There Goes the Galaxy

by Jenn Thorson

  “Why? Where?” Bertram shielded his eyes. The rust-colored landscape was bone-dry, exhaustively rocky straight to the horizon and completely devoid of life. It didn’t even have a smell. There were no wafting blossoms or the territorial musk of skulking beasts. If there were a smell at all, it was the scent of hot. The only sounds? The crunch of gravel underfoot.

  But his abductor just pointed to an area every bit as flat and rocky as the rest, differing only by the long, mysterious shadow that fell beyond it.

  And as they approached, Bertram glimpsed two figures—rather big-skulled, he thought—until closer inspection proved them to be their own distorted reflections in the wall of a tower.

  The tower was rendered virtually invisible by mirrored glass. Its walls were built on an outward angle, reflecting the earth below. And its roof was angled to catch the sky. From a different position now, the structure was almost blinding.

  A tower. Bertram had expected more from his subconscious than such blatant Freudianism. An age-old symbol, representing any of a variety of control issues, he supposed, though none sprung to mind for him personally. At twenty-eight, single, and with his own key to the psych lab, Bertram Ludlow had all the freedom necessary for academic excellence. He’d wrap up his thesis this semester, defend and then, barring some unforeseen setback—like, say, a severe psychotic breakdown—graduate to a prime research position in the university of his choice.

  Maura and Larry Ludlow might even journey the miles from New Jersey to watch their youngest be granted the title “Doctor.” But chances were, this would coincide with one of the endless baptisms or germ infestations of his brother’s brood. (Who could ever have predicted that a retired dentist and a former computer engineer would, in their twilight years, view every grandchild’s sneeze, babble and spit-up as such Nobel prize-winning material?) Of course, they’d send Bertram a card and, maybe a stethoscope. (He was never quite convinced they knew what it was he was becoming a doctor of.) And yes, they’d congratulate his voice mail. But for as strong a case of middle-child syndrome as Bertram had developed in this two-child family, brother A.J. was the one wrapped and trapped in the ties that bound and gagged; Bertram was 300 miles away and completely unfettered.

  And that was especially odd, since you didn’t need a Ph.D. in psychology to know that imagining yourself getting stunned, yanked around and strapped to a chair by Boba Fett was a manifestation of at least some underlying sense of impotence.

  As if to demonstrate, the kidnapper shoved Bertram through an opening hatch in the tower, which snapped shut behind them, leaving them in the middle of what was, startlingly, a completely packed reception area. In the room was an array of vaguely human creatures waiting in shackles and wearing fluorescent polka-dotted jumpsuits with symbols printed on them. Others were dressed in subdued shades and talking to themselves. No, into small silver chips implanted next to their mouths. Some were frozen stock-still in their seats and covered with dust and cobwebs. There were monitors on three of the four walls, all playing different, painfully loud programs, over equally loud alien Muzak. No one seemed to notice.

  At the end of the room was a desk fronted by a frosted glass panel, behind which, the large outline of some creature could just be seen moving. Bertram’s kidnapper pushed past everyone as he swept to this desk, dragging Bertram along by the fabric of his shirt sleeve. The alien rapped on the glass and a little door slid away. A large, lime-green eye filled the door. “Yes?” the voice shouted over the waiting room din.

  “We’re here to see your employers,” the kidnapper shouted back.

  The eye blinked. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “What?” The kidnapper cupped a hand to his ear.

  “Appointment. Do you have an appointment?”

  “You’re not serious? I—”

  “They’re very busy right now. But if you’d like to make an appointment, they’ll be delighted to meet with you then. Let’s see …” The eye retracted from the window and the voice sounded muffled. The mountainous shadow behind the frosted glass shifted. “The next appointment I have available is … um … 457 Universal days from now. How does your schedule look?” The eye reappeared at the window and blinked again with interest.

  The kidnapper grinned fiercely. “See here, you giant mass of ocular tissue: they asked for us. We have business, understand? So you just get on that comm of yours and you tell ’em Rolliam Tsmorlood is back. And quickly, unless you’re looking for some heavily-discounted opti-laser surgery.” He pulled back his coat to reveal enough of the gun holster to make a statement.

  The figure behind the glass sniffed, though what part did the sniffing was impossible to say. “That should have been picked up by our sensors and checked here at the desk,” the receptionist said snippishly.

  “And?” the kidnapper asked, offering a small, slow smile. His fingers twitched over the gun, like a hungry waiting tarantula.

  The eye darted from the gun, to the kidnapper’s expression, to the gun again. “Mmpf.” The tone was unimpressed but compliant. “One moment.” The receptionist retreated back behind the foggy glass.

  Rolliam Tsmorlood shook his head, muttering, “Flaming Altair, I never imagined getting into this place was going to be even harder than getting out of it.”

  The eye appeared at the window once more. “Thank you for your … er … patience, Captain Tsmorlood. They said they will see you now. Just through that door, please.”

  Between a pair of guards to the side of reception, a hatch swung open. Based on the crowded waiting area, Bertram had expected a conference room, a courtroom or a cell. But instead, when the door clanged closed behind them, they found themselves in the grave-like coolness of a pitch black tomb.

  Out of that darkness came a smoky white light. And as Bertram’s eyes adjusted to the light, he saw it was caused by three ancient life-forms—breathing skeletons inside white painter’s overalls. White sightless eyes , white waxy skin , white tangles of hair , they gave off a soft white phosphorescent glow as they rested in luminescent, upholstered recliners.

  Hard to say what they were symbolic of.

  “Welcome to Rhobux-7,” resonated a voice as old as the beginning of time and as young as last Tuesday. “Rolliam Tsmorlooood,” it announced, “we knew you would returnnnnn.”

  “We kneeeeeeewwwww,” echoed the other old people.

  “Yeah, brilliant,” said the kidnapper flatly. “So I’m clear, then? You’ll blank my archive?”

  “Ohhhh,” lilted the breeze of a voice, “sooooo anxioussssss.”

  “Anxioussssssss,” agreed the others. It sounded like a room full of punctured car tires.

  “Confinement does that,” Rolliam Tsmorlood said with a scowl. “Look, I kept my blasted end of it. I expect you’ll keep yours.”

  “And where is our Bertram Ludlooowwww?” asked one of the elders, peering sightlessly into the dim room. “If you would bring him herrrrrrre …”

  “Heeerrrrrre,” agreed the others.

  With a low grumble, the kidnapper seized the smaller man’s shoulder and shoved him up to the platform steps. Bertram stumbled and landed unceremoniously at the feet of the life-form in the center. This being leaned toward Bertram, oozing forward, breath stinking of moldy basements and stagnant wells. Bertram stared into the gooey blank eyes and flinched, as squeaky, clammy talons crept across his face and grasped at his hair. They were the kind of hands a firm handshake might splinter like wet, rotting wood, and Bertram was equally amazed and repulsed at the sensory detail his mind conjured; usually his dreams were more vague than vivid.

  “Bertram Ludlow is torn within himsellllf,” the being announced. “He questions realllityyyy. He questions his sannnity. Yet, in spite of his rational mind, deep down he finds he cannot help but wonder why he’s herrrre.”

  “Why he’s heeeeerrrre … heeeeerrre …” echoed the voices.

  Bertram was kind of wondering.

  “We are the Seerssss, Bertram Ludlow. I am Kaenmoor. A
nd this is Glyddon, and that is Kravsmin.” The Seers to the right and left each gave a slow, hypnotic nod. “And we are the guardians of the Master Floorplan for the Cosmossss.”

  “Cosmossssss …” agreed the Seers.

  Kravsmin spoke up, this second glow in the darkness. “Think of the universe as a vast home-unit, Bertram Ludlow. A domicile containing all living thingsssss. Within that structure you will find the systems that run it. Limitless levels of mechanisms that allow it to function … that hold it uuuuup … that keep it from collapsing in on itssselfffff … We Seers keep that building. We note where the structure is sound and predict which points will weakennnnn.”

  “We maintain it, Bertram Ludlowww,” added Glyddon, “maintain the systems of the universe. We detect the weak points and we try, at those times, to reinforce themmmm.”

  “So you’re caretakers for time and space,” Bertram said.

  The Seer waved an all-encompassing, skeletal hand. “Time … Space … Destinyyyyyy …”

  “The penal colony,” muttered the kidnapper.

  His words were met with uneasy silence.

  “They’re wardens for the blasted Rhobux-7 penal colony, Ludlow,” Rolliam Tsmorlood repeated. “The only thing they ‘maintain’ is that reeking cesspit of a confinement area that’s under this tower.”

  “Insolent Hyphizite!” Kravsmin screamed, the Seer almost shaking apart with rage and certainly losing a lot of its ethereal delivery. “You well know that’s a day job! You try living for a thousand years without health benefits.”

  “Or stock options,” sneered the second Seer.

  “Or retirement plans,” snapped a third, then remembering itself. “Er … plannnssssssss.”

  “Plannssssssss,” the other Seers chorused quickly.

  Bertram had never perceived the extent of his mental illness.

  Then, in a flash, a broad dimensional schematic lit up the room. Layers upon layers of neon lines formed its body, twining and intertwining like a great ball of strung lights, or the Pink Floyd laser light show down at the Science Center. Bertram almost toppled off the platform. The kidnapper stumbled back against the wall. What was it?

  “It’s Faaaaate, Bertram Ludlow,” Glyddon said. “Do you hear it? Do you hear the hummmm of Fate’s paths before you? Hear the ssssubtle chorus of possibilitiessss converging? Lissssten to the tones of great channnnnge? The cackle of pure triumphhhhhh and the shriek of final undoingggggg?”

  “Also, traffic’s snarled on the Mig Verlig Expressway,” input Kravsmin.

  “I see it,” Bertram said. Because in spite of all logic to the contrary, Bertram Ludlow was dizzy with Fate, surrounded by the lines that crisscrossed the tower’s core. Some of the trails were crisp and firm, almost tangible. While others faded off into illuminated mist. Approaching it slowly, cautiously, he dragged a finger through the haze of light. “Fate’s blurry.”

  “The universe isn’t sssstatic, Bertram Ludlow,” reminded Kaenmoor. “These are projected pathssss, not absolutesssss. And even weeee cannot always followww the paths during times of great fluxxxxx.”

  Having found his legs, Bertram skirted the circumference of the schematic, pausing beside a very dense knot of light. “So what about here? Where all the lines are colliding?”

  The Seers exchanged unseeing glances and smiled. “That, Bertram Ludlowwwwww,” Glyddon said, “is why we need youuuuuu.”

  “Youuuuuuu,” agreed the others.

  “What?” Bertram asked, a pang of fear running through him. “To untangle all the existential wiring? People, you don’t need me. You need a good electrician.”

  “If those paths remain as they are, the results will be cataclysmicccccc.”

  (Catatonic, thought Bertram. I am definitely headed toward catatonia.)

  “Those lines indicate the complete end to Life As You Know It on the planet Tryfffffe,” said Kaenmoor. “The planet youuuu call Earth.”

  “Eartttthhhhhh.”

  “I see.” Bertram stroked his chin. “So what you’re saying is that I’ve been singled out from the billions of other life-forms on my planet—maybe even the universe—as the sole individual capable of saving the planet?”

  “At this juncture,” said the Seer, “yesssss.”

  “Indeeeeeed,” agreed Kravsmin.

  “Yeppersssssss,” said Glyddon.

  “Ah.” Bertram nodded gravely. “Megalomania.”

  “Um,” the Seers blinked, “pardon?”

  “I said I must be suffering from megalomania,” he explained. “I mean, sure, ‘Bertram Ludlow: Savior of the Earth’ does have a certain ring.” He savored the words as they rolled off his tongue. For a brief, wistful moment, he could even picture the business card, all silver lettering and understated design. That would certainly be something to pass around at Thanksgiving dinner. “But it’s kinda on the overmuch side, isn’t it? I mean, couldn’t we go with something a little less God Complex for this hallucination today?”

  The Seers looked at each other with those egg-white eyes. One shrugged.

  “Okay,” said Bertram, realizing this wasn’t going anywhere. “So let’s say the Earth really is in danger, and out of billions of other people—astrophysicists, and presidents, and spiritual leaders, and the dude down at the comic book shop—I somehow happen to be the only guy for the job. What do you need me to do?” Bertram persisted. “You guys are omnipotent, right? And you went to all the trouble to have your Terminator snag and drag me here.” He shot a glare that direction. “You must know something. A starting point. Some sort of advice. Helpful hints. A handbook. Doom Prevention for Dimwits maybe?”

  The Terminator cackled.

  The Seers just shifted nervously. “It… it’s not that sssssimple, Bertram Ludlowwww.” Glyddon’s hands kneaded each other.

  “Human minds are incapable offfff …” Kaenmoor seemed to be sweating.

  “It’s too difficult tooo … The lines of Fate arrrrre …” Kravsmin’s eye twitched just slightly.

  “You don’t know, do you?” Bertram said. “I’m supposed to save Life As We Know It and you have no clue how.” He pushed on his temples and paced a little. It always helped to pace. “But I know why.”

  Kaenmoor smiled thinly, “Because we’re in your mindddd, are we, Bertram Ludlow?”

  “An elaborate psychotic episode, granted, but a self-generated representation of my problems that can never go beyond what I myself can create.” Bertram glanced around quickly, on chance that this great revelation would knock down the facades in his mind, transporting him back to his apartment.

  It didn’t.

  “Bertram Ludlowwww,” Kaenmoor began in weary tones, “The Seers of Rhobux know only what can be pulled from the Linesssss. Were we ‘omnipotent’ as you say, we would have anticipated this adverse reaction of yours and not wasted vital time on petty rationalizationnnnn.”

  “Of course, if we were in his mindddd,” piped up Glyddon, “wouldn’t we say the same thinggggggg?”

  Kravsmin sneered. “Can it, Glyddon!”

  “Cannnnnn itttttt,” the Seers sang.

  “Now you mention it,” Bertram considered, “Glyddon’s right.” And Glyddon looked delighted at the affirmation. “How do I prove that I didn’t break under the pressure of getting my degree? How can I be sure that right now, I’m not in Western Psychiatric Hospital, sitting in striped pajamas, staring glazedly out the window while my mind goes where it’s never gone before? Simple: I can’t.”

  After a moment, Kravsmin propped a pointy chin on bony hands. “Then the real question, Bertram Ludlow, becomes: what do you have to lossssse?”

  It was a good question, really. It wasn’t like extricating himself from a psychotic episode was exactly something he’d learned about in class. Cognitive psychology was focused on thought processes, problem solving, memory, behavior and decision making. A clean sort of science of the mind, in some ways—particularly if you were in the research end of things. Nothing like the heavy-duty pain and suffering
stuff that abnormal psych counselors had to deal with every day, anyway. In fact, the difference between cognitive research and abnormal psych counseling was pretty much the difference between being an eye doctor versus, say … a proctologist. Bertram was totally unprepared for the path he was on.

  He might as well take a deep breath and go with it.

  “Gooood,” said the Seers, sensing his resignation.

  “So you will need thisssss.” Kravsmin leaned forward, extending to Bertram a strange object. It was about five inches long, bright yellow, and looked roughly like a starfruit on a cord.

  “Soap on a rope?” Bertram frowned, dangling it on its string. He held it up to the kidnapper, who shrugged.

  “You will know what it is when you neeeeeed to knowwwwww,” said Kravsmin with a sightless wink.

  “When you neeeeed to knowwwww,” chorused the Seers merrily.

  Rolliam Tsmorlood gritted his teeth. “Classic.”

  “Just rememberrrr,” warned Kaenmoor, “you must keep it with you during your journey alwayssss. To lose it? Would be perillllll!”

  “Dooomm!” added Kravsmin.

  “Bad, toooooo,” agreed Glyddon.

  “Er, ’kay,” said Bertram, giving it another once over, then hanging the cord around his neck. “Cool. Thanks for … er … for my yellow thing.”

  “Well, at least that’s settled,” Rolliam Tsmorlood cut in, dusting off his hands. “And since it looks like your little ‘Life for Tryfe’ club really has got all the members it needs, what say we go ahead, disengage security, and I give this place the launch while I’m still in my eighties?”