Middleman HQ
Middlelore Library
Present Universe
..with a capital M that rhymes with M that rhymes with Middleman
(Song: Black – Sarah McLachlan)

Something was wrong. The feeling had been stuck in the back of Wendy's mind for the last few days, like a small but painful stone in her shoe which she couldn't remove.

"Dubbie? Are you with me?"

With a start, she looked up from her sketch pad. "Sorry. Just distracted."

Her boss frowned. "I know you don't typically care for this part of the job, but I would have thought zombie research, of all things, would have gotten your attention."

"I've been listening. Sorry. Just...can't seem to focus today."

"What's distracting you?"

She glanced back down at the pad. A phase polaron cannon. Clarence's profile. Without thinking, she sketched in an eyepatch, shaded in some stubble, then frowned. "How are you with gut instincts?"

He shrugged. "While apparently an unscientific premise, I believe what we term 'gut instinct' is actually the subconscious putting together a picture from clues which elude the conscious mind. At times, it can provide valuable insight. Why? Is your gut instinct telling you something?"

She'd kept sketching while he talked, as she often did. For an artist with a pencil in her hand, it was a reflex more automatic than breathing. When she looked down at the pad again, cold condensed in the pit of her stomach. Her alternate self's ray gun now appeared on the page. Pointed straight at the back of alternate-Middleman's head. She turned the sketch pad around so he could see.

"Yeah, but it's not about brain-chewing undead. I think there's trouble in River City."

###

Wendy's sketch pad lay in the middle of the table. She hadn't picked it up in the last fifteen minutes. Since she'd shown him the initial images, image after image had blossomed from her pencil. Noser in bandages. A blasted-looking Middle headquarters. The last and most disturbing was a dark-haired version of Lacey, limp and lifeless. After drawing that, she'd put down her pencil and refused to pick it up again.

"I can't believe you won't follow up on this," Wendy said for the fifth time. Fifth time in the last hour, anyway. He knew the count was actually higher, but he hadn't started counting before then. "Okay, maybe it's not like having a vision with a Tarot card of Noser bursting into flames, but I really feel there's something to it. Why aren't we trying to find some way of getting in touch?"

He put his own pencil down before he could accidentally break it in half and took a deep, measured breath. Then he took a second for good measure. For all Wendy's good points – and she had many – she also had the ability to punch his buttons as nobody else could.

"It's not my problem," he said, enunciating each syllable carefully. Not that he had any real hope that good diction would make the meaning penetrate. "It's his world. His duty. His job. Not mine. I wouldn't appreciate interference if the situations were reversed."

Wendy sighed and put her hands on her hips. "Okay, boss? You know what? I'm seriously freaked here. It's like automatic writing. I'm not making this stuff up."

"Dagnabbit, Dubbie, just exactly what do you want me to do? Drop everything and comb the world until I find another pair of Ivans? Hope that they're willing to work with us?"

"You're telling me with all the resources we've got, we can't get Ida to phone up O2STK and see about getting some gadget that might work? What about the brain trusts in Greenland? They're probably not doing anything more than counting penguins, anyway."

"There are no penguins in Greenland."

"Whatever. You get the point. I mean, come on, if the Ivans could manage to cobble together their device, we ought to be able to come up with something."

"Whether that's true or not, the fact is, there are boundaries that cannot and should not be crossed. There is only one Middleman for a reason. My alternate self is either competent enough to handle the job or he isn't. Either way, it's his responsibility. Just as yours is to continue with your training."

Wendy blew air through her lips and leaned against the table. "Boy, you guys all flunked the 'plays well with others' part of kindergarten."

"'You guys'?"

"The Middlemen. "

"In case you've forgotten, we all banded together to take down Manservant Neville. I wouldn't call that 'not playing well with others'."

"You didn't band together. You had an army with just one target. And you were controlling the army. Big difference," she shot back. "Come on. You and Guy Goddard got into a fistfight over Candle, Junior–"

"He was about to attack my suspect. I apprehended him, remember? And Guy threw the first punch. I simply finished the fight."

She went on as if she hadn't heard him, which she probably hadn't. "Then Guy melts his own [bleep]ing hand to trap you so he can kill you to take over your job. Then I run into your fully loaded version. Anytime I mentioned you, he snarled like a dog whose hydrant was being peed upon, and when I got home, your first move was to quiz me about how different you were from him."

Usually, her casual barbs bounced off him, but this time, one drew blood. "Wait, 'fully loaded' version? What exactly are you implying? That I'm less of a Middleman than he?"

"See! That's exactly what I mean! I knew that would be what you keyed on." She poked a finger at him. "I was talking about his drinking habits, but you know what? Maybe it is more than that. If he decided to take action, he probably wouldn't be waiting for an engraved invitation approved by Emily Post before he did."

It wasn't the first time she'd made a casual observation about his alternate self, but it was the first time she'd sounded...approving. And was she somehow implying that he was less of a man than his alternate self? Because he had discipline and respected boundaries? He pushed away from his chair and exhaled sharply, invoking one of the disciplines the Sensei had taught him to rechannel his flashfire temper.

"We're done for the day."

"But—"

He slammed his fist against the desk. She jumped back a few paces, her eyes going wide and dark. He pressed his advantage. At least she was finally listening. "Damn it, Dubbie! Either you respect my decision or you don't. Either you respect me or you don't. I suggest you go home and decide whether you can answer 'yes' to both those questions before you return."