“Well?” Spider said. “This is your meeting.”
“Yeah. Okay. Look. I’m sorry about all this. Things are, well, not exactly ideal, just now, where I’m putting this thing together. I’m a little distracted.”
“All right. Fine. Just, I don’t know, here’s a crazy idea, why don’t you start at the beginning, wherever that is, right? And just go from there. I can’t see a way for me to get out of here, so I’m pretty much a captive audience, right?”
“Oh, yeah, okay, sorry about that, I shoulda said. If you just write, using your finger, or whatever you can find, just write ‘ESC’, on any surface, wherever you are, the system will dump you back into your real world.”
“Just like that?”
“Yeah. You’re not a prisoner, Spider. Didn’t mean to freak you out, but, well, I could see how you, well, feel free to punch out anytime.”
“Okay, good,” Spider said, frowning, suspicious. Something here was off, he thought. Something smelled bad, and it wasn’t coming from the kitchen. Watching Stapleton, sitting there, hunched forward, hiding most of his face behind clasped hands, Spider noticed that he looked twitchy, shaky, like he was cold, or under some kind of heavy-duty medication, maybe, and, now he thought that, Spider thought he could feel Stapleton’s leg, under the table, bouncing up and down, something Spider remembered his dad used to do when he was under the influence of certain medications. You poor bastard, Spider thought, trying to keep his face blank.
Stapleton said, “You saw me in pieces?”
Shit, Spider thought, embarrassed. He shouldn’t have said that. “It was, yeah, it was pretty bad. Sorry. You were ripped apart by some monster.”
“Shit,” Stapleton said, nodding, closing his eyes a long moment, thinking about something Spider didn’t want to know about. “That hasn’t happened yet, in my subjective time. Hmm,” he said, scratching his chin, shaking his head a little. “How’d I look? Other than that?”
“About the same, more or less. Same clothes, I think. You had a goatee beard, going a bit grey. You had a bit of notepaper, with my name and address on it, and you had a hypercube dressed up to look like a regular six-sided die, only it really wasn’t. And there was something inside it—”
Stapleton managed a weary smile. He reached down under the table, into one of his pockets. “You mean this?” He produced the D6, and rolled it on the table surface; it made a familiar clattering noise; there was a blur of numbers and patterns of dots flashing past, before it came to rest, showing the letter “A”. “It’s part of a game we play. It’s also a mainframe, as you’ve no doubt discovered. A hundred terabytes.”
Spider, staring at the innocuous cube, took in what Stapleton said about it. A hundred terabytes wasn’t a lot, by current standards, but it was more than enough to pull off an illusion like this. “It was obviously trying to find me, and it burned my friend Iris—”
Stapleton interrupted. “Iris? Your friend Iris?” he said, his face neutral, but something was wrong.
Spider noticed this. “Yeah, she’s a cop I know. A good egg.”
“Right, yeah, okay, sorry. Go on.”
That was odd, Spider thought, but decided to leave it be. No doubt he would soon enough find out all about whatever the hell was going on. “Anyway, when Iris tried to pick it up, it burned her, but when I picked it up, it didn’t burn me. I got this warm feeling, going up my arm, and this sense of soothing rightness, like the thing was somehow happy to have found me.”
“Okay,” Stapleton said, listening. “Fair enough. Good to know.”
“Why the hell are you looking for me, of all people?” Spider asked. “How do you know me?”
“You? I’ve known you for a while, mate, if you’ll pardon my use of the term.” It was entirely wrong hearing a Canadian trying on the Australian “mate” like that. The wrong emphasis, the wrong tone. It sounded, from him, like “meet”.
Spider made a face and then regretted doing so. Stapleton looked, for a passing moment, embarrassed. “I’ve already figured out I meet you up in the future someplace.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“So how do I wind up there?”
Stapleton said, “Yeah. That’s a long story. Kind of involved and I’m pretty sure you won’t like where it goes.”
“I already don’t like it,” Spider said, annoyed.
“Spider, you’re right. You’re absolutely right. Of course you have no reason to trust me, you don’t know me, you’ve never met me before, I get it, I really do. Of course. I’m sorry. I’m just … I can’t tell you, I just can’t tell you how hard it’s been, just getting here, to put this little show together for you. I just assumed, in my fried little brain here,” he said, indicating his head, “I just assumed you’d be the same guy I knew in Colditz, where—”
“I beg your pardon,” Spider said. “Did you say “Colditz”?”
“I did, yeah—”
“The Nazi prison? World War Two? Crazy bastard prisoners in one of the towers building a glider out of cardboard and rubber bands? That—”
“Not that Colditz, no, sorry.”
“So I’m not going to World War Two?”
“No.”
“Good. Relieved. That was a worry.”
“No. I’m talking about a—” He hesitated, thinking hard, fidgeting, then said, “It’s kind of a prison, a detention facility. Colditz isn’t the actual name, it’s just wound up with that name.”
“Um…”
Stapleton hesitated a moment, watching Spider’s eyes then added, “Eight-point-four million years from now, your time.”
There was a long, long pause. Spider sat there, the index finger on his right hand itching to scribble ESC on the red and white checked paper tablecloth. “Eight-point-four million years,” he said, sure Stapleton was having a lend of him.
“Give or take.”
“Oh, okay,” Spider said, nodding, playing along, sure this was all bullshit, but the sort of bullshit that was going to wind up causing him nothing but pain and misery. “I’m sure you’re just dying to tell me all about it.” Eight million years, he was thinking. Nothing good could come from something like that.
“Yeah. One of the other detainees called it Colditz, and it kind of stuck.”
“Okay,” Spider said, maintaining a façade of good cheer, going along with it. “Damn.”
“We were, you and me, and some others, lost time travelers mainly, were being held there.”
“I was there? In a prison?”
“That’s right. A detention facility for time travelers.”
“Shit,” Spider said.
“Yes,” Stapleton agreed. “That’s it, exactly.”
“I don’t think I want to end up there, if that’s okay with you, John.”
“The thing is, though, Spider, you do. And soon.”
“Like I said, no, I don’t think so.”
“Neither of us had a choice.”
“What, we’re just minding our own business, wandering along one day, and boom, zapped off to Time Travel Prison for no good reason? Eight million years from now? You seriously expect me to buy that?”
“The next time you use time travel, boom, just like you said. ‘Eight million years, do not pass Go,’ is what you said when I met you. You were pretty pissed off, understandably so.”
“I was, was I?” Spider was looking at the tablecloth, thinking he’d had just about as much of this as he could stand. “What about you? What did you do to wind up there?”
At this, Stapleton sat there, looking across at Spider. Spider had the impression that Stapleton knew he was losing, that Spider was about to bail out of this lovely virtual world he’d built, and not come back. But then Stapleton came up with this: “What did I do to wind up in Colditz?”
“That appears to be the question currently in play, Mr. Stapleton.”
“Spider, I met Dickhead McMahon.”
And with that, Spider was hooked.
Chapter 13
“You told me, Spider, about how, years ago, in your own subjective experience, you were going through some hard times. You were more or less homeless, you were separated from your wife, you were out of a job, and the circumstances of how you lost that job, in the police, no less, and that you had enormous trouble trying to find another job. Things were pretty bad. Then, one night, you were in a pub, back in Perth, nursing a beer, and you met this weird guy, who insisted you call him Dickhead, and who, in the end, offered you a new job, in fact a whole career, fixing time machines. He even covered your expenses to go back to school and get qualified to fix time machines. It was extraordinary. This big, strange guy in a cheap suit — I remember you told me about how he had this ‘zone-of-control’ effect. ‘Dickhead’, you said, ‘was like that. If he got you in conversation, you were stuck there. There was no escape.’”
Spider was gobsmacked. “Your research is good; I’ll give you that, Mr. Stapleton.”
“But wait, there’s more! Because of how things were at the time, you took Dickhead up on his offer. You went back to school. You started fixing time machines. It was mostly okay as work went, and you soon wound up as head tech at…” He seemed lost for a words for a moment.
“Malaga. North of Perth. Light industrial area. Tilt-up hell.”
“Yeah, Malaga. That’s it. So, there you were, working for Dickhead. Well, guess what? Me, too.”
“You fix time machines, too?”
“No, God no — oh, wait, I don’t mean to suggest there’s anything wrong with that kind of work—”
“No, of course not,” Spider said.
Stapleton looked genuinely pained. “Look, sorry, Spider. No, what I mean is Dickhead offered me a job, too.”
“Uh-huh,” Spider said, interested despite himself.
“A bit about me. Okay, um. Okay. First, I’m in physics. PhD. Condensed matter physics. I was teaching at a Calgary University, and doing a bit of research on the side, but mostly teaching undergrads. Boring as hell, but essential — students need a good foundation to build on. Hook them at the start, and they’ll follow you anywhere, right?”
“You tell me, Doc,” Spider said, who’d been thinking that if Stapleton was from Calgary, it explained this virtual world he’d built. A little taste of home. It also explained Stapleton’s accent. At first, Spider had mistakenly thought, despite knowing the guy was Canadian, from his ID, that he was American. His voice sounded a lot like the accents he heard in American movies, but it wasn’t quite right. The vowels were a little off — when he said anything with an “out” sound in it, it came out more like, “oat”, and the sound of the letter “a” came out sounding more like an “e” than anything else. Spider had never met any Canadians before, and knew very little about Canada as a country.
“So,” Stapleton went on. “One night, in April, it was late, I was tired, and I hit this bar I like in Calgary, Moose’s, for a refreshing beverage before taking a taxi home. Beautiful evening. Crisp. Spring, with a hint of summer coming. Minding my own business, cold beer, cozy bar, things were looking good. Then, boom, out of nowhere, there’s this big guy, bad hair, cheap suit, with the most enormous smile, and he’s got a couple of fresh brewskies, expensive imported stuff. Did I mind if he shared my table? The place was packed. Monday night. Hockey’s on the tube, Flames playing the Leafs. Sure, no problem, I say, pull up a chair. There was something odd about the guy, though. Weird accent I couldn’t place at first? British, maybe? It turned out he was from Australia. ‘Long way from home,’ I said, making polite conversation. ‘Further than you think,’ he said, and introduced himself. ‘Name’s Dickhead. Dickhead McMahon.’ Well, I nearly choked on my beer, let me tell you. ‘Your name’s Dickhead?’ ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘Everybody calls me Dickhead. It’s me name!’ And he laughs, this big laugh, and for a moment it’s all I can hear — even over the commentary guys on the hockey, louder even than the people in the bar cheering. That’s loud. It made me look at him, feeling a bit uneasy, like there’s something not quite right about him. I remember when I first told you about this, when we were at Colditz, you said it was like even his smile was too big for his face, like it was glued on.”
Spider blinked. “Right, yeah, that’s Dickhead, for sure.”
Stapleton nodded. “Hmm, this is thirsty work. How ‘bout a coffee?”
Spider pointed out, gently, that there was no wait staff — but by the time he finished pointing this out, a new white ceramic mug, full of steaming black drip-filter coffee, had appeared before him, and in front of Stapleton, who reached over to grab two of the small sealed cups of half-and-half, peeling them open, and pouring the contents into his mug, along with two sugar cubes. Spider watched, fascinated. “What is that stuff, that half-and-half?”
“Half cream, half milk,” Stapleton said, nudging the bowl of the little cups over towards Spider, who made use of them. The same magic that caused the coffee to appear also caused spoons, gleaming stainless steel, to appear just when needed.
Stapleton resumed his story, describing his first encounter with Dickhead in the bar, how they got to talking, and how Stapleton felt like he couldn’t leave Dickhead’s presence, that he was somehow trapped. “After a while, though, you know how it is, you need to use the washroom. So I get up, go and do my business, and the whole time I’m gone, I’m thinking, this is all too weird. And it’s late, I’ve got to be at the university early in the morning, I really shouldn’t be out this late, Ellen’s gonna kill me — oh, Ellen’s my wife. So I start thinking, well, it’d be pretty rude, but why don’t I just head out of here the back way, call a taxi, and go home. No harm done. At worst I’ve offended an Australian, but it’s not like it’s gonna be an international incident, our prime ministers on the red phone, yelling at each other.”
“Right, I wouldn’t think so, no.”
“So that’s my plan, but then I realize, my briefcase is still out there at the table”
“So you went back.”
“Back to the zone, yeah.”
“He’s good, that Dickhead,” Spider said, trying the coffee. It wasn’t great, a bit weak, kind of watery. He wondered if Stapleton here could wish him up a macchiato.
“So, back with Dickhead. While I’ve been gone, Dickhead’s been buddying up to some of the other locals, too, ‘shouting them a round of the bar,’ he said, and again, the expensive, imported stuff.”
“Bloody Dickhead,” Spider said, shaking his head.
“So there we are. Dickhead’s having this fantastic time, everybody loves him, toasting him, sending him beers, and he’s starting to get into the hockey, rooting for our team, really fitting in well. And all I wanna do is just get the hell out of there, go home, and try and get some sleep. But you know what?”
“You don’t.”
“That’s right. Next thing I’ve got a fresh beer and Dickhead’s there with me, his big arm around me, laughing it up, and I’m laughing it up, and we’re having the worst good time ever, you know?”
“Oh, yeah,” Spider said.
“Then, after a while, and I’m starting to feel particularly well lubricated, and no longer worrying too much about Ellen, even though my cell’s going off in my pocket, vibrating away, she’s trying to call me, Dickhead says to me, ‘So, John, mate, look here. Do you want to spend the rest of your life trying to get idiots to understand the beauty of the universe — or do you want to participate in the beauty of the universe? Do you want to know the Final Secret of the Cosmos?’”
“Shit,” Spider said.
“I said, ‘The what and the what now?’ And he told me again. He explained the whole thing. The universe, he said, was going to be torn down, burned
to the ground, rebooted, so to speak. ‘Creation 2.0’, was how he put it. But, and this was the best part, once the universe was all destroyed, nothing but particles and vacuum, these special messengers, these Angels of God, called ‘Vores’ were going to impart one, final, ultimate, mind-blowing piece of wisdom to the Chosen, the Selected, the Ones Who Got It, who stood back during the burning, and let it happen. Dickhead said to me, and he was leaning right over the table, right in my face, like this, Spider, he was right there, I could see right into his eyes, and there was this light there, this mad light, and right then, I knew, I knew in my heart of hearts, I knew two things: one, that this guy was absolutely the most crazy bastard who ever lived, and two, that I wanted in. I wanted that Final Secret, man. What a prize! What an idea! The key to everything. The final knowledge. The universe explained at last.”
Spider sat there, feeling bad for the guy. “So you signed up.”
“Well, not exactly. First, Dickhead bought another round. He asked if I was up for a little wager between mates. He’d wager a hundred Canadian dollars, he said, that I couldn’t down the whole beer in one go. When I hesitated, he said, ‘All right, two hundred dollars!’ This went on a bit. Pretty soon he was up to one thousand dollars, and the whole place was watching me, yelling out, either joining in on the action or yelling out dares. I felt ridiculous. How’d all this get so out of hand? But Ellen and I, we could really use that thousand bucks, I was thinking. You don’t make much teaching stupid undergrads. So I chugged the whole damn thing. The place erupted, cheering, applause, people yelling out, and Dickhead pounding my back, always with that creepy smile And then there was this burning, feverish feeling, in my stomach, then sort of everywhere, all at once — and then in my head.”
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