“Where in the multiverse have we landed this time? Bombo said.
Alistair’s eyebrows furrowed as he scanned the room. “This seems familiar,” he said, “but I can’t quite place it.”
Before they could consider the matter further, another door swished open on the opposite side of the airlock. A man in a pair of dark blue coveralls stepped through the door. He had a round face and a large, pointed nose. A lit cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. The name HENRY was embroidered over his heart—though whether this was his first name or his last, neither Bombo nor Alistair could say—and he had rank insignia on his collar.
“Ensign Foley,” he said. “Did you recover the borogoves?”
Bombo and Alistair looked at one another in confusion. “Borogoves?”
“Sonofabitch!” said Henry. “We sent you down to that planet to collect some borogoves. You know that’s the only thing that can save the captain.”
“Borogoves?” Alistair asked again.
“Borogoves!” Henry repeated angrily.
“Oh!” Bombo said, as if struck by a sudden understanding. “Borogoves!” He looked at Alistair and nodded. He didn’t have the slightest clue what anyone was talking about, but he liked to keep the conversation moving.
Then Alistair gasped. He knew this story. He had no time to process this knowledge, however, because Henry shoved past Bombo and grabbed Alistair by the shoulders. “You knew that the captain’s life was in your hands, Ensign Foley! Why the hell did you come back without the borogoves?”
“Um, sorry,” Alistair said.
Bombo snickered. “Ensign Foley,” he repeated.
Henry took his hands off of Alistair and stepped back a half-step. He took a drag on his cigarette and then dropped it to the deck at their feet. He stamped it out with the toe of his boot. “It doesn’t matter now,” he said. “The Martians are on their way to the station with an armada. We’re all going to be dead in a few minutes.” He paused for a breath, then added: “Thanks to you two.”
Shaking his head in frustration, Henry turned and headed back through the swishy door through which he’d entered. He disappeared into a sterile corridor, leaving Bombo and Alistair alone inside the airlock.
Bombo turned to Alistair and was amazed to see that his nemesis was now wearing blue coveralls that matched Henry’s. The name FOLEY was embroidered over his heart. Bombo looked down at himself and saw that he was also wearing a matching uniform.
“What is this place?” he asked. “Oh, and I love uniforms!”
“The space station Alamo 02,” Alistair said. “You love uniforms?”
“Not really,” Bombo said. “I was being ironical.”
“Actually you were being sarcastic,” Alistair said. “And if I’m not mistaken, this is The Last Outpost, the final novel in the Beyond the Stars series.”
“Beyond the Stars?” Bombo said. He nodded his head and then stopped and shook it vigorously. “I tried to read the first one. I couldn’t get past the second chapter.”
“You have really terrible taste in books,” Alistair said. “No surprise given how poorly you write.”
“You’re a real pleasure to be around, Foley,” said Bombo. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Beyond the Stars is one of the most important works of science fiction ever written, and Russell Benjamin’s magnum opus. Do you know how many young African-Americans were inspired by the story? Martin Luther King mentioned Benjamin by name in his inaugural address.”
“I know, I know,” Bombo said, “But just because President King liked a book doesn’t mean that I have to. And just because I didn’t like it, doesn’t mean that I don’t know and appreciate the history of it. Benjamin wrote about a black man commanding a space station in a time when black men weren’t allowed to drink from white water fountains. But the story itself is so dated. You saw that character with the cigarette…”
“You’ve been complaining about wanting a cigar for hours,” Alistair said.
“That’s different,” said Bombo. “Cigarettes are bad for you.”
Alistair just stared at the big man for a few seconds. At last, he decided not to grapple with Dawson on this point. Some fights you have to leave for a more opportune time.
“Anyway, we have a major problem here,” Alistair said.
“Why’s that?”
“That character who just spoke to us was Doctor James Henry,” Alistair said. “In the novel, he sent an away team on a mission to recover some plants that he used to save the life of the station’s commander.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“We didn’t recover the borogoves,” Alistair said. “Without them, Captain Haley is going to die, and the Martians are going to destroy this station.”
As if to emphasize this point, an alarm klaxon began to sound all over the station. A voice crackled from a speaker overhead: “All hands to battle stations. Lieutenant Dawson, report to Ops. Ensign Foley, report to the Infirmary.”
“How is the story supposed to end?” Bombo asked.
“Doctor Henry revives the captain just in time,” Alistair said. “And he uses his cunning to defeat the Martian armada.”
“And what do you think will happen if the ending changes?”
“The story will collapse, we’ll die, and the history of the past sixty years will be altered in our own world,” Alistair said.
Bombo sighed. “Of all the novels in the world, this is literally the last one in which I’d want to find myself.”
“What about A Game Of Thrones?”
Bombo thought for a moment. “Well, you got me there. I think that would be even worse.”
“You’re serious? Everyone likes A Game Of Thrones.”
“No,” Bombo said, “not everyone. I don’t like it. And believe me, I tried. They march around for two hundred and fifty pages, then someone gets murdered and someone gets raped or something. Then they march around for another two hundred and fifty pages talking about some place they never seem to be actually going. Then someone gets murdered or raped or both, and then the book ends and they never even got close to going to the mythical place they were all talking about.”
Alistair shook his head in disbelief. “What about The Crystal Shard?”
“Could I meet some elves? That would be just peachy.”
“You are the reason that everyone hates Americans,” Alistair said. “You, you, you!”
“What can I say? Fantasy sucks, and so does space opera.”
“Well, we’re here,” Alistair said, “so get over it.”
“Do you think it was a good idea for Benjamin to name this space station after the Alamo?” Bombo asked.
Now it was Alistair’s turn to sigh. “It was foreshadowing.”
Bombo nodded. “I hate it when I’m in a story and there’s foreshadowing of doom.”
* * *
Bombo arrived in the Alamo-02 Operations Center after a hearty jog through the corridors of the space station. He was winded from the exercise, and desperately craving a cigar and a donut, and maybe a cup of black coffee. If he was going to die, he wanted to do it in comfort. They probably didn’t have donuts at the original Alamo either, he thought.
“Lieutenant Dawson,” said a man with slicked-back hair and a set of overlarge sideburns, “so glad you could join us.”
“Yes, sir,” Bombo said. He stared awkwardly at the man and then saluted him, because it seemed liked the right thing to do. The name embroidered on the man’s coveralls was STUYVESANT. An insignia on his collar indicated that he held the rank of commander.
“Take your post,” Commander Stuyvesant ordered. “The Martians will be here any minute.”
Bombo took a look around Ops. There were rolling office chairs parked in front of archaic computer terminals. What appeared to be an old-fashioned television loomed over the room;it must have been three feet wide and was nearly as thick. There was a dedication plaque mounted on one wall, and beneath it, a sword wrapped i
n an American flag and clutched in the claws of a screaming eagle. Apparently the Good ol’ US of A was alive and well in this futuristic world.
“Excuse me, sir,” Bombo said. “Could you please tell me which post is mine?”
Commander Stuyvesant glared at him. “Were you injured on your away mission?” he said.
“No, sir.”
“And the reason you didn’t return with the medicine that could have saved the captain…?”
Bombo shuffled in place. “We… um… we forgot.”
“You forgot,” Stuyvesant said. Scorn dripped from his words. “Now the captain is going to die because of your stupidity.”
“We could go back…” Bombo said. He indicated with his thumb back over his shoulder.
“And not just the captain—everyone else on this ship too,” Stuyvesant added.
“…back through the swishy door to get the borogoves,” Bombo said.
“There’s no time for that,” said Stuyvesant. As if to emphasize the point, another officer interrupted their conversation.
“Commander,” he said, “we are receiving an incoming transmission from the Martians.”
“Put it on the monitor,” said the commander.
The television set flickered to life, and Bombo saw, to his surprise, a living shadow staring back at him. It made a terrible, high-pitched sound that rang throughout Ops. Everyone covered their ears. Behind the creature, other living shadows boiled and shifted in the background.
“Oh my,” Bombo said. “The Martians are Mome Wraiths.”
* * *
When the doors slid open onto the infirmary, Alistair saw the captain of the Alamo-02 lying on his deathbed. Doctor Henry was standing over his commanding officer, the first negro to ever command a space station. The word negro, of course, belonged to Russell Benjamin, the author of this story. It was common usage at the time, but Alistair was nevertheless surprised when it appeared as part of his mental vocabulary.
Doctor Henry looked up as Alistair entered the room. “You,” he snapped. “Get over here.”
Ensign Foley scurried across the room. The captain’s eyes were closed tight, his breathing labored. His close-cropped hair glistened with sweat.
“You let him down,” said the doctor. “You let us all down, and I want you to watch as your commander breathes his last.”
“Is that truly necessary?” Alistair said. “I feel really bad about—”
“Ensign,” came the strained voice of the captain. “Come close. I want… I need… to tell you…”
Alistair leaned over the captain. He looked just like Russell Benjamin. “Sir,” he whispered. “I’m truly sorry…”
“Listen,” the captain said. “Don’t lose sight of your mission.”
“To defend the station?” said Alistair.
“No,” said the captain. His breathing was strained, and he seemed to be speaking purely by force of will. “This station is called the Alamo-02, son. You should have picked up on that.”
Alistair wanted to say “I did,” but he didn’t have the heart.
“Yes, sir,” was all he said.
“No. You must find the sword,” the captain whispered.
“Sir?”
“This world is dying,” said the captain. “You can’t save it now. You must get the sword.” He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then exhaled slowly. He did not take another.
Doctor Henry bowed his head. “He’s dead.”
“Jim?” said a nurse in a tight-fitting uniform. Her hair was stacked and curled and swooshed in a manner that was unmistakably fifties. She gave Alistair a disgusted look and then turned her back on him.
As Doctor Henry and his nurse discussed something privately, Alistair made his way over to a computer terminal. The machine was archaic; it hummed and clicked and was covered all over with inexplicable switches and dials. There was a chrome-plated microphone bolted to it, and since he saw no keyboard or monitor, Alistair assumed that this was how he was supposed to interface with the machine.
“Computer,” he said. “Search the term borogove.”
The computer whistled and rattled and chugged, and a moment later a slip of paper rolled out of a slit in the machine. Dot matrix words were printed on the paper. They read:
1 reference for the term “borogove” was found. Term is a nonsense word from Lewis Carroll’s poem “Jabberwocky” which appeared in Through The Looking Glass and What Alice Found There.
Reference:
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“Lewis freakin’ Carroll,” Alistair said. “That son of a—”
“What are you doing?” It was the stern voice of Doctor Henry.
“Oh, um, I’m sorry. I was researching—”
“The captain is dead, the station is about to be invaded by Martians, and you’re wasting time on the computer? Whose side are you on, son?”
Foley averted his eyes. Was there some way of saving this story? “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Ensign,” said the doctor, “I think you’ve done quite enough already.”
Just then, the space station’s loudspeakers crackled to life, and Bombo’s voice boomed. “Ensign Foley, please report to Ops on the double.”
* * *
When Alistair stepped into the Operations Center, the first thing he noticed was the terrible look on Bombo’s face. Not that Bombo was ever much to look at, what with that ridiculous beard and all, but now he looked downright ill.
“Bombo?” Alistair said. “What’s wrong?”
Bombo moved closer to Alistair so that he wouldn’t be overheard. “The Martians,” he said. “I saw them on the monitor.”
“And?”
“They’re Mome Wraiths, just like the ones we saw in Wonderland.”
“Mome Wraiths?” Alistair said. “That’s odd.”
Bombo fidgeted with his beard. “You bet your bippy it’s odd.”
“Do you have any idea where we might look for the sword?” Alistair asked.
“None whatsoever,” Bombo said. “And in about five minutes, this station is going to be overrun with evil shadow monster thingies.”
“I accessed their computer,” Alistair said. “Borogoves are some kind of plant from Lewis Carroll’s Jabberwocky poem. At least, I think it’s a plant. It’s hard to tell with him.”
“I know that poem,” Bombo said. He thought for a minute. “Doesn’t it say something about Mome Wraiths?”
Alistair took another look at the printout. “It says mome raths,” he said. “Maybe Lewis Carroll somehow predicted the coming of the shadows, but he got the name wrong. Like Nostradamus when he talked about an evil tyrant named Hister.”
“Maybe it’s just a nonsense word,” said Bombo. “Sometimes a hat is just a hat.”
“And sometimes it’s a symbol of the underlying theme of the story. Did you ever think of that?”
Before Bombo could answer, a barrage of enemy fire shook the space station.
“Return fire!” shouted Commander Stuyvesant.
A weapons officer flipped some switches and turned some dials on the massive mainframe that dominated one corner of the room. “Direct hit,” he said. “We’ve destroyed their lead ship.”
“How many does that leave?” Stuyvesant asked.
“Two hundred ninety-nine,” said the weapons officer.
“We’re doomed,” said the commander. “If only Captain Haley were here.”
“No,” Alistair said loudly. “We have to fight. I know a way to defeat the Martians.”
The station shook as Martian fire bombarded their shields. “Shields down to fifty-two percent,” said the weapons officer.
“Fire at will!” shouted Stuyvesant.
“What are you doing?” Bombo said.
“I’ve read this book a dozen times,” Ali
stair said. “I know how Captain Haley bested the Martians.”
Commander Stuyvesant took a cautious step toward Alistair. “Ensign,” he said, “were you part of the mission to retrieve a plant that could have saved the captain?”
“Yes, sir,” Alistair said.
Stuyvesant scowled. “That mission was a failure!” He pointed a bony finger at Alistair. “So what makes you think I’m going to trust you with the fate of every member of this crew?”
“Because you have no choice, sir,” Alistair said. “I know a way that we can defeat the Martians, and unless I’m mistaken, you’re out of ideas.”
Another barrage of enemy fire rocked the station. “Shields are down to nineteen percent,” said the weapons officer.
Though he was nearly thrown off his feet, Stuyvesant steadied himself and glared at Alistair. “I do not like you, Ensign Foley.”
“Welcome to the team, sir,” Bombo said.
Stuyvesant looked from Alistair to Bombo. “You worked with this man, Lieutenant. Should I trust him?”
For Bombo, giving an endorsement of Alistair Foley was about the hardest thing he ever had to do—except maybe for trying to stay on Carol’s diet—but this was a matter of life and death. He swallowed his own dislike of Ensign Foley and nodded his head. “He’s an excellent officer, sir. I think you should trust him.”
Stuyvesant nodded his head thoughtfully as the station shook once again. “Fine,” he said. “What’s your plan, Ensign?”
“If you adjust the station’s shield harmonics,” Alistair said, “to match the harmonics of the Martian’s shields, and then calibrate our deflector dish to generate a reverse resonance burst—”
Before he could finish explaining his elaborate plan, Alistair was cut off by the weapons officer. “Shields have collapsed,” he said. “And the deflector dish has been destroyed.”
“Well, so much for that,” Bombo said. “It was a good plan for the five seconds it was under consideration.”
LEGENDARIUM Page 5
