The Fifth Correction

by Robert Wingfield

  “You watch a lot of daytime television then?” said Lasmic.

  “I have to, for inspiration; I can’t seem to get any further with finding the cure. I’ve lost all motivation since Kara left.”

  “Are you talking about Agent Tay?”

  “Retired,” said the Magus. “How do you know? I thought you weren’t with the TCA?”

  “No, of course not; a lucky guess. I don’t know her. Was she working with you then? Where did she go?”

  “Something to do with a handbag sale I think. She upped and disappeared after we landed here.”

  “You landed and didn’t get attacked?”

  “We managed to get an invite to meet Mr $mith (sic) when Kara showed her legs and other parts to the defence people. They assumed we were Skagans.”

  “I also had an invite, but it didn’t stop them trying to pull my teeth out.”

  “They look fine to me.”

  “Falsies, I got them free with the written apology. Actually they did me a favour,” Lasmic confided behind his hand. “My own teeth were awful, damaged and dirty after all my years as a hired assassin, bottle opener, bee smoker and cost accountant.”

  “And you managed to get a job at the TCA?” prompted the Magus.

  “It’s a required skill,” said Lasmic. “All our agents have to have a background in crime; it helps us deal with real criminals, you know, ‘scrambler turned butcher’ and all that… Not that I’d know,” he added quickly. “I heard it on the tour…”

  “Very good,” said the Magus. “So you are looking for a job here now? Do you have a CV?”

  “Of course,” said Lasmic, rummaging in his rucksack. “Here it is.” He passed a sheet of paper over, trying to keep his thumb over the TCA logo in the top corner.

  The Magus noticed it right away. “They give out headed notepaper on the tours as well then? I must reserve one; I’m short since we outsourced the toilet cleaning and the tax people stopped sending final demands in the post.”

  “What do you think of the CV then?” asked Lasmic hopefully.

  “I’m looking,” said the Magus, studying the text. “It says here that you are ‘a team player, reliable, hard-working, an enthusiastic out-of-the-box thinker in cutting-edge analytical organisational paradigms; a patient, driven and inspired expert, able to establish a level playing-field, moving forward to create an effective road-map from black-sky thinking.’ Very impressive; exactly the sort of person we must be looking for in Change Management.”

  “Turn the page,” said Lasmic.

  “Ah, you are also ‘very hairy and prepared to put yourself forward for clinical trials, and you have a spaniel called Toby. Your interests include fly-fishing, knitting, patting small children on the head, eating cakes and base-jumping’, hmmm, base jumping; I’ve not heard it called that before, but I’m sure you’ll fit in splendidly here, what with our diversity targets…”

  “What salary are you offering?” said Lasmic. “When can I start working with you?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t think of anything you can help me with at the moment,” said the Magus. “Make yourself at home. The main building still has a few guest bedrooms spare; help yourself to one of those while I pass your CV over to Mr Errorcode.”

  * * *

  Not Agent Lasmic was now settled in and starting to enjoy the routine as a guest at SCT headquarters. He was allowed the freedom of the island, but kept imagining he was being watched. Every time he turned around, he thought he caught a glimpse of a black uniform disappearing behind one piece of cover or other: a tree, a wall, a spiky bush, a discarded coffee-machine, a dumped pile of the collected works of Robert Wingfield, or some such other eyesore. He would retrace his steps, but never found anyone concealed. If he was being followed, his observers were very good.

  * * *

  Lasmic was sitting alone in the drinking lounge one evening, planning his next drink from the list of ‘Special Cocktails—made with Real Cocks’. It was too early for the main rush of eager SCT workers, who only visited after they had been forcefully ejected from their workstations by the security staff, so the room was deserted except for a suspicious looking screen showing a video of an aspidistra, which he suspected was a ‘plant’ to keep an eye on him, and two very attractive girls working the bar.

  He felt a throbbing in his trousers, stopped ogling the topless bar-staff and fished out his communicator, on ‘vibration only’ for secrecy and other things. The screen-saver showed a simple recipe for preparing eggs.

  “I hope this connection is scrambled,” said the voice of Foilside, his boss. “I was wondering how your ‘fishing’ expedition is going.”

  “I’ve not been fishing,” replied Lasmic, confused, “The waters around here are not suitable for flies.”

  “That was a mushroom statement,” said Foilside, “designed to keep any eavesdroppers in the dark.”

  “I like mushrooms,” said Lasmic. “I must add that to my CV.”

  “I am speaking figuratively.” Foilside sighed. “Can you talk?”

  “Since I was about two,” said Lasmic, “But that’s not important right now. I suppose you need a report.”

  There was a series of detonations outside, as the Security forces blasted a suspicious-looking rat sniffing around the piles of vomit near the Pig-Ugly, itself still embedded in the fountain.

  “That would be nice,” said Foilside. “I hear explosions; have you terminated the subject yet? I also see you are drinking; is that in celebration, or are you zero-tasking?”

  “It helps me think,” said Lasmic.

  “Would you like another ‘Tequila Mockingbird’, sir?” One of the barmaids was leaning over him, Tequila optic, nitrous oxide, crow’s foot and cherry at the ready. She noticed the communicator. “What’s that you are watching on your little television, sir?”

  “Repeats of ‘Strictly Come Dogging’,” lied Lasmic quickly.

  “Ah, that must be Pieter Noboutsen, the host; I hate everything about him, I’m sorry to say, with his piggy eyes and the way he peers at you over his spectacles.”

  “He’s an orphan and a foundling; made good from nothing, you know.”

  “Oh the little darling; perhaps I should start watching the show again and re-join his fan-club.”

  “You do that. Yes, another drink please, but I need to watch this next bit of the episode.”

  “Of course, sir; is that the bit where the teams see how much of their bottoms they can stick out of the...?”

  “Please…” said Lasmic, trying to keep his hand over the screen, instead of reaching out to grope the barmaid’s leg, which it seemed to prefer.

  “Right sir, I’ll get back to polishing glasses and resting my breasts on the bar.”

  “I wish you would.” Lasmic gave her a gentle tap on her bottom to send her on her way.

  She shrieked and sprayed him with soda. “Pervert.”

  “Has she gone?” Foilside sounded pained. “I’m nothing like Noboutsen; I’m the wrong colour for a start.” He coughed. “You were saying about being in the bar?”

  “It helps me think.”

  “It helps me think too,” said Foilside, especially when they lean over you like that. Now, can you bottom-line your report for me?”

  “The bottom line,” said Lasmic vaguely, watching the other barmaid bending over, cleaning a nearby table, “is that I can’t get near him, sir. His security is too good.”

  “Can I drop an idea into your think-tank and see if it comes up gasping for ozone?”

  “I wish you would, sir.”

  “Have you tried requesting an appointment?”

  “I didn’t think of that.”

  “Do it now. I want you to start kicking goals and let me have a wrap and fries by tomorrow.”

  * * *

  Lasmic stood in the outer office of the CEO. He had simply logged into ‘Constrictions’ using the default administrator password, called up Tom’s diary
and added a meeting in it. The system had accepted without question, despite the fact that it had long been decommissioned.

  He knocked.

  “Avanti,” said Tom. Lasmic walked in. “Ah, Mr Lasmic. Good to see you.” Tom remained seated but shook the man’s hand warmly across the desk. “Do I know you? Didn’t you try to shoot me once?”

  “Must have been my second-cousin,” said Lasmic, forgetting his briefing.

  “That’s alright then. I wouldn’t want to hold a grudge. Now, according to the meeting request, you are here from ‘Glenforbis Farmer Menswear’ about a cure for the Dokuvirus,” he said. “I can assure you that we are working on it and that a treatment is not far away. Have you reported to the laboratory for discussions?”

  “Er, not yet. I was settling in and getting the feel of the place.”

  Tom looked at his readout. “For two weeks? That’s a lot of feel.”

  “I met the Skagans.”

  “Ah, I understand. Anyway, what can I do for you today?”

  Lasmic took a breath; it had to be now, or he would have to spend another two weeks with the Skagans; what a choice. He remembered his duty and his training; they would not divert him from his cause; that is what made him such a good agent. He remembered Bott and Scaly; where were they? It was his duty to rescue them; ‘never leave a man (or arthropod) behind’ was still their motto.

  “Out with it, man,” said Tom, gently. “Do have a seat and help yourself to the drinks cabinet. I can recommend the ‘Tequila Vampire’; simply add tomato juice, holy water and a small stake to stir it with.”

  Lasmic turned his back to mix the drink, and expressions of confusion and doubt crossed his face. Was it really this simple? All he had to do was bring out his pistol and fire. He could not miss. His target was blissfully unaware of his fate. Ah, but then he also had to read the caution, or his act would be illegal in the eyes of the TCA. That could get him suspension or at least a serious telling off, and would reflect badly on his PDP—according to the ‘bollocks’ curve of mean distribution, someone in the team had to get a rating of 2 where most got a 3 and only Foilside’s favourites ever got a 4, however badly they messed up. He was glad that Agent Tay had retired so that someone else could get a good rating. It was going to be him, Agent Lazmik. He made up his mind and turned slowly, with his pistol held out.

  “Oh, said Tom. “Are the drinks not to your liking? I could call Mrs Tuesday for some tea if you like.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Lasmic. “Are you Thomas Oliver Susan Two-Dan $mith (sic), one time megalomaniac in charge of the Universe, destroyer of worlds, beer slinger, penis donor and member of the local wildlife society?”

  “Not really,” said Tom. “That was in other universes. I’m a good guy here. Are you sure you’re not the Lazmik that tried to kill me last time?”

  “No, that was my uncle. Even if you’re not the right $mith (sic), you are near enough to be my target, and your confession that you have been in the Multiverse is good enough by itself to condemn you in the eyes of the TCA.”

  “You’re wrong. It’s not me,” said Tom. “Anyway, the TCA? What’s that?” His finger strayed towards the emergency button under his desk, which would bring security teams to the rescue.

  “Keep your hands on the table,” said Lasmic dangerously. Tom reached towards his executive toy, a set of rubber bouncing breasts on strings. “And leave that.”

  “It helps me relax in times of stress,” said Tom. “You were saying about the TCA?”

  “The Temporal Conduct Authority. Under the auspices of the Cyclic Imperator, we roam Time and Universe to correct any anomalies caused by criminals such as you, who have wilfully and persistently defied the Laws of Time, and the Cyclic Imperative.”

  “The Cyclic Imperative?” Tom’s mouth went dry as he remembered the law that had been dogging his carpark since he first left his boring existence at least three universes back. “Remind me again.”

  Lasmic grunted, and tried to recall his training. “The Law, which states that, if you must travel in Time and/or across the barriers between parallel universes, you must always return to your place of origin. We in the TCA have been tasked to ensure it will always happen.”

  “So are you going to take me back to my original location in Time and Universe then? I don’t think you’ll be able to find it. My parallel selves have been killed in one way or another. I think I’m the last. That means that wherever I am is fine according to your Imperative. I’m everywhere and nowhere, baby.”

  “I’m afraid not.” Lasmic remembered to slip the safety catch on his pistol. “You may be perhaps the only double remaining, but my orders remain to terminate you.”

  “Hang on,” said Tom. “If I’m the only double, does that make me a single, and therefore liable for surcharges on package holidays?”

  Lasmic scratched his head, starting to lose the thread. Tom saw his indecision and pressed on. “Supposing there are other universes. As you know from the String Theory, there could be an infinite number still to be discovered, with an infinite number of me, still alive and doing all sorts of remarkable things.”

  “No.”

  “No? How do you know?”

  “I suppose we don’t,” said Lasmic, biting his lip, “but my orders are to end your existence, here and now. I have to follow orders. We can deal with any other versions of you should they start to irritate us.” His finger tightened on the trigger.

  “So, no caution or anything like that; no trial?”

  “Sorry I forgot.” Lasmic released the trigger.

  “So I can have a hearing then?” said Tom hopefully.

  “No, I forgot the caution. Now how did it go?” Lasmic wrinkled his forehead. He took a deep breath. “I think it goes like this…”

  “Are you recording it for training purposes?”

  “I am now.” He switched on a small device and took a breath. “You do not have to fess-up, but if you do not mention now something which you could use to prevent your death, the TCA will decide that your demise is justified. A record is being made of anything you say and it will be given in evidence, to ensure I don’t get rated a 2 on my PDP.”

  “Anything else?” said Tom, strangely calm.

  “Yes, and by the way, you're nicked.”

  “So what can I say in my defence?”

  “Nothing really; my instructions were to read you the caution and then shoot.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” said Tom.

  “So am I,” said Lasmic wistfully. “I really like it here.” His finger tightened on the trigger again.

  The Cure

  Tea with the Duchess

  The Magus has a Bath

  I

  n the CEO’s office the atmosphere could have been cut with a blunt endoscope. Lasmic was standing pointing his pistol at Tom, Tom was desperately trying to think of something to say that would delay his expiry and then the door opened.

  “Did someone mention tea, dearie?” Mrs Tuesday rolled in with her trolley. She noticed the gun menacing Tom. “Oh, sorry, is this a difficult moment?”

  “Don’t move.” Lasmic swept his weapon towards her.

  “Not even to pour the tea?” she said calmly. “I always find a nice cup of tea helps to break the tension in moments like this.”

  “There is no tension,” said Lasmic. “This man here has been found guilty of crimes against the Universes, and must be terminated.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s a criminal. We can’t have everyone following his lead. There would be doppelgangers everywhere. It would be like trying to employ a reliable remote worker from Musoketeba over a video link. You never know if the person you interviewed is the one that actually turns up for the job, or a cousin or friend or someone they met in the street that paid them to do the interview.”

  “Is that bad? Sugar?” Mrs Tuesday filled a china cup from the cylinder on the trolley.

  “V
ery bad,” said Lasmic, realising how thirsty he had suddenly become. His mouth was dry. Now that he had his target in his sights, would he really be able to kill this helpless man, who was now offering him a biscuit? He licked his lips. “The fabric of Time and Space could simply cease to exist.”

  Mrs Tuesday rattled the trolley as she filled another cup. “As I understand it,” she said, “it would cause the universes to all take up the same space, and imagine the mess that would cause. Milk?”

  “And I thought that it would have no effect at all,” put in Tom. “After all, I’m still here, my doubles are no more and this universe remains intact.”

  “Oh, stop trying to get metaphysical with me,” said Lasmic, shaking slightly. “Philosophy never solved any real-life problems…”

  “It might have,” said Tom.

  Lasmic groaned. “Please, don’t insult me with that old jest…”

  “Or have you simply imagined it all?” said Tom.

  “You could have,” said the tea-lady, offering the cup over to Lasmic. “I heard that the universe was really one big hologram on a two dimensional information structure, and that space-time is really a quantum composition…”

  Lasmic growled. “For Phoist’s sake, he has to die, and die now while I still have a chance of a pay-rise at my next review.” He brought his gun back round to bear on Tom. As he did so, Mrs Tuesday threw the scalding tea into his face. He screamed. From beneath Tom’s desk, Caryl appeared, a gun in her own hand, and fired once. Lasmic fell backwards and lay still.

  “I always say a good cup of tea solves just about anything,” said Mrs Tuesday, “Would you like yours now, sir?”

  “Mrs Tuesday, you are wonderful; you gave me the chance to shoot,” said Caryl, swallowing hard. “I didn’t dare move while he was pointing the gun directly at Tom.”

  “Were you under the desk all the time?”

  “I was. I heard it all.”

  “I owe you both a debt of thanks,” said Tom, standing and pulling his trousers back up.

  “Only doing my duty,” said Caryl and the tea-lady together. They grinned at each other.