Getting to Know the Captain

"Sorry, no we can't take the Jeep. We should be arriving inside a lecture hall, so I think getting the Jeep out of there would be a problem. Can't take guns, either. We're already have a potential problem with campus security, since we're using fake IDs without any forged database entries. If a guard asks to scan your ID, you're already in trouble. Just stick them on your jacket and hope no one notices you."

"Wait-no guns?" Doc asks, concerned. "What if the Captain here causes trouble?"

"I won't cause no trouble. I'm happy just to be getting off this ship," Mark replies.

"Take this," Dr. Ritenrong produces a small flashlight-like device. "It's a pain-gun, like the hover sentries use. They're legal on campus grounds, as they're non-lethal self-defense weapons. Don't worry, Veronica will pick us up as soon as we arrive, and you won't have to go unarmed for long."

"What about those old flint pistols? We are going to a lecture on 19th century culture, right? Maybe I'm brining one for show-and-tell."

"I suppose you could get away with it if it were bagged and tagged. The instant the bomb-sniffers smell gunpowder, though, you're gonna get stopped by security. It is a space station, you know, so they're really strict about explosives. Kinda defeats the purpose if you're using it to control Mark."

"Look, I'm not gonna try to escape. If we're goin' to a space station, where the heck is there for me to go, anyway?" Mark pleas.

"How can we trust you? Hell, you shot me the first time we met," Doc says.

"Hey, now, we hadn't met when I shot you. All I knew was that some greasy snake oil salesman and his dumb, hulking brother had beat the shit out of my men, broke a prisoner out of jail, and locked up the sheriff and judge. Hell, you threw a flash-bang at me and my lieutenants. If you hadn't been such a poor shot, I'd probably be dead."

"I set that off between us on purpose. I was hoping to scare you off," Doc argues.

"Son, not even a hundred injuns hootin' and hollerin' can scare me off a target."

Doc stares the man down. His ego is thick as a concrete wall. But ego is too transparent a barrier to hide emotions behind. Mark is scarred. He doesn't know what to make of this futuristic world. He's been a prisoner on this ship, despite the luxuries, and he wants to be free again. He'll run.

"He's gonna run," Doc says aloud.

"How do you know that?" asks Dr. Ritenrong.

"I can sense it. He's lying."

"Can you? Interesting." Steve is wandering off in though.

"Hey! I ain't no damn liar, boy," Mark insists, angrily.

"You might not think you are, but you are. You'll run. I can see the fear behind your eyes."

Mark is getting angry. "I ain't no liar and I ain't no coward, neither!" He stands up quickly. The hover sentry's red light starts flashing. He sits back down.

"What do we do with him?" Doc asks.

"Can we put him in stasis?" Steve replies.

Doc answers. "Not for three hundred years, we can't. After just fifty years there's a good chance of ice crystals forming in muscles or even brain tissue. After 360 we'll have to get him out of there with an ice scraper."

"We'll have to take him with us, then." Dr. Ritenrong

"Hey! I ain't gonna run!" Mark yells.

"Can we tie him up or something?" Doc asks.

"Too suspicious. We don't want to draw attention to ourselves. The instant we show up we're going to be on the station's sensors as extra life forms feeding off their life support. They're going to be looking for stowaways as soon as someone notices. If you're dragging someone around by a rope or shackles or even an electric tether they're going to notice, and getting you out of the brig will be difficult at best, especially since I don't have any credentials there, either. You're just going to have to stick close to him and make liberal use of that pain gun."

Mark continues to be upset. "Ain't you listenin' to me? There's no where for me to go. I've never even been to a university or a space station. If we gotta lay low from the guards, that's fine with me, too. I don't want to end up in no jail on a different damned space ship. I ain't gonna betray you."

Doc responds. "You better not. We're the only way you're going to get out of this mess you've gotten yourself into. Why the hell did you jump off Chesapeake, anyway?"

Mark thinks for a minute. "I don't know. I was curious. I saw the stars and Earth from above that day. I've spent many a night in the wilderness, looking up at the stars. Never did I think I'd be among them looking down. I knew you all were coming back here, and I wanted to see it again. It's a good thing I did, too, 'cause otherwise I'd have drowned or burned with the rest of the Chesapeake. So I'm sorry if I seem untrustworthy to you. It's because you've tried to kill me on more than one occasion already. Well, maybe just the once, but damned if that don't spark some animosity."

"Well, you did try to kill us first." Doc says.

"Maybe. But I ain't tryin' to kill you now, and I know I ain't gonna get anywhere if I don't do what I'm told."

"And what is it you want? Where do you want to go?" Dr. Ritenrong asks.

"Hell, I don't know. Excitement, adventure, and really wild things sounds pretty good to me. 'If you do not know where you are going, any road will get you there.'"

"Lewis Carroll," Doc responds. "Wait. That won't be written for another thirty years."

"I know, I read it last week. I thought it would be more like the other one I read, Alice Does Dallas. Boy, was I wrong."

"You're a pig," spits Veronica, who has been quietly studying the way the humans were interacting.

"I suppose I am, sweetheart. What can I say? I like me some pussy."

She scoffs at him. "I don't think I can work with these men, professor."

"Well, you'll have three hundred sixty years without them. It's getting late, now, and we've got to be ready to go at 9 am tomorrow. Get some rest, gentlemen."

Veronica

Life on-board the Younger Brother Pear has become less relaxed now that Mark Daniels roams its halls. He is at times congenial, but more often than not he can be a real jerk. He's a fast learner, but he doesn't have much interest in anything other than guns and shooting things. He ties up the holobooths playing Shoot-Out! into the wee hours of the night. Neither Doc nor Thunderhorse like playing with him, not only because he always wins, but he's also a real prick about it.

Around the ship he's very resentful of the hover sentry that perpetually follows him. He's not allowed below Deck Two unless there's a medical emergency. The time he spends out of the holobooth he spends on the Observation deck staring at the Earth. He's found taking a dip in the pond to be a favorite activity, since the Hover Sentry doesn't like to follow him over the water. Not that it can't, it's just that its risk assessment algorithms cause it to stay on shore and fly around to the edge closest to Daniels. He often plays with the thing by staying in the center of the pond and swimming in small enough circles to cause it to zip around to the other side of the pond and back. Sometimes he pretends to shoot at it.

Although he's a prisoner, Mark has never had it so good. He says this often. Free hot, exotic meals, alcoholic beverages of any nature and quantity, showers everyday, movies, books, video games, air conditioning; hell, even flushing toilets are a luxury to him. The one thing it lacks however...

"Women!" Mark proclaims over a frosty, cold beer.

"Excuse me?" Doc asks, looking up from his datapad. He's been studying the ship's cargo manifest.

"The only place this thing needs is women!" he slurs.

Thunderhorse snorts at him. "You would not know what to do with one."

"Says you, injun." His insult is lost on Thunderhorse. He tries harder. "The only girl you was ever with is that old mare of yours."

Doc has been coaching Thunderhorse on how to take an insult without killing anyone. "No, you are the horse fucker!" It's not going well.

"Settle down, you two," Doc says, calmly.

"Hey, what say we take the shuttle down to the surface and get us some girls. How 'bout it? A night in New York? Or Pariee?"

Doc admits a trip to the surface would do well to break the monotony of being on the ship. But since the autopilot is gone, no one, not even Steve, can pilot the Pu. "Sorry, I don't think we're going anywhere anytime soon."

"So we just sit up here and yank our chains?"

"'Fraid so."

"Where's that whore-machine, anyway? The Maid? I think I'll have a little time with her."

Thunderhorse rockets to his feet, "You will not have her! She is mine."

Mark stands up too. The hover sentry's red alert lights begin to flash, but no sirens yet. "She's tired of you. She told me so. She said you ain't worth the ten dollars you paid her."

"She will not lie with you, maggot!" Thunderhorse yells. The second sentry can be seen circling the hallway outside the galley, red light flashing.

Doc interjects. "She can't talk. She can't feel. She's a machine, and a broken one at that. Now, both of you, sit down and drink you damn beer."

Mark and Thunderhorse stare at each other intently. The hover sentry picks up on the tension and stress levels and sounds a single police-siren "WHOOP" alert. The second sentry responds and enters the galley.

Mark has learned of the effectiveness of tazers already, and backs down. Thunderhorse smiles in percieved victory, but also backs off and sits down when the sentries turn their attention to him.

"Come to think of it," Doc ponders, "I haven't seen the Maid in a while."

"She was not ghost-fucking last night," Thunderhorse confirms.

"It's cause she's sick of your ugly-" Mark doesn't get to finish his sentence before Thunderhorse leaps at him. Mark slides away from the bar and jumps from the stool, ready.

The hover sentries "WHOOP" in sudden alert. They fly between the two and synchronously zap them both. The two yelp in pain and try to flee to opposite sides of the galley as the two drones use their pain-inducing microwave emitters to drive them apart. Eventually, they both hit the floor. Thunderhorse takes a table and chairs with him. The sentries let up.

Dr. Ritenrong enters the galley.

"What the hell's going on up here?"

"He started it!" yells Mark.

"They're at each other's throats, Steve. We need something to do before they both kill each other out of boredom," Doc explains.

"Well, we've got something now. I've completed the analysis of the pipe. It's time-line course hasn't been altered much by Judge Olden's interference. We need to return it to the surface and jump in."

Dr. Ritenrong takes Mark's stool as he joins Doc at the bar. Thunderhorse and Daniels collect themselves and join the others.

"How do we get to the surface without the Autopilot?" Doc asks. "I thought you didn't know how to fly the shuttle."

"I don't, but Veronica does."

Mark's eyes light up. "Who-"

Just then, the Maid walks into the galley. She's no longer wearing her maid outfit, but is instead wearing the autopilot's flight suit.

She walks confidently up to the men. Her bow-legged wobble is gone. "I'm Veronica," she introduces herself, extending her hand towards Doc.

He shakes it. "Doc. Pleased to meet you."

"My maiden! You have returned to me!" exclaims Thunderhorse, extending his arms to embrace her. She decks him. Hard. "Oof!" he cries.

"I'm not your maiden, oaf." She hits him again. Thunderhorse is dizzy and punch drunk. "That's for taking advantage of me when I was broken."

Mark is laughing his ass off. She hits him, too.

"Hey! What was that for?!" he cries, holding his bruising cheek.

"I heard what you said about me. I'm not your pleasure-bot. I'm no one's pleasure bot." She crosses her arms and leans up against the bar.

"So, professor," Doc stammers, "what exactly is going on?"

"Oh, I reprogrammed the Maid. It turns out her cranial unit has about three thousand times the capacity of the Autopilot. So I re-tooled her extremities, wiped her memory, re-installed the basic operating systems and plugged in the autopilot programming. She took to it quite quickly. I think her genetic system reconfiguration hardware has reached a state of semi-virtual sentience."

"... in English?" Doc asks.

"The memory wipe that cleared her programming burns revealed some dormant coding. She's become sentient. A living, feeling, emotional being in all outward respects."

"Well, happy birthday!" Doc toasts, raising his glass. Steve raises his, too, and Mark, cautiously. They drink.

"This kind of thing happens all the time," continues Dr. Ritenrong. "When you reach a certain threshold of computing capacity and genetic algorithms, it's only a matter of time before the machine finds a configuration that brings it to life, as it were. All it takes is a sufficiently complex program. This ship is that and then some."

Doc is still a bit curious. "So, if your memory was wiped, how do you remember Thunderhorse's, er..."

"Raping me?" Veronica finishes his sentence matter-of-factly.

"Well..."

"My brain works on an input-interrogation learning system. Feed it information, and it generates questions relating to that information, which prompts more input, and another layer of questioning. When I was in the Professor's lab learning the ships systems, I began to question why I was learning it. When I got the answer back, I questioned my own existence."

"A sure sign of sentience," chimes the Professor.

"I asked the computer 'Why am I here?' It's response was to detail the history of my manufacture, my time with the Berkley crew, being purchased by Dr. Ritenrong, and even Thunderhorse. When I saw what was done to me, I got angry."

"Micropneumatics and Angry do not mix well," Dr. Ritenrong interjects once again. "Just ask the computer terminal in my lab."

"Sorry about that," Veronica apologizes.

"It's okay, it's your job to fix those kinds of things."

"What if I don't want to?" she asks, hands on hips.

"Well, we're going to have to work something out, now, won't we. This ship needs a pilot, and you're the most qualified being in this sector of the galaxy, in this era at least. The job offers free room and board, free meals or power-core charging as the case may be, free medical or repairs, free entertainment, and of course, excitement, adventure, and really wild things."

"And if I don't want the job?" she asks.

"Then you're free to go to Earth and try to fit in with the humans. You won't be able to find a power outlet for another 70 years at least."

"So I have no choice?"

"You do have a choice. Staying with us and helping out is the better, more logical choice. You are no longer the android Maid, you are Veronica Autopilot: Living being. You are free to explore and expand your talents. You are free to do as you please. Just don't forget we're here to help you, and you're here to help us. Agreed?"

Veronica smiles. "Agreed." She shakes Dr. Ritenrong's hand.

"Welcome aboard," he says. "Now. Gentlemen. And lady. We have a task to perform. Tomorrow we will be returning to Earth to return the corncob pipe to its proper place in time. We will then be traveling through it into the year 2199. We should be arriving at the Orbital College of Arts and Sciences. Veronica, after dropping us off on the surface, you are to return to the Younger Brother Pear and follow the flight plan I've already laid out. Once you reach the outer Oort cloud, power down. We'll meet you back here in orbit in about three hundred sixty years."

"Hell of a way to start an existence, Steve." She says.

"Sorry, but the asteroid fields are in flux too much through the 22nd century because of the war. I can't guarantee any wormholes through that era. It's safer if you just hide beyond the heliopause for a while."

"Gentlemen, once Veronica picks us up again, we'll be on our way to Milwaukee. We've got to determine why Alyss Valia does not exist on this time line."

"Alice who?" Mark asks, his interest piquing at the female name.

"She's a pilot. We need to recruit her."

"Excuse me, but that's my job now. Why do we need another pilot?" Veronica asks, loudly.

"Er, well..." Steve stops to think. "You're still learning, and even with you we're shorthanded on crew. We need all the help we can get. We also need an experienced pilot to help us stop the warship that will cause the destruction of the galaxy in the distant future. As a matter of fact, we need the best pilot in all history to do it. And that is Alyss Valia."

"But she doesn't exist..." Doc says.

"Yes, well, we'll have to fix that." Dr. Ritenrong takes a drink as he tries to suppress a worried look from his face. "Anyway, we may have some trouble getting the pipe back to it's proper place in history."

"How's that?" Doc asks.

"First of all, there's Captain Daniels here. We can't take the hover sentries to Earth so we'll have to escort him ourselves. Once we're on Earth, we don't want Daniels to escape us, so Doc will escort him into the pipe, to the future. Thunderhorse and I will return the pipe to the Brown family, then join you in the future. We should only be a few hours behind you, Doc, so just stay put until we arrive. Here, you'll need these."

Dr. Ritenrong produces a couple of cards from his lab coat. He hands them both to Doc.
One has a 3D holographic picture of himself on it, and the other has Mark's face. They read "OUSA Student ID."

"Student ID's. If anyone asks, you're attending a lecture on 19th century American society given by a Professor Zanathos Schoefield," Steve explains. "Any questions?"

Time and Time Again

"Welcome aboard the Younger Brother Pear, Judge Olden," Doc says, wryly.

"How did we get here? What kind of devil lovin' magic are you using on me?" The Judge demands, angry and indignant.

"You fell into a hole in your own jacket pocket. If I were you I'd get back in there, pronto."

"What the hell kinda fairy-tale nonsense is that? Why are you here? What is this place?" The Judge refuses to look around and examine his situation, instead insisting that Doc bend to his will and explain everything for him.

Captain Daniels, however, is actively examining everything he can. Thunderhorse keeps a close eye on him as he moves slowly about the room, indulging his curiosities. "Is that the War for Independance?" he asks, pointing at the television.

Thunderhorse shakes his head. "No, it's the American Revolution."

Captain Daniels looks at him, confused, probably more-so by the translator than Thunderhorse's comment.

Doc deals with the Judge, playing off the old man's religious superstitions. "This is Purgatory. This ship sails the stars endlessly between Heaven and Earth, with the occasional stop at Hell. Now either you get back into the jacket, or we let you off at our leisure."

The Judge is visibly shaken by this. He doesn't want to believe it, but he can't help but fear that it's the truth. Just then, Captain Daniels touches the window and the shutters dissolve, revealing the stars and Earth beyond. Judge Olden turns as the Captain gasps. The Judge's jaw drops.

"Who...who are you?" the Judge asks.

"I'm Saint Peter, and now is not your time. Get back in the jacket."

The Judge stares at him, not moving. The Captain furrows his brows at him.

Doc rests his hand on his pistol. "Please. You don't have much time."

The Judge picks up his jacket and starts to put it on.

"No, no, just reach into the pocket as deep as you can," Doc corrects him.

The Judge obeys. He pulls the sleeve back off and turns the inner pocket out. He reaches into it and slips away. The jacket falls onto the floor.

Doc turns to Captain Daniels. "And you. You've got to return to your own time."

"My own time?" asks Captain Daniels.

"Uh, yes. It is not your time to be here in the afterlife. Get yourself back to Earth."

Captain Daniels moves slowly towards the coat. Doc picks it up off the floor and offers it to him. Daniels takes it from him, cautiously.

"Saint Peter, eh?" Captain Daniels is evidently not a religious man. Doc gets the feeling he's not going for it.

"Yeah. Now get going."

Captain Daniels examines the jacket carefully. He looks into the pocket. "Guess I'll see you later, Pete." He winks at Doc before reaching in and disappearing.

Doc wipes his brow and takes a seat. Thunderhorse sits back down, too, hypnotized once again by the TV.

Dr. Ritenrong calls in on the intercom. "Hey, I just got two intruder alerts. Did they show up?"

Doc calls back at the ceiling. "Yes, they showed up."

"Did you get them back in the jacket?"

"Sure did."

"Both of them?"

"...yes."

"Hmm."

"What?"

"In clearing the security alerts just now, I see we've still got a guest. He's in Room 7."

Doc and Thunderhorse turn to each other. Thunderhorse grabs his ax as Doc jumps up from the couch. They both run out into the hallway.

Dr. Ritenrong meets them at the elevator. He leads the way towards the room in question.

"I don't understand. I put them both in the jacket with plenty of time to spare. They should both be on the Chesapeake. How did this happen?" Doc asks.

"I don't know," Dr. Ritenrong responds. "It's entirely inexplicable. We've got to expect these kinds of things, you know."

They stop outside Room 7, where a hover sentry that wasn't there earlier is now stationed. Its tazer prongs extend in response to their presence. Dr. Ritenrong asks it for entry. It scans his retina with its single laser eye, beeps a gruff confirmation, and moves aside.

The door slides open. Captain Daniels is lying on the bed, reading a book. There's a stack of them next to his bed, along with several empty cups and plates.

"Well, this is an unexpected surprise. What brings y'all to my cozy little cabin?" He asks, sitting up.

"How did you get here?" Doc asks.

"What?" Captain Daniels asks.

"How did you get on this ship?" Doc asks again.

"Don't you remember?"

Doc looks at Dr. Ritenrong. Dr. Ritenrong shakes his head.

"You sent me back to the Chesapeake in the Judge's pocket. When we were there you didn't remember anything about our being here on the Di Li. When you left the Chesapeake, I jumped aboard the Pu right before you closed the bay doors. Then you torched the Chesapeake, remember? You were there. You put me in shackles and threw me in this room," Daniels explains.

"You've been here all this time?" Dr. Ritenrong asks.

"...yes. Did you forget about me?"

Doc looks at Ritenrong. He turns back to Daniels. "Excuse us, please." Doc orders the door shut again. In the hallway, he talks to the professor.

"What is going on? I thought we had to use a wormhole to change time-lines. How did this happen?"

"It must've been when we used the coffee cup. We arrived in a time-line where Captain Daniels escapes the Chesapeake. The us-es we passed arriving here must've captured him and locked him up."

They open the room door again.

"Do you know where you are?" Doc asks Captain Daniels.

"We're in orbit over Earth in a space ship called the Younger Brother Pear. It is a Multidimensional Astral Research Vessel. I'm not thick, you know. I can read, unlike horse brain over there, and I've had plenty of time to do so."

Thunderhorse snorts at the comment and grips his ax tightly. The hover sentry reacts to him, turning and readying tazers.

The Daniels is nonchalant. "Come on, shit-for-brains. I could use some damned exercise. I'm tired of sittin' around in here, so you right on and kill me if you want. I wish the rest of you would make up your damned minds about what yer gonna do with me."

Doc restrains Thunderhorse with his hand, holding him back from unleashing his viking rage. At the same time he orders the door closed again.

"What can we do with him?" Doc asks.

"I say we kill him," grunts Thunderhorse, pissed.

"Well, it's too late to send him back in the jacket again. Besides, he'd probably just escape again, and next time there might be two of them," Dr. Ritenrong says.

"Can we just drop him off back on Earth?" Doc asks.

"He knows too much, now. Did you see what he was reading? Military history and technical manuals. The Host must've brought them to him, since he's programmed to fulfill any reasonable request, even those made by prisoners. I guess I forgot to mention to him that books about the future are not reasonable requests."

"So what if Daniels knows about the future? What can he do?"

"Too much. What if he invents the Browning Automatic Rifle before the Civil War? Hell, he's got a grudge against Ohio, what if he uses what he's learned to take back the Toledo Strip? It's all too much to risk sending him back to Earth, at least in this era."

"So we kill him," Thunderhorse responds, intently. "We kill him and mash him and feed him to the horses. Then we will see who's brain is made of shit."

Dr. Ritenrong expands on this thought, or rather attempts to steer Thunderhorse away from his train of thought. "Or we keep him here, locked up indefinitely? Who knows, maybe he can be useful. We can't trust him now, of course, but maybe..."

Thunderhorse's train isn't budging. "Kill him."

Good Morning, Operatives

Thunderhorse and Doc are enjoying breakfast in the lounge. Thunderhorse is wolfing down a bowl of Space Puffs and beer while Doc enjoys a coffee, croissant, and cigarette. Thunderhorse snorts in laughter at the TV as Bugs Bunny once again gets the better of Elmer Fudd.

Dr. Ritenrong comes into the room with the Judge's overcoat. He looks exhausted, but pleased, as if he finally solved a problem.

"Good mornin', Steve," says Doc, surprised at the professors presence. He's usually locked away in his lab all day. "You're looking much better today."

"Good morning, gentlemen." Steven lays the data on the coffee table before he joins them on the large, semicircular couch. "Thank you, Doc. I am feeling good."

"How's work on the Autopilot going?"

"He's dead," Dr. Ritenrong replies remorselessly.

"Dead? How did that happen?" Doc asks.

"I tried to rewire his cranial unit to accept larger memory chips, but I overloaded the circuit and his brain shorted out. Unfortunately, I don't have a spare."

"Can we get by without an Autopilot? I mean, can you fly the ship on your own?"

"About as well as a bus driver can fly a passenger jet. Most of the systems can be automated by the computer, but in case of emergency, we're boned."

"Er, how likely is that?" Doc asks, becoming more concerned.

"Well, there's no orbital traffic in this era, so that removes most of the risk. However, there's always a chance of solar storms, meteors, and space pirates. Right now I'd say the chance of emergency is about 1 in a million. In my experience, those odd are not good. But there' s nothing we can do about that. The real problem is that I can't maneuver the ship through the asteroid field."

Doc almost chokes on coffee. "Sorry, why would you want to do that?"

"Asteroids are great for wormholes. Craters on asteroids are created and destroyed everyday. I've got a detailed mapping of the entire asteroid belt and a computer program that can predict almost every impact that has or will occur. Turns out, there's a portal to nearly every era in the asteroid belt. The tricky part is getting to them. Without careful maneuvering, we could hit one and damage the ship, or worse, change the outcome of the impact time-line."

"Okay, so where or when are we going that we need to go into the asteroid fields?" Doc asks. Dr. Ritenrong's wandering sense of conversation is always confusing and somewhat aggravating.

"Oh, we don't need to go into the asteroid fields. We can just orbit the solar system faster-than-lightspeed for a while to go back in time, or near-lightspeed to go forwards. That takes a while, though, sometimes months. I think we'll just leave the ship in 1835 and go into the pipe."

"Go where?" Doc asks again, frustrated. "Wait a minute, what pipe? The corncob pipe?"

"Yes."

"You got it back? How?"

"Not yet, I haven't." He checks his wristwatch, which is more like a bracer with a computer on it. "Give it five minutes."

"Okay, how will you get the pipe back?"

"It was so simple I couldn't see it. I get so hung up on taking care about not altering the course of history in any unpredictable ways, I sometimes forget how much control I actually have over the course of events. Please, finish your coffee. I need the cup."

Doc looks at him curiously. He gulps down the last sip and extends the cup towards the professor. Steve produces the Q-TIP device from his lab coat.

"I spent forever trying to trace the jacket's route through history, only to realize that it's in my hands. I've determined that the jacket is only about a hundred days old. The Judge and Captain went into the wormhole in the pocket about 180 hours ago. So they will emerge from the jacket 2,220 hours before the pocket is destroyed."

Dr. Ritenrong pulls a small, square device from his lab coat pocket. On one side of the device is a sticky tack, which Dr. Ritenrong adheres to the coffee cup. On the other side is a stopwatch display, which Dr. Ritenrong programs for a 2,220 hour countdown. He puts the cup on the table. He dips the Q-TIP in it, and clicks the button on the top. It sounds just like a pen clicking.

"Okay, the charge is set. Let's give it a minute or two, so we have time to get back in the cup."

"Let me get this straight," Doc says. "We're going into the coffee cup, which will take us three months into the future."

"Yes."

"Then we tear open the jacket pocket, which breaks the wormhole."

"Correct."

"Then we re-enter the coffee cup to arrive back at this time, where the Judge and Captain Daniels should be arriving."

"If my calculations are correct, yes. And I am very diligent about my calculations. I've run some tests already. When I first got the jacket I put in a tracking device, hoping to find it somewhere on Earth, in case they went backwards in time because I just got frustrated and tore open the pocket. But the tracer just showed up this morning, putting the wormhole's temporal zenith at about 90 hours ago."

"Doesn't that mean that the jacket is definitely going to be destroyed in three months? Why do we need to go into the coffee cup? Can't you just put a detonator on the jacket its self? Or just wait around three months and then tear it open?"

"I suppose so. In another causality chain perhaps that's what I did, and that's how I got the tracer back. But I figured a demonstration of the Q-TIP was in order."

Almost exactly on this cue, Doc, Steven, and Thunderhorse leap forth from the coffee cup. This is quite a shock to the Doc and Thunderhorse who were, until this exact moment, really enjoying their relaxing morning.

"Flaming teats of Loki!" Thunderhorse yells, throwing his cereal to the floor as he jumps up from the couch.

Standing Doc waves tentatively at himself. Sitting Doc waves back.

Dr. Ritenrong stands up. "That's our cue. Let's go." Doc and Thunderhorse approach the coffee cup cautiously. The Thunderhorses stare at their mirror images, trying to intimidate each other as they circle around each other, trading places.

New Doc takes the seat Original Doc was sitting in, saying "Watch out for the stool."

"Thanks," says Original Doc.

Original Dr. Ritenrong lifts his leg like he's going to stomp on the coffee cup. As he puts it down, he shrinks away into it, disappearing. Doc and Thunderhorse look at each other. Thunderhorse goes next, following Steve's procedure. He, too, disappears into the coffee cup as an expression of both surprise and fear washes across his face.

Doc goes next. He puts his leg down into the coffee cup. The coffee cup becomes a huge tunnel as the universe balloons around him. Immediately, the other side appears, as if he simply stepped through a doorway. The world beyond is giant, but shrinking. He steps right out the other side, right off the edge of a bench in Dr. Ritenrong's lab. He stumbles and hits his shin on a stool.

Doc collects himself, his shin smarting but okay. The Judge's jacket is lying on the bench next to the coffee cup. The time bomb on the cup is counting down the remaining few minutes until the cup shatters. Dr. Ritenrong is already here, working quietly on a robotic head in the corner. He waves a quick greeting at the party, and returns to work. The Host is also here, waiting with a broom and dustpan.

"Okay, here we go," Dr. Ritenrong says as he picks up the jacket. He turns the jacket pocket out and gives it a yank. It doesn't budge. "Some good stitching on this. Here, Thunderhorse."

Thunderhorse takes the jacket. He yanks hard, grunting. The pocket resists little and is quickly torn away. He hands the jacket back.

"Alright. That's it. Let's go back." Dr. Ritenrong says. He climbs back up on the bench and steps into the coffee cup. Thunderhorse again follows him, and Doc after.

Once again, the universe grows huge as he steps into the cup. This time is easier, now that Doc knows better what to expect. He steps gracefully from one end of time to another, arriving back in the lounge where he, the Thunderhorses, and Dr. Ritenrongs are meeting each other again.

"Flaming teats of Loki!" Thunderhorse yells, throwing his cereal to the floor as he jumps up from the couch. Again.

Doc waves at his sitting self. The Old Doc waves back.

Old Dr. Ritenrong stands up. "That's our cue. Let's go." The Thunderhorses do their little mirror dance as they trade places.

Almost without thinking, Doc says "Watch out for the stool." Then, almost experimentally, he adds "That first step is a doozy."

"Thanks," his former self replies. They that were step into the coffee cup, on their way to becoming those who they are now.

The jacket still rests on the coffee table. There's no sign of Judge Olden and Captain Daniels.

"It changed," Doc says.

"Hmm?" asks Steven.

"Before I said 'Watch out for the stool.' This time I added 'that first step is a doozy.' It changed."

"Yeah, that happens all the time. We never return to the timelines from whence we came. It always changes. Changing the future often has just as much effect on the past as changing the past has on the future. It's usually something benign like that. I've got to take those anti-causal effects into my calculations all the time. It can be a real bitch."

Dr. Ritenrong calls in the Host, who arrives promptly. He hands the android the coffee cup. "Please take this to my lab and keep it in secure-store until, oh, say five minutes before the timer goes off."

"Of course, sir." The Host complies and takes the cup away.

Doc, Thunderhorse, and Ritenrong sit on the couch and watch cartoons for a while, although they watch the jacket more than the TV. They wait expectantly for the slightest sign.

Thunderhorse is easily distracted by the TV. Doc picks up the manual for the clone-o-mat and reads, intermittently glancing at the jacket. Steve stares at the coat intently.

Half an hour later, the pipe falls out of the pocket, followed by a gold pocket watch and some coins. Dr. Ritenrong springs to his feet and picks the stuff up off the floor. He's practically jumping for joy.

"We've got it!" he says, waving the pipe above his head. "I'm going to start my calculations immediately! If the other two show up, just shove them back in the jacket. Get them back on their timelines!"

"But the ship burned and sank, we can't send them back to their deaths," Doc says, but Dr. Ritenrong had already ran out of the room.

Doc ponders what to do. He goes back to his room and straps on his pistol. He grabs Thunderhorse's axe and brings it into the media room.

"Here. Just in case they want to start trouble." Doc says. Thunderhorse nods. Doc goes back to reading, trying to put the butterflies out of his stomach.

The manual is technical and difficult to follow, but engrossing. Two hours later, Thunderhorse is asleep on the couch, snoring loudly. The TV is playing a history show about the American Revolution. Doc had almost forgotten about Judge Olden and Captain Daniels.

But suddenly they're here, falling out of the jacket pocket like sacks of potatoes. Thunderhorse awakens with a start. Doc stands and offers a hand to help them up.

"Welcome aboard, gentlemen," Doc greets them. Captain Daniels accepts his offered hand and allows Doc to pull him up.

The Judge chooses to struggle to his feet on his own. "Where the HELL are we?!" he demands.

Whats Up, Docs?

Doc and Thunderhorse have been studying, training, and drinking heavily for more than a week without much sign of Dr. Ritenrong. He's been practically camping out in the robotics lab the whole time. Occasionally he will appear in the galley late at night, order dinner and drinks, and chat briefly. He's not much for conversation, though.

Doc manages to catch him in the galley at about three in the morning. Thunderhorse was off abusing the malfunctioning Maid, while Doc was watching what at first appeared to be a brain transplant, but was in fact a sex change operation. The Atharan patient was having a large, single gonad installed in his (formerly her) skull, replacing the uterus that was there. Doc drinks some single malt whiskey, quickly, as the vulva still on his/her face is quite disturbing.

Steve comes in and sits down next to Doc. He orders a roast beef sandwich, looks briefly at the TV, then changes his order to chicken salad. He also orders a vodka martini.

"What's up, Doc?" Doc asks.

"Everything and nothing," the doctor replies. "That autopilot is hopeless. There's just not enough TerraRAM slots in his cerebral processor housing, and his systems are not compatible with ExoRAM. I need to either get a bigger cranial unit or buy a less complicated space ship."

"Sounds rough," Doc replies as he sips his whiskey. "What about the overcoat? Figure out where that wormhole goes?"

Steve slams his martini belligerently. "See, that's the whole damn problem with quantum physics. Fucking Schrodinger. Right now, it goes anywhere, AND EVERYWHERE. At once. It's all in flux. We won't be able to collapse the waveform and KNOW until we go into it. But I want to have some kind of idea of where the fuck we'll end up. These kinds of calculations take forever. Sure, I could weld together a metal cup or something right now, open up a wormhole in it, plant a small time bomb on it so that it cracks open in 2199, and keep it in on the space ship in deep space for the next 360 years. Theoretically, we should show up right where we want to be without any dicking around. But you know what?" Dr. Ritenrong stops to drink from his second martini.

The pause goes on. "What?" asks Doc.

"Theories are horseshit. Do you have any idea what could happen in the next 360 years? Of course you do, you're a damned historian. There's no way to guarantee that that cup will make it that far, or worse, not go too far. What if the explosive doesn't go off in time? What if the stabilizers fail and the ship drifts into the sun? What if space pirates attack? You know what, they will. All of that will happen. And it won't happen. It will be a totally random chance where we end up. Believe me, I've tried it.

"The only way to reliably navigate time is to find something that you know will take you where you want to be. Something you can trace the history of from start to end. That corncob pipe was a perfect example. All we had to do is open a wormhole in it, jump in, and leave it to its natural course through our timeline. It would take us exactly where we want to be. I spent months doing the research and calculations, and that idiot judge fucked it all up."

Dr. Ritenrong drinks some more. The cook brings him his salad, but he's no longer hungry. He picks at it a bit.

"You know, I never thought my career would end up like this. I spent forty years researching wormhole and time travel. When I finally worked it out, when I finished my sketch of the Q-TIP's mechanism on the fridge, I showed up at my own door. Has that ever happened to you? Have you ever opened your door and saw yourself on the other side? It'll mess you up, man.

"I came in to my apartment and told myself 'The galaxy will be destroyed and only you can stop it.' Then I handed me the Q-TIP and jumped into a coffee cup, which promptly fell off the table and smashed into pieces. Damnit, why am I so damned cryptic, sometimes? I guess it's because no one payed attention to me in school." He finishes his martini and orders another.

"I spent the next five years trying to figure out what the hell I was talking about. I traveled time, backwards and forwards, studying and researching the fate of the galaxy and what I had to do with any of it. I also made a few bucks on the side, and got some swanky tenures at some respectable universities. Cambridge is my favorite. Did I tell you Isaac Newton is a good friend of mine?"

"No, you never mentioned that."

"Oh, yes. He's a reclusive, arrogant dick most of the time, but when he lets loose, it's a party." Steve chuckles to himself. "'Those aren't my knickers!' haha, classic." He smiles into his glass, and takes a sip. When he puts it down again, he's solemn. "Then I found my graveyard."

"Graveyard?" Doc asks.

"Yeah. After years of searching for answers, I finally figured out where the fuck I disappeared to all those years ...ago. I was in a cave in ancient China. So I went there, hoping to ask myself what I had seen that was so important. What I found was me, dead. Lots of me. There were at least twelve bodies, all me, all dead. I don't know what killed any of them, and I'm not sure I want to find out. They all just seemed to stop living. It's got to be something about narrowly escaping the cataclysm."

He shudders as he remembers. "On the walls were detailed the events that lead to my deaths. I suppose I put them there so they would be preserved. A map of various timelines, each leading to a disastrous outcome. The galaxy on the verge of destruction, having to escape to the past to pass the torch, so-to-speak, and then crawling into a cave to die. Is that what will happen to me? How many times will this go on?" He chugs back the rest of the drink.

"What happens in the future? How exactly is the galaxy destroyed?" Doc asks.

"See, it's this ship. Not this ship, a different one. I think," he slurs. "And it galaxies through movement at the light of speed. It uses an ex-tra-die-men-shin-al fuel star fueler thing to push it through the ex-tra-die-men-shins. Then it crashes into this thing, I donno whadit is. You can't see it its ex-tra-die-men-shin-al. But it crashes and BLOOOOOWS up into bits and pieces and then the galaxy disappears." Steve hiccups.

"What ship?"

"A warship. Last time it happened it was a warship. First time, it was this ship. Thats why I bought it, so I know it doesn't go and blow everythings up. Every time the galaxy explodes I try to go back and change something to stop it. So first thing to do is buy this ship and make sure it doesn't go and crash into the whadderveritis. But then something else happens. After this ship, it was a space probe, so I blowed that up but then they just sent another one. So I stopped them sending probes but then a courier went through that sector and HE crashed. It took three lives just to stop that guy from taking a shortcut. I mean you think people want a galaxy instead of pizzas but, sheesh, some life forms. After the pizza guy, a damned warship goes through and IT hits the fucking thing. That was five lives ago, and I still haven't figured out how to stop it. Can't stop the war, I started it to stop the courier. Can't blow up the warship, it's a damned warship, and any other warship you send after the first will just go and crash its self. Can't just put up a sign saying 'DO NOT ENTER THIS SECTOR OF SPACE IT WILL CAUSE THE DESTRUCTION OF THE GALAXY' because too many depressed jerks would just race right the fuck out there and end the galaxy right now. Already tried it.

"Anyway, I can't thinkaboudit anymore tonight. Gotta sleep." Dr. Ritenrong slides off the bar stool and staggers off towards his room, crashing into a table and chairs as he leaves the galley.

Killing Time

"Why do we go in the booth, again?" Thunderhorse asks. His eyes are red from days of watching movies and drinking beer.

"To learn how to use guns," Doc responds. His eyes are equally red from days of reading and drinking coffee.

It's been almost a week since they returned from Earth, and Doc has done nothing but study and watch the occasional movie with Thunderhorse. Thunderhorse has been learning about Earth history, guns, the film industry, and reading. The latter is not going so well, but progress is being made. Thunderhorse has been enjoying Westerns and gangster films. World War 2 movies scare the hell out of him.

This morning, Doc decided it was time for a break from the routine. He'd been reading about the Holobooths, and thought it would be good to try them out, finally. Fortunately, it seems Dr. Ritenrong has a western style game on file.

The two step into the spherical booths on either end of the lounge. The world they enter is dark, save for a pair of doors behind them.

"Load the Shoot Out! program, computer," Doc commands. The computer complies.

The black world becomes light as a bright sun rises over an old desert town. Doc is surprised to find that he's wearing a cowboy hat and chaps, along with a belt laden with a six-shooter. Thunderhorse is even more surprised to find himself in the same condition.

"What is this magic?" he asks, without the usual fury as he's becoming accustomed to the strangeness of his new surroundings.

"It's an illusion. We're going to play a game."

"We're in a Western!" Thunderhorse is excited. "Will we meet the Outlaw Josey Wales? What about Lee of Marvin?"

"I don't know. This is more of a High Noon game, or The Quick and the Dead, remeber that one?"

Thunderhorse pulls out his revolver. He looks it over, examining its parts. Doc had previously explained the function and concept of guns to him, but this is the first time he's held one. He pulls the trigger, almost by accident.

Doc feels a physical jolt as his world goes black. A giant, laughing skull appears hovering above letters a hundred feet tall; "YOU LOSE!" Momentarily, the world becomes bright again, and he's back on the deserted road with Thunderhorse.

"HAHAHA! That was funny! Let me do it again!"

Thunderhorse takes aim with the revolver, but this time Doc whips his revolver up and plugs the viking before he gets a shot off. Thunderhorse flies back and hits the ground. After a short moment, he fades away and re-appears standing again.

"That was not so funny," Thunderhorse says, rather upset by the experience.

The small town is not much more than a road lined with a dozen wood buildings, and desert surrounding them in every direction. The place looks real enough, but feels artificial. Something about the lighting, the textures, the sounds and smells seems fake or unrefined. It's probably just a cheap game.

The town has a general store, a church with a clock tower, a bank, a saloon, a sheriff's office, a stable, a few houses, and a mansion at each end of the road. A brief conversation with the poorly animated town drunk outside the saloon reveals the basic plot of the game: the two rival families are having a quick draw tournament to see who is the fastest gun in the west. The prize is one million dollars.

There are a selection of weapons in the general store, and not much else. In fact, the only thing for sale besides weapons and ammo is a change of outfit. Whiskey can be bought at the saloon, but it doesn't seem to have much effect other than tasting like bad whiskey. The two start with $5, just enough money to enter the first round of the tournament. Thunderhorse has already spent his on whiskey.

A sign on the road points to a "practice area" out in the desert, where rabbits, cactus, and birds regularly spawn and disappear, kind of like a realistic shooting gallery. The two go out to warm up.

Doc is doing okay. Every time he hits a target, a little ching! sound tells him he's made more money, 10 cents for cactus, 25 for rabbits, and a dollar for a bird. Ammunition here seems to be infinite. Thunderhorse is having a hell of a time. It's easy enough for him to pull the trigger, but he hasn't gotten the whole aiming thing down. He keeps flinging the gun forward before he pulls the trigger, as if he must sling the bullet out.

Doc helps him out with this a bit, and Thunderhorse is ecstatic when the bullet finally hits a cactus and the little ching! goes in his pocket. "Hooray! I have destroyed the green thing!" He keeps trying, getting a little better as he goes.

Doc leaves Thunderhorse to practice while he decides to go start the tournament mode. To do so, he must pick a family to sponsor him, either the "Bucks" or the "Reds." Doc goes with the Bucks because their mansion is closer. He pays his five dollars and the fight begins immediately. He is called out to the street by a grizzly looking bandito. The townspeople line the street, conveniently blocking all exits.

The mayor referees the fight. "At the sound of the bell, draw!" The bandito has a few inane chatter loops, insulting Doc's mother in the most politically correct ways possible. The sound of the clock ticking is amplified, and it's magically ten seconds to noon.

When the bell tolls, Doc draws and fires. His opponent is almost hilariously slow on the draw, and falls quickly. The mayor shouts "Doc wins!" with the "Doc" part poorly tacked on. $10 falls into his pocket.

After a few rounds of this, Doc has enough cash to start buying new weapons. He picks out a shotgun and a rifle and takes them out to Thunderhorse for him to try. Thunderhorse is still at the shooting range. He's getting better, missing only every three of four shots instead of all of them always. He's reloading the pistol when Doc arrives.

Doc hands Thunderhorse the rifle. It's a poor replication of a Winchester, but it will work for now. "Here. Try this one." Doc shows Thunderhorse how to use it. Thunderhorse tries to hold it like the pistol, but Doc corrects him. Thunderhorse fires and misses. It's obvious Thunderhorse is uncomfortable with it. Aiming and precision is just not his thing. Doc gives him the shotgun instead. It's a simple single-shot, short barreled shotgun.

One blast and Thunderhorse is in love. The shot easily takes out a rabbit. "Now this I like," Thunderhorse remarks. He reloads it and keeps on shooting, hollering with excitement when he lets off a blast. He's hitting almost every shot with this.

Doc practices alternatively with the rifle and the pistol while Thunderhorse enjoys the shotgun. As they shoot the targets, they shoot the breeze as well.

"What's it like living in the Winterlands, Thunderhorse?" Doc asks.

"It is a hard life, not like here. Here we eat whatever we desire, whenever we desire. In Hilton, our farms were small, and could only grow very little, for the warm seasons were very short. We either bought our food from the city, Venis, or we simply took it from others. If you wanted meat, you had to kill a sheep, but sheep are well protected. They cost many gar, and thus were kept safe behind the city walls.

"The city of Venis is large place, even larger than the place we saw on Earth, although it only has one tall building, the Tower of Venis. It is the seat of Nathan the Pickled, King of Venis and self proclaimed ruler of the Winterlands. No one beyond the city walls accepted him as king. We of Hilton live for ourselves, and deny any man who would rule us. But that did not stop him from sending his armies into our town to burn our homes and take our women.

"King Nathan proclaimed he was protecting the country side from brigands and thieves, and that he was bringing peace to the land. Ha! If he had simply shared his grains and wine and sheep with us, we would not need to kill his men and steal. My fathers tell me stories of the days before Venis, when we would ride across the seas, looking for a home; a land rich in soil and beasts. When my fathers arrived at the Winterlands, it was a warm and green place. But when the snows came, Nathan's fathers killed and raped and stole our food, locking it away behind their stone walls.

"Some say it was an evil spirit that possessed Nathan's family and cursed the land. Other say he hides a frost giant below the tower, who bring with him snows and death while giving the king power and wealth. I think this is true. It was a frost giant who led us astray all those years riding through the wastelands. He clouded our vision with snow and wind and killed us with frostbite and starvation. That frost giant was protecting King Nathan, for if we had reached the Tower, we would have laid it in ruins.

"I will return there, someday, and have my revenge. If what you say is true, and we can travel through time its self, then we can save Hilton together, keep Jazelle safe, and crush Venis with our mighty thunder slings!" Thunderhorse fires the shotgun, hitting a bird. He smiles with pride.

At the Movies

In order to buy time for himself to study medical journals and read up on the equipment in his new lab, Doc had to find some way to occupy Thunderhorse. It is difficult to study when an alcoholic of his magnitude is pestering you to drink with him all the time.

So Doc introduced him to the movies. The screen in the living room is an enormous, parabolic high-resolution flat-screen. One cannot see the individual pixels on it even with a magnifying glass. The sound system is tremendous, as well. It's like having an I-Max in your own house.

"Moving tapestries?" Thunderhorse asks as they sit down on the plush, semicircular couch.

"Yes. People write stories, then painters draw them. Then actors perform them, and musicians play for them. It's all recorded on film, and we can watch it over and over," Doc explains.

"Film, like on milk?"

"No, a thin strip like a ribbon. The ribbon has the pictures on it, and if you shine a bright light through it, the picture appears on the wall. Move the strip past the light quickly, and the pictures change so fast it looks like they comes to life. That's how they used to do it, anyway. I'm not sure how this thing works, but the idea is the same."

Doc calls up Casablanca. They watch it together, the translator echoing every word. Doc laughs at his favorite lines and quotes the parts he knows by heart. Thunderhorse sits transfixed, hardly drinking his ale or even blinking. He's completely mezmorised by the show. He doesn't speak until the end.

"Why did he put his woman on the winged boat? Why did his friend become his enemy and then become his friend again? Where is this land, Casablanca? Do they really have bars like that? What was that instrument his slave was playing? Why did they all want that parchement? Do the Germans win the war? Where were their swords?" his questions flood the room. He hardly breaths between them.

Doc slows him down. "All in good time, my friend. We both have a lot to learn. Why don't you try asking the computer?"

Thunderhorse nods. He raises his arms to the ceiling. "Oh, mighty Computor, heed me!"

The ceiling dings at him inquisitively.

"Where is the land of Casablanca?"

The viewscreen switches to a political map of Africa from the 1930's and displays some factual information.

"See, this Computor of yours does not answer my questions."

"It's pointing it out to you on the map, see?"

"Map? What is this a map of?"

The computer responds and zooms back, displaying a globe laid out with political boundries, slowly spinning and displaying more information.

"What is this now? I do not understand these runes." The text switches from German in roman lettering to old Norse runes. Thunderhorse blinks. "These are the runes of the wizards!" He yells, averting his eyes.

"Can you read them?"

"Reading is for wizards! The runes will devour my soul were I to look upon them! This Computor is trying to kill me!"

"No, no, no. Computer, display the text as it was." The computer obeys. "Look, these runes will not devour your soul." Thunderhorse glances at them quickly. And again. Satisfied, he turns back around.

"You are right. These runes are safe. But I do not understand them."

"I guess you'll have to learn," Doc says. "Computer, do you have reading lessons on file?" It shows a long list of videos. It's going to take some time to narrow this down. "Tell you what," he says to Thunderhorse. "I'll put together a programming schedule for you."

"A what?"

"A list of things to watch. That will be your job while we're aboard this ship. After you take care of the horses each day, come in here and watch movies. They'll teach you about reading and history and anything else you want to learn. Okay?"

"Yes. This sounds like a good job. Will they teach me about the thunder slings?"

"Sure." Doc calls up A Fist Full of Dollars. "I think you'll like this one." Thunderhorse is instantly transfixed as the music kicks on and the brightly colored credits roll up.

Doc goes off to the observation deck to study a while, in peace.

The Medical Bay

Living on the Younger Brother Pear is like being the only guest in a hotel you can't leave. The meals are excellent, the service is ever present, the view is spectacular; but there's something about being trapped in a bubble in space that is a little unsettling.

Perhaps it's the endless hum if the air conditioning, or the drone of the reactor cooling system. Maybe it's the knowledge that there's enough power within that reactor to demolish the solar system. It could be that the android servants, while programmed to be friendly and helpful, are the most superficial people Doc has ever met. Worse, he can't fault them for it. Their soulless, artificial personalities shine like a blinking clock on a VCR.

The Host, in particular, never has much to say for himself. He was activated in Seoul in 2213 and was shipped directly to the Younger Brother Pear as it was assembled in space. He was programmed to analyze the ships systems and maintain life support in emergency situations. In 2222, Dr. Ritenrong purchased him and the ship, and upgraded his programming to include maintenance of the reactor core and other technical systems on board. The Host is always prim and proper, but accepts people's faults and is willing to clean up a mess. Doc imagines, though, that somewhere within that metal mind of his he's being deeply sarcastic and secretly revels in his arrogance.

The Cook is, in Doc's opinion, not a bad guy for a robot, but is a little annoying. He's always cheerful, and knows everything there is to know about cooking, baking, and mixing drinks. He's got access to some kind of sports encyclopedia database, and will occasionally spout out an uninteresting piece of trivia with precise timing to break a lull in galley conversation.

After five minutes of silence while Doc enjoys a beer and watching some live feeds from a remote surgery session on Arctura 12, the machine breaks the silence.

"Did you know that, in hockey, Wayne Gretzky holds the world record for scoring 215 points in a season in 1986?" it says, still drying the same glass it had been washing for the last 10 minutes.

"No, I didn't know that," Doc replies. He's still focused on the operation. It is difficult for his visual cortex to even parse what the hell is going on, as many bits of Arcturan anatomy are extremely foreign. The procedure seems to be a total replacement of whatever atmospheric processing organs the thing has. Doc is more interested in the tools, anyway. The surgeon is apparently some kind of brain in a jar working with a multi-armed robot through Q-Net from a planet in the Pegasus system.

Another five minutes pass. "Did you know that soccer is the most played sport in the entire galaxy?"

"That's interesting." Doc is trying to make out whether he's looking at an antenna on the patient's head, or something else entirely. He does not immediately realize the mistake he'd just made.

"Yes, it is. Every inhabited planet has had a version of the game at some point in their evolution. The concept of placing a spherical object into a goal of some kind has always been a source of competition. It reflects the reproductive process and compensates an intelligent species need for direct sexual competition, often times replacing combat. Did you know that the Merkin people of the sector 413 alpha fight wars entirely with a soccer-like game called Jarquin, in which the two or sometimes three teams kick small thermonuclear devices around their low-gravity planet, attempting to- "

Doc interrupts him. "No, I didn't know that. Please, I'm trying to watch this." It's a futile effort, though. The robot is moving too fast for him to really understand what's going on. There's a sort of laser cutting through tissue, a device for suctioning away the black ooze that must be the thing's blood, all in a flurry of activity. The robot injects something somewhere into the patient's anatomy, then swiftly and precisely yanks out what must be its lung or something like that, and replaces it with another, which is much greener.

The subtitles on the screen mentions something about nanobots being fed into its lungs to either repair them, or that they were the cause of his disorder in the first place. The translation is unclear. They do mention that the organ was cloned from cells taken from the patient only half an hour prior to the operation.

Doc had payed a visit to his new office earlier in the day. As the science and medical officer, he has full access to all the drugs and equipment safely locked away in the medical bay. Dr. Ritenrong had granted him security clearance to all decks and compartments, including the emergency weapons locker on the bridge.

The Medical bay is well stocked and easy to use. Each bed has a lifesigns monitor that activates when anyone lays on it. Each also has a plastic quarantine shroud that can be pulled over the patient. This also houses an MRI scanner, X-Rays, and an array of surgical tools which are operated by programming the procedure into the console, and can be controlled in real time via remote control and microscopic cameras. Drugs and other injections can be fed into the robotic syringes from outside the cover by feeding the bottles into a specially designed tap. The quarantine beds can also fold into the walls and can be used for suspended animation

The entire medical bay can also be evacuated of air and flooded with high-energy radiation to completely disinfect it. Safeguards prevent this from happening while anyone is in there, though. Since the walls are lead lined, the medical bay is also the ships solar-storm cellar.

The cabinets contain all the usual pain killers, disinfectants, antibiotics, and other minor medical equipment. There are plenty of medkits and a portable surgical suite which is compact enough to fit in the Jeep. There's also a stock of unlabeled red wine, useful for treating radiation sickness.

His office / lab has some useful tools; a centrifuge, microscopes both optical and electron scanning, some petri dishes and other such tools, and a strange device which looks like a cross between a blender and a microwave. It is labeled "Venture, Inc. Clonomatic."

Some of this stuff will take some studying to use, but Doc is confident that he'll learn it in no time. He decides to study up on medicine as much as possible before teaching Thunderhorse how to fire a gun.

Thunder Slings and Things

The ride back to the Younger Brother Pear is as quiet and unremarkable as tearing through the atmosphere at Mach 22, entering free-fall, and orbiting Earth can possibly be. At least the pressure changes help with the ringing in Doc's ear. While the Pu circles around the planet lining up for docking with the mother ship, Doc browses the Q-Net.

He finds a couple references to the Chesapeake. The last time he looked, there was very little. Now, there is just a little more. A few UFO conspiracy sites from deep in the archives of Earth's old Internet claim that the boat was abducted by aliens, siting scattered accounts of eye-witnesses in the Toledo area. Skeptics claim the sighting was nothing more than a meteor.

A more recent Q-Net entry sites a natural gas mining expedition to the bottom of Lake Erie found the Chesapeake. Questions were raised when old Norse currency was found amongst the wreckage, along with two used .44 caliber bullets and some synthetic fiber gauze not used until the late 21st century. A few episodes of Mysterious Mysteries were dedicated to the subject, with very poor ratings. With the advent of faster-than-light travel and the resulting consequences of time dilation, these kinds of anachronisms became commonplace and whole thing was chalked up to space pirates.

Dr. Ritenrong also searches the 'net for answers. His fingers are lightning across the Pu's consoles as he looks at blueprints, equations, fashion designers, and a whole slew of nonsense that only he, apparently, can understand.

Thunderhorse takes a nap, snoring loudly. The loud bang of the ship entering the Younger Brother Pear's hanger and locking into place wakes him up. Gravity returns.

"Sure thing, fella!" the autopilot says, in a different tone than last time, possibly attempting to convey some other message but finding its self unable to. Everyone unbuckles, gets up, and stretches out.

Steve speaks. "Doc, Thunderhorse, get the horses up top, then make yourselves at home. We'll be in orbit for a while. I've got to fix this stupid robot and analyze this coat so I can figure out what we need to do next. If you need anything, just ask the Host. I'll be on deck three if you need me. Autopilot, please follow me to the robotics lab."

"Sure thing, fella," the old tones chime. He gets up and follows the professor off the ship.

Doc and Thunderhorse go to the cargo area. Doc begins reloading the Jeep's equipment while Thunderhorse ponders the magnetic locks holding the horses' hooves to the floor.

"Why do they not move?" he asks, puzzled as he tugs at the reigns, trying to lead them.

Doc examines the locks briefly. There's a simple green button which disengages the electromagnets. Lightning snorts and paws his hoof in relief. Thunderhorse sees him do this, and begins unlocking hooves with him. At least he can learn. Doc notices there's quite a mess of manure and horse piss on the floor. Poor things must've been literally scared shitless when the ship started moving.

"Slep and Nir," says Thunderhorse as they're unloading the horses from the Pu. "That is what I shall call them. That is what Odin's horse was called, and between them there are eight legs. They are very fast, too. But not as fast as Lightning," he boasts, proudly.

The two lead the horses out of the hanger and into the hallway. "Thunderhorse, I'm sorry I got mad earlier. You did the right thing. You did exactly what I told you. I was only mad because I was afraid for you. You're the only friend I have in this crazy world and I don't want to see you hurt. I will protect you, especially from the thunder slings."

"No, I understand. I did not realize how loud those thing are. They truly summon thunder. It is frightening, I admit. But the ones who wield them are weak. They rely too much on them, but they are big and slow. I can defeat them easily. Yours is much different, though. It summons thunder much faster."

They round the corner and reach the elevator. Doc hits the button. "There are some that are even faster, and some that are even louder. Sometimes both. I'll have to teach you how to use them, so you understand when to avoid them." The elevator arrives. They get in. "Deck one, please," Doc orders. The elevator silently slides upwards.

"I can wield this power, as well? I don't know. When I sink my axe into someone's skull, I know for sure they will be dead soon." Thunderhorse smiles at this in a rather scary way.

The elevator doors open to the observation deck. It's just as green and lush as it was before. "To destroy your enemy you must know your enemy. Let me teach you."

Thunderhorse nods. "As you wish."

The Earth spins slowly above them.

Don't Rocket the Boat

Although he's as surprised as anyone to see Reverend Judge Jacob Olden and Captain Mark Daniels disappear entirely into an overcoat pocket, Doc goes on about his business. After all, this kind of extreme weirdness is becoming routine. He stuffs the pistol, coat, and Q-TIP into his backpack while retrieving the medical kit.

Doc approaches the wounded. The heat of the boilers is starting to become unbearable. Marshal Mathews is kneeling between them, next to his boy. He's crying and sweating.

Doc kneels down next to him. "Marshal, I am deeply sorry. He was a fine man who did his duty when called upon and there ain't no shame in that."

"YOU KILLED MY BOY!" the marshal screams. He whips a pistol out of his jacket and fires it right at Doc's head. The bullet zings past his ear, the concussion of the blast rings bangs his eardrums.

Thunderhorse reacts with his ax, but he swings too high and hits the iron stove with a resounding WHANG!

Doc smacks at the Marshal's arm with his flashlight and hits, but the marshal does not relinquish the gun. He instead uses it to pummel Doc some more, hitting him in the cheek with it. Doc tries to hit him again with the flashlight, but the marshal blocks with his arm.

A large, bloodstained fist ends the tussle by hitting the marshal in the temple. He staggers and falls to the ground, crying. Doc kicks the gun across the deck.

"Danke," Doc tells Thunderhorse. He takes the marshal's hat and drops a ten dollar coin in it. "[This is money for that boy's funeral. You put money in it, too, then take it to the others. Make sure everyone donates. Don't forget the Judge's coins on the floor, either.]" Doc turns to the boat's crew and passengers still sitting in the coal bin. "We're passing the hat for the boy's funeral. Please donate generously." He returns to Thunderhorse. "[If anyone else tries something funny, knock them out.]"

Thunderhorse is confused at Doc's request to drop his hard earned silver into a hat, but trusts Doc's judgment and does so. He takes the hat and his axe and goes to do his work.

He sets the medkit down, opens it up, and quickly goes to work. He has Earl put pressure on the gash in his arm. He ties a tourniquet around Pete's leg to slow the bleeding. The bullet went clean through. He pours some alcohol on the wound and gets to stitching him up, finishing it up with a makeshift splint to help mend the bones.

Earl does not have the luck to be unconscious while Doc works on him. Fortunately, Doc has some local anesthetic in the medkit. He produces the syringe.

Earl shrieks. "Don't you go stickin' me with no needles!" he cries.

"I'll be stitching you up, so I'm sticking you with a needle anyway. Now, you either feel it once now for this numbing serum, or you feel it thirty times while I sew."

Earl reluctantly offers his arm. He yelps as Doc slides the needle in. He keeps his eyes closed throughout the procedure, but offers Doc no more resistance. By the time Doc is done, Thunderhorse returns with a full hat. Doc directs him to give it to the marshal.

Doc turns to the crowd. "You had better stoke these boilers and turn this boat around and get this man some help NOW! And if any one of you tells a single soul what you have seen, WE WILL come back and track you down!"

Doc gathers up his mess and stuffs the medkit back into the bag, making sure not to leave anything too medically advanced behind. He leads Thunderhorse the way forward with his flashlight, backtracking their way to the ladder to the Pu.

Steve calls up to them as they climb down. "Did you get it? What happened? What took so long?"

"We've got the pen. Sorry about the delay, I had some sewing to do. Reparations had to be made."

"What about the pipe? Did you get that? And my watch?"

"Well, not exactly." Doc reaches the bottom of the ladder. He pulls out the overcoat. "They're in the inside pocket. I'm not sure when they are, though."

"Is this Judge Olden's coat? Did you- was he the one who..."

"No, no, that was a soldier. He was armed and shooting at us. Judge Olden is alive. He's in the pocket, too."

"What?!"

"And Captain Daniels. He went in after him."

Dr. Ritenrong takes off his glasses and rubs his forehead, frustrated. "Wonderful. Lets get the hell out of here, please."

Thunderhorse completes the decent. Steve whacks the cargo bay doors button, closing them up with a slow whirring. The three head back to the cockpit and take their seats.

"Did you boys have a nice time on that boat?" The Autopilot asks cheerfully.

"Shut up and fly," Doc answers, taking the seat behind him. Dr. Ritenrong takes the copilot's seat.

"Sure thing, fella," the Autopilot replies just as cheerfully. "Engaging launch thrusters." He flips some switches and the engines start to fire up.

"Keep it on turbos for now. Get some distance between us and that boat before you take off," Dr. Ritenrong orders.

"Sure thing, fella." The android intones the exact same words as before. The engines continue to fire up. The ship begins to rise from the water.

"HEY! I said get get away from the boat!" Steve yells.

"Sure thing, fella," the thing says again. The Pu continues to lift vertically.

"Damnit!" Dr. Ritenrong undoes his harness and tries to get to the pilot's controls, but the ship is already in take-off and he can't fight the G-forces. "Shit! Kill the fucking thrusters!" He has no choice but to strap himself back in.

"Sure thing, fella," the android says in the same notes once again. The Pu rises higher and starts moving forward towards the horizon. Dr. Ritenrong mashes buttons on his side of the console in frustration. He gives up, and switches a monitor on to the external camera.

The Chesapeake is burning and listing to starboard. "Well, I guess that explains that." Dr. Ritenrong sighs. "God, I need a drink."

The Pu shudders as it breaks the sound barrier, climbing higher and faster across the Earth as it rises into space.

Smoking Guns on the Water

There is a moment of tension as the militia men briefly consider disobeying orders. There is a primal sense of fear as the boys look upon the man who had beat them senseless only yesterday.

Doc drops his Maglite and steadies the gun in his hand as he shouts "Get down!" Thunderhorse, sensing the tension in the air, does not heed the warning and starts to charge.

Cody Mathews, a look of panic in his eyes, fires first. His unsteady hand pulls the rifle away from his shoulder before he shoots. The bullet rockets through the wood ceiling as the butt of the gun smashes into his shoulder, causing him to yelp in pain and drop his rifle entirely.

The sound of the blast causes Doc to duck down instinctively, but he keeps his aim steady and lets loose a round precisely into the knee of the middle man, Pete. He falls to the ground, fainting from the sudden shock.

As the man falls, Thunderhorse is upon Cody with his battleaxe, screaming as he jams the two pointed prongs at the tip into his gut.

The third man, Earl, manages to keep his rifle steady as he fires at Doc. The bullet slams into the Kevlar surrounding Doc's gut, nearly knocking the wind out of him. Earl steps back and begins reloading as quick as he can. Thunderhorse whacks him in the shoulder with his ax as he brings it back to deliver another blow to Cody.

Poor Cody Mathews stares off a thousand miles, his eyes glossed over as that vicious weapon sinks deep past his shoulder, ribs snapping, lungs tearing, and blood gushing. Thunderhorse peels him off his blade with his foot.

The blood curdling cry and the bruise on his stomach cause Doc to miss next shot. The bullet misses the last militiaman's knee and ricochets off the iron burner with a twang.

Doc realizes what has happened and shouts as loud as he can. "HALT!"

Earl drops his gun and puts his hands up. Thunderhorse turns to him, eyes blazing and covered in blood. The militia man wets himself.

Doc screams at him in German. "[I told you to get down! What the fuck was that?!]"

Thunderhorse replies, confused "[I got down here and killed this one. They had thunder slings. Now they don't.]"

"[I told you, Do No Harm!]"

"['Unless You Have To.' They were going to kill us. I thought we had to kill them back. Sorry, I guess.]"

Doc picks up the flashlight again. He yells at Judge Olden from afar. "For God's sakes we didn't want to hurt anybody! We're trying to save your lives!" He moves forward towards the carnage. Cody is for sure dead. No medical science of any era Doc is aware of can bring him back. The man he shot will be fine, although any doctor of this time will probably cut the leg off and kill him themselves. The man Thunderhorse is keeping at bay has a pretty nice flesh wound on his arm, but a few stitches should fix that up nicely.

Dr. Ritenrong chimes in on the I-Browse. "What was all that shooting, is everyone alright?"

Doc answers him. "We're fine. They're not. One dead, two wounded. You don't have any magic way to bring people back from the dead, do you? Any futuristic cures for a case of 'nearly-chopped-in-half-with-an-ax'? "

"Not with me, no. We can talk about that later. Just get the stuff and get back here."

Doc proceeds past and shines the light on the people in the back of the boat, hoping his stray bullet didn't hit anyone when it bounced off the cast iron burner. The people are black with soot, as they're sitting in the coal bin. They're fairly well dressed men and women. Judge Olden is among them, as well as Captain Daniels. Marshal Mathews is there too, his eyes red and swelling.

The Marshal moves forward slowly. Doc aims at him. He's not paying any attention. "You killed my boy," he cries softly. He pushes past him to kneel at the remains of his son.

"Shit," Doc mumbles.

Judge Olden steps forward as well, Captain Daniels behind him, hand on a holster. Doc levels his pistol. "Drop it. Hands behind your back." The captain leaves his gun holstered, but raises his hands and puts them behind his back, clasping his wrists.

Doc keeps the gun trained on him as he goes and grabs the pistol himself. It's a rather ornate piece of work.

The Judge complains. "Just what is all this about?! Here you come riding in on some screaming demon, shouting about how we're in danger and you're not here to hurt us and then you go and slaughter that poor Mathews boy like a pig?!"

"Me?! I come to save your ass from certain death and you order your men to kill us! That blood is on your hands! That boy shot first, and you're the one who told him to! Now if you wish to disagree any further, I guess I'll just let you get blown up."

"Son, what the hell are you talkin' about?"

Doc stares into the old man's eyes. This time that old stony face would not hide his inner fears. Doc can read him like a book.

"This boat is going down in ten minutes. I am a federal agent, a spy working directly for President Andrew Jackson. The Prussian Government has placed a very lethal bomb aboard this boat in order to cause chaos in an effort to hamstring the U.S. from it's westward expansion so that the Prussians can conquer France without us interfering."

"The Prussians?!"

"Yes. They know all about the fight over the Toledo Strip. They think if they can sink this ship and blame Ohio, they can incite the U.S. into all out civil war and we will not be able to help defend France."

"And that monster over there, your so called 'brother'? Is he a spy, too?"

"He's a Hessian mercenary sent to assist me."

"And your Uncle? I suppose he's Andrew Jackson himself in disguise."

"No, he's the Prussian agent sent to employ the bomb. I had to rescue him so I could interrogate him and find out where it is. Turns out you fools brought it right on board yourselves."

"Son, that is the biggest load of horse-shit I have ever heard in my entire life."

Doc lifts the gun to the Judge's face. "Just give me the everything you took from Dr. Ritenrong. Right now."

The Judge peels back his overcoat, revealing the inner pocket where a long, silver pen is clipped to the inside. He pulls it out slowly. Doc notices that the pen is longer than the pocket. He snatches it from the Judge's hand.

"There was a watch and a pipe, too. I need those as well," Doc orders.

"I suppose he hid the bomb in that old corncob pipe?" The Judge reaches back into the pocket. A look of confusion overcomes his face as he digs deeper into his pocket. The confused look becomes that of surprise as his arm disappears deep into the pocket, and terror as the rest of him suddenly follows, leaving nothing but the coat which drops to the ground, empty.

Before anyone can react, Captain Daniels picks up the coat. "Judge?!" He opens the coat and reaches into the pocket. He slips away into it, as well. The crowd gasps in horror. A woman screams.

Doc picks up the coat. Instinctively he shakes at the pocket. Some spare change falls out, but nothing else.

Fucking Lake Erie, Pt 3

Doc hangs the flintlock rifle back on his shoulder, opting to draw his .44; a much better solution for the tight spaces below.

"People of the steamship Chesapeake, we have come to help! You may be in danger!" he calls out.

There's still no reply. Taking a deep breath, Doc proceeds carefully down the stairs. The whole lower deck is tightly packed with various crates and cargo, not leaving much room to walk. The path leads straight between the boilers to the back, with no where else to go without climbing over stacks of boxes. Doc turns the corner slowly. Thunderhorse follows tight.

The lights are all extinguished. The back of the boat is a pool dark broken only by the red glow of coals from the vents in the burners. Doc shines his flashlight into the blackness.

Three men stand between the boilers, shoulder to shoulder, aiming rifles at them. One has a cloth tied around his head, holding his jaw shut. "Drop your weapons!" another demands.

"Holy shit, its the Shaw brothers!" the third exclaims, lowering his rifle a bit.

"What?! Kill them!" the familiar voice of Judge Olden calls from the back.

Fucking Lake Erie, Pt 2

"Hail steamship Chesapeake," Doc hollers over the external loudspeakers,"In the name of Pres. Andrew Jackson, Halt. You may be in danger!" He turns of the mic. "Professor, can you get the thermal camera and your tracer on this I-Browse?" he asks, handing the device over.

"No problem," replies Dr. Ritenrong. A few clicks later, he hands it back. "Done."

"Perfect. Thunderhorse, get out of those overalls and get your ax and helmet ready."

The Nord's face beams. "HAHA!" he laughs as he tears off his costume and runs over to Lightning.

"Steve, pack a saddle bag with the toolkit, pry-bar, rope, and two sticks of dynamite, 10 second fuses," Doc orders.

Doc curses the replicator for being an over-sized gum-ball machine as he digs through the crew cabin for something useful. In one utility compartment, he finds a water-resistant nylon satchel. He thanks fate for this as he shoves the medkit into it. He returns to the cargo bay and gets into his Jeep. He pulls out some road flares and a Maglite.

Thunderhorse is armored, armed, and ready. Dr. Ritenrong has prepared the saddle bag and is standing by the cargo bay controls. "Ready?" he asks.

Doc checks the I-Browse. All 15 people are below decks, now crowded around the portholes staring at the Pu. Doc nods to Steve. Steve hits the button.

The cargo bay doors fold open. Orange rays of sunlight beam into the cargo bay. Once the cargo bay doors stop, Thunderhorse begins climbing the hand-holds along what was the ceiling a moment ago, now a convenient ladder up to the top deck of the ship, near the bridge. Doc follows behind him, stopping in the middle to hand off the saddle bag from Dr. Ritenrong to Thunderhorse.

The deck of the Chesapeake is deserted. Doc checks the I-Browse again. The thermal image is taken from the side, so while it is easy to see if people are above, below, far, or near to them, it is difficult to tell if they are to the left or right. Everyone is below them, on the lower deck between the paddle wheels. Steve's Q-Net device tracer is blipping amidst the red glow of the warm bodies. It's difficult to tell if anyone is holding it, but it does not appear to be moving.

"Hail Chesapeake! We have come to warn you! You are in DANGER!" Doc yells. There is no response.

The bridge is empty. The ship's engine is disengaged, but the fire in the burners are still hot and the two boilers are still steaming away. Someone left here in a hurry, spilling a cup of coffee all over the place.

They proceed down the stairs to the next level. The sun has set at last. Doc turns on his flashlight and peers into the second deck windows. There's a pleasant little galley and a fully stocked bar, completely vacated. A table is set with food still steaming on the plates. The lanterns had not yet been lit. Drinks are left undrunk. A plate has been knocked to the floor with a hurried exit.

They proceed towards the bow to the stairs down to the lower deck. The stairs lead forward, away from the group of people at the back. Doc checks the thermal image.What looks like two people are moving cautiously forward, but disappear from his viewer as they step between the boilers, obscured by the white heat radiating from them.

Fucking Lake Erie

"Horses have iron feet?" The Autopilot inquires, confused.

"No, they have iron shoes. Just get the damned magnetic tiedowns, already. We've got to move quickly." The professor argues with android. He turns to Doc, frustrated. "I swear I have to reprogram that scrap pile one of these days. What we need is a real pilot. I had to clear his heuristic learning systems just to hold all the basic information about piloting the ship. Now he can't learn anything, anymore."

Doc watches the blipping dot, once again on the map. It's still moving. "They're going way off course. They should be hugging the coast, but they're going towards the middle of the lake. There's no weather systems anywhere near them." Doc gets up and scratches his head. "How does a ship like that just disappear?"

"Well, I'm hoping its something easy, like they decided to go to Canada instead. Second best is that they just sank, maybe due to methane gas bubbles rising from the bottom of the lake and creating an area of low buoyancy. But the worst case scenarios are the most likely."

"And those are...?"

"Someone either disassembled the Q-TIP improperly, disabling the anti-matter containment field and blowing the ship into sub-atomic particles with the resulting 800 kiloton blast. Or someone threw the thing into the water, shorting out the circuitry and turning the entire lake into a giant wormhole, flinging them and everything in it sometime near the ice age after the lake was formed."

"Great."

"We should know for certain if they expose the anti-matter."

"Well, history doesn't record any nuclear explosions in the middle of Lake Erie. I'm sure that would've been at least a footnote on the nautical records."

"That's a relief. What about other missing ships?"

"There's quite a few mysterious disappearances on Lake Erie. No others were recorded today, though."

"The surface tension of water has a strange effect on the wormhole. It's rather unpredictable. I haven't really tested it. The effect might be localized to the ship, or it could be intermittent depending on the water levels and a million other factors. It might explain some of the other disappearances."

"Wouldn't divers and swimmers and fish and things like that disappear, too?"

"I said it was unpredictable. Maybe they do. May be they have. Maybe every fisherman in Lake Erie is catching fish born ten thousand years ago. I don't know."

"Wonderful. We've got to get out there. Now."

The Autopilot returns. Thunderhorse is behind him. "Alrighty, sirs, the horses are secured. Y'all get strapped in and I'll light 'er up. Yeehaw!" his electronically tinged voice echoes through the cockpit.

The crew gets seated and ready. The Autopilot flicks switches and hits buttons. The engines rumble and whir to life. The trees around them begin to rustle with the wind of the turbines. They start to rise. The landing gear raises and shuts its self away. They rise above the trees, and they begin to move forward across the purple sky of the setting sun.

"Vectoring thrusters for lateral motion. Hang on to your hats!" The Autopilot warns them as the ship rapidly begins to accelerate. They can hear the engines roaring. The ship shudders with the unmistakable shock of a sonic boom. Doc is in the copilot's seat and watches the city of Toledo rush by beneath them. They're way too close to the ground, someone had to see them. At least they didn't hear them, not right away at least. He makes a note to check the records later for UFO sightings.

The trip is pretty short. Hardly five minutes later, they're over the lake. The Autopilot decelerates the ship as they approach the red blinking dot on the tracking screen. They can see the Chesapeake below them in the water. The boat is stopped, but is still steaming.

Doc switches on the thermal cameras as they descend into the water. The steam from the ship and the jetwash from the landing Pu clouds and distorts the view. All he can make out for certain are the white-hot boilers.

The Autopilot put the Pu gently into the water next to the Chesapeake. The crew unbuckles.

"Nice landing. Next time try to keep it under Mach One for such a short trip." Dr. Ritenrong tells the android.

"Will do," it says as it immediately forgets what it's been told.

With the engines off and looking beneath the steam, Doc can see that no one is on the deck of the ship. All the warm bodies are below decks. There's fifteen people on board, according to the computer. There seems to be a bustle of activity, but some of the people are looking at them through portholes. The landing must've scared the shit out of them.

"C'mon," leads Dr. Ritenrong. "We've got to go out the cargo bay."

R&R, Such as it Is

Doc has never had to stitch himself up before, but finds it surprisingly easy, after a few pain killers. The bullet had only grazed his shoulder, but the stress of the whole day had thrown him into shock. After that, he crawls into a bunk inset into the wall of the Pu crew area, slides the shutter closed, and falls asleep. He dreams of the total chaos of the day before. He's had some hectic ventures into the past before, but nothing quite like this.

Doc sleeps well into the morning. He is awakened by the smell of coffee, eggs, and something he can't quite recognize. He slides back the bunk door. Dr. Ritenrong is fixing up a meal on the utility table just outside.

"Good morning," the doctor greets him. "I hope you're feeling better."

Surprisingly, Doc has never felt better in his life. Must be those futuristic pain killers. "I'm okay. What are you cooking?"

"Local cuisine, you might say," he hands Doc a plate and a cup. "It's turtle eggs and snake meat. Beats the freeze dried crap we've got on board, at least. I never could stomach zero-g rations."

Doc takes a bite. It tastes kind of fishy, but it's palletable. Doc seasons it liberally with salt and pepper.

After eating, Doc heads up to the cockpit with a fresh cup of coffee and his I-Browse. The Autopilot greets him with an enthusiastic "Howdy!" and goes back to the business of monitoring the controls.

"What kind of sensors do we have on this thing?" Doc asks him.

"Well, she's got active and passive radar and radio for long range detection, communications, and terrain mapping, laser range finders, thermal, lowlight, UV, and X-Ray cameras, and a gamma burst alarm. Never found much sense in that, though, since it's only there to tell me that y'all just been lethally dosed. I guess you could use it to start planning your funerals."

"X-ray? Can we see through stuff, like buildings?"

"Sorry, it's a passive sensor. Unless there's an X-ray source on the other side of the building, we can't see through it."

"That's too bad. How far away can you detect someone approaching?"

"Well, from here on the ground in these trees, not so far. Radar's got about a 20 mile radius but poor resolution. I can tell you where all the river boats and buildings are and if there's any wagons coming down the road a few miles off. With thermal, I've got about 3 miles tops for a warm human body. I might be able to identify a group on horseback as far as five miles out. I can see further at night, though, probably three times as far."

He brings up the displays as he explains them. It's a messy array of colors and numbers that Doc can't really understand.

"Could we use the ship in the dark of night and fly in and lower ourselves down while it hovered, like a helicopter? And if so, is it quiet?"

"Hover, yes, quiet, hell no. Drop from ropes? Absolutely not. You'd drop alright, right into the huge jetwash put out by the vectored thrusters. Now, I could glide engines off over town and you jump out, but we don't have no parachutes. I'd have to go pretty fast, too, so that'd be one hell of a jump."

"Thanks," Doc says, slightly disheartened.

"No problem, buddy," replies the android.

Doc sits down in one of the passenger seats. He'll have to think of another plan. He enjoys his cup of coffee and reads his I-Browse. Dr. Ritenrong was right. The surveyors at Phillip's Corners came under fire a little more than an hour ago, and by tomorrow ten thousand Ohioans will be marching on Michigan. The Militia will put up a brief fight over the next couple weeks, resulting in three hundred casualties. Only around sixty of those are fatalities, mostly resulting from the medical practices of the day.

Doc checks out more future history. Automobile manufacturing gets started in Milwaukee rather than Detroit. Instead, Detroit is better known for dairy, beer, and beef products. Green Bay hosts a killer hockey team, while the Detroit Lions become a national favorite in football. Ohio State-Michigan rivalries are much more intense. Swat teams have to be called into downtown Columbus to stop riots when the Buckeyes win, and the National Guard steps in when they lose.

Doc checks the name Alyss Valia. No records are found. Doc goes back down to the crew quarters and shows Dr. Ritenrong.

"What? That's impossible!" he says in disbelief. "Let me see that!" He takes the I-Browse and goes into a bunk, shutting the door behind him. Mumbling can be heard from behind the plastic screen.

Doc takes some time to clean his gun. It's still in good condition. He disarms and inspects the three antique pistols he'd captured from the sheriff and marshal. Being a thorough archaeologist, he finds some good plastic bags, seals them up, and marks down some notes. Maybe he can deliver them to the Smithsonian later. Doc goes off to stow them in the cargo hold. The three horses are here, as well as Thunderhorse. He's resting on the hood of Doc's Wrangler, mug in hand.

"Ah, my friend awakes. Have some of this red stuff," he says offering a mug of wine. The last barrel of alcohol is messily opened and a portion of its contents are splashed about the floor.

"No thanks, maybe later."

"More for me." He chugs back a gulp.

"Did you understand anything the professor said last night about the future? Do you know why he brought us here?"

"Yes, he told me more after you went to sleep. He told me that he has seen Ragnarok, and that I have the power to save the world from it. He told me that we are fleas on a sleeping giant, a giant bigger than all the stars in the sky. We can sail the giant's blanket like a ship at sea and avoid the crushing blow of his hand. I don't know, though. It seems to me that we should fight this beast, like Thor against the frost giants. At least we will reach Valhalla."

"I'm sure you'll make it there. How many men have you conquered already? You did very well against those men in town."

"They were weak. Their thunder slings make them weak. They may keep them safe from far away, but up close, they have no power. They are not true warriors, like me and you."

"I am not a warrior, I'm a healer."

"You are a wizard. I saw you cast that spell at them. Very effective. You must work on your aim, though. You did not kill them, only frightened them away."

"I didn't want to kill them."

"But the strong one hit you with his thunder sling. If you had killed him you would not have been wounded. We must kill our enemies."

"Only when they are dangerous to us or our friends. Sometimes, an enemy is best kept alive. We are in a strange land, you and I. We can't be sure who is our enemy and who is our friend. All I know is that you are my friend, and that Dr. Ritenrong wants to be our friend too. I think we can trust him, even if we don't understand him."

"He is a confusing person. He controls a powerful magic, the powers of Odin, but I do not think he shares Odin's wisdom. You, though, you seem to have Odin's wisdom, and Baldur's love of life. But you wield Loki's fire and tongue. It is a strange thing indeed. I will trust in you, though, for I have seen your wisdom and strength. And I will trust in the dwarf, but only as long as you trust him."

"And I will trust in you, so long as you follow this one rule: Do No Harm; Unless You Have To."

"Agreed."

The two shake hands.

Doc spends the afternoon studying maps and satellite photos of the area. He stares in frustration at the blinking dot on the screen, signifying the location of Dr. Ritenrong's gear in the middle of town. There's no way to get to it without going through town, no way to go through town without being seen, no way of being seen without being recognized. The town is still under Michigan control. A thermal image video taken by the Younger Brother Pear as it passed over the area a few hours ago shows columns of troops being deployed around the city. The whole town looks to be locked down.

It takes Doc a moment to realize that the dot is moving. Slowly at first, it goes to the front of the church. It stops for a moment, then begins moving down the street, towards the river. He calls to the professor downstairs. "Steve! They're moving your stuff!"

Steven, messy and frustrated from confining himself to his bunk all day, comes up quickly and joins Doc at the display screen. "Shit! Where are they taking it?" The dot is moving straight towards the sheriffs office. "Why are they taking it there?"

"They're not," Doc responds. The dot moves past the jail house towards the docks. "They're putting it on the Chesapeake."

"How long before it's out of sensor range?"

The Autopilot answers. "I can only track it from here within twenty miles. The Pear won't pass over again for another four hours. I can drop a satellite to track it anywhere, then."

"How far can they get in four hours?"

"Not sure, certainly out of our range," the android replies.

"Drop the satellite as soon as possible," the professor commands.

They watch in silence for a while. The dot is loaded on the boat. Nothing happens for about half an hour.

Doc speaks. "If we're lucky, they'll stay put. We can get at the boat from the water in the night. "

No such luck, however. The boat starts moving north, towards the lake.

"Any chance we can use this thing as a submarine?" Doc asks.

"We can land the Pu in the water if we have to, but we can't hide her. The hull can stand five atmospheres of pressure, but there's no way to make her dive. I mean, we could just crash straight into the water, but if the hull doesn't get crushed in the impact we'll just float right back up again"

"Shit. Where are they going? Doc, see if you can find anything on Q-Net about the Chesapeake."

Doc goes off and studies with the I-Browse for a while. He spends almost an hour just trying to find the proper sites to explore, and another two digging up the information he needs. He returns to the cockpit with his findings. The tracking dot is gone from the screen.

Dr. Ritenrong explains. "We lost them an hour ago. It won't be long before we can get the satellite in place. They can't have gone very far. Did you find anything?"

"The manifest says they set out back to Detroit, but they'll never get there."

"What? Why?"

"No one knows. The ship just disappeared."

"Fucking Lake Erie."