Echoes

Commitment

    "I'll tell you from the start," Forsephore said to the six Echoes gathered near the Hub's entrance, "success is not guaranteed."
    A warm fuzziness struck her mind and she shook herself to regain clarity. Success is especially doubtful if the Prime keeps throwing back shots at the rate she's going.
    "At best," Forsephore continued, "you'll find a comfortable place in one of the upper castes, always an inclination in the Prime's mind but never likely to become a guiding force like the Alphas."
    The six Echoes nodded, eager to enter regardless of the outcome. I can't blame them.
    Despite infusions of Inspiration, two still bore the dull gray tone marking them as Fades. The third, a former Wither, scribbled words on a notepad held by bony fingers in front of her extended ribcage. The other three benefitted more from Forsephore's efforts and would blend in nicely. Their skin shone like Sixth Caste, and their bodies appeared full and vibrant.
    The writer's pen stopped. "So how will this work once we're inside?"
    Forsephore smiled. "I've gotten better at transferring Inspiration without making a show of it. Whenever you're ready to step up, or more importantly when I flash you the signal, walk past me. Keep it casual, don't make eye contact, but extend your palm and I'll give you a final boost to push you up to the Ninth Caste if not the Alpha platform.
    "The fact is, there's going to be a lot of turnover among the Alphas if this goes the way I picture it. That means some of the mundane Alphas currently holding seats will fall, and you can replace them."
    Forsephore paused and considered the fate to which she consigned her allies. "It's just as likely that the Alphas you replace will be other allies of mine."
    One of the healthy Echoes dressed in a sports bra and spandex leggings folded her muscular arms across her chest. Either the alcohol affected her less, or she seemed in better control despite its effects. "The more you talk," she said, "the more you sound like this can't even work. You're the one with all the Inspiration bottled up inside. So why are you sending us in your place?"
    The others nodded agreement.
    "Sicstuphyve, right?" Forsephore asked, plumbing through cloudy memory. "How long has it been since you stepped into the Hub?"
    The Echo paused. "Honestly, it's been years. Not since the Prime was a teenager."
    "I can't remember how long it's been for me," Forsephore admitted. "But when I step inside, everything feels dark and dismal. Oppressive and futile. There's no energy, no creativity, no passion. I think that's wrong, and I hope it seems wrong to you too."
     Forsephore pointed at the etchings covering the marble plaza and the black walls of the Hub. "These Echoes once represented possibilities, could-have-beens, paths the Prime might have taken. I know that not every dream can come true, and not every door can remain open forever.
    "But the current regime in the Hub seems intent on silencing every voice that speaks out, casting down every new Echo that rises up, and crushing what's left of the Prime's spirit."
    Forsephore found her fists clenched as the image of Sevnynate's condescending smile filled her mind. Something about the memory tugged at her, but she focused on her speech to the Echoes she gathered.
    "Until I wither to dust or fade from sight," she growled, "I will not permit that to happen."
    She fixed her eyes on each one in turn. "Will you say the same?"
    As if rehearsed, they said in unison, "Until I wither or fade."
    The ground shifted beneath Forsephore's feet and she lurched to steady herself. The wide eyes of her unbalanced allies told her they'd felt the same event.
    Unexpected sobriety swept away the fog in Forsephore's mind. "Something just happened to the Prime," she declared, and led the group into the Hub.