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“Most New Yorkers aren’t very respectful of Boro-Baptists,” she said to deCostas, leaning back in her seat. “It’s sort of a joke. I doubt we’ll talk to anyone besides a secretary, but if we do meet a pastor or something, just nod politely and pretend you believe in Jesus.”

“I do believe in Jesus.”

Simone gave him a sharp look to see if he was joking. She didn’t think he was. Even the driver turned around for a moment before realizing it was none of his business.

“Well, I guess it’s just as plausible as no water below the twenty-first floor,” Simone said after a moment.

deCostas said nothing to this, and they finished their ride in silence, aside from the toddler wail of the motor and the sound of water being sliced like torn plastic. They stopped a bridge down from their destination, and Simone climbed out, leaving deCostas to pay the driver. She started walking, knowing he could catch up. The Hearst Tower had been retrofitted and painted in Glassteel about twenty years before the water hit the streets. It was a tall, mathematical building, all mirrors and triangles. The doors were once windows in a slightly indented section of the building, and they were spread wide open. A large cross hung over the doors. It was just on the edge of the bad part of town—west, but not too far west. The tall, needle-like buildings just down the bridge were bustling condos, but in the other direction was a trashed-looking yacht. The church was right on the border. Simone frowned to herself, then put on a ruthless smile and stepped forward.

The interior was clearly renovated post-flood. A wide room greeted them, carved from sunlight and heavy paneled wood, giving it a dark but airy feeling. Paintings of Bible stories hung behind a wooden desk, next to another cross. In the far corner was a bench that resembled an old wooden pew. A woman was sitting on the bench, legs crossed, a digital news page in front of her face. The legs seemed oddly familiar, but before Simone had time to give the woman a once-over, a secretary dressed in a modest skirt and long-sleeved jacket stood up, her face all bright hopefulness. “Hello, welcome to the Mission. How can I help you?”

“Hello, my name is Simone Pierce, and this is Alejandro deCostas. I called this morning about stopping by to see the stairwells?”

“Oh, of course!” the woman said, standing up. “It’s exciting. You know, I’ve never seen the stairwells myself. I just use the elevator.” She laughed a little and Simone forced a smile. “Let me just call Pastor Sorenson, and he can take us all over there.”

“Pastor Sorenson?” Simone asked. She knew that he would have to approve their entry into the stairwell, but she didn’t think he’d be showing it to them personally. He was too important for that.

“Oh yes,” the secretary said, “he’s eager to meet you.” She pressed a button on her headset. “Ms. Pierce and Mr. deCostas are here,” she said. “Of course, we’ll wait right here for you.” She pressed her headset again and looked at Simone. “He’ll be right down. Would you like a pamphlet to read in the meanwhile?” She handed Simone a rectangle of blank white paper which shifted the moment Simone touched it, raising embossed letters telling her that now was the best time to accept Jesus. She ran her hand over it, and the embossing scattered under her fingers like ripples. Then it popped up again: new words, same message. It was a nice piece of work, probably from Brazil, or somewhere else in South America. The mainland didn’t make stuff like this; they specialized in cosmetics. Not the genetic stuff, of course—that was outlawed—but the US owned the market on basic items like creams, shampoos, hair dye, and makeup. China did the genetic stuff, the Japanese fleet did robots and augmented reality, South America did smart polymers, Israel did defense, the EU did communications, Canada did VR. Everyone did guns.

Simone ran her hand over the pamphlet and pretended to look at it a moment before turning to deCostas. She took him by the arm and led him away from the secretary and spoke in a low voice.

“Pastor Sorenson is the head of the Mission,” she told him. “Be very polite and very vague about what you’re doing.”

“Why?”

“I’ll explain later.” Simone furrowed her brow, wondering what it could mean that Sorenson himself was coming to see them. Did this job have implications she wasn’t aware of? “Trust your instincts, but don’t assume,” her dad always said. Her instincts told her there was something going on here she couldn’t see. The pastor wasn’t just coming to see the stairwell.

The elevator at the end of the room opened, and Ned Sorenson stepped out. Simone had seen him in the papers and on the web but never in person. He was about sixty years old, but only just graying, and only slightly balding. His tight black curls made him look younger, but his face was more worn, as though to make up for it. The wrinkles were deep in his mahogany skin. His eyes had the look of someone used to being in control, and who was often amused. Simone wasn’t sure what to think of him. He wore a plain black shirt and pants with a white pastor’s collar, and walked with his hands behind his back. He smiled when he saw them. It was a kind smile, but Simone wasn’t sure it was a genuine one.

“Hello,” he said. “You must be Ms. Pierce and Mr. deCostas. I’ve been waitin’ excitedly for you since I heard you were comin’.” He spoke in the mainland accent, where words never really ended but just rose and fell into one another.

“Pleased to meet you, Pastor Sorenson,” Simone said, extending her hand in what she hoped was a confident way. He shook it. His hands were rough and dry.

“Thank you for letting us do this,” deCostas said, also shaking his hand.

“I’m always eager to help scientists,” Sorenson said. Simone kept her face still and managed not to laugh. Sorenson was a representative of the mainland, and the mainland policy on science was generally not eager to help. “But I fear you’ll be disappointed. I’ve been in our stairwell many a time. It’s just water.” He opened his arms, gesturing towards a wall. Simone walked towards the wall and noticed the seam in the wood paneling—a secret door.

“Why hide the stairs?” she asked, stopping next to the door.

“Looks nicer,” Sorenson said with a shrug. He pressed his thumb onto a small square of wood, which lit up and scanned the imprint. The wall clicked open. Hidden and locked. Simone was even more curious now. But the stairwell was just as Sorenson said. Water lapped at gray-painted stairs. The walls were a dim yellow, the paint chipped away in many places, and a few pipes, painted bright red, thrust through the landing. The ceiling was rough, and moss grew in the corners. Just like any other stairwell.

“Sorry,” Sorenson said.

deCostas reached into his jacket and took out a marble.

“What’s that?” Sorenson asked. He still had a smile on his face, but his eyes were narrowed, the lines at the sides of them like needles.

“A depth-measurement device,” deCostas said.

“I don’t think we agreed to lettin’ you use that.” Sorenson said. He was still smiling, so much so that it looked painful, but his voice had become chillier.

“It’s just part of Mr. deCostas’ research,” Simone said.

“And I’m sure it’s harmless, but we don’t give out information on our building willy-nilly. It could be used for terrorism.”

“Mr. deCostas is here on an academic study. His funding comes from a major European university,” Simone said, angling her body so that Sorenson was focused on her and not deCostas. Sorenson’s smile finally faded, but only for a moment. He shook his head as though he were dealing with a child and sighed. When he spoke, his voice was warmer again.

“And as soon as I have a signed form sayin’ he won’t share any information about the building with anyone but us, I’ll be happy to let him conduct his experiment.”