Age of X01 - Gameboard of the Gods

by Richelle Mead

  “I am…,” she said slowly. “Well, I don’t know. Obviously I wouldn’t have had you do it if I didn’t think there was something weird about it, but I didn’t really know what to expect. Maybe the military sent you someone else’s records.”

  “I’d believe that if the results they sent were completely different from these. But theirs is almost like this one. When you compare theirs to the real thing, it’s obvious theirs has been altered. It’s been altered in a way to make it look more…real.”

  “What else would it be?” she asked.

  “It would look like this.” He tapped the screen on the right. “You’ve got a genetic makeup exactly like the patrician victims. Indescribably perfect. Beautifully crafted genes. Someone did a very good job of putting believable flaws into the one the military has. I never would’ve guessed it was fake if I didn’t have obvious proof here that this is you.”

  He almost sounded embarrassed at his oversight, but she supposed a technical genius would consider this a big failing. As for her, she couldn’t take her eyes off the screen or still the racing of her heart.

  “The last crazy piece,” she said in a voice that didn’t sound like her own. “This makes it official.”

  “After everything that’s happened, ‘crazy’ is kind of becoming the status quo. I mean, you’re a designer baby created through either breakthrough genetic manipulation or the intervention of a goddess. And after what I saw that night…” No more swagger from Leo. “Well, I don’t know what I believe. I’m still on the side of science, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t unnerved that you and Justin haven’t been nearly as shocked by this stuff as you should be. That kind of freaks me out.”

  “Speaking from the side of science, can you think of a reason for why the military would have altered genetic information on me?” she asked.

  Leo lost his philosophical air and turned wry. “I learned a long time ago that there’s nothing the military won’t do. They have secrets within secrets….” He hesitated. “Especially with prætorians.”

  She held his gaze. “You really do know a lot about prætorians.”

  “I’m not up-to-date on them anymore.” He gave her a smile they both knew was faked. “I’m just a guy who works on birth control.”

  After they finished up, she declined his offer to stay the night. Neither would’ve enjoyed it. There was a late train going back to Vancouver, and sleep didn’t matter to her. It did matter for a phone call she wanted to make, and the night passed slowly as she waited for the world to wake up. She tried reading and watching movies, but her mind couldn’t focus on any of it. At last, morning approached, and she decided it was a reasonable enough hour in New Stockholm to call her mother.

  Astrid Koskinen answered, groomed to her usual state of perfection. Mae hadn’t woken her up, which hopefully meant she’d be in a cooperative mood.

  “Maj, what a surprise. We’ve had more contact this month than we have in a year. I’m surprised you can take time from your fame and glory to check in on your family. Everyone’s talking about the little scene you made during your visit.”

  Only her mother could call shooting someone in public a “little scene.” Mae wasn’t surprised the locals had discovered she was the prætorian involved. It was enough to have just stayed out of the national media.

  “You lied to me,” Mae said. “You told me you just made a genetic deal, that there wasn’t any connection to a religion. But that’s not true. I remember! I was in her temple. You took me. My story matches a dozen others. We were all given those crow pendants. How could you do that? How could you pay that kind of price for a perfect baby?”

  Her mother’s lack of shock was answer enough. “There you go again with using ‘perfect’ all the time. You certainly have a high opinion of yourself.”

  “Someone else died for me. You bound me to a death goddess. You wiped out the family’s finances.”

  “No,” spat her mother. “You wiped them out when you chose duty to a uniform over duty to us. We’re one of the few families with more Finnish in our blood than Swedish. Do you know how rare that is?”

  “Duty to you? You had a loan you couldn’t repay. You gambled that you could sell me off for a profit, and your plan failed.”

  “I failed at a lot of things, Maj. I should never have allowed your father the liberties I did. When he confronted me about your conception, I panicked. I never would’ve let him have the influence he did if I’d known it would ruin you.”

  “His influence was the only thing that saved me!” Hearing her father belittled hurt Mae as much as the slight against the military. As she spoke, her childhood flashed through her mind—and more important, the way it had differed from Cyrus and Claudia’s. Always, always, their mother had controlled every aspect of Mae’s siblings’ lives. But not Mae’s. Her mother had glared and grumbled, but she’d stepped aside as Mae’s father encouraged her in canne and let her skip so many of the grueling teas and etiquette lessons customary in the Nordic upper classes. It wasn’t until her father’s death that her mother had finally taken over with a vengeance.

  “Was that the deal you made with him?” Mae asked. “He kept quiet about what you’d done, so long as he could raise me? Was that why I didn’t have to join that deranged cult?”

  Mae’s mother closed her eyes, finally letting pain show in her face. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. “You didn’t have to join because whenever I brought you to them, you made a scene. After a while, they asked me to stop and simply instruct you at home, through lessons and occasional visits from their priests. You didn’t react well to that either. You woke the whole household with your screaming.”

  Mae reeled. All the nightmares that had tormented her before she joined the prætorians were the result of this unholy deal, her subconscious way of coping with something so twisted. “Dad stopped it, didn’t he? The home instruction, the visits. He couldn’t stand to see me go through that torment.”

  Her mother scowled. “I couldn’t stand it. I’m not as heartless as you think I am, Maj, but it was a little too late. You slept somewhat better, but those nightmares never entirely went away.”

  “Because she never went away,” Mae murmured, unable to believe how casually she was discussing the Morrigan. “You promised me to her, and she wouldn’t let me go.”

  “There are a lot of rumors going around,” her mother said lightly. “Rumors that aren’t in the news. I heard the Morrigan’s temple was dismantled, and that prætorians and SCI were involved. Seems like her power might not be what it used to be.” Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “How are your dreams now?”

  “I don’t dream. I don’t sleep.” Mae fell silent for a few moments. “How do you sleep knowing you put my life at risk? They must have told you the consequences if I didn’t follow their path.”

  “I figured it was a problem we’d deal with later.” So typical. “Besides, you seem alive and well to me.”

  What Mae felt was numbed. “How could you so casually sign on with a death cult, Mother? And which did you—do you—believe: that they used illicit technology or that they used unholy powers to create me?”

  Her mother shrugged. “It made no difference. I’d heard about their results, and after your disappointing siblings, I had to do something. Desperate times call for desperate actions, but our last, best hope ended up being a bad investment.”

  Mae had always resented the thought of being a commodity, but there was something even worse about being an investment. “I’m your daughter,” she said simply.

  “And you’re a bad one of those too.” Her mother glanced at her ego and sighed impatiently. “I’m meeting Dorothy Olsen for mimosas. If you have nothing else to complain about, then I’ll be on my way, and you can return to playing soldier or whatever it is you like to do.”

  “I serve the most powerful force in the country, Mother.”

  “Do you, Maj?” Her mother’s smile managed to be both condescending and wistful at the same ti
me. “The next time you look at that ‘perfect’ face or do some incredible physical feat, ask yourself where the real power is these days.”

  CHAPTER 36

  THE OTHER PATTERN

  Justin wrote out two versions of his official report on the events at the Morrigan’s temple. He knew both Mae and Leo would back up whichever version got sent. The decision now rested on him, and he put it off for as long as possible, which was easy to do since SCI left him hanging for almost a week after the raid. Finally, a passive-aggressive message came in from Cornelia, telling him she wanted a meeting and that it would be “useful” to have the report beforehand, so that she knew what the meeting was actually about.

  That was an exaggeration, of course. The police had a broad picture of what had happened that night, and he knew Internal Security had hit the jackpot with evidence linking the cult to the murders. Nonetheless, his words, describing the specifics, would put the final stamp on this case—and possibly on his life.

  So, he went back and forth, taking no action and vowing that when he did, he’d do it sober—which was easier said than done in these long, empty days waiting for SCI to get its act together. One thing both versions of the report shared was a harrowing tale of Mae’s heroics, how she took out impossible numbers of attackers and finally was forced to kill Emil in self-defense. It was Justin’s favor to both her and Leo and would also go a long way toward getting Mae back to the regular prætorian duty she longed for. Sure, she’d still have to cope with the mental fallout of the supernatural proceedings she’d witnessed, not to mention the earth-shattering revelations about her birth, but she was strong. She would survive and move on, eventually forgetting him.

  I thought the self-pity and melodrama would end after Panama, said Magnus one evening as Justin mulled over his fate. But you’ve managed to take it to new heights.

  I’m not being melodramatic, just stating a fact. She’s hardly returned my calls, and it’s better for both of us that way. She’s getting on with her life, and I’m going to do the same. No point in sitting around.

  Actually, that’s kind of what you’ve been doing for the last week, Horatio retorted. Unless you consider those roommates you went out with last night a worthy use of your time.

  Very worthy, Justin assured him.

  You’ve gone through so much and seen so much, yet here you are, back to drinking, dice, and women, scolded Magnus. At the very least, you should work on your runes in your downtime.

  No. One was enough.

  Justin didn’t want to do any more embracing of higher powers quite yet. He’d grown comfortable in exile with the ravens and the idea of a nebulous godly patron keeping track of him. Being face-to-face with powers of the magnitude he’d seen recently had been staggering, however, enough to make him seriously uneasy about his own future. Even the small charm he’d performed for Mae had left him unsettled, as was acknowledging that she was one of the elect. Seeing exactly what a deity could do made him want to avoid serving one more than ever. Mae was unquestionably off-limits, and her distance this week had made it easier to strengthen his resolve against future entanglements.

  No, he told the ravens. No Mae, no magic. I’m going to make a call on this goddamned report now and send it off. Then I’m going barhopping in the hopes of finding more creative roommates. Or maybe twins.

  No, you aren’t, said Horatio. You’re going to Tessa’s expo.

  Justin had nearly forgotten about tonight. Tessa had finally been readmitted to school, and her film class was having a viewing of all of the students’ short documentaries, open to friends and family. The idea of watching two hours of student films made Justin want to gouge his eyes out, but Cynthia had threatened to gouge a lot more if he didn’t go.

  And so, a couple of hours later, he went to the high school with Cynthia and Quentin and made himself comfortable in one of the auditorium’s seats. Most of the films were as inane as he’d expected, but thankfully, none were over ten minutes. It gave his mind a chance to wander over the report dilemma. He’d almost convinced himself of what he’d do when Tessa’s turn came.

  She walked out onstage, wearing one of the dresses they’d bought that first week. Her hair was still as long as ever, but at least she no longer wore it in an obviously provincial way. He thought she looked adorable and dared anyone to say otherwise. She gave a small, succinct introduction about her film and how it was inspired by being an immigrant. Her speech was delivered in a loud, clear voice, but he heard a few people around him grumble about the accent. No wonder she always seemed so irate after school.

  Her film was brilliant—and he was certain it wasn’t just because of his bias. Her observations gave the Gemman audience a mirror for some of its odder idiosyncrasies, though he suspected most of tonight’s viewers didn’t find them odd at all. There was a poignancy to it that struck him deeply, and most of all, it was honest. Gemmans liked to act as though their world was out in the open, what with all the shows and documentaries peering into people’s lives. But they were all edited and dressed up to create an image. Reporters and directors defined the truth—even he did in his job, according to Tessa. She did none of that, though. She didn’t spin or sensationalize or grasp for things that weren’t there. She simply told the truth. It was a talent—no, a gift, that she didn’t even realize she possessed.

  “Was it as bad as you thought?” Cynthia asked him later as they walked along a downtown sidewalk. They’d decided to take the family out to dinner, and Poppy—who Justin was sure really would be in a miscreant girls camp someday—had come along. Quentin and the two girls walked ahead, and he was attempting eight-year-old flirting, which Justin took as a promising sign.

  “No.”

  Cynthia gave Justin an expectant look. “This is the part where you say, ‘It was worse.’”

  He smiled and shook his head. “It wasn’t.”

  “What’s the matter with you tonight?” she asked when he said nothing else.

  “Cyn, what do you think was ultimately wrong with Mom as a parent?”

  Cynthia nearly tripped, and he caught hold of her arm. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

  “I don’t mean the obvious stuff. I mean, I do, but…I don’t know. There’s something more basic to her personality, something I’m trying to figure out, that had such an impact on the way she raised us.”

  “There’s nothing secret or mystical about it, Justin. She’s an addict. Addicts have a dependence on certain substances and behaviors that become more important than everything else—even people. Even their children.”

  “Have you been taking psych classes?”

  “Every day of my life,” she retorted.

  He stared ahead, barely seeing the crowds and endlessly flashing advertisements. “You know, when they came to offer me admission to the Hart School, they gave Mom a chance for you too.”

  “Yes,” said Cynthia quietly. “I found out about that later.”

  It was something they rarely spoke about but that always lay between them. Justin had been “discovered” one day in the Anchorage Summer Market by a woman who taught at a private school on the other side of the city, in a much more affluent neighborhood. She’d been dazzled by his and Cynthia’s guessing-game performance and questioned them extensively about it. He’d realized immediately that her interest was legitimate and had eagerly explained the way he watched people, turning on all the charisma he’d already learned at eleven. Cynthia, younger and warier, had thought they were going to get into trouble and had been reluctant to speak.

  Although both siblings had impressed the woman, her power to get a charity scholarship could only initially extend to one student, and she’d chosen Justin. That switch had changed his life. Being put among students from affluent and well-educated tiers of society had propelled Justin toward one himself, opening doors he never could have had in his old life. His benefactor had later found a workaround way to get Cynthia in, but it required more government hoops than their mother was will
ing to jump through. Cynthia had been left behind.

  “Why wouldn’t she do it?” Justin asked Cynthia. “She loved us. In her way. All she would’ve had to do was fill out some paperwork and get a job—any job, even a part-time one—and they would’ve processed you through too. She could’ve even managed a subsidy to move across town!”

  “It was too risky,” Cynthia said. “She would’ve lost her rations and federal allowance.”

  “But she’s a gambler. And between the subsidy and job, she would’ve ended up making more. She could’ve gotten high more often. She should’ve liked that.”

  “Too risky. Her life wasn’t ideal, but it was comfortable and familiar. If she’d gone to all that trouble to get me transferred too, and something went wrong—like I hated the school or she lost her job—it would’ve been a bitch to go through all the social-aid procedure again.”

  “Yeah, but shouldn’t it have been worth the risk that you might achieve greatness?”

  “I’ll ignore the subtext there—that I obviously haven’t achieved greatness. But the point remains: Even though she liked to gamble, there were some risks Mom wouldn’t take, not when her comfort was on the line. She went with the sure thing.” Cynthia eyed him carefully. “Why do I have a feeling this isn’t really about Mom?”

  “It’s about Tessa,” he said in a rare moment of transparency. “I’m trying to make a decision that’ll affect her future.”

  It took Cynthia several moments to process that, and when she did, her face was full of incredulity. “Why did you even use the word ‘trying’? There’s nothing to decide. Just do what’s best for her.”