The Far Shores (The Central Series) (52 page)

“I will repeat myself,
because apparently you are having difficulty hearing.” Mitsuru glared at
Michael, who sat next to a dormant bank of police scanners and hastily wired
server boxes. “I am not your student. You are in no position to lecture me. I
have no need of your advice. If anything, my experience trumps yours.”

“Okay, fair enough.”
Michael smiled to himself while Mitsuru turned and took a few steps away. “I
invite you to prove me wrong.”

Mitsuru spun around,
anger slowly dawning on her composed face.

“Excuse me?”

“We will be deploying
tomorrow. Alice plans to put you on point, due to your remarkable capabilities,
and your vast field experience. Your Black Protocol, however, will likely be
forbidden, for the safety of all. I’m certain you understand.”

“Is that a threat?”
Mitsuru asked uncertainly. “Or are you simply condescending?”

“Neither,” Michael
assured her. “I think you are walking a very dangerous line, and the
consequences of a mistake would be disastrous. And I worry about you. That’s
all.”

“If that is all,”
Mitsuru shouted, stomping off, “then don’t bother me with it.”

***

“I am surprised at your presence.”
Alistair enhanced his smile as the result of such dedicated practice that it
was almost instinctual, every centimeter exuding telepathic signals of
affability and trustworthiness. “Not that I mind, you understand. But this is a
relatively mundane engagement. It hardly seems to merit the attentions of
someone of your stature.”

The woman – well, girl,
if one were to judge by appearances – glanced briefly from the vista in front
of them, the column of tattooed characters beneath her right eye glimmering in
response to the ambient Ether. In front of them, across the vast and
featureless desolation that surrounded the Outer Dark, the Horrors slowly
migrated across the horizon, tentacles waving lazily in the toxic air as they
fed.

No serious study of the
Horror, as a life form or a natural phenomenon, had ever been performed, at
least partially because neither classification could be applied to a Horror
with any certainty. They were assumed to be native to the Outer Dark, because
they were found nowhere else, and had been there already when the first human
laid eyes upon it. They followed the currents of the massive, perpetual storm
system that demarked the point at which the Ether dissolved into the black of
the void, feeding on the energies of that cosmic calamity. If they had any
sentience or intelligence, then they did nothing to evidence it, though they
could be drawn close by violent displays of emotion, or snared and controlled
by certain ancient and terrible words recorded in the Black Library.

He had heard arguments
that suggested a malevolent and banal form of divinity for the Horrors, or at the
very least the respect that would be accorded to an intelligent alien species,
but both theories were grounded largely in subjective interpretation of dubious
witnesses and personal histories. Among the Anathema, a group who had achieved
complete conversion via a ritual that involved the Horrors were particular
proponents of these ideas. He viewed the theories that ascribed no particular
importance to the Horrors with an equal amount of wariness. Alistair could not
shake the notion that there was some importance to the monstrous creatures.

“We do not trust you.”
Her voice was both childish and cold, a murmur that was difficult to pick out
over the distant screams of the Horrors. Her skin was a delicate golden tan and
her features were a cross between Khmer and Chinese – or Khmer-Chen, as he had
heard it called. She wore her black hair long, combed straight and decorated
with a pair of coral combs. “I am here to protect our investment.”

“You wound me, Lady
Samnang.” Alistair’s expression said exactly the opposite. “The Anathema values
our relationship greatly. I can assure you that, within twenty-four hours, you
will be in possession...”

She shook her head.
Across the barren plains, Horrors slowly migrated along the invisible course of
the Ether’s fluctuations, beneath a sky that was as black and featureless as
the time before creation. The grating screams of the Horrors carried according
to the unpredictable whims of the transient acoustics, sending slight tremors
through the ground beneath their feet, and causing a pressure behind Alistair’s
eyes that was reminiscent of a momentary sinus headache.

“You can guarantee
nothing.”

The sky turned
momentarily bright, as the tumultuous clouds of Ether discharged in a
phenomenon reminiscent of heat lightning dancing around the edge of a distant
thunderhead. They were briefly illuminated by the vivid and indescribably
colored light, a hue that had no ready comparison to any terrestrial color. Alistair
glanced at Samnang, and in a disquieting moment, realized that he could see the
outlines of her skeleton beneath the flesh, tinted an impossible color and
blurred like an archaic X-ray image.

John Parson had told him
that the Yaojing saw the world differently, their eyes attuned more to the
infrared and ultraviolet wavelengths, and Alistair wondered idly what the otherworldly
vista looked like to her. Despite the time he had spent in the Outer Dark,
Alistair found the drifting schools of Horrors troubling, and avoided the
fringes whenever possible. His guest had insisted on taking in the view,
however, so he was obligated to indulge her.

“You are not in a
position to offer guarantees. The future is uncertain, and your perspective
constrained by the limitations of a temporal consciousness.” She shook her head
again, though he wasn’t sure what it was she was negating. “Do not speak of the
future. Tell me, instead, what preparations you have made.”

Alistair maintained his
smile and telepathic charm offensive, but internally he seethed. He didn’t like
the Yaojing, and he resented her forced inclusion on the team that he had
carefully assembled for the planned operation against the Auditors. John Parson
had told him that it was unavoidable – the Church of Sleep had become uneasy as
the date for the operation approached, and demanded direct representation; and though
Parson had done his best to persuade them otherwise, the Anathema were in no
position to offer disagreement to their benefactors.

At least, not yet.

“The trap has been set
carefully, and our planning was meticulous. The Auditors believe that they have
taken our full measure during the raid we performed on Central. They are
unaware of our true capabilities...”

“Why are you so certain?
Several of them faced you in combat, and forced you to reveal something of your
transmogrification. More still have faced your underling, Emily Muir – and she has
shared considerable information with her former lover, Alexander Warner, the one
you nurse a grudge against. Their failure to end your life by conventional
means cannot have gone wholly overlooked, nor should it be assumed that Warner kept
the details to himself. It is likely that Central is at least aware that
extraordinary measures will be required to effect true harm on your kind.”

“Be that as it may, we
are prepared.” Alistair fought to keep the anger from his voice. The Yaojing
was worse than Gaul with her impudent second-guessing. “I have assembled and
trained a group of combat-ready Anathema – all fully transformed and augmented
– to face the Auditors directly. In the meantime, my operative, Emily Muir, has
achieved a near total penetration of both Central and its adjunct, the Far
Shores. Thanks to the connections she has made in Processing, the barriers and
automated defenses on which they rely will fail them at exactly the moment we
desire. Further, by using our various proxies, we have run the Auditors ragged,
forcing them to operate across the globe and in extreme circumstances, placing
significant psychological and physical strain upon their members – a number of
which, I might add, are scarcely more than children.”

The Yaojing looked at
him, and it was all he could do to prevent himself from recoiling. Her eyes were
like a pair of openings into the burning heart of a furnace, livid with an
unearthly radiance that reminded him of the white-green discharges that periodically
split the sky above the Outer Dark. The tattooed columns of Khmer script that
descended from either eye across her cheeks reflected the uncanny hue of the swirling
Etheric storm.

“And what of your own
intelligence breach? Their Director seems to have considerable insight into
your dealings, of late.”

Alistair gritted his
teeth, glad that the creature paid him no attention.

He didn’t know where
they had found her, because the Yaojing were thought to be even more extinct
than their near relations, the Fey. Alistair had been up late last night,
digging through the Anathema’s archives, even using a back door to snoop around
a bit in the Etheric Network, looking for any mention of the Yaojing, but the
only information he found predated communist control of China. Her employers,
too, the Church of Sleep, presented a profile so low that it approached
invisibility. They employed no more than two agents at a time, and intervened
rarely in the outside world’s affairs, for reasons that only they understood.
Just lately, John Parson had seemingly found a way to open lines of
communication, which netted some intriguing technology, several cryptic
demands, and a Yaojing handler who appeared to be an adolescent girl.

Parsons seemed thrilled
with the exchange. Alistair was less enthusiastic.

“Gaul is a resourceful
man, and a powerful precognitive. It is entirely possible that he has
anticipated our moves to a greater degree than believed possible. As you
suggest, however, it is likely that he has found a way to penetrate one of our
subsidiary organizations to glean inside intelligence. It is no matter for
concern – while he has slowed our progress, he is blind to our intent. The
intelligence he has gathered, while damaging, is not critical. He has
penetrated the outer layers of our security, but remains unable to access the
heart of our organization and communications. It is a bother, an embarrassment
– one that I have agents working to correct – but no more.”

She studied the drifting
Horrors stoically, her eyes resembling the St. Elmo’s fire from the Etheric
thunderheads.

“Or so you assume.”

“Not an assumption, Lady
Samnang. I am certain of it. If it were otherwise, then our plans would have
unraveled already.”

She appeared to consider
this, but it was impossible to tell. Her body language and mental processes
were alien and unfathomable. The telepathic feelers that he extended cautiously
in her direction met a field of flat and utter denial, completely unlike the
psychic barriers and nursery-rhyme tricks employed to shield the minds of
Operators and Anathema alike. It might not even have been a defense – there was
a strong possibility that her consciousness was simply incompatible with his
own to such a degree that there was no feasible interconnection.

Alistair questioned John
Parson’s wisdom in dealing with the Church of Sleep. The Anathema had found
them to be resourceful allies, certainly, both in technical and strategic
matters, but did not have even a vague inkling of the Church of Sleep’s intentions,
beyond the demands they placed in return for their aid. When Alistair took
control of the Anathema – an event that he considered inevitable – the severing
of that relationship would be one of his first actions, as soon as he devised a
means of killing their agents. Of course, to accomplish that, he would need a
prisoner to experiment upon, and Alistair harbored a secret hope that Samnang
herself would be that unfortunate test subject. The aversion he felt toward her
stoic and frankly unpleasant nature was intermixed with a perverse desire to
humble and demean her in a direct and physical manner.

It was a very good
thing, Alistair knew, that his own prodigious telepathic abilities shielded his
thoughts from outside scrutiny. Neither his old masters in Central nor his new
allies in the Outer Dark would have tolerated his presence among them otherwise.

“And what of the
warnings from your enslaved Witches? They claim that an elder of their kind has
entered into an arrangement with the Auditors, perhaps the first stages of an
alliance to thwart your organization.”

“You are referring to
the one sometimes called ‘Yaga,’ I assume?” Alistair chuckled in an openly
condescending manner. “I suspect her existence to be entirely mythical. If the
information that was relayed is truthful – and that is questionable in and of
itself – then it is likely that a Witch has simply adopted the identity to
create fear and awe in her wretched sisters. Whatever the case, the matter is
of little concern. The Anathema have subjugated the vast majority of the
Witches, and those who remain free are scattered and in hiding. Even if they
were to somehow arrange an alliance with Central, they pose no threat to us or
our plan.”

The Yaojing turned her burning
eyes on him, and Alistair suppressed a shudder. Even after extended exposure to
the myriad grotesque realities of the Outer Dark, he found the Yaojing to be
the most unnerving – worse than the sheer gore of the flesh pits and the
changing grounds, or the Horrors that congregated on the fringes of the dead
land, or the numerous and varied atrocities perpetrated in the name of science.
It was one thing to be appalling or cruel, and another entirely to be something
other than human, yet wearing a human form the same way that Alistair wore a
coat when it was cold. It demeaned the intrinsic value of humanity, and
offended even his admittedly twisted morality.