Through The Wormhole, Literally

by David Winship

  Far from feeling intimidated and persecuted, however, the leader secretly relished being the centre of so much attention. He figured that if he was the focus of criticism, people must think he was actually doing stuff. Far better to risk being vilified than leave behind a legacy of obscurity and anonymity. Far better to strive to do something remarkable with your twilight years than wallow in mindless approval. If people judge and criticise and question you, it means you've actually stood up for something - something you believe in, something you're prepared to defend. The leader's minions and advisors tried to tell him this actually meant defending the negligent destruction of a famous chillok city, but he had made up his mind - he was going to face the music with defiance and resolve and he was not going to skulk in the shadows to avoid it.

  The fact is, he had recently begun worrying that no one talked about him at all when he was not around (indeed, a few of his critics in the intergalactic arena had facetiously started referring to him as 'his irrelevance' instead of 'his reverence'). But now, galvanised by the challenge of defending the reputation of the planet, the Mortian supremo's sense of self-importance was fully restored and he had prepared for his departure by staging a raft of ceremonial activities like seaweed wrestling and blind cruiser jousting. He took his leave of Melinda by presenting her with a red and black mosaic of a double-headed orbis bird, a symbol of their joint leadership of the planet (or, more likely, a reminder that he was not relinquishing his authority during the period of his absence).

  Melinda stared at the gift, not knowing how to respond. "Thanks," she said. "Literally. Um, don't I have to be officially sworn in or something?"

  The leader threw a look of doubtful certainty and nodded. "Of course,” he said, annoyed with himself that he had not formulated a protocol for such a contingency. "There is an ancient protocol for such occasions."

  "Yeh, 'cause I know I'm just taking care of things pro tem while you're on..." She managed to grab the word 'trial' before it left her lips. "... on official business elsewhere. But I just thought..."

  With a dismissive flourish of his hand, the leader interrupted. "There will be a ceremony in the Orbicular Room," he declared, "in, er, ten of your earthling minutes." He sashayed out of the reception chamber, depositing in his wake a trail of reddish-orange residue and a pungent aroma of exotic oils.

  When Melinda arrived at the Orbicular Room, she was ushered by one of the leader's minions to a cushion diametrically opposite the cross-legged form of the leader himself. It was essentially a whispering gallery - the ceiling and the walls formed the top half of an ellipsoid, so that a person could hear another person whispering at the opposite focal point on the other side of the room. The leader, wearing a strange wig of dark wavy earthling hair which he was dipping in a bowl of fragrant broth, faced the wall and uttered mysterious phrases that eventually transmuted into words that Melinda could hear and, up to a point, understand: "If your desires are not extravagant, they will be rewarded. Do not follow where the path may lead; go where there is no path and leave a trail..." A few hastily summoned minions, hovering in the middle of the room in awkward silence, tried their best to look like part of a ceremony. They were the only other witnesses to the leader's bizarre monologue. "Your ability to juggle many tasks will take you far, but you should concentrate on one at a time..." After droning on for some considerable time, he finished with a question, "Are you ready to hear the task I have chosen for you?"

  Melinda looked around and realised the inquiry was directed at her. "Okay," she said, forgetting to whisper. The echoes of her voice ricocheted around the room. "Sorry!" she said, forgetting once again.

  The leader had to wait for the echoes to recede before he could continue. "Your task is to assign a new name to our planet."

  Melinda whispered with exaggerated articulation, "Why? Why does it need a new name?" Receiving no reply, she repeated it with even more exaggerated articulation.

  Eventually, the sound waves of the leader's whispered explanation reflected down from the ceiling. "We rename our planet at the end of every katun."

  "But didn't the katun cycle end like quite recently?"

  "Yes, but I forgot to rename the planet," the leader admitted, a hint of irritation in his voice. "I'd been very busy. We were under the impression that our entire race was threatened with extinction at the end of the cycle."

  "It's okay," Melinda assured him. "We all forget things. Literally."

  "Don't ask, don't say. Everything lies in silence," the leader counselled her, sounding a little peeved. "I am blessed with the happy combination of a clear conscience and a good memory. The superior person may neglect small matters but can be entrusted with great concerns." He continued mumbling as he shuffled across the room and told Melinda, "You are now free to pursue the path I have chosen for you. It will be full of hazards as all paths are, but go forward without fear and use the obstacles as stepping stones."

  "Am I sworn in?" Melinda asked.

  The leader smacked his lips over his toothless gums and said, "Never return to a firework once it has been lit."

  Melinda was on the point of asking him what she should do if polkingbeal67 and yukawa3 were returned to Morys, but she changed her mind. On reflection, she thought she could probably do without the benefit of all that fortune cookie wisdom and just watched him amble slowly away. "If they get any sense out of him at the Court, it'll be a miracle," she thought.

  Later that day, after the leader had made an ostentatious departure from the palace, Melinda visited the inner chambers where she was expected to take up residence. She was met by nipkow4, formerly a producer for the Morys Minor Broadcasting Corporation, now appointed as Melinda's senior advisor. He bowed his head and greeted her with obsequious politeness, "Our revered locum."

  Melinda's eyes widened. "What? What did you call me?"

  Nipkow4 bowed his head again. "Our revered locum," he repeated. "It is your title during our revered leader's absence."

  Listening to nipkow4's strained and deferential voice, Melinda suddenly felt really alone, like a lost child in a crowd of strangers. Estranged from the characters that had captured her heart and soul, isolated from smolin9's effervescent earnestness and polkingbeal67's gruff blustering and even yukawa3's deranged inanity, the prospect of an indeterminate period of time on Morys suddenly felt less than appealing, a whole lot less than the ultimate otherworldly dream of utopian happy endings she had envisaged when she had left Earth. She was beginning to feel like the butt of some time travel agent's joke. Certainly, she was going to have to dig deep into her repertoire of life coach prescriptions if she was to survive the feeling of detachment and alienation, of being lost in a cosmic wilderness without a map. Literally. "Tell me, nipkow4," she said, "do you think all this is crazy? Do you think I'm just kidding myself trying to be a leader of an alien planet? I mean like, what's happening? You know what? If I so much as mentioned any of this to one of my own, er, species, they'd lock me up and throw away the key."

  "But it's no accident, your reverence," nipkow4 assured her. "You were chosen."

  "I guess you're right. I shouldn't doubt myself like this."

  "Absolutely not, your reverence." Nipkow4 continued to bow his head every time he spoke. "You're on the road less travelled and you're discovering the pathway to success. A rolling stone gathers no moss, your reverence. Literally. So let's get out there!"

  Melinda was vaguely aware that this was like listening to the Mortian leader, but it was having the desired effect. "You are so right," she said. "I've been focusing too much on the big tasks rather than the little ones."

  "The little things build the foundation for the big ones, your reverence," said nipkow4, bowing and nodding at the same time. "You've got to make sure you have a solid foundation before you build on it."

  "I'll make some mistakes along the way, but I'm going to make those mistakes with one hundred percent effort."

  Nipkow4 had stopped bowing and was now executing small but dignifie
d hops of excitement. "Yes, your reverence! Hustle out there! Run the plays! Go out there and execute! Let's have some fun out there! Worry about later later!"

  They were really egging each other on now. "You'd better believe it," Melinda enthused. "I'm going to live every day as if it was my last!"

  "And then some day you'll be right!" said nipkow4, no longer thinking about what he was saying. "You'll be right! Right! Right! Oh yeah!" The hops were not small any more, nor were they particularly dignified.

  A commotion on the staircase outside drew their attention. Apparently, one of the servobots had picked up a transmission from yukawa3 on a wormhole communication channel. Desperately hurrying up the stairs to deliver the news, the servobot had collided with a couple of executive minions and a statue of an ancient Mortian war hero. Once the turmoil had settled, Melinda and nipkow4 learned that yukawa3 had sent a distress signal from the Pale Blue Dot appealing for smolin9 to get in contact with him.

  . . .

  In order to understand why yukawa3 issued a distress signal, knowing full well it would be picked up by monitoring stations on Morys Minor, we must acquaint ourselves with an account of the events leading up to it.

  In the days after their hapless attempt to secure employment for yukawa3 as a deckhand, polkingbeal67 had tried to make ends meet as a waitress despite feeling increasingly unwell. The irregular configuration of blood cells in his immune system had been besieged by parasites introduced via the insect bite. At first, he attributed the headaches, muscle aches and general tiredness to teething troubles with his earthling mutation, but he was now experiencing feverishness, nausea and diarrhoea and he knew the game was up. On the tenth day, while yukawa3 was out shopping, he had a minor seizure. He could not ignore the situation any longer - the minute yukawa3 returned, he would break the news and prepare for their immediate return to Morys Minor.

  At any given moment we all confront thousands of different paths leading to thousands of different outcomes and, unfortunately for polkingbeal67, yukawa3 had been waylaid by an encounter with a pair of sombre, earnest earthlings who had buttonholed him outside the cafe.

  The taller of the two sharply dressed young men greeted him in a friendly manner and offered to buy him a coffee. "We'll tell you about God's good news," he promised as the three of them sat together at a pavement table.

  "Which god?" yukawa3 asked. He had conducted a bit of research into earthling religions, analysing and comparing the various doctrines and spiritual philosophies, but, to be frank, his grasp of the subject was tenuous at best, if not downright risible. "Is it one of those gods that require the blood of your enemies to be spilled? Will you be honoured by your god when you do the killing? Are virgin births involved? Or prophets leaping from city to city on horseback? Or is it the Yembiyembi mud god? Are you going to dance and holler and rub handfuls of sticky mud on my face and shower me with flower petals? Has this god got news of an impending plague or an earthquake?"

  The two young men were clearly nonplussed, but managed to smile affably enough as Beryl took their order and scowled as she recognised yukawa3. "So what would Mohammed like?" she asked sourly, stabbing her notepad with her pencil. "Or is it Sophia today? Or Doctor Who? Or, as it's Friday, perhaps it's Robinson Crusoe!" Enchanted by her own dazzling display of wit, she shrieked with laughter before composing herself and clearing her throat. "Sorry, dear, what would you like?" Yukawa3, who often struggled with long words, ordered a cappuccino and mispronounced it slightly, much to Beryl's delight. "Al Pacino?" she screeched. "Al Pacino! So that's your name today?" She went back through the door, still laughing.

  "No, it's not the yebbywebby mud god," the taller man said, "Sir, we want to talk to you about how you can bring the creator of the living to your door and into your life. Do you know the world is ending?"

  "Is it?" Yukawa3 stared at them in consternation. "I thought there was something odd about this planet." He leaned forward conspiratorially and dropped his voice. "Listen boys," he said. "You seem like nice guys. Me and my mentor, we can get you out of here when the time comes. We've got transport." He winked knowingly. "So what's going to happen? Will a fire come along and devour all living things? Will the sea become like blood when a huge asteroid plunges into it? Will the magnetic poles reverse? Solar flares? A pandemic? A nuclear winter? Whatever it is, don't worry, it's not the end of the world - oh, wait, yes it is! Ha ha! But really, we can all get away. How long have we got?"

  The two earnest young men looked at each other, sensing that, at best, they were casting seeds on barren ground. "Sir," said the shorter man, who sported a pair of glasses with black, rectangular frames. "We have a letter for you that is the perfect word of God."

  "How did he know I was here?" Yukawa3 asked suspiciously, as the coffees arrived. "Which god are we talking about again?"

  "God the Father," the bespectacled man replied.

  Beryl was beside herself. "The Godfather!" she exclaimed, chortling like a deranged goose. "The godfather!" She snorted and laughed and shook her head as she went over to clear the next table. A few seconds of silence, then she started up again. "The godfather. Ha ha! Al Pacino!"

  Meanwhile, despite the fact that he had been prepared to divulge his identity for the price of a cup of coffee, yukawa3 was fearful that he and polkingbeal67 had been rumbled. "So this god," he said. "Is he the earthling leader? Does he sit on the Intergalactic Court? Listen, I can assure you it was an accident, pure and simple. What happened to that city was a quirk of fortune - could have happened to anyone. It was an honest mistake. I suggest we all just stop the finger-pointing and move on." He paused for a moment and stirred his coffee, vigorously, spilling most of it onto the table.

  The taller man placed a reassuring hand on yukawa3's shoulder. "Are you okay?"

  "My advice," said yukawa3, cradling his forehead in his palm, "is that nobody asks anybody any questions at all. None. It's called closure, okay?"

  The two men smiled woodenly as yukawa3 slapped the table with both hands and yelled, "Everyone should just CALM DOWN!"

  Yukawa3 was not so slow-witted that he failed to sense that he was barking up the wrong tree and had completely lost his audience. No, that's too generous - he was that slow-witted, but at least he managed to rein things in before the earthlings became irretrievably befuddled. "Now, for no particular reason," he added, for no particular reason, "I'm going to stir this coffee again."

  The two would-be missionaries had stopped trying to make sense of yukawa3's ramblings - they just watched his jaw go up and down and talked about the Bible whenever it stopped. A miserable, slavering mongrel was slinking around in the street, looking for a snack. Beryl had put out bowls of water for the dogs to drink; not that she liked dogs - she ran a relatively successful business in the community and considered such gestures demonstrated her commitment to social responsibility (and social responsibility was good for business). A car horn sounded. In front of racks containing postcards, sunglasses and sandals, a few sparrows flitted around the chairs, searching for crumbs. Yukawa3 had drifted into a contemplative stupor that soothed his fretfulness and provided the opportunity for the earnest young men to expound on biblical scriptures at great length under the misconception that their companion was captivated by the elucidations and insights. The coffees came and went. Eventually, yukawa3 decided to invite his new friends back to the lodgings so that he could introduce them to polkingbeal67 and make arrangements for their deliverance from the end of the world.

  "Do you think your friend, Sophia, will welcome the chance to hear the word of God?" asked the taller man.

  Yukawa3 pursed his lips for a moment as he considered polkingbeal67's likely reaction. "Nah!" he decided. "She'll never go for that. I like all those stories about Lucifer and the Garden of Eden and all that, but when you talk to Sophia, I think you should stick to reality or she'll probably, um, throw you down the stairs!"

  Not for a second did the earnest young men waver. "But what do you call reality?" the short
er man asked. "There is something greater than reality. I'm referring to absolute truth. We can help you learn about absolute truth and help you follow it. The things we teach are the ultimate reality. Like the menu at this cafe, we serve the right sort of food, at the proper time."

  Yukawa3 could not hide his perplexity. He blinked uncomprehendingly before recovering his self-possession. "Yeh, stick with the food thing, I think. Sophia likes food and works in a diner. We should take him, sorry, her some lunch."

  The man with glasses flashed an oily smile that was about as genuine as a Rolex in a car boot sale. "Work, not for the food that perishes, but for the food that remains for life everlasting." The smile persisted like a bout of indigestion.

  "Don't worry," yukawa3 assured him with a dismissive wave of his hand. "She always checks the use-by dates."

  The sun was now high. A woman dragged a wheelie bin from the edge of the pavement. The tranquility was broken only by a few stray voices, the padding of footsteps and a snatch of laughter on the feeble breeze. Arriving at the lodgings, the earnest young men hesitated, but yukawa3 motioned them to follow him as he opened the front door and took the stairs two at a time.