Jump Starting the Universe Book Bundle Page 9

  The benefit of such an arrangement is quite simple - during a jump, your brain synapses aren’t overloaded to the point of expunging themselves from your head into massive puddles on the floor. This eventuality is circumvented because the synapses don’t receive an UNBEARABLE PAIN signal from every cell in the jumper’s body. Of course, this is just a theory. Due to the exactness and apparent speed with which the Jump Starter completes its function, and because the “jumper” is more or less completely clocked-out, no one has ever reported exactly what goes on during a jump.

  It is believed that the Jump Starter Corporation has extreme prejudice toward this situation and benefits from universal ignorance. Which may be why most scientific types believe the Jump Starter Corporation is clueless.

  Dr. Victor E. Bullrod suggested in his post-doctorate work that if one could spend more time in the active jump phase one might actually acclimate and be able to make observations of the “inner workings” of a jump. This idea dismayed the Jump Starter Corporation to no end; data can be an ugly thing to a consumer products company.

  However, to that end Dr. Bullrod, without the express permission of Jump Starter Corporation (please see the company’s galactic-E-page for the exceedingly long disclaimer), rewired a Jump Starter to perform what he termed an automatic-repeat-cycle. Dr. Bullrod’s idea was that a jumper using a Jump Starter wired to perform an automatic-repeat-cycle would be whisked from one place to another without pausing.

  The jumper could seize this opportunity to acclimate to the jump environment and get on with observing; the results of which would be posted in a very long and boring scientific paper that few people would read, with the possible exception of scientists at Jump Starter Corporation. Of course, Dr. Bullrod would get credit for a publication, and maybe that department chairman job he longed for. With that end in mind Dr. Bullrod wrote his intention to investigate his theory on a note and left it in his office at the University. Then, he turned on his rewired Jump Starter and vanished, along with a very nice lab chair. Charges of theft are pending.

  Fortunately for Dr. Bullrod, he was in excellent health and slightly overweight. Two things were completely unknown to him when he jumped. First, once a jump is initiated a Jump Starter will not allow itself to be opened until the jump is complete. Even if Dr. Bullrod did acclimate to a point allowing scientific observation, there was no chance of “pulling the wires” and bringing the jump to a grinding halt when his observations were concluded.

  Secondly, each Jump Starter includes a miniscule Thenatrian tetratic sphere (for more about Thenatrian tetratic spheres see the complete and short history of the Nargusians by historian Ziglist Fetser). While whizzing around the universe the tetratic sphere collects energy and powers the Jump Starter, effectively kyboshing the need to plug in and recharge. In the lay jumper’s vernacular, it never wants for juice.

  So as not to cause any undue concern among its clients, Jump Starter Corporation recently issued the following advisement: The miniscule Thenatrian tetratic sphere embedded in the Jump Starter has two important design changes from that of the Defense Department model 616; firstly, an atomic clock was not wired to the detonator, and secondly, the dip switch on the explosive module was set to off.

  A conference of scientists was convened to discuss the disappearance of Dr. Bullrod, however, it was convened at The Prancing Cyclomonoarisaur (a very nice pub with half price pints on Thursdays) and no scholarly papers ever resulted from the lengthy discussions.

  When journalists asked if Dr. Bullrod would ever pop in again, the conference spokesperson said, “Maybe.” Of course, owing to the fact that Dr. Bullrod has been gone 28 years, the naysayers have their doubts. Nevertheless, the news of “maybe” spread like wildfire on Jengis 7, and soon everyone was talking about it. So much so that for one day Gambiti Casino on Debaucha took bets on the matter.

  It was a simple game. Bet he will return. Bet he doesn’t return. The Gambiti Casino reported more revenue that day than any previous year’s gross revenues. Those that bet he would return, waited. Those that bet he wouldn’t, waited. After closing the one-off game, the casino paid its investors a handsome special dividend, deposited the balance, and used the interest to build a second casino on one of Debaucha’s largest moons.

  On a disappointing note, Gaczion Life Insurance Company, LLC has once again denied Mrs. Bullrod’s petition for payment of her husband’s life insurance policy. The president of the Gaczion stated, “When Gambiti Casino pays the ´won’t return´ betters we will pay Eduardo Bullrod’s life insurance policy.” Debaucha’s Judicial Branch and Registrar have unofficially declined to be involved.

  *******************************************

  Mark looked at Amelia when the jump was complete, and immediately offered his apologies. “I’m sorry I yelled hit the button” said Mark, “I know we were all supposed to agree.” Blackie opened his eyes, and was rather laissez–faire about not having been squashed like a bug by the plummeting chandelier. After a brief moment’s repose, he seized the opportunity to give Mark grief, and let him know none of them cared.

  Blackie said with an accusatory tone, “Yeah, you were smack-dab out of order Mark. We agreed we would not make a jump unless everyone voted yes. Personally, I’m highly offended,” he finished as he turned and winked at Amelia and brushed some soot from his left shoulder.

  Wayne stood slightly apart from the others with his shoulders slumped. He didn’t say a word. The bottom of his right pant leg was singed and the top of his head had a small cut, but other than that he was unhurt. In fact, miraculously none of them had any significant injuries. Everyone had some singed hair. Nita had a small burn on her forearm. Mark got a small cut on his right hand when he shielded his eyes from flying glass as a window crashed into the hotel lobby. Blackie seemed unscathed, except for that bit of soot.

  Wayne turned toward Mark with a blank look in his eyes. He hesitated momentarily, as if a moment’s hesitation would change the circumstances. “It’s gone,” he said, “the Nomad is gone. All our equipment is gone, all the tab sheets gone, everything is gone.” Mark was momentarily speechless.

  “Maybe,” started Mark, but his words trailed away like a half-formed wish that died in conception. Blackie stood still and practiced kicking small stones with the very tip of his shoe. The silence among them was deafening.

  Finally, Amelia said, “Maybe we should walk, see if there is anything close by.”

  They walked. They walked for a long time, slowly trudging forward as if they were going to the funeral of a best friend. The land was beautiful, but at that moment its beauty was wasted on them. Knee high green grasses were tipped with ochre colored inflorescences whose seed heads swayed in the gentle breeze. Concha trees grew in groups of forty to fifty with their deep green leaves pointing toward the sun. Occasionally there was a bear spot in the field of grass and Blackie seized the opportunity to kick every small rock in his path with the tip of his shoe. Pretty soon Nita was kicking rocks also. Before long a heated game of toe-rock was well underway, although Nita didn’t know it was called that.

  “You’re pretty good at this game,” commented Blackie.

  “Oh, is this a real game?” smiled Nita.

  “Only among the athletic elite,” said Blackie seriously as he who aimed a small rock and with a well-placed kick sent it tumbling to nudge Nita’s rock just before coming to a stop. “Five points,” said Blackie authoritatively, “maybe I should explain the rules.” They walked on with Blackie and Nita hardly noticing where they were going. “I’m sure if I tried, I could get a major shoe company to cough up funding for game equipment. Who knows, this game could generate a whole new line of athletic shoes, ones specifically for playing toe-rock.”

  “Toe-rock?” came the reply.

  “Yeah, toe-rock” grinned Blackie, “catchy, isn’t it?”

  They reached the top of a small rise and saw a small unpaved road leading to a settlement far in the distance. It looked a long way distant an
d distances are deceiving in the countryside. “Amelia,” said Wayne, “any chance next time we jump we could land a little closer to civilization?”

  “Oh sure,” came the quick reply, “I’ll just add direction, destination, and time to the next jump request.

  “Can you do that?”

  “No,” said Amelia, “I can’t.” Amelia looked at the Jump Starter thinking that there had to be a way of controlling it. We can’t just go flinging off through the universe without some control, she thought.

  There was a whole host of other things they didn’t know about the Jump Starter, something they had in common with its developers. But with use comes familiarity they say; they, meaning the scientists at Jump Starter Corporation, who are busily tucking away little snippets of comments from users all over the universe trying to sort out exactly how the device works.

  The user’s manual has been updated so many times it is now permanently designated as a draft; it has a letter “d” at the end of the issue number. This clever idea has been attributed to the Jump Starter Corporation’s General Counsel, who thought it might help deflect some of the ridiculously high risk associated with people using a device for which the designer had not supplied adequate instructions. His idea worked so well he now is an adjunct professor of law at the local university.

  They made their way to the road and turned right; Blackie insisted. Out of nowhere a large transport went screaming by them, veered to the right, hit the road-side ditch and went sideways, righted itself in the pasture alongside the ditch and came to a sliding halt kicking up dust from its thrusters and throwing rocks for 35 meters. Wayne was terribly impressed. The driver stuck his head out the window gawking at them and yelled, “What in Jeredesky Poblovitch’s mind do you think you’re doing? Get in!” he screamed, “GET IN!” They stood there in absolute shock. They had only been on this planet 55 minutes and already a local was yelling at them at the top of his lungs. Blackie was certain the odds of them being arrested again were pretty good.

  The Intergalactic Travel Advisory Board would insist that circumstances described above are considered as highly irregular and bordering on the verge of being an outlier (Google statistics) and don’t bear a remote resemblance to “normal” interplanetary vacation travel. This clarification comes by virtue of the consistent prodding of one of the members of the Intergalactic Travel Advisory Board’s Board of Directors, Villea Contada. The adjunct professor is building quite a following.

  “Would you like to get in, or would you rather wait for the very the large meteors to hit?” said the man in the transport. He was clearly trying to be calm so he could coax the pedestrians into the van. Much like you would try to calmly charm a stranded cat off a limb in the top of a very tall pine tree, and into a precariously suspended basket supplied with bits of chicken.

  As you would expect, this brief explanation of the man’s annoyance brought them to their senses and they ran to the transport. “Get in,” he urged, “we don’t have much time, it’s about to begin.” He seemed very sincere.

  Remember what your parents taught you about accepting rides with strangers? The only thing missing here is the candy. But, everyone piled in. Wayne was wondering why they were once again taking advice from a complete stranger, in a place they knew nothing about. His head began to hurt; a precursor to “foaming.”

  The driver accelerated and jumped the ditch adjacent to the road. Wayne’s head still hurt, but not enough to keep him from being impressed with the driver’s road skills. The rear of the transport went squirrelly sideways, but the driver expertly corrected the sway and zoomed forward at full throttle. Owing to the fact that Blackie was in the very back of the van, the squirrelly event affected him most. He was unfortunately located at the point having the greatest range of motion.

  Wayne said, “Is Blackie okay back there.”

  “He looks okay to me,” came Mark’s reply. Amelia thought he looked like someone with carbon monoxide poisoning. That’s probably why he looked normal to Mark. The engine whined like every bolt was about to be jettisoned. Wayne was completely surprised that they made their way to the city limits sign without incident.

  “What exactly were you thinking?” asked the man as he steered his transport along the road while looking in the rear-view mirror every few seconds.

  “I was thinking about a cold drink” said Mark.

  “I mean exactly what were you thinking, walking around like that?” Then behind them in the plain there was a blinding flash.

  The driver pulled up to an entrance at the base of a short squat building and inserted a flash drive, “Come on, come on,” he said and a heavy door panel opened to reveal a dark driveway and descending ramp.

  “Don’t forget to engage your lights,” said the door as they passed.

  “Right,” said the driver and he flicked on the lights. “I need to update my flash drive with remote reservation capabilities,” said the man to no one, “this is cutting it way to close.”

  Down they went until Mark was sure they were 80 meters below the surface. Finally, they leveled out into a very large parking area. “Let’s see,” said the man, “level one, that’s lucky, we’re on level one.” The driver looked at the digital readout on his flash drive, “Not so lucky, space X-4402.” He looked in the rear-view mirror and said, “We have about twenty minutes of driving to get to the parking space, so how about you tell me why you’re wondering about the open countryside on meteor day.”

  “Meteor day?” questioned Blackie who had climbed into the far rear end of the transport out of habit.

  “Meteor day, you know the day the meteor shower hits,” said the driver.

  While Amelia and Blackie explained part of the circumstances that led them to being in the countryside, Mark leaned over to Wayne and whispered “I know this guy.”

  “What?” replied Wayne.

  “I know this guy,” said Mark again.

  “You’re delusional,” said Wayne, “that’s impossible.”

  “I’m telling you I know that guy. I met him at a guitar shop. He works there part time,” explained Mark.

  “Mark do you feel okay?”

  “Haven’t we met?” said Mark, looking in the rear-view mirror.

  “Oh, that’s not likely, “said the man, “I don’t get out much.”

  “Then you don’t work at Sly’s Guitar Emporium?” asked Mark.

  “Sly’s Guitar Emporium,” repeated the man, “are you a tracer?”

  “A what?”

  “A tracer.”

  “What’s a tracer?” said Mark.

  “Ah, you aren’t a tracer, good,” said the man who drove quietly for a few moments.

  “Don’t you think this might be the point where an explanation is forthcoming?” said Mark.

  “Oh sorry, just looking for our turn,” the man said as he peered around a large support column, “I work there part time, I’m Sly.”

  “You’re Sly,” said Mark. “Well I don’t broadcast it very much do I,” said Sly, “I’m not supposed to be jumping.”

  “Why is that,” asked Wayne who was keen to know more about the person they were riding with.

  “Hey, I do remember you,” said Sly, “you bought the red Stratocaster guitar fitted with EMG –DG20 pickups - nice guitar.

  “So, you’re not supposed to be jumping,” said Wayne, redirecting the discussion.

  “Technically, no,” said Sly. “Although my attorney, whose name I shouldn’t divulge, just said don’t get caught. Villea’s a real hoot.”

  Sly noticed a look of concern on Wayne’s face. Mark seemed to be amused by the fact he had unknowingly purchased his guitar from an alien. He wasn’t concerned in the least; it was a really nice guitar. Nita, Amelia, and Blackie were intent on looking for the turn-in to X-4402.

  “Here’s the deal,” began Sly, “several years ago I got the urge to start a business, but I figured it might be better to find a business for sale. Well, I found the music store on a trip to Terra
Bulga didn’t I. The store handled mostly low-end equipment and wasn’t doing very well. So, I scratched up a bit of the gold that was sent to me by my uncle Marcus, just before he was taken in for questioning, took it to Terra Bulga and bought the store. The owner acted like he had never seen gold ingots, imagine that.

  Anyway, I didn’t know there was an intergalactic prohibition against owning a business on Terra Bulga. Apparently, the powers-that-be (whoever they are) think humans are not ready for shoulder-to-shoulder interaction.” He hesitated, briefly considering embarking on a diatribe about the absurdity of the findings of the Commission.

  “I mean really,” said Sly “the head of the Commission is from Ventinire. They packed the entire core of their planet with garbage for 62,000 years then put a torch to it thinking it would be a really good source of energy. REALLY, the head of the Intergalactic Commission on Peace, Investments, Commerce and Environmental Sustainability is from Ventinire?” Everyone was stone cold quiet. “I digressed,” said Sly, “but I should inform you, if you don’t know, that all Ventinireans now live on New Ventinire, owing to the fact that their previous home planet is now a massive fire ball.”

  “Anyway, I got a slap on the wrist and was told to fold the business. Well I wasn’t going to do that was I; the store was really starting to do well. I figured out that if I inoculated the guitars with Codiae explosencia, a fungus like organism from Sounquatry 11, the instruments resonated like a band of Hungorian Angels. Turns out I did learn something in mycology. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention that last part to anyone. Apparently, there is an Intergalactic Agreement on the Distribution of Organic Life Forms, and since I didn’t technically get permission to import Codiae explosencia, and technically Terra Bulga is not a signatory to the intergalactic agreement, I could be in really hot water. At least that’s what Villea indicated; he worries a lot.