Professor Strike
by Dan Rodriguez
part 1
Maybe if I ignore the problem, it will just go away.
This happens every semester. At the start, freshmen try to slip notes onto my desk after class. It’s so silly, a freshman crush type of thing. I teach Writing 101, Intro to Composition, but they see the big windows overlooking the Hudson, with Hoboken glittering across the water, and they think I’m somebody. A big chief. A department head. I keep telling them I’m not a real professor. I’m just an adjunct in a converted warehouse that smells like chalk and machine oil and old lies. No one listens. Everyone calls me “professor.” Payroll knows better.
I walk to the desk. There’s a new note sitting there. Something’s off. Not sure what, but I can tell. That feeling — sharp and cold, the one that kept me alive when the streets were worse — slides in under my ribs.
I haven’t had much use for it in twenty years. Not since Bottle Alley, when some Wolf Clan kid thought he could carve a name for himself on my bones with a pig sticker. Put him down. Bare hands. The Wolf’s Jaws — my signature move. Once I got him by the throat, it was over.
Strange, to have that feeling here again. In a classroom.
The new aetheric lamps spark overhead. They hum, flicker, then flare again. Nobody knows what “aetheric” means. Hell, it’s even in the name of the college: Polytechnic Institute of Aetheric Studies and Terranic Arts, i.e. PIASTA. Clearly, ‘aetheric’ refers to Aetheris, the god of inspiration and invention. “Terranic” refers to Terrana, the goddess of growth and stability. But beyond that, no one knows.
I’ve asked the guys in the Polytechnic Department, but I can’t get a straight answer out of any of them. They just keep repeating what’s in the textbook, something about multidimensional resonance or some other nonsense. Repeating the exact same definition, every time. That’s how I know they don’t have a clue, either.
Of course, the most rational thing to do is install these wonder-gizmos to light up the lecture hall and the entire city. Sure, that makes perfect sense. Let’s expose everyone to these contraptions no one understands, in the name of “progress.” These aetheric lights are as reliable as a raincoat in a firefight. Gaslight worked. Should’ve left it alone.
Against my better judgment, I pick up the note on my desk.
It’s neat cursive, excessively swirly, little hearts instead of dots. Written by a girl, this time. I sigh. Do I teach Writing 101, or kindergarten? I open the note.
“Professor Blake, You’re so cool!”
I roll my eyes. This is what’s setting me off?
I glance up. At the exit, she’s there. Short black pixie cut, crisp white blouse, dickie tie, pleated skirt to the knees. She waves. Smiles, almost shy. Out of habit, I adjust the Nez Perce glasses clipped to the bridge of my nose.
Mara Stevenson. I’ve noticed her noticing me in class. Sharp eyes. Sharper writing.
The next note comes two days later. This time it’s folded with precision — a perfect square, edges sharp enough to cut. No hearts. No curls.
“Saw you.”
No signature. No need. It’s Mara.
I’ve never taken anyone up on these notes. That would be stupid. Barely managed to land this teaching gig at PIASTA as it was, and only because the president owed me a favor. He’s gone now, and I’m running on borrowed time. Word is the Registrar has it out for me. I need to milk this for as long as I can.
I sit at my desk long after the lecture hall empties, the hum of the building sinking into my bones. The kids call it the “Wednesday Hums,” a slow, steady pulse that rolls through the conduits when the Core Dome surges. Lucky me, the main crystal line runs right under my feet.
My head hurts.
The note rests in my hand, edges damp with sweat I didn’t notice until now. Maybe it’s a joke. Students like testing the waters. Happens.
Except I don’t believe that. This little girl is playing mind games.
My skin prickles the second I touch the paper. The lights overhead flicker — once, twice — before holding steady, the afterimage burning into the backs of my eyes. I can tell in my gut no good will come of this.
The last time I played mind games, it didn’t go well. I sat through a Terranic symposium once. An old Turtle Clan shaman and a druid argued the universe sideways. Out of everything, only one thing stuck: this isn’t the first world, and we’re the copy.
The original creation was called “Earth,” and this city was called “New York.” Meanwhile, back here in the real world, we live on “Irth,” in the city of “Manhatta.” Good to know; but doesn’t pay my bar tab. There is a reason why I don’t visit the Terranic department anymore.
The third note comes on Thursday. It’s waiting for me when I unlock my office, slipped halfway under the door. This one’s different. Pink paper. Curved handwriting again. Little flourishes curling off every letter.
“You looked at me today. Made my whole week.”
No name, but it’s obvious who it’s from.
I stand there for a long moment, thumb pressed to the ink, trying to make myself believe it’s harmless. Just another student with a crush. Happens every semester.
Except my neck prickles, the way it used to whenever we rolled through Five Points. Me, Thistle and Tadodaho. Cracking heads and breaking knees. Funny to think Five Points is gone now, flattened during the last “slum clearance campaign.” Thistle and Tadodaho are gone, too. But here I am, still breathing. Lucky me.
The conduits hum under the floor, almost in rhythm with my pulse. The headache’s back; sharp, needling. And it’s not even Wednesday. I crumple the note and toss it in the bin.
It lands too quietly.
I catch her after class the next day. Wait for the last of the students to shuffle out, notebooks under their arms, chatter fading down the hall. Mara lingers, like she knew I’d stop her.
“Ms. Stevenson,” I say, keeping my voice even, “about the notes.”
She blinks, tilts her head just slightly, all polite curiosity. “What notes, Professor Blake?”
I hold her stare. She doesn’t flinch. “The ones on my desk,” I say. “And under my door. I appreciate the sentiment, but... it’s not appropriate. I’m flattered, but that’s all it can be.”
A soft laugh, quiet enough that it barely stirs the air between us. “Oh. That,” she says, eyes widening just enough to sell innocence. “I didn’t think you’d mind. I’m sorry. Won’t happen again.” She smiles. Sweet. Apologetic.
Too easy.
I nod once, keep my voice neutral. “Good. Thank you.”
She tilts her head again, a sharp little movement, like a bird. Or a hawk, listening for a mouse scurrying under the floorboards. “See you next class, Professor.”
And she’s gone, the click of her patent leather shoes swallowed by the hum of the conduits.
I sit at my desk after she leaves. Tell myself that’s the end of it. That the knot in my gut is just paranoia, old instincts barking at shadows.
The headache says otherwise. The lights above flicker once. Twice. I press the heel of my hand against my temple and tell myself to let it go.
I take the long way home, hoping the walk will clear my head. Swing by Clan Kitchen, the mom-and-pop joint that does a decent Three Sisters soup. Not the real thing, but close enough.
The headache fades after the first sip. Some food, that’s all I really needed. That, and maybe stop day-drinking at work. PIASTA takes a dim view of alcoholic faculty. I can’t afford another run-in with the Registrar.
The 9th Avenue Elevated train platform is quiet when I reach it. Brand new line, still gleaming. I remember the construction; it was the damnedest thing. Even saw an Assistant.
An Assistant of Aetheris: a globe of liquid light, bobbing and wobbling in mid-air like a soap bubble, but solid. Gold and silver flowing like mercury, shot through with colors I didn’t even have names for. “Iridescent” was the word that came to mind. “Alien,” too.
When it spoke, you could feel it — no lips, no lungs, just vibration thrumming through your skin like a second heartbeat. They say it isn’t alien, technically. It may not be from outer space, but it certainly did not come from Irth. They were left here by Aetheris to help us.
Still counts as alien in my book.
On the opposite platform, a train hisses in, a gleaming brass cylinder with riveted portholes, hovering an inch over the tracks. Sizzling power cables thread through its frame, cooking the air like a medium-rare steak. It feels like standing next to a buzzsaw. What is even in those conduits? Electricity? Should passengers be that close to them?
The doors slide open and closed, passengers spill in and out, and the car lurches away, vanishing down the line in a blur of light and chrome. And there she is.
Mara.
Standing dead center on the opposite platform, bookbag hanging from her shoulder, white blouse buttoned to the collar. Her eyes are fixed on me. Unblinking. The hum swells, deep enough to make my teeth ache. I don’t wait for the next pulse.
The incoming northbound car thrums to a stop, brass skin catching the guttering aetheric light, and I dive inside before the doors finish opening. I catch a glimpse of her still staring — still smiling — as the train jerks forward, carrying me into the tunnels.
I change at 14th. Again at 59th. Backtrack down to Canal and ride the local halfway to Jersey before I double back a third time, every station a litany, every stop an accusation: Paranoid. Old. Washed up. No one’s following you, Blake. But the headache rides with me, low and steady, matching the throbbing power channels along the rails.
By the time I climb the rusted stairs to my place over The Wampum Belt bar, my pulse has evened out. I tell myself I lost her, that I imagined her on the platform. I tell myself that as the Lenape jazz from below thumps up through the floorboards, as the buzzing in the walls keeps time with the music, as the gas lamps in the corridor shine just bright enough to keep the darkness out.
I lock the door. Bolt it. And sit in the dark, waiting for the quiet to feel safe again.
The headache is still there when I wake up. I’m not even sure I slept. I spent half the night sitting on the floor with my back to the wall, listening for footsteps that never came.
By morning, I almost convince myself it was nothing. Nerves. Old instincts firing for no good reason. I head into work. On a Saturday. Better than staying a single second longer in my claptrap apartment. I tell the PIASTA guards I need to grade some papers.
Then I find the clipping on my desk. Not a note. Not handwriting. Just a yellowed scrap torn from the Manhatta Times, dog-eared from handling. A murder from twenty years ago: BUTCHER FOUND BUTCHERED IN FIVE POINTS.
The rest is boilerplate: details about the scene, speculation about gang ties. But the names of the suspects jump out: Tadodaho. Thistle. Strike. My headache spikes.
“I know your name, Ratakwasere.” The voice. I know it without looking up. Mara. She’s standing in front of me, dressed as a delivery boy. Very convincing, good enough to get past the guards. She proceeds to lecture me.
“Tadodaho, Sachem or ‘chief’ of Wolf Clan. Never without his bodyguards, the Wolf Tails. Kahon:tsi, known as ‘The Thistle.’ And Ratakwasere, whom everyone called ‘The Strike.’” She gives me that quick, predatory stare again. The hawk has found the mouse.
“That name, Strike.” I let out a breath, slowly. “It’s been many years. It’s John Blake, now.”
“Keep reading.” She pulls out a revolver.
“Hey, hey... okay, I’ll keep reading. Just, point it somewhere else.” I scan the article. A picture. The name of the butcher: Angus Stevenson. I connect the dots. “Angus Stevenson was your father.”
Mara doesn’t answer, but her look hardens even further.
“Yeah, I can see the family resemblance.”
She doesn’t say a word.
“So, what is this, then? Revenge? Take me out back, a cap in the back of the head?”
“No,” she says flatly.
“You’re right. Probably better than what I deserve. But I got to tell you, it’s hard to hide a body in Manhatta. You really need to think this through. No offense, but you’re a wee slip of a girl. It’ll be hard hauling around all this dead weight. Should have done it years ago, when I was thinner.”
Her face remains unchanged. “I’m not here for revenge.”
“Okay, so what’s the angle? Blackmail? Sorry to tell you, but you won’t get much from me on an adjunct’s salary, sunshine.”
“I don’t want your money, Professor Blake.”
Copyright © 2025 by Dan Rodriguez
