Last Descendants
He crossed the room and took it down, feeling its power flow into his fingertips and up his arm. Its design was quite curious. It had no guard, and the blade curved slightly, with a sharp heel near the handle, almost like the prong of a harpoon. Its grip was bound in leather and gold wire, but the shape was flat, as though it was simply an extension of the blade that had been fashioned into a handle. The pommel was perhaps its most distinct feature, forming a kind of triangle, with sharp angles that suggested it was meant to fit together with something else. Varius concluded it wasn’t a dagger at all, but a broken-off part of some larger weapon.
He pulled a length of silk out of his coat, wrapped the weapon carefully, and placed it in his pocket. He then turned back toward the room and the window through which he had entered. But as he approached it, he became aware of a sensation to which he’d been previously blind, so consumed was he with the energy of the Piece of Eden.
He had been detected.
But if the observer were someone from the hotel or a common passerby, they would have raised the alarm, crying housebreaker. Instead, his observer had remained silent, watching him.
That could be no ordinary person. Varius had to do something to draw his pursuer out into the open, to find out what he faced, for no chances could be taken with the Piece of Eden. He crept forward to the window, peering out from the shadows, and extended his Eagle Vision.
The person was down below, in the churchyard beneath the chapel of St. Paul’s, waiting for him. Varius removed his coat and used his forearm to extend it from the window, as if he were about to exit and climb back up to the roof. The figure in the churchyard shot at him, and a breath later, a dart struck the fabric decoy.
Varius tucked the dart into a pocket, careful of the needle at its point, whipped the coat back inside and threw it on. The figure down there was a Templar, and not just an ordinary Templar, but a Hunter. Someone trained in the ways of the Assassin, an extremely formidable opponent. Varius had heard rumors of one in New York, and under different circumstances, he would have eagerly confronted the Hunter in direct combat. But the Piece of Eden was far too important to risk it falling into Templar hands, should the battle go against him.
He retreated deeper into the Aztec Club rooms, reaching the marble entryway just as he heard the explosion of a smoke grenade. He waited until the Hunter had reached the crest room before he slipped through another door, into the dining room, and then the library. When he heard the Hunter’s footsteps on the cold marble floor, Varius opened the library door onto the first room and rushed for the open window through the lingering haze of the grenade.
He hurried out onto the hotel wall and scaled it to the roof. The minute his feet hit the gravel surface, he dove for cover behind the nearest chimney. There were dozens and dozens of them, affording him a maze of brick in which to hide.
A moment later, the Hunter’s boots thumped against the roof.
“I don’t know what’s stirring in that idea pot of yours!” he shouted, and Varius learned his pursuer was a man. “But you’re no match for me! My grandfather hunted down your kind! He bested some of the greatest among you!”
That could only mean one thing. This Hunter was a descendant of Shay Patrick Cormac, the great betrayer of the Brotherhood who had murdered the Assassins who’d trusted him, crippling his own mentor. Varius gave into a sudden surge of rage, pulled a throwing knife from his belt, and let it fly, but the Hunter ducked it.
“Your grandfather was an Assassin once!” Varius shouted, casting his voice several yards away to his left, obscured further by its echoes off the chimneys and skylights. “He turned on the Brotherhood and the Creed he’d sworn to uphold! He was nothing but a coward and a traitor!”
“Never a traitor to the truth!” the Hunter shouted. “He never betrayed the Templar Order!”
Varius now understood more fully the opponent he faced, and felt an even greater sense of urgency. It could be this Hunter outmatched him, and if that was the case, escape was the only possible course of action. The Piece of Eden must not fall into Tammany’s hands.
He made a silent run for the ledge, but heard the sound of the Hunter’s rifle just as he reached it. The dart caught him in the side, and Varius knew he had mere seconds until its toxin took hold. He made a desperate descent—half controlled drop, half free fall—catching ledges with his fingertips on the way down, just enough to slow his plummet.
He hit the ground hard, but rebounded to his feet, nothing broken. He yanked out the dart, which had lodged itself in the leather strap of his knife belt. That meant its needle hadn’t fully punctured his skin, and he may not have received a full dosage. He felt something, though. The ground beneath his feet had begun to pitch and yaw, and the buildings threatened to topple. He was vulnerable.
Varius staggered across Broadway, then down Ann Street and into a nearby alley, where he buried himself in its shadows. From that hiding place, he watched as the Hunter descended to the street and looked in all directions. He walked toward Broadway, and then across it, but he stopped there, appearing unsure of what to do. Varius thought perhaps he might yet evade the Hunter.
People still moved up and down the thoroughfare, preparing for the next day’s riot. The Hunter paid them no mind, pulling something from his leather coat, and at the sight of it, Varius closed his eyes in dismay. It was a Herschel spyglass, capable of revealing the heat that living bodies gave off in the darkness.
Varius tried to run, but found his legs had mutinied and no longer responded to his command. He looked down at them, and they seemed to be someone else’s limbs, rather than his own. The toxin had finally taken hold of his nerves and muscles.
The Hunter slowly cast the telescope in a circle, but stopped when its lens pointed directly at Varius. He then put the telescope away, and casually loaded his rifle. Varius could do nothing but stare down the barrel as the Hunter took aim and fired.
The dart hit him in the shoulder, stabbing him deeply and fully this time, but he noticed the pressure more than the pain. Within seconds, he felt his mind clouding over, and he lost almost all sense of himself or where he was, but remained aware that he had failed his father and the Brotherhood a second time.
A figure soon stood over him, speaking to him, and beneath the weight of Varius’s sagging consciousness, Owen recognized Javier’s ancestor. “My grandfather would’ve killed you,” the Hunter said. “I thought I would, too, until just now. I’m Cudgel Cormac, and I think I’d rather you live with the shame.”
The cloud over Varius’s mind turned to a starless, moonless night, and for Owen, the simulation went black. He floated in a void like the Memory Corridor, but whereas the Memory Corridor had a feeling of potential, this place was filled with total absence and emptiness.
“What’s happening?” he asked the void.
Your ancestor is unconscious, came Monroe’s voice in his ear. But he isn’t dead, or the simulation would’ve ended.
“So what do I do?”
You wait. If you were in the simulation by yourself, I could speed it up past this part, but I have to keep you on track with the others.
“I saw it,” Owen said. “I had the Piece of Eden in my hand.”
I know.
“But now Javier has it.”
Not Javier. His ancestor. It’s important you remember that.
“It gets confusing.”
It does.
“But either way, now we’ll know where it is, right? We should be done with the simulation soon?”
I’m afraid not, Monroe said. This memory seems far from over.
Abraham would never admit it out loud to anyone else, least of all Eliza, but he was glad for the wagon ride back to Mr. Tweed’s house. David was relieved, too. His old bones seemed to come together like the brittle ends of dried-out sticks, which was a very weird and uncomfortable experience for him. But Abraham couldn’t stop to listen to his joints complain, or else he might start complaining, too, and that was something he’d sw
orn never again to do.
“Going to be a mighty conflagration tomorrow,” Skinny Joe said over his shoulder. “Mighty conflagration, indeed.”
“So I hear,” Abraham said.
Okay, Monroe said in David’s ear, you’ve entered another extrapolated part of the simulation. For the next little while, this blank spot has been filled in with historical data and the memories of other people, combined with the portion of your younger life that got passed on with your genes. Just sit tight, try to do what Abraham would do. Remember, you’ve got some wiggle room, but if you act too out of character, you can still desynchronize.
“You’re lucky the Boss looks out for you,” Skinny Joe said, a subtle threat lurking underneath the surface of his words.
“And why is that?” Abraham asked.
“It’ll go hard for Negroes tomorrow.”
David wasn’t sure how to read that statement. Mr. Tweed had given him the same warning earlier, and even though he wasn’t sure if Abraham would say it, David asked, “Does that seem right to you?”
Skinny Joe scowled, and the simulation glitched.
Whoa, came Monroe’s voice. What did I just say? You need to stay in character. You’ve still got junctions you need to be at with the others, and you can’t do that if you piss this guy off enough to do something to you.
“Seem right?” Skinny Joe said. “You questioning me, boy?”
“I’m just asking if you think it’s our fault.”
“I don’t know if the Negroes themselves are responsible, but, by God, there’s a war about them, ain’t there? Poor men getting drafted to fight and die to free the very Negroes who’ll take their jobs.” His voice had risen in pitch with agitation. “Them Negroes is the innocent cause of all these troubles, and come tomorrow, by God, we’ll pound ’em.”
David knew Abraham would say nothing to that and hold very still, not feeling at all that safe in the wagon in spite of Cudgel’s orders. But David felt an intense anger at this idiot’s racism, an anger that had been building ever since he entered this simulation, and he couldn’t stop himself from speaking.
“Maybe you’ll get a pounding of your own—”
The simulation squealed and buckled, and David felt as if he were imploding, collapsing on himself into a singularity of non-existence. The intense pressure bent and twisted his mind, and he screamed but nothing came out. Then everything was black, no simulation, no anything, and he wondered if he’d died—
“Relax,” Monroe said. “That did it. You desynchronized.”
David’s helmet pulled away and he was back in the warehouse, the light overhead burning the backs of his eyes. A sudden vertigo swept over him, worse than any he had felt before. His stomach heaved, and he twisted to his side. Monroe already held a bucket there, and David vomited into it.
Then he did a second time. And a third.
“It’s rough,” Monroe said, handing him a towel to wipe his mouth. “Desynchronizing messes with your parietal lobes, the part of your brain that keeps you grounded in time and space. It’ll pass.”
David had never felt this sick in quite this way. It felt like the worst dizziness from the worst roller coaster imaginable. He bent to vomit a fourth time, but only dry heaved, and then he fell back onto the recliner chair, panting, the ceiling and room around him spinning, and he fought a pain as though a vise crunched his skull. The others reclined in their chairs around him, oblivious and, in a really disconcerting way, not quite there.
A new wave of pain overtook him, and he moaned. “I never want to do that again.”
“I don’t blame you,” Monroe said.
“Did I ruin everything?”
“Not yet. But we gotta get you back in there. You’ve got junctions coming up. As long as you make those, the simulation will hold.”
David wasn’t ready. But he knew he didn’t have time to get ready. At least he had nothing left in his stomach to throw up.
“It will actually feel better back in the simulation,” Monroe said. “That’s where a part of your brain thinks you are.”
“Then let’s do this,” David whispered, and Monroe helped him get the helmet back on. The darkness inside the visor curbed the sensation of spinning.
“I’ll put you back in the Corridor first, and then load the simulation. You sure you’re ready?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not really.”
“Then do it.”
The visor lit up, and a moment later, David was standing in that gray, cloudy space of the Memory Corridor, and back in Abraham’s old but now familiar body. Monroe was right; it felt better, like it felt better to get back in warm water when swimming on a cold day. The vertigo stopped, and the pain in his head subsided.
Better? Monroe asked.
“A little.”
Good. The simulation is ready when you are. The Animus recalibrated the memory, resetting that racist. Be more careful, okay?
“Okay.” David needed no more warnings about desynchronization. One experience with it was all he needed to stay as far away from it as possible.
Here we go. Three, two, one …
David was back in the wagon, and Skinny Joe drove on as if nothing had happened. David said nothing more on the ride back to Mr. Tweed’s house, using the quiet to get back into his ancestor’s mind. He listened to Abraham as though sitting at the older man’s knee, and the more he listened, the better he felt, until the vertigo and pain were completely gone, and he was settled even better than he had been before the desynchronization.
They rumbled up Bowery, and the cobblestones set the dirt packed in the corners of the wagon dancing. The commotion Abraham observed on the street suggested that both Mr. Tweed and Skinny Joe were right that there was sure to be a riot the following day. But the word riot didn’t adequately convey the orderliness of what was happening. A true riot was chaos. These goings-on boasted strategy and planning, and it made Abraham wonder if a war wasn’t just a riot with a little foresight.
From Bowery, and later Fourth Avenue, they took Fourteenth Street west, passing under the great statue of George Washington near Union Square, and on the far side of the park, Abraham caught a glimpse through the trees of a distant tussle, a great Goliath of a patrolman taking down a few street thugs.
“The odds won’t be with that crusher tomorrow,” Skinny Joe said with a huff of malignant laughter. “We’ll show ’em, eh?”
Abraham said nothing but wondered who exactly this man thought he was talking to.
They drove on, and when they reached Sixth Avenue, they turned north and traveled another twenty-two blocks. It was quite late when they finally reached Mr. Tweed’s house.
“Here you go then,” Skinny Joe said. “Safe and sound.”
“Thank you,” Abraham said, easing himself out of the wagon onto the sidewalk. Though better than walking, the jostling had nevertheless punished his body in its own way, a pain to which David was growing accustomed.
Skinny Joe nodded toward the house. “Stay indoors tomorrow.”
“I will,” Abraham said, though he wondered why he and Eliza should be safe when the other black men, women, and children in the city clearly would not be.
Skinny Joe carried on with his wagon into the night, about his infernal purposes, and Abraham turned toward the door. He found it locked, but knocked upon it and rang the bell.
Eliza didn’t come.
He knocked and rang again.
And again.
He waited.
Still Eliza didn’t come.
He assumed she’d fallen asleep, unable to keep her Gethsemane watch. There may have been a window open through which he could have entered, but with the spirit of the city so twisted up about itself with animosity, he dared not risk appearing to anyone as a housebreaker.
Just as Abraham worried about Eliza, David now worried about Grace. He felt uneasy without her around, as if he wasn’t quite safe, and he didn’t know what to do. He wouldn’t risk desynchronization d
oing something stupid, but he wanted to get inside that house and make sure his sister was still there.
Abraham chose to settle down upon the stoop, just as he had warned Eliza he would. The night was warm and humid, and though he would likely be sore for days, it would be far from the worst night he had ever spent.
Neither would the worst night of his life be among those he’d passed hiding in the swamps these many years gone, bug eaten, shivering and wet, wounds festering in the muck. Nor would it be one of the sweltering nights he’d spent in a coffin with rotting meat, to give off the proper smell, as an abolitionist drove him over the border into Pennsylvania.
Abraham looked up at the night sky, and allowed his mind to drift to that place inside him, far, far downriver, the swampland where the rot of guilt, anger, and hatred choked the roots of the trees, and the brackish water flowed at the speed of pain.
The worst night of his life was the night his first wife had been murdered by another slave, a man newly come to the plantation already addled and missing both ears, whom Abraham had then killed in return.
It was fear that first drove Abraham to run, a terror at what the bosses would do to him when they discovered it, but it was guilt that kept him running. There were many days in which guilt was his only nourishment and had kept his body alive when it should have died.
All these years later, Abraham still knew right where to find that guilt. And the anger. And the hatred. He went there often as he traveled along the Underground Railroad, up through Staten Island, and through his education at the African Methodist Episcopal Zion Church. But it took him until Eliza was born of his second wife to realize he didn’t have to stay there. He could leave that dark place downriver and make his home up high, near the clear waters of the wellspring. He could choose where his soul dwelled. The people who ran into trouble, black or white, slave or free, were the ones who went on as though there wasn’t a choice to be made. But you can’t avoid the swamp by erasing the map.