The Illusory Prophet

by Susan Kaye Quinn

  The ride through the nighttime sky to the Resistance’s camp is ridiculously short.

  No harrowing sunbike ride over neglected pre-Singularity roads. No trials and tribulations in the Promised Land and on the Road to Salvation. In fact, flying through the clouds feels like being in the fugue—separate from reality. In particular, the reality on the ground of people’s lives I’ve just radically changed.

  I keep my thoughts to myself, still struggling to assimilate the lifetimes I’ve absorbed—and to come to terms with the things I’ve done and the things I’ve said. I’ve healed bodies torn to pieces. I’ve resurrected a corpse dead for who knows how long. I didn’t just bring someone back from the other side… I healed what was broken here.

  In reality.

  In front of a mob.

  The question that’s fighting through the after-shock buzz in my brain isn’t how I could do it but… what else can I do? Is there nothing off limits now? For all my words of lecture to the Makers about not leaving a bloody trail in the wake of their quest, they aren’t the ones with this power.

  I am.

  The buzzing in my head closes in again, shoving that idea aside. It’s too big. I’m still stitching my mind back together—I can’t cope with all of it at once, and my brain is shutting down in some kind of defense mode. Like there’s a teetering edge of madness tucked inside that big idea, and I’m dangerously close to it tumbling over it. The dark scowl on my face echoes the tremulous uncertainty about all this that claws at the edges of my mind.

  Everyone leaves me alone—but they’re definitely talking about me.

  Lenora and Marcus are communicating in a way that reminds me of the first time I saw the two of them together. It was at Lenora’s apartment on the outskirts of Seattle, and I was just figuring out that Marcus was her second. They touched hands and gazed into each other’s eyes with a look so intimate, I knew it went beyond transmitted communication. They’re doing it again now, and the flow of colors along her skin, blending across the contact between their fingers, reminds me of the intimate touch of the fugue. It’s a level of knowing that goes beyond anything merely human. I’m not jealous, like that first time, when Lenora was still everything I desired, both to be and to have. Now I just feel a gulf of separation—from them and everyone else in the transport—that comes from the deep and unsettling knowledge that I’m fundamentally different from everyone else, ascender or human.

  I can absorb their lives, but no one can truly know mine.

  That thought draws my gaze to the whispered conversation between Kamali and Delphina, tucked in the opposite corner. They’re speaking in French, which makes a smile threaten my lips. If they’re trying to evade my understanding, it’s one of the few ways that will work. None of the lives I’ve absorbed so far include someone fluent in the lilting language of love. But I have no doubt Kamali and Delphina are talking about me. I’m actually thankful I can’t understand the words—the side-eye looks are bad enough.

  The transport hovers silently downward, the slight shift in momentum making its presence known in my stomach. As we land, Lenora breaks from her discussion with Marcus and strides toward me. I turn away, avoiding her and tromping down the exit ramp when the door winks open. I’m first off the transport, ready to get away from everyone and everything for a moment of seclusion to pull myself together, but Lenora catches my elbow and tugs me to the side of the ramp. The others debark—Marcus flits ahead, and Grayson, Cyrus, Basha, and Tristan follow after in a stomp of boots and an absence of words. Kamali and Delphina are still in the transport, hanging back. They probably want to talk to me, too.

  I sigh and give Lenora my attention.

  A curling wisp of gray flashes across her skin. It’s a kind of distress—I can see that now. I still don’t understand everything there is to know about ascender minds, but having seen the disparate parts of Lenora’s mind broken apart and then helping stitch them back together, I have a deeper sense of how she works. A more intuitive feel, at least.

  “Eli,” she says in a hushed voice. “You’ve entered the most dangerous time of your ministry.”

  I give her a half-cocked grin that almost feels drunk. Come to think of it, I’m feeling a little light-headed. “What ministry? There’s no ministry. I’m not preaching anything.”

  “Aren’t you? Because that sounded like a sermon to me.” She’s dead serious, and she’s right—and I know it was more than just a speech. “You need to go into seclusion,” she adds. “We’ll set up a remote way for you to deliver your message. Marcus and I—”

  “Marcus and you? Since when are you and Marcus a thing?” Although I’m glad to see them back together—she’s been broken, and so has he. They need each other.

  “Marcus and I are united in this,” she says with a scowl and a touch of impatience. This isn’t what she wants to discuss. “We have a stronghold you can use—a safe place in the ascender world that can serve as your base of operations—”

  “No.” I don’t want her to get too far with whatever plan she and Marcus have hatched, not until I figure out what I’m doing. And her sudden enthusiasm, her insistence that somehow this is the start of my “ministry,” is ringing alarm bells in my head. Maybe I’ve already screwed this up. Maybe that speech in front of the Makers and ascenders and everyone was a mistake. Because I’m not just painting pictures with my mind. The bleedovers are real. And that edge of madness comes not from losing my grip on reality but having too strong a hold on it. Too much power. Too many people will want to use me, and at the top of that list are ascenders.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I say.

  “Eli, it’s not safe for you here,” Lenora insists. “You have to know that.”

  My mind is still fuzzy, so I look out at the Resistance’s darkened camp and give myself a moment to think that over. I have Cyrus and Kamali’s love—that’s the rock that’s holding me up right now, the steady ground under my feet. And I have a new trust for Tristan, Nathaniel, and Basha, forged when they stood between the raging crowd and me. Plus, they’re all looking at me differently, now. Approvingly. I’m finally acting like the prophet they’ve been waiting for. Lenora won’t let any harm come to me because she literally created me for this moment—she’s as fervent as any Promised cult member in her beliefs, and she has ascender ambition to go with it. But now she’s allied with Marcus—as seconds, no less—and I flat don’t trust him. I’m starting to understand how love can compel you to do almost anything. It’s what gives it power. And makes it dangerous.

  Everyone has an agenda in this.

  I have to be careful.

  I finally give Lenora a small smile. “I’m safer here than with the Makers. And I would have been fine there, too, even without your help.” The truth is I’m not safe anywhere anymore—and safe isn’t as important as other things, just like death doesn’t have the same weight when I can cheat it for the people I love. And even those I don’t.

  Lenora scowls, and she’s about to say more, but the rattle of boots stomping on the ramp distract her. Delphina and Kamali march down, exchange a look, then Kamali gives me a grim smile and splits off to head toward the barracks. I’d like to follow after her, but Lenora and Delphina have me boxed in. I’m in no state for arguing, really—I want to just dismiss their concerns, whatever they are, and find some space alone.

  “Can we talk?” Delphina asks me, ignoring Lenora’s monopoly on my time.

  Lenora glares at her. “We’re not done talking about this,” she says to me, but then she disappears with ascender speed, probably running off to meet up with Marcus.

  I turn back to Delphina. “I guess I’m all yours. But I could use something to eat. How about if we head to the mess hall?”

  She frowns like she thinks I’m kidding, but my light-headedness isn’t just grappling with the craziness of manipulating reality—I’ve had nothing to eat since we stopped our sunbikes for lunch, and that was an eternity ago. It has to be close to midnight now. I’ll have t
o scavenge whatever’s left over from dinner, but I’ll eat anything at this point.

  I start walking without waiting for an answer, and she falls in step with me.

  “Kamali told me you saved more lives.” It’s not quite an accusation, more like she’s independently verifying it with the source. “You brought more people back from the dead. Including Cyrus.”

  “Yeah.” She didn’t see it for herself, not like the others.

  “If that’s true,” she says, like she’s not entirely convinced, “and if you continue to speak like you did at the Makers’ camp, then you’ll win people over.”

  We round the corner of one barracks and start down the middle of the open area between. Even this late at night, people have come out to whisper about the return of the transport. And me. The prophet. All talk ceases when they see us.

  I ignore them. “I’m not trying to win people over.”

  “I know,” Delphina says. “That is the problem.” Her French accent is showing.

  I throw a side look to her. I’d really rather talk about this later, once I’ve eaten and rested and assimilated… and had a chance to form my own plans for going forward. But it doesn’t look like she’ll give me that chance.

  “Problem?” I ask. “Why?”

  “Because I don’t believe in a Savior.” She pulls me to a stop before we turn down the walkway between barracks that leads to the mess hall.

  “That’s okay, neither do I.” My stomach rumbles audibly. No matter what people think, I’m still human—a human who eats food and needs sleep and falls in love. All the normal things, even if I’m nothing even close to normal.

  “What exactly do you believe, Elijah Brighton?” Her dark eyes are serious and blazing.

  “I’m still sorting that out.” I hope she won’t demand more before I get something to eat.

  But of course, she does. “If you don’t believe you’re a Savior, but you perform signs and wonders, what does that mean? Where do you really stand? Because it doesn’t matter if you’re the Savior or a true miracle worker… what matters is that, given what you are and what you’re saying, you’re a leader they will choose to follow.”

  I frown and lean back a little. Is she afraid I’m going to steal her following in the Resistance? But the seriousness of her stare isn’t like the panic I saw in Miriam’s eyes—Delphina is too passionate for her cause, putting it far above her own interests, to be threatened by the coming of the long-awaited prophet. Even if that’s not what I am.

  I think. “I don’t know if anyone’s going to follow me.” Or where I should lead them, but I leave that unspoken.

  She nods like this complete cluelessness is what she expects from me. “If you can pull people away from the Makers, that’s a good thing. If you will stand for life and love, and give them an idea to follow, then they will follow you… or they will be driven by fear and anger, and they will follow Miriam. If you’re ready to be that kind of leader, Eli, then I’ll tell my mother your time has come. We will allow you speak for the Resistance once again.”

  I squint at her—they want me to do PR for them? Is that what this is about? I hesitate in answering because I’m not sure whether that’s a good idea. Is the Resistance only interested in using me like everyone else?

  “I don’t know. I need to process all this. And get something to eat, if you don’t mind.” Only now my stomach has turned queasy.

  “Don’t take too long in your… processing. People will know within minutes, hours at the outside, of what has happened. What you’ve done. Your speech. There’s a time for words and there’s a time for action—when you bring those two together, you have something called leadership. Are you capable of it, Elijah Brighton? Because I’ve questioned that from the very beginning.”

  “Thanks a lot.” But her criticism isn’t exactly unfounded. I’ve been shirking the role of leader all along, and for good reason. It doesn’t suit me—it never has.

  Joshua’s words keep floating back. The Lord chooses his prophet. I don’t think the Lord has chosen anything—more like the universe, expressed through Lenora and her experimentation, has put me in a position where being a leader is, if not my fate, then something I have to choose.

  Or more people will die.

  I suck in a breath and give Delphina a less abrasive look. “I just need a little time.”

  She tips her head to me, then turns her back. Her boots are too heavy for her short form, and she crushes the grass under them as she marches away.

  I head toward the mess hall, but my stomach has turned into a pile of writhing snakes, so I veer toward my barracks instead. I just need a short retreat—to meditate and assimilate and come up with an answer for Delphina before things spiral out of control. Again. I can’t avoid it, not like before. The stares are already following me as I pass the softly-glowing tents that illuminate the hushed darkness of the camp.

  When I reach my barracks, the door is blocked by a garrison of Resistance members, with at least twenty surrounding the tent, full body armor and weapons bristling. Marcus stands by the door, consulting with Cyrus and Tristan while Nathaniel doles out instructions to the militia. Kamali and Basha are huddled nearby, whispering to themselves.

  “Is this still my barracks?” I ask Cyrus as I approach, not quite sure what’s up.

  He gives me a nod. “We cleared it out for you. Why don’t you head on in and get some rest?”

  I frown as Tristan scurries over to pull the canvas flap back for me. I almost give him crap for it, but my snappy retort dies in my throat with the serious look on his face.

  “We’ll keep it quiet for you, sir.” He’s military-polite again, like when I first met him, back when he thought I was someone to respect. It’s so bizarre, it unsettles me even further.

  I glance at Kamali—she gives me a nod like she’s approved of this setup. So I step through the doorway, and Tristan closes the flap behind me.

  The barracks is empty of people. Even the beds have been removed, all except my cot at the back. I stroll the length of the canvas tent, seeking the Dalai Lama’s mat for my meditation. My body seems to gain weight as I go, fatigue suddenly alive and pulling me down. As my body slows, my mind spins up, as if all the questions I unleashed back at the Makers’ camp are suddenly finding a roost inside my head and buzzing around my brain.

  What does it mean to be a person who resurrects the dead? And paints with reality? I don’t even know the extent of my abilities, much less what I’m supposed to do with them. Basically, I have no idea what I’m doing.

  And that’s dangerous.

  I need guidance. It’s time to seek out the two people I’ve been avoiding, simply because I was afraid I wouldn’t find them—Leopold and the Dalai Lama. An ascender who’s died and a Tibetan monk I hope has reincarnated.

  I settle onto the Dalai Lama’s mat to prepare myself to go into the fugue, but instead, a wave of exhaustion washes over me. I lean back against my cot, and my eyes fall shut of their own accord. I give in to the pull of sleep and barely climb on top of the scratchy gray blanket before I’m out.

  We’ve found the recombinizer. Miriam will be pumped! Hernandez and Tyrone have wrestled it from the wall. Master Maker Gibson should get a medal for that contraption he put together. It smacked down the soulless ones’ tech, slicing through that wall like a hot electric knife mod through flesh. We’re going to be heroes! No one’s talking, but Zachary’s signaled it—we’re heading back to the ship. We get halfway there when everything goes sideways. Shouts over the comm. They’re being hit. I pick up the pace, running ahead of the recovery team. No way they’re taking us down now. No way! I bust out of the glass-walled hallway, a blaster in each hand, blazing fire and going for the sentries’ heads. I blow two back into parts and pick off a third going after our guard detail—crap, those Resistance guys are down!—but then something yanks me sideways and slices white-hot pain through my body. I’m on the ground, fallen on the heaps of glass. The pain is blinding me. I stop fi
ring so I don’t hit our people. I try to get up, but my legs aren’t working right. I flail and finally look down… my leg is missing.

  Just gone.

  Shock rushes my brain, but a second dose of Resilience kicks in, and I struggle up to sitting, propping my blaster on my good leg and laying down cover for the recovery team. Then another flash of light, and my arm is blasted off my body. I see it tumbling through shattered glass—

  I jerk awake and convulse on my cot.

  I nearly heave out the contents of my stomach, then blink fast, gulping in air. A heart-stopping glance at my body shows it’s still whole. I’m Elijah Brighton, I tell myself furiously, shaking my head and pulling firmly into this reality. Cold sweat beads on my forehead as the vivid dream fades into the recesses of my mind. No, not a dream—memory. Maker jiv Simone Simpson, part of the assault team at the ascenders’ genetic research facility. The casualty with an arm and leg blown off. The one I saved.

  She’s part of me now.

  I push up to sitting on my cot and kick at the scratchy gray blanket that’s wound tight around my legs, still fighting the nausea of living through Simone’s nearly life-ending injuries. I’ve hardly slept all night. It’s been one scene after another from battle-filled lives that aren’t mine, replaying as they stitch into the fabric of my mind and become me. Despite the trauma, I feel somewhat rested. Better than last night, at least. I must’ve slept because a plate of food has appeared next to my cot—eggs, toast, some porridge, and a tall cup of something. It looks cold, no steam leaking from the lid or rising from the eggs, but it awakens a ravenous hunger. I pull the plate up into my lap and shove food down my throat so fast I almost choke. Twice.

  The smell and the taste course fresh energy through my body.

  My mind is still racing, but it’s settling back into being solidly Eli. All the dreams have given me a deeper understanding of the Makers, not just through Zachary’s mind, but through Alisha’s and Jeremy’s and Simone’s—the Makers I brought back from the other side. Alisha and Jeremy were born and raised in the Makers, but Simone came from the outside, wandering in from another tribe, one of the Makers’ trading partners in the Black Hills. Yet the three of them share a belief in the rise of humanity so fervent, it’s like a religion. Those three jivs were willing to give their lives for a hunk of biomedical gadgetry, and now the reason is clear—the next Offering has more potential than any other before. Usually, it’s a death sentence, but with Miriam’s more intelligent mind designing the new gen tech, everything has changed. They believe the end of times they’ve been waiting for their entire lives is on the precipice of happening… for real.