Out of This World

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “’Struth!” he said. “They told me of such things in the Empire, but I’d not seen them for myself ere now. ‘Tis true, you’ve no beast to pull it!”

  Nancy and Rachel both giggled.

  “And that noise!” Raven said. “What makes the noise?”

  “The engine,” Nancy explained. “The machine that makes it go.” She turned her own key, and stepped on the gas.

  Raven blanched at the roar—the car’s muffler wasn’t in the best of shape. Nancy took pity on him and let up on the pedal before backing, slowly and carefully, out of the garage.

  Raven watched in delighted wonder as they rolled down the street; he admired the houses, the mown lawns, the floral displays—he had apparently never seen azaleas before. He marveled at the cars everywhere, and at how fast they moved, and how smoothly—particularly the one he rode in.

  “Why, ‘tis as good as a wizard’s wind!” he remarked.

  Rachel giggled again from the back seat, and Nancy smiled a tight little smile. They were still on residential suburban streets.

  A moment later, when they pulled onto Interstate 270, Raven stopped talking, admiring, and marveling; he was too busy holding on and fighting sheer terror as Nancy accelerated to about sixty miles per hour and wove in and out of traffic, all of it tearing along at what was, to Raven, an incredible pace.

  When they finally pulled into the parking lot in Rockville and slowed to a stop Raven was shaking, odd bits of oaths bubbling incoherently from his lips. Nancy, after unbuckling her seat belt, turned a concerned look toward him.

  Rachel, also unbuckled, was leaning over the seat and staring.

  “What’s the matter with him, Mommy?” she asked.

  Nancy glanced at her. “I don’t think he was ever in a car before, sweetie. He’s not used to going so fast.”

  “By the impaled and bleeding Goddess!” Raven exclaimed.

  Nancy frowned, and gestured toward Rachel with her head.

  He saw the motion, and apologized. “Your pardon, lady; I’d bate my tongue, and mean no offense.”

  Inside the building a few moments later, while the cops and court officials stared curiously at a still-shaky Raven, Raven, Nancy, and Rachel hung back by the doorway while Pel and Ted greeted the freed Imperials and introduced themselves.

  The purple-uniformed figures stood uneasily, purple-and-gold helmets tucked under their arms, newly-returned belts draped across shoulders or dangling from fists. Even their weapons had been given back to them; that had been the cause of some minor argument among members of the jail’s staff, but since two of the “blasters” had been disassembled and proven to be absolutely harmless, not even as dangerous as a kid’s spark-gun, the return had proceeded.

  None of the Imperials spoke for a moment; then one stepped forward and announced, “I’m Captain Joshua Cahn, gentlemen; thank you for your efforts on our behalf.” Pel could see no difference between Cahn’s uniform and those of the others except a small black insignia on the collar.

  “You’re welcome, Captain,” Ted said, shaking Cahn’s hand vigorously.

  “I don’t know who you are, or why you’re doing this,” Cahn said.

  “We’ll explain,” Ted told him. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  “Will you be taking us back to our ship?”

  Ted glanced at Pel, who gave his head a quick, negative jerk.

  “Not at first, anyway,” Ted said.

  Cahn accepted that with a brisk nod. “Where, then?”

  “My house,” Pel volunteered. “To talk, maybe make some plans.”

  Cahn snapped another quick nod. “Good enough, then,” he said. “Lead the way.”

  “We’ll be traveling in three cars,” Pel said.

  “Groundcars?” Cahn asked. “Like the others we saw?”

  “Groundcars are all we’ve got here, Captain,” Ted said, grinning.

  In the parking lot it took only a moment to divide the group up. Raven, with some trepidation, resumed his seat in the front of the Chevy, while Rachel and Proserpine Thorpe climbed in the back. Raven eyed Thorpe with passing interest, but then busied himself fastening his shoulder harness. What had originally struck him as a quaint custom he now saw as an absolute necessity, and he tugged at every point, making sure the straps were secure.

  Prossie, in the back, studied Raven. He didn’t seem to fit here; his clothing and manner were noticeably different from the others. One possibility occurred to her, but it seemed very unlikely. She debated asking him straight out, but then decided that would be rude, and she did not care to be rude with the people who had just bought her free.

  “These groundcars of yours are interesting,” she said, casually.

  “Aye,” Raven said. “That’s a word for it.”

  Rachel giggled; Nancy concentrated on getting the car out of the parking slot and headed in the right direction.

  “Not as smooth as they could be, though,” Prossie added, as they bumped over the discontinuity between the parking lot and the road.

  Raven, now secure in his seat, turned and stared. “Say you so?” he said. “We’ve none that ride a fifth part so well, whence I’ve come.”

  “Well,” Prossie admitted, while absorbing Raven’s implication that, as she had suspected, he came from somewhere else, “anything with wheels is going to be bumpy.”

  Rachel looked up at Prossie. “What kind of car hasn’t got wheels?” she demanded.

  Prossie looked down at the girl. “An aircar, of course.” She paused, then added, “But I suppose you don’t have them here, do you? If anti-gravity doesn’t work, you couldn’t.”

  “What’s Annie Graffiti?” Rachel asked.

  “Like Luke Skywalker’s landspeeder,” Nancy suggested from the front seat. “You remember, when we rented ‘Star Wars’?”

  “Oh,” Rachel said. “But I thought that was just in the movies?”

  Prossie struggled to follow this; she still had trouble with the accents and the lack of any thought behind the words, and she missed several of the references, but it was clear the little girl had thought aircars were fictional. Prossie smiled. “Not where I come from,” she said.

  “Then ‘tis true,” Raven said, “that the machines of this world, and the machines of the Galactic Empire, are different, one from the other?”

  “Oh, yes,” Prossie agreed, leaning forward between the backs of the front seats. “Very true.” She paused, then added daringly, “And you, I take it, are from the realm of Shadow?”

  “Aye,” Raven said, “if you must call it that.”

  “What do you call it, then?” she asked. “The place you come from, I mean?”

  “Simply the World,” Raven answered. “We call it the World, for ere two years gone we knew no other—at the least, myself and my companions knew no other; I cannot speak for all the wizards and sages.”

  Prossie hesitated. She thought she was getting the hang of entirely-spoken conversations, but she was still wary of being rude; she had none of her accustomed feedback.

  Still, she felt it should be said. She asked, “And you’re not one of Shadow’s creatures?”

  “Nay,” Raven barked, startling Nancy and almost causing her to swerve. “I’ve fought Shadow since I was a lad, and shall fight it ever whilst I live!” He shook a clenched fist to indicate his determination.

  “I had to ask,” Prossie said apologetically. “I mean, as far as I know, the only people from your world we’ve ever found in the Empire were constructs Shadow had created—things that are virtually indistinguishable from human beings, but... well, they aren’t really human.

  “Fetches,” Raven said. “And homunculi.”

  “Simulacra, we call them.” She wasn’t even sure just what words Raven had used.

  “What are you two talking about?” Nancy asked, as she steered the car onto the entrance ramp for the interstate.

  “Your pardon, lady,” Raven said. “We speak of the foul creations of Shadow—things that mock humani
ty, that appear to the eye as men, that speak fair and feign good will, and that then turn on true humans when the time is ripe, all in the service of their evil master. They carry messages for Shadow, and work its will, all the while seeming no more than cheerful peasants or yeomen, or even gentry. Some even take the form of living men; such a one will slay the true man and usurp his place, live his life, even bed his woman, until the opportunity arises to wreak ill.”

  “They aren’t really human,” Prossie said. “Some of the details are wrong. They don’t have appendixes, for example, and the structure of the brain is wrong, and none of them remember anything from their childhoods.”

  “They had no childhoods,” Raven told her. “They are not born, nor do they grow as we do; they are made as adults, somehow, by Shadow’s magic, brought forth full-grown and full of hate and treachery.”

  “Androids, you mean,” Nancy said.

  “Yes, only we call them simulacra,” Prossie said, trying to avoid yet another unfamiliar word.

  “Homunculi,” Raven said.

  “You’re scaring me!” Rachel said, loudly and unhappily.

  “Ah, mistress, I beg pardon,” Raven said, turning and bowing his head.

  “I’m sorry,” Prossie said. “Uh... what was your name again?”

  “Rachel,” Rachel told her.

  “Oh. I’m sorry, Rachel.”

  Rachel managed a small sniffle and turned away, obviously not accepting the apology.

  A few seconds later she changed her mind and turned back. Prossie looked down expectantly.

  “It’s okay,” Rachel said in a small voice. “But don’t do it any more, okay?”

  * * * *

  Captain Cahn rode in the front seat of the Lincoln, with Spaceman First Elmer Soorn squeezed in between himself and the driver, and three more crewmen in back.

  “So,” Ted said, as he pulled out of the parking lot, “where are you guys from?”

  Spaceman Soorn glanced uneasily at his captain.

  Cahn considered the matter briefly before deciding that he might as well tell the truth. He didn’t really know what was going on, but he had been sent as an envoy, not a spy. “We were sent here as representatives of the Galactic Empire,” he said. “Our ship’s home port is called Base One, in the Delta Scorpius system.”

  Ted threw him a quick grin.

  “Sure,” he said. “I figured, when I saw the uniforms, that it was something like that. Galactic Empire, huh? Knew it wasn’t New Zealand.”

  Soorn, startled, turned to stare at the driver.

  Cahn, moving more thoughtfully and showing no surprise, also focused his attention on Ted.

  “I didn’t get your name,” he said.

  “Ted Deranian,” Ted said. “Call me Ted.”

  “Mr. Deranian,” Cahn said. “You speak as if meeting emissaries from another universe is not particularly out of the ordinary for you.”

  “Oh, on the contrary, Captain,” Ted said, as he accelerated to pass Nancy’s little coupe. “I’ve never met anything remotely like you folks before. That’s why I’m enjoying it so much.”

  Cahn blinked. “I see,” he said. He turned his attention to the road ahead, marveling at the number of different vehicles that were using it.

  It had been clear to him that none of the police agents or other, unidentified personnel he had spoken with since his ship’s unfortunate arrival had believed a word he said. No one had come out and called him a liar; in fact, they had never denied anything, or disagreed with a single datum. They had also virtually never asked him to clarify anything, but had simply noted everything down, with assorted pens and typers, and with their mysterious recording gadgets.

  It had become abundantly clear, within a few hours of his arrival, that they all thought him either insane or part of some elaborate conspiracy of deception.

  Whether this was because the whole idea of other universes was held to be unacceptably fantastic in this culture, or because agents of Shadow had already infiltrated the society and somehow made sure the Imperial mission was not believed, he could not be certain. Or perhaps the explanation was something else entirely; this was, after all, an alien culture. They might speak good Imperial English, most of them might look white, but they were in truth more foreign than any of the wogs back home. He kept that always in mind; these people were alien.

  Whatever the reason for their disbelief, he had resigned himself to a long imprisonment, and to the failure of his mission.

  But now he and his crew were unexpectedly free, and in the hands of this person who seemed completely undisturbed by mention of the Galactic Empire. He didn’t display the annoyance or resignation the law officers had shown.

  Captain Cahn did not know what to make of it. Was this man, perhaps, one of Shadow’s creatures?

  If they had been back in normal space, where telepathy worked, Prossie Thorpe would have been able to tell if the man was truthful, if he meant them harm—but here, in this strange, warped reality, how was anyone to be sure of anything?

  The wisest course of action, he decided, was to be noncommittal, to go along and see what developed.

  He sat and silently watched the traffic; his men, taking their cue from him, did the same.

  * * * *

  First Lieutenant Alster Drummond watched Pel Brown out of the corner of his eye, trying not to be seen doing it.

  It was obvious that the Earthman was nervous, having the four spacemen in his vehicle; he had said nothing during the drive, and had refused to look at any of his passengers. Drummond had respected the man’s emotions and had kept quiet, and the others had followed his example—though it was plain that they, too, were nervous, especially young Peabody, who was seated in the middle of the rear seat and who kept swiveling his head from side to side, like a scanner turret when an ambush is expected.

  It might have been useful to say something to soothe the driver—Drummond had not heard his name—but the officer had no idea what to say. He knew nothing about this man, or about his society. Saying the wrong thing would be easy, and finding the right one might be impossible. It seemed better to just stay quiet and see what happened.

  They had been in the vehicle for several minutes now, first on the streets, then on a great highway—these people, Drummond saw, having no anti-gravity, had performed miracles of highway engineering to compensate—and now they were on the streets again, cruising past shops and houses, all scattered among large expanses of grass and trees. Drummond wondered whether this was considered city or country, and whether these people had any true cities.

  The groundcar was slowing; Drummond assumed they were nearing their destination, or at least a transfer point.

  “That must be her,” Pel said, suddenly.

  “Who?” Drummond said, startled.

  “There,” Pel replied, pointing.

  Drummond followed Pel’s finger and saw two women, one tall and fair and the other small and dark and somehow exotic, standing on the sidewalk behind a blue vehicle that was slightly smaller than the one he was in.

  A little farther along the curb a big brown groundcar had parked, and Drummond could see Captain Cahn climbing out of it on one side, the Earthman who had driven it on the other.

  Then his view was blocked by the garage wall, as Pel pulled the car into place and killed the engine.

  Drummond discovered, when he turned to open his door, that the red car that had carried the ship’s telepath, Thorpe, was already in the other bay of the garage. He fumbled with the latch and got it open before anyone could come to his assistance.

  The men in the back seat did not manage any such feat, and Pel opened the door for them. They emerged, somewhat reluctantly.

  People were getting out of the other car, as well—a woman in a peculiar costume of jacket, blouse, and skirt, a man in an even more peculiar and very archaic outfit of black velvet, a little girl in blue pants and a simple red shirt, and, finally, Prossie Thorpe.

  “Thorpe,” Drummond called. �
��Report!”

  Startled, Thorpe turned and saw him and threw a quick salute. “Telepathic silence continuing, Lieutenant,” she said. “Still totally dead, both reception and transmission. No other news; an interesting ride.”

  He nodded, and noticed that the others, the Earth people, were all staring, with various expressions.

  Was that fellow in black an Earth person? His clothing did not seem consistent with the others.

  But then, there was a great deal of variation in what the Earth people wore, as well as in their skin and hair—they were clearly a very mixed society, with no proper standards of racial discrimination. There had been black men in police uniforms and working at the jail who were apparently treated as equals.

  This was an entirely new universe, Drummond reminded himself, with its own rules.

  “I saw someone out front,” Pel called to Nancy as he crossed to the overhead door. “I think it must be that Jewell woman.”

  Nancy nodded, while Drummond threw Pel a questioning glance.

  “The woman who owns the land where your ship crashed,” Pel explained, reaching for the handle. “Out front, there.”

  Drummond suddenly understood. “What about the other woman?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Pel said, shouting over the rumble of the descending door. “Her lawyer, probably.”

  Drummond nodded. That would seem to make sense. This society obviously made extensive use of hired advocates and elaborate ritual confrontations.

  “Shall we all go inside?” Nancy suggested from a small door at the back of the garage. The little girl was beside her, tugging at the handle and hauling the heavy door open.

  “Come on,” Pel said, making a herding gesture.

  The crewmen obeyed.

  Once inside, Nancy directed them all to the family room, while Raven slipped away and headed for the basement. Pel opened the front door to admit Ted, Captain Cahn, the remaining crewmen, and two women.

  One was small and dark, younger than the other—no more than thirty, surely— with Oriental features. She wore a grey plaid blouse and black wool suit and carried a large black purse. “This is Susan Nguyen,” Ted said, gesturing to make it plain that he was introducing her to everyone, rather than to a specific individual. Drummond noticed that he made no mention of her national origin, though she was the only Oriental he had yet seen here on “Earth.”