by Paul Crilley
Ash types them into her computer and starts reading. Then she flops back into her chair with a groan. “It’s an Apologue alternate.”
“Son of a bitch!” snarls Graves.
“A what?” I ask. Graves doesn’t answer, so I turn my attention to Ash. “What’s an Apologue alternate?”
“It’s . . . a reality influenced or drawn from a literary wellspring.”
“I don’t get it.”
“It’s an alternate based on a piece of fiction.”
“Based on? How is that possible?”
“We don’t bloody know!” snaps Graves. “It just is.”
“Take this alternate,” says Ash, nodding at the computer screen. “The coordinates he drew from your head. You know The War of the Worlds?”
“The H. G. Wells book?”
“In this reality, it’s not a book. It really happened. About . . .” She reads something on her screen again. “. . . forty years ago. In this alternate, the British government reverse engineered the Martian technology and has put it to use in everyday life. Using Martian life-forms spliced with man-made technology. And now the British Empire is totally reliant on this new technology. Also . . .” She frowns. “. . . Queen Victoria has been alive for over a hundred years.”
“How is that possible?” I ask.
“Martian tech. Her scientists perfected cloning, and they rehouse her soul into a younger body every ten years. They call it the Day of Ascension.”
“Anything else?” groans Graves.
“It’s 1899 in the British Empire. Has been for the past few decades.”
“And everywhere else?”
“Everywhere else it’s 1938.”
“So we’re talking a repressed society, then?” says Graves. “Backwards. Tainted by advanced technology that the Crown tries to control.”
I look to Ash. She’s reading the screen as Graves talks, nodding. “That’s what our man in the alternate says.”
“Wonderful. How embedded is this Martian technology?”
“Very. They use it for everything. Ground zero for the war was the area around St. Paul’s Cathedral. Lots of downed tripods that the scientists used to figure out all the tech. The area is off-limits now. Apparently it’s contaminated with Martian germs and stuff.”
Graves leans back in his chair and stares up at the ceiling. “Right,” he says, slapping his hands on his thighs. “I suppose we should get going then.”
“Tonight?” I say. I glance at my watch. It’s after six.
“You got a hot date?” asks Graves.
“No. But . . .” I take out my phone. “Will this . . . work here? To phone my kid?”
Graves slides the phone on his desk over to me. “No. Use that. Dial six-six-six for an outside line.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Of course he is,” says Ash. “Dial zero.”
I pick up the phone and dial the number to my old home. Ash and Graves don’t seem in a hurry to give me any privacy. I turn my back on them as the phone is picked up and Susan’s voice comes through the lines, traveling between universes.
“Hello?”
“Hiya, sweetie. How’s it going?”
“Daddy!”
“Just called to say good night. No time for a story tonight.”
“Aw, Dad!”
“Sorry, sport. Dad’s busy. Got a new job.”
“Doing what?”
I smile. “Fighting inter-dimensional crime.”
“Cool!”
“’Night then. Love you lots like jelly tots. Have lovely dreams. Have a nice night. Don’t let the bedbugs bite. If they do, squish a few.”
I ignore Graves’s snort from behind me.
“’Night, Dad. Love you lots like jelly tots. Have lovely dreams. Have a nice night. Don’t let the bedbugs bite. If they do, squish a few.”
“Love you, kiddo.”
“Love you too.”
She hangs up. I replace the handset and try to suppress the heavy feeling that always hits after I say good night.
“You done?” asks Graves.
I nod.
“Let’s go see some Martians.”
Chapter Ten
We step through the doorway into a cluttered room lit by the harsh blue glare of the Slip.
I blink and look around. There’s an old wooden desk in one corner. It’s covered with loose paper and old leather binders. A large globe of the world sits on top. Wooden filing cabinets take up one wall, while another is covered with a floor-to-ceiling bookcase.
The Slip winks out of existence, plunging the room into shadow. The only light filters beneath a door off to our right.
“What is this place?” I ask.
“A safe house. We have them on all the catalogued worlds. Manned by ICD agents.”
“They live here?”
Graves nods. “We rotate them once a year so they don’t turn native. It’s actually quite a sought-after position. Unless you get one of the crappy worlds. Those are usually reserved for punishments.”
Graves heads to the door and pauses to listen. Apparently satisfied, he pulls it open. Orange light spills into the cluttered office.
“We’ll find clothes here. The local currency. Latest gossip, that kind of thing,” he says, stepping through the door.
I follow after him and find myself in a sparsely furnished apartment. Everything is muted browns and grays. A simple wooden table takes up the center of the room, a functional couch sits beneath the window, and against the far wall a huge wooden box that turns out to be a radio.
But that’s not what draws my attention. No, what draws my attention are the numerous worm-type creatures attached to various pieces of equipment around the room. I inspect the closest. The worm is beige-white, anemic. Blue veins are visible beneath the surface, and it’s covered with a coating of mucous. I glance at the others. They’re all half-fused to items, the upper half of their bodies merged seamlessly with wood or Bakelite.
“Uh . . . what’s with the worm things?”
Graves is standing in the center of the room, hands on his hips, staring around with a frown of concentration. “Reverse engineering,” he says.
I nod wisely. “Okay.” Then, when that doesn’t make anything clearer, I add, “What’s that got to do with worms?”
“Weren’t you listening to Ash? The government reverse engineered the Martian technology from the war and put it to use in everyday life. Those . . . things—” he gestures at the worms, “—are Martian organisms. Biotechnology interface. It’s how the Martians controlled their tripods, apparently. They use them for everything now. Recording messages. Phone calls. Weapons. You name it.”
I lean over the worm and gingerly prod it. It lets out a high-pitched screech. I snatch my hand back and stare in shock as it starts to speak.
“Good day to you. This is Jeremiah Slant.”
I peer at the worm in amazement.
“I am currently not in attendance, but if you leave a message the transcriber will record your details and I will endeavor to get back to you as soon as possible.”
The worm falls flat onto its stomach once it finishes talking. I point at it with a trembling finger, then turn to Graves, eyes wide.
“If a talking worm gets you hard,” says Graves, “then the definition of ‘happy ending’ is going to have to be seriously rethought when you see some of the other worlds out there.”
“But . . . it talked.”
“Yes. But it’s not self-aware. It just . . . absorbs audio waves as imprints and sort of spits them out again.”
I open my mouth to ask more questions, but Graves holds his hand up to stop me. “Enough. Find us some clothes. There should be false identity papers around too. And money. Don’t forget the cash.”
I briefly consider arguing, just for appearances, but decide against it. Instead, I open the closest door and find a small, functional bedroom. A metal-framed bed, a tall wooden wardrobe, and a nightstand with a Charles Dickens nov
el on it. Drood, the spine says.
I step inside and pull open the wardrobe, finding sets of clothes in various sizes, all stinking of mothballs. I search through them and pull out the first that looks like it will fit Graves. A tweed suit with herringbone pattern, a silk cravat, and a walking stick. I smile. That’ll do.
I’m a bit pickier with my own clothes, eventually settling on a nicely cut suit with a large tweed trench coat and a scarf. Ooh! And a fedora! I’ve always wanted one of those. It’s a proper one too, not those stupid trilby things that hipsters think are fedoras.
I change my clothes and perch the hat on my head at a rakish angle. I check myself out in the mirror mounted on the closet door. Looking damn good, even if I do say so myself.
I take another walk around the room. There’s a painting on the wall that shows a scene from what I assume is the Martian invasion. Weird, tentacled creatures crawling out of metal tripods and attacking people. The Martians actually look a lot like those Cthulhu paintings I saw back in the manor house. They even have tentacles on their faces. I wonder if the Martians are this alternate’s versions of the Old Ones.
But that isn’t what draws my attention to the painting. It’s the fact that it’s protruding from the wall by a few inches.
I touch the frame, and it moves outward on a pair of hinges, revealing a hidden hole in the wall.
There are papers inside and old-fashioned booklets. Plus some huge money bills, folded together. I grab everything, shoving it all into my trench coat pocket. I head back into the sitting room, tossing Graves’s clothes onto the chair.
“There you go.”
Graves starts stripping off his clothes right in front of me.
I turn around while he gets dressed. “What’s our first move?” I ask.
“I’ll ask around. Check out the local library, try and get hold of our man in the city. I know where he works. We’ll see how the spear sits in this world. Is it hidden? Has it been found? Do they think it’s a true magical weapon? That kind of thing. You can turn around now.”
I turn to face him. He’s standing there looking proud of himself in his tweed suit and boots. He even has a gold chain and a timepiece.
“What do you think?”
“It’s an improvement.”
“Impossible. You can’t improve on perfection.”
I follow him out into the corridor and down a set of dark stairs. Graves pulls open the door to the outside world, letting in a blast of muggy air and the loud roar and babble of city life.
Graves disappears outside. I follow him, but I stumble to a stop as soon as I hit the street, staring around in awe.
Low, dark clouds mask the afternoon sky, black smoke spewing up from hundreds of chimneys. I cough, my lungs filling with smog and smoke as some kind of bus passes me by. But instead of wheels, it has legs, four on each side: scorpion-like, segmented, and tipped with claws. It skitters along the street, stepping over the tops of smaller vehicles.
Old-fashioned cabs are pulled by gray-white monsters, crosses between horses and spiders. I stare at one as it passes. Hundreds of tiny black eyes dotting the grotesque horse’s head roll in my direction. One-man helicopters buzz through the air with people strapped inside, legs dangling as they bob and weave between soot-covered buildings, narrowly avoiding crashing into each other.
The folks on the sidewalks are just as strange. Some are taking huge beetles for walks, holding leashes to stop the insects from running away. Others have what appear to be cockroaches the size of cats mounted on their shoulders. The cockroaches wave their feelers in the air, reaching out to briefly touch each other if the people pass close enough. Other pedestrians talk into large, writhing worms, using them just like we use cell phones back home.
Buildings tower high into the smog, the majority of them easily as tall as the Empire State Building. A zeppelin breaks through the clouds, its sides covered with moving advertisements. It banks slowly and heads toward a tower, slowing down as it approaches in preparation for docking.
“You going to stand there with your mouth hanging open all day, or are we going to get some work done?” asks Graves.
An hour later I’m sitting at a corner table at a local pub, surrounded by thick clouds of pipe smoke and locals shouting for beer and whisky.
Judging by the clothes of those around me, I’d probably be classed as well-to-do, or at least middle class. I’m getting a few looks from the rougher patrons, but I ignore them. I have a cover story, after all. According to the papers I took from the safe house, my name is Atticus Pope, and I’m a consulting detective, which is the coolest thing I’ve ever been, ever.
And I’m quite liking the new look. The hat really suits me. I wonder if I can pull it off in LA. Probably not. I’d get beaten up by a group of anti-hipsters. Or mistaken for an aging barista.
Graves finally appears and sits down opposite me. He looks tired and grumpy.
“I’m a consulting detective,” I say proudly.
“You’re a cretin.”
“What do your papers say you do for a living?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Come on. Tell me.”
“Factory worker, if you must know.”
I stifle a laugh. “One of the working class? Nice.”
He leans over and takes my coffee, draining it in one go. He doesn’t even wince, and it’s bitter as all hell.
“Come on,” he says, getting to his feet again. “We have work to do.”
We leave the pub and head back out into the heaving throngs of people. “You found out where the spear is?”
He slaps a newspaper against my chest. I unfold it and read.
“Biblical Artefacts Collection to Debut at British Museum,” I read. I skim through the first few paragraphs of the article, then stop when a familiar phrase catches my eye. “The controversial Vienna Lance, thought by some to be the mythical Spear of Destiny, is part of the collection and is on loan from the Weltliches Schatzkammer Museum in Vienna, Austria. The collection opens tonight with an exclusive showing unveiled by Her Majesty, the queen.”
I fold the newspaper up again. “Well . . . that was easy.”
“You think?”
“Sure. An hour of research and you have the location.”
“But we don’t have the spear. And if we know where it is, then so does Nyarlathotep and his little band of merry cultists. Never trust easy, Priest. It’s a trick designed by life to give you hope before you fall on your ass.”
A couple of hours later we’re standing on the plaza outside the British Museum. A huge brass statue dominates the plaza: a British soldier on horseback shoving a lance through a Martian invader. Hidden spotlights illuminate the tall pillars that front the museum. Tuxedoed and bejeweled guests make their way to the entrance, making sure they’re seen by any journalist watching from the sidelines.
“How do we get in?” I ask, nodding at the heavyset men guarding the door and checking tickets.
“We could shoot them,” says Graves.
“Really? That’s your first response? We can’t just shoot innocent people.”
“God, you’re so boring. Fine. Wait here.”
Graves disappears into the crowd, leaving me to idly watch all the transports arriving, some undulating along the sidewalk like caterpillars, others that kneel down with long legs so those inside the cabs can disembark.
Graves appears five minutes later and hands me a ticket.
“How did you get them?”
“Fastest fingers in the ICD.”
We hand over our tickets to the security guards, studiously ignoring the man in the expensive suit frantically searching for the missing tickets that he insists were just right here in his pocket, he swears, while guards escort him and his partner away.
We climb the stairs and head through the wooden door into the museum itself. There are bright lights everywhere. A young guy in a tuxedo plays a violin off to our left, and a woman in an evening dress plays a harp to our righ
t. The two instruments merge and complement each other perfectly, a finely tuned performance. I look at Graves, and he has his eyes closed, a small smile on his face as he listens.
He opens his eyes to find me staring. “I used to play,” he says. “On my own world.”
“Your own world?”
“You would have liked it. What was it you said you wanted? Mad cults and magic?”
“Something like that.”
“That was my world. Floating cities, magical creatures. Wonderful place. Lots of annoying people, though. Kings and queens and the like. I hate royalty. Very annoying. I should tell you my theory that royalty are actually aliens come to the various alternates to—”
“So do we split up?” I say quickly. I really don’t want to hear his theory on lizard people or whatever the hell it is.
“Yes. Probably wise. We can cover more ground that way.”
So saying, he wanders away, grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing tray.
I make my own way through the crowds, listening to the gossip as I search for the spear.
“. . . I say we should bring all our soldiers back from Mars. Bomb it from orbit. Only way to be sure . . .”
“. . . Crossbreeding Martians and humans in a lab! That’s what the journalist said. Of course, he was arrested for treason. Executed, I think.”
I shake my head in bemusement. A few days ago I was worrying about finding a new job and getting kicked out of my dump of an apartment. Now I’m listening to high-society gossip on another world and trying to stop some sort of H. P. Lovecraft cult from getting its hands on the Spear of Destiny.
Life is weird.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen.”
I turn to see an old guy wearing inch-thick glasses squinting at us from a raised dais at the opposite end of the hall.
“I would like to thank you all for coming to the opening of our Biblical Artefacts collection. We must give thanks to our comrades at the Vienna Museum for including us in their touring schedule. Champagne and nibbles are available. But please, do not over imbibe and fall over into our glass cases, no? Very bad form, that. It happened at our last launch. The prime minister was very apologetic, but that’s a priceless Ming vase the world won’t be seeing again.”
