Atm (15 page)

“
You’re Colonel Czerinski,” continued Smith, studying my Legion ID card. “What is Czerinski? You a God damn Russian?”

“
I was born in Arizona. I’m an American, just like you.”

“
And you claim to be American military, just like me? Not likely, you Russian bastard.”

“
It’s not just a job, it’s an adventure.”

“
That’s the navy,” whispered Major Lopez. “Don’t tell him anything. The Legion will rescue us if we’re patient.”

“
Fun, travel, and adventure,” I corrected myself. “Be all you can be.”

“
Shut up,” repeated Lopez.

“
What was that?” asked General Smith. “You got something to say. Speak up, boy!”

“
No habla Inglés.”

“
We’ll see about that,” threatened General Smith. “I guarantee I will get to the bottom of this. What is your mission, and where did you find that Martian?”

We clammed up.
Tonelli sat in the corner, sullen. Sergeant Green paced nervously, obviously realizing he had fallen into redneck hell. Sergeant Williams let out a rebel yell, defiantly rattling the bars. Lopez and I just waited for our rescue. Smith took Lieutenant North away to be interrogated by the FBI.

* * * * *

“Alien autopsy, take one!” announced a bored private, snapping a clapboard for the cameras.

“
Action!” shouted General Smith through a portable PA.

“
It is July eighth, 1947, a day which will live in infamy,” advised Doctor Casey. “We’re going to crack this Martian bad boy open like a New England Lobster.”

“
Be natural,” ordered General Smith. “Don’t overplay the scene.”

“
Scalpel,” commanded Doctor Casey to a buxom blond nurse. It was her acting debut, and she made the most of it as she leaned over the medical instruments, giving everyone an eyeful. Cameras zoomed in for cleavage close-ups.

“
Which one is the scalpel?” panted the nurse.

“
She can’t type either,” leered Doctor Casey. “But she does great dictation.”

“
Get a top view on that nurse,” ordered General Smith. “Holy moley, she’s hot!”

Doctor Casey selected a box cutter from his tools.
“I will make a precise incision here on the thorax to remove a small unknown alien device wired to the Martian’s throat.”

“
Ouch!” shouted a mechanical voice emanating from the spider commander’s translator. “What the hell? Did you just stab me?”

“
You’re being operated on.”

“
Whatever. Stop at once!”

“
You’re alive in there?” asked Doctor Casey, tapping on the alien’s breastplate, his dreams of Nobel glory fading. “We thought you died in the crash. Your being alive will ruin my autopsy.”

“
Get away from me, you prehistoric human pestilence quack! I am engaged in epidermis molt to repair my shell. Keep your grimy human pestilence fingernails to yourself!”

“
I resent your tone.”

“
Are you trying to start an intergalactic war? Cut me again, and your provocations will draw the full wrath of the Arthropodan Empire.”

“
He’s bluffing,” interrupted General Smith, pandering for the camera. “Crack Lobster Boy open now!”

“
You wouldn’t dare. I’m related to the Emperor!”

“
This is America, and we’ve had it once and for all with emperors. Cut him!”

“
He’s obviously alive somewhere in there,” protested Doctor Casey. “I am bound by my Hippocratic Oath to discontinue this procedure, even if it does cost me a Nobel.”

“
Hippocratic my ass! That’s just for humans.”

“
He’s obviously sentient.”

“
Of course I’m sentient, you slime-mold-induced rodent creature!” interrupted the spider commander. “I’ll have you up on war crimes charges!”

“
How long until you hatch?” asked General Smith, acutely sensitive to recent prisoner abuse by the Nazis and Japs during World War Two. “What are you waiting for, boy? Christmas?”

“
You will address me as Supreme Commander.”

“
Oh yeah? Come out, or I will order you boiled alive in butter and served to the Air Force pukes for dinner.”

“
Perfection cannot be rushed. I will shed my old exoskeleton in about ten days.”

“
Fine. We’ll wait, but you have some serious explaining to do, Mister Martian.”

“
Whatever. Just make sure you keep those Air Force pukes away from me, or else!”

* * * * *

When the soldiers left the stockade, one gangly Air Force guard remained. He kicked back in his swivel chair, reading pulp science fiction magazines, and nodding off.

“
Have you read War of the Worlds?” I asked conversationally through the bars. “H. G. Wells was a pioneer of his time.”

“
No talking!” admonished the guard. “I have my orders. You are dangerous spies.”

“
Tell me your name,” I asked innocently. “I don’t think privates are privy to any state secrets.”

“
Hank,” he replied cautiously, annoyed at having to put down his magazine again. He eyed us, perhaps assuming we didn’t look all that dangerous, but looks could be deceiving.

“
Your last name?”

“
Knight. What’s it to you?”

“
Oh shit,” I whispered to Lopez. “Do you think he’s any relation to world famous science fiction writer Walter Knight? What are the odds?”

“
What did you say?” challenged Knight.

“
Do you know Walter Knight?” I asked.

“
My toddler son is named Walter, not that it’s any of your business. Hey! You threatening my family?”

“
I come in peace,” I explained. “You know we’re from the future, right? We brought an alien they have locked up in the infirmary.”

“
I heard rumors,” conceded Knight. “You’re probably Communist spies.”

“
Let my people go. We’ll take you and your family on a star trek across the galaxy, to explore brave new worlds, to boldly go where no American has gone before.”

“
You mean to Mars?” scoffed Knight, dropping his magazine. “Defect to the Red Planet. No way. I’m no traitor.”

“
Your son joined us in the future. It’s your destiny and his birthright to come with us now.”

“
I’m no fool. I will not help you escape. You can blow destiny out Uranus.”

“
Does your son have a big beak of a nose and big bugged-out green eyes?”

“
Is he a royal pain in the ass?” added Major Lopez. “Always poking that nose where it don’t belong?”

“
Shut up, all of you,” shouted Knight, pointing his rifle. “Liars! You know nothing!”

* * * * *

“I swear to God, as an officer and a gentleman and an American patriot, I am not a spy. I am Lieutenant Oliver North, United States Marine Corps, semper fi! I graduated from the United States Navel Academy at Annapolis, Class of 1968.”

“’
68?” asked General Smith, examining North’s class ring. “Bullshit. The year is 1947.”

“
I know the date. Czerinski has a time machine. He brought me here.”

“
Normally I’d just have you shot or locked up in the loony bin,” advised General Smith. “But, we did catch a bona fide Martian with you. Explain that. Are the Martians conspiring with the commies to conquer the world? Did the Russians put you up to this?”

“
We are not part of a Communist plot,” explained Lieutenant North. “At least, I don’t think so. I do know North Korea attacks across the 38th parallel with tanks and Chinese support.”

“
And Martian weapons? Those bastards. Where else will they attack?”

“
Vietnam.”

“
Where?”

“
Indochina.”

“
So we have to save the damn French again,” lamented General Smith. “I swear, those Frenchies will throw down their weapons at the sound of a loud fart. What sort of deal does Czerinski have with the Martians?”

“
I haven’t quite worked that out yet,” answered Lieutenant North. “I’ve only overheard bits and pieces. They’re all crooks and thieves, intent on stripping the Earth of any valuables not nailed down. I think Czerinski is part of a future Mafia cartel.”

“
There’s no such thing as the Mafia.”

“
Corporal Tonelli is Mafia for sure. He claims the Mets are going to win the 1969 World Series.”

“
So the East Coast fix is in for the Series? That’s some serious shit.”

“
Yes, sir.”

“
I’ll have to contact my bookie,” General Smith mumbled. “Bet the farm.”

“
But sir, that would be unethical,” protested Lieutenant North.

“
No, son, that would be a sure thing. Never turn down a sure thing. You’d know that if you had a few more years on you, like I do.”

“
May I have my class ring back?” asked Lieutenant North, sullen.

“
Sure,” answered General Smith, tossing the jeweled gold ring back. “Is there anything else I should know? I don’t like surprises, and this week has been full of them.”

Lieutenant North hesitated.
“Did you notice how young they all appear to be? Even Czerinski, who claims to be a colonel, is just a kid.”

“
So?”

“
They don’t act like kids,” reasoned Lieutenant North. “They’re all scarred from a thousand battles. Maybe they’re all not quite human. Or, maybe they’ve found the Fountain of Youth.”

“
Not likely, but it’s interesting to speculate on what secrets they hide. We have lots of time to find out their secrets.”

* * * * *

General Smith retired late to his quarters, feeling his years. An old soldier nearing retirement, he doubted he had the energy to chase time travelers across the galaxy. That was a young man’s work. He rummaged through the pile of captured Martian equipment, settling on a Microsoft communications pad. Examining it closely for a battery power source, he pressed a button concealed on the back. The device activated, revealing on its screen a whole new world. It was the world of future, America’s destiny.

Boring.
There was plenty of time for history lessons. Instead, General Smith viewed database porn for two hours. When he got to the
Spiders Gone Wild Channel
, it was just too much. That Czerinski was a real pervert. Still intrigued, Smith finally read about the many wars to come. It was gratifying that America would kick ass on the world, and the galaxy. Best of all, those Commie bastards would be left on the ash heap of history.

After hours, Smith finally accessed his own fate.
‘Killed in July of 1947 in an auto accident in Roswell, New Mexico.’ Alarmed, Smith checked his family. They were fine. He methodically following the family tree two hundred fifty years into the future, where it abruptly stopped with Lieutenant Valerie Smith, United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion. He anxiously clicked on the name Valerie, hoping to read more bio, but was startled by a fresh-faced young lady scowling at him from across space and time.

“
You’re not Colonel Czerinski,” she accused. “What happened to the mission? We lost contact.”

“
Czerinski and his troop were captured,” answered General Smith.

“
When?”

“
1947.”

“
Sir, who are you?”

“
General Elisha Smith.”

“
1947?” asked Lieutenant Smith. “Oh, my God! You’re Elisha, from Roswell. We need to talk.”

* * * * *

General Smith pulled up to the stockade, driving a covered army duce-and-a-half truck. He brushed by Airman Knight, who dropped his Sci/Fi magazines to stand at attention. Smith glared through the bars at Tonelli sitting in the corner.

“
I was made an offer I can’t refuse.”

“
We’re getting out?” I asked, brightening. “Where to?”

“
Mars.”