The Far Shores (The Central Series) (13 page)

Brennan trailed off when
Gaul looked up from his desk, face tight with repressed anger.

“Do you have a point,
badgering me with this foolishness? You must know that I am aware of these
baseless suspicions. I would hope that the Thule Cartel would hold itself above
such inane speculation.”

Brennan leaned forward, resting
his hands on Gaul’s desk. In the light of the incandescent bulb, the veins in
his pale skin were obvious – their contents dull grey, as opposed to blue, as
if his blood had been replaced with molten lead. Even the tiny veins in his eyes
were the same metallic hue, giving them a vaguely synthetic appearance.

“We do. Precisely my
point. The Thule Cartel, putting aside birthright and familial obligation, is
twice-indebted to you, Director. What I seek is permission to act on your
behalf.” Brennan’s voice was passionate, has expression sincere. “With your
approval, Director, we would act against those who defame you, who would
challenge your leadership and the rule of law and order in Central. We stand
ready to correct the recalcitrant amongst the Hegemony, and to purge those
beyond redemption. Whether allied with Anathema, creatures of North, or merely
self-serving, it matters not – those who refuse to act in concert with your
wisdom and precognition pose a threat to the security and stability of us all.”

Gaul said nothing for a
moment, the only sound in the room the scratching of his pen moving across the
paper. When he finally spoke, he did so without looking up from the documents
in front of him.

“I will not countenance
chaos, or unnecessary violence. You know that, Brennan.”

Brennan sank back
slightly in his chair, deflated.

“Of course, Director.”

The silence continued,
and eventually, Brennan made a small movement, preparing to stand and take his
leave.

“Then again,” Gaul said,
his voice halting Brennan’s movement, the Director’s full attention seemingly
focused on his paperwork, “I can hardly countenance dissent in the face of such
tremendous external and internal threats, now, can I?”

A slow smile crept
across Brennan’s face.

“Absolutely not,
Director.”

“My practice has always
been to take only the action which is strictly necessary, causing the absolute
minimum amount of disruption to achieve a goal,” Gaul offered dryly, glancing
up at Brennan briefly, his face composed and expressionless. “I would suggest
that the Thule Cartel abide by the same philosophy. Understood?”

“Perfectly,” Brennan
said quietly, almost beaming.

“Dismissed.”

The Director did not
look up again from his work until he was certain that Brennan had departed.

***

The beach was crowded with people –
well, crowded relative to the total absence of life they had encountered
slinking through the Far Shores campus – several dozen figures, dressed
identically in robes and cowls made from a synthetic material that reflected the
minimal ambient light with a plastic sheen. They were arrayed in an arc, close
to where the water should have been, assuming this beach had possessed an
ocean.

“Holy shit!”

“See?” Katya whispered,
her expression simultaneously proud and surprised. “I told you! They’re a
fucking cult. I bet they’re sacrificing chickens, or something else gross.”

Alex was confronted with
the uncomfortable memories of the chickens that Miss Gallow had forced him to
slaughter and dress – he had lost count, at some point, because chickens didn’t
tend to bother him the way the poor cows did, or, even worse, the pigs. He
remembered the awful, betrayed sound the dying pigs made, and shook his head to
purge it of extraneous trauma. He had more than enough to deal with in the here
and now.

“So. Um. Don’t you think
we should go? Before they start sacrificing stuff, or whatever?”

“Don’t be a pussy. I
wanna get a closer look,” Katya said, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. Alex
wondered why the Black-Sun-assassin-turned-candidate-for-Audits was so
intrigued with the Far Shores, and if that fascination was going to get the
both of them expelled. “I think we can get closer. They’re not even looking in
this direction.”

He risked sticking his
head out around the retaining wall they crouched behind to get a better look.
The wind obliterated any sound they might have made, but Katya’s speculation
was starting to influence him, and Alex found it easy to imagine that the
shrouded figures were chanting. The space between them and the beach was sparsely
landscaped with a few spindly shrubs and strips of freshly laid sod, along with
some haphazardly-arranged concrete benches. The scene didn’t look promising to
him.

“I don’t see much to
hide behind…”

“No, it’s cool. There’s
a little hill right at the edge of the beach. If we lay flat, no one will see
us, even if they do look back.”

Alex glanced again at
the darkened landscape.

“I don’t see it,” Alex
admitted, shaking his head. “How can you see that shit?”

“I told you. I can see
in the dark,” Katya said casually, not turning her attention from the people on
the beach. “When I give the word, we scramble, okay?”

“Wait. How is it that
you have night vision, anyway?”

“I’m an assassin, Alex.”

“Well, right, but…”

“Not right now, okay? On
the count of three…”

He didn’t agree with the
idea at all, but Katya didn’t give him any option, starting her count over his
objections. As much as he didn’t want to go on, and didn’t care much about the
weird people in robes on the beach or what they were doing – or the Far Shores
in general – he cared quite a bit about not embarrassing himself in front of
Katya. Her respect had become surprisingly important to him.

When they had to choose
partners for activities in the Program, Katya inevitably picked him. Alex was
gratified, even if she selected him because Anastasia had instructed her to do
so. Drinking on the roof one night, Vivik pointed out that she didn’t need to
do that during the telepathic simulations, which, by definition, posed no physical
risk to him or anyone else – but she chose him anyway. It was sort of funny to
consider, that a syllabus consisting of acts of violence and terror had taught
him so many unexpected things – not all of them unfortunate.

Alex followed her over
the retaining wall and across the bleak little plaza, moving from one shadow to
another, knees bent, muscles tensed in anticipation of discovery rather than curiosity,
because he was the exact opposite of curious.

On the other side of the
drab open space, sand mounded against a low concrete embankment, forming a
small rise. Alex almost missed it in the darkness of the perpetually clouded
sky, well beyond the sparse lighting of the Far Shores campus, but Katya tugged
him down by his arm as he scrambled past. He dropped belly-down to the sand and
peered over the lip of the small hill, struggling to make out anything of the
figures on the beach beside the Ether. They were close enough to hear, now, but
all he could catch were snatches and murmurs of what sounded like normal
conversation, and the rustling of their odd outfits as they flapped about in
the wind.

“What do you see?” Alex
whispered, shoulder to shoulder with Katya in the sand, squinting in a vain
attempt to peer through the dark. “Are they doing anything?”

“I’m not sure,” Katya
muttered, sounding disappointed. “A couple of them are close to the shoreline,
messing around with something that looks a little like an antenna. Hey, I bet
it’s an altar. Do you think it’s an altar?”

“I don’t know. I mean,
they aren’t chanting or anything.”

“I know,” Katya said,
pouting. “They don’t have candles or knives or chickens or anything. I thought
they would at least have candles.”

“Wouldn’t the wind blow
them out, even if they did?”

Katya shrugged as best
she could while lying flat on the ground.

“I dunno. Never seems to
be a problem in the movies.”

Alex couldn’t see much
more than silhouettes in front of the faintly luminous non-color of the Ether, as
if they stood in front of a television screen filled with static. Their
movements seemed disorganized and aimless. He caught brief flashes of reflected
light from the folds their strangely textured outfits.

“Sorry, Katya. I don’t
think they are a cult.”

“Oh, really? Then
explain the outfits and the beach at midnight. Think they’re just out for a
mass romantic stroll?”

“Probably not. You can
see better than I can. You tell me.”

“I think maybe they put
the altar thing next to the Ether,” Katya said slowly, sounding uncertain. “I’m
not sure. It looks weird. Almost like...”

She trailed off, and
Alex jabbed her with his elbow.

“Like what?”

“Ouch! Cut it out,
bastard. Like – well, almost like they put it
in
the Ether.”

Alex shook his head,
then realized Katya probably couldn’t see him do that, even if she could see in
the darkness, since she was staring out at the beach.

“Not possible,” he
countered firmly. “Vivik said the Ether is like antimatter or something. Can’t
come into contact with material objects.”

“I know that, dummy,”
Katya hissed. “I just said it
looked
that way, okay? Wait...they’ve got
more of them. They just put another one further down the beach, and they’re
kind of spreading out. I think maybe they are putting a bunch of them in a
line.”

Alex could see that the
group was starting to thin, moving along the edge of the beach in both
directions. A couple of them might have been holding things that looked a
little bit like weather vanes, if he squinted hard, but that could have just
been the suggestion.

“See? I told you they
were altars. I bet they start worshipping any minute now.”

“You are really hung up
on this whole cult angle, you know?”

“If you have a better
explanation, I’d love to hear it.”

Alex had nothing of the
sort, but he was still pretty sure Katya was wrong. He had an innate distrust
of religion, so he kind of figured that a cult would have been scarier or much
happier – either wild-eyed hippies in some sort of orgy or fanatics waving
around those curvy dagger-things and babbling about astrology. The people at
the Far Shores might have been strange, but he hadn’t seen them do anything
like that.

“What are they doing
now?”

“I can’t tell...wait. It
looks like some of them are kneeling in front of the altar-things! Fucking told
you!”

“What? No way!”

“Yeah? Then you tell me
what they are doing.”

The voice startled him so
badly that Alex just barely suppressed a scream.

“Actually, they are
taking readings.” The man sounded amused, standing behind them in a robe of his
own with the hood thrown back, his arms crossed in front of his chest, a
pleasant smile on his face. “Might I ask what you are doing?”

***

“Hey, Mikey. Why are the lights off?”
Alice smirked as she closed the door to her room behind her. “You trying to
tell me something?”

“Nothing that
underhanded or salacious, I’m afraid. Just a bit of a headache.”

Alice hung her military
surplus jacket on a hanger mounted on the bureau door, and emptied her pockets
onto the barren desktop. She stepped out of her heavy boots with obvious
relief, kicking them aside and then sitting down on the edge of the bed, so
that they faced each other across the small distance in the middle of the room.

“Wow. You don’t look so
good. Are you...okay?”

Michael tried to
reassure her without meeting her eyes.

“Of course.”

“You look like you’re
really stoned...”

Michael snorted and
folded his arms.

“You know I’m not.”

Alice leaned over and
touched the side of his head gently, her expression wavering between concern
and annoyance. He almost wanted to laugh, except this was all so damn serious.
Her fingers stopped at the edges of the bandages behind his ears, and for a
moment, they just sat there, frozen in a slight embrace that was simultaneously
distant and domestic.

“What the fuck?”

Alice grabbed him by the
chin, forcing him to meet her glare. He didn’t bother to fight. Michael had
given up on fighting Alice Gallow. There was simply no percentage in it. He had
realized that when she approached him at the party celebrating their survival after
the Anathema’s attack on the Academy, circumventing his long-held anger with
frightening ease. Michael knew from that moment on, whatever happened, he would
never be able to win a fight with Alice.

His heart wasn’t in it.

“No.” Somewhere between
a statement and a command, as if she could simply refuse the reality of the
situation, force it to conform to her will. “Couldn’t be. You wouldn’t...Oh,
Michael. Tell me that you didn’t...”