The Illusory Prophet

by Susan Kaye Quinn

  I’m still a dozen yards away, useless.

  Suddenly Tristan slumps to the pavement. Kamali cries out, but she’s cut off mid-cry and drops.

  “No!” The word wrenches out of me as I stumble away from the bike and rush the mob. Before I get five steps, something bites me, a pinch on my arm so sharp it blasts through the panic in my head. I grasp at it, and my mind involuntarily shifts half into the fugue. I struggle to stay present, but my legs go out from under me.

  I’m out before I hit the crumbling, weather-beaten road.

  Consciousness reaches into the dark and smacks me in the face.

  Or maybe it was the hand of the guy looming over me. I’m lying on a cold, hard floor. My eyes barely work.

  The man smiles brightly. “Welcome to the Promised Land, Elijah Brighton!”

  I blink. I’m not entirely sure I’m awake.

  “Let me go.” Kamali’s voice.

  “Just stop.” That’s Tristan.

  Their commotion draws scowl-lines on the light-brown skin of the middle-aged man above me. I twist toward the sound of their voices to see if this is real or a fugue-state vision.

  Tristan is holding Kamali back from coming to me. They’re both dressed in strange clothing—dark brown, rough-sewn pants and a plain, light-brown shirt—but they aren’t fugue-state clothes, so this has to be some version of reality.

  My face tingles with numbness. My hands barely work as I flail to rub my eyes. My head feels locked in a vise—all pressure, no pain—but the rest of the room slowly comes into focus.

  I’m lying in the center of a grand marble cathedral. An ornate dome towers two stories above me with a chain that dangles down to a rough wooden wheel holding a dozen metal lanterns. The room is round and large, with steps on the right and left, and a strange mix of Roman-style columns, sparkling granite floors, and stacks of dingy wooden bins. And people… lots of people. It’s like the bustling gray market back home if they’d held it in a pre-Singularity museum—or Augustus’s mansion in the mountains.

  Where are we?

  Every flat space in the cavernous room is crammed with people, two hundred or more, staring and whispering. I’m in the center, Tristan and Kamali are a dozen feet away, and Nathaniel is slumped on the ground, but I’m pretty sure he’s just passed out. We’re obviously the main attraction. The people are craning their necks to see us while standing on tiptoe on the steps, jostling between the marble columns, and swinging their legs from ledges and stacked crates. Men, women, and lots and lots of children, all dressed in the same dark brown pants and simple shirts that Kamali and Tristan now wear.

  Kamali’s beautiful eyes are wide with concern. I give her a small nod to let her know I’m okay. Tristan is eyeing the crowd like he expects them to surge forward and attack at any moment. But the people don’t seem like a mob—more like they’re here for whatever entertainment the man hovering over me is about to provide.

  My stomach hollows out with that thought.

  “I have to say, I’m surprised to see you here, Eli.” The man’s bright smile has tempered from maniacally enthusiastic to simply amused.

  I struggle up to sitting—I’m dressed in the same clothes as everyone else. Which means I’ve been passed out long enough for them to strip me down and haul me here, wherever here is.

  The sick feeling in my stomach is threatening to work its way up. “We were just traveling through. We didn’t mean any harm.” We’ve clearly been kidnapped, but I’m not sure what my next move should be. “And how do you know my name?” I glance at Kamali—she looks unharmed, just freaked. She shakes her head no. She didn’t tell them. I don’t know how they know me, but it’s obvious we’re vastly outnumbered and making a run for it isn’t an option. Especially with Nathaniel passed out.

  “Everyone knows who you are, Eli.” This guy is all smiles, and it’s unnerving me.

  “Yeah?” I try to shift into the fugue, but I can’t—my head’s still fuzzed-out by whatever they drugged us with.

  The man laughs, a bright and not-too-crazy sound. “My name is Joshua.” He extends his hand, and I stare at it for a beat too long. Then I take it and awkwardly shake.

  “I’m the Elder of the Promised people,” he says. “I’m sure you have many questions. But know this, Elijah Brighton—if you were not meant to be here, God would’ve directed you elsewhere.”

  Oh, crap. I grimace. “We didn’t mean to come here.”

  “But the rains didn’t stop you, did they?” he asks with a small smile. “The washed out roads didn’t keep you from us. In fact, the lack of a straight path to anywhere didn’t dissuade you from coming down the Road of Salvation.”

  “The Road of Salvation?” I’m flashing back to the cult of the Cleansed, the one Nathaniel inducted us into—although this guy doesn’t seem as bent on bloody violence. Yet. But we’re obviously their prisoners. Perhaps sacrifices. Who knows. All my alarm bells are ringing.

  I need to clear my head, get into the fugue, and get more information.

  “The Road of Salvation was given to us by the Lord.” Joshua lifts his arms wide. “God came to my father in a vision, and he said, ‘Take this structure of the pre-Singularity times, before my children abandoned me, and use it to build a new tribe. Be fruitful and multiply, and I shall provide all that you need through the Road of Salvation.’”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head to clear out the fuzziness. It helps a little. I manage a partial shift, and strangely enough, Joshua’s clothes are the same. I blink rapidly, not sure if I’m actually in the fugue or not.

  “Do you understand, Eli?” Joshua’s voice is kind, even gentle.

  My brain has way too many mixed signals to even contemplate a lie. “You’re saying this building was given to you by God?”

  That shining smile is back on his face. “This building. The land and water that surround it. God led us to the pre-Singularity archives here and gave us everything else we needed. We are simple people, Eli, but we’re not uneducated. Did you know this city was once called Olympia? It’s a fitting name for a race of fools who dreamed they could become gods, don’t you think?”

  I have no idea what the right answer is to that. I shrug.

  He smiles. “We’re not ignorant of the current world, either. We watch the net. We saw your performance in the Olympics. There is much speculation among the Promised about your painting of Kamali.” He sends one of those super-happy smiles to her. A shiver races down my back. “You portrayed Ms. LeClair and the Uplifting time so beautifully—and now you’ve brought her to us! You even left the Resistance, those lost sheep who lie down with wolves, to come here! God’s gifts are truly great.” He nods to the crowd, and that same eagerness shines in their eyes. “The Promised cannot wait to see how it unfolds.”

  My stomach is in full rebellion. “We’re just trying to reach Old Portland—” I try, desperately blinking and trying to access the fugue.

  His face falls into a scowl. “The Makers don’t come here. Nor the ascenders—they don’t like the water, and they prefer their hyper-rail. Although mostly, God protects us with his invisibility shield from that unholy horde.”

  This guy is straight-up crazy… unless there really is an invisibility shield around his land? I don’t know what to think.

  He gives me a slightly pained look. “We know it’s hard to see this when you’ve just arrived in the Promised Land. It’s hard to accept that you’re here because God sent you to be among us. That’s why we have the Keeping Time—to give you a full chance to consider the Promised and to realize we are the thing you’re seeking. But Eli, you have to already know what a special gift you are from God.”

  What I know is that we need out of this place. “You know, thanks, but I really think we should get going—” I try to brace myself up from the floor, but I’m still dizzy with the drug, and the room seems to tilt.

  Joshua’s hand is surprisingly strong on my shoulder, bracing me but also settling me back down. “All in good
time, my friend. God brings people to us, but you must decide whether to stay. And not all are welcome, either—we have a holy mission, and not everyone can join our family. But you, Eli… I fear you’re my greatest test. If I fail to convince you to stay, God may judge me harshly for it. It’s not enough for me to farm the land or pull fish from the water to feed my people. As Elder, I also have to feed their souls. And you, my friend, are a Soul Feeder if I’ve ever seen one.”

  A cool prickle runs along the back of my neck. “Look, I’m really not—” Kamali is shaking her head again… only now she’s in her leotard. I’m in the fugue state.

  I whip my gaze back to Joshua. He’s close enough that I can just reach him with my fugue-state hand without having to leave my body. I do, hastily, and the rush of information punches through the haze in my mind. Normally, it takes time to process an entire lifetime of memories, but I don’t have time. I grab at the basics, trying to get a handle on the Promised and what they’re all about. It turns out, they’re essentially peaceful, but anything God sends down the Road of Salvation is theirs by divine right. Even so, they do let people go. Joshua is telling the truth about that. And this soft-spoken, too-many-smiles demeanor is his true self, even in the fugue. He’ll let us go if I insist on it. Or convince him we’re not worth keeping.

  I pull back and blink rapidly to get situated in reality again.

  Joshua is frowning at me. “Are you all right, my friend? Sometimes the sedative takes a while to ease off.” He glances at Nathaniel and waves to one of the members of his tribe. Through Joshua’s memories, I recognize the woman who rushes forth—she’s Rebecca, his second. She kneels at Nathaniel’s side and reaches to his neck. She’s giving him an antidote, the one they often use to revive people. “Your friend is quite large and very difficult to sedate. We had to use several doses—for his own safety and everyone else’s. We wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt. But Becca will bring him around.”

  “Good,” I say, sitting up taller. “Then I have to insist that we be on our way. You seem to have a wonderful family here,” I say, using the term I fish out of his memories, “but we have urgent business. A friend of mine is with the Makers, and I need to bring him home.”

  Joshua’s eyebrows lift, and I’m not sure which part surprises him. Maybe it’s the new confident tone in my voice, now that I understand the Promised tribe is essentially benign. “The Makers are committing the same sin as the people of the pre-Singularity times—the ones we now call ascenders. They believe in the power of the mind rather than the power of the soul. You must join us, Eli, or be left behind, as they will.”

  “Before the Uplifting comes,” I say, using terminology from something he calls the Book of Founding, “we’ll find our way back to the Promised.” My head is cleared out, so I rise up from the floor.

  Joshua rises too, but he’s giving me a pinched look. “We know not the time of the Uplifting. When the Promised have fulfilled our purpose—when we’ve grown and multiplied and are strong enough—God will come for us. Every moment you’re away, you’re at risk of missing it. And there will be no salvation for any others, Eli. We’ll be like Noah’s Ark, carrying the seed of humanity forward through the cleansing. I’m not sure you entirely understand this.”

  I do—at least I can see it through the prism of his memories—but I can’t let on. “I can’t leave my friend with the Makers. He’s like a brother to me.”

  Joshua’s face opens in approval.

  Nathaniel is getting to his feet with Tristan’s help. Kamali is giving me encouraging looks. Now that we’re all awake, it’s time to leave.

  Joshua’s nodding. “It’s commendable that you care for your brother as much as your own salvation. But the Lord sent you down the Road of Salvation, Eli, not him. And I can’t release you until after the Keeping Time, regardless.”

  He gestures again to the crowd, and three large men come forward. They usher Kamali, Tristan, and a staggering, blinking Nathaniel closer to us. The Keeping Time is short—a week or less—but we don’t have that kind of time. The Makers are planning their attack on New Portland within days.

  Joshua continues. “Normally, a young man like yourself, Eli, would be taken as a third or fourth, unless you’re already paired. Are you? Is Kamali your second? Because there are more than a few of us who were convinced of that even as we watched you paint.” His smile is teasing, and a twitter of laughter goes around the crowd. It’s unnerving, as if my whole life is just some holo these people have been watching.

  Then I catch the look on Kamali’s face. Like she’s not sure what I’ll say.

  I face Joshua. “Yes, Kamali is my second.”

  “Very well.” He smiles wider. “Then you two would remain paired, and the others would be taken as thirds or fourths into our families. They seem strong and capable—I’m sure they would make good husbands, plus they need a place and a purpose within the Promised. I’m the third son of a fourth in the Founder’s family, so be assured that all family members have equal importance in the eyes of the Lord.”

  I can see the horror creeping across Tristan’s face, but Nathaniel’s face is just pure, steely anger. Joshua’s memories fill in the blanks—the Promised have family units with multiple partners, both male and female, and many children. The entire tribe is one big extended family, but liaisons as Kamali would call them happen not just with couples—seconds—but groupings of three or four. Then the entire group cares for the children and carries out the duties that keep the tribe housed and fed… and producing more children. The entire raison d’etre of the Promised appears to be procreation. Go forth and multiply. Literally. Given they think they’re the only humans who will survive the Uplifting, it makes a strange sort of sense.

  I may not know the purpose of the fugue, or whether I’m supposed to be a prophet for the Resistance, but I’m certain my purpose on the planet is not to populate it with more Promised cult members.

  “Look,” I say, “thanks for the offer. But we’re not staying.”

  A rustle goes around the airy, round room. The cult’s stronghold is constructed from tons of granite, several stories high. Now that I’ve peered into Joshua’s memories, I see it in a new light—this was a government building, a capital where laws were passed and political power gathered. It's stately and ornate and can withstand a heavily-armed invasion.

  I’m sure it’s also impossible to break out of.

  Joshua frowns then gestures to the crowd. “The Lord has promised us a prophet, Eli—I simply need time to determine if you are it.”

  Kamali’s eyebrows hike up, and even Tristan looks surprised. Nathaniel seems to be ignoring everything Joshua says, just scanning the room with a look that grows darker by the second.

  I clear my throat. “I’m not any kind of—”

  “That’s not for you to decide.” Joshua smiles again in that kindly way. “The Lord decides our purpose.”

  The shiver is running up my back again. The Promised might let an ordinary traveler go, but their long-awaited prophet? No way. We need to leave—now—but we’re outnumbered, we have none of our supplies, and I can only guess what’s happened to our sunbikes. And we’re still a hundred miles from the Makers.

  I swallow, but there’s only one way out of this. I lean toward Joshua, drop my voice, and stare into his eyes for a second. “You’re right. I’m sent by God. And I have a message just for you.”

  His eyes go wide, and he leans back. He’s staring at me like I’ve suddenly morphed into some kind of alien creature.

  Slowly, he gives me a small nod.

  Maybe the Promised are a mob after all.

  I hold my tongue as Joshua tries to quiet the protests that have erupted all around us. Kamali is sending me wide-eyed looks that squeeze down on my chest. Tristan moves closer to her, taking a protective stance, and Nathaniel’s fists curl up, his back to us as he faces the suddenly animated crowd.

  The Promised aren’t happy with the idea of me talking to Joshua alone.
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  Finally, Joshua holds up his hands to the crowd. “My friends,” he calls above the noise. “If Eli wishes to speak privately with me for his message from the Lord, we should grant that wish. These extraordinary gifts deserve our most gracious hospitality. Is that not the commitment we make as the Promised?”

  The tension in the crowd eases a little, settling into a shifting and shuffling of feet.

  Joshua drops his arms. “I promise, I will keep nothing from you.” The grumbling swells up again, and he lifts a hand to them. “I know, I know. Trust me that I am not such an easy mark as you might suspect.”

  A light huffing of laughter goes around the dome.

  “Our gifts aren’t going anywhere,” he assures them. “And neither are we. I’ll take them up to my office, and whatever Eli has to tell me will be revealed to all in good time.” He gestures to the three men hovering around Tristan, Nathaniel, and Kamali. They usher us toward the stairs and the crowd parts. Tristan goes first. Nathaniel must still be recovering because he’s lumbering unsteadily after Tristan, footsteps pounding heavy on the granite flooring. I slip my hand into Kamali’s and give it a small squeeze. Her eyes scan my face, and her unspoken thoughts press on me—she has to know I’m only putting on a show, not really talking to her God, but I’m still cringing as we ascend the marble steps.

  There’s only so much I can do with the fugue—dipping into minds for information or spying on people undetected is as close as it gets to real life. That, and bringing Kamali back from the dead, but that’s something I’ve only done once. And only under dire conditions and because I wanted it so badly. That’s the extent of my “powers” in a practical sense—unless you count those bleedovers from the fugue as a skill, not just me losing my grip on reality. But conjuring animated sketches or bouncing globe lights that other people can see will not get us out of the grasp of the Promised.