Section F: Fairy Tales & Physicists

Chapter 35

"I notice you seem rather anxious, agents. The portal has certainly grown, hasn't it? It can't be too long before it envelops us all. Of course, given my current condition, that's of rather more concern to you than it is to me. It's really quite remarkable the sense of calm imminent death brings one. I could almost recommend it—if not for the imminent death part, of course. In any case, since you were so kind as to ask me what I had to say, I believe I'll finish my little speech. Oh, don't look so glum. Never fear, I shall be brief. Well, brief-ish. Now, where was I?

"Oh, yes. Tell me agents, did you know the key components of many stories are shared across different civilisations? Even those which have had no previous contact? Did you know there is a Persian Cinderella, a Chinese Little Red Riding Hood, a Roman Snow White? That long before the tale of Noah, the Babylonians told stories of a flood, of an ark and of its cargo of animal refugees? That Japanese storytellers had their own hero of superhuman strength, millennia before DC or Marvel existed? Time and again, across continents, across countries, across cultures, similar concepts, similar themes, similar stories have arisen, over and over.

"Why is this so, agents? Coincidence? A reflection of the inherent constancy of of human nature? I must admit, I gave the matter little thought. Little thought, that is, until my research led me to a particular interpretation of quantum physics. A fiendishly complicated, highly controversial interpretation. An interpretation known as the many-worlds theory.

"Infinite universes, agents. Infinite possibilities. The existence of all possible pasts and all possible futures. I must admit, the theory held a powerful appeal for me. After all, my own past had not been a particularly happy one, and quite frankly, my future held little prospect of being any different.

"The mathematics of the theory were undeniable, as much as many of my peers felt otherwise. These other universes, these other worlds were real; I was sure of it. And to access them, I simply had to find the right key. The correct resonance. The crucial commonality with which to synchronise the probability waveforms and bridge the interuniversal divide.

"For years I searched. For years I strove. And for years I failed. Until, late one night, toiling fruitlessly away in my lab, an idea occurred to me. A crazy idea. A ridiculous, preposterous idea. An idea I would have ignored, dismissed and discarded out of hand, were I not so desperate for a breakthrough.

"Stories, agents. My idea was stories. If they could be shared across cultures, then why not across universes? There had to be some reason for their persistence, their resonance, for their constant replication. What if the reason was that stories are somehow inherent? That stories are an elemental, core component of creation? What if stories unite us all?

"And if so, could stories provide me with my key to the multiverse? After all, what is a story, if not a journey to another world? And the answer, quite simply, was yes. This was the critical factor that my peers, that Dr Radovic, could not give credence to, could just not bring themselves to comprehend. That far from being trivial, far from being incidental, stories are fundamental. Stories could indeed provide me with my key. Stories did provide me with my key. And here we are.

"I know there have been wrong turns on my part, agents. Poor decisions. Indecision and weakness. It's all quite clear with the benefit of hindsight. I am not an evil man, yet I have allowed evil to be done. I allowed my own base needs, my longing for companionship, to taint my actions. So I cannot in good conscience argue that I do not deserve my fate.

"And yet, I find myself wondering, does this world deserve any better? This world of criminals and con-men, of fashionistas and fascists, of science-deniers and flat-earthers and environmental vandals? This world which has been so unkind to me, which has so grudgingly granted me so little, and which has with ruthless, remorseless consistency crushed each and every one of my hopes and dreams? This world to which I owe nothing? This world which barely knows I exist?

"Perhaps it is time for that to change. Time for Frank Feathersone to make his mark on the world, before he leaves it. Or indeed, before it leaves him—ha-ha. Perhaps that would be a fitting end to my story, agents. After all, have I not become the villain of this little tale? Why should I not wreak my revenge?

"At any rate, it is time to decide. The portal draws near, my vision grows dim. The fate of the world is in my hands, agents. And to think, my father always told me I wouldn't amount to anything. What's it to be, agents? What's it to be?"

Peregrine placed a gentle hand on the scientist's shoulder. "Frank, you know the answer to that."

Breathing shallow, features waxy, Featherstone appeared to consider for a moment. Finally, with a faint smile, he spoke. "I do, Agent Peregrine. I do. The code...the code is, five-three-one"—he paused, and for a long few seconds, the agents thought he may have breathed his last, until, with a long shuddering breath, he continued—"eight-zero-zero-eight."

Tearing his eyes away from the edge of the portal, now mere metres away, Fields scrabbled for the phone in the pocket of the stricken man's lab coat. In desperation, he stabbed at the home button. He stabbed again. Slowly, eyes wide, he turned to Peregrine.

"Flat!" He held up the little device, its screen emblazoned with a cheery little cartoon battery symbol, a symbol indeed distressingly, undeniably empty. "The bloody, stupid thing is completely flat!"

Weakly, the scientist turned his head towards Fields. "Oh dear. My apologies. I'm forever forgetting to...to...charge..the...wretched...thing." And then, with that final, emphatic act of dumb-arsery, Frank Featherstone—incomparable genius, ineffable idiot, incompetent wooer, and inveterate lover of stories—breathed no more.