Bleedover

by Curtis Hox

  “The other way around is preposterous, Corbin,” she said.

  She knew the core of their argument was largely academic. Bleedover existed. Narratives were real. Why the continued bickering? She wondered if she had missed something important that would give him such confidence when he had always wavered before.

  However, Hattie felt prepared, much more so than when Corbin sent his demon-thing. She calmed herself by reviewing her preparations. She and Masumi had begun their defense by crafting a short, simple story together.

  * * *

  “What’re we doing, again?” Masumi asked one late evening a few days before the symposium.

  They sat in the atrium, the destroyed tables and chairs now replaced, as if nothing had happened even though the area was still a part of an ongoing homicide investigation. They had hung decorative banners in the style of European heraldry from the galleries with a number of new wards (especially Masumi’s) sown into the material. Each woman carried the important stitches on their new IDs. They had prepared themselves for whatever might come.

  “We’re going to write a story,” Hattie said.

  “About?”

  “A simple fantasy about two women who live together in a peaceful hamlet. They tend their gardens and sell homespun clothes at a nearby village. One is middle aged, the other a young woman. They have in their possession a valuable talisman they have secreted away in a hidden place beneath their kitchen floorboards. One day, they go to the village, leaving the house all alone, and buy a new goat.”

  “That’s the story?”

  “Yes.”

  Masumi obviously thought it sucked. “Valuable talisman?”

  “We need to elaborate on this. The heart of the story, a few pages at most, should detail just what this talisman is.” Hattie had brought a number of iconic fantasy paperbacks with her and spread them out on the table. Masumi had bought them at the Strand. “I’ve done some reading these last few days. We have plenty of precedents to choose from, variations on the magic-wand element in fantasy.”

  Masumi grabbed one and began thumbing through it.

  “We need to do two things,” Hattie said. “One, determine what the object should be and, two, what its function is. We, of course, will bring it back. I’ll sing it into existence. Then I’ll trigger it at the symposium if it’s needed.”

  “Will it work?”

  “We’ll have to test it.”

  “Yes, we will.”

  Hattie knew that Masumi had always argued that some things, by logical default, couldn’t translate; bleedover pushed against the physical laws of this world, but only pushed so far.

  “We need to make it as feasible as possible,” Hattie said, “otherwise, I fear it won’t work. We know that bleedover has provided some people with seemingly miraculous abilities. But, we can’t generate a magic wand that makes us all-knowing and all-powerful. Right?”

  “Then what?”

  “Something more subtle.” Hattie presented a piece of paper with a list of magical items used in a few of the texts she’d read. “We have magical gems, books, clothing, a tree, weapons of all types, a flute and other musical instruments, shoes even. Don’t forget Tolkien’s ring. We also have potions, fruit … ” She grabbed a book. “Here’s a classic: The Elfstones of Shannara.” She pointed to the cover. “See, glowing magic gem. Can’t beat that, right? Well, I want something original. Any ideas?”

  Masumi had already explained that she preferred science fiction to fantasy, although she had read her fair share of the latter through the years (mostly urban fantasy). Sword-and-sorcery and epic fantasy and other similar genres didn’t interest her because they seemed formulaic. Finding the interesting work required dedication (and time) she claimed she didn’t have. Science fiction had the same problems, but she said she was drawn to such material because of her own technical interests. Dragons or rogue AIs? Tolkien or Gibson? Masumi went with the latter every time, even when the genres blurred boundaries.

  Hattie couldn’t use a science fiction story because it would require too much bleedover that might conflict with what was actually possible. Imagine writing a story about time travel or anti-grav devices or FTL drives. Hattie almost wanted to suggest it, just to run a test. But that would have to wait. Still, if they were to use fantasy, they might as well be original.

  “What do you want the talisman to do?” Masumi asked.

  “I’m not concerned about wards. We have those functioning well. What I want is something—”

  “Aggressive?”

  “Why not think of it as proactive?”

  Hattie had thought about this, but still felt conflicted. If Corbin planned to finish what he started at the symposium, she needed more than a defensive strategy. But she couldn’t summon a fire-breathing dragon. For one, that was clichéd. Worse, it might burn down the building. Then what?

  “We don’t know the extent of our potential until we test this,” Masumi said.

  “Right.”

  “We need to get started.”

  “Exactly.”

  “When?” Masumi asked.

  “We write and read, then go tomorrow.”

  “Together?”

  “Why not?”

  Hattie let Masumi look through the books while she reviewed her notes. Everything Hattie scribbled sounded more contrived than the last. She realized her sense of how to construct a fantasy character was no more sophisticated than a teenager’s. This conflict with Corbin had begun with an argument by her that strong female characters were important, timely, and overdue. She guessed that he would finally try to prove her wrong on a number of parallel lines. She just wasn’t sure how, exactly.

  “I’ve got it,” Masumi said. “It’s original. You’ll love it.”

  They spent the next two hours writing a short story that had no major conflict. It was an expository piece that provided way too much detail and too little drama. After they finished, they printed two copies (about twelve double-spaced pages each).

  “Is this actually going to work?” Masumi asked. “We have to read this over and over again? How many times?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “God,” she muttered and started reading. “Do we need a title?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A few hours later, Masumi groaned. “I’m exhausted.”

  “Don’t stop.”

  “I can practically tell you word for word.”

  Hattie looked up from her copy. “True.”

  “Let’s try it.”

  They both hurried to her office, removed the books, moved aside the case, then walked into the corridor together. They knew that nearly the entire story took place in a kitchen. The owners of the small cottage would be gone. They had written it taking place on a nice, bright summer morning. No one would be home. They had only one possible place to transition. Whether they would do so together or in separate narratives, they weren’t sure.

  Both of them clutched their stories to their chests.

  Hattie reached out in the dark and grasped the handle in the far door. If it remained locked …

  She turned the handle, the door cracked, and the light came.

  Both women stood in a simple pre-modern kitchen.

  They had described it fully, but neither could quite focus on the details, not after the fact that they both had arrived together. They hugged and jumped up and down and hushed each other (as if someone might hear them, except they had written no one else into the story). The transition effects took a few minutes to pass before they had complete control of their senses.

  The tiny kitchen was made of logs plastered with white stucco. A few small windows with open shutters allowed in sunlight. Masumi stuck her head out of one and smelled the fresh summer seed (something she had written in). Tall grasses swayed in the wind, and the sound from a stream gurgled nearby. The horizon was filled with lightly forested hills. A path led away to a village a few miles distant.

  The room held a small table w
ith two chairs, a pantry with fruits and vegetables. Some pots and pans hung from the ceiling. A stone fire pit in the corner with a flue in the ceiling still had burning coals from the morning meal. Both of them looked around, marveling at standing in their own creation. They understood the potential of what they had done. Neither could account for the ultimate reasons it worked, only that they both stood in a world of their own making.

  Hattie saw the clapboard they had described as “nicked on the corner.” She pried it open easily and revealed the dark space beneath. She reached inside and withdrew a piece of embroidered linen wrapped around a plastic sixty-minute cooking timer.

  “Looks real enough,” Hattie said and gently handed it to Masumi.

  “Like it came from a CVS.”

  “Out of place. Modern. An unassuming talisman. Let’s go.”

  The faint outline of the portal floated just off center in the room.

  Both walked through together and returned to the corridor, clutching the crumpled printouts of their stories.

  The return transition was much milder this time, the rush passing in seconds. Still, Hattie had to right herself by grabbing onto Masumi, whose eyes were closed. Waves of neurocharms filled their brains. The adrenaline crash came next, which caused both of them to stumble out of the hallway. Masumi nearly tripped over the books on the floor, as she cascaded into a chair.

  “That’s so fucking amazing,” she mumbled, more about the transition crossover than the journey. “I must be losing my mind.”

  Hattie forced her eyes to focus on the loose leafs. She found the interpolation on page three. A few simple words: Call the red goddess in thirty seconds.

  The interpolation resonated. Hattie had written into the story the function of the talisman. And the interpolation captured its meaning perfectly. She needed to rest. Then, tomorrow she would stitch together the entire incantation and start practicing. Then, she’d incant it in the atrium. Then, Hattie would turn the dial, and in thirty seconds see her creation come to life.

  * * *

  Hattie watched as the last speaker finished, a woman who’d argued that the N.P.B. was nothing but a new way technoscience mediates our lives. This woman was an expert in the sociology of knowledge who deftly sidestepped both Stephan’s Hoax Thesis and Hattie’s own Culture Science Thesis. Nothing the woman said was wrong, actually, just not correct enough.

  Stephan gave the nod. All questions were being held until after.

  Hattie tapped her mic and heard a light squawk.

  “Hello, and thank you for coming. My name is Harriet Sterling. I believe the N.P.B. is as real as electromagnetism.” The crowd hushed. “My demonstration several weeks ago was proof—” a few disruptions from the audience. She waited until they quieted. “—proof that my theories are correct.” Actual booing from some, punctuated by hushing. “There is information in media interpolations; the trick is knowing how to read it. Let me recap the major events leading up to the demonstration.”

  She stepped back a few months, even before Towns arrived, and detailed her work in the studio attempting to generate an F.G.O. Of course, she left out the details (which weren’t that secret; the university owned all the data generated by her studio, even if they couldn’t yet reproduce it). She kept her language technical and professional, avoiding any colloquialisms about spinning, locating, reading, writing, stitching, etc. She also didn’t mention the portal or the new possibilities transitioning had provided. Her Society? She also failed to mention that.

  “Riodola is on the cusp of ushering in a new science, a ‘culture science,’ one that not only stands on the shoulders of its predecessors but may leap into the air at times. If I’m correct, and I believe I am, our very notion of reality and nature will be rewritten.”

  Not a word from the audience; even the naysayers had quieted, cowed by her inexorable self-assurance.

  Stephan managed a collegial “thanks,” then quickly began his introduction of Corbin Lyell. “To finish our panel, please welcome the owner of Lyell Publishing and Hexcom United.” The crowd halfheartedly clapped, although there was a cheer or two. “Mr. Lyell will be presenting ideas from his paper: ‘The Hyborian Age and our Pleistocene Past.’”

  Corbin remained seated, as had all the panel members.

  He saw Siegen in the audience, who gave him a thumbs-up (meaning all was well behind the curtain with the container). The clasps had been unlocked. Siegen had been instructed to make sure the lid would open when pressed from the inside. All Corbin needed to do was flip a switch and hit a button; then a mechanism in the box would trigger a needle with a fast-acting chemical agent to neutralize the barbarian’s sedative.

  He kept one hand in his pocket, fingering the radio-controlled device.

  From memory, Corbin leaned into the mic on the table and spoke of a time between the fall of Atlantis and the rise of later civilization. He spoke slowly, letting the famous cities flow off his tongue: “Nemedia, Ophir, Brythunia, Hyperborea, Zamora, Zingara, Koth, Shem, Stygia, Hyrkania, Aquilonia.” The crowd heard how the character Conan, who would stomp through the pulps, strode forward to conquer the world. Corbin ended with, “Fact or Fiction, these immortal lines from Howard’s supposed Nimedian Chronicles?”

  He looked over his notes, scanning his prepared remarks.

  “In Cross Plains, Texas, in the mid thirties of the twentieth century, Robert E. Howard wrote a series of stories about the Hyborian Age. The text I just quoted can be found opening his short story ‘The Phoenix on the Sword.’ Modern archaeologists, historians, biologists—well, the entire academy—deny such an age ever existed outside the covers of paperbacks and comic books. My contention is that they’re wrong. The Hyborian Age did exist …”

  A few chuckles from the audience demonstrated that more skeptics listened than true believers. The university had feared he might attract the UFO/Atlantis/Big Foot people. He knew Hattie had warned them he just might. However, he encouraged the chuckles.

  “I know, I know. Impossible, you’re thinking. Anyone who has studied a map of Howard’s exotic pre-historic world—” He waved his hand to the tech guys, and a map appeared on screens hanging from the ceiling on both sides of the stage. “As you can see it bears a sharp resemblance to a continent wherein Europe and Africa have melded. The Mediterranean doesn’t exist, while the West and the East, comprised of Asia and the sub-continent of India and Indonesia, are separated by a massive inland sea.”

  He had the crowd’s attention, even the august scholars who had little time for such outlandish ideas. Even Hattie craned her neck to see.

  Corbin continued. “Notice also what appears to be, according to some traditional Howard scholars, a heavy-handed use of real place names, only slightly altered. My favorite: Iranistan, what appears to be a blatant use of the name, newly given in 1935, to the ancient area known as Persia. We have Vendhya, here in the place of India. The land of Shem is named after one of the sons of Noah, and is clearly modeled on Semitic peoples. There’s Corinthia, Kush, Darfar. And, for any of you who care to investigate, these similar place names represent regions Howard described in a similar fashion to the originals. For all intents and purposes, we are led to believe he created a hodgepodge, mythological realm from his shallow and stereotypical understanding of the world as he knew it. That’s what any serious thinker of popular culture would have you believe, like Dr. Sterling here.” He signaled to remove the map. “I have another proposition.”

  Hattie listened right next to Corbin as he detailed his troubling thesis, one that had begun decades ago. He had never backed away from it. Instead, he had refined the ideas, using both modern science and outrageous mysticism to back his claims. She let his words skirt over her consciousness as she prepared herself for the inevitable, no longer hoping he would relent.

  “In a famous letter,” Corbin said, “Howard originally wrote that Conan ‘was as real as spit.’” There, he’s done it, Hattie thought, the worst form of academic chicanery: a blatant quote mine
pulled out of context to support his idea that Conan visited Howard and dictated the chronicles of his adventures. “And while Howard admits that he evolved his character from a conglomerate of men he knew, I think Howard was simply fudging the truth.” She realized Corbin had covered his tracks. She had hoped to interrupt him with a question about his misuse of Howard’s quote, but since he admitted it stated the character was a fiction, she held her tongue. “Conan really did speak over Howard’s shoulder, whispering the stories, and we have an interpolation to prove it.”

  While Hattie stewed, trying to retain her equanimity, Masumi watched in anticipation, knowing the time was near. She sat in the back, as instructed, her digital camera at the ready. Both Dr. Sterling and her enemy seemed cordial enough, even though he was a windbag. The crowd seemed to be entertained by his horseshit.

  Masumi almost forgot about what was to come as he argued for a pre-historic human past in which vast civilizations existed in a European-African-Asian uni-continent. First, she knew that no matter what sort of cataclysm may have happened, some proof of those civilizations would have been found. Some. Second, it was horseshit. Masumi had a real second point but forgot it as she saw Dr. Sterling withdraw the kitchen timer and set it on the table in front of her.

  * * *

  Corbin Lyell spotted the device and only skipped a half-beat before continuing. He tried not to look unsettled, but the sight of that small, white plastic timer unnerved him enough that he stumbled a few times, completely forgetting what to say. He recovered by jumping directly into a slideshow of visual representations of Howard’s most famous character, Conan the Barbarian.

  Corbin hadn’t spent much time around academics since his undergraduate days. In fact, he had forgotten how offended they could become. The first image showed the bare-chested barbarian carrying a scantily clad female on one shoulder while fighting off a horde of demons with a sword. A few laughs from the crowd, even a few hisses.

  He noticed someone walk out when he displayed Conan in a pit battling three dark-skinned savages. He realized his mistake in saying “savages” and backtracked, pointing out that Conan himself was the quintessential savage.