Icons (32 page)

Us against Lucas and the Ambassador.

Just as it always has been.

“Right,” I say, so she doesn’t notice I’m trembling. “Where are we going in?”

“Pretty much retracing your route from last time. Through the gate, up the hill, straight to the Observatory, to the Icon. If we’re lucky, the Ambassador won’t have moved on it yet. Fortis and I have come up with a plan, and it’s sort of brilliant. Though it would help if Lucas were here.”

“We can do this. We’ll be fine.”

I catch a glimpse of Fortis through the crowded space of the Cathedral. He’s deep in conversation with Ro.

“Tell me, what do you know about Ro and his contacts with the Grass Factions?” Tima leans in closer, so no one can hear what she is saying.

“Nothing. He doesn’t like to talk about them with me.”

“Can they be trusted? Now that they’re here? They say they have explosives, but I’m not so certain.”

“I don’t know.”

She looks at me steadily, taking my hand. It is tiny and cold and flutters beneath my fingers. “Yes, Doloria. You do know. Or at least, you can know. Check it out for me, will you?”

I don’t want to; I don’t like to do it to Ro. But Tima doesn’t let go of my hand, and I know she is only trying to help, so I do it anyway.

I calm my mind and reluctantly allow myself to feel. I open my heart and am flooded, drowning in the sadness inside me, all around me. The tears come, and I close my eyes and reach for him. All the way across the hundreds of people in the dimly lit room, which smells like candle wax and smoke and dirt and chickens. Mission smells. Grass smells.

I let the smells fade first, then the people.

They disappear, one by one, until it is just Ro standing there. Ro and me.

I see the flashes in a fraction of a single moment.

The Padre’s
pistola
. A cellar beneath an old cafe. Bundles of dynamite and bricks of something that looks like clay, where there should be wine. A ratty group of men and women, crouching around a table scattered with junk tech and industrial scraps and spools of wire.

Ro’s mouth twists into a smile, and he nods at me from across the room. I open my eyes.

“Yes,” I say. “You can trust them. I do.”

Tima pulls me toward her in an awkward, jerky hug. It’s a strange sensation, like being gripped by a stick. “Everything is going to be all right.”

“I know,” I say, though it’s a lie.

“Better. At least, better.” When she pulls away, I see
that her eyes are bright and wet. “He’ll come back.” Tima says it without looking at me.

I nod, but we both know that’s a lie, too.

When only one hour remains on the clock, Fortis calls the three of us over to the munitions area.

“Try to measure twice and cut once and all that. You can’t uncut, and you certainly can’t un-explode, so let’s do this right.” He looks at Ro. “You have everything you need, then?”

Ro holds up two large backpacks stuffed full of plastic explosives, and a second, smaller bag. “Explosives and detonator.”

Tima gives him a sketch of the Icon. “Here’s where you need to set the charges.” She hands me a map. “Here’s the route—you know the way, so you lead.”

Fortis nods. “Once you get there, Dol, you need to keep an eye on the entrance, make sure no surprise visitors stop by. We don’t know what the Lords will do, or if they even monitor the Icons around the clock. We don’t think so, since there already is a sort of foolproof defense in place—”

“You mean, the whole dropping dead thing?” Ro winces.

“That’s it. But they’ve surprised us before.”

I remember the lifeless plants, the bones, the desolation. “I don’t know who they could send in to stop us.
Lucas and I could barely handle it ourselves. No Sympa could.”

Then Tima and Ro and I raise our eyes to each other, at the same moment.

Lucas.

“You don’t think he would, do you?”

“He’s the only one who could,” Tima says, grim.

“I hope he does.” Ro shakes his head. “Lucas, Sympas, the Lords themselves. Bring it. We’re doing this.”

“Tima and I will be in communication as long as possible. As you know, once things break up, you’re on your own.” Fortis softens. “Don’t worry, duckies. You’re more than prepared. Everything in your lives has brought you to this point.” He leans closer. “I’m not a sentimental sort, but I won’t deny it’ll be a bit sad if you blow yourselves up along with the Icon.”

“Gee. Thanks, Fortis.” I’d laugh, if it weren’t true.

Fortis grins. “Yeah, all right. Just stick to the plan, and stay alert, and try to come back alive.”

Ro looks at me. “It’s a promise.”

Five minutes later, we are saying our goodbyes.

The ceilings of Our Lady of the Angels are so high you would think they could hold anything. It’s not true. They can barely contain the noise. What begins as shifting and muttering becomes stamping and shouting. Now Fortis is banging a fist against the old altar. It is no kind of service
the Padre would recognize, and Fortis is nothing like a priest. I wonder what the Padre would say if he could see me here, tonight.

Fortis raises his voice to be heard over the others, in our new congregation. “Tonight’s it, then, my friends. We’ve worn their collars and carried their yoke long enough. Thanks to a strange twist of providence,” he says, looking at us, “we’ve got one shot to take the Icon down, an’ show the No Face we haven’t given up yet.”

He raises his glass first to Tima, who stands next to him—then Ro and me, who stand side by side. “To the human race, then.”

Ro finds my eyes in the dim light and hooks on to me.

“There,” he says.

There
, I think.

We can do this. We’re together—just like always, like the Mission.

Home.

But now it is finally time to go. Ro and I are surrounded by those whose most desperate wishes for the future go with us. “You can do this,” Fortis says, clasping one hand to my shoulder. “You too,” he says to Ro.

“I’ll be right there with you,” Tima says, shoving my headset into place behind my ear. “Until the very last second before the pulse cuts us out.” She smiles at me, a quick and rare thing. “Don’t be scared.”

“I won’t,” I say. “I’m not.”

I look at her eyes and see that she is crying.

“You were meant for this, you know.” She wipes her face with her hand.

“So were you,” I say, nodding toward her own headset. I put my hand on her shoulder and squeeze it. “See you soon.”

She turns to Ro and holds out her hand to him—but instead, he flings his arms around her in a massive bear of a hug, until her feet lift right off the ground.

I smile, but I can’t stomach any more goodbyes. So without waiting for Ro to catch up, I step out into the night.

I touch the walls beneath Our Lady, carved in the stone. In the night, her halo becomes lost in shadow. I think of Lucas vanishing on the distant shore, of Tima and her bloodred thread. My mother’s necklace. Ramona. The Padre. Everything disappears, sooner or later.

Anything can go, anytime.

That’s the thing about triggers and feelings, I guess. Colonel Catallus was wrong. The trick isn’t having them. It’s keeping them. Owning them.

They don’t make you weak or sad, angry or afraid, even heartbroken.

They make you.

I am powerful because of who and what I am. Not because of who I am not.

I’m not going to apologize for what I feel.

Not anymore.

How we feel—at least, for Ro and Tima and me—is our only chance to win back our freedom.

And after tonight, the only thing gone will be the Icon.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway, as Ro emerges from the Cathedral behind me, and we disappear into the darkness of the Hole.

I am really here, and I am really carrying a backpack stuffed full of bricks of plastic explosives, salvaged from abandoned military bases. CL-20, according to Ro, Fortis’ explosive of choice. It looks like putty or clay, something that would belong to a child, not a troop of guerilla warriors.

The pack feels heavy, but I don’t mind the weight.

Ro, who hasn’t taken a breath or a break since we started walking, is so far ahead of me he disappears around the bend.

“Hurry up. We don’t have much time.” I hear his voice floating behind him. “What’s wrong with you? You’re never this slow. I’ll race you to the top.” He takes off running, even with his heavy pack. He’s excited, and his loping gait reminds me of our childhood together, of racing and playing in the Mission hills.

Making forts, not bombs.

He’s right, I’m never this slow.

But I don’t hurry. Something feels wrong.

I stop.

Because the moment I step into the moonlight at the corner of the trail, I see a dark figure sitting on top of a boulder in front of me. Before my eyes can adjust, I know who it is.

I’d know him anywhere.

I’m frightened and overwhelmed and it’s all I can do not to start sobbing.

“Lucas?”

As I approach, he slides off the boulder, looking more like a young boy than I have ever noticed. He’s wearing Sympa camos and carrying a pack. “Dol. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Instinctively, I back up. I hear Ro and Fortis and Tima in my head.

Lucas can come inside the radius of the Icon.

Lucas is the only one they could send to stop us.

Lucas can’t be trusted.

He steps up toward me in the darkness, and tries to slide his arms around me in an awkward hug.

I push him away, because I don’t know if he’s here to help me or kill me.

What a trio we are.

Me, recently dead. This boy, who just wants to be loved. The other boy, who races me up the hill.
Who decided we were the ones who had to shoulder this burden? What
business is it of ours, what happens to this place? For that matter, to the Hole itself, our people, our planet?

I don’t know what to say, so I turn and walk until Lucas falls into step next to me.

“Why are you here, Lucas?”

“I came to try to talk you out of this. One last time.”

“Message received. Now beat it.” I keep walking.

“Look,” he says, catching up, “I got you out of the Pen, right? I came all the way out here to see you. But my mom knows everything.”

“Thanks for that.” I don’t look at him.

“They’ll be here soon, in force. The Embassy, or worse.”

The Lords.

He doesn’t have to say it. We all know.

“So go home.”

“No.” Lucas grabs my arm, and I yank it away as hard as I can.

“Lucas. Of course your mom doesn’t want this to happen. She doesn’t want the Lords upset—maybe they’ll decide she’s expendable.”

“That’s not what this is about.”

“I get it. She’s comfortable. She’s got you to think about. Why wouldn’t she do everything she can to keep things the way they are?”

“You don’t know my mom,” Lucas says quietly, but I can see my words are sinking in.

“I know she held us hostage. I know she’s trying to
keep us from doing what—if Tima is right—we were literally born to do. I know she works for the Lords, Lucas. The Ambassador, and the whole Embassy. GAP Miyazawa, all of them. I know they aren’t keeping us safe.”

“Yeah, then what are they doing?” Bright spots of red appear on his face.

“They’re keeping us enslaved—because they’re afraid to let go of the small amount of power and privilege they’ve got. And you—”

I realize I’m shouting.

Lucas looks at me, daring me to say it.

So I do.

“You’re not as different as you think.”

It’s too late for this or any other kind of conversation. We’ve chosen our sides, and they’re not the same. I’m tired of pretending the truth is not true.

Lucas doesn’t give up, though. He doubles his stride, until he’s practically backing up in front of me, along the trail.

“Please, Dol. Listen to yourself. You say we were born to do this, but you don’t know why. We don’t know who engineered this. This isn’t destiny, it’s a joke. A cruel joke. We have a choice. You were born to be Doloria de la Cruz, and nothing else. Walk up that hill, and you’re making the choice to end it all. And I can’t bear to see that happen.”

“Maria.” I stop walking.

“What?”

“Doloria Maria de la Cruz. I’m named after my mother, and I’m doing this for her.”

I see his face in the moonlight and realize he is crying.

“For my father and my brothers. For the Padre, and Ro. Tima and Fortis. Bigger and Biggest and Ramona. For all the Remnants who got shipped off to the Projects.”

I look at him.

“And for you, Lucas.”

I see his face falter. With those words, I realize I’m done talking. From the quiet that surrounds me, I see he’s done following.

The Observatory comes into view in front of me. The white stone domes, the obelisk, the wide steps—all of it dominated by the ugly scar of the Icon. Beyond the crumbling debris lies the cool sweep of the city, mostly dark where it should be light. Only the far, far distance, where the thin, rugged line that is Santa Catalina Island, glistens with moonlight.