Velveteen vs. The Multiverse Page 9

  Her lawyer glanced over at her, and offered what was probably intended as a comforting smile. It wasn’t his fault that he smiled like a robot that was still trying to figure out its human emotion module. (He probably wasn’t a robot. Probably. If he was, well, that was fine. She wasn’t opposed to mecha-Americans, and they were allowed to practice law. She just hoped that his law modules were more up-to-date than his emotional ones.) “It’s going to be all right,” he said quietly. “This is a frivolous lawsuit. The judge will see that.”

  Unless the judge disagreed with that assessment. Or had a supervillain somewhere in the family, tucked quietly away from the public eye. Or was a supervillain who hadn’t been unmasked yet—it had happened before, it would happen again, and it would be just her luck if it happened to her. Or hated superhumans, regardless of alignment, and wanted to prove the woman from Legal right. Frivolous wouldn’t matter if the judge wanted to see her behind bars.

  “Would Mr. and Ms. Martinez and, ah, Velveteen please come with me?” asked a bailiff, sounding uncertain. Vel’s lawyer gave her another smile, this one slightly more reassuring than the first, and they stood, all five of them, and followed the bailiff to the judge’s quarters.

  It could have been worse. That was what she kept trying to tell herself as she stood, ramrod-straight, in her formal uniform and waited for the judge to decide her fate. It could have been a question of facts, which would have meant a jury, would have meant more media, and would have meant her face splashed across every super-focused tabloid in the world. Instead, it was a question of the law, and that meant that it was the judge, just the judge, who was going to decide everything.

  On second thought, maybe that wasn’t the better option.

  “Let me see if I understand,” said Judge Kuhn, slowly. He was a round-faced man with thinning black hair and equally round glasses perched on the end of his nose. He didn’t look unfriendly. That was a plus. He didn’t look friendly, either, but Vel was long past the point of wishing for everything she wanted. “You’re suing this young woman for back wages on the basis of a contract you signed on her behalf with The Super Patriots when she was twelve years of age.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” said Ms. Martinez.

  “Contracts of this type have been standard within The Super Patriots, Inc. since they first began employing and training child heroes, Your Honor,” said the Martinez’s lawyer. Velveteen couldn’t remember his name, possibly because she didn’t want to. “Child labor laws, and simple ethics, made it clear that we would need a way to pay these children for their time.”

  “This is true. And while I won’t challenge the need for contracts to keep our younger protectors being paid, and to reimburse their parents for the pain of separation,” the glance Judge Kuhn shot at the Martinezes made it clear that he didn’t think they were experiencing any pain over being separated from their only daughter; Vel felt a surge of hope in the pit of her stomach, “I will note that these contracts are intended for younger heroes.”

  “Your Honor, the contract stated that a portion of Velveteen’s earnings would be given to her parents for every year in which she exercised her powers.”

  “That’s an extremely broad interpretation of what seems to me to be a very basic and straightforward contract,” said Judge Kuhn. “This promises the hero’s parents a yearly stipend for the duration of their career with The Super Patriots, Inc.”

  The lawyer smiled. Like the woman from Legal, he seemed to have more teeth than his head should have been capable of holding. “If you’ll look at the language, Your Honor, you’ll see that in actuality, she’s pledging to pay her percentage for the duration of her superhero career, regardless of whether she remains in the employ of The Super Patriots, Inc.”

  “So she owes us,” said Ms. Martinez, more stridently than she should have. She glared around her husband at Velveteen, who managed, barely, not to cringe away. “She’s our daughter, and she’s supposed to be supporting us.”

  “I believe that normally the arrangement goes in the other direction, at least until a child’s eighteenth birthday,” said Judge Kuhn. “Regardless, this contract hinges on two clear concepts. The first is that an eleven-year-old child can sign a legally binding document and be expected to abide by its terms into adulthood. The second is that ‘career with The Super Patriots, Inc.’ and ‘superhero career’ are exactly and unquestionably the same thing.”

  “I move that both those concepts are provably false,” said Velveteen’s lawyer.

  “You would, wouldn’t you?” shot back Ms. Martinez. “Like she’d even need a lawyer if she wasn’t trying to cheat her poor parents out of house and home.”

  For a moment, it looked like Judge Kuhn was about to lose his temper. Then he took a deep breath, and said, “The first is irrelevant in this instance—something I am frankly relieved to say, since I have no real interest in spending the rest of my career fighting off challenges by The Super Patriots, Inc. legal department. In regards to the second, I remind you of the case of Liberty Belle v. The Super Patriots. She was able to resume her heroic career outside the corporation, as it was based entirely on inborn abilities, and not on augmentation by The Super Patriots, Inc. It is the opinion of the court that the individual known commonly as ‘Velveteen’ did in good faith retire for several years, during which time her contract with The Super Patriots, Inc. expired. She is under no further financial obligation. We’re done here.”

  “But—” began Ms. Martinez.

  Mr. Martinez clamped his wife’s hand firmly in his. “Thank you, Your Honor,” he said.

  “You’re all dismissed,” said Judge Kuhn.

  “Thank you,” whispered Velveteen, and turned, and bolted, with her lawyer walking close behind.

  Jackie and the Princess were waiting for her on the Justice Building steps. Pigeons blanketed everything, including the photographers foolish enough not to run when they saw the way the weather was turning. The gooey, pigeon crap-based weather. “Well?” asked Jackie, when she saw Vel come bounding down the steps. “How did it go?”

  “We won,” said Velveteen. “I’m in the clear.”

  “Oh, honey, thank Hans Christian Andersen,” said the Princess, and threw her arms around Velveteen’s shoulders. “I knew it would work out.”

  “Vel?”

  Slowly, all three heroines turned to see Mr. Martinez standing on the steps behind them, looking anxious. His wife was nowhere to be seen.

  Velveteen pulled away from the Princess, asking, “What?”

  “I just wanted to…well, I’m sorry that we did this, and I wanted to…” He hesitated before asking, “Are you happy, Vel? Is this what you wanted?”

  A superhero’s life. The thing she’d been running away from since the day she turned eighteen. The mask she swore she’d never wear again…

  Velveteen smiled. “Yeah, Dad. I am.”

  “Good.” With that, he turned and walked away, leaving the three to blink after him.

  As always, it was Jackie who spoke first. “What the hell was that?”

  “I think it was closure,” said Velveteen, slowly.

  “Miracles happen,” said the Princess. “Now come on, honey. Let’s get you home.”

  The woman from Legal stood in front of the CEO’s desk, her eyes fixed straight ahead at the wall. “I told you there were no guarantees,” she said. “It was a shaky case, mostly intended to rattle her, and possibly cause her some financial distress. I never promised anything.”

  “Neither did I,” replied the silky voice of the CEO of The Super Patriots, Inc. “For example, right now, I’m not promising you that anyone will hear your screams.”

  In point of fact, the screams went on for quite some time. No one heard them at all.

  VELVETEEN

  vs.

  The Alternate Timeline

  VELVETEEN STUMBLED INTO HER BEDROOM somewhere between midnight and two o’clock in the morning, muscles aching from a long night of chasing would-be evil-doers ove
r rooftops and through the streets of Portland, her left thumb still throbbing a little from where she’d slammed it in the car door, her domino mask still covering her eyes. She managed, barely, to yank off her rabbit-ear headband and remove her uniform boots before collapsing onto the bed, already half-asleep.

  The teddy bears and stuffed rabbits who kept her bedroom from devolving into a state of primal chaos slipped off their shelves and crossed to the bed, where they tugged the blankets out from under her limp body and tucked her in. Vel mumbled something in her sleep, one hand sleepily slapping the covers. The various plush toys exchanged what could only be described as a look, despite their lack of functioning optical nerves. The battered plush rabbit who usually directed the bedroom toys when Vel couldn’t do it herself paused a moment before pointing to one of the older bears. The bear clapped its paws together with an air of definite delight, then ran and slid itself beneath Vel’s questing hand. She made a small, satisfied sound, pulled the bear close, and sank deeper into sleep.

  The plush toys continued cleaning the room, dragging the discarded pieces of Velveteen’s costume into the closet, using the small hand broom to sweep up the mud she had tracked onto the carpet. Vel slept through it all…until just before five o’clock in the morning, when the toys abruptly stopped moving and fell over, assuming the traditional positions of inanimate things waiting for someone to come along and play with them. In a way, that was exactly what they were.

  The last to stop moving was the teddy bear who had been chosen as Vel’s companion for the night. It didn’t move under its own power, exactly, but as the mattress sprang back into place, it rolled out of the empty bed and onto the floor, where it stopped just under the edge of the blanket, half-hidden from view. Its blank button eyes stared sightlessly up at the ceiling.

  The air in the house hung heavy, still, and undisturbed. There was nothing to disturb it. Velveteen was gone.

  The existence of alternate timelines was posited long before the existence of superheroes was confirmed, although “alternate reality science” didn’t really acquire a strong following in academic circles until the appearance of the first known visitor from another timeline. Alter-Nate (whose powers consisted mostly of crossing dimensional borders when he was trying to cross streets) opened the door to countless research studies, frivolous grants, and serious discussions of whether turning left would lead to a more positive future than turning right. Alter-Nate himself was only present for the first six months or so of the debate before he went out for coffee and vanished back into the ether. He has not been sighted in our dimension, egotistically referred to as “Earth A,” since that day. It is generally hoped that he eventually made it back to his home reality, or at least managed to get himself that cup of coffee.

  Since that time, several hundred alternate realities have been documented and cataloged, ranging from dimensions of pure fantasy, the seasonal universes, upward of fifty places claiming to be Hell, an equal number of places claiming to be Heaven and, of course, the inevitable variant timelines. Some stem from simple differences, like the classic “what if you turned left instead of right?” (the “which came first, the chicken or the egg” question of alternate reality science). Others are more complicated, worlds where mammals never evolved, or where superpowers never manifested in the human race.

  Statistically speaking, every superhuman will encounter at least one parallel dimension, alternate continuity, or externally manipulated reality during the course of their career. This number is naturally influenced by the lifestyles of the superhumans in question: someone like Jackie Frost, who lives in one world and regularly commutes to another, will encounter substantially more variance in her personal reality than someone like Dairy Keen, who has never voluntarily left the state of Minnesota. There is also the fact that alternate worlds apparently call to each other. If a wormhole opens next to someone who has never left their original reality and someone who has left that reality dozens of times, the odds are good that the more seasoned traveler will be the one pulled into a dimension beyond their understanding. This may be because of some residual radiation left by the crossing. It may also be because the universe has a sick sense of humor.

  All Earth A superhumans who undergo training with The Super Patriots, Inc. are required to pass Heroing 101, including units on Alternate Reality Survival and Recognizing a Dreamscape in Ten Easy Steps. There has been, as yet, no evidence to support the claim that these units increase the chances of Earth A heroes surviving in another reality. There has also been no evidence to support the claim that these units get Earth A heroes killed. Given the alternative, most heroes try to remember their lessons. It’s the only way to be sure.

  Velveteen woke slowly, lured back into a doze several times by the optimally-firm mattress and the perfectly-layered nest of blankets that she had built around herself. She was dozing off for the third time when a male arm was draped around her waist, pulling her firmly backward.

  Normally, that sort of thing would have been answered by immediate violence, followed a split second later by actually waking up. But something about the situation—the shape of the arm, the smell of the air in the room, even the mattress underneath them—was so impossibly familiar that Vel’s sleeping mind insisted this was just another dream, and allowed her to stay almost entirely limp.

  “Vel.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Vel.”

  “Mmm-mmm.”

  “Vel, honey, you have to wake up. Morning call is in a little over an hour.” The owner of the arm leaned over to kiss her cheek, and that was familiar too, so familiar that Velma finally opened her eyes, staring into the dimly-lit room. From where she was, she could see a dresser, a laundry hamper, and a metal shelf packed with toys. She couldn’t make out any details, but what she could see was enough to make one thing extremely clear: this wasn’t her room.

  Slowly, feeling like the world was getting ready to shatter around her, Velma rolled over. Action Dude—no, Aaron; he wasn’t wearing his mask, and he was always Aaron when they were alone together, it was something they had both insisted on—looked at her, confusion and concern in those big blue eyes of his. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. For one guilty moment, Vel allowed her gaze to drift downward. She hadn’t seen Aaron like this since they were both seventeen, after all, and well. You can’t blame a girl for dreaming…

  No, Vel. Bad Vel. Stop it, she thought firmly, wrenching her eyes back up to his face. That didn’t help as much as she would have wanted it to. Not with him looking at her like that. “Aaron?”

  “Honey, are you okay? Were you having a bad dream or something?” The concern in Aaron’s eyes grew stronger. “I can call Medical if you want me to.”

  “No!” She almost shouted the word, sitting up at the same time. The blankets went with her, revealing Aaron’s pajama pants. They were blue, printed with his Action Dude insignia, and a small war broke out in the back of her mind, between the thought Thank God he’s wearing pajamas and the thought I wish to hell he wasn’t. “I mean, uh, no. No, I don’t need to see Medical. I’m fine. I’m totally fine.”

  “Wow.” Aaron sat up in turn, frowning at her. “The last time you said ‘I’m fine’ and sounded that fake about it was after your last trip to the Autumn Country.” He paused. “Honey, you didn’t—I mean, they didn’t—last night—”

  Oddly, she had no trouble at all guessing what he was trying to say. “No. Halloween didn’t kidnap me last night. I haven’t heard from the holiday in years.” She looked down at herself. She was wearing a burgundy nightie with lace trim, something she recognized as being as close to “costume pajamas” as Marketing could get without infringing on Playboy. Somehow, it wasn’t a shock to see the wedding ring on her left hand. She raised her arm, looking at it, and sighed deeply.

  That was the real problem with alternate timelines. Sometimes, when you got right down to it, you found out that you really wanted to stay.

  “Aaron, I’m not sure just how to say this…
”

  “You think you’ve fallen into an alternate timeline, and you’re trying to figure out how to tell me without pissing me off,” said Aaron amiably. Vel turned to stare at him. He smiled at her, concern still hanging in his eyes. “This is the third time this week, honey. I’m sort of getting used to it.”

  “What?”

  Aaron offered her that little half-smile that always made her heart jump up into her throat, and said, “We were fighting Dr. Darwin ten days ago. He was planning to use some sort of revision ray to change the history of the planet, so that humans never managed to invade some pristine ecosystem or other. I mean, he was in full-on monologue mode, it was kinda hard to follow, you know?”

  “Uh-huh,” said Vel. Her mouth was completely dry and her head was starting to spin. She wanted to believe what he was saying. She wanted to believe it so bad. “What happened?”

  “I managed to knock him over, but he grabbed the gun as he was going down. He was going to shoot me. You didn’t have any toys big enough to interfere, and so you did it yourself, because you are a crazy, wonderful, mind-shatteringly impulsive woman. You jumped in the way of the beam—”

  “Why is it always a beam?” Vel mumbled.

  Aaron heard her, because he smiled, and kept talking: “—and got yourself shot. You were out for a day. I was pretty much useless that whole time. Medical actually said they’d have to sedate me if I didn’t stop accidentally breaking chairs. Your…” He faltered, smile fading. “You nearly died, Vel. Okay? You nearly left me. And when you woke up, you thought you were from a different reality. It faded after a little while, but it gave me a pretty major scare. Medical thinks Dr. Darwin’s ray sort of scrambled your internal clock, made you start living out lives you never lived.”