I was starting to realize Dr. Plaskington responded better to more direct questions. “What is it the Old Ones want to do? What are they attempting to accomplish that kidnapping my dad and me might help them with?”
She stood, seeming suddenly inspired, and searched through a huge handbag on a table in the corner. “We aren’t completely sure, and several theories will be covered in your classes, but the upshot is that about fifty thousand years ago the Old Ones essentially ruled the world, and most agree they’d like to have it back. But listen to me, going on about ancient history when we have more pressing concerns! No sense in discussing all that for free when your classes are already paid for. What you need to know right now is that the Old Ones are still around and still trying to disassemble your civilization.”
“So it’s like a cold war with them? A standoff?”
“It’s more of what you’d call a hot war, in that it’s being fought every day and we are at all times under constant attack. Why do you think this school is put together like an impenetrable fortress?” She raised her hands as if indicating all the obvious stuff I should have seen, but there hadn’t been so much as a fence that I remembered.
I shrugged. “It seemed kind of penetrable to me. We drove here.”
Dr. Plaskington pointed sharply in my direction. “You were allowed in. You crossed the gap and did not cease to exist, you were cleared by the bees and were not stung, and you were not utterly destroyed by our sonic cannon or any one of at least ten other active countermeasures.”
“Those bees were security? How did you train them?”
“Those bees aren’t trained. They’re robots. Robots that are designed specifically to defend against the Old Ones and other unwelcome visitors. If the Old Ones persuade gullible humans to rise up against us, the bees could drive them off or kill them. If the Old Ones attack the School personally, as they have done in the past, the bee stings deliver certain chemical and electromagnetic devices that would be excruciatingly painful to them.” She returned to her seat and opened a drawer. “Read about them in here, if you like.” She handed me a pamphlet with the title How to Keep the Bees From Killing You. Pleasant.
She was now producing other pamphlets from her desk and handing them over as she spoke. One was entitled Real-World Camouflage and the Visibly Alien Child; another was They’re After YOU, Dummy! My favorite had a cartoonish picture of a huge monster with about a million tentacles that was clearly about to murder a small, terrified girl. This one was called Why Didn’t Mommy Pay for the Optional Electronic Defense Classes?
Dr. Plaskington went into what sounded like a rehearsed speech. “The world is a dangerous place once you’ve been linked to the parahuman community. My school will provide you with a top-notch education, but that’s only part of the deal. We’ll also guarantee your safety while you’re here and train you to defend yourself so you can survive on your own if you should ever choose to live outside a protected community. One hundred percent of our students leave here one hundred percent ready to protect themselves and their families against the Old Ones. That’s a guarantee.”
It was a bold statement made a little less bold by the next pamphlet she gave me, which was entitled Safety Guarantee Terms and Conditions and was written in something like two-point font. I could barely make out the first line—which began, Guarantee does not assure or imply a refund of any funds or other payment.
I made a mental note: If I ever get murdered by the Old Ones, good luck getting my tuition returned. “So do I just . . . go to school, or . . . what happens next?”
“What happens next is we make every effort to locate your father, and you remain here to begin your education. I’m certain you will distinguish yourself in many ways. Plus, that tuition money has been sitting in your account for far too long—it’s long past time to put that cash to work for you!”
“So,” I continued, “I’m supposed to be attending school here, and I’m just going to forget about whatever is happening to my dad. Like, ‘Oh, Dad’s been kidnapped; guess I’ll study for Biology.’”
“That is a rather concise summary,” Dr. Plaskington said, “but still essentially true. What else would we do? Would you have us provide you with transportation and one of those ridiculous human projectile weapons . . . what do you call them? With the tubes, like a metal spitball in a straw?”
It took me a moment. “A . . . gun?”
“Yes! Thank you,” she said. “Do we give you a gun so you might perform a house-by-house search? Where would you begin? Mexico? Peru? Perhaps the Mariana Trench? One of Jupiter’s moons? All of these are options.”
It was time to shift gears again, I decided. “Tell me more about the Old Ones,” I said. “How did they rule the whole world? What kind of powers are we talking about?”
A few moments of silence followed in which she appeared lost in thought. Then she held a single finger aloft just before she leaped up, strode across the room, and pulled open the bottommost drawer of the metal filing cabinet. After rummaging behind several hanging folders, she emerged holding a truly enormous submarine sandwich. An errant leaf of lettuce slid out and filed itself under EXPULSIONS.
Dr. Plaskington’s triumphant expression resembled those on fishermen photographed with their record-breaking catches.
She took a bite the size of a softball and began chewing thoughtfully. I wondered if she was able to unhinge her jaw like a snake. It would probably be impolite to ask.
Speaking of impolite, Dr. Plaskington did not let a two-pound mouthful of sandwich deter her from speaking. “The Old Onsch are . . . intherdimenshinal creatursh . . .” She swallowed hard. “Sorry. The Old Ones are malevolent interdimensional creatures who share a single hive mind—it’s covered in your pamphlets.” She must have misinterpreted my surprised expression, because she held the uneaten end of the sandwich out to me. “Want some?”
Even though Miss Hiccup had so generously purchased me nearly ninety-nine cents’ worth of gas station cookies just six hours before, I was pretty hungry. “What the heck,” I said, and took a bite.
One time, when I was a little kid, my dad took me to a fancy restaurant. I think it was to celebrate my first publication in the journal Nature. In the bathroom, they had these fancy colored soaps that looked a bit like candy. I was young and a bit naive, so I took a bite out of a sweet-looking yellow one.
I bring this up because I would gladly go back in time and finish that entire bar of lemon-bleach soap if it would erase the memory of Dr. Plaskington’s sandwich from my mind. I would finish every bar of soap in the restaurant and wash it down with blue toilet water. The moment the bite was in my mouth it was instantly on fire. It took every ounce of determination I could muster not to vomit on the spot.
The doctor smiled warmly. “Good, eh? My own culinary innovation—peanut butter, aged tuna, bhut jolokia ghost peppers, and a little elemental gallium to cut the spiciness. I use only weapons-grade peppers.”
She smiled and patted my hand as I coughed and attempted not to black out. “Okay! You need to move into your housing, get a class schedule, ah, and I’m forgetting several other things. I would like to give you a complete tour of the campus so you feel at home here, but I’m terribly lazy. Here’s a map instead.” She handed me another small pamphlet from her desk. “As I mentioned, your father paid everything in advance. You have a spending allowance for meals and supplies, so go nuts.”
This particular pamphlet contained a map of the entire town. Houses were labeled with the names of students living there. The rest of the buildings seemed to be the types of establishments you’d expect to see in your average small town (the Social Function Café), but many places had two names—what the signage said and the actual purpose of the building. For instance, the Mane Event Beauty Salon was actually the Marie Curie Center for the Radioactive Arts. I located the English and Company building and discovered that it was the Theoretical Lite
rature classroom.
“The school is the whole town,” I said, my voice still hoarse from the world’s worst taste test.
“Yes. I got a great deal on it many years ago. There was an asbestos plant here that closed down for some silly reason—fantastic stuff, asbestos—so the place was practically abandoned already. I simply bought out the vacant buildings and set up shop. I’m sorry to rush you, but I have an urgent appointment just now, so we have to wrap things up.”
I think we both knew she was talking about the sandwich.
She went on: “So if you have any further questions, you are always welcome to make an appointment or consult the Chaperone.”
“What’s the Chaperone?” I said.
“It’s an advanced artificial intelligence program that helps monitor and manage day-to-day activities here. You’ll meet her soon enough.”
“Her?”
But Dr. Plaskington was no longer taking questions. She pressed a button on the desk. “Mr. Einstein! What’s that girl’s name?”
A voice filtered into the room. “It’s Nikola. She should be in there now. Why didn’t you ask her?”
“No, no, no. The other one!”
“Jane?”
“No! Sharpen up!”
“Francine? Penny? Dlphklixtia? Bingo? Hypatia? De—”
“That’s the one! Hypatia! She’s giving this one a tour and taking her to her house. They’re roommates now, so make that happen, too.”
“Yes, okay,” Mr. Einstein said over the speaker. “She’ll be right up.”
I had one more question. “How can you be absolutely certain my dad is okay?”
“Come again?” the doctor asked.
“You said you were ‘absolutely certain’ that my dad was alive and well. How can you be so certain?”
“I told you, dear. I got an email.”
“Yes, but from who?” I asked, wondering if the parahumans had some kind of former-student tracking system.
“From your father, of course. Who else could speak authoritatively on the subject?”
My dad had emailed her? “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did. I said very clearly that I had gotten an email. You really should pay closer attention when people are speaking to you. Would you like to see it?”
“Yes! Why wouldn’t I?”
“I was starting to wonder that myself, but some families aren’t that close. Here you go.” She slid a tablet across the desk to me, which I snapped up.
A message was already loaded on the screen. The sender was listed as Unknown, and the subject read re: Melvin Kross Abduction. Below that, it said:
Good afternoon, Patricia,
I feel it is urgent to inform you that I have been abducted by the Old Ones. They took me by force from my home this afternoon and have transported me to a location I cannot identify. It is dank and the food is poor. They have behaved with rather shocking violence and cruelty toward me. Worst of all, there is no Internet access here. Because of that, I am sending this via an emergency onetime transmitter of my own design. Just a little piece of engineering I cooked up a few months ago that uses a remote linking node . . .
He goes on here for several paragraphs about the design of his onetime transmitter, which can send a single message from any location in the solar system and guarantees the message will not be filtered as spam when it is received. You probably don’t want to read about it.
I am alive and mostly unharmed, if a little irritated. From what I understand, they attempted to abduct Nikola as well, but the individual who left to do this has just returned with severe burns and a distinct attitude problem. This leads me to believe Nikola was able to evade capture. I have left instructions with a local educator named Miss Halstron that Nikola should be brought to your school in such an event.
Halstron! That was Miss Hiccup’s actual name.
I would very much appreciate it if you could make preparations for their arrival and allow them entrance without attempting to disintegrate or otherwise cause them to cease living.
Please assume responsibility for Nikola’s care, education, and feeding while I am indisposed. As we have discussed, she is more than equal to the challenges of the School, and I am certain she will perform remarkably.
Please be aware I still have the receipt for the payment I put down toward a full education, so you can forget about billing me a second time. I have already begun making plans for my escape and should be free within a few weeks, or several years, depending on how well everything goes. They may also kill me. You know how they are.
It is very important to me that Nikola continue her education and life with as little disruption as possible. Because I do not want to cause her unnecessary distress regarding my condition and location, please DO NOT share these details with her. Instead, tell her I have gone on vacation with a friend and that the abduction attempts were a prank. In addition, please give her a copy of the text below. She will be able to read it.
Warm regards,
Melvin
Below that was a series of garbled characters that I instantly recognized as our personal encryption scheme. I had learned it at the same time I learned how to read, so it was second nature to me, even though it was indecipherable to anyone else.
This part said:
Nikola,
I hope this message finds you well. I have decided to go on vacation with my old friend Carter Reagan, who you have never heard of but is a very nice person who likes to pull practical jokes involving violent abduction attempts. LOL. We are having a great time at our destination, although I can’t remember where that is at the moment, so don’t try to join me, even though that would be nice. The School is an excellent learning institution, and I think you may enjoy it almost as much as your school back home. Please try to get along with your peers and learn as much as you can. I hope to return soon because I have become accustomed to your company and hold you in high regard.
With significant affection,
Melvin
PS: Do not, under any circumstances, taste the sandwich.
6
HYPATIA THEODOLPHUS
It was around that moment when there was a knock at the door and I was introduced to my new roommate.
Hypatia Theodolphus had long, curly blond hair that was so shiny and perfect I had to wonder if it had been transplanted directly from a Barbie doll’s head. Her face, highlighted with improbably blue eyes, was plump and cheerful, and her cheeks bore the rosy hue of someone who had recently been caught out in a blizzard. Have you ever seen those paintings of cherubs by Raphael? Hypatia would fit right in with that crowd, if the cherubs didn’t think she was too obnoxiously cute. Her figure was curvy in all the ways mine is angular, flat, and straight. She wore a cute little skirt, cute white frilly socks, cute shiny black patent leather shoes with cute little buckles on them, a hair ribbon with a matching buckle, and just generally looked more put together and stylish on a random Wednesday than I’ve looked at any point in my entire life.
Instantly, I knew I was in for trouble. The girl in front of me was an essay in junior high female perfection, down to the last detail. Without saying a word, she made me completely self-conscious, which was very rude of her, in my opinion. Here I was, thinking that even though my dad was missing, at least I would be exempt from the popularity and beauty contests that were traditional American middle schools, and the winning entry was standing in front of me.
I smiled, or to be honest, I was trying to smile, so it was more of a grimace.
She smiled back. “Sorry I’m such a mess. I have a break on Wednesdays, and I was taking a nap when Mr. Einstein called.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m a mess, too, but with me it’s more of a genetic thing.”
Hypatia smiled. “Nonsense! You look fine! The disheveled look is all the rage right now.”
&
nbsp; Normally, at this point in the conversation, I would say something that Miss Hiccup might have called inflammatory. I decided that if we were going to be roommates, I could hold my tongue for the moment.
If she noticed my teeth were clenched almost tightly enough to crush them, she said nothing. Instead, she launched into a commentary on our schedule. “We have class together at the Main Street Deli/Quantum Mechanics Lab at 3:21 PM. They’re doing a quantum suicide experiment today, so we can’t be late or we’ll have to go first. That gives us”—she checked her watch—“twenty-two minutes to show you around, which should be sufficient. Please keep up, and take down any questions you have on your computer so they don’t distract us from the schedule. Hold still.”
She lifted her tablet, pointed it at me, and took a photo.
“Is that for security or something?” I asked.
“What? Oh—no. I’m trying to meet more people, so I have a goal of making one new acquaintance per week. You’re the second this week, so I get next week off if I want.”
“So the picture is for . . .”
She shook her head, sending her hair bouncing all around. “For the spreadsheet! Now, grab your computer and we can get going.”
“I don’t have a computer on me,” I said.
Hypatia sighed, like I’d just sat on a slice of blueberry pie. “She hasn’t been given her supplies yet?” she asked Dr. Plaskington, who had gone back to staring at her chess set and had just forced down another massive portion of her sandwich.
“What? Oh, I’m not paying attention anymore, terribly sorry.” She flicked her hand dismissively in our general direction. “Have a nice day!”
“I have my own tablet,” I said, reaching for my backpack.
Hypatia rolled her eyes and produced a smartphone. “You’ll need a new one. Regular electronics won’t work here and couldn’t handle the software you’ll need to run anyway. We’ll visit the bookstore, but we’re going to have to cut out my proper schedule management discussion to make up for time.” Her expression made it clear I should feel very disappointed at missing out.
A Problematic Paradox Page 7
