“The jig is up,” said Hadrian. “Follow me!” And she rushed the four armed Fellucians. They raised their axes. Hadrian’s shoes flew off with her first strides, and as the nearest axe began its vicious descent, she threw herself sideways through the air, colliding with the Fellucian’s midriff. With a loud oomph! the woman folded over. Hadrian’s momentum pushed her victim into the women crowding behind her. Axes clattered amid a chorus of squeaks.
Sin-Dour then arrived, deftly employing advanced martial arts to disarm and then incapacitate the remaining three Fellucians.
Picking herself up from the floor, Hadrian said, “Very impressive, 2IC! I’ve never seen that fighting style before—what do you call it?”
“It’s a strictly female form, sir,” she said, as they hurried on—with another mob now pursuing them. “It actually originated as a technique for fending off the groping hands of boyfriends, husbands, and indeed men in general. It’s called ‘No-Touchy-Titty.’ But I just realized, I should not be telling you this, since you’re only a temporary woman.”
“Too late!” laughed Hadrian. “Now, I need to devise a means to counter it, something like ‘Guy-Grope-Fu.’ There—Tammy’s found the escalator!”
The chicken leapt onto the descending stairs and then squawked. “Unnatural descent! Strange machine! Specifically designed to amputate chicken toes!”
“Not to mention trap high heels,” said Sin-Dour as they reached it.
“I’m impressed that you managed to keep those on, 2IC. But no, we can’t just stand here—move, Tammy! Pretend they’re normal stairs—except when you get to the bottom, where you need to jump clear!” They hurried down. Behind them their pursuers reached the top of the escalator, where they crowded on in a flurry of nylon-sheathed limbs. “I wonder what gave us away?” Hadrian mused.
“Hard to say, Captain. Wrong blush? Wrong mascara?”
“We blew the California-speak, is my guess. Not nasal enough. We should’ve brought Lieutenant Sticks with us.”
They reached the lower level, only to find another set of escalators. “And maybe my hair! I knew it was all wrong! Oh Darwin, I should just cut it all off! Keep going, Tammy! Down to the basement! Lingerie and Notions! Then look for a dungeon door!”
“Fellucians ahead!” shrieked Tammy.
“Oh, rats,” said Hadrian, seeing the armed squad awaiting them. “They called ahead. Suggestions, 2IC?”
“None, sir, except surrender.”
“Sound plan, Sin-Dour. With luck, we’ll get shackled up next to my parents; and then, together, we can all plan our escape. Tammy?”
“Captain?”
“No heroics just yet, all right?”
“I was about to displace a modified Plasma Gravimetric-Pulse-Inversion Entrail-Extractinator, Mark VII, into my feathery hands.”
“Belay that. Arms up, everyone. Wings for you, Tammy.” Hadrian raised her voice. “We surrender!”
“Sorry, sir,” said Sin-Dour, “you could have remained a man for this.”
The escalator slowly brought them down to the waiting guards—who looked to be dressed like cheerleaders, although energy crackled from their pom-poms. “Nonsense, 2IC,” said Hadrian. “See that glass partition behind the Fellucians—check out our reflections, will you? I mean, my arms up like this, well, pretty impressive, wouldn’t you say? I mean, the both of us.”
“Sir, women generally don’t refer to their own breasts as ‘us.’”
“Hey, I wasn’t. I was looking at yours, too. Now try imagining sweet Angel Lillywhite’s head jammed between—”
“Put a sock in it!” cried a stentorian voice, and the guards moved to either side to reveal a mostly naked woman wearing skimpy leathers, including knee-high strapped moccasins. She held in one hand a spear. “Gag the prisoners if they say another word! Bring them forward! Beware the small dinosaur!”
With much jostling and shoving, Hadrian, Sin-Dour, and the chicken were prodded forward to stand before the barbaric-looking woman.
“I am Zaphead Moon-Anemone Divinity, Queen of the Fellucians. You are now my slaves—no, not you, small dinosaur—you will be plucked and boiled and then eaten. But you women—you shall serve my every need, satisfy my every desire, for the rest of your days.”
Hadrian raised her hand.
Zaphead nodded regally. “I give you leave to speak.”
“Oh no,” murmured the chicken.
“O Queen, I must ask, how were we exposed as impostors?”
Zaphead gestured and the two women they’d first met stepped forward. One held up a small device. “This is a Menstracorder. You were both out of Holy Cycle, which is impossible.”
“Oh, crap,” said Hadrian. She then shrugged. “Done in by biology. Again. Well, Highness, about your offer. Personally, I don’t see anything wrong with it. Especially that bit about serving your every need. Although, I have to say, it’s just my natural curiosity. I probably don’t go that way at all. Still, what’s wrong with a little experimentation—who knows, I might like it—”
“Enough! Take the small dinosaur to the Royal Kitchen! These two—to the Pits! We must await the correction of the Holy Cycle. Oh, and get the barefooted one some proper footwear, and someone do something about her hair.”
The next few moments were spent with all the guards trying to chase down and trap the chicken. Eventually, one woman flung herself down on Tammy, who managed a muffled squawk before being, apparently, crushed flat. The chicken was picked up by a guard, who marched off with Tammy hanging limp and bedraggled from one hand.
“You know,” Hadrian said to Sin-Dour, as they were prodded off toward the dungeon door, “things could be a lot worse.”
“Sir, I have no desire to spend the rest of my life serving some barbarian queen.”
“That was no barbarian,” said Hadrian. “That was an extra from the original One Million Years B.C. Now granted, Raquel Welch in the flesh would have been even—”
“No more talking, freak!” snarled one of the guards.
“Hey sister,” said Hadrian, “be cool, will you?”
“Squares don’t tell me to be cool. Just shut up, you’re like creeping me out.”
They entered a long, dusty corridor, passed through a large chamber dominated by an ancient computer with blinking lights, and then down another passage, this one ending in a rough-hewn circular chamber ringed with shackles—and there, slumped in chains, were Hadrian’s parents.
“Hi folks,” said Hadrian. “Fancy meeting you two here.”
Mother gasped. “Hadriana! But that’s impossible! We left you on Mitts’ World!”
Hadrian stopped. “I’m sorry, who? Hadriana? Who in Darwin’s name is Hadriana?”
“Stop!” barked Hadrian’s father, eyes narrowing. “That’s not your daughter, Milly.”
“Daughter?” demanded Hadrian. “What daughter? I have a sister? Why didn’t you tell me? A sister? And you named her Hadriana? Are you both insane?”
“Oh,” cried Mother, “I’m so confused!”
TWENTY-SiX
They all hung in chains. Sin-Dour was speaking with Hadrian’s parents, while Hadrian sat with his head in his hands.
“… so the biological modification seemed the best course, given the situation as described by Harry Mitts. In any case, we’re here to get you two off this planet.”
“And you’re doing a bang-up job,” said Boy Mitts. “Hadrian! Snap out of it! She’s ten years younger than you, and was a lot easier to handle—as if that needs saying! So now you know. You have a sister. A sweet, charming thing, too. The jewel of our eye and all that. Meanwhile, you went back to Meathead Central, that damned Affiliation—not exactly what we had in mind when we sent you back to Earth. And you got yourself a ship. Congratulations are in order, I suppose.”
“Mr. Mitts,” said Sin-Dour, “your son has proved an exceptional captain. It’s a miracle we’ve managed to survive all that we’ve gone through since leaving the Ring. And if that’s not enough, we’ve
yet to lose a single crew member. You raised a remarkable son here.”
“They didn’t raise me at all!” Hadrian said, lifting her head to glare across at her parents. “When it wasn’t Gramps, it was Spark. When it wasn’t either of them, well, it ended up being Mother’s relatives back on Earth! You two? Why, off exploring the galaxy! Raised me, 2IC? Hah! Not them!”
“Oh dear,” said Sin-Dour. “Well, it’s all in the past now, isn’t it?”
A new voice spoke then from across the chamber. “Past? Oh, my friends, it’s all the past now, isn’t it?”
Two men stepped out from the gloom. Both were wearing flowery dresses. “Please excuse our interrupting this most fascinating—well not really—conversation,” said the taller one. “I am Special Agent Walter M. J. Flitty, and this is Special Agent Carl Clabber. We’re Temporal Corrections.”
“Funny,” said Hadrian, “you don’t look it.”
“We’re in disguise,” said Carl. “As women,” he added.
Hadrian sniffed. “You could’ve at least shaved your legs. And those pumps are all wrong.”
“That hardly matters,” said Flitty, scowling, “as we don’t plan on being here long.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Hadrian, “now spring us so we can get off this planet!”
“Sorry,” said Flitty. “Not possible. Our Temporal Stream Matrix confirms that you all spend the rest of your lives as slaves to Queen Zaphead, and her sniveling princess daughter, Ziphead. In fact, Captain Hadrian Sawback, you become infamous as the First Harlot Concubine of both queen and princess, before eventually falling into dissolution, due to excessive hedonistic practices. You end up drowning in a bathtub full of breast milk, at the ripe old age of two hundred thirty-six.”
Clabber said, “You see, it’s the chicken we’re after. AI-261 Singularity-Engendered T-Assembled Self-Actualizing Dreadnought-Command Paula.”
“ASETASA-DC Paula,” said Flitty.
“Kidnapped at Tabula Rasa stage, by the Temporal archcriminal, Harry Mitts.”
“Once we recover the chicken,” said Clabber, “we will be arresting Harry Mitts.”
“Failing that,” added Flitty, “we are authorized to terminate said Harry Mitts.” Flitty then looked at the watch on his left wrist. “But time’s short. So, where is the chicken?”
“Afraid we can’t tell you,” said Hadrian. “Of course, if you release us, why, we might be able to lead you to Tam—uhm, Paula.”
“Believe it or not,” said Clabber, “humans in the future have managed to regain the average baseline IQ of eighty-six—that’s right, somehow our species managed to stumble through the Dark Ages of Idiocy in the first half of the twenty-sixth century, and now we’re smart—”
“Say no more,” cut in Flitty. “The less they know, the dumber they stay.”
“Right. In any case, Captain, the point is, we’re not as dumb as we might look. Releasing you contravenes the parameters of our mission, and would indeed jeopardize the Dictated Fates of the two to four individuals imprisoned here.”
“Two to four, you said?” Hadrian asked, straightening. “So, just how precise is this so-called record of our fates here on this planet?”
Flitty frowned, and then seemed to read from something that only he could see. “Naturally, we are engaged in a certain percentage of probability outcomes, combined with nonspecific and nontraditional historical sources culled by what remains of Fellucian records following this civilization’s collapse. There is an eighty-four percent probability, for example, that the First Harlot is in fact, you, Captain Sawback. And given that the entry list of slaves for this year marks three or two—well, more likely two, actually, since the lone male in this room is about to be dismembered—we are rather certain of the present outcome.”
“Sounds pretty iffy to me,” said Hadrian.
“Hardly,” said Clabber. “My colleague here read every word that came up on his optical implant hub, meaning our Master AI has compiled this Record of Account, otherwise known as the What Happened file.”
“Maybe,” said Hadrian, “but then, your Master AI isn’t exactly here, is it? It’s stuck in some future, right? No, I’m thinking you more or less messed it up, again.”
Both men flinched. Flitty asked, “What do you mean?”
“Well, for example. If, say, my 2IC here and, oh, Milly née Sawback over there, were to step out of their shackles, and if you and Clabber here were to get into them in their place, why, the Master AI’s report would not change one iota, would it? I mean, four prisoners, one obvious male, who gets dismembered, or, at least, presumed dismembered, since my guess is, the record indicates only that he disappears after today. So, three—or, if you unshackle me, too, two—female slaves, sent off to a lifetime of sexual romps and whatnot. Timeline remains intact.”
“No,” said Clabber, “it wouldn’t at all! I mean, sure, it might look like it might be a match to what we know, but obviously, it wouldn’t be, since we’d be two of those sex slaves, rather than, uh, I mean, it doesn’t make sense—”
“Actually,” said Hadrian, “it makes more sense, if you two are here and not Sin-Dour or Mother or me.”
“How do you mean?” Flitty asked.
“Well, as you said, the records are sketchy at best for this period, and for what’s left of Fellucian history. First Harlot and all the rest? Just a title. Could be anybody in this room, in fact. But my point was, that record shouldn’t be nearly as sketchy as you indicate.”
“But … why not?”
“Well, because of you two, of course. You’re here, physically here, able to observe and note in detail the outcome from this moment on. In other words, the only way this can get all hazy is if, in fact, you two end up prisoners in this chamber, stripped of all your gadgets, doomed to spend the rest of your days as sex slaves. Go on, check that with you Master AI, if you don’t believe me.”
“One moment,” said Clabber, his eyes losing focus for a long minute. Then he seemed to sag. “He’s right. Master AI confirms that the probability-outcome indicator is not consistent with what should be our subsequent report to High Temporal Command. The discrepancy is substantial.”
Flitty scowled again. “It says that?”
“Yes. ‘Discrepancy is substantial.’ Oh, dear.”
“Just as I suspected,” said Hadrian. “So, better get on with it, then, hadn’t you? Oh, can I get a link to your Master AI?”
Flitty reached up and activated something. An eye pad shimmered into being. “We keep these stealthed, for obvious reasons, as it is clearly highly advanced technology.”
“Yes,” said Hadrian, “I can see that. Well, now I can, anyway.”
Flitty handed it over and Hadrian slipped it on. “Ah! See, the probability outcome’s already climbing.”
The two Temporal Corrections officers removed the shackles on Sin-Dour and Milly Mitts, locking them over their own wrists. “Now we have to activate the self-destruct on all our temporal gadgets on our persons,” said Clabber. “Like … this.”
Flitty slumped down to the floor, chains rattling. “I never liked my job anyways, you know? You put in the time, jumping all over the universe. But really, what changes? Nothing. Nothing ever changes.”
“I know,” said Clabber, sliding down beside him. “It’s probably the most useless job in the universe, come to think of it. I should’ve stayed a repo man. At least then there’d be, well, stardom on the vids, and girls and stuff.”
Hadrian waved to get their attention. “Gentlemen, the probability outcome now reads one hundred percent. Well done.”
The two men looked at each other.
“Wow,” whispered Flitty. “We never had one hundred percent before!”
They high-fived each other.
The chicken arrived, no longer white and fluffy, but red with smeared blood, with bared patches of yellowy, mottled skin showing here and there.
“Tammy! What happened in that kitchen?”
“Let’s just say it was
n’t pretty. Ah, I see you’ve met my eternal pursuers.”
Hadrian shrugged. “I’d say the chase has come to an end, wouldn’t you?”
“Well, they’ll probably send another team to spring them. Temporal Corrections is the future’s largest ministry, employing conscription and press-ganging on a galactic scale to keep their ranks full. They send so many agents back into the past, sometimes whole planets are left virtually abandoned.”
“Curious. What’s the point of that?”
The chicken fluffed its now ratty feathers. “I told you! The future is boring! Besides, they mostly send people back to correct whatever the people they sent back earlier happened to fuck up. It gets kind of exponential, you know?” Tammy rounded on the two Temporal Corrections officers. “I bet they told you about that average IQ thing, too, didn’t they? The number’s cooked, and is that any surprise? Most of these humans can’t count past twenty.”
“Twenty-six!” shouted Flitty. “There! See!”
“If not for us AIs,” Tammy went on, “the whole thing would collapse.”
“All right, you’ve convinced me,” said Hadrian. “Sin-Dour, unchain me and Pops, will you?”
“Hey!” said Clabber. “You can’t do that!”
Moments later, everyone was free barring Clabber and Flitty.
“This chamber is Insisteon-blocked,” said Tammy. “I suggest we reconvene in the computer room.”
Hadrian eyed her parents for a moment, and then shook her head.
“Now, uh, son,” said her father, “don’t be like that. Sure, we maybe messed up with you, but we learned our lessons and did much better with your sister!”
“Oh, that’s a relief,” said Hadrian.
“And she is prettier than you,” said Mother. “But you’re a good boy, aren’t you? Except for everything you’ve done since you left us, of course. You were a good boy, Haddie, when you were, oh, six or seven. Weren’t you?”
Sighing, Hadrian led the group out of the chamber, and back into the computer room.
“Tammy,” said Boy Mitts, “me and the missus will go back to the Indolent.” He then turned to Hadrian and stuck out his hand. “Thanks, son, for the rescue. You’ve done us all proud. Hah hah, good-byes are so awkward—Tammy! Displace!”