Part Tweny-One: Stalling a Juggernaut
Desmond floundered, his hearing like cotton, his vision blurred and unfocused. He felt floaty and not quite in touch with reality, something akin to when he'd been reading a good book or just finished an immersive movie and he was still, in part, in that fantasy...
"... not a lot of time, Vidic..."
"... understand... within the launch window..."
Dammit, he needed information to escape. Come on, focus.
"Wherever it's hidden... time to retrieve it...
"... working on it..."
"And when it's done?"
Desmond strained to see without being obvious, but he couldn't see who had that cruel voice.
Vidic was standing by his head, however, and glanced down at him, seeing he was awake and listening. Looking back at whoever the second speaker was, he said confidently, "He'll be taken care of."
Shit, that meant they were going to kill him soon. As he had progressed along that horizontal ladder of straightened DNA to that memory they wanted, he had almost forgotten what his fate was. Delay them, that was his focus, but this was a cold reminder on why it was so important...
"I want that progress report by tomorrow morning."
Vidic turned, looking down to Desmond. "I've got some work I need to do," he said, sounding stressed, turning on his heel he stalked off, "so you've got the rest of the night to yourself."
There was a hissing slide of a door as the visor over Desmond finally slid back.
Desmond sat up quickly, looking around. Warren was still heading to the conference room, which meant that the door he had heard was whoever that other speaker was. Glancing around the room, he saw no one else and just shook his head.
Right. Escape was becoming more and more a priority.
... A desperate priority if he didn't keep a lid on his fear.
Vidick entered the conference room, the door closing behind him, as Desmond stretched. It wasn't full night like it had been the previous day, but instead dusk. So he'd been pulled from the Animus early.
But that made no sense. Especially that foggy feeling. Granted, there was always a little disorientation when he got out of the Animus, but not to that degree. The last time he was so off-kilter was when he'd first been plugged in and they had to manually pull him out.
Dinner was laid out again and Desmond took the chance to fill his growling stomach.
He turned to Lucy, who was working hard at her computer.
She was the technician who was in charge of that thing, she'd know.
"... I think there's something wrong with the Animus," he ventured.
"Nope! It's working fine," she replied in a false cheer. That wasn't like her. She sounded... stressed.
So, raising an eyebrow, Desmond said, "I'm pretty sure it just ejected-"
"I'm pretty sure you should shut up," Lucy said firmly.
Right. She'd pulled him out. She was trying to delay them as well. She'd been such a help, Desmond wasn't sure how he'd have stayed sane without her. But there was one outlying question she hadn't answered yet.
"You ready to finally tell me what's going on?" She had offered, after all. Not directly, but she had.
With a tired sigh, Lucy turned from her computer. "We have to stop them, Desmond. When they access that last memory of yours... They're just getting started. They want to change everything: The way we live; the way we think; the way we are."
Desmond took a gulp of his water and took another bite of his sandwich. He reminded himself that the conspiracy theorists were right and that huge corporations (read: Abstergo) really were out to get you.
"You've gotten the lecture from Vidic," Lucy continued. "About what's wrong with the world? How we need order and discipline! So they're going to give it to us. Only we don't have a say in the matter."
He sat back, the enormity of it all pulling him down. "How?" What the hell sort of mind-control could they do in order to do that?
"The Templar treasure," Lucy replied, her phone starting to ring. "They think it-" She lifted a finger and answered the cell.
"Miss Stillman?" Vidic's voice came over loud and impatient.
"I'm here," she replied politely.
"I need you to upload Desmond's files to the database."
"Got it."
Turning, she stepped up the dais to Vidic's throne of the lab.
Desmond waited.
She didn't continue.
Dammit, answers, he needed answers if he was going to hope to figure out enough in order to escape. Standing, he put down his sandwich and stalked up to where Lucy was logging into Vidic's laptop.
"Soooo, what?" he asked. "You're using me to find this Templar treasure? What do they call it? The... Piece of Eden?"
"Yes," Lucy replied.
"Well, it's looking like it's at Masyaf," he replied, butchering the pronunciation of the city Altair knew so well. He shrugged. "So I don't know why they're wasting all this time with me? Why don't they just send their people to pick it up?"
"They can't," Lucy said, stopping her typing and resting her arms on the edge of the glass desk. "It's not that simple. The artifact from Masyaf? They had it."
Something deep in Desmond went cold.
Those Templar bastards had invaded Masyaf? They would pay for daring to defiling his home-
Desmond shook his head.
"It was destroyed in the accident," she continued.
"... Then what are they hoping from me..." Desmond shook his head again. He wasn't the one saying anything it was Altair who said it all in the memories, and those weren't his. "For my ancestor to tell them?"
Lucy looked down. "They're hoping he'll show them where the other ones are."
...
What?
Other Pieces of Eden?
What the fuck?
"You mean there's more than one of these things?" Other pieces of silver that bore legends that were unbelievable? Just what the hell were these things?
"Oh, Desmond," Lucy sighed, shaking her head. "You have no idea..."
Really? He never would have known...
Her phone rang again and she answered promptly.
"Is there a problem, Miss Stillman?"
"No, Warren," she replied hastily. "Everything's Denver on my end."
"Then... where are the files?"
Lucy hung up and looked to Desmond. "I've got to move these files before he gets suspicious."
Desmond took the hint and went back to his dinner, letting things turn around in his mind.
Multiple Pieces of Eden. He couldn't believe it. He didn't believe it, to some degree. Yes, there were things called Pieces of Eden out there, he'd seen Al Mualim hold one. But as Altair had said, it was a piece of silver. Maybe aluminum or something, but it was just a metal ball. He really doubted that a sphere could somehow turn everyone across the world into brainwashed zombies. But he was beginning to wonder if he could afford to look at this as magic mumbo-jumbo when it seemed everyone else involved in this believed that it could. Hell, they were sticking him into what must be a multi-billion dollar machine just to find another one.
But if it could, why hadn't anyone done something similar over the years? History just didn't back up these outrageous claims.
Desmond drank some more of his water. He needed to escape. That had to be his priority. They were getting closer to the memory every day, and even with all his dawdling and Lucy's attempt to slow them down, that didn't change the fact that progress was still being made. And once these Abstergo-Templar-bastards had no more use for him, he'd just be a body dumped somewhere to never be found. During his hacking late that evening, he'd have to work harder for some sort of access to the outside world. He had nothing in his cell. Even in the lab. His only hope could come from outside.
He grimaced. He'd left the Assassins and had many a good reason to, but it didn't look like he'd just be able to disappear again. Going solo would just get him killed and the Assassins, from what he remembered, would have more resources than he did himself.
It might mean meeting his family again.
He might be able to apologize. Make amends.
But that was getting ahead of himself. First he needed to crack the closed intranet to find some sort of outside line. A foreign email made it to Vidic; certainly Desmond could do something similar. Though his computer skills were rusty and these systems were far more advanced than whatever hacking he did into municipalities and such.
With a sigh, Desmond finished the last of his pitiful meal and stretched. Lucy was still working on Vidic's computer, so he wandered over.
"What's that mean?" he asked. "That 'Everything's Denver'?"
Lucy gave a small smile. "It means everything's fine."
"Why Denver?"
"It's a reference to Denver International Airport," she explained patiently. "There's an underground facility there. It's where the accident happened."
Accident? What accident? But Lucy was glancing at cameras again, her sign that she wouldn't say more.
Desmond nodded, acknowledging the closed subject, questions still whirling in his head, and just started walking the perimeter of the lab, repeating the exercise he had tried previously before needing to stop. It was soothing and he let his mind go blank, knowing things would still be processing in the back of his head. Maybe he'd wake up and believe some of the unbelievable that was running around. Or get an idea on how to escape.
He kept making laps, checking his pulse every so often, and he noticed that Lucy would watch him with a faint smile.
As Desmond walked by, he offered one of his better smiles. "Wanna join me?" he asked.
Lucy let out a laugh and when he passed her again she shook his head, gesturing to her feet. "Heels aren't made for exercise," she replied. "Besides, I have a lot of work to do."
Desmond gave a shrug as he walked by again. "Your loss."
An hour later and Desmond was pleased with the rhythm he was maintaining and while not a true runner's high, he was feeling a little less stressed than he had been the past few days.
Lucy did join him, heels kicked off, for all of one lap before the freezing air pouring over the computers sent her running back to her heels to warm her toes.
His walking ended, however, when the door opened and revealed an armed guard. At first, Desmond ignored him and kept walking. But a polite cough from Lucy made him slow down.
"You need to sleep," Lucy said kindly. "You've had a long few days. Aren't you tired?" The guard gestured with his gun.
He wasn't tired, but Desmond could take a hint. "Fine, no problem," he replied and headed to his room. He finished cooling down, sat on the floor to stretch, then took a long, long shower and utilized facilities.
Running a hand through his drying hair, he put in the code to his locked door and went out into the lab.
It was late, the lights were once again dimmed for nighttime, and he made a beeline for Vidic's computer. The old bastard had been working on analyzing files and Lucy had spent a fair amount of time there as well. Hopefully there'd be something useful there.
Yet, two hours later, Desmond still hadn't found any port accessing anything outside the intranet to something useful like the internet. In frustration, he started poking through emails, reading about a Flouride Enhancement Study that poisoned a town and Abstergo couldn't cover it up. Some girl named Jane Birkam wanted lunch with Vidic and Desmond hoped the old bastard messed it up. Alan Rikkin, a name Desmond had seen before on emails was apparently quite irritated with the "idiots in the pills division" and their fluoride disaster. There was something in that email as well about the 21st and launch of a satellite, filled with obviously sarcastic comments on how it would help the people.
Desmond started at that for a moment before his brain went straight to Piece of Eden and Mind Control.
It was a deadline. No wonder Lucy was so stressed and Vidic was so grouchy. They had only four months until Abstergo launched something designed to subjugate the masses.
A cold shiver ran right down his spine.
Desmond had to let the Assassins know about this. They had resources; they could fight this! But he needed to get out of here first!
He looked through the emails again and found another conversation between Vidic and Rikkin This one about a secure terminal in the conference room.
Seriously? More secure than these pieces of crap that didn't let him even open Solitaire?
But there was something about a security code...
Hope swelled in Desmond's chest. He was out of the seat quickly and across to the conference room, inputting numbers. Once inside, he barely glanced around before heading for the door on the opposite side, inputting the numbers again.
Nothing.
Desmond resisted the urge to swear, scream, pound his fists on the door, or anything else that might attract attention.
Useless. This was all so useless!
If he could get out, he could overpower a guard, use their keycards, something!
But instead, he was stuck.
Desmond was so frustrated, so angry, so... helpless, he let out a deep sigh.
This had been enough for one day. He needed to go to bed.
TIME is running out there's so little of it left but there's still so much to tell in the blood and the past and the people who are no longer still have so many secrets to share if only there was TIME to get it all down if only there was enough BLOOD to share it all with he who will make the difference but soon they will come for me and the patterns will be lost in the ABYSS of our MEMORIES
Desmond slept fitfully at best, his fear over his imminent fate keeping him up. He had paced the corners of his room but to no avail, and at best he had maybe five broken hours of sleep. He still had the vague sensation of having dreamed, but he couldn't remember it. Sighing, he was in the shower when he heard the door to his cell slide open, and the voice of a certain smarmy god-complex freak. "Time's wasting, Mr. Miles."
"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," Desmond replied, scrubbing his face with a towel as he finished cleaning up.
"We're nearly done, you know," Vidic said, proud.
"And then what?" Desmond couldn't help but ask. He was tired, tired of playing games.
"You'll see. Maybe they'll even let you watch when it begins. It's not as terrible as you think."
"Look, I know you're not going to let me leave," Desomond said, mentally making himself face facts and determined to squeeze the old prick for every last nugget of information he could. "So why not tell me what's going on? Humor me."
"I'm not an idiot, Mr. Miles," Vidic replied in smug tones. "I think you've already learned quite a bit."
Desmond stiffened, his mind jumping automatically to his night hacking - or not-hacking. He had never mentioned it before though... "I don't know what you're talking about," Desmond said wearily.
"Of course not," Vidic replied dismissively.
Right. New angle. "Alright let me ask you something else then."
"Yes?" Vicid prompted.
"Some of the stuff I'm seeing in the Animus, sometimes... it seems wrong. Untrue, like the history is off somehow. It doesn't-"
"It doesn't what, Mr. Miles?" Vidic answered, cutting him off. "Match up with what you read on an online encyclopedia? What your high school history teacher taught you?" The doctor paced slightly, waving an arm as he was prone to do in what Desmond now recognized as lecture-mode. "Let me ask you something: do these supposed 'experts' have access to secret knowledge, kept hidden from the rest of us?"
Desmond rubbed his forehead at being asked an idiot question, but his exhaustion didn't hamper his answer. "There are books letters, documents, all sorts of source material from back then." He looked to the old man. "Some of it seems to contradict what the Animus is showing me."
"Anyone can write a book," Vidic scoffed. "And they can put whatever they want on its pages. Anything. Used to be we thought the world was flat."
"Some people still do," Desmond quipped, uncertain where this was leading.
"Yes, and they publish books about it. Or that the moon landing was a hoax. I believe there's also a book that claims the world was created in seven days! A best seller, too," he added.
Cold swept over Desmond again as he once more realized now nuts these people were. Even atheists didn't diss the Bible like this, did they? How did that smarmy attitude that believed in people who came "Before" and a little ball of metal being used for mind control out of a sci-fi movie connect to a harmless book? How did asking about things that seemed inaccurate lead to an oblique reference to the Bible being full of bullshit? He was too tired for this...
"Where's this going, doc?" he asked, weary.
"The point, I suppose, is that you shouldn't trust everything you hear, everything you read." Vidic smirked again, saying, "What's that your ancestor said? 'Nothing is true'?"
And, almost without thinking, Desmond completed the phrase. " 'Everything is permited.' "
"Yes, exactly. It's part of what makes the Animus so spectacular. There's no room for misinterpretation."
Desmond straightened. "There's always room."
"Touche, Mr. Miles," Vidic said, clearly amused. "Now that I've answered your question, can we begin?"
And without another word the old fart swept into the lab, up the dais to the window overlooking the complex holding Desmond prisoner. Lucy was at the computer, her eyes flicking to him, worried, before absorbing herself in the work again. Another large breakfast lay before him, and Desmond knew the idea of lunch breaks were now a thing of the past. He ate slowly; he didn't have much appetite to begin with after all this, but he forced himself to eat as much as he could and as slowly as he could. His mind felt like jelly, he was exhausted, and there were too many questions floating around in his head - worse, too many he couldn't answer, and he could almost feel the corner that he was being backed in to. What would he do when his back was against the wall? What could he do?
Sighing, he finished what he could and lay on the cool curved table. As the visor slid over his field of view he tried to think about what he could do to stall, to forgo, the imminent future that lay before him.
"Come in my student. We have much to discuss."
Altair stepped up towards the Master's desk. The treasure from Solomon's Temple was out again, Al Mualim still studying it, it seemed. The older man turned from the window and faced Altair squarely. "We are close, Altair. Robet de Sable is now all that stands between us and victory. It is his mouth gives the orders, his hand pays the gold. With him dies the knowledge of the Templar treasure, and any threat it might pose."
Altair nodded, but his eyes flicked to the harmless silver. Could he ask? Should he ask? He opened his mouth. "I still don't understand how a simple bit of treasure could cause so much chaos."
"The Piece of Eden is temptation given form," Al Mualim said, his voice reverent as he gazed at the treasure. He turned back to his student. "Merely look at what it's done to Robert. Once he tasted of its power, the thing consumed him," he said, his hands making fists to annunciate his declaration. "He saw not a dangerous weapon to be destroyed, but a tool," and his voice changed, becoming reverent again, "one that would help him realize his life's ambition."
Life's ambition? Altair thought of what he had learned to this point, of what the other eight had done, the goals they had hinted at. "He dreamed of power then."
"Yes, I know," the master said, his tone odd. "He dreamed, and still dreams, like us, of peace."
... What?
"... But this is a man who sought to see the Holy Land consumed by war!" Altair protested, shocked.
"No, Altair," Al Mualim corrected, raising a hand to forestall further declamation. "How can you not see when you're the one who opened my eyes to this?"
The assassin shook his head, confused. "What do you mean?"
The teacher circled around the table slowly, getting closer to Altair. "What do he and his followers want?" he questioned. "A world in which all men are united. I do not despise his goal; I share it. But I take issue with the means. Peace is something to be learned, to be understood, to be embraced."
Altair frowned, something was off in his master's voice, and he could not place what it was. "He would force it," he said slowly, trying to follow the older man's logic.
"And rob us of our free will in the process," Al Mualim concluded, nodding.
The master assassin shook his head again, looking back at all the questions he had harbored about the Templar plans, the... sympathy he had felt for them. Applying such feelings to de Sable... It was so...
"Strange... to think of him in this way..."
Something softened, just slightly, in Al Mualim's half blind eyes. "Never harbor hate for your victims, Altair," he said in as gentle a voice as Altair had ever heard. "Such thoughts are poison, and will cloud your judgement."
So, then... If Robert's goal was the same as the assassin's, then perhaps...?
"Could he not be convinced, then?" Altair asked. "To end his mad quest?"
A small smile touched Al Mualim's almost white beard, and he shook his head slightly, sadly. "I spoke to him, in my way, through you. What was each killing if not a message? But he has chosen to ignore us."
Altair nodded. "Then there's only one thing left to do."
"Jerusalem is where you faced him first," the Master said, turning and going to his pigeon coup, pulling out a bird. "It's where you'll find him now." He released the bird and it flew out the window to inform Malik of his coming.
Al Mualim gestured to the table. "Let this final offering lend you strength."
It was his old master's sword, the hilt plated in gold, his gift from when he had first made master; its strength was unparalleled, hand crafted just for the precious few that had the title of master assassin. In addition were five more throwing knives, for a total of fifteen. Altair spent a meticulous amount of time going over his weapons, placing the extra knives on his shoulder, checking for nicks on his short sword, taking a practice swing of his master sword, going over every spring and facet of his hidden blade. His status was returned, he was as he once was; but at the same time he was not. He had grown, slowly, painfully, over the course of the last two seasons. He had learned, and with a deep breath he promised himself that the lessons would not go forgotten again.
"Go, Altair," Al Mualim said in serious, formal tones. A hand rose, gesturing him to leave. "It's time to finish this."
The master assassin nodded.
Outside, Altair paused, looking out over the training ring, Rauf and Farasat both putting the men through their paces. Walking down, Altair went to the edge of the ring, listening to the admonishment and encouragement both.
"Don't hold your weapons so carelessly, it must be an extension of yourself."
"Posture, posture! A man reads another through posture, do not strut around like you have something to prove."
"Don't leave yourself so open! Your enemy will use every opportunity to his advantage, give him none."
"No, no, now you've overplayed the part. You are not a slave but a poor merchant, do not hunch your shoulders and dart your eyes."
Almost as one, the two instructors saw Altair and said, "Show them how it's done!"
Taken aback, Altair froze, surprised they had singled him out. Others around him laughed.
The old pickpocket instructor spoke first, still laughing. "Master Rauf, you can have him first. Be certain to work him hard, so I can show these boys how to blend in when their bodies are on fire from bloodlust."
Rauf chuckled goodnaturedly. "As you wish, Master Farasat." Drawing his own sword, he gestured Altair to enter the ring, and the master assassin followed. "You are fully armed, now," he said, glancing to the sword at Altair's hip, now matching Rauf's. "I'm glad. Let us see if your skills have not dulled after so long an interim of boredom." The sword master said nothing else as he launched into a real battle, shoving Altair back with his strike as none other than Templars could. Altair retaliated, and their bout lasted for some fifteen minutes, the two working each other over in an even match. There were several shouts and bets going on, many oo's and ah's as everyone watched the fight. The two did not let the ring limit them, and often others had to dart away as Rauf leapt over that limiting boundary to give himself room to counter Altair's strike, or Altair would dart around it like a building, using the time to switch to his short sword before skidding to a halt and deftly blocking another blow.
The fight ended in a draw, both of them panting and damp with sweat. That led quickly into Farasat walking up and trying to pick Altair's pocket, which the master assassin blocked by grabbing his old instructor's hand.
"Excellent," Farasat said, eyes flicking to his students. "How did you know?"
Altair took a breath, still trying to even it. "You pushed at my shoulder too much, I could tell it was deliberate."
The instructor nodded. "Excellent. Now that all here have seen your skill with a sword, show them your skill of invisibility. Walk as a scholar."
Nodding, Altair bent his head low and clasped his hands, taking a slow, strolling gate of a man in deep contemplation or prayer.
For the next two hours, Altair bounced back and forth between Rauf and Farasat, teaching defense breaks and counter strikes in addition to how to be invisible in a crowd regardless of how many weapons he bore upon him and how to sneak up behind someone alert to the thought of thieves. The novices and apprentices marveled at the master assassin's skills, and the journeymen gave grudging respect - even those that had spat at Altair even weeks earlier held their tongues; they saw something in him Altair, something he had never possessed before: inner peace. The man before them was a man of the Creed, a man who knew his beliefs and accepted those of others.
It was noon when Altair at last departed. The teaching had done him good, but he had a mission to do - the most important mission to date, and wanted to get started sooner or later.
Leaving the keep, Altair made his way down the path, giving proper berth to the rafiq and dai as they passed. None spat at his feet. The basket weaver Ghassan waved at him as he passed, Altair returning the favor.
"Eagle!" Ghassan's four year-old sister bolted up to him, trying to jump up and instead only wrapping her tiny body around his leg and the scabbard next to it.
"Be wary, child," Altair said, carefully detaching her. "You'll cut yourself if you run so carelessly at a man with a sword belt."
"Pick up!" she cried, giggling happily.
Sighing, Altair lifted the girl up deftly, raising her above his head and swinging her slightly back and forth as he walked back to the basket weaver. Ghassan was aghast. "How do you manage to sneak away every time I turn my back," he demanded, shaking his finger. "Nuzhat, you go to our aunt right now and stay with her! Or you'll never come with me to work again!"
The four year-old sniffed. "Mean," she muttered, before shouting. "Mean!" and running behind Altair's legs.
Ghassan sighed. "I'm sorry she is such a bother, Master Altair," he said. He tried to grab little Nuzhat, but the girl darted away and soon a girl and a grown man were running around the master assassin. He watched, amused, for several moments before his quick reflexes swept in and grabbed the girl, lifting her up and handing her to Ghassan in one smooth motion.
"No! Pick up!"
Altair shook his head. "Not when your brother is mad at you," he said softly. "Not when you've disobeyed him. Learn your lesson and mind your place when he takes you here. If not, you loose the privilege of coming - and of me lifting you."
Nuzhat's eyes were bright and watery, and she gave a monumental wail. "Mean!" she shouted, crying.
Altair froze, not expecting the girl's tears, but Ghassan took it all in stride. "Don't believe her," he said quickly, shifting her small weight. "She will cry as loud as she can to get what she wants, and stop in but a moment when her goal is achieved." A small fist landed in his jaw and the basket weaver growled. "She'll kick, too," he added in a flat voice. "You'd best get going. I'll not let this little bundle of trouble keep you."
"I understand. Safety and peace."
Altair continued to make his way down the mountain, nodding to some or talking briefly to others. It seemed everyone was stopping to pay their respects, and Altair had to wonder if he had such graces bestowed upon him the last time he was a master assassin. He could not recall it, but then, he was likely too absorbed in himself to notice. He vowed to himself that he would treasure these times. He had just passed under the stage when he heard,
"Altair, my friend, my brother! Off again on some other assignment?"
Zamil, now dressed in the mail and white smock of Masyaf guard, jogged up to him.
"Safety and peace, brother."
"Safety and peace, though it seems every time I see you you are off to do the Master's bidding again. He seems to rely on you heavily."
"I wouldn't know about that," the master assassin replied. That brought a small frown to his face; he honestly didn't know about Al Mualim's other machinations with the Order. Was he really relied on so heavily? Why were the others not tasked with assignments? For that matter, why was Farasat still in Masyaf? His skills would be better used in one of their cities, Acre or Tyre. Zamil was skilled, surely he should have gone to another city, and yet he was a guard now. Why? What other plans did the teacher have that Altair didn't know about?
"I was promoted," Zamil said, expansively, unaware of Altair's thoughts. "I'm now an assassin proper - very junior of course, compared to you, but I am most pleased. Aaqilah received her first shipment of spices; you should have seen the look on her face when I told her she would be the one doing the inventory. She was so happy to be doing the work I couldn't bring myself to tell her it was because I hated the job. And my daughter! She grows by the hour, and has become fascinated with my voice. Whenever I speak she turns her tiny little head right towards me and stares. Her eyes are like her mother, they pierce into everything."
"I'm glad that you are happy," Altair said.
"I've always been happy," Zamil said, "What I am now, however, is complete, and it makes a word like 'happy' inadequate to describe the sensation." He paused a moment, assessing the master assassin. "But you, it seems, you perhaps know a taste of it. I see peace in you, now. It seems to have settled with you well."
Altair smiled slightly, uncertain what to say.
"Come, you must speak with my wife. I still want you over for dinner, and Master Farasat, too; I've not seen him for weeks and we now live in the same town again! My duties are all consuming, I'd no idea how much work being a guard was, my feet hurt worse than when I traveled hither and yon. The Master makes such odd requests and I'm off to gather herbs and plants or take names of people in the trades and other things. I haven't even started patrols yet!"
Altair held up a hand. "I appreciate the offer, but I'm off to Jerusalem for my next assignment, and I'd rather not linger."
Zamil paused, clearly thinking about Malik and his attitude towards Altair, and he put a supportive grip on the master assassin's arm. "I hope that others find peace with you, too," he said warmly.
"... Thank you. Safety and peace, Zamil."
"Upon you as well, Altair."
His friend departed and Altair once more made his way down the mountain, finally entering the gate square. Under the shade of the massive tree of the square, sitting by the well, were Stephen and Jacob.
"Ah, Master Altair!"
Sighing at another delay, but unable to be truly irritated, the master assassin made his way to the shade.
"So, then, you two are truly not brothers?" Jacob was asking, his aged face so wide in marvel and surprise that he looked almost young.
"We are all brothers," Altair answered, "But Stephen and I share no blood."
"But I don't understand, how is it that you can say that when you have such obvious Christian members such as young Stephen here and some of the others I've seen. You even have those yellow miscreants from Khwarezm."
Stephen answered first. "We are brothers because we are all the same: we are men. Color and race and creed do not change that. It is the tolerance and our acceptance of our differences that make us brothers. All the rhetoric about one people being better than another is nothing but philosophical arrogance, the desperate needs of those who wish to feel special, not understanding that all are special, so that none are special."
"Now you've lost me again," Jacob said, his eyes bright and his mind working to understand.
"Everyone is special in some way," Altair answered. "Some talents are noticed, others lauded, and some envied, but everyone has some talent that makes them special, even something as seemingly mundane as perfect recall." Altair flicked an eye to the errant apprentice. "It is because we all have some skill that the belief that one is better than the other is meaningless. If one sets out to assert that he is above another, then he must somehow prove that he is more special than any other person on this earth, but because we are all special, it cannot be done, and by that logic no one is special."
"Such a conundrum," Jacob said, rubbing at his white beard. "Two diametrically opposed philosophies, and yet your circle of thought..."
"Nothing is true," Altair said, "Everything is permitted."
"Is is through such reason that we here in Masyaf learn how to accept one another, and through that acceptance we learn peace."
"So fascinating. And yet the Lord willingly turned his other cheek, offering it to be struck. Tell me, how does forgiveness of sins fit into all of this?"
Altair held in a sigh. He could be at this for hours and he really needed to go. Stephen seemed to sense this and held up a hand to Jacob. "A moment, brother," he said, getting on his feet. "Master," he addressed Altair, "I wanted you to know that I am doing better, and that Master Farasat will be taking me under his wing. Once I am better at being invisible, I hope to go back to the field and better learn what skills I have."
Altair nodded and put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "You'll do well under him, he is an excellent teacher."
"Thank you, Master. I'll not keep you further."
Nodding, the master assassin left the two to their philosophical debate and finally made it to the gates of Masyaf come on man I gotta desynch or they'll skip me right to Jerusalem!
Desmond stumbled midstep as he finally made it to the black stallion. Yes!
"Damn it! This didn't happen the other day; what's going on?"
Desmond offered a trite response: "No idea, doc," before taking the black stallion at the stables and riding off into the kingdom.
As he trotted down the valley he tried to weigh his options. What more could he do to stall? He had climbed every viewpoint Lucy could find in the kingdom, he'd collected flags in Masyaf and in Acre, would there be more in Jerusalem? And was there anything else he could add to the list? The doc wasn't stupid, he could only use the excuse of "increasing his synch ratio" so long before the actual deadline loomed over any priority on synchronization, and Desmond had proven that he could synch with Altair with far fewer bars.
Rubbing his forehead, the white loading fog engulfed him for a moment before the construct could load the kingdom proper, the mismash of valleys and mountain trails that the Animus cobbled together. No sooner had he left the tiny stretch of valley controlled by the assassins that a patrol of Saracen guards spotted Desmond and made him right away.
"There he is!"
"I'll get you!"
"You cannot run forever!"
"What the hell?" Desmond shouted as he dug his heels in the horse, suddenly taking off down a trail in the exact opposite direction that he wanted to go and struggling to hold on to the reins and steer the animal. "Lucy, what's going on?" he demanded. "They never made me this quickly before!"
So of course instead of the hot blond the smarmy Vidick answered. "Why," he said, his smile obvious in his voice, "Your ancestor's mentor said that they were looking for men in white hoods, didn't they? Isn't it more realistic, then, to program the guards to spot you on sight?"
"God-complex son of a bitch!" Desmond shouted as four guards lined up in front of his horse, swords out, and swung at his horse's legs. The massive animal pitched forward, Desmond with it, and he was certain that he would have broken several bones if it hadn't been for the construct. As it was, he lay on the ground for several minutes before one of the guards ran up and prepared to deliver a fatal blow. Desmond rolled away, though barely, and managed to push himself up to his feet and run.
Legs pumping, arms swinging, Desmond plowed through the dirt road, glancing only once back over his shoulder to see that he was faster than the Saracens. Smirking, he looked around, remembering how Altair often lost his pursuers. He could hear beeping in his ears, a sign that the guards didn't have line-of-sight of him, and he all but jumped into a cart of hay sitting very randomly in on the path, taking a deep breath and waiting. The beeping in his ears slowed down, eventually disappearing, but Desmond didn't dare poke his head out.
"Is there any reason why carts of hay are randomly sitting out in the middle of nowhere?" he asked.
"I wasn't aware that logic played much of a role in the world of your ancestors," Vidic said in his smug voice.
Bastard.
And why wasn't Lucy answering his questions? Was she that focused on the computer? But then, they were all under stress because of the deadline of the satellite launch. Even she couldn't help him all the time; and he couldn't even ask regardless, because he didn't want to draw attention to her. Sighing, he finally took a breath and pulled himself out of the haystack. There were no guards in sight, and his horse was nowhere to be seen.
Right.
And so, not wanting to go on another merry chase, Desmond clasped his hands together and lowered his head and hunched his shoulders as Altair had done over and over, looking like a contemplative scholar, and started to shuffle down the road.
He was still spotted some three more times - damn archery towers - and he got more than slightly turned around as he tried to make his way vaguely south. It was another inadvertent way to delay, and because of that Desmond couldn't quite protest at the huge bother it all was, but he couldn't hold in the sigh of relief when the white loading room finally surrounded him as Jerusalem began loading in the construct.
Except it wasn't Jerusalem.
It was Damascus.
There were a long string of curses after that.
Back out into the Kingdom he once more began the arduous task of shuffling his way south. Again.
He kept coming across horses, usually by another random cart of hay - no doubt a less than subtle hint from Vidic to hurry the hell up, but Desmond decidedly ignored the hint and kept walking, very slowly, down the trails and roads. He didn't know how long it took before he finally managed to load Jerusalem, but when it did he finally let his shoulders drop and once more sighed in relief.
Desmond passed through the city gates with the scholars Altair had used on his painful first trip to the city. They should have been the merchant's sons, but Desmond held his tongue on that score, while he didn't mind upsetting Vidick, it would ultimately do little good and he wasn't sure if the grizzly old fart even knew the distinction. He looked to the left and saw the grateful scholar's house; to his right was St. Ann's church were Altair had killed one of the town criers. He then looked up to the sky, aware the people were watching and that he should at least pretend that he was going to the city Bureau to trigger a memory.
Sighing, he began walking down the main street, looking for the turnoff to the open-air cotton market. The midday sun was still at its hottest position, but if Desmond concentrated he could still feel the cool metal of the table, and he used that to mentally trick himself that it wasn't that hot. Because he was so focused on that he almost missed it, the odd greenish flag tucked away by a carpet merchant. He blinked, looking at it, before reaching out and picking it up. Not every run we do will be of Masyaf flags, as can be expected given we are not there. These are the flags you will be looking for. I know how many I've placed but you don't; see how many you can find in the Muslim Quarter before sundown."
"Lucy," he said, refusing to acknowledge Vidic, "There's more flags here. I'm gonna see how many I can find, see if it affects my synch bar." Then, as a concession to the old fart, he added in bitter tones, "If nothing changes, let me know and I'll drop it." He had no intention of dropping it, but he had to play the part of the diligent prisoner.
"Okay."
Good, she could answer.
He wandered all through the Muslim Quarter first. Altair had spent almost all of his teen years here, he knew the city quite well, and bits and pieces of it triggered in Desmond, as well as the major locations that he had seen when watching his ancestor's memories. He recognized the barbican where Talal had tricked Altair into coming; he recognized the souk, the marketplace where the sons all worked, the church where Altair had eavesdropped, and others. Most of the flags were on roofs, so he didn't have to worry about bumping into people - or more specifically, patrols - and most of the archers he could generally avoid. He wandered into the poorer Jewish Quarter after that, running across roofs of synagogues and mosques and churches alike. His skills were poor; of course, he fell more than once for show, and quite a few purely by accident, but that only helped him stall more.
Done, or at least after finding all he could, he looked up to the sky. "Well?"
"One more bar," Lucy replied. "The last seven flags don't seem to have affected your synchronization much."
"So get going, Mr. Miles."
Sighing, Desmond made his way back to the Bureau, it's tiny bronze-or-brass dome incomparable to the massive golden Dome of the Rock in the Temple Mount. Desmond paused, realizing he had never known the name of the giant landmark until now. He looked at it, reaching up and out over the rest of the city, and remembered that there was a mosque to the south of it. How did he know that? He didn't know a lick about Jerusalem other than its location on a map and all those old fables Christians always assumed everyone knew. He wondered what it looked like today, in the present. Was that massive gold dome still there? Desmond turned, looking out over the clay houses and up the circular guard tower. Was the guard tower still there?
...Would he ever get out of this? Out of here?
"We're waiting, Mr. Miles."
Desmond sighed and jumped down into the courtyard.
Author's Notes: Keep trying Desmond, you'll figure something out eventually! Or not...
There's really not much to say about this chapter, it's just a stepping stone. With Reobert de Sable looming around the corner the next few chapters will be interesting, as you can imagine. We hope to have a few surprise turns here and there, so keep reading!
Next chapter: The famous Church of the Holy Sepulcher, David's Citadel, Templars galore, and oh yeah. Malik. :D