by Evan Fuller
11
The Price
Cold black water burst through Emery's lips as through a broken dam, conquering his defenses and rushing triumphantly into his lungs. He gasped for air, but the request was met with more water. His chest screamed as he flailed blindly, unsure which direction would lead to the surface. Somewhere beyond his grasping fingers, Miren and Timothy were sinking further—
Emery awoke with a violent start that did not go unnoticed. “Sir Esposti.” M. Oburumu had stopped the lecture and was looking at him, prompting the rest of the class to do the same. “I apologize if I am boring you.”
“Not at all, Maestro,” Emery managed. “I'm sorry, I didn't sleep well last night.”
It was an outright lie: in fact, Emery had not slept at all. How many hours he and Timothy had spent in the sewers, dragging Miren between them as they tried to find their way, he did not know. A wrong turn had found them neck-deep in rushing water, which Emery was still not sure how they had survived. And when at last they reached the pipe that led to the estate, he had no time for the meal and rest he had promised the others: it was broad daylight already, and Emery had time only to change and shower before sprinting out the door to school. Lydia had tried to make him stay, and he would gladly have done so, but the collegio did not tolerate absence without explanation. Emery's excuse, while certainly significant enough to warrant missing a day of class, wasn't exactly admissible, being as it was highly illegal. He rocked back and forth on his cushion, praying that the momentum would keep him awake, but every muscle in his body whispered mutiny.
“I hope your nap in my lecture hall has you feeling better rested,” M. Oburumu replied. There was concern on the maestro's face, but he wouldn't coddle Emery in front of the other students. “The question I posed to your classmates was this: why did both the circles of Rittenhouse and New Providence's other ethnic groups come to America after extinction, rather than rebuilding in their home countries?”
Emery whispered a prayer of thanks that the subject of the discussion was one he knew. “Well,” he said groggily, trying to buy a moment to wake up and bring the information to mind, “it's kind of a trick question. A lot of the survivors did stay where they were, and we think it was at least a generation after extinction that the first immigrants crossed the oceans. The reason that some people came here, though, was hope, I guess.” The facts were coming back to him as he spoke. “The American nation was one of the world's leaders in technology, so our ancestors thought that whatever had happened, maybe the Americans had found a way around it. Some of them even thought the Americans had caused extinction, either by accident or intentionally.”
“Very good,” M. Oburumu said, and Emery hoped he was back in the maestro's good graces. “Based on what we know from our ancestors, the American nation was thought specifically to be a leader in both weapons technology and defenses against other nations' weapons. When the immigrants arrived here, of course, they found no explanations and no other inhabitants except those to whom we now refer as the natives, who knew equally little about what had happened. As you all know, early interactions between the natives and the new arrivals were almost entirely hostile…”
From the corner of his heavy-lidded eye, Emery saw Carla Engal staring at him with what was far from the friendliest demeanor. Emery got on far better with his professors than his fellow students. To most of them, he knew, he was an outsider and somewhat of a threat, the underachiever whose effortless performance in the collegio belittled their hard work. In truth, Emery was no underachiever but rather perpetually distracted by his unusual home situation; had he the concerns of the other students, he would love to pour himself into his studies. And with those few who were neither envious of his high marks nor put off by his eccentricities, Emery could still only pursue the most casual of association: he enjoyed a drink after class with these most accepting of his classmates on occasion, but he had to keep his distance lest he betray himself by some slight mistake. He was isolated, surrounded by a veil of secrets, and the only classmate he could call a friend was the one he had told everything.
He had been dangerously close to dozing again, but Carla's voice cut through the fog gathering around his mind: the maestro had said something to injure her pride. “My uncle said it was the Vorteil who helmed the first ships from the old world,” she said. Emery wasn't sure who the man was, but he had often heard Carla brandish the line “my uncle said” before: presumably he was one of the Vorteil elite.
“To the best of my knowledge,” M. Oburumu said cautiously, “your uncle would be mistaken in this. First, remember that there were technically no Vorteil at the time: the circles we acknowledge in Rittenhouse formed generations after coming here. And while there were many attempts to cross the Atlantic after extinction, our records show that the first successful, large-scale effort was orchestrated by Captain Gino Gullini, an ancestor of what is now considered the Roccetti circle.”
Gino Gullini was a household name in every circle; Emery wondered what narrative the Vorteil had spun to undermine a significant achievement by a man of another race. Their nautical background was a key part of the Roccetti heritage, from Gullini to their current role as Rittenhouse's sole provider of seafood. Rex Gullini, Gino's descendant and the first Roccetti sovereign in Rittenhouse, had made his name battling the pirates who had controlled the waterways at the city's west boarder. With their swift little ships and sinister craft, the pirates still roamed the bay and ruled the Scattershot Isles, and at dawn the towering shadow of their Cloud Throne reached from its submersed foundation to blanket Rittenhouse's eastern wall. But since Rex Gullini's day, the Roccetti fleet had held the Schuylkill River and the open waters between Rittenhouse and the pirates' Sunken City, sailing freely even in the skyscraper's looming shade.
“Of course, on their arrival, Gullini and his fleet found a much different America than they had expected.” Emery had to remind himself which Gullini was the subject of the maestro's lesson. “The voyage itself was far longer than they had planned; the ships' resources were depleted, and many died in the passage. Those who lived long enough to reach the shore were met with scarce resources, a harsher climate than they had anticipated, and skirmishes with the natives. Families and clans departed the group, and the colony of New Providence broke into dozens, then hundreds, of individual tribes and factions.”
Emery knew the story well. Generations passed, but eventually the pilgrims' descendants remembered what had brought them to this continent in the first place, and they banded together to establish a bastion of civilization in the heart of rapidly deteriorating New Providence. The four circles, in their earliest incarnation, were born not of perceived superiority but rather the need for government: central leadership had given way to clan autonomy, and each of the member groups of the newly founded Rittenhouse was required to demonstrate not only its ability to contribute to the whole but its capacity for self-government. In those days, the circles still traded with the outside world. But as the recovery and reconstruction of pre-extinction technologies made Rittenhouse the envy of surrounding tribes, walls were erected, and relations with the outside world eventually ceased entirely. Unity, Rittenhouse's only inter-circle governing body, was eventually established to keep the peace and manage disputes between the circles, but most authority was vested in each circle by its own system of government.
When at last the class was dismissed, Emery fairly leapt to his feet, hurrying out before M. Oburumu could deliver a reprimand that Emery did not have the energy to receive. Outside the lecture hall, Juliet was waiting with her back turned to the door and her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the window. “What's up?” Emery greeted her.
Juliet turned and swept a wisp of straight black hair from her face. Emery's best friend was slight of stature, not as bony as he, but certainly slim for a girl. She was quite pretty, though like Emery, she was somewhat unkempt and her face bore a distant expression as often as not. “Nothing much,” she answered. “Are you f
ree to work on stuff this afternoon?”
“Work on stuff?” Emery echoed vaguely.
“Um, yeah…did you want to do some painting?” Juliet and Emery were frequent collaborators; Emery was rather abashed that Juliet's question had required explanation. Juliet looked at Emery more closely: “You look like hell. How are you feeling?”
Emery rubbed his temples with his fingers. “I'm surviving, which I guess is an accomplishment at this point.” He leaned in and said in a lower voice, “I went out last night.”
Juliet looked surprised. “You should have invited me. Where did you go?”
“No,” Emery said, well aware by this point that his exhaustion was impeding communication. “Look at me. I went out.”
Juliet stared in consternation for a moment, then her dark eyes widened. “Oh,” she said. “Oh.” She grabbed Emery's arm and pulled him further away from the clusters of other students wandering the halls. “Why? What happened?”
“I'd love to catch you up on it,” he said, “but I'm dead on my feet.” He struggled to formulate an idea and accompanying sentence. “I'll tell you what, I'm free tomorrow. We can meet up whenever you get out of class and ruin some good canvas. I'll tell you the whole story then.”
“Alright. You going to be okay?”
Emery nodded slowly. “Yeah. I have to stop by the hospital; I'll see if Dr. Hanssen can give me something to remedy inhaling half a gallon of sewage. Then I'm going home to hibernate.”
“Okay,” Juliet said. “I'll see you tomorrow. Take the train; don't try to walk too far.”
Emery nodded; at the moment, the thought of walking was only slightly more appealing than the prospect of burning to death. Or drowning, which he could very nearly compare from firsthand experience. Emery dismissed himself with a weak wave and stumbled down the corridor.
Unfortunately, a fair deal of walking was unavoidable in traveling from the collegio to the hospital to the estate. For the first time in Emery's life, the idea of traveling such a short distance by automobile seemed more appealing than impractical, and he would have waved one down if he had seen it. He was not so lucky, and by the time he reached the hospital, he was feeling as nauseous as he was exhausted. Bracing himself against the brick wall of the building, Emery leaned over and vomited into the hedges. Apparently he'd taken more of the sewer with him than he'd thought. As he stumbled to the entrance, Emery prayed that one of the vendors inside would have a fresh pair of legs for sale. He hurried through the low hospital, and when he reached the upper hospital, he actually took the elevator to the fifth floor. “Could you please let Dr. Hanssen know I'm here?” he said to the pretty secretary, forcing a smile.
“He should be free,” she replied. “Just a moment…” She disappeared into the doctor's office. She was probably gone for only a minute, but Emery felt himself falling into unconsciousness by the time she emerged. “He'll see you now.” He jerked slightly at the sound of her voice; the secretary cocked her head and regarded him for a moment. “Are you feeling okay?”
Emery smiled. “I've been better,” he said. “But that's why I'm at the doctor's, I guess.” The secretary, knowing nothing of drug lords and contraband packages, was content with this response. She sat back down at the desk and began writing in her log. “Your name is Emery, right?”
He nodded. “Esposti. And you?”
She smiled. “Chelsea. Chelsea Engal.”
Emery extended his hand, which the secretary met with a surprisingly vigorous handshake. The name sounded more than a bit familiar, but each thought that passed through his mind seemed to derail before it reached its destination.
“I trust that you've done what we discussed on your last visit,” Dr. Hanssen greeted him, rising to his formidable full height as Emery entered the office. The doctor was no less imposing than he had been the day before—had it really only been one day?—but Emery found himself too weary to be intimidated. He felt like he was watching this room and this exchange from far away, and its outcome was of only trivial concern to him. “I made the arrangements,” he said, “but I don't know precisely when my connection will be ready. I need to be prepared to leave immediately when he signals me, so I'll need the package now.”
Hanssen nodded. “And how does your connection intend to contact you when his preparations are made?”
“Sorry, doctor, but I prefer to keep my means to myself. Things are less complicated that way.” Emery took a step towards Hanssen's desk: this was the part of the exchange that would either go well or disastrously. “There's one more thing. Getting to Three Dogs isn't easy, and I'm sure it's as much a challenge for you as it is for me. I can do it, but some vital people needed convincing. My price has doubled. I need antibiotics for two people.”
The doctor's steel blue eyes narrowed until they were razors. “You insolent little—”
“If you don't like my price, you're free to take your business elsewhere. But my connections are already moving into place, and people like Three Dogs don't take kindly to sudden changes of plans.”
Emery was unsure whether this was actually true, but the hostility on the godlike face told him he had the doctor cornered. If Hanssen had any alternative, he would meet Emery's demand with derision, not rage. The doctor stood impassive, weighing his options. “Enough for two,” he said icily, “and no more. If you try to renegotiate the terms of this agreement again, I promise it will not end well for you.”
Hanssen sat at his desk and scrawled a brief note on a slate of beige paper. Emery tried to glance its contents, but the doctor glared up at him and shielded the paper with his other hand. Hanssen produced the package from a cabinet beside his desk and put the note inside it; whatever else the package contained was wrapped in protective material. “Do not open the package,” he said, not looking up, as he closed the wood box and affixed a seal over the opening. “Do not handle it roughly, do not drop it, and do not submerse it. Following these instructions will ensure, among other things, your own safety, though that is certainly not my foremost concern.” Now he met Emery's gaze. “I have my own means, sir Esposti, and I will know whether this parcel reaches its intended destination long before you find your way back into the city. I advise you to return only upon the successful completion of your errand.”
“I honor my word,” Emery said curtly.
Dr. Hanssen emitted a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a snort. “I've known addicts of every circle and station, sir Esposti. When there's gum on the line, they rarely honor their word.”
Emery's indignation seized his tongue before he could restrain himself. “Really?” he asked incredulously. “You think I'm a poppy addict?”
“Have I offended you?” Hanssen taunted. “I don't care to debate semantics, if you prefer to term yourself an enthusiast. I find you despicable whatever name you choose, and if you were, or claimed to be, a Vorteil, I'd have dragged you before the Council months ago. But if you other circles choose to destroy yourselves with vice, I certainly will not stand in your way.”
This, Emery tried to tell himself, was a benefit: whatever Dr. Hanssen thought of him, misleading the man would keep his true secret from being revealed. “All I'll say is that the package will get where it's going.”
“I'll believe it when my sources affirm its arrival,” Hanssen replied. “Now, may I finally be rid of you, or is there some reason you're still in my office?”
Emery's exhaustion had finally pushed him to the point of delirium, and much to his own surprise, he smiled. “Actually, doctor, my trip outside to arrange all this beat the hell out of me. If you would be so kind as to recommend some remedy to ease this pain in my back—”
The doctor's fist slammed against his desk involuntarily, cutting Emery's sentence short. “Get out.”
Emery picked the package up from the desk. “You're the one who told me to be careful with this,” he said, unable to resist antagonizing the proud man. He had the vague fear that he would never address Hanssen so recklessl
y if he had his wits about him, that this Vorteil was dangerous and might punish his irreverence at the first opportunity. He ignored the thought and exited the room with a little bow. “Good day, doctor.”
