The Illusory Prophet

by Susan Kaye Quinn

Miriam is standing at the altar, staring up at the heavens revealed by the half-missing dome above her.

  “They are only stars,” she says, but she’s not speaking to me. She’s talking to herself or possibly the twinkling lights outside the dome. This is her world—she made it—but I don’t think she knows that.

  “Maybe for you,” I say.

  She spins around, her armor clanking, and that noise draws her momentary, confused attention. Then she’s back on me with narrowed eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  But she has to wonder that about herself, too. “I’ve come for you, Miriam. To bring you back.”

  Her eyes grow wide, and she stumbles back, a hand on the altar to steady herself. “We’re enemies.”

  “No, we’re not.” I give her a smile and a moment to figure it out.

  She dashes a panicked look at the armor again, clasping a hand to her chest like she wants to tear it off. “What is this?” She looks up at me. “You’re tricking me.”

  “Your body is badly burned,” I say gently. “And your augments are damaged. But I can bring you back, Mir.” I use the nickname that Zachary has for her, and I borrow some of his soft, brotherly feelings for this girl who grew into a woman more powerful than any other human… with the possible exception of me. Then again, I’m in the not-entirely-human category as well.

  She shakes her head, but the panic isn’t receding. “You were the one who was supposed to burn.”

  “In your dreams?” I ask. “Don’t worry, that might still happen.”

  Her shoulders drop. I think she is figuring it out by the way she’s casting a frantic look around the darkened shadows of this temple. She’s brought us here at night—I’m not sure what that means, but it’s freaking her out.

  “I’m not… this isn’t…” She’s shaking her head, rapidly.

  I will myself next to her. She isn’t startled by my sudden appearance at her side—some part of her finally understands what’s happening.

  “I need your help,” I say softly. I point to her armor. “You’re a warrior, Miriam. And I have a battle that needs fighting.”

  She shakes her head again, slower this time. “You killed Becca. She didn’t even get a chance to—” She stops and looks lost for a moment.

  The second Offering. The girl Miriam dragged from the bombed-out command center… that must have been her. She was the key to all of Miriam’s plans.

  “Augustus ordered the bombing,” I say. “He’s responsible for Becca’s death. And a lot more. I need your help to stop him.”

  She blinks, and the edges of the temple recede further into the gloom. I’m not sure exactly what’s happening, but it feels… unstable. Whatever decision she’s making, her hold on this place is part of it.

  I reach a hand toward her shoulder. She flinches away and eyes me warily. I leave my hand up, hovering near her, but not touching. “Come back with me, Mir. Help me see this through.”

  Her suspicious expression folds down into a pinched look like she’s not sure what lie I’m telling or why. But her dreams are already in ruins… I’m the only hope she has for saving what’s left of her people. And her vision of the future, even if that vision needs to change. Evolve. Just like her.

  She gives a nod of agreement so small, I almost miss it.

  I close the gap, and a brightness flares between us—it has strength and power, as much as Miriam in her certainty of herself and her purpose—and I have to push through it, hard, to reach her. As everything she is floods through me, overwhelms me, I hold tight to my own name, my own identity, my own purpose in this…

  I manage to keep coherent as I wrench us back to the reality of the transport.

  Air pulls into my lungs. I feel Miriam’s face move under my hand before I even open my eyes. I shift back into the fugue, my touch bringing the onslaught that’s now so familiar. It still feels like I’m drowning in the complexity, overwhelmed by the intensity, but picturing her physical body whole and healthy again is easy—I just embrace the brilliance that is her mind and reality snaps to align with it.

  Her moans quickly cease as her flesh is restored. Her eyes flutter open and stare at me with wonder, but I’m not done yet—there’s the small matter of her legs.

  I pull back from touching her in the fugue and bring my physical hand away from her face as well. Her right leg augment is a twisted hunk of metal. “The ascenders can fix this,” I say.

  When I look up, Lenora and Grayson are both standing nearby, watching, as wide-eyed as Miriam.

  After a moment, Lenora stumbles into saying, “Yes, of course.”

  Grayson just stares and says nothing. This is the first time he’s seen it first-hand—the small healing of Melanie’s cut in the command center hardly counts next to bringing Miriam back from the dead, healing her grievous wounds along the way.

  She struggles up to sitting.

  I lean away to give her room. “Your other leg seems fine.” I gesture to the Maker-tech augment that somehow escaped damage by the fire. I leave unspoken that I could have given her human legs but didn’t—I think it’s better this way. With ascender tech on one side and Maker tech on the other, plus gen tech in her brain, Miriam will be as stitched-together as I am.

  The slow nod she gives me says she understands this.

  I rise from the floor, and even with just one functional jiv leg, Miriam does the same, dragging herself to standing and balancing on one leg. Her uniform is still charred, but the flesh of her body is shining and new.

  “What’s next?” she asks, and I can’t help but smile. She remembers. All of it. I can tell by the way her all-too-intelligent eyes are lit up and ready for the battle I promised.

  “Next, we take the fight to Augustus.”

  The abandoned Resistance camp below us is a smoking wreck.

  As we fly over in our cloaked transport, it’s clear that our message reached Commander Astoria in time—the transports are gone, along with half the pods, the ones that were mobile and had their own propulsion. And it’s a good thing because the barracks have been firebombed into cinders, and sentries are crawling over everything.

  I’m certain now that Marcus’s mind has been compromised. That’s the only way Augustus could have found the camp so fast. But according to Tristan’s report, the Resistance is dispersed now, scattering to reduce the chances of a random sweep finding everyone. We’re headed to the new command center, which is hidden on an island to the north of the city. The water won’t keep Augustus and his sentries away, but with proper shielding, the new location should be safe for the moment.

  Our ship is flying itself. Lenora stands near Miriam and me at the window, her eyelids fluttering lightly. She’s in contact with Tristan and his militia while they rescue survivors at the Makers’ camp. She’s also talking to the new Resistance headquarters, coordinating our return.

  Grayson is quiet, staring out the window as Seattle’s waterways glitter below us. I can tell he’s still shaken, and when I slip halfway into the fugue, I see his fugue-state form has changed. The kilt is still there, but the homespun linen shirt has been replaced with a long-sleeved, hooded jacket that’s tied with a piece of rope. It reminds me of Cyrus and his monk’s robe. It started this way—a halfway transformation into a believer. In me. It beats home how right Grayson is about the power I have—and its ability to change the hearts of men.

  Lenora is still fluttering her eyelids. “They’ve rescued thirty-five Makers,” she reports.

  Miriam’s shoulders have been hunched up, waiting for this. “Names?” Her discomfort in even talking to Lenora—an ascender, the avowed enemy—shows in lines of tension around Miriam’s eyes.

  Lenora nods and waves her hand at the wall of the transport. It turns into a screen. Miriam shoves off the edge of the window she was using for support and hops over, almost tumbling in her haste. Her fingers slide over the names, searching, but I can already see there are important ones missing—important to Miriam, although she had to know almost ev
eryone in the two-thousand-plus-strong Maker community. Her father. Zachary, the jiv whose memories I carry. Even the jivs I saved are missing from the list. But Miriam’s fingers stop and tremble next to one name in particular—Mateo Hernandez.

  “These ones…” Her voice cracks. She clears her throat and twists back to Lenora. “These ones are safe.”

  “Yes. The Resistance ships have made their escape with the survivors. They’re en route to the same island encampment we are.”

  Miriam nods, shakily, then balls up her fist against the screen.

  Lenora wipes away the list. “There could be other survivors. These are only the ones the militia could find near your command center.”

  Miriam ducks her head as she nods this time. But there’s hope—the Makers were spread throughout Old Portland in a rabbit’s warren of shops and homes and tunnels. There have to be other survivors.

  I turn to Lenora. “Ask Commander Astoria to send additional rescue ships. As many as she can spare.”

  Lenora nods, but Grayson pulls out of his reverie to say, “I’ll tell them.” He disappears with ascender speed to the cockpit to transmit the message.

  I frown—he’s probably reporting more than that to the commander. But that’s fine. They should know what’s happened.

  Miriam lurches back to the window, bracing herself against it and peering out into a blue sky so bright is seems like we’ve transported to another planet—one where hundreds of people weren’t just consumed in fire dropped from the sky. We’re past the mountains where the old Resistance camp was hidden, now jetting through the crisp morning air over the city of Seattle, far from the destruction of the Makers and the Resistance. But the smoky haze in the distance can’t have gone unnoticed by the legacy humans living below. Or the few ascenders who remain in the city despite being surrounded by water on three sides.

  “Do you think they know what’s happened?” Miriam asks, peering down at the shabby towers that Orion keeps barely maintained for the legacy humans under their “control,” as Lenora puts it. “Do they even wonder?” The disdain is clear in her voice.

  I don’t blame her for the bitterness—when I was legacy, I had no more clue about the world outside the cloistered confines of my city than an animal kept in a carefully constructed zoo. We were fed lies—comforting lies, easy to believe lies that held kernels of truth—about how the outside world had descended into barbarism, with bloody religious cults and roaming nomads. It wasn’t entirely a lie—the cults are real—but it was far from the truth.

  “They won’t have to wonder for long,” I say.

  She gives me a sharp look. “What is your plan here?” The piercing strength of her glare isn’t hostile towards me—she wants revenge. On the ascenders, Augustus in particular. That desire for revenge is my enemy, not her—I have to convince her to leave behind her bloodthirsty impulses, even as we take the fight to the ascenders.

  At the same time, the pain that’s drawing lines on her face—that I feel sliding into me like small knives. I know the dead Makers we left behind will not be the only lives snuffed out as we go forward. Avoiding that reality, wanting no responsibility for it, is what’s held me back for so long in embracing what I am—who I am—and what I can do.

  “My plan for you?” I ask. “Or my plan for Augustus?”

  “Both.” She grits her teeth, impatient.

  I pull in a breath and let it out slow, easing the pain of the knives so I can focus. My ideas for her, hastily-formed as they are, will be tricky, given she’s just fled her home and left so many of her people in a smoking wreckage. But I need to channel Miriam’s skills to help us all, and that starts with convincing her that a genocide of ascenders is not the preferred path.

  “I need you to build me an army,” I say.

  Her face opens in her eagerness to hear that, and I get a glimpse of how young she really is—Zachary’s memories say seventeen, like me, but neither of us carries our youth with us any longer. Me, because of the many lives I’ve lived, including parts of hers; her, because of the gen tech enhancing her brain and increasing her perspective as well as her thought-speed.

  “You want me to help the Resistance build an army,” she clarifies, like she’s not sure quite where I’m going with this.

  “I want you to work with them on creating another Offering. And another after that.”

  Her eyes widen in surprise. “You do? I thought…” She flicks a look at Lenora. I’m sure she’s done with her transmissions, but she’s pretending to give us some privacy. Miriam lowers her voice. “I thought you didn’t approve.”

  “I don’t. Not of the part where you’re using the Offering to find a way to eliminate the ascenders.”

  She leans back, shaking her head. “I don’t understand.”

  That must be painful for her, so I explain. “The ascenders as a whole are not our enemies—but Augustus is. He and his followers are your mirror image, Miriam. He wants to wipe away anyone and anything that stands in his way of gaining ultimate control over life and death. To become ascendant in a way no other ascender has. He will take along anyone who is willing to bow to him, but make no mistake—this is about one man’s unbridled need for power.”

  She’s frowning now, as well she should. This is a horrible truth, and she should recognize herself in there somewhere. Although I know, even more clearly now that the brightness of her being has washed over me, that Miriam Levine loves humanity more than she hates the ascenders—just like Cyrus. I hope this is true of the others, the humans in the Resistance and now the Makers, who will follow her as much as they will follow me in this fight.

  “You think…” She swallows as if she’s fighting down something. “You think that’s what I am?”

  I give her a small smile. “I know you’re not. At least, I know you can choose not to be.”

  Grayson zips out of the cockpit with ascender speed, and I just now realize the ship has landed. The trees outside the window of the transport loom over us, and above that, the iridescent shine of a shield—we’ve arrived at the new Resistance headquarters.

  Lenora waves the door out of existence, and the debarking ramp materializes. “I’ve been checking in on Orion, just for short stretches, keeping tabs on Augustus.”

  I frown at her—that’s dangerous for her, plus he might track her. “And?”

  “The attack on the Makers is provoking a backlash,” she says. “The destruction of the Resistance camp is less outrageous, given Orion is less certain of the nature of the camp prior to its destruction, but the Makers are well-known… and there’s no mistaking the fact that Old Portland is an uncontrolled fire. All of it has slowed down Augustus in gathering support.”

  “Good,” I say. “That works well for my plans.”

  Lenora offers a hand to Miriam, who is scowling at the ramp while holding onto the edge of the transport doorway. After a very slight hesitation, she grips Lenora’s proffered arm for support and hops down the ramp with her. The haphazard camp sprawls in front of us—makeshift tents, several transports, the med pod, and the command center.

  “And what precisely are those plans?” Miriam asks me, her breath huffing with each hop.

  Grayson follows behind us as we debark. The four of us head toward the command pod, our pace set by Miriam’s complicated hop-walk and the dragging of her twisted Maker-tech leg through the grass. We’re already attracting stares.

  “It’s like I said—we’re taking the fight to Augustus.” I pull her and Lenora to a stop in the middle of the stretch between the ship and the command pod. The med pod is just off to the left, and she’ll need to go there to get fixed up. But first, I need her to make her choice. “You can be part of the fight, Miriam, or you can sit it out.”

  Her eyes narrow, but before I can get any further, Cyrus comes hauling across the grass to meet us. “Dude! I’m really not sure if I should punch you or hug you.” Then he pulls up short in his attempt to assault me, one way or another, when he sees Miriam. “Whoa,�
�� is all the comment he has.

  “Miriam needs a replacement for her damaged augment,” I say to him quickly. “I’m assuming the med pod has what she needs?”

  “Yeah, but…” He scowls. “So she’s one of us now?” He’s holding back, uncertain.

  I turn back to her, along with everyone else.

  Her lips form a tight, straight line.

  I want her to know she has a true choice in this—I won’t force her, either way. Not least because I’ll need her fully on board for all of it. “Our goal is to win over the ascenders, not kill them. But it’s your choice whether you’re part of that or not. The med unit will fix you up, and then you can be on your way—with few people, no equipment, and no chance at building another Offering. Not for years. Or as long as it takes your people to rebuild. Assuming Augustus doesn’t find you first. Or… you can fight with me now to stop him. I have a plan, and it might even work. But if it fails, we’ll need an army of Offerings to win this.”

  She’s weighing every word with that whip-smart intelligence… but the choice is simple. Difficult, but simple. I just don’t know if she can truly let go of her hatred and embrace it. A flurry of emotions dances across her face.

  I press on, hoping to drag her off her fence of indecision. “You know how to build a powerful weapon, Mir. But I’ll only help you build it if you use it for peace, not bloodshed. What’s your choice? Will you stay and fight this at my side? Or do you want to make your own way forward?”

  I can see the decision slowly settle into a determined expression. “Stay and fight,” she says, and there’s real conviction behind it. I don’t know if she’ll keep her word—it’s entirely possible that she’ll turn against me later. This leap of faith isn’t just hers, but mine.

  “Good.” I give her a tight smile, then turn to Cyrus, who looks like he’s lost the power of speech. “Miriam will need to be outfitted with a new augment as soon as possible, but first, we have some business with the Commander. Is she in the command pod?”

  He nods rapidly, still mute.

  “When Tristan arrives with the other Makers, take a headcount. We’ll need any jivs who are still functional or can be quickly repaired, as well as anyone else who’s got weapons training.”