Solar Flares & Tax Snares Read online

  “Or, so we thought. But it wasn’t that simple. Robert was making contact in one of the realities; the designation isn’t important. It wasn’t yours. That’s the significant bit.

  “At any rate – and we didn’t notice this at first, which I suppose is our bad too. But when he died, he’d opened a rift between space and time. Now, normally, it lasts a milli-second, and the traveler steps through. But this time…well, we’re not entirely certain what happened. We think the star’s natural nuclear fusion powered the rift. Sort of fed it, sustained it – grew it. So instead of closing, it got bigger, and bigger.

  “It…well, to be frank, it started collapsing through the fabric of space and time, eating up GJ-273 and its surrounding planets. Not just in that one facet of the multiverse, but across the multiverse. And each new GJ-273 that gets eaten just powers the rift, making it bigger and stronger.”

  Alfred and Nancy exchanged stunned expressions. The taxman had no particular love for time paradoxes. The multiverse only complicated matters further. The idea of a collapsing multiverse made his head spin.

  “Hold on,” she said. “How is that even possible? And what’s happening to the planets near the rift in those realities?”

  The Englishman shifted in his seat. “Well, to be entirely frank, not good things, Miss Nancy. The star is essentially merging across all the impacted realities. And everything near it is merging too.”

  Nancy seemed to be following, because she frowned perplexedly. Alfred was not. But she said, “So…you mean all the realities that have been impacted are sharing the same GJ-273?”

  “Not just the star. GJ-273b, and all the surrounding planets. For the earliest impacted realities, entire galaxies have started to collapse. They’re just – merging. You can imagine the chaos this causes. People wake up to find they have entirely different lives, or that they’re married to different people, or that family members are dead, or so on.”

  Here, Nancy had a million questions. She wanted to know what the pattern was. Which realities imposed their circumstances on the other? Did they have any idea how any of this was possible? What had they done to try to undo it? And so on.

  And Winthrop answered as best as he was able. They hadn’t found any discernable pattern. It seemed entirely random: some facts from one universe would remain, and others wouldn’t. There was no even distribution, either. It wasn’t like the realities would merge fifty-fifty. As far as the IBTI scientists could tell, it was completely and truly random.

  As to the how’s, well, that the Englishman deferred to the scientists. “Temporal and spatial mechanics get a little hazy when you start collapsing realities. But the best way I have to explain it is this.

  “Think of an old-fashioned book binding. You know, where it would be sewn instead of glued. Now, imagine that instead of binding the edge of the pages, they decided to start sewing a bit in the middle.

  “Well, the multiverse is like those pages. All running parallel to each other, and never intersecting. They’re not meant to be bound. But then Robert opened that rift. Now, all of a sudden, we have a bit of binding in the middle of the pages, connecting them. Most of the pages are still readable. They’re still separate. They’re still unique sheets of paper, except at that one point.

  “But then someone keeps sewing from that original binding. More and more of the page gets bound together. Less and less of those individual sheets are accessible.

  “Well, GJ-273 is the first stitch in the binding. And as the rift grows, that’s the binding increasing, one stitch at a time.

  “Right now, that first stitch is almost complete. It’s got one sheet of paper left to go through.”

  That, at least, was an analogy Alfred understood. “Hold a minute. You’re saying there’s only one unique version of GJ-273 left?”

  Winthrop nodded. “Exactly: yours. And once this last page is added…well, our models show it will have a domino effect across the entire multiverse. The rest of the binding, it’s already started. Once the final page is added…well, it’s too late then. The entire multiverse will collapse into one, mixed reality. Or else the spatial singularity will simply swallow all the worlds up, and end everything, across all timelines and in all universes.”

  Alfred, at this juncture, had to point out that this was a rather significant either-or – a point that Winthrop acknowledged. “There are just too many variables. Our models can only work with the data we have. But, based on what we’ve extrapolated from what we do know, those are the two most likely outcomes, by factors of ten.”

  “Well, that’s just great. You guys are supposed to protect the timelines, aren’t you? Instead, you’re going to wipe out not just one timeline…but all of them. In one move. That’s – that’s an epic level of failure.”

  “Recriminations are not particularly helpful, Alfred. It was an accident; accidents happen.”

  “So, I’m still not understanding what we’re supposed to do,” Nancy said, steering the conversation back on topic.

  “Oh, that’s easy. The Geejayan Ministry of Science is working on a solution. They’ve observed the phenomena, of course. You see, at the point we’re going to send you, the rift is starting to appear. They see it as an anomaly with their sun. And they were, well, quite forceful at rebuffing our attempts at intervention once they learned our role in the problem.

  “So we need to utilize your connection to the Geejayan ambassador, to bring them to reason. We need to know what they know, so we can solve this thing together.”

  “Okay,” Alfred said. “Now, what’s the catch?”

  Winthrop stared at him. “Why in heaven’s name would you assume there’s a catch?”

  “Because there’s always a catch with you.”

  Nancy shrugged. “He’s not wrong, Roger.”

  The Englishman shook his head. “You two really are the most paranoid agents I’ve ever met.

  “That said, as it happens, there is – not a catch, but a slight caveat.”

  “Of course there is…” the taxman groaned.

  “Our access to the timestream is not always consistent. We think it has to do with the phenomena. But sometimes we can access it, and sometimes we can’t. And – well, shortly after where we’re going to send you, time just…ceases.”

  “Wait, you’re saying we fail? You’re saying the world – all worlds – end?”

  “No, no, not at all. That’s the timestream now, before you’ve actually gone. And we don’t even know what that means. It might mean everything ends. Or it could mean – well, any number of things.”

  Nancy regarded him skeptically. “Like what?”

  “That’s another question for the scientists, I’m afraid.”

  “You should have brought them, then, since you seem incapable of answering anything on your own.”

  Here, Winthrop turned a frown on Alfred. “Really, this isn’t the time for this. You’re not pleased with your experiences with the IBTI so far. Very well. File a complaint.

  “But can we focus on saving all of time and space before your little temper tantrum?”

  Chapter Four

  As much as the other man’s patronizing tone and words irked him, Alfred had to concede the wisdom of his point. This was Winthrop and the IBTI’s mess, certainly; their hubris and stupidity had, once again, put them in danger.

  But that didn’t lessen the danger – not to the Geejays, not to Li Muldan, and not to all life. So Alfred listened without further interruption. Winthrop went through their landing coordinates, and their mission details – their objectives, and which were optional and which were absolutely necessary for the successful completion of the mission.

  Then, the IBTI man asked, “Well? You ready?”

  “Actually,” Nancy said, “I need to sleep. It’s been a long day, Winthrop.”

  Alfred glanced at the clock. The hour hand had already nearly hit three a.m. “We’re going to have to get up pretty soon for work anyway, babe.”

  Winthrop shrugged. �
�Sleep as late as you need. Just set your return time to whenever you’d normally set your alarm.”

  Which made sense, and so Alfred and Nancy agreed. The taxman couldn’t say he was thrilled to have the Englishman prowling his house and raiding his fridge while they slept. But that was a fight for another day. He and Nance turned in. She dropped into a deep sleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow, and he didn’t take long after her.

  When they woke, the sun was bright, and the day well advanced. Alfred had a momentary panic thinking he’d missed his alarm. Then he remembered their scheme and breathed out.

  They rose, and he showered first. Then Alfred headed downstairs, and found Winthrop passed out in the same recliner he’d slept in the night before, snoring softly. He shook his head and got to work on breakfast. He took his time, since they were in no particular rush.

  Nancy was unabashedly obsessed with all – or most – things pumpkin this time of year. Indeed, it seemed to the taxman that cooler temperatures and changing leaves triggered some kind of shift in his fiancée’s psyche.

  She didn’t want regular lattes anymore; she wanted pumpkin spice lattes. She would randomly bake a batch of pumpkin bread or pick up pumpkin spice English muffins. She set aside the dark roast for pumpkin flavored coffee. And why have pancakes when one could have pumpkin pancakes? She’d even cajoled him into trying pumpkin raviolis and pumpkin macaroni and cheese. All of that, he could tolerate. Some of it, he even enjoyed.

  He drew the line at pumpkin shakes, though. It was one thing to eat pumpkin baked or cooked into something. But he would not – could not – bring himself to drink it. He didn’t care that she blended banana and apple sauce and protein powder in with it. He didn’t care that she could swap out the real milk for almond milk, to add some extra flavor. Nor did he care that pumpkin was a super food, and that she loved her pumpkin smoothies. Pumpkin smoothies were a bridge too far for the taxman.

  What was not, though perhaps should have been for their sheer decadent deliciousness, were pumpkin waffles. They’d made them one chilly October morning a few weeks back, and he’d been meaning to make them ever since. With the crisp, pumpkiny goodness of the waffle, topped with whipped cream and toasted pecans, and then drizzled in maple syrup, they were absolutely delicious. And precisely the sort of thing he didn’t need.

  Still, it was his turn to make breakfast; and he figured he’d take care of Nancy’s pumpkin fix and his own waffle craving in one swoop. And, he decided, he would make just enough for the pair of them.

  So Alfred mixed and measured while the waffle iron heated up, and he tossed a cookie sheet full of pecan pieces in the oven while the first waffles cooked. With the smell of food, Satan came out. Not long after, Winthrop appeared at the doorway. “Now that smells good.”

  “It is. But – I only made enough for me and Nance. Sorry. Didn’t know when you were going to be up.”

  The Englishman looked crestfallen. Alfred almost felt guilty, until he reminded himself that he had nothing to feel guilty about. He had to stop enabling the free rider, and the sooner the better.

  Nancy came down shortly thereafter and was as thrilled to find pumpkin waffles waiting as he predicted. She did seem a little embarrassed when Winthrop repeated, some several more times, how good they looked, and then started to mention his own hunger.

  Alfred, though, stuck to his story that he hadn’t known when the other man would be up. “I figured you wanted to sleep, since it had been such a long day and all.”

  “There’s plenty of food in the fridge,” Nance added, half-apologetically. “You can make yourself something.”

  The Englishman nodded glumly and milled over to the coffee pot. Alfred was pretty sure he clinked the mugs and pot a little louder and harder than necessary. But he pretended not to notice and went about his business of eating.

  Alfred had read somewhere that a firm, repetitive hand was necessary to train a pet out of bad habits. Granted, he’d been an abject failure where Satan was concerned. But that wasn’t a reflection of the technique, but rather the trainer: he’d been soft with the cat. Affection had made him weak.

  He figured the same training principles would hold for annoying colleagues. And he felt absolutely certain that he was in no danger whatever of weakness where Winthrop was concerned.

  Soon enough, though, breakfast concluded and the duo readied to make the trip. “I’m afraid I have no rousing words of farewell,” the Englishman told them. “Just, don’t fail. All life is counting on you.” Then, he added a bit sourly, “For better or worse.”

  “Definitely rousing,” Alfred nodded.

  Nancy elbowed him gently and fiddled with the space time field generator. She’d brought it downstairs with her, and now she put in the coordinates Winthrop had given them. “Be nice,” she whispered, just low enough for him to hear.

  He smiled to himself but said no more; and Winthrop took Fluff and excused himself to the living room. This was a necessity, lest either the other man or the cat end up a stowaway if they remained in too close of proximity to the generator.

  “Ready?” Nance asked.

  “Ready,” he said.

  She nodded, and then a white light and soft noise washed over them. In half a moment, their house vanished, and an open field stretched out all around them. Alfred glanced around with a good degree of wonder. It had been just over a year in his timeline since he’d parted ways with Li Muldan. But he’d thought of the alien often, remembering the strange details they’d shared of their world.

  Now, he saw some of them for himself. And the most surprising – and mildly horrifying, if he was being entirely honest with himself – was the one right at his feet: the grass.

  Li had told him that the vegetation on his home world was sentient. He’d mentioned singing trees and intelligent grass. It had horrified him a little at the time. But that was nothing to seeing and hearing it for himself. Because a high, sweet song did carry on the breeze, and the grass all around Alfred swished and hummed at his feet.

  He started wondering about nerves, and how analogous the brains of these blades of grass might be to the central nervous system in humans. Could they feel pain? Was he hurting them?

  Nancy, meanwhile, yelped. “Oh God. The grass – it’s moving, Alfred. Like, on its own. Not because of the breeze.”

  He nodded. “I know.”

  “It’s sentient. That’s what Li said, isn’t it?”

  He nodded again. “That’s right.”

  “Oh God. I’m not sure I know how I feel about that.”

  “Yeah. Me either.”

  “Are we – are we crushing baby blades of grass to death, Alfred? Are we going to be able to get across the field without committing mass murder?”

  The taxman took a step, and she yelped again. But the blades of grass where he’d stood a moment earlier sprang back to their former height, unruffled. “I…think we’re okay.”

  Only then did Nance nod and step forward – carefully and gingerly. “Oh God,” she said again. “This is – this is really strange.”

  He took her hand. “But we’re not killing anything.”

  “Right.” She took a breath. “Right. Okay. Let’s just keep going then. I’m not going to look at the grass. Or…or listen to it.”

  He squeezed her hand, and they walked on for another few paces. He could see a city of glass on the horizon, shimmering and shining in the midday light.

  “It’s still – still talking.”

  “I know.”

  “I did not realize it was going to be this weird.”

  “Yeah. Me either, babe.” He leaned over and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “But it’s just the way this place works.”

  She leaned into his arm, and they walked in silence for a few minutes. He could feel her relaxing as they went. “What do you think it’s saying?”

  “What?”

  “The grass.”

  Alfred shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe, ‘where the hummus did th
ey come from?’”

  He’d affected a chipmunk voice for the grass, and she laughed at that. “That’s what I’d be saying, I guess. Not the hummus bit, but otherwise.”

  He grinned. It had taken her awhile to get use to his food-themed substitutions for cuss words. “I’ll convert you one of these days, Nancy Abbot.”

  “I kind of doubt it.” Then, she grew more serious. “You think…you think they have brains in there?”

  “In where?”

  “Well, in the blades of grass. I mean, it looks like regular grass…where would a brain go?”

  He shrugged. Other than a deeper, bluer hue, and maybe a slightly thicker width, the grass here did look like anything you might find on any lawn on earth. “I don’t know, to be honest.”

  “It’s got to be some kind of…alternate neural pathway. Or maybe – maybe the brains are underground. Or it’s some kind of network, you know? Like a collective.”

  “‘I am Lawn of Borg,’” Alfred intoned, hating himself just a little for knowing enough about Star Trek to make that joke.

  Nancy laughed. “Well, not exactly. But kind of.”

  They walked in silence after that, Nancy casting bewildered glances now and then at each new form of sentient vegetation they encountered. Alfred found himself somewhere between horror and appreciation. It was uncanny. No doubt about that. But a world in which ethereal voices always sang out sweet songs? Well, there was something to be said for that, too.

  They reached a kind of road shortly thereafter, though it took the taxman a moment to figure out what it was. Unlike the roads of his own world, this was neither stone nor pavement. It wasn’t even built. Instead, it seemed to be grown, of a low-growing, soft moss.

  Still, the long, straight byway left little room for interpretation. Neither did the marker they stumbled on shortly thereafter, at a crossroads. Alfred could decipher none of the alphanumeric bit, for they were alphabetic and numeral systems he didn’t recognize. But the directional markers were clear enough: take a turn to go somewhere, and keep going straight to go somewhere else.