Nemecene: The Epoch of Redress (22 page)

Thanks to Stitch, getting past the sentinels was no longer much of a challenge. While Eli sealed the doors, I hurried to the console wall and snapped the flashpack in. We had taken the audio headsets from Father's study as well, so we could still immerse ourselves in a complete sensory recreation without tugging the ears of the gob-happy sentries. We then boldly stepped into the first frame and let his world unfold. Since I had not actually navigated these memories before, I was relying on Eli's interpretation of what partial images she was able to detect mirrored in the cabinetry behind him, as his eyes followed them on the board. When we reached the section where Father's jaw would tighten, she looked over and nodded, then we each took a different vantage point to get a combined panoramic view of the scene.

Over and over again, we followed Father's lens, desperate to catch a glimpse of anything disconcerting, but it just did not make sense. What had changed for him the last time he had played this? There was nothing happening at our ninth birthday celebration which could worry a parent, yet according to Eli, every time he reached this scene he would tremble until it was over, almost as if he was expecting something other than the joyous sound of children playing their favorite indoor games. I concluded that the flashes were not the object of their quest. We each had filled a large transfer chest, and in my case several, with items of varying financial value, some of which may even be priceless, but what would the Ministry need of riches?

There was no denying that we had been avoiding the painful task of digging through our baggage, although I seem to have no issue doing so with the museum artifacts. Since Eli's morning was free, we committed to starting tonight with my effects for as long it takes. I also reluctantly agreed that we could no longer risk traveling together, in case she was identified, so while she checked in with Stitch's progress, I would head back and journal until she arrived. But before we parted, we decided to switch to spectator mode and restart the viewer.

In doing so, we were able to stand behind the recorder and look beyond the living room where our younger selves were laughing, and down the hallway supporting the staircase. And on that wall, there was a mirror, reflecting our lives through the kitchen and out the window, where a solitary figure stood, watching. My heart stopped. I froze the scene and walked towards the reflection, with Eli clutching me as we approached. We knew those gemstone eyes.

Day 31: Early Morning

A
s her shoulder casually leans against a manicured replica of Manetho, Nathruyu eagerly awaits the arrival of frantic footsteps. Five days ago, on the evening Keeto had disclosed her entry in his journal, she had re-infiltrated Osler Hall desperate to redeem herself and recover her abandoned charge, only to find the innocent victim missing and the observation cell immaculate. Unfortunately, a third sentry had succumbed to her craft in the attempt. Since then, her patience with the unwitting Zafarian has endowed her with transparent access to their undercover resources, an impromptu rendezvous with his Gadlin mentor, and timely updates on how their investigation is progressing. Specifically, with Odwin's reluctantly surrendered identity, she can sketch through the tightest and most secure layers of the maze to manipulate any history she may deem necessary to fulfil her objective and to navigate by floating between the packets. The hapless hunted has reclaimed her role as a skillful hunter.

Immediately after the failed retrieval in the medical lab, she had reverted to the ventilation shafts and had shifted her attention to the Social Studies sector. While skimming Keeto's diary pages that morning, she had formulated a general picture of an encroaching nuisance she was impatient to eradicate. Elize's first true friend, excluding her immediate home circle, posed a plausible threat, and his poorly concealed and impassioned reaction to the news reports in the round room, coupled with his keen affection for parapsychology and the paranormal made him exceptionally unpredictable. Fundamentally, Nathruyu questioned Zafarian's grounding in this world and feared it could cause some instability, impelling her to address the issue. Knowing that most of his curriculum was concentrated in Bleuler Hall, directly opposite Rubrique Court's principle archway, she had camped alongside its cooling generator that night and had entrusted her worries to the warmth of the blue flame.

As the hazy version of Nathruyu's mirrored self slowly surrenders to fatigue, she recalls her last waking thoughts preceding the visit with the young sleuth. No manner of imagined retribution must ever again sway her course, and whatever thread of compassion had existed leading up to this renewed commitment no longer serves her purpose. She must continue the work.

Such unnecessary suffering for the glory of one is unavoidable. The mark chooses the child and the choice seals their fate. As she cradles the fragile frame next to her breast, the impulse within her that forces her hand cannot be contained, cannot be smothered, and cannot be rationalized. From the supple skin of a girl's skull, the sparkle is reaped, the fortune is sown, and the confused years in limbo are sacrificed. Nathruyu weeps, for sequestering her body decisively yet involuntarily is essential to their ultimate survival and leaving her adrift in the chaos is a risk she is not looking to bear.

Nathruyu's anxiety gives way to calm, and clarity regains control of her doubting voices. There was no concrete evidence linking her to Mashrin, and regardless of enduring residual imprints, she is not traceable in the records of the GMU, of the Ministry, or even of the Pramam himself. She has been so fastidious in erasing her trail this time that just a single individual can unequivocally identify her, and the possibility of facing him excites her in ways indescribable.

She loiters, invisibly tucked inside the fenced museum property, and replays her latest visions on an indigo cloud in the fog, as the curator brushes by the adjacent columns, oblivious to the entity lurking beside the carved relief. His passage momentarily pulls her out of reflection before she plunges deeper into the drama.

When the groggy shuffling of students congregates at her section of the square, she flattens the wrinkles in her coat and rises from the sombre tunnels. Her spatial acuity guides her exactly to the enclosed landing of the auditorium. She proceeds to the air lock and orients her face away from the beveled glass, while the heat exchangers evaporate the misty puffs that followed her in. Once her silhouette is plainly visible from the interior of the building, she rushes through the second set of doors and to the sunken room on the left. Pacing back and forth at center stage, down the steps of the lecture theater aisles, a dowdy professor is pontificating on his seminal theory of the id, the ego, and the super-ego, shamelessly plagiarizing the ancient dissertations of Sigmund Freud, whereas her target is gainfully preoccupied with the pink of his eyelids. She hides in the shadows, patiently waits for the mass dispersal, then swiftly tags his dragging collar as he ambles amongst the horde.

Puzzled, she tracks his clumsy gait prematurely retiring to the south central branch of Van Billund Hall, and realizes that he has been afflicted by an all too familiar sickness. She knows what he did last night. She knows whom he saw. The fool has faltered, and the forecasted lapse of alertness has occurred, ripe for her to exploit his vulnerability as she wishes. She revels in the prospect of it and quickens her pace through the arcade. After curving around the west side of the towers, she cloaks her distinguishing features with her hair, darts past the scanner, immobilizes the presiding guard and flies up the lift to level five. Determined to eliminate the thorn she perceives as the lone obstacle in her path, she summons the surrounding energy to steady her nerves, and squeezes, undetected, through the crack in his door, where she finds him slumped in front of the board, his query in mid-sketch.

The stroke that was to be his climactic twitch becomes the gesture that saves his life. The request is complete and a packet appears with the secret seal of her double-crossing nemesis. What agency lies dormant at his beckoning? Does this character seriously comprehend the total magnitude of his power? Confident that the boy will be unconscious for a good hour, she wiggles her prying fingers along the slits of his clothing and studies his intimate details as the results from his research trickle in.

The gadgets and covert equipment that this singular young man has strewn across every conceivable surface are only eclipsed by the mastermind web he is connected to. Whilst she forages among the clutter assessing the extent of his technological genius, her focus abruptly switches to an incoming communication from the maze, confirming an appointment for a therapeutic intervention, to which she forges a reply. She will attend in his stead. She replaces the content of the message with a benign herbal prescription, which will keep Zafarian occupied once he awakes and will give her the leeway she needs to handle the new situation. Satisfied with her clever pretense, Nathruyu redirects her aggression to the coastal shores. Zafarian's connection to the itinerant merchant could prove monumentally advantageous.