Section F: Fairy Tales & Physicists

Chapter 28

"I dunno," muttered Peregrine, shaking her head. "He had one job. One bloody job."

Somewhat to his surprise, Fields felt the urge to defend Featherstone. "Well, that one job was working out how to shut down a potentially planet-threatening, runaway interdimensional breach in the fabric of space and time. So, you know, it's not like it's taking the bins out. And he does have a bullet-hole in him." The urge faded. "He's also a bit of a dumb-arse."

"Can't argue with that," Peregrine agreed, getting to her feet. "Come on. Let's go see what good old Frank's latest screw-up is. Probably got his chin stuck in a particle accelerator or something. Oh, that's right—he hasn't got one."

"What," queried Fields, whose tired brain was doing its level best to keep up with current events, but at times coming up just a little short, "a particle accelerator?"

"No," chorused Peregrine and Britney, with matching degrees of completely situation-inappropriate glee, "a chin!" They followed this up with a striking example of trans-universal convergent cultural evolution, in the form of an enthusiastic high five.

Working on the theory that any sort of response to the two women would only encourage them, Fields simply shook his head and set off for the control room. He was surprised to find he felt quite calm. Partly, he attributed this to to the almost five minutes of rest he'd just had, but mostly, he assumed it was because on a day that had largely consisted of a non-stop series of ever-escalating crises, one more just felt like par for the course. He doubted whether anything in his future career in Section F (assuming he was going to have a career, or for that matter, a future) could faze him now.

His doubt lasted for precisely the length of time it took him to exit their shelter. Oh, give me a break.

Whether by accident or design, through complicity or coincidence, the shadow-lurkers Fields had half-glimpsed a little earlier—the motley collection of multiversal miscreants the portal had spontaneously imported—had decided to make their move.

"Hey, Peregrine? When you and Britney are done with your little stand-up routine, you might like to get out here. We've got company."

"Whoa," responded his partner as she joined him, weapon at the ready. "I'm not sure company's the word I'd use. But we've sure as hell got something. Or even"—she gave him a playful elbow in the ribs, accompanied by a broad grin—"some things. Ha!"

Not for the first time that day, Fields found it hard to see the funny side—Peregrine's comment was just a little too accurate to be amusing.

To date, the portal-emissions they had come across—although undeniably strange, generally fantastical, and quite clearly not of this world—had somehow still been...familiar. Recognisable. Known. While fairy-tale princesses, witches and fire-breathing dragons may not exactly roam the streets of the Earth, they certainly populated the imaginations of its people. Fields could only assume this was because the clearly story-obsessed Featherstone had been driving the breach-bus for the importation of those particular arrivals.

For a while though, nobody had been at the wheel. Although the still-growing portal had been quiet of late, which Fields fervently hoped was a sign it was being brought under some sort of control, for a while it had run unchecked. For a while, the breach-bus had gone seriously off-route, made a few stops in the rough parts of the multiverse, and clearly picked up a rather less familiar load of passengers. Passengers who were now slowly advancing on the two agents, their intentions entirely clear, even if their identities (and in several cases, their species) were not.

"Oo-hoo-hoo, somebody's been waving around the old ugly-stick." Britney had popped her head around the edge of the shelter, and was watching the oncoming horde with evident interest, if not much in the way of trepidation. "What a sorry pack of miasmic, arse-faced bespawlers. They look even worse than the half-a-dozen I had to see off before. I'd give 'em a good banging with your bang-sticks, if I were you. Those lot don't look like they're coming over to borrow a cup of newt-testicles."