The Far Shores (The Central Series) (50 page)

The short-haired Witch scuttled
down the alley, crossing half the distance between them in a heartbeat. There
was no time to consider reaching for the Glock tucked in the holster nestled in
the small of his back. Alex assumed a basic defensive stance, left leg forward,
up on the balls of his feet, one arm extended and the other high, and started
the process of resetting his protocol.

There was fear, but
there was no opportunity to acknowledge it. Alex took a single deep breath, and
then she was on him.

In the second before
they would have collided, the Witch leapt, throwing a handful of dust that
sparkled in the weak sunlight, a pink cloud of gleaming crystal which reminded
him of table salt and enveloped his head. Alex closed his eyes, but not quickly
enough, and he felt searing agony and fought the desperate urge to clutch at
his eyes. Across the exposed skin of his face and hands, there was an initial
sensation of wetness, followed by a terrible burning as if he had been set
afire. Alex wanted to scream, but the fear of inhaling whatever burned his skin
and eyes held him back.

Blinded, he was unable
to block the Witch’s strike. He knew from lectures in the Program that Witches
practiced their own unique style of hand-to-hand combat, involving quick and
shallow strikes designed to incapacitate, but he had never experienced it, so
he had no idea what to expect. He anticipated a crushing blow from above, and
crossed his arms in front of his head to absorb it, but instead the tip of her foot
caught him in his left side, below his ribs. It was a sharp and precise strike
to the liver, and it bent him double. Alex fell forward, aiming to elude the
cloud of burning crystals and entangle himself in the Witch’s legs, but
clutched blindly at air instead. He hit the ground with his elbows, the impact
running up his arms and jarring his shoulders; then a moment later, a heel
slammed down on the back of his head, driving his jaw into the ground. The pain
was such that he was certain that his bones were broken, but there was no time
to linger on the details of his beating.

Alex rolled to the
right, the Witch’s shin colliding with his shoulder, tearing open the back of
his neck in the process. He wrapped his arms blindly around the Witch, linking
his arms around her waist and driving his shoulder into the side of her knee.
He forced his eyes to open despite the pain, his vision reduced to a weepy
blur, but it was better than fighting blind. The Witch lashed out again, her
rigid fingers aimed at his throat, but Alex ducked his head, taking the impact
on the forehead instead. The tips of her fingers gouged into his forehead,
opening a wound that immediately began pouring blood. Alex lunged forward and
torqued sideways, twisting the Witch to the right and driving his shoulder into
her hip. She fell to the ground with him on top and then there was a long
moment of flux, the Witch striving to wriggle free while Alex released his hold
around her waist and scrambled, planting his knees on her hip and back while he
grasped for her neck, but came away instead with a handful of hair.

It was enough. The air
from beyond the Black Door chilled him to the bone as he tore six minute holes
to the Ether in a halo around her cranium.

“You can feel it, right?”
Alex gasped, pushing his weight down on her hip and spine while he pulled her
head back toward him. “Don’t move. Or I will freeze the blood in your brain
solid.”

The Witch quieted
beneath him, and Alex relaxed slightly, struggling to blink the burning
material out of his eyes.

The Witch must have
sensed an opportunity. She jackknifed, a chunk of her hair tearing out as he
struggled to maintain his grip. Her back arched with surprising strength, and
Alex toppled over, falling to his side with the Witch following him, his vision
just clear enough to see her thumbs approach his eyes. There was no time to bring
his hands up between them.

There was a sound,
impossibly loud, and a brief rush of light and heat. The air stank of cordite
and burnt hair. The Witch’s head deflated like a punctured balloon.

“Well done, Alex,” Miss
Gallow said, striding past him and ejecting a plastic casing from her shotgun. “You’re
safe.”

Alex dropped the clump
of hair in disgust and wiped the blood from his hands on his pants, then tried
to clean the burning crystals and mucus from his eyes. Seconds ticked by while
his vision slowly returned.

Mitsuru was standing two
meters short of the Witch in red, the ground corroding around her. The Witch clutched
a piece of carved wood between her hands as if she were praying, and a
shimmering field of energy separated her from the unnatural living calamity bleeding
smoking holes in the pavement.

“Okay Mitzi,” Alice
Gallow said, striding forward to stand behind her, the barrel of her shotgun
leveled at the kneeling Witch. “Rein it in.”

“Mitsuru,” Miss Aoki
growled.

“
Mitzi
is a bit
lacking in self-control,” Alice explained, walking slowly around the perimeter
of the Witch’s defensive working. “And, to be honest, I’m not really feeling
motivated to stop her from killing you. So I will give you one chance, right
now, take it or leave it. You wanna surrender, or you wanna dissolve?”

The wooden carving
clattered to the ground, and the energy field dissolved like water. The Witch
looked as if she were fighting back tears.

“Curious.” Alice
shrugged. “Analytics wasn’t sure if you things would surrender to preserve your
lives or not, once the Anathema took over. Live and learn, I suppose.”

Alice looked her over
disapprovingly. The Witch shivered, the gesture immediately relatable and
sympathetic. Alex had never met another human being who created such fear
simply by smiling her dreadful smile.

Chike? Deploy.

Alex heard the
affirmative over the shared telepathic channel a moment before the apport
technician crackled into being behind Miss Gallow, along with Michael, Xia, and
a man with tattoos on his neck and face that Alex didn’t recognize.

“Well done, everyone,”
Alice said cheerfully. “This went well.”

Karim, secure the
prisoner.

Alex had hardly met the
new addition to Audits, a friendly Kurd who was apparently both a sniper and a
telepath, who had established the telepathic link they shared before deployment
simply by touching Alex’s forehead with his delicate index finger.

Done.

Still rubbing the gunk
out of his sore eyes, Alex glanced up at the rooftop, half-expecting to see the
sniper looking down on them, but of course he wasn’t there. The Witch went
rigid and then was consumed with what appeared to be a seizure that reduced her
to a drooling, twitching mess on the pavement. At a nod from Alice, the guy
with the face tattoos walked over and gently lifted the prostrate Witch’s head,
placing what looked like a metal collar laced with electronics around her neck.

“Hope Vladimir was right
about that thing. If anyone is an expert, I suppose it’s him, though. You
reading any telepathic activity off her, Mitzi?”

Miss Aoki shook her
head.

“Initiate stage two. I
don’t want to risk moving the bitch until we are sure her sisters can’t track
her.” Alice’s words had an almost-echo that was indicative of speech being
relayed telepathically – not enough to distort the words, but it did give them
a rather disquieting resonance. “Xia, you are with me, close protection while
Mark handles the interrogation. Karim, I want overwatch. Haley, have your dogs
set up a perimeter, three blocks out, and give us a heads-up if company is
inbound. Chike, I want you to transport Michael, Mitsuru, and Alex back to the
forward base. Katya should have things running by now. Michael, get Alex and
Mitsuru patched up, then debrief. Feed the kids, then have them rest in shifts.
We will be moving as early as tonight. Clear?”

“Absolutely, Chief,”
Michael said, with a nod. Alex noticed that he went out of his way not to pay
any attention to the incapacitated Witch.

“Alice, I don’t need
first aid...”

Miss Gallow shot Miss
Aoki a withering glare.

“Auditor Aoki, you will
report to medical, then to Auditor Lacroix for debrief. And, in the future, you
will follow orders without question, or you won’t be in a position to receive
any. You understand me,
Mitzi
?”

Miss Aoki hesitated for
a brief moment, and Alex wondered what the hell was going on – but then she
backed down and nodded.

“Alright, Chike, get ’em
out of here. Grab yourself something to eat, then head back here in case we
need to reposition Karim. Mark, whenever you are ready, you can get to work, you
magnificent bastard.”

Alex looked away before
the interrogation could start, and kept his eyes on the ground until Chike was
ready to apport. It was nothing he needed to see. He had enough fuel for
nightmares already.

Lóa Thule arrived in the office of
her father, David Thule,
out of breath and with tears making a terrible mess of her carefully
applied makeup
.
The words were so bitter that she felt a brief and
irrational fear that she might choke upon them. He was in his high-backed
leather chair, rotated to face the window, though his office was on the fifth
story and situated so that all he could see was the snow falling onto the
steel-grey sea.

“Father,” Lóa gasped,
resting her palms on the edge of his desk. “Brennan is dead.”

Just saying it made her
start crying again, tears spattering the polished wood of the desktop.

In some other families
in the Hegemony, her relationship with her cousin would have been bitter. She
was her father’s eldest child, after all, and the rightful heir to leadership
of their namesake cartel, but Brennan had been selected instead. In the case of
the Thule Cartel, however, this decision had been made with her full consent
and approval. Brennan had been brilliant since childhood, and had grand visions
for the future of the cartel, which they both assumed would prosper under his
leadership. Lóa, on the other hand, enjoyed the wealth and power that came with
her family name, but had no desire to take on the responsibilities of
leadership. Her cousin’s ambitions were a source of relief for her, and she
took comfort in the idea that her responsibility to uphold the family name was
limited to the laboratory or the battlefield – places where she felt able and
confident.

She was not simply
suffering the loss of a trusted confidant and friend, a playmate and ally since
childhood. Lóa was watching her very future alter in ominous and upsetting
ways.

“It is certain?” Her
father’s voice was tired but not without warmth. She could make out the ghost
of his reflection in the window, staring out at the flecks of snow with an
expression of intermingled grief and resolve. “You have seen it yourself, Lóa?”

“I have, father. He
is...the Martynova girl, she must have...”

He turned the chair
sideways, though his eyes were still glued to the choppy waters of the ocean. David
Thule’s bald head was fringed with stringy white hair, and his face was sunken
and creased.

“How is that possible?
Has the Black Sun cartel attacked us here, in our home?”

Lóa Thule took a deep
breath.

“No, father. Brennan
took Anastasia Martynova prisoner.” The admission was painful. They had never
meant for David Thule to know. “Our attempt on her life was a failure, as all
other attempts have failed. Brennan resolved to turn her, and put her to the
ordeal.”

David Thule shook his
head regretfully, one hand resting against his temple as if he had a headache.

“What a foolish child,”
he said sadly. “It is unfortunate that he kept his designs from me. Not only
because it cost him his life, but also because it undermines our family’s
authority. Learn from this, daughter – question the actions of the cartel head
in private, surely, but never go against orders, for it creates division upon
which our enemies can seize. In any case, our family’s secrets should never
have been shared with an outsider.”

“There is more, father,”
Lóa said slowly, wishing that she did not have to explain the truth of the
matter. “I wished to kill her, but I have recently discovered that Brennan had
different intentions. It seems that he had become fixated on the idea of taking
Anastasia Martynova as his bride, and unifying the cartels through marriage. He
meant for her to become part of our family.”

This gave her father
pause. For the first time, his eyes turned to her, and his expression softened.
He reached out his arms, and Lóa hurried around the desk, burying her face in
his shoulder and then crying harder than she could ever remember, even at her
own mother’s funeral. Of course, she had only been a child, then, and had
lacked full comprehension of what was truly happening. Now she could comprehend
that the weight settling on her chest would never fully lift. Her father held
her until she regained her composure.

“How? How did it happen?”

“I am not sure,” Lóa
responded, sniffling. “I found him in the chamber of the ordeal. He had not
been dead long – perhaps a few hours. There were members of his bodyguard and
servants all along the stair down to the chamber, and more hidden in corners of
the main courtyard – all dead, by knife or subsonic bullet – as well as a
secretary, a clerk, and two kitchen staff in the main house. I have started a
search, and I expect more to be found.”

“His guard turned on
him? Or was it infiltrated?”

“The latter, I believe.
Anastasia Martynova would have been in extremely poor shape, having spent seven
days undergoing the ordeal. She would have required aid to kill Brennan, and
then more help to flee. And...the manner of death...”

The tears came again,
hot and shameful. Her father waited patiently.

“There was significant
damage to his torso, and a large amount of tissue was...removed. The majority
of his heart, I believe, though I cannot be certain until the autopsy has been
completed. There was no obvious entry wound, only a great deal of damage in
what appeared to be the exit.”

“Puzzling. Still, the Martynova
girl is a well-known Deviant. Perhaps the wound speaks to the nature of her
protocol?”

“I doubt it, father. She
would have been in no shape to fight, and Brennan was careful...”

“Not careful enough,” he
said, shaking his head again. The lines on his face seemed to be growing deeper
as the sun receded and his grief settled in. “Or he would still be with us.
What else?”

“He must have conversed
with her first, or intended to do so.” Lóa Thule racked her brain for details,
for any small piece of information that might help her father resolve the
situation – even though she knew in her heart that it was long past any
satisfactory resolution. “There was a chair, a table, water, tea...they must
have been waited upon. Brennan was served wine, and the Martynova girl was
given an herbal restorative. There must have been a struggle, as much of what I
found was broken or in disarray.”

“What of their escape?”

“A full investigation is
underway, but the forensic telepaths discovered impressions of a second person
aiding Martynova up the stairs, in the mask and livery of our family. Cartel security
was alerted by the detection of an incoming apport into the main courtyard,
despite the cryptographic baffling we have in place to prevent such things. The
guards responded immediately, but an outgoing apport occurred before they
achieved visual confirmation. The destination of the apport was mainland Europe,
the location of the Black Sun Cartel’s European headquarters in London, so they
made no attempt toward concealment. It is possible that they had assistance
from the inside in making the rescue.”

“Or Martynova secreted
someone within our ranks beforehand, someone responsible for the killings of
our servants. If they were clever enough, and had access to the appropriate
telepathic protocols, then overcoming our anti-apport baffling is feasible. No
matter. What of the Black Sun? Have we heard anything through diplomatic
channels? Have they lodged grievances or protests with the Committee or the
Board?”

Lóa shook her head.

“Nothing, father. Total
silence.”

He paused and looked out
the window again.

“Then they do not plan
to pursue this. Either they achieved their objective, in some manner that we
still do not understand, or they wish to send a message by their silence. The
Black Sun is the worst kind of enemy, Lóa. You must guard yourself against
retribution for the remainder of your life. They have long memories, and take
satisfaction at having their revenge when you have the most to lose.”

Lóa Thule recalled
certain bitter moments in the family history, and nodded her agreement.

“They have chosen their
course, then, and further speculation is useless. We will know what they intend
when we reap the consequences of my nephew’s rashness. All that remains is
determining our own course of action. And that...that we have known for some
time.”

David Thule watched the
ocean batter the cliff face below his ancestral home outside of Reykjavik, and his
daughter could not guess at his thoughts.

“Father, is there not
another way?” Lóa asked the question without hope, only a desperate need to
avoid more loss and pain. “Our cartel has found itself in dire straits before,
and we have survived...”

“Only just, and not in a
manner befitting a noble house. My brother turned his back on us previously.
This time will be no different, unless we force his hand. He is prepared to let
us be destroyed while he stands by. Therefore, we cannot allow him that luxury.”

“But, father...”

“There is no other
course available,” David Thule said, patting her hand kindly. “We have sought
any other solution, and none has been forthcoming. We cannot throw ourselves on
his mercy, or appeal to his sentimentality, because he has neither. Obligation,
though, he understands. My brother could never walk away from an obligation, no
matter how much he resented it.”

Lóa Thule choked back
the remainder of her objections. To pursue them would have been fruitless – and
worse, would have made her father’s already difficult position even more so.

“Lóa, I have asked much
of you already.” David Thule smiled at her, and again she collapsed into his
arms. “You are the best of our family, and the last memory I have of your
mother. You are already my finest accomplishment, and I know that you are
destined to play a great role in the coming tribulations.”

She wept into his
jacket, knowing that if her father said it, then it was the truth. His empathic
abilities had held the cartel together through their long exile, after all, but
it was his precognitive abilities that had made him so formidable.

“Still, I must ask more
of you, because there is no one else worthy. Will you serve your father as a
messenger and diplomat one last time?”

Lóa stood and wiped the
tears from her face. She did not turn to her father until she could produce a
smile. Then she nodded, pushing away the sorrow at knowing what would come
next.

“Thank you, Lóa. Know
that my actions are dictated as much by my love for you as for the honor of the
cartel.”

David Thule stood up on
arthritic knees and walked slowly across the room, while Lóa Thule hovered
nearby in case he required her assistance. Her father had the body of an old
man since before she was born. The capriciousness of the nanites was to blame –
the same phenomenon that granted Anastasia Martynova her apparently eternal
youthfulness had cursed her father to an extended life trapped in the body of
an aged man. He reached above the vacant fireplaces with swollen red hands, and
removed the ring that rested on the mantle in a grey felt box. It was made of
rose gold worn smooth by years of handling, inset with a rough-cut amber stone
that held an unnatural luster within its depth. It was a larger twin to the
ring that Lóa wore. David Thule appeared to weigh the ring thoughtfully for a
moment, a faraway look in his eyes; then he smiled at Lóa and held it out
toward her.

“Your mother was the
last to wear it as anything other than a decoration for the Committee. I was
never worthy of it, so it rested here for a generation. Take it, my beloved
daughter, and present it to your uncle. Make him remember that he is a Thule.
Remind him of his responsibilities and the obligations he has borne since
birth. Bring him back to us.”

Lóa took the ring reverently,
trying to keep her tears in check. She had cried enough already this day, and
there were still more tears to come, but this was not the time. That was not
how she should remember this moment. She looked deeply into her father’s eyes,
clouded with age and cataracts.

“I love you, father. I
will...”

Her voice failed her,
but he took her by the shoulders and embraced her one last time. Then he walked
her to the door of his office, his hand resting on her back.

“I have never loved
anyone as much as I love you, Lóa, my child,” he said fondly, gently urging her
out the door. “Make me as proud as you always have.”

She hurried down the
stairs, unable to trust herself to look back or say anything else. One flight
down, the tears came again, choking sobs that welled up from deep within her.

Despite her attempts to
hurry, she still heard the shot before she made it to the door.

***

“Wow. You look like you got your ass
kicked.”

“That seems about right.”
Alex practically fell into the chair. The medical techs had flushed his eyes,
but they were still swollen and oozing. The wound in the back of his neck
required five stitches to close, while his forehead got away with three. There
were bandages on his elbows, a knot was forming on the back of his head, and a
cold pack was strapped to his side below the wrap that immobilized his bruised
ribs. It was hard to breathe and everything was sore, but the tech had made him
swallow two Vicodin before he came down to dinner, so it was bearable.