The Far Shores (The Central Series) (37 page)

If he expected an
answer, then he didn’t wait for it. He walked to the counter, took a glass from
a cupboard, and filled it halfway with water from the carafe. Anastasia’s
throat tightened involuntarily.

“We feared your unknown
abilities, and the rather well-known abilities of your followers, too greatly
to assume the risk of keeping you alive,” Brennan Thule explained, pausing to
drain the glass of water, smacking his lips in satisfaction. “Since we have yet
to devise a solution to the problem of your continued existence, we naturally
elected to make the best of a bad situation. Thus, you were brought here in order
to maintain perfect secrecy while we attempt to divine the nature of your
Deviant Protocol, and a manner by which we might end your life.”

Anastasia said nothing.
Her thirst had become overwhelming the moment she saw water. A side effect of
the drugs and her prolonged confinement, surely, but it was almost enough to
challenge her cultivated self-control.

Almost.

“I must admit that your
nature is a great curiosity – to us, perhaps, more than most,” Brennan Thule
mused, refilling the glass and then resting it on the edge of the table, beside
her hand. “You are aware of the nature of the sins that led to our expulsion
from Central, I assume?”

Anastasia shook her
head, though she knew perfectly well, keeping her eyes off the glass by an act
of will.

“I doubt the truth of
that very much, but I will explain nonetheless. The precognitives of our cartel
survey potential recruits from among our children. Those who show potential are
registered with Central and promised to the Academy – as the law demands. Our
violation of that law is that we have withheld nanite injections from the
children whose potential is deemed to be insufficient. Instead, multiple
injections are provided to the recruits selected by the precognitives to have
the most potential.” Brennan Thule smiled as he ran his finger along the rim of
the glass of water. Anastasia fought to keep her eyes from drifting to the
movement. “Naturally, this limits our numbers in two ways – first, the loss of
low-potential Operators; second, the higher instance of death upon repeated
nanite injection. I’m told that the mortality rate typically doubles each time
another dose of nanites is introduced. The reward to our philosophy, however,
is that the strong among us are very strong. I believe that I can say, without
braggadocio, that I am one of the strongest among a group from which the weak
have been culled.”

Anastasia felt that definitely
qualified as bragging, but she had no intention of interrupting his speech.

“The reason that I bring
this up is rather simple – one of the protocols that I operate allows me a
measure of control over technology – technopathy, as some have called it.
Machine telepathy, in simpler terms.” Brennan Thule allowed some of the water
in the glass to slop on the tile. “Suffice to say, for the last hour, I have
been instructing the nanites inside you, Miss Martynova, to end your life.
Failing that, I have entreated them to cease functioning, denying you access to
both your protocol and the biological enhancements with which all Operators are
gifted. I have found them to be most recalcitrant, which is an event so rare in
my life that I would describe it as unique.”

Now she understood – the
malfunctioning communications and jamming gear in the limo, the cruise missile,
the sluggishness of her system in ridding her of the toxins, and the feebleness
of her own protocol. Brennan Thule’s abilities were considerably beyond what
her intelligence had indicated – an oversight that could prove dangerous, if
not handled delicately.

“I have been told,”
Anastasia said, her voice raspy with thirst, “that new experiences are what
keep life fresh and exciting.”

Brennan Thule laughed
again as he refilled the glass with the remainder of the water in the carafe.

“It is as you say,” he
agreed pleasantly. “I am not overly fond, however, of phenomena that I cannot
understand. I assume – and I am not fond of assumptions, either – that this
remarkable turn of events is due to your Deviant Protocol. As I see it, this leaves
us with two potential courses of actions to remedy our current impasse.”

Anastasia’s throat ached
as she struggled to swallow, to clear her mouth enough for words.

“You have my rapt
attention.”

Brennan Thule smiled.
She simply could not understand why his teeth were so crooked. Were there no
orthodontists in Iceland?

“The path that I regard
as preferable requires concessions from us both. I would initiate the process
by conceding that I was, in fact, mistaken, and that killing you was not the
best way to rectify our various differences. I would recognize the greater
value in keeping you alive, and use you to strike an acceptable balance of
power with the Black Sun Cartel, in turn securing a viable future for both our
organizations. This would require the concession of dominance on your part –
but in return, you would have the conciliation of continued existence. Should
you choose this option, all that would be necessary to begin is for you to
share the secrets of your intriguing Deviant Protocol, the knowledge of which
would obviously grant me considerable power over you. Then we could continue
our conversation in more comfortable circumstances, away from the potential
unpleasantness that surrounds us, with you provided with the clothing,
sustenance, and drink that you currently lack. I believe this is the course of
actions which befits two civilized personages such as ourselves. Don’t you
agree?”

Anastasia’s throbbing
throat and bone-dry mouth would permit her no answer. Instead, she raised an
eyebrow, intending it to serve as an invitation to elucidate the other option.

“Should you choose
otherwise,” Brennan Thule said, “then I would have to consider more extreme
methods to coerce your cooperation, or alternatively effect your demise –
either would serve my purposes. What you have endured thus far is simply a
foretaste of what we might do; rather, what I might have done to you, as such
activities are beneath a man of my fundamentally gentle nature. I would prefer
to offer you a drink – you must be terribly thirsty, after all – and see you
released from your unfortunate circumstances.”

He placed the glass on
the table roughly, so that some of the water spilled on the palm of her
immobilized hand, the droplets sparkling in her drug-addled vision.

“In that eventuality, I
would be forced to turn your well-being over to various underlings, who I am
afraid would respect neither your dignity nor the integrity of your body,”
Brennan Thule explained, with an ugly leer at her vulnerable position. “You
would be made to suffer until your spirit or your body broke under the strain.
This would be a regrettable conclusion to our brief association, and an
appalling waste of talent that might be turned to other, more profitable uses.
While I understand that it is not in your nature to subjugate yourself to the
will of another, surely you can understand that it is preferable to do so with
your health and honor intact, rather than to be forced in the absence of
either. I assume that the decision before you has been made sufficiently clear?”

Anger gave Anastasia the
strength to smile, and to find her voice despite the agony, the skin-against-sandpaper
sensation it caused in her throat.

“Of course,” she said
politely, smiling at the man with the crooked teeth. “But you must be thirsty
after such a lengthy and tiresome speech. Won’t you have something to drink?”

***

Alice didn’t watch a lot of
television. She certainly didn’t bother with the news. Nonetheless, the last
few years had provided enough background imagery of destruction, sectarian
strife, and general mayhem to profoundly color her expectations of Iraq. On
some level, she was actually looking forward to it. According to her diaries,
some of the happiest times in her exceptionally long life had taken place in
war zones.

The pink stucco building
that she stood in front of, while vaguely Middle Eastern in general form, was
both a contradiction to her expectations and a bit of a disappointment. She was
in the Left Coast of Mosul, in the Al-Andalus Quarter, not far from the highway
and within walking distance of the University of Mosul and the historic Nineveh
ruins. The neighborhood was surprisingly mundane and residential, with none of
the security checkpoints, ethnic militias, or burka-clad women she secretly hoped
for. Alice wondered whether her telepathic disguise was even really necessary.
The telepath who provided it had assured her that she would appear as a “proper
Sunni Muslim woman,” but despite the relatively crowded streets she walked on
her way from the university, she hadn’t seen anyone who fit her mental picture
of what that was. Most of the woman had looked more or less like women
anywhere, with the minor addition of head scarves.

Alice tried to shrug it
off as she walked up the concrete sidewalk toward the building’s entrance,
verifying the unit number against a telepathic implant, but she couldn’t
totally escape a feeling of being cheated. She had packed extra guns and
everything.

It was hot, though. In
that way, at least, Mosul did not defy her expectations. And it was definitely
arid, with a general lack of greenery, apart from the sparse landscaping that
leaned heavily toward a variety of hearty shrubs with waxy leaves and
brittle-looking branches. If it hadn’t been for the Arab and Kurdish populace,
Mosul could have passed for some place in Arizona. It wasn’t nearly as
Lawrence
of Arabia
as Alice had been led to believe.

“What the fuck ever,”
Alice muttered, checking the brass numbers irregularly nailed to the complex
doors. “Life is full of disappointment.”

She struck out on the
ground floor, but found the unit she wanted not far from the stairwell on the
second. The brass numbers had either fallen off or been removed, but years of
unrelenting sun leached the stain from the door, so the imprint of the number was
visible in an afterimage of darker wood. Alice knocked on the door, wondering
idly if there was some other Arab custom of which she was unaware that replaced
knocking.

“It’s open.”

The telepath had
provided her with a telepathic implant that covered five different languages
particular to the Mosul area, including modern Arabic, but the speaker rendered
all of that unnecessary by using slightly German-accented English. Alice sighed
as she pushed the flimsy door open. So much preparation wasted.

“Hello, Karim Sabir,”
Alice said, mentally deactivating the telepathic disguise the moment the door
closed behind her. She had worn her tightest jeans and a tank top that didn’t
cover her bra straps in a juvenile sort of rebellion against local culture, but
judging from the smile on Karim’s face, her attire was appreciated, as opposed
to being reviled. “Remember me?”

“I do,” Karim said,
offering a chair at the table that constituted the room’s only furnishing,
aside from the bedroll in the opposite corner. Karim was slim, light skinned,
and fine featured, with curly black hair and startling blue eyes, wearing
khakis that had a vaguely paramilitary look about them. The table was mostly
occupied by the disassembled pieces of a Lapua sniper rifle, the alloy barrel
oiled and neatly aligned with the dark earth-colored nylon housing. “I would be
surprised, Miss Gallow, if you recall me.”

“Bits and pieces,” Alice
admitted, taking the chair he offered and then putting her boots up on the edge
of the table. “I take notes.”

“As I recall,” Karim
replied gracefully, walking to the small tiled kitchenette and putting a brass
kettle on the single gas burner. “It is good to see you, by the way. You remain
exactly as beautiful as I remember.”

“I like to think so,”
Alice said, grinning. “How’re things on the home front?”

“Less dreadful than
before the invasion; in Kurdistan, at least. Here in Mosul, things are not so
good.” Karim shrugged and gave her a tight-lipped smile that reminded her of
something she could not fully recall. “Which means business has been very good
for me.”

“Still working in the
same line, then?” Alice picked up the muzzle break and toyed with it idly. “Taking
heads for the highest bidder?”

“I enjoy my work,” Karim
said, wiping two thin ceramic cups from beside the sink with a brightly patterned
cloth. “Demand for my services is high. I have no complaints.”

“Now, Karim – we both
know that isn’t true.”

He laughed, tossing back
his head as he did so. It was a surprisingly boisterous laugh for such a quiet,
neat man, and Alice found it appealing. Karim was Kurdish, but could have
easily passed for a Turk. As her diaries had promised, he was handsome, and
appeared fit beneath the creased lines of his khakis.

“Straight to the heart
of the matter as always, Miss Gallow? It is good to know that some things do
not change.”

“I’ll die first,” she
agreed, with a smile. “And call me Alice.”

“An odd thing, having a
friendly conversation with an Auditor,” Karim observed, taking the kettle from
the burner and then adding tea to an infuser basket and setting it aside to
steep. “Our previous interactions were always fraught with a certain amount of
tension, given the uncertain climate for contractors in Central.”