Icons

by Margaret Stohl

  “Padre!” I scream. He’s not moving. He’s nothing. Still sitting next to me, still smiling, but not breathing.

  He’s gone.

  My mind moves slowly. I can’t make sense of it. His eyes are empty and his mouth has fallen open. Gone.

  It’s all gone. His jokes. His secret recipes—the butter he made from shaking cream together with smooth, round rocks—the rows of sun tea in jars—gone. Other secrets, too. My secrets.

  But I can’t think about it now, because behind the Padre—what was the Padre—stands a line of masked soldiers. Sympas.

  Occupation Sympathizers, traitors to humanity. Embassy soldiers, taking orders from the Lords, hiding behind plexi-masks and black armor, standing in pig mess and casting long shadows over the deathly peace of the chapel. One wears golden wings on his jacket. It’s the only detail I see, aside from the weapons. The guns make no noise, but the animals panic all the same. They are screaming—which is something I did not know, that animals could scream.

  I open my mouth, but I do not scream. I vomit.

  I spit green juices and gray dust and memories of Ramona and the Padre.

  All I can see are the guns. All I can feel is hate and fear. The black-gloved hands close around my wrist, overwhelming me, and I know that soon I will no longer have to worry about my nightmares.

  I will be dead.

  As my knees buckle, all I can think about is Ro and how angry he will be at me for leaving him.

  EMBASSY CITY TRIBUNAL VIRTUAL AUTOPSY: DECEASED PERSONAL POSSESSIONS TRANSCRIPT (DPPT)

  CLASSIFIED TOP SECRET

  Performed by Dr. O. Brad Huxley-Clarke, VPHD

  Note: Conducted at the private request of Amb. Amare

  Santa Catalina Examination Facility #9B

  See adjoining Tribunal Autopsy, attached.

  Contents of personal satchel, torn, army-issue, found with deceased.

  See attached photographs.

  1. Electronic device, silver and rectangular. Appears to be some form of contraband pre-Occupation music player.

  2. Photograph of woman, similar in feature and stature to deceased. Possible predeceased family member?

  3. .

  4. .

  5. Dried plant leathers. Substantiates finding of probable vegetarianism in deceased.

  6. One blue glass bead. Significance unknown.

  7. One length of muslin cloth, stained with biological and natural material consistent with body wrapping, presumably of the wrist, as is customary for .

  4

  TRACKS

  I am alive.

  When I open my eyes I’m on a train—alone in a prison transport car, gunmetal gray, pushed by an old coal-fueled steam engine. Nothing but four walls lined with metal benches, bolted to the floor. A door to my left, a window to my right. A pile of old rags in the corner. That’s it. I must be on the Tracks, hurtling toward the Hole. The dim blue waters of Porthole Bay flip in and out of sight, rhythmically punctuated by shuffling old comlink poles. They stick up from the land like so many useless skeleton fingers.

  I watch my reflection in the window. My brown hair is dark and loose and matted with dirt and bile. My skin is pale and barely covers the handful of small bones that are me. Then I see my reflection twist, and in the plexi-window I look as sad as the Lady in her painting. Because the Padre is dead.

  I try to hold on to his face in my mind, the grooves by his eyes, the mole on his cheek. The cocky spike of his thinning hair. I’m afraid I’ll lose it, him—even the memory. Tomorrow, if not today.

  Like everything else, there’s no holding on to the Padre.

  Not anymore.

  I look back out at the bay, and I can feel the bile churn inside me, strong as the tides. Usually the water calms me. Not today. Today, as I clutch the blue glass bead at my throat, the ocean is almost unrecognizable. I wonder where the Tracks are taking me. To my death? Or worse?

  I see a glimpse of the rusting, abandoned cars on the highway along the rails, junked as if all life stopped and the planet froze in place, which is pretty much what happened on The Day. After the House of Lords came, with their Carrier ships, and the thirteen Icons fell from the sky, one landing in each of the largest cities in the world.

  The Padre says—said—that people used to live all over Earth, spread out. There were small towns, small cities, big cities. Not anymore. Almost the entire population of the planet lives within a hundred miles of a mega-city. The Padre said this happened because so much of the world has been ruined by people, by the rising waters, rising temperatures, drought, flooding. Some parts of Earth are toxic with radiation from massive wars. People stay in the cities because we are running out of places to live.

  Now everything people need to live is produced in or near the cities. Energy, food, technology—it’s all centralized in the cities. Which makes the Lords’ work that much easier.

  The Icons regulate everything with an electronic pulse. The Padre said the Icons can control electricity, the power that flows between generators and machines, even the electrical impulses that connect brains and bodies. They can halt all electrical and chemical activity at any time. Which is what happened to Goldengate, on The Day. And São Paulo, Köln-Bonn, Greater Beijing, Cairo, Mumbai. The Silent Cities. Which is why we gave in to the Lords and let them take our planet.

  But out in the Grasslands, like at the Mission, we have more freedom. The Icons lose their strength the farther away you go. But the Lords and the Ambassadors are in control, even then, because they have the resources. They have weapons that work. And there’s no power in the Grass, no source of energy. Even so, I have hope. The Padre always tried to reassure me—everything has a limit. Everything has an end. Beyond the borders of the cities and the frequencies of the Icons, life goes on. They can’t turn everything off. They don’t control our whole planet. Not yet.

  Nothing in the Grass works that isn’t pulled by a horse or cranked by a person. But at least we know our hearts will be beating in the morning, our lungs pumping air, our bodies shivering from the cold. Which is more than I know about myself tomorrow.

  The pile of rags groans from the floor. I was wrong. I’m not alone. A man, lying facedown, is splayed across from me. He smells like a Remnant, which is what the Embassy calls us, another piece of worthless garbage like me. He even smells like he lives with the pigs—drunk pigs.

  My heart begins to pound. I sense adrenaline. Heat. Anger. Not just the soldiers. Something more.

  Ro’s here.

  I close my eyes and feel him. I can’t see him, but I know he’s near. Don’t, I think, though he can’t hear me. Let me go, Ro. Get yourself somewhere safe.

  Ro hates Sympas. I know if he comes after me the rage will come after him, and he will probably be killed. Like the Padre. Like my parents, and Ro’s. Like everyone else.

  I also know he will come for me.

  The man sits up, groaning. He looks like he is going to be sick, leaning against the swaying side of the car. I steady myself, waiting by the window.

  The comlink poles go slapping by. The Tracks turn, and the watery curve of the Porthole shoreline comes into view, the Hole beyond it. A few crude skiffs float on the water nearest the shore. Beyond them, rising above the water, is the Hole, the biggest city on the west coast. The only one, since Goldengate was silenced. I don’t look at the Icon, though I know it’s there. It’s always there looming, from the hill above the city, a knife in the otherwise flat skyline. What once was an observatory has been gutted and transformed by the black irregularity that juts out from the structure. It’s also a reminder, this disturbingly nonhuman landmark, sent by our new Lords to pierce the earth and show us all that we are not in control.

  That our hearts beat only with their permission.

  If I’m not careful, I can feel all of them, the people in the Hole. They well up in me, unannounced. Everyone in the Hole, everyone in the Embassy. Sympas and Remnants and even Ambassador Amare. I fight them off. I try to clear my mind.
I will myself not to feel—I’ve felt too much already. I try to press back against the welling. If I let them in, I’m afraid I will lose myself. I’ll lose everything.

  Chumash Rancheros Spaniards Californians Americans Grass. I recite the words, over and over, but this time they don’t seem to help.

  “Dol!”

  It’s Ro. He’s here now, right outside the door. I hear a rattle and see the skull of the Sympa slam into the plexi-door and sink out of sight. There is a dent where he hit. No one else could destroy a Sympa like that, not with only his hands. Ro must already be out of control, to throw him so hard. Which means I don’t have much time. I push myself up to my feet and move across the car to the door. It doesn’t open, but I know Ro is right outside. I can see a glimpse of the narrow hall through the small plexi in the door.

  “Ro! Ro, don’t!” Then I hear shouting. Too late.

  Please. Go home, Ro.

  The shouting grows louder, and the train lurches. I stand up and stumble, almost stepping on the other prisoner, the Remnant. He rolls over and looks up at me, a pile of filth and rags, his face so covered with muck I can’t tell what he is or where he’s from. His skin is the color of bark. “Your Ro is going to get you both killed, you know.” The voice is mocking. He has an accent, but I can’t place it—only that it’s not from the Californias. Maybe not even the Americas.

  He moves again, and I see the welt that runs down the length of his face. He’s been beaten, and I can imagine why. I want to kick him myself for mocking Ro, but I don’t. Instead, I feel for the binding beneath my sleeve, wrapping it more tightly around my wrist and my secret.

  One gray dot the color of the ocean.

  The Padre’s gone. Only Ro knows now.

  Unless that’s why the Sympas came.

  I can’t worry about it much longer, though, because the man answers himself in a strange falsetto, which I imagine he means to be me. “I know. I’m sorry about that, mate.”

  I glare at him, at the place where his piercing blue eyes look out from the dirt on his face. He keeps talking. “Not really much of a plan, is it? Bang down the old plexi, beat up a few Stooges.”

  The man pulls himself up next to me, grinning. He is taller than I am, which isn’t saying much. I notice, beneath the rags, his body is muscular and compact. He looks more like a soldier than the Sympas do.

  “I’m Fortis.” He holds out his hand. It sits there.

  I push against the door again, but it’s locked. Fortis surveys the room and returns to his conversation with himself. He wags his head as he once again answers his own question in falsetto. “Pleased to meet you, Fortis. I’m the little Grassgirl. Sorry about all the shooting right outside your door, eh? Didn’t mean to wake you. Or kill you.” He whistles to himself.

  I don’t interrupt him and I don’t look at him. I’m too busy listening for guns. And I’m trying to pick out Ro from the mess of other emotions running wild, up and down the Tracks. He’s not just a spark, not anymore—he’s a blazing fire. And there are so many fires raging now, today, more than ever. The heat is overwhelming me.

  But he’s there. I close my eyes. He’s still on the train. He hasn’t left—I can’t hear him, but I can feel him.

  The Remnant, Fortis, whoever he is, moves closer to me.

  I freeze.

  “Here’s how it goes, Grassgirl. Way I see it, you’ve done something a bit special to get yourself upgraded to this fine, first-class cargo hold, on this set of Tracks.” He wags his head toward the door. “You’re not like the rest of the Remnants in the cars behind us, all headed to the Projects. You’re something else.”

  Now I know what I have been feeling, apart from Ro. Why his anger was so hard to pick out from the other red-hot threads. Of course. The train is full of Remnants headed to the Projects, the work camps run by the Embassy. No wonder I sense so much rage. Nobody knows what they’re building out in the harbor. But it’s massive, and they’ve been building it for years now.

  “Your mate Ro, he’s got his hands full. He can’t take the Tracks down alone—there’s not a person in all the Grass who can. Don’t have the right tools, do they? And I’ll tell you what about this place. You can’t bash your way in. You can only blow your way out.” He opens his rag coat and I see a collection of weapons tucked inside crude fabric loops. “Boom.” He taps a stick of dynamite, and buttons shut his coat, grinning. “Old school. Now. Let’s try this again. I’m Fortis.”

  “Who are you?” I finally speak, and my voice sounds hoarse and low, nothing like his impression of me. “I thought you were a Remnant.”

  “Not exactly. I’m not a Sympa Stooge either, if that’s what you’re after. I’m a businessman, and this is my business.”

  “You’re a Merk?”

  “What of it? Do you want me to help you or not?” Fortis looks impatient.

  I shrug. “How much?” I don’t know why I even bother asking. Merks are notoriously expensive; they don’t care about anything or anyone—they can’t afford to. Which means they don’t work for free, and I don’t have any way to pay.

  “A hundred digs gets you a minor explosion on the side of the Tracks. Five hundred digs, we’re talking a full-blown diversion. A thousand digs…?” He grins. “You an’ your boy were never here. You never existed, and they’ll never see you again.” He talks rapidly, like he’s trying to sell me bootleg books or miracle tonic or stolen Sympatech.

  Still, it would be a tall order. Blasting your way out of the Tracks. Even for a Merk.

  “How?”

  “Trade secrets, Grassgirl.”

  “I don’t have anything.”

  He looks me over, up and down. Smiles. He reaches toward me, questioningly, and I blush as I feel his hand inside my waistband, just at my hip. I slap him in the face. “You’re disgusting.”

  Fortis rolls his eyes, yanking my birthday book out of my belt, holding it up with a flourish. I had forgotten all about it.

  “Didn’t think you were a Skin, love. You’re too, well, skinny.” He grins. “Be like givin’ a dig for a kiss from a carrot stick.” He shudders, trying not to laugh.

  I’ve heard about girls who sell their bodies in the Hole. It’s a terrible thought. “Shut up.”

  Fortis ignores me, leafing through the book as if it were made of gold instead of ragged paper. “Icon Children, eh? Looks handmade. Expensive. And highly illegal, by the way. I’d be doing you a favor, taking it off your hands. They’d give you extra time just for having it on you, Grass book like that.” He leans in again. “You don’t want the Ambassador to know you’re with the Rebellion, Grassgirl.”

  “It’s just a book.” I shrug, but all the same, I hear the Padre’s words echoing in my mind. Don’t let it out of your sight. I stare at the precious paper in the Merk’s dirty hands.

  “And you’ll be just a pile of bones before you get a chance to explain.” He looks up from the book.

  “I’m not with the Rebellion. I’m not with anyone. I’m just…” I shrug, as if there is a word that can describe me. If there is, I can’t find it. I give up. “I’m nobody. Just a Grassgirl, like you said.” And as I say it, I realize he’s right. Without his help, I’m probably going to the Projects, or my death, or worse.

  What does a stupid book matter now?

  It is time to decide, and in that moment, I do. I grab his arm, yanking down as hard as I can. “I’m nobody, and I was never here. I never existed. Ro and me, both.”

  He levels his eyes at me, gleaming blue behind his dirty face.

  Like the sea. Like mine.

  He nods at me, but I make him say the words. I want to be certain. “Take the book. It’s enough. Do we have a deal?”

  “Not just a deal—a promise.” He tucks my book inside his jacket, and the story of me disappears among the handguns and homemade explosives. “Your secret’s safe with me, love. So is your book. Now get down.”

  Before I can say another word, Fortis lifts the dynamite and lights the fuse.


  RESEARCH MEMORANDUM: THE HUMANITY PROJECT

  CLASSIFIED TOP SECRET / AMBASSADOR EYES ONLY

  To: Ambassador Amare

  Subject: Icon Origins

  Text Scan: NEW ENGLAND JOURNAL

  PLANET KILLER COMING OUR WAY?

  December 29, 2042 • Cambridge, Massachusetts

  Scientists at the Minor Planet Center in Cambridge announced today the discovery of a very large asteroid that is projected to pass dangerously close to Earth.

  The asteroid, designated 2042 IC4, or Perses, has a targeted impact/arrival date of 2070–2090.

  Scientists approximate the size of the asteroid at as large as 4 miles in diameter, which officials claim is large enough to create an extinction event.

  Paulo Fortissimo, special scientific advisor to the president, says we shouldn’t panic: “I need to review the data, but the size and speed of the asteroid are merely an estimate, and the odds of this thing hitting Earth are still relatively low. Nevertheless, rest assured, we will keep a close eye on it.”

  5

  DIVERSIONS

  The blast does more than blow open the door.

  The blast has rocked the Tracks so hard, the car seems to have gone off the rails. My ears are ringing. The floor is no longer beneath me but next to me. The roof is gone, and through the jagged hole that remains, I can see the open air.

  I pick myself up from the tangle of Fortis and wall and floor, the debris of what used to be the prison car, and take off running through the opening.

  “Thank you, Fortis,” Fortis calls after me. “You’re welcome, little Grassgirl. Anytime.”

  I run faster, along the smoking cars. I can tell from the footsteps that there are Sympas behind me. Probably half a dozen more around the cars. I didn’t feel them coming. I have to pay better attention.

  But thanks to the Merk, I have a head start. I have to get to the water. That’s all that goes through my head. I know I’ll be safe there because I know what I’ll find—and who. I turn, more sharply now, disappearing into the tall weeds on the west. My feet catch on the rocks beneath me, but I stumble forward. I know the Sympas are close behind me, and I don’t look back.