“Do not call me that.”
“…we would have faced sanction. Whether you appreciate it or not, Director, you have our gratitude. And our loyalty.”
“For what it is worth.”
“You are too harsh! Our disagreements were philosophical. The Thule Cartel has never been regarded as treacherous, even by our detractors. If circumstances had been different, we would have likely been regarded as pioneers.”
“Or as Anathema,” Gaul offered darkly, rubbing his temples. “Without my intervention, your cartel could very well have been judged as such.”
Brennan Thule took a sip of chamomile tea and nodded.
“True. Due largely, in my opinion, to provincial and knee-jerk conservative mindsets – but true nonetheless. For which, as I mention, you have our undying loyalty. A rare commodity in Central these days, as I understand it, and one that I suggest you employ.”
Gaul finished collating the paperwork on his desk, stapled it together, and then put it in his “Out” tray. The majority of the staff primarily used workstations, but in an act of deliberate perversity, Gaul insisted that all high-level Academy activities required official forms and wet-ink signatures – despite the fact that he was a node on the Etheric Network himself. He found something satisfying in filing out a well-designed form, and took even more satisfaction in infuriating Rebecca, who despised paperwork almost as much as she did smoking bans.
“I would not have engineered your return if I did not see a purpose for your cartel. Tell me – what is the Thule Cartel’s standing in the Hegemony, now that your period of exile is at an end?”
“Vastly improved,” Brennan responded, crossing his legs and toying with the tassels on his extraordinarily expensive loafers. “Many of our former rivals have diminished, or even disappeared entirely, during our absence. Only the North Cartel wields more power, and due to their rather authoritarian use of said influence, more of the independent cartels would be inclined to side with us, in the event of a disagreement.”
“You feel that you are positioned well enough to influence Hegemonic policy?”
“As is necessary,” Brennan said, drinking tea while he considered it. “We hold few official offices, of course, due to our long absence, and there is obeisance to be made, relationships to rekindle. Still, as you saw during the last meeting of the Committee-at-Large, we can command a significant number of votes – and that number will only grow with time. We did not waste our exile in Reykjavik, and we are in a position to distribute favors.”
Gaul sighed and pushed his glasses up on his nose, before continuing with obvious reluctance.
“And what of your father?”
“He is well enough. He still feels the shame of disappointing you rather acutely, I am afraid. He has elected to remain in Iceland for the time being.”
“Just as well,” Gaul said, with relief.
“I would assume he will remain there, until you are willing to forgive him. Tell me, Uncle – are you willing?”
Brennan leaned forward, his eyes full of sincerity.
“Not at this point,” Gaul said, shaking his head dismissively. “And do not call me that.”
“Very well, Director. But I entreat you to consider the matter. David Thule is a sick man. He does not have much time left, and it would pain him to depart this world without exchanging words with his brother.”
“Enough!” Gaul snapped, raising his voice and cowing Brennan with a fierce glare. “I will hear no more of this matter. Understood?”
“Absolutely.”
“I did not bring you here for idle chatter, nor did I engineer the Thule Cartel’s return from exile out of sentimentality. I have work for you,” Gaul said, selecting a red file folder from the carefully arranged stack on his desk, and tossing it across the expanse of walnut, where Brennan eagerly picked it up to inspect the contents. “Work, I might add, that must be kept secret.”
“Of course,” Brennan said, perusing the files. “I was curious, Director. What of the younger Martynova? Anastasia, I believe? I was surprised that she supported your motion in the Committee, and equally surprised that she would support an action that might conceivably strengthen the Hegemony at the expense of her own cartel. Does she not share her father’s ambitions?”
“If anything,” Gaul said grimly, “she exceeds him – in that respect, as every other. She is dangerous. Never let your guard down in regard to Anastasia Martynova.”
Brennan glanced up in surprise.
“But, surely…she is merely a child, Director!”
“She is far from a child,” Gaul muttered. “As a matter of fact, it is entirely possible that she never was to begin with.”
“As you say,” Brennan agreed dutifully. “Nonetheless, she appeared to act in concert with your will…”
“When it suits her purposes, Anastasia Martynova can be an extremely potent ally. Though she always extracts the better end of any bargain. She desires stability in Central for the time being, however, so we have a working relationship.”
Brennan nodded, setting his empty mug on the side table next to his chair.
“I understand. You must be aware, though, that this relationship creates tension among a certain segment of the Hegemony. There are whispers that you show her too much favor, are too free offering privileges to the Black Sun.”
“Nonsense,” Gaul snorted. “My only loyalty is to the well-being of Central.”
“I have heard it suggested,” Brennan continued, with the quiet satisfaction that comes from goading a caged animal, “that you have been co-opted. Rumor says that Anastasia Martynova manipulates you, as she does the members of her cartel. Much of this speculation focuses on the uncertain nature of her rumored Deviant Protocol.”
Brennan trailed off when Gaul looked up from his desk, face tight with repressed anger.
“Do you have a point, badgering me with this foolishness? You must know that I am aware of these baseless suspicions. I would hope that the Thule Cartel would hold itself above such inane speculation.”
Brennan leaned forward, resting his hands on Gaul’s desk. In the light of the incandescent bulb, the veins in his pale skin were obvious – their contents dull grey, as opposed to blue, as if his blood had been replaced with molten lead. Even the tiny veins in his eyes were the same metallic hue, giving them a vaguely synthetic appearance.
“We do. Precisely my point. The Thule Cartel, putting aside birthright and familial obligation, is twice-indebted to you, Director. What I seek is permission to act on your behalf.” Brennan’s voice was passionate, has expression sincere. “With your approval, Director, we would act against those who defame you, who would challenge your leadership and the rule of law and order in Central. We stand ready to correct the recalcitrant amongst the Hegemony, and to purge those beyond redemption. Whether allied with Anathema, creatures of North, or merely self-serving, it matters not – those who refuse to act in concert with your wisdom and precognition pose a threat to the security and stability of us all.”
Gaul said nothing for a moment, the only sound in the room the scratching of his pen moving across the paper. When he finally spoke, he did so without looking up from the documents in front of him.
“I will not countenance chaos, or unnecessary violence. You know that, Brennan.”
Brennan sank back slightly in his chair, deflated.
“Of course, Director.”
The silence continued, and eventually, Brennan made a small movement, preparing to stand and take his leave.
“Then again,” Gaul said, his voice halting Brennan’s movement, the Director’s full attention seemingly focused on his paperwork, “I can hardly countenance dissent in the face of such tremendous external and internal threats, now, can I?”
A slow smile crept across Brennan’s face.
“Absolutely not, Director.”
“My practice has always been to take only the action which is strictly necessary, causing the absolute minimum amount of disrupt
ion to achieve a goal,” Gaul offered dryly, glancing up at Brennan briefly, his face composed and expressionless. “I would suggest that the Thule Cartel abide by the same philosophy. Understood?”
“Perfectly,” Brennan said quietly, almost beaming.
“Dismissed.”
The Director did not look up again from his work until he was certain that Brennan had departed.
***
The beach was crowded with people – well, crowded relative to the total absence of life they had encountered slinking through the Far Shores campus – several dozen figures, dressed identically in robes and cowls made from a synthetic material that reflected the minimal ambient light with a plastic sheen. They were arrayed in an arc, close to where the water should have been, assuming this beach had possessed an ocean.
“Holy shit!”
“See?” Katya whispered, her expression simultaneously proud and surprised. “I told you! They’re a fucking cult. I bet they’re sacrificing chickens, or something else gross.”
Alex was confronted with the uncomfortable memories of the chickens that Miss Gallow had forced him to slaughter and dress – he had lost count, at some point, because chickens didn’t tend to bother him the way the poor cows did, or, even worse, the pigs. He remembered the awful, betrayed sound the dying pigs made, and shook his head to purge it of extraneous trauma. He had more than enough to deal with in the here and now.
“So. Um. Don’t you think we should go? Before they start sacrificing stuff, or whatever?”
“Don’t be a pussy. I wanna get a closer look,” Katya said, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. Alex wondered why the Black-Sun-assassin-turned-candidate-for-Audits was so intrigued with the Far Shores, and if that fascination was going to get the both of them expelled. “I think we can get closer. They’re not even looking in this direction.”
He risked sticking his head out around the retaining wall they crouched behind to get a better look. The wind obliterated any sound they might have made, but Katya’s speculation was starting to influence him, and Alex found it easy to imagine that the shrouded figures were chanting. The space between them and the beach was sparsely landscaped with a few spindly shrubs and strips of freshly laid sod, along with some haphazardly-arranged concrete benches. The scene didn’t look promising to him.
“I don’t see much to hide behind…”
“No, it’s cool. There’s a little hill right at the edge of the beach. If we lay flat, no one will see us, even if they do look back.”
Alex glanced again at the darkened landscape.
“I don’t see it,” Alex admitted, shaking his head. “How can you see that shit?”
“I told you. I can see in the dark,” Katya said casually, not turning her attention from the people on the beach. “When I give the word, we scramble, okay?”
“Wait. How is it that you have night vision, anyway?”
“I’m an assassin, Alex.”
“Well, right, but…”
“Not right now, okay? On the count of three…”
He didn’t agree with the idea at all, but Katya didn’t give him any option, starting her count over his objections. As much as he didn’t want to go on, and didn’t care much about the weird people in robes on the beach or what they were doing – or the Far Shores in general – he cared quite a bit about not embarrassing himself in front of Katya. Her respect had become surprisingly important to him.
When they had to choose partners for activities in the Program, Katya inevitably picked him. Alex was gratified, even if she selected him because Anastasia had instructed her to do so. Drinking on the roof one night, Vivik pointed out that she didn’t need to do that during the telepathic simulations, which, by definition, posed no physical risk to him or anyone else – but she chose him anyway. It was sort of funny to consider, that a syllabus consisting of acts of violence and terror had taught him so many unexpected things – not all of them unfortunate.
Alex followed her over the retaining wall and across the bleak little plaza, moving from one shadow to another, knees bent, muscles tensed in anticipation of discovery rather than curiosity, because he was the exact opposite of curious.
On the other side of the drab open space, sand mounded against a low concrete embankment, forming a small rise. Alex almost missed it in the darkness of the perpetually clouded sky, well beyond the sparse lighting of the Far Shores campus, but Katya tugged him down by his arm as he scrambled past. He dropped belly-down to the sand and peered over the lip of the small hill, struggling to make out anything of the figures on the beach beside the Ether. They were close enough to hear, now, but all he could catch were snatches and murmurs of what sounded like normal conversation, and the rustling of their odd outfits as they flapped about in the wind.
“What do you see?” Alex whispered, shoulder to shoulder with Katya in the sand, squinting in a vain attempt to peer through the dark. “Are they doing anything?”
“I’m not sure,” Katya muttered, sounding disappointed. “A couple of them are close to the shoreline, messing around with something that looks a little like an antenna. Hey, I bet it’s an altar. Do you think it’s an altar?”
“I don’t know. I mean, they aren’t chanting or anything.”
“I know,” Katya said, pouting. “They don’t have candles or knives or chickens or anything. I thought they would at least have candles.”
“Wouldn’t the wind blow them out, even if they did?”
Katya shrugged as best she could while lying flat on the ground.
“I dunno. Never seems to be a problem in the movies.”
Alex couldn’t see much more than silhouettes in front of the faintly luminous non-color of the Ether, as if they stood in front of a television screen filled with static. Their movements seemed disorganized and aimless. He caught brief flashes of reflected light from the folds their strangely textured outfits.
“Sorry, Katya. I don’t think they are a cult.”
“Oh, really? Then explain the outfits and the beach at midnight. Think they’re just out for a mass romantic stroll?”
“Probably not. You can see better than I can. You tell me.”
“I think maybe they put the altar thing next to the Ether,” Katya said slowly, sounding uncertain. “I’m not sure. It looks weird. Almost like...”
She trailed off, and Alex jabbed her with his elbow.
“Like what?”
“Ouch! Cut it out, bastard. Like – well, almost like they put it in the Ether.”
Alex shook his head, then realized Katya probably couldn’t see him do that, even if she could see in the darkness, since she was staring out at the beach.
“Not possible,” he countered firmly. “Vivik said the Ether is like antimatter or something. Can’t come into contact with material objects.”
“I know that, dummy,” Katya hissed. “I just said it looked that way, okay? Wait...they’ve got more of them. They just put another one further down the beach, and they’re kind of spreading out. I think maybe they are putting a bunch of them in a line.”
Alex could see that the group was starting to thin, moving along the edge of the beach in both directions. A couple of them might have been holding things that looked a little bit like weather vanes, if he squinted hard, but that could have just been the suggestion.
“See? I told you they were altars. I bet they start worshipping any minute now.”
“You are really hung up on this whole cult angle, you know?”
“If you have a better explanation, I’d love to hear it.”
Alex had nothing of the sort, but he was still pretty sure Katya was wrong. He had an innate distrust of religion, so he kind of figured that a cult would have been scarier or much happier – either wild-eyed hippies in some sort of orgy or fanatics waving around those curvy dagger-things and babbling about astrology. The people at the Far Shores might have been strange, but he hadn’t seen them do anything like that.
“What are they doing now?”
“What? No way!”
“Yeah? Then you tell me what they are doing.”
The voice startled him so badly that Alex just barely suppressed a scream.
“Actually, they are taking readings.” The man sounded amused, standing behind them in a robe of his own with the hood thrown back, his arms crossed in front of his chest, a pleasant smile on his face. “Might I ask what you are doing?”
***
“Hey, Mikey. Why are the lights off?” Alice smirked as she closed the door to her room behind her. “You trying to tell me something?”
“Nothing that underhanded or salacious, I’m afraid. Just a bit of a headache.”
Alice hung her military surplus jacket on a hanger mounted on the bureau door, and emptied her pockets onto the barren desktop. She stepped out of her heavy boots with obvious relief, kicking them aside and then sitting down on the edge of the bed, so that they faced each other across the small distance in the middle of the room.
“Wow. You don’t look so good. Are you...okay?”
Michael tried to reassure her without meeting her eyes.
“Of course.”
“You look like you’re really stoned...”
Michael snorted and folded his arms.
“You know I’m not.”
Alice leaned over and touched the side of his head gently, her expression wavering between concern and annoyance. He almost wanted to laugh, except this was all so damn serious. Her fingers stopped at the edges of the bandages behind his ears, and for a moment, they just sat there, frozen in a slight embrace that was simultaneously distant and domestic.
“What the fuck?”
Alice grabbed him by the chin, forcing him to meet her glare. He didn’t bother to fight. Michael had given up on fighting Alice Gallow. There was simply no percentage in it. He had realized that when she approached him at the party celebrating their survival after the Anathema’s attack on the Academy, circumventing his long-held anger with frightening ease. Michael knew from that moment on, whatever happened, he would never be able to win a fight with Alice.
The Far Shores (The Central Series) Page 11
