Parallelities

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Max, good to see you. You been out the last couple of days.”

  “Working.” Max smiled back at the staff artist. “You know how it is. Sometimes you get hooked on a story and can’t let go. I’ve been busy with follow-ups.”

  “Must be some story.” For an artist, Hammel was positively loquacious. “There’s a chance I can score four tickets for the Lakers Friday night. Want in?”

  Basketball, Max thought. Total mental immersion in mindless professional sports. One of the most benign social pursuits. Funny the things you miss when you’re being skipped from world to world, like a flat stone across the surface of an endless pond.

  “That’s a rhetorical question, isn’t it? I’ll even spring for the parking.”

  “Hey,” Hammel blurted in surprise, “what makes you so generous all of a sudden? You sell a column to a syndicate?”

  Max pursed his lips. “Let’s just say that I’m feeling expansive.”

  “Glad to hear it. I was told that you’d spent the last couple of days home sick.” Lowering his voice, he moved closer. “’Fess up now: You really been working, or you just decide to take a couple of days off?”

  “I’ve been working.” Max frowned slightly. “Who told you I’d been home sick?”

  Hammel stepped back and shrugged. “Just heard it around. Glad to see it isn’t true.” He stepped around the reporter. “My place, Friday, right after work. We’ll grab something to eat on the way or if the traffic’s bad, we’ll eat junk food at the Forum.”

  “Who else is going?” Max asked absently. Something the artist had said continued to bother him and as a consequence he was finding it hard to concentrate on the conversation. Why would Hammel or anyone else think he’d been home sick?

  The staff Rembrandt looked back over his shoulder. “Not sure yet. Probably Stan, maybe Gina from my department if I can talk her into it.” Volunteering no further information, he disappeared around a corner.

  Max was still mildly troubled by the unsubstantiated rumor that he was suffering from some unknown illness when he entered his cubicle. It was unchanged, exactly as he remembered it, even to the number and position of cut-out editorial cartoons pinned or taped to the movable walls. Slumping down in his chair, he switched on the computer. All of his files were undisturbed, exactly as he’d left them. In fact, everything was as he’d left it.

  I haven’t been home sick, he told himself. Not I, me. But someone else might have been. A para Max could have been home sick.

  If that was the case it should be simple enough to check up on. All he had to do was pick up the phone and call himself.

  The receiver lay in its bracket, faux ivory and quiescent. Everything was going so well, everything seemed so familiar and comfortable and normal, that he hesitated long and hard. Perhaps someone around the office had simply chosen to interpret his absence as due to illness, thus initiating an unsubstantiated rumor. Or possibly it was just the result of some simple misunderstanding.

  The phone continued to repose in its holder, calling to no one but him. He started to reach for it, held off, reached again, drew back his fingers. Around him, all was as it should be, he told himself. There was no ill para waiting for him at home, lying in his bed, watching his TV, making Carrey faces before taking his medicine. He was here, at work, where he belonged—and nowhere else.

  He had new stories to develop, old ones to edit. Later, he would go to lunch with his friends. Tonight, he would drive home (in a car that made some fitting noise, he promised himself) and catch up on his reading, maybe see what was on cable. Friday he would attend the Lakers game and scream himself hoarse while other, much taller men engaged in a game whose skills were denied to him. Such was life. Así es la vida. Resolutely opening the file on Boles, he set to work composing a suitably tawdry, enticing story out of the notes and memories of his visit.

  The few interruptions he suffered were normal and, as such, were welcomed. At a quarter to twelve he went to lunch with several friends, none of whom evinced anything out of the ordinary. No triplets or quintuplets or any other kind of unnaturally interchangeable plets sat down across from him. The good food and energetic conversation relaxed him further.

  Back at the Investigator building everyone went their separate ways, returning to their own cubicles or departments. On the way back to his desk Max waved to casual acquaintances and spoke to close ones, glancing in turn at Werther and Hammel, surreptitiously eyeing Elena Alonzo’s most excellent legs, sharing a joke in passing with Steve Dalhouse from photography, staring at the heavy, broad figure of the dark green shape with the tentacular, cephalopodian head and the ichorous skin as it shambled past and got onto the elevator. It was going down, he noticed as he halted in midstride and gawked, his lower jaw hanging as loose as if every connecting cartilage and tendon in his face had suddenly snapped.

  What in the name of all bastard Creation was that? He found himself wondering.

  Hallucination, he told himself firmly. A consequence of everything he’d been through the past couple of days. An aftereffect of the effect. He stumbled toward the elevator and waited for it to return. In moments it arrived, disgorging three fellow workers. Two of them gave him funny looks as they hurried past.

  The elevator looked normal enough. So had those who had exited. Blinking, he turned to continue on his way. The file he had opened on his computer needed to be closed. He took one step and slipped slightly. Catching himself, he looked down at the floor.

  A thin path of glistening mucus led along the passageway and up to the elevator, which by now was on its way to another floor.

  Tolerably dazed, he returned to his cubicle. Around him, the room hummed with the sound of keyboards working, paper being shuffled, people moving about. Here and there conversation or subdued laughter rose above the general, familiar buzz of work.

  What he had observed entering the lift had been slightly larger than man-sized and grotesque in the extreme. Its skin had been leprous and warty, the face—there had been little in the way of a face. Just a mass of languidly writhing tendrils flanked by a pair of bulging, glassy eyes. The apparition had not been even remotely human.

  Hammel materialized suddenly behind him and the twitchy reporter jumped a clean inch off the floor. “Whoa, take it easy, pal. Just wanted to let you know everything’s set for Friday.”

  “What?” Max mumbled.

  The artist stepped into the cubicle. “Friday? The Lakers game?” His smile flattened. “You feeling all right, Max? You’re sweating.”

  Using the back of his arm, the reporter wiped at his moisture-beaded forehead. “I don’t know. I guess so.” Swiveling in his chair, he looked up at his friend. “I just had a waking hallucination. A real Tim Leary prizewinner.”

  Hammel laughed. “Man, did you slip something into your lunch I didn’t see? You been raiding the recreational pharmaceuticals again?”

  “No, dammit! I haven’t taken anything.” Max could feel his heart pounding behind his shirt. He was unable to keep himself from glancing repeatedly in the direction of the elevator.

  “Okay, okay! Calm down.” Hammel grew more serious, less jocular. “Is something wrong?”

  “I don’t know.” Max nodded to his left. “I think I just saw something like a bipedal squid get into the elevator.”

  The artist turned in the direction Max had indicated. “Bipedal squi—oh, that must’ve been Ce-Sathaq.”

  Max’s eyebrows rose. “You want to run that by me again?”

  “Ce-Sathaq,” repeated Hammel. “Surely you’ve met him by now? He came over last week to replace Toroth-Mek.” Leaning forward, the artist searched his friend’s face. “You sure you’re all right? You don’t look well at all. Like you might be feverish.”

  “No fever,” Max assured him. “Who—or what—is a Toroth-Mek? Or for that matter, a Ce-Sathaq?”

  “Man, you are out of it. You hit your head or something?”

  “I—now that you mention it, I have been missing some thin
gs lately. I don’t think it’s anything serious.”

  Hammel looked less certain. “Mild amnesia? You fall and hit your head in the shower or something? Ce-Sathaq’s our new Cthulhi. You know how the Great Old Ones feel about the media. ‘That which is not dead can eternal lie, and with strange eons, even death may die.’” He shook his head. “I’ve heard plenty of excuses for a lack of original programming and the substitution of constant reruns, but that one takes the cake. But what can you do?” Leaning closer, the artist dropped his voice to a whisper.

  “I mean, that’s the way things are now, ever since the Awakening, and there isn’t a damn thing anyone can do about it. Not in this lifetime, anyway. Maybe not ever. It’s kind of sad for the human race, but there’s no going back. And it isn’t so bad, is it? You get up in the morning, perform your daily obeisance, recite the sacred litany, and go on with your life. Sure there are the sacrifices, but the Old Ones aren’t greedy. They just want the respect that’s due them. Sort of like inter-galactic homeboys.

  “There’s always a good side to everything. No more wars, after all. Not with the Great Old Ones in control of the planet. Just so long as it isn’t your kid who’s chosen for the weekly sacrifice, right? And neither of us is married so that’s not our problem. Not for now, anyway.”

  Hammel’s words fell on Max’s mind like tax day on an unrepentant gambler. No matter how hard he tried he could not make sense of what his friend was telling him.

  “I guess I have had a mild spell of some kind. Refresh my memory, Dave. Bring it all back for me.”

  “Yeah, well, if you had to disremember something I guess the Awakening wouldn’t be a bad thing to forget. Can’t live that way, though. Nobody can, much as they might like to. I mean, reality’s reality, right?”

  If only you knew, Max thought painfully. If only you knew.

  “You don’t remember anything about the Awakening?”

  “Not a thing,” Max assured him heartily.

  “It was all the fault of that picture they were making. That damn picture. The one about the Necronomicon. Some fool producer got ahold of a copy of the real thing, not one of the cheap fictional fakes, and thought it would make the basis for a good horror film. You know the way the business is. They’ll jump on any gimmick. So a script was drawn up, and principal photography started, and when they read the critical words for the hundredth time, all very innocent and all, the Earth trembled and the skies opened up and the Great Old Ones awoke and began their triumphant return.

  “And now the human race is stuck with the cephalopodian bastards. The whole lot of ’em.” He jerked his head in the direction of the elevator. “Ce-Sathaq is a Cthulhi, a servant of great Cthulhu. Being a sea-being, Cthulhu’s dominion extends over all the coasts and coastal cities of the world.” He was studying his colleague’s face closely. “You sure you don’t remember any of this?”

  “No, nothing.” An openly dazed Max shook his head.

  “Well, you’d better seek professional help if I can’t bring it back for you, or you’ll forget to do your daily ablutions and recitals. That could mean real trouble. The Cthulhi aren’t telepathic, but they have their ways of finding out who is being properly obeisant and who’s slacking. You know what happens to the slackers.” The artist shuddered visibly.

  Max did not know and, based on his friend’s reaction, chose not to inquire after details.

  “So that’s how it’s been ever since the Awakening. Cthulhu demands homage from those living near the sea. Hastur the Unspeakable and his minions run the mountainous parts of the country, Shub-Niggurath is up in the north woods where the climate and ambience suits him, and so on down the line. Or maybe I should say lineage. As usual, they don’t always get along and then it’s the humans who are caught in the middle who suffer.” He looked thoughtful.

  “It’s really not so bad. Except for the day when we lost Minneapolis there hasn’t been much of what you’d call mass affliction. The Great Old Ones want respect and the occasional juicy young sacrifice, and that’s all.” He shrugged.

  “In a lot of ways, Congress was worse. And those of us here in the L.A. basin have benefited ever since Cthulhu decided to make R’lyeh a part of L.A. I mean, what’s one more suburb in Southern California, even if the architecture is cylopean and non-Euclidean? Where else in the country would that kind of eclectic construction fit right in? In New York they used to sell thousands of little bronze and plastic replicas of the Statue of Liberty, before Cthulhu tore it down. Now they sell replicas of the great obscene obelisk in R’lyeh instead. I mean, what’s the big deal?”

  “This Cthulhu thing—what’s it look like?” Max inquired.

  Hammel made anxious shushing motions with both hands. “Hey, are you nuts? Don’t call him a ‘thing’ or you’ll find yourself in worse shape than a sacrifice. I’ve heard stories—but never mind, you don’t want to know. He looks like his Cthulhi, of course, only much worse, and he’s as big as the Forum. You really don’t remember any of this?”

  “No.” Because it’s not my para, he thought. Thank God it’s not my para.

  Have to get out, he told himself. Have to get away. Suddenly, being stuck in a parallel world occupied by his female self, or in his own world with a para Max or condors or even aliens for company, no longer seemed such an imposition. Any of those situations were infinitely better than this one, where the world had been taken over by gigantic hideous horrors from beyond.

  The trouble was, he couldn’t just jump between paras, or buy a ticket out, or click his heels together and say “There’s no place like home” three times to resolve the situation.

  What would happen to him if he died here? To his real self? Probably, his paras would live on, including no doubt the one who occupied his life position here who was lying home sick in bed. But he, him, the one Max that was Max to the Max, he would perish, permanently and forever.

  He could not allow that to happen. He had stories to write, fabulous useless products from the Sharper Image and Hammacher Schlemmer to buy, beautiful ladies to charm, literary and journalistic awards to win. He wanted to travel the length and breadth of his own world, not that of others.

  The noise of some increasing commotion reached them from the far side of the room. Rising, both men peered down the passage that led between cubicles. A hideous black winged monstrosity with no face was devouring the thrashing carcass of someone up from the mail room. Having cleanly removed the top of the young man’s skull, the creature was now gnawing out his brains. As the unfortunate’s struggles grew weaker, interest in the room waned and people started shuffling back to their work.

  Seeing the horror on Max’s face, Hammel took pains to explain. “That kid’s been known to scrawl anti—Great Old Ones graffiti in the men’s rooms. He was warned. Those damned byakee birds—you can’t hide from ’em. I always wondered how they could eat without a mouth.” He summoned up a smile. “You still on for the Lakers game Friday? I mean, if you’re not feeling up to it I can always find somebody else to go.”

  “No, I’d like to go. I’m okay, really.” Rising from his chair, Max walked past his friend. “I just need to step out for a little while, get some fresh air.”

  Alarmed, Hammel looked around nervously. “Where are you going? If you’re not sick you can’t just take off. It’s not like the old days. The pre-Awakening days. You know the work rules.”

  Aiming instinctively for the elevator, Max abruptly changed direction and headed toward the fire stairs. “I just need some outside oxygen,” he called back to the artist. “I’ll be back in a little while.”

  “You’d better be.” Hammel was looking around uneasily, searching the passageways between cubicles. “I can’t cover for you on this one, Max. I have to get back to my own department. I’ve spent too much time talking to you already. Someone’s liable to notice and make a report. I’m sorry, but you know how it is. Or you should.” He started off in the opposite direction, smiling weakly. “Friday, don’t forget. You’r
e paying for parking.”

  Max did not reply as he yanked open the protective fire door that led to the stairwell. Stark, cool, and spray-painted a dull white, the emergency stairs corkscrewed their way groundward below him. After leaning over to make certain the shaft was empty, he started down. Despite his efforts to move quietly, his steps rang loud on the metal stairs. Detecting in the distance what he perceived to be an occasional tormented moan, he hurried his descent.

  Outside, the world appeared normal. There was the familiar line of specialty shops on the opposite side of the street, the big Ralph’s grocery store on the next block up, cars and pedestrians advancing and retreating to the clockwork rhythm of the streetlights. The placid Southern California sun shone brightly overhead, unnaturally unimpeded by the familiar layer of smog. Nothing he saw or heard indicated in any way that humanity was no longer in control of its own destiny or that live sacrifices were required weekly to appease the gluttonous appetites of grisly invaders from Outside.

  Nothing except the billboard over the Osco drugstore that advertised discount vacations to glorious R’lyeh, with its antediluvian otherworldly architecture and magnificent unpolluted beaches. To Max, the supposedly enticing holiday images raised up in the sunshine looked anything but inviting, though his fellow pedestrians appeared undisturbed by their appearance. Coming as he did from a different para, perhaps he had truer perceptions. He decided that the local populace was either locked in a collective, willing suspension of disbelief, or else a somniferous pall of unreality had seeped into everyone’s brains. The result of mass hypnosis to keep the untermenschen in line, he decided, or some other deceptive effect he could not imagine.

  It had to be so. Otherwise how could a lighthearted, easygoing guy like Hammel talk so glibly about systematically scheduled human sacrifice? If Max’s concerns were valid, then voicing them might inadvertently single him out as an independent thinker, a defining social characteristic that had no future in this world.