Terry Pratchett - The Long Earth

Clichy said, ‘So we got a special challenge. Which is why I need you, Jansson.’

‘I’m no kind of an expert, sir.’

‘But you keep functioning, right through all the Twilight Zone shit. Even on that first night, you kept your head clear and your mind focused on the policing priorities, while some of your esteemed colleagues were busy pissing their pants or puking up their pretzels. I want you to be point man on this. You understand? I want you to take a lead, both on the individual incidents, and the patterns behind them. For sure those rascals out there are going to keep figuring out more ways to use this shit against us. I want you to be my Mulder, Officer Jansson.’

She smiled. ‘Scully would be more appropriate.’

‘Whatever. Look, I’m not promising you anything in return. It’s an unconventional assignment. Your contribution will be hard to reflect in your record. I’ll do my best, however. You might end up spending a lot of time away from home. A lot of time alone, even. Your personal life—’

She shrugged. ‘I’ve a cat. She looks after herself.’

He tapped a key, and she knew he must be studying her personnel file. ‘Twenty-eight years old.’

‘Twenty-nine, sir.’

‘Born in Minnesota. Parents still there. No siblings, no kids. A failed gay marriage?’

‘I’m mostly celibate these days, sir.’

‘Jansson, I sincerely do not want to know. OK, go back to Datum Earth, rework your assignments with your sergeant, figure out what you need to set up in this station and the one in East 1 — hell, just go look busy for the mayor, Officer.’

‘Yes, sir.’

All in all Jansson had been pleased with the meeting, looking back on it, and her new assignment. It told her that guys like Clichy, and those in power above him, were handling this extraordinary phenomenon, the sudden opening up of the Long Earth, about as well as they could be expected to. Which wasn’t true, she had learned from the news and other sources, in every country in the world.

‘SURELY, PRIME MINISTER, we could just ban stepping? It is a manifest security risk!’

‘Geoffrey, we might as well outlaw breathing. Even my own mother has stepped!’

‘But the population is fleeing. The inner cities are ghost towns. The economy is collapsing. We must do something …’

Hermione made a tactful minute of the exchange.

Hermione Dawes was extremely good at taking minutes. She prided herself on the skill; it was an art to sift what people meant from what they said, and she had been practising this art quite satisfactorily for almost thirty years, for political masters of all hues. She had never married, and appeared to be quite comfortable with that fact, laughingly telling her fellow secretaries that her gold ring, which she wore all the time, was intended as a chastity belt. She was trustworthy, and trusted, and the only tiny flaw that her bosses had detected was that she owned every single track that Bob Dylan had ever cut.

Nobody she worked with knew her, she felt. Not even the gentlemen who, periodically, when she was known to be working, broke into her flat and searched it, always very carefully, no doubt sharing a little smile as they carefully replaced the tiny sliver of wood she pushed between the front door and its frame every day. Very similar to her own little smile when she noted that their big flat feet had once again crushed the scrap of meringue that she always dropped on the carpet just inside the living room door, a scrap they never ever noticed.

Since she never took off her gold ring, no one but she and God knew that inscribed, quite expensively, around the inner surface of the ring was a line from a Dylan song called ‘It’s Alright Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)’ She wondered, these days, if any of the busy little bodies she worked with, including most of the ministers, would even recognize where the quote came from.

And now, a few years after Step Day, as the latest panicky discussion went on in the Cabinet Office, she wondered if she was too old to get a job with the masters, as opposed to the fools.

‘Then they should be licensed. Stepper boxes. The Long Earth is a sink as far as the blessed economy is concerned, but penalizing the use of the boxes you need to access it would yield some tax revenue, at least!’

‘Oh, don’t be absurd, man.’ The Prime Minister sat back in his chair. ‘Come on. We can’t just ban a thing because we can’t control it.’

The minister responsible for health and safety looked startled. ‘I don’t see why not. It’s never stopped us before.’

The Prime Minister tapped his pen on the table. ‘The inner cities are emptying. The economy’s imploding. Of course there is a bright side. Immigration is no longer a problem …’ He laughed, but he seemed to crumple, and when he spoke again he sounded, to Hermione, almost in despair. ‘God help us, gentlemen, the science chaps tell me that there might be more iterations of the planet Earth out there than there are people. What policy options can we possibly conceive in the face of that ?’

Enough was enough: quite suddenly, that was how Hermione felt about all this.

As the picky, preposterous, pointless conversation continued, with a faint smile on her lips Hermione wrote a couple of lines of her immaculate Pitman shorthand, laid her pad on the desk in front of her, and after a nod of permission from the Prime Minister she stood and left the room. Probably nobody else even noticed she was gone. She walked out into Downing Street, and stepped into the London next door, which swarmed with security guards, but she was such a familiar sight after all these years that they accepted her identity card and let her pass.

And then she stepped again. And again, and again…

Much later, when she was missed, one of the other secretaries was called in to translate the little note that she had written, the delicate strokes and swirling curves.

‘It looks like a poem to me, sir. Or a song lyric. Something about people criticizing what they can’t understand.’ She looked up at the Prime Minister. ‘Mean anything to you, sir? Sir? Are you all right, sir?’

‘Have you got a husband, miss — sorry, I don’t know your name?’

‘It’s Caroline, sir. I’ve got a boyfriend, a steady boy, good with his hands. I can get you a doctor if you want.’

‘No, no. It’s just we’re all so bloody inadequate, Caroline. What a farce it is, this business of government. To imagine we were ever in control of our destinies. If I were you, Caroline, I would marry your steady boy right now, if you think he’s any good, and go , go to another world. Anywhere but here.’ He slumped in the chair and shut his eyes. ‘And God help England, and God help us all.’

She wasn’t sure if he was asleep or awake. At length she slipped out, taking Hermione’s abandoned pad with her.

WITHIN A WEEK OF her meeting with Clichy, Jansson’s colleagues had started calling her ‘Spooky’ Jansson.

And within a month, she had made an appointment at the Home, as Joshua called it. It was an orphanage, a run-down converted section-8 apartment complex on Allied Drive, in an area that was about as rough as it got in Madison. But you could see the place was well kept. And there she quietly met, once more, fourteen-year-old Joshua Valienté. She had sworn that if Joshua dealt through her she would guarantee that nobody would treat him as a Problem, but as somebody who might be able to help out, maybe, you know? Like Batman?

That was how, for several years after Step Day, Joshua’s young life had been shaped.

‘That must seem a long time ago to you now,’ Selena said smoothly, leading Joshua deeper into the transEarth complex.