The Outer Dark (Central Series Book 4)

by Zachary Rawlins

  Nothing that I can find. It’s just an alley in a little town outside of Glasgow. On the coast. Sleepy.

  Hm. Okay. Do we show any Thule personnel in country?

  No, but they’ve been busy everywhere else. They use a scrambler and baffles to confuse surveillance, but they’ve been performing apports all over the globe for the last few hours.

  We aren’t the only ones keeping busy. Dig deeper for me, Riesa. I want everything that could potentially tie into this, everything Thule has shown an interest in the last month.

  That’s a lot of material, sir. A lot of potential connections.

  Then you’d better get to work.

  Business attended to, Renton returned to his reverie.

  When Josef Martynova assigned Renton to his daughter’s service years before, he warned him of the inevitable end to the story of a love-struck servant. A telepathic implant was a requirement of the job, compulsions that would prevent him from crossing boundaries with his charge, and Renton had submitted to it willingly, because he could not imagine falling in love with the oddly quiet child he was sworn to protect.

  Those were the easy days, before his feelings betrayed him.

  It was not even that bad during her first years at the Academy. Ana felt that dating was beneath her station, speaking of her eventual marriage rarely and with a tone of resignation. Renton found it easy to pretend that the inevitable would never happen, and Anastasia did little to dissuade him.

  In Renton’s mind, at least, they both preferred it that way.

  The children of the Black Sun traditionally debuted at seventeen. The event for males was held the month before in Moscow, to a polite representation in the few hundreds. Tonight’s ball was nominally a shared event for all three debutants, but the near-universal attendance was for the debut of Anastasia Martynova. Special attention would be paid to whose company Ana kept – and whose invitations to dance she accepted. Speculation would be rife as to the presumed assumption of her father’s role as leader of the Black Sun, along with the position’s matrimonial obligations.

  The situation did not register completely for Renton until he overhead Mai and one of her maids gossiping several weeks earlier, regarding the eligible bachelors that would vie for Ana’s attention at the Ball. The Black Sun was a meritocracy, and standing among the families and subsidiary cartels was necessarily fluid, so at present four other families could potentially contend with the Martynova family for dominance. Two had sons of an appropriate age, while the other two had adopted promising orphans and groomed them for the same purpose. All would presumably fall all over themselves to attract Ana’s notice at the Ball, if not before.

  Renton caught himself grinding his teeth. He paused briefly to ensure his composure before knocking gently on the bombproof door of Ana’s chambers.

  A discreet telepathic intrusion confirmed his identity and the door opened. Deep circles surrounded Timor Zharova’s eyes, and his voice was slightly hoarse, but Renton nonetheless wished he could wear a suit as naturally as Timor wore his pinstriped Italian number.

  “Renton.” Timor shook his hand and led him inside. “Welcome.”

  The bodyguard escorted him through the entry to the makeshift security room, little more than a desk with a pair of folding chairs to furnish it.

  “You look nervous.”

  “I’m a bodyguard who isn’t allowed within three rooms of his principal,” Timor complained, pacing the length of a room like a caged animal. “You’re damn right I’m nervous! I’m beside myself! The last time I saw Ana was two hours ago. She could be kidnapped and halfway to Macau for all I know.”

  Renton laughed and patted Timor on the shoulder.

  “Is Mai with her?”

  Timor nodded.

  “Anastasia is in more capable hands than ours,” Renton said, with a self-conscious shrug. “Mai chooses her staff carefully, and Ana’s safety is paramount to her. Your hypothetical kidnappers wouldn’t stand a chance against the full fury of Ana’s maids.”

  “Is that a joke? I can never tell.”

  “Not at all! One of Ana’s maids – you know Kisma? – was a candidate for Auditors a few years back, and Thiri – the tall one with glasses – was a combat telepath in the cartel forces until Mai recruited her. That’s not counting Mai herself, former leading light of the Hegemony until Ana got her hooks in. Those ladies would have us for breakfast.”

  “You, maybe.” Timor shook his head ruefully. “I take a more hands off approach.”

  Renton grinned, his view of Timor having slowly evolved from potential rival to a sort of secret ally. Lacking the company of his sister, Timor had started sharing his worries over Ana and looking to Renton as a mentor. If Renton could no longer be at her side, it was not the worst arrangement. Timor was entertaining, and his observations and griping were as close to Ana’s daily life as Renton could currently get. Even better, for obvious reasons, Renton trusted him not to develop a thing for Ana.

  It was not much, but it helped him sleep. Up until recently, anyway.

  “You here to see Ana?”

  “I have an update on a couple of things.”

  “Priority?”

  “Fucking high, Timor, or I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Sorry. You know I have to ask.”

  “Just buzz me in, okay? I’ve got stuff to do.”

  “Watch how fast I go,” Timor said, laughing. “Are you going to the Ball?”

  “My attendance has been deemed mandatory,” Renton said, a bit louder than intended. “Political stuff. You?”

  “Attendance is part of my job,” Timor reminded him, eyebrows raised in surprise. “You know that.”

  Timor knocked on the interior door and conferred briefly with someone in Ukrainian. A brisk telepathic probe confirmed Renton’s identity a second time. Mai opened the interior door after a suitable delay, wearing a simple black dress that accented her slim figure. Renton noticed with approval.

  “Good morning, Mr. Hall.” Mai smiled pertly, showing not a hint of the exhaustion that must have dwarfed his own. “How very nice to receive an unexpected visit at such a terribly busy time.”

  “Thanks, Mai. How are you this morning?” Renton flashed his best smile out of habit. “I hope preparations for the Ball haven’t run you completely ragged.”

  She led him into the frontier of Ana’s chambers, closing the door on poor, anxious Timor.

  “I find no burden in my duties, Mr. Hall,” Mai said modestly. “There is joy in service.”

  Renton found himself nodding.

  “That’s…a good point, Mai. Thanks.”

  For the first time in his memory, Mai looked surprised, gesturing for Renton to take one of the cloth-backed chairs arranged neatly in the parlor.

  “Please wait here, Mr. Hall,” Mai said. “Miss Martynova is presently occupied…”

  “Makeup?”

  “…but I am certain she will wish to hear whatever you have to say.”

  “Thanks, Mai.”

  The head maid bowed and then retreated to the inner rooms, where servants would be laboring frantically over Ana, her dress, and the minutia of the ball. Renton leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes, the missed sleep catching up with him. Rumor was that Anastasia’s dance card had been the subject of months of intense preparation, but the contents were a secret known only by Ana and her maids-in-waiting. Like much of the Black Sun at large, Renton had spent the last few days contemplating options, and making his own assessment of the potential candidates – all of whom he found severely lacking.

  Among the Great Families of the cartels, marriages were uniformly political. Ana’s marriage would be an especially dramatic example of the breed, however, because her requirements were so well known. Everything, after all, came down to wresting control of the Black Sun Cartel from her father, Josef Martynova, in a clean and painless a manner.

  Anastasia could count on the support of most of the Asian cartels beneath the Black Sun banner, who
had pledged their loyalty to her mother, along with the more internationally-minded members of the Russian and European. The traditionalists in the Black Sun were grouped under Josef Martynova's authority, particularly the conservative families in Moscow and their subsidiary cartels in Eastern Europe and South America. The allegiances of this block would only be available to Ana if she were already the overwhelming favorite for cartel leadership.

  For Anastasia Martynova to become Mistress of the Black Sun, in Renton’s estimation, she needed at least one of the Great Families to declare for her. The peripheral cartels and subsidiaries in North America, Japan and North Africa hewed to the traditional loyalties of the Great Families, but they could be persuaded. Anastasia had cultivated ties with several important groups of semiautonomous cartels within the sphere of Black Sun influence, but without the backing of at least one Great Family, she would achieve little more than a bare majority.

  That meant open conflict with the conservative faction, and perhaps even Josef Martynova himself, which would be a disaster for the Black Sun, as well as for Anastasia personally. The Hegemony had waited generations for exactly such an opportunity.

  “Mr. Hall?” Renton opened his eyes to find Mai standing over him. “Lady Martynova will see you now.”

  Renton nodded wearily and followed her to Ana’s private chambers.

  The outer rooms were occupied by the supplies and accoutrements of a veritable army of stylists, tailors, and cobblers. As Renton hurried after the serene head maid, he heard snatches of agitated conversation in Italian, a discussion of eyeshadow conducted in a stew of Japanese and French, and a maid with a Caribbean accent reading a hapless Russian flower vendor the Riot Act. The rooms buzzed with activity like an overturned hive. As a concession to the cold outside, the fireplaces roared in every room.

  They hurried across a short hallway lined with guest bedrooms for the servants, sleeping two each in dormitory-style bunk beds. Philippine and Nepalese maids rushed about, attempting to tame the disorder the consultants and stylists created, under the supervision of Mai’s lieutenant, Jira, the daughter of a clan of Punjabi butlers trained in Britain. She spared Mai and Renton a quick wave and polite smile before running off to handle a wardrobe issue.

  Renton waved at her disappearing back, admiring, among other things, her efficiency.

  Another receiving room followed, this one pristine. The walls were lined with art he didn’t recognize, scenes of antiquated Moscow and Shanghai and portraits of fierce-faced old men. Likely intended for Anastasia’s private use, the room had been redecorated since his last audience.

  Renton tried to take it in stride when Mai led him straight through the receiving room and into the antechamber outside of Ana’s bedroom. This area had been declared off limits to him since Ana was ten, and it wasn’t like Ana to allow an exception.

  Mai paused at the door.

  “I apologize, Mr. Hall.” Mai sounded amused rather than apologetic. “The Mistress is terribly busy, as you might imagine. She has chosen to receive you in her chambers as she is prepared for the ball. Please forgive the stylists; also, please forgive – and forget! – the unready state of her appearance.” Mai smiled at him and it felt like a warning. “You know how important tonight is, Mr. Hall.”

  “I do,” he said, forcing a return smile through unseemly anxiety. “Consider any unnecessary thing already forgotten.”

  Renton followed Mai into the bedroom, praying for a scandalous state of undress.

  He was disappointed, but only mildly.

  Anastasia sat on the white canopied bed, put out and uncomfortable, while a pair of women worked on her feet and whispered to each other in Korean. One applied a pumice stone to Ana’s left heel with vigor, while the other worked with a file on the nails of her right foot. Ana wore a black terrycloth robe with a matching towel wrapped around her hair, legs bare and shiny with fragrant lotion. Svetlana slept in a small chair in the corner of the room, curled into a ball on the cushion. Clearly, the apport technician’s abilities had seen taxing recent use.

  “Hello, Renton.” Ana looked happy to see him, which worked for Renton, even if all she wanted was a distraction. “What news?”

  “Milady,” he said, dipping his head. “You look beautiful, as always. I am sure you will be the belle of the ball.”

  “Of course,” Ana said huffily. “That is a given, is it not? This is my ball. Or did you think that Ilyana Medvedkova would have the fullest dance card?”

  Renton laughed, but he felt a little bad for Ilyana – and Su Gao, for that matter. They both seemed like nice-enough girls, with the misfortune to share a debut with the most powerful young lady in Black Sun history. It must have been a galling prospect to be a distant second on the most important night of their lives thus far, though they would be wise to smile graciously throughout the evening regardless. Renton felt particularly bad for Ilyana, having conducted a brief affair with her a few years before.

  Renton wondered if he would be doing Ilyana a favor by asking her to dance that evening, given the enhanced perception of his status as Anastasia’s lieutenant and representative in the Assembly. He shuddered briefly at the thought of his own respectability, and then wondered exactly how generous he felt. Ilyana had been entertaining, in her own way…

  “You must have something to say,” Anastasia prompted, wincing at the aggressive dual pedicure. “What is it?”

  Renton hesitated, and Anastasia rolled her eyes.

  “All the technicians have telepathic blinders implanted,” Anastasia explained, gesturing at the women working on her feet. “They hear nonsense in a language they do not understand when we talk. As for my servants, I trust each of them with my life. Speak freely.”

  “Of course,” Renton said. He shared Ana’s confidence – after all, Renton had performed due diligence on every staff member. Multiple times, with the more amiable maids. “I’m sorry for the timing, but this won’t wait. I’m sure you remember Dr. Graaf – that weird little Belgian we picked up from the Far Shores, after all the Anathema’s agents went belly up? Short guy, smokes terrible cigars?”

  “Yes, of course,” Anastasia said impatiently. “The traitor scientist we recruited from the ruins of the Far Shores. He performed much of the work on the restoration of the World Tree, as I recall.”

  “That’s the one. We’ve had Dr. Graaf working out of the Gobi site for some time now…”

  “That’s the synthesis project, correct?”

  “Yeah, the one that Wa and Leibevich have been working on. Dr. Graaf has been all sorts of helpful, incidentally, if a pill to work with.”

  “Given the extent of the telepathic implantation to which he was subjected, I would hope so. His allegiance was an expensive achievement.”

  “I remember.” Renton had spearheaded that interrogation and enfolding, and was sitting on a few choice extracted memories, should Dr. Graaf unexpectedly recover his spine. “The science guys seem to think it was worth it.”

  “And you?”

  “Yesterday I wasn’t so sure. Today, I think it was a damn bargain.”

  “Is that so?” Ana looked intrigued for the first time, brushing away the grumbling woman with the pumice stone. “You visited the facility, then?”

  “Yes. Just returned to Central from China a few hours ago. Dr. Wa and Dr. Graaf were able to arrange a demonstration of their most recent production.”

  He paused, for effect…and fun.

  “Well?” Anastasia looked delightfully annoyed. “Don’t be coy, Renton.”

  “I think you got your money’s worth.” Renton shrugged. “The process is the same, but the new patches are more specialized and effective, tailored for specific protocols.” Renton’s hand brushed over his breast pocket, which contained one of the nanite-infused dermal patches in question, a parting gift from Lady Gao. “The demonstration was impressive, though Dr. Wa seems quite concerned about the potential for lasting injury or diminishment for regular users.”

  “Let
him worry over something useful.” Anastasia paused briefly to admire the nail technicians work. “I have no intention of making a habit of such augmentation.”

  “That aside,” Renton said, “I’m not sure what specific application you could have in mind.”

  “That is as it should be,” Anastasia said. “Is there more?”

  “Yes.” Renton battled the urge to move closer, aware that Mai’s good humor would evaporate in an instant if he were overly familiar with the Mistress of the Black Sun. “Lord Thule contacted me via his niece, Lóa Thule. He wants a face-to-face meeting.”

  “This is hardly the time.” Anastasia gestured at the madness which surrounded her. “I’m in no state for diplomacy, Renton.”

  “Believe me, I tried to demur on your behalf,” Renton explained. “He insisted that I pass along the message – and his urgency – and he is a precognitive. Maybe he knows something we need to know.”

  Ana’s expression darkened, and the chatter of the servants gradually died down around them.

  “Damn it, Renton,” Anastasia snapped. “Can you not see that I am busy? You are my representative and advocate, are you not?”

  “Of course! I only meant…”

  “…to inform me, yes. With that duty discharged, I delegate the responsibility for negotiations to you, Renton. Speak to the Thule Cartel with my full authority, and resolve whatever matters may arise from the conversation as best you see fit. Consult me only if affairs are of the utmost urgency – what you have told me today being far from that standard, incidentally. Understood?”

  “Yes, Ana.” Renton added a hasty bow when he noticed Mai’s narrowed eyes. “I’ll see to it right away.”

  “Do that.”

  Renton turned on his heel and headed for the door, to find that Mai anticipated him and held it open for his departure. She really was good.

  “Oh, Renton?” Anastasia’s call halted him at the doorway. When Renton looked back, Anastasia was involved in selecting a color from a collection of fabric swatches. “I have taken the liberty of arranging a dance card for you this evening.”

  Renton was certain that the many women in the adjoining rooms were all laughing at him, though they made no obvious sign of it.