 
A short ‘Captain Scarlet & the Mysterons’ story by Clya Brown
Seated in his small booth with a computer terminal at his side, the old
man with the flowing white hair and beard frowned, perplexed. “Well, this is most
embarrassing, Mr Metcalfe. Most embarrassing. I
confess I don’t recall ever having seen the like of it before. You
see, according to our records, well… you’re here already.” Scarlet adopted the patient
look of someone prepared to roll with the punches. “Please don’t let it bother
you, Mr…?” “Peter.” “Is that Mr. Peter, or just
Peter?” “Oh, just Peter, sir.
Everyone is on first name terms here – we find that the use of grandiose
titles and honorifics tends to mar the atmosphere of peace and universal
brotherhood that we strive to encourage throughout the Facility.” Scarlet nodded affably. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry
about… Peter. Back on Cloudbase this sort of mix-up happens all
the time. Flight schedules that get posted on the wrong bulletin
boards; dental treatment reminders sent to the wrong quarters, you name
it. I’m sure it’ll all get sorted out in the end – it always is.
Please take your time: I’ve got plenty of it, I assure you.” Peter’s brow creased in an
embarrassed frown – the very picture of someone whose professional pride
has been seriously dented. “I don’t doubt that’s true,
sir, but normally when applicants arrive at the Gate they expect to be
let in without delay. Having spent a lifetime striving to live up
to their high ideals, most feel that they’re entitled to it – some with
justice, others perhaps less so, although we do try to consider each
case sympathetically. Might I just verify your details one more
time, sir?” “Of course. Metcalfe,
Paul – though I suppose it’s just possible you might have me filed under
‘Scarlet’. “I’ve already checked both, I’m
afraid. Permanent residence or domicile?” “Cloudbase.” “Does that have a zip code that
I could cross-reference?” Scarlet shook his head.
“Unfortunately not. It’s located above the surface of the Earth as
opposed to being stationed on the ground, and since it moves around
rather a lot, a zip code is somewhat impractical to maintain.” The old man frowned.
“That does rather complicate matters, unfortunately. Zip codes are
invaluable when sorting out address-related mix-ups. But we do
have a ‘No Fixed Abode’ category in which your reservation might have
been accidentally filed, and I’ve already searched that. There’s
only the one – and that’s in Winchester, England, at the address you
gave me earlier.” He turned the monitor around to
enable Scarlet to see it. “Here you are, you see.
Our records indicate that a Paul Metcalfe of your description and with
apparently identical particulars was admitted some years ago.
Would you give me a moment to check the details of that admission?” “Of course.” Peter swiveled back the monitor
into the booth to face himself, reached for the keyboard, punched in a
password and peered at the screen for a few moments. “Here we are. Metcalfe,
Paul. Admitted at 16:32 on 17th October 2068.
Recently killed in a car accident with a colleague; cause of crash not
recorded. Vehicle was a red Spectrum saloon, registration SSK
67KU, traveling west at high speed along Interstate 90 towards…” Scarlet snapped his fingers and
broke into a wide grin. “Of course! That
explains it!” “Explains what, sir?” “It explains why you have a
record of my already being here. That’s my original body –
before I was retrometabolised!” Peter blinked. “You have
had two bodies, sir?” “Yes! My original body
was killed in the car crash. It was then reconstructed, and used
as part of a plot by Earth’s enemies to kidnap the World President.
In an incredible stroke of fate, they lost control of it again as a
result of the actions of the organization for which I work – or used
to work, rather - and it was returned to me.” Peter frowned. “Oh dear!
That does complicate matters, I’m afraid.” “In what way?” The old man glanced at the
queue that was slowly growing behind Scarlet, leaned forward through the
little hatch and lowered his voice. “Well – please excuse me my
asking a somewhat delicate question – but in which body did your soul
reside?” Scarlet’s left eyebrow rose
alarmingly. “I’m sorry?” “Your soul, sir! Only
persons with authentic first-generation souls may be admitted to the
Facility. Those whose souls are subject to eternal recycling; have
already been taken, or which are committed by pact or bargain to another
agency are ineligible. To verify that you do not fall into any of
these categories, we need to know where your soul actually is.” Scarlet’s expression had lost a
little of its previous good humor. “Well, I have to say that I
really haven’t the faintest idea – it isn’t the sort of thing I’d
normally expect to have to worry about. Is it important?” Peter nodded vigorously. “It’s an inflexible condition
of entry that we insist upon: one considered so fundamental that our
esteemed Creator had it written into our founding charter.” “Your charter?” “The same. The Creator
considered it sufficiently central to the concept of public service
patronage to deserving persons in the afterlife that our charter refers
to it specifically. Chapter 1, Paragraph 2 – immediately following
the definition of the Facility in Paragraph 1.” He squinted at the monitor once
more and pressed one of the function keys, then scrolled down the screen
and read aloud: “The individual submitting
his or her credentials for admission to The Facility, hereinafter
referred to as ‘The Applicant’ shall both now and previously for a
period of no greater and no less than one natural lifetime be in
possession of an authentic, bona fide and currently accredited soul,
hereinafter referred to as ‘The Soul’. The Soul shall not have
been bought, bartered or otherwise transferred between individuals prior
to being submitted as proof of suitability for admission to The Facility
subsequent to and coincident upon the full irrevocable and final
separation of The Applicant and The Soul.” Scarlet’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t remember ever having
been informed of any of these details in any religious service that
I’ve ever attended.” Peter adopted a reproachful
expression. “We regard what you refer to as
‘these details’ as sufficiently self-evident that we don’t feel it
necessary to draw undue attention to them, sir.” “Well, it would appear that
under the circumstances it might have been a good idea to have done just
that, don’t you think? I mean, if I’d known there’d be a
problem, I might have taken a bit more care to find out where my soul
was before being sent on that final mission to save the world…” Peter’s face brightened
appreciably. “A mission to save the world,
indeed? But that’s quite different - the success or
otherwise of applications for admission often hang upon such events!
Could you elucidate on the circumstances of your arrival at the
Facility, sir?” “Rhapsody Angel – that’s a
friend of mine – and I were attempting to defuse a 50-megaton neutron
bomb that had been planted in the Paris metro. Tens of millions of
people were just moments away from annihilation…” “And you were heroically killed
when it went off?” “Well, not quite. We
disarmed the bomb and then decided to go to the Folies Bergere to
celebrate, so we went back to her hotel room so she could wash and
change first. I was electrocuted while trying to change the
voltage setting on her hair dryer. That was about ten minutes
ago.” Peter considered. “Cases for admission to the
Facility are often based upon final desperate acts of heroism, it’s
true, but certainly not exclusively – and it has to be acknowledged that
the longer-term circumstances leading up to your death would appear to
warrant serious consideration. Unfortunately the regulations
concerning the location of the soul are explicit: we must
determine which of your two bodies was in possession of it prior to
submitting your claim.” “But suppose both of us
have a soul? After all, the rest of me was duplicated in the
retrometabolic process. Wouldn’t my soul have been duplicated
too?” Peter frowned. “To the
best of my knowledge that isn’t possible. Either your soul was
transferred into your later body – in which case an error would have
been made in the case of your prototype, so to speak, and he might
regrettably have to be expelled – or he could still have it.
If so, then the consequences to yourself would be unfortunate.” “But if I did lose it
when I was retrometabolised, it seems to me that I’ve more than made up
for it since! It isn’t as if I sold it, after all…” “That’s true, of course –
throughout history there have been instances of people selling their
souls, but in all such cases to my recollection the buyer has been
persona non grata around here, so to speak. Your case on the
other hand appears to be unique. I believe I may have to forward
it to a higher authority – would you bear with me for a few moments
please?” “Of course. Do I
understand that you’re going to have a word with The Creator himself
about my circumstances?” Peter looked a trifle
embarrassed. “Well, no… actually such
queries are now outsourced. We’re an old-established institution,
you understand, and the recent rapid developments in SMT have forced us
to rely increasingly…” “SMT?” “Sorry - Soul Manipulation
Technology. But as I was saying, the phenomenal advances over the
last few years have forced us to refer the more complicated cases to
specialist subcontractors for resolution. One group in particular
dominates the field – to such an extent that an entire division of our
operations, which includes my own section, has been recently been
transferred over to their control. The Facility then hires back
whatever services it requires on a time and materials basis. Your
case is precisely the sort of thing our management team had in mind when
they signed the contract – so I have no hesitation in forwarding your
details.” He leaned over conspiratorially
and lowered his voice. “Just between you and me, sir,
I’m not at all happy with the change. I’ve been employed here
almost my entire working life, and the corporate culture of our new
lords and masters frankly isn’t to my taste. I’m trying to
get a transfer back as we speak, though whether I’ll succeed, I really
couldn’t say…” His voice tailed off, and he
continued tapping away at his keyboard for a few more minutes before
looking up again with an expression of satisfaction on his face. “There – I’ve forwarded your
request for admission to my new section manager at Divisional
Headquarters. Let’s see what they’ve got to say about it.” “Would you like me to come back
when they’ve had time to look into it?” “It shouldn’t be necessary –
they’re usually very quick with their turnaround. A few seconds is
the norm rather than the exception. Such processes are almost
entirely automated these days: it’s quite some time now since I last
processed a claim by hand. Of course in my early days here these
things used to take weeks, with committees and subcommittees being
consulted on every aspect… Ah! Here we are.” He opened up the email whose
flashing icon had just appeared at the bottom of his screen, read it
through rapidly and frowned. “Well? What does it say?” Peter shook his head sadly.
“Regrettably, it would appear that they’ve rejected your claim, for
reasons unspecified. I confess I’m a little surprised, given what
I’ve learned about your life from our files, but I’ve discovered that
trying to double-guess their reaction to any particular appeal is futile
– they have their own way of looking at things, you understand.” He extracted a small leaflet
from the depths of the booth and placed in on the counter where both
Scarlet and he could read it. “You can appeal of course – the
procedure is detailed in this little brochure there – but it takes ages
on account of your having to turn up in person to present your case –
not the easiest of things to accomplish under the circumstances.
Although they’re essentially disembodied extradimensional entities not
unlike ourselves, they do maintain a small administrative complex within
the physical Universe to facilitate such matters. It’s located on
the planet Mars…” Peter looked up from the
brochure to gauge the applicant’s reaction – and blinked. “Now where’s he gone?”
He peered out of the booth, searching the empty space in front of him
where a few seconds previously the applicant had been standing.
But it was his ears, not his eyes, which solved the mystery for him,
detecting a few faint words delivered in a female cut-glass English
accent bridging the celestial divide before it closed once more: “Oh stop fooling about, you big baby – you almost had me worried there!
If I didn’t know you better I’d say you faked that just to frighten me
into giving you some serious mouth-to-mouth…”
The End
OTHER STORIES FROM CLYA BROWN
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