Stray

by Evan Fuller

  21.

  Long Live

  Juliet’s alarm chimed softly at seven. It was a full four hours before class, but she knew that this morning the news would break. She drew back the curtains, and at once her bedroom was full to overflowing with golden sunrise striking through bits of deep violet cloud. It was so beautiful a morning that she couldn’t fathom yesterday’s bloodshed was still true. It must all have been a nightmare; how could such a day stand adjacent to this one? But she forced her hand to switch the radio on.

  “… in a turn of events that has baffled investigators, in a wooded area just north of the Baltimore Street approach. It appears that the recovery team abandoned its planned route less than a quarter mile after departing Rittenhouse. The extent of the wildfire has only increased the challenge investigators face in reconstructing the events of the disaster. The only initial survivor of the crash, a Chukwu contract agent whose name has not yet been disclosed, entered Rittenhouse General yesterday in the early evening. His condition worsened overnight and he had passed away by morning, leaving no eyewitnesses to explain the disaster. The design of the prototype crawler’s drive train is being called into question…”

  Juliet wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting. There’d be nothing of substance in the report; she should just turn it off. She knew better what had happened than the reporters did, anyway.

  “The Roccetti electoral council presently convening to appoint the circle’s next regent has released a statement that the selection process is being expedited. Citing the need for immediate leadership in the wake of yesterday’s crisis, the statement discloses that the council will announce its final decision later today…”

  Juliet’s father was at the dining room table eating breakfast when she burst into the living room. “Oh, hi, Dad.”

  “Good morning, Daughter. What has you up so early?”

  “I need to call Emery,” she said. “It’s about, umm, boyfriend-girlfriend stuff.”

  Her father nodded, intently focused on his eggs. Juliet entered the living room and pulled the numbered levers on the phone. After five rings she wondered if anyone would pick up. After twelve, there was finally a scraping sound and yawn from the speaker. “This is Emery.” He sounded strange.

  “Hey, it’s Juliet.”

  “Oh. In that case, this is Oliver. I take it you need to speak to the real Emery.”

  “That would be good, yeah.”

  “How important is it? I think he was planning to sleep for a few straight days.”

  “Emery,” she replied, “how often do you think I’m up this early? It’s pretty important.”

  “Alright, give me a few minutes to resurrect him.”

  It was, in fact, a full three minutes before another sound came over the line. Another yawn. “Emery.”

  “Some boyfriend you are, sending a decoy to answer your phone.”

  “What the hell, Juliet? And why are you calling in the middle of the night?”

  “It’s after sunrise.”

  “Middle of my night. But that’s semantics. What’s going on?”

  “I was just listening to coverage of the crash on the radio. The electoral council is declaring today in response to the crisis.”

  “Declaring?”

  “The new Rex, Emery.”

  “Oh.” A long pause. “Thanks for waking me up.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” She sighed. “If what happened to the recovery team is the deciding factor—and how could it not be at this point?—they’re gonna appoint Gullini.”

  “Yeah, I guess that makes sense. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Right now I’m more worried about what this means for you.” Emery had until the new regent was appointed to formulate a plan, and now that was a matter of hours. “What are you going to do?”

  Silence for a long time. “I can’t keep going on like I have been,” he said at last. His voice was very small. “I’m going to do something I should have done a long time ago. I have to admit to myself that I can’t do this on my own anymore. If you could come over this evening, that would mean a lot to me.” He paused. “Actually, never mind that. If this backfires, it could be dangerous for you as well as for me.”

  “Shut up. I’ll come by after classes. Now go back to sleep; whatever this plan is, you should probably be well rested for it.”

  “I’ll try that. Thanks, Juliet. I’ll see you soon.”

  Her father called out to her as she was making her way back to her bedroom. “What’s up, Dad?” She feigned a yawn. “I was just going back to bed. Phone call’s done and all.”

  “Come sit down.” He was fiddling frantically with the knob of the larger radio on the dining room table. “I don’t know if you saw all that smoke yesterday. Apparently there was some sort of accident with that expedition that left yesterday. They don’t have many details yet, but it sounds really severe.”

  –

  Twelve hours later, she was listening to another voice on another radio. Emery turned the volume up as the inauguration speech began. “Brothers and sisters of the Roccetti circle, good evening. I could not have imagined I would be assuming the regency of our nation under such dire circumstances as these. I know that tonight you are afraid; you are saddened; you are enraged. You want answers that have not been provided by Unity’s investigation of this unexpected disaster. My first promise to you is this: I will stop at nothing to uncover those answers.

  “We all aspire to build a future where all circles are brethren, where we can trust our neighbors as we trust our kin. But this catastrophe is a reminder that the future we desire is not always the present we inhabit. If the trust and respect we grant our neighbors are not reciprocated, we cannot be expected to continue paying them. Those circles that wish for our cooperation must demonstrate a willingness to cooperate with us. And until proven otherwise, we must trust no man or woman who is not of Roccetti blood to act for the Roccetti good.

  “We will treat fairly with our neighbors. We will determine who is at fault in this catastrophe, and just recompense will be paid. From this point on, the people of the Roccetti circle will not bestow undeserved alliance. Those who behave as allies will be treated as allies, and those whose actions declare them our rivals will be treated accordingly as well. My greatest thanks to you for entrusting me with leadership of our great circle, and may Jehovah God bless you. Goodnight.”

  Juliet shivered. “Do you get a feeling like we’ve just felt the first drop of a downpour? Because I do.”

  “The worst part is that his suspicions about what happened on that crawler aren’t even wrong.” Emery looked as afraid as she felt. “If he were somehow to find out what happened…”

  “We’ll hope there’s no way of that happening. Anyway, let’s try to focus on one thing at a time. Nothing else till we get through tonight.”

  “Yeah. Thanks. And thanks for coming, again.”

  She smiled. “I wouldn’t miss it.” It was true, but it was just as true that she was scared to be here.

  Five minutes after they’d turned the radio off, the doorbell rang. The outer bell, the one signaling a visitor at the gate. Emery went out, returning a minute later with Maestro Oburumu. “It was so good of you to agree to meet me.” He pivoted as he stepped back into the living room. “This is my good friend Juliet Spiros. Juliet, this is Frederick Oburumu, instructor of histories at the collegio.”

  They shook hands and exchanged greetings; the maestro took a seat. Emery had prepared teacups for the three of them; he set one down on the table by the maestro’s chair and took his place on the couch.

  M. Oburumu’s smile seemed as genuine as it was enormous. Juliet hoped it was. She was having trouble breathing; her chest was clenched tight. “I assume you invited me over to discuss more than merely this delicious tea,” the maestro said.

  “Yeah.” Beside her, Emery drew a slow breath. “Um, yeah. The thing is… I’ve decided I’d like to return to the collegio, if that�
�s possible at this point in the term.”

  “I’m glad you’ve had a change of heart,” M. Oburumu said. “I think we can make that happen.”

  “There’s just one thing. I need to ask you a favor. And it’s a really, really big favor.”

  The maestro glanced back and forth between Emery and Juliet inquisitively. “Yes?”

  “I’ve…” Emery was freezing up. “I…”

  “Emery’s been accused of illegal drug use,” Juliet interjected. “Formally, I mean, by Unity. With everything going around about it at school, I guess someone took it upon themselves to drop a tip.” Certainly, Dr. Hanssen had made the anonymous report, but that was another story entirely.

  “Yeah.” Emery found his voice. “Two inspectors came by yesterday. They couldn’t complete the warrant to search my estate until the new regent was appointed, but with that happening this evening, they’ll be back any day now.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” M. Oburumu replied brightly. “They’ll inspect the property, and if everything is in order they should leave you be. It’s a simple process, really; most inspections turn nothing up.”

  “Yeah, well… that would be if everything was in order.”

  The maestro’s expression darkened. “Oh?”

  “I need to ask for your confidence. You told me to come to you if there was anything I ever needed to talk to you about, and I’m doing that now. I want your word…” he stopped, began again. “Could you please give me your word that that, even if you don’t agree to do what I’m asking, you won’t speak of this to anyone?”

  The maestro leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees, hands folded. “I don’t think I’m comfortable offering that promise, Sir Esposti.”

  “Please.” he begged. “I can’t say a word unless I know it’s safe.”

  “This is not a good position for me as your instructor or as a citizen. If I discover that you’re doing something dangerous or harmful, I have an obligation—”

  “It’s not poppy,” Juliet blurted. “If it isn’t anything about poppy or drugs of any kind, could you agree to it then?”

  M. Oburumu put a hand over his forehead, obscuring his face from Juliet’s sight. He sat immobile in that position for a moment, another. She waited for him to either speak or get up and leave. He did neither. Finally, he lowered his hand and gave the slightest nod. Juliet wasn’t sure she hadn’t imagined it.

  “I have your word,” Emery said. He waited a moment, then touched Juliet on the back. “Bring them in.”

  She stood and forced her feet to carry her from the room. She didn’t normally shake when she was nervous, but she could barely work the doorknob to the basement staircase. “Come on, guys.”

  They trouped up the stairs as quietly as Juliet had ever heard them and followed her back to where the corridor opened into the living room. “M. Oburumu,” Emery said, “I’d like you to meet a few friends of mine. Bustle, Carrot, Geneva, Oliver, and Miren. The other residents of my house.”

  The maestro spilled his tea. His mouth kept trying to form a word. “They… they’re…”

  “They’re outsiders. Illegals. What my elegant classmates would call mutts.”

  M. Oburumu was transfixed by the others, but Emery stepped into his field of vision and knelt to meet his gaze. “You know I was kidnapped out in the wastes when I was first coming here from Ambler.” The maestro nodded. “Well, the reason I’m alive is because a man out there took me in. He gave me food and shelter, treated my wounds. And when I left, I promised him I’d do the same. And I’ve been doing it ever since I came to Rittenhouse. Because, just like you taught me, our circles, our systems of discerning who gets what and who doesn’t, it’s all just shit, you know?” He was choking up. “It’s all hollow. Artificial constructions. And these, these are real people, people our city doesn’t want.”

  The maestro didn’t respond. Emery glanced at Juliet; she smiled. He wiped his eyes and continued. “I’m wondering if maybe you and your wife could take them in, just for a few nights. Until the inspectors are finished and they can come back here safely.”

  The other residents all stood silent. M. Oburumu still said nothing. He stood, dazed, and walked slowly to where the others were gathered, as if uncertain whether he was really seeing them. He put a hand on Bustle’s shoulder. “We’ll be real quiet,” the boy promised.

  Each expression played over the maestro’s face in sequence: shock, confusion, and then a fear so deep that Juliet worried it might be his final response. But at last his face broke into the same enormous smile. “Sir Esposti,” he finally said, turning and seizing Emery’s arm. “It would appear that you’ve learned more from my instruction than I ever suspected.”

  Acknowledgments

  First, I’d like to thank my uncle Dana Priest for his painstaking critique of Stray’s second draft. His help was vital in expanding and strengthening the novel. Justin Livi and Amanda Gosling also offered invaluable feedback.

  The publication of Stray is Kickstarter-funded; more than fifty readers have supported the project. I’d like to recognize Sean Underwood, Angela Chiang, Justin Livi, Serena Rogers, Colton Cummings, and Chris Cassidy for outstanding contributions.

  Thanks to Alli, Gina, Jenkins, and the rest of the present and former Good Karma Café baristas who kept me motivated and caffeinated throughout the writing process.

  Justin Livi created the title typeface for the Rittenhouse Saga. The beautiful color illustration is the work of Daniel Govar.

  Thanks to all the bloggers who have reviewed Mutt; their support has been a tremendous encouragement to me.

  My sincere thanks to you for reading this novel, for taking the time to visit my world. I wish every blessing for you.

  Two down, three to go.

  About the Author

  The first draft of Stray was the last long work I typed on a keyboard. I’ve been developing joint problems in my hands, so I write by dictation now. My current workflow finds me in a café with a microphone headset, muttering and cursing and generally creating a real fright for the other customers.

  I grew up in Catonsville, a suburb of Baltimore. For the past two and a half years I’ve lived in Philadelphia, where I’m finishing a much-delayed bachelor degree at Temple University. The next year will probably find me in a graduate program for creative writing, or maybe selling my possessions and living out of a van. One friend suggests we should start a commune in New Zealand. Who knows? It’s an interesting time.

  You can find me online at evanfuller.net and evanfuller.tumblr.com, or contact me on Twitter (@KingOfAutumn) or via e-mail (lordsofautumn@gmail.com). I have a phone number, too, but I don’t really think you need that. It’d be kind of weird, dude.