Julia Karr - Truth

The Sisterhood. Wei had said we’d meet later today. That was good—there was hope. I had something positive to hold on to.

Ihopped off the trans and looked across Michigan Avenue at the front of the Art Institute. Two massive bronze lions had flanked the entrance since 1893. The south lion was “standing in defiance,” and the north one was “on the prowl.” Today I felt a kinship with both.

I got off the elport on the third floor and walked through the hallway. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows made up one entire wall. Light shimmered through them onto a huge hammered-silver disc that hung opposite. I loved this walk. In the three weeks since I’d started working for Martin, I had discovered that traversing this particular hallway had a calming effect on me. Actually, the entire Institute was a place of solace and comfort to me.

I tapped on Martin’s door. He needed to know what was going on with Gran, and everything else. He was one of the head curators, so he was in charge of several special exhibits, as well as a lot of the rest of the collection. He knew more about art than anyone I’d ever met. It was amazing being in this place, working in this place. I’d often wondered if it was more than luck that Martin had spotted me sketching in the Postmodern exhibit one day. We’d talked briefly and he’d offered me the job after I got my Creative designation.

“Come in,” he called.

I pushed open the tall, white door. Martin was at his floating desk. At least, that’s what I called the shiny, black slab of stone that was supported by invisible power beams. An invention of Martin’s partner, Percy.

“Oh, there’s my lifesaver! Come, come.” He motioned me over so I could see his PAV projection. “Say hi to Percy.”

“Hi, Percy,” I said to the projection.

“Nina, dear. Looking lovely, as usual.”

I smiled. “Thank you. And you’re looking lovely, too.”

“You flatterer.” Percy grinned. “I love it! Well, Marty, I guess this means you have to get back to work. Remember, the Winnackers’ tonight. Better make the wine white, otherwise Iona will spend the entire time fretting over her white sofa and rug.” He turned to me. “The woman has no sense at all, decorating or otherwise. None!” He threw up his hands and clicked off.

“Oh, my dear little Percy. He is much kinder than yours truly.” Martin leaned forward conspiratorially. “I think I’ll bring the red wine and sit in the middle of her ghastly whale of a sofa, waving my glass like a flag on End-of-Wars Day.”

“Really?” I still was not sure when Martin was joking and when he was serious.

“No, not really. The Winnackers are one of the largest donors to the Institute’s antiquities acquisition committee. They’re having a Holiday party for the curators. I’ll be on my best behavior, as usual. But I’ll be wishing it was the red, all the same.” He got up. “Is there something you needed?”

I told him about Pops, Gran, the writ, and the eviction notice.

“Oh, my dear sweet Lord.” His smile faded into a concerned frown. “You need the day off? Don’t spend a nanosec worrying if you do. I’ve been without an assistant for so long… and I want you to take care of what needs to be taken care of.” His face was awash with concern.

“Oh, no,” I said. “I’d go crazy sitting outside Gran’s room. Besides, they told me no one’s allowed to see her until Dr. Silverman says so. And as far as moving…” The tiniest smile hesitantly lifted the corners of my mouth. “I really don’t mind if someone else does it for me.”

“Really? Wonderful. Then come with me.”

I followed Martin down the white hall, into the Twenty-first Century Postmodern exhibit. He uncovered the security box and keyed in the code; a hidden panel door slid open and we went in, the door slipping shut silently behind us. My workspace was a huge room filled floor to ceiling with crates, boxes, and tubes of all sizes and shapes. There were tall, skinny windows all around the room that gave the effect of stripes of light throughout. As my eyes adjusted, the vast art treasures stored there came into focus. My job was assisting Martin in cataloging everything from primitive cave-dweller tools to current pseudomodern vandal art. I actually loved being alone with centuries of art, the results of man’s need to communicate nonverbally his deepest emotions. That kind of language I understood. Raw truth. You couldn’t lie when it came from the soul.

It suddenly hit me. Martin had explained the curiosities of the Art Institute my first day. Certain places in the Institute, especially back rooms and storage areas, were dead zones. And because of the fragility of many of the pieces, there was no surveillance at all in the storeroom. Damn.

“Martin. Since this room is protected, how will I know if the hospital calls?” I really wanted to stay at work, but I couldn’t risk missing a call about Gran.

“M’dear, I’ve thought of almost everything it takes to protect the art. And Percy, bless his little self, has thought of everything it takes to protect me. Don’t you know? He loves me. I know, we’re talking about necessities. Although”—he leaned toward me, affecting a very serious look—“love is definitely a necessity.”

I pursed my lips. “I’m not too sure about that.”

“Uh-oh. You’re too young to be cynical about love. But that is a conversation for another day. Let’s attend to the conundrum at hand. Surveillance shields—taken care of, like so.” He moved a lever on the side of the light on my desk. “Up, no surveillance.” He pressed it again. “Down, surveillance.”

“What does it do?”

“It turns the safety shield off and on. Percy’s always been afraid that I would get trapped in here by Lord knows what. An earthquake? A flood? A marauding band of river rats? And I wouldn’t be able to call for help. Anyway, since B.O.S.S. taps into everything…” He checked the light. “Up. We’re safe. Because the entire downtown is bombarded with whatever electromagnetic folderol they use, all exhibit areas and storage rooms in the Institute are protected by shields. Only security can turn them on and off, except for this room.” He lifted his eyebrows. “Percy’s a peach, don’t you know?”

“But won’t B.O.S.S. or Security notice?”

“Not if you aren’t in here making noise. If the hospital calls, go out to the hallway. You’ll be fine. Just don’t forget to turn the shield back on. And don’t tell anyone about it. Our secret.”

“Not a word.” I would be able to stay and still get the hospital’s call. Things were looking up.

“If you’re absolutely sure you want to work today…” he said.

“Yes, I really need to be busy.”

“As long as it doesn’t involve packing up boxes, right?” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Well, no packing today, although you may be required to ready objets d’art for shipment to another museum.”

“I think I can handle that.”

“If that’s the case, let us go to the Chinese artifacts room. I need to get a little something to take with me to the Winnackers. Have to keep the patrons happy. And, nothing makes Iona happier than, well… a clean sofa”—he chuckled—“and the loan of something ancient and unique. Rather like me—well aged and idiosyncratic.” He made a silly face.

Martin was such an interesting mixture of down-to-earth, kind of pretentious, and really goofy, I couldn’t help but like him.

“Come now. We’ll traverse the secrets of the maze of the museum. There is surveillance in these corridors.” Shifting his eyes back and forth like a comic detective, he led me to a door I’d never noticed before. Probably because it was covered by a thick tapestry. On the other side of the door, tunnels snaked out in several directions. “We’re behind the walls now,” Martin said. “From here you can gain access to every exhibit hall, to the vaults in the basement, and even up to the helipad on the roof. In case you ever need to make a quick getaway.”