The Anathema

by Rawlins, Zachary

  “Makes you wonder why they saw the need for a half-sane doctor,” Alex pointed out.

  “Since then she’s moved toward information technology,” Vivik continued on, pretending not to hear Alex. “Eerie is one of the best coders at the Academy right now. So my guess is that her ‘field study’ will actually be down in Central at Processing, where the servers are, probably sitting in some cubical writing code for the Etheric Network.”

  “That is… very difficult to picture,” Alex said, after trying and failing to imagine it. “She must be miserable doing that.”

  “Actually, according to my friend Adel, who did a summer internship down at Processing with her last year, they practically had to turn the lights out to get her to leave the building,” Vivik said, shrugging as if to show that he would have doubted it himself. “She eats candy and codes away, apparently.”

  “That’s… well, actually, that’s believable.”

  Vivik was a little worried about Alex. He couldn’t help but be concerned. After all, it wasn’t like him to be so down about things. However, he was also more than a little bit grateful that his thoughts seemed to have turned back toward Eerie, even if it was galling that Alex could simply ignore the girl of Vivik’s dreams throwing herself at him. Still, he felt a sense of obligation to his friend.

  “Do you want to come back to my room and watch anime? I downloaded new episodes of Toradora and Full Metal Alchemist and stuff…”

  “Alright,” Alex said, finally sitting up from where he’d been lying on the bed. “But I’m not watching the one with the girls in the cartoon band again. Nothing ever happens, and the music is annoying.”

  “Okay,” Vivik said, smiling as he held open the door for Alex.

  “And not one where they talk forever about how powerful they are and hidden techniques and all that shit but never actually get around to fighting. I’m sick of giant swords, and I’m not staying up all night to find out who wins.”

  “Okay,” Vivik said as they walked down the hallway, humoring him.

  “Oh yeah! No more shows where all the girls throw themselves at some lame guy who spends his time running away and having nosebleeds, because he’s some kind of porn-obsessed moron who’s afraid of girls. That shit drives me crazy. It’s totally unrealistic.”

  “Sure,” Vivik said, fumbling with his card key. “So, what do you want to watch?”

  “I dunno. Something with zombies. And boobs.”

  11.

  “You don’t want to?”

  “No, I do, really.”

  “You don’t seem like you do.”

  Alex hesitated for a moment, and then he broke down and told her the truth. It seemed like the simplest thing to do.

  “I’m a little worried that your sister might kill me,” Alex said, laughing nervously, but not at all joking. Emily laughed along with him as if it was funny.

  “Don’t worry; she won’t do anything to you.” Emily paused, and then gave him a very fragile smile. “There will be other people there, so I don’t think your girlfriend will mind. You can even bring her, if you want to.”

  Alex looked back down at his notes, as if they had something to tell him, some way to avoid the situation that he couldn’t see for himself. The pages in front of him remained mute on the subject.

  “Assuming you mean Eerie, she’s not my girlfriend…”

  “Assuming that I mean…” Emily imitated, rolling her eyes.

  “She couldn’t come anyway. Eerie is grounded, and Rebecca is making her work in her office during non-class hours, and she had to do field-study in Central over break.”

  “That’s terrible,” Emily said, with what he could only assume was false sympathy. The concern on her face looked genuine, but it couldn’t possibly be. “How lonely. Since you are free, then you should definitely come to my dinner party tomorrow. Wear something nice, okay?”

  “There is no chance that boy owns even a single article of clothing that could be described as ‘nice’,” Anastasia said, walking to her seat, followed by a dour, fine-featured boy with muddy brown hair and an athlete’s build.

  “I don’t have anything nice to wear,” Alex admitted. “Who’s your new lackey, Anastasia?”

  “His name is Timor, and you are not obligated to act like a jerk all the time,” Anastasia said mildly, taking her usual seat, two rows up and dead center. Timor looked around for a moment before settling down one desk over from where Anastasia sat. “Don’t take Alex personally, Timor. He is simply deflecting a discussion of his own inadequacies in your direction.”

  “I won’t,” Timor said, nodding and pulling out textbooks. “But, I am worried about where your class is in comparison with my old one was.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Katya said, hustling in clutching a pastry and a steaming cup of coffee, bundled in a winter coat and scarf despite the fact that morning was no more than chilly. She set her leather bag down in the row behind Alex, putting her feet up right next to Vivik’s head. “It’s not bad. They aren’t so gifted. Plus, Mr. Windsor offered us tutoring if we need it.”

  Emily looked from one new kid to the other slowly, with an uncertain expression. It was obvious from her reaction that she knew both Katya and Timor Zharova, at least by reputation, but that she hadn’t expected to see them here. Alex looked at the two in turn, apparently brother and sister, but he didn’t see much resemblance. Then a light bulb went off in his head.

  “This is the gifted class?” Alex turned to Emily in astonishment. “Am I gifted?”

  “Oh, God,” Anastasia said, making a choking, coughing noise.

  “Well, there are three classes preparing for graduation next year, and this is the advanced course, so, yes, in a sense,” Emily offered hesitantly. “I think that has more to do with your protocol classification, and not nearly as much with your ability. I’ve seen your test results, and they are nothing to brag about…”

  Emily trailed off as Grigori and Chandi arrived, entourage in tow, all eyes in the class immediately turning to them, excepting those of the unflappable Miss Martynova.

  Grigori was even more imposing in the school uniform then he had been in street clothes. With broad shoulders and a barrel chest, he looked like a soldier attempting casual dress. His unruly brown hair was smoothed in a concession to civility, and his blunt hands protruded from the sleeves of an immaculate and undersized blazer. Next to him, Chandi Tuesday appeared demure and self-assured, riding along in the striking boy’s wake, looking at the class with cool, contemptuous eyes behind her round glasses. The kids following them were a mixed bag; two that Alex knew already, William and Choi, plus some Chinese kid he’d never met and a smiling, chubby girl. Grigori’s lip lifted in contempt when he saw Alex surrounded by Black Sun members, and Alex realized that in all probability, only Emily’s proximity redeemed the situation. He shifted in his seat closer to Emily, and she covered his hand protectively, moist with her own apprehension.

  “Alexander Warner,” Grigori hissed. “You choose your company poorly.”

  “Get fucked, okay?” Alex snapped back, aware that the entire class had stopped in shock, and that everyone was watching the exchange. He was angry enough that he didn’t care. “I put up with enough of that shit from Anastasia already. I’m not about to take it off you.”

  Anastasia smiled as if she’d won a prize in a carnival game. Grigori was briefly appalled, then with a sort of inevitability, his face reddened with anger and his voice got hard.

  “Don’t take that tone with me, boy,” Grigori warned, his bag clenched in his hands, tension highlighting the myriad of white scars on them. “You don’t want to do that. The last thing you need is to count me among your enemies.”

  “Excuse me, Grigori?” Emily cut in smoothly, putting one hand protectively on Alex’s shoulder. “Could you please back off a little bit? Alex didn’t mean to be rude; he’s just had a difficult couple of days. He’s not himself this morning.”

  Alex didn’t even notice that Emily ha
d gone rigid with effort, her eyes glazed over as she looked in the direction of the angry Hegemony students. Anastasia noticed, however, and she gave Emily’s a very hard look before shifting her gaze over to Grigori, obviously fascinated. Grigori fumed a moment longer while Chandi looked confused and the rest of his group shifted nervously and exchanged worried glances, and then he stomped off, taking over one whole side of the classroom with his retinue.

  “So many Russians all of a sudden,” Alex said loudly. “It’s like Red Dawn.”

  “Alex!” Emily protested. “That’s mean!”

  “Our parents are Ukrainian, actually, but my brother and I were both born in Portland. Grigori’s mother is Romanian, though he was, I believe, born in Moscow to a Russian father. Anastasia’s grandmother is Chinese, and she was born in Scotland, and then raised in Oregon. I’m not sure about how that fits in,” Katya said sternly, piling books on her desk. “But don’t let me interrupt your whole racist generalization.”

  “It’s not racist,” Alex insisted. “I liked Red Dawn. Red Dawn was awesome.”

  “I’m not sure how to respond to that,” Katya said, taking a bite from her pastry. “Except to point out that you are an idiot.”

  “Or a really big Patrick Swayze fan,” Vivik offered nervously, taking the seat next to Emily. “Besides, Russian is a nationality. If Alex wanted to be racist, he’d have to know that you were Slavic in the first place.”

  Alex couldn’t help but notice that the look Katya gave Vivik was a lot friendlier than any look she had given him thus far. However, he was feeling a sort of generalized good will toward everyone at that particular moment, and Katya seemed more sympathetic than normal. Maybe, he thought, she wasn’t a total bitch – maybe, Katya was only a bitch to him. That meant there was room for improvement in their relationship. Alex smiled over at her, but all that earned him was a puzzled, dismissive glance. Baby steps, he thought optimistically, watching Mr. Windsor make his way to the front of the classroom, baby steps.

  Then something Katya had said belated clicked in his mind. He leaned forward, across the empty row of chairs in front of him.

  “Hey, Anastasia. You’re Chinese?”

  “Alex!” Emily scolded, shocked. He looked back at her innocently; he genuinely hadn’t meant anything by it.

  Anastasia answered without turning her head, sounding bored, but not offended.

  “In part. My grandmother’s maiden name was Teng. Honestly, Alex. Does the phrase ‘Black Sun’ sound at all Russian to you? Cartels change over time, like living things - they join, split, and evolve. The Black Sun was originally a humble Triad from Macau mainly involved in smuggling cigarettes. After World War II, they aligned a number of their businesses ventures with a Russian political dynasty dating back to the Czars, culminating in an arranged marriage.” Anastasia shook her head slightly, as if she pitied him. “Nationalities don’t mean a great deal in Central.”

  “You replace countries with cartels, and then you want to act like I’m stupid for not getting it?” Alex demanded, pulling his arm away when he felt Emily tugging at his sleeve.

  “Is there something you’d like to share with the class, Alex?” Mr. Windsor asked, looking as amused and benevolent as he always did. “What I could hear of your discussion sounded surprisingly political, given your avowed disinterest in all such things. Care to elaborate further on your thoughts?”

  Alex sat down hard, making stinging contact with the molded plastic of his chair. He tried to think of an answer that wouldn’t leave him in deeper trouble than he had already managed to get himself into this morning. Then, with a self-satisfied grin, Anastasia saved him. Again.

  “Alex was trying to understand the rationale for the existence of the cartels,” Anastasia said smoothly.

  “Ah! An excellent topic. Tell me, Miss Martynova, how would you have answered him, had I not interrupted you?”

  Anastasia folded her hands neatly on her desk, her eyes turned demurely down at the notebook in front of her. Emily snuck her hand back onto Alex’s knee, and he let it stay there. He felt that he needed all the reassurance he could get.

  “Two reasons. The most obvious, and pressing, is money. Central needs food, fuel, machinery and everything else that it cannot make itself, enough for a small city, every day. A single cartel’s operations can involve hundreds or even thousands of people, who need to be housed, fed, and compensated. A presence must be maintained wherever cartel interests are based, as well as maintaining some form of representation in Central. A Field office, transportation, personnel, equipment… all of this has to be paid for. The cartels do the business that pays for everything, the entirety of this quiet war; every bite of food, every comfort, every necessity.”

  “What is it that they do?” Alex demanded, interrupting. “Where does all of this money come from?” The class turned to face him in a sort of group slow motion that made him sweat and his face stiffen. “What, I’m not supposed to ask?”

  “Alex!” Emily said, grabbing his arm. “Please stop!”

  “Now, there is no need…” Mr. Windsor began in a consolatory tone.

  Alex sat back, torn by rapidly shifting impulses; a sort of uneasy guilt that suddenly that blunted the anger that had been white-hot a moment before. Neither emotion prevailed, so he simply sat there with his mouth hanging open.

  “Finance, transportation and security are primary cartel revenue sources, though that is hardly the extent of it. We make funds available that otherwise would not be, to people who might have trouble borrowing through more established channels. We move things from place to place, cargo that would be impossible to move otherwise. Naturally, some of these things are illegal. Sometimes, these things are people,” Anastasia said, looking calmly back at Alex, her eyes clear and unclouded, her tone chilly and academic. “The security work is more nebulous and varied. But in virtually constant and universal demand.”

  “Smugglers and mercenaries, then, right?” Alex asked in disbelief. “That’s what the cartels are?”

  “No. We are soldiers fighting a war, a war for our survival, for all of us. The industries I discussed, that is how the bills are paid. This is what you wanted to know, correct?” Anastasia asked, sounding unimpressed. “Or are you more comfortable not knowing the hard truths about where your dinner comes from?”

  “You mentioned another reason that cartels are necessary, Anastasia?” Mr. Windsor prompted, the only person in the classroom that seemed wholeheartedly pleased by the scene.

  Anastasia turned away from Alex and assumed her previous pose before continuing, her eyes downcast. Alex could hear the resentment in her voice; he marveled at it.

  “Self-protection. There are at least two people in this class capable of killing everyone else here, simply by thinking about it. Does that scare you? It should. It is a terrifying reality to live in. Think about it – there are people sitting next to you right now, fully able to kill you with their brain because they were turned down for a date, or did poorly on a test. How long do you think the human race would survive under circumstances such as these? Our threshold for destructiveness far exceeds our threshold for defense.” Anastasia shrugged sadly. “If not for the cartels, the strong would be able to prey on the weak freely. That becomes a serious problem when some of the strong are telepaths or empaths who can quite literally control minds. The cartels allow the weak leverage, Alex. Unity and numbers balance out individual power. The cartels are not an imposition. They are a means of survival when our very nature conspires against it.”

  Alex wanted to respond, but he knew that he would only embarrass himself further, so he sat there and fumed while Mr. Windsor prodded the class into a discussion of the issues that had been raised, in a more organized manner. Emily patted his arm soothingly while he raged impotently against the back of Anastasia’s head.

  Then he saw Eerie sitting on the other side of the room, an alarmingly green lollypop in one hand, and no expression whatsoever on her face. She noticed him and loo
ked away before he could pull his hand from Emily’s grasp. Despite Alex’s best efforts to catch her eye, Eerie stared up at the bullet points that Mr. Windsor had projected on the hanging screen, never again looking in his direction for the duration of the class.

  * * *

  “I have a feeling we may have gotten off on the wrong foot, Alexander. Would you mind if we join you for lunch?”

  Alex gave up watching the door to the cafeteria resignedly. Eerie had managed to slip out of the classroom before he had a chance to try to talk to her, and it was obvious by now that she wasn’t going to show for lunch, which made him look like a total idiot for insisting on sitting by himself. He had been considering looking for Eerie at the vending machine – it sold candy, after all – but now he didn’t think he was going to get a chance. He reluctantly motioned for the three of them to sit.

  They were an awkward bunch – the plump girl named Hope, who appeared friendly and cheerful, flanked by the dour Grigori and the decidedly aloof Chandi. Hope had a salad on her tray. Chandi had orange juice and a bagel. Grigori had nothing at all, and kept his hands folded across his chest the entire time.

  “It’s too bad, really, that you had to arrive when you did, since we were all in field study at the time.” The way Hope said it made it sound as if it really did bother her on a personal level. Alex got immediately suspicious, thinking through a few things Rebecca had told him. “The precognitives made a terrible error.”

  “Anastasia Martynova probably had something to do with that,” Chandi offered coolly.

  “That is a tragedy,” Alex said sourly, picking disinterestedly at a breaded chicken breast that was overcooked and unappetizing. “You’re an empath, right, Hope?”

  “Yes, I am,” Hope acknowledged. “How did you guess?”

  “I’m not much for people, but you are immediately likable. That’s a dead give-away,” Alex said. “I don’t appreciate it much.”