The Map of Chaos (65 page)

“And what
did
you do, Jane?”

The old lady looked at him in astonishment. She thought she had perceived in that metallic murmur a curiosity that was so . . . human, almost childlike; she even thought the Executioner's cheeks had turned a subtle shade of pink. Or perhaps they hadn't. Possibly that creature merely reflected his victim's feelings. And
she was his victim,
she reminded herself.

“Oh, you want to know what happened next in the story you read. Well, after escaping with the book, I carried on with our original plan; what else could I do? True, as an active cronotemic, I could have simply waited for an Executioner to pick up my trail. But I had to bear in mind that I had only jumped once, and there was too much at stake for everything to depend on that, so I saw no harm in continuing to go to séances. At least until I came up with a better idea. I won't go into how I managed to survive in that new world; suffice it to say I didn't fare too badly. In less than a year I had amassed a small fortune thanks to the Mechanical Servant, an invention that revolutionized the wealthiest households in London. It was more of a clever contraption than a serious scientific innovation, and I tried to play it down so as not to draw too much attention to myself, because I hadn't forgotten that the Villain was trailing me. Even so, it made me the richest, most mysterious widow in all London . . .”

Jane smiled as she recalled those days, but something in the Executioner's face—a flicker of impatience, perhaps—made her continue quickly.

“Well, I might tell you that amazing story some other time. The main thing is that money allowed me to spend nearly two years attending hundreds of séances and visiting dozens of haunted houses. Alas, I never bumped into any of our cronotemic twins. I saw a Jane roaming round a graveyard once, but she was in the final stages of the disease, so almost invisible and utterly mad, and therefore of no use to me. The months flew by, and I felt increasingly weak and tired. I began to think that by the time I found a Perfect Twin to whom I could entrust
The Map of Chaos
it would be too late, and yet, even so, I was reluctant to seek out our twins in that world. I couldn't forget the charming couple who had died because of us. I didn't want any more deaths on my conscience . . . And so I decided to revert to my original plan and publish
The Map of Chaos
—not the one my husband had written, but rather my own version. The story I had started writing as a gift for Bertie, in which I narrated in detail how H. G. Wells saved the world, tried at the same time to redeem him from the fact that in order to do so it was necessary for him to first put it in mortal danger. It had begun as a simple pastime in the first world I washed up in, where I experienced the pleasure of boating on the river with the author of
Alice'
s Adventures in Wonderland
himself. But when the Villain murdered Bertie, forcing me to leap, I was unable to take my manuscript with me and had to start over again. However, this time my intention was to publish it; I thought that if an Executioner were to see my book in a shop window with the Star of Chaos embossed on the cover, he would undoubtedly read it and instantly begin searching for the author. Then, at last, I would be able to give him the real, the genuine
MAP OF CHAOS.
That is why I chose a male author to narrate my story, because in the backward society I was living in, it would have been much more difficult to publish a book written by a woman (even if she was the inventor of the Mechanical Servant) and I needed that to happen as quickly as possible and in as many different countries as possible. I even thought of publishing it under the pseudonym Miles Dyson—the bioscientist who designed the original prototype of the Executioner. My idea was as ingenuous as attending séances in search of the perfect twin, but I could not think of a better one. Unfortunately, before any of my plans bore fruit, the Villain caught up with me again. That happened on 12 September 1888. At the residence of the famous medium known as Lady Amber, the evil Rhys materialized and recognized me instantly. Naturally, he demanded I hand over
The Map of Chaos
. Then he tried to strangle me. Thanks to the intrepid Inspector Cornelius Clayton of Scotland Yard's Special Branch, I managed to escape his clutches. But I no longer had any doubt about what I must do. The Villain had caught up with me. Out of all those infinite parallel universes, he had found the one I was hiding in. And he wouldn't leave until he succeeded in taking from me what he believed was his, and so the moment I arrived home, I wrote a note to the Wells from that world—I chose him because my own twin was still only sixteen at the time—and I can tell you those were the most difficult few lines I have ever written in my life. I had to redraft the note several times, because in my excitement I couldn't find the right words to convince a young man of twenty-two that he must come urgently to the house of a strange old woman in the middle of the night, as a matter of life and death . . . Finally, I finished the note and sent it with my faithful maid, Doris, to Fitzroy Road, where Wells was living with his aunt. Even though I knew there were no walls or doors that could keep the Villain out, I locked myself in my study and waited up all night, shivering with fear and clutching my beloved book, which was all I had left of Ber—”

“I am aware of M's strength,” the Executioner interrupted. “He is a powerful level 6 Destructor. None of us has ever been able to catch him.”

Jane nodded sadly and continued: “The Wells from that world didn't answer my cry for help. And Doris never returned. I don't know what became of her, or whether my note ever reached its destination . . . In any event, whether it did or not, the Villain found me first. Thankfully, the young Inspector Clayton was with me again when he attacked a second time . . . The detective had come to my house at dawn to ask me about the mysterious events at Madame Amber's the previous evening . . .” Jane smiled almost tenderly. “As soon as I opened the door and saw his pale, solemn face, it struck me that this eccentric young man was the answer I had been waiting for all night. Why not? I told myself. I could trust him. I knew him well . . . or I knew one of his twins, at least. I had seen him fighting off the Martians, and he had seemed like an honest, brave young man . . .” The Executioner's eyebrows arched subtly in what would have been an ironical gesture had it materialized. “Besides, I was desperate!” the old lady defended herself furiously. “And people were not exactly queuing up outside my door to save the world . . . However, I had just begun to explain the situation to Clayton when Rhys broke into my house. I scarcely had time to entrust the inspector with
The Map of Chaos
and beg him to guard it with his life. Clayton slipped the book into his pocket, ordered me to lock myself in my study, and went out to confront the Villain. Soon afterward, I heard crashing from upstairs, followed by the monster's roars, his violent pounding on my study door, and finally a gunshot. Then, for the second time in my life . . . I jumped. Thanks to the fact that I was in my own study, I was able to take the manuscript of
The Map of Chaos
with me. However, as you can see, publishing it in this backward world was impossible. The printing press hadn't yet been invented, and to all appearances wouldn't be for several more centuries. If I went on writing, it was only to stop me from taking my own life. As you can imagine, life here hasn't been exactly easy for me. I was forced to earn my crust by working in arduous, insecure jobs that undermined my already frail health. In this world of lanterns and superstitions, inventing the Mechanical Servant would have been tantamount to an act of witchcraft. And, needless to say, no one held séances. And so, when I reached the point in
The Map of Chaos
where I could no longer go on writing, because I didn't know how the adventure Bertie and I had embarked upon when we leapt through the magic hole ended, I decided to narrate those experienced by my husband's favorite twins. I entitled them respectively
The Map of Time
and
The Map of the Sky
, and I assure you they have been a true balm for my—”

“You don't have the book,” the Executioner interrupted again.

The weight of that solitary sentence was sufficient to flatten an anvil.

The old lady looked at him in silence.

“No, I don't,” she said at last, a tear rolling down her wizened cheek, tracing the path of her wrinkles. “I jumped into this universe, having left it in the hands of a stranger, to whom I was barely able to explain its importance or what he had to do with it . . . And I swear I have been tormenting myself about it ever since! For the longest time I shed bitter tears and my sleep was haunted by nightmares in which my husband scolded me for not keeping his work safe. Believe me, not a day has gone by when I haven't thought of ending it all. A thousand times I have asked myself what sense there was in continuing . . . But I always came up with the same answer: up until the very moment before Chaos, there is still hope. However slight. Perhaps one day an Executioner would find me, I told myself, and I could explain to him where the book was . . . And now here you are, taking tea with me in my kitchen.”

“But you don't know where the book is.”

“Of course I do,” the old lady replied. “I told you who has it: Cornelius Clayton, from the Special—”

“No.
One of
his
infinite twins
has it,” the Executioner corrected. “And I need to know which.”

Jane looked at him imploringly.

“How could I possibly know that? Every night I trawl the multiverse using my twins' minds to try to find the Clayton to whom I gave the book. But so far I have come up with nothing. All I know is that he had a metal hand, a broken heart, and—”

The Executioner swept the air with a movement of his hand that Jane only intuited, unable to discern whether it had been too fast or too slow for her to see.

“Many of his twins will share those same characteristics,” he said in a toneless voice. “But only one Clayton has the book. Assuming he has kept his promise and it is still in his possession.”

“He
must
have! I told you, the inspector is honest and—”

“Then, to be able to find it, I need to know the coordinates of that universe. That is how my detector works in the multiverse,” he said, pointing to his cane. “It calculates the coordinates from the trails left behind by the cronotemics. A mathematical map like the one your husband made would also suffice. But I need something. Possibly something unique to that universe. A single detail that would help me to differentiate it from all the other parallel worlds. If I have been there before, the coordinates will be recorded in my detector's memory.”

“Something unique to that universe?” the old lady reflected. “Me! I am unique!” she exclaimed eagerly. “There is only one Observer Jane in the whole multiverse, and I have been in that world . . .”

The Executioner shook his head.

“That's no good. You and I clearly never met in that universe . . . It has to be something that helps me identify that particular universe.”

“Hmm . . .” Jane chewed thoughtfully of one of her nails. “Something unique . . . Wait a moment! I invented the Mechanical Servant, so that has to be a unique invention and can therefore only exist in that world! Perhaps you saw it in one of the houses where you went to . . . er, carry out your mission.” The Executioner shook his head again, and Jane sighed, discouraged. “All right . . .” She went on thinking. “Let me see . . . They had some delicious biscuits there. Kemp's biscuits, they were called. I have never tasted anything so exquisite! They did not exist in the first world my husband and I traveled to, and they don't have them here either, so . . . well, perhaps they are unique.” The old lady observed the Executioner's face. Was it sarcasm she saw there? “Oh, forgive me, you don't usually eat, so that detail would not mean much to you . . . Well, I am sorry, but I can't think of anything else that might be unique to that world . . . Buckingham Palace was in the same spot, the sun rose in the east, the river Thames flowed through the same places, fire burned if you touched it, and there were seven notes in the musical scale . . . Saints alive!” cried the old lady, exasperated. “We are in a multiverse, in case you hadn't noticed,” she snapped at the Executioner. “Everything has a copy somewhere! Only you and I are unique. As Doctor Ramsey said, in that accursed séance where the Villain found me: every reality is an imitation of itself . . .”

The Executioner rose abruptly from his chair. His immense silhouette stood out against the wall, accompanied by an even bigger shadow.

“Did you say Doctor Ramsey?”

“Yes, I think that was his name.”

“Was he a professor at the Faculty of Medicine, a surgeon, chemist, biologist, a tall man with an infuriating habit of cracking his knuckles?”

“Yes, how did you know that?”

The Executioner was seized by a series of convulsive spasms. The old lady stood up, withdrawing a few paces, afraid he was suffering from some kind of short circuit and might explode at any moment.

“Are you all right?” she whispered.

“I feel mirth,” replied the Executioner, who after a couple more spasms seemed to calm down. “Doctor Ramsey is as unique as you and I, Jane. He's a Scientist from the Other Side who is conducting field studies in this multiverse.”

Jane's mouth was agape.

“There are Scientists here?” she managed to stammer. “Bertie and I thought that you kill . . . you Executioners . . . were the only ones.”

“And to begin with we were. When the Scientists opened the first wormhole, they sent us ahead. In those days, we weren't killers, we were explorers. We arrived here, discovered the nature of this multiverse, set up communication antennae, recorded images, took all manner of samples back to the Other Side; we even designed our own canes . . . All so that the Scientists could study this universe from the Other Side in comfort and safety. However, when they discovered the epidemic, they modified us. They reprogrammed us to turn us into . . . ruthless killers. And finally, when they realized that studying from a distance wasn't providing satisfactory results, they decided to send a few men and women to this multiverse to carry out field studies. It was a difficult decision, but they had no choice. For hundreds of years on the Other Side, humans had been genetically modified to withstand extremely low temperatures, and those chosen had to undergo urgent adjustments so they wouldn't melt from the heat in this world. They received refrigeration implants and electro-neuronal circuits to inhibit the anguish of randomness. Only those with the most brilliant minds and resilient bodies were sent out to different worlds, but none of them obtained any results. The Scientists came from such a distant future that none of them had a twin in this multiverse. And so they never developed the miraculous gift you and your husband possessed, thanks to which you discovered where the first infection took place. Only you were able to see and know everything.”