The Illusory Prophet

by Susan Kaye Quinn

  If I have to impersonate a prophet to get us free, then that’s what I’ll do.

  Kamali can blast me for it later.

  At the top of the stairs, there’s a hallway with more broad granite and gold trim. Joshua’s three guards have the kind of muscle that comes from a lifetime of manual labor. They lead us to a large room with moldering drapes across a vast, curving expanse of windows. Outside, the sun glitters on the water, and the remnants of a bridge fail to span the expanse between two peninsulas. The field below the second-floor window looks recently tilled with fresh crops struggling up from the soil. It’s beautiful in an agrarian and simple-living kind of way—much more inviting than the grimy Orion-sponsored housing of Seattle. If I were a legacy kid who had been banished or had run away, I could see settling in a place like this.

  If not for the cult.

  Joshua whispers something to two of the men. They leave us, closing the broad double doors behind them. The third remains inside, standing with feet planted wide by the only exit. We’re definitely not escaping by brute force, especially not with the masses anxiously waiting downstairs. But if I play this right, Joshua will release us of his own volition.

  He gestures to a large wooden desk near the windows. It’s pre-Singularity, ornate and deeply carved, probably too massive to haul away or chop apart for kindling during the turbulent days after the Singularity. The rest of the room is barren, scavenged and scarred by the raids for materials and goods that happened before the Promised arrived.

  “Important matters were discussed in this room, even in pre-Singularity times,” Joshua says. “I have a feeling, Eli, that you’re the most important matter that will ever be discussed here.”

  Joshua’s sense of destiny and the importance of his mission ring throughout his memories. He literally grew up with the mantle of leadership bestowed upon him by his father before he passed. That blazes bright in his mind, always.

  I can work with that.

  “The message I’ve brought from God is not about the Uplifting,” I start. “I’ve been sent to tell you—”

  Joshua’s already holding up his hand to stop me. “I know you wish to leave, Eli.” He takes on a more calculating look than I’ve seen before. “And I imagine you would say just about anything to make that happen. I’m afraid I can’t simply believe out of hand whatever you say, no matter how convinced I am of your great purpose.” He shakes his head a little sadly. “Truthfully, I would willingly believe every word that falls from your lips. That is my personal flaw—my failing. But I have a responsibility to the Promised to make sure you are actually a messenger from God.”

  “Of course.” I nod like this is entirely reasonable. “As you say, your people are not uneducated.” I hastily juggle through his still-unsorted memories, looking for something not easily known but important. There’s one memory that shines like a beacon. “When you were small, your father took you aside. He brought you to a tree planted not far from this capital building.”

  Joshua’s eyes narrow. “Perhaps that’s a story you’ve heard. Maybe from previous visitors to the Promised Land.” He throws a skeptical glance at Nathaniel and Tristan—he might know Kamali and me from the net, but he’s never met them.

  I latch onto the memory and try to integrate it faster—it’s a formative one, fully fleshed out in rich detail. “Your father explained that he had chosen you to succeed him. He said the Promised would put down roots and grow and spread, but they must remain interconnected, like every leaf in the tree depends on the other, serving each other. And when the tree of the people had grown sufficiently, God would deliver a smiting blow to the wicked and return the earth to the Promised.”

  The warm brown tone of Joshua’s face is slowly losing color. “The Lord will wipe them away, like Noah and the flood,” he intoned, reciting a passage I recognize from their Book of the Founding. “He will erase their wickedness from the earth, for the devil had brought forth temptation in the form of ascendance, and those who were taken with that unholy enlightenment lost their souls.”

  Cyrus would probably agree with Joshua on that. The Makers, too. All of them seem so convinced the ascenders lost their souls in the Singularity, and that somehow justifies whatever they want to do. Reclaim the world. Wipe the ascenders away in a flood. All because they want to restore mankind to the top of the pile.

  “I’m not here to herald the flood,” I reiterate. “I’m here because God is concerned that your tree has rotted wood festering deep inside.”

  Joshua’s mouth drops open. “I will not listen to this!” he blurts out, then flicks a look at the man at the door. “Not without proof that you are truly from God! Otherwise, you could easily be the devil come to confound us and tear us apart.”

  Crap. It’s clear I’m incompetent at this. Not that I’ve ever tried to be a prophet nor want the job, but my first go at it is already unraveling. Which makes Tristan right about me, and that burns a low flame of agitation inside. I glance at Kamali, but her face is wooden, and she’s staring at Joshua like he’s a snake that might strike any of us.

  I raise my hands in conciliation, backpedaling. “Of course, you need proof. Ask me something only you would know. Maybe something you would only share with the Lord or something that happened between you and your father?”

  A light sweat breaks out between my shoulder blades. I’m too far away to reach him in the fugue without leaving my body slumping to the floor, and I haven’t had time to properly sort through his memories and assimilate them. Memories aren’t hardcoded like bits of data in a holo file. What we remember is more a sense of who we are, and that sense comprises all the things that have happened to us over time. It’s not static either—the sense of self evolves as new information is added. I discovered this in my hours on the Dalai Lama’s mat, trying to integrate all the pieces of lives I’d accessed. That was why it was so difficult to do without coming undone—without losing myself—because with each new memory I integrate, I have to evolve a new sense of who I am. For any other person, this happens one memory, one experience, at a time; for me, I’m swamped by the deluge, having to live an entire lifetime all at once.

  Even as Joshua’s dark brown eyes hold mine in a steady stare, I’m scrambling to incorporate his memories so I can access them as he does. We’re both searching the same collective bits of memory and information and knowledge that comprise the sense of self of the third son of the Founder’s fourth—only he’s had a lifetime to bring them together, and I’ve had about two minutes.

  My heart’s pounding hard enough for me to feel it banging in my chest.

  “That day at the tree,” Joshua says, and I struggle to keep the sigh of relief inside. I’ve already led him to that memory, and the details are crisp and accessible in my mind. “My father gave me something. What was it?” His eyes turn hard.

  Everyone is leaning forward, waiting tensely for my response, even the guard at the door.

  But I already know the answer. “Your father gave you two things.” I can tell by the way Joshua’s eyelid twitches that I’ve already got him. “One was the Book of Founding—a symbol that you were now the caretaker of the Promised. He was close to his death, and the people would know by the Book, that you were his anointed heir. But there was a second book—the original, scribbled on loose-leaf and bound with string—that he kept hidden. A sacred relic that was his first transcription of the words from God as he wrote them. That copy of the Book of Founding rests inside the desk behind you.”

  Joshua struggles for something to say as if every emotion that’s driven him throughout his life has reached up at once to strangle him. Then, without a word, he whirls around and strides back to the desk. He reaches inside his shirt and pulls out a small brass key on a rough leather cord. He opens one of the drawers, slides out a scroll, and shakes it at me.

  “No one knows of this!” A manic glee slowly blossoms on his face.

  “The Lord sees everything.” Part of me is sickened by this whole charade,
especially saying those words. Kamali’s eyes are almost as wide as Joshua’s, but not with joy. My stomach lurches.

  Joshua shoves the scroll back in its drawer, locking it again. Then he clutches his hands in front of his face—they’re fists, but not in anger, more like a crazed excitement. “The Lord has sent you to test me, hasn’t he?” His voice is strained and breathless.

  He’s taken the bait. Hook, line, and sinker.

  I try to keep my cool. “No, Joshua, you’ve been a faithful servant of the Lord.” I swallow and don’t even dare to look at Kamali. “He sent me to warn you—there’s one among you who is straying from the ways of the Promised.”

  Joshua’s exuberance deflates into confused concern. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean the flood is not immediately at hand, but some dissent in your ranks might keep you from being prepared for when it arrives.”

  “What dissent?” he asks, stepping back. “Our families are solid. We care for one another. I’m aware of no—”

  I cut him off before he can wriggle his way off the hook. “It’s precisely because of your trusting nature that the Lord has sent me.”

  Joshua is stricken. He flicks a look at the guard, but he nods.

  I’m feeling worse and worse about this, but I need a serious high-level distraction to get Joshua to willingly send us on our way. “I need a moment to discern the exact person.” I fold my legs and sit, mostly so I won’t crack my head on the threadbare carpeting when I go into the fugue. “I’ll need my assistant, Kamali, to help.”

  Joshua nods his agreement. Kamali shuffles over to kneel behind me, putting her hands on my shoulders without instruction and easily falling into this role of con artist that I’ve thrust upon her. It makes my stomach churn again, but I need her close by in case something happens while I’m in the fugue.

  “Are you sure you’re ready?” she asks, and the flat tone of her voice squeezes on my chest. I can only imagine what she’s thinking.

  “Yes.” I rest my upturned hands on my knees and shift fast. My body slumps forward.

  Joshua’s whole body jerks with surprise, but I don’t have time for that.

  I flit to the guard’s side first and pass my hand through him—he’s a third in Joshua’s family. I would’ve recognized him if I hadn’t been so focused on deceiving our kidnapper. But Joshua’s third would give his life for the man, so he’s not a plausible candidate for corruption in the body of the Promised. The other two guards, outside the door, are likewise devoted, both cousins. Nearly everyone in the Promised is related by marriage or blood. I will myself back to the crowd downstairs. They’re milling around and excitedly discussing the events taking place upstairs. I stand in the dead center and hold fixed in my mind the idea of betrayal. Deceit. Someone who has ambition and maybe envies Joshua’s power over the group. Or simply told a lie. Anything. In a group this size, there has to be someone who’s done something wrong.

  Like a signal blaring through the crowd, I’m drawn to a man standing by one of the pillars with his arms crossed, coolly listening in on the chatter of the room. I plunge my hand into the man’s head and find that he’s Joshua’s older brother—half-brother, really, the son of the Founder’s second. Even though his mother was first in the Founder’s heart, Samson was the less-favored son—the one unjustly passed over for the younger, more gullible Joshua. They have a history of fighting, with Samson always swallowing the bitter pill of Joshua’s word carrying more weight than his, even within his own family.

  Perfect.

  I flash back upstairs. Coming alive in my own body, I open my eyes and say, “You have a betrayer.”

  Joshua reels back from me and bumps into the desk. “What did you say?”

  I shrug off Kamali’s hands, and she quickly backs away. Tristan’s gaze drills into the back of my head, but I ignore him. Nathaniel stands at stiff attention, near the guard.

  “I can tell you the name, but first, Joshua, we need to have an understanding.” I wait for the horror and confusion on Joshua’s face to give way to cautious agreement.

  “Understanding about what?” The suspicion is back in his voice, so I need to make this fast. And reasonable.

  “The Lord has given me more than one mission,” I say. “In fact, I have many parts to play before the Uplifting is upon us. It’s a delicate time.”

  Joshua is nodding, hooked again.

  “Once I’ve delivered my message to you, I need to be on my way. As I told you before, I have an equally urgent message for the Makers. And time is essential in delivering it.”

  Understanding dawns on his face. “You’re gathering up all the Lord’s people. For the coming.”

  “That is my purpose.” The lies are coming easier and easier. “But my mission is time critical. You must return our sunbikes and supplies so we can continue on our way.”

  “Yes, of course.” He’s nodding jerkily.

  Relief trickles through me. I can tell he means it—Joshua would no more stand in our way now than cut off his own right hand.

  “Thank you,” I say with real warmth.

  Joshua steels himself, bracing against the desk. “I’m ready to hear your message. The one who is brewing dissent among us.” He swallows.

  I have to force myself not to grimace. “It’s your brother, Samson. He’s envious of you and thinks he should be Elder.”

  Joshua physically flinches, and guilt spears through me. I tell myself these people wouldn’t let us go otherwise, but now I wish I’d found someone not so close to Joshua. Although, that would be difficult with the Promised. They’re one giant family.

  Joshua rallies from the physical pain this news seems to have brought him. He lifts his chin, stiffly, to his third guarding the door. “Bring him to me.”

  The man’s face has paled, but he hurries out.

  Dread trickles through me. “It’s an understandable thing,” I say, trying to fix the damage before it goes too far. “For a brother to be jealous.”

  “Yes.” Joshua is nodding and agreeing, but his eyes are glazed. “Understandable.” He lifts his eyes to me—the man is on the verge of tears. My mouth works, wanting to say something to make this less difficult, but he raises a finger and points at me, shutting off my words. “You would not have come if this did not threaten the Promised.”

  I want to say no, it’s not that bad, but I can’t. Not and still keep up the ruse.

  Joshua straightens, shoulders thrown back like he’s mustering his determination. The dread trickling through me turns into an icy gush.

  “When the Uplifting comes, we cannot afford to be divided.” His voice is gaining strength. “The future of humanity depends on the Promised being worthy when that time arrives. We cannot rebuild the world if we are swept away with the wicked. All our lives, every one of us, depends on this.”

  I nod, mutely, having no idea what to say to that.

  Joshua’s third throws open the door, muscling in Samson. He has a confused and frightened look on his face. Joshua strides forward and embraces his brother, fiercely. Tears break free and roll down Joshua’s face.

  When he pulls back, Samson says, “My brother, what is this about?” He glances at Kamali and me, confusion still wrenching his face.

  Joshua doesn’t answer, just shakes his head and turns away. He strides back to the giant wooden desk and opens one of the drawers. He pulls out a gun.

  What?

  Before I can speak, he fires. The sound jerks my body hard and blanks out my mind. Kamali screams, and Tristan curses, but Joshua’s not pointing the short-nosed barrel at them.

  Or me.

  Samson hits the floor with a sickening thud.

  I stare at the bloody hole in his back.

  What the hell?

  Nathaniel crosses the room in a flash, wrenching the gun from Joshua’s hand and shoving it against his head. He’s growling orders at Joshua to let us go. Joshua’s third stands over Samson’s body in stunned silence. The other two guards have burst thro
ugh the door, but they’re standing mute as well.

  My ears are ringing.

  A bloody pool is growing out from under Samson’s body.

  Joshua’s eyes are dulled, and he’s unaffected by Nathaniel’s urgent demands that he clear the way for us to leave. He’s simply staring at his brother’s body, as I am.

  As everyone is.

  Nathaniel falls silent.

  Then Joshua finally looks at me. “The sin of ambition is still among us,” he says, pain filling his voice. “We are not finished paying for the sins of the past—the sins of our forefathers before the Singularity. But we will conquer this, Eli, I promise you. Tell the Lord that when he comes for us, we’ll be ready.”

  I can’t speak—my throat is closed with horror. Kamali is covering her face with her hands. Tristan’s hand is on my shoulder. He’s saying something, but I can’t hear it over the ringing in my ears. Only Joshua’s words get through.

  “You may take the others and go now,” Joshua says. “Please. Go. And ask no more of me.” There’s such pain in the man’s voice.

  Nathaniel relaxes his hold on Joshua and steps away. Then Nathaniel lumbers over, and he and Tristan hustle Kamali and me out the door.

  I just got a man killed.

  Nathaniel and Tristan are dragging me through a back door in the capital building. I stumble and nearly go down as we head for the sunbikes, but they keep me on my feet. I’m amazed no one is stopping us. I shift partially into the fugue so I can see through the walls to the bright, living essences behind us, crowded under the dome—word is sweeping like panic through the Promised, everyone caught up in the horror of the gunshot on the second floor.

  No one is following us.

  I snap back to reality as Tristan shoves a bike helmet into my chest. “Put it on.”

  I just blink. Kamali is fumbling with her helmet. Her hands are shaking. I want to go to her, but Tristan is already there, helping her secure it in place.