The main job of a pundit or priest or philosopher, Sofie said, was to tell stories. Publicly, where anyone who wanted to could hear them. Sometimes the stories were called sermons. Sometimes they were called dialogues. Sometimes they were called parables. Sometimes they were called Vedas. No matter what they were called, their purpose was the same: to lead their audience to the ways of wisdom.
“But the speaker does not tell those who listen what wisdom is,” she clarified. “The story contains its own wisdom, and those who listen must find it themselves.”
“What if they don’t?”
She smiled. “Then there will always be another story.”
The worldlink, Sofie said, was filled with all kinds of stories that tried to distract people from the ways of wisdom. She rattled off their names: banners, promos, slogans, tabloids, megazines, flicks, techgames, sporting contests—
“Sporting contests?”
“There are no sporting contests in my country,” she said. “There have been none for the past hundred years. And why? Because for us, life is contest enough. When to live or to die is a daily struggle, sporting arenas seem a frivolous luxury.”
I thought about all the ball games me and Adrian and Griff had watched over the years, all the times I’d sat in the stands or in front of a screen cheering my head off for some costumed superhero, and I felt ashamed, ridiculous. Like a little kid who realized his parents had tricked him for years into believing in Santa Cogs.
Sofie often had that effect on me. Being in her camp was like being in ColPrep all over again—except this time it wasn’t my body getting battered and twisted every which way, it was my brain. I’d never gone to school—in the Upperworld we had Classification, not school—but much of the time I spent in the Lowerworld, it felt like I was the only guy who’d never gone to school. And everyone else, Sofie most of all, was waiting for the dumb kid in the back of the classroom to finally figure out what the rest of the students had known all their lives.
But that was only half the story. When Sofie came into our mobile camp for the night, her purple robe flying and her face flushed from the day’s events, she made my pulse race to learn what had gone on in the world since I’d last seen her. When she gathered everyone around her in the lantern light of the camp—we had electric lights, plus a lot more technology than I expected to find in the Lowerworld, but she liked to keep these meetings low key and traditional—I felt like I was soaring on the music of her voice. I wasn’t sure I understood her stories, but at the same time they gave me the feeling I got every time I was around her: the feeling that she knew me better than anyone did, even better than I knew myself. On bad days it was easy to believe she was making me feel like an idiot on purpose, taking out her anger at the Upperworld specifically on me. But on good days it was just as easy to believe that if she was being extra hard on me, it was because she wanted something from me she didn’t want—or couldn’t get—from anyone else.
One night, a month after I’d joined her circle, she told a story that made my head spin with what it said, and what it didn’t.
“This is the story of a marriage,” she said that night, seated on the ground with her legs tucked beneath her and her robe arranged neatly over her lap. “But it is not the story of a traditional marriage. It is the story of the marriage of two gods. It is a very old story, so old the names are lost. But the story holds true.
“The story tells that one of these gods had grown haughty as the result of his power. He would ride around his kingdom seated on a great beast the height of ten men, and the other gods would bow at his feet and pay obeisance to him. They feared to tell him that he had become a bully, and a nuisance, and a bore—parading around in front of the others rather than coming down to walk among them. But there was nothing they could do, for this god’s power was so great that any who stood against him would have suffered a most horrible death.”
She looked around the camp, enjoying her story. Some kids laughed and played nearby. Most of the people listening seemed relaxed and happy too, and I tried not to look like I was hanging on her every word.
“But as I have said,” she went on after a moment, “this great god was preparing for his marriage. He was riding about, seeking throughout his kingdom an appropriate wedding gift for his betrothed. Now, you must understand that the goddess he had pledged to marry was very beautiful, and also very modest, so modest she had not asked for a gift to be given at her wedding. But this great god believed he must find the most wonderful of gifts for his bride—not truly for love of her, but for love of himself. So he was searching around, mounted on his great beast, for something in his kingdom that no one had seen before, something so marvelous that all who saw it would be reminded of his great power and splendor.
“Now, as he hastened along the main road that passed through his kingdom, he came upon a wise man traveling in the opposite direction. This wise man had lived for so many years and contemplated the things of the hidden world for so long, nothing could remain secret from him. And through his researches, he had discovered the most wonderful flower in all the world, a flower that could make any who inhaled its fragrance weep for joy. He was hurrying along the road, carrying this flower and talking to himself, when he bumped into the great god mounted on his great beast and going the other way.
“Now, at that time, it was considered good manners to dismount before the very old and the very wise so as not to appear to be on higher ground. But this great god, as you can well imagine, would not have thought to show courtesy to any other under the best of circumstances. So he remained seated upon his great beast, glaring at the wise man, even when the poor old fellow was knocked backward and landed on the seat of his pants in the mud.
“This enraged the wise man—who, for all his wisdom, had one sad flaw, which was shortness of temper. And so, rising from the mud, he saluted the god as follows.
“ ‘Oh great one, I see you are in a hurry to wed your beloved, and did not notice me traveling in haste the other way. Forgive me, great one, for my clumsiness.’
“The great god suspected nothing, and was pleased with the wise man’s address, for as you know, the unwary can often be seduced by honeyed words.
“ ‘Take, oh great one, this flower, as a token of my contrition,’ the wise man said, holding the flower up to the great god on his lofty perch. ‘It is the rarest and most precious of flowers, and will make a suitable adornment for your bridal bower.’
“And without so much as a thank-you, the great god swiped the flower from the wise man’s hand and placed it on the head of his great beast. Then he wheeled and was gone, thundering down the road toward the place where he was to be wed.
“ ‘We will see,’ the wise man said to himself—for not only did he often talk to himself, but he often predicted the outcomes of his various schemes and machinations—‘we will see if he remains so high and mighty after tonight!’ ”
The audience laughed at this line. I was hearing the story through the TranSpeaker that hummed in my ear, and I wasn’t sure what was so funny, but I smiled a little for form’s sake.
“Well,” Sofie continued once the laughter died down. “You can imagine what the wise man knew but the great god did not. This flower, because its fragrance was so delightful, would make any who inhaled it forget all loves that had come before. Even a woman of such modesty and gentleness as the great god’s betrothed could not withstand the power of this fragrance, and once she smelled it, the wise man knew that the great god would find favor in her eyes no longer.
“And so it came to pass. The wedding was held, with all the gods in attendance, and the wise man cackling in the back of the hall. At the conclusion of the ceremony, when the great god and his wife absconded to their bridal bower, and she inhaled the fragrance of the flower with which he had bedecked their bridal bed, her eyes at once lost their luster for her husband, and her heart lost all desire. Suspecting nothing of the wise man’s deceit, the great god fell to his knees before
his wife, clutching the hem of her garment and pleading for her to return to him. And when the other gods saw him in this pitiable state, his spell was broken, and never again did they fear his wrath. Instead, they laughed at him, calling him a worthless braggart, and vowed to install another god in his place before the sun rose on another day.
“But this is not the story’s end,” she said, her eyes flashing as they scanned the silent, eager crowd. “Broken and humbled, the great god fled his kingdom, becoming a ragged beggar in lands unknown. For years without end, he wandered the road, his power forgotten by all, even by himself. And then at last, he wandered into the lands of the wise man, who took pity on him, and gathered him to his breast. The once-great god bowed his head and said, ‘Forgive me, for I have done wrong.’ And tears fell from his eyes as he spoke these words.
“And from those tears sprang the form of a new flower, one that no one, not even the wise man, had seen before. The wise man plucked the flower, and, laying his hands on the great god’s head, he said, ‘You are forgiven. Return to the lands you once ruled, and rule them now in wisdom.’ And when the wise man spoke these words, the great god was restored, and he returned to his wife, who had spent all the long years of his banishment enraptured by the flower from their wedding night. But when the scent of the new flower, the tear flower, washed over her, she too was restored, and she saw her husband as he was now, a wiser and gentler man, and love for him flowed through her heart once more. Their marriage was celebrated again, and in the time to come the wedding couple became the greatest of all gods. And through him her power flowed, and his through her, and the world was made anew. But the wise man . . .”
She paused, her eyes twinkling in the lantern light. I could tell from the breathless silence of the crowd that they knew what was coming.
“The wise man,” Sofie said with a smile, “gained nothing, for he risked nothing. He is still out there on the road, trading flowers he will never smell himself. And his temper has not improved one bit!”
She laughed, and the crowd laughed with her. The TranSpeaker whirred to silence in my ear. I was left with the feeling that there was much more to her words than I’d been able to grasp. But Sofie often had that effect on me too.
“That is the way it is with stories,” she said to me once the crowd had dispersed for their tents and bedtime. “If you think tonight’s tale was obscure, wait until you hear the legend about the philosopher and the cave.”
“I get the great god, and I think I get the bride,” I said. “But I’m still working on the flower and the wise man.”
“A true-to-life wise man once wrote, ‘We murder to dissect,’ ” she said playfully. “Like a flower or a human being, the life of a story lies in the whole, not in its parts.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when you do the one about the philosopher and the cave.”
Laughing, she laid her fingertips on my arm, before her white-suited bodyguards surrounded her and led her away. They were never far from her, and though I supposed they trusted me by now—or trusted her, which meant they trusted any decision she chose to make—I knew they wouldn’t hesitate to take out anyone they believed was a threat to her.
I watched her go. My skin tingled where she’d touched me, and her own fragrance, something made of incense and roses, lingered in the air. It was hard for me to believe that a month ago I’d been as far from her as it was possible to be—and now she was talking to me, teasing me, touching me. I’d never touched her myself, of course, one reason being the presence of her bodyguards—all seven of them, the two who’d died in New York CITI having been replaced by two who looked every bit as intimidating. The other reason was that she’d never given me an invitation.
Unless, that is, she just had.
Otherworld
Earth Year 3151
Night
I’ve been trudging through the darkness for hours, holding the flashing red beacon the bored commissary clerk insisted would lead me straight to the Freefall, when the thought creeps into my mind that I might as well give up.
My radiation gear’s heavy as hell. My body’s killing me from the beating it took last night. My path’s strewn with fissures and mud pits. And though I never noticed this when I was wearing the lightweight jumpsuit, I think this planet’s gravitational pull is stronger than Earth’s. Not by much, but enough to make a difference with all the garbage I’m lugging around.
Even worse, though, is all the garbage I’m lugging around inside.
I’ve been hurled halfway across the galaxy. Sampled by a space monster. Beaten within a centimeter of my life by the guy I used to share juice boxes with. And sent on a death march by the guy who used to buy the juice boxes. And all this for a girl who didn’t love me, never loved me. Who used me, tricked me, left me.
Who I love nonetheless, and would save in a heartbeat if I could.
I can’t wrap my head around it. I’m trying to save a guy I hate to save the girl I love, who’s the reason he hates me. If, as I strongly suspect, I can’t save him, she’ll die. But even if I do save him, he’ll personally make sure I never see her again. And even if I do see her again, she won’t love me.
Whichever way it works out, I lose.
The sameness of each step, each second, wears on me. Moving makes sense when you can see a purpose to where you’re going. Take that away, and it doesn’t feel like you’re moving. Conroy might think I’ve got some plan for meeting up with Adrian’s captors in our really cool Super Spy bungalow, but I’m close to 100 percent sure his captors are also his killers, and I’m equally certain they’re lying in wait underground right now, ready to perform a similar operation on me. I wonder why I’m worried about them, considering the futility of this mission. Maybe, in the end, that’s all there is to life: staying alive. High ideals and lofty causes seemed so important when I was living in Sofie’s camp. And all they did was land me—and her—here.
The mist clings to me like a web, obscuring everything. I gave up on using my flashlight when I realized all it did was bounce fog back into my eyes through the visor of my suit. An aluminum pole serves as my combined walking stick and probe. I tap it in front of me, swish it from side to side, reassured by the solid if slightly yielding percussion of stick against stone. Though really, is it any worse to get sucked into a steaming geyser than to be devoured? I’m beginning to think the fog comes not just from the pits but from somewhere deep inside the planet, seeping out when the sun’s not around to hassle it. Directions are meaningless in this soup. There’s no map, no coordinates, no landmarks. There’s barely a left or right. There’s only the flash of my beacon.
So that’s the way I go. Toward the Freefall. Toward a ship that’s been emptied of the one thing that gave it meaning.
And that’s when it hits me.
The Freefall.
Okay, I admit it. I’m an idiot. Chalk it up to getting hurled halfway across the galaxy, sampled by a space monster, etc. I’ve been so focused on what Conroy wants me to find aboard the Lowerworld ship—something I’m almost positive I won’t find—I never stopped to think what I might find.
Supplies. Support. Allies.
The Freefall’s jammed to the rafters with equipment for its own journey. Unless someone did a number on the Lowerworld ship as bad as they did on the Executor, some of that equipment might be working. Sofie’s pod ejected, and maybe others did as well, but there’s no reason to think they all did. If Conroy’s right that the Lowerworlders sabotaged the Executor, he could also be right that they sent the Freefall here to finish the job. At the moment, the chairman’s holding Sofie hostage to maintain the upper hand. But if I can find a way inside the ship, maybe I can mobilize my own militia to storm the Executor and save her. Conroy thinks I’m working with the Freefall anyway, right? Why not give him what he wants?
It’s a crazy thought, I know. Probably brought on by the tediousness of the march, the hopelessness of my task. But doing nothing seems worse than doing something. And merely st
aying alive seems like not enough reason to live.
I head in the direction the beacon shows me, walking far faster than I have since I left the Executor. At last I’ve got a plan, even if it’s insane.
There’s no sound except my own heavy footsteps. Nothing in sight except, guess what, more fog. It curls like a living thing, rearranging itself according to its own mysterious motives. I wonder if the Freefall still bleeds light, if I’ll see it before I get there. I wonder, for that matter, if I’m heading in its direction or if I’ve circled back. The bored clerk showed me how to interpret the homing device’s data, but either she didn’t explain it very well or her instructions have slipped my mind, because I’m starting to suspect that all I’m reading is the presence of the pods aboard the Executor. That would be just my luck, to walk all night and end up back at Conroy’s doorstep.
But I don’t let doubt work its way from my head to my legs. As long as the ground holds me upright, as long as the homing device flashes any kind of signal, I’m not slowing down.
I walk on. The beacon holds. The red light turns my palm to fire.
Then I’m pitching forward, landing on gloved hands on the soft, spongy rock. My walking stick flies free and vanishes into the mist. The homing device flashes madly in my hand before switching to a solid, steady red.
I sit up and look around. The beacon’s the only light I have, and it shows me nothing except my own glove. What tripped me I can’t tell, unless it was a rock formation. Come to think of it, it felt less like I was tripped than like I was shoved. I crawl into the mist, feeling for the stick, but it’s not there.
It doesn’t take me long to discover why.
The land vanishes beneath my fingers. I flatten myself onto my stomach and reach as far down as I can, but I can’t reach bottom. It could be a minor declivity in the ground or a cliff. I vote for a cliff.
If the wind or whatever hadn’t knocked me down, I’d have walked right off it.
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