I had that weird dream again. The same one I had last week, before Monty had been hospitalized. I was alone in a dark room, with no one else there to keep me company other than the faint sense of some strange figure watching out of the corner of my eye. Then a whisper.
And I was awake. I had awoken in a cold sweat. I had been lying in my bed, staring up at the ceiling. I tried desperately to cling to the little details of the dream, sand slipping through my fingers, but to no avail. I forgot most of it, besides those key feelings. It was almost always the feelings I remembered. The light touch of hot breath on my nose, the cool inviting breeze and the sweet tenderness of the shadow, like a darkroom all to myself, where I could focus on my pictures and my film rolls and peacefully live out my days in mind-numbing solitude, where all I needed to be happy was the work and the thin red light glow.
My hand brushed the Treatise. Its crumbling pages felt like sandpaper. The damn thing was falling apart. I opened it to a page I read earlier and started to reread where I left off from. The words were too little, and it was too early, so I dropped the book back onto the bedside table.
I cleaned up, took a shower, and made a pot of coffee. The morning was a haze. I slipped from one disjointed moment to another. My feet moved on their own after years of the same routine keeping me afloat. Or maybe keeping me sane. Toothpaste. Coffee grounds. Steam. Water. Heat. Hot. Too hot. The coffee singed my tongue.
The TV carried over into the kitchen from the living room. Thanksgiving break was over. The winter would be a dark one. Snow tomorrow. Underwood Academy was still scheduled to be open. Good. Monty needed the distraction. It certainly wouldn't hurt to help get his mind off things. Before I noticed he wasn't even home, I had two mugs of coffee prepared in front of me, one with cream and sugar, the other just waiting on its own. Bitter, it longed to pick someone up and get them ready for the day.
Treatise sat right between his mug and a stack of hospital bills, piling up like a little white hedge. It mocked me, flat, fat, and bitter paper rotting on my perfectly fine counter like it was making a statement. I control you, mortal! I sat on a stool and began to sip my coffee. Monty's cup sat alone on the counter, slowly cooling.
"What am I doing?" I said out loud. The clock said it was half past eight. I was late for work. I watched it tick along and sipped thoughtfully. Why was it so bitter? I didn't remember it being this bitter. Maybe it was the way I prepared it. Outside, the sun nested just above the roof of a nearby office. The other factory-apartments continued to wake up to the morning drawl.
Their stacks rose into the sky, red, black, gray. In all the years I've lived in this apartment, I've never seen smoke rising out of any of them. They were skeletons hollowed out of their flesh and purpose, skinned to bare bones. Mornings like this one made me want to just stare and trace the blocky silhouettes against the clouds.
Instead of hurrying to get ready I dragged my feet around the apartment, smelling the fusion of coffee and early morning dew slipping through open windows. It was enough for me to say, "You know what? I'll just work from home today." After all that's happened, why shouldn't I? Stress would kill me sooner than deadlines anyway. I flipped the laptop open and started my regular duties: checking emails, looking for requests, and updating information on the Robinson Acquisition I had been working on for the last few weeks. Busywork. Stuff I didn't need to think too deeply about.
I didn't make it an hour before I started to absent mindedly flip through the pages of the Treatise. Just what about it made me think there was more to it? I've read dozens of old books like it; old historical documents, ledgers, notes, letters, they all spoke through their ink. Their knowledge and experience readily available for whoever wanted it. Except, this book had something to hide instead. Last night, when I learned that the book had been written upwards of a hundred years ago, everything I gathered from my own research shattered under the weight of clear, concise words.
"Everything that I found even remotely related to some Treatise of Arete all say the same thing. It's a sideshow."
"Come again?"
"It's phooey, David. It's a discontinued history textbook."
"What are you, eighty? Why haven't I ever heard of it before?"
"Probably because they were discontinued?"
I groaned. My finger traced the spine. "Why was it discontinued?"
There was a short pause between her answer and my question. Why did she hesitate?
"It was subjected to some pretty heavy scrutiny. I have a column here at the library from an old newspaper tearing it to pieces over all the discrepancies people found in it."
"So they stopped printing it because whoever wrote it made up some details? Seems like a reasonable response."
"Well, yes, but there's more to it. You know how you found that weird mixup with Van Damme University's founding year?"
"Yea?"
"It turns out the author of the textbook…uh what was his name again?"
I looked down at the book's cover. It was imprinted into the leather.
"Claude Quayle." His name tasted like melted copper, slippery and metallic.
"This… Claude Quayle, he was a professor at Van Damme during the time he wrote the textbook."
The odd detail seemed too strange to just ignore. "You'd think a school like VDU would have records spanning as far as its founding…but this just seems--"
"Like an intentional inclusion?"
I hummed in agreement. "Is that why it was pulled from publishing?"
"That, and the article included a few more details. I'll send the scan over to you in a minute. Who gave you it?"
"It was Callum. I don't know why."
"Maybe try following up with him?"
"Sounds like a plan. Thanks for the help, Sydney."
"Don't mention it. Or--actually--let me in on any more juicy details you figure out."
"I owe ya."
I hung up the phone and immediately went to get ready. It would take an hour to get to the museum. I gathered up my laptop and materials and the book, wafting away the stale air of mystique that clung to my mind and fogged up the road ahead. At the time, I had not known I was obsessed. But hindsight was twenty-twenty.
After the events of last week's disastrous Arete Bay fiasco, the city had been implementing stricter regulations to try and protect people from the AAD's. If I hadn't seen what happened to Monty on the wharf, I would have probably been skeptical of the whole situation. But, it was all over the news. Explosions all across the city, not too unlike what happened with Wendy. Then that begged the question, what if something were to happen to me? What would happen to Monty? I didn't want to think about it, but if something were to happen to me then he'd likely be placed in the system. Another move, another chance at a normal life for himself. I don't know how I would feel if the same happened to me. He has already been through so much, I had to imagine the possibility of myself falling victim to whatever the hell was happening. If I was impacted by an AAD, would Monty be saddled with the hospital bills and my school loans?
The museum was taking precautions too, as well as the rest of the city. A city-wide curfew had taken effect. That meant that people were expected to be home by 11:00pm. Public spaces were being temporarily closed. Larger gatherings of people were discouraged from forming. The whole city was about to go on lockdown. People were discouraged from even traveling between the different city wards. My friend in Ambrugge tried to do a day trip to Keats but had to jump through hoops just to drive to the other side of the island.
We had spoken briefly about allowing fewer archivists and administrators at the museum for the time being, just the essential number of people to maintain and organize the space while taking precautions against any potential AAD's. Doors would close to the general public soon, just to prevent groups from becoming confined to a small space with valuable objects. It sounded like a disaster waiting to happen.
The bus was emptier than usual. Only the driver, a couple passengers, and I rode it into Inner Easttown. People were probably scared to be out in public. I was, for sure. I think the news helped to spread that general unease. Every channel had a segment about them, how spontaneous and dangerous it was to be near one. Every channel had their experts on--or supposed experts--and spoke as if they knew what was going on. As if there were experts on a phenomena that literally just started becoming an occurrence. The truth was, we were not prepared. The city wasn't prepared to deal with something like this. The Commission became the city's attempt at establishing an "authority" on the AADs. A messy group of specialists that all claimed to know what was happening and who expounded their expertise as figureheads for their fields. Well, I couldn't deny they were enigmatic figures. I just hoped it was enough to keep us safe for the time being.
I rested my head against the window. The icy glass felt refreshing. It reminded me of a cold compress, like one I would wear when I was sick. Sometimes when I was a kid, Wendy would come over and watch me for the day while my mother was at work. She babied me, like a big sister. She would make me popcorn and watch movies with me on the couch. I still heard her voice sometimes, when the morning was quiet enough that my mind wandered. Ever since I took in Monty, though, I felt that I heard her less. Why? Was it a sign that I had forgotten what she sounded like? No, don't be ridiculous. How could you ever forget her?
I tried to call Callum, but he wouldn't pick up the phone. It sent me to voicemail each time I did. It's not unlike him to not answer his phone. All of us in the lab would occasionally silence our cells to prevent distractions. It was a general expectation to remain focused on the work at hand during normal day hours, but I occasionally listened to podcasts anyway, so I guess I was an exception. Callum was different. I didn't know why he gave me the Treatise, but I knew it must have been important.
I was halfway up the landing to the museum when I spotted a figure rushing out into the open. Callum in his tanned chinos and olive sweater swung down from the height of the entrance, beelining straight for me.
"Why didn't you answer my calls," I said aloud to him. There were a few groups making their way into the building. They didn't seem to notice or care that Callum was shouting back.
"I know, I know. I was on a call."
"Did you get my text?"
"Of course I did."
"Then why didn't you say anything?"
"I knew you'd be coming by. You said it yourself in the voicemail. I wanted to wait and catch you out here."
"Not inside?"
"Let's grab lunch. Gertrudes' having another one of her fits."
I sighed. I really didn't want to see her while she was pissed. I could only assume my decision to work from home fueled it somewhat. If you didn't want us to make use of the hybrid option of this damn job, then don't offer it.
"Fine. Where to?"
"I know the perfect spot."
Inside a nearby cafe, Callum and I skooched in between booths overwhelmed with tourists and coffee-lovers. The air inside seemed to entice even more people than you'd think. The empty conversations that came so easily to friends and lovebirds prickled my ears like quiet firecrackers.
Sometimes, when work was slow, a few of us came here to work. Usually Aabria and I would sit not too far from where we sat now. In the corner, where the tables were lit by light streaming through the wide and tall windows. A hostess arrived just as we began where we left off of. We ordered quickly and Callum asked the obvious question.
"Do you have it?" he asked. He leaned forward slightly, as if he was looking over the edge of a railing.
"Yes." I gently patted my long tan laptop bag. "I brought it with me." I took the Treatise out. The leathery texture was familiar and inviting. I could get used to it.
"Careful," he said. "It's vintage."
"It's weird. Why did you give it to me?"
He smirked. "Because I knew you wouldn't resist."
"Resist what?"
"Admit it. You can't wrap your head around it."
"I have a feeling that you're the one to blame for that. Why are you being so dodgy?"
"I'm not dodgy," he said a little too loudly.
The waitress arrived with our drinks. A black coffee for me, a latte for him.
"Thank you," I said to the hostess. She nodded and left. Callum watched her round the counter towards another solo drinker quietly sipping his drink.
He reiterated with a whisper, "I'm not dodgy."
I matched his voice level. "Then what the hell is so important about it?"
"I assumed you did a bit of digging?"
I nodded. "It just seems like some run-of-the-mill discontinued textbook full of historical errors and outdated information. It's hardly worth either of our attention."
"Claude Quayle, the guy who wrote it, taught at Van Damme University, Aabria's alma mater."
"I know, I asked a friend of mine to take a look at it too. "
"What did they say?"
"They found old newspaper clippings. That's about it."
"Can you email me what they found?" For the first time in a little while I looked at Callum. I mean, I really looked at him. He seemed like himself, broad shoulders, lanky legs and scrawny neck. However, these dark circles hung under his eyes. Faint, but they were definitely there.
"Have you been losing sleep over this?" The question didn't register with him.
"Seriously, can you do this for me?" It didn't seem like him to say something like that. He must be having a rough time. Was it for work?
"Fine. But you have to be honest with me."
His hands wrapped around the latte, still steaming.
"Sure. To be fair, I didn't in a million years expect things to escalate so quickly."
Escalate? What was he talking about?
He continued. "You did well with the Perry Collection. Really, I have to commend you. You've been a great asset to the museum ever since you came aboard those few years ago."
"I had a great on-boarder to show me the ropes."
He smiled genuinely, then said, "When this book fell into my possession, I saw a great opportunity for us to expand our focus on more than just dusty old records and busywork. Something actually worth our time."
"And you really think this is worth our time?"
"I do."
"What makes you say that?"
"It's all in the ink. You know how it shows VDU before the actual founding of the college?"
"Yes. Hard to believe Quayle himself taught at the school. I did wonder if that addition was intentional. The newspaper clippings my colleague sent me suggested it had been one of the many mistakes he included. It seemed too obvious to be one."
"You're on the right track. What if I said that there was more to it than a simple date discrepancy?"
"What are you trying to say?"
"What if it's not a mistake?" His teeth glistened coldly. "What if we're wrong?"
"I'd say you're crazy." I chuckled. I could feel my chest tighten. "But, then again, what's wrong with following up on a little mystery? I think after all the crunching we've been doing over the Robinson Acquisition, we deserve a little break. But, Callum, I can't continue this treasure hunt. Especially with what's happening recently. Maybe this can wait?"
He shook his head.
"It's a time thing. I can't disclose everything I know quite yet. My client is very hush hush about the work he's doing."
"So it is work. Why didn't you just say so?"
"I had to be certain you were interested. Otherwise, we couldn't have brought you on."
"So what do you want me to do? Act as a consultant? Research?"
"Pretty much. But, we have some more materials that I'll need help processing. Can I count on you to help? You'll be getting a cut of the pay of course."
I thought about it. Doing freelance archival work. With the bills piling up, it seemed like a decent option. Life had been too hectic recently for me to afford to work extra hours. The Perry Collection and the Robinson Acquisition were enough to keep me busy, and on top of everything that's happened with Monty and the AAD's, this just seemed like too good of an opportunity to pass up. I also remembered the feeling of seeing the hospital bills pouring out my mailbox. Even with insurance, there was never a moment of financial security I could latch onto longer than a month.
"Alright, I'm game."
Callum grinned ear-to-ear. Another odd feeling told me that I was making a mistake, but I wouldn't listen to it. I had no other choice. Callum leaned over and pulled out a vanilla file from his own bag and reverently placed it on the tabletop. On it read:
VAN DAMME CONTRACT DOCUMENTATION