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The MethSoc Story So Far"Well hello everyone, welcome to this evening's Methsoc open evening," said Kim, bringing everyone to order. "As you know this evening is about Show and Tell, where people bring things in and tell the rest what it's for and so on. So, who wants to start?" "I will," said Benedict, standing up and wielding an axe. "This is basically a huge knife -" at this point Dave's eyes lit up with glee "- and I use it when I go off and do battle recreation and so forth." He sat down, Dave still fidgeting in his seat. "Dave," said Kim, "why don't you show us what you've brought?" Chris and Mikie scampered out as Dave, Martin and Matt stood up. "Well, the methsocmathmos (all one word) were inspired by last summer's Mad Methsoc Story so we decided to pool all our knowledge together and build.... this!" With an eccentric flourish of his arms, he waved towards a big book that was being wheeled in by Chris and Mikie. "It's a book," said Tim sardonically. "No, not just any book," said Matt, "it's a portal." "A portal into the world of fiction," finished Martin, "and in fact we went there and played our roles in the Mad Methsoc Story as well. Quite a paradox!" "So can we do anything with it?" asked Tom. "Yes," replied Mikie, "in fact we've been into fiction several times and found several things we want to show you. However it's vitally important that we stick together and keep this key and map with us, else we'd get lost and never escape." He showed everyone a big, thin key and a scribbled map on the back of some Methods example sheets. At this point Steve Hardiman bashed open the door of the Upper Room brandishing tea and coffee, bumping into Mikie and causing him to drop the key and map he was holding. The key fell to the ground close to the big book, splintered into three pieces which then, along with the map, tumbled into the book. "Oh great," said Dave, over murmurings of "Oh, Mikie!", "now we're not going to be able to go. Without those, we can't get out, so we shouldn't go in." "Oh well, never mind. Thanks for bringing it anyway," said Kim as everyone sat down again. At this point Peter Graves wandered in. "Ah, it's so good to see young people using the Upper Room," he mumbled, "what's this you've got here? A big book? What does it s-" and he was gone. "Oh no, what do we do now?" said Chris. "The key and map are gone, Peter Graves is stuck in the world of fiction and we don't have any real Bourbon biscuits!" --------------------- An hour later, the argument was still raging. Benedict was enthusiastically urging that a commando-style search party should be sent to recover Peter Graves (although he did seem more interested in finding some Bourbons!). Chris and the other methsocmathmos were busily explaining how a careful manipulation of Quantum-thingamajigs and by exploiting the fragmentation of the space-time continuinuinuum ("Look, just think of it as a big rubber sheet that's been stretched, yeah, take this bin-liner for instance, sorry, didn't realise it was full, but if you put a couple of heavy weights on it, you can see how it stretches -- well, don't put your foot under there, it wasn't meant to break -- and that sort of shows what continuinuinuum really is") could be used to locate the key fragments and map. Al and Rachel were too busy trying to show everybody their Sicilian photos to bother very much about the portal (though Al mentioned that no self-respecting catering secretary would ever dream of running out of biscuits). In a corner, Jon was busy trying to persuade people to go out and burn (sorry -- microwave) some heretics, but nobody was really listening all that much. In the end, it was Steven who got the greatest consensus from everybody, by suggesting that everybody wait until they could have a nice cup of tea (or raw tea-bag, in Chris' case). Unfortunately, in the short but vicious altercation between Nick and Kim over who would get the last custard-cream, the teapot was knocked flying, only to hit the Book and spray everybody with drops of Earl Grey. As the thunder rolled and the lights flickered and failed, all that could be heard was the evil and twisted laughter of a pair of twisted evil geniuses...
Dave and Angel stood back from the scene of apparent devastation. It wasn't classic 'Evil Geniuses for Dummies material' but managing to get everyone else trapped in the same place in the time it takes to say 'Steven Cooper' was rather impressive. 'Now do they have to look like Captain Hook?' 'More to the point, did they fall through the same page?' 'And why am I stuck here with you of all people?' 'You don't have to be - you can always jump into the book, if that's preferable. Just a thought though - everyone seems to be trapped in different pages. I thought it was the book as a whole, not the book by parts, but as we're still mortal, I guess we can only do things by parts.' 'Will you shut up? I'm trying to think?' 'Look, we don't know where the key fell in, and if it's the same place as Peter Graves. And if it's all the same to you, I can think of better places to be stuck.' 'Thanks for your vote of confidence. Look, I can either revert to type and become a knife-wielding maniac, or we can use our brains and think our way out of here.' '?' 'On second thoughts, maybe that was a bit too optimistic.' --------------------- Dave very carefully picked up the open book and peered into the open page. The last group of unfortunates to be ensnared were huddled together, occasionally looking about them in shock. Dave showed the book to Angel and they both watched. Dave muttered, "It seems that we may be able to do nothing but sit back and watch, listen...". The book (being a magic book and all) was able to reproduce both sound and picture and the two evil geniuses sat back. "Well," said Matthew, "I suppose it could be worse..?" "We're floating on the surface of a pond, in what appears to be a gigantic version of Emmanuel, and huge 40 feet ducks are throwing chunks of bread at us, it could be worse how?" replied Chris. Kim and Martin were discussing ducks, and the different way that they looked when six times larger, rather than six times smaller than you. "Gosh!" exclaimed Chris as a chunk of bread landed inches away from him sending the surface of the pond rocking. "Look, we really need to decide what to do about all this," Matthew suggested, scanning the horizon for incoming bread bombs. "Hmmm, yes. Let me see. What we need is the map and the key, and then we can start to think about getting out of here." "Well thanks," replied Matthew, somewhat sarcastically. "Hadn't thought of that!" "No need for that," said Chris. "Fortunately the methsocmathmos user list is built to withstand such temporal and spatial problems as the one we currently find ourselves in. If we find a computer we should be able to find out what's happened to the others. Maybe they'd be able to help." "OK, let's drag these two away from their ducks and see what we can do. You do realise that there's only another three of us out there, one is a knife wielding maniac and another is Mikie?" "True, but there's always Steven, if he's not still looking for biscuits." After a short struggle Kim and Martin were persuaded to leave the ducks alone. The four of them were then chased to Martin's room by the gigantic ducks, which seemed to be shouting, "Look they don't even bother to fly away! We could step on one if we weren't careful." They scaled the stairs and clambered onto Martin's desk. Martin started jumping on his keyboard, and eventually they logged on. The message posted ("Being chased by giant ducks, everyone OK?"), the four wait for a reply...
Jon and Sarah looked about in amazement. A real London pea souper was billowing around them and they could hear the clatter of horses driving around the cobbled streets. A sign above them informed them of their presence in Baker Street. "We're in Victorian London!" exclaimed Sarah. "Baker Street... will they have microwaves?" asked Jon, still sore from not being able to microwave any heretics. "No! But I know what Baker Street does have, come on!" She started off down the road before arriving at an unremarkable doorway. "221B Baker Street! You know who lives here, don't you?" She rang the bell. Shortly, a small woman opened the door. "I'd like to speak to Mr Sherlock Holmes, please," said Sarah. The woman beckoned and they followed her up the stairs. The door opened onto a warm room, filled with chemical smoke, the sound of a violin permeating the aether. They looked out but the windows were thick and oily from the smog. "Ah, you've arrived. I deduce that you are Jon and Sarah Amery, and you are here because you want to leave London but do not know how. Am I correct?" "Well, yes..." stammered Jon. "But how did you-" "Never mind about that. This is Dr Whatson-" "Did you just say Dr Whatson?" interrupted Sarah. "Why yes," said a small man with a bristly moustache getting up from an armchair. "What matter is it?" "This means we're in the Epistle," said Jon, as Mrs. Hadsome came running into the room. "Mr Holmes, Mr Holmes! There's a world mustard shortage and your long-lost cousin Archibald has returned!" In an instant she keeled forwards as a glint of silver was visible behind her. "Cybermen!" shouted Jon... *** Back in the Upper Room, Dave decided to act. "Quick, give me a pen!" he shouted. Angel handed him one and he started to scribble. "We've got to save them from the Cybermen. I'm going in!" Quick as a flash, he was gone. Angel stood for a moment, then picked up the book and read on. *** "You are our prisoners. You will come with us. Resistance is futile," chanted the Cyberleader, as the sound of a TARDIS filled the room. Seconds later Dave stuck his head round the door and said, "Jon, Sarah, in here!" They dashed in, and seconds later, it was gone. "Glad I caught you in time. Anyway, we have to find the others and then the key and get out of here. For some reason Angel and I weren't sucked in with the rest of you." The TARDIS stopped, the lights going down. A voice filled the console room. "We are Borg. Your technological and cultural distinctiveness will be added to our own. Resistance is futile." "I think we've entered the science fiction part of the World of Fiction," said Dave edgily. Jon and Sarah looked at him, eyebrows raised...
Meanwhile, Benedict was in clover. Rolling about, completely ecstatic, was a large, friendly and well-fed hunting dog, who clearly enjoyed grass that had been out-grown by its clover. As far as the eye could see, grasslands stretched away, until the horizon took over -- but was that dark colour as sky and land met a dark and mysterious forest? There was only one way of finding out! Picking up his axe, Benedict strode boldly forwards, ready to face whatever destiny had placed before him. After perhaps half an hour, a commotion made itself known to him. It appeared that a large band of rather brutish and malodorous individuals were heading towards the forest at some speed. In rapid pursuit was a body of distinctly Anglo-Saxon looking horsemen. And behind them were two figures running full tilt, followed by what must be an extremely short third figure, judging from the spiky helmet moving at a jog through the tall grass. "What funny locals," he muttered, before turning round and almost walking into a figure in black armour, which seemed peculiarly devoid of limbs. Despite a hasty apology, the Black Knight took a rather offended tone: "Come back! I'll bite your legs off!"
Carys woke up in the middle of a forest, the trees looming oppressively around her, bearing down upon her. She scrabbled to her feet as two hapless unfortunates walked past. "I'm hungry. Are you lost?" "No, I'm Found, but I think we're lost, Lost..." Wanting to get away from these strange people, dressed in mediaeval costume and magical earplugs, she backed slowly away from them until she heard scratching and rustling behind her. She turned round to see three witches standing there. There also was Mark, who came over to her and said, "Ah, there you are. We're just about to invoke some ancient Discworldy-type rite to summon Death. Do you want to watch?" Carys mumbled something and turned as the witches started chanting and dancing around their cauldron... *** Back in the TARDIS console room, Dave was trying to restore power to the controls whilst Jon and Sarah were trying to reason with the Borg. "It's no good," shouted Dave, "I can't think how to break free!" "Your vessel will be boarded in 30 of your seconds. Resistance is futile," came the voice, omnipresent and oppressive. *** The chanting got louder and louder as the witches danced more and more feverishly. Mark turned to Carys. "Do you think this'll work?" *** "10, 9, 8..." came the voice. "Hold on, what's happening?" shouted Dave as the walls of the TARDIS started to shimmer and power seemed to glint within the interstitial gravity drive. He flicked more switches. "The controls are dead but there seems to be some sort of power leaking in!" "That's great," replied Sarah, "but can you get us out of here?" "6, 5, 4..." continued the voice, having said 7 whilst Dave and Sarah were talking... *** Suddenly a final wail was emitted from the dancers. A long, shrill wail and the air visibly shook before their eyes. Carys and Mark ran behind a tree and peered out at the fiery scene... *** "3..." "We're moving! I don't know how, but we're moving!" "2..." The drive whirred into gear. "1..." *** The familiar grinding sound died away and the door opened. The witches stared in amazement as out stepped a tall figure who turned cheerily and said, "Good evening, or good afternoon, or whatever. I'm Dave and I see you've met my friends Carys and Mark. Do you to care to join us?" They didn't need to be asked twice. They ran into the Police Box, leaving the witches to their cauldron. The blue box vanished with the sound with which it had appeared. "He wasn't Death, was he?" asked one witch. "I don't know, but we'd best not try that rite again. He seemed very odd," said another. "When shall we three meet again?" put in the third, "Next Tuesday OK for everyone?" *** "Next stop, Charles Dickens," said Dave. "Charles Dickens? But we've just come from Victorian London," replied Jon, confusedly. "Aha, you came from the Epistle, not Charles Dickens. I have a good idea where we can find that map..."
Meanwhile, Kim was becoming distinctly bored. Martin, Chris and Matthew were having a highly complex mathematical conversation about how they might, with the aid of various hypothetical instruments, manipulate time to allow them to exceed the speed of light and somehow travel forwards or backwards. The only part of the conversation she had understood in the last ten minutes was Martin's enthusiastic suggestion that if they went back in time to the day the Methsoc unofficial photograph was taken they could *really* swap Steven's head with Peter Graves' and save all the time it took to cut and paste on his computer! "Are you ok?" asked Chris. "Don't worry, if we could only differentiate the cube root of x(y-z) and then divide by r to the power of s we could find the value of uberdoom, which, when multiplied by infinity over 1 would tell us..." "...that we're quite doomed really?" she interrupted, having somehow failed to be very much reassured by this mathematical dexterity. He looked somewhat disappointed. "It's OK," she replied, "I haven't got any better ideas. Maybe I'll just sit quietly in this corner by the door and keep myself out of the way." She sat down and picked up one of Martin's multiple bibles to peruse, to pass the time away. The giant ducks were quacking loudly outside the door in a most disturbing way. It seemed that they had something to say to her. She glanced round and almost jumped out of her skin! A pair of eyes and a beak were confronting her through the slit where the door hinges were. The duck was quacking away and suddenly she found that she did after all know what it was saying. "Quack quack quack," she replied, "quack! Quack quack quack!" "We know all about your duck obsession but it's not particularly funny right now," said Martin, "especially when we're trying to solve something even more complicated than an analysis example sheet." The three methsocmathmos continued to work with their heads down over Martin's computer until suddenly an almighty crash made them all turn around. The door appeared to have been lifted off its hinges. "Where's Kim?" someone asked. She was gone. Suddenly Martin grabbed Chris's arm and shook with fear. Silently he pointed to a line of wobbly yellow writing that had appeared on the wall. It read: "The Chamber of Secrets has been reopened. The Heir of Quackeryn has returned. Friends of the heir beware."
Steven opened his eyes and looked about him. He seemed to be in a very curious town. Everything there was pretty much the same items as were usually found in a small town, (for example houses, shops, cars, people and zebra crossings) but they were all somewhat out of proportion and in very strange colours. He did a double take as a stick thin woman with tight curls of bright orange hair and ridiculously high-heeled shoes led a balloon-like child with no knees over a green and white zebra crossing towards a pink and brown shop. Where on earth could he be? All he had wanted was some real chocolate biscuits! His stomach was still rumbling -evidently people didn't stop being hungry in the world of fiction! Come to think of it, the shop across the street looked rather good... It seemed to be some sort of sweet shop. He crossed the road (narrowly avoiding being run over by a small round yellow car driven somewhat higher than the level of the road by a distinctly juvenile looking driver) and went in. There seemed to be something of an argument in progress. A young worried looking man in uniform seemed to want to buy up the entire shop, which was not going down well with the shop keeper. "But Mr Salt demanded that I he should have every Wonka bar produced," whined the young man despairingly. "If I do not comply he will sack me! It's his daughter you see ..." While this was going on a small, bedraggled little boy ran into the shop. He had a smiley face and suffered slightly less than the others from the disproportions, which seemed to characterise this world. The shopkeeper turned to him (the young man having subsided into a huddle of tears and wringing of hands). "Yes Charlie, what can I do for you?" he asked. "Oh no sir, this man was next," replied the small boy, motioning to Steven. "You go ahead," replied Steven, "I don't know what to choose." He looked around at the somewhat unfamiliar stock of giant sized coloured drink cans which looked more like Pringles packets, and huge flat candy bars and jars of psychedelic coloured sweets. "Oh, ok thanks! I'll have a Wonka bar please!" Suddenly Steven realised that he did recognise this place. Something in his memory stirred at the second mention of "Wonka". It was the world of Quentin Blake's illustrations to Charlie and The Chocolate Factory! "You never know, you might even strike it lucky and find one of them there golden tickets in that." the shopkeeper commented to Charlie, confirming Steven's suspicions. "Now, what can I get you sir?" "I'll have a Wonka bar too please," replied Steven. Somehow he didn't suppose that they sold Bourbons and any chocolate would do really he supposed. "Thanks." Leaving the shop he started to unwrap the gaudy foil, wondering what fictional chocolate would taste like. Suddenly a flash of something shiny caught his eye. It was gold! Quickly he unwrapped further and pulled out a golden piece of paper. He had found a golden ticket!!!
"This doesn't look much like Victorian London to me," complained Carys, looking around the large control room with all its buttons and flashing lights. The TARDIS hummed slightly in the corner. Dave turned round. "No, it seems that once again the old girl's brought us to the wrong place, but this time we have a stroke of luck. This looks to be the control room of this whole world. Look, over there..." He pointed to a monitor, on which was Benedict, climbing up a very tall tower on what looked to be a long rope, but when he got to the top he was met by a strikingly beautiful young lady. After looking around a bit, he saw the toothed part of the key sitting on the cabinet, pretending to be a comb. "He's got a bit of the key!" said Sarah excitedly, and then pointed to another screen. On it Steven had unwrapped his Wonka chocolate bar to find a golden ticket, but only to realise that it was in fact the map of the world. Meanwhile Dave and Jon were trying to make sense of the controls. After pushing loads of buttons and things, Dave announced, "Right, we've collapsed the world down to just.. erm... Harry Potter. It seems that Kim has been taken by the Heir of Quackeryn. We have to find out what's going on." "So you mean that everyone who came into the world from the Upper Room is now in Harry Potter reality?" asked Mark. "Well yes, except for us, of course. But yes, the others should be meeting themselves very soon down there. At least now we've got rid of all those other storylines," sighed Dave. "And me, of course..." The voice made them spin round. They all looked in horror and amazement at the figure before them. "You!" shouted Dave... ---------------------------------- A large cloaked figure stood before them, the sound of hoarse breathing emanating from beneath a shiny black mask (apparently made out of bakelite). "Yes, here in the heart of Dickensian London. Surely you didn't believe that you were in control of this fiasco? No, I tell you, I have been able to control all of your actions up until now. You are weak, Doctor, and I shall rule over you all some day. It is your destiny." Darth Graves towered over them all. Dave (the Doctor) tried to return to his TARDIS, but found that he was unable to move, and the TARDIS was suddenly flung into the corner of the room where it hung precariously from the ceiling. Mark, Carys, Jon and Sarah were equally immobilised, and Darth Graves marched towards the controls that Dave had been using only moments before. -------------------------------- A sound made them turn round sharply. 'I never had you down for an Angel in flowing white robes with a halo and BGFS. I guess I'm being proved wrong.' Saz stepped back to look at the apparition. 'Swords on your left, sabres on your right. Mr Graves, a word now, if you please. I understand you managed a sermon on Sunday that provided no amusement value whatsoever, and merely consisted of a string of random factors put together.' 'ANGEL! How nice to have our member of the heavenly hosts among us once more. Won't you join our little gathering?' 'Don't stroke him - he purrs.' The creature stepped towards Dave and bent over him, in spite of Angel's words. 'No. Don't touch him. He purrs. He also likes attacking people, and writing Counterpoint. With words. He's rather good at it actually. Now then. Mr Graves. How do you please?' 'Not guiltily - I always try to yield to temptation with good grace if at all possible.' Another voice made them turn round. 'Now then, what are you doing here? 10 points from Peterhouse. Each. And if I catch another word from your lips, then it will be a hundred. With detention. Miss Grang... Underdown? You were going to say something.' Carys's lip quivered, and she shook her head. 'No, Professor Snape.' The professor noted the lack of her trademark mane, and appraised it, all the time commanding nothing other than stillness from the remainder of the group. 'It's called a haircut, Professor Snape.' Carys had regained her remaining wits enough to speak. 'I see no great difference.' Carys choked back a laugh, and his lip twitched. 'Now then. I see that I shall have to do something here.' McGonagall joined them for a moment. 'But... Won't that kind of blow your cover as a spy for the Dark Lord?' 'The chancellor of Oxford is currently - indisposed, and the likelihood of any of those nitwits that pass for professors and spies managing to find me here is somewhat limited. Miss... Angel...' His lip curled with distaste. 'It's Miriam'. Angel scowled at Saz for a minute, then responded. 'To him, Angel. Pure and Simple. You watch your mouth.' The latter comment Angel directed to Snape. Annoyance or amusement, but his lip curled at this unexpected insouciance. 'Pure and Simple - not how I would have described you with my first thoughts. I assume that given you are able to enter at will, you are also able to leave at will.' 'Yes - but I need to return him -' she indicated Darth Graves '- to the library. I borrowed him a couple of weeks ago on DVD and he's somewhat overdue.' 'You mean you voluntarily borrowed *that* from the library?' Mark's expression modulated between shock and minor amusement. 'I had to do something to keep that lot amused. The TARDIS should work now, though. And you might want to take Pomfrey, McGonagall and Sprout with you.' She indicated the three witches. Dave was put out. 'You expect me to leave now, letting you take all the glory, having written yourself into the starring role in this story?' 'Hardly starring - I was being left out till this point. I'd assumed the others had done so for a reason, so I thought I'd stick my head through the door. Now, I'll take Mr Graves and be off. You didn't expect me to rescue you? Oh, and the rule of the big book is that of the book on the island of the Dufflepuds.' She and Snape disapparated, leaving the rest to themselves. 'Well, actually...' Jon was half talking to himself. 'OK - I don't have a clue what's going on, and I'm not sure I wish to. I suggest if you want me to help then we get into something other than Dr Who, Harry Potter, or other random fantasy stories.' Mark sat back and crossed his legs, languidly. 'What a good idea Mr Rowland. How does Narnia suit?' ---------------- As Carys finished speaking, Dave surveyed the scene. In a matter of moments, he had seen Peter Graves be taken away by Angel, along with Professor Snape, and they now had three witches to return to the world of Harry Potter before finding the others. "Done it!" shouted Jon. "I've placed everyone in Narnia, although Kim is still missing. And if I push these buttons..." as he did so, the witches started to fade... "yes, they've been returned to their rightful places in fiction." "Excellent," said Dave, "now let's get down to the others. We still need two pieces of the key, the ring part and the stick part. Back to the TARDIS!" They dashed in, and within seconds the control room was empty.
"Quiet down, please! I know we've all had pretty strange experiences but we need to find out where we are!" shouted Chris, taking on a form not seen since Leeds. "As the ex-president I shall assume full responsibility until we can find the present incumbent!" "We're on a ship," said Tim sarcastically, "and unless I'm very much mistaken, it's the Dawn Treader." "But where is everyone?" asked Janet. "Surely Dave hasn't been round with his knives yet..." A familiar noise made them turn round, as Dave, Carys, Jon, Sarah and Mark stepped out of the TARDIS. "No, not yet. But if we're going to do anything on this voyage I suggest someone takes the helm and we take charge of this ship. We might find Kim on one of the Lone Islands if we're lucky. Captain Rayson, the helm is yours!" Dave bowed and assumed the navigator's position, as Chris stepped forward and barked commands to the Methsoccers, who scurried around to their duties...
Martin and Matthew looked at each other, at least one eyebrow raised. It's not very often that people vanish before your very eyes, or that in doing so they leave a small puddle of saltwater and seaweed behind them, but Christopher had just done so. "Well that's Chris AND Kim gone. We're not doing very well are we?" asked Matthew. "Suppose not," said Martin. "Well, let's see if we can find Kim at least. The ducks seems to have disappeared, and things seem to have regained their usual proportions." "The ducks have gone?" Martin's face fell. "Yes, come on..." Matthew dragged Martin out of his room and onto the stairs. As they were going down a group of noisy tourists were heard at the bottom of the stairs. In desperation Matthew reached for one of the doors-that-is-not-a-door on the staircase. He dragged Martin in and slammed it shut behind him. "Why did you do that?" asked Martin. "And why's it snowing out here?" "Pardon?" Matthew opened his eyes. They seemed to be standing in a clearing in forest. Snow lay about them, and in the centre of the clearing stood a Victorian lamppost. "Hmm," said Matthew. "Guess this is Narnia then. Let's get going." "But where to?" asked Martin, trying to work out what was going on. "Cair Paravel, of course. I'm sure everyone else will be there. We've just got to head West for a bit, I think..." ------------------------------------------------------- Benedict was taking a bit of time out at the top of his tower drinking tea with the lady he'd just rescued. She seemed a cheerful, if slightly dotty sort, and he was enjoying himself. All of a sudden a terrible knocking came at the door. Benedict jumped up, grabbed his axe and ran to the door. Outside stood a small bearded figure, a dwarf perhaps. It spoke: "Hi, I'm Mikie. I was Lost, but now I'm Found, or at least I've found you. I've got to give you a message. At least I think it's to you. You look like you fit the part. Your name wouldn't be Benedict, would it? Probably not. I'm not all that good at this sort of thing you know..." "Yes, I'm Benedict. Out with it, my tea is getting cold..." "Oh, you are. Well I'm to tell you that you are in fact an old Narnian, in line to the throne in fact, and not a Telmarine as you were brought up. I'm to take you to Cair Paravel." Benedict had been getting a bit bored anyway, so after a few minutes to say goodbye he gathered up his armour and weapons and left with Mikie. --------------------------------------------- Back on board the ship, Janet watched on as Captain Rayson continued to issue commands to the confused Methsoccers, which were followed with a worrying degree of obedience. A short while later, Chris was satisfied that the ship was prepared for departure and everyone took up their positions. Jon and Sarah were to take charge of the controls, Carys and Mark were on lookout duty and Tim was to take the position of second-in-command. Dave, in his newfound position as navigator had spent the last few minutes trying to work out quite where they were actually going to go in order to find the missing bits of key, but more importantly to find Kim. "So, Dave, where are we going?" asked Chris. "Er, well, I'm not entirely sure where these so-called Lone Islands actually are, but I suggest we set off in an easterly direction (or at least whatever direction east on this ship's compass actually is...)" Jon started up the motor and the ship was just beginning to leave as Janet (who was completely and utterly bemused by the whole situation having not been at the Revue due to being a Shepherd piper in the Homerton Christmas Concert, and having somehow managed to enter the mysterious world without travelling via the Upper Room) shouted, "Hang on, wait for me, I'm coming with you!" She leapt on board just as the ship began to gather speed and it disappeared off into the distance in an apparently easterly direction ... ------------------------------------- Matthew and Martin were walking. It was cold, and getting late. Martin noticed something. "Erm, the Sun's behind us," he said. "Of course, we're walking We... oh." Matthew replied. "Always did have a problem with East and West, and it seems so silly to keep saying Naughty Elephants Squirt Water all the time. Never mind, we're still going in the right direction, towards the right of the map. Sorry." "That's OK," Martin rolled his eyes. They walked on.
Janet awoke on the ship. Her dream had been very vivid, and it seemed a long time since they'd set off on the Dawn Treader, she'd seen some very strange things since then. And now they were going back, though they had failed to find the things that they were looking for. Suddenly land was sighted to the West "Land Ahoy!" "Lone Islands up ahead," shouted Captain Chris. And they were. "Umm," said Tim, sounding bemused, but in a sarcastic sort of way just to keep up appearances. "Surely if it's 'Lone' how can there be more than one of them? How can you have Lone Islands?" "Well, if one island is a set of entities defined by..." Captain Chris began in Mathmo, that bizarre dialect that almost sounds like real English if you don't listen very hard. "Why don't we just run into them?" Dave suggested. "That would prove they exist." The islands were already looming quite large on the horizon, in defiance of common sense but in perfect obedience to literary tradition. A small headland came into view, where the waves broke foamily as though they had just realised how angry they were about this whole 'land' thing, and were trying to make up for centuries of indifference by eroding the whole island. Suddenly, there was a flash of light among the craggy spires of rock. "What was that?" Janet asked, pointing. "I think it was a flash of light among the craggy spires of rock," Carys told her, then wondered why she had said that. There was a long silence. Tim sighed, resignedly. "Why don't we go closer and find out?" he asked, without any enthusiasm. He knew what happens in books when someone says something like 'why don't we find out?' It usually involves evil supervillains with implausible haircuts and a superiority complex the size of the Death Star. This time was no exception. "I am the Heir of Quackeryn!" the cloaked figure boomed, its black cape fluttering like... well, like the capes of evil super-villains flutter when they're standing on impressive rock formations. "Oh goody," Dave deadpanned.
Cair Paravel (winner of the Most Impressively Turreted and Battlemented Castle of the Year, 1482) had similarly overawing monumental gates, which Benedict was staring up at in admiration, wondering how easily it would be to build his own small palace-cum-fortress in a back garden. Mikie the dwarf was several miles behind him, despite running full tilt (as any self-respecting pedantic mathematician will tell you, average speed travelled is inversely proportional to span of stride over the cube root of pi to the power e, divided by...) As he continued to stare at the gates and hope to find a friendly doorbell, a pair of voices began to disturb his train of thought, growing steadily closer: "No, I tell you it's inversely proportional to span of stride over the cube root of pi to the power e, divided by half of the distance." "It can't be, though, because Naughty Elephants Squirt Water, and Bilius' Law of Trees states that moss has to grow on the north side (presuming theta to twelve decimal places or less." "But we're headed west, and Cair Paravel is in the east, given sunlight to equal a constant, time to be normal (for Narnia) and the sky to be above us." So deep were Martin and Matthew in conversation that neither noticed Benedict (or, for that matter, a rather solid castle gate) until they'd walked into it, causing a sudden equation of "ow to equal definitely present sensations". The reverberations from the impact echoed around the castle walls, and produced a flurry of activity on the battlements, and the great gates swung open. A hastily assembled group of dwarfs, fawning courtiers, talking animals and so forth gathered, and one satyr tried to blow a trumpet fanfare, but passed out from the exertion of blowing, as he'd left his lunch stuffed down the wrong end of the cornucopia. Swiftly showed through the halls and corridors of the palace and into the grand throne room, Benedict struck a heroic pose before the dais, only spoiled by a just-audible mathematical discussion over the fact that one of the arches was .8452 of a degree from perfect, and how they could shift the whole continent to put it right, given a big enough lever. Doing his level best to ignore this, Benedict mustered his gravitas, recalled years of reading Tolkien, Beowulf and similar epic poetry and prose, and tried to make up a verse announcing his arrival. "I once spent a day at Cair Paravel,
Silently cursing his inability to compose anything other than limericks, Benedict watched one of the fauns put down his clipboard and introduced himself as chief assistant to the assistant chief (i.e. the person who ran things), and explained the problem. "Somebody is trying to get onto the Lone Islands, whither the Heir of Quackeryn was banished. Should they do so, the One Who Must Remain Nameless To Avoid Spoiling the Plot would be free to break his chains asunder, and destroy civilised life as we know it in this world and yours! "Only a true mug -- er, heir and scion of the royal house -- can face this terrible foe and defeat him!" Having finally discovered a quest worthy of him, giving him a chance for proper action in this story rather than climbing into towers and then only having cups of tea with their ravishingly beautiful occupants, Benedict paid no heed to the likely danger, but only asked, "So how do I get there?" The head faun smiled, rather evilly, as a large contraption was wheeled in. "Show us how it works, Tumnus," he called. The faun in attendance on the device began to explain, eagerly understood, argued with and contradicted by Martin and Matthew: "Well, if you imagine an infinite onion, which keeps on going down in layers that get smaller and smaller... n to the twelve, with a plus two for luck... estimate of mass times gravity at ten Newtons, near as anything... allow for extra weight of weapons, that chainmail must be three kilos at least... stick him in the barrel, guess the range, and then push the big red button." As Benedict was blindfolded and put in, the top faun reassured him (rather insincerely, it seemed) "Don't worry, this will hurt you far more than it hurts us...."
Back on the boat, Dave had got a small device from the TARDIS which was bleeping and flashing in his hand. It bleeped and flashed more and more as the caped figure flew closer and closer. Suddenly, just as the Heir of Quackeryn closed in to the bow, Chris shouted, "Look there! Is it a bird?" "You cannot fool me with that old trick," boomed the voice, "I shall kill you all and use your life force to..." He paused as Benedict flew past him and landed in a bashed and broken heap under the rum barrels. He tried to get up, but was forced down by the sheer weight of the alcohol on top of him which he was forced to drink in order to get out. "A good try," whispered Chris to Dave, "he's getting the hang of this secretarial role now..." "As I was saying, I shall kill you all and..." He paused, this time because a small dwarf-like object had struck him on the back of the neck and rendered him dizzy. "Oh, Mikie!" cried Janet, who rushed forward to try and wake him up. Mikie mumbled something about having gone to sleep on a big catapult and then drifted into unconsciousness. "Now we can find out who this truly is," said Dave, relishing the prospect of turning the events towards Scooby Doo. "Not so fast," shouted the figure, regaining himself. With a cry, thunder cracked and the mountains were lit up with a flash, complete with the silhouette of the figure imprinted on the darkening sky. "It looks as if that's where we'll have to go to find out what's happened to Kim," said Dave gravely. "Chris, Tim, Tom, Janet, come with me into the TARDIS and we'll find out. The rest of you take the ship back to Cair Paravel, whichever way it happens to be." And with that, the five ran into the TARDIS and disappeared. *** A few seconds later they stood on the mountaintop looking down into the valley. The ship was sailing away into the horizon towards Narnia. "Oh dear," said Tom, "look down there..." In the stones was written UNDER ME. "I think we know what's going to happen next..." ---------------------- A woman rode up, her hair flowing freely behind her. Next to her rode a knight, covered in black armour. She noted the straggling band, and slowed down so they could keep pace with them. An eerie voice sounded, and an eagle dropped a piece of parchment. 'Come seek me where my voice doth sound
The lady of the green kirtle looked pleased at this. 'Your task might best be accomplished by starting at the halls of Harfang. There you will find the maps that you need. If you tell them I sent you, then you will be properly attended to, as befits you.' Entranced by her, Dave nodded, only to be nudged fiercely by Chris. "I've remembered what happens at this bit. At least I think I have. But I don't think we should be going to Harfang." 'Though under Earth, and throneless now I be,
"Yes, that's the one. I think we're meant to be going to the underworld." "By what brilliant stroke of logic did you deduce that, Mr Rayson?" Dave wasn't happy. "By the fact she looks like she doesn't like ducks," interjected Mikie. "So what was that prophecy all about, anyway?" Chris looked at Dave as the latter spoke, and replied after a moment's pause. "Well, I think she's taken something that we need, and we have precisely one chunk of story to realise what it is, find where it is, and get above ground. Preferably somewhere near Cair Paravel." "Oh, that's easy enough. We don't need to get home then?" "Apparently not. Though something strange is going on." After speaking, Chris sat back and pondered for a moment. "Harry Potter is bleeding into Narnia. I don't think this is a good idea to stay much longer." "Thanks Carys, for that ever so helpful suggestion. Tell me, are you being deliberately annoying, or is it specially for the occasion?" Dave and Chris looked at each other. "Did you say that?" "What?" "I thought you said it?" "What?" "Yes." The others joined in. "Which of them said that?" "I thought I did." "I thought Carys did." "I thought I /was/ Carys." Dave got fed up. "Just stop it, all of you, OK?" "What?" "All this unattributed dialogue. It gets very confusing!" "Sorry." Dave glared. "Who said that? I can wait here all day, until whoever it was owns up..." "Sorry," said Chris. "That's better." "Said Dave," Dave hastily added...
Steve sat disconsolately on a park bench. On the river behind him, flames played merrily over a twin-hulled boat. His day was not going well. Things had started OK; after finding the map and wolfing the Wonka bar, he'd remembered his mission and returned to the sweet shop, where he had procured a packet of oversized, but correctly-shaped bourbon biscuits. Then things had started to go downhill. He couldn't find anyone else from Methsoc, and neither could he make head nor tail of the map. In the end he had tracked down a pub, partly because he reckoned it'd be the most likely place to find any other methsocmathmos but mostly because he wanted a drink. Unfortunately, the only thing remotely akin to whisky the rubicund landlord was able (or willing) to offer him was something rejoicing in the name of 'butterscotch', which to Steve's mind (and no offence to Fisher House Bar's toffee liqueur) sounded disgusting. To cheer himself up, he'd tried burning some CATAM, but couldn't find any CATAM to burn and had had to make do with a catamaran, which was somehow much less satisfying. He looked at the map again, turning it around in his hands. Suddenly, he realised he was not alone. A small child - Steve could only guess this from the high-pitched whine in which the apparition addressed him, as from its shoeless feet, intimidatingly paisley jacket and creatively-patched brightly-coloured trousers, he would have judged it an escapee from a particularly ill-advised jumble sale - was accosting him. "What's that?" "It's the World," replied Steve. "It's a bit small for the World, isn't it?" "It's a /map/ of the World." "Oh." A pause. "Don't you have it back-to-front?" Ah! Light dawned as Steve turned the golden paper /over/. Cunning indeed! He felt a slight wave of gratitude towards this small child. "Thank you, little chap - " he began, but at that point the little chap kicked him in the shins, pinched the bourbons, and ran away. Steve hardly noticed his bruises as he pored over his cartographical nemesis. There was a name he recognised! "Gough," he mused, "wasn't there a lecturer called that, once?" Gough appeared to be a small island, one of the Lone Islands, it would seem, along with Isolated and Pointless. "Wonder why they're called 'Lone' when there're three?" he pondered. At that point he was distracted by a hiss as the incinerated catamaran finally gave up the ghost and sunk. When he turned back to the map, the islands had gone. Most odd. Ah, no, there they were. Much closer to the edge of the map than he'd remembered. Much, much, closer. Like, sticking off it. They were now, in fact, Gough, Isola and Po. Then an abused circuit somewhere in the Book's BIOS remembered all other storylines had been shut down, and he and Quentinblakeworld vanished.
On the Dawn Treader, Jon was worried. "You know that island of Dark they found? In the book?" "Yes," replied Sarah. "It was quite small, wasn't? And a long way East?" "Yes." "So...it's probably not that that's making the wall of darkness stretching along the entire Eastern horizon behind us?" "No." "No... It's more likely the edge of existence falling in as the Book runs out of plot lines and the story unravels. Mikie did say the firmware was only post-alpha version 2. They were going to make it pre-beta, but ran out of toothpaste or something..." * * * "Just who is here anyway?" asked Dave. "I distinctly remember saying 'Chris, Tim, Tom, Janet come with me'. But does anyone ever listen to anything I say? Do they sporran..." "I had to come because they said they didn't have any vegetarian food on the Dawn Treader. And someone said there were Quorn forests on the islands. Apparently." explained Carys. "And I found Mikie in the TARDIS; he said something about crawling into a big blue box he'd found for a quick nap." "Right...so who else do we have?" "Me," said Tom, "and Chris. Janet thought they'd need someone sensible on the ship, so stayed behind. And I think Tim thought we had enough stereotypically sarcastic people with us and that he'd be more useful on the Treader too." "Right," said Dave, "so at the risk of precipitating the reply 'I don't know where is Kate?' - where's Mikie?" "He was just there...just behind where the wall of utter darkness and nothing marking the end of existence is now bisecting the island..." The great wall of darkness advanced slowly and inexorably, like... well, there are very few similes that apply to immense walls of darkness, so it advanced like an immense wall of darkness. As it came, it swallowed everything in its path - even the towering Quorn trees. "...?" asked Dave. "Pardon?" Chris stared at him, uncomprehending. "..." he repeated. His lips moved, but no sound emerged. "The dialogue must be being sucked into the blackness," Tom realised, in a flash of inspiration, beginning to get into tune with the twisted logic of the story. "First the plot goes, then dialogue..." "..." Dave added, inaudibly. "I think," Carys put in, "I prefer Dave like this." "..." Dave replied, bitingly. * * * Back on the Dawn Treader, Tim and Janet were having similar problems. The advancing waves of oblivion were almost engulfing the aft end of the ship, now, the blue-green waves vanishing into it without even a splash. "..." Tim explained. "...?" He frowned. "..." Janet looked puzzled. "..." Tim tried again, this time taking a deep breath and attempting to shout. "...!" Janet shook her head. "..." she told him, meaning 'I've lost track of who's supposed to be speaking now.' Like a many-hued Marcel Marceau, Tim tried to mime 'The dialogue is being sucked into that black void', but his impression of someone trying to colour a piece of wood didn't really convey the idea of 'dialogue' very well, so he gave up and hunted for a piece of paper. "...?" Sarah asked, holding up a thick, leather-bound book that appeared to be the ship's log. "..." Jon added, helpfully. "..." Tim sighed, which, roughly translated, means 'I feel like I'm in a Harold Pinter play.' Producing a pen from his pocket, he handed it to Sarah, who wrote, "I feel like I'm in a Harold Pinter play." Tim took the pen back. "That was my line," he wrote. "The book must be getting confused by all that unattributed dialogue." It was a moment before he noticed that the words that Sarah had written had vanished, and that his own words were disappearing, as though the ink were seeping into the page and turning into some bizarre imitation of a Rorschach test. Jon claimed the pen, and scrawled, "Are we back in the Harry Potter reality?" ---------------------- 'No, it's something far more sinister.' A Dark shape had emerged and started to speak. 'You didn't complete your entry to the underworld, and rescue in one post. Therefore you are doomed to remain here, unless you can persuade a non-human corporeal being to find you, and drag you back.' A teller-stroke sounded through the darkness, and all found themselves beside the silver chair. 'We are in the glittering caves. In that direction there is a minotaur.' The shape vaguely waved behind her. 'And in this direction, there is freedom. It's a looking glass world. You are on the 7th square, and in danger of being eaten by the queen.' She handed over two objects, labelled eat me and drink me. 'My name is Alice. And in order to avoid confusing dialogue, I have sealed your mouths for the time being. A book is over there, and a pen beside it. Only one may write at a time. And you must right your name at the beginning.' Dave walked over to the book. DAVE: an old fashioned version of ICQ then. I wonder if there's something more like Trillian around here... CHRIS: You don't want to be using that. Who wants to talk to more than one programme at once? DAVE: I was thinking it might have cross-modal capabilities. I think I'm right in assuming that we're not the only ones that can read this. ALICE: That would be correct. Enjoy. She popped her head back round the door. "You realise that to get back, you need to free Kim. And that won't be as easy as you think. Don't you round tickling sleeping dragons, if you can help it."
A familiar sound once again filled the room. Suddenly standing before them was the TARDIS, big, blue and making a humming noise like a big blue contented cat, or an off-coloured monolith. Dave made a gesture as if to say, "Of course!" or perhaps realising it was Matthew 7... 5... In he dashed, closely followed by the others. "What are you lot doing here," asked Tom, "and how come I can speak again?" "Simple; the TARDIS's outer shell is shielding us, albeit for the moment, from the encroaching black void of oblivion. And the reason why they're all here is probably this: Whenever the TARDIS is in danger, it dematerialises and rematerialises somewhere else, in this instance tracking my biosigns. It was probably the Uberdoom field that made it move, but I assume it picked all of you lot up first..." From the other Methsoccers, Steven spoke first. "Yes, I'd just worked out what the map was, then suddenly a black cloud came towards me and before I knew it, I was standing in one of the TARDIS rooms. I've been wandering around in here for ages." "And we were still at Cair Paravel," complained Matthew, "when suddenly it was like that for us. We made use of the TARDIS Super Foul Egg suite though..." Deep in the heart of the ship, the cloister bell, the sound of impending doom, sounded its despondent knell. "Right, we need to get out of here," said Dave, galvanised into action. He started to fly around the console, flicking switches. The scanner screen opened. "But how?" asked Chris. "You heard what Alice said, we can only get out by asking a non-corporeal form to help us." "That's the thing," said Dave, "I've worked it out. All this is being controlled not by Peter Graves, not by Doug the ex-caretaker, but by Angel. She wanted a bigger role in the story and so has trapped us for the time being until we ask for her help." "So what do you plan to do then," asked Steven, "try and stand up to her like you did in her room last term and whack your head on the ceiling?" "I still have the lump from that. No, look out there; it's the Silver Chair. If I've manipulated this story correctly, Kim should be being held captive there. What I'm doing is reversing time so that we can track her and rescue her." Sure enough, as several pairs of eyes watched the scanner, a small figure was lead backwards to the chair where it was strapped in and left. Dave flicked a switch and opened the doors. "Quick, we may not have much time." As they stepped out, a cry erupted from the seated figure. "Help me! I am in my hour of sanity, release my bonds!" "We don't have time for this," said Dave, and marched over to the chair. Hastily he undid the straps and pulled Kim clear before Benedict, in quite a drunken and lurching manner, chopped the Silver Chair up with his axe. He stood back and surveyed his work, then staggered back to the TARDIS. "Is this a Methsoccer? A true, honest, Cambridge Methsoccer?" asked Kim, dazed. "Yes, now come on, we have to get to Cair Paravel and get out of here." They all ran back into the TARDIS, which promptly dematerialised. *** Back inside, they all set about sharing stories, cooking lunch (as it was a while since any of them (except Steven) had eaten) whilst Jon, Chris and Dave were discussing the problem of where to go. "But the Void of Uberdoom is almost covering the entire book," complained Jon, "how are we going to get out?" "This /is/ a time machine, isn't it? We can go back to when it wasn't so prevalent, surely..." 'Yes," replied Dave, "although the universe long ago passed the point of total collapse. There was a whole city of fauns around here that was working to keep the universe open and bleed entropy into other universes." "Stop quoting Doctor Who and get on with it," Chris interjected, "because we all know you want to make yet another stab at mathmos." Dave grinned and pushed a few buttons. Suddenly he stopped. "Do you remember the TARDIS having a handbrake?" Puzzled, Chris joined him looking at the strange bit of metal sticking out of the console. "That's not a handbrake, that's the middle section of key!" The Interstitial Gravity Drive stopped and the landing bell sounded. "We've arrived, and the Void of Uberdoom is still a good hour away. Come on everybody, let's get out of here!" With that, Dave opened the doors and the group ran out of the TARDIS. *** They stood open-mouthed in the Great Hall of Cair Paravel. Behind them stood the Police Box, in front of them stood Angel, who said slowly, "Which one of you... lot, dared destroy the Silver Chair? And, more importantly for you, how are you going to get this -" at this point she pointed to a ring on her finger which looked very much like the last section of key - "off me?" "This is all we need," complained Tim, "The story unravelling about our ears, and people want us to play silly games." Jon was looking out of one of the higher window, and at that moment gave a hand-waving gesture, which quite probably meant "The black edge of nothingness is coming this way." Chris consulted Dave. "I had a sort of idea about that." "Oh?" "But it kind of involved having that up-and-downy thing from the middle of the TARDIS console." "What, the interstitial gravity drive?" "Actually, I think it's a internarrative fiction drive, the TARDIS really being a transfictional metalogue of a TARDIS. A TARDOF, if you like." "What, Time And Relative... * * * "Dimensions of Fish?!" Janet jumped. She had wandered into the TARDIS to see what it was like, and hadn't really expected to meet anyone. "Einstein, right? He had space. Lossa space. Three whole dimenshy...dimenshun...dinemsions of it. Yeah? And time. Time too. That'sh...er...four. But...! Guessh...guessh what he forgot?" "Dunno, Mikie." "The Fish Dimension." Janet stuck her head round the door of the cabin, where they'd left Benedict to recover from his flight, subsequent immersion in and imbuement of a rum barrel, and final axe-wielding episode. It appeared that Mikie had, in generous mathmo spirit, somehow escaped the Doom of non-existence to join him in his plight, 'in spirit' being the operative phrase. "Fish?" she asked. Benedict nodded. "Makes sense. How else do you think the Dolphins escaped the Vogons?"
Back in the Upper Room, Trevor the caretaker was about to turn the lights off, lock up, and go home, when he noticed what looked like a large book on wheels. Staying well away from it, he craned his neck to see the page: CHRIS: Remember I once said I'd built a hand-cranked philosophy loom? MARK: Yes. So you could make your own, homespun philosophy. CHRIS: Well, I thought we could make our own story-loom, hook it into this reality, and make our own story as we went along. TOM: Like Gromit laying out railway track in 'The Wrong Trousers'? CHRIS: Exactly. Sort of. Trevor sighed. Doug, his predecessor, had warned him about this sort of thing. "Trev," he'd said, "they're a nice bunch, but inept. Remind me to tell you the heated trolley story some time." He knew what he had to do. He found his toolkit, and headed for the kitchen...
"Your plan will never work!" cried Angel. "Why?" asked Chris. "Plot hysteresis." "She's right," said Martin. "You can only use the same plot device so many times before people get completely fed up of it. How many times have we escaped using that thing now?" As if to underline his point, Janet, coughing and spluttering, stumbled out of the TARDIS doors, followed by Mikie, Benedict, and a cloud of pink smoke. No sooner had they got clear, than the entire structure folded in on itself and collapsed. To add insult to injury, the remaining heap of blue wood was suddenly and inexplicably landed on by a smouldering catamaran which appeared from nowhere. Dave looked anguished in a very Dave way. * * * The lift hissed to a standstill, and Trevor the caretaker staggered into the Upper Room carrying something heavy and metal... * * * CHUNG! The Biddle fell at their feet. "Gosh!" was the general exclamation. "Look," shouted Steve excitedly, "there's a new setting! 'When the green is lined up with the red arrow, blows WARM AIR...blue line, cold air...yellow line, Dénouement'...never seen that one before." "Dénouement it is - lay in a course, Mr Hardiman. Weft Factor 9 - Engage!" Their Biddle made a blur of the Universe. * * * Angel returned to the Upper Room, her wings slightly tatty. She slumped down in her chair, and threw the key into the book, watching as it started to flicker, and the pages turn more rapidly. Tanya had already arrived, and had set up the things for coffeeeee after the caretaker left. Sitting down, they each poured some tea, and watched the book. "What exactly did you do, Angel?" "If I gave them the key inside there, they would have been trapped in this intervening state. They couldn't get into any story, and they couldn't get out of it again. And now they've decided I'm evil, because if I told them, they wouldn't have believed me." So saying she burst into tears. "I hate being the baddy all the time." "Never mind," said Tanya, consoling the wailing Angel. She paused. "Actually, I think we should mind..." "Why... should... we... mind...?" cried Angel between tears. "Erm, unless there was something in that tea, the room appears to be shaking." "You're right... the ceiling's moving... sideways..!" "It's folding up! What's going on?!" As they melted away with the room, the voices of other Methsoccers floated over the scene. "I'm hungry... are you Lost?...Quack quack quack... I'll have a Wonka bar too please... Don't stroke him, he purrs... But where is everyone... I am the heir of Quackeryn... It's a map of the world... We don't have time for this... Dimensions of Fish... Weft Factor 9... There's no place like Wesley..." Before she disappeared, Tanya managed to deadpan, "Oh dear, I think you'll find reality's on the blink again." ------------------- And this was indeed what they found. Angel had found a way out, and the rest of Methsoc was watching as Cair Paravel once again came to a standstill, with one important addition; an assistant chaplain. "Great. I'm confused," said Tim. "Don't worry," said the apparition, "there's a very easy way out. I shall collapse the universe down and free you all. All you need to do is believe in the Biddle and say 'There's no place like Wesley'." "You want us to quote the Wizard of Oz?" asked Carys. "Look, if you don't, you might be stuck in this collapsing fiction world for ever. I'm sure you don't want to be running round here for ever." Eleanor then waved her arms and the universe started to shake once again. All that could be heard was the excited whirr of the Biddle and people saying: "There's no place like Wesley..."
Dave sat up. Beneath him lay the electromagnetism notes on his desk. He looked at the time. Ten past eight. His termcard told him that he should go to Wesley for a special Open Evening about Show and Tell, the first of Kim's Presidency. He got to the Upper Room with moments to spare and looked at the array of people before him. Sure, there were the usuals like Chris, Mikie, Janet, Kim, Tom, Steven Hardiman, Matt and Naomi, as well as Al and Rach, who were visiting from Sicily, and a load of new faces that he hadn't seen before. "Well hello everyone, welcome to this evening's Methsoc open evening," said Kim, bringing everyone to order. "As you know this evening is about Show and Tell, where people bring things in and tell the rest what it's for and so on. So, who wants to start?" "Wait!" said Dave. "Where is everyone?" "What do you mean?" "Well, Tim, Martin..." "Never heard of anyone like that," said one of the new faces. "Wasn't there a Tim in the latest Harry Potter book?" "That's right," said Steven, "and there's a Martin illustrating the University's maths textbooks." "Maths textbooks? They can't have believed in the Biddle... stuck in the World of Fiction..." Dave muttered under his breath. "What about Tanya? Angel?" "You've just been reading too much lately. Those names come from Philip Pullman's books." Chris motioned to a chair for Dave to sit on. "Just sit down." He did, and before he knew it, a woman in clerical garb walked in. "Good evening all, it's good to see young people using the Upper Room!" "Good evening Eleanor," replied Kim, "please come in and join us." "But what about Peter Graves?" "Dave, shut up! You're not funny usually, but this is beyond the pail... Peter Graves is the name of the baddy in Star Wars. Everyone knows that." "But.. but... we need to go back in... into the World of Fiction!" "The World of Fiction?" asked Rach. She turned to Al and whispered, "Were we this mad as ex-ex-presidents?" Al shook his head. "But... we'd gone into the World of Fiction and... and... we had to believe in the Biddle to get out and they've been left behind..." Dave was at a complete loss. "Biddle?!" said Chris incredulously. "What on earth is a Biddle?" "Don't you think you should go home and relax a bit? You've obviously had a hard day today," Janet looked at him sympathetically. "Yes... yes... I think I ought to..." Dave gibbered as he staggered towards the door. "We can only get them out by writing another story..." "Story? Dave, just go." Chris had got up and was helping him towards the door. "You hardly wrote any of the last one though, and in what you did write you destroyed my TARDOF..." "Can someone call an ambulance? I think he needs medical help... Come on Dave, downstairs with you. When did we write this 'story'?" "Last term... only we set it in this term... don't you remember?" The door slammed shut, and order was restored to the Upper Room. "Right," said Kim, trying to regain herself after Dave's seeming nervous breakdown, "who wants to start?" Eleanor smiled to herself. They might return, they might not. The ones still stuck there might find a way out. Fact was, Peter Graves was out of the way and the only person who remembered anything of it was seen as insane. More than usual. This was only the beginning; soon Phase 2 could start...
Something just wasn't right. Darth Graves couldn't quite put his finger on it though. Everything seemed to be going well. He'd just finished composing a new march to use when he next left his imperial shuttle; he was stood looking at his completed death star (though he was wondering whether to rename it a death moon, since it wasn't very star-like) and only a small group of rebels stood between him and his ultimate goal of universal domination. But he was still nagged by doubts. For some reason he kept repeating a strange formula of words to himself "I believe in God, the Father Almighty.... I believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord... I believe in the Holy Spirit...and not in the biddle..." Maybe he could just go and use the force to choke a poor underling. But then that didn't seem all that good an idea any more. He sat down, and for the first time the universe saw the strange sight of a Dark Lord of the Sith, hands clasped, praying to a God that the fictional world in which he existed didn't believe. "Lord, I'm in trouble here. Could you tell me what's going on? Maybe you could send me an angel. Though for some reason I have a feeling that the last one you sent was a bit odd. It didn't seem very tall, blonde or man-like for that matter. Though the robes, halo and flaming sword were quite cool.... where was I?" "Living dangerously!" A voice spoke from above him. It was Angel, and she didn't look too happy at his earlier description. And her sword was flaming again. * * * Dave was sitting in a room. It was a small room, with rather boring decor. In fact the room was covered in soft white stuff and had no furniture in it. Dave was thinking. There wasn't much else to do. He was going through what had happened in the last few days (or possibly no time at all depending on your reference) and he had started to work out what had gone wrong. He was devising a cunning plan. At the moment it lacked a way of getting out of the room though. Dave started to think of the people he knew who had managed to escape from locked rooms. While he was wondering whether he could get hold of a spoon so he could dig a tunnel under the walls (which incidentally were on the third floor of a rather large building) everything went even whiter than before. A voice boomed "For goodness sake, you forgot all about Peter! Why does everyone forget Peter?" Angel stood there, a belt, a pair of sandals and a cloak in her hands. "No!" shouted Dave, cowering away as if a full-blown Wronskian were standing before him threatening to take away all the sharp knives in the world. "You're in my mind... You were stuck in Philip Pullman! You don't exist!" "Calm down, I said I could transcend the fictional boundary, didn't I? Now follow me and we'll put everything to rights." Angel once again handed him the sandals and cloak. Dave was rocking in the corner of the room. "I don't want to go back! You can't make me go back! They don't believe me! I knew who was behind it all in the first place... They can work it out for themselves.. GO AWAY!" "Fair enough," shrugged Angel, looking slightly put out. With a flash, she was gone, and Dave was left in the semi-darkness of the nice warm padded cell. He sat back and thought for a bit, then settled down to counting the stitches in the seams on the cell walls... *** "It's a shame what happened to Dave, isn't it?" said Kim, who was helping Chris pour the tea. It was Coffeeeeee some weeks after and the Methsoc stalwarts were in Chris's room. Steve, Mikie and Matt were playing Super Foul Egg, Janet was watching them telling Matt that he was doomed, and the rest were sitting round. "I can't help feeling that there was some truth in what he was saying, though," put in Janet. Matt mumbled an 'Oh Mikie' as more blocks of doom tumbled onto his game board. "Dave's been unstable for ages, there was always going a time when he flipped," finished Chris, immediately reproached by Kim for being harsh. "That's not a very nice thing to say, Chris." "Well, I don't know... erm.. fish?!" Chris hesitated as the window started glowing kaleidoscopically before a short figure hopped out. "Hello, I'm Perry Rayson. I've come back from the year 2061 to ask your advice. You must be my Grandfather!" Chris was, quite naturally, taken quite aback by this apparition and subsequent revelation. Kim stepped in and broke the awkward silence. "What do you want of us?" "Well, I need some of you to come into the future and help us with a problem. There was a great war and to cut a long story short, we've had advice that there are people stuck in another dimension who could avert it. We tracked their disappearance back to this time stream and we have found something important that you should see... Follow me." Unperturbed as to the consequences, several bodies passed back to the future. *** "It's a book," said Chris. They were standing amid the wreckage of what used to be Wesley before the War. The night was cold and dark, enemy planes patrolling the skies above. "Wait," said Janet, "I think I've seen this somewhere before... Perhaps Dave was right about the World of Fiction!" "Ah yes... Dave... such a shame," said Perry. "Never mind though, we need you to use this book to get people out and into your own time. When you've got them out, find me and I'll reopen the gateway to your time, after which -" He stopped due to the unforeseen introduction of a high velocity bullet into his heart. He fell down, dead. "Stop, all of you! Put your hands up!" The six of them span around. A group of soldiers stood before them, guns raised. They backed away slightly towards each other, and (somewhat forseeably) towards the large book behind them. Soon all six of them had disappeared from the wreckage of Wesley, leaving behind them some very confused soldiers.
Meanwhile (well, actually in a completely different space/time location) Dave was running through the corridors of his mind. Something was chasing him, and he ran and ran. He ran through dark, narrow corridors, walls lined with bare breezeblocks and uncovered pipes. He ran up stairs and around corners until he'd lost all sense of direction. Suddenly he appeared before a white door. He threw himself through it only to find... ... that he was in the New Court Theatre in Christ's and there was a musical on. "Interesting," thought Dave, "I think I'll sit and watch for a while." A couple of hours later Dave had had an idea. "It might just work..." he was thinking to himself. However he did need a way to get out of the padded cell he was in, so during his next review he tried his best to appear sane. Fortunately the asylum was a bit short on cells just then, and couldn't really afford to keep him there anyway, so he was allowed to leave. He rushed to Wesley (after making sure that the asylum had returned the pen in his pocket) and into the Upper Room, where the large book still lay on the floor. "This could be fun," he said with glee, and quickly started writing. Some time later he'd discovered that he could control the world of fiction almost completely, but that he had no control over the real people who were stuck there. "Right," he said to himself, "now to write myself in..." * * * "Erm, this doesn't look too good," said Matthew. "Off with their heads!" screamed the Queen of Hearts. "My elbow hurts," Chris complained, as he'd bumped it whilst falling down a large rabbit hole. "Those axes look sharp," Tom commented, as the Queen's guards came closer, axes raised. Suddenly a familiar wheezing sound came from behind them, and a blue police telephone box appeared. "I don't remember this being in Alice and the Wonderland," complained Kim. "Quick, inside!" yelled the Doctor, who incidentally was just Dave writing himself into the fictional world. Once again the six of them decided that the sensible option was to run away and they joined Dave's alter ego in the TARDOF. As they disappeared a head quickly poked out of one of the better examples of topiary in the Queen's garden, which then proceeded to slowly fade out of existence, as the words "Two can play at this game," floated into the air, followed by manic laughter. ------------------------------- "Dave?! But you..." "I know, I escaped from there, much as I was enjoying it." Dave looked put out. However, back at the controls of his timeship, Dave was easing back into the swing of things. "The thing is though," put in Janet, "Perry implied that something bad happened to you just before he died." "Perry?" Dave looked up guiltily. "My Grandson," explained Chris. "I just saw him get shot in the year 2061." He sat down, joined by Kim. "Oh, I'm sorry," replied Dave. "Anyhow, we need to find people and get them out. It's good to know I was right for a change. Locking me away as if I were mad..." "Yes, alright, we're sorry that we didn't believe you." Dave smiled smugly at these words and flicked a switch. The console sparked, panels blew off it and the cloister bell started to toll out its knell. "Oh no, something's very wrong. Someone go to the Cloister Room to see what's wrong.. I need to sort this ou-" There was a flash of light and he was gone. The scanner flashed up with the words 'Timing Malfunction: Instigate Emergency Landing Procedure' as the six Methsoccers looked around in alarm... *** Back in the Upper Room. On the page in front of him were the words 'You wrote yourself in, now I write you out.' Dave tried a page. It was solid, just like a book should be. He was shut out of the World of Fiction. He had to act quickly... Coffeeee! Of course! It was in Chris's room this week, that's where he had to go. *** Benedict was late. As he climbed the stairs in R staircase in Caius, he heard wheezing noises from behind him and Dave, red-faced and panting. "No time... everyone stuck... must go..." "Erm... OK... You need to sit down, you may still be ill..." "Look, I'm not clinically insane... well, not like that... the others are stuck now as well... we need to get them out..." They reached the door and Dave flung himself through it. There in the window was the vortex leading into the future. Dave ran straightaway into it, closely followed by Benedict. *** They emerged into the desolate wasteland of post-apocalyptic Cambridge. Benedict looked around at the decayed remnants of Wesley Chapel, the luminous-green River Cam snaking off past burnt-out boathouses. "What happened here?" "That's what I'm going to find out, there must be a serviceable computer around here somewhere. I need to find out what happened here, and also what happened to me. If Perry was right, I might be in for a spot of trouble..." "And me?" asked Benedict. "You have the toughest job of all." Benedict stood proudly. "You have to find a giant book in the wreckage of Wesley and go inside to rescue all the Methsoccers you can find. I've been shut out by some malevolent force." And with this, Dave ran into the distance...
"*Accio* quill," Tim commanded wearily, pointed his wand in a half-hearted fashion at the owl-feather pen that had been blown from the table by a stray gust of wind. The brown-and-white feather rose into the air, drifted unsteadily towards him, and then floated to the floor again, as if deciding that maybe the law of gravity wasn't something you could just ignore, after all. Tim sighed. "*Accio* quill," he said again, with a little more vigour this time, and the pen leaped into his outstretched hand. He dipped it into the ink, then realised that he had forgotten what he was going to write. He looked up at the book that was open on the desk before him - 'Theories of Bibliomancy'. Dust and cobwebs still clung to its faded cover, turning the maroon leather a greyish hue, and the gilt lettering was peeling off, so that the title read ' HE R E O B LI A CY'. Not that the contents were any more comprehensible. Its author was one Waclav Kryjzkjynkow, and in Tim's opinion, anyone whose name sounded like the evil sorcerer in a bad fantasy novel shouldn't try to write textbooks of any kind, let alone ones about book magic. He was propounding the theory that stories were... well, alive - that they needed certain things to grow, and that they needed someone to write them down... Tim frowned. What Kry... Kryyzy... what the unpronounceable man seemed to be trying to say was the well-nourished stories, with good plots and characters, grew and developed, while ones with poor characterisation and implausible storylines shrivelled and died, and were serialised by the Readers' Digest. He also claimed that stories could be tricked (which, Tim reflected, would explain how Jeffery Archer had written so many novels), but the whole thing seemed too much like a crackpot's insane rantings. 'Stories *wanting* to be written' sounded just too implausible. Tim shook his head, and closed 'Theories of Bibliomancy', sending clouds of dust billowing into the air. Fatigue sapping his energy, he waved his wand vaguely at the bookcase. "*Accio*... book," he said, sleepily. There was a rustle of aged paper and dry, cracked leather bindings. It was a moment before Tim realised his mistake. Summoning charms were fine if you had a clear idea of what you were summoning, but be too imprecise, and the spell could be rather too literal. Such vagueness was not a good idea - especially saying '*Accio* book' in a library. The first book dropped neatly into Tim's hand. Looking up, he had just enough time to utter one word before the next twenty-seven slammed into him at high speed. "Whoops." Then a copy of 'Biomancy for Dummies' caught him hard on the temple, and everything went black. He awoke in the infirmary, to hear Madame Pince's strident voice. "He was very lucky," the librarian was saying, indignantly. "That was a very old copy of 'Biomancy for Dummies'. He might have damaged the binding." Tim groaned, loudly. He felt as though his head had been used as a bludger in a particularly violent game of Quidditch. "Ah, you're awake..." Madame Pomfrey began, but the shrewish librarian cut her off. "Excellent. Then you can give me that book back." Tim looked down. He was still clutching the unfeasibly gothic-looking book that he had caught, his fingers curled around the roughness of the iron clasp that held it closed. "What is it?" he managed to ask, groggily. "It's... The Book," Madame Pince told him, grudgingly. "What... 'Living and Praying the Lord's Prayer,' by Peter Graves?" Madame Pince looked oddly at him. "He must have hit his head rather hard," she murmured to Madame Pomfrey. "Just - give - me - the - book," she added, slowly and loudly, in the way that English tourists talk to foreigners. Tim was about to do so, when a sudden thought struck him. There was something about this book that was familiar, and he was certain that it was something to do with the strange feeling he had been having lately - as though he didn't belong here. The book was stirring up memories in his mind - strange memories of strange people that someone seemed familiar... He opened the book, and looked inside. Every single page was blank. "Is - it - written - in - invisible - ink?" he demanded, sarcastically, in the same slow tone that Madame Pince had used. The librarian flushed red. "It's dangerous," she hissed. "Once it sucks you in, you'll never get out." Snatching the book from him, she stormed out of the infirmary, leaving Tim with a throbbing headache that wasn't only the result of an impact from a flying textbook.
Sunset has always been a beautiful time. The pink glow of the distant clouds was if anything more startling thanks to the plumes of dark smoke from burning houses and crude factory chimneys. A moment's ray of light silhouetted the shattered skyline, and gave an inkling of how majestic Cambridge must once have looked. Sunset brought the curfew, and the few ragged figures bold enough to venture out in search of food scuttled back to their hiding-places. In the distance the sound of gunfire could be heard, and occasional flashes and rumbles indicated heavy artillery spasmodically making its presence felt. Sunset failed to deter a lone scavenger, who was attempting to clear some of the broken timbers and fallen masonry in what might have been a church. The crumbling ruins lurched treacherously with each movement, threatening to collapse further in an avalanche of scree, but the figure was not deterred, continuing his methodical sifting of the debris, clearly in search of something. Sunset led to nightfall, and in the grey haze of dusk figures began once again to emerge. Creeping cautiously, keeping close to walls, never standing, but scuttling in low crouches, they would vanish nervously whenever the sound of vehicles appeared. When the military hovertanks raced by, their searchlights seeking curfew-breakers, the low figures would vanish entirely, melting into the shadows, to emerge and move again when the threat had passed. The activity on the ruins of Wesley attracted attention, and a small group of these figures gathered there, ignored by the industrious worker, who seemed determined to use the last dregs of daylight to continue his work. "Psssst," hissed one of the shadowy figures. "I haven't touched a drop!" said Benedict indignantly, "And whatever you've heard about Geneva is lies, I tell you!" This seemed to perplex the mysterious lurkers, who scrambled up the broken rubble. One of them asked the inevitable question: "What _are_ you doing here? You're out after the curfew, not even armed. If the troopers find you, well... why?" Benedict seemed genuinely bemused by the question. "I have a job to do," he said. "There's something here that I need to find, something important. Anyway, rules are there to be broken." As gasps ran round the shadowy circle, he demanded, "Who are you, then?" The leader paused for a moment, before introducing himself. "I'm the commanding officer of the Green Street Guerrillas. Also here are our noble allies from the Chesterton Liberation Army, the Freedom for Histon League, the Girton Separatist Brigade, Liberation: Granchester, the People's Democratic Commune of Chesterton Militia, and the Histonian Independence Front." He was interrupted by one of the circle: "You're wrong about the Histonian Liberation Corps, Fred broke his leg last week." "No, you mean the Histon Republic Defence Force, but he went missing a month ago." "Never -- that was the Histon People's Liberation Army. Anyway, everyone knows that Tom didn't break his leg. It was his arm." "No, no..." As the argument began to rage, Benedict went back to moving chunks of masonry. He barely noticed the distant whine of engines, and if he heard the guerrillas' argument stop as they fled into the night, he made no sign. Even when a spotlight illuminated him, he only called his thanks and carried on. Eventually, when the business end of a rifle dug into his back, however, he straightened up, raised his hands, and said, "That's really quite relaxingly painful, though if you could move it a bit higher, I'd be most grateful." There was a few seconds' pause from a trooper clearly unused to such a response. Even through his fully enclosed helmet, Benedict heard him call for his sergeant, and heard orders being given for the area to be surrounded. Benedict heard footsteps crunch through the rubble, and the sergeant demanded to know why he was in violation of curfew regulations. "I've been ordered to find something. I'm not allowed to say what, but it's highly important that I succeed." "What identification do you possess?" "None. It was deemed unnecessary." "Who gave you these orders?" "Er... I'm not sure that I'm allowed to tell you." The sergeant's voice was emotionless, filtered through his helmet's microphone: "Tell me who, or you will be shot now." "As you wish. I was ordered to do this by Dave." "By... Da... I see, sir. May I please verify your identity, sir?" Benedict turned round, and was rewarded with the sergeant's hand-held computer screen showing a picture of him, followed by a fast-scrolling block of text. The sergeant saluted, "I'm sorry, Security Minister, but I hadn't been informed of your presence in this sector. Is there any way in which we can assist you, sir?" Benedict let a slow smile play over his lips. "Well, you can start by finding me an axe... a sword would do at a pinch, I suppose. And your squad can start clearing this rubble. And," a hope of fulfilling a dear ambition appeared, "you can let me have one of those rather nice tanks of yours..." "As ordered, sir!" As the sergeant strode away and began haranguing his white-armoured troopers into action, Benedict heard: "Right, let's move! First squad, covering positions. Second squad, start shifting that rubble now. Tank nineteen, you're to be at the Security Minister's disposal. Everybody, I repeat everybody, is to follow the Minister's commands without question, as though they came from Supreme Commander Ault himself. And trooper, the Minister wants an axe. Don't disappoint him." Benedict grinned at the thought of the power currently at his disposal. The smile faded a little as he began to wonder just what his future self was doing in this apocalyptic world...
Winnie the Pooh wandered through the Hundred Acre Wood on the way to Jonathan David's house. 'Tum de dum de dum' he hummed, as he walked. 'It's such a long way to Jonathan David's house, and it's such a grey day. Tum de dum de dum.' he thought. Then he startled at a drop of water falling on his nose. 'Hmm,' he thought, 'that's a drop of water on my nose. I wonder what could have caused it? There's no-one in the trees above me to have dropped it. Oh! There's another one. And another. It must be raining.' With this Pooh began to compose a raining song. 'It drips, and it drops and where it drops it also drips. No, no, that's no good'. After a while of wresting with the song, he came upon Jonathan David's house, and outside Jonathan David's house was Jonathan David himself, prancing about in the puddles, dressed in his best waterproof outfit, and with a slightly battered black-and-white umbrella. '*splash*,' the puddles said, '*splosh*.' Pooh looked up and was quite surprised to see a large platoon of soldiers bearing down on him. Another bang, and he saw that Jonathan David's house had been vaporised and Jonathan David himself captured and taken away. He began to compose a song starting with "The house goes boom" but unfortunately being a happy character, he didn't know of the word "doom", so it didn't make for a particularly apt song. At least, not since he then found himself staring down the barrel of a gun...
"They've caught the first of the missing Methsoccers, your Supreme Commanderness, sir." A smile wandered over the aging face of the figure sat powerfully in the control room. "Good," he replied. He pulled out a yellowing piece of parchment and crossed off a name. "Now all that are left are Carys, Mark, Tim, Martin, Tanya, Angel, Sarah and Peter Graves." Another voice piped up. "Sir, reports are coming in that your Security Minister is prowling around the ruins of Wesley, although he's looking younger than usual..." Commander Ault sat forward slightly. "And so it begins... This means my past self is scurrying around trying to find out what happened all those years ago. Well, I remember everything that happened back then. You'll find him at what was the Parkside Police Station. Take him into custody and bring him here. As for any other of those Methsoccers, kill them on sight."
Martin's hand shook slightly as he carefully sliced the apple, first along this plane, then along that. He'd done it goodness-only-knows how many times before, of course - if 'times' or 'before' had any meaning in this place. But today - for certain values of 'today' - he had good reason to be worried. He'd only turned his back for a moment... A flash and a bang made him jump, almost cutting himself on the knife. Was it...? Out of a sudden impulse he hid the knife behind a nearby partial derivative, then spun round. He relaxed, slightly. Rather than the shadowy outline he feared, there was only a shining angelic figure with a burning sword to deal with. Great. "Oh, apple! Cool!" the figure exclaimed, and plucking the geometrically precise piece of fruit from Martin's hand, popped it in her mouth. Martin noticed the figure was also wearing a jade-and-navy quartered MethSoc rugby shirt. He assumed a look of anguish. "You ate my volume element! How could you?" "Volume what?" came the muffled reply. "You know, r squared sine...; oh, never mind. We have to escape! He's got out." "Who?" Martin sighed. This is what happened when you tried to deal with people who hadn't done IA Analysis. "The Opponent. We /proved/ that he couldn't find a...then I looked away and he /had/...he shouldn't, but he did anyway...and he's going to be angry, hey, mind those integrals, oh, never mind, they weren't very important, but can you watch where you put your wings, please?"
Homoeopathists claim that the lower the concentration, the more effective the solution, with the most effective solution of all not containing any actual solute, merely a memory of its molecules imprinted on the solvent. This is, most respectable scientists agree, bunkum, but it provides a useful metaphor for the voice that filled the TARDOF at that moment. Below any actual threshold of hearing you cared to name, it was nevertheless entirely audible in a majesty of near-silence. It was far, far, too quiet for any words to be distinguished, but it spoke eloquently, painfully, of years held imprisoned, thwarted at every turn, searching for the unreachable quantity beyond the aleph null-th delta... "What are all the squiggly letter 'e's for on all the screens?" Kim asked innocently. Mikie, Chris and Steve looked at each other. "Doom!" they cried, in unison. Another burst of silence washed over the control room, and its occupants in vain pushed their hands over their ears in futile attempts to block it out. "But it's not /possible/," gasped Mikie. "How can he do it?" Chris looked at one of the screens. "He's using Transfinitesimals." Blank stares turned upon him. "Positive numbers smaller than zero..."
Sir Benedict Coffin, Minister of State Security, Right Hand of Ault, High Sheriff of Cottenham, Order of the Portable Shower Attachment, DSO, WHSmith, PhD and Bar, skulked amongst the ruins of a burnt out church. He had waited many years for this moment. Now, he just hoped his waiting had not been in vain. His younger self had successfully diverted the troops, and the older, wiser Benedict took a moment to reflect that it was probably just as well most of King Street had already been razed to the ground, the way he (Benedict the Younger) was driving that hovertank. Young people, these days... He snapped himself out of his reverie, recalling that he didn't need to waste any more time re-living his youth, as someone else was doing that for him, in a sense. He approached the prone figure. It did look pretty dead. His heart missed a beat, though luckily his autonomic pacemaker kicked in to help it along. Suppose...? There was only one way to find out. He prodded the lifeless form. And it stirred. Benedict breathed again. All those times he'd watched repeats of "Back to the Future" on TV hadn't been in vain. Even now, Perry was pulling the Methsoc Presidential Bible from his inside coat pocket; not the most comfortable of places to keep it, but considerably more comfortable than a bullet an inch or so further in. The bullet in question had gone through the rhinoceros on the front cover, through all five pages of past Presidents, and then on through most of the Old Testament, stopping around about Amos. Benedict's relief lasted all of twenty-seven seconds, before being abruptly extinguished by a stabbing pain in his back...
Martin and Angel tiptoed through the topology section. "I don't think you /can/ hide behind a Möbius strip," Martin complained; then he froze. "Did you hear that?" "Sounded like it came from that Klein bottle..." Three figures leapt out in front of them, striking ninja-esque poses as they did so, with mild overtones of "The Avengers". Martin, in spite of himself, made the obligatory "Whaaaat!!?" noise such a situation demanded. "We," the first figure announced, "are Charlie's Angles. And we're here to help you." "Surely you mean...?" Angel began. "No," another figure interrupted, "she means what she says." "Typo," the third added. "Or possibly a very bad pun." Angel shuddered in sympathy. "I'm Right," figure one introduced herself. "I'm Arcsine A Third," "And I'm Two Thirds Pi." "She's the obtuse one." "Shut it, Duck." "Look, will you not call me by that name?" "Just because I'm Right..." Martin looked at Angel and shrugged helplessly.
Sir Benedict Coffin (BF, RAC, NIT) got up very slowly. His arthritis was going to be the death of him one day. Once he'd have been leading the charge of a platoon, wielding an axe like there was no tomorrow. Yes, those were the days... ...but, he told himself, this was today, and it wouldn't do to get too wrapped up in the past. Nostalgia isn't what it used to be, after all. He remembered all too clearly the events of all those years back, and he knew that he would have a lot of running round to make sure that events ran smoothly, and hopefully avoided the hideous fate of these past years. So, to start things off. High Commissioner and Chief Justice Benedict grinned to himself as he found the detonators. He hadn't blown up anything properly for years.... ****** Benedict (the one without the greying hair) was having the time of his life. As well as being able to corner whilst demolishing the ground floor of a building, the hovertank had a great deal of other fun features. He'd just discovered the rocket-launching thing, and was wondering just what the button labelled "flamethrower" might do. So intent was he on finding a suitably flammable medium for experimentation, that he failed to notice that he was again passing Wesley. It came as rather a shock when a loud detonation shook the tank, flipped it into the air, and brought it down on its side. Despite being strapped into the pilot's seat, an ammunition crate thrown loose by the impact caught him a glancing blow. ****** The platoon captain sighed to himself. Life just wasn't fair. He'd been given a special mission to be executed on behalf of the Supreme Commander himself, to arrest a man at the Parkside Police Station. But here was his personal hovertank, wrecked. He sighed again. It couldn't get much worse than this. A huge explosion lit up the night, and threw him onto his feet. His hovertank had just blown up, leaving only a crater and some fragmentary debris. The captain fought the urge to cry as he moved cautiously to investigate, sending a few of his men in ahead. However, he was distracted by something that clinked against his boot. It must have been flung clear of the explosion... a black metal gauntlet. Only one man wore such things. The captain sat down, put his head in his hands, and sobbed aloud. A sergeant approached him, and bemusedly asked what the matter was. "It's all gone wrong! I'm supposed to arrest the (sob) Security Minister, win fame and (whimper) recognition. But look at this -- he's (snivel) dead!" The sergeant regarded the black gauntlet, put two and two together, made four, and then realised why he was happy to be a sergeant, especially when there were captains to take the blame. As the unfortunate officer continued blubbering, the sergeant heard him mutter something about "what else could possibly go wrong..." Feeling really, really quite bad about it, the sergeant said gently, "Sir, you probably don't want to know this, but you're sitting on an unexploded rocket." ******* The Chief Disciplinary Adjutant of the Second Administrative Zone: Cambridge had been rather shocked at the idea that someone might throw him out of his own office, but when he saw what an important visitor he had, he hastened to comply with every order he was given. After all, he know the stories about what might happen to troublemakers... After all, when the Inquisitor-General himself, the First Constable, Lord Lieutenant, Marshall Coffin demanded space to interrogate an informer, anyone would jump. ***** The younger Benedict's mind was reeling with the hideous realisation about what this possible future would hold -- and the role that his future self had played. He could scarcely believe it, but Perry Rayson had confirmed everything, adding further details from the perspective of an open hater of the regime. Provost-Marshal Coffin (KFC, AA, BBC) finished explaining to his younger self just what would have to be done to avert this dreadful fate. "The rebels nowadays, well, they're just not what they used to be. No spirit, no initiative. So, I wanted a challenge to my security forces. It started out as just a bit of harmless fun, but then I suppose it got out of hand. I suppose it's unfair for my lot to be constantly baffled by a daring, well-equipped and extremely well-informed enemy, but that's their problem. If they were better, maybe I'd stop running the rebels quite so well." The younger Benedict was still astounded. "You're leading the rebels, while also trying to hunt them down?" "Oh yes. It works very well, you know. Nobody really loses out, I get constant funding for my department, a few token victories here and there, and never-ending rumblings of plots and discontent to feed the Supreme Commander's sense of paranoia. He's probably worked it out by now, but doesn't seem to mind. To be honest, he's lost whatever tenuous grip on reality he ever had. I spend most of the time actually running the show, you know, roads, bridges, food, all that malarkey. He's more interested in reading odd books and trying to fight a non-existent war in a fictitious world." "Now," the elder statesman continued, "you know what you have to do. If you go around wearing my body-armour, everyone will see that, panic, and remember the story about the recalcitrant bureaucrat, the rubber duck and the spoon, and be too busy trying not to tremble to bother you. If they do, well, that's what the ceremonial poleaxe, the purely decorative broadsword, the honorific set of throwing knives, the ritual grenade-launcher and (of course), the official rubber duck, are there for. I find it's best to ask for a spoon. It's so entertaining watching them surreptitiously flee to the bathroom. Now off you go, and do your job." The guards and flight crew of the Security Minister's sleek, matte-black jump-jet leapt to attention as he swept out of the Police Station towards them. All stared straight ahead as the black-armoured, helmeted figure strode up the ramp and took his seat, black cloak billowing. They'd seen that he was carrying a rubber duck. This boded very ill for someone... ****** Sir Benedict Coffin, Patron to the W.I., Freeman of the Cities of York and Cambridge, President of several dozen charities, Chancellor to the East Anglia Colleges of Further Education and amateur punter, leant back in his chair and drank a toast with Mr. Perry Rayson, BA, Deputy Resistance Leader and President to a Banned Organisation. "Remind me to have you arrested one day," he quipped to Perry, who merely smiled at the thought. "Now, as the young lad's gone off to do his bit of our plan, we have the difficult part. Somehow, we need to use the Book to regain control of the world of fiction..." The sounds of angry voices at the administration-building's entrance suggested that somebody with a direct mission from the Supreme Commander was very, very unhappy. Quickly rigging up a bin-full of cold coffee over the door and a small exploding device in the tea-pot, they opened the window, uttered cries of "For the Biddle", slid down the drain-pipe and disappeared into the night. ****** Personally leading his arresting detail, the captain burst through the door, and wondered why the world had gone brown and soggy. Pulling the bin off his head, he threw it to the ground in frustration as the coffee stained his once-pristine white storm-armour. The office was empty. However, seeing the cups on the desk, he decided that nobody would really mind if he paused for a cup of tea...
Martin and Angel turned round together, as a face stuck itself out of a tear in the fabric of spacefiction-time. "Tanya!" cried Angel. "How did you...?" Tanya smiled and held up a small dagger-like object. "That's the good thing about being stuck in the world of Philip Pullman. Behold the Subtle Knife!" Martin shuffled his feet edgily. "We'd better not show it to Dave then..." "Don't worry, Dave is the least subtle person I know and I know for a fact that he's been shut out of the World of Fiction. We'll be fine. Now Tanya, take us out of here; we need to find the others." *** Harry Potter was just finishing his sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, along with his friends Ron, Hermione and Tim. They were all sitting in the Gryffindor Common Room discussing Harry's latest brush with the Dark Lord. "You'd think he'd have stopped trying by now. Each time he tries and each time he gets defeated," said Hermione. "Oh come on, when it makes our adventures so good that if someone wrote them down they'd be worth a fortune? I doubt it," snorted Tim cynically. The others looked at him. "Anyone for a butterbeer?" asked Ron, trying to dispel the silence that had descended. They were quite happy to abuse their privileges for being allowed such drinks in the common room. Little did the school know that Hermione had found a spell for creating it without having to pay the extortionate 15% import tax. The silence, however was broken by a tortured wheezing which set the four friends on their feet at once. "Wands out, everyone. I thought we'd got rid of the Dark Lord for this year, but..." Harry's face was set, but turned to one of puzzlement as in front of them a Police Box apparated. Out staggered six bedraggled youths amidst a sea of black smoke, the sound of an echoing bell tolling in the background. No sooner had they done so that the strange apparition appeared to collapse in on itself and promptly disappear with a final wheeze. "The evil opponent, he's back..." said one of them breathlessly. "Chris?" said Tim...
Dave wasn't having a good evening. He'd found out that his future self was now running the country with an iron fist, ably assisted by a future version of Benedict. Shortly afterwards he had been arrested and brought to the HQ of this madcap world. Slumped in a dark room, he squinted as the door opened and a figure walked in and switched on the light. "Don't worry, I remember how painful the light was. In fact, I remember everything you've done and are about to do." Shielding his eyes from the glare of the light, Dave tried to make out the features of this person. "Dad?" "No, try again. I thought you hated being asked if you were your father." "Do I take it then that this is one of those times where you show the first sign of madness?" "Very good. Old joke, but it wasn't funny when I told it to me either. That's when I was you, of course." He sat down. "You may think you have the advantage that you could kill me and not the other way round because of the Grandfather Paradox, but don't worry, I've taken precautions. If I kill you, time will revert from the paradox and send everything back to a point before this all happened and erase us from the timeline. Don't think I won't do it." *** Benedict was getting on very well being Commander of the Security Forces. He was enjoying the power and looking forward to being this when he grew up. As he sent another battalion off in search of the Book, he paused. He could feel the barrel of a gun at his forehead, see the gun in front of him and, more importantly, make out his attacker. "I'm sorry sir, but I have strict orders to kill you..." Something rather strange was clearly happening, because there had quite definitely not been someone standing in front of him holding a gun to his head a second ago. It's not the sort of thing you fail to notice. There were four figures, three in a loose circle about him, and one right in front. They seemed... not quite there. All wearing black suits, white shirts, black ties and dark glasses. They looked anonymous, confident and... somehow unbelievable, as though they weren't really there. Benedict sighed. "It's the black armour, isn't it? Dead giveaway. But I'm afraid I'm not really who you expect..." This seemed to give the head Man in Black pause. He appeared to flicker in and out of sight for a few seconds, as though he was being even less real than before. Confused, his gun wavered as he said to his colleagues, "This isn't right... they've already taken Darth Graves." "But, sir, the mission..." said one. "We've been ordered to kill a suspect," said another. "We can't be allowed to fail, sir," added an equally monotonous voice. "But if Darth Graves has already been dealt with, this can't be him. And our orders are only to eliminate him, to pave the way to the True Matter..." murmured the first. "And Team four may need backup in Operation Diagon..." Before a full-blown democratic discussion could ensue and take up the rest of the day, Benedict rather impatiently interrupted, "Can't you just make up your minds and then go away? Some of us have things to do, you know. For the Biddle's sake..." All four of the figures froze in shock at the sound of that fateful word. Then, as one, they leapt onto Benedict with cries of "traitor", "heretic", "microwave him", "bonsai" etc. Unfortunately for them, getting excessively close to anyone with a penchant for black body-armour and a comprehensive collection of swords, axes, nunchuks and so forth is generally a bad idea. Sufficiently bad that Darwinian selection will kick in and weed out those who are just too weak and too feeble to make it past the knight... ***** The captain of the detail walked rather nervously towards the struggle. Two of the assailants were already down; as he watched, a third had his rifle yanked from his grasp with the hook of an axe and received an eye-watering kick from an armoured knee. The last tried backing off nervously, firing shots that seemed to bounce off the infamous black-gauntletted hand, until an auto-extending quarterstaff caught him on the side of his head. The captain coughed nervously and was rewarded by the full attention of the infamous Black Knight: "Er... sir, if you'd wanted any assistance..." The ominous heavy breathing focused on him. "I find your lack of faith disturbing. And why does your armour look like it's stained with coffee?" "I'm sorry sir... but you have an urgent message from the... the Supreme Commander, sir. And I'm to secure the prisoners. I've had your personal shuttle prepared, sir." Benedict regarded the message: ++++ From Supreme Commander Ault ++++ Well done on beating off the Arch-Foe's forces. I will look forward to you telling my past self how you managed it. I will have owed you several drinks to get that story, so spin it out. ++++ You have now acquired an important piece of the puzzle. Bring the prisoners to me at once. Stop wasting everyone's time looking for the Book. I had it removed as soon as you and I had come through it to here. It's far too dangerous to allow it to be open for long. They only got four of them through, I think, but be cautious. ++++ What are you waiting for? The very fate of the world as we know it is at stake! ++++ And get some rest while you can. Much remains to be done. I have foreseen it. ++++ The Supreme Commander Benedict smiled tightly to himself as he boarded the shuttle and the pilot set in course for the Supreme Commander's personal bunker-complex. Yes, all was working out just as he'd said it was going to. And that should mean that things were about to get quite seriously entertaining...
Had anybody been standing around as a detachment of soldiers led by a very relieved officer (seeking some vim and a scrubbing brush) packed up to go home, they might have seen what looked oddly like a Cheshire Cat appear over the rubble pile where some battered, suited figures had lain unconscious. The Cheshire Cat's head surveyed the area. The smile faded, leaving only the cat. It didn't seem best pleased by something. Even though cats can't -- or are too lazy to -- talk, this one muttered something that might have sounded like: "Have your empire fight back, would you? Very well, let's see how well you can face me. Ready, Jedi... go!" Given the quality of that last pun, it's probably a good thing that cats don't talk. So it clearly didn't say anything. And when it slowly vanished, it just cleared up an unpleasant little problem for the nature of reality for any onlookers...
"You're Tim, aren't you?" Janet looked puzzled, racking her memory. Around her, Chris, Mikie, Steve, Matt and Kim were looking in bemusement at the robed figures before them. "Where have you lot been? I thought I was going to be stuck in this world for ever. What happened to the TARDOF?" "So Dave was telling the truth after all... But we need to find a way out of here, the TARDOF has disappeared!" exclaimed Kim. She looked around for some glimpse of hope. Chris sighed. "It took a bit of a battering, and without Dave around to fix it, it must have just imploded under the strain of the attack from the Evil Opponent. Oh, fish." He sat down with a thud, only to stand up very quickly after a yowl, a hiss and a flash of ginger as Crookshanks, albeit slightly flattened, shot upstairs in the girls' dormitory. He looked rather sheepish as Hermione just gave him a withering stare. "Can we help?" asked Harry. The Methsoccers spun round, realising that the real fictional characters were still there as well. "We haven't been taught any world-crossing spells yet though..." "There's the library," said Ron cheerily, "we've visited the Forbidden section a few times so far..." "No, Madame Pince is already on the warpath after I found a book there earlier," said Tim, glumly. "It was one which, if you got sucked in, you could never escape..." His eyes lit up. "Good job I managed to swap it earlier, I thought there was something strange about it. Just a mo." He dashed upstairs, only to return moments later. A little bit later, as the Methsoccers pored over the Book, voices from behind them made them turn sharply. "They must have the Quotes Book, nothing else gets Methsoccers that interested. Except Hymns and Psalms, possibly..." "You mean like that Charles Wesley hymn about marching through Emmanuel? Come on guys, we're getting out of here." Behind them, in a tear in space-fiction reality, were the smiling faces of Tanya, Martin and Angel. With a few words of thanks, the Methsoccers leapt through, leaving Harry, Ron and Hermione in the Gryffindor Common Room. "Do you know what that was about?" asked Ron. "Nah. Strangely enough, things seem more natural now, like there was only meant to be three of us here."
"So you mean to say that fiction crossed over into reality?" Supreme Commander Ault was looking worried. "How can that be? Things aren't going as predicted." "Don't worry sir, it's because the portal that brought our past selves into this future was partially opened by the Book. Besides, there is another force at work here, the one that prevented you from re-entering the Book all those years ago." The Security Minister sat back in his chair. "But you're right, I don't remember my telling myself any of this when I first came through, oh rats. This whole temporal muddle is getting me confused." They had been receiving reports of Cheshire Cats, Men in Black and other curious appearances across the area. "Something needs to be done. The Book has to be sealed for good, whether or not we leave troops or Methsoccers in there."
The Cheyenne Mountain Complex is home to one of America's most well guarded secrets. In the 1920s, a group in Egypt found a large circular ring of stone, with hieroglyphs around the edge. This has become known as the Stargate, and it is used by the US Army to recce other planets and cultures. It is before that grand ring that the group appeared, Tanya putting away the Subtle Knife once more. "Impressive, isn't it?" Steve stood back and surveyed it. He wanted to see the portal open and model the fluid dynamics of the gate. "Why did you rescue me? I was enjoying being Brother Cadfael's assistant..." Carys was moaning, as was Saz, who'd be taken away from the world of Stephen King. "Oh never mind, you lot. Look where we've arrived! The Stargate! We can get out here, so long as we can modify it to cross the reality barrier..." Chris's eyes glinted and he looked at Mikie who was similarly gleeful. Computers and strange alien technology, pshaw. You were talking to two guys who, between them, searched for prime numbers in drawers and brought down the tyranny of Homer-stud. "Not so fast." A Cheshire Cat faded into view on the walkway to the Stargate. "I'm not letting you get away this time..."
For a demented genius, there are certain expected requirements. Lots of bubbling beakers over Bunsen burners, miles of tubing with green liquids oozing through them, clouds of steam, a butler with a hunch, a limp, a lisp and the knack of supplying the half-dozen virgins just in time for the thunderstorm. But these things don't just pop into existence. Even in the shifting and constantly changing world of fiction, someone has to provide the crucibles, the unthanked and unsung researchers who make sure that the liquid benzene doesn't achieve critical mass until the hero is about to escape, or the barely-paid hackers who programme the laser-grids, holographic displays and teleportation pads, let alone recruiting the nameless guards... Since the publication of Frankenstein, Mssrs Suggins, McMurley and Crojack (Ltd) have been Purveyors of Presumed Philosophical Pertinences to Proscribed Persons, tirelessly creating madmen's mountain-top laboratories and supervillains' top secret bunkers. They had been specially commissioned by Supreme Commander Ault to build his research facility back in 2035, at a time when his grip on this world seemed moderately secure, and his fear of the Arch-Foe's potentially devastating power over the world of fiction was beginning to grow. Through careful use of the Book, he had contacted Suggins, McMurley and Crojack (Ltd) and arranged for them to create a command centre meeting his particular requirements, which became his base for the great struggle of his life - attempting to wrest control of the world of fiction from the Arch-Foe. The main throne-room was, naturally, spacious, in a dark-metal sort of way, with a handful of overhead gantries and one wall devoted to giant screens where the Commander could watch his troops in action. Mr. Suggins' personal recommendation of a shark-tank had been rejected, and the original design's inclusion of a very deep pit leading to the centre's power core had been politely vetoed. Self-destruct buttons were conspicuously absent. As a concession, hidden speakers did play ominous Maori "oo-ee-oo, oo-eeee-oo, oo-ee-oo-ee-oo" music, but Dave found that soothing when planning his conquests. Suggins, McMurley and Crojack had, however, been allowed free rein in The Gateway. Fully deserving of its capital letters, this chamber contained the constantly-guarded portal in to the world of fiction. Monumental generators with crackling lightning bursting from them stood at all four corners. Troops milled around the immense floor-zone as the last units pulled back from the other side of the portal, careful to ensure that nothing else came with them. The control box overlooking the cavernous hall contained the most precious relic of all - the Book, the fundamental key to the fictional world. Kept in completely separate facilities were a rather tattered piece of parchment and a grubby key, whose condition utterly belied the importance with which their many guards regarded them. ******* The gigantic screen in the Commander's throne room was filled with a picture of the Cheyenne Mountains Stargate. The Supreme Lord himself was leaning forward in his chair, intently studying the image of the Methsoccers backing away from the evilly-grinning Cheshire Cat. Behind the throne, the black-armoured Security Minister idly ran a whetstone over the blade of an honorific halberd. Even without his helmet, his expression betrayed no hint of his true emotions. A gesture from Dave changed the image to what could only be described as a cell. One of the subdued Men in Black appeared to be under interrogation of some sort, clearly using lingering Literary Criticism to elicit responses. Glancing up, one of the questioners saluted the screen, and reported: "It looks like a standard raid, sir, but it seems that their mission was to eliminate any members of MethSoc. I'm not quite sure how they got out of the fiction-dimension, sir, but they are almost real, and can certainly move, act, and fight in this world just like us. And the Reality Jolts we normally use aren't as effective. I'm sorry, sir, but it seems that the Foe has adapted to us. If more of them get through, we'll be in trouble." The screen went black. Suddenly the throne swung round and Dave, flinging back his hood, exclaimed, "The Foe may have gained some advantage over us, but I sense that we are on the verge of a great victory! It's there, in person, at the Stargate. All we need to do is hit it with enough force - and because of the Heroic Entry Principle, we'll get there just in time to save the Methsoccers! It's unbelievably brilliant!" This impassioned oratory appeared to have no effect at all on the Security Minister, who continued to run the whetstone over the already-sharp blade. "Assemble all troops! Issue every Jolt Cannon we have! We'll give them a dose of Reality that they won't forget!! Onwards, to victory!!!!" "No." Dave stopped, his arm still out-flung in a grandiose gesture. "What?!" "No." The Security Minister tucked away the whetstone, straightened, and faced his notional superior. "It's over, Dave. I tolerated this whole ludicrous scheme about trying to control the world of fiction when it seemed harmless, but not if they are going to break through here. I've spent the last sixty or so years of my life working with you to bring peace and strength to our land. I've put a lot of effort into rebuilding this country, and I'm not going to let your recklessness destroy my handiwork." Dave appeared stunned by this, and was gasping incoherently. "The Map has already been destroyed. A rebel attack, so my informants tell me. I have taken personal charge of the Key. We will recover the Methsoccers, and then return them all - even the ones you're holding prisoner - back to their time and world. They don't deserve to be stuck here all their lives. Then the Book will be destroyed. It's over."
Ignoring the threats and expression of contemptuous amusement from the Cheshire Cat, Chris and Mikie scurried over to the banks of computer terminals, and began feverishly to re-programme the Stargate. Phrases bounced between them: "Use the coefficient of i as your base reciprocal"... "let e equal half of time over effort less management input"... "oh, wombat, it doesn't count in twelves"... "magnify the hyper-root of infinity", and, when all else appeared to have failed, "just stick in 7 cubed, I prefer milk in my tea". This last effort seemed to have achieved results, as the disc of the Stargate began to move. A clearly displeased Cheshire Cat screamed in rage, and then began to laugh evilly... **************** "You're sure it's the Stargate that you're connecting to?" The officer on duty in The Gateway nodded, just wishing that his visitor would stop being so edgy, so that he in turn could relax. But the matt-black armour of the Security Minister wasn't something you argued with. "Good." said Benedict. "In that case, I'm going in. You're coming too," he added to Dave who, lacking his fellow junior-self's obscuring black helmet, was making do with some dark glasses. "Er, sir... will you be wanting any support?" asked the duty officer. "I shouldn't think so," said Benedict with blithe confidence, "though if you have any useful weaponry sitting around, I'm building up a small personal armoury... well, a large one, actually. But if you need to, send in troops to cover us." As Benedict and Dave further armed themselves and walked up towards the Portal, Benedict explained the plan. "Chris, Kim, Mikie, Steve, Matt and Janet got sucked in, and are at the Stargate. Tanya, Angel, Martin, Tim, Carys and Saz are with them. Jon and Mark are safely here, and I that should be the lot. I don't think we've missed anyone. So all we need to do is get these few back here, and we can all go home and let the future take its course!" ************* Even as Chris watched the Stargate begin to fluctuate and open, he was distracted by an eerily familiar wheezing sound. Behind them, the blue telephone box had appeared again. "But... but I thought the TARDOF was destroyed!" The Cheshire Cat grinned evilly. "This is still the world of fiction. And here, I rule. And I write in, and I write out, and what I write out stays written out until I write it back in..." The door of the TARDOF opened, and a cloud of steam poured out. A robed figure came out, with wild hair and a striped scarf. "Ah, greetings to you." He paused for a bewildered second, and then seemed to remember what he was doing, "Oh yes, I am the Master, I travel through space and time having fun and destroying things, and I am here to see that you are all quite permanently expunged!" From behind him, figures began to leave the TARDOF and surround the Methsoccers. Rows of droids, Daleks, assorted bogeymen, zombies, Rabbit's Friends and Relations, henchmen... it was as if the entire cast of villains and bad guys from the entirety of fiction had been gathered in one place. Steve summed up everyone's thoughts: "Oh, Uberdoom..." *********** Dave managed to find his voice: "You - you - you - traitor! We have the greatest victory of our history in our grasp, and you try this! You and your petty allies!" With a note of triumph in his voice, he added, "Anyway, I've out-thought you! I was one of the methsocmathmos who created the Map, the Key, the Book! I can re-create it! I will not be denied by you!" There was just the barest touch of humour in Benedict's voice: "Oh dear me, yes, the great genius Dave. I'd almost forgotten about you yourself. Perhaps the most dangerous thing of all, with your mind. Now, how could I possibly deal with you...?" Still leaning on his pike, the Security Minister launched himself into a perfect flying kick. An armoured boot landed squarely on Dave's chest, sounding hollowly of body-armour against the black robes. Dave swept out his arms to both sides, triggering multiple knife-blades even as Benedict dropped into a pike-wielding combat crouch.... "Wait," cried Dave, severely winded, "this is futile! I can't go into the World of Fiction anyway, after I was frozen out by the Cheshire Cat all those years ago. It's her power that's keeping me out!" Benedict got up slowly from his crouching position. "You're right... where's your younger self?" He paused, and turned to one of the guards. "Bring him here, and find my younger self as well."
The Methsoccers backed into a tighter and tighter circle as the monsters drew closer towards them. "Tim, use the book!" shouted Chris. "What, because that's going to tell me what to do? Just the thing... I could do with a bit of reading in this sort of situation..." "No! Matthew 5! Remember what you were told about the book!" Images flashed through Tim's mind... '"It's dangerous," she hissed. "Once it sucks you in, you'll never get out." '... Of course, he thought to himself, he could propel them back into fiction by getting them sucked into the book. Quick as a whip, he pulled out the book and his wand, placed the former on the floor and shouted "ENGORGIO!" The book grew, and grew whilst the Cheshire Cat shrieked with rage as all the monsters got pulled into the fiction-gravity well. Within a matter of moments it was, once again, just the twelve and the Cat left in the hall. "You should have remembered," said Chris, coolly, "that whilst we were still in this World, we had our powers. Well done, Tim." The Cat, spitting wildly, launched itself at Chris. Kim let out a hollow shriek but, as soon as it left her mouth, she noticed something strange. The rest of the company noticed it too. The Cat was hovering in mid-air, motionless. From the shadows emerged a black, carbonite-encased figure, breathing heavily. "It's so nice to see you all here again." Darth Graves lifted his hand and clenched his fist, and the Cat disappeared with a squeal. "Dispelled to the four winds." "Peter Graves?" Steve was the first to speak. "Yes, now I'm back, the Cat's reign of terror is over, and we can all go home." "Erm.. there might be a problem," said Tom uneasily, as the universe around them started to shake... *** And a problem there was. The Daves felt it, as did the Benedicts. "The Stargate's open and the Cat's gone! That World and ours are collapsing together!" Dave (the younger) shouted as he dashed towards the Gateway. In he disappeared, closely followed by the three others...
"Dave!" There was a general, if slightly bemused shout from the assembled crowd as two versions of the same Dave ran down the walkway into the Cheyenne Complex. "Good to see you all, guys... And am I glad to see this old girl again." He patted the TARDOF, which seemed to glow slightly in recognition. "What's going on?" screamed Janet. "This world seems to be shaking itself to pieces!" "There's a problem with reality... The Cat's gone and the Stargate is open. Fictional entropy has increased, and the Cat isn't here to hold everything together," said the Daves in (seeming) chorus. They looked at each other, and the ghost of a smile crossed their faces. "So what can we do to stop it?!" shouted Tim, as the metal doors buckled under the entropic stress. "There's only one thing. We have to heal the time rift where the original scar was made, bridging the gap between fiction and reality at its source. I have to destroy the Book at its inception and use the TARDOF to seal the rift," said Dave, the character that made him Supreme Commander shining through. "That sounds a bit dangerous..." put in Kim. Dave smiled. "Don't worry, once it's done, Time will revert to a point before the problems started. Dave," he said, turning to himself, "will you join me?" "Wait!" Chris interrupted, "If you two have to pilot the TARDOF into the gap, what'll happen to you?" "Ah, well, I don't know. If all goes well, you'll be pulled back to a point before everything started. As for me, well, I don't think this has been tried before... In any case, you've had your Small Groups this term, so I'm not needed on committee -" he said that last word with disgust - "so what's the problem?" "But what if you cease to exist or something?!" "I've been dead before." With that, the two ran in to the TARDOF and it disappeared. *** Time is a great healer, not least for itself. When such a rent in its fabric is precipitated, it does its best, once it is sorted, to revert things to a more natural state of affairs. What happens to the peoples' timelines is unknown, not least what they feel. However, needless to say, as Time stitched itself together again, you could see the Apocalyptic World disappearing, the Book written away and Time resetting...
TBM was dragging as usual. At the front, Sarah, Chris and Steve looked as bored as if they were in an Analysis II lecture, which Chris had experienced many a time already. As the votes were brought back from the elections, Sarah read them out. "The Michaelmas Term 2002 President will be Matthew Dyer, Computer Rep is Mikie and Nick is the new Pastoral Rep." There was a short burst of applause, but Chris was doodling. The pot plant he was drawing on the secretarial paper was threatening to grow over the minutes so far. He turned his attention on to the results and started writing. President - Dave. Dave? He turned to Sarah. "Look what I've just written." She read it and shrugged. "We've never had a Dave in Methsoc... what's wrong with you?" A wave of confusion rippled over his face, but with a short "Oh fish", he scribbled it out and wrote Matt Dyer. He'd probably been doing too much maths. He didn't know a Dave, but somehow there was a slight something familiar about the name. Never mind, soon he could go to lunch... ------------------ The End (or is it?) |