by YS Pascal
“That was one of the first of Benedict’s stellar successes. He had many more, both as a Mingferplatoi Academy trainee, and later as a full catascope. He seemed to thrive on the excitement of chasing and capturing Zygfed’s enemies and returning to the applause of his peers and superiors. With a universe full of predators, there was always a battle to win, and Benedict was always out front, leading the charge to victory.
“I, on the other hand, did better at … administration. With time, our paths diverged and we grew apart. I came back down to Earth, graduated Harvard like Poppy and Gramps, and became a catascope for Earth Core. Benedict, as a star, was sent to the stars. So I was truly surprised one day when he M-fanned into Earth Core and invited me for a drink at his mother’s home on the Florida Coast.
“We Ergaled to a small bungalow overlooking the Gulf and sat on the porch, cooled by a soft breeze and a hard drink. Benedict had come to pick up his mother and take her to Nejinsen for neural regeneration treatments. She had, though still only in her sixties, begun to show signs of what he said was Alzheimer’s Disease.
“I did wonder how the Omega Archon would react. Escorting non-citizens like his mother to Zyga was not in the Zygfed playbook. But Benedict didn’t care. He figured he had built enough capital with His Highness that he could punt on this one. I wished them well and told him I’d stop by and pay them a visit next week when I’d be in Zyga for the annual Satellite Chiefs meeting.
“Unfortunately, Benedict’s mother died two days after she got to Nejinsen. No one would tell him what really happened. Of course, he immediately applied for her anastasis, but those all have to go through the Omega Archon, and His Highness was not pleased that Benedict had so cavalierly violated Zygan regulations and brought a non-subject to Zyga for medical treatment.”
“I can imagine,” I noted, thinking of my own “difficult” encounters with our ruler.
“Benedict got two years in Hell.”
I gasped. “Two years!” Two minutes was agony, two years would be … I shook my head.
Gary nodded. “Exactly. He’d just gotten out—with the time loop, of course—when I arrived the next day for my promised visit. But the time he’d served had visibly changed him. He was no longer the arrogant hero, the poster boy of Zygfed.
“I found him pale and stone-faced in his Zygan flat, wrapping up his mother’s belongings and micro-ing them into a small container. His years of passion for and loyalty to Zygfed had, in a relative instant, turned into bitter anger and the seeds of hatred.”
Spud looked sober. “The Omega Archon never approved her anastasis?”
Gary shook his head. “No. And, Benedict was offered a desk job at Zygint Central—the better to keep an eye on you, my dear—for a few years, with an empty promise that someday he might regain a post on the front lines. In truth, his days as a revered Zygfed hero were over. Along with any chances he’d be initiated into the Sentinel Corps.”
I looked up at Gary and began slowly. “Um, as somebody who’s felt the Omega Archon’s wrath myself, wasn’t his sentence a little steep?”
“His Highness,” Gary said pointedly, “is not known for mercy.”
“No. But …” Two years? For someone who was so valuable to Zygint?
Gary sighed. “I believe His Highness believes that discipline keeps the ship running tightly. And it is, after all, his ship.”
“You have still not told us about Level Three,” reminded Spud.
Gary paused again. He nodded, his eyes narrowing. “It was the next day… I had been through all the exhibit suites at the conference and was completely holo-ed out, so I stopped by Benedict’s flat to see how he was holding up. Unquestionably, it was clear he wasn’t himself. In fact, I could see right through him—literally.
“‘What the hell?’ I’d said to him, stunned.
“’Far from it,’ he returned with a wan smile.
“I reached out a hand which slid right through his transparent body. ‘Where are you?’
“‘Off-level,’ was his cryptic answer. ‘Come join me.’
“‘What are you talking about?’ I was totally confused.
“‘Pea-brain!’ he answered with a hint of a laugh.
“‘Now look, if you’re going to insult me …’
“He did laugh. ‘P-b-r-a-n-e. Proof that the Miletic Theory is correct.’
“Something from my Mingfeplatoi uploads was triggered in my memory. An obscure reference from our course in exocosmology. As I was trying to remember, Benedict M-fanned and stood before me in the palpable flesh. ‘Gary, Gary, Gary. You always were weak in physics. Here, I’ll show you, take my hand. Let’s take a ride to Level Three.’
“‘Level Three? You’re completely out of your mind!’ I backed away, but he grabbed my hand firmly. I felt a chill, and couldn’t escape his grip. He took out his Ergal and, with his free thumb, made a few quick adjustments that I hadn’t seen anyone do before and was unable to follow. Activated it, and—
“It felt like an explosion, as if every part of my body flew into a million microscopic pieces in all directions. I tried to scream, but to no avail. My mouth, my tongue, my vocal cords had long left me, lost in space and time, and …”
Gary paused once more, his moist eyes gazing off into the distance, focused on a vision that Spud and I couldn’t view. I noted that he’d started seeming unusually pale … and tired. After a few seconds, Gary cleared his throat and continued in a soft voice.
“The vibrations were not unpleasant. I had a sense that Benedict was there, somewhere, his hand still clasped in mine. I also became aware of another entity close to us for barely a second. We resonated for a moment and then I was pulled away, crushed by an infinite weight, a googol of G’s. I landed, gasping, on my back in the middle of Benedict’s flat. Alone.
“I never saw Benedict again. Thinking about it over the years, I’ve come to think maybe our brief companion on the other side had been Benedict’s mother. Since I didn’t hear from him, I figured he’d found a way to really get to Level Three to be close to her and then decided to stay.
“Then, four years ago, the guerilla attacks began from galaxies M81 and M82. We didn’t know it was Benedict at first, not until the Battle of the Cepheids in Orion. Then it became clear that he had returned to our universe and was leading a revolt against the Omega Archon.”
“And the rest is history,” Spud finished without a trace of irony.
I shivered. “Level Three sounds just god-awful.”
Gary nodded. “I certainly wasn’t prepared for the transition.”
“That is the point, indeed,” said Spud mysteriously, sucking on one of Gary’s pens. He sat up and faced his boss. “Clearly, you are implying that, for some reason, Benedict was cast out from the Garden of Eden, perhaps by the Omega Archon, and now is fighting so he can get back in.”
“Yes, that’s my theory,” Gary agreed. “But as long as His Highness rules the roost, the door to heaven is apparently locked. So…”
Spud shook his head. “I don’t buy it.”
We both stared at him.
“He wouldn’t have said p-brane if he’d been in Level Three,” Spud attempted to explain. He pulled out his Ergal cell phone and opened it. “I shall have to ponder this one for a while.”
Nodding at me, he said, “Come on, Rush. We had best be going.”
I didn’t hide my sarcasm. “The game is afoot?”
“No,” Spud said absently, as he guided me to the door. “A neutrino.” He looked at both of us with a sharp gaze, adding, “The game is a neutrino. And time is running out.”
Chapter 9
It’s about Time
Spud was due back on the set as soon as we returned to Burbank and I didn’t have time to ask him what he’d meant by his curious remark. I had an appointment with Chell’s make-up chair in ten minutes, so I quickly made a pit stop in my trailer and then slipped on my Tara Guard vinyl spacesuit. I took a moment to pull up information on neutrinos on my Ergal, and ref
reshed my memory from our Mingferplatoi Physics uploads.
Neutrinos are tiny subatomic particles, like protons and electrons, that can pass through matter without being detected or causing visible harm. They are apparently created by certain types of nuclear reactions, like those in the sun. The fact is, millions of neutrinos from our sun apparently safely pass through our bodies every day. How neutrinos related to Gary’s story about Benedict, however, I couldn’t for the life of me imagine. I would have to wait until I could pick Spud’s brain and find out what he’d been theorizing.
Chell was in a chatty mood as he worked his make-up brushes and regaled me with tales of his weekend in Palm Springs. Offering up a polite “really?” at appropriate intervals, I closed my eyes and tried to puzzle out how Benedict’s concern for his mother had led him to humiliation, exile, and murder.
“You’re wasting your energy.”
Kris. My eyes popped open to see my “adorable” fifteen-year-old sister, her long blonde curls framing her delicate features, standing next to us wearing, as always, the latest fashions. I raised my hand in a brief wave and, choosing not to play, returned an unenthusiastic, “Hey.”
“Hello, Miss Kris,” Chell said, sounding delighted. “When are you going to grace my chair again?”
Kris giggled and gave Chell a quick hug. “I’ve got one more week on the Disney, and then we start shooting Mid Kids again next month.”
The series about a group of “adorable” middle schoolers had been renewed for a third season this fall on the Toon Town channel. We still hadn’t heard if Bulwark was going to be on the fall schedule for a second year…
Judging from his smile, Chell apparently would be moving his make-up case to Toon Town for the summer. I turned to Kris and ventured, “What animal are you on this movie?”
“A kitty, how did you guess?”
Naturally. I shrugged. “So, what’s up?”
“Elijah and I are going to Vegas with the band next week for the Vox Pop Awards,” Kris bubbled. Elijah DiFiero, lead singer for Mettle, was Kris’s latest boyfriend—and, to Connie’s alarm, was almost eighteen. He’d produced Kris’s latest pop single, “Kiss Me,” that, incomprehensibly, had made it to number six on the Billboard Top 40 last month.
Kris’s voice dropped to a whisper, as she handed me a brightly-wrapped package. “I promised Andi I’d get her something. Seeing as you, uh, can get to Maryland much easier than me …”
I sighed and took the package. “Sure. I’ll give it to her. Um, good luck in Vegas.”
“Of course!” Kris bounced over to give Chell another quick hug, and gushed at the world, “See you soon!” as she pranced away.
Not my favorite sister? No, duh.
Besides, the music Spud and I make is light-years better. He plays a mean guitar, and I’m no slouch on keyboards, and our songs really have a message. We’re almost ready to release our own CD. We just have to find a name for our band. I’ve suggested “The Musgrave Ritual”, but Spud is really hot for “Saxon Violins”. Frankly, I’ll go along with any name that doesn’t have the stench of Eurotechno.
“Beautiful.”
I jumped. Chell’s hands were on my shoulders and his face above mine, grinning from ear to ear. Admiring his handiwork in the mirror in front of us, he repeated, “Beautiful.”
Had to admit, I did look a lot more presentable. If I didn’t despise wearing make-up then maybe my social life would turn much more exciting. Assuming I ever actually had the time to hook up. I eased out of the chair and turned to thank Chell once again. “You’re a pro.”
Chell’s smile was genuine as he responded, “And you are beautiful. Someday you’ll believe it.”
I patted his arm and returned a rueful smile, “Someday, Chell, it won’t matter any more.”
* * *
We wrapped the last scene for the season by 8:30 that night—still not knowing if we’d have a Season 2. Our ratings had been inching up in the last few weeks. And Spud’s Q scores, audience appeal measures, are through the roof. I’m not as into the show biz scene as my sister Kris, but it does annoy me a little that Spud’s starting to get more fan mail than me.
Our wrap party was set for the Vista Rock on Sunset. Simon Carter, the sumptuous Captain Warner on Bulwark, was co-hosting the fete to celebrate his latest divorce, and much of LA’s TV royalty was expected to attend. “Wouldn’t hurt either of us to meet some new people,” I said to Spud as we climbed into my trailer.
He plopped down on the divan, rolling his eyes.
“Oh, come on. Brand’ll be there,” I teased.
“Ha.” Sneering, he pulled out and lit a cigarette and offered me one from the pack. “Besides, I have quite a bit of thinking to do.”
I declined, my irritation showing. “Why don’t you just directly inject the nicotine? Save yourself the trouble of smoking.”
Spud blew a few rings and smiled. “’Tisn’t trouble. It gives me something to do with my mouth.” He grinned. “You should try it.”
“Ick. Bad breath and yellow teeth?” I made a face.
“In any case, I only smoke when I’m grappling with a problem.”
“Yeah, right,” I snorted. “Speaking of problems, you ready to talk about our little conversation with Gary?”
He shook his head. “But there is light …” He stood up, heading for the trailer door, and smiled at me. “I shall pay you a visit in Malibu tomorrow morning so that we may talk.”
“Not too early,” I threw back with a wink.
* * *
It was sunrise by the time I Ergaled us home to my oceanside bungalow from the wrap party. Me and my Zoom cruiser, that is. I wasn’t going to drive from Hollywood to Malibu being so … tired. I collapsed on the futon in my living room and fell asleep to the sounds of the crashing surf outside my patio doors.
Being so ‘tired’, I foolishly didn’t bother to set the alarm code, nor did I wake up when the Andarts entered my house. I did finally wake up when the stun ray immobilized me, but, after that, of course, no matter how hard I struggled, I couldn’t open my eyelids to see the intruders. I had to use my other senses, one of which was alerting me that, boy, did I need to pee.
I was able to figure out that the Andarts were speaking an Ursan dialect of some sort, perhaps from the planets around the stars Merak or Dubhe in the “Big Dipper”. I couldn’t get to my Ergal, abandoned oh-so-close to me on the coffee table, so I only recognized a few words. Most of them profane. The Andarts seemed intent on searching through every nook and cranny of my bungalow, but, to my relief, didn’t seem too interested in me. For now. What were they going to do with me after they finished their scavenger hunt, however? In this stunned condition, I couldn’t grab my Ergal—or any other weapon. I had no way to protect myself, to fight back.
I tried desperately to battle the stun and move an external nerve or muscle, to no avail. My breaths were already shallow, driven only by my diaphragm, and now became even more rapid due to my growing anxiety. Desperate to burst free so I could breathe, I struggled even harder to break out of the stun, but my efforts were in vain. I felt my throat closing up, crushed by an increasing pressure on my chest. I had to escape or I was certain I would die.
And then I remembered John’s words, calming me that day years ago in the emergency room. “I am by your side, do not be afraid. Patience is the champion’s best tool.” Soothing myself with the memory of his voice, I was able to regain control of my heart and my mind once again. Thank you, John, I heard myself thinking. I miss you so…
Not finding what they were seeking, the Andarts finally returned to the living room and, I’m assuming from the few words of Ursan I could understand, tried to decide what to do with me. One Andart was apparently ready to throw me into the wild, wild surf, but, fortunately, the second was able to convince him to pocket my Ergal and tractor me to their ship.
On board their vessel, I soon found myself a prisoner in a small chamber, which blessedly had a small chamber-pot. Just before loc
king me in alone, a furry paw reached around the door and unstunned me, to my, and my bladder’s, great relief. Tara Guard and her television ilk never had to worry about bodily functions. I wish I could be so lucky.
After, uh, finishing, I looked around the makeshift cell. The writing on the wall panels was definitely Ursan. I recognized words in several Ursan languages and dialects that I had uploaded at Mingferplatoi. I tapped my pockets, and scanned the room—nope, my Ergal was still MIA. At least I could get my bearings with my training uploads, as minimal as they had been.
Okay, my first order of business, Catascope 101, was the 5 W’s: where (am I), who (kidnapped me), which (planet or species), when (Era or eon), and what (the heck will get me out of here!).
‘Where’ was obviously an Ursan ship. ‘Who’ and ‘Which’ were Ursan Andarts (note for later: Benedict Andarts?). ‘When’? I looked out the porthole. We seemed to be in deep space, but I could identify no familiar landmarks. Place and time unknown. And ‘what’? “What indeed,” as Spud would say.
“Why not ask ‘why’?” those of you with diligent English teachers could reasonably question. Our pedagogue mentors always taught us that ‘why’ was irrelevant. Don’t waste your time with motivations in the field. Focus on the controllable reality. I remember getting that advice when I was with Spud and Sarion on a training mission near Centauri Gamma in 1832, fleeing five Centaurians who resembled charging bulls and were moo-vingly irate that my accidentally misfired laser blast had burned their barn. The words “controllable reality” then seemed like an oxymoron. Or, as Sarion teased me during our debrief, an oxen-moron. Yes, everybody groaned.
Restless, I checked the porthole again. I still couldn’t tell much from the star patterns except that we had now gone into hyperdrive, and were someplace I’d never been before. Which accounted for 99.99999 percent of the Universe, unfortunately.