Parallel U. - Sophomore Year

by Dakota Rusk

  So it was a surprise this morning, after we’d showered and were dressing for class, that she carried her duffel bag (which was made of actual crocodile) over to my area of the locker room and started to chat.

  “I saw your video,” she said, as she buttoned her silk blouse.

  I gave a little grunt of dismissal. “It’s not my video.”

  “Well, you’re definitely the star of it.” She smiled as she tossed her braided hair behind her collar. “I especially liked the way you took that fatuous professor down a peg or two.”

  I felt myself turn crimson, so I let my own hair fall in front of my face as I laced up my boots. “I did apologize to him afterward.”

  “Yes. That was the part I didn’t like so much.” She donned her very shiny silver jacket and added, “I just thought it was great that you kept the way clear for a discussion about what the referendum really means for us all.”

  I looked up at her, past my flap of hair. “You’re voting for it,” I said, suddenly realizing this.

  She beamed at me. “Of course I am! I want to go home.”

  “By magic?” I asked.

  “Whatever technology works.”

  “And if it doesn’t work?”

  “Then we’re no better off than if we never tried.”

  “On the contrary, we’re quite a bit worse off. Because we’ll have handed over the university to new management.”

  She shrugged. “Can’t be as bad as the present management. I mean, they tanked half the multiverse, didn’t they?”

  I wanted to explain that that had been the evil, rapacious Terminus Institute, not the university’s independent and largely harmless board of regents; but I could tell she wasn’t in the mood to be corrected. Possibly princesses never were.

  Before I could think of something else to say, she jumped in with, “You’re voting for it, aren’t you?”

  And I’m sorry to say it…I froze. I should have had an answer ready for this question; either a flat denial, to show solidarity with my friends, or something more cunningly elusive to throw people off the track. But I didn’t. I was an idiot. Because given my silence, what else was she going to think?

  “I knew it,” she said.

  “You don’t know anything,” I protested, letting my hair hide my face again.

  “And your friends…the vamp and the magnetic girl and the Living Doll? Are they coming around?”

  “He’s not a vamp,” I said, secretly thankful that she’d given me this chance to change the subject. “People in his parallel evolved differently than ours, at the prehistoric stage. They’re nocturnal.”

  She waved this away as if she was impatient with it. “I know, I know that,” she said.

  “He’s absolutely human, and he doesn’t sleep in a coffin or prey on the blood of young virgins or any of that.”

  “No, he has the blood of pigs and sheep delivered to his dorm,” she said with a sneer of disgust. “Everyone knows. I think it’s repellent.”

  “It’s how he survives,” I said, surprised at the fierceness with which I was defending Gerrid, given that I’d felt the same way about him when I first met him. “His parallel didn’t discover fire until ages after most others did; by which time they’d already established a diet of raw meat—and, yes, blood. Cooking is an alien concept to them; it might even hurt him.”

  Her eyelids dropped, as if all this was barely enough to hold her interest. “Whatever you say. But it’s all beside the point, which is whether he’s voting for the referendum. Is he? Are the whole lot of you? Are you finally seeing sense?”

  I stood up and grabbed my bag. “I’m not sure there’s a great deal of sense to see,” I said, and I got out of there as quickly as I could. I’m not even certain what that meant; but as a parting shot, it sounded reasonably confident.I was on time to Cosmology—in fact I was early. I wondered whether Dr. Bernstein would acknowledge me at all, or make any reference to the viral video in which he and I featured so prominently.

  I should’ve known better; of course his dignity wouldn’t allow it. He didn’t even look at me—or at Donald, who sat in a different seat today, farther back—and conducted his lecture almost by rote. It was though nothing at all had happened. The only difference was a slightly panicked look that flashed across his face whenever a student raised his hand to ask a question, as though he was expecting another attack, or a joke at his expense, or—who knew? But whatever he was afraid of, it never came.

  After class I hurried out to the portico to catch up with Donald. I’d gotten a few interview offers from TV stations and news agencies based on the video’s popularity, and I assumed he had too. I didn’t intend to accept any of them, and I wanted to make sure he didn’t either.

  He seemed a little wary when I first approached him—maybe I shouldn’t have grabbed his arm—but when he heard what I wanted he visibly relaxed. “Don’t worry, I’ve no intention of speakin’ to any journos,” he said with a roguish grin. “The last thing I want is for that rubbish video to have a moment’s more visibility. It is not, as you’ll recall, my finest moment.”

  There wasn’t anything accusatory in this, and as we’d already fallen into step I decided to walk with him and keep the conversation going. Something about his manner—so hair-trigger in one sense, so laid-back in another—intrigued me. Again, it reminded me a little bit of myself.

  The morning, which had started out so beautifully, had dampened as it wore on; a cloud cover rolled in while we were cooped up in Cosmology, and now there was a damp mist. “This weather,” I said, gesturing at the air stupidly, as if having to distinguish it from some other weather nearby, “must make you miss Scotland.”

  “I’m not from Scotland,” he said, which took me completely by surprise. I pointed out his brogue, and his kilt, and his—well, everything—and he just laughed.

  “I’m amazed you’d notice such things,” he said with a merry glint in his eye. “Where you’re from, there’s no such thing as ‘Scotland,’ is there?”

  “No,” I said, once again feeling a little uncomfortable that he knew so much more about me than I did about him. “We call it Caledonia.”

  “And it’s an independent kingdom, isn’t it?” he asked, enjoying this. “In four thousand years, your swaggerin’ empire has never been able to conquer it.”

  “It’s an independent republic,” I said. “No kings anymore. But they do wear kilts,” I said, gesturing at Donald’s. “Or something like them, anyway.”

  “So do your Roman types,” he said. “They all run about in their poncey tunics, don’t they?”

  I gave him a rebuking grimace. “Not for a long, long time. These days our men wear pants like most everybody else. Though business attire is a little different; suit coats aren’t worn as much as jerkins with capes.”

  “That sounds right Elizabethan.”

  “It’s a close match. Except of course, in my parallel there was no Elizabeth. No Mary Queen of Scots either.” I looked at him again. “Which sort of brings me back to my original question. You’re really not from Scotland?”

  We passed by Gleick Auditorium, in front of which a small group of witches had set up a tent and were giving tarot readings for free. For a moment I was afraid that one or both of us would be unable to resist comment; I really didn’t want to tumble back into discussing all that again. Fortunately we both held our tongues until we were past the danger, and Donald resumed his story.

  “Where I come from—which is Parallel 70, by the by—the Stuarts held the British throne well into the nineteenth century. Whereas in this parallel they were replaced by the House of Hanover in 1714, and James Stuart, the son of King James II, is called ‘the Old Pretender’ because he kept tryin’ to claim his inheritance. In my parallel he never needed to; he succeeded his father to the throne as King James III.

  “But because he was a Catholic,” he continued, brushing a lock of hair from his face (which I found an extremely attractive gesture), “he went about restorin�
�� the old faith with an iron fist. Many of the clans in Scotland by then were firmly Episcopalian, and rather than submit, those with money and means fled to the Americas and set up a colony there—Nova Alba, they called it—in roughly the same geographic area as what, in this parallel, is called the Carolinas. It’s about twice the size now as it was then; we won our independence about forty years on.

  “Anyway, that was the status quo until the nineteen-forties, when Britain—along with every other country in Europe, except the Scandinavians—went full-bore fascist. All ancient religions, traditions, and customs were outlawed—clans included—and remain so to this day. We in Nova Alba realized that we were the last outpost of Scottish identity on the planet. It went a bit to our heads, I’m afraid. When my granddad was born, no one wore kilts. Today it’s almost required. And all those poor wee lads and lassies who now have to suffer through endless bagpipe lessons! It’s criminal, I tell you. I only escaped by dint of bein’ a complete musical moron. Though there are those who say that’s no barrier to mastery of the bagpipe.”

  I laughed. “I’m sorry,” I said immediately; “it’s not really funny. I mean, about your homeland. About all of Europe. In fact it’s really tragic.”

  He shrugged. “You ask me, the Fascists aren’t all that different from your lot. You both roll in, flatten a native population, and set up camp atop the blood and bones and ashes.”

  I felt as though he’d slapped my face. “That’s not entirely fair.”

  “Isn’t it?” He gave me a sly look. “It was one of my own countrymen, long ago and far away, who said about the Romans: ‘To robbery, slaughter, plunder, they give the lyin’ name of empire; they make a desert and call it peace.’ ”

  “Calgacus,” I said; “the chieftain who fought Gnaeus Julius Agricola. I know the reference, and I know the man. We have a long history, Donald; we don’t turn our back on it. But that doesn’t mean we’re entirely proud of it.”

  He grinned. “You’re all right. You don’t rattle easily.”

  I wanted to say, If you only knew. Instead I said, “Well, I’ve been through a lot.”

  “So I’ve gathered. I’d love to hear about it sometime.”

  I felt a little flurry of pleasure. That was pretty clearly an invitation to continue our acquaintance. I was glad, because I really was intrigued by him. He anywhere near as serious as my other friends; in fact he seemed to have a daredevil air—an aura of danger. It was silly, really, given that I’d faced actual, life-and-death danger, that I should go all melty at the mere appearance of it in someone who was probably, when push came to shove, a big softie. But as I’d lately found myself telling people, we human beings are a paradoxical bunch.

  He stopped outside of Koyabashi Hall. “This is me,” he said. “Professor Keller’s Theoretical Physics.” He winked. “Wish me luck.”

  I did; and then he loped up the steps and was gone.

  7

  I wasn’t really used to being the center of attention for anything other than athletics, so I didn’t really know how to dress for an event like this—basically, a cocktail reception. Being a postulant nun, I hadn’t gone on any dates, and I wasn’t the kind of girly-girl who had a closet full of frocks for every conceivable occasion. But I guess I was the kind of girly-girl who let that throw me into a fit of despair at the last minute.

  I dropped onto my bed—a little heavily, I guess; it kind of skidded an inch or two out of alignment—and let out a big, watery sigh. All right, I was trying to get Merri to talk me out of my funk. Actually, I was trying to get Merri to help me get dressed; but she’d been so opposed to me even going to this party, I figured it was maybe too much to ask.

  She was across the room, studying at her desk. I thought she’d completely tuned me out; but she surprised me now by turning around in her chair with a great big smile on her face.

  “God, you’re so obvious,” she said. “You might as well be wearing a T-shirt that says PLEASE HELP ME, MERRI.”

  I sat up. “Well?”

  She laughed. “I suppose I’d better. God forbid the coven should be kept waiting.”

  She accompanied me to my closet, where she helped me pick out a pale blue tunic—which we belted with a gold cord that had a turquoise clasp (a gift from my mother)—and sandals. Then she braided my hair and pinned it up behind my head.

  I admit it: I looked pretty. I felt my confidence start to build.

  But more helpful than all the wardrobe wizardry in the world was the pep talk Merri gave me while she was working on my hair.

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” she said, “and a lot of reading, too. And you’re right: what we’re up against is human nature. All through history—every parallel’s history, I’m willing to bet, but I’m stuck with the research I can do on this one—people have deliberately, even proudly acted in direct opposition to their own best interests.”

  “Human nature in a nutshell,” sorted through my pitiful collection of bracelets. (Merri’s was even more meager; in fact she had only one to her name—and that was her big black damper bracelet, which I couldn’t really borrow even if I wanted to.)

  “Exactly,” Merri said as I chose a tarnished silver circlet my uncle had given me when I was ten. “It’s so common, we even have colloquial expressions to describe it. Like ‘biting the hand that feeds you.’ Or ‘cutting off your nose to spite your face.’ ”

  “I’m not familiar with those; but we have a similar one in my parallel: ‘Pelting your enemy with the keys to your storehouses.’ ”

  “Yes, exactly. Same thing.” She stopped braiding for a moment and looked pensive. “It happens on a larger scale, too. People, as a community or even a nation, become so accustomed to a value or a benefit that they’ve struggled for, that they begin to take it for granted and let it slip away.”

  “Like the rule of law,” I said. “Or a hard-earned peace.”

  “Or the scientific method.” She resumed braiding. “It’s an irrational response, so it can’t be beaten rationally…which is why argument is useless.”

  “Then how can it be beaten?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe it can’t.”

  I frowned. “That doesn’t sound like Merri Terryl.”

  “Well…Merri Terryl is feeling a bit worn down these days.” She dropped my braid. “I guess I’m hoping you come back with some kind of insight or clue that’ll give us a better idea of how to move forward.” I must have blanched, because she laughed again and said, “Oh, I’m not counting on it; I wouldn’t put that kind of pressure on you. I’m just hoping.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said meekly—and I meant it, too; though I wasn’t sure I’d still feel the same once I stepped out the door and away from her influence.

  “Either way,” she said, grabbing my shoulder and giving me an encouraging squeeze, “those witches aren’t going to know what hit them.”I wasn’t aware that my meeting with the Parallel 17 delegation had been made public, so I was surprised when I got to the dorm’s lobby and saw through the window an entire demonstration going on. By the messages on the placards I could see that some people were there to cheer me on; others, to condemn me.

  On a good day, I could have faced them all easily and had energy left for a jog around the commons. But this wasn’t a good day. I slunk out the back door and made my way to the library by the service road behind the buildings.

  It was a very small reception—not more than thirty-odd people—and I was gratified to see that Valery was there. I was even happier when I realized I wasn’t the only student who’d been invited.

  But it quickly became clear I was the only one who really mattered. The witches were drawn to me like magnetic filings. They drifted over—men and women alike dressed in long, flowing, colorful robes and adorned with so much jewelry they actually made a little tinkling noise when they walked, like wind-chimes—and their leader didn’t even wait for Valery to come up and introduce me (which he was visibly crossing the room to do). She just extende
d her arm and said, “You’re Fabia Terentia; I recognize you from your photographs. I’m Jocasta Foxglove, and I am delighted at last to make your acquaintance.”

  “I recognize you from your photos, as well,” I said, just as Valery lurched up, half out-of-breath, and repeated the introduction we’d already been through. But it gave me a moment to assess Jocasta Foxglove.

  And in fact, though she was familiar from photos, she was a surprise to me—because she was so very much shorter than I’d imagined. She was very beautiful and very regal, with high cheekbones and icy blue eyes, so I’d imagined she must be tall. But she barely came up to my collarbone.

  Despite this, she had a very powerful presence. When she spoke to me, or even just watched me while I replied, I lost all awareness of anyone else in the room. I suppose you’d call it charisma; but there was a frightening element to it—a disorienting effect. Probably all natural leaders must have something similar; but that didn’t make me any less wary of it. In fact I wanted very much to get away from her, but couldn’t seem to manage it under my own power. While she held me in her gaze I was basically paralyzed.

  Fortunately Valery took my arm and led me away to meet some of the other guests. Among them were a few members of the board of regents, most of whom gave me a furtive, conspiratorial look—a look that said, Can you believe we’re here doing this—and I tried to return it as sympathetically as I could.

  But then I was released back to the witches—among whom, I now noticed, was Olwen, the one who’d cast the spell that had sent my consciousness back home (or, more likely, made me hallucinate that my consciousness went back home). She didn’t drop a beat; she acted like we’d never met before and was perfectly charmed to meet me now. Somehow the fact that she was such an accomplished liar eroded a little of the trust I’d had in her.