by Ira Nayman
“Your tax dollars at work.”
“Your tax dollars at work for the private sector.”
They spent the rest of the trip in silence.
* * *
“So, this is what I’m thinking,” Noomi, sitting at her desk, mused while Charlemagne fiddled with his computer. “Marcy Chicklins-Montmorency would have been our prime suspect if she hadn’t been in prison. But, she wasn’t in prison, so that frees her to be our prime suspect. What do you think?”
“Can’t argue with logic like that,” Charlemagne, distracted, didn’t argue.
“So,” Noomi reasoned, “the next question is: how can we find her?” Noomi thought for a few seconds, then snapped her fingers, then set to work on her own computer, then 15 minutes passed, then Noomi and Charlemagne looked up and said, “Okay, I’m finished,” at more or less the same time, then Charlemagne said, “What were you working on?” then Noomi said, “No, you show me what you were working on first,” then they went back and forth in a way that can seem terribly amusing in situation comedies but is, in fact, quite tedious in real life, then Charlemagne relented and showed Noomi what he had been working on.
“We are in agreement that our main suspect is Marcy Chicklins-Montmorency,” he explained. “But, what does she look like? I took the photo of her when she was arrested 17 years ago and aged it so that we could see what she looks like now. Voilà.”
Noomi looked at Charlemagne’s computer screen. On one side was a photograph of a young woman, with prominent cheekbones, a practically non-existent nose, dull brown eyes and bright blond hair that actually matched her eyebrows. On the other side of the screen was the same picture, except the woman had two lines under her eyes and one under her chin.
“That’s what you’ve been working on for the last 20 minutes?” Noomi asked in disbelief.
“What can I say?” Charlemagne shrugged. “Some people just age well.”
Noomi resisted the urge to snort.
“Let me show you something,” she said.
From her desktop, Noomi had logged onto the Transdimensional Authority’s Universe Generator Network™. She had spent her time using the Google Multiverse search mechanism to find a universe in which she and Charlemagne had solved the case. “We – the we in another universe – are on their way to capture her now,” Noomi told Charlemagne.
INT. Dimensional Delorean™ – Day
Charlemagne is driving, Noomi sitting next to him.
CHARLEMAGNE
You sure you up for this?
NOOMI
Are you kidding? I was born for this!
CHARLEMAGNE
Good.
The car screeches to a halt.
CHARLEMAGNE (CONT’D)
Because we’re here.
EXT. WAREHOUSE DISTRICT – DAY
It is a dark, dreary, overcast day. The warehouses are typical suspense movie-issue: menacing in spite of their generic quality. It’s a shadow and light thing. Noomi and Charlemagne jump out of the Dimensional Delorean™. Drawing their laser pistols, they stealthily approach the door of the warehouse. Charlemagne motions to Noomi to get on one side of the door. They creep closer and closer and…just when the suspense is unbearable, Charlemagne throws open the door and the pair rush in.
INT. WAREHOUSE – DAY
It looks like something out of Frankenstein – the 1931 original, not any of the versions that came after, because the original creative impulse is usually the best, and certainly not Mel Brooks’ pastiche Young Frankenstein, which contained many moments of laugh out loud humour but, in the end, undermined the serious intent and quality of the original rather than respecting it. In short, there is a lot of impressive high tech gadgetry that looks great cluttering up a mad scientist’s lair without necessarily having any scientific validity.
In the middle of this is a clearing in which a huge many-tentacled, multiply eyed creature stands, working the controls of a Home Universe Generator™.
CHARLEMAGNE
Marcy Chicklins-Montmorency?
The creature’s bulk shifts, which probably means it turns towards them. Alien bulks can be difficult to read that way. Its tentacles do continue to work the Home Universe Generator™ controls, however.
ALIEN
(highly filtered)
The creature that was named Marcy Chicklins-Montmorency in its human incarnation is now a part of the Blurgh Consciousness.
NOOMI
(aghast)
The alien race from Earth Prime 7-8-7-7-2-7 dash gamma that wants to enslave every sentient race across the Multiverse!
ALIEN
The same!
The alien gurgles, which might be its equivalent of maniacal laughter. Alien sounds can be difficult to read that way, too.
NOOMI
Crash, we must stop it!
CHARLEMAGNE
I’m on it!
Noomi and Charlemagne point their laser pistols at the alien.
ALIEN
But, wait. What if the woman you seek is still alive somewhere inside me? If you kill me, surely you will kill her, and anybody else that I may have assimilated along the way. Are you willing to live with that?
Noomi and Charlemagne look at each other, their blood lust wavering.
ANNOUNCER
Will Noomi and Crash kill the Blurgh Consciousness and save the world? Or, will other things happen? Tune in next week for the thrilling conclusion of…Noomi Rapier, Transdimensional Authority Agent!
FADE TO BLACK
“Wait,” Noomi said, “That was…a TV show?”
“Congratulations,” Charlemagne told her. “In that dimension, you’re a hero!”
Noomi wondered for a moment if, in the universe she had found, her televised adventures had inspired Jack Ryan to become a Transdimensional Authority investigator. How cool would that be! But, then she had to face stupid reality again.
“What the hell use was that, then?” Noomi groused at her own effort.
“Nice try, but you’ve just encountered the Dworsky Effect.”
“The Dworsky Effect?”
“Sure,” Charlemagne explained. “One apparently simple way of solving crimes would seem to involve looking through various universes where your counterparts are investigating the same crime you are until one of them finds the solution. And, in one sense, you would be right: there are an infinite number of universes where you solve the crime. Unfortunately, there are also an infinite number of universes where you don’t solve the crime. And, an infinite number of universes where you solve a different crime. And, an infinite number of universes where you aren’t really cut out to be a detective and don’t solve any crimes. And, an infinite number of universes where the criminal is different from the one in your universe. And, an infinite number of universes where society is to blame. And, an infinite number of universes where solving the crime doesn’t fill the empty hole that exists inside you. And, of course, an infinite number of universes where you are a killer whale in Marine Land.
“D. Wayne Dworsky, an early pioneer in transdimensional travel, pointed out decades ago that there was no way of proving that any universe you could look into would be sufficiently analogous to the universe you lived in to offer a solution to a problem that you faced. On top of that is the Monaco Corollary to the Dworsky Effect: even if you were lucky enough to stumble upon a universe that was an exact duplicate of yours, one that did offer the solution to the case you were working on, how could you be sure that it was the right one?”
“When you explain it that way,” Noomi wretchedly remarked, “I feel incredibly stupid.”
“Would it help if I repeated it in a Swedish accent?” Charlemagne offered.
Noomi smiled. “Absolutely not! I get it.”
Charlemagne waved his hand. “Rookie mistake,” he said. “We all make them. We’re going to have to solve this case with basic tec legwork.”
“Like what?” Noomi asked.
“We have to go back to Earth Prime 0-0-0-0-0-1
dash delta,” Charlemagne replied, “and use TOM to track the signal back to Marcy Chicklins-Montmorency’s lair!”
* * *
“Explain to me again what we’re doing,” Sergeant Jerry Marinara, sitting in the back seat of the Dimensional Delorean™, said. He was in his 40s, short and wiry, his hang-dog look at odds with his jittery, high-energy demeanour.
“We’re using this device,” Noomi pointed to TOM, which was sitting on the dashboard, “the Transdimensional Oddity Monitor, to track down a master criminal.”
“And, this concerns me why?” Sergeant Marinara asked.
“We always try to involve local law officers in our arrests,” Charlemagne explained. “We don’t want to surprise you with anything.”
“You mean, you wanna cover your asses,” Sergeant Marinara translated.
“It would be embarrassing for all concerned if Transdimensional Authority agents had a shootout with local law officials,” Charlemagne redefined.
“Which would cover your asses,” Sergeant Marinara insisted on his interpretation.
“Let us say,” Charlemagne, trying to be diplomatic while negotiating traffic, “that it would be in everybody’s interests –”
“Oh, would you all just shut the ferk up!” TOM loudly interjected. “Can’t you see I’m tryna work here?”
“We…take orders from that?” Sergeant Marinara whispered.
“Naah,” Noomi, happy to be on the other end of this exchange, told him. “He can work under any conditions. It’s just a joke TOM likes to pull on people when they first meet him.”
TOM giggled to itself. “It never gets old.”
“AI humour!” Sergeant Marinara muttered to himself.
The Dimensional Delorean™ was travelling north on Yonge Street. They had already passed Eglinton and were heading towards Lawrence.
“Getting hotter,” TOM said.
“What? Is this hide and go seek?” Sergeant Marinara asked.
“The high tech version,” Charlemagne told him.
With Lawrence behind them, they chugged towards Wilson Heights.
“Still getting hotter,” TOM told everybody.
“…been spoiled by success,” Noomi said. “It has warped her sense of right and wrong, but we can’t entirely blame her. You have to take into consideration the world she grew up in.”
“I don’t agree,” Sergeant Marinara disagreed. He talked like he was always working over a piece of chewing gum in his mouth, even though Noomi never saw him actually chew one. “Right is right and wrong is wrong regardless of how you were raised.”
“I understand what you’re saying,” Noomi replied. “I just think that Lindsay –”
“Sorry, who are we talking about?” Sergeant Marinara interrupted.
“Lindsay Lohan, of course,” Noomi replied.
“Oh,” Sergeant Marinara said. “I thought we were talking about Kate Perry.”
Wilson Heights now nothing but a sweet memory, they slouched towards Sheppard.
“Still getting hotter,” TOM assured them.
“…No, no, no,” Noomi said. “You’re missing the point: there was no time before time began with the Big Bang, so there couldn’t be a ‘before the universe began.’”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Sergeant Marinara argued. “If something starts, there has to be something in place before it starts. Effects always have to have causes.”
“There are theories about the cause of the universe,” Noomi insisted, “but they don’t necessarily require that anything existed before the Big Bang.”
“Oh, this should be good!” Sergeant Marinara snarked.
Sheppard was, let us be honest, something of a disappointment to all concerned, so they frugged their way towards Finch.
“Still getting hotter,” TOM repeated.
“…Reagan’s tax cuts and increased military spending was the template for bankrupting the country,” Noomi claimed.
“But, he also did a lot of good,” Sergeant Marinara insisted. “He stared down the Russian empire and defended democracy around the world.”
“Why do you guys even care about American politics?” Charlemagne asked.
“It…it’s more interesting than Canadian politics,” Noomi answered.
“It has more impact on the world than Canadian politics,” Sergeant Marinara added.
Driving past Finch, TOM said: “Getting colder.”
Charlemagne turned around at the first available side street and, getting back to Finch, turned left and headed east.
“…Did you know that in France, they don’t call a Big Mac a Big Mac? They call it –” Marinara began.
“Umm, yes,” Charlemagne interrupted, “I like fragments of conversations as much as the next man, but we’re actually closing in on dangerous prey, so I think it would be a good idea if we concentrated on the job at hand, okay?”
TOM told them that they were getting colder, so they turned around and headed west on Finch. They got hotter until they hit Dufferin, so they turned back and headed north on a street called Wilmington. The trail got colder as they drove past a street called Evanston, so they doubled back and drove up it, stopping at number 60. It was a small house on a corner lot on a tree-lined street.
“You’re sure this is the place?” Sergeant Marinara asked.
“Can we ever be sure of anything?” TOM philosophized. “As Heisenberg said –”
“Good enough,” Charlemagne said, and, pocketing TOM, got out of the car. Noomi and Sergeant Marinara followed him on to the porch of the house. He briefly noted the three squad cars that had followed them; the officers that had been in them were taking up positions around the house.
Sergeant Marinara, taking the lead, tried the handle on the door. It appeared to be open. He shook his head in wonder. “Suburbs!” he said to himself. Sergeant Marinara pulled his taser; Noomi and Charlemagne did the same. Bodies tensed for the hunt, they crept into the house.
They stepped through a vestibule and into a large den. The couch looked comfortable. The television was huge. Along the walls were paintings of…angels. This was not a good sign. Sergeant Marinara motioned with his hand to Noomi to fan out to his left and to Charlemagne to fan out to his right. He decided on a broad formation because he didn’t want any surprises. Before anybody could move, a sound came from the kitchen. It was the sound of…somebody humming.
Sergeant Marinara held up a hand to stop them. He slowly crab-walked towards the door of the kitchen. He motioned them to follow. He held up three fingers and nodded. Noomi and Charlemagne nodded back. Sergeant Marinara held up one finger. Sergeant Marinara held up two fingers. The three officers of the law burst through the kitchen door.
“FREEZE!” Sergeant Marinara screamed.
The middle-aged housewife, bent over, her back to them, froze. “I was just taking a pie out of the oven,” she informed them.
“I told you to freeze, lady!” Sergeant Marinara shouted.
“The pie is hot,” the woman insisted, “and the gloves I’m using are thin. I would like to put the pie down on the counter.”
Sergeant Marinara looked at Noomi, who shrugged. “Okay,” he shouted. “Put it down on the counter – slowly! – and back away from the pie!”
The woman slowly(!) rose, placed the pie on the counter and the gloves next to it and turned to face them. She looked exactly like the sketch Charlemagne had made of her having aged 15 years, except, for some reason, her nose was flatter.
“Marcy Chicklins-Montmorency?” Sergeant Marinara shouted.
“There’s no need to shout,” the woman calmly told him. “You’ll disturb the neighbours.”
“ARE YOU MARCY CHICKLINS-MONTMORENCY?” Sergeant Marinara shouted even louder.
“I refuse to answer any of your questions,” the woman insisted, “until you speak to me in a civilized tone of voice.”
Sergeant Marinara struggled with this for a few seconds. Not only had speaking in a normal voice not been part of his training, but
that was not how it was done on television. “I…I’m sorry, ma’am,” he eventually asked, “but, are you Marcy Chicklins-Montmorency?”
“I go by the name Marceline Gibberlets now,” Marceline replied, “but, if it keeps you from shouting again, I will allow that I used to be known as Marcy Chicklins-Montmorency.”
Sergeant Marinara looked at Noomi and Charlemagne. That was easy. “Marcy Chicklins-Montmorency,” he said, “you are under arrest on charges of breaking out of a federal prison and tampering with Home Universe Generator™ technology in contravention of the Treaty of Gehenna-Wentworth. If you will come with me –”
“Oh, I think not,” Marceline told him. “In fact, I think you should all hand me your tasers now – I do so hate having weapons trained on me – and sit down at the table so I can serve you some pie.”
“I’m sorry?” Sergeant Marinara asked.
“Oh, dear. You seem to be confused about who has the real power here,” Marceline remarked. “I assume that you have all read my file, so you all know what I am capable of. Wiring the entire house with explosives, for instance. Could the trigger be…putting a pie down on a counter and not picking it up after a preset amount of time? Cold the trigger be…stepping a certain way on a specific tile in the kitchen?” Marceline waggled her toe over a brown tile. “Could the trigger be the way I scream when I’m hit with 10,000 volts of electricity? You don’t know. Perhaps it’s all three. Perhaps it’s none of the above. You…just…don’t…know.”
