America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 20: Time Machine
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AMERICA’S GALACTIC FOREIGN LEGION
Book 20: Time Machine
by Walter Knight
In the twentieth installment of this preposterous science fiction series, Colonel Joey R. Czerinski and Major (or is it General?) Manny Lopez guard the time machine recovered from an earlier altercation with a now-defunct alien species. Perhaps ‘guard’ is a loose interpretation of what is done with the time machine. The CIA, intent on changing the future by visiting the past, launches a mission to remold history. Meanwhile, Czerinski is tasked with overseeing the ratings-rich use of the time machine to observe historical events via drones sent back in time for ‘live’ broadcasts.
Of course, anything that can go wrong does, and Czerinski finds himself battling time paradoxes, Lopez’s evil time-twin from the future, and his own greed in an attempt to keep the time-space continuum in balance. The Arthropodan spider commander is pulled into the fray when Czerinski, while remotely observing Jesus’ crucifixion in the past, accidently transports the revered prophet to the future – and all Hell breaks loose. It will take nothing short of a miracle to fix this mess, but with Jesus now inducted into the Legion, courtesy of a sneaky ATM, maybe God will have to step in and take charge.
Whatever happens, the laughs are sure to keep coming.
AMERICA’S GALACTIC FOREIGN LEGION
Book 20: Time Machine
by Walter Knight
Licensed and Produced through
Penumbra Publishing
http://PenumbraPublishing.com
ELECTRONIC EDITION
EBOOK ISBN/EAN-13: 978-1-938758-36-2
Copyright 2013 Walter Knight
All rights reserved
Also available in PRINT ISBN/EAN-13: 978-1-938758-37-9
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, planets, asteroids, alien species, evil empires, galaxies far, far way, or future events and incidents, are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or aliens, living or dead, events or locales including those on Mars and New Colorado, is entirely coincidental.
Licensing Note: This ebook is licensed and sold for your personal enjoyment. Under copyright law, you may not resell, give away, or share copies of this book. You may purchase additional copies of this book for other individuals or direct them to purchase their own copies. If you are reading this book but did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, out of respect for the author’s effort and right to earn income from the work, please contact the publisher or retailer to purchase a legal copy.
~BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR~
America’s Galactic Foreign Legion series
Book 1: Feeling Lucky
Book 2: Reenlistment
Book 3: Silent Invasion
Book 4: Demilitarized Zone
Book 5: Insurgency
Book 6: Culture War
Book 7: Enemies
Book 8: Allies
Book 9: Scorpions
Book 10: Peacekeepers
Book 11: Cemetery City
Book 12: The Ark
Book 13: Salesman from Mars
Book 14: Embassy War
Book 15: Lieutenant Columbus
Book 16: Galactic Disney (coauthor James Boedeker)
Book 17: Randal Telk (coauthor James Boedeker)
Book 18: First Contact
Book 19: ATM
Vampire in the Outfield
Zombie Missouri
~AUTHOR ACKNOWLEDGEMENT~
I dedicate America’s Galactic Foreign Legion – Book 20: Time Machine to American hero James Nicholas Rowe. A special thanks to Penumbra Publishing editor Patricia Morrison for sticking with me and making my science fiction dream come true. I also want to thank the growing number of friends I’ve given cameos to in my books. Just remember, upset me, and you’re dead.
AMERICA’S GALACTIC FOREIGN LEGION
Book 20: Time Machine
by Walter Knight
Prologue
Emperor Hirohito was woken from his nap by a phone call from Admiral Yamamoto. “This had better be important,” snapped the Emperor.
“Tora, tora, tora, Your Majesty!” exclaimed Admiral Yamamoto. “We bombed the American fleet at Pearl Harbor.”
“Is this a crank call?” asked Emperor Hirohito incredulously. “Who is this? You bombed who?”
“This is Admiral Yamamoto. I attacked Pearl Harbor.”
“Why?”
“You ordered me to attack the American fleet. I am but your sword.”
“You fool! I told you to attack the United Kingdom, not the United States!”
“Are you sure? We’re already at war with Britain.”
“Exactly my point! Is there anyone left we are not at war with?”
“The Russians, but those round-eyed godless Commie bastards are next,” answered Admiral Yamamoto maniacally. “The Divine Wind will blow across the world and kick butt!”
“The only wind blowing is out your ass!” admonished Emperor Hirohito. “Someone is going to fall on their sword for this debacle. I’m the Emperor, so it won’t be me!”
“But I bring news of victory,” bragged Admiral Yamamoto. “We caught the Americans sleeping.”
“You wake a sleeping giant and call that news of victory? What were you thinking?”
Emperor Hirohito opened an atlas of the Pacific. Perhaps this mess isn’t so bad, he thought, studying the map. “Did you say you sank the entire American fleet?”
“Their aircraft carriers got away,” advised Admiral Yamamoto contritely. “But we sank their battleships. Victory is ours!”
“You putz! I’ll call Roosevelt and try to explain your incompetence as a case of mistaken identity. You thought you were bombing Australia. Fog of war, and all that.”
“We bombed Manila, too. It was a coordinated surprise attack. Remember?”
“No, I don’t remember! Now listen here, you little shit farmer. Withdraw to the east before the Americans catch you. Heads will roll over this one!”
“At once, Your Majesty.”
“Did you think you could conquer the world?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. That was our plan. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“You’re fired!”
* * * * *
A shadowy figure stepped out from ... the shadows. Actually, it was time-traveler extraordinaire, General Manny Lopez, coming out of the closet.
“Who’s there?” asked Emperor Hirohito, clutching his Samurai sword. “Show yourself!”
“Not good, bringing a knife to a gunfight,” scoffed General Lopez contemptuously. “Drop it!”
“Who are you?”
“I am your worst nightmare, you stupid bendaho. I am vengeance for all those you’ve murdered.”
“What? Did that fool Yamamoto bomb Mexico by mistake, too? It’s not my fault. I love Mexico. Your burritos are to die for!”
“And so you shall,” threatened General Lopez, drawing his nine-millimeter pistol menacingly. “You will be executed for war crimes, and the murder of countless millions.”
“But it’s not my fault,” pleaded the Emperor. “The Prime Minister handles foreign affairs. I never get involved in all the little details of how to conquer the world. There’s not enough time in the day for that. I just run the palace and the geisha house. Let me set you up with Nonami. She’s so hot.”
“Tell your sad story of innocence to the Chinese. Tell our heroes entombed on the Arizona. The buck stops here.”
“We use yen.”
“Prepare to die, dirt-bag.”
“No! I never wa
nted war. I got this gig on a platform of enlightened peace. It was the military industrial complex that wanted war. Their lobbyists are ruthless.”
“I’ll bomb Mitsubishi next,” promised General Lopez, aiming his pistol. “Make your peace with Buddha. Smile for the camera. Say cheese.”
“Cheese.”
General Lopez shot Hirohito in the head, between the eyes, splitting his wire framed spectacles. The Emperor fell back in a bloody clump on his bed.
“Burn in hell,” said Lopez, somberly crossing himself. “You’ll have plenty of company before I’m through.”
Chapter 1
I am Colonel Joey R. Czerinski of the United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion. I command garrison troops on the planet New Colorado. Hopefully this is my last assignment before retirement in a rich life to which I’d like to be accustomed. My battalion guards a time machine. Per the Strategic Arms Limitations Treaty, security is shared on a neutral site in the DMZ with the Arthropodan Empire. Together, we serve as a sort of Praetorian Guard.
Humanity and spiders agreed time travel was too dangerous except in cases of extreme emergency. Only academicians and historians are allowed to send probes and drones to document and record major historical events. Media experts predict Jesus Christ’s crucifixion to be an all-time box-office hit. I’m personally working on that project.
Our uneasy truce with the Arthropodans still holds, but both sides remain wary of the other, for good reason. Time travel to any place or time can be a powerful weapon. Vigilance is essential to galactic peace because spiders cannot be trusted. I know that to be a certainty from prior experience.
You can’t trust humans, either. We violated the SALT Accords the first day. Apparently a future version of my XO, Major Manny Lopez, is already running amuck in the past, attempting to change history. Promoting himself to general, Lopez’ evil twin sent me a video of the assassination of Japanese Emperor Hirohito during World War II. Major Lopez denies any complicity, past, present, or future, but the video is clear. Worse, the Lopez in the video also claims I promoted myself to President.
Me President? Ha! That’s a good one. I wouldn’t take the pay cut, or live in a crappy Old Earth neighborhood like Washington, DC. I’ve never been interested in politics or volunteered for anything. Sure, I’m a registered Republican, but only because they don’t allow suspected Democrats loose past Mars. Better to keep the fools contained. I only volunteered to guard the time machine because the spiders specifically requested me, and I was hoping to score on sports bets and stock-market insider trading. I’m not into power, galactic domination, or treason. It’s not worth my time. Lopez, on the other hand, has always had dreams of glory.
“I swear, I’m a loyal American,” professed Major Lopez after viewing the incriminating tape. “That’s not me!”
“Whether it’s you or your evil twin, I don’t care. The spiders are going to have a conniption when they find out.”
“So, don’t tell them. Don’t tell anyone. Spiders don’t care about human history anyway. We can fix this.”
“I need to know you have my back.”
“That bendaho on the video is not me!”
“It looks like you,” I insisted reasonably, playing the recording again. “It’s you. I’m the President, too. We both have a problem. We need to trust each other, no matter what happens.”
“Trust human pestilence?” asked the spider commander, barging into my office like he owned the place. “That’s a good one. What are you conspiring at now? Robbing banks? Looting antiques? Human pestilence have no morals, especially you, Czerinski.”
“I love you, too. What do you want?”
“Today is the day we film the execution of your Grand Prophet, Jesus H. Christ. Not that I care, but I’m told the broadcast will make us billionaires, and I’m here to make sure you don’t screw it up.”
“There’s no ‘H’ in Jesus Christ,” advised Major Lopez, crossing himself.
“So you say, but the Galactic Database indicates otherwise,” bristled the spider commander, confirming that irrelevant fact on his communications pad. “Are you ready?”
“I was born ready,” I answered. “The countdown has commenced. The drone is loaded for bear.”
“Snooping in the past is a waste of time, and your morbid fascination with death is truly odd,” retorted the spider commander, not amused about the bear comment. “Treaty forbids bringing back invasive Old Earth pests. Remember, I get ten percent of the royalties if this broadcast goes viral. Syndication rights last forever.”
“Whatever. It’s a go.”
* * * * *
Jesus stumbled as he bore his burden, a large wooden cross, through the jeering crowds, to a place of public execution just outside the city walls of Jerusalem. Bleeding from the lash, mocked, and wearing a crown of thorns, Jesus lamented about what went wrong. The trial was a farce. Those Romans didn’t even provide a public defender on those trumped-up charges. Why had God forsaken him?
Jesus was comforted momentarily by the familiar sound of angels singing from above. Their reassuring metallic hum, constant like a bee, seemed to calm him. Winged angels had watched over Jesus from early childhood, giving him inspiration.
Jesus shielded his eyes as he looked up into the blazing sun, trying to see which angel watched over him today. Would he be rescued? Always angels had kept their distance, but surely they would help now, during this time of dire need. A Roman centurion ordered the soldiers and prisoners to halt. The crowd, mostly grubby tourists just arrived off a Roman galley from Greece, pressed in for a better view.
“Daughters of Jerusalem, I will miss you!” exclaimed Jesus to his many girlfriends. He looked to Heaven. “God, you can save me at any time. Let’s not cut this too close. I know you can hear me!”
“Shut up, King of the Jews!” sneered the centurion, shoving Jesus prone onto the cross. “Nails! Give me nails!”
“Sir, I thought you had the nails,” replied a soldier. “It’s not my job to keep track of your nails.”
“Someone’s going to be in big trouble over forgetting the nails, and it’s not going to be me!”
“I hope you get demoted,” added the soldier. “Then we’ll talk again about being in trouble.”
“Watch your tongue, or I’ll rip it out and feed it to the vultures, along with these poor wretches,” threatened the centurion. “Get a rope!”
An Arab volunteered a rope and offered to sell the centurion nails as well, almost new. After haggling on the price of nails, the centurion shoved the Arab aside, using the rope to secure Jesus to the cross. As the centurion started a Gordian knot, Jesus punched him and slipped from the restraints. The Arabs, still upset about the Romans not paying full price for the nails, cheered. Some threw rocks.
“Now is the time,” begged Jesus, looking up as he caught a glimpse of an angel regaled in its armor. “God help me. This is some serious shit I fell into this time. Please get my white Jewish ass out of here!”
* * * * *
The drone hovered above city gates on the main road, its camera zooming in for a spectacular live broadcast close-up. TV ratings were off the chart, surpassing even the Super Bowl. The galaxy was experiencing a spiritual revival, the likes not seen since ... Jesus was last nailed to a cross.
“We need a closer shot,” demanded General Daly on the phone. “The viewing public wants to look directly into Jesus’ eyes as he dies for humanity’s salvation. I want to see blood, sweat, gore, and thorns!”
“This is some twisted poop,” commented the spider commander, observing the execution on the computer screen. “Really? Nail him to a cross? I wouldn’t treat the lowliest of vermin so cruelly. You human pestilence are a real piece of work.”
“Mind your own business,” I snapped, maneuvering the joystick for a closer camera view. “You know nothing.”
“I know you and your Legion routinely abuse prisoners in your gulags,” replied the spider commander. “Now I know where that came from.
Your whole sordid history is rife with barbaric acts and the torturing of prisoners.”
“Shut up. I’m trying to concentrate!”
“I can’t watch this anymore. At least put those human pestilence out of their misery. I don’t see how this is allowed during prime time. Hatchlings are just getting up to watch cartoons.”
“Rome is setting an example,” I explained. “Jesus will die for our sins.”
“Of which you have committed many, Czerinski,” sneered the spider commander incredulously. “No wonder your species does not respect accountability. This is a frame-job.”
Major Lopez crossed himself, then lunged for my joystick. Out of control, the drone dived, striking the centurion as he raised his hammer. Propellers chopped through flesh and armor, killing the centurion instantly. The drone crashed in the dirt next to the bloody corpse.
* * * * *
“It’s a miracle!” Jesus exclaimed as he dragged himself to the wreckage, staring into a camera lens that followed his every movement. “You heard my prayers, after all!” As he tentatively reached out to touch the drone, the communications monitor lit up.
“Are you an angel sent by God?” asked Jesus, peering at my face on the screen. “What sort of emissary are you?”
“I am Colonel Czerinski of the Legion. Step away from the drone so it can be retrieved. Do it now.”
“God sent a Polish angel? That’s some sorry shit.”
“Yes. Now, step back.”
“Not so fast. Get me out of here.”
“This is your last warning. Step away from the drone.”
A Roman soldier crept closer, his sword drawn. A mechanical hand extended from the damaged drone, pointing a sawed-off shot gun sideways, gangsta style. The blast hit the Roman square in the chest. He crumpled to the ground in a bloody mist. Time to kick some Roman ass!