by Melko, Paul
“Yes … ma’am.”
“‘Grace’ will do.”
“Yes, Miss Grace,” Clotilde said. “I am here because there are no chaperones at the seraglio. I could leave easily.”
“How did you get here?” John asked. “Do you have a car?”
“No, I have no car!” she said. “I took a bus, of course. I have money! I know how to spend it.” Her anger startled him, and her as well, because she immediately lowered her eyes and added, “I’m sorry, sir.”
“I was just asking,” John said with a laugh. “But I take it someone will miss you at some point.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Things have not been the same since the Second Exodus. Gesalex told us that we would soon be heading to the Home Universe. But that was months ago. Then I heard from … one of the half-bloods that you had made an offer of peace.”
“Twice,” John said.
“But that Gesalex would not take it.”
“No, he seemed a little put out at the time,” Grace said with a smirk.
“He has failed,” Clotilde said, the same dark smile on her face.
“So you want to go to the … home universe?”
Clotilde paled. “Anywhere but,” she said. “I hate what my father did! I hate everything about the Alarians!”
“Why?” Grace said.
“He … he…” Clotilde said, grasping for the words. She swallowed. “I know about the culture here,” she said. “My privilege as Visgrath’s daughter allowed me access to books and some movies. I know that we are different. But it’s nothing I want.”
“Do the other Alarian women feel that way?” Grace asked.
“Yes, we mostly agree,” she said. “Some can’t see beyond the seraglio, but most of us, especially the younger ones, understand.”
“How are you treated at the … seraglio?” Grace asked.
“As breeding sows,” Clotilde cried. Tears formed at her eyes.
“Oh,” Grace said. She grabbed the box of tissues from her desk and handed it to Clotilde.
“Anywhere but here?” John asked. “You just want to leave.”
“I can pay you,” Clotilde said. She reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope. John expected to see cash, but instead inside was a folded sheet of thick paper. She handed it to John.
John read the words on the stock certificate, Grauptham House, 10 shares, Clotilde Visgrath.
“How many shares of the private stock does Grauptham House have outstanding?” John asked Grace.
She shrugged, and turned to her filing cabinet. She pulled a file, and inside was the report from the State of Pennsylvania on the company. “This says a thousand,” she said.
“Do all the Alarian females have stock certificates?” John asked Clotilde.
“Yes, when the Second Exodus started, many papers were signed over,” Clotilde said. “The stock was given to the women in case it was needed later. Charboric didn’t expect to be back.”
Grace took the stock certificate worth several million dollars and said, “I think we can come to an agreement, Clotilde.”
* * *
John and Grace took Clotilde to an urgent-care facility where they set her nose and prescribed painkillers. The doctor eyed John suspiciously and asked to speak with Clotilde alone, as if John were an abusive boyfriend. No, John thought, it was the thin, gangly woman standing next to him who had broken Clotilde’s nose. Never cross Grace. That was a good axiom for life.
“Do all the women at the seraglio have stock certificates?” Grace asked again. She leaned against the wall, her hands on her hips. Clotilde sat on the edge of the examination table, her slight nervous movements rustling the stiff paper covering.
“Yes, most of them,” Clotilde said.
“And most of them will take us up on the offer if they could?” Grace said. “Transport to another universe. Any other universe?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll explain the offer to all the others?”
“Grace,” John said. “It’s dangerous if she goes back. They’ll know she’s been gone.”
“They have no idea,” Clotilde said quickly. “I could be gone for a week and no one will know.”
“But the black eyes?” John said. “They’ll know.”
“They won’t,” she said. She looked into John’s eyes. “I’ll be fine. Just drive me back tonight.”
The seraglio was in Pittsburgh, a night’s drive.
“We’ll need a bus,” John said. “Two buses. And drivers.” His head was boggling at the magnitude of the operation.
“That we can cover,” Grace said. “We’ll send a message to the settled universes. Tell them we need drivers for a caravan to Pittsburgh.” She laughed, and Clotilde smiled in return. “I’m sorry for attacking you, Clotilde. But when I learned who you were…”
“I understand.”
The nurse returned with her discharge papers and prescription.
“Let’s go,” John said. It was after seven already, and the drive would be close to four hours. He hated Pennsylvania! In all universes!
“Do you go by the name Clo?” Grace asked.
“Tilly,” Clotilde said. “You can call me Tilly.”
“I like that,” Grace said.
* * *
John Ten, Civil War John, and John Champ joined them in Grace’s minivan for the trip to Pittsburgh. Clotilde looked at the four Johns, her mouth agape.
“I understood, of course, but I’ve never seen a dup before,” she said. She lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to use that offensive term.”
John laughed. “It’s not actually offensive to us,” he said.
“I knew it was true,” Clotilde said, “but none of us born here have ever witnessed what that meant.” She reached out to touch John Ten’s face. He blushed.
“Um,” he said. Grace made John drive, taking the passenger seat, and somehow positioning John Ten in the bench seat next to Clotilde.
“What are you doing?” John asked Grace softly.
“There’s no Casey in 7601,” she whispered back. “She seems like a nice girl.”
“You’re matchmaking him with an Alarian?” John asked.
“Shush!” Grace replied. “7601 is a fine universe for all of them to emigrate to.”
“But—”
“Really, you’re going to argue with me?”
“Okay, fine.”
John sped them across Ohio toward the Crimson Livery Rental in Wheeling, West Virginia. Grace had reserved four minibuses.
“You guys can drive these, can’t you?” Grace asked.
The Johns shared a look, scoffing at her. “We grew up on a farm!” John Ten said. “We can drive anything.” He glanced at Clotilde, making sure she was listening to him. She was. John tried not to roll his eyes.
But as he watched John Ten maneuver near Clotilde, speak so that she knew he was speaking, and always be ready to assist her, John reminded himself that there was no Casey in his universe. In 7322 and 7351 (called Universe Low and Universe Champ, since one was the lowest settled universe and in the other, John’s basketball team had won the state championship), John and Casey were an item for certain. And maybe they were in every universe where the two lived in Findlay. Prime had his Casey, and John had the Casey in 7650. It was almost as if it was always meant to be. Except for John Ten, who’d never had a chance to find his own Casey. But he certainly liked Clotilde.
John Ten agreed to lead the caravan since that meant Clotilde would ride with him. The four buses formed a convoy into Pennsylvania, and around midnight they pulled onto a dark road that led into a wooded lot on the east side of Pittsburgh. The road meandered until they reached a stone wall nearly three meters high. The road formed a circle in front of the gate, and all four buses lined up there as if it was last bell at some nocturnal grade school.
Clotilde emerged from her bus and walked to the gate. The metal gates were chained together, but she easily slipped between the two gates; the chain was too loo
se to hold them completely closed. There was no guard as far as John could tell. Clotilde disappeared into the darkness beyond the wall.
Minutes ticked by. Grace was silent beside him. John stood up and said, “This is driving me nuts.”
Grace caught his arm. “Hold on.” She peered intently into the darkness past the gate. “Here they come.”
A flash of white in the darkness caught his eye. He thought it was a plastic bag blowing in the wind, then two more shapes appeared, then a dozen. But no, it was a line of women walking toward them, dressed in white skirts that covered their bodies from neck to toes. Leading them was Clotilde. She produced a key and unlocked the gate.
John counted fifty-three women.
“Let’s go.”
John realized that it would be a tight fit. Each of the women had baskets, bags, or handfuls of clothes and objects—utensils, radios, books. As the group neared the buses, they stopped and stared at the Johns. They were all tall and nearly all blond, with the Nordic look that was common to the Alarians.
It was Grace who rushed forward and took the nearest by the hand.
“Let’s go, ladies,” she said. “We have a long way to go tonight. Let’s get going.”
She led the first woman to the nearest bus and placed her things in the back. After that, each of the Johns helped stow their belongings.
The women, silent at first, were suddenly loud and boisterous, jostling to get their things packed in the back. As John loaded baskets and bags, the women reached out and touched his face one by one.
“John Wilson,” one of them whispered. Then another said it. “John Wilson.”
“It’s John Rayburn, actually,” he said self-consciously.
“John Rayburn,” a woman said. “Thank you.”
John looked over to see each woman handing Grace a sheaf of paper, payment for their passage. Some women had no paper, but Grace waved them onto the minibuses anyway.
“Quiet, please,” John whispered.
“Don’t worry, sir,” someone said. He turned to see Clotilde walking toward him. “The single guard will not bother us.”
“Did you…?” John Ten asked.
“No,” Clotilde said, blushing. “He’s not dead. But his head will ache in the morning.”
They managed to load all of the women, fifty-four counting Clotilde, though some had to sit on the floor, leaning against the plush seats. It took far longer than John expected, but no alarm sounded, no guards emerged from the dark, no Gesalex appeared to demand the return of the women.
The caravan departed with the rumbling of diesel engines.
Beside him, Grace grinned.
“We saved them all,” John said.
Grace raised an eyebrow. She waved the sheaf of paper at John. “And we were well paid for it.”
“How much?”
“Six hundred and change shares of Grauptham House,” she said. “As soon as we have these notarized in the morning.”
“Of the thousand?”
“Yes, we own a majority share of Grauptham House.”
CHAPTER 18
The morning was a madhouse. The call had gone out to all the universes, and the pinball factory was the center of the craziness. Representatives from every settled universe were present, calming the Alarian women, calling to find notaries available on a Saturday morning, and making breakfast.
Luckily it was a weekend, and the factory was closed. The guard had been sent home, rather than allow him to see ten identical John Rayburns, six Graces, five Henrys, and three Caseys.
“Found one,” John Gore said. “Said she’ll be out here in two hours with her notary stamps.” Universe Gore—Universe 7512—was an environmental nightmare universe, where big business had sacrificed the planet for profits, leading to global temperatures that were noticeably higher and weather more chaotic than any other universe.
“That’s three notaries on the way,” Grace Home said. “We need to make sure all these women have identification.”
Clotilde nodded. “I made sure. We all have certificates of identification and social security numbers.”
“Just no driver’s licenses?” John asked.
“That was forbidden,” Clotilde said. “But I’d like to learn,” she added with a smile.
“I’ll teach you,” John Ten said.
John Prime and his Casey—Casey Prime—appeared, trailing a half-dozen Alarian women. They had raided the local Roebucks for clothing, suitcases, and toiletries, enough for all fifty-four of their guests.
“Let’s line them up alphabetically,” he said to Casey as he passed by.
“We’ll label their spot with their name,” Casey Prime replied. “Give them all a suitcase or duffel and the best match we can for size.”
“We’re going to need another trip,” Prime said, brushing past John with a nod.
In the little kitchenette in the back of the factory, a gaggle of Henrys and Graces were making pancakes on a dozen griddles they’d purchased at Callahan’s in Columbus on the way back.
John shook his head at the bustle around him. And yet they were all of a like mind. How could it be different? Most of them were the same person and had the same synapses, the same mores. Of course they would work well together.
It was a madhouse, but they were getting things done.
He glanced at Grace, who looked pensive.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “It’s all coming together.”
“Gesalex is going to respond,” she said. “The question is how soon.”
“We can move somewhere else…”
“No,” Grace said. “Everyone is here. The notaries are coming here. The quarry site is too small and not safe for a large group. People would be tripping over the cords.”
“I guess we’ll just have to be quick,” John said.
“He could be here any time.”
“Maybe we need weapons,” John said. He knew that Casey had her pistol. She always carried it now. Did anyone else have weapons?
He waved over Henry Low and said, “See who’s carrying weapons and come up with an idea to get some more.”
“We should also post a guard,” Grace said. “Park the minibuses across the entrance to the parking lot. That should keep them from driving right into our front office.”
John assigned the task to John Champ.
“First notary is here,” someone shouted.
“I got this,” Grace said. She rubbed her face, seemed to grab ahold of herself, and walked forward, suddenly the CEO of a company. “Hi, I’m Grace Shisler, thanks for coming on short notice.”
She led the notary—who seemed a little dazed by all the frenetic activity—to a table. Grace started calling the Alarian women over one by one alphabetically.
“Aduswintha!” Grace called. “Please come forward.”
It was a madhouse. But John felt like they were actually doing something. Grace’s plan was gutsy, off the charts, out of the box. But if they pulled it off, everyone won, except for Gesalex.
John glanced at Grace, who was discussing something with the notary. The notary finally seemed to accept Grace’s explanation, took Aduswintha’s identification card, and then stamped the certificate. She handed the certificate to Grace.
Grace saw John watching and mouthed the words, “One percent.”
John remained at the center of the chaos, coordinating action, making sure there was enough breakfast, finding tables for the notaries to do their work. The Alarians did not complain at the slightest inconvenience, and cheerfully pitched in with whatever task he assigned them.
“Here’s a shopping list for the grocery store,” he said to one. “Go with the Henry there and take two others. Here’s cash.” He pulled two hundred dollars from his wallet.
“Make sure the guards on the roof all have what they need,” he said. “Coffee, soda, bathroom breaks.”
When a dozen of the Alarian women had had their papers notarized, John had one of the other Johns drive them to the quar
ry. Until they knew the ramifications of what they’d done, the women would stay in 7601, guests of John Ten. He and Clotilde had already transferred over and were searching for a cheap hotel, a mansion, anything that they could rent for all fifty-four women.
Luckily funds were not a problem. Pinball Wizards had been placing cash and gold reserves in each settled universe, in case of emergencies. They’d have to transfer more gold to 7601 soon to cover some costs, but for the moment, they had enough to rent a location and keep the women fed. He made a mark on the transfer ledger to transfer ten thousand grams of gold to 7601. John handed the ledger to John Quayle, who was headed to the quarry office. The ledger was their method of tracking material goods transfers. A computer system—a networked computer system!—would have made the process easier. Though how they would network across universes, he didn’t know. In any case, John Ten would need a constant stream of cash to care for his fifty-four guests.
“What are we going to do with fifty-four women?” John muttered to himself.
“Nothing,” one of them said—Englavira. She was the oldest of those who had left the night before. Clotilde said a dozen more had stayed, refusing to go or not even being asked to leave. “You just give us a start, and we take it from there.”
“But all by yourselves? In a new universe?” John said. “We can help you.”
“We’ll take some help,” Englavira said with a faint smile. “But we’ve spent our lives in bondage, kept as chattel for breeding purposes, or, in the case of those not ‘pure’ enough, as slave labor.”
“Some of you, Clotilde and yourself,” he said, “seem very liberated for living in the society that you did.”
Englavira smiled. She was only a few centimeters shorter than John, almost a platinum blonde, broadly shouldered, but voluptuous.
“They liked to think they had us cloistered,” she said. “But you can’t live fifty years in a place and not be influenced by it. We had a cache of books, magazines, and papers. We taught the younger ones. Clotilde is our best student, and I understand exactly why she ran to you when she heard the offer. We have been slowly liberating ourselves from Alarian culture for years.”
“How much do you know about how they got here?” John asked.
