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When they sow the wind
They shall reap the whirlwind
The stalk of grain that forms no ear
Can yield no flour
Even if it could
Strangers would swallow it.
--Hosea 8:7
Genesis
February, 2031
In the beginning were the words.
They were beautiful, these words; beautiful, but fickle. Find the right combination and he could float up to heaven, words surrounding him like an angel's wings-be it wrong and they'd chase him to hell. But he had spent a long time perfecting these words, hours of cross-outs and deleted documents, and he was sure they were they were right.
They had to be.
His name, too, had been chosen with care. His remaining friends still called him William, William Linton, but to the rest of the world he had adopted a more memorable name. One that could be whispered with reverence all over the country. One that would linger until the end of time.
Percival Palabra stood at his pulpit, watching the faces of the members of his congregation. It was the largest church that in the city, and still, there were so many people that the fire department had worried that God's next message might be through a burning pew. The Word had traveled. He took note of who was skeptical, who had been dragged here by friends, and who already believed. Eventually they would all fall into the last category. They always did. Every atheist, politician or civilian. Two years to get this far, and now he was sure he had won. Balancing on the edge of triumph.
"Welcome," he said, the microphones amplifying his voice. "Welcome to my humble church." Many people laughed, though softly, as if they weren't sure if it was allowed. His church was anything but humble. Tall, arched ceilings covered the nave, and stained glass windows lined the walls, the east ones glowing in the soft morning light. The church had a certain beauty about it- it wasn't just the ornate architecture, the intricate windows. It was something more, something that he couldn't put a finger on. Then again, the place where you reach your dreams is always beautiful.
Nevertheless, the shiny pews and marble statues didn't hurt. They quieted the doubts of the visitors, and told them that they need look no further for the answers to their problems.
"I deliberated as to whether I should be here today. I do not want to take up this mantle-I accept my bloodline with wonder. Of course, I had heard that there would be a Second Coming. When I was young, and things looked bad, when I doubted the rest of humanity... I could clutch at this lifeline." He had a soothing voice, one that made everyone trust him. "But then last night, as I was deliberating whether I should be here this morn, God himself came in my sleep. He said unto me; 'My dearest son, why do you hesitate to take up your job again? In your last life, you died at a cross. But if the people of America do not follow you, they might be subject to an even worse fate.'" Percival looked around. "Our Father said we had disappointed Him. But he still loves Americans over all, and he showed me a way out of our predicament. If we have faith, we can do it. If we have faith, we can survive this. The Pan Asian Democratic Union will crumble, if only we have faith!" Here his voice was rising passionately.
All below, people were nodding. Because it made sense, such perfect sense. Why hadn't they thought of it before? It was what they had always dreamed of-an easy way out. The answer, faith in God, for He had proven Himself over and over, had he not?
"He led the Israelites to victory, he crumbled the walls of Jericho, and now, now he takes us by the hand, now he shows us how to walk in the light."
"If you accept me for who I truly am, then God will know the American people are again holy, and then the American people will again rise to the top. No longer will we cower in fear from an unseen enemy, for our Father will be protecting us."
And the words, well rehearsed, still sounded to people as though he was speaking only to them.
And something changed in the room. People were looking at each other. Some were crying, though from joy or sadness he could not tell. And there were a few, of course, a few who insisted on looking doubtful.
But even they couldn't escape the new wave, the new feeling rising in the room. Raising him to Heaven.
Hope.
He had given them hope, a hope that intensified as he continued.
Their families might not taste radiation. Their houses might not be bombed.
For Jesus had risen again. And he was there only for them.
The Book Of Eden
Chapter
1
May, 2067
Her death sentence had come in the heat of summer. Hot black pavement, swimsuits, and a sprinkler had been the only things outside to welcome it into her life. Perhaps that was the reason it had lost its power. The reason she was here, years later. Running down the sidewalk, feet loud on the pavement. Ragged breathing echoing in her ears.
Alive.
Though for how long she didn't know.
One can never be sure.
Up ahead, a mirror was lying on the sidewalk, smashed. Abandoned. It flung the sun's rays every which way, warped the few clouds in the sky. She had to squint, and as she drew closer, she caught the reflection of the person following her. A flash of dark blue uniform that jolted her faster, faster-
(And maybe she should leave the cans, just dump them on the sidewalk and the officer would consider it mission accomplished but then she would have failed because she had to bring them home, they needed them-)
Stupid. Stupid to think the blistering heat was any excuse to leave her coat behind. Stupid to think her stealing abilities were such that she could trick the scanners. Stupidity and hubris and- crucifixion, she was hungry. The last feelings lingering, through the heat that tried to suffocate her. The heat that rose in waves from the pavement.
She jumped over the mirror pieces when she reached them, the bounced light growing and fading as she passed it. And she could hear the skidding, as the officer skidded on them, could hear the glass fragments dancing away down the sidewalk.
Eden darted down a side road, glancing behind her at the lone policeman who was now a safe enough distance away. He was also panting, also sweating. His gun was out, but it wasn't raised-he would probably stop soon. There were more important things to do then recover ten cans on foot from an unarmed teenager. Because it was just that slim chance that he'd been in the store when she burgled it. Humiliation, perhaps, his only consequence.
Unless, somehow, he'd recognized-?
No.
That couldn't have happened.
Because she had to get back.
So she flung herself forward, forward, towards the glowing Smith Tower. Searching her body for any adrenaline it might have concealed-
(Because she had to run, run, she had to get back.)
Pivoting on one foot, she darted into Pioneer Square. Before the policeman rounded the corner, she had turned again, this time into an alleyway.
(And where was the crowbar why couldn't she se it there wasn't time for this-)
Oh, there it was. Tossed into a corner where someone had left it. She pried the heavy metal door open, flung herself through. Stumbled once on the stairs. She couldn't see the splintering boards under her feet, nor hear the thud of steps on the wooden plans because her mind was now nearly blank except for the instincts, the instincts that refused to leave.
(Get away get away get away. )
The vomit, when it finally arrived, landed like a present underneath the tree that was drawn on in black marker. Drawn on the wood panels in the room Eden found herself in, on hands and knees, still gasping for breath. Next to her, a long bar counter was the seat of a disgusted looking teenage boy.
"You OK?" he asked, glancing at what had previously been a clean floor.
So cool, so mercifully cool down here below the surface. And she rocked back into a sitting position, rubbing her forehead. It was several moments before the question registered.
"Mmm."
"You didn't bring your coat and had a run in with the police." This time, it wasn't a question. But then, between the sweat, the barf, and her complete visibility, perhaps that was the obvious conclusion. Eden glanced at the mess on the floor, but didn't make any move to clean it up. Unable to do anything but breathe.
"Yep," She said finally.
"So why'dya leave the coat?"
His tone wasn't angry, not demanding, but the accusation was there all the same. Because if Roy, or Io, or any of Job's friends found out they had been stealing, they would never be able to live it down. The embarrassment.
But it wasn't like they could just ask them for more. More than they had already given.
The coat, the coat, she'd left the coat. Why? She had to think for several seconds. The logic had melted in the heat. Ah, yes. Heat. "Too hot. The sign over Rockeybrook Apps said it was hundred-two."
It hadn't been so hot in- four years, her brain supplied. Three years to the week, if she remembered correctly. But dates never lied.
Dates never lied, but the eleven year old girl wrestling with her brother in the sprinkler felt like another person.
Because the death sentence had killed. They'd killed that eleven year old, erasing any traces of her from the fifteen year old squatting in the basement.
The girl in the sprinkler had no idea that her life was about to end. She had thought nothing of the mailman pushing an envelope through their mail slot. The game, the game in the sprinkler; that was what the world had come down to. For those few hours, that was all that mattered.
Politics had meant nothing either. They'd been there, a present force in the back of her mind. Hovering in the shadows, present in life. But not something she'd considered, given a shit about. And she had known there was a threat of nuclear war. She had known, yet she did not see, because she'd been taught about the sacrifice called for by the Macrocosm,
It would be an honor, it had said in the Summons. An honor to die for her country, an honor to be neighbors with God. And, lord, she had been proud. There was no denying it. For the week before her death, everyone had thanked her, had gone out of their way to do things for her, had told her over and over what she was doing was amazing, wonderful, they would always remember her with gratitude. The price was death, but that hadn't really sunk in either.
There had been a boy in her class, Falcon, whose uncle was one of the Chosen. Everyone would always put a hand on their heart when they said his name, and Eden wondered if they did for her now too. Then again, there was that minor detail- she hadn't died. No matter how many gold seals they had put on the envelope, in the end, it hadn't worked.
Because that pride, it had changed to fear on Glory day. Especially when the Shadow-man appeared, when the needle was already touching her skin and the priests were singing the Song of the Sacrificed. Eden had though he was the devil. She had been terrified of him for awhile. Until she became sure of the fact that he was just Job and not supernatural, and that she wasn't doomed to hell by being near him.
Peter stared at the vomit, as if unsure whether he should clean it up. He seemed to decide it wasn't his responsibility, choosing instead to relieve Eden of her backpack and investigate the contents. Put them away in the large Rubbermaid buckets.
His way of keeping from yelling at her about how stupid she was.
"Where's Trinity?" Eden had expected her to be there.
"Um..." Peter tossed a can of minestrone soup in the air, weighing it in his palm for a moment before he put it on the shelf on the left, along with the other food Tin was willing to eat. Canned string beans went on the lower shelf with the things he would not. "I think she went out to get some woodchips. We're running low."
"You think?"
"That's what she said. That or she's upstairs at Job's gathering."
"Without-you?" Without us?
"I dunno."
Eden nodded, trying to ignore the large thud and splash that indicated that Tin had gotten into something. Again. But she wouldn't, couldn't deal with it. Not right now. She just looked to where Peter had picked up the newsdrive, the newsdrive still warm from the sun in which it had been lying when Eden found it. His thumb traced the numbers embossed on one side. 5-22-67.
"Want to watch the carnage?"
"No." But she turned anyway towards the screen that was clumsily duct taped to the wall. Peter pressed the adhesive side against the table, flicked it on. Newscasters sprouted from the floor, like weeds, accompanied by the theme song of The Seattle Patriot. Eden closed her eyes again, relieved her head had stopped whirling.
The company that had given tours of this room had fallen apart in the recession in the 2020s, near fifty years ago. No one above seemed to know, or care, that the rooms were still under their property. None but one Job Spencer.
Speaking of which-
"You're sure they're not up there tonight?"
Peter shrugged.
"I dunno. He didn't tell us. Normally he tells us. Anyway, you weren't here. Calm down."
Peter turned back to what some called the news. The feature story was of a poor man offering himself as a sacrifice for the good of all, the.2% tax increase on printed books... the average day's mule piss. Eden mostly concentrated on breathing, on having the ache leave her body, on feeling somewhat normal again.
"Eden," Peter said, after several minutes. "It stinks in here."
Pause.
"It's your vomit."
Her vomit, her fault.
She didn't want to deal with it.
"Eden."
She closed her eyes. Another breath, that came with the distinct smell of- okay, so maybe it was really gross. She stood, trudging over to where a few torn shirts were kept under the bar counter. Wiped it up, threw the rags down the small garbage disposal that Job had gotten for them.
"Johnny Depp, turn-of-the-century movie star was hospitalized-" the far-too-calm voices said from the other room. Then she turned the compactor on, and the hum drowned the rest of it out.
"Where did Trinity say she was going? You're sure she said woodchips?" Eden pulled a blanket tighter around her, leaning back up against the bar stool.
"Yes, I am fucking sure she said woodchips."
They both turned to the clock. Nearly ten, though there wasn't much of a difference down there. The grey walls, the lights-for awhile after his injury Peter had been sleeping from noon to midnight, it was all the same. Still.
"It doesn't take six hours to go get woodchips. You're absolutely positive-"
Peter waved his hands over his head. "She said 'I am going to go pick up some woodchips.' End. Quote. Oh my God, Eden. Go check Job's yourself if you're that worried. Bloody Crucifix."
Eden sighed, thinking of all the many things that could have gone wrong. She could have been seen-she could have been identified and tracked down-she could have been arrested for heresy and treason-she could have been hit by a car-
"Seriously. Stop worrying."
"I wasn't," she lied, rubbing the old brick with her fingers. Flecks of it came off in her fingertips. "I'm just wondering."
"You were. I could sense you worrying. It freaks me out."
There was no real reply she could make to this, so she continued staring at the wall. Maybe they should risk it to go to Job's unannounced, to see if she was there-
(Maybe she had been caught and had told where they were hiding-maybe they would be coming for all of them-)
The back door creaked.
Peter could say all he wanted about not worrying, but he sprang to his feet the same time she did, grabbing onto the box of Dixie cups as though he were going to use it as protection against potential law enforcement.
Or the bodiless Shadow that had just appeared in the doorway. Standing in front of the holes that were once windows, but not warped like a normal shadow would be.
"Where the hell were you?" Eden demanded as the Shadow vanished, revealing an older girl, maybe eighteen or nineteen, holding a slightly shiny jacket. She hung it up neatly on the hook ,then turned to the other two.
"Got held up," she muttered, rubbing her eyes and trying to stifle a yawn. "Stupid babysitter kept the kid at the park like all freaking day. and then there were these paranoid teenagers out there after dark smoking crack and jumping at every crucified noise."
"Why didn't you just come back and try tomorrow?" Eden muttered.
Trinity shrugged. "We're going to need 'em now." She paused. "And I swiped a Coke."
Peter's eyes bulged out, mouth fell open. "You did what?" he asked eagerly.
Eden raised her eyebrows. "The real reason for the hold-up revealed." But the relief was coming now, the tension breaking, and she had the random urge to laugh.
"There was this birthday party. They just had them in a cooler. Don't look so shocked."
The footsteps were heard a second later. Then, Tin, galloping into the room. "I want Coke! I want Coke!"
Trinity should have seen this coming. Eden grinned. You did not utter one of the seven deadly 'C's- Coke, cookie, cake, chips, candy, chocolate and cupcake- when Tin was within a mile. (Job had once made the mistake of letting one of those dread words slip out, up in his apartment, and Tin had pounced the moment he came downstairs, nearly two days later.)
Eden never ate cookies, though. Not anymore. Once you've had a perfect one, the others are a moot point.
Peter took his swallow, snorting just a little at the bubbles in his mouth.
Tin continued jumping, up and down and up and down. Hair standing on end with each landing. Drips flying off his clothes.
"God, Tin. Go put on something dry. What were you doing?" Trinity glanced at Eden, eyebrows raised a little.
Eden shrugged.
"Water," Tin said happily, tugging on Peter's arm. "Coke, Pete. Coke! You've had your turn."
"Go change your clothes."
"I was standing next to the water faucet and it just randomly started shooting water at me. I'll change clothes once I've had-"
"Martin." Peter peered down at him, making bug eyes.
Tin ran off, climbing through one of the window holes instead of using the door. Peter barely had time to say "So what was he actually doing?" before he was back.
"Coke!"
"Did you hang up your wet clothes so that they'd dry?" Trinity asked.
Suddenly silent, he crawled into her lap, smiling brightly.
"Tin?"
Eden sighed, reaching out for the can. Peter handed it over, and she took her own swallow. Bubbles filling her up, and she burped.
They had survived. Trinity had come home. They had Coke.
After Tin returned for the second time, he was finally handed the can. At which point he proceeded to drink the remainder.
Chapter
2
Peter always viewed mornings as dangerous. You never knew what the day would bring. Most of the time, his worries went unfounded, with three exceptions.
Number one on his list was the day his mom was diagnosed with colon cancer. It only took a word, a reference, to teleport him back to that moment, crouching behind the counter, listening as his parents spoke quietly. "Perry, what are we going to tell Peter?" "Nothing, Jordan. Not until it gets serious." They only used each other's names in every sentence when they were very worried. They hadn't gotten around to telling him a month later when the Summons of Honor came. He didn't know if she was alive, and he didn't want to find out.
Number two on the list was the day his Summons came. An entirely normal moment; "Peter, go get the mail!" then, poof. The world changed. "Johnson is a common name!" he remembered yelling. "There must be tons of Johnson-Smiths. Maybe they messed up." He should have known better. Percival never got it wrong.
Number three was, of course, the day he didn't die. He had been sure how the day would go, how his life would end. But when he stood there, a twelve year old surrounded by singing priests, and the first one went down with a rock to the head, he had realized again that nothing was certain. Like when he broke his hand two years later, everything had been too sudden to take it all in. Running, running, panting, tin can on the sidewalk, one moment to realize he was falling, and then a sharp pain making him cry out. Or like the time his sister had disappeared for good.
Though you just never knew-
"Peter!" Who needed alarm clocks when you had Trinity? All her sense of decorum, such as it was, went on a coffee break around nine in the morning, leaving a loud, annoying teenager behind.
"Coming." No he wasn't. Peter rolled back towards the large piece of plywood separating him from Job and closed his eyes.
"PETER!" Why did she care so much? A few minutes extra sleep couldn't-
Someone banged on the plywood- the closest they could get to knocking. "I'm hungry," said a high pitched, five-year-old voice with a distinct touch of whine.
Oh. It was his turn to make breakfast.
"Tell Trinity I'm coming." He put the fleece sweatshirt he used as a pillow over his head, trying to get some peace and quiet. It worked.
For exactly five minutes and thirty four seconds, by his count. Then the sweatshirt was torn from his hands. "C'mon!"
"Jack off," he muttered, using his hands to block the light Trinity was shining in his face. After several similar incidents, he had taken to unscrewing the single light bulb in his cubicle partway when he went to bed, so it would stay nice and dark until he wanted to get up. Unfortunately, Eden had come back from Job's a few days later with a giant LED.
"Or else I'll ask Eden to cook something from scratch and make you eat it." The words were like an electric shock, and he had left the room in two seconds flat. The best Eden could do was heat up a can of soup. Anything else was a good interrogation technique. Tell me where the money is or I'll make you eat these pancakes!
"You can calm down now, Tin." Eden said when Peter entered the main room. "He's alive."
"Oh ha ha.. Very witty." He opened the small camp stove, yawning ostentatiously, to remind them that they had dragged him from a peaceful sleep.
"Guess we shouldn't have asked you to change the woodchips," she continued, smirking. "Bet that tired you out."
"Jack off," he said for the second time in ten minutes. He was really on a roll today. A few minutes later, he realized they had no flour, nor any other ingredients required to make things without a mix. And now that he stopped to think about it, they rarely did.
Trinity's had been an empty threat.
His Great Culinary Contribution was cheap cereal, for strong bones and good health.
Anyone else could have done it just as well.
"What we really need here is a garbage truck," he announced, flinging a piece of rubble down the hall. It landed in one of the trash cans with a loud clang. "Score!"
"To cart the junk down to the water?" Job thought about it for a moment. "Kind of hard to be inconspicuous about it."
"Yes, but it takes up so much space here."
Job surveyed the narrow hall, which was indeed lined with trash bins. Two of them were labeled usable for building, and one was marked as potential weapons. The rest were labeled Mule Shit. Trinity had complimented Peter on his word choice.
"True. So how do you think we should get rid of it?"
It was Job's favorite pastime. Identify the problem, and think of a way to fix it.
"Well." Peter stopped. "Um..." He had spent his childhood being the problem instead of solving them. "We could go out at night and smuggle them down to the water and dump them in." It sounded ridiculous even as he said it.
"Or...?" Job grinned. "It's a three-pipe problem, sho'nuff."
Was that sarcasm? Or was his meter terribly askew?
"Or, um," Peter looked around again. From the wooden walkway under his feet, to the gap between the end of the boards and the wall. Job raised an eyebrow, waiting. "We could take the pieces and shove them under the walkway."
"Right." Peter felt mildly proud of himself. A bang came from the other end of the hall, and Trinity showed up a couple minutes later, weirdly distorted. Her camocoat was only half on, which resulted in half her body being perfectly visible, half of it just a dark smudge. A wad of clothes were tucked under her arm.
"Roy got you a new pair of pants, Peter," she said, marching past them towards the kitchen area. "Your old ones were full of holes."
"Brilliant. The girl can see. Wait, why were you looking at my pants?"
Peter forgot and tried to pick up a handful of brick with his bad hand. They all fell from the splint, and one larger piece hit his foot. He scowled at the splint as thought it was at fault.
"Last week in one of my physics classes," Job started, then frowned and fell silent.
Peter didn't ask him to finish. He didn't want to think about Job's life, Job's life outside the people cycling through his condo and the people living under his house. Because that reminded him of how much was at risk, how much he could lose, and Peter didn't want to know. Didn't want to care.
"Any word from Steven?" Peter asked, to cover up the silence.
Job shook his head, a little impatiently. "You know there hasn't been."
It was only a year since the government had announced that the threat had increased enough that all the People of Asian Descent (see: people whose grandparents had immigrated from the PADU) were to be under surveillance, in something that was not called an internment camp but a Community. (see: small settlements in rural Kansas,) where the spies could be rooted out and where everyone could continue going about their lives. Or at least, they could if they didn't have thinly-disguised Atheist sympathies and know the location of the escaped sacrifices and their helpers.
And had been abusing their former position as a formerly high ranking physical science military worker and hadn't been lending dissenters prototype mirror coats.
And didn't have a four year old son that could potentially be used against him.
And didn't have the ability to hand him over somewhere where he could be hidden until they all came home.
Fortunately for all concerned, though guilty of the first options, Steven had had the option of doing the last.
Though unfortunately for Steven, as someone whose own parents had been forced to give him up, Peter would never really forgive him for doing it voluntarily.
The heat wave ended almost as quickly as it had come. Soon clouds had again been frosted across the sky (like icing on a cake, Eden thought,) and, to the joy of all Seattleites, it started to rain again.
No one bothered to notice the Shadow crouching against the wall. Not with the interesting performance going on at the counter, where an angry customer had summoned the manager.
"I told you!" The man snapped, slamming the box of cookies down on the counter. "They were all broken when I got home! Every last one! Smashed! Ruined! Desecrated! Destroyed!" In one small corner of her mind, Eden wondered if he had spent the night reading the thesaurus, or if the cookies were broken because he kept slamming the box.
Groceries securely tucked against her stomach, making her look somewhat like the shadow of a pregnant woman, she edged forward towards the door. To where the two thin metal probes were waiting, waiting to sort out people trying to abscond with their wares.
She couldn't really blame them for being paranoid.
It was lucky there was so much drama at the front, really, because her outline looked very odd indeed when it showed up under the harsh florescent lights as she stepped in range of the sensors.
The alarm started wailing- robber! robber!- and her heart rate kicked up. This was where it got dangerous. She pulled away, pressing herself against the darker part of the wall, and waited.
"What's going on!?" The man screamed, covering his ears as the high pitched screech echoed through the store.
"There's no one there!" the panicked manager yelled even louder. Eden adjusted the bag in her arms, (not letting herself imagine being caught, recognized and taken away.)
The cashier hit a switch, and the alarm turned off. This was the moment. Eden quickly slipped through the door, and out onto the street. Beep as the alarm turned on again, but the screeching stopped.
Camouflage mirror jackets. Illegal to own. Kept secret from the general populace. Yet so, so useful.
Without the coats, they would be stuck inside all day-because once in awhile she would still see her own face come up on the newsdrives.
And leaving the city was no longer a matter of getting in a car and driving out. It was more like jumping a boarder.
A well defended one.
She hurried- she was always hurrying. And it was so hot in the coat, even when it was cold out. But all she had to do was think of the last time she had taken it off; compared to that, this stealing excursion had gone quite smoothly. (And even though she knew that Job, or maybe Roy or Io or Jasmin, would get them something if they asked, they couldn't. Convinced as they were that they could manage.) Once in awhile, a policeman or a member of the Order of Priests would mosey down the road, and she. They couldn't all know her face, but it wasn't worth the risk. (How much would it be worth to breathe?)
A mailman marched past her, and a flash of gold caught her eye from inside his bag. The embossed seal on envelopes bringing some important Order business. But not the Summons.Everyone knew what they looked like, the fancy stationary and shiny gold, even the lucky people that had never received one.
For some, it was only a matter of time. Summons of Honor. Honor and terror.
Honor came, sure. But those first few moments-that was the terror. The first few moments and the last few at the temple. First, when they had all sat at the kitchen table, letter in the middle, not touching it, wanting to postpone the knowledge as long as possible. It was addressed to the Emmerson-Thompson family, which meant it was for someone under eighteen.
If it was for an older person, it would be addressed to the individual.
(Because the debate about entering children in the draw registry had long been settled, because for the choice to truly be God's it had to have everyone in it, instead of humans trying to choose who God might pick.)
And it was those few moments that she and Maty had not been able to look at each other. Because what could you say, when your safety meant the other's death?
The hand of her mother, nails digging into her arm-it was as though she used that as a defense against what was coming. Her mother was armor. The way to prolong the moment. And on the other side, her terror stricken father, whispering all the things that would happen if they resisted. America being blown off the planet as one of the main ones- he had been so religious. He probably viewed it as a test of his devotion. Like Abraham. (And maybe it was like Abraham. She was still alive, after all.)
This thought did not come to her until nearly a year later.
She wanted to live, even though Maty would die. She wanted Maty to live even though she would die. Both options, equally painful, and out of her control.
The sun had burned so bright. It had hurt her eyes as Matthew- Maty, the nine year old brother she half wanted to die instead- took the step the rest of them could not. He reached over, trembling, and plucked the letter off the mail pile, uncovering a letter from their grandmother. (Eden wondered if Grandma ever found out the birthday card she had sent to Levi had arrived in the same pile as the Summons.)
Matthew had cried (even though you weren't supposed to cry, you were supposed to celebrate) as he slid the envelope open with his finger, unfolding the letter and staring at it for a moment. He was rewarded for his bravery. Eden had watched the emotions flooding his face- first, relief, blocked almost instantly by guilt. Guilt and pain.
No one said a word.
They knew by his expression who it was for.
Maty said it anyway. "Edie," he whispered, starting to cry harder as tears of shame ran down his face-it was so obvious how relieved he was, and how he knew how wrong that was.
Eden shook her head, trying to shake off that feeling that always came when she thought about Before. About her family. Pulled herself back to reality, quickly and easily.
Two tall, hulking men stood in the parking lot across from her, seeming to be doing some kind of drug deal. Eden eyed them, but they wouldn't care about an out of place shadow.
Guilt jumped in the her stomach as she thought of her father, and what he would say if he knew. No, not what he would say- he would be happy, probably, and any morbid thoughts he would keep to himself. Had she doomed everyone by running? Was the a-bomb about to drop?
She wrapped her arms more securely around the food and hurried towards home.
Chapter
3
It was the kind of rain that sent people shrieking indoors, hoods held over their heads. The kind that wiped out all sidewalk chalk in minutes. The kind that made grey sweatshirts look polka-dotted for a moment, until they were drenched a few shades darker. The kind a sadistic god would look at and think today is an awesome day to screw everything up.
The only good point to the rain was that no one was outside to see the rather odd-looking Shadow climb out a window, run about ten feet down the sidewalk to another door, open it, and run inside. To hear the echoing footsteps as it ran up some stairs.
"Hey, Eden." Job lifted up his Connector Glasses a little, nodded, then dropped them again as virtual reality and message screens took over for the world.
"How'd you know who it was?" she asked, a little annoyed. Lowering the hood.
"Trinity never runs up the stairs and Peter's a good four inches shorter than you." He didn't take off the glasses this time.
Eden sat down at the table, rubbing her eyes. Picked up the loose papers lying on the table. One handwritten essay by someone called Pearson Lick-Foster (his mother's last name should have been Seaman, that would have been unfortunate,) and-
Order stationary?
She nearly chocked as she picked it up. Our Chosen. Oh. Thank God. Thank God. Just another profile of the sacrifice. It wasn't a Summons. She remembered writing her own, carefully mentored by an Order priest. Guiding her in everything she should say.
Melanie Etaman, this one read, of Shoreline.
Age: 11.
Punch in the gut. "Oh my God. Job, it's a kid again." It hadn't been in three years, not since Jacob... what was his last name? She could see his smiling face looking up at her from a paper just like this one, just like a dark haired girl was doing now.
Job sighed. "What's it say?"
She looked down at it. "'I am so honored,'" she read aloud, "'to have been Chosen for this great task. I am glad that God trusts me enough to do it especially since I am so young and know that there are more worthy people that have accomplished better things.' God, it's almost word-for-word like mine. 'I am going to miss my family, of course, but the separation will only be for a few decades until they all join me.' God," Eden said again, sliding it across the table. "Makes you sick, doesn't it?"
"Yeah." Job glanced outside, eyes going toward Delta church. Named for its triangular shape in the middle of Pioneer Square. Where, in about an hour, this smiling fifth grader would Ascend the Ladder.
Job's eyes slowly moved from the picture to the church and back again. Eden sighed. "Anyway, I was planning on asking you if-" she stopped on one of the other papers still on the table. Another fancy paper, this time without the seal.
Ellen Hubbard invites you to the wedding of her daughter, April Hubbard, to Jeremy Fin-Moria.
God.
"She cuts the Spencer out of her name, but she invites you to her wedding."
Job jumped, looking from the church and back to the invitation. "I guess." He reached for it, but Eden was still staring at the card.
"Are you going to go? Did you even know she was engaged?"
"No. I didn't know."
Eden stared at him in disbelief. "And you're considering going to her wedding?"
"This isn't really your business, Eden."
True. Of course, April Spencer-Hubbard was the real reason why Eden was alive, the push it had taken for Job to take action, but a reconciliation was not any of her damn business.
"Hubbard," Job muttered, the church still filling his vision.
(And Eden pulled her arms up around her chest, half hugging herself, as if to ward off any harm that might be coming her way even though there was no real reason for there to be. Job still had a family. So? So what? It wasn't like he was just going to cut off contact with all his Other life, like he was going to stop helping them, like he was going to betray Roy and Io and Gren and Adrienne and Jasmin all because April and Ellen might be willing to accept him again. And anyway, it was just a wedding invitation. A formality. He wasn't expected to go)
"Job? You okay?"
"Great."
He looked back at Melanie Etaman's Departing Message.
"Percival kills families."
Did he ever. "Yup."
When Job stood, he did it so quickly that Eden barely had time to blink. Even less before he was back from his closet with his camocoat. And then out the door.
Frowning, Eden ran after him. Down the stairs. His front door opened, then closed behind him. Entering the pouring rain.
"Job, Job what the crap?"
But he was already walking, walking towards the Delta. Delta sacrificial church.
It looked more like a temple than a church, with its marble columns surrounding the raised floor. The columns were decorated with scenes of paradise, and there was a round hole in the roof-rain be damned-to make it easier for God to pick up the person's spirit and carry it up to Heaven. The columns were the closest thing the church had to walls, and the letter Δ, Delta, was engraved on a marble slab out front. Greek letters, in honor of Percival's mother.
Eden grabbed onto Job's sleeve, so as not to lose him, as they waited near the entrance. "Job, what are you..."
"Ssh!"
Because didn't she already know? He was going to go out again, going to try, yet again, to prove to himself how wrong his wife and daughter were, because that was his only way of seeking redemption.
Goddammit.
"Job, come on." She tried to pull him. "They're going to catch you."
For all the response she got, she might have been talking to a real shadow. Because it was then that they came around the corner. The three wet priests in a triangle around the wet girl in wet white robes. Walking slowly. So slowly.
Eden felt Job tug his coat out of her grasp, and she just saw a dark flicker on one of the numerous columns.
But she couldn't take her eyes off the priests.
Horrible, crippling fear, cutting off her heart and her lungs. But her body acted for her, and she found herself-running after Job, running up the steps. Only for a second, until she realized what she was doing.
She froze. Now unable to take another step.
Dying, vengeful, crucified gods. She peeked around the column as the quartet entered it, climbing the steps and kneeling in front of the altar to the Lord. (Eden remembered how many times she had been prepped for that. The exact amount of steps. The kneel. The Song.)
For one moment, everything looked standard. A Robin was holding the silver knife, the other had the jewel encrusted syringe full of morphine as they stood up. All crossed themselves. The girl was rigid, trembling a little, clutching an Elmo doll. (The personal item they were allowed to bring to Heaven.)
Eden looked down at the scars on her palm, ones that matched the ones this girl was about to get. Because the two Robins were standing on either side of her, looking up towards the sky, singing a song in Greek. Something about a merciful God accepting souls. Then the one on the left raised the knife. The kid-Melanie-offered one hand.
Mirroring the marks they made on Jesus the first time around.
Not this time, though. The Eagle went down with no warning; a rock to the head. The singing stopped abruptly, and Eden's ears rang in the silence. It would have been funny, the shock on their faces, if it wasn't so-
Terrifying.
"Who did it?" one of the Robins demanded, as if the others knew the answer. And for one moment, Eden could see the relief on Melanie Etaman's face before it was quickly covered up.
She knew the feeling.
A Shadow flickered on the wall. Vengeful, crucified gods. Job. Eden bit her lip, trying not to scream (because maybe, just maybe, the priests hadn't seen it.) But they were never that lucky.
One of the Robins drew a gun. (A gun, and she had forgotten about how they would start carrying them after Peter had run away.) And he fired, the pop as the needle flew out of it.
Job, goddammit, no.
Automatically, Eden lunged forward. She slammed into the taller of the two balding men, and his second shot hit the stone floor. And her panic was increasing, but her mind wasn't listening, still trying to process the question. What am I doing here?
The other whipped around, somehow grabbing her semi-invisible elbow. No. And she kicked him in the crotch, and he recoiled, yelping with surprise, and the girl was staring at them, dark eyes huge, terrified, and the priest that had fallen was getting to his feet and reaching for his gun and Eden kicked it, towards the edge, and-
Eden backed away, just barely seeing Job's outline on the other side of the temple. He was moving towards her.
In his haste, he tried to jump over the seemingly unconscious body of the Eagle he had hit with a rock. But as he did so, just as Eden started to think he had made it, the still hand reached up (as though God was raising the dead just for this one purpose) and the world tilted as Job fell forward.
No. Job. No!
Crucifixion. He flung out his hands, hitting the stone floor with a crack Eden, several yards away, could hear. (And what if it was broken, what if they told all doctors to be suspicious of a person about so high with a broken arm) and the apparently-not-dead-priest struggled to his feet, holding the side of his bleeding head. Fumbling with his Cloud Connector, trying to connect to the Cloud and call for help and he couldn't do that- but Job was trying to get to his feet- swaying-
Eden crouched to spring as Job's hood fell off. When what had been a Shadow became the in-focus head, suspended in midair.
And a gun was pointed in his face.
And the other one was still lying on the other side of the temple and Eden ran for it, and she picked it up, and one of the Robins pointed at her and she had to help she had to help him she had to run to run and escape-
And a police car pulled up, and officers were running up the steps, and there wasn't time to think just time to act and she grabbed Melanie Etaman's arm and dragged her between the pillars and off one side.
Her coat tore a little, gravel sank into her knee.
"What the hell?" The girl said, trying to hold it together. Eden heard her voice tremble. But there wasn't time to stop, wasn't time to think. No time no time because there were shouts and searches and-
She pulled a little harder, around a corner. Into one of the alleyways. Down another. Running back around, prying the door open. Jumping down the steps. One thought burning in her mind.
Job was gone.
She hadn't helped.
She had run away.
Bravery, her ass.
Chapter
4
The word 'widow' made her feel old. It made Rho think of a gray haired woman in her eighties, dressed in black with a veil over her face.
Or maybe a spider. But she prided herself on being neither old, nor a creepy eight legged arachnid.
For the week after his death, she had slept on the floor, wanting to keep the bed the way he had left it- the blankets rumbled, sheets thrown back. Later, she would sleep on his side, smelling him on the pillow. The scent had faded too quickly. Desperate to make it last, she had once put one of his shirts in the bed next to her.
The rest still hung in the closet, waiting for him.
But slowly, after two years, the feeling of Chet's absence had faded. She stopped being mildly surprised when his dirty dishes weren't piled up in the sink after a midnight snack, when he didn't chirp at five thirty to say he was coming home. Yet his non-therenss still followed her, a stomach ache, an emptiness she couldn't get rid of.
She knew it wasn't supposed to hurt this much. She should be grateful.
But she wasn't.
And the certificate hanging on the wall did nothing to change that. It was just a comfort, a comfort, something to remind herself of how much better his life was now.
To Chet Murphy and family, it said in shiny gold letters. May he be honored for giving up his life for the good of all.
He even got a similar speech carved into his urn.
When people found out how he died, they always offered their gratitude in long, hopeful speeches, as though they were a motivational speaker from a movie. Mostly quotes from the Macrocosm. And sometimes, sometimes they just fell silent, unsure of what to say.
It was the quiet ones that she preferred.
It was just the phrase widow that she couldn't stand. The way Rho saw it, she was just the victim of luck and the Will of God.
It made her happy to think of him up in the Heaven of Heavens, or so the Macrocosm said. The place where the sacrificed went to, with no rain or taxes. A better place. Surely she was selfish for wanting him here.
The Macrocosm was her lifeline. Now that he was gone, she couldn't not believe its words, penned three decades earlier by the son of God, the highest Eagle. It was everything, proof that it was all for good.
What she couldn't believe were the newsdrives.
A sacrifice not going as planned, the needle not meeting the skin. Leaving bloodied priests and an empty alter. The devil coming and carrying the child away in his large hands.
And what she should be worried about was the threat this posted to the city. That small bit, the small part of her that wondered why this sacrifice survived and others did not-
Because God didn't save Chet like he saved Isaac-
No, that small blasphemous part didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was the fear.
The city was drowning in it. It leaked through the door cracks, dripped in through the vents, and crashed into the cars in the form of a wave that made them move faster, faster, down the road. Desperate to get home. Visitors to her store checked for the bomb shelter. Left quickly, talking of impending doom. So many that she had to close it early, retreat to her apartment. Because she couldn't handle all the paranoia.
Rho walked in robotic circles around her kitchen, fists clenched. Prayers coming out, entangled with silent oaths. How dare these people make Chet's sacrifice meaningless. Let the Lord know just to punish the man who now sat in jail, and not the whole city. Let him know this was not their fault- everyone else followed, everyone else trusted. But it said right there in the Macrocosm that one spoke for all. That the city could crumble because of the actions of one person, if the Lord was in a vengeful mood.
She hoped he was not in a vengeful mood on this day.
Sleep didn't find her that night. The soft orange glow from the city peeked in her window, no matter how many blankets she had hung to try and smother it. Even covering her face with Chet's pillow, the light remained. A constant.
But the hours stretched out, the sun brightened the next morning, though rain clouds quickly took its place. World, more or less, the same.
Sitting behind the register at the small grocery store Chet's parents had given them when they retired- the store that Rho hated yet could not sell- she could see the street through the window. People passing, sometimes stopping in to buy a candy bar or a sandwich. Cars droning past. All alive. The tension left with a sigh, rushing to freedom, when another sacrifice was performed in Yakima, as well as every other state across the country.
Because they had missed a day and survived.
It was a relief, but as she walked back up to her apartment after closing, her thoughts were more confused.
How was everything normal?
She'd had enough changes in life, so many that normalcy was something to be prized. This was the only time it wasn't.
The change in climate from CentralWashington University and her original home in the suburbs of Reno to the U-Dub for grad school was alarming, to say the least. Unfamiliar territory set her on edge. Even though she hadn't left the state. It was so much rainier, so many more trees and mountains over here. Sometimes, she longed for the long, consistently sunny days she had enjoyed growing up. Many times since Chet' ascent she had considered moving- put her degree in history to use, instead of sitting behind a counter and sorting supplies all day-but something wouldn't let her, made her unable to sell the store and apartment that went with it.
So she stayed.
The Cloud Connector computer strapped to her wrist began playing Beethoven's fifth. "Esther Connolly," the automated voice announced, mispronouncing it Es-thuh Con-leh
"Answer," Rho said, sighing. Click, and her mother's voice came as though she were standing next to her.
"Rhonnnda? Is that you?"
Rho tried not to wince. There was probably exactly one person in all of the United States who had named her daughter Rhonda in the 2030s, and that person happened to be her mother. It was an embarrassment from her teen years that refused to go away no matter how hard she tried.
"Who else would answer my CC?" Rho asked patiently, slopping some milk on a bowl of cereal. She considered heating up some of the pancakes currently boxed in the freezer, or toasting a waffle, but it all seemed like too much effort.
"Are you okay?" Her mother persisted. Okay? She was tired. Very, very, tired.
"What do you mean?"
"The attack!" Esther was nearly panting with excitement. "Those Shadow-thingies!"
"I wasn't anywhere near that! Don't worry."
Near was relative. It had been about a block.
"According to the vlogs, they have been attacking innocent civilians," Esther said in a superior tone. "Maybe you should move back out to Nevada and-"
"Those are lies." Rho chewed her cornflakes thoughtfully. "Just blogs spreading mule piss as usual." She wondered briefly if her mom would approve of the phrase 'mule piss', but it was too late.
"Maybe you should come back anyway, until it blows over," was the suggestion. "There's space in the guestroom and-"
It's not going to blow over. Maybe it was intuition, or maybe it was common sense. But Rho had one very strong moment of fear, wanting nothing more than to take her mom up on the offer. To leave Seattle with its rain and its mountains and its liberals.
But she had a store to run. Bye herself.
"I told you you needed some hired help in there," her mom said, irritated when Rho pointed this out.
"I told you that I can't afford it right now. I'm saving up money for an automatic checkout, but it'll be a few months." She ate another two mouthfuls of cereal before shoving the now-soggy flakes away. Disgusting. She should have gone for the frozen waffles.
"You said small stores were doing well up there."
"They are." Kind of. "But that doesn't mean I can afford to pay someone thirty bucks an hour five days a week."
"Thirty? Is that what minimum wage is these days?" Esther asked, distracted. There was a pause, then, "Hold on, Joseph, Grandma's talking to Rhonda. Say hi, Ronda."
"Hi, Joe!" Rho said dutifully. She hadn't known Nikki was staying over there right now, but it only made her miss Reno even more. "Gotta go open up." She said loudly, in case Esther was still distracted. But no-
"I'm right here, kid. Don't yell."
"Anyway. I need to go." Rho hit the end button before she could listen to the objections. She didn't actually need to go open the store. It was Sunday morning and the church group pickleball courts were calling.
Traditionally, pickleball was a game for 'free spirits' and high school gym class. That, or for people that wanted to get the exercise without messing up their hair too much.
"Took you long enough," Naomi grumbled when she finally appeared on the court. "I thought you were going to leave me to face Barton and Ishmael by myself."
"God forbid."
"Well, yeah. Let's hope so. "
Soon the gym-divided up into four courts-was full of the sound of bouncing wiffle balls. Tap, tap, tap. Erratic, making different sounds as they hit floor and wall and person. Like the music they now liked to play on the cloud stations.
"For Percival!" Barton bellowed, scoring a point.
Naomi raised her eyebrows just the tiniest bit-a glance that clearly asked Rho why Percival would care.
"I sit through the sermon every Sunday afternoon. I don't need to hear it in the mornings too," Naomi muttered after one of the games. Then she froze, hand half covering her mouth, as she wondered if she'd just committed blasphemy.
"I guess it's his duty.." Naomi's paranoia rubbing off on her, Rio she looked around as well, then crossed herself. "But I suppose."
And they both crossed themselves one more time. Just to be safe.