THE BIG SWITCH by Christopher Leeson Chapter 2

Posted 01-07-23 

THE BIG SWITCH

By Christopher Leeson

 

Chapter 2, The Narrative of D.C. Callahan continued....

 

Chapter 2

The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued

Leigh Spielman's take-no-prisoners attitude had given me all the inspiration that I needed to finish a scene in my story that had me flummoxed up to now. I pounced on the keyboard, tapping like I was trying to beat the Dutch:

Beth was by her lonesome in the office stuffing documents into her alligator-hide briefcase. She was thinking about the close call with that smart shamus Baxter and from now on she didn’t want stay around anyplace where he might come calling again. Her plan was to duck out on a graveyard flight to a tropical paradise and payoff to some Third World dictator to keep her cozy. After that it would be endless rounds of golden slipper cocktails and strolls along wide, immaculate beach fronts while thinking of new ways to spend her money.

Beore that Nick Baxter had muscled in everything had been going her way. She'd had the D.C. cops floundering and the randy D.A was eating out of her hand. Best of all, the newspapers given her their 'victim award” for the month of July. Every news reader with an I.Q. under 80 was on her side. Only Nick Baxter seemed to know how to put two and two together.

But she wouldn’t feel safe as long as she was in the same country as that gumshoe. As a precaution, Beth opened her right-hand desk drawer and hefted out a .357 Magnum moose-shooter. She packed the thing into her valise along with all those incriminating papers that she still needed to burn. Without the “receipts,” Basil Greenstreet's accountant was going to take the fall, leaving Beth Angler smelling like a rose.

Just then the door behind her flew open with a jarring bang. Beth froze, which nixed any chance she had had of grabbing for her man-stopper. Nick Baxter was standing there with a glacier-blue heater aimed at her head and a half-burned stogie balanced between his clenched jaws.

"I followed your Italian-built bucket all the way from Arlington," he informed the swank dame. "You're one hell of a reckless driver, Miss Angler. What's the hurry? Lamming it, maybe?"

Nick had a stare that would have broken most hardened criminals, but Angler was a chickadee with nerve. Being a trial shyster for a while, she'd been rubbing elbows with America’s worst. That meant that she was a hardened criminal who wasn't going to bend or fold easily. Maybe she hadn’t been planning to be all bad when she'd first left Chicago as a spoiled rich kid. But those big law schools left everyone with Lefty leanings twisted in the head.

"Hit the road, you jerk-off!" she said through gritted teeth.

The gumshoe grinned. "Those skirts who look like Vassar and talk like Hollywood and Vine really turn me on, babe. But you made a bad mistake when you emptied a .357 Magnum into my partner's back."

Beth Angler blanched. Baxter had put that piece into his puzzle, too. If he found the murder weapon that was hidden in her case now, she'd go down for Murder One. "It wasn't me," she jabbered. "It was Greenstreet's accountant!"

Nick's big, ugly face clouded. "Naw, it was you all right and you're going to the sizzle-chair for doing it! The place I’m going to look for evidence is inside that lizard skin you carry around."

She couldn’t help but jump when Nick mentioned briefcase on the desk. That move telegraphed to Nick that he'd slammed the nail on the head. He expected her to make a dive for her shooting iron, but Beth Angler but she didn’t. She actually tossed a sexy, come-on smile his way.

"Can't we make some kind of a deal?" she murmured.

Nick narrowed one peeper. "So what kind of deal are you driving at, honey bun?"

She started unbuttoning her suit jacket. Baxter smoked his cigar smoke while enjoying the show. Beth Angler was an embezzler, a murderer -- and a closet bimbo, too. This situation had possibilities.

"I promised the accountant's mother that I was going to nail you," Nick warned her.

"So nail me, big man."

“If I do, what do you expect in return?”

“Maybe a break…” she said in a sultry, breathy way.

"You get the next play," he said with a wink. "Handle this right and maybe I'll feel like going easy on you afterwards."

'Or maybe not', he was thinking . . . .

Dewitt interrupted my narration just when I was getting to the good part. "D.C., did you see this article in the paper? Another bum was choked to death last night and dropped into the Potomac. How many does that make?"

"About two dozen," I said, leaning back from my keyboard and yawning. "Some psycho must really have it in for skid-row winos. You know, these rum-bum murders started right after Inauguration Day. Do you suppose -- nah! It's got to be a coincidence."

"They say there's been a rise in hooker killings, too. Same M.O. Bums and hookers. What’s the connection?”

From the outer office came a mutter of voices. "Ma'am, you just can't go barging in!" Sheila was saying.

At first, I thought that Spielman was back for Round Two, but when the door swung open we saw a young black woman trying to squirm around our secretary. "Step aside and let the lady in, Miss Coffin," I said. "We've got time enough for a little neighborhood outreach." Then I added, "Go watch the phones, Sheila; I don't think you'll be need to take notes."

Sheila was glad enough to leave and so left the chocolate bunny behind with us. She had an uncertain expression on her cute-as-can-be face as she wobbled up to my desk. Either her ankles were hurting pretty badly or she wasn't used to high heels. Since she was just then wearing skimpy spandex, that didn’t figure.

"Have a chair, Miss," I offered.

The black girl glanced uneasily around the office before putting the nicest part of her body into that rummage-sale bought wicker chair that was facing my desk. Her hemline immediately rode way up, just like it was designed to do. Unfortunately, I had a row of books on my desktop that blocked my view of her cleavage while she was sitting so low .
Don't call me 'Miss,'" the chippy said. "I had to see you, Mister Callahan. It's a matter of life and death!"

I blinked perplexedly. She wasn’t using the diction of a run-of-the-mill hooker. An educated hooker? Well, why not?

"Where exactly are you from?" I asked.

"This is very -- embarrassing to explain," she began haltingly. "I'm not a really a girl."

Oh, hell! "You're a female impersonator?"

"No! I'm -- I'm actually Congressman Adam Schitz!"

Dewitt and I traded glances. Even so, I had to be tactful. "I think you've been breathing in some bad bindles, ma'am. I've met Congressman Schitz -- and believe me, you aren't him! For one thing, you don’t have his watermelon head and a pencil neck. And the way you’re dressed doesn’t make me think your a Congressman. But I don’t want to get out of line. Maybe skin-tight microminis are the new fashion. It would certainly beat what we’ve been seeing on the street lately.”

"I am Adam Bennett Schitz and I can prove it!" she insisted, leaning forward and putting her hands on my desk. Man, did she do the forward-lean well!

"Two years ago, I hired you to prove my opponent was cheating on his wife,” she said. “You returned a report that said he wasn't, but I don’t accept “no” votes. I got some of my friends in the FBI to call you a Russian asset. The press ate it up and muddied your name so badly that the Republican candidate had to deny that he ever knew you. Nobody bought into that and his numbers fell so low that he dropped out of the race!"

I wasn't impressed. That was news past its expiration date. "It sounds to me like Schitz's been shooting off his mouth around one of his party girls – you, if I’m being too subtle. You need a shrink, lady, not a detective."

"Give me a chance to explain!"

"You've got five minutes, pussycat. I'm a busy man."

"The truth is, we've been invaded by aliens from outer space!" confessed the girl.

I let out a moan.

"They can switch minds with a person if he has sex with them!" she added excitedly.

Dewitt finally stirred. "I get it! This is right out of those X Files reruns. You think you're Schitz and you've just had an alien body-switch. Well, you don't look much like an alien, Miss -- and I'm too polite to spell out what you do look like."

"That's because I wasn't the first person the alien switched with! He'd already stolen the body of this girl. There’s a lot of aliens going around in the bodies of Earth people! They entice people to go down on them and -- and then the switch happens."

"And how did you end up jumping into the sack with an alien, uh -- Congressman?" I asked.

"Somebody I trusted gave me the number of an escort service," the chocolate cookie explained with a pained look.

"Well, all I can say is that you must hang around with some real low-lives, ma'am."

"Don’t say that! I'm a U.S Congressman!"

I decided not to make a joke out of that one-liner. "So, what happened then?" I wasn't buying into this sitcom plot, but I wanted the chippie to finish her silly story and go home.

The busty hustler hugged herself and shivered, but maybe that was because of the cold draft coming from the air conditioner. That red spandex of hers certainly didn't cover much -- God bless it!

At last, she caught her breath and said, "W-When I woke up in the night, I was her."

I could imagine the picture. It was just kinky enough to make a good story. But it didn’t have much zing because she'd already telegraphed the punch line. "Yeah, I thought it had to be something like that. Tell us a little about the aliens, ma'am, since you're the expert."

"They took me prisoner," the Party Polly went on.

“Were you already a girl when they did that?”

“I’m not a girl!”

“I’m a gentleman so I’m not going to ask you to prove that.”

Exasperated, the black beauty soldiered on. "They had Earth bodies, but the was something not right about them --" Her voice trailed off.

"Why? Did their eyes glow?" I asked.

"No, it was just that they were all so randy. They did things to me -- and enjoyed doing them!"

“Did you enjoy it, too?”

“Certainly not!”

“Well, okay. Exactly what all did they do?”

She shivered again. "T-They bound me naked to the head of the bed. One of them was a gorgeous redhead.”

“Was that a male redhead or a female one?”

“Female! I wouldn’t have let a man touch me!”

“So, all this bedroom fun was actually consensual?”

“No it wasn’t! But I absolutely wouldn’t have wanted a man to be doing things like that to me!”

"Where did she touch you?" I asked, my mouth going dry.

"She told the others to leave, and then this alien woman took off all her clothes before getting down on her knees at the foot of the bed. . . ."

"Yeah, yeah? She was going down. What happened next?"

"Schitz" scowled. "What happened was like those despicable, degrading scenes that I used to watch on the VCR as a kid. You know what I mean!"

I nodded. “Yeah, I know. I still have a video rental card around somewhere. But we need details. You're going to have to stop beating around the bush, babe -- no pun intended. What did that hot-sounding babe do to you?"

"She got me so excited that I was almost in tears. While my mind hated it, it made this X-rated body feel so godammed happy! It was even better than nose candy! That’s when two of the male aliens came back and one said, 'Okay, Schitz, the fun's over.’ Then the other one asked, ‘Are we going to dump this bum into the Potomac?’”

I sat back. "That's cute, Cuddles. You’re even managing to work in those streetwalker murder cases they’re talking about on the TV every night."

She stood up indignantly. "I'm telling the truth!"

"You absolutely can't be Congressman Schitz, so that makes you either a liar or a nut case."

All my insult did was to incite her to jabber all the faster: "Then the other alien said, `Yeah, why not? How would you like to make the headlines one more time, Congressman?'”

The redhead stood up and said, “No! We’ll keep him as a girl. He’ll at least be of some use that way.”

Then they put me into heels and this tight dress. They even smeared lipstick on my mouth.”

“So I see. They didn’t do such a bad job of it.”

“And dragged me out to their car," she added. “When we got down to the piers, the aliens stopped in front of a warehouse."

"A whorehouse?" Man, this was a story that I should have been writing myself! I wondered what the best ending should be. I absolutely didn’t want to do a Hollywood-style cop-outs where the Congressman changes back into his crummy old-self at the end of the story. What’s the use of going off on a trip if you’re going to end up at the exact same place that you started out from?

"A warehouse!" she corrected me.

"What warehouse?" Dewitt asked.

Schitz shifted toward my pard. "A Rex Company warehouse along the eastern riverfront," she said. "I think it must be one of their secret bases."

"How did you get away?" I asked.

"A squad car drove up, saw the two guys playing rough with me, and stopped. The police came out to ask what was going on."

"Two D.C. cops doing their job?" I interrupted. "Your story is beginning to sound fishy."

"That's what did happen! The aliens ran for cover. I started yelling for help and the officers picked me up, but I didn't dare tell them the truth."

"Of course not, sweetheart," I nodded tolerantly. "You wanted to save that little suprise just for us."

Her voice hardened. "The aliens said that they've taken over the bodies of a lot of people -- especially people in authority. What if the aliens already control the police -- the whole government even? So I came to you."

“I don’t think aliens could do worse than the people who are in charge now,” I said.

Suddenly, her face sank forward into her cupped hands; for the first time I started to feel sorry for the dame, even if she was a nut-filled cookie. Maybe she actually believed her own crazy story. I figured she might need real help, not just bad jokes. I said to Dewitt, "This lady's really scared about something, Martin. Why don't you go check out that warehouse?"

He tossed off his familiar there-you-go-again smirk. "So it’s going to be another freebie for some sob-sister, Callahan?"

"So what's your problem?" I asked testily. "Have you got a high-stakes game of solitaire waiting for you back home? Martin, you'll be putting on an alderman if you don't get some exercise once in a while."

He reluctantly stood up. "All right, but I think it's a waste of time and gasoline. You've always been a pushover for a panhandler, D.C. No wonder Sheila is the only one in this office who ever takes home a paycheck."

I just glowered at him. We always paid Sheila first because the government doesn't care if a owners make squat; it’s always the employee who come first. I knew we'd land in hot water if we ever missed a single payroll.

Then I noticed my pard putting on that black leather jacket of his. "Hey, you aren't going out wearing that thing, are you?"

"What are you ragging about now?"

"You forgot your snap-brimmed hat," I reminded him. "It was your birthday present, remember?"

He threw up his arms. "D.C., nobody wears those snap-brim antiques anymore."

I gave him my senior-partner glim. "That's gratitude for you. Detectives wear fedoras for the same reason that chimney sweeps still wear stovepipe hats. It's tradition."

"I don't see people paying anything for tradition and, anyway, a hat would look wrong with this jacket."

"Is it my fault that you come to work out of uniform?" To spare his feelings, I decided not to add that his blue jeans, jacket, and motorcycle boots would have been more appropriate on a schoolyard dope pusher.

He waved away my advice. "D.C., whenever you’re able to meet an honest payroll, I'll wear a ballerina outfit if that’s traditional."

"I don't swing that way," I told him. "But thanks for warning me that you do."

After that nifty zinger, Martin gave up the bickering and let the door clunk shut behind him. I was left to entertain "Congressman Schitz" all alone. "Until my partner gets back," I told her, "I think you need a good detox -- I mean, a good rest. Can I take you home, or to a motel?"

I detected a tremble in her sigh. "I don't have any money to rent a room, and if I went home I'd have to explain to my wife how I got this way. She might even pretend that she doesn’t believe that I'm really me. I was hoping you could spare me a loan."

"You don’t look like a politician, but you sure think like one. I'll take you to my flop instead. At least you won’t be able to steal me blind; everything I ever owned has already been repossessed."

She stood up indignantly. "I'm not a thief! I'm a member of Congress!"

“You’ve got to stop feeding me these obvious straight lines, Sweetie.”

Then, all of a sudden, she started to shake.

"Say, don't take it so hard, lady. You'll be all right."

The girl sank down into her chair again. "It's not just that this whole business is so -- so horrifying. I feel so -- so –"

"Scared?"

"I was going to say horny! I keep feeling like I want to have sex? Am I going crazy?"

I eyed her carefully. The idea of taking this hot chick home really did sound like the best possible solution to her problem.

"You're not crazy," I told her. "You're a normal red-blooded American girl. What you need is a dark, quiet room where you can lay down, rest back, and spread your legs."

Pushing up out of my chair, I stepped around the desk, opened the door, and yelled for Sheila. She came over, looking put-upon, as usual.

"Sheila," I said, "I'm going to find this lady a place to stay. I should be back before closing time." Our gal Friday gave back one of those sweetly endearing 'couldn't-care-less' shrugs.

Then the black vision of loveliness said, "We should leave by the back way, Callahan, just in case I was followed. They're aliens and they probably have incredibly effective surveillance equipment."

"Maybe, but I think your equipment is even more incredible," I said.

At that, I took my hat and flogger off the rack. True, a mack was too hot to wear during this heat wave, but trench coats always looks damned good when carried sportingly over a manly shoulder.

I sighed. Street girls always had a way of complicating a man's life, but this one was certainly a temptation. I wondered if I should be taking risks just for the sake of a good time. On the other hand, the day hadn't started out so great and maybe this was fate's way of giving me the kind of a break that I really deserved.

 

 

 

THE BIG SWITCH by Christopher Leeson Chapter 1

 THE BIG SWITCH -- Chap. 1

By Christopher Leeson
 
AUTHOR’S NOTE:

First a word of explanation as to why I’m starting this story instead of continuing with the new chapter of The Twilight of the Gods.

It is not that I don’t want to continue; the opposite is the case. But I’ve found myself very cramped for time. I have to get a mainstream novel that I’ve written and have sold on the basis of the rough draft up to professional hard-copy standards by the start of next June. It is a historical novel with a lot of research needed and that makes for slow polishing, especially since it's my intention to give the text ten edits before sending it out. The first polishing, done when I was trying to juggle my monthly contributions to both The Full TG Show and Big Closet at the same time -- along with every other commitment I was carrying -- resulted on three months passing before I could edit the historical novel even once.

To make more time for myself, I have completely withdrawn from my regular postings at Big Closet for the time being. However, I didn’t want to entirely drop out of  making monthly contributions to The Full TG Show. But the work on Twilight each month has required at least four days to complete, and that is a lot of time to give away each month when I’m in such a rush.

So my next best option, as I see it, is to set aside Twilight temporarily and start an entirely different story, The Big Switch (and I think The Big Switch is one of my best, though some of my TFTGS readers might have seen older drafts of it elsewhere.) The draft of BS I'm doing now actually needs some additional polishing, but not nearly as much as a true rough draft would. The ongoing plan is now to put about a day of polishing in on Big Switch before putting up a chapter of Big Switch here at TFTGS each month. As usual, I will try to shoot for posting 8-12 edited pages per month.

When my novel work is done, I will want to get back to Twilight just as soon possible. I apologize, but it could be not that many will care about the change. In the several months that I have been posting Twilight so far, I haven’t gotten even one comment letting me know that anyone at out there is enjoying it. I hope that isn't true, but how can one tell, since there is not evidence to say that it isn't. If the situation changes, I am always open to persuasion.

And, hey, if anyone actually likes The Big Switch, let me know that, too. Support from readers always makes an author feel good about the work he is doing and it encourages him to do more.

So, now let’s get started on The Big Switch.


Chapter 1

The Narrative of D.C. Callahan

...I jumped over the bleeding stiff and dashed into the dining room. There I saw the French maid trying to get out through a French window, but didn't stop to think about that ironic detail.

I grabbed for her, but she dashed out of reach and tried to stuff something down under the lace of her uniform. "I see it, babe," I said. I cornered the gal and shoved my fingers down the V of her neckline. The fabric tore, but I kept digging under her petticoat until something fluttered out of it and down to the floor. I grabbed the oblong piece of paper.

When the maid tried to snatch it back, I slapped her across the face and pushed her into the corner. I held her there with one hand while I looked at what was written. It was a check made out to Miss Judit Hilmar and signed by 'Dirk Bracken.'

I knew the name; Bracken had been the real name of the comedy-star Dopey Sailor before his career got deep-sixed for sexual improprieties on screen and he'd come East a beaten man. The check was for five thousand smackers. 'Hell, if dusting pays that well,' I thought, 'I ought to change my line.' Anyway, Dopey wasn't even her employer; these palatial digs we were in belonged to a big shot politician named Mitch Turtleman -- who, by the way, must have been a lot older than the corpse in the foyer. In fact, he was probably a lot older than the foyer.

I said: "What's Bracken giving you all this moolah for?"

"It is mine! Mr. Sailor g-gave it to me last night," she stammered. Her accent sounded more Swedish than French.

I asked, "What did you have to do to get this much long bread from a creep like him?"

She didn’t want to answer; her shiny red lips had screwed down tight again. I'd have to channel my cave man fast if I was going to get anything out of this tough broad before the sun came up. So, I grabbed her shoulders and shook. That little white maid cap of hers became partially detached and hung at the side of her beautiful head by one hairpin.

I said: "Now look, Miss Judit Hilmar. If you don't want to get slapped till you're groggy, you'd better sing like a warbler. How would you like a good sock in the jaw for openers?"

"No – no!"

"Okay, then take the easy way out and make conversation. Why were you trying to sneak out through the window?"

“To get away from you!”

A likely story! I waited about two seconds for the babe to come clean, but she still wasn't unbuttoning. To let her know that I was a tough guy she shouldn't mess with, I ran my fingers over her shoulder, pretending that I was working myself up to punch the hell out of her. "It's dirty business to get mixed up with a pervert like Bracken," I said. "Or are you already involved?"

All of a sudden the Aryan cutie pressed herself up against me, throwing her slender arms around my neck.

I sighed. Dames are so predictable; they have all the same moves. The biggest weakness of the Weaker Sex is that they think that men aren’t able to keep their best part inside their pants. That kind of a mistake always makes it easy for a man to get what he wants out of a dame.

She said: "Please Mr. Detective -- I shall do anything you ask, if only you will keep me out of this! I am not afraid for myself. I -- I have a brother who is in this country illegally."

"Why illegally?"

She looked like she'd just bitten into a sour lemon. "It is hard for Europeans to get work permits in the U-S of A."

I unclenched my fist. That much was true; truth has a tranquilizing effect on me, so I backed off and let her babble on.

"If my name comes up, the police will question me and look into my family. They might find out about my brother and deport him. You do not know what life in Sweden is like!"

I doubted Stockholm could be worse than Washington, D.C. And I also doubted that an immigration service like ours would deport even a Typhoid Mary, much less a handsome Swedish boy. Even so, I pretended to sympathize. "I wouldn’t send a junkyard dog into a hellhole like Sweden, but the law is the law. The deal is this: If you help me crack this case, maybe I can do something for you."

Instead of continuing the begging act, she looked at me, funny-like. "If you do not force me to do things I do not want to," she said, "I can do for you things that I would very like to much to do."

"Tell me about it. I know what you foreign dolls have for sale. How about a free sample?"

Her hands were on me in two shakes; warm, soft curves were snuggling up against me. She was offering me a pair of luscious lips.

Well, nobody ever said that Nick Baxter wasn't human. I leaned down and gave her a load of osculation. I don't know what vintage she was, but the taste of her mouth started my blood racing so fast that entering it in the Kentucky Derby would have made me a cool million. . . .

#

I sat back from the CRT and reached for my cup of java. "Well, Martin, how does it sound to you?"

My partner Dewitt leaned forward and planted his elbows on his desktop. "That's a damned hot scene, D.C! Are you trying to give your readers a hard-on?"

"Yeah! So you like the story, right?"

He cocked his head to one side. "I like it fine, but don't you think it's kind of old-fashioned? Everything you write sounds like it comes out of the 1930's, but you're not doing period fiction. And like I've said before, not even tough guys talk that way anymore."

"I still talk that way!"

"Yeah, but you didn't grow up with Heather Has Two Mommies. You said you learned to read from reprints of Black Mask."

"Hmmp!" I grunted. That wasn't the kind of praise that an aspiring novelist wants to hear. Dewitt was only my junior partner, but since I'd asked for his opinion, I didn't have much choice but to take it on the jaw. "Okay, so I know a few words that have more than four letters in them. What about the plot? Does it grab you?"

"Is it realistic? You're a detective, D.C. Have you ever roughed up even one chick on a real job? I've never had to."

"Me neither," I admitted reluctantly, "not since I left Sears. But I might get lucky. I'm not forty yet, after all."

"And isn't it corny to bring a French maid into the plot?"

"She's Swedish."

"A Swedish French maid, then. My point still stands." Dewitt shook his head. "Tell any American woman who isn't already a hooker that she has to dress like a French maid and she'll be suing you for harassment. Besides, you can't get a white person to do housemaid work anymore, not for any kind of money."

"Not even if she's illegal? If her brother's illegal, maybe she is, too."

"I don't know about that. But Swedes go to decent schools and I can't imagine a smart Euro babe not being able to find something more lucrative. And the international businesses want to hire illegals, since they can give them lower wages than an American would work for. The politicians like illegals, too, because they keep Americans unemployed and in need of government handouts."

"Some women like dressing up as French maids," I argued. "Maybe she's kinky. I could make her really kinky."

His brows knitted. "That's going the cheap thrill route."

"What's wrong with cheap thrills, Martin? It's only escapism! Most of the schmucks who read P.I. novels probably think that every money bags has a bevy of cute little French maids chasing after his cigar butts!"

"Schmucks? Are you calling yourself a schmuck, D.C? You read more of that stuff than anybody I know."

"I've been called worse things than a schmuck," I said with a shrug.

"Like 'late with the rent'?'"

"Don't remind me," I grumbled.

Dewitt pushed himself to his feet and shuffled to the window air conditioner. "We might as well get some use out of this AC before the electric company shuts off our current. This heat wave is making me wish for winter."

"Me too; cold weather makes it more comfortable to wear my trench coat," I said, practicing my dry chuckle. “On the other hand, it's a lot of fun strolling around colleges campuses looking at the what the young ladies wearing to keep cool.”

"D.C., we can't go on like we have been without some real dough. All the other agencies are digging up dirt for the Administration. Maybe we should climb on board the gravy train, too."

"You mean sell out? Serve the Cause of Evil? Trade in our honor for a pot of mulligan?"

Martin shook his head. "I don't like getting my hands dirty either, but business bites and your stories aren't selling. If we don't get enough income to defray the outgo, we'll be coming to work one of these days and finding the front door padlocked."

To get him off this gloomy kick, I decided to try a mea culpa. "It's my fault. I ruined our reputation by being too honest. On the other hand, even if things go crash and we have to climb in through our office window, we'll still have our dignity."

"Dignity and two dollars will buy us one cup of coffee that we can share."

"Yeah, it’s true. You can’t even get coffee for a buck in Vegas ever since the good-guy gangsters moved out. With the crooked corporations running things now, a fellow goes broke before he can find the craps table.

Since we had no cases pending, I went back to pecking on my manuscript. I thought my opening paragraph was still too weak, and so performed an extemporaneous revision:

Pennsylvania Avenue runs from Rock Creek to the Anacostia River, through crack-infested 'hoods where even the flatfoots walk in pairs to stave off the Grim Reaper, and streetlights don’t work any better than the politicians do. After sunset, P.A. is a pitch-black cemetery full of prowling ghoul-shapes and skulking specters howling about Ukraine. Religious people say that God made Washington, D.C. to punish the sins of the world. But I think Hell burped it up when the devil was cleaning house and dumping the most mephitic sludge on the banks of the Potomac . . . .

The door creaked and our receptionist, Sheila Coffin, stepped in. She'd hardly ever bothered to knock and she didn't knock this time, either. That was funny, since I’d hired her because she had the best pair of knockers this side of Maryland. I was guessing that she had great gams, too, hidden under those skirts that never climbed above her knees.

Most gees go gaga over blondes, but for me it's always been brunettes with green eyes. That was another reason for hiring Sheila, instead of some middle-aged frump with nothing going for her except good secretarial skills. Oh, Sheila was a frump, too, but one can almost forgive frumpery if the girl has just turned nineteen and is built like a statue by Praxiteles.

As a human specimen, Sheila was great; it was as an office worker that she left a lot to be desired. Naturally she didn't care about the detective business, but what was harder to forgive was her total lack of fashion sense. In a microskirt, stilettos, fishnet hose, and a tight, fuzzy sweater she could have moved the Washington Monument with one bump and grind. Dressing for success could have gone a long way in making up for a multitude of office skills she didn't have. If Sheila had been keen on dressing the way a detective's secretary is supposed to dress, the firm would have been getting a lot more repeat business. The trouble was, that brainstorm was something that I couldn't suggest to a short-tempered third-wave feminist with the E.E.O's complaint number filed in her Rolodex.

"Yes, Miss Coffin?" I asked, trying to keep my glance above her tie-knot. In this demented town, lookism can send a man on a one way trip up the river.

"It's Ms Spielman again. She's –"

I knew exactly where Leigh Spielman was, since she had just stomped in our inner office like a she-buffalo. Leigh was another one of those hot-looking tessies. Unfortunately, they're the type that always looks at working stiffs like Martin and me as if we were the henchmen of Attila the Hun.

"Which one of you turned on that air conditioner?" Leigh Spielman demanded. That gray-eyed glare of hers was enough to turn a man's blood to ice water.

"Me!" admitted Dewitt, not sweating it. I've always admired the Pard's coolness in the face of danger or when squaring off with a geed-up dame. We don’t run into much danger, but geed-up dames are as common as mosquitoes down by the Potomac. In my book, Martin's steely nerves when faced by an angry female made him the kind of man I'd want to take with me into a dark alley.

"Listen, Dewitt," Spielman was saying, "I told you that your air conditioner scrambles my hard drive! Well, it's happened again."

"That's not possible, lady," I disagreed politely. "It doesn't hurt our hard drive, so how can it hurt yours?"

She wasn't listening. "I'll get a restraining order if I have to! I'll go for compensatory damages!"

"That won't help you, Ma'am," I said with a head-shake. "We're flat broke."

I smiled inwardly. That was the winning card in the P.I. game; with our rate of success we could thumb our noses at lawsuit threats.

"I already know that you two are bums, but I'll find some way to get back at you!" she warned.

Still trying to pour oil over troubled waters, I said, "Miss Spielman, you seem to be saying that Martin is scrambling your hard drive. If you stop and think about it, that could be the start of a beautiful relationship."

"Pigs!" she spat. "Are you going to turn off that air conditioner or not?"

"What's the point?" Martin piped up. "Your drive is already scrambled."

Leigh clenched her fists. "The gloves are off from now on, buster. One more incident like this and I'll make a career out of putting the pair of you out of business. Consider yourself on notice!"

Dewitt grinned wistfully. "One more utility bill and we'll be going out of business, anyway, neighbor. But I'll take the matter up with my partner at our next board meeting. Sheila, would you escort Ms Spielman through the front door?"

Sheila sent the intruder a sisterly smile. That was Sheila; she never got upset if someone dropped by to give her bosses a hard time. But Leigh ignored our secretary's heart-felt sympathy and stalked right past her.

Well, the new day had started out as a loser.

Unfortunately, the rest of this day was only going to get worse!

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 2

The Twilight of the Gods -- a story of Mantra, Chapter 9

 

The TWILIGHT OF THE GODS -- Chap. 9

A story of Mantra and Black September

 

By Aladdin and Christopher Leeson

 

You can easily judge the character of a man 

By how he treats those who can do nothing for him.

                                    By Johann Wolfgang von Goethe 

 

 

“Just what do you expect to accomplish by coming here?" Tark asked suddenly.

"I came find someone,” I said. “We have good reason to think that a very powerful ultra is soon going to make a stop here."

"So there’s a lot of this dimension jumping going on?"

"More than you'd guess."

"Are you working alone?"

I didn't want to tell “King Warstrike” too much and I especially didn’t want anyone looking for Gabriel. This wasn’t the Tark I knew and I still didn’t know if this version of him could be trusted. Tyrants are notoriously double-dealing, after all. "I'm helping a group from the Godwheel – a kind of race of super-scientific geniuses. They think that the woman we’re waiting for can help us, but she’s got to be handled carefully. Up to now she’s been a loose cannon. We need to convince her to join the team and cooperate.”

"I'll take your word for that. But now that you’ve seen what a mess we’re in here, I’d like to here about what’s going on in your America."

"Where I am, Brandon is president.”

“Brandon is still president?!” he exclaimed. “He was put out of office nine years ago, using the 25th Amendment. When the Deep State thought that their power structure was breaking down, they bombed Yellowstone.”

He next asked me for the date  that I came from and, when I told him, he shook his head. “Your world isn’t out of danger by a long shot! You can still get a Yellowstone of your own!”

“That’s a hideous thought. Now that I know about it, I’m going to do my best to head it off.”

There came a tapping at the door.

"It's open!" Warstrike yelled.

A uniformed man stepped over the threshold followed by a girl who wasn’t Evie.

"Daddy?" she said, looking at Warstrike.

"Shut the door behind you, Maverick," he told the guard. Then, to the brown-haired child, he said, “Come here, Jamie.”

So this was Jamie, the daughter of Warstrike and Mantra. She glanced at me without saying anything and then approached the king without fear, like a trusting child would approach her dad.

"This lady," the child said, "she's dressed like pictures of …"

“She’s your aunt Jennifer,” her father lied. “She’s your mother’s twin sister.”

It made me feel strange things looking at Mantra’s child. “I didn’t know that Mommy had a twin,” she said.

“Ah, yes she did,” Brandon answered. “Your mom and I thought Aunt Jennifer died years ago and so we thought telling you about her would only make you sad. Why don’t you give your auntie a nice big hug?”

As she turned and came toward me. I knelt to receive her at her own level. Jamie put out her arms and gave me a long, strong hug.

“Can I see what you look like without a mask?” Jamie asked, stepping back.

I obliged.

“You look just like Mommy! And you look like my sister Evie, too!”

“I never met your sister Evie,” I said, fibbing to fit the role that had been thrust upon me. “But Eden and I were so much alike that we could even fool our parents.”

What, I wondered, was my relationship to this child? If her mother was my temporal clone, our genetics would be the same. That would make me pretty much the twin sister to her mother – Jamie's aunt. I liked that idea; it made us close, but not so close as to create a messy relationship.

I regarded Warstrike. "Brandon, we have to talk about grownup things and Jamie shouldn’t have to listen to all that."

He nodded. "You’re probably right. Jamie, I'm going to have the guard take you back to your room."

"Can I tell Evie and Gus about Aunt Jennifer?" she asked.

Tark sent me a questioning look.

I said, "Small children shouldn’t be made to hold big secrets. They might swell up and go 'pop'! But, please, make me one small promise."

“What?” the girl asked.

“Don’t tell your brother and sister about me until this time tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“So I can have time to prepare a big surprise for them!” Actually, I was trying to avoid that meeting permanently. I knew that in one day’s time I’d be gone and the last remnant of this universe would be destroyed by the Nemesis Energy. Also, if the kids knew I was here, they’d come to call me a liar.  They would knew that Eden never had any sister, much less a twin sister.

Jamie laughed and said, “Okay!” Then her dad took her hand and led her to the door.

Once Tark and I were alone again, I said, "Your Mantra must have been a very different from me if she decided to marry you.”

“Why? Am I so bad a catch?”

“Hey, I’ve only been a woman for a couple of years. I don’t look at you as my type.”

"It was a forced decision. We had a baby on the way."

"Perfect," I said sarcastically.

He put his hand on my cloaked shoulder and this made me uneasy. "Those were terrible times,” he said. “Mantra and I became de facto leaders of a lot of frightened people – probably because we both had military experience with a knack for putting things into order. But it was lonely leading such a traumatized bunch. They needed to draw confidence from us. We had to shut everybody out emotionally so that no one would pick up on the fact that their leaders were feeling just about as messed up as was everybody else. We didn't have anyone to turn to for support, except each other."

"I get the picture," I said, not wanting to talk about such an uncomfortable subject.

"We all lost so much when Mantra died. The whole city, I mean. Nothing seemed to go right after that."

"I’m just glad that Mantra wasn’t to blame for the state that this city has fallen into! But just keep in mind that she and I were two absolutely different people."

"How different are you?" he asked.

"Well, I’m the version doesn’t want to get into bed with you. No offense, but that's not where my head is at. But I’ve been friends with my home version of Brandon Tark from the second we met.” Well, actually from the second time we me. The first time we met he’d dueled and killed me, having been told I was a terrorist.

“Mantra and I started out as very good friends, too,” Tark replied.

“I’m glad to hear that.”

He suddenly changed the subject. "Jamie isn’t good at keeping secrets. I hope she can manage it this time. But what will you say to the kids if they suddenly show up wanting to meet you?"

"I hope I can avoid that. I have a crucial job to concentrate on. If I fail, it’s going to be so bad. It will be like the whole Big Bang never happened."

"You come from the Dark Ages. Since when did a half-Polish Visigothic barbarian like Lukasz Theordoricson start believing in the Big Bang?"

“In the Twentieth Century, actually."

He seemed to scoff at that. "I used to buy into what they taught in school, too. But since then I’ve learned to think for myself.”

“Do you mean you’ve gotten religious?

“Okay, skip the subject,” Warstrike said. “But is it possible for you to go back and stop the Yellowstone thing?”

“If you’re asking if I could change the way your life turned out, that wouldn’t work.”

“How can you prevent the death of the Multiverse, if you can’t even stop one volcano?”

“The science is hard to grasp; this is how it was explained to me: Changing past events doesn’t change what’s already happened. When the past is meddled with, a new timeline is created at the instant that events are changed. But you in this world would not see anything happen. You’d still be stuck where you are. Your time-clones would experience a different life, but you and your people wouldn’t.”

He scowled. "That sucks. Well, by now I’m used to bad news. But what about that woman you’re looking for? Have I heard of her, or does she come from outer space?"

"Your counterpart in my world knows all about her. She’s called Amber Hunt."

"Whoa! Amber Hunt? That’s the nut case who almost cauterized the entire planet using gamma radiation. How can you depend on someone like that to save this Multiverse thing you believe in?”

"All I can say is that I’m working with people who think she’s salvageable. I found out that she used to be a simple college kid before she got ultra powers in a convoluted turn of events. It knocked her silly and she after that she went out of control doing horrible things."

“Is it smart to trust her? A mad dog isn’t responsible for its own sickness either, but it still has to be put down,” he said.

Then his expression changed.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"I saw her in the skies over Los Angeles. She was glowing. Is it possible that a child might describe Amber Hunt as a 'Flaming Woman'?"

"I suppose she could. Why?"

"My daughter keeps dreaming about somebody that she calls the Flaming Woman."

My brow furrowed. "Tell me more."

"Lately, Jamie’s been saying things that make me think she’s inherited my power of precognition."

"If she can predict the arrival of a 'Flaming Woman,' why haven’t you?”

“You know how quirky my power can be. Or is your Tark different?"

"No, he’s not different."

Warstrike shrugged. "Anyway, Jamie has been dreaming that a Flaming Woman will come and do away with me away."

"That’s pretty specific. Why would Amber Hunt want to take you out?"

"I don't know. Did she have any relationship with Brandon Tark back where you come from?"

"None at all, not as far as I know."

“If she’s real, maybe I should kill her before she kills me."

I shook my head. "No, don’t think that way! If the Flaming Woman is Amber Hunt, we need her. Otherwise, the whole universe is going to be lost. She’s the only one we know of who has the power to stand up to a goddess of destruction called Nemesis. They’re destined to fight, but when they fight in the near future, she won’t be able to make a quick kill of it. She’ll beat Nemesis, but too late to save the Multiverse. We've got to capture Hunt and give her information how to destroy Nemesis more effectively.”

“And you know all this because you’ve seen it while time-traveling?”

“Yes! I’ve actually seen that final battle. If it plays out the way I saw it, we’re all doomed.”

"You’re asking me to just let things happen? I've only survived this long because I’ve been taking out my enemies the instant they’ve appear."

"Look at it this way. Now that you’ve been warned in advance, you can keep clear of her. My friends and I want to take her away as quickly as we can."

Tark clenched his teeth. "Don’t you know of anything that could help us here in this situation?"

"I wish I did. I don’t see how I can fix what’s wrong with this city in only a few hours. Have you offered the opposition peace terms – along with an offer to relinquish your authority?”

“If I did that, even my own people would turn against me. I think you’ve lived long enough to know what happens to most fallen kings.”

"Oh, yes. I understand where you’re coming from.”

“Listen, I'll make you a deal,” Tark said.

"What kind of deal?"

"I'll let everyone know about the Flaming Woman and explain that she has to be left to you and your allies, harmed. In return, I want you use what time you have to negotiate with the rebels so we don’t have to have any more killing."

“What do I tell them?”

“I don’t know. But if you feel like it, see what you can do.”

I thought I could like this guy, even after his reign of terror, but if that was true, I didn’t have time enough to find out.

"I’ll do what I can, but I don’t understand this situation the way your own Mantra used to. I’m a newbie here."

“What do you need to know?”

“I think I should first talk things over with the scientist guys,” I said. “But we've been skipping around what I think is the crucial question.”

"What question?"

"Am I a prisoner here, or what? If you want me to talk to your enemies, you’ll have to give me freedom of movement."

"I see your point," he said forlornly. "Do what you can do and help whoever you think you can help. I’m all out of ideas. I feel like Colonel Travis at the Alamo.”

"If I have to wing it, all I can promise is that I’ll do my damnest to be an honest broker. But I’ll can’t let anything get into the way of finding Amber Hunt."

“Just keep this in mind: If I’m taken out and shot, what’s going to happen to the kids?”

Oh, that was a low blow. Was I responsible for Jamie, or for every version of Gus and Evie in the Multiverse? Trying to bring peace to this place would take time I didn’t have.

“Like I said, I’ll do the best I can. What’s next?”

"You're free. Do you want a detail of bodyguards to go along with the white flag?"

I thought about that. "First –"

Another tapping at the door interrupted me. I tried to read the bio-signature of the person outside and it turned out to be a familiar one. A very familiar one. A shiver ran through me.

Warstrike went to the door, peered through the security slot, and lifted the latch.

The door opened upon a dark-haired girl in her middle teens.

It was Evie Blake.

#

She set her glance on me. Jamie had been right; her big sister was, in fact, the image of Eden Blake at her age, as I could attest from old photographs I’d seen. It was the same as seeing my second-grade daughter as a nearly-grown woman.

It registered on me that she wasn’t too shabbily dressed and she didn’t look underfed. I felt like asking how well Tark had been treating her and her brother. That bit of business shouldn’t have mattered to me, since I was a stranger from another reality, but it did.

But behind Evie an excited Jamie was standing. Tark had been right. His daughter was not good at keeping secrets.

"Jamie – Evie, come in," Warstrike said. He took Jamie’s hand as she came into the room. "Sweetie," he said, "did you dream about the Flaming Woman again since last time?"

She nodded. "Yes, Daddy. I was going to tell you about it, but I got excited when I met Auntie Jennifer."

"Mantra has told us that she also thinks that she knows about the Flaming Woman, too. We have to know as much about her as possible before she arrives."

The little girl veered my way. "Mantra, is the Flaming Woman coming to hurt us?"

I drew in a deep breath. "I believe she's coming, but I’m not sure if she wants to hurt anybody. I hope she’s a good person because I want to meet her and see if she’ll give us some help."

Jamie frowned. "How can she help us? She's bad, isn't she?"

I tried to smile. "I don't think she wants to be bad. I’m guessing that she’s just very mixed up about things. I need to talk some sense into her so she can help us save a lot of innocent people."

"Do you mean Daddy and our friends?"

"Yes, and other good people, too."

"You’re not any aunt of mine!" Evie suddenly declared.

I glanced her way. From her expression, I could see that young Miss Blake was not going to accept the same balderdash that I’d fed to her much younger sister. But the truth was so crazy that I didn’t know she could ever be convinced of it.

CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 10

 

Postcript note:

This is Christopher. We have to suspend the chapter by chapter publication of the novel "The Twilight of the Gods" temporarily. I'm engaged in preparing a different novel for publication (mainstream and hard copy) and it has to be ready to send to the publisher in less than six months time. It is a historical novel that requires researching, and research takes a lot of time. Moreover, I "sold" it to a publisher on the basis of the rough draft. And turning a rough draft into a publishable book take many edits. My usual goal is to edit a piece 10 times before I call it "professional." Just to get one polishing done took 3 months, with all the other commitments to my time. I have to free up more time for editing, a lot more time.

Starting in December I will be posting (instead of Twilight) the installments of a detective story called "The Big Switch." Copies of the stories early draft exist, but I have been polishing off and on for the last couple years and the current quality of the text is very high. Oh, it can use a little more polish, but I think I can prepare a postable copy of BS in about one day of work from now on, instead of four. 

I hope no one will be extremely disappointed, but Big Switch is a great story and, anyway, as soon as possible I will be resuming the posting of Aladdin's wonderful story, "The  Twilight of the Gods."

By the way, something is wrong with Blogger's comment text box. It will not accept my cursor. That is why I am putting this post script at the end of this chapter, instead of in the comment box, where it should more appropriately be placed. I hope the blog master reports this to Blogger, if he hasn't already.

 

 

 

The Twilight of the Gods -- a story of Mantra, Chapter 8

The TWILIGHT OF THE GODS -- Chap. 8

A story of Mantra and Black September

 

By Aladdin and Christopher Leeson

 

Posted 10-07-2022 

 

KING WARSTRIKE

 

He is happiest, be he king or peasant,
Who finds peace in his own home.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Tark ordered a pair of militiamen carry me into the armory. I was taken into a large room and deposited on a couch. As far as rooms went, the one I was in wasn’t all that shabby, though its furnishing looked well-used and very eclectic.

“King” Warstrike, trying to look regal and magnificent, studied me momentarily. "I would have given my soul for Mantra to come back,” he said, “but if your disguise is meant to mock me, beware, woman."

Still suffering from the mind-blast’s effects, I tried to focus better.  "T-This is what I look like normally,” I said. “I’ve g-got a long story to tell you – sir.  But I’d like to tell you first, before you let anybody else hear about it."

"Majesty," a guard spoke up, "don’t listen to her. She must be an assassin."

"I bet he says that to all the girls,” I said to Warstrike.

"You sound so much like Mantra it's uncanny," said the big man in Spandex.

“I’m ready to tell you why that is when you are.”  

It looked like Warstrike wasn’t listening. In fact, he was giving out a thousand mile stare. I’d seen that look before.

Tark suddenly sharpened up again and glanced to the people around him. “I’ve just had a vision,” the king replied.  “She means no one any harm."

"Are you so sure about that, my Handsome One?" some out of sight female.

I recognized that voice. What a time to be caught by her all tied up!

"Queen Necromantra," said Warstrike irritably.  "Save the pet names for when we’re alone."

Queen Necromantra?  

This setup just kept getting worse and worse!

The lackeys made way for the queen, so called, all except Warstrike himself, who she stepped around as if he were a stone pillar. My worst enemy now had her eyes fixed on me.

"Well, now," she said.  You do really do make a convincing Mantra.  Highness, why would anyone want to provoke you by dressing that way?"

"Help her stand up," said the king to his guardsmen and about a dozen clumsy hands groped at me.  Boys will be boys.   

"Who are you, really?" Warstrike asked.

I took a deep breath.  "For that small question I have a big answer. We have some very sensitive information to discuss – Your Majesty," I added.

His arms crossed, he continued to regard me.  This situation had a lot of potential for going south. So far, this version of Warstrike was coming off as a bad egg.

"This impostor certainly can’t be Mantra, so who is she?" Necromantra asked.

“His Majesty” was still looking squinted eyeballs at me.

"Follow me into the next room," he said.  "The rest of you, remain in here with the queen."

What was he thinking about? If he thought I was an impostor, why would he be agreeing to a private audience? Had is change of attitude come out of the psychic vision he’d just had?

The ersatz monarch advanced through a doorway of heavy oak, allowing me to trail along on unsteady legs. That was kind of ungallant of him. Though I wasn’t at my peak, I had soundness of mind enough to keep the corner of my eye on Necromantra behind me. In all fairness, however, Thanasi hadn’t shown herself/himself to be a back-shooter – at least not yet.

"Shut the door behind you," Tark said.  

I complied without taking my glance off him. I was ready to dodge or fight if need be.

With a mirthless grin, Warstrike said, "You move like Eden Blake, I'll give you that."

"That's easy to explain.  I am Eden Blake – or the Lukasz edition of her.  I really am Mantra, but I’m not the version of her that you're familiar with."

His stare became a glower.  "What do you mean?"

"Can I sit down? That Neuronne really packs a wallop. Don’t get angry because this sounds silly, but the big secret is that I'm a visitor from an alternate dimension. The Brandon Tark I know from home was a fan of science fiction, so maybe you’ll have a grasp of what I’m talking about. Remember that old TV series, Sliders? The real universe is a lot like that"  

“You’re serious?”

I shrugged.  "As serious as I can be. I’m just doing what I always do. I'm on a mission to save the universe. Anything short of that and I’d rather be at home with the kids."

“Do you mean Evie and Gus?

“Yes I do.” I was afraid that he was going to say that they were dead in this would, but instead he went off in another direction.

"I can’t get over how even your intonation is the same as hers.”

“Well, yeah, your Mantra and I probably have a lot in common.

“Give me the whole story,” he said. “I’ll either end up believing you or killing you.” Then he added, “I hope it’s the former.”

#

So I gave him my spiel, the Cliff Notes version of the whole strange multiverse story.  “Any questions?” I asked.

“How do you like our city?” he asked.

I shook my head. “It’s a mess. Gabriel said that that it got this way because of a volcano. Is that right?”

He blinked. “Do you have to ask? Didn’t Yellowstone go up on your world, too?”

“No, it didn’t.” I said. “I take it that you’re saying that the Yellowstone super volcano finally blew its cork and wrecked Los Angeles?”

“It sure did, and the rest of the world along with it. But that’s only a small part of what we’re up against here.”

That was certainly true, even without him knowing about Doomsday being just a day away.

“You’re king here,” I said. “Congratulations. Does that meant that the USA doesn’t have a central government anymore?”

“The US? Definitely not. We don’t know a lot about the rest of the world, not much more about the rest of the country, but everything we hear from outside is bad.”

“Was there any warning of the blow beforehand?”

“No. And it wasn’t a natural eruption. The Deep State pulled off an insurrection and took over the federal government. They went absolutely crazy making the changes they wanted. It must have been a lot like living in Nazi Germany with real lunatics in charge. The people as a whole kept getting angrier angrier and when the Cabal realized that power was slipping through their fingers, they decided to kill everyone on this continent and seize some piece of land abroad to rule instead.”

 I wondered if he was talking about the same Deep State that we had at home. “Who were the bad guys?”

“Billionaires, trillionaires, the international banks – along with the FBI, who helped them along every step of the way. And the whole shebang was in league with China. It was the CCP that gave them the nuke they needed to make Yellowstone blow its cork."

“What happened then?”

“Look around you. That’s what happened.”

“How have things been going since then?”

“They’ve been going from bad to worse. I’ve been trying my best to keep our head above water – or volcanic ash, if you prefer -- but the people just won’t pull together. About half of our remaining survivors have gone into revolt.”

“How many Americans survived away from here?”

“I can’t say. Anyone who breathes in volcanic ash is going go die. Almost every food crop fails because of the volcanic winter. Starvation is everywhere, except where the population has already died off.   From what we’ve found out, the Southern Hemisphere is a little better off, but things down there aren’t good either. Most of our local survivors tried to go south, but they found out that illegal immigration only works one way. I don’t think many refugees survived the cordons of armed gangs and troops.”

“Yeeck! That sounds grim.”

"It's been the survival of the fittest ever since the eruption, and the ultras have proved out to be the fittest. No surprise there. But people have broken under the pressure. There’s been so little cooperation. About half of the ultras over gone over to the rebel side. In fact, the clique of ultras is leading it.”

“What are people rebelling for?”

“I don’t think they’ve thought very far past the idea of getting rid of me and my people. When they finally have to do something productive, they’re probably end up turning against each other.”

“When did the volcano blow?” I asked.

“About nine years ago. But that’s not even the craziest thing that’s hit us.”

“What what can be worse?”

“Every star in the sky has gone out, except our own Sol.”

At any other time I would have done a double-take. But I knew from Gabriel that the Time Gem was only able to protect a limited area. Everything beyond that limit would have been hit by the Nemesis Energy – and meant being banished into nothingness.

“Whatever’s caused it, we can’t do anything about a fix. Just fighting for our lives here on the ground is taking all our attention.”

I didn’t want to make him flip out by telling him what I knew, so I changed the subject. “Your people kept calling me an impostor. That makes me wonder. Is the Mantra who should be living here…dead?”

He looked away. “Yes. Since about five years ago.”

“The rebels killed her?”

“No. Back then we were regularly being hit by armed bands roaming around the hinterland looking for plunder – for things like food and clean water. Most were just half-crazy bums and easy to kill, but a few gangs were led by a hard-core military deserters that had some heavy weapons and the know-how to use them. The day came when Prime and Mantra took our main defense force out to drive off the latest attack. According to survivors, the raiders had some surprises ready for them. Mantra, Prime, and some of our best didn’t get back.”

“And when did Necromantra show up?” I asked pointedly.

“It was a few weeks after Mantra died.”

“That doesn’t smell right, Brandon. I wouldn’t be surprised she’d been the leader of those raiders all along and used her death-magic to wipe out your people. You know how much she hated Mantra!

He nodded.  "Some of our people thought the same thing. If even one scrap of legitimate proof had come up, I would have killed her myself.”

“I’m only surprised she didn’t kill you long ago and take over. I’m even more surprised that you actually married her! How can you sleep easy with a psycho like that around?”

"It’s hard to explain. Things got unstable after Mantra died. I needed a heavy hitter on my team and so she and I cut a deal. Anyway, none of us are the same people that we used to be – not even Necromantra.”

“The only way she could ever change would be if she got worse.”

“I’ve got no illusions about Marinna, but she’s damned smart and knows that can’t take on everyone else at the same time. She supports my faction to keep herself safe. Without me, even my loyalists would turn on her. Also, if she eliminates all her enemies, she’ll be standing in a dead city all alone. Marinna's the type who likes to grandstand for an audience, and she needs people around for that purpose.”

“How did you end up marrying her, for Pete’s sake? Didn’t your version of Mantra didn’t tell you what kind of creature she really is?”

“Oh sure, you – Mantra – told me,” Warstrike replied. “But after you and I got married and made it work, Necromantra’s weirdness didn’t seem so huge anymore.”

“What? Mantra and you got married?”

“Why are you surprised? Didn’t you and your version of Brandon get married, too?”

“No! But I think this world of yours exists about ten years in my future. Back home, Evie is only seven years old and Gus is eleven.”

His face changed. “Hell! Are you able to time-travel?”

“Not me, but I have a friend who has the super-tech he needs to let us break the time barrier.”

“That’s something I’d like to see.”

“Well, be nice to me and everything can be on the table.”

Anyway,” he continued, “up until Eden died, us L.A. survivors managed to pull together. Mantra had a way of getting people to work together better than I ever could. But when I was forced to substitute Necromantra, the people got more divided.”

I felt sorry for everybody, but I was holding back the secret knowledge that this universe was going to be terminating in less than twenty-hours and there would be no fixing that. I didn’t dare get tangled up in a catastrophe of this magnitude. My job was an entirely different one and if Warstrike could be brought around to help me pull it off, great. If he became part of the problem, I would have to do something drastic. In short, I would have to behave like the old Lukasz would behave when his back was against the wall.

“Brandon,” I asked, “what happened to Gus and Evie?”

“They’re well."

That was a load off my mind. “That’s great!” I said. But something warned me not to ask more about them. I had to carry out Gabriel’s plan, not get involved with local problems. In just one day, all those problems would be at an end anyhow – end in the most terrible way.

I needed another change of subject. “This place is an armed camp,” I said. “What, exactly, is the cause of this civil war? It’s got to be more than just Necromantra acting like her obnoxiousness self"

“It is. For one thing, trying to govern ultras is like trying to herd cats. Early on, we tried to get along by doing things in the Greek democracy way, but it didn't work. Nobody was really in their right minds anymore. There were too many factions. One faction decided to build a coalition by uniting a lot of the groups against me. In retaliation, my side dropped the idea of acting like George Washington and started ruling like Caesar. That starting a shooting war. Everybody got involved in it and the killing was unbelievable. That created a lot of hatred.”

“Was all this shooting Necromantra’s idea?”

“No, Mantra was still alive and she stood behind me. Would you have done anything different?”

That was a loaded question. Would he blow up like many another absolute dictator had done in the past if he heard something he didn’t want to?

Not wanting to get onto the king's enemies list, I said, “I don’t know. Maybe if I’d lived through everything that she experienced I would have done the same thing. But I’m an outsider here and I don't want to get involved in any of this business. But can you explain to me why all the your people whom I’ve met so far are ex-villains? At least I hope they’re ex-villains."

The big man grimaced. “I wish it could be different, but I've had to accept the support that I find. Does it surprise you that selfish people tend to be the easiest sort to work with? You know, thieves hang together. It’s the idealistic types that go bonkers first. They keep insisting that things have to be done just the way they used to be done, but those ideas just don’t work anymore. Wasn't that was what the old Roman Civil War was all about, too? Caesar realized that he was killing his friends and old allies, but he couldn’t stop to think about that. All he knew was that those who were standing in the way of the goal had to be brushed aside."

"What exactly is your goal here?”

“The key to survival has always been producing enough food to feed everyone.”

Well, at least that objective didn’t sound too crazy. “Are you offering to feed even your enemies?”

He drew a hiss of air between his teeth. “That’s a tricky question. For a long time there isn't going to be enough food to go around. We have no choice but to reward only the ones who are falling in with the over-all plan.”

Oh, great! The other side was starving to death! No wonder this dispute was being seen as a war to the knife by them. “How is the plan working out?”

“Not well. But here’s the deal; the opposition has made me the Big Bad and they refuse do anything to cooperate.”

I was feeling a chill. Back in early January, the Tark of my world had had a sudden vision that had driven him half out of his mind. He had seen a world just like this one, even to the detail of seeing himself as the king of a ruined city. Had he been in psychic contact with this same world here, or was he instead seeing into his own future on my world? Did that mean that what happened in this universe was fated to happen in my own universe world, too? Gabriel had pooh-poohed that idea, but I wasn't so sure

That was another major reason that I had to go back home and make sure it this didn't happen there. Damn that Deep State! I felt like killing everyone of those degenerate psychotics with my own two hands!

As for this city, the hate here was so strong that I couldn't imagine any way to straighten it out. All I had to go on was my memory of the Brandon Tark of my world. And, to be honest, I’d never thought of Brandon Tark as an especially good leader. He had courage and ability, and he had the smarts to make himself a billionaire. But he’d done that by means of his precognitive powers, knowing in advance what stock trades and asset purchases to make. 

In his twenties, he’d been a special service soldier, and a good one, but his personality had always grated on his superiors and he hadn’t risen above a junior officer’s grade. I also knew him personally as a good friend, but I had seen what a rambunctious loose canon he could be, and that would drive me crazy.

But what did I know? Maybe in a crazy situation you needed to act like a crazy man. From my POV, this Tark had made some very big mistakes. Taking power by means of an armed coup has never been the best way to make friends and influence people. I was especially disappointed that this world's Mantra had ended up going in with the Caesar idea, too. I could only suppose that the horror of this place had changed her like it had changed everyone else.

After all, she’d agreed to become Mrs. Brandon Tark, hadn't she? 

“Would you like to see Gus and Evie?" Brandon suddenly asked.

I swallowed hard. “I won’t be able to stay long here. In fact, I can’t remain for very long at all. Do you really want to introduce the kids to someone whom they’ll think of as their mother, only to have her leave them again so soon? And seeing them suffering in this sad place is going to slam me just as hard, and I can’t afford that. I have to stay focused on my mission. And if I haven’t already made it clear, that mission is aimed at keeping every alternate dimension from being annihilated, including my own home universe.”

He sighed. “What you told me sounded nuts, but what do I know? Do what you have to do, Eden. But I think that meeting you would be the best thing for the Blake kids. They never had a chance to say goodbye to their mom before she died in battle. They never got the closure they needed."

Even if I agreed with what he was saying, it would all be pointless. No matter how deep the woe of everyone on this planet, everyone's problems would be over very soon. But that was one piece of information that I didn’t want to share -- not unless the success of my mission absolutely depended on my spilling the beans.

Tark’s expression suddenly changed. “Hey, I was just thinking. If you never married your own version of me in your home timeline, does that mean that Jamie was never born?”

I looked askance. “I don’t follow. On my world, Jamie was your daughter by your first wife. She was killed by gangsters making a hit on you. I hope that didn’t happen on this world, too?”

He winced and I was very sorry. I’d torn open an old wound.

“Ohhhh, yes, that happened,” he sighed, “but when our Jamie was born, it was you who suggested giving her the name of the child that I’d loved and lost.”

My mouth dropped open. “Are you saying that Mantra and you had a daughter?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I like I said, that must not have happened yet in your reality.”

“It sure as hell hasn’t happened!” I said.

I couldn't get that idea out of my mind. Eden and Brandon had had a daughter!

Oh, brother!


TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 9

The Twilight of the Gods -- a story of Mantra, Chapter 7

 

 The TWILIGHT OF THE GODS -- Chap. 7

A story of Mantra and Black September

 

By Aladdin and Christopher Leeson

 

Posted 9-07-2022

Revised 10-07-22

 

THE IMPOSTOR

 

The way you see people is the way you treat them,

And the way you treat them is what they become.

 
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe 

 
"Shouldn't we be deciding how we’re going to subdue Amber Hunt whenever she drops in?" I asked.

"I’m preparing for that.”

"Another thing: how in the hell are we going to handle her? After all, she’s a powerhouse who's able to go toe to toe with Nemesis herself!"

“Granted. Do you have anything to suggest in that regard?”

“No. I was just hoping that you did.”

“I’ve reviewing options. By the way, we’ve already used up a quarter hour of the time we have left to work with,” he said.

“So why didn’t you put us into attenuated time so we can settle down and have a conversation once in a while?"

“Because this entire universe already exists in attenuated time. The Time Gem has done more to modify time here than I could ever do.”

“Then why didn’t we go father back in time at the outset?”

“Waste not, want not, as they say. I calculated that the allotted time will be sufficient.”

“I just hope you’re right."

I was less confident than I had been before that Gabriel knew what he was doing. But in truth, I didn’t know how I could better him in this crazy environment of modified time. I certainly didn't know how to go toe to toe with Amber Hunt. A year and a half before, in the skies above L.A., she had stood out dozens of ultras, myself included. To switch off her planet-destroying attack some of us had to fly to the moon and shut down her source of power there.

“Before we commit ourselves to any definite plan,” the Timekeeper said, “we need to know more about this reality. Living minds are wildcards. Our sensors can’t get into people’s thoughts and motivations. To get  that kind of intelligence, we need to put boots on the ground.”

“I suppose you're talking about my boots. I was beginning to think that your sensors could pull off just about anything.”

“They can do much, but not everything.”

“I've been wondering. Is the Time Gem operating on its own, or is someone is controlling it."

“I believe it’s being controlled, but only the way that it wants to be controlled. The Infinity Gems will actually seek out controllers and manipulate them to attain their own ends because what they are able do independently is very limited.  Or, at least that was before they connected with the Ego Gem, which is the operating program for the united array. But as for who the present controller may be, your scouting may solve that mystery.”

“Oh, sure, put it all on my shoulders!" I said. Then, taking another gander outside, I saw that the view hadn’t improved on whit since my last look. "I’d feel safer out there if I were carrying a heavy gauge machine gun.”

"This locality has had more than its share of violence, Eden. Among your many admirable talents is a flare for diplomacy. A clever mind can move mountains. I’ll remain here and try to coordinate our resources; what goes on outside is is rightly a warrior's business.”

"So, I’m a warrior who has to make a charm offensive? The faith you’re putting in my versatility is touching,” I remarked.

I really was feeling sarcastic just then but, in all fairness, I didn’t want Gabriel going out like and exposing himself to danger. If something went amiss, I could never get home without him. Also, he thought he knew how to save the Multiverse, and I sure as hell didn't.

"But what happens if I’m killed?” I asked. “Would you be able to replace me using some Timeline clone of me?"

“In better circumstances, I wouldn’t be risking your safety at all. I’d the clone do the dangerous work. But this is very unusual terrain. This universe exists in an unprecedented time-paradox, and so that option isn’t available. As matters stand, everything depends on you. So, make every second count and take good care of yourself!”

I shrugged. "Okay. I guess I've gone into worse places than the one outside.” Turning to leave, I suddenly realized that I couldn’t’ see the hatch to the exterior. "Did the exit door disappear," I asked.

In a blink, a hatch materialized, probably at the Timekeeper’s mental command. I flashed into my Mantra gear before leaving the Time Sphere – to shore up my chances for survival, not because I like showing off a lot of skin.

The little man called after me, "We'll be able to stay in communication through our nano-technological link. I might even be able to intervene usefully if…if something goes awry."

"Thanks," I said, but only to be polite.

I took the short leap to the ground and then turned to take in an exterior view of the Time Sphere. Amazing. To anyone inside it, the thing didn’t look spherical at all. But aesthetics aside, I had a job to do. The subject of  “trans-dimensional physics" had to wait.

Volcanic ash crunched under my boots. I didn’t like this environment, but this wasn’t the first time that I'd had to stride across ash beds. I'd explored whole cities well dusted by volcanic fallout. To be perfectly honest, there wasn’t much that I hadn’t done over the last fifteen hundred years -- except successfully heal a broken heart.

Before leaving the vicinity, I magically scanned the area, making sure that there were no hidden surprises. I picked up traces of human lifeforms, confirming that the city wasn’t quite dead. But while some of the buildings checked out for being inhabited, the sparsity of the life overall made clear that the great majority of ruined L.A. had been abandoned.

"Eden – Mantra…" said a voice inside my head.

"Gabriel? I can see that you weren't kidding about the two of us mentally communicating."

"No indeed. I wanted to clarify a few points. At the time of our arrival, we were approximately six years, nine months, four days, and fourteen hours ahead of Zero Point time as per the Main Bough when you joined me. You will find this universe to be a very close replica of your own.”

“This place?”

“It's true. Events here hadn’t departed significantly from the flow of events known to you prior to the super volcano’s eruption."

"My God! Does that mean that we're seeing Earth's own feature -- that my home planet is going to suffer the same catastrophe?"

"The odds are strongly – though not astronomically – against that possibility. But, for better or ill, be prepared to meet with persons whom you will know on sight. You may even encounter a time-clone of yourself.”

“Been there, done that,” I said. “By your data, though, this would be the month of June. For June, it’s kind of chilly."

"The world climate was changed the super volcano. It will be decades before the climate returns to normal.”

“Yeah. I was there for the 536 A.D. volcanic winter. The weather didn't get right until the 550’s.”

“That was mild disruption in comparison to this one. The destruction has been much worse farther east. Due to the prevailing winds, the bulk of the ash was carried in that direction. The ash here in Los Angeles actually arrived after it circled the globe eastward -- crossing Eurasia and the Pacific Ocean.”

“The world missed getting Global Warming, I guess. But while I’m looking things over, please do something useful toward saving the universe. I mean, the ‘Multiverse.’"

"I shall do my very best."

"That’s what I want to hear.”

I was beginning to like the little fellow, even as my confidence in his genius slipped. Was this a man who could come up with a plan for capturing what had to be one of the most powerful ultras in the universe?

Resuming my walk, the worry came to mind that a version of Gus and Evie might have been born into this awful place. Maybe they had already died, along with most of the world’s population. But I didn't want to go looking for them. Out of sight, out of mind. I might find them suffering in terrible circumstances and I couldn’t stand to have my heart sliced and diced again. Sure, I had some impressive ultra powers, but I'm no match for a world of trouble. I’d be an emotional wreck if I had to hold myself responsible for every clone of the Blake family that existed across the Multiverse. I had a critical mission and I could be blamed for the extinction of all life unless I stayed focused on it.

I sensed human auras lurking in the wreckage ahead. Rather get bushwhacked on the ground, I took to the air wrapped in a protective force field. In a devastated area with few resources, people would be desperate. There was probably starvation in L.A. and – maybe – even cannibalism. Some hungry marksman might even decide that I’d make a tastier meal than his usual diet of rats and cockroaches.

From aloft, I saw that the city was even more of a wreck than my first impression. The least damaged building on my flight pattern was the L.A. armory building. It mimicked the look of a medieval bastion, and that served to remind me of a world that was better than this one. Truly, there truly was a lot to be said for the Middle Ages. Alas, this city existing on life support had not a thing to make me nostalgic.

There were pendants with unfamiliar symbols flapping over the military installation and I wondered whether a local strongman was ruling the ruins. The armory would have been a good place for a pirate king to set up shop. As bad as he might be, he could be the only force of order the people had. It would be a miracle had any trace of the United States government survived. Maybe some military units could have kept things together in their own locations, but as for politicians and bureaucrats – never!

#

Gazing earthward, I spotted a squad of thuggish guys and decided to set down and say hello. Parleying with armed strangers is a high-risk operation, so I maintained my force field while making my approach.

"Hello," I said from a little way off. "I'm a visitor from out of town. I'd like to see the – the local boss."

A shaggy-haired individual, the squad’s leader probably, raised a hunting rifle. "Stay where you are, impostor!" he shouted.

My forehead crinkled. Mantra has been called a lot of different things, but not an impostor until now.

Why had he said that? Was it possible that there was a local Mantra whom he knew of? Why would these men so quickly guess that I wasn’t her? Was their Mantra’s cape so tattered by now that it had obvious dog-hide patches on it?  

"I don't like people pointing guns at me." I told him. "Who' s your commander?"

"Watch out; she may be an ultra," the sergeant-type alerted his teammates. “If she's got half the power of the real Mantra, we'll need plenty of backup. Connect with His Majesty’s master-at-arms."

Accordingly, one raised a walky-talky and started jabbering into it. Oftentimes, old tech is best; I could be pretty sure that none of the world’s cell towers would still be functioning.

I didn't overhear much of the conversation, except that the guard repeated the name Mantra. I hoped he was talking to Mantra on the other end. It would probably be easier for me to reach some sort of rapport with a clone of my own rather than win over anyone else. Though talking to oneself is usually a bad sign, on this occasion I was very much looking forward to it.

"If you guys don't like me, I can go elsewhere," I called out. Then I sent a mental communique to Gabriel. "Are you getting this, Partner?"

"Yes, Eden. Please seek to secure needed intelligence from this fortuitous meeting with authority."

"I don’t have very high expectations about these ‘authorities,’” I said. “If this armory doesn't house an out and out bandit gang, it’ll probably hold the local Fearless Leader. Petty dictators can be the hardest people in the world to do business with. I mean, they’re very long in the nasty and dumb department."

"Proceed at your own recognizance, Eden. This is no doubt a situation that is very familiar to you."

“It is,” I agreed. “But it’s also the sort of situation that’s gotten me killed a good many times. Remember, this cat is on his last life.”

To the squad leader I said, “Is everything okay or do you want me to beat it?”

"Stay where you are or we'll open fire," the sergeant clarified.

"I wouldn’t want that to happen," I replied, projecting my brightest smile.

Just then a man-mountain came stomping out of the armory building. Deja vu! I  remembered this guy’s mug shot from one of Aladdin's persons-of-interest files. He was a minor ultra who possessed a major power and went by the name of Rubble. The man was a powerhouse, capable of beating a forty-story building into – well, rubble.

"Is your name Rubble?” I asked. “You're very famous. Do you command around here, or do you report to someone else?"

The ultra gave me back a scowl.

"Watch out; she may be an ultra," the squad sergeant informed him.

“Get His Majesty on line,” Rubble directed them.

Majesty? Did some local gang leader have visions of grandeur? Well, I might as well try the dope. Talking to these yard dogs wasn’t going to get me anywhere.  

And at that instant everything went black.

#

I woke up with a pounding headache. Had I been hit? If so, with what? – and why hadn’t my force field stopped it?

“She’s already waking up. I should have hit her harder," said a woman.

My sight clearing, I made out a female type a dusty wear-worn costume – one whom I recognized as a cut-and-dried villain. Villainess, I mean. It was Neuronne – a member of TNTNT – an ultra outlaw gang.

According to her Aladdin file, the maid of mayhem could sling a mental whammy. If feeling extra nasty, she could really scramble a person's thinking power. Dumb me! The appearance of Rubble had only been a distraction. While I was looking his way, Neuronne had crept up to back-shoot me using a mental attack. I usually don’t add psionic attack filters to my standard shield because it’s such a hassle. Also, the squad confronting me hadn’t looked like it could muster enough brain power to make a good a match for a hamster.

So, by one little act of carelessness, I'd been knocked down and tied up. Being at the mercy of criminals wasn’t a good spot to be in, so I immediately tried to contact Gabriel. Unfortunately, I got back only silence. Had Neuronne’s attack upset the link we’d established?

If that was the case, I was on my own.

"Back off!” barked someone coming up behind me. “I want to interrogate to her personally."

“Yes, sir, King Warstrike," replied Rubble.

Had I heard him say, King Warstrike?

I  blinked away the remaining fuzz from my eyes and saw a looming shape dressed in red and blue spandex.

"B-Brandon?" I muttered.

"The spy is being offensively familiar, my liege," said someone in the squad. “Should I strike her?"

"I’ll hit her myself, if I have to," Tark rumbled.

This was loopy. Back home, my friend Brandon Tark had been a billionaire. Was this version of him really a petty king running a mostly-dead city? If that was the case, I wasn’t sure that the job change was any sort of rise in status.

I could only hope that this clown was enough like the man I knew to have a good opinion of Mantra.

If I could convince him that I really was a bona-fide Mantra.

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 8