The Veritas Conflict (6 page)

Claire stood near the entryway, unsure what to do next. The last twenty-four hours had been unnerving. Immersed in this foreign environment, knowing no one on campus—with the exception of the roommate she had met for ten minutes late last night—she felt like a stranger even to herself. Everything on campus was unfamiliar, and she kept getting lost despite the campus maps. If she couldn’t even read the stupid maps, how was she going to survive her studies?

People flowed around her on both sides like a stream around a rock, pushing forward, trying to look like they knew what they were doing.
When unsure, wait and watch
. Her father’s words came back clearly as she scanned the room.

In the large common area opposite the bulletin boards, tables and booths displayed large pictures and signs about various activities. Behind the tables, poised and confident upperclassmen answered the questions of the freshmen stopping by. The upperclassmen looked like a whole different breed of person, sort of like—Claire suddenly smiled to herself—kings and queens beneficently bestowing their wisdom on the grateful rabble.

Claire snorted and turned away, breathing a deep sigh of relief. They were just like her, only older. They knew the ropes and she didn’t, but that difference wouldn’t last long.

She really didn’t know what she was looking for. The bulletin boards were a crowded jumble, and she was glad to see that other students looked confused as well. She had expected a few dozen neatly placed announcements and flyers, but there had to be a hundred or more crammed in all over the place. Handwritten announcements. Professional posters. Bright colors. Some of them—crammed with oversized lettering and odd graphics—gave her a strange feeling.

Standing just behind Claire, Gael glared toward the ceiling. Rank upon rank of spirits hovered or perched near the top of the bulletin boards watching intently to see which students were interested in which activities. Several of the booths across the room were so thickly covered that it seemed as if they were swarming with flies. A few other brilliant warriors were visible around the room, tense and watchful on enemy territory.

Gael put a steadying hand on Claire’s shoulder.

Claire took a deep breath and moved forward, fingering a few flyers at random. Tai chi class—what was that?—was held every afternoon. A weekly dinner group discussed cross-cultural relationships between Israelis and Palestinians. The history department was sponsoring a special class on Machu Picchu and a holiday study trip to Peru. The anthropology department sought interns to accompany professors on digs, initiatives heralded as “groundbreaking.”
At least someone here has my dad’s really bad sense of humor
. Her grin died at the next flyer, which encouraged all students to picket the speech of a leading “antichoice bigot” at a church event in Boston.

What else? An intramural crew team for men or women met each morning at the boathouse before class. Crewing on the Charles River! That would be a cool Cambridge sort of thing to do. But
5:30 A.M.!
Yeah, right. Well … the English department offered brown bag lunches every Friday for prospective authors. Nope.

Claire moved to the next board, where a picture caught her eye. What was
that?
She drew back, her hand flying to her throat. A bright fuchsia flyer depicted two naked men—together. Her breath came out in a gasp as, despite herself, she read the advertisement for the upcoming Gay and Lesbian Awareness Day on campus. A petite blonde standing next to her glanced up at Claire’s gasp, then peered at the poster. Claire was shocked to hear her laugh.

“Yeah, it’s kinda funny to see that on a public bulletin board, isn’t it? I mean, to each his own, but I don’t see any pictures out here of a man and woman having sex, so why do they want to show two men?” She shrugged.

Claire dropped her eyes from the picture. “Beats me.”

“Well, you know how prejudiced so many conservatives are. The gay students probably feel they need to be over-the-top so they don’t get silenced.” She looked at Claire expectantly.

“You think so?” Claire mumbled.

The girl cocked an eyebrow and moved away.

Across the room another warrior dropped through the roof and into the bustling group. Students walked around and through him, but for the moment he took no notice. Instead, Caliel caught Gael’s eye where he stood behind Claire. Gael jerked his head toward the doors at the far entrance to the building, and both angels watched as a young man with curly brown hair walked into the mix of students. The angels straightened as they assessed the massive demon traveling with him.
Katoth
.

The warriors watched the curly brown head push through the crowd and to the Greenhouse Café, the food court that adjoined the large room. The dark presence kept even with every step.

The Spirit spoke, and their attention focused quickly on a young woman with glossy dark hair. She was just gathering her onion rings and soda and heading toward the cashier. A smaller, sinewy demon hovered nearby.

The young man turned the corner. Katoth appeared to recognize his smaller colleague, who sketched a deferential greeting.

The female student glanced up at the young man headed into the food court. He was looking directly at her. She smiled in greeting as he paused, then walked over to her.

“Have we met before?” He cocked his head disarmingly.

“No … I don’t think so. But you do actually seem familiar to me for some reason. What’s your name?”

“Stefan. I’m a junior.”

“I’m Sherry. Nice to meet you.”

The angels watched as the pair shook hands, chatting. Another pair of beings talked as well, hovering just above them.

Caliel moved closer to the food court, while Gael returned his attention to his charge.

Claire stood at the bulletin boards and tried to shake off a morose feeling. She just had to find people she could connect with. There had to be something that would interest her.

There! She saw a flyer advertising auditions for an a cappella singing group. And there was another group … and another. There had to be six or seven singing groups at least. She dug into her bag for a notepad and pen, jotting down some of the key information.

“You don’t need to do that.”

The voice, right by her ear, made her jump. She swung around, coming face-to-face
with a wiry student. His hair stuck out as if he hadn’t combed it in a while. He stared at her intensely and didn’t move.

Claire took her hand down from her rapidly beating heart. “You startled me!” She tried a smile.

The student kept staring. “I said, you don’t need to take notes. Those booths over there,”—he pointed at the rows of tables across the room—“have all these flyers available for you to take with you.” Someone in the crowd jostled him, and his arm brushed hers.

Claire stepped back a pace. She glanced at the pocket protector in his shirt pocket, a row of five pencils sticking out. A sophisticated HP calculator rested in a holster on his extrawide belt. She looked back up at his face, bemused.

He didn’t say anything else, just kept staring.

“Well … uh … thanks for the advice. You saved me some time.” She dropped her notepad in her backpack and fought the urge to turn away. She stuck out her hand. “I’m Claire.”

He nodded, ignoring her hand. “Yes. I’m Mitch. I’m a physics major. I’m working in the lab this year under Professor Roughton. Do you know Professor Roughton?”

Claire let her hand drop to her side and shook her head.

“Roughton is a giant in physics. He’s developed some of the main theories of our day on the flexibility of the time continuum. You should stop by and see me sometime in the lab. I can introduce you to him.”

Claire could see Mitch’s eyes wandering to her long, curly hair. Her cheeks grew hot, and she stammered to think of a polite negative response.
Help me, God! What do I do here?

Suddenly someone clapped Mitch on the back, causing him to lurch forward a step.

“Hey, Mitch, are you trying to hog all the prettiest freshmen again?”

The voice belonged to a dark-haired student wearing a striped shirt and khakis. He turned toward Claire. “Mitch and I are in the same lab program. I’m Brent.” He thrust out his hand, winking at her above Mitch’s head.

Claire returned the handshake. “Claire Rivers.”

Brent placed a hand on her shoulder and stepped between her and Mitch. “I saw you looking at the a cappella group flyers. I was just going over to their tables, and I can show you if you like.”

“If you don’t mind, that would be great.” She let Brent guide her away and nodded to Mitch over her shoulder. “Nice to meet you, Mitch.” He stared after her for a moment, then turned back to the bulletin boards.

Claire let out an explosive sigh, and Brent started laughing. “You looked like a deer caught in the headlights. I just had to rescue you.”

Claire put her hand to her forehead. “Thank you! I didn’t want to be mean.…”

“Oh, you weren’t mean; don’t worry about it. Mitch is a one-of-a-kind guy. He’s a true prodigy, but has—how shall I put this?—no social skills. He’s your stereotypical physics genius who has no idea how to connect to people.”

Claire looked up at Brent. “While you, on the other hand, don’t fit that stereotype at all.” She blushed in dismay.
I can’t believe I just said that!

Brent grinned down at her. “Well,
someone
in the physics department has to be normal!”

They pushed past a large group of people, but Claire hardly noticed. She was focusing on keeping her mouth shut.

“The tables for the choir stuffare mostly on the other side of the room,” Brent said. “Over there, see? What else are you interested in?”

“I don’t really know yet. I’m just sort of wandering.”

“Well, I’m posted at that booth over there, for the
Harvard Lampoon
—well, supposed to be posted, anyway.” His gaze was amused, and Claire blushed again. “Go ahead and wander, and if you have any questions, please stop by.” He left her abruptly, melding into the crowd.

“Thanks.” She shook her head and muttered sarcastically to herself, “ ‘While
you
don’t fit that stereotype at all.’ Aagh!” Pounding the heel of her hand against her forehead, she turned away.

Behind her, a glowing, invisible giant grinned.

FOUR

I
AN
B
URKE LOCKED HIS DOOR BEHIND HIM
and cut through the backstreets of Cambridge, heading for campus. He stopped to pick up his mail at Harkness Commons, the law school’s student center. The long hallways echoed, empty in the week before classes started.

Ian slung his backpack over one shoulder and made the short walk to Old Campus. Brown and gold leaves crunched under his feet, and he stooped to pick up a few early acorns and slip them into his backpack. One day he’d have a wife and a house and all the trappings of the nonstudent life that had eluded him for so long. When that day came, he’d like a Harvard oak tree growing in the backyard.

That day was probably a long way away. He didn’t even know what firm he’d be working for next summer or what city he’d be living in, much less who his wife was going to be—or even if he’d have one. He put a firm stop to that common mental refrain.
Lord, You know the plans You have for me … and I’ll trust You until You reveal them
.

Robinson Hall loomed in front of him, and he stepped aside from the entrance as scores of people streamed out. Ian was taken aback by how young they looked. This had to be the new freshman class—a bunch of eighteen-year-olds. Ian was only twenty-three, but he felt old by comparison.

He jogged up the steps to the third floor eager to hear the reason for being summoned to Mansfield’s office. These hallways echoed also. The dark wood, high ceilings, and oversized doors had once been slightly intimidating but were now as comfortable as home. After the most perfunctory of knocks, he banged open the door labeled Office of Professor William Mansfield.

The man at the desk jerked and dropped a book on the floor, then laughed and put a hand to his heart. “Ian! It’s not fair for a young man like you to try to put me in my grave before I’m ready!”