Walter Stickle and the Galactic Rangers, page 10
“That was fun,” said Walter. “I don’t usually care for romantic movies, but the whole sci-fi time travel thing made it interesting. Your little comments during the love scenes didn’t hurt either. As Red would say, they were definitely classic.”
“The couple in front of us didn’t seem to think so.”
“I thought you were pretty funny.”
As they watched the sky, a shooting star appeared from behind a bank of clouds, disappearing when it breached the glow of civilization.
“Where would you go if you could, anywhere in the universe?” said Walter.
“I don’t know,” Vivien said.
“I would go into outer space. I’d go to that star right there,” he pointed. “I don’t even know its name, but it doesn’t matter. That’s where I’d go. And when I got tired of that one, I go to that one, then that one, and that one, and that one.”
“There’s so much to see in this universe.”
The theater marquee lights turned off, and the town of Pitville started rolling up its sidewalks for another night.
“Who am I kidding?” said Walter. “The closest I’ll ever get to outer space is in the movies or on TV.”
“You never know.”
“I suppose.”
“I should be going home now,” Vivien said.
“Me too, I guess,” said Walter. “Can I walk you to your apartment?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you.”
“Well, thanks for the nice evening, Vivien.”
“Thank you, Walter. Good night.”
She walked to the corner, turned and waved, and was gone. “Good night, Vivien,” Walter whispered.
Chapter 8
According to the clock at the corner of Broadway and Holly, it was 11:45 p.m. Walter ran home, and after fumbling with his keys in the dark, let himself in, went right to the living room, turned on the power strip, then the TV and computer, put on his headset, and sat down. This time he would be greeting the Galactic Rangers in a suit.
The TV was already tuned to the new sci-fi channel. A Twilight Zone episode was on. After the computer booted up, Walter entered “71.256.135.123,” but the browser took him to a search screen of various results with no connection to the Rangers.
11:58 p.m. He wasn’t thinking about the Galactic Rangers or of being on TV or starring in a movie. He was thinking about Vivien Benoit, her eyes, her smile, and the funny, inappropriate things she had said during the movie’s romantic scenes. It reminded him of when he was a kid and used to go to the movies with his friends on Saturday mornings. They’d sit in the first row wolfing down popcorn and making rude comments during those hokey old sci-fi movies. It was too bad that he and Vivien were just getting to know each other. Soon, she would return to France and his life would go back to being dull, boring, and normal.
The TV went black, and the text box “Set frequency 71.256.135.123” appeared on the screen. Walter typed the number into his computer. The “Click here to activate microphone” window popped up, and the TV resolved into static, becoming the bridge of Galactic Ranger Scout Ship Alpha. Klaxon, the navigator was frantically trying to maneuver the ship through an asteroid field.
“Captain, we can’t keep up evasive maneuvers at this speed. This asteroid field is massive. It’s too dense.”
The captain was in his chair brooding at the view screen. “Maintain speed, Mr. Klaxon. Switch one-third power to forward guns and target any object too large for our shields to deflect.”
“Captain,” said First Officer Gak, “the targeting computers will not function properly at 1.5 maximum safe speed. I recommend we decrease speed to safe levels.”
“Duly noted, First Officer. Maintain speed, Mr. Klaxon.”
“Aye, aye, Captain. Recalculating shield density to account for power drain of weapons, setting targeting computers, and engaging auto-defense now.”
Walter moved his mouse over the “Click here” button and clicked it.
“Captain,” said Lieutenant Sparks. “We’re being hailed.”
“Verify that auto-defense and auto-navigation systems are engaged,” the captain ordered.
“All systems functioning, sir, but not within normal parameters,” said First Officer Gak from his console.
“Good enough. On screen,” said Kleeg.
The view screen switched from the external panorama of the asteroid field to Walter’s living room and him hunched over his computer keyboard. He straightened up and adjusted his tie.
“This is Galactic Ranger Scout Ship Alpha,” said Sparks into his com unit. “Over.”
“This is,” and Walter hesitated. “This is Ensign Stickle, reporting as ordered. Over.”
The captain swiveled his chair to face Walter. “Mr. Stickle, we have a situation here so I must be brief.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, aye, aye, Captain. This is great. I’m really part of this adventure now, aren’t I? Will this be in the comic again tomorrow, or are we making a feature-length movie based on the comic? A TV series would be okay, too, but a movie would be way better. Oh, and one more thing. Can I get a uniform like yours? All I have are business suits. I’m a thirty-eight regular, though I sometimes take a thirty-seven. Would you mind passing that along to wardrobe?”
Kleeg slammed his fist on his chair. “Silence!”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
“Mr. Stickle, a scout ship was sent to your world many Earth years ago on a routine survey mission. The last transmission we received from them was an encoded message that they had begun their survey and were initiating standard radio silence. We have been unable to reestablish contact. This is undoubtedly the work of the criminal, Tobine.”
“Tobine, of course,” said Walter.
“We have reason to believe that Tobine has established a base of operations in a region of Earth called New Jersey. Therefore, the ship should be nearby.”
“New Jersey? You’re kidding? Why would an intergalactic criminal have a secret base in New Jersey? There’s nothing here.” The moment the words came out of Walter’s mouth, he regretted them. They didn’t sound serious enough. He didn’t want to be the comic relief that they killed off in episode six of a thirteen-episode season. He wanted to be a Ranger. He wanted to star in season two. “Sorry, Captain, aye, aye, sir,” he saluted.
“Mr. Stickle?”
“Yes, Captain?”
“Tobine does not concern you. Yours is an intelligence-gathering mission. We want you to find out what happened to Captain Benoit and Scout Ship Iota. Use every available resource. We must know the status of that scout ship before we reach Earth.”
“Anything you say, sir. I’ll get right on it. Wait. Did you say ‘Benoit?’”
“Affirmative. We lost contact with Captain Benoit at precisely Sidereal 2153.65.”
“Captain,” said First Officer Gak, “that would be July 7, 1947, Earth time.”
“I know a Benoit,” said Walter, “but she’s a lawyer. Why would Kelso pick a name like that? It doesn’t sound Argonian or even remotely alien. It’s French. And you’re talking about something that happened over sixty years ago.”
Gak stepped before the screen, “Mr. Stickle, we understand that there has been a significant interval between the disappearance of our ship and your present time, but the information we seek is vital. Do you have access to detailed records from that period?”
“I can search the Internet, I guess. I could check the Social Security main database again. That has records of everyone in the country since the 1930s, but I really don’t see how that will help.”
“Mr. Stickle, if this database you speak of could possibly contain useful information, it must be searched. We will begin our query of Earth’s records with that.”
“You want me to search the Social Security main database from here? Now? I don’t know. I’ve never done any more than check my work email from home. I’m not sure how’d they feel about that. And is that really what you want in this movie? Or is it a TV show? I’m still a little fuzzy on that. Shouldn’t we be doing something more exciting that people would actually want to see? Searching a database is boring. Besides, it would take forever.”
“I will guide you in connecting the ship’s computer to yours. We will process the information far more efficiently than you could alone.”
“Wait. What? You want me to connect to the office so you can download the entire Social Security database?”
“Precisely.”
“I can’t do that.
“Mr. Stickle, you agreed to help. We are asking you to honor that agreement.”
“Well, yes, I did agree, but not to that. I was agreeing to be in the TV show. I suppose I could just pretend to search it for a few minutes, but I don’t have a script. What is it that I’m supposed to find?”
“I fail to understand how pretending would assist us.”
“You know, maybe we should just skip this whole Social Security thing in the plot. I mean, people watching the show won’t care which database I search, will they? And I don’t want people seeing this to think that their information is open to just anybody like that. It looks bad.”
“Mr. Stickle, this is a matter of grave importance. You have agreed to assist us and have acknowledged that agreement. That constitutes a binding contract. Under Congress of Planets Article 23-5.035, it is within our rights to request that you honor that agreement.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Kleeg’s angry face took over the view screen again. “You will comply with our request, Mr. Stickle.”
“Or what? Are you threatening me? That’s not right. That’s not right at all. Galactic Rangers don’t threaten innocent people. Something’s wrong here.” Walter stood up, almost ripping the headphones out of their jack. “In fact, there’s a lot of somethings wrong. First of all, where did you come up with the name ‘Benoit?’ Kelso should know better than that. And second, no alien in his right mind would land in New Jersey if he’s taking over the world. He’d pick New York City or Washington. And third, Rangers don’t threaten innocent people. They protect them. Where’s Kelso? Where’s the director?”
The image on Alpha’s view screen began to break up.
“Captain,” said Klaxon, “we’re losing helm control.”
“Mr. Stickle, are you there?” said the captain. “Mr. Sparks, I’ve lost him. Reestablish contact immediately.”
“There’s too much interference, Captain,” said Sparks.
“Keep trying.”
Walter looked down at his hands. They were shaking. “Oh, my God,” he said. “How could I be so stupid?”
“First Officer, assist Mr. Sparks. Get that com-link back up,” Kleeg said, watching the swirl of static on his view screen.
“Yes, Captain,” said Gak.
“You guys are hackers,” said Walter, staring at Kleeg staring at dead air. “You hacked into my computer at work just like you did my TV, didn’t you? That’s where you got Vivien’s name. You found it in my files. You think this is funny? Is this how you get your kicks? Dressing up as superheroes and breaking into secure government networks? I’ve got news for you, guys. It’s a Federal offense. If you get caught, you’ll go to jail, and they will catch you.”
Alpha’s view screen went dark.
“Captain, we have imminent system failure. I recommend all-stop at once,” said Gak.
“Get that screen up again, Mr. Sparks,” the captain ordered.
“I’m trying, sir.”
“God, I’m such an idiot,” Walter said. “You’ve made me an accessory. I’ll go to jail. I’ll lose my job. What am I going to do?”
“Mr. Stickle,” said Sparks. “Come in, Mr. Stickle.”
“Will you just shut up?” Walter said. “I don’t think I should be talking to you anymore. I’m going to hang up now.”
Walter threw the headset on the floor.
“Brace for impact!” Klaxon shouted.
There was an explosion on the bridge. The ship groaned and creaked of metal twisting in the wrong directions.
“Captain,” said Klaxon, “we’ve taken a direct hit, asteroid, magnitude five. The hull is breached on deck three, sections thirty-one through thirty-three.”
“All stop! Seal off deck three and make sure the cryo-stasis chambers are not compromised. Get me a damage report immediately,” the captain ordered.
Another explosion and the TV went black. Static replaced the confusion on Alpha’s bridge. Walter’s computer browser refreshed to a “404: Page Not Found” error, and he sat in the dark until 2:00 a.m. watching reruns of The Outer Limits.
Chapter 9
At 6:03 a.m. the next morning, Walter’s alarm went off. He hadn’t slept at all.
He sat up in bed and yelled, “Turn off your stupid floodlights! Don’t you realize how much electricity you’re wasting and how annoying it is?”
Jumping out of bed, Walter opened the window and threw first one slipper then the other at the house next door, missing it and the floodlights by a mile. He looked down at his unhappy footwear lying in the mulch at the base of his flowering crabapple tree, and when the automatic sprinklers came on at 6:05 a.m., he just sighed. Another day was beginning, but life as he knew it was ending, and ending badly. He hardly brushed his teeth and didn’t wait for his skin to tingle when he washed his face. When he brushed his hair he didn’t count to ten. He didn’t care anymore. He ate breakfast with none of the usual enthusiasm, staring all the while at the Galactic Rangers on his windowsill. When the morning paper hit the broken screen, his time was up. He left his house, picked up the newspaper, and trudged down the sidewalk to work, carrying his death sentence in his hand.
Walter waved half-heartedly to the kids at the bus stop and ignored them when they asked him what was wrong. He hurried past Mrs. Giamotti’s with a half-hearted smile, just said a quick “good morning” without making eye contact with Officer Weathers, and took the long way around to avoid running into Ralph Minton. Walter didn’t care what the weather was going to be. Everything was always the same battleship gray in a federal prison, even the weather. When he got to the office, he propped the door open for Mildred, straightened up the waiting room for her one last time, and flushed the toilets — his last official act in a crappy career ending in the crapper.
The thought of reading the comics made Walter’s stomach churn, but he had to know. He opened the paper to the funny pages and looked at the first panel of Galactic Rangers.
Navigator Klaxon was frantically trying to maneuver the ship through an asteroid field.
Walter felt sick.
“Captain, we can’t keep up evasive maneuvers at this speed. This asteroid field is massive. It’s too dense.”
The captain was sitting in his chair brooding at the view screen. He was drawn more elongated than usual as if straining to see the incoming asteroids. “Maintain speed, Mr. Klaxon. Switch one-third power to forward guns and target any object too large for our shields to deflect.”
Walter remembered how large and real those asteroids had appeared on his HDTV. He was angry with Kelso, the TV hackers, and himself, but he had to give the guy credit for capturing that tense moment using motion lines and clever blurring of the gigantic rocks as they passed within inches of the ship. Kelso was a genius with the pen, an evil genius with an evil band of hackers. How could he have been so stupid?
The second panel showed Lieutenant Sparks. “Captain,” he said. “We’re being hailed.”
“On screen,” Captain Kleeg said.
In the background, the view screen no longer showed the asteroid field. It looked like the inside of another ship. “That’s not right,” thought Walter, but then showing his living room would have been far less interesting to everyone but his mother.
“This is Galactic Ranger Scout Ship Alpha,” said Sparks into his com unit. “Over.”
Walter moved on to the third panel.
“This is Tobine,” said the red-eyed shadow on the view screen. Nearly formless, barely distinguishable from the dark background, Tobine was a thing of pure evil. Walter could feel it oozing from every letter dripping toward the bottom of the jagged cartoon text bubble. “Your scout is dead. I have destroyed your ship and captured your puny human agent.” Walter stared at himself standing beside Tobine, struggling against his bonds. Cartoon Walter was wrapped up in glowing red chains, testing them mightily, the strain cleverly drawn into the expression on his face. Despite himself, despite everything, Walter smiled at the muscles that Kelso had given him. They bulged in all the right places like a real superhero’s. Very flattering. He could use muscles like that in prison. “Turn back now or I will obliterate this worthless planet,” Tobine said.
“Next: Do or die!”
Walter stared at the comic, at Tobine, and at what had not happened the previous night.
“Walter, you look like hell,” Bill Ruben said from the doorway. “Are you coming down with something?”
Walter had discovered early on in his career that Marilyn Chin was the office expert in one thing in particular — use of sick leave. She caught a cold more than anyone he knew and had the flu several times a year. Whenever any kind of bug was going around, she caught it, poor thing. She thought herself both judicious and discrete in spreading her days out to convenient Mondays and Fridays, turning two-day weekends into three. She rarely carried over any of the thirteen sick days she accumulated each year. She thought no one noticed, but everyone was on to her little game. She was what they call in the government a “chronic leave abuser.” Good thing for her, Mr. Ruben didn’t seem to care as long as she did her job, and to her credit, she usually did. Her best ploy, in Walter’s opinion, was to lay blame for her diagnosis on Mr. Ruben himself. “Don’t be a sap, Walter,” she had once told him. “If Ruben says you look sick, then you are. Period. End of story.”
“I haven’t been sleeping well,” Walter said. “You think I might be catching something, Mr. Ruben?”
“Do us all a favor and don’t infect the rest of the office. I know you’ve never taken a sick day in almost four years and that’s admirable, Walter, but records are made to be broken, and sick leave is meant to be used when you’re sick. Go home. Take today and tomorrow off. You don’t want to be sick for Comic-Con on Saturday, do you? Speaking of which, are you done with the comics?”
