by Scott Meyer
Over at the table, a new Gwen arrived, sitting calmly across the table from the current Gwen. The new Gwen said, “Hello.”
“Hi,” Gwen replied.
Brit the Younger and Brit the Much Elder noted all of the new arrivals, looked over at the third copy of themselves with the notebook, cameras, and boom box, and leaned back, as if preparing to watch a show.
Martin tried to stand up, but the new Martin poked him in the forehead, throwing off his balance and causing him to fall back into the couch.
“Hey, what the hell, man?!”
“You just stay put, junior,” the new Martin said.
Martin asked, “What do you—”
“Want?” the second Martin asked, finishing his thought for him. “You want to know what we want, Martin? Phillip. We want Phillip.”
Martin glanced at Phillip, who was still seated on the sofa next to him.
“Our Phillip! We want you to let go of the Phillip who’s let himself go!”
From the far corner of the room, Future Phillip shouted, “Thanks for that.”
Gary looked at the floor and whined, “Shoes, guys, you know shoes aren’t allowed in my new place.”
The other Gary said, “It’s cool. I told them I was rescinding that rule.”
“You could have talked to me about it first!”
“That’s what I’m doing right now.”
Gary shook his head. “Wait, what?”
“I know, it’s confusing. Brit had to explain it to me, you see—”
Future Martin shouted, “Garys! Cool it for a second, okay?”
Both Garys fell silent.
Future Martin looked down at Martin and continued. “We want our Phillip back. He’s our friend. You kidnapped him. We’re here to rescue him.”
Future Tyler added, “By force if necessary.”
Future Roy said, “And it will be.”
Martin sputtered, “But, why, if . . . Look, I only took him becau—”
“I know why you took him,” Future Martin said. “I was there. I was you!”
“I just thought—”
“No, you didn’t! You never did! It’s one of the things I dislike most about you.”
“But, I’m—”
“Yes, you’re me. That doesn’t mean I can’t dislike you.”
Future Phillip said, “Quite the opposite.”
Martin said, “I just want him to tell us—”
Future Martin said, “How to fix things. I know, and he’s not going to.”
Martin growled, “Will you please stop—”
“Interrupting you? No. I won’t. Now release our Phillip, or things will turn ugly.”
Martin rolled his eyes. “Look, I’d be happy to! Just tell us—”
“How to fix things? No. We gave you a chance to do this the easy way. Ugliness it shall be!” Future Martin nodded at the Brit with the cameras, who reached down and pressed the play button on the boom box. The future iterations of Martin, Tyler, Jeff, Roy, and Gary all leapt into the air. They floated unnaturally out of the conversation pit, landing back-to-back in a tight cluster, brandishing their staffs and wands, ready to fight. The boom box emitted a sound like a warped recording of a roller-rink organ repeating on a loop. Over that, a female voice with a difficult-to-place accent repeated, “We’re going to dance,” three times before concluding, “and have some fun.”
Martin scrunched his face at the Brit with the boom box. “I think I know that song. Is that ‘Groove Is in the Heart’?” She said nothing, scribbling furiously in her notebook.
The music gave way to a bass guitar and bongo drums.
Martin nodded. “Yeah. Totally. ‘Groove Is in the Heart.’”
The five wizards from the future all tapped their feet or nodded slightly in time with the music. Future Tyler’s staff transformed into a fencing rapier. Future Gary saw this, said, “Oh yeah,” and his own staff became a samurai sword.
Future Tyler muttered, “No originality.”
Future Martin shouted, “One, two, three, four.” Everyone ran forward to attack their earlier iteration.
The current wizards stood, dumbstruck for a moment, then all reacted to the aggression by fleeing. For a moment, Gary’s great room played host to a chaotic scene of people running in every direction, shouting either threats or alarmed cries, over the throbbing bass line and bongo drums being laid down by Deee-Lite.
Martin ran two full laps of the conversation pit, Future Martin hot on his heels.
“We don’t have to fight,” Martin shouted back over his shoulder.
“Yes, we do,” Future Martin said.
“Why?!”
“Because we already did! When we were you, they, you know, them, the other us, leapt straight into fighting and wouldn’t back down no matter what we said. So, now that we’re them, it’s your turn to be us! And brother, it’s gonna suck!”
Martin stopped running laps of the pit, straightened his trajectory, and charted a course along the length of the room. He had to sidestep around Future Tyler, who was standing facing Current Tyler, both holding fencing rapiers. As he juked around behind Future Tyler, Martin heard him saying, “Three. Four. One. Two.”
Martin got into the open, feinted to the left, then lunged right and swung his staff low, hoping to catch his future self in the shins.
Future Martin leapt as gracefully as a hurdler, without the slightest hint of hesitation or surprise, muttering, “Jump. Two. Three.”
Future Martin landed on his feet, performed a well-practiced dive roll, and came up facing Martin. He pointed his staff forward and said, “Mummenschanz alpha,” loudly, following under his breath with, “Two. Three. Four.”
Martin felt a wind stronger than any he’d ever experienced. He leaned far forward, momentarily touching his hands to the floor in front of him. His feet got precious little traction on Gary’s shag carpeting. Martin slid back several feet, struggling to maintain his balance and gain some sort of purchase. He shielded his face with his forearms and managed a couple of steps forward. He looked to the side and saw the two Tylers stepping lightly forward and back with no effort. As Future Tyler deftly brushed off an attack, Martin heard him say, “Parry. Spin. Jump.” The momentum of his sword hand carried him through a quick pirouette on his left foot, then he hopped up onto the end of the table.
“Don’t try it,” he said, looking down at Tyler. “I have the high ground!”
Tyler swung his rapier at Future Tyler’s ankles, but Future Tyler leapt over the blade as casually as a child skipping rope, muttering, “Jump, and three, and four, and one.”
The distraction of watching the Tylers not struggle with the wind caused Martin to lose focus and get blown back several feet. He put his hands down again to stop his slide and looked up, the wind stinging his eyes, at the other Martin, who stood at the far end of the room bobbing his head to the music, looking pleased with himself.
“I decided to build on the mime theme,” the new Martin said, “since you were so happy with your invisible box. I hope you’re enjoying walking into your own private wind. And yes, I know how weird that sounded.”
Grabbing the leg of the oversized table to anchor himself, Martin managed to work his way back up to his feet. Future Tyler leapt off of the tabletop and out of Martin’s field of vision. Martin let go of his staff to free up both of his hands. The staff blew back behind him, then lost all speed before it had traveled a foot, and fell straight down to the floor, where it lay motionless next to the spot where Martin continued struggling with the wind.
He pulled himself, hand over hand, along the side of the table. As he reached the computers, he noted that Gwen was still seated, her hands resting on the table in front of her, talking to Future Gwen.
Gwen asked, “Why
aren’t we—”
Predictably, Future Gwen finished her sentence. “Fighting? Because we didn’t fight to begin with. There’s really no point. In general, I find that women need a reason to fight. Men need a reason not to.”
Martin hunkered down, back on all fours, and made an effort to push himself away from the table into the open to cast some sort of counterspell.
Future Martin said, “Mummenschanz bravo!”
The wind pushing against Martin suddenly stopped. He fell forward, landing primarily on his face, as some unseen force pulled his hands back behind him, preventing them from helping him catch his fall. Because he was tilted forward at such an acute angle, and his hands were drawn behind him, their most natural path was to extend behind and beneath him, passing back between his own legs. The right hand felt drawn to the far wall of the room, away from Future Martin. The left felt less of a pull, but was utterly incapable of straying further than a foot from the right. Whatever was pulling on Martin, it yanked him across the floor like a dog dragging its rear on the carpet, only his position was reversed, with his face scraping against the floor and his rear end sticking up in the air, leading the way.
The pull on Martin’s hands continued, but his feet gained just enough traction to stop moving. Of course, with his hands moving and his feet remaining still, the result was a few seconds spent in an uncomfortable, undignified position. Then his lower body flipped up over his center of gravity and Martin essentially body-slammed himself. He slid on his back, hands first, across the carpet and to the far wall.
Martin lay there for a moment, seeing the room and all of the chaos it held with the sort of clarity a person only experiences when he or she is deeply confused.
He saw Phillip, standing and looking down at Future Phillip. Future Phillip was shaking his head no. It was possible that Phillip had asked him a question, or it was just meant as a general commentary on how things were going.
“Groove Is in the Heart” continued. Lady Miss Kier sang something about her succotash wish, which made as much sense to Martin as anything else that was happening at the moment.
Jeff stood at the far end of the conversation pit. Future Jeff stood nearer, with his back to Martin. Both of them shot powerful-looking beams of light from one of their hands, which met in the middle in a point as bright as a welder’s torch. Future Jeff’s left foot was tapping in time to the music, and he was saying: “Three. Four. Right, two. Three. Four.” As he said right, he extended his right hand and shot some sort of beam, perfectly anticipating and blocking a magical attack from Jeff. The earlier spells dissipated as the new spells gained intensity and created a new bright spot in the space above the conversation pit.
Future Jeff said, “Two. Three. Right,” and shot another beam, which again completely blocked an attempted sneak attack from Jeff.
Martin pressed his feet against the wall and hauled back on his hands with all of his strength. He managed to gain a few feet of clearance between his right hand and the wall. His feet again slipped in the thick carpet, sending him back to the floor. Future Martin remained standing at the far end of the room, smiling like a jackass. Martin struggled upright and managed to take several labored, backward steps away from the wall, his hands held at waist height, pulling against the invisible force drawing them to the wall.
Out of the corner of his eye, Martin caught sight of Brit the Younger and Brit the Much Elder, both of whom had made their way over to where the Brit with the notebook and boom box sat. Good, he thought. Go get her, ladies. She’s clearly in charge. Cut off the head and the body will die.
Brit the Younger said, “You ended up going with background music, eh?”
The Brit with the notebook said, “Yeah. For a big complex thing like this with multiple people, it’s just the easiest way to keep track of the timing. We tried a click track, but the guys kept losing their place.”
Brit the Much Elder said, “Why didn’t you go with a song that’s . . . I don’t know, fightier than ‘Groove Is in the Heart’?”
“I thought about ‘Ballroom Blitz,’ but you need something with a good dance beat, and during rehearsal you hear the song like a thousand times. You need it to be something fun. Also, this song’s the right length.”
Martin labored his way backward across the room, dragging his heavy load of nothing behind him. He looked over his shoulder at Future Martin just in time to watch him spread his arms wide and shout, “Mummenschanz charlie.”
All of the resistance released from Martin’s hands, sending him to the ground with great force. His butt hit the carpet and he rolled onto his back. He would have simply sprawled out on the floor like a rag doll, but his head and neck struck an invisible barrier. Momentum carried his legs back, and for a moment he lay there on the floor, head and legs raised in an undignified crunch, until his legs finally came back down to the ground.
Martin performed another crunch while attempting to lift himself from the ground, rolled to one side, then sprung to his feet. He felt the invisible barrier with his hands. It seemed flat and featureless until his left hand felt a doorknob. Martin smiled, turned the invisible knob, and pushed.
Nothing happened.
Future Martin said, “Try pulling.”
Martin pulled the invisible door open easily. He went through the door, took two steps, and ran into a second door. He found the knob, pulled, and nothing happened.
Future Martin said, “This one you push. Oh, relax, Martin. Someday you’ll find this funny. This day. The one I’m experiencing right now.”
Martin lifted his hands to cast a spell at Future Martin, but stopped short as Gary sprinted between them, an oversized broadsword in his hands. He slowed slightly and raised his sword just in time to block a powerful overhand blow from Future Gary, who had the same sword. As the two blades met, a deafening clang sounded, drowning out the song right as Lady Miss Kier suggested that DJ Soul was both de-lovely and delicious.
Sparks shot from between the blades as they struck. Future Gary continued pressing forward with his blade. Gary held it back with his own, sliding backward under the force of Future Gary’s attack.
“Hard to get traction,” Future Gary said, “with only socks on.”
Gary took two halting steps backward until he ran into the side of the table. They stood there, pressing their swords against each other with all their might. Future Gary mumbled, “Two. Three. Four. Grind. Two. Three.”
Future Gary maintained the forward pressure as he slid his blade along the edge of Gary’s. A shower of sparks cascaded down from the point where the blades met, bouncing off of the table and burning small holes in the carpet.
As soon as their blades were unencumbered, Gary let out a great, inarticulate shout of aggression and took a long, slow, powerful swing at Future Gary’s side.
Future Gary’s sword was there to block almost before Gary started the swing. As the blades struck and a fresh shower of sparks fell, Future Gary let out his own consonant-free shout of rage. He lifted his sword sideways over his head and took three steps back, again passing between the two Martins as Gary shouted and rained down multiple crushing blows with his sword, none of which connected with anything but his enemy’s sword, nor produced anything but noise and sparks.
As another blow came down, Future Gary stepped to the side. Gary’s sword swung through empty space and hit the floor, cutting a large hole in the carpet. He lurched forward, trying to keep his balance. His shout changed from angry to confused, mid-bellow. He spun to defend against any coming attacks from his enemy.
Tyler stepped into view, moving backward, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his fencing rapier a blur, pouring all of his concentration into fighting off Future Tyler’s attacks, and ran into Gary’s back. Future Tyler pursued Tyler, muttering, “Left. Another. Uppercut. Feint right. Lunge.”
Future Gary opened his mouth,
allowing an assortment of vowel sounds mixed with flecks of spittle to come out, and swung his sword as hard as he could at Gary, who barely managed to block it in time.
Tyler cringed at the sparks bouncing off of his head and neck. “Gary, trust you to rob swordplay of all its style.”
“What do you mean?” Gary asked between blocking blows. “This has tons of style.”
“It’s brutish.”
“Brutishness is a style. It’s better than tap dancing around, tapping your swords together like fancy lads.”
“That’s not what we’re doing.”
Future Tyler stepped back, stood up straight, swished his sword through the air several times in a figure-eight pattern, and shouted, “En garde!”
Gary said, “Whatever. I just hope you’ve studied your Agrippa.”
Martin turned to Future Martin, and instead of casting a spell, he simply said, “This is—”
“Pointless?” Future Martin interrupted. “Not entirely. Yes, the fight is completely futile and meaningless, but it does keep you all busy while that happens.” Future Martin pointed toward the computers.
At first, Martin thought he was pointing out Roy, who had worked his way into the back corner behind the table, attempting to punch his future doppelganger in the face, a pair of magical glowing brass knuckles on his hand. None of his punches landed, as Future Roy kept deftly stepping out of the way in an overly graceful, dance-like step, sarcastically counting to four in time with the music.
Martin got so carried away watching the Roys that he nearly didn’t notice yet another Brit materialize in front of the computers. He looked over by the boom box, and saw Brit the Younger and Brit the Much Elder both still asking the note-taking future Brit questions. Brit the Elder remained floating in the air, immobile, and disturbingly glitched out.
The new Brit looked profoundly tired. She glanced around the room, shook her head in dismissive disgust, and sat down at one of the computers. Both Gwens watched as she plugged a flash drive into the computer’s front and started manipulating the mouse.