by Platt, Sean
When the sky was clear, Stranger stood and was about to walk forward.
But then someone spoke from behind, causing him to turn his head.
“Why are you here?” it said.
Chapter Eleven
Kindred followed.
He stayed back, following their hoofprints, knowing that in the midday heat Meyer wouldn’t ride too hard or too recklessly. Something urgent had called them forward (together, without him, of course), and there was an itch inside Kindred that seemed to know what it was. More than a hunch — something like superstition, maybe compulsion. But as ridiculous as Kindred felt, he obeyed the imperative. Perhaps he was being stupid. Or maybe they’d been keeping secrets from him.
Like they had all along.
Meyer claimed they’d both been born here. So why couldn’t Kindred remember that? And why did Meyer simply accept it? There was so much about daily life that never stopped feeling like a scam. People said it made him paranoid, but Kindred begged to differ. In his mind, there was plenty to be paranoid about.
Like: Why did Kindred not remember the source of his ring? It looked like a wedding ring. But Carl couldn’t forge such things, and to Kindred’s knowledge, he’d never had a wife. Meyer had a similar ring that matched Piper’s, but both of those struck Kindred as far too refined for the village craftsmanship, just like the pots and other objects that everyone used without pondering their origins.
Kindred didn’t have any clue where they’d come from — not the rings, not the pots, not even the people, including himself. But at least Kindred, unlike everyone else, thought it was weird that nobody knew. The rest of the people simply accepted the oddities. The place claimed to have dead that weren’t in marked graves (where were their parents’ plots? He’d looked but never found), and when Kindred pointed that out, they all laughed or looked away or said he was jumping at shadows. They thought he was dark and fearsome? Absurd.
To Kindred’s mind, the people he’d supposedly grown up with (though he could only recall perhaps twenty full cycles) were insane. He was the sane one.
He felt different. Somehow wired in an alternative way.
Odd devices were occasionally discovered. But they weren’t found in the desert; they were found among belongings. People accepted the unacceptable things when stumbled upon. Sketches of friends they suddenly remembered from a time they conveniently couldn’t recall, records of fantastical things in their own handwriting — people finding such writings would suddenly remember they’d once written it as fiction. “A flight of my fancy,” someone might say. And yet until the odd stories were found, they’d had no memory of ever taking such flights.
Once, Kindred had gone to the monolith and found a way to climb into its enormous hulk, despite the superstitions that claimed it was cursed. And there, he’d found more odd objects. A thing that lit with an inner light when Kindred touched it. Something that, after enough poking and prodding, had flashed at him like miniature lightning — and then, after the flash, he’d seen his own face frozen on its surface, as if it had duplicated him and imprisoned him in its works. Kindred had pocketed the object and returned to the village, to show Meyer and Piper and the others, to prove that there were forces in the world that they were all ignoring. But Lila had laughed at his futile efforts to make it function and suggested that if he found the object so troublesome, with its supposed magic, he take it to Stranger like everyone else did when they encountered such things.
He’d buried it instead. Then dug it up the next day, sitting up all night with the earth-encrusted magic object, hands clasped into wringing fists, practically sweating with temptation. Finally he’d walked to the village fire, which always held hot coals so that making cooking fires would be easy, and shoved the thing under the embers with a stick. In the morning temptation was gone. The last thing Kindred needed, out of all people, was a good reason to visit the holy man.
But he’d thought about it plenty. Sometimes he went months without dreaming of Stranger, without the certainty that one day he’d wake in the man’s home to find the other just as happy to see him. Then he’d decide in a moment of weakness that there’d be no harm in visiting the other, whom he’d seen from a distance and felt an attraction toward like ore to a magnet. A strange compulsion. Not the kind shared by Paul and Jeremiah, in their home together on the desert side. It was stronger, beneath the skin rather than atop it … dangerous.
He wanted to meet Stranger more than anything. Simply to sit with him.
But he could never do that.
Because …
And there was no reason.
But now, as he watched Meyer, Piper, and Lila from a distance, Kindred felt the old resentments return.
Why did they hide things from him? Why did they handle him separate from the rest of the family? They all lived in the same house, except for Kindred. Piper came to visit, and so did Lila. Meyer came on a different schedule, but it felt like duty. None ever spoke of important things. Whenever Kindred steered conversation in better directions, his guest turned it away.
Only Clara seemed innocent and open. But still, even she was guarded. Clara said — as if knowing something she shouldn’t or couldn’t — Stay away from Stranger. It wasn’t a warning about Stranger; it was a warning about Kindred seeing Stranger, offered without his request.
He’d given up long ago, had stopped trying to prod his family and the villagers to discuss things they refused to acknowledge. Mostly, Kindred had settled into his own routines, in his dark little corners. People said that he and Meyer were once inseparable, almost able to finish each other’s thoughts. Now Kindred (according to popular view) had grown sullen and distant. But that’s not how it was. It was easy for Meyer to be the likable twin, seeing as he was governor, and could keep the secrets for himself.
They’d left with such urgency. Kindred had watched them go, seeing the way they kept looking around as if dodging pursuit. Probably looking for Kindred, seeing as he had looked around too and saw no one to flee from. Where were they going, if they were so intent on leaving alone? Obviously, it must be somewhere Kindred would otherwise badly want to go but that his keepers would, as usual, protect him from.
Well, Kindred didn’t need protection, nor any keeping. They were crazy, not him. When Kindred had asked Meyer whom he’d married to get the ring on his finger, Meyer said, “It was a long time ago.” And when Kindred had asked who’d made the ring, Meyer said he must have found it.
Found it.
Like Meyer found his ring?
Like Piper found hers, with its perfect circle, burnished yellow metal, and precisely faceted stone?
They were either going to report him, or were running away.
(Or they’re going to see Stranger.)
That didn’t even make sense. They were heading in the wrong direction, out into the desert rather than the center of town.
Stranger must be somewhere else. It was all that seemed logical.
Kindred ducked down when Meyer, dismounted and with his hand to his forehead, turned to look in his direction. Kindred’s horse was a few paces back; he went to the mount now, tugged it back down the dune until he found a ratty tree suitable for hitching. Then he moved back up, slowly, eventually on his belly, knowing how he must look but unable to help himself.
Whatever he was searching for, Meyer didn’t seem to find it. Piper and Lila had dismounted as well, fanning themselves beneath the belligerent sun. Kindred watched their powwow, realizing they were lost.
There was a cactus to Kindred’s left. It looked like a number four. Seeing it, he glanced to the right — and sure enough, not far off was a second cactus, also resembling a four. From enough distance, it’d look like you were splitting 44 down the middle. He always remembered it that way, from his own dreams.
But in his dreams, he didn’t go to … wherever. In his dreams, he always went to the monolith.
But he looked back, then forward with rekindled interest. And Kindred could clearly see mo
re landmarks, all proving their location. They’d headed away in approximately the right direction, passing a shallow ravine, then the scree of rocks that had fallen, inexplicably, into the shape of a bent-over old man with a cane. Now here were the cactuses, and—
There was a sort of buzzing from the sky. Kindred looked up and saw something large coming alongside him from several dunes away, low but hovering above the sand.
He ducked away, but there was no point. The thing — whatever it was — didn’t seem to see him. It was moving straight toward Meyer and the women. Kindred watched, willing himself to shout. They hadn’t seen or heard it yet, and it was closing.
Kindred got his mouth unhinged as Piper turned. She screamed, a knowing cry — one that accepts and already knows to fear what it sees coming.
Piper knows what it is.
But of course she did. Lila, too. Meyer, once he turned and gallantly put himself between the sphere and his wife and daughter, clearly knew as well.
Serves them right, then, Kindred thought before he could stop himself, for keeping secrets.
Because this secret wasn’t friendly. They were all shouting and screaming as they tried to run, tried to mount their horses. But the sphere effortlessly stayed ahead of them, blocking their way.
Perhaps it would kill them.
Kindred stood. There was nothing he could do, except maybe draw it away as a distraction if only he—
But then the thing did a trick of light, and the air filled with the scent of burning, warmth lapping back at Kindred like ripples on the river’s surface. The shock knocked Kindred back to his rear, and this time when he scrambled back up, he didn’t consider trying to lure it away.
Two huge black things that looked like lizards (or beetles) were now on the sand, apparently having disembarked with the flash of light. The sand near them was smoking, as if set ablaze. And between the beetle things and Meyer’s group, there was a tall, bare-chested muscular man with no color to his skin wearing a small cloth around his waist, hand extended to Meyer.
The black creatures crept in circles around them, then came to rest by Piper and Lila — one within arm’s reach of each.
If the pewter-skinned man said something, Kindred couldn’t hear it. He merely held out a hand while the black things chattered, mouths open, a blue fire inside both, bleeding out from between what seemed to be scales on their surface.
Meyer’s head hung. Then he turned to the white man and followed.
To the sphere, which had settled on the sand.
Kindred waited, breath held and uncertain.
Then he broke his cover, and ran as hard as he could.
Chapter Twelve
“What do you mean?”
Before Clara could answer Sadeem, the warble of overlapping conversations bubbled from the cave’s front. They were levels deep, the air circulation and more troublesome pathways made bearable with Astral help before Sadeem moved in, and down here it was hard to hear more than tones and echoes. Most of the construction — as with previous Mullah clan homes — was planned by and hence known to the Astrals, but this time Sadeem had backup plans. If the Astrals could change the covenant for the new epoch, so could he. Above the table, two species shook hands. Beneath it, both were clinging to knives. As perhaps it had always been.
And maybe it was truer than ever, given the Astral contingency plans Clara had seen in their collective mind when they’d blasted their way into hers.
“Clara?” Logan said, apparently as curious about what she’d said as Sadeem. But the idea of Cousin Timmy had stopped mattering. She could tell them about Stranger’s oldest joke another time. What mattered now was the commotion above. It might be anything, but Clara somehow felt sure she knew exactly what it was.
“We have to get out of here,” she said.
Sadeem looked toward the entrance, invisible from here, two levels up. “It’s Stranger arriving. I sent a courier to fetch him when I sent for Logan.”
But instead of feeling encouraged by the news (they needed Stranger same as they needed the others), Clara felt panic creeping. It wasn’t a logical reaction, given the civil tones. But somehow, it was right.
“We have to go, Sadeem.” Clara stood from the cot, felt a wave of lightheadedness, and pushed it aside. She always brought a bag from the village and stuffed it with belongings, Logan and Sadeem watching and wondering. “Where is the rear exit from here?’
“I don’t understand. Where are we going?”
“Away.”
“Why?”
“I thought I’d covered my tracks, but somehow they found me.”
“Clara …”
A scuffle from above. A shout. The rush of running feet.
“Astrals,” Clara said.
“They wouldn’t break the truce. They set the portal here. They built this place.”
“Which is how they’ll know to check it!” Clara was unsure of exactly what was fueling her fear. She’d caught but a glimpse of the Astral collective — barely enough to tell that the human and Astral mental streams had mingled — but the confused deluge she’d woken with was reasserting itself with teeth. The sense of urgency was feral, like something driven by the brain stem, pure instinct and adrenaline.
“Clara!” Sadeem barked as she reached the door. “There’s a truce!”
“Where is the Ark, Sadeem?”
Sadeem looked at her as if she’d spoken in a foreign tongue.
“Where is it, if they trust and respect the Mullah so much? Last time, your old order knew where the Astrals had left it. That’s how your knights knew where to find and hide it. So where is it this time? After the flood, where did they hide the archive that’s gathering all it will need to judge humanity next time?”
“Just because we don’t know where it is this time doesn’t mean they’d dare to—”
“You know the rules have changed! Now show me the fucking exit!”
Sadeem was still sitting, looking punched. Clara never swore, or barked orders. But like she’d said, something had changed.
“It’s—” Sadeem stopped when the shouting swelled and something exploded above. The walls shook with force. In Clara’s peripheral vision, it seemed like a balloon filled with ketchup struck a wall just out of sight. Blood was dripping onto the stone stairs in a miniature river. The way they had to go either way, be it toward the front or back.
Clara grabbed Logan and practically dragged him to his feet. Then she shoved him through the door and to the right, his feet nearly faltering in the pool of gore. Nobody had come down just yet, and Clara hadn’t stepped back two paces to look up as they’d passed. Whomever the blood had belonged to, he or she was dead. Seeing those who would kill them a second earlier than they had to would be stupid. And yet behind them the corridor stayed empty, their luck holding. Unless, of course, this was more kabuki — more of the Astrals holding all the cards, playing their hands to observe the reaction.
Not this time. This is real. For them and us.
She stopped in an alcove two turns (she thought) from the temple where Sadeem’s second elder sat and guarded the portal, then waved for Sadeem to hurry and pass. He knew the way; Clara didn’t. She knew they’d added a second exit, same as her grandfather had told her the Mormons had added caves to the Cottonwood Canyon facility. But she didn’t know where it was.
Clara heard a terrifying groaning from behind: a dry, soulless rattle like bones in a sack. A Reptar’s purr, a noise she’d hoped never to hear again.
And the rushing of well-behaved feet behind, plus a steady clacking sound that was in no hurry at all.
“Sadeem …” Clara said, recognizing their position — one level below ground but on the mountainous side, where the cliffs clawed the sky. If there was an exit here, it was into the heart of the hill rather than open air.
“It’s … shit!”
“Breathe. Think. Where is it, Sadeem?”
“It’s on the other end. We turned the wrong way.”
�
�Maybe we can hide,” said Logan.
Clara shook her head. “We have to leave. We can’t just hide.”
“No, that’s a good idea. We’ve added extra chambers, not just the exit. Remember the place we hid you when—”
“I remember they found you just fine. I might still be invisible to them if we keep calm, but they can hear your mind, Sadeem. We can’t hide.”
“Then you hide. I’ll distract them. They won’t hurt me. I’m the one they chose to head the Mullah.”
Clara pursed her lips, torn between feeling sorry for Sadeem’s strange naiveté and being touched by his sacrifice. The Astrals had spent too much time locked in battle with human minds. They could get angry and become spiteful. Seniority hadn’t saved the Elders their last time around.
“No.”
“There’s no way we can get past them! It’s the only chance!”
“It’s not a chance! We need all of us. All of us! Not just me and you. Kindred! Stranger! All the ones they’ve gone after! Do you understand? Hiding won’t protect them!”
“What others?”
“The Archetypes, Sadeem! The goddamned—!”
“The goddamned what?”
Someone had appeared in the hallway behind Sadeem. She didn’t frighten Clara; she surprised her. Clara was taller, and even the Mullah legend of the Archetypes was hardly confidential — or, in the traditional telling, even remotely helpful. They’d lost the scroll in the reset and relocation, but what did it matter? All that mattered was everything.
But this woman didn’t know that.
This ordinary, unarmed, almost welcoming woman who’d somehow ended up behind them in the frenzy, now sharing space with their trio.
This ordinary woman with her white, almost alabaster skin.
With her brown hair stylishly cut in a bob, as if fresh from a beauty salon of the type that no longer existed.
In her black leather coat, her practical low black heels.