Assassin's Creed: Heresy

by Christie Golden

  “Frankly, sir, I don’t know why you asked,” she said. “There’s nothing about Hathaway to indicate that he is anything other than exactly what he appears to be—a loyal Templar, and the descendant of loyal Templars. A brilliant researcher and a dedicated historian who wants to maximize the potential of his department. And if I may speak freely, Mr. Rikkin, in a handful of days I think he’s done a superb job of justifying his proposal. We’ve got the sword. We have several instances of it in action. We’ve found not one but two individuals with remarkable concentrations of Precursor DNA. We’ve uncovered highly placed Assassins, including a hitherto-unknown Mentor, and we’ve gotten a glimpse of graffiti carved by de Molay himself before time and who knows what or who else damaged it. We’ll keep seeing the sword, we’ll pay close attention to how Joan manipulates it, and we’ll find out where it’s lost and how it was damaged.”

  Rikkin was silent for so long that Victoria said uncertainly, “Sir?”

  “There was fallout, you know,” he said quietly.

  “Fallout?”

  “Around poor Fraser.”

  “… yes, sir. I was aware of that.”

  “You gave Fraser information to leak to the Assassins.”

  Now it was her turn to go quiet. “I did,” she said at last. “And I will remind you that at the time, I knew nothing about the true nature of the conflict—or the goals of the Templar Order. I had only just learned that the two existed.”

  Rikkin knew this, of course. Like the vast majority of employees at Abstergo—indeed, in all the company’s divisions—Victoria Bibeau had initially been as ignorant of the Order as these pathetic fools who trudged through puddles outside the car; whose lives existed of little other than sleeping, drinking, working, and sporadically trying to bury their mediocrity in fleeting pleasure. He didn’t care; Bibeau’s point was irrelevant.

  “We were forced to terminate Aidan St. Claire because of this mess. We came close to terminating you. Did you know that?”

  He heard a slight intake of breath on the other end. Ah, he thought, no, she didn’t know that. “You had many friends over in Abstergo Entertainment who supported you, and you have since proven your loyalty to us. We’re glad we got to you before the Assassins did. We’d hate to see you on their team.”

  “I do believe that both groups want what is best for humanity,” she said. That startled him.

  “Really?” The single word was pregnant with warning.

  “Yes. I simply believe the Assassin approach is wrong.”

  Rikkin couldn’t have hoped for a better segue. “But does our friend Professor Hathaway agree with you about that?”

  Hathaway did, of course. The laconic researcher had never given anyone a moment’s doubt. He loved order and ritual and tidiness. Hathaway had been spared the necessity of sullying his hands with some of the more unsavory aspects of Templar business, happily ensconced in his ivory tower while others, such as Berg’s Sigma team or even deeper, darker branches of the Templar Order, went about clearing the garden of the world from weeds like the Assassins, and turncoats, and heretics who wanted to upend the Order.

  But Rikkin had miscalculated. Far from unnerving Bibeau, the veiled accusation made her bristle audibly. “Mr. Rikkin, there are many things in this world I’m not good at. But I am good at reading my patients. Doubtless that’s one reason you, ah… kept me on. I am interacting with him as a subject, not a colleague.”

  “He doesn’t know that, does he?”

  “He knows I examined his profile, and that I’m monitoring him carefully during his time in the Animus and afterwards.”

  “And yet, you are here, talking to me.” He had her now, and he closed in for the kill. “What about doctor-patient confidentiality, Doctor? No?”

  “You asked me to—”

  “Report on his progress, with your thoughts. As a co-worker. And you did, and I, and the Order, are grateful. You can’t have it both ways, Dr. Bibeau.”

  There was silence on the other end. He waited. Rikkin understood the power of patience. Then, quietly, Bibeau said, “I believe in what the Templar Order stands for. I also believe in what Hathaway wants to do. I believe he is of sound mind and good heart, and is approaching this simulation with a sincere desire to serve the Order and to learn the truth. Surely you cannot say those two ideals are in opposition. Can you, Mr. Rikkin?”

  “Truth,” he said quietly, “like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.”

  “I took the oath,” Bibeau said. “I swore to uphold the principles of our Order and all that for which we stand. To never share our secrets, or divulge the true nature of our Order, and to do so from now until death—whatever the cost.” Her voice was sharp with contained outrage. “So did Simon. And neither of us has broken that oath. I give you my word that I will come to you the moment I feel that he is, in any way, in violation of it, and you are welcome to do as you see fit. Until then, unless you want me to step aside, allow me to do my job. Sir.”

  The usage of Hathaway’s first name did not escape Rikkin. He considered. “I want to know how to repair the sword. I want it functional again. Hathaway cannot be allowed to chase wild geese. I hope I have made myself abundantly clear on this. We’ll have another one of these pleasant chats once you have anything more to report.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He ended the call and leaned back in the seat. There was no greatness here, on the London Streets; hardly any in Parliament, or the arts. Look where the great experiment in democracy was leading the world. And this was the sort of world that the Assassins kept yipping that they wanted. A solid hand was needed to guide humanity. The hand of the Templar Order. As ever, money and power dominated, but nowadays it was rare that one possessed these and vision as well.

  The founders of Abstergo did. The Grand Masters of eras past did. Jacques de Molay let his flesh be consumed by fire for the Order.

  The words of the Templar oath went through his head: Do you swear to uphold the principles of our Order and all that for which we stand?

  As Shakespeare said, he thought, “Aye… there’s the rub.”

  He typed a code on his phone and waited for a response.

  Omega standing by.

  Update.

  Phase 2 of Omega-104 nearing completion. Suggest termination and replacement of current position occupant.

  Rikkin hesitated. It would permanently solve a problem… but could draw unnecessary attention. Negative. Relocation sufficient.

  Acknowledged. Phase 1 of Omega-105 complete. Awaiting instructions.

  Initiate Phase 2. Rikkin paused, thinking. He didn’t have time for this. Double Epsilon if absolutely necessary per discussed parameters.

  Acknowledged.

  The texts disappeared. Rikkin sighed and tapped the phone against his knee thoughtfully.

  Double epsilon. EE.

  Eliminate and Erase.

  He hoped Simon would not make one too many missteps.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Simon ordered the never-disappointing Temp’s Hard @ Work basket and settled down with his books. Despite the amount of tea he imbibed and a genuine fascination with the subject he was researching, his poor night of sleep caught up with him and he nodded off. The brief rest was hardly helpful; he again was bombarded by images of Jacques de Molay, this time shouting his curse upon his murderers as he burned to death.

  He bolted upright, his heart racing. Of course, he reasoned. Joan of Arc was burned as a heretic, de Molay was martyred as one, and the two had collided, if a century apart, at Coudray. It was natural he would be thinking of the great Templar leader, even if not consciously, as each simulation in the Animus took Simon closer to witnessing Joan’s death in an identical fashion.

  The reminder of de Molay, though, did make Simon recall that he hadn’t heard back from Cryptology on the graffiti. He knew that Victoria had translated the Latin phrases they’d run across before she’d sent the simulation over—there was, after all, an ap
p for that—but he’d been so excited about discovering the sword, and so tired, he’d forgotten to ask what she’d come up with. He removed his specs, rubbed his eyes, rose, stretched, and said aloud to his computer, “Cryptology.”

  He perched on his desk as the monitor went from its multicolored Abstergo logo to Zach Morgenstern’s kindly visage. “Professor Morgenstern, good to see you.”

  “Ah, hello Professor Hathaway! Congratulations on your promotion! What can I do for you?”

  The friendly greeting took Simon aback. “Actually, I was wondering how you were coming along on the de Molay graffiti from Chinon. We sent that round to you a couple of days ago.”

  The professor’s wrinkled, affable face wrinkled further. “I’m not sure what you mean. Of course we all know about the graffiti. Has a simulation turned up new information about it?”

  Simon went cold. “You haven’t heard from Dr. Bibeau?”

  “We’ve not heard anything for a few days, not from this Bibeau or anyone. Do you want me to follow up?”

  “No, no, that’s all right. I’ll chat with her myself. She may want to study it further. I’m sure we’ll be in touch. Cheers.” He couldn’t end the video call fast enough.

  Simon was completely flummoxed. The de Molay graffiti was a throwaway. A happy chance encounter that likely would make the day of fellows like Morgenstern—and, truth be told, like himself—who lived for fresh revelations about ancient things, but it wouldn’t have any real impact on anything. Therefore, there was no reason for Victoria to have felt it was urgent to pass along the information.

  Then again… there was no reason for her not to have sent it.

  He was suddenly acutely aware that he might be being watched. Calmly he returned to his comfortable leather chair and picked up one of the books on Chinon. He thumbed through it, pausing at different places, then flipping as if by chance to the graffiti.

  One thing he had discovered about his time in the Animus was that the memories of his ancestor were almost clearer to him than his own. No doubt Victoria had a theory about it—that it was because everything was new and different, and therefore the subject paid more attention overall or some such thing—but they were crisp and vivid. Gabriel had been asked to focus on the graffiti, and he had done so. Simon hadn’t paid much attention at the time, but the dream had stirred the pot.

  Some things had been worn away by time—or perhaps by other parties with more immediate interests. But there was one thing that drew his eye and held it. It was perhaps the most distinctive piece of the whole lot; the profile of, presumably, a Templar gazing at a sun that looked more like an inverted teardrop—or raindrop, or drop of blood, or perhaps even a shield; Simon wasn’t sure what it was meant to represent. The sun image Gabriel had seen was as two-dimensional as the other drawings; an outline, at most a bas relief, nothing more.

  This one—the one photographed in the twentieth century—was hollow. He couldn’t tell from the image how deep it was, but someone had spent an awful lot of time chiseling out a concavity in the stone wall of the dungeon—only to fill it back in.

  Fill it back in… or overlay a veneer to conceal it?

  Had something been placed in this little hidey-hole seven hundred years ago by a Templar—possibly de Molay himself—for the right person to discover? A key, a gem, a message?

  A Piece of Eden?

  Something else was wrong, too. He realized that one of the two phrases that Gabriel saw on the wall did not appear in the photo. It had been erased.

  Simon closed the book and reached for his burner phone. It was the exact model Abstergo had issued him, so it wouldn’t arouse immediate suspicion if he was being watched.

  He quickly selected and installed a translation app, and typed in the Latin phrase that had surfaced in his dreams last night; the one that was no longer visible: Si cor valet, non frangit.

  The English translation appeared: If the heart is strong, it will not break.

  Simon didn’t dare take this to Morgenstern. If the man wasn’t part of this… this conspiracy, he supposed he needed to call it, then Simon didn’t want to involve him. And if he was….

  His Abstergo-issued phone, tucked away in his pocket, vibrated. Simon did not react, simply inserted the burner phone into the same pocket, rose, and sipped at his tea before reaching for the Abstergo phone, as if it had just now gone off.

  It was Victoria. How are you feeling?

  Anxious and angry and wondering what the hell is going on, he thought bitterly, but texted, Better with a bellyful of Scotch eggs and muffins. Sending you a list, we can meet in the Animus Room and discuss in 20.

  How do you stay so fit eating like this?

  Good genes, he replied. As he tucked the phone away again and slid behind the desk, Simon’s gaze fell on the sword. Good genes, indeed. He began to type.

  He had the sword in the case tucked under his arm as he and Victoria descended the lift. “I think this an excellent idea and a good use of our time,” she was saying, peering at the list he’d sent her. “It seemed to work very well earlier, with the French-English standoff. I wouldn’t have thought the sword would play any part in that, but it clearly played a very large role.”

  “Accounts seem to agree that she never took a life, and also that she never used it to press an attack,” Simon said.

  “Well, unless you count chasing prostitutes,” Victoria said, and grinned.

  Simon faked amusement. “Well, yes,” he said. “They do say, however, she used it in a defensive capacity. When she was attacked, she did fight back.”

  “We’ve not seen that yet,” Victoria said. “Something else to add to the mix. I do wish we had more time, but we’ve certainly accomplished a lot nonetheless.”

  Simon thought, with a surge of anger, how much more they could have accomplished had they been true partners. He almost wished Anaya hadn’t told him, but he knew that ignorance, for a Templar, was more likely to be deadly than blissful.

  “We still have a long way to go,” he said briskly. “And as Joan said, better now than tomorrow. Now… after her astonishing victory at Orléans, the Dauphin was obviously pleased. So when there was a meeting of his generals and council about what the next step should be, he listened to Joan. She was determined to get him to Reims for a proper coronation, so instead of marching on, say, Paris or Normandy, the army began clearing the path for the King to travel safely to Reims. Alençon was appointed head of the Loire campaign, but honestly, he always yielded to Joan.”

  They stepped out of the lift and continued talking as they entered the Animus Room. Simon carefully placed the sword box down, and stepped over to the platform.

  “It sounds like it was just one victory after the other,” Victoria said as she helped strap him into the Animus.

  “Historians have often marveled at it,” Simon agreed. “We cannot underestimate the importance of morale—or the lack of it. The French, obviously, were given hope. The English heard stories about this magical, undefeatable woman performing miracles left, right, and center. One poor chap chronicles how despondent the English troops were once word of Orléans circulated. Do you remember Fastolf?”

  By this time, the helmet was settled on Simon’s head, and Victoria’s voice came to him as the Memory Corridor’s mists appeared.

  Wasn’t he the one coming with reinforcements to Orléans? The one Joan was afraid she had missed the chance to fight by oversleeping?

  “That’s the fellow. She’d get to fight him eventually. He dragged his feet and took his time reaching the Loire—largely because his army was so thoroughly demoralized. Joan may not have won the Hundred Years’ War for the French, but she certainly turned the tide. The Loire campaign consisted of five battles—all French victories. Let’s find out what our algorithm wants us to see.”

  SATURDAY, 11 JUNE, 1429

  OUTSKIRTS OF JARGEAU

  It was good, Gabriel thought, to be in armor again. For nearly a month, the king and his councilors had taken their
time deciding what to do next. Finally, though, many of those who had stood with Joan as she pushed and pushed and finally lifted the siege of Orléans were gathered together in the field once more. Among their number were both of Joan’s brothers, Gilles de Rais, La Hire, and the Bastard of Orléans. This time, though, the leader of the army was the Duke of Alençon, not the Bastard, and Joan was well content.

  Fleur, too, had insisted on accompanying them. Joan and Gabriel both had protested, but the fair-haired girl displayed a stubbornness similar to that of the girl she so admired.

  “What will I do without you?” she had challenged. “None of the noble-born women would wish a camp follower to befriend their daughters. They are kind to me only because of you, Jeanne, and once you are gone, I know that I will be gone too. All I wish is to be near you and your light. Ask your Voices.” Joan had done so—and Fleur had come.

  They were about an hour east of the walled city of Jargeau, discussing strategy in the duke’s tent, all eyes on the map spread out on the table before them.

  “We are now on the other side of things,” Alençon said. “Before, it was the English who had to determine how to take a fortified city.”

  “The English have a goodly number of weapons and gunpowder,” said the Bastard. “We don’t have figures for their troops, but there are a considerable lot of them.”

  Joan had been listening, growing more annoyed by the moment as she saw the generals hesitating. “We came to take the city,” she said, “did we not?”

  The Bastard turned to her. “We did, but it’s a question of tactics,” he said. “We may want to consider a more indirect approach, at least until we have a better idea of their numbers and weaponry.”

  Joan blew out a breath in exasperation. “You should not fear their numbers, whatever they may be, or any difficulty in attacking these Englishmen.” One hand had fallen to the hilt of her sword, the other had crept up over her heart. Her face began to shine with her certainty, and the expressions of the other generals relaxed somewhat.