by Ira Nayman
We tried to find somebody who had vacationed on Earth Prime 4-6-3-0-2-9 dash omicron to ask them how they had enjoyed the experience, but so far there have been no survivors.
“That’s the extreme part,” Ogier quietly pointed out. “It’s prominently displayed in all of our brochures and radio advertising!”
Master Sleep Sub-Commander Rapier impatiently cleared her throat. Begbie looked up to see that she and Bowens were watching him expectantly. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
“Why do you have that on your wall?” Bowens asked.
“To remind me of what we’re fighting for,” Master Sleep Sub-Commander Rapier told him. “To keep ferking extreme tourists off our pla –”
Just then, a little red-haired girl ran into the room, screaming. Before anybody had time to react, two little brown-haired boys, one with a round head and one with a square head, ran in after her. They were brandishing flashlights like guns and shouting, “Pew pew! Pew pew pew!”
“STOP!” Master Sleep Sub-Commander Rapier shouted.
“I nailed the zombie right in the head!” the square-headed boy exulted.
“It wasn’t a zombie, it was a robot!” the round-headed boy countered. “And, I killed it by shooting it right in its power storage unit! Pew pew p –”
“Charles! Linus! I said: ENOUGH!” Master Sleep Sub-Commander Rapier shouted even louder. The children stopped running around the room and gave her their attention. “Go play in the hydroponic garden!”
“Ferk you,” the square-headed boy blurted. “You’re not my mother!”
“No,” Master Sleep Sub-Commander Rapier allowed, “I’m not. Your mother died in the battle of the Yonge and Eglinton Tim Hortons. So, that makes me the closest thing to a mother that you’ve got. So, I say, either go play in the hydroponic garden or lose your chocolate rations. It’s up to you.”
The boys looked defiant…for a second. Then, they dropped their heads and agreed. They slowly shuffled out of the room, the little red-haired girl following. “How come I always play the bad guy?” she asked. “How come I never get to play a human defender of Earth?”
“We’ll talk about it later,” the square-headed boy said.
“There goes the hope of the future,” Master Sleep Sub-Commander Rapier quietly commented.
“We’re doomed,” PFC Escudot stated.
“Okay, then,” Master Sleep Sub-Commander Rapier said in her best ‘take charge’ voice. “An object appeared two days ago in the rubble about a mile from here. It could be the object you’re looking for.” She led them back to the side of the room on which they entered and, yes, pointed at a computer screen. “Is that it?”
In a crater next to the burnt out remains of a Blockbuster video store (You still have those? Begbie thought. How primitive is this universe?) was a shimmering sphere of colour, inside of which a faux wood-grain cabinet could just be made out. “Yeah,” Bowens said, “That’s a Home Universe GeneratorTM. No way of knowing if it is real or fake until we can see if it has a serial number. Either way, we need to take it back to Earth Prime.”
“Easier said than done,” Master Sleep Sub-Commander Rapier commented. She explained that the robots had put a force field around the object to make sure it didn’t fall into the hands of the humans. Then, the aliens put a force field around the first force field to make sure that the object didn’t fall into the hands of the robots.
“How dangerous are the force fields?” Begbie asked, in a tone of voice which suggested that he would be happy to rip them apart with his teeth.
“Watch this,” Master Sleep Sub-Commander Rapier advised. About fifty feet from the Home Universe GeneratorTM, a zombie shambled into view. It had once been a woman, or a very out of shape man. It had no arms, but it swayed back and forth as it shambled. They watched as it inched its way forward. A few minutes later, with the zombie about fifty less one and a quarter feet away from the Home Universe GeneratorTM, Bowens turned to Master Sleep Sub-Commander Rapier and said, “We also need to know who brought it here and why. Is there any way that you can help with that?”
“We have an alien in custody,” she answered. “You could ask him if his race has anything to do with your misplaced technology.” Bowens momentarily looked at the screen on which the shuffling zombie made metaphoric downloads with a low speed package from an ISP look lightning fast, then agreed.
Master Sleep Sub-Commander Rapier summoned a pleasant young man. In another reality, another Noomi Rapier would kill another version of this man with a chopstick. In this reality, however, Bedheads (followers of the Nordlinger Caliphate) and Floatheads (members of the Most Holy Church of the Big Floating Heads) set aside their religious differences in order to fight for the greater good.
“Whenever I feel like slapping a Floathead silly – which is about every three and half minutes,” Master Sleep Sub-Commander Rapier commented, “I remind myself that after the aliens wiped out most of civilization – and France – my grandmother tried to eat my brains. There’s nothing like your grandmother repeatedly poking your scalp with a teaspoon to make you assess your religious priorities!”
Without acknowledging this outburst from his commanding officer, the pleasant young man led the two Transdimensional Authority investigators down further flights of stairs and across additional tunnels until they came to a corridor full of crevices cut out of rock that had thick plastic doors installed in front of them. The pleasant young man handed them off to three men in uniform. Three very familiar men in uniform.
“Oh, my fractiousness, it’s him!” Smikk exclaimed.
“You mean, them?” Smekk contradicted.
“It’s who?” Smukk questioned.
“The Prophecy!”
“The Prophecy!”
“The Prophecy?”
“I’m sorry, but what are you talking about?” Bowens asked.
“The Prophecy!” Smikk replied. “You know, The…The Prophecy! ‘And, lo, a larger than average person of a gender that cannot be properly determined at this time but that we highly expect to be a man will appear and shall whippeth the asses of those who doth daredth whippeth our asses!”
“You slipped into a little Old English there…” Bowens commented.
“Oral tradition,” Smikk shrugged. “It’s full of awkward elocutions.”
“Very poetic,” Smekk grunted, “except The Prophecy doesn’t say any such thing. According to The Prophecy – The One True Prophecy, mind, not The Prophecy for Simple-minded Cretins – ‘And a bevy, a bevy bordering on a host, a host-bordering bevy sidling up to but not necessary reaching a veritable slew of bad things shall lay waste to the land. But, lo, verily, in truth, no word of a lie or an alien death ray shall strike me down as I speak, a traditional comedy duo, a comedy duo numbering two, a pair being the number of the comedy duo, will appear to dispel the gloom and bring human dominion back to the Earth by…yeah, okay, by whippething asses.’ Now, THAT, my friend, that is a Prophecy!”
Smukk snorted. All eyes turned towards him. “I…” he hesitated, “I’d rather not get into it.”
Smekk rolled his eyes. Smikk shrugged in Smukk’s direction, as if to say, “What the hey, dude? If you’re gonna snort at our version of The Prophecy, you gotta supply us with one that is at least as compelling. Fair’s fair.”
In the end, Smukk mumbled, “Dancing bears.”
“What was that?” Smikk asked.
“Excuse me?” Smekk asked at the same time.
“And, a beam of light shall open up,” Smukk intoned. “And, lo, a troupe of dancing bears numbering no less than five (5) and no more than eleven (11) shall sing, dance, caper, mum, mime, mince and etc. into the world in order to save it. And the people shall rejoice and rise up against the invaders on unicycles.”
Everybody looked at Smukk in disbelief.
“I could go on,” he pointed out.
Smekk shook his head sadly. “He’s from Texas,” Smikk said, as if that explained everything.
5. “It can’t get a
ny worse.”
“That…that…that be not right!” the lad shouts, gasping as he runs.
“Waddyamean?” Granpa responds. He had learned that the best way to communicate while running was to get the words out very quickly.
“Subjects…of…the Prophecy…don’t…don’t…don’t…” he waits until they run around a still standing half wall and huddle on their knees in back of it. Behind them, half a dozen robots of various shapes, sizes and attitudes towards gay marriage, gaze at the shopping cart, poking at the plastic bags contained within. Looking for batteries, no doubt.
“Subjects of the…the Prophecy’re not…not supposed to…know about…the it!” the lad breathes heavily.
“Why not?” Granpa asks, ignoring the loud machine noises that are coming from the direction of the shopping cart.
“What if…what iffen they don’t wanna…be part of it?”
“Does it matter? The clowns didn’t get it right, nowise.”
“That’s worse! If they take the false Prophecy to heart, they could do the wrong things and mess up the one true Prophecy! The real one true Prophecy, I mean.”
They stop while the gentle pew pew pew of laser fire can be heard coming from where they had abandoned the shopping cart.
“Dancin’ bears?” Granpa asked, incredulous. “People risin’ up on unicycles? I reckon it sounds so ridiculous that it turned the men away from the whole idea of Prophecyin’.”
“Like the pickle?”
The old man’s face darkens. “The pickle is an integral element of the overall vision o’ peace comin’ to the world,” he insists. “And, it’s symbolic.” He sticks his head around the wall and, seeing that the coast is clear, stands up. “Come on,” he says, walking away from the wall. As they gently step over the charred remains of the mechanical creatures and regain their shopping cart, the lad wonders how he can get out of hearing the rest of the story. For the briefest moment, he envies the dead robots…
6. Spaced Invader
Behind the screen sat a six foot tall multicoloured squarish blob of gelatin wearing a smart pinstripe suit that seemed to be made out of metal. Eyes sat on gelatinous stalks that poked out of the top of its body.
“Can we communicate with it?” Bowens asked.
“Oh, it talks,” Smikk informed him.
“We have no idea how,” Smekk stated. “Something to do with vibrating its whole body to create sound waves. But, uhh, other than that, we have no idea.”
“When it gets to talking,” Smukk confided, “it makes me hungry for dessert!”
“I gotta warn you, though, it speaks very slowly,” Smikk warned them.
“Something about our atmosphere slows its thought processes,” Smekk added.
“Like my cousin Guido,” Smukk commented. “Only with a little more hair.” Smikk and Smekk looked at Smukk sharply. Bowens got the sense that it wasn’t for the first time.
“I
can
hear
you,
you
know,” a whispering, rustling sound could be heard. A whustling.
“Yeah,” Smikk said. “Like that.”
Blabber Begbie stepped up to the plastic doorway. “I’m here to ask you a few questions about a piece of technology – a Home Universe GeneratorTM, to be precise – that shouldn’t be here.”
The parts of the alien that were exposed showed the flashing of electrical impulses under the surface. Eventually, it whustled:
“You
have
no–”
“Beauty?” Begbie, a little impatient, suggested. “Because, that’s not what my girlfriend tells me.”
“right–”
“To party? I think the Beastie Boys would disagree.”
“to–”
“A two bedroom condo, a private jet and 23 mistresses?”
“hold–”
“Your hand? This time, the Beatles would disapprove,” Barack Bowens suggested. Begbie gave him a dirty look. “What? You’re the only one who can make classical music references?”
“me.”
“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, my friend,” Begbie, turning his attention back to the alien, said, not at all friendly. “According to the Treaty of Gehenna-Wentworth, anybody who has committed or is conspiring to commit or is considering to commit or conspire to commit or who may unwittingly become involved in committing or conspiring to commit an unauthorized act of transdimensional travel, transport, traversal or other travail may be detained by a duly sworn agent of the Transdimensional Authority subject to the suspect’s demographic life expectancy and general standards of good taste and decorum.”
“Plus,” Bowens added, “you blew up half of Europe.”
“That, too.”
The light flashes momentarily intensified. Then, the alien continued whustling:
“What”
“Man, I should have brought a book,” Begbie muttered.
“do–”
“These 17 things have in common? Man, I used to love that game when I was a kid!” Bowens commented.
“you–”
“What? Want? What do we want? If that’s it, just spit it out, already! What do we want?” Begbie shouted.
“want?”
“Somewhere in this dimension is an unauthorized Home Universe GeneratorTM. If you brought it here, we want to know why.”
“And, how we can disrupt the force field your people – and I use the term more loosely than it has ever likely been used before – put around it,” Bowens added.
“I was getting to that.”
“Were you going to ask about where it got the counterfeit Home Universe GeneratorTM that it smuggled into this universe?”
“Yes, if you had given me a chance!”
“I–” the alien started once more.
“Am a big pain in the ass?” Begbie interjected. “Yeah, we get that.”
“know–”
“Who wrote the book of love?” Begbie asked.
“Why the caged bird sings?” Bowens tried.
“Where to get a decent burger in this crummy one-horse town?” Begbie tried asking.
“nothing.”
An hour and a half later, they left the interrogation area, convinced that the aliens had nothing to do with the appearance of a Home Universe GeneratorTM in this reality, and wondering how pathetic the human race had to have been if these were the beings it had been conquered by.
When they got back to the control room, Master Sleep Sub-Commander Rapier greeted them with, “Good news!” They looked skeptical as she showed them the screen. The zombie couldn’t be more than twenty-nine and two-fifths feet away from the force field that stood around the Home Universe GeneratorTM.
“How is this good news?” Begbie asked.
“The zombie had a spurt,” Master Sleep Sub-Commander Rapier told him. “It shambled over a foot in a matter of seconds. We didn’t think they were capable of such speeds!”
Begbie and Bowens didn’t know how to respond to this information. Oh, they had plenty of ideas, but none of them seemed appropriate. Eventually, Bowens asked, “How are we seeing this image?”
“We’ve stationed a cameraman in a building down the street,” Master Sleep Sub-Commander Rapier told him. The camera tilted up for a moment, then went back to its original position. “Hey, Jude.”
“Do you know the coordinates of the Home Universe GeneratorTM?” Begbie asked.
“Sure.”
“The exact coordinates?”
“We have GPS, too, you know.”
When Bowens asked what this was in aid of, Begbie explained that they could have the whole schlemazel, force fields and all, sent back to Earth Prime and have Doctor Alhambra sort out the mess.
“But,” Master Sleep Sub-Commander Rapier, “what a waste of a good zombie demonstration that would be!”
Bowens pointed out that moving the Home Universe GeneratorTM wouldn’t help solve the problem of who had transported it to Earth
Prime 4-6-3-0-2-9 dash omicron and why. Begbie argued that once they took the fake Home Universe GeneratorTM back to Earth Prime, Doctor Alhambra might be able to trace it back to its source. Bowens pointed out that the Alternaut Handbook recommended that at least 12 hours pass before suspect technologies needed to be confiscated. Begbie protested that the case referred to in the Alternaut Handbook involved teenage sentient crickets hijacking a Dimensional PortalTM because they were drunk on rose nectar and wanted to see a world where automatic elephants had their own lane on highways – not at all similar to the current situation. Bowens insisted that they he used the best analogy available, and, in any case, he preferred to err on the side of caution, so they would wait. Begbie agreed that Bowens was the lead on this investigation and, so, umm, there.
Forty minutes and far more than forty boredoms later, Bowens nodded at two men in t-shirts (one of a big floating head over the White House, the other of a big floating head over the pyramids). They looked at Master Sleep Sub-Commander Rapier, who nodded almost imperceptibly. Putting their clipboards on a desk next to a monitor, they walked over to the Transdimensional Authority investigators.
“You’re Floatheads, eh?” Begbie asked.
“We are believers in the Church of the Big Floating Heads,” pyramids sternly corrected him.
“Oh, yeah,” Begbie asked. “And, how’s that working for you?”
“The big floating heads abandoned us,” pyramids despondently responded.
“We do not know that,” White House responded.
“The big floating heads disappeared five minutes before the aliens invaded,” pyramids told him. “They knew what was coming, and they didn’t want any part of it!”