You Can't Kill the Multiverse

by Ira Nayman

  The two Transdimensional Authority investigators muttered agreement.

  “Another counterfeit Home Universe GeneratorTM has been found by its…erratic cross-dimensional energy signature,” Abrachnel informed them. “Earth Prime 4-6-3-0-2-9 dash omicron. Get it. Bring it back here. And, gentlemen, my gut tells me that something more than a quick buck is involved here. Bring yourselves up to speed on the previous cases of counterfeit Home Universe GeneratorTM s and see if you can find some connection between them.”

  “Yes, sir,” the two men said, and left. Rule number one of organizations with more than three people: never disagree with your boss’ gut.

  As he watched them go, Abrachnel thought, That was anticlimactic. Could their inane banter have been the whole point of this scene?

  3. The Future Comes When You Least Expect it

  The old man uses a dull knife to slice a runty green tomato on a jagged rock. “You see,” the man says, “them saviours, they didn’t set out to be saviours. They was just two men doin’ a job.”

  “A job that involved a pickle?” the lad asks, hopeful he can move his rambling granddad along to an actual point.

  The old man looks up from the tomato mush and eyes the lad. Actually, only one of his eyes functions, the other being milky white, so he could more properly be said to look up from the remains of the tomato and eye the lad. “All in good time,” he advises. “All in good time. Gotta start us a tale with their arrival in our benighted land. Now, grab a plate from the shopping cart – we got us some lunch t’eat.”

  4. Traveling Hopefully, Then Arriving

  “I’m not a one for the Dimensional DeloreanTM,” Blabber Begbie commented from the passenger seat as the Pollock squooshed along outside the car. “Give me a good Dimensional PortalTM journey any day.”

  “But, don’t you come out of it wanting to punch a mime?” Barack Bowens, the nominal driver (the Pollock has no landmarks, no signposts and tends to give GPSs a nervous breakdown, so you point your vehicle in the right direction before you turn it on and hope for the best) asked.

  “Of course I come out of it wanting to punch a mime!” Begbie responded. “I always want to punch a ferking mime – traveling through the Dimensional PortalTM just gives me an excuse!”

  “You don’t really want to punch a mime…do you?” Bowens, horrified, asked. It’s not that he had any fondness for mimes, but he knew that punching mimes was a gateway act to greater and greater forms of violence against more beloved performers.

  “Well, no, I don’t really want to, you know, punch a mime,” Begbie reluctantly averred.

  “Violence should be the last resort,” Bowens argued. “And, although mimes do have a transuniversally acknowledged annoying quality, that does not mean that they deserve to be physically abused.”

  “Violence…should be…last resort,” Begbie struggled. “Mimes…annoying, but…but…but…”

  Bowens sighed. “You don’t have to say that just because I’m saying it.”

  “I know I don’t have to say something just because you said it,” Begbie quietly responded.

  “Are you saying this because I said it?” Bowens asked.

  “I am totally ferking saying it because you said it!” Begbie enthusiastically agreed.

  Bowens shook his head sadly. He was a short, black fire hydrant with dark glasses and limbs, whose naturally deep voice resonated so fiercely in his chest that people hearing him speak naturally invariably agreed with everything he said. When he was younger, he wanted to be an opera singer, had trained for it, in fact. In his debut at the Met, playing Alberich in Wagner’s Ring Cycle, he was so convincing that the usually staid New York audience stormed the stage demanding that his gold be returned to him. He entered the Alternaut Academy soon after.

  Begbie was another fire hydrant with dark glasses and limbs, relatively short, but don’t be fooled, mate, he could do you in a second and not even think about it twice! When not in uniform, he wore snappy suits…from the 1940s. His cleaning bills were huge thanks to a predilection for random acts of violence. He kept a list of people he would gut punch at the slightest provocation, but, at the top of the list were people who asked who was on the list of people he would gut punch at the slightest provocation, so, uhh, I thought better than to ask. It’s a good bet that mimes were on the list, though. High on the list.

  “I shall try to modulate my voice better in the future,” Bowens whispered as the Dimensional DeloreanTM shimmered into existence. Then, everything exploded in a blinding flash of light.

  Tap tap tap.

  “Ungh,” Bowens groaned.

  Tap tap tap.

  “Mellie, baby, could you get that?” Bowens groggily asked.

  Tap tap tap.

  Bowens flailed one arm, hoping to turn off the alarm. Instead, he hit Begbie in the face. Begbie moaned quietly.

  Tap tap tap.

  Bowens opened his eyes. He was strapped in the Dimensional DeloreanTM. Strapped in good. Begbie was strapped in next to him, blood streaming up his face. Wait – what? An elderly gentleman in a uniform that Bowens did not recognize was kneeling next to the car.

  Bowens rolled down the window and asked, “Why are you upside down?”

  The old man thoughtfully responded: “I would say that that is a matter of perspective.”

  Bowens started to unbuckle his seat belt. Before the old man could get out more than, “I wouldn’t d –” Bowens was free. He immediately fell to the roof of the car.

  “Oww,” Bowens moaned, as he righted himself.

  “Oww,” Begbie echoed.

  “Begbie?” Bowens asked. “WAKE UP!”

  Begbie’s eyes shot open. “Okay, who’s cruising for a bruising?” Begbie asked, pounding his palm with his fist.

  “I’m sorry,” the old man responded.

  “Who’s shopping for a chopping?” Begbie tried again. His quiet intensity unnerved the old man.

  “I…uhh…I don’t…”

  “Trolling for a poling?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Waddling towards a paddling?”

  “I…what?”

  “Canoeing for an up the wazooing?”

  “I don’t…I don’t understand…”

  “Don’t understand?” Begbie bellowed. “You don’t – what’s to ferking understand? Up the – up the wazoo! I mean, yes, okay, I may have gerundized it a little – you know, to keep the rhyming scheme intact. Still, I would have thought that the ferking meaning was ferking obvious!”

  “What my partner is saying,” Bowens calmly interjected before Begbie’s frustration turned into substantial property damage, “is: who tried to blow up our car?”

  “Hard to tell,” the old man said. “When you appeared, you may have been hit by an alien plasma grenade. On the other hand, your appearance may have triggered a robot laser battery to open fire. Or, it could just have been a zombie walking into a land mine near you – all sides have planted those throughout the war zone.”

  [FLASHFORWARD (with apologies to Robert J. Sawyer) to the parking lot of Transdimensional Authority headquarters that evening. Doctor Alhambra is lovingly running his hand over the hood of the Dimensional DeloreanTM. “Ooh, baby,” he coos. “It’s so good to have you back. Are you happy to be back? Yes, of course you are, my little car-y wa –”

  Doctor Alhambra stops cooing. “Something is not right, here,” he sniffs. He opens the door, climbs in and fires up the engine. Looking at the control panel, he finds nothing amiss. He shuts the engine off and climbs out again. He looks closely at the body of the vehicle.

  Doctor Alhambra knows that the Dimensional DeloreanTM is made of stubbornanium (an isotope of adamantinium that isn’t the strongest substance in the known multiverse, but bullheadedly refuses to acknowledge the fact), which makes it largely impervious to damage. Still, he can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.

  An hour and a half later, Doctor Alhambra finds it: a small crack in the left taillight. Falling to his k
nees, he lets out an anguished cry:

  “Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!” Then, he picks up a replacement from headquarters stores and within fifteen minutes the damage is fixed.

  “Oh, baby,” Doctor Alhambra coos once more. “What did those bad, bad men do to you? Bad men! Bad! What’s that? I need to protect you better? Yes, yes, you’re absolutely right – I need to do something to make you safer…” Doctor Alhambra resolved to add several levels of complexity to the paperwork required to requisition the Dimensional DeloreanTM. That should keep her safe…]

  Begbie started to unbuckle his seat belt. Before Bowens could get out more than, “You shouldn’t –” Begbie was free. He immediately fell to the roof of the car. Bowens helped him right himself.

  “What the ferk is going on, here?” Begbie growled.

  “The London pea soup of fogs of war,” the old man told him.

  Bowens held up a finger. “Be right back,” he said. Then, he engaged the engine (no, you don’t need a ring for that kind of engagement) and he Dimensional DeloreanTM shimmered out of existence. A moment later, it shimmered back into existence, right side up.

  Begbie, rubbing a spot on his head, was shouting, “…told me you were going to do that!”

  “You wanted to stay upside down?” Bowens apologized.

  “That’s not what I – Jesus begesus, I’m ferking bleeding!”

  “Actually,” the old man hesitantly offered, “you were bleeding from the original explosion.”

  Begbie’s eyes narrowed and his voice menaced. “And, you are…?”

  “P…p…private First Class with White Linens Artemis Escudot, s…s…sir!” PFC Escudot stuttered. That was your choice when Begbie narrowed his eyes at you: stutter or wet your pants. PFC Escudot opted to stutter, leaving wetting his pants in reserve in case Begbie exhibited even more threatening behaviour.

  “And, you are here because…”

  “The C…C…Commander told me to c…c…come and f…f…fetch you.”

  “Don’t worry about him,” Bowens soothed. “Begbie is a pussycat.”

  “Oh, yes,” PFC Escudot pleasantly agreed. “A great, big furry p…p…pussycat.”

  “Get in,” Bowens commanded, opening the door. PFC Escudot was startled when it flew up instead of out. “Be amazed later. Enter now.” PFC Escudot did as he was told.

  The Dimensional DeloreanTM had shimmered into existence in a burnt out field with one dead tree. Under PFC Escudot’s directions, Bowens soon drove it onto a city street dominated by burnt out buildings and rubble. Then, the destruction got worse.

  “Jesus begesus!” Begbie loudly blasphemed. “Did we end up in Afghanistan by accident?”

  “I would have said Sudbury,” Bowens replied, “but, then, I always was more conscientious about local references.”

  “Naah,” PFC Escudot corrected them. “This is Windsor.”

  As they drove, the destruction started to seem the same, to blend together. Everywhere were the same old burnt out buildings and rubble-strewn streets, the monotony only broken by the occasional ice cream truck, it’s jingle turned off because, well, you know, this was a war zone and no point calling attention to yourself because it could just get you killed. Begbie was beginning to wonder if they hadn’t been traveling in circles when they turned a corner to find something new.

  Bowens slammed on the brakes so they wouldn’t run into the twelve foot tall robot in the middle of the street.

  “Oh, shit!” PFC Escudot squeaked. He was glad he had left the option of wetting himself open.

  “Piece of cake,” Begbie grinned as he got out of the car and faced down the robot.

  “Does your partner have a death wish?” PFC Escudot squeaked.

  “Watch and learn,” Bowens assured him. “Watch and learn.”

  “Excuse me,” Begbie shouted, “but my friends and I need the road.”

  “Produce identification,” the robot demanded. Tinnily, but quite loud.

  “You produce identification,” Begbie counter-demanded.

  “Produce identification,” the robot counter-counter-demanded.

  “Interesting negotiation tactic,” Begbie muttered as he got out his Transdimensional Authority identification card and flashed it at the robot.

  “Identification not recognized,” the robot informed Begbie as he put away his ID card. “Produce proper SkyWeb issued identification.”

  “What if I don’t?” Begbie defiantly asked.

  “You will be obliterated.”

  “Oh, I was hoping you would say that,” Begbie grinned.

  “If you do not produce identification within –”

  Before the robot could properly begin the count-down, Begbie brought his heel down on its foot, crushing it, and grabbed what, on a human being, would have been a crotch. Not coming into contact with soft squishy bits, Begbie closed his fist anyway, destroying steel and pulling away wires. The robot swept its arm towards Begbie, who calmly jumped on it, ran up it and gave the robot a mighty head butt. As the robot started to reel, Begbie jumped to the ground and ripped off the arm that had tried to bat him away, then beat the robot in the back of the knees with it. The robot buckled, giving Begbie the opening to hit it in the back of its head with its own arm. Its skull crushed, the robot fell forward in a shower of electric fizzling.

  Begbie was about to throw the arm away when, from out of a side street, three zombies shambled into view. Their pallour was various shades of green and they oozed vile substances from various parts of their bodies. They all appeared to be male, although one was clutching a Chanel purse. One was missing the top of his head – he was clearly the brains of the operation. One was missing a leg – for some reason, this actually made him faster than the others. Otherwise, there really wasn’t much to tell them apart.

  “You wanna piece of me?” Begbie screamed. “Come and ferking get it!”

  He waited several seconds as the zombies tried to place the direction the sound had come from. Exasperated, he finally shouted, “Over here!” The zombies started to shuffle in his general direction.

  A minute after that, Begbie muttered, “Oh, for the love of – we really don’t have time for this!” So, he ran up to the three zombies and, using the robot’s severed arm, batted their heads off their shoulders. The first two heads flew into the seats along the third base line, but the third went straight into the bleachers in left centre field. Then, Begbie, imagining the roar of a crowd, looked around and, seeing no more threats, threw the arm away and went back to the Dimensional DeloreanTM.

  “H…how did you do that?” PFC Escudot asked, awestruck, as Bowens drove the car around the robot corpse and down the street.

  “You wanna know the secret?” Begbie asked, flicking something green and disgusting (and undoubtedly zombie-related) off the shoulder of his pristine TA uniform.

  “Yeah!”

  Begbie half-turned towards PFC Escudot and said, “I’m always angry.”

  They drove for a few minutes through rubble-strewn streets, PFC Escudot directing. Occasionally, they would pass an old man and a boy pushing a shopping cart full of random possessions. “Are there no women on this world?” Bowens wondered.

  “Aboveground,” PFC Escudot informed him, “only the most dramatically interesting survive.” A minute later, he told them to stop near a large pile of rubble next to a big hole in the ground.

  “Oh, tell me we’re not going down that hole,” Bowens said.

  “We’re not going down –” PFC Escudot started.

  “Are we going down that hole?” Begbie stopped him.

  “Yes, we are going down that hole,” PFC Escudot gratefully answered.

  “Don’t you even bother to camouflage it?” Bowens, incredulous, asked.

  PFC Escudot waved an arm. All along the street were holes of various shapes and sizes. “If we put a lid on our hole,” he explained, “it would stand out. Come on.”

  The three men got out of the Dimensional DeloreanTM. Before they
could reach the hole, they heard a loud grinding noise above them. PFC Escudot hustled the Transdimensional Authority investigators into an alleyway. Then, the three men lifted their heads towards the sky.

  “What the ferk?” Begbie exclaimed.

  They were looking at…a teddy bear. A twenty story high teddy bear. A twenty story high teddy bear with antennae and other electronic equipment sticking out of its fur in intimate and awkward places.

  “What, that?” PFC Escudot casually asked. “That’s a Kerplatznikzither Brood invasion force battle cruiser.”

  “That’s terrible!” Bowens blurted.

  “Tell me about it,” PFC Escudot responded. “Legend has it that when they first invaded Earth, they thought the teddy bears of our children were merchandising tie-ins!”

  “But…how the ferk…?” Begbie sort of asked.

  “No known law of aerodynamics that we can figure,” PFC Escudot told him.

  “You seem awfully blasé about it,” Bowens commented.

  PFC Escudot shrugged. “They’ve been floating up there my entire life,” he responded. “Besides, how can you hate anything that cuddly?”

  A flock of geese approached the floating teddy bear. A green ray shot out of the spaceship from approximately the teddy bear’s navel, incinerating all nine of the birds in a second.

  “Yeah, that sometimes happens,” PFC Escudot allowed. “But, after a couple of minutes, it gets all adorable again, and you forget that it was ever anything other than cuddly.”

  Out from behind the teddy bear, a two story tall rubber ducky appeared and flew away.

  “And, that?” Begbie demanded.

  “As best anybody can tell,” PFC Escudot answered, “it’s a refuelling ship.”

  “Where…?” Bowens asked.

  “The other side,” PFC Escudot stated. “That’s why we’re not entirely sure how the rubber ducky ‘services’ the teddy bear. And, frankly, why we’re not especially keen to probe the issue any further.”

  “We should probably get out of here,” Bowens advised.