Living History by Ben Essex (best motivational books of all time .txt) 📕

were too reverent to turn me in, so they pretended not to notice.

Those few throwing me pennies were trying to be polite. And the reason Lincoln and his goons had shown up? Well, not everybody was full of respect.

But there were some who went further than simply turning a blind eye to me.

Large and Little were not great friends; few in the south harboured love for the north. They were slaved to each other only by economic necessity. Blowing up a few city buildings, not many Southerners saw that as any great crime. Given the thoroughly earned reputation of the Salmon Corp, many quietly viewed it as a triumph.

Natalia had been right. History did hold great sway over the south. They were far more willing to back heroes from the past than the dirty pragmatists of the present.

These people saw me not as a terrorist, but as a freedom fighter.

I didn’t entirely agree with that assessment.

‘You and Mr. White,’ Daniel was saying. ‘The two of you showed us the way. You showed us that we don’t have to get trodden on. That we can change things-‘

‘That,’ I interrupted quickly, ‘is all very well and good, but I don’t think you should go around equating White’s opinions to my own.’

‘What do you mean?’ Daniel blinked.

‘I mean, I am not on that man’s side,’ I said firmly. ‘Just because we agree on some minor particulars of philosophy does not make me his accomplice.’

‘But… the two of you…’ Daniel shook his head. ‘You’re the ones that’ll lead us.’

I smiled tolerantly. ‘Says who?’

‘Says me.’

I turned around.

Jacob White was standing behind me.

‘Hello, Ben.’

I sat in stock silence while White had a word with his flock. He told Daniel that he and I wanted to be alone, to discuss leaderly things. The followers dispersed one by one, each stopping for a reverent look back.

In the end it was just White and me, alone in the candle-lit room.

‘Well,’ said White. ‘This is certainly cosy.’

‘What have you been telling these people about me?’ I demanded bluntly.

‘Many grand things. None of them true, all of them prudent.’ White sat down. ‘I do hope you will come around to seeing things my way.’

‘We’re not on the same side.’

‘We ought to be.’

I looked White carefully up and down, and found him totally unreadable. He didn’t seem like a madman.

He did look like he might have put on a little bit of weight-bulking up around the arms and shoulders. Part of me felt an instant stab of annoyance. I didn’t like him taking liberties with my former shell.

‘What is it you want to do, exactly?’ I demanded. ‘This isn’t 1775 anymore. Revolutions don’t change the world and one man can’t make a difference.’

‘Funny.’ White tilted his head to one side. ‘That’s what they said back then.’

‘You’re going to get people killed.’

‘I already have.’

When he admitted that, he did it with clear melancholy. At least I could be sure that this man understood his crimes.

‘Think about what you’re doing,’ I implored. ‘I may be wearing this skin, but you’re the real Benjamin Franklin. Don’t you remember all those wise old words you wrote? Tranquillity, peace and enlightenment? Be worthy of the man history remembers.’

White looked up at me, quite slowly. And he smiled, quite thinly.

‘The real Benjamin Franklin,’ he said, ‘died. Those wise old words were the product of a different time. And the man history remembers is not the man who really lived.’

White stood. I’d touched a nerve. ‘Your story books aren’t right. They’re a cleaner history than what was real, and you’re a cleaner portrayal than what ever was. Did you think you were imitating a great man?’ He sneered at me. ‘Is that what lent your impression credence? You’re merely playing up to a fantasy. Not a very convincing one, at that.’

I tried to interrupt, but White wouldn’t have it.

‘I’m not interested in who we were,’ the man snapped. ‘I’m not interested in the past-that’s a wallowing ground for decadent minds. I’m interested in fixing today’s world, and there is nobody else here willing to do it. So yes, I’m going to get my hands dirty and I will consider myself properly damned for it. I’ve lived through such damning times before, and I know that they are sometimes necessary.’

‘Doesn’t sound like you need my help,’ I snorted, also standing up. ‘You already have your sheep.’

‘And I’ll have more, but you could carry greater sway down here. Your face is that of an icon. Besides, deep down I really do think you agree with me.’

‘I think otherwise.’

‘Hmph.’ White ground his teeth. ‘I doubt it. This world has betrayed you just as utterly as it has me.’

I began backing toward the door.

‘My band grows every day,’ White intoned. ‘Soon enough, you’ll be swallowed up by us whether you like it or not.’

‘No.’

‘Go on then. Run for that door.’ White gestured dismissively. ‘See if you enjoy spending more time as a fugitive, sorting through garbage. I am offering you the chance to earn a place in history.’

I admit, I was tempted by his offer. White had a scary, magnetic conviction.

Then I remembered something.

‘You killed Derry.’

‘Excuse me?’ White stared blankly.

‘You killed my friend. Might have been the first thing you did.’

‘The girl with the moustache?’ White looked at the floor. ‘Dressed as a harlot? That was an accident. I was confused, and she wanted to put me back in my box.’

‘You stole the body you’re wearing.’

‘You first.’

‘You burned down my house.’

‘Once again, this is dwelling on the past,’ White waved. ‘It doesn’t interest me.’

‘You killed Derry.’ I repeated it, because I felt a terrible shame for almost forgetting her.

‘I tire of this conversation,’ White said. ‘You can go now. Come back when you change your mind.’

I yanked the door open, and ran upstairs as fast as I could.

In the bar, Daniel and his crew were waiting for me. ‘Mr. Franklin?’ They asked. ‘How was it, Mr. Franklin? Did you make decisions? Is something wrong?’

‘Get away from me,’ I muttered, pushing them aside. The crowd came closer, and I bellowed: ‘Get away from me!’

I needed some air. I stumbled out onto the streets-festival still whirling all around. Suddenly, every third person I saw seemed to look like Jacob White.

I had to get space.

Blindly I fled, right into the arms of Abraham Lincoln.

Bad luck.

It was just bad luck-and bad, bad timing.

I’d been out of the bar for six minutes. I hadn’t seen a single enemy soul; I thought I’d lost them. I’d started to breathe out again. I’d started to calm down.

I saw a top-hat.

It was bobbing along, above the crowd I was lost in. Coming towards me, quite inexorably. I immediately turned tail and ran, heading fast as I could in the opposite direction. To my surprise, the hat didn’t seem to be following me…

…The hat was in front of me.

I turned.

The hat was behind me.

And there were hats all around me… I was encircled, the crowd was parting again. I stood helplessly as several dozen of the great bobbing boilers moved toward me. What could I do?

There was Abraham Lincoln.

And there was another Abraham Lincoln.

And there was—

Hold on.

These Lincolns didn’t look the same as the one I’d seen earlier. They were younger, thinner, the beards looked far faker. In fact, these all had a home-spun, improvisational air about their costumes. Almost as if-The pack of Lincolns swept past me, and converged little way away. They spent a couple of minutes chatting, before heading off toward the town’s main road. On the way, I could just about see them meeting up with a similarly sized band of Thomas Jeffersons.

A party-streamer landed on my nose. I felt quite stupid.

It had just been part of the parade. Of course it had. Thank God. Me and my overreactions. In the background, a tuba started playing. Overwhelmed with relief, I turned to disappear. The train station was near-

-The proper Lincoln was standing behind me. I knew it was him, because his arms were crossed and he had a Wasn’t that funny? expression firmly on his face.

I ran, too slow. He was close behind, and there was nowhere to go. Lincoln backed me into a corner. The street was narrow and my spine was soon pressed against a brick wall. Behind the distant ticker-tape parade, the sun was setting.

Just me and him. No guards. They must have been off searching somewhere else.

I considered charging, trying to wrestle my way free-then I noticed the bulge in the other man’s sleeve. He was wearing a Gauntlet. I wouldn’t get ten paces.

Reluctantly, I raised my hands. Surrender-the ugly option.

‘They’ll want me alive,’ I told my captor tersely. At least as first.

Lincoln smiled. ‘They don’t want you at all, except in pieces,’ he said. ‘But I have other ideas.’

I blinked. Quite shocked.

I’ll be the one they send.

Shocked, because Abraham Lincoln was speaking with the strongest Russian accent I’d ever heard.

At Gauntlet-point, Lincoln marched me to a nearby cafe. He walked the whole way with a smile.

The cafe boasted wire tables and chequered clothes. Narrow windows offered a good view of the street festivities. The moment we stepped inside every customer looked up, and every customer gaped.

‘If you would all excuse us for a moment,’ said Abraham politely, in a perfectly American accent. ‘My friend and I require some privacy.’

Even the manager rushed outside to give us room to talk.

Lincoln and I sat down.

‘Natalia?’ I finally asked. ‘Is that you?’

Lincoln glared. ‘Of course it’s me, you fool,’ came the Russian accent once again. ‘I told you it would be.’

‘But… how?’ I goggled. ‘I mean, why? I mean… explain…’

Natalia/Lincoln crossed his/her arms. ‘Publicity.’

‘Publicity?’

‘Publicity.’ Lincoln removed his great hat, making a small show of dusting it off. ‘My idea. Fire with fire. The only way to beat one historical icon is with another.’

Understanding dawned. ‘You want to create a pre-emptive counter revolution.’

‘No.’ Lincoln’s eyes narrowed. ‘I just want to steal all of your fans.’

‘So you’re not just here to bring me in?’

‘Well,’ Lincoln shrugged, ‘I am supposed to kill you on sight. But that’s a secondary objective compared to fixing the damage you’ve done.’

I fidgeted slightly. ‘I can’t help noticing that you haven’t… killed me on sight.’

‘Yet.’

I fidgeted slightly more.

‘Greuze wanted to send this body complete with historical mind-his obsession with authenticity borders on a fetish. Fortunately, I was able to persuade him otherwise.’ Natalia/Lincoln offered a wry smile. ‘After all, White was the one responsible for programming the Sims. No matter how perfect his creations seem, it’s probably not a good idea to trust them.’

‘Probably,’ I echoed dryly.

‘So instead we decided to transfer my consciousness into this body and use it as a puppet. Greuze didn’t like the idea, but he accepted it as practical.’

‘Desperate times?’

‘Exactly.’ Lincoln said. ‘I have to say, it has been a very bizarre experience.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘I am not enjoying having a penis.’

‘Um…’

‘Among other things. This body is so different to mine… it sends different signals. The senses work in different ways. Subtle, but…’ Lincoln’s head shook. ‘My skin is too thick. It makes everything altogether foreign. The sooner I get this experience over with, the better.’

‘Perhaps you should give up and go home?’ I suggested hopefully.

‘Well, then I wouldn’t be paid my vast sums of money.’

‘Natalia.’ I frowned. ‘Or…Abraham or… whatever…