I’d gotten them all back, with the money from the job. But a few hours ago they were ready to flee town without me.
One way or another, they’re going to leave eventually. Maybe I should recalibrate my sense of normal once and for all. It obviously shouldn’t include Remi, Jaesin, and Ania. I need to stop hoping for change if I have any chance of getting over this.
I resist the urge to spit at the map, and move on.
I follow the wall around the stacks until I reach the entryway again, where, tucked away in the far front corner, a little office is piled high with crap and labeled PROFESSOR SEANAN KAYMA, SENIOR ARCHIVIST. The room is dark, the lock intriguingly complicated for a room inside another already-secure room. The locks are digital, so I pull out my deck and go to work. Surprisingly tough for a professor’s office, but nothing compared to the MMC security I’m used to cracking. It takes less than a minute for the door to yield to me.
The lights in the office come on automatically as I step in, easing smoothly to full brightness rather than flash-blinding me. The place is an utter mess. Three different cups of coffee are clustered together next to the built-in deck screen on the desktop. All three are different levels of partially drunk, and one is topped with a thin film of greenish mold. I wrinkle my nose and step behind the desk, moving slowly so as not to disturb anything or trip on the piles everywhere. A photo of Seanan Kayma and what I assume are her husband and kids watches over the coffee cups with bright smiles, all a bit slouchy and disheveled, but brilliantly happy.
The cups and the photo claim the only part of the desk not completely buried under books and papers covered in cramped, barely legible handwriting. I’ve only seen physical books a few times in my life, and no one uses loose paper much anymore—except this woman and Ania, apparently. I can’t judge her much, since my own desk looks much like this if you replace books and paper with tools and parts, so I have to assume she has a system and knows where everything is.
I sit down at her desk and access her terminal, taking some time to dig through her files and emails. Her digital records are fortunately much more meticulously organized than her physical ones, but dreadfully boring. I don’t really know what I’m looking for, but a cursory search of the computer returns no hits for maz-15, and way too many hits for Maz Management Corporation, spellplague, and spellsick. Nothing useful. I look up from the terminal and am about to stand—but there, in the opposite wall, in exactly the place where you can see it if you glance over the top of the screen, is a seam. It’s mostly blocked by another pile of books, but when I get closer to peek behind, there it is: a small, digitally locked door in the wall, barely noticeable unless you’re looking from the right angle—and just large enough to hold a single book.
Curious.
The security on this lock is much stronger than anything I’ve encountered to this point. It’s a challenge, a fun one, and I happily sink into the work, zoning out totally until a notification jolts me with its sudden appearance.
(private) Davon: Everything going okay in there? You going to need a ride?
What are you doing, anyway? I know I said I wouldn’t ask, but the curiosity is killing me. What does the archive have that can help your situation?
I blink the notification away with a scowl. I swear, if it’s not Ania, it’s him. They have the worst timing.
I work at the lock for another twenty minutes over wireless sync—hardwiring isn’t an option here, not without doing noticeable damage to the casing—and I’m about to despair when it finally whirs and releases.
Victory.
Inside is nothing more than a few handwritten letters. Who writes letters anymore? All are dated from within the last year and contain scrawled formulas and observations, but the thing that catches my eye is “maz-15.” It’s mentioned in every letter. I flip one over, looking for a signature. Who’s writing to the archivist about maz-15, and why letters? Untraceable, I guess, but—
I gasp aloud, then clap a hand over my mouth.
Yours truly,
Aric
I rush to the doorway of the office to double-check my memory, and sure enough, there it is. An enormously long sign hangs from