America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 20: Time Machine (12 page)

Jesus Blessed Weddings, Inc.
, gives Elvis stiff competition in Vegas to this day.

* * * * *

“I want to buy a ticket for the championship game,” announced Sergeant Williams to a clerk at the Cotton Bowl.

“I
’m sorry, sir, but tickets were sold out long ago. Maybe you can buy a ticket from a scalper.”

“How about box seats?”

“Luxury box seats? Sorry, sir, but we don’t rent them, either.”

“I don
’t want to rent, I want to buy,” advised Williams, pulling gold bars out of his backpack. “Make it happen.”

“Yes, sir.
Right away, sir. Let me make some phone calls.”

“After I
’m settled in, I’ll be expecting company. Let them in.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * * * *

Major Lopez, Sergeant Green, and I joined Williams in his luxury suite for the game.
Champagne sat chilling in a bucket. Williams handed me a hotdog and garlic fries. “Enjoy the game, sir. It will be a classic beat-down.”

“You don
’t seem surprised to see us,” I commented.

“I knew you
’d have money on the game and would want to watch.”

“You
’re AWOL,” advised Major Lopez. “You’re coming with us.”

“None of you are big enough to take me,” warned Williams.
“Have a seat. Enjoy the real world. I’m not going back. I’m no longer in for the duration.”

I sat.
The hotdogs were great. Williams let out a rebel yell as USC kicked off to Middle Tennessee. Adam Traidman ran the ball back one hundred and seven yards for a touchdown, a Cotton Bowl record.

“You don
’t think we can take you back?” I asked conversationally. “We’ve got you outnumbered.”

“I
’m not as dumb as I look.” Williams laughed. “Threats won’t work. I’m a multimillionaire, living the life of luxury on Old Earth. Even the President can’t get a box suite like this. After the game, I will be even richer. You don’t think I can afford to hire muscle? Think again. Enjoy the game, sir. Then leave me be, or I’ll open a can of whoop-ass on all of you.”

“This isn
’t over,” bristled Major Lopez, reaching for his sidearm.

“Yes it is,” I intervened.
“I’m tired. I have one more mission left in me, then I’m through, too. You have a good life, Williams.” We shook hands, kicking back to enjoy the game.

“No hard feelings?” asked Williams skeptically.
“The world is like a tree, and I’m just a squirrel looking for a nut. I learned that from you, sir.”

“What
’s that?” asked Sergeant Green. “A Polish proverb?”

“Maybe,” I answered.
“Did I really say that? I must have been drunk.”

“You were playing blackjack,” answered Williams.
“Going all in.”

“We
’ve come a long ways,” said Sergeant Green, also shaking Williams’ hand. “You can’t be serious about staying. Do you really think you’ll be happy living in the past?”

“As long as I
’m in Tennessee and rich, I’ll be happy. I’m home.”

“Good luck, my friend.”

Chapter 17

Finishing my meal at a Chinese restaurant just across the Arthropodan border, I opened a fortune cookie. ‘He who always looks back, cannot look forward.’
What kind of shit is that?
I cracked open another cookie, hoping for a message upgrade. ‘Do not hold grudges. Move on.’

“Who writes these fortunes?” I complained to the spider waiter.
“I want another.”

“No more fortune cookies for you!”

I snatched another fortune cookie from the waiter anyway, immediately opening it and reading. ‘Human pestilence go home. That means you, Czerinski!’

“Thanks, I
’ll keep this one.”

* * * * *

I traveled back in time to Mars, to resolve personal issues from before my Legion enlistment. Wearing an air-breather for the thin Martian atmosphere, I waited patiently outside the backdoor of the Sheriff’s Office. I did not have to wait long.

Bounty hunter Bubba Jones and two henchmen were summarily tossed out an airlock by the police.
Bubba crawled desperately in the dirt towards me, grasping at my boots. I kicked him away.

“Air!
Please, I need air!”

I disconnected my air tube, giving Bubba a whiff, just enough to keep him from passing out.
His eyes went wide with recognition.

“Long time no see, Bubba,” I gloated.
“You have a falling out with the cops?”

“Czerinski!
I just shot you in the head. How are you still alive?”

Reflexively I touched the old scar on my forehead.
“No matter. I want my smiling face to be the last image etched into your retina before the Grim Reaper takes you straight to Hell.”

“Shooting you wasn
’t personal,” pleaded Bubba. “It was just business. You know that!”

“Where are my gold chains?” I asked, checking Bubba
’s pockets, finding nothing.

“The police got
’em.”

“When you get to Hell, you still owe me for my bling.
Understand?”

“Come on
, Czerinski. For the love of God, have mercy on this poor sinner. Don’t let me die like this. Please, air!”

“I wouldn
’t give you the last fart out my ass,” I replied, reconnecting my air tube. I kicked Bubba in the teeth, then shot him in the head. “When you meet the Grim Reaper, tell him I said hello.”

* * * * *

Waiting inside my office was Lieutenant Sam Hughes from Legion Headquarters in New Phoenix. Wary of why he might be here, I hesitated before entering.

“He
’s a headhunter from the Inspector General’s Office,” offered Master Sergeant Green. “What did you do this time?”

“Nothing,” I lied, wondering if I was busted, and for what.
I put on my game face, all smiles. “What can I do for the IG’s office?”

“General Daly asked me to talk to you about a routine computer audit of your helmet camera recordings,” answered Lieutenant Hughes, not bothering to salute.
“The general is concerned about the many deletions and missing video, but I am here to council you about your conduct and management demeanor as it relates to subordinates.”

“There are gaps in video files because of national security matters,” I explained reasonably.
“I work closely with the CIA on many classified and top-secret black-ops special stuff missions you don’t need to know about, or I’d have to kill you.”

“The deletions are not my main concern,” explained Lieutenant Hughes.
“Video indicates you verbally abuse subordinates. You need to work on your interpersonal communication skills.”

“What the fuck?”

“Exactly my point, Colonel Czerinski. In today’s new Legion, officers are expected to not demean subordinates by using the F-word.”

“This is a bunch of crap.”

“Officers should not use the C-word, not either of them.”

“There
’s two C-words? What’s the other C-word?”

“You know, the female C-word.”

“Crazy-white-bitch?”

“I
’m serious,” admonished Lieutenant Hughes, losing patience. “In light of increasing numbers of female legionnaires, verbal sexist abuse will not be tolerated. The B-word is off limits, too. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I think I do.
No more swearing at the troops. Ain’t that a real mother f–”

“Stop!” warned Lieutenant Hughes, waving his hands.
“Unless you learn to curtail your foul language, I will be forced to recommend sensitivity training and/or shock-aversion therapy.”

“Jesus H. Christ!” I exclaimed.
“Shock what?”

“Faith
-based rants are not allowed, either.”

“Damn it.
This is the DMZ. You can see the spiders from my window. Technically we’re still in a combat zone, in a semi-state of war, so don’t tell me how to talk to my legionnaires. Isn’t there some sort of fucking exception for out here on the frontier?”

“No, sir.
Professionalism among officers has no boundaries. I suggest you change with the times, or else. Words matter.”

“Well hush my lips and slap my grandmother,” I replied mockingly.
“If you don’t get the fuck out of my office, you’re going to experience the K-word.”

“Sir?”

“The K-word, as in I’m going to kick your ass through the goal posts of life.”

“Physical threats are highly inappropriate.”

“Have you ever been hung upside-down from a ceiling hook? It happens all the time out here on the frontier.”

“Not since college.”

“Another use for duct tape during your freshman year?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get out!”

* * * * *

“I called Master Sergeant Green on the intercom. “What four-letter word starts with ‘C’ and is inappropriately used to describe female legionnaires?”

“Are you doing a crossword puzzle, or what?”

“Or what.”

“Crazy,” speculated Sergeant Green.
“As in crazy-white-bitch.”

“I thought so, too, but
‘crazy’ has five letters. It won’t fit.”

“I swear they
’ll promote any Polack off the street to officer,” grumbled Sergeant Green, the intercom sounding scratchy.

“I heard that!
We don’t use the P-word in the new and improved Legion. Understand me?”

“Whatever.”

“You better work on your tone. How would you like to join me for shock-aversion therapy?”

Sergeant Green disconnected.

Chapter 18

The Legion put a drone over the historic Battle of Gettysburg to record the event for historians and academics to study. The build-up to the TV premiere of Gettysburg was non-stop, sending TV ratings through the roof. The public was riveted to their sets. Gettysburg had my undivided attention, too, but for a more personal agenda.

Disguised as a Confederate courier, I made my way through the rebel camp until I located Private Benjamin R. Czerinski of the
Fourth Texas Infantry Regiment. Big Ben sat with his fellow scouts around a low fire. Soldiers instantly recognized us as kin because of our strikingly similar facial features.

“I bring a message from your wife Gabriela in Karnes County,”
I announced, seating myself on a rock by the fire. “She is very concerned for you.”

“You brought a letter, cousin?” asked Ben.
“Please, let me have Gabriela’s sweet correspondence.”

I handed Ben my communications pad.
Gabriela’s beautiful image instantly appeared on the screen. “Ben! Is that you my love? Oh Ben, please come home from that terrible killing field called Gettysburg. Come home now, or I fear you will never return.”

“Gabriela, how is this magic possible?”

“Accept and trust Joey Czerinski as kin, and believe his miracle device as God-sent,” advised Gabriela. “I cannot keep the farm going without you. I cannot bear to live without you. Please, I beg, do not charge up that terrible ridge tomorrow morning. Come back to me, and live. Joey will arrange safe passage.”

“We face the Yankees tomorrow, but how did you know?
How do you speak all the way from Texas?”

“The internet,” answered Gabriela.
“Stop being a big stubborn Polack and come home this minute!”

“I cannot desert my mates,” argued Ben.
“It would bring dishonor to let them down. I can’t do it.”

“But you will die!
Joey showed me the future. It will be a slaughter charging up that hill.”

“She
’s right,” I interrupted. “Your scouts carry muskets against repeating rifles and cannon grape shot. You won’t even get close to the top of Cemetery Ridge.”

“A prophetic place to meet my fate?” asked Ben.
“I have faith in General Lee. The old man will lead us to victory.”

“It
’s not going to happen.”

“Listen to Joey,” pleaded Gabriela.
“His motion camera showed me the Battle of Gettysburg. You face certain death.”

“I love you so much,” cried Ben, touching the screen image.
“If my fate is to die in battle for the Confederate cause, so be it. I will do my duty.”