Call Me Ishmael

Chapter 29

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My voice exploded.  "No!  No, absolutely not, Finnie.  No, no, no!  A thousand times no!  You'll be obliterated!"

Finnie's voice was calm.  "Someone has to remove the cloaking, Ishmael.  I'll just open the window and pump out a few rounds with my Saurmash.  That should get their attention, and then I'll slide into the jungle dimension with the rest of you.  I'm holding the window open; it should be a piece of cake.  And who doesn't like cake?"

For once, Finnie did not answer her own question.  We sat, in a very ordinary looking living room, while this beautiful woman casually talked about her very likely death and having a piece of cake.  She acted like they were the same thing, had the same value, and I knew it wasn't so.  Finnie's safety, the least golden hair of her head, was worth more than all the cakes and bakery products in the world.

"There's no one else who can do it.  Splice, find the terminal here and get started.  Ishmael, Bertram, Niles; I don't want to talk about it."  She sniffed.  "Come on."

I reached over and hugged Finnie.  To my surprise, she did not strike me, hit me, or hurt me in any way.  "You are the bravest woman I have ever known.  And the most beautiful.  You're perfect in every way.  I think I love you, Finnie.  And I'm starting to babble."

Finnie pulled back from me.  "You do talk too much, Ishmael.  But you can be nice, when you're not stinky.  And your name is sort of cool; kind of dangerous and Middle-Eastern sounding.  And I really like your gun."

"Well, it that's the way things are going to proceed, we need to make the best of things," said Bertram.  "While Splice connects and gets the alternative reality generating, I will endeavor to make us some sandwiches.  Is anyone else hungry?"  Slowly, everyone's hand went up.  I could not remember the last time I had eaten anything, or even taken a drink. 

I needed to get moving, to stop thinking and start acting, or I'd drive myself off the deep end.  "Let's get some water or something, too," I suggested.  I went with Bertram to the kitchen, and discovered a fully stocked pantry and refrigerator.  I leaned in and sorted among the bottles, pulling out five drinks.  "This should do it.  This place has everything."

"It should.  This is Finnie's house."

"Finnie's?  How do you know?"

"I think the photographs on the wall are quite illuminating."

I had not noticed anything on the wall, but then, I had not been looking.  Now that I was, I saw Bertram was right.  On the wall, here were four or five photographs of Finnie, smiling that perfect smile.  In one she held a diploma, in another she was on the arm of an elderly woman, and in another she was simply sitting and smiling.  "You're right, Bertram."

"Not surprising, really.  One would expect that Finnie's decisions and choices have generated many homes like this, in many dimensions.  Think of it."

I shook my head.  "I don't think so.  I have a feeling she's one of a kind."

"Like you?"  Bertram's mouth twitched, and I remembered he had put out a contract on my life.

I shook my head.  "She's nothing like me.  I'm a putz who barely can keep my job at the bank.  She's perfect in every way.  Except for the fact that we both breath air, we have nothing in common."

Bertram's twitch moved farther north on his face.  "Poor old Ishmael.  Always an usher, never the groom.  But every dog has its day, Ishmael, if he's wise enough to seize it by the throat."

Bertram left the room, and I stood there, holding the bottles, thinking about what he had said and hadn't said.  Our time to save the multiverse was ticking away, and with it, my time with Finnie.  I had no assurance what would happen to me, even if we succeeded.  I shook my head, throwing nasty notions out of my ears, and carried the beverages back to the living room.

Splice had found a computer laptop.  I glanced at the keyboard and saw again that the keys did not correspond to a standard board.  One key in particular caught my attention; it was labeled 'GENERATE.'  It seemed likely that was the key Splice would press to begin the generation of an on-the-fly dimension of anti-matter, and judging by the speed at which she was clicking away, it would not be long.  If Bertram was right, and this was Finnie's house, it meant the laptop Splice was working on also belonged to Finnie.  Why hadn't she mentioned that?  A deep fear crawled out of a dark cave and started to gnaw on my brain. 

What if Finnie had generated me, just for this purpose and for this time?  

Again, I shook the thought out of my head.  I could not allow ideas like that to get a grip on my thinking; I knew that.  Niles and Bertram were on the sofa, and I handed each of them a bottle.  They received them without thanking me.  They were having a deep conversation about proper etiquette. 

Was I already becoming invisible?

Suddenly, I wanted to shout, to scream, to stomp my feet and dance around the room, proving to myself and everyone else that I existed.  I didn't though, because I knew if I did exist, I would just look stupid.  I handed Splice a drink; she uncapped it with one hand while she kept typing with the other.  Finnie also took her drink, but at least she smiled.  I sat down on an ottoman.

"How do we keep from exploding once Splice gets things going?"

"She'll work that out.  Basically, as long as the computer keeps generating, we can maintain the two realities, at least for a few minutes.  Once she has enough anti-matter to blow this place and the Swarm sky high, she'll give me the signal and open the jungle dimension.  Everyone will head in; I'll flip the window open and get their attention.  I make my dive for the jungle, Splice shuts the portal, and everything here goes boom and gets icky."

"This is all yours, though, isn't it Finnie?  You're going to lose everything you have."

Finnie smiled again, a broad smile as honest as a spring day.  "Ishmael, you need to grow up.  If you can hold something in your hands, you don't really own it anyway.  The only things worth having are the things you can't touch.  Faith.  Hope.  And even love."

"Finnie, you really aren't who you seem, are you?"

"We're each who we are, I am, and so are you.  And who doesn't understand that?  You, that's who.  But get ready; I think Splice is almost ready."

The end, verily, approaches.