by Zales, Dima
“You said five just a few minutes ago,” I say. “Now I have a quarter hour less?”
Nero stands up, presses a button, and his desk slides into a standing position. “That’s right,” he says coolly. “If you have a problem with it, you’re welcome to join the vampires at Goldman Sachs. They’re much more laid back there.”
I want to ask if he means the vampire bit literally—with my new life, you never know—but I confine myself to a “Yes, sir,” combined with a military-style salute. Unfortunately, he’s no longer looking at me, his gaze on the monitor once more.
I know I should leave, but I can’t resist. “If you care so little about teaching me anything about the Cognizant world, why did you become my Mentor? Was it to make sure I can’t quit this job?”
Instead of answering, Nero riffles through the papers on top of his desk. Locating a ratty business card, he hands it to me and says, “Call that number for Orientation.”
“Orientation?”
“I’m late for my meeting.” He pointedly glances at the door.
I jackknife to my feet and stomp out of the office.
When I see who had to wait until Nero and I finished talking, my anger noticeably subsides. Nero’s visitor was mayor of New York City at some point, and is currently one of the richest people in the world.
Why did he come here instead of having Nero come to him?
Not for the first time, I wonder how rich and influential Nero really is—in the regular human world, that is. Because this meeting shouts “very.”
I also wonder if the billionaire visitor is the reason why I have all this speedy research to do. If Nero is doing some kind of custom portfolio for him, the pressure makes a lot more sense.
Still unsettled, I make my way to the cafeteria.
The food here is heavily subsidized and is of five-star restaurant quality. Today is a French cuisine day, so I fill my tray with a couple of gougères (tiny cheese puffs) and a baguette to go with my ratatouille. After a brief deliberation, I also take a banana-stuffed crepe for dessert and five tiny cups of noisette (the French equivalent of macchiato).
Given how tired I feel, if they had an IV with coffee available, I’d probably put that on my tray too.
As I stand in the long, rush-hour line to pay, I strategize how I’m going to research twenty-six stocks in a few short hours. Then a familiar voice calls out my name behind me.
I jump slightly, the tray nearly tumbling to the floor before I catch it.
Turning, I recognize Lucretia, the psychologist Nero keeps at the fund to ensure all his minion-cogs are in optimal working order. Like me, she’s a Cognizant, but unlike me, she’s a pre-vamp—something I learned when I saw her last night at my Jubilee.
“I hope I didn’t startle you,” Lucretia says in her soothing voice. She leans in close to my ear. “I just sensed so much dissatisfaction in you that I had to say something.”
I pull away from her pink lips. “You what?”
My tray shakes a little, so I steady my hands. Adrenaline from Lucretia’s hello must still be muddling my brain because I could’ve sworn she just sounded like a Jedi, sensing—
“Oh, you didn’t know.” She leans in again and whispers, “I’m an empath.” She looks at me expectantly, but must see a completely blank expression because she adds, “I can sense emotions, particularly when they’re strong.”
My mind races for the best question out of millions, but all I can muster is, “But you can’t read my thoughts, can you?”
“Sadly, no.” She looks around to make sure we’re not being overheard and clarifies in a low voice, “Just emotions. Still, it’s a boon for my job.”
Of course.
A shrink empath.
No wonder her skills are so legendary. In a world of normal human psychologists, being an empath is like being the only sighted art critic, or the only gynecologist with arms, or—
“So what troubles you so?” she asks, this time without leaning in.
The line advances and I follow suit, wondering if she’s bound by the confidentiality agreements we discussed before.
“This would be between us,” Lucretia says as we stop again. I sure hope she didn’t just read my mind, despite her earlier assurances to the contrary.
“Nero gave me a lot of work to do.” I shift from one foot to another. “That’s all.”
“I can tell there’s more to it,” she says, her blue eyes filled with concern. “You really should come in for a session.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say, and it’s not a complete lie. I think about it right after I say the words and decide against it. She stands there, watching me patiently, so I add, “Right now, I don’t have the time.”
“I can talk to Nero if you—”
“No,” I say, perhaps too forcefully. “Please let me deal with my own problems.”
“Of course,” she says, looking at me with such compassion that I feel like confiding in her right here and now. I resist the temptation, though. I’d have to be a lot more desperate to spill my guts in a cafeteria line.
In the uncomfortable silence that follows, I notice two guys staring at us from the nearby line and overhear one say to the other, “No, I don’t think they’re related.”
Not this again.
Just because we’re both pale, blue-eyed, slim, and have black hair doesn’t mean we look alike.
Then a wild thought occurs to me.
“Lucretia,” I say, my heartbeat speeding up. “Do you have any children?”
She freezes for a second, then shakes her head. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t.”
There goes that crazy idea. For a moment, I’d wondered if she could somehow be my biological mother. Despite her youthful looks, she’s centuries old and could’ve easily had a child my age—or my great-grandmother’s age. But then again, she isn’t a seer, so I should’ve known better than to ask.
As we continue to stand in line, I realize something about my question discomfited her. Did I just touch on a sore subject?
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,” I say softly, leaning in. “I hope I didn’t—”
“It’s fine.” She gives me a tight smile. “You probably don’t know this yet, but it’s not easy for us to have children with humans.” She lowers her voice further as she says this, and I read between the lines.
She must’ve had a human lover at some point, and they couldn’t have children together.
I want to apologize for my insensitivity again, but we’re already at the register and the cashier loudly says, “Cash or credit?”
I place my tray by the register and pull out my card. “I’m paying for both of us,” I say, indicating Lucretia’s tray.
“Oh, no, you don’t have to,” she starts, but I wave away her protests.
“No, please, I insist.”
She shakes her head and smiles. “Now you really have to come see me for another session.”
“Maybe,” I say, figuring it’s not a lie to say that, even if the chance of my going is a fraction of a percent. “Right now, I physically can’t. Too much work.”
“And you’re sure you don’t want me to talk to Nero about that?”
“I’m positive,” I say and move out of her way. “Please excuse me. I have to go make a dent in my work.”
“Bon appétit,” Lucretia says. “Hope to see you soon.”
“Thank you,” I say and make my escape from the cafeteria.
When I get to my desk, I bring up a bunch of articles on my screens and read them as I devour the delicious food mindlessly and without any real pleasure.
In the time I have, I can only learn the basics about each company. So I methodically divide my remaining time into twenty-six equal slots and don’t give any single stock more than that tiny amount.
By 4:30, my eyes feel like they might be bleeding P/E ratios and P&L numbers.
I begin to write up my suggestions for Nero. I did the best I could, but under the circumstances, I’d call my recommendat
ions guesses—and not even educated ones.
A blindfolded monkey throwing darts at my monitors might be just as accurate. Then again, there’s research out there that in general, monkeys throwing darts can be as accurate as financial experts. Of course, this is more of a testament to the stock-picking skills of financial experts—one of the many reasons I’ve always felt rather useless doing what I do.
At 4:44, I email everything to Nero and breathe a sigh of relief. It’s an unwarranted relief, considering I might lose my job—or at the very least, my year-end bonus—in a few minutes.
By the time I walk to the water cooler and back, a message from Nero is waiting in my inbox.
This is it. Poverty, here I come.
Chapter Four
I stare at Nero’s email, worried the strain has made me hallucinate.
Great job, Nero’s email says. Keep it up.
How could I have done a good job if I barely had any time to do proper analysis? More importantly, how can he even know if my recommendations are good so quickly? Did he give me more stocks that he had illegal “intuitions” about?
Rubbing my eyes, I check my phone and see two texts from Felix.
The lunch is on Friday at one, at Nargis Café. Here’s a link to its Yelp page.
I follow the link. The menu and the reviews are very promising, but the place is located in Brooklyn, which means a longer lunch (good) and, obviously, a trip to Brooklyn (not so good).
I’ll be there, I reply.
I then read his other text.
I checked info on previous tenants in our apartment. They don’t sound even remotely Russian, plus no one ever died here. I did find out something you’ll never believe, though. Call me.
Intrigued (as was Felix’s intent), I ask my phone to video-dial Neophile—my private nickname for Felix due to his obsession with Neo from The Matrix.
Felix’s smiling face shows up in a few moments. Behind him is a wall of at least a dozen monitors and a contraption that must be the latest in ergonomic keyboards. It looks suspiciously like the keyboards in The Matrix.
“I knew you’d call.” Felix whirls in his black dentist-like chair, giving me a view of a giant room that looks like a datacenter filled with supercomputers. “And trust me, it’s worth it.”
“I’m having a crap day,” I say. “Can you just spill it?”
“Guess who owns our building?” Felix says in a sing-song voice.
“The President of the United States?” I say, trying to sound jovial despite the deep sense of foreboding that suddenly overcomes me.
Felix shakes his head. “Hint, hint, he also owns the building you’re sitting in at this very moment.”
“No,” I say, the foreboding becoming a certainty. “No way.”
“Nero Gorin,” Felix says triumphantly. Then he frowns. “Are you okay?”
I must look as uneasy as I feel. Until now, I figured I could become homeless by one route only: Nero firing me. Now he can also not renew my lease if I piss him off enough. I love our place and—
“Seriously, what’s up?” Felix asks in a hushed whisper.
The concern on his face is touching. If he were here, he’d probably get a hug despite how awkward he acts when I hug him.
“Just a lot of work.” I point my phone at my screens that still have a bunch of articles up. “Nero isn’t exactly my favorite person right now.”
As though in reply to my words, my work email dings, and I glance at the screen to find another email from Nero in my inbox.
I turn the phone camera back toward myself. “I have to get back to work. Thank you for looking into this domovoi thing for me. I owe you one.”
“No problem.” His grin is contagious, so I return it and then hang up.
Nero’s new list of stocks is slightly smaller than the previous one (but still a couple of days’ worth of work), and my deadline is “before market open tomorrow.”
I order Mexican delivery and get to it. By the time my food comes, I’m so tired I’m barely thinking, and after I eat my burrito, the food coma combines with exhaustion to severely reduce the quality of my already-dubious research.
By 8:37 p.m., I type up my email report for Nero, but I don’t actually send it. Given my deadline, I schedule the email to go out at 6:00 a.m. the next day. This should give Nero time to take action and will make it seem like I worked extra hard on it—maybe all night.
Doing my best to pretend I’m just going out to stretch my legs, I sneak out of the building and start walking without thinking.
As I cross the street, I begin to get an uncomfortable feeling, an itch of sorts between my shoulder blades.
I glance around but don’t see anyone watching me. Still, the feeling persists.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think someone from the office decided to follow me—but there’s no way my hedge fund colleagues are that nosy.
It takes me a few minutes to realize where I’m headed.
A magic store.
Usually, I buy my magic books and props online, but nothing compares to the soothing qualities of walking into a brick-and-mortar magic shop. Before I hit puberty, a magic store was my Toys’R’Us and candy store rolled into one. As I grew boobs, however, I started frequenting magic shops less often due to excessive drooling attention from the predominantly male customer base.
A chime rings out as I walk in.
The earlier paranoia doesn’t completely go away, and I feel as though the imaginary nosy coworker is standing outside and looking at me.
Oh what the hell, let them look. I have a life outside of work, and I’m not ashamed of it.
The magic store clearly isn’t doing well—I guess I’m not the only one who took her magic shopping online. Half the shelf space is now taken up by practical jokes such as fart cushions and fake piles of poop.
The store is empty during the moment it takes me to look around, but then a mustachioed hipster about my age comes out. His eyes widen as he sees me, and his mustache seems to elongate in both directions.
“You’re that Sasha girl,” he exclaims. “I saw you on TV. You were amazing.”
“Thanks,” I say, happy he omitted the YouTube debunking fiasco. “Do you have books on the bullet catch illusion?”
After the events of the other day, I’ve been wondering if I should get myself a gun. I’m not a gun person like Ariel, but I’ve always wanted to explore gun-related illusions one day. Maybe all those zombie attacks were the universe telling me that “one day” is now.
“All we got is this.” The hipster guy reaches into a large bookshelf and hands me a small booklet.
I glance at it. The advertising on the back describes an effect where a performer heats up a bullet with a match, causing it to fire, only to end up inside the performer’s mouth.
In short, this trick is missing the most dramatic part of the illusion—the gun.
“I want something of a bigger caliber,” I say. “Pun intended.”
“That’s all we have.” He twirls his mustache.
I’m not that surprised. The bullet catch is a ridiculously dangerous illusion. At least six very famous magicians died while performing it. Still, every major TV illusionist that I can think of has done a version, and I always figured I’d have to join the club—that is, until being Cognizant ended my hopes of getting on TV.
“I have this Russian Roulette routine.” The guy grabs another, slightly thicker booklet from the shelf and puts it in front of me. “The effect is that you put a bullet in a revolver, spin it, and ‘shoot yourself’ in—”
“I know what a Russian Roulette routine is,” I say, trying not to let my irritation show.
The guy flushes. “I didn’t mean to imply that you don’t. Timothy makes us explain effects to all customers. Regardless of gender.”
Regardless of gender.
That’s like starting a sentence with “I don’t mean to sound sexist, but…”
“I’ve invented my own Russian Roulette routi
ne,” I tell him. What I don’t say is that without a gun, I’ve never tested my idea in front of an audience, so it could be bad.
“That’s awesome,” he says overexcitedly, clearly wanting to cover up his snafu. “Will you publish it?”
What a great question.
Now that I can’t perform any illusions, should I publish my ideas now, instead of posthumously like I half-jokingly planned, so that other magicians can use them?
No.
The effects I invented are like my babies, and giving them to other illusionists would be like leaving them at an airport for some other family to find.
“Nope,” I say firmly. “I’m taking all my stuff with me to the grave.”
The guy looks genuinely disappointed—which probably means he doesn’t know how I did something on the TV show and hoped to learn the secret in my book. Likely, he wants to know how I got the host to name the Queen of Hearts before showing it tattooed on my arm.
“Listen,” he says conspiratorially and glances at the security camera. “Usually, I’m the one demoing effects, but I was wondering if you can show me something?”
If his goal was to redeem himself, he just succeeded with flying colors. There’s no bigger compliment a magician can pay another than to request to see something. Usually, everyone just waits their turn to show off their own skills.
I hesitate for a second, remembering the Council’s prohibition on my performances, then decide that this won’t violate it. This guy will never in a million years think that I’m for real; he knows how most of the effects are done.
Wary of showing something I invented myself lest it get stolen, I repeat for him what I showed Fluffster at breakfast. Few things in that routine should fool a guy who works at a magic store, but hopefully, he can appreciate my execution of all the moves.
“That was great,” he says when I’m done. He strokes his mustache thoughtfully, making me think I underestimated my fooling abilities after all.
“Not bad,” a raspy new voice says. “Your palming skills are very decent. For a girl.”
I turn and see that the newcomer is a pudgy, white-haired man in his sixties. I’ve got to give him props; he managed to appear as if out of thin air.
