Intent

“That is something we’re still working on,” said the bald-scientist. “But we believe now that what was opened a year ago may not have been just a gateway to an alternate universe, but a wormhole to one.”

“Wormhole? What do you mean?”

The only lady among the three scientists, a handsome woman taller than every man in the room spoke next. “Just as we know that in our universe, traveling through a wormhole can transport an object vast distances in space, we think that perhaps there is an equivalent between the universes. Thus anything, or of course any one entering it would pass not merely to a neighboring universe, but to one many permutations away. Remember the honeycomb?”

The honeycomb was a picture the physicists has drawn for the High Commission a year ago to explain the presence of multiple universes, each octagon in the comb representing a totally separate reality, bordered on eight sides by similar but distinct realities.

“Yes, I remember.”

“If it was a wormhole,” the woman continued, “than our colleagues last year managed not to drill through the wall of our little octagon, but rather open a tunnel that ran above many octagons, and terminated on a different octagon on another side of the entire honeycomb.”

“The honeycomb being the multiverse,” the Commissioner said. “All of the universes together.”

“Essentially, correct,” said the bald scientist.

The Commissioner turned back toward the artifact. Though he knew it was silly of him to care, he wished that it had been polished and shined before being locked away. Something about the smudges and fingerprints all over it rubbed him the wrong way. “To stay with your little metaphor, how many honeycombs away from ours did this thing travel from?”

“There is no way to say,” said the bald scientist. “Theoretical physics theories dictate that the quantum variant of a neighboring dimension would match that of our own by certain specific degrees. The variant of the artifact is different from that of our own universe in significant ways. That’s why we think it can’t be from a neighboring reality.”

 The tall woman spoke. “But there is no objective measure known to science by which we can determine just how far removed from our own variance signatures those of the artifact are.”

The Commissioner looked from the artifact, and then into the eyes of one of the guards next to it; they were black as the artifact itself, the whites as white as same. They scanned the room, moving back and forth in gradual, smooth passes, gliding over he himself, and then beyond him. This, the Commissioner was told, was a special skill that the artifact guards were trained for.

“Implications,” the Commissioner said once he’d turned around to face the scientists and their computers again. “Is the potential danger greater for it having come from a further off reality?”

“Scientifically, no,” said the bald scientist. “On a physical level, it is, in its essence, still just a billiard ball. Whatever reality or universe it came from obviously has similar materials, knowledge and even interests to our own, at least so far as some forms of recreation are concerned. Yet...”

The scientist stopped, and looked over to the third member of his group. This man, broad-shouldered, bespectacled and possessed of curly brown hair wore no white lab coat, but a corduroy jacket over a plain black t-shirt.

“Intent,” said this man. “If we opened a wormhole on this end that reached into their universe, it is probable they were aware of it. They have in all likelihood have sought, as we have, to open the portal again. If whoever they are should succeed, there is no way of knowing what their intentions toward us would be. Though their objects may be harmless in our universe, they themselves may not be.”

“And if the wormhole is stable on their end, they would have the upper hand,” said the lady-scientist. “They would need only step through it with sufficient energy to reach this universe, and their action would be less predictable than would a society on the next honeycomb over. We think, anyway.”

“You think?” shouted the Commissioner. The bald scientist closed his eyes. “We are talking about the possibility of alternate universes gaining access to our world, without our consent, before we have even been able to reach their own again? And all you have for me is that you think?”

Anger or fear ruled him for the moment, though he couldn’t tell which.

“Commissioner-“ the man in the corduroy jacket began to say.

“Quiet. Do you happen to have any thinking in your heads about ways to keep this honeycomb wormhole or whatever the devil it is closed on our end?”

“We would, commissioner, have a theory to test, but the difficulty is-“

“Is what, damn you.”

“We would have to know the exact universe from which the artifact came,” said the lady scientist. “If we had that information, we could perhaps calibrate some kind of quantum conductor that would have a chance of slowing any entry into our universe.”

“But since we do not have that information at this time-“ said the bald scientist.

“We know which universe the artifact came from.”

Before he spun around to meet whoever was speaking, the Commissioner saw all three scientists squint and look behind him. One of the artifact’s guards had spoken.

“You?” asked the Commissioner, “How would you know? What universe?”

“One that wants its ball back, sir,” said the guard.

Before the Commissioner could respond to both the lunacy and the insolence, the guard pulled his side arm and emptied it into the Commissioner, who stumbled backward into the scientists computers. He could feel the warm dampness of his blood soaking into his shirt. He heard the distance sounds of the scientists screaming. More gun fire from deeper in the warehouse echoed inside his mind.

He couldn’t move, and could only see a blurry image of the guard that had shot him falling down, and two of the other guards opening fire while the third entered a code on the back of the display case. He felt dizzy, but was able to see the back of the display slide open, and one of the guards grab the artifact.

What he saw next, the Commissioner was not sure had been the result of physics or of his dying brain. Nonetheless a swirling, glowing vortex grew out from the vicinity of one of the guards. It flickered and flashed as the guard with the artifact jumped into it and vanished. Another guard grabbed his wounded shoulder and staggered backward into the vortex. The third guard, still firing his side arm grabbed the dead guard by the shoulder and dragged the body through the oval. What little light the Commissioner could now detect came from the empty display case. Echoes of words and shots fired remained in his ears.

The vortex snapped out of existence. The Commissioner knew that he too would soon do so. At least he would outlive the guard from the other dimension by a few minutes. He wondered, with his final conscious thought, if the spirits of the dead from all honeycombs wound up in the same place. What might he say to the guard then, if they met there?