by Tom Holt
Maurice stared at him for a moment, then shook his head in wonder. “Twenty million dollars,” he said sadly. “You’ll have spent it all in a year or two.”
“Yes.” Max nodded solemnly. “It’ll be fun. And then I expect I’ll get some more from somewhere. Or it could all go horribly wrong and I’ll have to be dead for a while – you never know. That’s the joy of living in an infinite multiverse, I guess.” He peered at Maurice for a moment, and frowned. “It’s not a joy as far as you’re concerned, is it? Ah well, not to worry. Looking at you, I reckon happily-ever-after’s got your name written on it anyhow, and if you want it that way—”
“Yes.”
“Your call.” He pushed away his empty soup bowl. “Really, I only dropped by to say thanks for saving my brother.”
“Excuse me.”
“Thank you. For saving my—”
Maurice gazed at him open-mouthed for a moment. “Don’t mention it,” he said, in a tiny voice. “Any time.”
Max stood up and held out his hand, which Maurice shook in a rather dazed manner. “My hero,” Max said. “Well, so long.” He walked to the door, then turned back. “And I’ll probably hold you to that.”
“What?”
“Any time, you said. So, next time I screw my life up and I’m in desperate need of rescue, you’ll be number one on my turn-to list.”
“I was just being polite,” Maurice yelled after him, but by then he’d gone.
A month or so later, he got a parcel in the post. There was no sender’s name, and it was franked, so no identifying stamps. The postmark was so blurred he couldn’t read it.
Inside, he found a little silvery statuette, about the size of a salt cellar. On the base was engraved:
MAURICE KATZ
BEST HERO
“What’s that?” Stephanie asked.
He looked at her. She didn’t have a clue. “Oh, one of those novelty things. Saw it in a catalogue, thought it was rather fun. Like those World’s Greatest Golfer mugs, only a bit less—”
“It’s horrible,” she said. “Get rid of it.”
He put it on the windowsill in the downstairs toilet.
extras
meet the author
Charlie Hopkinson
TOM HOLT was born in London in 1961. At Oxford he studied bar billiards, ancient Greek agriculture and the care and feeding of small, temperamental Japanese motorcycle engines, interests which led him, perhaps inevitably, to qualify as a solicitor and emigrate to Somerset, where he specialised in death and taxes for seven years before going straight in 1995. Now a full-time writer, he lives in Chard, Somerset, with his wife, one daughter and the unmistakable scent of blood, wafting in on the breeze from the local meat-packing plant.
For even more madness and TOMfoolery go to www.orbitbooks.net.
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introducing
If you enjoyed
WHEN IT’S A JAR,
look out for
DOUGHNUT
by Tom Holt
The doughnut is a thing of beauty. A circle of fried, doughy perfection. A source of comfort in trying times, perhaps. For Theo Bernstein, however, it is far, far more.
Things have been going pretty badly for Theo Bernstein. An unfortunate accident at work has lost him his job (and his work involved a Very Very Large Hadron Collider, so he’s unlikely to get it back). His wife has left him. And he doesn’t have any money.
Before Theo has time to fully appreciate the pointlessness of his own miserable existence, news arrives that his good friend Professor Pieter van Goyen, renowned physicist and Nobel laureate, has died.
By leaving the apparently worthless contents of his safety deposit to Theo, however, the professor has set him on a quest of epic proportions. A journey that will rewrite the laws of physics. A battle to save humanity itself.
This is the tale of a man who had nothing and gave it all up to find his destiny—and a doughnut.
CHAPTER ONE
“One mistake,” Theo said sadly, “one silly little mistake, and now look at me.”
The Human Resources manager stared at him with fascination. “Not that little,” she said breathlessly. “You blew up—”
“A mountain, yes.” He shrugged. “And the Very Very Large Hadron Collider, and very nearly Switzerland. Like I said, one mistake. I moved the decimal point one place left instead of one place right. Could’ve happened to anyone.”
The Human Resources manager wasn’t so sure about that, but she didn’t want to spoil the flow. She brushed the hair out of her eyes and smiled encouragingly. “Go on,” she said.
“Well,” Theo replied, leaning back a little in his chair, “that was just the beginning. After that, things really started to get ugly.”
“Um.”
“First,” Theo said, “my wife left me. You can’t blame her, of course. People nudging each other and looking at her wherever she went, there goes the woman whose husband blew up the VVLHC, that sort of thing—”
“Excuse me,” the Human Resources manager interrupted. “This would be your third wife?”
“Fourth. Oh, sorry, forgot. Pauline dumped me for her personal fitness trainer while I was still at CalTech. It was Amanda who left me after the explosion.”
“Ah, right. Go on.”
“Anyway,” Theo said, “there I was, alone, no job, no chance of anyone ever wanting to hire me ever again, but at least I still had the twenty million dollars my father left me. I mean, money isn’t everything—”
“Um.”
“But at least I knew I wasn’t going to starve, not so long as I had Dad’s money. And it was invested really safely.”
“Yes?”
“In Schliemann Brothers,” Theo said mournfully, “the world’s biggest private equity fund. No way it could ever go bust, they said.” He smiled. “Ah well.”
“You lost—”
“The lot, yes. Of course, the blow was cushioned slightly by the fact that Amanda would’ve had most of it, when the divorce went through. But instead, all she got was the house, the ranch, the ski resort and the Caribbean island. She was mad as hell about that,” Theo added with a faint grin, “but what can you do?”
The Human Resources manager was twisting a strand of her hair round her finger. “And?”
“Anyhow,” Theo went on, “it’s been pretty much downhill all the way since then. After I lost the house, I stayed with friends for a while, only it turned out they weren’t friends after all, not after all the money had gone. Actually, to be fair, it wasn’t just that, it was the blowing-up-the-VVLHC thing. You see, most of my friends were physicists working on the project, so they were all suddenly out of work too, and they tried not to blame me, but it’s quite hard not blaming someone when it actually is their fault.” He grinned sadly, then shrugged. “So I moved into this sort of hostel place, where they’re supposed to help you get back on your feet.”
The pressure of the coiled hair around her finger was stopping her blood from flowing. She let go. “Yes? And?”
“I got asked to leave,” Theo said sadly. “Apparently, technically I counted as an arsonist, and the rules said no arsonists, because of the insurance. They told me, if I’d killed a bunch of people in the explosion it’d have been OK, because their project mission statement specifically includes murderers. But, since nobody got hurt in the blast, I had to go. So I’ve been sort of camping out in the subway, places like that. Which is why,” he added, sitting up straight and looking her in the eye, “I really need this job. I mean, it’ll help me put my life back together, get me on my feet again. Well? How about it?”
The Human Resources manager looked away. “If it was up to me—”
“Oh, come on.” Theo gave her his best dying spaniel look. “You can’t say I haven’t got qualifications. Two doctorates in quantum physics—”
“Not relevant qualifications,” the
Human Resources manager said. “Not relevant to the field of flipping burgers. I’m sorry.” She did look genuinely sad, he had to give her that. “You’re overqualified. With a résumé like that, you’re bound to get a better offer almost immediately, so where’s the point in us hiring you?”
“Oh, come on,” Theo said again. “After what I’ve done? Nobody’s going to want me. I’m unemployable.”
“Yes.” She smiled sympathetically. “You are. Also, you’re a bit old—”
“I’m thirty-one.”
“Most of our entry-level staff are considerably younger than that,” she said. “I’m not sure we could find a uniform to fit you.” He could see she was struggling with something, and it wasn’t his inside-leg measurement. He betted he could guess what it would be. “And there’s the hand.”
Won his bet. He gave her a cold stare. “You do know it’s against the law to discriminate on grounds of physical disability.”
“Yes, but—” She gave him a helpless look. “Frankly, I think the company would be prepared to take a stand on this one. We’ve got our customers to think about, and—”
He nodded slowly. He could see her point. Last thing you want when you’re buying your burger, fries and shake is to see them floating towards you through the air. It was an attitude he’d learned to live with, ever since the accident had left his right arm invisible up to the elbow. He wished now he’d lied about it, but the man at the outreach centre had told him to be absolutely honest. “Fine,” he said. “Well, thanks for listening, anyhow.”
“I really am sorry.”
“Of course you are.”
“And anyway,” she added brightly, “a guy like you, with all those degrees and doctorates. You wouldn’t be happy flipping burgers in a fast-food joint.”
“Wouldn’t I?” He gave her a gentle smile. “It’d have been nice to find out. Goodbye.”
Outside, the sun was shining; a trifle brighter than it would otherwise have done, thanks to him, but he preferred not to dwell on that. He had enough guilt to lug around without contemplating the effect his mishap had had on the ozone layer. Cheer up, he ordered himself; one more interview to go to, and who knows? This time—
“Worked in a slaughterhouse before, have you?” the man asked.
“Um, no.”
“Doesn’t matter. What you got to do is,” he said, pointing down the dark corridor, “wheel that trolley full of guts from that hatch there to that skip there, empty the guts into the skip, go back, fill another trolley, wheel it to the skip, empty it, go back and fill it again. And so on. Reckon you can do that?”
“I think so.”
The man nodded. “Most of ’em stick it out three weeks,” he said. “You, I’m guessing, maybe two. Still, if you want the job—”
“Oh yes,” Theo said. “Please.”
The man shrugged. “Suit yourself. Couldn’t do it myself, and I’ve been in the slaughtering forty years, but—” He paused and frowned. “What’s the matter with your arm?”
Theo sensed that the man probably didn’t need to hear about the quantum slipstream effect of the implosion of the VVLHC. “Lost it. Bitten off by a shark.”
“Too bad. Won’t that make it awkward, loading the guts?”
“Oh, I’ll have a stab at it, see how I get on.”
“That’s the spirit,” the man said absently. “OK, you start tomorrow.”
In the beginning was the Word.
Not, perhaps, the most auspicious start for a cosmos; because once you have a Word, sooner or later you find you’ve also got an annoying Paperclip, and little wriggly red lines like tapeworms under all the proper nouns, and then everything freezes solid and dies. This last stage is known to geologists as the Ice Age, and one can’t help thinking that it could’ve been avoided if only the multiverse had been thoroughly debugged before it was released.
But things change; that’s how it works. You can see Time as a coral reef of seconds and minutes, growing into a chalk island sitting on top of an infinite coal seam studded with diamonds the size of oil tankers; and each second is a cell dividing, two, three or a million roads-not-travelled-by every time your heart beats and the silicone pulses; and every division is a new start, the beginning of another version of the story—versions in which the Red Sea didn’t part or Lee Harvey Oswald missed or Hamlet stayed in Wittenberg and got a job.
So; in the beginning was the Word, but ten nanoseconds later there was a twelve-volume dictionary, and ten nanoseconds after that a Library of Congress, with 90 per cent of the books in foreign languages. It’s probably not possible after such a lapse of time to find out what the original Word was. Given the consequences, however, it could well have been oops.
introducing
If you enjoyed
WHEN IT’S A JAR
look out for
HELEN AND TROY’S EPIC ROAD QUEST
by A. Lee Martinez
Witness the epic battle of the cyclops! Visit the endangered dragon preserve! Please, no slaying.
Solve the mystery of The Mystery Cottage, if you dare! Buy some knickknacks from The Fates! They might come in handy later.
On a road trip across an enchanted America, Helen and Troy will discover all this and more. If the curse placed on them by an ancient god doesn’t kill them or the pack of reluctant orc assassins don’t catch up to them, Helen and Troy might reach the end their journey in one piece, where they might just end up destroying the world. Or at least a state or two.
A minotaur girl, an all-American boy, a three-legged dog, and a classic car are on the road to adventure, where every exit leads to adventure. Whether they like it or not.
CHAPTER ONE
The strangeness of a minotaur working at a burger joint wasn’t lost on Helen, but she’d needed a summer job. If she’d applied herself, she probably could’ve found something better, but it was only a few months until she started college, so why bother?
Fortunately Mr. Whiteleaf had been pretty cool about it. He didn’t make her flip burgers, and he didn’t make her stand out on the curb with a sandwich board as she’d feared he might. She usually ran the register, and while some customers might give her funny looks before placing their orders, that was their problem, not hers.
Full-blown minotaurism was rare in this day and age. Last time she’d checked, there had been thirteen recorded cases in the last hundred years. All the others were male. The enchantment or curse or whatever you wanted to call it usually didn’t take with girls. Not all the way.
The last full female minotaur, Gladys Hoffman, aka Minotaur Minnie, had made a name for herself as a strongwoman touring with P. T. Barnum’s Traveling Museum, Menagerie, Caravan, and Hippodrome. Gladys had made the best of her circumstances, but that was 1880. The world was different now, and Helen had more options. Or so she liked to believe.
She was still a seven-foot girl with horns and hooves, dozens of case studies in various medical journals, and her very own Wikipedia page. But she’d learned to roll with the punches.
The family waiting to be rung up right now was giving her the Look. A lot of people didn’t know what to do with Helen, what category to throw her in. Civil rights had made a lot of progress for the orcs, ratlings, ogres, and other “monstrous” races. But minotaurs didn’t have numbers. There had been no protests, no sit-ins, no grand moment in history when the rest of the world saw them as anything other than anomalies, victims of lingering curses from the days of yore carried along rare family bloodlines.
The father squinted at her as if she were a traitor to her kind.
She didn’t even eat meat. Not that it was any of his business.
Helen rubbed her bracelet. She did that whenever she felt selfconscious. Jewelry wasn’t allowed on the job, but Mr. Whiteleaf had made an exception since hers was prescription to deal with her condition.
The little girl stared. Kids couldn’t help it.
“Are you a monster?” she asked.
Helen smiled. “No, sweetie. I�
�m just an Enchanted American.”
The mother pulled the girl away. Helen was going to say she didn’t mind, that kids were only curious, and that she preferred it when people talked to her directly about her condition rather than pretend they didn’t notice.
“I’m sorry,” said the father.
“It’s OK,” replied Helen. “Kids, huh?”
He placed his order. She rang him up, gave him back his change and his number.
“We’ll call you when your order is ready, sir,” she said with a forced smile. “Thank you for eating at Magic Burger. And we hope you have a magical day.”
Helen leaned against the counter, but she didn’t allow herself to slouch. Working the register was, from a fast-food perspective, a dignified job, but it also came with responsibilities. Mr. Whiteleaf didn’t expect much. Look as if she were happy to be there. Or, if not happy, at least not ready to clock out and go home.
“Helen.”
She jumped. Mr. Whiteleaf was like a ghost sometimes. The small, pale elf was past his prime by a few hundred years. Middle age wasn’t a pretty thing for elves, who went from tall, regal figures to short, potbellied creatures with astigmatism in a very short time. And then they were stuck with another six or seven centuries walking this earth as creaky old men with tufts of green hair growing out of their drooping ears. But Mr. Whiteleaf was a good boss.
If only he wouldn’t sneak up on her like that.
She craned her neck to peer down at him. As she was very tall and he was short, he only came to her lower abdomen.
“Hello, sir,” she said.
He adjusted his glasses. “Quitting time.”
She made a show of glancing at the clock on the wall, as if she had just noticed it and hadn’t been counting the minutes. “Yes, sir.”
Whiteleaf said, “I hate to trouble you, Helen, but would you mind working late tonight? I need some help giving the place a thorough cleaning. Word through the grapevine is that there’s a surprise health inspection tomorrow. It won’t be a problem, will it?”