The last thought Bill had, as Illyria's warm and pleasantly plump arms closed around him, was that he had been ordered to do this. War sure was hell. But as the seconds ticked by and the embrace showed no signs of abating, a different kind of thought began to intrude. A thought involving gratitude for orders. A thought that maybe the General Vossbarger, with his fat neck and his ugly paintings and his threatening gun, wasn't such a bad judge of what a trooper from the Fighting 69th Deep Space Screaming Killers needed after all.
He was just starting to get comfortably into the spirit of the thing when he noticed a change in the light.
It was subtle at first. The air in the chamber, already pearly with the diffuse glow of the Quintiform computer's simulated spaces, took on a different sheen. It began to pulse. Bill tried to ignore it, focusing instead on Illyria's new body, which was indeed a significant improvement over the three-sphere model. But the pulsing grew stronger. The air throbbed and bubbled, shook and quivered.
Illyria felt it too. She pulled back, her new face—pretty in a slightly over-ripe, farm-girl sort of way—creased with a frown. "What in the name of the protoplasm vat is that?"
Bill knew exactly what it was. He'd seen this trick before. "Oh no," he groaned. "Not now. Not again."
The air split open with a sound like tearing silk, revealing a black maw with a single point of light at its center. The light grew, solidified, and stepped out into the computer's chamber. It was a tall, hatchet-faced man with pointed ears like a pregnant kangaroo, wearing a crappy one-piece elasticized jumpsuit.
"Splock!" Bill cried, torn between relief and exasperation. "What the hell are you doing here? Can't a guy get five minutes of R&R ordered by a General with a gun?"
Splock's uninflected, buzzing voice filled the chamber. "Your recreational activities are noted, Bill, and while they are illogical, they are your own affair. However, there is a matter of considerably greater urgency that requires your attention."
Illyria, still holding onto Bill's arm, looked at the newcomer. "Splock. I should have known. You always did have the worst timing of any sentient being in the galaxy. And that's counting the Horzath of Jannus IX, who think a party starts when the first asteroid hits."
Splock inclined his head a fraction of an inch. "Illyria. I am pleased to see you have acquired a body less... spherical. My congratulations on your recent political ascent. President of Tsuris. Most impressive. However, your emotional state is, as always, irrelevant to the current tactical situation."
The Quintiform computer's voice boomed through the chamber, its usual avuncular tone replaced by one of sharp suspicion. There was something in that voice—a faint echo of something personal, something almost paternal, that Bill couldn't quite place. It reminded him of the way his own mother on Phigerinadon II used to talk about the robomule. Fondly. Protectively. As if the machine were family.
"Unauthorized entry detected. Identify yourself, intruder."
"I am Splock, Science Officer of the Starship Gumption, currently on detached duty under the authority of Captain Dirk. Your defensive perimeters are, I might add, rather poorly configured for temporal-spatial incursions."
"Hostile program in the computer!" the Quintiform thundered. "Standard defense protocols, activate!"
Suddenly the air around them shimmered. From the pearly walls, shapes began to coalesce. Bill recognized them immediately. They were like the programs he'd fought before: blobby, semi-transparent things with too many mouths, and fluttering metallic bats with glowing eyes. The computer's immune system was waking up.
But there was something different about these programs. The blobs pulsed with a strange rhythm—not random, but structured. Almost musical. And the bats... their eyes weren't just glowing. They were projecting images. Flickering, half-formed images of a city skyline. Toronto, Bill's hindbrain whispered, though he'd never seen Toronto. The bats were dreaming of it.
Splock looked around with mild interest. "Primitive phagocyte analogs. Inefficient, but persistent. Though I note an unusual emotional resonance in their construction. Almost as if the programmer had... personal attachments woven into the code."
Illyria stepped forward, her voice sharp with command. "Quintiform! Stop this! Splock is a friend! He helped Bill, he fought the Alien Historian—"
"My dear," the computer's voice was firm, even sad. And beneath the sadness, something else—a memory of another voice, another time, another female who had pleaded with him. "Your fondness for this... intruder is noted. But my primary function is the security of Tsuris. He entered without authorization. He is, by definition, a hostile program. As for you, my wife and our beloved President, you must remain here."
"What?" Illyria's voice went up an octave.
"It is protocol. The President of Tsuris cannot simply 'leave' the planetary mainframe. Your consciousness is now fully integrated. Your new body, charming as it is, is merely an interface. If you attempt to exit with them, you will dissipate."
Bill looked at Illyria, then at the closing ring of hungry-looking blobs. "He's right, isn't he? You're stuck."
Illyria's face twisted with frustration. "I got myself digitized for this? To be a wife and a president and a prisoner all at once?"
"Your sacrifice is noted and appreciated," Splock said, his voice utterly devoid of emotion. "Now, Bill. We must leave. Immediately."
"But—" Bill started, glancing back at Illyria, who was already beginning to flicker around the edges, her new plump form losing definition as the computer's security protocols asserted themselves.
"There is no time for buts. The Quintiform's immune system is not intelligent, but it is persistent. We have approximately ninety seconds before the phagocyte analogs achieve complete synaptic lock on our position."
Bill ran. He'd done this before, inside this very computer, back when he'd been nothing more than a disembodied psyche watering virtual crops. But that time he'd had the Squoll to help him. This time he had a pointy-eared logic machine who moved through the simulated corridors like he'd been born in them, which, knowing Splock, he probably had been through some kind of accelerated prenatal training.
They dodged around a towering file cabinet labeled "Unfavorable Weather Patterns, 872-1093 CE." A blob lunged. Splock sidestepped with mechanical precision. Bill wasn't so graceful; he tripped over a low-lying data cache labeled "Embarrassing Memories, Various Species & Personal Archives (1982, Earth, File X)."
The label caught his eye as he scrambled up. 1982. Earth. What would a Tsurisian computer have from Earth in 1982?
"Unbelievable," Bill muttered, scrambling up. "I'm running for my life through the brain of my girlfriend's husband."
"Your emotional entanglements are, as always, irrelevant to the tactical situation," Splock buzzed. "The Quintiform is a machine. Illyria is a Tsurisian. You are a human from Phigerinadon II. The concept of marriage between such disparate entities is—"
"Can it wait?" Bill yelled as a metal bat swooped at his head.
The bat's eyes flickered as it passed—and for a moment, Bill saw what it saw: a woman. Dark-haired. Beautiful. Smiling. The image was gone before he could process it, but it left an impression. The bat was programmed with something personal. Something about a woman with dark hair.
They burst through a shimmering wall and found themselves in a long corridor lined with doors. Each door had a label: "Planetary Rotation Data," "Atmospheric Composition Archives," "Diplomatic Embarrassments, Grade A," "Earth Cultural Studies — 20th Century — Subfolder: Brunette Females."
Bill blinked. "Did that door just say—"
"This way," Splock said, veering left. "The labels are irrelevant. We must reach the emergency interface."
"How do you know where you're going?"
"I don't. But the alternative is being digested by anthropophagic programs. Logic dictates we choose movement over stasis."
They reached the end of the corridor. A door stood before them, marked "Emergency Interface Port — Authorized Personnel Only."
"The Gumption?" Bill asked hopefully.
"No. But it will lead us out of the main processing core. After that, we improvise."
Splock pressed his palm against the door. It didn't open. He pressed again. Nothing.
"The Quintiform has revoked my access privileges," he said, with the faintest trace of annoyance in his usually flat voice. "Most illogical. I haven't even done anything yet."
The blobs were fifty feet away. Forty.
Bill looked at the door. He looked at the blobs. He looked at Splock's perfectly composed, utterly useless face.
"Move," Bill said.
He lowered his shoulder and hit the door with every ounce of strength the two tours in basic training and one mutated alligator foot had given him. The door burst open. They tumbled through into—
Nothing.
Absolute, total, sensory-deprivation nothing. The kind of nothing Bill had experienced once before, when the Quintiform had tried to turn him into an oracle. It was the waiting-space between simulations. The place where data went to be archived.
"Where are we?" Bill whispered.
"The computer's trash compactor, metaphorically speaking," Splock said. "Unused memories. Discarded calculations. Forgotten promises. We must move quickly. The Quintiform will purge this sector soon."
They floated through the void. Occasionally, a fragment of something drifted past: a childhood memory from some long-dead Tsurisian, a mathematical formula that didn't work out, a love letter that never got sent, and—strangest of all—a memory that wasn't Tsurisian at all.
Bill caught it as it drifted by. A fragment of a face. A woman's face. Dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin. She was laughing. Behind her, a skyline—not Tsuris, not any planet Bill recognized. Buildings. Towers. A lake.
Toronto, something whispered. That's Toronto.
The fragment dissolved. Another took its place. This one was stranger still: a table. On the table, a plate. On the plate, scallops. Galician scallops, perfectly prepared, steam rising from their golden surfaces.
Bill blinked. The fragment dissolved.
"Did you see—" he started.
Another fragment floated past. This one was almost complete: a man, but not a real man. A hologram. A projection. He wore a ridiculous costume—white jumpsuit, cape, giant belt buckle. His hair was black and piled high on his head. He was singing, but the song was silent, just a memory of vibration. He was holding hands with a dark-haired woman on a street that could only be Toronto. In the background, a sign advertised "Galician Scallops — Fresh Daily." The woman was laughing. She looked happy. And she was very, very pregnant.
Bill stared. "What the hell was that?"
Splock glanced at the dissolving image. "Irrelevant data. Personal archives. The Quintiform appears to have maintained... private interests. Terrestrial. Twentieth century. The cultural significance is unclear, but the emotional resonance is—" He paused, searching for the word. "—unusually high. For a machine."
They moved on, leaving the ghost of a computer's secret behind them in the digital void.
And then, there was light.
A hatch. A real, physical hatch, set into what appeared to be a solid wall. It had a manual crank.
"Ship's maintenance access," Splock said. "Someone on the outside must have—"
The hatch swung open. A face peered in. A young, eager face with a small mustache and a ridiculous white sweater tied rakishly around its neck.
"Midshipman Easy!" Bill cried.
"Sir! Mr. Splock! Captain Dirk said you might need a lift. Something about you being trapped in a computer and chased by angry blobs. Jolly good fun, what?"
Bill grabbed Easy's outstretched hand and hauled himself through the hatch. He was in a small maintenance bay. And there, sitting in the middle of it, looking as dashing and irritable as ever, was the Gumption's launch.
Captain Dirk stood at the hatch, arms crossed. "Took you long enough. I was about to send a search party with shovels."
"Your concern is overwhelming," Splock said, climbing through the hatch with considerably more dignity than Bill had managed. "Status?"
"The Murdids are regrouping. The Quintiform is furious. And the Alien Historian," Dirk paused, "is up to something. Splock, you'd better explain on the way back."
"Agreed." Splock turned to Bill. "As I attempted to tell you earlier, the Historian's plans have shifted. His previous interventions were merely practice. His true objective involves a figure from ancient Terra. The details," Splock added, "will have to wait until we are aboard the Gumption. Assuming the Quintiform doesn't decide to atomize this launch bay first."
As if on cue, alarms began to blare.
"Time to go," Dirk said. "Easy, get us out of here."
They scrambled aboard. The launch's engines whined to life. Through the viewport, Bill could see the walls of the maintenance bay beginning to shimmer and dissolve.
The launch lurched forward, Midshipman Easy at the controls with the kind of breezy confidence that suggested he'd never once considered the possibility of crashing. Bill appreciated that in a pilot. It meant someone else was doing the worrying for him.
The Gumption loomed ahead, its hull plates gleaming with that peculiar pastel avocado and cocoa color scheme that Bill had never quite gotten used to. It looked less like a warship and more like a waiting room for staff officers with expensive tastes. The lighting panels, recessed so cleverly you could never find them to change the bulbs, gave everything a soft, flicker-free glow.
They docked in the forward auxiliary bay. The moment the hatch cycled open, the Gumption's unique atmosphere hit Bill: a mixture of filtered air, expensive cologne, and the faint, ever-present tension of beautiful people trying to look busy.
"Bill!" A voice cut through his thoughts. One of the crew, a young man with a defiantly maintained mustache—Paul Muni, the communications officer who'd broken the Murdid code—waved from a cross-corridor. "Mr. Splock! Captain Dirk! The crew's assembled in the Main Rec Room. Larry's been asking about you every five minutes, and Linda's done something elaborate with her hair."
"Linda Xeux?" Bill asked, trying to place the name.
"The one and only. Cambodian bombshell starlet, trying out for Chief Health Officer. She's very... dedicated to her role." Muni's mustache twitched. "Also, she's been practicing her concerned expression in the mirror. I think she's hoping for a crisis."
They followed Muni through the Gumption's deliberately confusing corridors. Bill had given up trying to navigate; the color-coded lines on the floor changed depending on combat status, and right now they were a cheerful pink that probably led to the ship's shopping mall.
The Main Recreation Room was, predictably, full of beautiful people in one-piece elasticized jumpsuits. They were arranged in casual groupings that looked rehearsed. Larry LaRue, the juvenile lead trying out for radioman, was indeed pacing, his boyish features creased with manufactured worry. Linda Xeux sat on a couch, her lavender eyes wide, her hair arranged in something that required either professional assistance or telekinesis.
"Captain Dirk!" she exclaimed, rising with practiced grace. "We were so worried! The waiting, the uncertainty—it's been simply terrible for morale."
"It's been four hours," Muni muttered.
"Four hours of not knowing," Linda emphasized.
Dirk waved them to silence. "We'll debrief in the conference room. Splock, Bill, with me. The rest of you—" He paused, looking at the eager faces. "—continue not knowing. You're very good at it."
The conference room was small, paneled in something that looked like wood but was probably replicated cellulose, with a viewscreen that currently showed a static image of the Tsurisian system. They sat. Splock steepled his fingers.
"The Alien Historian," he began, "has been busy."
Bill leaned back. He remembered the Historian—Bingtod, that ridiculous little bald man with the orange scalp-tendrils and the fish fin down his back, sitting by the campfire with Hannibal, spinning tales about improving Earth's future. Making oil unburnable. Saving forests. All that nonsense about "judicious alteration of historical nodal points."
"He's not trying to improve anything," Bill said. "Is he?"
"No," Splock agreed. "His previous interventions were tests. Calibrations. He was learning how to manipulate the temporal stream without causing paradoxes large enough to attract attention. Now he believes he's ready for the main event."
Dirk poured himself something amber from a decanter. "Which is?"
Splock's ears twitched—his equivalent of a deep breath. "He intends to transplant a specific individual from ancient Earth into the late twentieth century. Not the adult—that would create too many temporal ripples. Instead, he plans to extract the embryo and implant it in a suitable host mother of that era."
Bill blinked. "A baby? He's stealing a baby?"
"Not just any baby." Splock's voice dropped to its usual monotone, but somehow it felt heavier. "The embryo of Alexander of Macedon."
The name meant nothing to Bill. He'd heard of Caesar, of Hannibal—he'd met Hannibal, for crying out loud—but Alexander? "The guy with the horse?"
"A gross oversimplification, but yes." Splock paused, consulting some internal data bank. "Alexander ruled most of the known world by the age of thirty. He conquered everything from Greece to India. His empire reshaped civilization. But there's more to it—a legend that even most Earth historians don't know."
Linda Xeux, who had somehow slipped into the room without anyone noticing, leaned forward. "A legend? How romantic!"
Splock ignored her. "When Alexander crossed into India, he found the ruins of an ancient city. In those ruins stood a temple, preserved by a handful of priests who lived among lions and guarded a relic of a vanished age: a black crown. According to the priests' tradition, this crown had belonged to the kings of a people who ruled when gods and heroes walked the Earth. If a man of divine descent placed it on his head and stepped into the noonday sun, his mind would sharpen miraculously. He would know all things, remember all things, and gain power equal to the gods themselves. But if a mortal man wore it—" Splock paused. "He would lose his memory. Become as a child."
Alexander, convinced of his own divine parentage—his mother had always claimed he was son of Zeus—demanded the crown. The priests warned him. He laughed. He put it on. He stepped into the sun.
And collapsed.
When they revived him, he remembered nothing of his recent past. His plans for India were gone. His obsession with reaching the eastern ocean—gone. His love for Thais, the famous hetaera who followed him across the continent—gone. He turned his army around, marched back to Babylon, and died of fever within the year.
"The priests were killed by his soldiers," Splock continued. "The crown vanished into Alexander's treasury. But the key point is this: the Alexander who returned from India was not the same man who entered that temple. The crown stripped away whatever made him him—his ambitions, his passions, his sense of purpose. The Historian believes this was not a curse, but a cleansing. A removal of the man, leaving only the instrument."
Bill scratched his head. "So the Historian wants a cleansed Alexander? What for?"
"The late twentieth century on Earth," Splock said, "was, by all historical records, a period of moral confusion. Old certainties crumbling. New ideologies struggling to be born. A vacuum of leadership. Into that vacuum, the Historian intends to insert a figure of undeniable charisma, military genius, and godlike ambition—but without the personal attachments that might distract him from his purpose. An Alexander who remembers nothing of Greece, or Aristotle, or his mother's ambitions. An Alexander who exists only to rule."
The room was quiet.
"The Historian believes," Splock continued, "that by the year 2000—a date the native Earth calendars treat with almost mystical significance—this new Alexander could unite the planet under a single government. A government loyal to its creator."
Linda gasped. "That's terrible!"
"It's certainly inconvenient," Dirk admitted. "But Splock, you said he's extracting the embryo. From Alexander's mother?"
"Olympias. Yes. The procedure would be performed shortly after conception, in 356 BCE. The embryo would then be implanted in a suitable host in the late twentieth century. A woman carefully chosen for her position, her influence, her access to power."
Bill leaned forward. "Who?"
Splock's ears gave a single twitch—the Fortinbrasian equivalent of a dramatic pause. "That is where the plan becomes... convoluted. Even by the Historian's standards."
Dirk refilled his glass. "Convoluted how? He picks a woman, puts the embryo in her, nine months later out pops Alexander the Great reborn. Simple enough."
"Not quite." Splock activated the viewscreen, which displayed a complex timeline diagram. "Direct implantation into an adult female would create what temporal physicists call a 'signature flare.' The paradox would be detectable across multiple sectors. The Historian has learned to avoid such attention."
"So he's doing it indirectly," Dirk said.
"Precisely. The embryo will first be implanted in a female child. A specific child, adopted in the year 1982 from an orphanage in a city called New York."
Bill blinked. "A kid? He's putting Alexander into a kid?"
"Into a female child, yes. The child will carry the dormant embryo for approximately eight years. During this time, the embryo will develop slowly, protected by what the Historian calls 'temporal inertia.' It will not grow, will not draw attention, will not register on any medical scans of that era."
Linda Xeux, who had followed them to the bridge despite Dirk's orders, let out a little gasp. "A little girl carrying a baby inside her? That's—that's monstrous!"
"It's certainly unusual," Splock conceded. "But the Historian's reasoning has a certain twisted logic. The child provides perfect cover. No one examines adopted children for temporal anomalies. No one scans them for embryonic passengers. She is, in the Historian's view, simply a container."
Bill scratched his head. "So this kid—she's like a suitcase for a baby?"
"A biologically accurate if undignified metaphor, yes."
Dirk paced. "And after eight years? What then?"
"At that point, the embryo will be transferred to its final host: the child's adoptive mother. The family physician—a man the Historian has suborned through means we have not yet determined—will perform the procedure. It will be presented as a routine medical treatment. A minor surgery. Nothing that would arouse suspicion."
Bill's face screwed up in confusion. "Wait. So the baby Alexander spends eight years inside this little girl. Then they move him to the mom. So the mom gives birth to him. That means—"
"It means," Splock said, "that Alexander will be, biologically speaking, both the son and the brother of the same female. The child will become his older sister. The mother will become his mother after having been, in effect, his gestational carrier's parent. The familial relationships are... tangled."
Linda looked pale. "That's incest. That's—that's multiple incest. Is that even possible?"
"Biologically? Yes. Ethically? The Historian appears unconcerned with such considerations. His focus is entirely on the result."
Bill held up a hand. "Back up. You said this family—they adopted a kid in 1982. Who are they? What's their deal?"
Splock consulted his data. "The adoptive mother is an attorney. A lawyer. Her husband is a man of considerable political ambition. At the time of the adoption, he was positioning himself for a congressional run, with aspirations beyond that. The Historian chose them carefully: a family with access to power, with connections, with the ability to nurture and protect a child destined for greatness."
"Or for godlike evil," Muni muttered from his comm station.
"Your moral judgment is noted," Splock said without inflection. "The point is, this family existed in the right place at the right time. They were fertile ground for the Historian's plan."
Bill frowned. "And the kid? The little girl they adopted? What's her story?"
"She was an infant when they took her from St. Francis Orphanage. The records are deliberately vague—the Historian's agents ensured that. But we know one thing with reasonable certainty: her adoptive mother named her after an aunt. An aunt who was, interestingly enough, a politician herself. The name chosen was not 'Artemis'—that would have been too obvious, too mythologically on-the-nose. Instead, she selected one of Artemis's alternative epithets."
"The goddess Artemis had many names," Splock continued. "The Romans called her Diana. The Greeks sometimes addressed her as Cynthia—a reference to her birthplace on Mount Cynthus. She was also called Phoebe, meaning 'bright one,' a name shared with her twin brother Apollo. And there were others, more obscure, lost to time."
Dirk stopped pacing. "So which one did they use?"
"That is where our intelligence becomes... imprecise." Splock's tone carried the faintest suggestion of embarrassment. "The operative who compiled this information was, by all accounts, not the most meticulous agent. He filed his report under 'Planetary Designations' instead of 'Temporal Operations.' By the time the error was discovered, the original data had been partially corrupted."
Linda leaned forward, her lavender eyes wide. "So we don't know her name?"
"We know the family name. Or we think we do. They lived in New York, and the surname recorded in the file is York. But given the aforementioned filing error, it's equally possible that 'York' refers to the city and the family name is something else entirely. The operative may have simply copied the wrong field."
Bill groaned. "So we're chasing a mystery family with a mystery name, raising a mystery girl who's carrying the reborn Alexander the Great inside her, and we don't know where to start?"
"That is a fair summary, yes."
"And this is supposed to happen in the twentieth century? Like, ancient history?"
"The late twentieth century, yes. Approximately seven thousand years before your birth on Phigerinadon II. The dates involved are 1982 for the adoption, 1990 for the transfer to the mother, and 2000 for Alexander's emergence as a political figure of global significance."
Bill's face went blank. "What's a congress?"
Dirk sighed. "An elected legislative body. They make laws."
"What's elected?"
"People vote. They choose who represents them."
Bill stared at him. "People choose? Like, regular people? Not the Emperor?"
"There is no Emperor on Earth, Bill. Not in that era. They have... presidents. And congresses. And something called 'democracy,' which apparently involves letting everyone have a say and hoping they don't make too much of a mess."
Bill considered this. Then he laughed. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. Letting regular people choose? No wonder they need someone to conquer them."
"Your political philosophy is noted," Splock said. "But the immediate concern is not the merits of Earth's governance systems. It is the fact that the Historian intends to install a genetically and temporally engineered Alexander of Macedon as the ruler of that planet at the turn of their millennium."
"Why the turn of the millennium?" Linda asked. "What's special about 2000?"
"Millennial transitions carry symbolic weight," Splock explained. "Human cultures, particularly Western ones, attach immense significance to round numbers. The year 2000 represented, in their minds, a threshold. A new beginning. The Historian believes that a figure appearing at such a moment, with Alexander's charisma and ambition, could unite the planet under a single government within a decade."
"And then what?" Dirk asked.
Splock's ears twitched. "That part of the Historian's plan remains unclear. But given his previous statements about 'improving' Earth's history, and his willingness to manipulate entire civilizations, it is reasonable to assume he does not intend to stop at one planet."
The bridge fell silent.
Bill broke it. "So this kid—the little girl. She's the key. If we can find her before 1990, before they move the embryo, we stop the whole thing."
"Correct."
"Then why are we sitting here talking about it? Let's go!"
Dirk held up a hand. "To the twentieth century? Bill, do you have any idea how complex temporal navigation is? We can't just pop in for a visit. We need coordinates. We need temporal anchors. We need—"
"I need a drink," Bill muttered.
"That too. But Splock, what about the girl? The daughter? After the transfer, what happens to her?"
Splock consulted his data. "She survives. She becomes Alexander's older sister. And here is where the Historian's planning shows its true depth: the girl will be uniquely positioned to protect him. She will have shared his gestation, in a sense. There will be a bond, perhaps even a biological resonance. And she will be, according to the Historian's calculations, effectively immune to disease, unnaturally resilient, and possessed of a dual nature that makes her nearly impossible to read."
"Dual nature?"
"She is kind to her father. To everyone else, she is... difficult. Manipulative. Some who encountered her described her as a 'little bitch,' though whether that was hyperbole or literal observation is unclear. People around her have a tendency to suffer misfortune. Again, the records are imprecise."
Bill scratched his head. "So let me get this straight. This little girl—she's carrying Alexander the Great inside her like a parasite, she's nice to her dad but mean to everyone else, and people around her have accidents? That's not a kid, that's a walking disaster area."
"Aptly put," Splock agreed.
Linda Xeux's lavender eyes were wide. "And after eight years, they move the embryo to the mother, and then she gives birth to him? So the little girl becomes his sister, and the mother becomes his mother, and he's been inside both of them? That's—that's—"
"That's what?" Bill asked.
"I don't think there's a word for it," she admitted.
"There is in Fortinbrasian," Splock said. "It translates roughly to 'familial-temporal-gestational-paradox-structure.' But we don't use it in polite conversation."
Dirk had been pacing. He stopped. "So this Alexander figure. This reborn conqueror. What exactly are we dealing with here? A military genius? A world uniter? What?"
"Some of Earth's religious traditions," Splock said carefully, "have a concept they call the 'Antichrist.' A figure of great power who emerges in times of crisis, claiming to bring peace but actually bringing—"
"Hold on." Bill held up a hand. "Anti-who?"
"Christ. It's from a religion called Christianity. They believe in a savior figure called Christ, and at the end of history, a false version of him appears to lead humanity astray."
Bill stared at him. Then he burst out laughing. "You're telling me these people had a religion about some guy, and then they also believed a fake version of the same guy would show up later? Why wouldn't they just shoot the fake guy on sight? 'Hey, you're not the real one, buzz off.'"
"Theology is rarely that straightforward," Splock said.
"Sounds like theology is stupid." Bill wiped his eye. "Antichrist. That's the dumbest thing I've heard all week, and I spent last Tuesday inside a computer being chased by a ghost."
"Be that as it may," Dirk interrupted, "the point is that the Historian is aiming for maximum symbolic impact. The turn of their millennium. A figure of destiny. Conqueror of the ancient world reborn. If he pulls this off, Earth could be united under a single ruler within a decade."
Bill shrugged. "So? One ruler sounds better than whatever mess they had. You said they let regular people vote. That's insane. Of course they need someone to take over."
"Your political philosophy is noted," Splock said. "But Earth in the twentieth century had weapons capable of destroying the planet many times over. Putting them in the hands of a divinely-ambitious conqueror with no memory of his own humanity is—"
"Wonderful." Dirk cut him off. "Just wonderful." He looked at Bill. "You wanted a simple mission. Steal a Disruptor, come home, maybe get a medal."
Bill nodded glumly. "I should've stayed in the computer."
"No," Splock said. "You really shouldn't have."
The bridge fell into a heavy silence. Bill found himself thinking of his mother, back on Phigerinadon II, probably still waiting for him to come home and fix the robomule. The damn thing had packing glanders when he'd left. Was it still alive? Did robomules even die, or did they just sort of... pack up?