You Can't Kill the Multiverse

by Ira Nayman

  “Old Timer my air ducts!” the first device angrily spat. “You only came off the assembly line 23 seconds after I did!”

  “That’s 23 seconds longer that you’ve had to have your insides rot, OLD TIMER!”

  “That’s 23 seconds more experience I have, you young –”

  “Did somebody say they wanted a shoeshine?” a third device asked.

  “Butt out!” the first two devices shouted. Only, one of them may have used stronger language. Or, perhaps both of them did.

  “Maybe we should humour them,” Biff Buckley suggested.

  “No,” Beau Beaumont answered. “In my experience, you let one of these little bastards have their way and, before you know it, they’re all over you faster than a lobbyist on a Senator!”

  “In your experience?” Biff Buckley wondered.

  “Burma. Oh five,” Beau Beaumont told him. “Don’t ask.”

  “Oh. Well,” was all Biff Buckley could get out before the now four shoeshine devices started arguing among themselves. He looked at Beau Beaumont and nodded his head in the direction of the nearest house. Beau Beaumont nodded his head in agreement. It was time to go.

  “Care to have your coats cleaned?” a deep baritone brush hovering in front of them asked.

  “No!” Beau Beaumont shouted.

  “You look like you’ve traveled a long way,” the brush said. “Everybody could use a good brushing down at the end of a long trip.”

  “Buzz off, hairy!” one of the eight – make that nine – no actually, 11 shoeshine devices (and counting) shouted. “We were here first!”

  “Not all of you!” the brush, joined by two…three…four brothers, rejoined. “Besides, there’s nothing wrong with a little competition for these good people’s business.”

  Before any of the shoeshine devices could come up with a clever retort, a sing-song voice from behind Biff Buckley and Beau Beaumont said, “Anybody in the mood for cutting a little wood?” The two investigators turned to find a chainsaw hovering around chest height. “I – give me a sec,” the chainsaw sputtered to life. “I’m the best wood cutter for miles around.”

  “Whoa! Whoa!” Beau Beaumont, startled, blurted. “Don’t touch us! You got that? No touching! NO TOUCHING!”

  “No touching!” the chainsaw echoed. Soon, all of the growing number of devices were chanting “No touching! No touching!”

  Biff Buckley touched Beau Beaumont lightly on the shoulder, which made him jump. “We’ve got trouble,” Biff Buckley said, pointing beyond the chainsaw. The two men saw a thick swarm of machines flying through the air towards them.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Beau Beaumont advised. “Now!”

  They didn’t like their chances with the chainsaws, so they turned to find their way blocked by a solid wall of machines. In addition to the shoeshine devices and automatic brushes, there were mechanical hat blockers, computer screens and keyboards, razors, telephones, corkscrews (?), flashlights, globes, snaky objects that may have been plumber’s helpers, table lamps, crepe makers (Hmm…I am feeling a little peckish, Biff Buckley thought, but, uhh, maybe now is not the time…), cameras, things the shape of Vermont that didn’t have an obvious purpose, flashlights, hearing aids (!), toothbrushes, more telephones and one or two print on demand publishing machines. Each of the machines contributed to a cacophony of commerce.

  “Get out of our way!” Beau Beaumont shouted over the din.

  Seeing that the objects did not respond to his demand, Beau Beaumont stepped forward. He may have thought the objects would part to let him pass. Instead, the whole wall moved forward. Interspersed with the come-ons, an astute observer of the scene could hear some of the machines intone, “No touching! No touching!” Beau Beaumont waved his hand in front of him in an attempt to ward off the objects. Although they moved back to give him room to gesture, they did not part.

  “We’re losing the light,” Biff Buckley observed.

  “Good thing we’re not shooting a film, then” Beau Beaumont retorted through gritted teeth.

  Biff Buckley laughed politely. Then, he said, “No, but seriously. It’s getting dark.”

  Beau Beaumont looked around. They were quickly becoming engulfed by an ever-growing number of mechanical devices. The mound of machines had already surrounded them, and smaller machines were starting to fill in the gaps.

  “Okay, this is getting out of hand,” Beau Beaumont muttered. Taking out his taser, he shot the nearest nose hair trimmer. It sputtered and smoked and fell to the ground. Then, an automatic pill dispenser took its place.

  Biff Buckley put a restraining hand on his arm. “There are too many of them,” he pointed out. “Don’t waste the battery.”

  As Beau Beaumont holstered his weapon, the two men were plunged into darkness.

  “Okay, I’ve had enough of this,” Beau Beaumont said to nobody in particular. He put a finger to his forehead and wrinkled his brow in thought. He intended to use the chip each Transdimensional Authority field investigator had placed in their head that allowed them to communicate with headquarters. The main purpose of the chip was to signal that they were ready to be brought home. A secondary purpose of the chip was to monitor an investigator’s vital signs; if they should stop during a mission, it signalled headquarters to bring the remains of the investigator back home. Naturally, this use of the chip was not prominently mentioned in the Alternaut Handbook.

  Beau Beaumont got a ‘no signal, out of range’ message.

  “Oh, this isn’t good,” he said.

  Over the buzz of the machines clamouring for their attention, Biff Buckley said, “You can’t get in contact with headquarters either? The metal around us must be muffling the signal.”

  “So, we’re gonna be here until we starve to death?” Beau Beaumont loudly griped.

  “Oh, I think that’s highly unlikely,” Biff Buckley cheerfully replied.

  “You do?”

  “Sure, sure. We’re probably going to asphyxiate long before we starve.”

  “You always did like to look on the bright si – COULD WE POSSIBLY GET SOME LIGHT IN HERE?”

  The flashlights and table lamps in the mass around them immediately turned on, creating zigzagging rays of light. Cellphones and a lone computer screen also turned on, casting a bluish glow over the cramped space.

  “So, now we can watch each other die?” Biff Buckley asked.

  “No, Beau Beaumont told him, “now we can do our jobs.” Raising his voice, he shouted, “We’re here to talk to a man named Jeff Spaghettini. Have any of you ever heard of –”

  “Ooh,” the machines said, as one. Then, they fell silent.

  Biff Buckley and Beau Beaumont looked at each other, uncertain what to make of what had just happened.

  “Sooooo,” Beau Beaumont said, “you have heard of Jeff Spaghettini?”

  The silence lasted until one second before Beau Beaumont would have repeated the question in a louder, more strident voice, at which point one of the hovering toaster ovens answered, “Uhh, no, sir. I do not believe I ever made the acquaintance of anybody named Jeff Spaghettini.” Before long, all of the other the appliances were saying, “No. Nope. Never heard of the dude.” and “Name doesn’t ring a bell.” and “I may have eaten him at an Italian restaurant once. Otherwise, can’t say that I knew him.” The cellphone that made that last comment was rudely nudged by the pasta maker that happened to be wedged in next to it.

  The devices went back to hawking themselves to the two investigators. “Something very strange is…is going on here,” Beau Beaumont commented.

  Just about any other Transdimensional Authority investigator would have seen this statement as an invitation to sarcasm. An invitation in a scented envelope with a bow. An invitation that was handwritten and had little hearts in the place of dots over its ‘i’s. Fortunately, his partner was Biff Buckley, whose cynicism-free response was, “I…I know.”

  They stood in silence for a couple of minutes. Then, Biff Buckley said, �
�You know…when I…when I say a new world…takes my breath away…I…I…I don’t usually mean it…literally.”

  “Too bad,” Beau Beaumont replied, “there isn’t…an oxygen tank…in there…somewhere…” (Actually, there was, but there were already several feet of machines between it and the men it could have helped.)

  “I…I have to tell you something,” Biff Buckley hesitated.

  “Is this…going to be a…a personal revelation?” Beau Beaumont asked with no small measure of disgust. (Which, for the double negative impaired among you, means a lot.)

  “Erm.”

  “Because,” Beau Beaumont stated, “when we first…first partnered up, we agreed… not to share…personal revelations.”

  “Actually,” Biff Buckley pointed out, “you…insisted that we not…share personal revelations.”

  “You didn’t argue.”

  Biff Buckley considered this for a moment. “Okay,” he finally said. “I have to…to tell you something, but…it’s not…a personal revelation. It’s a…an individual eye-opener.”

  “Individual eye-opener, hunh?”

  “Umm…yeah. It…it’s an individual eye-opener.”

  Beau Beaumont’s brow furrowed, like he was trying to find a flaw in this logic. Eventually, his brow smoothed out, and he responded, “Okay, then. As long as…as long as it isn’t a…a personal revelation.”

  Biff Buckley took a deepish breath. He didn’t enjoy taking advantage of his partner’s infacility with language, but he enjoyed lying to his partner about a fundamental matter of his identity even less. Besides, Beau Beaumont was kind of cute when he was befuddled. “You know how…” Biff Buckley said, “everybody makes fun…of the fact that I…that I’m always the…best dressed man…in the squad room?” (It’s true. The Transdimensional Authority investigators have often been described, with some truth, as fire hydrants with dark glasses and limbs; Biff Buckley was always the most stylish fire hydrant with dark glasses and limbs.)

  “You always answered…that…your mother dressed you,” Beau Beaumont answered.

  “That’s right.”

  “So?”

  “So, my mother hasn’t…dressed me…since I was…six years old.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “So, what?”

  “What?”

  “It’s not like…like any of us believed you.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “Naah.” After a couple of seconds of quiet contemplation, Beau Beaumont added: “We assumed…your girlfriend…dressed you.”

  “My girlfriend?” Biff Buckley snorted, which is hard to do when you don’t have enough oxygen in your lungs. “My girlfriend! Didn’t anybody…wonder why I never…talked about my girlfriend? Why I…I had no pictures of…of her on my desk? Why I…never brought her to the…to the non-denominational end of year party…that everybody thought of…of…of as a Christmas Party…even though TA policy was to…to…to make it inclusive?”

  “We thought she was…shy.”

  Biff Buckley opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again. How do you share a personal revelation – or even an individual eye-opener – with somebody who wouldn’t even recognize one if it texted him over the head? “Okay, umm…” Biff Buckley asked, “remember…that case where you…you caught me kissing a…a…a bellhop at the Chelsea Hotel?”†

  † Regular readers will remember this from “The Perception of the Porcupine: A Biff and Beau Adventure.” Irregular readers should get more bran in their diet.

  “You said you were…following a lead,” Beau Beaumont answered, “and…and it would be best if…if we never talked about…what I saw so that…so that we wouldn’t blow your cover.”

  “Didn’t you wonder why Bruce…the bellboy…didn’t actually seem to be…connected in any way to…to…to the crime?”

  Beau Beaumont shrugged. “Not all leads pan out.”

  “Didn’t I seem to be…enjoying the kiss just a…a little too much?”

  Beau Beaumont frowned, apparently not comfortable with where this seemed to be going. “I thought…you were really…enthusiastic about…your work,” he moped. “That’s one of…of the reasons I wanted to…to be partnered with…you in the first…place.”

  Biff Buckley flung his hand out in advance of dramatically slapping himself in the forehead. Of course, the devices in front of him moved out of the way in order to allow his hand to pass unimpeded. It helped that, in his present condition, the greatest drama he could credibly impart to the gesture could be charitably described as ‘languid’.

  “Okay, look,” Biff Buckley blurted, “I’m –”

  “You touched his toe!” a tinny voice from below shrieked.

  “I…I didn’t!” another tinny voice stated.

  “I SAW YOU!” a third voice chimed in, although it could have been the first voice or, more improbably, the second. All of the shoeshine machines sounded the sa – but, perhaps we shouldn’t go there.

  “I WAS PUSHED!” a tinny voice screamed. That was the wrong thing to say. One of the shoeshine devices close to Beau Beaumont’s foot started shaking and was pulled into the maw of the other machines, its screeches of protestation fading in the background. It was immediately replaced with another shoeshine device.

  “Umm, okay…” Biff Buckley said, shaken and unsure how to follow that.

  Beau Beaumont was ready. “Okay, since you’ve…shared your – what…what did you call it?” he firmly stated.

  “Individual eye-opener?” Biff Buckley answered.

  “That’s right.”

  But, I didn’t actually get to share my personal…individual – my whatever, Biff Buckley thought, but was too polite to state.

  “Well, I…I never wanted to become a Transdimensional…Authority…investigator,” Beau Beaumont said. “My family had been…had been involved in Kentucky politics since…Jesus sold cabinets. I…I…I thought I would go…into the family business. I was…was willing to work…my way into it…too…you know. I…I didn’t want to have…anything handed…to me. I figured…my dad’s…political machine…could get me a…a seat on City Council…and I would…work my way…up to…to…to Governor from there. But…my dad said I…I wouldn’t be…happy in politics. I…I…I don’t know what…gave him that…impression – I…begged and pleaded…and cried and moaned…and tub-thumped and petitioned…to be allowed…to get a…an MBA and…make a fortune on…on…on Wall Street and…go into the…family business. But, he…he sent me to…the Alternaut Academy…instead. The fact that…that I got ‘gentleman’s Ds…’ there should have…should have proven to him…that that he was…wrong, but…when I returned…home for Winter Solstice…he tried to…to convince me that I…I…I was just homesick…and that I…would adjust. When I was…home, though, I…I heard the whispers. ‘Dumb as a post…’ ‘Dumb as an ox…’ ‘Dumb as a bag…a bag of hammers…horny for some nails...’ I got…the impression…that some…of my…relatives didn’t…think I was…smart enough…to be in…in the family business… But, that…wasn’t fair! My cousin…Barkley was…was…was allowed to be…Vice President…and towards the…towards the end he…thought he…he was married to…to his Dalmatian, Venezuela! So, if I…seem distracted, or…not very helpful, or…like I want to…to be somewhere – anywhere…else than…on a case…well, now you…now you understand that…it’s because my…my mind is…on the rolling…voters of…my home.”

  “Oh,” Biff Buckley responded. “Umm…okay.”

  Beau Beaumont smiled. “Wow,” he said, “I’m glad…we don’t share…any personal…personal revelations, but…this individual…eye-opener thing is…awesome!”

  Biff Buckley was saved from having to respond by the sudden shuddering of the wall of devices around them. Many of the devices were making “Buddee buddee buddee” noises; others made noises they would have made if they had teeth with which to chatter. Then, they stopped making noises entirely. The devices that had been giving them light suddenly wi
nked out. Biff Buckley took the opportunity to fall to his knees, panting. Beau Beaumont doubled over, hitting his forehead against something metallic that was either unwilling or unable to yield with a loud BONK.

  “You…okay?” Biff Buckley asked.

  “It’s just…” Beau Beaumont responded, “my head. Nothing…important.”

  Biff Buckley chose to interpret this as an attempt at humour and smiled to himself.

  After a few seconds, Beau Beaumont asked, “Do you…hear that?”

  Biff Buckley strained but couldn’t hear anything. Beau Beaumont was definitely the ears of the partnership, a fact that had saved their asses on innumerable occasions (if, by innumerable, one means seven).

  “No.”

  “Listen.”

  A couple of minutes passed, then, yes, Biff Buckley could hear a buzzing sound that, as he listened, seemed to be getting louder.

  “Buzzing…whooshing,” he said.

  “Wife,” Beau Beaumont responded. It sounded much funnier in his head.

  A couple more minutes passed, at the end of which the buzzing whooshing wifey sound stopped and a woman’s voice shouted, “I’m very close to where you are! I’m using a laser to cut through some of the machines! If you can hear me, please say, ‘thrombosis!’ If you have already passed out, please say ‘artichoke!’”

  “Thrombosis!” Beau Beaumont weakly shouted.

  “We’re…in…here!” Biff Buckley added.

  The sound resumed. The darkness was punctuated by a red glow that started at the ground, slowly rose seven or eight feet, arced to the right three feet and descended back to the ground. Biff Buckley and Beau Beaumont watched the colour, mesmerized, not unlike kittens fascinated by a laser pointer (which means very much like kittens fascinated by a laser pointer – the double negative impaired among you should really take lessons or something!).

  A thin layer of dead metal fell on top of the two men. The tiny space was immediately flooded with light and air. “Ooh. Ouch! That’s gotta hurt. Paolo, get this junk out of here!” the female voice commanded. Something small flitted into the chamber, grappled the metal and flew off with it. Beau Beaumont and Biff Buckley were too occupied breathing to notice.