Chapter 20

A few days later they went home.

It was evening when they returned through the portal to Moody Blue, or synthetic evening, anyway.

It had been a quiet, understated affair when they came back through the portal. There had been no one there to greet them. They had stepped through into an empty cavern, their footsteps echoing off the distant walls.

There had been goodbyes, of course, though not very tearful. They would see each other again, after all. There was post-liberation paperwork to file, and they had to testify to the Hyper-Senate about Murtlebix’s involvement, and likely they would be called to do some interviews together once the documentary about their exploits hit the Omninet.

And, of course, Olyrean would have to report to SPECTRA. Veezeebub and Tordle had given her a call yesterday and made it clear that they would be wanting to talk to her about what she had found during her mission. They had also asked her if she knew which part of a Glubmixlubbo’s body was the most sensitive. Then there had been some screaming and their call had ended.

Now Olyrean sat alone in her bubble-car as it whipped across the artificial landscape of Moody Blue back toward her home. She was full of exhaustion. Not of the body, not necessarily, but in spirit.

There was that little part of her psychology that she shared with humans and other bipedal species that says: Now things are at an end, and now it is time to rest at the end of a long journey, even if the journey mostly involved stepping through a portal and being immediately teleported halfway through reality.

But as her bubble-car toodled its way on down to her home, she saw that her yard was surrounded by a cluster of flashing lights and a crowd of dozens, perhaps even hundreds. Ah, yes. Libby had warned them about this. They were heroes, now, having liberated a particularly prickly planet, and they might get some media attention.

She preened as she stepped out of the bubble-car. “Yes, yes, I am the Olyrean Teralelien,” she said. “If you’d just help me with my bags, please, then I’d be glad to give a quick interview. Just a few questions, though. I’ve just gotten back, and I am very tired.”

The cameraman she had been talking to, a bipedal lion with jaws large enough to fit her head in, looked at the bags she had just dumped at his feet.

“I’ve got no idea who the hell you are,” he growled.

Olyrean gawked at him as he turned away. It quickly became apparent from the general disinterest of the other reporters that they weren’t here for her. “Well–why are you all around my house? What’s going on? BAXTER!”

“Hark!” she heard her butler cry. “I hear the dulcet tones of my mistress. Give way, give way, please, I must go to her. She and I are very close, yes, in every possible way you might imagine or write about–” Her robot pushed his way through the crowd and smiled at her. “Welcome home, mistress,” he said in a tone so sensual that the cameramen nearest to them grinned at each other. Lights flashed and glared.

At least he’s wearing clothes, Olyrean thought to herself. “Baxter, what is all this?” she asked as he swept up her bags and began pushing his way back through the crowd with her in tow. “Why are all these reporters at my house? What’s happened?”

“It’s a breakthrough, mistress. Do you remember how you ordered me to optimize the laundry chute?”

All at once she remembered the last phone call she had with him. “Please tell me you didn’t blow up the house,” she begged. “I want to lie down so badly.”

“Blow up…? Oh, please. You insult me.” Baxter frowned at her. “I’m afraid I’ve outdone myself, mistress. I managed to make the laundry chute so fast that your clothes now arrive before they even get dirty. Do you understand?”

As they talked, he pushed his way through the crowd. They stood on her doorstep now. Olyrean was relieved to see the house was, in fact, still standing. “No,” she told him. “What are you talking about, before they get dirty? I don’t see how that’s possible.”

“Time travel!” Baxter declared, and a roar went up from the crowd as the reporters pressed in, screaming questions. “Back, back, please!” he cried. “My mistress is back from a small business trip–I can talk to you later!” He pulled her inside and slammed the door in their faces.

“Time travel,” Olyrean said, bewildered. “But that’s not possible!” Then again, she thought to herself, what in the world would I know about it?

Baxter peered out the window and set her bags aside. He grabbed her hand and gave her a smile that made her shiver a little. “Come with me,” he said.

He led her through her house and down a set of stairs, to the basement, where the laundry was located. A mountain of clothes lay on the floor, far more than Olyrean had ever owned. “What’s this?” she asked. “These aren’t my clothes.”

“Dirty laundry from other timelines,” Baxter told her.

Olyrean stared at the pile of clothes with a creeping dread worming its way into her stomach. She licked her suddenly dry lips. “Ah,” she said, “Ah…why’s there so much scuba gear?” She kicked aside a flipper.

“I don’t know. Apparently in many alternate timelines, you get into snorkeling. Have you ever considered it?”

Olyrean shivered and said nothing.

“Okay, here we are.” Baxter led her past the clothing and stopped in front of the door to a closet. Though she noted that it didn’t appear to be a closet any longer. It radiated cold, and a heavy mist seeped out along the floor from its edges. “For this next part,” he told her, “don’t freak out.”

Baxter opened the door. Olyrean peered inside. She had been right; it wasn’t a closet any longer. It had been converted into a spacious refrigeration unit.

And it was filled with mangled corpses.

Corpses with her face.

Olyrean screamed, then she shrieked, and then screamed again for good measure. After careful consideration of the facts as they lay before her, she screamed a third time.

“I told you not to freak out,” Baxter muttered when she was done.

“How am I supposed to not freak out?! Why have you got a fridge full of…of…murdered me?”

“Calm down! They’re just copies of you from other timelines.”

“Oh! Oh! Is that all!”

“And they’re not dead. Just unconscious. I built this to store them until we could figure out what to do with them.”

“Not dead?!” Olyrean pointed. “That one doesn’t have a head!”

Baxter looked, then shrugged. “I think she must have been that way when she came through from her timeline.”

“What timeline would that be?!” Olyrean hooted. “The one where people go about without any brains?!”

“I don’t see how it would be all that different from this one.” Baxter squinted at her. “Are you sure you’re my Olyrean? I feel like my Olyrean wouldn’t be freaking out this much.”

Olyrean threw her hands up in the air. “I’m taking a bath,” she announced. “Go talk to your reporters or whatever you need to do. Just have supper ready by the time I’m out.”

She retreated to the bathroom and ordered the tub to fill itself. Not just with water, but with a variety of nice-smelling oils. The bathroom AI warned her twice about low oil supply, but she just kept demanding more. She dimmed the lights and sank into the water, though really by now it was viscous enough that it probably qualified as some sort of jelly. When she heard the reporters stomping about the house, she piped in beach sounds until they were drowned out entirely, and drifted off into a sort of relaxed half-sleep.

When Olyrean awoke hours later she was marinating in a cool soup, the auto-heater having switched itself off and all the oils having drifted their way back to the surface of the water. She clambered out of the tub. Wrapping a towel around herself, she peeked out cautiously into the hallway.

“Baxter?” she called.

Silence. She walked to the kitchen, dripping water, and found a note on the counter.

Some physicists wanted to talk to me. I tried to tell you, but you seemed very involved with your bath. I’ll be back tomorrow, possibly. Dinner’s in the fridge.

Her little vacuum scuttered around her feet, slurping up the dirt that the crowd of reporters had left behind. “They left about an hour ago,” it said, peering up at her. “By the way, welcome home, miss.”

“Ah,” Olyrean said. “Well, thank you, um…vacuum.”

The bot stared at her.

“My name’s Brian,” it said. “Sheesh, some people.”

She watched it trundle away.

No longer really hungry, Olyrean decided she’d just go to bed. But when she turned on the light in her bedroom, she noticed that someone was already in it. She was too stupefied to even scream. That was alright, since the person in her bed did it for her, and even managed to sound exactly like she would.

In fact, the person in her bed looked almost exactly like she did, as well.

“Who are you?!” Olyrean snapped, once the screaming had stopped.

“I’m Olyrean,” said the person in her bed.

“No, you’re not, I am–” said Olyrean.

“Let’s not get confused,” said Bed-Olyrean. “We’re both Olyrean, which is ourselves. I’m just you from an alternate timeline. Your Baxter tried to brain me when I came through. I escaped and hid in here.”

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

“Oh,” said Olyrean. “I’m sorry about that. He can be a real bastard.”

“Yeah,” Bed-Olyrean sighed. “But a fantastic lover.”

“What?”

“Oh, have you not–never mind.”

Olyrean looked Bed-Olyrean up and down. They looked almost entirely the same, except that Bed-Olyrean was wearing a really garish sweater. It looked like someone had vomited up yarn of all the loudest colors they could imagine in no particular pattern whatsoever. And embroidered on the front was the lettering HONK IF YOU LOVE BUUGLUBIAN BUTTS, and a small figure of a Buuglubian waving several asses in the air.

“What timeline are you from…?” Olyrean asked.

“I’m from the one where Infinity America came and liberated our planet before anything bad ever happened,” said Bed-Olyrean.

“Oh?”

“No genocide, no slavery. My parents are still alive. Hell, Um’Thamarr is still alive. He decided there was no point in fighting the Americans and now he’s opened up a spa. Heats the mud baths with his breath. I’ve been there twice; it’s really fantastic.”

“I see,” said Olyrean. “And…the sweater?”

“Oh.” Bed-Olyrean glanced down at herself and grinned. “Well, see, when I came to America, I really got into some alternative fashion as a hobby.”

“It’s terrible. Really awful.”

“I know,” said Bed-Olyrean. “That’s the point! It’s sort of a folkish pastiche of space-lane Americana, where our more working-class species drive cargo ships where portals can’t be opened and eat at lonely little asteroid-diners.”

“Uh huh,” said Olyrean.

Bed-Olyrean warmed to her little lecture. “Some might say that wearing this sweater is a little mean, even mocking, but I find that there’s value to be found in its mawkishness. Even if the intent was to mock, one can find this sort of sweater sold in the more backwater planets of the republic with all sincerity. This makes wearing it an advanced act of sincero-mockery genuinity hyper-inversion.”

Olyrean stared.

“I write for a fashion magazine,” said Bed-Olyrean. “What about you? I hear you’re a spy of some sort?”

“Sure,” said Olyrean. “Do you mind looking at that?” She pointed.

Bed-Olyrean turned around and squinted at the wall. “What am I looking for?”

“You’re not looking for anything. I just wanted you to turn around so I could club you in the back of the head with this lamp.”

Olyrean clubbed Bed-Olyrean in the back of the head with her bedside lamp.

Bed-Olyrean yelped, swayed. “Wait,” she said woozily, “But I’m going snorkeling tomorrow–”

Then she fell over, unconscious.

Olyrean sighed and dropped the lamp. She frowned at the alternative version of her sprawled across the bed. She bent and seized Bed-Olyrean by the armpits. Her towel fell off. Just then, an Omni-Cola cargo ship cruised by her window.

The pilot stared at her, naked and bent over a concussed version of herself.

“Whatever,” said Olyrean.

She dragged Bed-Olyrean through the house, down the stairs, and tossed her in the freezer with the rest. Then she went back to her room, crawled between her sheets, closed her eyes and went to sleep.

***

Behind a news desk sat a seething mass of viscous purple tentacles, stuffed into a suit and jacket like spaghetti poured into a plastic bag by a child whose mother has told them that they can pack their own lunch for the very first time. It seemed to be constantly falling over itself, making a faint slopping, gurgling noise, its damp and sticky shirt bulging as if at any moment it would burst open and spew even more disgusting parts all over the desk. It flopped about wildly, dragging a sheaf of papers into itself, leaving behind a trail of slime.

A pretty young human woman strode confidently up to the desk. She wore a star-spangled jacket and blouse with just one more button undone than seemed proper, given the rest of her outfit. She paused upon seeing the goop that the pile of tentacles had left behind on it.

“Hello, Mary,” said the tentacles.

“Oh,” said Mary. “Oh my. You’ve made a mess again, haven’t you?” Her lips parted.

“Um,” said the tentacles bashfully, “yes…”

“Get ready, you two!” called out an authoritative voice, one of those free-floating ones that seem to be everywhere on television sets. “We’re going on-air, now!”

Mary slid behind the news desk next to her coworker. She stared at the goo on the desk with an odd expression and reached out to touch it with one finger. “A big, sticky mess,” she said, giggling to herself.

“Mary, not now,” the tentacles pleaded with her.

“We’re live in 3…2…1…”

“Good evening, I’m Liguree Fardoop,” said the squirming pile of tentacles.

“And I’m Mary Richmond,” said Mary, blushing and slightly breathless. “And this is Stellar Patriot News, brought to you by the Interdimensional Broadcasting Agency. And today’s sponsor, Ol’ Xubriq’s Classic Texan Hot Sauce. Xubriq’s: Now, We Are All Sons Of Bitches!”

“Today’s top story,” said Liguree, “The series documenting the liberation of Quizbar is the runaway hit of the season, pulling in well over nineteen trillion subscribers.”

“That’s right, Lig-lig. Viewer feedback has been overwhelming, with polling of key demographics showing that they responded well to the season’s focus on high-impact action and themes of…” Mary paused, glanced toward the tentacles, and then said, very deliberately, “interspecies romance.”

Liguree did his species equivalent of coughing uncomfortably, which meant that half of his tentacles flailed wildly and turned green. “Um, uh, yes. Well, with all the sword fights, exploding starships and with the season culminating with the sun of the Quizbar home system going supernova, some viewers are questioning: How realistic is this documentary? Joining us now is the series’ runaway star, the one and only Libby–”

An explosion of sparks and fireworks, and Libby appeared sitting coquettishly on the edge of the news desk. She beamed and waved excitedly at the cameras. “Hello! Hello everyone! Hi Mary, hi Liguree! It’s so great to be here.”

“Of course, Libby.” Mary adopted a thoughtful tone, the sort that news anchors get when they’re asking questions that they already know the answers to, often word for word. “Now, in this documentary, you’re portrayed as dueling multiple head members of the Quizbar Church to death in sword fights. Is this really how it happened?”

“Oh, more or less,” said Libby. “Some of it’s, ah, I suppose you might say, symbolic? And edited to make things a bit more exciting. But it’s generally true to life! In the ballpark, at least. It gets the general sentiment across. Plus, don’t I look cool with a sword?” Suddenly one was in her hand, and she stood up on the desk, swinging it wildly. She pretended to slice off Mary’s head. The live audience cheered.

“Now one of your major co-stars, Moyom of the Ixxari–she, well–she had some very raunchy scenes, with both the High Priest of the Quizbarlings and her coworker Korak. Viewers really enjoyed the love triangle aspect,” said Liguree once Libby had jumped down off the desk.

“Sure! Moyom is so pretty, she’s such a heartthrob!”

“And were these relationships real?” asked Mary, interrupting. Her eyes were slightly glazed. “Did she really go…all the way?”

Libby coughed awkwardly. “Um. Well, in a way. In other ways, it was symbolic, like the swordfights and all.”

“Well, we just want to know whether it’s true to life or not. Some of the more attentive viewers have pointed out that in some scenes, well, Ixxari biology just…doesn’t work like that, to put it delicately.”

“It’s as true as it can be,” Libby replied, clearly a little irritated. “Look, it’s the First Principle of Information Transfer over a Storytelling Channel. You’re never going to capture the whole story, it’s impossible. You’ll leave out some little detail, or people will just gloss over it, and people will seize on other details to explain what was left out, and before you know it the story has ballooned and morphed and it can seem so different from what actually happened. But it still keeps the same general shape of it all. It’s all mostly right, and that’s what matters.”

The studio audience absorbed this in silence, glancing dubiously at each other.

“Hey,” Libby said, “I got naked for the documentary too, you know! Why don’t we talk about that?”

“Well, there you have it, Lig-lig,” Mary said, tapping her papers against the desk. “You don’t have to be perfectly biologically compatible for things to work out!”

“I never said you did, Mary. Only that some pairings are clearly more biologically incompatible than others.”

“Yes, but I think they could definitely make it work, if they really wanted it to. Especially if one of them needed it so badly.”

“Anyway!” Liguree said loudly, “Our next guest is the former head of government on Quizbar, leader of their church and Supreme Divine Being. Please welcome none other than The Radiant One!”

A swelling glow of warm and gentle light, and The Radiant One appeared in a brilliant flash, sitting on the studio’s guest couch. He smiled at the audience as they applauded him, and smiled at Libby as she sat next to him, in a kind but very tired way. On his head was perched the living beret, smoking a cigarette and grumbling to itself.

“Hello Mary, hello Liguree,” he said. “Hello, Libby. Nice to see you again.”

“Now, ah, Radiant One–do you mind if I just call you TRO? Well, TRO–as I understand it, you’re a god.” Mary made a pretense of posing this question as if she had just learned this information and was considering it very deeply, when in fact she had known it for ages and never once thought about it much at all.

“Yes.” The Radiant One nodded.

“And not just that, but you actually claim to have created the entire universe.”

“That’s right.”

“Oh, what god doesn’t claim that?” Libby laughed. “Or well, at least someone in their pantheon claims it for them.”

“I suppose that there’s lots of them out there that would like credit,” said The Radiant One. “But in my case, it happens to be true.”

The audience let out a long Oooooooooooooooh.

“Well, if that’s the case,” said Mary, “what do you think of your creation now? How are things going, would you say?”

“It’s going well enough,” said The Radiant One with that same long, tired smile. “Not quite how I had imagined it when I set out, I have to say.” He seemed about to say something more, but then he shrugged. “But, well, I think it worked out well enough, in the end. It’s out of my hands now, in any case.”

“Really?” said Mary. “Some would say we’re in ABSOLUTE CRISIS PANIC MODE. Several planets have had their local governments infiltrated and corrupted by the Gofoolister mob. Youth delinquency is at an all-time high. Omni-Cola just doesn’t taste as good as it used to! And yet you think things are going well?”

The Radiant One smiled. “It’s just how you look at it, I suppose.”

“Well!” Liguree leaned over the desk, tapping several of his tentacles together, unaware of the ooze spreading beneath him. Mary bit her lip. “Quizbar has been incorporated as the latest world to join the UWA, and you’ve abdicated as head of government. What made you decide to give it all up?”

“Ah.” The Radiant One swept his beret off his head. “It’s these hats, you see. They’re the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. But I’m afraid mine might be broken.”

“Listen to me,” said the beret. “You don’t understand. This man’s head, it healed me–I’ve got visions of my past life–my name was Pierre–Oh, god, this universe is a nightmare! It wasn’t meant to be like this!”

“Well, don’t worry,” Mary said cheerfully. “SilCoMor stocks their Living Hats: The Hat that Smiles Back wherever fine goods are sold. We can get you a new one. But tell us more about you, what are you up to now?”

“Well, I am an American citizen now. I’ve set up a therapeutic service, you know. I am able to offer troubled souls peace and bliss.”

“Oh! Oh! I’ve seen this!” Libby clapped her hands. “He can do this trick–it doesn’t work on me, but you biological types really go wild for it. Go ahead, show them, TRO!”

“Well, just a little bit, I suppose,” said The Radiant One, as the audience went wild. He closed his eyes and concentrated, and a holy light flowed forth from him, shining out across the studio. Mary and Liguree both fell silent first, then the audience, and for a few seconds there was no sound but that of waves against an ancient, timeless shore. Libby took advantage of the stillness to make bunny ears behind TRO’s head.

“Wow,” said Mary, after it had ended. “I don’t know if you could feel that, folks at home, but that is some good stuff.”

“It sure was, Mary,” agreed Liguree. “If you’re interested in what you just saw, search the Omninet for Radiance and Relaxation, LLC., and look up the price for a glow job. Now we’ve got to go to commercial, but after the break: Vice President Murtlebix under investigation for establishing secret back-channel communications lines that intercepted important military messages. Pressure mounts for him to resign, once SPECTRA hands back what’s left of him! Also: Omni-Cola’s newest flavor is facing recall, under accusations that one of the secret ingredients is actually parasitic eggs! Could your favorite soft drink be putting a squirming alien in your guts?”

“I wish there was a squirming alien in my guts.”

“Mary!”

“Oh, were we still on air?”

“Wait,” cried The Radiant One, “I’ve got a message from my High Priest that I promised him I’d read! He wants to say to Radiant Shell that he will always wait for her. But, in the meantime, if there were any other, uh, curvaceous and smooth-shelled Ixxari who wanted to help him out, it would be much appreciated. He’s so new to this place, you see, and everything’s so strange. He could really use a guide, someone to show him the sights of Infinity America….”