The Agency, Volume II

by Sylvan, Dianne

  Sethen had distant memories of living somewhere warmer; the Clan's village was situated in a river valley in the midst of a temperate forest, and mornings were usually chilly. He had left the comfortable heat of their bed to watch the sunrise, as he had every single morning since...well, since he'd been here. The days had run together in his mind, but the Council had said his old Clan, Ash, had been massacred a year ago, and it made sense enough that he didn't question it.

  Kir was sound asleep when he slipped out of bed and pulled on his uniform. He'd spared a smile toward the Elf's inert form, feeling a twinge of envy--Kir had no idea how lucky he was. Two others had been saved from the ruins of Clan Cedar. Sethen had been the only survivor of Ash. There was no one to help him remember his history, no one to corroborate his previous identity. He had only a handful of scattered images and a sense of loss that a year had not eased.

  Then again, given the strength and persistence of the nightmares Kir was having, perhaps Sethen was the lucky one.

  The amnesia was a relatively new phenomenon, according to the Healers. Up until a few months before Sethen joined the Clan, the methods of purification and initiation had been much more painful, even brutal; at some point the Council had decreed that the memory of the rituals be wiped. There were rumors that before that, some initiates had been driven insane by the process, though he had yet to hear of any specific cases. Unfortunately memory magic was an intricate and difficult art, and the only way to be sure nothing would leak through was to block out almost everything.

  How much the initiate remembered varied wildly. Some had almost perfect recall up to the loss of their original Clans; others had complete amnesia. For most it was somewhere inbetween.

  A moment later he heard a step behind him. "You're up early," he said.

  Kir sounded half-asleep. "I woke up and the bed was cold."

  Sethen smiled and looked back at him over his shoulder. "You're getting spoiled. You know what the High Priestess says about indulgence."

  Arms twined around him, and he turned in the embrace to look down into the Healer's eyes.

  "I don't recall," Kir said with a grin. "I was too busy imagining what I was going to do with you after we left the Temple to pay attention."

  "Don't say that," Sethen said, more harshly than he intended. Kir looked startled and started to pull away. "I'm sorry...I just don't want you to get in trouble. Even a comment like that falling on the wrong ears could draw the Council's attention, and that's the last thing you want...trust me."

  Kir nodded, chastened. "I know. I didn't mean anything by it. But...if you thought I had, would you report me?"

  Sethen turned back to the rail, gripping it, locking his eyes on the scenery again. "I would be expected to, as a Guardian of the Way. That's what I do, Kir. Every day I have to take someone from her home and drag her to the Red Door to be disciplined. I have to enforce the law equally. I can't pretend not to hear when you say the things you say."

  The Healer leaned next to him, and asked quietly, "Should I be as afraid of you as everyone else is?"

  The very thought made him ache. "I don't want you to be. Just...mind what you say, all right? So far you've been doing very well in action, but I worry about your thoughts sometimes. You have to let the past go. This is your life now."

  A hand took his and squeezed, and Kir kissed his palm, saying softly, "Don't be upset with me. Please."

  Sethen sighed and embraced him tightly. "I'm not. I want you to be safe. I love how much spirit you have, how bright you are, but...it's better just to fit in here."

  Kir matched him sigh for sigh. "I should go get dressed for Temple--if I'm late again today I'll get a demerit." He kissed Sethen lightly on the nose. "I suppose you're on duty until the evening prostrations again?"

  "Yes. I'll see you afterward, though."

  "I might be late...the Bards invited me to their recital tonight...if you don't mind."

  He hid his disappointment as well as he could. It was good that Kir was well-liked; he already had a lot of friends, and the senior Healers were pleased with his abilities. As far as he knew, there was no talk about him, and Sethen listened very, very carefully to the rumor mill. "Of course I don't."

  "I'll be home before the night bell. Have a...have a good day. You might even try smiling."

  He gave Sethen one last kiss before disappearing back into the house to change into his own uniform, and Sethen couldn't help but admire the way he moved--he was more muscular than most Healers, but there was no way to know why.

  Sethen had always been a Warrior, so his own strength and agility were no surprise to anyone. He had taken so well to his weapons training that he'd been moved up through the ranks very quickly, from border guard to Guardian in only a few months. Those first months with the Clan were something of a blur, but he had absolute confidence in his own skills.

  He just wished he'd known what he was getting himself into.

  He left the house alone, taking the path across the village toward the Temple and the House of Arms, which stood side by side. He needed to check in with Rethka to be sure they didn't need to detain anyone after the morning sermon.

  Kir had been right about one thing...he was feared. As he walked purposefully along the path, the handful of Elves who were already out scrambled to get out of his way, and even the single child he saw stopped what she was doing and stared at him with wide, frightened eyes. Everyone recognized the Guardians by sight, and everyone knew what it meant when they saw them approaching with their official insignias on. Even now, when he was obviously off duty, they were afraid.

  They were always afraid. The Red Door, the Guardians, the Council--sometimes, Sethen wondered to himself, and only to himself, if perhaps the whole purpose of the Way was to normalize fear. Certainly there was joy here, and they were all grateful that the Clan had saved them from the sins of the past and the evil of mortalkind, but was it right to be so afraid, so much of the time?

  He pushed away the thought angrily. He had no room to entertain that kind of notion. There was no questioning the Way; one simply abided by it. He knew very well what happened to those who asked too many questions.

  He happened.

  Rethka greeted him at the door to the House of Arms. "I'm glad you're here," she said. "We've got a Waybreaker to apprehend this morning."

  "What's the charge?" he asked curtly.

  "Unauthorized use of contraceptives," Rethka replied with disgust. "Some woman apparently thinks she has a choice whether or not to help build the Clan--even after last week's sermon."

  Again, the thought intruded: what right did they have to force parenthood on anyone? The Clan needed children, true, but...how long before the Council decided that everyone had to breed, and began to punish those like him and Kir? How long before they were matching up males and females and eliminating one of the few freedoms the Clan had?

  He cursed inwardly. The Healer was a bad influence on him.

  He followed Rethka inside to where the racks of guns and ammunition were stored under lock and key. The registrar noted his arrival and opened one of the cabinets for him.

  Sethen removed his usual complement of weapons and strapped them on, then retrieved the black leather band with its silver insignia from the hook with his number on it and buckled it around his neck. He took a deep breath, trying to force all thoughts of Kir and everything else from his mind. For the next ten hours he had no lover, no loyalties except to the Council and the Goddess.

  Kir would learn. It took time; new initiates were of course granted a certain amount of leniency. He had lost so much...they all had, thanks to the humans. Kir would adjust, and everything would be fine. He would learn...

  For Sethen's sake as much as his own.

  Part Three

  "What are we making tonight?"

  Jason didn't raise his eyes from the TV screen, and he didn't protest when Beck flopped down on the couch next to him and stole his forgotten glass of wine. "Sushi."

  H
e knew without looking that she was wrinkling her nose. "Gross. Have you fed?"

  "Yes."

  "Liar."

  "Why did you ask if you already knew?"

  She shrugged. "Do you have any blood in the house at all?"

  "I think so. It's in the fridge. Help yourself."

  "I meant for you, dumbass. Have you even moved from this couch all night?"

  "Sure I have. I took a piss an hour ago."

  She poked him with something in the shoulder, and he turned his head to see what she had in her hands. His stomach knotted up.

  Beck placed the violin bow on the coffee table. "I got you a replacement. Same brand and everything."

  "I don't need that," he said flatly.

  To his surprise, she grabbed his chin and forced him to look at her. "You're not doing this to me again, damn it. You're going to play that thing if I have to glue it to your hands. I watched you in your little hell for years last time, and I can't do it again." A note of entreaty entered her voice. "Don't make me do it again."

  Against his will his memory traveled back to New York, so long ago, and then to Japan, to that little village on the edge of Tokyo. She had been there with him every day, suffered as he suffered. He could see in her eyes she was suffering again.

  "I loved Fox, and I loved Rowan, and you're not the only one who had your life burn down," she said, and there were actual tears in her eyes. "It's happening all over again."

  Jason looked away, his gaze falling back on the screen where Alton Brown was informing the audience that wasabi paste was not, in fact, made of genuine wasabi rhizome. Had Jason ever really taken pleasure from television? Everything he'd ever enjoyed seemed so far away. Sounds came to him as if through water. All the color had been leached from the world.

  He had to reassure her somehow, but the violin was out of the question. He'd sooner cut off his hands.

  "Would you bring me some blood?" he asked. "I haven't fed."

  Beck nodded, wiping her eyes impatiently. "Sure." She all but leapt up and leaned down to kiss the top of his head before disappearing into the kitchen.

  Jason leaned back into the couch cushions, his hand curving around the opposite wrist, seeking out the cool metal that surrounded it. He traced his fingers over the lettering, closing his eyes.

  He was trapped here. He had sworn to take care of Beck, not to leave her, and it was the only vow he'd ever been able to keep. So, he would endure somehow, go on existing, and the hole inside him would one day become less of a searing agony and more a familiar ache, a longing gone forever unfulfilled until the sun burned out or until something claimed her life and he could finally lay his down.

  He was already counting the days.

  *****

  The last SA-9 had been shot in a drug bust—Pentecost had shown up in the city again and he was part of the team that ensured it never hit the streets. A firefight had claimed two of the Agents and all but one of the dealers.

  Sara had never realized that there were only 36 Agent designations maximum per branch, and that the numbers were simply recycled. She'd been through the personnel files and discovered there had been four Agents with the number 9…four, plus her. Two had been killed, one had retired, and the other had transferred to the Chicago branch where she was now SA-2.

  There had been seven SA-5s.

  The thought that someone else would inherit Rowan's number turned her blood to ice, but Dru had assured her that it would be years before that happened; there were three other numbers free and Sara had been the only trainee to complete the program. Ness wouldn’t assign 5 to just anyone, not with the legacy it now had. A number could be retired; 2 and 3 had been, and they would only be brought back into service if necessary. There was talk that 5 would be taken off the roster as well.

  "So who's SA-1?" Sara had asked.

  Dru had given her a short-bus look. "Ness, of course," she replied. "The Director is always SA-1."

  That seemed so long ago. So much had happened since then.

  She bade Sean, her Ear, goodnight and coded off her patrol shift before hitting the showers. Austin was in the middle of record rainfall. By all accounts it was the wettest summer in the city's history, which on the one hand meant that it wasn't as torturously hot as usual, but on the other meant that everything was muddy and sticky. Even living around Houston, where the humidity hit 100% year round and it was nothing but mosquitoes and sauna-like heat, she'd never been so miserable.

  It struck her as appropriate. Even the weather seemed to be in mourning.

  She deposited her weapons in their drawer and stripped off her filthy uniform with a sigh. Another two weeks and she would be done with patrol, possibly for good. She had to go through a probationary period on her own, but they were careful to plan her route around quiet areas, and after the month was up she'd be assigned to specific cases where her psychic skills would be most useful.

  It felt like there was a slick of mud all down the back of her throat. Ugh.

  Half an hour later, in civilian clothes with the muck scrubbed from under her fingernails and her wet hair pulled back in a utilitarian knot, she made her way across the Floor, waving greetings to the Admins she knew. There were several new recruits since she'd gotten her badge, and they gave her the same look of faint awe she'd once given passing Agents. She wasn't sure if she liked that or not.

  Any time she rode in an elevator with one of the junior staff members while she was in full uniform she had to hold back a smile, feeling their eyes on her even as they tried not to stare. She remembered telling herself that if she ever made SA, she would try to be friendly and kind to the rest of the staff, as she'd been an Admin herself, and it wasn't as if Agents were some kind of gods.

  She wasn't standoffish because of her job. She just didn't want to deal with the questions. Everyone wanted to know what had happened. Everyone wanted the full postmortem. It didn't matter that she wasn't there that night. She had been SA-5's friend, and rumor had it she was more than that. She must know the details.

  In fact she knew very little, because so little was known. That was why she was going to see Frog.

  R&D was closing down for the night, although there were always projects going on round the clock that required babysitting and at least a handful of techs who never seemed to sleep. She ran her badge over the scanner of Lab 3, and the glass door slid open to let her in.

  She walked into the lab and found Frog at his bank of computers at the end of the two long counters where his various projects were in progress. He'd been promoted in the past year and now headed up Lab 3, with two techs underneath him. Sara had restrained herself from making too many evil-scientist-taking-over-the-world jokes.

  "Hey Dr. Horrible, I saw your girlfriend earlier and..."

  When Sara saw what he was working on, she froze.

  "Hey, Agent," Frog said without looking up.

  She tried to keep the tremor out of her voice. "Is that…"

  He followed her gesture and realized what she meant. "No, no," he said hastily. "I mean, they are Elven remains, but they're definitely someone from Clan Cedar."

  She stared at the handful of gleaming white bones on the table, laid out in a partial skeleton—part of a leg, most of an arm, some ribs, some vertebrae. There was also a dish of fragments. They didn't look like they had been burned; they could have been polished museum specimens. Looking closer she saw that the ends of several were cracked, and nausea stirred in her belly.

  "We've separated all the remains we found at the scene," Frog went on. "It's taken weeks, but we've got all the bones broken down by victim. Most of the Clan was incinerated completely, but we managed to recover seven individuals who were found in the same area as where SA-5's last transmission originated from."

  She frowned, moving closer, her heart frozen in her chest imagining…these bones in front of her could be Rowan's. That could be his ulna, his index finger…

  "It's all right," Frog said, laying a hand on her shoulder. "I pro
mise you it's not him."

  "How…how do you know?"

  "DNA. We've been working to get some sort of identification for them, but the problem is that Elven DNA is different from human to a degree that the genome research we have for us just doesn't do any good when trying to analyze an Elf. My team has figured out a way to compare what we've got from the victims with SA-5's blood samples on file, and the best we've found are several markers that indicate differing Clan origin. We tried the same thing with the samples we took from Elora and Sedna last year, and it seems accurate."

  "In two months that's all you've found out?"

  He gave her an aggrieved look. "Sara, this isn't TV. These things take time, and we've had other major cases come through that had to take priority. It's not as if we're working on a deadline here. We found enough evidence to have SA-5 declared dead. Now we're just trying to figure out who killed him."