Tales from the Multiverse

by Pam Uphoff

  "I saw the car they drove away in. Big and black, the license was orange with black letters, KJUY 197."

  One man radioed that information, the other wanted to see his identification.

  Oh. Damn. Salazar is going to need to disappear pretty quick.

  Xen handed over his purloined ID, and had his fingerprint and retinas scanned. He worked up a quick spell for a typical wino's odor of stale filth and alcohol, and was rewarded with the patroller giving him a few extra feet of space. Apparently the machinery was identifying him as Salazar, so that much was all right.

  :: Trouble Captain? ::

  Jeff must have picked up his nerves. :: Minor. Tell Q that I can pawn heavy men's rings. Two thirds gold to one third copper for hardness, large dark stones. If she'll whip up a few, I can start accumulating money. ::

  :: Yeah, but what is the problem? ::

  :: I witnessed a bank robbery. I'll probably have to stick around and swear to all sorts of things. The machinery is IDing me correctly. No worry there. ::

  :: It occurred to me that I don't actually need a dead body. I could pick up someone without family or job, a wino or drug addict. Bubble them while I use their ID. ::

  :: Good thought. You could find one the right size, shape and coloring, so there are fewer things that don't match. If I'm being watched, Q can do all the changes needed. :: Xen broke off as a man in a suit stalked up.

  "This your witness?" The man's question was addressed to the patroller, while his eyes raked Xen. He sighed. "Sal Fromage, right? How drunk are you?"

  Xen contemplated the possible advantages of being drunk.

  "Uh, uh. Don't think up a lie, just answer. You're going to get a blood test anyway."

  Xen hunched his shoulders. "Ain't drunk. Yet. Just got some money, so I kin take care of that problem." Hope I got the accent right, from how little Sal said to us.

  "Not for a little while, I think." The man's regard deepened. "Do you remember me?"

  "No." Xen made it sound grumpy.

  "I'm Detective Martin Antoine. It's been a few years since I patrolled down here. But your height is hard to forget. You were usually helpful, never a problem. Why don't we keep it that way?"

  Xen nodded reluctantly.

  "Tell me what you saw."

  "I sort of heard the shots. They were inside, so they weren't loud. Two men ran out. Big, broad, muscles plus a little fat. Black knitted things pulled over their faces. No holes for eyes, so it must have been real thin. A car came around that corner, braked, didn't even really stop, the two dived in and it accelerated going that way. I told the patroller the number. They had a window down and fired some shots around. I dove for the ground and hit my head on something."

  "Some other witnesses thought they were shooting at you."

  "Damn bad aim if they were." Xen hesitated. The detective raised his eyebrows. "Before the robbery, I walked past two men. They were walking in the direction of the bank. I noticed they had some really flashy rings, both of them. And funny little knitted caps. I don't know if that was the robbers or not. They saw me looking them over. I suppose they might have decided to cap me on the way out."

  "Sal, let's go downtown and take a look at some pictures. Hospital first for a blood alcohol test, and a look at that bump on your head. Then we just may need to keep you someplace safe for awhile."

  Xen straightened in alarm. Both men grabbed an arm. He hesitated. I can disappear later, without a fuss. He let them chivvy him into the back seat of the black and white. And reduced the smell spell down to tolerable levels.

  He looked at millions of pictures, and a bit to his surprise, he was confidently able to pick out the two men. The nice policemen who had been supplying him with coffee and sandwiches blanched a bit and were replaced with men in even nicer suits. Xen described everything the men had been wearing, right down to a description of the ten rings they'd worn between them. The suits grinned hungrily and departed.

  His old buddy Martin showed back up. "We have a nice safe place for you to stay until the trial. My sister . . . oh don't look so horrified. Sis just got out after her double twenty in the Army. Drill Sergeant. Yes, now that's the right kind of horrified expression. Just lay low for a week until the hearing, then a few months until the trial."

  Xen choked faintly. "Months?"

  "Really, you're going to just love Trudy."

  Clearly there was a large age gap between brother and sister.

  Trudy Antoine was a battle axe. No other possible metaphor. Arched beak of a nose, sharp shiny eyes. Steel gray hair. Gallons, no. Tons of self-confidence.

  "So. Sal. Fortunately for you, I bought a house much in excess of my needs. Let me show you the basement."

  Xen cast a look over his shoulder. Only three big beefy cops between him and freedom.

  "Don't even think it." Martin advised.

  Xen slunk down the stairs.

  The basement had been finished off into a combination library, TV room, office and bar. The shelves behind the bar were empty. The book shelves were well stocked. Xen edged over and took a look. The Rise and Fall of the American Empire. The Need for the Rich. The State of the World. Encyclopedia of the Multiverse.

  Perhaps being locked in the basement is not a Fate Worse Than Death, after all.

  "There's a bathroom and a laundry. I expect you to use them both. Frequently."

  Xen poked his head in. Huge bathtub. Things around the side that might be water jets. "Yes, Ma'am!"

  She growled. "I just finished that bathroom, don't make me make Martin regret this idea of his."

  The next door was the laundry, the third door a bare room with a bed in it.

  "The guest room was my next project. I'll fetch a rug and some pictures tomorrow. Can't get around to the walls right away."

  "Oh, don't worry on my account, Ma'am." Xen glanced around, the men had left. "I could do the walls for you."

  "Call me True. You don't look as rundown as I was expecting."

  "I've . . . been up and down a few times. I'm up right now. Just . . . not employed, and sometimes I just need to drink myself unconscious."

  "That's not going to happen here."

  Xen raised an eyebrow, then started pulling things out of his pockets and stashing them on, or under the bed, or between the bare studs of the walls. The ID and three broken watches he'd inherited from Sal. His running shoes, shorts, two pairs of underclothing, a bit of leftover gold. Then he shrugged out of his coat and wandered back to the laundry to eye the machinery. True snorted and showed him how everything worked.

  "How many layers of clothes are you wearing? Everything you own?"

  "It's a bit nippy out, and this way nothing gets stolen." He dropped the coat in. It left plenty of room, so he shed the plaid flannel shirt, then the thin sweater under it. The belt with all the pouches he set aside.

  "Might as well keep going." True looked amused.

  He unbuttoned the worn white dress shirt, but set it aside. Peeled off the tee shirt and finally the thermal top. She nodded approvingly. It was, thank the gods, a sergeant's approval, not a woman's. He put the dress shirt back on.

  "All right. You weren't kidding about being in pretty good shape. I've got some weights."

  "I like to run, when I’ve got a safe place to put my stuff."

  She narrowed her eyes at him.

  "Perhaps early in the morning? No one will see me, and there won't be any liquor stores or bars open to tempt me."

  She nodded reluctantly. "I'll check with Martin, he might not want anyone to know I have a man in the house."

  He blinked. "I thought we'd gotten over that honor of the family thing."

  She burst out laughing. "Good Lord, yes. He just doesn't want any gossip easily available if anyone checks his associates, looking for you."

  "Ah. You had me worried for a minute there."

  She snorted again. "I think you are manipulating me. Good at it, are you?"

  "Yep."

  "So, why do you drink?
"

  "Metabolic disorder, plus things I know I wasn't responsible for, but feel as if it was my fault. Fear of doing it again. Fear of the future. Despair over ever breaking out of a very deep rut. Fear of leaving my nice comfortable rut. To dull the pain of hundreds of things. Weariness of the fight. Long enough list? I can go on rambling forever."

  "Humph. Well, come up for dinner in an hour or so." She made a face. "Confessions of an old sergeant. Cooking is not one of my finer skills."

  "I'll come up in half an hour and help. I'm no one’s idea of a chef, but I have picked up a trick, here and there."

  At four in the morning, no one noticed him taking a three mile run. Trudy eyed him thoughtfully, and her locks with disgust.

  "There aren't many locks I can't get through." Xen kept his tone apologetic and ducked downstairs to first lift weights, and then wallow in the jet bath. Then back upstairs where he demonstrated how to make pancakes and tested a number of strange pre-made fruity and chocolaty and chemically flavored things to put on them.

  "Are you going to behave while I go shopping?"

  "I'll just read or watch the TV."

  "Good."

  The TV, with a bit of experimentation, displayed a nice long, detailed news program. Trudy returned and joined him for the local segment, which included a weather forecast.

  "Warming up again. I love fall weather." She headed back upstairs.

  Xen browsed the book shelves, and settled in with a history of the last three centuries. "The Age of Cross-dimensional Exploration" was the title, and the contents kept him rapt for three days.

  A worse indictment of Earth's utter disregard for anyone but themselves would be hard to imagine. And they deliberately pushed the One World, to see how they would react. Then the One World invaded, using the Amma and his troops. Destroyed the Earth's only Gate, isolating them for well over a year. And us right in the middle of it. Ugg.

  He found a biography of the current President of the World and started reading.

  It was a most pleasant captivity. Useful.

  Chapter Three

  Jeff Lovett followed the druggy home, and once well out of the public eye, stunned him with a thought and scooped him into a bubble.

  Ace Worley lived alone, in a rundown apartment full of garbage. It stank. Almost as much as Xen's wino. On the other hand, Ace had a job that Jeff was reasonably sure he could do himself.

  Jeff had followed Ace for three days, wrapped in a spell of unnoticeable. The few people who even saw him thought he belonged wherever he was. Even half drugged, Ace never spotted him. Jeff tucked the handles of the bubble back into his pocket, and headed for the Gate. Q could fix him to match Ace, then Ace could lose some time while Jeff took care of his job, and collected and ran information on the side.

  He strolled down the street, the unnoticeable spell softened to something that induced a mild indifference. It was a lot safer crossing streets when the drivers could see you. He stepped around to the bubbled apartment, through the back door and through the Gate.

  The far side was an Empty World. Exceptionally uninteresting, the highest forms of life were crawling around on the ocean floor. The temperatures tended toward cool, the air dry, the view over the ocean spectacular. Q had built a few little houses, with enough embellishment that he rather thought she'd gotten bored.

  A pair of witches looked him over.

  Q introduced them. "Do you know Indigo and Dusty? Jeff's parents are business partners with Vani and her husband and Cordelia's mother. "

  "Oh, and that cute Damien? The hauler with the strange mental shield?"

  "Damien has a shield? Is he magic?" Jeff blinked in surprise.

  "Yes, after a run in with Jade and Teri." Q looked at him curiously, then shrugged. "Let's see what you've got. Oh, nasty. But at least he's your size and coloring. I can minimize the bad teeth, but the nose and chin . . . I'll need to mold your bones to match."

  Three hours later, “Ace Worley,” cursing his aching facial bones, numb fingers and palms, and watering eyes, was back home. Cleaning. Using Xen's death-to-chitinous creatures spell profligately. Figuring out how a Laundromat worked. Reporting for work and driving a street cleaning machine for six hours. It steered about like the rolligon, and was dead slow otherwise. He followed the mapped route and returned before the afternoon rush home.

  He was looking forward to collapsing onto clean sheets . . . the door of his apartment was open. There were people inside. Children. Lots of them. A woman stepped out of his corner kitchen, lifting her chin defensively.

  "We got evicted. We'll only stay a couple days?" What had started as a confident declaration trailed off into uncertainty. "At least a couple’a the kids are yours, after all." She tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear. Ran her hands through it, nervous.

  A couple of the kids. He tried to count the kids running around and gave up at seven. All with hair so black it was nearly purple. He could only tell them apart by sex and size. "Umm, there's no room?" I feel like Uncle Damien, attracting kids like meat attracts maggot flies. Except I may have beaten his life-long total in one lump.

  "We got no other place." She slunk up close to him, looking desperate, not amorous. She must have been spectacular when she was younger.

  He sighed. "I'll take the couch, any kids that won't fit with you in the bed will have to sleep on the floor."

  She looked surprised, almost shocked. Then hurt. "Oh. You have someone else."

  "No. You just didn't look like you were here out of anything but desperation."

  “When did that ever stop you?”

  “Since I went straight. No drugs, no alcohol. Don’t bring any here, got it?”

  She nodded, definitely shocked.

  He walked around her and stared at the nearly empty refrigerator.

  “I got enough for some pizza or something.” She fumbled at her pockets.

  Jeff shuddered. “I’ll go shopping, the kids’ll need some good food.”

  She was still staring at him as he hustled back out the door.

  Earth didn’t have any proper markets. They had “supermarkets” with a tiny produce section and rows of shelves full of boxes and cans. At least he could buy dried pasta and didn’t have to make it himself. Various cuts of raw meat in sealed antiseptic packages. More packets of pre-cooked meat. He read the fine print, and shuddered. Loaded up what ought to be about three days-worth of stuff. And paper plates and plastic forks and spoons.

  Back home, the woman, talking on her communicator, identified herself to someone as “Bee.” The conversation involved Bee’s employment, to his relief.

  “What are you doing these days?”

  “Workin’ in a nice place, selling’ watches and jewelry.” She shrugged. “Off an’ on, part time. Tomorrow I’ll work the mornin’ an’ through the lunch hour, then get home before the kids are outta school.”

  Jeff paused. “Umm, Jewelry? Used or new? I’ve got a source . . .”

  “Stealin’s worse than drugs . . . well, not really, but, well, yeah we sell some antique stuff, on consignment.”

  “Show me some pictures, I know a lady who makes jewelry.”

  She bit her lip and nodded.

  He had to cook the chicken himself. Bee had looked baffled at the raw meat. “What about school?” He started plunking down platefuls of stir fried chicken and broccoli on noodles.

  “I’ll get the kids up early, an’ outta here,” Bee assured him.

  The kids poked at the broccoli as if they’d never seen anything green in their entire lives. The oldest girl nibbled, then wolfed it all down. The others followed her example.

  “Kids sure do grow fast.” Jeff eyed the collection and tried remember names as insults and complaints passed.

  Peter looked like a twelve year old who hadn’t started his teenage growth spurt. Eileen looked to be barely a year younger. Bruce, Marlene, Wendy, and Russell looked to be six to nine years old. George and Raymond possibly three and four. The toddler was Prissy
. He had no idea which of them might be Ace’s children. And since I’m not Ace, it hardly matters.

  They had the worst table manners imaginable, following the example of their mother. Eileen eyed “Ace” and tried to copy him. Jeff surveyed his possessions, and then theirs, and headed for the thrift store. Good thing it was open late. Cheap sleeping bags in gaudy colors and weird perspectives on people doing impossible things or cute animals, a collection of tee-shirts. Do they go to school? Do I dare give Bee any money and suggest she shop for some clothing for them? He toted the unwieldy load home, where it was pounced upon gleefully. He collected clothing as it was discarded, and hauled loads to the Laundromat. Put a spell on “his” machines so other people would leave them alone.

  The kids laid out their new sleeping bags in front of the TV. Bee and the three youngest kids took the bedroom. Once Jeff was done with laundry, he looked at his stuffed apartment and shook his head in disbelief. A gentle, well-dispersed sleep spell allowed him to turn off the TV, and crash on the couch.

  And wake up in the middle of the night and dispense healing spells until various coughs and sniffles disappeared. A pain reduction spell for what he diagnosed, from experiences with younger siblings, as a new tooth coming in for Prissy.

  This family thing was definitely bad for the beauty sleep. But as cover for a spy, it would be hard to beat. If he could just rent a bigger place.

  Chapter Four

  Xen had no trouble picking the putative bank robbers out of the line ups. “There. You got them. Now can I go? Not to insult the place you’ve put me, but . . .”

  “Sal, you’d be dead inside a day. Those two are just the dumb muscle for the mafia. We want the king pins, and they know it.” Martin Antoine crossed his arms. Adamant.

  Xen scowled. “I don’t know them.”

  “If you disappear or die—that is to say—whether or not we find your body, our case against these two, and our basis for investigating their abettors disappears. You are going to be kept safe.” Alan Wescott was some upper level cop, just panting to haul his key witness off to some place even safer.