Through The Wormhole, Literally

by David Winship

  Although it sometimes renders one insensible to banal (but important) information, one of the great advantages of possessing a highly evolved brain is the ability to understand, interpret and exploit the financial markets of relatively primitive worlds. I cannot tell you precisely how polkingbeal67 raised the money for his trip, but raise it he did, and within two days the full amount was safely deposited with the travel operator.

  A swirling fog was threatening to erase Heathrow Airport when polkingbeal67 arrived for his flight, but it dispersed fairly quickly when a steady drizzle set in. On boarding the plane and locating his seat, he attracted the attention of a flight attendant and asked, "Can you tell me where the black box is located, please."

  The flight attendant's voice was sweet and polite, but a slight twitch of her eyebrows betrayed her irritation. "There are two, sir," she said, "and they're located near the tail of the plane."

  "They're always found undamaged in the event of a crash, aren't they?" polkingbeal67 enquired, fiddling nervously with his seat belt.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well, do you mind if I travel in one of them?"

  The flight attendant bit her lip. "That's not possible, sir. They’re not that sort of box. Can I get you a drink or something?"

  The engines surged from a whine to a roar and the plane shuddered slightly as it advanced to the taxi-way. Polkingbeal67's voice echoed the length of the cabin, "I'm serious!"

  If he found earthling air travel harrowing, it was as nothing compared to the excruciating bondage of an Antarctic sea voyage which was at best mind-numbingly monotonous, at worst a brutal and merciless encounter with the very margins of human experience. His lips swollen, his nose red and blistered, he clung to the rail of the ship, periodically vomiting over the side. But shortly afterwards, they left the port of Ushuaia and the voyage was underway.

  Polkingbeal67 was still clinging to the rail a couple of hours later when they were engulfed in an icy fog. It was like a strange ethereal beast emerging from the ocean itself, grasping the keel and the sides of the 'Malvinas Explorer' in its freezing, invisible hands, sending exploratory fingers up and down the steep staircases.

  A thin, wiry Argentine crew member, whose uncovered neck was covered in tattoos, went up to polkingbeal67 and attempted to console him. His attempts to engage the ailing passenger in a bit of Argentine-Spanish banter were greeted with an uncomprehending scowl and punctuated by polkingbeal67's intermittent retching.

  "English?" suggested the Argentine.

  Polkingbeal67 shook his head, then nodded and said, "Er, yes, English." The sailor introduced himself as Jorge and polkingbeal67 responded by vomiting again.

  "Nice name!" Jorge joked. "It make the water look real pretty, no? Eh? Ha ha!"

  Polkingbeal67 motioned at the fog. "I don't know," he said in a low undertone. "I can't even see the water."

  Jorge laughed raucously. "So why you seasick, eh? Ha ha!"

  The crew and passengers aboard the 'Malvinas Explorer' spent the next couple of days swaying on the ocean, gazing out at the foam-crested waves and the stunning flocks of seabirds as the ship skirted the Falkland Islands and headed towards the first port of call. At one point, a black-browed albatross, referred to by some of the crew as a mollymawk, swept past and then hung in the air for a moment, causing great excitement among all those on deck. By the time the high mountains and mighty glaciers of South Georgia came into view on the starboard bow, polkingbeal67 felt so wretched, he was reduced to crawling around on all fours. Jorge had already started referring to him as 'Old Sea Dog'.

  . . .

  Hundreds of light years away on a small circumbinary planet in the constellation of Cygnus, Melinda Hill was struggling to keep her head above water, charging from meeting to meeting, trying desperately to hold things together. The planetary leader had not been seen in public since polkingbeal67 and yukawa3 had vanished, leaving behind a forest of pointing fingers, a slew of accusations and allegations of corruption. When he failed to attend the annual celebration of multiverse portal access and then sent Melinda as a deputy to the closing ceremony of the Cygnus Gravity Free Games, rumours were rife. The consensus among intergalactic governments was that they were witnessing significant change on Smolin9. Some speculated that the leader was seriously ill, but most attributed his absence to politics. Oovian authorities had suspended aid to Smolin9 following the Niffis atrocity, prompting soaring inflation and concerns over the budget deficit. Was the old leader being shielded to protect him from the ongoing row over Niffis? Had there been a coup, bloodless or otherwise? Clearly there had been no uprising, but many commentators were suggesting that Melinda could have effectively replaced him anyway. Was she now the de facto leader of the planet?

  Actually, there was no evidence that he had been shunted aside and replaced by Melinda; such a move would be unconstitutional and unacceptable to all right-thinking Mortians. But if the regime continued to struggle to secure significant investment from other planets in the galaxy, it would not be difficult to imagine a silent takeover by Melinda's advisers, supported by the military and working in collusion with the media. Fortunately, the Intergalactic Court of Justice, Arbitration and Conciliation had shown only cursory interest in the developments. Having earlier brought the leader to court to answer charges of corruption, their view was that the planet would be truly dysfunctional until such time as the leader passed away.

  Having rushed from a meeting of the MANKIND commission, Melinda was taking her seat at a myrmecam-enabled conference with the senior chillok ambassador. She had been popular with the chilloks ever since she had introduced them to Status Quo classics like ‘Whatever You Want’ and ‘Rockin All Over The World’, but she considered it a chore to confer with them owing to their insistence on speaking Latin. Her adviser and translator, nipkow4, was attending the meeting by means of a remote holographic feed. "Shall we get started?" he asked cheerfully.

  Melinda flicked a button on the myrmecam and the ambassador's high-pitched voice rang out, "Fiat justitia! Fiat justitia!"

  "That's literally the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me," drawled Melinda, with a resigned, sarcastic air. Her workload had become so excessive, she no longer felt inclined, or able, to observe the social niceties.

  Nipkow4 shook his head disapprovingly and tut-tutted. "Our revered deputy! Really! Listen, he's saying he wants justice done." The noise pollution associated with a telepresence session is such that it is not easy to tell when someone starts (or stops) tut-tutting, but he tut-tutted again.

  A series of high-pitched clucks and whistles heralded the chillok ambassador's next remark. "Faciam quodlibet quod necesse est."

  Nipkow4's face dropped. "Serio?" he asked.

  Faciam quodlibet quod necesse est," the ambassador repeated. "Ultio ultionis!"

  "What's he saying?" Melinda enquired wearily.

  "He's talking about revenge and he says he'll do whatever it takes," nipkow4 explained. "I think he's threatening us."

  "Oh, spare me these melodramatic menacing midgets!" said Melinda. "Totally! Literally! Anyway, I’ve had enough of his antics for one day. Ant-ics! Oops! Anyone for a bit of Status Quo?"

  The myrmecam erupted into excited babble.

  "I think he's going to take matters into his own hands," nipkow4 cautioned.

  "Really? That's so erratic! What does he think he'll do, tickle me to death? Look, I'm tired of talking to him now. Tell him we'll have a game of squash to settle it - he can try to squash me and I'll try to squash him. Who's your money on?"

  Nipkow4 almost certainly tut-tutted again. "Shh!" he hissed. "He may understand what you're saying. In fact, I'm pretty sure he does. Chilloks may seem tiny and insignificant individually, but try to remember they're incredibly powerful in aggregate. And they're a very advanced species. They harnessed dark energy and discovered wormhole travel eons before we did."

  Jaundiced and disinterested, Melinda shrugged. "Tell him to stop getting his little legs in a twist," she
suggested. "And tell him to stop looking at me like I'm from another planet!" There was a short pause. "Okay, I know I am from another planet, but... anyway, tell him... tell him something politically correct and reassuring and then let's leave the confounded insect to his rantings and ravings. Ipso facto, ad nauseam!" She looked at the ambassador and he looked at her. Their relationship, such as it was, had soured irrevocably, like a crocodile and a python blaming one another for devouring their best friend.

  There was a sharp intake of breath from nipkow4, followed by a cough and another cough, followed by a frenzied attempt to placate the screaming chillok ambassador. "He's going to send a task force to the Pale Blue Dot and get justice for Niffis!" There was an edge to nipkow4's voice as if the polished veneer was peeling away.

  "No, I'm going to Earth!" Melinda declared. "Tell him! Tell him I'm going to Earth and I'll sort it all out myself! Right now, I've just about had it with everybody and I'm going to my room where I'm going to lie down and I don't want to see anybody! Literally!" With that, she stormed off down the corridor. It would have been a powerful and dramatic exit were it not for the fact that her room was in the opposite direction. With as much composure as she could muster, she stopped, turned around and walked back. She switched off the myrmecam and engaged in awkward small talk with nipkow4 before pursuing her proposal to return to Earth. The pair of them discussed it calmly and rationally, like the calm, rational people they occasionally were.

  "You're going to have to get there before the chilloks do," advised nipkow4. His telepresence image paced up and down nervously like a caged ghost that did not realise it could just walk through the bars.

  Melinda nodded. "I know," she said. "Don't worry, I've been keeping track. I know exactly where polkingbeal67 and yukawa3 are. It happens to be just about the most erratically inhospitable place on the planet, but yeah, I know where they are."

  The two discussed the logistics and strategy associated with the visit until Melinda became too tired to concentrate any longer. "I've got to get some rest first," she said.

  "Are you sure about all this?"

  Melinda smiled wanly. "I've got to go," she said, and fell silent for a moment. "Besides, there's another reason I want to visit Earth for a while." And she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

  . . .

  Yukawa3 was finding life as a king penguin tranquil, therapeutic and invigorating. Or so he told himself whenever the cruel finger of doubt bored through his soul like a red-hot skewer. Yes, he assured himself, it was proving to be every bit as appealing as he had thought it might be. Why, it had served to wash away many of the toxic cares of his life, banishing all the old uncertainties, vicissitudes and adversities. And if it were not for the insignificant and fleeting deprivations he had to endure to survive, why, the whole experience would be... oh, hell, who was he kidding? It was unhinging him completely. It was a harsh, savage and unpredictable existence that no living being should ever have to endure.

  Feeling suddenly compelled to ditch this irksome and perilous identity, he launched himself into the challenge of finding his buried mutator. As the other penguins performed the tripod dance with reckless abandon, yukawa3 wandered in and out of them, scratching, scraping and poking at the snow and ice until the whole area was a mosaic of small, irregular pock marks like a giant, dirty golf ball stretched out flat. It did not help that a blizzard had set in and he could barely see what he was doing as the fine snow whipped his face, blinding and disorientating him. Nevertheless, like a dog determined to retrieve a buried bone, he drove himself almost to distraction, digging with all the demonic energy of a fish on a hook. One of the tripod dancers christened him 'Old Sea Dog'. (Now that really was an outlandish coincidence.)

  One by one, the tripod dancers shuffled away, puzzled and alarmed by his behaviour. Yukawa3 stood alone, his fervour spent and his emotional security dashed on the rocks of harsh reality. No one showed him any sympathy. In fact, no one even approached him as he braced himself against the flurries of snow that whirled menacingly around him. Perversely, it brought him to his senses. Just at the moment when an intense feeling of confusion and desolation began to envelop him, he recalled the moment when court officials had destroyed his collection of earthling sou’westers, an incident that had prompted a self-inflicted collapse of self-esteem leading more or less directly to the predicament he now found himself in. The experience had served as a warning to him about the corrosive effects of self-pity on a person's perspective and judgement. He had been down that road before and got lost; and it was a mistake he was determined not to repeat.

  As if to reward him for the mental effort he had exerted to banish his negative thoughts, the snow began to clear and at the rim of yukawa3's new world emerged the amazing sight of distant human forms advancing across the snow towards him. Most of them stopped a fair distance away and took photos, but one of them came closer. A wild hope fluttered in his heart like one of the butterflies you do not get in the Antarctic. What was the human holding in his outstretched hand? No, it was not possible, was it? It was yellow. It was apparently oiled canvas. It was... it was a sou’wester! Yukawa3 propelled himself forward to greet his old friend and mentor and immediately lost his footing in one of the shallow pits he had dug earlier. Undeterred, he scrambled to his feet and waddled on. Delighted, polkingbeal67 yelled a Mortian greeting and thrust the sou’wester down over his former pupil's head and watched as yukawa3, unable to remove the hat, wheeled around blindly and erratically, producing a fanfare of loud, trumpeting calls, falling into several more shallow pits.

  Mortians can communicate telepathically regardless of the physical form they choose to inhabit. Polkingbeal67 and yukawa3 had a lot to catch up on. Mentor and pupil. Co-accused and co-accused in the trial of the decade. Old Sea Dog meeting Old Sea Dog. But they only had time to exchange a few pleasantries before two things happened. Firstly, the crew hand, Jorge, came over to warn Simon (polkingbeal67) that he should guard against becoming detached from the rest of the party, who were already almost out of sight. "We trek round to see Shackleton's grave, si, yes?" he said, tugging at polkingbeal67's arm. "He was great man. If we no have pipple like Shackleton, we play video games by candlelight, no?" Actually, polkingbeal67 was appalled to witness such ignorance. During the flight from England, he had researched the career of the heroic explorer and had been deeply impressed by the story of his remarkable leadership, particularly the account of his expedition in the Endurance. The ship had become trapped in pack ice and Shackleton had managed to deliver every one of his crew to safety following a desperate trek for survival in the harshest conditions imaginable.

  "No, I'll catch you up," said polkingbeal67. "Shackleton's not going anywhere and I need to do some research on these penguins."

  "Verra cruel research, no?" observed Jorge, as yukawa3, half-hidden under the yellow sou’wester, continued to stagger from one hole to another.

  "Er, yeah, hypothermia is a leading cause of penguin deaths, so we're, er, experimenting with protective clothing."

  Jorge pointed at yukawa3. "So now we have pinguino with wrapper on, si? Ha ha!"

  The second thing to happen, only moments after Jorge had disappeared, was the sudden emergence of Melinda Hill, shivering, cringing, doubled up with the cold. She had remembered to take a homeodynamic disruption antidote (HDA) pill to offset the worst aspects of wormhole travel but had neglected to bring warm clothing and survival gear. Displaying great presence of mind, polkingbeal67 hauled her to her feet and half-dragged, half-carried her towards the ship. "Hu-hu-hu-who are you?" asked Melinda, her teeth chattering uncontrollably.

  "Simon," replied polkingbeal67. "But you know me better as polkingbeal67. Try and run! It's not far."

  Still ensconced under the sou’wester, yukawa3 tottered around in ever-decreasing circles, trumpeting forlornly from time to time, wondering what on earth was going on. He had to wait at least an hour before polkingbeal67 re-emerged with Melinda in tow. Now encased in thick layers of
warm clothing and a hot drink thawing her out from the inside, the deputy leader of the planet now known as Smolin9 slowly recovered her faculties and released yukawa3 from his canvas confinement.

  "He says 'thank you'," said polkingbeal67.

  Melinda gave him a puzzled look. "He didn't say a word." She bent down to look into yukawa3's eyes. "Can you talk?" she asked him.

  Yukawa3 cocked his head at Melinda, then cocked his head at polkingbeal67 and replied in an absurdly loud voice: "No."

  However paradoxical it may seem, it was strictly accurate: yukawa3 could not speak like a human, apart from uttering a sound that resembled the word 'no'.

  "He can communicate with me telepathically," polkingbeal67 explained. "He can't talk to you, except by making penguin noises, one of which sounds like 'no'."

  "Right. Is he okay? Ask him how he's feeling."

  "You can talk to him. He'll understand you just fine. He just can't talk back, except to say 'no'."

  "Oh," said Melinda, and then turned to yukawa3. "Well, how are you? How are you feeling?"

  "I'm fine, thank you," said polkingbeal67, decoding the telepathic signal.

  "No, I was talking to him, literally," said Melinda, nodding her head towards yukawa3.

  "Yes, I know. I'm translating for you."

  "That's so erratic!" Melinda squealed. "How will I tell if you're saying it or he's saying it?"

  "I don't know," said polkingbeal67.

  "So, did you just say that?" Melinda asked polkingbeal67.

  "No," said yukawa3.

  Polkingbeal67 sighed, defeated. "This isn't going to work, is it?"

  They eventually agreed on a system whereby polkingbeal67 raised his hand whenever he was speaking as yukawa3.

  With polkingbeal67's hand going up and down like a fiddler's elbow, yukawa3 clarified his predicament concerning the buried mutator. Melinda, in turn, enlightened the other two about the situation back on their home planet. "So now you know why I'm here," she said. "And you must understand that I've got to take you back with me. You certainly haven't done yourself any favours by running away. What were you thinking?"