Allie's War Season One (54 page)

NEWS FEEDS RAN nonstop in the background.

I tried not to look at their fast-moving images, or hear anything the avatars said. Still, broken pieces reached me, burning me like heated stones.

“...dead now tallied at four hundred and sixty-two...with over a hundred still missing, most of whom are also believed to be dead...”

“...believed to be the work of the terrorist Alyson May Taylor and her organization of renegade seers. Initially thought to be killed in the attack, it is now believed Taylor escaped alive and is still at large, following...”

“...where she was last seen in Europe, at a café in Spain where she...”

“...eluded authorities outside a train station in Munich, now believed to be headed east as she reunites with the larger terrorist cells that placed her all those years ago as a sleeper agent, somewhere in the depths of Asia...”

I heard my name, over and over, and saw my face.

I saw pictures of people I loved, heard strangers argue about how many of my family and friends were already dead...until my brain fuzzed over, counting floor tiles in a hotel bathroom while someone pounded on the door, trying to get me to unlock it.

I traveled everywhere in a faceless cloud of seers.

They bought me wigs, wrapped scarves around my head, gave me earpieces to wear, make-up, prosthetics of various kinds, contact lenses. They forced me to eat, drugged me when I wouldn’t sleep in the constructs we hopped in and out of, shoved me into vans and cars and trains to move me every few days, scolded me when I drank too much or stood next to windows without the curtains drawn. I stared at the landscape of different cities across land masses I didn’t recognize through the windows of whatever vehicle they put me in, sometimes for days at a time where I couldn’t sleep, where I could barely tell where I was.

They treated me differently now. All but Chandre, anyway.

Despite their attempts to keep me alive, most of the seers seemed afraid of me. It was a reverential kind of fear, like they saw the end of the world reflected on my face.

At that point, I wasn’t sure I disagreed.

When Chandre came in alone to talk to me on the third day, telling me the latest news from San Francisco, my mind cut out entirely.

The static remained for days...flavored in flashes of moving scenery, movies shown on flights between Calgary and Montreal and Berlin, images on the vid player one of the seers gave me, hotel rooms and, let’s face it...a hell of a lot of alcohol.

Through it all, the feeds ran.

I couldn’t block it all out, no matter how much I tried to kill my mind.

Some cult started worshipping me. The cult’s followers petitioned for space on the US feed network and got denied because of my terrorist status, causing a wave of sensationalist headlines both for and against. There had been protests. At least one actual riot happened, too, apparently in Los Angeles and mostly between Christians and human Third Mythers.

Seers got dragged into it, too, of course. I saw pictures of a young female seer being beaten with tasers and pipes. The newscasters on the feeds clucked about it in regret, but none put down their cameras long enough to stop the men doing it—men who would never be able to afford a seer like her, even for a few hours.

Rumors spread about me being the Bridge.

Black market feeds had whole sites devoted to me and Revik. Human women loved Revik, especially after it got out that we’d been married. It didn’t seem to matter that he was dead.

World governments were already negotiating over rights to my telekinetic “powers.” The United States and China dominated the discussions, of course, but Russia, Germany, England and Japan vied to be allowed at the bargaining table too, hiding behind the veneer of scientific curiosity. Speculation erupted that I might have been impregnated. Telekinetic rumors and rumors of sightings spread, more so after I was officially blamed by SCARB for the sinking of Royal Faire cruise ship,
The Explorer.
People who lost loved ones in the bombing posted bounties, wanting me neutralized...dead or alive, but preferably dead.

The feeds fed on the hysteria, fanned it.

More people went missing, presumed dead.

One was my brother, Jon. Another was Cass, who I’d known almost as long as my adoptive brother. Cass and I had finger-painted together while Cass’s mom worked and her father drank. By high school, Cass had her own section of my closet. Every year she celebrated two of every holiday, one at my place and one with her mom and dad and her deadbeat Uncle Phan.

With the last two people in my family gone, I didn’t much care what the world thought of me, or even if I survived it.

Weeks passed. Longer.

I wait for sleep. I crave it, but it doesn’t help.

I can’t reach him, no matter how often he asks. The asking hurts, more than the other ever did, and I feel him in pieces...a darker feeling that is self-hate, emotions that are infinitely more complex.

Still, he doesn’t feel alive.

The numbers return. They are separate from him, but connected somehow. I dream of my father, the engineer. He jokes that numbers are our secret language, so we can speak to one another in code. They are an autistic’s mantra, a broken song I can’t get out of my head.

...17, 10, 42, 12, 1, 57, 12, 20, 332, 178, 12, 102, 9, 13, 15, 2, 2, 2...

I AM SOMEWHERE else.

I’d never been here before, but it felt familiar somehow, or maybe just closer in feel to places I recognized. After the clean, picturesque towns, mountains and chateaus where we’d spent the last few weeks in Europe, the grittiness of this new place felt almost...welcome.

Circling cities to avoid detection, we’d been traveling through farmlands and villages for months. We’d stopped in safe houses to sleep. Churches, warehouses, hotels, mosques, a winery in the hills, a bombed out Jewish temple. I told myself I didn’t know what was worse: the nights I wasn’t able to sleep, or having to suffer through the dreams and waking when I could.

But that was a lie, too.

I missed him by the time we hit the next construct, by the time I could dream again. I missed him, looked for him, and when I found him, we would...

Here it was dirty, loud, colorful, hot, poor, crowded.

I walked up a dirt and stone street where a mound of brightly-colored trash covered an open sewer grate, stinking already at seven o’clock in the morning. A shrine draped in winking Christmas lights and gold foil stood in a crack between buildings, a monkey god cavorting among flowers and stick fruit covered in buzzing flies. A caramel-colored cow stood chewing over a pile of rotting greens and egg cartons and chicken bones.

When I paused to pat its backside, it didn’t look up.

Most of my face was wrapped in gauzy cream cloth, but I nodded anyway to a monk in red robes on his way up the street, wearing sunglasses and carrying an espresso in his hand. I felt oddly content with the horrible smells of human excrement and rotting melon and maggot-covered meat. Even with the stench slowly heating in the morning sun, for some reason I felt like I could almost breathe here.

I chuckled at the next shrine, which held a picture of me covered in pink flower petals surrounded by white, paraffin candles. It was my high school end-of-year picture, and my hair had a streak of lime green in it...me and Cass’s idea of rebellion, which infuriated my mother at the time, since she’d already purchased a photo package to give pictures to all of our relatives. Because of the ban, real pictures were expensive as hell, and needed special permission. She still had a job back then, working for the post office, and she made me pay for the photos out of my meager tip money from an earlier crap job I had, which had taken months. It was probably the last time we really screamed at each other since my father...

I made my way up the hill, using the cane.

The mountains loomed over the town, breathtakingly tall, draped in snow and wisps of low-lying, fog-like clouds. Colorful prayer flags flapped in the breeze, hanging from wires sagging between buildings painted in bright greens and blues.

Most windows had no glass, just wooden shutters and tarps covering square openings. A black paw emerged from one of these as I watched, a second story window in a hotel with tables and chairs on a roof where people sat and drank hot chai, speaking Hindi and Tibetan and seer pidgin. Following the paw came the rest of a squat, tan-colored monkey. Its furred face remained etched in a frown despite the sticky piece of mango clutched in one paw. Gripping wooden slats with its free hand and feet, it climbed nimbly up to the roof.

When it reached the railing a yell pierced the early morning quiet, and a white-haired Indian woman swung at the monkey with a long-handled broom.

The monkey screeched and held his ground, still clutching the mango...and I laughed, watching the grumpy thing vault to the roof of a shack that housed the steaming chai pot from which a girl maybe twelve-years-old ladled tea.

“You’re awfully chipper,” said a voice beside me. “I’d have thought you’d be hung over after the quantities of bourbon you drank last night.”

The seer’s dry tone snapped me out of my view of the mountains behind the fat, ill-tempered monkey and the people on plastic chairs. I turned to see the same red-brown irises I’d been looking at for weeks.

“Yeah,” I said. “Guess I’ve got good genes for drinking until I black out.”

The female seer with the dark braids sniffed, but seemed content to have received an answer.

She folded her arms, gazing around us with some distaste.

“Didn’t Dehgoies explain how alcohol affects your light?” she said, for possibly the four hundredth time. “It’s a wonder the Rooks didn’t find us, with the flares you send out. Between that and...”

The lecture continued, but I heard little of the rest.

The pain slid forward as soon as she mentioned his name. When I allowed myself to go there, briefly, to look for him, a migraine sharpened behind my eyes, forcing me to stop and lean heavily on the cane I’d been using to help out my knee. I waited for the pain to pass, breathing in garbage and incense from a nearby storefront.

Chandre didn’t notice the change in me at first. She stopped when I stopped, still complaining to me about me as she glanced around at the wooden buildings. Another cow, this one a chocolate brown, wandered past, grinding its long jaw sideways. It lowed plaintively, twitching its tail.

“Welcome to Seertown of Himachal Pradesh, Bridge,” Chandre said after she’d finished her catalogue of my wrongdoings and ignorant, human ways. “...Sewer of the Himalayas.”

Seeing me leaning against the cane then, breathing unevenly, she snatched my fingers off my neck.

“Stop it. The humans are staring!”

I laughed, unable to help it when I realized it was a variation of the crap my mom’s status-obsessed sister would spew at me when she visited us in San Francisco. I saw a man in a doorway looking at me, holding a straw broom that looked handmade and wearing a sweat-stained fedora. His upper body was wrapped in a colorful shawl.

He shook his head at me ruefully, clucking his tongue.

“They think I’m high,” I said. “I’m a bad Buddhist...a decadent white woman. Who cares?”

Chandre’s mouth hardened. “I am sorry for your family, Bridge. But you cannot continue to dwell on the loss of them, or of your mate. You must focus on the task at hand.”

“Which is what, exactly?” I said. “Avoiding ringworm?”

But my words just filled space while my eyes rose to take in the mountains.