by Tom Holt
“It’d be nice if they did,” Maurice replied. “Also – multiverse theory – somewhere in some version of the world in the infinity of possibility, yes, of course they do, because everything exists, because in the multiverse everything is possible. So, the trick is to find a way of getting to the universe where constant objects exist, get hold of one and bring it back.”
“I see,” George said. “But if you haven’t got one, how do you—?”
Maurice smiled at him. “Quite,” he said. “So, alternatively, you make one yourself. Which is what we’re trying to do here. Him,” he added, with a nod towards the glass tank.
“Ah.”
“What we thought was,” Maurice went on, “how’d it be if the constant object was a person? Not just two birds with one stone, a whole flock. Create a person who’s a constant object, send him to the constant-object universe and get him to bring you a truckload of them back. Perfect.”
Maurice could almost smell George’s brain frying. “Yes,” he went on, “I know it sounds utterly, utterly crazy and quite probably it is. I imagine the electric light bulb sounded like the ravings of a demented loon when Edison was first explaining the idea to his mates in the pub; you get a bit of wire and you stick it in a glass bottle and you pump all this invisible magic stuff through it and it catches fire. Sure, Tom, now why don’t you go home and take it easy for a day or so? But if you actually sit down and do the maths—” He shrugged. “Not quite as crazy as it first appears. I do believe we can do this, George. You see, we’re not inventing him – him in the tank, I mean. The thing is, he’s doing it for us.”
George gave him a blank look. “He’s—?”
“That’s right.” Maurice paused for a moment and looked at the man in the tank. “You know where it says, in the beginning was the Word? Well, that’s how he started out. Just a word. Well, four, actually. What, how, why and when. We programmed a really, really hot computer, linked it up to a particle collider inside a totally null EM field, and… well, three days later we came back and there he was.” Maurice paused again. He still didn’t understand it himself. “It’s sort of like the questions needed him, to answer them. So they—” For some reason, he faltered a little. “I think they kind of pulled him in from somewhere. And there he’s been ever since.”
George was wearing a stunned look, as if his brain had been painlessly extracted and replaced with pink blancmange. “He’s not—”
“Real? No.” Maurice decided it was important to press his point home. “We’d hardly leave him in there if he was, would we? But he’s not. He doesn’t eat or drink, he doesn’t pee or anything. We ran an infra-red sensor over him, and there’s no body heat whatsoever. It looks like he’s breathing, but we rigged up a monitor, and when he breathes in there’s no decrease in the ambient oxygen level, and when he breathes out there’s no CO2. We considered the possibility that he’s some kind of highly advanced android, but when you shine a beam of light at him, it comes out the other side, which means he’s just not there in any meaningful sense. Or at least,” Maurice corrected, “here’s not here. If you can grasp the difference.”
George didn’t look like he was grasping anything very much. Still.
“What we think,” Maurice went on, “is that he’s actually somewhere else, and that what we’re seeing—”
“A hologram?” George suggested.
“Mmm.” Maurice pursed his lips. “No, we don’t think so, because a hologram would show up some residual energy traces, and this fellow doesn’t. But sort of like a hologram, in a way. Well, more like a shadow, only in 3D. We think he’s the shadow cast in this reality by a real human being in another one.”
“Ah.” George looked thoughtful for a moment. Then he asked, “Why are you doing this?”
What an odd question. “Excuse me?”
“Why? What’s the point? How are you going to use this to make money?”
Well, that was George. But never mind. “Actually,” Maurice said, “I don’t see why we shouldn’t. Make money, I mean. Just think of the possibilities. Like, it stands to reason. Out there somewhere there’s got to be, say, a universe where they didn’t fight the Iraq war but instead used all the money they’d otherwise have spent on bombs and stuff on finding cures for diseases. If we could go there and get those cures, we’d save millions of lives back here and make a fair profit on the pharmaceutical patents. But it’s not really about money, is it? It’s about—”
“Yes?”
Maurice could feel himself getting tense. He relaxed. “It’s about time we had a cup of tea and some cheesecake,” he said. “And then you’d better make a start on reading the Overthwart and Headlong company reports for the last ten years, if you want to be up to speed when you start work on Monday.”
After George had gone, weighed down with printouts and glossy corporate literature until he could barely stagger (so he’d called down and had them drive him home) Maurice sat down at his desk and tried to get on with some work, but his mind couldn’t find a way into it; very strange, for someone who sang snatches of computer code to show tunes in the shower each morning and regularly dreamed in binary. It was something George had said – well, two things: he doesn’t exist/you tell him that, and how are you going to use this to make money? The first one; well, they’d been into all that. Every test they could think of, and all of them had produced the same answer. He’s not alive. He’s not a living, breathing human being. We can see him and hear him, but there’s no actual atoms and molecules there, so he can’t be suffering – he’s got nothing to suffer with. And the other one; good question. Very good question. He hadn’t looked at the figures for a day or so, but last time he’d seen a detailed analysis, the project had cost slightly more than the GDP of Honduras. The money was there, of course – there was plenty of money, and if the program carried on much longer and they had to sell something or borrow to finance it, then so what? This was important, the way everything else he’d ever done wasn’t, in comparison. The project was key, it was core, it was the reason why. Without it, none of the other stuff – the child genius, the breathless, soaring ascent, the success, the money – made any real sense. There had to be a reason, after all. Otherwise, it was all ridiculous, like building the world’s biggest ever ship in Lincoln, Nebraska, and leaving it there to rust.
Yes, quite. But what was the project—?
(He frowned. He’d just had a sharp pain right between his eyes, and his fingertips were slightly numb.)
—For? What was it trying to achieve? Why were they doing this?
A fair question (he massaged his fingers; for some reason, it made his head feel better), and one that’d have to be answered sooner or later, because, otherwise, how would they know if they were winning or not? If they didn’t know what the project was for, how would they know when it was finished, and when to stop?
A fair question – he was much better now – to which he realised he didn’t know the answer. Yes, it was the most exciting area of scientific discovery at this time. Yes, they were poised on the edge of the most amazing discovery since Newton realised that fruit hurts. But what were they poised to discover, exactly? We don’t know; we haven’t discovered it yet.
The phone rang. He sighed and pressed the button on his desk to put the call onto the sound system. “Hello?”
“Your wife called,” the room told him. “While you were with your friend.”
He scowled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Didn’t think you’d want to be interrupted.”
“Charlene.” He tried to stay patient. “I’m never too busy for Steph; you should know that by now. Get her for me. Now.”
He waited, drumming his fingers on the desktop. Rather a long time later, the room said, “I’m sorry, she doesn’t seem to be answering her phone.”
Maurice felt a sudden spurt of anger. “What? She always answers. Try again.”
“You’re the boss.”
He waited. It was something he’d go
t out of the habit of doing. Eventually, the room said, “Sorry, no answer. We tried five times.”
“Are you sure you got the right number?”
“Good heavens, we never thought of that. Yes, of course we did.”
“All right.” Why was he feeling so jumpy all of a sudden? No idea. “What’s her last known location?”
“Huh?”
“Where was she calling from, when she called?”
“Just a second.” Infuriating delay, lasting a whole five seconds. “That’s funny.”
“What’s funny?”
“Ran the GPS on her phone, and there’s no trace. She must’ve been in a railway tunnel or something.”
He realised, much to his amazement, that he was panicking. Don’t do that, Maurice, you know it never solves anything. “Charlene,” he said, slowly and firmly. “I want you to find out where she is, then get in touch with her and ask her to call me.”
“Sure.”
“Urgent, Charlene. Like, if she’s in the middle of a field somewhere, send someone in a helicopter. You got that?”
“Sure. Maurice.”
“What?”
“Don’t you think it’s maybe possible that you’re ever so slightly overreacting just a teeny tiny bit?”
“Yes. Now get on with it.”
He picked up his LoganBerry Ultra Plus, then slammed it down again. Overreacting. Well, quite. He hoped to God he was overreacting, but for some unfathomable reason he had a horrible feeling he wasn’t. Steph always answered her phone, no matter where she was, or what she was doing, or with whom. They’d had their one and only really bad row over that very issue.
He drummed his fingers on the desk a hundred and ninety-six times. Then he shouted, “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Have you found her yet?”
“Not quite.”
“Not—?”
“Last known location,” Charlene said, “the Ministry of Defence, London. She—”
“That’s just down the road.”
“I know. Shut up for a minute and let me finish. She had a meeting there at ten fifteen. I imagine they make visitors turn their phones off, or hand them in at the front desk. You know, security and stuff. And that’d probably explain why we couldn’t track her signal when she called. They’ve probably got some sort of jamming—”
“They have,” Maurice remembered. “We sold it to them. All right, get the defence secretary for me, right now. Tell him to find out where she is, and get her to call me.”
“Um.”
“Well?”
“Do you really want to talk to the defence secretary? I mean, there are several other people working there. I’m sure one of them could—”
Maurice sighed. “You’re right. I’m losing it, I’m sorry. Only, it’s so unlike her.”
“You’re worried.”
“Yes.”
“That’s so sweet.”
Four minutes later, Steph called. “What?”
“Hi, Steph. Your phone wasn’t answering.”
“No.”
“That’s not like you.”
“I had—” Pause.
“You had what, sweetheart?”
“Technical problems.”
“Ah, right.”
“If you must know, I shot my phone.”
“You shot your phone, kitten?”
“Accidentally. I’m helping them evaluate a new concept in rapid deployment individual fire platforms, and my phone was in my coat and I hung my coat behind the door and—”
“I see. Don’t you just hate it when that happens?”
“Right. Was there anything?”
“No, that’s fine. Just a bit concerned, that’s all.”
“You’re an idiot, Maurice.”
“I know, precious. See you this evening.”
So that was all right. He breathed out, long and slow. No idea why he’d got in such a state. There was absolutely no reason why he should worry about Steph – people in her immediate vicinity, yes, but not Steph – and he couldn’t remember ever having done so before. But, when he hadn’t been able to get through to her – well, it had been the way he imagined it’d be when you’re drowning, and you try and breathe in air but instead you get water, and he was extremely glad it was over and he could get back to what he was supposed to be doing.
I’m hungry, he realised. It had to be a reaction to the panic, because he’d already had pancakes and cheesecake with George. The body’s need for food to reassure it that it’s still alive, after a brush with what it had perceived as mortal peril. Silly old body. Still, a nibble of something wouldn’t hurt.
In his in-tray, he noticed, lay the bagel he’d bought from dear old Max that morning and hadn’t got around to eating. Probably stale by now; on the other hand, it was here, well within arm’s reach, and so why not? He picked it up and looked at it, turning it over in his fingers until the central hole was exactly aligned with his eye—
“Well?”
Maurice blinked.
“You idiot. You stupid fucking idiot.”
He was back. Where he was back from he had no idea, but he was once again standing in the vast storehouse on Sangreal Street, staring at the box walls by the pale-blue light of the constant object. In which case—
“No,” he yelled. “No!”
“You left him there.” Max was shouting at him again. “You did, didn’t you? You left him there, stranded. You know what you are? Well?”
Sadly, Maurice thought, yes. I’m me. Or at least, I’m this me. But just now—
“I’m going back,” he said. “Get out of my way, I’m—”
“No you’re not.” Max grabbed his wrist and lifted it to eye level. “Not through that, you clown. What did you have to go and do that for?”
The bagel was no longer a perfect circle. There was a bitesized chunk missing from it at about three o’clock. “I didn’t—”
“You must’ve done. Dear God, how could you be so stupid?”
Maurice scowled and flung the bagel away. “You’ve got another one, right?”
“No. Why should I? This isn’t exactly Supersize-me City, you know. Rations are, like, rationed. That was supposed to be my breakfast. And my lunch. And my dinner.”
Maurice looked round to see where it had landed. “Couldn’t we—?”
“Mend it somehow? I don’t think so. I mean, if it was just a simple matter of cutting you open, retrieving the bitten-off chunk and gluing it back, I’d be, like, go for it. Unfortunately, I need you alive. Always something, isn’t there?”
“But I’ve got to get back there,” Maurice shouted. “You don’t understand. Suddenly it all makes sense. I don’t belong here; I belong there. That’s my home.”
Max stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. “You know,” he said, “for an idiot, you’re smart.”
“Thank you.”
“But for a smart guy, you’re really dumb. Actually, you remind me a lot of my brother.”
“Oh.” Maurice wasn’t sure what to make of that. “Is he, um, dumb?”
“No, he’s smart. He won the Nobel Prize, for crying out loud. But he goes about being smart in a very stupid way. Like you do.” Max was calmer now, a steady burn rather than an explosion. “Do you want me to tell you about my brother?”
“No.”
My brother (Max said) is the smart one in our family, which is saying something. Also the biggest idiot and the one who’s done the most damage, and that’s saying something too. He won the Nobel—
Sit down, for Pete’s sake. There. That’s better, isn’t it? No, don’t do that. Don’t—
(The room was completely dark. Maurice had grabbed the constant object with a view to threatening Max with it and making him shut up. Obligingly it had turned into an Uzi. There’s no built-in lantern on an Uzi, unless you go for the deluxe exclusive collector’s limited edition. Accordingly, it was now pitch dark, so Max couldn’t see that he was being threatened. Tot
ally pointless and counter-productive, Maurice thought: the story of my life. He put the gun down on the floor and silently implored it to be a lantern again. It must’ve taken pity on him.)
—the Nobel Prize (Max went on), which is pretty damn impressive, but then he blew up the Very Very Large Hadron Collider, which also made an impression, but not in a good way. Actually, it wasn’t his fault entirely. It was needed so the multiverse could begin. But try telling that to the VVLHC oversight committee.
Well, after he’d done that he was out of a job, for some reason, and he got mixed up in some dumb scheme involving his old professor. Now there was a guy, Pieter van Goyen, the man who finally cracked multiverse theory and invented YouSpace.
Yes, calm down, I’m coming to that. YouSpace was this way of crossing between alternate universes, and actually I know quite a bit about it, because I was in on it from an early stage. Well, Pieter – he was my professor too – Pieter needed someone to try the thing out, and I volunteered. Sounds pretty brave, huh? Actually, I had my reasons. The thing was, I was sort of on the run from some unpleasant people from Vegas, on account of a disagreement we’d had about some experiments I’d been doing into probability theory. So it suited me to be somewhere very far away for a while. Anyhow, Pieter’s gizmo worked just fine as far as getting me there was concerned. Getting me back, though…
Well, long story short: Theo, that’s my brother, came and got me and we made it back to here, meaning our home reality; and then, just as I thought we were starting to get along, build bridges, repair our hitherto fraught and fractious relationship, he got all flaky and decided he was going to take YouSpace and go sit on a mountaintop somewhere and be serene for a while. To be fair, I think it was partly because he’d found out he created Creation when he blew up the VVLHC, which kind of made him God, in a sense. Anyhow, he reckoned he needed to get his head together, so off he went, and off I went, and that’s where you came in.
(Maurice looked at him. “Me?”
“You.” Max nodded. “You arsehole.”)