LIMBO

Chapter 7: Devilishly Gifted

No roommate was assigned to share my room, but solitude no longer brought me joy. I felt uneasy and wanted to discuss what was happening with someone, but with whom? I couldn't talk to myself! And I couldn't write to my parents about this. Did they even know what was really going on at LIMBO, or had the admissions office spun them a tale about "business objectives modeling"?

What if this wasn't an institute at all, but some kind of cult?!

Late in the evening, I went online to LIMBO's official website, searched through it for a long time, and eventually found accreditation documents. Everything looked proper – as befitting one of St. Petersburg's oldest educational institutions. Beautiful shots of St. Isaac's Cathedral from different angles. Current news. Information for applicants. Photos of happy students at various social events. Academic life and students' sports achievements. Additional clubs with online registration: programming, foreign languages, fencing, calligraphy, archaeology and even piano lessons.

Clicking on our schedule, I was delighted to see that Art History was actually an elective! Next week on Thursday, we will have Astronomy as the fifth period, and then we can choose which of the two courses to attend. Can it really be that simple?!

I will sign up for Astronomy tomorrow, and Mr. Black and I will never see each other again. I won't have to tremble before him like a leaf, so I can forget this terrible evening as if it was a bad dream!

Tossing in bed, I fidgeted on the creaky starched sheet and sighed. Something told me I was celebrating too soon. Mr. Black is a mage, like all the teachers at LIMBO. Neither mages, nor phoenixes, nor serpents are allowed to kill people – it will result in life imprisonment. He is free now because I keep quiet, and there are no other witnesses. But I can speak up at any moment – and he knows this very well.

I won't get rid of him so easily. He will find a way to keep me constantly in his sight or, even worse, eliminate me as brutally and quickly as those four. I am trapped.

I slid off the bed – practically fell – and rushed to my mobile phone. I need to call the police immediately. No, better directly the FSB! Let them take him to their Highest Enforcement Lawkeeper League!

"FSB Russia helpline," a stern female voice stated crisply, without a hint of sleepiness despite the late hour. "Please identify yourself. Which city are you calling from?"

"Hello," everything inside me was trembling. "I'm calling from St. Petersburg, my name is Niki. Nicole. I study at an institute, and recently, before my eyes… before my eyes, a professor committed murder!"

"You're studying at LIMBO?" this question sounded more like a statement. "First year?"

It seemed the speaker quickly accessed a database and saw me on the student list. Or maybe, after today's shooting in the assembly hall, my call was far from being the first?..

"Hello? Miss Antipova? Can you hear me?"

Well, now she even knew my surname, though I hadn't mentioned it.

"Yes," I breathed weakly, answering all questions at once.

"I understand. For all issues related to the activities of your educational organization, you should address the rector of the institute or the curator of your cohort directly."

"Wait! This isn't what you think! I'm talking about the murder of a human! A living human, do you understand?!"

"Thank you for your call. Have a good day," the operator interrupted me with a rehearsed phrase.

The call ended. Damn it! I fell into the chair by the desk and buried my face in my open palms. She wouldn't even listen! What am I supposed to do now?!

After crying it out, I opened my messenger and wrote to Liz:

"Sorry it's late. Do you know who our cohort curator is?"

"We don't have one yet," the answer came immediately. "They'll appoint someone any day now. Why?"

"Oh, nothing serious."

"Some urgent matter?"

"No, it's okay. How's your car?" I hastened to change the subject. "Is it being repaired?"

"Just routine maintenance, but thanks for asking, birdie. Now you can sleep soundly."

Putting the phone down, I suddenly felt that I had indeed calmed down a bit. There was something in Lizzy's words that set her apart from an ordinary, simple girl. Some invisible but tangible force that gave weight to any phrase she uttered.

Soon my eyes began to close on their own, and I didn't notice how I fell asleep.

I disliked the History professor right away. A nervous man with a flushed bald head, an enormous belly, and tiny, greasy eyes. Sloppy, with a nasty, squeaky voice and no less nasty character.

His classroom turned out to be one of the most boring. Dusty empty shelves, a dull board smeared with wet traces of unerased chalk, a strange damp smell, and a lonely pot with a dried-up plant standing forlornly on the windowsill – that was the entire interior. The only notable feature was a huge antique clock towering above the entrance door. The minute hand ended with a serpent's head, and the hour hand with a half-open beak of a tongue-sticking bird. The second hand, curved in waves, moved across the dial with a creaking and sharp, annoying ticking.

Judging by his disgustedly pursed thin lips, the historian didn't consider students respectable people, so he didn't even bother to say hello. Slapping the gradebook on the lectern, instead of a greeting, he tediously drawled:

"The current time is 8 hours 59 minutes 2 seconds, and right now I consider it my duty to remind you that those who dare to be late to my class will, following my good old tradition, receive five F grades in a row!"

Yeah, a good tradition, indeed. I looked at the empty seat next to me and clicked my tongue regretfully. Jake would get in trouble again.

"Three such late arrivals per semester – and you're expelled," the professor's piggy little eyes kept checking with the second hand of the clock. "This isn't my whim, but natural selection! You won't have time to correct fifteen F grades before the exam session, no matter how hard you try. Yes, yes, and don't tell me later that it's because my lesson is the first on Fridays! Time is not garbage to be scattered about in minutes and seconds like that. And if you waste the time allotted to you, then be ready to end up in the dump yourself at the end of the semester!.."

The minute and second hands met at 12. The bell rang.

"So, let's begin. In my classes, we will learn to control time," standing up, the professor began drawing coordinate axes on the green board with a squeaky piece of chalk. "Time, I want you to note this right away, is not continuous, but discrete. Each fragment of time is not a point, as previously thought, but a segment. These segments connect the past with the present – these are the so-called wormholes. And you, my little worms, will have to learn to crawl through them…"

"I apologize!" the classroom door swung open, and a breathless Jake tumbled in.

My gaze automatically slid over the wall clock. 9:01 – and five more seconds extra. Anticipating the dressing-down that the time-obsessed historian was about to give my classmate, I squeezed my eyes shut.

"And right now I consider it my duty to remind you that those who dare to be late to my class will, following my good old tradition, receive five F grades in a row!" the professor suddenly spoke, as if on a recording, with the same rattling, belittling intonation as a couple of minutes ago.

The board was empty. The historian was sitting at the desk again and continuing to say what we had already heard, while Jake, squinting, leaned against the doorframe and touched his temple as if he suddenly had a migraine. Or more precisely, déjà vu?..

"…and if you waste the time allotted to you, then be ready to end up in the dump yourself at the end of the semester!" the professor paused, waiting for the bell to finish ringing. He looked at Jake, and then, once again, at the clock. "Young man, congratulations, you have the honor of being the first candidate for recycling. The current time is 9 hours 00 minutes and 11 seconds. You're late. State your surname."

Jake did not answer. His already narrow cat-like pupils just narrowed even more.

As if mesmerized, I watched the second hand of the clock, which, after stopping for a while, was now crawling in the opposite direction. First slowly, then faster. Sometimes smoothly, as if through butter, sometimes in fits – jumping through several marks at once.

Exhaling heavily, Jake plopped down next to me at the desk:

"Whew! Barely made it!.." he pulled a thick ring-bound notebook out of his backpack, opened it, and clicked his automatic pen. "Mr. Zauberstein, sorry for interrupting! Please continue."

Laughter erupted from the back rows.

The professor shifted his gaze from the face of the impudent student to the clock and, with slight surprise at his own words, enunciated:

"Be that as it may, the current time is 8 hours 59 minutes 2 seconds, and right now I consider it my duty to remind you that those who dare to be late to my class…"

I wasn't interested in listening to him for the third time. Leaning towards Jake's ear, I whispered:

"Gill, what's going on?!"

"You again, you snake?!" Liz exclaimed along with me, pushing him in the back from behind. "You promised not to do this anymore! My head is splitting from your tricks!"

"My own head is splitting," Jake snapped back, jerking his shoulder. "You know I don't do it on purpose…"

"Yeah, sure! You just didn't want those five F-s!.."

The bell rang for the third time. The unsuspecting clock once again showed exactly nine o'clock.

"It started when I was fourteen…" Jake explained in a whisper. "Time obeys the element of water, so it's usually easy as pie for serpents to control it. Same with me – I go to sleep, and the timeline unfolds at a different angle, in another dimension, turns into a point where the past, present, and future are connected into one. You can crumple time into a ball, like plasticine, or stretch it out like chewing gum."

"Young man! Your talking is interrupting my lesson and holding up the entire group! State your surname!"

The second hand jerked again and jumped back. The bell rang. This time somewhat hoarsely. Probably already tired.

"At first I could only do it in my dreams," Jake continued imperturbably. "All the guys were already having erotic dreams – while I was being tossed through wormholes. And tossed mercilessly – waking up, I couldn't immediately remember which century it was, or even which era. Instead of an alarm clock, I still have a flip calendar on my nightstand that shows not only the date and month, but also the year."

"Young man, you…"

The clock hands, jumping back to 9:00, completely froze. Only the second hand trembled slightly, trying to move.

"And that's just the beginning," Jake sighed, looking at the dial along with me. "Now if I don't get enough sleep, then attacks happen in reality too. It throws me either into the past or into the future. When I surface – I always say some kind of nonsense. Like with you when we first met. Or now with the historian. Well, why did I blurt out that 'Please continue' to him!.."

"Come on, enough already! You picked the worst class to stretch out!" Liz hissed from behind. "I don't want to see this swine for an extra five minutes! Hey, you hear me?! Better fast-forward to 10:30!"

Trying to calm down, the guy started drawing blue circles in the margins of his notebook. His drawing reminded me of a cluster of tangled time loops. Perhaps in one of these – at the tip of his ballpoint pen – we were all currently trapped.

"And the main thing is, no one can help me. Everyone just mocks me, like Charm. Or they say: 'Well, what did you expect, you have as many as nine spirals!'…"

"Gill!!!"

"Ah, fine!" Brittlegill sighed dejectedly, tossing aside his pen. It rolled across the desk with a loud clatter, but stopped at the very edge and seemed to rewind back. "Let's just start already."

The bell rang. The second hand moved from its position with a visible effort.

"So, let's begin," the professor came to his senses and rose from his chair for the umpteenth time. Chalk screeched across the board. "In my classes, we will learn to control time…"

Everything in the rector's reception area was typical. A typical brown cabinet, a typical gray chair, a typical beige desk – and even the secretary sitting behind it seemed utterly typical. Not a single distinguishing detail or facial feature. If a second later I was asked to describe her, I would not remember anything – not even the color of her hair.

"Is Mr. Doe in?" for a first-year student, I was showing remarkable determination. I was nervous, of course, but the break between classes was only ten minutes, and there was no time to waste. "May I see him? It's an urgent matter."

"Mr. Doe, someone's here to see you!" the middle-aged woman raised her gray eyes to me. Or were they green? Or bluish? Though they might have been brown, actually. Through the cathedral's transparent "ceiling", bright sunbeams fell on her face, and the light washed away all the colors.

"Susan, look how the weather has cleared up today!" this was the rector, good-naturedly peeking out of his office. "What a blue sky!"

"Yes, Mr. Doe, it's hard to believe we're in St. Petersburg!" the secretary laughed. "Well, it's not surprising, Mr. Black has arrived. He brought good weather with him, as always…"

"A great man!" Mr. Doe exclaimed, smoothing the large copper key on his chest, worn over his jacket. Then, finally, he looked at me. "And you, young lady, what brings you here?"

"I…" I stumbled.

"Well, let's not stand in the doorway. Come in, my dear, come in!.. Here, please, have a seat," closing the door behind us, he seated me in a deep leather armchair opposite his desk. "Now then, tell me. What brings you to me?"

My eyes aimlessly scanned the office. Letters of appreciation, diplomas, certificates – everything around was so densely hung with silver frames gleaming in the sunlight that it wasn't even clear what color the walls were painted. Or maybe there was wallpaper hidden behind all those laudatory papers?.. Shaking my head, I bleated uncertainly:

"I actually wanted to talk to you about Mr. Black. Something is deeply troubling me…"

"Oh, I understand your concern, young lady, I understand it very well! Yesterday you had your introductory lesson in Art History. I assume Mr. Black made quite an impression…"

"That's putting it mildly," I blurted out.

"Unfortunately, his subject is an elective…"

'Fortunately,' I corrected mentally.

"Therefore, alas, not everyone will be able to attend his excellent seminars, but don't worry. Your name is Nicole, if I'm not mistaken?"

"Yes, but I don't…"

"Don't worry, Nicole. Last evening, Mr. Black gave me a list of those students who will be automatically enrolled in his group first. These are the best of the best, whose special talent didn't go unnoticed, and you – yes, you – have the honor of being among these lucky ones!"

"Wait!.."

"A wonderful teacher," the rector went on. "Magnificent! Young, handsome, and most importantly – devilishly gifted! You're incredibly lucky to study under him, Nicole! And what a virtuoso violinist he is! Has he played the violin for you yet?"

"You could say that. He has."

Not the violin, though, but on my nerves, but that's almost the same thing. Now I see the rector and Mr. Black are thick as thieves – possibly it was Mr. Doe who dragged the "virtuoso violinist" here to work, and even made up the title of professor in the schedule. It's useless to tell him about the brutal murder. At best, he simply won't believe me; at worst, he'll snitch to Mr. Black, and once he realizes I've opened my mouth, he'll deal with me immediately. I need to seek help elsewhere.

"Mr. Doe, do you know why I don't have… this… what's it called… a benefactor?"

"That can't be! Every immortal has a benefactor. Your benefactor is…" taking the key from his chest, Mr. Doe unlocked one of his desk drawers. He took out my file, opened it, and rustled through the rough pages. "Let's see… Aha, here it is. Your benefactor is Bella Ionfield. But she's on maternity leave right now. As, however, she has been for the last thirteen years."

"Aunt Bella?!"

I immediately remembered myself at the age of three, and our trip with my parents to St. Petersburg to visit a "relative" from whom we hadn't received any news since that distant day. Her belly was noticeably rounded then. I think she gave birth to her firstborn a couple of months after our meeting.

"So Aunt Bella is my benefactor?!" I repeated, still not believing my guesses.

"If it's more comfortable for you, call her that, but still remember her surname – in case you need to communicate in person. For a mother of five children, the youngest of whom is only a year old, she's very kind, but as a mentor she is extremely strict…"

"Can you give me her phone number?"

"I can," Mr. Doe thoughtfully rubbed his finger on the golden statuette of a bird with spread wings above his desk. Either an eagle or an owl, I couldn't tell. "I can, but… I won't. Don't be offended, girl, she is on leave after all, even if it's maternity leave, and who of us likes to be disturbed while on leave? Wait a couple of years, her youngest son will go to kindergarten, and then she'll take care of you. You're not in a hurry, are you? Unlike Ms. Ionfield, you have an eternity to spare…"

The bell rang, announcing the start of the second class. I gulped air like a fish, mumbled "yes, thank you" and, smiling crookedly, slipped out of the rector's office.

Chapter 8: Clean Slate

As I ran down the corridor, my head started to ache. Maybe it was the aftermath of chaotic time travel, or maybe it was just stress. To make matters worse, the second lesson was Philosophy. What if this professor also shoots students for being late?

Fortunately, the old sniper's classroom was on the third floor, right next to the rector's office. Ready to apologize profusely, I flung open the door but couldn't utter a word.

The teacher's chair was empty. Only gray-white books were stacked in several piles on the desk, and above the old wooden podium hung a huge board with an obscene organ drawn in chalk across its entire width. Apparently, a message to the freshmen from their senior comrades.

The white-haired "dandelion" calmly walked along the rows, handing out textbooks to students. Look at that, he didn't ask anyone for help – doing it all himself. When the stack of ten books in his hands ran out, he returned to the desk and took a new one just like it. He noticed neither me nor the drawing that was causing stifled laughs and barbed comments here and there.

Oh right, he's blind.

I felt so sorry for him again that I almost forgave him for the gun incident. Instead of quietly taking a seat in the classroom, I took an eraser and started wiping the artwork off the board.

"Nicole, don't worry," the old man suddenly said in a creaky voice, without turning around. "Tomorrow, the second-year students will have to study the meaning of phallic symbolism in ancient Eastern mystical traditions. Let's consider this illustration an outstanding manifestation of their intuition. Please, sit down. I don't punish for being late."

A textbook landed on the desk in front of me – a shabby library book, probably printed back in the Soviet Union. The ribbed cover was once white but had darkened with time. No pictures, not even a publisher's logo. Only worn gilding on top spelled out: "Philosophy. 1st year". No author was listed.

"This textbook," the professor spoke up after returning to the podium, "was first compiled by my great-great-grandfather in tsarist Russia. Later it was republished by my great-grandfather, then grandfather, then father, and now you are holding in your hands the fifth edition, revised and supplemented personally by me. This book, like an immortal being wandering through eternity, will answer many of your questions. It will literally open your eyes! It will shed light on what you'll be learning here!"

The giggles in the classroom were replaced by the noise of pages being frantically flipped.

"Excuse me!" Jake was the first to speak up. "My book is defective. There's nothing here. All the pages are blank. Can I…"

Glancing into my textbook, he fell silent.

"Mine is also defective," came a surprised voice from the back rows.

"Mine too!.."

"The book is empty!"

The silence that fell in the classroom hit the ears no less than a gunshot.

"It's not the book that's empty, but your heads!" the elderly professor exclaimed pathetically. "Apologize to it – and open it again! Strive, study, thirst to know the essence! Ask, and its invaluable contents will be revealed to you!"

"But…"

"For our next lesson, I ask everyone to prepare a retelling of the first paragraph. Don't waste precious time, start reading right now."

The tall window – floor to ceiling – creaked. Nodding contentedly in response to some thoughts of his own, the philosopher tapped his white cane on the windowsill, stepped over the "threshold" and was gone.

"Mr. Wordsworth!.."

One of the phoenixes – Edwards, I think – jumped up and flew to the window. Getting tangled in the curtain, he crumpled it and threw it aside. Leaned out in surprise. Moved his head left and right. Scratched his crown.