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The Russians and the French maids were losing consciousness with the extreme cold of the waters of the Bay of Biscay, and the pink dolphins instantly and unanimously agreed to teleport them to warmer seas as a matter of extreme urgency. The rendezvous on the decks of the ghost galleon would have to be synchronized later.
The obvious choice of destination and time frame was Maria del Mar’s home base. The pink dolphins shape shifted their fins into tentacles with which to clasp their passengers, with strict guidelines not to engage in any hanky panky ~ everyone knew what dolphins were like with regard to coupling at any opportunity.
The warmth of the dolphins embrace started to revive them and they had regained consciousness as they arrived with a series of spectacular water displacement flumes in the bay of Gibraltar.

Despite the exotic tropical scenery and the balmy air, Cedric was preoccupied with thoughts of the handsome Russian that had failed to appear for their rendezvous in the chapel yard. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop thinking about him, and his attractive accent. He puzzled endlessly at the way the fellow had mysteriously called him Marguerite Isabeau. What was the connection?

Whale time travel reached an unprecedented level of popularity in the 2020s. Whales were quicker to learn the skills needed than their human counterparts, less constrained by belief constructs and generally more relaxed and fun loving, less hidebound with responsibilities and worries. There were accidents of course ~ some accidentally teleported onto land, as in the case of the many “beached” cetaceans, humans mistakenly assuming that their swimming techniques had been faulty. Another common misconception was that whales spotted in waters that they normally did not frequent had been swimming off course, for reasons unknown but generally assumed to be because of pollution, radiation or underwater sonic disturbances related to the military. It was true that sometimes these factors were a motivating aspect, but primarily whales teleported and time traveled for the sheer fun of it. Time traveling back to times and places where whaling ships dominated the oceans was considered to be a sport for the dare devils and thrill seekers; time travelling to the future for those more interested in a relaxing holiday. Some whales had a particular interest in archeology ~ shipwrecks and underwater cities and so on, but the dates of arrival had to be timed correctly, as underwater cities were not always under water and a miscalculation could result in a stranding on land in the middle of a town square or atop a pyramid. Many an ancient legend of monstrous other worldly beings had arisen from such a faux pas.
Whale teleport practice portals had sprung up all over the seas in response to the increasing demand from young up and coming whales eager to try their fins at the new pursuit. Most of them were static, and related to land mass locations, such as the waters between the Pillars of Hercules at the western mouth of the Mediterranean, or the area offshore from the Hercules Tower on the Galician coast. In fact, the whales surrounding the shores of Spain had been at the forefront of the explorations, and these two portals were well established.

The three maids waited in the balloon for most of the night, in increasing agitation. Mirabelle’s face was like thunder, imagining Igor ravishing the Breton wenches as they slept in their beds. As is often the case during a long tense wait in the black of night, the maids thoughts turned increasingly murderous, worry transposing to anger and thoughts of vengeance.
The truth was that the Russians were having a great deal of difficulty finding any food. The peasants were starving and there was nothing to steal. Dreading returning to the balloon empty handed, they continued the fruitless search.
Meanwhile Pseu was leisurely perusing ceramic tiles in the Locmaria quarter, unaware of the difficulties of the Russians.
Eventually, the three men returned to the balloon, with nothing to show for their nights escapades. Mirabelle snorted derisively, resisting the urge to slap Igor.
“It’s getting light” said Boris, “We really must leave now, food or no food. Let’s go!”
The balloon rose just as the sun was casting a pinkish glow and the river mists were rising in ghostly wisps.

Exhausted from lack of sleep, the occupants slept, taking turns to stay awake. Fanella was on the first watch, shivering and grumpy with hunger. Surreptitiously, she gobbled down a few foul tasting handfuls of lard. When it was Adeline’s turn to keep watch, she had a similar idea, and likewise swallowed some greasy globs of lard, thinking, as Fanella had done, that a few handfuls would not be missed. When the others took their turns on the watch, they also had similar ideas, erroneously assuming that nobody else had thought to do the same. By lunchtime, when they’d all had sufficient sleep, there was not a great deal of lard left. A dramatic and judgemental argument ensued with everyone accusing each other of monumental stupidity, but as Boris wisely pointed out, they were all equally to blame.
“But we’re over the sea now, and we’re losing height!”
Uh oh, said Pseu to herself. I can increase the wind speed to hurricane force, but that might be a bit too risky. Or I can allow the wind to resume it’s prevailing westerly course, but that wouldn’t help, they’d end up back where they came from and that would be catastrophic.
“Perhaps I can help” whispered Belen telepathically. “If you think you can land the balloon on my decks.”
It would be a tricky landing, but there was no other option. Quickly Pseu worked out the likely coordinates of the ultimate descent and beamed them to Belen.
“The homing parrot will help” added Belen. “Follow the bird and adjust the wind direction accordingly.”

The medical team was easily identifiable with their tomato suits. Since the smell was gone, and certainly the toxic gas which was responsible for the loss of consciousness of the work teams, people were gradually regaining consciousness. Nobody had been harmed, which was quite a relief, it would be easier that way as there was no need to contact the families. Still all those involved would have to submit to regular check-ups in the following weeks.

Linda Paul was overseeing the operation. The silver stripes of her suit were sparkling in the sunset. She had put on her Darco Barbane meringue wig as soon as she had gotten rid of Boba Fett’s mask, positioned at the right place to have a silver lining appear around her sculptural silhouette. Much better, she thought as the cleaning team was gone.

Still, something was bothering him, they spent millions on supposedly hight tech solutions and backups to make the time sewer secure and have a robust way to time travel; they had haute-couture exosuits and gas masks to be able to intervene in dire situations, but all it really required was an old sucker truck —who could come up with such a design ? — to unclog the sewer in less than five minutes. The next board meeting would be stormy. She would request a thorough investigation. First the Russians, then the network cancellation and now this clogging. Something was not straight, and not in the good way.

Pseu was monitoring the progress of the hot air balloon and its motley crew. The prevailing winds were from the west, which would have blown the balloon towards Siberia, quite the opposite direction to their intended destination of the lighthouse on the Galician coast. Despite protocol which decreed that weather manipulation whilst time travelling should be strictly avoided, Pseu had no option but to reverse the wind direction. Thankfully she had excelled at her weather training in the City, and was adept enough to limit the wind direction change to a narrow swathe of air currents immediately affecting the balloon. (Superstitious peasants working in the fields below upon noticing the strange craft flying rapidly against the wind crossed themselves and scurried away from the shadow of the balloon, fearing eternal damnation.)
The occupants of the balloon were meanwhile appreciating the scenery from an entirely new perspective, oblivious to Pseu’s assistance and merely enjoying the ride and trusting that they would reach their intended destination.

The next morning, Linda Paul consulted her mailbox. Seventy three messages. She had a nervous laugh. ‘Incredible’, she thought as she sifted through the mails. More and more incompetence, that was all there was in the mails. The maintenance team had been unable to unclog the time sewers. They were writing mails after mails to show that they were working. Linda Paul felt an urge to answer back ‘Stop writing mail and work!’ But instead she remembered the Love and Shine training she went with Sadie last month. “Breath in, deeply, blink three times slowly, and exhale”, she said inwardly. Already she felt better.

They didn’t have much time, which was a bit of a paradox considering that they had a time sewer at their disposal, but the more it stayed clogged, the more difficult it would be to find the precise way out.

She put on her blue and silver work suit. It really fitted her. Doubled with artificial mouse fur, very warm and good for qi circulation. She had silvery stripes added to make it more queen-like. She chose her platform boots carefully, she didn’t want to get too muddy nor stay stuck in the time muck.

The time sewer central hub was not at the bar. This was merely one of the numerous available entry points. It was hidden in the calanques near Aubagne. She had to drive her Subaru SUV to go there. Which was not an easy task with platform boots. When she arrived on site, she realized the work team was not there. She squinted her eyes. That was suspicious. Who was sending the mails if nobody was doing anything ?

She went to the hub and almost puked before she could get close enough to see what was inside. The smell was terrible, all the scum of the ages seemed to have disgorged here. She found a gas mask, which fit perfectly once she had gotten rid of her Darco Barbane meringue wig. She saw her face in the side mirror of a truck. She looked a bit like Bobba Fet. She pushed away the irritation to have to go to such length with her pride to have the work done.

It was much better with the mask, she realized. So it was a small price to pay to the drag-style. When she arrived to the hub, it looked worse than she had imagined. The edge of the sewer hub was covered in white moss, which seemed to be pulsating slowly. She thanked her Love and Shine training once again, it helped her keep her smile on as she went on. What she saw next alarmed her. A few people were lying there, unconscious. Yet, some of them were wearing masks. Not a good idea to go further.

She’d always been proud of her quick wit. It had helped her a lot when guys were mocking her wigs at school. Now she needed it for another kind of life threatening situation. She looked around, trucks, barracks, more people on the floor, a ginger cat licking its balls… she laughed nervously. Strange that the cat didn’t seem affected. She noted that somewhere in her mind, she might need it later. Then she saw exactly what she needed. The dildo truck. She never remembered the real name, but it sure looked like a giant dildo in the front of a truck. She didn’t know what was its real use of course, but years of gauging the size of men’s attributes allowed her to see that it fitted perfectly the sewer hub.

“Hard on, ladies”, she thought as she climbed in the front seat, saying a silent prayer to all the Queens of all ages. She started the truck and began to move. She had the weirdest impression to understand what it mean to think with your dick. She stopped the truck, facing the sewer hole with her dildo. She noticed a small red button on the dashboard, it had a tag on it which read “lubricant”. She pushed it several times and nothing happened. Go to hell, she thought.
Then the queen revved up the truck. “Love and Shine, biiiitches”, she said as a mantra, and let it all go.

The mind has a tendency to forget unpleasant things. All she could remember was that she had to get in and out several times. And that nasty suction noise. But in the end, she could clean wash the white moss with the water jet incorporated in the truck. She turned the sewer back on and threw the gas mask in the hole to check it. As good as new, and the smell was gone too. Her incredible memory allowed her to register that the cat as well was gone.

Sadie briefly considered suggesting that her rampage of negativity was another brilliant idea for a team building exercise, but given the circumstances decided there really wasn’t time.

“Fuckityfuckfuck!” said Sanso checking the messages on his trusty sabulmantium. Of course, Linda Paul had tried to persuade him to use one of her fancy e-zappers but Sanso had steadfastly refused. The sabulmantium was aesthetically so much more pleasing to him, and much easier to synch with the multitude of devices used in the different time periods he was sent to work in.

“Ive got to do what!” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “I was looking forward to a bit of R&R in 2222. Well, I can’t guarantee the zebras but I will do the best I can.”

As Sadie pulled open the seam of the crocheted ferret a dreadful smell wafted out.
“I’m not putting my hand inside there, key or no key” said Terry. “Smells like dead fish how revolting!”
“That’s because is IS dead fish, look!” exclaimed Consuela.
“Thanks for all the fish” muttered Sadie crossly. “The key must be in the other ferret. Someone must have tampered with the tags. It would appear that we’ve been hoodwinked and this is the decoy meant for the Russians.”
“Does that mean we can tie these actors up and gag them, then?” asked Terry hopefully.
“Yes alright” replied Sadie, distracted. “We may need some extra time after all.”

“You wouldn’t believe what happened to me”, began Cedric who entered the chapel at that moment. The four actors of the Theater du Soleil turned to the newcomer and you could see the surprise on their face at seeing a bearded lady.

Sadie acted on an impulse. She set the e-zapper to mild intensity, slided up the time wheel, and zapped the four comedians before anyone could notice. Geoffroy du Limon, Lison Tailleur, Jean Pastisse and Francette Fine were now lying on the chapel floor, as if in the midst of dreams. Jean Pastisse was blushing and Francette Fine giggling.

“Why are they doing that?” asked Maurana puzzled. “And why did you do that?”

Sadie looked at the e-zapper settings and chuckled. Last time she used the dream induction was with her lover. “Let’s just say they that we are the show now. As for those guys, they’re just having a good dream.”

“Are we going to tie them up and gag them ?” asked Terry.

Sadie wasn’t sure about a certain hint of anticipation in the drag’s voice.
“No need for that,” she said, “They’ll keep dreaming for about four hours. I’ll just have to be there before they wake up to induce them into another dream so we can do our performance undisturbed.”

Despite the wine and late gambling at the inn, Giacomo Casanova woke up refreshed and ready to go. In fact, if he hadn’t had his content of those two, he would not sleep well. Senator Bragadin had tried to warn him against excess, but God gave Giacomo a strong and robust constitution and an insatiable appetite for all senses matter.

Last night’s dream was disarming. He saw whales arriving at Gibraltar’s port. He had recognized the place from his numerous travels around Europe. It hadn’t really changed. Just maybe more monkeys than in his memories of the place. The whales were very colorful and they were asking for squirrels and keys in Russian. His training with the freemasons told him not to simply dismiss it as an after-party dream.

He heard someone snoring. A man, after the sound, how unusual, even if it happened once or twice before. He never attempted female conquest during a trip, he avoided easy or vulgar, and their current pace imposed a lack of commitment that wasn’t to his liking.

Father Balbi, a man in his fifties, didn’t seem to have the same luck with his constitution. The priest didn’t seem too keen on upholding his vows either. His face was red with bad wine and strong female scent might explain the dark circles around his eyes and the look of unattended tiredness. The man snorted in his sleep. It was also true they were travelling days and sometimes nights when they couldn’t earn their bedroom at gambling in the main room of the Inns. It wasn’t rare that Giacomo, despite his natural penchant, would lose everything on a turn, simply because he couldn’t stop a disastrous bet.

Just after their recent escape, Giacomo and Father Balbi didn’t want to attract too much attention with fancy clothes. Now they were far enough from Venice and their recent earnings allowed them to buy more suitable silk breeches and even wigs. His French gambling name was Jacques de Seingalt. He thought he had learned enough French during his previous visit to Paris, that he could be easily mistaken for a native. With women he learned the language of love, and with gamblers the language of the streets and when to keep his mouth shut.

Last night he not only earned their bedroom for the night, he also learned a few interesting elements. Nobles were at the Inn and they didn’t think of discretion as a virtue, nor did they refrain their bets at a good game. And Giacomo knew how to make games interesting. After a few turns at a card game, it wasn’t long before one of them told that there would be a party at Versailles the following day. Madame de Pompadour, patron of the arts, was giving a somptuous party. Looking at a few faces, it didn’t seem to be of everyone’s liking. But nobles were somewhat like cats, they didn’t care about what commoners did think.

Their first destination had been Paris, Giacomo wanted to meet with his friend de Bernis to help him find some regular income. Paris would have to wait. Versailles was calling. If Madame de Pompadour was giving a party, de Bernis would be at the Court. And that scoundrel Saint-Germain would be there too, he had a few masonic connections which could prove advantageous.

“I heard that” replied Pseu telepathically. “And you’re right, of course I’m connected to the Russians. So are you, for that matter, didn’t you know? Igor Popinkin’s little sister Faina ring any bells? The connection to the Russians is not what you think!”
Sadie frowned in puzzlement. The fact was that the name Faina did ring a few bells, but it was vague, almost as if she had dreamed about her.
“The thing is” continued Psue, “Not to take sides. There are connecting links everywhere. The Russians may be “on the other side” in one particular scenario, but behind the scenes, it’s another story.”

Sadie was momentarily distracted from her team morale building attempts by her telepathic conversation with Pseu. Could she afford to go out of body at this crucial point in the mission?”. Linda Paul would not like it but Pseu could be very compelling at times. Sadie did not entirely trust Pseu—there had been whispers at the Academy that she was somehow connected with the Russians. Sadie wasn’t too worried about that; she knew all that mattered was her own high vibration.

Sleep wouldn’t come, and the narrow wooden pew was hard. Cedric had shifted to every possible position trying to get comfortable, and succeeded only in cricking his neck. He eased himself off the pew and crept outside. It was a clear crisp night and the moon shone brightly in the chapel yard. A broad flat tomb beckoned him, looking more promising to stretch out on than the wooden seats inside. It was the tomb of the 14th century mystic (often called witch) , Marguerite Isabeau. Many had claimed to see Isabeau flying around at night, draped in white robes.
Lying flat on his back on the tomb, with his cork bum as a pillow, Cedric wrapped the voluminous white choir boys robes around his body. Despite the chill air, he dozed off, dreaming of lemon pavlova.

~~~~

Igor Popinkin kept to the darkness beneath the trees as he made his way towards the Folly for the rendezvous with Mirabelle. The moon was bright and it was imperative that he stay well hidden. The shortcut through the chapel yard was an open stretch of ground where he might be spotted, but it was unlikely for there to be anyone there at this hour. He was so close now that he mustn’t made any rash mistakes now and spoil it. Igor paused momentarily, reminding himself to be fully present at all times and paying attention. That’s when he noticed Marguerite Isabeau, risen from the grave again ~ although not very far from it, in this instance, as she was lying on top of it, quite motionless. As if drawn by a magnet, he inched slowly towards her, mesmerized by her ghostly beauty. Closer and closer, until he was standing over her, peering down at her scarlet lips. His hot breath and specks of dribble running down her chin woke her, and she opened her eyes.

~~~~

“Am I dreaming?” asked Cedric breathlessly. “Or are you an angel?”
“No, you’re an angel”, replied a baffled Popinkin.
“Why thank you sweetie, oooh, a Russian angel! Love your accent ~ fancy meeting you here!”
“Where were you expecting to meet me then?” Igor replied, even more puzzled. “You mean you were expecting me, Marguerite?”
“Marguerite who?”
“Isabeau. You!” Exasperated with the conversation and confusion, and remembering his rendevous with Mirabelle, Popinkin said “Look, I have to go, but meet me here at the same time tomorrow night.”
Cedric sighed, but he did note that his stiff neck had gone and he felt much happier.