by David Finn
He could name ten of these people without even trying hard. Some of them weren’t trying to hide anything. Across from him sat a young pop starlet dressed in a white fur coat and bikini sitting with a gangster in an expensive suit. He could feel her warm smile through the blur. Iverson had almost zero interest in modern music but even he knew who she was. Misty something. She had that peculiar kind of viral fame that ate its way past his normal blocks and apathy levels. He’d met her at a couple of fundraisers, a whip-smart, sweet Southern kid who’d been famous since she was eleven. She owned a TV station and knew how to use it.
There were a few empty seats. This President travelled light on her donors at these meetings. Her administration had been at war for what seemed like forever and relied heavily on a mix of military intelligence and her gut when shit went south—as it obviously was, if Iverson found himself sitting here again, the only obvious Order representative.
He was still in his black jumpsuit. Iverson vaguely knew he was in the middle of some other mission but the implant and the Situation Room made everything else seem unimportant. If whatever crisis they were trying to avert spilt over, every mission would end in failure, Iverson was pretty sure.
The old man looked up from his notes to the audience. A tired smile. He was dressed in full military uniform, hair cut super short, deep lines on his dark black face. General Patton. He ran most of these meetings.
‘My apologies for the late hour. Good to see you all, old and new trusted friends and allies. The President is still caught in a meeting with the Europeans, so she’s asked me to brief you on the latest developments. What you are about to see and hear is a record of events that are being de-archived for the singular purpose of this Situation Room meeting and strategy session. I would ask that you remember the strict confidentiality of these briefings. Disclosure to non-authorised persons will be considered an act of treason. As always, there remains the option to wipe your mind if you view that to retain this knowledge past this meeting will endanger yourself or the security of the intel.
‘That said, I don’t trust the wipe machines. I forgot my wife’s birthday once.’
He gave them another tired smile. General Patton had done this dance more than a few times. He clicked a button and up came a black-and-white picture of an old-school cross street. The cars passing were antiquated. What looked like a couple of drugged out too-thin teenagers were slumped against a lamppost.
‘On July 17, 1968, in San Francisco, USA, in a time-line we shall call the Primary Reality, Triton operatives gained access to a Master Room on Haight-Ashbury and successfully activated the Source Core Bomb, triggering the destruction of that reality and killing roughly six billion people. The effect of this explosion splintered across the multiple layers of universes, weakening and breaking down the concepts of time, imploding multiple realities into each other. This disaster is known as the Fracture Event. Life for every survivor would never be the same. We, and most importantly, our reality, were fundamentally changed by this single act of terrorism.’
The photo changed to an image of LA overrun by thorn-headed creatures similar to what Iverson had seen on the space station, only larger and far more virulent.
‘The planet was dead within a week. Very few escaped the Primary Reality as it disintegrated. Swarms of these creatures, in league with Triton operatives, swarmed through holes in reality we didn’t even know were there. They were prepared for this onslaught, we were not. Only a tiny number of people in any position of power knew about the very real existence of multiple realities, the Parallels, and of those, nobody saw this coming.’
‘What the fuck are they?’ exclaimed an old guy near Patton. Iverson recognised the voice. A big fish donor out of Texas. One of those whales the President couldn’t keep out of the Situation Room. He’d paid for his seat ten times over. But it didn’t make him smart, just rich.
The general replied, ‘We call them Thorn-heads. They’re a virus as far as we can tell. Comes out of a section of space we can’t even access or map properly. Our spies inside Triton tell us they call it the Void. The cultists worship them as dark gods. Which is just great. It’s the position of this administration that whatever these things are . . . what exists in the Void is far worse.’
Patton looked grim as he fell silent. The thorn creatures kept eating LA onscreen. Iverson raised his hand. Patton nodded.
Iverson said, ‘Wasn’t Haight-Ashbury some kind of hippie hangout? Summer of Love and all that?’
Patton’s smile was a grimace. ‘Sure, Investigator, displaying some nice history knowledge. Haight-Ashbury was indeed a hippie den burning out on needles and LSD in this period. Perhaps that contributed, perhaps not. Regardless, the Fracture Event was just getting started even as the Primary Reality wiped out. The Parallels got infected.’
Patton changed screens from doomed LA to star systems. Multiple universes, networks of galaxies, not directly connected, similar but not the same. Parallels. Iverson watched as the graphic showed the Event wiping out star systems.
‘Those who did survive the first couple of hours of the incursion fled to bolt-holes like this Room, tiny pocket universes connected to a larger reality, often no larger than a hotel room. A few escaped to the Mirror Worlds, as we call them, traditional transit points between realities such as Asanti, Xaniath or Babelzon, known to mystics since time immemorial.’
The screen displayed shadow worlds, pale reflections of the Primary Reality, floating alone in limbo, ghost negatives of the real thing, only half there. Iverson had visited some of them. He felt a chill run down his back, remembering Xaniath, the mission he had completed there. Another death run to forget. Another reason to get the implant to edit his memories.
Iverson asked, ‘How many got out of the Primary Reality?’
Patton shrugged. ‘Less than a thousand. We’ve lost more now. Many slowly lost their will to live when they realised their past was obliterated.’
Misty sighed dramatically, inspecting a bejewelled nail. ‘Yeah, it’s a bad break, hon, but it wasn’t that way with everyone, God bless. Fact is, I was already singing in clubs with my daddy when I was ten, and it feels like every barfly in every bar has a song this sad after three a.m. Do you want me to sing the Anthem while the credits roll, General?’
A few chuckled around the table. Her sharp, pretty face glittered with purpose. She gave a mock salute. The gangster with her was shaking with silent laughter. General Patton looked as if he had heard it all before, the hint of a smile creasing his mouth.
Iverson said, ‘Is this going somewhere, Misty?’
Misty turned her attention to him. ‘Sure is, darl. See, I was born in Austin, Texas, in what you boys call this Primary Reality. That’s where I grew up. That’s where me and my Daddy toured the whole damn state singing old-school country hits with just a hint of sass. Point is, me and Daddy found a pyramid in the back of a bar the same night the Thorn-heads hit town. Well, naturally we ran inside. You know where that ol’ pyramid came out?’
Iverson was blank. ‘The Grand Ole Opry?’
Misty laughed richly, wrapping the white fur coat around her tight body. ‘No, hon, it led me here. This room. The President was talking to the general over there.’
Iverson looked at Patton who nodded.
Iverson asked, ‘Where’s your father? Did he have some sort of power to find that portal point? Or was it just luck?’
‘Daddy sure was no mystic or that lucky, but he was a traitor. Sad but true. He sold his whole world out, hun, for the promise of something better. There’s a song on my last album all about it.’
She added, ‘Eventually, I fed him to the sharks.’
Misty leaned back in her chair, wrapped in her coat, completely her own person. She was tiny but not in the least bit fragile. Iverson was impressed.
Patton said, ‘Unfortunately the virus spread fast after the Fracture Event. It tore through the Mirror Worlds, we lost most of the people who could have helped us when Asanti blew up
, further unravelling the fabric of time and space. The virus tore through multiple realities unchecked. We’ve lost at least seven different versions of this planet to the Thorn-heads, folks. That’s seven Situation Rooms, seven Presidents, seven White Houses. And we aren’t getting any stronger, we’re just getting more scared. The cultists might be on to something. Maybe it is an angry god. Or maybe this is terrorism, folks, pure and simple. Well orchestrated and well executed.’
Patton gave a gallows grin. Iverson saw the huge bags under his eyes, blue bruises on his black skin. ‘Well, maybe not so simple.’
There was a silence around the table. One of dead air and legitimate shock. Iverson wasn’t sure how much they all knew of the Fracture Event before coming here. The Order was different, they had tracked the disaster from the start, analysed and flow-charted the collapse of civilisation to an insane level of detail, an overriding obsession to find a cause and effect. Iverson would have put a strong bet that the top military people knew. But this President played things close to her chest. The War had gone on so long she had to play the game that way.
But apart from Patton and Misty, Iverson wasn’t certain that these people knew they danced on the edge of an abyss from which the human race would never recover, a black hole into which all history would be fed, all future.
Iverson said, ‘General, no matter what lies in that Void, the primary agents are saboteurs and terrorists. Infected humans. Men made into monsters. Death cult desperadoes. Not gods, not even close. Did we get an objective or statement?’
‘No organised statement, just chaos and uncertainty. Captured Triton leaders revealed under torture their plan was to end time and reality itself.’
Misty piped up: ‘I’m still here, and my watch is working, so they didn’t do too well then!’
General Patton gave a dry chuckle. ‘Well enough, unfortunately. The higher ups we caught at Triton like to talk about Elder Gods and throw out a ton of mystical mumbo-jumbo, but their operation is essentially run by wacko quantum reality physicists who seek to weaken the constructs that underpin reality, the root constructs which form multiple Parallel universes and make them both like and unlike each other.’
The death images were back, filling the screen. Iverson saw several of the people at the table now paying serious attention. They weren’t looking at their phones anymore. They had forgotten about what they were doing for dinner that night. Good. It didn’t hurt to get the message out. It didn’t hurt to scare the sheep a little when the threat was this big and the wolves were howling at the door.
‘Was there a goal?’ Iverson asked. He was getting restless.
‘We assume so. The Source Core Bomb was set in the Primary Reality because statistically that created the most predictable long-term sequence of events. The Fracture Event didn’t just kill the Primary Reality, it began a detailed breakdown in the nature of everything as we know it. Timelines collapsed upon each other. Entire civilisations that would never know of each other were brought face to face. Super cities merged together out of the remains of greater worlds. Gigantic structures such as Babelzon became infinitely larger than they ever were, but suddenly they have always been that large, that powerful.’
General Patton pointed at Iverson. ‘What year are you from, Investigator?’
It didn’t bother Iverson one bit that the General identified the Order. The black jumpsuit and the red sun insignia on the shoulder would be enough already for the people here. The Order and its Investigators had tentacles throughout every dimension on this table. Let them see one up close. He dropped his facial blur.
Iverson said, ‘13 PF, sir.’
‘PF?’
‘Post Fracture. The Order understood the nature of reality was compromised, sir. It’s been thirteen years. To the day.’
Patton gave that tired smile again. He seemed to be a man on the verge of falling over from some existential exhaustion if the weight of his duties didn’t get him first.
‘That’s right, son. You’re the smart guys with your finger on the pulse.’
Patton snapped his fingers loudly. ‘Paul, wake up, what year you got over there?’
A guy that Iverson didn’t recognise, dressed in a semi-cowboy outfit, spoke in a stoned-out surfer groove. ‘It’s the ’70s man. And by the way, the Beatles are still together. Was just listening to them on the drive over.’
Iverson laughed. ‘Any new albums out, brother?’
‘Lot of talk, lot of parties have to talk, man.’
Iverson wondered how such a vacant unit even got a seat at this table. Then he noticed the pearl gun handle on the Colt and the way it glowed. He knew guns like that and the people who used them. Cowboy Surfer had some game. Maybe he just loved the Beatles and wanted to live in a world where they didn’t cash their chips.
The gangster shifted in his seat impatiently, suddenly banging on the rich mahogany table. ‘Who the FUCK cares!’
Iverson smiled. He liked this lack of patience. The gangster’s blurring face vanished. It was Tony, corpulent and savage. A Babelzon thug made good. Sitting on the Inner Sanctum Council for Babelzon, directly beneath the Tyrant, made Tony one of the powerful people in his world. Most of the table followed suit in dropping the face masks.
Tony was rambling his way to a point. ‘Don’t bad mouth what we’ve achieved. I’ve been on the Inner Sanctum Council for years and we have to do business with these Triton wackos. They have a whole corporate arm, they own like thirty percent of the real estate in the Inner Sanctum itself, I have Council members who are shareholders—please, mighty Table of the President, tell me what the FUCK I have to do! Because although we in Babelzon like to say the Tyrant oversees all, lately, he ain’t been overseeing shit.’
Tony rested his case with another table slam and sank back in his chair. Misty gave him a reassuring pat. Tony smiled at her like a vicious but loyal pet. What a relationship. Something told Iverson that Tony was the shark she’d fed her father to.
General Patton seemed to get a spark of life after this interjection. ‘Thanks, Tony, you’re an asset to the cause.’
Patton cast a glance at the screen. Schematics of rotating universes and galaxies were smashing together, complete with helpful tags for the audience. Patton dragged the Babelzon tag into full view and blew it up. Iverson was impressed as always by the soaring buildings and stunning vistas of the future city. Transit portals burnt like miniature suns in an azure sky. The air lanes were filled with futuristic craft. Advertisements for their Mighty Tyrant were everywhere, next to the ads for the reality shows and the movies and the death run competitions.
‘Babelzon is a special case. Uniquely positioned by a set of transit portals, close to this Earth and Administration, Babelzon was built and controlled by the Tyrant in ancient times, a super-powered politician of mysterious origin worshipped by most of his city as a demigod. One thing is clear, Babelzon is a free and independent city, both before and after the Fracture Event.’
Tony pounded the table in agreement, happy as a clam. ‘Hear, hear.’
For whatever reason Misty gave a holler.
The fat donor spoke up: ‘It’s on record that the Tyrant was a chief suspect in the Fracture Event—’
Tony gesticulated. Patton held his hand up.
‘Later disproved. We didn’t have the relationship then. The Tyrant has held his city secure against incursions from Triton invasions and worse for centuries. He is aware of the Void. Babelzon is our most significant and powerful ally. The Tyrant and his City don’t answer to us.’
Misty raised a light hand. Bracelets rattled on her wrist. Her Southern drawl was infectious. ‘That’s all fine and dandy, General Patton. I played the Tyrant’s last birthday, he’s a sweetheart, who sure doesn’t look like he comes from ancient times! And he sure as heck liked checking out my ass. So he’s partly human, I guess.’
The room gave an easy laugh. Misty’s fabulous teeth flashed as she giggled. She knew how to sell a cheesy line.
&nbs
p; Patton nodded. ‘The trouble isn’t in Babelzon, Misty. The Fracture Event played havoc with every Parallel dimension. Most of you here will be aware of Firethorn. Perhaps the largest dimension, bigger than our own, filled with magic, and close to the heart of the cancer.
‘Our scientists and friends in the Order say Firethorn was always there, a vast fantasy dimension accessible to a few psychics and chosen denizens of the Mirror Worlds. A small number of travellers and operatives have journeyed back and forth for centuries. Some of their adventures and records fed back to pop culture, legends told to children, sold in video games, books and comics.’
Patton gave that tired smile. The man looked close to exhaustion. ‘Yes, it’s a lot to take in. But it’s urgent if we are to survive what shall come. It’s why I’ve activated the Master Rooms to bring you all here. I’ll hand you over to Investigator Commander William Iverson of the Order Agency. Firethorn is an area of expertise.’
Patton withdrew from the podium and slumped into a seat as Iverson got up. He could feel their attention escalate. The Order wasn’t a universally loved group. People on the outside feared the Investigators. People should fear them.
Iverson said, ‘The name Firethorn is a misnomer. Firethorn itself is a fortress city of warrior women who respawn on death. They were our primary contact for decades since the major dimensional portal feeds directly into their province. The warriors of Firethorn are locked in an eternal battle with forces linked directly to the Void. By our estimation, the warriors of Firethorn have fought a stop-start battle with the forces behind Triton for ten thousand years. The fighters of Firethorn have links and an organised Clan structure that extends across the entire dimension proper. No other group knows more about what is coming through the Void than the fighters of Firethorn.’