Gabriel groaned and let his head fall back as the number counter slowly ticked towards their allocated number. One thing that was not cool and groovy about the otherwise subzero and seriously undulating offices of the Bloody Invaluable Book: Lightyears of Entertainment was the queuing time. Balthazar nudged his semi-cousin, a look of awkward concern on his features.

"Gabriel?"

"Last time I checked."

"How are you… you know, are you ok? What with… Sam."

"Zarking fardwarks, have you ever heard of subtlety?" Gabriel stared at him, incredulous. "It only happened two days ago!"
"Yes, but, the way I see it, that's only in our time line. For all we know, our shuttle could have put us at any historical point, not to mention the relative times of people currently tied to the temporal orbit of any given planet, so really, it could have happened seven billion years ago, historically. Or it might not have happened at all."

"Is this your idea of making me feel better? I'm only asking for classification's sake."

Balthazar tried again, changing tack with an almost audible thud.

"I just meant… I know Sam meant a lot to you, as a… as a human consciousness trapped inside an android skeleton, and I just wanted you to know that, if you need to talk about your feelings… without sharing too much, obviously, because I really don't want to know the sordid details of your frankly perverse objectophilia…"

"Yes, thank you, I get the idea." Gabriel sighed irritably, before sitting upright. "I don't want to talk about it. Let's change the subject, and talk about something that is very close and dear to my heart. Me."

He shuffled around in his chair, so that he could talk more quietly. Balthazar leaned in, intrigued. Gabriel spoke quietly.

"Look, I think us landing on Ursa-Minor Beta, of all the places in the galaxy, really is a total stroke of luck. And I think we should take advantage of it."

"Right…"

"While we were in that shuttle, you remember, before we landed and after you got so tired of my screaming that you knocked me out for seven hours?"

"Yes?"

"Well, I slipped into a deep and lucid coma. I got a message from a person I admire and hold in the highest respect."

"Yourself?"

"Of course. It was a message I'd implanted in my own mind twenty years ago…"

"When you say…"

"Yeah alright, space case, twenty years in my personal timeline. And it was triggered off by the coma. I told myself that the time had come, and that I had to do great things… I had to find this guy I'd never heard of before, and I'd have to look for him on Ursa-Minor Beta, and he'd tell me something so horrible, so much to my disadvantage that it would render my closest held beliefs irrelevant."

"Wow."

"Yeah."

"Why does that really make me want to find him?"

"I know, right? We have to go find this guy." Gabriel drummed his fingers against the chair arm. "Thanks for… you know, not thinking this is just some manifestation of a psychotic episode."

"Hey, even if it is, it's probably the most entertaining thing I'll see on this planet." Balthazar looked around the lobby, noting that the number counter was still several powers of ten short of reaching their number. Gabriel noted his discomfort and agreed.

"Come on. I'm done with this. Hey!" In one swift movement, Gabriel leapt from his chair, stomped over to the reception desk, and glared straight down at the pink holographic octopus thing that was currently answering three phones at once.

"Zarniwoop. You know him?"

"Yes, sir…" the receptionist filled the word 'sir' with as much contempt as one would usually spread across the entire sentence 'how dare you do such a horrible, detestable thing?'. "Mr Zarniwoop is on the board of directors."

"Brilliant. Get him."

"Well, I'm afraid he's busy at the moment; he's on an intergalactic cruise."

"Damn… when will he be back?"

"Back? Sir, he's in his office."

"What?" Gabriel blinked at the receptionist, before adopting a much more menacing pose as he leant over the desk. "Didn't you just say he was on a cruise."

"Yes sir, he's on an intergalactic cruise in his office. Honestly, do you smelly hitchhikers not understand the most basic uses of Personal Parallel Universe generation?"

Gabriel stared at the receptionist, glanced at Balthazar (who shrugged in a way that suggested he didn't know either), and then punched the reception desk.

"Now you listen up, you S.O.B living jello…"

"Now, sir, there's no need to be insulting! If you could just be cool about it…"

"Cool? Cool? I'm done with cool, you spunk-brained paramecium. I am so 'cool', I go ice fishing to warm up. I am so 'hip' I can bang someone through a wall, and I am so 'groovy' that I can make laserdiscs just by staring intently. Now tell me how to get to Zarniwoop."

"Woah! Just who do you think you are, honey, Gabriel Angeles or something?"

"Yeah, I'll even sign your goddamn book."

The receptionist blinked. The receptionist gaped. Gabriel wished he'd let Balthazar do the talking.

"Mister Prime Minister? Sir? But… but the sub-etha news said… said you were dead."

"Yeah, well, I have it from a very reliable source that they were wrong. Get me Zarniwoop."

"His… his office is on the fifteenth floor, but…"

"But he's on an intergalactic cruise. Right. Where are the elevators?"

The receptionist pointed vaguely toward the far corner of the lobby, shock slowly taking over. Gabriel smiled and marched off, Balthazar quickly striding alongside him.

"Zarniwoop?"

"No idea. He's the guy I told myself I had to go see. Ugh." Gabriel glared at the elevators, which were a brilliant, shining gold, and accompanied by a large plaque that bore the Sirius Cybernetics logo. Balthazar smiled awkwardly.

"I suppose it would be tasteless to call this your "rebound ride", hmm?"

(-*-)

The Bloody Invaluable Book has many things to say on the subject of time travel, most of them wildly contradictory and hugely biased (although really, that's not that different to the rest of the book). But among the rants and ramblings of the many writers for the book, their sits an entire chapter dedicated to the most prevalent, most overwhelming problem of time travel; this is the problem of Grammar.

Becoming one's own grandparent is, contrary to popular belief, not the biggest problem faced by time-travellers. A simple knowledge of one's own family tree, a basic understanding of genetics and a well-adjusted family mentality would smooth out any real issues derived from such a problem anyway. No, the real puzzle is trying to understand exactly how to refer to such a situation to someone who has not travelled just as many years as you.

The problem of grammar derives from the concept of relative time, as what can be two days in one person's timeline can be six billion years in someone else's, given factors such as leaping through time, being tied and becoming accustomed to planetary orbits, natural lifespan and time spent utterly drunk.

If, for example, you are a mortal (and therefore, graced with a finite lifespan) consciousness that has been placed in an immortal (whilst in accordance with the manufacturer's warrantee) robotic body, which as then been catapulted through time and space with an almost reckless abandon, and then taken a huge leap of faith that you might survive something almost utterly insurvivable (say, the total immolation of the ship you happen to be on), it is reasonable to suggest that your personal timeline may well be incredibly out of synch with any other person who had escaped that ship. It would be reasonable to assume that, as your personal timeline would be so out of synch, any eventual reunion with the other escapees would possibly cause you to be quite bitter, resentful and confused, especially if your odds of surviving the insurvivable event were lessened by electing to do the heroic thing and stay behind so as to facilitate everyone else's escape from certain death.

This situation is, of course, merely a hypothetical. Another good example would be the case of Dean Winchester and Castiel Angel, who are currently sat on prehistoric Earth, staring at each other.

"We need a plan."

"Yeah." Dean nodded, his arms across his chest in a slightly defensive positioning. "And we need to not get drunk or make out."

"Yes…" Castiel said, staring out at the ship that hovered silently in the distance. He sighed. "This is going to be a long evening."

(-*-)

"Hello!" The Sirius Cybernetics elevator binged happily at Gabriel and Balthazar. "I am to be your elevator today, and have been designed by the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation to carry you swiftly, efficiently and comfortably through the offices of the Bloody Invaluable Book: Lightyears of Entertainment. If you enjoy the service you receive today, then why not try one of the other…"

"Yeah, that's great." Gabriel snapped, with sarcasm so thick it would fail an IQ test. "Fifteenth floor, please."

The elevator hummed for a moment.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"But… have you considered the possibilities of down?"

"No." Balthazar sighed, leaning against the interior wall. "Why?"

"Well, going down seems like a very nice thing to do."

"What's down?"

"The… um… basements. And the boiler room."

"That's it?"

"Yes."

"Up, please. Now."

"I'd really rather not, if it's all the same…"

"What are you, afraid of heights?" Gabriel scowled, glaring at the speaker. "You're an elevator. Elevate us to the fifteenth floor, now."

"Look, it's not that I'm afraid, I just don't want to go up. I can see that it won't end well."

"You can see?" Gabriel repeated incredulously. The elevator hummed again, sounding more worried this time.

"All Sirius Cybernetics elevators are made with the ability to see into the future. It allows us to arrive at a floor before we are needed, thus cutting down on any annoying wait times… and I can see what is going to happen on the fifteenth floor, and frankly I want no part of it."

"Oh come on." Gabriel growled, casting an exasperated stare around the elevator. "We've got to get to Zarniwoop!"

"Zarniwoop?" The elevator repeated. "He's not worth it. Why don't you just hide with me in the basement…"

"Not worth it? Listen, I am recently single and not happy about it, so why don't you be a good little AI and just do what I'm asking you to do?"

Balthazar, worried for his semi-cousin's sanity and the likelihood that they'd get arrested if he tried to kill an elevator, placed a firm hand on Gabriel's shoulder.

"Look, maybe… maybe we can go and see Zarniwoop some other day. Maybe we should relax."

"No, Balthazar. I need to do this. If I don't do this then I'll just mope around thinking about Sam and I can't let myself do that, ok?"

There was a long, awkward silence. The elevator cleared its throat circuits.

"If you don't mind my asking… who is Sam?"

(-*-)

Modern elevators are strange and complex machines, and have been granted precognition (to avoid leaving people waiting for an elevator), intelligence (to provide meaningful, helpful directions around the building) and, most recently, the vote (because if they have to talk politics with the people they carry up and down buildings, the least people could do in return was given them a chance to have their say). It is believed that the election of Gabriel Angeles to the role of Prime Minister of the universe was not attributed to the Elevator vote. For more information on the increasing political influence of the Elevator community, see entry seven hundred and twenty nine of the Bloody Invaluable Book.

(-*-)

"Alright." The elevator sighed, as its doors flew open to reveal the fifteenth floor. "But I'm only doing this for the memory of your poor robot friend. My deepest sympathies, by the way."

"Yeah, thanks." Gabriel tried to smile politely as they stepped out of the elevator. Very suddenly, the entire building seemed to dip and jerk three feet to the left, accompanied by a large booming sound.

"The photon was that?" Balthazar said, pulling himself up from the floor.

"I think it was the future I was so worried about." The elevator said, a noticeable tremor in its vocal circuits. "Good luck. I'm going to hide in the basement." The elevator descended quicker than the voice of a fourteen year old boy soprano, and left Balthazar and Gabriel stood in the middle of what sounded like a string of explosions (most likely because it was).

The building began to shake, and distant screams split through the air, coupled with earth-shattering explosions.

At the end of the corridor, a figure appeared, dark and haloed by the clouds of plaster dust.

"Angeles! Over here!"

"No!" Gabriel called back, as he and Balthazar leapt several small piles of rubble to get to him. "Angeles over here!"

"Did you know your building's being bombed?"

"Yes." The figure used his shoulder to break down a nearby office door, and motioned for them to follow. Balthazar did so, stumbling as the building shook beneath him.

"Who in the universe would want to bomb a publishing company?"

"Another publishing company?" Gabriel suggested, as the figure pointed under a computer desk.

"Get under the desks. Unless you want your brains knocked out by a chunk of ceiling."

"Who are you?" Balthazar yelled, over the deathly roar of incoming bombs.

"A friend."

"Anyone's friend in particular, or just an all-round popular guy?"

"Call me Rufus." He yelled back, before ducking under a desk of his own, as the entire building shook with destruction.