The Illusory Prophet

by Susan Kaye Quinn

  Cyrus marches past the equipment, which is tended by a small army of Makers—Master Makers and apprentices, each pushing forward the innovations that are the Makers’ common religion. Seeing it in the flesh, and not just through Zachary’s memories, makes it both more grimy and less magical. The Makers’ tech is obviously less advanced than ascender tech, but this is humanity—raw, elbows deep in grease and new technology. It’s not just pre-Singularity tech, either. These are new inventions. The Makers are incredibly prolific and creative.

  Cyrus is grinning like he’s found his favorite place on earth.

  I grimace. It’s bad enough the Makers’ are offering him a chance at vengeance on the ascenders, but an all-human tech paradise, too? Tearing him away is going to be harder than I thought.

  “We’ve got some Resistance equipment in here,” Cyrus says with a smirk that’s definitely aimed my way. “But most of this is Maker tech. They have a ton of pre-Singularity info from a library they saved through the religious purges. They’re super-tolerant of religious differences here, partly because of that. Plus, they’ve got history texts, religious texts, all kinds of knowledge. They know what humanity used to be—before the ascenders reduced us to pets—and they’re committed to rebuilding. To keeping their souls and their faiths, while reclaiming what’s rightfully theirs. And they’ve been doing it, Eli. They’ve been building and rebuilding for a hundred years, advancing one step after another.” Cyrus spreads his long wingspan of arms out to encompass the technological glory around him. “This is what humans can do when we’re not under the thumb of the ascenders.”

  I know all this. And a lot more. The question is, does Cyrus?

  I point to the pristine-white pods at the end of the vast building. “And do you know what happens down there?” They’re the med shops, where the Makers install the jivs’ augments… and where they perform the crazy ritual they call the Offering. The gen tech experiments on humans that produced Miriam. “They’re messing with people’s heads—is that what you want, Cy? Ascendance through gen tech? I thought you hated everything about the shiny pants.”

  “I hate everything they do to proper humans.” He jabs a finger at the med shop. “This is humans using human-designed tech to gain every advantage they can against the ascenders. I make no judgment about what they’re doing here. Whatever it takes, man, to beat the ascenders.”

  “Cy, the ascenders are people, even if you don’t like them.”

  “People without souls.”

  Crap. I’m sure Cyrus believed that before he came to the Makers, but their philosophy is just reinforcing it. “Is that really what this is all about? Whether the ascenders have souls? Because—” I stop. We’re gathering looks from the people on the shop floor and in the nearby cubicles, plus glares from the two jivs who are still acting like our armed escorts.

  Nathaniel and Tristan edge closer to me, standing on either side, like a protective guard. Kamali shakes her head like I shouldn’t be talking like this, not here in the open among people who hate ascenders, ascender-sympathizers, and especially, the Resistance… and who have a whole bevy of machinery at their fingertips, even if I see no explicit weapons beyond the ones strapped to the jivs’ sides.

  I don’t care.

  I drop my voice and direct my words to Cyrus. “Look, even I don’t know if the ascenders have souls. And dammit, I’ve got their tech in me. What does that make me?”

  I’m daring him to call me a soulless monster.

  Cyrus steps back, his eyes going a little wide. “I’m not sure what you are, Eli.”

  It feels like a punch to my gut. I would’ve preferred one of his powerhouse fists straight to my stomach. Suddenly, I’m back to wondering if we’re really friends at all. Or if this thing I am prevents me from having any real friendships with anyone.

  Kamali’s hand slips into mine. It’s so unexpected that I almost pull away. Then I grip her hand harder and pull it to my chest. I’m captured by the closeness of her deep brown eyes.

  She smiles a little. “I know exactly what you are.”

  It lights up everything inside me.

  “Oh, for the love of God, get a room.” Cyrus’s disgust is exaggerated. And there’s a huge smile on his face. “Hey, Kamali, I know someone who’s going to be happy to see you.” He steps up to one of the cubicles and raps on the door. Without waiting for an answer, he swings it open.

  Inside, there’s a Maker I don’t recognize, wearing goggles and bending over a large stamping machine. He works a giant metal lever to press something into a large piece of plate metal. Next to him, watching intently, is Cyrus’s second, Basha. She’s dressed in the same rough-sewn clothes as the rest of the shop people, only she has a leather apron, leather and glass goggles, and a smear of dark grease across her fine Arabic features, darkening her light brown skin. Her normally immaculate hands and forearms are likewise grimy.

  Basha looks up at our entrance, then shoves her goggles to the top of her head, leaving behind a ring of clean skin around her eyes. “Kamali?” Basha’s dark, intelligent eyes quickly scan the rest of us, still crowding the doorway. “I’ll be damned. You owe me those chits, Cy.” She gives him a smirk that he quickly returns with a sharp nod.

  Kamali hurries into the room and hugs her friend, blithely ignoring the mess that’s covering her.

  Basha squeezes her tight, then pushes her back dramatically. “I’m a mess! What are you doing?”

  Kamali is all smiles, but she’s also shaking her head. “I can’t believe you let Cyrus talk you into this.”

  Basha’s face squishes up. “Talk me into it?” She gives Cyrus the side-eye. “What have you been telling them?” Back to Kamali, she says, “It was my idea. Your second is an idiot, but that’s nothing new. I just didn’t think it would work. There was no way he would leave you for anything less than Cyrus, and even then, I was doubtful.” Then she smiles a little. “What I didn’t tell Cy was that I knew you’d come if Eli left. Ah, hell, come here.” She reaches out and hugs Kamali again. “Thanks for not making me lose that bet.”

  The rest of us ease into the room. Basha scurries around, giving me and Tristan greasy hugs by turns. She politely shakes hands with Nathaniel.

  Back to Kamali, she says, “You’re not going to believe the cool stuff they have here—”

  “It’s not as fancy as ascender tech,” a voice says from the doorway behind us. “But then, it’s not made by soulless demons, either.”

  Every head twists to face the door. But I know before I look—Miriam. She must’ve arrived with ascender speed on her augments because she wasn’t there a moment ago.

  I grit my teeth and fight the urge to somehow bolt out of there. I slowly turn to face her—she looks just like she did in the camp, when she was pointing a blaster at me and trying to kill me. The black and battered material that comprises her legs looks just as intimidating as the rest of her—black body armor from the legs up, muscular arms that appear accustomed to combat, and a deadly serious expression that feels like it wants to cut me in half.

  “And you,” she says, obviously to me. “I’ve seen you in my dreams.”

  I can’t help shifting into the fugue when I see Miriam.

  There’s something about her that draws me into it. Or draws the fugue out of me. The connection between us has been getting stronger—first, the visions of her stabbing the earth. Then the vision of my death. Then her stabbing me.

  It’s not a good progression.

  Her fugue-state form is the usual medieval armor, as battered and beaten as her black-metal jiv legs. There’s no sword in her hand, but her entire body is a weapon. She doesn’t need anything other than her augments to kill me.

  Or anyone else in the room.

  “I’ve been seeing you, too,” I say, pulling myself fully into reality and keeping my words clipped. There’s no way I’m telling her anything she doesn’t already know. “Not exactly a dream, though. More like you were stealing my ships.”

  “Yo
ur ships?” She barks out a laugh. “They belong to the ascenders. You’re just a pet.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck bristle. “I’m no one’s pet.” I turn my glare on Cyrus. “So this was the plan all along, huh?” My anger is back full-force. I’ve barely been here five minutes, and he’s brought me to Miriam. This has been all about getting me out of the Resistance so I would join the Makers.

  “No, Eli, it’s not like that.” Cyrus is a little wide-eyed. “Just listen to her.”

  I shake my head. I told him about my visions of her—the first ones, at least—and how dangerous her mind was. What is he thinking? And more importantly, what has he told Miriam about me?

  I swing back to her and give her my coldest look, not least for sucking my best friend into her cult. “I already know what the Makers are about. And I’m not interested.”

  She looks amused. “I wasn’t thrilled to have you here, either.”

  I narrow my eyes, not sure how to take her meaning. “Then maybe we should be on our way.” I glance at the rest of them. “All of us.”

  I include Cyrus in that, but he looks like he’s about to explode with tension. Kamali and Basha are wearing their worry in scrunched-up frowns. Even Tristan is looking uncertain about this whole situation, which makes sense—we’re prisoners if the Makers want to play it that way. Nathaniel is sizing up Miriam in an obvious way, like he thinks she might be the first one he’s called upon to kill to protect me.

  Great.

  Miriam finally steps into the room. “I don’t think your friend wants to leave.” Her dark eyes scan the length of me, measuring me the way the ascenders do. It’s unnerving. I’m sure that’s the intent. “And I wouldn’t suggest trying to take him by force.”

  I return the glare, but my chest is getting tight. “That’s not why I’m here.” Even if it were possible, and even if I thought it was best for him, I wouldn’t force Cyrus to leave the Makers.

  She edges closer, the fierce intelligence in her eyes lighting up. “Why are you here, Elijah Brighton?”

  I swallow, but I see the opening. She’s curious about me, just like everyone else. She doesn’t know what I’m about, but she’s seeing me in her dreams. And what’s that about? Are her dreams really visions, like mine? Miriam’s intelligence is radically enhanced, but does that mean she’s accessing the fugue? Zachary’s memories don’t hold the answer, but if I were her—and I hid the fugue state for a long time—I would keep the extent of my abilities a secret. Until the time was right. Or I was forced to reveal it. Maybe forcing her to reveal her true self is the key to showing Cyrus how much of a threat she and the Makers really pose.

  I hold the staring contest we’re having a beat longer, then say, “Maybe we should talk about that.”

  Her expression opens, and the curiosity wrestles with suspicion. “Maybe.”

  “Alone,” I add. If something goes down between us, I don’t want Kamali and Cyrus and the others mixed up in it. I already know her mind is too much for me, so this will be tricky at best and dangerous at worst. I’m not even sure it’s possible to get her to show her hand, but I’m willing to take the risk to convince Cyrus to leave.

  Miriam is searching my face for something, but she seems conflicted about what she finds there. Finally, she says, “Agreed.”

  Kamali breaks away from Basha to come to my side. Her hands are fists, tight at her sides, and the carved beauty of her face is afire with her agitation. “I don’t like this.”

  I frown. “It’ll be fine. Stay with Cyrus. This won’t take long.”

  My reassurance doesn’t seem to carry much weight. If her glare for Miriam were any more heated, it would melt the girl’s augments into a metal puddle.

  Basha grasps hold of Kamali’s arm, breaking her stare. “Come on, I’ll give you a tour.”

  Kamali just pulls away and shakes her head no.

  Cyrus eases up to the two girls. “Eli and Miriam are only going to talk, right?” he says to Kamali, but he’s looking to Miriam for confirmation. I don’t know what arrangement they had beforehand, but a couple dozen jivs wouldn’t have intercepted us at the Makers’ entry point if they didn’t have permission from Miriam—she’s their commanding officer as well as their prophet. She agreed to let me into the Makers’ camp, and it has to be that curiosity. The dreams. They’re haunting her as much as my visions. I don’t know what that means, but I need to find out.

  Kamali lets out a low breath of frustration.

  Tristan rubs the back of his neck. “I’d kind of like a tour, actually. Kamali, let’s let the bigwigs talk.” He gestures her away from me, which I don’t care for, but it’s probably for the best. He’ll keep her safe.

  Nathaniel crosses his beefy arms and stays by me. “I’ll be accompanying Eli wherever he goes.” He leaves no room for negotiation in that statement.

  Miriam gives him a look like she’s unimpressed. “If you’d like an escort, Eli, that’s fine with me.” She’s back to that arrogant amusement. So much like an ascender. But given that she’s smarter than the rest of us, as well as being an augment and trained as a soldier, I doubt Nathaniel could take her. It’s unlikely to even be close.

  Miriam turns her back on us, striding out the doorway and obviously expecting us to follow. Tristan’s already huddled with Kamali, whispering something in her ear as she shakes her head, so she misses my wordless apology. I hesitate, wanting to say something to her, but decide against it. I stride out with Nathaniel close behind.

  Miriam walks a little faster than human speed—a not-so-subtle reminder that she’s better than we are. It’s so ascender-like in its arrogance, I have to bite my tongue. We leave the shops and head through a separate rabbit warren of covered awnings and hacked through doorways, tunneling through the abandoned stores and high-rises of Old Portland. I’m not sure where she’s taking us, but it gives me a moment to figure out my angle as we pick along the ruins of her city. My prime concern is getting Cyrus out of the Makers, hopefully before the planned attack on the ascenders—and before I run out of time and Lenora tracks me down. Once she figures out where I am, I’m sure she’ll try to “rescue” me, which could be a real disaster. Second priority is figuring out Miriam’s capabilities and why my visions keep leading me to her. I need something to convince Cyrus that she’s dangerous and definitely not the leader he’s looking for. It’s bad enough that the Makers want to commit genocide against the ascenders, but if Miriam’s at all like me—and she’s definitely something—then he’s got to see how that is dangerous to everyone. If she’s willing to kill billions of people, what wouldn’t she do with whatever abilities she has with that enhanced, powerful mind?

  Which begs the question: how much does Miriam know about me?

  Cyrus may have already spilled everything, but I doubt it. My best friend may lie and connive and flat-out deceive me when he thinks it’s in my best interest, but he doesn’t spill secrets unnecessarily. Especially my secrets. Maybe.

  We emerge from the warren of tunnels and reach a building with thin stone arches lining the hexagonal outline of its walls. There used to be a dome in the center, but only half of it still stands, charred and broken, the rest open to the air. The walls are bunker-like with their rugged stone, but the wooden entrance door looks half rotted away.

  Miriam disappears inside.

  Nathaniel keeps pace with me as I cross over the threshold into darkness.

  The inside is in much worse shape. Benches are lined up like fallen soldiers tipped over on their faces, all pointing toward a large stone table up front. Everything is charred black and rotting—the walls, the floor, the benches—and the air is musty with the mold that must grow in every damp crack and shadow. Sunlight glares from the open dome, but it only spotlights the table below it, leaving the rest in darkness.

  Miriam works her way to the front and the beam of light from above. She stands with her back to us, places her hands on the table, then tips her head up into the brightness. There’s a peaceful
, almost ecstatic look on her face by the time Nathaniel and I catch up. I don’t know what she’s doing, but it unnerves me—it’s far too close to my visions of her. She has the same look of pure, unrelenting joy she has just before she stabs me in the chest with her broad-bladed sword.

  Miriam steps back from the table, shrouding her face in darkness, and speaks across the beam of light. “I come here to my father’s temple to meditate, but I’m not praying—there’s a difference, Eli.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” What game is she playing with this?

  “One is asking for help from a God who may or may not be listening,” she continues as if I haven’t spoken. “My father’s God has never answered those prayers. The other is summoning the one thing God did give us—our humanity.”

  I frown and move around the side of the stone table with the dramatic angelic light. This is just theatrics, and I need to see Miriam’s face to figure out what she’s playing at. She looks amused, one side of her mouth turning up. We’re both in the shadows now.

  It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust.

  She’s pretty, in a dark and intense kind of way. Her long, deep-brown hair is bound behind her, but it looks like it might be curly if she let it loose. Her brown eyes glint with that razor-sharp intelligence.

  “If our humanity is the one thing God gave us,” I say, playing along, “then who are you to tamper with it?”

  Her small smirk disappears. “Tamper? That’s a loaded word from a boy who was formed in his mother’s womb not by God but by the ascenders.” Her eyes seem to sparkle a little more with reflected splinters of light.

  I narrow my eyes. “That’s a lot of judgment from a girl whose claim to fame is a mind pumped full of gen tech.” As long as we’re playing this game, we might as well lay it all out.