Chapter Text
I’m standing in a living room in the Hollywood Hills. It’s April, 1979. I have a souped-up Palm PDA, 6,000 dollars in cash, and I’m wearing a brown jumpsuit. In front of me is Frank Ross, the creator of the TV show Galaxy Quest. I need to convince him that I’m from the future.
I have two things going for me — Frank is ready to believe, and I just materialized right in front of him in a swirl of golden light.
He’s an easy sell.
I’m elated. This is going to be smooth sailing, I think.
Famous last words of me and the captain of the Lusitania.
Maybe I should back up a bit and start from the beginning?
Actually, that was the beginning. If one were to read the series in chronological order, so to speak, that is the first event. And Margot always said to start with a good “How did that happen?” moment. Materializing in someone’s living room in 1979 certainly qualifies. But what about just before that moment? How did that happen? Well, just before that moment (for me anyway) was 20 years later in a hotel/convention center just outside of L.A..
That part starts with Fred Kwan.
I’ve known Fred for 20 years. Don’t worry, I’m not going whip through time again (yet). I’ll put a pin in it. You just need to know that, while I’ve never had him pop up unexpectedly in my supposedly empty hotel room, it’s surprising, not alarming, and I don’t hesitate to simply drag my little wheelie suitcase in behind me, shut the door, and ask what’s up. I mean, I’ve been smoking pot on L.A. rooftops with Fred for years.
I’m immediately assaulted — hug-attacked by a tall woman with a perfect pageboy haircut, wearing a Lycra jumpsuit, which is weird, even for Quest Con. I mean, not the Lycra jumpsuit — you see those all over the place — the strange woman hugging me part. Also, most people wait until con has officially started to do cosplay.
She’s willowy. That’s the best word to describe her — slender and supple. I’m not used to beautiful, willowy women throwing themselves into my arms. She smells good too. So that’s a bit disconcerting, and probably why it takes me a minute to notice the Time Jump Accelerator from the TV show Time Tripper. I mean, it’s only the size and shape of an airport metal detector.
She takes a small step back and grasps my upper arms. She’s smiling, and her eyes are doing sparkly things at me and she says, “You are the liar!”
“Um, storyteller, honey,” says Fred.
Honey?
“Storyteller,” she repeats, still smiling and still sparkling.
I mean, it’s pretty much the same thing. Most people won’t come right out and say it though.
“Yeah,” says Fred. “Mary Sue, this is Laliari — my um, my girlfriend. You’re probably wondering why we’re here.”
Girlfriend?
“Yeah, a little,” I say. “In fact, I’m sort of wondering why I’m here.”
“Oh, yeah, that,” says Fred. “I changed your room to a single.”
“I see,” I say. “Why?”
“I uh, think that’ll be clear in a second,” he says.
Laliari lets go of me and puts her arm around Fred’s waist. She smiles and sparkles at him. He smiles and gives her the old soft eyes back. They’re just cute as hell in each others’ general direction, in other words.
It gives me the warm fuzzies.
“I’ve been explaining to Laliari that you’re a writer,” says Fred.
That gives me even warmer and fuzzier fuzzies. I love being called a writer.
Even though I almost always try to deny it immediately.
“Oh, not really,” I say. “Just fanfic.”
“You write great stories, Mary Sue.” Awwwww. “And we need your help.”
I read once that people respond more positively to someone asking for a favor than to someone doing them a favor.
I’m certainly a sucker for it every time.
“What can I do?” I ask, because it’s Fred, and because Laliari keeps smiling at me, and because I still haven’t gotten over the shock of finding them in my hotel room (How did they even get in here?). Big chunks of my brain are still working on other things is what I’m saying.
“We need you to repair this timeline, or we will all die,” says Laliari, looking very serious for a moment, before turning the high-beams back on.
“Uhhhhh,” I say.
“Look,” says Fred. “This is all going to sound crazy, but you need to believe us. Laliari isn’t Human. She’s an alien — a Thermian.” He turns to Laliari and squeezes her hand. “It’s okay, honey. You can trust Mary Sue.”
Which is always a nice thing to hear about yourself, but let’s face it, I could write a complete account of what’s about to happen and publish it on the Internet, and nobody would believe a word of it.
Laliari touches a device on her belt. The tall, willowy, Lycra-clad woman disappears, and there’s a somewhat shorter, purple tentacle-monster in her place.
I make some sort of aborted scream-type noise and jump. Literally. Both feet leave the floor. I didn’t know that people actually do that, and I’m easily startled.
Fred is still holding one of the tentacles in one hand while stroking it soothingly with the other. Honestly, I feel like I’m the one who needs comforting in this situation, but maybe I’m reading it wrong. I mean, Fred’s chill about it, but Fred’s always chill about it, whatever “it” is. Possibly because he’s composed of about 40 percent cannabis at this point.
But, hey, this is Fred’s girlfriend, and I really am very fond of Fred. This relationship obviously makes him almost absurdly happy. The least I can do is give the girl a chance. (At least, I think she’s a girl. I don’t know. Thermians could have 50 genders or none at all. I never asked.)
So I take a good look at her. In addition to the tentacles — some of which she uses to get around, and some of which she uses to manipulate objects — she has a big, dome-shaped head, light blue eyes with barbell-shaped pupils like a goat’s, and some little tubes growing out of the region of her neck (if she had a neck, which she doesn’t). Her face ends in two shorter tentacles that are sort of wriggling about agitatedly. Maybe she really is as nervous about this as I am. Her skin is pretty — mottled shades of mauve and purple — and it glistens slightly in the light. I wonder if it’s moist or just reflective.
I reach out my hand, and she reaches out a tentacle. We touch. We grasp... limbs. Her skin is reflective.
Laliari lets go of my hand and pokes something in the region of her middle. There’s a little flash of light from the device and she’s back in her willowy form.
“Okay,” I say. “I’m listening.”
It turns out the Thermians are an advanced race — in most ways. They seem to have almost zero imagination, but they are great with technology. They’re so good with it, in fact, that they’ve managed to create the tech from some of our fictional TV shows, which they regard as recordings of actual events. It seems that they have been picking up signals from a TV station (KBHR — Alaska’s biggest little station!) through a wormhole of some kind. Galaxy Quest in particular has given them hope during the terrible war they’ve been losing against a sadist named Sarris.
So they just up and built their own Protector.
Then they came to Earth and picked up Fred, along with Jason Nesmith, Gwen Demarco, Tommy Weber, and of course, Alexander Dane. (Although how they managed to find Dane at a con, I’ll never know. I’ve been to a dozen of the things, and never saw anything but a glimpse of him at a signing table.) Then they took them “out there” to help them fight Sarris. Well, by now you know the story, right? With a few minor changes, it’s pretty much the premier of the revived show. The minor changes being that everything is actually real, and they definitely leave out the tentacles.
But at this point in my story, none of that has actually happened yet. And it might never happen because it turns out that Sarris had friends. (Has friends? Ugh. Trust me when I tell you that time travel is something you do not want to think about too hard.) And one of those friends is mucking around with time, altering events so as to prevent the Thermians from succeeding.
“His name is Nng-ggggg-kfff,” says Laliari. I ask her to spell that. It’s Ngh’f. “He’s a war criminal and Sarris’s mentor. The atrocities he committed were so vile that he was banished to an empty parallel universe rather than allowed the release of death. His ability to affect events in this universe is extremely limited. We believe that Ngh’f sent an agent to tamper with the historical documents.”
“Tamper how?” I ask.
“The props and the sets are all different,” says Fred. “There’s changes to the scripts too. It’s little things, but they add up to the Thermians not being able to build a working Protector.”
“Wait…” I hold up a hand. I need them to be quiet for a minute so that I can chase down the logic here.
“You’re coming from the future to tell me this?” I ask.
“Yes,” says Fred.
“If the past was changed in what? 1979?”
“Yes,” says Fred.
“How do you know that the past was changed at all? Wouldn’t you remember the changed past, not the original one?” I ask.
“My former commander received intelligence that an inter-universal message had been intercepted,” says Laliari. “It contained some of the instructions that Ngh’f’s minion was to follow. We traveled to the Protector immediately via interstellar pods. The Time Jump Accelerator is kept in a room that has been shielded against timeline corruption since the Fatu-Krey obtained the plans for the Accelerator several months ago. We were in the room, making plans to counteract this attack, when the timeline changed. According to the ship’s computer, the Protector was in its dock and unable to function. When we reviewed the historical documents, we discovered the discrepancies, as they had been recorded outside of the room.”
Okay, that scans… I think. “So where do I come in?”
“I think you’re the best person to go back in time and fix it,” says Fred.
“Me?!?” I audibly interrobang.
“The time machine that the Thermians have built is the one from Time Tripper. It works on those rules,” explains Fred. “That means that whoever does this needs to be someone who really knows Galaxy Quest, but who wasn’t involved in its production in any way.”
Right. So you’ve probably seen Time Tripper. This hyper-intelligent dude builds a time machine, and decides to test it on himself because he’s too noble for his own good. Or maybe that’s just an excuse because he’s terrible at delegating tasks. Anyway, he can only travel back as far as the day he was born. He can’t kill or seriously harm anyone in the past (nor would he want to, because he’s very freaking noble), and he can’t save anyone’s life (which he would like to because of the aforementioned being so noble). Once he’s again demonstrated his nobility and made everything right, he disappears in a swirl of golden light.
But he can’t interact with anyone who knew him when he was in his correct time. (The anti-do-I-know-you? clause.) So Fred can’t go. Neither can anyone who worked on the show. Neither can Laliari, not that she would be a great candidate for anything other than ending up in Area 51.
It’s Fred’s turn to do the upper-arm grasp on me. He looks me in the eyes.
“You’re perfect for this, Mary Sue. You’re a Galaxy Quest wonk. You were a Theater major, and I know you did backstage work for a few years. You’ll fit right in on the set. And you’re smart.”
Smart enough to know that my chances of success don’t sound too great.
“I don’t know, Fred.”
“This is your chance to be a hero, to have the kind of adventure you’ve written about.”
I shake my head. “’Written about,’ Fred, not ‘want to run right out and have.’”
Truthfully, I’ve built a pretty nice life for myself — a cute apartment, a decent wardrobe, a cat, three very sweet and affectionate boyfriends (Well, two anyway. I’m not sure what’s up with Trent these days.), and the luxury of no longer running from one financial emergency to another. If there was ever a time that I dreamed of doing Big Things, it was years and years ago.
Fred shakes his head. “I’ve known you forever, Mary Sue. You’re still waiting for your story to happen.”
I can feel my facial muscles twisting themselves into an expression that says, “Am I? Am I, really?”
“Look,” says Fred, “you’re the one, Mary Sue. You’re the best hope for saving the galaxy.”
Fred Kwan is an underrated actor. Don’t let anyone tell you the man can’t deliver a line.
“The galaxy? The whole galaxy?”
“Roth’h’ar Sarris is evil,” says Laliari. “He has far surpassed his master, Ngh’f. He has killed, tortured, and enslaved billions. Because of him, the Fatu-Krey now rule most of the 23rd Quadrant, but without him, the Dominion cannot hold. Already the demands on their resources are near the tipping point. Without Sarris to conquer new worlds for them, their rule will collapse. Commander Taggart and his crew didn’t just save my people, they saved the inhabitants of a thousand other worlds, as well.”
“But we can’t do that without a perfectly functioning Protector,” says Fred. “And for that, we need you.”
“God fucking dammit, Fred.”
He grins. He knows they’ve won.
“Okay, what’s the plan?” I ask, hoping like hell that there’s actually a plan.
“I have loaded this with the specifications of the Protector, and a timeline of Earth events for 1976-1981, as well as an outline of the events Sarge— Fred related to you,” says Laliari, holding up what appears to be a brand new Palm IIIc. She stuffs it into a small, dark blue knapsack, along with an after-market charging cable. That’s good. The cradle it came with would just be bulky, and I won’t be finding any computers that can talk to it anyway. She puts in a folding keyboard too, and a weird wrap-around device with a lens on it. “This is a camera attachment. It is similar to one that your people are currently working on but haven’t released yet. The instructions are on the hand-held device.”
“The Time Jump Accelerator has been programmed to drop you right in front of Frank Ross in April of 1979,” says Fred. “He’s… well, he’s kind of a dreamer, you know? Or he was in those days. I won’t say he’s naïve — he isn’t — but he believes in some pretty remote possibilities like time travel and alien contact and stuff.”
Laliari sort of… ululates? I think it’s her way of laughing. From the look she gives Fred, I’d say at least one alien is keen to make some contact.
“Well, yeah,” says Fred. I think he’s blushing slightly. “Anyway, he won’t be hard to convince, and he can make sure you’re where you need to be.”
Laliari takes my hand. “I need a sample of your blood,” she says. She pokes my finger with one of those lancets that people use to check their blood sugar and whatnot. Then she swipes my finger down the front of the knapsack. The smear of blood glows blue-green for a moment, then disappears.
“This portable storage container is now keyed to your DNA. Even if you are separated from it, it will always travel back with you,” she says.
“So keep anything important in there,” I reply.
She nods, smiling. “Yes.”
She shows me a pair of glasses in a case. “These should work to both correct your vision and allow you to see the true form of anyone wearing an appearance generator.”
God, they’re ugly, and nearly identical to the pair I actually wore in 1979 — giant lenses, curved bows, the whole nine yards.
“Thanks,” I say, taking them.
I unzip my suitcase and rummage through it.
Side note: I hate anything tight or binding. My wardrobe mostly consists of those skimmy, spaghetti-strap dresses in varying lengths, which I wear with a t-shirt underneath and a pair of leggings when the dress is short — or those slinky-knit skirts and a tank top, also with a t-shirt underneath because I don’t shave my pits and I get tired of hearing about it. That actually describes my current outfit to a T(shirt). I’m pretty sure I’ll look like a nut wearing her nightgown over long underwear back in 1979.
Okay, but I have one of those palazzo-pants jumpsuits. Nothing says “future!” like a jumpsuit, right? Even if said jumpsuit is brown with little ivory flowers? It’ll have to do. I set it aside. I pull out the one pair of jeans I’d brought in case I got asked to get my hands dirty. They’re carpenter-style, but carpentry was surely a thing that occurred in the ‘70’s. I add a t-shirt to the pile along with all of the socks and underwear I’ve brought. I look at the knapsack and subtract all of the socks but one pair. I’m going to need to get more clothes later. Earlier? Whatever.
Laliari packs three bundles of twenties into the knapsack. Yeah, that should do, I think. I hope they’re either real or really good fakes.
I dig through my suitcase some more.
“So, how do we know that this Ngh’f is our bad guy?” I ask as I dig. I pronounce it “engkef.” I’m not breaking my tongue to be culturally sensitive to some guy who’s trying to murder an entire sapient species.
“The message that we intercepted was being beamed to a Fatu-Krey known as Gath’gor the Unkind,” Laliari replied. “Just as Ngh’f was Sarris’s master, Sarris is Gath’gor’s. Gath’gor is wanted for murder on 148 different planets and the Star Council has charged him with war crimes. He and Sarris met long ago when Sarris was briefly imprisoned on Tepsis. It is said that Gath’gor saved Sarris’s life there and now Sarris returns the favor by keeping Gath’gor in his protection.”
That’s a lot of murder. You’d think he would’ve graduated to Gath’gor the Antisocial by now.
I nod and set some more items aside — my menstrual cup, a large bottle of ibuprofen, (I’m positive you needed a prescription for that in 1979.) a travel-size deodorant, my toothbrush, a little makeup, my multi-tool, a sewing kit in an Altoids tin — you get the picture.
“And that’s all going down less than 72 hours from now?” I ask. According to Time Tripper, the tripper can’t contact anyone they know in the past, unless they are tripping three days or less from the time they entered the Accelerator. I strongly suspect there’s no other reason for this than narrative expediency (They had an episode where Dr. Ionesco saves his lab assistant from bringing home a bio-engineered disease that makes his whole family get amnesia and forget him and each other. It’s a real tear-jerker. The actor who played the lab assistant won an Emmy.), but the Thermians build stuff the way they see it, and Fred is obviously here and talking to me, so there we are.
Fred nods. “The Thermians will contact Jason after the opening this afternoon.”
Laliari hands me the knapsack. I stuff my pile in. There’s a tiny bit of room left, so I add my bullet vibrator in its drawstring bag as well. Better safe than horny, I figure. I may be gone awhile.
I go into the bathroom to change. After going through the contortions necessary to get the jumpsuit zipped up the back, I check my hair. Still too long for fashion, but the one time I had short hair I hated it. I hated bangs when I tried those too. My hair is dark brown and it’s been going grey for years now. Right now I have some temporary henna-red color in it, though. That’s going to look weird in 1979. But being weird in L.A. is normal.
I keep my earrings — little silver Balinese-style hoops, but I lose about five of the eight silver rings I’m wearing.
All that primping, unfortunately, gives me more time to contemplate the logistics of time travel. When I come out of the bathroom, I have a whole new set of questions.
“Why don’t you guys just travel back to wherever Gath’gor is getting into his time machine and stop him?” I ask.
“It’s too far away,” says Laliari. “The other Accelerator is being kept on G’lixxkar, in the heart of the Dominion’s territory. The Accelerators require a great deal of power to move people over distance. On board the Protector, we had access to the power supplied by the beryllium sphere, which was enough to transport us here, but the Fatu-Kray use magnoplasma power plants. Those can generate far more energy.
“What are you using for power here?”
“That.” Fred points to the power cord running from the base of the Accelerator to the wall socket. “You’ll only be able to travel to a location in L.A.,” he says.
Well, okay then.
“You said that Gath’gor is wanted by many long arms of the law. Can’t you just call one of them and explain that he’s in L.A. in 1979?”
“We would have to explain that the Fatu’Krey have time travel technology, and where they got it,” says Laliari. “Developing such technologies is against inter-galactic treaty.”
“But you did it anyway?”
“We did not develop the technology -- you did. We only built the device. However, I doubt that the other worlds of the Council would see it that way.”
“Likely to take a dim view of it?”
“I’m afraid so,” she says.
Which just leaves the old Send Mary Sue Back In Time option, doesn’t it?
“If you guys got into the Accelerator on the Protector, how is it here?” I ask as I step into my brown Dexters which are in no way futuristic, but I have those and a pair of chunky sandals and some black dress flats to choose from and the Dexters seem like the most practical choice.
“It’s Laliari’s item,” replies Fred. “It’s keyed to her DNA.”
“But if I succeed at solving my problem, then you’ll have succeeded at solving your problem. Won’t you just disappear into the golden light and end up right back in this room?”
“Theoretically,” says Laliari, “since we would return to the instant we left, we would be back aboard the Protector with the Accelerator.”
“But, if that happens while I’m returning to the instant I left, wouldn’t I end up on the Protector with you?” Not that being on the actual Protector wouldn’t be the most amazing thing ever.
“Theoretically, the Accelerator will return you here before our task is considered complete,” says Laliari.
Theoretically.
I put my oh-so-stylish, wire-framed glasses in the case and put on the gigantic, face-covering pair. I look at Laliari. She is both a willowy, slightly-off Human and a tentacled alien.
I pick up my knapsack and shove the glasses case in. No doubt I’ll think of another 50 questions while I’m gone, just to keep my anxiety levels at a nice even eight out of ten.
“Welp, ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, making an attempt to look cheerful.
Laliari makes her sparkly face and hugs me again.
Fred kisses my cheek and says, “Good luck, Mary Sue.”
“I’ll do my best, Fred.”
“No one can ask for more.”
I walk into the Accelerator and am immediately surrounded by golden light and way more wind than is probably necessary. At the last moment, I put my hand over my eyes.
If Frank Ross is sitting around his living room naked, I don’t want to see it.