The Fever King

by Lee, Victoria

  Only the virus wasn’t just transmitted through fluids. Noam remembered reading something, insomniac at four in the morning with his holoreader propped on his knees: a research study suggesting magic might transfer through physical contact as well. Noam had always thought it was just paranoia and poor science education, people worrying about catching the virus when witchings used magic around them.

  But what if it was true?

  When Noam went to the Migrant Center, when he fell asleep over the keyboard Brennan would keep using, when Brennan touched his shoulder and Noam jerked awake—was he already contagious then? Did magic seep through Noam’s skin, between the fibers of his sweater, and poison Brennan’s fingertips?

  Stop it, Noam ordered himself. Stop thinking like this. Go to sleep.

  Eventually he must have, because he woke hours later to an empty room.

  Shit. Was he supposed to be up early? No one said anything about classes or early training. Noam fumbled out of bed and hastily made up the sheets. He’d slept in his clothes, so being dressed was just a matter of pushing his feet into his shoes and dragging his fingers back through his hair—not that it helped.

  But when he emerged from the bedroom, the apartment was eerily quiet. People could have been there moments before: dishes stacked on the rack next to the sink to dry, someone’s book left open on the table with a clean fork tucked between the pages to mark the spot. It was impossible to guess anything about the people who lived here. From the state of the kitchen—all gleaming chrome and a bowl of fruit sitting on the counter—someone clearly tidied up the place every night. Everything had its purpose, down to the bland mass-produced artwork hanging on the walls. None of it felt like a home, though it was far nicer than anywhere Noam had lived before.

  He wandered through the other rooms branching off from the hall: a gym, a classroom, an office for Howard, another bedroom that must belong to the girls. These rooms were equally as neat, all sharp edges and military precision.

  There was no phone that Noam could see. No way to ring up the Migrant Center and ask if Brennan was around. Eventually Noam returned to the kitchen and sat at the table, staring across at the open book. The letters bled together as Noam’s eyes unfocused. Maybe everyone had gone to school. But then why hadn’t Howard left a note? Annoyed, Noam shifted in his seat to tuck one foot under his thighs and reached for the book, pulling it closer. The fork clattered onto the tabletop.

  Invitation to a Beheading. Noam smiled despite himself; he’d read this book at least four times. The bookshop had multiple copies, so there was always an Invitation to a Beheading lying around somewhere to be picked up when bored. He pressed a thumb against the pages and let them flitter against his skin, a papery fwip until there was just the cover in his grasp. He peered at the book jacket, intending to read the summary, but someone had scrawled a note:

  Dara Shirazi, return to owner.

  The latch turned. He shut the book, pushing it across the table just in time as the front door swung open. A series of teenagers spilled into the room, all wearing identical olive cadet uniforms: one boy, two girls. Last night’s anxiety rushed back in all at once, thickening like nausea in Noam’s throat.

  “—an ego thing. Swensson’ll never admit you’re right, so you might as well let it go. You only just got off his bad side, anyway . . .”

  The girl who was speaking seemed to realize Noam was there only as she finished the sentence, words faltering, then trailing off in uncomfortable silence. Probably wondering how much Noam heard and how much she trusted him to hear it.

  But then the silence cracked like an egg, and the girl brushed past the others to smile at Noam. The expression was bright and sincere seeming on her young face.

  “Hey. You’re the new guy, right? I’m Bethany.”

  Up close she looked to be around fourteen or fifteen, white with curly blonde hair pulled into a bouncy ponytail, like one of those perfect golden girls Noam used to know, the ones always knotted together and whispering in groups. Upon inspection, even the way she smiled reminded Noam of his ex-girlfriend. Carly’d had that same carelessness about her, as if she believed the world could orbit around an undocumented Atlantian girl living in the slums.

  But Bethany wasn’t Carly. And she wouldn’t die like Carly had, deported to an infected homeland she didn’t remember.

  She extended her hand. After a moment, Noam took it.

  “Noam,” he said. Her grip was surprisingly firm. “Was I supposed to be up early this morning?”

  “Free pass, since it’s your first day and all. All you missed was basic—lucky, really.”

  She perched on the edge of the chair just across from him, and after a taut moment, the other two took her cue, joining Noam and Bethany at the table.

  “This is Taye,” she said, tilting her head toward the tall black boy with a toothpick sticking out of his mouth like a skinny cigarette, “and Ames,” the other white girl, who had flipped out her phone as soon as she sat down and was now furiously tapping out a text. “Ames is a bitch,” Bethany said after a beat; Ames gave them all the finger without lifting her gaze from her phone. Her finger, like most of the rest of her Noam could see, was tattooed.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Noam,” Taye said, and he reached past Ames to shake Noam’s hand. “Have you been to aptitude testing yet? I hear you came from outside.”

  He said outside like it meant something, like the world beyond the Level IV program was some foreign place he’d never been. Maybe he hadn’t. Most people who survived the virus were a lot younger than Noam. If Taye came from one of the other programs, promoted into Level IV rather than being assigned to it directly, he might not remember anything else.

  “Not yet,” Noam said. “Dr. Howard didn’t mention anything about tests.” Should he be worried? Was this the kind of thing he ought to study for? Or was it just assumed he’d know all about aptitude testing, the kind of thing he would’ve learned if he’d ever taken a civics class?

  “Don’t worry about it,” Bethany said. “It’s not a big deal. You’ll do fine. I mean, if you got sent straight to Level IV, you’ve got to be pretty talented, right?” She glanced at Taye and Ames, as if for confirmation; the latter had finally put down her phone.

  “I don’t know about that,” Noam said. “I haven’t even done any magic yet.” Judging by the looks on their faces, that was the wrong thing to say. “Lehrer just showed up in my hospital room and told me I was coming here. Something about my antibody titers.”

  “Wait, Minister Lehrer sent you?” Taye shot a meaningful look at Ames. “Do you think Dara knows?”

  “Don’t think he cares,” Ames said. Still, she fixed Noam with a narrowed gaze. Noam got the abrupt impression he was being observed and summarily analyzed, as if Ames were jury, judge, and executioner of the Level IV social scene. “Where you from, Noam?”

  “Here,” Noam said. He gestured vaguely toward the window. “On the west side. Ninth Street.”

  “Ooohh, right.” Taye tugged the toothpick free. “That’s super Atlantian territory now, right? I heard it’s pretty overcrowded, with all the refugees.”

  “Yeah. I guess it’s”—what the hell was he even saying?—“super Atlantian.”

  All of them watched with bated breath, like he was supposed to keep going. Under the table, Noam hooked both ankles round the legs of his chair.

  Stay calm. Stay calm. He wouldn’t be able to help Atlantians if he got thrown in jail his first day in Level IV.

  “It’s a little crowded,” he added.

  That seemed to be what they were waiting for, because Taye nodded knowingly and said, “It was only a matter of time before there was an outbreak.”

  Noam’s whole body was on edge, waiting for someone to say it. Someone was going to say it, any second now. Carolinians just couldn’t help themselves—

  “Border control is shit,” Ames agreed. She hadn’t stopped watching Noam. “You flood a small neighborhood with a bunch of rednecks who’r
e probably infected already, and it’s gonna be a shitshow.”

  And there it was.

  Noam felt a thin layer of frost crystallize under his skin before he even opened his mouth. “How long is the virus incubation period, d’you reckon?” he asked as lightly as he could manage—as if he didn’t know. As if every Atlantian hadn’t learned all too well from the constant fear that seethed in the slums and the refugee camps, the silent and savage knowledge they could be next.

  “Twenty-four hours,” Bethany said.

  “Ish,” added Taye, but Bethany’s expression had gone oddly still, her hands in loose fists atop the table. She, at least, had cottoned on.

  Noam smiled, sickly sweet.

  “Wow,” Noam said. “It took my dad way longer than that to get sick after he came here from Atlantia.”

  It was worth it just to see the looks on their faces, staring at him like he was the unholy incarnation of Typhoid Mary. Taye’s toothpick hung forgotten in his hand.

  Noam propped his elbows on the table, smile widening. Spite tasted like bile in his mouth. “No worries. I survived, so pretty sure I’m not contagious anymore.”

  “Of course you’re not. And we couldn’t get infected again, even if you were.” Bethany actually scooted closer to him, not away, and gave him a tiny grin. “Though you’re about to be in a world of trouble all the same. Have you been reading this?”

  The change in subject was so abrupt that at first he didn’t know what she was talking about, until he looked down and saw her pointing at Invitation to a Beheading.

  “Oh,” he said. “Not really?”

  Bethany shook her head. “That’s Dara’s book. I’d be careful if I were you. He doesn’t like people touching his things.”

  “Maybe he shouldn’t have left it out, then,” Noam said. Across the table, Ames lifted a brow.

  “That’s a risky stance to take,” she said. “Good luck with it.”

  It was such an ominous thing to say that Noam almost laughed, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from making a face. He had no idea who Dara was, but if he was another student, then he couldn’t be older than eighteen. Noam found it difficult to imagine any boy, even one who survived the virus, being worthy of that kind of warning.

  Then again, he’d heard stories. They’d all learned about that kid back in the ’50s who came out of feverwake with the ability to split atoms. He didn’t have control. It was an accident.

  He’d leveled his whole city with a nuclear blast twice the size of the one that destroyed New York.

  “So,” Taye said, “what’s your presenting power?”

  Noam didn’t get a chance to answer; that was the moment Dr. Howard returned, tapping her watch and declaring the others were about to be late for class. Noam stayed where he was while the cadets’ lives eddied around him: showers and quick snacks eaten over the sink, shouts down the hall in pursuit of lost socks, wet-haired teenagers wandering through the den in various states of undress. The barracks felt smaller with people in it. Noam preferred it that way.

  Was this going to be his life now? Clean halls and real doors, the chance to go to school again?

  He wanted that, but he hated himself for wanting it. All this . . . all of it was bought and paid for with the blood of dead fevervictims. Carly, Noam’s old juvie friends, deportees. Noam’s own father.

  “Noam?” Dr. Howard zeroed in on him the second the other students had been ferried out the door. “It’s time for your aptitude testing.”

  Noam didn’t move. “What does this ‘aptitude testing’ entail, exactly?”

  She glared disapprovingly, but the carefully blank look on Noam’s face didn’t falter.

  “We need to know what you can do and how well you can do it,” she elaborated at last. “We need to know more about your magic—any special affinities, boundary conditions. It’s standard operating procedure, Mr. Álvaro. There’s nothing to worry about. Now come with me.”

  Noam really, really didn’t want to go with her. He couldn’t imagine anything less appealing than being asked to make a fool of himself in front of a whole bunch of government officials.

  Still. He was admittedly interested in figuring out what kind of magic he could do.

  He got up, dusted off his trousers—though there wasn’t much he could do to make the old hand-me-downs presentable—and followed Howard out into the hall.

  Now that it was daylight, the corridors swarmed with government officials, tall and cold and blank eyed like ghosts from another world. Their gazes lingered on Noam as he went past—as if he had contamination threat painted all over him. Like Atlantia was written on his skin as much as in his blood and bone.

  Just wait. He pushed the thought back at them and their smug faces. I’ll learn magic. I’ll become a witching. And I’ll use everything Carolinia teaches me to help Atlantia instead.

  They might’ve been in the west wing, the wing that usually housed high command, but Howard didn’t bring him to someone’s office. Instead they went down, following a narrow spiral staircase into the basement. There was a single door. Howard knocked.

  “Enter.”

  “Go on, then,” Howard said.

  Noam looked at the door, at its unassuming steel knob.

  He wouldn’t be any use to Brennan or the cause if he was intimidated by a few men in suits.

  He opened the door.

  The room within was not the kind of room you’d expect to find so far underground, not unless they’d torn out the ceiling to merge it with a room on the floor above. It had a tile floor and soaring rafters, with streams of light cast down from tiny rectangular windows near the ceiling. The space was empty, if you didn’t count the two tables at the far end—one bearing a whole mess of objects, the other surrounded by people in military uniforms.

  A ripple of shock ricocheted through him: Minister Lehrer was among them.

  Lehrer was also in uniform, although his had a commander’s circle of silver stars on its sleeve instead of lesser insignia. Noam managed not to falter, but it was a near thing.

  Lehrer met his gaze, a small smile crossing his lips.

  “Noam Álvaro,” one of the others said, reading off a folder in front of him. “Álvaro—is that a Carolinian name?”

  Jesus, people just couldn’t quit today, could they?

  Noam raised a brow. “Are you trying to find out if I’m Atlantian or just if I’m white?”

  That, at least, earned him a reaction. The man’s throat convulsed and he frowned, then tipped his head closer to his holoreader to cover his expression. “The former.”

  “Yes. My parents were Atlantian.”

  The man looked up. “Documented?”

  “No,” Noam said. “But I was born here, if you’d like to see my papers.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  Noam desperately wanted the man to say something else about Noam’s father. Fuck going back to prison, and fuck self-control.

  Calm down. He’d chosen this for a reason; he had to remember that. His heart pounded in his chest, and he forced himself to breathe, unsteady little gulps of air that didn’t make him feel any better.

  The young woman intervened, tapping the table. “Come closer, please.” Noam approached until she said, “That’s far enough. Ivar, if you will . . . ?”

  The last man, black haired and wearing a colonel’s phoenix insignia, said nothing. Did nothing. He sat there and looked at Noam, unblinking, until Noam’s skin itched.

  Maybe he was having some kind of seizure.

  Noam was about to open his mouth and say something when the man finally twisted toward Lehrer and spoke. “His dynamics are well within range for Level IV. You were right about that much, sir.”

  “I usually am,” Lehrer said benignly; he didn’t seem to find the remark insubordinate. He gestured toward the other table. “Mr. Álvaro, why don’t you go have a look at all these. Let us know if anything stands out.”

  Another test. If Noam really was Level
IV, he’d probably send the whole table spinning up toward the ceiling. He’d turn it invisible. Light it on fire.

  Instead he walked over to look down at the items spread like some bizarre buffet before him. There was a baseball bat, a bowl of water, some matches, what looked like metal ball bearings . . . even a couple lamps, their cords dangling off the edge of the table, one snaking along the floor to plug in to an extension cord and the other simply hanging loose.

  What if his presenting power turned out to be something dumb, like changing his eye color? They’d probably kick him out.

  He glanced back at the others. “What exactly am I supposed to be looking for?”

  The woman shrugged. “You tell me.”

  All I see is a bunch of random shit.

  Noam pretended to be interested anyway, poking around a stack of magazines, an ancient-looking and incredibly ugly necklace, a pile of misshapen rocks. He rolled one of these around between the palm of his hand and the table, bemused by the way two of the adults suddenly leaned forward in their seats, anticipatory, only to seem disappointed when he moved on to the next thing.

  There was no magic. No moment when his fingers grazed metal, or wood, or stone and he felt a telltale spark.

  Useless.

  “This is a waste of time,” one of them—the black-haired man—muttered.

  Lehrer cleared his throat and picked up a pen to make a note on a pad of paper.

  It was oddly gratifying to watch the way the others’ faces went pale. All gazes swung back round to Noam, as if he were suddenly the most important person in the world.

  They made him stay at the table for ten minutes. Ten excruciating minutes examining every last piece of yard sale nonsense before, at last, Lehrer said, “That’s enough, Mr. Álvaro. Thank you.”

  “So,” Noam said, returning to the center of the room and stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Did I pass?”

  Judging from the disappointed looks on their faces, the resigned set to the woman’s mouth, that was a no. Noam fought the strange emotion bubbling up within him, a hot mixture of anger and embarrassment. What did they expect? They brought him in here, told him nothing, propped up a table full of garbage, and expected him to perform miracles? He fucking told Lehrer he couldn’t do any of this shit, but Lehrer had let him get his hopes up anyway, had let him believe for one second he wasn’t damned to the same life as his parents. That he might ever amount to more than just another unemployed slum rat with a criminal record and a foreign last name.