The Outer Dark (Central Series Book 4)

by Zachary Rawlins

  “Indeed. As always, I trust you to put things right.”

  Lady Gao simply nodded, her hair still gleaming black at more than seventy years. She wore a tailored suit and skirt with an antique golden comb in her hair that Anastasia immediately coveted. The modest amount of jewelry and makeup she wore accented her pleasantly rounded appearance. A heartbreaker in her younger days, Lady Gao had put on weight during a decade of miscarriages and fertility treatment. She was an old friend of Anastasia’s mother, from their days at the Academy, despite the marked social gap between them. Lady Gao had married a vampire shortly after graduation, and then personally deposed the leadership of her cartel, changing the cartel’s name to match her own recently acquired moniker.

  Anastasia had known Lady Gao since childhood, and they always got along quite well.

  “How is your brother and his young family, Lady Martynova?”

  “They are doing well. Kirsten is more trouble every day,” Anastasia responded, with just a hint of impatience. “I understand that your niece, Su, will be debuting tonight as well?”

  A very discrete clinic had helped work around the fertility issues Lord Gao’s vampirism created. After several heartbreaking failures, Lady Gao managed to have two healthy children, both daughters, nearly dying in the process. Doctors forbid further pregnancies, threatening Lady Gao’s dynastic ambitions.

  “Quite true, milady. She’s a dear girl, and the whole family is thrilled for her. As for the debut, this meeting is a formality, and we will not keep you long.” Lady Gao’s voice was smooth with the assurance of long association. “You look radiant, by the way, Mistress. Your mother would be proud.”

  Anastasia nodded in agreement.

  “I would like to present my son, Daniel Gao.” Daniel Gao sat bolt upright at the mention of his name, face studiously blank. “I am certain that the two of you know each other already.”

  Daniel was two years ahead of Anastasia at the Academy, as she recalled, and had managed affairs for his class with competence. They had met perhaps once a month to review candidates for cartel membership and exchange pleasantries. Ana had found the time to be not objectionable.

  “Yes, I do remember. Pleasant to see you again, Daniel.”

  The boy reminded her instantly of his father through his mannerisms: the way he stood partway from his chair so that he could bow when he addressed her, the confident urgency of his movements, and the way he clasped his hands behind his back. Of course, there was no other physical resemblance.

  “Mistress,” he said, voice deeper than she recalled. “An honor.”

  Lord Gao was slim and short, of Han Chinese extraction, with a modest Tibetan contribution. His adopted son, on the other hand was of mixed Gambian and Pakistani origin, arrested on drug charges during a police sweep of Hong Kong, and later discovered at a PRC Detention Center, during a charity-funded medical clinic the Black Sun arranged. His age, native command of Mandarin, and F-Class protocol had immediately caught the attention of the Gao Cartel, who began scouting orphans after Lady Gao’s fertility treatments failed. Seven months after arriving at the Academy, Daniel was sufficiently persuaded to commit, to the Gao Cartel and the Black Sun.

  “How have you been, Daniel?”

  His trajectory since joining the cartel had been one of a marked rise, in compliment with his thoughtful demeanor. He wore steel-rimmed glasses that Ana knew were cosmetic, along with a pin-stripe suit cut just a little too slim for her tastes, and kept his curly hair clipped short and regular.

  “Very good, Mistress. Things are going well.”

  That was Ana’s opinion as well. Daniel worked in the diplomatic arm of the Black Sun, primarily negotiating contracts between cartels. His work had won cautious praise from a council of elderly clerks and lawyers who rarely bestowed it.

  “You’ve been developing something of a reputation. For quality work, among other things.”

  Lady Gao faltered, masking her hesitancy with an apologetic smile.

  “Mistress, despite what you may have heard…”

  “Mother, if you please,” Daniel Gao said politely. “The duel to which you refer, milady, was not something which I undertook lightly.”

  Anastasia covered her mouth with her fan to hide her amusement.

  “Oh, yes, of course, Daniel,” Anastasia said, smiling pertly. “I would be more inclined to sanction a man who failed to advocate for his sister. Regardless of how important the person they skewered was to the Black Sun.”

  Daniel Gao took two steps forward, and then sank to his knees a respectful distance from Anastasia’s chair.

  “I offer my deepest apologies for any harm suffered by the Black Sun, or by my Mistress. I will accept whatever punishment or sanction you find appropriate,” he said, head bowed. “I will not apologize for my actions.”

  Anastasia nodded approvingly.

  “Nor should you. No one profits from an apology. Do not make a habit of offering them,” she ordered, sharing a smile with Lady Gao. “Instead, give no unintended offense. Rise and rejoin your mother.”

  Anastasia noted the possessive way Lady Gao touched the back of his neck when he returned, simultaneously reassuring and chiding.

  “The incident is closed, my friends. There will be no sanction; merely a request to take more measured action in the future.”

  Daniel Gao merely nodded, while his mother looked relieved.

  “In that case,” Lady Gao offered rapidly, “my son wishes to express…”

  “Mother, please.” Daniel’s expression was strained, but kindly. “Mistress, may I speak?”

  Anastasia assented, the lower half of her face concealed by her fan.

  “You may.”

  “Your debut is this evening, Mistress.”

  Anastasia nodded.

  “In the unlikely event that your dance card is not full, Mistress, then I would humbly offer myself as a partner – even an escort to the ball, should you require one.” Lady Gao covered her mouth at her son’s effrontery, but Anastasia was covertly pleased. “Failing that, Mistress, if you would have my service, in any capacity, then that would be the highest honor I could achieve.”

  “It would indeed,” Anastasia said approvingly. “I will accept your service, Daniel, gladly. As for the ball, my card is quite full, leaving me in the unfortunate position of refusing many well-intended invitations.”

  Daniel Gao nodded calmly. Lady Gao concealed her disappointment with less success.

  “With that in mind,” Anastasia added, as if in afterthought, “do be sure to arrive promptly tonight, Daniel. The second dance always begins earlier than one expects, and I would hate so dreadfully to be forced to find a new partner.”

  ***

  The car heater blasted away relentlessly, shriveling his sinuses, but Renton woke up freezing at the end of his nap, huddling deeper beneath his overcoat and telepathically ensuring that his teeth would not chatter. He looked out the window at soggy green hills and dreary coast and decided that he hated Scotland.

  Seeing no further possibility of sleep, and judging that he had another ten minutes of crawling through traffic, Renton connected to the Etheric Network and downloaded the latest digest his industrious staff of analysts had prepared for him.

  There had been an increase in Hegemony intelligence chatter in the last two days, electronic and telepathic. The analysts were divided as to why – one thought it the result of duplicate intelligence services running parallel operations, while the other two attributed it to a general buildup of hostilities in the wake of the losses the Black Sun sustained during the Anathema invasion.

  The crowded mess of claims in South China Sea continued to vex larger international affairs, with nearly every major cartel somehow caught up in the perpetually renewing conflict. Maneuverings last night had changed the balance of power in the region several times, only for the status quo to reassert itself by morning. Renton allowed himself to feel a moment of superiority before continuing.

  Siberia
was quiet, for once. The latest attempts at pacification, spearheaded by Ana’s uncle Petrov, seemed to have driven the Weir back into the taiga, and hopes were high for a quiet summer.

  Josef Martynova’s allies had suggested many changes to Black Sun traditions at the last meeting of the Great Families, all designed to make Anastasia’s potential ascension more difficult. While much discussion followed, any decisions were put off until a date in the indeterminate future. Any decision would be postponed, Renton suspected, until after it became obvious which way the wind was blowing.

  A series of raids had struck Black Sun holdings near Las Vegas. The target was a research and fabrication facility, one of many that supported the Black Sun’s private branch of Etheric Network. Specialized equipment was looted, technicians kidnapped or killed. Retaliation was still in the planning stages, the Thule Cartel thought to be responsible.

  Renton requested further data from the Network, and his staff responded by dumping raw intelligence directly into his head in one migraine-inducing burst.

  The Thule Cartel maneuvered in an obscure manner. The North Cartel consolidated loyalties among the Great Families. The Auditors eviscerated any cartel even suspected of Anathema sympathies.

  There were any number of obvious patterns and motivations, but none of them explained the sudden and urgent entreaties he had received from the Thule Cartel.

  Renton sat back against the chilly leather interior and watched the dull highway scenery, wondering what in the hell was happening to his carefully ordered world. The Thule Cartel wanted to talk, the Anathema were attacking Black Sun installations while Auditors rampaged aimlessly, and he was going to spend the evening watching a bunch of drunk Russians step on Ana’s feet.

  The world had clearly gone insane.

  ***

  The Rurikovich family were considered ambitious, even by Black Sun standards. It was therefore no surprise that they claimed no subsidiary cartel, but instead simply the Black Sun itself, a conceit that only the Martynova family traditionally employed. It was a calculated affront, certainly, but also a reminder of standing.

  The Rurikovich family were considered eccentric, therefore it seemed appropriate that Peter came not with his mother, but instead with his adopted sister Olivia, his companion and advisor since both were children.

  “Lady Martynova,” Olivia said, dress designed to emphasize her enviable bosom, “it is a pleasure and an honor.”

  “Good to see you, Olivia.”

  Olivia smiled and gestured to her brother, who was still standing ramrod straight, very nearly at attention, dressed in the livery of the Black Sun’s elite corps, exercising both a familial and practical right. Peter had only recently returned from Syria, where he had spent the last several months securing Black Sun interests in Raqqa, Tal Afir, and Palmyra, with admirable success, if very little diplomacy.

  “May I present to you my brother, Peter Rurikovich, of the Black Sun Cartel,” she said proudly. “The eldest son and heir of the Rurikovich family.”

  The Rurikovich family had produced several children, all of whom lacked the potential for Activation. Lady Rurikovich died during a miscarriage. Lord Rurikovich had turned reluctantly to the adoption of orphans from the Academy to solve his familial crisis, and in defiance of all expectation, appeared to genuinely care and advocate for his new children, abetting both in their rise to positions of prominence within the Black Sun.

  Peter was acquired by talent scouts at a charter school for privileged students in Warsaw, while Olivia was discovered at an orphanage in the Basque region of Spain, the product of a raid on a local Roma encampment. They were brought to Central young and were adopted by the Rurikovich family as children. Peter had a fierce sort of handsomeness about him, hair trimmed to prevent it from curling, face sprinkled with freckles. Olivia’s green eyes, tanned skin, and determinedly curly hair hinted at a complicated ancestry, but her manners and affectations were every bit the Continental aristocrat, as befitted her position. Olivia presided over the young women of the Black Sun Cartel at social events with graceful aplomb.

  “Peter.” Ana nodded. “I’m pleased to see you again.”

  “Milady.” Peter’s bow was stiff and deep, conducted with so much force it looked like the beginning of a gymnastic maneuver. “It is an honor.”

  The maids brought chairs forward, but Olivia waved them off.

  “We won’t be long. I know your time is short, Mistress, so I will be brief.” Anastasia nodded in agreement. “I will not bother to praise my brother; you are I’m sure already aware of his attributes. His capability, and his loyalty to the Black Sun, are without question.”

  “As is your own, Olivia.”

  “You are too kind, Mistress. You are also aware, I’m sure, of my own modest gifts in the realm of precognition?”

  Anastasia nodded. Olivia was an automatic writer, a rare and somewhat limited form of precognition. Her protocol activated at random, manifesting in multi-hour sessions of unconscious writing – all in an enviably elegant cursive, Anastasia noted – which Olivia deciphered after recovering from her stupor. Some of it was merely poetry – Olivia was a gifted poet, with several published volumes, who had read Pushkin at Pavel’s wedding – while a small amount was murky premonitions of a probable future. Deciphering the writing was an art, and the value of such precognitives was generally considered dubious, but Olivia had successfully counseled her cartel and brother to notable successes.

  “May I make a tremendously bold suggestion then, Mistress?”

  “You may.”

  “You should declare your intentions to marry my brother, Peter, this evening at your debut.”

  Anastasia was never shocked, as a rule – but this suggestion strained the boundaries of even her self-control.

  “Is that so?” Her temper was held in check, but only just barely. “And why should I do that?”

  “There is a black mark on the Martynova family, a heavy one, like ink spilled across a page, blotting out names and futures. This disaster is nearly unavoidable, and difficult even to alter. This future has become far too likely, unless…”

  “Unless I marry your brother immediately?” Anastasia frowned. “How terribly convenient.”

  “That’s not it!” Olivia shook her head. “You could marry anyone. If you are publicly acknowledged as betrothed before the start of the ball, the black mark is thwarted. Tragedy averted, or at least forestalled.”

  Anastasia’s anger drained away like a receding tide, leaving behind only the dregs of her bewilderment.

  “If any suitor would suffice, then why…?”

  “Peter will make an admirable husband, and an able partner,” Olivia said, looking at her brother with obvious fondness. “He has been a good brother, Mistress. The very best.” Peter’s lips pressed into a colorless line. “I would give you the finest man I know, Mistress, since you find yourself in need of one.”

  Anastasia smiled hesitantly.

  “That much, at least, aligns with what I have already heard. Come, Peter – a man should speak for himself, should he not?”

  “I live to serve, Mistress.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Also…”

  “Yes?”

  “…I respect you, Mistress. In a way that I could not imagine respecting another woman. I…truthfully, I believe that we understand each other, or perhaps I believe that we can arrive at an understanding. We share the bond of descent from a Great Family, as well as the burden of being the heir to extraordinary legacy. You could perhaps call me an admirer from afar, Mistress. I appreciate the delicacy with which have approached your succession, and the firmness by which you rule over what is yours. To be regrettably bold, Mistress, I will not be satisfied with anything less than you.”

  “Peter!”

  “No offense is taken,” Anastasia said, waving her off. “This is the matter we are here to discuss, is it not? I appreciate a frank declaration of intent. As for your request, Olivia – I expect you alread
y know that I cannot do such a thing, even if I would. I have obligations to my family and to the Black Sun, and I take these obligations seriously. I appreciate your warnings, however, and will factor what you have said into my thinking.”

  “As you say, Mistress,” Olivia said, trembling as she bowed. “Please – do be careful. Everything is so frightfully unsettled.”

  Anastasia briefly wondered if there was a hidden meaning or a subtle threat in her words, but then put that worry aside. She had enough enemies already, she reasoned, without creating more from an ill-considered remark.

  “Quite so. As for you, Peter, I would continue our discussion, but not in your lovely sister’s company.” Anastasia smiled ambiguously at Olivia, to put her on edge and restore a bit of balance. “Tonight, perhaps? As you might imagine, I am unimaginably busy, but I believe I might have a moment…around the sixth dance, perhaps. That is a lively one, traditionally. Do you believe yourself capable, Peter?”

  ***

  Dunbar shivered underneath a thundercloud so black it looked as if part of the sky had simply been unwilling to let go of the night, long into midday. The rain had tapered off as they crawled through the traffic of the suburbs, which he found just as dreadful as the core of Edinburgh. Dunbar was a cute enough village, though, Renton had to admit, with nice old stone houses scattered around and pleasant greenery.

  The dead drop was in a video store that served the area’s modest Asian community. A significant telepathic intervention prevented the locals from overreacting to Preston’s arrival and smoothed over linguistics difficulties. Not that Urdu offered much difficulty to telepathic translation; rather, Renton found the local accent nearly incomprehensible.

  The address was on a hand-lettered pink index card inside the DVD case for an Indonesian action film. The drive was not long, but traffic was bad, so it took twenty minutes to reach what turned out to be a small community clinic that did STD screenings and pregnancy tests. Renton provided the name from the index card, and received a manila envelope of tests results in return. Amid the jumble of someone else’s medical nightmare, Renton pieced together the highlighted numbers of the next address and cursed the man who invented tradecraft.