Whatever I was right then- a soul, a ghost, a ghoul, some form of time-sprite- made contact with my body and began to merge into it. I was being crammed into the tight, lithe body. Like a muscular glove it was waiting before me to be filled up with my older and more experienced fist. Sure, maybe the fist had gotten a few miles on the clock and had a bit more strategic bulk to it but that was surely nothing to worry about. As soon as I hurled into him/me I began to feel myself controlling me and the world around me started to crystallize, as crystals do.
I felt myself become in charge of my knees first, naturally, and I gave them an experimental wobble. As is the order of these things I next felt my collarbones come under my control and I waggled them too. Lymph glands came next, logically, and I gave them an internal flex, pleased that they were optimal. Next, of course, I felt my elbows. Skin, chest hair, lips, glutes, lats, blats, abs, wabs and loins came in a rush as I took control of myself. I flexed them all.
The last to fill in were the senses. My ears came online to report gunfire and yelling; a nursery rhyme to my battle-hardened senses. My nose twitched into existence and told me of blood, sweat and lasers; the perfume of war (and the perfume I had launched seven years ago to disappointing indifference). My nerves jumped online and told me a story of the heat of laser blast zagging through the air and my tongue tasted adrenaline-rich saliva in my mouth and also some traces of scones. Wherever I was, it was in the absolute pitch of battle. My eyes finally showed up and took in the sights as only they could. Colours at first, blurring shapes next, an artistic impression of a shape looming closer. A screaming man. Running headlong, Leaping now through the air, red tracer fire whipping through the air around him. Diving at...me?
“Damnit, get down!” the scream caught up with me just as soon as his shoulder connected with my new young old body.
Wham!
He battered into me, taking me off of my freshly reclaimed feet and bashing almost all of my new senses against the plexi-metal flooring. It was a sharp shock to every part of me that jiggled all of myself into my body, like a slap to a stubborn ketchup bottle that finally releases all of the condiment. I came into myself fully but even though I was enjoying feeling like liberated ketchup I had to take in the situation, and that situation was a man screaming at me to stop dancing.
“What are you doing?” he yelled at me, as we clanged behind a nearby wall.
I opened my mouth, then paused. I stopped flexing all of my body parts and considered an answer. What was I doing?
Now that was a tricky question to answer when you don’t know when or where you are in the universe. Luckily though, I was used to Funkworthy shouting those words at me after I had done all manner of things I didn’t understand- its how I wake up from most of the naps I take in my captain’s chair- and as such I had the perfect confident riposte.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” I shouted, indignantly back into his face at full volume.
The man, looking more and more familiar to me by the second furrowed his brows. He had a round, blunt but weathered face, like a butcher with a dark past. Nearby, I could hear another smaller fellow in similar garb imitating the sound of laser fire at the top of his voice. More familiar yet.
My craggy companion spoke again, in the clipped tones of a military man. “Looks like you stopped in enemy fire and had a damn dance is what it looks like you’re doing.”
“And I had a good reason to do too,” I returned, feeling a little flat-footed. He raised a brow expectantly.
Thankfully a fresh barrage of laser fire sizzled down at us through the air like electric wasps. They bisected the corridor, leaving smoking pock marks on the drab metal. The open walkway separated myself and this chap from a small group of about four or so who huddled and looked desperately at us. We were indoors somewhere, in a plain but not unpleasant complex of some kind. Lots of machinery,but an attempt at colour and more than one potted plant in expanse of interior. A resort, perhaps. A fresh volley of weapon fire jigged down the wide corridor again as I peered at the surroundings.
“Let’s hear the damn reason then, Captain.”
I had to regain my composure and somehow bluff my mastery of this situation, for surely if I were to let on that I were really a time travelling version of myself lost in my own history the entire space-time continuum would collapse in on itself. The whole universe may explode; clocks would implode, black holes would freeze solid and the fabric of reality could very well curdle. Granted, I didn’t have the exact science to back any of that up, but it certainly felt right, and that had to count for something. Plus, it pays to be cautious in matters of time travel and, (just to give a third reason that bears almost no relevance compared to the others) I dislike being perceived as somehow clueless. It was time to regain leadership here. I still had my pillars- LAPAW and the first pillar stood for ‘Leadership’.
“My tactics are sound,” I blustered, getting to my knees and adopting a combat-squat, “I’ll explain; now, what do you know about those…” I searched for a non-specific collective noun, “.. absolute dicks that are firing on us?”
My jumpsuited savior humoured me. “They’re armed to the damn teeth, have us outnumbered and are multiplying like bunnies in a damn cloning pod.”
No help there, I refuse on the grounds of honour and being awesome to enter into fights where I am not outnumbered. I waved his words away. “No, no. Think, describe them. Feel free to include their species, gender and political allegiances.”
He looked askance at me. “History’s greatest monsters is what they are. Come back to wipe us out. You know this!” No good again. Dictators and monsters were my main foes, and they almost always lived within some point of history.
“And the leader is..?” I coaxed.
“Rasputin, of course. Teamed up with that worm Adolf Hitler.”
Still had to narrow it down.
“And of course they have at their disposal-”
He shook his head bitterly, “A damn neverending army of skeletons.”
Getting warmer. I was almost sure which incident I was in now. Had to be sure.
I scrunched my face up,“And the year is, of course seventy…ssssii…..nnniii….?” I coaxed.
He looked at me askance; a terrible and contagious habit, “Are you alright?”
“The year is seventy wwwwooo….toooo..thhhhhh..fffffff-”
“Seventy four, of course. ”
“Fffffour! Yes, of course, you didn’t let me finish.”
“Did I bash your head when I tackled you?” A look of genuine concern touched his meat-selling face
An avalanche of memory hit me, finally. “Exactly! It’s Seventy four, we’re on Tremulon Prime, at the Holodeck Insurrection. Terrible affair. You’re technician Delroy Deloux and we’re on our way to Deck-”
“B” Delroy grunted.
“Of course, Deck B.”
A drift of memories tumbled in on me, like thought-boulders in a remembering-landslide. When so much was coming back to you at once similes went out the window.
“And you were dancing in the middle of a firefight because…?” asked my burly savior.
He really was quite persistent on that niggling point.
“Isn’t it obvious? Put all those pieces together that you just told me. It’s simply a matter of-Oh look! They’ve stopped firing!”
I yanked him roughly to his feet and threw the both of us into the corridor and towards the rest of our group and-I hoped- Deck B. Now, it wasn’t strictly true that the corridor was absolutely one hundred percent free from weapon fire, but it was a decent diversion and it stopped all of those rather annoying questions, now that I knew where I was. If it’s a choice between explaining myself and a barrage of laser fire I know which one I would have more luck with. Delroy seemed to feel differently but it’s hard to argue when you’re being pushed bodily towards weapon fire. I was back in control now that I knew who we were fighting. LAPAW!
As I threw myself and my screaming co
mpanion across the dangerous divide I took the opportunity to look down the corridor, to try to refresh myself of the threat I faced, and what I saw chilled my young and lymph infused blood. It was Genghis Khan lying prostrate on the ground firing a heavy ion cannon. Beside him, jeering and passing ammunition was Myra Hindley and surrounding those two were about twenty sentient skeletons.
A man should only have to deal with a threat like that once in his lifetime. But it looked like I was going to have to roll up my sleeves and send those monsters back to hell once more.
Khan’s clumsy Mongolian aim ensured that the weapon fire menaced but did not touch us. We two made it to the other side of the corridor and into the arms of the rest of our group. I, having previously been dragging Delroy by his reluctant arm, released him and he flopped to the ground. I considered us pretty much even.
It was all coming back to me now, this man, the Holodeck incident. If we were making our way to Deck B…I remembered. I remembered what I had to lead these people to. I threw Delroy delicately down among the others as I posed dramatically before them, highlighted by the zipping ion fire of a warlord.
“Of course!” I cried, into the faces of the other baffled survivors. “Tremulon! Rasputin! Good news! I know what we have to do. We simply have to blow this place up. We’ll blow it all sky high!
Somehow, from the looks on their faces, they didn’t seem as thrilled by this revelation as I.
Chapter Thirteen
A Deductive Brain/ the Captain in Pain
* * *
‘A nemesis, Sir? Is this term meant to frighten me? No. A nemesis is simply a reflection in a shattered mirror, a shadow cast by its opposite number. Without me, you would be nothing- you would be destroyed. Hollowed out and made useless. It follows that, to defeat you, I need only defeat myself. My logic is precise and unwavering. Observe.’
With that said, and before anyone could stop him he dashed over to the other side of the room and, with one fluid movement opened the window and flung himself bodily out.
Jeremiah Anthony David Bruce John
The Curious Casebook of Detective Jeffrey Bastard
Ѻ
As I shook the last of my pursuers off I found myself, serendipitously in Baker Street. I wandered down the street some ways before I found my destination.
221 Baker Street.
I made my way slowly up the creaking stairway and encountered a discouragingly long line of people waiting patiently for entry Mindful of my manners I peered up past them to where the staircase branched between apartments A and B and found that the line of victorian gents were bound for the latter. Great news. While I was making my way toward my door a hand clapped down on my shoulder and spun me round. A man with a shock of the most ginger hair was taking me under a friendly arm.
“You’re bound for the wrong door there, mate. 221B’s where the detective’s at, but the queue forms behind you.”
“B?” I replied, “the ad in the paper said ‘SH, detective in 221A’ clear as day.”
This drew a fond chuckle from the red haired man. “Ah, that old ruse!”
“Ruse?”
“There’s a detective in the building alright; a man of keen intellect and notorious skill. A legend in his time, and he lives in B. Then there’s his neighbour. Changed his name to have the same initials as the chap we’re all after, put out an ad claiming he’ll do the same job. I suppose some people get confused and walk in the wrong door. I did it once before myself.” His nose wrinkled at the recollection in distaste.
“So this other SH, what’s he like?”
He averted his eyes and mumbled, “I don’t like to speak ill, sir.”
“Pray humour me,” I prodded
“To be frank... the man’s a buffoon.”
“Truly?” I asked, my hearts filling with hope.
“A vainglorious blackguard of a man.”
“Full of himself?”
“A living totem of self love. A walking continent of conceit.”
“Inept at his job?”
“He could not detect his nose with the aid of one of his many mirrors and a sign pointing to the olfactory organ that reads ‘this is your nose’”
I clapped the man warmly around the shoulders and shook him, beaming up into his very ginger face. “My man, I have found the person I am seeking. My thanks.”
With that, I turned smartly around and strode up to the door of 221A and proceeded inside, with only curious looks, snide mutters and some barely concealed laughter to accompany me.
The interior of the flat was a snugly cluttered affair, thick with exotic smelling tobacco smoke and the aroma of moustache wax. As I walked into the main living area I found two gentlemen sat comfortably by a large bay window which looked out into the gaslit streets of Londinium. One, sitting behind a propped up paper appeared to be a slight gentleman, well dressed but with a look of worry in the lines of his face. The other man, well, I had to stop myself from gaping at since he looked so similar to the Space I know. His frame was identical, his bearing similarly so, the only thing that separated him was his ostentatious moustache, his period attire and his enormous mutton chops. Presently he spied me and let out a delighted cry, which drew a cursory glance from over the slighter man’s newspaper. Victorian-era Space clapped his hands on his knees, set aside his plate of mutton chops and got to his feet.
“A client!” he cried in the Captain’s own booming voice, “fear not and do not tarry at the entrance of our office. Whatever unfortunate events have necessitated my service shall be handled. Yes, fear not, it is I: Sherlton Hardcolmes, consulting detective. The rude gentleman in the armchair is my trusty associate, Doctor Theodore Humsworthy.”
As he approached, the doctor gave a small nod to me. This Hardcolmes chap took my hand in his and gave it a brisk shake, then paused dramatically and cocked his head as he looked down at me.
“I see you were shot in the leg several years ago, had a bout of polio as a boy and suffer from an intermittent itch in your knees when it is damp.”
“Pardon?”
He shook his head as though waking from a daydream. “Oh, pardon me. Did I do it again? It’s nothing. Sometimes my deductive prowess overwhelms me. Just something I discerned from the jaunty angle of your hat. By the way, did you enjoy the fish pie you ate thirteen days ago in East Anglia?”
“I didn’t-”
“Didn’t remember having done so? Never mind. it was blindingly clear by the way you shook my hand, but I digress.”
“That’s...Uh....”
He shot his arms out expansively. “Shocking? Impossible? No, no my dear sir. I simply employ a method of my own invention by which I divine that which is logical and through the logical what is verifiable and through this what is true. Cogito ergo diem; ‘I think, therefore I am a detective.’” He paced before me, wagging a finger aloft and gesticulating to the room as if I were a rapt auditorium. It was as though I had activated some kind of switch on his back. I looked to Humsworthy who was perhaps wisely back behind his newspaper.
“My method, ” Hardcolmes went on, “is predicated on the observation of mere trifles. Of course there is nothing as important as trifles: I eat at least one a day. Besides that, I pay attention to the smallest of details, for that is the way I can divine the truth of any situation.”
“Well, I have come to you on a very urgent matter, you see there is a man-”
But I was silenced as Sherlton clamped his hand over my mouth.
“Perhaps a demonstration?” he offered, waggling his moustache and eyebrows.
“Mmmmph mph mmmhn,” I replied. He seemed to take this as an affirmative so removed his hand and turned to the paper of his friend the doctor.
“Ah!” he cried, “observe here, my dearest Doctor Humsworthy, this man has patently come about a most urgent matter.” He passed a canny eye down me, scrutinizing closely before winking at me, his eyes all a-twinkle with glee. He continued, “Why else would a naval man of such high standing come to u
s on this day unless the matter was grave indeed? I deduce, sir, that the matter of your missing mule, not to mention the fact of your wife’s infidelity to said mule is a cause for great concern!”
He nodded to me with a great flourish and sat heavily back in his chair, stroking his moustache with waxy fingers.
Humsworthy flicked his periodical down briefly and started, “Mule? Why would you-”
“Oh, dreary, Humsworthy, have you learned nothing from my pamphlets and illuminating bath house graffitis? You look but you do not see. You see but you do not observe. You observe but you do not comprehend. You comprehend but you do not look. You look but you do not hear!”
“What?” I said in unison with Humsworthy. Somehow I felt as though I had a kind of bond with the slight and frustrated man.
“Simple deduction! I saw this fellow and deduced him to be a navy man. Witchcraft? Hardly. Don’t be so simple. Wizardry? Of course not. Try not to be such a gawping rube. I simply saw that his shoes were marked with a scratch, the grain of which is unmistakably from the polynesian elm tree (see the sooty black coal-like texture of it?), the only tree that the government use to build their boats, ergo, he has been near, or at least recently kicked a boat. Add to that that the scent of cheap rum that wafts out of his face whenever he opens his mouth. His weak and pathetic frame looks to be wracked by rickets and seawater and his puckered, sallow and frankly ugly complexion speaks to me of a lack of citrus fruit. His tired and defeated eyes speak of a man used to taking orders and his generally uninspiring demeanour puts him in the low ranks of some organisation. Plus, there’s that smell. Very distinctive. Therefore; navy. it is all very simple.”
“Are you from the navy, sir?”
I turned to Humsworthy with a deferential bow and admitted, “I am not, doctor.”
He scoffed, “Oh please, don’t call me that. I’m a bloody veterinarian. That oaf just insists on calling me that to be like the other chap. If only I had more patients I might not get in so many dashed adventures but, in these times, the life of an animal doctor is terribly unabsorbing.”
The Time Trousers of Professor Tempus: A Captain Space Hardcore Adventure Page 15