That last proposal got the most attention. Funding was expedited, and soon Traidman was known in media circles as ‘The Cable Guy.’ He quietly purchased abandoned railroad right of ways for fiber optic lines, extending the tentacles of his Cadence Cable TV Network empire everywhere.
“Are you planning to conquer the world?” asked Maxfield conversationally. “If so, what more can I do to help?”
“World domination has always been my goal,” answered Traidman. “I will not rest until the whole planet is wired to the internet. I invented the internet, you know.”
“It wasn’t Al Gore?”
“No way. I kicked that chump to the curb.”
“I’m sure stockholders will approve of your enthusiasm,” advised Maxfield skeptically. “There’s just one hitch. Do we really want ATMs talking to customers? Talking ATMs might cause us union problems, and we don’t want bad press drawing labor or regulatory heat. Cute bank tellers losing their jobs to scab ATMs is bad for business.”
“How about ATMs joining the union? In another place, another time, I was a Teamster. We can make a deal.”
“No, ATMs aren’t human. Only humans can join the union. It’s the law.”
“I see your point. How about the UK?”
“I don’t think so. Maybe in Ireland.”
“Talking ATMs can wait, for now. But, I’m still going to conquer the world for America. Semper fi.”
###
~BONUS SHORT STORY~
The Roswell Incident
by Walter Knight
As we activated the time travel and beam technology to escape back to the future, the chopper hit turbulence, sending us off course to 1947. GPS indicated we were over Roswell, New Mexico, when we suddenly smashed into a weather balloon. Crashing in Roswell, with an alien on board? It could happen.
“Oh, hell, no! We’re going down!” shouted the spider commander, buckling in.
There was nothing but desolate desert below. The spider commander gripped the joystick as he fought to bring the swirling chopper under control. “I love your retro choppers!” he exclaimed. “But we’re all going to die in this deathtrap. It’s been a good life. You human pestilence aren’t so bad. I’ve even grown fond of some of you.”
“Ditto, bug face,” I replied as the valley floor got closer. “See you in Hell real soon!”
We corrected at the last second, bounce-landing. We might live after all. There is a God. The chopper flipped on its side, coming apart as it skidded and caught fire. Maybe not. We’re toast.
I felt strong hands pulling at my straps. Soldiers from nearby Roswell Army Airfield quickly pulled us from the debris, relatively unhurt. However, the spider commander was crunched pretty bad. I desperately started first aid, applying generous amounts of duct tape to broken exoskeleton. The spider commander faded into unconscious shock despite my valiant efforts. There’s only so much duct tape can do.
* * * * *
The reported alien crash created quite a sensation among military circles. Because of the top-secret nature of the incident, General Elisha Smith flew to Roswell Army Airfield to personally supervise and interview the first officer on the scene, First Lieutenant Walter Haut. Smith viewed the crash site and wreckage. Someone had a lot of explaining to do.
“Do you realize what this means?” asked General Smith, rummaging through recovered crash site artifacts.
“That American traitors are in cahoots with alien invaders?” answered Lieutenant Haut.
“This new and improved duck tape could be worth millions!” exclaimed Smith, holding up a roll taken from my first aid pack. “This duck tape could even tip the balance of power in our favor over those commie Russian bastards.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What other goodies were salvaged?”
“Alien food,” replied Lieutenant Haut, handing a small burnt package to the general. “They call it an MRE.”
“Is it edible by humans?” asked General Smith, skeptically giving the contents a sniff. “Whew!”
“No, sir. It’s highly toxic.”
“Make a note. Don’t touch the MREs until the biological warfare folks have examined them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What about the alien craft?”
“It’s a twin turbine whirlybird of American design, manufactured by Bell Aircraft,” explained Haut. “But it’s of an advanced design presently not in production.”
“How is that possible?”
“I’m not sure. The Bell people are fascinated by the craft, but deny building it. Perhaps we stumbled upon a top-secret Air Force project, but for now they’re denying any knowledge of aliens or alien technology.”
“They would. That’s what the Air Force does.”
“Of particular interest are micro-computers and circuitry. It’s a real mystery, sir.”
“What are the prisoners saying?” pressed General Smith, now pacing.
“The two ranking officers have clammed up, but the others are singing like canaries. They’re definitely Americans. They even have odd American military identification matching their uniforms. One fellow is from the Bronx. He wants to make a deal in exchange for goodwill. Another says he was abducted by aliens. Claims to be a marine and a graduate of Annapolis. Sir, he even has a ring, Class of ’68. Says the aliens didn’t probe him, yet. I believe him.”
“Probed? What sort of degenerate talk is that?”
“Apparently aliens are a bit odd that way,” speculated Haut uneasily. “When that alien gains consciousness, let me at him, sir. I’ll teach those Martians what happens when you probe Americans.”
“I want to talk to the prisoners before interrogations begin in earnest. Class of ’68, my ass. Get recording equipment. I want this whole incident fully documented.”
* * * * *
General Smith inspected the unconscious alien. The ugly spider truly looked dead, its husk all shriveled like an ancient mummy. The exoskeleton was badly crushed, and a web mold was forming, covering the entire length of its body. An Army doctor leaned over the alien, listening intently with his stethoscope for signs of life.
“I think it’s dead,” advised Captain Casey, the base surgeon. “Let me open it up and find out what makes this alien tick. I need to drill a core sample from its buggy brain.”
“No!” admonished General Smith. “Not until Lieutenant Hunt arrives with the movie cameras and lighting equipment. This alien autopsy is going to be big news. We could be looking at an Academy Award for Best American Documentary. There’s an Oscar in my future, and a second star.”
“Quite right,” agreed Casey, brightening. “I might even win a Nobel Prize for Science. I will be famous, published in all the medical and veterinary journals.”
“Are you sure it’s dead?” asked General Smith, prodding the alien with his swagger stick. “Maybe you should put it in restraints.”
“Quite certain,” answered Doctor Casey. “It’s even cold to the touch.”
“Put the monster in chains, anyway. I don’t want the star of my science fiction flick coming back to life and running off. This is truly a diabolical set of events.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * * * *
Furious, General Smith stormed out to interrogate the prisoners held at the base stockade. “Who’s in charge?” he shouted at us through the bars. No one answered at first, but the black eagles on my collar gave me away. “You! Explain yourself! You claim to be loyal American GIs, yet you consort with the enemy. Give me even one reason not to have you shot for treason.”
“We’re at truce with the Empire,” I answered contritely. “Can’t we all just get along?”
“Like hell! You look and sound like Americans, but you wear black military commando garb, just like Nazi storm troopers. I just fought a war with those God damn Nazi bastards, and I won’t tolerate their presence on American soil.”
“I’m not a part of their conspiracy!” interrupted Lieutenant North. “They’re all bandits. I was abdu
cted!”
“One spy at a time,” insisted General Smith.
“They’re all time travelers! The CIA knows all about them!”
“What is the CIA?”
“The Central Intelligence Agency,” explained Lieutenant North. “We were on an ambush to capture them in Michigan, and got abducted by aliens.”
“Shut that fool up,” ordered General Smith. Soldiers pummeled Lieutenant North, taping his mouth with duck tape. Ha! Another use for duck tape.
“You’re Colonel Czerinski,” continued Smith, studying my Legion ID card. “What is Czerinski? You a God damn Russian?”
“I was born in Arizona. I’m an American, just like you.”
“And you claim to be American military, just like me? Not likely, you Russian bastard.”
“It’s not just a job, it’s an adventure.”
“That’s the navy,” whispered Major Lopez. “Don’t tell him anything. The Legion will rescue us if we’re patient.”
“Fun, travel, and adventure,” I corrected myself. “Be all you can be.”
“Shut up,” repeated Lopez.
“What was that?” asked General Smith. “You got something to say. Speak up, boy!”
“No habla Inglés.”
“We’ll see about that,” threatened General Smith. “I guarantee I will get to the bottom of this. What is your mission, and where did you find that Martian?”
We clammed up. Tonelli sat in the corner, sullen. Sergeant Green paced nervously, obviously realizing he had fallen into redneck hell. Sergeant Williams let out a rebel yell, defiantly rattling the bars. Lopez and I just waited for our rescue. Smith took Lieutenant North away to be interrogated by the FBI.
* * * * *
“Alien autopsy, take one!” announced a bored private, snapping a clapboard for the cameras.
“Action!” shouted General Smith through a portable PA.
“It is July eighth, 1947, a day which will live in infamy,” advised Doctor Casey. “We’re going to crack this Martian bad boy open like a New England Lobster.”
“Be natural,” ordered General Smith. “Don’t overplay the scene.”
“Scalpel,” commanded Doctor Casey to a buxom blond nurse. It was her acting debut, and she made the most of it as she leaned over the medical instruments, giving everyone an eyeful. Cameras zoomed in for cleavage close-ups.
“Which one is the scalpel?” panted the nurse.
“She can’t type either,” leered Doctor Casey. “But she does great dictation.”
“Get a top view on that nurse,” ordered General Smith. “Holy moley, she’s hot!”
Doctor Casey selected a box cutter from his tools. “I will make a precise incision here on the thorax to remove a small unknown alien device wired to the Martian’s throat.”
“Ouch!” shouted a mechanical voice emanating from the spider commander’s translator. “What the hell? Did you just stab me?”
“You’re being operated on.”
“Whatever. Stop at once!”
“You’re alive in there?” asked Doctor Casey, tapping on the alien’s breastplate, his dreams of Nobel glory fading. “We thought you died in the crash. Your being alive will ruin my autopsy.”
“Get away from me, you prehistoric human pestilence quack! I am engaged in epidermis molt to repair my shell. Keep your grimy human pestilence fingernails to yourself!”
“I resent your tone.”
“Are you trying to start an intergalactic war? Cut me again, and your provocations will draw the full wrath of the Arthropodan Empire.”
“He’s bluffing,” interrupted General Smith, pandering for the camera. “Crack Lobster Boy open now!”
“You wouldn’t dare. I’m related to the Emperor!”
“This is America, and we’ve had it once and for all with emperors. Cut him!”
“He’s obviously alive somewhere in there,” protested Doctor Casey. “I am bound by my Hippocratic Oath to discontinue this procedure, even if it does cost me a Nobel.”
“Hippocratic my ass! That’s just for humans.”
“He’s obviously sentient.”
“Of course I’m sentient, you slime-mold-induced rodent creature!” interrupted the spider commander. “I’ll have you up on war crimes charges!”
“How long until you hatch?” asked General Smith, acutely sensitive to recent prisoner abuse by the Nazis and Japs during World War Two. “What are you waiting for, boy? Christmas?”
“You will address me as Supreme Commander.”
“Oh yeah? Come out, or I will order you boiled alive in butter and served to the Air Force pukes for dinner.”
“Perfection cannot be rushed. I will shed my old exoskeleton in about ten days.”
“Fine. We’ll wait, but you have some serious explaining to do, Mister Martian.”
“Whatever. Just make sure you keep those Air Force pukes away from me, or else!”
* * * * *
When the soldiers left the stockade, one gangly Air Force guard remained. He kicked back in his swivel chair, reading pulp science fiction magazines, and nodding off.
“Have you read War of the Worlds?” I asked conversationally through the bars. “H. G. Wells was a pioneer of his time.”
“No talking!” admonished the guard. “I have my orders. You are dangerous spies.”
“Tell me your name,” I asked innocently. “I don’t think privates are privy to any state secrets.”
“Hank,” he replied cautiously, annoyed at having to put down his magazine again. He eyed us, perhaps assuming we didn’t look all that dangerous, but looks could be deceiving.
“Your last name?”
“Knight. What’s it to you?”
“Oh shit,” I whispered to Lopez. “Do you think he’s any relation to world famous science fiction writer Walter Knight? What are the odds?”
“What did you say?” challenged Knight.
“Do you know Walter Knight?” I asked.
“My toddler son is named Walter, not that it’s any of your business. Hey! You threatening my family?”
“I come in peace,” I explained. “You know we’re from the future, right? We brought an alien they have locked up in the infirmary.”
“I heard rumors,” conceded Knight. “You’re probably Communist spies.”
“Let my people go. We’ll take you and your family on a star trek across the galaxy, to explore brave new worlds, to boldly go where no American has gone before.”
“You mean to Mars?” scoffed Knight, dropping his magazine. “Defect to the Red Planet. No way. I’m no traitor.”
“Your son joined us in the future. It’s your destiny and his birthright to come with us now.”
“I’m no fool. I will not help you escape. You can blow destiny out Uranus.”
“Does your son have a big beak of a nose and big bugged-out green eyes?”
“Is he a royal pain in the ass?” added Major Lopez. “Always poking that nose where it don’t belong?”
“Shut up, all of you,” shouted Knight, pointing his rifle. “Liars! You know nothing!”
* * * * *
“I swear to God, as an officer and a gentleman and an American patriot, I am not a spy. I am Lieutenant Oliver North, United States Marine Corps, semper fi! I graduated from the United States Navel Academy at Annapolis, Class of 1968.”
“’68?” asked General Smith, examining North’s class ring. “Bullshit. The year is 1947.”
“I know the date. Czerinski has a time machine. He brought me here.”
“Normally I’d just have you shot or locked up in the loony bin,” advised General Smith. “But, we did catch a bona fide Martian with you. Explain that. Are the Martians conspiring with the commies to conquer the world? Did the Russians put you up to this?”
“We are not part of a Communist plot,” explained Lieutenant North. “At least, I don’t think so. I do know North Korea attacks across the 38th parallel with tanks and Chinese support.”
; “And Martian weapons? Those bastards. Where else will they attack?”
“Vietnam.”
“Where?”
“Indochina.”
“So we have to save the damn French again,” lamented General Smith. “I swear, those Frenchies will throw down their weapons at the sound of a loud fart. What sort of deal does Czerinski have with the Martians?”
“I haven’t quite worked that out yet,” answered Lieutenant North. “I’ve only overheard bits and pieces. They’re all crooks and thieves, intent on stripping the Earth of any valuables not nailed down. I think Czerinski is part of a future Mafia cartel.”
“There’s no such thing as the Mafia.”
“Corporal Tonelli is Mafia for sure. He claims the Mets are going to win the 1969 World Series.”
“So the East Coast fix is in for the Series? That’s some serious shit.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll have to contact my bookie,” General Smith mumbled. “Bet the farm.”
“But sir, that would be unethical,” protested Lieutenant North.
“No, son, that would be a sure thing. Never turn down a sure thing. You’d know that if you had a few more years on you, like I do.”
“May I have my class ring back?” asked Lieutenant North, sullen.
“Sure,” answered General Smith, tossing the jeweled gold ring back. “Is there anything else I should know? I don’t like surprises, and this week has been full of them.”
Lieutenant North hesitated. “Did you notice how young they all appear to be? Even Czerinski, who claims to be a colonel, is just a kid.”
“So?”
“They don’t act like kids,” reasoned Lieutenant North. “They’re all scarred from a thousand battles. Maybe they’re all not quite human. Or, maybe they’ve found the Fountain of Youth.”
Atm Page 10
