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

by Walter Knight

  “We will hook-up with the Christians,” continued Sal. “Their family is well organized and disciplined. Word from Rome is that they’ve been kicking ass in the arena. Later, I will talk to your capo, Christopher Columbus, about America.”

  “Let me off in Athens,” I requested. “I’m bailing. There’s a Starbucks in Athens I want to check out. I suggest you join me.”

  “My contract is not completed until I whack Caesar,” advised Tonelli. “I’m staying with my family.”

  “In Palestine? That won’t end well. The desert is an inhospitable place. Everything there pokes, stings, or bites. The Romans will nail you to a cross for sure.”

  * * * * *

  “Welcome back to sunny Greece,” greeted Kathy Kalipetsis at Starbucks Athens. “Had enough fun, travel, and adventure for one lifetime?”

  “Yes,” I answered. “I’m all vacationed out. It’s time to phone home.”

  “Takeuchi left you a message. He won’t approve time travel codes for your return until you kill Julius Caesar. You’re stuck here. Welcome to paradise.”

  “What about me?” asked Guido Tonelli. “I need supplies.”

  “Especially you. No one returns to the future until Caesar gets whacked.”

  “There is no future unless Caesar gets whacked,” agreed Sal.

  “We’re going back to Rome,” I decided. “We have no choice but to kill Caesar.”

  “Kill Caesar!” we chorused, uniting in common purpose.

  * * * * *

  Using new building materials and techniques, construction on the Coliseum in Rome finished way ahead of schedule. Julius Caesar ordered the first Olympiad held outside of Greece be hosted in Rome. The event offered perfect cover for Tonelli to snipe Caesar.

  Caesar beefed up security. There had been other attempts on the Emperor’s life. At a Walmart ribbon-cutting ceremony, a deranged Persian tried to stab Caesar. Praetorian security shot the fool dead, but a lesson was learned. Security would be beefed up. But Caesar would not be expecting a long-range sniper kill. It could be done.

  The games drew hundreds of thousands of spectators. Newly built casinos covered the action on all games. Warm-ups drove the crowd to a frenzy, especially track events such as the hundred-yard dash and leap. Nubian slaves from Egypt sporting new Nike sneakers were the class of the competition. This unofficial Olympic event pitted runners chased by lions. At the end of the dash, the runner jumped over a pit of vipers. The Nubians excelled, especially at jumping over the viper pit. Christians, much slower, wearing Birkenstocks, could not clear this last hurdle. They died horribly. It seemed Christians can’t jump. The crowd loved it, but who knew?

  The main event would be the Greco-Roman wrestling. The prohibitive favorite was the undefeated Persian, Dariush ‘Godzilla’ Bazariabi. His nickname ‘Godzilla,’ roughly translated, meant ‘big fucking monster.’ His popular Roman opponent was Russellius Crowius, also undefeated. A lot of money was riding on the match.

  We arrived in time to blend in with the huge crowds. The plan was to snipe Caesar from the cheap seats atop the Coliseum in the banner section. Sal got a job at Herod’s Casino in the sports book section, as a cover and to provide logistics. He was doing a lot of business.

  “I’m rethinking my vendetta against Julius Caesar,” confessed Sal. “Perhaps I was hasty.”

  “Now is no time to chicken out,” admonished Guido. “Remember, Caesar killed most of our family.”

  “They were all bums anyway,” argued Sal forgivingly. “Caesar is good for business. I’m making more money now than I ever did in the fishing rackets. Did you know the odds are five to one Bazariabi will beat Crowius in the arena for the gold?”

  “So?”

  “If we could convince that Persian brute to take a dive, we would clean up. Think of the money. It’s a sure thing if Godzilla will play ball.”

  “There are no sure things.”

  “Pay off Godzilla, and it would be a sure thing.”

  “What about Caesar?”

  “Caesar-schmeezer, who cares about Caesar? Just don’t kill him until after the match. I’ll talk to Godzilla myself, make him an offer he can’t refuse. Then kill Caesar if you must.”

  * * * * *

  Sal bribed his way into the private quarters of Dariush Bazariabi. He found Bazariabi lounging on a Persian quilt.

  “State you business quickly and go. I have no time for Roman intrigue.”

  “I offer to pay you handsomely if you throw your match with Crowius,” replied Sal, getting right to the point. “There is a fortune riding on the outcome. Your share will be substantial.”

  “I have no need for money. Get out!”

  “How about women, the most beautiful Rome has to offer?”

  “I have no use for women either!”

  “Boys?”

  “Leave, or I will pop you head like the infected pimple that it is!”

  “Baah, baah.”

  “What?”

  “Baah, baah.” A highly groomed silk white sheep jumped onto the bed with Bazariabi, affectionately nuzzling his hand for a scratch. Bazariabi scratched the sheep behind her ears.

  “Now, now, Rhea, don’t be jealous of this Roman whore. I still have time for you.”

  “I can set you up in the finest villa in all of Sicily, with plush hills full of sheep with golden fleeces,” promised Sal, upping his offer.

  Bazariabi wavered but refused Sal’s final offer. “I am not a cheater! Get out, or I’ll throw you out the window!”

  “There will be repercussions if you reject our fair offer,” threatened Sal. “I represent powerful backers. You will throw the match, or else!”

  Bazariabi, quick on his feet, snatched Sal up with one arm and tossed him out the window as promised. “Arrogant Romans! You think you’re all that, but you’re nothing! Tomorrow, I’ll crush your boy Crowius in the arena for all to see! So much for the power of Rome!”

  * * * * *

  That evening, after beating some punk wannabe from Gaul, Bazariabi crawled into bed under Persian quilts. He was comforted by the familiar warmth of Rhea, who was already in bed. What was this? The bed was wet! Bazariabi lit a lantern. Rhea was still asleep, oblivious to the mess. Bazariabi threw back the covers, exposing the bloody sheets and the decapitated head of his beloved Rhea.

  “No!!!”

  * * * * *

  Dariush Bazariabi and Russellius Crowius met in the arena the next day. Bawdy Persians in the crowd shouted, “Godzilla, Godzilla!” Both wrestlers were slicked with oil. They grappled, each locking a hold of the other’s neck, pushing and testing their opponent’s strength. Bazariabi lifted the Roman in a high arch while falling backward. However, Crowius slipped the throw and pinned Bazariabi to the dirt. In a moment it was over. Godzilla lost. The crowd roared its approval. Bazariabi had taken the money, purposely losing the match, making Sal and himself rich. Crowius smirked as he walked away, playing to the crowd.

  “I thought so, Persian dog. Too bad about your mutton girlfriend losing her head.”

  Enraged, Bazariabi drew a razor from his boot and sliced Crowius across his shoulder and down the back. Crowius fell in his own blood, convulsing in shock on the ground. Roman soldiers rushed into the arena, savagely spearing Bazariabi. Persians tried to protect Godzilla, but were cut down too. The crowd went nuts, lynching Persians on the spot. Any survivors were hunted and thrown to the lions, or crucified.

  Tonelli took his shot. Julius Caesar’s confidant, Publius Servilius Casca Longus, stood just as the shot was fired. He was struck in the chest, showering Caesar in a bloody mist of gore and body parts. Shaken, Caesar declared war on the Parthian Empire. Rome would be avenged. Those Persian bastards would be dealt with once and for all!

  Chapter 31

  Julius Caesar personally led his legions against the Parthian Empire, past Antioch and across Mesopotamia, along the Euphrates River north to Armenia and the Caucasus. Forty thousand strong, the Romans relied on superior tactics, armor, and o
rganization. Caesar’s legions made good time, taking advantage of newly issued Nike running shoes. I tagged along. After Germania, Caesar considered me to be a good luck charm. He gave me a temporary job as his chief food taster.

  Logistics crossing the deserts had always been a problem for both armies. The Persians relied on sheer numbers. They fell back, sucking the Romans ever further from home, waiting with a half million troops drafted from the far corners of Asia.

  Finally King Pacorus made his stand on the plains of Transcaucasus. Their main phalanx and supporting archers met the Romans head-on, while cavalry attacked the flanks. Shock troops charged on war elephants. The Romans did an odd thing. They stood their ground behind wooden barriers, setting defensive spikes. At each end of camp, legionnaires erected siege towers. What in the hell are they up to? wondered Pacorus as his army advanced. There are no cities to lay siege to out here!

  As the phalanx engaged the Roman line, signal flags went up and horns sounded. Tarps were thrown off fifty-cal machine guns mounted atop the towers. The elephants died first. Gunners methodically raked the Persian ranks, sowing death and mayhem. Slingers tossed gunpowder and clay fragmentation grenades. A crude cannon blasted the Persians with grape shot, but they kept coming. At first, dust obscured the carnage. When the phalanx finally collapsed upon itself, anyone who did not flee was trampled by front ranks. A sniper killed King Pacorus, who had been watching from a small rise, adding to the confusion. Days later, the Persian capital city of Persepolis surrendered without resistance and was sacked.

  * * * * *

  “There’s not much difference between nuking a city and sacking it,” I commented, pouring wine as I enjoyed a victory dinner with Julius Caesar in his big luxury tent. “Was that really necessary?”

  “Persia is a lot to digest, even for Rome,” explained Caesar. “An example had to be set. In the long run, sacking Persepolis saves lives. You need to see the big picture when managing an empire.”

  “Now what? On to India, in the footsteps of Alexander the Great?”

  “I follow no man’s footsteps, even Alexander’s,” bristled Caesar. “History will compare Alexander to me, not me to Alexander.”

  “And India?”

  “The Kushan Empire has nothing I want. It’s filled with malaria and dot-heads, as if I don’t have enough problems dealing with Christians. As long as they behave themselves, I’ll only extend Rome’s borders to deal with threats and barbarians.”

  “You might think of being more tolerant with Christians,” I advised. “They could be the next big thing.”

  “I’m the next big thing,” boasted Caesar. He paused and added, “But I have received that same advice before. Perhaps I’ll give the matter more thought.”

  “I’ve heard grumblings from your troops,” I pressed delicately. “They want to return home.”

  “Professional soldiers will do their duty. I made them all rich with loot. They just want to spend their gold. Once the loot is gone, they will thirst for more campaigns.”

  “It’s more than that.”

  “Yes,” said Caesar, gazing up at the stars. “I fear you are right. A simple soldier is reassured by Jupiter and Mars, always visible in the sky, always in same place. But, they don’t know what to think of the many lights now moving across the heavens. How can I tell them it’s only communications satellites bringing us wireless internet service and Google?”

  “I see your point.”

  “They balk at going further until Mars and Jupiter are right with the world. To go further would risk civil war.”

  “So, we’re going home?”

  “I will construct a victory arch on this very spot, rebuild Persepolis as my eastern capital, and return to Rome, triumphant. It’s what I do.”

  “And the Senate? You still have enemies plotting your downfall.”

  “Jealous fools,” sneered Caesar. “I’ll feed them to the lions!”

  I raised my eyebrows but said nothing, wondering if I’d ever get home – really home. Orders were that Caesar must die, but I wasn’t going to do anything now. Officially, I was still on vacation. Why spoil the fun with an assassination? Caesar would just have to die another day.

  ###

  ~BONUS SHORT STORY~

  Robots

  by Charles O’Keefe

  As usual, Steve was late for work at Biebertech, International. He supposed his lack of promptness was caused by refusing to let robots do everything, but he hated robots with a passion. Relying so much on robots grated on Steve.

  Most cars on the airway flew themselves, but not Steve’s. His 2099 Chevy Luffe looked more like a plane than a car. Since it didn’t fly itself, Steve had to pay attention in traffic. The law required all robocars now to take flight, but Steve would have just as happily driven to work on streets. He supposed it was for the best. People used that idle time on the way to work to nap, catch up on schoolwork or business calls, even getting inflight manicures.

  Steve refused to upgrade his robocar. He could afford a payment plan but figured the Disney Corporation was rich enough; he’s contribute no more to that Merry Mad Rodent. At first, flying robocars seemed like a good idea. There would be no more horrendous airway traffic accidents. People can barely handle two dimensions, let alone going 3D. All that unused pavement left below could be given back to Mother Nature, making Earth greener. It was always a sunny day in Bespin City, orbiting high above the clouds. The God’s eye view was awesome. What was there not to love? Progress marches on.

  Steve scratched his head and beard. Something of a Luddite, he hadn’t opted for the permanent hair removal that was so much the rage now with young people. Embedded holo-hair emitters were not for him. Sure, it was hot to change hair color on a whim, but he enjoyed familiarity of haircuts and shaving. Personal grooming was a connection to the past not to be abandoned.

  As Steve arrived for work, a robot waited patiently to park the car in underground storage. For reasons of insurance liability, employees were not trusted to such complicated tasks.

  “Good morning, Steve,” greeted the car-parking robot. “Good job. You were almost on time. Was traffic heavy this morning?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Have a Bieberlicious day, Steve.”

  “Kiss my ass, robot.”

  Steve was especially creeped out by this particular robot. Its female voice was pleasant enough, friendly, even almost sensual, but the pale skin covering its face clashed with its gleaming silver metallic torso – shades of the Borg. Steve was determined to resist, even if it was futile.

  Steve hated his job. Through sheer force of will, he seated himself at his office of clear force-field walls, arranged by the hundreds like rats in some clear maze experimental lab. He faced another day of calling people to ask if they would like to sign up for a deluxe Bieber, or for just an abbreviated Biebercast. Either way, the customer was just helping amass more fortune for Justine Bieber Emeritus XII.

  Logging into his computer, Steve submitted to a retinal scan. He was prompted to repeat out loud the corporate mantra, “I am a true Blieber.”

  Begrudgingly he complied.

  “And?” asked the computer.

  “And ... if Anne Frank were alive, she would also be a true Blieber,” added Steve, his shoulders slumping in defeat to the machines.

  He had no idea who Anne was. All trace of her existence had been purged from Disney records. Somehow that seemed even more degrading. Steve took solace in the fact that the computer could not detect sarcasm in his voice, lest he be reported for lack of corporate zeal.

  The mourning progressed as usual. Steve lamented about what went wrong with his wasted life. At forty-five, he’d never been promoted, had only accrued basic benefits, and did not even have a steady girlfriend. At least he no longer lived in his parents’ basement. But the average human lifespan had been extended well past one-hundred, so there was still time. But, damn it, there had to be a better way! Steve took his first allowed fifteen-minute break, ea
ting his usual carrot cookie and Soylent Green shake, yum-yum. He daydreamed about getting off work. Tonight would be different. Tonight he had a date!

  Steve had met Angela at the gym. She asked him out, such an unexpected surprise. Angela liked his retro ‘Battlestar Galactica’ tee-shirt, appreciating his taste in a show that had aired over a century ago. Steve smiled to himself as he got back to work. He could hardly wait for his shift to end. Maybe things were looking up. It couldn’t get much worse.

  At lunch time Steve dug into his meal of sushi. Meat had long disappeared from the world’s menu, a result of the McDonald’s/Wendy’s planetary wars. Seafood was the only choice that survived. Steve had to admit he love cloned salmon. Finished, he gazed leisurely at his co-workers about the lunchroom. Most had phones glued to their ears. To be more precise, the phones were implanted into their heads with holographic displays. You’d think employees would have had enough of being wired into the grid from work, but no, that virtual madness extended into their off-duty time, too. Steve would have none of it. Soon, he would be enjoying an evening with Angela, a good old-fashion retro girl.

  * * * * *

  At the Toy Story Eatery, the robo-valet took Steve’s car keys, holding out its scanner for a tip. Steve sighed as he swiped his card. Angela arrived minutes later. Angela had long natural blond hair and blue eyes. She wore a refreshingly modest Futurama T-shirt and silver diamond pants, spurning the Star Trek jumpsuits so popular nowadays.

  Angela smiled and waved. “Hi, Steve. Let’s go in, I’m starved.”

  “You look great,” commented Steve, placing his hand casually at the small of her back as they entered. “I love this place.” The holodoors faded as they passed. “You can get a real drink, not that synthehol crap.”