Excerpt: Tempus Interruptus

Gene hit reverse thrusters, just outside the range she’d been given for the pirate’s monitors. This close to the wormhole, there was plenty of noise to conceal her tiny ship, but she wanted some time to review the mission. She’d found it hard to concentrate during the briefing with Butch. He reminded her of her father, for some reason.
But that’s not what she wanted to review.
The four ships trailed one behind the other. Inexplicably, they were each triangular with flat tops, slightly bowed sides. Three or four masts rose from the flat sides supporting relatively compact solar sails. If she wasn’t mistaken, she thought she could see smaller flags, topping the tallest masts, boasting a black field with white skull and crossbones.
“Unbelievable.” She couldn’t remember this in any report.
The little sport-ship, sleek, fast, and very expensive looking, zipped along at a descent clip. She waited until just a few light-minutes away before executing the program “Disabled Vessel.” She heard a thud behind her. Somewhere near the exhaust, she knew, radiation spewed in a tale-tell distress signature. She flicked on the emergency beacon and set the radio call-out to all channels.
“Um, SOS? SOS. This is the sport ship Hello Kitty, calling, uh, anyone? Is anyone there?”
She waited for thirty seconds. “SOS? Oh, my dad is going to kill me. Please, is anyone there?” Twenty seconds later, she tried again. “This is Andromeda Fillingsly, calling from the sport ship Hello Kitty. Please, is anyone there?”
“Hark! What fair maiden requesteth our assistance?” boomed a voice.
“Oh, thank goodness! This is the Hello Kitty. I’ve had some kind of explosion or something. There’s smoke and radiation leaking and…”
“Alas, yon distressed damsel. Thou shouldnest speak over thineself. They dulcet tones taketh a while to reacheth our worthy vessels.”
Gene rolled her eyes. Who were these clowns? Her second SOS message must have reached them.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know if you heard me or not.”
“OK, that’s just annoying,” said the voice. She could hear her third message in the background. “If you can maneuver, follow our signal. If you can’t, we’re coming to you.”
She followed their directions to a crane that rose from the top deck. It latched onto her ship and pulled her alongside the hull. A gangplank dropped from the deck to the top of her ship. It inflated around her roof hatch. A moment later, a knock rang on her hull.
Gene checked her hair, the gun strapped to her ankle, and her belt buckle. She had thirty hours to procure a field generator before Keln pulled her back.
She opened the hatch to Capt. Hook. Black beard, handlebar mustache, even the goofy hat. He reached down with a hook on the end of his arm. She smiled her sweetest and took the hook—which pulled right off his arm.
“Ha, ha. All in good fun, fair lady. I am Capt. Blye. Welcome to my mighty vessel, the Churchey LeFemme. And you, I assume, are the lovely Andromeda Fillingsly?”
“Thank you so much for rescuing me. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
He took her hand with his, pulled her to the hatch, and kissed her fingers. She batted her eyelashes, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from rolling her eyes. He led her up the gangplank, through an airlock, and into a deck house.
“Your quarters, my lady. I shall leave you to catch your breath while my men, scalawags all, determine why your sleek craft hath betrayed you so wickedly.” He bowed, flourishing his ostrich feather-topped hat, and exited from the same door into the airlock.
She didn’t bother to check it. It would be locked. She took in her surroundings. The deck house seemed to be a type of captain’s quarters, complete with a beautiful antique sextant and an animatronic parrot. It was all a bit of a set up. As if they expected visitors to search through for treasure maps or a magic compass. She wouldn’t want to disappoint them.
She ignored the door and went straight to the walls. Predictably, all the pictures were fastened tightly to the walls. None of the distressed floorboards sounded hollow. A louvered door led to a closet filled with several different sizes of space suits. They looked no more than two hundred years old. What would Merrill-era pirates be doing with almost recent equipment?
She sat and put her feet up on the desk. Her wristdisks easily opened up the ship’s data bank. But the data left her more confused. The ship was built only a hundred and seventy years ago. It was registered to an entertainment mogul in the name of his son, Jayse Randall. Gene pulled up the son’s file. It was the captain—minus the mustache and costume.
She delved further. Despite the elaborate trappings, the ship was a standard recreational Theta-Crush class—the same era as the space suits. No armaments beside the standard asteroid blasters, and shielding wasn’t particularly high.
What would a rich boy be doing on his daddy’s yacht playing pirate?
Playing. That was the trick. She searched through to find changes made around the time as the hull transformation. There it was. No weapons-grade shields, but they did have an electro-magnetic skin designed to absorb slug impulses. And no weapons to speak of, but they did have their own slugger.
So, they were game-boys. Wonderful. The question remained, though, how authentic were they? Did they have a field generator? She thought they must; how else could they have survived the collapsing wormhole?
The door opened, and she doused the display that hovered over her hands. “Capt. Blye” entered with a tray of food.
“Forgive my lack of hospitality, my lady. I have brought the best of our meager victuals. I fear it will not be appropriate for one of your station, so please forgive.”
She ran through her options. She could confront him with the truth of the situation, but it might be better to get more information, first.
“How long have you been at sea?” she asked, inviting him to join her at the table.
“Oh, nigh on ten months, now. We’ve had calm seas the whole way, but I fear it won’t last.”
“I noticed three other ships when I came in. Are you a fleet, or just traveling together?”
He narrowed his eyes. “I fear such business would be dull indeed for a lady such as yourself. Suffice it to say, you will be well taken care of during your stay with us. This room is at your disposal, as am I.”
“I should like to see the rest of your ship,” she said, widening her eyes. “I’ve never been on such a vessel before.”
“And I would like to accommodate you, but I fear your confinement is for your own good. Not all of my crew are as gentlemanly as I. Fear not, though. I suspect your stay with us will not be long. Until then, please enjoy our hospitality.”
A voice broke over the intercom. “Captain, ships sighted. Your presence is requested at the Bridge.”
The captain rose and bowed low. “Please forgive my rude dismissal. It appears your rescuers are at hand.”
As soon as he was gone, she pulled up her wristdisks. She couldn’t get her own ID of the in-coming ships. The EM shield must be dampening her signal. But she could hack into the Churchey’s monitors. And there they were: two medium-sized interceptors, the Navy’s latest in counter-terrorism.
She tried the door, but it was good and sealed. She couldn’t get a signal out to the interceptors. The navigation display showed the “pirate” ships lining one in front of the other and moving out as if to intersect the Navy ships. Their strategy was sound; she could see if everything continued, they’d cross the enemy’s “T.” Only problem was that they didn’t actually have any weapons.
If she couldn’t get a call out to the Navy, she’d try her “captors.” A few flicks of her fingers and she’d accessed the Churchey’s intercom.
“Captain Blye, this is Genevieve Porter, Space/Time Agent. I understand you are participating in a game, but I’m afraid your ‘enemy’ doesn’t know that. They are Naval interceptors, and they believe you are real pirates...”
The door whipped open, and a red-faced Blye stepped through. Three others, all similarly, though less flamboyantly, dressed, followed. “Madam, I must ask you to refrain from attempting to influence my crew. They require all the attention they can muster for the task at hand. I must also request that you relinquish any and all unauthorized technology. Very poor form, indeed.”
She didn’t keep from rolling her eyes. “I am Agent Genevieve Porter, Jayse, not some damsel in distress. And those are not your mates. They are Naval counter-terrorism ships come to blast you out of the sky.”
“Nonsense. There is no counter-terrorism department in the Navy. You are just trying to confuse me. Your devious machinations will not work; though I am young, I am clever enough for you. Now hand over your communications device.”
When she made no move to comply, other than an unconcealed eye-roll, one of the crew members, who looked like he could be Blye’s older brother, although his hair was darker, waved a sensor wand around her. They stopped at her hands.
“What is this mischief?” Blye said, grabbing her hands and turning them back and forth in his. “Where is your device?”
Before she could respond, the crew member with the wand stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Captain, I have heard of such devices, embedded in the person’s very flesh. It would indicate our prisoner is someone of very high standing.” He said the last with a slight edge, but Blye didn’t seem to notice.
“Very well, Myth. Disable the device without removing it.”
The crew member readjusted his wand and waved it over Gene’s hands. She could tell without looking her implants were inactive.
“You see, fair lady, we will prevail.” He swept out again, his entourage in his wake. As the last man left, the one Blye had called Myth, he gave Gene a bland look and the Agency hand-signal for “stand-by.” Then they were gone.
Gene paced. She tried picking the lock on the door, but it was magnetically sealed. She cannibalized the parrot, but found nothing she could use. The space suits were an option. She could put one on, then use another’s oxygen tank to break through the hull. That would be a last option, though.
Without her wristdisks, she completely lost track of time. Her quirk was intact, but she suspected whatever field kept her from communication out would also keep her from transporting—unless the Quirk of the System called. But Keln would be unlikely to call up the Commander merely for a tardy junior agent. She just hoped she could get out before the Navy showed up.
A soft knock on the door woke her from a light sleep. It opened, and Myth came through with a tray of food. She started to speak, but he waved his hand in the code for “tracked.” She inferred Blye must be listening in—and that Myth wasn’t an agent, but knew enough to be helpful.
“Am I allowed to know how long this exercise will take?” she asked.
He set the food on the table. “Yes, madam. We are due to meet the Imperial Navy of the Outer Islands in two hours. After we engage and defeat the enemy, you will be returned to your craft.”
She took a breath. “Will the Captain enter into any negotiations with the enemy before the battle?”
“No, madam. All was coordinated and agreed upon at the most recent parlay.”
“I see. Might I be able to observe?”
“Of course, madam.” He walked to a particularly atrocious painting on the wall and touched it. A menu appeared, and he selected a view of the Bridge. Blye paced about the room, shoulders straight, hands clasped behind his back. Occasionally, he would lean down to speak to a crew member, who would invariably beam up at him.
“Captain Blye seems to be well-loved by his men,” she said, beginning to understand Myth’s reticent behavior.
“Indeed, madam. This is his first voyage, but he has chosen a crew completely devoted to him.”
Gene thought she saw something in the tilt of Myth’s eyebrows. She flashed the signal for “message received.” If the rest of the crew were blindly sworn to Blye, she’d have to watch her step to keep both of them out of trouble.
“Might I be able to send a message to the incoming force? They may cede the battle to the captain if they know you have a hostage on board.”
“I’m afraid not. The captain and crew are not to be dissuaded from experiencing the glory of battle.”
Glory of idiocy.
“I do not doubt the captain’s ability to defeat his enemy,” she said carefully. “I am concerned that this may not be the adversary he expects.”
His green eyes flashed concern, and he gave the signal for “information, later.”
“I must see to my duties, madam.” He indicated a switch by the view screen. “Use this if you need assistance.”
He walked to the door, and she took one last chance. “I’m just afraid the captain doesn’t realize he’s out of time.”
Myth gave her one last look and closed the door behind him.
She kicked herself. The least she could have done was pull her gun on him and take him hostage. She watched the screen. She had no audio, but there didn’t seem to be much going on. She paced.
Why was it the more idiotic the adversary, the tougher the assignment? She generally had no problem going up against simple opportunists or even sociopaths. At least they acted in a fairly predictable manner and could be counted on to act in their own best interests. Delusional school-boys, though, she’d always had a problem with. She’d never been able to master the manipulative head-games that usually accompanied a twenty-something woman of above-average attractiveness.
A movement caught her eye. The Bridge seemed to be in a flurry of activity. Blye stood on a center dais, barking muted orders. Myth stood half-hidden in a dark corner, observing. How had he managed to get on a ship crewed with sycophants? She considered moving to a porthole, but the Navy ships would be blacked out and there wasn’t a star close enough to throw a reflection. Movement on the Bridge stopped. A red light flared, and Myth sprang from his hiding spot. A moment later, he burst through the door.
“You were right. They’re the real Navy. What do we do? My idiot brother thinks it’s all special effects, but I think they hit the Pogo.”
She was already following him out into the airlock. “You have that wand?” He turned around and waved it over her hands. She could feel the warmth returning. “Now we need to shut off whatever’s keeping me from calling out.”
“That’d be the field generator. It’s set for ship-to-ship communication. If it opens wider, we wouldn’t be able to track the hits.”
“Take me.” Two birds with one stone.
They raced down a level and aft. Myth opened a door and leapt through, Gene right behind him. The turned a corner but stopped at a huge, shirtless brute blocking the passage.
“Mutiny, is it?” Blye said from behind them.
Gene turned around, slowly raising her hands in the air.
“I should have suspected you’d turn to the first pretty face we came across, brother.”
“Jayse, leave off. This is not a game.”
“He’s right, Jayse. The wormhole is de-stabilizing. When you went through, you came forward about two hundred years. That is the real Navy, and your other ship was shot at.”
“Hogswaddle. More treachery to keep me from my—oof!” He fell forward as Gene kicked him in the stomach. Politics by other means. Before Myth could move, she’d removed her gun and pointed it at the brute.
“Just stay there and tend to your captain,” she said as the man turned pale. His hands shook, and she wasn’t sure that he wasn’t about to start crying. She backed out of the hatch, pulling Myth with her, and had him shut and latch the door.
“Great, what do we do now?” she asked. “We just locked ourselves out of the field generator controls.”
Myth turned to her. “Well, we could use the ones on the bridge.”
He found her a wicked, curved blade and submitted to being her hostage. He shook and stammered and otherwise played his part well as they entered the bridge.
“Avast ye scurvy dogs!” she bellowed, wondering where on Earth she’d gotten that from. “I am Madam Andromeda, come to take control of this ship in the name of the Imperial Navy. Swear allegiance to me or suffer the consequences.”
To a man, the crew raised up, yelling, “Never! For Captain Blye!”
She muttered to Myth under her breath, “Wow, they’re really concerned about you.”
He shot her a look. “Wait! She has the captain held captive. If we don’t do what she says, he’ll be dead in five minutes!”
The crew shrank back, horror on their faces.
“No, it can’t be true!” rang out a voice form the back of the crowd. A short, slender sailor pushed his way through. “The captain would never be taken by a woman!”
He lost his footing and went flying into his mates as the entire ship shook.
“What was that?” another crew member asked.
Gene put the knife down. She was lucky it hadn’t gone through Myth’s throat. “That was the blasted Galactic Navy breaching your hull.”
“We’re not fighting the Galactic Navy. We’re fighting the Imperial Navy.”
“So don’t have time for this,” Gene said. She reached into her ankle holster, pulled out her gun, and burned a hole through the ceiling. “Get back, all of you. Now!”
They looked more confused than scared, but did what she said. Myth moved to the console. “OK, Andromeda. You’re clear.”
She flicked her left fingers in the air, pulling up communications, while her right held her gun. “Galactic Navy, this is Genevieve Porter, Space/Time Agent. Stand down. I repeat, stand down. The ships you are firing upon are unarmed and not dangerous. They are game boys caught in a temporal rift. Do not fire.”
A staticky voice sounded from her wrist. “Message received. Confirm identification.”
“Roger that. Alpha-Cinni…oh frack!”
Gene looked up into Keln’s face.
“Report,” Keln ordered, raising an eyebrow at her less than lady-like language.
“They aren’t pirates,” she said, racing back to the station bridge. He followed. “They’re game boys. They were expecting to meet other gamers and have a mock-battle.”
“Did you find the field generator?”
“Yes, well, I mean, I know it’s there. I didn’t have time to get it. I was too busy trying to keep the Galactic Navy from blowing them to bits.” She ran to the communication console in the bridge.
“Why didn’t you just call them?”
Butch answered as he walked in the room. “Because fields mask communications.”
“I did get a hold of them, but I didn’t complete ID verification. If they think someone on board was messing with them…”
Keln pushed her aside. “This is an emergency communication for the interceptors currently engaged with a pirate fleet. Keln Ister, commander of the Cancer Hole Station. Stand down. Repeat, stand down…”
“Roger that, Ister. This is Commander Kertalon. We have your fleet of fan idiots. Returning to your station.”
“Aye, aye. Cancer out.”