Master Eradicator

Sometimes, it seems as if everything I take an interest in is doomed. I’m sure you know what I mean. Here’s how this is tackled i a multiverse:

‘I’m too old for this,’ murmured Bertram Habit as he examined the emergency hatch in front of him. It was in undeniably bad shape, resembling any other access point to a world on the brink of decommissioning: its frame was twisted, its gasket was crumbling. Ochre-coloured dust was seeping through hair-thin cracks and into the grain of the Multiverse.

As head clerk of the Bureau of Feasibility, Bertram knew that this place was far beyond salvage. Entering it might prove unpleasant.

To buy a bit of time before forcing the hatch open, Bertram ran his finger over its surface, leaving only a shadow of a trace behind, while upon examination, he found that his fingertip was covered in dust that clung to his skin as if it had been glued there.

Intrigued, he brought his finger to his lips but then thought better of it. There must be a more hygienic way of sampling this world’s material.

With a sigh, he turned to the maintenance pod he had arrived in, closing its door behind him. He covered his nose and mouth with a linen mask and pulled his targeting goggles over his eyes. The papers he had brought with him from the Bureau were still in the breast pocket of his dustcoat and he had a full bottle of water hanging around his neck.

He was ready. Anything else he might want to do here would be procrastination.

Bracing himself, Bertram pressed the hatch open. To his surprise, it wasn’t stuck but gave way quite easily. He tumbled through the opening and caught his balance after a couple of steps in a bleak, barren landscape covered in countless shades of ochre dust.

He noticed with involuntary admiration that even the sky had succumbed to this general state of ochreness; the only visible sign of disagreement was the occasional crack revealing a glimpse of pale blue.

It was hard not to be impressed by the thoroughness, given that only a few moments in this world had been enough to cover the head clerk’s coat and trousers in orange dust.

Overwhelmed by the absurdity of the situation, Bertram felt an urgent desire to say something amusing. For the first time in his professional life, he regretted not bringing a companion. A laugh would have eased the tension.

But never mind that now. He was on a mission, and any whimsical thoughts that crossed his mind would have to wait until he returned to the Bureau, where his colleagues would appreciate tales from the edges of the Multiverse.

Tightening the strap of his goggles, Bertram turned to the hatch, closed it as well as he could, and tied a chequered bow around its handle.

Provided that this place adhered to the truths of life in the Multiverse, it was unlikely to succumb to the ochrification that surrounded it: the Bureau’s belongings were reluctant to vanish into the background.

With a nod of determination, he set off towards a shadowy form that he could make out through his target goggles.

---

After walking diligently for a couple of hours, Bertram found that his surroundings had suddenly changed. Now, he was in a place he was tempted to call ‘scenery’, being green and lush, and centred around the prettiest, most idyllic castlette imaginable.

Right in front of him was a carefully manicured lawn, an unashamed diversion from the surrounding ochre. The difference was so striking that Bertram hesitated to step onto the grass.

He craned his neck to see if there were any signs telling him to keep off. But there were none. So he carefully dusted himself off, removed his goggles and mask, and took a sip of water from the bottle he had brought with him.

‘Here we go, then,’ he said quietly, doing his best to walk casually towards the building, his mouth parched with anticipation. On closer inspection, the structure reminded him of an assortment of wedding cakes he had admired only a few days earlier in a confectioner’s window at home.

From across the lawn came the sound of bagpipes, as if making some sort of statement about Bertram’s presence. Strangely enough, the tune sounded like the Bureau’s anthem, which was probably a coincidence. Since he liked bagpipes, however, he took this as a good omen and was eager to meet the piper.

As it turned out, the tune was coming from a gramophone wedged between double doors facing the lawn. Hoping to learn the title of the piece, Bertram hurried towards the record player, only to find it had crumbled into a sad-looking heap of ochre-coloured dust.

It was an uncanny scene that was made even more disturbing when a woman’s satisfied voice said, ’Excellent! That seems to have done it.’

---

Bertram looked up, unsure what he had expected, but certain that it wasn’t the wrinkled face above him. It belonged to someone considerably older than him. Someone who should have outgrown experimentation resulting in mindless destruction. As he took in the hooded grey eyes, small lips, and rather chiselled chin under an unruly mop of white hair, he wondered for a moment whether he was addressing a man or a woman.

Assuming that the female voice he had heard earlier belonged to this face, he composed himself and said, ‘Greetings, ma’am. May I have the honour of addressing Ms Gertrude Scriptor?’

The expression in the grey eyes became guarded.

‘Who wants to know?’

The voice was indeed the same.

Before Bertram could answer, the woman threw the end of a rope ladder out of the window and climbed down to join him in front of the double doors. Her self-assured movements belonged to someone much younger than her appearance suggested.

She was of average height and wore yellow and black striped dungarees over a crisp white shirt with pearl-beaded buttons. He noticed disapprovingly that her feet were bare.

What was he supposed to make of her?

‘Don’t stand there and stare, young man!’ she admonished him sternly. ‘You’re old enough to know that’s impolite!’

Then she turned to the double doors.

‘Come in,’ she said. ‘As long as you have nothing interesting to say you’ll be quite safe.’

Bertram followed her into a spacious hall, wondering what she meant by this remark. Being called ‘young’ for the first time in decades had left him slightly befuddled.

‘I can’t guarantee your safety otherwise,’ she continued, pointing at a stone bench on the other side of the room. ‘Take a seat. I’ll see if there’s any drink left.’

He accepted her invitation and sat down, while she disappeared through a perfectly concealed door to his right.

‘We’ve run out of ice, I’m afraid,’ she said when she returned shortly afterwards with a drinks trolley. She began to mix him a drink using three different bottles bearing brands he didn’t recognise.

How was he supposed to conduct this interview? he wondered, watching her cool his drink with a drop of a steaming white liquid. Ms Scriptor clearly had a good understanding of her talent, which was promising. However, her understanding of the matter seemed rather basic, which could cause problems in the near future.

‘I’m out of ice, I’m afraid’ she said, handing him the glass. It was unexpectedly cold, making him put it down immediately.

She poured herself a generous measure of brandy and sat down opposite him.

‘Cheers, Mr…?’

‘Habit. Bertram Habit.’

Her expression remained politely inquisitive, maintaining a distance that was more jarring than daunting. Then she nodded and raised her glass.

‘Well, then, cheers, Mr Habit! Here’s to unexpected encounters.’

They drank. They put their glasses down on the polished stone table between them, where the condensation from Bertram’s tumbler soon began to form a little puddle.

The old woman turned slightly away from him, her eyes growing softer as they let go of their focus.

Silence poured into the space between them, filling the gaps perfectly, and Bertram began to fear that Ms Scriptor would forget about him and leave if he didn’t take the initiative.

After all, he had come on an errand, while she had no obligation.

‘What can I do for you?’ she asked suddenly, making him jump.

‘I have been sent to offer you a job,’ he replied, feeling his heart hammer in his chest.

‘As a specialist in Langobardic?’ She looked at him, her eyes suddenly sparkling with amusement. ‘What use would anyone have for that in this day and age? I can assure you it’s an extremely dead language.’

Bertram cleared his throat.

‘It’s not your academic credentials that my employer is interested in,’ he began hesitantly. Ms Scriptor frowned. He should have spent more time on small talk. He should have made her feel at ease. Trust him.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said, looking puzzled. ‘I have nothing else to offer that might interest an employer.’

‘If you say so.’

She looked him over, measuring and weighing every inch of him. Would he pass muster?

‘Indeed, I do.’

At least she wasn’t going to throw him out straight away. That was something at least. He just had to be patient and choose his words carefully.

‘My employer specialises in pruning developments that can no longer bear fruit.’

She pursed her lips and looked intensely at the glass in front of her. It didn’t take long before the glass blushed and crumbled into ochre-coloured dust, greedily absorbing the liquid it had just held.

‘Pruning, did you say?’ she demanded, tilting her head to one side and raising her eyebrows. ‘I have no interest in gardening. Unfortunately for your employer, I can only destroy what I find engaging. Explain, if you can: What use would nature’s flotsam be to me?’

She looked outside again, as if avoiding eye contact with him at all costs.

‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘But maybe you could come and see for yourself?’

They sat in silence for a while, until she turned towards him and fixed her gaze on him. It was a stern look, not unlike that of an elder dissatisfied with a younger family member’s actions.

Bertram was not prepared for this encounter. He watched as time began to wobble around them, while she took in every detail of his form and appearance once again. Her expression slowly turned more and more baffled, and she propped up her chin with her left hand, her elbows resting on the table.

‘Why don’t you crumble?’ she asked. ‘Everyone and everything I have ever taken a proper interest in has vanished. Some sooner, some later. You should be a heap of dust by now. Are you real?’ she asked, reaching out and pinching his arm.

‘I’d prefer you not to do this,’ said Bertram, wincing. ‘I’m the chief clerk of the Bureau of Feasibility. We have methods.’

She rose from her seat and went over to the trolley to pour herself another drink.

He noticed that there were fewer bottles now than earlier. Collateral damage in the wake of Ms Scriptor’s attempt to come to grips with her talent.

‘The Bureau of Feasibility?’ she said, her back still to him. ‘It really exists.’

He stared at her in disbelief.

‘You know about us?’

She scoffed and returned to her seat. She sipped her drink and grimaced in disgust.

‘My great-grandmother worked there, or so I was told. Her name was Elastyca Rutsfumble — a memorable, albeit unfortunate, name if you ask me.’

He turned his glass between his hands.

‘Elastyca was the first master eradicator,’ he explained. ‘From the time when the Multiverse was first sparked into existence.’

‘And you believe that?’ she exclaimed, laughing in disbelief. ‘I mean, that there’s a multiverse?’

Her incredulity stung. Bertram had never met someone who doubted the current organisation of matter before.

‘I don’t need to believe it,’ he replied stiffly. ‘I know.’

She shook her head as if to say, ‘Suit yourself.’ She continued, ‘So, the multiverse needs my talent for it to flourish. That’s not very efficient, if you ask me.’

He took a gulp of his drink. The taste of pineapple and grappa made him wish for a moment that he had never been born.

‘How many people do this job?’ she asked. ‘What does it entail? Do I have to establish a deep personal connection with the objects that need pruning? Or is it enough just to want to understand them? Because let me assure you, both options work.’

She closed her eyes, letting the distance between them grow.

She hadn’t been meant to live in this world; it was no wonder she had been hurt.

‘Every now and then, the Bureau comes across worlds that are not viable,’ he explained gently. ‘False starts, mainly. But also worlds that have been burned up. They all take up space that could be put to better use. You may not believe in the multiverse, ma’am, but let me assure you that it is finite.’

She tilted her head thoughtfully.

‘Fair enough, but why me? I’m well past my prime, and I’m probably not as quick a learner as someone half my age.’

She took another sip from her glass and grimaced again.

‘Now, I don’t believe that I am the only one with these abilities,’ she continued. ‘And I am sure that if you were offering steady employment…’

‘We are,’ Bertram assured her hurriedly. ‘Including a very attractive package of benefits, let me assure you.’

‘You would have no problem finding someone younger to fill the position,’ she added.

Bertram sighed.

‘I wish it were that easy…’

‘Why? Don’t tell me that I’m unique. I’m too old to believe that fairy tale. Maybe your employer would be better off assembling a team of a dozen or so people like me to focus on anything they find worthwhile, and it will be dead and gone within their lifetime.’

He opened his mouth to protest that this was to be expected, but she spoke with such deep conviction that he decided to say nothing.

Instead, he took the envelope of papers he had received from his superiors and placed it on the table, at a safe distance from his glass in its puddle.

‘My superiors thought you might be reluctant,’ he said. ‘What the Bureau is asking of you is rather life-changing. They are aware of that.’

The way Ms Scriptor turned her attention towards the middle distance made Bertram suspect that she was trying not to think about the contents of the letter. She was like an expert in not thinking about elephants.

‘Business correspondence,’ she said, smiling slightly. ‘It’s either advertising or invoices, neither of which is very interesting.’

Realising that he could achieve nothing more at that moment, Bertram stood up.

‘The letter contains instructions on how to get in touch with us,’ he said, putting on his goggles and mask. ‘Or so I’ve been told.’

They exchanged a wry smile, then he left. Goodbyes were difficult when they involved someone who risked being punished for their sincerity.

---

‘What a peculiar little man,’ thought Gertrude, standing at the double doors and watching the head clerk melt into the ochre landscape. He had come unannounced with an offer that could only be described as half-baked.

Perhaps his superiors thought she would be flattered, or that he was the best representative of their organisation. If this was the case, what sort of enterprise did he really represent?

Under normal circumstances, Gertrude would not have dwelled on such thoughts. In this case, however, she let her thoughts roam freely. Since Mr Habit had not crumbled under her interest earlier, she assumed that he was quite safe even now. What was she supposed to make of him? There was nothing enticing about him. He oozed work and propriety. Boredom à la carte. Perhaps this was his protection.

There was no need to overreact to this visit and the farewell handshake just because she had been feeling lonely lately.

A chill in the air made her shiver, so she went inside and locked the door behind her. As she began tidying up the hallway, she noticed it seemed emptier than usual. Sticky residue from the pineapple cordial she had used to make Mr Habit’s cocktail had found its way into every nook and cranny of the drinks trolley’s top shelf.

Perhaps she shouldn’t have taken out her anger on the equipment, but part of her felt relieved that it was gone. Cleaning stainless steel surfaces was always very satisfying.

The table was another matter.

Gertrude thought with a twinge of regret that she should have kept her temper and not shown off. Now she would probably have to look at those ochre-coloured stains for the rest of her life, a constant reminder of the small bureaucrat who doubled as a postman.

The handmade paper envelope he had left behind was pristine. Heavy and snowy white, it suggested that the sender placed importance on their interaction with her. Then again, perhaps they considered her naive, someone who could be easily impressed by money and power. As long as she didn’t know who had sent it, there was no way she could guess their motives, though.

‘Well, then,’ she said, tearing open the envelope. ‘Let’s see what they have to say for themselves.’

Inside were two thick sheets of paper bearing a most peculiar seal: an eye looking through a magnifying glass, surrounded by the words ‘Bureau of Feasibility’. If this was a joke, it had come at some cost. Not only was the paper exquisite and the seal distinctive, but the four pages were also covered in the neatest copperplate writing that Gertrude had ever seen.

It started with ‘Dear Ms Scriptor’ and ended with ‘Yours in good faith, Angela Mortis, Head of Demolition’.

At least she didn’t beat about the bush.

Before reading the whole letter, Gertrude turned to the assorted clippings that accompanied it. They appeared to be from a newspaper called The Aetherial Times and covered incidents from the last five years. Among them was an obituary from ten days ago bemoaning the death of Theodore Woodcutter, Master Eradicator at the Bureau of Feasibility. He had lived to the impressive age of 112, and was probably a relative.

There was no mention of a family, which made Gertrude wonder if his love life had been as sporadic and barren as hers.

With a little sigh, she turned to an official service announcement in the form of a lithograph depicting the text as the face of a woman with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. The woman’s eyes seemed to stare up at her through the artful arrangement of black and white areas on paper until she forced herself to read the text informing her that the management of the Bureau were inviting friends, colleagues, business partners and Ms Gertrude Scriptor to a celebration in honour of the last master eradicator and all the good he had done for the multiverse. The event was to take place at the Point-of-Origin the following Saturday.

As she watched the paper crumble to dust in her hands, Gertrude was astonished to realise that she would go.

‘I suppose they know what they’re doing,’ she said, going upstairs to find something suitable to wear.

---

The number of people at the gathering was staggering. There were at least a couple of hundred of them in all shapes and sizes, and probably more than Gertrude had ever met in her life.

Had they come because they had known Theodore, or because they had dealings with the Bureau? Gertrude wondered as she made her way through the crowd, past smaller and larger groups of attendees, glass in hand, listening to snippets of conversation that made little sense to her.

When she reached the other side of the hall, she noticed a glass door. Finding the air stuffy, she slipped onto the large balcony behind it.

Coming here had been a bad idea, she thought, breathing in the crisp autumn air. If she had arrived earlier, maybe things would have been different. As it was, she felt quite overwhelmed.

But before sneaking back to the small green patch in her ochre-coloured world, she wanted to explore this place further and discover what made it the Point of Origin. She stepped away from the door and closer to the balustrade.

The view was… unexpected. Vines stretched as far as the eye could see, bearing bunches of grapes that sparkled in the colours of the rainbow, hidden amongst dark green leaves.

Cultivating a vineyard this size must be very demanding in terms of time and labour. Gertrude wondered how this was arranged, and if this might explain the many people in the hall behind her. That they worked here? Who wouldn’t want to?

To her right, someone cleared their throat. A woman of indeterminate age. She was pale and hollow-cheeked, with luminous purple eyes and pristine white hair gathered in a tight bun. She wore a midnight-blue dress with a high collar that was tightly wrapped around her bony frame. Meeting Gertrude’s questioning gaze, she smiled and held out her hand.

‘Angela Mortis,’ she said in a deep, resonant voice. ‘I am so pleased to meet you, Ms Scriptor.’ Mr Habit has told me all about you. Please, let me show you around.’

Having shaken hands twice in three days, Gertrude suddenly found herself longing for the perfect isolation she knew from home, while at the same time wishing for more connection.

From the hall, she could hear singing. Harmonious and heartfelt, it reminded her of the bagpipe tune she had destroyed the day, Mr Habit had come to see her. Here it beckoned her to join in as she followed Ms Mortis down a flight of stairs and along a cobbled path into the vineyard. A closer look at the grapes revealed tiny worlds that seemed very similar to one another.

‘They differ only slightly from one another,’ explained Ms Mortis. ‘Did you know that, contrary to popular belief, the number of parallel worlds is finite?’

Gertrude replied that she did not.

‘Well, the multiverse just doesn’t have the resources for infinite growth, and that is our raison d’être: to make room for the most promising developments and recycle the materials we take from worlds that have unfortunately proven to be unviable.’

She pointed at a bunch of globes that was sprouting an addition to its considerable number and motioned for Gertrude to watch. When it had reached its final size, it settled among its siblings with a little shudder and a contented sigh, which made the two women smile mildly.

It was almost like watching a child fall asleep.

Further down the path, however, they encountered several shriveled grapes that had turned into unappealing orange raisins, some of which were spreading their condition to their neighbours.

‘Unfortunately, Theodore fell ill last year,’ Ms Mortis explained, smiling sadly. ‘There was no one else to do his job.’

‘How can that be?’ Gertrude exclaimed incredulously. There was no mistaking the shrivelled fruits for anything else. Anyone conscientious could do it.

‘It demands a talent,’ replied Ms Mortis. ‘We can all see them, but we can’t remove them. Look.’

She grasped one of the globes and tried to pick it up. The only effect of her efforts was a slight flush to her cheeks.

‘These worlds may be small, but they carry a lot of weight. Only someone with your special talent could limit the damage to the multiverse if the contagion were to spread further.’

Gertrude stared at the remains of this tiny world, convinced that her companion had overlooked something. Taking hold of the shrivelled globe, she quickly realised that Ms Mortis was right: it could not be moved by hand.

She took a handkerchief from her pocket and started to clean her fingers while contemplating how to take an interest in this sorry excuse for a world. At first, it seemed pointless. There was nothing to learn and nothing to engage with. Any future this world had had was now gone.

Or was it?

If the multiverse recycled what wasn’t needed anymore, would anything ever really be wasted?

I wonder where this stuff will end up, she thought, feeling intrigued. Would I recognise it if I saw it? And would it matter?

Under her questioning gaze, the ochre-coloured shrivelled mass dissolved, leaving the cluster of worlds to rearrange themselves to the tune that Gertrude had played on her gramophone before turning it to dust.

‘The Bureau’s anthem,’ breathed Ms Mortis. ‘How appropriate. I take it you will stay for a while? See how things develop?’

‘We’ll see how I cope with all this company.’

Ms Mortis nodded thoughtfully and guided Gertrude towards the Point of Origin.

‘That was my home,’ said Gertrude as they reached the stairs. ‘The globe you pointed out for destruction.’

Ms Mortis looked at her sharply.

‘How did you know?’

Unruffled, Gertrude returned her look, while upstairs the gathering clapped along to a song that seemed to involve some kind of counting.

’I didn’t,’ she said calmly. ’But now I do. Shall we go and join the others?’

The End