The Kitty Wittgenstein Blog

Kitty Wittgenstein and the Sinister Society of Southpaws (5.10)

2008-07-15T13:44:00.002+10:00

5.10 Gentle, Ben

(note: to go to the beginning of the story, go here, to see all Chapter Five posts, go here and to see all Sinister Society of Southpaws posts, go here)

The window was up. I could have sworn that it was down when I’d started this ridiculous journey.

It had been down. I was sure of it. That was why I’d tried to open my door in the first place.

If it was now up, then…

I pulled myself a little closer to the edge. Leaned my head over. Peeked inside.

Nope.

Tinted windows. Couldn’t see a thing.

But if, whatsername, Karen had regained consciousness and control of the car, then she was doing a remarkably bad job of driving it. We were still continuing to drift across the lanes of oncoming traffic, slowly accelerating as we did so.

No, Karen was not driving this car. If she’d regained consciousness, she’d done so for just long enough to wind her window up.

Presumably she’d done this just to spite me. And then fallen unconscious again to spite me even further.

Unless…

No. Of course she hadn’t regained temporary consciousness just to spite me. There was a far more logical explanation for the wound up window.

I lay myself flat on the car. Got as strong a grip as I could and held on tight.

The car continued to drift across the lanes. Oncoming traffic continued to swerve around us. Now that I had my head turned to face the front of the car, I could see our headlights flashing on and off. Alerting other cars to the danger.

We had now drifted just about all the way across the freeway. With a bump, we left the main road. I adjusted my grip and held on tighter.

Almost done now.

The car started to turn the corner ahead of us. Headed down a back street. I continued to hang on. I’d get wherever I was going soon enough.

Because, obviously, if there was nobody in the car sufficiently conscious to wind the driver’s window up, that meant it must have been wound up by somebody outside the car.

Presumably the same people who’d automatically shot the tranquiliser darts into the driver and front passenger.

And if they were able to automatically wind the windows up from a distance and automatically fire off tranquiliser darts from a distance, was it really such a leap to think that they might be controlling the motion of the car from a distance?

Of course not.

The original Irrelevant Family had been chauffeuring me to one of the warring factions – the right-handed side. It was probably safe to assume that whoever had usurped control of the car was chauffeuring me to the left-handed faction.

At this stage, I didn’t really care which one of them I dealt with first. They were both trouble as far as I was concerned. But, given the work they’d put in to booby-trap and remote-control the car, I figured the southpaw society probably deserved first shot.

The car was slowing down. It turned into a car park. Straight through an automatically opening boom gate. Down a ramp.

It slowed to a halt. The figure in front of me stepped out of the shadows.

It was Ben Stiller.

“Kitty,” he said. “We meet at last.”

Which was odd. Because we knew one another very well indeed.

(to be continued)

Kitty Wittgenstein and the Sinister Society of Southpaws (5.9)

2008-07-10T13:41:00.002+10:00

5.9 A Truckin' Good TIme

(note: to go to the beginning of the story, go here, to see all Chapter Five posts, go here and to see all Sinister Society of Southpaws posts, go here)

Horns blasted me. A motorcycle swerved past. Abuse flowed from every direction.

It reminded me of the time I hosted SNL – what a debacle that had been. Thinking back to that evening, dangling on the exterior of an out of control car suddenly didn’t seem so bad.

But whereas the SNL night had ended in an all-consuming wreck that had threatened to destroy us all (what had Matchbox 20 been thinking?), I was determined not to let this current experience end the same way.

I pulled my torso to the top of the car.

Now I just had to pull my legs out, climb across the car roof to the other side, crawl in through the driver’s side window and steer us to safety.

No problem.

Well, one problem.

There was nothing to grip on the roof of the car. And without anything to grip I didn’t see how I could take my legs out of the window with any kind of safety. Admittedly, given my current predicament, it was odd to be overly concerned with safety. But all things are relative.

I could be stick in a ridiculously dangerous situation just at the moment. But I saw no reason to make it a super-ridiculously dangerous situation. That would be one step too far, obviously.

A truck roared past, its horn blasting loud as it did so. We continued to accelerate through the traffic, drifting slowly across the lanes as we did so. It was only a matter of time before somebody ploughed straight into us.

Okay. I had to accept there was no grip on the roof. Wishing for it to be otherwise wasn’t going to make it so.

Time for a new plan.

Here came another truck.

I seemed to have moved my plans from ridiculously dangerous straight past super-ridiculously dangerous and into ultra-ridiculously dangerous territory.

The truck’s horn blasted long and loud, dopplering every closer.

My peripheral vision watched it grow larger and larger.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

Whoosh. It was here. The front of the truck roared past. A split-second later, I swung my legs out of the window and back. Into the side of the truck.

A split-second after that, I kicked forward as hard as I could.

The kick propelled me across the roof of my car. I landed awkwardly, but with hands close to the edge of the roof on the driver’s side.

I flailed for a grip.

My left hand – what else? - found one.

I hung on tight as the car’s acceleration threatened to fling me off. I brought the right hand around and grabbed the edge of the roof with it also.

Slowly I inched along the roof. Towards the driver’s side window.

Cars, buses, trucks continued to blast me as they swerved past.

I’d made it to the driver’s side window. Now I just had to pull this car over.

No problem.

Or, once again, one problem.

Namely, the driver’s side window was now up.

(to be continued)

Kitty Wittgenstein and the Sinister Society of Southpaws (5.8)

2008-07-07T08:59:00.001+10:00

5.8 For Whom The Bell Tolls

(note: to go to the beginning of the story, go here, to see all Chapter Five posts, go here and to see all Sinister Society of Southpaws posts, go here)

Okay. Young Master Irrelevant had abandoned us. I could follow his lead. I didn’t particularly like leaping out of fast-moving cars, but I’d done it before (to evade an overly amorous Ethan Hawke, way back when – don’t ask).

On the other hand, it didn’t feel right to just abandon the Irrelevant Twins in the front. Sure, they had seat belts on, so they’d probably survive whatever impact finally ended up bringing the car to a halt.

But ‘probably survive’ didn’t preclude all kinds of nasty injuries. Or, technically, death itself. And let’s not forget the innocent people they might crash into in the process.

No, I had to try and get to the front and stop the car.

I didn’t like my chances. I mean, Zoe Bell in Death Proof had made clambering around the top of a speeding car look a cinch. But I’d also seen the early cuts of Death Proof 2, and what had happened to Kristen Bell. So I knew it wasn’t all fun and games.

Hanging onto a seatbelt, I leaned out and grabbed the door. I pulled it back towards me.
Despite what Young Master Irrelevant may have thought, I’d had the right idea. By hanging onto the door I could lever myself around towards the front of the car.

Of course, the more body I had on the outside of the door, the easier it was going to be at the other end. I pulled myself up through the window. Sat my bum down on the top of the glass, allowing my legs to dangle back inside.

I could see other cars driving past on the freeway. Some of the drivers just ignored me, as if a woman sitting with the top half of her body out the passenger side window was an everyday occurrence. A few others paid attention, but mostly shook their heads angrily at my perceived skylarking.

I kicked out from the seat and the door swung open. I leaned in to the front passenger’s side window and took my grip. This was more or less the point at which Young Master Irrelevant had abandoned ship. And, now that I was here, I could see his point. The move from this window to the front of the car was going to be a hairy one.

Still, no point fretting about it. I just had to do it. I twisted my body around and pulled one leg out from the window.

Twist, Kitty, twist.

I swung the leg around and reached the foot towards the gap between the glass and the top of the passenger’s side window. I let go with one hand and helped pull the foot in.

Thank Rao for yoga.

Once that foot was wedged in strongly, I tightened my grip and swung the other leg over.
I now had both hands and both feet in the gap in the front passenger’s side window. The rest of my body dangled precariously outside.

This was about to become a problem.

Because as I looked up, I noticed the car had drifted across the freeway and was now moving against the traffic.

Which was, y’know, less than ideal.

(to be continued)

Kitty Wittgenstein and the Sinister Society of Southpaws (5.7)

2008-07-03T10:03:00.002+10:00

5.7 Plans Go Out The Window

(note: to go to the beginning of the story, go here, to see all Chapter Five posts, go here and to see all Sinister Society of Southpaws posts, go here)

“Karen!” shouted Young Master Irrelevant beside me.

“I don’t think she can hear you,” I said.

I didn’t know the relationship between Young Master Irrelevant and Karen slumped in the front seat. Didn’t really care at this point, to be honest.

I was far more concerned about being trapped in the back seat of a driverless motor vehicle accelerating down the freeway.

That seemed the clear priority.

“Can we lower the divider?” I said.

“What??”

I repeated the question. The car bumped towards the centre lane. Other cars leaned angrily on their horn.

If I was the kind of person to cast stereotypical aspersions on LA drivers, I’d be wondering if one of them was about to pull out a pistol and start up some kind of road rage shooting incident.

I still considered that a possibility. Not because of the LA driver stereotype. Just because that was the way my luck seemed to be running these past few (or, depending on one’s perspective, future few) days.

“No,” said Young Master Irrelevant, to my earlier question about lowering the divider. “But we might be able to…”

His sentence drifted away as he wound down his side window.

What was he planning? To climb out the window and through into the front?

That seemed suitably crazy.

Of course, it made more sense from my side. I was behind the driver. The driver’s window was open lower than the window of the front seat passenger’s side.

If anybody was going to be doing a suicidal crawl along the outside of a car, it should be me.

Or, ideally, not me. But it should definitely be done from my side.

I grabbed Young Master Irrelevant’s leg. His head was already out his window.

He turned back.

“Use my window,” I said.

He shook his head and pulled free. He started to climb further out.

Well, that was peculiar.

Or…

Cue light bulb going off in the supermodel’s brain.

Or not at all peculiar.

I pressed my window switch to confirm its lack of peculiarity. Yep. As expected, my window refused to come down. I tried to open the door. Nope. That was locked too.

The Irrelevant Family had locked me in the car.

How rude.

Okay. We’d go out through the other side.

Young Master Irrelevant was way ahead of me. His entire upper body was now hanging out the window, twisted towards the front.

His hands clung to the top of the front passenger’s side window. There wasn’t enough room to climb in there, but he could get a grip.

Once I saw he had a good grip, I leaned across and opened his door. The door, with him hanging half through the window, swung open, pushing him further to the front of the car.

His only real option at this point was to crawl across the roof or bonnet to the driver’s side and crawl in the far wider open window there.

Or, as it turned out, pull his legs through the window and leap off the car completely, abandoning both me and his colleagues to the mercy of the increasingly out of control car.

I guess his feelings for Karen only went so far.

Kitty Wittgenstein and the Sinister Society of Southpaws (5.6)

2008-06-30T09:18:00.003+10:00

5.6 Irrelevants

(note: to go to the beginning of the story, go here, to see all Chapter Five posts, go here and to see all Sinister Society of Southpaws posts, go here)

The woman started speaking into her jacket sleeve. I could see out of the corner of my eye the other two starting to jog towards me.

I smiled as I approached and grabbed her arm. I spoke into the jacket sleeve.

“This is Kitty Wittgenstein,” I said. “Let’s talk.”

The woman nodded and put her finger to her earpiece. She pulled her sleeve away from me and spoke into it.

“Yes,” she said. “It seems as if she’s onto us.”

The other two arrived. The woman spoke to them. “It’s time,” she said. She turned to me. “Come with us, please,” she said.

Orlando looked at me and raised his eyebrows.

“It’s okay,” I said. “You stay here.”

“I’m not sure that’s the finest idea that’s ever sprung forth from your synapses.”

“It’s fine,” I said. “These nice people don’t want to hurt me. Especially considering that if you don’t hear from me in an hour, you’re going to contact the other side and rally the troops.”

I hadn’t had time to fill Orlando in on the identity of sinister1, but he was a clever spark. He knew Bruce was a connection. He’d find a way to get a message out.

“Are you sure?” he said.

“No,” I replied. “But let’s go with it anyway.”

I nodded to the other three and, with that, they started to lead me away.

“Where are we off to?” I asked.

“Someplace secret,” said the woman, who seemed to be the one in charge.

“You’re not going to gas me for the journey or anything, are you?” I said.

“Of course not,” she said. “We’re not the bad guys here.”

I opted not to mention the deadly virus. For one thing, it seemed poor manners. For another, I didn’t want to give them ideas. It would be quite the irony if it was my mention of the virus I saw in the future that inspired them to develop it.

I appreciated irony. But not this kind. So I was going to keep my mouth shut. On that matter anyway.

“I’m Kitty, by the way,” I said.

They nodded.

Okay.

“And you are?” I said.

“Our names are irrelevant,” said the woman.

The Irrelevant Family shuffled me into the back seat of a car, along with one of the brothers Irrelevant. I couldn’t help but notice that between us and the other two was some kind of glass divider.

I tapped on it. “What’s this for?” I said.

Little Miss Irrelevant’s voice came through a speaker beside my door. “It’s a standard issue vehicle.”

They started the car and drove off, pulling out onto the freeway.

“Just relax,” said Young Master Irrelevant, sitting beside me. “I promise you there’s nothing to be alarmed about.”

He’d barely finished the sentence before the car suddenly accelerated. We looked through the divider to see both The Irrelevant Twins slumped in their seats, with some kind of small darts protruding from their necks. And the twin in the driver’s seat seemed to have slumped his foot onto the accelerator.

Oh, perfect.

(to be continued)

Kitty Wittgenstein and the Sinister Society of Southpaws (5.5)

2008-06-26T13:01:00.002+10:00

5.5 Observing The Observers

(note: to go to the beginning of the story, go here, to see all Chapter Five posts, go here and to see all Sinister Society of Southpaws posts, go here)

Of course, it wasn’t going to be as easy as all that. Sure, I now knew who he was and where I could find him. But the circuitous nature of the deductive process I’d needed to get there suggested something else.

Namely, that the Good Stuff guys were onto me as well.

After all, if I wasn’t being watched, then why wouldn’t the southpaws have contacted me directly. Just strode up and said ‘Hey, Kit. Do you want to help us prevent the future genocide of the world’s lefthanders?’.

Because, if they’d asked nicely like that, I would have, y’know, probably said ‘yes’.

Instead, we had this future memory nonsense and now the murder of Bonnie. Sure, there still remained a possibility that Bonnie’s death had nothing to do with the southpaw society. But I didn’t buy it.

Orlando noticed me looking around the park. He craned his neck and copied me.

“And what, exactly, are we looking for, Miss Wittgenstein?” he said.

“We’re being watched,” I said.

His neck decraned slightly. “Yes,” he said. “Comes with the whole ‘I’m a celebrity, perhaps you’ve seen me on the television riding horses who don’t want to be ridden’ thing, I’m afraid.”

I smiled, but continued to look.

He was right, of course. There were two groups of people in the park. The first group were too busy living their lives to have even noticed me. They were happily and sensibly going about their park business.

Then there was the second group of people. These people had spotted me. They’d tended to do a second take, gawp a little and, if in a group, taken to pointing and discussing with one another whether or not they should approach for an autograph.

I had no problem with either of those groups. People living their own lives and leaving me to live mine were obviously fine with me. And people who noticed, recognised me and thought it a notable event – well, they were fine with me, too.

But… I continued to look around until…

There, there and, uh, there were three members of a third group.

These three had seen me, but had not gawped, had not pointed, had not done anything. They’d just taken very careful notice of where I was and what I was doing. They’d pretended to be living their own lives, while doing nothing of the sort.

“Come on,” I said. I started walking towards the closest of the trio. She looked up, then back down, then to the other two. All too swiftly to notice if you weren’t looking for it.

But I was looking for it.

“Is that sinister1?” said Orlando.

“No,” I said. “It’s the other guys.”

“The ones who spend all their spare time in the future conducting experiments upon clones of your good self?”

“Yes.”

“Could I suggest then that we stride purposefully away from them,” he said. “Rather than the more ‘towards them’ kind of direction you’re currently working with.”

“No,” I said. I was sick of running. It felt as if I’d been running away from somebody or other this entire adventure.

It was time to confront things head on.

(to be continued)

Kitty Wittgenstein and the Sinister Society of Southpaws (5.4)

2008-06-23T14:34:00.002+10:00

5.4 Chain-Following

(note: to go to the beginning of the story, go here, to see all Chapter Five posts, go here and to see all Sinister Society of Southpaws posts, go here)

And with that realisation everything tumbled into place.

Because if somebody else was changing the future, then the odds were heavily with those left-handed chaps. After all, they’d been the ones who’d busted in on my dying body and placed the memory transmitter on there. Sent the future memories back to my bronco-busting present.

Sure, it was possible that the Good Stuff guys had memory transmitters also. I’d follow that path of reasoning later. I’d be impressed if it came up with something that tied as neatly together as the theory that it was left-hand-only technology.

Because if I followed it through, this is what I got:

The southpaw society let me live through a future where I could see the clones of me, the Good Stuff experimentation and the prowess of their battle suits. They’d then blown me up, leaving just enough time to send the memories of the future back to the present.

Why?

Because they wanted me to change the future.

But if they had the technology to see futures and change them, why did they need lil’ ol’ me to change it?

Obviously, because I was the only one who could. After all, if they could have, they would have.

And they’d specifically led me into a place where I got a glimpse as to why I was so important. I was the key to the virus that killed left-handers.

Why attack me with prototype battle suits that didn’t work properly?

To lead me to the deduction that my mind had moved in time, not to a different body.

And why kill Bonnie?

To show me the future could be changed? And to lead me to this very chain of reasoning that I was currently working through?

If I was right, the society of southpaws were leading me somewhere. Subtly leading me, to be sure, but leading nevertheless.

I wasn’t sure I liked the thought. After all, in the future these guys were not particularly nice. They’d kidnapped Akira, attacked me, commandeered Bruce to betray me and blow me up. Sure, the guys they were working against didn’t seem particularly nice either, what with the development of the leftie-lethal germ warfare.

But, as my mother always assured me, two wrongs don’t make a right.

And killing an innocentish receptionist just to suggest a particular line of reasoning? They had to know that kind of lack of niceness in the present wasn’t something I could support, either.

And yet they’d done it.

I thought a little while longer. Tapped a query into my phone. Thought about the results they returned.

I stood up.

“Done with your sit down then, Miss Wittgenstein?”

“I am.”

“And where to now?” asked Orlando. “Off to catch a flight to Sydney perhaps? Shoot out from the airport to Hyde Park for an afternoon siesta? Or perhaps we’re off to Salzburg for a picnic brunch? I hear the hills are alive this time of year.”

I smiled. “No,” I said. “We’re off to see sinister1.”

(to be continued)

Kitty Wittgenstein and the Sinister Society of Southpaws (5.3)

2008-06-19T10:59:00.001+10:00

5.3 The Timelines, They Are A-Changin'

(note: to go to the beginning of the story, go here, to see all Chapter Five posts, go here and to see all Sinister Society of Southpaws posts, go here)

One thing was for sure. I didn’t have to worry about the future being locked in. Bonnie’s death made that clear. I had memories of her in my future. A future in which she would now no longer appear.

And the Good Stuff building? It was now replaced by a park. I suppose, if they started, like, immediately, they might be able to construct the building in time for the future I remembered.

I paid the cab driver and Orlando and I stepped out to look at the park.

There was no development notice. No indication that the park was about to be replaced by some kind of industrial genetic experiment factory. Nothing.

“What now?” said Orlando.

“Good question,” I said. I sat down on the grass and began to think.

Poor Bonnie. How could she have died? And I meant that not just in the usual ‘what a tragic waste of young life’ sense. But moreso in the ‘this doesn’t make any chronological sense’ sense.

Bonnie was alive in the future I remembered.

The only thing that had changed from that future was my memories of it being sent back in time to the present. Now that I had this muddle-headed precognition, I could – and, indeed, would – try and change the future.

Not to eliminate Bonnie, of course. I didn’t see her as the villain of the piece, despite her passing on of my massage timetable. I could forgive that. The girl was clearly a pawn in something larger.

But how had she died? Yes, my actions had changed since the future memories had shown up. But only in a trivial fashion so far. I’d abandoned the rodeo, got on a plane and caught a cab to this location. Conceivably, these actions, by themselves, could have some kind of flow-on effect which led to large changes in the future. Possibly even the death of Bonnie.

It didn’t seem likely, but it was possible. Who, after all, can predict the ultimate outcomes of one’s choice of actions?

But I could not believe that my limited actions so far had caused such a major change in the path of the future so quickly.

Heck, for all I knew, Bonnie had been killed even before I left the rodeo. How could I possibly have caused that?

Answer: I clearly couldn’t.

Which left two possibilities.

Firstly, maybe the Bonnie from my Bomb Blast Future was some kind of clone. There was cloning technology in that future. Maybe she’d just been replaced. That seemed to require an awful lot of assumptions about the prevalence of haphazard cloning in the future, however. And as I only had evidence of me being cloned, I didn’t think it particularly likely.

Which led to the second possibility. My actions hadn’t changed the future.

Somebody else’s had.

(to be continued)

Kitty Wittgenstein and the Sinister Society of Southpaws (5.2)

2008-06-16T08:34:00.002+10:00

5.2 A Pair of Approaches

(note: to go to the beginning of the story, go here, to see all Chapter Five posts, go here and to see all Sinister Society of Southpaws posts, go here)

I wasn’t one hundred percent convinced that a quantum universe prevented me from an inevitable future. But it seemed more promising than the alternative. The way I figured it, there must be a universe in which I did blow up, otherwise where do the memories of that happening come from? I just had to try and make sure it didn’t turn out to be my universe.

I didn’t waste time feeling sorry for the exploding version of me in that other universe. After all, across all the possible universes there were far worse things happening to other versions of me.

In fact, every conceivable horror that could be inflicted upon me was being inflicted on me somewhere. That was the nature of a near-infinite multiverse.

I just had to look after myself.

After checking in at LA, Orlando and I headed straight out and hailed a cab.

There were several ways of unravelling my future memories and trying to ensure they didn’t come true. With emails bouncing back from the only address I knew, I didn’t have any way to contact sinister1. So that ruled out that approach. For now, anyway.

Until I worked out a way to contact him, I was just going to have to approach the problem from the other direction. So, off to Good Stuff headquarters it was. I gave the driver the address.

All wasn’t lost on the sinister1 front either. I had another idea as to how I might be able to track him down.

While Orlando and I sat in the cab. I called Akira. Firstly, to make sure he was okay. I was rather confident he would be, given that he wasn’t due to be kidnapped for a couple of years or so. But secondly, and far more importantly, I needed to speak to Bonnie.

If I recalled correctly, the first emails from sinister1 to Bonnie didn’t commence until a few months from now. But the content of that first email indicated that they’d spoken beforehand.

If they’d already spoken, Bonnie might be able to put me in contact with him.

That was the plan anyway.

The phone rang thrice before being picked up.

“Massage Received,” said a male voice.

“Akira?” I said. This was odd. Not much point having a telephone receptionist if she doesn’t answer the telephone. I started to get a bad feeling.

“Kitty?” said Akira. There was something not right. I could hear it in his voice. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m back in town this week, so I though I might make an appointment with your healing hands.”

“Um… sure,” he said. I could hear him flipping through a notebook.

“Akira, what’s wrong?” I said. “Where’s Bonnie?”

There was silence for a long time.

“Bonnie’s dead,” he eventually said in a whisper.

“Oh, god,” I said. “How?”

“It was… some…”

He couldn’t get the words out.

Not that it mattered. Bonnie was a young woman. She wasn’t just going to fall down dead. Something violent had happened to her. But who was it? Good Stuff? Or the Southpaw Society?

The cab pulled to a halt. “Here we are,” said the driver.

I looked out. The Good Stuff building was not there.

Fantastic.

(to be continued)

Kitty Wittgenstein and the Sinister Society of Southpaws (5.1)

2008-06-12T09:28:00.003+10:00

CHAPTER FIVE

In which love proves fleeting, darts cause trouble and the inevitability or otherwise of the future is contemplated

5.1 Inevitability

(note: to go to the beginning of the story, go here, to see all Chapter Five posts, go here and to see all Sinister Society of Southpaws posts, go here)

Orlando and I left for LA as soon as possible. I’d been given a glimpse of the future and I didn’t like it one bit. Ongoing genetic research to wipe out lefthanders. A left-handed counterattack led by some all-seeing puppeteer wielding battle-suited warriors. My body blown into billions of tiny pieces.

None of it was to my liking.

I didn’t know if I could change the future or not. But I was determined to try. I knew the society of southpaws already existed in the present. They may have had primitive battle suits that hindered more than helped them, but they did exist.

Now I just had to see if the ‘Good Stuff’ people existed yet. Or whether their research began somewhere between now and two years hence.

Because if they hadn’t started, maybe I could stop them.

This was all getting a little Terminator-esque for my liking. With me in the role of the Terminator. I hadn’t liked the idea of a female Terminator in Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines. I sure didn’t like it now.

“Penny for your thoughts?” said Orlando.

“Just wishing I was less like a Terminator,” I said.

“Of course,” he said. “Penny well spent.” He sat back and put his earphones back in.

I smiled and tried to copy him. Despite the soothing sounds of the Eddie Vedder String Quartet washing over me, my brain continued to whir along.

On the positive side, the fact I’d had a couple of days’ worth of future memories shot back to overwrite a couple of days’ worth of present memories did raise some interesting philosophical questions.

For example, free will and whether or not it exists. That was a puzzle that had kept philosophers busy throughout the centuries. Naturally, I’d dabbled in it myself. Ultimately, a Newtonian deterministic universe implied that there was no such thing as free will. In theory, a sophisticated enough computer could model one’s brain perfectly, right down to neuron and synapse level, and accurately predict every single move one made. Under such a scenario, could any of us be considered capable of free will?

Of course, we think we have free will. But is that only because we’re not sophisticated enough to understand the mechanics of our brain and the basis of our reactions?

In a clockwork universe, everything is pre-ordained. We can look back and, in theory, see how everything can be explained as the inevitable, physical result of prior events. And we can, again in theory, project forward to see the inevitable future.

In such a universe, my memories of the future would do me no good. The events of the future would still unfold as I remembered. Despite knowing better, I would still follow Bruce’s advice and walk straight into the room with the bomb.

And I would still be blown to pieces and die.

In a Newtonian universe, there was no escape from my inevitable demise.

So, thank Bohr we lived in a quantum universe.

(to be continued)

Kitty Wittgenstein and the Sinister Society of Southpaws - Chapter Four Summary

2008-06-09T14:24:00.003+10:00

Chapter Four of Kitty Wittgenstein and the Sinister Society of Southpaws

In which Kitty hangs on tight, clowns begin to make sense and ill is spoken of the dead

Kitty Wittgenstein and the Sinister Society of Southpaws (4.10)

2008-06-05T12:22:00.001+10:00

4.10 Clarity Begins To Hone

(note: to go to the beginning of the story, go here, to see all Chapter Four posts, go here and to see all Sinister Society of Southpaws posts, go here)

He wasn’t. Orlando and I galloped off, away from the pursuing battle suit. To safety.

Such as it was.

Once we were far enough away, I ‘whoa’ed to a halt and we dismounted.

“So, can I assume that those were the battle-suited gentlemen to which you referred earlier?” he said.

I hesitated.

“Not… quite,” I said.

These battle suits didn’t seem to have all the features of the earlier ones. Unlike my previous encounters, where they’d been fast, strong, capable of invisibility and who knew what else, these ones seemed to be one thing, and one thing only.

The invisible one wasn’t strong enough to hold me.

The strong one wasn’t fast enough to catch us.

The fast one… well, the fast one was just plain out of control, it seemed.

I’d assumed in the heat of fleeing that I was simply dealing with inept users. But now another thought struck me. And the more I thought about it, the more sensible it seemed.

These guys weren’t necessarily inept. Perhaps they were just using an earlier prototype of the battle suits. Ones that didn’t have all the features built in. Just one feature each.

And, changing trains of thought for a second, I’d assumed that the multiple versions of myself and Orlando, and possibly Bruce, had to do with cloning. Which made some kind of sense, but in no way explained how the death of one clone had allowed the transfer of memories to the other one.

Clones couldn’t magically share memories. I remember them placing some kind of device on my head shortly before I ‘died’. Presumably that was the memory transmitter. But how had it known where to send the memories? This version of me didn’t have any kind of memory receiver. So how had I received my other version’s memories?

Now, maybe the memory-swapping technology was more sophisticated than I understood. Almost certainly was, in fact. But I still liked to think it had to obey some kind of laws of logic. And I was beginning to develop a completely new, clone-free, theory.

One that also explained why my email to sinister1 from the rodeo had bounced back. Why the rodeo battle suits were so inferior to the ones I’d faced in Akira’s massage rooms. And why, according to the magazine on display at the newsstand, Kate Beckinsale was safely in London, non-vampiric and possibly sporting a ‘baby bump’.

“Are you okay, Miss Wittgenstein?” said Orlando.

“One minute,” I said, holding up a finger.

I allowed myself to enter a slight self-hypnotic state. Relive some of the other me’s events. In particular, sitting at Bonnie’s computer, sifting through her email.

The memory started to gain clarity. Details began to fill in. I could see it just as I had experienced it previously.

There.

The dates on the email.

They were dates from two years in the future.

I wasn’t remembering the last two days in the life of a clone of me. I was remembering the last two days of my life.

Kitty Wittgenstein and the Sinister Society of Southpaws (4.9)

2008-06-01T20:05:00.003+10:00

4.9 In The Heat Of Cattle

(note: to go to the beginning of the story, go here, to see all Chapter Four posts, go here and to see all Sinister Society of Southpaws posts, go here)

Why was there a bull here? I thought the rodeo was only going to feature celebrities riding horses. I remember specifically looking into that point before I’d signed on.

I’d also been assured that all the animals would be treated with the utmost care. In fact, I’d been promised a detailed tour of all the facilities where the organisers would prove this. I could only assume this tour had taken place in the last two days. The two days that had been replaced by the memory of the version of me that had blown up.

I was becoming unsure of which of these two versions was me. Was I the Kitty who up until a couple of days ago had been preparing for a charity rodeo? Or was I the Kitty who, over the last two days, had faced down both high tech battle suited soldiers and vampires before being betrayed by one of my best friends and exploding?

Or was I both?

Still, no time for existential issues. Not with a rapidly encroaching battle suited assailant behind me and a, uh, raging bull in front of me.

At least we were vampire-free.

“Time to take a leaf from the Spaniards, methinks,” said Orlando.

As usual, he was right. I removed my jacket and waved it in front of the bull as a makeshift muleta.

He charged.

Like all sane people, I wholeheartedly condemn bull-fighting. The ‘cultural tradition’ argument is a ridiculously weak one when compared to the suffering of an innocent bovine.

Having said that, there’s no doubt that standing one’s ground until the last possible moment as an enormous bull charges towards you takes an enormous amount of courage.

Me? I wasn’t so brave. I leapt out of the way well before he got close. Orlando followed my lead.

Probably a little too early, if one was going to be critical. The bull still had time to change course and continue towards us.

Fortunately for us, our battle suit speedster didn’t seem quite so manoeuvrable. He collided straight into the side of the bull and tumbled back to the ground.

Fortunately for him, he had enough kinetic energy to knock the bull off its feet also.

I pulled Orlando towards the stables. It was time to get out of here.

We only had a few seconds before the battle suit guy or the bull regained their feet and continued their pursuit.

I looked back.

Both were up.

We didn’t even have a few seconds.

I faced front again, put my head down and ran.

“Go, go, go!” I said.

We burst into the stables.

One last glance back saw the battle suit speedster moving back into top gear. He raced straight past the bull and toward us.

I found one of the saddled up horses and leapt atop. This one would do.

“Horse-riding, kemo sabe?” said Orlando, jumping on behind me. He placed his arms around my waist and squeezed a little tighter than I might have expected. “Is this really wise?”

“Heigh ho, Silver,” I said.

And never mind that the horse beneath us was of a chestnut hue.

Just so long as he wasn’t one of the bucking ones.

(to be continued)

Kitty Wittgenstein and the Sinister Society of Southpaws (4.8)

2008-05-29T09:13:00.002+10:00

4.8 Ineptitude

(note: to go to the beginning of the story, go here, to see all Chapter Four posts, go here and to see all Sinister Society of Southpaws posts, go here)

I rebounded off the invisible person. Straight back into Orlando. I pushed him back and started to turn.

“Not this way,” I said.

The invisible person grabbed my arm.

I yanked down, hard, where I felt the thumb. Thumbs are always the weakest part of any grip. I broke free.

I pushed Orlando again. “Back the way we came,” I said.

He ran through the door and took a left. I followed him. The lumbering original battle suit dude had now reached the door.

He reached for me. But way too slowly. I swerved and followed Orlando down the hall, towards where the over-accelerating battle suit-wearer had emerged.

I glanced behind to ‘see’ the invisible guy barrel into the lumberer. He fell into the wall.

“Jesus, Joe,” he said.

“Sorry,” came the reply.

Apparently we were dealing with the Keystone Cackhanders. These guys could barely move without running into one another.

Not that I was complaining, mind you.

Orlando and I ran up the stairs at the end of the hall.

Straight into the panicking studio audience.

We merged with the crowd. They were fleeing towards the exits. Maybe we could escape undetected this way.

Or perhaps not.

One of the battle suit guys was standing ominously at the exit gate. His head swept left to right. It was only a matter of time before he saw us. We couldn’t rely on all the battle suit guys being as inept as the three we’d confronted so far.

And if he did see us, I wasn’t convinced that being surrounded by screaming hordes of innocent bystanders would prevent him from opening fire.

“Come on,” I said to Orlando. “This way.”

I pulled him away from the crowd. As we hurried down the stands, we heard a whooshing sound above us.

Oh, good. A flying battle suit. Just what we needed. He had some kind of jet pack strapped to his back. He swooped down towards us. We hit the dirt.

And so did he.

Ouch. That was not a good landing. He stirred a little, before collapsing again.

No time to check on him. The crash-landing had attracted the attention of the guy guarding the exit. He ran towards us. Then accelerated to superhuman speed.

And then, unlike our previous speedster, stopped the acceleration.

This was a worry. This guy might actually know what he was doing.

I dragged Orlando up and ran for the stables.

We couldn’t outrun this guy.

But maybe one of the horses could.

Of course, before we could even think about riding safely into the sunset, we needed to get past the furious bull in front of us.

(to be continued)

Kitty Wittgenstein and the Sinister Society of Southpaws (4.7)

2008-05-25T18:28:00.002+10:00

4.7 The Value Of Experience

(note: to go to the beginning of the story, go here, to see all Chapter Four posts, go here and to see all Sinister Society of Southpaws posts, go here)

It wasn’t just the lights either. The television monitors were blank as well. The power was down.

It could have been a coincidence. But, come on. Was that at all likely?

Of course not. Something was up.

I heard screams outside from the studio audience, with a whooshing sound underneath. Then a very loud crash.

I opened the door and took a peek through.

Nothing.

“Come on,” I said. “I think we should get moving.”

We jogged quietly down the hall. The crashing and screaming outside got louder.

“I believe if we just ignore it,” said Orlando. “It will go away.”

I smiled. Opened another door. Peeked through.

A man in a battle-suit turned and looked at me.

I slammed the door shut.

“Let’s go,” I said. We turned and ran back down the hall. Time for the back door.

The battle suit dude burst through the door. Based on previous experience, he was going to close the gap awfully quickly.

“You don’t have a leg of a massage table on you by any chance?” I said.

Orlando didn’t answer. Instead, he slid to a halt. I looked up and saw why. Another battle suit guy was in front of us.

Fantastic.

“The door,” I said, accelerating.

There was a door halfway between us and him. Slightly closer than halfway, actually. We probably wouldn’t make it. But it was worth a try.

The battle suit guy in front of us ran went to close the gap. He fiddled awkwardly with some kind of switch as he did so.

Obviously these guys didn’t have as much training with the suits as their earlier counterparts. Heck, he didn’t even have the sense to turn himself invisible.

And he wasn’t moving as fast as I’d expected. We might just make it to the door ahead of him.
He suddenly accelerated.

Looked like he’d finally flicked the switch successfully.

He reached the door ahead of us.

And then flew straight past us, accelerating as he did so.

He stuck out a hand, trying to grab us as he went past. But Orlando and I flattened ourselves against the wall to avoid him.

I looked back. The battlesuit dude behind us was fiddling with a switch, too. Presumably the same accelerator switch, because upon seeing his buddy fly out of control, he stopped fiddling.

The accelerating one continued to accelerate, straight through the open door and out of sight.
A loud crash a few moments later indicated a probable sudden deceleration.

Definitely dealing with inexperienced battle suit users here.

We might just get away with this. The original battle suit dude didn’t seem overly keen on accelerating, which meant we might be able to outrun him.

Only one way to find out.

We ran the few remaining metres to the door and opened it.

I rounded the corner and ran straight into something.

Or, to be more precise, someone.

An invisible someone.

(to be continued)

Kitty Wittgenstein and the Sinister Society of Southpaws (4.6)

2008-05-22T11:00:00.001+10:00

4.6 The Return of Orlando

(note: to go to the beginning of the story, go here, to see all Chapter Four posts, go here and to see all Sinister Society of Southpaws posts, go here)

I raced over to Orlando and hugged him. “You’re okay,” I said.

I glanced at his leg. There was no fracture there.

“I’ll call you back,” I said to Bruce. And hung up.

“I am okay,” said Orlando. “But then, I was not the one who tumbled off a frenetic stallion in a misguided attempt to entertain the masses.” He pulled out of the hug. “So, more pertinently, how are you?”

I paused. We could muddle our way through some sort of farcical cross-talk here. But I was ninety percent sure that this version of Orlando hadn’t been privy to my last few days’ antics.

For one thing, the lack of a broken leg. For another, the fact he wasn’t being held by high-tech military researchers or mysterious alliances of lefthanders. And, finally, the fact he was more interested in my short-lived rodeo career than, say, vampire attacks or invisible battle-suited kidnappers.

But best to make sure.

“You’ve been here at the rodeo with me the last few days, haven’t you?” I said.

“Apart from my regularly scheduled bathroom breaks, yes.”

Okay. So, this wasn’t the vampire/battle-suit Orlando. Which meant what, exactly? Were there two of them running around as well? Why would the bad guys be cloning Orlando?

And if they were cloning Orlando, had they been cloning Bruce as well? Was there an evil Bruce, willing to lead me into the path of a bomb blast? And a good Bruce, less willing to do so? If so, who did I have on the phone just before? Had I been needlessly snippy?

Okay. Stop it.

I was speculating carelessly. I had nowhere near enough information to answer these questions. It was time to focus on what I did know. And Orlando would serve as a useful sounding board for doing so.

“Sit down,” I said. “I have quite the story to tell you.”

I filled him in on what I remembered from the past few days. Akira’s kidnapping. The battlesuits. The paralysis. The man in the hat. The vampire attack. His kidnapping. The rescue attempt. Bruce’s betrayal. And, finally, my death.

Orlando listened carefully to my story.

“So, what you’re saying,” he finally said. “Is that when the horse threw you off, you landed square on your head?”

I smiled. “No,” I said. “This is not some elaborate concussive dream.” I wasn’t going to tread down that path again. My senses hadn’t failed me last time. If anything, I’d failed them, not being able to work out what the clown and hog-tying ‘hallucinations’ had meant. Admittedly, it would have been one heck of a deductive leap. But, still, I hadn’t been imagining things then. I was going to assume I wasn’t imagining things now.

I leaned into Orlando and took his hand. “These are my memories of the last two days,” I said. “This all happened.”

Orlando rubbed his chin. “Then, we’d better go rescue me,” he said.

At more or less that point, the lights went out.

(to be continued)

Kitty Wittgenstein and the Sinister Society of Southpaws (4.5)

2008-05-19T14:25:00.002+10:00

4.5 Video Killed The Rodeo Star

(note: to go to the beginning of the story, go here, to see all Chapter Four posts, go here and to see all Sinister Society of Southpaws posts, go here)

I pulled out my iPhone and fired off an email to sinister1@untraceableemail.com.

Or typed his email address in the To: box anyway. What was I going to say to him? The whole ‘Good Stuff’ thing had been some kind of weird trap. Bruce was in on it. That much had been confirmed. It was probably safe to assume sinister1 was in on it as well.

If I couldn’t trust Bruce, I certainly couldn’t trust sinister1. Perhaps, just perhaps, Bruce had a good reason for sending me straight into a bomb blast. Maybe he knew I’d be blasted into a fresh body.

Maybe. It didn’t seem likely. But many years of friendship prior to his apparent attempted murder of me earned him a chance to explain himself. This sinister1 character wasn’t going to get that luxury.

Mission accomplished, I typed. Orlando safe and sound. Good Stuff research sabotaged. Contact me for next steps.

That would get their attention. I added Bruce’s email to the cc box and hit ‘Send’.

On the television monitor, the clock on Roberto Benigni’s bronco-riding went past my time. Hopefully, that meant that I would not be required for the next round. To be honest, I had no idea what the rules for this event were. Which was odd. They must have told us.

Maybe they’d told us in the last two days and that part of my memory had been replaced with…

The next obvious deduction hit me. Of course. The clowns I’d been ‘hallucinating’. The hog-tied corpse. They were this body’s memories from the rodeo filtering through. When I’d exploded, my exploding body’s memories of the last couple of days dropped in over the top of my rodeo body’s memories. But not seamlessly.

It all made sense. Where ‘sense’ was used in a very loose fashion, clearly.

The television confirmed my suspicions. Not about the memory replacement. But about Roberto taking my place in the next round. He was in. I, along with several other contestants, was out.

Bad news for my charity, of course, but I’d make it up to them somehow.

Perhaps an autographed, framed still of the butt-in-the-air shot the producers seemed determined to show going into each commercial break might sell well at some kind of charity auction.

My phone pinged. I looked at the email.

The sinister1 email had bounced back. With an error message reporting that the untraceableemail.com domain didn’t exist.

Weird. I checked the untraceableemail.com site.

It didn’t exist.

I suppose that was one way to remain ‘untraceable’. But it was still weird.

Less weird was the phone call coming in from Bruce. The email to him had gone through and obviously got his attention.

“Bruce,” I said, answering it. A little colder than my usual greeting. That’s just how I am with people who lead me into the path of a bomb.

“Hi, Kit,” he said. “Just got your email…”

“Uh-huh.” Let him do the talking.

Before he could say anything else, there was a knock at my dressing room door. A familiar head poked itself around the corner.

“Miss Wittgenstein,” said Orlando. “Are you ready to go?”

(to be continued)

Kitty Wittgenstein and the Sinister Society of Southpaws (4.4)

2008-05-15T14:22:00.001+10:00

4.4 Ponder-osa

(note: to go to the beginning of the story, go here, to see all Chapter Four posts, go here and to see all Sinister Society of Southpaws posts, go here)

I retired to my dressing room. Time for some serious pondering. What was going on here?

I watched a replay of my bronco-riding exploits on the monitor. That was me all right. But I’d seen video footage of myself fighting off Kate, too. And that had been me as well.

My consciousness hadn’t shifted back and forth between me and somebody else. It had shifted between two different versions of me. Which was slightly more plausible. Still totally freaking insane, of course. But less totally freaking insane than swapping minds with somebody else. This wasn’t Freaky Friday.

Clones.

Clones made sense.

Again, not a lot of sense. But more than the alternative explanations.

I’d seen that the Good Stuff people had clones of me running around. Somehow my consciousness must have shifted over to a clone and then shifted back when the clone died.

Or… or maybe this rodeo version of me was a clone. And the consciousness of the real version of me had shifted into this clone version when I died from the bomb blast.

But how did that work? There was nothing special about a clone. Just because my counterpart and myself had the same DNA, that didn’t mean we had any other connection. A clone is just an identical twin. When identical twins die, their consciousness doesn’t zoom into the other one.

At least, not as far as I was aware.

And I’m sure if that was happening, I’d have heard about it by now.

I sighed. I didn’t seem to be getting far. I watched yet another replay of myself falling off the horse. Nice view of your butt there, Kit. No doubt why they were replaying it a dozen times. The Wittgenstein derriere has long been renowned as ratings gold.

I snapped back to focus.

Okay. There had been two versions of me running about. One had died, and her memories of the past few days had switched to the other one. I could live with that for now. It was certainly better than the alternative of being blown to bits. Explanations could be sorted out later.

There were still a couple of questions to sort out.

Firstly, were there any more of ‘me’ out there? If this version of me died, would my memories zoom to another body? Or would I just die? I’d prefer the former. It would certainly allow for some crazy-brave action heroine antics.

But probably not something worth risking. I’d feel like a right fool if I died and didn’t come back to life in a spare body.

Secondly, and more importantly, where was Orlando really being kept? Bruce had led me into the bomb trap on the pretence of it being an Orlando rescue. But if he wasn’t being kept at Good Stuff headquarters, where was he being kept?

Only one way to find out. I had to contact sinister1 again.

(to be continued)

Kitty Wittgenstein and the Sinister Society of Southpaws (4.3)

2008-05-12T08:59:00.002+10:00

4.3 Luke Who's Talking

(note: to go to the beginning of the story, go here, to see all Chapter Four posts, go here and to see all Sinister Society of Southpaws posts, go here)

“I feel better than I thought I would,” I said to Luke. This wasn’t a lie.

“That’s great,” said Luke. He turned and beamed at the camera. “Let’s check the clock.” An excitable pause as the audience cheered the digital numbers on the clock around. “14.4 seconds!” said Luke, when the digits stopped. He turned back to me. “That puts you in the lead, Kitty. How do you feel about that?”

Luke’s post-ride interviews could use some work. Or, at the very least, some variation in the questions he was asking. He’d been given the job as a result of his experience in the film Eight Seconds (and its lesser-known sequel, Another Eight Seconds). I assumed he’d had some training in interviewing techniques since then. But, if so, it hadn’t taken.

“I feel very happy,” I said. “My charity will be very pleased.”

“Ha ha ha,” laughed Luke, for no apparent reason. “Thanks, Kitty.” He turned back to camera two. “After the break, we’ll see how Mos Def fares when he… rides the bucking bronco!”

More cheering, outro music and then, “Clear!”

Okay. Time to get out of here and try and work out what the heck was going on.

But before I left I thought maybe I should probe Luke a little. He was, after all, another leftie. I may have done some kind of transcendental consciousness shift thing, but that didn’t resolve my left-handed problems.

At least, I think it didn’t. It was a very confusing situation. I didn’t like being this confused. It upset the whole vibe of my day.

I began to probe. “So,” I said. “Do you know what happens after this?”

“After this?” he said. “After the show?” He looked me up and down, an unwelcome leer over his face. Wrong kind of probing, Luke.

“What’s sinister1 got planned for us?” I said.

He looked at me, baffled. “Sinister1?” he said.

“Aren’t you a member?” I said. I waved my left hand vaguely.

Luke waved back. “Not really sure what you’re getting at, there, Kit,” he said.

I sighed. Either he was telling the truth, and I was coming across as a crazy woman. Or he did know what I was getting at, and was blocking me out.

I had no qualms about Luke Perry thinking of me as a madwoman. More powerful people had thought things far worse. But if he did know something about the southpaw society, I needed to get him onside and try to unravel what was going on.

I still had Akira and Orlando to rescue. And I wasn’t going to get very far without some further information.

I leaned in to Luke. “It’s okay,” I whispered. I looked suspiciously from side to side. “Sinister1 has recruited me. I’m in on it.”

Another blank look. I didn’t think he was acting. I’ve seen Luke act, and this level of believability seemed beyond him. “The Sinister One has recruited you?” he said.

Was that a tinge of recognition in the question? Maybe I was onto something here.

I nodded.

“The Sinister One?” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“Kitty,” said Luke. “Aaron Spelling is dead.”

Okay. So maybe I wasn’t onto something.

(to be continued)