The man with the beard removed his hand from the disgusting shake as quickly as he could, and then he said, “Welcome aboard the B.T.S. Unicorn Husker. I am Captain King Solomon.”
The domed maroon crown atop the Captain’s head bobbed up and down as he talked. His brown eyes twinkled when he mentioned his own name, and little crow’s feet appeared in the olive skin near the corners of his dark eyes. The bright light of the bridge seemed to shine spotlights down upon his crooked yellow teeth.
“Hi, I’m Art,” said Normal-Art.
The Captain nodded. “I know who you are. Your older-self has been in my employ for decades. Isn’t that right, Agent Arthur?”
Older-Art nodded. “Yes. But for the millionth time, I go by Art. Arthur was my father,” he said.
The Captain stared at Normal-Art like he was supposed to be surprised or shocked or something at meeting an older-version of himself. But Normal-Art felt none of these emotions, mainly because the older-version of himself had already informed him of who he was—thus giving him ample time to adjust to the concept—and because he had seen so many ridiculous versions of himself over the years that little remained that could shock him. Nevertheless, the Captain seemed intent on gazing at him until he reacted, so he forced himself to gasp.
This seemed to satisfy Captain King Solomon, so he turned to the other guests and shook their hands, too. He seemed much more satisfied with Ginny’s firm handshake than he had with Normal-Art’s, and he seemed even more satisfied when he gripped the end of Drillbot’s diamond-encrusted drill in his hand. With a chuckle, he said to the robot, “I know of quite a few women in my harem back home who would be excited to meet you.”
“[whir] Did your harem – CLACK – your harem require an extensive amount of drilling?”
Captain King Solomon guffawed and slapped his knee.
Drillbot said, “[whir] Did Drillbot say something – CLACK – something funny?”
Captain King Solomon patted the robot on the arm and said, “That you did, m’boy. That you did.”
Then Captain King Solomon turned to Older-Art. The Captain stared at the man with disgust etched across his face and said, “Agent Arthur, what is happening with your uniform?”
Older-Art stared at the blond guide with an accusing look and said, “It’s just Art. And I lost my badge during my mission, sir. Had to rely on First Officer Alex to get me a new uniform out of the machine. Guess he must have accidentally typed in the wrong size.”
Captain King Solomon frowned. He said, “In any case, you look ridiculous. We’ll get you rebadged in a few minutes, and then you can get yourself a proper uniform. And then never show up here dressed like that again. Remember all our talks about dressing for the job you want, not the job you have? Well, right now you look like you want a job as a child playing dress-up in his mother’s clothing. Is that the job you want?”
“No, sir,” replied Older-Art, staring at his own feet.
Captain King Solomon nodded and turned back to Normal-Art. “I take it First Officer Alexandros ho Megas caught you up on our situation and why we brought you on board?”
Normal-Art furrowed his brow. “Who?” he asked.
Captain King Solomon pointed to the blond guide. “First Officer Alexandros ho Megas. I sent him to collect you from the cargo hold because he and I are from your earth’s past. I thought it would help ease your transition aboard this ship.”
Normal-Art looked at Captain King Solomon with a blank stare. He replied, “None of that sounds familiar.”
Older-Art, Ginny, and Drillbot let out a collective groan. Ginny said, “Art! He said his name like eight times on the way up here and explained everything that’s happening. And when you didn’t seem to comprehend, he literally repeated it three times to you.”
Normal-Art shrugged. “Well, let’s pretend that some of us weren’t listening, and repeat it again.”
Normal-Art’s companions all groaned once more. Older-Art slapped Normal-Art upside the back of the head and said, “Dammit, why was I so…so you when I was younger? You’re the reason why I’m in this mess.”
Normal-Art glanced over at him. “Don’t blame me for your screw-ups. I didn’t do anything to anyone. I just want to be left alone.”
Older-Art replied, “Who else should I blame, you fool? You can literally see the person who you will become standing directly in front of you. You can literally see how your choices affect the both of us.”
Older-Art nearly pulled out his hair, but then he exhaled, inhaled deeply, and seemed to gain control of his frustration. He said, “I know this request is going to fall on deaf ears, but for both our sakes: please, please please, make some choices that benefit us. Don’t be an idiot. Don’t be like me when I was your age.”
When Normal-Art did not reply other than to stare at his future-self, Captain King Solomon cleared his throat to grab the group’s attention. “What’s done is done,” said the Captain. “Younger-Arthur did not listen to the First Officer, so we shall outline our situation once more so that everyone is caught up. Younger-Arthur, you have been brought aboard the premier ship in the Bureau of Time Travel fleet.”
“What’s that?” asked Normal-Art. The Bureau of Time Travel sounded familiar, and he could remember visiting their home reality seemingly an eternity ago, but he could not recall anything about the trip. He wondered whether being killed and resurrected so many times on the journey out of Hell had done permanent damage to his memory.
Captain King Solomon furrowed his brows. “A fleet is a group of ships that all serve the same cause.”
Normal-Art sighed. This conversation was starting to remind him an awful lot of the ones he had with the mischief-god-version of himself. “I obviously meant the Bureau of Time Travel, not the word fleet.”
Captain King Solomon replied, “Having spent time with you in the past, I can guarantee you that it was not as obvious as you think it was. Anyway, to answer your question: The Bureau of Time Travel is a regulatory agency that exists to resolve problems throughout time. We boldly venture into different points in the space-time continuum within the Multiverse’s different realities—a combination that we call the Space-Time-Multinuum—in order to ensure that the proper course of events takes place.”
“So, you’re like the B.I.T., but for Time,” said Normal-Art.
“Yes, nearly exactly. Where the B.I.T.’s responsibilities lie in ensuring the safety of the third dimension, ours primarily reside within the fourth dimension. Without us, the B.I.T. would solve a problem only to have some time-traveling nutjob undo all their hard work.”
“So, do you work with the B.I.T. a lot?” asked Normal-Art with a shudder. “Please say no. I hate those guys.”
Captain King Solomon smiled and shook his head. “Oh, no. Think of us like two separate government agencies. Or even separate governments that have signed a treaty with one another. We don’t interfere with their work and vice versa. As a matter of fact, most within their agency and most within the Space-Time-Multinuum do not even know of our existence. And that’s how we like it, so we can ensure the proper course of events occurs with the smallest impact on everyday existence.”
Normal-Art nodded. Then he glanced around the bridge and saw the person sitting near the front of the room at a station marked Communications Officer. She wore a marigold uniform similar to the ones worn by most of the other individuals on the bridge. However, her familiar scowl was identical to the one that Officer-Ginny of the B.I.T. would always display just before she tortured him.
He gasped and pointed to her. He all but screamed at the Captain, “Y-Y-You liar! You are too working with the B.I.T.! I would know that version of Ginny’s face anywhere! She’s B.I.T.! She tortured me for ten years! And she loved it! I want off this ship. Send me home, now!”
The Communications Officer stood, pointed back at Normal-Art, and yelled, “You didn’t get anything you didn’t deserve, you lawbreaking, lazy, rotten piece of backwater filth! You put the entire Multive
rse in danger with your damned caper, and then you went and got me killed while I was fixing your mess!”
Captain King Solomon held up a hand to silence her. He grabbed Normal-Art by the shoulders and turned him so that he was no longer facing her. He said, “Arthur, please remain calm. You are needed to save the Space-Time-Multinuum, so I cannot allow you to go home. But I did not lie to you. She used to work for the B.I.T., but she no longer does so. She changed agencies in the moment before her death.”
“Huh?” asked Normal-Art.
“Ms. 29333 no longer works for the B.I.T., and I do not allow torture on my ship, so you have nothing to worry about from her on that end.”
“Ms. 29333? Who’s that?” asked Normal-Art.
The B.T.T.-Ginny sighed. “We spent a decade together, you fool. My name is 29333. Did you never wonder why Agent 27142 always referred to me as Agent 29333?”
Normal-Art frowned and pointed to his Ginny. “Umm, I guess I always just called you ‘Officer-Ginny’ in my head, since, y’know, you looked just like my Ginny, but in a B.I.T. officer’s uniform. Also, who is Agent 27142?”
The B.T.T.-Ginny sighed even harder. She ignored his question about Agent 27142 and said, “Most of us are collected into B.I.T. service when we are babies. We’re given a number as a name so that we are easier to track within the wider bureaucracy of the B.I.T. network. My name is 29333. In case you didn’t notice, I never answered you when you called me any iteration of ‘Ginny.’”
Normal-Art shrugged. “I guess I don’t recall that. It was kind of a long time ago.”
29333 replied, “Well, it wasn’t that long ago for me. And just so you know, I was under orders to torture you as frequently as I did. I won’t say I didn’t get some enjoyment out of it, but I probably wouldn’t have done it as often otherwise.”
29333 then pointed to Drillbot. She said, “In addition to all your other transgressions, you brought that beast into existence, and that beast is who killed me during my natural lifetime. Thus, you are directly responsible for my death. I’d say between my light torture of you and your terrible decision to create that robot, we’re about even.”
Captain King Solomon leaned down to whisper in Normal-Art’s ear, “That’s likely as close to an apology as you’re going to get from her.”
Normal-Art nodded to 29333. “Umm, thanks for the apology, I guess?”
29333 nodded back, and then she sat back down at her station without waiting for a reply. She began checking the buttons and dials on her station, apparently done with this conversation. Normal-Art shrugged.
Captain King Solomon chimed in, “As I was saying, Arthur, we at the B.T.T. solve problems that would have negative effects on the Space-Time-Multinu-”
“Wait. How’s she here if she’s dead?” interrupted Normal-Art, pointing at 29333.
The Captain frowned. “I was just getting to that. I always forget how impatient you are. You see, we at the B.T.T. are recruited into service in the moments before our deaths. When the B.T.T. Humanoid Resources Department detects someone who may be a worthy agent, a Recruitment Commando appears in that person’s timestream, brings them to the B.T.T. home reality on Earth 4 to appear before a Recruitment Council, and offers them a choice: return to their own timestream to die naturally, or be healed and serve the greater good until they die in service of the B.T.T. When they die in the B.T.T.’s service, their bodies—if one remains—are returned to the point in their timestream in which they would have died naturally. They gain longer life as incentive to serve our cause, the Space-Time-Multinuum gains an agent for the greater good, and nobody knows it ever happened other than the B.T.T.
“I am from your timestream,” continued the Captain. “I am fairly prominent in your Judeo-Christian mythology as the wisest man to have ever lived, though I pride myself more on the fact that some of my bawdier poetry sits within the incredibly conservative temples within the Christian sects of your time period’s religions. Next time you go to a Christian church, ask a pastor to discuss Song of Solomon Chapter 7. When I visit your time period, I love to do that. It’s so much fun, for your time period is extremely prude.”
Normal-Art frowned. “You ramble an awful lot, much like the mischief-god-version of me. I was glad to finally be rid of him. Please tell me you don’t like to drone on and on and on like this every time you explain something.”
Captain King Solomon’s eyes turned cold and his beard twitched as he frowned. “I am nothing like that beast.”
Normal-Art shrugged. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“Very well. If you want to bring that beast into this conversation, then I will dispense with the pleasantries. Most people would have liked to ask me some questions, maybe find out whether there is truth to many of the stories from which your reality’s most prominent western religion is founded.”
Normal-Art shrugged again. He said, “Sorry. I just don’t care. Not the religious type.”
Normal-Art jerked in pain as an elbow slammed into his back. “Art, be nice!” Ginny whispered into his ear.
Captain King Solomon smiled at Ginny. “I thank you for your manners, Ginny. But do not feel as though you should try to police Arthur’s behavior. He will do what he will do, and then he will find himself stuck in another mess of his own making.”
Ginny nodded. Captain King Solomon pointed to the blond guide and said, “Arthur, this is First Officer Alexandros ho Megas. He is also from our earth. You may know him as Alexander the Great, for that is how he is referred in your time period’s history books. He is my right hand, and when it comes to battle, he is a tactical genius. He conquered our world before age 33, and then came into the B.T.T.’s service as he lay on his deathbed.”
Normal-Art smirked. “He conquered the entire world?” he asked.
Alex frowned. “Yes, I did.”
“Even America? India? Africa?”
Alex’s frown deepened. “Well, no,” he acquiesced.
Normal-Art’s smirk grew. “So, you didn’t conquer the entire world, then, right?”
“I conquered the known world,” he replied.
Normal-Art felt another elbow from Ginny. He knew he should drop it and stop annoying these B.T.T. officers, but he had been forced aboard this ship when all he wanted to do was go home. “By your logic, I know everything in the Multiverse, because anything I don’t know doesn’t count.”
Alex’s cheeks turned red. He pulled a tape-covered cylinder from his holster, and just before he twisted an ominous dial on it, Captain King Solomon reached out a hand and placed it on Alex’s shoulder. “Calm down, First Officer. It won’t do to kill him. You know the Space-Time-Multinuum depends on him.”
Alex glared at Normal-Art for a tense moment, and then re-holstered the cylinder. He poked a finger in Normal-Art’s chest. “You will make me miserable over the coming weeks. I may not be allowed to harm you, but just know that I will never forget your impudence.”
Older-Art leaned over and whispered into Normal-Art’s ear, “He’s not lying about that. Please, just watch your mouth from here on out and don’t start doing the thing with the shoes you’re going to devise soon. If you simply listen to me, then everything might go a lot easier for you than it did for me.”
Alex grunted. “I doubt that fool has the self-control to prevent himself from becoming you. You didn’t.”
Captain King Solomon chimed in, the smile returning to his face, “Now, I want the four of you to go with the First Officer. He is going to get you licensed for time travel so that if you run into some other B.T.T. officers on a covert mission, they can verify you belong to this crew and thus will not assume you are a timestream-terrorist. He will then show you to your quarters so that you may get some rest before we embark on our mission. We will brief you on this mission at a later time. My patience with Younger-Arthur has worn too thin to do so right now, and I need a break from him to prevent myself from doing something I shall regret.”
Alex shouldered past the four companions and e
xited the bridge. “C’mon,” he barked.
Alex led Normal-Art, Older-Art, Ginny, and Drillbot down the hallway from whence they had come, but instead of following it all the way back to the elevator bank, they turned down a crossroad to their right. They climbed a set of stairs and came to a room with a long queue. It reminded Normal-Art of the Department of Motor Vehicles office in which he had worked before absconding with God-Art on the ridiculous caper to Earth 1,000,000.
Older-Art elbowed him and asked, “Remind you of somewhere? ‘Hey, Art, get back to work!’”
Normal-Art chose not to respond. He refused to reminisce with himself, not when all he wanted to do was to go home and be left alone.
Alex walked them to the front of the line, ignoring the faint protests of the Purple Shirts already queued. A woman with gray, curly hair and the thickest glasses Normal-Art had ever seen looked up from a stack of papers. Her uniform’s shirt was teal rather than the purples and marigolds that Normal-Art had thus far seen aboard this ship. If he had cared to ask, he would have discovered that teal is the color reserved for the uniforms of career bureaucrats in the B.T.T.
“Wha’d’ya want?” she demanded.
Alex pointed to the group standing with him. He said, “These four need to get licensed for time travel, immediately. Captain’s orders.”
She looked them up and down. Then she pulled a two-foot tall stack of papers from beneath her desk and slammed them down on the countertop in front of Alex. “Alright. They’ll need to fill out the application in triplicate, and then I’ll expedite the forms to get them badged today.”
Normal-Art smirked. He remembered his old triplicate-trick from his job at the Department of Motor Vehicles, where he would instruct customers to fill out the same form three times if he did not feel like dealing with them. Alex, however, did not seem privy to this bureaucratic trade secret.
Normal-Art winked at the woman. He would never blow a fellow-government-worker’s cover for being lazy. Instead, he picked up the stack of forms and walked over to a nearby desk, where he plopped down with a grunt. Alex and the remainder of Art’s companions followed, sitting at desks nearby. Alex reached over to the forms sitting before Normal-Art and divvied them up so that each member of the group had a stack only half-a-foot high. Normal-Art began answering the questions on the forms, using the pen attached to a chain that lay atop his desk to do so.
And Now, Time Travel Page 6