“No!” Clara persisted. “It’s not that. There was something in Bertie’s voice when she said it; she wasn’t admiring. She was terrified. As though Drusilla were some evil monster—”
“—Oh, come off it!” Dr. Gilac snapped irritably. “Jealousy! That’s all it is, pure jealousy! People just can’t stand it when someone is better than them, and so they start rumors. And I’ve heard every rumor in the book about Drusilla: that she’s anorexic. That she eats nothing but lettuce and canned chicken. My advice to you, Clara, is to stop heeding Bertie. Your job is not to worry; your job is to work for the Benefactors. And you cannot work if your mind is filled with such delusions.”
Clara began to sob. “But I can’t! How can I work if I’m thinking about Drusilla, and Dr. Lucusta, and what they could possibly be doing that is so, so evil—”
“—Enough,” Dr. Gilac said. His exasperated eyes had suddenly grown more pleading, almost urgent, as he bent forward. “Clara,” he whispered, “Please. Listen to me. Don’t let these delusions overtake you. You simply can’t let them overtake you.”
“They’re not delusions!” Clara cried. “There is something happening—something evil, something terrifying, and I can’t see what it is, but no one will explain it to me! How can you possibly expect me to just carry on as though everything is normal and well?”
~
Dr. Gilac knew his request was absurd. But he could not tell Clara the truth about Dr. Lucusta, or she would go mad. And if she went mad, he could do nothing to protect her from the Benefactors. She would only be protected as long as she was of use to them. Why couldn’t she see that? Why couldn’t any of the damned Public see that? They honestly believed that the Benefactors provided endless free supplies to the People, no questions asked, no payment of any kind.
But there is always a payment.
There are always dues.
It’s just a matter of what kind: it may be a thousand guilders, the heart of the dead princess, a pound of flesh.
Or something else.
~
Miss Smith glanced at her bedside clock. 7 AM Monday.
She could not recall going to sleep the previous night. Maybe I drank too much, she thought. With a sigh, she rolled out of bed and stumbled towards the kitchen.
She discovered her coffee cup, covered with a thin film of green mold, sitting in the kitchen sink. Miss Smith stared at it, shocked. She never left a dirty dish overnight, and certainly never long enough to gather mold. As she held the filthy cup in her hand, looking blankly at the clock on her wall, she could not help but feel as though she had forgotten something terribly important…or misplaced something vital. The absence was so gnawing, so visceral, it seemed someone had removed a piece of her.
In a panic, she lifted her shirt and examined her stomach.
No wounds.
She examined her arms.
No cuts. No bruises.
Well, Miss Smith thought, if I can’t recall what I lost, it can’t have been that important. With a resigned sigh, she began to scrub the mold off the cup.
Someone knocked on the door. “Miss Smith?” came a voice. “I have your ration box for you.”
Miss Smith opened the door and greeted the Food Distributor. “Thank you,” she murmured, taking the box.
At the sight of Miss Smith, the Distributor’s typically blank face melted into surprise. “What’s wrong, Miss Smith? You look absolutely sick! You’re white as a sheet, and you look like you haven’t slept in four days. What happened to you?”
She rubbed her eyes and shrugged. “Frankly, I don’t know. I can’t even remember where I’ve been for the past weekend…”
He rolled his eyes. “Lay off the Cigs for a few days. If you’re going to be a parent, you have to get used to not having fun.”
“Excuse me?”
“Parents never have fun, so you’d better get used to it—considering you just applied to get your egg fertilized. I personally think it’s a mistake, and you’ll regret it.”
Miss Smith looked at him, bewildered. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m not planning to become a parent anytime soon. You must have me mixed up with someone else.”
“No, you told me. You’ve been talking about it for weeks; you won’t talk about anything else! Did you change your mind?”
“No,” she said crisply. “I never even thought about it in the first place. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but it is very disturbing.” She tossed her ration box onto the table beside her door. “I must ask you to stop this ridiculous rambling.”
“Now look here, Miss Smith—”
“—Good day,” she said coldly, and shut the front door.
~
“Thank you for your help today, Miss Lucy,” the policeman said. “Oh, and by the way, I have something you wanted—” he reached into his desk drawer and removed a folded paper. He handed it to her. “You wanted to know that missing child’s full name: the one called Brian. It took some digging, but I found this poster in the back. Got some push-pin holes in it, but it’s clear enough.”
Lucy unfolded the paper. The face of Brian stared back, his blue eyes happily squinting at the camera.
9.
Morris could not believe where he was standing. With the music blasting into his ears and the plate of caviar in his hand, it seemed like a dream…a very strange, impossible dream. Just five hours ago, his friend Emmy had come upon him in the subway. He had not seen her since college; now she was a successful producer, connected to the top names of Pangaea’s music industry. She was shocked to see Morris in such a terrible state. “You belong at the top, Morris,” Emmy told him, “and I’m going to take you there. Take my card and this money for a tuxedo, and meet me at my office address. Tonight, we’re going to a party! And believe me, Morris: this evening could be the turning point in your career.”
Now Morris was standing in a great ballroom; just ten feet away from him stood the greatest icons of music and film, laughing as they sipped their cocktails. Someday I might have a mansion as fine as this, Morris thought hopefully. With every passing moment, he further regretted turning down Miss Dorrod’ offer to bring him to Pangaea.
“Ah, Morris,” a friendly voice said. “Good to see you again!”
Morris turned. It was the man with the brown hair, who had given him Miss Dorrod’ business card in the subway. Morris shook the man’s hand warmly. “So good to see you, sir!” Morris said.
“Good to see you, Morris,” the man beamed. “I see you didn’t take Pangaea’s chance to make you a star. What’s wrong with you? Don’t you want to be successful, or do you enjoy wallowing in that filthy subway?”
Morris felt rather embarrassed. “No, of course not. I just had some different plans in mind. But nevermind all that. I have a different question for you: I never got your name—”
“—Oh, by the way,” the man interrupted. “I want you to meet my friend. Allow me to introduce Drusilla.” He gestured to the lady beside him. Morris had not noticed her before. “Drusilla, this is Morris, an aspiring musician.”
The dark-haired woman was tall, with a red ball gown draped loosely over her skeletal frame. “Pleased to meet you, Morris,” she said, shaking Morris’s hand. Her grey eyes directly met Morris’s own.
“I know you!” Morris gasped. “Y-you’re the Drusilla! The most famous singer in Pangaea!”
The woman nodded.
Her eyes were strangely hypnotic. Morris felt that if he stared at Drusilla’s eyes long enough, he might topple into those grey pools and drown.
“Drusilla is our good luck charm,” the man laughed. “You might say she is the one who makes our dreams come true. Isn’t that so, Drusilla?”
“You might say that,” Drusilla said coolly. She continued to stare at Morris. “There is no dream too big to fulfill, provided you have the right allies. Wouldn’t you agree, Morris?”
Morris nodded awkwardly.
“Well, I will leave you two alone,” the man said pl
easantly. He bent towards Drusilla and whispered something, which (to Morris) sounded like, “See, Drusilla? I told you a ballgown would suit you.” A moment later, the man left.
Drusilla toyed with her necklace. It was a lovely diamond pendant, one inch wide, set in a silver frame. The light of the diamond danced in white beams across Morris’ face. “So, Morris,” she said, “you are a musician?”
“Yes. But of course you’ve never heard of me; no one has. I’ve only just started.”
“I see,” Drusilla murmured thoughtfully. “And do you think you will succeed?”
The pendant flashed.
Morris gulped. “I-I don’t know,” he blurted. “I really don’t know. How can anyone know if he will succeed?”
“There are ways to ensure success,” Drusilla said. Her fingers gripped the pendant tightly. “Control. Power. Make the people follow you.”
“What…what does that mean?” Morris stammered.
Drusilla chuckled. “Talent doesn’t matter, Morris. Lots of people have talent; but not everyone can captivate his audience.”
Morris was more confused than ever.
“Power. Make the people surrender to you.” Her hands stretched forward. In an instant, her fingers were round his arms, slithering like white snakes up to his shoulders.
Morris’s heart seemed to jump into his throat. His palms began to sweat.
“How well can you make the people surrender, Morris?” she whispered.
He gulped. He was ready to rip his heart out at her command. “I can’t,” he mumbled. “But…but I want to know. Tell me. Tell me how.”
“Well, then.” Drusilla smiled. “Follow me.”
~
Geoffrey was seated in the library, trying to read. But the party downstairs was so loud; the music thumped mercilessly, and the people’s laughter seemed to grow louder every minute. “Idiots,” he mumbled, hurling his book to the floor. He paced the floor miserably. Grandfather was always hosting parties like this, but Geoffrey had never been allowed to go. He didn’t care; but what bothered him most was the noise. Over the years, Geoffrey had noticed a pattern of the parties: at first, he heard only music and laughter. But early in the morning, as the party drew to a close, the noise reached a peak. Screams rang out. Glasses shattered. But what it all meant—Geoffrey never learned.
He pressed a button on the wall, and a moment later, Marcus opened the door. “Yes, sir?” he said.
“Marcus,” Geoffrey huffed, “can you please tell grandfather’s guests to keep that infernal noise down?”
“I’m afraid I can’t, sir,” Marcus said. He hung his head sheepishly. “I am not permitted to disturb the party under any circumstances.”
Geoffrey sighed miserably. “This has gone on long enough,” he grumbled. “I am going down there myself. I demand some peace and quiet.” He headed towards the door.
Marcus quickly blocked Geoffrey’s path. “Don’t be so hasty, Sir Geoffrey. Your grandfather forbids you—”
“—Please, Marcus,” Geoffrey said firmly. “Step aside.”
Reluctantly, Marcus moved. Geoffrey flung open the library door, and walked down the hall until he reached the great staircase. At the bottom of the stairs, just to the left, were the double doors of the ballroom. The doors were closed. But the booming music shook the doors, and disco lights danced along the threshold’s edge. Geoffrey reached for the knob.
Suddenly someone grabbed his arm. Geoffrey spun around.
It was his grandfather. “Geoffrey!” the old man growled. “How many times have I told you not to come to these parties?”
Geoffrey stiffened angrily. “I wasn’t going to the party,” he defended himself. “I wanted to tell the guests to be quiet. It’s disturbing me. They’re always disturbing me!”
His grandfather frowned. “Those guests are no concern of yours,” he said. “They’re just enjoying themselves. You should mind your own business, and stop complaining so much. Do you realize what a privileged boy you are?”
Geoffrey knew. His grandfather reminded him almost every day. “Yes. Thank you. I’m sorry, Grandfather.”
Grandfather’s eyes softened somewhat. He seemed to know that it wasn’t just the party bothering Geoffrey, but he did not press the issue. Instead, he squeezed Geoffrey’s shoulder comfortingly. “Well,” he said crisply, “off to bed, boy. And yes, I will ask the guests to be quieter.”
“Thank you Grandfather.” Geoffrey headed upstairs.
~
Morris followed Drusilla through the mansion’s hallway and down several flights of stairs. At the bottom of the stairs Morris could see a tiled floor. The wall glowed with a strange blue light.
“This way,” Drusilla directed him.
He followed her down the stairs into the hallway. Along the full length of the hallway was a massive tank, with a beluga whale. Drusilla took Morris’s hand, and guided him towards the glass. “Don’t be afraid,” she said.
“I’m not,” he said. “It’s just a whale. Nothing to be afraid of.”
Drusilla chuckled softly. “Your hand is shaking,” she remarked. “Just like all the others—you are afraid of the sea. Since the dawn of time, man has been terrified of water.” She eyed Morris searchingly. “So, tell me: what frightens you most? Is it the idea that, beneath the surface, anything might be hiding?”
“No,” Morris said defensively. “That doesn’t frighten me at all.”
The beluga swam closer to the glass. It paused, and turned round in several circles.
Drusilla pressed her hand to the glass, and the whale swam closer. It looked directly into her eyes, and opened its mouth, as though it were speaking.
“Ah, he’s talking,” Morris chuckled.
“No. He’s crying.” Drusilla frowned at the glass.
Morris raised his eyebrows. “Oh, really?” he scoffed. “So you understand whales, do you?”
She glared at him, but did not respond.
“It’s just a dumb fish,” Morris said carelessly.
“He’s not a fish!” Drusilla snapped. “He’s a mammal, like you or me! He’s not so different from us.”
“Well, forgive my ignorance,” Morris grumbled, rolling his eyes.
But Drusilla was no longer listening to him. Instead, her eyes drifted back to the whale. “We all came from one ancestor,” she murmured softly. “Some of us stayed on the land; others chose to return to the sea. Why—why didn’t we all return to the sea?” She pressed her hand to the glass. “Why did we leave you?” she whispered, her voice choked in a sob. “I could have been one of you! It would be better to be a dumb animal than to be nothing.” Her knees buckled, and she crumpled to the floor, sobbing.
Morris looked at her, very uncomfortable. Maybe if he stepped away, very quietly, he could leave before she noticed. He cautiously moved one foot backwards, towards the staircase.
Drusilla grabbed his other ankle.
Her grip was weak, but a sudden panic rose in Morris’s chest. “I-I really need to go,” he stammered. He could not understand his impulsive fear of this woman; she was thin and very frail, and he could easily overpower her if she tried to hurt him. Why should he be so afraid of one so physically weak? “I have work in the morning,” he lied, “and I really need to get home. Bills, you know.” He tried to laugh casually, but it sounded more like a nervous cough.
“No,” she whispered. Her hand crept up to his knee, and tugged playfully at his pants leg. “Stay. Please. Just a little while.”
“I…I really can’t…”
“Please.”
Morris gulped. Stay, you idiot, he scolded himself. The most beautiful, talented woman on earth is begging for you to spend the evening with her. How can you possibly turn her away? Why are you so afraid of her?
Drusilla opened her mouth, and began to sing: “Hark at the sound, the sound of the sea, the depths of the sea now come calling to me…”
He recognized the song: it was a Pangaean ballad that sometimes played on the rad
io, even in the Outsider country. He always wished they would play the song more often, and he often called the station to plead that they play it again. But the station soon grew exasperated with his repeated calls; they wanted to play other artists’ work, not just Drusilla.
If Drusilla’s recorded voice had been beautiful, her live singing was simply indescribable. Morris could almost feel the notes pouring into his ears like the crashing waves of the ocean, drowning all sensibilities and cares he had ever known. He could feel his knees buckle beneath him, as he sank to the floor beside Drusilla. “Do you mind,” he murmured, pulling himself towards her, “if I…rest my head on your lap…” Ordinarily, he would never have made such a rude request, but all sense seemed to have left him, and his voice had grown thick and stupid. Drusilla did not answer; she only kept on singing.
“…And on down you pull me, to the depths at last…”
He lay down. Her knees dug like sharp stones against his head, but he had grown too tired to care. As his eyes drifted shut, he felt Drusilla’s fingers gently peel his collar back from his neck.
~
The old man had quite enough of the raucous party, and so he decided to head upstairs to sleep. But just as he reached the staircase, a thud sounded. It sounded like it had come from the aquarium gallery, down below.
No one was supposed to be down there! The old man huffed angrily. He was exhausted, and hardly in the mood to confront a rowdy group of drunken guests. “This is a private area,” he shouted, as he hobbled down the stairs. “You guests never listen! I told you to stay in the dining room only, not to go barging into—”
He nearly toppled down the stairs in shock.
On the floor, in the glowing blue light of the aquarium, Drusilla was crouched over Morris’s lifeless body. Her mouth was about to close round his bared neck.
“What the hell—” the old man gasped.
Drusilla’s head snapped upright. When she saw the old man, she let out a hideous snarl and lunged forward.
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