Whoooup

"Well," Steve begins.

WHOOOUP! screams an alarm.

"What was that?" asks Doc.

"I don't know," replies Steve. "It's never done that before."

WHOOOUP! it screams again.

"All hands to the bridge!" Veronica yells at them over the com.

"Are we hands?" Steve asks, half slurring.

"I think so," Doc replies. "Where's the bridge?"

"Downstairs. C'mon, I'll lead the way."

WHOOOUP!

"Damnit!" Mark shouts as he wakes up from his drooling stupor. "What in God's name is that fuckin' rooster doin' up this late?"

"Something awful," Doc explains. "Let's go."

WHOOOUP!

The bridge is one of the last clean places left on the ship, mainly because no one goes there. The cleanest place is the conference room just off to the side. No one has been in there for over three hundred years, as all official ship's business is done at the bar.

Doc wishes this situation was one that could be handled from the bar.

"Remind me to install a command console in the galley," Steve says. Doc isn't sure if Steve just read his mind or if he's accidentally projecting his thoughts on others. This sort of thing has been happening too often, lately.

Veronica is in the pilot's seat busily mindlinking with the ship's computer. The large, curved holo-viewscreen is splattering a technicolor array of data and incomprehensible three-dimensional imagery faster than anyone but she can process.

"What's going on?" Doc finally asks after failing to make sense of the thing. He casually takes a seat left of Veronica at the helm.

"Incomming starships, unknown design. Three gunships, two cruisers, and one destroyer. They're on an orbitital intercept course. Targetting hot." She manipulates the display to provide a better view. It doesn't help much.

Steve plants himself in the captain's seat and promptly vomits.

Mark takes a seat to Veronica's left. "Woo-hoo! Where's the button for the missiles?" he asks.

The touch-screen command console in front of Mark promptly powers down.

"Hey!"

"Any idea who they are?" Doc asks.

"Negative," she responds in total business mode. "Not Exkorean, not EDF. Configuration suggests Earth origin. Specifications unknown."

"Where'd they come from?"

"They just appeared on the scope. Either they just jumped out of hyperspace or they just dropped their stealth shields. Trajectory implies the latter."

The computer dings a bit.

"Incoming transmission," Veronica says.

"Don't answer it!" Steve shouts. "Activate temporal jumper thingy!" he slurs.

"What are you talking about?" Veronica yells back.

"I just installed it!"

"Whatever it is, it's not online."

"Shit! I forgot to plug it in."

Another alarm sounds. "They're painting us," Veronica says. "I really think they want us to answer the phone."

"No! It could be a basilisk! Get to the asteroids as fast as you can!"

"A what?" Doc asks.

"A mind-locking program," Veronica answers. "Visual and audio stimulation designed to hypnotize and possibly damage the brain. Brace for emergency warp."

Veronica does them all the favor of turning the viewscreen to internal ship status displays so as to spare their alcohol soaked brains the nausiating visual effects of XD warping. It doesn't help. They all feel the universe turn inside out, mostly in their stomachs.

Steve vomits again. Mark does too, all over the console. Doc considers throwing up as well, but ultimately decides to save it for later.

"Doc!" Thunderhorse calls from the observation deck. "What is happening? The sky is turning inside out."

"Someone's after us. We're flying to the asteroid field," Doc explains.

"Ah," he acknowledges. "Doc?"

"Yes?"

"What is an asteroid?"

"A big rock."

"Ah. Doc?"

"Yes?"

"Why are we going to the field of big rocks?"

"I don't know. Steve, why are we going to the field of big rocks?"

"What?" Steve asks, wearily leaning over the arm of his captain's chair, drooling.

"Why are we going to the asteroid field?" Doc repeats.

"Time jump," Steve barely answers. He returns to being sickly.

Mark, meanwhile, has passed out.

Veronica is busily navigating the ship through it's mind-bogglingly complicated multi-dimensional hypserspace route.

"Are they following us?" Doc asks.

"Impossible to say. We don't have any long range hypserspace sensors. We'll only know if they get directly ahead of us."

"How does that work?"

"Too complicated to explain. Think of a boat where the only way you have to navigate is a map of the currents and a fishing bobber. Then imagine there's a boat in front of you leaving a wake."

"Aha. Could they throw us off course?"

"Possibly. But our map of the currents is so good they would have to be very subtle about it. They would not be able to get in front of us at this speed, at least with any engine I've ever seen."

"That means we're leaving a wake, too, right? They can follow us?"

"Yep."

New Method of Time Travel

Click for animation because Blogger won't show it on the page, the fuckers.

"Great! We can travel through time and not get our ass shot off again?" Doc asks.

"I guess it depends on whether or not you're being shot at, but yes, we can travel through time." Dr. Ritenrong's enthusiasm continues uninterrupted.

He calls an electronic whiteboard down from the ceiling and begins drawing on it using his fingers.

"Now, we all know that an object such as a cup has a time-line with a beginning, middle, and end. It exists until it is destroyed. When we place our wormhole in it at any point on that time-line, the wormhole also exists from the beginning to the end, where the wormhole dissipates and is also destroyed. The wormhole connects all points of its time-line to the point opposite the zenith.

"Lets say we have another cup with a wormhole in it. We can insert it into the first wormhole, wait a while, and watch it arrive at the opposite end of the first time-line. If we then send it back through the wormhole, it will travel back through time, arriving before we put it in. We have now crossed a higher dimensional boundary, and altered the course of history. Now, the fun bit. If we put the cup that arrived from our first cup into the cup we just made before we send it into the first cup, what happens? Does the blue cup any longer have a beginning or end? Does it end where it begins? Yet there is a wormhole within this cup which spans both time and higher dimensional space. What happens if we step into that wormhole?"

He clears the board with a wave of his hand and continues. "Now, the blue cup, and the wormhole within it, do in fact have a time-line. It is created by us, it has a midpoint, and it's existence 'ends' with the recursion process we set into motion. However, it's temporal field is inverted! The beginning of the inverted time-line will send us back in time, and the end will send us forward, outside the existence wave of the cup! The closer we get to the middle, the further back or forth it will fling us! An interesting thing happens at the zenith, though. It leads to both the beginning and end of the universe, or perhaps just the localized galactic time-line, simultaneously. If we were to enter near the zenith, we may be flung to either end of time, or simply thrown outside of existence altogether. Or it may have already happened and the result was the big bang. I don't know."

He clears the board again, and with a series of gestures brings the previous drawing back.

"There is one other thing. The inverted time-line of the blue cup is spread out back and forth across the relative time-line of the black cup. It begins by disappearing into the future where it exists briefly before being sent back before it started, and then loops around. The start of it is in the future and vice-versa, so going in earlier will take us to the future, and going in later will take us to the past. So if we move the creation of the second wormhole and its nearly instantaneous insertion into the primary wormhole closer to the zenith of the primary, we can allow it to extend throughout the lifecycle of the primary wormhole before inverting it. This gives us plenty of time to more finely calculate and control our destination!"

He brings out a small plastic ball from his lab coat pocket. "For the last couple weeks, I've been working on this for months." He shows it to Doc and Veronica at the bar. Mark looks over his shoulder. Thunderhorse is distracted by the magic of the whiteboard.

The small sphere is split in two halves. One side is blue and has little finger friction ridges along the edge and a button at the top. The reverse side is white with blue micro-LEDs displaying the current date and time.

"The blue side is the dial and activation button. Turn it slow to change seconds and minutes, faster to change hours, days, and years. Clockwise is forward, counterclockwise is backwards, of course." He spins the blue side to demonstrate. The time display on the reverse side changes colors from blue to red as the clock goes further into the future, and then from red to blue to green as it goes back into the past.

"Press the button to set it." He does. The clock is set for 1068.

"Now it will take some time for it to prime. The further back or forth you want to go, the more fine control I need to calculate the destination position and the longer it takes. There is an emergency override if you have to get out of a situation quickly, but this is HIGHLY unpredictable. You will almost certainly not end up where you wanted to go. But if you must use it, just turn the dial clockwise and press the button repeatedly. I had to balance between safety of travel versus emergency response, so it won't always react instantly. What good is escaping a firefight only to be flung into fires of the primordial solar system? Anyway, only use it in extreme situations.

"Once it's primed, you can use the dial counterclockwise to delay the response if you want. The longer you give it, the more accurate the results, although the default time should be accurate enough. After about half the time has passed, you can't set it any further ahead, though. When these little lights travel the circumference, it will detonate."

"Detonate?" Mark asks, intrigued by explosions.

"Yes, detonate. These are one-time use devices. The blast won't hurt you. It will expand to fill a confined space up to about 8000 cubic feet, so I recommend using it in small, empty rooms. You can use it outdoors, but it will take everything around you with it. Don't worry, you will arrive in the same gravitationally relative space regardless of the continuity of the structure you use it in, although I can't guarantee results for weak or fluctuating gravitational fields. So wear a space suit if you're using it on an asteroid or something.

"Another word of warning. These things contain a small amount of anti-matter, which is used up harmlessly in the reaction. If the containment is breached, however, you have a problem which can be measured in megatons. It also contains a micro-radiothermal generator for powering the internal components. This can't go critical (by its self, anyway), but those componets will cause radiation burns or sickness if handled. If the core is exposed or goes offline, the antimatter containment will fail and you've got one of those megaton problems. The skin is made of nano-engineered titanim-carbon composites and will take exactly one hell of a beating. Do not push your luck."

"Is it possible to set it off on purpose?" Mark asks, excitedly.

"No, simply because I can't imagine any situation in which a thermonuclear hand-grenade might be useful."

"I see you've set the thing for 1068," Doc remarks. "That's Thunderhorse's era, isn't it?"

Thunderhorse quits doodling on Dr. Ritenrong's whiteboard at the sound of his name.

"Yes, it is," Steve replies. "Since he damn near got killed saving my life, I think we should do as you suggested, Doc. We're going to save Jazelle."

"PRAISE THOR!" Cries Thunderhorse. He pounds his fists on the whiteboard, shattering the digital image. The screen, unharmed, retracts into the ceiling.

"I'll set the timer ahead to twelve hours. That should be plenty of time for you to get ready and head to the surface."

"You're staying here, right?" Doc says. "If we lose you, we're fucked. You know that, right?"

"Yes, Doc, I'm staying here on the Pear." He answers. "But, I'll be taking the Pear back in time through traditional means and I'll be in orbit when you arrive in the past. Veronica, I'll need you to drop them off on Earth then help me navigate through the asteroid field. I've got the course already plotted."

"Yee haw! We're headed back to olden times? Like knights and stuff?" Mark says. "Can we bring our laser rifles?"

"And the Sleipnirs! I will ride an eight legged horse into battle!" Thunderhorse cries.

"As long as I can bring my Colt and my Jeep, I'm happy. I'm not riding through anyplace called 'The Winterlands' on horseback, eight-legged or otherwise."

"Sure, whatever. Just don't totally unravel the fabric of history, okay?"

Confessions

"There's something I've got to tell you," says Dr. Ritenrong.

"Yes?" Doc looks up from the glass of 300 year old Chananna brandy the Host and Cook had thought to make in anticipation of their future arrival.

In the distance, the Sleipnirs dance a with a viking around the crystal pond beneath the orbiting Earth as the sun and moon rise.

"I caused the destruction of the galaxy."

Doc looks at Steve solemnly, as if the wind had just changed for the worse.

"It was the XD Drive. I stole the idea from Dmitri Valia. He was supposed to come up with the idea that neutrinos were just mathematical shadows of extradimensional high energy particles, and that by utilizing gamma reflectors and manuseisium electromagnetic-gravitational converters one can vector the full thrust of an antimatter reaction and accelerate a ship instantly faster than light. He was his era's Tesla, and I was his Edison.

"When I gave myself the power of time travel, I started a paradox that is going to destroy us all. But it won't happen all at once, just through a series of causal catastrophes that lead inevitably towards armageddon. The first thing I did with the power to time-travel was jump ahead to see the future. I took inventions refined from Dmitri Valias ideas back only ten years and held them up as my own. It brought me fortune and glory, but humans lept into the universe faster than they should have. That shortcut of only a decade slashed the continued existance of our galaxy from billions of years to a handful of centuries, and it gave extraordinary power to people like Admiral Spaaz.

"I've tried my best to undo what I've done, but it's like trying to influence a Pachinko game to get the ball into the one slot that won't trigger nuclear armageddon with my mind. And I'm the one who dropped the ball.

"I'm a poor scientist. I'm a thief. Hell, I stole my only true invention from myself. I was given power and the first thing I did was misuse it, and the rest of the galaxy will suffer the consequences. I know it wasn't me, or this iteration of me who did the actual deed, but I can't say that I would've done it differently were I in the same position as the version of me who was.

"You saved my life, though. I was supposed to die on that ship. I wouldn't have been able to escape again, to tell myself of the plight of the future. I would not have made it to that cave where all my other bodies lie, where the history of a hundred failed futures is carved on the wall. I would not have been able to add my own failed future to it, and I certainly would not have been able to write the one that succeeded.

"I don't think, now, that we can stop the destruction of the galaxy directly. Every time I do, it seems to bring a more powerful ship with a bigger, more powerful XD engine into the grasp of that insideous beast. It's like that being, or force, or whatever it's pan-dimensional name is- has control over me, and that by doing what I think is right, I'm only bringing it what it needs. It's as if the paradox its self is intelligent, omnipotent, and malevolent."

One of the eight legged horses, the foal, breaks away from the pack and approaches cautiously, looking for food. Steve extends a handful of dried insects, locust-cockroach crossbreeds designed to maintain a specific link in the food chain of this artificial paradise. The young horse strobes bright greens and blues as it munches merrily on the snack.

The viking comes to join them, sweating from the joy of playing with his new found companions. "So when will we meet Odin?"

Take a Break

Thanks to Doc's incredible (-ly lucky) surgical skill and the amazing tools at hand in the Younger Brother Pear's medical bay, Steve's recovery is quick and relatively painless. Fortunately for him, the reactive gel in his armor worked well enough to slow the .50 caliber bullet fragments down before it failed, doing not much more internal damage than bird-shot. He was also incredibly lucky, for if the shot had been a few microns to the left, Steve would no longer have his origional heart.

After a good, long nap, Doc is able to treat the rest of the crew's bumps and bruises. Thunderhorse caught the second worst of the three of them when he ran out into the hail of gunfire to save Dr. Ritenrong. Almost his whole body was black and blue.

Doc's own body is well beaten. His jumpsuit peels off like a giant band-aid as it tears at the blisters and bruises left behind every bullet it stopped. It definitely could've been a lot worse, and he is impressed by the stopping power the reactive gel has.

Steve is out like a light and will be for a day or so. Doc makes sure of that by sealing him in the stasis bed and pumping the contained atmosphere full of drugs. It is a cocktail of gasses designed to regulate his metabolism in such a way that he stays asleep and focuses every available calorie on repairing his damaged tissues.

When he finally makes it out of the Medical bay, Doc heads straight for the galley, where the Host and the Cook greet him kindly, as if they'd seen him just yesterday, even though it's been more than three hundred years since they last laid eyes on him. Mark and Thunderhorse are enjoying a meal and several large drinks. Doc has what they're having.

The next morning, Steve is up and about, looking groggy but none the worse for wear.

"Uh," he groans as he approaches the bar where Doc is enjoying a hot coffee and his MAD magazine. "My head is killing me."

"At least it isn't bullets killing you, anymore," Doc replies.

Steve looks concerned. "Is that what happened? Was I shot?"

"Yeah, you were shot pretty good. That gel armor is something else, though. I'd have written off anyone hit by a .50 caliber bullet otherwise."

"I see we're on the Pear again. What happened? Are we still docked to the Marriott? I'm guessing 'no' by your relaxed nature."

"'No' is correct. When you went down, Thunderhorse went out and grabbed you. He took quite a bruising carrying you back. You were bleeding pretty badly, and I couldn't keep you stabilized in that situation, so we jumped in the teacup."

"The teacup from the Marriott room? Where and when are we now?"

"June 17th, 2194. Currently in Earth Orbit."

"Any word from Veronica?"

"Not yet. Didn't she say she did- er... is doing mercenary work for the Earth Defense Forces?"

"Something like that,"

"You are correct, sirs," The Host chimes in. "Ms. Autopilot is currently in Neptunian orbit on a mission for the EDF. I am unaware of the details, however she did say she would be back by tomorrow, barring any unforeseen developments."

"Has she been keeping in contact?" Steve asks.

"She does not carry a quantum uplink on her personal transport, however she almost always returns precisely when she specifies, and always sends a message if she will be delayed. I notified her of your arrival via encrypted microwave channels. She has yet to reply, even given the eight hour response delay. It is entirely possible, however, that the parameters of her mission include maintaining radio silence. "

"Thank you, Host." Steve replies. "How's the ship holding up?"

"Very well, sir. Without organics on board, the ships systems suffered very little wear and tear. All non-vital systems were deactivated, and life support was lowered to its minimum power settings. The Observation deck has been well maintained by both myself and Ms. Autopilot. There is one incident to report."

"Yes?"

"A decade or so after your departure, the observation deck's magnetic shielding was overwhelmed by a particularly strong solar storm. The Gobbits and Chizards fared well as their genetically improved radiation resistance prevented any harm from the effects. However, the horses you brought on board-"

"Holy shit, I forgot about the horses!" Doc says. "Are they okay? I mean, uh, are they even alive? After three hundred-sixty years?"

"In a sense, sir. As I was saying, the solar storm made all three of the adults terminally ill. Fortunately, they had already mated. The large one, the female called Lightning, was pregnant at the time of the incident. She died shortly after birthing the colt. The colt survived, and she and her siblings continued the population. However, due to the inbreeding and the effects of the intense solar radiation on the prenatal tissues, their genetic structure can no longer be classified under Equus caballus. Ms. Autopilot proposed the species Equus Levitas in honor of their late matriarch."

Steve is slightly surprised and concerned about this new information. "Are you saying...?"

Doc, to, is puzzled. He interrupts Steve. "Um, what kind of 'effects' are we talking about?"

"The first prominent feature to appear, starting with the colt, was supernumeral limbs."

"Supernumeral? How many is that?"

"Four. All functional."

"Four functional, supernumeral limbs."

"Yes, sir."

"An eight-legged horse. It started with an eight-legged horse."

"Yes, sir."

Doc sits back in his chair, preparing himself to take this all in. "I see. Go on."

"In subsequent generations there was a simple persistence of albinism and pigmentation loss. Further generations exhibited a slight translucency of hair, skin and internal tissues, which became more pronounced as the population continued."

"How much more pronounced?"

"At one point, they were very difficult to see in spectra greater than infra-red at distances of at least 20 meters."

"Eight legged, invisible horses. At one point. I take it that's not all?"

"No, sir. A generation after that, the species developed chromataphoric structures in their skin cells, however they still retained their translucent base."

"Chromataphors?" Steve asks. "You mean like octopuses have to change colors?"

"Octopi, sir. And yes, sir, that is exactly what I mean. Their natural reflexes towards camouflage make them nearly impossible to spot without thermal sensing when they are frightened, as the are with me. Fortunately, they 'like' Ms. Autopilot, and they tend to change colors when expressing moods, pleasure being one of the most dramatic."

"So, an eight-legged, invisible, color-changing horse? Is that it?" Doc asks, pretending to comprehend it all.

"Yes, sir. One really must see it to understand the full effect."

"Yes, I expect so," replies Steve, quietly astounded.

"The rapidity of the genetic mutations was quite remarkable, although early on the rate of infant deaths and debilitating mutations was quite high. It took only about fifty generations to reach their current state, and they've been stable since then. The seventieth generation was born only last month. We currently have a population of eight: three stallions, four mares, and one male colt, all in good health. Ms. Autopilot preserved a genetic sample of each individual, if you care to study them in detail."

"Have you explained this to Thunderhorse?" Doc asks, concerned.

"I tried, but Mr. Thunderhorse did not react well when I told him his favorite, Lightning, had passed away over three hundred years ago. He ran off to find her and prove me wrong. If you'll forgive me, sir, I don't think he quite has a grasp on the occupational consequences of being a Time Operative."

"No, we know." Steve says. "Thanks for trying."

Psychic Lemon Juice and Emergency Surgery

"This man has been injured! Call the paramedics and bring me your first aid kit, I'm a doctor!"

The foreman doesn't take much convincing. Someone is already on their way with a woefully inadequate medkit. Doc tears it open to see what he can do with it. Steve is going to require surgery, and this pile of bandages, burn patches, and aspirin is not going to get the job done. At least it's enough to change the bandages and disinfect the wound some.

"You didn't answer my question, doctor. What are you doing in my oven?"

Doc is considering how best to answer this question when he is distracted by a flashing signal in his HUD sunglasses.

Q-NET Uplink detected. Connecting... Established. Welcome to Q-NET!

Doc doesn't know much about computers, but he knows what this means.

"The Pear is in Orbit!" he shouts out. "Veronica?" he calls. There's no response. "Veronica?"

The foreman looks at him funny. He turns to one of his workers. "Call an ambulance. And the police."

"Hold up, there, Jose," calls Mark, leveling his assault rifle at the man. "I don't think ya' oughta be callin' no police."

"Mark!" Doc yells. "Put it down!" He turns to the foreman. "Look, sir. I'm sorry we interrupted your production line, but we've got a serious situation here and I have no time to explain."

Doc removes his sunglasses and looks deeply into his eyes. He's an overworked sort, trying to achieve something worthwhile from this dead-end job. He's been on the rocks lately, heavy drinking involved, something dissatisfying at home, etc. This big contract with StarScape Voyages to make teacups for the Marriott was going to help him out financially and emotionally, but it all now looks to be in ruins.

Doc forces his will further into the man's mind. He finds a soft spot- his mother's death. Something about the blood and guns opens up this grand old wound. Doc tears it further and throws on some psychic lemon juice.

"We're being hunted," he says. "You can't call the cops or we're dead, understand? I need to get my friend to a safe place or he will die. I want nothing more than to be out of your hair, but I need your help to do that. I need a ship that can get me into orbit."

"There's no way I can do that," replies the forman.

Doc knows he's asking a lot, so he presses hard on the sympathy button. "Please. You have the chance to save a life here, a chance you never had before. Please, help us."

The man begins to well up with tears.

"We'll be out of here and you can get your machines back on and you can get your life back in order."

"Yes," the forman chokes. "Jesus!" he calls. One of the workers steps forward.

"Yes, sir?" The sunglasses needlessly translate for Doc.

"Bring a cargo lift out front. Yeti 9 should be available. Get them the hell out of here."

The other workers look at their foreman in total shock. They've never seen this side of the man before.

"Yes, sir," the sunglasses again translate. Jesus runs off, grabbing a keycard from a chain on the wall on the way out the back door.

Doc continues to hold pressure on Steve's wounds. Within a minute, he hears the whining sound of a fusion engine spinning up. Thunderhorse and Mark lift Steve while Doc maintains pressure on the bleeding hole in his back. They carry Steve out the fire exit, held open by the foreman.

The Yeti is a simple conical craft not much more than an engine and a cockpit. The nose of the cone can extend (and is currently retracting), revealing a superstructure that can hold six of the trapezoidal cargo containers seen all over this industrial area. As the nose finally fits its self into place.

Jesus opens the hatch. There isn't much room since the Yetti was only designed for two crew members. The cockpit takes up half of the cone, with only two seats. Behind it, in the other half, is a small sleeping and dining area. The table doubles as a bed, and only one person can really occupy it at a time.

Mark and Thunderhorse place Steve gently on the table. Doc, still holding the wound, takes a seat on the bench around the table. Thunderhorse sits next to him. Mark climbs into the co-pilot seat next to Jesus.

"Hold on to your hats, amigos," warns Jesus. They can feel the primary thrusters building up underneath them. The ship rocks and vibrates a moment. It begins to lift and gain momentum. Soon their ears are popping and their breath is stolen. The cabin pressurizes its self unsteadily. There's a hissing, leaking sound.

Soon, they feel that familiar sensation of their stomachs trying to escape through their mouthes as the ship's acceleration dies off and they find themselves in freefall. The hissing leak gets louder.

"What's that sound?" asks Doc.

"There's a small hole in the hull somewhere. It needs fixed."

Doc looks at their driver incredulously. It's then that he notices the web-work of duct tape all over the interior of the ship. There are several red lights blinking on the dash, each poorly covered in electrical tape so as not to distract the driver. Loose wires hold on to the reminants of a speaker assembly, what was once the alarm buzzer.

"So, where you heading, amigos?" Jesus asks.

---

It takes a while, but they arrive at the Younger Brother Pear in orbit somewhere over the Pacific. It's fully intact with the Pu docked. Doc tries to raise Veronica again to no avail. Fortunately, Steve had programmed some of the control codes for the Pear into their sunglasses. On Doc's authority, the cargo bay at the bottom of the ship opens up. The small Yeti fits easily inside.

"Wow, man, this is nice," says Jesus as he opens the hatch. The Time Operatives and their wounded employer scramble out of the transport.

"Thanks for the lift," Doc says as they exit the Yeti. Thunderhorse and Mark carry Steve to the elevator, Doc still holding the bleeding wound tight. He barely has time to feel relieved to be back on the Pear.

They rush Steve up to the medical bay and get him in one of the beds. Doc was an emergency medic in the army, not a trained surgeon. It's been a long time since he's done anything like this.
Doc takes his time. With these beds and equipment, he can afford to. The bed can keep Steve in stasis if something goes wrong. The Clone-o-mat can make replacement parts if necessary. The pharmacuticals available can slow Steve's heart rate to almost nill without killing him.

Doc has to break ribs to gain access to all the bullet fragments. He has to vacuum out all the bits of blue gel from Steve's failed armor. He has to clone Steve some new artery and lung pieces, remove the torn, useless parts, and install the fresh ones. He has to glue the broken bones back together. This is actually made very easy by the bone glue, a substance which stiches the bones together quickly and strongly without the need for screws, metal, or even plaster casts.

The procedure takes almost seven hours. After he cuts the final thread of stitching, applies the antibacterial super-glue salve, and slaps on a bandage, he slumps into the nearest bed and promptly falls asleep.

Questioning the Witness 2

"Where and when are the other agents?" Doc demands. "I want dates, times, places; everything."

"I don't know!" Cho Sing Tsu replies.

Doc becomes solemn. He hasn't had to face this kind of decision since his time in the Wastelands. "Thunderhorse," he says, "take his thumb."

The man in black screams and struggles against his ropes. Thunderhorse laughs as only a viking can. He punches the man in the face and grabs his hand. A blood curdling scream rocks their eardrums. Red bubbles float around their heads, bouncing off the walls and ceiling, sticking to their clothes.

"Times. Dates. Places. Numbers. All of it, or your balls are next." Doc says, calmly.

The man in black is blubbering and crying. "I don't know! They only tell me enough to complete my assignment!"

"Where is your generator? When is your point of entry?" Doc demands.

"Fuck you! I will not betray the Republic!" Cho spits blood at him.

"Thunderhorse," is all Doc has to say.

The struggle only worsens the screams. Doc gives him another chance. "One more time. Where is your generator?" Doc asks firmly. Cho only whimpers. Doc turns to Thunderhorse and nods.

Thunderhorse completes the deed. The back seat becomes a grotesque lava lamp. The man in black goes into shock and passes out. Doc opens the airlock bulkhead behind the backseat and helps Thunderhorse push him in.

Fuck him, thinks Doc as he seals the bulkhead. He deserves no mercy. He signed up for a ruthless government, he gets what they would have given him. Doc lifts the black and yellow safety off the airlock release. An honorable death by airlock at most. He pulls the red lever. An alarm sounds fifteen times at one second intervals. The airlock opens. The body blows out. Farewell young traveler; and good riddance. He closes the airlock again.

"Well, that was unpleasant," Dr. Ritenrong remarks. He flips some switches, increasing the airflow through the filtration system, clearing out the bulk of the blood blobs floating around the cabin. The walls and upholstery seem to be liquid resistant; the blood simply bounces off of them. The crew's clothes, however, are not. Thunderhorse is a mess.

Doc cleans his knife off before putting it away. He digs through the MiBs' backpacks. He pulls out one of the cups from the stackable titanium cooking gear. He brings it to Steve. "Here," he says. "Make a wormhole in this and mark the time."

Steve understands. He breaks away from his computing and does so. Doc puts it back in with the cooking gear, covering up the cup and keeping it safe.

"Any luck with the search?" Doc asks Steve, taking his seat at the copilot's station.

"Nothing. I don't understand it. The long range tracking stations haven't seen the Pu or the Younger Brother Pear anywhere in the solar system. This stupid era doesn't have quantum communications yet, so the best data I can get from the rim is from a year ago. I can't find any part of the MARV-IN in any docking registry, ever. I'm now trying to dig up any data from nearby solar systems, but the best data is from Alpha Centuari and it's four years old. The next best bet is data couriers, but they're so locked down it's ridiculous."

"Data couriers?"

"Yeah. In pre-FTL communications eras like this, every ship on an extrasolar route carries as much data as their hard drives can fit between stars. Then they sell that information for as much as they can get. The locations of other ships, their cargo, and routes is a fucking premium price to pirates, so the government pays even more to get it first. Needless to say, they've got that stuff secured tighter than a dolphin's virgin asshole. It's going to take me a while to even find a database."

"So what do you want to do?"

"I'm not going to get anywhere with this ship's computer. It's good, but not good enough. Even if I can locate a courier database with it, it's just not fast enough to break the encryptions within our lifetime. We've got to get to a proper computing center."

"And where would we find that?"

"It just so happens there's one in Milwaukee, Wisconsin."

Questioning the Witness

"You had better start talking or you are going to take a short walk out an airlock! There is a lot of junk up here. One more piece of trash won't be noticed," Doc yells at the man in black.

"I will tell you nothing. You can't scare me," says the man in black.

"Thunderhorse," Doc says, opening his switchblade. "Cut his finger off."

Thunderhorse starts laughing maniacally as he takes the blade from Doc. He grabs the MiB's hogtied hand. The MiB starts screaming.

"No! Stop! Don't! Please!" he protests.

"Who are you? Who do you work for?" Doc demands.

"My name is Cho Sing Tsu. I am a locater for the Democratic Peoples Republic of Exkoreans."

"What is your mission?"

"I was sent to capture you and your time device. "

"How did you learn of the time device? How did you know we would be here?"

"All we had to do is look up your name in the history records. We found you here easily. We have sent agents to every period where your name shows up. We will find you and capture you if we haven't already. You capitalist pigs have broken the Pact for the Non-Militarization of Time. We seek only to balance your power and avoid being wiped from history!"

"What are you talking about? We haven't taken any military actions against you."

"The mere existence of your time device nullifies the treaty. You are a threat and you will be destroyed. Earth will be ours again, and you will all be slaves to the Republic!"

Space Race

"This thing better have better pick-up than the Jeep or this is going to get ugly quick! Steve, whatever you are doing, do it faster! I hope all these flashing lights are just the turn signals!"

Doc throws the throttle forward. The Python's engines light hard, throwing gravity back into their seats. The ship leaps out the far side of the orbital tunnel, leaving that flight path behind.

"Fuck me!" Doc shouts as he tries to line it back up. He lets go of the throttle and it springs back to neutral, disengaging the engines. He banks the ship left to put it back in place. It continues on its course, sideways. "Damnit, Newton." He hits the throttle again and the ship begins accelerating in its new direction. They're still too fast to stay in the orbital tunnel, now above them.

"Forget the tunnel, just go. We can correct the orbit later. Just don't hit anything," Steve tells him, only briefly turning away from his computer.

Easier said than done. The heads up display lights up like a Christmas tree as small objects once moving at benign speeds glow red with dangerous relative velocities. Micro-meteors crack against the hull like gravel on a windshield. They zip into the unswept upper orbits where the husks of dead satellites fall almost endlessly back to Earth. Doc just barely misses one with a long forgotten XM Radio symbol on it.

"Cease your acceleration at once!" demand the police, chasing close behind them in their sleek, bus-like cruisers. "You are entering a restricted orbit!" They swerve far around the XM satellite.

"What the hell does that mean?" Doc yells at Dr. Ritenrong.

"We're in the junk belt. Don't listen to them, just watch where you're going. Oh, and you might lighten up on the acceleration out here."

Doc realizes he's had the throttle jammed forward the whole time, accelerating at maximum. He loosens his grip, throttling only as needed to avoid the obstacles. With this technique he's able to duck and weave through the space garbage. The police keep tight on his tail.

"Slow down and return to lower orbit," the cops demand. "You are in restricted space!"

Doc is getting testy. "Can't you get them to shut up? Wait- the MiB had government badges. Can we bullshit them into thinking we aren't the droids they are looking for?"

"It's worth a shot. I'll transmit the credentials, you talk to them." Steve replies. "Hit the blue button on the left to open the com channel."

Doc hits the button. "This is ND-121 Python to Earth Orbit Patrol. Disengage your persuit. We are on official government business. Transmitting credentials now."

"This better work," Steve says. He flicks the controls with a flourish.

The cops think about it. Doc steers through the clouds of space junk. The magnetic shields glow as energetic particles bounce off. The proximity alarm is constantly buzzing at varying volumes. Doc's hands are getting sweaty. The police are not far behind.

They slow down and break off. "Credentials acknowledged. We'll be reporting your traffic violations to the Bureau. You Feds do not own the fucking skies. Expect a citation on your next report. EOP out." A flashing light indicates the com channel is closed.

The junk is clearing out. Doc eases off the throttle completely. He relaxes a bit. "I can't believe that worked."

"It won't last long. When they contact whatever Bureau we're supposed to be associated with, they'll find out the credentials are forged. Here," Steve says as he punches the controls. A new orbital tunnel appears off the starboard bow. "Steer into this orbit for now. I'm still trying to find Veronica."

Doc adjusts the ship's throttle and attitude as directed. The ship slides neatly into the artificial tunnel. All the lights are green, which Doc hopes means everything is good.

"Hey Mark, have a look around back there. Is there anything we can use?" Doc asks.

"Already on the case. There's two light railgun assault rifles back here, two ion pulse laser pistols with four power packs, a couple stun batons, two survival backpacks with medkits, a tent, sleeping bags; the works. Looks like someone was planning a camping trip."

A long groan emerges from the back seat. The man in black is waking up.

"Thunderhorse! Hold him down!" Doc says. He unbuckles his seat and floats to the back. Steve hits the autopilot button for him.

Thunderhorse is already back there. He rolls the man in black onto his stomach. Mark goes back with a rope from the camping gear and ties up his arms and legs. The man in black protests in Korean.

[Let me go, dicks!]" the translator echoes.

Into Space

The outer corridor of the Sun Tower is crowded with hover carts and scooters racing towards the docking bay. Every cart is overloaded with passengers. Doc's hover cart is over it's weight limit, but still moving along with the flow of traffic.

The man in black is still unconscious. Thunderhorse is sitting on him. Mark is keeping an eye on him. The two other passengerskeep asking about the condition of their "friend." Mark keeps shutting them up with "He's fine."

"I've got some water here, do you want to splash some water on his face? That might wake him up," suggests the goggled swimmer sitting on the back of the cart.

"No thanks. We'll take care of him," Doc shouts back.

"What about-"

"He's fine. Shut up."

As they pass into the marked safe zone, high enough to be clear of the rising water, the traffic lightens up. Some carts drop off their passengers and head back down to gather more. Doc stops the cart and their two extra passengers get off. Doc continues towards the docking bay.

Doc pulls out his I-Browse. "Steve? Are you there? Veronica? Anyone? Can you hear me?"

Steve finally replies. "I'm here. I thought I said keep off the air."

"We've captured one of the men in black. We're on our way to the docking bay. Where are you?"

"I'm already there. Have you seen Mark or Thunderhorse?"

"They're with me. Have you heard from Veronica?"

"No. I can't find any sign of her or the Younger Brother Pear."

"Well, we've got another problem," Doc says. "The campus detective knows who I am and knows that we've broken the time travel treaty. He's called the CIA, and they're on their way now."

"You're kidding me. Do they know about me?"

"He didn't mention you."

"Okay. Get up here fast. I'll arrange some transportation."

Doc pockets the I-Browse and floors the hover cart. Within a few moments, they're in the docking bay. Doc circles around the now empty water tower until he sees Dr. Ritenrong. He stops the cart and Dr. Ritenrong gets on. He immediately begins rifling through the man in black's pockets. He pulls out the pain gun, some ID cards, and a datapad. He puts on his sun glasses.

"Aha. Doc, go to section E-Green-17. Look for a sporty black ship."

Doc finds it easily. He saw it landing earlier. It's a sporty black thing, triangular and aerodynamic with two large engines at the back. It's passenger compartment is about the size of an SUV. Steve jumps out of the hover cart, wearing the glasses and wielding one of the ID cards. He waves it at the side of the ship. Nothing happens.

"Thunderhorse! Bring him over here!" Steve shouts.

Thundherhorse dismounts the cart, hauling the MiB's body to Steve. Steve puts the glasses on him. He puts the MiB's hand on a plate on the side of the ship with one hand and peels one of his eyelids open with the other. The cockpit window slides back, and the sides of the ship fold down into stairs.

"Okay," says Steve. "Everyone on board!" The party leaves the cart behind and get on the ship.

There's some shouting behind them as Mark helps Thunderhorse haul the MiB on board. The other MiB is running towards them.

"Steve, it's the other one!" Doc shouts, readying his pain gun. Mark and Thunderhorse throw their prisoner into the back seat.

"Don't worry about him, just get in your seats!" Steve shouts. He's in the pilots seat pushing buttons furously. The sides of the ship fold back up and the cockpit window slides shut. The engines fire up. The MiB is still running through the parking lot, shouting and waving his fists. They can't hear him.

The ship lifts off. Dr. Ritenrong shouts into an intercom. "This is ND-121 'Python' requesting clearance for emergency departure."

"You and the rest of the station," replies a rather snarky and overworked flight controller. "Request denied. Set down. Repeat, set down! Submit your passenger manifest and get in line. There's 107 in front of you."

Steve tries harder. "This is a medical emergency. ND-121 requests clearance for immediate departure!"

"Bullshit. You've got one unconscious with a minor head injury. Now put her back down and wait your turn," replies the flight controller.

"Fuck this shit," mumbles Steve. He takes a deep breath and throws the throttle forward. Steve barely misses a half dozen ships currently lifting off. He very nearly scrapes the top of the ship on the airlock portal while flying over a departing ship. The flight controller is screaming at him.

"Orbital patrol is on its way to intercept you! Your license is going to be revoked! You are in so much-" Steve shuts off the com link.

The Python blasts past a line of ships heading into a landing approach. Steve flies the ship into a higher orbit, lighting up the heads up display with navigational information.

He turns to Doc in the copilot's seat. "Doc," he says, "take the controls. I've got to check out a few things. "

"Uh, I've never..."

Steve points out the controls. "Up, down, bank right, bank left. Throttle, brakes. Don't worry about anything else right now. Just keep the nose in the box," he explains, referring to the tunnel-like series of boxes on the heads up display.

Steve turns his chair to a computer to his left and starts pounding away at the keys as fast as he can. Doc keeps the ship steady through the artificial tunnel. The computer tells him to slow down to enter a steady orbit. He does so. It's surprisingly easy.

An alarm sounds. The heads up display points out two ships approaching from behind. A message starts blinking. "Emergency com override."

"This is Earth Orbital Patrol. Remain on course and prepare to be boarded."

"Shit!" shouts Steve. "They're here fast! Floor it!"

Back to Men in Black

"[Thunderhorse! It's them!]" Doc yells. Mark, ahead of them in the crowd, turns back upon hearing Doc's voice. He draws his sword.

The two men in black reach into their inside pockets, trading their pain guns for tonfas. They whip them out to their full extension. They do not expect the steel blade falling on them from behind. Mark strikes one on the arm, forcing him to drop his club.

The other man in black swings at Doc's head, not noticing his partner's peril. But Doc is ready and steps back just as the tonfa passes his head. Doc already has his pain gun out. He steps back to get a clear shot, but the main in black is too fast. He steps away just as Doc activates the emitter.

Unfortunately for him, the man in black steps right into Thunderhorse's fist. His jaw buckles sideways as the leathery viking knuckles plow through his face.

The crowd behind them stops and gasps as they watch the fight. From the sound of the voices behind them and the ever louder sound of rushing water, they wont wait long.

Doc blasts the man in black with the pain gun. Still dazed from being hit in the face, he isn't able to get away this time. He shrieks in pain and takes off running up the hallway. Thunderhorse runs up after him.

The first man in black, having been disarmed, is in a martial arts stance and strikes at Mark, landing a good chop on Mark's arm. Mark retaliates with a swipe of his blade, but the man in black jumps back away from it, right into Thunderhorse. Thunderhorse nails him with a right hook, knocking him silly.

The crowd is getting anxious as the water is still rising. A few braver souls begin to push their way out of the traffic jam and run past the combatants. The main in black, still reeling from the pain gun, disappears into the escaping crowd.

His partner, unfazed by Thunderhorse's punch, throws a roundhouse kick at Mark, hitting him in the gut. Doc tries to hit him with the pain gun, but he dodges. Thunderhorse throws another punch, the man in black blocks it. Mark swings his sword, but the man is in full out ninja kill mode and again, dodges.

The crowd is now completely fed up with this silly fight and begins rushing past them en mass. Mark sheaths his sword, unable to swing it with any effect. Instead, he lunges at the man in black, grabbing him in a bear hug. The man in black tries to break free, but can't. Doc comes up behind the man in black and whacks him with his pain gun. The man in black goes limp.

"[Thunderhorse! Help mark carry him and follow me!]" Doc shouts above the screaming crowd. Mark turns the man around so he's got his back while Thunderhorse grabs his legs. Doc runs over to the hover cart where a half dozen people are piling on.

"Sorry, folks, but we need this!" Doc shouts as he hits them with the pain gun. They all jump off, shouting while Doc gets in the drivers seat. Thunderhorse and Mark throw the body on the backseat and jump on. It doesn't take Doc long to get the thing going, it works just like a golf cart. As he turns the cart around to join the cart traffic in the outer corridor, a couple of the people he had shooed away before jump back on, shouting a variety of insults.

The hover cart goes like mad, even with the full load. Soon, they're going at least forty miles an hour up the outer corridor, following the other hover carts on their way to safety.

Rising Water

Everyone runs for the door. The captain's message repeats endlessly.

"Steve! Come in Steve!" Doc yells into his I-Browse.

There's no response.

"Steve, if you can hear me, I've got Mark and Thunderhorse. Meet us in the hanger!"

Outside the OUE Campus Security station, Officer MacDougle-Kowalski is warming up a hover cart.

"Can we get a ride to the top?" Doc asks her as she mounts up.

"No can do. I'm going down to the grotto to grab as many people as I can. I need all the seats I can get!" she yells back as she takes off at full speed down the corridor.

Everyone in the corridor is going the opposite way; towards the top of the tower. Many of them are in bathing suits, escaping from the grotto. Very few are really panicing, most of them are calm and collected but moving swiftly. They must've drilled for this kind of thing before. Doc remembers all the terror attack drills he had to endure in college. With the gravity malfunctioning, the floor now feels sloped. It's going to be a long run spiraling up the half-mile high tower.

Doc, Mark, and Thunderhorse join the uphill jog. The captain's message is still repeating. Hovercarts zoom by carrying elderly and handicapped passengers. Doc can hear the sound of rushing water behind them. The crowd seems a little more anxious as they pick up the pace into a full run. OUE Security hover carts go back and forth even faster now, shuttling passengers as quickly as they can to just out of harms way, then running back for more.

It's not long before they reach ground level as they race around the spiraling hallway. More traffic is flooding in from outside as people from all over campus try to make their way to safety. A few foot guards lead the people through the arcade to the inner corridor where the rest of the crowd runs.

The three start to get seperated a little buit as more people flood into the inner corridor, but they can still see each other. Hovercarts race around the outer corridor whisking passengers to safety. A hovercart stops at an arcade in front of the team. A chunk of the crowd peels off to try to catch a ride, but they immediately run back into the corridor, screaming.

The two men in black dismount the hovercart, forcing people away with their pain guns. They step out into the crowd, forcing people aside. They stand right in Doc's way.

A Piece of Doc's Mind

Doc glares across David Zorn's desk, into the eyes of the cop. The man is worried, yet excited. He's thrilled that such a mystery has fallen into his lap, glad that the boring everyday bullshit has been interrupted. But he's concerned about the safety of the station, his station. No, the fate of the human species. Doc has brought the wrath of an entire nation upon his defenseless satellite and history its self.

Doc talks to him. "Listen, you want to chat. I'm sure you have a million questions, and you seem like a nice enough guy, so we will chat. But I want a few things straight off or I have nothing to say."

"Go ahead," Zorn replies.

"First off, I want our stuff back. All of it, especially a switchblade knife that belongs to me. You'll know it when you see it. Bone handle with an onyx Chinese dragon on the side with gold trim. Second, I need to make a phone call, now. Third, if these Exkoreans want this 'time thingy' so badly and they will stop at nothing, what makes you think that I'm safe here in your jail? I don't feel safe and I won't feel safe until I'm far from here, so we need to discuss how and when I'm getting the fuck out of here. I understand you have a job to do and I respect that. I'm just some freak of nature that happened to wind up on your desk today. You really don't want the kind of headaches that would come from keeping me here. If there is a fine, I'll pay it. If there are damages, I'll cover those too, but I have got to get out of here pronto."

Detective Zorn thinks for a moment. "This matter is beyond my jurisdiction. I can arrest you and charge you with all stupid shit you pulled upstairs, sure. But you're right. I can't keep you here. The Exkoreans don't care about interstellar boundaries, and now they don't care about temporal ones. They'll send their entire Space Fleet here if they have to, and this station does not have the defenses to stop even the smallest of their fighters. Which is why I'll be turning you over to the CIA."

Doc is pissed. "Detective, do you have any guess at all why a respected historian would just disappear into history only to turn up years later for a scuffle in a bar on your turf? Any guess at all? I'll tell you. I have been working with a crack team of scientists trying to stop the end of the universe. I understand that sounds about as corny as a cheap sci-fi movie, but that is the God's honest truth. And if I don't get my team back together and the fuck out of Dodge, everything that ever was or ever will be, will be gone instantly. Now what else would you like to talk about?"

Detective Zorn thinks for a moment. He presses a button on his desk.

"Janet?"

"Yes, sir?" replies MacDougle-Kowalski's voice over the intercom.

"Get Dr. Shaw's effects out of evidence, including his knife, and release his friends from custody."

"Detective?"

"Just do it. Now."

"Yes sir."

Detective Zorn turns his chair back around. "Get the hell off my station."

"Wait. Where are the two Exkoreans? Do you have them in custody?"

"No. They gave fake government credentials. My officers to let them go before I could verify them. They're still on the station somewhere."

"I need a ship. My ride isn't here. I can't leave without a ship."

"The only ship I can offer you is the CIA transport when it arrives. They're already on their way. I'll be more than happy to wait for them with you."

"No thanks."

"Then get the hell out of here."

Doc gets up from the rickety ex-hover chair and goes to the door. He turns back, briefly. "Thank you."

Detective Zorn does not reply. Doc leaves.

Officer Janet MacDougle-Kowalski is waiting in the hall with Doc's satchel. She hands it to him. Thunderhorse and Mark Daniels are waiting just behind her. Thunderhorse has his helmet. Mark is strapping on his sword.

"I knew you could come through for us, Doc," says Mark, smiling. He finishes buckling his belt. "Now if I could just find my hat."

Doc digs through his satchel. He pulls out his pocket gear and re-equips himself. "Where's my knife?"

Janet hands it to him. It's vacuum sealed in a plastic bag. His lighter is in the same condition beneath it. He tears both bags open at once. He pockets the lighter, but holds the knife for a moment. He feels whole again with the thing in his hand. He puts it away for know.

The walls suddenly shake. The entire station rumbles. The walls turn red and an alarm sounds across the entire station.

"[Earthquake!]" Thunderhorse yells.

"But we're in space!" Doc shouts above the alarms.

Detective Zorn appears from within his office. "What the fuck was that?"

Janet checks her computer. "Explosion in the waterworks! The manuseisium pumps have been disabled and the backups are not functioning!"

"The what?" Doc yells.

A voice on an intercom interrupts the alarms. "Attention! Attention! This is Captain Haldron. We've lost gravitational control of the water tower. The campus is flooding. It will reach twenty meters in ten minutes. If you cannot reach Sun Tower, get to the top floor of Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, or Neptune Halls. All hover vehicles have been dispatched. Allow all children, handicapped, and elderly guests to get on first. This is not a drill. This is an emergency. Message Repeat..."

Waitin' at the Station on a Station

"They got my FUCKING knife! My one and only thing I've got left from my life, and they fucking took it! Ian gave me that knife and I want the Mother Fucker back!"

Doc is rather upset.

"Hey, hey, its okay, buddy. They've got my sword, too. It was my father's." Mark replies

"[They took my helmet, those fuckers.]" Thunderhorse says, untranslated by any technological wonders. "[I killed that goat with my bare hands when I was nine.]"

"I hope you can understand him, Doc. He's pissin' me off with all this 'grunka-ick-buck-fuck' bullshit."

"[Silence, you lowland toad!]" Thunderhorse retorts. "[Doc, may I kill him now?]"

"[Not yet,]" Doc replies. He looks around. There are four holding cells, each one the same as the last: transparent wall, toilet, bench, and bunks, and all of them are empty except this one. "Have you guys seen any men in black suits and dark glasses?" He repeats the question in German for Thunderhorse.

"[No,]"

"Nope. Yer the first person we've seen since we woke up in here. Well, you and that cute lady guard who comes in to check on us every now and then. Why?"

Doc recounts the short version of the story, repeating each sentence for Thunderhorse. "These two men approached me in the hanger while I was trying to find the Pu. They tried to kidnap me or something. I ran into a bar to try to get away from them, but they followed me. So I held them off until the police arrived."

"[By Thor! Combat on hallowed ground. How many did you kill? Did you get any scars?]"

"[None. One of them kicked me in the gut really good, but I punched him in the face and knocked him to the ground.]" Doc exaggerates only slightly. Thunderhorse laughs and claps him on the back with honor.

---------

Doc rests on the bunk. It's not very long before Officer MacDougle-Kowalski appears again, this time without the riot gear. She's very pretty; a green-eyed burnette, fit and athletic.

"Hey, darlin'," Mark calls to her. "Came back to see me again, eh?"

She ignores him. "Dr. Shaw? Detective Zorn will see you, now." She opens the door.

Mark moves towards the door. She hits a button on her wrist computer. Mark screams in pain and hits the floor.

"Damnit, woman! That shit hurts!" he yells at her.

"Then stop being an asshole and stay seated. Dr. Shaw, please come with me."

Doc leaves the cell. She escorts him down the sterile hallways to Detective Zorn's office. It's a stark contrast to the rest of the station; the floor is worn with pacing, his desk is cluttered with datapads and electropaper. The ambient wall lighting is dimmed by a layer of dust and grime.

Officer MacDougle-Kowalski lets Doc through the door, staying in the hallway. The door slides closed behind him.

"Have a seat, Dr. Shaw." says a voice from the other side of the swivel chair. Doc sits in one of the two broken hover chairs which are now supported by hastily welded-on aluminum legs. It is wobbly and uneven.

The owner of the voice swivels around. It's a large man in his late forties, with graying hair and traditional cop mustache. His face looks like he was on the losing side of a fight with a cinder block. He's still pouring over a datapad as he turns. He sets it down and looks up at Doc.

"Dr. Lucas Shaw. A pleasure to meet you," he says, extending a friendly hand. Doc shakes it, awkwardly. "I'm Detective David Zorn, I'll be handling your case."

"Nice to meet you," Doc replies, not sure quite what to say.

"It really is you, isn't it? Famous professor lost to history?"

Doc says nothing.

"DNA is a perfect match. I could hardly believe it when I saw the results. So I suppose you're wondering just who those men were? The ones that came after you?"

"Yes. Who were they? What did they want?"

"Exkorean agents. They want you, Dr. Shaw, and your time travel device."

"My time travel device?"

"Don't play dumb, Doc. I may be just an over decorated mall cop for some whiny goddamned rich-ass teenagers and a bunch of fucking horny dolphins, but I'm not stupid. This is huge. Do you have any idea the consequences of breaking the Causality treaty? The Exkoreans are pissed, Doc. They know you have a time device, and they'll stop at nothing to get it."

Headin' Downtown

"Thank God you're here! They are trying to kill me!" Doc shouts as he drops to the ground, placing his ID at the cop's feet and putting his hands on his head. "Just ask the dolphins!"

"Please reserve all statements until formally questioned, sir. Anything you do or say may be used against you in any possibly forthcoming legal proceedings," the security officer parrots from her handbook. He scans the ID card with a laser, which intones a reassuring confirmation.

Doc looks over into the Lounge. The other patrons are all on the ground getting their IDs scanned. The two men in black are on the ground, too. They are let up. An officer takes their statements. Doc can't make out what's being said.

"Okay, sir, please stand but do not move from this position. Keep your hands on your head." orders the officer standing over Doc. Doc complies. The name MacDougle-Kawalski is crammed onto on her lapel. "Do you consent to a search? If you do not consent I will have to arrest you."

Doc nods. "Go ahead."

She disconnects his satchel straps and sets it aside. Then she frisks him, pulling out everything she can find: his pain gun, the switchblade, the I-Browse, his chew, the multi-tool, his pen, comb, and wallet, everything. Then she goes through the nylon satchel. After examining the contents, she places his effects inside it.

She extends her forearm towards him, activating a recording device in her computer-armband. "Please state your version of the events. Speak loudly and clearly."

Doc tries to look her in the eyes, but her tinted riot mask hides her face too well. He recounts the tale of the last few minutes, starting in the hanger all the way to the present. There are a few slight alterations. "Well, I decided to come out of the bathroom and face them, find out what they wanted. But I needed to calm my nerves. So I bought the strongest bottle of alcohol I could find," and, "When they hit me with the pain gun I accidentally dropped the bottle and soaked their pants in Everclear," and "I thought I was safe with the lock on, so I crouched down against the door. I needed a smoke to clear my head so I got out my lighter, but I forgot I had run out of cigarettes. When they unlocked the door and pushed it open, I was startled and I accidentally flicked the lighter. Well, the one guys pants caught fire because of the alcohol, but the other one pushed in anyway."

Doc finishes up his story. Officer MacDougle-Kowalski switches off her recorder. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate your cooperation. Unfortunately, I will need to escort you to OUE Security Offices to be detained until your statements can be analyzed by our detectives. Your effects will be returned to you if there are no charges filed against you. Except for your switchblade, which will be confiscated. You will be cited for carrying an unlicensed concealed weapon. Now, please turn around and place your hands behind your back." She pulls out a pair of magnetic handcuffs.

"What am I being charged with?" Doc asks.

"It has not yet been determined that you will be charged with anything. We are merely holding you under suspicion until our detectives can analyze your case."

"You can't detain me without charging me."

"Yes, we can. Section 142.A-60.1MP-Q of Article 8.932 of the Earth International Orbital Code of Regulations and Bill of Rights states that any person under suspicion of committing a violent crime must be detained until cleared of said suspicion."

"Okay, what am I under suspicion for?"

"Public brawling, attempted arson, mishandling of volatile substances, possession of an unlicensed fire-starting device, carrying a concealed weapon, and destruction of property without a permit."

"What property?"

"There's Everclear and broken glass all over the floor, your boot print on that chaise lounge, and you knocked over a beer glass. Now, please, turn around and put your hands behind your back or I will be forced to neuralize you. I don't want to do that, sir, you seem like a nice guy."

Doc doesn't like the sound of being neuralized, so he turns around. The cuffs go on. She leads him to the back seat of her hover scooter. Her partner joins them and they drive off down the corridor.

----------

The OUECS office is extremely white and blue. It's hospital like in its sterility, with a waist-high streak of blue paint along the walls in a straight, robotic line broken only by white text and arrows leading one to the various sections and offices within the station. The place is brightly lit, with no discernible source. It's simply ambient.

"Do I get a phone call?" Doc asks.

"A what?" replies MacDougle-Kowalski.

"A phone call? You know, can I call my friends to bail me out?"

"Phone? Bail? Oh, wow, I haven't heard that one in a while. Haha! Good one."

"Is that a no?"

"You will have the opportunity to notify your contacts of your incarceration once you've been processed."

After a quick laser fingerprinting, mugshot, retinal scan, and cheek swabbing, Doc is placed in a holding cell. The holding cell is also white with the blue streak and cell number. The walls are thick, clear acrylic. There's two small bunks, a chrome bench, and a combination toilet-sink.

Mark and Thunderhorse are sitting on the bunk. They greet him as the door closes behind him.

"Hey, partner. They finally catch you, too?" Mark asks.

Fire on this Guy

"Thank you gentlemen, but I'm enjoying myself here with my new friends..oops!"

Doc dumps the contents of the Everclear bottle at the two men in black before dropping it at their feet, with a little extra oomph. The bottle shatters on the steel-toe of the MiB's boot, soaking their pants and the surrounding floor in 190 proof alcohol. He snags the lighter from his pocket as swiftly as he can.

Before he can get down to light it, though, the two men raise their pain guns. Doc jumps to the left over the chaise lounge he was sitting on as the red light of the rightmost man's pain gun illuminates. Unfortunately, he jumps right into the line of fire of the second pain gun.

The pain is incredible. It's like a million bullet ants crawled under Doc's skin and set themselves on fire. Doc can't even think, it's completely unbearable. His body responds the only way it can; by running away.

He heads back towards the bathroom doors. "HELP! RAPE! FIRE! MURDER! POLICE! HELP!" he screams at the top of his lungs as he flees. Within moments, he's safe behind the metal door, away at last from the nerve-searing radiation.

There's no lock on the door. "LOCK!" he yells at it. Surprisingly, it clicks shut.

Doc surveys the bathroom for useful items, preferably something flammable. No paper towels, only hand dryers. No toilet paper in the stalls, all the toilets have automatic bidets and blow driers. No sanitary sheets, either. Fucking futuristic self-cleaning wipe-your-ass-for-you toilets, he thinks.

The door shakes and knocks as the two men. Doc regrets his decision to run this way, but there's really no overriding instinct. They stop banging on the door. Doc can hear one of the men saying something. It's not clear what; it does not sound like English. The translator can't pick up the sound muffled by the door. It seems to be a series of short, sharp commands.

The door unlocks its self. Doc squats behind the door, blocking it. A booted foot slides in to hold it open. He tries to light the pant leg on fire. The owner moves it back too swiftly. Doc pushes against the door again. The leg re-appears to wedge it open. Doc sets it on fire this time.

The man screams as he runs off, shaking his leg. Suddenly, the door slams Doc back as the second man shoves it hard. Doc staggers back, still on his feet but dropping his lighter. The man's pain gun lines up on him. Doc steps quickly into the man's personal space, grabs the offending arm and slams it into the wall, forcing him to drop the weapon. Doc lands a right hook on the man's jaw.

The man in black shrugs off the hit. He yanks his arm hard back out of Doc's grip and falls back into a martial arts stance. He launches a powerful jab directly at Doc's neck. Doc just barely ducks away from it.

Fuck me running! Doc thinks. He can hear the air popping from the force of the strike. This guy is not fucking around. There's no way out of this bathroom except through this guy.

Doc charges, trying to push past the man in black. The man blocks the whole door and stops his progress, shoving Doc back with a sharp jab to the chest. Doc falls back but does not fall over. He quickly regains his balance and charges again, harder this time. The man in black kicks into Doc's gut, but Doc shoves back hard with his whole, aching body. The man in black loses his balance and falls backwards onto the floor behind the bar.

Doc runs like hell. The other MiB, whose leg is still in the ice-filled beer cooler, fires his pain gun at him as he runs. The pain hits Doc once again. It's like a kidney stone in his eyes and napalm in his blood. He keeps on running, past Nigel, Frans, and Glorth who were standing by, watching the fight.

A few Dolphins are swimming in the tank in front of the bar, also observing this crazy human spectacle. Red and blue lights are flashing and a siren wails. A hover scooter carrying two OUE Security officers approaches from the right, while another two foot guards run toward the scene from the left. The hover scooter stops in front of Doc.

"Hands on your head! Down on the ground!" one of them yells as he dismounts, pointing his sonic blaster at Doc's face.

The other jumps off and runs into the Blue Lounge, reciting his practiced anthem. "This is a security control! Everyone remain calm! Please kneel, and place your hands on the ground in front of you! Have your ID cards ready for scanning!"

The Blue Lounge

Doc waits a moment to gather his thoughts. There's no way of knowing if the two men in black are waiting outside for him. Why would they wait, though? He packs some chew into his lip. Great, he thinks. Thunderhorse is in jail when I need him most.

Doc gathers up his courage and leaves the stall, stridently. He thrusts open the bathroom door and scans the Lounge. The two Alpha Centaurians and the fat Hawaiian shirt guy are all sitting on chaise lounges at the mouth of the bar. They turn to see his entrance, then to each other to whisper amongst themselves.

"Better cut back on the Atraskan mega-prunes, there, buddy," says a voice from just beyond his left peripheral vision. It's the bartender. He's sitting on a stool behind the bar, reading a magazine. It's entitled Tits, Intergalactic.

"I guess so," Doc replies.

"Can I get you anything?" the bartender asks.

Doc thinks a moment. "Got any Everclear?"

"Haha, sure, I got that. What do you want to mix it with?"

"I'll take the bottle."

"Whoah, my kinda drinker." The bartender opens the cabinet beneath the liquor display and grabs the bottle. He also grabs a tumbler and fills it with ice. He presents both to Doc. "Three hundred credits, please."

Doc presents his ID card and prays it will work. The bartender taps it against a scanner. It works.

"Gonna want a chaser with that?" the bartender asks.

"Just beer."

"You're nuts, dude. I like you." The bartender tops off a glass of Blue Moon, the only thing on tap here. "On the house."

Doc thanks him and takes the two bottles, leaving the tumbler. He joins the party of hairy people, taking a seat at a fourth chaise, next to the fat guy and across from the Centaurians. He sets his beverages on the glass table by his chair.

"I'm sorry for earlier. I can't go if there's anyone around, either." Doc says to one of the Centuarians, not exactly sure which one he inadvertently offended.

The one he's not looking at speaks. "So you perv out and creep me right the hell out of the bathroom?" His voice is kind of whiny but stuffy, like he's talking with cotton in his mouth.

Doc meets the gaze of the correct offendee. "No, sorry, I was just waiting for you to leave so I wouldn't be embarassed by the... you know, noise."

"Uh, there are sound and odor dampers on the stalls, duh. Where are you from, a third world country?" says the other Centuarian. The fat guy chuckles.

"Ohio."

"That explains it," they all chuckle.

"Name's Doc." He extends his hand in greeting.

The first Alpha Centuarian accepts it. "Nigel. This is Frans," the second Centuarian waves, "and Glorth." The fat guy smiles and nods as his shirt changes color abruptly from dayglo orange to neon green. The little palm leaves on it are waving in an animated breeze.

Doc drinks his beer. "So where are you all from?"

Frans speaks. "Were from Furkburgen, Crabph province. Have you ever been?"

"No, I can't say I've ever left Earth." He remembers where he is. "Orbit is about as far as I've been. Is Furkbugger on Alpha Centuari?"

"Duh," Nigel rolls his eyes. "Geeze, don't they teach extraplanetary geography in Ohio? And it's 'Furkburgen.'"

"Furkbugger," Frans laughs. "That's a good one. So what brings you up here?"

"I'm a visiting professor. I teach history."

"Really, that's interesting," lies Nigel. "We're here to visit our son. He's an astrophysics major. He's graduating this year."

"That's nice. Who's son is he?"

Frans stirs his finger in the air, indicating the three of them. "All of us. He's our son."

Doc has a rather distressing visual image of the sort of relationship these three have. He decides to change the subject as he chugs on his beer. He can't think of anything.

"So you've never met anyone from Alpha Centuari, have you?" Nigel asks. There's an underlying coyness there, disguised but detectable.

"No, I haven't. I've read a bit about your anatomy, though." Whoops, Doc thinks.

"Really?" says Frans, now leaning into the conversation.

"I'm a medical doctor," Doc recovers. "That's why they call me Doc."

The two horny Alpha Centuarians back down a bit, visibly slumping into their chairs.

"I understand that your species is hermaphroditic and that you chose who will be the male or female during mating." Doc attempts to re-engage them in a conversation that would arouse their interests without arousing their...interest.

Glorth chuckles. It's more like a titter.

Nigel replies. "Well, sometimes its not so much a choice." Nigel and Frans look at each other knowingly. It's hard to tell what they mean.

"So you can't be both roles at once?"

Frans laughs. "Well, yes," Nigel says. "But it's a really awkward position." He laughs a bit. Glorth laughs louder. "You're into some really kinky shit, aren't you?"

On that cue, the men in black appear at the Lounge. Doc sets down his beer and picks up the bottle of Everclear. He stands and raises it to them in greeting. His left hand grasps both the switchblade and pain gun in his jacket pocket. "Welcome, gentlemen, glad you could join us."

"You come with us now, Dr. Shaw," one of them says. They both grip their pain guns.

"Holy shit, you really are a kinky boy," swoons Frans. Glorph is almost coughing up a lung laughing so hard.

"Listen, boys. Why don't you grab a drink, pull up a chair, and tell me what this is all about," Doc invites them.

"No talk here, you come with us. We talk in our room."

"Whoooo! Can we come?" shouts Nigel.

"No. Dr. Shaw will come with us alone. Now."

Bathroom Emergency

"Excuse me, gentlemen, I'm very busy!" Doc tells the men in black. They hesitate, believing for just a moment that this is a bad time and that they should come back later.

Doc double times it to the nearest elevator. The doors are closing by the time the two men come to their senses and run after him, pain guns at ready.

"Blue Lounge," Doc orders the elevator the instant the door closes. He hopes they can't hear through it. The elevator obeys and whisks him downward. Micro LEDs embedded in the elevator door light up a blue arrow pointing to the right. A sign beneath reads "Blue Lounge, 12 meters." The door slides open.

Doc walks hurriedly towards the Lounge, almost tripping over the change of gravity as he exits the elevator. Ahead, he sees another elevator opening up further down the hall. He ducks into the Blue Lounge as the doors open and the two men in black rush out and look around.

The Blue Lounge is a sort of art deco underwater themed restaurant. It's mostly a sort of open, indoor patio with chaise lounges arranged for conversation and people and/or dolphin watching. Doc practically jumps over a very hairy, clothless Neaderthal looking Alpha Centaurian relaxing on a chaise talking to some fat guy in a day-glow Hawaiian shirt. Doc apologizes as he slips on back towards the bar and the restrooms beyond.

If Doc was not being chased, he would note that this is very nice and clean for a public restroom. Blue tile and shells everywhere, spotless, and above all odorless. There three urinals, one occupied by another naked, furry Alpha Centaurian, and three stalls, all vacant. Doc makes his way quickly to the last stall and locks the door.

He waits, quietly. There is nothing but the sound of circulating air and the tinkle of urine. The tinkle stops. The Alpha Centaurian grunts. The tinkle starts again. It sputters. He grunts again. Nothing. The Centaurian starts humming. Doc tries to ignore him and listen outside the door.

"Are you listening to me piss, you perv?" says the Alpha Centaurian.

Doc stays quiet.

"I can't go if you're listening to me, you sick fucker. God, you humans and your fucking weird perversions," says the hairy naked alien. "Unbelievable," he mumbles as he leaves.

Doc waits in silence a bit longer. Five minutes go by. No one else enters the restroom. Doc pulls out his i-Browse.

"Steve," he calls quietly. "Come in Steve."

Dr. Ritenrong appears on the screen. "What's up, Doc?" he quips. "Hey, why are you calling me from a toilet?"

"I'm hiding. I was just approached by two men in black suits. They know who I am."

"What? Who were they?"

"I don't know! They were Asian. They had body armor and pain guns, and their glasses had heads up displays."

"Are you on drugs?"

"What? No!"

"Sorry, its just that there are some pretty powerful hallucinogens for sale up there and I was just eliminating that as a possibility."

"I'm very certain these guys are not an hallucination."

"Did they say what they wanted?"

"No, I just got away from them."

"And you're hiding in a bathroom?"

"At The Blue --"

"SHHHT! Shut up!" Steve almost yells at him. "You said they have HUD glasses, right?"

"Yeah,"

"They could be monitoring com traffic. You're probably already blown. Damnit, I've got a lot of work to do on our com system. We need some new headsets with entanglement encryption and with a mobile quantum rout-"

"Nevermind that shit now, what do I do?"

"You've got to get out of there, I guess, or find out what they want. Your best bet is probably to get underwater. If they're communicating with a central intelligence, that will block their signal, at least a little bit. Might slow them down, anyway. You can get anywhere on the station from underwater, though. The Grotto is in Sub-Basement 4. Should be subs for rent down there. I'll see if I can figure out who these guys are. I'll keep in touch. OH! Just thought, the i-Browse won't work in the sub unless you're docked, and if you call me they'll probably pick up the signal with voice recognition. They probably are scanning for my voice now, too. Okay, okay, don't worry, I'll find a way to keep in contact. Keep your eyes open. Out."

Sideways Up

Doc crosses the corridor carefully, watching out for a speeding hoverscooter whose driver is lost in whatever music is seeping out from his headset. He goes into the arcade across from the entrance. The security officer there nods and smiles at him, not really paying much attention to anything.

The blue column of light on the other side turns out to be an aquarium filled with small, colorful fish, bioluminescent jellyfish, and other exotic invertibrates. It's not just an aquarium, however, it's the wall of a second, interior corridor. The tank is lit by blue flood lamps discreetly placed among the coral and amoebas living on shelves that spiral around the edge of the tank, following the floor of the inner corridor. The lights of the tank are the primary lighting for the dim, atmospheric hallway. Doc leans against the glass, looking up and down. From what he can tell, the aquarium runs the entire height of the tower.

A family of four dolphins swim past Doc, downwards to the base of the tower. The smaller one is wearing a dolphin-fitted T-shirt bearing the block letters OUE. He stops and whistles at Doc.

"Wow, this terrarium is incredible," Doc's translator responds rather flatly after processing longer than normal.

Doc waves. The dolphin bobs his head and blows a bubble before continuing down with his family.

The interior corridor is also lined with shops, mostly small restaurants and cafes taking advantage of the relaxing effect of the lights and sounds of the aquarium. Doc glances briefly at the menu displayed for the nearby Blue Lounge: lots of shellfish and sushi, as well as specialty coffees and a full bar.

Doc begins walking "up" the inner corridor. The slightly tilted gravitational field makes it easy to walk up what would otherwise be a mountainous climb. Doc can see that he's walking in spiraling circles up the ramp when he checks his position relative to objects in the aquarium, but when looking forward it feels like he's walking through a flat hallway endlessly curving to the right.

The pace of traffic in this interior corridor is much lighter, as the hall is much smaller. After hiking for several minutes and covering a quarter mile already, Doc notices people exiting an elevator. Looking back, Doc had passed several of them already and didn't realize what they were. They appeared to be seamless white columns placed evenly between every few shops. Doc heads for the lift.

The threshold of the elevator is slightly sloped, actually level with the real ground (or at least the overall "down" direction of the space station). It looks like the elevator is tilted, but when Doc steps into it the gravity shifts again and Doc can see the actual slope of the corridor. The elevator is a cylindrical tube large enough for a dozen people or so. There are no controls on any visible surface.

"Top floor?" Doc asks. The elevator doors close. There's the sound of rushing air, but no feeling of acceleration as the elevator whisks him upwards. Within seconds, he's arrived.

The docking bay is huge and filled with space ships. The elevator shaft rises slightly out of the deck, joining the others in a sort of stone henge arrangement of truncated chrome pillars encircling the aquarium, which rises to the ceiling. The aquarium widens like a funnel as it becomes the ceiling, dividing the docking bay in two, vertically. The upper, water portion holds several strange, translucent, organic-looking vehicles apparently designed for operation under water as well as in space. Another family of dolphins are exiting one of these vehicles and headed for the funnel leading from the upper parking area into the tower's central column of water.

The lower portion of the parking lot is for air breathers and is filled with shuttles that look more normal. Doc leans up against the railing opposite the ramped entrance to the inner corridor, looking down as a young couple walks up into the parking lot. He watches as a ship arrives through a large, open bay door. It's a sleek, black, sporty-looking two seater. A stripe of blue light dances off of its hull as it crosses through the atmospheric barrier into the bay.

Doc wanders around the huge, bowl like parking lot. There's a lot of ships here; most are about the size of trucks or schoolbuses. Some are very small, car-sized and generally look very fast and expensive. Some are more like passenger jets. There are fewer of these and are parked in specially designated areas, and thus are easier to see. While some look similar, none of them are the Pu. Doc continues to search. Eventually, he completes the full circle around the docking bay, finding nothing.

"Steve? Are you there?" Doc calls on his I-Browse.

"Yes, Doc, I'm here," Steve replies.

"I'm in the parking lot. The Pu's not here."

"Shit."

"Any luck with the ID cards?"

"Yeah, I was able to forge entries into the database, but I wasn't able to access the audit logs. Your ID card should work now, as long as no one looks too closely at how you actually got here. If anyone asks tell them you arrived aboard the Astraliner Cyprus. It launched from Kennedy yesterday afternoon. Its passenger manifest is privately encrypted so I can't forge entries there, but OUE Security can't look it up directly, either. I think the story of 'history professor auditing classes' will hold up."

"Well, what do we do now?"

"I'll check the docking control database to see if the Pu's scheduled to land anytime soon. I'll also see about getting a dorm assigned to us in case we're stuck here for a while. You find out what happened to Mark and Thunderhorse. OUE Security's offices are in Sun Tower, Sub basement 2."

"Okay." Doc pockets the I-Browse and heads for an elevator. A voice from behind stops him.

"Dr. Shaw?" it says.

Doc turns. There are two men in black suits and dark sunglasses following him. The suits, while stylish, are thick and do not conceal their body armor very well. A dim green light reflects from their faces behind the sunglasses, revealing them to be HUD units. Their boots are thick and thoroughly shined. The men themselves are of Asian ethnicity. They walk towards Doc, arms draped to their sides in an overt attempt at being non-threatening.

Sun Tower

The robotic flying rickshaw lands on one of several thorn-like protrusions circling the upper part of the Sun Tower, four stories below the base of the protective dome and the docking bay above. The protrusion is flat on top with a guard rail. There are four other rickshaws here loading up passengers and a small line of people waiting for a ride.

A family of four approach Doc's rickshaw; a young, perky lady with green hair and gold piercings here for the campus tour with her bored, whining ten-year-old brother and two gray haired, buzz-cut and stylish hyper-color sunglass-wearing mothers in unfortunately revealing bathing suits. Doc climbs off and they climb in with hardly a smile or a nod.

The blue-lit balcony door is open to the interior of the white tower. Inside, there is a long hallway which curves around the inside circumference of the Tower. Floor-to-ceiling windows and intermittent columns line the outer wall of the corridor. The corridor ramps almost imperceptibly upward clockwise, and seems to be one long hallway wrapping around the entire tower from tip to base.

Strangely, though he can see the slope of the hallway from outside, as he steps into it he loses the sense of it. He gets that slight butterfly feeling in his gut as the pull of gravity changes across the threshold. Inside, it's no extra work to walk one way or another. The spiral appears to be perfectly, impossibly flat.

The inside wall is also windows, each displaying the goods and services provided in the stores on the other side. Between every other store is a small arcade leading further into the interior of the tower. There are many people moving through the area in and out of the stores, through the arcade, and up and down the corridor. Many of them scoot along the outer hall on personal hover scooters, some rather quickly. Most of the people here are families also here for the "summer" tour. A single, unarmored security guard idly paces the arcade area.

There are four stores across the corridor within Doc's field of view. Furthest up the corridor to the left is a clothing store laden with the color changing shirts everyone seems to be wearing. The next store down is selling campus merchandise; shirts and hats with OUE in block lettering, many of which also change colors but tend to cycle between orange and blue, the school's team colors. One shirt displays the mascot, a Capricornian star goat taking a bite out of the Earth. To the right of the arcade that splits the four stores directly across from Doc is a health food store advertising smoothies for "only ten credits!" The last store on the right appears to sell phones, pocket computers, and other small electronics.

The arcade across from Doc is sort of a lounge area with plants and benches and trash receptacles along the walls. Animated billboards above the benches portray the fun of campus life, the value of diligent study, and the advantages of certain health foods. Beyond the arcade appears to be another hallway and a bright blue column of light.

Rickshaws and Memories

Doc settles back into the seat and takes in the view. The wonderment of it all sets in. "I really am in the future..." he mutters to himself. As he sits slack-jawed, he reflexively reaches for his chew and adds some to his lip as he pats his pocket to reassure himself that his switchblade is right where it is supposed to be. The coat doesn't seem to fit quite right without the Colt though, but that is a minor inconvenience. Doc has always relied on his quick spin of a tale to sidestep most of the snags that life has put in his way, but after his stint in the National Guard, he knew there were times when words just fail and situations evolved into violence in less than a blink of an eye, and without warning, corpses start piling up like cord wood.

The interior of the rickshaw seems to fade away as Doc's mind's eye returns him to a grisly afternoon so long ago...

-------------

The heat makes a frying pan look comfy and the heat waves distort anything to far away. There is a continuous soft surge of the coolant throughout the Envirosuit across Doc's skin that keeps him from frying to a crisp in this sun, but it is of little comfort as the weight of his pack seems to keep pulling him closer to the blistering, baked sand and the fairy sparkles glint at the edge of his vision from exhaustion.

Doc travels with a different squad today. Their medic was cut in half by a mine yesterday and Doc gets volunteered to go with them, just house to house stuff. Just routine, but he is traveling with a bunch of unknowns after two weeks of this same nail biting shit. His buddies got their three days off behind the lines and enjoy food that doesn't come in a paste. They are clean and comfortable in their dress uniforms at the NCO club by now.

He pushes the button that brings his drinking straw to his mouth inside his helmet as he pictures his lifelong friend Ian slamming his empty beer glass against the bar and calling out to anyone who cared to listen that he could out-drink, out-fuck, and outfight any son of a bitch that ever walked the Earth, and he was prepared to prove it to anyone at that very moment and he would take on all comers.

Doc and Ian grew up across the crick from one another. They played together as children. They knew all the same people in the small town of Wilkin's Corners where they grew up. They went to school together and even split the cost of the limo that took them and their dates to the prom. They hunted and fished together. When neither could come up with the exorbitant fee for college, they did the only thing they could think of. They signed up for the National Guard, and hoped for the best.

Ian had always been the charismatic one. He was the guy who knew everyone and was invited to every party. He knew every girl and who she had dated, and there wasn't anyone who didn't look forward to seeing him. Bosses and mothers loved him, and most any woman within thirty feet wanted to know his name. On three separate occasions Doc witnessed Ian talk his way out of three tickets from three different police officers. The last one bothered to write up the warning, but put his phone number on the back with the promise that Ian would call when the next party was happening and if Kitty would be there.

While Ian was a silver tongued devil and welcomed everywhere, Doc came along and struggled with his shyness.

Doc takes a long pull of his water as his Envirosuit warns him that he has exceeded his water allotment for the day. Then the world turns upside down.

Doc looks to his right as the horizon does a flip-flop in front of him. The ground rises up in a hellish ball of dust that throws him to the ground. The thud of falling is only punctuated but the sudden weight of the body that lands on him after the blast. The next few seconds pass in a blur of explosions as Doc struggles under the weight of the man on top of him. As Doc tries to shove the man aside there is no mistaking the thwack of the piece of shrapnel that strikes the man above him, and the sensors of his Envirosuit detect the warmth of this man's blood as it trickles over him as they show it on his H.U.D.

In a moment of panic, Doc gathers his strength and manages to get out from under the body and struggle on hands and knees to the Captain as the ground heaved and the Envirosuit processed him vomit. The Captain couldn't be saved if they were in the E.R. of Johns Hopkins, and Doc moved to the next vague shape amongst the blasts.

The fifteen minute attack left thirty-six dead and fourteen wounded, and Doc suffered a wound to his left knee when the corpse he was crawling past spasmed and pulled his trigger. For the rest of his life he could tell when a storm was coming as his knee would act up.

When the shelling finally stopped, Doc followed his tracks through the dust back to the man that had fallen on him.

One look could tell that this man never had a chance. The neat hole in his Envirosuit had been sealed with a thick layer of blood and the sand around him has soaked it up quick. Doc called to the H.U.D. to identify the soldier and it came back with "File Not Found" then it shuts down. The piped in filtered air stops and Doc yanks off his helmet and gasps as the hot dirty air fills his lungs. His hands find the clasps of the other mans helmet by feel, as his eyes water against the dust and heat. As the cool air escapes the man's helmet, Doc breathes deep to suck in some air that isn't close to flaming mud, and the air fills him with a sensation that the world has suddenly snapped into focus. As the helmet rolls away and the dust parts for a moment the face becomes clear.

It's Ian.

Ian is supposed to be seventy-four miles from here, on leave and having fun. The name on the front of the suit says Sergeant Mel Fogle who is roughly sixty-eight miles away enjoying a leave he wasn't up for.

For one brief second Ian's eyes regain focus and his lips mutter a soundless word, "friend", and then he dies.

From there on out, Doc swore he would live his life to the fullest, just the way Ian had.

----------------

Doc looks around the rickshaw and realises his chew has gone dry in his mouth, and without thinking, chucks it out the open window.