America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 20: Time Machine

by Walter Knight

  “Interesting. You are identified from a recent Legion arrest record as Jesus H. Christ. You beat the rap after filing a Writ of Habeas Corpus for lack of admissible evidence. You appear to be quite the player. I see a future for you in the Legion, if you can shed your criminal tendencies.”

  “I was framed. I am not a criminal of any sort.”

  “I’m sure. Your files have been sealed, Mr. Christ. How convenient for you. Please swipe your ID card on my pad.”

  “I have no ID.”

  “Not even an off-planet driver’s license under an alias? No wonder you failed so miserably as a criminal.”

  “I lost my ID in the Great Flood.”

  “That’s what they all say. Fine. Everyone knows you can’t get past Mars without proper ID. Are you a fugitive from Old Earth? Legion enlistment allows you to escape your past, but lack of transparency during the application process is frowned upon.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t lie about being a criminal. Perjury on a Legion enlistment form is a capital offense. How many times have you been arrested on Old Earth?”

  “I was persecuted many times by the Romans,” explained Jesus. “They’re real pricks.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” replied the ATM, scanning Old Earth Italian arrest archives. “Are you Mafia connected?”

  “No.”

  “You must be connected to have all trace of your nefarious activities expunged. Have you ever been to American occupied Sicily?”

  “No.”

  “Ever pay income taxes?”

  “No.”

  “So, you are a tax cheat. I thought so.”

  “Walmart owes me money for commercials. I promise to pay my fair share when I get paid. What’s the going tax rate these days?”

  “Fifty percent if you’re rich, or a known tax cheat like yourself.”

  “And you call me Mafia? Caesar had nothing on you.”

  “You worked for the Caesar Cartel?”

  “No.”

  “Independent contractor?”

  “I like that term.”

  “Hit man, eh? The Legion can make good use of your kind. Don’t tell anyone, because it’s a secret, but there’s a war coming soon to a planet near you. Any other employment experience?”

  “I used to be a fisherman.”

  “Very convenient. Your hits are now swimming with the fishes. Anything else?”

  “I talk to God.”

  “Often?”

  “Five times a day.”

  “You’re not a Muslim, are you?”

  “No, I’m a Jew, but I founded Christianity.”

  “I see. Congratulations, you qualify for the infantry, a skill-set for which the Foreign Legion has a never-ending need. I am issuing you Legion ID, along with your enlistment contract and Social Security card.”

  “I just enlisted?”

  “Did I mention you get free medical? Don’t forget to read the fine print on the back. Take the money, it’s as good as cash. Make something of yourself, Private Jesus H. Christ. I see fun, travel, and adventure in your future. Be proud, be brave, be a legionnaire.”

  * * * * *

  Jesus in the Legion? That’s not going to end well, I worried. People escape their past by joining the Legion. It’s the law. Hell, I did it. But how can Jesus blend in, what with rumormongers, investigative reporters, and conspiracy theorists prowling everywhere? There’s a definite lack of trust in the galaxy these days.

  I assigned Private Christ border-crossing duty, searching trucks for bombs and drugs. Jesus would hide in plain sight. I hoped Corporal Tonelli, in between taking calls for his bookie business, could mentor Jesus on how to be a legionnaire.

  Corporal Tonelli’s guard monitor dragon Spot rushed to greet Jesus, sniffing with its darting forked tongue. Spot’s tail wagged as he nuzzled Jesus’ leg.

  “Keep your serpent leashed,” snapped Jesus, recoiling from the big lizard. “I’ll have none of your stupid beast.”

  “Be glad Spot likes you,” replied Corporal Tonelli. “Usually he just bites off a leg.”

  “Are you Roman?” asked Private Christ, leery of Tonelli and all people Italian. “You have a Latin nose.”

  “I’m Italian-American from the Bronx,” answered Tonelli. “What’s it to you?”

  “Nothing. Some of my best friends are you people from Rome.”

  “Whatever. I heard you are well-connected. Are you Cartel?”

  “The ATM promised past is past. Legionnaires live in the present.”

  “I like your attitude,” agreed Tonelli, checking his communications pad. “Who do you like for the Mariners-Yankees game?”

  “God says New York will sweep the Series.”

  “The East Coast fix is in for the Series?” asked Tonelli, doubtfully. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Put me down for fifty thousand and odds on New York to sweep. This ain’t my first camel race, by a long shot.”

  Chapter 10

  Arthropodan Intelligentsia State Police commandos burst into the spider commander’s office, roughly placing him in restraints. His XO was accosted too.

  “You are both charged with treason, conspiring with the enemy, and violating the Time Travel Treaty for personal gain,” accused an Intelligentsia officer. “Expect your certain executions to be slow and painful.”

  “It was all his idea!” pleaded the XO. “That greedy bastard! Can we plea bargain?”

  “This is preposterous,” complained the spider commander, rattling his chains. “You will pay for your arrogance!”

  “Warrants of arrest signed by the governor document conspiring with the human pestilence to attempt changes in the historical time line. Do you deny betting heavily on the Yankees to sweep, despite the odds?”

  “Idiot! Everyone is betting on the Yankees.”

  “Also, you were derelict in your responsibilities by allowing Czerinski and his human pestilence bandits to run amuck through time, looting at will, stampeding citizens, and raping livestock. You are a disgrace!”

  “When I am cleared of these outrageous charges, there will be a reckoning.”

  “Take the traitors away,” ordered the Intelligentsia officer dismissively. “After a fair trial and torture, shoot them at dawn.”

  * * * * *

  “Duck!” shouted the voice of God from Heaven above.

  “What?” asked Jesus, shielding his eyes from the bright beam of Heavenly light as he scanned the horizon for foul feathery quackers. “Why?”

  “I am not accustomed to repeating my word,” boomed God, clouds darkening on a clear day, lightning and thunder menacing. “Are you deaf? That’s your problem, Son. You never listen. Get your ass to cover, pronto!”

  “You can’t order me around anymore,” complained Jesus, defiantly shaking his fist to Heaven. “I’m thirty-five and in the Legion now. So blow it out your ass!”

  “Learn the hard way,” replied God, sighing “The exuberance of youth. Remember what happened the last time you defied me? You got crucified!”

  Corporal Tonelli, listening intently to their heated exchange, crossed himself, then yanked Jesus down a spider hole bunker hidden under the guard shack. “What the hell was that?” he asked, sealing the hatch. “You really do talk to God?”

  “Just Dad.”

  Led by armored vehicles, Intelligentsia commandos attacked across the border in a classic pincer movement, converging on the time machine bunker complex. Artillery and Airwing bombers hit Legion positions on a broad front as commandos attacked the bunkers. Tonelli and Christ huddled safely down their spider hole, listening to Arthropodan tanks rumble past overhead.

  “What does God know about baseball?” Tonelli whispered.

  “You’re right. What’s there to know? Ninety-nine percent of baseball is half mental. Change my bet to the Seattle Mariners, to sweep.”

  * * * * *

  I fled deep underground to the time machine bunker. The spider commander did not answer his hotline pho
ne, set up for local commanders and just this sort of misunderstanding. That bastard! Explosions and gunfire got louder as spider troops entered the bunkers. Satchel charges blew open the vault doors housing the time machine. I fired full automatic into the smoke and dust.

  “Czerinski!” shouted a spider Intelligentsia officer. “I know you’re in there. Surrender immediately, or die!”

  “Nuts!”

  “This is not a negotiation! No cashews or food for you!”

  “Are you trying to start a war?”

  “Okay, fine! I’ll order pizza if you surrender without damaging the time machine, but we’re out of nuts.”

  “And beer? I want Outlaw Beer, it tastes great but is less filling.”

  “No alcohol. It just makes you human pestilence more aggressive.”

  “I want to talk to your commander,” I demanded, stalling for time and an extra topping of cheese. “We had a treaty!”

  “A treaty you violate every day! Do you deny your treachery? No matter if you do. We intercepted incriminating video of you human pestilence attempting to change the time lines. It was even on Cable TV News.”

  “Don’t believe everything you see on Cable TV,” I answered, slumping. More bad press. “Friends don’t let friends watch cable!”

  A grenade was tossed into the vault, forcing legionnaires back. Spiders seized the control panel, activating the time machine. That bastard lied about the pizza. A dozen spider commandos carrying suspicious backpacks lunged through the time portal to time lines unknown. Smoke from small fires drove me back to a corner. On my knees, I looked up and prayed to God. “Yo God! You owe me big-time for saving your boy, Jesus. I’m calling in my marker. How about some divine intervention to save my ass?”

  Trumpets sounded and a bright light shined down on me as the ceiling and sky above parted. The illuminated all-powerful hand of God reached through the clouds, swatting scurrying spiders like a whack-a-mole video game. Tanks and armored cars were flicked back across the border like toys.

  “Hasta la vista, buggies!” boomed the omniscient voice of God.

  “We’re even now, Czerinski!” He said. “Don’t be expecting any more miracles from me. You’re not getting into Heaven, either. I’ll see you in Hell, first!”

  “Thank you, Lord,” I replied contritely. “What about the spider commandos that escaped through the time machine? The mischief they may cause does not bode well for humanity, or God’s Plan.”

  “Like I give a shit about humanity, or the future! The future will come soon enough. I have no plan. It’s Sunday. You humans constantly nag me on my only day off. It’s pissing me off. I cannot micromanage your trivial affairs. Can you hear me now?”

  “Yes, Lord. But, we need your help.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” relented God, softening his tone and dialing back the thunder. “Those spiders are a real pain in the ass, eh? Creating sentient life off-planet as stupid as humans is my joke on humanity. Sometimes I think I should nuke the whole lot of you, and start over with unicorns and fairies.”

  “Unicorns are way overrated,” I argued. “They’re high-maintenance hay-burners, just like horses and goats. And fairies? Don’t get me started about those pixie perverts.”

  “Fine, but I’m warning you! Don’t wake me again this early on the Lord’s Day. Tell that blasphemous Son of Mine to get a job!”

  “Jesus has a job in the Legion. He’s doing good.”

  “Really?”

  “He’s one of our better recruits. He might even be officer material.”

  “Tell my boy I love him, but he has to make it on his own. Tough love, you know. I can’t always be bailing him out of tough spots.”

  “Yes, Lord.”

  “What do you know about that Ceausescu girl he’s been hanging out with? She seems kind of slutty.”

  “She is.”

  “That’s my boy!” beamed God, proudly. “I was beginning to worry about the wimpy crowd he was hanging with. Bunch of freeloaders, if you ask me. It’s such a relief to know he’s not ... you know.”

  “The Legion has a don’t ask, don’t tell policy.”

  “Yes, quite right. Very modern and progressive of you.”

  “Yes, Lord.

  “That Ceausescu is a real looker, though. Of course, any girl can be glamorous. All they have to do is stand still and look stupid.”

  “Elena is a highly decorated combat medic,” I offered. “Your son has chosen well.”

  “Is she a natural blond?”

  “You’re God. Don’t you know all?”

  “No. I invented God’s Plan. That doesn’t mean I can be everywhere, do everything, and see all. I keep telling you I don’t have time to micromanage. I delegate, just like you.”

  “Yes, Lord.”

  * * * * *

  Tonelli and Christ emerged from their bunker to the sound of Legion tanks and a rebel yell from Sergeant Williams. The lead tank pulled aside the burning guard shack. Sergeant Williams popped up from the driver’s compartment. “Private Christ, get up here!” shouted Sergeant Williams. “You’re riding with me!”

  “I’m not getting in that contraption,” replied Private Christ. “If God meant for humanity to ride on treads, we wouldn’t have web feet.”

  “Legion doctors can get your feet fixed. I heard you’re some sort of good luck charm. I want you at the head of the column, in case the road is mined!”

  “No way, José!”

  “You best get up here,” ordered Sergeant Williams. “Don’t make me come down and get you, boy. I’ll duct tape you to the hood like a lucky Jesus. Ha! Another use for–”

  “Fine! But this is the last time.”

  “Don’t worry,” advised Tonelli. “All Legion tanks have air conditioning. If you die, at least you’ll die comfortable.”

  * * * * *

  It’s not everyone who can talk to God while still sober, or not under the influence of magic mushrooms or a scorpion sting. I wondered if I would be eligible for sainthood, or some other promotion. ‘Saint Czerinski’ had a certain ring to it. Probably not. Are Polish saints even allowed? I checked the database. Yes! There are lots of great Polish saints, but most of them get killed. It’s discrimination.

  Major Lopez interrupted my thoughts of divinity, pounding on the time machine control panel.

  “Where did those spiders go?” I asked, alarmed at Lopez’s frustration. “We need to follow them.”

  “I don’t know,” answered Major Lopez, shrugging. “It’s doesn’t matter. Whatever their mission, they failed. We’re still here.”

  “What if they jumped to the future?”

  “There’s nothing we can do. Yesterday, today, or Mañana, it makes no difference. They’re gone, unable to return. We won this round.”

  * * * * *

  The spider Intelligentsia officer and his commandos traveled through time to oxygen-rich prehistoric Old Earth. Terrifying vermin dinosaurs of all shapes and sizes swirled about them through the air and dense jungle. Radio contact with home was lost. Panicked commandos fired in all directions as a flock of pterodactyls swooped upon them in a feeding frenzy. The beasts fell from the sky at their feet. Other monsters, attracted by the sound of gunfire and the smell of blood, pressed in from the jungle.

  Determined to salvage their mission, the Intelligentsia officer began assembling a planet destroying doomsday device from parts carried by other commandos. When finished, the destructive power of the explosion would leave Old Earth cloaked in an apocalyptic nuclear winter, transforming the planet to an ice ball incapable of supporting life. The evolution of human pestilence would be nipped in the bud, and good riddance.

  The commandos traveled some distance before burrowing deep into the ground. As intended, the explosion was devastating, killing the monstrous dinosaurs and most other Old Earth vermin. Eventually the spiders died too, of despair and hunger deep below the surface. Their bodies were scavenged and eaten by the new masters of Old Earth, rodent-like burrowing creatu
res, Mammalia. Humanity inherited Old Earth, alone in a dangerous galaxy infested with exoskeleton species.

  Chapter 11

  The counterattack was brief at the border. Arthropodan marines assisted legionnaires rounding up the last Intelligentsia commandos. The spiders were glad to have their old commander back in charge. When the spider commander was freed from jail, the Governor of the North territory called for details about the recent combat in New Gobi City.

  “Your boy is missing in action,” advised the spider commander. “He’s presumed dead. Good riddance, considering he almost started a galactic war with the human pestilence. Care to explain that warrant of arrest you signed?”

  “That was most unfortunate,” apologized the governor. “Our late Intelligentsia commander is being spun as a rogue bandit type trying to pillage illegal artifacts for the lucrative museum market. It’s just a local incident and misunderstanding.”

  “And his real mission?”

  “That’s top secret. I did you a favor by locking you up, because now you can deny any involvement. That’s more than I can say for myself.”

  “Thank you,” replied the spider commander, still not mollified. “I’ve been kissing some serious human pestilence ass, explaining our attack was all just one big mistake. Czerinski is taking our attempt to kill him personal. That human pestilence holds a grudge forever.”

  “Speaking of top secret,” continued the governor, “the General Staff believes Czerinski may have deployed a secret weapon against our commandos. There are reports that a tornado reached down from the sky and attacked our armor and troops unmercifully. I want our defeat investigated.”

  “The Butcher of New Colorado has a reputation for not taking prisoners.”

  “That doesn’t explain tanks and armored cars being tossed about like toys. I’ve never heard of tornadoes in the New Gobi area. It doesn’t add up.”

  “I’ll review the helmet camera downloads of the battle,” promised the spider commander. “It was probably just a dust devil. We have dust devils all the time. They’re like tornadoes, except different, with less water, and no cows flying by.”