And Now, Time Travel Read online

  Copyright

  And Now, Time Travel

  Copyright ©2020 by Christopher Brimmage

  ISBN-13: 978-0-578-61398-7 (Karaoke Octopus Press)

  ISBN-10: 0-578-61398-7

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, alternate universes, interdimensional regulatory agencies, temporal regulatory agencies, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously (well, unless you’re reading this on another reality in the Multiverse where everything that happens is true, in which case, it’s not a work of fiction at all. But that’s unlikely. Unless you live on a reality where it is likely, in which case, I retract my assertion of unlikelihood. Or you live in a timestream where some random time traveler has entered the past and changed history to make it likely, in which case, I again retract my assertion of unlikelihood).

  Cover design by Damonza.com

  For Glen,

  I miss you, too. If I could, then I would. In a second.

  For Geraldine,

  I love you in every timestream

  Contents

  FOREWORD

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:

  CHAPTER 1: A DIPLOMATIC MISSION

  CHAPTER 2: TIME UNBOUND

  CHAPTER 3: COLLECTION FROM THE CARGO HOLD

  CHAPTER 4: AN UNHOLY PACT

  CHAPTER 5: BUREACRACY, BUREACRACY EVERYWHERE

  CHAPTER 6: NEW OLD EMOTIONS

  CHAPTER 7: ROBOTIC ANGST AND ROBOTIC FOREGIVENESS

  CHAPTER 8: WHEN HUNGER STRIKES ARE INEFFECTIVE…

  CHAPTER 9: IN THE MIDST OF THE BROCCOLI-PEOPLE

  CHAPTER 10: THE FIRST BRIEFING

  CHAPTER 11: SOME THINGS ARE ONLY APPRECIATED WHEN REPEATED. AND REPEATED AGAIN…

  CHAPTER 12: FINALLY! THE COUCH!

  CHAPTER 13: BACK TO EARTH 4

  CHAPTER 14: A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE CONSPIRACY OF THE GODS

  CHAPTER 15: INTO THE CONVENTION

  CHAPTER 16: TREACHERY SOMETIMES ISN’T AS BAD AS YOU THINK

  CHAPTER 17: THE CUTEST LITTLE CANNON FODDER

  CHAPTER 18: FOILED

  CHAPTER 19: GATHERING FURRY RECRUITS

  CHAPTER 20: NOTHING BUT NOTHING NET

  CHAPTER 21: A QUICK REUNION

  CHAPTER 22: TWEAKING THE EQUATION

  CHAPTER 23: CONFIRMATION

  CHAPTER 24: TRICKSTER GOD SUPPORT GROUP

  CHAPTER 25: DRILLBOT IS NO GOD OF MISCHIEF

  CHAPTER 26: NOT HOME YET

  CHAPTER 27: TIME TO ATTACK

  CHAPTER 28: A ROBOTIC TRAP

  CHAPTER 29: ABDUCTION

  CHAPTER 30: DESPERATION

  CHAPTER 31: DRILLBOT MAKES A NEW FRIEND

  CHAPTER 32: SHOWDOWN IN THE MIDST OF REVOLUTION

  CHAPTER 33: NO REST FOR THE GILDED

  CHAPTER 34: IT’S NOT OVER YET

  CHAPTER 35: A VISIT FROM A FRIEND

  CHAPTER 36: WRONG PLACE AT THE RIGHT TIME

  CHAPTER 37: ANOTHER TWELVE-PLUS DECADES DOWN THE DRAIN

  CHAPTER 38: CALLED BACK

  CHAPTER 39: A SACRIFICE BACKFIRES

  CHAPTER 40: WHY ALEXANDER THE GREAT ISN’T JUST A CLEVER NAME

  CHAPTER 41: THE LAST HOPE

  CHAPTER 42: BLUE

  CHAPTER 43: AS EVER, ART MISSES THE MARK

  CHAPTER 44: CHRONOS EX MACHINA

  CHAPTER 45: FINALLY!

  CHAPTER 46: BACK IN HELL

  CHAPTER 47: FORWARD AND THEN BACKWARD AND THEN FORWARD AGAIN

  CHAPTER 48: JUST A B.I.T. OF SUBTERFUGE

  CHAPTER 49: GOOD NEWS AND BAD NEWS

  CHAPTER 50: NOT GOOD NEWS FOR EVERYONE

  CHAPTER 51: AN UNEXPECTED OUTCOME, BUT NOT REALLY IF YOU WERE PAYING ATTENTION

  CHAPTER 52: THE HAPPIEST FOREVER

  EPILOGUE

  ANOTHER NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Foreword

  This book is OK.

  During some time-loops, it gets better. During some time-loops, it gets worse.

  On some realities, it is better. On some realities, it is worse.

  Take what you can get and be content. If you want to complain about it, I can always chop the manuscript in half, and then nobody gets to read it.

  Sincerely,

  King Solomon

  Officer in the Bureau of Time Travel & Captain of the Bureau Time-Ship Unicorn Husker

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:

  This novel (along with the previous two in this series) refers to different realities as “Earths.” After receiving a few questions about this naming convention, I felt that it was time to resolve the issue. The choice to refer to different realities as “Earths” is definitely, totally, 100% due to following precedents set by Multiversal authorities and not a shortsighted decision made by an earth-centric author during the writing of his first novel.

  In fact, references to realities as “Earths” occur throughout this series because of a humanoid named Bingebramble Flambé. Mr. Flambé was one of the original Multiverse-Cartographers for the Bureau of Interdimensional Travel, serving the agency from around the time it was founded until his dishonorable discharge four decades later.

  Mr. Flambé’s home planet was called “Earth,” and in his quintessential work, he set the precedent to refer to all realities as “Earths.” This naming convention was first adopted by the B.I.T. Following Mr. Flambé’s discharge from the B.I.T., he entered the service of the Bureau of Time Travel as a cosmic cartographer, where he continued the practice of referring to realities as “Earths.” The B.T.T. followed suit in adopting this naming convention.

  Mr. Flambé devoted himself wholeheartedly to utilizing his Multiversal cartography skills to map as much of the Space-Time-Multinuum as possible, which he did until he was killed in the crossfire of the Quasar-Carnival Wars while demarcating the boundaries between the Feudal Age of Earth 7,300,112,008 and the Space Cowboy Age of Earth 45,222,143,555,888,001.

  And that, as they say, is interdimensional-intertimeliminal history.

  With the utmost sincerity,

  Chris Brimmage

  Chapter 1

  A DIPLOMATIC MISSION

  Alexandros ho Megas—known as Alexander the Great if you reside on this author’s earth during this author’s lifetime, and known simply as Alex to colleagues, friends, and indolent narrators—tilted to the right in his saddle to dodge an incoming fireball, which had a diameter twice as tall as he and blazed through the night like a hurtling meteor. It whooshed past his left ear and crashed into a member of his squadron.

  Alex glanced over his shoulder and stared at the victim, a stocky teen whose name Alex had not yet learned. The teen moaned and struggled and kicked from beneath the flaming ball. Seconds later, the youth’s muffled voice faded into silence.

  Alex frowned as the stench of roasting humanoid flesh mingled with the fireball’s sweet, caramelized aroma. This caramelized aroma existed because the fireball was no mere ball of fire. It consisted of neither oil nor pitch nor anything else traditionally flammable that Alex had often encountered in his brief, wondrous time as King of Macedonia. It was instead a massive marshmallow approximately eleven feet in diameter that had been set ablaze by the enemy and launched in Alex’s direction. It soon burned down to a crusty black shell atop the barbecued youth.

  Alex nodded. He had been creeping across the battlefield toward the enemy to test the range of the enemy’s mallowpults, and he had just found it. He marched his squadron back nearly fifteen feet an
d waited for the natives to loose another volley of the gigantic, flaming balls of sugar.

  A dozen more of the gargantuan, flaming marshmallows arced high into the night sky and then crashed to the ground in front of Alex and his squadron. The marshmallows stuck in place, melting into gooey puddles that sat atop the fluffy grass. Alex squinted to stare past the flames, but the fires burned too brightly and left him with such night blindness that he could not see far beyond the outskirts of the flames.

  Alex grunted and slammed his Phrygian-style helm onto his head. A red horsehair crest stood a foot tall from this shining golden helm and stretched in a straight line from the front of the helmet to the back. The helm clicked into place as clasps that extended from its bottom caught on clasps that rose from the top of his breastplate. This breastplate shone with gold and bore the angry image of a gorgon’s face painted across its front. Alex reached a finger inside the helm and touched a tiny button just above his left ear. A pair of lenses made entirely from solid light appeared in the eye-slits of the helm. Through these lenses, all hints of night blindness disappeared, and he could see across the battlefield as though it were perfectly light out.

  “Helmets on,” Alex barked to his squadron.

  The twenty-nine youths wearing uniforms marking them as Bureau of Time Travel naval agents fresh out of training—skintight long-sleeve purple shirts, black leggings, black boots, black holsters, and B.T.T. badges over their left breasts that displayed a handless clock surrounded by a circular border embroidered with the words “Time is on our side”—retrieved small objects from their holsters that looked like pieces of folded, purple parchment. They each touched a button on the side of these objects and waited for the devices to inflate into purple helmets, at which point they placed these helmets on their heads and buckled straps beneath their chins to hold the helmets in place.

  The youths looked like they were all wearing inflatable bicycle helmets. They reminded Alex of a B.T.T. Chief Security Officer named James Starley to whom he had reported many years ago. This man had insisted on riding his confounded invention, the Penny Farthing bicycle, everywhere he went—even on deadly missions requiring the utmost stealth. He concurrently insisted on wearing a bicycle helmet, which he claimed was invented long after his death but would have prevented said death if the objects were around during his natural lifetime.

  Hundreds of ululating shrieks erupted from the natives across the battlefield, and the memory of James Starley fled from Alex’s mind. Alex stared at the savages and grinned, anticipation for the fight filling his heart.

  “Activate Laser-Eyes,” Alex ordered his squadron.

  The purple-shirted squadron of youths tapped buttons near their temples, and laser-lenses appeared in place before their eyes. They let out a collective gasp. Alex scowled at their display of cowardice.

  The ululating shrieks of the natives transformed into furious screams as they burst forth from the opposite end of the battlefield and sprinted toward Alex’s squadron. They were bald humanoids with pale blue skin. There were several hundred of them, and they each hefted a gigantic wooden mallet as a weapon. On the left flank of this mallet-wielding infantry rode a hundred savage, blue-skinned cavalrymen. This cavalry bounced toward Alex’s squadron atop giant marshmallows—riding these balls of fluffy sugar as though they were riding atop puffed, inanimate horses. A few dozen natives remained behind to load mammoth marshmallows onto the mallowpults, set the gigantic balls of sugar alight, and launch them toward the B.T.T. agents.

  Alex shifted in his Gravitron Saddle1, a device he had confiscated on a mission where he and the crew of the Bureau Time-Ship Unicorn Husker—the B.T.S. Unicorn Husker for short—had travelled to the 30th century of Earth 6,076 to ensure a peace treaty was signed between the native humans and a race of vampiric nebula clouds that sustain themselves by sucking atmospheres clean of nitrogen. Without the treaty, that particular timestream would have fallen into grave peril, and without the trusty Gravitron Saddle that Alex had commandeered during that mission, he would have likely fallen into the grave long ago—for the device was a flying saddle that allowed Alex to traverse in and out of difficult situations at speeds and heights he never would have imagined during his natural lifetime.

  Alex used his tongue to activate the communication toggle in his helmet so that his squadron might hear his orders no matter where he or they might roam in the impending battle. He cleared his throat, and the twenty-nine-remaining purple-shirted members of his squadron stood at attention. He ordered, “Agents Fourth Class, draw your Time-Phasers. Set them to a sixty-minute devolution.”

  The Purple Shirts seemed to gulp in unison. Then they unholstered their Time-Phasers from their belts and checked their settings. The Time-Phasers were petite, green ray guns with red rings circling around the barrels. They looked like toys with which Alex had watched children play aboard the B.T.S. Unicorn Husker, and in the hands of the Purple Shirts, they reminded Alex how young many of the Purple Shirts were.

  Alex ignored the sentiment. Instead, he waited silently until the approaching natives had sprinted over halfway across the battlefield—a tactic he often used to allow a less-disciplined enemy horde to tire itself and create gaps in its formation—at which point he gestured toward the incoming natives and screamed, “Attack!”

  The Purple Shirts charged toward the blue natives. Alex sighed when three members of the squadron were immediately crushed and burnt to death by the next barrage from the mallowpults.

  The remainder of the Purple Shirt squadron scrambled past the marshmallow-artillery fire and began shooting conical rays of orange light at the natives, who devolved into puddles of blue algae upon being hit. Alex frowned, for unlike his squadron of Purple Shirts, it was necessary for all the natives to survive this battle so that their leader might agree to sign a peace treaty with the Bureau of Time Travel. The natives would re-evolve back into their original blue-skinned bipedal forms once an hour had passed, none the worse for wear other than the scarring pain of the devolution/evolution process. Thus, the natives would be spared, and the Purple Shirts’ deaths would never be revenged—something which always nagged at Alex’s conscience on diplomatic missions like this one.

  Alex had no time to focus too deeply on his inability to avenge these newly deceased Purple Shirts, for he needed to provide cavalry support to the still-living members of the squadron before they were overwhelmed. Alex turned to his six fellow officers who had joined him on this mission. They were hovering in the air near him upon Gravitron Saddles of their own. These officers each wore a similar uniform to the Purple Shirts that Alex had just sent into the fray, except where the Purple Shirts wore shirts colored purple, the officers wore shirts colored marigold. A similar marigold shirt covered Alex’s torso beneath his breastplate, the difference between his and the other officers’ being that their sleeves were solidly colored marigold, while his sleeves bore a single black stripe down their sides, indicating his rank as First Officer of his B.T.S.-class ship.

  Alex nodded to the officers and said, “We ride behind the enemy and flank them from the rear. Set your weapons to sixty-minute devolution and follow me.”

  Alex glanced down at his holster. He wore a standard-issue B.T.T. holster around his waist, and in it was contained standard-issue B.T.T. equipment, including a Time-Phaser identical to the ones carried by the Purple Shirts. But being an officer had its perks, and in Alex’s case, these perks meant supplementing his standard-issue equipment with weaponry that brought him comfort and confidence. Alex retrieved one such weapon from his holster—a metal cylinder that was approximately three-inches in diameter, ten-inches long, and wrapped in a grippy tape that Alex had applied to it years ago. Dials ran the length of one side. Alex twisted one dial’s setting from an option that read Permanent to an option that read εξήντα. Then he twisted another dial from an option that read Off to an option that read Mid-Range.

  Adrenaline raced through Alex as the cylinder vibrated for a few moments. T
hen it burst to life. An orange beam of light erupted from both ends of the cylinder to create a laser-Xyston, which was a laser-version of a twelve-foot long spear with a sharpened point on one end and a butt spike on the other. When Alex stabbed an enemy with either end of the solid-light spear, the enemy would be subjected to the same results as being hit by a Time-Phaser. This weapon allowed Alex to utilize the fighting styles that he had perfected in his natural lifetime before he had joined the Bureau of Time Travel. As a matter of fact, this laser-Xyston was an exact laser-replica of the type of weapon that Alex had implemented in his cavalry way back in Earth 6,076’s timestream when he had conquered most of the world as the king of the most feared army on the planet.

  Alex’s fellow officers drew their Time-Phasers and followed him as he leaned backward and directed his Gravitron Saddle high into the air. The moniker Boukephalas II, which Alex had painted onto the sides of his Gravitron Saddle in neon orange reflective paint, shone in the moonlight. The group’s saddles roared as they gained altitude, sounding like a chorus of deaf-tone demons singing the worst acapella concert ever. Alex and the officers flew up into the low-hanging clouds, flittered amongst them for a few moments, and then dropped behind enemy lines to the rear of the natives’ mallowpults.

  Alex leaned forward and darted toward a nine-foot tall blue man who was preparing to pull the lever on a mallowpult, which would launch one of the huge, flaming marshmallows into the midst of the Purple Shirts. Alex stabbed the man in his back. The laser-spear sank into the native’s flesh nearly up to the handle. The man convulsed on its end and then melted into a puddle of blue algae.

  Alex studied the mallowpult for a moment now that he hovered near it. It looked just like a catapult from Alex’s earth, but with a completely ridiculous payload. Alex stabbed the wooden base of the weapon with his spear, and the wood devolved into twisted, slimy, green vines. The giant flaming marshmallow flopped down atop the vines and burned them into nothingness. Alex smirked.