The Illusory Prophet

by Susan Kaye Quinn

  I cringe, almost pulling out of our handhold. Does she really think I still want my patron? “Lenora has issues of her own. And besides, I wouldn’t go to her for help.”

  Kamali squints at my littering of artwork. “Looks like you’re not turning to anyone for help.”

  That stabs me right through the chest. “Cyrus would normally get to hear my moaning and complaining, but he’s decided he’s no longer my friend.” I can’t keep the bitterness out of my voice.

  Kamali doesn’t look shocked. “That’s why I was looking for you. I can’t find Basha or Cyrus. No one’s seen them since this morning.”

  That brings my entire body to full alert. “He’s gone?” I can’t believe our fight would make him leave the camp altogether. Then again, maybe leaving was his plan all along.

  Kamali nods. “I came out here because I thought… well, sometimes they come here.”

  I glance around, but it’s already too dark to see outside the radius of her flashlight. I shift halfway into the fugue so I can see through the cave walls to the private nooks and crannies around us, but Cyrus’s hulking form and Basha’s tiny body aren’t among the couples already making out.

  “I don’t see them,” I say quickly.

  Kamali’s eyes have gone wide. “You’re in the fugue right now?”

  “Yes.” My heart is pounding. Leaving the Resistance is far from a safe thing to do. And if Cyrus has run off, I’m pretty sure I know where he’s gone. “You’ve checked the camp, right?” I ask Kamali, scanning the pockets of privacy around the caves a second time.

  “Yeah, but I could’ve missed them.”

  “I’ll find them. Watch over my body.” I close my eyes to concentrate and shift into the fugue completely. Then I rise up and step forward, leaving my body behind. Kamali catches my shoulders and pulls me into a hug that arrests me. The tender way she’s holding my head and softly petting my hair makes me want to rush right back into my body. I wrench myself around and move with the speed of thought back to the camp. I can see through the rough canvas of the barracks and the thin metal of the command center pod, as well as the ascenders’ living quarters and the recently ransacked armory. The luminous bodies inside are much brighter than the supposedly “real” chairs and bunks and weapons. I don’t see my best friend or Basha, but I flit around the camp just to be sure. It doesn’t take long, although time is always stretched and uneven in the fugue state.

  Cyrus is nowhere to be found.

  I will myself back into my body and into Kamali’s arms, opening my eyes and sliding her into a fast hug. “They’re not there.”

  “What’s happened, Eli? Why did they leave?” She’s got to wonder what I did to drive off my best friend and hers.

  “Cyrus and I had a disagreement.” I’ll tell her the rest later, after we find them. “And I think they both may have been involved with the Makers.”

  That makes her eyebrows hike up… then they crash down into a scowl. “Basha’s no traitor.”

  “I know, I know. I’m just saying… Cy sounded awfully sympathetic.” I wince. “And you know he and Basha are pretty tight these days.”

  She’s back to giving me a skeptical look. “Basha’s pretty crazy sometimes, but not like that. She wouldn’t just leave the Resistance. Not without telling me.”

  I give what I hope is more smile than grimace. “Love makes you do crazy things, sometimes.”

  That brings back the frown.

  “But don’t worry—I can find them in the fugue.” Even if I don’t know where Cyrus is physically, years of brotherhood have solidified a sense of him in my mind. That’s all I need to track him. I slide Kamali a half-smile. “You better hug me again. This might take a minute.”

  She smirks, but I don’t wait for her to put her strong, thin arms around me—I pop back into the fugue state so fast, I’m flung above the Resistance camp. This is how I look for Augustus in my periodic sweeps. I can’t touch his mind without being blown out to the void, but I’ve held the man’s personal key—that’s more than enough to find him. And I know Cyrus’s life history even better. I focus on everything he’s ever been to me—brother, best friend, protector—and all of it stabs me through the heart while simultaneously wrenching my fugue-state form across the prairie, through the nearby winding mountain canyon, and popping me out the other side, near Seattle.

  It’s dark, but Cyrus’s and Basha’s forms glow, creating a slow-moving light on the broken road. The black pavement shines under a sliver of moon, and Seattle glitters in the distance—half the buildings are lit from within, and half are shadowed and left vacant. I’m drawn to Cyrus and Basha, hurtling down from my hovering position.

  They’re not alone.

  A man on an armored bike is rolling up to them. The armor retracts, and the man dismounts. He’s wearing a dark helmet, but his fugue-state shines through. He’s older, maybe mid-thirties, with a face that’s wearied even in the fugue. How does a soul get that way?

  I can’t imagine anything good.

  Suddenly, the man swings up a gun—long-barreled and electric—and points it at my best friend. Cyrus and Basha pop up their hands, but Cyrus is already talking and gesturing. My best friend always tries to talk his way out of things—but it’s not like it always works. Just as my panic is ramping up, and I’m trying to decide what I can do in the fugue state, the man lowers his weapon and beckons them. Cyrus and Basha drop their hands and quickly stride over. The man gets on his bike again, and Cyrus climbs on behind, with tiny Basha tucked between the two larger men. As soon as they roll, the black shield activates, mechanically scrolling up the sides to meet at the top, encasing them in armor that’s transparent to me, but which must turn the bike into a black stealth mobile gliding through the night.

  They weave around the pockmarked and broken pavement, and I watch them go without following. They’re heading south of Seattle, and unless Cyrus has suddenly decided to join one of the reservations of religious fanatics—which I can’t imagine in a million years—he’s headed for Old Portland, headquarters for the Makers. From the stolen memories of Zachary, I can picture exactly how they could make their entrance without being blow up by the tripwires the Makers have laid out throughout the city. Does Cyrus know? Or his mysterious escort?

  They could be there before the night’s out. Which means he’ll be there in time for the Makers’ upcoming attack on New Portland. Zachary’s led several other attacks, and they have casualties on almost every mission—even with all their mods, jivs are still outmatched by sentries.

  What is Cyrus thinking? He doesn’t even have augments.

  I could plunge into his mind and find out, but if I want any chance of bringing him back, I can’t lose his trust by fugue-spying on him. I rush back into my body, sucking in air and coming alive in Kamali’s arms.

  “Did you find them?” Her thin fingers are still holding my shoulders tight.

  I nod and rise up, bringing her with me. “They’re heading south to Old Portland.”

  “How could Basha leave without saying anything?” She’s incredulous.

  Her words make my chest physically hurt. Because I have to stop whatever crazy plan Cyrus has—which means I have to leave, too. At least temporarily and maybe longer. Even if it means going straight into the Makers’ city where Miriam might pull a blaster on me again.

  I hold Kamali’s cheek with one hand. “I have to go after him.”

  She shakes her head. “Can’t you go to Cy in the fugue? Convince them to come back?”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” I say, with a sigh. “Trust me, this is something I have to do face-to-face. I have a feeling Cy isn’t just pissed at me. He’s been wanting a way to take down the ascenders forever. This attack the Makers are planning has Cyrus written all over it. I’ve got to stop him before he gets himself killed.”

  Kamali is nodding as I speak. “I’ll go with you.”

  This startles me so badly, I lean away from her. “What?”

  She
gestures to my body. “You need someone to look after you.”

  A rush of tenderness sweeps over me, only it’s hot, like wind from a brush fire. “Kamali…” I swallow. She’s choosing to be with me. Leaving the Resistance for me, even if only temporarily. Because she cares for me. There’s no part of me that can say no to that.

  I struggle with how much of a jerk that makes me.

  “It’s going to be dangerous,” I say, but it’s weak. Because I don’t really want to talk her out of it.

  “Then we better get some help.” She slips her hand into mine, points her flashlight toward the camp, and tugs me forward.

  I glance back at the scatter of drawings—they’re buried in darkness.

  I leave them behind.

  Kamali and I hurry back to the camp, avoiding the command pod and winding toward the back of the barracks. I don’t know who she thinks we can trust with this—Cyrus is a traitor. Basha too, presumably. No one in the Resistance will help us, least of all Commander Astoria. And if Lenora or Marcus knew, they’d do anything they could to stop me. So who does that leave to help us?

  I want to ask, but people are wandering outside their barracks for evening activities, and we’re gathering stares as we rush across the camp. Kamali stops suddenly at one of the barracks in the middle of the row and pulls aside the flap, urging me inside.

  Then I see exactly who she wants to ask for help—Tristan.

  Fantastic.

  Tristan frowns when he sees me.

  My lack of enthusiasm stops me at the door.

  “What’s up?” he asks Kamali, who’s already three steps inside.

  She takes a quick look behind him—there’s a group of four at the end of the barracks who have shoved their cots together and are playing kind of holo game bridged between their handhelds.

  Kamali lays a hand on Tristan’s arm and tugs him closer to the door. “Cyrus and Basha have taken off,” Kamali explains quickly, voice hushed. “Eli’s seen them in the fugue—they’re headed for the Makers.”

  Tristan scowls, mostly at me. “I guess we’ll miss them.” He’s eyeing me like he’s trying to figure out why this is his problem.

  I couldn’t agree more. “Kamali, we don’t need his help.”

  “Yes, we do.” She plants her fists on her hips and throws that determined look at me—the one that says I shouldn’t fight her on this.

  I wince because she’s probably right. I don’t have the slightest idea how to get to the Makers—I can plot a map from Zachary’s memories, but what about food and supplies? Or even transport?

  I keep my mouth shut.

  “My help to do what?” Tristan’s alarm level has kicked up a notch.

  She swings back to face him, drilling him with that determined expression. “Eli’s going after Cyrus. We’re going to need some weapons and probably a transport as well.”

  Tristan’s eyes bug out. “A transport?” Then his expression slams down into a squint directed squarely at me. “You’re leaving the Resistance?”

  He probably thinks that’ll give him another chance with Kamali. “Just temporarily.”

  The disgust is palpable. “Temporarily. Sure.” He shakes his head. “I’ve been half expecting you to bail, Brighton, but running off to the Makers? I have to say, I didn’t see the traitor part coming—”

  “I’m going with him,” Kamali cuts him off, eyes blazing.

  I enjoy the look of shock look on Tristan’s face far too much. I have to work hard to keep the grin inside.

  He blinks, once, twice, then he runs a hand across his forehead, like he’s got a sudden headache. He blows out a long sigh of frustration, drops his hand, and gives a soft look to Kamali. “You’re going with him.”

  It’s not a question, but Kamali answers it anyway. “Yes.” She folds her arms in front of her chest.

  The word hangs between the three of us. If he tries to stop us, Kamali will give him hell. I almost want to see him try, but even more, I wish we’d never stepped into his tent—and that Kamali hadn’t decided he was the first person to turn to. I have a whole fistful of words I’d like to give Tristan myself, but none of that really matters. What matters is that my best friend is headed toward a situation that might get him killed.

  “Kamali, come on, let’s go.” I reach a hand to her.

  She ignores it. “We need supplies,” she says to Tristan. “At least get us into the armory. I know you have the pass.”

  Tristan gives her a long hard look, then he shakes his head and turns to me. “I’ve been waiting for you to do something, Brighton. So this is it, huh?”

  I just give him a pinched look. “My best friend needs my help.”

  “Sure.” He presses his lips in a tight line, then lets out another sigh. He faces Kamali. “Yeah, I have a pass. But that’s not going to be enough. Come on.” He doesn’t elaborate, just brushes past us and heads out the door.

  Kamali and I hustle to follow.

  He’s heading toward the armory, but then he cuts short to stop at another barracks. “Wait here,” he says, then disappears inside.

  A couple strolls past the barracks door, eyeing us curiously. Kamali’s hands fidget at her sides. I keep my head ducked and my mouth shut. After a long stretch of too many seconds, Tristan reappears with Nathaniel by his side.

  Great. I give Tristan a pinched look that says, why are we bringing more people into this? but he ignores me. Nathaniel takes one look at me and falls in step with Tristan as he strides toward the armory. Kamali and I follow close behind, tight-lipped and tense. People clear out of our way. We should probably tone down the body language, but I plan to be gone before anyone can stop us. That is, as long as Tristan doesn’t recruit half the Resistance to help us sneak into the armory.

  The evening is wearing on, and while there are stragglers outside, most everyone is hanging out in the mess hall, camping out in their tents, or hustling out to the caves—there’s absolutely no one guarding the weapons stores. Our supplies took a beating in the raid, and the silver armory pod still bears the black scorch marks of the attack, but Tristan’s pass gets us in. He waves us all inside, keeping quiet until the door is closed.

  “We’re going to need supplies for four on the way out, six on the way back,” Tristan explains to Nathaniel. “Enough for a week at least.”

  Nathaniel nods, and they both pull stuff from the racks—guns and invisibility suits and ammunition.

  “Wait, what?” My mouth drops open as the words sink into my brain. “You are not coming along.”

  Tristan just shakes his head and grabs a backpack for the supplies. Kamali is alarmingly not concerned. In fact, she’s giving a soft look to Tristan that I don’t like at all.

  “I just need some weapons and supplies. I do not need bodyguards,” I insist, raising my voice.

  Nathaniel stops packing and examines me with a piercing look. “I trust you have good reason to go after your friend?”

  Heat rushes to my face as all three focus on me. “Cyrus is in over his head. And he only ran off because I… look, we had an argument, okay? It’s my fault he’s gone. And he’s run off to participate in this attack against the ascenders.”

  Nathaniel tilts his head. “I’ve no love for the soulless ones, either.”

  “Yeah, well, my best friend isn’t a soldier,” I say. “But I can go after him on my own.”

  “You need someone to keep you safe.” Nathaniel and Tristan exchange a look that keeps the heat blazing in my face. They think I’m an idiot. An idiot who doesn’t know how to take care of himself—and who is probably endangering Kamali.

  Nathaniel turns away to continue stuffing weapons and rations into the fresh backpack Tristan has just handed him. “Old Portland is a couple hundred miles,” Nathaniel says to Tristan, ignoring me completely. “Passage could be difficult. Likely bad weather as well.”

  Tristan nods and starts scooping up more supplies into additional backpacks, handing them to Kamali and me. She’s giving me that st
eely-eyed look again, and I stop arguing. The truth is, Nathaniel and Tristan are trained in this sort of thing, and I really could use their help.

  I just don’t like it—or get why they’re so concerned about keeping me safe. Nathaniel, I can understand, in a weird way—he thinks I’m this prophet he’s been waiting for, and he’s already appointed himself my bodyguard. But Tristan? He’s been waiting for me to do something, but I’m obviously not doing what he expects. Is he coming along to keep the possible prophet of the Resistance safe or is there more to it? Specifically, more involving Kamali?

  She’s helping Tristan load up the backpacks. “If we can’t take a transport, maybe we can steal—”

  The door to the armory pod screeches open.

  We all jerk from surprise. Nathaniel grabs one of the guns off the rack and whips it toward the door. Grayson pokes his head inside. He gives a dark look to Nathaniel’s gun pointed at his head, but otherwise calmly scans the situation.

  His gaze lands on me. “What’s going on here, Eli?”

  Crap. I step forward. “We’re just…” I cast a look over my shoulder to Tristan, who’s standing ramrod straight.

  “We’re borrowing some supplies for a road trip,” he says stiffly. “We won’t be gone long.”

  A suspicious look settles on Grayson’s face. “Road trip? Where to?” He’s asking me, not Tristan.

  “Old Portland.” I let the words explain themselves. If Grayson is going to stop us, there’s not much use fighting him—he has his augment legs, and I’m not willing to shoot our way out of this.

  “I see.” He examines me for a beat longer. “I take it this isn’t something the commander needs to know about.”

  Or anyone else. “It would be better that way,” I say, tightly, heart pounding. Is he really going to let us go? “I’m just going to get my friend Cyrus and bring him back.”

  A harder expression carves Grayson’s cheeks. “Just in case you’re considering making it a longer stay, you should know the Makers are a cult like any other.”

  Tension pulls across my back as I straighten. “I’m not staying with the Makers,” I say with conviction. Not least because of Miriam Levine. Until my visions say otherwise, crossing paths with her is a good way for me to get dead.