by Tom Holt
“You bastard,” said Maurice.
“I think it was Richard Nixon,” Odin said cheerfully, “who said that once you have them by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow. Well?”
There followed a long, awkward silence. Then Maurice said, “Chicken noodle soup?”
“Every third Friday. In here, on your own, no waiting. Best offer you’re going to get,” he added. “Ever.”
“Chicken noodle soup with dumplings?”
“Don’t push it,” Odin advised sternly.
“OK,” Maurice said. “But I get to keep the constant object.”
Odin shook his head. “Sorry, no. I’m afraid that’s a deal-breaker. This place basically functions on the basis of the consent of the governed, and if a miserable little runt like you were to go around winning all the time, the consequences would not be desirable. So, you give me the ray-gun, I’ll see to it that you get your chicken soup.” He hesitated, then added, “With dumplings. Well, dumpling. And that’s a promise. Well?”
Maurice thought about it for a long time. Then he said, “Deal. Except, I get to keep the ray-gun, so long as I promise not to shoot more than fifty people a day, and then only in self-defence. I just want a peaceful life,” he added. “Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“Of course not,” Odin said, smiling. “Personally, I abhor gratuitous violence.” And then he hit him over the head with a sauté pan.
The first thing he did when he woke up was check that the ray-gun was in his pocket. Yes, fine. So that was all right.
For some reason, nobody wanted to sit next to him at dinner that evening. Also fine – suited him perfectly. He stared at his dish of boiled pork until it was time to go to sleep, and woke up in time for breakfast. It was, needless to say, boiled pork.
A few hardy souls did try to kill him during the course of the day, but, as he’d hoped, the Valhalla Effect worked on batteries, and he zapped them easily. He made a sort of base camp in the corner of the room, where nobody could sneak up behind him, and sat down, and waited. To pass the time, he tried to make sense of—
Let’s see, he said to himself. Multiverse theory (he heard someone scream, and realised it was him) means that somewhere there’s a universe where I took the right subjects at school, founded a multi-billion-dollar company, got together with Stephanie and lived happily ever after. But, at some point in my research work for some project, I accidentally created a portal into the YouSpace thing and trapped Theo Bernstein in a jar. This wasn’t supposed to happen, so my memory was wiped and I was shunted across into a parallel universe where I took the wrong GCSEs and ended up as a serial underachiever, but where I was also destined from birth to be a great – second best, but still great – hero, who’d rescue Theo Bernstein and set everything to rights. Which, goddammit, I did. Well, then.
When in hero-world, do as the heroes do? Done that. Let’s see: his destiny prophesied twice; kills dragon; enters the mysterious castle of the fisher-king; confronted with a whole load of annoying tests, passes tests; rescues the FK and heals him of his wounds (well, he’s better now, isn’t he?); gives his life—
Um, yes. Heroes do that. At least, the top one per cent, the real high-fliers do; it’s the second-raters, the supporting cast, the straight-to-video heroes who survive, marry the girl and live happily ever after. But they don’t get their footprints on the Walk of Fame, they don’t win the big gongs. Only the ones who snuff it do that—
Um.
And there’s a subset of that top one per cent who get sent down to the Underworld and make it back; they steal the guard dogs, or they wrestle or play chess with Death (I can’t play chess; would Ludo do instead? Probably not), and because they’re so very exceptionally cool, so exuberantly uber-uber, they die and go on to live happily ever after. Which, presumably, is why Hercules won the Best Hero award, and I didn’t.
Bastard.
Yes, but you’ve got to hand it to the big guy. He busted out of Hell and he wrestled with Death – that’s two for two, while I’m stuck here. Stuck here because if I force Odin to let me go – which I can – he’ll kill Stephanie and she’ll end up down here, and there’s an outside chance she might actually like all this garbage, well, more than an outside chance, but I can’t bring myself to do that to her. True heroism, see. Catch twenty-bloody-two.
Think about it, will you? Do you really honestly believe Odin wants women in Valhalla? Hell as like, no pun intended. It’s a threat – one I can’t risk him carrying out, true, but let’s think about this. To keep me here, given that I’m at least a nominee for Best Hero, maybe; to get his own back on me if I escape, probably not. Like he said, the aggravation of installing separate toilet facilities alone would outweigh the cold joy of vengeance any day.
And then it came to him, in a blinding flash of clarity: the word of God, or at least, the word of the winner of the Best Creator award, which had to count for something, surely. There’s always next year, Theo had said. Or, loosely paraphrased, it ain’t over yet.
Ex cathedra? Well, he’d been sitting down when he said it, and the lack of a burning bush was probably just something to do with the fire regulations. One of these days, if ever he had the time and the opportunity, he felt he’d quite like to know precisely how Theo Bernstein had created the multiverse by accidentally blowing up the Very Very Large Hadron Collider; until that time, he was, however, prepared to accept it as an act of faith. He’d met Theo, talked to him, rescued him, even; no doubt whatsoever in his mind that Theo Bernstein existed. So, then; with an explicit mandate from the Creator, how could he possibly go wrong?
Don’t answer that. Instead, think about how it might just possibly go right, and put your trust in—
Theo Bernstein. God help us. Well, quite.
The waitress was sullen but guarded. They’d made her put on a white pinafore over her chainmail. She held the bowl at arm’s length, as if the contents were corrosive.
“Chicken soup,” she said. “With dumplings.”
Well, actually dumpling; but that was fine. He waited till she’d gone, leaving him alone in Odin’s private dining room. He peered down into the bowl.
As he’d anticipated, the chef had tweaked the recipe slightly to give it that distinctive Valhalla regional twist; instead of chicken noodle soup, it was boiled pork noodle soup, without the noodles. Well, of course. The pig, he knew, came back to life again every morning, was therefore sustainable, equals free. Chicken they presumably had to send out for (he shuddered to think what freight costs were across the border between Life and Death), and once it had been eaten, you had to buy more. A small, understandable deception. The main thing was, it was boiled pork noodle-free noodle soup with dumpling.
Well, he thought, I’m entitled. I gave my life, after all, not knowing there’d be an afterlife; I took a bullet for Theo, and that’s real heroism. And then, I didn’t wrestle with Death, I did something rather less sweaty and more civilised: I negotiated with Death. And won. And besides, this may not work, in which case I really am stuck here for ever.
Only one way to find out.
With the handle of his spoon he fished out the dumpling and laid it carefully on the tablecloth to drain. Then he drew the ray-gun and adjusted the beam setting down to maximum output, third-to-tightest beam focus. He patted the dumpling dry with his table napkin, then stood up, backed off two paces, aimed at the exact centre of the dumpling and opened fire.
The beam went through the dumpling, the table and the floor, and presumably downwards and onwards into infinity. He moved close to examine the result. One dumpling, with a hole in it.
The door flew open. The waitress was back, minus pinny, plus battleaxe. She roared as she charged, but when he turned to face her he’d already lifted the holed dumpling to his eye.
“Here’s looking at you, kid,” he said, and vanished.
He looked up, and saw his own face.
It was on the front cover of the international edition of Newsweek magazine, which
the passenger in the seat opposite was reading. Behind him, through the window, he saw the distinctive circle-and-crossbar logo of the London Underground – like a crossed-out doughnut, if you’re fancifully inclined. The train was just leaving Piccadilly Circus station.
Because of all the dead people, he thought; of whom I’m now one. But he felt all right, more or less. He looked down at his feet, which were encased in thousand-dollar designer trainers, then back at Newsweek. The caption read, Miracle Worker.
The magazine reader got off at the next stop, leaving his comic on the seat behind him. Maurice leaned across and picked it up. Lead article: world’s richest man Maurice Katz launches revolutionary new games console. True virtual reality now, well, a reality; imaginary worlds so real you’ll actually believe you’re there.
Um, he thought.
He felt in his pocket and found his phone. Two new messages: one from George, pleased to report that profits at Overthwart & Headlong were up 26 per cent on last quarter, and thank you for believing in me (well, quite; one good turn, and all that). One from Stephanie; arriving back in the UK Friday, so will be home in time for our anniversary, love and XXXX’s. Gosh, Maurice thought, I’m back.
He frowned. No, not quite yet.
He got off at Regent’s Park and had to search for quite some time before he found a café selling doughnuts. I hope I’m right about this, he thought, and lifted the doughnut to his eye.
His flat was pretty much as he’d left it; looking like it had just been burgled (but it hadn’t), lingering smell of vintage processed foods and long-term unwashed underwear. He pushed through into the kitchen and, on the windowsill, there it was.
Very carefully, he picked it up. He thought hard, trying to remember exactly. He’d met Duty and Fun out in the street, and presumably he must’ve chosen the path of Duty, because by no stretch of the imagination could the sequence of events thereafter be described as Fun. The next thing you do, they’d told him, will be the most momentous event of your life. It will change everything. It will enable you to fulfil your destiny. And what had he done? He’d bought a bottle of beer, drunk it, washed out the bottle and put it here, on the kitchen shelf, to drain.
When is a door between alternate universes not a door between alternate universes? When it’s a jar. When is a jar containing a hermetically sealed transdimensional microenvironment not a jar containing a hermetically sealed transdimensional microenvironment? When it’s a beer. Of course, he’d soaked off the label, so he was having to rely on his memory here, but it was that Spanish stuff, the treacly one that gives you a headache. One empty San Miguel bottle to bring them all, and in the darkness et gratuitously allegorical cetera.
He found some brown paper and wrapped it carefully; then he took the Tube into town, and walked down to the Embankment, pausing only to buy a doughnut from a street vendor. He stood on the middle of Waterloo Bridge and looked down into the churning, oxtail-soup waters of the Thames. On the brown paper he’d addressed it Theo Bernstein, Somewhere. As he leaned forward and dropped it into the river, he had no doubt at all that it’d reach him. Messages in bottles always do.
He wasn’t sure the next bit was necessary, but decided on balance that it probably was. He went into the nearest pub, down the steps to the gents’ toilet, into the cubicle. From his pocket, he took the ray-gun. He hesitated; I might still need it, he thought. No, he thought; maybe if I was still a hero, but I’m not, am I? Or maybe this is exactly what a hero ought to do, in which case—
Oh, the hell with it, he told himself, and dropped it into the toilet bowl. There was a loud plop, nothing for a whole second; then an arm clad in white samite broke up through the blue-disinfectant-tinted water, holding the ray-gun aloft. Three solemn brandishes – for some silly reason he felt a lump in his throat, like you sometimes do in the movies, when they get something perfectly right – and then it disappeared, leaving not a ripple behind.
That’s quite enough of that, he told himself. The doughnut was already in his left hand. He lifted it to his eye, and—
The wall spoke to him. “There’s a Mr Bernstein to see you, Maurice.”
He looked up. “Bernstein?”
“Apparently.”
He caught his breath. “Theo or Max?”
“Just a second.” And what a long second it proved to be. “Max.”
Ah well. “Great,” he told the wall. “I’ll be right down.”
“What’s for lunch?” Max said, as they soared heavenwards in the invisible lift. “I’m starving.”
“Chicken noodle soup.”
“With dump—?”
“No,” Maurice said firmly. “Also, no bagels or deep-fried onion rings, and absolutely definitely no doughnuts. Definitely for sure. I’m through with all that.”
“Watching the calories?”
“Like a hawk.”
The door opened, and Maurice led the way. “No calls, please, Betty,” he told the wall. “Lunch for two in the small boardroom.”
Max’s head was swivelling in every direction. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
“Designed it myself,” Maurice replied. “This is our sixth-generation Now-U-C-Me HardlyThere glass.” He swung his fist apparently sideways, and there was a bonging sound. “Virtually invisible and as tough as oak. Tougher, actually.”
Max grinned at him. “You invented it, naturally.”
“So they tell me. Now, of course, I’m going to be taking more of a supervisory role as far as R and D is concerned.
After all, we’ve got the best brains in the business working for us, so why keep a pack of ravening wolves and bark yourself? From now on, I intend to concentrate on the executive and managerial side of things.”
“Meaning?”
Maurice smiled. “Keeping out of people’s way,” he said, “not getting under their feet. And living happily ever after, of course.” They’d arrived. He pushed open the door. It was only faux Omskium, of course, but you’d need a master’s degree to tell the difference. Inside, a bare white room, a long, plain pine table, six plastic stackaway chairs. “Right,” he said, grabbing Max by the collar and flattening him against the wall. “How the hell did you get away from the Awards Ceremony world?”
Max gently prised open his fingers until he could breathe. “Easy,” he said. “You ordered doughnuts, remember? While everyone was crowding round your dead body, we just sort of helped ourselves, and—”
“You left me there,” Maurice snarled. “To die.”
“Well, to go on being dead. There’s a subtle but distinct difference.”
“You saw the bastard was going to shoot Theo. You didn’t lift a finger.”
“Of course not,” Max said gently. “No need. You were there.”
“What?”
“Don’t try and be a have-a-go hero – isn’t that what they keep telling us? Leave it to trained professionals. So we did. And,” he added, nodding at the room, “no harm done. In fact, everything turned out like it should. If we’d interfered, God knows what might’ve happened.” He eased away from Maurice and sat down at the table. “Did you know, by the way, that Theo actually means God, in Greek? Like in theology and atheist. Funny old world, isn’t it?”
Maurice realised he looked pretty silly, standing there fuming while Max sprawled comfortably in a chair. He sat down opposite. “He’s your brother,” he said. “And you left it to me.”
“Yes, well, look at me. Hero material? Hardly. Anyhow, water under the bridge. Theo says thanks for the bottle, by the way. No idea what he means by it, but presumably you do.”
Maurice looked at him. “You’ve seen him?”
“So to speak.” Max nodded. “He appears to me in dreams. Mostly he just moans at me, Max, you’re a mess, Max, when are you going to pull yourself together and learn to fly straight? That’s the gospel according to Theo all right. Still, you can’t choose your family. Talking of which,” he added, “my sister Janine says she’s suing you for twenty billion dollars, mental distre
ss and anguish caused by the disappearance of her brother. She’s a laugh and a half, my sister.”
“Runs in the family,” Maurice said sourly. “Don’t be like that,” Max said, picking up a framed photograph: Stephanie, Maurice and (Maurice winced slightly) two infant children, their faces combining the very worst aspects of both parents’ appearances. Oh well, Maurice thought; happily ever after. “A nice man from the Board of Control explained it all to us. He said that you had to take the bullet for Theo, because—”
Roughly what he’d figured out for himself. He listened patiently, and then they brought in the soup. No rolls, no bread and butter, nothing you could inadvertently poke a hole through. Done with all that.
“Anyway,” Max said, “as far as any of us can tell, we’re all together in this reality – you, me, Janine, your Xena-Warrior-Princess doll, even George the Bastard who shot you – and this is the best of all possible worlds, and by the looks of things, all is for the best in it. Great, eh?”
Hard to argue with that. “What about—?”
“Took a look for myself on the way over here,” Max replied. “No Carbonec House, no Carbonec plc listed at the Register of Companies, no business of that name advertising in the trade press. Where the building used to be, there’s a sort of formal garden thing with benches and a fountain and a pigeon-shat statue of some Victorian guy on a horse waving a sword about. Nobody there but a few people eating lunch and the usual duty druggies and winos. So, my guess is, they’re not needed in this reality. So, another box ticked, right?”
Maurice nodded slowly, while Max guzzled his soup like a contractor draining a septic tank. “How about you?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” Max said. “The bad guys I owed money to don’t seem to exist in this continuum. Also, day before yesterday, I won twenty million dollars on the Ecuadorian state lottery.” He smiled. “It’s like someone up there’s looking after me, except I’m confident that’s not the case, because he’s my brother and he wouldn’t. Just lucky, I guess.”