Willful Child: Wrath of Betty by Steven Erikson
“Yes sir. I’m sorry push the what?”
“Throttle up. Floor it. Gun it. Uhm, make us go as fast as possible.” Hadrian activated the comms switch on the arm of his chair. “Buck? Throw some more coal into the raging inferno of the ship’s engines—we’re going to run hot.”
“Sir?”
“Get ready for red-lining the ole tachometer, Buck. Hit the boosters, prime the nozzle, you know.”
“Sir?”
“We’re about to go as fast as we can, Buck.”
“Oh. Right, sir. We’re ready for that … I think.”
“When it comes to equivocation, I do prefer the indecisive kind. Thank you, Buck.” Hadrian ended the connection. “Let’s get a good view of the Sun as we race madly straight toward it, shall we?”
The screen flared into a sea of fire.
“Holy crap!”
“Uh,” said Sticks, “sorry sir. That was, like, me, fiddling with the magnification dial.” She spun it back and the scene zoomed back out. “There, sir. Whew!”
The sun rapidly grew on the screen.
“All right, Tammy,” Hadrian said, “I’m assuming we’re going to use the sun’s gravity to slingshot us up to insane speeds before triggering a temporal wave-front and then breaching it, thus winging us into the past.”
The sun got larger. Hull temperature alarms began buzzing.
“Of course,” Hadrian added, “we would have to actually angle to miss the sun, rather than, uh, flying straight into it.”
The buzzing got louder and now red warning lights were flashing.
“Because,” Hadrian continued, “flying into the sun would result in our annihilation—”
The buzzing switched to fierce clanging and every available surface lit blistering red as the ship shook, rattled and shuddered.
Jocelyn Sticks turned back to Hadrian. “We’re zoomed out all the way, sir!”
The screen was a sea of fire.
“Oh all right,” said Tammy. “I was just making all that stuff up.”
Hadrian sat forward. “Helm, veer us off!”
“Yes sir!” Sticks replied, tilting the steering toggle. The sun edged off to the left. The ship continued shaking for another few moments before finally pulling free of the sun’s remorseless pull.
“Shut down thrusters and afterburners, Helm. We’ll just, uhm, coast for a moment or two.” Hadrian settled back in the chair.
“I mean,” Tammy continued, “to take us back into the past I need only activate my Temporal Bubble. It is advisable that we do this from a standstill, since who knows what orbital body might be in the way when we reappear. It’s not that I’m averse to excitement, but best play it safe.”
“Right,” said Hadrian.
“But I liked all that about a temporal wave-front, Captain. Absurd, but ingenious nonetheless. Slingshot around the sun? Hilarious. Anyway, I bet you’re all thinking that I would have just let you all fly into the sun, turning this ship and everyone in it into crispy-critters.”
“We probably are at that,” Hadrian said. “Well, Tammy?”
“I’m thinking! Okay okay, of course not.”
“Helm,” Hadrian said. “Full stop, please.”
“Reverse thrusters on, sir.” A moment later Sticks twisted round in her seat. “All stop, sir.”
“Nominal damage to the hull, sir,” said Sin-Dour from the Science Station.
“Nominal?”
“Well, none, sir.”
“Well, that’s nominal indeed, “Hadrian replied. “Very good. Tammy? We’re ready to plummet into the primeval past, into an age when the Earth was a vibrant, exciting and infinitely dangerous barbaric world, chock-full of resources we humans were maniacally using up. Ravaged by petty wars and petty attitudes, with the human community a raging firestorm of prejudices, ignorance, malice, hate campaigns, cultural bullying and systemic corrupt officiating in professional sports. What year did you have in mind for all this?”
“2015.”
Hadrian shuddered.
“You seem to hint at some knowledge of that period, Captain,” Tammy observed.
“My father owned a wrist computer packed with media from the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries,” Hadrian explained, “which I had the honor to inherit on my twelfth birthday.” He rose from the command chair and adjusted his shirt. “Accordingly, Tammy, I am perhaps uniquely qualified for this particular adventure.”
“Oh really.”
“Engage that Temporal Bubble, Tammy.”
“One moment.… done.”
“Done?”
“Done. We are now in the Terran year Anno Domini 2015.”
“Anno what?” Sticks asked.
“Two thousand fifteen years after the Birth of Christmas,” Hadrian replied. “That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, two thousand fifteen years since the very first Mega-Sale of All Items in Stock, when Mary Christmas was purportedly blessed by the God of Commerce, leading her to create her brainchild that was the Annual Sale. From that moment on, religion was in money’s pocket, and the rest is, as they say, history. Now then, Helm, set a course for Earth at, oh, let’s say .35. ETA?”
“Twelve minutes, sir.”
“On the viewscreen, then,” said Hadrian. “Let us get a good look at this only marginally adulterated Earth.”
A short time later, Sticks gasped to break the silence. “Like, wow, really? It’s, it’s blue. And those—are those white clouds?”
At the Science Station, Sin-Dour said, “Passive scan indicates a plethora of objects in orbit around the planet, sir. Some are functional, but the rest appear to be detritus. Oh, and three primitively stealthed alien objects, two of which are probably monitoring drones, while the third is a small vessel … checking configuration now…”
“A small vessel? Oh dear,” murmured Hadrian.
“Identified!” Sin-Dour said in some surprise. “Affiliation-designated as Anusian.” After a moment, her eyes widened. “Sir, is that—”
“I’m afraid it is,” Hadrian replied.
“Combat Cupola Substation activating all weapons,” Beta announced. “We are priming and about to fire on that vessel, sir, despite the fact that nine out of ten respondents claim to have never masturbated while viewing pictures of the British Royal Family.”
Hadrian activated his comms. “Stand down, Galk, and that’s an order!”
“I know who that is, Captain! And he’s dying in a blaze of fire!”
“Negative, Galk!” Hadrian turned to Sin-Dour. “Override that substation. Lock out all weapons.”
“Done, sir.”
“Galk? I get it, honest. But listen, how about we concoct a more, uh, appropriate response to the Anusian presence?”
There was a long moment of silence, followed by something that sounded like a stream of spit hitting glass. “I can live with that, sir. Since I have to, that is.”
Hadrian turned to Comms. “Lieutenant Eden, inform Buck, Printlip, and Security Officer Nina Twice to report at once to the Insisteon Chamber.”
“Yes sir, got it. And I’ve just told the Security Officer to report twice.”
“No, that’s once. Nina Twice is the Security Officer.”
“She’s two security officers?”
“Eden, it’s still a consolation round.”
“Is it? Oh thank Darwin! Uhm…”
“Buck, Printlip and Nina to the Insisteon Chamber.”
“Got it.”
Hadrian leaned closer to the command chair’s comms. “Galk? You too.” He flicked off the chair comms and turned to Sin-Dour. “This time, 2IC, I think I want you with me down there. You, too, Beta. Spark, you have the con.”
“Spark has the con! Spark has the con! Master! Oh, Master! What’s the con?”
“I am leaving you in command of the Willful Child,” Hadrian answered. “Activate your Full Survival Instinct program. This ship is now your junkyard, Spark. Protect it and everything and everyone in it, understood?”
&nb
“Belay that kill command stuff, Spark. Just keep my ship and crew safe.”
Sin-Dour stepped closer. “Captain, is that such a good idea? Didn’t you give Spark the rank of ensign?”
“Are you suggesting that utterly green and inexperienced crew members shouldn’t end up inheriting the command of a brand-new state-of-the-art starship ahead of far more experienced personnel?”
“Well, yes sir.”
“Excellent point. I mean, on the face of it, it’s pretty ridiculous, isn’t it? Now then, Sin-Dour, Beta, let’s make our way down to the Insisteon Chamber, shall we?”
Two elevators and one very short corridor later, they were gathered in the Insisteon Chamber. A few moments after that, Buck and then Nina Twice arrived, followed by Galk and, lastly, Dr. Printlip.
Galk was glowering. “You’re just trying to distract me, sir, with this planetside mission.”
Hadrian smiled, “Of course I am, Galk. But don’t worry. Once we complete our mission, we’ll sort out what to do about that Anusian, and I see you’re still carrying the Mister Shrill Mark III Sonic Concatenator.”
Galk frowned and worked the wad in his mouth for a moment, then asked, “Did ancient humans talk like nails on chalkboards, sir?”
“This is the early twenty-first century, Galk. Anything’s possible. Never mind, we’ll just improvise.”
“About our mission,” Buck said, “what precisely is it?”
Tammy spoke. “I would like to remind you, Captain, that alien contact was not public knowledge in 2015, and of those alien civilizations lurking around the Earth at this time, the Belkri did not number among them.”
“Yes, and?” Hadrian asked.
“Only that the presence of Dr. Printlip might draw some attention.”
“As opposed to an animated store mannequin?”
“Well, that too.”
“I see.”
“Fortunately,” Tammy added brightly, “I have to some extent anticipated these difficulties.”
“You have? Outstanding. Oh, one more thing.” Hadrian activated his personal comms. “Lieutenant Sweepy?”
There was a faint hiss of static, and then Gunny Muffy spoke. “Sorry, sir, she’s indisposed.”
“Indisposed? What are we talking about here? Toilet break?”
“Diplomatic breakdown, broken treaties, vile treachery, vicious backstabbing over Helgoland Bight—we had no choice, sir, but to gas her and lock her in a closet.”
“Right, well, may I suggest you stop playing Diplomacy—”
“Not a chance, sir! I’m one turn away from complete strategic dominance of the Mediterranean!”
“Right, well. Thing is, I need a squad of marines on stand-by, Muffy.”
“You got it, sir. We’ll get in our kit … though writing orders wearing our combat gloves won’t easy. But we’re marines, we’ll get it done.”
“I’m sure you will, Muffy. Hadrian out.” He switched off his comms, then sighed. “Tammy, where is Sweepy right now?”
“In an air vent directly above Gunny Sergeant Muffy.”
“Oh crap. Hey, Doc, get some medics on station for immediate response to the Marine Barracks.”
“But sir, they have their own medic.”
“Who might or might not survive the lieutenant’s imminent ambush.”
“I see. Very well, Captain. One moment please.”
“Tammy, should we change our attire? Where are you dropping us?”
“No, you’ll be fine in your uniforms,” the AI replied. A moment later the door hissed open and in walked the chicken. “And I’m accompanying you via this inconspicuous and innocuous fowl. As for where we’re going, the coordinates are calibrated to set us down in a large city on the western seaboard of an ancient country called Seahawk Nation. We can displace at any time.”
“In close proximity to tiny phytoplankton and the miniscule squiggly little krill that feed on it?”
“One must assume so,” the chicken replied as it positioned itself on a displacement pad, ruffled its feathers and then stood at attention. “I am ready.”
“One small step for poultry, one giant leg for lunch,” Hadrian said.
“Was that a quote?” Tammy demanded. “If so, I don’t like it.”
“Well,” said Hadrian, “there’s probably plenty you won’t like about where we’re going, Tammy. The perils of this mission cannot be underestimated.” He turned to the others. “Onto the pads, everyone.”
“About the mission,” Buck said.
Galk drew out his Concatenator and cocked it. “Don’t worry, Chief Engineer, I got your back.”
“My back? How bad is it down there?” Buck’s hand twitched and then hovered over his Universal Multiphasic. “Captain?”
“There’s no telling, Buck. Just be on your guard. Everyone ready? Good.”
“The mission—”
“Displace!”
They appeared on a street corner surrounded by cursing people stumbling out of their way, herds of blaring vehicles on recessed tracks on all sides, towering buildings, and an atmosphere so toxic they all started coughing.
Wheezing, Printlip cried, “We require re-breathers! Sir, at risk of immediate respiratory failure! Displace us back—”
Hadrian waved one hand. “Just give us a moment to, uh, get used to it.”
Printlip’s eyes were wavering about wildly on their stalks. “Sir! These transport devices! The inhabitants! They are oil smokers!” The doc waved its many hands. “Carcinogens, volatiles, heavy metals, oh my! Carcinogens, volatiles, heavy metals, oh my! Carcin—”
“Calm down, Doc,” Hadrian ordered. “You’re drawing too much attention to yourself.” But it was already too late, as half a dozen figures in battle-tech armor were trooping toward them. One shouldered its bulky blaster-type weapon and lifted the visor on its helmet, revealing a pink sweaty face. “Wow, is that animatronic? What film? I’ve never seen that one before!” He pushed in and poked Printlip. “Is that, like, a beach ball? How’d you fit the arms and shit?”
“Damn,” muttered Hadrian, “we should’ve brought Sticks.”
“Too obvious,” Buck said, looking around in alarm. “No one else is carrying sticks.”
“No, Jocelyn Sticks, Buck.”
“She’s not here!” Buck’s eyes were a little wild, sweat beading his upper lip.
As the space-marine made a move to pick up Printlip, Beta stepped between them. “No handling of the merchandise,” the robot said. “Breakage constitutes purchase. In this case, sir, it will cost you and arm and a leg.”
The man backed off a step and laughed. “I bet it would!”
“I did mean one arm and one leg, sir. Surgically removed and sold as human scrap.”
“Haha! Hey, you’re made up to look like an effing store mannequin! That’s awesome! What film? Oh I know—Westworld, right?”
“Jocelyn Sticks has been kidnapped, sir!” Buck said. “Galk! Give me that Concatenator! We need to save her!”
Hadrian took hold of Buck by the shoulders and gave the man a shake. “Snap out of it, Buck! Doc—”
“Sir, the Chief Engineer is already at the maximum anti-anxiety Tripthelightomix dosage.”
“Well, try something else!”
Buck was now gibbering.
Printlip stepped up to the Chief Engineer and quickly applied another shot.
Abruptly, Buck smiled, his body relaxing under Hadrian’s hands.
“Wow,” said Hadrian, “nice one, Doc, what did you give him?”
“LSD.”
“What’s that?”
“A mild psychotropic.”
“Hey,” said another of the soldiers, gesturing toward Galk, “cool gun—but you need to peace-strap it before you go into the con. A blue vinyl ribbon—”
“I am not up for any awards,” Galk replied in a growl. “Now back off, bud, unless you want your ears turned inside out.”
The man frowned inside his helmet. “Haha, I think. I mean, you were being funny, right? No? Anyway, we’re Starship Troopers, right? Only—and this is important—we’re the Satirical Starship Troopers.” He pointed to an identical squad of soldiers who were clumped in a tight group across the street, their face plates turned toward them. “See those guys? They’re the Serious Starship Troopers.”
Sin-Dour had activated her Pentracorder and was studying its tiny holographic display. She gestured Hadrian closer. “Sir, I’ve tracked the references—”
“Unless, of course,” and the trooper now unslung his blaster, his face turning ugly, “you don’t think the film was intended as a satire?”
“One moment and I’ll answer you,” Hadrian said before turning back to Sin-Dour. “Go on,” he whispered. “Tell me more.”
“A fictional film, sir, based on a classic Science Fiction novel written by an American in the 1960s—”
“Ah, then the Serious troopers are right—”
“But the film was directed twenty-odd years later by a European—”
“Ah, well, that settles it.” He turned back to the troopers. “Of course it was a satire! Why, you’d have to be inherently insecure about your political and philosophical beliefs to the extent that you’re incapable of laughing at yourself and those beliefs, to think it was actually straight-up serious!”
The troopers all smiled. “Exactly!” said the first one. “Anyway, since you all just arrived, Registration’s around back of the building.” He indicated an ID badge in a plastic envelope hanging from a black cord around his neck. “Need these to get into the con, right? And just so you know, we hate Wookiees as much as I bet you guys do! Live long and all that!” And off they trudged.
“Sir,” said Sin-Dour, “none of the weapons the troopers were carrying were real.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “But I am detecting a plethora of real weapons among the many citizens on this street, and in the vehicles.” She hesitated, and then said, “Captain, is this nation in a state of war at the moment?”