Inside the ship, the jivs are quietly talking amongst themselves while pulling on invisibility suits. Even though I know they have black body armor under the suits, all I see are their true fugue-state forms. Most wear the same ragged woolen uniforms as non-jiv Makers, which makes a kind of sense—they must belong heart and soul to the Makers’ cause if they’re volunteering for augmented limbs and risking their lives for a piece of ascender tech.
Tristan is likewise branded by his origins in the Resistance, wearing fatigues even in the fugue. Cyrus looks like any other legacy human from the waist down—standard Orion-issued wear—but on top, he’s wearing a rough jacket. Brown and woolen with the hood thrown back. This has changed, even from the last time I saw him, fleeing the Resistance camp with a body smuggler on a sunbike. This knocks me back a little—why did his fugue state change? But that shock has nothing on the conversation going on between Cyrus and Tristan.
“You don’t think he can do it?” Tristan asks. “Be the one, I mean.”
“I don’t want him to do it,” Cyrus says with a scowl. “I’d rather he kept breathing.”
“But he’s the real deal.” They’re keeping their voices low. The other jivs are busy suiting up.
Cyrus gives him a pinched look. “You’re a believer, right?”
Tristan shakes his head a little, looking chagrined. “I saw him resurrect her with my own eyes.” He tugs on the invisibility jacket and works at the closures in front. “But you could be right. He may not be up to the challenge.”
“Hey, that’s my best friend you’re talking about.” Cyrus defensive tone flushes satisfaction through me. “He could do it. It’s just a terrible idea. And a good way to get dead.” He focuses on tugging on his suit. “Besides, he lets his heart lead him too much. Then it gets him in trouble. And he doesn’t need this kind of trouble. He should settle into the Makers with Kamali and let the rest of it go.”
Tristan scowls. “Kamali only loves him because he saved her. If he gives up on any kind of… mission… how much longer do you think she’s going to stick around?”
What? Tristan’s words seem to be pissing off Cyrus as much as they are me. He straightens up from fussing with the suit bindings. He’s six-foot-two and, all of a sudden, he’s in Tristan’s face. “How about you piss off? Kamali always belonged with him. From the first minute they were together.”
Tristan cringes under the verbal assault.
But Cyrus isn’t done. “You didn’t see them at the Olympics. They would have been solid all along if I hadn’t messed things up. So you stay the hell away from her.”
Tristan’s hands are up, and he’s backing away from Cyrus. “Hey, easy. I’m the one who broke up with her, remember? I’m just saying—”
Cyrus jabs a finger at him. “Don’t say it. Especially don’t say it to Eli.” He leaves hanging the threat of what would happen if he did.
“Whatever, man.” They awkwardly go back to prepping, but I’m reeling from all of it. I want to believe what Cyrus says—that Kamali has always belonged with me—but too much of me thinks Tristan is right. She loves me because I saved her. Or because I talk to her God… if not now, maybe one day…
Zachary barks out some orders. They’ve almost arrived.
The research facility is in the middle of New Portland surrounded by all the exotic architecture the ascenders have created for their new utopia. The buildings are lit up in a blaze of light, a city that never sleeps because the immortals have perpetual lives. The double helix tower and the billowing inflatable high rises shine with an interior glow, pristine compared to the destruction of the glass facility below us, which is darkened and lifeless. I hadn't seen it from this vantage point before, not after it was attacked. Most of the sprawling glass-and-chrome-latticed facility is intact—the destruction is mainly at the entry point where the giant doors open to allow ships into the building. Given that we’re in the middle of the city, surrounded by ascenders on all sides, the only reason a swarm of sentries hasn’t converged on the ships is that they’re cloaked.
They hover down through the glass avalanche. It catches a few slivers of the moon but is mostly drenched in darkness. I remember seeing this in reverse, on the way up, full of sunshine, as Augustus’s sentries hauled us away to his mountain estate. Leopold didn’t make it out of there, and Marcus barely did.
It seems odd that the research facility is still wrecked, like Marcus’s allies should have cleaned it up by now, but my understanding of the ascender world is limited. The different sides are constantly in flux, people lining up according to which belief they align with at the moment. Maybe leaving it like this—a lifeless hulk where Marcus, a rebel ascender, and his allies used to conduct research—has some significance in the ascender world that eludes me. Maybe his allies are all in hiding. I don’t know, but the debris seems untouched since I was here three weeks ago. Not even the stirring of maintenance bots.
The two ships settle at the base level, blasting aside a shower of glass to clear a spot to land and lighting up the landing area with downward focused beams. A drift of darkened blue and green-colored shards hides the broken hulks of the Resistance’s original ships. The bodies of the militia who died here must still be buried inside.
The Makers’ jivs disgorge from the ships, weapons out and spotlights scanning for unfriendlies. They pick slowly across the lake of shattered glass, Zachary leading them toward the unshattered remains of the research facility. He seems to know where he’s going, and his memories flash up the intel they gained during scouting missions with tiny drones the Makers crafted.
I’m glad to see Tristan and Cyrus staying back, guarding their ship.
Everyone keeps comm silence as the jivs disappear into the building.
This is supposed to be a quick in-and-out mission, but the tension is high, and it makes the time drag. Two low-augment jivs guard one ship while Tristan and Cyrus guard the other. They all have their guns out, scanning for any sign of movement among the kaleidoscope of colored glass. Blues and greens slashed through with a streak of red and a puddle of yellow, a mountain of jewels, large and small.
Zachary is taking his time. Tristan and Cyrus exchange tense glances, but no one speaks or uses the comm. It’s one long held breath waiting for the jivs to return.
It finally occurs to me to move to the front line with Zachary, in case something goes wrong, so I can alert command. I’m not even sure what they would do besides warn Cyrus and Tristan. It’s not like they can follow up with more firepower. They stole the ships from the Resistance to get their cloaking tech specifically for this mission. There was no other way to get this deep into New Portland without it.
I flit forward through the maze of translucent and transparent glass hallways, following the party of humans. They’re hurrying from laboratory to laboratory, searching for the piece of equipment they need, an advanced gene manipulator. I pull back and float above the floor the jivs are on, scanning further in the building for flickering fugue-state forms. My vision through the multiple layers of glass is odd but no more so than any other building in the fugue state. I’ve never seen a bot or sentry in the fugue, so I’m not sure what they would look like—lifeless like the walls? Or would their low sentience be enough to warrant a flickering glow like the fugue-state forms of the jivs? And what would that mean—do bots have souls? I scan the facility again, remembering this is a place for genetic research. When I was here the first time, I saw animal forms. But there’s nothing now. They must have cleared out or died.
I see nothing moving besides the jivs.
I zip back down to Zachary’s team. One of them is frantically gesturing—he’s found what they’re looking for. Three jivs go to work detaching it from the wall, which is no easy trick—it’s the kind of tech the ascenders summon from the walls. One of the jivs has a monstrous tool with black jaws that pries the machine free, biting a chunk out of the wall and dragging entrails of cabling and wires behind.
Relief flushes through
me.
It only takes a thought to return to Cyrus…
Cyrus is down.
Tristan is dragging him into the ship.
What? No, no, no…
Sentries are everywhere, firing their light weapons, but also taking hits from the two other jivs retreating into their ship. Tristan lets off a volley, covering Cyrus, then he slams his hand on the wall of his ship to activate the external shield. The other ship seals up, too, then the onboard cannons light up and start picking off the sentries.
There are so many, raining down and landing on the transports with thruster-braced thuds. My question from before is answered—the sentries’ fugue-state forms have a dim glow, far weaker than humans, but enough to make a horrifying light-show of dull stars falling from the black sky.
I flit through the ship’s hull to Cyrus’s side. He’s clutching his gut, but I can’t see what’s wrong. His fugue-state shows him whole, but his face is contorted with pain. I want to grip his shoulder, let him know I’m here, ask him what’s wrong… but I’m a worthless, amorphous fugue-form.
“Hang on,” Tristan shouts, sprinting to the cockpit and reemerging a half second later with a small package. He rips it open and slaps his hands together, activating the tech inside. It mushrooms to a thick bandage twenty times the size.
He presses it to Cyrus’s stomach. “Hold this.” The panic in his voice is amplifying mine. If Cyrus needs a bandage that huge… “Hold it hard.” Then Tristan wrenches away and runs to the back of the ship, swiping open a door to climb to the weapons bay. I can see him through the walls—he’s laying down fire on the sentries crawling over the other transport. One is already at the door, pounding, but the shields are holding. The other ship is likewise keeping the sentries from piercing our hull.
I stand there, wanting to shout to Cyrus, hold the bandage to the wound I can’t see, something… but I can’t do a thing. I look up through the roof with my fugue-state vision and stare in horror as more sentries drop down through the glass-walled column that reaches up to a transport hovering in the sky. Almost as fast as the sentries arrive, Tristan blasts them to parts.
Suddenly, the rest of the Makers’ team appears in the landing area. The sentries fire on them. Two jivs go down immediately. Two more carry the tech they were after, protected by a garrison of six others, weapons out and firing as they hustle toward the ship. The Makers are holding their own.
But Cyrus…
He’s not putting pressure on his wound because he’s barely conscious. His face contorts in pain. I’m panicking and staring and not moving. Before I can force myself away, back to Old Portland, Tristan scuttles back into the hold. He slams a fist against the wall, sliding open the outside doors. He has a blaster in each hand, firing out and laying down cover for the jivs running across the landing floor. Tristan yelps as he’s thrown backward by a shot that clips his arm. A half dozen jivs flood the hold, the last one activating the shield and enclosing the ship again.
Everyone is shouting. Something is pounding on the ship. Horrible mechanical screeching sounds and an electrical shock reverberates through the too-thin metal skin. I can see the sentries crawling on the roof. One of the jivs with mechanical legs vaults over his fellow warriors, rebounding across the wall to reach the cockpit.
The ship lurches into the air. I’m tied to Cyrus—he was my guiding light to get here—so I go with them. But the sentries are dropping off, losing traction, flung by the hard g’s the pilot is pulling. The Makers’ second ship zips ahead of us, likewise jerking like an animal stung by bees into a merciless frenzy. It fires on the ship that rained sentries down on us—it lists to the side and, as if in slow motion, plows into the glass tower. We barely miss the fresh avalanche that crashes down, burying the ascenders’ sentries below.
Cyrus is limp on the floor, three jivs holding him down against the bucking of the ship. Tristan drags himself across the floor. His one arm is useless, but when he reaches Cyrus, he uses the other to keep pressure on Cyrus’s gut. He shouts at one of the jivs to help.
I can’t stand to leave—I want to reach into Cyrus’s mind, tell him to hang on—but he won’t even know I’m there. I force myself to wrench away from the ship and back to my body in the Makers’ small rest pod next to the command center.
Breath invades my body. “They’re out,” I say, eyes still shut. When I open them, the hopeful look on Basha’s face sears into me. “He’s hurt,” I rush out. “Get the medics ready.” I’m breathless with the need to do something.
Her eyes go wide, and the light brown skin of her face goes gray.
She sprints for the door.
I’m two steps behind her.
The transport ships land, and Cyrus is floated out on a maglev stretcher.
He’s not moving. I was by his side moments ago… did he die when I left? My chest is so tight, I can’t get any air.
The jivs rush his stretcher across the broken concrete, running at ascender speed on their augmented legs. I stand back from the door to the shops, and they sail inside the building, but the half dozen jivs pushing his maglev keep me from getting a good look. They zip past the cubicles and machines, heading for the med shops. As I watch them go, I realize they’re still working on him—trying to keep him breathing or staunch the blood or something. Tristan sprints after them, still gripping the wound on his arm and shouting orders. Medical orders.
Cyrus is still alive.
A gush of relief makes my head feel like it’s floating.
“Let’s go.” Kamali’s hand is on my arm, shaking me out of my shock.
Basha is already running ahead. Nathaniel’s waiting for me. My brain finally kicks in and orders my legs to move. We join the flow of people—some from the ships, some waiting to meet the returning warriors—toward the electric-white med pod. More stretchers shoot past at augmented speed, but most of the jivs are stumbling along, the uninjured helping those who are bloodied but can still walk. The jumble of humanity gains mass, other Makers joining in, checking for loved ones, reuniting with brief hugs, but still moving forward. When Kamali and I arrive at the med pod, it’s already packed with people. More crowd in, shouting at the med techs to help their loved ones, as if they don’t already know what to do.
The Makers’ medical technology is more advanced than anything I’ve seen on the human side… but it’s still human technology. No med bots or ascender tech.
I shove my way through the crowd, working past the other four stretchers that have been stationed at med bays. A flurry of med techs attends to them.
It’s bad—really bad.
The jiv on the first stretcher moans but is quickly given something for the pain, making the sound fade. I can’t help looking at the second stretcher as I pass—there’s no way he’s still alive. The light-burned hole in his midsection sickly reminds me of the Dalai Lama. Another object lesson in the vulnerability of the human body delivered by another merciless sentry at another time.
I keep going.
The rest of the assault team is up and moving—some with wounds so heinous, I’m not sure how they’re standing. They all seem hyped. Maybe some drug is animating them. I fight my way through the jittery warriors and past the other two stretchers of wounded jivs, finally remembering to shift into the fugue so I can peer through the sea of living flames to see Cyrus.
He’s moving now, plus I can see his vibrant fugue form—half hooded jacket, half ragged legacy wear—which keeps my panic at bay but makes me work harder to reach his side. Kamali and Nathaniel trail behind me. Basha is already there. The med techs have revived Cyrus somewhat, but his eyes are still closed, and his grimace tells me his pain meds aren’t enough.
Basha holds his hand while two med techs work on him. One is diving into his wound with a scope—I have to look away. The wound is worse than I thought. There are parts of Cyrus’s body exposed to the world that never should be. The second med tech is monitoring him with a device on his chest and another on his forehead. Not ascender-tech
med patches, just some crude metallic wiring and tape that’s actually touching his skin. The tech swipes through information on a handheld.
I stand next to Basha, near Cyrus’s head, trying to stay out of the med techs’ way. Kamali hangs back behind me, but she puts a hand on my shoulder, gently reassuring me. Nathaniel stays at the foot of the bed. Tristan settles into a rough wooden chair next to Cyrus—a med tech’s already working on his arm, aggressively stitching his wound. Tristan’s jaw clenches with the pain, but his gaze is mostly locked on Cyrus, with quick glances at me.
Cyrus’s face is so gray. I pat Kamali’s hand but move away from her touch so I can shift into the fugue. Cyrus’s fugue-state form is whole and vibrantly present, but the pain is still etched on his face. The med tech at his midsection probes deeper. Cyrus winces then blearily opens his eyes. He blinks and doesn’t seem to see anything at first.
Then his gaze slowly finds Basha’s face. His smile is so weak, it’s almost not there. “Don’t cry,” he says, but it’s mostly a wheeze.
She squeezes his hand harder. “Cyrus.” The gasp in her voice turns me inside out.
“Mmokay.” His slurring shoots up my heart rate. His eyes wander and find me next. I want to reach out and touch him, but I’m still half in the fugue.
I’m tempted to do it anyway.
He blinks once, slowly, like he’s making sure I’m really there. “You…”
“Don’t talk.” The words are broken glass in my mouth.
He gives that weak smile again, and his eyes drift half closed. But he sucks in a breath and gives his words strength. “Hate it…” He pulls another breath. “When you’re right.”
I shift out of the fugue because I’m desperate to touch him. My grip on his shoulder is probably too tight, but I can’t stop myself.
“I’m not right.” My words are hot with anger. Tears burn my eyes. “You’re going to be okay.”
The Illusory Prophet Page 16