Icons (17 page)

Notes were partially destroyed by fire. Transcription follows.

I
AM CLOSE TO A BREAKTHROUGH.
T
HE CHILDREN MAY BE THE SOLUTION.

[Text illegible]…
FROM THEIR ABILITY TO GENERATE IMMENSELY POWERFUL ENERGY, IN WAVE FORM, THROUGH INTENSE EMOTIONAL STIMULI.
T
HIS ENERGY
…
[text illegible].

F
IRST, IT CREATES A RESISTANCE TO MAGNETIC STIMULATION/ELECTRICAL INTERFERENCE FROM OUTSIDE SOURCES.

S
ECOND, IT ENABLES SUBJECTS TO MANIPULATE THE ELECTROMAGNETIC ELEMENTS AROUND THEM, CREATING WHAT AMOUNTS TO MIND CONTROL, TELEKINESIS, HYPER—INTELLIGENCE, MIND READING, ETC.

A
DDITIONALLY
…
[text illegible].

[Remaining text illegible.]

That night at dinner, I sit alone with Tima. Ro has been confined to his room since this afternoon, when his guard detail found him trying to sneak into the munitions lockers—I’m here to steal food for him now. And Lucas, I have no idea where he is. Probably off somewhere disappointing his mother.

We sit in silence.

My plate is full of limp, boiled vegetables and I miss the Mission, the garden. I miss the early scarlet radishes and the blood beets—the golden zucchini and the Empress beans. I miss the Brandywine tomatoes so big, they force their vines back down to the earth. The green grape tomatoes so small you could eat fifty at a time. The Embassy food somehow never smells like earth. It doesn’t matter to Tima, though. She’s only eating toast, plain toast.

Above it, her eyes survey the room, looking at anything but me.

I can’t stand the silence, but at the same time I find myself drawn to Tima, at least curious about her. Since she is one of us.

“How long have you lived here, anyway?” The question sounds forced, but it’s the best I can do. She’s not the easiest person to talk to. Tima looks uncomfortable, and I can tell she’s considering bolting. She has a flash of panic—fight or flight, she’s weighing the odds. For the moment, she stays.

“I don’t like to think about it. I got here when I was around nine, I think.” She stops talking and takes a microscopic bite of her toast.

I pursue. “Then where are you from?”

Tima starts playing with her toast, breaking it into smaller and smaller pieces.

“I guess not from around here?” I try to draw her in.

She sighs, frustrated at having to talk, but at the same time I sense that she is desperate to speak with me, with anybody.

I wait for her, patiently.

“I was picked up by Sympas in upstate New York. I lived in an Embassy orphanage, with a bunch of other Remnants. It—wasn’t pleasant. Bad things happened there, but we didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

She opens and closes her eyes, blinking rapidly. “I—got
in trouble. Then, somebody noticed my wrist, and told the authorities. Then, you know.” She shrugs. “The Sympas came and brought me here.”

“Must have been an improvement, right?”

“No, actually, it was worse.” Tima looks up from her demolished pile of bread bits, and I can see she is fighting off tears.

Trying not to remember, but so badly wanting somebody else to know. To share in the experience.

She reaches toward me and, awkwardly, grabs my hand. She wants me to see. For Tima more than anyone, it’s so much less painful than talking.

My vision clouds and I find myself in a test chamber, with her, watching. Tima sits in a metal chair, alone in the room with white walls, bright fluorescent lights, and concrete floor. Her chair faces a large screen on the opposite wall, showing an identical room with a table and one needle.

Tima looks younger. She sits cross-legged in the chair, leaning forward, head on her knees. Her hands are clasped and held to her forehead, as though in prayer.

Her slight frame is almost lost in the plain white pants and white T-shirt she wears. She rocks slowly, eyes closed. I can see she was just brought here, and doesn’t know what is happening. She looks so vulnerable, like a lost bird fallen from the nest before she’s ready to fly.

Catallus enters, bringing another chair and sitting in front of Tima. I feel myself recoil.

“Hello, Timora.” Tima tenses up. She stops rocking, but doesn’t look up.

“Do you mind if I call you that?”

She sits perfectly still.

“I trust you will enjoy your new home. It’s a big improvement from the orphanage. Certainly better food, I hope.”

He smiles and touches her arm. She cringes.

“Timora, I’m sure you’re wondering what you’re doing here. I can’t tell you everything, but we’re always looking for children with unique, oh, let’s say qualities. When I saw the reports from the Embassy in New York about some difficulties regarding an orphanage and an extremely bright child with some unusual attributes, well, I had to meet you in person.”

Tima shakes her head, almost imperceptibly, as if she knows where this is going.

“You see, we think you might be important to the Embassy, an asset, if you will. So we want you to stay with us for a while. But we need to check a few things first. I hope you don’t mind.”

A Sympa soldier enters the room with a puppy. A terrier mix, obviously malnourished but energetic.

Tima hears the whimpering and breathing of the dog and opens her eyes, but doesn’t look up.

“Tima, this is Brutus. We found him near the Projects. As you can see, he wasn’t well loved.”

Tima slowly raises her head and looks at the dog. Light
brown hair, nervous, uncomfortable in the Sympa’s arms. Frightened eyes. Her heart starts pounding, her eyes widen slightly.

“Unfortunately, we don’t have the resources to care for Brutus. So, we have to put him down.”

A look of terror comes to Tima’s face.

“No,” she whispers. She unfolds and sits up.

“No, please.” Her eyes dart rapidly around the room, as if she is looking for some way out.

Catallus smiles sadly at Tima. “I’m very sorry. Go ahead.” Catallus nods to the soldier, who takes the dog into the next room. The soldier uses his ID tag to open the door, which locks behind him. The screen shows him strapping the dog to the table and preparing the needle.

“No!”
Tima screams.

Catallus jumps back, startled by the sudden sound.

Tima flies out of her chair, reaching toward Catallus, snarling, and rips off his ID tag.

He falls, eyes wide.

She races to the door and swipes it open.

The Sympa has the needle poised over the shivering Brutus.

“Get away!”
Tima hurtles herself to the table, grabbing the squirming dog. She climbs down and backs into the corner, curling around him, breathing heavily.

The Sympa soldier pulls out a baton and rushes toward her to take the dog.

“No!”
Tima screams again, even louder. A blinding light flashes, and the Sympa is thrown to the back wall with a crunch.

After a few moments, Catallus carefully enters the room to see Tima in the corner, Brutus nestled in her arms, asleep. The smell of burnt electricity fills the room. He carefully reaches toward Tima and the dog, but stops as she raises her eyes.

Catallus smiles. “Well, that was interesting. Useful, even. Threat response creates defensive barrier. A powerful one at that.”

He tilts his head, considering Tima and the dog. Then he glances at the unconscious Sympa.

“You know what, I think I’m going to let you take care of Brutus.”

He turns and leaves.

Tima remains in the corner, breathing deeply, absently scratching Brutus behind the ears.

Brutus wakes and licks her cheek.

Tima looks at Brutus and her eyes soften, her heart opens. I feel it, even in the memory, how everything goes soft and slack.

The moment when she almost smiles.

I blink, and I’m back in the dining hall, my heart racing, my eyes stinging. Tima is wide-eyed, surprised at herself for letting anybody see what I just saw. For a split second,
I’m with her, sorry for her, even proud of her, and she knows it. For a split second, she isn’t alone.

Then her hand shoots back and she stands. The door in her mind slams shut as quickly as it opened. She turns to leave. “I have to go.”

I notice she slips scraps of bread into her pocket.

It should be theoretically possible to negate the Icon’s power by attempting to cancel out its massive electromagnetic effect, via the generation of an equally massive counter-field.

An analogy: sound waves can cause physical objects to vibrate, as the human eardrum vibrates to detect sound. Noise-canceling technology generates waves that effectively destroy sound waves before they reach the eardrum. Like antimatter destroying matter, we believe we could stop the field at the source.

Unfortunately, we don’t have sufficient power to generate the theoretical amount of energy required to create the counter-field. Since the Lords control all energy output and consumption, this becomes a potential dead end.

Further research is required, yet unlikely, as GAP Miyazawa has frozen all future budget appropriations. I don’t have to tell you what a dangerous impasse we now face.

The next morning, the four of us meet outside the library, where our Sympa guards believe we are waiting for Catallus. Instead, we crouch in the darkest alcove of the closest corridor, as planned.

Within five minutes we are fighting.

Again.

“We need to figure out what’s going on.” Ro is talking now. “If they want us, there has to be a reason. We find out what that is, maybe we could help the Rebellion bring the whole place down.”

“Why are you still here? I thought you’d be long gone by now,” Lucas says with a glare.

“Soon. But who knows, this could be our best chance to find out the truth, first.” Ro looks at me, since we’ve only just come to this conclusion together. I nod.

“We know what’s going on.” Now Lucas glares at me. “The Merk came around because he wants to sell what he knows and make a few digs. It’s the only reason any Merk ever does anything.”

Ro squirms, like he can’t get comfortable. “It’s better than sitting around here and letting the Embassy experiment on us like four Porthole rats.”

“They haven’t killed us,” Tima points out. She speaks rapidly, her eyes moving from side to side as if she were scanning the perimeter for predators. Which she should be. “Of course, they can’t. Corpses don’t have emotions. Of what use would we be to them, then?”

It’s a sobering thought, but Ro seems delighted to hear her say it. “Exactly. They’re using us. Even Tima agrees with me. So why shouldn’t we find this Merk guy and see if we can even the odds a little?” He smiles.

“Come on. You’re going to trust some Merk who breaks into the Embassy and shuts Doc down, just to talk to us?” Lucas sounds annoyed, but he doesn’t defend the Embassy, because he can’t. “That doesn’t seem a little suspicious to you?”

Lucas is fighting a losing battle. I lay my hand on his arm. “You said it yourself—why would he do that for no reason?”

“Money is reason enough to a Merk.” Tima takes Lucas’s side.

“The Icon. He was talking about the Icon,” Ro insists.

“We don’t know if any of it’s true. We don’t know that any of it has anything to do with us.” Lucas shakes his head.

Nobody says a word. We stand, our backs to the wall of our shadowy alcove, staring out into the library. Finally, Tima looks from Ro to Lucas. “There’s only one way to find out, I guess. Let’s go pay a visit to the Hall of Records.”

“Now?” I look at the guards, crossing the main thoroughfare of the room in front of us.

She sighs. “It’ll have to be. I know the patrol schedule, but I can’t guarantee Doc won’t be on us.”

“I’ll handle Doc,” says Lucas. “I’ve been doing it my whole life.”

“Then we should be able to ditch them, at least long enough to get into the archives.” Tima rolls her eyes at Ro. “I’m tired of trying to get you out from under Sympa patrols. I’m beginning to regret sending you to the garbage barge in the first place.”

“Really,” says Ro, smiling.

“Not really.” She sniffs, sliding out of the alcove and through the open door.

“Didn’t think so.” He winks at me, and I slip out after her.

The main plexi-door to the library slides open. Tima gestures. “The Hall of Records is this way.” We all look where she points.

“If something happened, Doc knows. If Doc knows, it’s in his database. If it’s in his database, it’s backed up.” Lucas sounds resigned.

“And the backup drives are in the Hall of Records?” Ro is unusually somber.

Lucas approaches the dull metal door with a wave of his ID card.