The Law of Averages

The memorial tree's destination was, unsurprisingly, a graveyard. Dan found himself in a flat, open field at the edge of a grove. He could see a dirt trail leading into the woods, and a construction vehicle—something that looked like a cross between a bulldozer and a crane—idled at the exit. A small maintenance shed, gleaming with a fresh coat of red paint, sat alone near the center of the field. There were graveyard staff waiting outside of it, a man and a woman both wearing hard hats and safety vests. They waved at Dan as he arrived.

"Mr. Newman?" the man asked, stepping forward as he checked his watch. Dan figured it was a rhetorical question. His clients received a picture of his smiling mug, so they'd know who to look for.

"You're right on time," the man concluded.

"That's my job," Dan agreed in a moderate tone. It seemed inappropriate to be cheerful in a place like this. He could see tombstones dotting the earth beyond the trees. "Where do you want the package?"

"Over by the digger, please," the woman says, indicating the vehicle idling on the path.

Dan complied, appearing next to the bright yellow machinery and flicking his wrist. His veil released its hold on the memory tree, gently ejecting it from hammerspace onto the soft grass. The two employees jogged over, the woman heading for the digger, and the man for the tree. The woman hopped into the cab of the vehicle and started flicking switches. It rumbled softly, and spun around, revealing a claw attachment dangling from a thick, articulated limb. It rotated and swung, with fast, jerky movements.

The man stopped beside the tree, pulling on a pair of work gloves and stretching. "Gotta limber up," he commented, as a series of loud pops came from his back. Then he squatted, stooped, and wrapped his arms around the base of the tree. He let out an explosive grunt, and lifted the tree clear off the ground. He steadied it on his shoulder, before taking a few short steps towards the digger's claw attachment. With another quiet grunt, he lifted the tree up, and the jaws clamped it into place.

"Well, that's that," the man said, gasping for air. He turned to Dan. "Do I need to sign anything?"

Dan produced his clipboard and collected his signatures. He stowed the papers back into t-space, but held off on leaving. The woman worked the digger, slowly maneuvering the large tree so that it could be transported down the dirt path.

"I gotta ask," Dan said, gaining the attention of the man. "You've got that machine, so why do they have you lifting it manually?"

"Hm?" The man glanced between the tree and himself. "Ah. That's because it's a custom job. Memorial trees are fragile things, especially the ones made by Madam March. At least, until they get into the ground. It's gentler for me to do the tough maneuvering. The digger will just carry it there, and make the hole."

Every part of that answer twigged as off to Dan. "How can a tree be fragile?" he asked. "Damn thing weighs more than the three of us combined."

"Not sure about the science of it," the man replied, scratching his chin. "Something about the radiation bath makes it unstable, I guess. I've seen these kinds of trees fall apart at a touch, when they're poorly made. Madam March doesn't skimp, though, so we should be fine."

"Radiation bath?" Dan repeated incredulously. "Are you saying she gave the tree an upgrade?"

"Eh," The man kept his hand flat as he wiggled it from side to side. "Hard to say. Not like she's giving out her business secrets now is she? But that's the general idea, yeah."

"Is that safe?" Dan asked, giving the tree a leery look. He knew that some animals could undergo a natural Incarnation when exposed to enough cosmic radiation, but the only plants he'd ever heard of were the Silent Woods: a huge swathe of land where nothing lived except the trees.

"Safe enough," the man said blithely. "Never had a problem before. Anyway, I gotta get to work." He waved at the woman in the digger, and the huge machine rumbled and turned, before trundling down the path. The man followed, whistling cheerfully as he stepped out of the morning sun, and into the shade of trees that seemed suddenly dark and looming in Dan's eyes.

Dan licked his dry lips, took three long steps backwards, and willed himself away.

His next destination was a little simpler. It was a junkyard in downtown Austin, filled with cars that had been towed or abandoned or some combination of both. Dan's job was to pick up a car, and transport it to a machine shop for some specialized repairs. He assumed the vehicle would be something fancy enough to justify his services—Dan charged a good deal more than a tow truck—but found himself stunned when he finally laid eyes on the thing.

"That's a Reliant Robin," Dan said, gaping at the three-wheeled monstrosity.

"You know it?" Jack Chang, the aged owner of the junkyard, asked. "You a collector?"

"A collector?" Dan asked, aghast. Who would collect this thing?

"I guess not," Chang replied with a laugh. He knocked his fist on the ruby red hood. "Only twenty thousand of these babies were ever made." He looked Dan over. "I'm surprised you've heard of it. You look a little young."

Dan flailed for an explanation. It's not like he could say 'I watched it crash on Top Gear in a different dimension,' no matter how true that might be. And it seemed that the car's history was radically different, here. Dan hadn't paid too much attention to countries outside of America. It wasn't worth tearing his hair out, trying to spot the differences. He knew that the Soviet Union had fractured far earlier, a predictable result of irradiating their own cities in the hopes of recreating the White Sands incident, but he knew almost nothing else about that part of the world, in this dimension or otherwise.

Dan settled for, "I saw it on television, once."

Chang seemed to accept that. "It's a unique car," he commented. "You don't ever forget the look."

"No," Dan agreed, and let his veil loose to examine the ugly thing. He immediately identified a hundred different flaws; places where metal was bent and repaired, missing wires, stress fractures, general mechanical failures, all the things wrong with the poor, broken beast. It looked fine enough on the surface, but whoever sought to restore it was in for a long ride.

He tested its weight, and found it surprisingly light. Dan could plop the whole thing into his hammerspace, with room to spare. When he'd first heard it was a car, he'd kind of assumed he would have to take it piecemeal. An approximate weight had been provided to him, but Dan knew that customers tended to be loose with the truth, and hadn't expected such an easy task.

"Let's get to it," Dan said, and he and Chang went about filling out their paperwork. When that was finished, Dan's veil swallowed up the vehicle, and he bid the junkyard owner goodbye.

His drop-off point was machine shop in a part of town he'd frequented, once upon a time, back when he was in Marcus Mercury's employ. It wasn't until he arrived, however, that Dan realized it was the same exact machine shop that Marcus had favored for his more complicated and exotic equipment. The name had changed, and the appearance, but he recognized the manager almost instantly. He was an old, grey-haired man with a pronounced paunch and a scraggly beard.

"Daniel," the man greeted amicably. "Long time no see."

Dan subtly checked the man's nametag before replying, "Matt. How are things? I see the place has had a face-lift."

"Oh yeah," he replied happily. "New owner, bought out our old one. Place looks a lot better, don't'cha think?"

"Sure," Dan said, though he barely remembered what the old place looked like. He had a vague recollection of concrete, and the smell of mold.

"So what brings you here?" Matt asked, as he led Dan further inside. "Another pick-up for Marcus? Its been a while."

Dan almost stumbled at the question. "No. It's... well, I'm not working for Marcus anymore."

"He let you go, huh?" Matt asked, sympathy written across his face. "That's a shame. You always seemed prompt. Though, I guess there's no point if the old coot can pick it up himself."

"I guess not," Dan agreed, desperate to move on to something else. "I'm here about a Reliant Robin."

"Oh, right. I remember seeing a note about that," Matt said. "Sorry. Helen made those arrangements, and I'd honestly forgotten. Let me show you where to drop it—"

"Wait," Dan interrupted, his brain snagging onto something alarming. "What do you mean, he can pick it up himself?"

"What?" Matt scratched his head. "Who?"

"Marcus," Dan said. "You just said, the old coot can pick it up himself. What did you mean by that?"

"Exactly that," Matt said, confusion heavy in his voice. "He was here just last week."