He didn’t say anything. He seemed to be staring at the ground, so she gave him space. She almost missed it, when he patted the couch cushion beside him, her accustomed spot during their sessions. Her movements were slow and placid, designed not to startle him, but she needn’t have bothered. She sat down and he put his head on her shoulder and then started sobbing, and she threw her arms around him and held him close, until long after he had stopped, until she had gently made all right within his little world.
Rebecca always tried to stretch it out, the first time they cried with her. It was amazing, cathartic experience. Actually, she thought with a trace of bitterness, it was the closest thing to an orgasm she had experienced in months.
“We need to talk, Anastasia Martynova,” Gaul said firmly, approaching where she was currently holding court: on a picnic blanket, underneath a tree, near the creek and in view of the partially burnt roof of her home, already back in use despite the ongoing repairs. The dress she wore was dark blue to match the ribbon in her hair. “Right now.”
A number of people eyed him from the expansive, red-and-white pattered blanket. He had mixed feelings about all of them. Svetlana was mild and servile to the extent that she attracted his derision, which perhaps was unmerited, as she sat quiet and meek beneath a parasol. Renton Vidor was one of his least favorite students at the Academy, and not only because he was the only student to fail the final class so many times. Renton was much older than the savage looking youth he appeared to be, and his smile was oily and unpleasant. Timor Zharov’s eyes held a flat acknowledgement — one precognitive recognized another. In addition, he was a trained killer. For the Black Sun, and particularly, for Anastasia, from childhood. Another potential problem.
His sister, Katya Zharova, was something of an enigma to him. She’d done sessions with Rebecca, as all students were required to, and Rebecca reported her to be of above-average intelligence, with no learning disabilities or social defects. Yet she had failed enough to be held back twice already, ending up in her younger brother’s class. Moreover, his spies inside the Black Sun reported that she had similar issues in their private assassin camp, showing exceptional aptitude but no motivation. She had transferred back to the Academy from the Black Sun’s camp two years before, to avoid expulsion for a baffling series of incidents that had occurred there, culminating in an equally baffling assault and hostage taking. Since Katya’s return to the Academy, however, she had been agreeable and accommodating to the point of inviting suspicion, as long as he overlooked her habitual violations of the substance abuse policy. As with Renton and Timor, he suspected her actions to have been orchestrated by Anastasia Martynova, for her own inscrutable reasons.
“You heard him,” the object of his suspicions said cheerfully, dismissing her hangers-on with a wave. “Really, Director, it isn’t like you to make our affairs so public.”
Renton snickered and left, with Timor and a grinning and tipsy Katya trailing behind him. Svetlana gathered a few things hastily and then trotted after them. All the while Anastasia smiled benevolently at him, as beatific as a pope granting an audience, flanked by two black wolves, one of which whined as she scratched its exposed belly. He gritted his teeth and stood when she offered him the blanket to sit on with a gesture.
Her dress reminded him of the Tenniel illustrations from Alice in Wonderland, except her knee socks were black. The composure on her face was constantly at odds with its own immaturity. It was appalling. No child should have such self-assurance, such cold and calculating ambition.
“We are alone,” she observed. “My people will not observe or intrude. Please understand,” she said, taking up a china teacup in between her thin white fingers, “my time is at a premium at the moment. My cartel needs me. So, with that in mind, what can I do for you, Director?”
Gaul shelved his anger. When he spoke, he could hear the appropriate iciness in his words, and felt satisfied.
“There are a number of people facing a reckoning due to recent events. You are among them. I came here to give you the opportunity to try and make an accounting for yourself, and for your actions.”
“Surely you don’t mean to imply that I had some role in this attack?” she asked mildly, looking surprised. “Why, Director, my people suffered more than any others.”
“It seems that way, on the face of it,” Gaul said grimly. “But when I look closely at the data, the soldiers that the Black Sun lost were primarily affiliated with the old guard, with your father. The Black Sun members who died included many of those most inclined and capable to resist your future ascension.”
“I am not the heir,” Anastasia objected mildly. “I have an elder brother, Director. And I have no forces loyal to me. Just a few unwanted children that I look after, that’s all. If none died in the attack, then isn’t that for the best, since so many of them are your charges, Director? I would think that you would be pleased.”
“Do I look pleased? I am not. Moreover, do not pretend that your brother plans anything besides abdicating in your favor. You placed Katya Zharova with Alexander Warner, an assassin. That is most certainly not what I had in mind when I asked for an insurance policy with some combat training on the side. If killing the boy were a viable solution to the problem, I assure you, I would have done so the moment I met him.”
“Then be more specific when you want favors,” Anastasia said, shrugging. “And don’t diminish Katya, please, just because she can be erratic. Alex is in good hands — and if you don’t believe me, why, please, do go and tell everyone, if you find our covert dealings to be less than satisfactory. I am not afraid to make my part in this public, Director. Do you feel the same?”
“I have three questions. How you answer them decides your future, Miss Martynova,” Gaul said, cognizant that these words put him very deep indeed, if he didn’t like her answers. “I require honesty.”
“Ask away,” Anastasia said, eyes sparkling, leaning forward with interest.
He started with the worst and least likely possibility.
“Did you know Emily and Therese Muir had contacted the Anathema?”
“No,” Anastasia said, looking a bit humbled. “That was my failing in the matter. I thought I had them boxed in, so that they would be forced to turn to me for assistance. Obviously, it didn’t work out like that.”
The Inquisition Protocol he had downloaded proved as useless on Martynova as he had feared, but he was certain that she wasn’t lying to him all the same. He breathed an internal sigh of relief, and went on to his second question.
“Did you have anything to do with the death of Therese Muir?”
“I thought it was a tragic event,” Anastasia said honestly. “And, sadly, a necessity, to protect her family from further harm.”
Gaul knew that his question had been answered in the most careful manner possible, and exactly the way he’d expected. There was nothing more to be done about it at present, though, so he let the issue go, shelving it for another time, and moving on to the personal.
“Someone arranged for Eerie to be… removed. As an obstacle to attaining Alexander Warner, I assume. Did you have anything at all to do with that?”
Anastasia must have been able to read the tension in his voice, because her smile faltered for a moment, and he knew that she was surprised at the depth of his anger. He was satisfied with that. She had no idea, after all, exactly how angry he would be if she had, in fact, had anything to do with an attempt to hurt Eerie.
“Again, no,” Anastasia said frankly. “I didn’t even know that was what happened to Steve Taylor and Charles Brant — it was them, right? — until right now. That kind of thing is beneath me, Director. I never imagined that Emily Muir would become that desperate.”
Gaul shrugged, but he kept his doubts to himself. John Parson had a way with people; specifically, he had a way with helping people to find places inside themselves that were far darker than they had believed possible.
31
He had put it off as l
ong as was possible. Frankly, the funerals had been easier to deal with. Nevertheless, with break ending on Monday, and the last of the burials more than two weeks old, Rebecca would not tolerate any further delays. So Gaul was facing a crowd of benignly drunken faces, doing his best not to sound like he was delivering a lecture.
“I want to thank you all, both personally, and in my capacity as the Director of the Academy. Your services to our institution in its time of need may very well have prevented its destruction and dissolution, and the Academy is indebted to each of you for the role you played in its preservation.”
Gaul paused and took a sip of water. His mouth was still inexplicably dry. The faces arrayed before him were intimately familiar, cheerfully intoxicated, and worked by Rebecca into a state of enthusiastic complacency. In any other context, he would have invoked the fear of God in them. But not today. Not during the speech he had been dreading since the attack, since he called in the favors, since he realized it would be necessary. He’d tried to keep such events to an absolute minimum in the years he had been Director, instead turning a blind eye to Rebecca’s less official celebrations, but that could only go so far. Clearly, in this case, more was required, for the sake of morale, if nothing else. He’d let Rebecca pick, and to his relief, she had chosen a relatively inexpensive bar on the fringes of Central charmingly named The Toss Up. It had a couple of pool tables, a barbeque in the back, a small dance floor, and the kind of bar that only served cocktails that ended with ‘and coke’, so that was fine with him.
“It would be a mistake to think that, because we are survivors, that we did not sacrifice. Every one of you gave up something in order to see that your home was safe. Some of you may not even realize yet that you have lost anything. But you have. This night is not just a reward, though you have earned a reward. Nor is it merely a celebration of victory, though certainly, a celebration is called for. Rather, tonight is a celebration of our survival, the protection of our homes and the continuity of our values, the security of our families and the conviction of our beliefs. This party is a celebration of your excellence, in rising to the occasion, in doing what was demanded of you, when nothing less would have been sufficient. We celebrate, in short, that when it came time to stand or fall, we choose to stand.”
The speech was awful. He knew it. There was simply nothing he could do to make it any better. His position obligated him to make it. He had been careful to position himself so that he couldn’t see Rebecca rolling her eyes and laughing at him. Instead, he found himself looking at Anastasia’s polite smile, which was sort of like looking at the teeth of an elaborately coifed shark. Behind her, the rest of the Black Sun stood as a monolith, students, combat teams, and even the senior Martynova himself. Across from them, North stood at the head of a hierarchically organized group of Hegemonic soldiers. Caught in the crossfire of their muted hostility, he almost lost his place on the scrolling text he was reading on his head’s up display.
“So, please, all of you enjoy tonight. For the staff, I remind you that Monday is a workday. For those of you who are still students at the Academy, I remind you that permission to drink reasonably for the evening does not give you license to overindulge, and that Monday is a school day. The rest of you, I remind you that you are guests here, and to behave accordingly. Thank you. Good night.”
Scattered applause, louder when they saw he was walking away, relieved that the speech was over. Heading for the door, his various social obligations be damned. He could not imagine having to talk to North right now, even worse if the senior Martynova decided he wanted to chat. Rebecca headed him off smoothly, grabbing him by the elbow and steering him away from the exit and toward the bar.
“You know how to end a speech,” she said cheerfully, her cheeks flushed with drink.
“Shut up,” Gaul said tersely. “You know I hate this kind of thing.”
“I do know that,” she said gently, using his arm to hop up on her bar stool, still somehow vacant despite the crowd at the bar, all of whom gave them a respectable distance.
“And I know that you are manipulating me to calm me down and keep me here so I can chat with the important people,” Gaul continued.
“Of course you do,” Rebecca affirmed, flagging the bartender down with ridiculous ease. He walked over to them, bypassing a half-dozen people who had been there longer, but no one objected. The brunette bartender looked over at Rebecca adoringly.
“Two whiskeys,” Gaul snapped. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter.”
The stunned bartender scurried to obey. Rebecca cocked an eyebrow in his direction.
“Don’t look at me that way,” Gaul said. “After that speech, anyone would need a drink.”
It took a couple of drinks, and a little nudging on her part; some empathic foundation work, as it were, a little shoring up, and she had Gaul as ready and willing as he would ever be. She sent him off in the direction of North and his resurgent Hegemony crowd, figuring he should start there. Anastasia and her father could wait. If the Black Sun could be said to have virtues, then patience was one of them. Rebecca felt a bit tipsy, but not as drunk as she would have expected, given what she’d had to drink. She did a quick turn around the bar, stopping in to check on a few sad faces, urging a couple of shy folks toward the dance floor, smoothing out a few brows wrinkled with anger or grief. She was the good hostess, the very incarnation of hostessness. Then she went outside for some air. Some air, she thought cheerfully, and a cigarette.
Without her, it wouldn’t have been much of a party. The wounds were still too fresh, too many faces still absent. A few weeks weren’t enough time to adjust. However, they all needed some kind of release, some kind of acknowledgement, before they could go back to the real world, to their lives and responsibilities. Rebecca quietly removed the inhibitions that might have made this the kind of party where people drink heavily and grimly. By the time she made it outside the small dance floor was in use, the pool tables crowded, the conversation boisterous. She wondered idly how many people would get laid tonight because of her, and then she wondered bitterly why she was never one of them.
The restaurant had a small patio surrounded by a larger gravel-lined outdoor area, and it was far less crowded than the inside of the place had been. She nodded at a few people, glanced around at the little knots of smokers and conversation, and then she noticed him, standing on the other side of the gravel walkway, by the fence, at just the right angle so he could see in through the back window of the bar. He was so engrossed by whatever he was watching that he did not even notice her walk up next to him.
“You have a pretty good view of the dance floor from here,” Rebecca observed, lighting up her cigarette with satisfaction. Alex almost dumped the beer he was holding all over the ground in front of him.
“Don’t do that,” Alex said, glaring as if she had snuck up on him. “My nerves are fucking shot. I swear, after this last break, I think I need another vacation — hey, wait a minute. You are wearing a dress,” he said, looking her up and down, maybe a little shamelessly, before glancing back at the window. “You never wear dresses. It looks really good on you.”
In fact, she was wearing a grey skirt and top that matched so perfectly that they resembled a dress, but she was pleased with the compliment nonetheless. Sometimes, she thought, blowing smoke at the stars that should have been there, on the other side of the fog, it was easy to understand what Eerie saw in Alex. No one else had commented on her outfit. Moreover, he was always honest, so if he said it looked good, then it did.
“She’s a good dancer,” Rebecca remarked a moment later, stealing Alex’s beer when she realized that he was not actually drinking it.
“Yeah,” Alex said, obviously unaware of how much longing flitted briefly across his face at that moment. Rebecca winced at the thick, cloying sweetness of the porter he was drinking and gave it back to him. “Yeah, she is.”
Rebecca waited a little while longer, sensing that he had more to say. She was not disappointe
d.
“I’m sorry,” he said, turning to her abruptly, “I guess I’m being kinda creepy, just staring, right?”
“It could be,” Rebecca said, nodding. “It probably would be, if she didn’t know you were watching her.”
Alex actually jumped back, as if he was being attacked, and Rebecca was lost to a fit of giggling. He just stood there, trying to decide whether he was going to be embarrassed, angry, or amused.
“You can tell? Is that because you are an empath?”
Rebecca laughed again.
“Because I am a woman. It’s an instinctive thing. Also, she keeps looking over here. You just aren’t watching her eyes, per se.”
“I don’t even have a chance, right? She hates me, and I don’t blame her. I mean, there is no reason for me to go talk to her or anything. Because she hates me.”
“She buried one of the only people who she cared for not long ago,” Rebecca said tiredly. “It is unbecoming to make this about you.”
Alex looked aghast, and then, nodded slowly, in that way that he did every time he was confronted with a basic social lesson that he had somehow never received: confusion, followed by acceptance. Like it was all news to him, but he still deserved credit for trying.
“Sorry,” Alex said guiltily. “I have this tendency…”
“I know,” Rebecca said, internally forgiving him. “Don’t worry about it. Now stop being such a wimp, and go dance with her.”
“I don’t dance,” Alex said, shaking his head. “This is one of the many crippling obstacles to our getting along. I should go home now.”
“Oh, please,” Rebecca said, rolling her eyes as she pitched her cigarette onto the gravel. “If you are trying to reverse psychology me into giving you the courage to go talk to the girl you like, you are shit out of luck.”
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