Chapter 1: In the Beginning, Attention to the Crap

“Meanwhile, back at the ranch,” the real Doc Skeet likes that phrase and frequently uses it. Sounds melodramatic like an old TV western from the 1950s. “The Ranch” as it is called in top secret dossiers, actually was a working ranch a few decades back. One of those huge ranches that became a small town at its apogee. Then it became a ghost town. Camouflaged to appear as a ghost town clandestine base, far away, remotely hidden among the Wyoming Red Desert mesas and canyons.

Doc is glumly sitting at her “Ranch” bunker console, monitoring her cyborg clone, and has little to do. She sets her coffee on the desk in rejection, nudges it further away. Bio-telemetric data transmission is minimal across time. Nothing more than a moving blip on a green screen is being transmitted via the nanobots. The transmission is unidirectional. She cannot transmit to, command, instruct, inform, or abort the cyborg. A piloted drone cyborg is not even being considered for development. Doc observes only, the unit is alive and now moving again. She senses the unit is experiencing some minor stress, but no physical impairment.

Being ordered to destroy her friend’s clone upsets her and her digestion. She chews another antacid. Regrets drinking so much coffee. It sours them both. She senses the clone. Literally gives both of them acid reflux heartburn.

How that emotional contact, connection, happens across time is one of the greatest mysteries they have encountered. Doc supposes everybody wonders about it. She hasn’t a clue why it happens or how.

Time-travel technology is in it’s infancy and insanely expensive, crude, just barely functional. Cyborg clones of reliable capable people of proven mettle is their only current option for time travel. This is only the second mission, actually it’s not! It is the second option of Mission One.

Her only, and long time friend is destined to become a virtual implacable enemy, dangerous to her because she is dangerous to him. His cyborg has malfunctioned. Her cyborg sent to destroy it!

Her enemy and friend Olé, sitting nearby, is the original for the mission one cyborg clone. Olé is as helpless and incapacitated as she is, but not as disturbed. Sitting two desks over from her, he appears to be calmly reading a comic book while his clone is stalked by hers. She hates being ignorant. Not knowing or misunderstanding is debilitating. Calculations of the highest order degrade into guesses. Predictions? Reliability evaporates without hard data. Doc hates spontaneity. You cannot plan it. Her clone is forced by circumstance to be spontaneously inventive and resourceful in order to assassinate a clever friend and she can’t even observe closely. Nothing beyond “clone continues to exist.” She frequently wants to scream in frustration! She would never cry “WHY ME?” Not Doc! Victim-hood? Never! Accounting calls the assassination R&D. Doc says it’s H&H. Heartache and Heartburn. Hell and Hysteria! Her initials for it, H&H. Damned unpleasant situation hunting a friend! She hates it! She paces and wanders aimlessly to pass behind Olé. She guessed correctly. The old fraud has a tech manual hidden inside the comic book. Oh, Olé! Why do you hide your light under a bushel? Why the country bumpkin facade?

Then their screens went dark when the cyborgs collided! “What? Something get unplugged? What happened? Report somebody! Somebody investigate if it’s a malfunction! What the hell just happened? Hey! Check for smoke, overheated smell! Anything out of the ordinary! Any ideas?”

Their own private debriefing session, support group meeting, total membership present. Two.

Later that afternoon, in the NCO club, human Doc and human Olé are having beers while discussing the mission.

“So, you have no idea, why your cyborg would breach protocols and preach Bible stories to people living long before they supposedly happened? I respect your faith, Olé. But isn’t it necessary to separate your religion from your career as an assassin? You don’t experience internal conflicts? Unless you isolate those aspects of yourself, don’t they grate on each other?” Doc asks.

“Well, you know I’m a man of faith. I suppose some of that was incorporated into the consciousness of the cyborg. I feel like I’m doing God’s work! I’m not a murderer. Murder is unlawfully taking a human life. I only kill lawfully! Under orders, or self defense. No, no conflicts of conscience! I’m cool! I do get an urge to proselytize sometimes. I reckon my clone got that urge too. Wouldn’t surprise me none. After all, doesn’t your medical knowledge transfer?”

“Yes. Well, yeah, it’s a convenient thing to have my doctor’s skills with me on my clone.” Doc chuckles.

“You know? I can’t figure you out. You, your clone, got all upset that I, rather, my clone was preaching, and I’ve known you a long time, gal. I’m convinced, or at least I think I am ... you are a believer, aren’t you? Do you schizo yourself to adapt your religion to your career? “ Olé asked, but he appeared a bit doubtful.

“I do believe in a creator, and the rest is personal. Private. Leave it at that.” Doc’s eyes were steady on Olé’s and not smiling. Once she was certain Olé got the message, she raised her glass and shifted her gaze, studying the amber beer in her glass. “Alls well, that ends well. The news reports say the atheist’s claims have been debunked. Pure hoax. Nothing resembling the Bible was found in any antediluvian text. But you and I know who it was that really spoiled their fun.”

“Yeah. You nipped them in the bud, Buddy. Took out both our cyborgs, the witnesses, and the evidence. Thanks for cleaning up my mess! The atheists were trying and still are, to bring down western culture, and that might have been the catalyst, the fulcrum, they’ve been seeking. Not to say western culture is perfect or couldn’t be improved upon. Can you imagine what they’d replace western culture with?”

“No, but I don’t imagine it would be an improvement. Maybe some other culture would. Some Eastern cultures and a few others are highly ethical. But the only ethics damned atheists have, is to win anyway you can. Cheers!” Doc downed half of her beer.

They clinked glasses. Olé was thoughtful, “Its fortunate Mt Eve had already moved on to Africa, before your clone did, whatever it was she did, or we might be orphaned incorporeal spirits lolling around without any beers. Anyway, Good job. Saved the planet. Saved Mankind. Saved the Future! Sincerely, thanks again! So, where you off to next, Doc?”

“They’re proposing an encounter with Y chromosomal Adam. I’ve been drafted as the clone model.” Doc stared down into her nearly empty glass.

“My God! The idiots! Y chromosomal isn’t Adam, it’s Noah. Noah and his three sons carry the same Y marker, and there aren’t any other men survived. Noah is grandpa to everyone today. Didn’t they ever attend Sunday-school? Don’t blow him up, damn it! I’d love to meet him! Don’t look at me like that! Don’t get huffy on me, I’m your Pal, your Bud, remember? But sending an assassin of your caliber, or your equally dangerous clone, to that rendezvous seems very problematical to me!”

“You’re just jealous they chose me over you.” Doc laughed and drained her glass.

“Yeah. Probably. You’re right. Cheers!” Ole’ offered to clink glasses. Doc clinked with her empty. Ole’ sighed and sulked. “You’re going to ask me where my new assignment is. Don’t! Save it. I’ll spare you the effort. Remedial training. Cargo cults and culture shock. Avoidance tactics. Low profile, Culture protection, that crap. Fifty damn hours of boring punishment”

“Best pay attention to the CRAP this time!” Doc advised grinning. She rattled her empty glass against the table top. “Your round, Pal!”

As usual when Olé and Doc were toasting and tossing beers at the NCO club and it was Olé’s turn to buy, he intentionally delayed. Not because he was cheap, Olé just enjoyed being annoying.

“So tell me again why you didn’t go to Officer Candidate School?” Olé knew this was a long story and a thirsty one. The intent was, get Doc to cave and buy the round from dry frustration and thirst.

“Didn’t want to.” Doc tersely muttered, already too long familiar with Olé’s games.

“I have seen only officer doctors in the military, including dentists, psychiatrists, all are officers.” Olé stretched the ounce of beer dreg in his glass. Tiniest little sips. “Everyone excepting you, Doc”

“Seen many of that last group? The psychiatrists, Olé? By appointment? Or only on the golf course? All those doctor officers are reserve officers Olé. Reserve officers aren’t accepted, well, they’re redheaded step brothers in academy officers’ eyes. And I’m not a doctor at all, in the MD’s eyes. A chiropractor gets more respect! According to the medical fraternity, a beast doctor is a beast mechanic.” Doc pouted, dramatized playing a fake victim, for Olé’s benefit.

“Ain’t right! Just my opinion!” asserted Olé.

“There simply isn’t much need for veterinarians in the Army, Olé. Not anymore. Not since they got rid of the horses and mules. Imagine me making house calls to the brass’ s wives’s hypochondriac poodles? Or hypochondriac wives’s poodles?” Doc shuddered making a face.

“They wouldn’t make you do that!” But Olé believed Oh Yes They Would!

“As a doctor of veterinary medicine, I am also trained in human medicine. Veterinary schools know their graduates often work in remote areas without access to other medical providers.”

“In an emergency, we are licensed to, and expected to treat human patients as well as livestock. Blood is blood, bone is bone, and tissue is tissue. The same pharmacology books are used in veterinary school as in medical school.”

She sipped at imaginary beer. Tried to enjoy it. Japanese learn to sip tea from an empty cup. Focus!

“The primary difference between the veterinary profession and an MD, is that I rely upon caresses and a soft voice to soothe anxious patients. Also, beasts never insist on discussing their case and I never have to fight their insurance provider bureaucracies to get paid. Beasts don’t have health insurance,” she said with a smirk.

“Their eyes are eloquent enough with pleas for help and gratitude for relief, even expressing love, that they don’t need to verbalize.”

“I don’t have the knack or training in bedside manners expected of Mds. Sometimes, I regret that. I can read the animals but have no empathy with fellow humans and no illusions about my powers of persuasion. Telling somebody in pain, to suck it up and quit being a crybaby, only works in the military.” she explained. “So, I became a medic and get to save people in difficulty, but don’t have to commiserate. Eventually I became a specialist in nasty warfare. Now, I’m at the pinnacle of my career, a black ops assassin involved in a time travel project. Do I miss not going to OCS?”

Doc thirstily eyeballed her empty glass, and saw no joy in it. She refused to look at Olé. Apparently, she lacked the mental discipline to sip tea from an empty cup! “Never!”

“I see you got a plain brown paper wrapped box ready to go. For Morgan? Another present?” Doc nodded. “You spoil that boy something terrible!” Olé accused. “Planning on going into Rawlins?”

“He’s the only brother I got. I expect, suspect, he’s the nearest I’ll ever have to a child of my own.” Doc was looking far away. “Nope, not going into town myself. New personnel are arriving today. I’ll give their driver a few bucks to mail it for me, on his return to town.”

“Sometimes I have a vision of you all alone, sitting on a mountain top in a hermit’s hut. Sort of suits you, the role of hermit,” Olé told Doc.

Doc patiently waited on Olé to buy the next round and remained silent as a hermit. She felt alone. Reality is, everybody’s alone. Hermit crabs in their shells. She’d out-wait him all night, if needed.”

“You know? It’s heartless of you to tune me out like this! Ain’t friendly like. Rain-check Pal. Game’s on!” Olé shoved his empty glass away and stood to attention.

Doc Skeet was caught unaware, but quickly rose to attention, then performed a heel clicking smart about face. Eyes straight ahead, using her peripheral vision she observed the two lieutenants standing in the vestibule.

“Lieutenants?” Olé and Doc spoke in unison.

“Gentlemen, er sergeants. We are here as guests of,” the blond lieutenant said aloofly as she checked a slip of paper, “Sergeant Major Skarston and Command Sergeant Major Franklin.”

“I am Flight Lieutenant Halke. My companion is, Lieutenant Cruz. Have we arrived too early?” Both women smiled charmingly.

“Welcome, officers,” said the Doc and Olé in unison.

“to the Non-Commissioned Officers Club” added Olé.

“We are your hosts and escorts this evening and I am pleased you have arrived safely. The hour is completely insignificant, as Dinner awaits on your pleasure.” Making introductions, Doc Skeet continued. “I am ... Command Sergeant Major Franklin, but please call me Doc or Skeet.”

“Then you must be... ?” began the lovely Lieutenant Cruz.

“Sergeant Major Skarston, Ma’am. But please, if you wish to be less formal, address me as your royal...”

“ ... pain in the ass,” added Doc, mimicking Olé’s voice. “Excuse me please, I need a moment to speak with your driver.”

Olé glared at Doc and quickly amended, “Just Olé. Plain old O-L-E will do.”

“‘Olay’? That doesn’t sound Scandinavian. In fact it sounds Spanish!” opined Lieutenant Cruz.

She glanced at their wet detritus strewn table with disdain. Olympic emblem overlays of ring marks on the table top. A result of the lack of coasters. Disgusted her to see the wads of wet crumpled paper napkins and the massed ranks of dried foam smeared empties.

“Are we sitting here?” She ventured with distaste, then glanced through an open archway into the unlit dining room with its linen draped tables. “Or are we in there?”

Her gaze lingered intently, remaining ‘in there.’ “Certainly! We will use the dining room. Master at arms? The lights in the dining room, on please.”

“Of course, sergeant major,” and the master at arms, the club manager, went to his task.

“Ma’am?” Olé offered his arm to Lieutenant Cruz.

“Oh, we mustn’t.” and she quickly pulled Lieutenant Halke into place at Olé’s side. Then Lieutenant Cruz boldly claimed Doc’s arm, who’d returned just at that opportune moment. “Shall we?”

Not till then, did she notice the stricken expressions of her companions, and the barely concealed hurt on Olé’s face. Olé was rigid, as if maintaining self control by emulating rigor mortis!

“Your pardon please Olé, but you and I will be seeing a great deal of each other over the next five days, and I want to keep it strictly professional. You agree, of course?”

Olé’s expression changed from having been ignominiously slapped to being miserably marooned. “I am happy to oblige your wishes ma’am. It would be helpful to understand what they are?” Stiffly but courteously uttered, with a touch of heat.

“Oh!” Lt. Cruz squared her shoulders and announced formally. “I am your instructor in remedial Primitive Culture Protection, for the duration of the next five days.”

She dropped her guard slightly, and lifted her eyebrows. “Didn’t you know?”

Lieutenant Cruz’s was the only face not registering surprise. She relaxed and that encouraged the group to relax. “Seems not! But I am. And ... I am indeed greatly honored by your offer to escort me. It seems to me, as your instructor, inappropriate I think, for me to accept.”

She smiled mischievously. “I want your mind on the class material this week, not seeking additional opportunities to squire me. Best not to start! All smoothed over?”

“Yes ma’am.” Olé shifted his attention and was smiling.

“Lieutenant?” Offering his arm to Lieutenant Halke.

“Delighted, Sergeant Major. Since my business is with Command Sergeant Major Franklin, you are the perfect neutral choice as my escort. Thank you.” Flight Lieutenant Halke placed her hand on his forearm and the two regally marched in following the Master at Arms.

“Ma’am?” Doc inclined her head indicating they should follow. Inwardly, she was amused. She was imagining Olé’s macho masculinity in-digesting “neutral choice.” as a reference to himself!

“With pleasure, Doc.” and Lieutenant Cruz did a little hop skip to get in step with Doc as they followed their friends.

Once they were seated, girl, girl, boy, girl around the best table in the house, Olé explained the evening’s menu.

“Welcome to ‘The Ranch.’ Only essential personnel are ever assigned here and our staff is thus limited and facilities joined for convenience. The old cook house is the combined mess for both officers and enlisted, using that just as an example. We are unusually informal here. I rounded up an extraordinary staff to prepare this unique Wyoming meal.”

“Howdy ma’am, ma’am. Hiya Doc! This is Billy Bob to my left, Billy Joe over there, and I’m Beau. Billy Ray, our Honcho, isn’t here tonight. We four are the local chapter of the Grill Masters Club.”

Hand shakes all around. Beau then proceeded to explain their offerings.

Enthusiastic applause! “I want to try everything!” was the orders from all three women. Passing on Elk and Antelope, Olé ordered his rare beef and potatoes usual artery hardening infarction special.

Charming smiles, conspiratorial murmurs, raucous guffaws, shocked gasping, and feminine giggles abounded. Lots of delicious food and an injudicious amount of alcohol was happily consumed. At times, they were a noisy boisterous crowd but an informal good time was being had by all.

“Flight Lieutenant Halke. I can’t avoid noticing you are not wearing wings on your tunic? The rank of flight lieutenant? Are they resurrecting that? If I’m prying into sensitive areas, I apologize and withdraw my questions.” Doc inquired gently.

“No, Doc. Not sensitive at all. No wings because, unlike our brothers and sisters who deservedly wear the wings, I fly a computer console safely remote from danger. I fly drones,” she said smiling. “‘flight lieutenant’ is appropriate because flying is my job, but I don’t deserve the heroic wings since I never go up myself. Never put myself at risk.”

“How about yourself, Command Sergeant Major Doctor ‘Skeet’ Lulu Franklin. You aren’t wearing your decorations.” She leaned towards Doc in an intimate listening posture.

Doc grimaced. “I don’t like the Lulu and I’d be pleased to never hear it again. Those ranks of ribbons weigh me down. We’re informal here.” Doc winked. “Now if you’re hoping to be suitably impressed, maybe you’d care to come up to my place and ogle my ego wall?”

Lieutenant Halke winked back and replied, “Okay.”

“You’d be disappointed.” Doc assured her.

“Because you don’t have an ego wall? I know that! Will I be disappointed?” she said flirtatiously.

“Perhaps not. My wig collection is extraordinary. This high and tight macho bitch haircut is an accommodation to the aegis necessities of my profession. I have heard, well, actually I’ve been told, I clean up quite nice when I’m feeling slinky!” Doc smiled.

“You are a babe when you choose to be, Doc.” agreed Olé.

“I would offer to lend you some things from my wardrobe except I’m 6’6”and my clothes would swallow you, I fear.” Doc offered.

“Thanks, but no thanks, Doc.” smart-ass Olé smirked.

Both lieutenants excused themselves laughing and hurried to the ladies’ room.

When the lieutenants returned they seemed straightened, adjusted, properly cool and distant, and the minimal cosmetic they wore was freshened. It was the time for letting hair down.

“Originally, I was part of the team that discovered the nanobots. If you want to see my ego wall sometime, it’s packed in several boxes in storage. Never was on display. My education is, I’m embarrassed I’ll appear bragging.” Lt Halke began.

“Then please allow me!” offered Doc, “I did a quick bio search on both of you when we were informed to expect you coming. Both of you are very dark. All I could discover is ranks and educational credentials. Lieutenant Halke has a double Ph.D. in Quantum Physics and Astrophysics, double master’s in Aerodynamics and Astronomy, and a double major in Structural Engineering and Cybernetics for her undergrad BS degree. Lieutenant Cruz is a Rhodes Scholar with three master’s degrees, in Anthropology, Archeology, Psychology and a BA in history, specializing in Medieval and European History. May I ask why three masters instead of taking at least one to a Ph.D?” Doc was curious.

“You left off number four, nearly finished! Master’s in Comparative Religions. Master’s, regardless of the quantity, assure I’ll keep researching in the field. A Ph.D would have me institutionalized. Incarcerated in an ivory tower in academia parsing the research of others, while I’d much prefer to research myself! Attending boring fund-raising events with rich donors, having to beg for government grants on behalf of my institution, and they expect success at it, and expected to publish at least once every year!” Lt. Cruz laughed, “Thank you, No!” Lieutenant Halke.?

Lieutenant Halke took her cue. “I know you and Olé have been to the past, vicariously, as cyborg clone constructs. You are very highly regarded, you know? The directors have enormous faith in your integrity, stability, and courage under fire! Both of you! Enough to trust your instincts and personae, to guide a killing machine in pre-history.”

“Only very limited telemetric data could be transmitted back to your consoles. You knew the cyborg was alive, stationary or moving, and you could emotionally sense to a limited degree stress or distress or well being. That was all. Did I cover everything?”

“You nailed it Lieutenant.” Doc was impressed she had access to this top top super secret information.

“Are you curious about what happened to your cyborgs earlier today?” Lt. Halke asked.

“Yeah, you bet,” both answered.

“Seems we have a consensus. Everyone? Please try to calm your minds with peaceful thoughts. In a moment, you will feel transported. It’s only an illusion, but you will become, for a few minutes, CC Doc on her mission to correct Olé clone’s mistake. See, experience, and feel just as she did!”