Space Team: Return of the Dead Guy Page 5

  This, though - this, right here – this was the weirdest shizz by far.

  Well, maybe neck and neck with Dorothy out of the Golden Girls kicking a space bear, but still pretty fonking out there.

  “You probably have questions,” said Young Cal.

  “You know, I kinda do,” Cal said, nodding slowly. “I’ll be honest, it’s quite a big list and… Oh, you’re me, too. Of course you are.”

  While Cal had been speaking, the old man had pulled down his hood to reveal a face that looked like Cal, but also – somewhat depressingly – like Cal’s father, albeit with flaps of skin either side of his neck that closely resembled gills. The man smiled, showing off his three remaining teeth. Even so, Cal knew that smile. It was one of his genuine ones, which he took to be a reassuring sign.

  The little guy was next to push his hood back. The first thing to be revealed was a beard. The second thing to be revealed was more beard. In fact, the guy was mostly beard. Sixty per cent of his face was covered by a reddish-brown explosion of facial hair that grew down, obviously, but also sideways and upwards until it almost reached his eyes.

  While the beard was the big attention grabber, special mention had to go to the guy’s eyebrows. They had clearly taken their lead from the beard, and were boldly going where no eyebrows had gone before. Color-wise, they matched the beard. Style-wise, they looked like he’d just smeared a lot of glue across his forehead, then been dragged across a barber’s floor. Or, to put it another way, style-wise, they also matched the beard.

  He either wore a very tightly-fitting metal cap, or the top of his head was metal. Cal wasn’t sure which, and felt he probably didn’t know the guy well enough yet to ask.

  He asked anyway.

  “Is that a hat?”

  The eyebrows met in the middle. This was more epic than it sounds. “Is what a hat?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Cal. That answered that, then.

  Despite the hair, the size and the metal skull piece, there was still something oddly Cal-like about the little guy. Yes, he reminded Cal of a dwarf from The Lord of the Rings, or a garden gnome who’d got lost for a few months in long grass, but there was something about the eyes that struck Cal as impossibly familiar.

  “I’m Carver Nine,” said the young man. He jabbed a thumb towards his companions, starting with the old guy. “That’s Carver Twenty-Seven, and Eighty-Three.”

  “So…” Cal began, but he had no idea what the next word was going to be, so he stopped there. He turned slowly on the spot, taking in the watching faces. They looked friendly enough, but then they all had variations of his face, so maybe he was projecting that onto them.

  “So,” Cal said again, having settled on his next few words in advance this time. “I’m no expert on, you know, anything, but it appears – and correct me if I’m wrong here – they’re all me. You’re all me.”

  Carver Nine nodded and grinned. “Or I could say that you’re all me. Or we’re all Carver Eighty-Three.”

  “Ma backside,” said the dwarf. “I’m no’ takin’ the blame fur you shower o’ fannies.”

  Cal blinked a few times in Eight-Three’s direction, trying to process what he’d said. He got around two-thirds of it, which he reckoned was probably enough.

  “Is this a clone thing? Are you all clones?” Cal asked. His eyes widened. “Am I a clone?” He prodded himself in the face a few times. It wasn’t exactly the most scientific of tests, but it seemed to satisfy him, nonetheless. “I don’t feel like a clone.”

  “Don’t worry, you’re not a clone,” said the old man. “Nor are Nine, Eighty-Three, or any of the rest of us.”

  “What’s with the numbers?” Cal asked. “Don’t you guys have names?”

  Nine’s grin broadened. He thrust out a hand. “Cal Carver, at your service.”

  The dwarf placed a fist at the side of his head in some sort of salute. “Aye. Cal Carver.”

  “And me,” said Twenty-Seven, his eyes twinkling. “You can probably see why the numbers come in handy.”

  He slipped his robe from his shoulders, revealing a white polo shirt, cream-colored slacks and, to Cal’s horror, a pair of brown sandals with gray socks below. The old man tapped a skinny finger against a badge on his chest. It was a rectangular plastic thing, and reminded Cal of the name badges he’d worn at his very first after-school job when he was a kid.

  Across the top of the badge, the words: ‘Hi! My name is…’ were printed in a jolly red typeface. Below that was a piece of clear vinyl with a rectangle of white card beneath. On the card, the numbers ‘27’ had been scrawled in shaky handwriting.

  “And, in answer to your question, yes, you have a number,” said Carver Nine. “And no, you’re not number one.”

  Cal frowned. “How did you know I was going to ask that?”

  “Because we all ask that,” said Nine.

  “Enough of this!”

  The voice that had spoken boomed around the circular room, startling a few of the closest Carvers. A broad-shouldered man wearing a robe and a dented armor chest plate stood up. He had a beard, but nothing like the bush sprouting from Eighty-Three’s face. It was neatly trimmed and dark, but peppered with flecks of white and gray. He held a long wooden staff, which he banged on the floor, calling the room to order.

  Cal shot Nine a sideways glance. “Is that Number One?”

  Carver Nine shook his head. “He’s our big Number Two,” he whispered, then all four Carvers standing together in the center of the room smirked.

  “Yes, yes, shut up,” said Carver Two, sighing as if he’d been through this too many times before to find even the faintest glimmer of amusement in any of it. Which, in fairness to him, he probably had. “Carver Prime will not be amused by your time-wasting. Ikumordo approaches.”

  “The whosy-whatnow?” asked Cal.

  Carver Two gestured to a fairly standard-issue Cal lookalike standing in a little booth. This new Cal tapped a few controls and a shimmering lightshow was projected into the air above the theater stage where Cal stood.

  “Hey, I’ve seen that,” said Cal, gesturing up to the shapeless orange mass throbbing and pulsating rhythmically overhead. “That’s the big weird space thing.”

  “It is Ikumordo,” explained Carver Two. “The cosmic traveler, scourge of the multi-verse.”

  “Like I said, big weird space thing,” said Cal. “What does it do? I’m guessing by your use of the word ‘scourge’ it’s nothing nice?”

  Carver Two nodded, just once. “Ikumordo is the devourer of worlds.”

  “You mean like Galactus?” said Cal. When no one took him up on it, he clarified. “You know, big guy, purple hat. In the comics?”

  Cal looked around him, but saw mostly only confusion. “Come on, you’re all me, and I’m the only one who’s read a comic? The X-Men beat him, I think.”

  “Fantastic Four,” corrected Carver Nine. “But not many of us will get the reference. We’re all from very different places.”

  Cal glanced down at Carver Eighty-Three, then around at some of the other less Cal-like members of the audience. “Yeah, I’m getting that.”

  “Ikumordo is the ‘All Death,’” said Carver Two. “For countless millennia, it has traversed the cosmos, turning planets once teeming with life into cold, dead husks.”

  “Like my first wife!” said a voice from the crowd. Two Cal-a-likes exchanged a high-five somewhere near the back of the audience. Carver Two looked briefly irritated, but chose to ignore it.

  “And what?” said Cal. “Now it’s coming to Earth?”

  “Not just your Earth. All Earths,” said Twenty-Seven who, despite having his number clearly displayed on his badge, Cal was coming to think of as Old Man Carver. It just seemed to suit him. Probably on account of him being an old man. Named Carver.

  “Twenty-Seven speaks the truth,” said Two. “It is not just your world which is in danger, it is all our worlds.”

  Cal held up a hand like a school student trying to get
their teacher’s attention. “Uh, I have a question.”

  “You may proceed,” said Two.

  “Thanks,” said Cal, lowering his hand again. “OK, so I guess my question is: ‘Huh?’”

  Two rolled his eyes, just a little, then gestured to the Cal in the booth again. The weird space thing vanished, and was replaced by an image of the Earth. Or… was it the Earth? The continents looked ever so slightly different, although Cal couldn’t have said exactly how. Bigger, maybe? Or smaller? Or a different shape? He was confident it was one of those.

  “Earth,” said Carver Two. “But not your Earth. This is the home of Carver Prime, who was the first to bring us together.”

  “And that’s where, exactly?” asked Cal.

  “It’s in the same place as yours, orbiting its yellow sun, part of your solar system,” said Two.

  “Then why hasn’t anyone noticed it?” Cal asked. He looked around. “Or is that a stupid question?”

  “There’s no such thing as a stupid question,” said Old Man Carver.

  “But iffin there wis, then aye, at’d be een,” said Eighty-Three through his beard.

  Cal tried translating that, but gave up somewhere around the second word. Above him, the hologram of Earth grew smaller as the image zoomed out, whooshing past other planets, then stars, then galaxies, until the whole thing became just a shiny ball floating in a black void. It was a sort of semi-transparent silver, and looked quite a lot like a bubble.

  “Carver Prime’s universe,” said Two. Another bubble appeared beside the first one, touching it. “And this is another universe, similar in many ways, but also subtly different.”

  “It’s a bit further to the left, for one thing,” said Cal. “So… what? There are two universes?”

  For the first time since he’d stood up, Carver Two smiled. It wasn’t much of a smile – barely a twitching of the corners of the mouth – but it was a smile all the same. He clicked his fingers and bubbles began to appear in the air all around the theater. There were dozens of them at first, then hundreds, then too many to count.

  They appeared apparently at random, and yet as more popped up and more gaps were filled in, they formed a uniform structure, each bubble touching six others. Soon, the whole top half of the room was a solid block of interconnected little spheres, each the size of a golf ball.

  “So you’re telling me… what?” said Cal. “That all those bubbles are different universes?”

  Carver Two nodded. “Yes. Although, in reality, it isn’t as neat and tidy as this. Each one intersects with all the others at the same time.”

  Cal stared at the spheres, trying to work out what that would look like. Fortunately, the other Carvers had already thought of that. The regimented block of bubbles became a swirling vortex of shapes that weren’t shapes, colors that shouldn’t exist, and a general nebulous weirdness that made Cal’s eyes ache and his brain begin to fold in on itself in protest.

  He was midway through throwing up in his mouth when the formless horror of it all snapped back into neat rows again, and he successfully swallowed everything back down.

  “Cool,” he said in a soft, scratchy sort of whisper. He cleared his throat. “And that’s where you guys are all from? Parallel universes? Different dimensions, or whatever? You’re all alternate reality versions of me? Of, you know, each other?”

  “That is correct,” said Carver Two. “The Carver Council is primarily made up of Cal Carvers from across the multi-verse. Carver Prime brought us together, that we might attempt to halt the progress of Ikumordo before it reaches the Earths.”

  “And there’s an Ikumordo, or whatever, in all the different dimensions?”

  “Not quite,” said Carver Nine. “This is where it gets complicated.”

  “Where it gets complicated?” Cal snorted. “What are you saying? This has been the straightforward bit up until now? Jesus.”

  Before anyone could reply, an alarm sounded. It was a scary alarm, Cal thought. It wasn’t an alarm designed to be ignored, but to instill the maximum amount of panic in those hearing it as quickly as possible.

  Sure enough, every member of the Carver Council leaped to their feet at the same time. “Oh Shizz,” groaned Old Man Carver. “Breach.”

  “Och, naw! This isnae guid,” gibbered Eighty-Three.

  “This way!” yelped Carver Nine, grabbing Cal by the arm and pulling him towards the room’s single door as a tidal wave of other Cals swept past. The crowd pushed them on, shouting and bellowing, and almost driving Cal and Nine apart. The younger man tightened his grip, though, and they both tumbled out through the door together.

  The place they emerged into had a distinctly unfinished feel to it. The ground was black with green lines laid out in a neat grid, almost like a computer simulation. The sky above was blue, but completely cloudless. It was also lacking anything resembling a sun, yet the whole place was bathed in light.

  No, not the whole place. Half a mile or so off on the right, the blue was tearing apart, revealing a jagged wedge of darkness beyond. Black blobs were seeping through, like drops of ink spreading in water. As Cal watched, they stretched out, becoming tendrils that crept across the sky.

  Carver Two was somewhere behind, barking commands with a level of authority Cal knew he himself could never achieve without the aid of a megaphone, a number of henchmen, and a big gun. The commands themselves meant nothing to Cal, though – something about ‘Void rigs’ and ‘matter dispersal’ and protecting Carver Prime.

  “What the fonk is going on?” Cal asked, shouting to make himself heard over all the panic. Most of the other Cals had spotted the sky hole, and were running in the opposite direction. A few of the bigger and stronger ones hesitated, as if considering standing their ground, then decided against it and fled with the others.

  “Is that Ikumordo?” Cal asked.

  Carver Nine shoved him in the same direction as the others were running. “No, it’s a void breach. We’re in a blister universe here, and it’s about to go ‘pop!’”

  “And that’s bad?” said Cal. He glanced around at his terrified alternates. “I’m guessing that’s bad.”

  “Only if we’re still here when it does,” said Nine. He pointed ahead to a low, wide building with several doors. Carvers were flooding into it in their dozens. “There are dimension gates through there. They’ll take us out of here.”

  “Where will we go?” Cal asked, sprinting flat-out now as the darkness spread like a cancer across the sky behind them.

  “Somewhere that isn’t here,” said Nine.

  “Good enough.”

  They slowed at the doors as they joined one of the streams of Carvers all pushing their way inside. They were almost through when Cal heard Nine call out.

  “Shizz. Twenty-Seven’s down. Go through, we’ll follow.”

  “What? Wait,” said Cal, but Nine was already running back the way they had come. Looking past him, Cal could see Old Man Carver on the ground, struggling to get back to his feet. The dwarf-like Eighty-Three was doing his best to help, but his size made getting leverage on the older Cal difficult.

  Cal groaned. “Argh! Why do I always have to be so fonking noble?” he muttered, then he raced after Nine and caught up just in time to help heave Twenty-Seven to his feet.

  “Take him through,” Nine instructed. Most of the Carvers had passed now, but a few stragglers remained. Like Twenty-Seven, they looked older than the others, and less steady on their feet.

  Cal and Eighty-Three half led, half carried Old Man Carver towards the low building. Only a few stragglers were trickling through its open doors now, and Cal could see a crisp white glow emanating from within. It proved a stark contrast to the murky black chasm that had now swallowed half the sky, and was making a start on the ground.

  “Sorry, I’m sorry,” wheezed the old man.

  “Dinnae fash yersel’,” said Eighty-Three. The words meant nothing to Cal, but there was a softness in his voice that suggested they were friendly. “
Hup, noo, and wull git ye eenside.”

  Cal looked back over this shoulder, and blinked in a blast of ice-cold air. Carver Nine was struggling with a green-skinned alien-looking Carver, whose slow, unsteady movements betrayed his great age.

  “Uh, Beardy Cal. Sorry, not great with numbers. Get Old Man Carver inside,” Cal instructed. “I’m going to go help—”

  What was left of the sky vanished with a thunderous ker-ack, leaving nothing in its place. It was absolute darkness, and yet, at the same time, more colors than Cal had ever seen. It held nothing, but suggested all things – every shape, ever contour, every shadow, every thing that had ever been, or ever would be. It was every consequence of every action ever taken, and in that moment, Cal understood his place in the universe, and how wholly, utterly, completely inconsequential he was.

  A sound like the roaring of a vacuum cleaner rolled towards him. He saw the far side of the theatre stretch out and become something that was both like spaghetti and the exact opposite of spaghetti at the same time. He felt the ground rumble as it, too, was devoured by the rainbow of black.

  “Look out!” Cal cried – hopelessly, pointlessly – as he saw Nine and the green-skinned geriatric stumble.

  Cal’s eyes met those of Carver Nine, and he saw fear at what was to come, and sorrow for a life not-yet-lived. Cal saw himself reflected in those wide, terrified pools. In more ways than one.

  And then the void had both Nine and the other Carver, and Cal could only watch as their bodies became putty, then string, then nothing but memories.

  A hand clamped down on his shoulder. Cal turned to find Carver Two standing there, his face red, his armor heaving as he gasped for breath. “There’s nothing you can do for them now,” said Two. “You must come with me. The fate of the multi-verse depends on it.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  After passing through another white doorway, Cal stepped into a place very different from the one he’d left. A wide, uneven field stood before him, stretching out until it met sharply-rising mountains a few miles away in every direction.

  The ground beneath his feet was a mix of dry mud and a thick gray grass with jagged edges, and gave off a generally inhospitable sort of vibe. The sky was a uniform shade of cream, like no one had taken the time to color it in yet, and as cloudless as the one they’d left behind.