The Endless War That Never Ends

by Christopher Brimmage

  As Agent 27142 made his way behind the Muse’s altar, the squadron commander pointed to a small semicircular hole that lay barely visible at the base of the marble. A tiny soldier the size of a crab emerged from the hole, his Scatter Gun twice as tall as himself. His voice squeaked as he said, “The Moirai are down there at their loom, just as you described them. If we move this altar, any of y’all could fit down this hole without much of a struggle.”

  The squadron commander ordered a dozen of his soldiers to push the altar aside. The soldiers groaned and shoved, and when they finally rotated the marble altar about twenty degrees, it revealed the full circular opening of the tunnel. Flickering light danced into view from below, along with the sound of three distinct whispering voices.

  Agent 27142 nodded to the squadron commander and ordered, “Bring four soldiers and come with me.” He crawled feet-first down the tunnel, twisting with it as it circled round and round. His eagle dug its talons harder into his shoulder the farther he descended. Agent 27142 sighed and patted the eagle’s head. The creature had always been particularly claustrophobic.

  The feet of the squadron commander and the four other soldiers scraped on the stone behind him. After a few dozen more twists and turns, the tunnel leveled out and opened into a large chamber nearly entirely filled by billowy tufts of wool. In a clearing in its center, three identical elderly women wearing white tunics to cover their pale blue skin sat around a large loom. The leftmost woman used her feet to spin a wheel that transformed the wool into flesh-colored yarn. She simultaneously knitted the yarn at blinding speed with her hands into what looked like an endless scarf. The fabric had tiny images that depicted a life-story woven into it. The middle woman measured the fabric and called out its length after writing a name upon it with a charcoal brick. The rightmost woman held a pair of oversized shears and cut the fabric when it reached the measurement called out by the middle triplet. Upon being cut, the flesh-colored fabric bled on the ground at their feet, turned black, and rotted into nothingness.

  Agent 27142 smiled. These were the Fates, otherwise known as the Moirai, and according to most charted realities’ versions of their Greek pantheons, these three determined the destinies of everyone, mortal and god alike. Though Agent 27142 could recall no Greek pantheons on his home reality, the High Commander long ago regaled him with tales of the pantheon from Earth 24. Agent 27142 had paid particularly close attention to one of the High Commander’s stories in which he had kidnapped both the Moirai and the Muse during his earth’s Heroic Age. He had forced the Muse to sing inspiration to the Moirai, who spun a new destiny for Earth 24 on their loom. He used the creatures to alter reality so that he became the head of his pantheon and the most powerful being on Earth 24.

  When Agent 27142 had logged into the terminal in the sub-basement of the B.T.T. headquarters during the raid to steal the Stasis Bomb, he had learned that each of the millions of caves spread throughout the mountains near the B.T.T.’s headquarters were full of anachronisms from throughout the infinite recesses of time and the infinite expanses of the Multiverse, like a living and deadly museum wrought in the rock.

  And upon making this discovery, an idea had exploded into existence within his mind. Agent 27142 could think of nobody better from whom to take inspiration than the High Commander, so he decided it could only help the B.I.T.’s chances for survival if he were to replicate the High Commander’s use of these mythological creatures. It took but a quick search to locate a version of the Moirai and the Muse, and in a coincidence so fortunate as to seem either predestined or completely implausible—depending on your point of view—the cave in which they resided lay in the same clearing that Agent 27142 had landed the shift-shuttles.

  Agent 27142 cleared his throat to get the attention of the three old women. They did not look up from their work. The first triplet continued at her loom. The middle one called out a measurement, “Twenty-two-point-three years,” and the woman on the end with the shears cut the fabric.

  One of the soldiers standing behind Agent 27142 grabbed his chest, squealed in surprise, and collapsed to the ground. He was a corpse before he hit the dirt. Agent 27142 smiled. At least I have their attention, he thought.

  “Seize them,” ordered Agent 27142.

  The squadron commander jerked forward and kicked the shears out of the rightmost woman’s hands before she had time to cut again. The other three soldiers in the group ran around behind the women and bound their hands behind their backs.

  Agent 27142 turned to the squadron commander. “You and these soldiers are to stay with the Moirai. Torture them as needed, but ensure they are creating a thread that guarantees the B.I.T.’s victory. From what I understand about the way they work, you need to have them weave a constant stream of images that show what we want to happen, and then when each image is cut, whatever is in the image will occur in real life. Have them work up imagery of the Stasis Bomb succeeding in its task and the High Commander victorious over the incursion forces.”

  The squadron commander nodded. “Aye, at once, sir,” he said. “If I may ask, what are ya gonna be doin’ while we’re handling this?”

  Agent 27142 sighed. This was the first time he had ever been disappointed with this squadron commander. He was normally fantastic at following orders without asking questions. “I must return to Earth 55,777 to ensure all goes according to plan. I will send relief for you and your soldiers as soon as I am able,” Agent 27142 replied, though he did not deign to define how soon he would be able to do so.

  The squadron commander nodded and got to work. He called for a set of torture instruments, and as soon as a courier from the Muse’s chamber above brought them into the room, the commander went to work. Agent 27142 watched with sadistic glee as the commander hung each of the elderly women upside-down one after another and dipped their heads in buckets full of water until they agreed to weave what he instructed.

  Agent 27142 smiled in satisfaction as the seemingly infinite amount of loose wool that covered the back of the chamber began winding through the loom and forming the images he desired. The images floated into existence and were shorn with such speed that it seemed Agent 27142 was watching a cartoon. The imagery showed Agent 29333 aboard the shift-shuttle returning to Earth 55,777, the shift-shuttle dropping the Stasis Bomb, and then a clock with a large red X through it.

  Agent 27142 left the room satisfied and emerged from the tunnel back into the Muse’s chamber. He marched to where he could see the clearing outside the cave’s entrance and then called ten of the remaining Squadron Ampersand soldiers to his side. He smiled for a moment at the Muse’s melody, but then pinched himself to keep control of his emotions. In the background, he heard his newly earless soldiers continuing to torture the Muse to create a song about the B.I.T.’s victory—an inspirational ballad that would drift down into the lair of the Moirai to provide additional insurance to guarantee positive results from their loom. He pointed toward one of the remaining cloaked shift-shuttles outside the cave and barked orders to the soldiers, “You shall follow me to the shift-shuttle named Leaky Fire-Pipe. Prepare yourselves to return to Earth 55,777. Our victory is now guaranteed. Let us go witness it.” The soldiers all saluted him.

  And just when Agent 27142’s heart was full of joy and pride at his accomplishment in this cave, a piercing cackle erupted from the tunnel leading down to the Moirai, a sound which echoed up into this cave and nearly toppled everyone to the ground. Agent 27142’s eagle screeched angrily in reply.

  The squadron commander’s voice sounded in Agent 27142’s earpiece. “Sir, we’ve got a problem. They’re weaving too fast! I pulled ‘em away from the loom, but not b’fore they managed t’ create an image where the loom runs on its own! I can’t stop it! Oh, god! What have they done to Agent 29333? Sir, what should we do?”

  Agent 27142 scowled. These types of mishaps were why he often had difficulty delegating. He could trust no one to do a job as well as himself. He balled his fists and began to return to the tu
nnel. But then the Muse stopped singing and said to him, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  He stomped over to her. “And why not?”

  The Muse laughed. “You were a fool to come here. I know who inspired you with this tactic, for inspiration is what I control. This strategy worked for Earth 24’s Hephaestus because he was a god. You are but a mortal, and your hubris has proved your undoing.”

  Agent 27142 grabbed the Muse by the throat and throttled her. “What is happening? What did you do?” he demanded.

  She laughed again. “Look around you. Count your soldiers.”

  Agent 27142 did so. He realized one was missing. The Muse saw the recognition in his face and continued, “Having deaf guards torture me into compliance was another foolish notion. I had but to move my lips differently than the words I spoke, and they never noticed my treachery. And I had but to dance my song around the translators embedded in all of your skulls, and your pathetic technology never even picked up on my treachery, either. As you demanded, I sang a song to inspire the Moirai in their weaving. But I also inspired them to sneak in an image of one of your warriors defecting to our side. He went to alert our Father, and our Father has sent help.”

  “What about the Stasis Bomb?” he demanded as he slapped her across the face. She could call all the reinforcements she wanted to attack him and his soldiers. He did not care if he died so long as the plan to stop the cosmic bears worked. “Did you inspire the Moirai to prevent that from working?”

  She laughed. Then she said, “No. I was unable to intervene before they wove the picture of your stolen bomb’s success. However, your hubris cost you dearly, and everything else about your plan shall end in ruin for you. Know that the woman you love is dead. Know that the prisoner you loved to torture is dead.”

  Agent 27142 touched his earpiece to speak with the squadron commander. “Destroy the loom!” he screamed. “Destroy it before it does any more damage. And then get rid of the Moirai!”

  The Muse laughed again. “The damage is already done!”

  The cave shook, and dust rained down from its roof. Agent 27142 pulled his Scatter Gun pistol from his holster and fired it directly into the Muse’s chest. Her laughter echoed through the cave as she disintegrated. Agent 27142 signaled for the three deaf soldiers to join the nine he had gathered—the one who had defected now missing from the original ten—and follow him.

  They sprinted toward the cave entrance, but too late. Agent 27142’s heels dug into the dirt as he screeched to a halt. Outside lumbered dozens and dozens of Cyclopes, each at least fifty-feet tall and each carrying a boulder about half that distance in girth. They were all naked and covered in thick coats of body hair. Their flopping genitals seemed at once somehow both profane and holy, like an ancient temple covered in graffiti. One threw a boulder at Agent 27142, and it filled the entirety of his field of vision.

  Chapter 2

  IMPROVISATION, THY NAME IS REGULAR-GINNY

  Regular-Ginny bounded toward the robot, tentacles aimed straight ahead, hardened and ready to stab. It bounded back at her, drills aimed straight ahead, spinning and ready to stab. As they crashed into one another and began yet another fight where she beat the robot mercilessly with her pink blob while it stabbed her equally unmercifully with its drills, she glanced over at the tyrannosaur.

  The beast leaned down, snapped off one of Arthur the Putrid’s legs, chewed it, swallowed it, and roared. Ginny felt a hot, angry, pink tickle in the back of her brain. A hateful smile crept across her lips, for an idea had entered her head that was sure to be novel and fun.

  While she smacked the robot about the face and distracted it with whirls of pink goo, she created a new tentacle and allowed it to slither over toward the tyrannosaur. She swiped it at the dinosaur as a feint, and when the beast jumped aside and rolled to dodge the pink snake, Ginny whipped the tentacle back over to Arthur the Putrid’s remaining undevoured leg and released pink mist upon it.

  The severed appendage leapt up onto its foot and then leapt up into the air, hovering in place a few feet off the ground. It dodged as the tyrannosaur attempted to stomp it, and then followed the orders that Ginny mentally sent to the pinkness swirling inside its veins.

  The leg zoomed through the air toward the robot. She wiggled her blob in such a way that the robot was flipped over and dumped onto the ground from where it was stabbing her pink blob. Ginny rolled her blob away from the robot. It immediately leapt back up onto its wheels and aimed its drills at her.

  The severed leg’s foot glowed a mixture of green and pink. As it flew toward the robot, it wound up for a great kick, which it unleashed upon the back of the robot’s head. As the foot connected with robot cranium, its toes exploded. The force of the blast sent the robot tumbling end over end.

  The robot crashed to a halt and lay sprawled upon the ground. The severed leg rushed toward the robot for another blow. However, the robot would not be taken by surprise again. It jumped up to stand erect on its wheels, and then it dashed toward the severed appendage, taking but a few seconds to slice the appendage into such oblivion that it could no longer function, even as a puppet.

  However, those few seconds were the distraction that Regular-Ginny sought. Pink hatred filled her heart and she grew three mighty tentacles with ends the shape and sharpness of samurai swords, except these samurai swords were sized to fit a giant’s hands. She slithered them toward the tyrannosaur. The dinosaur seemed to understand Ginny’s intention, and to the creature’s credit, it neither flinched nor fled. The beast sprinted toward Ginny, roaring in fury.

  But Ginny had cosmic power at her disposal, for which a dinosaur with a spiked leather jacket and a blond mullet was no match. With one tentacle-sword, Ginny stabbed the beast just to the left of its neck. With the second, she impaled it through the stomach, and with the third, she pierced the beast’s flesh just inside its right hip.

  Rather than dying, the tyrannosaur snapped its jaws and continued pushing toward Regular-Ginny, impaling itself further on the tentacle-swords and inching closer to Ginny’s blob with every angry step. Ginny responded by lifting the beast into the air and slicing the bladed ends of her tentacles in different directions. The dinosaur’s roar transformed into a gurgle. And then as the pink swords exited through the beast’s flesh, the dinosaur ripped in twain. The beast’s head, left arm, and left leg spun end over end in one direction, crashing onto the ground in a wet pile of flesh. Its right arm, right leg, and tail spun end over end in the opposite direction, crashing onto the ground in a separate pile of gore.

  Somehow, the half with the beast’s head still crawled toward Regular-Ginny, its tiny arm scratching through the grass and its maw snapping dagger-sized teeth at Ginny’s pink blob. Ginny admired the creature and its single-minded will. However, the admiration did not prevent pink hatred from flowing through her veins, and it did not stop her from growing a fourth tentacle the size of a redwood tree and slapping it down upon this half of the dinosaur like she would use a swatter upon a gnat.

  Through the jiggling pink blob, Regular-Ginny felt the beast’s bones shatter and its skull crack, and just like that aforementioned metaphorical gnat, the dinosaur’s body lay crushed and broken. The dinosaur gasped a final breath and died.

  Ginny rubbed her tentacle on the ground, wiping the crushed corpse of the tyrannosaur from it. She cackled.

  And then her cackling was interrupted by the robot’s anguished roars.

  Chapter 3

  DRILLBOT, PORTRAIT OF A ROBOT ALL ALONE

  Drillbot stared down at his drills, which were covered in tiny pieces of the floating severed leg that he had just sliced into a lifeless pile of gore, and shame at his stupidity overwhelmed him. The leg was obviously a distraction, he thought. Drillbot should have realized it. What a fool Drillbot is! A sudden sense of emptiness and loss washed over the shame, and he wanted to shed the robot equivalent of tears for all eternity.

  Drillbot watched the Ginny in the pink blob wipe Ginny Rex’s cor
pse off her pink tentacle and onto the ground. It reminded him of the many times he had seen one of the Arts or Ginnys in the Army of Life accidentally step in some form of excrement and then scrape it from the bottom of their shoe. The metaphor filled Drillbot with rage, and he roared, doing his best to imitate Ginny Rex’s enraged scream when Artkylosaur had been blown to pieces.

  Drillbot watched as Regular-Ginny snaked a new tentacle out from her blob, this one with a broad, flat tip. Drillbot knew what that meant, so he raced forward as fast as he could go. Pink mist began wafting from the flat-tipped tentacle. He cursed. If he did not get there in time to stop what was about to happen, he knew that he would never be able to summon the will to raise his drills against his true love, even if she had been transformed into an evil puppet with no will of her own.

  He aimed one of his drills toward the tentacle and initiated the internal command for it to launch. It rocketed from the end of his arm to slice through the pink appendage, cutting it off at its base. The pink mist ceased for a moment, but then it restarted from a new tentacle that formed from the blob.

  The momentary respite allowed him to reach Ginny Rex’s side—or rather, it allowed him to roll into a position adjacent to the mangled pile of blood and broken bones that had taken her place. He leaned over the half of her to which her mangled head was attached and picked her up. He cradled her head, left shoulder, and left arm. Her left leg dragged on the ground, a thin piece of flesh connecting it to the remainder of this half of her body. The rest of her lay upon the ground a dozen feet away, organs and blood and broken ribs poking out into the night sky like some sacrilegious diorama displaying the innards of a tyrannosaur.