Icons. Margaret Stohl

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      EMBASSY CITY TRIBUNAL VIRTUAL AUTOPSY: DECEASED PERSONAL POSSESSIONS TRANSCRIPT (DPPT)

      CLASSIFIED TOP SECRET

      Performed by Dr. O. Brad Huxley-Clarke, VPHD

      Note: Conducted at the private request of Amb. Amare

      Santa Catalina Examination Facility #9B

      See adjoining Tribunal Autopsy, attached.

      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 .

       4

       TRACKS

      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.

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