by Evan Fuller
12.
A Noble Venture
The train let off not too far from the docks, so he was spared a long walk. With a brisk wind probing for any exposed flesh and sinking into it like glass, Emery was grateful for that. He was eagerly awaiting this season’s end.
If he had forgotten about the coming election amidst more pressing concerns, it was impossible to ignore as he entered Camden Landing. And the sentiment here was the opposite of that which Juliet had expressed. Virtually every surface in sight was adorned split ribbons of silver and black, advocating Gino Gullini’s appointment—the silver represented the Roccetti circle; the black was the Gullini family’s color. Emery recalled that the sails of the admiral’s flagship, the GGS Doom, were black.
There were two gates open to foot traffic, one for employees and one for visitors. Emery took the latter and was greeted by a stick-thin, bored-looking Roccetti guard lounging a short wooden stool with a rifle resting on his knobby knee. This was one of the few places in Rittenhouse where one was required to present identification. Emery submitted his birth certificate, a laminated blue card, to the guard, who rubbed his white knuckles against his chin and said, “And what’s your business here, sir Esposti?”
“I’m inquiring of one of the captains about a matter concerning my late cousin’s will. You know where I can find the GGS Venture?”
He was expecting that the guard would need more information than that, but the man simply waved him through. Michael Garis must be well remembered here. “Just ask the registrar, the guy at the big desk. He’ll point you in the right direction.”
The brine of the bay was a ubiquitous scent in the easternmost quarter of Rittenhouse, but upon crossing the threshold into the docks it was suddenly cut with a pungent note of fresh-caught fish. Emery appreciated the salt smell more than the fish smell; he preferred his fish smell well-cooked. But all the aromas coupled with the vista of the open sea, and their combined appeal was irresistible. Emery’s boots tapped sharply on the gray wood of the boardwalk. The entrance to Camden Landing was dominated by blue wood-paneled storage and sorting stations for the ships’ catches; trucks stood by to take these to Powelton and various other markets and restaurants throughout the city. Past these was a small medical pavilion for the interim treatment of injuries too urgent to wait for transport to Rittenhouse General Hospital—it was the same faded blue as the storage buildings, with ample windows looking out in every direction. Beyond this pavilion, there were only the piers, the ships, and the tall stone battlements between them, bearing two hundred black iron cannons toward the bay. Turning left, Emery could see the Schuylkill cutting north through the land toward Fairmount Farms; directly to the west, the Cloud Throne vaulted skyward, impossibly tall. John Rizzo’s legion of watermills lined the base of the sheer wall to the south. Beyond that wall, only the specks of islets opposed the open sea.
Camden Landing was the only place in Rittenhouse where non-Unity personnel could bear arms, and as he looked around, Emery began to get the sense that he was the only person here without a weapon. Though there had been no pirate attack on the city itself in as long as he could remember, both the seamen and the dock employees exuded a constant readiness. There were Unity officers present as well, monitoring the incoming catches, but beside the seamen’s broad shoulders and grim demeanors they looked insubstantial. Emery spotted a man working a desk whose entire surface was a slate tablet. Each returning ship’s catch was being wheeled in to weigh on one of more than half a dozen enormous scales, and the man at the desk scrawled the figures in chalk by the corresponding captain’s name. Emery dodged a barrow as he approached, and its runner muttered a curse as he struggled to keep single wheel balanced. “Excuse me, sir,” Emery addressed the man writing on the desk.
“Hmm?” Not raising his heavy head, the registrar held up a single fleshy finger of his right hand. With his left, he continued to write until he’d finished recording the most recent count. He shouted something back at the teenage boy operating the scale, waited for a reply, and double-checked it against the figure he’d taken down. “Okay,” he finally said, “now what can I help you with?”
“I was hoping you could direct me to the GSS Venture.”
“Ah, Captain Pesci. Yeah.” He scanned his desk, tapping with his chalk stick and leaving little marks on the slate as he read the names to himself. “There it is. Pier Six. Just go on down to the water and you’ll see the numbers, should be on your left walking from here.”
“Thanks.” Emery bowed slightly and began to step away.
“You cast your ballot yet?” the registrar continued. “Deadline’s a week from Monday.”
“I haven’t had a chance just yet, but I’ll be sure to make it down this week.”
“Good. I know a lot of you young people favor that Rizzo, but let me tell you one thing before you go to the polls, sir…”
“Esposti. Emery.”
“Let me tell you one thing before you go to the polls, sir Esposti.”
“What’s that?” Emery asked out of courtesy. He prepared for an earful.
“Rizzo talks a good talk, and I know they teach you kids at the collegio about how circles don’t mean that much and we should get past them and all that. That sounds great, doesn’t it? But what Rizzo isn’t gonna tell you is that all this love-and-Unity rhetoric is gonna put a lot of Roccetti out of the only respectable jobs we have. Anyone in our circle can make a decent living here on the docks, and if you work hard enough you can live like a king. We’ve been working the waterfront since before Rittenhouse was even founded, but if Rizzo gets named regent we’ll be competing for jobs in an industry we built. That’s why you won’t find a single Rizzo supporter here—yeah, yeah, give me a minute!” he barked over his shoulder to someone calling another number from the scales. “We know what it’ll actually mean if Roccetti jobs are open to Vorteil and Chukwu and Farsi—more for them, less for us. The name Gullini means something to Roccetti who have been around a while, because that name has always looked out for our own.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Emery replied.
“Do.” He reached down behind the desk and produced a shred of paper, which he pressed into Emery’s hand. “These are the people to vote for. And remember,” he added weightily, “a threat to the fleet is a threat to all Roccetti. I want to be sure, sir Esposti, that you have a good sense of that threat. Again, it’s Pier Six.” He scratched the salt-and-pepper stubble on his ample jowl and returned to his figures.
Emery glanced at the sheet. Tony Pavoni, the banker, was marked on the list, as well as a few captains. He noticed his maestra from last term, Paige Petrou, printed in the unmarked column, the list of names to exclude. He stuffed the paper in his pocket when he was sure the registrar had turned away.
The fleet had been fitted with motors more than a decade ago, but otherwise their ornate design had been flawlessly maintained. At full mast they looked just like the storied ships described in retellings of the first Gullini’s crossing of the Atlantic. The galley docked at Pier Six was smaller and slenderer than some, but no less formidable for that; if anything, it probably fared better when navigating close to land. The polished port cannons gleamed dark and dangerous in the winter sun. The ship was unloading, so it should be docked for a while. Good. Emery walked the length of the pier and inquired of a hulking young man descending the ramp as to where he might find Captain Pesci.
“Fishy Sam!” the youth bellowed. A moment later a stout man with an impressive dark beard appeared. “This kid’s lookin’ to see the captain.”
“Well, what’re you waiting for?” the bearded man replied. “Send ‘im on up!”
Emery strode up the ramp, wondering as he tried not to look over the edge how the dock workers negotiated the narrow planks with wheelbarrows full of fish and crabs. “You can call me Fishy Sam,” the man said when Emery reached the deck. Emery extended a hand, but Sam continued, “We’re working here. What do you want?”
; “I have some rather private business,” Emery said. “My name is Emery Scott Esposti. Michael Garis was my second cousin.”
Fishy Sam’s dismissive expression dissolved instantly, his green eyes suddenly as round as his ruddy cheeks. “Follow me,” he said, though Emery scarcely had a choice when Sam seized him by the arm, “and lissin, damnit, don’t say that name so loud.”
Before he knew it, Emery was dragged belowdecks and hastily ushered into the office cabin of one Captain Samuel Pesci. “Ya’ want somethin’ to drink?” he asked. “I got wine, whisky, and this great rum from Ambler… hell, it’s from the Sunken City, really. I guess there’s no point tryin’ to fool you.”
Recently, this would have shocked Emery, but in the wake of last night’s research, it was scant surprise. From the inference that “Venture” in Garis’ notes referenced a ship, Emery had pieced together an astounding narrative of smuggling and secret correspondence.
“If you have any white wine, that would be superb.” Fishy Sam might think Emery knew more than he did, and it wouldn’t hurt to maintain that illusion. Emery smiled. The wet bar, and the rest of the cabin, bespoke a life accoutered by the finest luxuries Rittenhouse had to offer. As Emery’s own inheritance demonstrated, there were few things a captain’s pay could not buy; he wondered just how much wealthier one could become by further supplementing that income. He sank into a welcoming leather chair that sat before a desk every bit as fine as the one in his study at home. He withdrew a piece of paper from his breast pocket, on which he’d written a summary of Garis’ notes as he understood them, and set it on his lap.
The captain was visibly shaken, fumbling as he produced a glass and spilling a few drops of the white. He selected the rum for himself and drank half the glass in a single gulp. “Good of ya’ to drop by!” he said too enthusiastically as he took his seat. “Awful what happened to Cappin Garis. He was a good friend of mine. You thinking of taking up after him, joining the fleet someday?”
“I fear I’m not cut out for the seafaring life. And besides, our good admiral has secured my cousin’s Endeavor.” Camden Landing was owned by the Gullini family, and by the convoluted terms of Garis’ deed to his ship, it had reverted to Gullini’s possession upon his death. Scarce few ships were fully owned by their captains.
“Well then, what brings you?”
“I’ve been going through Garis’ letters and journals, trying to decide what to do with it all, frankly. The family sent me from Ambler to manage his estate and accounts when he passed. Since he left no heirs and no will, it fell to his next of kin, Rachel Esposti, maiden name Garis—his cousin, my mother. She’s signed the deed over to me. Anyway, I saw in his journals some mention of you and your ship that piqued my curiosity, so I thought I’d drop by and see if you’d be willing to answer a few questions. Just what, exactly, was your connection to Michael Garis?”
“Well. I, um.” Fishy Sam cleared his throat, began again. “I mean, we were jus’ friends, fellow cappins and all…”
Emory opted for a more direct approach. “I know that you carried correspondence between my cousin and someone outside Rittenhouse—someone at the Cloud Throne, am I correct?” His notes confirmed the fact. “I’m not going to report you, and if I leave here in a good mood, I won’t even ask for pay to keep quiet. But I need everything you know about my cousin’s letters. To whom were they addressed, what were they were about, and what he did with the letters he received.”
“Oh, good.” Fishy Sam barked a laugh. “Ha! And here I thought you were comin’ in here to extort a hardworking man.”
“I have quite enough money,” Emery answered, “at least for the time being. It’s information I need. Let’s start with the beginning. Your duty as a captain of the fleet is to engage any pirate vessel you encounter in order to maintain the security of our city. But the Venture has been trading with the pirates—for several years, by my reading.”
“No, yes, well—we don’t call them pirates, at least to them. They don’t seem to like bein’ called that. They call themselves the Sunken Folk, and they say they don’t pirate anything. The way they tell it, they was here ages before Rittenhouse, and they’ve been fightin’ to keep their main food source since we started fishing the same waters. But yeah, all that’s beside the point.”
Emery had never heard this before, but given everything else he knew about Rittenhouse’s relations with the outside, he was unsurprised. “So you’re a noble soul who’s managed to rise above our petty disagreements with these people, and your forward-thinking mindset offers some monetary compensation as well—a mere pittance, I’m sure. What was Garis’ involvement?”
Fishy Sam plucked at his beard. “Cappin Garis caught us unloading some goods from the Sunken City an’ blew his lid. I thought he was gonna give us up. But after a while, he calms down an’ talks business. Says he’ll keep our secret, but we gotta make deliveries for him when we go to the Sunken City.”
“Deliveries to whom?”
“That’s the funnies’ part. He wants us to take a letter to Marquise Arianna of the Cloud Throne.” The pace of his speech slowed when he spoke that name.
“Marquise Arianna? The Sunken Folk are ruled by a woman?” A woman ruler was all but unheard of in Rittenhouse. Nina Esser had secured a seat on the Vorteil Petit Council, but no woman had ever been appointed to the High Council, and the other circles had always been ruled by men.
“If you can call her that. Scariest woman you’ll ever meet. The Sunken Folk are tough, but I’d take dozen of their men before I fought her. She’s easy on the eyes, too, but you try sayin’ that out loud an’ see how fast you lose those eyes.” He looked genuinely afraid just to think of this Arianna. “And if you make her mad for real… they say it’s a seven-hundred-foot fall from the top of that tower.”
“So Garis starts writing the marquise, and I suppose she’s writing him back.” The Venture had appeared in his journal pages over a length of months. “What was the subject of their correspondence?”
“Couldn’t tell ya’. The letters both ways was always sealed, so I couldn’t read them if I wanted to. Neither of them ever told me anything, and I wasn’t about to ask. You’re talkin’ about two creepy people. Garis might not have been as stab-you scary as Marquise Arianna, but he was kinda off his rocker, no offense. All I know is this—he was lookin’ for something. Something that he couldn’t find inside, that I guess he figured she might find for him. He gave us other stuff to send the Throne too, everything from fine spirits to medicine. He could get his hands on damn near anything.”
“And did he ever find what he was looking for?”
“Can’t say. They was still in touch when he took ill, though, so if I had to guess I’d say no.” Fishy Sam gulped down the rest of his drink; Emery’s glass was empty.
“Thanks. You’ve been very helpful; if I think of anything else I need to know, I’ll drop by again.” He made as if to rise. “One more thing—just a matter of personal interest. There are two terms that have come up in my research: Jacob’s Ladder, and Redemption. Can you tell me anything about either of them?”
When he heard that, Fishy Sam’s eyes grew as round as they had abovedecks. “What are you after, kid?”
“Some truths. What can you tell me?”
“Never heard a’ Jacob’s Ladder, but Redemption…” The captain was grinning now, hungry. “Redemption’s a playground for the rich an’ liberated. Imagine a Powelton Market for vices. You can get poppy any way you like it, any woman you can imagine.” He took another look at Emery and thought it necessary to add, “Or any man you can imagine. If you can think of buyin’ it, but you can’t buy it anywhere else, Redemption’s the place.”
This was it—at least, it was more than he’d gotten before now. “How do I get in? Where’s the entrance?”
“Can’t tell ya,” Sam said apologetically, “and it wouldn’t help if I did. Invitation only. There’s a few entrances, hidden in plain view, in public places. But there’s arm
ed guards at all of them. If they don’t want you in, there’s no gettin’ in.”
Emery thanked him and left. How such a seemingly obtuse criminal had run so successful an operation for years was a question for another time. Emery let himself out and returned to the pier. Sam’s story was an intriguing one, and at least Emery knew now what Redemption was, but with no way to access it he was about where he’d started. He figured he should go back to the estate and see if Lydia was back yet. Perhaps she had found something that would help.
–
The only illumination in the vast space bled in through the thin line of windows set thirty feet above in the far wall. Lydia was nearly blind when the door closed behind her, but slowly her eyes adapted to the dim light. The front face of the Jafari Clothier factory was a storefront selling the wool garments purportedly produced inside, so passersby could purchase from here directly rather than traveling across the city to Powelton. From these storefronts, sewing stations and yards of cloth were visible, implying more of the same throughout the rest of the factory. Of course, customers weren’t allowed inside the production area, but Lydia had circled the massive, ugly building and forced open a rear door. As she ventured deeper in, there were no assembly lines, no equipment, no sign of anything being fabricated here. It appeared less a factory than a warehouse, filled with aisles and aisles of wooden crates. Some of them were open, revealing knit hats, scarves, and gloves—and yes, countless sweaters just like the ones Leila and Bustle claimed they themselves had made. Wherever these garments were coming from, they certainly weren’t being made in this building. She moved farther from the door, farther from the place where the wedge of light met the floor. On the far side of the room, she saw a chasm of deeper black running across the floor, with a raised object inside it. As she approached, the object slowly took shape in the dark. It was one of the box-doors Leila had described, set in a depression cut into the floor—
Disorientation, a crashing sound, panic. She’d tripped—over what, she couldn’t see—and had knocked something loudly to the floor. After the shock subsided she pushed herself up and felt around until her hand found something—a round ceramic object with a sharp edge where it had broken off from the whole. She couldn’t imagine that anyone in the front rooms of the building had heard, but she decided not to take her chances. She rose and backed slowly toward the door through which she’d entered.
And then the lights came on.
–
“I haven’t seen her since last night,” Oliver said. “Maybe she went back to her house to rest after she finished at the factory. You did have her here until almost two in the morning.”
“I’m well aware,” Emery replied.
“Is everything okay between you two? You’ve seemed tense around her for a while, but last night she was avoiding even being in the same room with you.”
“I hadn’t noticed.” Was Oliver picking up on something that Emery wasn’t? “I’m going to try calling her.”
On the telephone in the living room, he pulled the sequence of levers corresponding to Lydia’s number and waited. And waited. The phone rang for more than a minute with no response. He hung up; she must still be out.
–
How many of them were there? One by the door, at least three more roaming the aisles of wooden crates. Lydia held her breath, craning her neck as slowly as she could in hopes of seeing her pursuers without being seen. Yes, at least four. The one by the door had a cruel-looking knife in his hand, and it remained to be seen if the others were armed. Where were the other exits?
The men had come from a door that led to one of the shops at the front of the building. Save the one through which she had entered, presently guarded by the man with the knife, the other doors leading directly outside were barred or blocked off by stacks of boxes.
She shrank back. Shouting, too close. Damnit. They were closing in.
–
“I’m going for a walk. Make sure the new kids are taken care of and that Salvador and Miren aren’t getting into anything.”
“Why do I get stuck with babysitting duty?” Oliver grumbled.
“Remember that time I bought you food and gave you a free place to stay? Oh, right, that’s every day. I’ll be back soon.”
“Emery,” he said. “I… I need to tell you something.”
“That’s never a good beginning to a conversation.”
“The thing with Salvador and Miren last night… I caught them in the act, actually. I’m glad you found out. I wanted to tell you, but…”
He was usually more direct. “But what?”
“Salvador threatened me. He said if I told you he’d break my legs. And I like my legs, Emery, I really do. I like them not-broken.” Under the thin veil of humor his fear was evident.
“Hell… I’ll have to deal with him when I get back.” He wasn’t even sure what to do. One thing at a time: finding Lydia was most pressing right now. “I caught him without you telling me, so for all he knows, you still haven’t. Just try to avoid him until I get back.”
“Sure, Emery, great plan. I feel so safe. I’ll just go lock myself in my bedroom.”
Emery sighed, donned his scarf again, and stepped out into the cold. He had the overwhelming sense that something was wrong; otherwise, Lydia should have contacted him by now, or at least answered her phone. Choosing to ignore the very real possibility that she was simply avoiding him, he struck out toward the Jafari factory.
–
She crept toward the only unguarded door, the one that led back into the shop. She inhaled, trying to slow her frantic pulse, and prepared to dash the last few paces toward door, but at that moment, yet another man emerged from it. Upon the instruction of one of his comrades, he held the position, blocking Lydia’s only path out. She sank against the crates that sheltered her. The piece of the shattered statue was still in her hand. It was a long shot, but certainly better than waiting for them to find her here. She breathed a brief apology skyward, and with a backward toss she let the head of Brahman fly.
The man at the door didn’t move toward the sudden sound, but he pivoted to face it. It was enough: he didn’t see Lydia until she barreled into him. He was much heavier than she, but the distraction allowed her to knock him aside without losing her balance. He shouted after her, and she heard him rise to give chase. She was in the back of the shop now; startled customers stared as she toppled a sewing machine behind her. There was a crash and a grunt as the man chasing her tripped over it and hit the ground. The attendant at the front of the store, a boy of sixteen at the most, shook himself from his stupor at the last moment and grabbed at her as she passed. He was only her size, though, and with her momentum she broke free easily and sprinted for the front door. But as she burst onto the street, she saw that two of the other men were already outside—they must have exited the factory through the back door. It appeared they were ready to risk an open chase through Rittenhouse rather than let her escape. She resolved never to do a favor for Emery again.
–
The city was thick with automobile traffic today; those who had the option were avoiding the cold. Emery couldn’t blame them; it was far too early in the day for the temperature to be dropping already. He shoved his tingling hands deeper into his pockets as he waited on the sidewalk for traffic to pass so he could cross the road. He’d pulled his scarf so far over his face that it was cutting into his periphery, which was likely why he didn’t see Lydia coming until she sent him reeling into the street.
“What in the name of God, Lyd… ?” She was gasping for air between the clouds of steam expelled by each hasty exhalation. She tried to say something but couldn’t catch her breath. “Give yourself a minute,” Emery said, putting a hand on her shoulder.
“There she is!”
He turned to see two Farsi men running across the street. They were large for Farsi and looked none too happy, but they slowed as they saw Emery. “Would you two mind explaining yourselves?” he said sharply.
/> Whatever had transpired to make these two chase a harmless-looking young woman through a city generally devoid of violent crime, they had clearly undertaken the endeavor without much forethought. “She’s coming with us,” the clean-shaven one said uncertainly.
“Excuse me,” Emery said, stepping to block the men, “but Miss Varun is my housekeeper and will by no means be going anywhere with you against her will.” The other man, the one with the mustache, made a last attempt to grab at her; Emery swatted his hand away. “I’m about to call Unity. I think you should start explaining what prompted this embarrassing display in the first place.”
He was vaguely aware that he sounded a bit like Dr. Hanssen, but the authoritative mode seemed to work on these two.
“She’s a thief,” accused the mustached man.
“Can you name what she’s stolen from you?” He turned to Lydia. “If you’ve stolen anything,” he said, his voice thick with irony, “I think you should return it.”
The mustached man sputtered something unintelligible; clean-face took charge. “She was trespassing in our factory. She damaged valuable merchandise.”
“Then by all means, we’ll have Unity dispatch an officer to accompany us there. He’ll take inventory of the damage, and if what you say is true, I’ll pay full recompense on her behalf.”
“That sounds like a reasonable solution to me.”
Emery turned in shock to see a pair of Unity inspectors approaching. One was the Roccetti man he’d seen before speaking to Mrs. Rizzo, the other was Farsi. “Inspector Bhatt,” the latter introduced himself. Amir’s father.
“I’m Inspector Caroselli,” the Roccetti said. “We couldn’t help overhearing. If you’d like to formally accuse the young miss, we’ll come assess the damage and write a report.”
The Farsi from the factory glared at Emery for a long time. “Forget it,” one finally said.
Emery stepped forward as the two stepped back. “Oh, I won’t.” To the inspectors he said, “Why don’t we have a look anyway? I’d love to see what had them so upset a moment ago, and now so eager to forget it.”
“That might be a good idea,” Inspector Bhatt said.
“We’ll pass,” said the clean-faced Farsi. And to Emery: “We’ll be seeing you around, dago.” With that, he and his accomplice quickly retreated.
The inspectors let them go. “Without their permission and without a signed warrant,” Inspector Bhatt explained, “we can’t investigate inside their place of business.”
Emery nodded. “Well,” he concluded with a sideways glance at Inspector Caroselli, “good thing you came when you did.”
The Roccetti inspector returned his suspicious look. “Yeah, good thing. You have a safe day, sir.”
He watched until they were out of sight.
“That was lucky,” he said darkly. “Almost like they were trailing me before I ran into you.” He turned to face Lydia. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes: what in the name of God is going on?”
She emitted an agonized sigh and seemed ready to slap him, but instead she swayed and leaned against him in an awkward half-embrace. “Damnit, Emery,” she murmured, “give me a minute, will you?”
–
When they were back to the estate, Emery paid a visit to Salvador’s room. The ornate copper doorknob was unlocked; Emery pushed past the white door and briskly stepped into the bedroom. Salvador was lying on his back atop the bedspread, shoes on, staring at the ceiling: there was little else to do in the bare space. Emery nudged the ancient oak bedframe with his foot. “I hear you’ve been threatening my other residents.”
The boy didn’t move. “If that’s true, it would seem unwise of them to tell ye’.”
“Get up.”
Smiling and pushing a strand of long hair from his face, Salvador rolled from the bed and lazily rose.
Emery took another step toward him. “Green told me to leave you outside for the dogs, do you know that? I went against his advice and my own better judgment because I wanted to help you.” His voice was rising as he closed the distance between them. “I think I’m being pretty reasonable here. I’m opening my home to you, risking my own safety—”
He was still grinning. “Foolish of ye’, then, wasn’t that?”
They were inches apart now. For a moment Emery was ready to drag him to the manhole and let him find his way out. He had threatened Oliver, hadn’t he? It was a matter of safety. Emery knew what he had to do.
Why, then, was he hesitating? He looked at the swaggering boy before him. Salvador was troubled, yes, maybe even violent, but a life in the wastes didn’t come without some damage. As much as Emery was beginning to dislike Salvador, he wasn’t ready to give up on him entirely, not yet.
“You’re confined to this room until I decide what to do with you. I’ll have someone bring your meals.” He turned to go. He needed a damn coffee, or a shower, or something.
The boy cracked his neck. “And if I come out?”
Emery didn’t bother to face him. “If you come out, you’re out.” None too gently, he shut the door.
–
“Try to focus.” Dr. Mari’s expression was static; he must just be imagining that her eyes were drilling into his skull. His own gaze shifted between her and the mirror. “You say you’ve been feeling terribly stressed, and yet you can’t think of a single factor that’s contributed to it?”
Emery could think of plenty, he just couldn’t name them here. The Venture had and Lydia’s visit to the factory had both turned up useful information, but whichever of these routes Jacob’s Ladder might be—if either—they were no closer to actually gaining access. “I don’t know. I guess trying to make sense of my cousin’s paperwork and whatnot has been a really imposing task. It’s a lot to—”
“Emery.” Her voice pushed him backward; he sank deeper into the couch. The electric light was throbbing. “I reached out to your doctor recently.”
A corkscrew winding its way through his gut. “My doctor.”
Dr. Mari nodded. “Rittenhouse General gives its mental health staff access to patients’ medical records—you remember the form you signed when you started seeing me, I’m sure.”
“I do.”
“I’ve been trying to help you, Emery, but you’ve been evasive in our conversation, and simply put, many of the things you’ve told me don’t match up, especially against your school performance. I ran into Arvid Hanssen by chance while I was leaving my office a few days ago, and remembering his name from your records, I took the opportunity to ask him a few questions.”
He found his voice. “Arvid Hanssen isn’t my doctor. I haven’t seen him in more than five months. He…”
He tried to think of something to add but came up short. Dr. Mari waited patiently until he gave up. “He reported that. He says he began to suspect that you had a problem, and when he tried to discuss it with you, you broke contact.”
“That isn’t remotely what happened.” He heard his voice rising, rising. “Dr. Hanssen broke off contact with me. He banned me from entering the upper hospital. He said—”
“You’re being unrealistic, Emery.” Dr. Mari’s soft voice undercut his near-shout. “The doctor has your best interest at heart. He’s expressed willingness to assist me in walking you through this. We’re both trying to help you.”
Nausea announced its arrival, a stark tapping on the corkscrew. Emery nearly gagged; he shot another glance at the one-way mirror set in the wall. “He’s here, isn’t he. He’s been watching us this whole time.”
Dr. Mari nodded. “Dr. Hanssen is in the observation room, yes. He requested to sit in on this session in order to better advise me. Remember, you signed a release allowing other medical professionals to observe our meetings.”
He shook his head. The room was spinning. The mirror grinned.
“Poppy addiction is an illness, but the fact is that if Unity discovers you purchasing, it will be treated as a crime. Neither of us wants to see that happen to you. Our desire
d outcome is your recovery, not your incrimination. If you allow us to—”
“I’m not a poppy addict,” he interrupted.
Dr. Mari nodded, more slowly than her stock nod but no less mechanical. “I see.” She paused a moment. “Would you be willing to submit to a narcotics test to alleviate our concerns?”
Of course this was happening the one time… “I don’t need to submit to anything,” Emery snarled. “You have no evidence. I’m leaving.”
“Emery.” The slightest note of force in the counselor’s aspect; he had woken her up. “Please remember that you’re on academic probation. If you discontinue these sessions before it’s lifted, collegio administration may decide to expel you.”
“Tell them to go ahead.” He rose to leave. “I’m not sitting here for another second with him on the other side of that glass.”
“Take a moment to consider—”
The room was impressively soundproof; when the door shut behind him, Dr. Mari’s sentence was cut short.
He burst dizzily outside and nearly plowed Deion over. “I was looking for you,” the dealer said after he’d regained his balance.
“Great.” Emery allowed himself to be led out of earshot of the other students gathered on the subway platform. They walked to the far end of the tunnel, the dealer glancing over his shoulder the whole time.
“Have you made your way through that product yet?” the dealer asked tersely when they were a safe distance from anyone else.
“I’m not buying any more china,” Emery said. “All I’m looking to buy is a way into Redemption.” Deion took a step back, but Emery seized him by the arm. “Please. I’ll pay you whatever you want—”
“Stay away from me, man.” Deion jerked free and walked as quickly as he could toward the back end of the platform. In a moment he had rounded the corner of the building and was out of sight.
Looking over his shoulder for Unity inspectors with every step, Emery shivered his way home to the shower and tried desperately to scrape Dr. Hanssen’s invisible smile off his skin.