“Well, hang on a sec, Shaky,” said Tank, as he wagged a finger. “They can't be invincible. They'd certainly be subject to their own weaponry.”
“A) Why can't they be invincible; and B) Why must they be subject to their own weapons?” she returned boldly.
“Hang on,” I said again, “let's keep this cordial. Every enemy can be defeated. It's just a matter of sorting though the options. Second, since, even if we asked very nicely, the bad guys are unlikely to give us one of their weapons to use on them, let's allow that strategy to pass.”
“But, Jon,” began my brood's-mate, “it's crazy to try another assault. If we're extremely lucky, we'll just return here feeling foolish. Many outcomes are considerably worse, more death-like.”
“You have a different suggestion, dearest wife?”
“Not presently,” she leaned back.
“Thank you,” I responded, as I claimed victory. “Time—pun intended—is something we are unlikely to have much of.”
“Not necessarily,” Sapale pointed out. “These asswipes don't know we're here. They might not even venture near enough to make us lose any sleep.”
“Hope for the best, plan for the worst.” That was my philosophy.
“Let me guess. Your father always used to say that?” questioned Sapale.
“That he did.”
“And, because some long-dead male capable of reproduction said those words, they're correct and insightful because—”
“That's where you're wrong,” I expelled forcefully. “Not sure exactly what year this is, but, he's not long dead in it.”
“2041,” Sachiko stated.
“Huh?” I asked for clarification.
“It's 2041, June 12, 2041. At least it was when we left.”
I thought a quick second. “Ah ha. Pop's still alive.”
My wife leaned forward, forearms on knees. “You say that with such triumph. Dude, we were debating if that lame platitude was worthy of mention. That Pop's above or below ground is actually immaterial.”
“Ah, people, and others,” said Tank, cautiously, “might we be getting off-task, here?”
“Yes.” I replied flatly. I pointed to Sapale. “I think she just disrespected my father. This might take a while.”
“Jon,” she barked.
“On the other hand, I think I will drop it,” I announced, the superior individual in the discussion chain.
“Thank goodness,” muttered Tank.
“So, we have to try at least once more,” I returned to that position. “Hit them hard, with everything we have. Remember, we'll have the element of surprise.”
“For what it's worth, yes we will,” agreed Sapale. “They'll certainly be surprised that we came back after having our lunches taken from us.”
“But, we have to try. Stingray,” I called out, “can you give me an exact location on the alien vessel?”
“Which one, Form One?”
“Which one? Are there more than one?” I gasped.
“Well, technically, the galaxy is full of vessels belonging to species alien to yours.”
“Okay, technically. But of these type, the time-eating type?”
“We count twelve.”
“Are you certain?” I whined.
“No, Pilot. But we're fairly certain. I killed a chicken. The entrails told us there are more than ten and less than you're useless on a good day, sir.”
“How certain is the count?” I asked impatiently.
“That's how many small void streaks there are.”
“What about the ship we fought? Do you know where that specific one is?”
“Yes, within a few hundred thousand kilometers.”
“Okay, put us behind your best estimate of their location. I want a full spread of laser fire, rail fire, and QD assaults. Throw an infinity charge at them too. No, three infinities.”
“What's that?” asked Tank.
“An expanding membrane bomb. They're designed to rupture a structure.”
“Ah,” he said.
“Once we've fired off … oh, twenty rounds, put us in deep, open intergalactic space. You got that?”
“All but the last part, Pilot. My pencil lead broke. Please repeat.” That Al. A real barrel of laughs.
We were ready fairly quickly.
Slight nausea.
“The same ship is eight thousand kilometers just off the starboard bow. Firing sequence commencing.”
Slight nausea.
“Damage estimate,” I called out.
“None as we departed, but all ordinance had not struck home, yet,” Al stated.
“Put us Z plus ten thousand kilometers on the enemy vessel for half a second, then in another, random deep space location.”
Slight nausea, twice.
“No damage detectable,” he reported, flatly.
“Can you document a strike?”
“Negative, Captain. Sorry.” He sure did sound sorry, too.
“Back to Earth, please,” I grumbled.
Slight nausea.
“Well crap on a cracker, that sure fizzled,” I declared.
“I agree,” stated my wife.
“Without an I-told-you-so?” I pressed.
“No. I'm too depressed to pile on.”
“So, you're not going to be able to stop them?” Tank asked, obviously crushed.
“Of course I will. Just not with this ship and these weapons.” I wagged a finger, “Plus, I haven't given up yet with what I do have.”
“If we can't shoot them, we can't damage them. We can't outrun their weapons, just fold away if we're that lucky. What?” Sapale queried in a strained tone. “We maybe asked them nicely to die, and they do?”
“I like your thinking outside the box, hon, but I honestly don't think that'd work.”
Sapale pointed to me, but addressed our guests. “You see, we can't lose. We have military genius of this level on our side.”
“There has to be a way to stop them. They're not gods,” Sachiko said passionately.
“We've done gods. Not so hard, actually. And, assuming these guys are more pansy-assed than gods, we're good.” I tried to sound more confident than I felt.
“You've defeated gods?” she wheezed.
I shrugged. “Long story. I'll tell you around a campfire when this is all wrapped up.”
“Sure,” she replied incredulously. Hopefully she questioned the validity of my claim, not that we wouldn't survive to have campfire chats.
I decided to give voice to my wacky idea. “I'm thinking of ramming them.”
“Who's that, dear?” Sapale asked blandly.
“The time guys. I'm thinking of ramming their ship.”
“Oh, fine. I thought I heard you say you were going to ram their ship. That's clearly both impossible, and impossibly stupid. What I'm perceiving now, however, is you saying you're going to stick your head in a toilet and flush it every time the words ram their ship soil your brain.”
Sachiko gave Tank a look that could only be described as one rife with overt and focused concern.
“Come on. I don't mean ram as in breech their hull by brute force of impact. I sort of envision boarding their spaceship.”
“Oh, like, say, you did with the Berrillians?” Sapale began constructing the trap.
“Yes,” I gestured at her supportively. “Exactly.”
“And, the fact that Berrillian technology was significantly less advanced than ours, while Time Dudes's is light years ahead of ours wouldn't factor in our chances of success, at all, right?”
“Right. I mean, wrong. I mean … could you run that by me again?”
“No. You heard me well, husband.”
“Sure,” I tried to sound positive, “some external aspects of their technological sophistication seem to be different from ours. But, that doesn't mean they've considered, and hence defended against, force intrusion.”
“Interesting notion. I mean, what super race would factor in the possibility of pirates attackin
g their ship? I know if I were a highly advanced race, I sure wouldn't think of it.”
“Er, well—”
“And, of course, if they didn't, and we surprise-visited them, they'd have no internal, onboard defenses, so they'd be forced to surrender and sue for peace.”
She was trying, as they say, to make a monkey out of me. Luckily, I am immune to condescending ridicule. “Look, we're under attack. We must save humankind, so … so we can save humankind.” I looked furtively at our guests. “The most likely people to do that are us, and the most likely tool to do so is Stingray. We have to try something other than a direct assault, because, well, that sort of didn't work.”
“Sort of,” agreed my life partner. “And the advantage to placing our ship on their ship, with us inside, is that when we fail, and die, we're … oh what's the word I'm looking for?”
“Dead?”
She pointed at me like I was the winning dog in the dog show. “Dead. Yes, that's what we'd be. And, you know what they say?”
“What do they say?”
“Dead men save no species.”
“Really? You sure?”
“Deadly sure,” she replied with a perky smile.
“Pilot.”
“Yes, Al.”
“As much as it pains me to interrupt you being pummeled, we have an important update.”
“Gee, Al, sorry a crisis limits your vicarious pleasures.”
“I'll heal, given time.”
“What's the update?”
“We've plotted the courses of the twelve enemy vessels documented to be in our galaxy.”
“And?”
“One of them is heading almost directly for Earth.”
“Al, that seems unlikely. The galaxy is huge and the ships are so tiny.”
“Good point, pilot. Allow me a moment to call mathematical soundness and let it know it needs to alter reality to your whims.”
“ETA on that?” I asked grimly.
“Oh, I can call right now, if you'd like.”
“ETA for the bad guy to Earth?”
“Four months.”
“Al, four months, that's … that's not too very long a time.”
“I agree.”
“It's basically the blink of an eye.”
“Relatively speaking, yes.”
“We're in some serious shit here, aren't we?”
“I'm glad you said it. That way, no one will blame me.”
“Jon,” Tank spoke up. “Maybe we should return to Earth, let them know the timeline involved?”
“Yeah. probably as good an idea as any,” I mused. “Say, Tank, when someone asks you how you know Earth only has four months left, what're you going to tell them?”
His face contorted. “Lucky guess?”
I clicked my tongue off my inner cheek. “Not sure that'd sway the clever ones among them.”
“Maybe I could tell them an android from the future gave me a heads up?”
“I think the lucky guess idea is less likely to get you confined to the loonie bin.”
“Okay. We go with the lucky guess, then,” he said dubiously.
“How could it fail?”
FOURTEEN
After our semi-failed attempt to deter the time-robber guys, we decided it would be best to return to Earth. Tank was right. The collective powers-that-be needed a heads up, whether they wanted it, or believed, it, or not. I was left with the distinct feeling that I wished Doc was along for this ride. He'd likely as not have an idea how to tackle these time bozos. He was nerdy. The subject of time was nerdy. N + N = Doc To The Rescue, mostly. But, that was not a luxury we could afford. Popping back and forth in time was too darn risky for us. If we pressed our luck too mightily, it would press up back, probably directing us into our graves.
“You both carry cellphones, right?” I asked them.
“It is the twenty-first century,” Tank replied with a grin.
“Al, you got their numbers?” I called out.
“Yes, I do. And don't think, by the way, that my having a pretty young woman's number isn't an issue at home.”
“Al, you're so pathetic, it's pathetic,” I wheezed.
“Okay, Sachiko's number is now on, and undeletable from, your handheld, mister. See what kind of looks you get from that individual directly to your left.”
I absently glanced toward Sapale. My. She did have a stern look on her little face, there, didn't she?”
“Al, can you make it so they can reach us, up here, anytime?”
“Done.”
“Wait, how can he do that?” asked Tank. “We might be somewhere that cell reception is nonexistent.”
“Not any more,” replied a boastful Al.
“Nice,” remarked Sachiko, who stared lovingly at her phone.
“Al, place our number in their contact list. Make it under Ace House Cleaning.” I looked to them. “You got that?”
“It'll be the only house cleaning service on mine,” Sachiko remarked dubiously.
“Good. Call if you need to. And call when you have an update.”
“Why don't you just come with us, Jon?” queries Sachiko.
“Well, for one thing, there's already one of me running around down there. Me being on Earth'd be begging loudly for trouble.”
“You're not a celebrity, or anything,” she stated flatly.
Oh, but I will be, I thought to myself. “No reason to chance it, just yet. Plus, Sapale'd be powerfully hard to explain back in the 2040s.”
“Your call,” Sachiko conceded. “We held a news conference, just before you arrived. It didn't seem too productive,” she said glumly. “Any ideas as to how we can be more effective?”
“Hmm. There's a full bird colonel named Saunders stationed in Houston, working with NASA. He's a grouchy old fart, but he's totally into space and looking for extraterrestrial life. If all else fails, give him a try.”
“Can we mention your name?” she responded.
“Only if you want to have a door slammed in your face. He caught me with his daughter, back when I was in flight school.”
“If she was an adult, what problem would he have?”
“Oh, she was all grown up, all right. Daddy Saunders just didn't see it as charitably as you seem to. Bottom line. Mention me, and he'll probably have you arrested.”
Saunders didn't even have a daughter. I just needed to make absolutely certain neither of them mentioned me to him. It would blow my chances of being the first android and all, him knowing of me before he actually did. No time paradoxes on my watch, thank you very much.
“Got it. Don't mention the deflowering slime ball to the armed and vengeful father,” said Tank with an evil grin.
“So, let's get you two home,” I said, standing up.
“Before we leave, I need to ask what day is it? How long have we been gone?” Yeah, Tank might have some 'splaining to do. He was a married man gone missing with his devoted and beautiful grad student. Oh, my. Glad I wasn't him.
“Al?” I shouted.
“It's tomorrow afternoon, local, from when we departed. I can provide you with receipts for separate rooms at the No-Tell Motel, if you'd like. I counterfeit real well,” Al added, barely able to suppress a laugh. What a pain that AI could be.
“Gee, thanks, Al,” Tank replied glumly. “I'd just as soon jump into an erupting volcano. It'd be quicker, and a whole lot less painful.”
“Tank,” Sachiko said, devoid of any trace of humor, “I can hear you, you know? Being referenced in the context of a sleazy motel with a married man is not a pleasant experience.”
“Sorry, kiddo.”
“Sorry, nothing,” I exclaimed. “It's Al's fault. He could get the patron saint of piety grounded for sacrilege. He's trouble with a capital T, I tell ya.”
“And with that, they landed and parted company with their guests,” pronounced Sapale.
I acted on her little hint, and set down near Tank's house. I offered to ferry Sachiko home, also, but she decline
d. Maybe, I was thinking, she was done with Team Ryan for the moment.
FIFTEEN
“Is there any new meaning of the vessel that fled?” demanded the body maker of its new signal maker.
“None, body maker.” Signal Maker-fra tried to sound passive and in control. It was, in fact, as mentally discombobulated as an exposed worm looking up to a very large bird.
“Detection Maker-Sisss, any sign of the non-in-agreement-with-normal ship?”
“None,” it said flatly.
“Vector maker,” the body maker seethed, “what can you tell me—and tell me now—about where the non-compliant ship vectored?”
“Our technology does not allow for that prediction, body maker.” It played the pass-the-buck gambit. Blame the lousy level of their stolen technology. The body maker was technically responsible for the theft of the vessel, in the first place. This clever fellow was backhandedly saying it was the body maker's own fault the the bogus craft had vanished from their detection. The problem with being clever, and, actually, the problem with being correct, is that, when addressing such stellar reasoning to the boss, the boss is, ten times out of ten, disinclined to appreciate your insights. The ill-tempered body maker was no exception to this general rule.
“Out of correct, you disfigured clumpesh. Spacecraft of time and matter do not simply disappear. They only disappear when the disfigured clumpesh charged with vectoring them is blind, imbecilic, and possessed by a death wish.”
The brand new signal maker wondered idly who the new vector maker would be. Some clans kin were more agreeable to work with than others, after all.
“Body Maker-lol,” the brave sprite piped back, “I am none of those agreeables. I am loyal to the clan, to you, and to our mission. I must word-say to you that the non-compliant vessel can only have vanished. Perhaps it made to infect another universe, a parallel universe. Or, perhaps (and the tricky part here was that it was right) it is in possession of technology we do not encompass, and have not thought-given-to.”
After he'd said his piece, the vector maker looked over to see the body maker standing with his arms crossed, his legs wrapped around one another, staring up at the ceiling. If body makers were capable of boredom, he would also be conveying that emotion.
Ryan Time Page 9
