Comrade Grandmother and Other Stories

by Naomi Kritzer

  “I don’t know if the pure equus changed me,” Lucien said, standing up. “I don’t know if the other magi could do it, if they endured the long walk. I think they could. Sunshine, Old Martin—any of them. We don’t have to trust people like Cynthia, Helena. We can free ourselves.”

  “Come on,” Helena said. “We’d better get out of here.”

  Lucien pressed his eye to a crack in the door, peering into the courtyard. No one was in sight. Helena was watching him, her face hopeful, waiting for his word.

  I can’t chance it, he thought.

  “We’d better split up,” he said. “Be sure you get back to Castramagorum. Someone needs to tell the riders what’s at the other end of the long walk.”

  “Be careful,” Helena said. She raised her hand to touch his cheek, then drew back, hesitantly. Lucien caught her hand and pressed it gently to his cheek. Her hand was cold and a little damp, and he held it for a moment to warm it.

  “I’m sorry,” Lucien said.

  Helena drew his face back towards her, and he realized that she was wearing the cloak he’d left at the mission. The shifting greens and browns highlighted her hazel eyes just as he had known they would. She graced him with a smile. “It was an accident,” she said. “I’ll see you back at the mission.”

  Lucien knew he wasn’t going to get that far, but there was a bright hope in Helena’s eyes, and he couldn’t bring himself to crush that spark. Besides, it was imperative that Helena escape before anyone saw her. “The courtyard’s clear,” he said. “Go on.”

  Lucien watched until he was sure she had escaped without being seen. Then he stepped cautiously out into the courtyard. Cynthia was the only other person who might realize what he’d done. If he killed her, the secret would be safe, at least for now. If she killed him, she would believe that she’d killed the knowledge of the power on the other side of the long walk.

  There was a flicker of movement in one of the windows; he’d been seen.

  Closing his eyes for a moment, he gently touched the power that lurked inside him; it was still there, waiting. He could feel the heat of it coiled around his empty stomach like a sleeping dragon. I could blow up the entire villa, he thought. But the thought of the innocent dead turned his stomach. I am not a murderer. Let them come for me. He turned his back on the house and began to run.

  It was late afternoon, and the streets were crowded, but people fell back in fear when they saw Lucien’s brand, leaving his way clear. Behind him, he could hear shouts. Helena headed for the gate. I’d better go the other way. Still, something drew him towards the wall that stood between Londinium and Castramagorum.

  Helena will reach Castramagorum with the message. She will. But will the magi believe her? Or will they think it’s a trick to kill them with need? Lucien could imagine what Old Martin would ask: If the little fellator had the power equus would’ve given him, why was he shot down by guards?

  I need to do something. I need to give them a sign.

  “Lucien!”

  He could see the rough bricks of the wall rising up ahead, and slowed, then turned. His hands were empty; the burn on his wrist hurt. He was still dressed, he realized, in the cream-colored robe Justinian had given him. Nonetheless, the men who ringed him with drawn bows looked at him with fear. Justinian stepped forward, a sword in his hand.

  “I know you’re no threat right now,” Justinian said, his voice soothing. “Surrender. Come with me.”

  Lucien felt a laugh rising in his throat. “Half of Londinium saw me, and my brand.”

  “Trust me,” Justinian said. “We can work things out.”

  “Cynthia sent you to kill me.”

  “Cynthia sent me to get you.”

  Justinian sounded sincere. Was it possible that Cynthia had convinced herself that Lucien had gotten equus from somewhere? Maybe she thinks Justinian slipped some to me.

  Lucien leaned his back against the wall; the brick scraped against the burn on his wrist, sending a searing pain through him, and suddenly he knew what he could do. “So what should I do to surrender, lay down my weapons?” he asked, trying to buy time.

  Justinian stepped forward. “Just come with me,” he said, and took Lucien’s hand.

  Lucien reached for the power within—Draco, it whispered. He saw the look of alarm in Justinian’s eyes, knowing that Justinian had seen him reaching for it. Justinian reacted swiftly, plunging his sword deeply into Lucien’s side, but it was too late. Draco. Falling to earth, feeling his life’s blood pouring out of him, Lucien saw the magic unleashed—saw the dragon-shaped hole blasted into the side of Castramagorum, saw the fire blazing up around him and Justinian. A sign for Old Martin. A sign for all of them.

  As the fire gave way to darkness, Lucien had a sudden clear vision of the lined face of Old Martin, hard with triumph. Draco. They will find their way.

  UNREAL ESTATE

  SOMETIMES STORIES GET overtaken by events.

  I’m pretty sure I first wrote this story in 1998. I shopped it around for several years without success. Several magazines sat on it for six months or longer, which meant I had to update the political references before I could send it out again.

  Then 9/11 happened, and I gave up completely. This story assumes a complacent and secure U.S., not the atmosphere of crazed paranoia that dominated after September of 2001. Ten years later ... well, I’m re-reading the story and it no longer sounds as implausible to me as it did in 2001, although of course a lot of the political and celebrity references sound a little dated.

  ***

  IT WAS HAROLD’S fault; he was the one who called Bernie, his cousin the real estate agent. And Bernie was the one who thought it would be a fine idea to try to sell Manhattan to Ted Turner.

  As it happened, Ted bought Manhattan, and had started negotiations to buy New Jersey when word got out. Thank goodness Harold came over to brag, and I was able to take him, and the translator, and the disks with our research notes and shove him out my back door and into Plymouth Beta. “Stay there till Monday,” I said.

  Our first visitor arrived five minutes later. She introduced herself as Louisa from the U.S. Department of the Interior. “It’s not here,” I said through the door.

  “I’m here to help,” Louisa said. “The U.S. Government can arrange for the full protection of 99% of the land mass of Terra Beta.”

  “What’s the one percent they want?” I asked. “Wait—don’t tell me. The Persian Gulf?”

  Louisa’s cell phone rang. “Bad news,” she said, a moment later. “The story just broke.”

  ***

  AS THE FIRST CNN van pulled up, I took pity on Louisa and let her in. I guess Ted figured now that the government knew, he probably wasn’t getting Manhattan, so he might as well get the story. I felt a pang that Harold wasn’t around to hear the TV networks call this the most significant discovery since the steam engine. Dan Rather tried to explain the concepts of the parallel earth and physical translation between Terra Alpha (us) and Terra Beta (the other one). “Apparently,” he finished, “Terra Beta is uninhabited—an untouched, primordial earth, exactly as ours would have been if apes had never learned to walk upright.”

  Within fifteen minutes, every camera in Massachusetts was trained on my house; I pulled my curtains and turned on the TV to look outside. CNN interviewed my neighbors and ABC dug up some guy I dated in high school. CBS made Harold and me sound like mad scientists who’d crawled out of some basement, while NBC seemed to think we were visionary geniuses. I sighed.

  Within a few hours, there were protestors outside my house. I watched them on ABC. “We don’t want your oil wells, mister / Protect the earth, and her sister,” they chanted. After a while, they switched to, “One, Two, Three, Four, keep it pristine, close the door. Five, Six, Seven, Eight, leave it alone, it’s not too late.”

  “Why are they picketing me?” I asked. “I’m on their side.” I stood up, ignoring Louisa’s protest. As I opened my door, the roar of questions nearly scared me back in
to my house. Every journalist in the world seemed to be in my yard, and there were a thousand cameras pointed straight at me. “I wish to make a statement,” I said.

  The crowd instantly grew silent, except for all thousand cameras going click at the same time.

  “Doctor Klemp and I did not develop this technology so that Terra Beta could be drilled, mined, and deforested like Terra Alpha,” I said. “Terra Beta should be studied, and its wilderness respected and preserved. I control the technology; I am the only one who knows how it was developed, or where it is now. And I’m not sharing it until I am convinced that Terra Beta will be protected.”

  The protestors put down their signs to cheer. As the journalists started shouting questions, I went back inside.

  My phone rang. I checked the Caller ID; it was John Livingstone, an old college friend. I picked up the phone.

  “Heya Maggie,” John said. “That’s you on the news, isn’t it? Is it really true?”

  “Yep,” I said.

  “Well, listen. I’m totally on your side about conservation, you know? I just wanted you to know that.”

  “Thanks, John,” I said.

  “Anyway, I’m in this sportsman’s group. We’re all real conservationists—we love the outdoors, we want it to be there for our grandchildren. And we can totally back you on this. But there’s one thing—”

  “Yeah?”

  “We think you should say it would be okay to allow limited hunting on Terra Beta.”

  “Are you nuts?” I yelled into the phone.

  “Limited, Maggie!” he yelled back. “There aren’t any endangered species over there, it’s totally pristine!”

  I slammed the phone down without another word.

  My next college friend who called was Fred. “I want you to translate me over—in Nepal,” he said.

  There was dead silence on the line as I tried to guess why on earth he’d want to go to Beta Nepal. “You’re going to look for Beta Yetis?” I ventured finally.

  “No, you’re funny. No, I want to be the first person to climb the Beta Everest.”

  The next was my grade-school friend Betsy, calling for her church. Her pastor had decided that Terra Beta was free from Original Sin, and she wanted me to translate a man and a woman over there so that they could conceive a child. It wasn’t clear if she thought this child would be the Second Coming, or if this child could then parent the Second Coming, or if it would just be neat to have a kid free from Original Sin.

  The next three calls in a row were old friends who all wanted to go over there just because they liked the idea of living somewhere in true, total wilderness. “Look, I understand,” I said. “But I’m not letting anyone over there until I’m certain Terra Beta will be protected.” They all promised not to tell a soul, but after Harold and Bernie, I was unconvinced.

  The phone rang again; Caller ID claimed it was my mother. I picked up, but the voice was male. “This is Ted Turner,” the voice said. “I did some calculations, and I was wondering—for twenty billion, how much of Alaska can I have?”

  ***

  LOUISA AND I turned the TV back on at noon, when the President was scheduled to make an address. He talked about the exciting discovery, said a lot of vague general things about the wonders of science and nature and industry, and the importance of protecting the environment while keeping America’s economic interests in mind, and then segued into his current domestic agenda.

  “What are they saying about this in places other than the U.S.?” I asked Louisa. “It’s not like I discovered a parallel North America. I discovered a parallel earth.”

  We flipped over to C-Span, hoping for something more international, but instead caught Senate in session. Jesse Helms suggested that Terra Beta would be a good place to send career criminals, kind of like England did with Australia.

  “In exchange for a short interview, one of the networks or newspapers could set up a satellite feed for you,” Louisa suggested.

  Within twenty minutes, I had a satellite feed to my house and a Globe reporter on my sofa. “Don’t you think it’s a bit arrogant, setting yourself up as sole arbiter of who gets to go over there?” the reporter asked.

  I smiled as benignly as I could manage. “Would you prefer that the decision be made by Senator Helms?”

  ***

  ON CNN, A Native American activist suggested that North America Beta should belong to the Native American tribes—we’d stolen this one, it was really only fair. She had started a trend among disenfranchised groups. On the BBC, Gerry Adams offered to lead a founding group of colonists to Eire Beta, although he said it seemed only fair that they get the northern six counties of England Beta, as well. Israel, naturally, said that they needed to control all of Israel Beta, including a security zone in parts of Lebanon Beta and Jordan Beta, in order to ensure their safety.

  The Arab world, meanwhile, was infuriated by the rumor that the U.S. wanted their oil fields. Most of the countries in the U.N. favored a resolution stating that each country would control in Terra Beta the land corresponding to their territory in Terra Alpha. The U.S., however, had threatened to veto any such resolution in the Security Council—bolstering Arab fears that the U.S. planned to occupy the Beta Gulf.

  ***

  I SENT LOUISA out for pizza twenty minutes before I expected Harold to return. She wasn’t crazy about leaving, but I pointed out that I couldn’t very well sneak out with every major network camped on my front lawn. I told her to bring me back a large pepperoni from Pizzeria Regina; this time of day, it would take her hours just to get there. I sat down in my kitchen to wait for Harold.

  When Harold translated himself back, he was thin, unkempt, and disgruntled-looking. I handed him a beer; he took a swig and sat down at my kitchen table. “So, what happened?” he asked.

  “Word got out,” I said. “Everyone wants a piece of the pie. I’m half inclined to toss the machine and all our notes into Atlantic Beta, and if people decide we were fakes all along, so be it.”

  Harold was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “It’s not quite what we thought.”

  “What do you mean? What isn’t?” I said.

  Harold dug around in the backpack. “I found something over there,” he said. He pulled out a crumpled silvery object and handed it to me.

  Centuries or millennia of exposure had worn away every trace of color—I couldn’t have said what it once contained. But the shape and heft were unmistakable. It was an aluminum pop can.

  “It’s not parallel,” Harold said. “It’s our future. Can you think of any other explanation?”

  My heart dropped through the bottom of my stomach. “What could have happened to empty it out? But leave it so—pristine? A neutron bomb? A plague? My god, Harold, you might have brought some doomsday virus back with you!”

  Harold stared at me mournfully. “I don’t feel sick. I don’t know. I mean, all I saw was the area right around here. I just found this can today.”

  I stared at the pop can until I heard Louisa bang on the front door. “This changes everything,” I said.

  ***

  IT’S TOUGH TO figure out the precise age of an aluminum can, but Harold didn’t seem to have brought a plague of doom back with him, so a team of government scientists and archeologists were sent over to Terra Beta to figure out just how long ago we all disappeared and what exactly happened to us. As best as they can tell, Terra Beta is about 5,000 years older than Terra Alpha.

  The oil industry has largely shut up, and although the timber industry is still interested in exploitation, they’ve mostly been shoved out of the way while everyone comes up with theories on what went wrong, or is going to go wrong. The Globe has decided it was a death comet; the Herald thinks someone’s going to nuke us. Pat Robertson thinks that this is God’s last warning before he wipes us clean off the earth. And conspiracy theorists insist that the government planted the can as an excuse to keep us out of Terra Beta, except for the ones who think the whole thing was a fraud fr
om the start.

  A lot of people want to just move everyone on the planet over to Terra Beta, thus avoiding whatever catastrophe is going to hit Terra Alpha, but given the costs of a move like that, we’re waiting to see what else the scientists can find out. In the meantime, the Boston city council is debating how to build Boston Beta—should we rebuild the roads exactly as they lay in Boston Alpha, thus maintaining tradition, or should we make them wider, straighter, and better marked?

  The newspapers mostly leave me alone now. I got a call from Ted Turner last week, though, and in exchange for him paying off my mortgage, I took him to Manhattan Beta for the day. You can see the shells of some of the buildings, hundreds of stories high, but there is surprisingly little left. We hung out by the harbor. Ted went fishing; I watched the seagulls.

  There’s a lot of fear on Terra Alpha right now. People are afraid that an asteroid is going to come out of nowhere and kill us all while the government is trying to make up its mind. Watching the seagulls swooping over the harbor, though, I found myself oddly comforted. With or without us, Terra goes on. We may have wiped ourselves out, but at least we didn’t wreck the planet. If the seagulls inherit the earth... Well, it could be a lot worse.

  WHEN SHLEMIEL WENT TO THE STARS

  IF YOU’RE JEWISH, I don’t need to explain Chelm to you. If you’re not Jewish, I probably do: it’s a town in Poland (a real town, actually) which in Jewish folklore was Where the Stupid People Live. The Wise Men of Chelm were the biggest pack of pompous dumbasses anyone could ever ask for.

  Isaac Bashevis Singer was particularly noted for his Chelm stories, and this story riffs on several of them. (If you enjoy this story and are unfamiliar with Chelm, you can find many more stories in Singer’s collection Stories for Children.)