“Funny, ain’t he, Marx?”
“Barrel of laughs,” said Marx.
“Fort it was a barrel of monkeys.”
“You thought wrong. Don’t blow up anything for a while.”
“Orright, orright,” grumbled Kez.
Uncle Cheng looked faintly relieved. He said, “There are a few questions I’d like to ask you.”
“Funny,” Marx said. “I was just going to say the same thing. For instance, I don’t think we’ve met before, but lately you always seem to be trying to kill us. People don’t usually try to kill us until after we’ve met, give or take a few.”
“Yeah,” said Kez, smiling fiercely. “That’s summink I want to know, too.”
Marx, with a smile that matched Kez’s in cold geniality, asked, “Why is that? Why are you trying to kill us?”
“Not you, necessarily,” demurred Uncle Cheng. “Just her.”
Kez gave a crack of laughter. “Ain’t as important as you thought, eh?”
“It’s not a competition.”
“Yeah, but ain’t nobody tryin’ to kill you special, is there?”
“There’s quite a few, thank you very much,” said Marx, before he could stop himself. “More nowadays, I suppose.”
“You seem to be mistaken about something,” said Uncle Cheng. “You’re not here to satisfy your curiosity; you’re here because I arranged for it to be so.”
Kez made a rude noise. “Tosh! Even if you got access to the Core—well, who don’t?”
“Quite a few people,” Marx said.
“Yeah, but the rich ones does,” argued Kez. “An’ no matter ’ow rich you are, ain’t nothin’ you can do to make me an’ Marx do wot you want us to do.”
“She’s not wrong,” Marx said. “That’s one of our better qualities; we make the Core spit out what it just chewed up. Pretty hard to judge anything from chewed up time.”
Uncle Cheng smiled at them. “Difficult, but not impossible.”
“Wanna know wot I think?”
“Will it stop you if we don’t?”
“I think—”
“Too late now,” Marx said to Uncle Cheng. “You started her off. Congratulations. Ow!”
“I’m talkin’, Marx!”
“I’m very curious to know what you think,” Uncle Cheng said, and Marx had the feeling that he wasn’t being facetious.
“I think you been keepin’ yer eye out for a while. I think you been watchin’ and makin’ special preparations so that when we did show up, you could try an’ scare us.”
“Is that what you think?”
“Yeah. Make us think you’re all powerful or summink.”
“Well, in that case, I’ve got something for you,” said Uncle Cheng genially.
“You shouldn’t have.”
“Wot is it?” demanded Kez, who was just as suspicious as Marx but considerably more acquisitive.
“A warning,” Uncle Cheng said. A babble of sound rose behind them, and Marx was certain that those bright, glittering eyes were watching every moment of whatever was happening with avuncular approval.
“Kez,” said Marx, without taking his eyes off Uncle Cheng, “what’s happening behind us?”
Kez shrugged. “Dunno. Some bloke in a necklace ’aving a turn.”
“A necklace?”
“One of them choker things.”
“Mm,” said Marx, sweeping the crowd in his memory. He remembered a slight boy, about as dark-skinned as Uncle Cheng and dressed in the most expensive clothes, his collar open at the neck to show a ribbon of black around his slender throat. “The kid in the blue coat. What’s wrong with him?”
“Dunno, but I think he’s done for.”
“Anyone we know?”
“Nope. Ain’t like we got a lot of friends, is it?”
“There are threads in the universe,” said Uncle Cheng. “It used to be said that there was a red thread of fate linking all those who are destined to meet and influence each other. In my lifetime I’ve met only three such threads.”
“Someone’s pumpin’ on his chest wiv a machine,” Kez reported, interrupting Uncle Cheng without compunction. She added ghoulishly, “Don’t reckon it’s workin’.”
“I’ve been aware of one of those threads for the last ten years,” Uncle Cheng said, looking reprovingly at her. “But I haven’t been able to put a face to that thread until today.”
“Wot face?” demanded Kez, momentarily turning her gaze back on Uncle Cheng.
“Think he’s talking about you,” said Marx. “I don’t go through the length and breadth of the known worlds causing trouble.”
“Flamin’ cheek!” Kez expostulated, though Marx wasn’t sure if she was talking about him or Uncle Cheng.
Uncle Cheng waved a knobbly finger. “It’s not a single thread. It’s a double one wrapped so tightly that it doesn’t look like two threads. Sometimes it’s so complicated that I think it might even be three threads, but I’m very sure there are at least two.”
Kez put her tongue out at Marx. “See. Ain’t just me. Oi. That bloke—his arm’s twitchin’.”
“It will take him a little while to die,” Uncle Cheng said. “He’s having an…um, allergic reaction. There will be trouble breathing, a heaviness in his chest, and probably episodes of disorientation before his heart stops. Once he stops breathing that’ll be it.”
“They’ve got the machine out again.”
Uncle Cheng nodded. “They’ll be trying to keep his heart regular. They should be concentrating on his lungs; the heart will take care of itself so long as he keeps breathing.”
“Don’t s’pose you’re gonna tell ’em that? Blimey, he’s gorn all floppy.”
“Why should I? If his own men can’t look after him, it’s none of my business.”
“Don’t think they’re his men, though, are they?” muttered Kez. “They’re doin’ a lot, but they ain’t doin’ a lot, if you get me meanin’.”
Marx’s eyes flickered away from Uncle Cheng for a moment—something he was bitterly aware told Uncle Cheng more about him than he should really be telling—and for the briefest moment he knew he would have to hook it across the room and save the life of one more child.
“Wait, he’s movin’! He ain’t dead yet!”
“Tough kid,” Marx said, looking back at Uncle Cheng. Nothing about his earlier, quick glance at the boy in question had led him to think that the situation was likely to have any other outcome than death.
“Oo-er!” said Kez, her voice considerably respectful. “Marx! He just connected someone’s aerator to his necklace. Think he’s breathin’ again. Oh look! He’s got minions too! They’re pushin’ through the other ones.”
Uncle Cheng’s gaze broke from Marx’s with a soupcon of regret. “That’s interesting,” he said. His sparkling eyes came to bear on Kez. “Did you have anything to do with it?”
To Marx’s secret glee, Kez gave him a witheringly scornful look. “Fort you was clever. Bin standin’ ’ere the whole time, ain’t I?”
“That’s why your thread is so interesting,” said Uncle Cheng. “It’s sometimes in two places at once.”
Kez huffed a dismissive breath and muttered, “Two places!” though Marx wasn’t sure whether her scorn was for Uncle Cheng’s benefit, or from the notion that she was only capable of being in two places at once.
Uncle Cheng, his eyes on the scene behind them, sighed. “What a shame.”
“Yeah,” Kez said. “Didn’t kill ’im after all. Gonna be a bit of trouble for you, ain’t it?”
“Not at all. It’s a shame the Li heir had an allergic reaction in public with so many people around to be distressed by it.”
Kez sent a knowing look in his direction. “You mean wiv so many witnesses to say you didn’t touch ’im?”
Uncle Cheng smiled at her with some fondness. “I’m glad Uncle Li didn’t succeed in killing you.”
Marx couldn’t help his brows rising. So Uncle Cheng knew about that, too? He knew it
was what Uncle Cheng had intended by mentioning it, but he couldn’t help wondering what else there was that Uncle Cheng knew about them.
“Maybe you could add to your good feelings by stopping your men from trying to kill us, too,” he said.
“I would do that,” said Uncle Cheng, “but you have a way of being dreadfully irritating and inserting yourself into my business, and I think that would be putting my men at too much of a disadvantage. Nothing personal, you understand.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“If you were to stop running counter to my interests, there’s no reason for us to fight. I never intended to kill you in the beginning.”
Marx’s brows rose again. “That what you wanted to tell us?”
“No, there’s another reason I wanted you here tonight.”
Kez muttered something more about the likelihood of Uncle Cheng’s having planned such a thing, but both men ignored her; Uncle Cheng with the greatest good cheer and appearance of not having heard a thing, and Marx with a swift clip over her ear.
He asked, “What reason?”
“There’s a box,” said Uncle Cheng in a friendly sort of a way. His eyes sparkled up at Kez in a knowing sort of a way, daring her to comment, and Marx wondered why it was that Uncle Cheng’s eyes bothered him so much.
It wasn’t until Kez muttered in his ear, “Summink wrong wiv this bloke’s eyes,” that the sense of wrongness solidified. Marx had seen several sets of eyes very similar to Uncle Cheng’s just recently, on a number of Seventh World Lolly men. Those eyes had narrowed almost to slits when their owners smiled. It now occurred to Marx that, despite the genial glow and the mischievous twinkle to Uncle Cheng’s eyes, these eyes remained quite wide, quite watchful, and entirely without matching creases beside them.
“You might have seen it in your travels,” suggested Uncle Cheng.
“I doubt it. We don’t collect boxes.”
“You would have wanted this one.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“It’s a special box.”
“Special to who?” asked Marx.
“That’s the crux of it. It’s special to quite a few people. Everywhere it goes, people die, worlds combust, and timelines alter. Many people have claimed it, but its true owner is myself.”
Kez looked at him sceptically. “You lost it an’ you want us to find it for you?”
“That’s right.” Uncle Cheng was fairly beaming. “Come and work for me.”
“What?”
“Wot?”
If Marx had expected anything from this encounter, it hadn’t been a job offer. In fact, as soon as the Newlands Box was brought up, he had expected the conversation to go in quite a different direction.
“Consider it,” said Uncle Cheng invitingly. “WAOF and Time Corp aren’t a problem. You were meant to belong to me from the start, after all.”
“I don’t belong to no one!” snapped Kez, scowling at him.
“Shut up, kid,” Marx said, shifting his weight just slightly. “You belong to me.”
“Well, yeah,” said Kez. “But we don’t belong to no one.”
Uncle Cheng’s eyes seemed to sparkle more jovially, but they didn’t close even the slightest bit. “I’ll give you some time to consider it.”
“No, thanks,” said Marx. “I don’t like working with people who’ve tried to kill me in the past.”
“Wot about Golden Boy, then?”
“He’s an exception.”
“An’ Bells—she tried to kill you.”
“She didn’t try to kill me, she tried to beat me up.”
“Looked like you was ’arf murdered.”
“It was an even match, you horrible little mucker!”
“Didn’t look real even to me,” said Kez. “Looked like you was bein’ beat up.”
“We don’t like working with people who have tried to kill us,” said Marx firmly, over the top of Kez’s sharp little voice.
Kez gave up her demurrals and nodded. “Yeah, wot he said.”
“You might find it worth your while,” Uncle Cheng suggested.
Marx gave a short laugh. “We’re not really keen on being paid with money that comes from drugs.”
Uncle Cheng tsked happily at him. “I wouldn’t offer you money. I’m quite sure that Kez could nip in and out of any bank in the Worlds without too much effort—”
“Oo-er! Now there’s an idea!”
“Don’t even think about it.”
“—so offering you money will obviously not be as effective as it would be to the average person. No, I’m offering you something you’ll appreciate much more than money.”
“You want us to find this box and you’re offering…what?”
“There are a lot of people who think what happened on Fourth World was unconscionable,” said Uncle Cheng.
Marx felt the room separate and quiver around him. He concentrated on making sure he could feel his feet against the floor, but it was the pain in his left leg that brought him back properly. When the room went back to normal around him he said, “Fourth World is the biggest Fixed Point in the known Worlds. You can’t interfere with a Fixed Point.”
“That’s what is known as a common misconception,” Uncle Cheng said. “It’s certainly not easy, and you have to contend with Time Corp, but there is a way.”
“C’mmon, kid,” said Marx. He reached blindly for Kez’s hand and found it waiting for him. “Reckon we’ve finished here.”
“Orright,” she said. “Let’s go, then.”
It was some satisfaction to Marx that the twinkle had utterly disappeared from Uncle Cheng’s eyes.
“You should really think about it,” Uncle Cheng said. “I won’t always be patient, and if it’s possible to alter Fixed Points, you ought to wonder exactly what could happen to your own present and future.”
“Ay,” said Kez, tugging on Marx’s hand. “Reckon he’s threatenin’ us.”
“Reckon you’re right.”
“Flamin’ rude.”
“Yeah.”
“We been polite. We smiled.”
“Yeah.”
“Now I don’t feel like eatin’ me nom,” complained Kez. She pulled a handful of hors d’oeuvres from each pocket and made a small, unappetising pile of them on the platform in front of Uncle Cheng. “Put me right off me food, you ’ave.”
“Don’t regret it,” Uncle Cheng said tightly. “You shouldn’t live with regrets.”
“Don’t worry,” said Marx. “I don’t think I’ll regret anything abou—”
Kez shifted them both back into the Upsydaisy before he could finish the sentence. Marx gave her a half-hearted clip over the ear that made her grin up at him, but he couldn’t bring himself to care too much. There were other things to worry about right now.
He did wonder, however, exactly how long it would be before Uncle Cheng realised Kez had left a tiny pile of roll explosive among the hors d’oeuvres; and he found that he did have one regret, after all. He would have liked to have seen Uncle Cheng diving for cover behind his tent amidst a shower of exploding hors d’oeuvres.
Panic at Annual Cheng Festivities
(As appeared in Worlds Wide Press)
Panic has rocked the annual Cheng Festivities this year. Early in the proceedings, there was a sudden explosion of clam chowder which seems to have startled some partygoers sufficiently enough to cause them to take cover beneath the buffet line. No arrests were made at the time, though there was a strong WAOF presence.
A second stir was caused when an unfortunate allergic reaction was nearly fatal to the Li Family heir. Unaccompanied by either his father or mother, Master Li was attending his first solo event. The World’s Wide Press questions whether his parents will allow him to return to public life with any swiftness after such a shock, although it was reported that the young man did, in fact, save his own life after medical personnel were unable to do so.
Nor was that the sum of excitement for the evening. Shortly after the Li hei
r was taken back to his craft, Uncle Cheng himself disappeared from the scene in a panicked dive from his usual seat overlooking the revels, followed swiftly by a small but potent explosion that showered guests with another serving of foodstuffs.
This reporter questions whether raining exploded food particles upon hapless guests is a trend that is expected to grow in popularity, or if Uncle Cheng is destined to be alone in this particular fashion.
Produced to Infinity (and Beyond)
Guest Passes #34 & #35
“IS THIS A DATE?”
“That’s an old-fashioned word, sir.”
“I’m an old-fashioned man, Ensign.”
“Don’t think of it as a date—”
“That’s a shame.”
“Think of it as an outing.”
“I’d rather think of it as a date.”
“Put this on, sir.”
Mikkel took the lanyard automatically. “What’s this?”
“They call themselves retro, here; it’s part of the experience. The visitor cards won’t stop them from using updated tech to track who comes in and out, but they like to observe the old formalities.”
“Is this a fake?”
“Of course, sir.”
“What about the updated tech that tracks who comes in and out?”
“That should already be taken care of, sir.”
“I see. Then I assume we’re here on behalf of your employers?”
“I have no employer,” said Arabella primly. “I’m an ensign in the Time Corp. All the peoples of all the worlds are my master. I live for all Worlds and all Times, and I—”
“I know the creed, thank you, Ensign,” said Mikkel. “So it’s not a date, and it has something to do with Marx and Kez.”
He should have known better. He did know better. But he hadn’t been able to stop himself from feeling buoyed when Arabella let him catch her sneaking off-ship. He had no doubt about that part of the proceedings—Arabella had certainly allowed herself to be caught. Obviously, he had followed her. Now he was standing in front of a huge, blocky building whose front sign (another huge, blockish thing) proclaimed it to be The Holstrom Institute.
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