The Mammoth Book of Awesome Comic Fantasy

by Mike Ashley

  His brother said that he didn’t know about that. Fellow and his wife were first cousins, after all. Sir Augustus nodded, again lifted his hat, and this time gestured to the multitudinous items upon the heavy old sideboard. “Do you not desire to remove your philosophical equipment?” he asked.

  Smith the younger considered. He looked at his own hat, the velvet cap of curious cut with the curious silvern medallion on it. He took it in both hands and approached Doctor Eszterhazy. Doctor Eszterhazy bowed. George William Marmaduke Pemberton Smith placed the cap upon the head of Engelbert Eszterhazy (Doctor of Medicine, Doctor of Jurisprudence, Doctor of Science, Doctor of Literature, etc., etc.). “You are now and henceforth,” the Englishman said, “the Wizard of the Triune Monarchy, and may regard yourself as seized of the entire equipage of the odyllic force, or, rather, forces. Sorry I can’t stay, but there you are.”

  The brothers left the room arm in arm, Sir Augustus inquiring, “Who was that odd-looking chap, George?” and his junior replying, “Phrenologist fellow. Can’t recollect his name. Does one still get good mutton at Simpson’s?”

  “One gets very good mutton, still, at Simpson’s.”

  “Haven’t had good mutton since . . .” Voices and footsteps alike died away.

  Doctor Eszterhazy looked at the equipage of the odyllic forces, and he slowly rubbed his hands together and smiled.

  “PUT BACK THAT UNIVERSE!”

  F. Gwynplaine MacIntyre

  F. Gwynplaine MacIntyre had the audacity to sell this story somewhere else first. So I’m not going to tell you anything about him. That’ll teach him. (If you want to know more about him check out his stories in The Mammoth Book of Comic Fantasy, The Mammoth Book of Historical Detectives and The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures where at least he had the decency to send me some new stories.)

  “This must be the place,” said Smedley Faversham, as he travelled backwards in time to the very beginning of the universe, and took a look around.

  The vicinity in question was a region of space just over six feet in diameter: spherical, and consisting of ionic plasma gas superheated to a temperature of ten billion degrees Kelvin. At this temperature, matter could not sustain atomic integrity, so the contents of the sphere had obligingly broken down into subatomic particles, photons, and a few exotic particles such as bosons, muons, gluons and the occasional quark. Of course, a plasma cloud of such extreme temperature could vaporize Smedley Faversham instantly, so he was careful to step back at least a good ten feet and watch from a safe distance as a steady trickle of protons, photons, neutrons and electrons – attracted by the gravity well of the plasma sphere – continued to be drawn into its subatomic mass.

  The sphere was more precisely a hypersphere, because it had attained a shape of uniform radius through all the dimensions of Space: it was therefore circular, or spherical, in all directions . . . not merely in the three most obvious ones. The hypersphere’s radius was dwindling slowly, as the immense mass of the plasma cloud forced its contents into a state of supercompression. As each nanosecond elapsed, the sphere became slightly smaller.

  Smedley Faversham, intrepid time-traveller, knew that he had indeed arrived at the correct destination in space-time. The plasma sphere directly in front of him contained approximately 99.99995% of all the physical matter in the entire universe: effectively, this glowing sphere was 99.99995% of the entire universe. And since Time is a coefficient of the unified force which functions as both gravity and electromagnetism, it stood to reason that this glowing sphere also contained 99.99995% of all the time in the universe as well: all the time that ever had existed and ever would exist. Since this single ball of plasma gas, now slightly less than five feet in diameter (it had condensed somewhat during the past few nanoseconds), contained nearly all of the Space and Time in the entire universe, then – as Smedley had already observed – this surely had to be the place. Because there was nowhere else – and no when else – for him to be.

  “Any second now,” Smedley Faversham chuckled, “all the matter and antimatter in all the infinite dimensions of the universe . . . except for myself, of course . . . will be, if I may employ a technical term, smunched up into a non-dimensional singularity of Space-Time. One nanosecond later, it will burst forth to create the Big Bang. And that will be the moment,” Smedley chuckled again, “when I shall put my fiendish plan into action.”

  Smedley watched, greedily, as a few straggling photons and baryons came rushing to converge upon the dwindling sphere, adding themselves to its mass. According to Smedley’s calculations, there were only 217 subatomic particles of matter or antimatter (not including his own constituent molecules, and the molecules of his clothing and equipment) still remaining in the entire universe beyond the hypersphere. When those last few particles had entered the hypersphere’s inexorable gravity well, Smedley’s task would begin.

  “The more the merrier,” said Smedley Faversham, nodding his approval as a few more latecomers (a graviton, a fermion and a neutrino) came rushing to join the swirling eddy of the plasma cloud . . . which by now had condensed to a diameter of forty-seven inches. “Soon, the Big Bang will begin. In the first two minutes of Time, the temperature of the plasma hypersphere will reduce by a factor of ten as its volume expands. This will allow the formation of simple isotopes, such as helium, protium, and tritium. From those few simple building blocks, the entire universe will be built. Unless, of course . . .,” here Smedley Faversham chuckled again, “. . . I decide otherwise.”

  At this point, the Gentle Reader may wonder how Smedley Faversham was able to stay alive, since the oxygen molecules necessary for breathing (to say nothing of chuckling) had not yet been created by the cosmic aftereffects of the Big Bang. Hence, thus, and consequently there was no air for Smedley to breathe while he was standing at a slight distance in Space-Time from the creation of the universe. For that matter – or lack of matter – there was nothing solid for Smedley to be standing on, since all of the atomic mass in all the infinite dimensions of the universe (minus 189 subatomic particles which still hadn’t arrived yet, and Smedley himself) had already converged into the all-consuming hypersphere. By this same application of pitiless logic, the Gentle Readers may also wonder how Smedley was able to see the hypersphere, since nearly all the photons in the universe were now inside the gravity well of the sphere, beyond reach of Smedley’s optic nerves.

  The Gentle Readers should mind their damned business.

  For those who spitefully demand an explanation, however, here it is: the rules which govern the structure and function of Space and Time within the matter-energy universe are necessarily a part of that universe, and must therefore exist within it. Smedley Faversham had positioned himself outside the borders of Space, Time and the Universe (having stepped three paces back, and slightly to the left), and so he now existed outside Space and Time and all the rules which govern the interaction of matter and energy.

  Now are you happy?

  Smedley Faversham’s stomach rumbled, reminding him that he had not eaten since the year 2193 . . . which was now sixteen billion years downstream in Time, give or take an eon, from his present location. He reached into his tucker-bag and retrieved a double portion of Curry Vindaloo takeaway, which he had purchased en route to the Big Bang during a stop-over at the Kurry Kebab King all-night restaurant in Stoke Newington. Now he unwrapped the takeaway, and he thoughtfully munched curry vindaloo as he watched the arrival of a few more subatomic particles. The hypersphere by now had dwindled to less than a yard in diameter, and very soon the Big Bang would begin.

  “That was delicious,” said Smedley Faversham, as he carefully deposited the waxed-paper wrapper of his takeaway dinner into the vortex of the hypersphere (it always pays to be neat), and he fastidiously wiped a few bright-orange stains of vindaloo sauce from his fingertips as the molecules of wax and paper and leftover vindaloo were broken down into their atomic components, and the atoms in turn were rendered to their subatomic smithereens. �
��Of course, curry vindaloo always gives me heartburn, and sometimes – urp! – a few other digestive problems as well,” added Smedley, stifling a belch as the departed vindaloo made a brief attempt at resurrection. “But I do enjoy a good curry, and the heartburn will keep me warm. Entropy won’t begin until the Big Bang gets cranked up, so I’ll need a heat source in the meantime. And when it comes to internal combustion, there’s nothing like – urp! – a good curry vindaloo to keep the home fires burning, digestion-wise. Hello, what’s this?”

  While Smedley Faversham was rhapsodizing on themes vindalooish, the universe around him (or, rather, the hypersphere directly in front of him, and slightly to the right) had merrily continued dwindling. By now it was thirty inches across and still shrinking, while several more of the last remaining subatomic particles in the myriad dimensions of Space-Time flung themselves lemminglike into the vortex. But Smedley’s attention was distracted by something else altogether: coming towards him, at a velocity beyond the speed of light, was one particular subatomic particle which somehow seemed quite different from the rest.

  Most good little subatomic particles, of course, will never ever go beyond the speed of light. (They also look both ways before crossing into another quantum level.) But this particular subatomic particle was neither good nor little. This subatomic particle was the same size and shape as a very stout man. With a potbelly. It even wheezed, which is something that subatomic particles seldom do, but which stout men with potbellies do frequently. Also, this subatomic particle was wearing lapels. And pinned to one of those lapels was a small silver badge depicting a balance scale superimposed across an hourglass: the scales of Justice and the sands of Time. The symbol of the scales and hourglass in interchronally recognized in all centuries and millennia as the emblem of the Paradox Patrol, and it is worn solely by the valiant officers who walk the beats of Time. It is never worn by subatomic particles. And yet the object hurtling towards Smedley Faversham at hyperlight velocity was indisputably a subatomic particle, because its outer surface was neatly emblazoned with the words I AM A SUBATOMIC PARTICLE. I AM NOT A LAW ENFORCEMENT OFFICER IN DISGUISE.

  “Hmmmm,” said Smedley Faversham. “I can’t help but notice something odd about this particular subatomic particle. It utterly defies classification. I’m positive it’s not a positron, and I knew it’s no neutron. It’s firmly not a fermion, and it’s definitely not a proton, boson or muon. It’s tacky enough to be a tachyon, but it looks more like a moron. When it gets closer, perhaps I can identify it by the sound it makes.”

  “Quark!” said the oncoming particle, between its own wheezes. “Quark, quark, quark!”

  “Aha!” said Smedley Faversham. “Something tells me that this is a quark. But which variety? It certainly has no charm worth mentioning. It must be a strange quark. Let me see if I can counteract its spin.”

  So saying, Smedley Faversham stuck out his right foot, which was impeccably shod in a crisp white pearl-button spat. The onrushing quark emitted a loud “OOF!” as it tripped across Smedley’s foot and fell tumbling butt-over-appetite (perhaps it was a down quark) into the empty void between Smedley Faversham and the glowing hypersphere. Having already oofed once, the quark now repeated itself: “Oof!”

  “I’d know that oof anywhere,” said Smedley Faversham, ripping off the newcomer’s cheap disguise to reveal the sweaty brow and glaring countenance of a red-faced chrono-constable with a walrus mustache. “Well, well!” Smedley jeered. “If it isn’t my favorite fourth-dimensional flatfoot: none other than Nougat Callender of the Paradox Patrol!”

  “Must you always mispronounce my name?” asked the stout man, rising to his feet and brushing off a few flecks of dust . . . which hastily added their molecular mass to the vortex of the nearby hypersphere. “The name is Newgate Callender, if you please. My parents were in law enforcement, so all of my brothers and I were named for famous prisons: Broadmoor, Pentonville, Leavenworth, Clink, Ford, Colditz, Borstal, Bastille, and so forth. My dear sister is named Lubyanka. There’s also a cousin I’m not too sure about, named Strangeways.”

  “Sorry, Nugget,” said Smedley Faversham spitefully. “What brings you to this neck of the space-time continuum? And what’s with the quark getup?”

  Newgate Callender blushed. “The top brass at Paradox Central have got me assigned to plainclothes duty. I’m supposed to blend in with the local inhabitants of whichever time-beat I patrol, so that I avoid committing an anachronism. I had to wear a toga at Pompeii in 79 A.D., and I wore galligaskins and a doublet when I handled the Christopher Marlowe murder case. Then I wore a farthingale during the Great Fire of London, and . . .”

  “Wait a minute,” said Smedley Faversham. “Isn’t a farthingale a woman’s dress?”

  “It is,” said Newgate Callender. He was already blushing; now his red face turned several vermilion times redder. “The research department really screwed up on that assignment. But it gets worse: when I went after a crimelord in the Devonian Period who was manufacturing counterfeit trilobites, I had to disguise myself as a cycad.” Callender shuddered at the memory. “Nasty buggers, trilobites! Utterly useless, too.”

  “I disagree,” said Smedley Faversham. “Trilobites are quite useful. I recently wrote a poem about cybernetics, and I needed a rhyme for ‘kilobytes’. But why are you – urp! – here at the Big Bang?”

  “Several minutes before the Big Bang, actually,” said Newgate Callender. By now the hypersphere had dwindled to a mere seventeen inches in diameter: in a few more minutes, it should attain absolute nullity as a zero-dimensional point in space-time, and the Big Bang would commence. “We got a report at Paradox Central of unauthorized time-travel in the vicinity of the Big Bang, so I was sent here to investigate. I should have known I’d find you, Faversham.”

  Smedley Faversham lowered his eyes modestly. “You honour me, Nought.”

  “The name is Newgate!”

  “Whatever. Still, aren’t you a tad premature? I haven’t actually committed a crime yet. You don’t dare arrest me before I commit a chrono-crime: you would violate causality.”

  “Just your being here is crime enough, Faversham,” grunted Newgate Callender. “For one thing, how did you even get here? I know you’re a time-traveler, but Time didn’t actually get started until the Big Bang . . . so how did you manage to show up before Time began? That’s like attaining a temperature below absolute zero: nobody can do it!”

  “Evidently you never met any of my ex-wives,” said Smedley Faversham. He glanced at the nearby universe: by now it had shrunk to the size of a basketball. “You see, my dear Naugahyde . . .”

  “Newgate!”

  “Whatever. Going back to before the beginning of Time was quite easy. I merely had to set the controls of my time machine to go all the way back to where the tachyons end. Then, after I’d gone as far yesterwards as the time machine would take me, I got out and walked the rest of the way. And, of course, as a lifelong criminal and all-around nogoodnik, I’m just naturally a predator . . . so it’s easy for me to pre-date everything, including Time itself. How about you, Noogie: how did you manage to arrive on a timeline before the beginning of Time?”

  “Well, that’s just the thing.” Newgate Callender coughed nervously. “By existing before the beginning of Time, Faversham, you’ve automatically extended the parameters of existence to include yourself. You’ve moved the goalposts of the universe, as it were. And you got here ahead of me . . . so it was easy enough for me to arrive at a Space-Time nexus which – thanks to your trail-blazing efforts – was already defined within the borders of existence.”

  “Again you honour me, Nougat, old boy,” said Smedley Faversham, once more lowering his eyes modestly. “Really, though: if I’d – urp! – if I’d known that you’d be coming here too, I would gladly have given you the honour of preceding me to the beginning of Time. You would have beaten me to it.”

  “The only thing I want to beat you to is a pulp,” said Newgate Callender of the Paradox Patrol,
whipping out his truncheon and appraising certain less essential portions of Smedley’s cranial region. By this time, the dwindling hypersphere of the pre-Big Bang universe had dwindled to the size of a softball. “Why not just give up whatever time-crime you’re planning and come along quietly, Faversham? I’ve caught you orange-handed.”

  “I think you mean red-handed . . .,” Smedley started to say, until he noticed the telltale stains of curry vindaloo still clinging to his fingertips. He hastily dipped his fingers into the super-heated plasma orb of the hypersphere, wiping them clean, while he stifled another belch.

  “I’ve got you dead to rights,” said Newgate Callender, taking out his handcuffs. “I don’t know what kind of chrono-caper you were planning here, Faversham, but I’ll bet it would have been a real doozy . . . if I hadn’t shown up to stop you. Why not make a full confession? You might get a lighter sentence.”

  “Very well.” Once more Smedley Faversham lowered his eyes, surveying the contours of Newgate Callender’s trousers to determine if they contained a wallet or anything else worth stealing. Meanwhile, Callender had whipped out a small notepad and a Number Two pencil, and he began taking down the full text of his prisoner’s confession.

  “Actually, officer,” Smedley Faversham began, “I was – urp! – I was biding my time until the precise nanoinstant before the Big Bang. At that moment, the universe would have contracted to a pinpoint.” Smedley Faversham held two fingers a hair’s breadth apart, indicating a minuscule object. “All the dimensions of Space and Time would be compressed into the smallest possible increment.”

  “How small?” asked Office Callender, scrawling industriously in his notepad. “I’ll need some specifics.”

  “Pretty small,” said Smedley Faversham. “I’d say teensy-weensy.”

  “Don’t get high-tech with me,” said Newgate Callender. “Are you sure you don’t mean itsy-bitsy?”