The Elementalist

2. The Social Worker Who Was Not-2

Voi shivered as she turned her face away. She could sense his energy pull back, though he didn’t leave. Instead, he kept her trapped with his hands against the wall as he waited for her to reply.

“Confined, Mr. Callahan.” She gritted her teeth. “I feel… confined.”

He dropped one of his hands from the wall. “In what way?”

“It feels like my pores close up. My senses become duller, too—as if… as if they’re being suppressed.” She gave him a skeptical look. “Shouldn’t you already know how this works?”

“In theory, but… don’t you ever wonder what else it is they might be trying to suppress?”

Voi’s mouth hung open as she pondered his question. “They? I’m not sure I follow.”

“C’mon, Miss Román.” Finally, he backed away.

She let out her breath in relief.

Mr. Callahan paced the room, playing with his shirt cuffs. “You were one of Apexia’s most talented flimsy fliers. Now, you’re just a has been pilot trying to stay afloat. What changed?”

Voi suspected this man knew damn well what changed; he just wanted to hear her say it. “The press knew who I was.”

“Seems to me lots of people knew who you were back then.”

She shook her head. “You don’t get it, do you? Before the accident, hardly anyone knew about my condition. The few who did lived here, in Chandra City. At least in Borellia, I could make a new name for myself—without the taint of emelesia following me. Aeronetti was supposed to be a cover, of sorts.” She hesitated. “It’s… complicated.”

“Try un-complicating it for me.”

Voi wrinkled her brow. “Who are you?”

“Me?” A look of indignation crossed his face as he drew near. “I am the one thing that’s still standing between you and the asylum, but this visit isn’t about me, Voi: this is about you. Who are you?” He pressed his finger into her shoulder, making her scowl. “Where do you wanna end up? Because the path you’re on now has got the asylum written all over it, and I’m pretty damn sure you don’t want to end up there, do you?”

Voi folded her arms as her eyes began to water.

“Humor me, Voi. Help me understand. Why did you stop competing?”

Angry, she threw down her hands and yelled, “What difference does it make anymore?” She surprised even herself, her eyes bulging.

In one swift motion, Mr. Callahan covered Voi’s mouth as he pushed her against the wall, shushing her. Voi uttered half-protests and half-sobs into his palm. “Saints!” he said. “Calm down, will you? I’m trying to help you out here.” He said the last part like he was telling her a secret.

She shook her head, still in hysterics. She wanted no part in his twisted game.

“Micál Poit,” he said, “your ex-flame. He’s the reason you stopped flying, isn’t it?”

Gradually, her sobbing stopped as she thought about this then gave him a nod.

“I’m guessing he didn’t know about your condition at first. When he did, he was upset. Went looking for payback. Didn’t like the idea of people thinking he fancied a woman who was doomed for the looney bin, so he teamed up with that journalist from The Apexian Press and sabotaged your plane. Right?”

Voi nodded again, still pinned to the wall. Mr. Callahan stepped back. Regardless, she didn’t dare move. She stared at him with equal parts wonder and horror.

“You were smart to keep a parachute with you on the plane, you know,” he said. “Not many flimsy pilots do that. They’re too damn cocky.” He brushed off his hands as if he was finished with, well, whatever it was he was doing. “Tell me, Voi, what made you decide to become a pilot?”

She refrained from moving until the agent stepped aside. She went and stood by the window—losing herself in her thoughts, her memories. “When I first discovered flying, it was during the last semester of my liberal arts studies at S’escúl fer jes Artin di Du Mon.” She adopted a Borellian accent as she said this, blending and emphasizing her consonants more so than her vowels. Briefly, she looked over her shoulder. Not sure the agent understood, she added, “I mean the Du Mon School for the Ar—”

“I know what it means.”

Voi turned back to the window and pushed aside the curtain, observing the car and the other man who was sitting inside. Who are these people working for? She let the curtain fall back into place. “Anyway, an Apexian exhibition pilot flew over the university one day. He landed in the middle of the schoolyard—quite the feat, considering the size of the area, though the school’s officials weren’t too impressed.” She laughed nervously, then shrugged. “I thought it was exhilarating—the improbability, the defiance…”

Sensing his direct attention on her again, she cast a curious look over her shoulder.

Mr. Callahan had been quietly sizing her up, she realized when his eyes abruptly stopped scanning the length of her body. He didn’t say anything, so she turned, intentionally returning his stare. “As soon as I laid eyes on that pilot’s plane, I knew it was something I had to try for myself.” She reached for the chair nearby then watched her fingers dance flirtatiously along the top. “Unfortunately, it wasn’t ‘socially acceptable’ to become a flimsy flier, you see, which is why I adopted the name Aeronetti. That way, no one would associate my real name with flying.” She looked at him, pursing her lips together.

“Clever,” he said, keeping an eye on her hand. Then he winced and shook his head. “It’s just too bad it didn’t work the way you planned.”

Voi huffed, dropping her hand and looking away; this man was impossible. “Well,” she said, “it wasn’t the name or the crash so much as my urche pills that spelled ruin for my career, in case you’re wondering. A farmer found me in his field after the crash and saw the bottle in my pocket. Normally, I don’t carry my urche during flights. However, I remember experiencing an unusually strong high that morning, so I decided to bring the pills in case I felt unstable later.

“Richard Shillings, a friend of Micál’s from The Apexian Press, interviewed the farmer then tossed a bunch of lurid allegations into his so-called exposé. Somehow, he managed to show up at the scene well before any other reporters. Granted, the safety of allowing an emelesiac to fly came into question; the International Board of Aeronautics threatened to take my license away.”

Mr. Callahan nodded. “I remember hearing about your case when you took them to court.”

Voi shook her head. “Honestly, I don’t understand how I won, though my lawyer, Mr. Sawyer, did have a special way about him. Best in the business, they say. He sought me out. Wasn’t sure why a hotshot like him was willing to take a case from a hopeless emelesiac free of charge.” She sighed. “I’m just glad he was able to put Micál away for attempted murder. Shillings, of course, got off with libel and slander.”

“Isn’t he supposed be out on parole next year?” asked Mr. Callahan.

“Honestly, I try not to think about.”

“Do you think he’d try something again?”

Voi shrugged. “Anything is possible, Mr. Callahan.”

“Anything, huh?”

She spread her hands. “I’m not trying to cheat the system. I just want to live a normal life.”

“No.” Mr. Callahan wagged his finger, admonishing her. “See, I don’t think that’s what you really want, Voi: a normal life. The piloting, the pseudonym, the costume…” He laughed. “Sorry, but that’s not normal.”

She frowned.

“Truth is, you despise being ordinary, yet since your little accident, you’ve been exactly that. By avoiding the opportunity to invite any ridicule into your life, you’ve stopped giving people a reason to give two shits about you.” When her eyes got large, he added apologetically, “Pardon my language.”

Voi blanched, a chill settling over her as his words struck a tender chord of truth.

“You’ve probably already figured that I’m not here because Social Services sent me.”

“Clearly.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I mean clearly, my future means a great deal to you to have studied my past as you have, so tell me, Mr. Callahan: why did you come here today, if for no other reason than to completely humiliate me?” Her voice cracked, and she took a shuddering breath, struggling to suppress her emotions.

Mr. Callahan gave her a deep frown then moved closer, but she didn’t back away. Instead, she raised her chin defiantly. “Miss Román,” he said, “what if I told you there was a cure for emelesia that doesn’t involve any medication?”

Voi stepped back. “Why, I’d say you’re full of it! What is this, some kind of sick joke?”

He shook his head. “No, I’m afraid this is reality.” He reached into his coat then pulled out a card, handing it to Voi.

Three words caught her eye: ‘The Chandra Tribune.’

Yes, she remembered where she’d heard his name now: Ron Callahan, the renowned post-war journalist turned columnist, if memory served. A young veteran who’d earned his place at the prestigious League-wary paper, his sensational story on Kyra Feruupa—a biracial double agent who’d betrayed the League—had earned him acclaim after the story was published by the Tribune.

Voi hadn’t always read this newspaper. However, they were covering Darmoil’s upcoming re-induction into the League in great depth, and she’d always thought it important to stay abreast of international news. So, seeing as how the Tribune was not The Apexian Press, she’d decided to give it a whirl. She was happy to read articles credited to any name, so long as it wasn’t Richard Shillings’.

Voi’s eyes darted back to Mr. Callahan, appalled by the revelation. “You’re a journalist? “Why, I ought to report you for fraud!”

He laughed. “No use; they’ll just ignore you.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Reputation, doll. Seriously, who do you think they’re gonna believe: a has been flimsy pilot on meds, or a reputable journalist who’s got his s**t together?”

Voi narrowed her eyes.

He sighed, almost as if he was repenting. “Look, everybody’s got a day job, Voi, but that does mean it’s their only calling in life.” He shrugged and walked past her. “You’ve got your personas. I’ve got mine.”

Unable to formulate a worthy retort, Voi gave an incredulous guffaw. “What are you, some sort of secret government agent?” She spun towards him.

Mr. Callahan paused by the bedroom door, giving her a wry smirk.

“Oh, this is absurd!” said Voi, stomping her foot.

“You’re right: it’s entirely absurd that the government would lie to you about some imaginary condition you thought you had, only to send a journalist—of all people—to expose it to you. You’ve got my card. I won’t take any more of your time. Come find me when you’re interested in doing some real flying.” He headed for the stairs.

Confused, Voi watched him foolishly before shuffling after him. “Wait, flying? What sort of flying?”

“Oh, you know, test flying experimental aerocraft, a little sight-seeing over Darmoil… entirely ordinary, run-of-the-mill business, Voi. Trust me, you wouldn’t like it.”

“Darmoil?” She stopped a few steps from the first floor. “What’s happening in Darmoil? I thought Emperor Fyupei was supposed to be sworn into the League soon.” After a six hundred-year period of isolationism, the age-old enemy had only reopened its doors within the past seven decades. The gesture of peace was a huge stride for all parties involved—a topic for the headlines.

“That’s what they say…” The agent paused with his hand on the doorknob, looking back at Voi as if expecting a reaction.

“Tell me you aren’t being serious,” she said.

He shrugged. “Fine. This was all just a big, sick joke.”

She frowned.

Mr. Callahan smiled then stepped out onto the approach, flipping up the collar of his trench coat. “I can’t cover for you forever, Miss Román. Sooner or later, Social Services will realize that Mr. Jones never gave his stamp of approval on his routine checkup on you today. So, unless you’ve got some powerful friends on your side that can vouch for the reasons you’ve been skipping your meds, well…” He sucked in air and winced. “I think you know where I’m going with this.”

Voi stared at him, speechless.

He took a few steps towards the street then turned, walking backward to tip his hat to her. “Take care of yourself, Aeronetti.” He winked.

Voi watched as the cavalier agent strolled across the street, let himself into his vehicle, and drove away.

* * *

“Ugh! The nerve of him!”

Voi stormed inside, slamming the door—only to realize that she was actually quite exhilarated by Mr. Callahan’s visit.

A devious smile stretched across her face.

Upon contemplating the agent’s parting message, however, Voi floated into the living room and collapsed onto the sofa, staring out the window. A life without urche was nothing to turn her nose up at. However, the sort of flying Mr. Callahan wanted her to do in exchange for this ‘cure’ came across as dangerous, if not illegal.

The reality of Voi’s situation dawned on her, and her eyes bulged. It was bold, but there was no denying it: they, being the Apexian government, wanted Voi to commit espionage. “I can’t believe it,” she said, bringing her fingers to her lips, thinking this over with a schoolgirl’s giddiness. “I think Mr. Callahan wants me to become a spy!” And test fly new aerocraft, to boot! Better craft, faster craft—aerocraft good enough for the government and, perhaps, even the military to take notice of.