Assassin's Creed: The Official Movie Novelization

by Christie Golden

  He had no idea how long this had been going on, but realized that his ability to think was returning—and the hallucinations had ceased. So at least in this, the orderlies were telling the truth.

  They did not ask how he was feeling; he did not volunteer the information.

  On the fiftieth or maybe about the thousandth time that they pulled him up, a figure stood over him. But this time, it was not Aguilar. It was Sofia, and he understood that she was real. And he wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

  ***

  Sofia was still fuming as she entered the recovery room. While she was appreciative of the funds the Templars sent her way for her research—and she could not have come this far without them—she had always done her utmost to stay out of the politics surrounding both the Templar Order and Abstergo Industries. Up until now, she’d largely managed it; a feat almost as remarkable as the one she hoped to achieve through Cal’s help.

  She checked his stats before coming fully into the room, and was relieved to see he was recovering well. Sofia still wasn’t sure about how she felt regarding her actions when he had desynched. The avalanche of emotion was foreign to her.

  “I can’t feel my legs,” Cal said as Sofia stepped to the edge of the pool and regarded him. He was admirably calm, making such a statement.

  Now, she replied in kind. “The paralysis is temporary.”

  Cal seemed to accept that. “What’s the bad news?” he asked.

  “You desynchronized. It caused a neurological split, but we got you through it.” She paused. “This time.”

  Cal looked at her, the reflections of the water causing light to dance and break over his body. His eyes were the color of the pool, and they showed fear and pain.

  “I’m going to die in there, aren’t I?”

  Sofia didn’t answer at once. She sat down beside him, crossing her legs and leaning forward.

  “No,” she answered. “Not if you go in there of your own free will.” She gave him a gentle smile. He turned his head away from her, staring up as the light moved back and forth across his face.

  “We can put an end to pain, Cal,” she continued, speaking from her heart. “For everyone.”

  “I can’t do this,” he said. It was not a cry of protest or despair. It was a simple, blunt statement, and Sofia found it hurt her.

  “Yes, you can,” she replied. He looked at her now, wanting to trust her, but too wary to do so. That, too, brought unexpected hurt. She thought again of her childhood vigil; of wild creatures, and taming, and lost chances.

  Sofia took a breath and considered her next step. Her father wouldn’t like it. It could backfire spectacularly. But something told her that it was the right thing to do.

  If he was to trust her, she had to trust him. Trust him to understand what he was being asked to do.

  “I want to show you something.”

  ***

  Within twenty minutes, the orderlies had removed Cal from the recovery pool, bathed him, dressed him, and placed him in a wheelchair. He met her at the door of his room, his frustration and resentment at his current helplessness coming off him in waves. Sofia attempted to push the chair, but Cal would have none of it, instead gripping the wheels himself and staring up at her defiantly.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  “The Animus Room.” His face hardened, and she added, “You’re not going back in.”

  “You’re right. I’m not,” Cal replied. He let her lead; his previous trips down the corridors to the room had not been conducive to making note of the turns.

  She had dismissed her team, so they had the room to themselves. Natural sunlight filtered in from above, but most of the rest of the area was bathed in the cool blue of the after-hours lighting.

  Once they reached the Animus Room, Cal permitted Sofia to roll the wheelchair next to a cabinet before she unlocked it with a set of keys and removed a single item. She looked at it for a moment. Her back was to Cal; he did not see it. This was her last chance to change her mind. Once she gave it to him, what she would set in motion could not be halted.

  She took a deep breath and stepped in front of Cal, offering the necklace, its pendant gently swinging from its silver chain, to him.

  He looked at her first with mild interest, but as his eyes fell on the necklace, she saw recognition flow over his face like water.

  ***

  An eight-sided star with a diamond shape in the center. Etched on it in black was a symbol that looked almost like the letter A, if that letter’s lines had been made from stylized, slightly curved blades.

  Cal had seen this pendant every day for the first seven years of his life. The last time he had laid eyes upon it, the silver lines on the pendant had been etched with dripping blood, and the chain had been tangled around a dead hand.

  The memory thrust itself into his vision: the hyper-clarity of each fat drop glistening on the tip of his mother’s fingers before falling slowly with a soft plop to the linoleum. The tinny sound of Patsy Cline, a bizarre soundtrack for a horror show.

  The warm hues of the room, of his mother’s strawberry-gold hair.

  The emptiness in her dead eyes.

  Anger and sorrow, more dangerous and powerful than the rage, washed over him. But it was his rage, his sorrow, and he would not share it with the woman who stood before him now.

  Slowly, he lifted a hand and took the necklace.

  “Where did you get this?” he said, his voice a rough whisper.

  “My father recovered it from the scene of your mother’s murder. He brought it here for safekeeping.”

  A muscle twitched near his eye. His mind went back to the fleet of black SUVs that had roared up in front of his childhood home. The pale, angular-featured man with the black sunglasses and dark clothes in the passenger side of one car. So… it had been Alan Rikkin, the man the child Cal had seen speaking on the television, after all.

  The man who had fathered the angelic-looking woman who, impossibly, was currently regarding him with compassion in her large eyes.

  “Safekeeping,” Cal repeated, disbelieving. “You stole it.”

  “It’s your mother’s necklace,” Sofia replied. “I wanted you to have it.”

  She truly had meant this as a kind gesture. She couldn’t understand what it was doing to him. Briefly, Cal’s thoughts flitted to the old photo, of another smiling, murdered mother, this one with the little girl who would grow up to stand in front of him, handing him his own murdered mother’s necklace.

  Cal focused on her words. Her father had been present; he had recovered it. “Why was he there?”

  “To save her.”

  Sofia was still compassionate, but she answered in a straightforward manner. It helped him stay calm. Cal knew she knew that. Even so, he could feel the façade cracking; could see his vision blurring with tears.

  “From who?”

  “Her own people.”

  “What’s it got to do with you?”

  Something flashed in the blue depths of her eyes. “Assassins and Templars have been at war for centuries. I aim to change that.”

  It was almost funny. “That’s right,” Cal replied, exaggeratedly. “I forgot. We’re all here to combat aggression.”

  Their gazes were still locked, and the urge to spout gallows humor faded beneath true anger. He kept it in check, under control, as he replied, “I don’t think I like your methods. I don’t think I like Templars that much, either.”

  That seemed to sting, somehow. Sofia replied, “I’m a scientist.”

  “I’m here to be cured of violence.” Cal shook his head, adding, almost sadly, “Who’s going to cure you?”

  “I’m trying to create a society without crime. We can remove violence from the human genome, but we need the Apple to do it. Our choices seem our own, but they are governed by what has come before us.”

  “You see what you want to see. Prisons are full of people like me, and it’s people like you who run them.”

  She looked at
him, uncomprehending.

  Cal was done. She couldn’t see it. Dr. Sofia Rikkin, scientist, had tried to be open and aboveboard with him—as much as someone in her position could be. But like many clever people, she had grown quite adept at lying to herself—or, at the very least, she had cultivated willful blindness. Sofia truly believed in what she was trying to do, and her eyes pleaded with him to believe it, too.

  He was no longer angry. He just felt sorry for her.

  Cal reached down to the wheels of his chair and began to propel himself back the way they had come, leaving her with a final, scathing comment.

  “I think you’re missing something.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Sofia had not lied to Cal about his legs. Two hours later, he was on his feet again, the wheelchair discarded beside the bed. There was a vague tingling sensation still, but the orderlies had assured him that it would soon pass completely. Cal actually welcomed it after feeling absolutely nothing in his lower extremities for so long.

  He ran his thumb over the ridges and points of his mother’s necklace, then lifted his head and stared, as he had done so often, at the thick glass covering one wall of his spartan room. But there was a major difference this time.

  This time, no guards stared back.

  The observation area was completely empty. The only thing looking back at him was his own reflection. But even as Cal stared into his own eyes, they hardened, slightly. A hood took shape around his face.

  Aguilar de Nerha stared back at him, and Callum Lynch smiled.

  The Assassin stood beside him now, not ambushing him from behind, nor stabbing down with razor-sharp blades emerging from gauntlets with a practiced gesture. He stepped forward with a shout, moving his arms in a motion as if breaking an opponent’s strike. Cal moved alongside him, emulating him. Learning.

  Training.

  ***

  Alan Rikkin was not happy with how his daughter was choosing to do things. She was revealing too much. Trying to get Lynch to trust the Templars; to like them, to want to go back into the Animus to help them in their quest.

  This, of course, was idiocy. Sofia was brilliant, no question, and she might understand much more than he did about the Animus and its effect on the human mind. But Rikkin knew people, and he knew Assassins in particular. Some Assassins, of course, had turned their coats to ally with the Templars. But most of the wretched breed were too stubborn or “honorable” to be swayed. He had seen what Sofia had seen in the regressions, and he knew that Aguilar de Nerha, unlike Baptiste or Duncan Walpole, would never desert the Brotherhood. And Rikkin was certain that in this case, the breeding ran true.

  Callum Lynch might be taken with his daughter’s beauty and calm manner. He might even think he wanted to be cured of violence.

  But Rikkin knew better.

  He stood now in his office alongside McGowen, who had just told him to activate the camera in Lynch’s room. Together, the two men watched, silently, as Callum Lynch, descendant of an Assassin, practiced martial arts intended solely to kill Templars.

  “We’re feeding the beast,” McGowen said quietly. “We’re making him stronger.”

  This was intolerable. It was past time Rikkin did something about it.

  ***

  Behind him, Cal heard the door opening. He didn’t bother to turn, thinking it was just another orderly. He was in no hurry to be dragged back to the Animus.

  “I’m Dr. Rikkin,” came a cool, precise British voice, adding, “Alan.”

  Mildly surprised, Cal turned. Before him stood a tall, slender older man. He wore a black turtleneck, a gray wool sweater, and slacks. His face was aquiline and elegant, the graying hair sporting what was clearly an expensive, but conservative, cut. Every line of the man bespoke money and power. He had dressed casually, but looked like he belonged in a boardroom in a power suit.

  Cal could see now that this was, indeed, the man he had seen on that day so long ago. And the knowledge stirred a myriad of emotions.

  “I look after things here at Abstergo,” Dr. Rikkin—Alan— continued.

  “Like to keep things in the family, huh?”

  Rikkin gave him a smile. It was practiced, and charming, and completely false, though Cal was willing to bet that it had fooled more than a few people.

  “Yes,” Sofia’s father said, with a faint chuckle. “I’m sorry if we’ve caused you any discomfort. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Fresh towels would be nice.”

  Again, the warm smile that lacked any genuine emotion. “I’m certain that can be arranged.”

  “While we’re at it, how about you let me out of here?”

  The smile was devoid of pleasantness now as Rikkin ambled, hands in pockets, to the long, backless bench where he sat, spreading his hands out on either side.

  “That’s something I can’t manage,” he said, with false regret. Then the fake smile shifted, becoming wry and cunning—and much more real. He was dropping the act.

  Good. No more bullshit.

  “I’m here to make a deal,” Rikkin continued. “We need the Apple of Eden, and we need you to get it for us.”

  Cal had spent enough time around predators to know when he was in their presence, and Alan Rikkin struck him as one of the most dangerous he’d ever met. Cal would not trust the man, but….

  “I’m listening,” he answered, carefully.

  The dark eyes searched his, flickering over his frame. Analyzing and evaluating. Rikkin seemed to reach a decision, getting to his feet. He gestured at the still-open door.

  “Why don’t we stretch our legs?” he said. “Work that last bit of tingling out.”

  ***

  “Any more hallucinations?” Dr. Rikkin asked Moussa, peering into his eyes with a scope.

  “Only everything around me,” he quipped. She offered a smile of her own at that, then clicked off the scope and reached for a clipboard and began to jot down notes.

  “Your bloodwork is excellent, all tests are positive, and your eyes look fine.”

  “You sending me back to the machine?” Moussa asked. He kept his voice easy, his body posture relaxed, but he figured Dr. Rikkin had his number.

  No one was ever eager to revisit “the machine.”

  Sofia had had Moussa brought in for another series of tests. He was fit and healthy. She’d informed him that orderly reports stated that he mixed well with the others, ate well, and worked out vigorously. But even though he’d called on all of Baptiste’s charisma, Moussa was well aware that Dr. Rikkin didn’t trust any of the patients.

  His eyes flickered to one of the walls. It was covered with images—old Polaroids, newspaper clippings, a timeline. Well, Baptiste inside him amended with a shrug, maybe the doc does trust one.

  “No, you don’t have to go back,” Dr. Rikkin said briskly in answer to Moussa’s question, her dark head bent over the report as she finished jotting down her notes. “You’ve already shown us what we needed to see.”

  Moussa had no desire to return to the Animus. But he was suddenly aware that he had no idea what would happen to him—or, indeed, any of them—when they were no longer “needed.” And he had a terrible suspicion.

  “Then can we be free now?” he asked, sincerely; none of Baptiste’s playfulness now.

  Dr. Rikkin obviously wasn’t expecting the query, and looked up at him, struggling to keep her emotions from showing on her face. She might not be as cruel as McGowen, and she certainly was a lot easier on the eyes, but she was one of them. She was the master of the Animus, and decided their fates. Moussa thought he saw his answer in the simple fact that she refused to answer the question.

  Shit, he thought, his stomach sinking.

  Her eyes flickered away from him, and a frown creased her pale forehead. She walked over to the monitor and leaned her hands on the desk, peering at it intently.

  Moussa followed her gaze. He saw the other Dr. Rikkin walking down a corridor. Her father appeared to be engaged in in pleasant conversation with L
ynch.

  Moussa’s gaze went back to Sofia’s face. Whatever was going on, it was upsetting her. He didn’t know if that was good or bad.

  He resumed looking around at the display cases. Baptiste was on high alert, and wheels were turning in Moussa’s head as he analyzed the cases’ contents. Old swords, manuscripts, pieces of art. Daggers. Jewelry.

  And one thing Baptiste—and Moussa—recognized: blown glass containers, small enough to fit in a man’s hand, covered with decorative filigree.

  His eyes still on the small items, Moussa asked, “What do you hope to gain from the newcomer?”

  Sofia had clearly almost forgotten about his presence. Absently, her attention on the scene unfolding in front of her, she replied, “Something that will benefit us all. You too, Moussa.”

  ***

  “You’ve been desynching in the Animus,” Rikkin said to Cal as they went past a few expressionless guards. They gave Cal not so much as a glance. It was an odd feeling. “We need you to not do that.”

  He had paused at the door to a room Cal had never entered and tapped in a code.

  “We call this the Infinity Room,” Rikkin said. The door swung open and Rikkin stood to the side, allowing Cal admittance.

  The Infinity Room was full… but no one was home.

  It was crowded with patients, all wearing the same gray uniform and white shirt Cal had seen in the common room. But these people weren’t shooting hoops or eating chicken. They walked aimlessly, stood in place, or sat quietly. Staring… at absolutely nothing, their faces as blank as a sheet of paper. Some were old, some were young; all were broken.

  The room had many chairs and beds. Some of the patients here seemed unable to move from the beds without assistance. The oddest thing about it was the ceiling. The silhouettes of birds, black against a white background, was projected against its flat surface. Cal’s first thought was that the rhythmic, gentle motion unfolding above their heads was soothing to the patients. But then he wondered if anyone here could even actually see the display.