Tales from the Multiverse

by Pam Uphoff

  “He’ll wonder why we don’t have the Secret Service in on it.” Sardinni protested.

  Fatty shook his head. “We’ll waffle a bit and say we aren’t sure how such a breach could have happened. He’ll assume we suspect them.”

  The Director snorted. “Or him. It’s more believable than the truth. Bring him in.”

  Sardinni rolled his eyes and slipped out . . . backed back in. Vice President Sonny McGuire was poking his chest.

  “I’m the Vice President. You can’t lock me out. Especially with Preston out of the country.” Tall, chubby, red-faced . . . “He is in Europe, right?”

  After the first whiff, Marden held his breath as the VP walked past him. No amount of “after shave” could cover the alcohol enhanced halitosis. Or maybe that’s what he drank.

  The Secretary of State crossed his arms. “President Meyers was on television with the German Chancellor last night. We’re discussing a security breach at the White House, and how to fix it.” His voice slid into sarcasm. “Would you like to join us?”

  “Ha! Think I can’t see a lack of the Secret Service?” McGuire sneered. “Can’t stand something you don’t control?” He staggered just slightly as he turned and walked out.

  Fatty made a mental note to ask Wolfson if he had a potion that would cure alcoholism.

  The Director shrugged. “Not that we aren’t about done here. We’ll keep talking to Disco and those other people, learn all we can, but promise nothing, until the President is back. And keep surveillance on the White House and . . . hell, everywhere. We can’t assume that criminal gang won’t come back.”

  The minority leader glanced up at the wall clock. “And it’s late. I move we adjourn and think this over. Meet again tomorrow.”

  Nods all around.

  “Sir? Where shall I put Wolfson?”

  “Umm. Hotel, with an escort. And a secure phone.” The Director grinned. “Although I’m beginning to suspect that he could teleport away anytime he felt like it.”

  ***

  Fatty eyed the two bottles. Red wine, and brandy.

  Do I believe him? Do I trust him?

  Or is hope about to be crushed again?

  Wolfson had insisted on stopping at a liquor store on the way out of town to a nice but obscure hotel. And added a few drops of something that looked like red wine to each of these.

  The Summer Place was a nice skilled nursing home. Louise was clean and well cared for. And they understood his irregular hours, and odd visiting times. He sat by her side, dripping brandy into her mouth, for half an hour. “Because of the higher alcohol percent,” Wolfson had said. “because you won’t be able to get much into her at one time. But try to dose her once a day.”

  The Rain of Fire. Rumbling explosions in the sky, streaks of light . . . mostly offshore, only twelve confirmed hits on land. And one hit Interstate 95. Eighteen car pileup, two dead, ten injured. Louise and Drew . . .

  He capped the bottle, and slid it and the dropper into his pocket. He leaned and kissed her forehead. “I love you, please . . .” he couldn’t say anything more, and her eyelids twitch and the faintest of frowns was probably just some random reflex from the twilight semi-consciousness that was her life now.

  He backtracked two exits up the highway and wound through dark streets to his home.

  Midnight. I should be here for Drew.

  He tried to be quiet walking in, but he heard the whine of the stair lift, as he hung up his coat.

  “Hey. I thought you’d be asleep.”

  Drew shrugged. “It doesn’t matter when I sleep, any more.”

  Fatty opened his mouth, then closed it. No use telling the boy he’s still got a life ahead of him, that the online school is too isolating, that . . . he needs to get past being crippled for life and have a life. He’s heard it a dozen times.

  “So, Dad, when was the last time you ate anything?” He wheeled himself into the kitchen. “I experimented a bit tonight. Chicken Something. It’s kind of bland.”

  Fatty blinked back tears. All the times I’ve told you to do something, anything but mope. So you cooked dinner . . . and I wasn’t here to share it with you.

  “Sounds good. Like to have a glass of wine with me, while I eat?”

  “Wine?” Drew looked dubious. Then worried.

  “No. I’m not turning into a wino. Relax.”

  The Chicken Something wasn’t bad, the wine a lot better than he’d expected from the price tag. What the heck, can’t hurt. I hope.

  Drew took a sip . . . “Is this supposed to taste like this? All the books have people savoring it.”

  Fatty broke into a cold sweat. What am I doing? Trusting someone who fell out of nowhere with my son’s health?

  He controlled his breathing, hiding shock or something. Calm down.

  “Yes. It’s actually rather good wine.” He took another sip himself. Calm down, it’s not poisoned

  He washed dishes and went to bed. Missing Louise badly.

  ***

  Two days of talking. To Wolfson, to Dr. Quicksilver—who was apparently the sister who beat him up occasionally—to the ambassadors of multiple worlds on the World they called Embassy, and finally to the Secret Service, who were nearly gibbering about the dimensional gate at Andrews AFB before they showed them the recordings from the Lincoln Bedroom.

  “We’ll find a place that he’s never used, and keep him completely away from the White House.”

  And both nights he visited Louise, who actually opened her eyes and looked at him, and ate dinner with Drew, and drank a half a glass of wine while the boy complained about “phantom pains” in the legs he hadn’t felt at all for three years.

  And then the president flew home.

  Into Andrews Airforce Base.

  Preston Meyers was a tall man, craggy handsome face, brown hair and eyes. Young for the office, at fifty-two. Popular and, right now, irritated. His show of escorting his wife down the steps from Air Force One was brief. The First Lady dropped back to say something to their daughter, who had also been along on this trip, while the president stalked over to their little group.

  “What do you mean I can’t go the White House?” He frowned out the Secretary of State. “What is going on?”

  “There have been some . . . amazing developments, sir, and I thought you should see them immediately.” The Secretary opened the door of a limo in invitation.

  The President slid into the limo, and the Secretary joined him.

  Fatty watched them drive off, the limo turning toward a back route to the dimensional gate.

  The Director summoned him with a wave. “We’d best join them. We’ll be answering a lot of questions.” A glance to the side where the First Lady was frowning after the limo, their fourteen-year-old daughter Francine standing beside her. “And hopefully we can bring more people in . . . and go public soon.”

  They were spotted in turn, and Angelica Meyers strode over to them, her daughter trailing.

  Marsden faded back a bit, trying to not eavesdrop. No doubt the First Lady wanted to know what was happening at the White House. It was, after all, her home.

  Angelica Meyers faced the Director squarely. "You know me, you know I'm not a security risk. I need to know what is going on. Preston is beside himself, angry and . . . I've never seen him like this. I need to know why he's acting so strangely."

  The first daughter snorted. "I think the Sov's switched him with a ringer. That's not Dad."

  Chapter Five

  Fatty wheezed in shock.

  The criminal gang had a corridor to the White House. Of course their crime has to do with the President. We thought, assassination, but . . .

  Francine Meyers’ hard glare faded to worry as she glanced at her mother.

  The Director took a couple of very controlled breaths.

  “We need to not discuss this in public.”

  Both women stared at him.

  “I believe your limo is ready. Why don’t we plan on discussing this tomorrow
at FBI headquarters.” The Director looked at the approaching Secret Service men. “If you have multiple safe locations, I recommend that you send Mrs. Meyers and Miss Meyers to one separate from the President’s.”

  That got him some opaque stares, as the women were escorted away.

  "Fatty, call Xen, find out if that is possible." The Director sounded faint.

  “I think perhaps I should wait until the President has been briefed. By Xen.”

  “Ah. Yes. Now I’m going to join them . . . and you’re going to . . . wait to contact Xen.”

  ***

  The President . . . or whoever . . . kept Xen with him as he and his usual guards, and office staff toured all of Embassy, snapping questions. And then ordered Xen to stay in Embassy and the guards around the gate tripled with orders that no one was to come or go without the explicit orders from him.

  Fatty got the call from the Director at midnight. Discovered that cellphones didn’t work through gates. Slept poorly and late, had breakfast with Drew and got to the office late, and . . . had nothing to do but wait and see what happened.

  Even if I were inclined to disobey the President, I couldn’t get through the guard he’s set.

  He was in the director’s office to back him up with details. Angelica had been looking increasingly disbelieving as the Director filled her in on parallel worlds and dimensional travel.

  Fatty’s phone buzzed. A call from the secure phone he’d given Xen.

  “Where are you? Oh, never mind. Look, how do we know if someone isn’t the same man from that other world?”

  "Oh. Crap. The historians located the split easily, just three years ago. Any one over about two and a half will have an identical double, give or take three years of illnesses and accidents. Who's suspected . . . No don't say it out loud. I'll be right there."

  And he was.

  Wolfson popping out of thin air startled Angelica . . . and then had her looking very thoughtful.

  Xen glanced between the Director and Fatty. "You think there might have been a substitution?"

  "The First Lady reports that the President is acting very oddly." The Director gave Xen a second to digest that. “If the same people exist in parallel worlds, how do we know which one we’re dealing with?”

  The First Lady's eyes widened. "Are you saying that really isn't him?"

  Wolfson eyed her. “There’s no way to tell, unless only one of them has, oh, say, acquired a scar or tattoo or somesuch in the last couple of years. I . . . don’t think anyone else could imitate him with a magical disguise, well enough to pass for long. Certainly not someone intimately familiar with him and the office, the world.”

  "In any case, if that isn’t him, we need to find the real one as fast as possible. Before they decide they don't need him alive." Fatty refused to say aloud, to even consider, the alternative.

  "Okay.” Xen bit his lip. “We need his detailed biography, and we need to find out what the same fellow is doing on the other side. We need a very covert operation to find him. Find out if he is where he ought to be, or has disappeared. In fact, we need to check all of this cluster of close Worlds, we can't rely on anything so direct."

  Fatty hunched his shoulders. "If they took him, would they keep him alive?"

  "Depends on their long term goal, I suppose. They may do something, and then leave the real President holding the bag." Xen looked around to find the First Lady hanging on his words.

  The Director eyed her. "In the meantime, we'll get you some extra protection . . . "

  "No you won't. Frannie will visit her cousins, and I will be watching that man like a hawk."

  Xen nodded. "Please understand that until three years ago, your husband and this man were one and the same. A larger shower of meteors both hit and missed the eastern seaboard produced a split. You and your husband continued as you did, but identical selves dealt with a slightly different disaster. This man is what your husband became, with those different experiences. I'll get you a brief on what happened to you all as quickly as I can."

  "Thank you."

  "Director, may I borrow Inspector Marsden, and or a couple more people you trust completely? Given that this is of grave importance to your World, I think I should base myself here, and be completely transparent to your people. In fact, we should come and go from this building, or another secure location of your choosing."

  "Thank you, Mr. Wolfson. Fatty, take one of the security rooms, and make it yours. Angelica, are you sure about this?"

  Marsden moved away, punching up the facilities manager for a secure room. Thinking about personnel. He requested Hansen, then hesitated. "We don't want any speculation about this to get out."

  Xen nodded. "Quicksilver's going to come and open us a Corridor, as soon as we've got that room. What we need is a useful location on the other side. Where's a good library, for a first look?"

  Marsden headed for the basement. "Assuming little change over three years, let's start with the main public library. You said you could move the gate?"

  "Yes, and Corridors are even easier. We can just emerge in any obscure location and walk to this library."

  The facilities manager was just unlocking a secure room, two guards watching. "Who is authorized to enter this room, Inspector?"

  "Myself, the Director, Kelly Hansen, Xen Wolfson. This is Mr. Wolfson, he has no American ID beyond his visitor's pass. You will simply visually identify him and admit him."

  Marsden ignored the frowns and led the way in. Quick footsteps from behind, and Hansen joined them. Marsden closed the door and locked it.

  "So, what's going on?" The big man glanced between them.

  "We are investigating the possibility that the President has been replaced by someone, by himself, but from the other World."

  "Shit."

  "We'll start with some basic research. See if the President's alter ego is here, for starters." Xen closed his eyes for a moment, and Quicksilver stepped out of nowhere.

  "Q, we need a corridor to that World, fairly close to here, unobserved. We'll take the entrance with us, elsewhere. Probably the library."

  "Of Congress?"

  "No, we need something a bit more casual, the City library on 25th." Marsden told her.

  "Right." Her eyes unfocused for a moment, and she gestured with her left hand. She stepped up to the blank wall, and touched four spots, two at ground level, and two at the limit of her reach, opening a doorway to an alley, empty.

  "Thanks, Q. I'll yell if I need anything else." Wolfson stepped through the hole, and Marsden and Hansen followed. Xen collected the four points and the hole disappeared.

  Xen caught Hansen's nervous glance, and tapped his wrist. "It's just shut down very small, and stuck onto my wrist. Now, this library?"

  Who's Who informed them that Preston Meyers the former Governor of North Carolina (two terms), and former senator (two terms) had lost his bid for reelection two years ago, following the disastrous Rain of Fire. His daughter had been killed along with five other students when their school bus was struck by one of the meteors. He and his wife had divorced in acrimony last year. He was living in the old family home in Greensboro.

  "We need a car. We need to go meet the former Senator."

  "Have either of you ever been in this family home?" Xen asked.

  They both nodded. "Security during the campaign, and so forth." Marsden said. "He's been President for three years, after all."

  Marsden fingered his wallet. "If they haven't changed the currency or credit card system, I should be able to rent a car."

  Xen shook his head. "Actually, you probably exist. We don't want to do anything that would trigger this World's attention. Let's see about selling some gold and buying a car of some sort." He tapped the wall in four places, opening the hole to the security room. A wave of his hand and it disappeared. He stepped to the side and tapped the wall four times again. "Illusions to hide that corridor, and a new Corridor. This one I'll take with us, so we can return and step around to
home at need."

  In the end, they compromised, selling gold, but taking the train to Greensborough and buying transportation there. The old car was sound enough, and black enough to pass as a government vehicle. Fatty filled out the information and they drove off as quickly as possible.

  "Drive past the place once, slowly. I'll be able to see if there is anyone there." Xen was fidgeting, his left hand making small circles and flicking the fingers.

  Or magic?

  "The house is just down the next street."

  "Don't turn, keep going. There's tons of magical talent there. It'll be the rest of the gang. I can't tell if there are any non-magical people there, from this distance. Damn. Well, I suppose it makes sense. Find a park, someplace fairly deserted. We need to talk to your Director on this one."

  Marsden eyed him. "What's changed?"

  "The high number of magicians there means we need to bring in some more magicians of our own. We'll have one opportunity to get in there and grab your President. If we miss it, he's dead and the gang's still loose."

  Marsden sighed, and turned into a park. "You are assuming he's alive."

  "If they are creating a problem on your World, then they may have kept him alive to dump back on you to limit pursuit, or further inquiry."

  "And if it's just a matter of this Preston Meyers snatching the Presidency, regaining his wife and resurrecting his daughter, our President is dead."

  "Yes. So, one major raid, rescuing the President the primary goal. Catching the gang, a secondary consideration."

  Hansen looked surprised. "I expected your priorities to be the opposite."

  "Yeah, well, pragmatically they ought to be, but I think I'm better off with the gang on the loose, than a whole World pissed at Disco for killing their President."

  "Bit of a politician yourself, aren't you?"

  "Yeah. Thank god I'm my own boss and can escape to do field work whenever I can get away with it. Stop right here." Xen hopped out and made a swooping gesture, and then the four corners of a Corridor. "This one's a blind pocket. Back the car into it, then we'll take the others back to your home."