The Illusory Prophet

by Susan Kaye Quinn

  We pull up to the crumbling ten-story building that secretly houses the Makers’ competition arena. It looks abandoned, like the rest of Old Portland and half of Seattle. My hometown was maintained by the ascenders’ bots, but only in the sections they sponsored. The rest fell to ruin like here.

  “This is it,” I say through the mic. I let my bike coast to a stop at the entrance. It’s blocked by a fallen chunk of the overhead masonry and a prickly bush that’s sprouted between the cracked bricks. Together, they almost cover the entrance to the sloped-down driveway.

  “Are you sure?” Tristan dismounts behind me and walks his bike up to mine.

  “Yeah. They block the entrance to keep out nomads and convince sentry bots that it’s not worth patrolling.”

  “What are we going to do with the bikes?” Nathaniel asks, pulling to a stop, but staying on.

  Kamali is off hers but keeps her helmet on to talk. She’s peering suspiciously at the surrounding buildings. They only appear abandoned—I know several house mini-shops, the kind that are spread around the city.

  “I don’t like the idea of leaving the bikes out here,” she says.

  “Agreed.” Tristan scans the building. “Is there another way in?’

  I point at the corner. “There’s a stairwell. I don’t know about taking the bikes down, though.”

  “We can make it work,” Tristan says. “They have a levitation mode. Special mod I convinced the ascenders to install for us last year.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “So we could have flown here?”

  He scowls. “No. Levitation, not anti-grav. Just makes them more rugged in an all-terrain sense. Works for brief periods over water.”

  “Okay,” I say, wondering why he didn’t mention this earlier. “Good to know.”

  He gets back on his bike. “The power drain is substantial, so it’s only good for short bursts. I think we can manage it.” His armor ratchets back up as he swings the bike around to head for the stairwell.

  The bikes handle the stairs just fine in levitation mode. Once we’re down to the second level where the Makers hold their competitions, we get back on and ride. It’s dark—a soft glow of light sneaks in from the stairwell behind us, but mostly the garage is lit by the weak beams from our headlamps. The concrete here is smooth and unbroken, except for the circles painted on the pavement, filled with chips and scrapes from the jiv fights. Apparently, the jivs compete for new augments, something that makes sense in Zachary’s memories, but that makes me think there’s something off about the Makers’ whole warrior culture.

  Whatever. We’re not staying long enough to worry about any of that. We just have to find the Portlink and send a message that we want a meetup. Then the Makers will send someone out of the woodwork. Hopefully, someone who doesn’t watch the Olympics but can lead us to Cyrus.

  I pull to a stop near one of the competition rings. The others roll up next to me.

  I dismount from my bike. “There’s a Portlink in the corner, under an old access panel.” I gesture to a small rusted square on the wall. “We just have to—” I’m cut off by sudden movement all around us.

  Dozens of jivs drop from the shadowed rafters, landing with augmented power, and springing up to grab hold of us, wrenching us off our bikes. All four of us had our armor down, and before I can even grunt a protest, I’m face-down on the pavement, my helmet pulled off, cool concrete against my cheek.

  I struggle to turn my head to see if Kamali’s okay, but I’ve got five guys on me, any one of whom could take me with their augments. I stop resisting and try to think fast. Should I shift? That’s just going to leave my body at their mercy—

  Black boots clomp heavily into my field of view. “Let him up.”

  What the—I know that voice.

  I’m yanked off the floor before I have to wonder.

  “What took you so long?” Cyrus asks me.

  Cyrus’s men set me on my feet in front of my best friend.

  Possibly ex-best friend. He’s wearing camouflage that looks like it’s suitable for an urban assault, his feet planted wide and beefy arms folded, more like a military commander than anything else.

  “What took me so long?” I ask. It’s the last thing I expected out of Cyrus’s mouth.

  He cocks his head a little, looking at me like he can’t believe how stupid I am. “You haven’t figured this out yet.” It’s a statement, not a question.

  I frown. Figured out what? The Makers’ jivs surround us—I recognize the faces, plus the augments give them away—and it’s obvious they knew we were coming. But how? I throw a quick glance at Kamali, Tristan, and Nathaniel—they look just as confused. Concrete dust peppers their homemade clothes, but I think they’re all right. Kamali’s standing free of “assistance,” but the jivs still have an augmented grip on Tristan and Nathaniel.

  All eyes are on me.

  I swing back to Cyrus. “I didn’t expect to get jumped by my best friend if that’s what you mean.” Something more is going on, but I don’t care. I’m only here to get Cyrus, and if he’s going to meet us at the check-in point himself, far from Miriam and the Makers’ shops, then that just makes things easier.

  “You had me doubting for a while, Eli.” Cyrus’s face is still inscrutable. Squinting at me like he’s trying to figure me out.

  “Doubting what?” I’m forced to ask. What I want to say is What the hell, Cy? but that’s something I would ask my best friend… and I’m not sure what Cyrus is to me anymore. Or what I am to him. Then it crashes down on my mind like a ton of bricks—there are no normal relationships in my life anymore. There can’t be. Not with what I am.

  That thought compresses me, makes me feel small like I’m not taking up the same space in the universe anymore. I don’t even hear what Cyrus is saying, a dullness stealing over me and blanking everything out. I’m staring at the floor, but my gaze is drawn with an inexorable pull to Kamali. Her beautiful brown eyes are alive with concern, but that doesn’t displace the cold chill that’s filling me from the ground up. How can she love me? When I’m so clearly not a man, or even a boy, but merely a construct now, made up of all the expectations everyone has for me—from my mother, to my best friend, to random psycho cult members I’ve never heard of but who all know about me.

  “Eli!” The harshness of it cuts through the fog enveloping my brain.

  I blink and look back at Cyrus. He’s scowling, and I can tell there’s a flicker of concern. Like he thinks something’s wrong with me.

  He’s probably right.

  “Dude, are you with me?” he asks, and suddenly, he’s the brother I grew up with again—worried about me for the millionth time because life is just messed up, and he’s always looking out for me.

  “Yeah,” I manage, and it feels like the word weighs a thousand pounds.

  That only carves his scowl deeper. “Eli.” It’s an admonishment. Cyrus glances at the jivs surrounding us with their augmented limbs and fierce looks. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t come after me.” He cringes like this admission costs him something.

  But that wakes up my brain. “You wanted me to come after you?” This was all just a play by Cyrus to get me to leave the Resistance! And it worked. It reminds me of the Olympics when he nearly ruined any chance I had with Kamali just to bring out the fugue and make sure I took the gold. He was certain he knew what was best for me—and he would do anything to make it happen. Including betray me. I’d forgiven him for that… but again?

  “That’s so messed, Cy.” My mouth is still hanging open.

  He grinds his teeth. “You were being a stubborn idiot!”

  The anger comes rushing up, sudden and hot. “So you just lied to me. Because that’s okay now.” The anger is finding a home in my head. Because if Cyrus is manipulating me now, knowing everything he does about me, then he’s no better than Marcus. Or Lenora. Or Commander Astoria. Or even that girl Melanie in the camp who wanted me to fix her sister. They’re all only interested in what I can d
o for them. And if Cyrus is just like everyone else—

  He gets in my face. “I didn’t lie to you. I simply left the camp and let you fill in the blanks.”

  “Like that makes a difference,” I spit back.

  A whisper of sound surrounds us—a shuffle of feet, a surge of electricity in the air. The augments are ramping up their jittery focus on us. Like we’re in a competition ring, and they’re ready to leap in and join the fight. Tristan and Nathaniel are on edge, too, eyeing the jivs. It feels like we’re one angry word away from a brawl.

  Cyrus backs off suddenly and rubs a hand across his face. “For God’s sake, Eli, I half expected you to figure it out and leave me hanging. Basha said—”

  “This is Basha’s doing?” Kamali speaks up, cutting him off. She’s pissed too, on my behalf, and that tempers my anger. A little.

  “No.” Cyrus says it emphatically, like he’s afraid we’ll get him in trouble with his second. “I completely talked her into this. Don’t blame her for any of it.” Cyrus’s diminutive second is nowhere to be seen, but she must be here in the Makers’ city somewhere.

  My supposed best friend is back to shaking his head at me. “I had to get you out of the Resistance, man. Before you got yourself killed. And you just weren’t going to leave.” He flicks a look at Kamali, which I don’t like. At all.

  “That’s funny,” I say, bitterly. “I was coming here to make sure you didn’t do something stupid and get yourself killed. Like attack the ascenders.”

  As soon as the words are out, I realize my mistake—a growl-like sound rumbles through the jivs, and they shuffle forward, crowding in on Cyrus and me.

  “All right, all right,” he says, holding up his hands, but it’s not for me. It’s for the two dozen augmented jivs who are suddenly amped up like live wires wanting to cut me down. I’m daring to side with the ascenders, and that is not a popular stance with this group. I knew that already, but it didn’t stop the truth from coming out of my mouth.

  “Come on, Eli.” Cyrus moves to my side, sliding his arm around me like we’re the best of friends—which we are. He’s reflexively back to using his friendship to protect me. It douses some of my anger. “I want to show you around the place. You can see what you’re missing all cloistered up with those Resistance types. And I’m sure Miriam would like to see you.”

  Miriam? I open my mouth to object, but the mention of her name works a kind of magic, rippling through the bunched-up shoulders of the jivs and spooling down the tension. The last thing I want is to cross paths with Miriam—how can Cyrus not know that?—but instinct works its way up from Zachary’s memories, and I shut my mouth. Miriam’s their prophet. And bad-mouthing the Makers’ prophet while sitting in an underground garage filled with twitchy jivs is just stupid with a side of deadly.

  Cyrus urges me forward, and the jivs part before us. They’ve released Nathaniel and Tristan, who are now walking tight next to Kamali, keeping close behind us.

  “Let’s head back to the shops,” Cyrus says, as much for the jivs as for me. He throws a look over his shoulder, giving a nod to one of the men who seems in charge. “Why don’t you guys bring their bikes? They might need them later.” He keeps walking me toward the far end of the parking garage and another set of stairs opposite the ones we came down.

  “Cyrus,” I warn. The shops. A basecamp for the Makers, and high on the list of potential places where Miriam would hang out.

  “It’s okay,” he says quietly, squeezing my shoulder. “It’ll be all right. Trust me.”

  I give him a pinched look, but he’s staring straight ahead as we walk. Behind us, Kamali gives me a nod, her lips pressed tight with concern. Tristan and Nathaniel are still on edge like I am, but I can’t talk Cyrus into leaving the Makers while surrounded by a bunch of angry jivs. If we have to go to the shops for me to get a moment alone with him, fine. With any luck, we’ll be out of there fast and avoid Miriam.

  But I’m taking the first chance I get to knock sense into Cyrus. “I’m really not done being pissed at you,” I say quietly to him.

  He gives a small laugh as he opens the door to the stairwell and motions me through. “Yeah? Well, it can be a real pain in the ass being your best friend. And by the way, it’s usually my big mouth that’s getting us in trouble. So keep a lid on it, will you?”

  I shake my head, but keep my mouth shut. And I can’t help the warm flush that happens when he claims he’s still my friend. Because I truly am an idiot to come here and risk everything if we’re not actually friends. Part of me knows he’s still like a brother, even if I’m not sure I can trust him not to be working the situation somehow.

  Our boots clang up the metal steps, and I think we’re going to emerge out into the partially-cloudy haze of late afternoon, but instead, the top level leads into an abandoned store. Only two of the jivs follow, the rest staying behind in the garage, probably taking care of our bikes or dispersing now that we’re in a “custody” of sorts.

  A long row of doorways are drilled through the wall of this store then into the next one and the next. Only they’re not doorways, just holes in the walls—like they’ve been hacked through with axes. They form a tunnel of sorts down the street, tucked inside the buildings where the ascenders’ satellites can’t see. Cyrus waves us forward, and I fall into step with him as he strides down the line. He picks up the pace, and we gain a little distance from Nathaniel, Tristan, and Kamali behind us with the two jivs bringing up the rear.

  Cyrus tips his head toward me and drops his voice. “I didn’t expect you to convince Kamali to come. She must like you more than I thought.”

  I scowl at him. “Thanks a lot. But outside the Resistance isn’t exactly safe for her.” I say it in a pointed way—maybe I can convince him to leave even before we get to the shops.

  He frowns. “You have some trouble on the way down?”

  “You could say that.”

  He scowls deeper and steps through the doorway ahead of me. “I thought for sure you’d use the fugue to make it safely. In fact, I was sure you’d get in my head and figure it all out.” He gives me a quizzical look back over his shoulder. “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because I knew you’d hate it?” It’s like the guy doesn’t know me at all. Or expects me to be different. Not really his friend. It chills me again. “I’m not interested in seeing the shops, Cy.” I tap my temple with one finger. “I dipped into Zachary Haddock’s mind, remember? I’ve got all his memories of this place. There’s nothing here I need to see.”

  “Yeah, well, you didn’t see us coming in the garage, now did you?” He smirks. “I told them you’d been in Zach’s mind—something that thoroughly freaked them out, by the way—so they changed all the protocols. These people are smart, Eli. I like them.” He shakes a finger at me. “You got Kamali this far—what more do you want?”

  I sigh. He’s trying to talk me into staying when I should be convincing him he’s on the wrong side with the Makers.

  He opens a door to the outside and waves me through. I’m surprised to see how quickly the afternoon sun is fading—the clouds are dark, blocking a lot of the light, but it’s legit getting close to sundown. The jivs have our sunbikes, but even with them, we wouldn’t be going far without light. I’m afraid Cyrus thinks we’re staying a while—I need a chance to talk to him alone, but not a whole night’s worth.

  He hustles me across the street, making quick work of being out in the open. It’s a Maker thing, keeping a low visual profile. Zachary’s buried memories cause me to reflexively glance both ways down the street for police bots, but it’s clear. Cyrus stops short, just before he opens the door of an apparently abandoned building. We’re under an awning, so we’re relatively safe. Kamali, Tristan, Nathaniel are just emerging from the building behind us. The sun breaks through a cloud, and the jivs hold them back for a moment.

  “So, is the plan to attack New Portland still on?” I whisper to Cyrus while we have a moment.

  His hand is on the door
, but he’s not opening it, waiting for the others. “Yes, the attack is still moving forward. And I’m going to be part of it.”

  I scowl. “Cy, this isn’t your fight.”

  His shoulder muscles bunch up. “Isn’t it?” Anger flushes his face. “Because what the hell are you doing, Eli? Playing prophet? I was serious about that—that will get you killed. But there’s no doubt you’ve got a gift here, man. I don’t care if the ascenders are the ones who gave it to you, you own it now. You should be using it for humanity.”

  It’s the Makers’ philosophy spilling out of Cyrus’s mouth, which trickles dread through my stomach. “You mean use it to kill ascenders. Because that’s where this is headed. You have to know that.”

  “Yeah, I know that.” He yanks open the door and storms into the abandoned shop. He’s turned his back on me, tromping across the cracked flooring, billowing up small swirls of dust. The others sprint across the street, and we all follow after Cyrus, down a set of stairs into a winding, underground concrete-lined hallway. Our boots echo in a tunnel that’s almost too ragged to be man-made, more like it’s been dug by giant moles. After several minutes of silent, tense walking, we climb for the surface again. We come up into a much larger building—the ceiling is high, disappearing into darkness and rafters, and the cavernous room seems to stretch two blocks in each direction.

  The shops. I recognize it with an almost home-like feeling. Large parts of the floor are open, with the rest broken into smaller workspaces, each sectioned off by partitions and leased out to individual Makers to house and practice their craft. Heavy machinery provides a background noise of hums and clacks and jangling. The Makers work here, and it’s one of their biggest gathering places in a city where they have to keep carefully scattered. It’s more than just a place to manufacture the Makers’ tech, from battle armor to farming equipment to gen tech for their augments. It’s the beating heart of the Maker lifestyle, the rich store of human pre-Singularity knowledge they’ve rescued from bleak post-Singularity times.