Before she could collapse to the ground, Older-Art caught her and steadied her. He said, “Whoa there, Gin. Sorry, I forgot to warn you not to look up. Gives you a sense of vertigo, like when you’re standing at the edge of some ridiculous height and there’s nothing to keep you from falling. But, y’know, upward.
Older-Art jerked a thumb toward Normal-Art and continued, “All in all, I’d say you’re handling it better than I did the first time.”
Normal-Art had collapsed onto the ground and was lying in a pool of his own drool. His hands were clinging desperately to the steel struts that held the bleacher-style seats in place. He was staring upward and muttering something unintelligible.
Older-Art said, “Look down at the ground or straight across to the other side of the arena. Just never up, and you’ll be OK.”
Ginny steadied herself and nodded. She and Older-Art turned to Normal-Art and helped him off the ground. Older-Art grabbed the back of Normal-Art’s head and forced it to look down at the ground. Normal-Art began to recover himself, and after a few moments, he agreed to walk under the condition that he could hold onto Older-Art so that he wouldn’t fall away into the sky.
Older-Art assented. Normal-Art hugged him from behind, and they walked through the auditorium looking like a spooning couple, passing pantheon after pantheon until they arrived at the section of bleachers that contained their seats. Oddly enough, Ginny noted that none of the pantheons remarked about how odd the Arts’ behavior seemed. She shrugged. Guess there’s plenty of weird in your life when you’re a god, she thought.
The group’s seats were located near the center of the auditorium, though really every seat seemed to be at the center of the auditorium since it was shaped into a circle. Alex, Drillbot, God-Art, 29333, Older-Art, Ginny, and Bagoo sat on one row while the Purple Shirts occupied the next few rows directly behind them. Ginny sat in the rightmost seat with Older-Art on her left. Normal-Art sat to Older-Art’s left and leaned his head onto his older-self’s shoulder, complaining of a headache. He was rubbing his head, but at least now his complaints were beginning to sound more like English than the gibberish he had begun uttering when he was overwhelmed and lying on the ground. God-Art sat on Normal-Art’s left, a grin plastered to his face, and Drillbot occupied the next space over. Alex sat next to Drillbot, 29333 next to Alex, and Bagoo hovered inches above the leftmost seat.
To the left of the group sat a pantheon of gorilla deities. Their leader was a giant silverback with an amethyst crown, an ivory monocle, and a violet cloak with ornate, jeweled coconuts woven into the fabric. He was surrounded by a harem of over a dozen females who were in a constant state of feeding him and gently rubbing him. He held in his hands a few dozen leashes, each of which was attached to the neck of a tiny male gorilla sitting on the row below him. Each gorilla had branded into its arm a different symbol ranging from a wheel to a compass to an anchor to a plow to a paintbrush.
When the patron god of this pantheon noticed God-Art, a look of confusion passed over his face and he called out in a voice lispier than any Ginny had ever heard, “Ho, Artheothkatergariabetrugereiinganno. What art thou doing up here in the thtandth? Aren’t though thuppothed to be on thtage?”
God-Art shrugged. “I’m supposed to be in a lot of places. Don’t you worry, Goraxula. You just ensure your kids stay leashed. We can’t afford for your pantheon to go through its perennial rebellion and culling, at least not until everything’s finished here.”
The gorilla grunted and then nodded. He said nothing else, instead frowning and staring hatefully at the smaller gorillas on the leashes in front of him. Ginny glanced over at Alex, Bagoo, and 29333. None of them seemed to have heard God-Art’s suspicious exchange with the gorilla-god. She was just about to call it to their attention when voices thundered to her right.
A god lay prostrate on the ground. He wore a light blue tunic, gladiator-style sandals, and golden bracelets on his arms. His skin tone reminded her of someone from one of her reality’s Arab countries. There was nothing remarkable about his appearance other than the fact that he wore a gigantic dead fish as a hat and his head and hands had been severed from his body. His beard grew in curls and would have stretched all the way down to his naval if his head were attached to his neck.
He stared up at the god closest to him and all but screamed, “When will you ever get over yourself and stop picking on me! I made a single mistake. Eons ago! And you won in the end! There’s no reason to continue treating me with such indignity!”
The god sitting before him looked exactly like the one with the Yahweh name tag out in the lobby. As a matter of fact, this one also had a name tag that described himself as Yahweh. Ginny wondered if this was the same version as the one that she had seen outside, or a different one from a different earth. The conundrum made her head hurt.
Yahweh scowled, and his voice boomed, “Thou disgraced me after thou captured me, putting me on display for all the gods of Mesopotamia to see. And since I overcame thee from that indignity, thou knowest my decree: any time we are gathered with other gods, I shall do the same to thee.”
A man who looked a little over thirty years old with curly brown hair and red hands sitting to Yahweh’s right leaned over and put a hand on Yahweh’s shoulder. It left red handprints when he removed it. The young man said, “C’mon, Papa. That’s enough. Calm down and allow the Philistine to heal himself. He’s learned his lesson dozens upon dozens of times by now.”
Yahweh grunted. He seemed to consider the young man’s words for a few moments, and then a grin appeared on his face. He nodded and then patted the open spot on the bleachers next to him—the one between him and Ginny—and said, “Jesus, thou are right. Thou pleasest me as always, my son. Dagon, reattach your head and hands and sit next to me!”
A light flashed around Dagon, and when it disappeared, the god was whole. He stood, brushed himself off, and sat between Yahweh and Ginny. The fish on his head smelled so rotten that Ginny had to fight the urge to vomit. She noticed that fish entrails were braided through the god’s long, curly hair, and she gagged.
Normal-Art was apparently feeling better, because he took that moment to lean over to Older-Art and Ginny. He pointed at Dagon’s head and muttered, “Holy in the front, party in the back, am I right?”
Normal-Art grinned and held out a hand for a high five. Nobody smiled or even made the vaguest effort to oblige him. Normal-Art responded by saying, “Get it? A mullet is a kind of fish, and that guy’s wearing a fish on his head. And it’s also the name of a terrible haircut. And there’s that one phrase that people say about the haircut: business in the front, party in the back. And I changed the saying so that it referenced the god and his fish-hat. Nobody thinks that’s funny?”
And nobody did.
Chapter 16
TREACHERY SOMETIMES ISN’T AS BAD AS YOU THINK
Drillbot discovered that sitting on a bleacher seat is uncomfortable. Since he was not designed to sit in chairs, he found that when he did so, he was forced to lift his wheels so that they dangled out in front of him. He felt like a screwdriver that someone was trying to use as a hammer: awkward and out of place and not quite living up to its purpose.
Drillbot glanced over at God-Art. God-Art sat to his right, studying his surroundings and grinning a grin that stretched the entire width of his face. Most of the gods on the way to their seats had waved to God-Art or muttered ominous-sounding words or acted like they were teens meeting their celebrity idol for the first time—well, that was at least how Drillbot had overheard one of the Purple Shirts explain it. Drillbot had no real concept or experience with celebrity, so he had merely nodded and agreed.
Drillbot frowned his version of a frown, his mouth-speaker retracting slightly, his telescopic eyes vibrating, and his radar dishes atop his head wobbling. It had become extremely obvious from the moment the Landing Crew had entered the Infinity Vortex that God-Art would not be blending into the background like their mission demanded. The god’s body langua
ge indicated that he was fine with such an outcome. Alex’s, however, indicated an obvious sense of anxiety.
Actually, when Drillbot played the past few minutes back through his internal processors, he realized that the last statement was not quite true. As Drillbot studied Alex’s image in his memory banks, he noticed there was a weird discrepancy in the officer’s body language. He visibly shook on the outside as though he were anxious of the attention that God-Art was bringing to the Landing Crew. He frowned a lot and wiped his brow and yanked at his toga’s collar, just as one would expect a nervous human to do. But when Drillbot zoomed in on the images, he noticed no glimmer of sweat on the Alex’s brow. And Alex’s heartbeat had not grown faster, as would be expected in a human experiencing extreme anxiety. And the nervous moans Alex kept uttering did not register that same high-pitched note that seemed to accompany every human’s nervous moan, the note right up at the front of the moan that falls outside the range of human hearing. Drillbot frowned harder—his mouth-speaker retracting even farther, his telescopic eyes vibrating even harder, and his radar dishes atop his head wobbling even faster.
Drillbot decided to ask Alex about this discrepancy in his behavior. He whispered to Alex, “[whir] Why are – CLACK – why are y—”
Alex gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head and Drillbot halted his question. His frown deepened. He decided not to press the question, instead placing a calendar reminder in his system to ask Alex about the behavior later.
Drillbot altered his gaze and studied the crowd. He began passing the time by scanning the crowd for different iterations of the same god. He had reached over a thousand versions of the god sitting a couple spots to Ginny’s right, Yahweh, before feedback squelched through the entire Infinity Vortex. Many of the gods in the crowd held their hands over their ears. Just as many shrugged. Just as many called out curses. Just as many called out poetic verses full of lusty joy. Drillbot counted at least a dozen whose heads exploded.
All eyes turned down toward the stage on the ground in the center of the theater. A bipedal god wearing robes made of dead baby seals and dead wolf cubs stood in its center. His scalp burned with glowing flame. It was God-Art.
Drillbot turned to face the God-Art to his right. This version of the god wore a sheepish expression on his face. He said, “Look, there’s nothing to worry about. I’ve heard your point of view. My past-self was wrong, and we’ve got to stop him to preserve the Space-Time-Multinuum—and thus, all of existence. You have my word. I shall give you my assistance.”
Ginny, Normal-Art, and Drillbot all began speaking at once to protest about accepting this god’s word as any sort of guarantee. But Alex interrupted them and said to God-Art in a nervous, shaky squeal, “I-I-If you pledge to us your honor and give us your word, then that will be good enough for me. P-Please, this is our only opportunity to save the Space-Time-Multinuum. I beg you to think of all the lives that are at stake—your own among them.”
God-Art ran his fingers over his heart in a motion that resembled the letter X. “You got it. Cross my heart,” he said.
Alex and the other officers of the B.T.S. Unicorn Husker nodded. None of the Purple Shirts dared to say anything.
Past-God-Art on the stage held a conch shell up to his lips and blew into it. The shell glowed neon pink, its end erupted into rainbow-colored flames, and the entire world seemed to shimmer. The same squelching feedback noise from a few moments ago crashed once more through the confines of the Infinity Vortex. This time, it hushed the crowd completely.
Past-God-Art puffed up his chest and blew once more into the shell. This time, rather than producing a squelchy feedback noise, the action caused Past-God-Art’s voice to fill the expanse of the Infinity Vortex. “Welcome, all ye holy ones. Thank you for heeding my call and for your cooperation in this vital plan. As most of you already know, I am Artheoskatergariabetrugereiinganno from Earth 49,652.
The god took another breath and continued, “We have a grand opportunity lying before us. The Multiverse is ever expanding. And every time the damned place expands, our powers relative to the size of the Multiverse shrink. And that’s a problem. As a matter of fact, the Multiverse has likely expanded to create nearly an infinite number of new universes since I began speaking, and from there expanded into yet another infinite number of universes, and so on. Infinity is constantly raising itself to the power of infinity.
He continued, “And now we have a chance to stop it. We can put a cap on infinity and begin the process of increasing our power. And how we do so shall be simple.”
The gods in the crowd either hissed in non-belief or cheered in excitement. Past-God-Art reached down and grabbed the end of a chain lying on the stage near his feet. He tugged on it, and a hulking creature nearly twice his height emerged from the shadows. The opposite end of the chain in Past-God-Art’s hand was wrapped around the creature’s neck and torso, leaving only his face and the bottom halves of his legs exposed. He shuffled toward Past-God-Art’s position on the stage. He looked very similar to a gigantic baboon, but with flowing silver hair extending from his face and thick, round spectacles over his eyes.
Past-God-Art sucked in more air and blew again into his magical conch shell. The air shimmered, and a gaseous ball containing thousands of seemingly random mathematical symbols exploded from the end of the conch. It zoomed skyward, flying past Drillbot until it disappeared into the air high above. Then it exploded like a firework.
Past-God-Art continued, “We shall use math! I must reiterate my thanks to the pantheons who donated your patron gods of mathematics and physics and engineering to this fine cause. This creature in front of us from Earth 494,809,111 was the first to crack the code to our problem, and he deserves your thanks. We have discovered that it is but a matter of all of us acting simultaneously to place a replicating wave function into a single molecule in the atmospheres of our respective skies. These wave functions shall spread like a virus to every reality in the Multiverse, and soon, we shall have no more pesky, new realities splitting off from our own. Our power bases will mean something again, rather than being but a drop within an ever-multiplying infinity-bucket.
“In two hours hence,” he continued, “following our networking session, I shall reveal to you the mathematical function we shall use and the time at which we shall enact our grand scheme. So, get to mingling. Get to know your fellow gods a bit. Make some new friends, some new allies, some new enemies.”
And with that, Past-God-Art removed the conch shell from his lips and silence filled the auditorium. Past-God-Art spun on his heel and began to walk toward the exit at the back of the stage.
Godly voices began filling the silence as the surrounding gods delved into networking. To his right, Drillbot heard Ginny stammer nervously in conversation with Yahweh, Jesus, and Dagon. Drillbot ignored her, because much to his chagrin, he realized the numb feeling from the magnet that held his B.T.T. identity in place below his toga was simultaneously growing larger and sliding up his torso.
Drillbot glanced at God-Art and noticed that the god was muttering to himself, staring at Drillbot, and slowly sliding his finger upward in the air in front of him. Drillbot jerked his right drill toward the god, intending to stab him into oblivion.
But just before his drill connected with God-Art’s clavicle, the magnet zoomed up into view from beneath Drillbot’s toga and stuck squarely to Drillbot’s forehead. It had grown three times its original size and eighteen times as thick. As Drillbot scanned it, he realized its molecular makeup had also changed. Before his sensors could tell him just what this change entailed, Drillbot’s thoughts went from coherent to a jumble of ones and zeroes that he could not translate. Greens and magentas filled his vision, and every straight line he could see went jagged. Voices around him slowed and morphed together. He could see nothing, hear nothing, understand nothing.
*
When Drillbot’s senses returned to normal, he found that he was lying on his side with Older-Art standing over him. T
he older version of his former master must have yanked the magnet from Drillbot’s head, for Drillbot witnessed the older man using both hands to toss the now-gigantic object aside. It clattered across the ground.
Drillbot’s head ached. The ones and zeroes in his processors began returning to their proper places. But they were definitely being slow about it, and it seemed like they kept bumping into one another.
“Are you alright?” asked Older-Art.
Drillbot repositioned himself so that he was upright. A string crafted from intestines and dozens of putrid, severed ears lay on the ground around him. He frowned his version of a frown, for he was confused. Drillbot heard Alex shout from a few feet over, “Drillbot, the damned god has betrayed us, and you just let him escape! Kappa Squad, we’re out of time. Initiate the assassination! Now! Before the damned past-version of the god can leave the stage!”
Drillbot attempted to respond to Older-Art, but all that came out was, “[whir] CLACK CLACK CLACK CLACK CLACK.”
Drillbot turned his head to watch half of the Purple Shirts produce scoped rifles from within their togas. They altered the settings on the sides of the guns to permanent. Then they all turned and began sprinting to different spots in the auditorium, scrambling past the networking gods to find locations on the bleachers that would allow the perfect vantage for a sniper shot.
Alex grabbed Drillbot by the arm and pointed toward the nearest exit. “Down there. Now.”
And Now, Time Travel Page 18