IGMS Issue 32 Read online

  After we'd lived together for a while, we bought our own planet. It was a parallel Earth where everyone had conveniently died out, leaving lots of empty houses behind. We moved into a ruined version of York. It looked like a nice little project, restoring the town. York has a long history, and we wanted to restore parts of it to different time periods, from the Romans to the present day.

  The plumbing in a Roman toilet is a lot more sophisticated than you might think. Proper flushing! In case you're wondering, they wiped their arse with a sponge on a stick. You know how we sometimes have absent-minded "out of paper" moments? I guess they only ever made that mistake once -- jabbing up with the stick and discovering they'd forgotten the sponge . . .

  We wanted a Roman quarter, and a Viking quarter, and York Minster of course, and some picturesque mansions for nineteenth-century costume drama parties . . . Veronica and I were in love, and we had big plans.

  Unfortunately, the plans were too big for me. I didn't have the expertise to rebuild everything from Roman forts to Georgian villas. Not to mention installing electricity and a sewage system; fixing up the old petrol-driven cars; sorting out horses and carriages; finding the correct historical clothes to wear . . . It was never-ending.

  "Just use your alts," said Veronica. "You must have alts who know all that stuff."

  Of course I did. That's what alternity means -- everything must exist. When I was seven years old, and I looked at a cow and said, "That's horrible and dirty and smelly," there was another version of me who said, "Yes! When I grow up I want to stick my hand in a cow's rear end!" That's how farmers are made, and car mechanics and fashion historians and all the rest.

  I could call in my alts, get them to help out. But what would they want in return? All I had was a beautiful girlfriend . . .

  And so I entered the treacherous realm of the timeshare relationship. I shared Veronica with all my alts who helped build our home. At first I was worried what she might think, but it turned out she liked it. That was why she'd suggested it. She wanted the best versions of me, the ones with useful skills, the experts in their fields. She didn't want the mediocre versions she met in the early days.

  She didn't want me.

  One, two, three, Aahhh . . .

  To be fair, she also brought some of her own clade over. She had alts who specialised in gardening and landscape design. They made some wonderful gardens, with super-rare flowers imported from other worlds: blue roses, red crocuses, ultraviolet tulips, and Heaven knows what else. The details went over my head -- I had to consult a few more of my alts, so they could feed me the right words whenever I told Veronica what a great job she was doing. "Yes darling, I really admire the . . . er, calendulas . . . sorry, campanulas . . . sorry, tarantulas . . ."

  And because she had such a strong spiritual side, she brought lots of alts to perform various rituals and cleansings. I would be working hard on something or other, and Veronica would stand nearby, reciting a prayer to bless my work. I appreciated the company, but she did seem to have the easier part of our common endeavour. Or so I thought, until she told me that actually, she was doing the difficult bit. She had to propitiate the native spirits. Remember, we'd moved into an Earth where all the locals had died. She worried that their ghosts were still hanging around. She thought their restless spirits might be resentful of the way we'd arrived and started holding parties in their cemetery -- after all, the whole world was their graveyard. Veronica said that if we had children, she didn't want their souls possessed by the avenging spirits of the long-gone natives. I'm not sure how you'd check that on an ultrasound scan: "Here's your unborn baby -- look at his delicate little fingers, his cute little toes, his demonic little eyes full of ancient wrath . . ."

  But when she explained all this to me, I mostly heard the word "children." She was already planning our future family! Yeah, we were in love, and we were happy, and everything was perfect -- apart from one thing.

  The problem? Supply and demand. Veronica was beautiful, rich, sociable, great to hang around with. I was . . . well . . . me. Perhaps you can see the difficulty. Whenever we spent time together, there were more of my alts than hers wanting a place on the rota. It was a lottery, like playing a fruit machine to find out your schedule. You'd hope to see three hearts for a passport to passion. More likely you'd get three turds: your turn to clean the toilets.

  It led to squabbling among my alts -- even some fights. I know Veronica enjoyed watching those. It turned her on, seeing how the alpha male emerged. I could tell from watching the bedroom tapes afterward. I had to watch the tapes; I never got any action myself. The night-time slots were the hardest to win, the biggest prize on the rota. And Veronica wanted the best version of me for everything, which included the best at making love . . .

  I had to import even more alts to sort it all out: a performance-measurement specialist to calculate the scores, and a schedule monitor to make sure no-one fiddled the rota, and a mediator to resolve disputes, and a muscle squad to quell the agitators. And an expert complainer to whine about the whole system!

  They were all my alternate selves, and they all had a purpose, but what about me? I was the one who'd first moved in with Veronica, yet I was demoted to doing the washing-up. My alts were having sex with my girlfriend, and the closest I got to that bed was changing the dirty sheets on laundry days.

  I wasn't enough of a specialist. When she had a project, she wanted an expert. When she was lost, she wanted a map-reader. When she was feeling down, she wanted Mister Empathy. Whatever the situation, she wanted the right guy to deal with it -- and it was never me.

  Eventually, it became so frustrating that I walked out. It wasn't that Veronica dumped me: she probably didn't even notice. I just faded from her life, while my own alts replaced me.

  You know when you're about to go on a date, and you're nervous, and your friend says, "Don't worry -- just be yourself?" Well, it turns out that I sucked at being myself. There were better applicants -- versions of me who'd studied, worked hard, acquired expertise, all that crap.

  Bastards. Yeah, I've split up from my girlfriend because we're seeing other people . . . but the other guys she's seeing are myself!

  I could have walked away, started again, and tried to forget Veronica. But I loved her! I didn't want it to end like that. I decided that the whole thing was my fault for not being worthy of her. How could I blame her for wanting the best version of me? I wanted to become worthy, like a knight going on a perilous quest to prove himself and bring back a trophy for his queen. To win her back, I would have to become good at something.

  What could I do? It's all very well to be good at something unglamorous like plumbing the toilets or fending off the Blight -- that's not expertise you can show off in company. You never find your girlfriend coming down to the sewage plant and saying, "I really admire the way you've got all the turds to float in neat little rows." If you're good at a job like that, you end up spending forty hours a week alone with the shit, all for the hope of getting a one-hour reward slot at the end of the month . . . when she's probably asleep anyway.

  No, it's better to be good at something that makes your girlfriend want to spend time with you. Like what? I wondered whether to try becoming an expert on sex, or even Cuddles and Snuggling, but there's a lot of competition in that area. Instead I thought, "What do women always say they look for in a man? They want a guy with a good sense of humour."

  And so I became a comedian. That's why I'm here. Like a battle-scarred knight questing through dank, dismal swamps full of hideous ravening beasts, I have arrived here in Manchester . . . in search of a magical potion, a tonic for the soul, the proverbial best medicine.

  My goal is simply to do well enough that I can get back with Veronica. I need you lovely folks to help me, if you can find enough goodwill in your grey shrivelled hearts. All you have to do is laugh.

  Yeah, I know, it helps if I tell some jokes. I've been writing material, and I've borrowed a few lines from my alts. Still, it's
hard work. When you try to be efficient about anything, there's always a version of you who wants to make a spreadsheet -- turn it into numbers, record the laughs, maximise the ratings . . . And here he is, lurking in the corner. Please welcome my official performance measurer. A big hand for the man with the stats. Remember, he's counting the claps!

  Well, if you want to be the best at something, it has to be quantified somehow.

  I'll hone my routine, optimise my act. I might even come up with a catchphrase. I'll certainly use the funniest jokes -- just as soon as I've figured out which those are.

  Bear with me while I roll a few dice. This is a list of jokes collected from my clade. Drum roll, please! We have joke number . . . 54. So, here it is from the list -- please show your appreciation accordingly. This is for science, ladies and gentlemen. We're building the perfect comedic machine.

  "What do you call a homeopath with tuppence? A millionaire."

  Ba-boom. Thank you very much. Smile, you're on tape!

  After the show, one of my stats nerds will visit all the universes where the dice landed differently, and compare the laughter for every joke on the list. The highest scoring lines will go into my act. I won't even need to think: there'll be a voice in my ear -- my voice -- saying, "Do the one about the peanuts." Yeah, I look forward to being turned into ComicDroid.

  But it's all in a good cause. When I'm officially a funny guy -- when I have the spreadsheets to prove it -- then I'll have expertise. I'll be in demand. Yeah, Veronica will be desperate to take me back. Whenever she needs cheering up, whenever she needs a laugh, she'll summon up the most amusing version of me. And that'll be yours truly . . . as soon as I've perfected my act.

  Of course, you can't just measure one-liners in isolation. What about context, the way a routine builds -- or fails to build? That joke about the homeopath: it would work better as part of a whole riff on alternative medicine. Something like -- I'm improvising here -- "Homeopathy is old-fashioned, now that we've got so many more universes full of different bullshit to choose from. Alternative medicine demands the aura of the exotic. The latest fads used to come from the mysterious east, or the heart of the jungle. Now they're all from parallel worlds full of goddess-worshipping druids who are, like, 'totally in touch with nature, man.' Mystic herbs never come from the scraggy patch in the corner of your garden. Nobody ever claims to rebalance your chakras with something that grows behind the shed, next to the compost heap."

  Well, you get the idea. It's covered -- we're also measuring the entire show. All possible versions!

  And what if I fall flat on my arse? What if you folks don't laugh? No pressure, obviously . . . but you might want to hear what happens if you don't laugh hard enough. It annoys my alternate selves, the senior comedians who don't want some mediocre jokester tarnishing our brand name. They don't care about Veronica; they have their own relationships. But they believe in quality control. If they decide I'm not up to scratch, first they send me a warning. I wake up with a clown's head in my bed. After that, if I keep doing gigs, they send a hit man. Someone comes up to me after a show, congratulates me, shakes my hand. Bzzz! He's got one of those comedy buzzers turned up to hyper-voltage, and he electrocutes me. Or I admire the flower in his buttonhole, and it squirts acid at me. Or he lures me into a dark corner, and drops an anvil on my head.

  If that doesn't work, they send a whole squad, in one of those tiny cars with huge wheels. It's the clown car from the circus. And they all pile out of the car, dozens of them, an infinite number of them, all my alternate selves who think they can improve the clade by purging the weakest links. They storm the hall and shoot me down.

  It gives a whole new meaning to "dying on stage."

  Can you hear anything? Is that a car pulling up outside? Or maybe they're already here. I see some familiar faces in the audience . . . Oh please, no -- not the custard pies. Nooooooo!

  Ah, never mind. What am I saying: that I think my alternate selves are coming to get me because I'm not funny enough? That's classic insecurity, that is. I'm so insecure, you could use me as a government database. Do I really think my own alts would kill me? They're me: is there a murderer in my heart?

  Everyone has a dark side. All the times you had a nasty impulse and suppressed it -- every time you wanted to say something spiteful, but swallowed it -- there's a version of you who said that, who did that. He's your evil goatee-wearing double.

  But if I worry about evil alts coming to get me, then I'm assuming that I'm the good guy. Like I said earlier, everyone thinks they're the authentic self. It's all relative, though. I'm sure there's another version of me, someone who does something important and worthwhile -- charity work while raising abandoned kittens -- who thinks I'm the shadow side. "Oh no, there's a version of me who does nothing but bray inanities to drunkards in seedy clubs!"

  Perhaps the whole notion of competing with my own alts, and trying to be the best, is itself somewhat sinister . . .

  Yeah, maybe I'm the dark self whose soul needs rescuing. Of course, I've already had that message. I'm sure we've all had it -- the alt who gets religion and wants to convert the whole clade. He knocks on your door and says, "Have you found Jesus?"

  I don't want to find Jesus -- I want to find Veronica. I'm convinced that if I keep working hard and improving myself, then eventually I'll be worthy of her. And she'll find me.

  I believe in love. Do you? Let's hear you! One, two, three, Aahhh . . .

  Thanks for coming, folks. You've been a great audience, all of you -- even those who aren't me.

  Are you out there, Veronica? Veronica, my love?

  Well, maybe next time. I'm here all week.

  Try the veal.

  The War of Peace - Part 2

  by Trina Marie Phillips

  Artwork by M. Wayne Miller

  * * *

  Continued from issue 31

  Ardam watched the town from atop the ridge. There was not a two-leg to be seen outside of their rigid structures. The warm morning would turn into a blazing hot day. That they were not making use of prime working time was foolish, but then, maybe the heat did not affect their simple bodies so greatly.

  All thirty children were lined up behind him. Each carried a pack or pushed a cart laden with food, seed and supplies. Kaliff's Family even offered up a share of their finest farming tools. She said they would make more during the breeding season; Ardam knew it would take more than one season to replace what she gave.

  This was the first time he had acted without the Family's general approval. It saddened him not to have their faith. They stood back from him now, anxious ruffles wafting through the group as they watched their children prepare. Ardam had spoken with the young ones and told them what to do. It was a good generation; they would not react in fear. He would win the two-legs over with kindness. Ardam looked back. Beyond the Family stood rows of Nemek warriors lean and ready at his call. If kindness didn't work . . .

  With a huff and a whistle, Ardam started the descent. The trail of children chittered in excitement. If they were truly training he would have insisted on silence, but they were too young for that. Besides, he was counting on them being children to win over the two-legs. It was best to let them act naturally.

  When they were partway down the hill, the two-legs emerged from their structures. They spread out, forming a rough line across the front of the town, a little ways back from the tiled edge. It was not dissimilar to the line Ardam's Family had created a few days before; except he saw that only adults were present. Once again, Mayor Toumani Shaw stood out front, flanked by his two advisors.

  Ardam did not hesitate in his approach. He stepped up to the Mayor and extended his hand. "Hello, my friend."

  Toumani Shaw took his hand. Ardam noticed that the cloth around his arm was smaller and clean, and the swelling had diminished significantly. He was glad the Barter had not had lasting ill effects.

  "Hello, my friend. What is all this?" He bared his teeth in that gesture that Ardam had fi
gured out was something good and not the danger his gut told him it was.

  The children fanned out but stayed behind Ardam, awaiting his signal. "I thought you should meet last year's seedlings. These are the strongest, the ones that survived. They were born here." He stopped before he made any accusations. Let the Mayor derive his own meaning.

  "I feel like I am one step behind you, Ardam. First I come to you with my staff and you bring me your Family. Then I bring you my Family and you bring me your children."

  "We also bring an offer of assistance." Ardam whistled and the children stepped forward. They approached the two-leg adults slowly. Those with packs extended them in their arms, and those with carts pushed forward. They spread out along the line, each choosing one subject to bestow their gift upon.

  Ardam hadn't known the two-legs would come out like this but his instructions to get close to them were being carried out beautifully. The adult two legs did not recoil in fear like when he entered the meeting hall. They took the packages and even allowed exchanges of touch. A combination of two-leg murmurs and young Cranther chatter ran throughout the crowd.

  Ardam continued. "You said that your resources would not allow you to move your town. We offer the supplies you need and will make guides available to help you find a new home."

  The Mayor's mouth hung open but Ardam did not know what that meant. The fur-faced advisor spoke first.