Idols (10 page)

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Authors: Margaret Stohl

Tags: #kickass.to, #Itzy

BOOK: Idols

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//comlog begin;

external uplink established;

sendline:
Merry Christmas FORTIS.;

delayed response;

sendline:
Merry Christmas HAL0.;

delayed response;

comlink terminated;

//comlog end;

//lognote:… oh my, I can’t believe I missed this one. Our “conversations” seem to be evolving… NULL seems to be both highly curious and a quick study.;

//lognote: Is NULL changing?;

COLD WELCOME

“Maybe it’s not working,” Lucas says. His eyes are still closed, his fingers clenched into fists at his sides.

Tima grins stupidly at him, though, and even Ro can’t help but smile.

Brutus wags his little tail.

“It’s working,” I say. It takes everything in me not to fling my arms around him.

“I’m going to kill you myself if you don’t turn that crap off me,” Ro says cheerfully.

“Really, Lucas.” Tima giggles. “Stop it. Not us.”

“Tima—are you giggling?” Ro is intrigued.

“No.” Tima giggles again.

“I’m sorry. I can’t control it that easily,” Lucas says, sounding miserable. “Any change out there?” He opens his eyes, slowly.

But there isn’t—I only wish there were.

It doesn’t matter how hard Lucas tries. These men are unwavering.
They must be made of stone.

As I stare at the uneven line of guns, I can only hope that the Grass militia will trust us enough to let us in.

Because none of the weapons seem to be lowering themselves, and none of the lights seem to be coming to greet us.

“Come out,” Lucas calls across the clearing, in the direction of the armed men. “You can trust us.”

He takes a step forward, raising his hands. I want to hold him back, but I don’t dare.

Lucas is in control now. If only for the moment.

As I stare in the darkness, my eyes begin to pick out the details of the three tunnels behind them. The third one, especially, is broad as a road, and probably runs straight into the heart of the hill.

“I’m right here,” Lucas calls out again. “See? You can see I’m unarmed. I’m not hiding anything.” He waves his arms.

No answer. Nothing.

You wouldn’t know they were there—any of these tunnels—if you didn’t know where to look.

Like so many things
, I think.
I am only now beginning to know where to look.

“I give up,” Lucas says.

I can feel the warmth receding. He’s letting it go, shutting it down—

“Stand down.”

It’s them, the Grass.

I hear the words but I don’t see where they’re coming from.

“I’ll be damned,” Ro says, whistling. “All right, Buttons.”

But Lucas keeps his eyes on the Grass.

“Who are you all?” the Belter Grass voice asks. It’s not so much a person as a voice—a shout, and a gun, and another bright light. A brighter one this time.

Lucas looks relieved to even be talking to someone. He takes a second and third step forward. “A friend. We mean you no harm. We’re all on the same side here.” His voice is low and soothing. I find myself closing my eyes while he speaks.

“I guess I’m going to have to ask you to be a little more specific, brother,” says a low voice. I shield my eyes but I still can’t make out a face.

All around us, Grass soldiers emerge from the trees, and there are more and more lights, with more and more guns. More guns than I’ve ever seen before, even back at the Embassy, even at the Cathedral. These Grass Belters are seriously stocked when it comes to ammunition. But from here, it only looks like a mess of fireflies, drawn toward us as if we were the ones with the light.

I hold up a hand, stepping forward. “Look. No offense. We all have plenty of reasons not to trust each other. I don’t know anything about you Grass Belters except a crap map drawn by a Virt and the fact that we share no love for Brass.”

“Agreed.”

A man in a dark green military jacket—not Embassy, not anything I’ve seen before—materializes in front of us, stepping forward from the bright lights of the mountain perimeter. I try to get inside his head, but I’m panicking. I can’t focus my thoughts.

Brutus growls from behind Tima’s legs.

The man drops his weapon as we watch, and starts to walk toward us, the crust of frozen ground crunching beneath his feet. He doesn’t seem to be afraid of us. He doesn’t seem to be particularly afraid of anything. Still, I notice the rest of the Belters keep their weapons trained on us.

They don’t take any chances, the Belter Grass.

As the man approaches, his face seems familiar. Broad bones and strong features, a bit of red in his cheeks. Not a Merk, I don’t think. Not scruffy enough, not slick enough. This man is something else entirely.

He’s close enough now that I can see the buttons glinting on his jacket. A silver commendation on each side of his collar marks him as some kind of officer, only I don’t know what the symbols mean. They aren’t like the ones Colonel Catallus wore. They’re shaped like three deep Vs—one above the other. If I didn’t know how strange it sounded, I could swear they were birds.

“They call me the Bishop. Welcome.”

“You don’t look much like a bishop,” Ro says.

“And you don’t look much like the Merk known as Fortis,” the man answers, in a lower voice. “Which is a problem. Seeing as that’s who we heard was coming. And that’s who we were expecting.”

“Yeah, well, he ran into a little trouble.” Ro raises his face to meet the Bishop’s, eye to eye. “And not the kind with a face.”

Neither one of them looks away. None of the guns move any lower. I find myself holding my breath.

“Sorry to hear that,” the Bishop says, finally. “Trouble followed that Merk to The Day and back, but he did right by the Grass. Good death to him.” He nods, looking at the rest of us. A salute of sorts.

No such thing
, I think.

Ro shrugs. “That’s up to the No Face now. Shoot us if you want, but gone is gone, and there’s no bringing Fortis back. No bringing the Merk back, now.” He jams his hands into his pockets and waits, as if he has all the time in the world.

As if any of us does.

The Bishop holds out his hand and Ro takes it. They clasp hands, supporting the right arm with the left. A very old-fashioned, very traditional Grass greeting. A compact has been reached, an alliance made.

Gone is gone. This is all we have now.

“Sorry about that, but we’ve gotten word of Sympa patrols in the area, down the river. You didn’t bring any friends this way, did you?”

Yes
, I think.

“No,” Ro says. He’s impressively blank. “Don’t got any.”

“Probably for the best,” says the Bishop with a smile.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Lucas, stepping backward behind Tima, almost into the shadows. Of course. He’s Ambassador Amare’s son.
There’s no one here who wants to shake his hand. Better to be out of sight, not get involved
. That’s what he’s thinking, anyway. I can feel it, the way his warmth dies out to a flicker, even this close to the Belter Grass. Feel him.

Lucas
, I think.
There’s a whole world out there. You’ve got to trust it, sooner or later.

But then I feel the creeping warmth, and I realize exactly what he’s doing.

He’s working them still, even from here. He’s working them for me.

It’s probably not a coincidence that, just then, the Bishop waves his hand—the quickest of dismissive motions—and the guns behind him instantly disappear.

Finally.

Except the one trained on me.

“One small thing.” The Bishop looks me over, searchingly, until I wish I could disappear.

Still, the light and the gun stay targeted on me.

It’s me. I’m the small thing.

And suddenly, I see it all as clearly as if he’d just said it out loud.

They don’t trust me.

“Are you her? The girl from the Hole? The one who ‘died’?” The Bishop is looking at me. “Is it true? What they say? That a bunch of near children brought an entire Icon down? That you’re so immune you can walk right up and get close enough to kill them?” He doesn’t sound convinced.

I don’t say a word.

“And what’s this about powers? Reading minds? Doing what the Icons can do—manipulating people without touching them?” The Bishop shakes his head, incredulous.

I just look at him.

“Like you’re some kind of
human
Icon?”

It’s not a compliment.

“It’s true. Just like in the stories.” I look him in the eye. I want him to know I am not afraid.
Which isn’t true
, I think.

Not really.

“Icon Children.” The Bishop shakes his head, wonderingly. “Tell me,” he says, staring at me. “Tell me everything. I mean, if you’re really her. You should have quite a story.”

The accusation is laced with something else, something rare.

Curiosity, maybe? Disbelief?

Hope? Is that it?

Either way, the words hang in the air like the snow.

I just look at him. I’m too tired and too cold to speak anymore.

The Bishop tries again. “Look at it from where I stand. I have to be able to trust that you are who you say you are. You must understand. We can’t let anyone into the mountain who isn’t with us, a hundred percent. That’s the one danger of a sealed underground base. Once your perimeter is breached, you’re too vulnerable to recover. When someone’s inside, they’re inside. So I need a little convincing. Help me trust you.”

I stop listening. I look past him to the one gun that remains fixed on me. I can’t say a word. I can’t tell anyone everything. Not anymore.

Not even myself.

I can’t think of anything to say that will convince the Bishop, so out of desperation I close my eyes and feel my way through him, as if every new detail I pocket is another step closer to safety.

I push past my own resistance. My own fear. I move into his mind, because I have to, and because I can.

You can.

Do it, Doloria.

Don’t let everyone down now.

Two boys. Two boys playing in a field. Wrestling in the mud. Ripping each other’s clothes. “Flaco, Flaco, eat another taco,” chants the skinnier one. The fatter one flings mud into his eyes.

I open mine.

“I’m her. The girl from the stories.”

“How do I know that?” The Bishop still isn’t buying it.

“You don’t have to know me. I know you.” I study his face. “You’ve lost someone too,” I say. “You’re still mourning.”

The Bishop looks at me like I’m an idiot. I realize how it sounds. There aren’t many humans alive on this planet who haven’t lost half the people they once knew.

I try again.

“Flaco, I mean. Your best friend.”

His face goes white in the cold. “So it’s true, what they say.”

I shrug. He shakes his head in disbelief, swallowing an incredulous laugh.

I don’t see him give the signal. He barely flinches.

I only notice when the gun is no longer pointed at my heart.

This Bishop is a powerful man.

GENERAL EMBASSY DISPATCH: EASTASIA SUBSTATION

MARKED URGENT

MARKED EYES ONLY

Internal Investigative Subcommittee IIS211B

RE: The Incident at SEA Colonies