The Last Adventure of Constance Verity

by A. Lee Martinez

  “Penny for your thoughts?” he asked.

  “You don’t care what I think,” she replied.

  “Yes, I do. If there’s anyone who has the experience to assess a lair layout, it’s you.”

  “Solid. Little overdone on the skulls.”

  “I agree, but my superiors insisted. Branding and all that. I asked if branding a secret society was such a smart idea, but it’s just the way things are done. Bit silly, isn’t it?”

  “All in all, it’s the second-best lair I’ve seen,” she said. “The first was in a dormant volcano outside of Albuquerque. Had a hell of a coffee bar, and I don’t even like coffee.”

  “I’ll have to see if I can drop by some time. Perhaps pick up some design tips.”

  “Good luck with that. It blew up.”

  “All on its own?”

  “I might have given it a nudge. That one wasn’t entirely my fault, though. Here’s a tip for you. Don’t store your explosives stockpiles down the hall from your flamethrower robots.”

  “I’ll make a note of it.”

  Indeed he did, taking a notepad from his jacket pocket and scribbling down the advice.

  The final room of the tour was an exhibition space. It was packed with strange artifacts, both from the ancient world and not-of-this-Earth. There were objects from the ancient past and from the far-flung future and pasts that no longer existed and futures that never would. Alternate universes, many of which Connie recognized, many she didn’t. Alien treasures and things from dimensions where unnamed horrors dwelt. If the Bermuda Triangle had an attic and someone had carefully arranged that attic for visitors, this would’ve been it.

  “And here we come to the room,” Root said. “The room that explains it all.”

  He walked over to a giant stone tablet carved with an ancient writing. Connie could read some of it, but her Sumerian was rusty.

  “This was the first piece in the collection,” said Root. “It was here that we started to see the greater pattern.”

  She shook her head. “This isn’t going to be another one of those prophecy things, is it?”

  “Not quite.”

  Root gestured toward a first edition of Little Women, protected behind a glass case. “Louisa May Alcott wrote out her instructions during an opium-fueled fever dream. What she saw, she tried to share with the world, but later editors erased that chapter. Admittedly, it doesn’t add a lot to the story.”

  He pointed to an old, faded papyrus. “The Egyptian pharaoh Ptah recorded a vision given to him by his gods. Most of the prophecy was lost, but enough remains to put the pieces together.”

  He went from exhibit to exhibit. An original recording of Thomas Edison’s voice that, when played backward, spoke of terrible secrets. An alien artifact that still projected holograms with dire warnings. Incomprehensible equations by Euclid, refined by Newton, built into a machine by Babbage that clicked and clacked and stopped with a loud sproing with no apparent purpose other than to spell out the word Chaos with a quill on an arm. A journal detailing Helen Keller’s last words, spoken an hour after she died. And on and on. A thousand different prophets from across the universe.

  “This is a lot of prophecies,” she said.

  “Every one a prediction of the inevitable end of the universe as we know it. Each a warning about that fragile thing we call existence. But more than that, a guidebook created piecemeal by thousands of different sources. Seemingly unconnected until one knows how to read it. A book instructing on the care and operation of that thing we call reality itself, encompassing all worlds, all universes, every iota of matter, every scientific and supernatural truth. Secrets of life and death, nearly incomprehensible to gods, much less inconsequential beings such as ourselves.”

  He waited for Connie to swoon at the revelation. She didn’t.

  “Yes, yes, ultimate power. I’ve heard it before.”

  “You misunderstand. We aren’t after power. We only seek to keep the Great Engine running until it reaches its final operation.”

  “I’ll bite. What engine?”

  “The Great Engine,” he said. “The secret cosmic purpose that drives the universe itself.”

  Connie rolled her eyes. “This isn’t going to be some quasi-religious, metaphysical bullshit, is it? Because I’ve fought enough cults worshipping weird stuff to last a lifetime.”

  “We aren’t a religion. We don’t worship anything. We view it more as a single colossal mechanism, and all of us are parts of that machine.”

  “Hate to tell you, but that doesn’t sound much different than any cult I’ve run across.”

  “The difference is that we don’t believe the universe cares about us or anything we do. We don’t pray to it in reverence or terror. And we think of these as tuning instructions, not sacred commands.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so? That’s totally different. So, who or what sent you these instructions?”

  “The universe.”

  “The universe that doesn’t care?”

  “The Mesopotamians wrote of the final operation, seeing it as the return of savage gods. Spiro Agnew, channeling the Engine during the ’68 Republican National Convention, declared all life would be transformed with a great sputtering clunk as the final truth would be revealed. A sixteenth-century Chinese midwife, her name lost to time, whispered of the planets colliding like billiard balls, but after, a glorious beautiful purpose making it all worthwhile. The Prophets of the planet Yrt were so terrified of what they saw that they had themselves entombed alive rather than live with their vision. This obelisk, found floating in space, says we shall all be witness to something indescribably perfect, the next step in evolution of the multiverse itself.

  “Yet each of these prophets and oracles also warned of hiccups along the way that would have to be averted. They are the check-engine light and ominous rattling of the universe, and they can’t be ignored. The Engine is perfect, but it is made of imperfect parts. It needs to be maintained, or it might break down before reaching its final operation.”

  “Let’s say I believe you. Just for fun. I’ve been to the future,” she said. “The universe looks just fine there.”

  “Does it? The cosmos runs on a scale beyond our comprehension. Something this vast, this unfathomable, might be broken right now. One planet rotates a second slower. One child is born a few minutes ahead of schedule. A lost civilization disappears forever, swallowed up without leaving so much as a line in a history textbook. Who would notice? It’s an imperfect world. Slightly less perfect wouldn’t draw much attention, but it all adds up. Things could be irreversibly damaged right now and merely taking another billion years to wind down.”

  Connie studied the scroll under glass and nodded to herself.

  “Your philosophy is that we’re all part of a cosmic machine that doesn’t care about us but that we need to maintain to see where it goes on the off chance it’s something good?”

  “It’s not very satisfying, I agree,” said Root, “but it’s the best we can hope for.”

  “I know a cult that worships a god who literally wants to lick everything in the universe, so I’ve heard weirder theories.”

  “You see the wisdom in our view?”

  “No, I’m saying I’ve heard weirder theories.”

  “I would think after all you’ve seen and experienced, you’d be more open-minded.”

  “Being open-minded doesn’t mean I’m gullible or that I’ve surrendered my healthy skepticism. People love thinking they have everything figured out. There’s a tribe of intelligent lizards in South America who believe God is moss growing on a rock. Every day, they haul water from the sacred well three miles away and pour it on the rock to keep God from destroying the world. There’s an ancient sect in Bavaria that worships the concept of baked goods.”

  “We are not a cult,” said Root with a frown.

  “They’d say the same thing. So, you’re not a cult; you’re only cult-like. Want to know what all these cults—and not
cults—have in common? They’re all devoted to solving a problem that doesn’t exist with methods that don’t accomplish anything. It’s busy work for people confronted by a universe they have no control over. Maybe you’re a little more up front about that, but it’s still people doing weird things for mysterious reasons and then pretending like they’ve accomplished something when a volcano does or doesn’t erupt.”

  “You’re entitled to your opinion,” he said, though he did sound hurt. “Regardless of whether you believe it or not, the Great Engine is the only purpose, and it is only through vigilance that it keeps running so that it might complete that purpose.”

  “So, you’re not important, except that you are. Sounds to me like you want to have it both ways. Fair enough. Where do I come in?” said Connie.

  “So, you do believe?”

  “No, but you do. Just how am I supposed to help you fix the universe now?”

  “You don’t.”

  He paused, smiling, staring at her with vague expectations. She didn’t give him anything to work with, so he continued as if she’d said something flippant, which she probably would have if she’d been in the mood for this.

  “Your glibness is expected. The Engine is too far beyond anyone’s comprehension. No one can say who started this cycle. Perhaps it was creatures wiser than us. Perhaps God Himself. Or Herself. Or Itself. Perhaps the Engine birthed itself. Or perhaps it’s only a fortuitous coincidence. Whatever the cause, it has been underway for as long as even the oldest sentient species in the universe can recall.

  “You’re not the first to fill your particular role. Thousands have before you. It has been passed from entity to entity across the cosmos, nurtured in the souls of countless adventurers. When the time comes, the caretaker position is reharvested, nurtured, and its seeds are planted again. And so it goes, over and over and over again. Passed from candidate to candidate, directed by those who follow the secret dictates of the Great Engine. The candidates come and go. Conspiracies rise and fall. And the universe continues to chug along. Even we aren’t truly masters but pawns of a greater, unfathomable purpose.”

  “This is definitely cult talk,” said Connie.

  “Regardless, someone must ensure that the universe continues as it should, push things in the right direction, make the tiny adjustments that are necessary to keep everything in order. Our job is to see to it that you, or someone like you, are capable of it. You exist as a corrective measure. We see a problem. We ensure that you fix it.”

  “I believe the word you’re looking for is manipulation,” said Connie.

  “Call it what you will.”

  “So, why are you telling me this now?” she asked. “Why ruin your secrecy?”

  “We’ve determined that your term of service is over. It’s time to pass along caretaking to the next batch of candidates.”

  “You’re going to take it from me?”

  “It was never yours to begin with. You’re simply another host, carrying it for a short while.”

  Connie sprang into action. She laid Root out with a punch, grabbed a guard’s rifle away from him. She had already planned how she’d take out the other four guards, but the plan was ruined by the way they all stood in place with their weapons pointed down.

  Root stood, wiped his bloody nose on his sleeve. A red blotch already marked his white shirt.

  “Oh, my. That was primal. I’m sorry. This is my fault. I didn’t think how all of that might sound from your perspective. Mysterious man in a white suit. Guards with metal skull masks. Talk of life and death. I’m surprised you didn’t punch me sooner.”

  She lowered her weapon. “You aren’t going to try to kill me?”

  “Heavens, no.”

  He gestured to the guards, who all lowered their sinister masks and chuckled among themselves.

  “We only want to remove the spell. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “You can do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just like that?”

  “It’s a little more complicated than snapping our fingers, but it isn’t all that difficult.”

  “And I’ll be normal?” asked Connie.

  “As normal as a woman who has been to the moon and back can be, I suppose.”

  “And what happens to me after?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. It’s not important to us after that.”

  “That’s it, then? You’ve been screwing with my life since the day I was born, and you’re done with me. And I’m supposed to be cool with that. Used up and tossed aside now.”

  “I know it’s not very comforting to see your life laid bare like this,” said Root.

  Connie grinned.

  “Take the damn thing.”

  22

  The extraction machine was a strange amalgamation of science and sorcery. Not that there was a tremendous difference between the two after a certain point. The explanations varied, but whether one used a spell to transform a frog into a prince or had a prince-transforming froginator ray (Connie had seen both), the results were the same.

  “It’s a complex machine,” said Root, “but it’s the latest in enchantment-extracting technology. In the old days, removing an enchantment, especially one as intertwined with your soul as this one, would subject the host to a harrowing ritual involving starvation, sweating, and exotic, psychedelic herbs. The subject didn’t always survive the process, if I may be honest. Thankfully, our retrieval methods have evolved since then. You sit in this chair, some buttons are pressed, the extraction is over within minutes, and the host is unharmed.”

  “Does it hurt?” asked Connie.

  “It’s not an entirely pleasant experience, I’m told, but it’s more itchy than painful.”

  The device filled the large room. Technicians tinkered. Tightening bolts. Adjusting knobs. Turning switches. It reminded her of the doomsday machine built by the Incans crossed with a transdimensional gate opener. Runes and glyphs covered the thing. Electricity arced between exposed contact points, and every so often, steam blasted from vents.

  “We’ll need you to take your place,” said Root.

  A door slid open and a mountain of flesh in a butler’s uniform stepped into the room with Tia in tow.

  “So if I don’t sit in the chair, I assume you’ll do something terrible to her,” said Connie.

  Root recoiled. “Oh, my. No. How distasteful.”

  “You aren’t going to use me as a bargaining chip?” asked Tia.

  “Why would we? Constance has already agreed to this. You haven’t changed your mind?”

  “Why is she here, then?” said Connie.

  “Farnsworth intercepted Ms. Durodoye on her way to do something foolish.”

  “I was going to rescue you,” said Tia.

  “I told her not to try it,” said Thelma, with a hint of smug satisfaction.

  “Damn it,” said Connie. “You were supposed to wait for me.”

  “I thought I was being scrappy,” said Tia.

  Root said, “Ms. Durodoye’s intentions notwithstanding, we thought you might appreciate it if we kept her out of trouble.”

  “Thanks,” said Connie.

  “I’m not some little kid that needs to be babysat.” Tia, scowling and folded arms, appeared very much like a child upset with all the grown-ups talking about her as if she wasn’t in the room.

  “We’ll talk about this later,” said Connie.

  Tia snorted. “Whatever.”

  “I told her not to do it,” repeated Thelma. “Just want to remind everyone of that.”

  “All you need to do is sit in the extraction chair,” said Root.

  “Don’t do it,” said Tia. “Not to save my life.”

  Root raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon. We’re not threatening you. We’ve been nothing but polite and gracious hosts.”

  “And what if Connie changes her mind?” asked Tia. “Or are all these goons and the heterochromia combat butler just for atmosphere?”

  “I�
��d like to think we could handle this without the threat of physical violence,” said Root.

  “So, you admit that physical violence is an option.”

  “I don’t understand. Is there a problem? I hardly see the point in discussing possibilities we’ve already moved past.”

  “Agreed.” Connie sat in the extraction chair. “Right here, then? Let’s get this over with. Throw the switches. Push the buttons. Do whatever you need to do. The sooner I’m out of Kansas, the better.”

  “You can’t do this, Connie,” said Tia. “You can’t trust these guys. They were going to use me as a hostage.”

  “Again, I’d like to stress no hostage threats were made,” said Root. “Farnsworth even served her some of his famous rooibos tea and biscuits.”

  Farnsworth spoke with a rumbling baritone. “The secret is an extra dash of cinnamon.”

  “The cookies were delicious,” conceded Tia.

  “And don’t forget the cucumber sandwiches,” said Root.

  “Yes, very good too.”

  Farnsworth tittered. Not easy to do with his deep voice. “I’m so glad you enjoyed them.”

  “Beverages and snacks aside,” said Tia, “you’re still a secret organization with an underground base doing God knows what down here. Just look at all the fucking skulls everywhere.”

  “An artifact of a different era,” said Root. “More traditional than anything.”

  “It’s a chance I’m willing to take,” said Connie. “You want the spell, it’s all yours.”

  The extractor hummed, sending a vibration through the room. True to Root’s word, it took only a few minutes. Afterward, she jumped out of the chair and stretched.

  “How do you feel?” asked Tia.

  “Weird. Lighter. Like I’ve been carrying this weight with me my whole life and only now that it’s gone do I notice. Also, itchy.”