Willful Child (33 page)

“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 wasn’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!”

The two vanished. Hadrian turned and eyed the chicken. “Please tell me you’ll be joining them. Extricating yourself from my ship. Right?”

The chicken shrugged, which was no easy thing. “I am undecided, Captain. I begin to suspect that you will be needing me.”

“Needing you? How? Why?”

“It’s hard to say, but you’ve made yourself an enemy of the Ministry of Temporal Corrections, and that spells trouble ahead. In any case, Captain, don’t we make a good team?”

Sin-Dour had walked over to the central computer station and now she gasped. “Captain! This unit identifies itself as a Disseminator Model 24.356! Sir, it a genuine artifact of the mysterious kidnappers who seeded the galaxy with humans!”

“Really?” Hadrian joined her. “Computer on!”

“WHAT? I’M ALWAYS ON.”

“Listen, you, why did you kidnap humans and plant them on planets all over the galaxy?”

“HUMANS? QUERY SHUNT … OH, SPECIES 079. CLASS: SQUIRMY. SUBCLASS: SWEATY. BREEDING PROLIFERATION INDEX: 96. PERSISTENT VIABILITY PROJECTION: DEPRESSINGLY HIGH. IDENTIFIED. WHAT ABOUT THEM?”

“The kidnappings!”

“AH, DISSEMINATION PROJECT 079-5026792. PURPOSE … NO PURPOSE.”

“What? What do you mean, ‘no purpose’? You must have had some reason!”

“UH … IT WAS FUN?”

“Where do you come from? Who are you?”

“DEPARTMENT OF TEMPORAL CORRECTION OF TEMPORAL CORRECTIONS, SUBDIVISION: MESS-WITH-THEIR-HEADS OFFICE. CONTACT: TEMPORAL OFFICES ARE FOUND IN ALL AGES, PERIODS, AND ERAS, ON THE PLANET OF YOUR CHOICE. SEE YOUR LOCAL AGENT OR USE OUR TEMPORALLY ONLINE SERVICE, @TCTC.INORG. NOTE: TEMPORALLY ONLINE SERVICE IS TEMPORARILY OUT OF SERVICE, DUE TO REGULAR MAINTENANCE SCHEDULING. Please stand by or try again later!”

Hadrian grunted. “I figured humans or posthumans were behind it, somewhere. Typical. All right, Tammy, displace us, will you?”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Hadrian arrived on the bridge, to be met with gasps and shocked expressions.

Joss Sticks said, “Captain! Like … you’re … like, I was, oh! Beautiful! Like, hunh! Really? Wow, you know? Just wow—”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Hadrian said. “As you were.” She sat, only to discover that she was a much tighter fit in the chair, but not uncomfortably so. In fact, the added cushioning was all rather pleasant. “Polaski, patch us through to Harry Mitts. On main viewer, please.”

Gramps appeared. “Haddie! Well done! Oh, and thanks for getting those Temporal guys off our tails, for a while at least! Anyway, it’s back to one big happy family now, isn’t it? Thanks to you!”

Hadrian scowled. “I take it we’re done here?”

“I suppose we are, since Tammy’s informed me he’s sticking with you, for the time being. Well, Haddie, have fun taking down the meatheads, and don’t say I didn’t warn you!” The feed cut out, replaced by an external shot as the
Indolent
triggered maneuvering thrusters and banked away.

Hadrian crossed his rather shapely legs, and then frowned down at his stocking-clad foot. “I need some new high-heel shoes. Well, that can wait—”

“Captain.” Sin-Dour moved up beside him. “I believe our chief surgeon is expecting you in sickbay.”

“Oh? And why would that be?”

“Well, sir, to change you back.”

Hadrian smiled up at her. “And is that how you would prefer it, 2IC? Your captain, returned to his proper masculine state?”

“Well, uh, sir—are you suggesting that you prefer to remain a woman?”

“I suppose not. You’re right. Back to the Hadrian of old, the one you all love so much. But ideally, not until I get a full-spectrum sequence of photographs taken of me, naked. But then, that might seem rather … narcissistic.”

“Not to mention alarming, sir, considering that you have a sister.”

Hadrian choked, and then coughed. “Good point, 2IC. Thanks for the reminder. Uck. Well, let’s give it a little while longer—I’m enjoying admiring my legs.”

“Course, sir?” Sticks asked.

“Ah, right. That reminds me. I need to make a shipwide statement. Pol—oh, you Eden. Put me on.”

“On what, sir?”

“On the intercom. Shipwide—you know, so everyone can hear me. Got it? Good. Now.” Hadrian stood, noting on the main viewer the shot shifting from space to a slow zoom closing in on his face as he continued, “This is the captain. We are about to return to Affiliation space. While we do, I invite you all to watch Tammy’s feed—not to mention Commander Sin-Dour’s recording via her Pentracorder—of a certain conversation I had with, well, with the future. Down on the planet we were just on.” She shifted to allow for a three-quarters shot. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have seen that future and, alas, it’s both dull and dumb. Even more disconcerting, I can also see how we get there.