Indigo Springs (31 page)

“Will,” Astrid says, “take her to Roche.”

She turns her back on Sahara, walking to the edge of the lake. The unreal fades into view before her, an expanse of white sand opening up near the water. A step takes her to the boundary between the worlds. One foot rests on the unreal dune; the other remains on broken cedar and moss.

I trot in her wake. I ought to try to arrest her, but the idea seems ridiculous. Instead I catch her hand and murmur, “That offer you made…”

“It’ll be open whenever you’re ready.”

I squeeze, not wanting to let go, and paper scrapes my palm. Astrid is holding something. Gently, I pry her fingers open.

It is one last card, a portrait of the two women standing back to back. Astrid’s painted face, confined as it is to one side of the image, seems to be looking for a way out. Everything she wanted is behind her: Sahara, looking skyward, ready to fly away.

The portrait is a bleak one. Astrid’s view is blocked by prison bars. Jacks’s blood stains her stomach and legs.

In this portrait Astrid’s despair is so deep, I feel it running in my veins. I want to give her everything she has lost: be her rescuer, save the world for her. Give her that ordinary life she wanted.

I don’t need an oracle to tell me that I’m not that man.

“It’s okay, Will—it’s old news,” Astrid says. She turns over the picture and shows me another portrait. Her gaze is clear in this one, and she’s wearing the same waterlogged jeans she’s dressed in now. She has found a measure of peace. “Get your prisoner back to Roche, okay?”

“I will,” I say. “I guess…I’ll be seeing you?”

“Don’t sweat the future—that’s my problem. You’re about to be a big hero. Enjoy it, okay?”

I nod. My next words are forced, pushed up from my belly through a dry throat. “And you? What now?”

Astrid Lethewood looks up, beaming.

“Now? Now’s the part where I remake the world.”

I must look alarmed, because she reaches for my hand. “It’s the curse that makes the magic dangerous, Will. Once it’s broken, we can release the magic, carefully. We’ll free all the trapped people in the unreal…maybe even find Jacks.”

“That’s a tall order.”

“I won’t be alone.” She glances at the pool of vitagua still hanging above us, liquid magic she drew out of her contaminated friends. It rises and expands, growing like a balloon and getting farther and farther away. With every second, it gets lighter, thinner, harder to see. Eventually it disappears.

The trees, dusted by a vapor-thin edge of magical contamination, begin to grow. Their leaves brighten, and out-of-season flowers bloom at our feet in a carpet.

“Mark,” Astrid says. “You still want in the gang?”

Clutching Sahara’s coat and the collection of chantments, Mark Clumber scuttles through the opening between worlds, kicking up clouds of unreal sand.

“Good-bye, Will,” Astrid says.

I raise my hand in farewell.

An image of her burns on my retinas as the worlds between us pop apart like bubbles. Astrid is in the unreal, and I am left facing my reflection in the lake, warped by water into someone I no longer recognize. Left with a magic ring, a pack of cards, and the world’s most wanted fugitive.

And I’m standing at the heart of an alchemical apocalypse.

But that’s more than I can process. I decide to believe in Astrid’s newfound confidence. What else can I do?

Tucking the cards into my coat, I take the wilted Sahara Knax by a forearm, nudging her in the direction of the compound. She limps dramatically; it’s going to be a long walk.

“She’s lying, you know,” Sahara says. “She doesn’t know shit.”

“Caroline Forest, Sahara—where is she?”

“Screw you.”

“Do you know where you’re going? You think anyone is going to care what happens to you? You could use a friend.”

“I know where your loyalties lie.”

“Caro flew to San Francisco on the fourth of August. She stayed with our children at one of your Alchemite safe houses.”

“Let me go and I’ll tell you where she is.”

“Do I look that stupid?”

She scoffs. “I could pass the word to my followers. She could kill herself. She could kill them—”

It’s as far as she gets before I knock her onto the writhing grass. “You’re powerless now, remember?”

“Just you keep believing that,” she spits.

I’m saved from my temper by a young soldier who pounds up to me at a run. “Sir? Commander’s searching for you. You okay?”

It’s not a question I can answer honestly, so I yank Sahara to her feet. “I’d be better if you got us a car.”

“Us?” He sees who I’m with and goes pale with shock. His jaw drops; then, as it registers that she’s helpless, in
custody
, he reaches out, as if to touch her. Sahara glares and he recoils, looking at me in awe.

“It’s over,” he says, wonderingly.

It’s just begun, I think. The ground shivers, and a ladybug the size of my fist flies past, carapace chattering. “How about that car, soldier?”

“Temporary command post’s half a click due east,” he replies.

There’s nothing to do but hike down.

We start toward the command post, me assisting our notorious prisoner as our escort struts at my side, his hand resting on his weapon. His steps are light; I barely hear his shoes hitting the ground. The activity in the trees doesn’t bother him: we’ve caught Sahara; he thinks this is the end.

Her arrest has renewed his faith in the future. He believes I’m holding the end of our troubles by her slender brown arm. They all will. Will they believe me if I tell them it’s not true?

The ground jolts again, harder. Sahara stumbles, and as I catch her, our eyes meet. We are both scared.

The part where I remake the world,
Astrid said.

We break out of the murmuring trees and below us I see an improvised square of official vehicles surrounded by armed soldiers. Within the square is a collection of salvaged equipment and satellite dishes.

Beyond the cars where the underground complex should be is a smoking crater. I take a long look: at the hole, the dead machines, the ruined concrete and steel walls. Millions of dollars of property scattered like trash, destroyed as surely as Astrid’s house or the aircraft carrier yesterday. The air around us is icy.

Behind me, the trees are blue-green and growing fast, and nobody’s paying attention. Roche must believe he can napalm them later, if he’s noticed them at all.

“Laid waste to your big-ass fortress,” Sahara boasts. “Not bad if I’m supposedly the warm-up act, huh?”

The soldier gives me a queer look, uncomprehending.

“Keep walking, Sahara.” But though my voice is confident, my hands and feet grow icy as I look farther, beyond the burnt-out complex, beyond the smoke rising like a column above the trees. I look all the way to the horizon, where the mid afternoon sun hangs above the mountains in a sky already aglow with alchemized radiance, drowning in purest blue light.

Many people have provided me with advice and assistance since I began writing
Indigo Springs
in 2001, and continued to do so after I completed revisions in mid-2003. I am deeply grateful to my agent, Linn Prentis; my editor, Jim Frenkel; and a host of editors, writers, and supporters who’ve guided me over the years, especially Wayne Arthurson, Ellen Datlow, Gardner Dozois, Nalo Hopkinson, Doug Lain, Louise Marley, Jessica Reisman, Harry Turtledove, and Peter Watts.

I am blessed in having a loving and supportive family. My wife, Kelly Robson, and my parents—Barb Millar, Brian Millar, William Robson, and Sandra Robson—have always been enthusiastic, clear-eyed, and loyal supporters of my writing. Michelle, Sherelyn, Susan, and Bill have done the same, while providing the much-needed teasing that is the province of siblings. Friends too numerous to name have done everything from reading drafts to providing moral support. In particular, I would like to mention Lisa Cohen, Ming Dinh, Trent Doiron, Denise Garzon, Nicki Hamilton, Liz Hughes, Elaine Mari, Ginger Mullen, Annie Reid, Ramona Roberts, Lealle Ruhl, and Brian Wetton.

You made it possible for me to write this book, and I will always be grateful.