EMERALD CITY

THE BEGINNING

The Boing Corporation was established with instant success. Charles Hicklynn, in one flash of light, had found himself in a world totally alien to his way of thinking. The best a mathematician could hope to find was an abacus; the best a chemist could work with was a lab filled with more animal bits than a solid selection of acids and bases. Flocks of dragons flew south for the winter, the average dude ranch needed more air space than grazing land for its pegasuses (or is it ‘pegasi’), and an ideal career for a 4.0 G.P.A student was no longer “doctor” or “lawyer”, but “witch doctor” or “wizard” (which it didn’t take long for him to find out was just as bad). It was still Earth… not an Earth recorded in the 21st Century section of his world’s History books, but Earth all the same. However on this Earth, the Earth of an alternate universe, magic ruled over science.

At first, it seemed a chemical lab technician had no place here, but then, he found his niche. He was in a world where science was as mysterious a concept as magic was in his own world. It was also reserved for the elite few who could master its secrets: the wizards, the alchemists, the illusionists, the mages… but their knowledge was limited. Here, he found his place… and his fortune.

The concept of Boing Corporation’s product line was simple—the merger of magic and science—giving even the lowliest blue-collar Joe a piece of the magical world he could work with. Started nearly fifty-one years before, Hicklynn’s first product line was simple and, more importantly, inexpensive to manufacture. Through a private sales force of housewives, Maggicware was introduced across the state of Warshington. The “burp it” technology of these revolutionary containers could keep anything—from onions and potatoes to newt eyes and lizard tails—fresh for… to date, nobody was sure how long a plastic mixed with a preservation potion would keep your tuna salad fresh… fifty-one years and counting*. [FOOTNOTE: Throughout the years, the only lawsuit the Boing Corporation had faced for this simple product line occurred when a reproduction formula got confused with the preservation potion, generating a batch of cabbage crispers that, every nine months, popped out a brand new baby boy or girl (dependant on whether you bought the blue or the pink model). The “pregnant” cabbage crisper model had to be discontinued altogether, but the rest of the line was still going strong.]

After this humble beginning, the Boing Corporation had expanded into every industry imaginable, from inventing the four-dimensional, minute, hourglass watches that used real sands of time to the innovation of the carpet, a flying automobile that reduced the pegasus to an outdated mode of transportation and introduced the three-dimensional traffic jam to the skyways of Seattle.

By the age of thirty-five, Charles was a very rich man; the richest in the world, some speculated. But as it often does with other souls, wealth did nothing to darken the heart of this man of science. At the height of his empire, he was named Philanthropist of the Year two years running. He was a target for every charity imaginable, but he had a special soft spot for the Boy’s and Ghoul’s Club of Americania (alive or undead, kids were kids, bless their… souls?), and had been the founder of the Young Monster’s Cultist Association. All things considered, he considered himself a good man, regardless of what the activists said.

It had not been intentional. Charles Hicklynn never realized that he had upset the balance of magic and nature. Tests had shown that the hole in the M-zone was a natural occurrence. Some of the greatest minds on this Earth had hypothesized and theorized that every couple thousand years, the hole would expand and then repair itself. Odd, how a great mind employed by a financial empire can suddenly see the world in a light where that empire can do no harm.

Many not employed by the Boing Corporation saw the cause of the M-Zone’s hole, and several other supernatural disasters, in an altogether different reality. They claimed that it was Hicklynn’s technology, his mix of magic and science, his mass-produced, assembly-line “magic for the masses” that was draining the Earth of its supernatural resources.

Then, at age sixty-six, Charles was diagnosed with a terminal disease.

After many tests, it had taken weeks of chanting and “herbologically assisted” meditating for his personal team of witchdoctors to correctly diagnose the illness that seemed to be slowly consuming the flesh of his left hand. It had not been seen in centuries. Humans, since that time, had become educated enough in the ways of magic to know that mere mortals without the specialized training and conditioning of a wizard, were better off leaving the energies of magic alone. Hicklynn had ignored that fundamental rule... and now he was paying the price.
His witchdoctors called it a malignant Igoroma—a slow and spreading decay of natural tissue caused by overexposure to supernatural energies. Hicklynn’s mind translated that as a cancer brought on by overexposure to a form of radiation. The industry on which his empire had been built, he decided, would save him, and bit by bit, flesh was replaced with steel and powered by the only energy supply this world was equipped to offer... magic.

His own body became his ultimate achievement. The means to immortality, he thought at first, then realized too late it was only the means to prolonged life... and prolonged torment. Cybernetics powered by magic only continued his exposure to the very element that had caused his illness in the first place! What’s more, as the robotic components of his body expanded, so did their need for more power... and so, when The World’s Magic Fair hit Seattle, Charles Hicklynn unveiled his greatest sin against magic yet… the Cosmos Needle.

Magic was everywhere in this world, but never more visible as in an act of natural discharge such as in a cosmic bolt of lightning. In the universe of his origin, some said that lightning gave life to the primordial ooze of a prehistoric Earth. There was no doubt in Hicklynn’s mind that the cosmic lightning of this world, with its hue of purple-green, had done the same to spawn this world’s myriad life forms. Wizards used wands and staffs to draw this supernatural energy from the atmosphere around them. To the horror of Seattle’s wizarding denizens, Charles Hicklynn had created in the midst of downtown Seattle an antenna—a wand—large enough to draw in the cosmic energies of the universe in unfathomable quantities.

In time, he found other mass stores of cosmic energy. Fossil fuel contained the very essence of giant prehistoric dragon magic—far more potent than the magic found in the terrier-sized dragons that flew the skies now days—and enchanted forests were in bountiful supply across the globe. Dams had been constructed along many of the great rivers to harness the powers of hydro-thaumatic energy. To him, he was using supernatural resources whose potential had hitherto gone unrealized. To everyone else, he was raping the supernatural world.

Some people said the machines that now covered nearly half his body had somehow poisoned his mind... or worse, developed a mind of their own. Others simply believed that yet another man of riches and power had finally bowed his soul to the temptations of nigh-godhood that such power can bring. Charles Hicklynn was, himself, unsure which was true, and in the name of self-preservation... of survival, he turned a deaf ear.

* * *

“Tell them to take their tree hugging petition and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine, and I don’t mean Seattle!”

“Dur! Den where dat, boss?” Slab’s deep, slow voice intoned that it took much thought to process each syllable, but that wasn’t unusual for a troll. Generally speaking, if men like Hicklynn are the Brains of an operation, trolls are the Muscle. Standing seven feet tall and with shoulders roughly four feet broad, Slab was small for his species, but he was also one of the few who could work indoors—other trolls had too much trouble navigating doorways. Slab also seemed smarter than most of his species, but that was not saying much*. [FOOTNOTE: It’s not that trolls are entirely stupid, but rather that they are left-handers stuck in a right-hand world.]

“Yes, boss, yes, we’ll tell them to stick it in… Yeeeessss!” Pikit, a goblin, followed in his excitement with a wicked, unnatural giggle. SMACK! “Oooowwww! Yes, yes, I deserved that, Mander.”

Mander snatched the petition from Pikit. “Idiot,” he muttered to his smaller cohort. Then tearing the paper to pieces, his elfin voice melodied, “Don’t worry, Sir. I’ll take care of this bit of unpleasantness.”

Charles looked over his three enforcement staff members. Of the three, the only one he could stand for any length of time was Mander, but each filled their roll.

Mander, his sleek elf frame accented by a tight, sharp jacket and slacks, was a master of public relations for the Boing Corporation. As one of the elite few Charles allowed into his inner circle, Mander was empowered as his right-hand-man. Even among the fair folk, few knew how to distinguish the difference between a light-elf and a dark-elf... or a drow, as they were more commonly known. Physically, there were no differences. Both had grace and charm and beauty... and to most, this was all that mattered. Only a light-elf or the victim of a drow might say otherwise.

Pikit was little more than a “yes” goblin dressed in clothes two sizes too large. His duties were simple: to deliver Hicklynn’s orders with all haste, and without question. He bore the typical characteristics of a goblin: a short, thin body with knobly joints that gave him the dangerous illusion of being a creature who was weak and malnourished; a head that seemed just a bit too large for the long, sinewy neck it rested on, characterized by a matted mess of dirty-blonde hair, two long, pointed ears and an equally long and pointed nose. For all the lack of respect his lowly, filthy race received outside the office, among the ranks of the Boing Corporation, Pikit was a goblin you had to look up to... even though his stature demanded that you had to look down.

Of course, that had, in part, to do with the fact that he almost never left the side of his “little” brother—the seven-foot tall troll named Slab. The details of their relationship were a bit vague. Some said they were related by blood, which accounted for the troll’s shorter-than-usual stature and higher-than-usual intellect... such as it was. Others couldn’t even begin to fathom the mechanics of a breeding between these two races, and so assumed the title of “brother” was either honorary or involved an adoption. As a pair, they were creatures of stark contrast to one another. Slab’s body bulged with a natural musculature that demanded no exercise to maintain. His head seemed too small for the bulk of his body and what his pointed ears lacked in size, his low-hung brow more than made up for. His clothes, two sizes too small, regardless of having been purchased from the Junior section of the local Trolls R Us* [FOOTNOTE: A local troll-goods store run by trolls for trolls, and therefore, the name was written by trolls to be read by trolls. (note to readers: in the original text, "Trolls R Us" is written in a mirror-image font.)] store, pinched into the bulk of his frame and were torn at the arm pits, elbows and knees where they’d restricted his range of motion. All he bore in common with the goblin was the same matt of dirty-blonde hair atop his broad, flattened skull. Regardless, Slab was devoutly protective of his “big” brother... as well as obtusely obedient. His job was simple... and obvious. Where Pikit delivered the boss’s orders, Slab made sure those orders were obeyed.

They were an odd trio. Charles Hicklynn knew this. But the combination worked.

“Also, I have a report that Temporal Monitoring picked up an unusual spike last night. The report is… incomplete. I want an updated report within the hour, and I want the technician who wrote this report FIRED!”

“Yes, Sir, yes, yes!!”

“No,” Charles sighed, realizing his overreaction, “on second thought a written reprimand will do. And be sure Slab gives him the customary smack on the wrist.”

It took ten seconds for the words to sink in, but when they did, Slab smiled a big toothy grin and said, “Dur, Slab smack.”

“Yes, yes, yes! And then we’ll shove the report…” SMACK! “Oooowww! Yes, yes, deserved that one too.”

“No shoving anything anywhere,” Charles grumbled.

“Yes, yes, but you said…”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Are you agreeing or being contrary?”

“Uh… yes?”

“Alright then, I guess this meeting’s adjourned,” concluded Charles. He watched as the three started toward the door, and then called out, “Oh, Mander, on your way to the office tomorrow, please remember to pick up some fruits and vegetables for the monkeys. As usual, you can have Slab feed them.”

Happily, the troll slapped his palms together as they proceeded to the door of the elevator that would take them down to the Needle’s lobby. The sound was like two porter steaks being slammed together, and was complimented by the giant’s parting words, “Dur, Slab feed monk…ees.”

* * *

Somewhere, in a quiet café on the waterfront of Seattle, at a table overlooking the Puget Sound, Larayne sipped on her third cup of steaming runic brew, listening intently as the TinMan told his story with an enthusiasm completely foreign to him—basically, with the speed and comprehensibility of a three year-old. From what she could initially understand, she was sharing a cup of coffee with a being completely alien to her world. However, with just a few questions, she realized, that he was from a world not so unlike her own. It was uncanny that her special interest should be on this topic.

“So what you are saying is that you were… made?” The word sounded unusual in describing something with a personality. “Right here in Seattle, but not this Seattle?”

“My creator designed me to explore an unknown world. There is no precedent for a Parallel Dimension, but then, my programming was designed to be adaptable to varying circumstances.”

“Well, first of all, it’s not a Parallel Dimension,” Larayne explained. “It’s not even perpendicular!”

TinMan looked at her intently, waiting for her to explain further.

“According to Druidic belief, similarities between worlds are not uncommon. Most are mere coincidences, and a few are due to minor power shifts caused both by the magic and the conjunction or nearness of the two worlds in question. Parallel worlds are only those with absolutely nothing in common, and a world perpendicular to another can only have one thing the same. Most often, worlds cross many millions of times. Not infinitely, for then it would be all the same world, but instead a finite number of crossings. At the junctions are places of great power, where things are duplicate, and near the junctions—as mathemagicians would say, ‘as the graph of the world approaches the point’—are places of lesser, yet still powerful, magic where similarities exist. Think of it as one world being the sine wave, and another being the cosine.”

TinMan nodded in mathematical understanding. “Points of juxtaposition would be why both worlds have a city, university, or even street names in the same place.”

Larayne smiled. Finally, in a world where the “learned” consists of magic users and alchemists, someone who can understand me.

Though science was relatively new to her world, Larayne did understand the basic concept of a machine. Fantasy writers had for some years now written fabulous novels about robots that looked like men. But to actually see one was… well, it wasn’t as exciting as she thought it would be. It was rumored that billionaire Charles Hicklynn was part machine, and that alone was something of a marvel for her world. Larayne supposed that if she had a complete grasp on the complexities of TinMan’s construction, she might be more impressed. But for now, he was just a geeky block of plastic sitting opposite her in a tiny downtown café.

* * *

Blah blah blah blah.* [FOOTNOTE: Roman was having a daymare.]

* * *

Through a maze of seldom-used corridors, Slab walked with a purposeful lumber. Pikit, at his side—ducking the troll’s knuckles with every swing of the arms—scanned his surroundings wildly like a ferret on crack.

SMACK! “Oooowww! Yes… NO! I didn’t deserve that one!”

“Foolish goblin, you forgot to duck,” Mander chided.

“Dur, Ha.”

“Yes, yes. Are we there yet?”

“No.”

“Yes, yes. Now?”

“No.”

“Yes, y…” SMACK! “Ooowwww! Yes. S’pose I did deserve that one.”

“Dur, we dere now.”

“Don’t you start!”

“Dur, no! We dere.”

Indeed they were there, standing before a door labeled “Temporal Monitoring” in fading gold letters. Without knocking, they opened the door and walked into a large room. There were scientificish machine panels covered with dials and diodes, and tubes of bubbly purple and red liquids swirled and criss-crossed the room. Several desks were coated with dust in the few places where they weren’t covered with layers and stacks of papers next to a desktop PC*. [FOOTNOTE: Personal Crystal] The floor was littered with the string of ticker paper coming from the largest of the machines. Amidst all the clutter and chaos, stood one man.

And he was technically a man, however he was so pale as to make vampires jealous, had the musculature of over-cooked pasta, and wore a mop of black, unwashed and unkempt, hair. His jacket was a plain white, which hung loosely and unbuttoned, and underneath was a simple dingy homespun shirt with a pouch of quills shoved in one pocket. His brown eyes, from behind their FizzyPop bottle glasses, looked up with a smile at the unexpected guests. Then the eyes focused on the “guests” and quickly frowned.

“So, Mister….?” Mander consulted the signature on the report and despite the indecipherable handwriting, tried to recognize the letters that spelled out the technician’s name. “… J-E-L-L… squiggly letter…”

“It’s Davis, Sir.”

Mander’s eyebrows rose. “Mister Davis?”

The wiry technician nodded.

“We’ve been sent regarding a certain report published from your department Mister… Davis.”

“Oh, THAT! Yes, I was very happy to write it! I included footnotes, several 8 x 10 glossies complete with circles and arrows and a detailed paragraph on the back of each one, and…”

“I’m sure you did. Printed on a nice ten-pound bright white paper stock in a most legible font, too. But, Mr. Davis… the report was incomplete.”

Davis’ jaw dropped. “Wha…”

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence as the technician stared, horrified, at his visitors. Then Mander spoke, “We can see you don’t receive many visitors, Mr. Davis, but it really is impolite to stare with such a… gaping expression. Don’t worry. Mr. Hicklynn was in a most generous mood when he read the report. You are to receive…”

“Yes, yes! Written reprimand and a…” SMACK! “Ooowww!”

“Don’t interrupt, Pikit.

“As I was saying, you are to receive a written reprimand, and… Which hand do you write with?”

“Left, Sir.”

“Then you are to show Slab your right... palm down.”

Confused, the technician extended his arm.

“Slab…?”

Nobody present ever thought such a hulking mass of muscle could move so quickly. His grin was barely visible, but definitely present as his huge hand, a size 17 if it were being fitted for shoes, swiftly descended and shattered every bone in Davis’ hand.

“Dur… Slab smack wrist.”

“Very good, Slab.

“Now, Mr. Davis. I believe… Mr. Davis, do stop screaming and get up off the floor. Or shall I have Slab help you up?”

His knees wobbling, Davis rose, it taking every ounce of his concentration to work the mechanics of his spindly legs.

“Now, as I was saying, I believe your writing hand is still functional, Mr. Davis. Mr. Hicklynn is expecting a revised and complete copy of your report within… say… half an hour? I wouldn’t disappoint him again. You have no idea how close you came to… termination.”

“Yes, yes! Terminated! Terminated with extreme…” SMACK! “Ooooowww!” the goblin whined, which was nonetheless followed with a sniggering, nasal laugh.

“Come, Pikit, Slab… Mr. Davis has work to do. Oh yes, and to show there truly are no hard feelings, Mr. Davis, when you’ve finished your report, you may clock out early. If I were you, I would use the time to have someone see to that hand.”

His elfin features twisted into a grin, and politely, Mander extended his right hand. One wondered if he actually hoped Davis would shake it… or if he did, just how firm the dark-elf’s grip would be.

“Still lacking in social grace, Mr. Davis? Oh well… We’ll see you in thirty minutes, then.

“Have a good day.”

* * *

E E F G G F E D C C D…

Larayne looked up from her most recent cappuccino, and anxiously fished through her pockets.

E E F G G F E D C C D E…

“Where did I put that silly thing? Oh, yes, here it is.”

E E F G G F E D C C D E…

The TinMan looked on with interest as she pulled a small, semi-spherical glass from her pocket. His keen eyesight caught the greenish-blue glow backlighting the words “Mommy” before they were replaced by the image of a lovely, young woman with dark hair and distinctly pointed ears. When she smiled the crystal’s screen seemed to illuminate even brighter.

“There you are, Sweetheart! Still in Seattle? Did you miss the bus again? Your father would have come and gotten you.”

“Yes, Mommy, it’s alright. I’m alright. Um, I ran into someone last night. I was wondering… Mommy, can I bring home a houseguest?”

“What species?” Her mother’s voice took on the acrid tone of over-protective parents across the multiverse.

“Actually, I’m not sure. But he’s harmless… I think.”

“HE?”

“Actually, I’m not sure of that either. Might be more of an it.”

“Now you’ve got me really confused.”

There was no other way. Larayne turned the Mobile Crystal’s display toward TinMan, then heard, “Oh my. What happened to the poor boy’s head?”

Returning the semi-sphere back to her own face, Larayne answered, “See what I mean?”

TinMan looked perplexed. “What is wrong with my head?”

Larayne almost whispered, though she had little to fear from eavesdropping neighbors. Even if someone had overheard her, on the streets and java joints of Seattle, she was just another nameless face. “He says he’s from another world.”

“You mean he’s from… space?”

“No, Mom. He’s from this world… only not. A parallel world… only not really, because we know if he were, he’d have nothing in common with us. But he does, so…”

“Yes, yes, Sweetheart. You’ve talked of nothing else since your Uncle Leander gave you that book on Druidic como-whatchits mathemagics.”

“It’s a fascinating book,” she protested in self-defense. “And TinMan’s existence proves the theory that other worlds do exist.” In confusion, Larayne paused a moment as both mother and daughter tried to remember what the actual conversation was about. Oh, TinMan! “He’s lost and alone and… I’d leave him here with Roman, but…”

“Who’s Roman?” The voice again.

“Oh… he’s the one I… ran into last night.”

“Species?”

Larayne fidgeted. Along the long and twisted food chain of their world, humans were actually rather low among the predators. Her mother was a pureblooded elf, but her father, with the exception of a hint of gnomadic Indian common to most Americanians, was human. A half-blooded human, Larayne’s mother knew her daughter was a target for the higher predators of the big city.

“He’s… he’s a nice boy. We spent the whole night talking! JUST talking! He’s from a very old family, and…”—she sighed. The crystal of the communicator merely amplified the chill to her mother’s icy glare. You could not lie to the look—“He’s a vampire.”

Larayne’s mom didn’t need to speak her disapproval. Her expression said it all. Her only response, after a long, uncomfortable pause, was, “Then I suppose you’re right, Larayne. We can’t leave him with Roman. Yes… bring the poor misshapen boy home.”

Larayne beamed. “Oh, thank you, Mommy! We’ll be on the nine o’clock bus, I PROMISE!”

With a beep, the Crystal’s display went dark, and as she looked into the face of TinMan, her beaming smile faded.

He appeared… troubled, and spoke only one word. “Misshapen?”

* * *

The sun was just disappearing. Or at least it would have been if the perpetual cloud cover of Seattle hadn’t been blocking it. Alone, in the basement of the library, Roman sat with red-rimmed eyes. After nine hours of hanging by his toenails, the vampire had found himself simply incapable of sleeping another wink. He first thought had been to risk the daylight. Even the rare bright and sunny day held no mortal risk… not to Roman, anyway. But he had no desire to spend the next week nursing the second-degree burns Seattle’s sun would surely inflict on his sensitive vampire skin.

He’d resigned himself to passing the time and, looking around, found himself in the middle of a room full of time consumers. It was more by a sixth sense* [FOOTNOTE: And if that failed, his watch would have been some indication.] than by the dimming rays of light that passed through the basement’s tiny windows he’d avoided throughout the day that Roman knew the night was finally here… and after three hours of reading sloppy wizard script in the darkest shadows of a basement, he looked—in Larayne’s opinion as they nearly collided… again… on the staircase—undead.

“Oh! You’re up! I was just coming to tell you the good news.”

Roman blinked the sandpaper from his eyes. “Good news?”

“Yes. Mommy says I can bring TinMan back to Tacoma as a houseguest.”

Roman looked past the girl to the golem who was staring in repeated fascination at the rows of ancient scripts and tomes. “TinMan? You’re on a first name basis with…” some monstrous green part of him wanted to say “it,” but ultimately, TinMan was his kind-of friend too, and he resigned to the respectful, “… him?”

“Of course! What, did you think I was going to walk around all day calling him ‘Hey you!’?”

Roman shrugged stupidly. “I just… I thought I’d be taking him from here. You don’t even live around here!”

“And you can only watch over him twelve hours out of the day.” Larayne had no idea whether TinMan could hear her at their current distance from each other, but she suspected a mechanical man’s senses would be sharper than those of a regular human being. She pulled Roman closer and whispered in his ear. “He’s like a child, Roman! Brilliant! But ignorant in a lot of ways. Everything’s new to him, and Seattle is no place for someone to get their first lessons in life.”

“You know what they say. What doesn’t kill him will make him immortal.”

Larayne’s eyes narrowed to two slits. “That some kind of vampire humor?”

Roman’s innocent perplexity was genuine. “It’s a common saying! Well… among the undead, at least.”

“Well, TinMan’s not undead.”

“You’re not saying he’s alive, are you? I’ve bitten into pretty much every species on this planet, and I’m telling you, the most I’d get out of that neck is battery acid!”

Louder than she expected, Larayne retorted, “Life is NOT just flesh and blood!”

She was angry. Roman could smell it, the jump of adrenalin in her blood. She was also, he realized, right, and under the interspecies laws of manhood, he could not admit to being wrong. What made matters worse was the fact that it had now been over twenty-four hours since he’d last fed. Hunger brought out the animal in his nature, and animals never stopped to think before they spoke. When your vocabulary consisted of “woof” or “squeak”, it really didn’t matter what you were saying, and a slip of the tongue rarely ended a friendship initiated with an exchange of social sniffing.

For a moment, a brief moment, he saw in front of him not the young woman he’d spent the previous night gabbing with, but a large meal of steak tar-tar… some disassembly required. His angry glare spoke where his words failed him, and with a flourish, he twisted around her and stormed out the library’s front doors.

* * *

Charles Hicklynn looked at the report with a trembling lip. How long had it been? Fifty-one years? Could it be?

All the data fit his calculations. The temporal wave pattern was identical, the electrical signatures ideal, and far more stable than the signature that had carried him here so long ago. His satellites* [FOOTNOTE: Satellites were among his most recent contributions of science to this world of magic, orbiting through levitation magic rather than the laws of physics. It was quickly discovered that a levitation spell powerful enough to send a machine beyond the Earth’s atmosphere simply didn’t know when to quit once in the weightlessness of space, and so each satellite was equipped with a “Counterweight Pull”—that is to say, a long string with a lead ball on the end that served not only the purpose of anchoring the satellite to the Earth’s gravitational pull, but to provide a means of pulling the satellites back down once their usefulness had expired, thus reducing space debris and enabling the ever eco-conscious Seattlites to “recycle” expired technology.] had triangulated the focal point of the anomaly and his research team had gone to investigate. Their findings only confirmed what he had, to this point, held in faith. Trace chemicals found on-site consisted of High Fructose Corn Syrup, Citric Acid, Sodium Benzoate, Potassium Citrate, Red Number 40, Blue Number 1, and Artificial Grape Flavor. Grape… it can’t be just a coincidence.

“Sir… are you all right?”

With a whir of mechanically aided muscles, Charles looked up at the dark-elf. The clouds of memories past parted to let in the present. He brushed a single tear from his right cheek as the other eye whirled its lenses to refocus.

“Fine, Mander,” he said in a practiced, mechanical calm as he pushed the irrational bits of his psyche safely behind the steel doors of his heart.

“I just thought… for a minute, it looked like…” There were few humans in this world that could unsettle the dark-elf. For the most part, Mander preferred to believe that he controlled Hicklynn’s empire. But at times like this, when sentiment was an obstacle to good business, the dark-elf realized his true place. The illusion of his power was in that he was given free reign in the choosing of his methods. He doubted Hicklynn really cared about the means, so long as the ends met with his approval.

“I have a new assignment for you and your team, Mander. TOP priority.”

“Sir?”

“It’s finally happened, Mander. Another doorway, and without a doubt, something came through.”

Not many creatures knew the true origins of the man behind the Boing empire. Mander was among a select few, and even he didn’t know everything. As far as Charles was concerned, he didn’t need to know everything. As far as Mander was concerned, he didn’t want to know. The richest and most powerful man in the world, his boss, was from another world. A “parallel” world, he called it, though by the similarities his master had sited, Mander knew “parallel” was a completely inappropriate term. But when you stand to inherit the riches and power of the Boing Empire, you didn’t bother correcting the boss on such trivial details.

“I want you to find him, Mander.”

“What if it isn’t a him, Sir?”

Charles’ tone edged with anger scarcely abated. “Him, Her, IT… it doesn’t matter! I want him brought to me now!”

Mander’s lips curled into a greedy smile. He’d received such orders before, and the unspoken command “by whatever means necessary” had always served as his excuse to explore just how dark a dark-elf could be.

Without a word, he nodded, turned and began for the elevator door. There, halfway past the threshold to freedom, Charles Hicklynn’s voice rang out one last time. “Alive, Mander.” The words grated in the drow’s ears like a rusty blade. “I want him alive.”