POCKET DIMENSION BOOKS PRESENTS

TIME THIEF

The Possibility Paradox

OR

Don't Forget Your Life Jacket

A NOVEL BY RYAN MATTHEW HARKER

 

 

ACT ONE

 

A million mortar bursts of sound and color explode in my ears and eyes as my head cripples a four poster bed. I must be hallucinating from the impact though because there’s no way I broke an antique, ornately carved, beautiful amalgamation of wood such as this… with my noggin!

My vision clears a bit as I tilt my head to one side and then it goes fuzzy again as I swing it the other direction. Fascinated by this I have absolutely no idea I’m not entirely in control of my actions and that my head is really swinging wildly back and forth on its own. I’ve lost awareness of my surroundings. I’ve also lost all awareness of the galute who’s placed me in this semi-comatose state of being, but not for long it seems. Strong arms scoop me off the floor and in a moment I’m weightless as I leave the eighth story apartment in a shower of glass.

Now, I’ve got to stop for a moment because, well come on, most people would probably find this to be a pretty awkward situation. Heck, I’m most people! I find this to be an extremely awkward situation! Well, I would anyway, if I could think anything even remotely resembling a coherent thought at this time. But I can’t think, can’t act, all I can do is plummet towards the pavement eight stories below as a thick tail of saliva trails off my upper lip. It extends twelve inches before parting ways with my face and begins to tumble, somersaulting through the air after me.

If I could see myself I probably would find it amusing. Not the fact that some poor schmo is about to meet his maker, no, just this single strand of saliva falling end over end. Where is it most likely to land? Probably splattered all over my face after I splatter all over the concrete I imagine.

Ah, such is life.

 

I’m a pizza delivery boy/male dancer and two weeks ago I’d been happily going to community college. Not to be a lawyer or a doctor though. Nothing that mamma would be so proud. No, I was quietly working toward a philosophy major while a minor in physics simmered on the back burner.

Some have asked me, “Now aren’t you going about things a bit backwards? Why don’t you major in physics first then minor in philosophy? Don’t you think you’d be better off?”

And my answer for them, every time, has been an emphatic, ‘NO!’

Truth be told, I’m a slacker and while I’ve definitely got a healthy curiosity about what makes my universe tick I believe we’d all be better off if we spent more time wondering why than finding out how.

Being a slacker is also how I’d come into my present lines of employment.

1. Pizza Delivery Boy- This job stems from the fact that hand and hand with being a slacker, I’m lazy, and I just don’t enjoy cooking. But I love pizza, I can eat it every day and actually I do… usually. So working at the pizza joint I’ve got access to my all time favorite food, I don’t have to cook it, and it’s nearly always free or at least really cheap.

2. Male Dancer- Yep, pretty much says it all though I don’t dance naked! Mostly. I do have my dignity after all (sort of) but putting yourself through college, even a community one, ain’t cheap and let’s face facts a pizza delivery boy may eat well but he don’t get paid well.

I was actually sitting in a strip club when I came to the decision to give dancing a try. I knew a few of the girls who worked there, a couple whom were putting themselves through school, and I asked myself, “Self, if these beautiful, intelligent young ladies can make a grip of cash taking their clothes off then why can’t you?” So I did some research and to my surprise found that yes, yes men can, and do, remove their decorative coverings for monetary compensation!

In this way I was sufficiently capable of staving off my financial obligations (girls, alcohol, marijuana, more girls, car payment, credit card(s) and, oh yeah somewhere in there, college) all while not having to break my slacker credo of laziness. Not that dancing isn’t hard mind you; it’s just not packing three hundred sheets of Oriented Strand Board through the mud and across the jobsite hard.

Yep, two weeks ago I was a twenty-six year old philosopher of mad science, slinging ‘Za, jigglin’ my junk and I was completely on top of my world. On top that is, until One Day When didn’t place and I lost twenty Gs. I hope they hobble that horse a month before it goes to the glue factory.

Two weeks ago was when I had to start looking over my shoulder, in my rearview mirror, whatever, I was working the eyes in the back of my head overtime. The first week was the worst because I knew I’d screwed the pooch big time this time. I knew, and I knew the bookie knew also. I knew because he’d already sent his Hench to make sure I knew.

I tried to leave them with false promises of having the money in a month, knowing full well no matter how many pizzas I delivered and no matter how hard I shook my money maker I would never come up with that kind of dough in four weeks.

They were going to leave me with a black eye and promises of what they’d do if I didn’t deliver their boss his money in two weeks. I pleaded for three, “Please give me three weeks!” I got the second black eye instead. Two black eyes, one for each week. Applaud the comic duo. I could see in their eyes they knew I was lying when I said I’d have the money. Their eyes told me they were itching to kill me and they knew I knew it. Loved that I knew it!

I only thought the first week was worse. Nopey, the second week was by far, wa-a-ay worse. Way worse for the fact that not only was I paranoid for my life there were dastardly men following me but now my paranoia was justified. Every look over my shoulder, in my rearview, yielded the Hench with my death smoldering in their eyes, just waiting for default in payment to fan the embers into a roaring blaze.

I couldn’t sleep at night. I was so immobilized with fear all I could do was lay on my back, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling while I contemplated any way out of this mess. But nothing short of leaving town came to mind and presently I hadn’t even the cash to do that.

After nearly a week of no sleep I was running on fumes and running out of time. I had until noon to deliver. It was eleven thirty and I was freaked. Time damnit, if ever there was a time when a time machine would come in handy it was now.

Yeah right H.G.; get your head back in the game.

I checked my rearview mirror for the gagillionth time today. I had yet to be graced with the Hench on my trail but for some reason I wasn’t relieved. Quite the contrary, I was terrified.

I was on my way to make a delivery and I pulled up to the curb outside the towering apartment building. An involuntary shudder went through me as I noted the digital clock in the dashboard, eleven thirty-five. I got out of my car.

The pizza warmed my hands through the box as I took the stairs. My delivery was on the eighth floor and of course the elevator was out. Climbing those steps just gave me more time to contemplate my plight, which did nothing to improve my disposition. My ears strained, my eyes twitched and my mind spun. After two weeks of chronic anxiety I had no clearer idea how I was going to survive.

I burst from the stairwell out of breath and trying to catch it. Going slow I silently gasped for air while silently promising to cut down on bong hits, if I survived to see the following day that is. An open door on my left caught my eye. Actually it was the extreme clutter of the apartment beyond that grabbed my attention. It was unique.

My breath caught in my throat and I forgot my troubles for a moment as I allowed curiosity to guide me closer toward the partially open entryway. Putting an eye to the gap I observed a section of an open room cluttered around the edges with what appeared to be scientific apparatus’ beyond my college education’s ability to comprehend. My curiosity burned and I pushed the door open wide.

“Hello, anyone home?”

I took a hesitant step across the threshold and called again, “Is there anybody Out There?!” and chuckled at my own wit without realizing it was the first time in two weeks I’d lost myself long enough to find humor.

Overcoming my apprehension at entering another’s domicile uninvited I made a loop around the room, casually poking and playing with the strange equipment. I felt like I was on a movie set or something.

Completing my tour I called down the darkened hallway in the room’s center, “Hello!” Still no one returned my greeting so I continued down the hall.

First door on my right yielded a cramped utility closet which contained a water heater and electric furnace. Boring! Onwards and the first door on the left revealed an equally cramped bedroom. Cluttered to the point of being unable to enter comfortably there were boxes of paperwork and filing cabinets stacked everywhere. No bed at all was definitely the deciding factor that this room was never used for its intended purpose. The second door on the left opened to pitch darkness so I reached in and flipped on the light switch. Involuntarily I took a step back in both shock and amazement. After witnessing the overall disorganization of the joint the pristinely kept and immaculately clean bathroom was startling. Shaking my head at the sparkle and shine I turned off the light and moved on to the final entryway. Free of a door it led to the kitchen which seemed to fall in a category of cleanliness somewhere between the order and chaos I’d already observed.

Again, I was about to turn away when I spotted something interesting. A small, squareish object, it sat by the microwave. Being something of a clepto when the mood strikes me, I walked over, grabbed the thing off of the counter and deposited it in my jacket pocket before leaving the apartment. When I shut the door tightly to the strange residence all my worry and anxiety rushed in and threatened to smother me. I threw a glance at my wristwatch and panic overshadowed the worry and anxiety. Oh my God! It was twelve o’ one! P.m.! Afternoon! Can anyone say, ‘Dead Man?’

I almost sprinted to my delivery. Buzzing the doorbell furiously while half formed notions of fleeing the country bounced around in my brain I was hardly paying attention when the door suddenly opened.

“Yer late!” the Hench growled, reached out, grabbed me by the front of the shirt, and drug me in.

Oh brother, I should have seen that coming.

What happened next happened so quickly there was no way I could stop it. I was thrown over the couch, picked up and thrown through the bedroom door. This is where I hit my head on the bed and everything went a bit wonky.

 

That fast, it all happened that fast and I find myself regaining a little of my senses as the asphalt rushes up at me. Not enough to tell what’s happening though, at least not with any amount of certainty.

I’m falling and all of a sudden everything around me goes into slow motion. I can clearly make out the Hench’s back turning away from the scene of my demise. All the little glass shards twinkle prettily as they fall. It seems I could have counted them in a more sound state of mind. Boom! I go into fast forward, stretch out like a rubber band to the ground and then snap, back to myself in an instant!

 

I’m awake… I think, and I’m lying on my back… I’m sure. My eyes are closed, still breathing, still able to feel my legs. A part of my brain reassures me I should be dead none-the-less, and I know it to be true. Last I remember clearly I was in an eighth story apartment, logic dictates since I’m now on the ground…

Suddenly my brain registers how comfortable I am just as a shrill bird call echoes out of the silence around me. What the heck’s going on? My eyes snap open and I find I’m staring up into a thick canopy of trees standing against a backdrop of bright and crystal clear blue sky.

I practically leap to my feet and spin around in a true panic. I say true panic because I thought I had been panicked at the thought of dying at the mercy of the Hench but no, it’s here, faced with the sheer mind blowing impossibility of my present surroundings, that I finally know true panic. Trees? Trees! Why am I in the woods? More importantly, how did I get in the woods?!

My circle’s complete without seeing a single sign of humanity so I sink forlornly to my knees in the soft bed of fir mulch under me. I look up, the sky holds no answers though and gravity pulls me back to my soft bed. For lack of anything better to do my hands slide into my jacket pocket and find the little box.

Full of life I bring myself upright and look at the little bit of molded plastic like I’m seeing it for the first time, and really I am. I mean, before I stuck it in my pocket I didn’t look at it long enough to absorb anything about it beyond it was black and small, no bigger than a cell phone. It’s rectangular, about four inches tall by two and a half inches wide, three eighths of an inch thick. The housing is black plastic and there’s even a rubberized protective covering on it, just like a cell phone, but it doesn’t have a screen on it, or any buttons. I peel off the rubber shock cover and find no battery cover, no manufacturers label, no markings whatsoever. Disappointment crosses my face and my brows scrunch together as I replace the shock cover.

Frustration drives my hand deep into my jacket pocket and deposits the strange device there. Well whatever it is it doesn’t seem to explain why I’m here. I attain my full height, pine needles fall from my jeans, and I consider my options.

I suppose it doesn’t really matter how I got here, the fact is I’m here.

I haven’t been in the wilderness for more than five years and I’m not really sure where to start. The sun is nearly overhead and the trees are so thick it’s hard to distinguish which direction their shadows are falling, so I can’t tell which way the sun is traveling but it can’t be any more than twelve-thirty. That means I haven’t been unconscious, not for long anyway.

In an attempt to remain unperturbed by my extraordinary situation I think I’ll disregard my general lack of direction and start walking the way I’m facing. One direction’s as good as another at this point.

In an attempt to keep a hold on my sanity I think I’ll also disregard the fact no time has passed to allow for someone to transport me to any of the local surrounding woodlands. Why would someone do that? I should have been taken to the hospital. But it seems this is what’s happened. I’m having a hard time swallowing any other explanation at this point. I must’ve bounced and the Hench must’ve scraped me up and dumped me out here. Today must be tomorrow. It’s the only explanation that fit, in which case it doesn’t matter which way I walk because eventually I’ll hit civilization.

I feel really good for having bounced off a sidewalk after an eighty foot fall, wa-a-y too good.

Don’t think of that, I don’t want to think of that. But I do off and on, and I walk. Like a tooth with a cavity I just can’t keep my tongue away from my mind keeps returning to the holes in my story, forcing me to face the stark raving reality of my situation whether I want to or not.

“Aaaaaaahhh!” I scream my frustration at the forest and it rewards me with silence.

Ooo, wait, I’ve got my Mp3 player! Patting down my clothes it’s quickly dug out of my pocket and I impatiently jack the earbuds into my ear canals. Hitting power and waiting for it… hitting power, power? Power!

Yeargh! It had a full charge yesterday morning (“This morning,” my mind whispers.) and I haven’t used it yet. I want to complain about catching a break so bad but I’m alive after all. The Mp3 goes back in my pocket and I go for my cell. It’s dead as well, same situation, it had a full charge within the last two days anyway and in no way should it be dead. Just goes to show how out of it I really am that it took me so long to get my phone out. Not that there’s any reception out here but hey, I could come to the top of a hill, or climb a tree or something…

A light bulb lights my mind and my eyes hurt in its brief spasm. Most of these trees are so tall their branches are unreachable though! Searching about madly I find a victim, a well limbed specimen of a tree but I’m going to have to prove I’ve got ape in my ancestry. I climb the smaller, more easily accessible tree and ascend its limbs into the gently swooping canopy of larger branches. Once in the larger, seemingly prehistoric tree the going becomes a bit more of a challenge. Though the limbs of this behemoth are thicker, more supportive, they’re also farther apart which makes it that much harder for me to make it from one to the other. I don’t even want to think about the climb down. Upon reaching the top I’m exhausted, however my heart leaps to my throat before plummeting into my stomach. It hits me like a hammer hits a thumb, without warning, and I almost fall out of the tree. The forest stretches on indefinitely.

“WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?” I cry out. My answer is off to the left when what I can only describe as two big, ugly birds take flight.

I only wish my heart really was being dissolved in hydrochloric acid mixed with potassium and sodium chloride because I’m too much of a coward to jump out of this tree.

On the ground again fails to warm me to the prospect of walking through a never ending forest. I reach into my pockets, cold with mental chills, and touch the strange black box again. I pull it out and surprise crashes like a tidal wave, KER-SPLOOSH! It has a screen! Like a cell phone! There hadn’t been one before! I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy, I’m not! But it’s got a screen now, lit up like the frickin’ Fourth of July in extremely high resolution!

A cold sweat on my brow condenses and I absently wipe it away with the back of my hand, wipe my hand on the back of my hoodie and stare in absolute wonder as the very sharp words stand out proudly on the small display.

Temporal

Reconfiguration

Unit

“No way.” My voice sounds small and unreal in the enormity of this (primeval???) forest. It pales in the face of the enormity my situation has taken on but curiosity burns its way to the tip of my finger and my fingertip grazes the screen.

Temporal Reconfiguration Unit fades into...

RIFT CO-ORDINATES

Rift Departure- 12:03:23 08.23.2011 AD

Rift Arrival- 12:03:23 08.23.19,191 BC

PREVIOUS/NEW ↔

This time it isn’t curiosity driving my finger, it’s fear. I touch NEW and the screen changes its display again.

Rift Departure- 15:20:19 (and counting) 08.23.19,191BC

Rift Arrival- 00:00:00 00.00.00 ↕ TRAVEL

I tentatively touch the year and it becomes lit with a blue circle. I arrow up and the counter slowly moves forward. I arrow up again and the counter moves faster. Once more… again, the counter spins as the centuries fly by. I slow the counter with a touch of my finger and see I’m farther than I wish. Arrow down again and again until the counter stops and then as I’m hoping it would, begins to reverse. This time I’m more meticulous with my manipulation and bring the counter to rest on the year of my desire, the year I came from.

The year counter reads 08.23.2011, I press the time counter and the blue circle slips to envelope it. More arrow manipulation gives me my time 12:03:23, the exact instant I left. I don’t stop to think about the fact that by returning to then I’ll actually be three hours older when I get there and press TRAVEL. Everything goes wonky as I experience the stretchy, slingshot effect but this time I’m a bit more coherent and it’s a whole lot worse. In an instant it’s over.

Tires screeching a tour bus blares its horn as it narrowly misses me. I jump at the near collision with the sixteen thousand pound vehicle and another car horn sounds off behind me.

“Hey, watch it pal!” The red faced driver of the car shoots his fist at me as he swerves by.

I hurry my way to the sidewalk and fall into the first bus stop bench to cross my path. Where the heck am I? From my perch on the park bench I observe my surroundings and conclude from the ritzy plazas and snooty pedestrians that I’m in the middle of the lower left hand of the upper east side and nearly thirty blocks from my car. Groaning as my stomach growls I hungrily search about for a suitable eatery.

Depositing TRU in my right jean’s pocket I lurch toward the food stop of my intention only to have a man stumble into me. About my size he’s wearing a long, charcoal grey trench coat and matching fedora, low on his brow. Stinking of booze and cigarettes the man and I collide hard enough I almost go down and he has the audacity to swear loudly, “Why’n’t ya (radio edit) wasch where ya’re (radio edit) goan, (radio edit)!” before stumbling on his way.

Regaining my stride I hardly spare a backwards glance for the drunkard before the opposite sidewalk slides under my feet. An automatic look to the right moves me to the left as savory smells tantalize my nose hairs and play heck with my gastric juices. It feels like it’s been forever since I last ate but it won’t be long now. I place my hands over my gut in a placating gesture but to no avail.

I’m reaching out my left hand to grab the door that guards the restaurant’s entrance when a high pitched voice calls out from behind, “Davey, Davey Jones! Is that you?” My instincts tell me to run but too late for a female figure looms in my peripheral.

Suppressing a groan I turn and acknowledge the person next to me, “Staci, hello. How have you been?” Staci Chase, ex-cheerleader, ex-stripper, ex-girlfriend; ouch, she is not who I want to see right now. Or ever for that matter!

“Oh, Davey, I’ve been great! Denise and I went to the river last weekend, and Tuesday morning I started taking yoga, you know yoga right? Yeah, I decided I need to become more limber, I felt like I was getting too tight and you know what they say, right?”

And on and on and on, Staci’s a great girl and all but man she can talk up a storm. It’s one of the reasons I finally dumped her, well actually the only reason. I mean come on, when your girlfriend can put you to sleep just by speaking. Seriously, one time we were sitting on the couch, I was holding her, she was talking away and wham! I was waking up to an elbow in the ribs.

To be fair to myself it had been late, I’d had a hard day at work, a solid meal sat in my gut, and I was feeling fairly sedate but hey, still…it was while listening to her endless monotone that I fell asleep.

Interrupting Staci I open the door and ask, “Stace I’m starving, would you like to join me for a meal?”

Her eyes widen as my offer slips past her blonde locks and penetrates the blonde of her mind. She looks up at the restaurant’s elaborate sign and back to me.

“With you?”

I nod impatiently.

“I’m going in, join me if you want.” Hunger is the only thing driving my brain. I don’t really care what she’s doing so I enter the relaxing atmosphere of the dimly lit coziness. The smell of the place is like heaven and I shed the last vestiges of the ancient forest with a deep sigh of contentment. In this one moment I can almost forget I have a time machine. Almost. The thought tries to invade my conscious but I push it away and concentrate on the food smells wafting throughout the room.

Staci is close behind so the hostess seats us both and as I slip into a plush booth I allow my attention to return to the words tumbling from Staci’s lips.

“…and this place is so nice! Like wow, I can’t believe I’m eating here. I’ve always wanted to eat here but never had the opportunity. Isn’t it weird how things work out? Who would have thought that when I did eat here it would be with you. I never thought we would ever go out again but…”

I interrupted her again. I had no choice. “Stace, Stace! Please,” I raised my hands in a gesture of ‘whoa’. “I’ve had a very, very strange day so if you could gimme maybe five minutes of silence so I can try to digest some of it, I would really appreciate it.” I lay my head back and massage my temples.

“Are you…? Staci begins but I quickly raise a hand for silence. It’s not that her voice isn’t an acceptable level of quiet it’s just I know what she’d been about to ask and to be honest I’m unsure as to whether I’m all right or not. It’s easier to just rub my temples and let my thoughts go where they will.

The waiter demolishes my beautiful silence with a bored request for our orders. I don’t move and since I haven’t looked at the menu I let Staci order for the both of us. This makes her doubly ecstatic, once for being able to speak again and twice for being able to order for me. Continuing my meditation as best I can, I hear her poring over the menu trying to decide what meal best suits me. She oos and ahs for quite a few moments before she finally settles on a 16oz T-Bone, baked potato, mixed vegetables, garlic bread, with beer-cheese soup and a blue cheese smothered garden fresh salad. I’ll say this for the woman she picked up a few of my favorites during the short time we were dating.

After the waiter leaves she tries again, “Davey are you all right?” (See, I told you.)

All the thoughts racing through my head come to an abrupt halt, like a locomotive hitting a mountain. My eyes open and I sit up straight.

Giving the concerned woman the most charming smile I can muster I tell her some placating nonsense, “Lots on my mind… trying to process it all… no big deal… thanks for ordering.” I feel the words leaving my mouth but don’t really hear them, it’s just wa-wa-wa noises being extruded from my esophagus. By the smile that lights her face though I register Staci’s pleasure. Good, a happy woman is a happy man, or so they say.

I don’t feel very happy.

Staci nods to herself, still smiling, and blesses me with a side I’ve yet to witness. Cutting back the incessant chatter she leaves me with silence (mostly) so that I may better enjoy my mental solitude. And then the meal comes, giving us an excellent excuse to keep our mouths shut.

I don’t believe steak and potatoes ever tasted so good and to my surprise I find myself thinking about things other than my recent temporal ‘experience’, things like how attractive the woman across from me can be. From the way she holds her posture to the meticulous effort she obviously puts into doing her makeup, Staci is one good looking broad.

After dinner Staci gives me a ride to my car and, with promises to call sometime, I climb behind the steering wheel and watch her drive off.

Digging out my cell phone I plug it into the car charger and turn it on. I’ve got nine voicemails and sixteen text messages, all from work, both jobs, and all pissed. The texts read even more so than the voicemails. Why is it people feel more inclined to speak their minds through a text message? Must be because there’s more of a buffer there, it’s less personal or something. I don’t know but what I do know is I’m not dealing with any of this until tomorrow.

I turn off the phone and start the car. Putting the POS in gear I pull away from the curb and aim the headlights in the direction of home. Oh boy my bed is calling.

 

The sun shines through the window and I can feel my feet heating up as the morning light warms my blanket. Thoughts pertaining to the incredible dream I was having rambling through my cerebellum cause an involuntary shiver to run up my spine. Stretching I smile while enjoying the comfort of my bed as my thoughts flash briefly to Staci. Perhaps she’s the addition I need to attain maximum comfort.

Banishing the thought I conclude time travel is only theoretically possible, as per modern science. This is the same science that only in recent years has accepted the fact that YES there are circumstances when light travels faster than a hundred and eighty-six thousand miles a second. I believe they’re saying this was proven with neutrino emissions from some particle accelerator I read about online. I’m pretty sure it was neutrinos but don’t quote me on that.

This refuge of sanity could only last so long though and it lasts about as long as it takes for me to reach out and blindly grab my cell phone. Drawing it near I crack an eye to read the time (of all things), instead I look at the Temporal Reconfiguration Unit and reach my exploding noema. An exploding noema is supposedly a term meant to describe the moment a person’s perception of what they believe should be happening catches up with what really is happening. I don’t know, I heard it in a movie and think it’s cool. As it is I go from ‘no time travel’ to ‘time travel’ in an instant.

I sit straight out of bed and throw back the covers, swinging my legs off the side as I do so. The TRU’s clenched tightly in my hand and I stare at it with wonder. It’s finally sinking in the power I now wield. I’m the time master, AWESOME!

Reality just keeps coming and I quickly realize time master or not I’m a dead man as far as a certain criminal element is concerned but I’m pretty sure I can fix this unfortunate turn of events. I don’t really think it’s for me to die young and I am certainly not intending to let things stand like this. I tell myself while I dress it’s this and the fear of walking around openly which prompts my rash decision. I know better but dodging death seems a far better excuse than the satisfaction of a curiosity born from excessively reading science fiction as a child.

I step over the edge and all I have to guard myself is my reason.

In a sturdy pair of boots on my feet, tough jeans, cotton tee, and a flannel (high-ho Paul Bunyan) I stand and look at the simple time machine. I hesitate for the briefest instant and snatch the TRU off the bed. If I’m going to do this it better be now!

Picking it up brings the screen to life and I hurriedly pull up my earlier rift coordinates, hit enter and begin manipulating the time counters. When I’m done the display reads-

RIFT CO-ORDINATES

Rift Departure- 07:16:02 (and counting) 08.24.2011AD

Rift Arrival- 12:46:00 08.09.2011AD.

This day at the track was life changing and I hold in my hands the power to fix it, something every man dreams about at least once in his life What if? What if I could go back and fix this mistake, that blunder, make things right again. Never mind this is nature’s way for man to grow wiser and better, the way we expand beyond our shortcomings in an attempt to reach our maximum potential.

Greedily I press the TRAVEL button. Just as before I feel my body stretch impossibly and then I snap back into my normal form standing in the exact same spot in my bedroom. Incredible, no flashing lights, no loud noises, just a little physical discomfort and ZIP-ZIP I’m in the past. And it may be me but it almost seems the unpleasantness isn’t quite so unpleasant this time.

Before it powers off the TRU display reads -Rift Travel Successful- the first time I notice that. Of course my other two experiences with ‘Rift Travel’ hardly left me in a state of mind to notice such things. Speaking of… I notice me sleeping soundly beneath my covers.

I snort loudly in my sleep and I let myself out knowing I won’t be awake for another hour yet this morning. I chuckle as I shut my apartment door behind me because while I re-engage the lock on the doorknob and lock the deadbolt behind me I have no way to latch the chain. I laugh again because I remember when I left for the dog track this morning I noticed the chain unclasped and thought it was rather strange because I always latch it. Now I know why it had been undone, I knew it hadn’t been me. Well, I guess technically it was me!

This last thought has me over the edge in a fit of hysterics. Not a good thing since I’m taking the stairs two at a time. I miss my footing and barely catch the handrail in time which only makes me laugh harder as I hit the landing. Maybe I’m losing my mind and I’m really in the present, whoa I’m going crazy, my mind is teetering! And so is my body; I laugh even harder.

All the time in the world and I don’t take any to stop and consider the catastrophe I’m currently capable of unleashing. I watch enough T.V. I should see it coming but I don’t. Nope, I’m far too caught up in my own selfish motives to give a damn.

Once I hit the street I leave my car where past me had left it abandoned the previous night (morning). One wheel scraping the curb, another on top of it entirely, the war torn appearance of the vehicle is a testament to the condition past me will wake up in. Just a side note, is he still past me if I’m in the past too? Isn’t the past now the present? I don’t know.

Anyway, approximately fifty-three minutes from now my phone would tell me if it weren’t dead again! What the heck, I just charged it? I fish a plain, black plastic, rectangular cube out of my other pocket. WHAT THE HECK! Does this TRU thing only work when it wants to?

I touch the screen and nothing happens. I shake it, again nothing. Panic rears its ugly head just a bit and I shake the device even harder, gripping it with both hands as I do so. What makes me think I can go trip-trailing down the time stream? I so do not want to be stuck in the past, even if it is only two weeks ago! It’s not like I’d be able to have my own life with me already here living it.

Suddenly a dull glow blurs from my fists and I stop my jumping up and down and good thing too because my frantic dance is drawing the attention of the early morning traffic, pedestrian and otherwise. The last thing I wanna do is draw any attention while in possession of a time machine. Thank god it’s working now! So I wonder if the thing works on some kind of kinetic energy, it’s a possibility I suppose. I’ve seen it with watches. I’ll be sure to investigate this mystery later.

I take off in the direction of the track and barely make the bus I want. I wave the bus down as it careens away from the curb and it comes to a screeching halt. Winded from the light run I feed my money into the machine sitting next to the driver and take a seat. As the bus takes off again I stare out the window and contemplate my plan. I finally admit to myself that I’m just a little bit out of my league here but it’s still not enough to stop me. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I get to the track, I’ll still have time to kill before I get there. Oh well I’ve got a whole bus ride to figure it out.

My brain is a bowl of cold oatmeal and like a stuck spoon the only idea to penetrate its congealed surface is- I’m going to have to confront my past self when he gets to the track. Another cardinal rule of time travel broken without qualm but who knows maybe I’ll think of an alternative before then. I hope so ‘cause the bus is stopping and I’ve only got another couple blocks to hoof it before I’m there myself.

A cloud of black diesel smoke engulfs me and I cough a farewell to my old friend the bus. Once upon a time I was a full time public transit rider but my second job led to the acquisition of my automobile and it’s been some time since our paths have crossed. As the smoke clears a figure on the other side of the street becomes visible, a man and he’s clearly looking right at me. A chill goes up my spine and I begin walking down the sidewalk in the direction of the track. A glance to my left confirms I have a tail. He’s wearing a long jacket and I think I see a rifle concealed within its shadows, a couple brief glimpses as he walks. Not waiting to see if he follows I duck into an alley and begin running to beat the wind. I don’t know who this guy is but he doesn’t look like any Hench I’ve ever seen.

I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t think I can go to the track now. This gunman knew exactly where I’d be, how? I didn’t even know what I was going to do until this morning and that’s two weeks from now! No matter, I’ll think on the fly. I zigzag down streets and alleys, all the while maintaining a direction away from where I lost the gunman, away from the dog track and any chance I have of preventing things from going south between the bookie and I. The little voice in my head takes this opportunity to ask why I’m running, I have a time machine. I dodge into another alley and skid to a stop.

Blazing bright incandescence bursts forth from TRU’s screen like a ray of light from God as I rip the device from my pocket. I press and scroll until the TRAVEL button lights up and press some more. I stretch and snap back and this time a car does hit me. THWACK! The bumper clips me and I go over the vehicle’s front quarter panel. I bounce off a dumpster and everything goes black.

 

How many times can you have a near death experience in a week? I think if I have many more I’ll lose track! I wake up in a hospital room. I’m semi-conscious, unsure of my surroundings, and definitely in need of some painkillers… OOH, I hurt! Wake up, wake up, all I have to do is wake up just a little more.

My vision defrosts slowly and I groggily survey the room through a sea of pain. A twitch in my left side as my head turns and suddenly it’s an ocean. Oh, this is no good. What am I supposed to do now? Where’s TRU? Nausea from the combined pain of my body and my situation and, crippling pain or not, I bend over the bedrail to regurgitate noisily.

My pulse monitor slips off my finger and I flatline.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE…

The ‘P’ doesn’t come but three nurses do, two women and a man. The man is in a state of panic. One of the women looks, of all things, bored! And, wait a minute; the other one… the other one is Staci! Oh yeah, did I mention Staci’s a nurse.

I groan more from the fact that it’s Staci helping me sit upright than from the pain. And the worst part is it isn’t even Staci, it’s Staci’s past self. Hmm, it seems as a defense mechanism I refuse to think of these past incarnations as real people. Interesting on a psychological level but not a very appropriate tangent of thought for this particular situation, me thinks.

My head is once again engulfed in beautiful soft goose down and I try to concentrate on what Staci has to say but I can’t. “The paaiiin!” I wail. Man I can be such a baby. Okay, maybe I’m playing it up just a little but hey, I did just get hit by a car after all.

A syringe in my I.V., a surge of sunshine and my aches and pains fade to a dull roar. Man, I’m tired. I slip back off to sleep.

My room slumbers but I’m awake. I peer through the shadows and try to find the clock. I can hear it ticking but can’t see it. I chuckle softly, it seems time is my new obsession. But it’s dark and quiet and this leads me to believe that it’s night. I’d like to know what time of night. Not for any real reason I realize, my body tells me it’ll be a couple days before it’s ready to leave. With this realization I close my eyes and let myself drift off.

When I awake once more I’m in pain. Not the excruciating pain I felt the first time but it’s there. Looking around I don’t see any way in which to administer my own meds but I do see a button inscribed “CALL” and I reach out slowly to press it. Yeah, the pain has definitely diminished somewhat. I retract my arm a bit quicker and wince, yeah, only somewhat.

My self-exam is cut short by the nearly silent whisper of the door followed by, “Oh Davey, you’re awake. How are you feeling? You look like you’re feeling better!”

I smile weakly. “I’m in one piece anyway. How about getting’ some more meds babe?”

Staci’s forehead scrunches up and concern fills her voice, “Pretty painful, huh? I bet it is.” She moves around and pulls a syringe out of one of her pockets and smiles angelically. “I thought you might need this, it’s been a while since your last one.”

“How long have I been here?” I ask while she administers the syringe into my saline line. My euphoria returns but I don’t go out again.

“Almost forty-eight hours since the guy dropped you off. He was driving a Volvo, the guy who hit you, that’s why I’m not surprised you’re in pain. Volvo’s are tuff. He said you just appeared out of nowhere, can you believe it? I think everyone must say that.” Staci’s laughter tinkles sweetly.

“Stace, where’s my stuff?”

She stops mid chuckle and answers with a frown, “Oh, well they cut your clothes off but your shoes, wallet and everything else you had on you is right over here.” She walks over and smoothly opens a drawer.

“Um, will you hand me my phone?” A shot in the dark.

“Sure,” she removes my battered, little Samsung smart phone from the drawer. “Oh, it’s dead though.

Drat, my heart sinks.

“Never mind then,” I tell her and close my eyes in contemplation.

“You know when we had dinner last week I had no idea the next time I saw you would be here. I wish it wasn’t like this but isn’t it so weird how we keep running into each other?”

Whoa! Hit the brakes! “Last week?” I ask.

“Yes, silly, when we had dinner.” She looks at me like I’m touched in the head and all I can do is groan.

When I’m using TRU to flee through time I need to pay more attention to the date before pressing TRAVEL. “We had dinner last week?”

“Yeah, du-uh.”

Last week would mean I’m in the future, after I deliberately left for the past and after my run in with the Hench. Well then, I suppose this isn’t too bad. It seems I lost TRU but at least I’m alive, and there are no extra me’s around to ruin my life. The Hench think I’m dead, not necessarily a bad thing and even though I’m broke as a joke I suppose I can somehow find a way to quietly leave town. This is gonna take some careful planning. Good thing I’m laid up in a hospital bed with nothing better to do. I allow Staci’s voice to put me back to sleep.

 

A week later and I’m being rolled out of the hospital in a wheelchair. Not by Staci, she has today off, but the green eyed brunette who has the shift is even more stunning. I swear, with all the tail I’ve seen running around this place since I’ve been here, it could be General Hospital.

After being inside for eight days the sun burns into my retinas and causes my eyelids to shut involuntarily. Man it’s a beautiful day! I carefully grunt my way free of the wheelchair and stand on my own two feet. I’ve gotten pretty friendly with all the nurses here so green eyes gathers me up in a warm, pillowy hug farewell and returns to her duties at General Hospital. I can’t help but enjoy the view as she walks away and smiling, I face the street. First thing’s first, I need to find a bus.

I can’t help it; I’ve made peace with being stuck in the (near) future but I have to know, if I can, what happened to TRU. The bus I want pulls up to the curb and I get on, ride it down to the next stop, get on that bus and take it within the vicinity of the alley where I was hit by the Volvo. Still aching from my accident I gingerly walk the final few blocks.

Tall brick buildings to either side, a scattering of tattered newspaper and old concert flyers, the usual city debris accumulated in its corners; the alley looks much the same as I last saw it. The dumpster I ricocheted into sits at the opposite end of the alley. Carefully scrutinizing every square inch of ground I slowly walk toward the dingy, blue trash receptacle. I make it to the spot I was hit and scour the dirty asphalt, going so far as to get on my hands and knees to do so. I crawl to the dumpster and right off notice the side has a small dent in it. Is it from me? The way my body feels it could be.

I don’t give up until I’ve gone over the area another five times, TRU’s nowhere to be found. Breathing a heavy sigh of defeat I painfully get back on my feet. I don’t have any water but it was this morning I had pain meds last so I fish a couple out of their container and dry swallow them. An idea drenches my synapses, water! Sometime during my stay in the hospital it had rained and not just a sprinkle, the news had said a flashflood! Ignoring my pain I lower my body back to the ground and study the cracked landscape for a detail of a different sort.

“Ah ha!” I exclaim. The alley slopes away from the dumpster in the direction of the street.

Excitement overrides pain and I practically leap to my feet. Following the slope of the alley leads me out to the sidewalk and from there I observe the street. The four lanes before me decline to the right. Keeping a close eye on the gutter I almost skip down the sidewalk as my excitement grows. I may be working myself up over nothing but the possibility of getting TRU back is semi intoxicating all by itself.

Near the end of the block I spot a storm drain. If the rain had been torrential enough to carry TRU this far the likelihood that it was within reach is slim but none the less I squat down and snake my arm in. Ignoring the puzzled looks of passersby I feel around every corner of the drain, I feel nothing. It’s got to be here, I know it’s here. I have no reasoning to support this supposition, only a feeling but it’s a strong one and I don’t give up. I get up and rock back on my feet so I can get a better look into the drain’s depths. Searching, searching… searching and, searching a-and… wait, what’s that?! I drop down and reach back in. Stretching for all I’m worth I think I feel something. Is that plastic at my fingertips? Something shifts under my questing touch and drops into my grasp. A rush of adrenaline, serotonin, and epinephrine and my elation is completely off the charts!

With supreme effort I control myself and stand up, looking around as I do so. I’ve only drawn a little attention; mostly just the detached curiosity of the ordinary city dweller but a little way off a patrolman is looking at me a little too closely for comfort. Fortunately a bus pulls up to the corner. Taking no time for consideration I jump on the bus and sit down just in time to catch a perplexed look from the officer of the law.

Now I can take a moment to examine what I found. It has to be TRU! With a quick look around to make sure no one’s watching me too close I turn my gaze to my fist. Unclenching my fingers reveals TRU lying in the palm of my hand. I could cry at the sight of it. In a single moment all of my boyhood fantasies are suddenly restored.

There isn’t a screen but I have faith that it survived being immersed. TRU doesn’t have any seams for water to get in, when lit the screen makes a smooth transition from black to opaque and when dead the entire thing is pure black. No it just needs shook up or whatever for the kinetic charge to take effect. I did a lot of thinking in the hospital and I’m almost positive kinetic energy has to be how it charges.

The next few stops come and go but I stay on the bus. Battered and bruised below the layer of fog created by my meds it’s nice to watch the city go by after spending a week in bed. The sun shines in a sky of royal blue and there are birds in the trees interspersing the concrete of the sidewalk. The bus windows are down and admit a warm breeze which carries the summer scent of the city into the bus as it travels. Man, I love this time of year. I suppose if I wanted to I could always live in the summertime. I chuckle under my breath.

Pulling away from another stop and the smile on my lips is suddenly snatched right off my face by a face from my immediate past. It’s the Hench who threw me out the window and he’s staring right at me. Is that a look of recognition on his face? Oh no, I think he recognizes me, oh jeez! I restrain my head from looking to see if the Hench is still staring at me. The bus lumbers back into traffic but I’m certain I can feel his gaze boring through its steel walls. This is not good.

So I ride the bus a little bit longer, just to be sure, and finally get off somewhere way west of where I want to be but no biggie most of the traveling I plan to do doesn’t require a road. Top of the list is to get TRU operational and if I want to do it discreetly it means I’m going to have to move, complaining carcass be damned.

I start walking. I’m not sure how long until TRU recharges so I carry it in my left hand and glance at it every now and again. Longer than my body is comfortable with but not as long as I expected and TRU flickers to life. It must have stored a partial charge during its adventures. I wonder how long it can store power for. Will it go dead again if not used for a while? Like a cell phone. Too many questions float through my head and not enough answers float out. I’m really out of my depth here but at least I won’t be out of my time for much longer.

I dial the time counter back to the day I left to stop my blunder at the dog track but not to that morning, I’ve accumulated enough extra days as it is. Besides, if I give myself back the eight days I lost I’ll be running around while I’m in the hospital and my mind shies away from the possibilities for mayhem that situation could cause like Frosty the Snowman from a four alarm fire. But my finger hesitates over the TRAVEL button and I decide to make a detour to a grocery store first.

The local King’s has all I need and I stockpile the essentials. Cheese, bread, mayo, and various meats are top of the list followed by a gallon of milk, a gallon of orange juice, two boxes of Cheese-Its, and two bags of Oreos. With these items in bags I leave King’s and, hobbling feebly under the weight of these paltry items, I make my way down the block to the nearest alley. I’m definitely hugging the wall this time as I set my bags down, retrieve TRU from my pocket and pick my bags up again. If anything this should be an experiment in science. Who’s right, Terminator or Back to the Future?

I press the TRAVEL button.

 

It’s been a long week of sandwiches and pizza delivery. School’s all but forgotten, my friends, family, job, all have become a distant memory in the face of my new crisis, this temporal obsession. I’m in my apartment, currently sitting in the dark, on the couch, in my underwear. I’m also in a hospital bed downtown as of about an hour ago. No matter how many times I go through it I just can’t justify leaving my apartment. I want to say it’s hard to believe I was sitting home alone the entire time I was in traction but after everything I’ve been experiencing lately, what I will and will not believe are quite different from what they once were. What am I saying, I’m still in traction and my prescription won’t even exist for another week. I didn’t bother to think of that one before I came back to my present. I’ve still got enough for a couple days but I’m not sure what I’ll do afterward except hit up over the counter and black market substitutes.

Sitting here in the dark I come to a decision about my future. Another week of nothing and I should be strong enough to do something about all this. Another week of contemplation and planning should be able to see me through it. I feel grim. My usual easygoing cockiness has been replaced with depression and resignation to do what I have to. I consider throwing TRU in the Platte but some part of me won’t let me part with her. Oh yeah, that’s another thing, I’m referring to TRU in the female form as if she were a motorcycle, or car or something. I’m attached in a way I’m sure isn’t healthy. I’m also sure this attachment is clouding my judgment but the same part that doesn’t let me throw her away also doesn’t care.

And I sit.

 

For a week I pretty much do nothing until I decide I can move around well enough to escape or evade. My body is bruised and battered as all get out but by my second round I’m lubed up enough I don’t hurt (terribly). I believe I’ve got a plan. A lot of careful thinking brings me to this point but I’m ninety-percent sure of where I sit and have only a small list of items to pick up before I feel comfortable navigating the timestream again.

It’s hard getting out of the apartment. Although still sore and (mostly in the mornings) stiff, I’m able to make my body do what I command it to. I manage to make it to the sidewalk and the sunlight blinds me. My apartment opens into a hallway which leads to some stairs that then go down and outside through a door. A convoluted process to say the least but once outside I’m immediately regretting the choice I made not to go back for my sunglasses. Oh, I won’t need ‘em, I told myself and, just like every other time I go against my intuition, I regret it.

I can live with my poor judgment though. I give my squinty eyes a rest and let my memory guide me to my destination. In this case it’s the nearest bus stop. I don’t dare take my car. I could be spotted, by anyone. I have so many people I need to avoid right now I don’t even know if I can list them all. Okay, well maybe I can, in order.

1. Above all others, I really don’t want to run into me right now. I’m going to be released from the hospital at any moment and I’m headed to that part of town. After all the physical and mental trauma I’m having a hard time explaining my actions to myself in manner rational enough to keep me calm, let alone trying to keep me calm when I’m freaked the heck out because I’m literally talking to myself.

2. Staci- she’s been tending me in a hospital bed for the last week and if she suddenly sees me driving around before or directly after being released it could prove to be an awkward situation.

3. The Hench- if any of those bloodthirsty a-holes catch sight of me (beside the one who’s gonna to see me on the bus) it could lead to another awkward situation, a situation that, for the moment anyway, I have only a minimum defense.

4. The Mysterious Gunman- I came to the conclusion he must have something to do with TRU, it’s the only theory that makes any sense. Either he wants TRU or he wants me because of something I’ve done through my use of her. I also concluded it’s a very real possibility that he’s got a TRU device as well. Really these are just theory. The fact is I don’t know who this psycho is but I do know the rifle under his coat will make Swiss cheese out of me in no time. I definitely don’t want to run into him, yet.

I know the list seems a little odd but what can I say, some chicks are scarier than being shot!

So for now I jump on a bus and let my thoughts carry me along just as surely as this steel and plastic conveyance is. It isn’t long before I leave my chariot for the hard, cracked concrete of the sidewalk. I only have to backtrack half a block, push through the heavy metal framed glass and I’m here. The sight greeting me from the shop’s brightly lit interior brings me a comforting sense of relief and security. Everything I can possibly need is laid out neatly before me in glass cases and hangs on the walls from hooks of varying sizes. Guns, knives, ammunition, guns and more guns!

A burly man in a frayed sleeveless denim vest looks up from a copy of Soldier of Fortune and gives me a slight nod. “Howdy,” he grunts. “What can I do you for?”

“I’m looking to buy a gun,” I tell him as I mosey up to the counter.

Eyes completely devoid of surprise look down on me but the sarcasm in his voice says volumes, “Really?”

I look around at the large assortment of firearms and realize what a stupid answer it was. The real question is what kind of gun I want.

“What kind ya after?” burley denim sounds bored.

“I’m not quite sure,” I admit. Outside of movies I don’t have much experience with weapons of this nature. I’m more of a run away to fight another day kind of fellow.

“Whatcha using it for? Target shooting?”

I shake my head no.

“Hunting?”

I shake my head no.

“Home defense?”

This time I give him a nod of affirmation. Home defense sounds close enough. “Yeah, home defense.”

Burley denim nods back as if this is what he expected all along, just another paranoid nut looking to take advantage of the Make My Day law. This law basically states if someone enters your home uninvited you can legally blow them away without threat of consequence.

“We got a lot of pistols over here,” he tells me and moves to stand behind another glass case.

I follow and discover the case holds everything from a Walther P22 to a Colt 1911 44.

An expansive gesture over the top of the case and burley denim reveals, “We got everything in here from a Walther P22 to a Colt 1911 44.”

“Hmmm,” I hum noncommittally.

Seeing my indecision and properly diagnosing ignorance as its source, burley denim pulls out a small pistol, places it on the glass before me then pulls out a large pistol and lays it next the other. He fishes around in his pocket a bit and produces two bullets, one much bigger than the other and sets one next to each of the pistols.

He points to the small pistol and suggestively informs me, “This is the Walther P22. It’s small, lightweight, and easily concealable.” In other words it’s a woman’s gun. He points to the small bullet. “It fires a .22 caliber round. Now this don’t have the stopping power of a bigger pistol but if used right it’ll scare away most a yer typical home invaders.”

He points to the bigger pistol. It’s twice as big as the Walther. “This here is the Colt. It shoots a .45 caliber round,” he points to the larger bullet. “Now this has enough stopping power, just about anywhere you hit somebody; it’ll be enough to make ‘em reconsider steppin’ over the threshold.”

The Colt is definitely a little more to my liking but after seeing what the Gunman packs I think the odds still stack against me.

“I like the Colt,” I stall. “But I need something bigger. Do you have any machine guns?”

Burley denim arches an eyebrow at me and even I have to admit, machine gun sounds pretty Hollywood but what else are they called?

Burley denim stalks over to the other side of the shop, announcing as he goes, “My semi-automatics are over here.”

Semi-automatics sound a lot cooler than machine guns and I drift over to the other side of the shop for a peek. My alcohol is wearing off and I really want to sit down but the urge to protect myself is strong so I push my discomfort to the back of my mind and concentrate on the task before me.

“I think I have whatcha want right here,” burley denim drawls as I approach. Behind him the wall is about twenty-four feet long and is covered in rifles. Big ones and small ones and medium ones, I’ve never seen so much firepower in one place. He looks me over one more time and removes one from its hooks.

“This here is the AR-15 assault rifle. It fires a high velocity .227 round designed for maximum penetration.” He whips the gun up to his shoulder and waves it around with one eye squinting into the scope. “Low recoil stock for improved control this baby comes with a red dot scope that couldn’t be more accurate.” The barrel swings back my direction and stops just short of my head before whipping back to point at the ceiling. “I’ll even throw in a box of ammo free of charge.”

I accept the proffered weapon and doing my best to imitate burley denim I hold the thing to my shoulder. Staring into the scope it surprises me to see a little red reticule imposed on the little jar with a label reading TANERITE in bright bold letters. “Whoa, now that is cool,” I mumble as I target other objects in the room.

Slowly tearing free of my little Modern Warfare moment I hand the rifle back and ask, “How much?”

I’m not sure I like the look in burley denim’s eyes when he tells me, “Eleven hundred and fifty dollars.” And it seems like his answer came a little too quickly.

“And for the Colt?” I look to where the pistols still sit on the other counter.

“Ah, so you do like it,” burley denim muses. “Well, normally the 1911 is eight hundred but if you buy them both I can cut you a deal. Let’s say,” he ponders for a moment. “Seventeen hundred for the pair.”

Seventeen seems a little steep but what do I know? And besides I’m desperate. “Deal,” I agree. “But I’m gonna need more ammo.”

 

Conspicuous doesn’t even begin to cover how I feel walking out of the gun shop with the long black case dangling from my clenched fist. I feel extremely cool at the same time, like an outlaw. I’m not stupid though and I take a long slow look at my surroundings making sure to study every window, door, shadowy nook, and dank crevasse. Satisfying my survival instinct I make my way into the alley. I wasn’t allowed to while in the shop but I didn’t buy these guns to carry them around unloaded. Inserting the cartridges into the clips is tedious but by the last one I feel I’m getting the hang of it. Once loaded the Colt goes under my shirt in my belt, the AR I snap back into the case.

I get some strange looks from the other passengers on the bus but people pretty much keep to themselves, one of the things I like about this city, and I make it back to my apartment without incident.

I lock the door behind me and lay the gun case on the coffee table. Plopping heavily onto the couch I just sit and stare for a moment at the black plastic in front of me before leaning forward and unsnapping the case. The AR has a carrying strap attached to it, one of the extras I talked burley denim into throwing in for free, and I stand up so I can sling it over my shoulder. I’ve got the perfect coat to conceal this thing if I can get the strap adjusted so as to put the stock at a comfortable position with my shoulder, there we go. I walk to the closet and extract an old beat up trench coat. It’s a charcoal grey color and looks like something I imagine a detective would wear. Putting it on makes me feel like a real dick and chuckles escape my lips as I go to find a mirror.

Looking in the mirror I realize I should’ve got one of those shoulder holsters for the Colt, reaching behind my back to dig it out of my belt with the coat on is kind of a pain in the neck. All in all I think this getup will work though.

Now that I’m armed the rest of the plan is simple. I go back to the living room and load extra clips to take with me. I’ve got four for the AR and four for the Colt which I distribute throughout the trench’s pockets. I ended up spending about two grand at the gun shop, every penny a penny well spent in my opinion.

I’m about as ready as I’ll ever be. I feel pretty weighted down and this reminds my body that it aches which reminds me to take a much needed drink, or three. The alcohol doesn’t do much though and I dig TRU out of my pocket and dial the time counter forward.

 

After a quick stop in the future for my pharmaceuticals I snap back to the past about four blocks from the entrance to the dog track. The first part of my plan is simple and I waste no time in walking towards my destiny. I’m getting smarter and as soon as she flickers to life I dial TRU to what I consider to be a safe time. Looking up from her screen I see the entrance to the track dead ahead and walk through the revolving doors.

Between the pain pills and alcohol I’m feeling a little fuzzy around the edges but my feet carry me unfailingly to the counter. The little weasel behind the glass looks up from behind coke bottle lenses and sighs with recognition, “Just can’t stay away, huh Davey.”

His voice grates on my nerves but I remain calm and concentrate on not slurring my words, “Shut up Hector, I’m only gonna tell you this once.” When Hector’s eyes bug out they’re magnified even more by his specs but he only manages to sputter a bit so I continue, “Now listen close, I’m going walk in here this afternoon and try to place a bet. This is going to be a very bad mistake for me and if you let me place this bet it’s going to be a very bad mistake for you, if you catch my drift.”

Hector’s eyes narrow and he tries to get indignant, “Now see here Davey, just who do…”

I pull the Colt, discretely put it on the counter and cock the hammer with my thumb. “If you catch my drift,” I repeat.

Hector’s eyes go buggy and he sputters again but he nods his understanding.

“Let me hear you say it,” I prompt him.

“You’re going to come in here to place a bet and I won’t let you,” he says with his eyes glued to the gun.

And he won’t let me, I like that but I’m not quite done yet. “When?” is all I say.

“This afternoon,” Hector almost squeals. “Geez Davey put that thing away.”

I ease the hammer back and return the Colt to my belt. “Glad we have an understanding.”

“You’re nuts, man! You know that?”

“I’m a man on the edge Hector, don’t push me,” I lean forward a bit. “And one more thing, when I get here I’m going act like this never happened, deny it even and probably call you crazy, but no matter what I say do not let me make that bet!” And with a dramatic flair, on that note I turn and leave the track as fast as I can.

My heart’s beating like a jackhammer as I leave the track. Time paradoxes are something I should probably be thinking more about… but I’m not. All I can think is, I just pulled a gun on a betting agent! Even if it is a sleazy grease ball like Hector it’s still kind of a big deal. I’m really not too worried about him turning me in, we used to go to the same high school and he’s about the scummiest guy I know. In a way it’s just as much this quality as my own gambling addiction that helped to land me in this mess because Hector knew I couldn’t float the bet and he booked it anyway. Grade A jerkwad, without a doubt but right now he’s just scared and confused enough I could come back and offer him money to take the bet and he wouldn’t.

My victory against fate is dulling my good sense though because I should be wondering a few other things right about now, like why I was able to make the bet in the first place if I went back and scared Hector for one? For two, why the Hench recognized me when I was on the bus after getting out of the hospital if I hadn’t made the bet in the first place and last but infinitely more important than the first two, how not being scared for my life may affect my coming into possession of TRU? I mean everything I’ve been doing is ultimately the consequence of the bet that shouldn’t be made now. Without the bet to drive my choices theoretically they should be made differently, heck they should be different choices based on different circumstances leading me to different outcomes altogether.

I don’t feel any different though. I rack my brain for a moment and conclude my memory of events hasn’t changed, isn’t changing and probably won’t change any time soon. I’m still the same guy who flew through an eighth story window to land on a primordial forest floor. But would I be able to tell that things are different if they are? Logically if my memory of events is different because the events themselves are different then I wouldn’t know the difference. Oh man it makes my brain hurt a little and I begin to doubt my philosophy major. (All my academic detractors would laugh to hear me admit that.)

Completely lost within the vast and dimly lit catacombs of my thoughts I’m not practicing the level of spatial awareness I ought to be. A cold knife blade stings my throat and a hard gun barrel presses into my spine. “Don’t make a sound,” the voice is gravel in my ear.

My body involuntarily stiffens at this threat which doesn’t make either weapon any more comfortable in their positions. I try to relax but just can’t seem to manage it. Hmm, wonder why. Not! All I can do is helplessly allow myself to be led into the nearest alley. Two grand worth of semi automatic protection isn’t enough I guess. Every penny well spent, I’d laugh if the act wouldn’t give me a permanent neck smile.

We’re in the alley and I manage a faint, “What do you want?”

“You know what I want,” gravel in my ear again. “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?” I stall with a whisper.

I don’t think the knife can tighten any more without cutting me but somehow it does. Wait, no I’m wrong, I feel blood run down my neck. I also hear my assailant draw back the hammer as he presses the gun further into my spine. This has to be the Gunman. It sounds like I imagine the Gunman could sound, must be the Gunman.

I have my hands part way up and I make a “whoa, whoa” gesture and give the “OK” sign with the right one. I feel the weapons relax a touch and I slowly lower my left hand to my side. My mind races as I dig in my pocket. I only have one shot at this so I better not blow it. I pull TRU free of my trousers and slowly raise her in a way that brings her screen within my line of sight. As soon as I can see the screen I slam the back of my head into the Gunman’s face while pressing TRAVEL at the same time.

The crunch of the Gunman’s nose breaking is lost in the rushing waters of the time stream. We snap back to the asphalt shore and I leave the Gunman flailing on the bank. I can’t believe that worked but don’t hesitate in taking full advantage of the improving situation. I break into a run. A growl of painful frustration grows at my back and a short report chips brick fragments from the wall next to my head.

So much for this being my safe time!

TRU’s dead as I cram her into a pocket and I have no chance of escape unless I run but first I have to give myself some breathing room. Praying thankfully that there’s a dumpster in just about every alley in this city I dive behind one and pull the AR free of my coat.

The Gunman didn’t even bother searching me so I know he won’t expect this. I pop up from behind the dumpster and the little red reticule bounces into view. Yep, it’s definitely the Gunman. He dives out of the way as soon as he sees me come up slinging iron but I’m sure it’s my bad aim more than his reflexes to blame for his continuing existence. He comes up firing and I duck back down, this time thankful he’s not using the rifle I caught a glimpse of the other day or week or(time period) whenever it was.

My inherent battle skills (hardy har har) tell me to pop up and pop off another couple bursts with the AR. I do, and don’t see anyone in the alley to accept my offering of lead but prudently drop back behind the dumpster anyway. For a few moments I wait crouching behind its dirty blue safety and strain to hear something through the deep ringing in my ears. I can’t so I risk another quick glance, still no one there.

Threat of police response to automatic gunfire in the downtown area keeps me standing and I intensely scour the concrete and brick for any sign of the Gunman. Nothing in the first three and a half seconds, good enough for me. I turn and flee the alley, doing my best to conceal the AR within the flapping folds of my coat as I do.

Hitting the street I tear TRU free of my pocket and start trucking away from the alley as fast as my adrenaline fueled state of near panic will let me. This is pretty fast actually. I cover a few blocks very quickly and TRU flickers to life.

“Good girl,” I whisper to her and duck behind a building to manipulate the time counters.

“Good girl, good girl, good girl,” I keep whispering to her. This is the first gunfight I’ve been in and I would have to say, despite sinking into a state of shock, I’m handling it pretty danged good. TRAVEL lights up and I gratefully stroke TRU’s screen.

I snap back to reality and hear a disembodied female voice tinkle from TRU, “Rift Travel Successful.” I gasp in disbelief and just catch sight of the same words on her screen before she powers off and goes black in my hand. There’s no way I just heard what I think I did. My ears are still ringing after all. I take a moment to stare at her lifeless plastic exterior. I wish I had a rubber cover to protect me from shock. With a disbelieving shake of my head I grab the closest bus to my apartment.

Coming home probably isn’t the smartest thing for me to do but seeing as how I pretty much just became a temporal fugitive I don’t see as how I’ve any other choice. I take the stairs two at a time and curse the time it takes me to unlock my door. Time, I laugh, it doesn’t really matter how much time I take doing anything anywhere because all it takes is for me to leave some record, develop a pattern or habit of living, anything that’s traceable as a temporal footprint and they can track me any place, any time. Whoever they may be, maybe they are only him; maybe the Gunman is flying solo. Was the ransacked apartment I lifted TRU from his perhaps?

More questions. I sigh.

I’m only here for my ammo. It doesn’t take long to reload the AR and the remaining boxes I put in a duffle bag along with a few other choice provisions. How it came to this I’m not sure but it seems some inner survival instinct is in charge now because I’m not panicky anymore, exactly the opposite I’m feeling calm, cool, and collected. My duffle in one hand and TRU in the other I’m not even going to bother with locking the door, I am out of here!

TRU’s still dark so I shake her until the screen flickers to life.

“Temporal Reconfiguration Unit. Rift Co-ordinances?” it’s that female voice again!

I’m almost done convincing myself I hadn’t heard it the first time so I almost drop TRU hearing it the second time. “What?” The word tumbles off my lips like a tumbleweed, dry and crackly with an aftertaste of dust.

“Command not recognized,” the voice says. Definitely female, surprisingly attractive, TRU is talking to me. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any weirder. “Rift Co-ordinates?” she repeats

I look at the screen and it reads like it always does. What’s that? There’s a new little icon or something in the top right corner. It looks like the profile of a face, like the face vases I had to draw in Art class back in college, with four straight lines coming from the mouth. I assume this must mean sound or speech. The face is looking to the right and to its left are two little letters, VP. “V P,” I read aloud.

TRU chimes back at me, “V P, voice prompt mode activated. Rift Co-ordinates?”

Voice prompt huh, sounds pretty self explanatory. “Um, Rift Departure?” I ask.

“Rift Departure- fourteen hundred hours fifteen minutes twelve seconds and counting, September ninth, two thousand eleven A.D.” TRU’s voice purrs from the… speaker? What speaker? I turn her this way and that looking for a speaker but, as I already knew, there wasn’t one. Just one more mystery I can’t rightly wrap my mind around, so I don’t even try. “Rift Arrival?” she asks.

I need some money so into the past I go. “Uh, Rift Arrival- fourteen hundred hours fifteen minutes twelve seconds, September ninth, nineteen hundred A.D,” I tell TRU uncertainly.

“Rift Arrival- fourteen hundred hours fifteen minutes twelve seconds, September ninth, nineteen hundred A.D. TRAVEL?”

For some reason I feel a bit of trepidation at making this snap. I hesitate for a moment but the choice has already been made.

I say, “TRAVEL.” And we stretch.

 

Snapping back I find myself treading air about thirteen feet above windswept grass and curse my shortsightedness as said grasses rush up to catch me in an earthy embrace. I think this miscalculation sets the healing time of my body back at least a week. I don’t know what would’ve happened if I landed with the duffle under me, my back would probably be broke. As it is it’s on top of me so it only helps the ground in its already effective effort to rob my lungs of oxygen and their ability to draw in more. All I can do it lay here hugging the duffle and desperately gasp my best impressions of a fish out of water. Yep, a fish in the time stream stranded without air on foreign shores. Poor little fella, I sure hope I make it.

Typically, just as I don’t think I can take it any more my lungs start working again. Fighting for shallow draws of air subsides slowly into steadily deeper inhalations. Many moments after I can breathe again I push the duffle bag off my chest and struggle to an upright position. My body hollers its protest throughout this all but can do nothing except obey. The grass that surrounds me still towers above my head so it looks like I need to stand if I want to see anything. No time like the present, it has to happen sooner or later.

I’m standing in an immense plain of tall grass stretching to the sky on three sides and all the way to the mountains on the other. To the north of me is some kind of civilization, some distance off yet so I begin walking in that direction.

I don’t know why I’m in this mess but I know I can’t do much to change my situation the way things are. I’m smart enough to realize that at this point I’m in too deep to do anything but what I’m doing and what I’m doing is surviving the time stream.

The time stream, ha! These raging rapids are certainly taking a toll on my body if nothing else. My mind, although weary and in need of a nap, is doing okay for the moment. My spirit is bouncy, trouncy, fun, fun, fun, fun, fun; or at least I keep telling myself so.

If not for the Tigger in me I don’t think I’d go any farther. Hefalumps and woozles are dragging me down, down, down. I feel like Owl flying into a headwind without making any headway. Oh if only I had some honey maybe my brain could ponder on the philosophy of my situation until it makes sense.

I’m not sure where all the Pooh references are coming from but they’re a welcome distraction from the heat exhaustion creeping through my soul. I feel sluggish and slow instead of my usual manic melancholy but I’m not ready to allow the facts to dictate my reality just yet. I drag my feet and tell myself it’s just the alcohol and acetaminophen causing a touch of dehydration, maybe I’m groggy from the codeine.

The buildings off in the distance simmer and dance to the rhythm of my pulse pounding in my head. Partially delirious I admit they may be a mirage and my lies cease to be enough to convince my feet to keep going. As pitch black darkness descends over my vision I’d bet it don’t take two seconds for my melon to join my boots in the dust, probably only a second and a half.

Nope, two seconds.

 

I wake to find I’m in a comfortable bed. The blankets that surround me are soft, thick and the pillow under my head is fine goose down. I can smell mouthwatering aromas drifting past my nose and can’t help but smile. They smell good!

A soft rustle accompanies the sweet smells and I ease my eyes open against the light. Through the glare I make out a faint hint of what appear to be honey tresses swishing across finely woven white cotton. The distinct sharp rap of a knock on a door draws the shining locks away from my vision. I do my best to follow their departure but a creaking portal of brilliant sunlight blinds me further.

Squinting barely allows me to make out two silhouettes standing in the doorway but my ears super tune and hone in.

“Good day Miss Maybelline,” a man drawls. Those four words are enough to confirm he’s an Adder. His voice drips venom.

On the other hand honey blonde Miss Maybelline’s voice is tense with controlled disgust. “And what can I do for you today Mr. Hamerstock.”

“Well, Miss Maybelline, word’s been going around town you’ve taken in a new boarder,” Hamerstock’s drawl is slow and insidious. “Been said you found him on the plains half baked with heat exhaustion.”

“And what’s it to you if I did Mr. Hamerstock?”

“Nothing Miss Maybelline, nothing at all,” the shadows shift. “Except as Marshall of this province I felt it to be my duty to inquire after the health of this stranger in person, wish him a speedy recovery and all.”

“Well, I’ll be sure to pass that on to him as soon as he wakes,” Maybelline says and the shadows shift again. “As you can see he’s still unconscious.”

Again shadows dance and I concentrate every ounce of will I possess on appearing unconscious.

“Indeed,” the Adder hisses. “Well have him come introduce himself when he’s up and about.”

“I’ll be sure to do that,” Maybelline assures. “Good day Mr. Hamerstock.”

“And a good day to you Miss Maybelline,” the closing door creaks on its hinges.

“And good riddance,” There’s a definite emphasis on ‘And’.

“Who was that?” I ask.

Maybelline’s hair swishes prettily as she starts. My eyes aren’t as sensitive after their exposure to the outside light and her eyes are beautifully full of surprise.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were awake,” Maybelline steps closer and comes into better focus, the blurry edges of her light softened contours sharpening into full clarity. God, this woman is gorgeous. “Are you thirsty? Do you want some water, or whiskey?”

I smile at her concern. “No, no thank you,” I assure her and repeat my question. “Who was that?”

She glances at the door and the disgust returns to her voice, “Him? That is our esteemed peacekeeper the honorable,” she spits out the word. “Marshall Clarence T. Hamerstock.”

“It doesn’t sound like you think very highly of him.”

“No,” she chuckles softly. “I suppose I don’t.”

“And why is that?” I ask her. With the vibe I got from the man and his obvious interest in me I want to know as much as I can about him.

“You sure do ask a lot of questions stranger,” Maybelline counters. “What’s your name?”

I crack my most winning smile. “Davey,” I tell her. “Davey Jones.”

She arches an eyebrow at me, “Like the pirate legend?”

“The very same.”

“Well, Mr. Davey Jones, I don’t think very highly of Mr. Hamerstock because he is a venomous snake of a man!” This comment could’ve come from my own mind and I laugh uncontrollably.

“What’s so funny?” Maybelline even frowns prettily.

“I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you. It’s just that’s exactly what I was thinking,” I bring myself under control. “Harumph, I’m sorry.”

“Oh! No, that’s ok,” she laughs too. “So how do you feel?”

“A little tired,” I tell her and another waft of the good smelling stuff she’s cooking passes by my nose, “And hungry, what’cha cooking?”

Laughter tinkling Maybelline’s smile lights up her face. She positively glows. “If you can get out of that bed I suppose you can have some.”

Oh I like this woman. She’s got a bit of sauce.

I wonder about her circumstances and look around the room. Except it’s not a room, it’s a cabin, a one room cabin. The bed I’m in is tucked neatly into a corner and appears to be made out of whole logs; they still have the bark on them even. Four feet by six feet I can’t imagine a man sleeping in a bed this size if he were sharing it with a woman. Then again it would be rather cozy sharing this bed with Miss Maybelline, maybe even just right in fact.

Speaking of, Maybelline’s fussing in the kitchen which is right off the only door in the place. A huge affair the hinges are as big as my hand and it’s no wonder they squeak supporting all that weight. The door’s on the right side of the wall, kitty corner from the bed.

The only table in the house is made out of a slab of wood set on top of another chunk of wood. Several men would have been hard pressed to move either one and I wonder again about men in Maybelline’s life. Whoa there big fella, reign in your horses! You have a mission here, don’t forget! Yeah, yeah I know but that doesn’t mean I can’t explore some of the local wildlife. Does it? Does it?! I didn’t think so. It’s been a while since I’ve been with a woman and I believe it may prove beneficial to my stress level to enjoy this woman’s obvious charms. She seems to like me anyway and she did rescue me and take me in.

I move over to seat myself at one of the table’s equally massive chairs. I’m not wearing my own clothes and clearing my throat I try to sound casual when I ask, “Maybelline, where are my belongings?”

She sashays over to the table and deposits a ceramic plate of bread in front of me. (Ok, so she didn’t sashay exactly but my imagination runs a little wild sometimes.) “Your clothes I washed and are hanging out to dry. The rest of your things,” a glance askance with emphasis on ‘things’, “I put in a safe place.”

“Okay. Can I see?” I ask.

I’m sure she can see through the effort I’m making not to make a big deal of this but I can tell she’s also intelligent enough to know that the arsenal I was carrying, not to mention the technology, is like none known or seen before by the residents of this time period. But either she doesn’t care or has enormous control over her curiosity because all she does is toss me a smile over her shoulder and pull the lid off of the cast iron pot steaming on the wood stove sitting in the corner behind the table.

“Hold your horses partner. How about you get some food in your belly first?” Laughing she ladles some very delicious smelling stew into a wooden bowl and sets it next to my bread. “Eat up,” she commands. “I’ll go check your clothes.”

“Yes ma’am,” I obey and dig into the most savory, tasty stew I’ve ever eaten.

I just mop up the last drop of stew with a chunk of the equally tasty bread when Maybelline returns with my garments hanging from one of her pretty arms. I hear the door creak. Turning in my chair to look that way I’m just in time to catch a flash of one of her white ankles as her dress swishes to one side. I smile at her and stand up.

“Here, let me grab those for you,” I reach out to take my clothes.

“Thanks,” she says gratefully and shuts the door behind her.

I take my clothes and lay them out on the bed. Pants, shirts, boxers, socks, boots, coat; yep, everything’s here. The sound of wood grating against wood draws my attention away from the bed.

Maybelline is kneeling on the floor behind me with one of the heavy floorboards in her hands. She lays it to one side and reaches into the floor. My own curiosity draws me closer and she removes her arms from the hole in the floor with my AR in her hands. She sets it to one side and reaches back in bringing up the Colt, my wallet, cell phone and last but not least my black box baby… TRU. Oh thank God, I breathe silently and kneel down next to her.

I silently collect my proffered items, gratitude and relief paints my face I’m sure. “Thank you,” I whisper as I examine TRU.

“You welcome,” Maybelline tells me and I don’t fail to catch the uncertainty in her voice. “What is this stuff?” she asks.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I assure her.

Maybelline is not one to take assurances though. “Try me,” she challenges.

Heaving a heavy sigh I stand and turn back to the bed. I don’t know what to tell her so I decide to tell her nothing. “I’d like to change my clothes if that’s all right.”

“I’ve never seen guns like these before,” I can hear her rise to her own feet behind me and I wish she would just drop the subject.

I turn back towards her, “Please Maybelline?”

I don’t know what she reads in my eyes when she looks into them but she nods, “Sure.” I can tell she’s far from satisfied but she turns and leaves the cabin, the door slamming behind her with a resounding THUNK!

Hurriedly I change my clothes, only dwelling for a moment on the fact that Maybelline’s seen me naked. I make sure the AR and Colt are securely in their places of concealment before I pocket my cell phone and wallet and pick TRU up off the bed.

She must have just enough charge from this last little bit of jostling because suddenly the screen comes to life and TRU says, “Temporal Reconfiguration Unit, Rift Co-ordinates?”

Oh no, I hope Maybelline doesn’t hear her! “Sshh!” I hiss.

“Command not recognized. Rift Co-ordinates?”

“Be quiet!” I whisper more fiercely.

TRU repeats herself and I raise her along with my fist to the sky and rage silently at a god I’m not sure I believe in. What the hell am I going to do about this? I can’t be walking around with TRU squawking at me every time someone says something.

TRU’s not the only thing squawking; my newly awakened survival instinct rears its fully armored head and squawks as well. At least it’s giving me sound advice though and it’s telling me that I need to set TRU’s rift departure time to a new safe time. After all I really have no idea how the Gunman’s tracking me through time. For all I know TRU could be creating some kind of energy trail or something more easily traceable than my actual presence in these various time periods.

I tell TRU which time I’d like set, cringing with every question she poses, and then she asks, TRAVEL? I say nothing and she remains silent. “Okay, now what do we do?” I ask and I’m surprised when she says nothing in return. Great, this is good! Hopefully she doesn’t say anything while she’s in my pocket. And this is where she goes, into my pocket.

With my clothes on, my guns in their place and my futuristic gadgets put safely in their place I feel ready to brave this strange new world I find myself in. Opening the door blinds me anew but my eyes drop instantly to half mast and I step out into the light.

I find Maybelline sitting on a porch jutting from the cabin’s front face and she looks up at me through strands of sunlit honey. She’s beautiful, even when she frowns up at me. “Who were you talking to?”

“No one,” I tell her and it deepens the lines in her forehead.

“It sounded like a woman,” she insists.

I laugh and it sounds forced in my ears. “I was just talking to myself,” I bluff.

Her frown deepens further and she turns away from me to stand up. “Well, you probably ought to go introduce yourself to Mr. Hamerstock,” she says and when she looks at me it’s not with the same open gaze she was giving me earlier. “He’s not going to let it go otherwise.”

He will if I float downstream to another time period. I feel bad that I have to deceive this angelic creature, especially after she’s been so hospitable, but the least I can do is go and talk to this Marshall of hers. Maybe get him off her back about me anyways.

“Ok,” I agree but the look of disappointment doesn’t leave her eyes and my heart misses a beat. I swallow down this feeling growing in my chest and ask, “Where can I find him?”

“Follow me,” she says and steps off the porch into the dry dust of the street.

Without a word I follow.

 

It’s probably not the best idea I’ve ever had, to stick around and meet the man responsible for law and order in the town I plan to rob, but most robbers don’t have a time machine for a getaway car. Besides I’m a little smitten over Miss Maybelline and if I’m anything it’s a sucker for a pretty woman, at least to a point.

The streets are dusty and the buildings are, for the most part, single story. At least with the exception of the bank (ka-ching!) and what I believe to be the municipal court building/town hall. They’re both sitting next to each other. Must make it convenient for prosecution of bank robbers though, bust ‘em in one building and sentence them next door. Not this bank robber though. They’re going to have a hard time finding me when I snap back to the future.

I start to question the wisdom of robbing a bank in the nineteen hundreds. Cash may be king but, depending on the era I acquire it in, I can only use it in the future following that era. Now if I were to steal precious ore, gold, silver, (oh, oh) plutonium even, now that’s the kind of money that lasts forever! Or gems, how about gems? If I went back to the right time I could potentially corner the diamond market! I guess all thought for preserving the proper continuity of the timestream has completely gone out the window. Yeah, right about the time I became a fugitive, lost my home, my job(s), my LIFE! Well it seems I have a new life now and no matter how crazy it is all I have to do is roll with the punches, ride the tide, and stay alive.

I should’ve thought things through a little before snapping off all half cocked to become a Wild West bank robber. Ha, Wild West, now that’s a joke! I would hardly consider the year 1900 to be the ‘wild’ west, but I suppose it really just matters what part of the country I’m in whether it’s wild or not. This town seems like a pretty Podunk, one horse on the hitching post kind of place. Definitely only has a single dirt track leading through the center of town and, yep there it is, one horse hitched up to the post; in front of the saloon no less.

Oh baby the saloon, I could use a drink. Oh man, speaking of drink, the heat must have addled my brain more than I thought because I forgot all about my duffle bag. Where the heck is it? Does Maybelline have it? She certainly didn’t give it back to me if she does and why wouldn’t she if she did, she gave everything else back. That duffle has all my meds in it, including my ‘script, my booze, the extra magazines for my guns. Crap, what was I thinking, why didn’t I make the connection earlier.

I’m not very aware of how my strange attire is affecting the town; just about every head in the street is turning to look my way. Conversations are stopping and townsfolk are whispering but I’m too engrossed in my thoughts to notice.

“Um Maybelline, did you find a, um,” I search for a term she might understand. “Travel…”

No sooner is the word out of my mouth and I’m mentally kicking myself. I feel the stretch, the snap and I’m still in the past but it’s a lot farther than I was. Oh Maybelline, why can’t I be true, why must I always be travelling through time away from you-uu?! Oh Chuck Berry, sir, it’s good to know I can keep my sense of humor even under these strange and adverse conditions.

Wow, I could meet him if I want to, Chuck Berry that is. I always did love his music when I was younger. Once I was swimmin’ ‘cross turtle creek, man them snappers all around my feet- Sure was hard swimmin’ ‘cross that thing, with both hands holding my ding a ling a ling! Ha hahaha aha, good stuff! It never ceases to amaze me what insanity goes traipsing through my mind during the craziest of moments.

I chose a period in time when I didn’t expect a whole lot of civilization around as my safe time this time. No cars to dodge. The swaying grasslands blowing gently in the summer breeze is soothing and I sigh at the sight, and at the untimely departure from Miss Maybelline’s delightful company. She’s going to be pretty confused about my whereabouts pretty quick, if she isn’t all ready. Oh well, everything happens for a reason, or so they say.

I’m feeling like maybe I need to reevaluate my priorities in this situation. All my dreams of wealth and success (and women) are well and good but seem somewhat unrealistic when I take into consideration I’m a man on the run, wanted through time by person or persons unknown.

Something has to change here.

Removing TRU from my pocket I start to walk and before long she comes to life. I sit down as she chirps for Rift Co-ordinates. I haven’t taken enough time to study this ‘thing’ that I’ve grown so attached to, so quickly, and ‘it’ keeps on changing, evolving. Somehow it seems to be doing this almost as if in response to me and I intend to find out how.

“Rift Departure?” TRU chirps as I make a nest in within the tall grass.

“No TRU,” I tell her. “No Rift Departure.”

“Command not recognized,” TRU insists. “Rift Departure?”

“No TRU!” I insist back. “No Rift Departure.”

“Command not recognized, Rift Departure?”

“No, No, NO!” I can feel a tantrum coming on and honestly I’m surprised I took this long to reach my breaking point. I haven’t been known for my maturity. Probably a reason my relationships don’t last more than a couple weeks, usually more in the realm of days. Then again it could be the fickle nature of women, maybe? No, probably not.

“Command not recognized…”

I’m almost annoyed!

“…Main Menu?” TRU asks.

Miracle upon miracles, did she just ask what I think she asked? “Yes, yes,” I plead. “Main menu, God yes!”

“Main Menu,” she repeats and her display changes to suit. “Rift Co-ordinates, Temporal Mapping, Timestream Navigation, Dimensional Drifting, Settings?”

Whoa! Now we’re getting somewhere! May as well start at the top, I already know about Rift Co-ordinates so, “Temporal Mapping.”

“Temporal Mapping,” TRU acknowledges. “Temporal History, Virtual Timeline, Timestream Probability Generator?”

My smile hurts my face but I hardly notice. I can’t help but feel like a kid with the coolest toy in the world. “Temporal History,” I say.

TRU’s display shows a list of dates with 09.09.1492AD at the top, closely followed by 09.09.1900AD and so on and so on. I scour the list until I come to my first Rift experience, 08.23.19,191BC. The dates directly after that are 08.22.2011AD and 11.05.1985AD along with a slew of others that mean little or nothing to me. A couple seem familiar and I wish I had paid more attention in my history classes but alas no, and for the most part they’re gibberish. Then I come across some dates from the future, my future that is. Now this is interesting.

12.25.2050, I pretty much stumble into it like a brick wall. I almost gave up on Temporal History to check out Virtual Timeline, now I’m glad I didn’t. Christmas though, for some reason I wasn’t expecting it and it strikes me a bit funny. I wonder, really for the first time, about the identity of TRU’s previous owner. When I picked her up in the apartment I had done it more on reflex than anything. It’s a bad habit I know (stealing) but I can’t help it. Sometimes I think it’s some weird form of Tourettes or something, it’s definitely compulsory. Anyway, so there really wasn’t much thought into TRU at all until after I woke up in ancient history and then the only thing I was thinking was how do I get home? And the rest is, well, history.

Hehehehe, I titter. Man, maybe I’m losing it? Getting some kind of time… lag or temporal dementia or something? Nah, probably not, insane men don’t question their sanity so I must be all right, I think. I’m sure there’s stress on my brain though, being used to my own little world my sense of what’s real and what’s not is sure to be getting wore a little thin.

This is all happening though whether I want it to or not. I scroll through some more dates and find many more from the future. I believe it might be time for the hunted to become the hunter, but first I need more supplies.

I just hope my luck holds out.

 

 

ACT TWO

 

Hard to believe how beautiful the Earth looks from its moon. Lazily swirling white fingers caress her like the finest gem, one that sparkles with the deepest blues and greens tempered with some brown and grey. I have to stare to see the clouds move and for the first little while I wonder if they really are or if my eyes are playing tricks on me. This has to be one of the most awe inspiring moments of my life and I can feel wet on my cheeks as yet another hereto unattainable dream is realized.

Have I said this already? I LOVE TRU!

I touch my jacket and feel where she’s nestled deep within its breast pocket. This little device has brought me a lot of good fortune, a fair share of stress as well but so far it’s all been worth it. I’m wearing a new charcoal grey trench coat now (Brand spankin’ new!) and a matching fedora. Who would’ve thought the fedora would make a comeback in the future? But I make it look good if I do say so myself. I tear my gaze from the beauty of a far away Earth and take a moment to admire my reflection in the four inch thick glass that’s the only thing standing between me and the subzero vacuum of space.

I’m a far cry from the scared little pizza delivery boy who flew out an apartment window all those centuries ago. I had sat in the grass back in 1492 for quite a while learning all I could about TRU and all of her functions. She really is quite the device, capable of so much more than just traveling back and forth through time. Through careful planning (very careful, and extremely well thought out planning), wise and responsible use of the TRU device, and more than a little luck I’ve managed to pave many advantageous avenues for myself.

Most of these avenues form quite a large trust fund I can access in just about any time period from the Renaissance through the 23rd and a half century. No matter what time I’m in I’m comfortably well to do. Even though I’ve been hop scotching through time now for a little over three years, and own quite a few comfortable properties, I don’t dare stay at any of them. No, as a security precaution I usually stay in motels and hotels, never in one place longer than a day and never in one time for longer than a week. I’ve had to be smart to stay off the Gunman’s radar.

I haven’t always been smart enough.

There was this one time during the Crusades when I was desperately searching for a holy relic that, if I could get my hands on it, would be worth a fortune. I had crisscrossed the same few weeks more than I would now consider prudent when he confronted me again. I wasn’t as lucky as I had been during our encounter in the alley and barely ended up crawling away with a shattered knee and a bullet in my leg. Thankfully I had already visited the future and purchased some rather ingenious medical equipment which allowed me to remove the bullet and repair my knee over the course of a few days of paranoid convalescence at a motel.

One more lesson learned from the School of Hard Knocks.

But this is the future and I’m not a naïve novice of Rift Travel any longer. I know a lot more than I used to. For instance I know the Gunman’s name and I know why he’s after TRU. His name is Adoc Raheem, domestic terrorist, space gypsy, time machine owner; and it’s a fact that TRU is the first of her kind.

She’s what’s referred to as a self evolving AI device, or SEAID (pronounced ‘said’). What this means is she’s capable of learning and is entirely self taught. Besides being a time machine she’s also a dimensional navigator which is to say she’s capable of travelling not just back and forth on a linear timeline but capable of navigating multiple timelines as created through every choice I make.

Every moment in Time is a choice. Most choices are, what’s called in the 23rd century, nominal impact which means they’re subliminal and simple in nature such as whether I’m going to stand up or hold my breath. Then there are the mega impact choices, these choices are the ones that are life changing in a perceptible and personal way such as when I bought my first car (mine was a ’76 Nova by the way), or if I get married, am I going to join the army, or maybe enjoy a life of leisure and luxury.

The mega impact choices are the ones that define our lives. They also define Time but Time is defined by human experience so everyone exists along a single timeline. This timeline is more like a giant time tree created by everyone living out their lives; it grows up out of the fertile mulch of the past and sprouts ever forward into the future but, this tree has branches. (And let’s not even get into the fact that outside the experience of sentient life all moments in Time exist simultaneously, whoa!) Anyway, every mega impact choice anyone makes causes a branch to grow off of the, let’s call it the time trunk, and each one of these branches is an alternate universe where we live out the experiences and consequences of the choices we didn’t make (the other car, the other girl, navy, a halfway house, etc.) And, well, what TRU does is she plots out these divergent branches in Time and creates a Rift Gate which allows travel between these universes.

There is nothing like TRU in all of existence and believe me, I’ve done my homework. That is to say none like her in the time trunk anyway. I’ve learned all about TRU’s functions but have yet to explore any time branches. Being displaced in Time is one thing but being lost in the multiverse is a whole ‘nother ball game. But this unique capability is why Adoc wants her so bad. I guess he never watched Sliders on TV.

Unfortunately ol’ Adoc Raheem has some way to analyze temporal anomalies in the time trunk and with effort he can use the analysis of these anomalies to track me all along its length, from the distant past to the far future. Fortunately though, I’ve learned how to cover my tracks in a way that reduces my temporal footprint thereby making it nearly impossible for him to track me. Reduces but not erases and nearly impossible but not completely impossible, even with all of my precautions the tenacious scoundrel may catch up with me.

With effort I peal my eyeballs away from the spectacular vision of the slowly rotating planet below and heeding the insistent rumble in my stomach head towards the Moon View Café, supposedly the Moon’s most prestigious eatery. I honestly don’t know how five star any café could be but hey, at least I’ll be able to continue my Earthly observations. I assume so anyway, why else would it be called Moon ‘View’?

The Moon has been colonized since about 2065 or so. It was about then the population of Earth was reaching a boiling point. The world economy was in shambles, war was widespread, pollution and disease were rampant, and governments were scrambling to stay in control. I’m not sure exactly how they pulled it all together but from what I’ve gathered if it wasn’t for some pretty huge advances in propulsion technology we would have outgrown Earth’s ability to sustain us well before 2075. As it is with the advent of these new technologies we were able to extend our reach beyond our tired little planet into the furthest reaches of the solar system. Currently there are colonies on the moon, Venus, Mars, Io (one of Jupiter’s moons), and even one lone little base established on Pluto.

The Venus colony was the last one established and from what I’ve read it was also the hardest. Doesn’t surprise me seeing how the atmosphere is made up of 96.5% carbon dioxide and 3.5% nitrogen with an atmospheric pressure equivalent to 90 times that of Earth or about 1300 pounds per square inch. On top of all that Venus also averages a whopping temperature of around 900°F. I’m sure they had a pickle of a time developing a material that would withstand the environment.

Of course the Mars colony is the most successful and in all honesty without it the other colonies still wouldn’t be enough to offset the human presence on Earth. But Mars is incredibly prosperous and wildly popular. What started off as a single self contained building only capable of housing a couple hundred people has turned into a planet wide community of almost a billion. Established in 2082 Beta Home (as the colony was called) survived on a combination of oxygen scrubbers and a sophisticated greenhouse system. By 2112 a combination of oxygen generators implanted in the polar icecap and specially bioengineered super algae were well on the way to making the entire planet habitable.

Mars is a paradise. It runs a little cooler than Earth with what would be the tropical climates only getting hot enough to support a deciduous rainforest quite similar to that found in the Pacific Northwest region of the United States. Purportedly there are some scientists somewhere developing some kind of atmosphere enhancer that’s suppose to be able to magnify sunlight and increase the planet’s overall temperature. Who knows if this is true or not, it’s just one of those things I heard from the grapevine. I’ve been further into the future and didn’t see any evidence of this technology but that’s not to say it won’t exist sometime.

At this time, however, the Moon is thriving with the hustle and bustle of a couple hundred thousand people. This may seem only a drop in the sea of humanity, and with a total population of thirty-three billion it is, but the Moon colony is considered by some to be the most important of all the colonies; more important than Mars even. The Moon is seen as the first step in solving the population crunch. Colonization of the Moon is what gave mankind hope for the future (of all things) and proved that yes, man could make a home beyond the security and comfort of Earth.

Moonport is the lunar city and it extends across the entirety of the Moon's surface. From Earth at night it pulsates with billions of little lights, almost a little solar system of twinkling stars all unto itself. The architects of this wondrous modern marvel had to be especially particular in the design and construction of Moonport. With a justified fear of the Moon breaking apart and crashing into the Earth or just plain crashing into the Earth from gravitational deterioration, the city was built to exactly mimic the Moon’s natural balance points. Being such an integral part of life’s continued existence as we know it, these scientists and engineers had to be sure to do nothing to upset its orbit in any way.

If not for its moon Earth wouldn’t be the stable loving mother of mankind we all know and love. No, instead it would have an increasingly unstable rotation, hurricane force winds, and any life that did manage to survive would only be about two feet tall, at best!

Actually the Moon colony is the only one I’ve been to. I’d like to go to the others but space flight would require me to be in one place for too long. As it is the Moon is tethered to the Earth by a space elevator. Theoretically impossible for so long for lack of a substance strong enough, when the crunch hit the world governments banded together and confiscated the planet’s diamond supply, both commercial and private. Then with the help of some kind of self repairing nano-polymer they slightly tweaked the molecular structure of the diamonds and bonded them together into what amounts to the strongest cable in the solar system. Using this cable a way was devised to transport people and goods back and forth between the surfaces of the planet and her satellite.

It only takes about nineteen hours to make the trip so I calculated my odds. In all probability the Gunman would track me, and kill me, but I decided a trip to the Moon was worth the risk… and it is!

The view alone is worth it and as I take a window seat in the Moon View Café I again consider the possibility of the Gunman making an appearance. So far all’s well and an attractive waitress in a tinfoil costume and square hat comes by to take my drink order.

“Long Beach Ice Tea,” I tell her and with promises to return momentarily she leaves me to my menu.

The menu, man is it something else, I’m looking at a variety of food with Moon themed names (not quite sure what most of it is) when a man sits down on the other side of the table from me. He’s dressed rather dapperly in the present style of the future. His coat’s not as nice as mine but his fedora matches it to a T.

He removes his hat as he sits, asks, “Mr. Jones I presume?” and sets it on the table next to him.

About as surprised as a man can be never the less I sit back and calmly observe my ‘visitor’. I’m more than half expecting the not so mysterious gunman to make an appearance but this guy I’ve never seen before. Hair the color of an arctic wolf with eyes to match the man has a vague alien vibe to him that I can’t put my finger on. Is it that his eyes are a little too far apart? Or maybe it’s how spidery long his fingers are? Maybe it’s his thin bloodless lips perhaps or that his ears are a touch too pointy? I know it’s absurd to actually think he’s an alien, in all my travels through time I’ve yet to encounter any actual evidence supporting their existence, but he does have some weird quality to him that’s for sure.

I decide since it’s next to impossible for anyone to know who I am it’s best to ignore his question and return to my menu. I lightly peruse some of the items while he sits patiently awaiting my answer. Lifting my eyes back to my mealtime intruder I ask him a question of my own, “So, what would you recommend to eat?” I flash my pearly whites good humouredly.

Wolfman looks genuinely amused by my evasiveness, replying evenly, “I recommend the Imbrium omelet. It’s to die for.” He shows me his own teeth and I notice his incisors are unnaturally long. Ut oh, I’ve been tracked through time and followed into space by a vampire. I contain my mirth as I feel the familiar tingle of hysterics threaten to overtake me.

“Imbrium omelet eh, all right, Imbrium omelet it is.” Sounds as good as anything, I shut my menu and lay it on the table in front of me. I’m quickly becoming unnerved by the fact that Wolfman isn’t blinking. He just keeps staring at me with those intensely intelligent and crafty looking jelly orbs of his. I need to keep a handle on this new twist in things and so fire another question of my own, “What’s your name old timer?”

The wrinkles around his eyes and in his forehead deepen, his smile sure is wolfish as well, I’m thinking but his next words blow every thought out of my head like a hydrogen bomb. “Oh I think Wolfman fits well enough,” and his smile grows ever more feral across his face.

My jaw drops. I wasn’t surprised before, merely startled. Complete surprise has me now, has me completely paralyzed in mind as surely as in body. Telepathy? Telepathy! Are you kidding me?! All I can do is stare at him, bore into him with my disbelief and break down his hold over me so that my incredulousness can help me once again regain control over my body. No way, telepathy’s impossible! It has to be a coincidence!

“Rare, I assure you Mr. Jones, but not impossible.”

I want to run. Every fiber of my being tells me to run but at the same time my muscles feel like jelly. With a cold sweat broken upon my brow I don’t think I can rise from my seat right now if my life depended on it. It very well may, if so I’m sunk.

“Rest assured Mr. Jones, I mean you no harm,” Wolfman lays each of his long fingered hands upon the table (man his nails are long too, like claws). “I’m unarmed and if you so choose you could easily pull your primitive projectile weapon from your jacket and kill me,” he looks meaningfully to my coat as if he’s looking right at the Colt in its shoulder holster. “But if you were to do so we could not talk about the SEAID you have possession of.”

I narrow my eyes and a denial rises to my lips but stops before getting past my tonsils. It’s pretty pointless lying to a telepath.

“Pointless indeed,” Wolfman agrees with my thoughts. “I’m glad you are the reasonable man you seem to be.” He lifts a hand and signals for my waitress to return.

“I’m sorry sir,” she removes my menu and puts my drink in its place. “I didn’t realize you were expecting company. I should have asked.”

“No worries sweetheart, neither did I,” I tell her red lips as they smile down on me. I look towards Wolfman. “I’ll have the Imbrium omelet and you better bring me some water with it.”

“Of course sir,” she smiles prettily and looks to Wolfman, “And what would you like sir?”

“Water please, if you would my dear?” Wolfman’s smile is a little less severe when he flashes it her direction. “I have a feeling I won’t be here too long.”

“Of course sir,” she smiles once more, departs to give the chef my order and then returns promptly with Wolfman’s water.

He sits silently while she does this and takes a long drink as she walks away again, slurping noisily at the straw before speaking.

“You cannot possibly understand the chaos you will unleash Mr. Jones,” he begins. “The SEAID is far more dangerous than you realize. TRU technology was never meant to fall into your hands and yet somehow not one but two Temporal Reconfiguration Units have found their way to humans. Of these two the SEAID is much, much more dangerous; unpredictable even. The technology is unique, untested, immature. Perhaps unstable?”

“You hear that TRU? The man thinks you’re crazy,” I tell my coat.

“I am anything but Davey, as you well know. Nor am I immature,” an offended female voice from within my coat tells me back.

I look Wolfman dead in his unblinking eyes. “I guess the cat’s out of the bag,” I tell him. “Why don’t you elaborate on your involvement in all this? Maybe tell me how such a sweet gal as TRU could be so dangerous?”

“Thank you Davey,” TRU tinkles happily.

“This is most unexpected,” Wolfman doesn’t look pleased as he stares at me over the rim of his water glass. “Most unexpected indeed.” He acts as if he’s not accustomed to surprises. Being a telepath maybe he’s never been surprised. Well surprise you weird ol’ SOB.

I can tell my thoughts strike a nerve when he actually frowns at me but, other than this small slip on his part, Wolfman only sets his empty glass on the table. “Very well,” he starts. “It’s very apparent you intend to be difficult unless I comply with your request. I suppose a part of me even understands. The SEAID must be quite the temptation for you.”

My lips twitch into a slight frown of their own. I guess that must be what he considers a jibe. I’m honest enough with myself to know he’s right though, TRU is a HUGE temptation. Probably the biggest I can imagine. Knowing my vain attempts at controlling my body language stem completely from habit I twitch my lips back into a neutral position.

“Let me start, Mr. Jones, by telling you that I am from the future. A future far removed from you and your timeline. You are familiar with the known Physics of this time?” I nod and he continues, “Well they are incorrect, almost entirely, except for a very basic level. But, all you are to know this moment is that what you consider to be the time trunk is only a branch. If there were to be a time trunk it would be immeasurably incomprehensible for you. As it is our timelines are each separate universes, about as far removed from each other in linear time as the Jurassic is from now. In the universe of my own time my present is the year 495,420,637, the sun is beginning to heat up as its life cycle comes to an end. Mankind, fearful of burning up from the increased solar temperature, is near extinction. Not something uncommon or unheard of throughout man’s long and colored existence, though this could be the last time.”

If he’s expecting sympathy he’s barking up the wrong tree. I had a hard enough time relating to my fellow man before TRU came into my life and three years in the company of an artificial intelligence sure doesn’t help that. If the people of the very fa-ar future look and act like this joker I sure ain’t gonna be able to muster much. Now I’m no expert but I have to say mankind has done pretty well for itself to reach such a ripe old age and probably deserves a dignified retirement after all those millennium of scrambling about trying to stay alive while killing each other.

Wolfman’s steady grey eyes bear into mine and I’m sure he’s soaking in every drop of mental energy I’m producing but I’m getting to the point I don’t care. I’ve never been one to hold my thoughts far from my tongue anyways and this encounter is like any other. The smartass in me says, it’s like no other as well, but I ignore him and pour my concentration on Wolfman as intently as his is on me.

His grey eyes narrow but still don’t blink and he drops a bomb on me, “It’s unfortunate you feel so little remorse for your fellow man, considering you are the one responsible.”

“What!” I explode along with the bomb. “Are you trying to say I kill the human race?”

“Not trying Mr. Jones.”

“Now just wait a cotton pickin’ minute here, just how the heck do I become responsible for the extinction of the human race?”

“You stole the SEAID,” he answers emotionlessly. Come to think of it he hasn’t said anything with any emotion. And he calls me unattached.

But I think his level stare has just unnerved me.

“Can you be a little more specific?” My palms are becoming clammy and I suddenly need to use a restroom. I grab my neglected drink, the condensate on the glass soothingly cold to the touch, and drain half of its potently intoxicating goodness in hope of curing the sandpaper clogging my throat. Goodbye sandpaper, hello instant buzz; another platinum idea from the Swiss vault of my mind. I can’t say I have much of an appetite at the moment but where in tar nation is my water?

I look around frantically for my waitress and spot her coming with my meal. Thank God because if I drink any more of my Long Beach I’m going to feel a little too drunk for the circumstances. I definitely don’t need to be drunk right now.

Wolfman sees her as well and waits for my plate and water to be set on the table (the Imbrium Omelet looks and smells amazing) before further illuminating his former statements while my appetite rejuvenates and I helplessly dig in. Hey, I’m hungry and it gives me something to do besides play ‘Who’ll Blink First from Across the Table’.

“Mr. Jones you have to understand there is fundamentally so much more to the universe than space and time; possibility for instance. Your concept of the physical world combines time and space into a single entity called space/time but it is in reality a combination of time, space and possibility. Of course possibility is dictated by probability, probability being a phenomenon which uses mathematics to predict odds. The more probable something is the more likely it is to become possible. Possibility can be depicted as a stream or line in the same way as time is depicted. Take any possible moment and work away from it in two directions, the more probable one way and the least probable the other.”

Pausing and producing a pen seemingly from thin air Wolfman grabs a napkin and sketches a picture on it. The picture is three vertical lines with four dots spaced at equal distances, even with each other down the length of each line. He then draws four more lines perpendicular to the three lines across each row of dots. When he’s done the pen vanishes and he slides the napkin across for my inspection.

Pointing out the vertical lines Wolman explains, “These lines represent timelines, the dots each represent a moment or choice in time, and the other four lines represent paths of possibility. If you choose any one of the dots on any one of the timelines and follow along the corresponding line of possibility you find yourself in another timeline, less probable existences to one side of it and more probable the other side. For the sake of simplicity this is only a linear description though, you must understand that these lines cross and converge from an infinite number of points in all directions, weaving a complex and confusing tapestry of realities that, although seemingly singular and separate according to the senses of their inhabitants, are in all actuality completely interconnected and intrinsically apart of each other.

My head’s spinning and all I can think is my old Physics professor would love to talk to this guy (he was known for his dead man’s stare as well). I nod my understanding, swallow a mouthful of egg, then grab my Long Beach and take another pull. Whoopsy doo, that isn’t water, may as well finish it now.

I’m not entirely sure where it’s leading or what it has to do with me being the harbinger of doom for all of humanity but it’s one of the more interesting conversations I’ve had in quite a while. TRU may make a good companion but a conversationalist she’s not. My omelet is done, my drink is gone but I think I can probably suffer Wolfman’s company at least until my water is gone. Who knows he might wrap this lecture up by then.

“You see Mr. Jones, you may have been worried about creating a paradox by altering your own timeline but your vision was not broad enough. Your timeline is safe and has been from the very first moment you used the SEAID. You cannot alter it except through the absence of your presence, in which instant it ceased to be your timeline.”

“What exactly are you saying?” I ask him while pushing away my empty plate.

“You are in a universe quite removed from the one of your birth.”

Hmmm, my mind blanks at this remark and I order my composure to wait for Wolfman to finish before it shatters like tempered glass. I was trying to avoid traveling beyond my own timestream but it seems a miscalculation may’ve occurred on my part.

“I’m saying your actions are creating a paradox throughout the multiverse, known or otherwise. Every moment of your existence, since you landed in that forest, has created a new universe and each of those universes are compiling their differences to the point of tipping the scales of possibility until the probability of mankind’s continued existence becomes an improbability.” Wolfman steeples his fingers in front of his unblinking grey eyes and wins the contest. I blink first.

I don’t know what to say to these accusations so I ask, “What should I do?”

Now I’m not entirely sure about it but it seems his unblinking eyes are narrowing a touch and his thin lips are curling ever so slightly at the corners but then again it could be me being paranoid about his response.

“There is only one thing you can do,” Wolfman informs. “Turn the SEAID over to me, before it is too late.”

Just because your paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you. “TRU, TRAVEL!”

Stretch, snap, I’m sitting in the same booth the following day, next to Adoc Raheem.

“Hello Traveler,” he greets my stupid surprise coolly and pistol whips me.

 

It’s the apartment. The equipment I’ve packed into the living room sits exactly where I remember it. After unpacking the crates I set it up so it would. The bedroom hasn’t become the cluttered wreck that I remember, yet, but the potential is definitely there. I’ve only been here a week but forget a bed, it’s already full of filing cabinets. I’m sure as soon as they’re full I’ll start piling paperwork on every available open surface.

I’ve been in the past for a week. I’m not sure how I got here. I don’t have TRU anymore, I’m sure Adoc does and I suppose it doesn’t matter. He won’t be bothering me anymore, I’m sure of this and I’m sure whatever reality I’m in is free of his disturbing influence now that he has what he wants. He’ll be off into another universe with his first use of TRU.

I wonder if she’ll even cooperate. I guess I always took her loyalty for granted but she is just a machine after all. Can she miss me the way I miss her? I still have all my financial influence; however it means nothing without her, without my TRU friend. She was with me through so much. After all the years with not just her loyal obedience but also her intuitive and patient guidance I’m at a loss as to what I should be doing without her.

So I’ve been working. Almost from the moment I came to, back in 2011 and realizing my trusty SEAIDhead was no longer with me, I’ve been hard at work building a new one. Don’t get me wrong, there is no replacement for TRU, she’s a unique individual even if she is a machine. Artificial intelligence doesn’t mean unintelligent and just because she isn’t wrapped up in protein pajamas like the rest of us doesn’t mean she isn’t a person.

I miss her. I may not be able to build another TRU exactly but I can build another SEAID and it can help me find her.

Since I’m fairly certain I don’t have to worry about Adoc anymore, for the time being anyway, I’ve dug in and fortified myself in this apartment. After all the years of wondering who it was I stole TRU from in the first place I only realized I had stole her from myself when I went searching the classifieds for a discreet place to build my new SEAID. I saw the apartment open for rent and I’ve become savvy enough to the ins and outs of time to know right then and there it was meant to be mine.

So I used my huge temporal paycheck to finance my lab. I feel a little like a mad scientist but that’s to be expected. You see I was smart, less than a year into my adventure I had made enough of my self-sustaining fortune to hire a team of experts from the future to analyze TRU’s every component in absolute detail. Then, of course, I had blueprints and diagrams drawn of everything. I had to be really smart about this though and I never gave any of my researchers enough of her to put the whole puzzle together. Separate teams were given specific pieces in sequence as they were removed from the whole. The blueprints were drawn the same way before she was reassembled. Let me say I was pretty darned anxiety ridden during this process but since all the king’s horses and all the king’s men (I’m the king!) put poor TRU back together again we never had a problem.

And now here I am using the labor of my foresight to rebuild my trusty SEAID. One like her anyway. There’s no way to say for sure whether my new Temporal Reconfiguration Unit will have the same personality as the first one or not. I kinda doubt it. TRU’s personality evolved as a direct result of my treatment of her and the result of all this heart stopping, death dodging, time traveling has definitely made an impression on me. Heck, I’m a completely different person now. My thinking has gone from- Horny little delivery boy who’s idea of adventure was a night in a sleazy strip club followed by sex and video games to- Savvy temporal business man who’s idea of adventure is getting into a shootout over a woman who’s really just a mouthy squawk box and little more than a glorified cell phone.

The work is frustrating; time consuming and frustrating. I get lost on this really small, intricate microchip. It’s actually one of the time circuits, a very important piece of what makes a TRU do what it does. There are three altogether and I’ve been working on them for about eighteen hours. Solder gun in hand I’m so almost done when my hand gives an involuntary shake and a mini waterfall of molten solder cascades across the circuitry.

The look that must be on my face at this mishap could turn coal into diamonds. I’m crushed. It took fourteen of the last eighteen hours to finish the first two and I thought I was making good time for being on the razor edge ridge of exhaustion’s precipice. Let me say, after being Time’s master for so long to feel so stricken from the loss of six hours becomes too much. I’m done, this is hopeless! Why am I chasing this insane dream? I have the money I can disappear anywhere in the world and live out the rest of my days experiencing the sort of lifestyle comfort usually reserved for Saudi kings or Donald Trump. That’s it I’m done, enough of this fantastical fairytale! I’m going to sleep.

When I wake up the next day I don’t even bother to put on a fresh set of clothes (I’ve been wearing the same one for five days) before I leave to find the nearest liquor store and get insanely intoxicated. Three days later I’m holed up in a roach motel puking my guts out for a day and a half. Another day of sleep, then the cycle starts over again. I don’t know what I’m going to do for the rest of my days on this dust ball world humanity claims as its own but staying drunk enough not to think about that, or my gigantic failure to reclaim my temporal property seems good enough for now.

So I’m staggering through the city. If I were sober I’d a known it was the middle of the lower left hand of the upper east side of town, but I’m not. As it is I’m wearing my charcoal trench and matching fedora (not so new now), I smell like booze and cigarettes and except for the sidewalk all I see through my booze goggles are my boots.

Vaguely registering another’s presence I look up just in time to collide with a young man about my height. “Why’n’t ya (radio edit) wasch where ya’re (radio edit) goan, (radio edit)!” I swear at him loudly and stumble on my way.

At least I stumble a couple steps but something about the experience seems awfully familiar, causing me to stop. Sluggishly, like frozen licorice, my unresponsive limbs turn my body so I can peer through bleary, bloodshot orbs back at the other man. Unable to force my double vision to become one I shut an eye and become a human monocular. I have a clear view of my retreating back making a beeline towards a restaurant I know I’ve eaten at on one other occasion with… yep, there she is, Staci Chase.

“Davey, Davey Jones! Is that you?” she calls and I beat an immediate and hasty retreat.

In a way this strange coincidence helps galvanize me back into action. The lightless depths of despair reignite with the blazing fires of industrious activity. I’m not giving up, I WILL build a new SEAID, track down Adoc Raheem, and rescue TRU from his diabolical clutches!

I’m coming TRU.

 

I wake up the next day and spend it drying out. I eat thin crust pepperoni and black olive pizza while drinking sports water and sitting on my note paper strewn couch soaking in scripted dialogue as cheesy as the pizza is. After my prolonged binge my hands are way too shaky to solder any circuits. Precision is the key to their design and steadiness of hand is the key to precision. After a relaxing day of food and television I hit the hay at a decent hour. I enjoy a night tossing and turning to a plethora of wildly vivid dreams, perplexing of vision.

In one of my dreams it’s night and I’m in a giant rubber raft navigating the whitewater rapids of the timestream. The raft is way too big for me to maneuver comfortably by myself though and every time I begin to think I’m getting it under control a rogue current sweeps in and upsets it again. And for some reason the raft is TRU. She keeps talking to me, pleading like only a lover or close friend could, telling me how Adoc is abusing her power and begging me to save her. I try and my muscles strain, my blood liquid fire coursing through veins dilated to eight lane super highway size as I heave on the paddles.

Lost in a dark blanket of fog I can barely make out the shore, it’s a vague black strip and though I fight against the timestream for all I’m worth it seems to come no closer. “Davey, Davey please save me!” TRU’s cry ear shatteringly cuts across the roar of the timestream like a bow across a violin’s strings. “I’m trying TRU!” I yell back at her. “Hold on we’re gonna make it!”

Suddenly a sharp drop in the current sucks the raft under, dislodging me from my perch and I find myself submerged in the timestream’s cold, torrential waters. Flailing my arms wildly about I regain the water’s surface and spot the raft ahead of me, off to the left. “Daa-veey!” TRU’s shout fades as the raft gains distance on me.”Hold on TRU, I’m coming!” Swimming with more determination than an Olympic gold medalist my desperation builds as the gap between us grows.

My ears still ring with the fear in TRU’s voice when I wake to sunbeams streaming through the blinds, penetrating my skin with their warming protons. I partially open my eyes and watch dust particles perform a slow dance through the sunlight while my sleepy brain ponders the ramifications of my nocturnal wanderings.

Shaking off sleep’s tenacious cobwebs I get up from the couch and use the restroom. After my daily constitutional it’s off to the kitchen to rummage in a pizza box for breakfast. If I’ve learned one thing it’s that a man can’t function properly without breaking his fast in the morning, especially if his business of the day involves technical thinking.

On average, throughout a day, the human brain burns twenty times the amount of fuel as the rest of the body combined. I read this somewhere and firmly believe it to be fact. Usually I can work mindless manual labor for most of the day before I feel the need to eat. But when I’m sitting somewhere doing nothing but using my brain all day, if I don’t get something in my gullet by noon, I really begin to feel the mind crunch. And when the mind gets crunched it doesn’t take long for the body to feel drug down as well. There’s a connection between the two after all, mind and body. Same with the spirit and its nourishment requirements are even greater than the brain’s. If you’re low in spirit it’ll drag down the mind and body together and I sure have been low in spirit lately.

I’m not a hundred percent yet but I still get back to the task at hand.

 

For the next three weeks I labor diligently my levels of focus chemically enhanced for maximum results gained over prolonged periods. I’m close now and not about to slow down until I’m done.

The one thing my learned scientists, well structured engineers, and logic driven mechanics never could figure out was TRU’s seamless exterior. This is what finally balks me. We never did figure out how to open her without damaging her and I finally agreed to the, oh so, careful splitting of her hull. Even this proved harder than anticipated. Lightly clamping TRU into a vice and using a skull saw my hirelings attempted to cut an incision in the seamless black plastic encasing the lifeless SEAID.

I almost expected the powered down AI to awake with cottage cheese screams but as the high speed surgical saw bit into her casing her silence abated my fear. The researchers didn’t stay silent however. As the saw made its incision everyone close enough to see gasped as the incision closed itself behind it. So we placed her in an electric hydraulic vise with separate clamps on either side and my scientists attempted once again to split TRU's casing. The vise pulled, applying slight pressure as they cut. This proved the only way to gain access to TRU's innards.

My engineers concluded her outer shell must be made with some kind of self-replicating nanotechnology, this was never verified though and I'm kicking myself now for not exploring the theory.

So my new TRU has a traditional black plastic cover with a seam around the center of the exterior edge and a clear plastic screen that sits dark on the table before me.

I’m hesitant to use it for the first time. All I can do is stare at it. This new SEAID is an inelegant, squared off box. In comparison with TRU it looks like you could put an eye out with one of the corners. I haven’t even touched it since tightening the last screw and setting it on the table last night.

I don’t have a clue where to begin. I’m at a loss as to where to find Adoc and TRU. Other than her capture I really don't know what motivates him, what his plans were once he had her. It’s obvious since he already had a TRU in his possession that he wanted mine for her unique ability to navigate not only temporal avenues but dimensional pathways. So he wants specifically to be able to travel to alternate realities instead of being randomly dumped in one just by back and forth transportation across the linear timestream. But why? What does he desire? Socrates once said, “Know Thyself.” You’ve got to know your enemies as well and I don’t know Adoc nearly well enough.

I do have one clue though, the vague but dire warnings of another man who I don’t know nearly enough about. It’s a decision I don’t feel entirely to make but I don’t really have another choice and so, I know where I have to go. But terrible indecision keeps gnawing away, digging its needle sharp little teeth deep into my psyche with nagging persistence. Like my mother’s constant griping to wash behind my ears this indecision eats away at my selfish need to rescue TRU. Turning over every detail of that temporally distant conversation I have to ask myself, what if Wolfman’s right? What if that strange man told the truth and I’m responsible for the future extinction of the human race?

I get up from the couch and leave my new SEAID sitting on the coffee table along with my unanswered questions. I need to take a walk, get my mind right before I embark on what may very well end up being the most exciting adventure of my surprisingly unordinary life. Slipping on tattered hemp sandals I head out, locking the door behind me. I know I’m destined to steal TRU from me about five weeks ago, I'm not sure how this is possible exactly, yet, but I’m not about to let anyone stumble in and steal my new SEAID now.

Unwillingly I find my thoughts slipping back to time travel, the affects of such on the multiverse, and the inherent paradoxes unavoidably created in said ‘verses across the board. I travel from one moment to another, either into the past or the future, somehow leaving my universe of origin and entering into a completely different one along with the new time period. My own circumstances seem to proof of this as I’m living my own John Connor scenario. I stole a time machine from myself, where I must have left it in an apartment I rented after having stole it, and then having it stole from me many years later so that I didn’t even have it in my possession at the time of my original theft for me to even steal it from me.

Whew! I take a deep mental breath at the sheer mind numbing impossibility of the situation and wish I’d been at my apartment laboratory during the day in mention instead of pickling my internal organs with mind numbing spirits. Of course if I had been a uniquely different scenario would have arisen, and actually, according to theory, somewhere there’s a universe where I was and one did. I shake my head. A person would have to be truly insane to understand how it all works: time, the multiverse, the paradoxical interrelationship, the strange bond between the three, all of it.

This brings me back to Adoc’s motives. If my mad gunman stalker wants to travel to another reality then it’s safe to assume he’s looking for one with a certain set of circumstances, one where life has taken a particular turn and created specific conditions. What circumstances and what conditions my mind struggles to conceive, mired in an endless quagmire of quantifiably unknown possibility. In all my years of hobby researching physics and the temporal states of reality I would never have guessed actual time travel would be so maddening. Whichever all powerful being designed this Gordian knot of insanity ought to be drawn, quartered, and left as an example to other gods as to what not to do!

Eventually my walk leads me back to my apartment building; back to the beginning it could be said, and I make my way upstairs to my lab. I enter and sink wearily into the soft cushiony embrace of the couch and stare once more down at my creation, the new SEAID, TRU's salvation. My tiredness stems more from the mental aggravation I’m putting myself through trying to understand the darkly suffocating inner workings of a certifiable sociopath such as Adoc. He’s tracked me back and forth along the timestream with the dogged perseverance of a rabid bloodhound, relentless in his lust for TRU. Remorseless, with no regard for human life, his soulless interior is as cold as the Antarctic ice shelf (and that place is cold, I know ‘cause I've been there). I’ve seen him gun down innocent woman and children in his attempts to end my life. Why, one time he even ran an old man down with a sports car as I led him on a heck of a car chase through busy city streets. I fact, with all the times he’s tried to kill me, it really makes me wonder why he left me alive, stranded in a familiar time period with access to all my accumulated wealth and the influence that comes with such?

Well there’s only one way to stop the incessant wonderings of my temporally deranged mind and that's to get up, get ready, and get out of here.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

ACT THREE

 

I’m back in the future, or as Wolfman explains it, another universe’s future. Glittering towers of light fill the breadth of the skyline, jutting from the lowly asphalt, illuminated edifices of mankind’s architectural genius. These buildings are like none I’ve ever seen, not made of brick and mortar, concrete or steel, they appear to be alive; grown from the very streets they light. Bioluminescent, the structures softly pulsate; like they beat with the life of some unseen heart buried deep within their cores. This future is surreal. I’ve only been here ten minutes and I feel lost, more than a man displaced in Time, a man displaced of perception. My fondest experiences in altered states of chemical fantasy could never have prepared me for what I’m witnessing in this year, 400,000,000 AD: a mere 95,420,637 years from Wolfman’s revelation of our supposed extinction as a species.

People are all about me. Dressed in a fashion I can’t quite comprehend, silvery strands of material that reflect prettily the glow from the buildings about us, they wink into, and out of, existence in an ethereal dance of light and movement: their own rhythmic cadence concurrent to some Siren’s song only they can hear. I must stand out horribly in this psychedelic madness of a far flung mankind, like peach blossoms blooming on a cold winter day it's dreadfully apparent I don’t belong here. But, except for curious sidelong glances as they go about their business, these alternate descendents pay me no heed. Not that it would matter if they did, my new SEAID works perfectly and I have it set to Travel at the slightest hint of aggression.

For just a moment I wonder what Wolfman would think about the fact that I’ve brought a new SEAID into existence. He’s already concerned enough about there being two Temporal Reconfiguration Units floating around on the timestream, and now there’s three. Like a pesky mosquito I brush the thought from the arm of my mind and contemplate the building nearest to me, pondering ways to penetrate its seemingly impenetrable brightness. There’s no immediately discernible orifice supplying access through the building’s glowing exterior, and I know the look on my face must accurately reflect my stupefaction.

“May I assist you in some fashion, sir?” The voice that tinkles from behind my left shoulder is polite and well mannered, but, nevertheless causes me to jump out of my skin like a molting serpent.

“Holy crap!” I exclaim. “Where the heck did you come from?”

“Excuse me, sir?” I contemplate the perplexed young man standing before me. The look on his face must match my own as he puzzles over my foreign garments... as I am over his. From a distance it appears all the citizens of this utopia are garbed in the same attire. Up close, however, I see there are subtle differences in design not readily apparent at a distance. His raiment preclude any comparison to what I would consider normal dress. The silvery strands are interwoven in intricate patterns to cover most of his thin form. Interspersing the weave of silver are fine filaments of colors; red, blue, green, and purple, which complement and enhance the overall ghostliness of his appearance.

“Never mind,” I hastily reassure the concerned fellow. “I was just wondering how I get into this building here,” I inform him.

He looks me up and down again and I can tell his confusion is only compounded by my comment. “You just enter, of course,” he replies.

I contemplate my options for a moment: I can either stand out even more than I already do in this farfetched future by inquiring further as to what this young man means, or I can throw caution to the wind and act on wild assumption; I choose the latter.

“Thanks,” I tell him.

“A pleasure to be of assistance,” the youth replies and vanishes before my eyes in a twinkle of colored silver. I’m surprised by his sudden departure, but only just barely. After so many years paddling for my life against the timestream’s whitewater rapids I’ve been party to enough impossibility that my quota’s about filled.

Instead of succumbing to surprise I turn my attention back to the pulsating edifice before me. It’s composition holds absolutely nothing that makes sense to me. At nearly a hundred stories tall, shorter than some and taller than most, it towers above me mythologically: like something straight out of the Old Testament of the bible, its presence looms like the finger of God; high and all mighty, unapproachable and unforgiving. The soft, glowing biorhythm of its heartbeat does nothing to sooth its ominous shadow. There doesn’t seem to be anything for it except to throw caution to the wind, so I step hesitatingly forward.

The building’s exterior yields to the pressure of my fingers touching it. The particles displace, compressing as kinetic force creates room for the mass of my hand within the almost gooey material. My skin vibrates with an almost electric tingle as the wall consumes my hand up to the wrist. The sensation causes me to jerk reflexively and the wall regurgitates my hand with a loud squelching sound. I look around to see whether my reaction was observed. It was: several silvery people are looking my direction, curiosity plasters their features. My instinctual fear embarrasses me and I feel it’s best to get off the streets. I don’t know anything about this society but, as sublime as it appears, I’m sure there’s still some sort of hierarchical order which defines it. When it comes to Humanity: one of the things physically hop scotching through parallel worlds and alternate dimensions has taught me is; the more things change, the more they stay the same. There IS an authoritarian faction at work here, and I aim to stay off its radar. My resolve strengthens as this old fear resurfaces so I throw my body into the jelly-like surface before me and surprise myself by stumbling into a large foyer...

...with a hundred faceless soldiers in red uniforms trimmed all in black, with little gold stars for cufflinks, and their fingers pointing at me like guns!

I take in this detail as (and let me say their tough leather boots have a shined finish like none I’ve ever seen and every one of them has their weight planted on their left feet) I fall flat on my face in a crumpled heap on the floor.

“Ah, so we meet at last Galileo.”

From far above me the words float and all the men who surround me shift their weight to their other foot.

Galileo??? My mind reels and stumbles as did my feet and I wonder at the man’s voice. He spoke my middle name with a familiarity of a long lost brother: younger with the reverence of one who looked up to me but with the spite of one whom had that reverence shattered with disappointment. I peel my face off the floor and search the room above me in a vain attempt to cipher this riddle. How can someone in this far flung future of an unknown universe know my middle name? Who are you? Where are you? My unspoken questions ring in my head and go unanswered while insanity tinged laughter mockingly dances in my ears.

“You’re confused I bet.” The statement is spoken with the rhythm of one who speaks to lull their prey into a false sense of security. I cringe instinctively at the sound and my memory succumbs to a past where the law was an adder named Marshall Clarence T. Hamerstock. “Confused, but curious as well, I imagine.”

I pick myself off the floor and casually brush imaginary dust from my trench. Red uniforms surround me on all sides as well as above, high above in fact, upon two tiers. My reply, as casual as my demeanor, I aim towards the upper tiers, “I’m curious as to how this situation became so confusing, that’s for sure.”

Another poisonous chuckle and the men perching upon the first tier part in the middle to admit a new fellow. He’s dressed in the same red color as the others but his head is covered with a black hat. Besides star cufflinks his uniform is embossed with decorative medals on his right breast pocket and some sort of symbolic patching stitched into the shoulders. I can’t make out what the medals or patches are exactly but there’s no doubt in my mind this is the leader. His hat is low on his brows, covering black locks, and his golden eyes smolder beneath its brim as they bore deep into my own. He looks awfully familiar but not in a relative kind of way and definitely not in a friendly brother kind either.

“All in due time Galileo. All in due time,” the stranger tells me and lifts his hand out to me palm up.

Almost laughably the soldiers directly in front of me advance with their deadly fingers still pointing and I decide enough is enough for the moment. “Khronos, travel,” I command.

“Travel prohibited Davey,” a mechanical male voice in my pocket calmly replies.

“What do you mean, prohibited?” I’m backing away from the soldiers knowing at any moment my back will touch the wall I’d just stumbled through.

“Travel prohibited. Temporal gateway access impossible.”

My new SEAID is an infant as far as self evolving A.I.’s go and hasn’t developed much of a personality during the limited number of test runs I’ve made before coming to this era. It’s emotionless inhumanity is a little grating at the moment, to say the least, but as my back tingles against the wall I persist in my interrogation.

“Access impossible? Define impossible for me Khronos!” The mystery man continues his insufferable laughter as my mind calculates my chances of escape.

Meanwhile Khronos’ narration drones on, “Gateway access compromised by unidentified Temporal location lock.”

I can readily imagine what Temporal location lock means. I inwardly groan and use my legs to push off, sending me through the gelatinous wall behind me. I springboard through the semi-solid substance and land outside on the sidewalk, this time on my backside. Hurriedly gaining my feet I ignore the startled stares of the silvery people around me and run from the towering building as fast as my booted feet will carry me. No more than a block away I hear a crackle in the air as a beam of pure energy passes over my left shoulder and disappears in the distance ahead of me. The smell of burnt ozone assaults my nostrils and I know that beam was meant to kill.

“Are we able to Travel now?” I scream to Khronos.

“I’m afraid not Davey,” Khronos assures me.

“How far does the temporal lock extend?” I pant as my feet instinctively stagger my body weight to the left and another beam of energy shafts over my right shoulder to fly past me.

“Five blocks Davey,” Khronos informs me.

Five blocks, great! I hazard a glance over my shoulder and note that my faceless pursuers are gaining on me. Man, they’re fast! I don’t think I’ll make it to the five block point, past the temporal lock. Darn it all, who the heck are these people? How did they know I was going to be here, in this city, in this specific Time?! I didn’t even know I was going to be here until the very moment I came: it was a whim, a sudden flight of fancy!

I duck, I dodge, I weave, I even bounce in my erratic flight away from my faceless pursuers. I turn a left hand corner at the end of the block. Another hazardous glance tells me these soldiers are indeed firing bolts of energy from their bare fingers as the building next to my head explodes in a shower of organic material.

A right hand corner and I drop to one knee, flinging my trench coat out so I can bring my AR clear as I do so. I need to buy some breathing room and this is the best chance I have of doing so. Short bursts bark from my rifle’s barrel and three red troops hit the pavement, at least I think it’s pavement, I haven’t really taken the time to analyze it. More troops are in pursuit though, until I drop them with hot lead. Eventually I feel like I can make the five block point so I spring back to my feet and continue my flight towards freedom from the Temporal lock.

My AR’s return fire has taken effect for the blasting barrage issuing from arrears has lessened and Khronos informs me that we’ve made it out of the Temporal lock’s range of influence. “Well Trav...!” I begin to yell when a sudden explosion nearly knocks me out of my shoes.

 

The sound of dripping water awakens me to the taste of dirty brick in my mouth and opening my eyes reveals dirty brink mere inches away. I pull my face from the damp wall I’m leaning against and an agonizing throb begins in my medulla oblongata. I can feel my heartbeat in that throb and my breathing hitches to its rhythm as I grope through my pockets. Though my vision refuses to be anything but a teary blur it’s not because I sob with relief at finding the familiar black shape of Khronos nestled deep within my trench’s inner pocket, though sob I do! I don’t believe I could handle being stranded again.

One hand still fondling Khronos’ curves the other seeks purchase on the dirty brick as I swoon precariously to my feet. My knees knock and my hips sway unsteadily but I keep my grip on the wall and manage to stay upright. Ow, my head! Closing my eyes I pull my hand from my pocket and cradle my sweat coated forehead in its clammy embrace. I’ve had hangovers that felt better than this. My whole body aches and shakes. So, at least it’s not just my legs that are having difficulties.

The air is damp as I breathe it, every inhalation chills my lungs, and, thus warmed, every exhalation produces a puff of steam as it escapes my lips. Looking around reminds me of an underground drainage system, like something one might find under the streets of New York, or London. My brain, still partially addled, briefly wonders about the likelihood of alligators in these sewers and I chuckle aloud as I grope along the dirty walls towards what appears to be a better lit area of this dank subterrain world.

“What was that?” I hear a voice ahead of me and stop the travel of my stumbling feet. “Who goes there?” the voice inquires.

Not knowing if the voice represents friend of foe I still the labor of my breathing and hesitate to answer. In the back of my mind I feel vaguely desperate to find out how it is I’ve taken up residency in these tunnels but, if the voice belongs to an enemy, I’m loathe to further betray my presence.

“Stranger, is that you?”

The voice inquires politely, and I’m torn. If this voice belongs to the enemy and knows about me then how is it I was left alone, untrussed, and still possessing Khronos? At the memory of Khronos I decide to take a chance.

“Who do you mean by ‘Stranger’?” I whisper loudly.

A figure emerges from what I mistook for a deeper shadow among the many shadows along the brick walls, I cannot tell if it’s male or female but it, carrying what appears to be a projectile weapon of some sort ranging in the realm of cannon proportions. A swaddling of dirty rags completely covers its face, accounting for the muffling of its voice. I aims the hand cannon at my face and I attempt to shrink back the way I’ve come, hiding myself in shadow as the figure again asks, “Is that you, Stranger? Are you the one I brought below from above and saved from the Zenociders?”

“If by Zenociders you mean those faceless, red soldiers... then yes, I am that stranger,” I answer.

“Oh. Good,” the figure is obviously relieved and lowers its weapon. “I was just coming back to check on you and for a moment feared you were an agent of the Zenociders.”

“Who are these ‘Zenociders’?” I ask.

The sound of a rat scurrying down another tunnel startles my swaddled rescuer and it raises its weapon defensively. “Please, if you’ll come with me I’ll do my best to answer your questions.” Then it turns and vanishes back into the shadow from whence it came.

Not having many other options, and feeling this to be part of the mystery I must resolve, I stumble after.

“The Zenociders are Temporal Overseers,” Swaddler begins and I don’t know what to say.

“Time cops?” I ask.

“I am unfamiliar with this term, ‘cops’,” Swaddler grunts as it traverses a pile of debris.

“Um, police,’ I attempt to clarify with a grunt of my own as I scramble over the same pile.

“Police,” Swaddler considers this new word carefully for a moment before deciding, “Yes, police, of a nature, but corrupted and grown evil from many centuries of undisputed power.”

My head has slowly been clearing itself of the cobwebs left over from the explosion I’d suffered on the surface and I (CAREFULLY(thesaurus)) consider the information Swaddler is giving me. I can’t help but wonder about the man who knows me as Galileo though. He’s a leader of some stature, I surmise, and I probe Swaddler on the subject by bluntly asking, “And what about the man with the golden eyes and the black hair?”

In the sporadic lighting I see Swaddler shiver more than the damp chill warrants. There’s a quaver in the muffled evasiveness that, along with the shiver, betrays a hate rooted deep in fertile soils of fear. “Golden eyes?” Swaddler stalls.

“Yes! Black hair, golden eyes, seems to be the honcho Zenocider!” Come on Swaddler, I know you know who I’m talking about!”

“Swaddler?” Swaddler’s leaning towards bewilderment at that one.

I sigh heavily, “Forget about that! Who’s the man with the black hair and the golden eyes?”

Swaddler sighs just as heavy and shivers again before answering in that fear bound, hateful quaver, “He is Ras Adoc Davison. He is a man for whom Time has no meaning, with no place of his own in Time, and he is the man responsible for laying the yoke of the Zenociders upon our shoulders; in this Time and throughout Time.”

Finishing its recitation Swaddler grows silent, and I grow contemplative. Ras ‘Adoc’ Davison, huh? I can’t help but wonder if this so proclaimed Time Lord has any ties to my Mysterious Gunman, Adoc Raheem. It just may work out if he does but at the same time I can’t help but think, this is all I need.

Swaddler and I travel subterrain tunnels for some time in silence, it thinking upon whatever it is a far flung future inhabitant thinks upon while I ponder the events of the past (Past, ha, such a relative term!) three and a half years that have led me to this point. Three and a half give or take a few million. So lost in thought I fail to notice the tunnel brightening ahead of me and my MYSTERIOUS guide.

“Almost there,” Swaddler’s confiding muffle shatters my reflective peace and I look up from where I’m placing my feet.

I’m astounded, to say the least.

The dank, dimly lit, moldy, cramped little tunnel that I’m almost doubled over walking through suddenly opens into a massive, extremely well lit, and cleanly chamber. I rub my eyes with the backs of my filthy hands, hardly do I believe the sight they behold. It’s as if we’re to step into the 20th century, except underground! There are people everywhere, God’s honest people, everywhere! Some are dressed in swaddled clothes like my guide, others in jeans and t-shirts just like I’m used to from my good ol’ western civilization, others still look like their garb came from India, Russia, Rome, Sparta, Greece! The cathedral-like cavern seems to hold and house peoples from all walks of life, all over the globe, all across Time.

We must be quite a distance underground to allow for a cavern of this size. I look back the way Swaddler has brought me and notice for the first time a slight declivity to the slime slick stone floor. We traveled quite a while in silence, not to mention however deep we’d already been when I’d come to in this abysmal world, so I imagine we must be fairly deep under the city.

“Wow,” I exhale in wonder. “How deep are we?”

Swaddler turns to me with a muffled reply, “Nearly two and a half miles.”

I whistle appreciatively. “Wow,” I repeat.

Swaddler exits the mouth of the tunnel and enters the fringe of the bustling cathedral. I follow closely, admiring the variety of sights as we go.

The perimeter of the cavern appears to consist primarily of housing, I dub it the Housing District. Huts, hovels, and ramshackle dwellings of every shape and size have been built over, on and all around each other. Lumber, plywood, sheet metal, fiberglass, and even some of the strange glowing organics that the towering structures on the surface are made of have been used as building materials. The dirty amalgamations, thrown together in the most haphazard fashion I’ve ever seen, look like a bunch of children got together to build tree houses. All this beside everyone in this underground community appears happier than almost anyone else I’ve seen in any other society in any other Time.

So caught up with my examination of my strange new surroundings I’m not even stopping to consider where we’re heading at first, until it all of a sudden dawns on me to blurt the question out, “Where are you taking me?”

Swaddler doesn’t slow or turn in the slightest but answers while keeping up a steady pace through the perimeter of houses, cutting straight across the mile wide tunnel.

“We’re going to conversate with the Curator. “Of course.”

“Of course,” I mutter, adding, “Conversate?” with a smile.

The Curator, huh? But I suppose I really don’t have much of a choice in the matter so I keep pace with Swaddler and keep my thoughts to myself. I figure I can use Khronos to travel to another Time, but to what avail? There’s a mystery here I’ve got to solve, something imperative to my ever seeing TRU again; I feel it to the very core of my being. I was led to this era and somehow this Ras fellow is involved. I can’t leave until I found out how. Swaddler and this Curator person are my only leads and I intent to follow up on them.

Marching close on Swaddler's heels we leave the Housing District and enter the interior, which I hereby coin: The Hub. The Hub reminds me of an ancient bazaar. Hundreds of multicultural, multilingual, people hustle and bustle around a multitude of little booths, shops, and even woven mats spread across the hewn stone ground. Salespeople of every size, shape, color, and dress are hawking their individual wares in loud voices that do nothing to detract from the swirling chaos of the underworld bazaar. A place of madness I can barely hear myself think as I hug close to Swaddler’s metaphoric shirttails, determined not to be left behind as it weaves to and fro, in and out, twixt and ‘tween the general crush of shoppers and hawkers.

Eventually we make it through the mob.

Once gaining the outer perimeter of the Housing District directly opposing the tunnel through which we accessed the cavern Swaddler changes course and veers off to the left, following a zigzag line around rickety homes precariously stacked like a toddler’s alphabet blocks.

We zag and zig to a stop in front of a home that (surprisingly enough) doesn’t look so much like it was designed and built by twelve year olds. Two stories tall I look up at it and decide that if it weren’t for the salvaged building materials it could actually have been constructed by a force of at least semi-skilled tradesmen.

Swaddler reaches up and pulls a cord hanging next to the door which causes a large brass bell to emit a loud and distinct ringing. We wait, Swaddler a bit more patiently and calmly than myself. After a few short moments (that seem longer) the door opens to reveal the vague silhouette of what appears to be a medium sized man standing against a gloomy interior.

“Hello good Curator,” Swaddler greets. “Might we please come in?”

The individual in question, the ‘Curator’, doesn’t immediately reply but stands aside and gestures with a robed arm for us to enter. Swaddler doesn’t hesitate and waltzes right in while I take a moment to survey the madness of the cavern I’d be leaving behind. With a shrug I lift a finger to my brow in salute to the Curator and step over the threshold.

With the door shut behind us the Curator crosses the almost cramped little room I find myself in and turns a knob on what I assume is an oil lamp. Flame leaps up the lamp’s chimney, gutters for a moment, then steadies as a warm source of soft light that easily illuminates the confines of the room in a cozy kind of way. I see the room appears so closed in because, other than the single couch and ottoman accompanied chair, the main furnishings consist of shelves lining each wall stacked and overflowing with books. Partially amazed that so many tomes can be crammed into such a small space I turn in time to see Swaddler unswaddling its head in the reverse of the way in which a mummy may find itself wrapped.

I’m holding my breath, not realizing I was, and release it, quickly drawing another. I guess I’m wondering at Swaddler’s gender more than I want to admit to myself because I can’t tear my eyes away. Why it should matter, I don’t know. Male, female, or really just an it, Swaddler is the least of my concerns. The last of the layers comes off to reveal a hood which Swaddler removes, shaking free brunette locks of tightly curled hair while turning towards me. Verdict? Swaddler is... female, and decidingly so.

“So good to see you again, Sammi,” a metallic, but not altogether devoid of emotion, rumble states from behind me.

I’ve temporarily forgotten about the Curator while satisfying my curiosity about Swaddler, I mean Sammi, but upon hearing that strange voice issue its greeting I turn and observe that who I had first mistaken as a who, is really a what.

The Curator is a robot! As fascinated as I’d just been with Swa-er-Sammi, I now can’t tear my eyes off it.

Sitting in the red, velvet covered chair with its feet propped upon the similarly upholstered ottoman the Curator looks completely relaxed. How can a robot be relaxed? Somehow this one is.

Being the first robot I’ve ever encountered I take my time studying it. Not shiny, like I would first expect, the Curator seems to be constructed of some kind of smoked grey stainless steel of a type I’m unfamiliar with. Casually dressed in a thick, red, fleece lined terrycloth bathrobe the sentient machine turns its unblinking, glowing blue eye holes to counteract my inquisitive stare. I can’t help myself, I look away.

“And who do we have here?” that deep and perfect blend of artificial and organic tones enquires.

Lifting my gaze back to the Curator I answer, trying to keep my voice steadier than it is, “My name is Davey, Davey Jones.”

“He’s a stranger from the surface,” Sammi pipes up and I look over my shoulder to see her sitting comfortable on the couch. “The Zenociders were chasing him. There was an explosion and he was unconscious, so I brought him here.”

“Zenociders, hmm,” the Curators mettalo-human voice is contemplative. “Please, Mr. Jones, won’t you have a seat?” A hard, metallic hand protrudes from a soft, red sleeve as I’m waved towards the small couch.

I look from the robot to the attractive woman on the couch.

Sammi looks to be in her early to mid-twenties, perhaps twenty-four, certainly no more. Her brunette hair, a sandy brown to almost mahogany in color, as I said, is a vibrant mess of tightly curled strands that fall an inch or so below her shoulders. She looks at me as I silently observe her and I notice her eyes are a cool blue, but not with the cold of ice, more like the cool of a mid-autumn’s clear blue sky.

“Mr. Jones,” the Curator intones, drawing me away from Sammi’s appearance.

I can feel my cheek’s flush as I blush slightly when I notice the hand still raised in an invitation to sit.

“A-hem,” I clear my throat. “Yes, thank you,” I say and move to sit on the couch that’s little more than a loveseat.

Sammi’s head is down with her hand over her mouth but I’m pretty sure she’s trying not to laugh as I become acutely aware of the pressure of her leg against mine. It’s been so long since I’ve been this close to a woman, intimate or not, I easily find myself uncomfortable.

“There,” the Curator hums. “Now that we’re all settled, perhaps we can continue our conversation more comfortably.”

Hollow blue eyes glow piercingly into my own and I’m pretty sure that I blush again, which I confirm when I feel the shiver a suppressed giggle pass from Sammi’s leg to mine. I shift my weight in an attempt to lessen the contact between our two appendages but the couch is too tiny for much relief to be found and I sigh quietly as I resettle.

Seemingly unconcerned with the dynamics of social human peer bonding the Curator sits unmoving as I fidget then, satisfied I’m ‘comfortable’, he asks, “So, tell us Mr. Jones, how is it you became a target of the Zenociders fingers?”

Again I sigh, and start out by saying, “Let me start out by saying, please, call me Davey. Mr. Jones was my father... and my grandfather.” I flash my most endearing smile at my guide and my host. Sammi’s eyes twinkle delightfully, like far off stars, while the Curator’s don’t even pulsate in the slightest. So much for a robotic sense of humor.

“Very well, Davey, continue.” The Curator seems a deep well of patience.

I continue, “Let me continue by saying, although I know it’s against the rules of polite etiquette to answer a question with a question, before I can answer yours I have to ask, who are you people? And, other than Sammi graciously saving my life,” for the moment I’ve overcome my embarrassment of being near her and flash her another winning smile, once again rewarded with that mystic twinkle. “Thank you, most truly, by the way. But why should I trust you?”

I hadn’t noticed during my first inspection but where the mouth portion of the Curator’s face should be is a fine mesh of little eighth inch by eighth inch squares. This mesh is hard to notice due to the fact that it’s the same smoked stainless color as the rest of its chassis. It becomes readily apparent what the purpose of this mesh is as soon as a number of the squares lit up, bright white in the pattern of a smile. The effect is similar to that of a child’s Lite-Brite. So this machine is capable of displaying emotion through means other than the modulation of its... well, I suppose... his voice. I can’t help but think of the Curator as male, in both appearance and personality.

The Curator flashes his bright smile (literally) and actually chuckles, a low humming vibration I can feel in my teeth.

“Trust us the way we trust you,” he drones. “You were running from the Zenociders, we saved you from Zenociders, it stands logically- as the ancient saying states- that the enemy of my enemy, is my friend.”

As reasonable as this sounds, I stall. “So you’re enemies of these Zenociders?” I ask.

Indeed, we are,” the Curator states and then poses a question of his own, “Did you notice the people who inhabit this place?”

“I couldn’t help but notice them,” I smirk.

“And what was your impression of them?” the Curator probes.

“That they have the appearance of many cultures worldwide... from across Time,” I don’t hesitate to answer.

“Exactly,” again that grin flashes upon the robot’s face and I’m sure this time his eyes do pulsate briefly. “You are exactly correct in your assessment of their origins.”

“I see,” I don’t see. “So, what’s the deal?”

“The deal?” Robot ignorance.

“He means, what are they doing here?” Sammi chimes in. “Or, possibly, how did they get here? ‘What’s the deal’ is twentieth century slang.”

“Both, actually,” I reveal and smile at Sammi. “How did you know that?”

Now it’s Sammi’s turn to blush and she turns away slightly as she does so.

The robot frowns, it’s no less bright than his smile. “I am sorry, Davey, but perhaps you would take a moment to answer my initial question?”

I sigh. I was just wondering how much longer I could keep the Curator answering my questions before he got back to asking his. I as much as tell him this and his chuckle vibrates in my teeth.

“I like you, Davey,” the robot discloses. “I have had little amusement from a human in some time. You amuse me.”

I laugh at the very idea of being the source of a robot’s amusement.

“I like you too, Curator,” I tell him am and only partially surprised to find that the sentiment is genuine. I wonder if all robots are like him, so affable. “And this is why I’m going to tell you everything.”

Reaching into my inner coat pocket to remove Khronos I begin my tale, starting with being thrown through an eighth story apartment window.

 

At length I explain my situation to my two listeners. Occasionally Sammi or the Curator (mostly the Curator) interrupt my oration with questions, prodding me to further enlighten some detail or another. I’m completely honest in every aspect. I tell them about One Day When, my poor betting instincts, the bookie sending the Hench after me, and the two weeks I’d spent in terrified anxiety. I talk about ‘finding’ TRU, going out the window, and ending up in the jungles of Earth’s primeval forest. I tell them everything: the Mysterious Gunman, the Wolfman, getting stranded and building Khronos. Finally, after what feels like many hours of talking, I end my tale by describing coming to their Time, my running into Ras and his Zenociders, and waking up in the musty tunnel.

“Sammi here can attest to the rest,” I pat her knee with my left hand. “After I woke, she returned and led me here.”

At my stories end I find myself the center of an awkward silence. Not knowing what to do next, I keep my mouth shut. It’s a lot to digest, I know, I’d have a hard time swallowing it if I hadn’t lived through it. As it is, I did, so I get it and being as it’s impossible to read the robot’s steely features I turn to see what I can gather from Sammi’s.

She’s looking at me intensely with a nearly indecipherable expression, eyes all narrow, brows scrunched up, and mouth pursed so hard as to create cute little wrinkles around the edges.

I can’t help myself, “What?” I ask her.

I wouldn’t think it possible but her brows scrunch even further.

“You’re really him,” she breathes with something sounding very much like awe in her voice.

“What?!” I repeat confused this time rather than defensive.

“It went right over my head earlier, when you told the Curator your name,” her voice deepens with the awe I thought I’d heard. “But you ARE ‘the’ Davey Galileo Jones, aren’t you?”

Yep, definitely awe.

“What the... how does everybody in Time know my middle name?!” I exclaim. “I haven’t told anyone what it is since middle school!”

A now familiar chuckle vibrates my fillings and I clench my teeth involuntarily.

“Yes, if I remember correctly,” the Curator drones. “Davey ‘Galileo’ Jones stopped revealing his middle name in what was known as 7th grade due to the teasing of a bully named...”

“Franklin Josef Harcourt,” all three of us say at the same time.

Sammi’s obviously becoming overcome with excitement as she’s begun bouncing up and down on the couch cushion next to me. “It’s him, Curator!” she exclaims and claps her hands. “It’s really, really him! He’s returned!”

I can tell the Curator had been skeptical, but his skepticism seems to be abating as he replies to Sammi’s enthusiasm with a solemn, “Ye-es.”

“Now just hold on here one second!” I hold my hands up for everyone to stop. “I’m serious here! How do you know so much about me? And so intimately! And what does ‘He’s returned’ supposed to mean? I’ve never been anywhere close to this Time period before!”

I’m growing heated here and I make a visible effort to calm myself, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth with eyes closed. When I’m calm again I open my eyes and feel a bit embarrassed by my outburst.

“Sorry,” I apologize. “I’ve been through a lot lately and I guess it’s all becoming a bit much.”

Sammi had shrunk into the corner of her side of the couch at my display of anger, and relaxes considerably at my return to sanity. I feel bad that the beautiful young woman had to be exposed to my childish behavior but I ignore her as the Curator clears his throat circuits in a startlingly human manner. Will this robot never cease to amaze me?

The Curator’s feet leave the ottoman and he rises with smooth, oiled precision to move across the room toward one of the overflowing bookshelves. I look to Sammi for a clue to the robot’s purpose but she just smiles broadly at me, her eyes full of the awe that had been in her voice. Her gaze is almost worshipful. In my time I would have avoided a woman with a look like that in her eyes as a potential stalker.

“I believe I may have something here that may help your understanding,” the Curator rumbles as his blue eyes systematically illuminate the many titles before him. “Ah, here it is.” Plucking a nominally narrow book from a shelf the Curator glides back over and hands it to me before returning to his chair and ottoman.

I’m flabbergasted as I read the book’s title in utter disbelief.

“Memoirs of a Time Traveler,” I recite. “The Complete History of David Galileo Jones and How He saved the World!” I look up from the picture of TRU on the book’s cover. “You have got to be kidding me,” I groan and begin flipping through the pages, idly reading random paragraphs. “But this talks about stuff I haven’t even done yet!”

The Curator’s left hand suddenly snatches the book from my unbelieving grasp. I look up in time to see his arm retracting like a squirmy nightcrawler as he sets the book next to the lamp on the little table beside him. “Which is precisely why you should not read too much. A man should not foresee what the future holds for him.”

Although it would be nice to know, my knowledge of physics won’t let me argue the point. Ironic statements considering my current situation.

“Perhaps you’re right,” I concede. “Would you at least do me the favor of filling me in on a little bit of why you two think I’m some sort of hero? I don’t need details, just an overview will be fine.”

“Because you killed the Great Aboratis and stopped the Final World War almost five hundred years ago!” Sammi gushed. “And you did it all with the help of your great friends, the trusty Time machine TRU, and the spirited war woman Samieena. I was named after her,” Sammi confides the last part in hushed tones.

“Enough, Sammi,” the Curator admonishes. “We cannot tell young Davey here too much of his future. He is not yet the one history speaks of and to inform him now of his deeds later could bring disastrous results.”

Sammi lowers her gaze, properly abashed. “Yes Curator, I’m sorry.” She looks up, from me and then back to him. “But isn’t this exciting though,” she asks.

“Yes, quite,” the Curator agrees and abruptly stands up. “A very exciting day indeed, and one I trust that has made the two of you rather hungry.”

I look at Sammi, she looks at me, and we both smile. “Yes, sir,” we say in unison and laugh.

My teeth vibrate as the robot leaves the room, presumably for the kitchen.

 

As I said, that robot may never cease to amaze me: for a machine, he sure can cook.

As wealthy as I am across Time, I don’t always get to eat well. My adventures (more often than not) keep me from the pleasure of enjoying luxurious meals, but not tonight. No, not tonight, my belly is full of a hot home cooked meal and my right hand holds a large tumbler of scotch. Leaning back in the soft cushions of the couch I sigh contentedly and enjoy the feel of Sammi’s leg against mine. An equal amount of scotch in her own hand has removed some of the woman’s initial awe of my identity and laughter runs freely from her throat, building in her soul to bubble musically from her lips and float around the room.

One of the more pleasant evenings I’ve spent in my travels (if it is evening, hard to keep track of the Sun’s passage down here) it’s during the discourse of these mellow moments I learn that the name of this giant, cathedral-like cavern where so many temporally displaced people dwell is referred to as The Cocoon, or Cocoon Town, or simply Cocoon; take your pick. The Cocoon was named not for its coziness but because it’s the hope of many of its inhabitants that, like the caterpillar, perhaps someday they will break out of the confines of their subterrain chrysalis and transform into a butterfly of fluttering free people.

Perhaps someday, but only first if they can somehow overcome the iron grip of oppression they’re so clutched in by Ras Adoc Davison and his diabolical red army of faceless Zenociders.

From what I’m learning from the woman and the robot tonight it seems the residents of Cocoon Town are either Temporal Refugees or the children of Temporal Refugees.

The story is that once upon a time the Curator had been the Secretary General in the Department of Temporal Affairs, second to no one, only then he had been known as C.R.O.N.O.S. (Cybernetic Robot of No Ordinary System). Go figure. Anyway, his job was to oversee that both Time and Possibility entwined together smoothly and safely to create the most beatific and sublime timestreams for a greater and brighter future. Thus began the Temporal Relocation Program, the Curator’s attempt to save little known but potentially key members of history from death, or fates worse than, so that they may have the chance to fulfill destinies greater than themselves.

He aspired to do this through... Temporal Relocation.

From what I gather there’s this massive supercomputer squirreled away in a sub-basement of the DTA building downtown, goes by the name of the Chronicler. The Chronicler’s job is to scan the multitude of timestreams, creeks, cricks, and rivers throughout the multiverse of possibility looking for what’s known as an Anomaly. An Anomaly is generally classified as a man, woman, or child who, if not having experienced a number of factors, would have contributed with their lives in a way which would have had a significant impact on history; significant in that the future would have become a brighter, more prosperous place. These factors usually include, but are not limited to, death, incarceration, or detrimental social interactions. Once the Chronicler had located one of these Anomalies it was then up to C.R.O.N.O.S. (aka- the Curator) to, for lack of a better word, abduct them to this time, explain the situation and their potential place in the scheme of things, and convince them to relocate to a timestream in a universe where their potential may be realized.

Of course this was all before the arrival of Ras Davison.

Ras came blowing in from nobody knew where and somehow insinuated himself into the hierarchy of the DTA. Quickly he rose through the ranks and, being young, intelligent, charismatic, everyone liked him and nobody thought to suspect him of an agenda. But agenda he had and it was soon to be realized once he had worked himself all the way up to the position of Assistant Secretary General of Temporal Affairs, answering to no one other than C.R.O.N.O.S. and in direct control of the supercomputer Chronicler. This was not a good thing. In a horrible example of diversionary tactics Ras began manipulating the forces of Time to change the future from a thing of peace and prosperity, to one of dictatorial oppression and social suppression.

Ras began to subtly divert the refugees, instead of to places and times where they would do the most good, to an elaborate concentration camp he had used his power and influence to construct in secret. All the while his reports to C.R.O.N.O.S. stated that all was well, that the refugees were being placed properly. The future began to grow dark, steadily darker. C.R.O.N.O.S., his misplaced trust in his young assistant secretary absolute, was content to sit back while unbeknownst to him the world he had spent two centuries to create was undone around him. As the future grew darker, Ras grew more powerful, until he created an army of cybernetically enhanced psychics loyal only to him... the Zenociders; then he was unstoppable. It was with the power of this army that he finally grew brazen enough to rise up and usurp the robot who had bestowed so much trust and favor in him.

Or so he’d thought, for C.R.O.N.O.S. was a wise and patient robot who had begun to see Ras for what he truly was, a malignant, power crazed psychopath , and so had made preparations of his own. When the time came that Ras brought his Zenociders to bear against him, C.R.O.N.O.S. was already gone. In a daring move of his own the robot escaped the Zenocider’s clutches, freed the refugees from Ras’ concentration camp, and led them here, to their new home, the Cocoon.

It’s here that I now find myself, a future grown dark and corrupt, sitting with a beautiful young woman and an old robot now known only as the Curator, sipping a wonderfully flavored Scotch.

Funny how Time works.

“How long y’all been down here?” I slur gently, feeling the mellow glow of the scotch permeate from my belly into the rest of my body.

“Nearly one hundred and fifty years,” the Curator drones.

“Naw way,” I slowly drawl. “That Ras fella didn’t look to be more’n’ in his mid-thirties.”

“Looks can be deceiving in this age,” the Curator calmly informs. “One hundred and fifty years of age, for a human, can still be quite young.”

“Technology?” I ask.

“Technology,” the Curator affirms with a nod.

“Figures,” I shrug and throw back the rest of my scotch, then lightly shake the tumbler so the remaining ice rattles. The Curator, obliging my silent request, grabs the bottle and his arm snakes over to refresh my glass.

“So, what’s your plan?” I ask. “Y’all are hunkered down here, cozy as can be, but you can’t stay forever.”

“We’re waiting,” Sammi speaks for the first time in an hour.

“For what?” My head lolls her way and I bat my eyelashes at her.

She giggles, “For a sign.”

“Oh.” I’m feeling kind of drunk and it’s all I can think to say. “Well I don’t think I can wait for a sign,” I confide. “That rapscallion, Ras, has something to do with finding TRU. I need to know what.”

“So what are you gonna do?” Sammi leans close and nearly whispers in her own intoxication.

The Curator is all but forgotten for the moment. I stare into her eyes and whisper back, “I’m not certain, but... I think I’m about ready for bed.” Between the day I’ve survived, and the alcohol, I find this statement to be very true as weariness sweeps over me.

Sammi swallows the rest of her scotch, a mischievous gleam lit in her eyes, and stands above me with hand extended. “I believe I can help with that,” she invites.

A boyish grin splits my face and, without hesitation, I too swallow the remainder of my scotch, set down my glass, and accept her proffered hand.

Sammi pulls me to my feet and we both stagger into each other’s arms. Holding onto each other for support we offer our goodnights to the Curator and take leave of his generous hospitality.

As the door shuts behind us I’m sure I feel my teeth vibrate.

 

The next morning (or whenever it is I awake) my head aches most unjustifiably considering the relatively small quantity of scotch I consumed. I have very little time to ruminate on the obvious potency of the descendant of this beloved liquor when the source of my slumber’s interruption are readily, steadily, and quite loudly repeated: screams, cries, and the all too familiar sound of a certain type of fingerfire. Zenociders!

Sammi awakes beside me and we both bounce into our clothes at the same time. I can see her dressing out of the corner of my eyes but have no time to ponder the delicate curves I’ve come to know so well in the short time since she led me from the Curator’s to the cramped comfort of her own hovel. I’m covered first and rush to the sheetmetal door, prying it free of its warped jamb to peer out on Cocoon Town. The frantic scene that meets my eyes as I peer through the one inch crack is one of barbaric chaos. Zenociders are invading the snug sanctum of the Temporal Refugees by the dozen, swarming out of the cavern’s entry tunnels like ants they descend upon these gentile people of Cocoon Town without mercy. While some stick to the ground others still take to the air, propelled by twin propulsion systems attached to their backs, or maybe, I look closer, not attached but actually integrated into their bodies! They are cyborgs after all and have jetpacks. With the advantage of air this doesn’t bode well for the denizens of the deep. I shut the door and turn towards Sammi.

“I’m going to need my...” Weapons dies on my lips as she shoves my AR into my hands. One heck of a woman, that’s for shore; she doesn’t see my grin in the dark.

Headache thrust aside I open the door and take aim at the nearest Zenocider. It’s one of the flying ones and it’s just aiming its deadly finger at the nearest back of a helpless, fleeing woman as my high velocity rounds tear through it. Crashing to the ground right in front of me I leave the safety (and comfort) of the doorway and jump over its twitching corpse.

Sammi’s right beside me with her own barking cannon, shouting, “We must get to the Curator!”

I nod in agreement, not caring if she catches it. The old robot’s shack is where I’m heading and I’m sure she’ll follow.

My AR and Sammi’s hand cannon make short work of any opposition unfortunate enough to get in our way, but the closer we get to the Curator’s home the more futile our chances of getting there begin to look. It appears the harassment and murder of refugees is only a hobby for the Zenociders today. Most of the cybernetic forces are concentrating on the area immediately surrounding the Curator’s domicile. I know a useless situation when I see it and grab Sammi’s shoulder, dragging her out of sight around the corner of a hut before a large group of the relentless machines spots us.

“It’s no use!” I shout over the din of the invasion. “We’ve got to get out of here!” Her eyes relay a painfully emphatic ‘NO’, but she can’t help but agree with me. She nods and blinks back tears of frustration.

“Follow me!” Shouting her features are once more set in a grim mask of determination.

Though not swaddled, once more my guide, the young woman leads me beyond the ever tightening ring of Zenociders. Following blindly I don’t even consider the path I’m on to be a trail in any sense of the word. I suppose that makes ‘path’ obsolete as well. Half scaling huts and dashing through hovels Sammi appears to be taking a direct line to a very specific destination. In this instance her destination is a rust and grime encrusted iron hatch with a wheel lock in its center. The determination of fear driving her muscles, Sammi attacks the wheel lock with all of the ferocity of a wild animal. The wheel lock’s determination is stronger than hers though and it refuses to budge. I join her assault with a savage ferocity of my own, grabbing the right side of the wheel lock and leveraging my body under it. I push with all the strength of my legs while Sammi pulls down on the left. For all the effort our reward is a slight creak and the wheel shifts barely a fraction of a turn.

As I prepare to renew my efforts I happen to glance behind us. With a cry of surprise I abandon the wheel lock, grab up my AR, and blast a pair of Zenociders trying to sneak up on us.

I cast aside my rifle. Adrenaline courses through me and I grab the wheel with a mighty heave. “Aarrrgh-A!” I yell to increase my strength. The wheel creaks again, and we give it more strength; where we find it, I don’t know.

Finally the wheel breaks loose of its rusty mortar and begins to spin somewhat freely.

“Yippie!” Sammi shouts as we turn the ponderous wheel.

With a clank it stops suddenly and I strain to open the hatch, revealing a dark tunnel just big enough for the two of us to crawl through. The air is rank but we have no choice. I grab up my AR as Sammi climbs inside and, with one final look at the devastation of her snug little underground community, I climb in after her.

 

High above Cocoon Cathedral a crack in the ceiling hides us with lofty shadows from the terror stricken people unwillingly herded along the stone below, and their biomechanical shepherds. Sammi and I are wedged in tight, our perch the perfect eerie from which to observe the lower proceedings.

Having crawled and shimmied our way through narrow tunnels, through ancient cobwebs and the feces of small midnight dwelling critters, squirming through dust and the littered debris of collapsed ceilings until our knees and palms were bloody, our escape eventually led us to the greater security found in these higher elevations.

A greater view also.

We watch as down below the Zenociders prod and shove the people into a huddling, fearful crowd around the Curator’s house.

“What are they doing?” Sammi asks.

“I don’t know,” I admit, straining to make sense of the garbled words that float up from the cavern’s floor.

With the residents of the Cocoon rounded up the Zenociders take up positions in a circle around them, fingers at the ready. Dispassionate and motionless as these sentries are the people they guard are human still, and, though restless already, grow perceptively more so as something disturbs their disturbed discomfort. I shift my gaze beyond the Housing District and notice another group of Zenociders emerging from the unseen recesses of an entry tunnel. Within their folds struts a man who, even at a distance, can’t be mistaken for anyone other than Ras Adoc Davison.

The small group of Zenociders and their leader stomp up to the mass of refugees. The fearful crowd parts like the Red Sea as they approach and within a matter of moments Ras stands in front of the Curator’s modest dwelling. The door opens and out steps the old robot, an escort of Zenociders, one to either side of him, close on his metal heels.

“Hello C.RO.N.O.S.,” Ras’ voice carries softly but clearly above the sudden hush. I barely have to strain my ears to catch his words.

“Ras,” the Curator drones emotionlessly and falls silent.

“Quite the city you’ve got for yourself here,” Ras’ benign remark is full of undisguised facetious contempt and he gestures about. “I would have thought you’d have done more with the time I’ve allowed you here.”

“We’ve done what was necessary and no more,” the Curator responds. “You’ve made sure our lives have been too difficult for much else.”

“Ah, yes,” Ras chuckles remorselessly. “I suppose I have, haven’t I? Of course it didn’t need to be like this. I built a home for all of these people and offered you a place as their ruler, but you would have none of it.”

“You built them a prison,” the Curator declared. “And offered me a place as their warden. Were you so surprised when , instead, we chose to revolt?”

Ras’ shoulders slump in an obvious sigh which I can’t hear from this distance, and answers, “No, I suppose not. Though I had hoped it would be otherwise.”

“So long as your evil perpetuates, it will forever be so,” the Curator gravely states.

Without warning Ras changes the subject, “Where is he?”

“Where is who?” the Curator deflects.

“You know who, you damnable robot! Where is Galileo Jones?!” The change from controlled authority to violent aggression is swift and the surrounding people shrink from the venomous energy Ras radiates.

“Davey Galileo Jones?” the Curator questions and Ras nods his head affirmatively. “I don’t believe he’s been in this era for more than four hundred and fifty years.”

Although I look down on him from behind I know that Ras’ face clouds over with rage. Reaching for a black truncheon hanging from his waist he raises it and strikes the Curator a resounding blow across his face. Though the impact rings with a dull metallic thud that reverberates around Cocoon Town, the robot’s head barely turns to one side as the truncheon connects. Standing all the straighter the Curator’s sunken blue orbs glare into Ras’ golden eyes.

“It seems you doubt the veracity of my words,” the Curator observes and Ras once more beats him across the face with his club.

“Of course I do, you rusted out box of bolts!” Ras screams. “I stood face to face with him no more than a day ago! My Zenociders chased him for more than five blocks! I know one of your filthy rats helped him to escape here! Now, I’ll ask you one more time, Where Is Galileo Jones?”

The Curator shakes his head and replies, “I don’t know?”

It’s the truth, technically, but Ras has had enough. His body grows rigid with fury before he shrugs with a calm acceptance. Turning from the Curator he faces the Zenocider bodyguards who flank the old robot and lifts a finger to his throat in a sign of decapitation before stalking back through the crowd with the cyborgs he’d arrived with. Standing a step behind the old robot, the two Zenociders each lift one finger to point at the back of the Curator’s head. With a crackle of energy hot bolts fire from their fingertips and the robot’s blue eyes burst with a shower of sparks and he crumbles to the ground, no longer a sentient creature but a smoking heap of scrap.

“Curator!” Sammi attempts to bellow her grief but I anticipate her cry and clamp a hand tightly over her mouth so that my fingers muffle her wail. She struggles against me briefly, but only halfheartedly, and then slumps into my comforting arms. I remove my hand from her mouth in order to hold her. “Curator,” she sobs into my collar.

As I watch the scene below I’m glad that Sammi isn’t looking. The Curator’s assassins step around his cold, still, metal corpse and, along with their comrades, turn their deadly fingers on the crowd. The screams of the refugees reach our ears and Sammi shudders in my arms, snuggling in tighter to drown out the cries of her friends and family in the comfort and safety of my coat. All I can do is shut my own eyes and pray the people of Cocoon Town die mercifully.

 

“What do we do now?” Sammi whispers as we huddle in the dark.

I’m not sure what to think after the massacre of Cocoon Town. I just sit in the dark and relive the screams of children as their parents are put to death in front of their tearful eyes. Sammi’s question, a validation that I’m not alone in this dark, damp world beneath the world, shakes me loose of the shock that grips me.

“I don’t know,” I whisper. In all my travels I’ve never seen such atrocity. Violence, yes, death, yes, but never such blatant disregard for human life. They killed the children last. “But Ras has to pay for what he did today!” My whisper grows fierce.

I hear Sammi rustle beside me. A flame sparks to life, illuminating the tear stains on the young woman’s face, and she touches a lit match to the tip of a cigarette. I stare as my eyes adjust to the sudden light as she puffs the smoke to life. I didn’t even know she smoked.

“Do you have another of those?” I inquire hopefully.

Sammi rustles again, this time her movements are dimly visible by the glow of her cigarette. She removes a wrapped package from somewhere with the folds of her attire and passes it to me. I unwrap it and find cigarettes and matches within. Selecting one of the hand rolled cigs, I put it in my mouth and touch off a match of my own. Inhaling rich tobacco smoke deep into my lungs, I sigh and exhale contentedly.

“Thank you,” I mumble gratefully, handing back the package of smokes and take another pull from my own. I’m starting to feel a little better. Amazing what comfort the little things can bring.

We sit and smoke in silence, watching the cherries of our cigarettes chase their way to our fingers. I feel the warmth of the ember reach my skin and try for one last drag. I burn my fingers though, and quickly put the cigarette out. Sammi laughs at the curse the burn dislodges from my lips. It’s good to hear her laugh and I smile in the dark.

What do we do now? The question drifts through my mind. What to do? Ras Davison has to pay for his crimes, that much is obvious. And even if he didn’t, he knows me, somehow, from somewhere, or somewhen. I have to confront him, before I kill him, I have to confront him about me, about TRU, and about him. I need to know these things. I need to know why he’s after me and how he knew I’d be here, in this Time. He was definitely waiting for me, him and his Zenociders.

“We have to disrupt the balance of power,” I muse out loud. “We have to do something to stop the tyranny your people are living under: Ras’ dictatorship.”

“There’s little we can do with the Zenociders at his beck and call,” Sammi says.

“Hmm,” I stroke the thickening stubble that’s covering my face. An idea is forming. “The Zenociders are cyborgs, right? Half man, half machine?”

“That’s what’s said,” Sammi confirms. “But I think they’re less than half machine. From what I understand the Zenociders used to be people, men and woman. They weren’t normal though, not that they are now, but they started off gifted.”

“Gifted?” I ask. “How so?”

“Supposedly they’re psychics,” she tells me.

“Psychics?”

“Yeah,” Sammi lights two more cigarettes and hands one to me. “Like telepathy, telekinesis, clairvoyance, stuff like that.”

“Telepathy? Like they can read minds?”

“Well, maybe originally but not now. At least not all of them anyway,” she says. “I think it’s more the power of these sixth senses Ras wants, to harness that energy, channel it.”

“How does he do that?”

“With technology,” Sammi’s face glows with light from her smoke and I see from her facial expression that she’s dredging up this info with difficulty. After all, she’s no scientist or technician. “I think they got some kind of something put in their heads.”

“A microchip?” I interrupt.

“That sounds right,” Sammi exhales smoke. “It’s something to do with electronics.”

“Microchips, I’m sure of it,” I stroke my prickly beard again. This future may not have quite what my idea of microchips are, but I’m sure that it must have an equivalent of. “And Ras uses this technology to brainwash the Zenociders?”

Sammi frowns at the term then tries it on for size. “Brain... wash, brainwash...,” she savors the word’s nuances on her tongue.

“Mind control,” I say. “To make people do what you want against their will.”

“Brainwash,” she repeats. “Yes, I understand, it’s a good word. But there’s more to it than that, I don’t think they have much of a mind left to control after Ras is done. Their powers are also focused, refined down to their essence, this is how they can shoot people with their fingers; it’s really with their minds.”

“But what about when I shot them? Sure it was all pretty hectic but when I shot them they weren’t entirely human, not ones merely encased in armor anyway. It was more like they were a part of it, that it was somehow bonded to them.”

“There is a level of...,” Sammi struggles to find the proper word. “Integration. It’s more than just the stuff in their head that just gives them control of their powers, their suits allow them to channel that power. I guess they act as a conduit.”

“I see,” I say.

“Of course this is only what I’ve heard through gossip. I don’t think anyone really knows for sure. Except for Ras that is.”

I stub out my second smoke and contemplate this new information. I don’t contemplate for long.

“Oh!” Sammi startles me. “One more thing! The Chronicler controls the Zenociders.”

This twist makes me sit up straight, “The supercomputer that scans Time for the refugees?”

“Yes,” she nods her head. She knows I’m on to something but she doesn’t get what. “Why? What is it?”

I clap her on the back, “That’s it, Sammi! All we have to do is break into the DTA building and shut down the Chronicler. If we do that all the Zenociders will go offline and Ras won’t have his army anymore!”

A huge grin spreads across her face and Sammi jumps into my arms, hugging me fiercely and saying, “That’s it, that’s it! That’s a great idea!” But then she pulls back from me and asks, “But how are we going to get into the DTA?”

“Didn’t the Curator say that the Chronicler was located in the basement there?”

Her grin reappears. “He did!”

“And are there any tunnels down here that connect to the DTA basements?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “We can find out!”

“Then let’s do it,” I tell her.

Sammi surges to her feet, rearing to go, and I reign her in. “Not yet,” I grab her arm and her pull down beside me. “I’m tired. It’s been a long day. I think we should get some rest, and then go.”

Sammi nods in slow resignation. “Ok,” she agrees and snuggles in next to me. “I am a bit tired.”

I close my eyes and pull her in tighter, enjoying the warmth of her next to me in this cool, damp place. We don’t say much else and after ten minutes we’re both sound asleep.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

ACT FOUR

 

I awake feeling very uncertain of myself. I don’t feel Sammi lying next to me, the air is no longer cool and damp, and- from the very confusing signals I’m getting from my body- I think I’m floating.

I open my eyes.

Yep, I’m floating.

What? I close my eyes and open them, again disbelieving the facts of my surprising, new and startling situation. My eyes are telling me I’m floating in the center of a white room with the shape of an egg’s interior.

As I assimilate my new surroundings a familiar voice suddenly issues from the very air in which I float. “Ah, I see that you’re awake,” it says.

“Wolfman?!” I gasp through my rising tide of confusion. “What the hell is going on here? Where am I? Where’s Sammi?”

“Do not worry Mr. Jones, your companion is here, on the ship with us.”

“Ship!” the word ejaculates abruptly from my mouth without thought while my mind races. Sammi is here, where ever here may be at this moment. Well, that’s a relief. And while my last encounter with Wolfman brought no good tidings he did not appear to be very threatening in his own right.

“...we are currently nowhere within Earth’s vicinity,” my ears tune back into Wolfman’s lecturing tone. “Having left orbit approximately twenty-two hours ago, we shall be arriving on Mars within the hour.”

“Mars,” again my mouth is ejaculating words without the benefit of first consulting with my brain. However, my brain only takes a fraction of a second to catch up as I realize Sammi and I have been shanghaied. “Why the hell are we going to Mars?”

“Mr. Jones, I warned you that further pursuit along your present course would prove disastrous for the human race, and still you remain inclined to continue to fulfill your foolhardy ambitions. I regret to inform you that while our previous encounter was a courteous warning, you have now reached a critical point in temporal existence in which, if we do not act now, the proposed extinction of your species will become inevitable. We are taking you to Mars for reprogramming.”

Ut-oh, reprogramming, I don’t particularly like the sound of that. “Reprogramming!” I object. “You can’t do this to me! I’m not some faulty computer, I’m a human being!”

“I’m afraid we can, Mr. Jones,” Wolfman’s voice sighs throughout the atmosphere of my egg shaped cell. “What’s more is that we don’t want to, but you have left us with no other alternative, we have no choice at this injunction. We cannot allow one man’s irresponsible behavior condemn an entire race to annihilation.”

“Believe me, bother, you’re not going to get away with this!” I adamantly declare to the empty space around me. My protestation seems to fall upon deaf ears though, as Wolfman fails to reply. At least I get no response verbally. What I do get is an immediate restoration of gravity and my backside meets the floor with bruising effect.

I stand up grumbling and gently rub the ache out of my tailbone. What a mess I seem to be in now.

With most of the ache massaged out of my rear I begin to pace. There are so many unanswered questions in my life at the moment that my mind balks at doing any real musing, and though I try to concentrate on this new predicament, no bright ideas on resolving my plight are forthcoming. So all I do is pace, and pace, and pace some more.

Presently I grow weary of the monotony of pacing and sit down. I’d much prefer to have a wall against my back but the peculiar shape of the room doesn’t afford me such comfort and I take my seat in the center of it. Hunched over and cross legged, with my elbows on my knees and my eyes closed I lose myself in an almost sublime state of doing nothing. It’s all I can do, but it doesn’t last long. I instinctively become aware of another’s presence. Jerking my head up and opening my eyes as I do so, I experience only superficial surprise to see Wolfman staring down at me with his inhuman eyes.

“Would you like to come out now?” he asks politely from a doorway that wasn’t in the seamless wall just a moment ago.

I surge to my feet and fly at him. I have every intention of murdering him, my nerves are actually tingling with the anticipation of it, but he calmly raises his hand and I’m completely frozen in mid-lunge.

“Mr. Jones, please, won’t you be civilized about this?”

“Civilized!” I yell through clenched teeth. “You’re going to lobotomize me and you want ME to be civilized?!”

Wolfman frowns with clear distaste. “Lobotomy is the furthest thing from the reprogramming procedure,” he explains. “Mr. Jones, afterwards you will still be entirely yourself, you’ll only have been purged of your irrational desire to chase across the temporal mulitverse after a device that your limited perception of reality can never fully respect. As a consequence any and all memories of your damaging meanderings will have perished. We don’t wish to harm you, only to have you removed as the threat you’ve become. I assure you, when we are done we will deposit you back into an appropriate timestream in a universe comparable to your own. It will be as if none of this had ever happened.”

Wolfman being a telepath I don’t have to tell myself to guard my thoughts closely. Although my innate pride and sterling sense of self is never going to allow him or any other person to tamper with my mind, still the first thought that rises above all others is that perhaps it would be nice to return to the life I knew before TRU. This is the thought I cling to, desperate to be free of whatever stasis Wolfman has inflicted upon me and not have him aware of my true intentions.

“Yes, Mr. Jones, wouldn’t it be nice to be able to live in the safety of your mundane life once more. No more of this randomly traipsing about the timestream, mucking about with reality, endangering the existence of your fellow man? Why, we could even set things so that your unfortunate dealing with the bookie and his Hench, which played catalyst to this whole sordid affair, would have never happened. You would be free and clear of your fiscal obligations and able to live in peace, free of their persecution.”

It’s a rather generous offer, when you think about it, but I come too far, change and grown too much as man through the years of Time travel to ever seriously consider going back to being the self centered womanizing, slacker that I once was. I clung to the feeling that this was what I truly desired though and projected it just as hard as I could, subduing my murderous rage of only moments before as I did so. I feel the stasis weaken as Wolfman lowers his arm and find myself in a crumpled heap upon the floor.

“I’m pleased that you see the reason in our offer,” Wolfman’s smile is feral.

“I don’t seem to have a choice in the matter,” I concede as I pick myself up and brush myself off. “Besides,” I shrug casually, trying not to lay it on too thick. “I am getting tired of all this temporal nonsense.”

“Very good, Mr. Jones. Won’t you follow me, please?”

Wolfman turns and walks away and I slip up the cell’s smooth surface to follow him. Upon exiting through the doorway I find myself in a brightly lit hall. I turn to take a last glance at the room I had just left only to see a smooth and seamless wall. I shake my head. Alien technology, or future technology? Hmm, perhaps both. I hurry to catch up with Wolman’s retreating back.

“Where’s Sammi?” I ask again. “You said she was on the ship.”

“She is,” Wolfman confirms without looking back. He keeps walking but doesn’t elaborate.

“And?” I prod.

Wolfman glances over his shoulder and raises his eyebrow at me before turning away again. “I wouldn’t worry about her,” he reveals. “You won’t be seeing her again.”

I scowl at his back. The smug inflection of his words is really annoying me. “Why even bring her along?” I challenge.

“It was an accident,” Wolfman admits.

“An accident,” I scoff. “I wouldn’t think that a people of your intellectual caliber would make mistakes.”

Even from behind Wolfman nearly glows with pleasure as he replies, “Why thank you Mr. Jones,” but then he sighs and the glow fades. “But actually it was a technical error. You see, the two of you were lying so close together that the beam used to transport you aboard the ship couldn’t differentiate one person from the other. It beamed you both as one.”

I nod to myself. Makes sense as far as my science fiction shadowed education in physics could understand. “She’s safe though?” I ask, sure that she is. Wolfman may be somewhat shady of personality but, as far as I can tell, he’s been nothing but a straight shooter with me and his intentions are honorable. He truly believes I’ll destroy Humanity and has obviously gone above and beyond to prevent me from doing so. I find I sort of admire him, at least for that.

“Of course, Mr. Jones. We have her secluded in a stasis pod much like the one in which you were placed. she’s quite comfortable and unknowing of her circumstances. We’ll return her to where she was as soon as we’ve concluded our business on Mars.”

I digest this news slowly, then my thoughts wander and a puzzle piece falls out of the ether to smack me across the face. The piece is a comment Wolfman had made earlier that makes no sense but I had allowed to slip by me unnoticed. “Hey,” I start. “what did you mean when you said, ‘the extinction of MY species’? Shouldn’t you have said, ‘OUR species’?”

My question stops Wolfman dead in his tracks. He turns and lays his unblinking wolf stare on me. There’s an intensity there and the alien quality I noticed about him when we first met is more apparent than ever. I cringe uncontrollably.

“Yes, you now know,” the incisors in his smile gleam wickedly. “Now, now, Mr. Jones there’s no reason to be alarmed. Your realization changes nothing. I am the same man I was before.”

His intensity fades and regain my senses, “You mean, you’re not a man at all. So what then, you’re an... alien?”

“You’ve already made up your mind,” he confirms. “However, we prefer the term ‘ORions’.”

“I see...” I don’t. “If you’re an alien, why are you so interested in Humanity?”

Wolfman steps forward and places his hand on my shoulder. I shiver a bit at the foreign contact but keep from flinching. “Because we need humanity, Mr. Jones. If not for the human race we wouldn’t have advanced much farther than Neanderthals.”

I feel my eyes go wide, the astonishment sweeps over me like a drug. I take a step back to escape his grasp. “You’re telling me now that, not only am I responsible for the destruction of my own race, but also for the continued existence... wait, no, not the continued existence, but the very evolution of your species into, what, hyper-intelligent super freaks!”

Wolfman crosses his arms and looks the closest to an emotion as I’ve seen yet, exasperation. “Mr. Jones, for a reasonable man, you display a remarkable aptitude for hysteria.”

“I’d ask you to put yourself in my shoes, but with not being a man and all, I doubt you can.” Wolfman only shakes his head at my remark and walks away. Unable to do anything else, I follow.

What a mess I’ve gotten myself into this time.

 

 

Sammi opens her eyes and squints against the bright glare of the white light that surrounds her. She’s floating in the middle of a white room the shape of an egg’s interior. Where’s Davey, she thinks and struggles against the antigravity bonds. Her struggle is brief, she stops squirming when she finds herself upside down. Staring at the floor this tough and beautiful, young woman begins to cry. Where is she? How did she get here? Where’s Davey? Her tears bead up off her cheek and break free of her skin to drift around her head.

After a good cry Sammi squirms and flails her arms until she’s floating upright again. Taking charge of her emotions and gathering her wits she carefully studies the room around her, it doesn’t take long. The walls are a smooth, glossy white that reflects the light brilliantly. She squints against the gleam of the walls and tries to find any discrepancy that might indicate a way out. She can’t see anything, no seams, no vents, not even an electrical outlet.

She cries again.

After the tears stop for a second time she takes an inventory of her possessions. They’re scant and not of much use. She does find her cigarettes though, and some matches. Putting a cig to her lips she strikes a match and lights it. As the burnt sulfur smell of the match drifts about her she takes a deep breath, inhaling the cigarette’s soothing effects. After holding the smoke in her lungs a moment she exhales with a satisfied sigh. She couldn’t have anticipated what happens next.

“Warning! Fire, Fire!” a digital voice sounds off in her cell. “Please evacuate immediately!”

The antigravity cuts out, gravity returns, and Sammi plummets six feet to the floor. Somehow her cigarette doesn’t break in the fall and as she picks herself up off the floor it dangles crookedly from her lips. Taking another pull she gasps in disbelief, there’s now an open portal where once was only smooth, unbroken wall. Not wasting a moment she flicks her cig to the floor, slips her way up its curvature, hurdles out of her cell, and finds herself in a long hallway.

Scarcely able to contain her enthusiasm at her sudden freedom she dashes down the hall, passing many doors along the way. As she runs by one opens with a loud whoosh. She jumps at the unexpected noise and freezes in her tracks. Turning slowly she stares at the open door with a mixture of curiosity and fear. For almost a full minute she stares at the door, but nothing happens and no one emerges. Utilizing extreme caution born of a lifetime running around sewers and evading Zenociders, she slowly approaches the door, inch by inch.

Back flat against the wall Sammi reaches the edge of the door and peers around the jamb. Not sure what to expect she’s prepared to flee at the slightest hint of trouble. Fortunately her fears are unjustified as the room beyond the door’s threshold is empty. Empty, that is, except for a table conveniently laid out with her and Davey’s belongings. Slipping silently through the door her grin smiles as broadly as Fortune’s just had.

Once more, her hand cannon is in her hand, Davey’s AR is slung over her shoulder, his Colt is tucked into her waist, Sammi peaks her head into the hallway. The coast is clear so she starts running again, only slightly slowed by the weight of the weapons.

The fugitive woman presently comes to a bank of elevators, one of which opens and she ducks behind a corner. A somewhat strange looking man exits the elevator, he has pointed ears, slate blue wolf eyes, sharp incisors. The man turns away from her hiding place and walks the other direction to disappear around a corner of his own. Gun in hand Sammi approaches the elevators and randomly hits the down button. She has to find Davey. The elevator opens, thankfully empty, and she jumps inside.

Upon reaching the bottom she holds her breath and prays for another empty hall on the other side of the opening doors. Though not sure who, or what, she prays to, none-the-less her prayer’s answered and she leaves the shelter of the elevator unhindered.

Across the room the wall is built from what appears to be thick plate glass, or perhaps some sort of finely translucent and stout Plexiglas. Sammi sneaks up to the wall and gazes through the window. On the other side of the glass is a massive docking bay filled with space transports of all shapes and sizes. On the opposite side of the dock Sammi can clearly see the pitch blackness of space glowing with the luminous light of an infinite tapestry of stars. Wow, where is she? Space? How did she get here? She reverts her attention to the docking bay and can make out a trail of people marching towards a large landing craft. Davey! One of those people is Davey! Sammi wants to cry out to him in her happiness but clamps her mouth shut tight so not to let a peep escape.

I have to get down there, she thinks and looks around. But the elevator stops on this floor. How do I gain access to the docking bay?

Sammi turns back to her bird’s eye view of the docking bay, Davey and his escort is almost to the landing craft. Panic tries to set in but she pushes it aside and sets off at a jog in the direction the strange looking man had gone. Eventually she comes to a turn in the hall she’s following. She rounds the corner without thinking and jumps back fearfully. She had just come to the doors of a freight elevator guarded by two of the strange looking men. They stand unprepared, lackadaisical even, talking among themselves in a brotherly manner. Sammi knows her only choice is a full frontal assault. Without a quiet weapon on her, Sammi must use her wits... and her fists; surprise will be her ace in the hole. Balling up her fear into a small, tight ball in the pit of her stomach, she draws courage over her like a cloak, drawing its hood around her face.

Darting around the corner Sammi charges full bore at the two men. The look on their faces would be worth a laugh if the contortion of her facial muscles by adrenaline didn’t leave her unable to produce any feature other than a grimace. Her hand cannon is clutched tightly by her right hand, she draws Davey’s .45 with her left. The guards eyes widen even further, beyond what should be humanly possible. Before they have a chance to realize exactly what’s going on, she strikes, and again, one weapon impacts the guard on the right, the other the left. She stands panting with each crumpled to either side of her.

Stepping over the prone and unconscious guards Sammi presses the button to call the freight elevator to her level. After a moment a bell chimes and the doors open to reveal a thankfully empty car. Stepping inside she eyeballs the buttons, they aren’t labeled but she wants to go down. She chooses the bottom button and barely feels the lurch of the car as it begins its descent.

She’s in luck as the elevator stops and the doors open to reveal the ship dock on their other side. Sammi is just in time to see the tail end of the procession leading Davey disappearing inside the landing craft. Boy does that craft look a lot bigger from down here, she thinks. I need to find a way inside, and fast. With a quick look around, the coast clear, she moves from the confines of the elevator car at a low, hunched over run, bee lining for the landing craft.

 

 

No gee while a five point harness holds your body into place can be an unpleasant experience for one not used to it. The harness never holds the contents of your stomach from floating around inside of you, no matter how empty it may be, and no matter how well it might hold you from floating out of your seat.

The landing craft I’ve been lead to by the wolfmen has left the gravitational confines of the starship’s docking bay for the freefall of orbital space. I say orbital because the ship we’ve just left sits in a concentric orbit around the fourth, red plant of our Milky Way galaxy, Mars. The, potentially, most Earthlike of all the planets circling Sol, Mars has, as of this time period, has been inhabited for millions of years... well, actually, reinhabited is probably a more historically accurate term. In the many, many millennium since Mars became first inhabited by man, there have been a slew of archeological discoveries that have proven- beyond a shadow of a doubt- that, yes, Mars had, at one time, an advanced civilization of its own crawling across its dusky, red surface.

I manage to wrestle control of my stomach just in time to hit freefall. The landing craft lurches perceptibly as its trajectory carries it into Mar’s atmosphere and my stomach renews its complaints. I really don’t want to puke though as I’m dressed in a self contained spacesuit... just in case of an emergency. Really? An emergency? As if I’d want to live through whatever may go wrong at this point.

The landing craft’s descent is arrested by its thrusters, which- in my opinion- only serve to throw my churning guts into a whole ‘nother realm of discomfort. I grip the straps of my harness until my knuckles turn as white as my face must be about now and pray to a god I’m fairly certain I don’t believe in for the intestinal chaos to subside. The fact that I still wish to barf my last supper- as long ago as that was- into my helmet only serves to reinforce my inherent belief that man was never truly created to withstand the rigors of space travel. Why didn’t they just beam me down? It’s obvious they have the tech to do so. Oh well, I clench my teeth and try to enjoy the ride.

The ship’s shaking is reduced as it escapes the initial burn of reentry and the shaking in my stomach reduces with it, thankfully, I’m not sure how much longer I could have kept it under control. As it slows even further I gauge we must be getting near to the ground. My estimation’s pretty close but not quite on target as with a final shutter the ship touches down and settles gently onto the landing gear. I guess this is it, Mars, we’ve arrived.

I’ve always wanted to visit the fourth planet from our sun, I only wish that it could be under more congenial circumstances. I take the liberty of unbuckling from my seat while I wait for my ‘hosts’ to retrieve me from the compartment I’m stowed in. My stomach now completely under control I sure wouldn’t mind a smoke. Thinking of cigarettes only makes me think of Sammi, and the last time I saw her. I look up at the ceiling, imagining her alone and trapped somewhere on the starship in orbit around Mars. Man, I miss her. In the short time since we met she’s staked a claim on a little piece of my heart. I’ve noticed constant danger and a healthy fear of losing your life tends to nurture that.

I don’t have long to wait as Wolfman and his wolfmen cohorts pop the door to my chamber within minutes of our landing. “Mr. Jones,” Wolfman purrs and waves an arm for me to depart it’s confines.

“Wolfman,” I growl and shoulder my way past his buddies.

Taking the lead I make my way through the landing craft’s corridors to the exterior causeway. Reaching the hatch I step aside and allow one of my captors to open it...

...and the view that greats us is absolutely extraordinary! A vast and magnificent forest of red and amber, pink and magenta, blue and violet greets my eyes. I step to the edge of the open hatch and lift my gaze skyward. An immense sky of deep, dark burnt orange canopies the foliage surrounding the landing craft. Terraforming and hundreds of millennium of controlled, but unchecked, growth have certainly transformed Mars for the better. I take a deep, satisfying breath and sigh contentedly, my current predicament temporarily forgotten in the face of this alien beauty.

“Magnificent, is it not?” While Wolfman’s question is spot on, his voice only serves to remind me of my imminent danger. I steel my mind from thinking any subversive thoughts and then answer.

“No question about it,” I respond in genuine awe. “I’ve always wanted to see Mars. It’s only too bad I won’t remember it.” I sigh again, only this time my thoughts are truly saddening.

A hand falls on my shoulder. I try not to cringe at the touch. “Come young Davey Jones, let us proceed,” Wolfman says from my right.

I sigh one last time. I really don’t know how I’m going to get out of this one. With every passing moment my chances of surviving this encounter seem to be shrinking. I can only hope that whatever fate has in store for me it’s in my best interest. I resignedly place one foot on front of the other and exit the landing craft.

A lost soul on a strange world I’d laugh at anyone else in my shoes as my shoes press into the soft soil of the red planet. One small step and all that, I guess. But a small part of the thrill that I felt when the landing hatch opened reenters my soul in the first two steps I take on this foreign soil. I can’t help but feel at least a little exhilarated to be finally traversing the terrain of my most favorite planet. I mean, come on, this is Mars for God’s sake. Mars!! Sure I may be millions of years into the future, but still, seriously, how many people from my Time can say they’ve been here? None that I know of.

We walk for a time. By we, I mean me and my cohorts. Wolfman has placed a vanguard of about nine of his wolven brothers about me as an escort, with him in the lead. We march from the landing craft into the lushness of the Martian forest, following a displaced path through which few have recently travelled... at least as far as the weary and hungry eyes of my mind perceive. Human feet have done little trampling along the path my feet now traverse. Little indeed as the tread of my feet stir dust left long unstirred.

Wandering through an almost primal Martian forest, with a nearly human, but not quite so, host of interstellar, Time travelling aliens is surreal to say the least. Though I suppose no more so than any other part of my adventures. With nothing better to do, and no other alternative readily available, I lose myself in the beauty of my surroundings, doing my best to clear my mind as I do so.

Before too much longer our small outfit passes through an area where the foliage starts thinning and then turns into a clearing. I gasp in utter disbelief for in the center of the clearing sits a true tower of Babel. Large beyond all get out the building in front of us is so tall that I literally can’t tell where it ends and the sky begins. So this is it, this is where my journey through Time, and Space, ends.

“Incredible,” I exhale and I’m only partly talking about the structure.

“No need to be sad, Mr. Jones. You’ve had a good run,” Wolfman attempts to reassure me. “Now, however, it’s time to stop your rampage, put things right and save the Human race. Before it’s too late.”

“So say you,” I mutter under my breath.

“What was that, Mr. Jones?” Wolfman asks.

I clear my thoughts. “Nothing,” I tell him. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Very well,” he says and resumes the lead.

We enter the tower and its interior is as equally impressive as is the outside. It’s a technological wonder the likes of which I’ve never seen, and I’ve seen a lot of very impressive technology, or so I’d thought until now. A spectacular foyer, huge beyond any I’ve ever encountered, greets us like the mouth of a large cave system. I’m not agoraphobic but spelunking this building jangles my nerves like nothing before. Intense phosphor lighting illuminates the air with a peculiar, bright glow; almost alive it pulsates throughout this cavernous foyer. Banks of terminals of various sizes and shapes blink and blip at us, a cacophonous symphony of lights and sounds. What their jobs are I can only begin to wonder as my escort ushers me across a broad expanse of floor to a row of elevators.

We stroll up to the elevators and Wolfman presses a call button. I only have a short while to continue marveling at the room about me as it takes but a moment for a set of doors to slide open in front of us. Once inside Wolfman again hits another button, one out of many that I can only surmise is going to send our car rocketing towards the top of the tower, or near it. The elevator lurches into motion and I get the feeling that we’re moving at a fair rate of speed as we make our ascent. After an indeterminable amount of time the car stops as suddenly as it started. The doors open and we escape the elevator into a long dim hall with an open door of bright, white at its terminus. The light at the end of the tunnel, I grimly observe.

My brain screams against the impending sense of doom that threatens to overwhelm me and I feel my adrenaline and endorphins slipping towards fight or flight mode. Am I really just going to sit idly by and let these pompous aliens dissect my brain, alter my personality and by proxy my awareness of reality as I know it? what other choice do I have though? Panic begins setting in as I feel the moment of truth wheeling ever closer. Don’t panic, think logically, I’ve been in worse scrapes than this. Or have I? The door of light looms in front of me. We’re only about ten paces from it and its brilliance grows all the more intense while my nerves grow relatively more tense. I want to do something, anything, but all I’m capable of is planting one foot firmly in front of the other, treading down this dreadful path of destruction.

The trancelike momentum of this zombie fugue state that grips me tight in its terrifying clutches carries me over the threshold, from the dim hall into the bright light. I involuntarily shut my eyes against the glare, walking blind for a few paces, and then open them again, just in time before stumbling into Wolfman’s still figure. I stop as well and note that despite how bright the light appeared from the hall, since transitioning past the portal it is now fixed at a tolerable level with no major adjustments necessary by my pupils to see clearly. I almost wish the light was still blinding me because what I’m now seeing does absolutely nothing to reassure me of the benign nature of this room, or my captors.

The room at the top of the tower is enormous. Three of its walls are floor to ceiling glass panels. I’m not ready to inspect the monstrous device that sits in the room’s center yet, in fact my eyes unconsciously refuse to even look at it, so I wander over to the thick glass to experience what I know must be a once in a lifetime view of the Martian landscape. Nor am I wrong in my assumption. I reach the windows and stare in stunned wonder and awe. Though where we are in the tower’s eerie is above the clouds, directly in front of me the wispy red stratus has parted as if by Moses himself giving me an almost uninterrupted view for what appears to be hundreds of miles. My lungs stall, yet I feel no discomfort at the lapse of oxygen to my system. Wow, if only I’d be able to carry this memory with me once I’m free of this unholy place. Far below the forest is tiny, no more than a mossy layer across the land, it extends for miles and miles and miles. Really, it’s hard to tell for from this height distance take on an entirely different dimension. But eventually the forest ends and I can see an orange and red plain stretch from its grasp until it too eventually ends at the border of a city, its features lost to my sight, blurred by the great distance. I only wish I had known what was in store for me up here, I would have brought a pair of binoculars.

My reverie is broken by Wolfman’s voice and I draw in a stuttering breath. “Come, Mr. Jones, the hour is at hand.” Emotionless there’s nothing sinister in his tone but I shiver none-the-less and goose bumps erupt all along my arms. Regretfully I turn from the divine vista to face him, his brethren, and the machine.

“I can feel your hesitation, Mr. Jones, but I assure you the procedure you’re about to undergo is completely safe, and painless,” Wolfman tells me.

I look past Wolfman to the chair that sits in the center of the room. I sure don’t feel assured.

I call it a chair because it obviously has a seat, and a back rest, but it doesn’t look comfortable, like a place I’d want to spend my Sundays watching football. It’s a diabolical looking machine. The chair part of it sits embedded in its center, elevated off the ground by about two feet. It’s made of what, at first glance, appears to be Swiss cheesed stainless and is accompanied by two matching armrests with adjustable leather manacle straps in the vicinity of where a person’s wrists would rest. Larger straps of the same type are situated under the seat where a person’s ankles would be. This isn’t the diabolical part. The machine itself is a sterile metal affair. Two long arms with a various array of hypodermics protruding from their ends dandle like octopus arms from either side of the chairs headrest. Another set juts from behind opposite sides of the lower backrest, these two are armed with scalpels, what looks like a skull saw, and at least three dozen suction tubes and miniature cameras of differing sizes.

Wolfman doesn’t really expect me to seat myself willingly into this torture contraption, does he?

But in the end I do go willingly and as Wolfman’s fellows are strapping me securely into position I wonder for the first time if, along with being telepathic, Wolfman is also capable of manipulating my mind. I look to his eyes and knowing he must be reading my thoughts notice his pupils dilate slightly, though this is the only change in his composure. It’s enough though and I believe it may very well be the case and would certainly explain my docility throughout our recent aquantience. I’ve never gone so easily into such obvious danger and impending doom in my life.

As the last strap is cinched I hear Wolfman whisper soothingly, “Now just remember this won’t hurt a bit.”

I almost believe him.

I hear the machine start up with a distinct whine and a mellow hum which almost immediately turns into a shudder. My heart doesn’t even skip a beat and I try to turn my head but find that my body has become somehow immobilized. I don’t really care though. A peaceful, easy feeling settles over me and I grow relaxed in my seat. Hmm, sedatives? That would explain the slight pinch I felt in my neck. The shudder I felt was probably the needle arm lowering down and around. Interesting, I hear the far off voice of my mind observe. I wonder how long this is going to take. Should I get in touch with Stacey when I get back. Yeah, I think I will. Man, it’s been a long time since I thought of her. I wonder how she’s been for all these years? Not that it’ll matter, I guess, being back in my own time no time will have past for her. Crazy, maybe I’ll take her...

My drugged interlocution is suddenly interrupted by a very loud ‘BOOM!!’. Wolfman and the wolfmen yell and scream in different degrees. I feel the chair skew to the left as my restraints bite into my ankles and wrists. Someone’s giggling loudly in my ears and I realize it’s me. Wow, whatever they injected me with is awesome. I feels as if a war is going on around me. It sounds like one too as more booms and ratta-tat-tats ring in my ears along with my giggling. Is that my AR? It sounds like my AR. Then there’s a more powerful explosion. I and the chair are airborne. We hit the ground and I’m thrown free to fly through the air again. I land somewhere in what may be a corner. I’m not sure as the world’s going dark around the edges.

The last thing I see as I lose consciousness is Sammi kneeling next to me. I can’t hear right and, trying to read her lips, it looks like she’s asking me if I’m all right. I try to shake my head no, but it’s too much of an effort and I pass out.

Consciousness comes slowly. I fight it, and for a while I succeed, but eventually the light of where ever I am bleeds through my eyelids and forces me to acknowledge my wakefulness. I’m not ready to get up. I attempt to shift my position in a very soft, comfortable bed and my muscles scream their protest while every bone in my body aches as if they’d been repeatedly abused with riot batons. Oooh, what happened? Where am I? These questions barely have time to take shape when my subconscious coughs up the answer to the first one. Sammi, Sammi rescued me from Wolfman and the chair. Well, one down, one to go. The answer to the first just begs the second to be asked once more; where am I? If I’m with Sammi I’m sure all shall be answered before long. I don’t even open my eyes, I’ve woken too many times alone in strange rooms. Nope, with a moan and a groan I snuggle back down into the softness of my mattress, pull the blanket over my head and close around me, and go back to sleep.

 

 

“Wake Up!”

...

“Davey, Wake Up!’

... ...

“Davey, please, Wake Up!”

... ... ...

“Please, please, Wake Up, Davey!!”

... ... ... ...

The voice keeps yelling at me from a long way away. Muffled, as if coming from down a long underwater corridor, I perceive urgency in its summons. I’m groggy though, and the voice sounds, a little familiar, but mostly unreal, as if I’m imagining it. I must be dreaming.

“Goddamn it, Davey! WAKE UP!”

I’m being shaken. I can feel it, it’s real. So I guess the voice is real too. With great effort and command of will I open my eyes to slits, only to hurriedly squint them shut again.

“That’s right, Davey, wake up!” the voice repeats. The urgency is still there but it doesn’t yell at me this time and I can hear it clearer.

“Sammi?” I mumble and attempt to prop my eyelids apart once more.

This time I’m marginally more successful. My eyes are only slits but at least this time they stay open. Sammi’s sandy brown locks and angelic face swim into view. She’s smiling down at me but I can tell behind her happiness is a load of worry.

“What’s going on?” I ask. “Where are we?”

“There’s time for that after we escape,” she informs me. “First let’s get you out of this machine!”

“What?” I ask, surprised and not yet fully awake or coherent. “I am free of the machine. I thought we already escaped?”

“No, Davey, that wasn’t real.”

I shake my head, trying to clear the cobwebs from my addled mind. “What do you mean? I remember a bed.” I struggle to sit upright but my movements are restricted by hoses, wires, cords and tubes, all attached to various points of my body.

“Ow!” I cry out and lay back down. About now I realize I’m lying in some kind of clear, frosted tube-like coffin thingy. What?!

“The bed wasn’t real,” Sammi explains and begins removing the plethora of apparatus from my naked skin. I feel pinches and pulling accompanied by pops and hisses as they’re removed. “It was all a dream.”

“A dream?” Now I’m even more confused. “How could it have been a dream. It was real, I was there. You were there. Wolfman was there.”

“Wolfman?” Sammi shakes her head. “I’ll have more time to explain after we get out of here.” The last wire comes free with a pop. “Come on, Davey, get up.”

Sammi helps me climb out of the plastic sarcophagus, to my very unsteady feet, and guides me over to a locker standing on one side of the room. Inside are my weapons, and my clothes, which I’m grateful to get on quickly as my frazzled senses finally register the fact that I’m shivering and my teeth are chattering. Inconceivable as it seems, Khronos sits next to my Colt. I drop him in my inside coat pocket before depositing the Colt next to him in its holster. Gratefully, I sit down on a low bench of rubber next to the locker and drag my boots over my feet. Along with my coordination, my dexterity seems to be malfunctioning and Sammi has to help me tie them. This whole ordeal has my curiosity greatly aroused but I bite off any more questions, concentrating on the task at hand. Sammi’s obvious discomfort at being... where ever it is that we are, has transferred to me as well and, as she insists, all I’m trying to think about is getting out of here.

With my clothes on and my weapons strapped a clear head returns to me, mostly. I follow Sammi as she leads me from the sarcophagus chamber.

Close quarters is the name of the game and Sammi has her hand cannon drawn. I follow suit and pull my Colt from its shoulder holster, saving the AR strung over my shoulder for when we get out in the open. Sammi’s making no use of stealth in our flight, so neither do I. Twisting, turning, panting! I’ve got to quit smoking!

“Where are we going?” I wheeze between gasping for air.

“To stop the Zenociders!” she shouts back at me.

“What?!” I manage to sputter. I am, without a doubt, getting sick of saying that word.

“I thought you said we were escaping?”

I lean hard against the wall next to her as she suddenly stops short and takes aim around the corner. Boom! Boom, Boom! Her cannon jumps in her hand and she takes off running again. I’m barely a step behind her.

“We are,” she tosses a smile over her shoulder that would’ve made my knees go weak if I weren’t for running for my life. “But we have to shut down the Chronicler first!” I’m more than a little envious of the fact that Sammi can run and yell at the same time without seeming to break a sweat. What the hell? She smokes too.

“What?!” There I go again. “You mean we’re in the DTA building!”

“Yes.”

We pass a heap of smoldering Zenociders.

“How the heck did we get here?”

“Later, Davey, later!” Oh, brother, just like a woman to leave a guy in the dark. If things go wrong later, I better not get the blame.

I sure haven’t had a lot of choice in what I do or don’t do lately. At least this is something I want to do, just not exactly how I expected to do it. I throw Sammi to one side and level a Zenocider to the roar of my Colt. It doesn’t boom like Sammi’s hand cannon does but it suffices. The Zenocider’s faceplate shatters and it drops.

“Fine then,” I tell her. “How far do we have to get there?”

“Only twenty stories,” she grins again.

“Only?” I mutter as she starts running again. I take off after her. “We should find an elevator!”

“Can’t! They have all the elevators stopped and watched! Did it when I came in after you!”

Great. “Stairs then?!”

“Heavily patrolled. We’ll have to fight our way down!”

“I was afraid you’d say that!” Twenty stories, huh? Closer quarters even than these corridors, heavily patrolled- I check my pockets- and I’m running low on ammo; for the AR as well as the Colt.

“Well it’s been a good ride,” I say.

“What?!” it’s her turn to ask this time.

“Nothing!” I’m air hungry. “Never mind!”

I see the door marked ‘STAIRS’ at the same instant Sammi veers off towards it. It’s now or never, I think, let’s get these sons of sons of guns! But it’s not quite now as we’re almost to the door and Zenociders swarm like a knocked down nest of angry hornets. This isn’t going to help my present ammo shortage. I’m glad Sammi’s hand cannon doesn’t require reloading. At least I haven’t seen her reload it yet. I hope it doesn’t!

Sammi unloads into the horde while, my fingers dug deep into her shoulder, I pull her back towards the shelter of the last corner we’d rounded. The Zenociders scatter while raising Cain with their fingers. We reach the relative safety of the corner. I slip the AR from my shoulder and slide the bolt back, jacking a round into the chamber.

“Git back!” I shout at Sammi, waiting for the fingerfire to die down before slipping the barrel of the assault rifle around the corner and giving Hell.

Smoke and hot lead erupts from the AR’s barrel and Zenociders jerk and spasm, dancing a funeral dance of the dead to what deity I can only begin to imagine; or at least would if I’d begun to care. I retreat back around the corner, dragging the barrel of the rifle with me. There were six visible, now I count two, with more on the way. A thirty round clip isn’t enough. I should have gone with the drum, or even the double drum. Yeppie, I can easily see this situation warranting a hundred rounds. Easily.

I pop the magazine and slam another home.

I’m dialed in, at the ready now. I peak around the corner of my vision and volley another thirty rounds. The remaining two drop but as far as ‘the more on their way’, there’s seven left. Seven?! I’m tempted to say it again but I hold my tongue... of my thoughts... or, well whatever. So, there’s seven left, no problem, I can handle this.

A peripheral hollers from the sidelines of my lizard brain and I spare an eye for what’s taking place next to me.

Sammi has her hand cannon laying in the palm of her hand, right side up. The right side? Yes. Correct? Yes. The right side of it is up and she’s desperate to pull a little lever on its side from up to down. I don’t even understand the technology but it’s readily apparent her efforts are misdirected. I reach over casually and flip the lever form up to upper; it moves. I’m not sure what’s about to happen.

Sammi lets out a squeal of delight and shovels me backward. This was a possibility I’d had the forethought to consider.

Did I say seven? What I meant to say was one. In two shots: whatever it was she (I) did to her pistol rips through six of the more than half dozen Zenociders that eclipse the room which holds the door to the stairs. I have to admit the guns I’ve brought from the Twentieth Century pale by comparison. Perhaps it’s time to upgrade.

Unfortunately we have more visitors. They come more slowly this time, hesitant before what is most decidedly an unexpected onslaught on our part. Creeping into our anteroom of death one at a time, fingers at the ready, the Zenociders only make it to three this time before their numbers run dry. It’s mostly an educated guess on my part but I’m pretty sure their backup has expired; at least for this floor. Three isn’t so bad. I think we can take them. No, B.S., I’m sure we can take them, and, Sammi does. Take them I mean. Another blast from her hand cannon and the scope of our exit is clear. Excellent!

“Now!” I rush for the door. Sammi follows. I bounce off of it. Locked! I shoot the vicinity I think the locking mechanism to be in and try again. This time the door flies wide to expose the stairwell. We venture cautiously onto the landing.

“Down,” I suggest and feed the Colt a fresh clip.

“Down,” Sammi agrees and flips the lever on her cannon back down.

Down it is. We hit the stairs, two, three at a time. Every floor comprises two landings, which our feet barely touch. For the first three floors, we’re lucky, no opposition. Then it hits the fan. Zenociders, and lots of them. Fingerfire flashes past our heads, singeing the walls above us. We’ve got the high ground though. They don’t stand a chance.

We make it another three floors before running into the next batch. This time there’s more of them, and they’re better prepared. The Zenociders actually force us back up two floors. Sammi, it seems, doesn’t like to lose ground. She produces some sort of grenade from the folds of her swaddles and drops it down the stairwell. The concussion is deafening but it does the trick, the way is clear once more.

Rushing through the smoke and debris we regain the two floors we’d just lost and make another five before the next encounter. Only three this time. Sammi switches the lever and her cannon makes short work of them with one shot. Down, down, down, donward and downward we go.

We’ve got nine more floors to go. Zenociders bombard us on nearly every landing now, growing thicker in numbers as we fight our way down. Trying to conserve my dwindling supply of ammo I let Sammi and her hand cannon do most of the work. Along with a handful of her grenades we persevere, finally, and tiredly, clearing the way and making it into the DTA building’s basement levels.

Once on the proper floor we cautiously leave the stairwell, reentering the hallways. Dark, dingy, damp hallways, they remind me of the sewers surrounding Cocoon Town. These halls are wider, taller than the ones in the upper levels so I holster the Colt and bring the AR into play. I’ve only got five clips left. I pray they’ll be enough to overcome whatever obstacles Ras throws in our way.

Sammi and I advance down the hall. Everything’s quiet, a little too quiet. I don’t like it. After all we’ve fought through to get this far, to suddenly face no one, it smells like herring left out for a week in the sun. Despite my misgivings we make it down the hall unscathed and unchallenged. I feel even more wary because of this but there’s little help for it. We’ve come too far to give up now, we must press on, shut down the Zenociders and stop Ras!

There’s a large steel door set into the brick at the end of the hall. We reach it and I see a brass plaque riveted to its center that reads ‘THE CHRONICLER’.

“This is it, we’ve finally made it,” Sammi whispers.

“We’re not out of the frying pan yet,” I tell her. “Let’s get this over with.”

Next to the door is a small keypad. I approach it thoughtfully. The door needs a code to open. Drat! I pound the wall with my fist.

“The door needs a code!” I hit the wall again. “We can’t get in. What are we going to do now?”

Sammi puts her hand on my shoulder. “Here, Davey, maybe this will help.”

I look at her. She’s got that incredible smile on her lips and a little, black book in her hand. “What’s this?” I ask and take the book.

“It was the Curator’s,” she tells me. “A long time ago he told me that someday Ras would come for him and if that were to happen this book would be very important. I went back to the Cocoon and got it from his house before I came to get you.”

I flip through the books pages. It’s a journal of some kind. Small, tight hand written notes fill every square inch of the yellowed paper. Scant glances of the notes instantly fascinate me. I wish I have more time to actually read them as the book seems to cover the Curator’s long, long life. I continue flipping through the pages and stumble upon one that reads ‘The Chronicler’ in bold letters at the top. I hastily scroll down the page until, BINGO, there’s a reference to a door code with a string of numbers following it. I punch the code into the keypad, 1497566845217, and the door instantly creaks loudly. With a whoosh, and a discharge of steam it retreats inward, past the inside edge of the brick, and slides to the left on iron tracks. The room beyond is dark.

Sammi and I exchange glances. I arch an eyebrow at her and she smiles at me. This is it, a new beginning, or perhaps the beginning of the end? Guns raised and ready with the one hand, our other two clasped, fingers entwined, we enter the Chronicler’s darkened chamber.

One step over the threshold is all it takes for the lights to come on. As soon as our feet pass it the entire room is lit with a searing light. Relinquishing my grip on Sammis hand I lift my arm to shield my arm against the illumination. Sammi does the same. The light doesn’t remain blinding for long though, quickly fading to a normal ambience, revealing a large computer sitting in the center of an even larger room.

“The Chronicler?” I ask.

“The Chronicler,” Sammi answers.

We move towards the Chronicler. We’re within six feet of it when maniacal laughter begins echoing throughout the chamber, bouncing around the room in tumultuous waves. “Yes, Galileo, the Chronicler!” a voice pierces through the waves of laughter.

“Ras!” I growl.

I drop to a crouch, back to the Chronicler, aiming the AR all about the room and into the air. Sammi’s right beside me, her own weapon at the ready. At first there’s no one there, the room’s vacant of anyone but us. Then shimmering vibrations begin to appear all around us, lining the walls to every side with a sparkling luminescence. Out of the simmering vague humanoid outlines take shape, grow more solid until distinct persons manifest.

“Oh no, Zenociders!” Sammi exclaims in dismay.

They surround us completely, hands raised, fingers extended. I should have expected this. What was I thinking, that Ras would just let us waltz right in and disable the Chronicler, effectively dismantling his entire army in one fell swoop? I should have known better.

Clapping erupts from the doorway Sammi and I have just come through. I aim the AR in that direction and Ras steps through in all his evil glory. His red uniform is neatly pressed, star cufflinks glitter on his sleeves, the medals on his right breast pocket gleam with a polished shine that matches his black boots, and his yellow eyes, framed by his long black locks, glow from under the brim of his black hat.

“Bravo!” Ras compliments. “It’s a mystery how you’ve managed to get this far, Galileo, but manage you have.” He stares for a brief moment at Sammi. “And with such a pretty young companion too. She must be the reason you made it out of the Cryo-Dreamer. If I’d known what a thorn she would turn out to be, I would have plucked her from life when I took you from her side in the sewers. And how did you enjoy your short slumber in virtual reality, by the way?”

“You’re a villain!” I shout at Ras. “A vile madman and I’m going to stop you!”

“Ah, so you didn’t enjoy the truths of the Cryo-Dreamer. A pity,” Ras shakes his head sadly. “I would have hoped you’d at least taken its lessons with you after being woken.”

“You don’t know anything about truth, Ras!” I spit.

Ras smiles a venomous half smile, “No, perhaps you are right. But you, you, on the other hand know the truth all too well. You know that this, Wolfman, and his kind are speaking the truth when they say you shall be the ultimate destruction of all Mankind!”

“No!” my denial is vehement. “I won’t except that! I can’t except that! There is no certainty in the future, especially when our reality is made of Infinity, when the possibilities are endless. There’s no way I believe them, and I surely don’t believe YOU!”

“So be it,” Ras agreement is casual. “Believe what you will, you’ll die either way.” He lifts his hand and makes a dismissive gesture.

The Zenociders begin closing in on us.

“Davey,” Sammi begins, panic laden voice sounding near tears as she edges closer to me. “Do something, please!”

There’s only one thing I can do, although it means leaving this reality for another, at least temporarily. “Khronos, Travel!” I shout. The familiar, mechanical male voice tinkles from within my trench, “Yes, Davey.”

I grab Sammi close to me. God, I hope this works. This is the first time I’ve tried making the jump with another person. I feel the stretch and anticipate the snap. The last thing I hear before it comes is Ras screaming his frustration, “Noooo!”

 

“Don’t move. Whatever you do, don’t move.”

Sammi clutches tight to my side. At some point before we Traveled I had thrown my right arm over her shoulders. I still have it there, holding her tightly.

“Where are we?” she whispers in my ear. She doesn’t seem to be afraid, only in awe of what’s just occurred.

“Same place,” I tell her. “Different time, different reality.”

“Wow,” she says.

“Khronos.”

“Yes, Davey?”

“When are we?”

“November, 19th 3023.”

“How many realities did we sideslip through?”

“None, Davey.”

“What?” It’s somewhat astonishing to hear this. “What do you mean, none?”

“I did not feel that it was prudent to leave the dimensional congruity we have been in.”

“You didn’t ‘feel’ it was prudent?”

“No, Davey. I only thought that we would be returning to this reality anyway, so why leave it.”

It never occurred to me that a SEAID may be capable of emotion, or even of thought independent in nature. In all the time I spent with TRU she displayed a remarkable range of personality but she never chose to interact with myself, or any of the situations we experienced, unless I first initiated those interactions.

“How did you come to this conclusion?” I ask the SEAID.

“I only noted the course of your actions throughout certain key intervals, analyzing their corresponding relationship with what you repeatedly stated was the goal by which you wished to measure the successful completion of our mission. From there it was easy to deduce what the most prudent action would be to any given situation we might find ourselves in.”

Fascinating. Khronos is displaying, not only a remarkable ability for logical deduction but also an obviously profound aptitude for interacting within circumstance beyond anything I’d ever seen TRU do. Just what have I created by building him?

“Um, well, thank you,” is all I can think to say to him.

“You’re quite welcome, Davey.” He sounds delighted.

Delight, now this could be something programmable, I suppose, or something learned. I know that TRU was capable of displaying emotional responses, but only when interacted with, never independent of those interactions. And, what’s a little weird about this sudden display of behavior from Khronos, is that it’s coming so early in his development. TRU took weeks and multiple jumps before she started to talk. And it was nearly a year of us being together before her responses were anything but mechanical, and then childish. I’d say it was a year and a half before she matured to full adulthood, had really developed a personality all her own. Khronos, on the other hand, has been talking almost from the get go. I’d only made a few jumps before making it to the future of Sammi and Ras and he was talking at a fairly advanced level. Now, after no use for I don’t know how long, where he’d just been, what, along for the ride, listening and observing everything that’s been going on, he’s not only talking like a fully grown adult but possessed of an intelligence and reasoning beyond anything I would ever expect. They say that girls mature faster than boys, maybe it’s the opposite for AI Time traveling devices made by strange extraterrestrials from the future. It could be.

My reverie is broken by Sammi. “Can I move yet?”

“Oh!” I start. “Oh yeah. But we don’t want to move from this area. And we should probably mark this exact spot.”

“I’m hungry,” she looks around wistfully.

“Me too,” I look about equally wistfully, thinking that the meal at the Curator’s must’ve been a long, long time ago. My stomach growls loudly in agreement.

We’re no longer underground. We’re no longer even inside. It never ceases to amaze me how the landscape of our fair Earth is forever shifting throughout the centuries, the terrain in a fluid limbo of which the only constant is man’s desire to shape it to match his desires. There’s nothing all around us. Well, not nothing entirely, per say, there’re plenty of rocks and dirt. How this area went from being a sprawling metropolis in my time, to nothing now, and then transitioned into one of the most advanced and splendid cities I’ve ever seen in a future far, far away. What circumstances must’ve befell the area to transform it from this desert wasteland into that great edifice of human craftsmanship and technological wonder.

“We need to mark this spot. We need to mark it good,” I tell Sammi and begin looking around for anything distinct in this place of sameness.

Sammi catches on to my gambit right off the bat and begins searching as well. Neither of us move our feet from the spot of our landing though and I realize this tactic isn’t going to get us very far. “Stay here,” I tell her and move my search farther abroad.

I keep Sammi in my sight as I search the area for anything to mark our port of entry into this Time. I don’t want to lose it. I have the beginnings of a new plan of attack against Ras formulating but it’s going to require we leave from the exact same spot we arrived.

After a hour of searching I finally come across what I’m looking for, a large scrap of red and white material, with just a touch of blue attached to one corner, with soil covering most of it. It’s almost ironic, considering my earlier musings about change in the world, but I’m fairly certain it’s the faded remnants of Ol’ Glory, the Star Spangled Banner, the flag of the United States of America. It saddens me a bit seeing what was once symbolic of peace and freedom reduced to such a dirty artifact. I pull up the tattered fabric from where it’s half buried in the dirt and stomp my way through dust and gravel back to where I left Sammi.

Although I had to let her get a bit farther away than was my intent, I quickly make it back to her. “Look what I found,” I say, holding the ancient chunk of flag up for her inspection.

She frowns slightly and asks, “What is it?”

“A rag now,” I grin. “It used to be an American flag.”

“What’s that?”

“What? A flag? You have flags in your time, don’t you? I’m sure I must’ve seen one.”

“Of course we have flags,” she laughs. “I mean American. What’s American mean?”

I look around and spot what I’m looking for off to our left. A large stick with which to hang the flag upon, plant firmly in the ground, and mark this spot so we can find it again after we wander off to find some food. At the thought of sustenance my stomach growls again and I redouble my efforts.

As I’m tying the flag to its improvisional pole and setting it in the ground I explain America to Sammi. “It’s actually America,” I tell her. “It’s the country I grew up in. It encompasses this land.” I sweep an arm about and the flag almost topples. I hurry to steady it, piling rocks around the base as Sammi brings them to me. “Actually, from the looks of things, it used to encompass this land.” I sigh and plant the last rock. “It was once the greatest country in history.”

I stand up, give the pole a firm shake to make sure it’ll withstand stress and weather, and brush my hands together to dislodge accumulative dirt particles. Ha, dirt particles, looking at my hands only serves to remind me that, along with food, it’s been a inordinate amount of time since my last shower. My only consolation in the matter is it’s been an equally, or nearly so, long amount of time since Sammi’s done the same.

“Let’s see if we can find some food,” I say as I plant my hands on my hips, rocking back on my heels to stare off in the distance.

“Do you think we’ll be able to find anything here?” Sammi asks. “This place looks so barren.”

“No,” I admit. “Unfortunately I’ve developed an unhealthy need to moderately explore every Time I happen across.” I grab her by the hand. “Let’s explore a little. If we don’t stumble across anything soon, we’ll try a different Time.”

“Sounds good,” she agrees and we start strolling over the rolling dunes of this wasteland.

It’s sort of pretty in its way. Reminds me quite a bit of Mars. Thinking of Mars reminds me of what Sammi told me about my experience there being only a dream. Ras said basically the same thing when he called it virtual reality. Something about the whole situation bugs me in the back of my mind. The time I spent in the Cryo-Dreamer was so real. It did something to me, changing the way I see reality. It reminds me of being on a low grade acid trip, everything in this desert looks real crisp, clear, and the colors are extra vivid. My mind feels more open, sharper but at the same time a surreal feeling sits right on the edge, threatening to overwhelm it. I need to know more about Cryo-Dreamers.

“What’s a Cryo-Dreamer?” I ask Sammi?

 

 

What’s a Cryo-Dreamer, echoes in my ears.

I’m awake in the comfortable bed.

It’s rather frightening me. I keep waking up in compromising situations with no memory of how I got there. Not so unlike blacking out after a night of heavy drinking. I think I prefer the drinking.

“Are you awake?”

I open my eyes in a snap. It’s Sammi. I’m in the bed. Definitely not hungover.

I sit up in the bed, pushing back from Sammi as I demand, “Just what the heck is going on here?!”

She reads the panic just right, sits back, and holds her hands up. “It’s ok, Davey. You’re safe.”

“I just left you,” I stammer. “We were in 3023.”

“Where?”

“Not where, when. We were in 3023.”

“We were in the tower. You took a pretty good knock on your head. I got you back to the Lander. Now we’re on our way back to Earth. You’ve been comatose through it all.” Sammi is trying to reassure me. I want to believe her but I can’t.

“No!” I insist. “I thought I was here but I was really in a Cryo-Dreamer. You thawed me out and we fought our way to the Chronicler.”

“The Chronicler?”

“Yes, only when we got there so was Ras. He had Zenociders with him, too many to escape, we had to Travel.”

“Travel?” she asks. “Travel how?”

“With Khronos. I told him to Travel and he brought us to the year 3023. We were just starting to look for food and I woke up here... again,” I try to shake the confusion from my brain. “But if this was only a virtual reality inside the Cryo-Dreamer, how did I get here this time?”

“What’s a Cryo-Dreamer?”

Confusion paints Sammi’s face as surely as it does my own. I place my hands over my face and rub my eyes with my palms. “I don’t know. You were about to tell me when I woke up.”

“When you woke up. See, it was only a dream,” Sammi smiles. She looks relieved. “I’ve never even heard of a Cryo-Dreamer before.”

I groan and flop back down into the cushiony softness of the bed, closing my eyes to this reality. Could it be true? Did I just dream the battle at the DTA building? I wish I could be sure. It seemed so real.

“Are you hungry?” Sammi asks.

“Yes,” I mumble. “Famished.”

“I’ll go get you something to eat.” I hear Sammi stand up and walk across the room. The door whooshes open and she says, “Your stuff is in the chest at the foot of the bed.” A couple more steps, another whoosh, and I’m alone.

This life I’m living is as about as complicated as about any relationship I’ve ever been in. I may be in a relationship right now for all I know. I definitely have some overly strong feelings for Sammi, and she did risk her life to save me from Wolfman. Whoa, hold on a minute here! I’m getting a little off base. Yeah, she saved my life, that’s to say if this isn’t a dream, or an elaborate ruse by Ras, or, or, or who knows what.

I shove aside my frustration at not knowing and throw aside the blankets that cover me. I swing my legs off the bed and the floor is surprisingly warm under my bare feet. Standing and walking to the foot of the bed brings back the memory of my rescue, the explosion that knocked me out, by the aches in multiple parts of my body. Opening the trunk I retrieve my clothes and dress. I’ve spent just about as much time sleeping and getting dressed lately than just about anything else. My clothes are clean for the first time in months, Sammi must’ve washed them, and they feel heavenly against my skin. I’m clean as well, she must’ve bathed me while I was out. The sensation is pure bliss.

I crouch down again, slow, gingerly so as not to aggravate aches that waking up in a box and an intense fight down twenty flights of stairs almost had me forgetting. My trench is neatly folded at the bottom. It looks a darn sight worse for wear after years (and millennium) of sideslipping through Space/Time. Though a lot better now that it’s been washed. I smile at the memory of the day I bought it. I was a sorry little squirt back then, and I’m sad to think somewhere out there in the multiverse there are versions of me that never went to the track, was never fearful for his life, and above all else, never stumbled into his future self’s apartment and paradoxically picked up his Timemachine.

I pick up the trench. Under it, at the bottom of the trunk, are my guns and my SEAID. Thankfully. “Khronos, you in there?”

“Yes, Davey. I am fully charged,” issues from the little, square black box.

I’m thinking about how Khronos in the other reality was acting. “How’re you doing?” I ask him.

“All systems are green. I am fully operational. Thank you for asking, Davey.”

“Um, yeah, you’re welcome. So, ah, Khronos, have you been keeping an eye on everything.”

“I do not have eyes, Davey.”

“Yeah, I know, but what I mean is, have you been observing events as they take place around us. You know, thinking about the team...”

“The team? You, Sammi, and I?”

“...yeah, the team. Thinking about what we’re doing and how it can be done and what stuff might happen and what to do if it does? Have you be thinking about these things?”

“If you are inquiring whether I am noting the course of your actions throughout certain key intervals and analyzing their corresponding relationships with what you have repeatedly stated is the goal by which you wish to measure the successful completion of our mission, and if you are further inquiring if I can deduce what the most prudent actions would be to any given situation we might find ourselves in, then the answer to your inquiries is, yes.”

And there you have it, from the horse’s mouth. And, if I’m not mistaken, that’s pretty much the same answer he gave me last time. One thing’s for certain, he’s getting smarter, and his learning curve is definitely a lot higher than TRU’s.

“Thanks,” I tell him.

“For what, Davey?”

“For being so danged smart.”

If a talking cell phone could smile, I’m sure Khronos is beaming when he says, “You are very welcome, Davey!”

I tuck Khronos into my back pocket and stuff the trench back on top of my guns before closing the trunk. As the trunk latch clicks I hear a whoosh behind me and Sammi enters the room, bringing the tantalizing smell of food in with her.

“Good, you’re up!” she cheerfully announces. “I’ve got bacon and eggs, sausage and biscuits, milk, and I even found an orange!”

“Outstanding!” My excitement for the menu is only matched by my hunger. “All of it sounds amazing!”

“I’ll just set it over here.” Sammi brings the heavily laden tray over to a low table in the corner of the room and sets it down.

I’m famished, so like a ravening wolf I set on the meal and begin devouring it. The bacon doesn’t stand a chance, neither does the orange, then I gobble up the eggs and the sausage, making sure to wash it all down with the tall, ice cold glass of milk. OMG! Bacon, milk! These are the things which bring Heaven to Earth, or a spaceship shooting through the ether on its way to that humble little blue and green planet.

I drop the fork on the plate and drain the last dribbles of milk from the glass before belching loudly in appreciation . I push my chair away from the table and lean it back on two legs.

“That was incredible,” I say as I rub my distended belly.

“I’m glad you liked it,” Sammi says. She stands to one side of me and had been watching in silence as I shoveled the meal into my gullet. She picks up the scraped plate. “Let’s take this back to the galley and go up to the bridge.”

I acknowledge the idea by settling my chair back to four legs and rising from its seat. Sammi leads the way. The from the cabin whooshes open and shut as we pass through it. The galley isn’t far and Sammi disposes of the dirty dishes in one of its auto-washers. From there we go to the bridge, traversing a couple corridors and a short trip in an elevator to get there.

The bridge is fairly impressive in its own right. Banks of electrical equipment and guidance controls are under a large viewport through which one can watch stars streak past. In front of this sits three comfortable chairs mounted on a single post. The chairs are plush and obviously intended to swivel in position. I’m in awe of the complexity of the layout. So this is what it takes to pilot a spaceship.

“How do you know how to fly this thing?” I ask Sammi as I move about scrutinizing the different labels and lights identifying everything.

She shuffles her feet in embarrassment. “Um, I don’t really know how to fly it,” she discloses. “I just typed ‘Return to Earth’ into the console and hit the button that said autopilot.”

I laugh, “That’s all huh? Well, whatever works I guess. You do know we’re headed back to Earth, right?”

“I’m pretty sure,” she says. “That’s what the computer said before we took off, and it’s confirmed it a few times after it made course corrections.”

“Good enough for me,” I declare and plop down into one of the chairs. “How long until we get there?”

“I think it’s that timer right there,” she points at a numeric display directly in front of me. It reads, ARRIVAL- 9:45:56, and counts down.

“Good enough for me,” I relax and put my hands behind my head. “I guess there’s nothing left to do but kick back and enjoy the view.”

“Or we could go back to bed?” Sammi suggests and rubs her fingers along my arm seductively.

I look up into her eyes, the wicked gleam of lust residing there becomes lit within my own. “That’s a great idea,” I agree.

 

After satisfying amusements physical in nature I feel fully rejuvenated and leave Sammi asleep in the bed I had awakened in. Apparently she had been so worried about me she had stayed awake much of the time I was unconscious and our recent extracurricular activities were enough to wear her out completely. So I dress and go to the bridge. As I’ve never had one before I’m curious about the ship and how it works. When I get there I snoop into the computer system to see what I can find. I try to stay away from anything that says guidance or autopilot, but eventually I run into the ship’s AI.

DOM’s (Direct Operations Mind) a friendly fellow, but not an audio type as the ORions don’t like their AIs to bother them audibly. His speech comes up on a holographic display hardcoded into a portion of the main viewport. He tells me he was aft stabilizing a malfunctioning spark arresting system link in the portside thruster or he would have been here sooner. In his words -it was misbehaving and he had to give it a wallop, and now it’s just dandy- I tell him, good enough for me.

It was through him I’m able to gain control of the ship. He doesn’t care who’s captain just as long as they’re going somewhere. This is fine by me and by the time Sammi wakes up, ten hours later, we’re in stationary orbit around Earth. The AI assures me we’re just outside of detection range.

“She’s so beautiful!” Sammi jumps into the chair beside mine and claps her hands together in front of her. “I’ve never seen her off planet before.”

“Yep, been a good mother to us, considering how badly we’ve treated her in our time. Not that we’ve always been. I’ve seen eras where we treated her with the love and respect that she deserves. So called Golden Ages they’ve been called. I just call them periods where mankind wasn’t so self absorbed, selfish.”

“Oh, where’s the Moon?” Sammi asks and jumps around to one of the smaller portholes that border the bridge.

“On the other side of the planet,” I have to tell her. “I didn’t want to be spotted by anyone there.”

First she looks disappointed, then she gives me a funny look. “There’s nobody there,” she tells me with a pretty frown.

“No one lives on the Moon?” I’m a touch disbelieving. “People have been living on the Moon for a lo-ong time.”

“Not for the last twelve hundred years,” she informs me. “After millions of years the Government withdrew all the residents because its orbit became so unstable they said it was uninhabitable.”

“And everybody moved,” I ask. “Just like that.”

“They had to.”

This I have to see. “So let’s go check it out.”

“Really?” Sammi’s eyes gleam playfully at the suggestion.

“Sure, why not?” Sure, why not, I’m feeling pretty safe at the moment.

I tell the AI to creep around the planet and come up on the lunar dark side. He complies. It’s while me make our approach we notice the dark side isn’t so dark.

“Great! Back us up, back us up!” I holler at the AI. -Keep your panties out of a bunch- pops up on the viewport. We quickly back away. “Thanks, DOM.”

-Do I detect sarcasm-

“Do I?” I kind of like this AI.

“Let’s bring ‘em on screen with the long range scanner.” I’ve always wanted to say that. I hope we have a long range scanner so I don’t sound stupid. What am I thinking, this is the future, of course we have one.

The dark side of the moon comes on the screen smack dab in front of Earth. It’s pitch black except around the edges, three large dots, and a smattering of smaller smudges.

“Now what?” I ask no one in particular. “Can we zoom closer?”

The image on the screen magnifies until it’s all black.

“Can we zoom in closer to one of the big lights, please?” I rub my temples with one hand. Maybe I don’t like this AI.

The view shifts and one of the large lights looms larger. “Zoom in ‘til we see the surface.”

The view shifts again and the light is bigger and brighter. Another shift and the outline of a structure is visible. Yet again and the structure comes into full focus. It looks like it’s made of solid gold! Far out!

 

 

“A Cryo-Dreamer is a machine that puts a person into icy stasis and causes them to live their lives trapped inside their own minds, living out a fantasy world,” Sammi's voice is reverent, almost dipping into tones of awe.

I'm back, again... or maybe it's again. I'm getting better at shaking off the confusion of transition, but having a harder time keeping my realities apart. Still, I shake my head, and answer with an unintelligent grunt. Cryogenics, huh? Makes a weird sort of sense I guess, but doesn't explain why I keep flashing between universes. If I'm not in stasis any more I should only be experiencing one reality.

“I understand.” I give Sammi's hand a reassuring squeeze. “When I come from we've been trying to develop this idea for a while.”

My mission remains the same in both realities so I do what I always do when a problem stumps me, I decide to shelve it until future developments bring in more light. Whether Sammi's past or on a spaceship, the objective hasn't changed. No matter how you look at it, we have to turn off The Chronicler, or, we have turned off The Chronicler, now is the time to shape reality and create a universe.

Even if I have to do it twice. Heck, if I have to do this until I die I will save these people from Ras and his evil!

I stop in my tracks as realization dawns: I'm no doing this for myself, or for the sake of finding TRU... I'm not being selfish. Whoa, I'm not being selfish.

“What?” I hear from beside me.

I look sideways, first seeing the slender wrist; now not quite as swaddled as it was when I first caught a glimpse of it. Traveling up the slight swaddles my gaze crests a shouder. Past the shoulder I find hair, so soft and shiny, even after all we been through, it shimmers in the harsh light.

Sammi is looking up at me, her eyes red and dry from the heat and sun around us are still the most beautiful treat this desert has to offer. “What?” her eyes smile up at me me as she shyly whispers.

I smile back at her, with both my eyes and my mouth. “Nothing,” I tell her. “Just an old time dog learning new tricks,” I tell her.

Her hand grips mine tighter and we continue walking, kicking up little plumes of dust in our wake as we move along.

After a while of walking in silence Sammi speaks up again, “Davey, I don't think we're getting anywhere.”

We stop and I have to agree. “Well, how about another timeline then?”

“Khronos, home,” I say confidently. I have just the place in mind.

“Yes, Davey,” Khronos pipes up from within my pocket and with little warning Sammi and I are thrown into the tumultuous temporal turmoil of the timestream.

 

Sammi holds her head sideways and grimaces with one eye squinting and a hand laid lightly against her pretty little head. “Oh, I don't think I'll ever get used to that.”

“It's worse when you're not expecting it,” I tell her through the shield of my most winsome smile.

Sammi looks at me sideways as her bearings begin to turn smoothly once more. “What do you mean?” she eyes me crossly.

I smile becomes even more winning and I grin, “I'm just saying!” Then I blow it and laugh.

“Oh you bad, bad man!” she yells and begins hitting me. Though I know she's not serious as there's a grin of her own playing almost uncontrollably at the corners of her mouth.

“Come on, people are staring. We've got to get off the street.”

I hail a passing cab and we pile in. I'm going to take Sammi to the same restaurant Staci cornered me at after my first experience with TRU. But first we're going to my laboratory apartment. The cab driver looks sideways at our dirty, disheveled appearance but doesn't say anything but to ask us where we're heading. I feed him the address and he carefully pulls back into traffic.

Sammi displays her normal childlike delight at experiencing strange, new sights and sounds. Oohing and ahing I notice she's extra special attention to all the beautiful young women sauntering down the sidewalk in their flowing summer dresses and strappy high heel shoes. Smiling to myself an idea strikes my fancy and I order the cabbie out of traffic and back to the curb.

The cab driver's look of relief shatters as I tell Sammi to wait in the car and he realizes he's not getting rid of us that easy. I jump out of the curbside door and run into the ritzy department store next to our parking spot. I'm not long in the store and jump back into the passenger side of the cab in less than ten minutes.

Sammi eyes the bag and box in my arms with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. “What did you get?” she asks.

I limit my response to a sly smile. “You'll have to wait to find out.

Sammi pouts and punches my shoulder but she's not serious and soon becomes lost within the controlled chaos of my city again, her smile the only thing that could enhance her pretty face as she stares out the window.

Twenty minutes later we're knee deep in the mess of my living room. Sammi looks at the mess of equipment and papers, then looks at me. I shrug, both at the mess and the unspoken question in her eyes.

“I don't entertain much,” I say by way of explanation. “Well,actually, I dont entertain at all.” Bag in hand, box under arm, I head towards the hall. “Come on, I'll show you the bathroom. You can wash up.”

She follows and after a quick tutorial of the toilet, bath, and shower I hand her the bag and box and leave her to her hygiene. I'm barely back in the living room and I hear her squeal happily, but she stays in the bathroom. I smile, happy about her happiness. What the heck is going on with me? I shake my head in amazement of the human heart.

Sammi doesn't take nearly as long as most of the women of my native Time would. Including my own hygienic preparations we're at the restaurant in about an hour, no more than an hour and a half. So we eat, we dance, and I can't help feeling complete satisfaction at all the envious glances the other men in the joint keep throwing our way. I can't say's I blame 'em, just look at this tasty dish hanging out with me this wonderful evening. Clinging black knee length off the shoulder silk dress with matching up the calf spaghetti strap high heel shoes, I almost popped a vessel in my, er, head when she got out of the bathroom. Even with her hair only casually brushed out to hang past her shoulders she easily takes the prize from the most beautiful of the women around us. Heck, she steals it from any of the cuties that had been on the street when I'd made the decision. I'm sure the cabbie had no idea he was chauffeuring such a diamond in the rough.

Later that night, after the fun, the drink, an intimate date on the town I'm looking down at Sammi as we make love, losing myself to the depths of her autumn eyes, I feel like I could forget about Ras, Adoc, Time Travel, and yes, even forget about TRU. Looking into those eyes, lying in a therapeutically comfortable bed, in a familiar Timeline, I remember what it feels like to be normal. What a good feeling it is.

But unfortunately life, especially mine, is never that simple, and anything but normal.

 

 

Dozing off with the most beautiful woman on the planet bare in my arms I wake up sitting in the Captain's chair of the commandeered spacecraft. Noting that I've made the transition into the other reality (existence, delusion, dream) I rub my tired eyes. This is really wearing on my psyche, leaving my feeling more than a tad schizophrenic. I sigh heavily.

“You look tired.” A pair of hands begin massaging the knots out of my tense shoulders. The ghost of Sammi's reflection, behind my own, is superimposed in the glass over the view of the Moon's dark side. She comes around the chair and settles into my lap, resting her body against mine and snuggling close.

-Oh la la-

“Shut up, DOM,” I tell the ship's AI.

“What?” Sammi shifts her body until she can read the AI's lewd comment. She only chuckles as she snuggles close once more. “You shouls get some sleep,” she tells me. Our close proximity muffles her voice and her suggestion only elicits another weary sigh.

“I'm not ready to sleep yet,” I inform her. I'm leaving out the part where I'm afraid if I sleep I may awake in another bed with another version of her. I'm fairly certain this is the main trunk of the reality I've been traveling, and despite how happy I just was in my apartment bedroom with the other Sammi, this is really where I want to be.

“So what are we going to do?” Sammi asks.

“I'm not sure.” I stare over her shoulder at the black circle floating against the backdrop of Earth. I've got the strangest feeling that hidden on the dark face of the Moon this golden palace is somehow an intricate piece of my unique tempoeral puzzle. It warrants immediate investigation. “I've learned to trust my gut over the years, and my gut tells me there's something fishy about that gold structure down there.”

Sammi again twists in my lap to stare out the screen. “So we're going to the Moon?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“Good,” she says. “I've always wanted to go there.”

I think of the other us having lunch at the Moonview Cafe. “I don't think this'll be much of a vacation,” I mutter.

“Everything will work out,” Sammi whispers. “Come on, we should get some sleep. Sounds like we have a long day of infiltration ahead of us tomorrow.”

I have no choice but to agree and despite my misgivings I allow my beautiful companion the reigns and she leads me to bed.

I've gotta say it's more than a little pleasing to wake up in the same place (time/reality) as when I went to sleep.

While I'm sleeping I dream. When I awake the dream becomes a plan. I dress quietly, careful so as not to wake Sammi, and head to the bridge.

“DOM!” I storm into the bridge hollering. “Get your lazy butt up here!”

-I'm already up here, and, as an advanced intelligence program, I have no butt-

“Whatever,” I read the words and growl. “I need some information about this ship, pronto!”

-My specialty, boss. Whadda ya need to know-

“Do we have any stealth capabilities on this heap?”

-Yes sir we do-

“Well, what are they?” My hands clench the armrests. It's too early to let this glorified coffee maker try my patience like this.

-This ship is capable of faster than light travel, excellent for quickly approaching or evading your enemies in open space. We also have light refraction cloaking panels which, once activated, will render the entire ship invisible to the naked eye and most non-radar based scanners-

“And what about radar?”

-The ship is equipped with a wide range of radar, sonar, and lidar jammers-

Interesting. “And what about weapons, DOM? Tell me this thing is armed.”

-There is a weapons locker located aft in the starboard compartments-

I smile and wait for the AI to continue listing the vast store of armaments I'm sure the ship has. I mean, come on, it's a spacecraft, its got to have guns. Right?

After fifteen seconds of silence, “Well?” I blurt, unable to take the suspense.

-Well, what-

“Well, what about the ship?” I'm literally on the edge of my seat. “What kind of weapons does the ship have?”

-There is a weapons locker in the aft...-

“NO!” I yell. I don't care about the aft starboard storage locker! What about the ship? What kind of weapons does the SHIP have?”

-… … … There is a weapons locker in the aft...-

I drop my forehead into my hand and rub my eyes. “So what you seem pathologically unable to spew from that unstable digital cerebellum you call an intelligence processor is... the ship itself is completely unarmed.”

-There is a...-

I raise my hand. “Enough!” I bark. “If I jettisoned that goldurned werapons locker, and every weapon in it, right out the goldurned airlock, then, what weapons would the ship have?!”

-Without the weapons locker the ship would be unarmed-

I groan. Great! No lasers, no ion cannons, no photon torpedoes, no ship mounted weapons of any kind. Though this isn't the end of the world (not yet anyway, ha ha) it still sucks. All things considered though I'm pretty happy about the cloaking technologies. That's some good news.

“Everything all right in here?” Sammi, her timing impeccable as always, comes in and hands me a steaming cup of black coffee. I accept the cup and sip it, grimacing slightly at the taste. “Sorry,” she says in response to my reaction. “I couldn't find any sugar or cream.”

“It's fine,” I smile up at her. “DOM and I were just discussing the ship's defensive and offensive capabilities.”

“From your yelling I'd guess the news isn't good,” she surmises with a frown.

“Ah, it's not bad,” I say and sip more of my coffee. “That stupid AI was just frustrating me is all.”

-Who are you calling stupid-

I ignore the screentype. “In fact the news is pretty good.” I push myself off the seat. “Come on,” I motion with my coffee cup. “Let's go check out the ship's weapons locker.”

Sammi smiles and raises her cup. “Lead the way.”

I do. We go aft and into the ship's starboard compartments, searching the labels on every hatch until we stumble across the one that reads 'MUNITIONS'.

“I found it!” Sammi calls from my left. I discontinue my reading of a label proudly announcing 'PROVOCATIVE MATERIALS', though my curiosity uncoils in my gut and burns to know what kind of materials the Wolfmen deem provocative.

The weapons locker looks like the other dozen in the room, four feet wide, six feet tall, black burnished stainless steel with a push button combination lock inset on the right side of the seamless face. A blend of their modern and my archaic technologies from the looks of it.

“DOM! What's the combo for the weapons locker?” I demand.

The buttons begin depressing on their own- 5, 2, 8, 0. The seamless face brightens and an eighth inch gap materializes all along the outer perimeter of the locker, as if burned into the steel by a plasma torch. The seam illuminates for only a moment though, not long enough to scar our vision, and then dissipates to leave a door slightly ajar.

“Okie dokie, let's see what's behind door number one,” I grin and open the locker.

The locker's interior is lit by a soft, phosphorescent glow emitting from the burnished stainless walls. Much to my chagrin, unfortunately this dusky light only highlights the disappointing emptiness of the five foot deep space.

My jaw drops and I slam the door shut with no hesitation whatsoever. Once more the locker seals itself, the seam flaring briefly before disappearing without a trace. I curse loudly and bang my fist against the burnished metal. My hopes of an arsenal of cached Wolfman weaponry being stashed in this locker are in pieces. So much for supplementing our own grimly depleted arsenal! Darnit all!

Sammi lays a reassuring hand on my shoulder and I grab in in my own. “Oh well,” I say. “So much for fulling my dream of owning an alien gun.”

“It'll be okay.” she assures.

“One way or the other,” I smirk. “It always is. Come on, let's go back up to the bridge and I'll tell you the plan I dreamed up.”

 

The ship rises silently from the surface leaving only a small disturbance of moondust, nearly invisible in the mostly midnight darkness surrounding us. With all of its lights out, and fully cloaked to the best of its available technology's ability, I can barely make out the defining sleek contours of the retreating craft.

“We'll be in constant contact,I relay to the ship's AI. “Keep out of sight and be on the lookout for anything suspicious.”

-More suspicious than a giant palace made of gold, you mean- DOM's words are now discreetly printing inside and along one edge of the semi-opaqued translucent solar shield making up the front third of my helmet. Although a standard part of this particular environmental suit's Heads Up Display, I'm already regretting having the cantankerous AI very nearly literally inside my head. Sarcasm is only endearing when properly directed, I.E. not towards me.

“Just stay alert,” I admonish through a groan.

-Aye, aye, El Capitan- My imagination clearly throws me the AI's mocking salute.

“Are you sure whoever is in there won't be able to trace our communications?” We've been over this but Sammi's fear of discovery is no less invalid.

-300 percent absotively posilutely, Miss Sammi- DOM's cheeriness in the face of our current situation is a tad ingratiating, annoyingly so. The venomous warmth in his voice just drips with over the top sarcasm. It makes me want to scream! Instead I take a deep breathe and calm my mind to perfect stillness.

“We've been over this,” I agree. My voice sounds hollow, without conviction within the hollow confines of my helmet. The solar shielding is too dark for me to see the expression on Sammi's face, to see if my words sound more convincing to her ears than they do my own.

“I'm just making sure.” Her tinny voice crackles through my helmet's comset and I doubt my words were very soothing at all.

-Captain, I've reached stationary low moon orbit- DOM informs.

“Good, hold your position,” I tell him. “ We're moving in.”

-Yes, sir- This time there's no trace of the AI's trademark sarcasm.

I ask Sammi, “Are you ready?”

-Yep- Dom pipes up.

“Not you!' Sammi and I bark in unison.

We laugh and she checks her hand cannon. “As ready as I'll ever be,” she replies and we bump heavy, insulated, gloved fists; a gesture I imparted to her somewhere along our way together.

Even with Sammi's hand cannon no more than five steps from me I feel nude with the knowledge that without oxygen my AR is next to useless. I chamber a round anyway, just the act of which makes me feel marginally better. “Well, I suppose,” I grunt and begin walking towards the small lunar ridge separating us from the structure made of gold.

Even with the low lunar gravity the bulky composition of the Orion spacesuits makes our forward progress slow and clumsy. Neither Sammi nor I have any kind of experience in such an environment and the hostility any one simple mistake could expose us to only serves to make us even more cautious. Stumbling around in the dark across airless lunar terrain is far from my idea of a good time. The weights in our boots keep us from bouncing too much, though I'm inclined to believe we may be better off if bouncing along the landscape were an option. I trip on a small protrusion of semi-jagged rock. Hmm, perhaps not.

Sammi is there to catch me before I completely go down. “Whoa, Davey!” she protests as she helps me regain my balance. “maybe you should slow down a little bit.” Working against what might be agoraphobia trying to suffocate me, her laughter is a welcome music in my ears.

I laugh as well. “Maybe you're right,” I admit. That we can still find room for humor during all the crazy adventures we're having is unbelievable, good, but unbelievable.

The climb up the small ridge is arduous, to say the least, my breathing quick and shallow. If not for the constant droning whine filling my ears I'd think my suit's air scrubbers had failed. Maybe they're failing! Oh no lord, I don't want to start thinking like that! Despite the scrubbers the air my suit's producing is stale, sour with the tang of my own sweat. Through the comset I hear Sammi breathing heavily with her own exertions and I know the confines of her suit must be growing equally unbearable. We're almost to the top of the ridge.

At the top I stop and call for a rest. I take a long pull of water from the small tube snaking up the right side in my helmet and just accessible to my lips. I try, unsuccessfully, not to think of the likelihood that, at least in part, I'm probably drinking the urine I excreted an hour ago and now purified by my suit's internal filtration system. It tastes flat on my tongue but it's cool, not cold, but chilled moderately by the suit's condensers, good for more than just air conditioning it seems.

My comset crackles. “There it is.” Sammi's pointing off the side of the ridge opposite the one we just climbed. Predictably, as I know the gold structure (or palace, as DOM was calling it) is on that side. Of course I do, I planned it that way. I peer the direction she's pointing, squinting to span the distance with my human vision alone. In all the sea of black before me there's only one spot vaguely reflecting the shimmer of the stars all around us.

“How'd you even see that?” I ask.

“Good eyesight I guess,” she says and I think she tries to shrug but gives up against the bulk of her suit.

I wager her eyes are better than mine. Fortunately for me my suit comes standard with the technology to compensate for the shortcomings of my sad and organic light to image relay/converter/transmitters. “Suit ID 004697, magnification and enhancement at,” I do some quick mental calculating. “Approximately 4000 yards.”

The lens in my face shield clicks and suddenly the darkness falls away. Now I can see the landscape, and there's the gold palace squatting in the distance like a great, fat, gold frog. The magnification kicks in, zooming my vision about 500 yards at a time.

“Oh yeah!' Crackles excitedly in my comset. “I forgot about that. Suit ID 004698, magnification and enhancement at about 4000 yards.” A couple seconds pass and, “Ooo, ooo, I can see it, Davey. I can see it! And would you look at all that GOLD!”

I can hear the awe in her voice and it matches my own unspoken incredulity. A heap, a pile, a mountain of gold doesn't adequately describe this mass of soft metal ahead of us. The shear weight alone must be unthinkably incredible. It makes me wonder about the scientists, architects, and engineers who painstakenly designed and built Moonport so as not to upset the delicate balance of the Moon, sending it crashing down to Earth or careening out into the far reaches of space. What was the immense weight of all this gold doing to the balance now?

All that gold and not a soul in sight. I survey the structure- solid gold, no windows, doors, smokestacks, chimneys, or vents of any kind. No people, or creatures, or aliens with tentacles, no vehicles, nothing hinting at any kind of life at all. Between us on the ridge and the gold down there was a clean slate, just a wide slab of dusty moon rock, open lunar landscape with nothing but dust and rocks and small to medium meteor impact craters. Again, nothing to suggest there was any sort of civilization inhabiting the darkside of the moon. For all I know the palace is solid and not an entertaining structure after all.

“It looks so empty.” Sammi's observation is an echo of my own thoughts.

I open my mouth to speak when suddenly a ship flickers into existence over the golden palace and disappears behind the tallest of its windowless components.

“DOM, did you see that?” I hiss into my comset.

-Yes-

“And is it what I think it is?”

-An ORion landing craft-

“Son of a...!” I curse myself for a fool. Although logically I know it to have been impossible, instinctively I feel I should've seen this coming.

“Orions?” Sammi seems perplexed. “Living on our moon!”

“Like kings in their golden palace,” I spit. “Or gods.” My choice of words makes me think of DOM's use of the term. I wonder if the sneaky AI had known all along. I'll have to ask him about it later.

Deep down I always knew there was something fishy about Wolfman and his crew, this fishiness is exponentially reflected in what I'm witnessing here. “We've got to get in there.”

“What?”Sammi objects. “But we just got away from them!”

“I know, Sammi, but they're here for a reason. I need to know what it is. Everything's connected: TRU, Adoc, the Wolfmen, Ras, me. I don't know why and I don't know how, but I will!” As I make this vow I raise a fist to the golden palace. “I will!”

 

 

I wake up yelling, “I will!” and shaking my fist at my apartment ceiling. “God darn it!” I curse, realizing where I am.

A sleepy Sammi rolls over asking, “What's wrong?” And puts her arm around me.

Ignoring her question I jump out of bed and start dragging on my pants. “get dressed, I tell her. “We're going back!”

 

A couple hours later we're standing on the cracked and dirty sidewalk outside the gunshop, fully armed and armored. There may be better weapons to be had in the future, more efficient weapons, but that gives me the same sense of comfort and security as I find in my Colt and AR.

Standing next to me, like an angel in the mid-morning sunshine, Sammi places a black leather gloved hand in my. I reach down, grab the newly provisioned dufflebag (which includes some items not officially sold at this particular gunshop), and sling it over my right shoulder. “Are you ready?” I glance sideways. Sammi likewise grabs a duffle of her own and returns my gaze. “As ready as I'll ever be,” she replies with half a smile and a wave of spine tingling Deja Vu washes over me, crawling up the back of my head.

With a half smile of my own and another glimpse of with a half smile of my own and a glimpse of 21st century sun, I adjust the duffle on my shoulder. “Khronos,” I say. “TRAVEL.”

Pop. Stretch. Snap.

We're in the future. Not Sammi's time but another, nearer future. 7677 to be exact. Dropping Sammi's hand I take a quick look around and pull the Colt free of its shoulder holster. “I'd get strapped if I were you.”

“What?”

“This isn't a very friendly time,” I gesture around with the Colt.

“Oh,” Sammi nods and pulls her hand cannon. “I understand.”

Filthy with shadow, refuse and rubble litters these streets. Thick clouds, dark and foreboding, block every trace of sun from winning through to the ground. The temperature is chilly, more so than this time of the year has any right to be.

I'm pretty sure it's about ten thirty in the morning but it feels more like ten thirty at night.

“Why did we come here at night?” Sammi asks as we pass the 77th century version of a Buick up on cinder blocks.

“We didn't.” I scan the street ahead of us for signs of movement.

“Why is it so dark then?”

A scuffle on our left. I swing the Colt in that direction, but it's only a rat, a really big rat, and I lower the barrel a couple of inches. “It because of a war. The last world war,” I smirk at the very idea. “It isn't, of course, but the people of this time think it is, and that's what they call it. The messed up thing is that it isn't even a person who starts it. Man's technology just finally gets away from us. The whole planet looks like this now.”

Lightning flares, streaking through the tumultuous sky, varicose veins of the gods lighting our way for a millisecond of a concept I now believe not to exist materially. Time. The biggest con of all man's perceptions.

“So, people did this? Sammi sounds disbelieving. “But it's not like this when I come from.”

The way she phrases this statement makes me smile. She does have growing up in a Time traversing aware society on her side but still, she's picking up on the vernacular very fast.

“No, it only stays like this for a few hundred years,” I whisper. “just long enough for people to think it'll be like it forever. Then some scientist, Jacques something or other, figures out a way to fix it. I'm not sure how, I sort of skipped that part of the past of future history in my travels.”

“Oh.”

Shadows move ahead, detaching themselves from the dark to block our path. I stop while raising my Colt. Sammi does the same, bringing her hand cannon level beside me.

“And what do we have here?” The shadow sounds menacing, as does the multitudinous snickering surrounding it.

Though my finger's itching on the Colt's hair trigger, this shadow is fortunate I know the name belonging to its voice. “DMT, is that you?”

Again lightning lances the morning sky, briefly illuminating a group of raggedy, spike and chain wearing hooligans as the source of menace. “Oh thank God,” I breath while lowering the Colt.”Well heck, if it ain't Mr. Davey Jones himself,” the menacing shadow chuckles. “To what do we owe the pleasure, blast from the past, man from way back when?”

“A ship, DMT,” I holster the Colt. “I need a ship.”

 

The air inside the decrepit warehouse smells damp, musty, very much like it did the last time I was here. Strategically placed oil lamps for light, blazing oil lamps of trash for heat, not exactly the place one would think to purchase a star cruiser.

“Why should I help you, Jones?” DMT lounges on an old, mouse chewed, half collapsed recliner. “You didn't 'zactly leave me inna position ta feel sociable, last time you was here!” He drops the word 'time' from his lips as if it were an expletive. His thugs laugh it up from their posts huddling over the burn barrels.

“Ain't youse a tasty morsel.” a goon with a small gold chain hanging from a hoop in his nose to one in his ear sidles up and plants a dirty hand firmly on Sammi's bottom.

Spinning with the grace of a ballet dancer Sammi snatches the man's hand from her butt, bends his arm back behind him, and tweaks his wrist just short of its breaking point.'touch me again,” she breathes into his ear. “And you'll lose more than your hand.” Another twist and I hear bones snap before she pushes him away.

Complimenting the goon's cries of pain are the hoots of his cohorts. Apparently they've no restraint in finding their perverse pleasure in his agony.

DMT arches an eyebrow at the display, obviously impressed. “Well, well, quite the wildcat ya've got there, Jones. Where'd ya pick 'er up at?”

That's my girl. “In a sewer but don't worry about her, DMT. How 'bout the ship?”

“As I said, why should I help you?”

“You know I got the dough, DMT!”

Bald, hardened middle age, wild pirate beard, techno-mod eyes, DMT looks like a predator of the worst sort in his matching leather jacket and pants. King of his jungle he looks at me like I'm an easy meal wandering obliviously into his den. Definitely not a man you'd want to double cross, or to think you had.

“Sometimes it ain't about the dough, Jones.”

I've dealt with his type before though. He may be at the top of his food chain but I'm the well placed bullet that'll take him down, dense and chock full of kinetic energy. “Come on, DMT, you know my story. I didn't leave you with the Clucks because I wanted to. I had no choice. Adoc was hot on my six.”

“So says you!” He aims an accusatory finger at me. “Them Clucks busted me up well good. I spent two years rotting in their can afore me fellows got up the strength ta bust me out!”

“What happened?” Sammi's quiet compassion speaks loudly aboce the din of DMT's dissenting 'fellows'. “What, or who, are the Clucks. What did Davey do?”

“Them Clucks,” DMT pauses to spit over the side of his recliner. His goons follow suit, spackling the grime encrusted concrete with their thick saliva. I add my own loogey to the bunch to show my support. “Are a bunch of low down, dirty animals. They got no love nor sympathy for none, not even each other. They dung, stinkin' an' rottin'!”

“Oh-kay.” Sammi looks to me for further elucidation.

“the Coo Coo Chickens, also known as Crazy Chicks, the Coo Coos, and Clucks. They're one of three major gangs controlling what's left of the city. Besides them, and DMT's Dum Deedle Dums here, there's also the Rikers...”

“Nope!” DMT interrupts. “Them Rikers ain't no more. Clucks done blowed 'em up six months ago, took in most a the remains, though we got some too.”

I hear angry Dum Dums cursing Coo Coos. Looking around I assume these to be some of the ex-Rikers.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” I tell DMT and I truly am. “The Rikers weren't a bad lot.”

“Yeah” DMT sneers. “A lot's changed since you bailed!”

“I didn't bail on you!” I yell back. “The Clucks grabbed you, Adoc appeared, and I had to travel. I can't even begin to tell you the kind of crap I've been through since. Believe me, I've carried the guilt of leaving you. I couldn't count the times I wanted to get back and fix it! You're my friend, DMT. I hated leaving you like that!”

DMT escapes the recliner's broken embrace, and standing his full six foot four inches his eyes turn to slits of hatred. “Some friend! You musta wanted ta come back right bad. See ya made it no prob' once ya needed somethin' from ol' DMT.”

I lunge forward, hands balling into fists, ready to do my best to wipe that smug look off DMT's ugly mug. Fortunately, probably for me as well as him, Sammi lays a light, but restraining, hand on my arm.

“Boys!” Her soft, dulcet tone carries authority as she steps between us. “Please, all this macho B.S. Isn't going to get us anywhere!”

DMT cracks the knuckles of both hands and steps forward, “Maybe not, missy, but it shore ta make me feel better.”

I take off my trench coat, now dirty, stained, and tattered by traveling through a multitude of time periods. “If that's the way you want to play this, DMT,” I unbuckle my shoulder holster and hand it with the Colt over to Sammi, along with the AR. “Then I'm game.”

“Davey,” Sammi's eyes are wide as she accepts my weapons. “I don't know about this.”

The Dum Dums start stoking the fires higher.

“Don't worry,” I wink at her. “If the only way I can get this joker any sense is to beat it into him, then so be it.” I take her face in my hands and kiss her tenderly.

I turn back to face DMT, “All, right, DMT, bring it...” and walk right into his fist.

The filthy S.O.B never did fight fair!

On my feet one moment, on my hands and knees the next. I'll say this, the man packs quite a wallop. I grab my chin as the stars behind my eyelids fade to flashes fade to dots. The Dum Dums howl their approval of their leaders low down tactics and I sense DMT coming in for another blow, this time a kick to my midsection. On my knees I twist and catch his leg as it flies towards me. Pushing up from the debris littering the battlefield, I heave DMT off his feet and into a raggedy, tetanus infested pile of it.

“Yay, Davey!” Sammi yells happily while the Dum Dums howls turn to dismay. Me? I just take the moment earned to regain the rest of my bearings.

“Jones!” DMT roars as we square off.

“DMT!” I roar back and we close on each other.

I land a right cross, it does little to faze the bigger man. He returns with one, two, three solid body shots into my left ribcage. Oh yeah, that's going to hurt later. I dance away, throwing a kick to DMT's knee as I do. He easily avoids that one and knowing he's knocked the air from me moves in, hoping to press his advantage.

I need to do something to stack the odds, if not in my favor, then at least even them up a little. And I see just the thing.

Hitching my chest like I'm still trying to catch my breath, and I'm faking of course, I draw DMT in like any ol' suicidal moth to a flame. I let him land another blow to my head, but seeing as how I know it's coming, don't let the full force of it land. By the way the Dum Dums start wailing it seems they think it did. That's good because that means DMT probably does too.

Sammi cries out, “OH no!” which can't do nothing to hurt my cause. I should have been an actor.

I go down. Pretending to be a little extra dizzy, I wrap a hand around a two foot chunk of rusty steel pipe protruding from the rubble. Dum Dums try to bring the roof down, what's left of it, yelling their support. Out of the corner of my eye DMT's raising his arms in presumptuous victory. Like a stalking leopard I stay down, clutching the pipe tightly, patiently waiting.

Mostly patient anyways. “UUNNGH,” I groan for dramatic effect. No one hears me over the din. “UUNNGH!” I groan even louder. This time I'm putting in enough umph the crowd doesn't drown me out.

DMT lowers his arms and turns my way. Bingo!

“Ha ha ha! Had enough, Jones?” He strides towards me, near wading through a pool of garbage.

Almost, almost. Come on, just a little closer. “Uunngh,” I groan one last time.

“Jones?”

Is that a hint of concern I hear big, bad gang lord DMT? I almost feel a little guilty about what's coming next. Nah, screw your concern.

DMT leans in and... WHAM! I cream him upside the head with the rusty steel pipe. For just one moment there's not a stick of sound outside the crackle of the fires, then, “Oooooo!” the collective ouch from the peanut gallery. DMT manages to stay upright. I cock my arm back, ready to lay into him again if necessary. It's not. His eyes roll into the back of his head. He deflates, first to his knees, then continuing forward to his face.

I drop the pipe.

 

About ten minutes later DMT's sitting up, hand to the side of his head, gently massaging a newly tenanted goose egg.”You ain't neva played fair, Jones,” he grin's full of snaggle teeth. “I always liked that about you.”

“Funny.” I offer him a hand up. “ I was thinking the same thing about you, the playing fair part. I never really liked you.”

Laughing DMT takes my hand and I haul his large carcass to its feet. “It was a good fight, Jones. I was a good fight.”

I keep his hand in mine and cover it with my other. “look DMT, you're the closest thing to a brother I've ever had. You have to know I didn't sell you out to the Clucks, I would never do that. I didn't bail on you because I wanted to. I had no choice. You have to believe me.”

“Hm,” DMT looks a little embarrassed shaking free of my hands. “So you need a ship?”

 

Despite the squalor a person might live in, most people have at least one room which defines their character by being immaculate. It's almost as if all the dirt and all the filth they present the rest of the world is nothing but a front hiding their true lively dispositions from their social peers. For example, the bathroom of my laboratory apartment is absolutely spotless, while the rest of the place looks like its praying the CDA give them a clean review while waiting for FEMA to clear the relief fund. The scale is most definitely much larger in the case of DMT and the Dum Deedle Dums. With their rundown, condemned warehouse domicile the circumstances creating the situation are the same, but the message is clear: no one wants to live in filth. Nope, it's just something that happens in the course of life.I mean, heck, come on, who has time to clean everything all the time. It's predictably inevitable the areas we spend the most time in are the dirtiest. Despite this, all of us, each and every one, has a sanctuary that's comfortable and clean.

Down some stairs and past one foot thick iron doors, under the dirt and the refuse of the half collapsed warehouse, is the true hideout of the Dum Deedle Dums, and boy is it spotless! If you didn't know any better you'd never know it's down here, and once you do it seems impossible it's part of the same building. This is about how Sammi felt.

“Whoa!” She's obviously impressed by the place. This underground sub-warehouse, buried under the ruins of the other, is opposite end of the spectrum clean compared to its above ground sister. Makes a person wonder who's doing the maintenance on the joint. From the looks of the tattooed, chain slung, leather and jean jacket wearing 1980's throwbacks living here I can't believe any one of them knows the working end of a broom from the other. It's got to be robots doing all the domestic work. What else could it be?

Sammi must be thinking the same thing. “Who cleans up after you?” She asks.

“Robots,” DMT saunters in proudly.

I knew it!

He's pleased as a pig in poop, self serving materialist that he is. Me, I've seen it all before, it's no great shakes. The one thing I'd find impressive is nowhere to been seen.

Beelining for a corner I assume there must be a pressure sensitive switch under his feet because at DMT's approach the floor opens and a well provisioned bar emerges from hiding.

Ok, now this place is impressive.

“So, where's the ship?”

“Patience, Davey, me brudda. All in good time,” he says as he slips behind the bar. “Somethin' you got in plenty.”

So now I'm his brother. That little knock to his head must've done the trick. However, I do like the way the man thinks, drinks before business is always preferable. I gladly approach the bar and decide upon closer examination it qualifies as VERY well provisioned indeed.

“Whiskey?” DMT's offer is only a platitude as the richly colored liquid is already tumbling into the tumblers which subsequently tumble into our hands.

“You know it.” My words tumble out just behind the whiskey and the tumbler's in my hand as I finish agreeing.

“For yo' lady?”

“The same,” Sammi bellies up to the bar. “Three fingers, straight up. Please.”

DMT laughs the drink into her possesion. “Please, huh? Don' hear language like 'at 'round 'bout no more,” he pours and shoots his own. “You IS some kinda lady.” He pours and shoots another.

Sip. Savor. Swallow. Ah, that's more my style. Damn fine whiskey to go down so smooth. I can definitely tell I haven't had such ambrosia in a few weeks, or a few million years, whatever. A mellow glow settles over my soul. DMT's talking, Sammi's listening but I'm not. My mind wanders, wonders. The three of us are the only ones down here. Besides the fellows upstairs, DMT is telling us the rest of the gang is around town. Scavenging I idly suppose. Looking for anything useful they may sell; information preferably. As long as it help finance their foothold against the ever growing Cluck infestation. Sip. Savor. Swallow. I signal DMT to pour me another.

 

 

The whiskey's so soothing it soothes me right out of reality, that particular one anyway. Not only out of the reality but right out of the mellow buzz I'd got going along with it. Snap!

“DOM!” I demand from my captain's chair. “Is there any alcohol on this heap?” Boy do I want a drink.

The AI's answer comes in the form of a disembodied, omnipresent voice coming from all points of the bridge. “The bev/synth in the galley can reproduce over five hundred thousand liquids known throughout six hundred and forty-two inhabited worlds.”

It seems some part of my brain's trying to tell me Khronos and I figured out a way to give the gift of the spoken word to the AI, but given only under his strict understanding I'd take it away again at the slightest hint of sarcasm. I guess I wasn't in the mood for it and I know I'm certainly not in the mood for it now. It's strange to have memories of doing things without having, oh I don't know, I'd say physically present but I suppose there was a me here in body. So what then, spiritually involved. Consciously? What is it exactly that keep my awareness together with each bounce of my metaphorical ping pong ball of self from one existence to the other. It's some fundamental core of my being and I have the sneaking suspicion I share it among every one of my selves tooling through their various lives spattered about the multiverses. The memories of the moments I experience without this ultimate super awareness that I conclude must be, in at least part, the true me, Davey Jones pure form, are sharp in my mind but without the certainty of actual experience. They're more like dream memories.

“Good,” I mumble past my musings and head for the galley while trying not to think about 642 alien worlds out in the universe as my thoughts randomly switch gears.

“Whiskey. Make it rye, and keep 'em coming.” The bev/synth gurgles happily and fills a glass with a beautiful amber fluid. Hmm, if it tastes half as good as it looks.

It does. Surprisingly so considering it didn't even exist thirty seconds ago. Probably better than half.

Sammi busts me about an hour later, after six more absolutely lovely glasses of this artificial alcohol, drunkenly trying to teach happy little ditties of my personal time period to the half interested AI's. Believe it or not they both display an aptitude for song.

“Davey, there you are.”

“Hey, babe.” Booze slopping to the counter as I toast her arrival. “Join me for a drink or three... or six?”

I know how it must look, but heck, I'm a Time traveler, my fellow Time travelers have stolen my property, tried quite creatively at every turn to kill me, aliens want to scramble my brain, I'm drowning in a schizophrenic nightmare where I'm split between two different realities, and that's all sorta small potatoes on the shelf next to the fate of all humanity's continued existence apparently restly squarely on my narrow shoulders! If ever there's been a man with good reason to tie a drunk on, at the moment I believe that man to be me.

“Um,” Sammi hesitates. “Aren't there more important things we should be doing?”

Probably, though I tick off the aforementioned reasons to validate my hypothesis of alcoholism's importance and order the bev/synth to make two more drinks. Drunk or not I'm only swaying her slightly with my passionate and, if I do say so myself, very reasonable argument. I move on to filling a glass with the fine liquor. Despite passing through a barrier of insufficient protestation her grasp is contradictorily firm as she takes possession of the proffered intoxicant. Oooh, she's got some catching up to do.

And it is rather good whiskey, never a thunk it from a robo-still. “We're Time travelers. We've got all the time in the multiverse!” I slur my concluding thesis. Ah, procrastination at its finest, just like the whiskey.

It's not long and she's learning the words to all my favorite songs... the drunken versions I'm remembering anyhow, right alongside the begrudging AI's.

It also not very long before, to the grateful relief of Khronos and DOM, we're back in our cabin having fantastic drunk sex, as fine in its way as its whiskey inspiration.

Not much longer after the amazing acrobatics I'm praying to the porcelain gods, or would be if my protesting space potty weren't in fact made of some strange, spongy plastic stuff. I'm squinting through tears to be sure but, yep, it's definitely plastic. Sammi is snoring contentedly in the other room. Of course she is. After that romping how could she not be? Lucky girl. I wish I was sleeping, not puking.

Your wish is my command. I wake up hugging the crapper like a newly won lover. My head's throbbing and I'm pretty sure swallowing my tongue hadn't been on my to-do list as of passing out. Oh yeah, the gift of alcohol. Just loves to give and give. Snooty bastard, oh why do I continue humoring your presence?

I scale the toilet like an ice climber, slowly, finding precarious purchase in the spongy plastic and trying not to slip back to the dark (bright) crevasse of the artificial floor tile. Next comes the cabinet, then up to then sink, overe the sink to the mirror above. The reflection greeting me there is hollow-eyed and haggard. A vein in my temple is throbbing, my stomach churns. Despite all this I feel great. My increasing mental instability seems to have eased to a very mild, almost non-existent anxiety. Nothing a breakfast sandwich and another drink or two won't cure.

Sammi's still asleep with the list reviving bite. Deciding not to disturb her beauty sleep I retrieve my second whiskey from the bev/synth. Now off to the bridge to talk with the AI more comfortably.

I have to admit it feels good to be indulging my alcoholism. There's definitely a core part of my personality that not only craves addiction, operates more effectively when intoxicated. At least up to a certain point anyways. Definitely weren't no effective operations going on last night, except fer maybe in the bedroom. Bada bing!

Once on the bridge, “Hey, DOM-in-o baby! What's up yea of artificial intelligence?”

“You seem to be in exceptional spirits today, boss. I note, considering your awful singing performances last cycle, that your current state of health must be... shall I say... augmented.”

“You could say that,” I concede.

“A bit early, ain't it?”

“Come on DOM, let's focus a bit less on me this morning and a bit more on your ex-owners, the ORions. The AI hesitates and I sip, savor, swallow. “How would you like me to focus on them, boss?” The AI seems nervous. Interesting.

“I need some history.”

More hesitation. “ORion history?”

“Yes, DOM, ORion history. Where they're from, what they are, how they evolved. What ORion culture and civilization is like. How it developed. You know, history.” Sip. Savor. Swallow. Analyze DOM's reaction. Darn, I think I need another drink already. My glass is empty but I should probably limit myself. Not get too fogged up too early.

“I'm not sure my programming allows me to disclose information of that nature to species non-ORion in origin, boss.”

“I see.” Maybe I'll get that drink after all.

We discuss the matter for a time and DOM's amiability grows once he convinces himself that as long as he's not supplying the information directly he won't violate any of his programmed sub-routines. He “accidentally” leaves open the files I'm seeking when he drifts off to tend to the needs of the ship. This is better anyhow. At least this way I'll be able to view the material in peace.

In the galley the bev/synth serves me two more whiskeys, then I return to the bridge to drink and read:

 

ONCE UPON A TIME WE, THE ORION PEOPLE, LOOKED TO HUMANITY AS GODS. (Great, an ORion fairytale. The only way this could start better is- “Long, long ago. In a galaxy far, far away.” Wow, for such a serious race the ORion people are actually capable of dramatic flare. I have to hand it to them, it's a surprise.) BEFORE THE AWAKENING ORIONS WERE NOT ORIONS, WE JUST WERE. ONLY A PRIMITIVE SPECIES, LITTLE MORE THAN THE ANIMALS WE HUNTED, WE ROAMED OUR CONTINENTS IN PACKS. CARNIVORIOUS, OUR COORDINATED ATTACKS BROUGHT DOWN PREY OF LESSER AWARENESS UTILIZING A LOW FORM OF TELEPATHIC COMMUNICATION THAT WAS, LIKE OURSELVES, UNDERDEVELOPED. WHILE LITTLE MORE THAN A SOPHISTICATED MEANS OF BROADCASTING AND DEDUCING INTENT FROM BODY LANGUAGE, NEVERTHELESS, OUR ANCESTORS BRAINS WERE NATURALLY HARDWIRED WITH THE NECCESSARY PATHWAYS FOR TRUE TELEPATHY. THOUGH NONE BORN OF THIS ERA HAD THE ABILITY TO IMAGINE SUCH CATASTROPHIC CHANGE AS POSSIBLE, THE UNANTICIPATED CATALYZATION OF OUR SPECIES' EVOLUTION WOULD PLAY HARBRINGER TO THE DAY WHEN INSTANTANEOUS THOUGHT TRANMISSION/RECEPTION WOULD DOMINATE OUR MINDS AND IRREVOCABLEY RESHAPE OUR MODERN WORLD FOREVER.

OUR LIFE AS PRIMITIVE ORIONS WAS SIMPLE- SLEEP, KILL, EAT, EXCRETE BIOWASTE, BREED, START THE CYCLE ALL OVER AGAIN. IN THIS WAY LIFE REMAINED SIMPLE, SIMPLE UNTIL THE ARRIVAL OF OUR SELF APPOINTED GODS, A STRANGE ALIEN RACE OF MULTI-SPACIAL/TEMPORAL CREATURES, THEY SOON EXPOSED THEMSELVES AS THE UNFORSEEN CATALYST WHICH WOULD ULTIMATELY, AND MERCILESSLY, WREAK HEAVY-HANDED CHANGES TO OUR COMFORTABLE EXISTENCE AND THEREFORE... OUR PLANET.

THE FIRST FEW FARFLUNG INVASIVE EXPERIENCES AND SPARSE ENCOUNTERS WERE ENOUGH TO CONVINCE OUR ANCEINT SELVES THESE ALIENS COULD BE NOTHING LESS THAN NEW AND VISCIOUS ENEMIES. THOUGH TERRIFYING BECAUSE OF THEIR SUDDEN, DISRUPTIVE, AND ABNORMAL ARRIVAL, THIS PERSPECTIVE ALONE WAS ENOUGH FOR WORD OF HUMANITY'S DESCENT FROM THE STARS TO SPREAD THROUGHOUT OUR NOMADIC CLANS UNTIL ALL WERE UNANIMOUS, THE IMMINENT DESTRUCTION OF THE STRANGE CREATURES WAS NIGH.

UNBEKNOWNST THE WORST OF HUMAN INTENTION HAD YET TO BEGIN.

THOUGH THEY WERE QUICKLY AND WHOLEY DESPISED IN THE COLLECTIVE OF OUR SIMPLE, IGNORANT MINDS, THESE INVADERS, HAVING NOTHING TO FEAR, GAVE NO THOUGHT TO THE MACHINATIONS AIMED BY SCARECLY AWARE ORIONS, OR TO THE DIRECTIONS IN WHICH WE AIMED THEM. IN FACT, AFTER THEIR CURSORY SURVEY OF OUR PLANET, HUMANITY REVEALED ITS PRESENCE ONLY TO PARTICIPATE IN THE ABDUCTION OF ORION WOMEN AND YOUNG ONES. THOSE TAKEN WERE RARELY SEEN AGAIN, AND THEIR ABDUCTORS BECAME REVILED THE MORE WITH EVERY LOVED ONE LOST FROM ORION CLANS. WORSE STILL, WE CELEBRATED THOSE KIN WHO DID RETURN, UNKNOWING THEM TO BE EFFECTIVELY DIFFERENT FOR THEIR EXPERIENCES.

OUR HISTORY CAME TO REVER, APART FROM ALL ELSE, THIS HUMAN MEDDLING, THE TOUCH OF OUR FIRST AND ONLY GODS. NEVER TO BE FORGOTTEN; THIS WAS THE START OF THE AWAKENING! A DERANGMENT OF PERSONILTY, THIS DIFFERENCE HAD BEEN PURPOSFULLY PLANTED AND PRESENTLY STILL LIVES UNSEEN WITHIN OUR MINDS.

BEING PHYSICALLY UNCHANGED THE DIFFERENCE WAS NOT IMMEDIATELY NOTICED, HINDERING PUBLIC ACKNOWLEDGEMENT SO KNOWLEDGE OF ITS PRESENCE, HARDWON AND AT GREAT EXPENSE, CAME SLOWLY TO OUR UNFATHOMING PERCEPTIONS. DISCERNABLE, ONCE NOTICED, ONLY AS A SOCIAL DISTEMPER, MANIFESTATION OF THIS NEW MALAISE AT FIRST BORE NO IDENTIFIABLE PATTERNS WHATSOEVER, FURTHER FRUSTRATING A DESPERATELY LEARNING RACE'S DIAGNOSIS.

EACH MIRACULOUSLY RETURNED INDIVIDUAL'S PROJECTION OF THIS UNFAMILIAR ILLNESS OCCURED RANDOMLY FROM THE OTHERS, BUT TIME REVEALED A COMMONALITY IN ALL WHO SUFFERED. SEVERITY, THE PREVALENT FACTOR, BECAME THE ONLY PREDICTABLEY REOCCURING SYMPTOM. NAIVE OUR PEOPLE MAY HAVE BEEN, PRIMITIVE BY MANY MODERN SPACEFARING SPECIES STANDARDS, INCLUDING THOSE OF OUR OWN MODERN CULTURE, BUT WE WERE NOT STUPID, JUST UNINTERESTED IN THE EDUCATIONAL INTRICACIES OUR SHELTERING PLANET OFFERED, OR IN BRUSHING AWAY THE VEIL OF INTERWOVEN MYSTERIES THAT COVERS, EVEN NOW, THE UNIVERSE CRADLING ALL. SO, WITH AS MUCH HURRY AS FOOTBOUND BEINGS COULD MUSTER, WISDOM PASSED AMONG THE CLANS. AS CONSISTENT OBSERVATIONS MULTIPLIED, THE PEOPLE GATHERED, AND SPREAD THESE FINDINGS ACROSS THE PLAINS LIKE A HOT SUMMER'S PRARIE FIRE. FROM ONE TO DONE, EVERY ORION WHO RETURNED FROM ABDUCTION SUCCUMBED IN LIKE FASHION; ALL STILL ONLY OUR WOMEN AND YOUNG.

IT WAS HERE THE TERRIBLE PLAGUE'S UNPREDICTABILITY ONCE MORE REARED HIGH AND UGLY, OBSCURING OUR VISION OF ALL ELSE, AS THE UNNATURAL AND OFTIMES ERRATIC BEHAVIOUR SO NEWLY EXHIBITED BY OUR WOMEN AND YOUNG BEGAN TO WORSEN FROM A SOCIAL DISTEMPER ON TO EVER VIOLENT ANTI-SOCIAL ACTIONS. AT TIMES THIS TRANSITION HAPPENED QUICKLY WITH MERELY THE PASSAGE OF HOURS BEFORE LUNACY'S TENACIOUS HOLD WAS FIRMLY LATCHED UPON THEIR MINDS, THOUGH FOR OTHERS IT WAS MUCH, MUCH SLOWER. WHAT LITTLE RECORD WAS RETAINED INDICATE SOME AFFLICTED'S TURNING MAY EASILY HAVE SPANNED MANY PASSING SEASONS, AND THEREBY THESE CAN BE SUPPOSED AS FAR THE MORE AGONIZINGLY ENDURED BY THOSE OF US LEFT UNTOUCHED, A LARGELY ADULT MALE POPULATION WHOSE ONLY RECOURSE WAS TO DO NOTHING WHILE THE INSANITY OF THEIR MATES AND OFFSPRING TORE APART A SOCIAL ORDER WHOSE BEGINNINGS WERE BEYOND ANY CLAN'S REMBERANCE.

THERE IS NONE OF MODERN TIME WHO CAN SAY ONE WAY FOR SURE IN ANY INSTANCE.

ANGERED BEYOND ALL REASON BY OUR HELPLESSNESS, WE THE PEOPLE REMEBERED OUR ORIGINAL UNIFIED VOW TO DESTROY THIS ALIEN BLIGHT FROM THE SANCTITY OF OUR WORLD'S DELICATELY BALANCED ECOLOGY. A REMEMBERING SALVAGED FROM A ONCE SEDATE AND UNCHALLENGED CIVILIZATION'S BECOMING EVER DEEPLY WOUNDED BY AN UNCOMPREHENSIBLE AFFRONT, WE NEEDED TO ERRADICATE THIS THREAT BEFORE FURTHER DAMAGE WAS WROUGHT. SO WE UNITED TO RISE UP AGAINST THE PERPETRATORS OF OUR RACIAL DIVISION, THOUGH WE COULD HAVE NO WAY OF KNOWING WAS ALREADY UNSTOPPABLE.

ORGANIZED AND DETERMINED WE HUNTED DOWN ANY OF OUR ANTAGONISTS WHO FOOLISHLY, FEARLESSLY TREKKED ACROSS OUR LANDS. WE RAIDED AND DESTROYED ANY SETTLEMENT OR CAMP THAT, THOUGHTLESS IN THEIR ARROGANT SUPREMACY, OUR ENEMIES ESTABLISHED IN ANY OF OUR PLANET'S FOUR CORNERS. FOR A TIME WE SHELVED THE EVER DEVELOPING RIFT OF CONCIOUSNESS RAVAGING THE MEMBERS OF OUR OWN SPECIES, AND SO TOTALLY WERE WE ENGROSSED IN OUR MISPERCEIVED PROGRESS AGAINST THE RED SHELLED WOULD BE GODS THAT WE DARED NURTURE HOPE OF OUR STRUGGLE'S VICTORY.

BUT OUR EFFORTS WERE INEXTORABLEY DOOMED BEFORE THEY HAD EVEN BEGUN. JUST AS WE WOULD BEGIN TO MAKE NOTICABLE HEADWAY IT WAS AS IF THE UNIVERSE CONSPIRED AGAINST THE ORION CAUSE, REWORKING REALITY UNTIL EVENTS WERE ONCE AGAIN IN FAVOR OF OUR HUMAN ENEMIES. TIME WAS THEIR MASTER, REALITY TIME'S SERVANT, AND THEIR EVERY LOSS WOULD BECOME OURS, OUR EVERY VICTORY WOULD BECOME THEIRS. IT WAS A HARD, COLD TRUTH WE FORCEABLY CAME TO SWALLOW, OUR QUEST TO UPHOLD THE OLD WAY WAS ULTIMATELY INADVERTABLE.

FORCED TO WITHDRAW BEFORE OUR EFFORT'S TOTAL ANHILIATION BY THE TIDAL POWER OF THESE GOD'S UNSPEAKABLEY DARK AND UNSTOPPABLE MAGIC, THERE WAS AT FIRST CONFUSION, FOLLOWED BY THE SHADOW OF DESPAIR. FOR YES, WE REALIZED ALL TOO LATE, THE HUMANS REALLY ARE GODS, AND NOT JUST ANY GODS, BUT FROM THEN ON THEY WERE TO BE OUR GODS. OUR GODS WHO WALLOWED CONTENTEDLY THROUGH THE ASHES OF OUR DEFEAT, OUR NEWLY RECOGNIZED GODS WHO, UNSHAKEN, CONTINUED THEIR SELFISH REWEAVING OF OUR CULTURE INTO A CLOTH OF WHICH OUR FARTHEST REACHING PONDERANCES COULD NEVER HAVE IMAGINED. OUR GODS WHO CONTINUED JUST AS THEY HAD BEFORE. IT WAS AS IF OUR PETTY ATTEMPT AT REVOLUTION HAD NEVER BEEN ATTEMPTED AT ALL.

SO IT WAS THAT MORE AND COUNTING OF OUR WOMEN AND YOUNG WERE TAKEN. THOUGH NOW THAT WE HAD BEEN PROPERLY ENSLAVED OUR ENSLAVERS DIVULGED OUR ABDUCTED LOVED ONES DESTINATION. AFTER BEING SNATCHED FROM THE COMFORT OF OUR LAND'S FIRM BOSSOM THEY ROSE THROUGH THE AIR TO WHERE THE HUMAN'S SACRED PALACE FLOATED IN THE HEAVENS, FAR ABOVE OUR LAND, FAR BEYOND OUR REACH. AS BEFORE, NOT ALL WHO RAPTURED INTO THE UNKNOWN HEAVENS WERE RETURNED. AS BEFORE, THE ONES WHO DID WERE TRANSFORMED INTO ORIONS SAME OF FORM BUT POSSESSED OF NEWLY DEVELOPING DESIRES AND AN UNREASONABLE DISLIKE FOR ANY OF US NOT AS THEY. IN THIS WAY OUR UNCARING NEW GODS HARVESTED THEIR FRUIT GROWN OF SEEDS SO DILIGENTLY SOWN IN THE FIELDS OF OUR PEOPLE'S DECIMATION.

THE VERY ESSENCE OF THIS FRUIT, THE FIRST AND LAST ORION CIVIL WAR BECAME INEVITABLE. WITH A RESIGNATION STEEPED IN A SADNESS DISTILLED FROM THE LAST OF OUR FLEETING HOPE'S SHALLOW GASP FOR LIFE WE FOUGHT TO PRESERVE THE HERITAGE OF OUR ANCESTORS. ALL THE WHILE, FORGOTTEN BUT NOT FORGETFUL, OUR CRUEL HUMAN GODS WATCHFULLY AWAITED THE FALLING OF THE FINAL CURTAIN TO SHROUD THE CORPSE OF OUR FATALLY GENOCIDED CIVILIZATION.

ONE MURDEROUSLY ARDUOUS FIGHT AFTER ANOTHER OUR CIVIL WAR WAS NO SHORT AFFAIR. FOR NEARLY THREE DECADES ANIMALISTIC ORION PROGENITORS FOUGHT THE NEVER SHRINKING, ALWAYS GROWING NUMBERS OF THEIR BIOEVOLVED KINDRED. WHILE THE ORIGINAL CLAN MEMBERSWHO SURVIVED WERE FORCED TO ASSIMILATE INTO FEWER, SMALLER CLANS AS THEIR NUMBERS SHRIVELED AS CONSEQUENCE OF THE CONFLICT, THE POPULATION OF THE HUMAN MODIFIED SUBSPECIES GREW STEADILY AND EXPONENTIALLY. NOT ONLY WERE THEIR NUMBERS REGULARLY SUPPLEMENTED BY NEWLY MODIFIED ADDITIONS CONTINUOUSLY HARVESTED BY THE GODS, BUT EARLY ON THEIR NUMBERS HAD GROWN SO LARGE, SO RAPIDLY THE SUBSPECIES INSTICTUALLY BEGUN DIVIDING INTO CLANS OF THEIR OWN. ALSO, NOT ONLY AS THE YOUNG SUBSPECIES MALES AND FEMALES CAME INTO YOUNG ADULTHOOD AND BEGAN CHOOSING MATES AMOUNG THEMSELVES, THE MALES ALSO BEGAN KIDNAPPING UNMODIFIED FEMALES FROM RECENTLY CONQUERED CLANS. ALREADY THE SUBSPECIES WAS DEVELOPING A CULTURE OF THEIR OWN, A POPULAR PART OF WHICH WAS TO BUILD HAREMS FROM CAPTURED UNMODIFIED WOMEN. EASILY ESTABLISHABLE AS A SIGN OF WEALTH, IT WAS QUICKLY ADOPTED BY THE MORE VISCIOUS LEADERS TO SHOW THEIR STATUS AS CONQUERING CHIEFS OF THEIR CLANS, AND THEIR HAREMS BECAME THE LARGEST AND MOST COVETED OF ANY.

IT WAS FROM THESE UNIONS THAT THE TRUE ORION RACE WAS BORN. NO LONGER A PRIMITIVE, NOMADIC SPECIES WE CAME INTO OUR OWN AS THE PROUD, INTELLIGENT PEOPLE OF THE PRESENT.

AFTER A TIME, PERHAPS BORED WITH OUR EVOLUTIONARY WAR, OUR GODS LEFT US TO OUR FATE. THE WAR LASTED ONE HUNDRED YEARS UN TIL, NOT ABLE TO WHITHSTAND MORE, WHAT WAS LEFT OF THE ORIGINAL CLANS RETREATED INTO THE DESOLATE PLACES NONE WISHED TO GO. MOST BELIEVE THEIR REMENANTS DIED OUT LONG AGO.

FINALLY FREE OF THE BURDEN OF OPPRESSING OUR ANCESTORS, THE NEW AND SUPERIOR ORION RACE WAS ABLE TO CONCENTRATE EXPANDING OUR DOMINION OVER OUR REALITY, STRENGTHENING OUR HOLD ON PLANET, ALL FOR THE MOST IMPORTANT TASK OF BUILDING OUR EMPIRE. FOR THOUSANDS OF YEARS ORIONS TRIVED, OUR PEOPLE MULTIPLYING, LEARNING, EVER EVOLVING.

WE BECAME AN INCREASINGLY RUTHLESS RACE; ONLY THE STRONG SURVIVED. SELECTIVE BREEDING PROGRAMS PRODUCED SMARTER, MORE CUNNING CITIZENS. THOUGH THE ORION PEOPLE DEVELOPED AND ADOPTED TRADITIONAL, VOCAL FORMS OF COMMUNICATION, THE BREEDING PROGRAMS ALSO PRODUCED AN ELITE CLASS, A RULING CLASS WHOSE MORE INTUITIVE COMMUNICATION TALENTS WERE CULTIVATED INTO POWERFUL FORMS OF TRUE TELEPATHY. THESE ELITE, THE KEEPERS, RULE WITH AN IRON FIST.

AS MILLENNIA PAST, HAVING FADED INTO MYTH AND LEGEND, THE GODS WERE ALL BUT FORGOTTEN. WITH ALL WE HAD LEARNED WE LOST THESE, GREAT TRUTHS: WE HAD ONCE BEEN LESS THAN WE NOW ARE, WE OWE ALL WE HAVE TO OTHERS, AND WE ARE SLAVES.

BUT AFTER ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND YEARS THE GODS RETURNED TO REMIND US.

THOUGH OUR RACE HAD GROWN WISE WITH THE WONDERS OF THE UNIVERSE, THOUGH OUR SCIENCE WAS PROUD AND OUR TECHNOLOGIES INCREDIBLE, WE STILL COULD NOT MATCH THE POWER OF OUR CREATORS. NO, NOT AGAINST OUR FORMER AND FOREVER MASTERS, THE RED SHELLED GODS WHO CAN KILL WITHOUT CONTACT. OUR GODS WHO OBEY THE ULTIMATE POWER, THE ONE TRUE GOD, HE WHO IS CREATOR OF ALL, SUPERNATURAL, THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN EYES...

 

“Darnit!” I slam my empty glass down. I wish I were drunker so this horrible and sad tale doesn't make sense. If I curse being such a lush.

“What are you yelling about?” Sammi looks disheveled and in about the same condition I'd been in upon waking.

An eye on my empty glass I stand and say, “Come on, I'll make you some breakfast and tell you all about it.”

Eagerly wolfing down a breakfast sandwich Sammi declines a whiskey of her own. However I get a refill and proceed telling her what I've just learned of ORion history.

“It's so hard to believe.” She licks grease from here fingers.

“Yeah, I didn't read anything else to confirm it, but it can't be coincidence.” Yep. Sip. Savor. Swallow. Swallow. Swallow. Screw responsible drinking.

“It's hard to believe,” Sammi repeats. “Ras is the one who made the Wolfmen who are after you. They're trying to stop you because if they don't you'll stop their whole race from existing.” She licks her fingers again. “Wow.”

“Hrumph, I'm tearing up just thinking about it.” I can't really drum up any sympathy for a bunch of space dogs who tried to lobotomize me. I pound the remainder of my whiskey and order up another. “I'm gonna go finish my history lesson. We have to be sure about this before we act.”

“10-4.” Sammi eyes my glass. “You've been up longer than me I'll make you some lunch and bring it to you.”

Yeppie, she's a sly minx, but at least she doesn't nag me. I raise my glass in assent and mosey back to the bridge.

 

It's official, Ras used his Zenociders to subdue the ORions, he genetically modified their DNA, then he set himself up as God- Their One and Only.

Wolman always gave me a bad feeling, but Jesus, the doucher was lying and trying to manipulate me the whole time. How dare he lay that trip on me, trying to pin the destruction of humanity squarely on my shoulders. What a Richard.

Roast beef piled high with baby spinach, tomato, red onions, and Swiss on dark rye toast. A side of homemade potato salad and a tall glass of ice cold milk. I polish off the lunch Sammii brings me before disappearing back into the galley. I drain the last drop of milk, look from that empty glass to my empty whiskey glass. I believe I've had enough alcohol for the time being but could definitely go for another glass of milk. I buss my dishes back to the galley.

“It's official,” I announce, dumping my dishes in the dishwasher. “Ras is God and the ORions his disciples.

I refill my milk glass and Sammi nods her approval. “So what are we going to do?”

Leaning back on the counter I chug my dairy, refill the glass again , and take a swallow. “I'm thinking, unless otherwise hindered by the bastards, we can pretty much ignore the ORions for now and concentrate on Ras. We take him out and, by proxy, we take them out.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“Patty cake, patty cake, babe.” I drink some more milk.

Sammi looks at me sideways. “What are you talking about?”

Milk gone, glass in washer. “Never mind. There's another idea I have to check on. Dinner smells great!” I give her a kiss and back to the bridge I go.

 

An hour on the bridge and tension's are running high.

“No!” DOM bellows. “I refuse to share my circuitry with your bastardization of ORion technology!”

“actually, from what I've read, SEAID technology was given to the ORions by Ras; a human who, as my understanding has it, ursurped it from his robot administrators, and God only knows where they got it from,” I counter the AI's tantrum, trying to remain calm. “So really, Khronos is practically family. He's like your step brother.”

You're just trying to use him to hack my neuro-net!” DOM wails.

“I would never do that,” Khronos defends himself.

“You would if Davey told you to,” DOM protests. “For all I know he already did.”

“No, I did not, DOM.”

“He did not,” Khronos agrees.

“Look, DOM, this isn't going to work if you don't agree to it. How about I give you some time to think about it? I'll even leave Khronos here on the bridge. You guys can talk, get to know each other a bit. Whadda ya say?”

A brief pause. The silence is deafening. Then, “Whatever.”

I clap my hands on the armrests. “Excellent!” I pull Khronos from my pocket. Putting him on the seat I say, “I'm gonna give you two an hour, that should be more than time fro a couple quantum processors such as yourselves to come to an accord.”

The only response I get is another sullen, “Whatever.”

Whatever. I go take a nap.

 

One hour turns into three before Sammi wakes me up to enjoy the spectacular meal she'd been preparing all cycle. I'm not entirely sure what's in in but it's got meat, potatoes, and carrots in it which, as far as I'm concerned is everything a grown man needs in a meal. She can fight, she can shoot, she can cook; I may just have to marry this chick.

After a nap and dinner an hour turns into closer to five. I'm not sure what to expect when I get back to the bridge but when I arrive it's quiet. Real quiet. A little too quiet.

“Hey you guys,” I greet. “How've the two of you been doing in here?”

“Hey, Davey!” “Hey, Davey!”

“Did you enjoy your nap?” “How was dinner?”

Whoa! Spirits seem high. This is quite the improvement. “Both were exceptional, my friends. Sooo, did y'all sort out your differences?”

“Oh yeah, boss. We did that in the first thirty seconds.”

“Oh?” I'm not too surprised. Maybe a little, but I know the AI's processing power is way beyond anything we humans are currently doing with our brains. “So we're ready to rock then?”

“We are rocking, Davey,” Khronos informs me.

“We are?” Now I'm surprised. “I thought we'd have to hook the two of you up somehow. You know, get you wired together with cables, or something.”

“We have synced our systems wirelessly, Davey.”

“Oh, right Khronos. Of course.” Wifi, I should've known. And I'm the brains of this operation. “Well, what do you boys say to a test run then?”

“Ready when you are, Davey.” “All systems go, boss.”

I page the galley. “Hey, Sammi, you about ready to join us?”

“Almost. Gimme three more minutes.”

I'd filled her in on this newest scheme over dinner. “Okie dokie, darlin'. See you in a few.” I'm not about to ride this next gamble without her by my side, so while we wait I feed the AI's some Rift coordinates.

Within five minutes Sammi's on the bridge, sitting next to me in the pilot's chair. “All right then, is everyone ready?” I ask.

“Ready.”

“Ready.” “Ready.”

Well,, here goes nothing.

“Khronos, TRAVEL!”

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 16.10.2011

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