Though Gaul never would have admitted it, the decision to exile the Thule Cartel had come as a relief, by removing the main limitation of his precognitive abilities. As every precognitive’s method of foresight differed, so too did their blind spots. Gaul’s was stark and simple.
He was unable to predict the actions of his immediate family.
This limitation was made all the more infuriating by the fact that he was not blood-related to any of them, having been adopted as an orphan by the Thule Cartel directly from the Academy. Gaul’s birth family – the Allens, though he had never really used the name himself – were citrus ranchers in the West Bank, having emigrated to Israel to promote the evangelical brand of Christianity that they adopted during his childhood. He had not spoken to or seen them since he had left the family at the age of eight to attend the Academy, and had no particular feelings or attachments toward them.
The Thule Cartel, on the other hand, was and remained a much graver complication in his life. Issues of shared genetics aside, from the moment of his activation, Gaul’s protocol had been utterly blind when it came to the actions of his adopted family – including his brother David Thule, and his niece, Lóa. Even David’s nephew and adopted heir, Brennan, also an orphan, had somehow shared his family’s peculiar immunity to his abilities, despite joining the cartel years after Gaul had disavowed his relationship to it.
All of this caused him no end of aggravation, even when the Thule Cartel had no hand in the events that threatened the peace and security of Central, which was an admittedly infrequent state of affairs until their exile. While he had affected a public reluctance to pass judgment on them in the wake of their attempt to take control of the Hegemony, he had actually achieved a significant personal and professional advantage by removing them from the equation. Gaul angrily reminded himself that it was his own decision to recall them, admittedly a move of desperation to retain his power, but one that he would ultimately have to claim responsibility for. He had known that there would be consequences, even if he was unable to predict them, and had accepted that as a matter of course. He had made more grievous sacrifices to defend the precarious peace he had forged in Central, and was prepared to do even more, should it be required of him.
This, however...
This was not an eventuality he had steeled himself to face.
“What circumstances?” Gaul asked, taking one involuntary step back from the woman holding out the ring to him in a bizarre rendition of a jewelry commercial proposal. “What do you mean?”
“I believe you must know, Uncle.” Lóa sniffled and looked so truly devastated that he felt a transient moment of pity. Until she had taken the lead in the Thule Cartel’s insurrection, she had been his favorite relation, and her misery seemed genuine. “I bring you the badge of office of the head of the Thule Cartel, handed down for generations, from the time before the discovery of Central. I bring you grave news, and the tokens of your new responsibility.”
Gaul turned his back on her, looking out the window at the evening sky without seeing anything. His mind reeled as he struggled to adjust his predictions to a set of parameters that seemed very nearly impossible.
“You know my position, Lóa. I will have nothing further to do with the Thule Cartel, or your family. Take that ring back to David Thule, and tell him...”
“I can tell him nothing, Uncle.” Lóa’s voice was sad and resolute. “He is beyond hearing.”
Gaul put his head in his hands, struck by a grief that he could not define. He could not even decide whether he regretted the loss of his adopted brother or the consequences for himself. His implant continued to function as before, but the mind that housed it had gone quiet, numb with shock and unfamiliar emotion.
“Then, David...how? How can this be?”
He could see the reflection of Lóa’s face in the mirror, and watched a single tear ruin her mascara anew with a misplaced fascination.
“By his own hand, Uncle.”
Gaul put his fist through the window before he realized what he was doing, the sound of the glass shattering startling Lóa. He shook off her hands as she reached for him, feeling no pain as he withdrew his bleeding hand from the broken pane, shards of glass falling to the floor.
David. Damn you, brother, Gaul thought bitterly. Damn you.
There was nothing for it, of course. David had always been smarter than Gaul, despite his best efforts. Even as a precognitive, even after receiving the implant and the vast resources of the Etheric Network, Gaul had never been as capable a plotter as David Thule. It was no wonder that he had accepted Gaul’s offer to return from exile – doubtless, he had seen his opportunity to set this whole plan in motion, to put Gaul’s back against a wall and force him to accept the role that he had worked his entire adult life to reject. They had always held conflicting views of what an ideal future for Central looked like, and had spent years competing to impose their disparate views on each other. Gaul had thought the argument won when he sent the cartel into exile, but as always, his brother played the long game.
“Then your cousin, Brennan, is the head of the cartel,” Gaul snapped, turning back to face Lóa with a grimace, wiping his hand on his jacket. “I refuse.”
“Brennan is dead as well, Uncle,” Lóa admitted miserably, choking back a sob.
“How?” Gaul demanded, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her. “How can this be?”
“Anastasia Martynova killed Brennan,” Lóa explained tearfully. “I found the body myself. He sought to turn her, to break her will and bring her over to our side, and he...failed. He failed utterly, and that failure cost him...”
“Enough!” The room echoed with the sound of Gaul’s shout. He released Lóa, his hands shaking. “Enough of this madness. The folly of the Thule Cartel is none of my concern.”
Lóa Thule shook her head, picking the ring up and again offering it to him.
“It is, Uncle. You are the head of the Thule Cartel, whether you wish it or not. The matter is already decided.”
“Why not you?” Gaul demanded, his voice hoarse. “You have always been capable, Lóa. Why should you not take up the mantle of your father?”
“Because he did not wish it. Because my father,” Lóa said, pausing to fight back further tears, “did all of this so you would take on the role. He said that he wished for a better life for me, and I believe him.”
Gaul hung his head in disbelief.
“And why should I?” His voice was soft, hardly more than a whisper. “I do not wish it. And if I were to – you know what that would mean. I would be forced to resign as Director. My life’s work...all of it. Thrown away. Why should I do such a thing?”
He found his way to the chair behind his desk like a blind man in an unfamiliar room, fumbling and bashing his shins against the furniture, disregarding the pain. Lóa crouched beside him, her arm around his shoulder. He could hardly feel it, beneath the enormity of his grief, confusion, and anger, his head resting in his hands.
“Because we are your family, and despite what you might say, we believe that you still care for us. My father never lost faith in that idea, during the long years of our exile, and neither did I.” Lóa placed the ring gently in his hand. “And...because you need us, Uncle. Without our aid, your Auditors will die.”
Gaul looked up in disbelief.
“What do you mean?”
“You see the future, Uncle, not I,” Lóa explained modestly, composing herself. “But our intelligence indicates that the Auditors are in dire straits. Some may already be lost. Others surely will be, if we do not intervene.”
“I don’t understand...”
Lóa drew herself up and gave him a wan smile, the shy grin he remembered from her childhood.
“I can help them, Uncle. Myself and the soldiers of the Thule Cartel. We are staged to intervene – to save those among the Auditors that can be saved, and stop the Anathema from winning the day. They have been preparing on my orders since I departed for Central. T
hey wait for the head of the Thule Cartel to order them into battle. I will join them.” Lóa put a hand on his forehead. “All is not yet lost. We can still alter the outcome, but only on your order. The order of the lord and master of the Thule Cartel. Examine the futures, Uncle, and you will find that I speak truthfully. It is not too late. But we only intervene by your will. What say you, Uncle?”
The potentials hung in front of Gaul, stark and irrevocable. He searched over them with resignation, knowing that there was nothing to find. He shook his head slowly, then reached out and took the ring, the dull amber stone seeming to wink at him from his palm.
“Go, then. Turn the tide.”
Lóa Thule nodded, smiling in relief, then hurried to the door, wiping her face with a handkerchief.
“Lóa?”
She paused with her hand on the doorknob, looking at him expectantly.
“Once you are finished,” Gaul said gravely, standing from his desk. “Return to me. We have much to do.”
Lóa gave him a quick bow and a genuine smile.
“Of course, Uncle.”
Twenty-One.
“We’re still doing this?”
Katya shot a glare at him, from where they crouched behind a bank of machinery, in the hazy shadow of the World Tree.
“Of course, dummy.”
“But we don’t have a telepath,” Alex complained. “How will we let them know, even if we do clear it?”
“One thing at a time, Alex,” Min-jun said, groggily slotting a new magazine in his rifle and charging it. His head was clumsily swathed in bandages from a scavenged medical kit Alex had found, the pain of his broken arm blunted by an injection of painkiller. “Worry about that when we get there.”
“You said it, oppa,” Katya agreed, grinning. “On three?”
“Three,” Min-jun confirmed, nodding.
“Three,” Alex groused, preparing his protocol. “Fuck yeah.”
Katya begin to count, and Alex took a deep breath, trying to slow his pounding heart. He had dry-swallowed two pink amphetamine pills after their encounter with the Anathema at Katya’s urging, to postpone the effects of using his protocol, along with an injection to mute the agony in his lower back, and the combination had given him a jittery sense of unreality. He wasn’t really afraid, despite the Anathema that waited for them on the other side of the equipment, and that very lack of fear was disturbing to him.
Katya counted down softly, and Alex wondered in a vague sort of way if they were all about to die.
She said three, and moved around the machine at a crouch, Alex behind her, Min-jun bringing up the rear – and then stopped just as abruptly. Alex smacked into her back, almost crying out in surprise, then was shoved forcefully back into concealment as Katya scrambled for cover.
“What the fuck? I thought we...”
“Alistair just showed,” Katya said grimly. “Some other guys, too. There’s twice as many Anathema over there, now.”
Alex moaned, while Min-jun took a cautious look around a cluster of pipes that protruded from one side of the thrumming machinery.
“Okay,” Min-jun agreed, ducking back down. “Now what?”
“I dunno,” Katya said. “No way we can take that many Anathema. We don’t stand a chance.”
“Maybe if we wait for a minute, they will leave, or something?” Alex offered hopefully. “Maybe he’s just checking up on that...thing. Whatever it is.”
“Doubt it,” Katya said, toying with one of her sewing needles and looking frustrated. “This is bad.”
“Yes,” Min-jun agreed. “But I still think we need to do it.”
“Or die trying, oppa?” Katya asked with a grin. “Alright. But not without a plan. Anyone have any bright ideas?”
“I do.”
Min-jun shouldered the rifle faster than Alex thought possible, while they all whipped their heads around to the source of the voice. There was a long moment while Alex struggled to make sense of what he was seeing. Katya was already in action by the time he made sense of it.
Mitsuru had crawled her way through the same cluster of machinery that they had snuck through several minutes before, bleeding and injured in more places than Alex could count. Most alarmingly, she looked to be missing a large part of her lower left leg. Alex hurried over to help Katya drag Mitsuru into cover, while Min-jun kept watch, his rifle at the ready.
“Holy shit! Miss Aoki – Mitsuru – whatever. Are you okay?”
“No.” Mitsuru shot him a glare. “No, I am not okay. But that doesn’t matter.”
“I guess...”
Alex shut up when he realized that everyone was staring at him.
“You have a plan?” Katya inquired, taking a roll of bandage from her pack and wrapping Mitsuru’s leg with it. “’Cause I am clueless as to what we can do, even if you could stand.”
“Yes.” Mitsuru took the bandage from her and commenced bandaging herself with a quiet efficiency that awed Alex. “Here’s what we are going to do...”
***
Alice was pinned to the ground. One Anathema held either arm, while another sat astride her legs. Martin, meanwhile, had a handful of her hair in one hand and held a knife to her throat with the other. It was a big, multi-edged, ridiculously cruel knife, the kind of thing that only appealed to teenagers and sadists, with no ready purpose other than intimidating the naïve, but Alice was fairly certain it would do the trick.
“I’m pretty sure,” Alice gasped, struggling to breathe with broken ribs, “that’ll kill me, boys.”
Martin grinned at her.
“That is the general idea.”
Alice smiled back. Why the hell not? The Anathema had fallen on her the moment Alistair left, and subdued her with weighted saps and a Taser. Without a gun or her protocol, injured and hardly able to stand, she hadn’t been able to put up much of a fight. She wasn’t sure how many broken bones she had, but she was willing to bet that the total would top her previous record. Whatever that was.
“Won’t Alistair be mad?”
“Yes, I suppose,” Martin said, running the edge of his knife along the line of her cheek, and then leaving the blade resting on her cheekbone, almost touching her right eye. “As will John Parson. But here’s the thing – I don’t really care. I don’t actually know why they want you taken alive, but their reasons are nearly as good as mine for wanting you dead.”
Alice coughed weakly, careful not to move her head and impale her eye on the point of the knife. Even that limited motion sent jolts of pain shooting through her torso.
“Wanna share?”
Martin tugged on her hair until it brought tears to her eyes.
“Why not? In fact, I think I would be happier if you knew. Do you remember Christopher Feld?”
Alice rolled her eyes.
“Hard to forget.”
Martin laughed.
“Isn’t he just? Well, he was my friend.”
Alice waited.
“That it?”
Martin looked offended.
“Does there need to be more? He was my friend for years, and you killed him.” He tightened his grip on her hair, and Alice waited for the sound of it tearing from her head. “And now I’m going to kill you. Actions have consequences. Simple as that.”
Alice did her best impression of laughter while trying not to move her chest at all.
“How boring. I’d hoped for something better.”
“I would tell you to live with disappointment, but that won’t a problem you need to face.”
“Because I’ll be dead?”
“Because you’ll be dead.”
“You don’t threaten people much, do you? I can tell.” Alice gave him her most contemptuous smile. “You should try and avoid it in the future. You’re really bad.”
He slapped her, hard, until he got tired of it or his hand became sore.
“Are you trying to make me angry?” he inquired, returning his attention to the ridiculous knife. It really did look like something
that should have been a prop in a metal video, or in a Dungeons & Dragons fanatic’s collection. “Hoping to goad me into giving you a quick death? Or perhaps that one of your companions will intervene? Neither will happen, Alice. No point in holding out hope.”
Alice did not expect a rescue. Assuming Michael or Xia or any of the kids were still alive, then she sincerely hoped they were focusing their attention on completing the mission, not saving her from the petty revenge of this pathetic member of the Anathema. Nor did she hope to infuriate the man enough to kill her painlessly – she had a pretty good idea of exactly what he and his friends intended when they seemed intent on holding her down rather than incapacitating her. She had been in the business long enough to come to terms with its ugly realities – as a matter of fact, she preferred to think of herself as one of those ugly realities. But she did need to play for time, according to the little voice in the back of her head.
That was the bright side of Martin’s rather transparent desire to draw this whole encounter out.
“I think you are underestimating the Auditors,” Alice wheezed, feeling as if a weight were pressing down across her midsection. She had forgotten how damn much broken ribs hurt – particular if someone took the time to kick them. “You’re lot couldn’t kill us on your best day. And this, shithead, is definitely not your best day.”
“On that, at least, we can agree.” Martin used the point of the knife to force her chin up, until her neck couldn’t bend any further. The tip pushed through the skin below her jaw, drawing blood. “What do you think about trying to improve it, boys?”
They laughed with the smug cruelty that came from holding all the cards.
“Rather not,” Alice countered, the knife puncturing her skin with each word. “If it’s all the same to you.”
“It is not.”
Martin followed his words by slamming his fist into her side. Alice would have screamed, if she had the breath. Instead, all she produced was a humiliating whimper. Martin laughed and hit her again, causing more pain than she would have thought possible with a punch, agony convulsing her chest and suffocating her. He drew his hand back again.
The Far Shores (The Central Series) Page 55