The wagon crashed to the ground far, far below them.
And above them, his wide face stretching wider in a grin of malevolent glee, stood Ojeda.
CHAPTER 7
“Pull him!” Sofia shouted. She had hand-picked every member of this team partially for their lightning-fast responses, and she had never been more glad of her constant effort to achieve perfection than now.
The Animus arm struck the floor. Cal sagged in its grasp, unconscious—but alive.
“Commence rehabilitation,” she instructed her team. “Run a systems check and log his condition.”
Sofia went to the unconscious man, kneeling down beside him. She gazed into his open but unseeing eyes, surprised to find herself having to resist the urge to touch him in a comforting manner. Sofia Rikkin was a scientist, and a good one; scientists could not afford to let themselves grow fond of their lab rats.
But so much hinges on him….
The words left her lips before she realized it. “You did well, Cal.” And her voice was warm.
Orderlies came to gather up the limp form. “Be careful with him,” she said. “No one enters the room without my permission, no matter what happens. Including my father,” she added.
They nodded agreement, and she watched as they bore him off, if not tenderly, at least, as she had requested, with care.
“You did well too,” she said to Alex and Samia, two members of her team. “How’s he doing?”
“Surprisingly well,” Alex replied. “Strong fellow. His stats are good, but as you know, this is going to take it out of him.”
“It was an intense simulation, especially for his first,” Sofia agreed. Cal would be exhausted, and would sleep for several hours. They would have plenty of time to go through what they had recovered, but Sofia was eager to start.
“Why don’t you two grab some lunch?” she suggested. “We can examine it all together once you get back.”
Samia and Alex looked at each other knowingly. They understood their boss better than almost anyone, and realized that what Sofia wanted was some time alone to sit and puzzle a few things out herself.
After all, the technology as it manifested now, the great arm in the center of the room and in the earlier versions now in place in various Abstergo facilities around the world, had been developed by Sofia Rikkin.
They nodded and said they’d be back in an hour. The other members of the team left as well, and within a few minutes, Sofia was alone with her creation.
She had been born in 1980, the year that Warren Vidic, the creator of the original Animus, had begun working on it in earnest. Sofia liked to think that she and the Animus had grown up together. In most of its incarnations and until very recently, the Animus had been a sort of chair or table, where the subject could recline, head engulfed in a special helmet that analyzed brain activity and allowed access to ancestral memories through the subject’s DNA. Subsequent recordings of the simulation played out on a computer screen.
But Sofia, who grew up with computers as babysitters, had wanted better simulations. Ones that were three-dimensional, life-sized, which allowed observers to experience the event in a manner similar to the way the subjects did. Virtual reality, except on a much more advanced level than anything currently available.
She’d also been the one to want to involve the subject’s body, to make reliving the memories an active, rather than a passive, event. Sofia believed the benefits of kinesthetic memory were underrated by most scientists. It would, she firmly believed, create a positive feedback loop. If the subject moved as his ancestors did—his arm drawing back and activating the hidden blades before striking a blow, for example—the memory would seat itself even more deeply in his brain.
“It’s so obvious, really,” she had said to her father as they dined in Paris one night. She could tell despite his carefully neutral expression that it wasn’t obvious at all to him.
Earlier models had featured parts of her sweeping changes. This one was the first to incorporate them all.
Now, Sofia activated a section of the recording, strode to the floor, and watched it again. While she could see what Cal could see, she could not feel what he felt, and she was grateful for that. Sofia had never harbored a desire to enter the Animus herself, though she had heard that the new Director of Historical Research in the London offices was pushing for all high-ranking Templars to do so.
She walked past the recording of Cal kneeling over Ramirez, when he had paused, horrified and uncomprehending. She could have easily lost him then—the first real assassination. But Cal had listened when she called out to him, had stayed with the memory, and oh, what they had gotten. Everything was so clear, especially considering that it was Cal’s first experience.
Sofia froze the recording at a different spot and walked around the massive bulk of Ojeda, taking in the exquisite detail of his armor—so much work to make it beautiful, when the leather would inevitably be scarred with marks from blows, and all of it covered with dust and dirt and blood. Remarkable. She could almost reach out and touch the black knight.
For Cal, such a thing was possible. He could experience the memories through all his senses. When he had killed Ramirez, it was as real for him as if he had plunged one of his blades through a living person while standing right here on the floor.
The secret that Sofia Rikkin kept from everyone, including her father, was that most of her great scientific breakthroughs had come not just from focus, a disciplined mind, and a thirst for learning. They had also stemmed from her imagination—that of a lonely girl, too important to the great Alan Rikkin, Grand Master Templar, to be permitted to play with ordinary children, but not important enough for him to notice that play had been precisely what she had desperately craved.
So Sofia Rikkin had created her own stories… and provided her own playmates in the form of “imaginary friends.” Because she liked history, they were boys and girls from various historical eras; and because she liked science, they all came to visit her through a time machine.
She had not created a way to literally travel back in time, but the Animus offered the closest experience that science could provide. The huge Templar standing frozen in the center of the room was the culmination of an idea conceived when she was five or six. She had given form and voice to that which resided only in the memories of a man long dead.
She looked over again at the frozen hologram of Callum Lynch. They had more in common than he probably would ever have thought.
And, in a way, Sofia envied him.
***
Alan Rikkin, CEO of Abstergo Industries, Grand Master and member of the elite Inner Sanctum of that Order, was a citizen of the world. But he was also an Englishman, and his office in London was his favorite. He’d been there just last evening. He’d arrived in Madrid rather later than he had hoped to, due to wrapping up some unpleasant business there. In fact, he had just received word an hour ago that he was wanted back there again tonight. Alan Rikkin certainly gathered no moss.
He was glad that things seemed to be moving well with Sofia’s research. Recently, it had been made clear to him that not every high-ranking Templar’s views aligned with his and those of the Elders, and that needed to be nipped in the bud as swiftly as possible.
Rikkin had to admit, the Madrid office of the Abstergo Foundation one ran a close second to the Abstergo Industries’ London one.
Most of this was Sofia’s world, and he indulged her in it. But this office was his, and it reflected what he thought beautiful and worthy—and befitting his myriad stations in life.
Fine art covered the walls, depicting great moments in Templar history. A map of the world adorned the wall behind him. Small green dots indicated Abstergo offices, and small white ones, sites of particular Templar interest. In some cities, such as London, they overlapped. Above the map was a row of clocks that showed the time in every single major city.
A truly special and rare item, a white flag with the red Templar cross which had bee
n flown by the great Templar Grand Master Robert de Sablé during the Crusades, stood in solitary splendor in its own case.
Fragile, leather-bound books rested in displays safely behind archival glass. Antique weapons rested in others, some—like shields and row of swords bearing Templar crosses—from Rikkin’s own history.
Others, like the morningstar, the crossbows, early wheel-lock pistols, arquebuses, and the intricately wrought smokescreen bombs crafted to look like filigreed containers of scented oils, had been wielded by Assassins.
One of Rikkin’s favorite bows had ornate carvings along its length, depicting stylized figures of hooded “heroes” using their infamous hidden blades to handily dispatch enemies wearing tabards with square crosses. He reveled in the fact that a weapon so openly anti-Templar was now in the possession of a member of the Inner Sanctum.
The weapons were his, now. Soon, the Assassins themselves, or what remained of them, would be his, too.
And that ought to put the little handful of misguided Templars in their places. He wondered if that was the reason he’d been called back; he had not been told much.
Tonight, with so much running through his mind, he calmed and focused himself by doing two things: running his long fingers over the ivory keys of a grand piano, coaxing forth the soothing sound of Chopin, and watching his recent presentation to a G7 assembly.
“Looking back,” said the earnest, miniature version of himself on the large plasma screen, “it’s clear that the history of the world is a history of violence. Last year, the economic impact of anti-social behavior was nine trillion dollars. We believe that man today experiences a measure of aggression for which he finds no acceptable outlet.”
Rikkin heard a slight whispering sound over his own voice and the soft strains of music, but continued watching the recording.
“Now,” his image continued, “imagine if all these costs could be channeled elsewhere—toward education, healthcare, new technology—”
“Do I look old to you?” the current Rikkin interrupted himself, addressing his daughter, who had moved to step beside him. She had changed out of her white doctor’s coat and into a simple black dress.
“Yes, Father,” Sofia replied, impolitely but accurately. “Because you are.”
Rikkin smiled self-deprecatingly. “Well played,” he said. “I supposed that at my age, vanity must seem a bit pathetic. Sixty-five years is a long time to contemplate anything, I suppose, even oneself.”
Her slight smile widened, warm with affection. “You look great.”
“So,” he said, rising and looking out the window at the city of Madrid spread out below, “the regression went well?”
“Lynch is the one,” she stated. Rikkin raised an eyebrow. Sofia was nothing if not cautious, as befitted a scientist, but she was obviously completely confident in her assessment. “A direct descendant of Aguilar. Everything was clear in there. For the first time. We’ve done so many regressions, and they’ve all had varying degrees of success, but this one… quite remarkable.”
She kept her eyes on the father on the screen rather than the father in the room with her, listening to his speech raptly.
“With your help,” that Alan Rikkin was saying, his lined but still handsome face radiating earnestness, “Abstergo can go from market leaders to pioneers of what we all dream of—a more peaceful world.”
The G7 audience erupted into thunderous applause. Sofia smiled.
“I see you stole my lines again,” she quipped.
“I only steal from the best,” Rikkin replied. From another man, it would have been a joke. Sofia knew her father was utterly serious. “And the Apple?”
“It’s within our grasp.” She was cool, but still confident as she turned to him, a hint of a victorious smile playing on her lips.
“What happened in there?” Rikkin asked, dropping any pretense of small talk. “You said it went well. Why did you pull him?”
“I had to,” Sofia replied. “We have to keep him healthy. He was still recovering from the tetrodotoxin when McGowen tranquilized him, and we put him straight into the Animus. Hardly the best of ways to earn his confidence. But I think I can do it. And once we’ve got that, I know he’ll lead us to it.”
Rikkin, fastening his cufflinks for the evening ahead of him, would have none of it.
“Push him,” he ordered.
She smiled at him, almost indulgently. “That’s not how the Animus works.”
Rikkin knew he intimidated people, and he used that knowledge to his advantage. Most Templars would have leaped to obey his demand. Sofia had simply smiled. She had never been intimidated by him, not once, in all her years on the planet. This both pleased him and exasperated him, and right now, he was experiencing the latter emotion.
Rikkin thought back to his earlier comment about looking old. As he fumbled with the cufflinks, the arthritis in his fingers further reminded him that, as Sofia had so honestly said, he was old. His breath escaped in an irritated sigh.
Sofia stepped beside him, as dark and silent as a shadow in her black dress. Her nimble fingers fastened the cufflink, and smoothed the cuff affectionately.
“Here you go.”
Despite her scientific detachment, Sofia had a kindness to her that Rikkin had lost long ago, if indeed he had ever possessed it. With quiet sincerity, he said, “Thank you.”
Their eyes met. She had her mother’s eyes, not his; blue and wide as the sky. But she had inherited his stubbornness, his single-mindedness of purpose.
And it was that, along with her ferocious intelligence, which had brought them both to this moment, poised on the brink of greatness.
“1917: Rutherford split the atom,” Rikkin said quietly. He held her gaze as her eyes searched his, wondering where he was going with this. “1953: Watson and Crick find the double helix. 2016,” and he paused, savoring this, permitting himself to relish the sense of pride sweeping through him, “my daughter discovers the cure for violence.”
Sofia looked down, uncomfortable with the comparisons. She shouldn’t be. No Templar should ever be anything but proud of their talents, skills, intelligence—and accomplishments.
Gently, he took her chin between thumb and forefinger, raising her head so that she looked up at him.
“We chose your name well, your mother and I.” Sofia was Greek for wisdom. “You’ve always been brighter than me.” A soft, perhaps regretful chuckle left his lips as he graced her with one of his few genuine smiles.
He dropped his hand and took a breath, steeling himself for the evening ahead. “Now I’m late. I have to head back to London tonight. I shouldn’t be long.”
“London?” she asked, curious. “What for?”
Rikkin sighed. “I have to report to the Elders.”
CHAPTER 8
Rikkin was not used to being summoned. But even he answered to someone, and that someone was the group of Elders. And when they called—specifically, when their chairwoman called—he came like an obedient dog.
Now, he stood alone in the boardroom, waiting with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing intently at the painting on the far wall.
The room was beautiful and, like many Templar spaces, superbly blended the modern with the historic. Comfortable contemporary chairs, sufficient to seat a few dozen, were set off by large, elaborate candleholders and other medieval relics. On the wall to his left was a stunning collection of four dozen matching medieval swords arranged in a dynamic, sweeping silver circle.
At the center of the circle was a shield with the unmistakable red Templar squared cross against a white background. Spears and small, gleaming hand axes completed the display.
But it was the painting that held Rikkin’s attention. Its hues, even after so many centuries, were still warm and rich, and the attention to detail was striking, given so many small figures.
He recalled the term for the action depicted in the painting: auto-da-fé. Translated literally from the Portuguese, it meant “act of faith.” It
referred to a very specific act of faith—that of burning heretics alive.
The master artist had presented a variety of onlookers, from royal to commoner, watching, presumably with great delight and perhaps religious ecstasy, as figures met their Maker on the orders of the Grand Inquisitor, whose diminutive form was seated between an equally tiny king and queen.
He heard the click of high heels on the marble floor, but continued to regard the painting. The voice behind him was elegant and precise, and he turned to face its owner.
“Francisco Rizi’s work,” said Ellen Kaye, the chairwoman of the Board of Directors—and the leader of the Council of Elders. She was a slender, poised older woman, almost as tall as he, chic and conservative in a tailored navy business suit with a cream-colored silk blouse.
“The painting’s title is ‘Auto-da-fé in the Plaza Mayor de Madrid,’ depicting the event held there in 1680.”
“I thought the queen was too old for Isabella,” quipped Rikkin.
“1491 was a much more significant year for us,” she said, ignoring his attempt at humor. “War, religious persecution—and the closest Father Torquemada or any of our Order came to finding the Apple.” Rikkin stepped toward her, and she smiled faintly.
“How are you, my friend?” she asked, not without a hint of kindness.
He bent and kissed her outstretched hand. “Well, Your Excellency,” he replied, gracing her with one of his own smiles. “But I rather suspect you didn’t call me back from Madrid tonight simply to look at paintings, fine and inspiring though they might be.”
He was right, of course. Kaye was known for not mincing words and cut straight to the point, speaking briskly, but with a hint of regret.
The words were devastating. “Next week, when the Elders meet, we shall vote to discontinue your Abstergo project.”
Rikkin’s smile vanished as coldness settled on his heart. This wasn’t possible. Abstergo had been working on this for years, decades. As long as Sofia had been alive. Just in the last few years alone, they’d progressed by leaps and bounds, developing technology light-years beyond what anyone thought was possible, and systematically knocking down barriers to their ultimate goal.
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