Mutt

by Evan Fuller

  19

  A Map of Rittenhouse

  “I hope our discussion this term has informed both your understanding and your appreciation of our city's accomplishments,” M. Gendre said, looking expectantly at the dozen students sitting before him. Juliet was tempted to state that it had not, just to see how the maestro would respond.

  “I would say that I hate to bludgeon you with the same information we've discussed these past few months,” M. Gendre continued, “but I rather enjoy it, and besides, it's the best way to ensure retention.” The maestro was a bald man, and well-fed; his great pink cheeks seemed almost to ripple when he spoke. “So in summary, if you take one thing with you from this classroom—and I sincerely hope you take more than one—let it be that Rittenhouse owes its cultural and technological progress to the freedom of its market economy, which is sustained by each of the four circles competing to produce the best goods and services it can offer and exercising their own power to keep Unity from overreaching.” Juliet's mind wandered as the maestro continued; she had heard all of this before and had already received the highest marks attainable in this course. Their last meeting was just a formality.

  “What about people like the Vorteil factory workers,” asked a girl, “who can't afford half of what they're producing and don't have access to a lot of other resources? My friend's dad works in a factory and can't even afford services in the upper hospital. How does a free market economy benefit people like him?”

  “Considering your score on our last examination,” M. Gendre addressed her with a little tug at his shirt collar, “I suppose we would do well to cover this one last time.” The other students laughed; the girl ducked her head. “My answer,” the maestro said, “will be threefold.

  “First, I believe that with very few exceptions, hardworking men and women in Rittenhouse have less trouble meeting their needs than we are led to believe. Second, while it may be true that not every person can afford every service offered by, to use your example, the upper hospital, independent of this economic system, many of those services would not exist…”

  Juliet suspected that M. Gendre would not stop until he had summarized every lecture given over the course of the term. She excused herself to the restroom, but instead of returning to class, she wandered the mostly-empty collegio. As she passed through one corridor, she saw an open door, and beyond it, one figure standing in the room with his back to the entrance. Drawing closer, Juliet saw Emery's mane of curls.

  “Whatcha looking at?” Juliet said brightly.

  “It's too big,” Emery whispered. He did not turn to face Juliet; his eyes were fixed on the map of New Providence hanging on the wall.

  “What?” Juliet stepped forward to see what he was looking at.

  “It's too big,” Emery repeated, motioning towards the drawing of Rittenhouse on the map. “When we were outside, we had the copy from the textbook; we were using it to find our way around. Everything took twice as long as we thought it should, and I couldn't figure out why.”

  Juliet could finally see Emery's face now. Recently, Emery had looked older every day, but now she saw something different in her friend's countenance, something broken.

  “The world outside is way bigger than it looks here,” Emery continued. His voice was soft. “Rittenhouse is really just a little blip compared to the space we traveled. They drew it like it's half as big as everything else put together.”

  “So they screwed the map up,” Juliet said. She understood what Emery was getting at, but it was hardly a new revelation. “Self-importance is pretty standard around here, isn't it?”

  Emery shrugged, his shoulders slumping like a discarded puppet's. He turned, and Juliet saw the deep bags under his eyes: clearly, he hadn't slept. “Timothy passed today,” he said.

  Juliet lowered her head. “I'm sorry.”

  At this point, it was a mercy: the sickness had eaten away at the boy for nearly three months since Hanssen's promise of medicine had turned out to be a snare. He had been given a long time to reconsider his self-sacrifice, but according to Emery, the boy had never complained once. He'd still seemed fairly strong until a week ago, when he'd caught a cold; his battered immune system couldn't defend against it, and for days his condition had been critical. Emery had made every attempt to find another dose of antibiotics, even milling around the hospital after hours until Unity guards had threatened to arrest him. Juliet knew Emery bore Timothy's death as his own failure, whether or not he admitted it, whether or not he realized it himself. She put a careful hand on his back. “You did everything you could.”

  “Yeah.” Emery didn't look like he agreed; he almost said something else, then repeated, “Yeah.” He looked back at the map.

  “So what happens now?” Juliet asked tentatively.

  “I expand,” Emery said. “If people like Hanssen can do so much harm so effortlessly, I have to redouble my efforts. I'll send word to the king that I want everyone he can send me.”

  “What about the medicine?” Juliet asked. “If you can't find any more—”

  “A way will present itself,” Emery said firmly. “And besides, there's a lot more going on in New Providence than just one illness. There are people that need food, shelter, medicine for all ailments.”

  His voice shook as he spoke; he paused and drew a sharp breath. “We're having a little service for Timothy,” he continued, quiet again. “In my backyard tonight; it's the only place we can do it. Don't feel obligated, but you're welcome to attend.”

  “I'll ride there with you,” Juliet said. “And Emery…”

  “Yeah?”

  “It's great, what you do. It always has been. Just be sure you're doing it for the right reason.”

  Emery tensed momentarily, as if some deep injury, long dormant, had surfaced for a moment and then receded. “Maybe someday there will be time for me to think about myself,” he said, “but people are starving to death right now. When that's fixed, I'll worry about reasons.”

  Juliet knew that if it was to mean anything, the conversation would have to wait. She put a hand on Emery's shoulder. “Come on.”

  Emery gazed up at the map for one final moment before tearing his eyes away. “Okay,” he said, falling in step as Juliet led the way out of the classroom. “Do you know how to use a shovel?”