The Time Trousers of Professor Tempus: A Captain Space Hardcore Adventure

by Michael Ronson

A row of several dozen soapy male posteriors bobbed about under fluorescent lights, sprayed dispassionately by weak wall mounted faucets in a gray, tiled room.

  I closed my eyes again.

  ‘This was’, I thought to myself quite forcefully, ‘the site of a victory- a great deed, something I look upon with pride.’ I screwed a smile back onto my face and opened up my eyes again.

  It was no use. They were still there; the arses, staring at me, judging. They hung in the steamy air like depressing balloons at the world’s worst party. The fleshy line-up stared back at me cycloptically. A sigh escaped me and something close to a sigh escaped one of them.

  I scanned the room. Nothing but meaty men being hosed down for what seemed like eternity. The line seemed to stretch to the horizon, a recurring nightmare image of a burly fellow staring fixedly ahead, whistling forcefully to themselves and retaining iron grips on bars of soap. Maybe naval academy, maybe prison, maybe a cheap gym. There were few places where this many men were washed en-masse and not many that I frequent personally. Sure, I have a setup in my own bathroom where I position the mirrors just right and the effect of infinite recurrence was similar to this, but I was already noting with distaste how few of these men were me. If only that could be rectified.

  My frank inspection, forced smile, and my inspirational speech was drawing a little ire from my fellow bathers but no sooner had the atmosphere begun to sour an ear-splitting bleep cut through the air like a jagged piece of tin. As it squealed into nothingness all of the faucets sputtered to a piddling stop. Soon a second bleep sounded and the air filled with a caustic powder that rained down upon us all. Halfway between talc and a de-lousing mixture it snowed merrily down on the inmates (for I was increasingly certain that is what we were) and they began to dutifully massage the stinging mixture into the very parts that had greeted me in this time. I followed suit, keen to fit in.

  A crack appeared to the right of me. Actually, let me rephrase that. In the large gray slab of a wall about thirty nude men to my right a seam appeared which bisected the whole wall. Upon another bleep this opened with creaking foreboding. The men all pointed themselves at it and, like a sad assembly line, began to file through a small featureless hallway that soon opened into a large hangar of a lunchroom. My eyes did not deceive me- only a lunch hall lay beyond, not a locker room. I tried to remember some institution that enforced a nude dining policy. A dieting club, a few cults and the Vatican came to mind, but nothing like this. As I was fearing that this nude parade would never end I saw what happened as each man filed through one of the two doorway-shaped security scanner-looking things. A blue flickering energy barrier seemed to fizz and fill the doorway as every new man filed through it and as they passed on through a set of drab taupe coveralls materialized around their bodies, flickering into life as though they had always been there.

  Holographic clothes. Old tech. Hell, in any other setting this would be quaint. I scanned the walls and, sure enough, holo projectors were perched in each corner of the hall projecting the slightly flickering clothes onto each person below.

  Holo-couture was quite passé, I thought with a wrinkle of distaste. The theory behind it was that one could change one’s attire at a moment’s notice if you found someone wearing a similar outfit. Sheer cowardice. If I were to enter a situation where someone else had an outfit similar enough to mine to be considered clashing I would either congratulate them or fight them to the death. Those were just the rules of fashion. While the cowardly flip-floppery of holographic garb never took off with the tastemakers it proved quite popular with prison wardens. A holographic jumpsuit could house no pockets and conceal no shivs, after all. Its fabric could not strangle or make ropes or have its stitching be used in a satirical and hurtful tapestry Plus, all of the inmates would be somewhat embarrassed the whole time. Imagine a riot where, two minutes in, everyone suddenly becomes as nude as Swede- it would end right then or turn into something far less destructive.

  I sighed to myself as my own overalls materialized around me. I sighed not only because of the horrendous colour and cut of the clothes but also because only a few places used it. I was just now sure of exactly where and when I was.

  I shuffled through the doorway and felt the cold air greet me. Fifteen feet above me walkways criss-crossed the ceiling and guards criss-crossed upon them. I spied the logos on their uniforms.I was in prison alright, but not just any prison. This was the most secure lockup the galaxy had ever seen.

  Cube 837, AKA The Manhole.

  The name was well-earned. It was deep, dark and dingy; a penitentiary for some of the baddest mothers and also some of the worst mothers in the universe. If you looked up the definition of ‘security’, ‘impossible’, ‘cephiliouent’ or ‘un-breakout-able’ in my illustrated dictionary, you’d see a picture of the Manhole. (If you looked up the word manhole, you’d get something quite different) It was like a locked box made of diamonds wrapped in a Chinese finger trap left inside a black hole. In a safe.

  Naturally, as with any place as renowned as this there were rumours and whispers of some who had managed to escape the place. A few legends to keep the morale of the prisoners up. But no one believed in any of these fairy tales- impossible people who managed to escape this place where even the light particles were never allowed to get out on parole.

  And I just remembered that my mission was to become one of those fairy tales today.

  I swore softly to myself and made my way to the lunch line dutifully with the rest of the inmates.

  A convict shuffled past me in the line and muttered under his breath as he collided with my shoulder in a covert accidentally-on purpose way.

  “Lace up them boots, friend. The mule bolting. Half past a quarter bellhop. Stay shifty. Shamwow.”

  And he was gone, melted back into the scrum of identical criminals clad in garish light.

  I took care not to look round, just shuffled nakedly down the line some more. It was prison talk, of course, a code. I shivered at the realization of his its meaning; the breakout was today. Of course it was, why would Tempus give me any time to ready myself, to remember how to do the impossible one more time?

  I picked up a dinner tray, an infirm plasticky sheet and made my way down the lunch line.

  I was going to have to escape from the Manhole. Again. With him. My hands involuntarily balled into fists at the thought of that patchwork bastard. I got a new lunch tray as I retrieved the memories from my mind palace but this information was kept in a locked wing with all the other clandestine affairs and childhood memories.

  The lunch server looked at me, ladle in hand and I felt the colour drain from my face.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  What did I want? Not this mission again, that was for sure. I wanted to forget this murky interlude in my life, I wanted to forget all about escorting a maniac out of here. I wanted to feel clean again. I wanted clothes that weren’t made from light. I wanted a decent non-prison meal. I wanted to not be surrounded by murderers. I wanted what all men want; a good meal, a warm starship, my own clothes, my own temporal reality and to be holding the throat of Professor Tempus.

  “I’ll have the apple and cinnamon porridge, please,” I said.

  And my words felt like death.

  The server spooned the mixture on with the delicacy of a man who works primarily through the medium of ladles. I looked at the goop grimly. On cue I heard footfalls behind me and I steeled myself for what was to come (both the meal and the man).

  It was then that the arm of Belson Erdinger; murderer, traitor, quadruple agent, genocide enthusiast, Gemini, occasional gardener and committed philatelist closed a hand around my shoulder like a vice. It pulled me close, like vices do and Erdinger whispered in my ear gruffly, in a way that I imagine a vice would if one could whisper gruffly.

  “Ready to fly this coop, friend?”

  I looked him steadily in the eye, turning back only very briefly to get a drizzle of caramel sauce, then looked him s
teadily in the eye once more.

  ‘You’re a criminal,’ I reminded myself, ‘act like one. Your cover, your life and the future depend on it.’

  “Y’know I ‘bout done got sick o’ this here lockup,” I said, “been done halfway past time we got to steppin’ out of this here clink.”

  Erdinger smiled and drew me close.

  “What?”

  I cleared my throat. “I mean ‘yes’. Yes I’m ready to escape.”

  And the words felt like death. Again.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  ---=◈◆⬤◆??◆⬤◆◈=---

  Hell.

  It looked rather like hell, or at least the human conception of it- that unimaginative big and flat place full of heat, pitchforks and little else.

  Reality took shape around me in the same dizzying pyrotechnic show that it had before. It truly is curious that such a singular and mind-bending phenomenon can become pedestrian simply through repetition. I was becoming quite the seasoned time traveller, I thought, an old hand at this temporal shuffle.

  After I stopped vomiting I took in my surroundings. A vast yellow plain comprised mainly of dust and cacti stretched before me in all directions, beaten unmercifully by a sweltering sun that was the only feature in the flat blue sky if you excepted the gaggle of large circling birds above me (which I fully intended to ignore). The air on the horizon shimmered like a gas leak and miles in the distance fungal looking rock formations towered, monuments to an unmerciful wind that had carved them into their strange shapes, having little else to torment.

  Oh, there would be no cocaine in this place for miles, I thought.

  I tried to shake this notion aside but found that I really was craving a little bit more. It had been useful stuff and this dessert would have been a heck of a lot more bearable with a small jar as a companion. As it was, I only had an empty eyed bovine skull for company. Bleached white by the sun, it stared up at me and gave an unspoken warning that if I chose to tarry much longer in that spot, vomiting and wishing for pharmaceutical aid than he, I and the coterie of birds would get far better acquainted.

  I nodded down at it, set my shoulders and started to marching toward a point in the plains which I was almost sure had just emitted the sound of clanging bell.

  My only consolation was the slim lead that I knew Tempus must have over me. From weeks in the asylum to days in Londinium, I had whittled down the headstart he had in the timestream. He had shot out of this juncture what must have been scant earth-hours before me and was presumably only just entering the modest township that I could see through the heat-distortion. That was precious little time to set up an elaborate death trap, or pinch a cannon, or even get used to the local customs. He’d be as much of a stranger here as I would be.

  I paused at what seemed like a rough dirt road and happened upon some debris that lay there. It seemed to my eyes that there had been some kind of conflagration on the site. Horse hooves and spent gunpowder cartridges littered a small area near some empty crates. A robbery of some kind perhaps. It was no matter to me. What was of interest was the corpse that lay there. He was as dead as he was moustached, which is to say very. Still, He was laying in a perfectly fine poncho and in a wonderful hat of the sombrero variety. I steeled myself against the act then stripped the clothes from the man and donned them myself. I breathed out through my mouth as I tried them on and took a few experimental steps away from the corpse. Not just a seasoned time traveller, but also getting quite hardened to the morbid and grisly realities of ancient earthen times. I congratulated myself on my unflappable resolve and saluted my deceased benefactor.

  A couple more vomittings later I picked up the dirt road and I was all set for this time. I ignored the circling vultures a little more, set my absurd hat on my head and walked toward what was more than likely a mirage.

  To pass the time I looked down at my wrist computer and made a small adjustment to the date and preferred language. Though there were no real clues as to the time period, we had been travelling in the time tunnel for a relatively short duration and I felt like I could judge the time passed based on that. I estimated the year and made an educated guess at the country and set the computer for earth speech of that time. It couldn’t be too far off the mark anyway and the database was a good resource I had not yet had time to take advantage of. Since I had a good half hour’s walk ahead of me I reasoned that I might as well brush up on some old Earth language. I marched and the drab wooden structures loomed closer on the horizon as I committed some greetings and useful idioms to memory.

  From the looks of the place I had just increased the population by around ten percent, and increased the literate population by around a hundred.

  The place was a ghost town. But even the deceased seemed to have fled it, subletting their old property to tumbleweeds and loud howls of wind as they left. Large wooden storefronts faced off against each other, divided by one long and dusty main road leading up to a ramshackle chapel that looked like it was made from old driftwood in a hurry by an angry atheist. The only sign of life was a small circle of men stood off next to what appeared to be a saloon, though everything here looked like a saloon (had nobody told the town planner that some doors did not need to be batwing doors?) They looked furtively over at me as I stepped onto the main road.

  I decided upon an affect of confidence and ease. I remembered some advice that Space had shared with me. “You can fit in anywhere,” he claimed, “if you just have an air of supreme confidence- a ‘Ju ma pel’ as the French say. Walk in as though you own the joint and nobody questions you. Works for a club, a clandestine meeting, a secret orgy, or any period of earth history you were sent to by some diabolical enemy.” That advice seemed useful to me now.

  I straightened my posture, brushed down my poncho and strode brightly toward the group of men.

  “Word up homies!” I cried, spreading out my arms in a welcoming gesture. “Westside!”

  To my considerable consternation I was greeted with nothing so much as a line-up of revolver muzzles. Following that was the rather redundant sound of a half dozen hammers being pulled back. Six sweaty faces and a dozen sweaty eyes regarded me from under the brims of some sweaty hats.

  “W….wait a second now, “ I collected myself before returning to their dialect. “Why are you all trippin’?”

  The eyes stayed impassive and the muzzles stayed pointed (and impassive). They were a gaggle of grizzly looking men, made of worn flannel and coarse stubble equally dispersed over sun-beaten flesh that may as well have been jerky. They would not, I decided, tell me why they were trippin’.

  “No diggity,” I offered desperately.

  The chapel at the end of the small dusty road once again chimed to break the eerie silence and a large ball of weeds tumbled through the space between us. I glimpsed residents peering out onto this main street through the slats in windows and dimly heard some batwing doors flip-flap open and closed somewhere behind the men, who maintained their stoic gun-pointery. I found that my hands were up, the cowards.

  I glanced at my translator program again. Sure enough it was set to ‘West-Coast America (eighties-nineties)’ so there could be no problem there; this was the american west and these were the eighteen eighties, roughly. Were they just being stoic? I decided on a more authoritative tone.

  “Now listen here you hos. Let me make this clear- I don’t want any scrubs. And by that I mean trouble. Nobody needs to get lit up here. This is nothing but a G thing. Furthermore-Ja Rule.”

  Silence from the men. Silence from the guns too (thankfully). I scrambled in my head for a few more key phrases as panic threatened me. I’d never had guns pointed at me for nearly so long. Usually I was with Space and he would have made them go off by this point. I started sweating, shaking and speaking at a rapid fire rate, spewing out all of the earth-slang I could, desperately.

  “Where the hood at? X is going to give it to ya. For the love of God, Have you all forgotten about Dre?!”
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  I was almost thankful, then, when one of the men grabbed me by the arm, threw me to the ground and put his knee on the back of my neck.

  “Sheriff’s gonna deal with you, son,” he said.

  “Word,” I replied.

  Chapter Twenty

  A Prisoner’s Ploy/ Cowboys Ahoy!

  * * *

  When true adversity comes- as it will to all life- you must know thyself and be true. For what is morality but the will to plant oneself as surely as an oak, to be sure and unyielding in the face of all who would change you and to say in a calm, sure voice ‘no! I will NOT put my trousers back on, your honour.’?

  Terrence P Blackula

  A Treatise on Treating Theresa

  Ѻ

  Belson Erdinger sat down on his seat opposite me like an absolute shit. He picked up his spork like the nasty bastard he was, gave me a warm smile, like an utter sociopath and started to prod his refried beans like a merciless monster with no conscience.

  “Today’s the day,” he said.

  I forced a smile onto my face as the tension between us fizzed like my rapidly melting dinner tray (they were a biodegradable fungus sheet, you see. Nothing hard allowed in the Manhole) I scowled down at it and tossed my limp spork into the deflating tray with disdain. I spat at it and swore for good measure.

  Erdinger smiled at this callous display.

  “Should eat up, Rex,” he said, “you’ll need your strength today.”

  That was another thing to remember- my alter-ego. I was Rex Beretta. Or at least that was the lie keeping me alive. Rex Beretta, professional criminal and full-time shit.

  This is who I was during my time in the Manhole. This was a deep cover operation, classified all the way to the top, all the transcripts redacted to nothingness and those transcripts thrown into a secret fire kept in an underground safe. The medals I had gotten from its completion of this mission had been tiny and transparent. I had published only one book detailing my heroics in this operation and even then I had had to make the font very small. The reason for all this secrecy? Well, I have to admit, that this was an operation I felt ever-so-slightly less than proud of. Sure, it was a rescue mission, but this was no innocent POW I was helping- I had been sent to extract an intelligence operative who had gone rogue, a half mad, half cyborg, quarter Dutch son of a bitch who had started selling his services to the highest bidder. Normally he was the kind of cold-hearted bastard I would have been overjoyed to put out of the galaxy’s collective misery but there was just one wrinkle. He had information, valuable information in his head and top brass needed that in one piece. Enter Rex Beretta. Enter the Manhole. Enter the dragon. Enter sandman.