by Ira Nayman
Moderate Sleeper with Oak Dream Clusters Noomi Rapier-Witte used her AI-enhanced binoculars to look over the wreckage of the enemy convoy. She hoped that this was finally it, that this was the mission that would break the will of the enemy to fight and at long last bring them to the negotiation table. Even as she thought this, though, part of her knew that there had been other successful missions in the past that had, if anything, strengthened the resolve of the enemy rather than weakened it. Certainly, the fact that the enemy had scored victories against her side hadn’t diminished her will to fight. Did that mean the war would never end? Did that mean –
Oh, ferk it. “Richard? Tommy?” Rapier-Witte shouted. “You got any of that weed left?”
* * *
As they traveled back to Earth Prime in the Dimensional Delorean™, Noomi mused that the space between the universes was the perfect place for men to drive: there was nobody to ask for directions!
Her thoughts were interrupted by TOM crowing, “Oh, yeah, baby! I still got it!”
“It?” Investigator Chumley asked.
“Oh, yeah!” TOM exulted. “I thought for sure you guys were gonna mess with my mojo back in the lab –”
“Mojo?” Noomi interjected.
“He’s seen one too many Austin Powers movies,” Investigator Chumley told her.
“Laugh all you want,” TOM insisted, “but I’m still a babe magnet!”
“A babe magnet,” Noomi incredulously echoed.
“Obviously, not literally,” Investigator Chumley explained. “Being anywhere close to a magnet would fry TOM’s circuitry. He’s more of a babe…strange attractor.”
“Thank you,” TOM responded. Then, his voice getting misty, he added: “Listen, I…I’m really grateful that you didn’t try to tamper with my personality circuits. I know I can be hard to take sometimes, but I…I really love you guys!”
Noomi, who was allergic to maudlin, hastily turned towards Investigator Chumley and asked: “Sooo…military man, hunh?”
“I did one tour and asked for a discharge,” Investigator Chumley stated. “People get killed in the army!”
Noomi smiled.
“That’s it?” TOM bitterly stated. “I pour my guts out to you, and you go on like I wasn’t even in the car? You two are so off my Christmas card list!”
Investigator Chumley frowned. “This can’t be right.”
“Oh, it is soooooo right!” TOM replied.
“What isn’t right?” Noomi asked.
“Meeting one version of you could be a coincidence,” Investigator Chumley stated. “Meeting three versions of you in three consecutive universes? That is a series of unfortunate events.”
That is a series of poorly chosen words, Noomi thought. What she said, though, was: “Are you suggesting that somebody has found out that I am one of the investigators on this case and is purposefully choosing universes where a counterpart of me exists in order to mess with my head, if not for some even more nefarious purpose?”
“Oh, well,” Investigator Chumley sputtered, “I wouldn’t have, uhh, put it quit that, umm, that way…”
They spent the rest of the journey in disturbed silence.
Chapter Nine:
Noomi Has Influence
12:37 pm
“Senator, I really don’t see that you have any other choice.”
The Senator looked at Noomi Rapier-Chumley with grave disapproval.
“And, when I say you don’t have any choice, I mean, of course, you have choices, lots of choices, more than most. That’s one of the advantages of being a United States Senator. And, you will undoubtedly exercise those choices with the wisdom that befits a man in your high office. It’s just that, well, only a fool would pass on an opportunity like this.”
The Senator looked at Rapier-Chumley with serious disapproval.
“Which is not to say that, if you choose not to take this opportunity, you are a fool. Lesser men are fools. You are a serious man who sees a…a…a bigger picture than any of the rest of us are privileged to see, and you make your decisions accordingly. What I’m trying to say is that you must surely see the wisdom in agreeing to our proposal.”
The Senator looked at Rapier-Chumley with mild disapproval.
“By which I mean, Senator, that you will surely see the wisdom in our proposal if, indeed, there is any wisdom in it. Which there may not be. It’s not for me to say. If you completely rejected the proposal out of hand, we would definitely have to rethink the whole wisdom quotient of what we were asking you to do. We think what we’re asking is fair, but you may not think so, and we can respect that. So, do you…do you think what we’re asking is fair?”
The Senator looked at Rapier-Chumley with bemused disapproval. “Sistah,” he drawled, “wah you a fan o’ Michael Jackson?”
Rapier-Chumley blinked. “Ah, why do you ask, Senator?”
“Because,” The Senator replied, “ah haven’t seen anybody walk back as smoothly as you just did since the last time ah saw the Moonwalk.”
Rapier-Chumley smiled warmly. But, not too warmly. Dammit, of all the people she had lobbied over the years, Democrat Zinfandel Gladhandel, the grand old liger of the Senate, was the most inscrutable. She was choosing her next words very carefully when –
THUMP! A basket of rolls landed on the table with a heavy, well, you heard. “Here you go,” the waiter contemptuously sneered. “Your food order will be ready whenever the chef feels like getting around to it,” he added over his shoulder as he walked away from the table.
Rapier-Chumley and Senator Gladhandel were sharing lunch at the Bear, Bull and Boor diner. The food there was mediocre, the service worse, but it was always packed, with a three week waiting list (and an eternal no waiting list). The official reason for this was that it lay on just about the exact centre point of a direct line between K Street and the Capitol, which made it insanely convenient for the denizens of the two places to meet. Unofficially, surveys had been taken which showed that at least 80 per cent of the lobbyists and 43 per cent of the politicians who ate there unconsciously believed that they deserved the worst that the diner had to offer.
“Well, now, my deah,” Senator Gladhandel told Rapier-Chumley as he tore open a roll and slathered on just about all of the butter from the dish in front of them. Watching him eat, she had no trouble understanding how he maintained his (physical) stature in the Senate. “Hea’s mah problem. Mah state has what ya maht call a ‘elevated state o’ environmental consciousness.’ It’s so elevated, ah wondah, sometimes, how many of mah citizens kin breath the aiah up theah. Still, theah it is. If ah accepted money from tah sahnds companies, ah could just abaht kiss mah base goodbye!”
“But, we have the facts on our side!” Rapier-Chumley insisted. “Did you know that seven per cent fewer Albertans died of cancer last year than the year before? We’re really turning the tide on this.”
Senator Gladhandel sighed. “Ah take yah point,” he said. “But, since when have facts mattahed tah thah Amuhican electahrate?”
Rapier-Chumley was about to respond when the waiter dropped a plate of something she couldn’t quite identify on the table in front of her.
“What is this?” she asked.
The waiter peered closely at the plate. “Hmm,” he mused. “My guess is that it is either raspberry goulash or chicken tartare in purple. But, I wouldn’t take bets on either of them.”
“I ordered a corned beef sandwich!” Rapier-Chumley protested.
“Corned beef’s off,” the waiter blandly told her. “The chef thought that you would enjoy this almost as little.”
He looked at Rapier-Chumley, daring her to contradict him. Realizing that she didn’t have an hour to waste reordering, she lowered her gaze. With a triumphant “that’s right, you are my bitch and don’t you forget it” grin, the waiter walked away.
“Okay, look,” Rapier-Chumley stated, not bothering to start eating, “if that’s the case, why don’t we play the fear card? If Americans don’t acceler
ate their use of tar sands oil, they’ll have to watch the latest episode of Duncing with the Stars while freezing in the dark!”
“That is, if ah may say so, a wholly defensahble pahsition,” Senator Gladhandel agreed, nodding his head for emphasis. “Unfahtunately, mah rahspected Republican opponent has already staked aht that territory.” He said rahspected like he was spitting out weasel guts.
“I see,” Rapier-Chumley replied.
She was about to offer another possibility when CATE said, ‘Ms. Rapier-Chumley, your office has an urgent matter it would like to discuss with you.’
CATE, Completely All Telecommunications and Everything, was a small square that floated next to Rapier-Chumley’s head. It was gun-metal grey with an exterior that looked like a melting Uzi (kind of like what Salvador Dali would have created if he had been a tech designer). CATE, which communicated directly with Rapier-Chumley’s cerebral cortex, sounded like Kathleen Turner in a nun’s habit.
I’m busy right now, Rapier-Chumley thought.
I acknowledge that, CATE acknowledged, while pointing out that your office is most insistent that it communicate with you NOW!
The vehemence with which CATE said ‘NOW’ shook Rapier-Chumley’s teeth. “Excuse me,” she said to the Senator. “I have an urgent call from my office.”
“Oh, shoah, shoah,” Senator Gladhandel stated, combining off-hand disinterest with mild disapproval. God, he was good!
What do you want? Rapier-Chumley thought/asked.
Would a polite hello be so difficult?! Nathan Drudge, Rapier-Chumley’s personal assistant, bitchily asked.
Nate, I’m in the middle of a meeting that is not going well, Rapier-Chumley bitched back. This better be good.
Ooh, I love it when you play the butch boss lady, Drudge responded. There is a woman here who would like to talk to you. She insists, actually. She –
So, schedule an appointment, Rapier-Chumley mentally hissed. Why –
Have patience, Miss Thing, Drudge told her. I swear, you’re gonna give yourself an aneurysm. She looks exactly like you.
Rapier-Chumley’s imaginary chin hit her mental floor. Exactly? she asked.
There’s something weirdly funky about her hair, Drudge allowed. Otherwise, you’re twins. Oh, and she’s here with somebody who’s the spitting image of your husband.
Charles?
You got more than one?
Rapier-Chumley felt the bottom fall out of the stock market at the pit of her stomach. Greenpeace had gone after lobbyists for the nuclear energy industry, the oil industry and, for their own strange reasons, the makers of Bratz dolls for years, with little success. Then, they hit on the idea of creating doubles of the lobbyists and having them do outrageous things in the names of the lobbyists. It worked. Suddenly, a big, fat, ugly light was cast on their activities. Mikhail Gupta of the Krishna Group, whose clients included Happy Shiny Nuclear Waste Dumps, Inc. and Transnational Toxic Goo and Sandwich Spread, had to resign when his environmentalist double smashed up a hotel room rented out in his name. Meyer M. Meyrowitz (whose company, Streemley Endive, headed the push to reopen the Chernobyl nuclear power plant) was hounded out of the industry when his double was caught serially spitting on the sidewalk. The only reason more lobbyists hadn’t been affected was that Greenpeace had a tragic lack of imagination. Nonetheless, a lobbyist’s reputation is built on trust and anonymity – especially anonymity. Rapier-Chumley took this threat to her livelihood very seriously.
Have Security hold them until I get back, she commanded.
Right! Drudge snapped. Oh, and – Before he could continue, Rapier-Chumley had closed the connection.
When she returned her attention to the Senator, Rapier-Chumley noticed that his food had arrived, “Ooh, what’s that?” she politely asked.
Senator Gladhandel poked at the dish with his fork. “It’s either veal Parmigiana or a runny club sandwich,” he replied, mildly alarmed. “A very runny club sandwich. Ah, well – bon appetite.” (Alert readers may have noticed that Senator Gladhandel’s accent had slipped. He has what many linguists have referred to as “situational southern drawl syndrome.” Yes, it is as painful as it sounds – to reporters who have to quote from his speeches, if nobody else.)
“What if…what if we changed the name?” Rapier-Chumley blue-skyed. They both ate intermittently and unenthusiastically.
“Changed thah name?” Senator Gladhandel said. “Ah suppose that could help.”
“Sure,” Rapier-Chumley, picking up enthusiastic energy as she went along, stated. “We could call the tar sands…the American Energy Assurance Pits!”
“A Combustible Gift from Ah Nahthern Neighbahs!” Senator Gladhandel enthused.
“Exactly,” Rapier-Chumley guardedly agreed.
“Nothin’ At Awl Ta Do With Those Stinky, Pollutin’ Old Tah Sands, We Assuah Ya!”
“Senator…?”
“See, heah’s thah thing, Ms. Rapiah-Chumley,” Senator Gladhandel gave her the news. “It’s all fahn and well ta give tha tah sands a new name, but, as soon as pitchahs of it ah released, tha public will see that, othah than tha name, nothin’ has changed.”
“But, Senator,” Rapier-Chumley insisted, “the name change would only be the first part of a major rebranding campaign that –”
Ms. Rapier-Chumley, CATE internally interjected, your office has another urgent matter it would like to discuss with you.
Not now! Rapier-Chumley’s entire brain hissed.
I acknowledge your demurral, CATE responded, while continuing to insist that the situation has developed a complication that must be dealt with –
Before CATE could scream NOW! into her head, Rapier-Chumley angrily said, What is it now, Nate?
Well! Drudge told her. Your little playmates? Turns out, they are from the Transdimensional Authority. They say they have a little urgent cross-reality business they need to discuss with you right away!
You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you? Rapier-Chumley asked.
Are you kidding, Miss Thing? Drudge told her. I live for this shit!
Okay, well, look, Rapier-Chumley said. We’re not signatories to the Treaty of Gehenna-Wentworth. If they really are TA agents, they have no authority in this reality. Have security threaten to force them to watch a Spongebob Squarepants marathon if they don’t behave before I get back!
Ooh, pulling out the heavy artillery! Drudge gleefully stated. Before he could say anything else, Rapier-Chumley cut off the connection.
Senator Gladhandel was pushing the plate away from him.
“Wah’ll this has been a most enlahtening convahsation,” he said.
“You will consider our proposal?” Rapier-Chumley hopefully asked.
“Ah will definitely take it undah advahsement,” Senator Gladhandel told her. He pressed a button on his watch and two beefy security guards in black suits who had been stationed at the front door magically appeared by his side without seeming to have made any effort to move.
“So, when can I expect a response?”
Senator Gladhandel’s already unfriendly demeanour stiffened noticeably. “I said I would take it under advisement!” he darkly told her. “Doesn’t your…thingie do politician to English translation?”
As Falstaffian as the Senator was, he disappeared between his two bodyguards, who immediately hustled him out of the diner.
When a politician says he will take something under advisement, CATE informed Rapier-Chumley, he usually means that he will wait until you are old and grey and utterly irrelevant before he renders a decision.
I knew that, Rapier-Chumley coldly thought. Assuming thoughts can have temperatures, which science has yet to determine one way or another. Get my hovercar, she sourly advised CATE. I have to get back to the office!
* * *
1:03 pm
The offices of the lobbying firm Dirsten Dutton Dewalt Rapier Despicabalo take up two floors of a relatively small, relatively unremarkable building. (We’re talking Washington here – i
f it ain’t the Lincoln Monument, it will have a lifelong inferiority complex.) She would have made it in five minutes, but there was construction above Northwest New York Avenue, so it actually took seven minutes and 37 seconds.
“I understand that,” Rapier-Chumley heard her husband say as she made her way through the lobby. Except, it couldn’t be her husband – Charles was at a meeting with the head of the Canadian-American Energy Self-sufficiency Alliance to discuss the unfortunate possibility of strategic energy shortages. “Still, I – we were hoping that she would cooperate with our investigation anywa –”
Rapier-Chumley stopped dead as she walked into the waiting room outside her office. Nathan was standing over a woman who could have been her double, save for the hair on her head that appeared to be trying to strangle something living buried deep inside it. Had she never heard of straightener and gel? Next to the woman sat a man who could have been her husband’s double, save for the hideous blue vest he was wearing.
The man stood up. “Ms. Rapier?” he asked.
“Rapier-Chumley,” she corrected him.
Investigator Chumley and Noomi exchanged a meaningful glance. Rapier-Chumley thought she saw a sentiment like, “Why does the advance scouting report never have the information that we really need?” in the glance, but she had to remind herself that these were strangers from another universe, so they probably didn’t speak the same unspoken language that she did.
“Aah, introductions seem redundant at this point,” Investigator Chumley noted. “Let’s all assume we are who we appear to be. Ms. Rapier-Chumley, we’re here as part of an official Transdimensional Authority investigation, and we would really appreciate your cooperation.”
“He’s been repeating that all this time!” Drudge exclaimed. “Oh, kitten, you have no idea how glad I am to see you! Really! If I have to hear that one more time, I swear I’m going to hack up a kidney!”
“Thanks, Nate,” Rapier-Chumley told him. “I can take it from here.”
Drudge gratefully walked two feet to a desk and sat down. He immediately busied himself researching cream coloured stationery.
