay half a century in the past. She needed to move on, to embrace this new world and the miracle that had happened to her. She certainly wanted to read Ted's book, *needed* to read it, but that could wait a few days. For now there was something she was far more eager to do. In the main bedroom, Jill stripped off all her clothes and stood naked in front of the full length mirror, examining her new body critically. If it had any flaws - and it probably did - they were invisible to her. All she saw was perfection, the beautiful female body she had wanted all her life. She cupped a pert breast in one hand, gently thumbing the nipple erect. It felt wonderful. She was tempted to go further, and slid her hand down to her crotch before deciding otherwise. No, there were other things she wanted to explore first. Opening one of the drawers on what was obviously her side of the bed, she pulled out the lingerie it contained, examining this with great deliberation before deciding what she wanted to try on. She was intrigued by a racy black leather corset and so pulled it around her middle, breathing in so she could fasten the hooks and eyes at the front. Fortunately, it did not have lacing at the back which would have required assistance to do up. There were straps for fastening stockings sewn into the bottom of the corset, so she selected a pair of seamed black stockings and carefully rolled them up her legs, fastening them in place, then standing and adjusting them to ensure the seams were straight. This done, she found a pair of five inch stilettos in the bottom of the wardrobe and slipped these on. Clearly not intended for wearing beyond the bedroom, she tottered about on these slightly uncertainly before steadying herself enough to take a long black negligee from a hanger in the wardrobe. With this on the ensemble was complete and Jill stood before the full length mirror, turning this way and that, admiring her figure, and grinning a lot. She was a woman, a beautiful woman, and this was a miracle. "Hello, honey, I'm home!" came a male voice from downstairs. This must be Gerry, the man who was her husband! She felt panicked, but before she could decide what to do, he had bounded up the stairs and was there in the bedroom door, staring at her in open-mouthed surprise. Jill was frozen to the spot, barely having time to register how good-looking he was, that his photo did not really do him justice, before he had crossed the short space between them, taken her in his arms, and was kissing her. Jill was too stunned to protest or even react, and felt positively giddy when Gerry pulled away and grinned at her. "What a wonderful surprise!" he said. "When I dropped Steven off at his cub scout event meeting, I had no idea you'd want to spend the afternoon like this." With that her swept her off her feet, carried her over to the bed, and began stripping off. Things were moving awfully fast, and this was not what Jill had intended or even something she had had time to give a lot of thought to, but that kiss had definitely gotten her physically aroused, and it seemed easier just to go with what was happening. Dressing like this in the middle of the day was clearly an understood signal to Gerry of his wife's desires. So it was that within a few hours of becoming a woman, Jill found herself lying on her back, legs drawn up, having sex with her husband. And it was overwhelming, even better than she had dreamed it could be. "What's wrong?" asked Gerry as she lay in his arms afterwards and he saw the tears brimming in her eyes. "Nothing's wrong, nothing at all," sobbed Jill. "That was wonderful. It couldn't have been more right." Gerry did not really understand - women could be so strange, sometimes - but he gently pulled his wife closer to him and kissed her forehead. They lay together like this for a long time until Gerry said: "I noticed 'Fighter Squadron' on the coffee table when I came in. Have you decided to actually read up on the Battle of Britain now the semi-centennial is almost upon us?" "Something like that, yes," said Jill, "though I've barely cracked the covers so far." "An incredible bunch of guys," said Gerry. "We owe them all a debt that can never be repaid." "Ted Mason obviously survived the war," she said, "but what happened to others like Squadron-Leader De Vere-Brocklehurst and Jack Kendrick?" This might hurt, but Jill had to know. She hoped it would be easier hearing it from someone else, while lying in his arms. "'Brocky' Brocklehurst was shot down and killed in North Africa in 1944. He was one of the RAF's top aces by that point, responsible for taking out dozens of German planes, yet he was brought down by fire from a ground battery. Just bad luck, I suppose. As for Jack Kendrick, when America entered the war he transferred to the United States Army Air Force, as it then was. With all his experience, he soon became one of their top aces and earned a whole chest-full of medals. He was invalided out early in 1945 when he lost an arm in a bad crash after being shot down. Not that any of that helped him against McCarthy." "'McCarthy'?" said Jill, puzzled. Gerry gave her a curious look. "I know you've never been that interested in the nuts'n'bolts of World War Two," he said, "but you must've heard of Senator Joseph McCarthy and his anti-communist witch hunts?" When Jill still looked puzzled, Gerry shook his head sadly. "In the early 1950s," he said, "America was in the grip of anti-communist hysteria. The public were frightened of the communist menace within. This subsequently turned out to have been insignificant, but not before a lot of people had their civil rights trampled and their lives ruined. Joe McCarthy was a senator who decided to use that fear and who instigated a series of hearings into communist influence in government, in Hollywood, and eventually in the military." "The military?" said Jill, aghast. "You mean he was allowed to attack the patriotism of people who'd risked their lives for their country only a few years earlier?" "Yes," said Gerry, grim-faced. "It seems amazing now that someone would have the gall to question their patriotism, but he did. And until he took on the US Army as an organisation, he got away with it. There's a videotape downstairs of 'Point of Order', if you want to see it some time. It's a documentary about the Army-McCarthy hearings. Anyway, given his time with the Abraham Lincoln Brigade in Spain it was inevitable Jack Kendrick would be labelled a 'premature anti-fascist'. Jack was a decorated war hero, so McCarthy treated him with kid gloves at first. He was told he only had to name names and he would be free to go with his reputation untarnished. Jack had very different ideas than McCarthy about his reputation and what would and wouldn't tarnish it. He had never betrayed those he had fought beside, and he wasn't about to start now. He had devoted his life to battling tyranny and so recognized McCarthy for the demogogue he was. So Jack refused to name names, but the experience so soured him on the country he loved that he left America and never returned. He moved to Britain, became a respected novelist and TV screenwriter, and died here about six years ago." "That's awful!" said Jill. "Yes, it was, but you have to understand that, basically, America went crazy for a while back then. I mean, questioning the patriotism of a decorated war hero who'd given a limb in the service of his country..." his voice trailed off and he shook his head. "It just seems incredible now. The one good thing is that, after that experience, it could never happen there again." They stayed in bed several hours, and made love again in that time. The second time was even better for Jill. Yesterday she had been male and a virgin; today she was a married woman, and having sex with her husband. That her first experience of sex should be as a woman was as she had always dreamed, and it seemed right that it should be with Gerry. They had only just met, but it was as if she had known him all her life. "Steven will be home soon," said Gerry at length, "so we'd better get up." "If we must," said Jill, still luxuriating in the post-coital afterglow, her body tingling. Only in combat had she ever felt so alive before. This was better. Gerry dressed quickly in his discarded clothes, as men do, and headed downstairs. Jill took off the now somewhat dishevelled garments she was wearing and inventoried the contents of her wardrobe. She settled on a plain skirt and blouse, the sort of things she imagined a woman would wear around the house, as well as a plain white bra and panties set and some low-heeled sandals. When she got downstairs, Gerry was in the kitchen cooking a meal. "I've put a documentary on the Battle of Britain in the video for you," he said. "It's all cued up so you sit and watch that while I make our dinner. The remote's on the arm of my chair." Jill seated herself in the armchair and gingerly picked up the remote control. This apparently controlled both the television and the video recorder but, at first glance, the symbols above the buttons were impenetrable. "I'm a fighter pilot, goddammit," she muttered under her breath, "operating this has to be simpler than handling a Spit in a dogfight!" After a couple of abortive attempts, Jill managed to get both the TV and VCR switched on and the tape started. She was inordinately pleased at accomplishing this, and her attention was soon captivated by the documentary itself. This was both history and what had until a few hours ago been her own future. Shortly before the end, there was a knock on the front door. "That'll be Steven," said Gerry, from the kitchen. "Perfect timing; the food's almost ready. Will you let him in, hon? Only I've got my hands full." "Of course," said Jill, reluctantly stopping the tape. Opening the door, she was greeted by a young boy who threw his arms around her waist and hugged her tightly. "Look's like someone's happy to see his Mum," grinned Gerry, as Jill somewhat tentatively ruffled Steven's hair. Gerry had cooked up a chicken chasseur, which they had with green vegetables, new potatoes, and big chunks of fresh, crusty white bread. With wartime rationing being what it was, it was the best meal Jill had tasted in some time. Over dinner, watching Steven and Gerry bantering back and forth, and enjoying Steven's happy laughter, she felt a swelling in her heart towards them. They were now her husband and her son. She knew that learning to think of them that way and growing to love them would not be difficult at all, because she was already starting to. After dinner they all watched TV together until Steven's bedtime. Every show was a new window on this future world she found herself in and Jill was fascinated by all of them. She was particularly taken with one called 'Star Trek: The Next Generation', also a firm favourite of Gerry and Steven, which depicted a possible future in which humans were a spacefaring species. The spacecraft, its interiors, and the space battles looked hyper-realistic to her and she was deeply impressed by them. This made the rockets on the covers of her beloved science fiction pulp magazines look embarrassingly primitive. Steven commented in passing that something called 'the Star Wars trilogy' was even better. A quick glance at their shelves revealed they owned video recordings of these movies. She looked forward to viewing them. "OK, it's time you were in bed, young man," announced Gerry at length. "Aw, do I have to, Dad?" groaned Steven, in the time-honoured fashion of 7 year-olds everywhere. "Yes, I'm afraid so," grinned Gerry. "And after Mummy's washed you and put you to bed I don't expect to hear another peep out of you, okay?" "OK, Daddy," said Steven, letting out a long, mournful sigh, his small shoulders slumping. Smiling at the memory of her own similar reluctance at that age, Jill took Steven's hand and led him upstairs to the bathroom. "I think you're old enough to be doing this for yourself now," she said once they were there, "let's see how you do." She filled up the wash basin for Steven, handed him soap and a flannel wash cloth, and stood back. His attempts at washing his face were half-hearted at best, and did not reach his neck at all. "Come here," said Jill, sighing. Taking the flannel and soaping it, she washed away the dark mark around his neck where his collar had been. This done, she squeezed toothpaste onto his toothbrush and watched him brush. Steven would have swilled the toothpaste from his mouth after a few quick strokes of his teeth, but Jill insisted he keep brushing until she was satisfied he had done a proper job. Finally, he was ready for bed. After he had donned hid pyjamas and clambered under the sheets, Jill tucked him in then kissed him softly on the forehead. "Good night, sweetheart," she said. "Good night," said Steven. "I love you Mummy!" "I love you, too, my beautiful boy." Once back downstairs, she took Gerry's hands and pulled him to his feet. "I think we should have an early night," she said. "What, you think we need to get sleep for that long day we have ahead of us tomorrow?" "Who said anything about sleep?" said Jill, smiling at him seductively. * The following morning, as they rode the Northern Line Underground out to Hendon, having first driven to Maidstone then taken the train into London, Jill found herself getting as excited as Steven at the prospect of visiting the RAF Museum. Alighting at Colindale, they turned left out of the station and walked the 200 yards or so to the museum. The gate they entered through put them on a path that took them along the side of the Battle of Britain Hall, a building separate from the main museum complex. When they reached the front of the building Jill was surprised to see a Spitfire and a Hurricane in the space in front of the car park. These were sitting atop steel columns and angled to look as if in dynamic flight. A nearby plaque explained these were fibre-glass replicas, the actual aircraft being rare antiques now and far too valuable to leave exposed to the elements. Thinking of the two 'valuable antiques' she had managed to lose in a single afternoon as Paul Masterson, Jill had to smile. The exhibits in the hall itself were surprisingly moving, though it gave Jill a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach to see what had been cutting-edge technology to her little more than a day ago now relegated to a museum. She thought she was handling it well until she came to 'The Few Roll of Honour'. There on the wall, across nine simple glass panels, were the names of all those who had fought in the Battle of Britain. According to those panels, this consisted of 2253 British pilots and 574 from overseas. Those killed in the Battle numbered 544, with a further 791 being killed before the end of the war. Their names were all there. Trembling, Jill ran her fingers softly, reverently, along those names, tears welling as she saw the names of friends among the fallen. "Yes it is moving, isn't it," said Gerry, putting his arm around his wife's shoulder, "the thought of all those brave young men making the supreme sacrifice so that we could be here today, happy and free." He had tears in his own eyes. Steven, whose imagination was fired up with the romance and excitement of what it must be like to be a fighter pilot, did not understand why his parents were crying. "What's wrong, Mummy?" he said, tugging the leg of Jill's jeans, distress written on his face. "Why are you and Daddy crying?" Jill picked him up and hugged him to her. "We were just thinking of all those brave pilots who died in the war," she said, managing a small smile. "We wouldn't be here now without them," said Gerry, ruffling his son's hair. "Why not, Daddy?" said Steven, frowning at this strange idea. "Why wouldn't we be here?" "Because if they hadn't won the Battle of Britain then the Germans would have invaded," said Gerry, "and if they had they would have defeated us and Britain could not then have been used as a forward base for the invasion of Europe when the Americans entered the war. Which means the Germans would have won the war." "But they didn't, did they?" said Steven. "Are we speaking German?" asked Gerry. "No, silly," said Steven, "we're speaking English." "Well then, " said Gerry, "that must mean they didn't win the war, mustn't it?" Later, as they walked over to the main museum building, Gerry carrying Steven on his shoulders, Jill queried him on this. "Do you really think the Germans would've won the war?" she said. "I mean from what I read yesterday, they invaded the Soviet Union in 1941 and it was the Russians who broke them. Wouldn't that still have been the case, even if we had been taken out of the game in 1940?" "I don't think so, no," said Gerry. "It would've helped that with us conquered the Germans didn't need to have so many divisions stationed in France, divisions that could have aided in the invasion of Russia, but something else happened that may have been even more significant. Because we were 'still in the game' and had given his ally, Mussolini, a bloody nose in North Africa, Hitler delayed his invasion of Russia by four weeks to bale him out. Those four weeks were crucial. The German invasion force wasn't equipped with winter gear, and winter fell when they were almost at the gates of Moscow. That gave the Russians the advantage and let them halt the German advance. If they'd gone in when they planned, then the Germans would have taken Moscow before winter fell. Had this happened that would've been it. The war in the European theatre would've been over before America had joined in and the Nazis would've been triumphant. Then we would've seen a new Dark Age, the triumph of evil and the death of civilisation as we'd known it. It was because of the Fighter Boys this didn't happen. They didn't just save this country; they saved the world." Jill did not know if Gerry's analysis was correct or not, but it sounded worryingly plausible. The idea that the future of the world could have hinged on the efforts of a few hundred exhausted men in their teens and early twenties was both appalling and humbling. "Goering tried his best to destroy the RAF," continued Gerry. "He declared 15th September 1940 'Alderangriff', or 'Eagle Attack' and threw