zzambrosius_02: (Default)
[personal profile] zzambrosius_02
A short story by A.M. Brosius.

Mr. Ambros Rothakis walked along the cliff top, stopping occasionally to gaze at the waves crashing against the rocks below.

‘I suppose the fellow could have wound up in the sea,’ he thought. ‘Not likely, though.’

He reached his destination, a spot across the road from a very famous restaurant. He could see the bull logo from that position. ‘I can’t see any other solution to the mystery. Let’s see if my guess is correct.’ He fired up his MPS; the invisible wristband produced a hologram of a Shifter. He pulled the actual Shifter out of the patch pocket on the left thigh of his cargoes. The Shifter bore a striking resemblance to a hockey puck, and weighed only a trifle less.

With both machines activated, he could clearly see the Timeline Gate in the parking lot across the highway. ‘It’s inactive, of course...I wonder how Mr. Jannsen managed to activate it?’



He looked both ways, then grabbed the strap of his shoulder bag and sprinted across the road. He looked to be about fifty-five years old, but moved like a much younger man. He approached the Gate warily, examining what his tech allowed him to see of the innards. ‘Ah, there we are. The circuitry on the lock-out mechanism is corrupted, probably by an attempt at access from an Authoritarian Timeline.’ He walked slowly around the thing, trying and failing to determine its current setting. ‘According to Averos, that means the destination point hasn’t been altered since the last time someone passed through. That makes this a little easier.’

With the MPS he located three security cameras that had overlapping views of the car park. He mentally ordered the machine to lock on to those, and wait for instructions.

A man in the more or less universal outfit of a private security guard got out of his seat near the door of the eatery and approached Ambros warily. Ambros became wary himself: ‘I look like a nut, for sure. Walking around an empty parking place with a hockey puck on my out stretched left hand, long hair in a topknot, fringe beard with a long goatee, big black boots, grey cargoes and a crocheted jerkin over a linen shirt...let’s speak Spanish, that might help allay his perhaps justifiable suspicions.’

“Hello, Señor,” said Ambros with a smile, holding out his right hand to offer a shake: “I was wondering if you were here on the day of Señor Jannsen’s disappearance?”

The guard’s expression turned to resignation; he accepted the handshake, with no great enthusiasm: “No, señor. I was hired after that. No one thought that a guard was needed...” He spoke Spanish fluently, though with a Catalan accent.

“I understand,” said Ambros: “I am looking for evidence of where he went. This is the spot where he parked his car that day, is that correct?”

“So I am told, señor. The police examined the area very carefully, señor. What evidence could be here still, ten years later?”

Ambros raised an eyebrow: “Obviously, something invisible to the police.”

“Of course.”

“Well. I guess I should go inside. My reservation is for six.”

The guard perked up: “Yes, señor. May I escort you to the entrance?”

“Thank you, señor.”

Once inside, he spoke his name to the maitre d’ and that gentleman nodded to the security guard. The guard effaced himself.

“If you will come this way, Sr. Rothakis, your table is ready.”

“Excellent! I am looking forward to this.”

“Chef d’Andreu is, as well.”

“Oh really?”

The Maitre d’ smiled sadly: “The chef was deeply disturbed by Mr. Jannsen’s disappearance. He has proved willing to speak to nearly anyone who claims to have a clue about the mystery. Please, Señor, do not give him any false hope.”

“I have no real hope to give him. None at all. I believe I made that clear...”

“You did, señor. Your table...”

“Thank you.” He sat down; the chair was uncommonly comfortable, for a chair in a restaurant. The table shone with silver and white damask, crystal and fine china; the napkins were folded just so. A waiter took his drink order and whisked away, his shirt and kerchief as spotless white as the tablecloth.

A man approached the table: he wore chef’s whites and an incredibly tall cylindrical hat, corrugated like a tin roof. He held out a hand, clean as a surgeon’s, scarred and calloused as a gardener’s: “I am Chef Feran d’Andreu, Sr. Rothakis. I am very pleased to meet you.”

Ambros rose and shook the man’s hand: “And I you. I take it my deposit to your account was adequate?”

“Very much so, señor.” The chef’s Spanish was almost unaccented. Barely a whiff of Catalan came through: “I have planned for you a delicious repast. Here is our appetizer.”

As Ambros later described the food to his friends: “It wasn’t what you’d call a meal, per se. Each dish was bite, a mouthful or less. Molecular gastronomy, they call it: super intense flavors, often combined in unheard-of ways. Not enough calories to keep me on my feet for an hour, but that was not the point, at all.”

They made small talk as they shared a very small plate of dainty things. “One would not think,” Ambros said, after one particularly peculiar bite, “That a gellé of sea urchin, pine cones, and avocado would be edible. This is fantastic.”

As one waiter cleared the plates and another served the next course, Chef d’Andreu said: “You intimated in your electronic messages that you were interested in the tragedy of Mr. Jannsen.”

“I am. I hope that I did not give you the impression that I will solve this mystery for you?”

“You did not,” said the chef, shaking his head slowly: “I no longer believe that such a solution will be forthcoming. The good God does not always answer our prayers, señor.”

“That is so.” Ambros had no desire to debate the existence of God, good or bad, with a believer. He merely raised an eyebrow as he said: “I have some small hope that I can—not find Mr. Jannsen alive, although I do hope to do that—so much as determine to my own satisfaction what became of him.”

D’Andreu lowered his brows: “What do you desire of me, then?”

“I’d like you to tell me, as if you were telling it for the first time, everything you know about Mr. Jannsen, and what happened that day.”

“If my tale helps you to...determine his whereabouts, what will you tell me of your findings?”

“If my suspicions prove true, I will tell you three things: whether he is alive or dead; his whereabouts, in one form or another; and some explanation of the means of his disappearance.”

“That would be welcome news.”

“I must warn you: you will find the story hard to believe, and no one will believe you, if you try to tell them what happened. The mystery will remain unsolved, officially.”

“If your story will be hard to believe, why then would I believe it?”

Ambros smiled slowly: “I will, if I find Mr. Jannsen, and if he so desires, bring him back here and present him to you. If he does not wish to return here, I will take a photograph of him. To be certain that I have not faked such a picture, I will pose him in a place, at a time, and with an object, the combination of which things will be convincing to you. Experts could then testify to you as to whether the photo had been altered or ‘shopped’ in any way.”

“What will the object be?”

Ambros reached into his pouch and produced a pen: “It might suffice for you to autograph the chef’s hat you are wearing, and add some distinctive flourish to it. Address it, perhaps, to Mr. Jannsen.

“Hmph.” The chef did as requested. Ambros put the folded hat into his shoulder bag.

“Well,” said d’Andreu: “I will tell you what I recall of the man in question.”

The chef’s eyes took on a distant look, as of a man peering deep into his own soul: “I first heard of Sr. Jannsen from a brother chef in Valencia. It seemed that Jannsen, who lived in Switzerland, had saved sufficient funds from his employment as a messenger to finance a trip around Europe to visit all of the three-star restaurants on the continent.”

Ambros knew that part, but forebore to interrupt.

“Such a devotion to fine dining piqued my curiosity; and you will understand, it excited my admiration as well.”

“Of course.”

“It was about this time of day, almost exactly ten years ago, that Sr. Jannsen arrived here. We were expecting him. I spoke with him at length, and took his order myself. His choices reflected his very good taste and showed an informed knowledge of my preferences and specialties. This dish is one of the ones he desired to taste...”

“It is quite interesting.” Ambros sniffed the little cup, then tasted it gingerly: “A lovely combination. The rosemary is intense.”

“Yes. Sr. Jannsen struck up a conversation with the couple at the next table; they were intrigued by his project and desired to know more. He pulled out his wallet...” the chef mimed taking out such, and searching through it: “...but he had none of his calling cards in it.”

“And?”

D’Andreu shrugged: “He declared that he had such in his auto; he left his wallet sitting right there,” he gestured, “and went to the parking lot to retrieve them.”

Ambros nodded: “And he never returned.”

“He never did. It is, you know, utterly inconceivable that he would not return for the food, or for his wallet.”

“Something must have prevented his return,” Ambros agreed.

“And yet, there was no sign of foul play, no clue, no...forensic evidence...the police say.”

“And no witnesses?” Ambros inquired.

Chef d’Andreu paused. Ambros thought: ‘Ah, someone saw something, and no one believed what that person said.’

“Mr. Rothakis. I have not spoken of this to anyone. The police advised me to stay mum about it at first, so there should be one thing that only they and the purported kidnapper could know. And later, I did not speak of it because it seemed irrelevant. It did not lead to a clue of any kind. I will tell you now, though.”

“Thank you.”

“It is nothing. There was one woman in the car park at the moment of Sr. Jannsen’s apparent disappearance. She neither saw nor heard anything directly. Her back was to Jannsen’s car. But she said that, for a moment, there was a flash. Not a flash of light, she said, but of darkness: ‘As though for a moment a hole into the blackest pit had opened. For only a second, and then all was normal again.’ I can only imagine what it was she experienced; she herself said it was impossible to describe. She used the words ‘nauseating’ and ‘otherworldly’.”

“That is very interesting.”

“It is, isn’t it? She heard no struggle, no one called out.”

“I see.”

They ate their dessert, another gellé: this one was of strawberries and cream, so intense that it brought tears to Ambros’ eyes.

The waiter brought coffee.

“Cognac?” D’Andreu asked.

“Happily,” said Ambros. They made more small talk, sipping their drinks. A waiter appeared and whispered in the chef’s ear.

“Sr. Rothakis. I regret to say that my duties call to me. I have enjoyed your company. We will see to reimbursing the remainder of your payment to your account as soon as possible...”

“Keep any remainder, I insist, and distribute it to your kitchen workers and waiters, in token of my appreciation.”

“That is...very generous.”

Ambros caught the chef’s eye and held it for a moment: “I know.”

D’Andreu rose and bowed, then proceeded towards the kitchens, already bustling about and giving orders to the staff.

Ambros accessed the MPS and ordered it to shut down the security cameras out in the car park. He waited, savoring his second cup of coffee: ‘Very fine stuff,’ he thought. ‘Very fine indeed.’

The security guard came striding through the room, a worried frown upon his face. Ambros rose and strolled out of the bistro, stopping to thank the Maitre d’.

In the gloaming outside, he stood contemplating. He activated the MPS and Shifter together and walked towards the looming invisible Gate. He forced the thing to give him a look through to the other side. His tech told him that it was the same place, but in another Timeline: ‘The Alcatraz Quiet Timeline, in fact,’ he thought. ‘A fairly safe place to Jump sideways to.’

He turned in place. ‘No one around. No working cameras. No reason to wait.’
He stared at the visual of the other side, put his hand into his pocket and touched his pistol, and stepped through the Gate.


As soon as he felt the ground under him solidly, he pulled his Commonwealth Commando sidearm out of his pocket and turned in place again. ‘No one visible,’ he thought, a little disappointed. He shrugged: ‘What’d you expect? A carnival? Jannsen’d be the only live person anywhere closer than the Ohio River valley’

He stayed alert nonetheless, treating the scene as if l’Iriquois Special Forces were just around the corner. He silently queried the still-active MPS and determined that there was a single live person in the vicinity, and that he was in the kitchen of the restaurant.

“Very odd.” Ambros considered various possibilities: “Whatever the explanation, he has been here ten years. It is not a long walk to Rosas, the nearest town...by now he may well have armed himself. Best not to startle, him, I think.”

Ambros walked around to the rear of the partly ruined building. Even in the near dark, he could see that some repairs had been made here and there. He hiked up the hill outside the large kitchen window, and sat on the hillside in a little hollow where he was just in sight of the fellow. He had candles lit around the kitchen; he seemed to be cooking.

Ambros gathered some twigs and leaves and a few larger pieces of wood. He used his plasma sword to set the fire alight. He sat beside the fire and waited.

After a few minutes, Jannsen stepped out onto the back patio. He looked up at the hillside; after gazing up at Ambros for a while, he began to climb.

Ambros put the APS away, but kept the pistol at his side, partly hidden beneath his right leg.

Jannsen stuck his head around a tree trunk, staring disbelievingly at Ambros. Ambros added some wood to the fire, then gestured a welcome to the other man.

He was heavily bearded, but his clothes were clean and new looking. He carried a machete. ‘His grip indicates that he has no real idea how to use it, as a weapon anyway,’ Ambros thought.

Jannsen came over to the fire; after staring for a few more moments, he spoke, diffidently: “You, uh, you just arrive here?”

“More or less. Just after sundown.”

“Oh. Y’know...there’s nobody else alive anywhere near here.”

“I know that.”

“Oh. Good. You could just move along, then? I mean, tomorrow, when it’s light.”

“You don’t want the company, then?”

“Well. I’ve got used to being alone, you know?”

They were speaking French. “I see.” Ambros gestured, and Jannsen sat down. "The only reason I’m here at all, is to see that you are all right. If you don’t want company, I’ll nip back over to my own Line...”

“Wait. Your own...Line?”

“Timeline.” Ambros smiled gently.

“Huh.”

“I can explain to you what happened, I think. How you got here.”

“Oh. Okay, go ahead.”

Ambros gave the man an outline: the unknown origin of the Timeline Gates, the existence of multiple related Lines, the Commonwealth’s exploitation of the technology after they discovered the Gates. “You accidentally walked through a temporarily, and fleetingly, active Gate, in the parking lot at...” He gestured at the restaurant below them.

“Whoa. That’s weird. I am not sure I believe that,” said Jannsen.

“You have reason. But it’s true, anyway. And I can get you back home to our Line, if you want.”

“Huh.”

“Maybe you’d like to sleep on the proposition.”

Jannsen shook his head: “Not likely. I doubt I’ll sleep tonight.”

Ambros nodded. They sat there a while, until Jannsen began asking questions: “How many Lines exist?

“Unknown. Maybe an infinite number.”

“So pretty near anything might happen?”

“In one Line or another, yes.”

“Do I exist? In other Lines I mean? I mean...someone just like me...?”

Ambros nodded: “In twenty-two United States Imperial Timelines, you have twenty close cognates. Every one of them vanished mysteriously, within a week of the time that you did.”

“Shit.”

Ambros fed the fire. “Some of them reappeared, in a week or a month or a year. Others never did.”

“But I was the first?”

Ambros nodded: “Your accident caused all of the other disappearances. We call it ‘Sardonic synchronicity’.”

“It was my fault?”

“I didn’t say that. I don’t think you vanished on purpose...”

“I didn’t. But I sorta wanted to.”

“Ah,” said Ambros, and paused: “That explains it, then.”

“What?”

“You were probably thinking of disappearing, wishing you could do so. The Gates are exquisitely sensitive to such things. They are not sentient...we don’t think they are, anyway. But they’ve been known to sorta act like they are.”

“Wow.” Jannsen seemed to be contemplating that. After a while, he asked: “The ones who came back, I mean...the versions of me who came back in their own...Lines. What did they say?”

Ambros shrugged: “The guy in USIT Eight turned up a month later, back in Geneva. His relatives asked folks to leave him alone, explained that he was deeply embarrassed by his actions. I suspect he doesn’t have any clear memory of what happened to him, of how he left or why, and he’s hoping everyone just forgets about it.

“Two of them turned up dead. One in the ocean, one on land. Cops in both of those Lines said ‘no sign of foul play’.” He shrugged again.

They talked on, Ambros answering all of Jannsen’s questions. The sun rose on their conversation. Ambros killed the smoking remains of the fire by piling dirt atop it.

“Come down to the kitchen, I’ll make you some breakfast,” said Jannsen. Ambros agreed.

“The kitchen ran partly on solar power,” Jannsen explained, as he led Ambros down one of the many aisles between the counters. “As long as I don’t power anything else, the equipment mostly works.”

“Huh,” Ambros said, in his turn. Jannsen set to work, using wild plants and eggs gathered from the wild to cook up a pretty good omelet.

“Say,” he asked, as he served up the food: “If this Line’s governments really killed off all the life on the planet—like, with a Phage, like you said—then where did all the wild chickens come from? They are all over the hills,” he waved at the window: “Y’know?”

Ambrose grinned wryly: “As soon as the Phage was gone, I mean as soon as we eliminated it, all the seeds that were underground started sprouting. Then the Commonwealth seeded some animal biomes into some areas of the planet. I believe that there is a pretty complete ‘wild animal biome’ in Normandy. My guess is, the chickens came from there. It makes a kind of sense: wild chickens are not as mobile as some other birds, but they reproduce a lot faster than most. They’d spread over the landscape pretty quickly, I bet.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Ambros pulled an antique Polaroid camera out of his bag: “I want to take a photo of you, if you don’t mind.”

“What for?”

“Chef d’Andreu was very upset when you vanished. I believe that it would soothe him to know that you were still alive. So, if you don’t mind...”

Jannsen agreed. Ambros led him out into the car park, and handed him d’Andreu’s hat. He posed Jannsen in the front of the restaurant with the logo, and the overgrown shrubberies, and the deteriorated roof over the entryway, all visible.

“One shot, if it works,” he said.

After a few minutes, Jannsen said: “It come out okay?”

“Yeah, it’s great.”

“Okay,” said Jannsen. “Bye.” He turned and entered the restaurant, without looking back.

Ambros stood there for a moment, nonplussed. Then he shrugged and got out his Shifter: “The chef’s office,” he said aloud. When he had a good view of d’Andreu’s desk, he sent the photo through. Then he took a deep breath and thought of home.

He Shifted.

Date: 2015-04-22 06:02 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] young-raven.livejournal.com
I love the image of hundreds, if not thousands, of feral chickens wandering the landscape.

Profile

zzambrosius_02: (Default)
zzambrosius_02

February 2024

S M T W T F S
    123
45678910
11121314151617
18192021222324
2526272829  

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Jul. 15th, 2025 03:07 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios