But still, doggedly, she continued. “There is no golden tomorrow when everything finally clicks. There's just the grind. Day after day, the little choices you make, the little improvements, the slow progress, the partial victories. We're not going to fix this at a stroke, and if we keep jumping into nonsense like this, we won't be able to take the little steps, either.”

  “But if we figure out—”

  “Figure out what? Where the kill switch is on the hive mind? How to get Ronan back? The secret code word that makes the titans abort the mission and go home? What, Sam?”

  “Yeah. I mean, no. But we're so close. We broke the altar, Journey. I got Gus back, and now he's tearing the hive apart instead of building it up. Now's our chance to strike while the iron is hot. Really cut to the heart of the hive, reverse the momentum. You know?"

  “Don't talk to me about Gus right now.”

  Journey's disgust was a relief, a refreshing return to normalcy. Irritation at Gus was like a blast from the past, practically nostalgic.

  And then they were back to the present.

  “I'm telling you, Sam. You've got to let him go.”

  For moment he thought she meant Gus, but of course she was talking about Ronan.

  “He's got you thinking there's one elusive fix right over the horizon. He's got you chasing unicorns, Sam.”

  “He's not doing anything. It's me. I told you.”

  She shook her head. “His personality in you, then. That urge you’ve got that you're giving into. The one that keeps leading you on. One more day. One more push. Any minute now, right around the corner, we'll get it and we'll win and everything will go back to normal.” Her hands tightened on his, and he could sense her gathering up her willpower for one last push. “It's what killed him, Sam. And it's going to kill you too if you give into it. And that will be the end. For all of us.”

  “I … ” But Sam found had nothing left to say. For the first time, her argument actually penetrated his mind. Or rather, he finally let himself see what some part of him had known all along.

  No. There had to be an answer. They were so close. It was right there. He and Gus had made immense progress. Breaking the altar. Starting the Ascendancy. They could do more.

  Whose voice was that in his head? Could he tell the difference anymore?

  Journey was right. All of those were false horizons. If they solved a problem, even a big one, it would just be another step forward. There wasn't a single final fix. He could find a way to snap his fingers and make the titans disappear wholesale, and there would always be new problems to solve. People would still need help. The world would still be broken.

  All he was doing was training himself to ignore it.

  It was ironic. Ronan, the solver, the pragmatist, the tactician. And still his downfall had been ignoring the hard reality to chase a nonexistent hope.

  And now, for once, it was Sam's mindset that brought the insight Ronan had never been able to see.

  Sometimes you had to let go. Sometimes you had to stop trying.

  If you held your hopes and plans with a death grip, sometimes that's exactly what it became.

  “You're right.” As he said it, he knew Ronan never would have. Already there was a foreignness to the words that showed him just how deep into his new personality he had sunk.

  Then, even harder to say because it made him the cause of so much pain, he managed, “I'm sorry.”

  Something in him deflated when he said it. A great deal of pressure left him, along with a great deal of strength. He was left simple, empty, and able to see the truth.

  Now he was not fighting what had to happen, but grieving it.

  “Thank you.” Journey smiled, sad and flush with relief. “It's okay. We'll figure it out. Together.”

  He slowed down, looked into her eyes. For the first time, he noticed something different there. "Can you — can you see again?"

  A sad laugh escaped her. "Yeah. Sort of. I can see through this. And Gus's people."

  Sam began to laugh, and with the laughter came tears. Not just for her sight, but for everything. The whole world had changed, and he'd been fighting so hard, he hadn't let any of it in. Now it came rushing upon him in a great wave of acceptance, and his body responded the only way it knew how.

  "It's okay." Journey held him. For a long moment, they just stood together, Sam shaking as the sobs took his body, Journey running a hand up and down his back.

  How long it had been since he'd really been there with her, even just for a moment?

  "What do we do now?" he asked presently.

  "I saw it, during the pulse just now. I think it will work like the severs. And … I think I’m ready. The cathedral doesn’t do what it used to do to me. Besides, it’ll be worth it, to get you back. Thor can be the conduit.”

  Sam nodded. “All right. I’m ready. There’s just one last thing I have to take care of before we do it. Go tell Thor. I’ll meet you in there.”

  Journey’s face fell.

  Sam was quick to reassure her. “No, genuinely one thing. And it’s quick. Something Sam’s terrible at. I mean, I am. Will be. Once Ronan’s gone.” His face darkened in a very Ronan-ish smile. He turned to stride off toward the Fresh Fire van. “Back in a minute.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “What part of ‘just throw it’ don’t you understand?” Gus snatched a push broom from Fred then heaved it toward the reptar’s approaching motorboat. It barely reached the water. “Gah! What are you waiting for? Just throw one. Your turn. Capisce?”

  “Okay. You’re the boss, I guess.”

  The reptar let out a snarl as it eyed them, crouching for a leap. Fred gauged the moment, then hurled a rake directly at it, javelin-style. It didn’t quite reach the boat, but it was close enough to rob the reptar of its chance — and almost its balance — in its attempt to snap at the flying rake.

  “Yes!” Gus crowed. “That’s what I’m talking about! Now go retrieve the projectiles before that thing swings back around. The rest of you, try to break up those circles.” He indicated the nearest circles of acolytes sitting on the grass, a couple of whom had already grown obelisks almost a foot and a half high. He gave an irritated grunt and clutched at the tiny USS Enterprise in his pocket as his minions fanned out.

  Not that size mattered. And besides, five against one was hardly fair.

  “Um, boss?” Fred pointed beyond the acolytes and the obelisks. Sam approached.

  Gus took a deep breath. Showtime. He put on his favorite about-time scowl for Sam’s benefit. “Oh, so you’re back. It’s about time. I almost got my face ripped off over here. I hope it was worth —”

  The words died on his lips. He took a half step back, even though Sam was still ten yards away. But he was closing fast, and the look on his face was terrifying.

  And he had a rifle.

  “Sam? Hey, man. Look.”

  “I can’t believe you.” Sam charged across the grass, the rifle clutched in one hand with an unnervingly easy familiarity.

  “Sam, buddy. Why don’t we just put the” — Gus swallowed — “you know, and have a nice talk. Figure things out.”

  “You played me! You seriously think making me a minion is the only way to hold off the reptar?”

  “Totally! Or not. Do you think it was the—” Gus stumbled backward in his haste to get away from the sudden storm front that was Sam.

  “Did you set this whole thing up on purpose, or was it just dumb luck?”

  “No! It was dumb — I mean, neither.” Gus’s attention darted to his minions.

  “Because now that I’m not quite so caught up in what Ronan thinks—” Sam punctuated this by raising the rifle to his shoulder.

  Gus flinched away.

  “And not quite as obsessed as Ronan with figuring out some clever new back channel” — he cocked the gun — “I’m beginning to think of all kinds of solutions that don’t involve suckering me into becoming your minion.”

  “Yeah. Totally.” Gus’s hands were up in a placating gesture.

  “Although I do still agree with Ronan that you’re an idiot.”

  “Yeah?” Something in Gus flared up. “Well, you couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. I’m over here, dum-dum.”

  Sam rolled his eyes. “I’m not aiming at you, moron.”

  “Oh.” Gus’s emotions flipped through a quick succession. Relief. Confusion. Irritation. Understanding. “Oooh.”

  The reptar.

  “It’s impossible,” he protested. “Their scales are too tough. You’ll have to, like, wait for it to roar and then shoot down its throat. When the boat is pointed the right way. While it’s going in circles. There’s no way.”

  “Shut up.”

  Sam sighted down the barrel of the rifle. It was like seeing a puppy pull a knife. He drew a bead on the reptar as the boat arced away from them.

  “It’s getting away. You’ll never make the shot.”

  The reptar looked back at them, just for a moment.

  A gunshot rang out. Then another.

  “What?” Gus couldn’t hold in his astonishment. “You did it? Did you do it? That shot was impossible.”

  Sam lowered the rifle. In the boat, the reptar skittered uncertainly.

  “I wasn’t trying to shoot down its throat. Sam doesn’t — I mean, I don’t have the muscle memory for that. So, I did the next best thing.”

  “What? What next best thing? What are you talking about.”

  “Don’t hurt your brain over it.”

  Sam pushed the rifle into Gus’s chest. Gus took it, almost without noticing.

  “This has been fun.” Sam surveyed the lake, the lawn, the acolytes, the minions. He gave a little nod, somewhere between satisfaction and regret. “All right. It’s time. I’ll see you on the other side.”

  He strode off toward the church, his hands empty, his steps light.

  Out in the lake, the reptar’s motorboat began taking on water.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Journey entered the Sapphire Cathedral, grateful she still had the pyramid. It was strange having to carry around your own point of view, but it beat being stuck looking at whatever Gus and his idiot army of minions was paying attention to.

  As she plunged into the cool, dim interior of the church, the scents of old wood and dusty sunlight hit her. She realized she’d flinched as she passed through the doorway, but apparently the place no longer held over her the power it used to. She felt around in her mind. No oppressive psionic weight. The Dream was far off in the realm of sleep, where it belonged. She couldn’t even sense the altar.

  But when she rounded a tight corner, she could see it, and she gasped.

  “Thor! Oh, my God.”

  The old man was kneeling before the crystal altar, his head bowed, his palms pressed against it. His pose was somewhere between prayer and great effort, like a man trying to push a boulder.

  But his hands weren’t just pressing against the front of the altar. They had sunk into it, wrist-deep. She could see the strong old fingers through the blue crystal, partially obscured by the rough, ashen spot where Gus had cut off a corner.

  But when she ran forward to help him, she found the altar completely unyielding. She tried to pull his hands out, but they were frozen in place. The crystal blue ripples around his wrists were as hard as the rest of the altar’s stony smooth surfaces.

  Panic rose within her. The crystal was unbreakable. A sort of vicarious claustrophobia swelled, the inescapable sympathetic sensation of having her hands locked in stone. With an effort, she forced it down and began thinking through their options.

  Her immediate thought was power tools, but that was out of the question. Even if they could get them past the titans, they wouldn’t leave a scratch on the altar. Would a backhoe be enough to extract Thor and the altar together? They’d have to bash through the walls, but at the moment that was the least of her worries. This damned church could burn for all she cared.

  Except, of course, it couldn’t. The walls were also laced with the unbreakable crystal.

  She swore and held back a surge of frustration. There had to be a solution. She just had to find it, and freaking out wouldn’t help anyone.

  It was only then she noticed John Mark sitting wide-eyed and silent on the far end of the front pew, off in the shadows at the edge of the sanctuary.

  “John Mark?”

  “Journey. I—I didn’t know what to do. I can’t—”

  There was something off about the way he was talking. Even the way he held himself. Like a stutter in his whole being.

  “Did you try—” She found she didn’t know how to finish the question.

  John Mark shook his head. “I can’t. Every time I get close to the altar it … it starts … in my head. It’s demonic. I can’t.”

  “It’s okay. I get it.” Her mind raced.

  John Mark shuddered and closed in a little further on himself.

  She sat on the pew next to him, seeing herself at a distance, from the corner of the stage. She’d dropped the pyramid there when she first noticed Thor. Dimly, it struck her how tired she looked. The two of them sat silently on the pew for a while.

  There had to be something she could do. But her brain was in a fog. Maybe the altar did still exert some psionic effect on her. Maybe everything was finally catching up with her now that she’d stopped for a minute.

  The door squeaked open. Sam sauntered in with an odd little smile. He turned serious the moment he saw Thor.

  “Sam?”

  Journey crossed the sanctuary then let him fold her in his embrace. After a long moment, she collected herself and pulled back. “Any ideas?” She forced it to come out calm, like this was just a routine disaster. She’d handled disasters. Up at Quetico, you had to be ready for anything — storms, lost hikers, an occasional mudslide or bad blizzard. She slipped back into that mindset. Pay attention, communicate, stick to the procedure.

  Except there was no procedure here, of course.

  Sam didn’t reply. He seemed preoccupied with the altar.

  “Sam?”

  He shook off the distraction. “Ideas?” He let out a rueful laugh. “Too many. I think we’d better get Ronan out of my head pretty quick if we’re going to do it. This altar just about has me convinced I can figure it all out if I reach deep inside. And I’m already not sure I want you to stop me.” After meeting her gaze for a moment, his attention drifted back to the altar.

  Dread sank in the pit of her belly.

  “Let’s get moving.” His voice was taut, desperate.

  It snapped her into action. “Right. Yeah. But how?”

  “John Mark,” Sam called, his stare never leaving the altar. “Get over here. You’ve been training as a conduit, right?”

  “I mean, once?” The voice from the shadows was reedy, almost ghostly.

  “Good enough. Let’s do it.”

  He approached them, a pale face floating through the gloom of the sanctuary.

  Sam lay down at the edge of the stage. John Mark darted a look at the pyramid, took a deep breath, then sat cross-legged beside Sam. The three of them joined hands.

  Journey also inhaled deeply, steadying herself. A field of stars drifted into her mind’s eye.

  “I think I’m doing it,” murmured John Mark. The starfield wavered for a moment as he spoke, then stabilized.

  Almost immediately, instinct began to lead Journey.

  She could still see fragmented views of Lake Peculiar as Gus's minions wandered about on their various tasks. But now, with focus, she found she could drain away her awareness of their points of view.

  One by one, she tucked away the fragmented perspectives, her mind growing clearer and clearer in the familiar darkness until it was just the three of them in a brilliant black field of dazzling stars. She was only vaguely aware of her own presence. John Mark was a little way apart, tentative and somehow distant.

  And there was Sam.

  She did not see Sam’s body standing against the star field. She saw him. Not the jeans and t-shirt. Not the tousled hair she loved to run her fingers through. Not the eyes that had grown strangely hard.

  No, she saw — or sensed — his mind, his heart. Maybe his soul. It was like when you got too close to an old-fashioned TV and the picture dissolved into the myriad sparks of red and green and blue that, taken together and from a distance, implied a coherent whole.

  Perhaps this was what psychics called a person's aura, the shimmering constellation of layered energies, the branching web of signal and connection which, somehow, looked more like Sam than his face ever could.

  And over it all stretched a false layer, already sinking its roots in until parts of it were indistinguishable from the system they were overtaking, already starting to become a true part of Sam.

  She found herself amazed and terrified. The raw revelation of Sam was incredible, almost unbearably beautiful — his true self laid before her in all his strength and frailty. With that clarity, the Ronan-self was more unbearable to her than ever, a horrible mis-match crudely stitched to the personality of the man she loved. She’d never liked it, but now the wrongness of it shot through her and she almost recoiled, almost fled. It was like the difference between knowing about corpses and seeing one, tasting the death-stench in the fly-buzzing air.

  It was horrid.

  But she stood her ground, drawing on the strengths she found within herself. It took courage, yes, but more than that, it took love. All her dedication to the true Sam over and against this abominable parody. All her vision of what he could be, should be. And really, she had no choice. Now that she had seen him, truly seen him, it was impossible to turn away and leave him to be warped.

  No matter what she was afraid of.

  But now, as she faced it, she saw it was not as simple as she'd first thought. It wasn't the flawless Sam and the unfitting layer of Ronan warping him. It was more complicated than that. There were parts that were fully Sam, but not true Sam. And there were parts of the Ronan identity that were as beautifully Sam as the rest of Sam was.

  She was momentarily overwhelmed by the enormity of her task. It would be almost impossible to draw out the best in Sam — the true, essential Sam buried under Ronan's imprint and among the competing desires and influences that struggled within him. It would be like cleaning and organizing a city.

 

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