Introduction

“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. It is the same. Camouflaged to still appear as such. 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.

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 ever. Actually it’s not even the second. It is the second option of Mission One. The second cyborg sent through time. Option B.

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

“Hell! I don’t want to do this!” She feels the first thought. She suffers disillusionment only a fleeting moment. Programming oversight automatically triggers a dampening filter to quash her disaffection.

Flying by the seat of her pants is NOT an operational mode cyborg clone Doc Skeet (aka CC Doc Skeet) respects. Nor prefers. Necessary sometimes, when you are handicapped due to lack of information, currently the case. The old clichéd slogan, Nobody plans to fail, they fail to plan, don’t allow for seat-of-the-pants maneuvers. Somebody please explain how to plan spontaneous? Can’t! Neither she nor the original Doc Skeet she is cloned from, are adept at spontaneity, have zero talent for it. They are both hard core anti-spontaneous. Expert planners and leaders.

Hydration is important for health and performance, especially for a cyborg. Organic tissue is predominately water. CC Doc Skeet is about seventy percent of final mass, and thirsty, seeking a drink. From her vantage point on this hill, she observes a stream and even better, a willow tree.

Doc is traveling on foot toward the willow and water. The target, always the main priority, is scheduled later this afternoon after she grows to full dimensions.

The original Doc was and is a highly trained foot soldier, special ops and Army medic. Since her clone has the memories and personality, as well as the copied body, the cyborg Doc is no stranger to walking. In this time period, she expects there is no alternative. Though very special, CC Doc Skeet is not entirely unique. Her target is also a nanobot construct cyborg clone time traveler. Organics can’t time travel. They are grown, site built, local time, custom built to designed specs in the desired period. By extra-dimensional nanobots.

Thirty minutes’ vigorous walking brings her to the stream and eighty percent mass. Doc sips water from her rice bowl shaped hand, created by nanobots for a mess kit. Outside appearing as her hand and cupped fingers, but interior, a ceramic bowl. Transformation in either direction, is nearly instantaneous. As a multi-cultural woman, she is adept using chopsticks. No transformations are needed for those. They can be quickly carved from twigs or long splinters.

Basic ingrained training for a grunt, first thing, she washed and dried her feet arriving at the spring. She isn’t feeling hungry, especially after chewing bitter willow bark. The natural aspirin soothed her muscle aches and pains, but further upset, her already uneasy stomach. Exchanging pains for different pain. Odd therapy. The nanobots adjust acidity and the discomfort wanes. The unhappy hue diminishes but does not dissipate.

However unappealing or unappetizing, she must eat. She forces herself. She is growing quickly and needs nutrients. She eats some rough vegetation and a hapless rodent. The rodent was fast, but not nearly as fast as Doc’s enhanced reflexes.

Continuing to hydrate and gain weight, she rests. She isn’t tired but harboring her resources. Meanwhile, she calculates a tactical approach to the village, planning arrival shortly before dusk, when she will be full size. Her internal clock ticks away the seconds, as her body adds cells.

The cyborgs mind returns to her mission, the man she has to destroy. Rather the cyborg clone of the man, Olé Dave. He is her oldest, hell, her only friend. Olé Dave never seemed irresponsible or stupid, and is a clever, articulate delightful conversationalist. He is never mean or petty. Deliberately rubbing your fur the wrong direction, he enjoys perversely. He abuses his charismatic powers. Since people simply can’t remain angry with him for long, he gets away with teasing. Unmerciful teasing but never vicious.

Why was his cyborg malfunctioning and acting so uncharacteristically stupid in the past? Endangering their own time in the future is very stupid. Must have blown a mental gasket or maybe something akin to a brain fart in the cyborg. The faux pas requires a death penalty. Stupid to incur that.

She laces up her seven league boots and begins the mile-devouring trek to the confrontation. A covey of birds in the nearby reeds flushes at her sudden rising, scattering, flying away from her. She watches them wistfully, wishing she could have eaten several. Too late now! Enjoying the nearing completeness, she takes a quick physical inventory. The boots have merged with her feet, so there is no chafing. She is easily loping along at twenty one knots. Seven leagues per hour, a nanobot enhancement. Slightly shy of her final designed two-meter height, she is confident it will be attained before arrival. Weight is also a little under par. More water will resolve that specific deficiency. There are still opportunities to hydrate as there is several streams ahead yet to cross. Inorganic and organic components of her physical form are functioning harmoniously. Just an occasional twinge from new muscles. No pain, no gain. An amount of willow bark in her pocket is sufficient to relieve these minor miseries. By dusk, she will be entirely fit and whole.

Emerging from a copse of trees and circumnavigating a large patch of thorny brush, Doc finds herself suddenly in open country. A well beaten path with furrowed fields flanking the byway is before her. Crops of grain stretch away into the distance. “Well, I’ll be ... Olé Dave was correct.” This isn’t a Garden of Eden scenario. Olé Dave was sent back in time to find out if the biblical Garden of Eden existed, according to the mission outline. Olé fancies himself a Bible scholar and insisted the timing was incorrect, that the Garden of Eden existed well before, happened much earlier and that this was a wasted endeavor. Why the governing powers wanted to investigate Eden, at an astronomical expense, well, they weren’t accessible or questionable, and it is, after all, a R&D expense. Virtually bottomless pockets for research and development. Projected prospective future returns on investments are incalculably enormous.

This is the designated time and place Olé Dave was to encounter Mitochondrial Eve! The Mother of all future mankind! Mt Eve is evidently a more recent common ancestor than the Eve in the Garden. Look at this place! It’s advanced well beyond any Eden. Even if Mitochondrial Eve isn’t Adam’s Eve, there is no excuse for allowing a cargo cult to take roots! Surprise upon surprise! This is a well-traveled ... damn it, it’s not just a path, it’s a road! And those furrowed fields of grain beside the road are farms! Doc is further startled to see a robed man riding astride a donkey while leading a pack laden ox. They stare at each other a moment, then the stranger urges his donkey to haste and rides off in a panic, abandoning the ox and its cargo. The stolid ox simply stops and begins grazing along the roadside.

This is completely unexpected, unforeseen, especially the man’s robe, which appears to be textile. At this early world age, even if it’s not the dawn of man, certainly not Eden, it’s startling to see civilization and its basic technologies already existing! Agriculture, animal husbandry, including draft animals and mounts, and weaving of textiles! Probably could discover they have pottery, mathematics and writing too. Incredible! This is mind-boggling! Doc trots rapidly on in the fleeing donkey rider’s wake of dust, soon overtaking and passing him. The donkey, unamused, ‘unhorsed the abusive robed rider.

At dusk, at the planned expected time, she arrives at the outskirts of ... another shock. This bustling well-populated town is NOT the primitive hut village she anticipated at the confluence of five ancient rivers. The rivers are here, but the size of the town is astounding! A sloping rise outside the gates hosts a small crowd. Doc Skeet’s targeting array shows Olé Dave. Apparently, he is addressing the crowd in some oratory from slightly uphill above them. Though Doc can barely hear him and doesn’t understand a word of the language, she is receiving what could only be described as ‘closed caption subtitles’ in machine code. Olé Dave has evidentially malfunctioned in a variety of ways, including leaking RF. Olé is transmitting data, a security breach. Broadcasting a text script of his oratory!

“You IDIOT!” Doc screams. Olé Dave is preaching Bible stories at a time preceding the stories’ supposed occurrence! Doc Skeet sprints up the rise. Olé Dave grins at seeing his friend, only seconds before they collide. Doc’s nanobots trigger a sudden...

Back at the Ranch the monitors fade from green to black.

Their own private debriefing session. 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?” Doc asks.

“Well, you know I’m a man of faith. I suppose some of that was incorporated into the consciousness of the cyborg. And I get an urge to proselytize sometimes. I reckon he 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?” Olé insisted, 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.”

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

Olé and Doc were toasting and tossing beers at the NCO club and it was Olé’s turn to buy but he was intentionally delaying. Not because he was cheap, 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 to get Doc to cave and buy the round from dry frustration.

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

“I have seen only officer doctors in the military, excepting you, Doc. Every other doctor, including dentists and psychiatrists, is an officer.” Olé was stretching the ounce of beer dreg in his glass. Tiniest little sips.

“Seen many of that last group? The psychiatrists, Olé? By appointment? Or only on the golf course? All those doctors types are reserve officers Olé. Reserve officers are 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 from the medical fraternity, than a beast doctor.” Doc pouted, dramatizing 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 since they got rid of the horses and mules. Imagine me making house calls to the brass’ wives’s hypochondriac poodles? Or hypochondriac wives’s poodles?” Doc shuddered making a face.

“They wouldn’t make you do that!” But Olé believed 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 took a sip and continued.

“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. Don’t I miss not going to OCS?”

Doc was thirstily eyeballing her empty glass. She refused to look at Olé. “Never!”

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

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

“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 like a hermit. Reality is, everybody is 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 caught unaware, 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. Are we 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 arrived safely. The hour is completely insignificant, as Dinner awaits your pleasure.” Making introductions, Doc Skeet continued. “I am ... 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 result of the lack of coasters. Disgusted at 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 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.

“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 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, imagining Olé’s macho masculinity in-digesting “neutral choice.”

“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 with us 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. Olé passed on the wild Elk and Antelope. Ordered his usual, rare beef and potatoes artery hardening infarction special.

Charming smiles, conspiratorial murmurs, raucous guffaws and feminine giggles. Lots of delicious food and an injudicious amount of alcohol. At times, they were a noisy crowd but a 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 about you already. I don’t expect to be disappointed though,” she said flirtatiously.

“Perhaps not. My wig collection is extraordinary. This high and tight macho bitch haircut I’m sporting, is strictly utilitarian. An accommodation to the aegis necessities of my profession. I have heard, been told, I clean up 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 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.

Explanations by Coloring Book

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, I’m nearly finished with a master’s in Comparative Religions. Master’s, regardless of the quantity, assure I’ll keep working research projects 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!” She smiled at 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?”