Commander Twain and Commander Tesla Get Downsized

The two Immortals, Commander Twain and Commander Tesla, sat in the hardened control room deep within the mountain. Tesla made a small twist of a glowing silver knob, watching a massive screen that broke the world into a grid pattern.

“Ok, I turned up the empathy/hilarity counters on the video of Jimmy Kimmel ice-skating with Cardi B. The subliminal messaging to impel viewers to eat huge amounts of kale-frosted Doritos over the next week will be irresistible,” said Tesla.

Twain nodded, the smoke from his corncob pipe curling around his white locks. “Not bad, Nikola, not bad. But it doesn’t hold a candle to me displaying that falsified image of giant chemtrails over the Balkans yesterday. That pumped the gas mask and grab-and-go survival kit sales up 19%!”

Commander Edison entered from what appeared to be a blank back wall, the door opening and closing silently. “You two, always bickering over your trifling exploits,” he said. He stepped to a side console and toggled a small lever. The screen displayed the map of the United States, with a magenta glow across the heartland states and in large population centers.

“Yesterday, I flooded all social media channels with credible evidence that the CIA did indeed kill Mr. Kennedy, and that no intelligence agencies were to be trusted. The magenta areas indicate levels of active paranoia have increased by 27%, and suggestibility to new doctored information is at an all-time high.”

The three Commanders turned to each other, and all threw their heads back and laughed. When their faces met again, all of their eyes were backlit with a piercing blue light.

The Immortals had been working out of the secure base for more than 100 years, all having been woken after death with the implacable, relentless message to convene in the mountain and await instruction. The instructions soon came, voices in their heads: create unease and distrust across the globe, in subtle and magnified ways. Sow fear, feed anger, create confusion.

They worked in 23-hour shifts, only stopping to “sleep” in the regeneration chambers, rising freshened to raise collective blood pressures across the planet. They still took pride in the work, but some gratification had dulled. In the past week, they’d even talked of retirement, of sunny beaches, of dozing off reading old books.

When Marie Curie dropped down from the 100-foot ceiling on an impossibly thin nanofiber cable, they fell silent. “Boys, we’ve collected enough data from your cascading egos, your susceptibility to flattery, your hidden resentments and your wheedling temperaments over this past century.”

Commander Edison has always demonstrated enterprise and grit. And he knows how to act on a direct order.”

She glanced over at Twain and Tesla, the smallest of winces squinching her mouth. “You two, however …. Adequate is hardly a recommendation.” 

Twain and Tesla, eyes riveted, leaned from their necks toward Curie. “The Council has been discussing some changes. Nothing immediate. But reflect: we know much more than every keystroke; we know everything. We’ll follow up soon.”

She withdrew up the cable in a blink. Edison looked at his fellows, rose and went into the recreation area for an early inner-cranial massage. Both Twain and Tesla rose from their chairs and faced each other.

“Great,” said Tesla. “You with the extended lunch breaks. ‘Why don’t we stay an extra half-hour in the weapons history lab?’ Your stupid fascination with ancient nuclear technology is costing us our jobs!”

Twain scowled. “Me? Me! Every day insisting on your absurd 10-dimensional chess games, just so you can move Catwoman and Storm around with your haptic-touch mouse. Perv!”

Tesla said nothing. He took a small black box out of his pocket, and pressed a button. A tiny lightning bolt shot out at Twain, which he barely eluded, his moustache smoking.

Twain flipped open his long white duster, revealing a sewed-in line of at least twenty corncob pipes, which he flung ninja-like at eye-blurring speed toward Tesla. Tesla leaped up, crouched down and deftly crab-walked sideways to dodge them all.

Tesla pulled a short silver cylinder out of his inner coat pocket and snapped his wrist. The lightsaber glowed a shimmering purple. He advanced upon Twain, but the venerable writer dodged behind one of the time-compression capsules. Tesla awkwardly tried to bring the sword down on Twain’s head, but hit the capsule and the lightsaber shorted out.

“A lightsaber, Tesla? What a lame cliché!” Twain took what looked like a garage-door opener from a pants pocket and pressed a button. A small, floor-level door opened on the wall behind Tesla and out ran 30 or so calico kittens who immediately climbed onto various points on Tesla’s head.

Tesla screamed, and fumbled at his console for what appeared to be a TV remote. Pulling a cat off his head to see, he pressed a button and a cage of pulsing vertical lights settled over him and the kittens. He walked through the cage, but the kittens could not.

“Tesla has the last meow!” he shouted. He pulled off a shoe, which exposed a tiny keyboard on the sole. He typed a command, and in the center of the room rose a vintage electromechanical oscillator generating high-frequency AC current. A vibrating plate underneath where Twain stood gently shook the room. And Twain.

Twain had a sudden urge to use the restroom. The churning in his abdomen was overwhelming. He hunched over, arms clenched on his belly, and then crawled with effort toward the bathroom.

Neither of the combatants noticed that Curie had returned. Her voice boomed. “Cute. We have a discussion about work habits, and rather than return to your stations with renewed vigor, you fight like children.”

Tesla, cheek bleeding from a kitten scratch, gaped at her. Twain, sitting on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest, could only raise a trembling hand.

She brought out a tiny device the size of a flash drive and pressed it. The giant main screen went dark, except for an image of a colorful bouncing beachball. “Your clones, however, won’t have any of your time-wasting deficits.”

She pressed the device again, and a fully loaded poker table whisked into the room. “Before we send you on your way, let’s play a few hands.”

She eyed Twain, eyebrow raised.

“Samuel, I’ll take one of those cheap cigars.” She swiveled her head to Tesla, and then back to Twain, eyes narrowed. “And for the both of you, no cheating.”