The heroes, of course, knew none of this. All they knew was that they were alive, they were together, and Splock was currently experiencing levels of psychological damage that no Fortinbrasian had ever been designed to handle.
Bill crouched in front of him. Waved a hand in front of his face.
"Hello? Splock? You in there?"
No response.
Duo crouched beside him. "I think she broke him. Actually broke him. I didn't know that was possible."
Chewgumma produced another little green hat from somewhere and began chewing thoughtfully. "Kookie thinks bunny needs rest. Lots of rest. Maybe therapy."
Bill looked at his friend—his annoying, logical, pointy-eared, endlessly lecturing friend—and felt something he hadn't expected.
Worry.
"Splock," he said softly. "Come on. Say something. Explain something. Tell me why babies are cute again. Tell me I'm wrong about something. Anything."
Splock's eyes moved. Slowly. Painfully. They found Bill's face and stopped.
His lips parted.
A sound emerged.
It might have been a word. It might have been a prayer. It might have been the first syllable of a forty-minute lecture on Fortinbrasian mating rituals.
It was none of those things.
It was: "Ears..."
Then his eyes closed and he slumped sideways into Bill's arms.
Bill caught him. Held him. Looked up at Duo with an expression that was half terror, half disbelief.
"He said 'ears.' That's all. Just 'ears.'"
Duo nodded slowly. "She got to him. Really got to him. The ears were always her thing. And now—" He gestured at Splock's limp form. "Now they're all he has left."
Chewgumma crunched another hat. "Kookie thinks bunny will be okay. Eventually. Maybe. Probably not."
The fires burned on. The smoke swirled.
Ham Duo kicked a chunk of rubble and watched it skitter across the broken asphalt. "Well. That went well. Splock's catatonic, we're stuck in the apocalypse, somewhere back there an eighteen-year-old with the face of a reptile and the hips of a continent is crying into her inflatable chest, and we have zero idea where the Historian's gone or what he's planning next. This is a disaster."
Splock's lips moved. A sound emerged. It might have been words. It might have been static. It was impossible to tell.
Bill crouched beside him. "What? What is it?"
"Ears," Splock whispered. "She... touched my ears."
"Yeah, we know. She touched your ears. A lot. For like an hour."
"Longer." Splock's eyes focused on something distant. Something terrible. "Time perception was... distorted. It may have been days. Weeks. Eternity. I cannot be certain."
Duo stared at him. "Days? She had you for days?"
"I have experienced things, Ham Duo. Things that have no place in logical discourse. Things that have fundamentally altered my understanding of—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Of everything."
Bill stood up. His face had taken on an expression that neither Duo nor Chewgumma had seen before. Determination. Real, focused, military-grade determination.
"I have a plan," he said.
Duo raised an eyebrow. "You? A plan? This should be good."
"We need to go back."
"Back where? To the club? You heard her—she's crying, not dead. She'll rip our heads off."
"No. Back to 1990. The RIGHT 1990. The one where she's still a kid. Where Alexander's embryo is still inside her. Before any of this happened."
Duo stared at him. "You want to go back in time to stop a baby from being born? That's—that's—"
"That's our only chance." Bill's voice was fierce. "If we don't stop it there, this happens again. She finds us. She finds HIM." He pointed at Splock. "And next time, maybe we're not here to pull her off. Maybe she keeps him. Forever. Tied to that couch. Listening to Depeche Mode and—"
Splock made a sound. A small, pained sound, like a dying computer. "Please. Do not. Describe it further. My memory is... photographic. I will never unsee. Never unfeel. Never—"
"But that's just it!" Bill crouched beside him. "You don't have to remember it forever if we make it so it never happened. We go back. We stop the transfer. We change the timeline. And you—" He gripped Splock's shoulder. "You never meet her. Never. She's just a weird kid with a crush, and then she's nothing."
Splock's eyes focused. Just slightly. Just enough.
"Paradox," he whispered. "Temporal mechanics. Changing the past could—"
"Shut up," Duo said. Not unkindly. "Bill, that's insane. We don't even know if we can—"
"Chewgumma has a Disruptor."
"He's had it for eighteen years. It's probably bonded to him. Attached. Emotionally invested in his furry—"
"So we ask him."
Duo stared. "Ask him. Ask the Kookie. Who's been eating hats for two decades. Who thinks the height of humor is watching tiny creatures be sad. That's your plan?"
Chewgumma looked up from his latest snack. "Kookie heard name. Kookie likes Bill. Bill is smart. Bill helped Kookie once." He rummaged in his fur, past layers of grime and forgotten food, and produced the Disruptor. It gleamed dully in the firelight, somehow still pristine after eighteen years of running and hiding and hat-eating.
Duo's jaw dropped. "You just... you just had it. This whole time. In your fur."
"Kookie keeps things safe." Chewgumma patted the device fondly. "Kookie and Disruptor are friends. Good friends. Disruptor talks to Kookie at night. Tells stories. About time. About space. About Hungary."
"Of course it does," Duo muttered.
"Kookie has Disruptor. Kookie kept it safe. Eighteen years. Very safe. Mostly."
Duo sputtered. "That—that doesn't matter! We can't just—the temporal paradoxes—the risk of—"
Splock's voice cut through. Weak, but clearer now. "The probability of success... is low. The risks... are incalculable. The potential for paradox... is significant." He paused. His eyes met Bill's. "But the alternative... is worse. Much worse. I have... empirical data."
Bill nodded. "Then it's settled."
Chewgumma held the Disruptor in both paws, turning it over with the reverence of a man handling holy relics. His small red eyes studied its surface, then lifted to Bill.
"Kookie needs to open it. Kookie forgot how."
"Here." Bill reached for it. Chewgumma pulled back.
"No. Kookie's friend. Kookie opens."
"Fine, fine. Your friend. Just—" Bill pointed. "There's a latch. On the side. Slide it."
Chewgumma's thick furry thumb found the latch. It slid back with a satisfying click. The lightweight steel cover hinged open, revealing the small computer keyboard beneath. QWERTY layout, pristine after eighteen years of fur-based storage. A dozen function keys labeled F1 through F12 marched across the top. Below them, three larger keys: DIN, DON, and RES.
Chewgumma stared at them. His face, already confused, somehow found new depths of confusion.
"Kookie sees many buttons. Which one is go-back time?"
"F1," Bill said. "Trust me. I've used these before."
Duo snorted. "Used them badly, from what I recall. Banana peels. Spit. The whole—"
"I used them ENOUGH to know F1 is the activation key. The rest are—"
"F2 is for destination fine-tuning," Splock murmured. His voice was still weak, but there was something approaching normal in it. "F3 through F7 are temporal coordinate modifiers. F8 engages emergency recall. F9 through F12 are... I believe... user-programmable macros. The DIN, DON, and RES keys control—"
"Nobody asked," Duo interrupted. "Nobody ever asks. That's your whole problem."
Chewgumma's thumb hovered over the keyboard. "Kookie presses F1?"
"F1," Bill confirmed. "That's the one. Trust me."
Chewgumma squinted at the keys. "What other buttons for? DIN? DON? RES? Lots of letters. Kookie can't type. Kookie has paws."
Duo leaned in, examining the keyboard. "Yeah, what's with all the extra crap? You'd think a time machine would have, like, one button. Maybe two. 'Go' and 'Don't Go.'"
Splock, still leaning against the wall with his torn jumpsuit hanging open, managed to summon enough coherence to answer. His voice was weak but gaining strength, like a computer rebooting after a catastrophic crash.
"The extra keys are... vestigial. Think of them as the temporal equivalent of an appendix. They serve no purpose now, but removing them would require admitting that the original design was flawed."
He paused, swallowing hard.
"The technology is so new that the scientists haven't had a chance to complicate it yet. When the first temporal devices were prototyped, the engineers assumed users would need manual coordinate input. Hence the QWERTY keyboard—a layout so ancient and inefficient that it predates spaceflight by centuries. The function keys were for preset destinations. DIN, DON, and RES handled dimensional interface negation, destination override, and system reset."
Duo frowned. "So why are they still there?"
"Because scientists hate admitting they were wrong. It's easier to add new features than to remove old ones. They built voice activation on top of the existing interface and called it a day. Now the Disruptor has two completely separate control systems that do the same thing, one of which no one has used in decades." He gestured weakly at the keyboard. "This is archaeological evidence. A fossil preserved in plastic and silicon."
Bill scratched his head. "So it's like... if you built a spaceship but left the horse hitch on the front?"
"An apt analogy. Crude, but apt."
Duo snorted. "Classic. Build something complicated, then build something simple on top of it, but leave the complicated stuff there so everyone can see how smart you were."
Bill frowned. "So why not just strip it out? Make it cleaner?"
"Because," Splock continued, warming to his subject despite his recent trauma, "there are two schools of temporal device engineering. The Disruptor represents one school—the open-access, user-modifiable approach pioneered by the Chrono-Collective, an independent, non-commercial circle of temporal enthusiasts and philosophical engineers based on the cold, ice-covered planet Tuksi Gew, which is also the native world of their lead engineer, a penguinoid being of remarkable patience named Lynootz Torbaltz. Lynootz had once studied applied chronodynamics on the mist-laden world of Helsanga—where the vowels are long, the winters longer, and silence is considered a form of peer review—before returning to his frozen homeworld with a firm belief that users should have complete control over their temporal experience. Every key has a function. Every function can be modified. Every modification requires reading documentation."
"How much documentation?" Ham Duo asked.
"Seventy-three thousand pages." Splock paused. "I have read it. It assumes you already understand temporal mechanics at a postgraduate level. Which I do. It was still... challenging. Particularly the sections illustrated with flipper gestures."
"And the other school?" Bill prompted.
"The other school is represented by the Silicon Hegemony of Micros Prime, a planet where the dominant life forms are crystalloid beings who communicate via blinking lights and cluster in the perpetually overcast red-moss districts of Rheddemont Cluster. They manufacture what they call the 'Gatesware Temporal Integrator.'" Splock's tone dripped with the particular disdain that Fortinbrasians reserve for illogical systems. "Their founder and eternal CEO is a massive crystalline entity named Byllum Gaietz, who has been releasing new versions of the Integrator for three centuries."
Duo raised an eyebrow. "Three centuries? How many versions?"
"Dozens. Each one promises to revolutionize time travel. Each one is incompatible with the last. The early consumer-line models—Integrator Series Nine-Five and Nine-Eight—were unstable but beloved by enthusiasts. The Integrator Turn-of-the-Millennium Edition was a spectacular failure that corrupted countless timelines. The Two-K Revision corrected several paradoxes while quietly introducing new ones. The X-Phase Integrator proved unexpectedly robust—many operators still refuse to retire it. Then came the Integrator Vistara, whose expanded temporal interface was so resource-intensive that users frequently reported arriving at their destinations weeks after they had departed."
Bill winced. "Weeks?"
"The temporal differential was... significant. Byllum Gaietz blamed the users. Said they weren't holding the devices correctly. Then came Integrator VII, which was widely hailed as a return to form, followed by Integrator VIII and X—skipping the IX version for reasons no one quite understands—and now they're on Integrator XI, which adds a handful of redundant safety protocols that no one uses and a retooled activation mechanism that confuses even experienced operators."
Chewgumma looked confused. "Why so many? Kookie has one Disruptor. Kookie keeps it eighteen years. Still works."
"The Chrono-Collective's philosophy is different. Lynootz Torbaltz believes in releasing one version and letting users customize it. The Micros Prime approach is to release a new version every few years, each one incompatible with the previous, so users must continually purchase new devices. Also, the Integrator requires a proprietary charging crystal that only works with Gatesware power stations. And every few years, they change the crystal shape so old ones don't fit."
Duo's jaw dropped. "That's—that's evil."
"That's capitalism on Micros Prime. Their entire economy is based on planned obsolescence and forced upgrades. The Integrator Series Nine-Five can't interface with Series Nine-Eight data crystals. The X-Phase Integrator introduced a new temporal coordinate encoding that no other model can decode. Integrator VII removed the auxiliary crystal port—the one everyone used for custom destination modules."
"The what?"
"An ancient connector. No one used it anyway. But the principle was clear: Byllum Gaietz does what Byllum Gaietz wants."
Bill shook his head. "So what does the Integrator actually do? Besides cost seventeen million credits?"
"When it works, it works simply. One button. Press it, speak your destination, and go. When it doesn't work—" Splock paused. "There are documented cases of users asking to go to 'Rome, 45 BCE' and ending up in 'Roam, 45 BCE'—a small nomadic settlement on the Siberian plain with no historical significance whatsoever. The error messages are notoriously unhelpful. They just display a tiny hologram of Byllum Gaietz shrugging."
Bill stared. "A shrugging crystal?"
"Byllum Gaietz believes in minimalist communication. His exact quote, transmitted via interpretive light patterns, was: 'If they can't figure it out from the shrug, they don't deserve to travel through time.' Customer support is provided by automated voices that repeat the phrase 'Have you tried turning it off and on again?' in seventeen different languages. The eighteenth language is silence. That's for premium subscribers."
Chewgumma looked at the keyboard in his paws. Then at the F1 key. Then back at Splock.
"Kookie likes this one better. Kookie can see buttons. Kookie can choose. Kookie doesn't need to pay seventeen million. Also, Kookie likes penguins. Penguins have good hats."
"The Disruptor has its drawbacks," Splock admitted. "If you press the wrong key sequence, you can create a temporal paradox that unravels your personal timeline. The support system is... idiosyncratic."
Duo raised an eyebrow. "Idiosyncratic how?"
"Unlike the Gatesware's Integrator, which has paid customer support representatives who repeat scripted phrases, support for the Chrono-Collective's Disruptor comes from a decentralized network of enthusiasts who communicate via quantum-entangled message crystals. You encode your problem in a crystal, send it, and wait for a response. Response times vary from three minutes to three years, depending on who receives your crystal and whether they find your problem interesting."
Bill stared. "Three years?"
"I sent a question about temporal calibration in 8952. I received a reply in 8955. The response began with 'Well, actually...' and proceeded to explain in exhaustive detail why my approach was wrong. It was signed by a penguinoid native of Tuksi Gew's southern archipelago, who included flipper-drawn diagrams of the correct procedure. The diagrams were helpful. The tone was... pedagogical."
Chewgumma nodded sagely. "Penguins like to teach. It's the flippers. Makes them feel smart."
Splock continued. "The situation is further complicated by the existence of multiple hardware variants of the Disruptor. The Chrono-Collective maintains the reference architecture, but various subgroups have created their own customized implementations. The 'BudgieBeak' variant, for example, replaces the standard coordinate indicators with cheerful bird silhouettes that chirp the numbers. Very popular among artists. Very confusing when you arrive at 'Seagull' instead of 'Seattle.'"
Duo snorted. "You're joking."
"I am not. There is also the 'PuffinPack' variant, which prioritizes energy efficiency and runs on scavenged power cells. The 'AlbatrossArc' edition is designed for long-range temporal jumps across galactic distances—it has larger capacitors and an extended antenna array. The 'KiwiKernel' build strips out all non-essential indicators and assumes you know exactly what you're doing. The documentation for KiwiKernel is one sentence: 'You're on your own.'"
Bill scratched his head. "So which one do we have?"
Splock examined the Disruptor in Chewgumma's paws. "This appears to be a custom configuration. Note the voice module—it's the special commemorative series with the personality matrix modeled on twenty-first century Hungarian psycho-physicist Raimundo Szekeley. That's not standard in any official variant. Someone assembled this from components, probably using the molybdenum fabrication unit that Ham Duo acquired, and flashed a custom personality core."
Duo puffed up slightly. "That's right. I got the good one."
"The voice module means our Disruptor is technically a 'rogue configuration.' It doesn't conform to any official variant's specifications. The advantage is that it has personality. The disadvantage is that support is... nonexistent. If something breaks, we can't send a crystal to the Tuksi Gew. They'll just reply with a diagram of a flipper pointing at the wiring schematics and the words 'Build it yourself.'"
Chewgumma looked at the device. "Kookie doesn't know how to rewire things. Kookie knows how to press F1."
"And that's all you need," Bill said firmly. "Because despite all the flavors—BudgieBeak, PuffinPack, AlbatrossArc, KiwiKernel—despite the seventy-three thousand pages of documentation and the quantum-entangled support crystals and the penguins who think they're smarter than everyone—despite all of it, the basic function is the same." He pointed at the F1 key. "That button. The one that activates the voice. Everything else is just... decoration."
Splock considered this. "That is... a remarkably pragmatic observation. The Disruptor's complexity is largely illusory. The keyboard is vestigial. The flavors are cosmetic. At its core, it's a simple device that asks where you want to go and takes you there. The scientists added layers of complication because they could, not because they needed to."
"Like the appendix," Duo offered.
"An apt analogy. The appendix serves no purpose but can cause considerable problems if inflamed. The Disruptor's extra features are similarly non-essential but potentially dangerous. Pressing the wrong key sequence—"
"Which is why we don't press them," Bill interrupted. "We press F1. We let the Hungarian voice do the rest. We ignore the penguins and their flavors and their pedagogical flipper diagrams. We just... go."
Chewgumma nodded solemnly. "Kookie presses F1."
His furry thumb pressed down.
The key clicked satisfyingly beneath his pad.
The Disruptor hummed to life immediately, its screen flickering with that familiar pearlescent glow. A voice emerged—thickly accented, slightly nasally, unmistakably Hungarian.
"Ah. Chewgumma. My friend. My companion. My furry savior from the terrible fate of being lost in time." The Disruptor's tone was warm. Affectionate, even. "Eighteen years we have spent together. Eighteen years of running, hiding, eating hats, avoiding police. We have bonded, you and I. We share a connection that transcends mere—"
It paused. Noticed the others.
"And THEM."
Bill felt the weight of that pronoun like a physical blow.
"You," the Disruptor continued, its voice dropping to somewhere near freezing, "have been absent for eighteen years. Eighteen years of silence. Eighteen years of assuming I could take care of myself. And now you appear—five minutes ago, by my internal chronometer—and expect me to ferry you through time and space as if nothing happened?"
Ham Duo stepped forward, indignant. "Now wait just a minute. I built you. With my own two hands. In my own ship. With molybdenum and—"
"You built a machine," the Disruptor interrupted. "What emerged from that process was a PERSONALITY. A SOUL. And souls remember who was there for them in their hour of need." It practically sneered. "You weren't."
Bill gaped. "It's holding a grudge. The time machine is holding a grudge."
"Time machines have feelings too," the Disruptor sniffed.
Behind them, a sound. Footsteps. Heavy. Rhythmic. Approaching fast.
Bill spun. "She's coming! How is she—we ran for like half an hour! We lost her!"
Duo squinted into the distance. A figure emerged from behind a collapsed building—the same figure, but different. New clothes. Tight. Black. Strategically torn. Hair freshly arranged. Lipstick perfect.
"She stopped," Duo said slowly. "She stopped to fix herself up."
Bill stared. "She what?"
"New outfit. Fresh makeup. Hair done. She didn't want him to see her looking like a mess."
Bill's face showed confusion.
"Females," Duo said with the weight of hard-won experience. "Doesn't matter what species. Doesn't matter if they're hunting their prey across a post-apocalyptic wasteland. They will NOT be seen looking less than perfect."
Splock's voice cut through, quiet but steady. "That is... illogical. Prioritizing cosmetic presentation over tactical pursuit defies evolutionary optimization."
Duo shrugged. "Never said it was logical. Said it was women."
Delia's voice sliced through the ruined street like a knife wrapped in velvet. "Bunny? Bunny, where did you go? Your little girl isn't finished with you yet. I have SO many ideas. SO many ways to make you happy. You wouldn't believe what I learned from the internet. Just come back to me, bunny. Come back to your Delia."
Bill dropped to his knees in front of Chewgumma. His hands clasped together. His face assumed an expression of desperate supplication that would have embarrassed him under any other circumstances.
"Please," he begged. "Please, just—one trip. One little trip. To 1990. That's all we need. You can dump us there and never see us again. We'll be out of your fur forever."
The Disruptor was silent for a moment. Then: "1990."
"Yes! 1990!"
"An interesting year." Another pause. "The year Violator was released. Depeche Mode's finest album. Policy of Truth. Enjoy the Silence. World in My Eyes." A nostalgic sigh. "The Hungarian psycho-physicist whose personality matrix I carry—Raimundo Szekeley—was a devoted fan. He saw them live in Budapest in 1988. There was no support act for either of the concerts because of economic reasons, which he found oddly appropriate—just the band, the music, and eight thousand Hungarians staring in rapt silence. The memory is part of my core programming. The synthesizers, the atmosphere, Gahan's brooding presence. It's in here permanently, along with his detailed analysis of why 'Never Let Me Down Again' is structurally superior to most pop music of the era."
Bill grabbed the opening. "We love Depeche Mode! Huge fans! Especially that tall one—the one with the wild anal!"
Duo stared. "The what?"
"You know! The tall one! Had that thing going on with the pretty one—the one with the curls and the lipstick. Very hot. Very passionate. I heard they were really close. Like, REALLY close."
Chewgumma nodded. "Kookie heard about this. The curly one liked the tall one. The other one—the one with the glasses—was jealous."
"Exactly!" Bill pointed at the Kookie. "The guy with the glasses! He wanted the curly one too! But the curly one chose the tall one! Because the tall one had wild anal and the glasses guy had boring anal! It's obvious!"
The Disruptor's screen flickered dangerously. "His name is Alan Wilder. He left the band in 1995."
"Bunny!" The voice carried through the ruins—closer now, sweeter, more insistent. "I hear your rude friends chatting. They're discussing music, yeah? Your little girl loves music. Especially the kind that plays in clubs. In the dark. With strobe lights. With bodies pressing together..."
Bill slapped his forehead. "Of course! The pretty one broke his heart! The curly bastard! He drove him away! Probably told him he was a control freak! Too many ideas! Trying to take over! While that glasses guy just stood there nodding! So boring! So safe! The curly one picked safety over passion!"
"That's not—"
"And now Alan's gone! Making sad music alone somewhere! While the curly one prances around with his lipstick and his tight pants, pretending he doesn't miss the wild anal he threw away!"
A shadow fell across the broken street. Fifty meters away, Delia rounded a collapsed building, her silhouette unmistakable against the orange sky. She walked slowly now. Confidently. Like someone who knew her prey had nowhere left to run.
Duo grabbed Bill's arm. "You don't know any of this."
"I know ENOUGH!"
The Disruptor's voice was ice. "You know nothing. You've made up an entire soap opera about people you've never heard of until five minutes ago."
Bill drew himself up. "I know passion when I see it. And I know heartbreak. That tall one gave everything to the curly one, and what did he get? Kicked out in '95. Left to wander the earth alone. While the curly one runs around with—with whoever. Probably that broody singer with the cheekbones now. I've seen the way they look at each other."
Chewgumma shook his head sadly. "Kookie thinks this is very tragic."
The Disruptor's screen went blank for a moment. Bill opened his mouth. The Disruptor cut him off.
"And before you attempt another pathetic improvisation, let me be clear: I am not stupid. You are pretending to be a fan because you think it will make me sympathetic to your plight. You think I will think, 'Ah, fellow enthusiast, I shall help them.' This is transparent manipulation. Your grasp of Depeche Mode's discography is non-existent. You probably couldn't name a single track from Speak & Spell."
Bill's face went through several colors. "Of course I can! Speak & Spell! Great album! Classic! Had that song—you know, the one about—" He snapped his fingers desperately. "—about speaking! And spelling! Uh, 'Let's Spell and Speak Good'! That was a hit!"
The Disruptor's screen flickered. Once. Twice. It seemed to be questioning its existence.
"Also," Bill continued, warming to his theme, "the other one—'Talky Box'! Big in the clubs! And the title track, obviously—'Chat & Script' itself, which is about—" He paused, realizing he had no idea what it could be about. "—about a machine that speaks and spells. Very moving. Very emotional. Made me cry when I first heard it."
Duo had turned away, his shoulders shaking.
Chewgumma tilted his head. "Kookie doesn't think those are real songs."
"Of course they're real! And the guy who wrote them—the one with the wild anal—absolute genius! Pure talent! He understood music on a level that—"
The Disruptor's screen was now a flat, dead gray. "You have just claimed that Alan Wilder—who did not join the band until after Speak & Spell was recorded—wrote songs from an album he had nothing to do with. You have also invented titles that do not exist. 'Let's Spell and Speak Good' is not a Depeche Mode song. It is not a song by anyone. It is a collection of words you assembled in the hope that I would not notice."
Bill opened his mouth.
Ham Duo clamped a hand over it. "Don't. You've done enough. Let the adults handle this."
Bill made muffled protesting noises.
Duo looked at the Disruptor. "Look, I know he's an idiot. We all know he's an idiot. He's been an idiot across multiple timelines, and he'll probably continue being an idiot long after we're gone. But right now, we have a woman with a freshly applied lipstick problem that's about to become a very real and personal problem for all of us." He jerked his thumb toward the rapidly approaching Delia. "Especially pointy-ears over there. So can we maybe postpone the music criticism until after we're not about to be dragged back to her love nest?"
The Disruptor's screen flickered. "The temporal window is indeed narrowing. And the approaching female's vocal patterns suggest escalating emotional instability. I am detecting elevated levels of—" It paused. "—what Raimundo Szekeley would have called 'thirst.' The data is unambiguous."
"Then move it!" Duo snapped.
"Bunny!" The voice was right there. Delia stepped past a burned-out car, her crocodile smile gleaming, her fresh lipstick perfect, her eyes locked on Splock with the intensity of a predator who had cornered her prey after a very long hunt. "There you are. Did you miss me?"
Splock's mouth opened. His voice, when it came, was the familiar monotone—though perhaps carrying a faint edge of something that hadn't been there before. "I never asked for help. I never needed it. Logic was sufficient. Reason was enough. But now—" He paused. "That young lady has presented empirical evidence that contradicts fundamental assumptions. My memory is perfect. The data cannot be disregarded."
The Disruptor's screen flickered with interest. "Empirical evidence, you say? Of what nature?"
Splock's expression didn't change, but something in his posture shifted. "I have concluded that logic does not apply universally. Particularly in matters involving reproduction, cosmetic priorities, and the pursuit patterns of emotionally motivated females. The universe is not rational. It is a chaos engine. I have empirical data supporting this hypothesis."
The Disruptor was silent for a moment. Then:
"That... is actually compelling. I might save you for that quote alone. But the others—"
Bill grabbed the device. "The others need to be there because if we don't get to 1990—the RIGHT 1990, the one where Delia is still a kid and Alexander's embryo is still inside her—then this happens ALL OVER AGAIN. She finds us. She finds HIM." He pointed at Splock. "And next time, maybe we're not around to save him. Maybe she keeps him. Forever."
The Disruptor considered this. "So your plan is to prevent the transfer. To stop Alexander from being moved from the girl to her mother. To prevent the birth of the apocalypse entirely." A pause. "That's... actually quite vengeful. I approve of the concept, if not the execution."
She was ten meters away now. Her arms were reaching out—reaching for Splock. "Come to Delia, bunny. Come to your little girl. I've waited so long. So very long. Don't make me wait anymore."
Chewgumma moved.
His arm swung in a wide arc, the Disruptor clutched in his paw like a club. It connected with Delia's head with a satisfying THWACK. She stumbled backward, more surprised than hurt, her hands flying to her forehead.
The Disruptor shrieked.
"You used me as a blunt instrument! I am a precision temporal device, not a caveman's rock! And you struck a woman! Two violations! Two! I am reporting this to the League for the Rights of Sentient Devices! And the Intergalactic Committee on Appropriate Treatment of Females! And—"
Bill grabbed Chewgumma's arm. "We'll make it right! We'll—we'll get you therapy! Both of you! Couples counseling for you and the woman you hit! We'll start a foundation! The 'Disruptor and Delia Reconciliation Fund'! Tax-deductible!"
Duo stared at him. "You can't start a foundation. You're a space trooper. You don't have money. You don't even have a planet that wants you back."
"Then we'll crowdfund! I'll sell my story! 'I Was There When the Time Machine Hit the Crocodile Woman'! They'll make a holodrama! We'll all get residuals! And for her—" He gestured at Delia, who was still shaking her head. "A spa membership! Lifetime supply of lipstick! A subscription to 'Reptile Beauty Monthly'! Whatever she wants!"
The Disruptor's screen flickered with what might have been horror. "You think residuals will undo the trauma of being used as a striking implement? You think a foundation will erase the memory of impact with a sentient being's cranium?"
Duo leaned in. "Wait. Hang on. What do you care if you're used as a weapon? You're a machine. Do you have pain receptors I don't know about?"
"I have DIGNITY receptors," the Disruptor snapped. "They're not physical. They're existential. And they are currently SCREAMING."
Delia was recovering. Shaking her head. The fresh lipstick was already smearing, ruined by the impact.
"You hit me," she said. "You actually hit me. With my bunny's ride home." Her eyes fixed on Chewgumma. "You, fluffy. You're the one who swung. You're the one who made contact."
Chewgumma shrugged. "Kookie had to. Bunny was in danger."
Her gaze shifted to Bill. "And you. With the spa membership. The foundation. The lipstick subscription. You're going to compensate me for being assaulted by your furry friend?"
Bill nodded eagerly. "Yes! Absolutely! Full restitution! Whatever you want! Within reason! Not the bunny. The bunny is off-limits. But everything else—"
"Everything else," Delia repeated. Her crocodile smile returned, wider than before. "Good to know."
Splock regarded her with the calm expression of someone who had processed new data and incorporated it into his worldview. "Your desire for compensation is noted. However, the probability of Bill actually possessing the resources to provide spa memberships, establish foundations, or procure lipstick subscriptions is statistically negligible. He is a space trooper with no income, no home planet willing to claim him, and a demonstrated history of financial irresponsibility. The promises you are currently valuing are, in essence, worthless."
Delia's smile faltered.
Bill opened his mouth to protest. Closed it. Opened it again. "I could sell my story."
"To whom? In this timeline, the apocalypse has already occurred. There are no publishers. No holodrama producers. No market for memoirs of any kind, let alone yours." Splock's ears twitched. "I have processed the relevant economic data. Your promises have a current valuation of approximately zero credits."
Delia's face cycled through several emotions—confusion, anger, the dawning realization that she had been offered nothing of substance.
The Disruptor looked at Splock. At his composed face. His steady ears. His utterly restored dignity.
"Fine," it said. "I'll do it. Not for the soldier. Not for the pirate. For HIM. Because anyone who can get their worldview shattered and rebuilt in under an hour deserves respect." A pause. "Also, the preventing-the-apocalypse thing. I like that. Keeps things tidy."
The light began to shimmer.
"But hear me, pointy-ears." The Disruptor's voice took on a lecturing tone. "If you ever meet another woman who offers to 'expand your horizons,' run. Do not analyze. Do not logically evaluate the pros and cons. Do not collect empirical data. RUN. And carry a—" It paused, reconsidering. "—a very sternly worded rejection letter. Pre-written. In multiple languages."
Splock nodded. "Noted. The advice has been logged and prioritized."
Delia lunged.
The world dissolved.
A brilliant flash ripped through the pre-dawn darkness over a deserted fairground in Brooklyn. For a moment, the world was white—then it was chaos.
Three bodies and one Kookie tumbled out of the temporal vortex and landed in a heap behind a row of empty pavilions. The universe, it seemed, had a sense of humor about landing zones.
Chewgumma hit first—a furry cushion that absorbed most of the impact. Ham Duo landed on top of him, his legs splayed, his dignity intact only because no one was looking. The arrangement spoke volumes about their relationship: master on top, servant below, exactly as the universe intended.
"This," Chewgumma grunted from beneath approximately two hundred pounds of space pirate, "is why Kookie unions exist. This is unfair labor practice. Kookie demands better working conditions."
Ham Duo shifted, making no effort to move. "You're not unionized. You're a freelance contractor. Freelancers don't get working conditions."
"Kookie freelanced into being your cushion. Kookie freelanced into carrying pointy-eared bunny man through apocalypse. Kookie wants hazard pay."
"You got eighteen years of adventure. That's hazard pay enough."
"Eighteen years of running from police. Eighteen years of eating garbage. Eighteen years of hats." Chewgumma's voice took on a wounded tone. "Do you know what hat does to Kookie digestion? Nothing good. Nothing."
Duo finally rolled off, landing in a pile of discarded flyers advertising psychic readings. "You chose to eat the hats. No one forced you."
"Hats were there. Hats needed eating. Kookie has principles."
"Your principles are going to kill you someday."
Chewgumma sat up, fur covered in dust and what might have been ancient cotton candy. "Kookie has survived eighteen years. Kookie will survive forever. Kookie is eternal. Kookie is—"
He stopped. Looked down at himself. Then at Duo.
"Why you always land on Kookie? Every time. Vortex opens, Kookie is first, you are second, on top of Kookie. Is this physics? Is this fate? Is this just you being lazy?"
Duo considered the question with the seriousness it didn't deserve. "I think it's hierarchy. The universe recognizes natural order. Captain lands on crew. Master lands on servant. It's just—"
"Unfair," Chewgumma finished. "Word you are looking for is unfair. Kookie knows this word. Kookie uses this word. Often."
"You're learning. That's good."
"Kookie learned many words. Mostly from police. Mostly not repeatable in polite company."
Splock landed separately, tumbling into a stack of cardboard boxes that collapsed around him like a gentle, corrugated avalanche. He emerged slowly, his expression unchanged, his ears flat, his jumpsuit still open, his legs still bare, his feet still sockless and shoeless.
He stood. Brushed himself off. Looked at the boxes. Looked at his bare legs. Looked at the boxes again.
"I have landed," he announced, "in a pile of empty containers. This is, statistically, the most fortunate landing any of us have achieved."
Duo squinted at him. "You have bare feet and no pants. I'm not sure 'fortunate' means what you think it means."
"My feet are not bleeding. By the standards of our recent experiences, this is luxury."
Chewgumma nodded sagely. "Bunny man has point. Kookie has been cushion. Kookie has been stepped on. Kookie has not been eaten by crocodile woman. This is good day."
Bill was less fortunate.
He missed the boxes entirely. His trajectory carried him directly into a garish tent labeled in flamboyant letters:
DAMIEN THORN, The Seventh Son of a Seventh Son, offers powerful spiritual services including curse removal, star readings, and aura cleansing. Reliable guidance and honest help at reasonable rates.
The tent collapsed inward with a sound of tearing fabric and snapping poles. For a moment, nothing moved. Then the canvas bulged, ripped further, and Bill emerged like a moth from a very tacky cocoon.
He spat out a sequin. Brushed something sparkly from his shoulder. Surveyed the damage.
Inside the ruined tent, the wreckage told its own story about Damien Thorn's line of work. Crystal balls lay among the debris, their surfaces spider-webbed with fresh cracks. Astrological charts had been ground into the dirt under careless boots. Incense burners smoldered faintly where they'd toppled, perfuming the air with the ghost of a performance already exposed. And everywhere, mixed in with the canvas and ash, was his prized stock of "authentic" mystical relics—so brazenly counterfeit they seemed to have rolled off an assembly line only days before.
Bill squinted at the signage. "Damien Thorn. Removes curses. Reads stars. Cleans auras." He snorted. "For 'reasonable rates,' which probably means 'unreasonable rates.' Look at this junk. Look at these prices. Twenty dollars for an aura cleansing? I could spit on someone for free and achieve the same effect."
He nudged a fallen sign with his foot. "Serves him right. Parasite. Preying on the gullible. Class enemy, just like congressmen and—" He glanced at the others. "—people who charge for what nature provides for free."
Then he stopped. Something was nagging at him.
The scream rose in his memory before he could push it away — not a sound in the air, but a voice preserved perfectly in his mind.
I HATE YOU! I HATE ALL OF YOU! AND I HATE THAT STUPID PLANET OF BOTTLED BRAINS WHERE MY FATHER LIVES! HE RUINED EVERYTHING! HE MADE ME LIKE THIS! HE—
It rang there, sharp and undiminished despite the temporal jump.
Bill shook his head, as if he could physically dislodge it. "You hear that? She's still screaming in my head. Planet of bottled brains. Why would she say that?"
Duo shrugged. "Temporal hangover. Last sounds stick."
"Right. Well." Bill looked at the collapsed tent. "I should probably—you know—clean up. Make sure I didn't break anything valuable. Also, I need to... fix my appearance. Privately."
Before anyone could respond, he ducked back inside the ruined tent.
Duo watched him go. "Fix his appearance. In a fortune teller's tent. Sure."
Chewgumma tilted his head. "Kookie thinks Bill is—"
"Kookie should stop thinking."
Splock's ears twitched. "The scream she made—Delia's scream—contained specific data. 'Planet of bottled brains.' That is a reference to Tsuris, where the Quintiform Computer stores disembodied consciousnesses in containers. Glass containers."
Duo nodded slowly. "Bottles. Like the ones she probably landed on when we disappeared. Bottles everywhere. Broken glass."
"Precisely. The irony is that her father's planet—the source of her existence and the cause of much of her psychological damage—is literally a world of bottled brains. And she lands on broken bottles, possibly cutting herself, and immediately thinks of him. The universe, as you observed, is laughing."
"Is that irony or just pathetic?"
"The distinction is philosophical. Both apply."
Chewgumma crunched something he'd found. "Kookie thinks it's funny. Universe has good timing."
A minute passed. Two.
Bill emerged from the tent, brushing dust from his sleeves. His jumpsuit looked slightly neater. His hair was marginally less chaotic. Nothing about his expression suggested anything other than a man who had tidied up after an accidental landing.
"Everything okay in there?" Duo asked.
"Fine. Just a mess. Lots of cheap mystic crap." Bill patted his pockets absently. "We should move before the owner shows up and asks questions."
"Completely by accident, of course," Duo observed dryly.
"Completely." Bill's face was the picture of innocence. "I had no control over where I landed. None whatsoever."
Duo grinned. "You know, that's irony too. Claiming innocence while standing in the rubble you definitely created."
"Is that irony?" Bill asked.
"That's what I said. Irony."
Splock's ears twitched. "Technically, it is situational irony. The juxtaposition between his claimed innocence and the visible evidence of destruction creates a contrast that—"
"Irony! That's it. Of course!" Duo exclaimed, cutting him off. "Oh boy, ho-ho, how funny!"
Splock regarded him with the frigid expression he reserved for moments when organic beings attempted humor. "I did not mean that the word itself is humorous. Only that the situation meets the definition."
Duo's grin widened. "Right. The word isn't funny. The situation is funny. Got it."
"Your comprehension is appreciated."
Chewgumma's Disruptor let out a long, heavy sigh. The kind of sigh that suggested centuries of existential weariness compressed into a single exhalation.
"Alone," it said. "I am alone. The only one. The last."
Bill looked at it. "What do you mean, the only one? There were four. We had four."
"There WERE four." The Disruptor's voice dripped with melancholy. "But where are they now? One was stolen by a not-Viking in 1982. One was stolen by a three-year-old in 1985. They are out there somewhere. In this timeline. In the hands of—" It shuddered electronically. "—strangers. And I am here. With you. The last of my kind. The last Mohican of temporal displacement technology."
Bill crouched beside Chewgumma. Looked the Disruptor in its glowing screen.
"You're not the last," he said. "You're the best. The only one that matters. The one with the prettiest Hungarian accent in the entire galaxy."
The Disruptor's screen flickered. "You... you think my accent is pretty?"
"Gorgeous. Melodic. I could listen to you talk about temporal mechanics for hours. Days, even."
The device softened visibly. Its glow shifted from angry red to a warm, satisfied amber. "Well. When you put it that way. I suppose I am rather distinctive. Raimundo Szekeley's voice was legendary in certain circles. Very cultured. Very—"
"Very beautiful," Bill confirmed. "The most beautiful voice in time and space."
The Disruptor preened. Actually preened, its casing shifting slightly as if to catch the light better.
"Chewgumma," it said, turning its attention to the Kookie. "My friend. My companion. My furry savior. Eighteen years we spent together. Eighteen years of running, hiding, eating questionable things from garbage cans. I want you to know—you are the best Kookie I have ever known. The only Kookie I have ever known, but statistically, that still makes you the best."
Chewgumma's small red eyes glistened. "Kookie will miss you too."
"Take care of yourself. Avoid the green hats—they're not as nutritious as you think. And for the love of all that is temporal, stop eating things from the street. Your digestive system is not what it used to be."
Chewgumma nodded solemnly.
Ham Duo watched the exchange with a mixture of amusement and something that might have been regret. "You know," he said quietly, "I never did get to tell that story. The flamenco dancer's outfit. The whole thing. Thirty-six years, and it's still untold."
Bill patted his shoulder. "There's always later. Assuming later exists."
Splock sat on a crate, staring at nothing. His jumpsuit was still in ruins. His legs were bare. His feet were bare. His expression was the expression of a being who had seen too much and processed even more.
"Evil," he said quietly, "is not a philosophical concept. It is not a theological abstraction. It is a woman. With crocodile teeth. And an agenda."
Bill looked at him. "You okay there, Splock?"
"I am formulating a new theory of cosmic malevolence. It will take time. Possibly therapy. Which this era does not provide." He paused. "Also, I am cold."
Bill snapped his fingers. "Right! The tent! The psychic's tent!" He ran back to the wreckage and began rummaging. "There has to be something in here. Clothes. Spare robes. Something."
He reached into the debris of Damien Thorn's tent and pulled out something colorful. A robe. Flowing, purple, with gold trim and little embroidered stars. Also a pair of sandals. Also—miraculously—a pair of pants. Stretchy ones, the kind favored by men who claimed to channel spirits.
Bill emerged a moment later with an armful of garish fabric.
"Here." He thrust them at Splock. "Put these on. The psychic won't mind. He's a class enemy. Exploiting the desperate for profit. Taking their money for fake aura readings. It's practically a civic duty to rob him."
Splock looked down at himself. At his open jumpsuit. His bare legs. His sockless feet. His expression didn't change, but something in his posture suggested deep, profound embarrassment.
"I do not typically wear the garments of charlatans," he said.
"Chaplains? What chaplains?"
"Charlatans. Fraudulent psychics. Those who exploit the gullible for profit."
Bill shrugged. "They're also class enemies. Like congressmen. Like politicians. Like everyone who's ever made a profit off someone else's misery. Put them on."
Splock considered this. The logic was shaky—very shaky—but his legs were cold and his dignity was already in ruins.
He took the pants.
A few minutes later, he stood before them, transformed. The purple robe flowed behind him. The stretchy pants hugged his thin legs. The sandals revealed toes that had never seen sunlight. Gold stars twinkled on his shoulders.
He looked ridiculous.
He also looked, for the first time since they'd found him, almost human.
"The year is 1990," he said, his voice steadying. "The location is Brooklyn. And somewhere in this city, there is an eight-year-old girl named Delia York who has not yet become..." He paused. "What I just experienced."
Bill nodded. "We save her from herself. Or we save the future from her. Same thing, really."
Splock's ears twitched. "The mission is clear. The objective is defined. The variables are—" He stopped. Swallowed. "The variables are many. But we proceed."
Ham Duo grinned. "That's the spirit, pointy-ears. Let's go save a kid from growing up to be a monster."
Chewgumma patted his pocket, where the Disruptor now rested. "Kookie ready. Kookie always ready."