#37

Mark gasps as they enter the cave, and come upon the colony in the Wastes.

Above ground, where he just was, he saw nothing but an ugly desert; it was not even a pretty desert, the sort of thing that people paint about. It was a nuclear wasteland, crawling with cancer and yet not even capable of summoning crawling, because of how dead it was.

Beneath, shielded from the radiation and the ghosts of both the people and the culture of Troy Novantum, is one of several Paradise gardens run by the Old Man. It's literally a garden, with huge luminescent plants and fungi growing everywhere, eating down to widen the cavern so as to make homes for birds, fish, and all sort of wildlife. The birds that fly around Mark's head are less of birds and more like bats, with long, fleshy wings; their feathers are dotted with white and black stripes like those of a cow. As they pass by, a song can be heard, and that song Mark gets the impression of the alien world that they once came from.

At once he comprehends that this place must be a menagerie of different worlds, but not just other planets. He sees humans here, and some of those humans are different outwardly, and presumably inwardly as well. They are the humans of other Earths. They run about, less like frolickers in Eden, and more like the crew of a vast navy ship. Because somehow, through some other sense permeating like a cloud of cotton through the warm, rich temple-cave, Mark senses they are a crew, for a ship that wanders through the Multiverse.

Mark remembers his history much better when he sees antique relics run around in the form of people. There are some garbed in World War I outfits, their necks jangling with occult medals; many dressed in 18^th Century libertine clothing, which billows with rainbows; and any number of superheroes, wearing those trademark flashy costumes, with logos containing hidden meaning beyond the first name of some silly title.

As he walks amongst the machinery, he gets the impression of all religions to ever have existed, all sexualities and genders, all wonderful differences ever carried by any life. He gets the vision of an eternal, incomprehensible journey of immortality, of carrying the ship through the cosmos until every feeling has been experienced at least once; and all of that emotion and thought and intangible otherness is circulating around the Old Man.

Mark begins to break down crying.

The Old Man ignores him, knowing that it's only natural and will pass as euphoria sets in, and Mary Levingt approaches hir. “My Mistress!” she says, in a voice not of servitude but of delight. The Old Man sees that walking nervously behind her is a troglodyte of a man, whose eyes are smeared with the same sort of tears now running down Mark's face. “I received word of your return! Why didn't you tell me the Lost Stream had dispatched a colony?”

“I must've sent one, I think! But maybe it was rendered non-canon and thus was never delivered. You know our sort has an issue with retcons.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Her smile is warmer than even the Old Man remembers it, which is almost impossible. The two embrace.

“My Master,” she coos. “I've missed you, y'know. Silly boy.”

“I've missed you too, Mary. How has this world been in my absence?”

“Falling apart. But I met a young man the other day. He might be able to help it. A lot of potential, on these Cascade worlds.”

“Obviously.” The two part, and there is a pause.

“You've...come back for a really important reason, haven't you?” she says then.

“Yes.”

“What is it? You've ignored the rise of empires and dictatorships like this before.”

“I can't tell you; or, rather, I haven't told you yet. All I have to say is...there's a reason for hiding under these robes.”

She looks at him, and seems to strain a bit; and then she comprehends, or starts to do so.

Beneath the hood of hir robe, the Old Man smiles. “I need your help again, Mary. Help from the American you. The war against the Empire must be ideological as well. Break their resolve.”

She grins and bows graciously. “I haven't been like that in awhile, old girl, but I can pick up the role again really easy.”

Hir smile widens. “Thank you, my friend. We'll depart on one of the ships as soon as we can. Mark is coming with us.”

“Is he holding up alright?”

The Old Man looks back at the lad in question, who has stood and is now leaning awkwardly against a tree from Earth-13151518.

“He'll be fine. It's tough, becoming one of the Lost Boys.”

The two of them laugh, and then walk into a smaller space.