Eileen Gunn - Stable Strategies and Others

When school ended, Barbie walked as slow as she could, trying to look natural, like she wasn’t in a hurry. Minerva spotted her and waited.

“Are you okay?” Minerva said. “Don’t forget what I told you. About the test? My answers are yours.” She seemed hesitant to leave, and the niggling worry that she was about to be busted caught Barbie off guard. Before she could stop herself, she was thinking of Juan.

“Oh,” said Minerva. “That’s what your problem is.”

Barbie shrugged.

“Hey, entertain us,” said Minerva. “You’ve got it bad, don’cha?” She smoothed her bald head and closed her eyes, concentrating. Barbie expected to feel the icy probe, but didn’t. “Your pathetic secret is safe with me,” Minerva said.

Barbie was embarrassed to face her.

“I’m not gonna tell, don’t you get it?” She reached out as if to pat Barbie on the shoulder, but must have thought better of it. “Nevermind,” she said with a salute. “See you tomorrow.”

The next day, when Mr. C passed out the quiz sheets, Barbara felt ready. Nervous, but ready. “Don’t turn them over until I say it’s time,” he said.

Carl looked at the wall clock. He closed his eyes in mock sleep and murmured smugly, “Wake me five minutes before the bell rings.” Barbie wanted to kick him.

Mr. C stood behind the low counter, surrounded by buckets and burners and flasks of labeled chemicals. “Okay now, everyone turn over your sheets. Entertain us!”

Papers rustled like leaves. Minerva giggled. “Prank! A blank!”

“They’re all fucking blank,” said Carl. He sat up.

Mr. C’s face went slack and his eyes rolled back to show the whites. He swayed from side to side and a low rumbling noise came from the area near his mouth.

“Oh gross,” said Minerva. “Here it comes — his claim to fame. God, I hope he isn’t a contortionist.”

“I thought they killed them at birth,” said Carl.

“That’s abortionists,” said Minerva.

“He’s not a contortionist,” said Juan. “It’s something else.”

Mr. C opened his eyes, but the expression was glazed and unfocused. His lips moved as if he were chewing something. A low voice came out between them, but the words didn’t match the way his lips moved. It was like he was being used as a megaphone by someone inside his head.

“Ticonderogas sharpened and ready?” asked a gentle voice. “It’s so good to be back here in the Northwest. Born in Portland, you know. This is a test I always wanted to give my students at Caltech, but unfortunately not a one of them was expendable. Geniuses every one, the little bastards.” He cleared his throat. “The test takes the form of a real-life chemistry experiment. I hope you studied hard, because you’ll need to stop the reaction before it kills you.”

Mr. C seemed to be growing taller and thinner. His neck got longer, his skin grew looser, hanging in wrinkled wattles, like a turkey’s.

“Oh my God! He’s so incredibly old! Ooh! I can’t look,” said Minerva, covering her eyes.

“What’s happening to Mr. C?” Barbie asked. “Is he gonna die too?”

Carl got that look, like he was probing the teacher. His jaw dropped. All the telepaths listened in.

Minerva whispered to Barbie. “It’s not Mr. C,” she said. “It’s some scientist dude…. Huh! I know who it is! Mr. C is channeling Linus Pauling! Mr. C. can talk to the dead!”

“What,” said Barbie. “Who’s Linus Pauling?”

“I dunno, he’s sort of blank inside, because he’s not really here — he’s dead. I think he invented vitamin C or something.”

Pauling scooped a yellow lump from an unlabeled cannister and transferred it to a burette. “I love this!” he said, clapping his hands. He opened the valve on the bottom of the burette, just enough to let an anorexic stream of powder drip onto the counter. He fiddled with his keys and walked slowly to the door. “Locks from the inside,” he said, putting the key in the lock and turning it. “Just in case we want you whippersnappers to stay put.” From his pocket he brought out a small bottle and added an eyedropper full of clear liquid to the burette. “Whoa, baby,” said Pauling. His eyes glistened.

White gas roiled up and wafted toward them as the students watched in disbelief. By the time the visible cloud reached the front row, the entire class was coughing and rubbing their eyes.

“Augggh!” cried Carl, in tears. “It’s concentrated dog fart!”

The odor was pungent and extremely unpleasant. Barbie choked. Carl was wrong: dog farts smelled better.

“Anybody study the material?” Pauling asked. “Hope so, for your sake.”

“Hydrogen sulfide?” Barbie asked tentatively. Juan nodded.

“This substance is, of course, extremely unpleasant to breathe,” said Pauling with a chuckle. “And oh yes, it could in fact kill you.” He reached into a cardboard box on the floor and pulled out two containers and a rubber gas mask. “We have here two chemicals with which I’m sure you are all quite familiar, as you have just read Chapter Twelve. Each chemical will react in a different way with the element I’ve just liberated into the air. One should neutralize its effects; one may create a substance even more noxious than the one you’re breathing right now.” He chuckled.

“Hey-hey. If you’re guessing, your odds of staying alive are fifty-fifty. If you studied last night, your chances improve.”

His face disappeared beneath the gas mask. Then he jumped up on top of the counter, pulled his shirt-tails out of his pants, and shook his hair down over his face. He bent his knees and played an invisible guitar. A familiar voice echoed from the gas mask, singing. “No one is ever too young to die….”

“This is no time to entertain us,” yelled Carl, tossing a half-full can of Pepsi at the Cobain impersonator.

“Mr. C! Don’t do this!” screamed Minerva. “It’s not fair!”

“Life isn’t fair,” said the man who looked like Linus Pauling. “You twerps have the attention span of fruit flies. Solve the problem, or you’ll have their life expectancy too.” He adjusted his gas mask. “This is it. Give me the answer or die trying.”

The fumes from the spilled chemical were becoming unbearable. Barbie felt as though her nose was on fire, and her eyes stung. It was the second time in two days that a guy had tried to suffocate her, which kind of pissed her off. Then she noticed that she couldn’t actually smell the stuff anymore, though her nose still burned. Maybe it shorted out, she thought. Did noses do that? She was starting to feel sick.

Suddenly, T’Shawn grabbed her wrist, and they both rose to the ceiling. She sucked in a deep lungful of untainted air. The chemistry test, heavier than air, was roiling below. Some of the students were trying to get out, but the door was locked and the windows were barred. “Are they all going to die?” she asked.

“Don’t worry,” said T’Shawn. He leaned in close to kiss her. “We’ll take care of it.”

It was exciting to be near him like that, unnoticed and apart from the pandemonium below. She slid her hands around his waist and drew him closer. He put his mouth on her earlobe, and she suddenly understood about ear nibbling: your ears were hotwired to your twat. Electricity spread throughout her body.

They were both breathing hard. He reached up under her shirt.

“Don’t,” said Barbara. “I mean, there’s all these people.”

“I don’t think they’re paying any attention,” said T’Shawn. He reached between her legs, and for a moment all she could think about was getting him inside her. His hand, his cock, whatever.

She fumbled with his belt buckle, trying to get it undone.

“We’ve got time,” he said. “We can do it and get out. We’ve got time.”