Icons

He wavers, looking at me. I kneel next to the boy—because that’s what he is. He may be a Sympa, but he’s also just a boy. Not much older than Ro and me, by the looks of it.

“So this thing—this thing matters to the Ambassador?” He holds the knife to the Sympa’s chin. The Sympa’s eyes open, now wide. “That’s funny, because anything that matters to the Ambassador is pretty much worthless garbage as far as we’re concerned.”

He traces a line along the Sympa’s throat.

“Right, Dol?”

I swallow and say nothing. I am finding it hard to breathe. I don’t know what I think.

Ro doesn’t have that problem. Ever.

He raises the blade and brings it slashing down, again and again.

I can’t look, until Ro turns to me, holding out the proof of his latest violence. A handful of brass Embassy buttons.

“What?”

“Evidence of what we’ve got. Now we decide. Do we kill him here, or take him back to La Purísima?” Ro isn’t talking about the Mission. He’s talking about the Grass rebels.

Spluttering, the boy tries to sit up out of the water. I pull his head forward and lean it against my knees.

“How could we get him back up the Tracks? Did you see how many Sympas were out there? It would be impossible to hop a car without them seeing us. If the Tracks are even running.”

Ro thinks, tracing his blade against his leg. “Yeah, and if you’re right about Brass Buttons here, it’s only going to get worse.”

“Grass and Brass. It’s not a good mix.” I try not to think about what will happen to the boy when we get back to the Mission. If we get back to the Mission. What Ro will do to him. What I will let Ro do to him.

I shake my head, pulling the boy closer up into my lap in the water. “No.”

“Get away from him, Dol.”

“Don’t.”

“Now.”

His voice is cracking. I can see the changing situation is overwhelming him. He loses control as we lose control.

Which we have.

We did when I saw that button.

“Please.” I’m talking to Ro, but I look at the boy.

His eyes fix on mine, just for a moment.

He moves his hand toward me, a desperate gesture, like a raccoon caught in one of Biggest’s traps, flopping against the metal door one last time before it surrenders.

I start, and Ro shoves the weapon closer.

A dot of red light—the targeting mechanism of the boy’s own Sympa gun—dances at the bridge of his nose.

The boy doesn’t react.

Maybe he doesn’t think that Ro will do it.

I know he will. He’s done it before. Sympas are a personal threat to his existence. And mine.

The hand stretches again, nearer to me. “I’m warning you. Don’t move.” Ro growls the words, and as usual, it’s his tone that tells you everything.

The boy’s fingers uncurl, slowly, touching my knees in the water.

“Sweet Blessed Lady.” It’s all I can think to say.

There, beneath the half-undone leather wrist cuff, beneath the ripped sleeve of a muddy Embassy military jacket, beneath the bloodstained uniform shirt soaked with ocean water—

Four blue dots, forming a perfect square.

In that second, the world of two people, of Ro and me, shatters into a world of three.

Now I understand what I was feeling.

Now I understand who this boy is. Or more to the point, what he is.

He’s an Icon Child, like Ro and me.

There are more of us.

My heart is pounding. I knew there were stories—rumors of other Icon Children—but I never really believed there could be more than me and Ro.

Had the Padre known?

If I had only read the book when I had the chance.

“What is it?”

Ro hasn’t seen.

My mind races.

He showed me his markings.

Why?

Had he seen mine, here in the water?

Could he have been conscious when Ro and I bound hands?

No.