Icons (4 page)

“She’s a pig, Padre. She’s going to go wherever she wants. She can’t understand you.”

“Ah, well. It’s only once a year, the Blessing of the Animals. We can clean the floors tomorrow. All Earth’s creatures need our prayers.”

“I know. I don’t mind.” I look to the animals, wondering. The Padre sinks onto a low pew, patting the wood next to him. “We can take a few minutes to ourselves, however. Come. Sit.”

I oblige.

He smiles, touching my chin. “Happy birthday, Dolly.” He holds out a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. It materializes from his robes, a priestly sleight of hand.

Birthday secrets. My book, finally.

I recognize it from his thoughts, from yesterday. He holds it out to me, but his face is not full of joy.

Only sadness.

“Be careful with it. Don’t let it out of your sight. It’s very rare. And it’s about you.”

I drop my hand.

“Doloria.” He says my real name and I stiffen, bracing myself for the words I fear are coming. “I know you don’t like to talk about it, but it’s time we speak of such things. There are people who would harm you, Doloria. I haven’t really told you how I found you, not all of it. Why you survived the attack and your family didn’t. I think you’re ready to hear it now.” He leans closer. “Why I’ve hidden you. Why you’re special. Who you are.”

I’ve been dreading this talk since my tenth birthday. The day he first told me what little I know about who I am and how I am different. That day, over sugar cakes and thick, homemade butter and sun tea, he talked to me slowly about the creeping sadness that came over me, so heavy that my chest fluttered like a startled animal’s and I couldn’t breathe. About the pain that pulsed in my head or came between my shoulder blades. About the nightmares that were so real I was afraid Ro would walk in and find me cold and still in my bed one morning.

As if you really could die from a broken heart.

But the Padre never told me where the feelings came from. That’s one thing even he didn’t know.

I wish someone did.

“Doloria.”

He says my name again to remind me that he knows my secret. He’s the only one, Ro and him. When we’re alone, I let Ro call me Doloria—but even he mostly calls me Dol, or even Dodo. I’m just plain Dolly to everyone else.

Not Doloria Maria de la Cruz. Not a Weeper. Not marked by the lone gray dot on my wrist.

One small circle the color of the sea in the rain.

The one thing that is really me.

My destiny.

Dolor
means “sorrow,” in Latin or Greek or some other language from way, way before The Day. BTD. Before everything changed.

“Open it.”

I look at him, uncertain. The candles flicker, and a breeze shudders slowly through the room. Ramona noses closer to the altar, her snout looking for traces of honey on my hand.

I slip my finger through the paper, pulling it loose from the string. Beneath the wrapping is hardly a book, almost more of a journal: the cover is thick, rough burlap, homemade. This is a Grass book, unauthorized, illegal. Most likely preserved by the Rebellion, in spite of and because of the Embassy regulations. Such books are usually on subjects the Ambassadors won’t acknowledge within the
world of the Occupation. They are very hard to come by, and extremely valuable.

My eyes well with tears as I read the cover.
The Humanity Project: The Icon Children
. It looks like it was written by hand.

“No,” I whisper.

“Read it.” He nods. “I was supposed to keep it safe for you and make sure you read it when you were old enough.”

“Who said that? Why?”

“I’m not sure. I discovered the book with a note on the altar, not long after I brought you here. Just read it. It’s time. And nobody knows as much about the subject as this particular author. It’s written by a doctor, it seems, in his own hand.”

“I know enough not to read more.” I look around for Ro. I wish, desperately, he would walk through the chapel door. But the Padre is the Padre, so I open the book to a page he’s marked, and begin to read about myself.

Icon doloris
.

Dolorus. Doloria. Me.

My purpose is pain and my name is sorrow.

One gray dot says so.

No.

“Not yet.” I look up at the Padre and shake my head, shoving the book into my belt. The conversation is over.
The story of me can wait until I’m ready. My heart hurts again, stronger this time.

I hear strange noises, feel a change in the air. I look to Ramona Jamona, hoping for some moral support, but she is lying at my feet, fast asleep.

No, not asleep.

Dark liquid pools beneath her.

The cold animal in my chest startles awake, fluttering once again.

An old feeling returns. Something really is wrong. Soft pops fill the air.

“Padre,” I say.

Only I look at him and he is not my Padre at all. Not anymore.

“Padre!” I scream. He’s not moving. He’s nothing. Still sitting next to me, still smiling, but not breathing.

He’s gone.

My mind moves slowly. I can’t make sense of it. His eyes are empty and his mouth has fallen open. Gone.

It’s all gone. His jokes. His secret recipes—the butter he made from shaking cream together with smooth, round rocks—the rows of sun tea in jars—gone. Other secrets, too. My secrets.

But I can’t think about it now, because behind the Padre—what was the Padre—stands a line of masked soldiers. Sympas.

Occupation Sympathizers, traitors to humanity.
Embassy soldiers, taking orders from the Lords, hiding behind plexi-masks and black armor, standing in pig mess and casting long shadows over the deathly peace of the chapel. One wears golden wings on his jacket. It’s the only detail I see, aside from the weapons. The guns make no noise, but the animals panic all the same. They are screaming—which is something I did not know, that animals could scream.

I open my mouth, but I do not scream. I vomit.

I spit green juices and gray dust and memories of Ramona and the Padre.

All I can see are the guns. All I can feel is hate and fear. The black-gloved hands close around my wrist, overwhelming me, and I know that soon I will no longer have to worry about my nightmares.

I will be dead.

As my knees buckle, all I can think about is Ro and how angry he will be at me for leaving him.

Contents of personal satchel, torn, army-issue, found with deceased.

See attached photographs.

1. Electronic device, silver and rectangular. Appears to be some form of contraband pre-Occupation music player.

2. Photograph of woman, similar in feature and stature to deceased. Possible predeceased family member?

3.
.

4.
.

5. Dried plant leathers. Substantiates finding of probable vegetarianism in deceased.

6. One blue glass bead. Significance unknown.

7. One length of muslin cloth, stained with biological and natural material consistent with body wrapping, presumably of the wrist, as is customary for
.

I am alive.

When I open my eyes I’m on a train—alone in a prison transport car, gunmetal gray, pushed by an old coal-fueled steam engine. Nothing but four walls lined with metal benches, bolted to the floor. A door to my left, a window to my right. A pile of old rags in the corner. That’s it. I must be on the Tracks, hurtling toward the Hole. The dim blue waters of Porthole Bay flip in and out of sight, rhythmically punctuated by shuffling old comlink poles. They stick up from the land like so many useless skeleton fingers.

I watch my reflection in the window. My brown hair is dark and loose and matted with dirt and bile. My skin is pale and barely covers the handful of small bones that are me. Then I see my reflection twist, and in the
plexi-window I look as sad as the Lady in her painting.
Because the Padre is dead.

I try to hold on to his face in my mind, the grooves by his eyes, the mole on his cheek. The cocky spike of his thinning hair. I’m afraid I’ll lose it, him—even the memory. Tomorrow, if not today.

Like everything else, there’s no holding on to the Padre.

Not anymore.

I look back out at the bay, and I can feel the bile churn inside me, strong as the tides. Usually the water calms me. Not today. Today, as I clutch the blue glass bead at my throat, the ocean is almost unrecognizable. I wonder where the Tracks are taking me.
To my death? Or worse?

I see a glimpse of the rusting, abandoned cars on the highway along the rails, junked as if all life stopped and the planet froze in place, which is pretty much what happened on The Day. After the House of Lords came, with their Carrier ships, and the thirteen Icons fell from the sky, one landing in each of the largest cities in the world.

The Padre says—said—that people used to live all over Earth, spread out. There were small towns, small cities, big cities. Not anymore. Almost the entire population of the planet lives within a hundred miles of a mega-city. The Padre said this happened because so much of the world has been ruined by people, by the rising waters, rising temperatures, drought, flooding. Some parts of Earth are toxic with radiation from massive wars. People stay in the
cities because we are running out of places to live.

Now everything people need to live is produced in or near the cities. Energy, food, technology—it’s all centralized in the cities. Which makes the Lords’ work that much easier.

The Icons regulate everything with an electronic pulse. The Padre said the Icons can control electricity, the power that flows between generators and machines, even the electrical impulses that connect brains and bodies. They can halt all electrical and chemical activity at any time. Which is what happened to Goldengate, on The Day. And São Paulo, Köln-Bonn, Greater Beijing, Cairo, Mumbai. The Silent Cities. Which is why we gave in to the Lords and let them take our planet.