The Illusory Prophet

by Susan Kaye Quinn

  I don’t know what to say anyway.

  I shove on my helmet and climb on my bike. Nathaniel is already mounted on his and ready to go. Kamali and Tristan quickly get on theirs, and soon we’re rolling away from the Promised Land. There’s only a thin dirt road leading to the capital building, but it’s straight and well-packed. We make good time.

  Silence reigns over the mics. The soft hum of our sunbikes and the crunch of the tires compete with the racing thud of my heart. I keep looking back over my shoulder—my bike’s armor has automatically ratcheted up around me, but I can see through it easily enough. At any moment, I expect a mob to spill out of the capital building, but it just slowly slips away into the distance. When we turn onto a paved road—the Road of Salvation—there’s still no sign of anyone coming after us.

  We travel single file, falling into the same order as before, without a word. I want to say something, explain my actions—especially to Kamali—but words are lodged in my throat.

  I got a man killed.

  My head churns and replays the scene, over and over, trying to come up with an alternate way I could’ve steered it. Why didn’t I see this coming? Because you’re an idiot, is the only answer I have. Sourness haunts the back of my throat. The threat of getting sick in my own helmet is becoming substantial. I flip up my visor for some fresh air. The wind whips at my eyes, pulling lines of tears I don’t deserve to shed.

  What the hell am I doing? I’m just some idiot who’s been handed a power I don’t know how to handle. I know I’m not cut out for this. Tristan is right—there’s no way I’m capable of being anyone’s prophet. I can’t even pretend for five minutes without getting someone killed. I’m a weapon, nothing more, just like the gun Joshua pulled out of that drawer—I can’t even try to save us without it going off in my face.

  I suck in several gulps of air and try to breathe out the pain in my chest. The wind wipes away some of my self-pity. I pull down my visor again, closing off the rushing noise of the road.

  We travel a while longer in silence, but eventually, Nathaniel breaks it. “You did what had to be done, Eli.” His voice is gruff over the helmet mic. It’s open so everyone can hear.

  He’s wrong, but I say nothing, still trying not to get sick.

  “If I had to fight our way out of there,” he continues, sounding strong in his conviction, “I would’ve killed more men than you did today. Or taken a bullet myself to work you free.”

  What? “I don’t expect that from you.” My voice cracks as the words push out of me. “I don’t want anyone dying for me.” That I have to say this out loud is insane.

  “Nathaniel’s right,” Kamali’s soft voice comes over the mic. “You were trying to get us free. You’re not responsible for what that man did.”

  My attention snaps to her sunbike ahead of me. I shift so I can see her through the armor—she’s in her leotard, facing forward, keeping her eyes on the road.

  “I should’ve known.” My words are a whisper. I want to speak just to her. I want to know what she truly thinks about this, not on the open mic, not for public consumption.

  “You can’t know everything, Eli.” Her voice is soft, forgiving, and it makes me cringe. She shouldn’t forgive me for this. Why is she? It resurrects that niggling doubt—the one that questions whether she loves Eli-the-painter or Eli-the-prophet. Or if what she feels is really love at all.

  “You cannot be held by people such as these,” Nathaniel says. “I understand their ways. Knowing your gift, they would never have let you go. And they would’ve put it to much worse use than a single man and a single gunshot. Trust me on this. They would’ve claimed you for their own, and you have a much bigger purpose, Eli, than serving the Promised.”

  This makes me cringe anew. Bigger purpose? I can barely handle myself with a ragged agriculturally-based religious cult with a mystical road of redemption. There’s no way I’m the man for any bigger purpose job. I proved that definitively just minutes ago.

  “I should’ve found a better way.” This much I’m sure of.

  “Yes, you should have.” Tristan’s voice is tight.

  Anger flashes heat to my face, but he’s right. And in a way, I’m grateful he’s speaking the truth.

  “I’m not cut out to be anyone’s prophet,” I say, my voice soft.

  Tristan snorts into the mic. “You’re certainly trying to prove that, aren’t you?”

  Okay… now I want to punch him. Somehow this return to normalcy chases away the sickness in my throat and keeps it from choking me.

  “Shut up, Tristan.” Kamali’s pissed. She glances back at me and Tristan. “You have no idea how hard it is being him.”

  As much as I love Kamali defending me, her words just serve up another bout of nausea and guilt. “He’s right, Kamali. I shouldn’t mess around with this stuff when I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “Or, maybe, you could actually figure this out, Brighton.” Tristan acts like he hasn’t even heard Kamali. “Figure it out or turn back now. Because if you can’t handle the Promised, there’s no way you can handle Miriam Levine and the Makers.”

  The heat in my face ramps up to scorching. Because he’s probably right. We barely escaped the farm-zealots, and now I’m leading everyone into a cult of augment-zealots? Only I can’t leave Cyrus there, either. “I’m not giving up on my best friend.” But even I can hear my voice waver.

  “And who do you think is going to pay the price for that?” Tristan’s words are clipped. I know he means Kamali.

  “Stop it.” Kamali’s words are angry and pointed.

  But he’s right. “You should all go back,” I choke out. “It’s too risky. Let me do this alone.”

  “You will not do this alone.” Nathaniel’s voice booms deep over the mic.

  There’s a silence that feels like it’s suffocating me. “Tristan, take her back,” I say, begging, knowing full well Kamali can hear me. “To the Resistance, where it’s safe.”

  “That is not for you to decide!” She whips her head back to glare at me, and even through the armor of our bikes, I feel the heat of her anger.

  What a disaster. I can’t even think straight now—Kamali’s angry, this is all too dangerous, I’m an idiot, and yet our bikes keep rolling on. There’s another silence that stretches a dozen heartbeats and then more.

  Finally, I hear Tristan audibly sigh over the mic. “If you’re determined to do this, Brighton, just…” He sucks in a breath, choosing his words. “Just figure out what the hell you’re doing, all right? You’ve got this power—how about using it in a way that doesn’t get people killed? Maybe even makes things better.”

  If only I knew what that was. The silence that hangs over the mic is damning. Nathaniel, Kamali, even Tristan—none of them, least of all me, knows what I’m supposed to be doing with the fugue and everything that comes with it.

  Everyone’s waiting for me to serve some higher purpose. What is that exactly? The Resistance is engaged in a PR war, recruiting rebel ascenders and hoping to free humanity to ascend. Where do I fit in with that? A supernatural spy on other people’s minds who occasionally brings someone back from the dead? I’m not the holy and mystical being some of them expect to come along and herald the Second Singularity. I do connect with the other side, but that doesn’t make me the salvation of humanity or the second coming of… whatever. God? God’s prophet on earth? I don’t even know what that is, but I’m definitely not what Tristan the lifelong-Resistance-member expected. Or Nathaniel the zealot-of-many-cults. I’m probably disappointing Kamali-the-believer, too, although she’s not letting it show. As much.

  They were all expecting something wondrous… and they got me instead.

  Even the Promised are waiting for a prophet, as if some mystical event or person will wipe away the ascenders and liberate them. Which seems like the wishful thinking of people that evolution has irrevocably passed by. But the ascenders aren’t content, either. Augustus was reaching for another realm with his Min
d—I’m sure he’ll return to that quest if he resurrects. Lenora was reaching for a bridge to the divine in creating me. She’s probably panicked that her supposed key to the Second Singularity has slipped out into the dark—I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already got search parties out after me.

  What if the Second Singularity never comes? What if things just stay the way they are… forever. That doesn’t seem like such a bad thing. The Makers want to bring a Second Singularity too, but their version is just a horrific genocide—given a chance, they’d eliminate the ascenders and raise up humans to be the dominant species on the planet again. My visions of the future are just death and more death—specifically my death and often the death of lots of others. How is that a good thing? I’m not sure what to think about any of it—or how the fugue should factor in. Or what I should do. I can’t even work my way out of a tight spot without getting someone killed.

  We’ve lapsed into riding without talking. It’s probably better this way.

  After a while, Nathaniel pulls to a stop at the side of the road, and the rest of us follow.

  I’m barely off my bike before Kamali hurries to my side and throws her arms around me, hugging me tight. I hold her and close my eyes, shutting out the rest of the world for a moment. Her touch is a gift I desperately need.

  I try to speak. “I didn’t mean to…” The words are hard with her right next to me, holding on to me like she knows I need it. And I do. The simple fact that she’ll still touch me grounds me somehow.

  “I know you didn’t.” Her voice is a whisper, but it speaks the world to me.

  “Eli.” It’s Tristan’s voice, and it’s harsh and clipped.

  I open my eyes, release Kamali, and step back. I’m ready to take whatever Tristan wants to dish out, but I don’t want her involved.

  He gestures down the road behind us. “Can you slip into the fugue and see if they’re following us?”

  I blink, surprised. “Yeah.”

  He nods. “I figured we should stop for some food, then get back on the road. Unless they’re heading after us, in which case, we should keep moving.”

  I frown, uncertain whether he’s giving me a pass on this. Then again, he’s right—we shouldn’t stop unless it’s safe.

  I take a seat on the heated asphalt. The blazing sun has dried out most of the prior rain, but it still shows in puddles. I close my eyes and leave my body slumped on the road. It’s not hard to travel back to the Promised Land—Joshua’s torment draws me like a lighthouse in the fog. I keep my distance, hovering above the capital building, watching. There’s lots of agitation—groups of families splintering off and gesturing wildly. Joshua’s holed up in the upstairs room. His dead brother is still there—his essence has faded, leaving just the dull outline of his body, as lifeless as the building around him. Joshua has several living people in the room with him—they’re moving around, pacing, gesturing in angry bursts. This event is pure chaos for the Promised, but it served its purpose—namely, distracting them and allowing us to escape.

  I’ve seen all I need to—I flit back to my body and open my eyes.

  Tristan is standing above me with his arms crossed, expectant. Kamali is kneeling by my side. Nathaniel watches me intently.

  “They’re not following us.” I leave it at that.

  Tristan tilts his head in acknowledgment and goes back to his bike, where he starts unpacking some rations.

  Nathaniel is still examining me.

  I stand up and meet his stare. “I don’t want anyone dying because of me.”

  He nods, but not like he agrees. “Of course, you do not wish it. But believe me, Eli, the path to redemption is seldom bloodless.”

  I wince. “I’m not looking for redemption.”

  “I am.” He holds me with a steady stare that chills me. “The Cleansed took me in and promised me redemption—something I was sorely in need of. I was raised as a warrior for God…” He pauses and one eyelid twitches. “We called ourselves holy, but our chief was not a holy man. The blood of many infidels stained his hands... and mine. By the time I reached the Cleansed, I didn’t think that much sin could be wiped away. I almost didn’t survive the purification, but I was glad for it. It was brief, unlike the eternal damnation I faced. Then I came upon you, Eli… and I knew my purpose had finally come.”

  My eyes are wide, and I’m sputtering. “Nathaniel, I’m not—”

  He holds up a beefy hand to stop me. “One thing Joshua had right—the Lord chooses his own servants. He’s chosen you, Eli. And he put me on your path so I could help save the one who would save us all. All my cleansing, all my training, all of it has been in preparation to serve you. To place me at your side. My redemption is in you. Do not expect me to hold back.”

  My mouth is working, but my brain is struggling to form words. Every single bit of this is horrifying. Finally, I manage, “Nathaniel, you cannot kill anyone for me. You understand that, right?”

  “I understand that you cannot wish for it. That is why you need me.”

  I shake my head, hard and insistent. “No.”

  Kamali is holding back with her lips pursed tight.

  Tristan strides over and shoves a protein bar at me and another one for Nathaniel. “No one’s killing anyone right now. Eat. Then we get back on the road before someone decides to come kill us for what happened back there.”

  Then he hands a protein bar to Kamali and snaps the package for his own. The rations are some kind of ascender tech—the packaging dissolves into a dust that blows away, leaving just the food behind. Tristan bites into his.

  I follow suit, shutting up for the moment. I knew Nathaniel considered himself my personal bodyguard—he literally saved my life when we were battling the Mind—but this is something different. This is more responsibility than I want. Or even know what to do with.

  I stare at the ground, avoiding all of their eyes as I quickly chew through my food. We’re committed to this now, but we don’t need to draw it out. Just contact the Makers, avoid Miriam if possible, find Cyrus and convince him to come back to the Resistance. Basha, too, assuming she’s willing. Or at least stop Cyrus from going on some crazy mission of vengeance against the ascenders and getting himself killed.

  After that I can deal with Nathaniel and his idea of seeking redemption through me—I’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t kill someone in the meantime.

  We get back on our bikes and keep a monastic silence for the next several hours as we head to Old Portland. The sun is sinking toward the coast, but the navigation on my bike panel says we’ll make it in plenty of time.

  And I know exactly how we can work our way in.

  The Makers aren’t the kind of organization you can just walk into.

  I’ve sorted and assimilated Zachary Haddock’s memories, so they’re on instant-recall now, like my own. He’s a jiv, which means an augmented warrior for the Maker cause, and Joshua wasn’t wrong about the Makers—they’re trying to reach ascendance just like the pre-Singularity humans, only they’re hacking their way in using biology instead of nanite tech, which they believe caused the ascenders to lose their souls. Miriam is key to their plans. She is their prophet—or at least the product of the Makers’ horrific Offering experiments, where they take a young volunteer each year and tinker with their minds, trying to expand them with gen tech and biological enhancements rather than machine-based tech. The Makers may enhance their bodies with augments from their shops, but that’s simply to hold their own against the ascenders’ mechanized sentries. Their real goal is unlocking the hidden potential in their minds. Miriam is their first, and only, success.

  The only Offering who lived.

  I need to avoid her, if at all possible—and not just because my visions show her plunging her medieval sword into my chest. Her mind is more than I can handle, and I’m not sure how she’s tangled up in the vision of my death. Until I know more, it’s better to stay clear.

  So we’ll go in posing as ordinary traders and hope
that no one recognizes us. Once we find Cyrus, we punch out. I can figure out the meaning of my visions later, from a safe distance.

  Getting in shouldn’t be difficult—it’s keeping up the ruse that will be hard. Kamali and I have famous faces. I know the Makers tap into the net, but not everyone watched the Olympics. Plus, they have a lot of people moving through—an extensive network of smugglers, black market traders, and connections to other far-flung pockets of humanity that keep up the supply chain for their shops. People come from as far as a thousand miles inside the continent to trade. There’s a precise protocol for tradespeople to make contact—otherwise, the Makers stay hidden inside the dilapidated storefronts of their city, maintaining the pretense that it’s abandoned.

  We’re nearing the city limits, and Zachary’s memories line up with the shuttered shops our entourage is rolling past.

  “What’s our plan here, Eli?” Tristan asks over the mic. He’s leading the way, with Nathaniel bringing up the rear, and Kamali and I sandwiched between.

  I accelerate my bike, pulling out of line to zoom ahead. “There’s an underground garage up ahead that serves as an arena for competitions among their warriors. It’s empty most of the time, but there’s a protocol for visitors to activate their Portlink. That’s the comm system they use. We’ll let them know we’re here, we’re peaceful, and we want to make contact.” I glance down. We’re all still wearing the clothes from the Cleansed—rough-sewn, dark brown pants with a plain light-brown shirt. “Hopefully our clothes are generic enough for us to pass as tradespeople.”

  Kamali asks, “Are we sure we want to alert them?”

  “If we don’t, they’ll never show their faces. Or they’ll just shoot us if we get too close to their homes or shops without following the protocol.” Plus the Makers are trained from birth to stay hidden from ascender satellite surveillance and random police bot patrols. I glance up. “The cloud cover’s starting to come back. That’s good. They’ll be more likely to send someone to meet us.”

  I’m leading the way now. The road is torn up, infiltrated by time and nature, but there’s clearly a traversable path if you look for it. I’m tapping Zachary’s memories again—he knows this place intimately. He grew up here, but Miriam didn’t. She came to the Makers when she was nine-years-old, banished from Seattle. She showed up with missing legs, and the Makers gave her new ones. Zachary watched over her like a big brother—then she grew into something more.