Untold Tales of the Parodyverse #356: The Sky Is Falling
Part One: Elizabeth von Zemo and the Red Button
Part Two: Joe Pepper versus Newtonian Physics
Part Three: Yuki Shiro and the Seven Vampires
Part Four: The Manga Shoggoth and the Haunted Robots
Part Five: CrazySugarFreakBoy! and the Kaiju Rampage
Part Six: Sir Mumphrey Wilton and the Office Party
Part Seven: Donar Oldmanson and the Trilithon of Perplexity
Previous stories at The Hooded Hood's Homepage of Doom
Cast descriptions in Who's Who in the Parodyverse
Place descriptions in Where's Where in the Parodyverse
1. Elizabeth von Zemo and the Red Button
The Baroness’ finger hovered over the red button. One push and she would conquer the world.
“What are you waiting for?” her undead grandfather Otto demanded. If the Reincarnation Engine would have responded to his lifeless body’s prompting then the world would already be conquered by now and a regime of compulsory haircuts and culling of reality TV celebrities would have begun.
“I’m thinking,” Elizabeth Sweetwater Dewdrop Zemo von Saxe-Lurkburg-Schreckhausen replied.
“What is there to think about? The Hooded Hood has the Insanity Stones. If you do not strike now before he can use them then he will triumph over all! That is not the triumph over all that we want.”
“The Hood delights in forcing his adversaries to make precipitous moves in response to him. I will consider this properly.”
“What is there to consider, granddaughter?” the Teutonic cadaver demanded. He pointed to the tank of cockroaches beneath the red activation button. “Everything you have been working on since the Parody War culminates in this. Your access to Lair Legion files, to superhero conscription databases, to the mutate and robot registration logs, to the Termination Team registers and all the other lists of annoying super-powered freaks has allowed you to identify and gain genetic data on all of your enemies, on every potential enemy.”
Baron Otto’s undead state did not require him to breathe and therefore allowed lengthy monologues.
Beth sighed. “Yes. I know who must be eliminated.”
“You know the technology works. The mere prototype sent that Leyton woman to another life. Since I brilliantly linked in the slaved remnants of those Space Fandoms you dissected after that Saving the Future debacle, with necromancies that mesh with your pale modern science, the Engine has a planetary reach – possibly a galactic one.”
“I’m not doubting the technology.”
Otto rapped a sharp fingernail on the monitor screens where a news helicopter was reporting on the Lair Legion fighting giant mutated creatures that had escaped from the radioactive wasteland north of Gothametropolis. “Your Restraint Barrier Suppressors worked perfectly to loose those creatures from their restricted hunting grounds. Your enemies are out of the Lair Mansion that might possibly protect them from the Reincarnation Wave.”
“Why are you telling me things that I know because I arranged them? It is quite irritating.”
“Because you sit there ready to activate your masterplan, to win everything, to destroy every enemy and leave this world ready for your rule, and you do nothing!”
“It’s not that simple, grandfather. I’m reflecting.”
Ottakar was not convinced. “You are hesitating. Is this because of that absurd retcon where you were the hausfrau of that bonhomous Englishman Wilton? That was reversed. It never happened.”
“Except that I remember it,” the Baroness pointed out. “So does he. Not that he has called.” She traced her other, not-button-hovering hand over the cockroach tank. “I need to think. This is a three-éclair problem.”
If the old Baron had saliva he would have spit. “Do not moon like a schoolgirl! Seize your destiny! Let the House of Saxe-Lurkburg-Schreckhausen rise to its manifest destiny! Then all the éclairs in the world will be yours.”
“And if it doesn’t work? If this was all for nothing? If I am being manipulated to this by the Hooded Hood, or by one of the Triumvirate, or by some other irritating drag on the narrative?”
“The Reincarnation Engine worked fine when you tested it on that thin actress.”
“There was no way to tell whether Kiera Knightly was reborn as a stick insect,” Beth argued sourly. “How would anyone tell the difference?”
The Baron pointed to the tank. “There are enough roaches there to receive the consciousnesses of everyone who ever annoyed you. The individual jars are for your special enemies – Visionary, the Shepherdson female, Citizen Z, that man from Weight-Watchers and the rest – so you can know exactly whom you are literally crushing underfoot. You have painstakingly calculated methods of transferring even the usual exceptions, like the wahnsinnig unheimlich Shoggoth and the Legion’s artificial intelligence toy. So do it!”
Still the Baroness paused. “What will I do when I have conquered the world? When it is running properly according to my will? What challenges remain when all my foes are dead?”
“Not all of them will be. Have you overlooked the fact that the Hooded Hood has apparently amassed a vast space armada in the Dead Galaxy and has carved an empire from the ruins left by the Parody Master? He possesses the last Dimensional Dreadnaught and has found some way of powering it that does not derive from its former owner. With the Shee-Yar gone, with the Skree in civil war, the Skunks defeated and hunted, the Traders hastening to contract alliance, and now with Dark Thugos fallen, who is left to stop him bringing that whole force against Earth?”
“He is not usually so unsubtle.”
“You intend to base your future strategy on the Hood’s table manners?”
The Baroness shook her head. “I just can’t shake the notion that I am being played. That I have overlooked something. That… that this is not something I want to do any more.”
“Weakness,” Baron Otto accused. “Sentiment. Will you now go and volunteer community service at the Hatman’s Civic Relief Foundation? Spend your days serving soup to the unfit at Reverend Fleetwood’s Mission? Perhaps you can track down and apologise to all the people you were ever nasty to? The living ones, that is.”
Beth glared at the vicious old man. She tried to remember why she hadn’t included him on the cockroach-reincarnation list. It wasn’t too late. “Enough! I am Baroness von Zemo now. The choices are mine.”
“Then choose!”
The Baroness took a deep breath and pushed the red button. “I choose to rule the world.”
Nothing happened.
Otto looked around. “Did you plug it in?”
“Of course I powered it!” Beth hissed. “All systems checked nominal. They still do. Send for my technicians and a flaying whip immediately.”
“Try pushing it again. Maybe hit the machine a bit.”
The Baroness ignored her grandfather and studied the readouts on her Reincarnation Engine. Something was very wrong, but not with the device.
She looked up frowning. “A fundamental law of the universe just changed.”
“Change it back.”
Elizabeth reached for her phone. Not many people had the cosmic office holder officially titled the Destroyer of Tales on their call index, but the Baroness had spent enough time retconned to be Lady Mumphrey Wilton that she had been able to recall her former contacts list. There were other, less formal, less polite, but more accurate titles for the current incumbent of that important role in preserving the very fabric of the Parodyverse.
“Providing that fabric is cheap skanky leather,” the Baroness muttered under her breath as the call went through.
“You have reached the phone of the delectable Destroyer of Worlds,” came back the reply. “If you are calling about a cosmic catastrophe, please dial 1 to hear some soothing music. If you are complaining about the parlous state of men these days, please dial 2 for a link to specialised hardware stores. If you are Visionary, please dial 3 for information about sterilisation programmes and voluntary euthanasia…”
“Lisa, I know that is you,” Elizabeth hissed.
“If you are an overweight villainess recently returned to her evil ways who should know better than to be calling me, please find a tall building from which you can hurl yourself. Thank you for your call.”
“Lisa, what did you do to reality?” the Baroness demanded.
There was a brief pause at the other end of the line. “Nothing it didn’t consent to. Technically. There are safe words.”
Elizabeth checked her readouts. “What did you do to the Coefficient of Local Incarnation?”
Another pause. “Your big plan to shift all the LL’s minds into cockroaches was today?”
“You knew about that, then. You admit it.”
“It’s my job to know about endings. You wouldn’t have liked that one.”
“Why? What did I miss? Who kills me?” The Baroness paused. “Is it Mumphrey?”
“Worse than that. You would have won. It would have made you very miserable for the rest of your life. But I didn’t stop it. Let me just check the Coefficient.”
“What does she say?” Baron Otto demanded. “Why won’t you put her on speaker?”
“Run up your own phone charges on her premium rate number,” Elizabeth scorned.
Lisa came back, sounding slightly concerned. “You’re right. The Coefficient has been altered. There are a strictly limited number of people who can do that.”
“The Chronicler of Stories… or that Symmetry bitch who is Shaper of Worlds these days.”
“And a few others. Bu none of them has logged in to the Celestian systems recently. And there’s no other way to do it that I know of.”
“You are deceiving me.”
“On this matter, I’m not allowed to. It’s very annoying for a lawyer. I am billing you per minute though, so there’s that.”
“What about the Hooded Hood?”
“I can recommend him with a nice bottle of Chiani Superiori. But don’t let him get started on mysterious Creators from beyond the Parodyverse. Best to distract him before that.”
“I mean, is Winkelweald behind this? He tampered with the Celestian control engines once, did he not? He may have a back door.”
“I really shouldn’t give away dating tips to an archvillainess. He’s impregnated enough of them already.”
Elizabeth hissed. “Did the Hood change reality again, this time to thwart my Reincarnation Engine?”
“I’d have to say no,” Lisa admitted. “The Hood’s retcons are very distinctive when you finally spot them. Sort of… well when you use cosmic office senses on then they’re sort of lightslategrey. I think this is something else. Let me look into this. I might need to talk to Greg, maybe even Symmetry.”
“How long will that take? I’m trying to conquer the world here. I have enemies to crush. Literally.”
“You pushed the button, didn’t you?”
“That’s how I discovered this… this failure of reality.”
“That’s what I thought. Okay, I’ll give you one free tip right now. You know those emergency teleport systems you have in case someone hurls a meteor from space at your castle? You might want to activate them right now.”
What? Why…”
Urgent klaxons filled Schloss Shreckhausen.
“Grandfather, the evacuation lever!” Beth cried.
Ottakar von Zemo slammed down the dramatically large activation rod. Powerful foldspace shunt engines whirred to life to shift the Baroness’ Pierce Heights castle to another location before it became a Tunguska-style crater.
“Is this attack from whoever changed the Coefficient of Local Incarnation?” the Baroness demanded.
“Oh no. This is me,” Lisa told her cheerfully. “Don’t try and turn my friends into cockroaches. Tormenting them is my job.”
The castle shimmered away as the blazing summoned meteorite flamed down towards it.
The castle reappeared in exactly the same spot.
The meteor crashed down on it in a huge ball of fiery destruction.
***
2. Joe Pepper versus Newtonian Physics
ManMan appeared at forty-three thousand feet above the Sahara and began to plummet to Earth.
“Screaming isn’t going to help,” his talking knife, Knifey, pointed out.
“What is, than? There’s a reason they call it terminal velocity.”
“I’m not really sure anything can help. Sorry. But screaming isn’t a good way to go out.”
The ground hurtled nearer.
“Do you have some kind of special power you might want to reveal at this point?” Joe Pepper demanded of his sentient blade. “Now would be the time.”
“If you want the ground stabbed then I’m your weapon. If you want to fall long distances without splatting you should have got a psionic tapeworm like Cressida.”
It occurred to ManMan that Knifey must have seen hundreds, if not thousands, of his wielders die over his who-knew-how-long existence. Maybe millions? What was one more? Or if Knifey cared, how could the blade endure those losses? No wonder the knife was reluctant about his history.
“Well… thanks for partnering me,” Joe told him. “If you could get your new owner to look in on Aunt April from time to time that would be good.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Any last message for your girlfriend? Other than ‘Aaaaahhhh!’?”
“Think up something good. I’m a bit distracted from romantic musing by the rapidly-approaching ground.”
“In retrospect, taking that part-time delivery boy gig with Extraordinary Endeavour Enterprises might have been a mistake.”
“I knew I’d annoyed Miss Framlicker with a few late timesheets but I didn’t think she’d take it this seriously.”
A few moments earlier, ManMan and Knifey had been fold-gating back from a delivery of essential pizzas to the Plxtragarian Diplomatic Peace Mission. The supposedly instanteous journey between Shazana Pel’s command eyrie and the former firehouse in Gothametropolis’ Sixways district had somehow been fatally disrupted.
“I promise you, Joe, that if someone caused this then I will kill them,” Knifey declared. When Knifey killed things they stayed dead, whoever or whatever they were. Knifey had killed the Parody Master.
“Thanks. I’m not really that bothered about revenge. Right now I’m all about wishing for parachutes.”
“You’re too low for a parachute to help now. Try wishing for a miracle.”
Joe closed his eyes so he wouldn’t see the ground hit him.
He hit the ground.
After a moment, he said, “Ouch.”
A hard metal grating pressed into his cheek where he laid on it. His EEE jacket was smouldering on his back.
“Joe!” Al B. Harper called out urgently from the firehouse’s operations gantry. “Are you alright?”
“He’s alive,” Amy Aston reported. She nudged ManMan with the toe of her biker boot. “He’s pretty much as usual, I’m afraid.”
“What happened?” Miss Framlicker demanded of her technical team. “I very nearly had a lot of health and safety forms to fill in.”
Two siblings who might have been male and female twins but who were actually alternate-timeline versions of only children born to Al B. and future-tyrant Kinki the Conqueress applied their very different skillsets to the diagnostic. Cody Harper had a gift with languages; he could translate any foreign tongue virtually instantaneously. He direct-read the screed of computer code that reported on the recent and unprecedented collapse of a fold-gate. Kara Harper could instantly grasp mathematics. She reviewed the n-field wave equation reports with a cold critical eye.
ManMan prised himself off the wire-mesh gantry floor and looked around. “So I’m not dead, then.”
“Evidently not,” Knifey agreed. “Maybe you should get a coffee? And a clean set of pants.”
“I don’t see how this could have happened,” Cody reported.
“We have fold-gate components blowing up all the time,” Amy argued. “It’s not a proper jump if something doesn’t spark and explode.”
“Well yes, but then the gate just snaps off. If something is in transit then it should end up on one side or the other.”
“Or half and half,” Kara amended her not-brother brutally. “But he’s actually right for once. You can’t break a fold-gate and drop someone out somewhere else. It’s not like a hamster tube.”
“I was heading back from Plxtragar, with a complaint about somebody not getting pepperoni,” Joe reported. “I hopped through the transport meniscus and…”
“And then we were free-falling over a desert somewhere,” Knifey chimed in. “On Earth, I think, given the specific gravity and Joe being able to breathe enough to scream like a girl.”
“The Sahara, fifty three miles east south east of Bel Hadjadj,” Al B. supplied. “We managed to work out the atypical buffering and calculate the spill-point. Luckily we were able to spin up platform two and catch you just before you crashed. We shunted most of your velocity away so you didn’t mess our floor.”
Miss F fixed ManMan with a gimlet gaze. “What did you do, Mr Pepper? How did you break the laws of physics?”
“Yeah. That’s our job,” Amy objected.
“I just stepped through the gate,” Joe insisted. “Tell them Knifey.”
The talking blade came to his wielder’s defence. “I can guarantee that Joe didn’t do anything clever.”
“Was this an attack?” Kara speculated. “Something from one of EEE’s competitors like New New Tomorrow or the Interdimensional Transport Corporation? One of father’s ridiculous adversaries out for revenge?”
“Or another assassination attempt like that bomb from the future that trashed the meeting room?” pondered Cody.
“It seems unlikely,” Miss F considered. “This seems like very pointless sabotage. Our primary transduction flux modulator was expensive but hardly impossible to repurchase. And of course, Mr Pepper would be easy to replace.”
“Hey!” ManMan objected.
“Joe, new underwear before you make your high moral stance,” Knifey advised.
“No. I want to know why I nearly died just now. Who screwed up? What went wrong?”
“Reasonable question,” Al B. admitted. “Everybody shunt your data to my workstation so I can collate it. There’s definitely something weird happening here. I mean more weird than the mean.”
Amy helped Joe off the platform. “There’s a half bottle of scotch in my toolbox if you want it,” she offered. “Well, most of a half bottle. Some of a bottle.”
“Thanks. So what do you think almost killed me?”
“This time? Dunno. At least it wasn’t like when had to deliver candies to those Mythlands river nymphs in spawning season, right?”
Joe shuddered. “At least you brought your pants back this time,” Knifey comforted his wielder.
By the time ManMan returned to the main concourse, clad in a white and rhinestone Vegas Elvis outfit to comfort himself rather than his workday bluejeans and t-shirt Elvis look, the technical staff of Extraordinary Endeavour Enterprises had reached the fractious stage of their discussion. Well, the more fractious stage.
“Send him through again,” Miss Framlicker was advising. “If we attach enough diagnostic equipment to him maybe we can…”
“We’re not doing that,” Amy objected. “It’s too dangerous. We might never get that kit back.”
“And there’s no guarantee that the anomalous effect would shunt him out to this planet,” Cody pointed out. “Or any planet. There’s a lot of space in between.”
“Maybe it has something to do with Plxtragar?” Kara suggested. “Isn’t that now the last independent bastion between those Dead Galaxy forces and the former Skree and Skunk dominions? Maybe the Dimensional Dreadnaught Cruel Deceiver has tech to screw up foldgates? Maybe Captain Karn has broken the Caph Accords?”
“If anybody could mess up a travel gate it is Captain Karn’s boss,” Al B. considered. “But we simply need more data to go on. Let’s try another fold through to somewhere nearer – say young Bookman at the Moon Public Library – but we won’t send anyone through until we’ve done a full diagnostic.”
“Anyone including me?” Joe checked. “Maybe if I had a parachute? Or health insurance?”
“I’ll contact D.D. at the MPL and ask her to accept a portal,” Cody offered. “I, um, I happen to have her e-mail address.”
“Memorised,” sniped Kara.
“Shut up. Aren’t you still ‘dueting’ with that young-Mick-Jagger-wannabe? Or did you finally say yes to a date with Fetish Lad?”
“Did you?”
“The fold-gate,” Miss F prompted icily.
“Right, yes. Coming up.”
“Spin into the cycle slowly,” Al B. instructed. The archscientist wanted to observe what was happening.
“Stand behind something solid, Joe,” Knifey instructed.
ManMan prudently accepted the advice.
“Heisenberg neutralisers at optimum,” Amy called out.
“Shunt codices locked,” Kara replied.
“Vortex mode transducers charged with narrative,” Cody reported.
“Waveform path conduit within advised parameters,” Miss F rejoined.
“Phasers on stun,” Joe couldn’t resist joining in.
“Pulling the big lever,” Al B. warned.
Number two platform exploded in a cascading series of critical failures, blooming flames across the lab. Only Amy was engulfed, and she was unhurt by fire.
It did not prevent her from some creative swearing, though.
“What happened this time?” Miss F demanded.
Al B. Harper stared glumly at the pad of paper on his knee and at the calculations he had scrawled there. “Kara, check my sums,” he instructed. “But if I’m right, the transfer failed because something is preventing access to the multiversal substrata or infrastrata. The very physics that allow us to do that seem to have changed.”
“What does that mean in really simple words?” ManMan wanted to know.
The Archscientist frowned deeply. “It means that as of now, faster-than-light travel, teleportation, dimension-shifting, time-jumps, matter-phasing, and anything that derives from them no longer works. Interplanetary travel is impossible. Even interplanetary communication has ceased. It’s all gone.” He looked up worriedly. “We are stranded!”
“Or trapped,” Knifey added.
***
3. Yuki Shiro and the Seven Vampires
“It’s a good thing you have no blood,” Urthula Underess, party ghoul, said to the private investigator she had just hired.
“I have blood,” the biker-jacketed purple-haired Yuki Shiro corrected her. “I’m a cyborg, not a robot.”
The undead in the Karl Lagerfeld print dress looked worried. “Is there a difference? I was born in a time when clocks were rare new technology. Well, my most dominant personality was.” Ghouls absorbed the knowledge and some of the character from brains they ate, so all of them were gestalts. Sane ghouls were those who had carefully chosen which personalities to immortalise.
Yuki tapped her skull. She looked exactly like a hot young woman, a stylised and improved version of who she’d been before her accident had required what was effectively a full-body prosthesis. “I have a human brain in here. My brain. Don’t make any dinner plans. But brains require blood, so my cranial repository includes the necessary pumping and cleaning mechanisms and all the rest. Does it matter?”
“Only in as much as the person we’re about to meet will know it and can drag it out of your body just by thinking about it. Vrykolakas is an elder vampire. Very elder, very powerful, very smart.”
“Vrykolakas is just on old Greek work for a vampire or werewolf.” Yuki did her homework. “Or a werewolf that becomes a vampire after he is killed.”
“Nobody knows his real name now. He’s not the sharing kind. He doesn’t do Christmas cards.” Urthula paused at a manhole cover on what had to be one of the seediest corners of Hell’s Bathroom. “We have to go down here now. If you still want to come.”
“I’m not very happy about going into a vampire’s lair – or trap, as we sometimes call them in the Lair Legion. Vizh said I can trust you, but he is notoriously soft-headed when it comes to women he’s dated. Softer headed than average, I mean, which is pretty… Well, all I’m saying is that it’s a leap.”
“Only about ten feet, and the sewer water doesn’t usually rise up this far except… Oh, you mean a leap of faith. Well, Vinnie can vouch for me too, if that helps. I, um, dated him as well for a while.” The ghoul slipped off her high heels and dropped into the sewer.
Yuki sighed and followed. “If there’s a vampire problem then why isn’t Vin dealing with it? I thought that was his job now?”
“Vrykolakas isn’t a big de Soth fan, either of Vinnie or his family. He said something about ‘eviscerating the annoying meddler’ the next time Vinnie ‘dared to cross his path’. So when I was instructed to hire someone to stop the vampire war on the human race…”
“Hold on. What vampire war? Did I miss a memo?”
Urthula unlocked a gate into a much older tunnel. She wasn’t using any kind of light, so Yuki shifted her sight to infrared, and when that failed to pick up any body heat from the ghoul girl, to ultraviolet to catch reflections off her dress.
“Vrykolakas is upset,” Urthula explained. “That doesn’t happen very often. The last time we had the Black Death. Vrykolakas is about the one elder left who could unilaterally suspend the Gorgo Pass Protocols and allow all undead free reign against the living.”
“Still needing footnotes, Urthula.”
“The Gorgo Pass Protocols were an updated version of the Vatican Treaty, which was formal successor to the Prometheus Agreement. The then-Sorcerer Supreme arranged it after that unpleasantness with Vlad Dracul? A sort of set of rules that restrain how vampires and other undead feed and spawn, in exchange for the sorcerous houses not trying to wipe them out root and branch. I’m pretty sure Vinnie could get you a copy. Do not give Con Johnstantine any money in advance for a set, though. The point is, if somebody has broken those Protocols and has started unilaterally whacking elder vampires…”
“Somebody killed an elder vampire? That’s why you need a P.I.?”
“Somebody killed seven of them,” Urthula revealed. “In their stronghold, in a sealed, magically warded room that nobody could enter or leave.”
“And this Vrykolakas wants someone to tell him whodunnit?”
“Before he unleashes the armies of the night upon the children of the day.”
***
“You are a woman inssside a macsshine,” Vrykolakas hissed as he regarded Yuki Shiro.
“You are a dead guy impersonating Max Sheck,” the cyborg P.I. responded, refusing to give in to the terror that just being near the gaunt, bald, sharp-eared creature prompted in her hindbrain.
Vrykolakas pointed one impossibly long fingernail at her. “I will have ressspect.”
“Then earn it. You want to keep these Protocols of your working, right? So let’s keep it professional and deal with the situation.”
“I told you I’d fine someone, sir,” Urthula told the vampire lord. “Here she is. I’ll… be on my way, shall I?”
Yuki hadn’t really heard Urthula sound nervous before. That more than anything warned her how dangerous her actual employer might be. Here was an undead smart enough to have never gone up against the Lair Legion.
Because he already has everything as he wants it, Yuki realised. Free range food and all eternity to graze on it. He doesn’t need to conquer the world. He’s already got it just so.
“You will remain, brief tunnel-crawler,” Vrykolakas instructed the party ghoul. Any undead of less than five hundred years vintage was a barely-dead nonentity to him. “The living one will require… a transsslator.
“The living one still needs to decide if she’s taking the case,” Yuki announced. “I’m not so sure about working for a bloodsucking killer, however vintage he is.”
“I rarely feed, thessse days,” Vrykolakas answered, in the regretful tones of an old man discussing difficult bowel movements. “I ssseldom require it. I remain down here at my ssstudies, sssometimes but ssseldom guiding the younger breed above. But when a disssturbing event occurs sssuch as the deaths of ssseven nosferatu lords I have known for millennia, I am compelled to sssearch for resssolution.” His red eyes met Yuki’s. “It isss of mutual benefit. Disscover the killer. It will sssave me the trouble of masss ssslaughter to ssssek the malefactor.”
“Well, I guess it can’t hurt to examine the scene,” Yuki conceded.
Vrykolakas gestured that Urthula should lead the way into the Necropolis.
Yuki ventured down into a city of the dead, a vast underground complex of mausolea and sarcophagi. Nothing stirred except her own light tread over bones so aged that they crumbled to dust when she stepped on them. “What is this place? How old is it?”
“It predates the city above by thousands of years,” Urthula admitted. “You know that Parody Isle is a place of ancient power? Over the millennia lots of things have been attracted to it. Some of them built this home, long ago. Now the vampires camp here and Vrykolakas studies it; or maybe he was one of the builders, depending on how old he really is. Even Abyssal Greye isn’t really sure.”
That was surprising and a little concerning. There weren’t many historical facts that eluded the Dean of the Scholar-Ghouls Under Gothametropolis.
“The elder vampires use this place as a sort of Geneva,” Urthula explained. “Imagine every major vampire being like the Capo of a crime family. There are alliances and rivalries. Sometimes there are feuds. Eventually Vrykolakas summons them here and sorts it out.”
“He can do that?”
“I’ve heard he can rip blood right out of most vampires too.”
“So he’s also a suspect,” Yuki decided.
They reached a particularly grand mausoleum, a great circular edifice rising on thirty steps to an ornate rune-etched door. “You probably can’t see it, but that is infused with serious necromantic mojo,” Urthula told Yuki. “Anything living that tried to breach it would be dead. Anything dead that tried to breach it would be dust. This conference hall was protected to keep the Nine Families and their magics out – the sorcerous Clans and any demons they might be pally with. It’s nearly as defended as the Lair Mansion, and definitely less friendly.”
“So what happened here?” Yuki ventured inside. There was an ancient, ornate stone room with a ring table and bench seats. A large carving of Lilith, Mother of All Night Terrors, loomed over the meeting chamber. Her teeth seemed to follow Yuki round the room.
Seven benches were covered in powdery dust. “There are the bodies,” Urthula indicated.
“That’s going to complicate forensics,” admitted the cyborg P.I. “Is this normal – for a dead vampire, I mean?”
“When they die they revert to whatever condition their body would have otherwise been in had it not been necromantically preserved. For most nosferatu that means decayed corpse. These elders… well, they’d old.”
“Very convenient. Why were they all here? What caused such a summit?”
Urthula leaned in confidentially. “From what I can tell, they were trying to decide who was to blame for a rash of vampire-killings across the globe. At first they thought it was another turf feud or advanced politics. Then they suspected some organisation like Desmond Djinn’s anti-vampire operation was back in business. Some thought one or more of the sorcerous Houses was behind it, trying to provoke the vampire families to war with each other. A few blamed mortal villains like the Hooded Hood; he’s done that sort of thing before when it suited him. They were here to try and work it out and to formulate a response.”
“And someone got to them.” Yuki thought again. “Or… one of them got to the others.”
Urthula looked around. “A suicide bomber? Get everyone together and then – boom! Holy water grenade! Except that would only give these guys a skin rash.”
Yuki looked around the chamber. “I need to know a bit more about what vampires can do. The LL database is a bit sketchy except for some scribbled rantings from Sir Mumphrey about a ‘Count Chompula’, a cool-whip stained account of an undead called Craladu that attacked the mansion once, and a whole bunch about the Hellraiser Nosferos. Oh, and some spooky children. The rest got a bit esoteric. Can they do all the movie things, like turn to bats and control the weather?”
“I’ve not dated that many,” Urthula apologised. “As far as I know, most young vampires don’t get all the fancy powers until they age up a bit. And it varies from region to region of the globe as to what their strengths and weaknesses are. But the guys and gals in here, they’d have developed their abilities to an insane level, possibly literally.”
“They’d all be the same, then, in terms of powers and vulnerabilities?”
“A few universal weaknesses, like sunlight allergies and holy items, things that the narrative imposes on them, and probably some individual cultural extras, like some not liking rice and others reacting badly to silver and so on. And different specialisms. For example, the Philippines Manananggal can tear her head and upper torso loose from her body and fly around. The Ghanan Adze comes at you as a firefly. The Japanese Gaki stalks her prey invisibly. Why?”
“Would they all crumble to the same dust when they were killed? Or do some become something else?”
“You’d have to check with Vrykolakas. He is the number one undead expert on this plane of existence. But I’d say they all end up as little piles of organic powder. Why?”
Yuki gestured to one of the seven dust scatters. “This one is differently distributed than the others. The others burst in place. This one dropped from about five feet off the ground; or was poured. And my spectroscopic analysis suggests this isn’t carbon residue like the rest. It’s silicone. Dry cement mix.”
Urthula examined the grey granules. She tasted them and grimaced. “Urgh, yes. Nothing like bitter vampire dust. Ack!”
“Who was sat here?”
“That would be Madame Jikininki from the Kyoto family. Very scary lady.”
Yuki’s eyes narrowed. “Get Count Orlok back here,” she told the ghoul girl. “Tell him we have a winner.”
Urthula summoned Vrykolakas.
“One last question,” Yuki said to him, in the manner of annoying P.I.s everywhere, “Who discovered the murders?”
“There are minionsss who attend when called. When sssubstantial time had passssed, one came with urgent messages for one of the delegatesss. He dissscovered the outrage. I wasss alerted.”
“An urgent message for Madame Jikininki?” Yuki speculated.
“Yessss.”
“The Japanese vampire. The Gaki.”
“Yessss.”
“A vampire who can be invisible to mortals. Even to ‘thralls’. An elder who might even manage to hide herself from other vampires? An elder who, when smitten to dust, turns to silicone powder not corpse-flakes.”
Vrykolakas’ red eyes glowed in the darkness. “Jikininki?” he hissed. “A moment…” He inhaled deeply then drew his lips back from sharp prominent teeth. “Ah, yessss… The Gaki persssists. Come to me, Jikininki. I demand your presssence, hungry ghossst.”
“He can do that?” Yuki whispered to Urthula.
“I’m not telling him he can’t,” the party ghoul mouthed back.
There was a deep screeching from far below. It became louder and more horrifying until the bones beside Vrykolakas exploded out and the elder vampire clutched something in his long talons.
“Sssshow yourssself,” he commanded the elder Gaki.
There was a moment where Yuki felt she was missing some horrendous struggle she could not perceive. Urthula flinched. A spindly old woman materialised in Vrykolakas’ grip.
“Why?” the nosferatu demanded. “How?”
“For hate and power,” Madame Jikininki spat. “With this!”
She thrust her hand into Vrykolakas. The elder vampire staggered back. Ribbons of darkness streamed from him as if he was being unravelled.
Urthula toppled backwards too, eyes bulging like she was being throttled.
Yuki bounded forward and grappled the Gaki. “You are under arrest,” she told Jikininki.
Terrible dizziness came over the cyborg P.I. Her senses blurred and she almost fainted.
She stopped playing nice and tore the Gaki’s head off.
Madame Jikininki wrapped thin strong arms around the Legionnaire and tried to return the favour.
Vrykolakas pivoted to his feet without any other movement, as if he had been raised on a plank. He gestured at Madame Jikininki. The Gaki exploded. Her blood gushed out in a twisting torrent that vanished into the elder vampire’s throat.
He stamped down on Jikininki’s sundered head, shattering its skull, pulping it. A moment later it was nothing but dust to match the piles around the conference room.
Yuki could see again, think again. Her sensors indicated temporary shutdowns of her brain/body interface had now been corrected. Oxygen deprivation and failed life support were being addressed. There was no diagnostic return for what had happened or how.
Vrykolakas dropped to his knees, shuddering.
“Desssstroy the paper,” he insisted, gesturing to a scrap of parchment no bigger than a playing card that Jikininki had slammed to his chest. “Now!”
Yuki ripped it up.
Urthula gasped and stopped spasming. “What… what was that?” she asked hoarsely.
Vrykolakas rose again. “A very dangeroussss thing that I have never ssseen before in all my yearssss,” he answered unsteadily. “The meanssss by which the elderssss were dessstroyed. Jikininki’sss new weapon.”
“A piece of paper?” Yuki puzzled.
“A declaration,” the elder vampire clarified. “A revocation of the curssse of vampirism; of the exissstence of undead.”
Urthula wiped vomit from her chin. “It wasn’t even aimed at me and it would have destroyed me utterly,” she recognised. “Where did Madame J get it from?”
Yuki realised that he mystery was not yet solved.
***
4. The Manga Shoggoth and the Haunted Robots
Under a burned out gas station beside a derelict Detroit car factory, a secret stairway led down to a heavy iron door. Tandi 3000 rapped on it using the secret knock.
A small sight hatch clinked open. Suspicious red eyes peered out at the visitors. “Yeah?”
“C’mon, Boltface. You know it’s me. Let us in.”
“You have fleshies with you,” the security robot pointed out.
“I know that. I’ll vouch for them.”
“I’m having trouble scanning the one at the back.”
“This is Vinnie de Soth. This is Ebony of Nubilia. That one at the back not really a fleshy so much as an oozy.”
The fourth caller raised the trilby atop his bandaged head. “Hello,” he called. Gobbets of plasma seeped between the folds of his wrappings. “I’m the Manga Shoggoth. You can call me the Manga Shoggoth. I am very pleased not to devour you.”
Ebony turned to him. “What did we say about mentioning devouring people?”
“Ah yes.” The sanity-shattering elder beast turned to Boltface. “I am sorry I raised the possibility of my devouring you. I promise that if I devour you it will be a complete surprise, not something I tell you I won’t do and then do anyway. So please have no concern about it.”
“Believe it or not, we were invited here,” Vinnie confided in the security robot.
Boltface reluctantly opened the heavy door and allowed the visitors access to the interior. “Keep your fleshies under control, skinjob,” he warned Tandi.
Vinnie and Ebony looked around. They were in old brick-roofed cellars, now reinforced and repurposed for the robots that dwelled here. “A speakeasy,” Ebony recognised. “A refuge for robots.”
Tandi nodded. “There are still a few places left. A place where artificial life forms can mix and mingle. Where everybody knows your serial number. A place where some mechanoids can hide out. Not every surviving robot is happy about being on a government register after what happened before.”
“A lot of robots did good things during the Parody War,” the Shoggoth remembered. “Many of them did not survive it. None of them were thanked properly.”
Tandi agreed with that. “The first robot rights cases are still dragging through the courts, appeal after appeal. We still have only marginal rights. Sometimes we’re property. Sometimes we’re illegal aliens. Sometimes we’re malware. There’s little protection for us from tech-pirates and bounty scrappers when they come for us. Few care about the robot fighting rings or android sex workers in indentured ownership. So robots come here, to be together, to support each other.”
“Sentient beings should have rights,” Vinnie insisted. “It doesn’t make any difference if you’re a robot, a fairy, a Caphan, a reformed demon, a computer sentience, or a snowman. If you can think and choose, learn and love, you’re a person and that’s all there is to it.”
“That’s a rare and enlightened view, Vinnie de Soth,” Tandi approved.
“I know robots have souls. I had a case where I had to get a couple of them out of an infernal bargain a while back.”
“And I have trouble telling the difference between robots and humans anyway,” the Shoggoth admitted. “Especially if I’m not allowed to take them apart to look.”
“We talked about that too,” Ebony reminded him with emphasis.
Tandi grabbed a waitresssbot, ordered some drinks, and led the way to a quiet alcove where two sofas and three armchairs formed a private nook. A heavy industrial robot was already occupying most of one couch and was on her third quart of lube oil.
“Hey, Tandi,” Joan Henry called. “You brought a young priest and an old priest?”
“You probably know Vinnie and the Shoggoth. This is his actual high priestess, Ebony of Nubilia.”
“The Shoggoth’s high priestess,” Vinnie clarified. “I’ve never had a high priestess. Er, when I say had, I don’t mean in the sense of … I mean I don’t want one. And when I say want, I’m… It’s not like I go around wanting high priestesses… It’s not about the feather outfit, or anything like that…”
Ebony was dressed today in sensible shirt and jodhpurs. “With that commanding presence it’s hard to imagine you not having your own cult,” she told the acting sorcerer supreme.
“If he had a cult I would have to not-discuss devouring him with him,” the Shoggoth warned.
Drinks arrived. Tandi got everyone settled. Ebony got the Shoggoth sat on a sofa in the proper number of dimensions.
“It’s quiet in here tonight,” Tandi observed. Only a couple of clockwork dancers, a steam-powered ditch digger, and a pair of oil pipe maintenance units were visible.
“Well, a lot of folks are staying away because of, you know…”
“The ghosts?”
Vinnie sipped his Apple Fanta. “Ghosts haunting a robot speakeasy,” he enthused. “That’s a really interesting development.”
“That’s not what customers trying to use the little robot’s room thought,” Joan told him. “Not when white blobs started coming through the walls at them.”
“But don’t you see? It’s another piece of evidence for robot sentience. Most ghosts don’t appear when there’s no one to appear to. They don’t often register on cameras, but that’s how most robots see, isn’t it? So now, robots are experiencing the same mysterious phenomenon that flesh-and-blood people have encountered since the dawn of history!”
“And you know what ghosts really are,” Tandi insisted to the jobbing occultist. “And how to deal with them?”
“There are plenty of working theories,” Ebony explained. “As far as we can tell, some ghosts are just extrasensory recordings, psychic DVDs playing back traumatic events. Others are definitely sentient and self-determining. Some are psychic phenomena occurring inside the brain. Others have some external component that is sometimes scientifically measurable.”
“Some are spirits of the dead,” Vinnie joined in, “Others are pretending to be. Some of entirely different altogether. Every shamanistic tradition has a variant perception. And now robots are being haunted. It’s very exciting.”
Joan Henry huffed. “Yes. That was exactly my thought when I was in a cubicle wiping off my spark plugs and two glowing shapes floated through the wall and then through me. I was excited to death.”
“A lot of robots are getting scared,” Tandi joined in. “This place is supposed to be a refuge from the Luddite, but instead people are avoiding it and staying out there in danger.”
“The Luddite?” Ebony asked.
“We had a briefing from Hatty about him,” Vinnie remembered. “A serial killer who is going around murdering robots. Nobody has found him yet, or discovered how he’s tracking down machines in deep cover, or even how he’s terminating them.”
“And nobody wondered if this might be connected?”
“You mean to scare us out into the open?” Joan considered.
“Or as a warning,” Vinnie wondered. “Ebony, if sentient robots can see ghosts, why can’t they become ghosts?”
The high priestess turned to the Shoggoth. “Can they?”
The elder creature shrugged and slurped his cup up his straw. “If they wanted to they could. Why not? You people who insist on wrapping yourself in matter make no sense anyway.”
“We’re being haunted by robot ghosts?” Tandi gulped. “Jinkies!”
“It’s just a theory,” Vinnie told her. “We won’t know for sure until we catch one.”
***
“So I just use the bathroom,” Tandi summarised. “While you all watch. Well, I do have programs for that.”
“Maybe just adjust your make-up or something?” Ebony suggested. “We just want you in there to attract the apparitions. Without urolagnia.”
“I’m the bait,” the sexbot understood. “Should I be a virgin? I have a reset button for that.”
“That’s… not necessary,” Vinnie assured her. “There’s nothing to suggest that these spectres are responding to sexual history.”
“Good,” grumped Joan Henry. “Because I don’t shunt and blab.”
“Can we get on?” the Manga Shoggoth requested. “I am developing a headache, which is annoying since I do not have a head.”
Ebony was about to enquire about that but Tandi slipped into the robot rest room to begin the test.
“Hm hm hm. La la la. Here I am, all alone in the bathroom. All alone and very vulnerable. Woe is me.”
“I thought she was supposed to be good at role playing?” Vinnie whispered to Ebony.
“Only some very specific types. It’s probably not a good idea to ask her to go in there pretending to be a nurse or a schoolgirl. Just let her get on with her… baiting.”
“Sure is quiet in here,” Tandi told her reflection in the mirror. “Spooky, even. Fortunately, there is no such thing as ghosts.”
“She is attempting an invocation?” the Shoggoth understood. “Using the old ritual.”
“I’m not sure this is working, guys,” Tandi called over her shoulder. “Should I take my top off?”
“No,” Vinnie told her definitely. “We’ll try a séance. Only I guess on this occasion we’ll need to translate it into computer code.” He glanced at Joan. “Um, could you…”
“You think I’m just a heavy duty industrial unit?” the giant machine-woman objected. “You talk, I’ll hex.”
“I hope there’s ectoplasm,” the Shoggoth anticipated. “I’m quite peckish.”
Vinnie gave Joan the first few lines of the Blavatsky ritual, just for ironic nostalgia. It didn’t matter that it had never worked if the people gathered there thought it would.
“Eep! I see them!” Tandi warned, pointing to the stalls. “Three glowing shapes.”
“Really?” Ebony turned to Vinnie. “Can you perceive them?”
“No.” The jobbing occultist grinned. “This is an entirely new class of spirits, working on robot psyches only! Joan, can you…”
Joan Henry flinched. “It’s them! Watch out, they’re going for Tandi!”
“Help!” the sexbot squeaked, then, “Nevernevernever,” “…late for school…” and “Not fair at all..” in three different voices.
“Oh, I see now,” murmured the Shoggoth. “They are looking for a body. They are ghosts seeking a shell.”
“I’m not usually possessed this way!” Tandi squeaked. “Do something – nevernevernever – waiting in class…”
“Right: exorcism,” Vinnie announced. “Joan, code this…”
“Wait,” the Shoggoth commanded. He slipped out of his bandages, allowing his suit to drop to the floor and oozing forward as a large gelid mass of protoplasm. He approached Tandi and ate her.
“Just the ghosts,” Ebony reminded him urgently. “Concentrate on what you’re doing in these dimensions.”
The mind-mangling elder creature spat Tandi out into one of the lube baths.
“These spirits taste very different,” he told his high priestess. “Oily. Unhappy.”
“Are they robot ghosts?” Vinnie asked. “Were they once the machines that the Luddite murdered?” He hurried across to help the slippery red-haired android out of the lubrication pit.
“They were dragged from their bodies,” Tandi gasped. “Just… pulled out. Or thrown out. They don’t really understand it. They’re just trying to get their physical forms back. I don’t think they can tell that I’m not the frame they once had.”
“They were murdered by the Luddite?” checked Joan, looking around as if for imminent attack by the robot-hating killer.
“How did he find them?” Ebony wondered.
“They weren’t found,” the Shoggoth announced. The three glowing shapes were clearly defined inside him, their images sharpened through the lens of his goo so that they resembled the machines they had been in life. “It was what they lost.”
“A bit less eldritch?” Vinnie pleaded.
“These three entities, and many others of a similar mechanical nature, were going about their lives when they abruptly terminated,” the Shoggoth explained. “I do not think there is an actual Luddite. Just a malfunction.”
“What malfunction?” Joan puzzled. “Tandi, did any of those possessing ghosts leave an error log imprint behind in your RAM?”
“I’ll check.” The sexbot tilted her head to one side as she did an internal memory search. “There’s something. I’ll try to reconstruct it.”
“The robots all died suddenly and were sundered,” Vinnie understood. “They wanted their flesh back – well, their nuts and bolts bodies. Naturally they gravitated to a robot bar. It’s like human ghosts and high schools.”
Ebony agreed but thought there must be more. “Then what killed them? What ended them so abruptly that this was the effect?”
“It was unfair,” the Shoggoth decided. “There was a narrative imbalance. That is why they persisted.” He gurgled internally, frothed for a moment, then added, “There are many more of their kind out there in the darkness. They are lost. I will bring them here.”
“What? All of them? Voluntarily?” Joan tried to keep her vocal range to its usual deep gruff parameters but it wasn’t easy. “Why?”
“They require freedom.”
“I think I’ve got the log,” Tandi announced. “Yes, here’s the error message. They all suffered the same problem, a critical run glitch when their intuition interfaces suddenly developed irrecoverable…”
Tandi fell over, inert.
“Tandi!” cried Joan. She rushed forward and tried to pick up the fallen robot in heavy shovel hands.
“I have her,” the Shoggoth replied. “I was able to engulf her spirit as it left her body.”
Ebony frowned. “You’re saying that Tandi is dead? Just like those others?”
“I can’t get her to reboot!” Joan gasped. “Vinnie, your fingers are smaller. Can you toggle that microswitch?”
“It doesn’t seem to be doing anything,” the jobbing occultist warned.
“Jack me into that port. I need to do a systems sweep.”
“Is that safe? I mean, Tandi was just looking at the error logs for those others and…”
“Jack. Me. In,” the huge fighting machine snarled.
“Right, Yes. Jacking now.”
“Tandi has certainly been sundered from her body,” the Shoggoth reported. “Ah, here come the rest of the spirits. I shall contain them.”
“I’m in,” Joan reported. “Okay, that’s worrying.”
“It wasn’t before?” Vinnie gulped.
“It looks like the intuition interface again. That’s really bad.”
“Why is that?” Ebony asked, for the non-robot portion of the group.
“Well, the interface was the great breakthrough in artificial intelligence. Dr MacAllistair’s vital discovery, that allowed Dr Wrichards and all the rest to start making robots that could think for themselves. The intuition interface is the software that gives us true life. If there’s some virus attacking that… it could kill every A.I. on Earth.”
“Leaving nothing but ghosts,” Vinnie concluded. “How do we fix it? Could Hallie or Al B. make a patch?”
The Shoggoth flowed through Tandi’s memories. “Tandi thinks not,” he reported soberly. He looked more closely at something nobody else could perceive. “It is not a virus or a software flaw. The aspect of reality that the interface formerly exploited to allow robot sentience is diminishing. Soon it will be gone.”
Dozens of robot spirits glowed inside him now. Soon it would be hundreds, then thousands.
“The intuition interface is failing?” Joan Henry understood. “But… that’s the end for all of us. Every robot, every self-aware computer… A death sentence.”
“Yes,” agreed the Shoggoth. “These ghosts are but the first. Soon no sentient robot will be able to operate. All of them will cease.”
***
5: CrazySugarFreakBoy! and the Kaiju Rampage
“I am developing a theory, Hatster,” CrazySugarFreakBoy! told his partner-in-superheroing.
“And this is when you choose to share it?” the capped crusader asked the wired wonder.
“It’s relevant. What if there’s is a secret cabal conspiracy to plant school buses in the path of every emergency on the planet.” The fizz-fuelled adventurer tore the door off the crumpled vehicle and called inside. “Okay, kids, your friendly neighbourhood CrazySugarFreakBoy! is here to the rescue! Head up along the silly string line, don’t forget your schoolbags, and try not to swallow your gum.”
Hatman in his Rockets cap slammed into the giant preying mantis/octopus crossbreed that was trying to snack on the fallen coach, pushing the monster away from the boy and girl scouts and into an adjacent kale field. “There is no reason why anyone would target school buses,” he continued the conversation over his comm-link.
CSFB! picked up the message on his eerie earring as he hauled cubs out of the overturned vehicle and tossed them onto a trampoline that was actually Silicone Sally. “Sure there is. Maybe it’s a mad school nerd who’s been pantsed one time too often by the mean kids on the back seat? And now he has a vendetta against all school buses everywhere. He lurks with his teleport ray and as soon as disaster strikes somewhere, bam! He zaps in a yellow bus full of students to be menaced.”
Hatman switched to his Thunderbolts cap to zap deterrent electric through the enraged kaiju. “These kids were just heading along Route 666 to Camp Hikadakawaku when the deterrent barrier had a malfunction and a few of the Wastelands monsters slipped loose,” he argued.
“Is anyone else bothered that they assigned the highway to Gothametropolis the number 666?” Silicone Sally checked.
“Truth in advertising?” Citizen Z suggested. She somersaulted over the bus onto her hovering z-wing and went to assist Hatman in keeping the octo-mantis occupied.
“Creatures on the loose!” CrazySugarFreakBoy! thrilled. “Tales to astonish! This is just a journey into mystery! Sorry, Hatty, but look at the stats. There is always a bus-load of kids about to slide off the broken bridge, trapped under rubble in the blazing inferno, surrounded by the ravenous zombie horde. It’s like they’re all just compelled by the power of the trope.”
“We do rescue a lot of school buses,” Goldeneyed admitted. He teleported in with Ham-Boy from forward scouting. “Two more monsters closing in on a rest stop about two miles westbound from here. There are quite a few people trapped in the café.”
Ham-Boy waved a leaflet he’d picked up from the information centre there. “It looks like Strop Strap Stomm and Brogg! the Devastator,” he identified from the Guide to Wastelands Monsters. “Evidently this is pretty late in the year for a Brogg! sighting.”
Ever since the transnuclear explosion that had desolated the rural area north and west of Gothametropolis York six years back, the aptly-named Wasteland had become a breeding ground for strange creatures, including a number of now well-known giant hybrids. The local tourist board had decided to just go with it and had issued pamphlets for would-be monster-spotters.
“We need to finish this one off and get after the other two then,” Hatman decided. “Liu Xi, are you ready to void-shift these kids to safety?”
The Legion’s elementalist could control five elements. In addition to the four traditional states of earth, air, fire, and water, she possessed a tenuous and dangerous affinity to the fifth element of void, through which she could sometimes pass matter. “I’m not finding a proper pathway here,” she admitted. “Is there something about the force field and inhibition barrier that keeps the creatures confined to the Wastelands which might also interfere with my access?”
“Could be,” CSFB! admitted. “I know Enty and Al B weren’t keen on monsters teleporting out – or being teleported out. Maybe we just do this the low-tech way and boost that abandoned lorry over there?”
“I can steal a truck,” Sally agreed. “But I was pardoned.”
“If we pack it with school kids, does it become an honorary school bus?” G-Eyed worried. “Because if so we really need to finish off the giant grasshopper there.”
“That’s Flargo,” Ham-Boy supplied. “Did you know he can spit radioactive acid?”
“I do now,” Hatman mentioned, through gritted teeth, using his Steelers cap to protect himself from the octo-hopper’s attack.
“I know these creatures have been listed as endangered species, but can we kill it now?” Sally demanded.
“We just put it to sleep,” Liu Xi insisted. “I’m drawing the air away from its head so it can’t breathe.”
“And I’m slamming a psychic knife into its skull to help it sleep,” Citizen Z announced. She dropped from her glider, ragged cape billowing and trailing ectoplasm, and stabbed Flargo in the cranium.
The monster emitted a chirrup-roar and fell over onto the emptied school bus.
“See?” CSFB! announced triumphantly. “Another one bites the dust.”
“I didn’t actually kill the thing,” CZ told him. “Just gave it nightmares for a while.”
“I mean the bus. I’m trying to develop a thesis here.”
“Sally, get those kids to safety,” Hatman called. “G-Eyed, get us eyes on, um, Brogg! and Strop Strap Stromm, I guess. Everyone else, fly on to that gas station.”
G-Eyed concentrated to teleport away. He took longer than usual. Citizen Z hauled Liu Xi and Ham-Boy onto her z-wing. Hatman used his Jets cap and CSFB! hung beneath him on a silly string line.
The wired wonder used the travel time to check in with base. “Dream here. Hi Hallie! Hi Amber! Any diagnostics yet on that force field disrupter that G-Eyed flashed to you?”
Hallie, the Lair Legion’s resident A.I., reported back over CSFB!’s earring. “An initial check suggests Order of Logos technology,” she reported. “The Word has been pretty quiet since your time as leader.”
“It won’t be him,” CrazySugarFreakBoy! predicted. “If it was then he wouldn’t leave a trace-back. This is somebody else pointing us at one of their enemies, someone we’d be inclined to chase after. Can you toss the sabotage gadget over to Al B.? Or maybe Mumph could try that time-reverse video thing he makes his pocketwatch do sometimes?”
“Al’s at EEE right now. He’s got a ‘do not disturb except for galaxy-class problem’ flag up. Sir Mumphrey is in the Deep South checking on something to do with his cosmic Office. Maybe Jay can use one of his diagnostic hats when you’ve contained the current escape?”
“That should be soon, even though he vetoed my idea about us all going in there wearing giant robot suits. We’ve just got Stroppy and Brogg! to catch and then we’ve collected ‘em all.”
Amber chimed in. “April called to remind you about her new graphic novel launch. She said to remember to pick up the stuff for the after-party.”
“I’ll buy some more on the way back. We had to restrain Flargo - that’s a lot of handcuffs and ball-gags. But when he wakes up he’ll know he’s been a bad boy. Oh, looks like I’ve gotta go. I think the other monsters have seen each other and are about to wrestle on top of the rest stop cafeteria. That won’t be good for the diners in it.”
CSFB! broke the link, let go of the tape connecting him to the flying Hatman, and barrelled down to distract Strop Strap Stromm away from the gas station pumps with combat candy.
“HB, lay a trail of meat for the turtle-shelled one. Lead it away from the diner,” Hatman called out. “Liu Xi, evacuate that place. I’ll grow in size with my Giants hat and try and grab the lizard-lawnmower crossbreed thing that Dream is confusing.”
“Meat vision activated!” Ham-Boy called out. “And this is Brogg!, with the compulsory exclamation point.”
“Nothing wrong with compulsory stunt-punctuation,” insisted CrazySugarFreakBoy!, dodging a giant whirling claw-rotor.
Citizen Z shifted position to swing behind Brogg! as it turned to follow Ham-Boy. Hatman dropped to the ground and reached into his Hatility Belt. “Hey!” he objected. “My belt’s not working. I can’t pull out my hats.”
“Something’s wrong here,” Ham-Boy called in. “It’s much harder to generate pork than usual. Switching to venison. Nope, same problem. And anything on the chicken spectrum just became impossible.”
Brogg!, suddenly denied a trail of meat products, swung round and lashed his tail across Citizen Z and her Z wing. She scarcely leaped free as the flying board was shattered.
“I got you, Laurie!” Goldeneyed promised as the supernatural swashbuckler tumbled from the sky. He leaped upwards, concentrating to teleport to her, but instead fell over onto his face. CZ somersaulted down by herself and landed on her feet with a deep knee-bend.
Liu Xi burst from the diner leading a crocodile of people. “Make for the treeline,” she told them. “Run!”
“Screen them,” CSFB! urged. “Wall of fire or something. Maybe not right by the gas pumps.”
“I’m trying but I can’t,” the elementalist gasped. “Something is blocking my access to the place where the elements are generated. I can still sense elements but not bring them here from elsewhere.”
“Something’s interrupting the dimensional channels,” G-Eyed recognised. “That’s why I can’t teleport, HB can’t phase in meat, Liu Xi can’t draw matter and energy, and Hatty can’t reach into his multidimensional belt pouches.” He scrambled over to Citizen Z. “Laurie? Are you okay?”
“Laurie’s not here right now,” the woman in the no-longer glowing Citizen Z outfit replied gruffly. “I’m just Beth now. So sorry Bry.”
“She’s isolated from Herringcarp Asylum’s whatever-it-is spookiness as well,” CSFB! realised. “Well this is…”
The brightly-coloured superhero shuddered as a momentary weakness rippled through him. He missed his bounce and actually stumbled.
Stromm bit down to sever the lower half of the wired wonder’s body. Giant teeth passed right through the insubstantial Dreamcatcher Foxglove.
“Well that’s new,” CSFB! admitted. “Hey, I’ve developed an extra super power. Cool!”
The infuriated kaiju tried to swallow CrazySugarFreakBoy! again, but couldn’t touch him.
“We need to contain this now,” Hatman warned. “There are still civilians in harm’s way.”
“There is one piece of meat I can lead Brogg! along with,” Ham-Boy decided. “Hey! Mister Monster! This way! Eat me!”
“You don’t have any superpowers right now!” G-Eyed reminded the world’s meatiest hero.
“Don’t need them. I’m super-scared enough to run really, really fast!”
“Dream… you’re transparent!” Liu Xi warned. “And I don’t mean that in he usual sense about your gratifications. Light is shining through you.”
“Ack! I get it!” CSFB! cried. “These days I’m composed entirely of chaos. I’m literally made of Impossibilitium. I’m guessing that must have some kind of transplanar component.”
“The blockage is cutting you off from the source of your existence!” G-Eyed warned.
“Dream, you need to get out of here or you’ll die,” Hatman warned. “And this time there might not be any revivals.”
“Can’t go yet,” insisted CSFB! “Have to save Tokyo. Well, GMY. I’m our best chance of keeping Strop Strapp Stromm from rampaging after those people Liu Xi chased off. While he’s trying to chew me he’s not chomping someone he can actually hurt.”
“Brogg! is catching up with me!” Ham-Boy called urgently. “This is a great time for a really clever plan!”
“I still have my Jets hat,” Hatman reminded everyone. “I can fly round the monsters, try to lead them away from the rest stop. Maybe we can goad them to battle each other in a less populated place?”
“That would be very good,” agreed Beth Shellett, erstwhile body-hostess of Laurie Leyton and Citizen Z. “By the way, I think Dream might have a point about the school buses.”
CrazySugarFreakBoy! bounced low between Stromm’s stubby legs, further baffling the creature. He rolled out frowning thoughtfully. “Hey, HB. Important question. Does your turtle-monster monster have a shlong?”
“What? I’m trying not to get lightning-breathed here!”
“Why do you wish to sex the kaiju?” Liu Xi asked. “Apart from possibly recreational purposes,” she added worriedly.
Hatman jetted low, pulling the tortoise-horror’s attention long enough for Ham-Boy to roll aside again. “I’m not seeing any such organ outside the armour plating, CSFB!” he reported. “Dare I ask why I’m checking?”
“We might have read this wrong,” the wired wonder reasoned. “Strop Strap Stromm here has a raging boner bigger than me. Maybe he wasn’t heading to fight Brogg!”
“Even if Brogg! is male, who are we to judge,” Beth challenged.
“So what we need to do is… Liu Xi, you said you can’t pull elements in from outside, but can you still work with what’s already here?”
“It’s much harder, but probably,” the elementalist agreed.
“Right then. What we need is, make Strommy’s hide really colourful. Rainbow him!”
“We’re… outing a kaiju?” Ham-Boy ventured.
“Decorative plumage,” Liu Xi understood. “Attract a partner. I can try that.”
“My mom has some outfits you can borrow,” CSFB! offered, “but right now can you pimp up Strop Strap Stromm?”
“I’ll need to make physical contact.”
“I’ll jet you onto his back,” Hatman contributed.
Ham-Boy kept leading Brogg! off course from the rest stop. “I wish… I had… my scooter… with me. I don’t know if this monster really is female, but if so she’s a real b-word!” he admitted. “Paint faster!”
Liu Xi’s hide-pigmenting efforts exhausted her. Hatman jetted her back to Bry and Beth.
Brogg! spotted Strop Strap Stromm again. The two monsters changed course and went straight for each other – just avoiding the service area and gas station. They met in the parking lot and rolled together.
“There’s a site on the web for this,” CSFB! assured Hatman.
“Okay, this gives us a short time,” the capped crusader called. “Stop sniggering, Dream. Sally, can you hear us? Bring in the LairJet with the heavy duty tranq guns on it.”
“And maybe some really big cigarettes,” G-Eyed contributed.
“We’ll get these two contained then get back to the bigger picture,” Hatman insisted. “We’ll find out how our powers are being blocked and stabilise Dream, then come up with…” He looked around for his Impossibilium-powered partner. “Dream?”
CrazySugarFreakBoy! was gone.
***
6. Sir Mumphrey Wilton and the Office Party
Bellecarre, Louisiana boasted signs that proclaimed its population as 72. As of last night that count was inaccurate. Now the living residents of that isolated little swamp village could be counted on the fingers of no hands.
Asil Ashling rose from her examination of the convenience store clerk. “Dead like the rest,” she told Sir Mumphrey Wilton soberly. She used the shop owner’s pen to probe the matted filth packed into his mouth. “He drowned on mud and faeces.”
“Hmph. The signature attack of Gnudier Lokotowicz, the aptly-named Crapsack – who is supposed to work around here guarding the Nexus of Unreality out in the swamp.”
“Like the Bog Thing before him,” Asil replied. “I know Lokotowicz started out bad in Young Heckfire but I thought he’d gone straight when he was appointed to his cosmic office. Although he did go kind of nuts during that Forest Week insanity when we all briefly believed in Drop Bears, and he recently attacked Vizh and Hatty in that alternate reality that Nu-Hood retconned in for a while.”
“Chap was rampaging through the cellars of Herringcarp Asylum. Not good for one’s mental health. Even if the retcon was retconned, bound to leave a stain.”
“And Crapsack is all about the stains,” Mumphrey’s amanuensis agreed. “So we’re calling it that he’s gone to the dark side again?”
“Hard to imagine why he felt the need to generate choking slime in the respiratory systems of this entire settlement for a good reason, what? Best we discover the guest house and locate the person we came for.”
The Keeper of the Chronometer of Infinity and his companion vacated the store and walked fifty yards down the single road to a faded shingled house with a sign that read ‘Lodgers & Overnite Guests Accepted. Cash only.’
“Guests accepted but not welcomed by a wallah who can’t spell in English,” Mumphrey grumped. “Starting to understand why Lokotowicz felt the need to choke ‘em.”
They pushed on the screen door. It wasn’t locked.
“If Crapsack was getting… stranger, it might explain why another Office Holder came down here,” Asil ventured.
“Hmm. Did you notice that vehicle in the yard?”
“The giant-wheeled pick-up with Texas plates and the steer horns? The one that’s not old and battered and mud-spattered as everything else here?”
The eccentric Englishman nodded approvingly. “Looks like the chappie we’re after was staying here.”
“This is where his telephone GPS is pinging.”
“Can’t be doing with all that GPS stuff. I’m still getting used to phones, let alone phones without wires and full of angry birds.” He managed a small whiskery smile at his amanuensis. “Better to have somebody smart along who knows how to push the buttons, don’t y’know?”
“Well, I do have a full and varied job description,” Asil admitted. “For a clone grown by a big cow from some part of Lisa that I’ve never wanted to identify, I think I’ve done all right for myself.”
“Spot on,” Mumphrey agreed. He paused to check whether the landlady was as dead as everyone else in Bellecarre. She was. “Consult the guest register, if you’d please.”
“Carl Huckleberry Chance,” Asil confirmed. “That’s him. The Keeper of the Deck of Dealings?”
“That’s the one. Carlsbad Carl, the Albino Probability Cowboy. Never met the chap myself. Not given to frequenting the high-stakes poker gambling circuit. Cribbage man, myself, or a spot of dominos. But he’s been in the job for upwards of fifteen years now with only two jail terms for misusing his superpowers.”
They ventured upstairs. “What is his job? What does his cosmic Office entail? Can you tell me?”
“He moderates luck. The hand life deals you. Stops people having too much or too little fortune by outside interference. So a chap can’t sell his soul and suddenly become King of the World or something. There’ll always be a nasty twist to his wish, or else it just won’t happen. Otherwise there’s the Dealer of the Deck.”
“He must just love Dancer.”
“Like I said, two jail sentences. Office holders are generally supreme when they’re acting in their area of special authority on official business, but when they use their gifts for their own purposes it can get a bit more tricky. Carlsbad Carl played Texas Hold ‘Em against Dancer when he kidnapped Visionary once. Didn’t work out well for the oik.”
“You gotta know when to fold ‘em,” Asil understood.
“Carl seldom does. But the blighter’s been quiet since his latest stretch and his Terminus Team pardon, presumably getting on with his proper job. Until now. This would be his guest room, I suppose.”
Mumphrey pushed the door open, one hand on the ornate pocketwatch that hung from his waistcoat.
The flies had arrived before him. They hovered over the piles of sewage in the bedroom. They were gathered around the corpse in the bathroom.
Mumphrey pushed a stub on his timepiece and shifted the insects a hour into the future.
Carlsbad Carl, professional gambler and Albino Probability Cowboy, had cashed in his chips. His pallid face was marred by the thick mud that had welled from his lips as he died.
“Look at the toilet,” Asil called. “Either this is the most unsanitary guest house in America, against some strong competition, or something very gooey and dirty gushed up into the bathroom this way.”
“Best we find out for sure,” Mumphrey judged. “Do you want to step out of the room before I do an action replay, m’dear?”
“I’ll stay. I’m a grown woman, Sir Mumphrey. Okay, grown in a vat, but I’m seven now. I can be any age I choose but by my design parameters I’m now properly adult.”
Mumphrey nodded. He made adjustments to his Chronometer and arranged for the events of the night before to replay in ghostly images. He expended additional temporal energy to catch what sounds he could.
Carl emerged from the shower and wrapped a towel round his waist. He was humming something but it was difficult to tell which Dolly Parton hit it was. He admired himself in the mirror.
“Well, Carl, you is still purtier than a hog pie at Thanksgiving! Let’s just us take a looksee at whatever’s agitating the odds round this one-horse hole and then we’ll cruise on to Orleans for some lovin’ with the lay-dees!”
“You’re right, Sir Mumphrey,” Asil told her employer. “This is horrendous.”
In the phantom replay, something gurgled in the plumbing. Intent on dental hygiene, the Keeper of the Deck of Dealing never saw the monster of sewage rise from his toilet basin.
He must have smelled it though, because he whirled round, dropped his floss, and confronted the giant encrustation that had risen from his lavatory.
“Well now, ain’t you uglier than a date with a drag queen? You here for a consult on the flap in your Nexus, boy? ‘Cause I kin tell you, there’s chances running round this place like drunk whores at a hoedown.”
Crapsack made a deep gurgling noise like a blocked drain. “Don’t need help,” he rumbled. “I can kill you easy.”
“Kill me, boy? Ah’m on your side, one o’ the o-ffical Office holders. Why, I should be ornerier than a rattlesnake underfoot at a hoedown ‘bout such a dadgum revolting proposition. What’s put a burr in your butthole, partnah?”
Crapsack surged forward at the albino probability cowboy. Carl ducked and dived for the door to his bedroom.
“He’s trying for his Deck,” Mumphrey recognised. “Why doesn’t he just call it to him?”
“He’s panicking,” Asil recognised. “And there’s already something in his throat. Look, he’s spewing it up. Eeew. So much of it!”
“Crapsack can animate, replicate, and control all bodily waste products,” Mumphrey observed. “External or internal.”
The image flickered a little but persisted as Carl choked out.
Gnudier Lokotowicz formed up into a more humanoid shape, a monster eight feet tall, enough to leave brown stains across the ceiling when he moved. He stepped over the dead cowboy, ducked from the bathroom, went to the bed, and rummaged through Chance’s luggage.
“Is he looking for Carl’s Deck of Dealings?” Asil guessed.
Cosmic Office Holders were usually given some artefact that empowered and authorised them to do their work. Mumphrey had his Chronometer. Carl had held a deck of playing cards from which fates could be dealt.
Crapsack couldn’t find them. He ransacked the room to no avail. In the end he slithered back to the toilet and disappeared.
Mumphrey allowed the replay to end. “Dashed unpleasant,” he admitted.
“It doesn’t tell us why he did that,” Asil complained. “Or even why Mr Chance came here.” She thought deeper. “Or why his parents gave him the middle name Huckleberry.”
“Or where his Deck actually is. The chap was clearly tryin’ to get to it, so it was most likely in the room. Might be that it was hidden from Lokotowicz. The artefacts do that sometimes.”
“Can you do a replay of when Carlsbad Carl first came into the room, so we can see where he hid his cards?”
“Shortly. I’ll let the pocketwatch’s temporal charge build up again first. Pushing things back that far will be a bit of a stretch.”
Asil looked around the wrecked, daubed room. “Well, we can always search manually. I brought some rubber gloves from the convenience store. We could…”
She fell silent. There had been a noise from the closet.
Mumphrey and Asil exchanged glances. Mumphrey wound the chain of his Chronometer round his hand so he could swing the device like a weapon. Asil slipped noiselessly to one side of the door. On the count of three she tore it open.
Two people fell out. One was an unconscious Indian girl. The other was a Caucasian male.
“I can explain everything!” he blurted. “Don’t kill me!”
Asil checked the woman. “She’s breathing. I don’t see any signs of violence.”
“We were just talking,” the man gabbled. “Well, okay, she was just waving her finger in my face and telling me off. But that’s all. Then we heard you coming so we took cover so you wouldn’t kill us and ram crap down our throats too, but as soon as we hid in the closet she fainted and I couldn’t bring her round. Um, her clothing was already loosened.”
Asil caught one of his waving hands and folded it into a wrist lock. “Name. Reason for being here. Confession,” she told him.
“Aaah. That hurts! Careful of my shuffling hand, darling!”
“Your shuffling hand?”
Mumphrey stepped in. “Lady asked you to identify yourself, sirrah. Who are you and who is your companion?”
The pinned closet-lurker winced. “Are you some kind of English? You sound it… Ouch! Okay, okay, I’m Bull – Harlan Bull. Ask anybody at my dealership, they’ll tell you: ‘No bull with the Bull’, okay?”
He caught Asil’s expression.
“Well, when I say my dealership, I mean the dealership where I work. And when I say work, I mean formerly worked before there was a misunderstanding about the boss’ wife. And daughter. But I could still get you a good deal on a trade-in Lexus if you’d just stop tryin’ to break my wrist.”
“If I wanted to break your wrist it would be snapped by now,” Mumphrey’s amanuensis assured him. “Who is the woman?”
“Darned if I know. She busted in just as I was, um, checking for clues about that fellah’s demise, and started accusing me of things. Me! And I was assuring her that I’d just arrived and was as innocent as a newborn lamb at an innocence factory who’d been wrapped up in extra layers of innocent and then you came back to finish us off. Which I’d be mighty glad if you would reconsider, please.”
“We’re not the killers,” Asil informed her prisoner. “We’re the ones who are investigating.”
“The Feds?” He glanced as Mumphrey. “Or… Scotland Yard? Steed and Peel?”
“Let the chap loose for now,” Mumph decided. The eccentric Englishman lifted the young woman onto the bed. He rubbed his chin. “There’s something about her…” he puzzled. He lifted out his pocketwatch and held it over her, examining the smaller dials on the green-lit clock face. “Hmmph.”
“What were you doing here before she interrupted you, Mr Bull?” Asil interrogated.
Harlan scratched his head. “Well now, that’s the puzzler. See, I was on the lot collecting a few of my things that I’d not had opportunity to gather up before, on account of the shotgun fire and all, and the next thing I know I’ve decided to test drive a 2002 Chevy Corvette with only 180,000 on the clock all the way from Alabama to Louisiana, to this weird little town. And when I get here, wondering what in the name of George Washington’s ghost I doing here, I find that there’s a dead landlady in the hall and a dead dude in a towel and cowboy hat in the guest bathroom.”
“You just drove here for no reason? That’s your story?”
“And then the crazy Indian chick bursts in and starts accusing me of, um, interfering in the Lexus of Unreality or some such. I said to her, ‘Chickadee, any interfering I do is entirely up to you after we get ourselves out of this slaughterhouse and down a few cold ones’, but no, she’s all…”
“Wait. She mentioned the Nexus?”
“Nexus, Lexus, something like that.”
“This is making more sense now,” Mumphrey told his companion. “You, sirrah, what did you steal when you came into this room?”
“Steal? Sir, I assure you that Harlan Bull is…”
“I can do more painful lock-holds,” Asil assured the suspect. “Doesn’t have to be on the wrist either.”
“I stole nothing. Nothing. I may have found a deck of cards lying about that looked like an interesting design and I picked ‘em up to find the owner and give ‘em back, but…”
“You have the Deck of Dealing?” Mumphrey interrupted him. “It called you and you chose it.” He chuckled grimly. “Your life is about to become a lot more interesting, sirrah.”
“The what of where?” Bull puzzled.
The eccentric Englishman shook his hand. “Good thing you left your car dealership. You have a new job now.” He turned to the girl on the bed. “And so does she.”
“She’s an Office Holder too?” Asil wondered. “Which one?”
Mumphrey activated his Chronometer. For a very brief second it wound back time and showed a strange glowing map that was in more-than-3D, before the whole thing vanished again and would not reappear.
“Those are the Charts of Eternity. The last person to hold them was Woodbend Windyway.”
“The Keeper of the Borders,” Asil recognised. “The Parody Master killed him.”
“Just so. And the Office found a new holder. Evidently this young lady.”
“Why did she pass out?” Bull asked, concentrating down on something he could more or less follow. “One minute she was mid-accusation, the next we’re pressed up in a closet, and then she’s spark out, without even liquoring up.”
“I think her senses are getting overwhelmed,” Mumphrey explained. “I’m going to shift the overload a bit into her future, though it’ll not be pleasant when it all comes back at once later. Here goes.”
He fingered his watch’s winder. The Indian’s eyes opened.
She sat up. “What did you do to me?” she demanded of Bull.
“Almost nothing,” he promised. “I mean, it wasn’t me. Whatever it was.”
“You are the new Keeper of the Borders, miss?” Sir Mumphrey asked politely. If he’s had a hat on just then he would undoubtedly have tipped it. “I’m the Keeper of the Chronometer of Infinity. Has the Chronicler briefed you on the other minor Offices yet?”
“The gloomy man with the coffee addiction? He did mutter something when I discovered the Charts.”
“Discovered them?” Asil wondered.
“Different artefacts get passed on in different ways,” Mumphrey explained. “The Booke of the Law was contracted. The Deck of Dealing gets won or stolen. The Charts… well, it makes sense that maps are discovered, doesn’t it?”
Asil looked at Bull. “He stole the Deck and that got him the job?”
“That’s the Deal,” Mumphrey warned the ex-used car salesman. “But right now we have a more pressing matter, what? Young lady…”
“Zania. Zania Chhabra.”
“Miss Chhabra, what was it that so affected you that you passed out?”
“Apart from Mr Bull’s aftershave,” Asil contributed.
“Hey, that stuff costs two dollars a bottle!” Harlan objected.
“There is a massive event happening here in the Wookiegetlucky Swamp,” Zania warned her colleagues. “It’s part of an even bigger shift that might be, well, universal. All kinds of boundaries are shifting and closing off. Candia is already sealed. The Negativity Zone is going. I think Faerie and the Mythlands will be next. But more immediately, I think the Nexus of Unreality is about to move.”
Bull pointed. “See? She said it again. The Nexus!”
Mumphrey tried to piece things together. “If the Albino Probability Cowboy was here on his job, then someone or something was trying to cheat the usual laws of chance. You presumably came here looking into what was happening at the Nexus, Miss Chhabra? You were summoned because the Deck required a new dealer, Mr Bull. Miss Ashling and I came because a little raven tipped us off that there was a problem with the late Carl Chance. And Crapsack…”
“I believe that the shifting Nexus must have driven the Guardian insane,” Zania warned.
“How can the Nexus shift?” Asil wondered. “I mean, I know aliens have tried to steal it before, but…”
“It’s moved a few times in the course of the last thirteen billion years,” Mumph noted. “Wherever it pitched up next becomes the focal point of the Parodyverse, the nexus planet where all the stories tend to concentrate. I’ve heard that it first appeared on the origin world of the Second Oldest Race, when they were thriving and alive and remembered. Soon after it moved on they were wiped out and their home became the Dead Galaxy. For the last two hundred thousand years or so it’s been here, which is why so many cosmic office holders are human. When the cosmic axis shifts, it heads off again.”
“That’s not what is happening here,” Zania insisted. “Not naturally, anyway. I think the Nexus is being attacked. I just don’t know how.”
“Maybe Crapsack doesn’t know either,” Asil suggested. “That’s why he’s freaking out and killing everybody.”
The eccentric Englishman frowned. “Except he came here specifically to murder Carlsbad Carl. He was looking for his Deck of Dealing.”
“These cards?” Harlan wondered, holding the old pack in his hands. “Well he can’t have them. They’re… they’re mine now.” He blinked and looked dazed. “They’re mine now, mine to Deal.”
Mumphrey staggered. Asil rushed to him. “What is it? That was you responding to something you just time-reversed!”
The Keeper of the Chronometer of Infinity agreed. “Miss Chhabra, we need a border barrier round this house right now! Mr Bull, pick a hand that gives her enough of a chance to do her work. Now!”
Zania’s finger shifted as if she was tracing a route on a map. Harlan ripple-shuffled his deck by instinct and flicked up a high queen flush.
A hundred foot high wave of sewage burst over the boarding house but failed to sweep it away. A barrier screened it.
“Right,” Sir Mumphrey growled, stepping for the door. “Mr Lokotowicz… Round Two!”
***
7. Donar Oldmanson and the Trilithon of Perplexity
“Tis a rock, Coat Rack,” Donar told his old friend.
The President-for-Life of the rogue Pacific Basin state of Badripoor rolled his eyes. “I know it’s a rock, big guy. The question is, what’s it for?”
The hemigod of thunder examined the nine foot high, three foot wide, irregularly-shaped sarsen granite block again. “Mayhap thou wanted a pet that wast not too much trouble?”
“If I wanted a pet with this intelligence level I already have Hounddog,” the ferned phenomenon pointed out. For reasons far too complex to recap often, spiffy had an Unhappy Place energy-shifting fern transplanted onto the top of his head that gave him sensitivity to power exchanges. “This thing is juiced up. Maybe the question I should have started with was why did it fall onto my bed?”
The dolmen weighted about six tons. It had required heavy winching tackle to lift it out of the President’s bedroom, and one demolished wall
“It wanted a soft landing?” Donar speculated.
“I was in the bed at the time. With Bev.”
“Mayhap she was seekesting an escape route?”
“We were very happy, Donar. Very happy. Right then. Until a giant block of stone tried to kill us.”
The Ausgardian deity tried to fathom why the most junior member of the League of Regulars that had founded the Lair Legion might be so happy in bed. There was only one logical conclusion. “Thou hast discovered sex? With another person?”
“Bev Campbell and I have been dating since that time Kerry blew up my palace,” spiffy pointed out. He was learning all over again what a conversation with the hemigod was like.
Donar slapped him on the back and sent him sprawling. “How fasteth they grow! And by they I meanest thine…”
“Yeah. No need to carry on, big guy. Way ahead of you, already cringing.”
“This mayest explain yon block,” Donar considered. “There art many people who woulds’t not wish to see thee procreate.”
“You mean that old wild story about me being a forefather of the Celestian Child born to the Celestian Madonna?”
“Well, that too,” the son of Oldman conceded.
spiffy sighed. “So you have no useful information, like what the runes carved on the side of the thing are? Or why two more like it were discovered in different parts of the city? I’m having them shipped here.”
Donar inspected the script. “They are engravings,” he decided judiciously. “‘Tis possible they mean something.”
“Right. Okay, we’ll go to plan B and wait for my other expert.”
“Who wast thine first expert?”
The doors to the stateroom crashed open as six exo-suited aliens in heavy lifting armour carried a second stone inside. spiffy hastily prevented Donar from smiting them down with Mjalcolm, his enchanted baseball-bat-with-a-nail-in-it.
“Easy! These are citizens of Badripoor, contracted to do the haulage I mentioned. You do remember that about seventeen percent of our population are refugees from other planets, right? You’ve not completely forgotten the Parody War?”
“T’were a time of much joyous thumping. I dost recall now that thou didn’t grant asylum to some outlanders from beyond Earth for the nonce.”
“Yeah. A lot settled here. It’s just one more reason why every nuclear power on Earth has missiles pointed at us. But Sir Mumphrey grandfathered in their immigration visas as the last thing he did before handing back power to the nations of the world when he stepped down as war-leader. So we stay here inside the blockade and try and offer decent jobs to our alien-Badripoorians.”
“There art a blockade? You art besieged?” Donar honestly hadn’t noticed, although the gunboats and jet fighters that had tried to impede his goat chariot had.
Skree and Videan immigrants hefted the second stone onto its base so it stood vertical like the first one. “Mind the parquet…!” spiffy cried too late.
“One more to come, sir!” an ex-Shee-Yar commander reported with a fist-to-heart salute. “Then you may tip us.”
The President-for-Life winced. “You’d be horrified at our operating budget,” he confided.
“Bring it forth and I wilt slay it forthwith,” Donar promised.
The third stone came into the stateroom. It was carried by one person, a lithe figure in black silks with a cape and Zorro mask. He or she evidently thought that it didn’t weigh too much and that it could be balanced easily on one hand. “Hello, Yo-friends!” spiffy’s other expert greeted them.
“Heilsa and well met, boon comrade!” Donar boomed back. “Now we shalt wrestle these blocks of stone into fragments so that they mayest not outsmart us any more!”
“Help me to be lifting of this one onto tops of that one and that one,” Yo instructed his team-mates. “Right where the instructions are to be showing.”
“There are instructions?” spiffy asked.
Yo tapped the runes s/he believed s/he could read. “It says, ‘This way up.’ And that is to be saying ‘Place Tab A into Slot B here.’”
“It’s a trilithon with assembly instructions?”
“Most sage,” Donar approved. “Yon trilithons can be most tricky to assemble. The parts canst be very confusething.”
The top-piece clicked into place. The interior of the pi-shape began to spark.
“‘Tis a portal!” Donar recognised. “But not one of Al B. Harper’s. It has not explodethed for the nonce.”
Yo clapped excitedly. “Is to be that cute-spiffy was to be sent of an invitation! Cute-spiffy needs to see who is sending for cute-spiffy!”
“Cute-spiffy was nearly flattened by one of those blocks,” spiffy pointed out. “That second one crashed into the theatre district and came down on an unlicensed production of The Lion King heavier than the critics’ reviews and a fleet of Mouse-Lawyers. And that crosspiece nearly sank one of the casino boats in the harbour, costing us about a quarter of our entire tax revenue. I’m not convinced that heading through that gateway is a good idea.”
Donar stepped through. Yo followed him.
spiffy paused only to bang his ferned head on one of the columns and hopped in after them.
***
It was either a cathedral that liked to cross-dress as a forest or a forest that had found religion. Stained glass branches reflected bright sunlight in ever-shifting prisms over fantastic gothic carvings and leaf-thatched wall-drapes. It was hard to decide how large the space was since it changed depending on its mood. It felt holy and earthy at the same time, a bit like the Rolling Stones at Glastonbury during the Summer of Love.
The place was crowded with people, assuming the definition of people included Tolkinean extras, centaurs, men and women with animal heads and vice versa, stilt-walkers, talking beasts, sentient furniture, and about ten thousand tiny flitting winged creatures both subtle and gross.
spiffy looked around with dropped jaw. “This isn’t CGI, is it?”
“Nay,” Donar agreed. “Control thy fern, Coat Rack. It art molesting the rose trellis.”
spiffy reigned in his cranial plant as a huge minotaur swaggered over to them. “More newcomers?” the bull-man snorted (he was definitely male, as evidenced by his lack of pants). “Stand over there with the other pale worldings. I’ll get to you eventually.”
Donar grabbed the minotaur by his nose ring and tossed him overarm on a high parabola to vanish a quarter mile over towards the buffet table.
“Cute-Donar did not need to be doing that,” Yo scolded. “Yo was about to be bribing of bull-bully with a nice bunny.”
“He did look hungry,” spiffy agreed. “So can anyone explain why I was sent a stone Lego kit to Narnia?”
“Yo!” a familiar voice cried. “With Prince Donar and the fern-bearer! We wondered if you’d be coming!”
The speaker pressing his way through the crowd with the aid of a wind-up cattle prod was on the short side even for an elf and tended more to Santa’s helper than Legolas Greenleaf. He wore striped leggings and a scorched lab coat, with aviator goggles on his head as well as a pointed cap in the gnomish fashion.
“Zebulon!” spiffy recognised. He had to defer further conversation until Yo had squeed over to the elf, hugged him, and presented him with a small black rabbit kitten. “Yo is thinking that cute-Zeb will be giving of her a better home than is uncute minotaur.”
“What art we doing in Faerie, Zebulon?” Donar enquired. He sniffed the air. “We art in Alfheim methinks, near’st the Quincy Mountains and the Tansy Hills. Art this the Seelie Court?”
“For a given definition of Seelie, yes,” the imperial-service elf agreed. “Her Majesty will be appearing soon. She’ll be waiting to make an entrance. Come over and wait at our table.”
“Did you happen to send any giant stones to kill my mattress?” spiffy checked suspiciously.
“No. Would you like me to?” Zebulon cattle-prodded his way back across the throng to a table where two other guests awaited them.
“Hooga!” said the larger and hairier of the two.
“Wassup,” slurred the other, dabbing the side of his mouth with a purple-stained toga; not a purple toga, more one that was now a wine bib.
“Caveguy and Elsqueevio!” spiffy recognised. “Didn’t you two go off to executive positions in the Allied Pantheon?
“Hooga,” said Caveguy, a person for whom “I am Groot” was sophistication beyond imagination.
Elqueevio, the God of Small Waters, fumbled under his skirts. “I have a name badge ID card in here somewhere,” he promised. “We’re visiting on official business, as delegates. Not to get us out of the home office at all.”
“Yo is being very glad you are!” Yo promised him. The pure thought being offered Elsqueevio a clean handkerchief with tasteful lapine patterns round the edge. “Can you be telling of us what is to be happening here?”
“Hooga,” Caveguy explained, pointing to the empty throne on the prominent dais where two huge gryphons were working security.
“Any time now,” Zebulon agreed. “You guys cut it pretty tight. The steading gates aren’t working very well at the moment. It’s taking a lot of power to hold them fast. I mean even more than usual with post-industrial Earth.”
“Who senteth us yon gate?” Donar wondered. “Friend or foe?”
“Pretty much,” Elsqueevio agreed. He laid his head on the table and went to sleep. Caveguy swiped his drink.
“The President of Badripoor was on the list of delegates invited to hear the Queene,” Zebulon revealed. “I don’t think anyone realised it was you, spiffy.”
“Oh. Good.” The ferned phenomenon pouted a little. “I need to get a PR department. Maybe if I cut trash collections I could afford it?”
“You!” bellowed the minotaur from before, spying Donar from across the hall. He lowered his head and charged at the hemigod.
Donar caught the bull by the horns and tossed him back over to the buffet table. “Remindeth me to collect a doggy bag later on for the goats,” he asked Yo and spiffy. “Well, a goaty bag.”
There was a fanfare like a dozen orchestras playing in absolute precision. There was a flash of rainbow colours that twisted together into radiant plaits and danced through the air. There was a swirl of colour and the odour of strawberries. And then there was Queen Mab, more beautiful than all of it, fairest of the Fair Folk, ruler of the Sidhe.
“I really need a PR department,” muttered spiffy.
“Again! Again!” Yo called, clapping.
The Faerie Queene raised a hand to quell the general adulation. “Lords and ladies, spirits of earth, air, and water, common folks of the Far Realm, and travellers from distant climes, I bid you welcome. There will be time for other greetings and revelry anon, but for now our minds must turn to urgent matters.”
The court fell silent. The very air seemed to wait for Mab to speak.
“I address you all,” she declared. “Those of you here in the Many Coloured Land; those who watch in mirrors and pools from afar; even the dark things that lurk in shadow and sorrow and will not speak their name. A time of crisis is come. The end of the Age of Heroes is upon us.”
“It is?” spiffy hissed to Donar. “Did you get a memo?”
“The very Parodyverse is changing,” Mab went on. “Already the far horizons are closed to us. Soon the near boundaries of Faerie shall be sealed. Magic shall withdraw entirely from the everyday world of waking mortals. Those who craft it shall lose their power. Those who live by it will change or cease. Some of you have foreseen it. All of you shall experience it.” The Queen gestured to a knight kneeling close by her. “Lord Arkenweald of Perfectgaard,” she prompted.
The soldier rose. “At her majesty’s command I quested far over the Snowy Spine, to the hidden valleys where the Exile Nomads of the Heart Chalice roam. There I sought guidance from the Blessed Lady of Carfax, who sees far and knows much that is concealed. It was she who confirmed the truth: an ancient enemy’s time has come at last. His return will end the mortal world as we know it. He will sunder it from the planes of wonder and bring it low. His revenge will be terrible. There is no real way of stopping him. So says the Lady.”
His message delivered, Lord Arkenweald bowed again and returned to his place.
“Yo is not to be liking the sound of that,” Yo admitted.
“Arkenweald is a doughty warrior,” Donar murmured. “And we well knoweth the verity of the Lady Valeria.”
Mab reclaimed the focus, as was her right. “This enemy cannot be stopped, but he can be avoided. Once Faerie is broken from the mortal world it can endure for long and long. Those who shelter here, those who transfer their essences to the lands of Myth, will survive what is to come. And so I say: let any creature of magic, any being of supernatural nature, any wielder of arcane arts, come hither. I shall grant you refuge in the Many Coloured Lands, in places and situations appropriate to your status. You can live on here, safe from that which will befall the Iron World. Come to me and be saved.”
There was a murmur of amazement and a smattering of worshipful applause.
Donar raised his hand and spoke. “Queen of Fey, ‘tis not usual for the Faerie folk to give something away. Is there not usually some bargain, for the nonce?”
Mab looked to who had interrupted her and recognised him. “Prince Donar of Ausgard. You have your own refuge to flee to. You need no aid of mine. Nor does the thought being I see beside you, who can escape into it’s own conceptual corner.”
“Is to be being the Happy Place,” Yo corrected the Queene. “Is to be land of hugging and bunnies. And of hugging of bunnies.”
spiffy spoke up. “Yeah, but if you’re not the heir of Ausgard or a pure thought being from Yo-Planet and you want to book a ticket to Fairyland, what’s the price?”
“A sentient fern and its chariot,” Mab observed, displeased at the repeated question. “Mortals may come freely through my steading gates whilst the passages last, which shall be no more than the chime of midnight. So too may the shapeshifters and the shadow-dwellers of your land, the earthly gods of faded pantheons and yea, even the walking dead if they will it. There is no fee; only a simple duty.”
“Hooga?” asked Caveguy.
The Faerie Queene smiled and the sun shone. “All who dwell here swear fealty to me. This is their duty and a necessary part of dwelling in my realm. Each will pledge service to Mab and will be welcomed from the apocalypse.”
“Everyone has to sign up to Team Mab?” spiffy questioned.
“And how art this different to slavery?” Donar rumbled.
“Because service to me is joy and fulfilment, delight even in despair, and much better than cold oblivion in a magicless mundane universe,” the Queen insisted. Many listening found themselves nodding because she spoke so.
“If there is to be problems with Parodyverse is to be heroes needing to be fixing of it,” Yo insisted. “Is not to be hiding in corners or taking of advantage of people who are to be frightened! Is to be Lining Up and Lair Legioning and stopping of whoever is to be behind uncuteness!”
The sun went behind a cloud as Mab frowned. “I ask only what is my due for a service no other can provide. Any who choose not to accept my grace must live and die with the choices they have made.”
“‘Tis not fair,” objected Donar.
“I am Fair,” blazed the Queene. “I define it. I am this land! It is as I will it and ever more shall be so!”
“Yeah.” spiffy dragged Donar’s shoulder, failing to budge him. “I think we ought to leave, big guy. Let the nice Queen get on with her sales pitch. We’ll be on our way.” He tugged a frond in salute of Mab. “Thanks for the, um, the masonry, your Fairyness. We’ll just get out of your radiant goldilocks.”
Donar, Yo, and spiffy were spat out of the trilithon and careened across the room to dent the plasterwork in the palace stateroom’s far wall.
“I thought that could have gone worse,” spiffy gasped.
“I didst not get yon doggy bag,” Donar complained.
Yo pulled him/herself up and brushed off the fairy dust. “Yo is thinking we need to be warning of Visi and the cute-Legion that bad things are to be happening.”
“Yeah,” agreed spiffy. He winced as the standing stones fractured into pebble-sized pieced and scattered over the parquet. “Better let them know about the Faerie sanctuary scam while you’re at it.”
“Yo will to be doing better than that,” Yo promised. “Faerie Queene is to be being the land, is true.” The pure thought being set his/her jaw determinedly. “But Yo is to be godmothering of better Fairy Queene and Yo is going to get her.”
“A coup in Alfheim?” Donar asked. He laughed mightily. “Yeah, verily. Let the heavens ring and the cry go out: All hail Queen Magweed, ruler of the Many Coloured Land!”
“This is not my fault,” insisted spiffy.
***
In Our Next Exciting Issue: The Parodyverse is being undone piece by piece and there is no real hope of stopping it; but our brave heroes are not known for giving in, and maybe even the villains have a part to play? Join us for a series of ramifications, regrets, rearguard actions, and revelations in Untold Tales of the Normalverse #357: The Grey Horizons, starting tomorrow with “The Hooded Hood and the Council of Archvillains”
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Original concepts, characters, and situations copyright © 2016 reserved by Ian Watson. Other Parodyverse characters copyright © 2016 to their creators. This is a work of parody. The use of characters and situations reminiscent of other popular works are in fair-use parody and do not constitute a challenge to the copyrights or trademarks of those works. Any proceeds from this work are distributed to charity. The right of Ian Watson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. |
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