When Sean finally reached the group, he found them clustered together in front of the Animus, the core of which Monroe had apparently moved up here from his bus. The main terminal sat at the center of a radiating circle of recliner chairs, like the spokes of a wheel with their headrests pointing inward at the hub.
Monroe nodded toward the setup. “Please pick a chair and get comfortable.”
“Isn’t this just going to repeat the same mistake?” Javier asked. “Won’t the Animus let Abstergo know again?”
Sean took another look at him. Maybe Javier was smarter than he’d thought.
“Not this time,” Monroe said. “I’ve got the unit completely isolated and firewalled off in a way I couldn’t achieve on the bus. We’re safe here.”
Sean rolled himself over to one of the recliners and locked the wheels on his chair. Then he heaved himself up and over, lifting out of the chair and into the recliner.
“Whoa,” Javier said, standing nearby. “You’ve got some strength.”
“Nah.” Sean shrugged. “It’s all in the technique.”
But he had always been strong. His coaches had remarked on it before the accident. He still had that in his upper body, but his legs had gone to bone and sinew. Sean rotated his hips and then used his arms to heave his legs up one at a time onto the recliner. At that point, he was able to lie back, and he would have been comfortable were it not for the excitement building inside him. He remembered the thrill of his first time in the Animus. His ancestor had been a simple farmer in Ireland, which probably wouldn’t have been an exciting simulation for anyone else. But Sean had walked his ancestor’s barley fields. He had walked them from sunrise to sundown, working his land, and that was enough.
“You’ve all done this before,” Monroe said. “But only a few of you have gone into a shared simulation. Basically, you can’t interact as yourselves, or you’ll desynchronize. If you go trying to find one another, or you do or say things in front of people your ancestor wouldn’t, you’ll desynchronize. Got it?”
They all acknowledged they did.
Monroe walked around the circle, helping them each get hooked up to the Animus in turn. “The Piece of Eden seems to be a dagger of some kind,” he said. “We didn’t get a good look at it in Mexico, but it seems to have an unusual design. Keep your eyes open.”
He reached Sean and handed him a helmet, which Sean pulled over his head, shrouding him in darkness. A few moments later, with everyone situated, Sean heard Monroe move to the Animus controls at the center.
Can you all hear me? Monroe asked through the helmet.
They could.
Right on. Just give me a sec and I’ll drop you all into the Memory Corridor. Another moment went by in which Sean tightened his fists in anticipation. Okay, everyone ready? Monroe asked.
Ready, several of them said at once, including Sean.
Okay. Memory Corridor in three, two, one—
Piercing light blinded Sean as the visor came to life, immersing him in the void space of the Corridor. As the images around him resolved themselves, the first thing he noted was that he was standing, on his own. And he was tall. Huge, actually.
“You look like a cop,” said a man standing next to Sean. He wore a high, fuzzy stovepipe hat, a long dark coat that reached his knees, an embroidered red vest, and plaid pants. Thick sideburns grew down to his jawline, and a huge knife hung at his waist.
Sean looked down at his own dark coat, its brass buttons, and high collar. He wore a flat cap with a short bill and a Metropolitan Police badge on the front. “You’re right,” he said. “I do look like a cop. I don’t even know what you look like. Who—who are you?”
“Owen,” the man said, a hoarse edge to his voice, but then he cocked his head to one side. “And I’m …” He looked down at his wrist, stared at it a moment, and made a fist. A knife blade shot out from within the sleeve of his coat, and then retracted in a flash. “I’m an Assassin,” he said.
Sean took a step away from him. “Good to know.”
“I think I’m a Templar,” said another man behind him.
Sean turned to face him and the others. The second man who’d spoken was large, but not as large as Sean, and he talked with a slight Irish lilt. He had no hat, and wore a vest over a dingy white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, with a kerchief tied around his neck. A short apron wrapped around his waist, giving him the appearance of a bartender.
“Javier?” Owen asked him.
The bartender nodded. “I always knew my mom had Irish in her.”
An older man with white hair and a younger woman in her teens stood near each other behind Javier, both black, both dressed as servants. The girl wore a dark dress with a white, frilly apron that covered her chest and both shoulders. The man wore a black coat and pants, a vest, and a white shirt.
“Please tell me we are not slaves,” the girl said.
“You’re not,” said a petite girl next to them. She wore an elegant red dress with black lace, and had dark, silken hair, dark eyes, and soft features. “New York was a free state even before the Civil War.”
“Natalya?” Sean asked the girl.
“Yes,” she said.
“I, uh, I think I’m your dad,” David said to Grace.
“I think you’re right,” Grace said. “But I hope you realize that doesn’t mean you’re in charge.”
Okay, Monroe’s voice came in. Memories are almost finished compiling. You can start acclimating to your ancestors’ identities. I’ll load the full simulation shortly. But there’s something else you need to know.
“What?” Grace asked.
Unlike the rest of you, David is experiencing an extrapolated memory.
“What’s that?” David asked.
Well, technically, you don’t have any of your ancestor’s memories from after the moment his daughter was conceived, because that’s when his genes got passed on. So you’ll have the memories of your life from before that moment, but not after. But since your ancestor crossed paths with the others here, the Animus is using their memories to create your simulation.
“So what does that mean for him?” Grace asked.
It means he’ll have a bit more freedom in the simulation. Since we don’t know everything his ancestor was doing in every moment, he won’t desynchronize as easily. But it also means he’ll need to be at the right place and the right time to cross paths with the rest of you.
“What happens if I’m not in the right place at the right time?” David asked.
It could break the whole simulation.
“Great,” David said. “No pressure.”
Right. Okay, get ready, everyone. Sean felt the same rushing sensation he’d experienced his first time in the Animus, like a tide or a river pressing against him. He could plant his feet and stand firm against it, or he could just let it carry him downstream. He felt the current taking shape, lodging voices and thoughts against his mind, and he let them sweep over him, bringing with them a new awareness.
He was Tommy Greyling, patrolman with the elite Broadway Squad out of the Central Office for the last eight months, from the Eighteenth Precinct before that, and before that he’d taken a bullet through his thigh at Bull Run in Virginia, but somehow kept his leg. He’d come home to New York City from that battle only to find himself in a different kind of war, one waged on the streets with brickbats and knives.
“I’m a singer,” Natalya said, standing nearby in finery. Her features looked familiar to Tommy. “I’m an opera singer,” she said.
Beneath Tommy’s admiration of the woman, Sean was aware that it was Natalya who’d spoken, and she had sounded almost frightened. It was obvious she was shy, having said maybe a dozen words since Sean had met her, so maybe it was the idea of being a performer up on a stage that scared her.
We’re ready, Monroe said. I’ll initiate the simulation on the count of three. Prepare yourselves. The Draft Riots were hell on Earth.
Natalya stared into the mirror, alone in
a dressing room, but the face staring back was not hers. This young woman, whose ambitious mind and will clamored to rise from Natalya’s understudy consciousness to top billing, had black hair that gleamed in the warm gaslight of the room. She had wide eyes, around which heavy makeup had been applied. She wore a scarlet gown Natalya could vaguely recall purchasing in Paris for a sum she was pretty sure would stagger her if adjusted for inflation.
And she was an opera singer. Not just any opera singer. She was Adelina Patti. She had first taken the stage as a prodigy at the age of seven. Now, at twenty, she had already toured the United States, Europe, and Russia. She had sung at the White House for Abraham Lincoln and his wife, Mary Todd, the previous year by personal invitation.
Someone knocked gently at the door. “Mademoiselle?”
Natalya retreated behind the curtain and let Adelina take the stage. “Yes?”
“It is William,” the man said. “I have your fee, mademoiselle. May I enter?”
“You may,” Adelina said.
The door opened, and the Niblo’s Garden manager entered her dressing room. He was short and somehow round at the middle but nowhere else. He carried a small leather case with him, which he set on the floor at her feet.
“My apologies if this seems vulgar to deal so directly with you,” he said. “If your manager had not suddenly taken ill …”
“Thank you, sir,” Adelina said. “No apologies are necessary. I trust it is paid in full?” She bent and lifted the case by its handles, and found it weighed perhaps eight pounds. At the current market price of gold, it should have weighed ten. “It is not paid in full?”
William pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead. “Unfortunately, Miss Patti, it is not. I have brought four thousand in gold, and we will have the remainder, that is, the final thousand for you after the ticket sales for the show.”
“I thought my contract made my conditions clear,” Adelina said.
“Yes, perfectly clear,” he said.
“Five thousand in gold. Payment in advance. In full. Or I will not take the stage.”
“Yes, of course.” William dabbed his forehead again. “I thought perhaps …”
“What? You thought perhaps I would make an exception?”
“That was my hope, yes.” William’s gaze had fallen to the floor and evidently had become anchored there. Adelina could see he was overwhelmed, and she knew he would not be able to find a way out of this himself.
“All right, here is what you will do, William. You may have noticed I have yet to put on my shoes. I will put them on when the terms of my contract have been met. So you will go down and see what money has been taken in ticket sales, and from that you will draw the remainder of my fee. But I will make an exception for you.”
William looked up. “Yes?”
“I will accept cash instead of gold.”
His shoulders slumped, and he nodded. “Yes, mademoiselle.” With a slight bow, he left her room, and she was alone again.
Natalya peered out from behind the curtain of her consciousness, in admiration of Adelina’s display of strength and confidence. Natalya had confidence, too, but she rarely showed it. Most people assumed she was shy, but that wasn’t what it was at all. She wasn’t afraid or anxious of people. She preferred to think of herself as reserved. But there was nothing reserved about Adelina Patti, and even though Natalya knew she would not actually be standing up on a stage singing in front of people, she dreaded the simulated experience, and hoped that perhaps William wouldn’t return with the remainder of the fee.
Interesting, Monroe said.
“What is?” Natalya asked.
Adelina Patti was married three times, but had no children of record.
“Well, she’s my ancestor, so she must have had a kid at some point.”
She did have a few affairs. Maybe she had a secret kid out of one of them.
“Three marriages? Affairs?” Natalya shook her head. “She really did things her own way.”
Seems she did.
Several moments later, William knocked at the door, and Natalya bowed out.
“Enter,” Adelina said.
William opened the door and walked back into the room, still dabbing at his forehead.
“Do you have it?” Adelina asked.
“I have eight hundred dollars,” William said. He pulled a wad of bills from his coat and handed it to Adelina. “I am hoping that will suffice for now. The house is full, and I am sure you do not want to keep your audience waiting.”
Adelina smiled and accepted the money, which she placed inside the case with her gold. She then reached for her left shoe and pulled it on, and William let out a deep sigh.
“Thank you, mademoiselle, thank you. I—”
Adelina reached out and handed him the matching right shoe, which he accepted as though it were something both fragile and hot. Then she leaned back in her chair, one foot shod and one still bare. “I will put on that other shoe when you have brought me the remaining two hundred dollars. My audience will wait.”
He paled visibly, stammered, and left the room with a hasty bow, still holding her shoe.
Natalya almost giggled within the mind of this young woman. At a time when women had few options, Adelina had used her talent to secure for herself a place of wealth, but perhaps more important than that, of power.
But the time of her performance was approaching, and while Adelina was perfectly calm, Natalya was not.
When William returned, his rapping at the door sounded insistent and desperate.
“Enter,” Adelina said very pleasantly.
He burst into the room out of breath. “Here, mademoiselle, here.” He handed her a second wad of money, as well as her right shoe. “Two hundred dollars. Payment in full.”
She accepted both with a gracious nod. “Thank you, sir.” She put the money in the case, as William checked his pocket watch, and then she pulled on her shoe. “I should be glad to perform.”
“If you’ll allow me to escort you?” William said, extending the crook of his arm.
She took it with her gloved hand. “Of course.”
They left the room, which William locked behind them, and then made the crossing of the rearward parts of the theater. It truly was a marvelous venue, perhaps the most modern theater Adelina had seen. Miles of piping for gaslight. A vaulted space crisscrossed with catwalks and an endlessly complicated system of ropes and pulleys for raising and lowering set pieces. And an audience capacity over three thousand.
Natalya’s nervousness bounded higher at that thought, even as it exhilarated Adelina.
The night’s first opening performances had already taken place, short vignettes meant to delight and heighten anticipation for the main attraction, and the evening’s host was already onstage giving her introduction. Adelina stood in the wings, waiting for the moment of her entrance.
Next to her, William leaned in and whispered, “You realize you make more in a week than the president of the United States makes in a year.”
Then the stage host named her “the world-renowned and incomparable talent, Miss Adelina Patti,” and the audience erupted in applause. The moment of her entrance had come.
“Then, William, next time invite the president to sing.” Adelina smiled and stepped out onto the stage.
The applause intensified as soon as she came into the light, and Adelina stopped and offered a low and gracious bow. The host had already retreated from the stage, and she took up her place at its center. The audience before her filled every section of the theater, from the orchestra seats to the highest row in the third tier of gilded balconies above her. She nodded and smiled toward the box seats as the applause continued unabated for several moments. When at last it died down, the conductor flicked his orchestra into action, and as the music rose up Natalya found herself experiencing something she would have never, ever done in real life.
Adelina had come from a family of singers, a home filled with the spi
rit of entertainment and performance. Natalya had come from a quiet home filled with her grandparents’ memories of hardship in Kazakhstan under the rule of the Soviet Union, and their silent determination to keep their heads down and make a better life through hard work. Adelina was a songbird, and Natalya was a plow.
But now Natalya had to sing before an audience of three thousand, something that would have ordinarily been completely impossible for Natalya to think of doing. But she reminded herself that it wasn’t actually her, that her consciousness and reservations could remain backstage, letting Adelina shine.
She sang Zerlina’s aria from Don Giovanni. She sang Elvira from I Puritani, and Maria from Donizetti’s La Figlia del Reggimento. Her voice, clear and rich as honey, filled the theater, and the audience adored her. At first, Natalya watched her as if from afar, keeping a safe distance. But with each song Natalya forced herself to emerge from behind the curtain of her mind a bit more, until the performance was at an end and she felt ready to try something. As Adelina took her final bows, Natalya braced herself and stepped trembling into the light of the stage, pushing Adelina back.
The full size and weight of the audience fell upon her, the glittering cavern of the theater immense and filled with the torrent of their applause. It was too much, and Natalya lost her breath and clasped her stomach. The Animus simulation glitched, dispersing the farthest reaches of the theater in a dark gray fog.
Everything okay? Monroe asked.
“It’s fine,” Natalya whispered, and she forced herself to remain there, feeling the pressure of the audience’s attention, partly out of curiosity and partly to simply challenge herself. She straightened her back to adopt Adelina’s posture, and the simulation’s integrity gradually returned. She lifted her face toward the lights that lined the upper balconies. She smiled and bowed, and made sure the simulation was fully restored before she let herself fall back and give control to Adelina.
After the performance, William escorted her to an exquisite little sitting room for an intimate reception with some of the theater’s more prominent patrons. Again, Natalya watched in awe, moving behind Adelina’s mind as the singer glided through the room, enchanting everyone. She sipped chilled champagne and ate oysters, pastries, and other relishes. Orange and vanilla ice cream was provided to stave off the evening’s heat and the closeness of the room. But one thing Natalya became gradually aware of was that Adelina felt lonely. Somehow, among all these people, she was alone. Adelina knew very well that none of these theater patrons actually cared about her. She entertained them, and were it not for that, she would warrant only their polite indifference.
Last Descendants Page 8