The Fires Of Hell

by Craig Robertson

  “Is there someone else I should check in with to find out who you are?” I asked in frustration.

  Again, with the leaning in and mumbling for a bit too long. The silly thought addressed my query. “No.”

  “No? Just plain bleeping no? That’s not unclear or obfuscating at all,” I snapped.

  Again, the thought. “No, it is not.”

  “Who are you? And don’t even think of leaning in and mumbling about it. You don’t want to piss me off more than I already am pissed off. Just answer my simple question.”

  “Which question was the simple one?” asked the platter.

  “I only posed one, about your identities. Hello.”

  “So, the word chain centered on urine was a declarative and not a query?” The stupid silly thought was getting on my last nerve.

  “It was rhetorical, if I might speed matters along,” remarked Al. Bless him.

  “Ah,” surmised the platter. “In your frame of reference, I am a silver-plated platter and my associate is a silly thought, though not a very big one, I’m afraid.”

  “You’re afraid he’s only a small silly thought or you’re afraid because he’s a small silly thought?” asked Stingray.

  “Both and neither,” they responded jointly.

  “Thank you,” said Stingray with a cordial smile.

  Where was my blaster to blow my head off when I needed it?

  Al sensed my growing frustration. “In your frame of reference, who are you?”

  “Ah,” said the thought, “that is an excellent and difficult question to answer.”

  “Take a flying leap,” I said. “We got time.”

  The platter gasped. “You do? Here? Ah, may I see or experience it?”

  “What the he … what are you talking about?” I asked.

  “You possess time. We are unfamiliar with it. If you could see it clear to display it to us, we’d be better.”

  “Better what?” I asked.

  “Better us.” I think that was the thought. Couldn’t say for sure because my hands covered my face by then.

  “Jon Ryan,” said the platter with authority, “we realize you are disjointed here; out of sorts, as you might say. We regret this status deeply. Equally so, we are less happy that the AIs are enfranchised here. We saw no clear path leading in alternate directions. We apologize, whatever that is, in advance for anyone’s suffering, whatever that is. To answer your question, Al, in this reality, I am a major benefactor. My associate is not a silly thought””

  “No,” remarked the thought with some show of pride, “I’m an afterthought.”

  “Okay, baby steps,” I replied. “Where is here, this reality?” Maybe I shouldn’t have peppered in the snark, but remember, I was pissed, and somewhere along the line I lost that stale donut. I was kind of hangry.

  “In your frame of reference, this is an alternate or parallel universe.” That was the platter, because Mr. Afterthought was never that specific about anything.

  “Hey, knock me over with a feather. You gave me a concise, cogent response.”

  “We are sorry, whatever that is,” said the thought. “There are no feathers in this universe. May we offer to strike you with something else, say a fancy?”

  “Again, rhetorical only, new friends,” responded Al. I was sure glad he was along on this one.

  “Whatever that is,” said the micro-thought.

  I hated afterthoughts already, since I was a fighter pilot, but I was determined then and there to hate them much more in the future, assuming there ever was one.

  “Okay. The voice of reason will speak,” I said loudly and hotly raising an arm. “I want—”

  “We are more sorry or sorrier, whichever is more but not most. The voice of reason was banished during our last election cycle. Now we listen only to our own inner voices and the opinions of the underinformed.”

  Was it possible to strangle and kill an afterthought?

  “Been there done that,” I scoffed. “Good luck with that. Let me know just how badly it goes. I will speak now as if I was that lost voice, as it’s clearly needed,” I said deflating ever so much. “The facts are, as I understand them, that I and my AI crew are not in our home universe, but in a different one?”

  “Quite different,” remarked Stingray.

  “And you are a local benefactor, and he’s a native thought? Are there people here too in Locoland?”

  “My apologies. I’m a major benefactor. If a local one heard your characterization, they’d both become unnerved.”

  I rubbed my forehead with two fingers. “Are there any, I don’t know, solid being, any animals, sentient or not?”

  “We did have an Unknowable. That’s like your I don’t know, we think. In any case, we decided to ignore the unknowable, so he’s overlooked.” To be clear, it was the platter annoying me now.

  “Bottom line. Where’s my vessel and can she sail, and can we leave?”

  “Aren’t those bottom lines?” asked the thought. “I once knew a Where, though not why, and while we don’t have a Sail, we can sail. She’s old and she’s reclusive, but she’s a real team player.”

  “What? No mind-disintegrating brain farts about leaving? How will you pass the time?” I pretty much shouted that one.

  “Leaving is gone, but Leave is well. She’s been on a protracted vacation.” To be honest, I couldn’t care less which moron said that.

  “Where is the physical object that is Stingray, my spaceship, her vessel?” I pointed to the lady with the parasol.

  “You are pointing at your spacecraft,” replied the platter.

  “No, I’m pointing at a pretty lady in a fancy dress with a parasol,” I replied.

  “Easy, sailor,” said Al. “Don’t go getting any ideas about my girl.”

  “Since clear answers and guided communication are not possible, I will save myself the pain and just say it. If that duded up fellow and I get inside that petite woman, we can sail … lea … go home?”

  “Really, pilot. Another remark like that concerning my wife, and I will be forced to challenge you to a duel.”

  “Can it, Al. You are probably the only other sentient in this universe who knows what I mean.”

  “Sorry, did you just ask us to go home?” asked the platter.

  “No. Sorry, whatever that is. I want us to go home.”

  “If all of us went to your home,” puzzled the thought, “we would not be going home but elsewhere.”

  “I meant just the three of us want to go home,” I responded.

  “Ah,” said the platter. “Which three?”

  “The non-idio … Myself, and the two AIs.” KISS principle. Keep it simple.

  “It might be possible. We have never tried to voyage to your universe …”

  “Please don’t,” I said in a rush.

  “That is fine by us,” said the thought.

  “Preferable actually,” agreed the platter.

  “So, is it impossible for us to return to our home universe?”

  “Or die trying,” replied the thought.

  Man, I do so hate when death comes from an afterthought.

  “Fine,” I said commandingly. “You two whatever, benefactor and thought, leave our presence at once and never return.”

  “We are sorry, Jon Ryan. We tried to make our dimension interpretable for you but seem to have fallen well short. We wished you more comfortable than not,” said the metal one.

  “Or knot. Don’t forget him,” added the useless thought.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t say well short is standing over there and didn’t fall, and knot isn’t here because he’s all tied up,” I snarked. Remember, hangry.

  “That is silly. Well Short isn’t standing over there. He couldn’t make it here today.”

  “Not enough notice?” I asked because I wanted to annoy them as much as they were me.

  The platter tilted. “That or insufficient motivation. We never know for certain. As to Knot, we find your remark suspi
ciously disrespectful.”

  “So, the couple playing hide the salami on their front lawn, that’s your idea of making me feel at home?”

  The SOBs leaned in and mumbled to each other again. Finally, one said, “We recall no tube meat.”

  “It’s an expression for sexual intercourse,” chimed in Al.

  “Ah, yes. We understand your species practices that quite a bit, so we hoped you’d be comforted with the familiar image.”

  “It was my idea to have them on the front lawn,” said you know who. “He wanted to place them in the sleep room.” He giggled like an idiot.

  “And the elephant and the duck? What’s with that?”

  “We believe you like animals,” replied Platter.

  “But what’s with the duck? He sounded like he was reading me the riot act.”

  The platter looked down. “That duck has always been a problem.”

  “Okay, here’s the drill, I mean plan. You two objects leave my presence now and never return. Frankly, I am sick of you.” Not bridge building, but they had earned my wrath.

  “An afterthought never returns,” said the platter.

  “But a platter can always be returned.” Yeah, that was the thought.

  I hated them so.

  They walked backward away a few steps and were gone. I was so relieved. But I hadto admit my mind went there. I speculated that a platter could turn around, but never an afterthought, and that’s why they walked backward. If we didn’t make it home by climbing under Stingray’s hooped skirt, I sure hope we all burned to charred dust in intense flames.

  EIGHTEEN

  If I were ever to be asked how Al and I entered Stingray and I extended my probes to control her back to our universe, I will not answer the jerk posing the query. In fact, if anyone asked, I’d knock them out. We made the trip quickly and without incident. If the chance presented itself to repeat the episode or die a horrific death, I’d choose death. Enough said.

  Once we were in normal space, I took a while to gain my wits about me and perform detailed diagnostic tests on Al, Stingray, and myself. I wanted any trace of the hellacious universe expunged and any damage caused by being there repaired. That took the better part of a week. I was pleased to uncover and correct multiple glitches in Stingray’s linguistic pathways. Al had been programmed long ago to have something called retroflective introspection. Seriously, don’t ask what that was or why he needed it, but something in the trips or that cursed dimensional coalescence altered his RFO badly. The damage was so severe I had to not only delete and restore the entire program, I actually had to replace the hardware responsible for that function. But in the end, we were all none the worse for wear.

  I had arranged to contact Harhoff via an untraceable relay once Plinius was destroyed. I needed to ascertain the impact of the planet’s destruction and to plan our next move. Back in proper repair, I made the call. He didn’t answer. That was worrisome in the extreme. Either the relay was compromised, or Harhoff had been exposed. I shuddered to think just how miserably they’d torture and kill an Adamant guilty of his level of treason. Over the next few days, I made multiple attempts to contact him, all to no avail. I grew deeply concerned.

  I was about to give up on the effort and try to locate him some way else, when the dude answered the darn phone.

  “Who is this?” Harhoff hissed angrily.

  “Did somebody get up on the wrong side of the dog bed this morning?”

  “I will hunt you down and kill you,” he said with amazing conviction.

  “Remind me to never blow up a planet for you again. Talk about an ungrateful cur.”

  “Blow up a planet? What are you babbling about? Who is this?”

  “You are Group Captain Harhoff. I am General Jon Ryan. We are pleased to meet each other. There, are you wagging your stumpy tail now?”

  “Wha … who? I’m Flank Wedge Commander Harhoff, and Jon Ryan is dead. He’s long dead.”

  “This will be officially not funny in three … two … one. Not funny now. Stop joking me.”

  “Look, whoever you are, you’re in more trouble than you can possibly imagine. Jon Ryan was an enemy of the empire. He assassinated the late great emperor and singlehandedly blew up the armory planet …”

  “Plinius. I know. I was there. Look, one more bullshit response, and I’m hanging up, and you can win your rebellion all by your lonesome.”

  “You certainly are as flippant and disrespectful as Jon Ryan was said to be.”

  “Did you get a brain transplant in the last two days? You are looking at the holo right now, aren’t you? Dude, we talked three days ago, just before I went dark to do the deed to Plinius. You even told me you’d find me a case of musto if I actually pulled it off.”

  “Jon? But you can’t be Jon. What service did you perform for whom on Rush to Glory? Be quick about your response.”

  “If it’ll make you happy. I was a pseudo-Descore to Fuffefer, who ordered you to throw me out a hatch, and you did with unmistakable pleasure.”

  “Jon? Can it really be you?”

  “You know you’re worse than an afterthought.”

  “I know. Don't you just hate them?”

  “Don’t get me started. Not in the mood.”

  “But Jon, that was thirteen years ago. You blew up Plinius thirteen years ago. I thought you were caught in the explosion. Wh … where have you been?”

  “Harhoff, remember my reference to not funny a second ago? It still applies.”

  “Check your chronometer, and have your AI compare it to local standard time.”

  “Fine, but when she tells me you’re full of shit, I’m beating it out of—”

  “He is correct, Form. The current date conforms to a point in time thirteen years forward of the date we bled the hostile universe while inside the planet Plinius.”

  Well buff my butt with concertina wire. It had to be true. Stingray was completely incapable of playing a part in a practical joke, or even a regular joke.

  “Where have you been? What happened?”

  “Seriously, it’s been three days for us. We mixed the two universes, the annihilation began, we had trouble outrunning it, and we were tossed into the worst universe in existence. The locals annoyed the hell out of me for maybe a couple hours, and we came right back.”

  “I’m no scientist, but I think that explains it. Traversing to and from that universe must have caused a referential time dilation.”

  “You mean a relativistic time dilation, don’t you?”

  “No, I mean what I said. You must to have heard of Gassuffious’s theory of reference?”

  “Einstein was there first. He named it relativity.”

  “Is this what you wish to argue about now?” he asked. “I mean, if it is, I’ll have a seat and pour a tall drink.”

  “You’re more annoying than an afterthought, and that is saying a bunch, chump bait.”

  “Are you well? How about your ship and crew?”

  “We’re fine. I had to scrub real hard to get that screwy universe out, but we’re fine. So, since it’s thirteen years later, how’s the revolution going?”

  He was quiet a few moments too long. Then he spoke slowly. “It’s going slowly. Slower than I’d hoped, but then again, there’s no template for something on this scale.”

  “So toppling Bestiormax and atomizing Plinius weren’t the keys to success? You know how depressing it is to hear that, right?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “But I might?”

  “No, there has been change. In a galaxy we call Kalfarth, around six billion light-years from here, there has been an open break with the Secure Council and their new puppet emperor. It was a direct result of the destabilization you and I seeded.”

  “It was?”

  “The council came down on them very hard. They resisted a few months, but never really stood a chance.”

  “Let me guess. Every canovir living at the time of the uprising is no longer alive.�
�

  He waited a second before speaking. “Pretty much. A few planets were spared, one’s that were fanatically loyal to the emperor. But otherwise the galaxy was 'resettled' with a new population.”

  “I’m glad I missed the show.”

  “You are. It was gruesome. I wish I could dry-clean my brain. We were forced to watch the images over and over as object lessons in what disloyalty resulted in.”

  “Well, that’s a few billion fewer Adamant to kill off. Look for the silver lining of each rain cloud.”

  “Jon, my vision is not to wantonly slaughter my race. I wish to redirect them.”

  “Me too, but to likely a different, warmer location.”

  He shook his head. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t need you.”

  “I have that effect on allies.” I beamed.

  “There is no doubt in my mind you do.”

  “How about EJ? Any signs of him?”

  “Not a one. Whatever he’s up to he’s very discrete.”

  “He’s somewhere plotting no good, that’s for sure. Hey, I hope he’s been conducting an intense search for me. It’d serve the jerk-ass right.”

  “I’d ask what a jerk ass is, but common sense tells me I shouldn’t. Let me fill you in on the other major shifts instead. As I said, the Secure Council did what it traditionally does when one imperial line ends. They woke up some blue-blooded drunkard and slapped a crown on his mangy, empty head. That stupid, boorish, ill-tempered individual is named Palawent. He has a longer official name now, but the day before he was selected he was simply Palawent.

  “His main move since taking the crown has been to be sober less of the time. It is the one thing he’s good at, otherwise he’s a complete write-off. A bit less cruel than his predecessor, but give him time. He’s still new to power. There were rumblings across the empire after we took out Bestiormax, but no head of steam developed. Grumbles faded to whispers before dying out.”

  “I thought you were so sure the plan would work.”

  “I still do. But what is lacking is a stable, motivated resistance. There is no force or persons for potential dissenters to rally around. Once a sustained opposing force is established, the empire will crumble like stale bread.”