Tales from the Multiverse Read online

  ***

  Marsden wasn't sure which group was the most frightening. The Special Forces people, now all hung about with charms to ward of the dozen most common spells, or the wizards' group, six in one uniform, six in another, and five in yet a third. Then the four in, erm, plain clothes. The man in the lacy shirt and the plumed hat looked like he ought to be on a stage. The tall thinish man had the most predatory eyes he'd ever seen. Marsden felt his skin crawling every time he had to turn his back on him.

  Quicksilver and Xen were both in charcoal corduroy suits that blended eerily with the background wherever they stood.

  Marsden walked into the bubble reluctantly, Hansen followed, then the variously uniformed bunch, then half the Special Forces.

  Quicksilver was holding another 'bubble' and the other half of the assault force was entering hers. She and Xen insisted that they alone had the best chance of entering the house undetected. The door closed, leaving them in utter darkness.

  It opened immediately, as Xen had warned. The Special Forces poured out. By the time Marsden got through the entrance, the battle was underway, and half won. But only half. In the middle of the scene of chaos, Quicksilver had a sword in her right hand and was gesturing with her left.

  "The other half's upstairs." Quicksilver dodged a huge goat and threw nothing whatsoever at the tall black-haired man who was backing rapidly toward the open door heading down. After a moment of disorientation, Marsden recognized the dining room at the President's home. Three of the bodies on the floor were Special Forces, three were in civilian garb of various sorts. A man leaping at Quicksilver burst in midair, blood and shreds of meat and bones and organs spraying on everything.

  She leaped out of the way as a SFer wrestled with a thin woman, and followed the black haired man down the stairs. Marsden, remembering her advice, cracked the woman over the head and followed.

  "Hurry, damn it!" A redheaded woman backed away, dived into the wall of the cellar. The man scrambled after her, with Quicksilver on his heels and Marsden trailing. He had a faint impression of the door shrinking as he dived through, then he was back in a familiar warehouse, turning to confront the redhead as she closed the Corridor. He twitched, feeling very strange, and the hand holding the sap he swung at her head felt clumsy . . . the sap dropped, but the hoof at the end of his arm made contact and staggered the woman. He followed up with a head butt and then reared to throw punches with those weird little hooves.

  She crashed back against a wall full of bottles and he was pelted with the little vials and splashed with the ones that shattered when they hit the floor. The woman was limp on the floor, and he turned to see what else was happening.

  The black haired man was unconscious on the floor, Quicksilver running out the door. Marsden looked around – no other doors, no other people, and followed. He could hear their footsteps fading through an open door, but he stopped and checked all the other doors, working the knobs awkwardly with hooves and mouth. No President, no people. A bathroom gave him an interesting view of a black goat wearing a dark shirt and shoulder holstered revolver. The goat had rather un-goat-like horns covering his forehead like a helmet, narrowing rapidly as they curved over his head and spiraled to leave sharp points sticking out to the sides. He wandered back to the unconscious pair. The woman was stirring a bit, and he nervously lowered his head. Could he butt her and knock her out? The stuff on the floor smelled delicious, and he licked at the gooey mess.

  "Don't do that!" Quicksilver exclaimed. "No telling what spells are in there. She waved her left hand at him and the hooves on the floor were suddenly pulling back into fingernails, the side hooves as well, and he sat back awkwardly as his hands reformed.

  "That was strange." He looked around hastily and grabbed his underwear and pants, then socks and shoes. "I searched and didn't find any sign of anyone being held prisoner."

  "Me neither, and the one that got away knew where she was going. Damn it all. Xen? Any luck at the house?" She listened to absolutely nothing, and winced. Her eyes went to Marsden. "They're exhuming a body in the garden. C'mon, let's learn the worst." She reached down and grabbed a limp hand, Marsden picked up the hand of the redhead and reached across to take Q's other hand. They dropped about an inch, to lawn. Two SFer's grabbed the limp pair. Everyone stood quietly as the shovels dug out the flower bed, exposing a wrapped bundle. They lifted it out carefully, and unwrapped it. Even in the winter, the body wasn't a nice sight. But it was quite obviously the President.

  ***

  "Looks like three weeks ago—before the trip to Europe." Fatty sighed. "I suppose we can check the archived recordings, to find out exactly when they swapped their former senator for our President. We need to wrap this fellow up, and get home. All these prisoners, where are they going?"

  "A jail that isn't known to exist." Xen sighed. "I've crippled their magical abilities, so I don't think they can disappear. I'm going to close the body in a bubble, if we need it . . . First thing is talking to your Director."

  "I'm here. Talk."

  "The President was killed about three weeks ago. The man now in your World is genetically identical, in fact up to three years ago he was the same person. I don't know how you can openly prove he isn't your President. Nor how you can charge him with killing someone identical to himself, in another Universe."

  "I'm not leaving that son-of-a-bitch in office."

  "And if you kill him, you'll be convicted of assassinating the President. Removing him may do more harm than accepting him."

  Marsden could hear the Director's teeth grind. "Let's get this wrapped up, and study the ramifications, very very carefully."

  Q showed up late the next morning, with a sheaf of notes. "I checked all the nearby Worlds for Preston Meyers. I’ve been careful to use the Black Island Gang’s corridors and close them afterwards. So, they visited at least seventeen versions of your world, possibly shopping for a replacement family, or a high government position. And couldn’t resist a President with both a wife and daughter.

  “As you know, the Usurper's daughter was killed in the Rain of Fire, leading to a divorce. In this other World, designated ROF fifteen, both wife and child died. Senator Meyers worked tirelessly to institute the Space Guard program. Now he barely manages to keep up appearances and has said he won’t run for reelection. And he appears to be drinking his way into an early grave. We might consider recruiting him at least long enough to resign in favor of the Vice President."

  Everyone in the room winced.

  "No?"

  "The Vice President is a complete ass. He is a worthy son of the Chicago Machine, and delivered the state."

  "We'll have to find a good reason to dump him, bring in someone reasonable . . . " The small group of people in this meeting waffled visibly.

  Angelica Meyers straightened. Her eyes were red, but she'd put grief behind her for now. "I want to say that this game of musical husbands is not going to go on for very long. Frannie noticed the first substitution, you know. Joked about alien abductions. And . . . this fellow has issues, specifically, their divorce was brutal, and so he's not speaking to me, and when he sleeps with me, he sleeps."

  She made a helpless gesture. "Thank God. And now you want to bring me another? A man whose wife and child died years ago? A drunk? I am afraid the First Couple is going to have a spat and be sleeping separately."

  She braced herself. “It is, however, a good idea.”

  Q nodded. "If we try this, we will all have to be quite open and honest, among us all. Especially among the President's private cabinet. The alcoholism we can cure. And the physical effects. What his emotions will be, will become, we'll have to see."

  "This is so unethical, I should shoot myself right now." The Director looked over at Q. "I want to go talk to this fellow."

  ***

  This Senator Meyers was pottering in his garden, well potted himself, the garden was rather over pruned, over fertilized and over watered. Marsden stayed well back as the Director squelched
through the damp marsh. They'd let themselves through the gate when no one answered the door bell.

  The Senator waved cheerfully at the invaders. "Hey, Harry, check out my roses!"

  The Director looked at the same beds they'd dug their President out of thirty-six hours previously. "They look great Preston. I need to talk to you, soberly and inside."

  "No problem." He waved genially. "Well, I don't know about sober. Sober still hurts too much, you know?" He frowned suddenly. "Wait a minute. You're dead. That means you're a hallucination. Damn. I rather hallucinate Angelica and Frannie, no offence meant."

  "None taken. Come inside. Fatty, turn off all the hoses, will you?"

  The Director steered the drunk away from a grab for a handy bottle, and pulled out the flask Q had sent with them. "Let's try this stuff instead."

  When Marsden joined them a few minutes later, Meyers was sober, and sitting pressed back into the seat of a familiar looking dining room chair. The room was nearly as big a wreck as the one they'd fought through.

  "Parallel worlds? Harry, please will you just be a hallucination? I went from your funeral to Angelica and Francine's and missed some of other friends. And now you tell me there's a whole world where none of it happened? What did happen? I know you too well to think you're here to save me from myself."

  The Director nodded. "Yes. Well, of all these parallel Worlds, there's one where the Rain of Fire was a bit milder. Angelica survived and Frannie died. That Senator Preston was voted out of office, he and Angelica started fighting, divorced. Then he found out about these parallel worlds. With the help of some people who could travel between them, and who no doubt had an agenda of their own."

  The Director shifted, bracing himself. "He got his new friends to shift him to another world. To substitute himself for himself. For a Preston Meyers who had just been elected President, who was still married, who still had a daughter. Preston, listen to me. That man killed the President of the United States. He cannot be allowed to get away with it. He's got Angelica scared silly, and she's sent Frannie off to Georgia to keep her away from that fellow."

  Meyers glared. "And what are you doing to keep Angelica safe from him?"

  "Nothing. She volunteered to keep track of him when guards couldn't."

  "You left her with that man?"

  "Only until we substitute you for him."

  Meyers sat back in consternation. "I can't cheat my way into the Presidency! And I certainly can't fool Angelica, I won't lie to her. Dear God, I am not the same man I was three years ago."

  "I know, Preston. But if you can even stay long enough to resign in your VP's favor, we will have settled something."

  "My Vice President?"

  "Sonny McGuire."

  "If I needed Illinois that badly, I shouldn't have been elected."

  "He delivered the Unions, as well as the state. And it seemed like such a powerless position." The Director shook his head. "Preston, we need you. Very badly. Will you come and talk to the whole privy council? Angelica is on it."

  Meyers closed his eyes, and tears leaked. "I should be strong enough to throw you out the door."

  "I just yesterday told Angelica about finding your three week old body buried under the roses out there. This is her idea. She wants that man dead, but she'll be satisfied with badly damaged and exiled somewhere dangerous."

  "All right. I'll talk, but if I refuse, you'll return me here, right?"

  "Right."

  ***

  Q's corridor returned them to the second secure room. Angelica and Frannie were both there. Meyers had showered and shaved, but he was still in need of a haircut, still gaunt with grief and an alcohol diet. He walked up to the women as if trying to not spook a wild animal. He touched Angelica's cheek, then turned his eyes to Frannie. "Three years. You've grown so much. You're beautiful where you used to be cute." His tears started again, and he reached hesitantly to hug Angelica, then pulled Frannie into the mutual embrace and cried into the First Lady's hair.

  "So, you're going to give this other fellow the heave ho? Where? How?" He turned his head enough to eye the Director.

  "In a limo, in a couple of hours. You need a haircut, we'll match the clothing, and get everything ready. You are giving a speech at the Press Club. We'll try to get you a copy of the speech."

  "I look like hell."

  "Coming down with something. We'll cancel as much of your schedule as we need to, to get you up to date." The Director looked at the table in the room. "This is what has happened over the last three years. Briefly, and then in detail. Ah, your speech tonight. Good. Now, if the First Lady is ready, we'll return to the White House to see what you will be wearing tonight."

  ***

  The Presidential limo had a bullet-proof bomb-proof compartment. There was nothing unusual with the Director of the FBI wanting a brief word with the President during the trip. The Director handled the actual assault of the President. The man was unconscious in seconds. The former drunk popped out of the panic box, and the usurper was rolled into it.

  Then President Preston Meyers was stepping out of the limo, and smiling and shaking hands as he walked into the Press Club for the speech. The limo and escort pulled out, to drop the Director at FBI headquarters, where Q was waiting. She scooped the man into a bubble and walked inside with the Director.

  Fatty looked at the absolutely nothing she was holding. "So, what do we do with him now?"

  She hesitated long enough that everyone stopped and looked at her. "Did Xen explain about membranes? Did he explain that what we see is a composite of several membranes so close to identical that we can't differentiate between them? That the membranes we're jumping back and forth between are also very close to yours? Well, they seem to be getting closer, so close that they are starting to become some of the membranes you can detect. This is unprecedented in our experience. I think the number of corridors between the worlds, and all the traveling back and forth is causing them to draw together. I think everyone except two Preston Meyers needs to go back to their original Brane, and all the Corridors and Gates closed."

  "How potentially bad is this?" The Director sat down and gave her all of his attention.

  "There hasn't been enough time for the 'Branes to start influencing each other and become identical. The Rain of Fire killed different people in different 'Branes. Here it mostly missed land; on the Drunk’s World, it was much worse. The Murder’s World was in between. As far as I can tell roughly a hundred people were killed. So . . . what is going to happen to people who don't have a duplicate to merge with? That's why I want to shut things down quickly.

  “I'd as soon not find out if Frannie's lack of a duplicate will result in her merging randomly with some stranger, or dying because she hasn't got a duplicate. In the two Worlds where we know Frannie died, and once Angelica, I am going to get a large barrel of the local water, and add a bunch of chemicals to approximate what a human body needs. I'll put them in their old house.

  “They should go there, and stay there. If a barrel of water appears in a bathroom there, they should jump in and see if soaking up water and minerals will work. Drink it too, I suppose."

  "What about Preston? He's not from here."

  "Yeah. I'll arrange more water from the world that doesn't currently have a Preston Meyers in it. But two in one World may be part of the draw."

  The Director nodded. "Dump him in the World our grieving Preston came from, put the dead body back in the Usurper's original home. That should keep any loose members of your gang from finding him. Go now. No point in delay."

  "I'll erase all of his memories, just in case he merges. Essentially destroying the murderer." Q disappeared.

  Fatty sighed. "One hopes they'll come back and tell us what happened, eventually."

  The Director nodded. "Go home. Check on your family. In fact if you were to take a couple of weeks leave, everyone would understand, and not wonder what you'd been running around doing."

  Fatty nodded. As he left the
room he hesitated, then walked down toward his office. He should check that the Germain deal papers were secure . . . The what? He bolted for his car. At the Summer Place he bulled past all suggestions to the contrary and checked his wife out. At home he parked in the garage and carried her into the kitchen. Before the accident she'd usually be sitting on her stool here, one eye on dinner, reading the mail, an ear cocked for Fatty or the boy. Today the kitchen was cold and empty.

  "F, Fatty, wha?"

  He set her gently down on the floor, and pulled the stool out of the laundry room. Put it where it belonged. It was Wednesday. That meant spaghetti. The big pot, half full of water, the skillet . . . He found a frozen packet of hamburger and tossed it on the sink. A big can of tomatoes. Louise was reaching toward the stool, and he pulled her up, sat her down . . . she jerked oddly, sitting just so, the hospital gown suddenly patchworked with her favorite tan plaid wool skirt and silk blouse.

  She put her hands to her head. "Oww! What a headache." The aroma of simmering spaghetti sauce filled the kitchen, and Drew slouched in.

  "I'm starving, when's dinner?"

  "Ten minutes for the noodles." She dropped a kiss on Fatty's cheek then stopped and looked down at herself, looked around the kitchen.

  "Do you remember anything odd? Either of you?" Fatty held his breath.

  Drew hunched a shoulder. "Eh, I had a stupid daydream about being in a wheelchair. Dunno how that mess got into my room. It's not my fault."

  Louise was less sure, fingering her skirt. "What on earth happened?"

  A tour of Drew's room revealed a hopeless tangle of what might have once been a wheelchair, or a bicycle, or a wire cart half buried in dirty clothes.