by Dakota Rusk
“You’re right,” Merri said, and she gave a frustrated kick at a discarded beer can on the sidewalk. I was a little surprised; she was usually the kind who’d stop and pick it up and carry it to the nearest trash can. “But you have to allow the same weakness to me, then. Those students are frightened and frustrated and lonely?…Well, so am I. I’m frustrated because I know for a fact that the means for solving this problem already exists. I’m lonely because Eddie is the one who’s the key, and he’s missing. And I’m frightened because I don’t know when—or if—we’ll ever see him again.”
I nodded. “It does seem like it’s been a long time.”
“It has been. But the point remains: his Hopper is the answer to everyone’s problem. There’s no need to go flinging ourselves at a bunch of mystics offering a solution they won’t even explain.”
“Well,” I said, drawing to a halt outside Koyabashi Hall, “the other students don’t know Eddie the way we do. They haven’t been through the things we’ve been through with him. They have no reason to trust him, or his device.”
“They could trust us. Haven’t we earned it?” She stopped and looked up at me, almost pleading with me to agree with her.
But I couldn’t. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I have to play devil’s advocate again. Because frankly, I’m not sure we have earned their trust.”
“But we saved this parallel!” she said with a gasp, clearly unable to believe what I was saying. “We saved the lives of everyone around us—the entire population of the planet! Hell, the entire multiverse—billions and billions of lives that otherwise would’ve been wiped out!”
“And they’re grateful to us for that,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “As they should be. But…should they trust us?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean. You’re seriously freaking me out here, Fabia.”
“It’s just this,” I said, drawing closer to her so that we wouldn’t be overheard by the other students passing by, heading up the steps and into the building. “We’ve told them about Eddie and his Hopper; we’ve assured them that his technology is going to put everything right.”
“But it is,” she said. “You know it is.”
“But we didn’t tell them,” I continued, looking over my shoulder to make sure we were sufficiently isolated, “that other thing about Eddie.”
Merri’s eyes narrowed in confusion; then widened again when she realized what I was talking about. Much of our freshman year had been disrupted by an insidious computer hacker who called himself “Daimon Seed,” whose pranks had wreaked havoc on both the administration and student body—especially at pivotal times like class registration and final exams. It wasn’t till almost the end of the year that we learned Daimon Seed was Eddie. It was a secret we kept strictly to ourselves—just the four of us.
“We couldn’t possibly tell anyone that,” Merri said. “If it got out, people would have a field day with it…there’d be constant arguments about whether Eddie was offering us a valid option or just another big scam.”
“Not all the arguments would be negative,” I said. “Daimon Seed had his fans, remember.”
“Not nearly enough of them. We’d lose people, Fabia. They’d abandon us.”
“In other words,” I said, putting my hand on her shoulder to soften some of the sting from what I was about to say, “you don’t trust them to handle the truth. And if you don’t trust them, it stands to reason they can’t trust us.”
I knew her so well, I could actually see the mental struggle she was going through. She gave me a sort of defensive look and said, “So, what are you saying? You honestly think we should tell people?”
I hadn’t been expecting her to turn my argument back on me like that. And in fact I wasn’t sure of my answer. My first reaction was a panicked no; if people found out the hero we were asking them to wait for was the hacker who’d made their previous year hell, they’d lose all faith in him—and in us.
And yet…was that such a bad thing? There was a part of me that wanted to believe Parallel 17 did have the answer…that its magic-based technology could restore me to a family I hadn’t even believed existed anymore.
“I…I’m not sure,” I said.
Merri threw her hands in the air. “So, what, then? What is it you want?”
I had to admit I didn’t know. And Merri was so frustrated with me that she could barely even bother to say goodbye. She pivoted on her heel with such force that the weight of her backpack almost pulled her off-balance, then headed up the steps to Koyabashi Hall.
I continued on my way alone. Merri and I often walked to class together, but the classes we went to were in different buildings. She, after all, was a huge intellect, whereas I’d been recruited here on a sports scholarship. I was still struggling my way through beginners’ courses that Merri was probably capable of teaching by this point—and very likely would be, as a teacher’s aide, come junior year. She was right now sitting down to a lecture on quantum mechanics and condensed matter, while I was headed to Sagan Hall for Dr. Bernstein’s Basics of Cosmology. Even that was proving to be a little much for me, based on the first few weeks’ material; fortunately Merri had taken the course freshman year, and had famously butted heads with Dr. Bernstein; so I’d had the benefit of her running commentary as a kind of prequel. I drew on her experiences now as much as I could.
Today, however, I was so wrapped up in my thoughts that I ended up walking past Sagan Hall, only realizing it when I reached the fountain on the commons. Then I turned and loped back, arriving about forty-five seconds late, which in Dr. Bernstein’s class might as well have been forty-five minutes, because, as he was fond of saying, “Time is both relative and absolute, and I will be treating it as such,” which basically meant that if we were late, there was hell to pay; if he was late (as he often was), that was simply our own skewed perception of a liquid reality. There were times I really wanted to fold up Dr. Bernstein and bounce him like a basketball.
The reason I’d been so distracted as to miss an entire building was of course my conversation with Merri. It was by far the most adversarial we’d ever had; usually our walks to class were happy, giggly, gossipy—even if it was raining or snowing or a hundred and ten in the shade, we managed to find joy in it. This was the first time we’d parted without having said even one friendly thing to each other.
And what made it worse was that already today—since I arrived back at the dorm after meeting Olwen—there’d been so many little moments that reminded me that this was a different Merri from the one I’d loved and lost. That hardly ever happened; they were so alike, sometimes an entire week would go by and I’d never even think about it. But this morning alone there’d been five or six incidents that had brought it to mind.
I wasn’t sure what that meant. Now that we were facing trouble again—the way we’d faced trouble during freshman year—was I finally seeing the differences between the two Merris? And if that was true, were there differences I wasn’t seeing?
And if that was true…could I really call her my best friend? Was it even safe to think of her as my best friend?I was still preoccupied with my thoughts during class, and found it difficult to pay attention to Dr. Bernstein’s lecture. After my parallel had been extinguished during freshman year, Merri—along with Darius and Gerrid, but especially Merri—became my new family. I depended on her completely, giving her all my love and trust, helping her as much or more as she helped me through the difficult days of summer. But now I was plagued by this strange, unsettling feeling that my parallel—and my family—weren’t gone after all; and that part of my replacement family—Merri—wasn’t quite who I thought she was…might in fact be, in some crucial way, a stranger.
I was snapped out of these disturbing thoughts when someone a few rows behind me—a very large boy in a kilt with a big black beard and very hairy knees—stood up without being acknowledged and said, “Beggin’ your pardon, Dr. Bernstein, I know you haven’t finished…”
“I’m not anywhere near to finished,” Dr. Bernstein replied, and he turned and puffed out his little bantam-rooster chest in indignation. “Nor am I accustomed to interruptions.”
“I’m sure you’re not,” said the boy with a little growl of anger. “I’m guessin’ you don’t much care for anythin’ to pierce that little bubble you’ve blown around yourself.”
The color rose in Dr. Bernstein’s cheeks so fast you could almost see it rise up, like the mercury in a thermometer. “And what,” he said, “is that supposed to mean?”
“What it means,” said the boy, his arms akimbo, “is that this is the tenth class of the term, and we’ve yet to hear a bloody word about magic. This is a class in cosmology, which I was led to ken was a field encompassin’ physics, astronomy, philosophy, and everythin’ else in the multidisciplinary pot. And we’ve heard about all of it, except for magic—which is the one field of compellin’ interest to every student on this campus at this particular time. Or hadn’t you heard?” There was some nervous tittering at this.
Dr. Bernstein very slowly took off his glasses and placed them on the podium—a gesture we’d come to recognize as the prelude to an eruption of crisply articulated fury. And sure enough, he narrowed his eyes and said, “I designed this course seventeen years ago to provide a comprehensive introduction to the subject matter for every thinking being to whom it was presented. And nothing in subsequent years—not the breaching of the Veil or the discovery of the multiverse—has been sufficiently realigning to cause me to alter the syllabus. That you suggest the appearance of some gaudily dressed charlatans who offer extravagant promises without even the most broadly sketched processes, and who depend upon the clanking of cymbals and the stink of incense to bewitch the duller-witted among their captive audience, is in any way a reason to introduce into this discussion of scientific verities the quackings and bleatings of a congregation of self-deluded bliss-ninnies and moon-howlers, is perhaps an indication that you are better off back in your dorm room, sleeping off whatever it is you were smoking last night—or, should there be no hallucinogenic substances to assume the blame, registering yourself for psychiatric counseling.” He lowered his head—plainly taking in the boy’s kilt—and added, “But I’ll overlook it for now, as I’m guessing by your attire that some of your defect is the result of surpassingly late toilet-training.”
There was a burst of embarrassed laughter, but the boy bearing the brunt of it wasn’t taking it lightly. Of course he wasn’t; I was four rows ahead of him, and even at that distance I could feel his twitching, angry energy. Surely Dr. Bernstein could feel it too; there weren’t more than thirty people in the class. Was he crazy, antagonizing a live wire this way? Apparently so, because the boy now roughly scooted out to the aisle and started towards the front of the class, his fists clenched and his eyes sparking with rage.
The room fell silent—including Dr. Bernstein—and I realized everyone were paralyzed by surprise at this sudden turn of events. Everyone, that is, but me. I got up, scrambled past the people seated next to me with muttered apologies, and raced down to the platform, where I placed myself between Dr. Bernstein and his would-be assailant.
The boy was so riled with anger that for a moment it seemed like he’d try to shove me out of the way; but the closer he got, the more clearly he saw that I was every bit as big as he was, and also that I wasn’t even remotely intimidated. He slowed down and came to a halt just beyond my reach and said, “Step aside, please.”
“I will not,” I said. “Go back to your seat. This kind of grandstanding isn’t going to solve anything.”
“You heard what that little ferret-faced pillock said to me,” the boy snarled, pointing past me to where Dr. Bernstein cowered behind his podium.
“I heard. But it’s not like you gave him much choice. You violated the protocols for this class and accused him of dereliction and negligence. You weren’t asking for an explanation of the absence of a discipline in the course materials; you were venting your spleen. And when you attack someone that way, of course he’s going to retaliate.”
Behind me, I heard Dr. Bernstein chuckle; then he said, “Very perceptive, miss. And very well put.”
I felt a surge of anger towards him that took me by surprise. I turned and said, “You’re no better. You’re supposed to be the authority figure in the room. You know full well you don’t defuse confusion and insurrection with ridicule…that you don’t persuade through mockery. I’m guessing you thought to frighten everyone else in class from ever confronting you, by thoroughly eviscerating the first student to take you on. But no individual is worth sacrificing for the sake of some subjectively defined greater good. And cowing people into submission is no way to engage their minds.”
It was basically the same argument I’d just made to Merri; I was surprised to hear it come out again—and a lot more forcefully than I’d worded it to her. Apparently I was still nursing that disagreement in my head, and Dr. Bernstein had the misfortunate of inserting himself into it.
An electric tension sizzled in the room, and I felt a sudden sense of having said and done too much; I had no idea what might happen now, but whatever it was, I didn’t feel ready for it. If the roof fell in and buried us all, I wouldn’t have minded.
But nothing could have prepared me for the smattering of applause that rose up from my fellow students. Oh, it wasn’t unanimous, and there was a bit of grumbling as well; I hadn’t quite won over everybody. But it was the first time I’d ever gotten anything resembling approval outside a playing field or arena.
Still, I didn’t want to buy popularity at the price of anyone else’s dignity. I turned back to Dr. Bernstein and said, “I apologize. That was out of line. Passions are running high on campus these days. I hope that, if we can’t help occasionally succumbing to them, we can at least find the courage to forgive each other for it.”
He gave me an unreadable look; then he nodded and said, “I think that’s entirely advisable.” He put his glasses back on and picked up his lecture exactly where he’d been interrupted.
The kilted boy and I went quietly back to our seats.
5
Later that afternoon I found myself at the commissary, seated alone at a table and aimlessly stirring a cup of coffee with a plastic spoon. I was waiting for Gerrid, who had asked me to meet him—to talk about Merri, I could only guess; it wasn’t the first time he’d cornered me about her.
I felt a presence behind me and assumed it was him, but when I turned around it was the kilted boy from Cosmology. He grinned and said, “I hope I’m not interruptin’.”
“I’m expecting someone,” I said, starting to rise out of my chair; I wasn’t certain whether to be on alert or not—though if this boy had wanted to get the drop on me, he could’ve done it while my back was turned.
He motioned me to sit back down, then said, “I just aim to say two things. First, thank you for rescuin’ me from makin’ a total buffoon out of myself this mornin’ and possibly gettin’ my fool self expelled. Though where they’d expel me to I couldn’t say, since I can’t be sent home.”
He grinned again—he had an appealing sort of smile; there was a little bit of unashamed deviltry in it—and I began to lower my guard. “Don’t mention it,” I said.
“It’s just, I can be a bit of a hothead,” he continued. “I tend to act without thinkin’.”
“I can sympathize,” I said. And I realized with surprise that while I was telling the truth—I’d let my temper get the better of me many, many times during freshman year—it was no longer so much the case. I’d become quite a bit more thoughtful and self-contained, and governed my emotions better. I guessed that’s what growing up was all about.
Even so, I liked the idea that this boy was a reflection of my earlier self; it made me feel friendly towards him. I gestured for him to take the empty chair across from me, and as he did so I said, “Sometimes it feels good to just act. My head gets tired of all this thinking.”
He slid his chair up to the table and said, “Yeah, well, people of your sort—when you act, it’s usually ’cause you’re gettin’ somethin’ done. Somethin’ important.”
I blushed, then thought, Of course he knows who I am. Everyone knows who I am. I said, “You’d be surprised. There’s a lot of less flattering stories you don’t hear about.”
He gave me a sly look and said, “I’d like to sometime.” And I must have blushed harder, because he added, “Purely for the example it’ll provide me, you ken.” Then he extended his arm. “Donald MacDúngail.”
I shook his hand. “Fabia Terentia.”
“Oh, I know,” he said a bit defensively, as if I might’ve thought him stupid or something.
I was perplexed by my sudden inability to speak; it wasn’t like me at all. But while I struggled to find something to say, he grabbed the reins again. “I just wish I weren’t such a great freakin’ stereotype—the hot-headed Scotsman. The funny thing is, I’m the only one in my family. Everyone else? Mother, father, sisters, brother? All meek as wee mousies. I’m the freak.”
I laughed. “Well, that’s probably just as well. Wee mousies tend not to last long at Parallel U.”
He growled a laugh; that’s what it was—a growl, and a laugh. I found it very unusual and strangely attractive.
“You said you had two things to say,” I reminded him.
“Oh, right.” He sat back in his seat and scratched his chin self-consciously. “I wanted also to thank you for makin’ me famous.”
I blinked. “I don’t understand.”
“Our little confrontation this mornin’? Someone recorded it on his phone. Uploaded the video after class and it’s gone viral. Well, campus-wide, anyway. I hear they’re tryin’ to keep it from jumpin’ from the university server to the outside world.”