There was still one more thing I had to do before I left this world. Lee Tan and I and some other people went to my duplicate's house in San Francisco. I had brought with me a journal from a stationery store.
"So this is it," said Lee Tan. "Your dimensional duplicate from this world."
"That is his journal, a recording of the last days before the plague destroyed his world," I said.
"So we're going to take this journal back to the school?"
"No," I said. "it will be left here with everything else. I'm going to copy it word for word. I have the same handwriting as he does, so it shopuld look nearly identical."
And so that is what I did. I copied the entries from September 5, 1989 to his last entry on May 31, 1990 - eight months worth of entries. It took over an hour to finish the entries.
"Well, I'm done here," I said. I left the original journal on the carpet next to the bed where my duplicate's dessicated skeleton lay.
"I found a family album," said a woman who came with us. "Should we leave it here?"
"We can take it," I said. I glanced through the photographs; I identified my duplicate, his parents, and Quinn. There were also other people in the album, whom I assumed were cousins, aunts, and uncles. Back where I grew up, I did not know any cousins, and the only uncle I knew was Uncle Mac. Quinn had told me about one or two of his cousins.
We went back to the school and showed the journal copy to Father Feretti.
"This is great," he said.
"We should make as many copies of these as we can," I said. "Future generations must know about the history of this world."
"It would be like this journal that was found in Pompeii."
"Where?" I asked, unfamiliar with the term.
"It was a city that was buried when Mount Vesuvius erupted about nineteen hundred years ago," said the priest. "When the site was excavated four hundred years ago, a journal was found, written by a servant of one of the patrician families. It was carefully preserved and copied and translated. I bought a copy of the journal twenty years ago-written in the original Latin-and I still have it. The ending is rather abrupt, as the volcanic eruption was so swift he did not even have time to write about it. The original journal was in a museum in Rome when the plague struck. It may still be there, or someone might have taken it. None of us know what is happening in that part of the world."
"Well, maybe Colin Mallory's journal will become a museum piece within, say, thirty years."
"It all depends on what civilization we build. Anyway, I am sure the younger ones will enjoy copying this manuscript, just as Christian monks copied the Gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ."
I spent another hour copying the journal. After reviewing it word for word to ensure that the journal was accurate, I gave a copy to Father Feretti. I then made one more copy of the journal.
That night, dinner was served. It would be my last dinner on this world, for tomorrow I will leave. I decided to sit across from Deana. She was very quiet as she ate the chicken meat.
"How are you feeling?" I asked.
"Fine," she said quietly. It was obvious she was not feeling fine.
"Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?"
"Not really."
"Listen, I made a copy of a journal opf a man who died of the plague. I'd like you to have it."
Deana took the journal and browsed through it. "Thanks," she said.
Later that night, Deana and I stood outside, smoking marijuana.
"do you want to talk about it?" I asked.
"No!" she shouted. "I don't want to talk about it!"
"I don;t think you could just keep it inside. I can not understand how you felt."
"Well, don't!"
We both stood outside, quietly smoking marijuana.
"I don't know why this happened to meg. Why did my parents have to die? Why did they take me to Sacramento? Why did they...they... I don't know if everythin is ever going to be okay."
That was a feeling I was too familiar with. When I met Quinn, Rembrandt, and Maggie two years ago, they were still dealing with the loss of the professor and Wade whom they lost the year before. And nine months ago I was separated from them and I still miss them and wonder if they are all right, and they must feel the same about me. And of course there are my parents who sired me, who sent me away because of a world war, and who have no idea whether or not I am still alive.
Sometimes I doubt whether or not everything will be all right.
And yet I look at Deana. Her very soul had been wounded, and she may never recover from that wound. What happened to her was worse than the tortures the kromaggs inflicted on Rembrandt when he was in that prison camp, or even the tortures inflicted on me when I was held in the Presidio nine months ago.
The next day was the day I was about to leave. I received beef and chicken jerky for my journey to come. I had only a few minutes left. Father Feretti and the others were going to send me off. I patted my coat pocket, which contained a copy of my duplicate's journal.
"Well, good luck on your journey," said Father Feretti. "The Lord Jesus Christ will be with you."
"Good luck on your quest to build a new civilization," I said.
"I hope you find your brother, Colin," said Lee Tan.
"Goodbye, Colin," said Deana. "I'll be sad to see you go."
"Well, just take it one day at a time," I said. "It's what I do."
And then they all disappeared. I dound myself in a garbage-strewn alley.
I thought back for a moment. It is unfortunate I could not stay longer to help Deana deal with the emotional wounds of the past day. I guessed she was lucky to have friends to help her through his time.
But I had to look towards the future. I had to reunite with my brother. And my first order of business was to scout the area.
One end of the alley opened into a street. and it was a busy street. Cars drove down one direction of the street, apparently it was a one way street. There were people walking along the sidewalks, and entering or leaving the stores along the street. There were no obvious signs that a plague wiped out the entire adult population a decade before.
I wandered around for a few minutes, making observations about this new world such as reading the street signs and the storefront signs. I looked at my watch, and I had but a little less than three days.
That should be enough time to learn how to speak Chinese.
"So this is it," said Lee Tan. "Your dimensional duplicate from this world."
"That is his journal, a recording of the last days before the plague destroyed his world," I said.
"So we're going to take this journal back to the school?"
"No," I said. "it will be left here with everything else. I'm going to copy it word for word. I have the same handwriting as he does, so it shopuld look nearly identical."
And so that is what I did. I copied the entries from September 5, 1989 to his last entry on May 31, 1990 - eight months worth of entries. It took over an hour to finish the entries.
"Well, I'm done here," I said. I left the original journal on the carpet next to the bed where my duplicate's dessicated skeleton lay.
"I found a family album," said a woman who came with us. "Should we leave it here?"
"We can take it," I said. I glanced through the photographs; I identified my duplicate, his parents, and Quinn. There were also other people in the album, whom I assumed were cousins, aunts, and uncles. Back where I grew up, I did not know any cousins, and the only uncle I knew was Uncle Mac. Quinn had told me about one or two of his cousins.
We went back to the school and showed the journal copy to Father Feretti.
"This is great," he said.
"We should make as many copies of these as we can," I said. "Future generations must know about the history of this world."
"It would be like this journal that was found in Pompeii."
"Where?" I asked, unfamiliar with the term.
"It was a city that was buried when Mount Vesuvius erupted about nineteen hundred years ago," said the priest. "When the site was excavated four hundred years ago, a journal was found, written by a servant of one of the patrician families. It was carefully preserved and copied and translated. I bought a copy of the journal twenty years ago-written in the original Latin-and I still have it. The ending is rather abrupt, as the volcanic eruption was so swift he did not even have time to write about it. The original journal was in a museum in Rome when the plague struck. It may still be there, or someone might have taken it. None of us know what is happening in that part of the world."
"Well, maybe Colin Mallory's journal will become a museum piece within, say, thirty years."
"It all depends on what civilization we build. Anyway, I am sure the younger ones will enjoy copying this manuscript, just as Christian monks copied the Gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ."
I spent another hour copying the journal. After reviewing it word for word to ensure that the journal was accurate, I gave a copy to Father Feretti. I then made one more copy of the journal.
That night, dinner was served. It would be my last dinner on this world, for tomorrow I will leave. I decided to sit across from Deana. She was very quiet as she ate the chicken meat.
"How are you feeling?" I asked.
"Fine," she said quietly. It was obvious she was not feeling fine.
"Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?"
"Not really."
"Listen, I made a copy of a journal opf a man who died of the plague. I'd like you to have it."
Deana took the journal and browsed through it. "Thanks," she said.
Later that night, Deana and I stood outside, smoking marijuana.
"do you want to talk about it?" I asked.
"No!" she shouted. "I don't want to talk about it!"
"I don;t think you could just keep it inside. I can not understand how you felt."
"Well, don't!"
We both stood outside, quietly smoking marijuana.
"I don't know why this happened to meg. Why did my parents have to die? Why did they take me to Sacramento? Why did they...they... I don't know if everythin is ever going to be okay."
That was a feeling I was too familiar with. When I met Quinn, Rembrandt, and Maggie two years ago, they were still dealing with the loss of the professor and Wade whom they lost the year before. And nine months ago I was separated from them and I still miss them and wonder if they are all right, and they must feel the same about me. And of course there are my parents who sired me, who sent me away because of a world war, and who have no idea whether or not I am still alive.
Sometimes I doubt whether or not everything will be all right.
And yet I look at Deana. Her very soul had been wounded, and she may never recover from that wound. What happened to her was worse than the tortures the kromaggs inflicted on Rembrandt when he was in that prison camp, or even the tortures inflicted on me when I was held in the Presidio nine months ago.
The next day was the day I was about to leave. I received beef and chicken jerky for my journey to come. I had only a few minutes left. Father Feretti and the others were going to send me off. I patted my coat pocket, which contained a copy of my duplicate's journal.
"Well, good luck on your journey," said Father Feretti. "The Lord Jesus Christ will be with you."
"Good luck on your quest to build a new civilization," I said.
"I hope you find your brother, Colin," said Lee Tan.
"Goodbye, Colin," said Deana. "I'll be sad to see you go."
"Well, just take it one day at a time," I said. "It's what I do."
And then they all disappeared. I dound myself in a garbage-strewn alley.
I thought back for a moment. It is unfortunate I could not stay longer to help Deana deal with the emotional wounds of the past day. I guessed she was lucky to have friends to help her through his time.
But I had to look towards the future. I had to reunite with my brother. And my first order of business was to scout the area.
One end of the alley opened into a street. and it was a busy street. Cars drove down one direction of the street, apparently it was a one way street. There were people walking along the sidewalks, and entering or leaving the stores along the street. There were no obvious signs that a plague wiped out the entire adult population a decade before.
I wandered around for a few minutes, making observations about this new world such as reading the street signs and the storefront signs. I looked at my watch, and I had but a little less than three days.
That should be enough time to learn how to speak Chinese.