Free The Academy by Zachary Rawlins Page B

her neck and jaw for the first time. Someone had tried to strangle Rebecca, and recently, too. She wondered where she had been, and who had been stupid enough to try something like that.
    Rebecca was Alistair’s lieutenant, and the Auditors liaison to the Committee-at-Large, as well as a Board member. Mitsuru had been her classmate, many years ago, and knew her to be resourceful, tactically brilliant, and a peerless empath, justly respected by most Operators, and perhaps less-justly feared by almost as many. She was rumored to have once Audited a rebellious cartel completely out of existence, and while Mitsuru didn’t know the whole story, she wouldn’t have been surprised were it the truth.
    She also knew Rebecca to be a cheerful drunk, a flirt, a fanatic collector of eighties hardcore punk LPs, and by far the best friend she’d ever had. Maybe the only one.
    Alistair looked up briefly as Mitsuru entered, and waved her to an empty chair. Alistair almost never looked tired, but today he looked positively exhausted.
    “There’s no way it could be anything else,” Alistair said grimly, turning back to Rebecca, who sat on one end of his desk, tapping a cigarette in the ashtray he had reluctantly provided, “this whole thing was a set up.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    Mitsuru craned her neck, to see the chart between them.
    It was one of the logic boards that they did in Analytics, a two-dimensional representation of a specific probability threading, with the most likely branches indicated by size and interval. Obviously, it lacked the malleability of the more complete digital models, but some of the older Operators liked to work things out on paper. It looked something like a bizarre architectural schematic, or a particularly convoluted electrical line diagram.
    Mitsuru could read them, but she wasn’t great at it. She’d gotten used to the Etheric network, and its gleaming, immaculate simulations. But even in this antiquated format, she could recognize the overly precise cuts and joins of manufactured probability.
    “What does this mean?”
    “It’s weird to see you so emotional, Mitsuru,” Rebecca remarked. “Something about this incident bother you?”
    Mitsuru shook her head, alarmed at the obviousness of her lack of composure.
    “They must’ve hacked it, Mitzi. Someone sorted through the probabilities, and then eliminated undesirable outcomes, one by one, channeling reality down to one specific set of extremely probable circumstances,” Alistair explained patiently.
    “So we can assume that every aspect of the scenario – Mitsuru, the Weir, the kid, North’s arrival, the whole deal – all intentional. It must have taken a lot of effort,” Rebecca mused, leaning over the chart, “but the manipulation is pretty obvious, once you take a hard look at it. This couldn’t have been arranged too far in advance, or it wouldn’t be quite so crude.”
    “Or they didn’t know how to do it very well,” Mitsuru pointed out, “maybe they did the best job they could, and it just wasn’t that great.”
    “It’s possible,” Alistair allowed, eyeing Mitsuru. “You have a hunch or something Mitsuru?”
    “Nothing that solid,” she replied, shrugging. “Nothing specific. But, it is the other option. You’ve to admit it doesn’t look very professional.”
    Alistair looked at the probability chart again and scratched his head.
    “Whatever the case,” Rebecca said, crushing out her cigarette in the ash tray, “I still think that the North Cartel is an excellent candidate for ‘they’. Have you had a chance to talk with Mister North yet?”
    “No,” said Alistair, shaking his head, “I don’t think I’ll get to any time soon, either. Gaul’s taken an interest, and he takes precedence. I think he’ll make a formal Inquiry. Maybe even call for an Audit.”
    “Really? Why?”
    “Gaul thinks that this whole thing was a trap,” he said, his eyes on the desk in front of him, “to draw out Mitsuru,