The Beginning of Silence

Chapter 12

It did not take Desmond long to figure out he hated the double synch.

It wasn't so much that he had to worry about his partner dying on him (he could protect James without breaking a sweat) but the consequences that came with letting himself getting desynched (he had been doing it purposefully all day so James could get used to it) made his life hell. In the event Desmond lost synchronization, James would panic and, rather than run for a checkpoint so Desmond could reboot, would scramble to get away with little regard for his own safety. He would fall from great heights, hurt civilians, trip and fall and accidentally give the guard more time to catch up with him. It was frying Desmond's nerves. Why couldn't he just run for a while, listen to the awareness indicator, and jump in a hale bale when the coast was clear?

What was even worse was what Jenifer called the "Subject-to-Subject Interface," or what Desmond referred to as the "telekinetic hoo-hah I would rather deal without, thanks." The SSI was a link between Desmond and James, over which they could discuss things using nothing but their heads. Their ancestor's bodies said nothing aloud, but Desmond and James could communicate with their thoughts as plain as day.

"The link is the cause of all our problems, Jen," Desmond said grumpily as she rebooted him for the fifth time. James, looking thoroughly embarrassed, stood off to the side. They had been in the tutorial level for nearly an hour, testing the double synch again and again… and failing each time. "When I desynch, Mr. Wet-Behind-The-Ears over here freaks out 'cuz my thoughts go bye-bye."

"Would you rather me turn the SSI off, then?" Jenifer asked.

Desmond nodded. "You got it."

"W-wait," James stuttered, walking over to Desmond. "I don't think that's such a good idea…"

Desmond's scowl deepened. "Why the fuck not?"

James looked at the ground ashamedly. "I…"

Desmond's eye twitched. "Spit it out!"

"I'm scared!" James blurted. He sighed; now that the truth was out there was no use sugarcoating it. "Okay, it's out. I'm scared. Shitless, in fact."

Desmond cocked his head to the side. "Just how old are you?"

James blinked. "Uh… nineteen. Why?"

"You out of the house yet?"

"Freshman at a university… but why is this relevant?"

"Oh, no reason. Just seeing if you were still dependent on mommy and daddy. You act like you are."

James bristled, and his only fist clenched spasmodically. "And just what is that supposed to mean?"

Desmond pinned him with a hard, unwavering glare. "It means," he said, "that you're clinging to me like a stubborn child."

James gaped at him, but recovered quickly. "So?" James asked, defensive. "Can't you have a little compassion? This place is freaking me out, and you're getting mad just because I feel like I need support? Just because you're better at this than I am doesn't mean—"

At that point, Desmond snapped.

"Do you think this is easy for me?!" Desmond roared, taking a menacing step toward Subject 18. James backed off a little as Desmond gnashed his teeth. He'd had about enough of the kid. "I'd rather be thrown into a pit of snakes than stay in here and listen to you whine! And don't give me that 'I'm new at this so coddle me' shit! Just wait until you're hands are bathed in so much blood you can hardly grasp a sword without it squishing in your grip! Wait until you're so deep in a memory you can hardly tell yourself from your ancestor! Wait until you lose yourself so completely that it's a surprise when you wake up on the Animus! Wait until blood glows on the walls and people change colors right before your eyes! Just fucking wait, you whiny little shit! Just wait!"

Desmond's chest rose and fell frantically. James was standing utterly still, his eyes as large as coins. It took almost a minute for someone to break the syrup-thick silence.

"Um… so, should I shut off the SSI, then?" Jenifer asked tentatively.

Desmond's anger broke. "Oh, shut up," he grumbled, "and leave it on."

"W-wait," James stuttered, frozen stance breaking.

"What now?" Desmond's growl was filled with malice… but it was a tired cruelty, one with little feeling behind it.

James took a deep breath. "We can cut it off," he said slowly, "if you'd like."

Desmond breathed a weary sigh and waved a dismissive hand. "No," he muttered, "not if you need it."

"If you're sure," James said after a moment's hesitation.

"I am."

"Let's try the double synch again," Jenifer said offhandedly. "Loading guard evasion practice." A smattering of buildings, hay bales, guards, and civilians materialized out of the blue mist of the Animus.

Desmond turned to James, who looked quickly at the ground. His cheeks were flushed with embarrassment.

"Just try your best," Desmond said, and walked forward to place a hand on his fellow subject's shoulder. James looked him briefly in the eye, then swallowed and looked down.

"I will," he said, and together they walked towards the holographic city.

An hour later, they had perfected the double synch.

It was strange. Desmond's outburst had acted as something of a stress reliever; he was more fluid on his feet and more tolerant of James's mistakes. It was this newfound leniency that allowed him to adapt and become acclimatized to James's personality and mindset. With a cleared head, he was more willing to allow James into his consciousness and show him the ropes of being synched with both the Ancestor and his fellow Subject.

"Good job," Desmond thought absently, brushing hay from the front of Altaïr's white robes. He had been hiding in a hay bale after purposefully alerting a troop of patrolling Saracens. James had spirited himself away to another hiding spot, and Desmond could feel his presence through the SSI link.

"Thanks," James answered cheerfully.

"Which hiding spot did you use?"

"Bench."

"Wow. Those are the hardest. The civilians see you running and they get up and leave."

There came a chuckle. "I passed three before they'd let me sit down."

Desmond laughed. "Typical. Anyway, Come and find me and we'll try to—"

He didn't finish, as he stopped when he saw the scenery around him shifting. Colors began to bleed into one another, then fade into blue and white. Soon the city and its denizens were gone.

James was standing about a dozen yards away. Desmond trotted over to him.

"What's going on?" James asked. "Where did everybody go?"

"I dunno," Desmond muttered. "Maybe they're pulling us out."

A voice sprang out of the blue void. "Nope." The cheerful tones belonged to Jenifer. "Vidic got onto me. Said the tutorial had drawn on long enough. You guys ready for your first dual memory?"

Desmond glanced at James. Subject 18's face was drawn, but a steely determination belonging to James glittered in Malik's eyes. Still, the features were pale, so Desmond asked: "Will you be okay?"

James tried to smile. Failed. "I think so. I hope so."

That was good enough for Desmond. "'Atta boy," he laughed, giving James a playful punch on the shoulder. Then, to Jenifer: "Is this a childhood memory or an adult memory?"

"Childhood," said the Animus's operator. "It took place just before the Apprentice's ascension to Cadet-hood."

James shot Desmond a confused look. Jenifer, apparently, saw it, so she clarified: "The Assassins had a ranking system based on skill level," she said patiently. "There are nine ranks, beginning with the rank of Novice and ending with Grandmaster Assassin. Apprenticeship was one step up from being a Novice, and a Cadet was one tier higher than an Apprentice. I'll give you a more thorough explanation later, but this will have to do for now." She paused. "I'm going to load you into your younger bodies, now."

Desmond and James immediately began to mutate. They grew shorter, leaner, and their outfits changed from tailored whites and blacks to ill-fitting and stained tans.

"Whoa!" James gasped. Desmond found it interesting to see an arm growing like a plant from Malik's empty socket. "What's happening?"

"We're going back to a memory from Altaïr and Malik's childhood," said Desmond. "We have to be in their kid bodies for that." He cocked an eyebrow at the sky. "Can't James have a go at the kid's tutorial? Having a smaller body takes some getting used to."

Jenifer said: "Nuh-uh. Vidic's insisting we get a move on. This memory has two goals: one is that you get used to the double synch for real, and the second that it will further us along on the memory time line. He's adamant about starting it today; the sun is rising outside the Animus. You've been at this all night, and need rest… and though I think you should get out now, Vidic won't let me pull you guys. We've gotta do this, and fast."

James and Desmond looked at one another. Jenifer had given them a lot of information to process.

"When you're ready," she said.

"Ready," both subjects chorused in unison, and lost themselves to memory.

Altaïr and Malik sat crossed legged in the sparring arena. About twenty or so other Apprentices sat nearby; the two were simply dirty faces in a crowed of grimy children. Utterly nondescript, they were set apart from the others only by their distance from the rest of their peers; it was as if their fellows were scared to approach them, and had left them to their own devices at the back of the ring.

"Are you nervous?" Malik whispered quietly to Altaïr. Altaïr shook his head.

"No," he said in a low voice, tracing his fingers idly over the dusty ground. "Are you?"

Malik hesitated. "A little," he admitted, "though not so much as to be distracted by my fears."

Altaïr nodded. "Good."

Malik opened his mouth, then closed it. A black-robed Teacher with a white beard and a heavily line face had walked to the front of the arena, and as Malik and Altaïr watched he raised his hand for quiet. The murmured questions of the Apprentices faded into the hot summer air.

"As you know," the Teacher said, "today is the day we, the Assassins of Masyaf, give the Apprentices a chance to prove their mettle and show to us that they are ready to receive the promotion to Cadet-hood." He stared at the crowd of young men, who were really little more than children whose eyes shown with the fervency of excitement. "You must complete a predefined task to the satisfaction of your superiors." His old eyes grew hard. "Know that if you fail, you will have to wait for another year for this day to come. We give you only one opportunity a year to climb a rank; do not lose this chance. Some of you—" the old man's eyes flickered towards a group of boys who were all noticeably taller than the others "—know well of the shame of which I speak."

Altaïr looked at the boys the Teacher had glanced at. Bashan, Hashat, and Madar had each been Apprentices for over two years, and were notorious for their bullying of the younger Apprentices. Bashan was the leader of the trio, and his build showed why. He was huge, covered in a layer of hard muscle and thick skin. Hashat was the quickest of the three; he was tall, thin, and whip-like. His eyes glittered with malevolent intelligence. The last of them, Madar, was as dumb as he was ugly: he had a squash-shaped nose and beady little eyes overhung by a pebbly brow. His arms were thick as fence posts, and he had the long-limbed, short-torso-ed body of an ape. He was the strongest of the three, and followed Bashan blindly.

As if sensing Altaïr's scrutiny, Bashan's head swiveled on his massive neck. Their gazes locked; Bashan sneered and elbowed Hashat, who grinned maniacally at Altaïr.

"Altaïr," Mailk whispered. "Stop that!"

"Stop what?" Altaïr asked in surprise. "I was only looking—"

"At the biggest bully ever!" Malik hissed. "He'll snap you in half if you anger him! Try not to give him more of a reason to do just that!"

Altaïr sighed. He wondered why Malik was not used to this. Malik had been the youngest of the Apprentices before Altair had joined, and had been picked on by Bashan since his first day at the fortress. Altaïr was the newest target, and his rapid progress in his eight months since his promotion to Apprenticeship, coupled with his age, had attracted the twice-held-back Bashan's attention. He'd been without several meals since he joined Bashan's rank level.

Altaïr cleared his head of such thoughts. No use thinking about them now. He looked back up at the teacher.

"Your task is simple," the Teacher said. "You are to pick the pocket of one of the ten Instructors roaming the village of Masyaf. In their pockets are scrolls, like this one." From the sleeve of his tunic, the Teacher pulled a strip of parchment wound around a smooth piece of wood. It had been closed with a red string tied in an intricate knot. "You are to bring back one by sunset, and report to me in the Library."

The Apprentices began to murmur amongst themselves. Altaïr looked at Malik, and a wordless communication ensued. Their facial expression and body language said volumes about their thoughts.

Altaïr smiled triumphantly. "This will be simple!"

Malik nodded in agreement, which meant: "I agree." However, Malik was ever pessimistic, and his face darkened. "There must be a catch."

Altaïr rolled his eyes, which obviously translated as: "That's just like you, you cynical little…"

"However…" said the Teacher.

Malik's frown turned upside down. "See?"

Altaïr scowled. "Braggart."

"…under no circumstances are you to open the scroll and see what is contained within."

His words were met with silence, until one lone voice whispered:

"Why not?"

Yes, why not? Altaïr thought. Malik looked similarly troubled. The Apprentices began to mumble like angry bees.

The Teacher held up a hand. "If any of you reaches the rank of the Assassin, you will be entrusted with secret information." The boys were quiet again, breath held as they heard a story about their idols. "If we can not trust you with a mere scroll, then how could our Master, the great Al Maulim, ever think to trust you with the removal of one's life?" He spread out his arms and tiled his face at the noonday sky. Bright sunlight made his beard shine like white fire and his black eyes glow. "This is not only a test of your skill, but of your trustworthiness. Your honesty and candor are being measured this day; do nothing to jeopardize our opinions of your person!" He lowered hi arms and smiled.

The boys were deadly quiet, and all their faces glowed. They had been deeply moved by the Teacher's words, and were wound taut as bowstrings.

The Teacher's eyes glittered as he took in the sight of his pupils' growing zeal. "Now," he said, when he thought he'd kept them waiting long enough, "go!"

A mad scramble ensued as the boys ran headlong out of the fortress's gates and headed for the village, whooping and hollering with purpose and joy.

Altaïr meant to run after, but Malik caught his arm. "Wait," he said. "Running impetuously into battle will get us nowhere. The ones with the scrolls will be on the look out for boys seeking to pick their pockets. We must approach with discretion and calmness of mind, Altaïr!"

That made sense, and Altaïr nodded. "Forgive my actions. I was not myself."

Malik frowned and shot a glance at the Teacher who had told them of the test. The old man was walking slowly back into the cool Library, a smile on his lips. "I think our Teacher's speech intended you to feel that way. His language, his face… everything was charged to stir us up, make it easier for us to err and fail."

Altaïr blinked. "But why would he do that?"

Malik's head shook from side to side. "I have no idea. But don't let it trouble you. For now, let's just plan out a strategy to get those scrolls. Now, since you're better at this than I am, map something out and I'll provide criticism." Malik had always been better at refining plans, while Altaïr better at coming up with them to begin with. Altaïr's plans, however, were rough by nature, and Malik's keen eye for detail made their plans perfect when they worked together to achieve a common goal.

The two boys sat crouched in the dirt of the arena floor. With a stick, Altaïr sketched out a crude drawing of the village. "We should start with reconnaissance. First, landmarks. Here is the well," he said, pointing with the stick, "and the Gates. Now, if you circle around here—" he drew a curving line in the dirt "—I'll go this way. We will rendezvous here—" he made a slight depression in the dry earth "—and report what we have seen. Then we'll—"

A shadow fell over the boys and the map. The two of them looked up sharply, straight into the face of the Teacher who had riled all of the Apprentices up.

"Why have you not gone down to the village?" he asked. His eyes were concerned. "Have you given up already?"

Altaïr's pride stung. "No, sir," he said. "We are forming a plan before we run head-first into the fray."

The Teacher was silent for a moment. "Are you, now," he said. It was not a question.

"Yes," Malik said.

The Teacher looked down at the dirt map. "And what is this plan of yours?"

Altaïr hesitated, but Malik nodded encouragingly. Altaïr cautiously outlined his ideas.

"A solid plan," said the Teacher. "Yes, very solid indeed… needs polish, certainly, but…" He eyed both Altaïr and Malik approvingly. "I'm sure your friend can help with that. What are your names, children?"

They told him. He nodded.

"The nephew of the Damascan trader," he said to Malik, who gasped in surprise. The Teacher knew of him? "Your Instructors call you gifted in the art of logic and strategy, though they say you lack imagination."

Malik stammered an affirmative, but the Teacher had turned to Altaïr.

"And you," he said, "are that orphan of Al Maulim's. The youngest Apprentice."

He said no more. Slowly, Altaïr nodded.

"Interesting," the Teacher murmured. "Yes, very interesting." His eyes had gone cloudy and far-away; now, the snapped back to the boys. "Good luck on your journey, my children," he said, and left them sitting in the dirt.

Malik frowned at his retreating back. "What a strange old man," he whispered, "to be so interested in us, two lowly Apprentices!"

Altaïr said nothing. The Teacher had known of him, and of this he was wary. He had come to know, mostly through the actions of Bashan and the teachings of his Instructors, that being noticed was not a thing to be longed for. What did that Teacher want from him, and from Malik?

"Let's go over the plan one more time," Altaïr said, turning back to the task at hand. He smiled to himself as he reiterated the plan to Malik.

The task at hand was one he would surely win.

Of that Altaïr was certain.

AUTHOR'S BORING NOTE OF BOREDOM

Blah. I'm too tired to write a note. This chapter took me three hours. I'm tired. My fingers ache. I have dance lessons tomorrow at 5 A.M. Fuck. Love me for writing you all this at [checks watch 10 P.M. I mean, given the length of this chapter (3,000 words) it's obvious that I love you.

See ya next time! Will they get the scrolls? Tune in to find out!