by Mark Anthony
But maybe not all of the truth, Deirdre. Do you think he told them he really is following in the footsteps of the famed Seeker Marius Lucius Albrecht, who fell in love with the woman he had been sent to observe? Do you think Farr told the Philosophers what he feels for Dr. Grace Beckett?
Regardless, it was almost over. Deirdre knew that the only ones left to talk to were the Philosophers themselves—if they even existed.
Evidently they did; the summons had come that morning. Deirdre actually dressed up for the occasion, donning a simple but tasteful skirt suit of black wool. However, she had kept her bear claw necklace, and she had been forced to grab her leather biker jacket against the chill January drizzle that slicked the London streets.
She had spent perhaps an hour in the room beyond that mahogany door. It had been dark and empty except for a single chair carefully placed in a circle of gold light. Then the voices had started, and she had seen the row of dim silhouettes just beyond the light. For a moment she thought they were really there. Only that wouldn’t be nearly mysterious enough for the Philosophers, would it? After a minute, a crackle of static passed in front of the figures. It was a projection, that was all—their electronically altered voices coming through speakers, her replies returning to them by hidden microphone. They could have been a thousand miles from that room.
All the same, these were the dread Philosophers she was speaking to—the secret governing body of the Seekers, whose number and identities were unknown. This fact had registered on her, but distantly. She had seen a gold-masked sorcerer from another world use magic to control savage monsters; she had seen a fairy. In the end, nothing could shock her anymore. They had asked all the same questions the others had, and she had answered them mechanically.
It was only at the end of the interview, after a long pause, that a different question finally came.
“Please tell us one last thing, Ms. Falling Hawk. If you were given the opportunity, would you go there?”
She stiffened in the chair. “Go there?”
“To AU-3, the world some call Eldh. Would you go there, if you could?”
She leaned back and touched the silver ring she wore on her right hand. It was the ring Glinda had given to her at Surrender Dorothy—the London nightclub that had been a secret haven for people with fairy blood in their veins. Duratek had been controlling the folk of Surrender Dorothy, supplying them with the drug Electria, hoping to use their blood to open a gateway to Eldh. Only then Duratek had captured a true fairy; it had needed the others no longer. The nightclub had burned to the ground, but not before Deirdre had managed to talk to Glinda.
As she had a thousand times since that night, she thought of Glinda’s purple eyes and the impossible forest she had glimpsed when they kissed. A forest she was certain had not been anywhere in the nightclub, or anywhere in London.
“Please answer the question, Ms. Falling Hawk. If given the opportunity, would you go to Eldh?”
She twirled the ring on her finger and smiled. “I think maybe I already have.”
The lights came up, and it was over. She had gone into the hall to wait while Farr took his turn.
Once again Deirdre sighed. How long had he been in there? There was no clock in sight—nothing that would mar the precisely engineered patina of age and tradition that permeated the London Charterhouse. The only concessions to modernity were an Exit sign at the end of the hallway and electric bulbs in the brass sconces that had once burned oil.
Built just before Shakespeare’s time, the Charterhouse had originally been the guild lodge of some of London’s most notorious alchemists. These days, passersby thought it some exclusive club. They weren’t that far off. The Seekers weren’t so very different from the geographic societies of Victorian times, planning trips to exotic locales. That these locales resided not on other continents, but on other worlds, was merely a matter of degree.
Acquired by the Seekers just after the Restoration to be their first Charterhouse, the structure had been modified almost continuously, including the addition of a vast maze of offices, laboratories, and computing facilities beneath the ground floor, as well as tunnels that connected to several surrounding buildings.
Just as Deirdre contemplated getting up and pounding on the door, it swung open. Farr stood half in the darkness beyond, so that she could see him only in stark black and white. With his chinos, rumpled white shirt, and before-noon five o’clock shadow, he looked as if he had been digitized right out of a Humphrey Bogart movie.
“Well?” Deirdre stood.
Without looking back, Farr shut the door and stepped into the light. “I wouldn’t have thought it would go like that.”
“Go like what?”
A camel hair jacket drooped over Farr’s arm. He unfolded the garment and shook it out, but this only seemed to encourage the wrinkles. Farr slung the jacket over slouched shoulders.
“Do you know how many of the Nine Desiderata we broke?”
“Yes, actually. Numbers One, Three, Four, Six, and Seven. Although I never could see the difference between Desideratum One and Desideratum Three. Do you think something was lost in the translation from the Latin?”
“And do you know how many other directives and regulations we ignored in our actions?” Farr went on.
“Let’s see. There was the Vow, of course. Plus a dozen or so local, state, and federal laws applicable in Colorado. And as I recall, Hadrian, you only flossed once the entire time we were in the States.”
He ran a hand through his dark hair, as if it could be any more perfectly mussed than it already was. “It doesn’t make one whit of sense.”
“No, Farr, you don’t make one whit of sense.” She plucked a bit of lint off his coat, noticed it had been covering a spot, and gently replaced it. “And nobody says whit anymore. Now tell me what happened. They’ve taken three months to decide what to do with us. Are we to be censured? Exiled? What?”
Farr’s brown eyes finally focused on her. Even dazed and disheveled, he was handsome. He should have been a poet or an artist a hundred years ago; he would have looked absolutely beautiful dying of tuberculosis.
“They’ve invited us to rejoin the Seekers. All privileges and benefits restored. And at a higher rank.”
Deirdre gaped, surprised at last.
“So what do we do?” she managed to say.
Farr stuck his gray fedora atop his head. “We go downstairs. The Philosophers have politely requested we stop by the main office before leaving the building.”
“And what if we don’t?” Deirdre said. She felt light-headed, as if the air all around her had gone thin.
“What, Deirdre? How could you possibly think to disobey the wise and benevolent Philosophers?”
Farr’s voice was strangely soft; nor was he looking at her. Instead he gazed down the corridor, brown eyes haunted.
Deirdre started to reach toward him. “Hadrian?”
He turned his back and moved out of reach. “Be a good Seeker, Deirdre, and come along. We’d best see what wonders the Philosophers have in store for us.”
Three minutes later, they stepped off the elevator into the brightly lit warren of offices beneath the Charterhouse to find Sasha waiting for them, two manila packets in hand. She smacked them idly against her cocked hip as her red lips twisted in a smirk.
“So, Hadrian Farr does it once again. He breaks all the rules and gets all the rewards.” She sauntered forward and kissed Deirdre’s cheek.
“It’s good to see you,” Deirdre said, squeezing her hand.
“You, too.” Sasha stepped back and rolled her eyes. “Good Lord, Farr, could you quit staring? They’re just boobs. I’m sure women on every world have them.”
“Not like . . . that is, I wasn’t . . .” Farr cleared his throat and looked away.
Deirdre couldn’t blame Farr for staring. Sasha was fashion model gorgeous—tall and lanky, curved in all the right places and sleekly muscled everywhere else. Her skin was coffee with cream, her eyes blac
k opal. Nor did the severe bun into which she had pulled her hair, or the faux secretary outfit—prim gray skirt, white blouse buttoned low, and reading glasses dangling on a rhinestone chain—do much to hide her beauty.
Sasha regarded Deirdre. “Some days it’s a complete nuisance being hot, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Deirdre said with a laugh.
Sasha grinned. “Don’t tell me you’re just fine with the girl in the mirror.”
Deirdre shrugged. “I can’t say I talk to her much, but I suppose she’s all right. Although her nose is a little crooked, and I do keep telling her she needs a better haircut, but she doesn’t seem to listen.”
“I hope she never does,” Sasha said, the words wistful. Then she turned her attention on Farr. “Why so quiet, Golden Boy? I would have thought you’d be crowing over your victory.” Only Sasha could make disgust seem so impersonal and boring.
“News travels fast in this place,” Deirdre said.
“You know our motto,” Sasha said with a wink, tarting up her West End accent. “To Watch, To Wait, To Believe.”
“And, evidently, To Spring On People When They’re At Their Most Defenseless,” Farr grumbled, hands in his pockets.
“I hate to destroy your fantasies, Farr, but I’m not your stalker. I was simply instructed to give these to you.”
Sasha held out the large envelopes. Deirdre took the one with her name on it. Farr hesitated, then took the other.
“What is it?” he said.
“I’m letting myself hope it’s a good dose of humility,” Sasha said.
“Thanks, Sasha,” Deirdre said.
“So, when will you be back at work?”
Deirdre fingered the envelope. It wasn’t very thick or heavy. “I don’t know. Soon, I hope. Hadrian?”
She looked at Farr, but he had turned back toward the elevator.
Sasha held a hand to her forehead. “I think I actually liked him better when he was an arrogant git. Would you go get him a stiff drink? Alcohol should reinflate his false sense of superiority.”
Deirdre nodded. “I’ll make it my first mission.”
“Good girl.”
Sasha stalked away through the offices, and Deirdre followed Farr to the elevator.
“Sasha’s right. What’s going on, Hadrian? You won, didn’t you?”
“Let’s get that drink,” Farr said as the elevator whooshed open.
3.
A quarter of an hour later they stepped through the door of the Merry Executioner, a pub three blocks from the Charterhouse, and their haunt of old.
Over the last few years, a shocking number of London’s centuries-old drinking houses had been quietly replaced by chain-owned franchises—establishments that were not genuine English pubs but rather deftly manufactured replicas of what an American tourist thought a pub should be. Deirdre had mistakenly walked into one not long after their return to London. The too-bright brass railing on the bar and the random coats of arms on the walls couldn’t hide the fact that the steak-and-kidney pie came out of a microwave and the bartender didn’t know the difference between a black-and-tan and a half-and-half.
In a way, the bland commercialization of London’s pubs reminded Deirdre of the workings of Duratek Corporation. That kind of thing was right up their alley—take something true and good, and turn it into a crass mockery in order to make a tidy profit. Wasn’t that what they wanted to do to AU-3, to the world called Eldh? She could see it now: roller coasters surrounding the medieval stone keeps, and indigenous peasants in the castle market hocking cotton candy and plastic swords imported from Taiwan in order to keep sticky-fingered Earther tourists from noticing the smokestacks rising in the distance.
Luckily, the M.E. hadn’t succumbed to the scourge of commercialization in Deirdre’s absence. The dingy stone exterior and grimy windows were just unsanitary-looking enough to ensure foreigners would hastily pass by, shrieking children in tow. Inside, things were as dim and warmly shabby as Deirdre remembered. A drone of conversation rose on the air from a scattering of locals. She and Farr slipped into a corner booth and caught the bartender’s eye. Scant minutes later they sipped their pints.
Deirdre gave Farr a speculative look over the rim of her glass. “Better now?”
He leaned back. “Marginally. However, I’m not sure just one pint will be antidote enough for an encounter with Sasha.”
“You know, she doesn’t really hate you,” Deirdre said, not entirely convinced that was the case.
Farr must not have heard her. He gazed at the pair of manila envelopes Sasha had given them.
“So, are you going to open it, Hadrian?”
“Maybe. I suppose I really haven’t decided.”
Deirdre let out a groan. “Please spare me the I’m-too-cool-to-care routine. You know as well as I do that for all the rules we broke, and for all the havoc we caused, we’re the first Seekers in centuries—maybe even the first since Marius Lucius Albrecht himself—to report real, verifiable, and multiple Class One Encounters. We’ve done the one thing the Seekers have always wanted to do: We’ve met travelers from other worlds.” She leaned over the table. “Admit it. You want to know what the Philosophers have planned for us as much as I do.”
Farr’s expression was unreadable. He flicked a hand toward the envelopes. “Ladies first.”
He had called her on this one. Deirdre picked up the envelope marked with her name, tore off one end, and turned it over.
A plastic card fell to the table. On the card was a picture of herself, her name, her signature, and the sigil of the Seekers: a hand holding three flames. So it was a new ID card, that was all, a replacement for the one they had taken from her at the first debriefing months ago. She turned it over to look at the reverse side.
Farr sat up straight and drew in a sharp breath. Deirdre raised an eyebrow.
“What is it, Farr?”
“Those bastards. Those cunning, diabolical bastards.”
Deirdre frowned and followed Farr’s gaze to the back of the card. It bore her thumbprint—no doubt in ink laced with her DNA, taken from blood samples the Seekers had on file. The DNA signature in the ink could be read with an ultraviolet scanner, providing a level of authentication that was virtually impossible to counterfeit. However, as interesting as the technology was, that couldn’t be the source of Farr’s outburst.
Then, in the lower corner of the card, she saw the small series of dots and lines—a computer code printed in the same DNA ink. Next to the code was a single, recognizable symbol: a crimson numeral seven.
A jolt of understanding sizzled through Deirdre. She looked up at Farr, her eyes wide. When she spoke, it was in a whisper of wonder. Or perhaps dread.
“Echelon 7 . . .”
Farr grabbed the other envelope, shredded it, and snatched his new ID card from the debris. He flipped the card over, then tossed it on the table with a grunt. Like Deirdre’s, his card was marked with a red seven.
He slumped back in the booth, his expression stricken. “Now,” he murmured. “After all these years, they finally give it to me now. Damn them to hell.”
Deirdre didn’t understand. Why was Farr so upset? Energy crackled through her. She turned the ID card over and over in her hands. “I’d heard stories, of course. Echelon 7—a superhigh level of clearance, a type of access far beyond anything else granted by the Philosophers. But I always thought it was just a rumor—a legend told to new recruits. The highest level of clearance I’ve ever seen is yours, Hadrian, and that’s Echelon 5. I didn’t think anyone who wasn’t a Philosopher could go any further.”
“No, Echelon 7 is quite real. I know because I’ve been working for years to gain it.” He hunched over the table, voice hoarse. “Do you understand what this means? With this card, you can access every file, every artifact, every document and bit of data. The deepest secrets of the Seekers will be at your disposal—everything but the private files of the Philosophers themselves is yours.”
“And yo
urs, too, Hadrian.”
“I don’t think so.”
Deirdre gave an exasperated sigh. “What are you talking about? You said you’ve been working for this for years. And now you’re just going to throw it away?”
Farr shrugged, running a thumb over his card. “I suppose I did want this once. But I can’t say I really know what I want anymore. Except maybe that’s not true, either. Maybe I do know what I want, only it isn’t this.” He flicked the card away from him across the table.
Deirdre snatched it up. Sasha was right; Farr at his most coy and arrogant was vastly preferable to this maudlin version. “This is ridiculous, Hadrian. You’re one of the most important agents the Seekers have, and they’ve rewarded you for your work. Why is that so hard to bear?”
Farr let out a bitter laugh. “Come now, Deirdre, surely you’re not that guileless, not after what we’ve witnessed. This is no reward. It’s simply another ploy to control us. Think of what we’ve seen, what we know. And think of who besides the Seekers might want that knowledge for themselves.”
“Duratek,” she said on reflex.
“Exactly. The Philosophers will do anything to keep us out of the hands of Duratek—even if it means giving us what we’ve always wanted. But that doesn’t mean we’re anything more than the puppets we were in Colorado.”
Anger bubbled up inside Deirdre, at Farr—and, she had to admit, at the machinations of the Philosophers. Much as she would have liked to deny it, there was a ring of truth to Farr’s words. But it didn’t matter.
“So what?” she said. “So the Philosophers are trying to manipulate us. No matter why we have them, these cards still work.” She reached across the table and took his hand. “Think of what we can do with them, Hadrian, what we can learn. We never knew until last year that the Graystone and Beckett cases were connected. What other connections will we find with access to all of the files of the Seekers?”
Farr winced, and Deirdre knew her words had stung him. It was cruel to mention Dr. Grace Beckett—whom he loved, and who was now a world away from him. However, Deirdre didn’t care; he had to listen to her.