Grayson cocks his head a little. “If Cyrus is a betrayer to the Resistance, Eli, maybe you should let him go.”
My hands curl into fists, and I can’t help slipping a little into the fugue state. Grayson’s ascender-tech legs are replaced by human ones, his rough linen shirt is baggie, and he has a dull red kilt wrapped around his hips. It’s so unlike the grizzled military man standing in front of me, it’s startling. But this is a key part of who Grayson is—I just wish I understood what it meant. And whether he’ll send the Resistance’s militia after us as soon as we leave. If word gets back to Lenora where we’ve gone, we’ll never get there.
“Cyrus is no traitor,” I say. “And there’s no way he’s joining a cult. We just had a disagreement—and he has an abiding hatred for ascenders.”
Grayson nods. “If you’re intent on bringing him out of the Makers’ cult, I’m not one to stand in your way.” He pulls a swipe card out of his pocket and flips it to Tristan, who catches it awkwardly while clutching three backpacks. “That will unlock a few sunbikes. They should have enough charge to get you a quarter of the way there. Take the pass through Clemson’s Ridge,” he says to Tristan, who is nodding. “You’ll find caves on the far side. Shelter there for the night. Traveling in the dark when you’re a small party in the out territories is not the smartest move. Once you have daylight, the bikes should carry you the rest of the way.” He turns to me. “Go get your friend. But be safe, Eli. We don’t want to lose you.”
I frown as Grayson ducks back out of the armory and closes the door. The four of us stand in silence for a moment. We don’t want to lose you. I’m seriously wondering who the we is in that statement.
“What just happened?” I ask Tristan.
He shakes his head and tucks the swipe card in his pocket. “You never cease to amaze me with how small you think, Brighton.”
I give him a perplexed look as he passes me, but he just snorts.
Nathaniel hoists two backpacks over his shoulder and follows Tristan to the door. “All right, you heard the man. Let’s go.”
Kamali’s beautiful face is scrunched with worry. She pulls on a backpack and lifts a helmet from the rack. Then she leans over and drops a kiss on my cheek. “You’re too important to lose, Eli. Even Grayson knows it.”
Her words make me frown harder as she tromps in heavy boots after Tristan and Nathaniel. I grab my own backpack, the one Tristan has dropped at my feet, and hustle after them.
I’m getting a pass on this because I’m supposed to be their prophet. Only I’m not doing any of the things they expect. I’m not leading the revolution. I’m not performing miracles. I’m running off to save my friend from some foolish idea he has about taking down the ascenders.
Nathaniel, Tristan, and apparently even Grayson don’t seem to care—they want to make sure I stay alive long enough to become the prophet they’ll hope I’ll be some day.
But what about Kamali?
A sick feeling twists my stomach and says that’s why she’s coming as well.
I awake with Kamali in my arms.
The floor of the cave is hard with only a thin mat to cushion us, but everything else—her body, her hair, the quiet, breathy sounds she makes when she sleeps—is pure softness. She’s still asleep, spooned up against me, my arm draped over and holding her close. A thin, silver ascender-tech blanket keeps us warm, although I’m convinced my body heat alone would warm the cave, being this close to her. We’re wearing the Resistance’s standard black t-shirt and pants now, which work well as sleep clothes, too. A backpack stuffed with clothes serves as Kamali’s pillow, and a few strays of her midnight black curls lift in a slight breeze. I’ve spent the entire night with that softness tickling my face—and I could stay this way for the rest of the day, except for Tristan’s glare from across the span of our hideout.
He frowns with a little more loathing, then looks away. Steam rises from his collapsible cup as he heads for the mouth of the cave, then disappears around the corner to the outside. Nathaniel’s still sleeping—one of his snores bounces off the carved rock walls and rouses Kamali enough that she gathers the blanket closer to her chin. Then she settles into that slow, rhythmic breathing again.
We’re not going anywhere until they wake up—I might as well clear the air with Tristan.
I ease away from Kamali’s curled-over form, tucking the blanket around her and quietly rising from the mat. My boots are Resistance combat gear and heavy, but I keep my footfalls light across the packed dirt of the cave floor.
Tristan barely throws me a glance when I emerge, just goes back to sipping his coffee and staring out from our rocky perch. The view is spectacular—early morning mist is creeping up the foothills, a malevolent fog that starts darkish gray, lightening as it rises, then flaming orangish-pink when it reaches the tips of the bristled trees. My hometown of Seattle is obscured by the rain-heavy clouds that lie like a smothering shroud over the entire peninsula. The sky above is brilliant morning-blue, untouched by the color drama below it.
“You can go home now,” I say to Tristan. “I really don’t need you here.”
He glances down at the meadow below our cave where our sunbikes are soaking up the morning’s offering of energy. Then he takes another sip before he turns to me. “Yes, you do.”
“No, really… I don’t.” I can’t figure out what’s driving him. It’s hard for me to believe this is just about keeping the possible prophet-of-the-Resistance safe. “Besides, I’ve got Nathaniel. We’ll run down to Old Portland, convince Cyrus to come back, and we’ll be back before you can miss me.” I arch an eyebrow, wondering if he’ll rise to the bait.
He rolls his eyes like I’m an idiot. Which is getting old.
“I’ve spent my whole life in the Resistance,” he says. “And now I’m leaving it to keep you alive. Don’t you wonder why that is?”
“We’re not leaving the Resistance,” I say through my teeth. “This is just temporary.”
Tristan looks out at the landscape again. “If you say so.”
Apparently, it’s on me to force this out into the open. “You’re here because of Kamali, aren’t you?” Why won’t he just admit it? “If you’ve got something to say to me, Tristan, let’s hear it.”
He cocks his head toward me. “I’m not here to keep Kamali safe because, well, you already brought her back to life once. She’s probably in more danger being around you, but she’s also got her own personal savior to take care of her. It’s you I’m worried about.”
This knocks me hard because he really seems to mean it. I step back a little on the rocky ground outside the cave. “You’re worried about me.”
“Why is that so hard to believe?” Tristan asks with narrowed eyes. “I’m a soldier, born and raised in the Resistance. Trained as a medic. Everything I’ve ever done has been in service to the cause. My entire life has been one driving need to see this movement succeed. I was convinced that if we just kept trying, long enough and hard enough, with enough sacrifices…” He thrusts out his arm with the line of remembrance tattoos. The dead. “That eventually, the Resistance would start to take hold. We would win over enough ascenders to tip the balance. We would bring in enough legacy humans, drawing them out of their perfect bubble of existence so that they would see the golden cage the ascenders have constructed for them. I was convinced we could win freedom for everyone—and that we didn’t have to wait for some supposed prophet to save us from our destiny as second-rate chattel in the ascenders’ world. And then you come along and…” He shakes his head, letting his tirade drift off.
I jut out my chin. “I want the Resistance to succeed as much as you do.” Which probably isn’t true, but it’s definitely the story I want Kamali to believe—unless or until I’m forced out.
Tristan snorts a laugh, not buying it. “Yeah, right. You were dragged into the Resistance. What are you? A painter? The Messiah? Which is it?”
Heat rushes my face. “No one special.” It’s my standard line, and I’v
e been using it way too much.
Tristan’s unimpressed. “Look, I saw you bring Kamali back. I believe it because it happened in front of my face, and I’m not into denying the obvious. So there is something special about you, Eli. But I seriously doubt you’re the prophet that some in the Resistance have been waiting for. You know, the coming one that’s supposed to lead us into the Second Singularity? How is that even remotely you?”
I grit my teeth. “I never said it was.”
He gives another snort laugh, but this one is a little more amused. “I know. That’s the part that bothers me the most. I can’t decide if you’re just the most inept prophet ever or if you’re some kind of genius manipulator.”
“You know, I really would prefer if you went back to camp.” It’s a good thing we’re not in the fugue because my intense desire for exactly that would send Tristan violently sailing through the air. Yet I know… his words sting because they’re true. I have to be the worst prophet ever drafted for the job. If that’s even what I am. Mainly because I don’t want it and partly because I question my own sanity half the time. People who change the world aren’t supposed to be barely holding it together. But I’m definitely not trying to manipulate people into thinking I’m more than I am—the opposite is closer to the truth.
Mostly, I want it all to go away.
Tristan grins like he enjoys annoying the crap out of me. “Well, you’re stuck with me. Because if you are this prophet—the one thing that will save the Resistance that I’ve devoted my entire life to—I’m not going to let you get killed. Not that I’d miss you, Brighton, but I’ve got other people to think about.” He tips his head toward the cave with Kamali, who I hope is still sleeping.
I can’t see her around the corner, but when I glance back, I find Nathaniel watching the two of us from just inside the mouth of the cave. He lumbers out, giving the side-eye to Tristan and folding his beefy arms when he takes a stance next to me.
“Everything all right, Eli?” Nathaniel asks, his voice still rough with sleep.
I throw a glance at Tristan. “Yeah, everything’s great.”
I turn my back on the two of them and return to the cave.
Kamali’s slender body is restless under the blanket—all the talking is waking her up. I dig out two packs of oatmeal and flex them to get them heating, then grab some spoons and bring everything over to our mat by the wall. I fold my legs and use my knees as a table before I gently stroke her hair to wake her the rest of the way. She blinks open her eyes to gaze sleepily up at me—a slow smile makes her even more beautiful. My heart aches with a level of longing I’ve never really felt before. Having a dozen peoples’ lives inside me gives a whole new perspective on this love thing—I remember lives that never had it; others that had it but lost it; and still more who lived through long stretches of time wrapped in the comfort of being thoroughly loved.
I’m not sure if I have a soul, but the words soul mate fit the feeling—like there’s something deep inside that connects to one person differently from anyone else. I recognize the feeling, echoed through the other lives I carry, and every time Kamali looks at me like this, I’m convinced she’s the one.
“Those for me?” she asks, eyeing our breakfast with something between hunger and dread.
I hand a packet to her. “Only one. Greedy.”
She grins, and everything else—the musty smell of the cave, the angry words with Tristan, all the suspicion and anxiety—just falls away. Kamali tucks into her breakfast, and I eat mine, a comfortable silence settling around us.
Tristan and Nathaniel keep their distance and don’t break the quiet.
We finish quickly, and then we’re busy packing our gear. All four of us hike down the granite path together to our sunbikes. They’ve recharged a little, judging by the indicators on the screens.
“We need to get out into the sunlight,” Nathaniel says as he dons his helmet. The darkened visor blocks his face. “The bikes should recharge fully after that.”
“How far is it to New Portland?” Kamali asks, scanning her bike’s screen as she taps it awake.
“We’re still about two hundred miles out,” Tristan replies. “Our travel time will depend on how much the roads are broken up. The pre-Singularity highways were taken down in lots of areas, so we can’t depend on that. But there’s a bike path that’s off the main roads that still provides a pretty straight shot from Seattle to Old Portland. I’m guessing about eight hours if there aren’t any major blockages or washouts.”
Kamali nods and slides on her helmet. I do the same, and soon we’re rolling out. Nathaniel leads the way, with Kamali following, then me, then Tristan bringing up the rear. We have to go single file because the roads truly are a mess. A hundred years of post-Singularity neglect has let nature reclaim the pavement. Some patches are straighter than others. Some were originally concrete, which staked civilization’s claim against nature and endured longer. Eventually, all of it will be gone. Nature is slow but relentless, and the ascenders have little use for ground transportation, remaining in their shining cities or traveling by air or via transmission to rental bodies. They intentionally let nature reclaim the sprawling spaces between—it’s part of their stewardship of the planet, keeping their footprint small and allowing nature its hold on the ecosystem. I have to give the ascenders their due—they figured out how to get the balance right between billions of beings on the planet and the natural flora and fauna that are unique to this planet in all the solar system. When and if they break out of the confines of our local galactic real estate, I’m sure they would be wise stewards there as well.
I just pity the sentient beings they discover along the way.
We zigzag our way down the foothills. The pre-Singularity highway system runs straight to the city, but we’re skirting the edges, turning south before we reach the no-humans zone patrolled by the ascenders’ sentries.
Seattle’s towers are easily visible now that the clouds have lifted. They flame with the rising sun, scorched with pinks and dark plums like a surrealist painting. I know the truth of the drudgery that lies underneath—most legacy humans spend their time blissed out on Seven or Jolly or tranq’d by virtuals, spooling out their lives unaware of the liberated humans living outside the city. I grew up believing the lie—that humanity had withered outside the protective care of the ascenders. That exile from a legacy city doomed you to a bloody religious cult or starving as a nomad. Part of the Resistance’s mission is to enlighten the kept humans of the planet, to let them know they can choose a different fate. They don’t have to scrabble for their monthly allotment and hide their religious practices from the sentries like my mother did all those years. I see now why she didn’t leave. She and Lenora were plotting a different future, one where I would bring change for everyone. I should’ve left a note for my mother before I took off, but that would’ve risked Lenora finding out where I went. I should be back with Cyrus and Basha before they can get too worried.
We’re making good time, the quiet hum of our bikes competing with the buffet of wind against my helmet to provide a curtain of sound around us. Not long after we turn south, the clouds drop again, descending on us and threatening to drop buckets on the stubbled and broken highway—which is becoming nearly impassable in spots. Three times, we have to dismount to go around big chunks washed out by previous storms. For those sections, we walk our bikes through culverts of soggy grass. Soon we run out of road altogether. Outside the city’s zone of influence, in the ascenders’ reclamation areas, the road has simply vanished and been replaced by meadows and wooded glens like it never existed. Then we have to backtrack. Eventually, we find the bike path that’s supposed to run straight to Old Portland, and it is smoother riding after that.
We don’t talk much. Our helmets have mics, but they transmit everything to everyone. That prospect keeps us buttoned up. The quiet whirring of the bikes’ electric motors settles into a hum that has me floating in and out of the fugue. I can see through the
black armor casings and darkened helmets. Kamali in her leotard. Tristan in camouflage—a soldier even in the fugue. Nathaniel’s fugue-state form wears a ragged, black military uniform, one I first glimpsed when he was threatening to burn the sin out of me.
We’ve been traveling long enough that it’s almost time for a lunch break. Then the clouds open up and dump enough rain to slow us down substantially. We’re dry inside the armor, but the road is slick and treacherous. We slow to a crawl, winding around a large bend in the cracked pathway. It opens up to a field with a ramshackle pre-Singularity building off to one side. I squint at the building to see if the roof is intact, then just happen to shift into the fugue state slightly… and I nearly choke on what I see.
Dozens of people.
“Nathaniel!” I shout in my helmet, but the mic’s not on. By the time I manage to jab the button with my chin, it’s too late.
The people break free of their hiding place and stream toward us, weapons bristling out. Brown wrappings shroud their faces and slick black ponchos cover the rest, but the gun barrels are unmistakable.
I expect Nathaniel to slow down, but instead, he speeds up, going for ramming speed directly into the horde. I pull up short, curving my bike to the side of the pathway, so Tristan doesn’t slam into me from behind. Still, I nearly go down on the wet pavement.
“Kamali!” My voice is shrill as I crane my neck to see her bike up ahead.
It skids suddenly, then loses traction altogether. The armor protects her, but I watch in horror as she and the bike continue to slide toward the oncoming crowd. Nathaniel’s bike goes down ahead of her, but somehow his armor retracts to allow him to leap from it. Then he throws himself into the crowd, mowing people down.
I fumble to ratchet down my armor and go after Kamali, but Tristan passes me, heading right for her. He reaches her before the crowd, but the rain is making everything slick, and his bike goes down, too, knocking over a few people. But a half dozen of them still lay hands on Kamali, lifting her free of her bike. Several more have their weapons out and pointed at Tristan’s head. He puts his hands up. Nathaniel has been wrestled to the ground.
The Illusory Prophet Page 9
