The Illusory Prophet

by Susan Kaye Quinn

  “My dream was pretty vague, too,” she said, but the fervent look is still there. “I think we’re connected somehow, you and me. Maybe I could…” Then she drops her gaze again, frowning at the grass between us.

  “Could what?”

  “Could you bring me into the fugue with you?” She almost doesn’t look at me while she says the words like she’s embarrassed by them.

  “I don’t know.” But my mind is suddenly alive with the possibility. This bleeding over started with a sketch of Kamali dancing, my imagination showing up on my pad… and she saw it. I think. I was too busy kissing her to worry much about it. But maybe we are connected, in some way, with the fugue.

  Then the undeniable truth of that settles into me—the fugue and Kamali have been connected from the start. She’s always had this ability to bring it out. From the first moment I saw the beauty of her dance to even now, with this heady feeling of being in love, I’ve been drawn to her like it was a physical force. Words like fate and destiny float up in my mind, but I shove them away. I already know nothing is certain. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to stop the storm of the Mind in the first place. But maybe Kamali is key to getting my head straight with this business of the fugue bleeding over into reality—just like she’s been the center of my universe in every other way.

  “Why don’t we try?” I ask, a smile tugging at my lips.

  Her dark eyes snap up. “Really?”

  My smile grows. “Sure. I mean, why not?” I don’t even know what I’m saying, but the intense look of hope on her face would make me say yes to trying to levitate the moon.

  “How would you…” A sudden flash of fear crosses her face. “What will I see there?”

  I frown. “I genuinely have no idea. But we don’t have to if you—”

  “No, no!” She whips a finger up between us, and the lilting accent of her native France comes out in her admonition. “I want to try this.”

  “Okay, then.” I’m back to smiling when she does. Then I wipe it away with a hand rubbing my face, trying to figure out how to do this. I focus on her eyes and shift a little, bringing the fugue state into equal focus with the real world. Kamali’s standard Resistance camouflage gear fades to reveal the nearly-nude leotard she always wears in the fugue. I’m not certain what it means—people’s clothes in the fugue—but it must have something to do with their true nature. Maybe what they were wearing when they came into being whoever they truly are. Sometimes the fugue-state forms of the Resistance militia seem more real than the version of reality where I’m having tasteless oatmeal for breakfast in the mess hall.

  “I don’t feel anything yet,” she says, breathless, staring at me with her deep brown eyes.

  I grin. Her impatience makes me want to touch her, but I can’t—my hand will pass through her fugue form, and then I’ll know more about Kamali than she knows herself. Not that I don’t want that intimate knowledge, but I want it the old-fashioned way, by her telling me. Not by stealing it.

  “I haven’t started yet,” I lie, holding her off, just so I can get my bearings on how to even attempt this. “Besides, what’s in it for me?”

  She squints her pretty eyes into slits. “What are you angling for, Elijah Brighton?”

  I shrug but then gesture her up to her feet, careful not to touch her. “I’m just saying I might accept payment in the form of kisses.”

  She crosses her arms and purses her lips, but she’s not mad, she’s flirting hard with me. “Is that right?”

  I struggle not to drop out of the fugue so I can kiss her.

  She steps closer, eyes blazing.

  “Hang on, not just yet,” I rush out, stumbling back out of reach. A weird mixture of guilt and aching need to touch her tumbles through me. I point a finger to keep her back. “Never pay before services are rendered. Don’t you legacy city kids know anything?” Which is rich, given I’m far more legacy than she is. I’m still surprised by the things I don’t know, still hampered by growing up in the seclusion of Seattle, the gilded cage of a legacy kid, believing all the lies the ascenders told us about the world. Kamali was a street-wise rebel in the Resistance, willing to give up her dreams to further the cause, long before I even knew there was a cause… or any hope for humanity outside the limits the ascenders put on us.

  Kamali laughs at my lame joke, and the bright smile of it makes my heart sing. Man, I would do anything for this girl. Anything. Including trying to share the impossible with her.

  “On second thought, I think my payment for this should be a dance,” I say, taking another step back from her.

  She frowns. “Here? In the dark?” The caves are just shallow corners of rock carved into the mountain, but she’s right—it’s too dark to dance.

  “You do need some lights.” I wave my hand like I’m conducting a symphony, but what I’m actually doing is painting… with reality. Or at least trying to. The bleedovers before always happened when I was drawing or painting. The wisps of color or dancing lines either disappeared on their own, or I banished them with a wave of my hand—but I could never tell if it was my imagination or the physical action that swept them away. I’ve only intentionally tried to conjure them twice, both times when my barracks were cleared out—I don’t need to fan the flames already burning in camp about what I can do.

  But this time, I want to share. I imagine lights for Kamali’s dance… and to my amazement, they appear, like stars brought down to the meadow to dance with her. Full-to-bursting orbs illuminate the ground, the boulders around us, the rock landscape looming above… and her thin, steel-strong form, elegant even when she’s standing still. By the wide-eyed look on her face and the gasp that’s holding her breath, she sees them, too.

  I grin, heart thudding. “Dance,” I say.

  And she does.

  The gasp becomes a huff of delight. She leaps into the air, a graceful throwing of dancer limbs that has her airborne among the floating globes. She watches them dart under her arms and over her head, moving with her as she twirls across the grass. Her footfalls are certain now, in a light that apparently only she and I can see—the other couples don’t even turn, still wrapped up in each other. I can see them now that I’m immersed in that other reality, the one where solid rock is less substantial than the vibrant light-pulsing bodies hidden behind them. But this light I’m conjuring for Kamali? It’s brightening the whole field. If it were visible to the others, they’d be checking it out.

  I don’t understand this, but I’m as entranced by it as Kamali.

  She leaps higher and twirls faster, scooping up the lights as she goes. They respond to her, seeming to delight in her as much as she does in them. I don’t know what kind of reality this is—is she in the fugue with me? Am I bleeding it over into a reality only she can see? I don’t know, but the fact that we’re sharing it gives me an unexpected thrill.

  Kamali giggles, and I shush her. “Don’t give us away!” I say in a hoarse whisper.

  Her face lights up with devilish delight. She prances toward me with long dancer strides, and I’m afraid she might try to touch me. I hold up my hands. “Not too close.”

  She comes to a skittering stop, and the lights hover around her, will-o-wisp sprites drawn in by the gravity of her being just as I am. She holds up a hand, palm facing the stars overhead, and one of the orbs comes to rest on it. I don’t think I made that happen—I think it was her—but I’m not entirely sure where her desires end and my will to fulfill them starts. Up close like this, their illumination turns her rich brown skin to a silvery white. She’s almost ghostly. Her high, carved cheekbones, which are normally achingly beautiful, turn stark in the specter-like light.

  I frown and wave the lights away, but instead of leaving, they intensify. The brilliant white burns my eyes, blazing her delicate face into a mask of death.

  “No!” I stumble forward, wanting to shove the lights physically away from her, but when I move, they surge even brighter, and I have to cover my face. The flash burn
s through my squeezed-shut eyelids. I grope forward blindly, calling Kamali’s name, searching for her in the searing light. It’s so bright, it’s heating my skin. Terror grips me so hard I can’t breathe.

  Then the light vanishes.

  A cold vacuum of senses is left behind—no sound, no heat, just utter darkness. Slowly, a gray mist filters in. There’s no field, no stars, no ghostly Kamali, just a body lying on the infinite grayness that stretches before me. I stumble forward and fall to my knees. The body is dressed in camouflage, like Kamali’s non-fugue-state form, but it’s not her—it’s a man, a soldier with brown hair, slender build. He is face down, turned away, but I can already tell he’s dead. The holes burnt into his uniform, the missing chunks of his body, charred and bloody, aren’t the kind that someone survives. Tendrils of smoke still float up from his wounds. It’s as if the lights consumed him, each round globe taking its pound of flesh.

  It takes me a moment to realize—I’m still in the fugue state, but Kamali’s no longer sharing it. She has to be back in the real world, still in the meadow. Safe. I think.

  Is this another vision? I didn’t come here of my own accord, that’s for certain. I reach for the man, expecting my hand to pass through his fugue-state form, hoping to get insight into what this is all about—but he’s solid under my touch.

  I jolt and look quickly around. Is this real? I don’t even know what that means anymore. The same grayness stretches infinitely in every direction. This has to be the fugue, but the only time I’ve seen dead bodies in that state was when the vision of the Mind and its firestorm of death haunted me.

  I turn back to the man and grip his shoulder. His uniform is seared into his body with the heat of whatever killed him, and it’s still warm to the touch. I tug to turn him over so I can see his face.

  It’s me.

  I gasp and let go, stumbling back, falling and scuttling away like a crab. I get my feet under me and run into the gray, closing my eyes and wishing myself back to the reality of the field with Kamali.

  When I open my eyes, I’m flat on my back, staring up into Kamali’s concerned face. Air gasps into my body, and a wave of dizziness overcomes me, keeping me fixed to the ground.

  “Eli! Are you okay?” Her hands are warm on my face. I focus on them, anchoring myself to this plane of reality. I shudder as I work my way up to sitting.

  I’m back in the field.

  It’s night.

  I can’t see the other couples, so I’m not in the fugue.

  I slowly turn to look at the field stretching toward the camp and half expect to see the charred remains of my body. There’s nothing but grass silvered by moonlight.

  “Did you see that?” I ask Kamali, breath heaving out of me like I’ve run a mile.

  “See what? The lights?” She’s searching my face, fear etching it with shadows.

  I pull her close and hold her. “No… the other part.” My voice is a whisper.

  “What other part?” She pulls back to look at me. “I was dancing with the lights, and then it all just faded away. And you fell.” Her words are half sobs. “What happened, Eli?”

  I squeeze her hands, gently. “It’s okay. It’s fine now.”

  By the look on her face, she’s not fooled by my words.

  And it’s not fine. This vision isn’t an annoying girl in armor or a few bleeding paintings… this is a foretelling of my death.

  The last time that happened, the world nearly came to an end.

  Cyrus is annoying me with his pacing.

  “Are you sure it was you?” He pauses from wearing out the barracks floor with his combat boots and running his hand through his hair.

  “I’m pretty sure I’d recognize my own dead face.” I’ve already spelled it all out, including how the fugue is bleeding over into reality now, but it’s like my best friend doesn’t want to believe it. After all we’ve been though, it’s annoying the crap out of me that he won’t just take it at face value.

  Cyrus makes a grunting sound and turns away to pace some more.

  I sigh and close my eyes for a moment, trying to calm my own jitters. I’m sitting on the Dalai Lama’s rug, the one I use for meditation. It’s on the floor, and I’ve got my back to my cot and the rest of the barracks. I had hoped meditation would help me get some clarity about the premonition, but so far, slipping in and out of the fugue is just getting me cryptic warnings from the master painter about the girl in armor. And unless she’s time traveling from the Middle Ages and switching from swords to the kind of light-weapons that might burn holes in my smoking dead body, that’s not helping.

  Cyrus’s boots thump a steady rhythm back and forth in front of my mat.

  I give him time to puzzle it out, but I’m afraid we’re getting nowhere. We didn’t understand the vision of the Mind until it was almost too late to stop it, and this time, we’ve got almost no clues to go on—just my dead body, charred and burning.

  It doesn’t help that Cyrus and I haven’t talked much since we arrived at the camp.

  He’s been spending all his time with Basha, but it’s not that—I think I disappointed him, just like I did Kamali, with my non-answer about what the fugue really is. Basha’s a believer, and with the influence she’s having on Cyrus… I suspect he’s leaning that way, too. He told me, just after we arrived, how he thinks there’s some greater power in the universe or something. He wanted to know The Answer—what’s out there, is there a God, do we have souls, do we live on past death, all of it. He wanted to understand the fugue, but how could I help with that, when I don’t get it myself? I know Kamali died and I brought her soul back. I think she would have kept dancing in that studio forever if I hadn’t snatched her away, but I’m not even certain of that. And… that’s the extent of it.

  That, and I will probably die a heinous death if we don’t figure out this premonition. I’m sure Cyrus doesn’t want that, either—he’s been by my side since the beginning. All through my mom’s illness, the Olympics, joining the Resistance and fighting Marcus and then Augustus—all of it. He’s always looked out for me, even when I thought he wasn’t. The few times I’ve questioned that were basically the low points in my life—the ones I’m not proud of. The only way I survived growing up in the Orion-sponsored housing in Seattle—a scrawny artist kid with single mom and no family—was with Cyrus always there, standing just behind me and keeping me out of the worst of it.

  I owe him everything. But it’s not even like that. We’re brothers.

  But lately… something’s changed. Granted, I’ve been hiding out in my barracks, trying to get my head straight with the fugue and spending time with Kamali. And he’s been busy with Basha. Still… something’s up with him.

  I pull in a breath and open my eyes. We need to talk this out.

  I glance behind me—the barracks has emptied out. It was time for breakfast anyway, but that’s not why they left. Even as a kid, Cyrus was built like a bear, and he’d beat down any Jolly addict or virtual freak who tried to rough me up for my chit allowance. Any normal person would feel intimidated by the obvious tension clenching Cyrus’s oversized fists as he paces in front of my cot.

  Me—I’m mostly worried about being blasted to pieces.

  He finally stops and faces me. “This is bad, Eli.”

  I rise up from the Dalai’s rug to meet Cyrus’s blazing look of concern.

  “I know. That’s why I told you about it.” I sigh and make sure we’re actually alone. “At least Kamali didn’t see any of it.”

  Cyrus frowns. “But you told her about it, right?”

  “Yeah.” I spilled it to Kamali but kept the details to a minimum. No need for her to try to figure this out—that’s what I have Cyrus for. He’s smarter and older than me and savvier in the ways of the world than I’ve ever been.

  “So why does it matter whether she actually saw it?” He’s puzzling this through like it’s a mystery, but it’s really not.

  “Because I’d rather my second didn’t have an im
age of my dead body in her head.” As the words come out of my mouth, I realize it’s the first time I’ve called her that. Not that I’d hesitate to make it official, but everything’s still so new…

  “Your second. Right.” He gives me an impressed look like he didn’t expect I’d ever have a second—in spite of the fact that he’s worked overtime to get us together. Like he thought I would screw it up anyway. It rankles me, but only because this premonition’s lighting up all my nerve endings.

  “Anyway,” I say, “I’m glad she wasn’t dragged into the premonition because it wasn’t real. It was just…” My hands are trying to explain something I barely understand. “It’s a vision of the future. And since I haven’t died yet, I just need to focus on not dying. In the future.”

  “Now you’re talking.” Cyrus nods like I haven’t said something obvious. “I’ve been thinking… it’s time for you to leave the Resistance, Eli.”

  “What?” I lean back from him. I expected a grilling about the fugue and what it really means, not this… I don’t even know what this is. “I can’t just leave. My mom’s here. Kamali’s here. Even Lenora’s here.” What in the world is he talking about?

  Cyrus’s scowl gets darker. “I thought you’d be over your shiny-pants patron by now.”

  I scowl right back. “I’m not into her,” I practically snarl. “But her mind is splintered, remember? Left over from when she was trying to help us save the world? And it’s looking like I’m the only one who can pull her back together. If she could do it on her own, she would have by now.” I know Cyrus hates the ascenders, but come on—he has to know Lenora is on our side. Or at least my side. She created me, after all. I get why he hates them—his parents were killed for chits in a crappy legacy ghetto and his grandfather died from something the ascenders could have cured but refused to. Just like my mom, only we managed to save her. Well, the Resistance did, but only because Cyrus and I made it happen. Despite some ascenders actually helping the Resistance, Cyrus will never see them as anything but the enemy.