The Sky was Full of Fish

"Yeah, I want a piece of this action," said Gertrude.

"Absolutely not," I said. "It's too dangerous. Promise me you'll stay here."

In the end, I got their promise, albeit grudgingly. I left Matilda, Heather, Sara, and Gertrude in the hotel and made my way to the Complex, grim with purpose.

I reached the Complex without incident. Almost instantly upon entering, my stomach started hurting. I took it as a sign that I was on the right track. Making my way to my desk, I saw that not many people were still there. Considering how late it was, this was not surprising. I did bump into Harold on the way through the cubes. He had a jacket draped over one arm and a briefcase in his other hand. He seemed disconcerted to see me, but composed himself quickly and greeted me casually.

"Hey Andrew," he said. "Putting in a little OT?"

"Well, you know how it goes," I said.

"I hear you. So how's the fish thing going?"

"It's going," I said noncommittally. "Progress is being made."

Harold chuckled. "Sounds like something you'd say to Carver." He leaned closer to me. "The department's getting a little antsy, actually," he said softly. "Nobody knows what's going on with you and the fish, but there's some ugly talk."

"Oh," I said.

Harold pulled back again and narrowed his eyes a little. Then he relaxed and chuckled again. "Okay, play it your way. You always did hold them close to the vest. See you later."

"Alright, have a good one," I said. With that, we parted.

When I got to my desk, I sat down and opened the file drawer, which was filled with tools, parts, and equipment of staggering variety. I pulled out the devices and components that I felt I would need and got to work.

When I am building a gadget, I enter into an alternative consciousness. It may sound corny, but it really is like that. I lose all track of time. My nanobots and I become one, and we thwart physics and causality seemingly at will. Of course, it's not always easy. In the case of highly specialized devices like the one I was making now, the work can be quite complicated and draining.

My stomach pain made the already difficult task harder. By the time I had finished, I wasn't able to sit up straight, so intense was the pain. But that did not diminish the sense of accomplishment and pride I always felt upon completing one of my projects.

As I came back to myself, I noticed Matilda, Heather, Sara, and Gertrude sitting in one of my guest chairs, waiting for me. This made me seriously displeased.

"You promised," I said icily.

"Yes we did," said Matilda. "But Sara had a bad feeling, which was difficult to disregard."

"So we talked about it," continued Sara, "and we decided that promise or no promise, we couldn't sit by and let you walk into unknown peril with the fate of the God of Toast in the balance. So here we are."

"And about the promise," added Heather, "to make it up to you, when this is all over, we promise to do penance for our transgression." She smiled a half smile. "That's a promise we'll keep."

I can never stay angry at the beloved quartet for long. And they did have a point. I'd been on enough missions to know when it smelled like showdown, and it did now. "Alright," I said, wincing at another twinge in my stomach. "Truth is, I'm glad you're here. I'm in bad shape."

"You are in pain," said Matilda, concerned. "Let me." She placed her hands on me. After a few seconds, I could move freely again, but the pain was far from gone.

Just then, there was a tap on my cubical wall. We turned to see Carver standing in the entrance.

"I thought you had a dinner engagement," I said.

"Over and done with," Carver replied. "Do you know what time it is?"

I didn't. I checked the clock on my desk, which told me it was after midnight.

"I'm paged whenever there's unexpected activity in the office," Carver continued. "I surmised that it would be you, so I thought I'd come by and see if you needed any help." He surveyed my desk, which was littered with tools and components. "Been doing what you do, I see."

"Yes," I said, holding up the device I had made. It was the size and shape of a flip-open cell phone. This was because I had housed the device in a cell phone shell. "This is going to answer the question once and for all."

"What is it?" asked Heather.

"It's an atmospheric fish generation detector," I said, with no small pride.

I was treated to blank stares for a few moments. Then Heather said, "It's a what?"

"It's an atmospheric fish generation detector," I repeated. "It pinpoints the nearest location of any device or machine that is currently causing fish to appear in the sky."

"Good idea," said Carver. "How does it work?"

I stood up. "You hit the 'send' button, and the location appears on the screen." I flipped open the one-time cell phone and pressed the "send" button with my thumb. "Like so." Everyone gathered around and peered at the device. After a brief time, Gertrude said, "I don't see anything but some staticky dots and slashes."

"Yes, well, I didn't have time to create a user-friendly interface." I explained. "But I can read it." So saying, I examined the screen. Then I groaned.

"What is it?" asked Carver.

"The machine that's generating the fish is on floor 39," I said. It was Carver's turn to groan.

Floor 39 is something of a legend at the Complex. Many claim that it's simply a myth and doesn't exist, but just as many others claim vehemently that it is real, and that they have seen it. None of these witnesses have ever been able to find their way back to floor 39 to prove its existence, however. Furthermore, no two witnesses have given the same description of the floor's appearance.

The janitor is the only person believed to know for sure whether floor 39 is real. Unfortunately, the janitor doesn't talk about it, and it is quite impossible to pin him down and question him on the matter. Or on any matter. Such are the qualities required of the Janitor of the Complex of the League of Heroes. And so the legend of floor 39 persists.

"We may as well pack it in," said Carver. He was one of the unbelievers.

"No way," I said firmly. "There's too much at stake." Personally, I was a floor 39 agnostic.

"How are you going to find something that doesn't exist?" Carver demanded.

"If the detector says it's there, floor 39 must exist," I said. Carver shook his head but said nothing. "Let's look at this sensibly," I continued. "Our first asset is you. You know the most about the ways of the Complex. Your navigational capabilities are the talk of the department."

Carver utterly failed to look modest. "True," he said.

"And I'm no slouch, either," I continued. "There have even been times that I've given you the runaround. Remember that time when you had me on the Branson project?"

"I remember," said Carver, a little testily.

"And Sara, here, knows what I know. With your permission, she can know what you know as well. With her mind, she can provide an extremely valuable perspective." Sara blushed.

Carver shook his head. "I still don't see how that's going to help us find something that doesn't exist." I was about to raise another protest, but he held his hand up. "Nevertheless, I'm prepared to make the attempt." I smiled. Carver clapped me on the shoulder. "Lead on, Andrew. We're behind you."

* * *

Three hours later, the elevator doors opened on floor 39. Carver, Matilda, Heather, Sara, Gertrude, and I stepped out. I won't bore you with the details of how we ended up finding the right elevator, because it's really not interesting. Well, there was one interesting point, when we slid down the laundry chute in the women's locker room for four levels and landed in a vast pile of towels in the Complex's secret laundry room. But other than that, it was an oppressive and fiendishly difficult puzzle that needs no recounting.

Floor 39 consisted of one large square room, perhaps 70 feet on a side. the elevator was in the center of one of the grimy, painted cinder block walls. The room was empty, save for a few low stacks of decrepit cardboard boxes here and there. The floor was dirty concrete, and very slightly damp. A faint musty smell permeated the air. The ceiling was low, with steel girders and hanging mercury vapor light fixtures that made me think of a parking garage.

Carver walked in a few steps and made a rotating survey of the room, stopping to face us. "I'll be damned," he said. "It actually does exist."

I was suddenly bent double by a twinge in my stomach. The pain had grown steadily worse over the past three hours, and Matilda could do nothing to help. Gertrude moved beside me and gently but firmly helped me to remain upright. I leaned on her and panted until the twinge passed and I could once more stand on my own.

"Alright," said Gertrude. "We've made it to floor 39. Where does your gadget say the fish generator is?"

I consulted the device, and pointed to the opposite wall. "That way," I said.

Carver squinted in the direction I'd indicated. "I don't see anything over there," he said.

"We'll have to investigate," said Sara. So saying, she walked carefully towards the far wall. The rest of us followed. When we reached the wall, Carver turned to me.

"Well?" he said, not unkindly.

"It's still about 35 feet ahead," I said, surveying the surface of the wall. "There has to be a secret door or something." I started moving my hands around on the wall, searching for a switch.

"Or it could be there's another elevator that goes down to another room on this level," Carver suggested.

"Let's not contemplate that angle unless we have to," I said, moving to another section of wall. Then, I felt Gertrude's hand on my shoulder.

"Stand back," she said.

When Gertrude tells me to stand back, I listen. I moved away from the wall, grabbing Carver by the arm and taking him with me.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Watch this," I said, gesturing with my head to Gertrude. Watching Gertrude in action is similar to watching a combination wildcat and rhinoceros. With obvious zeal, she hurled herself against the wall and began tearing it apart.

Carver was taken aback. "She really shouldn't be doing that," he said to me.

"Are you going to stop her?"

Carver watched as Gertrude, with one hand, plucked a cinder block from the wall and tossed it 25 feet to shatter on the floor nearby. "No, I'm not," he said. We took a few more steps back.

It was over quickly. When the dust had cleared, Gertrude stood before a generously sized doorway in the wall. The floor was littered with debris, and Gertrude herself was filthy with grit and perspiration, but she was obviously quite pleased. Carver and I approached when it seemed safe.

"Feel better?" I said.

Gertrude smiled one of her rare and wonderful smiles. "That felt so good," she said.

As a group, the six of us moved to peer through the doorway that Gertrude had made. Through it, we could see another square room similar to the one we were in, though about half the size. In the side wall on our left, there was indeed another elevator. At the far wall, directly opposite our makeshift doorway, there was a large sheet metal cabinet. It was about the size and shape of a vending machine, and there was a huge switch on the front that looked for all the world like a gigantic light switch. Above and below the switch were large labels that read, "Fish On" and "Fish Off." The switch was in the "on" position.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," said Gertrude.

The six of us exchanged glances. Then I said, "Well, I guess I'd better go turn it off."

"I don't know," said Heather, chewing her lip with uncertainty. "This screams 'Trap' to me."

"Agreed," said Sara.

My stomach was in a special agony just from looking at the machine across the room. "Do you see any other choice?" I asked through gritted teeth. "I've got to turn it off, and I have to do it alone."

"What?" cried Matilda. "You can hardly stand up. At least let one of us go with you."

I shook my head. "No," I said firmly. "This is my task, and I must complete it alone."

"He's right," said Carver. We looked at him questioningly. "I can feel it," Carver explained. "It's a mystical thing."

Matilda threw up her hands. "Fine," she said, her tone informing us that she found the situation far from fine. "At least let me try to help your stomach again." With that, she put her hands on me. The pain lessened momentarily, but came back just as strong the moment she moved away. There was a tear in her eye as she looked at me. "Just be careful in there," she said. "I have an awful feeling."

"So do I," said Sara. She took my hand gently in her own and gave it a squeeze. Then Heather stepped around Sara and threw her arms around me. "We love you," she said in my ear.

"I love you," I replied.

Heather stepped away, and Gertrude gave me a curt nod. "Be careful," she said. I nodded.

I turned to Carver. We shook hands. My stomach pain had increased such that I was having trouble remaining upright, but I was determined to do so.

"We'll be right here at the door," said Carver. "If things start going wrong, we'll be available to assist you. But we won't unless it's absolutely necessary."

"Thanks," I said.

"Grobble yocker," Carver replied.

Finally, I turned to the doorway. I popped my right pinky finger loose and stuck it in my pocket. Then, without further hesitation, I stepped into the room.

Refreshingly, nothing happened. I took another step and another; still nothing. Just as I was beginning to think it was going to be okay, a wave of pain broke upon my abdomen. I doubled over as a scream was wrenched from me.

I heard a mild disturbance in the doorway behind me, and surmised that Carver was holding back Matilda. "I'm alright," I called to them. "Stay put." Under my breath, I said, "Just another hurdle, that's all."

Before too long, I could walk again, and when the additional flare-ups came, I was prepared and therefore able to handle them better.

At some point I decided I wanted my mysterious glowing orb, so I called it forth. It rolled out of my pinky like a bowling ball and landed with a sickening clank at my feet. It was a dull leaden grey. "That's nice," I said, and stepped around it.

I continued on, and paid dearly for every step. I lost my sense of time. At some point, I emerged from my reverie of misery and noticed that I had drawn even with the elevator to my left. "Half way," I said, and was cheered by this.

A few steps later, when the elevator had passed beyond my peripheral vision, I was hit with a blast of pain so intense that I simply had no choice but to scream again. I went down to my hands and knees and held the floor away from my face. It began to occur to me that I might die trying to cross this room.

Just then, the elevator chimed, and I heard the doors sliding open.

I didn't have the strength to turn my head and look to see who, if anyone, was emerging from the elevator. As it turned out, I didn't need to. Almost instantly, prehensile ropes coiled around my arms, legs, and torso. The ropes were made of an unidentifiable substance that looked unsettlingly like fish scales. They were far too strong for me to fight them. In no time, I was trussed up in a spread eagle like a human sacrifice, facing back the way I had come. With the pain in my abdomen, being forced to stretch out was excruciating.

By the elevator stood a figure, presumably male, his face hidden in shadows. As I watched, he turned to face my companions at the doorway in the far wall. Carver stepped into the room with his arm cocked back as if he were going to throw a softball. His hand glowed electric blue, and he hurled a ball of mystical energy straight at the newcomer's head.

The stranger barely moved. He simply flicked his hand at Carver as though he were shooing a fly. The blue ball disappeared, and in the same instant, Carver was encased in a cube of fish.

I looked to the beloved quartet, and my heart sank. There stood Gail, gawping with panicked uncertainty. Matilda, Heather, Sara, and Gertrude were getting in each others' way.

The stranger laughed, a cold and cruel sound. "Worthless bitch," he sneered. The voice was one I recognized. It was the same voice that had told me I wouldn't remember the God of Toast. My blood ran cold to hear it again.

His taunting words seemed to help the beloved quartet to collect themselves, for a moment later, Heather stepped forward ferociously with her hands extended in front of her. "Eat this!" she shouted, and sent gouts of flame towards the stranger.

Unfortunately, the stranger simply waved his hand again, and the beloved quartet were treated to their own cube of fish.

All the while, I frantically attempted to contact the tools in my right pinky finger, but something was preventing me from connecting.

Almost lazily, the figure turned to face me, his face still hidden.

"Who are you?" I asked with what little authority I could muster. The stranger stepped into the light. "Harold?" I cried. For it was he. I realize I shouldn't have been terribly surprised, but I was anyway.

Harold stepped closer. "It's true that I am known in some circles as Harold," he said. "But I prefer to think of myself in terms of my achievements." He stopped directly in front of me, a few feet away. "You might call me the fish bringer. Or the guy who wrote, 'Fuck you' in the bathroom. But to call me by my true title, you would address me as the Anti-Toast."

So saying, he hauled off and kicked me square in the crotch with significant force. Oh, it hurt. It added a new and special icing to the cake of agony that already nestled in my entrails. I screamed.

Once my scream had faded to a choking sob, Harold continued. "And you, oh Champion of Toast, have failed. Soon you will be dead, and the God of Toast will die soon after, and there is nothing you can do to stop it." His calm and matter-of-fact tone made his words all the more horrible to hear.

He stepped nearer, putting his face close to mine. I couldn't look at his eyes; they were too terrible. "I can feel you reaching out with your mind to your precious pinky finger," he said tauntingly. "Sadly, your powers will not serve you here in my secret sanctum. But it does tie in to the matter of your death.

"You see, I've always hated you and your bullshit finger. What kind of super power is that, anyway? So I've decided," he said, seizing my right arm and wrenching it free from the fish rope that held it, "that you shall die by your own precious digital repository."

I looked at Harold with a blank expression. "What I mean," he explained, "is that I'm going to smother you to death by shoving your right hand down your miserable throat."

So saying, he forced my hand to my lips. I resisted as best I could, but he was far stronger than I. It hurt a lot when my wrist snapped. It hurt even worse when my jaw broke. Soon enough, my hand was in past my teeth, and I could feel things start to roll out of my pinky finger and into my mouth. Some, like the nanobots, went down my throat. The bulkier items were dislodged by our struggle and spilled out onto the floor.

Harold pressed on with terrible force. For my part, I was starting to lose hope completely. But suddenly, inspiration struck. I thought of one thing that might save me. Unfortunately, it required that I be able to contact my right pinky finger and its contents. I had to get past Harold's blocks. I stopped struggling and concentrated with all my might. This was not easy, considering the fact that I had several broken bones and a stomach complaint, further compounded by the fact that I was being strangled by a lunatic.

Before too long, my brain felt like it was bleeding, and I was pretty sure my nose was, too. Harold noticed what I was doing and began taunting me. "Try all you want, Millik," he said with a burst of derisive laughter. "You'll never get--"