The Gates of Winter Read Online Free
Author: Mark Anthony
said.
“Thanks, Sasha,” Deirdre said.
“So, when will you be back at work?”
Deirdre fingered the envelope. It wasn't very thick or heavy. “I don't know. Soon, I hope. Hadrian?”
She looked at Farr, but he had turned back toward the elevator.
Sasha held a hand to her forehead. “I think I actually liked him better when he was an arrogant git. Would you go get him a stiff drink? Alcohol should reinflate his false sense of superiority.”
Deirdre nodded. “I'll make it my first mission.”
“Good girl.”
Sasha stalked away through the offices, and Deirdre followed Farr to the elevator.
“Sasha's right. What's going on, Hadrian? You won, didn't you?”
“Let's get that drink,” Farr said as the elevator whooshed open.
3.
A quarter of an hour later they stepped through the door of the Merry Executioner, a pub three blocks from the Charterhouse, and their haunt of old.
Over the last few years, a shocking number of London's centuries-old drinking houses had been quietly replaced by chain-owned franchises—establishments that were not genuine English pubs but rather deftly manufactured replicas of what an American tourist thought a pub should be. Deirdre had mistakenly walked into one not long after their return to London. The too-bright brass railing on the bar and the random coats of arms on the walls couldn't hide the fact that the steak-and-kidney pie came out of a microwave and the bartender didn't know the difference between a black-and-tan and a half-and-half.
In a way, the bland commercialization of London's pubs reminded Deirdre of the workings of Duratek Corporation. That kind of thing was right up their alley—take something true and good, and turn it into a crass mockery in order to make a tidy profit. Wasn't that what they wanted to do to AU-3, to the world called Eldh? She could see it now: roller coasters surrounding the medieval stone keeps, and indigenous peasants in the castle market hocking cotton candy and plastic swords imported from Taiwan in order to keep sticky-fingered Earther tourists from noticing the smokestacks rising in the distance.
Luckily, the M.E. hadn't succumbed to the scourge of commercialization in Deirdre's absence. The dingy stone exterior and grimy windows were just unsanitary-looking enough to ensure foreigners would hastily pass by, shrieking children in tow. Inside, things were as dim and warmly shabby as Deirdre remembered. A drone of conversation rose on the air from a scattering of locals. She and Farr slipped into a corner booth and caught the bartender's eye. Scant minutes later they sipped their pints.
Deirdre gave Farr a speculative look over the rim of her glass. “Better now?”
He leaned back. “Marginally. However, I'm not sure just one pint will be antidote enough for an encounter with Sasha.”
“You know, she doesn't really hate you,” Deirdre said, not entirely convinced that was the case.
Farr must not have heard her. He gazed at the pair of manila envelopes Sasha had given them.
“So, are you going to open it, Hadrian?”
“Maybe. I suppose I really haven't decided.”
Deirdre let out a groan. “Please spare me the I'm-too-cool-to-care routine. You know as well as I do that for all the rules we broke, and for all the havoc we caused, we're the first Seekers in centuries—maybe even the first since Marius Lucius Albrecht himself—to report real, verifiable, and multiple Class One Encounters. We've done the one thing the Seekers have always wanted to do: We've met travelers from other worlds.” She leaned over the table. “Admit it. You want to know what the Philosophers have planned for us as much as I do.”
Farr's expression was unreadable. He flicked a hand toward the envelopes. “Ladies first.”
He had called her on this one. Deirdre picked up the envelope marked with her name, tore off one end, and turned it over.
A plastic card fell to the table. On the card was a picture of herself, her name, her signature, and
“Thanks, Sasha,” Deirdre said.
“So, when will you be back at work?”
Deirdre fingered the envelope. It wasn't very thick or heavy. “I don't know. Soon, I hope. Hadrian?”
She looked at Farr, but he had turned back toward the elevator.
Sasha held a hand to her forehead. “I think I actually liked him better when he was an arrogant git. Would you go get him a stiff drink? Alcohol should reinflate his false sense of superiority.”
Deirdre nodded. “I'll make it my first mission.”
“Good girl.”
Sasha stalked away through the offices, and Deirdre followed Farr to the elevator.
“Sasha's right. What's going on, Hadrian? You won, didn't you?”
“Let's get that drink,” Farr said as the elevator whooshed open.
3.
A quarter of an hour later they stepped through the door of the Merry Executioner, a pub three blocks from the Charterhouse, and their haunt of old.
Over the last few years, a shocking number of London's centuries-old drinking houses had been quietly replaced by chain-owned franchises—establishments that were not genuine English pubs but rather deftly manufactured replicas of what an American tourist thought a pub should be. Deirdre had mistakenly walked into one not long after their return to London. The too-bright brass railing on the bar and the random coats of arms on the walls couldn't hide the fact that the steak-and-kidney pie came out of a microwave and the bartender didn't know the difference between a black-and-tan and a half-and-half.
In a way, the bland commercialization of London's pubs reminded Deirdre of the workings of Duratek Corporation. That kind of thing was right up their alley—take something true and good, and turn it into a crass mockery in order to make a tidy profit. Wasn't that what they wanted to do to AU-3, to the world called Eldh? She could see it now: roller coasters surrounding the medieval stone keeps, and indigenous peasants in the castle market hocking cotton candy and plastic swords imported from Taiwan in order to keep sticky-fingered Earther tourists from noticing the smokestacks rising in the distance.
Luckily, the M.E. hadn't succumbed to the scourge of commercialization in Deirdre's absence. The dingy stone exterior and grimy windows were just unsanitary-looking enough to ensure foreigners would hastily pass by, shrieking children in tow. Inside, things were as dim and warmly shabby as Deirdre remembered. A drone of conversation rose on the air from a scattering of locals. She and Farr slipped into a corner booth and caught the bartender's eye. Scant minutes later they sipped their pints.
Deirdre gave Farr a speculative look over the rim of her glass. “Better now?”
He leaned back. “Marginally. However, I'm not sure just one pint will be antidote enough for an encounter with Sasha.”
“You know, she doesn't really hate you,” Deirdre said, not entirely convinced that was the case.
Farr must not have heard her. He gazed at the pair of manila envelopes Sasha had given them.
“So, are you going to open it, Hadrian?”
“Maybe. I suppose I really haven't decided.”
Deirdre let out a groan. “Please spare me the I'm-too-cool-to-care routine. You know as well as I do that for all the rules we broke, and for all the havoc we caused, we're the first Seekers in centuries—maybe even the first since Marius Lucius Albrecht himself—to report real, verifiable, and multiple Class One Encounters. We've done the one thing the Seekers have always wanted to do: We've met travelers from other worlds.” She leaned over the table. “Admit it. You want to know what the Philosophers have planned for us as much as I do.”
Farr's expression was unreadable. He flicked a hand toward the envelopes. “Ladies first.”
He had called her on this one. Deirdre picked up the envelope marked with her name, tore off one end, and turned it over.
A plastic card fell to the table. On the card was a picture of herself, her name, her signature, and
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