Magestic 3

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Got six credits,’ Keets said, handing over plastic cards with numbers on.

  The room attendant checked the cards, but then double-checked the numbers in a dated computer, an IBM PC. ‘What’s your pleasure?’ he asked as he stood.

  Keets took off his jacket and hung it up. ‘Programme 146, followed by 67.’

  ‘Ah,’ the attendant let out. He led Keets through to an inner corridor of off-white plastic walls and off-white plastic doors, and to the last door on the right. Inside, the attendant turned on a large machine looking like a soda vender, many lights flashing. When happy that it was working correctly, he turned on two computers in sequence, each IBM PC’s that sat attached to other bits if equipment, finally adjusting a large chair not unlike a dental patient’s chair. ‘You got your bio-profile, yeah?’

  Keets handed over a small disc, the disc placed into a slot.

  ‘OK, readings are … OK and ready.’ The attendant turned up the temperature. Turning to face Keets, he said, ‘OK, you know the routine.’ He nodded and left.

  Keets locked the door, and started to strip off his grubby clothes. Naked, he opened two small bottles, drinking a pink liquid followed by a green liquid, shuddering after both. Dipping his hand into a jar of whale cream, he lubricated his penis. Easing into the chair, he adjusted it back, wiping his fingers on his chest. Reaching right back with both hands, he grabbed a sophisticated helmet and placed it on, adjusting it.

  Now in the dark, he reached down to the right and found an appliance, soon easing it over the end of his penis. Leg restraints were clipped in place, soon the left arm, and finally right arm. He was ready, and heaved a sigh, slowing his breathing. After a minute, and now feeling far more relaxed, he pressed a button on the right arm rest with his right index finger.

  Music began, as well as the sounds of birds singing. Lights started to appear inside the helmet, slowly taking shape.

  A field, golden corn, the hot sun on his skin.

  He could feel it, and revelled in the sensation. The field became distinct, clear and crisp, his feet crunching corn stalks as he advanced. Now he could hear children playing in the distance, the sounds of happy young voices, a stream gurgling somewhere close by. He crested over a rise and peered down, a mown field next to a stream coming into view, dozens of naked children running around as if at a nudist beach.

  He stepped forwards, and took a big breath. The children saw him, and started to run. He ran after them.

  Thinking about oil, and oil wars, I researched the Canadian sand-tar fields and found one on Seethan territory, right at the tip of their territory. I sent the President a note, and he agreed to supply a mining crew. I agreed to supply a few engineers, and a shit load of food, soon a convoy of both Seethans and humans driving north across what would have been the Canadian border with Montana, and on another hundred miles.

  They stopped at the right GPS coordinates and made camp, scans made of the sub-surface rock strata. An area was chosen for ease of accessibility, and sand tar found almost straight away at the surface. The Seethan officials recruited and paid Seethan bachelors local to the site, and ten days later the new mine was a hive of activity. The refinement of the sand tar was basic, so we assisted with rock crushers and chemical processes, teaching as we went.

  A protest soon came from the Preethan Ambassador, the first official protest. I figured that there might be one or two more in the future, but still, I had it framed and stuck on the wall. I gave it some thought, and then contacted our Swiss guy over there. He was shocked at my suggestion, but agreed to ‘drop a hint’. He met with the Preethan War Minister, and delicately pointed out that the tar fields in the far north were large, and that … the Seether might move north, therefore less of them around the Wyoming tar pits, which were closer for the Preether.

  The War Minister smiled dangerously, and thanked our man before leaving; I figured I knew where the spring offensives would be located. I also figured that I was right, and I ordered additional human engineers for the Canadian sand oil fields, and additional equipment. Those engineers reported that tents had sprung up, despite the winter temperature, and that many Seethan bachelors were travelling north in search of well-paid work; the Canadian sand tar fields were becoming the Klondike. I suddenly realised that I had no idea where the Klondike was, so looked it up on the map. Turns out that it was the very far north west of Canada, next to Alaska, in the Yukon Territory.

  Fearing for the Seether living in tents in Canada, I sent a message to Jimmy. His reply said, ‘They have fish DNA, they don’t feel the cold as we do, and they’ll survive in harsh conditions quite happily. Some are living where the Eskimo’s used to!’

  I was relieved, but had thermal tents sent north away, hundreds of them, many big enough to house ten men, and each came with guide ropes and pegs for strong winds.

  At the embassy it was getting chilly. I was used to Canadian winters, but that was with central heating. This embassy had a oil burner, and that was it. It was time for a giant leap forwards, and for me to introduce copper pipes and central heating to the Seether. Then someone pointed out that the hotel used by the teaching staff had central heating. I uttered a few rude words, and sent Pleb out. He came back with ten men, and some copper piping, the men soon installing radiators.

  A week later, with the skies dark and grey, we had a warm embassy. Many of the rooms possessed fireplaces, and a good log fire often raged, except in Pleb’s room, where we had boarded up his fireplace for safety reasons.

  One evening, as I was sat playing Poker with some of the guards, Pleb joined in, and we all feared that it may take a while to explain the game. But, no. It seemed that the Seethan bachelors enjoyed a card game or two of an evening, and Poker was known. Well, seeing where their territories were situated, I would have been surprised if they had not come across a human pack of cards before now. I placed a data-pad on the table, so that Pleb could see which groups of cards ranked the highest, and the idiot of the family surprised us by picking up the game quickly. He had to be taught not to show his cards to us, because we were competing.

  ‘But I trust you,’ he kept repeating, missing the point.

  A few days later, one of our Seethan Government minders sat in on a game, since he figured there might be some food around. Pleb explained the game - and that the ancestors could not be trusted when playing cards, and the two of them played as a team for a few hours, hot chocolate provided for everyone. That Seethan then brought his mates along, and poker night grew. The guards complained, because their poker night had been hijacked, but we knew that we were breaking down cultural barriers by teaching the Seether to gamble. A rota of human staff members was set-up, and everyone had to take it in turns playing cards with the Seether, even our Ambassador, Henry, joining in – since he was improving relations, his remit.

  With things ticking along, and gambling being promoted, I popped back to my world to see Susan and the kids, and spent time on the carpet with the babies - either tickling them or chasing them around, and took them into the pool often. They swam like penguins, and were fast with it. I had introduced small plastic balls to the pool, and they nudged the balls with their heads, and loved the inflatable slide I brought in. It allowed them to scramble up, and to slide down at speed into the water.

  Drying them off, having tricked them out of the pool, I noticed a large fish tank in their bedroom. There were no fish other than crude plastic ones, and lots of bubbles, Susan explaining that it relaxed them, and helped them off to sleep. They were both good sleepers anyway, and a good feeding would result in six or seven hours of peace for us grown-ups. We coordinated their feeding with Selemba when she visited, and she fell into the same pattern, her eyes now changing, a pronounced small ridge visible on the top of her head. It would only be a year or two before all three of these looked the same.

  Trophy, Canada, was grey and wet in November, as was Montana on the Seethan world, but the kids kept me busy. Sandra had produced another nineteen already
, and all had been adopted by Canadian locals, most of whom were engineers or scientists working for us. When the Seether grew up, their parents would not be nudging them towards becoming vets or doctors, but astronauts.

  Meanwhile, a very long way south, there was a hive of activity on the Antarctic snow, bases being thrown up, equipment being brought in and stored, a portal being assembled in a hurry. I had assigned the task to my African President, but few of the Africans wanted to go anywhere near snow and ice, which I understood. Many Europeans and Americans were now involved, as well as Chileans, the US military taking a lead role. Africa sent the portal, and much of the food, and clever prefab units made from Wonder Plastic were being tested in the snow. Unfortunately, they had been made white, to reflected the Sun’s rays on the Moon. Our people splashed large orange numbers on them, to stop ice-mobiles crashing into them.

  Our portal operators, sat snug and warm under the snow, opened a micro-portal to a frequency synchronised with Manson, and picked up EM band signatures very close by. Manson, on the Seethan world, sent a signal south, and our new Antarctic micro-portal picked it up; we were synchronised. Summer in the Southern Hemisphere was on its way, so now was a good time to get the people out. Many cruise ships stood ready, ice-breakers and warships, the US Marines having craft that could cross either water or snow just as easily.

  We sent a signal to Peck that we would like to open the portal the next day, and he assured us that he would inform his people. And be ready.

  Keets, now stood wrapped up warm, nodded at a second man, that man stepping away across the busy promenade. Keets turned about, collected a young man with bleach-blonde hair, and set-off for the alien ship. At the first juncture he found a man with a balaclava covering his face, a dated bolt-action rifle in the man’s hand, a nod exchanged. They penetrated deeper into the tunnel, across ice and rock, being dripped on from above, and reached the crashed alien ship as boxes were being placed aboard it

  Keets patted men on the back or on the shoulder before scrambling up the ladder and into the dimly lit interior, electric lamps spread out. He checked his watch as he sat down. ‘Wires are attached, so … we just need the current now,’ he told the young man.

  ‘You reckon you can fly it, dad?’ The young man clapped his gloved hands together to stay warm.

  Keets rubbed a gloved hand over grey stubble on his chin. ‘I’ve studied the original words for twenty years, and read all books we have on flying. Before, when we had the power up and the screens alive, I read the words for a while, and it seemed straight forwards enough. You put your finger on a word or picture, and drag it onto another word or picture. If you want more power, you just push your finger up where the red and green line is. Green is off, red is powered.’

  ‘And the ice?’

  Keets stopped to consider the ice covering the cave entrance as he sat in the dim light. ‘There must be something in here to make a hole, a weapon or some type of laser.’

  ‘The game is loaded, two units. They’ll notice by morning, dad.’

  ‘Be gone by then, or be over-run by the aliens,’ Keets suggested, now rubbing a gloved hand across the screens and clearing away ice crystals. He checked his watch. ‘Two minutes to the first explosion. Promenade will get a bit chilly for a while,’ he said with a sadistic grin.

  ‘Power cables are in!’ an unseen man shouted.

  Keets moved to the doorway. ‘Get back to the cave, I might just blow myself up. Wait till I blow a hole in the damn ice.’ He slammed the outer hatch and closed the handle, a second hatch soon closed and locked. Back in the pilot’s chair, Keets waited, his son sat next to him, both now sat waiting in their bulky parkas.

  At the promenade, the blast brought down a large section of glass, people below killed and hurt, the snow pouring in as screams echoed around. An alarm sounded over the melee.

  One of Keets’s men ran out. ‘It’s the aliens, I saw them, they’re invading!’ He ran off.

  I was in Manson when the news came in. Our micro portal had picked up radio signals, news of the explosion and of an alien attack. I kicked a chair over, accidentally waking the babies.

  I lifted my phone. ‘Use knockout gas! Send in soldiers, but don’t take risks. Evacuate those you find that are in danger, leave food and supplies behind – blankets and heaters, and try and make contact with Peck.’

  Aboard the alien ship, every screen suddenly came to life, flickering.

  ‘Power surge,’ came a pleasant female voice. ‘Diverting excess power. Storing.’

  Keets smiled at his son. ‘Clever fucking ship, eh. She’s drinking up the juice. Look, power settings are climbing. That’s … about twenty percent I reckon.’

  ‘External power disengaged,’ came a voice.

  Keets tapped a screen.

  ‘Environmental controls reset,’ came the voice. ‘Standby.’

  ‘Feel it?’ Keets asked, raised an un-gloved hand. ‘Warm air from somewhere.’ He took off his other glove and lifted both hands, waving them around.

  ‘Environmental percentiles restored,’ came the voice.

  ‘Still fucking cold, lady,’ Keet’s muttered. He scanned the screens, and adjusted a setting.

  ‘More warm air,’ Keets’ son let out.

  Keets eased off his coat. ‘Right then, let’s see if we can make this fucking thing fly.’ He grabbed a towel and wiped moisture off screens for sixty seconds. Remembering the screens he had accessed twenty years earlier, he placed a finger on a graphic of the ship, and nudged it up from the straight line it rested on. The ship moved.

  ‘Can’t see outside,’ the lad complained.

  Keets smiled. ‘Watch this.’ He tapped a graphic with his finger, an image of a forward view appearing in front of them. The lad waved his hand through the holographic image. ‘OK, now to turn around.’ Keets placed a finger on a plan-view of the ship, and turned the nose around fully, 180 degrees.

  ‘You’re doing it,’ the lad gasped. ‘You’re flying it.’

  ‘Now, where would I find a laser?’ Keets studied the screens for a frustrating five minutes. ‘Maybe this thing is strong enough to break through.’ He moved the graphic forwards, and towards the ice. The ship came to a dead stop, its nose twelve inches from the ice, and would go no further. Keets moved the graphic through the ice, and beyond.

  ‘Dad, look!’ The ice started to disappear, a tunnel forming, steam erupting. ‘We should get the others.’

  ‘Not till I see what this can do.’

  ‘We said we’d take them!’

  ‘We can come back later!’ Keets barked. ‘This thing can go backwards in time, so there’s no hurry. Besides, I want to see what 1825 was like. Reckon I’d be the richest man on the planet with a ship like this, nice big plantation house, a dozen servants – all young girls.’

  The lad forced a reluctant smile, his face now bathed in green light coming from the screens.

  With the ice tunnel complete, the ship took itself through and climbed to around five hundred feet.

  ‘Feel that?’ Keets said. They waited. ‘Nothing, yet we’re in a fucking gale!’ He tapped a graphic, and slid his fingers apart on the screen, a map of this section of the Antarctic displayed. Keets moved his fingers further out, and could now see the south of Africa and parts of South America. ‘Well, boy, fancy some sunshine on a nice island?’

  The lad smiled back.

  ‘First, we need to go back a few years.’

  ‘What’s that?’ the lad asked, pointing at a flashing graphic. ‘It says something about temporal.’

  ‘That’s what we want.’ Keets leaned across. He placed one finger on the flashing graphic, and then dragged it to an upside down wedge. The wedge came to life, and Keets dragged a marker down the wedge. ‘Back a few years, then we’ll have a nose around.’ He pressed a green icon below the wedge.

  The sound of a power build-up could now be heard, then a flicker on the view screen was noticed. It was now night time outside, but still snowing.


  ‘Was that it?’ the lad asked.

  ‘Let’s go find out,’ Keets encouraged. He took the graphic of the ship, and slid it towards Africa, to South Africa. They were pinned back into their seats as the ship raced forwards, and they soon found themselves heading into an orange dawn. The ocean could be seen below, racing by, soon land, a fantastic speed being displayed. They felt the difference as they came to a dead stop, but were not flung forwards.

  ‘We’ve stopped, but … we’re not falling, like,’ the lad said.

  ‘Clever fucking ship, eh.’

  ‘What’s that?’ the lad asked, pointing at a screen.

  Keets tapped the screen. The forward view-screen was replaced with sixty small TV screens, each displaying a programme. ‘That ain’t 1825.’ He reached forwards and tapped a box, which enlarged, the rest of the boxes diminishing in size. A black newsreader was detailing an upcoming sports event. ‘Could be 1980s.’ He tapped a second box, a chat show of some sort.

  ‘Mister Silo, why are we not rewinding on the Seether world?’

  ‘What?’ Keets gasped.

  Jimmy’s image replied, ‘First, we’d have to send someone back, or many people, to adjust that timeline, and that could take six attempts. It seems obvious that whoever released the fatal flu virus did so in secret, and we would have to find them. If they got to know about us, or we got close, then they might just release it anyway. No, it would be a very hard task. Besides, however the Seether were created over there, they now exist, they are a new life form, and they have rights.’

  ‘Rights? Rights! Who is this idiot?’ Keets snarled.

  ‘Is this our world, or … what those people said, like, another world?’

  Keets stared hard at the controls. He shook his head. ‘This is their fucking world.’

  ‘How’d we get back?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Keets roared. Calmer, he said, ‘It could take weeks to study these controls, but we have the food.’