by D. J. Gelner
“Fuck off, you fancy fuck!” He spat the words at me and I wanted to get one shot in, just one good punch to teach this little shit what was what.
Unfortunately, that wouldn’t be proper—wouldn’t be English.
“Hey, Doc over here’s done a lot for us,” Corcoran said. “Without him you’d still be fightin’ off Paco and his band of merry Mayans back there.”
“First of all, it was Pacal,” I corrected him.
Several moments of silence followed.
“Aw, kick his ass, Bloomy!” He released his friend at me and I landed a rather clean overhand left square on Bloomington’s jaw. His flabby face bounced like jell-o as the (admittedly not incredibly strong) force of my fist connected flush. The specialist’s head turned on a swivel away from his momentum as he reeled backward, and crumpled in a heap.
Corcoran immediately rushed over to the man, “Serves you right!” he yelled at his friend before he turned to face me. “All right, now you’ve got it out of your system, Doc. That’ll be all, for both of you!” He directed the last statement at both myself and Bloomington. “Am I clear?” As if I needed any more incentive, he patted the sidearm in his hip holster.
I nodded, though I like to think not incredibly meekly.
“Very good. Tell your pudgy little friend to mind his manners next time!” I couldn’t resist getting one final dig on Bloomington before I took a few deep breaths to calm down.
“Fair enough,” Corcoran said. “Now…do your thing to get this machine ready to go.”
“I’m afraid we still have several hours until the gravity drive is recharged,” I said.
“What?” Corcoran asked.
I rolled my eyes, “The…engine won’t be ready to go for another six hours or so. Do you really want me to explain—”
Corcoran shook his head, “Unnecessary. Alright then, we’ll all rest up and get ready for the jump.”
“Just so you and your friend don’t get any ideas, remember that this craft will only jump between this point and the next one on the list. Besides, the computer is locked to only identify my voice-print commands, so if you have any designs on—”
Corcoran shook his head, “No offense, Doc, but if I wanted to hijack this thing,” he patted his sidearm, “I would’ve already. We get it—this thing needs you to go anywhere. Got it. You’re safe. I’ll protect you. You have my word.”
I sized the man up for several moments before I nodded my assent.
“Good. Great. Wonderful. Now you take whatever bed you want, and Bloomy and I’ll find a corner somewhere to lie ourselves down.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “You two take the bunks. I’ll take the command chair.”
Unfortunately, the soldier didn’t offer the usual courteous protestations to which I was accustomed.
“Even better. Rest up, Doc,” the man placed a meaty paw on my shoulder. “Somethin’ tells me we’re in for a long day tomorrow.”
I helped Corcoran carry Bloomington, who was only now beginning to sputter gibberish, into the quarters and shut the door. I freshened up a bit in the head, and even had a chance to take a shower, a luxury which I hadn’t enjoyed since the staff at Chronobase Alpha had presumably cleaned me after my run-in with the T-Rexes.
As I brushed my teeth (which were in far better condition than most Englishmen’s, in large part thanks to my Yank of a father’s influence), I looked into my reflection and immediately noticed my sunken eyes, sucked into their sockets deep inside of the mirror. Though I could wash away all of the dirt and blood from these increasingly violent encounters, no amount of scrubbing could mask the very real fatigue with which I currently struggled. It was one of the increasingly nagging results of being a time traveller without a home time, destined to jump every twenty one hours and six minutes, give or take a few. My days were shorter than most, yet I still had no way to measure when the last one ended and the next one began.
Set a tablet alarm, you twit! I screamed at myself in my head, with enough force and volume that it shook me out of my trance. Or perhaps it was that I was dozing, even now, toothbrush in mouth (always post-floss, so as to rub away all of the grit from between the teeth. At least that’s how pop always taught it).
I shook my head slowly and finished with my personal hygiene routine. I felt like a new man…except for one thing, which I couldn’t exactly put my—
The contacts!
Of course! I could finally dispose of those wretched things. I had extras in the glove box should I need them once more, as I was utterly as blind as a bat without correction, but until now, for whatever reason, I hadn’t thought to remove the bloody annoying things. I poked and prodded my own eyes with glee, eager to remove the offending plastic discs from their temporary homes.
When I removed each one, I held it close enough to my eye to see all of the dirt and grime caked across its surface. It was the oddest thing; that little piece of plastic was caked with millions of years worth of different types of particles. It was an archaeological relic, something that future geologists would literally kill to get their hands on.
And here I was, about to throw it away! Instead, I made my way back to the command chair and opened the glove box. I found a specimen bag in the compartment and carefully lowered each lens in turn into the plastic receptacle. I then filed the bag carefully behind the various sets of clothing, presumably for historians of the future to catalogue and celebrate.
Though my conversation with Commander Corcoran, or “Ricky,” as I would soon begin to call him, had been somewhat heartening, I still didn’t completely trust either of my fellow time travellers, especially in the wide-open cabin.
“Computer, set up a proximity perimeter at the edge of the cockpit…entry only.” The console flashed with a confirmation message. Despite the presence of a trained killer and a man whom had tried to engage me in fisticuffs mere minutes ago, I was exhausted from the day’s events and fell asleep easily.
The next morning, I awoke before Commander Corcoran or Bloomington and was able to relieve myself before the others. Unfortunately, upon my return to the command chair, I had forgotten about the proximity perimeter, which the computer triggered in what I like to think of as another one of its persnickety, wise-arsed tricks.
Corcoran bolted out of the quarters, ready to fire at whatever intruder was lurking.
“Computer, cease alarm!” I projected above the screaming claxon.
“Jesus, for a moment, I thought that Paco’s boys had come back for more,” Corcoran said, with what I thought was a twinge of regret. Bloomington, for his part, staggered out of the room still in a bit of a daze; I suppose that’s what he deserved for daring to engage the two-time fifth runner-up at the annual Eton boxing championships in a round of pugilistic exploits! All unofficially conducted, mind you, but I convinced myself that I packed quite a wallop nonetheless.
“I assure you, the cabin is quite secure,” I told the American Commander.
Corcoran’s face turned serious, “Bloomy has something to say to you.”
Bloomington’s fat form staggered forward, “I’m sorry for being such an asswad last night. You’re right, those books could be useful down the road, and I’m sorry I threw them at the Mayans.”
I wanted to tell the little toad right off once more, but I was able to maintain my composure.
“Apology accepted. I, also, apologise for perhaps…overreacting a bit.”
Bloomington mumbled something.
“What was that, Steve?” Corcoran asked.
“Thanks.” Bloomington said once more, more audibly.
“Good. Now that you two have kissed and made up, can we get the hell outta this place and back to civilization?”
I thought the better of cracking wise that had I kissed Bloomington, he had most certainly not, in fact, turned into a prince, and instead nodded. I grabbed my tablet (thank goodness I hadn’t dropped that during our hasty retreat) and pulled up my Benefactor’s scanned list to see the next destination:<
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“31-12-1985: St. Louis, MO, USA: Communicate w/ VB”
“VB…St. Louis…80s…Vic Burnham?” Corcoran thought aloud over my shoulder.
The name sounded familiar, but my look must have been sufficiently vacant.
“Rich guy, billionaire, one hell of an investor?” Corcoran continued.
“The Sage of St. Louis?” Bloomington offered, the words muffled through his stuffy nose. I must have really popped him one. “When he croaked, he only had the most extensive collection of Star Trek memorabilia in the entire world.”
“Ah, indeed,” I said, with a smile. As a bit of a Trekkie myself, I knew I had heard the name somewhere before. His collection was filled with all manner of rare props and other bric-a-brac. “He was quite the stock picker, wasn’t it now?”
Corcoran nodded, “Damned straight. My mom worked in the same building as his company, Burnham Herrington.”
“You grew up in St. Louis?” I asked.
“Sure.” Corcoran said. Both Bloomington and I looked at him with an arched eyebrow. “The suburbs.” Corcoran tried again. This only increased our skepticism. “All right, all right, maybe a little beyond the suburbs, but the point is, the guy made a fortune picking stocks, starting in the sixties, all the way through the mid aughts. Made a big splash sometime in the—”
Corcoran stopped himself.
“In the…?” I had the distinctly unpleasant experience of feeling like Hank Fleener browbeating Sir Isaac into an answer.
“The mid-eighties. Announced one day, New Year’s Eve, that he was going to donate his entire fortune to a charity after his death, give it all away. One hell of a nice guy.”
“Well then,” Bloomington wheezed, “I think we have our man.”
No kidding, genius, I thought, but once again held my tongue. Of far more import to me at the moment was the thought that without Corcoran on board to flesh out the details of the rather notorious life of Victor Burnham, I would have wandered around downtown St. Louis of the late eighties, foolishly asking prostitutes and drug addicts where I might find “VB,” though I imagine the prostitutes may hear the initials somewhat differently and make an offer of their services. Though I had an inkling that these little “coincidences” that I had been experiencing were, in fact, nothing of the sort, it did seem rather convenient that this soldier was from the place we were about to visit (or at least thereabouts).
I checked the indicators for both the gravity drive and tunneling lasers. Both were green. I dialed in the proper time and set the coordinates to St. Louis, Missouri. I must admit, I knew little of the town outside of some of the more radical urban redevelopment proposals of the city’s young mayor, Titus Yeardling, over the past several years, though I suppose that’s another tale for another day.
“Computer, ready ship for time travel.” I said. The right console flashed green. I hit the flashing red “Engage” icon on the left panel and the familiar humming and whirring of the gravity drive kicked in.
“What in the hell…?” Bloomington asked.
“What? Didn’t you two come here in a time machine?” I asked.
“Sure we did, just nothing quite so—”
“Advanced?” I said with pride.
“Loud,” Bloomington said. I forced a grin.
“What’s the expression, computer?” I looked skyward, “‘You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet?’”
Thankfully, the QC didn’t have one of its momentary lapses and the sounds of Bachman Turner Overdrive’s hit flooded the cabin. Corcoran and Bloomington looked at each other and shrugged.
“Don’t tell me that you two of all people don’t appreciate some classic rock!” I said with a genuine grin. “The first two individuals from the recent past that I meet and neither can—”
Bloomington shook his head, “This isn’t classic rock!”
“Beg your pardon?” I asked.
Corcoran nodded, “He’s right, Doc. Stones, Zeppelin, Stooges, even Ozzy or I’d give you Clapton, but this? No thanks.”
“Well, it’s considered classic where I come from…” I tried to recover.
“Twenty years in the future?” Bloomington asked.
“Computer, please go to three-hundred sixty degree view.” I said, eager to prevent this “ganging up” from going forward. The cabin walls shimmered away as the craft hovered above the wide expanse of jungle below. It was an expanse marred only by the crash crater from which we presently rose, as well as the rather dowdy version of Chichen Itza in front of us.
Curiously, as we hovered overhead, a number of the villagers looked up and pointed. More still fell to their knees and bowed.
Then I remembered that the cloaking device automatically disengaged upon takeoff, and their wonder was somewhat more understandable. It appeared as if they were screaming something toward the heavens at this vehicle of the “gods” who had supplied them with amazing knowledge and technology.
Against one of the village walls a more grizzly scene played out: four of the warriors who had ostensibly been involved in the previous day’s altercations lined up several otherwise unremarkable individuals. A rotund figure commanded the soldiers from the rear. The round man looked skyward and pointed at the peons along the wall. Spears shot out of the odd slingshot contraptions in the warriors’ hands and pinned the villagers to the wall. The warriors seized upon the men, clawing at their wounds, not to stem the tide of blood, but rather to increase its flow.
I flinched at the sight and wanted to wretch.
“Well I’ll be damned…” Corcoran said over my shoulder.
“They’re…they’re slaughtering each other!” I let out a panicked whisper.
“Why would they do that?” Corcoran asked, eyes still wide with wonder.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Bloomington said in his clogged voice. “They’re trying to appease us.”
“Beg your pardon?” I asked once more.
“Or I should say, they’re trying to appease the Commander.”
Of course…all of the killing and blood that had been spilled when they angered the “gods.” Corcoran’s cold, calculated demeanor. The hopeful portion of me wished that somehow the “miracle” I had performed in the crater might somewhat lessen the famous bloodlust of the Mayans. Instead, all of our actions, ostensibly for attention and “on a lark,” had served to help create one of the most brutal, advanced cultures that the world had ever seen.
More troubling than anything was the hopelessness I felt about it all. What could we do? Land the craft and implore them not to sacrifice others? Hardly. We had been lucky to escape two armed confrontations without any casualties among the three of us, and that wasn’t counting the axe that formerly stuck out of Bloomington’s back. Though I didn’t particularly care for the man, he deserved better than dying a nameless, faceless, time traveller’s death somewhere in the hidden bowels of history.
The craft ascended more rapidly and exited the atmosphere. Though Corcoran and Bloomington had seated themselves in the small dining area next to the bar and pantry, they couldn’t mask their astonishment at being among the stars once more. I have to admit, I didn’t share their admiration, so fed up was I with this nearly intolerable, ridiculous scavenger hunt.
When we had reached a safe distance away from the Earth, I hit the green time travel button, and the tunneling lasers carved up space and time outside the vessel. Though I thought the vibrations were positively benign compared to the previous couple of jumps, Corcoran and Bloomington exchanged worried glances several times as if they thought the ship might burst in twain at any moment. I secretly seethed at the notion that my craftsmanship (along with the nano-assemblers and three-dimensional printers, of course) was anything but of the highest quality.
The jump itself was shorter this time, and somehow seemed more routine, loathe as I am to use the term since I was a veteran of all of four time jumps. Though I caught glimpses of Bloomington pointing out various star formations to the far less science-literate Corcoran (albei
t with several unnecessary profane outbursts interspersed in the lecture) out of the corner of my eye, I couldn’t help but notice that Corcoran appeared to stare past anything Bloomington pointed out, to a point so far away that it appeared to me that he was staring into his own soul.
And as I saw the Commander’s reflection in the brushed “glass” of the wall, the normally sly grin turned taut and humourless, his eyes drawn and dull. I knew that he most certainly didn’t like what he saw.
Chapter Fourteen
As the blue marble turned into first a cricket ball, then a basketball in front of us, Corcoran and Bloomington didn’t stand rapt, looking over my shoulder as I thought they might.
Rather, Bloomington fixed himself a nip of scotch, while Corcoran assaulted the armory.
“What the devil are you doing?” I asked.
“Tryin’ to get some more ammo. The Mayans emptied me out, remember?” Corcoran replied
“Not you,” I said, gesturing toward Bloomington, who held the Macallan Eighteen in his hand like a secondary schooler looting his father’s liquor cabinet. “Him. That’s very fine scotch you’re pouring for yourself, Specialist Bloomington.”
The man clutched the glass toward his chest and glared at me for a moment like Smigol before he smiled and lilted into his hoarse, ugly, snorting laugh. He allowed himself a guzzle and lowered the glass, allowing remnants of the quaff to drip down his chin.
“Eh, it’s okay, I guess.” Bloomington said. He polished off the liquor and set the empty whiskey glass down on the counter with a self-satisfied sigh.
My face reddened with anger, but instead of giving in to my near-murderous urges, I decided to calmly approach the bar, pick up a glass for myself, and enjoy a quick swallow of the stuff.
“A little better than ‘okay,’ don’t you think, Steven?” I allowed any hostility to boil harmlessly off my skin. “Notice the subtle notes of peat and caramel, the smooth finish that belies the almost indescribable complexity that—”
“Little help?” Corcoran interrupted from the armory. I glared at him for several moments before he jostled the lock and shrugged. I exhaled deeply and carried my glass of Macallan over toward him. I produced the armory key from my pocket and unlocked the cabinet. Corcoran flung open the door as he surveyed the contents within. His gaze fixed on the futuristic-looking laser pistol prototype that I had included.
