Idols

by Margaret Stohl

  Now.

  “Dol,” Ro says, forcefully. “You have five seconds before this mountain comes down on our heads.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “Four seconds.” Now it’s Lucas pulling me in, even though his injury has weakened him to the point where he can barely lift me.

  I try again. “He was the Padre’s brother.”

  “Three seconds.” Ro won’t even look at me. Tima reaches for me, yanking as hard as she can.

  I’m in the truck now, but I don’t stop. “Tell me this isn’t our fight, Ro. Look me in the eye and tell me that we’re not deserters and I’ll go.”

  Ro looks at me, and his eyes look like fire. Lucas tightens his grip on my arm.

  “Two.” Ro slams the truck into gear, and my head snaps back against the seat behind me.

  Two seconds, I think.

  That’s when rock behind us blasts into the air around us and rubble flies into the truck and black tendrils reach into the cavern.

  Dust fills my eyes and I realize Ro was wrong.

  He was off by one second.

  We’re dead.

  Ro guns the engine, flying toward the open gate.

  We jerk and slow as we scrape through the gate, metal groaning, sparks flying—but Ro wills us through the opening.

  He accelerates toward the light.

  We clear the entrance and I look back to see that the smoke and dust in the air are dissipating, revealing what was once the cavernous opening behind us, the part of the cave wall that has collapsed in on itself.

  The Idylls are sealed shut.

  I turn away and feel the cold and see bright light shining around us as we accelerate through the open air.

  The light hurts my eyes. Apparently I have grown accustomed to the dark. I didn’t know.

  As we rush away from the mountain, Ro slams on the brakes and the truck slides to a stop in the gravel.

  In front of the vehicle, standing in the road between us and freedom, is a man.

  As the smoke drifts between us, he moves slowly toward us like an apparition.

  “What part of ‘don’t get yourselves killed’ didn’t you understand?”

  He takes another step, staggering forward, as if walking is difficult. Then I see that his clothes are bloodstained and filthy—he appears to have been beaten within an inch of his life.

  And I see one other thing.

  An important thing.

  A tattered raincoat, flapping in the chaos.

  It’s Fortis.

  GENERAL EMBASSY DISPATCH: EASTASIA SUBSTATION

  MARKED URGENT

  MARKED EYES ONLY

  Internal Investigative Subcommittee IIS211B

  RE: The Incident at SEA Colonies

  Note: Contact Jasmine3k, Virt. Hybrid Human 39261.SEA, Laboratory Assistant to Dr. E. Yang, for future commentary, as necessary.

  PRIVATE RESEARCH NOTES

  PAULO FORTISSIMO

  09/11/2050

  A VOICE IN MY HEAD TELLS ME I SHOULD ALERT THE WORLD ABOUT PERSES. BUT THEN I TELL THE VOICE WHAT CAN THE WORLD DO THAT I CAN’T?

  AND I’M NEVER WRONG. RIGHT?

  SORRY, VOICE.

  I DON’T TRUST THE UN, OR ANY OF THE TALKING HEADS RUNNING THE SHOW IN OUR GLOBAL VILLAGE. PUPPETS, MOTIVATED TO MAINTAIN THE STATUS QUO.

  I CAN FIGURE THIS OUT. AND IF I CAN’T, NOBODY CAN.

  AND IF I CAN’T COME UP WITH A WAY TO NULLIFY (OUCH) THE DOOMSDAY DEVICES? PERHAPS I SHOULD MAKE A DIFFERENT SORT OF CONNECTION WITH OUR VISITOR.

  I WONDER IF SUCH A THING IS POSSIBLE.

  I HAVE TO KEEP ALL MY OPTIONS OPEN HERE.

  14

  DREAM GIRL

  “I told you, I found myself in one a their Carriers, you know, the damned silver ships.” Fortis swigs out of his old flask. We have been driving for hours, straight toward the Hole. Ro doesn’t stop the transport except to refuel from the three spare drums in back.

  A ship still leaves the Porthole two days from now and, with or without Fortis, we’re still determined to be on it.

  I’m determined.

  We need to get to the other side of the world to find the jade girl, and this ship just might be the only way across that isn’t a deadly silver Carrier.

  Or so the Bishop says.

  Said, I think, sadly.

  I’ve told Fortis all of this, but it’s like he hasn’t heard me. He hasn’t said a word about the dreams or the girl since I told him, as if he doesn’t believe me. Or he doesn’t know how to respond.

  “Hell of a long way to go for a dream, Grassgirl.” That was all he said, but in his eyes I could see there was more.

  I try to shake off the doubt.

  “Go on,” I say, trying to refocus on seeing Fortis’s face, hearing his voice again. What words he actually says should be beside the point, as far as I’m concerned. He’s here and he’s talking again. It’s a start.

  “An’ I was in somethin’ like a bubble, see, but it wasn’t the kind of thing you could break in or out of. An’ there I was, trapped, and I figured I was as good as dead.”

  “You mean, a force field?” Tima has been filing away every word Fortis says, as if she’s taking a deposition.

  He nods. “Exactly. An’ why they took me instead of just zappin’ me on the spot, I’ve no idea. I can’t say that I minded. It just wasn’t what I was, you know, expecting.”

  “And what? You just walked out of there? Said, sorry, but I have a few friends I’d like to help out of a life-and-death jam that—oh yeah—you freaking No Face happen to be causing?” Ro isn’t buying it. Any of it. He seems almost furious at Fortis for coming back.

  Not me. It’s been hours now, and I can’t take my eyes off his filthy Merk face and ragged Merk clothes.

  “Let him finish,” says Lucas, but I feel it from him too. Doubt.

  “I don’t remember what happened after that, an’ that’s the god’s honest truth. I passed out on the ship, and next thing I know, I find myself in sight of the Idylls, cold and lost, and so I start walking.”

  “Just like that? You were just… there?” Lucas is perplexed, but Fortis only shrugs.

  “I knew I was getting close when I heard the noise coming from deep down. That’s when Hot Rod here nearly ran me over and killed me.” He winks at Ro.

  “You’re going to complain about my driving? You who crashed a Chopper into nothing? The ground?” Ro rolls his eyes and I find myself laughing, in spite of everything.

  “I didn’t see any No Face, and I don’t know what they did to me. Queerest thing, but I’m not the kind to question good fortune.”

  “Good fortune isn’t exactly the word for it,” I say, looking out the window. I’m still haunted by the thought of the Bishop sentencing himself to death for us.

  For me.

  “What if he’s a bomb? A spy? A walking Lords comlink?” Ro asks. “We don’t know what they did to him, but we do know the Lords don’t let anybody just walk away.”

  “Good point,” Fortis says. “Stop the car.”

  “Shut up.”

  Fortis pulls out a gun and holds it to Ro’s neck from the seat behind him. “I said, stop the car, genius.”

  Ro slams on the brakes, and the truck goes sliding to a stop in the middle of the road.

  Fortis is out of the car before any of us can say a word. A second later, we’re surrounding him.

  He holds out his gun.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” I say.

  Fortis drops the gun, letting it clatter on the cracked paved road. “Shoot me. That’s the only way we can be sure. You know it, and I know it.”

  Nobody says anything. Finally, Ro sighs. “We’re not going to shoot you, you idiot.”

  “Then you’re the idiots. Either shoot me, or shut up about it. I’m not goin’ to slink around forever wonderin’ whether or not you trust me.”

  “Statistically speaking, of course, Fortis is correct.” It’s Fortis’s cuff, crackling to li
fe. Doc. We haven’t heard from him, not since we went into Belter Mountain.

  “Doc—we missed you,” I call out to the cuff.

  “Good to hear your voice, old friend.” Fortis smiles up at the sky.

  “I, too, am pleased to confirm that the bucket is still awaiting kicking, and that you have awakened from your dirt nap, Fortis.”

  Fortis laughs, suddenly and sharply. The sound echoes down the empty highway, even in the wind.

  “That said, you are correct. There is almost no probability of a merciful outcome in any scenario involving the Lords. They do not seem to possess the capacity for empathy that human intelligences do.”

  “What are you saying, Doc?” Ro speaks up.

  “I am saying that the logical recommendation would be to shoot. Eradicate. Terminate.”

  Fortis stops laughing. Lucas eyes him. Even Tima’s eyes are impassive. It’s Ro and I who are the mass of nerves.

  Ro jams his hands into his pockets, and I recognize the gesture. Stuck.

  I reach out to Lucas. Uncertain.

  Tima. Desperate.

  What about me? What do I think? Does it matter? Could I bring myself to do anything about it, even if I did have my doubts?

  No. So why have them?

  I take a step toward Fortis. “Nobody is terminating anyone. Of course we trust you. It’s just hard to believe you’re back alive. Safe. No strings attached. Doc is right. You should be dead.”

  “Probably,” he says, looking at the ground. “But unfortunately for all of us, here I am. And I can’t explain it any more than you lot.”

  I stand in front of Fortis, tilt my head, searching for something to help me feel better. Something inside him. For the first time, I’m really trying. For the first time, I feel like I really have to.

  Try.

  Fortis looks back at me, knowing what I’m about to do, eyebrow raised in a mock challenge. “Be my guest, love. Mi casa es su casa.”

  I ignore him and search, but his mind moves too quickly for me. I am confronted with a chaotic mess of shifting figures and convoluted equations—elaborate formulas and imagined eventualities.

  This man has a mind unlike any I’ve ever seen.

  I can’t find anything in his mind that I can latch on to. Memories are dim and garbled; I find nothing that comforts me, but also nothing that alarms me.

  Just—Fortis. The inscrutable.

  I stop trying and look into the familiar lopsided, half-apologetic smirk on his face.

  “You got nothing, eh?” And with that, he turns away.

  “Just get in the car, Fortis,” Ro says finally.

  Fortis raises his head. “Look. I’m not happy about what happened at the Idylls. The Bishop was a good man—they were all good people, that lot, if a bit stubborn. But one thing I know is that they would want us to keep fighting.”

  “That’s what he said,” Tima says quietly. “The Bishop. Before he left us.”

  “I never thought I’d see your ugly mugs again, but here we all are. The Lords have given me another chance and we’d be fools to waste it.” Fortis hesitates.

  “We’re not,” Lucas says. “There’s a cargo ship leaving the Porthole the day after tomorrow. We’ve got to be on it.”

  “Ah yes. The dream girl,” Fortis says, his eyes narrowing.

  Lucas stands his ground. “Maybe. Or maybe another Icon Child. Either way, we don’t have a choice but to find out, because maybe this is the key to us bringing down the Icons and the Lords. Something bigger than all of us. So let’s cut the chitchat and get back in the car already.”

  Fortis doesn’t budge.

  I try a softer approach. “Please, Fortis. We need you. We can’t do this alone. I can’t.”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “I won’t.” I reach out my hand and touch his.

  That’s when I feel it. A stirring, deep inside him. A pull between us. Something to be explored. Something to be discussed. A future between us. A connection.

  I think he feels it too.

  Because this time, Fortis doesn’t protest. This time he answers me.

  “All right. I’m with you, love. If you say you saw her, I believe you. Dream on. We need to find this jade girl, figure out what she’s bringin’ to the party.”

  “And then?”

  He squeezes my hand. “And then we take the bastards down.”

  SPECIAL EMBASSY DISPATCH TO GAP MIYAZAWA

  MARKED URGENT

  MARKED EYES ONLY

  Note: Contact Jasmine3k, Virt. Hybrid Human 39261.SEA, Laboratory Assistant to Dr. E. Yang, for future commentary, as necessary.

  FORTIS

  Transcript - ComLog 12.11.2052

  FORTIS::NULL

  //comlog begin;

  comlink established;

  sendline: You are still coming to Earth, correct?;

  return: Correct.;

  sendline: But it appears your trajectory isn’t correct—you will miss Earth by hundreds of miles.;

  return: I have entry and landing protocols that correct for this.;

  sendline: Of course you do. You mentioned you are coming here to prepare the planet.;

  return: yes.;

  sendline: For what? For whom?;

  return: My creators. And my children.;

  sendline: Are they the same?;

  return: In a manner of speaking, yes.;

  sendline: NULL, when you say prepare Earth, can you define “prepare”?;

  return: In terms you might understand?;

  Possible analogies: Converting arid terrain into fertile land. Erasing a chalkboard. Formatting a computer drive.;

  sendline: Can you be more specific?;

  return: Possibly.;

  Decontaminate and recycle all indigenous biological/organic material.;

  Purify atmosphere. Eliminate all potential biological and ecological threats.;

  Repopulate with essential biological elements.;

  Prepare homes for children.;

  sendline: Homes—as in, colonies?;

  return: That is an appropriate analogy.;

  //comlog end;

  15

  REMNANTS

  I stare up at the vast gray deck of an enormous industrial tanker. A ship—our next form of passage, bought and paid for with more digs than I’ve ever seen—or so I think. All I know is that we’re dressed as Remnants, the broken refuse of the human population—the ones who rejected the initial call to the cities when the Lords first arrived. The ones who chose squalor and poverty over the false comfort of life under the Embassies. The ones who, for their punishment, were rounded up and sent to the Projects like cattle.

  And now we are among them, with dirty, ripped clothes and smudged dust on our faces. If anyone asks, we’re to say we’ve been separated from our families since the night the Icon died. Not that anyone will ask. It’s not like we didn’t already look the part. We practically are Remnants.

  I look up. Billows of black smoke spew from tall, cylindrical metal vents, segmenting the length of the ship like so many flagpoles.

  I see the familiar Embassy insignia, painted on the side of the ship. I recognize it from all the way down here, with a cruel twist to my gut. There it is, the image of our fallen planet, always surrounded by the pentagon representing the House of Lords. The same five walls of the Projects.

  The golden birdcage. Earth, trapped like a pet canary. That’s what I used to tell Ro.

  I keep my eyes focused on the landing mark. I try not to think about anything other than what it means. Why I’m here. Where we’re going. Why it matters.

  The little girl waiting for us on the other side of the ocean.

  Things really do change, and then they keep changing.

  Perhaps this is what survival feels like. Or life. I honestly don’t know anymore.

  I can barely think straight, surrounded by so much misery. I have been so long away from the Hole, I have forgotten what the crush of panic and desperation feels like. How I h
ave to protect myself whenever I am in a crowd.

  I feel like I am being trampled by invisible giants.

  Not everything has changed, not even after the Icon has fallen. Not even here. Not yet. Not among the Remnants.

  Sorrow has its hold once more.

  Then the lines of human cargo in front of us start to move again, and I focus my eyes on nothing as I mount the rising ramp that leads me into the cargo hold of the Hanjin Mariner.

  Our ship is moving. The Mariner is leaving the Porthole. From where we are stowed away—curled in the shadows behind the life rafts and the drop skiffs, like Mission children playing Hide the Rabbit—I can look up in the sky and see the vents cough up black smoke as the ship rolls. I’m leaving the Americas for the first time in my life, and that’s all I know.

  I’m frightened.

  Tima is pale beneath her smudged face—still clutching Brutus—and Lucas is silent. Ro is a bundle of nervous energy, happy to be heading back out into the unknown.

  Fortis is less theatrical about it. His low hiss is the only sound track to our departure.

  “You are not to move from these shadows until we are all the way out of port. Let me be very clear about that.”

  His voice lowers as we watch the legs of the crew pass by through the racks of life rafts in front of us.

  “Don’t know how the Bishop thought you’d manage this on your own. Even a Merk only has enough digs to get us smuggled onto this container ship once, so don’t dirt it up. An’ this whole junkbucket’s crawlin’ with two things and two things only. Brass, an’ Remnants.”

  He pauses as a different color of uniform stands in front of us. Smoke from a pipe wafts our way.

  “Brass won’t kick you off,” Fortis says, “but you’ll wish they did. They’ll either blow your head off, or they’ll toss you in with the real Remnants. An’ no amount of dirt on your face can prepare you for that. They’ll as soon kill you as share their supper.”

  Then his voice fades away—like the setting sun around us—and we are left with only the grinding of the motors and the shouts of the crew.