Idols

by Margaret Stohl

  “They’re looking for something,” Tima says, studying the distant lights. She’s right. Searchlights sweep the river beneath the Choppers, exposing riverbanks and barren trees and then—

  “Not just something,” Lucas says. “That.”

  The Choppers are swarming something black, lodged in the silt of the river’s edge.

  Black and immobile, too large to be a rock.

  Something more like a Chevro.

  I shiver. “That could have been us.”

  Sympas.

  They’ve found the Chevro.

  They could have found us.

  But they haven’t, I remind myself. The Choppers are far enough away that I can barely hear them rattle, as if they were a child’s toy.

  “Like I said.” Ro smirks. “It was a lucky severed foot after all.”

  “Yeah, well, let’s get going,” says Lucas, watching the Choppers.

  Tima nods. “Before our luck runs out.”

  “There.” Through a wall of trees, I can see a mountain rising, tall and gray.

  “That has to be it. This is where the map ends.” Tima looks around. “Now what?”

  “It’s a game trail,” says Ro, sucking the snow off his shirt. Only animals appear to have beaten this pathway through the brush. But it’s not true, I think as we follow it into the thicket. Farther along the trail, the surrounding tangle of branches opens up to reveal three giant, curving openings, carved right into the solid granite of the mountain. Two of them appear to be largely sealed with fallen rock and rusting metal gates.

  “My god.” Lucas shakes his head. “I’ve heard about these. I just didn’t think it was real. I thought they were stories.”

  “What were?”

  “The old Belter vaults.” Lucas shivers.

  “Belters?” I’ve heard the word, but I don’t know what it means.

  “Bible Belters,” Lucas says. “The people who lived here, before The Day. Here’s where they kept the records of every man, woman, and child ever born on this Earth. At least every one that was recorded, as far back as they could find. Built to last a thousand years, which I guess they figured was long enough to take them to the Second Coming.”

  “Coming of what?” Ro says quietly, staring up at the sheer gray face of the mountain.

  “Of the Gods, coming back to Earth.” I raise an eyebrow. My life on the Mission taught me that much. “I’ve heard of it.”

  “But then we got the Lords instead,” Ro sighs. “Well, they weren’t off by much.” He walks up to the center opening.

  “Where are you going?” Tima starts to panic.

  “Inside.” Ro doesn’t even turn around.

  “Out of the question. Wait—”

  Ro sighs, stopping to lean against a giant fallen boulder. He shivers in spite of himself.

  Tima takes a step toward him. “We need to make a plan.”

  “No.” Ro shakes his head. “What we need is shelter.”

  Tima looks up the mountain, to the craggy wall of granite. “This isn’t exactly a safe place to camp—you see those rocks up there, right? You understand the law of gravity, don’t you?” She’s calculating the odds of Ro’s accidental death, even now.

  Ro nods. “And who knows what wild animals are living in these tunnels? Don’t forget about that. Let’s find out.”

  “Not so fast.” Lucas blocks his path. “We said we’d stick together, and that’s what we’re going to do. We don’t go anywhere until we all agree.”

  Ro raises an eyebrow. “Really, Buttons? You afraid of the dark too?”

  “No. And I’m not afraid of you, either.” Lucas folds his arms.

  “You should be.”

  “Come on,” Tima says.

  “Ro.” I look at him.

  Ro grins at me, blowing on his fingers for warmth. Then he looks over at a nearby bush—and it bursts into flame.

  “Stop that.” Tima sounds exasperated. “They’ll see us.”

  “Just give me a minute,” Ro says. “To warm up.”

  “Absolutely not.” Tima frowns. “We aren’t camping here.”

  “You’re right. We aren’t camping,” Ro says, agreeably. “We’re waiting.” He holds his hands out toward the flickering fire.

  “For what?” Tima looks confused.

  “For whoever lives under that mountain to show up. Or for some wild animal to drag us all away. At this point, I’m not really sure I care which, so long as it’s not a Sympa.” Ro’s losing it, and I don’t blame him. We all are. It’s been a long day.

  Tima isn’t amused. “Really? Because the Sympas will be all over us as soon as they see that fire. Put it out. Now.”

  “Or then again, maybe not,” says Lucas. He points. “Seeing as the wait appears to be over. Someone’s here.”

  Light after light appears in the night, and we see they are attached to a grim line of automatic weapons lining the mountainside in front of us. They waver like fireflies, only a thousand times bigger. They appear, one by one—giant glowing eyes, staring at us from all directions.

  The third tunnel isn’t empty. Not anymore. And from the looks of the welcoming party, they’re not Sympas.

  The Grass Militia of Belter Mountain is here.

  We back up, away from them, until we stand face-to-face, a hundred yards apart. Not that we can see any faces in the approaching darkness.

  “You Belters?” Ro shouts. “Is this Belter Mountain?”

  Nothing.

  “Maybe they don’t call themselves that anymore,” says Lucas. He raises his voice. “Are you Grass? We’re looking for the Idylls?”

  Still nothing.

  “Or here’s a thought—are you deaf?” Ro shouts, waving both arms above his head. “We come in peace, Grassholes.”

  Nobody answers him. “Belters,” Ro mutters, shaking his head.

  “What now?” I ask.

  Tima looks stricken. “I have no idea.”

  Ro tosses his hands into the air, giving up.

  Lucas looks at me. “Welcome to the Idylls.”

  Fifteen minutes later, nobody has moved. “They’re as scared of us as we are of them,” I say, staring at the line of lights in front of us. “I can feel it.”

  “What else can you feel?” Lucas puts his hand on my arm.

  “Not much. Confusion. Anger. Paranoia.” I close my eyes, trying to get a clearer picture. “Everything you’d expect from a radical Grass militia.”

  “What about you?” Ro looks at Lucas.

  “What about me?” Lucas asks, suspiciously.

  “I’m thinking now would be a good time to do your thing, handsome.”

  I open my eyes.

  “What are you talking about?” Lucas is annoyed.

  “You know. Your little love beam. The thing where you make people do things they don’t want to do. Because they looooove you. About time you turn it on someone besides Dol.” Ro smiles at me, and I respond with a withering look. Which is better than Lucas punching him in the face, which from the looks of it is a real possibility.

  “I can’t,” Lucas finally says, quietly. “They’re too far away.”

  Tima puts a reassuring hand on his arm. “You might as well try. You don’t know. We’ve all been changing since the Hole. Maybe you can do it.”

  “Not you too.” Lucas sighs.

  I hate to agree, but the others are right. “Maybe you can warm things up around here.” Lucas raises an eyebrow and Ro stifles a laugh. “You know what I mean. Just try. You never know.”

  Lucas gives me a meaningful look and steps forward.

  For you, Dol. That’s what it says.

  I know how much he hates using his gift; he showed me why on our first day together in the Hole. And I know he never wants to use it—not for any reason, ever.

  But that’s what our lives are like now. We do things we don’t want to do, every minute of every day.

  “All right, all right. If you really want me to.” Lucas looks out toward the row of weapons
and closes his eyes. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  GENERAL EMBASSY DISPATCH: EASTASIA SUBSTATION

  MARKED URGENT

  MARKED EYES ONLY

  Internal Investigative Subcommittee IIS211B

  RE: The Incident at SEA Colonies

  Note: Contact Jasmine3k, Virt. Hybrid Human 39261.SEA, Laboratory Assistant to Dr. E. Yang, for future commentary, as necessary.

  PERSES

  Transcript - ComLog 12.25.2042

  NULL::FORTIS

  NULL::HAL

  //lognote: comlink initiated by NULL;

  //comlog begin;

  external uplink established;

  sendline: Merry Christmas FORTIS.;

  delayed response;

  sendline: Merry Christmas HAL0.;

  delayed response;

  delayed response;

  delayed response;

  comlink terminated;

  //comlog end;

  //lognote:… oh my, I can’t believe I missed this one. Our “conversations” seem to be evolving… NULL seems to be both highly curious and a quick study.;

  //lognote: Is NULL changing?;

  8

  COLD WELCOME

  “Maybe it’s not working,” Lucas says. His eyes are still closed, his fingers clenched into fists at his sides.

  Tima grins stupidly at him, though, and even Ro can’t help but smile.

  Brutus wags his little tail.

  “It’s working,” I say. It takes everything in me not to fling my arms around him.

  “I’m going to kill you myself if you don’t turn that crap off me,” Ro says cheerfully.

  “Really, Lucas.” Tima giggles. “Stop it. Not us.”

  “Tima—are you giggling?” Ro is intrigued.

  “No.” Tima giggles again.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t control it that easily,” Lucas says, sounding miserable. “Any change out there?” He opens his eyes, slowly.

  But there isn’t—I only wish there were.

  It doesn’t matter how hard Lucas tries. These men are unwavering. They must be made of stone.

  As I stare at the uneven line of guns, I can only hope that the Grass militia will trust us enough to let us in.

  Because none of the weapons seem to be lowering themselves, and none of the lights seem to be coming to greet us.

  “Come out,” Lucas calls across the clearing, in the direction of the armed men. “You can trust us.”

  He takes a step forward, raising his hands. I want to hold him back, but I don’t dare.

  Lucas is in control now. If only for the moment.

  As I stare in the darkness, my eyes begin to pick out the details of the three tunnels behind them. The third one, especially, is broad as a road, and probably runs straight into the heart of the hill.

  “I’m right here,” Lucas calls out again. “See? You can see I’m unarmed. I’m not hiding anything.” He waves his arms.

  No answer. Nothing.

  You wouldn’t know they were there—any of these tunnels—if you didn’t know where to look.

  Like so many things, I think. I am only now beginning to know where to look.

  “I give up,” Lucas says.

  I can feel the warmth receding. He’s letting it go, shutting it down—

  “Stand down.”

  It’s them, the Grass.

  I hear the words but I don’t see where they’re coming from.

  “I’ll be damned,” Ro says, whistling. “All right, Buttons.”

  But Lucas keeps his eyes on the Grass.

  “Who are you all?” the Belter Grass voice asks. It’s not so much a person as a voice—a shout, and a gun, and another bright light. A brighter one this time.

  Lucas looks relieved to even be talking to someone. He takes a second and third step forward. “A friend. We mean you no harm. We’re all on the same side here.” His voice is low and soothing. I find myself closing my eyes while he speaks.

  “I guess I’m going to have to ask you to be a little more specific, brother,” says a low voice. I shield my eyes but I still can’t make out a face.

  All around us, Grass soldiers emerge from the trees, and there are more and more lights, with more and more guns. More guns than I’ve ever seen before, even back at the Embassy, even at the Cathedral. These Grass Belters are seriously stocked when it comes to ammunition. But from here, it only looks like a mess of fireflies, drawn toward us as if we were the ones with the light.

  I hold up a hand, stepping forward. “Look. No offense. We all have plenty of reasons not to trust each other. I don’t know anything about you Grass Belters except a crap map drawn by a Virt and the fact that we share no love for Brass.”

  “Agreed.”

  A man in a dark green military jacket—not Embassy, not anything I’ve seen before—materializes in front of us, stepping forward from the bright lights of the mountain perimeter. I try to get inside his head, but I’m panicking. I can’t focus my thoughts.

  Brutus growls from behind Tima’s legs.

  The man drops his weapon as we watch, and starts to walk toward us, the crust of frozen ground crunching beneath his feet. He doesn’t seem to be afraid of us. He doesn’t seem to be particularly afraid of anything. Still, I notice the rest of the Belters keep their weapons trained on us.

  They don’t take any chances, the Belter Grass.

  As the man approaches, his face seems familiar. Broad bones and strong features, a bit of red in his cheeks. Not a Merk, I don’t think. Not scruffy enough, not slick enough. This man is something else entirely.

  He’s close enough now that I can see the buttons glinting on his jacket. A silver commendation on each side of his collar marks him as some kind of officer, only I don’t know what the symbols mean. They aren’t like the ones Colonel Catallus wore. They’re shaped like three deep Vs—one above the other. If I didn’t know how strange it sounded, I could swear they were birds.

  “They call me the Bishop. Welcome.”

  “You don’t look much like a bishop,” Ro says.

  “And you don’t look much like the Merk known as Fortis,” the man answers, in a lower voice. “Which is a problem. Seeing as that’s who we heard was coming. And that’s who we were expecting.”

  “Yeah, well, he ran into a little trouble.” Ro raises his face to meet the Bishop’s, eye to eye. “And not the kind with a face.”

  Neither one of them looks away. None of the guns move any lower. I find myself holding my breath.

  “Sorry to hear that,” the Bishop says, finally. “Trouble followed that Merk to The Day and back, but he did right by the Grass. Good death to him.” He nods, looking at the rest of us. A salute of sorts.

  No such thing, I think.

  Ro shrugs. “That’s up to the No Face now. Shoot us if you want, but gone is gone, and there’s no bringing Fortis back. No bringing the Merk back, now.” He jams his hands into his pockets and waits, as if he has all the time in the world.

  As if any of us does.

  The Bishop holds out his hand and Ro takes it. They clasp hands, supporting the right arm with the left. A very old-fashioned, very traditional Grass greeting. A compact has been reached, an alliance made.

  Gone is gone. This is all we have now.

  “Sorry about that, but we’ve gotten word of Sympa patrols in the area, down the river. You didn’t bring any friends this way, did you?”

  Yes, I think.

  “No,” Ro says. He’s impressively blank. “Don’t got any.”

  “Probably for the best,” says the Bishop with a smile.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see Lucas, stepping backward behind Tima, almost into the shadows. Of course. He’s Ambassador Amare’s son. There’s no one here who wants to shake his hand. Better to be out of sight, not get involved. That’s what he’s thinking, anyway. I can feel it, the way his warmth dies out to a flicker, even this close to the Belter Grass. Feel him.

  Lucas, I think. There’s a whole world ou
t there. You’ve got to trust it, sooner or later.

  But then I feel the creeping warmth, and I realize exactly what he’s doing.

  He’s working them still, even from here. He’s working them for me.

  It’s probably not a coincidence that, just then, the Bishop waves his hand—the quickest of dismissive motions—and the guns behind him instantly disappear.

  Finally.

  Except the one trained on me.

  “One small thing.” The Bishop looks me over, searchingly, until I wish I could disappear.

  Still, the light and the gun stay targeted on me.

  It’s me. I’m the small thing.

  And suddenly, I see it all as clearly as if he’d just said it out loud.

  They don’t trust me.

  “Are you her? The girl from the Hole? The one who ‘died’?” The Bishop is looking at me. “Is it true? What they say? That a bunch of near children brought an entire Icon down? That you’re so immune you can walk right up and get close enough to kill them?” He doesn’t sound convinced.

  I don’t say a word.

  “And what’s this about powers? Reading minds? Doing what the Icons can do—manipulating people without touching them?” The Bishop shakes his head, incredulous.

  I just look at him.

  “Like you’re some kind of human Icon?”

  It’s not a compliment.

  “It’s true. Just like in the stories.” I look him in the eye. I want him to know I am not afraid. Which isn’t true, I think.

  Not really.

  “Icon Children.” The Bishop shakes his head, wonderingly. “Tell me,” he says, staring at me. “Tell me everything. I mean, if you’re really her. You should have quite a story.”

  The accusation is laced with something else, something rare.

  Curiosity, maybe? Disbelief?

  Hope? Is that it?

  Either way, the words hang in the air like the snow.

  I just look at him. I’m too tired and too cold to speak anymore.

  The Bishop tries again. “Look at it from where I stand. I have to be able to trust that you are who you say you are. You must understand. We can’t let anyone into the mountain who isn’t with us, a hundred percent. That’s the one danger of a sealed underground base. Once your perimeter is breached, you’re too vulnerable to recover. When someone’s inside, they’re inside. So I need a little convincing. Help me trust you.”