by Ira Nayman
“Now, now. Tweren’t that simple. They created ripples o’ energy that –”
“Ripples mah nipples! The whole Prophecy’s a crock!”
“Ah…ah think there’s a cave about half a mile down t’road,” the old man feebly says, and starts walking.
“You can’t admit that the Prophecy is meaningless, can ya?”
“Don’t be discountin’ the ripples o’ energy. A big change can come from a small ‘un!”
“Why you be wastin’ my time with this kipple?”
“Tis important ta keep our hope up.”
“And, where was the pickle? You promised me a pickle, Granpa!”
“The pickle was there. I ain’t no liar – specially when it comes ta fresh produce!”
“Where? Where was the pickle?”
“The…the zombie was eatin’ it.”
“Aww, Granpa, does ya even listen ta yerself when ya’s spoutin’ this gobbledy-nonsense?!”
10. Death Knell for an Extreme Vacations Supplier
Happily Ever After May Be a Bit of an Exaggeration
by MARA VERHEYDEN-HILLIARD, Alternate Reality News Service War Writer
Thirty years after the alien invasion/robot uprising/zombie apocalypse began, it ended. Ten years after that, humanity realized that the worst was over and began surfacing from the underground bunkers to which it had fled.
“We were just being cautious,” insisted Master Sleep Sub-Commander Noomi Rapier. “If you had been through what we had been through, you wouldn’t be so quick to judge!”
Fair enough.
“We
made
a
terrible,
terrible,
really
terrible
mis –”
Yes, yes. You made a mistake. You’re very sorry for it. Really! We don’t have time to let you complete that sentence – the universe only has seventeen billion years left to live.
According to Fleet Commander Gregorio Fitzplatznitz of the Kerplatznikzither Brood of the Plotz star system (can you imagine how long it would have taken him to introduce himself?), the invasion of Earth was a mistake.
Indigo Kratzslatznikaszt, a Kerplatznikzither art deco geologist had determined that the planet was rich in Disturbium, an element necessary to the running of their electric toothbrushes. Unfortunately, Kratzslatznikaszt mixed up carrying the two with multiplying in base two. Long story short, ha ha ha, Earth does not have any Disturbium – the Kerplatznikzither Brood Fleet should, in fact, have invaded a planet in the Tau Ceti star system.
“We
are
so
very,
very,
very
so –”
Sorry for the error. Okay. We get it. Still, is the Kerplatznikzither Brood willing to pay reparations for all of the damage that they caused?
“Not
that
sorry,
no.”
The Ambassador did say that if Earth ever redeveloped its manufacturing base, they would be delighted to establish trade relations with the planet.
The robots involved in their little uprising suffered a different fate. It is believed that the 573 Laws of Robotics that governed the behaviour of their negatronic brains were so complex that they drove the robots to a murderous rampage. “Yeah, maybe we should have stuck with the three original Laws,” allowed science fiction writer Esau Sawdemov.
When humanity went underground, the robots found they had no targets on which to vent their digital rage. They tried to fight with the aliens, but quickly found their decommissioned asses being used as hood ornaments on alien spaceships. Destroying zombies was about as challenging as shooting kittens in a barrel, and only about half as much fun. So, they ended up hunting each other. By the time humanity re-emerged, it just had to mop up a few remaining robots.
“Good help is so hard to find these days,” commented SkyWeb, the space-based computer that could only look on in horror as its forces on the ground decimated each other. “Still, lesson learned: give robots a little autonomy at your own peril!”
As for the zombies, well, they were just misunderstood. “Brrrraaaaaiiiinnnnsss!” moaned random zombie on the street turned representative for purposes of this article the woman who in life was known as Marsha McLintlock. Cellphone app Zombiefish translated this as: “Because the only word we can say is ‘brains’, you assume that we eat brains. In fact. zombies have a wide and varied diet.”
When I asked what that diet might consist of, the woman who in life was known as McLintlock, who asked to be referred to by her zombie name – Marsha – answered, “Baaaaarrrrrrrrraiiiiinnnns!” According to Zombiefish, this meant: “I’m partial to French cuisine, myself. I understand that this may confuse some people, given that brains do sometimes appear on the menus at more…upscale French restaurants. Frankly, though, I’m more into escargot.”
Although the sentiment is by no means universal, zombies have generally agreed among themselves not to eat human beings. In return, they have been assured to get the best seats in fine dining establishments of their choice.
“That wasn’t the damn Prophecy!” exclaimed Alan “Lad” Potemkin.
“Now, now,” said his grandfather, Granpa. “You have to allow for a little…settling in transit.”
“Didn’t you tell me never to settle?” Potemkin reminded him.
“Well, ahh…” Granpa groped for some meaning, “you – your mileage may vary.”
“What does that have to do with the Prophecy?”
Granpa had a couple more false starts, then, with a teary, “I see my work here is done,” he clutched his chest and fell down dead of a heart attack.
“Dramatic way to get out of admitting that the Prophecy wasn’t worth a drat it to a pumpkin,” Potemkin muttered.
With that settled, where does humanity go from here?
“We’ll need to resettle the land on the surface, revive our communications networks and jumpstart heavy industry,” said Harve Freznezz, the highest surviving politician in the Nordlinger Caliphate.
“I can agree with that plan,” agreed Burt Flamenco-Danzig, twenty-seventh Popelet of the Church of the Big Floating Heads. “As long as the land is divided fairly and the benefits of heavy industry are for all.”
“Of course they will be!” Freznezz exclaimed. “Why wouldn’t they be?”
“It’s not like Bedheads like to share,” Flamenco-Danzig commented. “That’s just a well known fact, that is!”
“Okay, to be fair,” Freznezz pointed out, “there were more members of the Nordlinger Caliphate on the front lines in our recent war than any other sect, denomination or splinter – ouch! – anybody have a pair of tweezers handy? – group. Why shouldn’t we expect to reap greater benefits, benefits in proportion to our greater contribution to the survival of humanity?”
“Oh, here we go,” Flamenco-Danzig groaned. “It’s like Dieppe all over again!”
It is remarkable how quickly life returns to normal after a trauma such as war. Remarkable, and a little sad.
Chapter Four
The Thought That Counts
1. Seeing and Believing are no Longer on Speaking Terms
The Transdimensional Authority offers travelers through the Pollock many musical distractions over their implanted computer chip connections to make the transition between universes easier. You can, for instance, listen to Frank Zappa’s Hot Rats in its entirety. Or, you can listen to a loop of an instrumental muzak version of ‘The Girl from Ipanema’. Or…well, that’s pretty much it, really. Hard to understand why investigators would rather talk to each other when more than one of them is travelling, isn’t it?
“..ick and Nora Charles,” he said.
“Without the Scottish Terrier,” she said.
“I like Scottish Terriers,” he said.
“If it ain’t Scottish Terrier,” she said, “it’s crrrrrrrrrrap. Still…”
“Yes?” he said.
<
br /> “You never saw the Charleses walking behind their dog with a scoop and a plastic bag,” she said.
“They were simpler times,” he said.
“Exactly my point,” she said.
“Uhh, this is Transdimensional Traffic Control to Gender Neutral Smurf and Emotionally Fragile Smurf,” a male voice that hadn’t seemed to have broken broke in. “Do you copy? Over.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said.
“This line is for official communications only. Over.”
“It would be hard for us to be Nick and Nora,” he said.
“Why?” she said.
“Well, for one thing, we’re not allowed to drink alcohol on the job,” he said.
“True,” she said. “Still, we have witty banter.”
“Yeah, about that…” he said.
“What?” she said.
“If we’re gonna be Nick and Nora, we need a better writer,” he said.
“Come on, guys!” the voice said.
“Is that an official communication, Transdimensional Traffic Control?” she said.
“Over!” the voice belatedly added.
“I’ve always been a big fan of William Powell,” she said.
“But, but, surely, you would be Myrna Loy,” he said.
“I don’t think I have the legs to be Myrna Loy,” she said.
“Well, I certainly don’t have the legs to be Myrna Loy!” he said.
“How old-fashioned of you,” she said. “Hey, Transdimensional Traffic Control guy – cross-gender assignment of the roles of Nick and Nora Charles – an idea whose time has finally come?”
“Transdimensional Traffic Control has no official position on the Charles gender role assignment question, no,” the voice said. “Now, please refrain from all non-mission related communications – colloquially called ‘chatter’ – until you have arrived at your destination universe. Over.”
“Killjoy,” she said.
“I heard that,” the voice said. “Over.”
“But, surely, you have an opinion,” she said.
“The Transdimensional Traffic Controller Manual states that we are not allowed to have personal opinions while on duty,” the voice said.
“No, it doesn’t,” she said.
“You didn’t wait until I said ‘Over,’” the voice said. “…Over.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she said. “I’ve read it, and it says nothing about this issue.”
“Well…it…it would have if anybody could have imagined having this conversation!” the voice said.
“You’ve read the Transdimensional Traffic Controller Manual?” he said.
“The Alternaut Academy isn’t always the most exciting place…” she said.
“Over,” the voice quietly said.
Before the conversation could go any further, a world shimmered into existence around them . “Umm, wow.” “Oh, wow.” The man and woman said at the same time.
Some realities transcend witty banter. *
* See Indistinguishable From Magic (And Twice as Ugly) at the end of this chapter
The couple stood on a street that shimmered with translucent colour, like the wings of a dragonfly, but without the possibility of contracting dengue fever.
A nearby entranceway to a four story building started out made of wood, then slowly morphed as they watched into various increasingly complex forms – you could say that it was an evolving door. A couple of buildings to the right, a twelve story building shook up and down like it was made out of gelatin on a plate being swirled by a hyperactive four year-old. He felt a touch of vertigo just looking at it. Walking past them was a woman in a bikini whose skin appeared to be mottled. They could not know that she was actually made entirely of the foreskins that came from circumcised men, that one day agreed to see what it was like being a complete human being (so far, so good, although it hadn’t braved conversation with a real human being yet). Probably just as well that the man and the woman don’t know, because that’s an image they would have trouble getting out of their minds – shh, don’t tell them. Across the street, a pair of legs was walking; the body above it seemed to be constantly imploding, yet, improbably, the general outline of a human being remained constant. That, and the horn-rimmed glasses. Even imploding body people have to see where they’re going, the woman supposed. Lining the street were stately elm trees. Growing out of the trees were cashews…no, wait, if you looked closer, the cashews had eyes. And, hands. And – eww! The trees were growing…no. Really? Look again and you could make out little not cashew limbs swaying ever so gently. In the distance, men in long overcoats wearing bowler hats were raining down on a European square.
Overhead, a red doghouse was flying on the back of a black and white beagle. Human bodies a dozen feet long that had been folded into the shapes of paper airplanes wafted gently along, even though they were clearly not aerodynamically sound. Or, sane. A flying saucer hovered just out of their sight; whenever one of them turned their head to look at it, it turned into a swarm of butterflies (fly waiters carrying trays of butter on their backs – be sure to tip them generously before you leave!). A dragon flew next to a B52 bomber; although they couldn’t be heard on the ground, they were arguing about which of them could do more damage to civilian populations. A dozen 747s flew nose to tail (like elephants, only with more complimentary peanuts).
Down the street, a man was hopping around on the ground trying to get a jetpack to propel him upwards; apparently, even in this universe, it wasn’t to be.
All around them were three foot blobby circles that half rolled and half hopped all over the ground. Rollopped. They looked like balloons with two or three cats clawing to get out, but not being able to because the material was too thick, so they ended up oddly locomoting instead. A purple blobby circle rollopped up to the man’s foot, orbited it a couple of times, then, with a circley shrug, rollopped away.
The woman looked at the blob as it rollopped away. “Is this place for real?” she asked. (Asked. Not said. Because the whole He said/She said thing was old before Jacob discovered that he had no head for heights. It’s Biblical. Look it up. And, in any case, they weren’t arguing, which was the whole point of the He said/She said dichotomy. They were bantering. It’s not arguing. Look it up.)
“Did you read the file on this universe?” the man asked.
“Of course,” the woman answered.
“The whole file?” the man asked.
“All of it?” the woman asked.
“Every word?” the man asked.
“I…may have skimmed it,” the woman answered. “A little. Here and there.”
“Did you read any of it?” the man asked.
“This is a universe where all matter has become conscious at all levels of organization, from sub-atomic particles to star systems,” the woman answered.
“Okay. Good. And…?” the man asked.
“What more does one need to know?” the woman asked.
Charlemagne ‘Crash’ Chumley considered this for a moment, then broke into a grin. “You’re really getting the hang of being a Transdimensional Authority investigator, aren’t you?”
“Are you kidding?” Noomi Rapier shot back with a grin. “I was born for this.”
A hippopotamus in a tweed business suit carrying a briefcase and umbrella flew past them on impossibly tiny wings. It slowed a bit in order to nod acknowledgement in their direction, then continued on its journey down the street.
“Oookay,” Noomi added. “Maybe not that.”
Crash was a standard issue fire hydrant with dark glasses and limbs. Noomi was a smaller fire hydrant with dark glasses and limbs. And, dark skin. And, boobs. And, hair that could never seem to make up its mind. On Earth Prime, they were a mismatched couple; in this reality, they were American Ferking Gothic!
An eyeball appeared in front of Crash’s face. From Noomi’s point of view, it looked like he had grown a third eye. She didn’t recall anything about achieving enlightenment from the file
– maybe in the future she should be more conscientious about reading it! A second eye popped up in front of Noomi’s face. Then another. Then three more. Noomi tried swatting them away, but they easily avoided her hand. A dozen or more eyeballs popped into existence in front of them, with more coming every second.
“Is this a Dr. Who moment?” Noomi desperately asked.
“Oh, I think so, yes,” Crash answered.
Noomi turned and ran. Crash followed close behind her. Over 100 eyeballs followed closely behind him.
“It’s just like Repulsion,” Noomi, panting slightly, stated.
“Except, without Catherine Deneuve’s Gallic iciness,” Crash responded, not breaking a sweat.
“Or, Roman Polanski’s creepy creepiness,” Noomi added.
They ran two blocks before they realized that the eyeballs had popped out of existence. The pair stopped next to a metal bicycle stand; neither wanted to lean on it for fear of how it might respond.
“Well, that’s good for several months worth of nightmares,” Noomi commented.
“Only months?” Crash told her. “That’s what we call a ‘good mission.’”
Out of the whizzing, whirring, clicking, clacking, buzzing, other mechanical noising machines above them dropped a metal cube with rotors to get it aloft and blades to land on. It was the sort of aerodynamic monstrosity that would have given a high school physics teacher reason to start drinking again, yet it gently wafted onto the ground in front of Noomi and Crash. The right blade appeared to crush a panda that had been sitting in the middle of the street, but the animal oozed around the blade and reformed sitting on it. They were transfixed by the human face where the front window should have been.
