IGMS Issue 12

by IGMS

  Nathan Hazelton denied that he had supported the GennerCorp bill. He insisted that Lyons had voted for it, not him. He claimed it loudly. Vehemently. Repeatedly.

  But lo, a quick check of the records of the online committee proceedings showed otherwise.

  Spencer had not tampered with those records. In truth, they were beyond his reach.

  Critical mass, the tipping point, had already been attained. Reality had realigned itself to conform to the new perception. Even Spencer found himself amazed -- but not surprised.

  To his credit, Hazelton did not quit. Instead, he became more strident, making wild allegations of conspiracies, for which he of course had no proof. One man's unbelief could not deflect the power of the Multiplicity.

  Yea, verily, the poor bastard never knew what hit him.

  George Lyons won re-election in a walk. Hazelton suffered a breakdown and resigned in confused disgrace. He later checked himself into a private hospital. Word was that he emerged some months later with at least a tenuous grasp of his new world. Retirement from the pressures of public life had done wonders for his mental health.

  This is the word of the New Order.

  Can I get an amen?

  It took Spencer three weeks to send out all the seeds of the new reality -- some of the fastest work he'd ever done, all while ostensibly working on Diana Gilbertson's case. He sent her periodic emails with totally fictitious updates, just to keep her from getting curious.

  The seeds required a certain incubation period, varying with each case. Spencer used the time to close down his office: buying out his lease, personally shredding his paper files, packing up the campaign memorabilia.

  Periodically, he monitored the various threads he had started, and posted nudges to those that were lagging behind the others. They all had to hit at just the right time in order to have the desired effect. Working the Multiplicity was not unlike conducting a major symphony orchestra -- bringing up the woodwinds a little here, holding back the brass a bit there, guiding the strings through some tricky modulations, driving the entire assembly to a roaring crescendo.

  So things progressed. He spotted one of his seeds in an offhand mention on Truthzilla, in service of another point. Spencer smiled. Another day or two, he figured. At most.

  By the time Roger Bonham called, the file drawers were empty and the office walls were bare. Spencer, dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans -- he no longer had need of a suit -- was boxing up supplies when his cell phone rang.

  He flipped it open.

  "Hey, there, Spence."

  "Hi, Rog." Spencer took a deep breath. The time had come. Actually, it had taken Bonham a little longer than he'd expected.

  "You've been a busy boy, haven't you?"

  "Always."

  "We need to talk."

  "I'm listening."

  "Not over the phone. Meet me in Mahoney Park. One hour."

  Spencer hesitated -- but it was a park, a public place. The worst Bonham could do was maybe take a swing at him. He might even deserve as much. He checked his watch. It was just after three. "All right. One hour."

  Bonham disconnected without another word.

  Mahoney Park was a short walk from Spencer's building, and the day was unseasonably warm for late March, so he donned a windbreaker and set out on foot.

  Shadows lengthened as he arrived at the park, a pleasant oasis in the heart of downtown, where budding trees ringed a winding footpath around a duck pond. Spencer took a seat facing the pond, on a bench near a wide arbor that marked the park entrance. Passersby tossed popcorn and breadcrumbs to the ducks. As he waited, he mentally composed what he would say to Bonham.

  At 4:15, Bonham hadn't arrived. Spencer thought little of it.

  At 4:30, Bonham still hadn't arrived. Not a problem. Probably got hung up at the office.

  By 4:45, as traffic noise swelled with the beginnings of rush hour and the park emptied, Spencer tried calling, to make sure he hadn't gotten the time or the place wrong. But he couldn't get service for some reason. Odd. He'd never had trouble calling from downtown before.

  By 5:00, the spring air cooled as the sun westered. Spencer zipped up his jacket and paced. A few minutes longer, and he would head back to the office, Bonham be damned.

  Bonham showed up at 5:10, waddling unhurriedly down the sidewalk. He caught sight of Spencer and waved.

  Spencer met him at the arbor. "Where the hell have you been?"

  Bonham ducked his gaze. "Sorry. Running late. And traffic was a bitch. Let's sit, Spence."

  They went to the bench where Spencer had waited. Bonham settled himself and stared at the lake, out of breath. "Pretty out here."

  "Yeah." Spencer sat on the other end of the bench.

  "Gonna be a nice spring."

  "We didn't come here to talk about the weather."

  Bonham nodded slowly, regaining his wind. "I suppose not."

  "So . . ." Spencer let the word hang.

  "I see what you're doing, Spence." Bonham kept his gaze focused on the pond. "You're very good; I'll give you that. And bold. To hell with brass balls; yours must be cast iron, buddy."

  "Thanks."

  "You attributed the George Lyons campaign to me. You made him a client of mine. And Bruce Gianelli. And Clarence Menendez. What did you do? Give me every client you ever had?"

  "Not all. The Helen Burstein job involved unpaid back taxes. I gave that one to the IRS."

  "What about your temps?"

  "Parted ways with them."

  "And the company bank accounts?"

  "Closed. Transferred the funds to personal savings. I shut down the web site, too."

  "You always did keep a low profile. Made it that much easier to cover all your tracks." Bonham shook his head. "Even better, actually -- you made them all lead to me. Clever." He looked at Spencer, one corner of his mouth turned up in a half-smile. "The two of us -- we're no damned good, are we?"

  Spencer shifted on the bench. "I'm sure a lot of people think so."

  "You have no idea." The half-smile flickered. "So maybe it's better this way."

  "What way?"

  "You remember what I said at the bar? About everyone getting out of the pool?"

  "Yeah. I've been seeing rumors about an FEC investigation, too."

  Roger shook his head. The jowls hanging from his boyish face swung. "She's not FEC."

  "She's --" Spencer stopped, cocked his head. "Who's not FEC?"

  "You know who. Your client. Ms. Gilbertson, or whatever her name is. She's too damned smart for a government agent. And a hell of a lot meaner, to boot."

  "I guess you would know, right? You approached her. You sicced her on me."

  Again, the jowls swung. "Not at all. She came to me. Hinting about the FEC was her idea. And that cover story she fed you? Deliberately tissue-thin. She expected you to see through it. She counted on it, actually."

  "What?" Unease crept into him. "What the hell's going on here?"

  "Listen, Spence, I didn't intend it to play out like this. She didn't tell me what she had in mind. I wouldn't have gone along with it if she had." He considered. "Then again, maybe I would have. Hard to say. Mean old world, you know."

  Spencer's stomach went cold. He stood. "Roger, what did you do?"

  "Not much. You did most of the work yourself. All I did was plant those FEC rumors you read about. And just now, I got you out of your office for a bit."

  Spencer looked back the way he had come, then back to Bonham. "That's why you were so late? You . . . you . . ."

  Something huge and dark stirred in his mind. He couldn't discern its shape, but its sheer size terrified him. "My God."

  "Sorry. I guess I should say good-bye. Maybe you could --"

  Spencer took off at top speed toward the office.

  Bonham called after him: "It's too late, Spence! You can't stop it now! She --"

  Traffic noise swallowed the rest of his words. Spencer ran on, shoving aside pedestrians along the way.

  H
e got back in under five minutes, falling twice, narrowly avoiding being run down by a bus at an intersection, and drawing a scream from some old woman who caught the expression on his face.

  Along the way, that monstrous form in his mind took on some definition. As it did, he ran even faster.

  He reached his building and headed for the stairwell, ignoring the elevators. Office workers leaving for the day turned startled glances to him. His footfalls thumped on the carpeted stairs.

  He reached the glass door to his office suite, panting hard, lungs burning. His tennis shoes squeaked on the tile floor as he halted his headlong charge.

  The suite's glass front looked in on the darkened reception area. Only some large cardboard boxes, taped shut, stood where the padded chairs and coffee tables had once been. Beyond the reception area was the wooden door to his office proper. All was just as he had left it, some ninety-odd minutes ago.

  Except that his office door was cracked slightly open, and a light was on inside.

  With numb fingers, he pulled on the glass door. It opened. He noted some scratches on the face of the lock; someone had picked it.

  He entered, crossed the reception area, and went into the office. On his desk lay the smashed remains of his laptop.

  She spoke from behind him: "You made good time."

  He whirled. She sat in one of the chairs near the conference table. She wore red. One hand absently stroked the handle of a ball peen hammer lying on the table. "I just got off the phone with Roger."

  Spencer was still too out of breath to speak. A stitch had formed in his side, biting him. He bent over, hands on thighs.

  "Sit," she said. "Before you fall over."

  He could only shake his head. He was thinking of his broken laptop.

  "Suit yourself." She crossed her legs. "It's like a wave, isn't it? The Multiplicity. Like a huge tsunami headed to shore. It sweeps away everything that isn't anchored down. And this time, you set it up to roll right over you."

  Between breaths, he said, "I'm . . . still . . . anchored."

  "Not as well as you think. You've been busy, Spencer, but so have I. The waiter at the restaurant collected your credit card number for me. Turns out you keep your savings account at the same bank. It's gone now." She flapped a hand at the shattered remains of his laptop. "And the records you had on your hard drive, too." She grimaced, as if she'd tasted something bitter. "I'm sorry about destroying it. That was a bit crude. But I needed to cut off your Internet access." She nodded toward the hammer.

  "I . . . can get . . . another laptop."

  She glanced at her watch. "Not in time. I haven't been able to get at everything, but I have enough. You did most of the work, more thoroughly than I could have."

  He thought of his cell phone, but she had obviously gotten to that account, too -- just after Bonham had called him.

  She's too damned smart to be working for the government. And a hell of a lot meaner, to boot. Spencer slowly straightened. Staring into her lean, angular face, he again noted that flash of recognition he had felt at the restaurant.

  He forgot about the pain in his side. "You're his daughter, aren't you? Nathan Hazelton's daughter."

  Her thin smile appeared. "My name's Rebecca. Call me Becky."

  "You have your father's eyes. You were . . . overseas when it happened, weren't you? In the army."

  "Know what I did in the army, Spencer? Electronic Intelligence. Learned some nice tricks about identity theft. I knew about the Multiplicity, too. Everyone in my unit did. Not many took it seriously. Neither did I -- until you showed me the error of my ways."

  Spencer looked over at his laptop, shaking his head. "All this to avenge your father? Wouldn't it have been simpler to shoot me? The army showed you how to use a gun, I assume."

  "Simpler?" Diana -- no, Becky; her name was Becky -- said. "Maybe. But I'm after more than vengeance, Spencer. To tell you the truth, my father's happier now than he was as a senator."

  "Then . . . why?"

  "You said it yourself. The Multiplicity is a complex phenomenon. Even dangerous. It's no good to have such a force in the hands of people like you."

  "Couldn't you have just had me arrested, then? This seems pretty elaborate for someone who's not interested in vengeance. Spiteful, even." He tried to sound sarcastic, but his voice wavered. And his hands were shaking.

  "So I should blow the whistle. Bring in the law. Regulation. Oversight." She sneered. "You think that's going to solve everything? Instead of having the power of the Multiplicity in the hands of free agents like you, we should trust it to the government?" She laughed deeply. "No, thank you. I've worked for the government. There's a better way: we should make an example out of someone. And I couldn't think of a better candidate."

  She stood. "After tonight, those who are tempted to manipulate the Multiplicity will think twice. They'll know what a two-edged sword it really is. Look at your fat friend Roger Bonham. He's scared, and he should be. After tonight, they'll all be scared. That suits me just fine."

  "Everybody out of the pool," Spencer whispered. He closed his eyes. None of this seemed real.

  "That's right."

  "You . . . I could . . . I should . . ."

  "Do what? Attack me? Kill me?"

  "Why not?" he said dully, eyes still closed. "Didn't you just do the same to me?"

  "Look at me, Spencer."

  He did. She stood with her hands at her side, calm, waiting. Her thin smile was gone, leaving nothing but that hard edge he'd noticed when they had first met. He dropped his gaze.

  "That's what I thought," she said. "Not your style."

  "Get the hell out of here."

  "Fine." Leaving the hammer on the table, she walked past him, paused at the door. "If it's any consolation, I don't think you'll feel any pain. It'll be quick." She glanced again at her watch. "And soon. Goodbye, Spencer."

  She closed the door behind her.

  Spencer sat at his desk, gazing out his window at the skyline. Full dark had fallen. He had turned out the lights in his office to afford a better view.

  Like a tsunami, she had said. Yes, indeed. He fancied he could feel it building, rushing toward him, cresting.

  How would it feel to be obliterated? She had said it wouldn't hurt, but how in the hell would she know?

  He looked at his hands. Were they fading, becoming transparent? Would he slowly turn into a ghost? Or would he just blink out of existence?

  The wave, hurtling toward shore. He could feel its power now, and no mistake. It was huge, bigger than Kinsman had ever imagined, bigger than even Spencer had thought possible. Probably not even the woman who had called herself Diana Gilbertson suspected its fullest extent.

  He doubted that anyone who could sense such power would be able to stay away from it. And he knew, in that moment, that Becky Hazelton had been wrong about one thing: scared they though may be for a little while, they would come back. People like him and Roger Bonham, they wouldn't be able to resist the temptation. They would try again. And again. And again.

  "No damned good," he said. "No damned good."

  Thus I give you the tale of the man who never existed, brothers and sisters. Some of you will hear and take heed; others will not believe. It matters not to me.

  What's that you say? Who am I? How is it that I know of Spencer Reese?

  Well, the Multiplicity is a still a great mystery, children. Maybe Spencer Reese wasn't entirely obliterated. Maybe part of him survived, somehow, somewhere. Maybe he's not the same person anymore.

  But maybe he still senses the power of the Multiplicity. Maybe it still calls to him. The tale is all that wards off that siren song. It's a mean old world.

  The Multiplicity has arrived, brothers and sisters.

  Can I get an amen?

  Somewhere My Love

  by Stephen Mark Rainey

  Artwork by Nick Greenwood

  * * *

  She lived in our town's one and only haunted house: a century-old, two-st
ory Victorian with a pepperbox turret, windows of leaded glass, a sagging roof with missing shingles, and a wild array of blackened brick chimneys. The little paint remaining on its aging wooden skin was no longer white but crusty gray, so the structure lurked almost unseen behind a thick shield of cedar trees that ringed the property. Rather than a neat, paved driveway like all the others in the community, only a short, gravel apron, tucked up tight against the house, existed for the owner's car. The man of the manor had died before I was born, so the woman had lived alone in that place for over ten years.

  At night, no light ever shone in any of the windows. But sometimes after dark, I would hear her voice echoing out of that old house, singing songs that seemed to me unearthly.

  Her name was Jeanne Weiler, and she was my music teacher when I was in elementary school.

  Of course, she was a witch.

  Looking back now, I would have to say she was quite an attractive woman, though at the time, she presented such an imposing figure that just being in the same room with her intimidated me to the edge of fright. She stood nearly six feet (which, when I measured barely four feet, seemed so very tall indeed); had long, wavy black hair, which she often piled high atop her head, adding to her commanding height; and possessed the most piercing green eyes I have ever seen even to this day. She virtually always wore smart, tight-fitting black outfits that showed off a figure my youthful eyes could not yet appreciate, but her clothes insinuated no impropriety -- only dignity.

  Despite my fear of Mrs. Weiler, I did adore her. In those pre-pubescent days, the concept of sexual attraction was still a mystifying, nebulous thing, which only the future would elucidate, but my typical physical response to her presence consisted of stammering, chills, and uncontrollable trembling. Had she but asked it, I would have fallen to my knees, kissed her feet, and been excited enough by the prospect to wet my drawers.

  All the more proof that she was a witch, at least to me, for I recognized this effect as pure power -- miles and leagues beyond any held by my parents, or any other teachers, or the minister at church, or any of my fellow fourth graders. She terrified me because she could have made me do things. Anything.