by Tom Holt
Maurice lunged towards him, but a tremor sent him sprawling sideways. He blundered into the old man and knocked him down. “Are you Theo Bernstein?” Maurice yelled.
“What?”
“Are you—?”
“Yes. Who are you? Where am I? Why aren’t I wearing any clothes? Why’s the building shaking like that?”
The door flew open. Three goblins with crossbows stumbled into the room. The young man picked up two of them, one in each hand, and banged their heads together with a clang that made Maurice’s teeth hurt. The third goblin—
“Theo Bernstein? Really?”
“I just said so, didn’t I? Where is this? And what are those horrible creatures?”
Pausing only to stuff an iced doughnut in his mouth, the young man lunged at the third goblin, just as he was about to loose an arrow at Maurice. The floor shook again. The goblin tripped and fell on his knees, dropping the bow. The young man swung at him with his fist but missed, and the unexpectedly unblocked momentum carried him off his feet; he crashed into the old man, who was just getting up, and choked, spitting out the doughnut, which hit Maurice in the eye. He caught it without thinking. The third goblin had crawled to his crossbow and was aiming again, not at Maurice this time, but at the man from the jar. “No,” Maurice heard himself yell, and without knowing why, he sprang forward, putting himself between Bernstein and the goblin, just as the goblin pressed the trigger—
Oh, Maurice thought.
The arrow flew. He watched it. He noticed how it bucked slightly as it left the bowstring, fishtailing for a moment before stabilising and flying straight at him. In that fraction of a second, he’d lifted his hand in a fatuous attempt to shield himself from the arrow. He was still holding the doughnut. The arrow came on, went straight into the hole in the middle of the doughnut without touching the sides, and vanished.
“Hey,” the goblin screamed, “that’s cheating!”
The young man was on his feet again. He looked longingly at the doughnut, then back at the goblin, who was frantically reloading. “Get him, Art!” the old man screamed, but the young man hesitated, maybe because he was weak from lack of food. The goblin swung up his newly spanned crossbow and levelled it at Bernstein, who had stepped out from behind Maurice and was waving his arms in fury. Maurice tried to stop him, but Bernstein shoved him out of the way; Maurice staggered and fell backwards, in through the opening in the jar. As his head hit the glass he heard a twang and saw, through the hole in the doughnut in his flailing left hand, the arrow hit Bernstein squarely in the chest—
“What in God’s name,” Max was shouting, “do you think you’re playing at?”
Maurice opened his eyes. He was looking at a box. There was a short arrow sticking out of it, the head buried in the cardboard up to the socket. He was lying on something. He shifted, and found the squashed remains of a doughnut under his right knee.
“He’s dead,” Maurice said.
Max froze. “You what?”
“He’s dead,” Maurice repeated numbly. “A goblin shot him with a crossbow. I saw it.”
Max sagged. He sort of came apart, like a badly put-together flat-pack chair when you sit on it for the first time, and slid into an untidy heap on the floor. “That’s not possible,” he moaned. “He can’t be.”
“I saw it,” Maurice said quietly. “He was in a sort of jar, just like in George’s place, only where we were, George was a goblin called Gorgor, except he was human, and Stephanie was an elf. I broke in to rescue him, but a goblin shot him. I’m sorry,” he added. “But there it is. He’s dead.”
“Don’t say that,” Max said, his voice angry and weak. “That’s my brother you’re talking about.”
“Sorry. I tried to save him,” Maurice remembered. “I jumped in front of the first shot, but he reloaded. I can’t see how he could’ve survived.”
“You idiot.” There were two tears running a crooked race down Max’s face. “And what do you mean, goblins? That’s just stupid.”
“Where I was, the goblins are in charge,” Maurice said. “I was the editor of a newspaper, and Stephanie—” He got the impression that Max wasn’t all that interested. “Anyway, that’s what happened,” he went on. “If you don’t believe me, you could ask the lad who eats a lot. He and his uncle bring the boxes here. He saw the whole thing.”
Max gave him a just-don’t look, but he ignored it. He was listening to what he’d just said. It didn’t sound quite right. “The old man and the kid who’s always eating,” he said. “They were there. How could they be there? I don’t understand.”
“Hold it just a second.” Max was back. “Two guys from this reality were over where you just were.”
“That’s right,” Maurice said. “And the boy managed to open the jar. I was in the jar,” he recalled suddenly. “I fell into it when your brother shoved me out of the way. Then I looked into the doughnut, and—”
“What jar?”
“The jar that’s a door. Sorry,” Maurice added quickly, as Max glared at him. “They had your brother in this glass jar, like the one at George’s. Stephanie thought it was some kind of interdimensional portal thing. When the boy opened it, the building started falling down.”
“Then it can’t have been an interdimensional portal,” Max snapped. “You can’t open those things. Well, maybe you could if you had a constant object, but you left it behind.” He pointed at the plastic ray-gun, which was lying on the floor still glowing blue. “And if you did open it, that’d be it. The end, finito. Goodbye universe.”
Maurice shrugged. “Maybe that’s what happened after I left,” he said. “Don’t suppose it matters terribly much. It wasn’t a very nice universe anyway. There was a goblin called Mordak who owned nearly everything.” He shook his head. “Anyway, I suppose that’s the end of the road. I really am sorry about your brother.”
“Screw you,” Max said. “Theo isn’t dead. He can’t be. He won the Nobel frigging prize.”
Slight non-sequitur there, Maurice thought, but he didn’t say anything. “I think we should think about how we’re going to get out of here,” he said. “If they find us here in the morning, we’re going to be in the most awful trouble. They’ll probably call the police. I could lose my job.”
Max didn’t seem to be listening to him. “You’re right,” he said. “Maybe you’re right,” he amended. “Maybe it was an interdimensional portal, so when it opened, the universe did end.” He twisted round sharply and grabbed a handful of Maurice’s shirt front. “When you last saw my brother,” he growled, “was he alive?”
“I told you, he got hit by an arrow. Like that one,” he added, pointing at the arrow sticking out of the box. “It got him around about there,” he added, “where you’re holding my shirt.”
“Yes, but was he still alive? As in not actually dead yet?”
“I don’t know, do I? I’m not a doctor. Look, I really am most dreadfully sorry, but I don’t see how he could possibly have survived getting shot like that. And we really do need to get out of this building if we possibly can.” He stopped; a nasty thought had just struck him. “You can leave, can’t you? I mean, you’re not stuck here somehow, like your brother was.”
Max shrugged. “Don’t ask me,” he said. “I don’t know how I got here. Not all that sure where here is, now I think about it. Last time I looked, this was a cave, but you seem to think it’s some kind of warehouse—”
“Cave?”
“Yeah, cave. A long, deep hole in the ground. Where I’ve been for the last—For a very long time. Look, stop it, will you, you’re confusing me.” He looked so very sad that Maurice couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. “Jesus, I don’t know. I’ve been centred on finding Theo for so long, I haven’t really noticed much else. And now you’ve gone and got him killed.”
“I did not—” Maurice stopped. If he hadn’t burgled the GorgorSoft building, Theo Bernstein would still be alive. Oh, he thought.
“I guess you’re right,” Max wen
t on. “We should get the hell out of here. After all, there’s not a lot of point sticking around anymore, and you’ve got a life to go back to, and—Well, you’ve got a life. Me, I’m legally dead. I suppose I’ll have to go scrounge some money off my sister. That’ll be a gas – she’s a total flake – but what else am I supposed to do, for Christ’s sake?” He stood up, caught sight of the clothes he was wearing and shuddered. “I’ve really let myself go, you know? I’m going to have to put some serious work in. Well, you coming or what?”
He set off, and Maurice followed, and they came to a huge steel door. It was fitted with a fiendishly complex system of sliding bars and bolts, operated by cams and connecting rods. There was also a plain brass handle, which Max turned. The door opened.
Max hesitated and turned his head. “So long, then,” he said. “You were worse than useless, but I guess you did try, for what that’s worth. Not a hell of a lot, but—” He shrugged. “Fresh air,” he said. “Been a long time. Is it supposed to stink like that?”
“I can’t smell anything.”
“Yes, but you live here, God help you.” He frowned. “Hey,” he said. “What country is this?”
“England.”
“Oh boy. Never mind,” he added graciously, “I assume they have aeroplanes in this reality. Talking of which, give me a thousand dollars.”
“Um.”
“Sorry, forgot. Give me, say, seven hundred pounds. My sister’ll pay you back,” he added hopefully. “At some point.”
“I haven’t got—”
“No, of course you haven’t. How much have you got? Cash,” he added, “no cards or cheques. I’m dead, remember?”
Slowly, Maurice took out his wallet. It held two ten-pound notes. He handed them over. Max looked at them as if he’d just been given a dead baby bird, then stuffed them in his top pocket. “England,” he said. “Well, look on the bright side: it can only get better. So long, loser. If anyone asks, you haven’t seen me.” And he stepped through the door and was gone.
Maurice stood for a while looking at the door, then turned away, looking at the opened box. He frowned, then walked over and peered down into it. Empty, of course. He knelt down and taped it up again, then he prised the arrow loose, wrapped his handkerchief round the needle-sharp point – no way on earth Bernstein could’ve survived – and dropped it in his pocket. Then he picked up the plastic ray-gun. It felt different somehow: more plastic, less ray-gun. What the hell, he thought; he looked round until he found the squashed remains of the iced doughnut, then backed off ten paces and aimed the ray-gun at it. There were no sights, of course, so he squinted down it, using the slight raised line of flashing left behind by the moulding process to align it as best he could. Then he pressed the trigger. The ray-gun made a vague and wholly unconvincing roaring noise, the blue light flickered and a tinny machine voice said “EXTERMINATE!” Nothing else happened.
Ah, he thought. Then he stooped and picked up the squashed doughnut and walked out into the night, slamming the door behind him.
He walked to the nearest bus stop. It was raining.
He half expected to be fired the moment he walked through the door the next morning, and he spent the rest of the day waiting for a summons from Management, but it didn’t come. Morning coffee was the same as usual, except that, just possibly, Mr Pecheur was reluctant to meet his eye. Or, more likely, Mr Pecheur wasn’t particularly interested in looking at him. Reasonably enough; after all, it wasn’t like there was anything worth looking at.
The next day, after he’d put out the boxes to be collected, he lay in wait with the Omskium door just a crack open (ajar, not a door, ho bloody ho). Two men came to collect the boxes. He’d never seen either of them before in his life.
So he tried pushing his luck. He went back to the McDonald’s where the weirdness had taken place, but the worst that happened to him was a Filet-O-Fish with regular fries and a vanilla shake. He spent one evening riding the Underground, but his experiences, though varied and not particularly pleasant, were depressingly normal. He rang round the old crowd for news of Stephanie, and all he got was, Hadn’t you heard? She’s getting married. To George.
The plastic ray-gun resolutely stayed a plastic ray-gun, until he got sick of the sight of it. One night he left the blue light on, and when he woke up the next morning it had gone out. Battery flat. He couldn’t be bothered to replace it. Then, one lunchtime, he happened to pass Forbidden Planet, and saw it in the window; one just like it, anyhow. One sale, clearance, marked down from £16.99 to £1.99. He went inside and asked, Is it real? I mean, will it really vaporise things? They were used to that sort of question and answered kindly, No.
Back in his sub-basement, he sat on a box and thought, It’s over. No more weirdness. It’s been, what, three weeks since my trip to, the time I spent in, since I killed Theo Bernstein, and nothing remotely weird has happened to me. So, let’s see.
From his pocket he took a small, grease-transparent paper bag, and from the bag he took a single doughnut. He weighed it in his hand, then held it up and deliberately looked through it. He could see the angle where the walls met at the top left-hand corner of the room. That was all.
He ate the doughnut. Yum.
So; it really was over, finally, conclusively, now lettest thou thy fall guy depart in peace. He frowned, trying to figure out what that might mean.
Max had reckoned that he’d been drawn into this universe because the real Maurice had trapped Theo Bernstein in a jar – the real him being the super-cool, super-rich technology wizard currently played, in this reality, by Horrible George. Accordingly, the powers that were had snatched him away from all that and dumped him here, in the role of hero, to put things right. But he’d failed; in the goblin reality, which he’d ended up in, presumably through trying to use a damaged or defective bagel as a portal, he’d been responsible for the death of the man he’d been tasked with retrieving. At that point, he hypothesised, reality had stuck like it, the way his mother had warned him he’d do if he persisted in pulling faces. Stuck like it, stuck here, forever and ever: this is now officially and definitively real. You are now you. Tough.
Well, he thought; not so bad. After all, this is the life I’ve always known, and this is the me I’ve reluctantly grown to accept. True, this me’s life was warped at an early age by weirdness, which I now know to be part of a failed attempt to rescue Theo Bernstein, deceased. Presumably I’ll have to live the rest of my natural lifespan like this, and it wouldn’t be reaching too far to see in that an element of punishment. He couldn’t quite see the justice in that; it was unless-the-guilty-party-owns-up-the-whole-class-gets-detention justice, which had always offended him on an instinctive level. But that approach does seem to inform the legislative philosophies of nearly all liberal democracies, so what the heck; better thirty innocents should suffer than one guilty man go free and all that, and you’re notionally complicit in that because you voted in the last election, albeit for the other side, who never stood a chance anyway. The hell with all that. Too big and too remote to worry about. Not really his fault.
So; on a map of the multiverse, You Are Here. In a way, there was some slight consolation in knowing a little bit of the backstory, a privilege not extended to 99.9999 per cent of humanity, who get no sort of clue whatsoever. And, when he came to think about it, it wasn’t so bad; he had a roof over his head, a job that he didn’t actively hate, tolerably good health, a certain limited degree of freedom of speech and association, not that he had anything he wanted to say or anybody he was particularly keen to associate with. If he was arrested for a crime he hadn’t committed, he had a right to see a bored and relatively badly paid duty solicitor. He couldn’t be beheaded on the whim of a baron; he couldn’t even be mistakenly shot dead by the police without several newspapers making a fuss about it. If he was starving, he’d be fed. If he got toothache, he could see a dentist within a week. Compared to the vast majority of human beings over the course of history, he was unbelievably
well off and had absolutely nothing to complain about. In a multiverse crammed with unspeakable horrors, he was sitting pretty. So—
And Stephanie was going to marry George. Big deal; see above. Whatever love is, it’s notoriously not hereafter (he wasn’t quite sure what that meant, not having paid attention in English when they covered that part of the course), and what you’ve never had, you don’t miss. Now he came to think of it, he couldn’t see any way in which being in a long-term relationship with Stephanie could be fun, or tolerable, or even survivable; she was so her, and he was so him. The other him, of course, the one with the helicopter pad on the roof, was a different story; that him and Stephanie could quite easily have lived happily ever after. But the road had forked, the cell had divided, and therefore it was all for the best that George, the him he should have been, should end up with her. He had half a mind, in fact, to send them a wedding present. Towels, maybe, or a nice clock.
It could be worse. I may be stranded on a desert island, but at least I didn’t drown when the ship went down. Not like Theo Bernstein.
So he made an appointment, and went to see George. The pretext was paying back the money George had lent him, which he was now in a position to do. That’d be one small piece of rusty shrapnel dug out of his soul, at any rate.
There was a framed photo of her in his office; well, there would be, wouldn’t there? But it wasn’t the usual paperbacksized effort perched on his desk. Instead, she occupied a whole wall. It was a head-and-shoulders shot, which made the pupil of her eye substantially bigger than Maurice’s head. She wore combat fatigues and her default expression: slightly bored, mildly contemptuous, a tad resentful. It was some sort of attempt at 3-D technology, but clearly George’s people hadn’t quite cracked it yet, because all it did was make her shimmer slightly, as though she was being projected onto a thick bank of fog. Very occasionally, when you were least expecting it, she flickered.
“You needn’t have bothered, you know,” George said, as he double-checked that the cheque was signed and dated. “You sure this isn’t leaving you short?”