The Fifth Correction

by Robert Wingfield

  * * *

  After a good night’s sleep, the Magus strolled into his new laboratory and manufacturing plant. He was pleased to see a few of his technicians scurrying around, attending the Dokumat manufacturing machines. Cat appeared and rubbed around his ankles. He put his hand down absently to fuss the creature and it sank its teeth in. His fur prevented any major damage so he hardly noticed.

  One of the men nodded and brought him a D-Pad detailing the throughput statistics, wastage and test reports. It was simply a load of unintelligible numbers. “So are we producing any mats?” He decided to cut through the complexity.

  “Of course.” The man seemed affronted.

  “How many?”

  “It’s all in the figures.”

  “Have you ever heard of PowerPoint? I’d love to see a chart.”

  “Chart? We are a research and development laboratory; we use numbers, equations and statistics. Charts are for the hoi polloi.”

  “But I’m one of the common people, you know.”

  “You invented the Dokumat; that means you are one of us.”

  “All the same, could you summarise the details for me, er, in case I have to explain it to the Management.”

  “Dumb it down you mean?”

  “Yes please,” said the Magus hopefully. “Practise on me?”

  “In a nutshell?”

  “If you would be so kind.”

  The man took a breath, and reeled off his report. “An average of twenty mats produced daily for the last 10 days, of which two have failed and another two have been reworked. We may need to import a second hexacat as we are running short of whiskers.”

  “Do it.”

  “The only problem is that we don’t know where to get another one.”

  “I had a beautiful planet,” said the Magus absently. “I was doing fine until the Consortium showed up and took it over as a training facility for their shock-cement-mixer squadron... it must be, oh, at least three books ago.”

  “Books?”

  “Sorry, I meant ‘universes’, but then time is a strange thing; it seems much longer past. I gave half the planet over to the hexacats.”

  “That’s very conservational of you.”

  “Not really. The pesky things have an antigen in their dribble that turns perfectly normal people into mindless idiots, talking in stupid voices, filling their houses with ornaments and cushions with pictures of hexakittens, buying expensive hexacat food and hammocks for hanging on radiators, losing their sense of smell and then believing everything they see in the adverts on the telly. I kept them away from me, and the fur protects me now... diddums. Pussy want another fuss?” He absently tickled the cat’s chin.

  “You had a planet?”

  “Yes,” said the Magus. “I had invented an organic device that was great at temporal shifts, and it had gone backwards in time and invested some money. I was fabulously rich, once I found out where the bank had hidden the proceeds in a so-called ‘dormant’ account, and was right about to start looking for a shallow, but amazingly beautiful and sexy woman with an interest in mechanical devices and computer games to share the place with me.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I got dribbled on and couldn’t be bothered with all that ‘relationship’ stuff, even if I could find someone with the mind of a potato who wouldn’t be a challenge. I spent all my time lazing on the beach and dreaming.”

  “And then?”

  “My device got poisoned and the Consortium broke through. They took me captive; I was lucky to escape with my watch intact.”

  “Watch?”

  “The Consortium used quadrillipods for research and development; they love timepieces, their lives are governed by precise timekeeping and the more they can strap on to their legs, the happier they are. They make brilliant scientists…”

  The man looked hurt.

  “Not a patch on real techies though,” the Magus added quickly.

  “That’s good,” said the technician, brightening up. “But this doesn’t explain anything. The Consortium is now a simple mining operation banned from all planets and reduced to quarrying asteroids for materials. Were they that powerful?”

  “I’m afraid so. They were once the most influential establishment in the Galaxy, but after I blew up their headquarters, and their military met the hexacats, they lost all interest in conquering, destroying and galactic domination, and for a while spent their time knitting and watching day-time television. The bulk of their fleet had been destroyed in the Skagan wars.”

  “Skagan; as in the little tribe on our island?”

  “The very same, but of course there were issues with parallel universes, and I’m not even sure this happened here, or in a corresponding world somewhere else. I’m not even sure if I am me, or a clone from one of the others.”

  “Right… so do you remember where your planet was? We really need to stock up on our supply of whiskers.”

  “We would have to go and search. Are any of the ships ready with Dokumat drives?”

  “I believe Pete is fitting an array at the moment.”

  “Good. As soon as he’s ready, we’ll go on a hunt. Cat here will be glad to get a friend—it must be a lonely life being the only hexacat.”

  “Yes, he’s been taking it out on the cushions. I’ve had to get a load more bought in. They’re gorgeous; look at the cute pictures of kittens.”

  “Right,” said the Magus. “Can I leave the Dokumat production to your team?”

  “Of course.”

  “Before I go, I’ll do a bit more work trying to find a cure for the virus. I’m so close, but it’s a pity I don’t have my assistant anymore.”

  “It is,” agreed the man. “It’s dull around here with nothing to look at. We would have used one of the Skagan women, but they simply don’t have the focus, and neither do we when they are around.”

  “Less distracting without them I think. Never mind; let me have some peace and I’ll see what I can come up with.”

  * * *

  The Magus peered at a piece of hair through his new ‘scanning microbe electroscope’, trying to work out the composition. Nothing made sense. The hair looked perfectly normal apart from its very regular structure. The cells were aligned, almost as though they had been created by machine. “Structured,” he muttered. “Why should something organic be this regular?”

  He dismissed that specimen and returned to studying the virus itself. This had been separated by the ‘centrobiotic microfuge’ and he now had a reasonable sample boiling away in the culture chamber. He increased the magnification; still nothing became obvious. “I’m tired,” he said to himself, pushing his chair away from the machine. “What I really need is a good cup of coffee.”

  “That’s what I’m here for,” said a voice at his elbow.

  “Ah, Duchess,” said the Magus. “How did you know?”

  “It is my duty to know,” said the former tea-lady, now officially a titled peer of the realm. “I always know when my people are short of provisions. I’ve brought you a Belgian Bun.”

  “Fantastic,” said the Magus gratefully. “I really need something to cheer me up.”

  “Why are you sad?” The Duchess began the process of producing the perfect cup of coffee. The Magus tried to take notes, but Mrs Tuesday used her rotund figure to hide the critical steps. “Problems at home?” she continued. “None of the women fancy you: running out of industrial strength shampoo: body odour: an incurable disease?”

  “All of the above,” said the Magus sadly. “I don’t think there is a cure for the Dokuvirus.”

  “Is that what makes you so furry?” The lady smiled sympathetically.

  The Magus nodded absently. “I’ve been trying to find a cure for months now. Nothing seems to work. All I manage to do is find more and more useful side effects. Do you know, since I started, I’ve discovered a new form of energy, a hair restorer, a razor that never wears out, a
drug that cures cancer, another drug that cures dementia, a nasal spray that turns traffic planners into useful pillars of society, and a ray that reflects back at speed cameras, frying their internal workings and injecting a virus into the connecting computers which deletes all speeding ticket records and sends lewd pictures of their programmers’ private parts to the newspapers…” He fiddled absently with a small device in his armpit.

  “What’s that you’ve got there?” she said, pointing.

  “Oh this?” He withdrew a soft pad. “It’s an underarm deodorant failure detector I made while I was stuck last time. I designed it to send a text to my mobile if the whiff gets too bad. It powers itself from the energy generated by the microbes that cause the smell.”

  “Brilliant,” said Mrs Tuesday, passing over a cup of coffee that actually tasted as it smelt when it was freshly ground beans. “My dear departed Mr Tuesday would have loved that.”

  The Magus took a sip. “Wonderful. Why can’t other manufacturers make it taste like this? It helps to take away the frustration of trying to find this cure.”

  “Can I have a look?” The tea-lady was staring at the culture chamber containing the doku hairs.

  “What?”

  “…at your experiment, while you are eating your bun; I won’t touch anything.”

  “Have a go,” said the Magus. “All the finest minds on the island, and Kara, have been trying to help me find a cure for the virus, and we’ve all failed.”

  Duchess Tuesday took off her apron and wiped her hands before peering more closely into the machine. She whistled. She swapped her spectacles for a different pair. She returned to look at the readout on the electroscope. “Aha, I was right.”

  “Right?”

  “I can see structure in the virus on the doku hairs. It looks very much like data.”

  “Data,” said the Magus. “Let me see.” He had a look. Nothing seemed different.

  “Try these,” said the Duchess, handing him her glasses. He put them on and looked again.

  “My Phoist.”

  “Precisely.”

  “It’s a quantum database. What are these glasses? They’re amazing.”

  “Boggleglass,” she replied. “I use them when I’m out somewhere. As you walk along, they tell you where you are, superimpose street and building names and give you directions to the nearest cake shop. They can be specifically adjusted to each environment, and work by detecting any power source and translating it into location information.”

  “I’d heard of that but I thought it was only a gimmick for tracking down bordellos and post-offices that haven’t yet been closed.”

  “The first ones were, and could get you arrested if you wore them while driving, because they reckoned you were curb-crawling, but these are the enhanced version that can read and interpret too.”

  The Magus looked into the electroscope again. “I can see actual words. It’s like looking into a library. There must be Bogglebytes of information in there.”

  “Easily,” agreed Mrs Tuesday; “it looks to me like the whole knowledge of everything in the universe could be stored in it.”

  “You mean to say the doku are the guardians of all data?”

  “Looks like it,” said the Duchess, “But what would I know, I’m only a tea-lady.”

  “But how can we contract the virus? You can’t ‘catch’ data.”

  “If I wasn’t just a tea-lady, I might guess that when people started turning them into burgers and sausages, the ‘doku-intelligence’ for want of a better description, had to find a way of preserving the data before it was all eaten by greedy fat bastards. They probably arranged for you to contract it to pass on the knowledge.”

  “But why the hair?”

  “If I was the sort of person to be involved in the research, I might have noticed that the structure is very regular, and from this I might have deduced that connecting the hair into a reception device, say an Eccles Cake with the top off, would allow the data to be downloaded, but what would I know? Have you got anything with that much processing power?”

  “As an Eccles Cake? Not yet,” said the Magus thoughtfully, “but if I connected the virus inside my body to the culture in the jar over there, there might be a transfer of data.”

  “Why not simply try rubbing it on your fur?”

  “Brilliant.” The Magus took off his glove and poked a finger into the culture. Immediately, there was a tingling sensation and the fur dissolved, leaving him with one very pink digit sticking out of a furry hand. “Wow.” He put his whole hand in and almost instantly, there was skin he thought he’d never see again. “You are wonderful.” He hugged the tea-lady and she giggled, but then pushed him away.

  “I don’t get familiar with commoners,” she said haughtily, “but I’m glad you have solved your problem.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without you,” he said.

  “Me?” said the Duchess. “What would a tea-lady know about micro-electro-nuclear-quantum-biology? Another bun?”

  * * *

  Some hours later, the Magus eased himself into a vat of the cultured virus. As he submerged, a tingling sensation spread to the whole of his body and the fur simply dissolved away as the data transfer took place. He was careful to not go completely under, he felt he should keep some hair on his head itself. He grimaced; he could see all of his body now. “I must get back to working out,” he muttered.

  A warm shower completed the operation and the remains of his affliction first clogged the plug-hole, and then caused a blockage further down the pipes near the ladies’ toilets, triggering a load of unnecessary deodorant warnings. He then visited a barber, carrying a small jar of culture and a paintbrush.

  “Short back and sides, Gringo?” said the man.

  “No thank you Ramón, simply paint over where the hair would normally be cut from. I’ll wash my head and the job is done.”

  “I’m not sure I’m allowed a paintbrush, but I’ll give it a try.”

  “Don’t I know you?”

  “Something for the weekend sir? I got nice sister…”

  * * *

  Tom was enjoying a perfect cup of coffee in the Company lounge when Vac marched stiffly up to him. He nodded to the man. “Vac.”

  “Yes, Sah, I know.”

  “No, I was greeting you, not reminding you of your name.”

  “Thank you, Sah.”

  “Was there anything else?” Tom prompted as the man stood silently to attention.

  “Yes, Sah.”

  “Out with it, man... oh, I didn’t mean that. Put it away and tell me what you wanted to say.”

  “Insurgents, Sah; numbering one.”

  “That would be ‘an’ insurgent then, not ‘insurgents’.”

  “You know already then, Sah; new travels fast. Shall I have him executed?”

  “No, I should probably talk to him. Who is he? Did he say anything?”

  “Says he’s the Magus, Sah, but the Magus is that furry creature working in Research. I think he’s murdered the man and taken his identity card. Caught him accessing Company data.”

  “Company data? What company data?”

  “The table-football in Recreation, Sah.”

  “I should probably talk to him. Would you bring him in please?”

  “Right away, Sah.”

  Tom took another sip of his coffee and Vac reappeared carrying what looked like a cursing spider cocoon. “I know that voice,” he said. “Untie him Vac. That really is the Magus.”

  “But, Sah, the Magus is…”

  “I know; please humour me and let him loose.”

  “I will, Sah, but one false move and I’ll blow him apart.”

  “Put the portable Doku-shunt away. You won’t need it. Sorry about this, Magus, but since that attempt on my life, Vac has been extra vigilant. I presume by your clean-cut appearance that you have finally discovered a cure.”

  The Magus nodded enthusiasti
cally. “It was not a virus but a data-store,” he blurted.

  “Sounds technical so I won’t ask,” said Tom. “Bravo. Is it permanent? Will it work on anyone else? Have you got yourself a girlfriend? You can’t fail now. Women like the clean-shaven look; reminds them of infants. Dab a bit of baby powder behind your ears.”

  “Haven’t tried yet,” said the Magus, “Soooo excited; after all this time I can actually see my body.”

  “Yes, perhaps you should put some clothes on,” said Tom. “Vac, please go and get the Magus one of the Company bath-robes.”

  “Are you sure, Sah? Supposing he makes a false move?”

  “And what might one of those be? No don’t answer. This is my old mate, the Magus. We go back many universes and he hasn’t tried to kill me… lately anyway.”

  The Magus suddenly became very interested in a small mole on his toe. “Sorry about that,” he mumbled.

  “All ale under the table now,” said Tom magnanimously, “You are cured and that’s all that matters. So now we need a plan to announce this discovery to the rest of the Galaxy. I’ll call a meeting.”

  Development

  Vac has trouble with GUTS

  Tom loses his End

  K

  ara stood on the clifftop overlooking Guacamole Cove, the location she had managed to track down as Vac’s internment camp. She had not left the Island as the Magus thought, because some memory deep inside her was nagging away. The TCA motto, ‘Never leave an agent or bionic abomination behind’ was pinging away at her conscience filters. Were Bott and Scaly being held here? She had to find out, if only to rub in the fact that she was no longer working for the TCA and could leave them there legitimately.

  She studied the surrounding area. There were a few of the traditional signs with ‘Achtung Minen’ scrawled on in lipstick, the usual shark-infested moat, and a road sign saying ‘Guacamole Cove, Historic Torture Centre, welcomes careful victims. Twinned with Romariastan’.

  “Looks like the right place,” she muttered.

  “It is, if you are an insurgent,” said an icy voice behind her, and the cold steel of a ‘Taunt and Cock TC P9’ pistol inserted itself into her ear. “I do hope you’re not planning on coming quietly.”