A Hundred Thousand Worlds (19 page)

A
lex finds Fred and not Brett manning the table in Artist Alley. He’s got his feet up, tipping his chair precariously backwards, face obscured by a copy of
Adam Anti & Life During Wartime.
The way he’s sitting, the way he’s holding the book, too close to actually read it, all broadcast the message that Fred doesn’t want to talk to anybody, and the message is being received. People glance at Brett’s portfolios or the covers of
Lady Stardust,
then quietly move away.

Alex comes around the table behind Fred, looking over his shoulder but not at the words so he doesn’t ruin it for himself.

“You like those, too?” he says. He tried to sneak up, but it must not have worked, because Fred isn’t startled at all.

“Nope,” says Fred, snapping the book shut. “I’ve seen the movies. I found this one in Brett’s bag. I thought I’d give it a try. The prose is flat and the story is a warmed-over mix of Arthurian legend and rock opera. But it’s far from charmless. And it reads quickly.”

“You can’t start with the last one,” says Alex defensively. He hasn’t understood most of what Fred said, but he grasps that it’s a negative review. He likes it that Fred doesn’t take the time to make sure Alex gets it. It’s the same lack of respect Fred shows everybody, and in that way it’s kind of respectful.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you yesterday,” Alex says. Fred puts down the book and stares at him a second.

“Thanks, kid,” he says. “That’s very stand-up of you. Here, pull up a chair. You can help me not sell any of Brett’s artwork.” Alex drags a chair over. “So what’s it like having a mother who’s famous?” says Fred.

“She’s not that famous,” Alex says. Famous people belong a little bit to everybody, and his mother belongs just to him.

“Within a certain demographic,” says Fred, “she’s quite famous. Iconic, almost. And we happen to be surrounded by the members of that demographic. I bet everyone here has seen at least a full season of
Anomaly.
It’s like required watching for a certain generation of geek.”

“Have you?”

“I, for better or worse, have seen them all. Every episode. I can’t tell you why I kept watching after they jumped the shark, but I did. Stockholm syndrome, I guess.”

Alex thinks about getting out his notebook to write down some of the words Fred is using so he can look them up later, but he’s worried he would look stupid. He’s interested, though, to get to talk to someone who’s seen all of
Anomaly.

“So you know how it ends,” he says.

“Mercifully,” says Fred, “like an elderly patient expiring after prolonged illness.”

“But what happens?” says Alex.

Fred puts his chair back on the ground and leans toward Alex. “You want me to spoil the ending?” Alex nods. Fred looks excited about this, and Alex realizes he’s excited, too. He’s always tried to avoid knowing endings, but there’s something about skipping to the last page that feels empowering.

“How much do you know?” Fred asks.

“My mom’s told me a lot of it.”

“You know the big bad is the Leader.”

“Uh-huh,” says Alex. “And no one knows who he is. But he’s from the future.”

“The final season,” Fred says, “they’re throwing out clues left and right. Only they’re not clues, because they all contradict each other. Every week after a new episode, the Internet goes nuts. ‘It’s Frazer!’ ‘No, it’s Campbell!’ It comes down to the last episode, and all the Leader’s evil plans have paid off. He’s finally broken into Anomaly Base, which had always
been protected by some kind of time bubble, and it’s chaos. There are Vikings and CGI dinosaurs running around. And he corners Frazer and Campbell. And he takes off his mask.”

Fred mimes the action of removing the mask, drawing his hand up from his chin and over his face. Alex is rapt. All the episodes his mother’s recounted to him, years of bedtime stories, and she’s never told him, never revealed the Leader’s identity. Alex thought it didn’t matter much, but now, about to find out, it matters more than anything.

They’re both leaning forward in their chairs, their faces almost touching.

“Who is it?” Alex asks.

“It’s their kid,” says Fred, leaning back, deflated. “It’s Frazer and Campbell’s kid. Which doesn’t make sense in eleven different ways. He says he came back from the future to split them up, because if they stay together he turns out evil. So if you’re worried about turning out evil, stop being evil. Don’t go back in time to terrorize your baby self and your parents so they get divorced and you turn out not evil.”

Alex is disappointed and confused.

“Then what happens?”

“He zaps back to the future and takes all his Vikings and CGI dinosaurs with him. The show ends with Frazer and Campbell standing in the wrecked Anomaly Base with their jaws hanging open.”

“That’s it?”

“I told you it wasn’t very good,” says Fred. “They would have retconned it the next season. Given the track record at that point, they might have made it worse.”

“What’s
retconned
?” asks Alex.

“It’s when a lazy writer goes back and changes something that’s already happened,” Fred says. “Like ‘Oh, no, OuterMan’s planet wasn’t totally destroyed and everybody didn’t die like we’ve been telling you for seven decades. There was actually a cruise ship full of people from his home planet who survived, and oh by the way they’re all douchebags.’ It’s a cheap writer’s trick.”

“So it’s fixing mistakes?” says Alex.

“It’s worse than that. There’s a guy who writes for National Comics who does it all the time. It’s like his signature move. He’s the one who took OuterMan and made him—” Fred stops abruptly. He’s watching two men approach the table. One of them is older, not quite grandpa old, and heavy, like a funny cop in a movie. The other one is probably between Fred’s age and Alex’s mom’s age. The heavy one is dressed like a grown-up, with a button-down shirt, the first one Alex has seen at the convention. The other has OuterMan’s logo on his T-shirt, an
O
stretched vertically, with a circle orbiting it like a hula hoop. “Shut up, kid,” Fred says quietly, although Alex hasn’t been talking.

“This is the book I told you about,” says the heavy man. He pages through an issue of
Lady Stardust,
but not the way other people have. He’s actually reading it. Here and there he points to certain panels. “You ever read this?”

“I never have time to read anything out of universe these days,” says the other man, who keeps looking around nervously. “National has me reading all the scripts to check for continuity errors.”

“They’re sticklers for continuity over there,” says the heavy man. “I respect that. Although I’ve never totally understood it. Who cares if OuterMan’s in space in one book and saving Capital City in another? Five fans.” He holds up five sausage fingers. “Five fans care, and if they didn’t have that to moan about, they’d moan about something else.”

“We like to keep things tidy,” says the other man.

“I get that. I do. But don’t underestimate how much fun it can be to get messy.” As he talks, the heavy man is making lots of physical contact with the other man, slapping him on the shoulder and arm. “Look at this,” he says, pointing at the open comic book. “The pencils aren’t great, but they pop, right? And the story, well, we’ll see if they stick the landing, but as it is, there’s some holes.” Alex notices Fred wincing. “But when I read it,” says the heavy man, “I’m not seeing holes. I’m seeing this thing
that’s crackling with ideas.” He smacks the other man on the arm, hard. “What’s the last thing National published that was crackling with ideas? Something you didn’t write.” The other man stammers. “You know what, don’t answer that.” He shuts the book and sets it back down on the pile.

“You work for Black Sheep?” he asks Fred.

“I’m the writer,” says Fred.

“You are?” says the heavy man. “That’s fantastic.” When he says something is fantastic, you believe that it is fantastic, or at least unusually good. Alex likes him. “Here I was thinking you were the guy who could help me find the guy, when actually you’re
the guy
. It’s great stuff, really great. Do you know Geoff?”

“I don’t think we’ve met,” says the other man, whose name must be Geoff, holding out his hand. Fred, without getting up, shakes his hand, then awkwardly stands up and quickly sits down again.

“I figured all writers knew each other,” the heavy man says. “Isn’t there some bar where you all go to drink whiskey and mope?” Fred shakes his head feebly. The heavy man turns to Alex and sticks out his big, meaty hand, which Alex stands up to shake.

“Phil Weinrobe,” he says. His handshake is firm and vigorous, and Alex feels as if the upswing might lift him right off the ground. “I’m the editor at Timely Comics. They pay me a ton of money to make writers do their jobs.”

“Alex Torrey,” Alex says. “I’m a writer, too.”

“Is that right?” says Phil. “You’ll have to pitch to me someday.”

“I’d like that,” Alex says, although he has no idea what pitching has to do with being a writer.

“This your kid?” Phil asks Fred.

“No,” says Fred. “He’s a fan.”

“Your parents let you read this stuff?” says Phil, surprised.

“I get to read whatever I want,” says Alex, deciding that from here on out, this will be true. Phil turns away from him, and Alex knows his role
in the conversation, the little cameo adults leave for kids in the beginning of an encounter, is over.

“I used to work for Black Sheep,” says Phil, “back in the day. A lowly assistant editor. Back then we specialized in teen romance comics and adaptations of television shows. You ever read the comic book version of
ALF
?” Geoff and Fred shake their heads. “Neither did anybody else. Which is why I no longer work for Black Sheep. Honest to God, when I was twenty-five, I thought people would line up to read a comic about an alien puppet. Who’s your editor over there?” he asks Fred.

“Russell Maddox,” he says.

“He on your back?” asks Phil. He’s talking to Fred, but he’s looking at Geoff. “Riding you about continuity, market viability?”

“I’ve only talked to him twice,” says Fred.

“See that?” Phil says. “The lone genius. Free of editorial interference. You know the difference between an editor and a writer?” Phil asks no one in particular.

“Pay grade,” says Geoff.

Phil laughs, a loud laugh that shakes his entire body. Alex wonders if there’s some connection to Santa Claus that requires all heavy men to be jolly. “That’s good, that’s good.” As quickly as he started laughing, he stops. “The difference is, an editor is not a writer. It’s the first thing I tell my editors.
You are not a writer; let the writers write the books.
” Geoff and Fred both nod solemnly, because the way Phil has said this indicates that it is an important piece of wisdom. “You got the time?” he asks Fred.

Fred and Geoff both scramble for their phones, but Alex checks his watch. “Five oh five,” he says.

Phil claps his hands together and then slaps Geoff on the shoulder again. “That’s excellent. That’s excellent news. Me and Geoff here were about to go get a beer.” He looks around as if there might be a bar right here in Artist Alley. Geoff is looking around, too, but he seems to be checking to see if he’s been spotted.

“There’s got to be a bar around here somewhere,” says Phil. He turns to Fred and gives him a smile that makes Alex think of Willy Wonka. “You want to come for a beer with us?” he asks.

“Yeah,” says Fred excitedly.

“Do you have somebody to watch your table for you?”

Fred looks around frantically. “My artist was supposed to be here an hour ago.” He says “my artist” the way you’d say “my puppy.”

“Artists,” says Phil, and all three of them chuckle. “Some other time, then.”

“No, wait,” says Fred. He kneels down to get at eye level with Alex. “Kid,” he says, “can you watch the table for an hour? I’ll give you twenty bucks.”

“Sure,” he says. Fred takes his wallet out, and as he hands Alex the twenty, he leans in even closer.

“If Brett comes back,” he says quietly, “tell him I went for a walk. By myself. To clear my head.”

“Okay,” says Alex. He won’t actually lie to Brett, but maybe he won’t say anything. Technically Fred is going for a walk; it’s just that he’s walking to somewhere and not by himself. Alex can leave all of that out.

As the three of them leave, Phil puts his arm around Fred’s shoulders the same way he kept doing to Geoff.

“Kid must be some fan,” Alex hears him say.

Once they’re out of sight, Alex picks up the first issue of
Lady Stardust
and tries to read it. But his mind is on the
Anomaly
ending. It’s not a good ending at all. It turns out it’s better not to know who’s behind the mask. Until you know, everything is possible. Once a story ends one way, all the other ways it could end disappear. Once it’s one person behind the mask, it isn’t everybody else.

After a few minutes, Brett comes by, and seems surprised to see him.

“Hey, Alex,” he says. “Where’s Fred?”

“He went for a walk,” says Alex, without adding any other details.

“Huh,” says Brett. “He left you in charge?”

“He gave me twenty bucks,” says Alex.

“That’s surprisingly generous for Fred,” Brett says. He sits down next to Alex.

“You guys don’t seem to like each other very much,” says Alex.

“I like Fred fine.”

“He’s angry at you because you made him miss the Mad Brit.”

Brett smiles. “I knew about that,” he says. “I was just about to call him, in fact. I fixed it.”

“How’d you fix it?” says Alex.

“I was over at the Black Sheep booth, talking with our editor, Russell. And he’s going out for drinks with the Mad Brit tonight, and we’re invited along.” Brett looks very pleased with himself, and for a second Alex is excited, because it sounds like he’s invited, too.

“Fred will be happy,” says Alex.

Brett shrugs. “I wouldn’t go that far,” he says.

“Is he your best friend?” asks Alex. It’s a concept that’s a puzzle to him, one he’s read about more than experienced. Even among the kids he knows in New York, there are very few best-friend pairings. Kids drift toward and away from each other. Alex has friends who are good for swing sets and friends who are good for museum trips. He has going-to-movies friends and going-for-ice-cream friends. None of them is better than the others, and none of them are best.