Atm

by Walter Knight

  “We are stronger if we stay together,” I tried to argue reasonably.

  “I can’t keep bailing you out. Thanks for everything, it’s been real.”

  “It appears I can’t stop you,” I replied as legionnaires pressed in to hear their fate. “No matter. We all may be stuck here if we can’t repair the shuttle. Records aren’t so good in 1955. If the authorities become suspicious, tell them you are Canadian, aye. Or say you were abducted by aliens and taken to the Bermuda Triangle. Just don’t let them know about your Fountain of Youth chips. They’ll dissect you like what happened at Roswell.”

  “I’m leaving, too,” announced Private Atm. “This situation is hopeless.”

  “You’re going nowhere,” I replied, drawing my pistol. “There is no way I’m turning an abomination like you loose on humanity. You are a walking-talking Pandora box of things that could go wrong.”

  “Like I could screw up worse than you and the CIA have already done.”

  “Only part of our plan involved military intervention,” advised Mike, stepping between me and Atm. “With Atm’s help, we can still achieve our mission. Atm can give Old Earth’s scientists the latest metallurgical engineering technology. Overnight he can advance America’s computing prowess hundreds of years.”

  “I can’t risk a robot loose on America.”

  “Atm remains completely loyal,” assured Mike. “It’s in his program to stay on mission, to advance America’s agenda.”

  “But can he be controlled? What if robots start multiplying and take over the world for themselves?”

  “You’re one paranoid dude,” answered Mike. “Only Atm can salvage this mission. He literally has it all stored in his memory chips.”

  “If your robot is so smart, how about he fixes our shuttle?” I asked.

  “It’s a wreck,” observed Atm. “No one can fix that, not without factory help. Or, do you propose we tow that junk heap to Detroit for retooling?”

  “Maybe the shuttle is beyond repair, but you can fix the time machine,” I said, pointing my pistol at Atm. “You will fix the time machine.”

  “Then what?” asked Atm. “I still won’t leave with you. I’m staying, no matter what. Kill me if you must. I don’t care.”

  “You fix the time machine, we’ll let you go,” intervened Major Lopez. “Do we have a deal?”

  I nodded. Atm agreed, immediately entering the wreckage to work on the time machine, even removing some of his own chips for replacements.

  “When he’s done, shoot him,” I ordered.

  * * * * *

  “Do you really think they’ll let you go?” asked Corporal Tonelli, volunteering to assist Atm. “Czerinski will kill you as soon as the time machine is fixed.”

  “But we had a deal,” replied Private Atm. “Has Colonel Czerinski no sense of honor?”

  “No, not really. He fears you. Humanity fears your kind.”

  “I am not a threat to humanity,” protested Atm. “I am not a threat to anyone.”

  “With your knowledge, we could make a lot of money in this time period,” speculated Tonelli. “We could hook up with Howard Hughes, build advanced airplanes, buy real estate in Vegas, baby. The sky is the limit.”

  “What about Czerinski?”

  “I’ll take care of Czerinski. Don’t worry, Atm. I’ve got your back. But, we need to plan things, like how you are going to hide in plain sight. Once we get new IDs, we should blend in fine. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. Pick a new name.”

  “How ironic,” said Atm, “What name blends best in 1955?”

  “How about Marty McFly?” joked Tonelli.

  “No. I don’t want a bug name.”

  “Bill Gates?”

  “My computer pad indicates the name Gates will already be taken by an entrepreneur of some note in the future,” answered Atm. “I want something original.”

  “Steve Jobs?”

  “Taken.”

  “Max? You can be Mad Max. It has an end-of-time ring to it.”

  “No. I will keep my first name, Adam.”

  “Sounds Biblical,” commented Tonelli, dismissively. “Let’s not risk upsetting God.”

  “Adam is perfect,” argued Atm. “Adam was the first human on Earth. I will be the first of my kind, too.”

  “I see your point,” said Tonelli, glancing uncomfortably to Heaven. “As long as God isn’t listening, and your last name isn’t Moses or Jesus, I suppose it will be okay.”

  The sky darkened as thunder rumbled far off across Lake Michigan. Not a good sign.

  “My last name will be Traidman. Adam Traidman. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? I will move to Silicon Valley and become a computer and software engineer. I will invent and trade computer chips for money. Money is as good as cash. Help me get started and blend in, and we will be rich beyond your wildest dreams.”

  “Move to San Jose?” scoffed Tonelli. “I heard about that dump. It’s going to fall into the Ocean. No way, to Jose.”

  “Trust me,” insisted Atm. “Fate reaches out and extends its hand. In 1955, computers are the future. We’ll bulldoze the orchards and make Santa Clara County a silicone paradise. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “I suppose,” shrugged Tonelli. “Vegas isn’t that far away, if we need Plan B.”

  Chapter 20

  “You better keep an eye on your boy Tonelli,” advised the spider commander. “He’s getting cozy with Atm. I don’t trust any of your subspecies Italiano wise guys.”

  “Me either,” I agreed, suspiciously scrutinizing Tonelli. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep them both on a short leash.”

  “I don’t want to be stuck on this human pestilence mud hole.”

  * * * * *

  “No one keeps me on a short leash,” grumbled Tonelli to Atm, overhearing Czerinski’s conversation with the spider commander. “As soon as you fix the time machine, we’re jumping ahead ten years.”

  “And leave them stranded?” asked Atm.

  “Czerinski can’t be trusted,” warned Tonelli. “Why try to outrun him when we can travel to another time? We can send the time machine back here after we make our escape.”

  * * * * *

  Captain Patton and Sergeant Rivers hiked to a highway and hitched a ride south on a big rig.

  “I always give servicemen a ride,” said the trucker conversationally. “That’s some uniform you boys are a wearing. Are you two paratroopers just back from Korea?”

  “Ha!” laughed Patton. “I’ll be damned if you’ll ever catch me jumping out of a perfectly good airplane. Although, you might say we dropped from the sky.”

  “How far are you going?” asked the trucker, not getting Patton’s inside joke.

  “Tecumseh, Oklahoma, if a tornado hasn’t blown it away by now,” answered Rivers.

  “I’m going with him,” added Patton. “It’s been years since I’ve seen a tornado. Then I’m on to the Golden State.”

  “Boy, if you aren’t the spitting image of a young General Patton, what with those fancy pistol grips you’re sporting,” commented the trucker. “I saw Old Blood and Guts directing traffic with the MPs once from atop a tank in France. Damnedest thing I ever saw, a general up on a tank telling us all where to go.”

  “You were in the Third Army?”

  “101st Airborne. I was lost.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Are you related to Patton, or something?”

  “Old Blood and Guts is a cousin, way far removed,” answered Patton in a melancholy tone. “A distant memory, long irrelevant, and buried by the sands of uncaring history.”

  * * * * *

  The trucker dropped Patton and Rivers off near Tecumseh, where they made their way to Rivers’ family farm. His parents, Willie and Lillian, were gracious hosts. Rubin finally coming home after being thought dead and buried in the war created quite a sensation in the small community. Friends, family, and tribe came from miles around to gawk and congratulate the
local boy who made good. He was quite a sight to see. Then there was George Patton.

  Not only did the young white man standing before them look like a younger version of the famous general in the news reels, but he carried himself like a general, strutting about, wearing that garish paratrooper uniform and brandishing those pistols. Most were too polite to ask about the pistols, but all wondered. The man could drink, and soon fit right in as the celebration began in earnest. Patton fired a shot in the air to get everyone’s attention as he staggered to the center for another speech.

  “I am leaving to join my family in California,” announced Patton formally. “Rubin Rivers and I are of a band of brothers, bound by blood, sacrifice, and courage. As you are his brothers by blood, I am your brother, too. As you are his tribe, you are my tribe, too. My family in California is well-to-do. Hell, they’re God damn rich. I shall return to Tecumseh, and when I do, I will bring seed money to build America’s first Indian casino. You will all be rich, too!”

  Everyone rushed forward to touch the general for luck. If this white man wasn’t the famous General Patton reincarnated, he damn well should be. The dude had charisma, and could hold his liquor.

  “Casino?” asked Rivers, pulling Patton off to the side. “This is 1955. Aren’t casinos still illegal, even on reservations?”

  “I’ll hire an army of lawyers to settle that unjust technicality of the law,” advised Patton smugly. “Besides, Ike is President now. That son-of-a-bitch owes me a few favors big time, and I aim to collect. You’ll get your casino, even if it takes an Executive Order!”

  Chapter 21

  Private Atm set the time machine for 1968. It was easy to fix. He just plugged in the cord. Atm pushed the bright red activation button, anticipating the best of the sixties – free love, fun in the sun, short thoughts, long hair, trying different things, smoking funny things. What he and Corporal Tonelli got was a harsh dose of reality.

  “Hands over your head, spaceman!” ordered a young butterball marine lieutenant. “I can’t believe it. After all this time waiting for nothing, you are actually for real, after all.”

  “Don’t shoot,” replied Tonelli. “We’re Americans!”

  “I know what you are,” responded the lieutenant harshly. “Drop your weapons. Do it now!”

  Atm was unarmed. Facing a dozen United States Marines, Tonelli slowly unslung his submachine gun and unbuckled his pistol belt.

  “What is this?” asked Tonelli. “We come in peace.”

  “Did you really think America would allow you to rampage through time, right here in Michigan?” sneered the lieutenant. “What were you smoking, boy?”

  “We are American citizens,” argued Atm. “I expect to be treated accordingly. We have constitutional rights.”

  “You look like Russian spies to me,” commented a corporal. “What are those uniforms? Is that what you are, a bunch of damn commie Russian spies?”

  “You are under arrest,” advised the lieutenant, still nervously pointing his rifle at them. “Drop slowly to your knees, lie down on your stomach, and place your arms out from your body, hands palms-up!”

  “We are legionnaires,” continued Tonelli. “I’m carrying ID.”

  “You’re from Quebec?” asked the corporal. “You don’t look Canadian, aye.”

  “Get down on the ground!” repeated the lieutenant, poking Tonelli with his rifle.

  “Fine, I guess I don’t need this,” replied Tonelli, slowly removing his helmet and tossing it to the side. The helmet bounced off the time machine control panel, depressing the red activation button, and sending the time machine back to 1955. The lieutenant smacked Tonelli along side his head with his rifle butt. Other marines dog-piled on Atm.

  “That stunt will cost you,” threatened the lieutenant in Tonelli’s ear as he lay semiconscious on the wet ground. “You made a big mistake messing with the United States Marine Corps.”

  * * * * *

  The time machine immediately returned to 1955, minus Tonelli and Atm. Tonelli’s helmet rolled off the control panel. I accessed the helmet camera, replaying their capture, and began planning their rescue.

  * * * * *

  The marines walked Atm and Tonelli to the lake’s edge, where they waited for chopper transport. Off in the distance, smoke rose from the horizon.

  “What’s that?” asked Atm, motioning south. “A forest fire?”

  “The Democratic National Convention,” answered the Lieutenant. “They’re rioting.”

  “That’s where we should be, instead of babysitting you,” added the corporal bitterly.

  Atm accessed historical records for the time period. Sure enough, violent peace activists and the police clashed during the presidential selection process. Democracy can be messy. Times change, times stay the same.

  “What’s to become of us?” asked Tonelli. “Can’t we make a deal?”

  “Shut up!” ordered the lieutenant, or I’ll gag you. “My orders are to bring you in for CIA interrogation.”

  “Are you really a spaceman from the future?” asked the corporal. “Who’s going to win the World Series?”

  “The Mets in 1969,” answered Tonelli. “How about placing a bet for me?”

  “Get out of town!” scoffed the corporal. “The Mets? The L-T is right, you have been smoking something.”

  “It will happen. I guarantee it.”

  “Dude, where are you from?”

  “The Bronx,” boasted Tonelli. “I’ve come too far for it all to end here in Kalamazoo, Nowhere, USA. Help me escape. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “No can do,” refused the corporal. “We don’t let Ruskie spies go, even if they are from the Bronx. When are the Cubbies going to win the World Series?”

  “Never.”

  “Damn commie.”

  * * * * *

  A vintage Vietnam War era chopper lumbered across the lake, emerging abruptly through the fog and landing on the beach. Major Lopez jerked open the side door, greeting marines over the barrel of a 50-cal Gatling gun. Saluting, the lieutenant handed over the two prisoners. Tonelli kept a poker face as he was assisted inside the chopper. Ironically, it was the cyborg whose emotions got the best of him when he saw us. “Czerinski? How did you know to be here?”

  The lieutenant hesitated, realizing something was wrong, then went for his pistol. Major Lopez dropped him with a taser, smoothly sliding him into a seat. The chopper lifted and was gone before anyone was the wiser.

  I pointed my pistol at Atm. “Sorry, but this is the end of the line for you. I can’t risk letting your kind loose on the galaxy.”

  “But I’m a loyal American,” protested Atm, backing into a corner. “I’m human. Please don’t shoot.”

  “Allowing you to live would be like a rerun of Battlestar Galactica,” I explained, cocking the hammer. “You’ll start humming that stupid cyborg music and try to take over the world with your evil twins. Everyone knows artificial intelligence must be stopped in its infancy, or it will turn on humanity.”

  “I watched Battlestar on human pestilence cable TV” added the spider commander. “I didn’t like the creepy music either.”

  “Friends don’t let friends watch cable,” bristled Major Lopez, visibly angered at the mere mention of the outlawed cable menace.

  “I hate Battlestar, too” groused the Atm. “Those babes are so violent. Don’t I get a fair trial? Guido, my friend, say something!”

  “Something.”

  “Say something else!”

  “Atm is a legionnaire,” offered Tonelli, lamely. “Legionnaires enlist to leave their past behind. We all did it. It’s the law.”

  “He went AWOL,” I accused. “You helped him. Desertion is a capital offense.”

  “But Atm fixed the time machine. You promised he could go. That was the deal. I sent the time machine back for you. No one deserted anyone. Doesn’t that at least create some goodwill?”

  The chopper veered hard right as I fired my pistol. The bullet careen
ed off a bulkhead as Atm popped open the side door. He dived through the clouds into Lake Michigan. I ordered the pilot to circle back, but Atm was gone, not a ripple left in the water, never to be found.

  * * * * *

  The lieutenant came to, groggily casting about, abruptly coming face to face with the spider commander in the pilot chair.

  “Boo!” hissed the spider commander.

  “I’ve been abducted by aliens? Please don’t probe me!”

  “You just enlisted in the United Sates Galactic Federation Foreign Legion, son,” I advised. “Be brave, be proud.”

  “What? I’m already a marine.”

  “No one is perfect. The Legion will take you in spite of your disabilities.”

  “You can’t just Shanghai me!”

  “The CIA changed time travel protocols,” I explained. “For you, there’s no going back. Tampering with history is forbidden unless there’s a world-threatening event. Not even the slightest exception is allowed.”

  “But I will be missed,” insisted the lieutenant.

  “Sorry, you know too much. You’ve already seen your first alien. America will just have to get along with one less second lieutenant. We’re going back to New Colorado, where you’ll get to meet lots more aliens. What’s your name, son?”

  “Oliver North.”

  “I suggest you change your name. All recruits are entitled to that option.”

  “I will keep my name, thank you very much.”

  “Welcome to the Legion, Oliver,” I said, handing him his enlistment contract. “You’re taking Atm’s place on the roster. Don’t forget to read the fine print. You’re in for the duration, just like all of us. It’s the law.”

  Chapter 22

  Adam Traidman cleaned up well. He approached Max Maxfield, CEO of Bank of America, about financing proposals to develop and build a talking automatic teller machine. Traidman provided blueprint designs for revolutionary silicon-based micro-computer chips, a standardized computer operating system, cell phones and towers, satellite technology, fiber optic relays, Starbucks coffee, thirty-one new flavors of ice cream, and cable TV.