Idols

by Margaret Stohl

  “Fair enough.”

  He turns to look at me, and for a moment it’s like talking to a regular person.

  “I’m sure about this, Dol. I won’t let anything happen. We won’t have to go it alone. I have a few friends left in the world, you know. In the Colonies.”

  “And a few more enemies,” I add, my mouth twisting.

  “You have no idea.”

  Fortis winks, and we look back out to the water. Then—suddenly, awkwardly—Fortis clears his throat. “Speaking of enemies. It’s none of my business, the mushy stuff, you know. Friendship and true love and all that rot. But you and your boys, you seem a bit out of sorts.”

  I can feel my face turning red. “Whatever point you think you’re making, don’t.”

  He ignores me. “That Padre of yours did an all-right job. You turned out all right. And he’s not all bad, the other one.” Fortis smiles. “When he’s not busy beatin’ on the whole world.”

  “Ro?”

  He nods.

  I sigh. “He’s just like that, I guess. He likes a challenge.”

  “You mean he likes a fight.” Fortis looks at me, leaning closer along the rail. “I’d watch that one if I were you, Grassgirl.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Fellow like that, never know what he’ll do. When he’ll blow. Boom.”

  I shiver.

  Fortis pats me on the shoulder.

  “You’re smart to stick with Buttons. He’s going to be a sight cracked, what with the whole Mama Ambassador thing, but there’s always medical science to take care of that.”

  “You mean, like a Psych. Virt?”

  He grins. “I mean like a lobotomy.” He turns away. “I’m off to scare up some breakfast. Get back in the hidey-hole before someone sees you, will you?”

  “Promise.”

  I say it and I mean it, because the minute he’s gone, I make my move.

  Something’s going on with Fortis and I’m not letting it go past me.

  I slip back noiselessly into the shadows, walking over the same rolling deck where I stumbled not so long ago. Tima and Lucas and Ro are still sleeping; even Brutus is snoring. Battered as we all are, just getting through another day is a minor medical miracle. Fortis says sleep is the best thing they—and any of us—can do. Not that it’s that easy to come by, in a situation like ours.

  Maybe he spiked their food with sleep tabs, I think, looking at them snoring away now.

  Even better.

  I spy Fortis’s jacket, and before I know it, I’m reaching inside. I need to know what’s going on, especially with his sudden plans for us to take down the entire General Embassy.

  Fortis isn’t himself—or I’m not.

  Either way, I have to find out.

  As with any Merk, his jacket is a treasure trove, with every hidden inside pocket brimming full of the odd bits that make Fortis, Fortis. He’s never without it; only the intolerable heat and the more intolerable humidity of the Colonies have made him leave it behind, even now.

  A rare mistake.

  Stop it, I think.

  What are you even looking for?

  But I don’t stop. I can’t help myself.

  Information, as he would say. Pertinent information. That’s what I’m looking for.

  And so I keep looking.

  The first thing I see is the cuff, wrapped in the stiff black fabric.

  Strange, Fortis without his cuff.

  That rarely happens.

  Next I find a wad of digs, a bundle of Merk cash held together in a digi-clip with the faded letters P.F. on it. Beyond that, there are such treasures as this: a bundle of old photographs, tied with string—a small pocketknife—a larger hunting knife—and what looks like a tin of grease for his hair. I open it.

  Plastic explosives. Nice.

  Then I find it, in one of the larger pockets that line the back of the jacket. Still bound in its own rough burlap sack, just as I left it when I gave it to him for safekeeping, back at Nellis.

  My book.

  My last gift from the Padre.

  The Humanity Project: The Icon Children.

  I open the pages, eagerly, shamefully—as if I were reading something immoral or illegal or worse.

  But I’m not. I’m reading about myself. Until I get to the back pages, which are scribbled in with writing by another hand.

  Fortis’s.

  It’s his journal, as far as I can tell.

  I settle back against the wall of the rolling ship and start to read about the man I have entrusted my life to.

  THE ICON CHILDREN–SEA COLONIES LAB DATA–WEEK 27

  GENETIC MODIFICATION FOR ALL SPECIMENS PREPARED. PRIMATE TESTING SUCCESSFUL, NEUROLOGICAL SIDE EFFECTS NEGLIGIBLE. AMYGDALA AND CORTEX CUSTOMIZATIONS MEET OR EXCEED SPECIFICATIONS ON ALL MEASUREMENTS. DETECTING ORDERS-OF-MAGNITUDE INCREASES ACROSS ALL KEY BRAIN FUNCTIONS AND CORRESPONDING INCREASES IN ENERGY OUTPUT. REDESIGNED HARDWARE WAS REQUIRED TO ACCOMMODATE NEW, HIGH READINGS.

  THE DESIGN IS SOUND, AND WORK BEGINS ON HUMAN INTEGRATION, MARKED BELOW.

  SPECIMEN ONE: DNA SYNTHESIS COMPLETE

  SPECIMEN TWO: DNA SYNTHESIS COMPLETE

  SPECIMEN THREE: DNA SYNTHESIS COMPLETE

  SPECIMEN FOUR: DNA SYNTHESIS COMPLETE

  MODIFICATIONS FOR ALL SPECIMENS SUCCESSFULLY ENCODED AND READY TO TEST INCUBATION FOR VIABILITY.

  NOTE: ELA INSISTS ON FURTHER TESTING. I DON’T BLAME HER FOR WANTING TO BE CERTAIN OF WHAT WE HAVE. SOMETHING NEW. A SOLUTION TO EXTINCTION. A SOLUTION TO EVERYTHING.

  IT’S QUITE POSSIBLE THE FUTURE OF THE WORLD DEPENDS ON IT.

  ELA? Who is that?

  And DNA synthesis?

  What was he synthesizing?

  “Still sleeping?”

  I hear the booming voice before I see him, moving across the skiffs in front of our shadowy shelter—and I rush to toss everything back into his jacket.

  “Like babies,” I say, my heart pounding.

  “Good. I like it that way. Less chatter.” Fortis smiles as he creeps into our hidey-hole, tossing a sack in my direction. “Paid a little visit to the galley storage. Eat up. Don’t exactly know when fresh food is coming our way again. It’s not like we’ll be going fishing.”

  “You never know,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Fish. Birds. Extinction. You never know. You might wake up one day and find a genetic solution to extinction. Something new.” I don’t look at him, opening the sack instead.

  “Not likely,” he says, ripping off the end of a stolen loaf.

  I pull out a hard round of bread for myself. “Do you still have the Padre’s book, Fortis? The one about us—about me?”

  He looks startled. “Of course.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “It’s not with me. Not here.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Somewhere safe.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  I bite into the tough, leathery roll, thinking about genome sequencing and bioinformation and, as I swallow, the future of the world.

  And who or who not to trust it to.

  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. Also note that in following communications, the entity HAL is now referred to as DOC, following Fortis’s penchant for obtuse nicknames.

  DOC ==> FORTIS

  Transcript - ComLog 10.13.2054

  Ethical Query

  //comlog begin;

  DOC: FORTIS?;

  FORTIS: Yes, DOC.;

  DOC: Should we not alert the government about your discoveries about NULL, his devices, and the… children?;

  FORTIS: No. Not yet.;

  FORTIS: Ask me again later.;

  FORTI
S: I am still evaluating our situation. It is still somewhat elastic. Dynamic.;

  FORTIS: And I still have a handle on things. I hope.;

  DOC: As do I.;

  //comlog end;

  18

  JUMP

  The blue water of the SEA Colonies is marbled with shadow as we approach. Shadow and shade, in strange patterns and blotches, like pieces of a giant puzzle I will never see finished. A whole world beneath the sea.

  I wonder what the Lords have planned for that half of the Earth, the secret half. How they will destroy it.

  The Lords and the GAP.

  I wonder if it will surrender as quickly as the land above did.

  “There’s something moving down there. Look.” Lucas points. I don’t look back at the water, though, because he’s not wearing his ripped shirt, and I’m too busy looking at him—at the strangely shiny place his scar has become, shaped like a flower, or a burst of sun. More than a week of sleep and sea air has done his body more good than I could have imagined. Even if most of that time was spent darting in and out of a row of damp old dinghies.

  Still, it isn’t just that Lucas’s spirits seem better today; all of ours are. We’re supposed to see land within the next few hours. It’s about time, I think. I’m ready to give up sleeping on the deck.

  I haven’t dreamed of her once, the jade girl. It’s worrying me. I don’t know what it means. Then again, the thought of the SEA Colonies and all they will bring—at least, if Fortis’s plans fall into place—is hardly a soothing thought. Maybe my dreams have a way of revealing to me only what I can handle.

  As if I can handle any of this.

  “There.” Lucas motions again. “Look. Manta. They’re still here. Even without the fish.”

  I turn to see the dark shadows move just beneath the surface of the water, flapping their pliant bodies. They swim the way I imagine birds used to fly, the way Grass festival dancers flutter their hands when they dance. Like a fish out of water, only in reverse. A bird out of the sky. It’s eerie, and I shiver.

  Then I remember.

  “How is that possible? Whatever that is, it must have—you know.” Hearts. That can stop—or be stopped. Those are the words left unsaid.

  “Maybe it’s a miracle,” Lucas says. “Or maybe things just change.”

  “Maybe it wears off, the effect of the Icon. Maybe it all comes back.”

  “It?”

  I shrug. “Life.”

  The birds, I think.

  I reach into my chestpack and pull out the small silver bird. The pin. I study it as if it could talk.

  The Bishop’s birds didn’t come back. Neither did the Padre—or my parents. How will I ever really know who or what will come back?

  Or is it all just up to Fortis and his secrets? I think bitterly.

  Then Lucas touches my arm, bringing me back to him. I smile at him, and he leans forward, cupping my face with one hand, kissing me abruptly. Hard and soft.

  Like so much of my life.

  But the sunlight is warm on my arms and the humid air winds around me and I twist my body closer to him, as if we could dance and fly like miracles ourselves.

  Secret, mysterious miracles. Irrational impossibilities. Birds in the water and fish in the skies.

  Because maybe, in some small way, that’s what we are.

  We stand at the railing, watching when the shore comes into sight. The crew is too busy now to notice us, though the majority of the Remnants—at least, those who haven’t been made to work the sanitation crews—are still belowdecks.

  It’s an unforgettable sight—less of a shore and more of an optimistic outcropping of rock that just refuses to be sea; it won’t give in to the broad blue wash that surrounds us on all sides. You have to respect that.

  I do.

  Farther down the rock, I can see the outline of a Colony settlement along the nearest bay.

  There are buildings in the distance, of course, reaching like fingers, like claws, high up toward the sky where they’ve had to build up instead of out, in a land where space is scarce and every shovelful of soil comes at a premium. They have the same vaguely dead look that the cities do, that the Hole did. Lights that don’t light, cars that don’t move. Literal powerlessness, meant to be not just evident but obvious.

  But what I really notice are the trees.

  Enormous palm trees—too many to count—sway their slender trunks out toward us, over the water, as if they were groaning bellies after a fat lunch. As if their backs will soon break.

  Above them, the sky seems especially vast, now that there is a shoreline beneath it. Something about the smallness of human life makes the theater of the clouds above more immense, more spectacular—as if the important thing, here, isn’t human life—and as if it never was.

  The scale is all wrong, I think.

  I think of the relative size of things as our ship draws toward the shore, bringing up the buildings, closer and closer, until they dwarf the sky itself.

  Right now I have no idea how big or little I am.

  We make our plan to disembark with the others, slipping inside the scraggly processional of human life that is the Remnants headed to the Projects. It’s the grimmest of parades.

  Fortis stiffens as soon as he sees them. “Bugger.”

  I look over. “What’s wrong?”

  “Just look at them. They’re dressed up now.” He motions toward the Remnants, and I realize that he’s right. They’re in a kind of uniform, one they weren’t wearing when we all boarded the ship. It’s a faded blue-gray pants and jacket, vaguely regional looking. A SEA Colonies uniform.

  Worse, they’re in chains—and we’re not.

  “Keep your heads down,” Fortis hisses. He hurries to fall into line behind a cluster of Remnants, who act like they don’t even see us.

  We follow.

  I feel them now. I wish I didn’t, but I do. They’re hungry, most of them. Sick, at least half of them. Scared for their lives, nearly all.

  “Stay close,” hisses Fortis. “And I said heads down.” Tima stumbles as he says it, but Lucas grabs her arm, and we press behind the others, so that you’d have to be looking to see us.

  Looking more closely, to see a scruffy dog hidden inside Tima’s jacket.

  I’m afraid they’ll see—that someone will notice the irregularity in the line. If someone is watching closely enough, they will.

  I hold my breath.

  One. Two. Three.

  But no one is watching. At least, no one from the line of Brass shoving the Remnants into carts. Not this time.

  Fortis motions and we follow him, walking, not running, until we reach the edge of the docks.

  “Just do what I do,” Fortis says, pulling his jacket tight.

  I nod.

  And he jumps off the side of the pier.

  The sound of the splash is lost in the clanking of the Remnants’ chains.

  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.

  FORTIS ==> DOC

  Transcript - ComLog 06.13.2060

  //comlog begin;

  FORTIS: We need our countermeasures ready. Like, yesterday. NULL will be here before we know it. Have you completed the genome analysis?;

  DOC: Yes, I believe I have.;

  FORTIS: And the reprogramming of the limbic design and neocortex is feasible?;

  DOC: Yes, the theory is sound. In practice, well, biological processes have a way of being unpredictable.;

  FORTIS: That’s what keeps life interesting, mate. Okay, I’ve selected candidates for implant. NULL is fast approaching, and we need to put this plan in motion.;

  DOC: I believe I can provide you the “recipe” soon. As for the legwork, we
ll…;

  FORTIS: Yes, I understand, you don’t have legs.;

  DOC: Or hands.;

  FORTIS: Sigh. I’ve spent some quality time in the lab refining the DNA manipulation process and once you give me the code, I believe I can prepare the candidate eggs in time for complete gestation prior to NULL’s arrival.;

  //comlog end;

  19

  GOLDEN GAP

  The water is freezing. It’s pulling me down and dragging me under, with a violence I normally associate with the intention to kill.

  It’s just water.

  Move.

  But my legs are slow and my lungs are burning, and by the time we have all pulled ourselves up the rusting dock ladder on the far side of the Porthole, I feel at least wounded, if not dead.

  We are a sorry, bedraggled mess—all of us. Fortis, spluttering in his soggy overcoat, seems worse off than the rest. I think for a moment of the now-waterlogged book in his pocket, the one he pretends not to have, drowning all his secrets.

  As if anything will make them go away.

  Even Brutus shakes out his fur, bristling as he sprays us, doubts and all.

  But once we catch our breath, for these few moments of first shore sunshine, it’s like none of it ever happened. I want to fling myself on the grass—actual grass—that lines the boulevard leading inland from the port.

  A Porthole, I think with a sad smile. How different this one is than back home. As I watch the foaming blue-green waves, all I can think of is the garbage floating in the gray dishwater of the Hole’s own Porthole Bay. I smell things growing here in the Colonies—strange things, blossoming things, things with colors and scents and flavors. I can only think of things dying, back in the Hole. Cars and people and whole city blocks.

  Human debris.

  Inhuman debris.

  Not here.

  Not yet.

  The difference is striking.

  But for how much longer?