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

by Walter Knight

  “No!” insisted Lopez immediately.

  “I’ve got blisters on my feet already,” I argued. “Don’t worry, we’ll just be borrowing it. I always wanted to drive a souped-up four-horse chariot, just like the one Charlton Heston had in Ben Hur.”

  Not hesitating, I jumped up into the golden chariot. Instantly I heard music in my head, Bad boyz, bad boyz, whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do when they come for you? Bad boyz, bad boyz... I looked around, wondering what tune the lyrics were from.

  “What?” asked Lopez, climbing aboard. “Did you say something?”

  Bad boyz, bad boyz...

  “I can’t get an old tune from antiquity out of my head.”

  “It’s a little late to be having second thoughts,” admonished Lopez, slapping the buttocks of the lead horse. “Roman law is severe in regard to chariot thieves. Giddyup!”

  ‘Whatcha gonna do when they come for you?’

  “Oh shit!” I exclaimed, realizing there might be a problem when the horse went lame in response to police whistles. I immediately stuck the horse with a cattle prod. It reared up, racing toward the Coliseum, a place we’d probably end up anyway if we got caught. “Shit, shit, shit!”

  Cohorts seemed to come out from everywhere, chasing us in their chariots close behind. Lopez said a prayer, crossing himself. Christians cheered as I fired my nine-millimeter pistol and threw a grenade, toppling the lead cohort chariot in pursuit. A small fire started as a mob of Christians rushed out into the street to loot the bodies of downed cohorts and bystanders. Plebes and slaves broke into wine and sword shops. Order disintegrated as more fires were set. We got away, but Rome burned that night, and it wasn’t Emperor Nero’s fault. Who knew?

  Chapter 25

  I always wanted to see the Pyramids in person, so I time-traveled to Roman Egypt during the rule of Queen Cleopatra. I was assured the Pyramids were fireproof, so there wouldn’t be a repeat of that accidental fire in Rome. I knocked on the front door of the Queen’s Nile Palace. Her guards eyed me suspiciously.

  “I’m a Phoenician here to see the Queen on business,” I announced. “Seriously, she’s expecting me.”

  “Not likely, Roman,” replied the officer in charge gruffly. “The Queen is not to be disturbed. Be gone, or we’ll throw you to the crocs.”

  “I came a long way to bring Queen Cleopatra a gift,” I pressed, handing the guard a birthday wrapped box with ribbon and bow on top. “If Her Majesty changes her mind, I’ll be at the Starbucks next door.”

  * * * * *

  Intrigued by the gaily wrapped box, Queen Cleopatra cautiously opened her present. One could never be too careful. Roman assassins were known to send vipers through the mail. But this was no viper. Long and pliable, the large phallic had attachments, and an on-off switch. Following illustrated written directions, she instantly deduced the device’s purpose, and all five speeds, as it began to vibrate. Oh Hathor, Goddess of Love!

  * * * * *

  A platoon of palace guards met me at Starbucks, summoning me to meet Queen Cleopatra. They briskly escorted me back to the Palace at sword point. Queen Cleopatra was far more beautiful than I had ever imagined, much hotter than Liz Taylor’s movie depiction. Her sturdy child-bearing hips were to die for, which I might, if not careful.

  “You are not Roman,” accused Queen Cleopatra, seated regally on her thrown. “Who are you?”

  “Joey R. Czerinski.”

  “You are Polish? You have traveled far.”

  “You know of Poles?” I asked incredulously.

  “I am Queen of Egypt. There is little I do not know. I even have spies in the Roman Senate. Of course I know of Poland. I also know of you tourists from the future.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “All the time you people come to gawk and take pictures. Do you think I enjoy being the subject of your trashy tabloids? I throw you pushy ugly American tourists to the crocodiles all the time.”

  “I can see your point, but you allow a Starbucks next door?”

  “Egypt founded Starbucks long ago. We export to the future, to America. I hope to see America someday, to see New York City and the Goddess of the Harbor, and to see Las Vegas and the magnificent Luxor Hotel Resort Casino.”

  “I’d be happy to take you,” I offered innocently.

  “My, aren’t you the smooth world-traveling talker? A Queen does not date or travel on holiday with grubby tourists. Remember your place, or you’ll be swimming in the Nile with serpents.”

  “Did you enjoy your present?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “Several times,” gushed Queen Cleopatra, momentarily losing her composure as she caressed the box. “The phallic put Julius Caesar and that studly Marc Antony to shame. Do you have more batteries?”

  “For a price, I can ship you a lifetime supply of batteries,” I offered lewdly. “Are you sure you don’t date tourists?”

  “Positive. Do not try my patience. I also want more video games. I confess an addiction to your clever internet games.”

  “For a generous payment of gold, I’ll hook you up.”

  “Thank you. But, I am being rude with such mercenary talk. You’re a tourist. Would you like a tour of the Pyramids? Everyone does.”

  “I’d love to see the Sphinx. I heard there was a secret passage in its toe. Is that true?”

  “Yes,” answered Queen Cleopatra graciously. “The tunnel leads down to a command center where we talk by radio to the aliens who helped us build the Pyramids.”

  “Aliens?”

  “Shhh, don’t tell anyone. It’s our little secret. Everyone thinks ten thousand slaves built the Pyramids. Ha! That would be the day. My slaves keep running off to Israel, the ungrateful wretches. I hope the Romans crucify the lot, they’re nothing but trouble. Julius promised he would.”

  “That’s disturbing in so many ways.”

  “One more thing before you go off on your tour,” advised Queen Cleopatra as armed guards entered the room. “Strip naked!”

  “What?” I asked optimistically. “You reconsidered?”

  “Do not play the fool, or that is how you will be treated. I want your concealed pistol, and any other futuristic artifacts you may carry. Then you may leave.”

  * * * * *

  Rebuffed by Queen Cleopatra, but waiving my warranty guaranteeing a happy Egyptian vacation, I gained permission to time travel to the time of the Pharaohs and of Moses, a man of the cloth. The Exodus was in full swing when I arrived. Moses led the freed Jewish slaves east, following an angel high in the sky.

  The angel appeared by day to be metallic, leaving a long vapor trail. By night, the angel appeared as a bright star, the fiery glow of its jet engines visible for miles. The angel was an Air Force drone contracted to follow Moses for a CNN documentary on all things Biblical. Alarmed, I spoke to Moses about the prudence of following the drone. “Drones fly in circles,” I warned. “You won’t get anywhere at this rate.”

  “We will follow God’s messenger to the sea,” advised Moses, irritated. “I’m the one who talked to God, not you. I know what I’m doing.”

  “How will you cross?”

  “I’ve got an ace up my sleeve when we get there,” answered Moses, keeping his cards close to his chest. “That’s for me and God to know, and you not to know.”

  “Hoping for a miracle?”

  “Let’s just say preparations have been made.”

  “This I have to see,” I replied dubiously, deciding to tag along.

  * * * * *

  It was a tough trek through the desert, especially walking in circles. Finally I let Moses borrow my compass, putting us on a direct route to the Red Sea. Still, the Children of Israel were having a hard time of it in the blistering heat.

  I noticed many were barefoot. Sympathetic to their plight, I phoned the Time Travel Center and ordered express delivery by UPS of ten thousand sandals from Guido Tonelli’s sandal shop. At five shekels a pair, we made a killing, even throwing in Neutrogena Suns
creen for free. Afterward, the Exodus made good time all the way to the sea.

  On the Red Sea beach, Nike windsurf boards had been carefully laid out by the thousands. It was truly a modern miracle during ancient times, or whatever. Instinctively, the freed laves sailed across the calm water, just ahead of the advancing Egyptian army.

  “Kill them all!” ordered Pharaoh, enraged at seeing the Jews walking on water. “Attack!”

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” replied one of Pharaoh’s generals. “I can’t swim.”

  “They’re getting away! After them!”

  “This is not going to end well.”

  “Doubting Thomas,” admonished Pharaoh, drawing his sword. “Charge!”

  The slaves quickly crossed the Red Sea. Once ashore, they taunted their Egyptian enemy.

  “May the fleas of a thousand camels nest in your armpits!”

  “May the great camel of Giza leave a present in your shorts!”

  “May a love-starved fruit fly molest your sister’s nectarines!”

  “May a desert weirdo lower his figs into your mother’s soup!”

  Although wary of traversing the water, the Jewish taunts became just too much for the infuriated Egyptians. They assembled discarded windsurf boards and set off across the sea. Alarmed, Moses looked up to Heaven, saying a prayer to God. “Lord, I know the Children of Israel are the Chosen People, but next time, choose someone else!”

  God’s response was immediate. The sky darkened. Thunder rumbled. The sea became choppy as clouds parted and the bright ray of God’s light shined down on the rickety Egyptian armada. Suddenly, jet fighter bombers of the Israeli Air Force swooped down on the hapless Egyptian navy, strafing and sinking every windsurf board. Those that were not killed outright or drowned, were eaten by sharks. The sea became blood red, giving rise to the name Red Sea that has lasted to modern times.

  An agent of Mossad onshore gave the drowning Egyptians the one-fingered salute as he yelled an Israeli challenge. “Punks! Never mess with a Jew in the desert! He’ll kill you!”

  The entire event was recorded by the drone, to be used for a New Age Bible, a work in progress soon to be in print by Penumbra Publishing. Also, to this day, windsurfing has prevailed as an Israeli national sport, far surpassing Euro-trash soccer.

  “That was a thing of beauty,” I commented, standing next to Moses. “I had my doubts, but you pulled it off. What next? More miracles?”

  “We go north,” answered Moses.

  “Might I suggest turning right? You’ll have all that Saudi oil.”

  “Oil, schmoil. What's that tar good for? Oil is a black curse upon the land. We go north. Lebanese cedar will make us rich.”

  “Fine, be that way. Don't say I didn't tell you so.”

  Chapter 26

  My travel agent tipped me off that Julius Caesar would be having a latte at the Forum Starbucks. The restaurant manager arranged for me to be Caesar’s waiter. It was the thrill of a lifetime. “Your latte is on the house,” I advised. “It’s such an honor serving you, Emperor.”

  “Don’t let the Senate hear you call me that,” snickered Caesar. “Democrats, they’re never happy, always causing trouble.”

  “We have the same problem in America with those same lefties.”

  “I thought your accent sounded to be of Britannia. I spent considerable time up there subduing the Picts, vicious little blue-painted devils. You hail from America? Where exactly is that?”

  “Beyond the Pillars of Hercules, west across the Atlantic. America is a fine rich land of purple mountain majesties and amber waves of grain.”

  “Wheat? Sounds like Egypt. Can’t say I care much for the place, except for the hot babes. The Queen is my girlfriend, you know.”

  “You mentioned problems with the Senate,” I whispered discreetly. “There is a plot in the Senate, led by Brutus, to assassinate you.”

  Marcus Junius Brutus? I think of him as a son. Don’t tell Cleo, but his mother is my other girlfriend.”

  “Brutus will stab you on the Senate floor. Others will take turns twisting the blade deeper into your back.”

  “Those bastards! What proof have you?”

  “Shakespeare,” I explained, handing Caesar a copy of Shakespeare’s Greatest Works, along with a Beretta. “Take this gun for protection. Kill them all when the Brotherhood of Assassins makes their move. Make my day.”

  After I explained how to fire the Beretta, Caesar and I became quite good friends. Sensing I was homesick, he offered to finance an expedition of ships to discover America.

  “If you agree to guide my ships, we’ll call Rome’s newest colony Czerinskiland.”

  “That won’t work. It’s already called America. My home is the United States of America.”

  “Nonsense! Rome imposes its Imperial Latin Stamp everywhere my legions march. The New World will be called the United States of Czerinski. Do not argue with me, I’m the Emperor.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Will there be much opposition in America?”

  “A few Aztecs, but they haven’t even invented the wheel. They have lots of gold, I might add.”

  “Outstanding! Do this right, Czerinski, and I’ll make you governor.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * * * *

  I sailed with Admiral Tony Tiberius, guiding his five galleys down the African coast to the Canary Islands, where we caught trade winds west to America. The crew, accustomed to hugging the shoreline of the smooth Mediterranean, grew more nervous each day. I encouraged the sailors to stay the course, reminding them of their share of Aztec gold at journey’s end.

  “I do not like this,” worried Admiral Tiberius. “It’s common knowledge that if you sail too far into the Atlantic, your ship will drop off the edge.”

  “Superstitious yarns told to scare old women and children,” I scoffed dismissively. “I’ve been across the ocean many times. It’s safe, except for hurricanes and sea monsters in the Bermuda Triangle.”

  “Sea monsters?” asked a passing crewman, ready to mutiny. “I did not sign on for sea monsters!”

  “Chain that fool to an oar,” ordered Admiral Tiberius. “Let the lash temper his mouth for next time.”

  “Someone get a rope for the Polack!” called another mutinous sailor in the back row.

  “Who said that?” demanded Admiral Tiberius, pacing between the oarsmen. “Increase the rowing count!”

  The lash echoed throughout the ship as a slave beat faster on a drum. She ship’s speed doubled, but the frantic pace was interrupted by a warning from the lookout. “Whitewater ahead! Neptune save us, it’s the edge of the world!”

  Sure enough, for as far as the eye could see, a great waterfall consumed the Atlantic. Fish jumped high into the air, trying to escape. Oh shit!

  “I told you so!” exclaimed Admiral Tiberius, striking me with his whip. “I’ll have you strung up to the mast!”

  I shot Admiral Tiberius with my nine-millimeter, but he was right. It was the edge of the world, and we were all going to fall off and die. Not good.

  “Row faster!” I ordered, taking command after watching the other ships drop off the edge. “Put your backs into it!”

  As we were swept to our deaths, an observation drone hovering above lowered a cable and lifted me to safety. “Rescues cost extra,” admonished a metallic voice over the intercom from the Time Travel Center. “Why can’t you seem to stay out of trouble?”

  “Did you see that?” I asked, mesmerized by the massive spectacle below. “It really is the edge of the world. How is that possible?”

  “We’re looking into the matter.”

  “I want my money back. Time travel is not supposed to be this dangerous!”

  “There are no refunds. Shut up and enjoy the rest of your vacation. You’re going to Pompeii next.”

  “Say what?”

  “Have a nice day.”

  * * * * *

  A week before Mount Vesuvius was sched
uled to erupt and destroy Pompeii, my tour group gathered at Pizza Hut for pizza and salad bar. A pretty serving girl brought Canadian pizza with extra goat cheese. I smoothly struck up a conversation. “Did you know the volcano is going to erupt next week?” I asked.

  “The manager says customers are always correct, but clearly you are touched in the head,” she answered flirtatiously.

  “Sometimes I wrestle with my demons,” I conceded, realizing my question was not so smooth. “Other times, we just hug and dance.”

  “Is that so? Are you married?”

  “Not yet, but I’m looking.”

  “Why is a good looking patrician like you not married?”

  “When the god Jupiter promised man that good and obedient wives would be found in all corners of the world, he made the world round.”

  “The world is round? I don’t think so.”

  “Your manager, Joe Bonanno, is a personal friend of mine,” I mentioned, changing the subject. “He says he’s closing Pizza Hut next week for the volcano explosion, and leaving town. I assume you are leaving too?”

  “Where would I go?”

  “Anywhere but here,” I reasoned. “You will die if you stay.”

  “I am a slave. I am not allowed to leave.”

  “I will talk to Joe. I’m sure he wants all Pizza Hut employees and slaves to get out safe.”

  “Are you and Mr. Bonanno members of some sort of doomsday cult? It’s against the law. The Emperor feeds cultists to the lions.”

  “Trust me. I know what I’m talking about. Bonanno will let you go.”

  “I hate Mr. Bonanno. He takes up too much space in the air.”

  “You are very beautiful,” I said, trying to be smooth again. “What is your name?”

  “Maria. Don’t be getting any ideas. I’m not joining your cult.”