Asimov's Science Fiction: June 2013 (17 page)

The head administrator, Umeko Hagen, was a tiny woman whose desk dwarfed her. She hadn't held the job long; she'd been promoted when something no one talked about happened to or with her predecessor. She had hair as black as Skye's and wore it so short that it looked like it had been accidentally lopped off.

"Every student believes she should leave the program at this point," Umeko said before Skye had a chance to speak. "Not many get an audience with me about it."

Skye swallowed hard. "I have talked to other administrators."

"I see that," Umeko said. "They told you to talk to me. They say your argument is persuasive. Is it?"

Skye wasn't going to answer that. It was a silly question, and one meant to put her on the defensive.

"You've probably looked at my file by now," she said. "You know I was dumped here with no say in the matter. You also know that I have said from the beginning that I'm not suited to be an assassin."

"The tests say otherwise," Umeko said, repeating what every administrator had said at this point.

"I may have the personality for it," Skye said. "I may have the background for it. But I don't have the desire."

"The first year is hard—"

"I've never had the desire," Skye said, "and unlike my peers, I don't get to choose my future. You people have chosen it for me."

"The scholarship students all get a choice," Umeko said.

"I'm not a scholarship student," Skye said. "I'm indentured. And that's not legal."

She wasn't sure about the legalities. She couldn't find which legalities applied to the Guild and which didn't. The Guild seemed to be its own country, which meant it
made its own laws. Although she wasn't even sure of that. The secrecy of the Guild had worked against her, and, for once, she wasn't sure how to get around it.

"You made an agreement," Umeko said.

"At fourteen," Skye said.

"Which is old enough under the law," Umeko said. Of course, she didn't say which law. And Skye didn't ask. She did know that on Kordita, fourteen was old enough to enter a contract, provided certain conditions were met.

"But no one explained all the terms to me. They said I'd have to work my room, board, and education off. No one told me that the only people who work here are assassins. I didn't learn that until I was nineteen."

"I thought you were observant," Umeko said.

That insult hit home. "I am," Skye said. "But none of the chefs kill people here."

Umeko grinned. It made her look young. "Touché."

"I understand that I owe you a great debt," Skye said. "I'm willing to get work outside the Guild and send you half of what I earn for as long as it takes."

"You want out of here that badly?" Umeko asked.

Part of her did. But for another part of her, the Guild was home.

"I like it here," Skye said. "But I don't want to be an assassin. Even for a little while. I'd like to chose my own future."

Umeko templed her fingers. "As would we all."

Skye held her breath.

"Do you know the cost of your room, board, and education?" Umeko asked.

"No one will tell me," Skye said. "I have a guess, based on what the others say their parents pay."

Umeko's fingers folded together. "The other students have no idea what their parents pay. The cost of your education, so far, is in the millions."

Skye frowned. "How can that be? I've done some figuring—"

"Yes, but you do not know how hard it is to get into the Guild, how much people are willing to pay for the privilege. You have been given a great opportunity. All we ask is ten years. Ten years, in which you work for us, doing as we ask. Then you may set your future."

Skye clenched her hands into fists. Umeko was her last chance. The other administrators said Skye had a good argument. She actually thought she might be able to control her life right now, get out of school, and move onto something else.

She wasn't going to let go so easily.

"I'd still like to try to pay you back myself, without going through Assassin School," Skye said. "I'll only incur more debt if I do."

"Your path is set," Umeko said. "Believe me, ten years is no hardship. You might only have one job per year. You will travel. Your expenses will be paid. We will pay for your home, your wardrobe, and your weapons. You will have money in savings when you leave us. If you leave us. You are still getting the better end of the deal."

"If it were actually a deal," Skye said.

"Ah, but it is," Umeko said. "You were a scholarship student until you turned fourteen. You could have left us then. You chose not to."

"I didn't know what I was choosing," Skye said.

Umeko's face darkened. "Have you learned nothing? Ignorance is never an excuse."

Skye's fingernails dug into her palm. She'd tried claiming the judgment was unfair once, just once. And she was told that nothing in life was fair.

If anyone had cause to believe that, she did.

Especially now.

For the next two hours, she sits alone in that debriefing room. She can do nothing
except wait. The walls are silent. She cannot access any of the communication devices that she knows are nearby. Exactly one hour into her wait, a side door opens and reveals the debriefing room's private bathroom.

She's been through this before. She will be able to take care of herself no matter how long she's in here.

And it could be hours, or even days.

If she's here for a few more hours, she'll get a meal. More hours, and the lights will dim so she can rest.

She sighs. She supposes she deserves this punishment. Not just because she got rid of the spear and let the fat man go, but because she so badly insulted everyone here.

Finally, the door to the outside opens. A young man she's never seen before waits outside.

Skye's been through this before, too; even if she talks to the man, he won't answer. He'll just lead her to the place she's needed next.

Which is a conference room in the debriefing area. No windows here either, but on the walls, image after image of Skye failing. There's the laser weapons test, the missed punch, the laughter at one of the more serious weapons. The image of her standing by the fat man, hand on the spear, appears every five images or so, and after it, the look on her face two hours earlier when she told Václav that she felt morally superior to him.

She looks vicious in that moment with Václav. Her blue eyes flash, her cheeks are red.

No, not just vicious.

Hateful.

Does she hate them all here?

She's not going to answer that, not even to herself. But she will admit that she's still angry. Furious, in fact. Angry that she's in this position. Angry that she's never had a chance at anything resembling a life like the one she's wanted.

She wants the opposite life from the one they insist she has. She wants to climb into one of the towers here, sit under a skylight, and use the grids and the old books. She wants to study everything, learn everything—not
how
to do something, but
why
it was done, who invented it, what its initial purpose was.

She likes information, and learning, and seeing patterns.

She likes being alone.

She's not alone in the conference room for long. Václav comes in, with Umeko, and five of Skye's teachers. And then they all bow as the director of the Guild walks in.

Skye stands still in shock, then remembers to bow as well. She's suddenly shaken.

Skye has seen Kerani Ammons from afar, but never interacted with her. Skye did not realize that the director is the same size as Skye. The director seems bigger somehow. She glides when she walks, and she presents a calm that no one else in the room has.

This, then, is as serious as it gets. Skye has heard the rumors: the reason no one questions the Assassins Guild is because no one survives the questioning. Those who dissent get the same sentence as the criminals that the Guild pursues.

Skye hasn't believed those rumors until now.

"I have reviewed all of your records," the director says. "Václav tells me that you have seen through most of our tests, including this last. You know how our systems work, perhaps better than we do."

Skye swallows. She isn't sure if she should say anything. Her teachers stand back—all of them good at being forgotten, like the Guild teaches. Skye wouldn't be thinking about them either, except that they seemed to step out of the conversation all at the same time.

They seem to want nothing to do with her.

Only Václav and Umeko stand near her. Skye can't tell if they're beside her to defend her or to judge her.

Or to observe.

"I have but one question for you," the director says, "and I will know if you fail to answer truthfully."

Skye's heart rate has increased. If they're looking for physical tests, she's already presenting as someone either terrified or deceptive or both. She's not deceptive at the moment, but she is terrified.

The director sweeps her hand toward the images. "Did you fail all of these tests on purpose?"

"All of them?" Skye asks.

The director bows her head slightly. "Forgive me. I will ask the question in a way that provides a better answer. Did you go into all of these scenarios with the intent of failing them?"

"Did I take all my classes and all of the tests planning to fail?" Skye asks. She knows she has to be honest. She's just not sure how.

The director studies her for a moment, as if assessing that answer. "You're a good student," she says. "Let's forget the classes for a moment, and speak only of the tests. Did you take them expecting to fail?"

Skye doesn't dare lie. Not to the director. Not now. There's no point. They've probably already judged her.

"Did I expect to fail?" she repeats. "Yes, I did. My heart wasn't in it. But that's not the pertinent question."

Václav glances at her, startled. Is she talking back? She's not sure.

The director nods. "What is the pertinent question?"

Skye swallows against a dry throat. A nervous habit, one she thought she'd trained herself out of. "The question you should ask," she says, "is whether or not I tried to succeed in each of the tests."

"Did you?" The director asks.

Skye lets out a large breath of air. Honest. No lies. She never thought it would be so hard to tell the truth.

"I went into the tests hoping to succeed," she says. "In the middle of these tests, what you asked of me was too much. If I do what you want—if I hurt my best friend or kill a helpless crying fat man in the middle of some grass—then I become someone other than me."

"Is that such a crime?" the director asks.

Crime. Skye has never used that word in her mind, not in connection to this. But she has mulled over all of the terms that the Guild uses and she rejects their subtle distinctions.

She clearly defines "crime" differently than the Guild does.

She's not going to say that, though, because the Guild is often about word games.

"Legal, illegal, crime, not a crime," Skye says, "that's not what I thought about in those moments."

"What did you think about?" the director asks.

Skye squares her shoulders. She's never admitted her true thoughts about anything to anyone. "I thought that if I continued at whatever was I was doing at that moment, I would break."

"And what is wrong with breaking?" the director asks.

Tears fill Skye's eyes. She has to take several breaths to make the tears fade back. She does not blink while they are there. But she does swallow hard again, her throat hurting.

"If I break," she says, "I will come back different."

"What is wrong with different?" The director asks.

"I will be like everyone else," Skye says.

The director nods her head once. "Like your parents."

"Yes."

"Like the man who left you here."

"Yes."

"Like us."

The truth. They have asked for the truth.
The director
has asked for the truth.

"Yes," Skye says.

The five teachers draw in breath. Václav whirls as if she has betrayed him. Umeko looks down.

"And we are so contemptible?" the director asks.

Skye shakes her head. "You've been nothing but kind to me."

"You have not answered the question," the director says.

"You aren't asking fair questions. All I have said from the beginning is that I don't want to be like you."

"And being an assassin would make you like us?"

Skye shrugs. "I would lose what little ability I have to see people for who they are."

"Why?" the director asks.

She's shaking. She's never had uncontrollable physical reactions to words before—at least, not words she's spoken. Words others have spoken, yes, but not her own words.

"Because if I see people for who they are, I can't kill them." Skye says.

The director takes one small step back, as if she's shocked. "No matter what they've done? What monsters they've become?"

"That's the thing," Skye says. "They're not monsters. They're human. Just a kind of human we as a society have deemed unacceptable, because society itself cannot survive with them in it."

Umeko raises her head. Václav turns slightly, looking at Skye as if she is someone he does not recognize.

The director smiles, just a little bit. The smile is not for Skye. The director is looking at Václav.

"There's your metalevel," she says to Václav, as if Skye is not in the room. "We either use her singular talent or we destroy it."

Skye holds her breath. She knows what they mean by "destroy." They could kill her, but they won't. They'll send her into the field, and if she fails to perform, if she tries to flee, then they'll come after her, and then they will destroy her.

If she works for them, and she succeeds, then, by her own admission, she will be destroyed.

"We have rules," Umeko says.

"We do," the director says. "But we have also learned that sometimes things do not go as planned."

Like that simulation,
Skye thinks but does not say. And even as planned, each trained assassin proceeded in a different way. She doesn't say that either.