From Earth Prime With Love

From Earth Prime With Love

I wake up, groggy and confused. My last memory is of sitting down to the latest of an endless series of meetings. I'm not in the office any more. As my vision unblurs I take in my surroundings more clearly.

The room is small with what looks like ceramic walls. I'm standing at the centre of a metal platform with a complex pattern of grooves radiating out from a small metallic blue disc directly beneath my feet. In front of me there is a mirror covering a large portion of the wall next to a small metal door with no visible handle. There are vents at the top of the side walls.

While it's impossible to know the real purpose of the room, if any, it looks exactly like how movies depict teleporters. If so, the mirror should actually be one-way glass, presumably with observers behind it. Preliminary hypothesis: somebody wants me to think I've just been teleported.

I fix my eyes at the point where I guess somebody would be standing behind the one-way mirror. My palms are sweating, but I can't afford to seem weak, nor aggressive. I don't know anything about the disposition of my kidnappers.

"Hello," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I would like to speak to somebody about how I came to be here."

I try to keep from fidgeting. The silence stretches on. I'm halfway determined to try again when a loudspeaker crackles.

"Hello," a male voice says. "Sorry about all this, it's purely precautionary. How are you feeling?"

The phrasing jars with my expectations. It sounds genuine. That increases the likelihood that this is all part of some mind-game.

"I feel fine. Again, I would appreciate an explanation."

"Oh yes, of course," says the voice. "It's quite simple really. You see, the substrate of your dimension moves tangential to ours, and by aligning the neutrinos on transient collision vectors and performing a simple Hohmann transfer between two proximate entities with Boltzmann brains, we have transposed you to your present location."

While I don't fully understand all the terms used, the sentence seems like utter gibberish. Isn't a Hohmann transfer a rocket thing?

"I see."

There's another pause.

"Ah, N has just informed me that I may need to use clearer terms. We teleported you from your dimension to ours."

So my initial suspicion was correct. They apparently expect me to believe that I've been teleported. Across dimensions, what's more. And wait, what was that about "N"?

"Frankly," I say. "I don't believe you."

"None of the others did at first either. We'll get to proving it, not to worry. For now, we just need one thing."

"And what is that one thing?"

"Just answer this honestly. Do you possess the intent or capacity to be a murderer?"

The question makes even less sense than the whole contrived situation. Why kidnap me, pretend I've been teleported, and then ask if I'm a murderer?

"No, I could never take a life in cold blood."

More silence.

"Okay, the readout says that you're telling the truth. Let's get you out of the receiving chamber then."

The door next to the mirror whirrs, then slides open. Not seeing any potential for a trap, I walk through it.

On the other side of the door stand a man and a woman, both with grey hair. The woman looks severe and business-like, dressed in a pant suit, probably in her sixties. The man looks exactly as I pictured him from his voice; quintessentially British, wearing a lab coat and thick-framed glasses, topped off with a comb-over. A little younger than the woman, somehow less threatening despite standing a head and shoulders above her.

"Hello," says the woman. "I am N, I run the agency. This is R, the head of our research division. And you are?"

They don't know my name? No, they probably do, but it suits their absurd bluff.

"I'm Jerry," I say. "Can I ask why I'm here?"

"You're here, Jerry, because we need a new protagonist."

"A new what? Protagonist?"

"Yes, a new protagonist. The last one has died in the line of duty, and there is no time to set up the back-story for a new one. R?"

I'm barely processing what N is saying. It sounds like she's admitting that this is all a fabrication. R begins to speak. "Right, yes. Your universe is, according to the previous candidates, a deterministic product of simple, elegant mathematical formulae interacting in complex ways. Our universe is similar, but with the additional factor of a narrative-control matrix."

"And what exactly does that mean?"

"Well," R says, looking slightly embarrassed. "It means that our universe functions much like some of the movies from yours."

At this point I can't help myself. I start to laugh. When I finish, I look up to see N and R stone-faced.

"If you're done," says N. "We can prove it."

"Oh go on then," I say, still smiling. "I could do with another laugh."

"Berkeley," says N, pointing behind me. "The target on the wall. Ten in the centre."

I turn where she's pointing. A guard I hadn't noticed is standing in front of me. He draws his sidearm, and discharges ten shots at a bullseye twenty metres away. He retrieves the target and hands it to N, who shows me. Ten holes, no more than a few centimetres of spread between them.

"Very good Berkeley. Now shoot Jerry in the head."

"Yes Ma'am." says Berkeley.

Oh god, what? "No, you ca-"

Berkeley points the gun at me and shoots another ten rounds. I shield my face with my hands, far too late to matter. I stay huddled like that for some seconds before I realise that I'm not dead. I do a quick pat-down of my body to verify that I'm not hurt at all.

"What the fuck was that? You tried to kill me!"

"Yes, Jerry, he did. And the same man who just proved he could hit ten bullseyes in a row at twenty metres suddenly couldn't hit you at point blank."

I can feel my face flushing.

"That proves nothing!" I yell. "A marksman like that could intentionally miss. I almost died from your idiotic exercise."

"In your universe, perhaps." says R. "In our universe, protagonists have what is called 'plot armour'. It protects them from bodily harm except where it serves the plot."

"You people are mad. Do you honestly believe what you're saying?"

N shakes her head. "Another sceptic then. R, show him the gadget room."

R gestures. "Right this way." He begins walking. I'm still fuming, but I follow along anyway.

The sight of the gadget room renders me speechless. It's wall-to-wall with devices being tested. There's lasers, tiny explosives, sonic limpet mines, bullet-proof body armour, and dozens of other things that appear inconsistent with real-world physics.

The lasers have colourful lines shooting from them. The explosives detonate in flames, with no pressure waves. The sonic limpet mines hit the resonant frequency of glass and other materials and disintegrate them. The body armour stops even high-calibre bullets outright, with no damage to the target.

And thinking back on it, didn't Berkeley fire 20 bullets from his pistol without reloading? There were no ricochets, nobody was deafened from the noise. That's not how guns work, except in movies.

Within three hours I've satisfied my curiosity and probably irritated all the technicians with my requests. The physics here is nonsense. I've narrowed it down to three possibilities: (a) I'm going insane, (b) somebody with enormous resources is trying to delude me, or (c) I really am in an alternate plane of reality.

In any case, I'm not going to get more information by huddling in a corner. I tell R I'm ready and he leads me to N.

"Satisfied?" she asks. I nod in response. "Good, then it's time for your briefing." She gestures at the screen behind her. "This is Gaia's Widow. She is a supervillain who has been a thorn in our side for years."

Gaia's Widow is a somewhat plain woman with short black hair and a cruel smile. In truth, she is only plain in comparison to the stunningly beautiful women who have been performing their duties in the background. She's a darn sight prettier than my ex-wife.

"She is an eco-terrorist, who wants to eliminate all humans who threaten the environment. Based on her actions, that would be everyone who is not part of her organisation. She is currently threatening the leaders of major countries throughout the world to cease all mining operations immediately. She claims to have six neutron bombs capable of killing everyone in a large city, and our past interactions lead us to believe she is not bluffing."

The back of my neck prickles. Something about this seems very familiar. Not the specifics, but the formula. What was it they said earlier, that they need a "protagonist"? I wonder whether they know that their universe is more or less a poor-quality James Bond rip-off. "N" and "R" for crying out loud. It's practically plagiarism.

"Let me guess, you don't know where she is."

N raises an eyebrow in surprise. "Indeed, we have no idea. Generally only protagonists can have the key insight that leads to discovering a supervillain's base. We've got a helicopter ready to take you to the beginning of the trail of clues now."

"Don't bother." I say, smiling. "If I understand how your universe works correctly, we can figure it out without leaving this room."

"How?"

"Foreshadowing. Has there been any high-profile supervillain activity lately?"

"Some, yes." says N, her eyebrows furrowed. "An ambassador from the Middle East has been kidnapped, somebody stole the designs for a cold fusion reactor, a stealth carrier is missing, the moon-base launch was-"

"Stop. It's the carrier. Gaia's Widow needs to launch the bombs somehow, and a stealth carrier makes for an efficient narrative. Find the carrier and you'll find her."

N looks at the techs working the computers behind me and R. "Well? Don't just gawk, get to it." She gestures to me. "Come on, we've got to get you ready for the assault."

"We're not sending you in alone, of course." she says while we walk. "Agent Nasonov will accompany you. She defected from Russia thanks to the charms of our last protagonist. This will be a training mission for the both of you."

We arrive at a room filled with guns and gadgets, but I don't notice any of that. Standing in the centre of the room is a woman I presume is Nasonov. She's easily the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, even dressed for combat. Somehow her uniform doesn't seem all that practical, but I'm not complaining. Nasonov must be freezing with her midriff bare and those short pants.

She looks at me with startlingly blue eyes. "Ah," she says. "You must be Jerry. It is a pleasure." Her words carry a trace of an accent. I'm suddenly uncomfortably aware of how much weight I've put on in the last six months.

"Agent Nasonov is a protagonist too, but from our world." says N. "That's one of the perks of defecting. It virtually always raises your narrative status."

"Yes. It sets up many opportunities and grants a certain degree of immunity. Well worth it, I feel."

My heart is still pounding. I realise that I haven't yet said anything. What am I even supposed to say?

"We should get ready I guess." Idiot. Absolute idiot.

"Certainly." says Nasonov, and she beams. I have to force myself to stop staring and start getting ready.

"Well then, I'll leave you to it." says N. "Good luck Agent Nasonov, Jerry. NI7 is counting on you."

In the fifteen minutes it takes to get ready I don't make eye contact or say anything more than a mumbled "thanks" as Nasonov shows me how to strap a holster on.

Once we're done, she leads the way to the helicopter. I try my hardest not to stare at her entrancing walk. It feels like I'm thinking through treacle.

The helicopter flight seems to pass in no time at all. Is this a product of the universe we're in, skipping incidental scenes, or am I just that distracted? I breathe deep and force myself to concentrate. Why did I agree to go along with this? I've never fired a gun, and until earlier today I hadn't been shot at.

Think. If I were in a universe that ran on narrativium, how would I expect things to be different?

Well, for starters, the physics would be simplified greatly. People could make impossible gadgets with no regard for the impracticalities, like playing the telephone game with the laws of reality. Check.

Boring scenes like travel and preparation would fly by in no time. Check.

For any given narrative, there'd be a cast of a few main characters with people in the background playing minor roles. A male and female lead would probably end up with a romantic subplot. Check, or is that just wishful thinking?

The heroes would be courageous, with flawless intuitions and skills always slightly better than the challenge being faced. I'd have to verify it, but I'd say my headstrong rush into danger means that applies too. Check.

The idea that my decisions are being perverted to serve some spy-movie narrative is frightening, but it fits with what I've observed.

As I finish that thought, the helicopter touches down. Nasonov and I hop out onto a small island and it flies off. No way back now. Nasonov assembles an inflatable boat from the equipment bag. Before I know it we're pulling up alongside the carrier.

"Do you have a plan, Jerry?" says N through my ear-piece.

I look at Nasonov. "A full-frontal assault."

Nasonov gasps. "Are you mad?" says N. "You'd be captured instantly."

"And how many missions have you overseen that didn't involve the protagonists being captured?"

"None. You're saying..."

"Yes," I say with what my ex-wife would have called 'total smugness'. "I'm saying that the failure of the plan and subsequent capture is an inevitable part of a spy narrative. We may as well expedite the process."

Do I really have that much faith in this hypothesis? I try to remember how I came to believe it. Somehow I remember proving it to myself very quickly, but I know it took almost three hours. Has my perception been warped since the beginning?

"Very well. Good luck, Jerry."

"You're so brave, Jerry." says Nasonov. We make and hold eye contact. "I never told anyone this, but I never actually went on any missions in Russia. I worked behind a desk before defecting. I'm scared."

"Don't worry, Nasonov." I say, brushing her hair behind her ear. "You'll be fine. This is my first time too, remember?"

"Please, Jerry, call me Anna."

In real life, this would never happen. I'm struck by a sudden horror. This is a fantasy. I'm lying comatose in a hospital having a narcissistic dream. Then the thought passes.

"Come on Anna, we've got a world to save."

We climb up a grappling hook onto the carrier. There's a guard at the top, and I dispatch him calmly and silently as if I've had years of practice. Nasonov takes one out, but he lets out a strangled yell before he falls. Soon alarms are sounding, and a horde of guards are rushing out.

Nasonov and I defeat dozens of them, some hand-to-hand and some with gun-fire. There's very little blood. Everyone dies quickly and cleanly. It doesn't even occur to me to care about the people who are dying or their families.

Eventually, we're both out of ammunition. We stand there, panting, surrounded by guards aiming AK-47s directly at us. They knock out Anna, and then me.

I come to chained to a pipe of some sort, Anna on a similar pipe opposite. Gaia's Widow is standing a few armlengths away, dressed in a hoodie and sweat-pants. She's smiling that same cruel smile from the briefing photo.

"Awake at last? Good. Now you two can bear witness to my plan before you die."

What is it they normally say in this sort of situation? Something to get the villain to monologue. "There's no way you'll succeed. NI7 will stop you even if we fail."

Gaia's Widow looks at me, and Anna takes advantage of the distraction to start trying to quietly escape her restraints.

"Are you trying to get me to tell you my plan? Jerry, you should know better than that. That's the sort of thing a moustache-twirling cartoon villain does."

"You want to kill millions of people. You are the cartoon villain of this story."

Gaia's Widow laughs. "Oh Jerry, you've got it all wrong. Before you start trying to follow a narrative you have to be sure what sort of story you're in." She takes a gun from a holster and shoots Anna in the head. Anna falls limp immediately. Dead.

Oh god, she's dead. But she's a protagonist! What happened to plot armour?

"From the look on your face, Jerry, you're wondering how I was able to do that. I've got news for you; I'm a protagonist too."

My head is spinning. Things weren't meant to go like this. This isn't how a spy-movie normally unfolds.

Gaia's Widow walks closer. "I'm the reason NI7 asks new recruits whether they're murderers and analyses the results. I'm the reason they teleport you into sealed rooms that can be filled with gas if the machine spits out the wrong answer." She smiles. "I'm the reason they need to draw protagonists from other universes at all."

"But... why?"

"Because these plastic imitations of people ripped me from my own universe and imprisoned me here. By their own admission only a tiny fraction of story-critical people in this universe have free will. They're destroying their planet and each other because the plot demands it. I'm going to stop them. That's the story here; a new order, forged from the ruins of the old."

"You're killing millions to save billions?"

"Yes. NI7 and agencies like it are guardians of the status quo, protecting systems which sow death and reap pain. They keep sending agents to stop me, to keep their machine spinning." She sighs. "It's lonely being the only real person in the universe. That's why you're still alive, Jerry. Will you join me?"

Could I? I killed dozens to get here without a care. Either I'm more callous than I thought, or this universe does trivialise death. With control over our fate, we could create a better world for everyone, even if we had to kill some to do it. The narrative drive of this universe would shy away from peaceful moves to a new world. Too dull. Only the dramatic revolution could work. Yes, I think I could.

"Yes, I will join you."

"Too bad." Gaia's Widow laughs again, long and hard. She wipes her eyes. "Ah, that never gets old. Sorry, Jerry, this is a one-woman operation."

She puts the gun to my head and pulls the trigger.