by Sechin Tower
To get my mind off it, I tried passing the time by drawing up blueprints for an improved railway system. After all, we’d been using the same basic locomotive design for a century and a half, so I figured there was room for improvement. I wanted to do some research, but the conductor wouldn’t let me see the engine, and he didn’t really seem interested in my ideas to upgrade the power source from diesel fuel to a nuclear reactor, let alone to consider my proposal for using superconducting tracks to levitate the train via magnetic repulsion.
My Dad had said that train travel is unique in today’s world because you have a chance to get to know your fellow travelers and form a sort of community-in-motion. I’m pretty sure he was just saying that to make me feel better, because the community aboard the train really didn’t give me much to work with. For starters, all the passengers were old people, except when they were little children travelling with old people. Also, the only thing I ever heard them talk about was how much they felt safer in trains than in planes, as if they had to justify their choice of travel out loud at least once per mile-post. It made me wonder if airplanes were full of people who started conversations by announcing that they preferred not to be on rails.
After I got bored watching the unending miles of green pastures clickety-clacking past my window, I finally decided to try making friends with someone. In the crowded dining car, the waiter sat me next to this old lady who asked me where I was going then told me how wonderful it was for a young woman such as myself to be getting an education so that I could attract a better quality husband. I tried to tell her that I wanted to go to college to study robotics rather than husbands, but didn’t think she would understand. Then she started telling me how trains were safer than airplanes.
“Trains are also dangerous,” I said. “Statistics say that airplanes have fewer accidents.” I wasn’t trying to be rude, but I hadn’t said much in the conversation and I was worried she might start to think I wasn’t paying attention.
“Well, they may have fewer accidents, dear,” she said with a grandmotherly smile. “But if anything goes wrong in a plane, you fall right out of the sky.”
“If something goes wrong on a train,” I said. “You’re still trapped in a hurtling steel tube charged with enough momentum to disintegrate all the bones in your body at the instant of impact.”
Her face kind of turned white and she stopped talking after that. I immediately hated myself for saying such horrible things to her. It also made me even more afraid of how I would get along with college kids, because they might not be as nice to begin with.
I slunk back to my seat in the regular car, got down my backpack, and dug out one of my black hoodies. It wasn’t my favorite hoodie, but it was warm and let me pull something over my eyes. If I could concentrate on my designs for long-distance magnetic levitation trains, then I wouldn’t have to think about people. People were far too complicated and confusing.
I woke up when we came to a stop in a tiny town somewhere west of Fort Wayne, Indiana. The hood was still over my eyes, but I could hear a few passengers moving around. Then a scent of body odor assaulted my nose. I pulled back my hood to see the worst creeper I have ever laid eyes on, even including all the times I rode the 2 train back to Flatbush after dark.
This guy had a scruffy beard, but only a thin layer of stubble to mark the hairline on his scalp. He wore dirty jeans and scuffed motorcycle boots, but his thin torso and sinewy arms were completely bare except for a few lank chest hairs and some fading blue tattoos of mean-looking wolves and buzzards. On the left side of his chest, right over his heart, was a big swastika tattoo that looked darker and bolder than the rest.
The other passengers seated in my car looked away as the shirtless guy passed by. He studied each of them before moving on. Then his eyes fixed on me, and his mouth opened in a leering smile. Two of his yellow teeth were missing, but it didn’t really matter because he was already at maximum ugliness.
I pressed back as far as I could go in my seat, but there was no getting away from him.
“I got a present for ya,” he said in a raspy voice as he slid his hand down his naked belly towards his pants.
I wanted to scream but no noise came out of my throat. Then his hand completed its disgusting journey into his pants and he pulled out… a cell phone.
“A gift from the P’fessor,” he said as he dropped the phone in my lap. To my relief, three conductors entered the car and told the shirtless guy to get lost. As he disembarked, he noisily accused the conductors of being tools of an oppressive government.
“Are you all right, Miss?” the oldest of the three conductors asked me. It was the same guy who hadn’t let me into the engine room, but suddenly I liked him a whole lot better than I did before.
I nodded that I was okay, but I didn’t feel alright. I was shaky and light-headed, and my stomach was queasy. It was such a weird incident and it had happened so fast that I couldn’t figure it out. It sure looked like he had come on the train just to find me. But why me?
I looked down at the phone in my hand. It was a really top-of-the-line one, the kind me and my Dad would never be able to afford. It was sleek, black, and didn’t have any physical buttons because its entire face was a touch screen. Just when I was starting to figure out how to take off the cover to get a look inside, the phone buzzed.
I froze for a moment, not sure if I wanted to answer it. I really didn’t want to hear the shirtless guy’s rasping voice ever again, but it didn’t seem like the kind of phone that would belong to him. Maybe he had stolen it and its owner was calling to get it back. Maybe there was some other reason I couldn’t think of, and I would never find out if I didn’t pick up. Curiosity once again overpowered my better judgment as I clicked the “answer” button and lifted it to my ear.
“Hello, Sophia,” said a man’s voice.
I just about dropped the phone when I heard my name. “Who… who is this?”
“You may call me the Professor,” the voice answered. He sounded really mellow, like a radio announcer for a classical music station.
“What’s the deal with this phone?” I asked. “Why are you calling me?”
“I wanted to congratulate you on your scholarship.”
“Are you a teacher at the Institute?” I asked. “What was your last name again?”
“I am no longer with the Institute,” he said. “I do, however, have a vested interest in helping your school as well as its students. I thought I might offer you an extra scholarship package on top of the one you have already received. If you’re interested.”
“Extra scholarship?” I echoed. “I’m already getting a full ride plus room, board, and books. How much extra could there be?”
“Let’s say, ten thousand dollars. Cash.”
My jaw went numb and kind of just sagged open for a moment.
“Sophia?” he said. “Sophia, are you there?”
Finally, my brain started working again. “I’m not cam-whoring or anything,” I stated. “I don’t care how much you offer.”
“No, no, nothing like that,” the Professor laughed. “All I need you to do is some extra research for me. Think of it as a work-study program. Is that acceptable?”
“For ten thousand dollars?” I said. “What kind of thing do you want me to research?”
“This research can only be conducted with Institute resources,” he said. “I will let you know the exact details when you get there. Well, what do you say, Sophia? Will you take on this little project?”
My mind was racing, but I couldn’t see any harm in some extra work-study research. If it turned out to be something like designing bio-weapons or engineering flying monkeys, I would just quit.
“Okay, sure,” I said. “But only under one condition. Don’t give the money to me. I want you to give it to my Dad. In New York.”
“Easily done. I’ll proceed with the arrangements to pay him in advance while I pull together the details about what I want you to do for me. In the mean time, enjoy your new p
hone. I look forward to working with you, Sophia.”
I hung up, hardly able to believe my luck. Inside of ten minutes, I had been given a new phone and a student job that paid better than some people’s careers. I could save my Dad’s apartment and repay all the damages I’d caused over the years.
I called my Dad and told him that I was having a present sent to him but that it would be a surprise. I only wished I could be there to see his face when he got the money. Then I settled into my seat and started downloading apps onto my phone. It turned out that the train had a really strong Wi-Fi connection, which suddenly made it my favorite mode of transportation in the world.
September 12th
(Doomsday minus 5 days)
Chapter 8 ~ Dean
Everybody told Dean he was being an idiot to walk away from the station house in Los Angeles to go play school teacher in Minnesota. He agreed, but he couldn’t stop himself. Something was broken inside him, and he knew that it would never be fixed until he carried through.
Now, Dean sat outside the president’s office at Langdon University. It seemed like all he had done for the past week was sit. Sitting in his car as he drove the long highways from California to Minnesota. Sitting in diners and motel rooms, all the while thinking that McKenzie asking him to work here was really a secret code for something else, but he couldn’t work out what. Sitting in this office, waiting for his application to be laughed at.
Coming here and following through was the only thing he had, so he had applied for the position. The only thing he hoped to achieve was… what? He wasn’t sure he knew any more. It constantly nagged at him that there was nothing to show that she and he had shared any meaningful connection. Aside from a few police reports, there was nothing on paper to link the two: no marriage license, no common address, not even a joint magazine subscription. He hadn’t even been invited to the funeral. At this point, if just one person acknowledged his commitment to McKenzie then he might have been able to give up this whole crazy idea, go back to Los Angeles, and take the “for sale” sign off his house.
So far, reality had not been so kind: they took him seriously.
His application, such as it was, had been rubber-stamped by the Langdon University president in record time, and here he was, wearing his old interview suit and sitting in the foyer of the president’s office, clutching McKenzie’s handwriting sticky-note instead of a résumé.
Dean fiddled with the engagement rings he had hung from a chain around his neck while he waited for the receptionist to give him permission to enter the big office. It never came. Instead, Langdon University’s president came out to greet Dean where he sat. President Hart was a tall, thin man whose receding hairline revealed an angular head reminiscent of a breadbox. He extended a bony hand towards Dean as two students bearing oversized cameras snapped pictures with blinding flashes.
“I hope you don’t mind the photos,” he said as he pulled Dean in close for a well practiced pose. “These students are here on behalf of the yearbook. You know—a day in the life of the president, that sort of thing. You don’t mind, do you, Doctor Lazarchek? Oh—I’m sorry—it’s just Mister Lazarchek, isn’t it?” He re-positioned Dean for another picture, this time with the president pointing at some of the plaques on the wall as though he were explaining their long and storied history to a fascinated guest. Dean just blinked and tried to see through the lightning-bright camera flashes.
“I can see the caption now,” Hart said as he settled a hand on Dean’s shoulder and cycled through a few more poses. “It will say: ‘President Hart and the new Dean of Students of the Mechanical Science Institute.’ That will play nicely, don’t you think?”
Before Dean’s eyes cleared of the flashes, President Hart dismissed the photographers and led Dean into the office, deposited him on a leather sofa in the corner, and shut the heavy oak door behind him.
“Of course, this was no accidental double-booking with you and the photo shoot,” Hart said as he took a seat behind his broad desk. “I needed some evidence that I supported you in every reasonable way so that I’ll be in the clear when this scheme of yours falls apart.”
Dean stared blankly. “I don’t think I follow you, sir.”
“It’s all about appearances, Mr. Lazarchek. Politics to appease the board of directors and give our lawyers some ammunition when I move to close the Institute.”
“What?” Dean felt as if he’d been sucker-punched.
“Mr. Lazarchek,” Hart laced his fingers together and leaning forward on his desk. A framed photo of him in the same pose hung on the wall behind him. “Let me be frank: You do not belong here. You flunked out of college and now you think you can run one?”
“Well, sir, technically I didn’t flunk out. I transferred to the fire academy.”
“Laughable. Perfectly laughable. Logically, the only reason you are here right now is because you want money.”
Dean’s fist balled up. “Look, Mr. Hart—”
“President Hart,” he said, smiling as if they were discussing baseball scores over Sunday brunch. “I will also accept Doctor Hart, if you prefer.”
“Look, Doctor: you’re wrong. This job pays half what I got as a firefighter. I assure you, it isn’t about the money.”
“I’m not talking about your salary, Mr. Lazarchek. I’m talking about the Institute’s endowment. You will be controlling a budget of millions of dollars, but I’m sure you already knew that.”
Dean could feel his own eyes bug out of his head. “Millions?” He said stupidly. He was supposed to be a glorified baby-sitter here. Nobody said anything about managing a seven figure budget.
“Let me warn you that even as we speak, the professor who served as Dean of Students prior to Dr. McKenzie is rotting in jail for attempted embezzlement. If you try anything, if you misappropriate so much as a single Bunsen burner, I’ll have you behind bars so fast you won’t have time to zip up your orange jumpsuit. Do I make myself clear?”
“Look, Mr—Dr. Hart, I understand your concern. A million is a lot of money—”
“Not a million. Millions. Plural. Tens of them, maybe even a hundred, but I wouldn’t know because, according to the agreement we made when Langdon University absorbed the Institute, we don’t get to audit your budget in any way. That’s a pretty tempting situation for crooks like you. Don’t deny it and don’t play dumb with me—you aren’t smart enough to play dumb.”
Dean stood up abruptly. “However much is there, it doesn’t matter. I’m here because it was the last thing McKenzie—Professor McKenzie—asked me to do. If you don’t believe me now, I don’t give a damn, because, sir, I’m doing this for her and not for you.”
Dr. Hart leaned back in his broad, brown leather chair and thrummed his fingers on his broad, brown wooden desk. He watched Dean for a long minute of appraisal. Then the thin skin around his mouth tightened into a sly smirk.
“Have I misjudged you, Mr. Lazarchek?” he said in a neutral tone.
“I think you have, sir.”
“If so, I hope you will forgive me. I am trying to do what is best for this university. I need to consider all the political ramifications. That is my job. You can understand that, can’t you?”
Dean nodded cautiously and slowly sank back into his chair.
“You have a big job, and not much help,” Hart’s tone had changed now. A moment ago it had been icy and cutting. Now he sounded patronizing and slick. “Yes, indeed, you have a lot of responsibility. One misstep and you could end up damaging the lives of a great many young people. You don’t want that, do you? Many eyes will be watching you, Mr. Lazarchek. I won’t always be able to protect you. On the other hand, you could sign the endowment over to me for safe keeping. Then you would ensure that the prosperity of the university is entrusted in the hands of a dedicated educator.”
“President Hart,” Dean leaned forward. “I’m no con man, but I can still smell a con job when I step in it.”
Hart frowned, then sighed. “Mr. Laz
archek, come join me at the window.”
They moved to the panoramic window. Back in L.A., the views Dean had seen overlooked nothing but concrete and asphalt. Here, human-made constructs seemed to be an afterthought nestled in a continent of tranquil glades and flat green fields. Last night’s rain left everything sparkling, as though the leaves of the trees and the eaves of the buildings were dotted with glinting diamonds. The sky above was scintillatingly bright and fresh, and with a jolt Dean realized that it was completely unfiltered by smog. Though it boggled his Californian mind, cars were allowed only as far as the parking lots on the outskirts of campus, while all the paths inside were carefully preserved for pedestrians and cyclists.
As he looked out at the green grass and red bricks of the campus, Dean began to connect real-life buildings with the positions on the little map he had picked up at the student union building. He spotted the library, built at the edge of a small valley so that students entered on the top floor. Then he recognized the psychology building with its 1960s avant-garde architecture and the monstrous and languid Humanities building, made out of chalky red bricks and wrought-iron embellishments, all liberally strewn with bright green ivy. To the west, the flags of the field house and football stadium winked at him through the trees.
“Do you see the Institute, Mr. Lazarchek?” Hart asked. “It’s located at Topsy House, off behind that grove, there.”
Dean knew that Topsy was the one and only building belonging to the Mechanical Science Institute, but he had not yet laid eyes on it. Even with Hart pointing it out, he had to search for it in the distance. First, he found the north parking lot, which students used least often because it was the farthest away from other classrooms. Just beyond that point, there rested a flat building with white columns and a set of steps wide enough to do justice to any courthouse in the country. The trees screened most of the building, and from ground level it would have been difficult to find were it not for the clock tower that projected sixty or seventy feet into the air.
