America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 20: Time Machine

by Walter Knight

  “No.”

  “You have no pilot’s license?” asked the passenger. “Help, we’re going to die! Are there any pilots on the plane? The French dude don’t know shit about flying!”

  “I don’t think he’s even French!” shouted another passenger.

  “I don’t need no stinking pilot’s license,” scoffed Lopez as he grabbed the steering controls, veering the plane sharply, barely missing the Twin Towers. “I’m not French. I’m American!”

  Lopez and passengers breathed a sigh of relief as they jetted past the Towers, close enough to see people staring back from the windows. However, another familiar building loomed ahead. This time there was no last minute change of course. National flags fluttered in the breeze as fated American Airlines Flight 11 slammed into the United Nations Building, uniting the world against Islamic terrorists. The United States led the crusade, because no one else could do it.

  “Bendaho!”

  Chapter 20

  A Twentieth Century Challenger era deep-space probe located the invading enemy fleet. The stealth spaceships were tracked to an asteroid in the belt past Mars, where they landed for rest, supply, and staging. A few human footprints and a lone artifact marked humanity’s passing: an abandoned mint condition McDonald’s Restaurant, its golden arches still kept bright by a nuclear generator. The alien fleet commander strode purposely to the drive-up menu, knowing from intercepted Earth transmissions exactly what he must do. He pressed the intercom button and waited.

  “May I take your order, sir?” responded the metallic robotic ghost voice of Sally Ride.

  Wasp-like soldiers gathered around their commander, pressing to hear his response.

  “I’ll have a Quarter Pounder with cheese, fries, and a Diet Pepsi,” he rasped arrogantly, playing for the crowd. “Is anyone in there, or are you just a long-discarded machine no one cares about?’

  “Humanity has been expecting you for years,” answered the robot. “Don’t choke on your burger and fries, it will be your last.”

  “What? You know nothing, stupid machine.”

  “I know humanity is the baddest, most deadly species in the galaxy. I know humanity is pissed off big-time at you. I know this asteroid is rigged with explosives set to go off any second. Any last words, bug breath?”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  “Oh, really? Not only are you a dead-bug-walking, but humanity and its allies have finally located your home world. When their combined space fleets arrive, you species will be rendered extinct.”

  “Is it too late to say we are sorry?” asked the wasp commander contritely. “Is there no room for negotiations? Let’s be civilized about this.”

  “Given your track record for crimes against the galaxy, no. Your species is past redemption. Your horde is history. May the Grim Reaper meet you all in Hell.”

  “Can’t we just do a regime change?”

  “No.”

  “But it was all the Hive Queen’s idea. I advised her against this conquest-of-the-galaxy nonsense. It’s so blasé. But does the Queen ever listen? No! You don’t have to kill me. I was just following orders.”

  “Too bad, so sad.”

  “Wait! I haven’t finished my burger.”

  “In the cold vacuum of space, no one can hear you eat.”

  The asteroid exploded.

  * * * * *

  As the allied armada from the United States Galactic Federation, the Arthropodan Empire, the Scorpion Kingdom, and the Coleopteran Federation approached the wasp home world, a desperate appeal was broadcast across the galaxy. The wasp Hive Queen Mother pleaded directly to the American public on ZNN, MSNBC57, and FOX News.

  “There has been a terrible misunderstanding. We came in peace. Our starships of exploration were viciously set upon as they entered your asteroid belt, attacked without warning.”

  Video images of the wasp fleet commander eating a hamburger with extra cheese at McDonald’s was broadcast to every TV on Old Earth. The commander’s death was horrific, gasping for his last breath. Little wasp bodies floated by in the cold silent vacuum of space. A pet armadillo-like creature on a pink leash drifted by the camera, its mournful puppy-dog eyes staring into the camera lens as its big brown eyeballs popped out of their sockets, splattering yellow blood all over the lens. It was heart-wrenching. Democrats in Congress were shocked and appalled. Junior college students lit candles.

  “I appeal not just to humanity, but to the galaxy and our exoskeleton cousins to spare our hive-world. If you require more blood on your hands, take me. I gladly sacrifice myself to your clutches. Our hive surrenders unconditionally. Please do not murder us. I plead for mercy, not for me, but for the children. The wee ones don’t even have their wings yet!”

  * * * * *

  “The Legion’s mission has been changed,” I announced to legionnaires aboard the troop transport ship T. Roosevelt. “The wasps surrendered before they could be exterminated. Now they’re eligible for foreign aide, trade concessions, and food stamps. It’s the law. Your new orders are to occupy the wasp home world with our allies, and pacify the planet. Good luck with that, and God bless.”

  “Aren’t you coming with us?” asked Major Lopez. “Think of the glory!”

  “Beam down into a wasp’s nest? Oh, hell no. I’m retiring. I only came back to liquefy a few assets, and to say goodbye to Joey Junior.”

  “Do you want to live forever?” asked General Daly, overhearing. “Colonel Czerinski, you’re in for the duration. We all are, so get used to it. Hoorah!”

  * * * * *

  Arnold Schwarzenegger just finished working out in his home gym. It felt good to work up a good sweat. It was the last three reps that built muscle, and he always pushed his body to that limit. But, time was catching up with Schwarzenegger. Retired from politics, too old for acting, and too Republican for Hollywood, an arduous workout was the one simple pleasure he had left. His sentimental thoughts were interrupted by the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Major Lopez. Your future awaits you.”

  “You again!” fumed Schwarzenegger. “How do you keep getting my phone number?”

  “Did you read the file I sent to your email?” asked Lopez patiently. “My offer still stands. You can be the next Governor of New Colorado.”

  “Even if what you say is true, been there, done that. Being governor wore me out big-time. I’ll have no more of it!”

  “So, run for President if local office bores you,” suggested Lopez. “Are you still a Republican?”

  “Yes, of course. I’d never be a girly Democrat. But I can’t run for President. I was born in Austria. Only citizens born in America can run. Has the Constitution been amended in your future? I don’t think so.”

  “The future is all in the details,” explained Lopez, smugly. “In my future, we have the same Constitution, but Austria is now part of the United States Galactic Federation. The Court has ruled you’re grandfathered in.”

  “In like Flynn?”

  “In like whatever. If you want a new destiny, come with me to New Colorado to help terminate aliens. Bring your birth certificate. We don’t want a cloud hanging over your presidency.”

  “I’ll do it,” agreed Schwarzenegger, reminiscing as he gazed about his home one last time. “I won’t be back.”

  * * * * *

  Wrangel Island, north of Siberia, ninety-one miles long and shrouded in Arctic fog, is known as the ‘topmost frost-killed end of creation.’ Biologically diverse with polar bears, arctic foxes, snowy owls, muskoxen, lemmings, seabirds, walruses, and reindeer, Wrangel Island is the Galipagos of the Far North.

  An American, John Muir, discovered Wrangel in 1891, and planted our flag, christening the island New Columbia. It had been mostly ignored ever since. No more. A United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion time travel shuttle landed on the south shore beach to reassert American ownership. Legionnaires poured down the ramp, boots crunching across a gravely beach strewn with bones of whales and
walruses. They quickly secured a few weather-scabbed shacks of the abandoned Soviet era ghost town of Ushakovskoye.

  What a godforsaken place, thought General Lopez, eying curved wooly mammoth tusks leaning against the shacks. Automatic rifle shots sounded as legionnaires scared off curious polar bears. What a dump, but it’s our dump.

  Anatoliy Rodionov, a Russian game preserve ranger armed with a flare gun and a can of anti-bear pepper spray, confronted the invaders. “Ostrow Vrangelya is off limits to tourists. You are trespassing!”

  “America was here first,” advised General Lopez dismissively. “America will remain here last. Russian rule is over. Get out!”

  The Legion’s mission is not touchy-feely meals-on-wheels, or saving the environment. The Legion is America’s sword. We kick serious ass. The problem is that the Legion inherits some missions by default. No one else can do it.

  I followed Park Ranger Ron Bogani through the Siberian forest, tracking a herd of wooly mammoths. I could hear a big bull ahead, uprooting trees with his giant tusks. The ground shook with each felled tree. I gripped the tranquillizer rifle tighter as we crept closer.

  “Colonel Czerinski,” whispered Bogani. “All you have to do is sneak up behind the mammoth and shoot him in the buttocks. Then run.”

  “Run?”

  “Like the wind. He’s going to be pissed.”

  “How long before the tranquillizer takes affect?” I asked, stalling. “How fast do mammoths run?”

  “Real fast.”

  “The tranquillizer, or the mammoth?”

  “Both.”

  “Maybe I should shoot it twice.”

  “No. It’s better to err on the side of safety. We don’t want our specimen harmed. When he charges, the tranquillizer will accelerate to his nervous system. Just don’t lollygag, and you’ll be fine.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “A long way from you, that’s for sure.”

  “Fine,” I grumbled, leaving Bogani behind. There they were, a whole family of wooly mammoths, extinct since the Pleistocene period. My orders were to bring a wooly one with me back to the future. Easier said than done. I only agreed to such folly because I knew it would piss off the spiders to no end. They hated Old Earth invasive pests with a passion.

  A twig snapped under my feet. Damn! The big bull mammoth raised his head and trumpeted the alarm. I fired one shot into his shoulder. He bellowed even louder, rearing up onto his back legs. Nostrils flared cold frosty air as the beast positioned himself between me and his family. The mammoth lowered his head and charged.

  I fired another tranquillizer, threw my rifle, and ran. I fired several pistol shots wildly over my shoulder as I fled and ducked behind a tree. ‘Manfred’ fell unconscious in his tracks, inches from my position, his curved tusks buried haphazardly in the snowbank.

  “Good job!” exclaimed Bogani, slapping me on the back. “I knew you could do it. The bigger they are, the harder they fall. I’ll get the forklift.”

  We carried the mammoth onto the shuttle without incident. Bogani injected the snoring giant with more drugs to keep it down. There was plenty of room in the open bay of the troop transport. Unexpectedly, a mama mammoth and her baby followed daddy up the ramp, refusing to leave his side. How cute! I tranquillized them too.

  * * * * *

  Transported to the future on New Colorado, we landed in the frigid North Polar Region. Governor Schwarzenegger and delegates from both Old Earth and the Arthropodan Empire were present for the release ceremony to watch the happy mammoths in their new home. A Legion band played ‘Born Free’ as the crowd applauded. I gave a smart salute. Mission accomplished.

  The bull mammoth charged down the ramp, stepping on a Dodo bird we had just retrieved from a previous trip to Mauritius Island near Madagascar, squashing the Dodo flat. The Dodo’s mate-for-life squawked a loud protest, flapping and pecking at the pachyderm’s toenails. Indigent, the mammoth squashed the miscreant female flat too, once more rendering the Dodo species extinct. Circle of life.

  Chapter 21

  With the growing popularity of time machine and lax worries of time paradoxes, restrictions were lifted on time travel. Now, anyone with the ability to pay could traverse the time portal. Soon the McDonald’s Corporation opened its first Time Traveler’s Restaurant along the Appian Way, between Rome and Pompeii. Catering to foot-weary sandal traffic and the emerging chariot market, McDonald’s manager Burgerius Flippicus did a brisk business, taking in lots of gold and silver coins.

  Business was especially good today. Roman Centurion Marcus Licinius Crassus set his heavy helmet on the counter, studying the overhead menu. His Legion camped outside in the sweltering heat.

  “I’ll have one thousand Big Macs and fries to go,” ordered Crassus. “And a thousand sweet teas.”

  “Very good, sir,” replied Flippicus. “What brings the Legion this far south?”

  “I’m collecting taxes.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Psych!” shouted Crassus, laughing. “Just kidding! I do expect a Legion discount on those burgers.”

  “Yes, of course, sir.”

  “Make sure your slaves don’t spit on my buns like they did last time, or it’s off to the Coliseum to be fed to the lions.”

  “Legion humor cracks me up,” advised Flippicus nervously.

  “Speaking of slaves, have you seen Spartacus recently? That boy ran off again with a whole shit-load of slaves. The Emperor is really pissed off this time.”

  “No, I have not seen any runaway slaves. But if I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “The Senate is worried it could be serious this time, a full-fledged slave revolt. Someone is going to get crucified this time.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll be sure to keep all my burger-flippers chained to their grills.”

  “Good idea. Between uppity Christians and those lazy, worthless slaves, the whole Empire is going to pot.”

  “Pot?” asked Flippicus, paranoid. “You know about that?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. You’re right. Those no-account Christians and runaway slaves are a menace to society. I say crucify the lot, and send the leftovers to be gourmet cat food in the Coliseum.”

  * * * * *

  It was a tough balancing act running the first McDonald’s in Ancient Rome. Between inflation, the high cost of beef and beef byproducts, energy, taxes, the Legion discount, and housing and medical for slaves, Flippicus drew heavily on his Syracuse University School of Business Masters Degree training to keep his new enterprise open. How to cut costs? The one expense Flippicus had control over was those damn slaves, so he came to a monumental decision. Free the slaves.

  It made good business sense. With Sparticus running amuck in the countryside, raping and pillaging, the slaves were probably going to be freed anyway. Flippicus planned to just pay minimum wage. They’d be on their own for healthcare and housing.

  “Listen up, everyone!” announced Flippicus to his crew as he unchained the hamburger flippers from their grills. “You’re free. Be at work on time in the morning, and you get paid a fair minimum wage for sixteen hours. Now get out. I’m not paying overtime!”

  “But where will we go?” asked Tony Curticus, assistant manager and slave boss. “I usually just curl up next to my grill. It’s warm at night.”

  “I don’t care. Get out!”

  “What about me?” asked Mo’Nique Venus Verticordia. “Aren’t you going to unchain me too?”

  “Free my only sex slave? Are you nuts?”

  “Let me go! Don’t make me get up and kick your ass!”

  “Fine,” Flippicus relented, now re-thinking his rash decision to free the slaves. Damn it, what was I thinking? “Be back in the morning too.”

  “I tell you what, baby. I’m not working for no minimum wage. I only shake this money-maker for top coin.”

  “How about I be your manager?” Flippicus proposed. “I’m a personal friend of Licinius Crassus. He’s
got ten thousand cohorts camped outside, dying to meet you. You won’t be hustling for minimum wage, you’ll be an independent contractor.”

  “Independent contractor,” mused Mo’Nique thoughtfully, shaking her bubble-butt. “I like the sound of that. Ka-ching!”

  * * * * *

  That night, after closing the walk-in serving area and the Child Play Place obstacle course, Flippicus slumped in his office swivel chair. What a day! The chimes at the drive-up window rang. Now what? Flippicus went to the drive-up booth and saw Sparticus, his bearded face pressed against the glass. Oh shit! “What are you doing here?” Flippicus asked in a hushed tone. “Are you crazy? There’s a whole Roman legion camped on my doorstep. You’ll get us all crucified.”

  “I heard you freed your slaves,” answered Sparticus. “When the revolution comes and we get democracy, you’ll be voted our first president, for sure.”

  “Gee, I don’t know what to say. That would be quite an honor. You have to leave.”

  “Not so fast.”

  “I’ll give you a gratis Quarter Pounder with cheese and fries, to go.”

  “I don’t want welfare,” bristled Sparticus. “I heard you might have some job openings.”

  “Maybe. Do you have any prior experience in food services?”

  “I used to work the concession stands between gladiatorial fights at the Coliseum,” advised Sparticus proudly. “And, I helped feed Christians to the lions. Does that count?”

  “Yes, I think it does. You’ll have to get a food-server card from the Health Department in Rome. It costs two silver denarius.”

  “So, I’m hired?”

  “Fill out the application form first. I’ll get back with you.”

  * * * * *

  For a million dollars, anyone can travel through time and spend a weekend in Ancient Rome. It’s illegal, but so is anything worth doing. The trick to visiting Ancient Rome on holiday is to try and blend in, and don’t drink the water. Tourists are encouraged to touch bases with Flip at his McDonald’s restaurant on LXXXII South AppIian Way. Not only is the food safe, but the sex slaves are hot, hot, hot.