Three - Michael Jan Friedman [33]
Idun shrugged. “Pug only called about a minute ago. Maybe it is turbolift traffic.”
It was a jest—Gerda knew that. But she was too jittery to chuckle at it. “Do you think they stopped somewhere along the way?” she asked.
“It is possible,” Idun allowed. “But—”
A chime interrupted her, signaling that someone was waiting in the corridor outside the door.
Idun glanced at her sister. “Enter.”
A moment later, Pug Joseph walked in. And right behind him was a woman who looked exactly like Gerda and Idun, down to the last feature and detail.
Even her hair was cut like the twins’. The only aspect of her appearance that set her apart was her clothing, which was of a decidedly civilian variety.
Gerda found herself staring at the newcomer. And the [96] newcomer was staring right back, turning from Gerda to Idun and back again.
“It’s hard to believe what I’m looking at,” the woman said, in a voice that could have been Gerda’s or Idun’s. “Not just one of me, but two.”
Idun nodded. “It’s strange, all right.”
“I’ll be right outside,” Pug said. “You three sound like you’ve got a lot to talk about.”
Gerda nodded, acknowledging the gesture. As soon as the security officer was outside, the door slid closed behind him—leaving the three of them alone.
The newcomer smiled a little awkwardly. “Well, this is something you don’t see every day.”
Idun laughed a short Klingon laugh. “I suppose not.” She tilted her head as if to get a better look at their guest. “We’re told that you’re from another universe.”
“That’s the theory,” the woman said. “And I certainly haven’t got a better explanation.”
“If that’s so,” said Gerda, “you must be one of us—my sister or myself. The question is which one.”
The newcomer shook her head. “I’m not certain. You see, I’m a twin as well.” A shadow seemed to fall over her expression. “Or rather, I was.”
Gerda felt a chill. “What happened?”
“An unforeseen complication at birth. The doctors did what they could, it seems, but to no avail. My sister died.”
Gerda exchanged uncomfortable glances with Idun. It was eerie to think that if they had been born in that other universe instead of their own, one of them might not have survived.
“Unfortunate,” Idun observed solemnly.
[97] Their guest nodded. “I’ve always thought so.”
“What was your sister’s name?” Gerda asked, hoping the reply would give them a roundabout answer to her question.
The response was a wistful one. “Her name was Helga.”
Gerda concealed her disappointment. If the name of the twin who had died was different from both hers and her sister’s, the one who had lived and sat before them now might be named neither Gerda nor Idun.
Her name might be Ailsa. Or Freyja. Or Dana, or a host of other possibilities.
In that case, they would probably never determine whose counterpart she was. Gerda began to see why the woman hadn’t simply answered their question directly.
Idun had likely come to the same conclusion. However, she took the next step anyway. “So what is your name?”
The newcomer shrugged. “Gerda Idun.”
Idun smiled at the twist of fate. “So ... you were given both our names?”
“Yes,” said Gerda Idun. “It’s a long story, I’m afraid.”
“We have time,” Gerda assured her.
The newcomer sighed. “Originally, my parents intended to name one of us Gerda and the other Idun—just as yours did. But my sister left us before my parents could decide who was to be who. And since my mother didn’t want to horrify either of her aunts by giving her name to the baby who had died ...”
Idun nodded. “She named her Helga.”
“Exactly as our mother would have done,” said [98] Gerda. “She was always afraid of what her aunts would say as well.”
“Then you understand,” said Gerda Idun, obviously pleased that it was so. “Not everyone does, you know.”
“Not everyone is you,” said Idun.
They all sat in silence for a moment, appreciating the bizarre irony of the remark. But it wasn’t an especially uncomfortable silence—no more so than sitting with oneself.
“Are your parents still alive?” Gerda asked at last.
Gerda Idun shook her head.