Peripheral Visions: Peak Potential

Peripheral Visions: They coalesce in the soft blur of darkest shadows and take shape in the corner of your eye. But you won't see them coming... until it's too late.

Peak Potential

It was Cousin Jim pounding at his door.

"Brian! Open up!" Jim shouted.

Brian groaned and sat up slowly, the video game controller falling from his hand. Sunlight glowed in the windows. He glanced at the TV – the curved lumentic screen was transparent, nearly invisible in the morning light; Mom or Dad must have shut it off while he lay sleeping on the living room floor.

"Brian!" Cousin Jim shouted again.

Brian glanced around, shaking his head at the mess: Wadded potato chip bags and chocolate bar wrappings, fragments of corn chips, empty soda bottles, a pizza box with a few congealed slices peeking out... whoever had turned off the TV hadn't picked up any of the trash he'd left strewn around. He expected he'd be hearing a stern lecture once Mom and Dad got back from church.

Brian hove himself to his feet, trying to forestall more pounding and more yelling by shouting, "God damn, Jim! I'm coming."

His response only seemed to agitate Jim more; another round of pounding ensued.

Brian yanked the door open and glared at his cousin. "What the fuck, man?"

"Dude, let me in, I gotta show you something..." Jim pushed past Brian, who stared after him groggily.

Jim made a beeline for the basement, where Brian's bedroom was.

"What are you doing?" Brian called down as he slowly descended the stairs.

"Unlock your computer, man," Jim cried, sounding frantic.

"What is this?" Brian asked, making his way across the laundry area toward his bedroom door.

"Get in here and unlock your goddamn computer!" Jim said, is voice tense with excitement.

"Okay, all right." Brian stepped over to his desk, leaned around his cousin, who had thrown himself into the chair in front of the desk, and pressed a finger against the biosensor.

The screen lit up, showing the term paper he'd been working on the afternoon before.

"Where's your Tunify app?" Jim asked, his finger on the track pad and already scrolling around the desktop.

"Jesus, man, be careful. Don't close any of my windows or delete any of my notes..." Brian started closing tabs and saving files as best he could, working around his cousin's bulk. "I've got a paper I'm working on."

"Hurry up, college boy," Jim said.

"Okay, all right... Tunify? Here." Bran hadn't listened to Tunify in weeks, He found the app's icon and opened it. A new window appeared, showing the playlist he'd been listening to – The Brix brothers.

Brian cringed inwardly, expecting Jim to make fun of him.

Instead, Jim dove onto the keyscreen, entering the name J C FINN into the search field. A slew of titles popped up on the screen.

"Must be someone you really like," Brian said.

'No, I hate this guy," Jim said.

"Then why – ?"

"Look at the song titles, dipshit."

Brian scanned the titles. "Wait, he said. "These can't..." He leaned forward, reached around is cousin's broad frame again, selected one of the songs, and clicked the PLAY arrow.

The song started. It was, note for note, exactly as Brian had written and recorded it on his home studio system.

"You can tune in again to the radio bends," his own voice sang – duff lyrics he'd meant to change, only he never had. He'd lost interest and abandoned the song years ago.

"What the actual fuck?" Brian exclaimed.

"Yeah," Cousin Jim grinned at him. "You know my buddy Gordon? His girl works for Tunify. We were out last night and I told her about this. She said she'd help me figure out who this J. C. Finn is."

"Yeah? How the hell did he get my songs?" Brian demanded, scrolling to another title and clicking PLAY. Once more, the music and the voice were his own.

"She wouldn't know that, but she could look up some other stuff," Jim told him. "Well, she was up early this morning, looking into it. She called me a little while ago."

"And?" Brian asked impatiently. He glanced at the time signature in the corner of the screen: He's slept until nearly 11. No wonder Jim had so much energy. He'd probably been drinking coffee for hours.

Brian wasn't going to need any coffee. Growing rage and surging adrenaline were clearing his mind of sleep. He selected a third song and listened as familiar music and vocals started to play.

Cousin Jim grinned, practically vibrating with excitement. "And guess where this guy lives...?"

***

J. C. Finn could have been posting Brian's songs from almost anywhere in the world, but, as it happened, he lived in Granite Falls. The drive would take them two and a half hours, according to the navigation app in Jim's car.

Jim, snorting and fussing at the wheel, cut that down to just under two hours. Brian prayed they wouldn't get stopped by a cop – the police were especially mean these days, just like everyone else.

Brian was sure Jim, for his part, wouldn't be polite to anybody – cop or not – who delayed them. He was too worked up. It worried Brian; he'd seen Jim like this a few times, and it usually meant he was eager to beat somebody up.

"You're sure about this guy's address?" Brian asked, thinking that the last thing they needed was to storm some innocent person's house.

"Gordon's girl at Tunify got all the details. He lives there, all right..." Jim spared a glance to the rear-view mirror, momentarily alarmed. Was it a cop? Brian turned and looked behind them. No; it was only sunlight flashing off someone's cartop-mounted luggage rack. "We're just lucky he lives in the same state," Jim added. "Though I'd track him down wherever he was."

"Maybe we should go to the feds or something, rather than going to his house," Brian said.

"You think the feds are gonna help us?" Jim scoffed.

"Aren't there laws about, like, IP theft? Every time I watch a movie there's about a minute of warnings about not copying the flick or some shit. Something about federal law enforcement investigating piracy."

"Yeah, well, you'd have to go to court. And that means you'd have to pay a buttload – like, a lot," Jim said.

"Uh huh," Brian said skeptically. How would Cousin Jim know anything about it?

"You'd have to prove that those songs are yours," Jim continued, "and you'd have to prove he stole them. And I don't suppose you ever copyrighted them or anything, did you?"

"No. But I have the original sound files," Brain said. "I can prove they were made before he uploaded my songs to Tunify. And I bet he doesn't even have any original sound files of his own. He didn't change one goddamn thing, not even the vocals. He just lifted them whole." Brian shook his head, angry and perplexed. "But I don't know how he did it."

"Hacked you," Jim said.

"Yeah? Just happened to hack me and find my songs?"

"I don't know how else he could have done it," Jim said. "Whatever. He stole your music, that's the point. He's making money off it."

"Yeah, a lot of money I'm sure," Brian said, sarcastically. Streaming platforms were notorious for underpaying artists.

"Not just on Tunify," Jim said. "My friend looked at other kinds of online outlets, too. Do you know this J. C. Finn guy has a Viv account, where he posts RealSense videos that go with some of the songs? And he has a MeVid channel, too, where he posts your songs and talks about them and tells stories about what they mean and how he supposedly came up with them. Like 'Peach.' He tells this whole story about how there was this girl at a church picnic..."

"Jesus Christ! Are you kidding me right now?" Brian said. His anger had settled, but now it flared into fury all over again.

"What? Why?"

"Because that's exactly what 'Peach' is about," Brian said. Only, he added to himself, it wasn't a girl. It was a guy. And oh, my god, what a guy. They had been lovers for two hot months the summer of Brian's seventeenth year. But it wasn't safe; they'd both been acutely aware that their attraction to each other could easily get them discovered as gay, and then what?

That was why Brian didn't go to church with his parents on Sundays anymore. It had been five years, but he didn't want to chance seeing the guy among the parishioners. Mom and Dad didn't like it, but they chalked it up to him being a college student. "Though," his father often told him, "once the Faith Laws are passed and it's mandatory to go to church, don't expect me to lie or cover for you if you can't be bothered to get up on Sunday mornings."

Cousin Jim was looking at him, rather than the road. "How would he have known that?" he asked.

Brian shook his head. "Not by hacking me. I never wrote that down, never messaged or emailed anyone about it. I kept it to myself."

"You dog!" Jim said, grinning now. "You do anything with her?"

"No," Brian lied. "I kept my distance."

"What? Why?"

"She was..." Brian looked out the car window at the passing landscape. Dilapidated industrial facilities, rusted incinerators that looked like badminton birdies stood upright. "She was out of my league."

"My dude," Jim told him, shaking his head and looking back at the road ahead. "You've gotta learn to believe in yourself."

***

Believe in yourself.

Cousin Jim had been telling him for years that he should get his songs professionally mixed and then post them. "They're good songs," he would say. "You'll be a success." Of course, they only listened to Brian's stuff when they were getting stoned, so how reliable was Jim's judgment?

For that matter, how reliable was Brian's judgment? Brian thought his songs were good, but he doubted he was objective enough to say. Even after Brian had learned how to mix his work as well as any pro could have done it, he was still unwilling to put it out for the world to hear.

But now... well, someone else had beaten him to the punch. Stolen his songs... a lot of his songs. Before they had left Brian's house, he and Jim had scrolled through at least fifty selections listed on Tunify under C.J. Finn's name, and they were all Brian's work – some from when he'd been as young as fourteen. Not that he hadn't polished them up since then – he had; but the thing was, he'd never so much as emailed an MP3 of any of those songs to anyone else.

More unsettling than this C.J. Finn guy stealing the songs was that he knew the stories behind them – stories he was telling in videos at MeVid. The anecdotes helped drive interest in the songs, feeding the Tunify plays as well as making money via MeVid clicks.

The violation of privacy angered Brian, but Jim was mostly mad to think that some stranger was making money off Brian's work. A lot of money, to judge from the house the thief was living in.

It wasn't in a gated community or anything, but it was a big place – two stories, with a mansard roof. It must have had at least four bedrooms.

"Think he's got a recording studio in there?" Jim asked as they stared at the house from the car.

"I doubt it," Brian said. "Why would he? It's not like he needs it to rip off someone else's work. But I'm sure he's got some pretty good computer hardware."

They stared at the house a few moments more. "Let's get this show on the road," Jim said at last.

Brian nodded. It was almost two in the afternoon. He had texted his parents, so they wouldn't be worried he wasn't home; they would be worried, though, if he wasn't home come evening, especially since they viewed Jim as a bad influence.

As they walked up the sidewalk to the front door, Brian asked his cousin, "What do we say to this guy?"

"I'm thinking maybe we say something like, 'Hey, motherfucker, you owe us some money,' and then maybe get him to explain how he lifted your songs. And then tell him in detail about the kind of hurt he's gonna be in if he doesn't make things right," Jim said.

"Owes us money?" Brian asked, eyeing his cousin. "This is why you're so excited? You want money for my work? You're no better than this guy."

"Of course I am," Jim said. "I'm your family. And anyway, I want you to have your money."

"Uh huh," Brian said. "Listen, here's what I want, Jim: I want you to let me take the lead. I don't want some stupid shit happening like something out of the 'The Big Lebowski'."

"Oh, yeah," Jim grinned. "I love that movie." Then he shot a glare at Brian. "Are you saying I'm John Goodman in that flick?"

They stood at the front door now. Jim drew a fist back to pound on the door – his signature move – but Brian stopped him, pointed at the doorbell, and said, "Hey, John Goodman – maybe just ring?"

"Be my guest," Jim replied.

Brian pressed the button. A chime sounded faintly from inside the house. A few seconds passed, then the door opened.

The man staring at them was short, bald, and scrawny.

"Aw, hell no," Brian said.

"Excuse me?" The man looked from the burly Jim to Brian. "Are you here from the servicing company?"

"I'll service you, you thieving prick!" Jim snarled, pushing forward. The man tried to slam the door, but Jim plowed ahead; the man stumbled backwards, the door flew all the way open and struck something inside the house, and Jim towered over the scrawny man, snorting like a bull. "You try that again and I'll knock the goddamn door right off your hinges!"

Brian smiled in spite of himself. Jim had always had a way of mangling sentences, especially when he was worked up.

"Who are you guys?" the scrawny man asked, cowering. "What do you want?"

"I'm Brian Sundar," Brian said. "I think you know all about me, yeah?"

"And you're C.J. Finn, am I right?" Jim snarled. "What's the 'C.J.' stand for? Cocksucker Jamboree?"

A change came over the scrawny man The fear seemed to drop away. He stood up straight and looked them over, grinning. "Brian? Is that really you?"

"Yeah," Brian said. "It's really me, and those are really my songs you're putting up under your name."

"You're here," Finn said. "I mean... well, of course you're here. I just didn't expect you to be here. But here you are."

"Hey!" Jim barked. "Wanna stop spinning your wheels now?"

Finn looked at Jim again, his delight undiminished. "Oh, and you would have to be Jim."

"I'd have to be, you're right," Jim snapped.

"Well, my god!" Finn clapped his hands, his eyes shining. "I really didn't expect this... but, okay!" He turned and started walking up the hall.

Brian glanced at Jim. "What the almighty hell?" he muttered. "What's with this guy? Is he high or something?"

"Come on in," Finn called back to them. "I expect you want an explanation..."

"We want more than that, fella," Jim growled. He reached back and closed the door. A small table stood revealed; that was what the door had smashed into.

Finn was already leading the way into the living room. "Come in," he repeated over his shoulder. "You want come coffee?"

"What I want is to wring your goddamned – " Jim began.

"Jesus, man, take it down about sixteen notches," Brian told his cousin, getting annoyed at the tough guy routine. To Finn he added, "We don't need to stay long."

"I kinda think you do," Finn said, still speaking to them over his shoulder. "It's a long story and kinda tough to explain... Let me get the coffee."

***

"The fuck is that??" Jim asked distrustfully, staring at the hole in the air through which the three of them were looking at... "What?" Jim asked again. "The fuck? Is that?"

"Another world," Finn said. "Just like I told you."

Finn had spent 45 minutes explaining his use of the Oculus, his background in cryptologic IT, and how he had become the point men for a joint program between the military and the University of Minnesota to identify and extract useful information from parallel universes – a process he called "mining."

"But it's just like our world," Brian said, squinting at the image, which switched from aerial views of cities to interiors of what looked like computer labs.

"Superficially, sure," Finn said. "But like I was saying, the Oculus lets you tap into proximate universes. That means they are very nearly identical to our own... but not quite. And in the case of Realm 4884, one of the crucial differences is that you, Brian... you published your songs. More than that, they became massive hits. I've identified fifteen parallel worlds where you published your stuff, and you only became a success in three of them."

"Why?" Brian asked.

"Different reasons. In several universes, you released your songs without finishing them very well. The structure and melody and lyrics are the same, but they just don't sound too good."

"See? I told you production makes all the difference," Jim said.

"In one universe, Realm 4675, you released your songs just before a major terror attack wiped out Pittsburgh, and – "

"Pittsburgh?" Brian and Jim asked as one.

Finn shrugged. "From what I can tell, Pittsburgh is their version of New York... or was, anyway. A hub for commerce, finance, culture... and, by the way, you lived there. So, your story kinda got cut short."

"Wait a minute," Brian said. "You've tracked different versions of me using this thing across how many different universes?

"About half of the ones I'm assigned to monitor and mine," Finn told him.

"Your what?" Jim asked.

"Mine. Like, extract," Finn said. "As in, information. That's what I do: I mine information from other realities. I explained all this already."

"Keep up," Brian muttered to his cousin, who raised his hands in exasperated surrender.

"I don't understand one fucking thing right now," Jim said.

C.J. had resumed his story. "I wasn't really tracking you," he said to Brian. "I... well, it's like this: Once I heard your songs and realized they didn't seem to exist here, I looked around to see if there were different versions, find out which versions were most successful... I have to tell you, the versions I like best are from Realm 4239, but they never really caught on. I mean, I could only locate a few of your songs there."

"But the songs you put up are exactly the same as mine."

"They're exactly the same in several universes," Finn said. "And they are different in others. And I didn't realize they existed here at all. I didn't realize you existed here at all..." Finn looked up at Jim, who was staring down at him with a surly expression. "Either of you."

"So you just fuckin' stole..." Jim growled.

"I imported," Finn said, "which is what the military and the university both pay me to do. The military has me mining for... well, military stuff. Technology, intel. And the university, well, they have other interests. They want to know about various historic figures, political leaders, outcomes of different historical choices and political situations... mainly, they want the literature. Some universes have historical and scientific texts we just don't have here."

"And they have the same history?" Jim asked.

"In many cases, yes. Most of the universes I can access only diverged recently, which is why they are still so close together. You get a cleaner signal with proximate universes, and I need a good, strong signal – a good, clean signal – to mine information reliably and import it here. Otherwise, the translation process is impossible."

"Translation?"

"There's some garbling and distortion in the importation process. And even some of the proximate universes have already drifted far enough away that retrieving useful information is almost inaccessible thanks to software incompatibilities. I've had to work pretty damn hard to overcome those problems and create completely reliable translation and restoration programs. You telling me the songs I imported sound exactly like the version you made is great news, because it confirms that my programs are doing their jobs."

"Does the university know you're stealing people's songs?" Brian asked.

"They don't care about that," Finn said. "Though they might if they realized there's money to be made from it."

"Which brings us back to the main bone of confection," Jim interrupted.

"Yes, yes, I know. Look, I'm sure we can work something out," Finn said. "But, listen, like I said – I didn't know you existed here. I searched extensively for any trace of you or your music, and I found nothing."

"That's because I've never shared my songs," Brian said. "They're all on my computer. Nowhere else. And I don't do FacePalm or PicNiche or any of that other shit."

"Well, that would do it," Finn said. "But if I had known you were here and your songs existed here, too, I'd have approached you first... or, more likely, I wouldn't have, actually. I would have just listened to your songs here, if you'd ever published them. I really, really like your work," he added, smiling at Brian with sincere admiration.

"Yeah, but you did bring 'em over and sell 'em," Jim said. "How you gonna pay us for them?"

"First things first... I need to log on to my Tunify creator account and change the name from J.C. Finn to Brian Sundar." Finn turned from the hole in the air to a standard lumentic screen and turned it on. "Payments can be changed over to you, too."

"What about the money you already made?" Jim said.

"I think we can give him half," Brian said.

"I think us needs to pay us all of it," Jim said.

"Yeah? Well, he's not paying us, Jim, he's paying me. And I think since he's brought things this far, he's earned it. Plus, I don't know how to do any of what he's done – the uploading and posting, the marketing, the social media stuff... he's got momentum going. I think we want to keep that momentum going."

"Whatever," Jim muttered, displeased.

"This will take a few minutes," Finn said, already at work on a lumentic touch console. "I'll need you to input your bank information and some other stuff for the platform..."

"This is going to take a while, Jim, so why don't you go wait on the couch or something?" Brian suggested.

"Why?"

"Because you're breathing down my neck, and I don't like it," Brian said impatiently.

"Some gratitude," Jim said, stomping out of the room. "I'm just gonna wait in the car," he shouted back over his shoulder.

"Your cousin is a handful," Finn said. "He is over there, too."

"Over where? – Oh. You mean Realm 2525 or whatever."

"You making a joke? That old Zager & Evans song?"

Brian smiled at Finn. "Great minds thinking alike here."

"The way you and him act with each other... it's very familiar to me."

"How?"

"Let me just say that your cousin is the reason you succeed the way you do over in Realm 4884," Finn told him. "I don't know how much I should tell you about it, or much you want to know... like I say, parallel universes can be very close to the one we live in, but they can be different in unexpected ways. Very different."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you might want to learn more about yourself as you are over there. Yourself and your cousin both. It'll give you an idea of what not to do... or, maybe, it'll be a blueprint for how to succeed in a tough business."

"We're already succeeding."

"Not like you succeed over in Realm 4884. To reach that level, you'd need a totally different strategy."

"Wait, how successful is this other Brian?"

"You see my house?" Finn said. "It's nice, right? But it's been paid for by my IT work. Your cousin thinks I'm making millions off your songs. That's not at all true. I don't make much. Pocket change. I'm not posting your songs for the money, I'm posting them because I love them... I want to share them. I don't even care about the credit, though it gave me a glow to pretend I wrote them. But I could make some major coin off these songs if I wanted... if I were willing to follow in the footsteps of other Brian."

"You mean he's a gangster or something?"

"He's pretty ruthless."

Brian watched Finn work. After a few minutes Finn said, "Okay, all yours," and Brian took over at the lumentic console. It didn't take him long to input and secure his information. He slid the small console back across the desk to Finn.

"Are you telling me to take a page out of this other Brian's book?" he asked, at length.

Finn looked at him with a wry smile. "You could if you wanted. Literally: There's a book about him. I imported it. I read it. It's pretty gripping stuff... of course, half of it might be made up. But if only half of what's in that book is even halfway true..." He shrugged, the smile never wavering. "You can see why he succeeded the way he did."

"He sounds pretty extreme."

"Do you think you have the capacity for that same kind of extremity?"

"I'm not sure." Brian swallowed. "Maybe."

"Well, all I mean is you might want to find out what it took for him to succeed, and then ask yourself if you want to do what he's done."

"Find out how?"

"The book I was telling you about. It's a true crime, or maybe a kind of biography... he's a celebrity over there, but not just for his music. The book gets into his business strategies, his crimes, his – "

"His actual crimes?"

"Look, the music business isn't what it used to be, especially now that the Justice Department focuses on the president's political opponents and doesn't chase criminals anymore. This world we're in? It's spinning out of control, heading to a very dark place. Realm 4884? It's already gotten to that dark place. You... I mean, other Brian... most people would call him a villain, but to some he's a hero. His fans celebrate his songs as anthems of freedom and see the things he's done as a kind of liberation – liberation from the law, freedom from morality. Others see him as a cold-blooded psycho who'll do anything to succeed."

"This is a version of me?" Brian asked – not a question as much as a perplexed realization.

"But that's not all," Finn cautioned. "From what I've read, it's his cousin... other Jim... who's the real mental case. Though, who can say? The book might not be entirely reliable. It's a hagiography written in another reality. Even if other Jim did the beating, the torching, and the killing, it seems to me that it was other Brian who gave the orders."

"The torching? The killing?"

"You heard me right," Finn said calmly. "It's insane, yeah? To find out what you're capable of in slightly different circumstances? Your life here might not be so different from his life there, except for a couple of key choices he made... choices that sent him down a different path. But there's a moral to the story, kid. High as he flew, that other Brian was maybe destined to flame out."

"How so?"

"Well, his cousin... look, read the book. I'll transfer it to your phone if you want."

Brian dug out his phone. "Hell, yeah," he said. "Give it to me, and we'll forget that other half of the profits you already earned – you can keep them."

***

"So how much did that guy make off your music?" Cousin Jim demanded. "How much are we getting?"

"A lot. A hell of a lot. Maybe But not for a while."

"Why not?"

"Because he and I made a deal."

"Without me?"

"Listen, Jimmy? I appreciate you giving me a heads up about this whole thing, but it's not as simple as you think it is. And it's not as profitable, either. Not unless we... figure some stuff out."

"What stuff?"

Brian waved his phone at his cousin. "That's what we're gonna find out."

***

Cousin Jim, of course, told everyone in the family about the songs, the other Brian, and his exaggerated idea of the riches that Finn had made.

It didn't take long for pressure to start building up.

"Don't get duped by that creep," his father told him. "I say we go back over there and beat the living shit out of him until he gives back what he stole from us."

"We're not gonna do that, Dad."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because he gave me the information I need to play it smart, that's why."

His mother had a different line of attack.

"Why don't you live up to your potential? God gave you a talent. Now he's given you a clear sign about how to use it! Why aren't you listening to the Divine, the Almighty? Do you want to provoke wrath of the All Powerful?"

"No, I sure don't, Mom. And that's why we're gonna slow it down, look at all the options, and then do things the right way."

"This doppelgӓnger of yours, this other-universe you... he must have done things right if he's such a big success."

"He did things all wrong, Mom."

"He got rich! Richer than any of us ever dreamed!"

"Yeah, and he got dead, too, Mom."

"Dead?!"

"Yeah, dead. And he took a lot of people with him. You want that?"

"I'm just saying you could do more, be more. Go from peak to peak."

His sister begged him for money he didn't have, plying him with stories about her hardships as a single mother and the worthless junkie who'd gotten her knocked up.

"Kyle's not a junkie," Brian sighed.

"He smokes weed. He vapes."

"That's not the same thing."

"And he doesn't pay one goddamned cent to help raise his own daughter."

"So I should step in?"

"You're rich now, ain't you?"

"I'm not. But I'm going to be."

"Going to be, going to be!" she screamed at him. "That doesn't help me right now!"

Brian felt he had a roadmap now. He did his best to tune out the noise, and complaints. He read the book, then read it again. He made notes. He did research.

He wrote new songs. He drew up a plan. He waited and watched the Tunify charts as his music started to gain traction.

***

"Thirty thousand downloads in the first hour," Brian whooped.

Jim, seated at the other end of the long table they were using as a joint workspace, rolled his way over to where Brian was watching the real-time returns on the Tunify creators' site.

"Which song is this, now?"

" 'Red Rebel,' " Brian said.

"I thought that other one would do better. The one about the blow job."

"It's not a blow job, it's blow. You know, party drugs in powder form."

"Nobody does that shit."

"I don't know if they do or they don't, but they must like hearing about it," Brian told him. "It's one of the few good songs the other Brian wrote and I didn't."

"Guess you should party more," Jim said – his idea of a joke.

"It's also one of the few good songs by the other Brian that C. J. didn't get around to importing before we showed up at his door," Brian said. Then, musing on Cousin Jim's joke, he added, "I don't think I ever would have written that song."

"But he wrote all the same songs you did," Jim said. "Sooner or later you woulda wrote it."

"Maybe; maybe not. Actually," Brian said, "probably not."

"Of course you would. You and that other Brian, you're the same, right? If he was partying and using drugs that would have just sped him up, but you'd write the same song eventually."

Brian shrugged. Then: "Ever hear of a Venn diagram?" he asked, tossing off a thought.

"I got a shot for that once," Jim said. "I hope it worked."

"What?"

"She said she was using a diagram," Jim said plaintively. "I thought that would stop me getting any, you know, social diseases. Venn diseases."

Brian shook his head. Sometimes he felt like he was spinning through space, out of control, with only Jim to hang on to. It wasn't a reassuring sensation.

"What the hell does that have to do with anything? You asked me why there are differences between the songs I wrote and the songs that the other Brian wrote. The main difference is, after he learned how to produce music he not only recorded the songs, he published them. I didn't do that. I let my songs sit on my computer. That's where things diverged between us, but then things really got different. He made some alliances... which is something I have yet to do. But I better get that done, because I have that Kid Krank guy on my ass, trying to sabotage my deal with Sonista."

Sonista: One of the last remaining major labels. Almost all but the most major singers and songwriters were free agents, putting their stuff online and hoping that good social media marketing would spark word of mouth and prompt plays – maybe even sales. Sonista had seemed eager when they first started courting Brian, but their enthusiasm started to taper off almost at once. It didn't take long for Brian to understand why: Kid Krank and his people were pressuring the label, threatening to walk if Sonista gave him a deal. When Kid Krank called Brian to offer him a spot in his stable of songwriters, Brian understood the situation at once.

"Of course, there are the standard non-compete clauses and all that, your work would belong to me, but hey, you'd get paid well," Kid Krank had said over the phone.

Brian had told Kid Krank to go fuck himself. He wasn't sure why – his recent tastes of success? The knowledge that he was a major star in other realities? – but he was feeling more confident in himself now, and more aggravated with his lot in this life. If this Kid Krank cocksucker thinks he can bully me out of my own deal with Sonista, we'll have to see about that, had been Brian's thought after he cut off the call.

"Kid Krank? He still calling you?"

"He left me some voice messages."

"He threaten you?"

Brian gave Jim a look that needed no words.

"You know," Jim said slowly, "I have an urge to go clubbing this weekend while I'm in New York."

Brian was pretty sure it was more than a coincidence that Kid Krank was found dead a few nights later, along with one of his bodyguards, in the men's room of Club Aether in Manhattan. Somehow, it wasn't a surprise; neither was the way the label lionized Kid Crank, hurried a new box set into production along with an "Unforgettable" collection dedicated to his memory, and promptly started showing enthusiasm once again for signing Brian.

It didn't hurt that Brian released a hot new single two days after Kid Krank's murder.

***

Brian's profile was getting higher. His presence on the charts, the music platforms, and on social media was exploding. Now he was making money for doing nothing more than posting images of himself – pictures of him performing concerts, sitting in a private jet, anything.

"You should put some sexy pictures up," Cousin Jim told him. "Get the girls excited. You'd make twice as much on the socials that way."

Brian held back. There'd been a chapter in the book about the other Brian posting photos of himself in red swim trunks that led to a handsome Portuguese guy sliding into his DMs, which in turn led to a covert hookup, which then led to more cozy fun but also, in the end, to jealousy and fights and a scandal when the Portuguese guy publicly claimed to be Brian's lover.

It had been a sticky few months for the other Brian. A criminal investigation was announced by the Justice Department's Religious Crimes unit... until the Portuguese guy was found dead on a small boat in international waters, with drugs in his system and several kilos of various illegal substances on the boat with him. It looked like either a party gone too far, or a drug deal gone wrong, Either way, when the other Brian released a tough-sounding dance track about the killing, his popularity surged, his profits climbed, and the Justice Department seemed to lose interest after the president made a lame (but much publicized) cameo in the song's accompanying video.

"Tough on criminals, tough on crime," the president rapped, with no sense of rhythm, in the video – sentiments that stood out in stark contrast to the song's theme of one tough guy asserting dominance over all the others.

Brian didn't need to re-play the drama in his own life. He took a simpler route and used Finn's expertise to retrieve the song from other Brian's reality and then release it in his own. The song did spectacularly well. Brian was making some serious money – and his family were letting him know that they expected their share.

The message never varied. His dad wanted to see Brian get pugilistic with anyone and anything that offered an insult or got in his way. His mother badgered him about his "unfulfilled potential" and "going from peak to peak" – as if he hadn't scaled a pretty damn high peak or two already. His sister needed money, aways more money, to provide for her kids – she now had two, and they were costly: Medical care, private school, sports uniforms. Then there were her own needs to think about, which he, as her brother, should keep in mind. He was, after all – she reminded him incessantly – her closest male relative after their father, who was getting old and frail. (He wasn't; he was sturdy as a bull.) The family honor hinged on Brian's ability to protect her from all harm, including want of any kind.

His uncles, aunts, and cousins all joined in the needy, demanding clamor. Cousin Jim was one of the loudest voices. He was one of Brian's most capable fixers – no matter what the problem, from a music producer's reluctance to work with him, to unhinged fans stalking him, to a district attorney promising to look into some of Brian's affairs, a clock started ticking the moment Jim heard about it. Matters were usually settled in less than 24 hours.

Brian wasn't entirely sure how Jim was managing these feats, but if he was anything like the Jim from Realm 4884 he had formed ties to some unsavory, and highly connected, people.

Which was how Brian eventually came to feel confident in something else: His ability to ask Jim not only to fix, but to procure. "I have a special need" was all he had to say in order to get something he wouldn't have known how to obtain otherwise: A bottle of rare cognac; a small box of mixed uppers and downers for those weeks on tour; or a flask something far more... potent.

***

"A toast!" Brian cried, lifting his glass of white wine high in the air.

"Cheers!" forty-eight voices responded, before the single word in unison dissolved into a cacophony of laugher and chatter.

Brian stood at the head of a long table in his newly acquired, 48,000-foot home in Crystal Cove. The area had once been a state park, but an executive decree issued a dozen years earlier by the president – now in his sixth term – had turned any and all federal and state preserves over to development tycoons. Brian's estate had been among the first to be built by the former owner, a man who had suddenly and tragically fallen out of favor with the powers that be.

That was something that wouldn't happen to Brian – not as long as he kept making payments to the right people. Success was an expensive prospect on the business end, and more so when it came to family.

Speaking of which: The whole clan was there – Mom, Dad, sister Angela and her kids, all the uncles, aunts, and cousins.

Cousin Jim was, of course, sitting at Brian's right hand.

While everyone else downed their glasses of Pouilly-Fuissé (all except the kids; they got apple cider), Brian kept his own glass aloft. Smiling over everyone, he nodded to the wait staff to top is guests up. Then he set down his untouched glass, picked up the carving knife, and began to slice into the huge, golden-roasted turkey, reciting the rest of the speech he'd memorized for the occasion.

"At this time of Thanksgiving, it's only right to give thanks to all of you who brought me here – from one peak to the next, to where we are now," Brian said, carefully carving slices of white meat from the bird's breast and setting them onto a platter.

There were happy responses and a smattering of applause.

"A few years ago, I was scared to put my music out there... scared to reach out and take what I wanted," Brian meditated aloud as he continued carving the bird. "What I discovered... what made all the difference... is that there's really no one to stop you taking what you want. If anything, once you make the right friends in the right places, the laws and mores of the world we live in smooth the way."

Someone shouted, "Hear, hear!" He sounded like he might already be drunk.

Brian smiled. "And what an artist needs more then inspiration is a lack of obstacles," he continued. "Some say challenges enrich your work. I agree! But the challenges have to be emotional... intellectual... spiritual. They can't just be legal and financial. They can't be endless, draining complaints over contracts and allowances. They can't be endless suits from malcontents claiming you didn't pay them enough. They can't be petty strife and malicious little nuisances thrown in your way by the jealous and the opportunistic."

There was a faint murmur at this.

"Most of all, an artist needs simplicity in his life. That's what opens the way to complexity in his work. That's how success is made. You all look at me and imagine I have wheels upon wheels turning in my mind. That's simply not the case. I only have one wheel turning: A wheel that drives me toward greater artistic purity, greater focus. What an artist needs to do is cut through the noise... and cut the noise down to nothing."

The hubbub in the room had subsided as his speech went on. Now there was silence. Brian looked up and down the long table at the frozen faces, the slumped forms. He looked to his right to see the open eyes of Cousin Jim – eyes that still registered shock, even though they now were sightless.

"To you," Brian said, lifting his glass to the people sitting along the right-hand side of the table and then tipping it to pour out a third of the wine. "And: To you." He toasted the corpses slumped along the left-hand side of the table and poured out another third. "And: To you." He raised the glass to the roasted bird with a mocking grin and poured out the rest. Then he nodded to the wait staff, who methodically began dragging the bodies from the table and wrapping them in airtight shrouds. Later on the chains and weights would be added, then three boats would divide up the load and ferry their esteemed passengers out to sea.

"One last word of thanks," Brian smiled, pausing in the door to look back into the huge, exquisite dining room. "Thank you for insisting I reach my full... my peak... potential. I might never have known what it was had you not pushed me to discover it."

He turned and strode through the door. There was no time to waste on food and wine; he had work to do, allies to court, enemies to vanquish – and, more than anything else, songs to sing.

Next week we witness the sweet sorrow of departure when a man living in a dystopian future must say goodbye to a friend with benefits... a friend from a far future so perfect that the idea of it might be enough to inspire change for a better world. At least, that's one more possibility for "The Time Traveler's Hookup."