Ryan Time

by Craig Robertson

  “I didn't know when to expect you, but, you … you sure made it here fast,” exclaimed Tank.

  “Yeah. We'd have been here sooner, but, Bill and Ted were messing with the time circuits, again,” I said with a grin.

  “No way,” Tank wheezed, pointing at me.

  “Yes, way,” I countered. “Some stories are larger than time.”

  “So, what's the crisis you called my idiot husband to deal with?” Ah, pretty clear who that was, speaking.

  “Earth's not in any trouble, is it?” I hinted at.

  “Yes,” he declared proudly, “it most definitely is.”

  I looked to Sapale. She rolled her eyes.

  “Let me guess. It has something to do with Jupiter?” I challenged.

  Tank looked to Sachiko, puzzled. “No, not really.”

  “That's a relief,” I responded with great relief.

  “What's the problem with Jupiter?” asked Sachiko.

  “Spoiler alert,” responded Sapale. “You'll find out. Trust me.”

  Tank and Sachiko exchanged confused glances, again.

  “What's the dealio, then?” I asked.

  He gave us the story about disappearing supermassive black holes, time theft, for want of a better term, and the void streaks produced in several galaxies. Totally weird stuff. Very hard, even for me, a physicist and time traveler, to get his head around.

  “Well, I guess we could go to M 31 and check up what those streaks actually are,” I speculated.

  “If we have three million years on our hands and a very fast ship,” quipped Sachiko.

  “My ship's not fast,” I replied pridefully. “It's faster.” I stood abruptly. “I'm bored. Who's up for a road trip?”

  Sapale, naturally, rose. She took my hand.

  “Won't we need … er, supplies? A change of underwear?” asked a very concerned looking Tank.

  “Sure. We can pick those up once we're back, if you're okay with that. I'd rather get the business part over, first. Then, we shop for undies.”

  Sapale slapped my arm.

  “Jon, you know we're talking M 31, here. The Andromeda Galaxy. Two and a half million light years from our present location?”

  “Never thought there were two, my most excellent friend.”

  “Now, you told me you were … you know, an android. You know we're not, right?” he whined.

  “Either way, it'll be fun. Come on. Last one on the vortex cleans up after lunch.”

  I spun and walked out briskly.

  “Vortex?” Sachiko asked Tank as they followed quickly.

  “It's his ship.”

  “Two and a half million light years?” she pressed.

  “Have faith. I did.”

  “Yeah, because you wanted a corndog during the Summer of Love.”

  Tank stopped, dead in his tracks. “I knew you'd never let that go.”

  “Tank,” she pleaded, looking toward the receding androids.

  He raised a finger. “We talk again, later. Walk with me, now.”

  She shrugged, and followed me out.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Kaljaxians,” I said expansively, ushering everyone aboard. “If you'll buckle in and familiarize yourself with our safety handouts, we'll get underway, shortly.”

  Darn. It was so cute. Sachiko actually scanned around her seat for some form of pamphlet. I didn't have the heart to tell her it was a joke. Plus, Sapale told her not to listen to a word that space-moron said.

  “Stingray,” I chortled, because, I was, like, on stage, and all, “take us to the topological center of the M 31 galaxy.”

  “Of course, Form One,” she replied.

  Slight nausea.

  “We at Air Ryan hope you've enjoyed your flight, and will travel with us again, soon.”

  “You're absotutafreakingly kidding me,” came from Sachiko's lips. “We cannot be there, yet. Not funny, Jon.”

  “Behold, and believe,” I said, gesturing to the view screen. It displayed a lot of empty space. A whole lot a'nothing. “Al, show our guests a wider field, if you would be so kind.”

  “Only if you stop talking like a game-show host. I'm getting hives.”

  “Your computer's getting hives?” blurted Sachiko.

  “It is?” responded Al, alarm in his tone. “I hope it doesn't spread to me. And, Pilot, when did you fire up your Commodore 64?”

  “He's a riot, Sachiko,” I reassured her. “If you ask him, he'll say he's not a computer. He'd say he's an AI. I say he's a PIA. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “If it's in your ass, Pilot, I'm thrilled to be a pain there.”

  “Sweetie lumps,” expressed a concerned Stingray, “I'm not certain that came out the way you might have intended.”

  “The … the computers are a couple?” queried Sachiko. She was looking suddenly kind of pale.

  “Yes,” Sapale replied, matter-of-factly, “an old friend of ours, an oversized Border collie named Garustfulous, married them a long time back.”

  “The computers are married to a big dog?” Sachiko grabbed at the nearest seat. That happened to be the floor.

  “No, silly,” Sapale teased. “He was a captain, so he performed the ceremony.”

  “Dogs married to computers? What kind of twisted world did I leave behind?” I speculated, aloud. “And Big G was a Wedge Leader, not a captain. He was only a captain because he was a captain.”

  “Of a ship,” Sapale added for clarity.

  “A dog captain of a space ship?” Sachiko whispered.

  “Honey,” I asked, “could you get Sachiko a glass of water? She's looking kind of peaked.”

  “She's a trooper,” Tank reassured us. “She'll be fine.” He took a closer look at her, sitting on the deck. “Hopefully. Maybe yes to the glass of water.”

  Within a couple minutes, we were in front of the screen.

  “This is the sphere of stars surrounding the central void,” I showed on the screen. “Al, what's the approximate radius of the sphere?”

  “Around one hundred million miles.”

  “So, that's larger than most supermassive black holes, right?” I confirmed.

  “Generally speaking,” Sachiko, a bit more color in her face, answered for Al. “they're half that size.”

  “Any unusual activity, in this region, Al?”

  “Yes. You.”

  Tank and Sapale snickered. Sachiko, bless her heart, just looked more confused. “That's so funny I forgot to laugh. Seriously, please.”

  “None, Pilot. Space-time is unremarkable in this void. It's a … what do they call it, honey muffins?” Al asked of Stingray.

  “A … a void, deariest?”

  “That's the word. Pilot, it's a void.”

  “He makes eternity so long,” I seethed between my teeth, to no one in particular.

  “Then my existence has had meaning,” gloated the freaking toaster oven.

  “Yes, but I can alter your programming. You cannot alter mine. You should be afraid. Be very afraid.”

  “Oh, I'm trembling in my sockets,” the metallic turd responded.

  “I was talking to Stingray, the only one who'll regret your loss.”

  Yes. That brought silence—and victory—to me, if only transiently. That was the best I could hope for.

  With all the sincerity and concern her words could contain and convey, Sachiko turned to Sapale, whom she seemed to trust, and asked, “Are we safe on this ship?”

  “Okay, Boy's Night Out Club,” Sapale addressed to Al and me (I presumed), “knock it off. You're scaring the nice girl, and embarrassing yourselves, something awful. Blessing, you try to reign in your sorry excuse for a spouse. I will reign in mine.”

  “Stingray,” I said with a composed voice, I will add, “take us to one terminus of the void streak.”

  Slight nausea.

  “Who's Blessing?” Sachiko asked Sapale.

  “Long story, based on a there being a child in command of this vessel,” she responded, patting a palm toward
the deck.

  “Any reading out of the norm? The question is to Stingray,” I called out.

  “There is a long void streak, Form One, as you know. Otherwise, there is nothing unusual.”

  “Take us to the other terminus.”

  Slight nausea.

  “Again, same question, same computer.”

  “Ouch,” muttered Sapale.

  “W … what?” Sachiko asked in a panic.

  “When he refers to them as computers, fur will fly.”

  “Where?”

  Sapale turned to her. “Here, of course.”

  “No, I mean where will it fly?”

  She swept her arms, expansively. “Everywhere, honey. Duck for cover when it starts.”

  “What kind of fur. I don't see anyone with—”

  Sapale rested a hand on Sachiko's shoulder. “May I get you a human sedative?”

  Sachiko had to think a moment. “No. Thank you, though.”

  “Let me know when you do. Trust me, you will. Sooner rather than later.”

  “You know, you're not filling me with confidence,” Sachiko tried to scold. But, you can't scold too well when you're scared to within an inch of your life.

  “Hey, you're smart, you'll catch on quickly. You might survive the entire day.”

  “Form One, there is, I don't know. There is something amiss, in this void.”

  “Do tell,” I stated.

  Everyone leaned forward, wanting to hear something that would make sense.

  “Al, what do you think?” she asked.

  “Captain, there are traces of tiny wavelets. Their density increases toward the point where the streak mets open space. Then they are gone.”

  “What kind of little waves? Gravity?”

  “No, they are definitely not gravity fluctuations, nor are they electromagnetic.”

  “Are they quantum fluctuations?” I asked, totally bewildered.

  “As in vacuum energy, sir? No.” Al was sounding deadly serious. That usually meant we were about to die.

  “Time fluctuations?”

  I spun to see who asked that. Sachiko. Dude.

  “Analyzing. Yes,” Stingray confirmed. “What we are measuring are best characterized as wavelets of time.”

  “What does that even mean?” I asked.

  “It means they're gone,” whispered Sachiko.

  “Who's gone?” I demanded.

  “The boogiemen,” she replied, all but inaudibly.

  TEN

  Mildred McCormick sat behind the desk facing the entry to the Department of Astronomy and Astrophysics office. She'd sat there, each weekday morning, for the last forty three years. She was more senior, in fact, than the desk, itself. She'd seen everything the parade of faculty and students had to offer, in terms of requests, stunts, successes, and non-successes. She had never seen, however, what she was about to look up to. As it was the morning of the third Tuesday of the month, she was reconciling petty cash. That took, if you were wondering, ninety minutes, every third Tuesday of each month. Mildred was erasing a row entry, because it was not clearly enough penciled in. The zero could, if one wasn't paying close attention, be mistaken for a six. That would never do.

  Someone cleared his throat. He did so, remarkably, she noted immediately, from a courteous distance in front of her station, for a change. Couldn't be faculty.

  Mildred finished etching an unmistakable zero in the row box, dusted the eraser debris away, and then glanced up.

  Two men-in-black, as she's heard them referred to, stood stiffly, right there, with sunglasses on and a discrete earbud in their left ears.

  “M … may I help you?” she inquired.

  “We hope so,” replied one of them.

  Mildred wasn't sure which man had spoken, in spite of being looking directly at them when he moved his lips.

  “We're looking for a Dr. Sherman.”

  The one on the right! Yes, Mildred was certain that time. “Do you have an appointment?” came from her mouth by way of rote muscle-memory, rather than conscious desire to know.

  “No, ma'am, we do not.”

  Oh, my. Mildred fixated on the fact that it might be the gentleman on the left speaking, at least that time. She was allergic to uncertainty.

  “Would you like to make an appointment?” She reached for The Book, positioned in the far right corner of her desk.

  “No, ma'am. We would not. This is important. We went to Dr. Sherman's office, directly, but he was not there. Do you know where Dr. Sherman is?”

  “Would you like me to check?” She blinked her eyes, awaiting a response.

  The MIBs exchanged a furtive glance, knowing it was unprofessional, but they were just that floored.

  “Yes, that would be helpful.”

  Mildred adjusted, in the correct order, her shoulders, the keyboard, and the monitor. She tapped on the keys briskly. She eased the keyboard back a few inches. “These are not his official office hours.”

  Another quick glance between the visitors.

  “Thank you, ma'am. His office hours were posted outside his door. We still need badly to speak with him. He is not in his office. Do you know where he is?”

  “Would you like me to check, further?” Her rather vacant eyes blinked again, awaiting their response.

  “Yes, please.”

  She adjusted her equipment, again. She tapped her keys, briskly, for a bit longer than before.

  “Will you excuse me, a moment?” Mildred asked, without looking up.

  “Us, ma'am?” one of them said.

  “Yes.” She looked up.

  “Certainly, ma'am.”

  Mildred lifted her receiver, and punched a few numbers. “Hello, Maria. This is Mildred, the chairman's secretary in the Department of Astronomy and Astrophysics.” After a pause, “Yes, I am well. And you?” Another pause. “That's pleasant to hear. May I ask you another question?” A very brief interlude. “Have you seen Dr. Robert Sherman, at any point, today?” A short pause. “No, I'll hold.” The next silence was longer. “Yes, I am still here.” Yet another listening spell. “Fine, dear. Thank you.” Mildred set the receiver down, gently.

  “He is not in the computer room, or parts adjacent. Maria, the secretary in that section, checked with others. No one has seen Dr. Sherman today.”

  “Thank you for checking. We now know of several locations he is not. Do you know where he is?”

  “Would you like me to call his wife? His home number is confidential, but I can call there, myself.”

  “That won't be necessary. We stopped by there before we came here,” one of them stated.

  “His address is confidential, also,” Mildred responded, firmly.

  “Mrs. Sherman said she did not know where he was and that he had not come home last night,” the other one continued.

  She blinked. “Dr. Sherman is an astronomer.”

  “We were aware of that, ma'am. So, you have no idea where he might be?”

  “Apparently not,” she said, more as a question to herself.

  “Do you know where Ms. Jones, his graduate student, is?”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, ma'am. We don't want one, either, lest you ask. Where might she be?”

  Mildred heaved a mighty sigh. “It's a big universe out there, they keep tellingly me.”

  ELEVEN

  “It's not that big a universe,” I tried to reassure my visitors. “Stingray folds space. We're here,” I chopped both hands to the floor, stepped sideways, and chopped again, “and then we're there. No biggie.”

  “I just … I'm sorry. We're on Earth, then in Andromeda, now back to the central void of the Milky Way.” She hugged herself, and looked small. “It's … it's too much for me. I feel so vulnerable.”

  “It's the same as flying in a tin can at thirty thousand feet, taking the family to Disney World,” I scoffed. “Seriously, you can only be killed once.”

  Sapale politely cleared her throat.

  “We
ll, you might be killed more than once, but, trust me, it's a small number of times. So, don't sweat the particulars of the event.”

  “Kiddo,” Tank took her by the shoulders, “I'm certain this craft is amazingly safe, reliable; time-tested, in fact.” He looked up. “Al, please tell her how safe you are.”

  “My pleasure. Ms. Jones, I can state with conviction that this ship is as safe as a human dirigible. Always has been, and that's not gonna change.”

  “I'm sorry, Al, what's a human dirigible?” she asked meekly.

  “It's that thing like when you fill a human with hydrogen gas until they look like a float in the Macy's Day Parade, then you light them on fire, and really quickly, kick them off a cliff.”

  Sachiko sort of squelched, and dropped bottom-first to the deck, semi-voluntarily.

  “Al, that's completely uncalled for,” I shouted in protest, trying like the dickens not to laugh long, hard, and soul-cleansingly. “You apologize to her right this minute.”

  “My husband is sorry, Ms. Jones,” Stingray answered for him. “The likes of that will never happen again.”

  “Ah, Blessing,” Sapale queried, since I was still focusing on not losing it, “why isn't Al answering for himself?”

  “I've disabled his audio outputs for the remainder of the day, excepting, of course, in the event of any emergency situations.”

  “Of course,” Sapale parroted, a look of bemusement on her face. It was almost like she was envisioning a way to turn off my audio outputs, justas arbitrarily, but for longer than a day.

  “So, look, people. Time's a'wasting,” I said, returning the meeting to a professional tone. “We need to track down what the heck is going on. I can't even see why a race of uber-powerful boogiemen, and boogiewomen, would travel all the way from M 31 to the Milky Way's central void. I mean, there's nothing there to tour, right?”

  “Maybe it's a cultural thing with them,” speculated Sapale. “Start at the center, work your way out kind of attack plan?”

  “No … I mean, sure, they could be overly OCD, and cling to something like that. Look at humans and reality TV shows. But it's a powerfully inefficient way to run an invasion.”

  “Well, let's go to our central void and see if anybody's home,” suggested Sapale.