Schrödinger's Ball

by Adam Felber

  Australia was nothing but Bushmen, as far as the eye could see. They had cities and steam-powered cars, and things were just fine until 1520, when they went to war with Africa and lost it all. You just can’t fight the aliens. You can trick them, but you can’t fight them, not even using songs as a weapon, like they did. The Australian Empire learned that the hard way.

  Okay, that’s all for tonight. Gotta stretch the legs—morning’s coming.

  When you can’t sleep but you’re not supposed to be sleeping, does it count as insomnia or not? The President of Montana was pretty sure it didn’t, so he was kind of glad that there was something happening that kept him from not sleeping.

  “What’s the four-one-one, Murph?” asked the President, tying his Best Western bathrobe closed. The night air had a chill, but the gravel was warm under his bare feet. The President of Montana really liked asking what the four-one-one was.

  “I’d say about ten cars in all, mostly from the County,” said Murphy, who’d made an admirable transition from farmer to Secretary of Agriculture, the President thought. “They’ve sealed off the border.”

  “You mean the driveway?”

  “Yeah.” Murph was leaning on his shotgun, staring a hundred yards ahead at the assemblage of police cars down at the gate, lights awhirl. The President was alarmed to note that all the visible police had their guns out. Then he looked around and saw why.

  “Murph, I don’t want anything happening before we’re ready for it. Tell the men to put the guns down for now.”

  Murph looked uncomfortable. “I … don’t think I can do that, Ear—… Mr. President.”

  “Why the hell not, Murph?”

  “Dix said we—”

  “Well, Dix’s not the President, is he? And the President of this free nation is ordering you to—WHAT?”

  “War Powers Act, sir. We got copies of it today.”

  Murph handed the President of Montana a neatly folded piece of paper, obviously made on the President’s own computer while the President wasn’t in. The President read it, feeling a rush of cold blood around the sides of his head.

  “What the hell? No one authorized this! The Council never voted on it!”

  “It’s not my place to argue about that, sir….”

  “You’re on the Council, Murph.”

  “Yeah, I know … but Dix said—”

  “Whatever Dix said, he’s makin’ it up! I said stand down, Murph!” The President was suddenly using his very best Voice of Command. Murph didn’t even twitch.

  Just like that, it was over. If the President of Montana (Deposed) had been a less perceptive man, he might have needed more evidence. But he saw the whole thing—he’d played right into Dix’s hand by declaring war. And now the men were scared. And Dix owned their fear.

  Dix, who had supported him all these years. Dix, who’d been there from the first meeting of the Montana Free Militia. Dix, who right now was staring at him across the lawn, with nothing on his face that the President even faintly recognized. Boone was approaching from there, looking uncomfortable even for Boone.

  “M-M-Mr. P-p-p-president, D-d-d-dix says you gotta get your g-g-g-g-gun, sir. Th-th-then he wants to s-s-s-see you….”

  “Well, you tell Dix I’m not sure I want to get my gun, Boone.”

  Boone’s face became what the P. of M. (D) was pretty sure was called a “rictus.”

  “N-n-n-not a good idea, sir… Th-th-th-that’s what B-b-bobby tried to d-d-do b-b-before.” Boone motioned with his head over toward the side of the house.

  There, in the deeper shadows of the field, lay what might have been a sack of corn but probably, almost definitely, wasn’t. The President maintained his outward composure but felt his insides turn into a warm, gooey liquid. Saying nothing, he turned slowly and walked as steadily as possible across the grass and toward the door. Though he’d been “ordered” to get his gun, he had a pretty good idea of what would happen if he approached Dix while carrying it. He was briefly impressed with Dix for thinking that one through. It was a perfect, if brutally simple, plan.

  Perfect, that is, except that the plan involved taking over a three-hundred-acre Republic that was currently at war with and surrounded by a hostile superpower while deposing and executing the nation’s only capable negotiator. The President began to think furiously as he walked, though for some reason he felt strangely lighter and easier than he had in years.

  One shouldn’t worry about appearing sexy when one is in mourning, thinks Arlene. But here she is worrying about it.

  They’re in Johnny’s den, listening to a Stevie Wonder album from three decades ago. Johnny’s completely wrapped up in the music, eyes closed, smiling mouth agape, like he’s doing a bad Stevie impression. And Arlene doesn’t really want any sexual attention from Grant, not really. So there’s no reason why she should feel this way.

  The reason, she realizes, is sitting right next to her, snuggled into an ancient beanbag chair, talking animatedly with Grant, and being toxically attractive. Willing herself not to compare, Arlene compares. She and Deb are basically wearing the same outfit: big T-shirts (hers reading “Tufts” and Deb’s bearing a cuddly mascot of some sort—beer mascot, maybe), and soft cotton sweat-shorts. They have similar body types, at least on the face of it. But Arlene can’t avoid noticing that Deb’s outfit looks all slumber-party-esque, whereas her own looks like … like laundry day personified. Arlene’s breasts kind of slump around in the T-shirt; Deb’s swell against the fabric. When uncrossing a leg, Arlene’s hated thighs are momentarily exposed; Deb’s tanned limbs are revealed.

  Arlene knows that this is partly or mostly a matter of perception and distorted body image (for which she astutely blames society, her parents, and her own damn self), but the knowledge doesn’t help. She’s angry at herself for being jealous of her friend, angry at herself for forgetting Furble so easily, and momentarily annoyed that the situation prevents her from rushing off and writing this all down for future use.

  What’s more, Deb’s talking about some idiotic computer game, which Grant is also really into. So much so that he’s forgotten to drool and stammer, which is his usual method of impressing Deb. Oof, that’s harsh, thinks Arlene, and she’s mad at herself for thinking it.

  Stevie’s masterpiece has ended, appropriately, with “Evil” (“Why do you infest our purest thoughts, with hatred?” Double oof), and Johnny is up on his feet, feeling the wall, leaving the room. He passes the basement door and begins to stagger a little, like he’s going to fall over, but then he shakes his head and walks on out of the room. They all stare after him.

  “I got it,” says Arlene, barely acknowledging the grateful murmurs from Grant and Deb. She’s aware of her breasts bobbling awkwardly as she clambers to her feet. Next time, she thinks at them as she pursues the vanishing Johnny, you might try swaying or bouncing, for God’s sakes. Would it kill you to bounce once in a while?

  At 3 A.M., our doorbell rings. Dr. Schrödinger, we’re pretty sure, is already inside. Sensing an emergency, we go to investigate.

  Before we’re halfway down the hall, we hear Dr. Schrödinger’s voice, pleasant and ingratiating. We hear phrases only: “… no trouble at all … just doing some reading … Like a drink? … Glad you came by, really …” With growing horror, we peer around the corner.

  Impossibly enough, it’s a woman. Well, a girl. The dull girl from the ice-cream shop! The one we’d thought was so bored by the good doctor, who, by the way, has now noticed us and is inviting us to join them.

  “This is Dori, and she’s come over to finish our talk about fluid dynamics and such,” he says, a maddeningly proud smile frozen on his face. “Her shift ended late tonight, and cleanup was, in her words, ‘brutal.’”

  “Brutal,” agrees the girl. We’re convinced she has no idea what the doctor is talking about, and we can’t fathom what would bring her here.

  “We were turning our attention to more complex interactions,” says Dr. Schrödinger.

&nbs
p; “Like how Joukowski’s circle inversion in the complex number plane to study airfoil shapes is rendered less useful in an environment of shifting fluids of varying densities,” babbles the girl idiotically.

  “Would you care to join us?” invites the doctor. Naturally, we demur: a busy day tomorrow, etc. No, we assure them, you won’t keep us up. Good night, we bid them, good night, trying to ignore the agitated yowls and scrabblings of the mysterious Werner (where is he?).

  As we retreat to our quarters, we hear that increasingly grating voice drone on: “… a sort of random turbulence of molecules rather than the orderly positioning found in solids. Note I say ‘sort of’ random, because there is now reason to doubt that assumption, or at least to better understand and imitate that particular kind of randomness….”

  She can’t be genuinely interested in the doctor’s prattlings, we tell ourselves. But the alternative’s too horrible to contemplate. If Dr. Schrödinger is actually capable of getting laid, we think grimly, we may not get to kill him; we’ll be far too busy killing ourselves.

  Grant was beside himself. He felt like he was literally beside himself, cheering himself on, rooting hard for Team Grant as it struggled to gain, entertain, and sometimes just plain keep up with Deb.

  She’d taken his recommendation, and she’d gotten way into “God Almighty,” a world sim that had been occupying an embarrassingly large chunk of Grant’s time. Not only was she into it, but for a novice she had some surprisingly good insights into the game. Grant’s mind boggled: He’d thought that his fascination with these games was a pathetic sublimation of his sexual impulses disguised as a hobby. Having the object of his real-life desires involved in his sublimated-desire activity—it was great but seemed somehow wrong, like they should explode or something when they came in contact with each other, sort of a matter/antimatter thing. Or maybe his head was supposed to explode. He wasn’t sure. He was sure that he had to stop wandering around in his own head and pay attention to his mouth, which was talking about “God Almighty” on autopilot.

  “… Good, well, it sounds like your planet’s pretty much running right.”

  “After all those days of work, it oughta be,” said Deb, idly pulling one strand of hair down over her forehead and staring at the ends. This should have looked ridiculous. It didn’t.

  “And your intelligent creatures—”

  “Jehosaphats,” corrected Deb. “They travel by jumping.”

  Grant grinned. “Naturally. Have they discovered space travel yet?”

  “Oh yeah—they’ve colonized like their whole solar system. They are stylin’.”

  “Well, then, you gotta go online.”

  “Why I gotta?”

  “Well, that’s the point. Once they can travel, you go online and start communicating with other people who have the game. Then you can have your Jehosaphats meet other races, trade with ’em—”

  “Kill them? Mate with them?”

  “Whatever.”

  “That is too cool!” Deb was ebullient, beaming, poking Grant’s side with conspiratorial excitement. Grant was pretty sure he’d have tiny burns wherever her fingers touched.

  She sat up again, thinking aloud. “I think I’d wanna start slow. Could I somehow go online when you’re on and start trading with you?”

  “I was just going to suggest that,” said Grant, who was so just going to suggest that. “The Jehosaphats will get along pretty damn well with the Labians.”

  “Labians?”

  “They’re like ninety percent lip.”

  Deb’s laugh was music; Grant could have laughed along for an hour. When it stopped, there was a satisfied, smiling silence that was somehow even better. There was definitely a new level of intimacy here—nothing like a romance, he thought, but, still, something new, a little more. And Grant felt assured, even comfortable. Yes, damn comfortable, in fact.

  Deb took a breath and said, “Okay, if the world was going to end tomorrow, and you could sleep with one person tonight, who would it be?”

  ARRROOOOOOOOOOGAH! A thousand different neural pathways lit up at once in Grant’s brain. The instinctual part of his brain told his body to go into full Panic Mode, which it promptly did. Another part of his brain was trying to stop the panic, another was sending an addendum to the face and body that said something like “And Try Not to Look Stupid While We Get This Under Control,” while still another was desperately trying to process what Deb had said and formulate some kind of response. Anything. He couldn’t lie to her—he was simply incapable of that. But he had to say something. Anything. He couldn’t just answer the question; he was … unprepared. And time was ticking, the milliseconds stretching into milliminutes. He replayed her question, found a linguistic loophole, and dove for it:

  “Uh, you mean like … a celebrity?”

  “Yeah. Anyone.”

  “Oh. Hmmmm …” Whooooosh. His heart returned to normal operating parameters. It was going to be okay—this was just one of those games. Dealable.

  “Okay, how’s the world gonna end?”

  “Grant, don’t stall.”

  “No, I’m serious. It makes a difference.”

  “How?”

  “For example, Christina Aguilera might be pretty high up on my list, right? Calm down—I said might, okay? Hypothetical. But if the world were going to end slowly, like with explosions, I don’t want her there with me in the morning.”

  “She’d freak.”

  “Right, it’d be a nightmare—lots of screaming and crying and shit. It’d suck. Now, Macy Gray? Not so high on my list in the first-look category. But if it’s gonna be a long thing, I’d want her there.”

  “She’s so …”

  “I just think she’d be a pretty cool chick to watch an apocalypse with, that’s all.”

  Deb thinks about this, a smile creeping across her face. Strange kind of smile.

  “What?” Grant asked.

  “It’s great. Even in a total no-strings-attached sexual fantasy, you find a way to make it into a relationship.”

  “Well, it’s a short relationship. Just the morning after, really.”

  “No, don’t be like that. Your answer’s great. It’s just … really, really sweet.”

  Wow. Grant actually blushed, so he pretended to pretend to blush: “Aw, stop it—”

  “Who’s a sweetie-weetie, who is?” Deb was pinching his face and making a baby voice. Grant was laughing and pretending to try to get away. Grant knew this was one of those moments that Regular Guys turn into Sexual Situations. It shouldn’t be so hard, the Regular Guy in Grant’s head argued, considering the lateness of the hour and the state of undress and the physical contact…. Grant began to plan how he might go about “making it happen.” He’d narrowed it down to four or five possibilities by the time Deb stopped, sighed happily, and sank back down into her beanbag with a sound of finality and repose.

  The Regular Guy in Grant’s head slapped his forehead in disgust, turned out the light, and went to sleep.

  It’s ten minutes later, and the President of Montana (Deposed) is packing his bags in darkness as the First Lady of Montana (also Deposed, one would assume, albeit indirectly) sits cross-legged on their bed, an uncharacteristically girlish pose that some women (the PoM[D] thanks God for this frequently) never grow out of.

  They’re talking.

  “You know, maybe if you just explain to Deke how—”

  “It ain’t up to Deke anymore, honey. You know that.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s true. You’d be in the clink till you’re ninety. Federal prison too …”

  “Mixing with the best and the brightest. Probably end up calling me ‘Pops.’”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Earl; you’re still pretty cute. Some seven-foot-tall mass murderer would snap you up in no time. Would that count as infidelity, I wonder? Well, I forgive you in advance. Ya do what you have to….”

  “Funny. That doesn’t help, you know.”

  “You’re smiling….�
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  “Reflex, darling, just reflex. I got any more socks?”

  “Bottom drawer there. I can’t believe it’s come down to this. No way Dix can run all of it.”

  “I don’t think he wants to. I think he wants … this. War. Can you believe that? All these people maybe dying over our overdue tax bill?” Big mistake there. The President freezes as he says it, hoping it’ll pass unnoticed.

  “A-ha!!”

  “Aw, shit.”

  Now they’re both smiling—the President guiltily, his wife triumphantly.

  “I knew it!”

  “No, wait, there’s freedom and liberty, too. The new world order …”

  “Too late, Buster Brown!”

  She’s laughing. The President can’t help himself, grins, feeling lighter by the second.

  “No, really—liberating the people!”

  “Too late, you said it!” She’s laughing.

  “… black helicopters, damnit!”

  Now they’re both convulsing with laughter, conspiratorially, like naughty children. Slightly hysterical, maybe, but it’s worth it.

  It lasts a long time, but not nearly long enough, and it ends suddenly as reality lumbers back into the room. They stare at each other for a while.

  “Aw, Tammy, I’m sorry.”

  “I know, Earl. You let it all run away with you.”

  “Again.”

  “One of the reasons why I love you. You don’t go halfway.”

  “…”

  “But I do wish you didn’t have to escape that way. We might be a little peculiar here, but …”

  “No way that Deke’s gonna be watching the ‘border’ on Jebediah’s side, so I’ll make a start. And who knows? It mighta changed over there.”

  “If you believed that, you’d be taking me with you.”

  That’s true enough to shut them both up. The President of Montana (Deposed) zips up his duffel, looks around the room a few times, makes to move one way or another, but doesn’t go anywhere.

  “I’ll be okay. You just stay down, don’t say much, wait till it all shakes down. Then … you know the places and times, right?”