by Ira Nayman
Part of a concrete barrier that may once have been the front window of the garage slowly descended into the ground. Before the investigators could put down their cards and put up a motion to debate the meaning of this, a woman stepped out of the empty space. She was beautiful, tall, slender, with high cheekbones and blazing blue eyes. She wore a uniform that was at once different from anything they had ever seen and achingly familiar. The woman waved in their direction.
“Yoohoo! Boys!” she shouted.
They pointed at themselves and coyly mouthed, “Who, me?” Even Biff Buckley! Even Noomi!
“You’ve found us!” the woman shouted. “Why don’t you come in and say hello? We’ve got cookies!”
This seemed reasonable to the investigators, so they started coming out from behind the VW multiverse microbusTM. “You might want to draw your guns,” the woman suggested. “this being an official visit and all.”
This seemed to break the spell. Each of the agents drew their stun guns as they cautiously approached the building.
“There,” the woman enthused. “This feels much more official now, doesn’t it?”
“Who are you?” Bao Bai-Leung asked.
“Just humble Minion,” the woman responded. “Now, if you will please follow me…”
The woman disappeared into the garage. Suspiciously looking this way and that, like a Hydra badly in need of a cocaine fix, the investigators shuffled along behind her.
The interior of the room they entered was gloomy, lit only by a few hopelessly inadequate (no matter how game they were) overhead bulbs. The woman led them past a large space that seemed in the murky darkness to be filled with raised platforms, chains and all manner of exotic mechanical equipment.
“Is that some sort of torture room?” Begbie asked.
“No,” the woman pleasantly told him, “that’s where the people who owned this building before us used to fix cars.”
“Oh,” Begbie said. He sounded slightly disappointed.
“Sorry for the lighting,” the woman apologized as she led them towards a spiral staircase that led into the ground. “You have to admit, though, that it does set a mood.”
The investigators murmured agreement.
“Watch your step,” the woman advised. “Some of these stairs can be a little tricky – we wouldn’t want you to accidentally stun the investigator in front of you.” She chuckled almost sincerely. “I would suggest that you hold the handrail with your free hand, but big macho men like you never listen to sensible advice from girls like me.”
At the bottom of the staircase was a huge cavern filled with room-sized computers as far as the eye could see. “Is this garage…dimensionally transcendent?” Bertrand Blailock asked in awe.
“Not at all,” the woman said as she led them down a hallway to ornate wooden double doors set into the rock. “But, my master has employed – at great expense – a group of CGI masters to give that very illusion. Thank you for noticing!”
Bertrand Blailock pumped out his chest with pride.
“So,” Bowens said, “we finally meet the villain.”
“Ah, actually, no,” the woman told him. “This is the games room. A word of caution: don’t challenge my master to a game of Assassin’s Creed, because you will lose.”
“Does he have an Achilles heel?” Crash asked. Begbie and Bertrand Blailock looked at him askance.
“Mario Kart,” the woman confided with a nod.
“You never know,” Crash smugged.
“And, finally,” the woman said with a wave of her hand towards a small door, “we arrive at the executive war room. I would like to remind you at this time that this is a no-smoking facility, including all rest-rooms and dark alcoves. Thank you for your understanding. I hope you enjoy your stay in our underground lair.”
She ushered the gaggle (strangle? archive? anchovy?) of investigators into a large room. Along one wall was a grey metal computer with various gauges and dials and paper tape reels and many toggle switches. The big red button was what got everybody’s attention. (Well, everybody except Beau Beaumont, who was helping himself to some cookies off the plate beside the door. Double chocolate chip, it should be noted. Very tasty.)
“You know, you could be sued by the Alternate Reality News Service for copyright infringement for that,” Bowens stated, pointing at the big red button.
“Of all of my crimes,” the man sitting in the comfortable barcalounger (‘Good for 10,000 extensions of your legs or your money cheerfully glanced at in our bank account!’) replied, “that is the one that will haunt me the most.” The man was beautiful, tall, slender, with high cheekbones and blazing blue eyes.
“Welcome, everybody, welcome,” the man greeted them as they took positions around him. “My name is Jerry Cornelius, but I suspect you already knew that.”
“You…but…you two…” Bao Bai-Leung gasped, looking from the man to the woman and back again, finding it impossible to notice a difference between the two. (Other than the obvious one: the woman wore red nail polish.)
“Yes,” Jerry Cornelius agreed. “This is my little Minion.”
The woman walked among the investigators, handing out embossed business cards which read:
MOIRA MINION
faithful lackey
serving the Cornelius family for seven generations
“When Minion’s mother was pregnant,” Jerry Cornelius explained, “my father performed a little genetic magic on her. I don’t know about me, but you believe that the effect is…stunning.”
With great intensity, Begbie aimed his stun gun at Jerry Cornelius and commanded, “Okay, miscreant, step away from the big red button.”
“Why?” Jerry Cornelius asked, casually stretching a hand towards the very big red button in question. “Are you afraid I’ll do –”
“Cornelius, don’t!” Bowens barked.
Crash threw himself at Jerry Cornelius. Minion plucked him out of mid-air, using his momentum to flip him over so that he landed with a loud thud on the ground. She ran a straightening hand through her hair, then shook her head at the investigator in disapproval. When Minion let go of him, Crash quickly hopped back onto his feet; only Noomi noticed that he was gingerly rubbing his ass.
Setting himself firmly in his barcalounger, Jerry Cornelius said, “Got that out of your system?”
Crash sheepishly responded, “Yeah.”
“Alright, then,” Jerry Cornelius muttered to himself. “Where were we? General greetings, check. Introduction of Minion, check. Evil laughter – no, no, as tempting as it is, I’m too mature for that. Ah, yes, the threat of death and destruction.” He cleared his throat and then, aloud, said, “Are you afraid I’ll do…”
Jerry Cornelius turned expectantly to face Bowens. After a few seconds, he whispered, “Come on, come on, I fed you your line – what are you waiting for? Okay, one more time… Are you afraid I’ll do –”
With a start, Bowens shouted, “Cornelius, don’t!”
“This?” with great satisfaction, Jerry Cornelius pushed the big red button. “Sorry, Barack, but my consciousness is above your pay grade.”
Everybody held their breath for several seconds. (Well, everybody except Bertrand Blailock, who was a trifle asthmatic.) Then, when it was apparent that nothing was happening, Jerry Cornelius grinned and said, “Aww, I’m just messing with your heads!”
The investigators allowed their breathing to return to normal, until he added: “I actually pressed the big red button half an hour ago. Consider the multiverse destroyed!”
Jerry Cornelius waited, but was disappointed that the only person who applauded was Minion.
“The multiverse,” Jerry Cornelius explained, as if to a group of three year-olds, “it’s gone. Dead. No more. Can you imagine the scale of the destruction? Please? At least try to imagine it!”
“We’re still here,” Crash pointed out.
“For now,” Jerry Cornelius allowed. “For now. But, somewhere in the infinite infinities a universe
is collapsing. And, it will start a chain reaction that will take other universes with it. Ours may start to collapse in five minutes. Or, five millennia. Or, the collapse may not reach us before the heat death of our universe. It matters not. I am death, destroyer of –”
“Your plan didn’t work,” Crash insisted with finality.
Jerry Cornelius shook his head sadly. “You still don’t get it,” he sighed. “There are an infinite number of universes where my device doesn’t work, but there are an infinite number of universes where it does. Only time will tell which one this is. Either way, realities are crumbling even as we speak.”
“You’re mad!” Begbie shouted.
“Was Caligula mad?” Jerry Cornelius asked.
“Absolutely! Dog barking!” Begbie answered.
“Was de Sade mad?” Jerry Cornelius asked.
“Couldn’t have been any madder,” Bertrand Blailock answered.
“Was Machiavelli mad?” Jerry Cornelius asked.
“Totally!” “Probably.” “Maybe.” “Not necessarily…” “It depends on how you read him.” “No, no, what he wrote was utterly immoral.” “Reasonable people can disagree on that point.”
Jerry Cornelius felt the group of investigators slipping away from him. “Was Evanscheman Pruitt mad?” he asked. The investigators looked at each other uncertainly. “My grade seven social history of aardvarks teacher? Okay, I’ll answer that one for you – she was madder than a bag of nails in a monsoon! Charles Manson – how about Charles Manson? Was he mad?”
“He was!” Bao Bai-Leung answered.
“Feh!” Jerry Cornelius fehed. “Isn’t madness just another way of understanding the world?”
“Yes. A mad one!” Biff Buckley answered.
“Umm, there are still one or two points on which we could use a little…clarification…” Bowens began.
“Yes?” Jerry Cornelius prompted.
“Why use Home Universe GeneratorTMs to cover up what you were really doing?” Bowens asked. “Surely, you must have known that that would have gotten our attention sooner rather than later.”
“Actually,” Jerry Cornelius answered, “it was just dumb luck that you stumbled upon our operation on Athstragor.” He held up a hand to forestall the protestations from the TA investigators. “Oh, yes, I will grant that you’re all brilliant and you would have figured it out eventually if you will grant me that the only reason you discovered something was happening was because the minion of one of my cognates went rogue. Stupidly and ill-advisedly rogue. Can you give me that?”
This declaration was greeted by stony silence.
“Whatever,” Jerry Cornelius waved the issue away. “The point is, knowing that you would realize something was happening, I hoped the fact that Home Universe GeneratorTMs were involved would distract you from what I was really doing, buying me time to complete my plan.”
All the investigators crowded around Crash, patting him on the back and otherwise congratulating him for getting this part of the mystery correct. All except for Noomi, of course. And, surprisingly, Biff Buckley, who initially turned to her and started to say, “Congra –” before he realized what was happening and joined the others around Crash. Noomi made a mental note that, when this was all over, she would have to ask him what that was about.
“Didn’t you consider,” Bowens continued once the other investigators had settled down, “that we would take unauthorized transport of counterfeit Home Universe GeneratorTMs more seriously than legitimate ones?”
“There was that,” Jerry Cornelius allowed. “However, I reasoned that the fact that they had no serial numbers would slow your investigation down. I was right, wasn’t I?”
Half the investigators reluctantly muttered agreement.
“Your cognates in the other universes,” Bowens asked, “kept up the pretense of a smuggling ring. I assume this was also to slow us down?”
“Exactly,” Jerry Cornelius beamed. “And, if it looked like they were about to get caught, they would sacrifice themselves for the bigger picture. I must say that I will miss Jerzak Carnakhian – our evil genius strategy planning session were always well catered! Have you ever had corned beelf on rye – delicious!
“But, why?” Begbie asked. “What could you possibly hope to accomplish?”
“What could I possibly hope to accomplish?” Jerry Cornelius mused. Then, he got out of the comfortable barcalounger (‘So soft, it will make you feel like you’re sitting on a field of marshmallows at sunset!’) and walked among the investigators.
“Tell me, gentlemen and lady, have you ever had a dream?” Jerry Cornelius patted Beau Beaumont on the shoulder. “I can tell by the look in your eye that you did, my friend. Was it, perhaps, the dream where you are the captain of a small spaceship that plies the illegal trade lanes of the outer solar system, doing your best to dodge the authorities from the inner system, the crazed pirates who are rumoured to eat the faces of the people they capture and former allies who are pissed off at you for what they consider your betrayal? It’s a grand dream, isn’t it?”
“I love it when he vamps!” Minion enthused to nobody in particular.
Jerry Cornelius walked over to Crash and put an arm around his shoulder. “Have you ever wanted to grow gills and fly among the snow-capped mountaintops of the Rockies? To be sure, it’s a confused dream you have, my friend, and yet, how majestic for all of that?”
As he returned to his comfortable barcalounger (‘Guaranteed to do 27% less damage to your spine than previous models!’), Jerry Cornelius said, “Well, I had a dream, too.” As he sat down, he finally got to the point, which was, “I wanted to be the greatest assassin who ever lived. I wasn’t satisfied with just killing a world leader, or even a world – easy peasy. I assassinated the multiverse!”
“Hmph,” Crash hmphed, unimpressed. “A schoolboy boast.”
“Yeah?” Jerry Cornelius hotly retorted (his anger having been distilled in a glass vial). “And, what exactly have you done with your life, investigator?”
None of them could think of anything nearly as impressive as killing multiple realities. So, they arrested Jerry Cornelius and his Minion.
And, they all lived happily ever after.
2. Biff Buckley and Beau Beaumont
The Elliptical Garter Snail was dead that night. Politicians were taking advantage of the summer break to travel out of the country on constituency business. Students at colleges and universities were too busy holding down 27 jobs to be able to pay the tuition fees for the courses that would help them get jobs which would no longer be available a week before they graduated. And, of course, most of the Transdimensional Authority staff celebrated the close of the case with a good home cooked meal and a Downton Abbey marathon. (Not to worry. The life of the pub would soon be revived with the twin defibrillator paddles of Parliament returning to session and the start of a new hockey season.)
Biff Buckley and Beau Beaumont weren’t most Transdimensional Authority staff. They were huddled around their usual small table even though the place was empty – force of habit was strong with these two. Beau Beaumont had just completed his successful case completion ritual: pouring an ashtray full of matchbooks on his partner’s head and buying the first six rounds. (Beer had been ruled out because of the lit Menorah candles incident, while peanuts or pretzels had caused alcoholic mice to settle in Biff Buckley’s leather jacket. A good matchbook dousing had, so far, proven to have no ill side effects. The key to a successful successful case completion ritual is a willingness to experiment.)
“You know,” Beau Beaumont admitted halfway through the first round, “when I first met you, I didn’t think a partnership between us would work.”
“No?” Biff Buckley asked, flicking a stray matchbook off his shoulder.
“Sorry. Clash of styles. It happens. But, over the last couple of years, I’ve really come to appreciate how gay you are.”
“WHAT?” The beer that arced out of Biff Buckley’s mouth would have made Jack Be
nny (or fountain cherubs throughout the world) envious.
“You seem to be awfully gay,” Beau Beaumont repeated, “and I think that complements my natural dourness rather well.”
“How…how long have you known?”
“Remember the case of the bell tower shooter who had created a gun whose rays sent people into other dimensions?”
“Sure.”
“There was something about the way you sang show tunes to talk him down that struck me as being very gay.”
“Why…why didn’t you say something?”
“I didn’t know if I would embarrass you if I said something. You have the right to be gay without having to justify your attitude towards life.”
“Attitude towards li – oh, wait. Are you using the word ‘gay’ in the sense of having an ‘outgoing and generously joyous personality?’”
“Of course. What other definition would be appropriate?”
Biff Buckley inwardly sighed. Then, he outwardly sighed, assuming, correctly, that Beau Beaumont wouldn’t notice the sudden melancholy. Some day, the world will be a fairer place and I will be allowed to be who I am: gay in every sense of the word – even the archaic twelfth century ones! he thought, picking a stray matchbook out of his hair. Some day…
3. Bertrand Blailock (Without Bao Bai-Leung)
A couple of days later, Bertrand Blailock visited his old classics professor at the university. Professor Dragomir Smegvillovich was actually two years younger than – what do you mean, which university? The…the…the university. THE university. The one. Do you really need a specific na – yes, I know fiction works better the more specific it – fine! The…University of Applied Intellectualism – Scarborough Campus.
A couple of days later, Bertrand Blailock visited his old classics professor at the University of Applied Intellectualism – Scarborough Campus. Dragomir Smegvillovich was actually two years younger than the Transdimensional Authority investigator – tenure had that effect on people. His office was more of a closet with bookshelves, but over the years he had had to beat off dozens of graduate students angling to replace him, so he sat in it with pride. And, a slapstick.