by Peter Telep
“He didn’t say there was a chance.”
“No, but I believe there is.”
I grind my teeth, ball my hands into fists, and try to hold back my scream. “Why can’t you tell us?”
“One burden at a time. It’s the only way.” He glances up at the sky. “And one day you’ll understand everything.”
I glare at Joshua. “Can you at least tell us how long it’ll take?”
“Most of the afternoon. If we leave now.”
Tommy squeezes my shoulder and nods. “Don’t hate your Dad for this. He’s got his reasons. And don’t hate me, either, solid copy, roger that?”
“Yes, sir. I never lose faith in you.”
“Oorah,” he answers with a wink.”
“All right, let’s go.”
I tell him I’ll meet up with everyone at the buckets. I need to say goodbye to Grace.
Back inside the room, I find her lying asleep...
I touch her shoulder, and she opens her eyes and smiles.
Although I return the grin, it must look pathetic. “I have to go, Mom.”
“Go where?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. But I’ll be back soon.”
“Okay. Thanks for showing me Grandpa. And maybe… if it’s possible… I could go outside…”
“You will.”
“I’m sorry, Doc. I shouldn’t have come.”
“There’s a reason why you’re here. Maybe right now it’s just a blessing in disguise.”
Her eyes brighten a little. “You’re right.”
I give her a hug, and then shift back to my father’s bed. “You got your wish. We’re going.”
“I know,” he says. “And she can’t wait to meet you.”
“Who?”
“I promised I wouldn’t tell.”
“More secrets,” I groan. “Really? The less we know, the more dangerous it is.”
“Actually, just the opposite, Doc. Now, listen to me…”
“Here it comes.”
“I’m your father, and I know you’re mad at me for a lot of things. And that’s okay. But nothing can ever come between us because we’re flesh and blood.” He waves me over.
I near the bed, and he wraps his good arm around my neck and drags me down for a hug. “I love you, son.”
He’s never hugged me so tightly.
Because he knows. We both know… what this might be.
So I just do it. I hug him back—
Even though I’d rather strangle him.
And it hurts more than ever.
* * *
We line up in one of the other hospital rooms, and Tommy administers the neutralizing drug.
Tears of joy stream down Blink’s cheeks.
Keane’s torn. “Doc, so you and I still have that connection thing, so maybe I can just skip this. I don’t miss my persona. Not really.”
“Keane, who knows if we’ll ever make it back,” I remind him. “Just take the shot. We don’t know where we’re going, what’s happening. You might need your persona.”
“Yeah, but…”
“Take the shot.”
He rolls his eyes, nods to Tommy, and then winces as the needle strikes. “Ow!”
Meeka has a few choice words for my father while Tommy stabs her arm.
I wince and take my shot.
Tommy marks the time on his watch.
We head out together, and once we reach the hall’s main entrance, I have another I-need-to-be-honest conversation with Hedera. “We can’t wait for your caravan to meet us here. We have to leave now.”
“I know,” she says. “I talked to Joshua. He jumped back up to the temple. He told my people what’s going on. Their buckets still have their main batteries, and the sun came out, so they’re recharged and have enough battery power to get down here in the other two buckets and wait for us.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“Hey, it’s starting to sound like more than a maybe.”
“Thank you.”
She blushes. “It’s cool.”
“Who taught you that word?”
“Keane.”
“He’s a bad influence.”
“He makes me smile. I need to after all this.”
Just then Joshua rolls up in his bucket. “You’ll follow us to the Port of Poets. After that, our journey becomes… more interesting.”
“Just get us there—as fast as you can.”
“I understand.” With a sharp nod, the bucket rolls off, and we hurry back toward our rides.
I nod to Hedera. “We’ll talk later.”
She returns the nod and rushes toward her bucket.
So far Blink hasn’t heard anything from her or Rattle that seems suspicious, but these are desperate times, and Meeka’s right. Hedera will always put her caravan first.
I climb into our bucket. Meeka’s back at the wheel, only this time Keane’s up front with her, and Steffanie’s with me—
At least in body. Definitely not in mind.
Her arms are folded tightly over her chest, and she stares out the window. “They’re going to a better place,” she says out of nowhere.
“Who?”
“Everyone who was taken. I mean Flora is so messed up. Maybe the masks are taking them some place better. Maybe we think they’re evil, but they’re really not.”
“Oh, they’re evil. They’re forcing my father to join them.”
“Yeah, but maybe life with them is better. Maybe we’d be happier.”
“Steff, you’re scaring me.”
She turns away and scrunches in tighter toward the seat.
* * *
Before the withering, the Port of Poets was home to fleets of fishing boats, cargo ships, and luxury cruise liners that crossed the Rosengate Sea, on their way down to Larkspur, the continent where Meeka was born.
The port resembles those we have on Earth, with smaller docks and sweeping piers. However, the ones here have been falling apart and vanishing into the waves.
Beyond them, out in the bay, lie the hulks of half-sunken ships, with a few bows sprouting up like rusty shark’s fins. The capsized hulls of smaller boats drift nearby while others have washed up on the beach.
To the north lie the remains of storage facilities for all kinds of watercraft, along with rows of warehouses with their roofs torn off and walls either partially collapsed or buried in rocks and dust.
Above this silent graveyard stand the multi-armed cranes for lifting shipping containers. Many are bent over like all those trees up in the Highlands. Shattered trusses dangle freely in the wind.
If you close your eyes, you can imagine what this place must’ve been like:
People crowding on the piers, excited to board the cruise liners. Cranes rumbling and humming away as operators unload cargo. Ship horns blaring.
So much energy. So much life. And now… no one.
Not even a poet to greet us.
Actually, the port wasn’t named after them but after the tall flowers that grow along the coast.
Each “poet” has a thick stem and seven shiny petals that glow a greenish blue like our personas. Surprisingly, they’re still here, making a strong comeback after the withering and outlining the cliffs with intense color. Besides being beautiful, poets are among the few plants that have wreaths, but theirs work differently than ours.
Instead of projecting their own personas, the poets project images of any life form that comes close to them, sort of like a mirror.
These images are tiny, barely twelve inches tall, and they last for just a few seconds. To bring them back, you reach down and touch the poet again.
However, there’s a catch. The image always reflects your true emotional state. So if you’re angry inside, the poet will make your persona look angry—even if you’re trying to cover up your feelings with a smile.
At the moment, the poets have projected images of me, Keane, Steffanie, Meeka, Hedera, Blink, and Rattle.
And the truth’s out: we all look s
cared.
While Steffanie whispers to Blink about what his persona looks like, Tommy steps up to the flowers. A few lean toward him and tilt sideways like curious puppies, unsure what to make of him.
Obviously, they have never encountered someone like Tommy who does not have a wreath.
And it appears you actually need a wreath for the poets to get a read on you. Whether your wreath works or not, or whether you’re on Wrrambien or not, doesn’t seem to matter. You just need one. So Tommy is out of luck. He makes a face, clearly disappointed. “Guess they don’t like Southerners.”
Grandpa slides up next to me, and the poets reflect a persona of him licking his lips. He’s extremely hungry and extremely bored.
Joshua, who’s been giving us this tour, turns back from the cliffs overlooking the port.
At this point it’s difficult to hide my frustration because I didn’t want to stop here in the first place—
But he insisted and (shocker) he wouldn’t tell me why.
“Are you taking us to Brandalynn?” I ask.
“I am.”
“Like you said, my father’s got until nightfall, and we’re standing here, looking at flowers?”
“It’s important.”
Keane and I exchange a look: this guy has definitely lost it.
Seeing this, Joshua widens his eyes and continues, “As always, the poets reflect what lies in your hearts. Now you must reconcile with that truth before we make the crossing.”
“What truth? That we’re all scared?” I ask.
Joshua’s tone darkens. “Docherty, if the driffs know we’re afraid, if they sense any fear at all, they won’t help us. Our fear attracts their predators, and that puts us all in danger.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
We have to cross the Rosengate Sea to reach Brandalynn.
One problem. We don’t have a boat, and even if we did, Joshua says we’d never make it once we got past the gate.
“What gate?” I ask.
“You’ll see.”
Of course we will.
Steffanie and Meeka argue that knowledge is no longer power—it’s what’ll get us killed. And wasn’t my father trying to say that, too? The less we know, the less we’ll have to be scared about.
And speaking of fear, before we left the cliff, Joshua gave each of us a poet. He said to keep it somewhere within reach, like a breast pocket or shirt sleeve. The good thing is, poets don’t die after they’re plucked and can be replanted. If things get tense, we’re supposed to touch the flower and study the persona it projects, making sure we’re not scared—because Joshua says we can’t always tell what our true feelings are.
Awesome. We now have flowers that monitor our feelings, we still don’t have a ride across the sea.
I ask about a hoverjet. The nomads are gone. Maybe we could use one of theirs. We’ll fly first class. Watch a movie that’s still playing in theatres. Eat snacks. But nope, none are available. And even if there were, we don’t have a pilot.
Frustrated and thoroughly confused, we drive out to one of the longest piers, which looks extremely unstable. Worse, the very end has collapsed into the sea, leaving behind a ramp that slips into the waves.
Joshua and his people begin unloading their bikes. He says to get ours.
I go over and ask, “We’re crossing the sea, right?
He looks at me with those strange eyes. “Yes.”
“But bikes don’t float.”
“That’s right. They sink. Actually, they sink very fast.”
“And there’s no boat coming?”
“None.”
“I’m confused.”
“It’s okay, Docherty. We won’t have any trouble. The bikes are lighter than the buckets, so they’ll work just fine.”
I glance across the open water and then at him and his caravan. “What am I missing?”
“Just get ready. The ride out to the gate will be practice.”
“You enjoy this, don’t you?”
He smiles tightly. “Sun, water, sand… it’s all here. It’s all we need.”
I sigh and wander back to the others.
“What’s the plan?” Tommy asks.
“Uh, yeah, we’re riding bikes across the water,” I answer. “Get ‘em unloaded.”
Everyone looks at me.
“I’m serious,” I add. “Anyone know how we can do that? Because Joshua thinks we can.”
“Joshua’s a couple of fries short of a Happy Meal,” Keane says.
“What about the driffs?” I ask.
“Could be a nickname for something,” Steffanie says.
I glance at her in disbelief. “But you people grew up here.”
“Not around the water,” Meeka says.
I shake my head in disgust. “Aw, let’s go.”
We turn back for the buckets—
When something flashes beside me.
Grandpa and his pack come up on their hind legs, hissing and roaring…
I whirl toward the light.
It’s Solomon, standing there in white armor and with a cape flowing to his knees.
He slips behind Tommy, wraps his arm around Tommy’s throat…
Tommy reaches up with both hands and grabs Solomon’s arm, beginning to wrench it free. At the same time, he leans forward and jerks around, lifting Solomon’s boots from the ground.
As Solomon begins to swing out and lose his grip, Tommy looks up at me with fire in his eyes. “Doc? You stay on the mission! No matter what!”
All at once, he and Solomon dissolve in a brilliant flash—
But I react. On instinct. Just reflexes. I run into the ghost of their jump—
And the trrune hits hard, a lightning flash of visions:
Their destination. Towering corridors maybe fifty feet tall. The ceiling covered in curving patterns like feathers or pine cones, a paisley pattern of red and green and outlined with internal light.
A smaller room like the one back at the hospital.
But different. Not the hospital. Two beds. One empty…
And Grace lying in the other. “Tommy?” she asks.
Wait. This trrune… it’s more than just a vision.
I can hear things. Feel things.
Pressure on my wrists. Lighter gravity.
No, something else. I’m on the ground and being hauled back to my feet. I blink. Sunlight. Meeka. Steffanie. Keane.
“What the hell?” Keane asks.
“Doc, are you all right?” Meeka asks.
I gasp. “Where’s Tommy?”
They all look at me.
I pull out of their grip and shout, “Come on!” I hustle to my bike and get moving. Without looking back, I pedal hard all the way out to the end of the pier.
There, I throw down my bike and charge up to Joshua with tears in my eyes. “They’ve got Tommy and my mother.”
“I know,” he says, not bothering to face me. “Your father said this would happen.”
“But why? They don’t even have wreaths?”
Joshua slides up his goggles and squints across the water, looking for something.
“Can we get them back?” I ask.
He grabs my shoulders. “Docherty, I don’t know. But you must calm down.”
“Are you listening to me?”
“I am. And this is unfortunate, because I wanted to wait until we reached Brandalynn to tell you this.”
“Just tell me!”
“Docherty, listen carefully. Solomon doesn’t want us to reach Brandalynn. That’s why he took them. To make you afraid. But you can’t stop. You have to go on.”
“I don’t get it. If he’s this powerful, then what’s he been waiting for? Why didn’t he just grab all of us back on Earth?”
“Your father thinks Julie’s blocking him, but she’s growing weak. Solomon’s been waiting for this moment.”
“What if he comes back?”
“He’ll try. But my entire caravan is blocking him now. He’s very powerful. But so are w
e.”
“Why are you doing all this?” I ask.
“Because I connected with your father. I know you. And your family. And because this is my fight now, too. I do this in memory of my daughter.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I. Now breathe. You cannot be afraid.”
“But I can’t help it.”
“Use your poet. Think of it as a game. Your job is to make that persona look calm.”
“I’ll try. I mean, I’ll do it.”
“I know you will. But for now, why don’t you turn around? I think the water will surprise you.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
While all Florans have some ability to communicate with other life forms that have wreaths, most of the time their invitations are ignored.
Sages are different.
They’re capable of sending out a very special invitations that tell life forms it’s safe to connect. Hi, I’m Joshua. I’m a nice guy and won’t hurt you. Let’s talk.
Connecting with land animals requires unique telepathic patterns that are different from those used with marine life. There are few people on the planet whose wreaths allow them to produce both sets of patterns.
In that regard, Joshua is a rare green and blue sage, who, like his colleagues, always communicates in a very kind and diplomatic manner, never talking down to anyone, even though Florans, like humans, dominate their planets.
In fact, sages like Joshua worked as ambassadors, sharing the wishes of all creatures with the arbors and the rest of the government. With the sages’ help, Florans took much better care of their environment than we do on Earth—
Which makes the apocalypse here even more sad.
As I study the Rosengate Sea, with its waves tinted pink by the afternoon sun, I imagine Joshua raising his hands like Moses in that old movie and parting the water so we can ride across the sandy bottom, all the way to Brandalynn.
But no, sages can’t do that.
I squint even harder at the sea, where, out in distance, a reddish-brown cloud forms and grows larger by the second.
The cloud separates into thousands of pieces… no, not pieces but creatures, their flat backs breaking the surface.
Patterns of interlocking circles, overlapping squares, and diamonds appear across shells shaped like hexagons.
Spiked heads pop up like periscopes, and bulging orange eyes blink hard to clear the foamy water.
