Section F: Fairy Tales & Physicists

Chapter 13

"Sometime in the late Pleistocene epoch, 40,000 years or so ago, a completely unremarkable rock found itself in entirely the wrong place at precisely the wrong time. Travelling at around 50,000 kilometres per hour, just as it had done for most of the several billion years of its existence, the fifty-metre-wide nickel-iron meteor's epic journey was brought to a spectacular, abrupt and violent conclusion by the massive 6,000 trillion tonne bulk of the stone-age planet Earth inconveniently getting in its way. In a classic example of the irresistible force meeting the immovable object, the age-old dilemma was resolved in this case by the rock promptly vaporising with the explosive force of a ten-megaton nuclear blast. While almost entirely destroyed by the impact, the nascent and ephemeral meteorite did manage to leave a stark reminder of its existence in the form of the kilometre-wide crater known today as the Dish."

Fields stopped reading and looked up from his phone. "You know, this is kind of lyrical for a Wikipedia article."

To his relief, Peregrine managed to reply without taking her eyes off the road. "Meh. Lyrical or not, that's where we're headed." Now that they were well outside the city proper, and traffic had become sparse, she was demonstrating just what 5.3 litres of nuclear-powered V12 were capable of (besides terrifying federal agents). Fields was not enjoying the experience one little bit. As much as a distraction as to find out more about their destination, he returned to the article.

"Hey, this says the Novus Institute had a field station in the crater! They mothballed it back in the 80s, but still, it's a link—maybe we are on the right track after all."

"Oh, ye of little faith." Rich and deep, it took a moment for the other occupants of the car to realise the voice had come from the prince/entity, evidently back among the land of the conscious. "You are most certainly on the right track. I must apologise for the brevity of my directions, however occupying a new vessel can be somewhat challenging—it was the best I could manage under the circumstances."

"Don't sweat it, Ken," replied Peregrine. "We got you. Although, I guess you're not really Ken anymore, are you? What's your new handle?"

"Well, as a mark of recognition to a new vessel and to smooth my transition into his or her life, I generally like to maintain the same name they used. Sadly, however, this young fellow's brain is in such a poor state I'm not even sure I can retrieve something as fundamental as that. For some reason, all can come up with is the word 'alluring.'

"Prince Alluring." Wearily, Fields rubbed his temples. "Why am I not surprised?"

"I'm not at all surprised," murmured Embers, gazing dreamily over the back of her seat.

"Ha!" Peregrine interrupted the princess' mooning with a vigorous poke. "Eyes to the front, slugger. Are you forgetting about Mr Embers?"

"Who? Oh, him. No, I suppose not. He's not the easiest man to forget."

"But not for lack of trying?"

"Oh, Peregrine." Embers gave her a playful slap. "You are wicked."

"Yep," agreed Peregrine. "But wicked or not, I'm not calling anybody Alluring. How about Al?"

The entity formerly known as Ken smiled, revealing two rows of perfect, white teeth. "Very well. You can call me Al—and I won't even insist on calling you Betty."

"What?" Fields had been doing his level best to keep on top of the things he thought he might actually have some chance of keeping on top of, and while the list was distressingly short, names had most definitely been on it—until now. "Why the hell would you call her Betty?" He shook his head. "Actually, never mind. I don't want to know. What I do want to know is what's the deal with the dear departed prince, who's apparently now become your meat-puppet? If there's no such thing as curses then how the hell did he wind up practically dead, with mush-for-brains, and you in the cockpit?"

"Good question, agent. And after a little investigation of my new metabolism, I believe I have the answer."

"Which is?"

"Ooagra."

"Ooagra?"

"Ooagra."

Fields nodded intelligently. Or at least, he nodded. "Who or what the hell is Ooagra?"

"Oh, it's an herbal preparation, found on an Earth equivalent a little way along the probability curve from here. In high doses it causes paralysis and suppresses respiration to almost undetectable levels. Fortunately, I've managed to rejig my metabolism to nullify the effects—just one of the little tricks I've picked up over the millennia. Frightfully handy for hangovers, too."

"So, you're saying he was poisoned?" Fields couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilty relief at this news. Unlike so many of today's events, poisoning was something he could actually wrap his head around. "By the witch?"

"No idea who the culprit was, I'm afraid. Mush-for-brains, remember? However the prince came by it, I must say it's a strange choice of poison."

"How so?"

"Well, firstly it would take a very large quantity to be lethal, and in my experience, killers tend to like toxins that don't need to be administered by the bucketload. And secondly, there's Ooagra's other, rather less lethal effects."

Realisation dawned on Fields. "Hang on—Ooagra. That sounds a bit like—"

"Ha!" Peregrine snorted in delight, while giving Embers another prod. "Sorry, slugger—looks like maybe it wasn't your tender ministrations that elicited signs of life in the prince, after all. Ha-ha."

Somehow, the princess managed to render even crestfallen chagrin attractive. "Oh. Oh, I see. So, you mean...?"

"I'm afraid so," confirmed Al. "Any signs of appreciation this vessel may have displayed for your undoubted charms, prior to my occupation, were entirely of the pharmacological kind. In fact, I've only just managed to rectify said signs, which were becoming most uncomfortable."

Brain-death by erection, and then possession by a trans-dimensional photo-copier repairman. Poor bastard. Suddenly Fields' day—and life—didn't seem quite as bad. "So, how far away from the Dish are we?"

"About twenty minutes, I reckon." Peregrine turned and winked at her partner, as contrary to the rules of the road, Fields' will to live, and—quite possibly—the laws of physics, the Jaguar accelerated to an even more mind-boggling speed. "Maybe less."

"Less may be advisable," said Al. "I'm sensing multiple arrivals in this plane of existence, all centred on the Dish, while various other of my extra-dimensional counterparts are detecting departures. It would seem as though your scientist suspect is keeping busy. And may well be preparing a reception party."

Expression suddenly business-like, Peregrine reached into a console on the dash, and slipped on a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses. "Right—less it is. Embers, hang on. Al, keep us posted. Fields, tunes."

"Huh?"

"Music, partner. We can hardly go haring off to battle the inter-dimensional hordes without a soundtrack, can we? There's a flip-down console in the back of my seat, where you can access the music. Tune us up, dude."

Happy for any excuse not to watch the speed-blurred landscape rocketing past, Fields flicked through the menu. "Hey, what's this 'Hits of Future Past' directory?"

"Oh yeah, you'll dig that—there's some really good stuff in there. I downloaded a bunch of tracks while I was in the future. I know, crank up I Gotta Be She. Great album—it's a whole load of diva covers, by Harriet Styles."

Fields stared at the strangely familiar brunette, looking at back at him from the image of the album cover. "Er—Harriet Styles?"

"Yeah, great singer. She really hit her stride after the gender transition. Pump up the volume, partner."