No sound, though, no sound in the void, I guess.
Figures. I think I had been screaming for a while. Hurt like the dickens, after all.
This thing,-let’s call it Bertha- it belched and ripped in my arms again and more of that brilliant light escaped it. I felt it perforate me.
So maybe this was it, then. And if this was true, then I’d be forgotten. Erased from history and snuffed out completely.
Betha hiccupped in my arms again, grew in size, quaked. The black nothingness was lit with the glorious light it was spewing. And me? The arms that held Bertha were melted clean off, carried off and dispersed to wherever the energy reached. It doubled in size. And again. And again. Until it was all there was. And
There was no sound
No nothing
Then-
Bang
It all happens at once. And when I say ‘all’ I mean it.
Hot steamy matter shot all over the place, expanding out at speeds well over seventy miles per hour in all directions. But it wasn’t the superheated gases I was worried about (it never is). It wasn’t the unknowable state of my physical form that bugged me (the time tunnel had robbed me of my attachment to my own toned form). No, what bothered me was the formation of a something I had come to know and dread.
Quivering and new-born, like a foal except made of supernovas, I felt the pull of the time tunnel. It came into existence then, expanding out from that one central point and racing outward into infinity. Whatever I was, perforated and scattered in the roiling colours and the cauldron of explosions I snagged on to the familiar feel of that acursed tube and saw its depths once more.
But the bang kept on banging, as bangs tend to, and everything was being pushed around like a teacup in a tidal wave and that included whatever I was now. I almost feel that my own poetic abilities almost fail to capture the glory and chaos of this unbridled creation, but I must try.
It was like a washing machine full of hot paint and fireworks.
But I must set aside poesy and search once more, in the turbulence for a whiff of tunnel. I had a mission and I had an idea. It was rare that I had both at the same time and this was the perfect place to have them.
Suns bloomed and went supernova all around and buffered by the waves of force I felt it once more. Time- young and fresh and blushing with inexperience- came within my grasp again and I clung onto it with whatever I had now instead of hands. I clung to the sensation of the tunnel with all that I was worth and rode that bucking mule till it tired itself out. Then, unlike with a mule, I ripped into its side and slid into it, velvet smooth and buttery soft. The time tunnel greeted me again. She may not have known it but we’d danced like this before, but the last four times had been to Tempus’ beat. Now I was free, not being pushed around by any pants, and I made a solemn vow to never be so controlled by pants again.
I propelled myself forward, experimentally. Years flew past outside. The dazzling reds and oranges cooled and black seeped in at the edges. I smiled, went forward again. I dipped a ‘hand’ into the side of the tunnel. What I was now fizzed against the side of the tunnel, a line of my own rainbow hues merging into the colours of the tunnel, like a stream of paint piddled into a murky stream. I smiled.
I had an idea.
I had a purpose.
I had a plan.
And I had a god damned party to get to.
Chapter Twenty Nine
Bang!
* * *
“Bang!” I said dramatically, like an explosion would.
Captain Space Hardcore
Chapter One
Ѻ
“Bang!” I cried and ‘bang’ said my fist as it landed on the chin of one Professor Theodore Tiberius Tempus.
I made a mental note to actually learn his first and middle name as I kicked him directly in the temple. It was only polite (the name learning, not the knee assault)
I hit the man with the force of billions of years of pent-up justice. I hit him with the momentum of a man who had just been carried over the lifespan of the universe on the crest of a wave of energy formed by the creation of all matter and time. I hit him with the fury of a man who had been denied his god damned party for several billion years.
He landed messily on the floor, much like a trifle would, and then started moaning in exasperation much like how a trifle wouldn’t. What an inconsistent man, I thought before suplexing him hard into a piano. It was satisfying, all the violence I was doing, as it usually was. It was satisfying hitting him and it was more satisfying hitting him with an endless procession of instruments. But even more satisfying was the looks of admiration I was drawing from my audience. Ebenezer was there, agape and aghast as he usually is at my displays of prowess, but the other man was much more appreciative of my form, I could tell. He whooped and clapped every time I bashed the prof around the chops and even gave some impromptu scores.
“Ten out of ten!” shouted Captain Space Hardcore.
“Naturally.” I- Captain Space Hardcore- said as I doffed an imaginary cap to him.
I had to hurry, I locked up the professor’s hands behind his back before he could touch his treacherous trousers but it wasn’t easy. Not the act itself but the effort it took not to look at him. I wanted to admire the Captain, and every look gave me more to appreciate. His wonderfully coiffed hair, his fabulous physique, his high standard for punch scoring. And I could tell the feeling was mutual.
“Looking good,” he said, shooting me a thumbs-up.
“Looking good,” I said to him at the exact same time, shooting him a thumbs-up.
“What in the hell is going on here?” cried Funkworthy, unfortunately not following my lead by saying ‘looking good’ then shooting a thumbs-up. He could be quite inconsiderate sometimes, Ebenezer.
I suppose he had good reason to be curious. After all, he had just seconds before been taken by surprise by the very first appearance of Professor Tempus here near the orchestra dais on Kronis, then, seconds later, I had materialized from nowhere to deck Tempus while yelling ‘bang’ then ripped the man’s trousers off. It was a confusing and sudden turn of events. Only I and the Captain were taking things in stride.
“I’m from the future. Well, not really. I WAS in the future then I kept going back in the past, then I got zapped back to when there was no time, then a really large bang happened, so I was able to get back here by surfing the time energy,” I explained breezily as I pulled on the complicated trousers. Ebenezer looked a little lost even though I had explained it really, really clearly. “He gets it,” I noted, pointing to my past self.
“Absolutely,” he said. But he was making a show of looking unsure and hesitant, probably so I would explain it further which would help Funkworthy. What an absolute gent I am/was/are/shall.
“This man,” I said, prodding Tempus disdainfully with a rusty trumpet, “was about to spring a bunch of time travel based deathtraps on you. He’s got a whole plan in place. It’s inescapable. At the end he banished me outside of time and space. But I found a way back, a way back here. Before it all happened, so I can stop it all.”
“How did you get back?”
“Hard to explain. There was an explosion of sorts, a big one, and I’m pretty sure that’s where time started. I managed to ride it in my way. I’d gotten a little used to the time tunnel and I’m more than used to using the propulsive power of explosions as transportation so it wasn’t too hard to find my way back here.”
Space, of course, had more pressing and scientific inquiries, though. “Why are you putting on that man’s trousers?” he asked.
“When my own are far better tailored and flattering?”
“Precisely,” he said handsomely.
“Well, despite their garish design these do have a quality mine lack.”
“Nonsense!”
“I would have said the same thing were I in your place (and I was), but hear me out before you attack me with those sharp cheekbones of yours.”
“Oh, get out, yo
u flatterer. I’m more in danger of being pierced by your vermillion eyes, in any case”
“You rogue.”
We settled into a happy moment of admiring each other’s features but that was cut short by Ebenezer who was (I note with displeasure) not admiring either of us. He was like a man trapped in a cake factory who was choosing to eat his own feet for sustenance.
“But you were saying? What do the trousers do?” he asked.
“Oh yes. You see these are capable of time travel.”
“So you’re going back in time to kill his tailor?” Early-me asked.
We both laughed about that for quite some time. I really was delightful company.
Wiping a tear from my eye, I said, “No,no. An amusing notion but not quite. I’m going to go back before any of this was ever started.”
“What are you going to do to me?” Tempus himself asked, stirring from his stupor on the floor.
“I’m going to make sure you never exist.”
He sneered at that. The thought was a familiar one to him. “Wipe me out before I even know of you? An ingenious plan, Space. Wherever did you get the idea?”
But I was already shaking my head
“I’m not going to kill you, Tempus.”
“What then?”
“It’s an idea I got from you- I’m going to travel back to a past event and tweak things.”
He winced away at the ambiguity of my words, as did everyone else in the room. I don’t blame them. It’s not something I’m known for, nor is it a concept I enjoy or even pretend to know how to spell.
I clarified, “This fellow is trying to accomplish two things- he’s trying to kill a mercenary out of revenge and he’s here to humble a hero out of misplaced anger. Two birds with one set of trousers- an elegant solution to a horrible event. Usually I’d content myself with punching you till everything was sorted out, but you’ve twisted up the timelines far too much by now, so I’m going to have to show you how a hero saves the day.”
“And how’s that?” Tempus asked.
I pointed to Captain Space Hardcore and we both said it in unison.
“With CALAPAW!” we cried.
Tempus gazed blankly between the two of us. I paid him no mind. I opened the portal with the pants, the rift quivering behind us. I pushed Tempus’s trouserless body toward Funkworthy and told him to hold onto him for a while. But apparently shouting out ‘CALAPAW’ hadn’t answered all of Funkworthy’s questions.
“What are you going to do now?” he asked, peering pointedly at the time portal.
“Now?” I have to go save this bastard’s life. But I’m going to need just a little bit of help.”
“From whom?”
“The best of the best,” I said.
Now everyone looked puzzled. Perfect time for a dramatic exit through the fabric of space and time. I turned the knob and leapt into the time tunnel.
Chapter Thirty
Backup
* * *
What is the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results. What is that ‘thing’? Ripping a live turtle in half with your bare hands.
Hugh Kerchief
The Brief Relief of Grief
Ѻ
A fist met the dome of a metal head rendering it unconscious.
A bullet burrowed through a chromium faceplate like a train ploughing through an origami seashell.
And somewhere in the background the familiar sound of shock issued from the mouth of Professor Ellen Bathby
The hollow booms faded into the background. The sheriff twirled his guns in an elaborate figure eight and returned them to his holsters, then shot a wink at the professor.
“These metal fellers of yours are rotten shots, miss. No offense intended, of course.”
Bathby didn’t seem to take offense. She was too busy making a flummoxed face, which is understandable given the circumstances, what with the unexpected cowboy and all.
But I couldn’t afford to give her much attention, reassurance or suggestive winking. I was busy in other matters: EVE-A still needed to be seduced and this process was being expedited enormously by the addition of six separate time-displaced versions of myself who were functioning as wingmen.
The original Space Hardcore (or ‘Osh’ as I shall call him for clarity) took the materialization of myself and six of his ancestors entirely in stride, as is to be expected. Osh is a cool headed individual and he has always trusted himself in every situation, so it makes sense that he trusts eight himselves eight times as much. That’s just maths. ‘cogito ergo sum’ as the French might say. I quickly assured him that it was time travel stuff and thus complicated. He looked at the cowboy version of himself, the French Duke, the World War One pilot, the Roman centurion, the Highlander and nodded seriously.
“I’ve got to seduce this AI, fellas. Don’t cramp my bloody style.”
We all laughed at that, complimented each other’s respective styles for a few minutes and then got down to the urgent business at hand. What was our business? It was the old dual fork of violence and seduction. Each one of us was well versed in both and we took to out roles like a duck takes to duck activities. I don’t know what duck take well to. Bread consumption? Maybe they also are very good at violence and seduction, who knows? Not me. I’m no duck scientist. Who is these days? Again, not me. But I’m getting off track. What I mean to say is that we each of us fell into our roles as quickly and efficiently as a duck would take to violence and seduction, by which I mean very well, quickly and stylishly. I, Osh, the Duke and the King of Spain formed a rough and handsome circle around the AI image of EVE-A and proceeded to fire our collective musk and pick-up lines at the screen like a remorseless bombardment of sensuality. In sexual terms it was like a tactical nuclear strike and I’ve known no woman who can resist those.
On the other hand of the room and with the unspoken efficiency of the aforementioned duck, Highlander Hardcore, Sheriff Holliday, Flight Leftenant Hiddlewell and Ugk Skullcrusher rushed to the doors of the laboratory, took up fighting stances then engaged with the robotic menace of the rampaging robonauts.
It was true that at this point in our adventures previously the robots had yet to breach those particular doors but this time round one of our number (and I won’t say who) who perhaps was not as acquainted with door controls (since they were from the Palaeolithic era) and had toggled the locked doors too soon and let in the waiting hordes. It didn’t matter too much, though, since the robots that were waiting were met with a truly incalculable amount of Hardcore fisting.
As for Funkworthy? Funkworthy was handling things remarkably less well than I had thought he might.
I mean, granted I had just materialized with a gaggle of historical versions of myself thirty seconds ago and immediately seized control of the situation with nary a word of explanation, but like a seagull at an all-you-can-eat mexican buffet, he really was having a hard time digesting everything in front of him.
I looked back at him for a moment. He cast a wide-eyed look at the doorway where a strikingly handsome Neanderthal was ripping a robot in half with his bare hands, then round to the monitors where a 17th century French aristocrat was improvising a lewd sonnet to a visibly aroused sentient AI and then over at Bathby who was seemed to be similarly bemused. Why, I had even brought him a past version of himself to consult with but that seemed not to be soothing the man’s worries.
“What’s this mule doing here?” he cried as if reading my mind.
What he was doing was something unhelpful and deeply smelly in the corner of the laboratory, but I supposed that a crashing space station was a pretty stressful place for an ass to be. It was a pretty stressful place for MY ass to be, too, mind you, but it- and I- were by now very, very used to this specific peril.
In fact I was so used to this peril that I felt I could confidently zip on over to the second prong of Operation Blazing Falcon.
Out through the window which danced merrily under a
tmospheric pressure and fire was another space station in peril and aboard it was another fistfull of fabulous me-s collected from history and set to work on board the soon-to-be bombed-to-buggery station. I frowned at where I imagined it to be and put a strong and purposeful hand on my pelvis.
I twiddled the knobs of Tempus’ pants, looked out through the orange halo of fire that surrounded the station and towards that other scientific installation. I punched in the coordinates into my crotch and off I went. I had to get to a place not too far away, four minutes in the past.
I leapt.
---=◈◆⬤◆??◆⬤◆◈=---
I materialized, pleasingly, in the middle of some more doppelgangers.
“I deduce,” Detective Hardcolmes said with a flourish, “that this is the bomb device that you are searching for, chaps. It’s a compact little thing with a blinking readout of numbers that seems innocuous at first but smells like malevolent intent to this trained investigator.”
“That’s my calculator,” Professor Tempus cried from the huddle of scientists across the room. Hardcolmes looked down distastefully at it, thwacked it experimentally against the table then cast it aside.
“The future is a confusing place, sir, resplendent with a thousand bomb-like gizmos.”
I had to admit he wasn’t wrong. Not only did everything in a state-of the-art laboratory look like it could be a bomb, but also this future really was confusing, even for me and I was born in it. Here I was looking at Professor Tempus with a gaggle of my great grandfathers in tow but I was actively not pummelling him, and if that’s not a surprise then I’m a Swissman’s turnip.
The Time Trousers of Professor Tempus: A Captain Space Hardcore Adventure Page 36