by D. J. Gelner
There were (mostly boring) speeches which I attempted to wash out of my brain with the fairly weak wine. But after several hours there were no more speeches to give, no more games to play. Even in eighteenth century Germany, when the help started to clean up, it was the universal signal for “party’s over.”
I embraced Mother (or, rather her, me) once more.
“So good to see you, Fin,” she said. I couldn’t tell if her tone was practised or earnest.
“Indeed, Mother.” I still wasn’t on-board one hundred percent with the woman. It was a lot to ask of me to be so after one night where she showcased her primary character trait to be self-absorption.
“Don’t be a stranger when you get back, okay?” At least in this sentiment, she was sincere.
“I’ll look you both up.” I didn’t know if it was a lie or not.
“Well, we’ll be two years older, anyway. Though it may seem like tomorrow to you. You did say earlier that you’re scheduled for return tomorrow, correct?”
To be perfectly honest, I didn’t remember. It seemed like the kind of “cover-my-ass” response that I may give, so I nodded.
“Oh, I do wish we had more time to catch up.” She kissed me on the cheek before she gave Corcoran a lingering kiss on the lips. Bloomington received a light hug.
I certainly don’t, I thought.
I moved over toward Manyx and affected a smile.
“Nice to finally meet you, Manyx.” I offered a hand, which was met with a loud snort and a too-long pause before he offered a brusque handshake in return.
“Oy,” he huffed. I took it as a “yes.”
Once pleasantries had been exchanged, we retraced our steps through the beautiful Leipzig streets and toward the gate through which we had entered. It was a chilly, crisp spring evening, though our many layers of shirts, cummerbunds, and overcoats provided ample warmth, and of course an opportunity for increasingly large sweat stains to appear under Bloomington’s arms. I shook my head as we exited the city and walked in the general direction of the craft.
“Well, that was somethin’, Doc. I think your Mom may be a little sweet on me,” Corcoran said with a smug smile.
“Couldn’t be any worse having you as a stepfather than that Manyx fellow,” I said, just over my breath enough so that the Commander could hear.
The sun had set, and darkness rapidly fell over the German countryside. We picked up our pace and spread out a bit so that we had a better shot of finding the cloaked vessel.
“Motherfuck!” Bloomington yelled as a metallic “PING” filled the dusky sky.
“You too, now?” I deadpanned.
“That fucking hurt,” Bloomington rubbed his forehead.
I cautiously made my way over to his position and searched for the hand panel. I found it, and we piled into the craft, exhausted from the day’s festivities, and eager for another night’s sleep.
I must say, I was getting rather used to sleeping in the command chair in “full recline” position. Though I never can sleep on airplanes or the like, I had insisted on the chair being able to convert into a “lie-flat” option, despite the protestations of my Benefactor.
“What the hell do you need that for, Phineas?” He said on more than one occasion, usually as his secretary, Helene, busied herself fetching us tumblers of scotch and bringing paperwork over for my Benefactor to sign.
“Why the hell not?” I asked in reply, as I raised the glass of Macallan Eighteen toward him.
“It just seems so…excessive,” he would say as he turned his attention toward Helene, who must’ve been quite the looker back in the day, but whose salt-and-pepper hair and emerald green eyes made her attractive in a Angelina Jolie (or Helen Mirren, for your era) sort of way.
“Compared to the rest of the multi-billion dollar time machine that you’re so graciously financing?”
“I just don’t see—” almost on cue, Helene spilled the scotch all over my Benefactor’s lap.
“Oh, clumsy me,” she cried.
“Nothing of it,” my Benefactor waved away the slight, as he so often did. I at least usually threw her a dirty look, lest she obtain the idea that such an indiscretion was acceptable the next time she served me a drink. “Very well then, Fin. Fully-reclining chair it is.”
In hindsight, perhaps my Benefactor was being a horse’s arse. The old bird must’ve known full well that I would end up sleeping on that chair, and wanted to make me as uncomfortable as possible.
Fucking tosser, I thought.
As I settled into the seat, I thought of the cool, pastoral scene in the surrounding countryside.
“Computer, three hundred sixty degree view, please. And increase external microphones.” The walls disappeared and the cacophony of insect and animal noises filled the ship. I sighed as I luxuriated in the command chair, and looked around in the darkness, barely able to make out silhouettes of trees in the moonlight.
“Come on, Doc, turn that shit down!” Corcoran yelled from the bunk.
“Computer, increase volume by 50%.” I decided to have a little fun with the Commander as I plugged my ears with my fingers and the din grew relentlessly loud, as if we had shrunk down to insect size and the various grasshoppers and other little beasties were speaking directly to us.
I swiveled the chair around to face the bunk. As Corcoran appeared in the doorway, he held his sidearm toward the ceiling.
I shot up in the chair, “Computer, cancel external microphones!” I barked above the noise. Immediately, the cabin went quiet.
“Glad we’re on the same page,” Corcoran threw me an annoyed smile as he re-holstered his weapon.
Though it took several minutes for my heart rate to return to normal, I engaged the proximity alarm and added a force-field this time, “just in case.” I drifted off to sleep, and dreamt of Bach pounding away on his harpischord. He offered me his spot in his seat, and though I had never played the harpischord or even the piano, I felt as if I somehow knew exactly what I was doing. I cracked my knuckles and pounded on the keys…but no sound came out of the damned thing. I tried, over, and over again, only to find the same result. Bach’s laughter filled the room and I reached for my sidearm. I leveled the weapon at the musical genius and fired two shots, which passed through him harmlessly and only increased his laughter. I turned the barrel of the weapon toward myself and looked down it with one eye, hoping to ferret out the problem. I heard a loud “BANG” and woke up with a jolt.
I looked around the cabin, though only the usual ambient lighting from the kitchen was visible. I heard another noise, this one a loud “CLANG,” also from the kitchen.
Though in hindsight it seems ridiculous to do so, I pulled my sidearm and crept toward the source of the sound. I got closer and closer until I was at the edge of the cockpit. I loaded my body like a spring, ready to uncoil and confront whatever creature was responsible for the din.
I leapt toward the kitchen…and immediately smacked right into the force field I had erected the night before. The perimeter alarm claxons sounded, and the cabin plunged into red light.
“Computer, cancel proximity alarm and force field,” I yelled over the screaming sirens.
The cabin went quiet once more, albeit momentarily.
“What the fuck?” Bloomington cried from the kitchen as another pot spilled onto the floor. “I’m just tryin’ to make some eggs!”
“I…uh…sorry old boy,” I said as cheerily as I could manage. “Bad dream spooked me, and I set up the perimeter alarm after the good Commander brandished his weapon at me last evening.”
“With good reason,” Corcoran emerged from the bathroom, dressed in his eighties civilian clothing, though he still was towel-drying his hair. “Those bugs were loud as shit.”
“They were a peaceful backdrop to an idyllic spring evening,” I said.
Corcoran nodded at Bloomington, “Not when you have an irrational fear of bugs like Bloomy over here. Isn’t that right, Steve?”
Bloomington dr
ew his mouth taut for a moment before he offered a curse series of nods.
“Well then, I do apologise Bloo—Steve,” I reconsidered with a warm smile.
“No problem,” He offered his own wan smile, “Just don’t fucking do it again, dick.”
“Noted,” I said with a nod.
We cooked up some eggs (which actually were quite delicious; if there was one thing Steve Bloomington knew, it was food) before we started our usual morning rituals. Part of my routine included consulting the list of places memorialised on the tablet to see if I could utilise my smart specs in the next time period, or if I would be stuck with my perpetually irritating contacts. I pulled up the copy of my Benefactor’s instructions and read the next entry aloud:
“17-6-691: Jerusalem: Corner and Deal With T V”
I frowned; there were certainly no eyeglasses in seventh century Jerusalem. Though I found it odd that this would be our (I apologise…”my”) third visit to the Middle East, I relished any opportunity to travel there given the state of the entire area in my time period. I (obviously) had never been to Jerusalem as an adult, nor had my father taken me there as a child. The closest we ever came was sketching the broad outlines of our mythical “holiday to Egypt” to see the pyramids, a trip which, as I’ve mentioned, never quite came to fruition.
Of course, in 2032 such a vacation would be impossible, but I could still see this Jerusalem, ancient Jerusalem, and hope to extrapolate it out to the various poorly-rendered holoconversions of some of the two-dimensional stills that memorialised the town before the worst occurred.
“Awesome,” Bloomington somehow had sidled over my shoulder as he read my tablet.
I instinctively clutched the device to my chest, “I very much doubt that the ’T V’ is the same ’TV’ with which you’re so familiar and fond.”
Bloomington shook his head, “No, I mean, sorry. It’s just—that tablet is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Sure. Though everything got a little fuzzy there for a while in Chichen Itza, I remember seeing it and being insanely jealous. I didn’t realize just how cool it was, though.”
“It’s pretty standard, really,” I feigned boredom despite the fact that I was pretty “geeked” on it, as well. “You know, glass holodisplay, tactile input up to a meter, sixteen terabytes of RAM, 256-core pre-quantum processor, waterproof, shock proof, pretty much everythi—”
“What kind of games does it play?” Bloomington asked.
I sighed as I pulled up the simplest game I could think of (solitaire), in the hopes that it would bore Bloomington enough so that he would leave me to plot the time jump. The solitaire “tabletop” popped out of the screen as the tablet dealt out the cards.
“Whoa—too fucking cool!” Bloomington exclaimed. He grasped one of the holographic cards in his hand and moved it up to the ace row. “You can—really? Really? That is un-fucking-believably awesome. You can move the cards like they’re real cards!”
“Mind-blowing, I know,” I deadpanned. “Almost as ‘cool’ as the real thing.”
“Totally,” the sarcasm was lost on Bloomington. “Can I—would you mind if I play a quick game or two?”
I thought about what was on the tablet. Other than my bank information, which couldn’t be accessed without an internet connection, anyway, I didn’t recall anything that rendered it a security risk.
“Not at all,” I said. Bloomington beamed as he clutched at the device, but I held it firmly, much to the indignation of Bloomington. “But not until I’ve plotted the time jump.”
Bloomington first scowled, then pouted, “Fine. But as soon as—”
“As soon as I plot the time jump!” All I could think was that Bloomington was as lucky that I wasn’t as trigger-happy as Corcoran, lest he find out what it feels like to die twice in one week.
Bloomington scampered away, presumably giddy to soon be able to play the simplest card game imaginable on such a high-tech device. I shook my head as I keyed in my home coordinates, more out of a sense of duty at this point than anything else. I let out a “harumph” as for the first time in my travels, the computer spit out the dreaded “0.1%.” Not that I had expected anything above 20% or so, but zed-point-one percent? I thought it rather the slap in the face by the computer to be so dispiriting.
Then I dialed in December 21, 2012, Montauk, Long Island. “0.8%.”
Is the computer trying to drive me utterly mad? I thought. I realised how ridiculous that sentiment was, and worried that my descent into lunacy had already begun.
Finally, I set in the prescribed course of Jeruselem, 691 A.D., and Presto! “99.9%” once more.
“Bloody unbelievable,” I said, with mock astonishment.
“Can I have the tablet now?” Bloomington asked impatiently.
I sighed and handed the device to him.
You would’ve thought I had given him ten million dollars cash and thrown him a parade.
As I turned my attention back toward the flashing red “Engage” icon popped up, and as we were all well-rested and fed, I decided there was no need to dally.
“Time’s a wastin’” Corcoran echoed my sentiments from the dining area. I smiled at the Commander’s assertion and pushed the button, sending us hurtling through space and time once more.
Chapter Twenty-Two
To say that the sight of the Earth hanging majestically in the distance was becoming more than common would be an understatement. Dare I say that after so many jumps to so many places offering little but pain, suffering, and re-opening of old wounds, I was beginning to hate all of these so-called “different” Earths. It wasn’t so much the people that were indigenous to any given time period; it wasn’t their fault that they tended to be such a tiny, disgusting, hideous lot regardless of era or geography.
Rather it was the time travellers that we encountered who embarked on such an enterprise for pleasure! If only they knew how damned we were, in possession of our own machine, yet unable to travel at our own discretion!
I suppose it was akin to those old stories about a father catching his son smoking cigarettes (which, thankfully, my father never did; had he done so, I imagine the penalty would’ve been for pilfering his fags more so than any sort of sense of dereliction of morals) and forcing the lad to smoke an entire carton.
If that was the case, consider me ready to spew at this point in our journey, so close to the end, yet still with one more jump after this one before I could finally head home, and perhaps regain some fractional amount of normalcy in my life once more.
As the small, blue orb continued to grow larger, and the autopilot guided us toward our intended destination, I made the customary request of the computer for era-appropriate garb. It produced three outfits from the glove box, each of which appeared to be a simply-dyed tunic and an accompanying wrap of sorts of a different drab colour, which fastened around the front, and three pairs of simple, lace-up sandals. I selected the one sized for me, and called Corcoran and Bloomington over to receive their costumes.
“It’s a dress!” Bloomington snapped.
“I don’t think it’s half as fancy as those getups from last go-‘round,” Corcoran said.
“I find it rather freeing,” I said as I slipped the outfit over my head and secured the wrap around the front. “Rather like a kilt.”
Truth be told, I had never worn a kilt, but I assumed that my companions would assume that I had done so.
“You Brits and your crazy customs,” Corcoran shook his head. Apparently I had been correct in my assumption.
Corcoran arranged his holster so that his firearm was readily accessible under the wrap, and I attempted to do the same, though my own shoulder-holster was either improperly fitted and jostled around my midsection, or I had lost quite a bit of weight, which was entirely possible; with the rapid shifts from day to night and back again, our eating habits had become less than regular.
We descended once more toward that familia
r patch of land somewhere northwest of the rhino’s head that was the Arabian Peninsula. As similar as this planet looked to any of the other Earths we had visited through the ages from thousands of miles into space, there was something “off” about the landscape toward which we were being slowly led, almost as if it was somehow tainted in a fundamental way.
I commanded the ship to cloak as the computer landed the craft outside of a city that was much larger than either Nazareth or Nicaea, the only other measuring sticks I had for the era and area. The computer brought us to a dusty little patch in the “shade” of a rather sparse mulberry tree outside of the city walls.
“Oh Steven, aren’t you forgetting something?” I asked as I held out my hand. Reluctantly, Bloomington offered me my tablet back. “That’s a good lad now,” I said, perhaps too paternalistically. “Computer, open the door,” I said, as the gangway descended and we made our way down it. “Everyone remember where we parked.”
“‘Least we have a landmark this time,” Corcoran offered Bloomington a nod as he jostled a mulberry branch. Bloomington was surprisingly not pissy, and merely nodded silently in reply.
As I looked around, I noticed that the landscape wasn’t nearly as harsh and unforgiving as the almost Martian-like surface near Nazareth. If that area could best be described as “dusty brown,” then the area surrounding Jerusalem was “brownish green,” with more than a smattering of trees and shrubs that agreed with the town rather well.
We followed a nearby path into the settlement, which actually could be better described as a proper city, large and bustling enough to rival even 18th-century Leipzig. Though the familiar, short, unappealing individuals still roamed the squares and pathways, the variation in their garb and manner was remarkable. Groups of Jews passed by groups of Muslims, and not only acknowledged one another, but also exchanged pleasantries! I could hardly believe my eyes; it was a sight I hadn’t seen for some fifteen years outside of the most progressive remaining pockets of American soil.