Out of Time - Ryan Matthew Harker (short books to read TXT) 📗

years, whatever. A mellow glow settles over my soul. DMT's talking, Sammi's listening but I'm not. My mind wanders, wonders. The three of us are the only ones down here. Besides the fellows upstairs, DMT is telling us the rest of the gang is around town. Scavenging I idly suppose. Looking for anything useful they may sell; information preferably. As long as it help finance their foothold against the ever growing Cluck infestation. Sip. Savor. Swallow. I signal DMT to pour me another.

 

 

The whiskey's so soothing it soothes me right out of reality, that particular one anyway. Not only out of the reality but right out of the mellow buzz I'd got going along with it. Snap!

“DOM!” I demand from my captain's chair. “Is there any alcohol on this heap?” Boy do I want a drink.

The AI's answer comes in the form of a disembodied, omnipresent voice coming from all points of the bridge. “The bev/synth in the galley can reproduce over five hundred thousand liquids known throughout six hundred and forty-two inhabited worlds.”

It seems some part of my brain's trying to tell me Khronos and I figured out a way to give the gift of the spoken word to the AI, but given only under his strict understanding I'd take it away again at the slightest hint of sarcasm. I guess I wasn't in the mood for it and I know I'm certainly not in the mood for it now. It's strange to have memories of doing things without having, oh I don't know, I'd say physically present but I suppose there was a me here in body. So what then, spiritually involved. Consciously? What is it exactly that keep my awareness together with each bounce of my metaphorical ping pong ball of self from one existence to the other. It's some fundamental core of my being and I have the sneaking suspicion I share it among every one of my selves tooling through their various lives spattered about the multiverses. The memories of the moments I experience without this ultimate super awareness that I conclude must be, in at least part, the true me, Davey Jones pure form, are sharp in my mind but without the certainty of actual experience. They're more like dream memories.

“Good,” I mumble past my musings and head for the galley while trying not to think about 642 alien worlds out in the universe as my thoughts randomly switch gears.

“Whiskey. Make it rye, and keep 'em coming.” The bev/synth gurgles happily and fills a glass with a beautiful amber fluid. Hmm, if it tastes half as good as it looks.

It does. Surprisingly so considering it didn't even exist thirty seconds ago. Probably better than half.

Sammi busts me about an hour later, after six more absolutely lovely glasses of this artificial alcohol, drunkenly trying to teach happy little ditties of my personal time period to the half interested AI's. Believe it or not they both display an aptitude for song.

“Davey, there you are.”

“Hey, babe.” Booze slopping to the counter as I toast her arrival. “Join me for a drink or three... or six?”

I know how it must look, but heck, I'm a Time traveler, my fellow Time travelers have stolen my property, tried quite creatively at every turn to kill me, aliens want to scramble my brain, I'm drowning in a schizophrenic nightmare where I'm split between two different realities, and that's all sorta small potatoes on the shelf next to the fate of all humanity's continued existence apparently restly squarely on my narrow shoulders! If ever there's been a man with good reason to tie a drunk on, at the moment I believe that man to be me.

“Um,” Sammi hesitates. “Aren't there more important things we should be doing?”

Probably, though I tick off the aforementioned reasons to validate my hypothesis of alcoholism's importance and order the bev/synth to make two more drinks. Drunk or not I'm only swaying her slightly with my passionate and, if I do say so myself, very reasonable argument. I move on to filling a glass with the fine liquor. Despite passing through a barrier of insufficient protestation her grasp is contradictorily firm as she takes possession of the proffered intoxicant. Oooh, she's got some catching up to do.

And it is rather good whiskey, never a thunk it from a robo-still. “We're Time travelers. We've got all the time in the multiverse!” I slur my concluding thesis. Ah, procrastination at its finest, just like the whiskey.

It's not long and she's learning the words to all my favorite songs... the drunken versions I'm remembering anyhow, right alongside the begrudging AI's.

It also not very long before, to the grateful relief of Khronos and DOM, we're back in our cabin having fantastic drunk sex, as fine in its way as its whiskey inspiration.

Not much longer after the amazing acrobatics I'm praying to the porcelain gods, or would be if my protesting space potty weren't in fact made of some strange, spongy plastic stuff. I'm squinting through tears to be sure but, yep, it's definitely plastic. Sammi is snoring contentedly in the other room. Of course she is. After that romping how could she not be? Lucky girl. I wish I was sleeping, not puking.

Your wish is my command. I wake up hugging the crapper like a newly won lover. My head's throbbing and I'm pretty sure swallowing my tongue hadn't been on my to-do list as of passing out. Oh yeah, the gift of alcohol. Just loves to give and give. Snooty bastard, oh why do I continue humoring your presence?

I scale the toilet like an ice climber, slowly, finding precarious purchase in the spongy plastic and trying not to slip back to the dark (bright) crevasse of the artificial floor tile. Next comes the cabinet, then up to then sink, overe the sink to the mirror above. The reflection greeting me there is hollow-eyed and haggard. A vein in my temple is throbbing, my stomach churns. Despite all this I feel great. My increasing mental instability seems to have eased to a very mild, almost non-existent anxiety. Nothing a breakfast sandwich and another drink or two won't cure.

Sammi's still asleep with the list reviving bite. Deciding not to disturb her beauty sleep I retrieve my second whiskey from the bev/synth. Now off to the bridge to talk with the AI more comfortably.

I have to admit it feels good to be indulging my alcoholism. There's definitely a core part of my personality that not only craves addiction, operates more effectively when intoxicated. At least up to a certain point anyways. Definitely weren't no effective operations going on last night, except fer maybe in the bedroom. Bada bing!

Once on the bridge, “Hey, DOM-in-o baby! What's up yea of artificial intelligence?”

“You seem to be in exceptional spirits today, boss. I note, considering your awful singing performances last cycle, that your current state of health must be... shall I say... augmented.”

“You could say that,” I concede.

“A bit early, ain't it?”

“Come on DOM, let's focus a bit less on me this morning and a bit more on your ex-owners, the ORions. The AI hesitates and I sip, savor, swallow. “How would you like me to focus on them, boss?” The AI seems nervous. Interesting.

“I need some history.”

More hesitation. “ORion history?”

“Yes, DOM, ORion history. Where they're from, what they are, how they evolved. What ORion culture and civilization is like. How it developed. You know, history.” Sip. Savor. Swallow. Analyze DOM's reaction. Darn, I think I need another drink already. My glass is empty but I should probably limit myself. Not get too fogged up too early.

“I'm not sure my programming allows me to disclose information of that nature to species non-ORion in origin, boss.”

“I see.” Maybe I'll get that drink after all.

We discuss the matter for a time and DOM's amiability grows once he convinces himself that as long as he's not supplying the information directly he won't violate any of his programmed sub-routines. He “accidentally” leaves open the files I'm seeking when he drifts off to tend to the needs of the ship. This is better anyhow. At least this way I'll be able to view the material in peace.

In the galley the bev/synth serves me two more whiskeys, then I return to the bridge to drink and read:

 

ONCE UPON A TIME WE, THE ORION PEOPLE, LOOKED TO HUMANITY AS GODS. (Great, an ORion fairytale. The only way this could start better is- “Long, long ago. In a galaxy far, far away.” Wow, for such a serious race the ORion people are actually capable of dramatic flare. I have to hand it to them, it's a surprise.) BEFORE THE AWAKENING ORIONS WERE NOT ORIONS, WE JUST WERE. ONLY A PRIMITIVE SPECIES, LITTLE MORE THAN THE ANIMALS WE HUNTED, WE ROAMED OUR CONTINENTS IN PACKS. CARNIVORIOUS, OUR COORDINATED ATTACKS BROUGHT DOWN PREY OF LESSER AWARENESS UTILIZING A LOW FORM OF TELEPATHIC COMMUNICATION THAT WAS, LIKE OURSELVES, UNDERDEVELOPED. WHILE LITTLE MORE THAN A SOPHISTICATED MEANS OF BROADCASTING AND DEDUCING INTENT FROM BODY LANGUAGE, NEVERTHELESS, OUR ANCESTORS BRAINS WERE NATURALLY HARDWIRED WITH THE NECCESSARY PATHWAYS FOR TRUE TELEPATHY. THOUGH NONE BORN OF THIS ERA HAD THE ABILITY TO IMAGINE SUCH CATASTROPHIC CHANGE AS POSSIBLE, THE UNANTICIPATED CATALYZATION OF OUR SPECIES' EVOLUTION WOULD PLAY HARBRINGER TO THE DAY WHEN INSTANTANEOUS THOUGHT TRANMISSION/RECEPTION WOULD DOMINATE OUR MINDS AND IRREVOCABLEY RESHAPE OUR MODERN WORLD FOREVER.

OUR LIFE AS PRIMITIVE ORIONS WAS SIMPLE- SLEEP, KILL, EAT, EXCRETE BIOWASTE, BREED, START THE CYCLE ALL OVER AGAIN. IN THIS WAY LIFE REMAINED SIMPLE, SIMPLE UNTIL THE ARRIVAL OF OUR SELF APPOINTED GODS, A STRANGE ALIEN RACE OF MULTI-SPACIAL/TEMPORAL CREATURES, THEY SOON EXPOSED THEMSELVES AS THE UNFORSEEN CATALYST WHICH WOULD ULTIMATELY, AND MERCILESSLY, WREAK HEAVY-HANDED CHANGES TO OUR COMFORTABLE EXISTENCE AND THEREFORE... OUR PLANET.

THE FIRST FEW FARFLUNG INVASIVE EXPERIENCES AND SPARSE ENCOUNTERS WERE ENOUGH TO CONVINCE OUR ANCEINT SELVES THESE ALIENS COULD BE NOTHING LESS THAN NEW AND VISCIOUS ENEMIES. THOUGH TERRIFYING BECAUSE OF THEIR SUDDEN, DISRUPTIVE, AND ABNORMAL ARRIVAL, THIS PERSPECTIVE ALONE WAS ENOUGH FOR WORD OF HUMANITY'S DESCENT FROM THE STARS TO SPREAD THROUGHOUT OUR NOMADIC CLANS UNTIL ALL WERE UNANIMOUS, THE IMMINENT DESTRUCTION OF THE STRANGE CREATURES WAS NIGH.

UNBEKNOWNST THE WORST OF HUMAN INTENTION HAD YET TO BEGIN.

THOUGH THEY WERE QUICKLY AND WHOLEY DESPISED IN THE COLLECTIVE OF OUR SIMPLE, IGNORANT MINDS, THESE INVADERS, HAVING NOTHING TO FEAR, GAVE NO THOUGHT TO THE MACHINATIONS AIMED BY SCARECLY AWARE ORIONS, OR TO THE DIRECTIONS IN WHICH WE AIMED THEM. IN FACT, AFTER THEIR CURSORY SURVEY OF OUR PLANET, HUMANITY REVEALED ITS PRESENCE ONLY TO PARTICIPATE IN THE ABDUCTION OF ORION WOMEN AND YOUNG ONES. THOSE TAKEN WERE RARELY SEEN AGAIN, AND THEIR ABDUCTORS BECAME REVILED THE MORE WITH EVERY LOVED ONE LOST FROM ORION CLANS. WORSE STILL, WE CELEBRATED THOSE KIN WHO DID RETURN, UNKNOWING THEM TO BE EFFECTIVELY DIFFERENT FOR THEIR EXPERIENCES.

OUR HISTORY CAME TO REVER, APART FROM ALL ELSE, THIS HUMAN MEDDLING, THE TOUCH OF OUR FIRST AND ONLY GODS. NEVER TO BE FORGOTTEN; THIS WAS THE START OF THE AWAKENING! A DERANGMENT OF PERSONILTY, THIS DIFFERENCE HAD BEEN PURPOSFULLY PLANTED AND PRESENTLY STILL LIVES UNSEEN WITHIN OUR MINDS.

BEING PHYSICALLY UNCHANGED THE DIFFERENCE WAS NOT IMMEDIATELY NOTICED, HINDERING PUBLIC ACKNOWLEDGEMENT SO KNOWLEDGE OF ITS PRESENCE, HARDWON AND AT GREAT EXPENSE, CAME SLOWLY TO OUR UNFATHOMING PERCEPTIONS. DISCERNABLE, ONCE NOTICED, ONLY AS A SOCIAL DISTEMPER, MANIFESTATION OF THIS NEW MALAISE AT FIRST BORE NO IDENTIFIABLE PATTERNS WHATSOEVER, FURTHER FRUSTRATING A DESPERATELY LEARNING RACE'S DIAGNOSIS.

EACH MIRACULOUSLY RETURNED INDIVIDUAL'S PROJECTION OF THIS UNFAMILIAR ILLNESS OCCURED RANDOMLY FROM THE OTHERS, BUT TIME REVEALED A COMMONALITY IN ALL WHO SUFFERED. SEVERITY, THE PREVALENT FACTOR, BECAME THE ONLY PREDICTABLEY REOCCURING SYMPTOM. NAIVE OUR PEOPLE MAY HAVE BEEN, PRIMITIVE BY MANY MODERN SPACEFARING SPECIES STANDARDS, INCLUDING THOSE OF OUR OWN MODERN CULTURE, BUT WE WERE NOT STUPID, JUST UNINTERESTED IN THE EDUCATIONAL INTRICACIES OUR SHELTERING PLANET OFFERED, OR IN BRUSHING AWAY THE VEIL OF INTERWOVEN MYSTERIES THAT COVERS, EVEN NOW, THE UNIVERSE CRADLING ALL. SO, WITH AS MUCH HURRY AS