Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1

by William Campbell

Copyright 2010 William Campbell. All Rights Reserved

Chapter 7

Weaponless, I scramble to seize a shaft of lumber, my only defense. My opponent is not intimidated, wielding a metal club lined with sharp triangles apt to perforate organs. He swings the deadly weapon, I duck and roll, scoop up the timber and deflect his blow. Again he swipes, but my dexterity is unmatched. Before he can strike, I heave the wooden beam and bash his skull. Down he goes, unconscious.

A wire slaps around my neck and goes taut. I drop the lumber and reach past my shoulders to the assailant behind, then latch on to his jacket and pitch forward, vaulting him over my back and crashing to the floor.

My jaw is clobbered, slinging my head around to collide with another pounding fist. I swerve to miss the next and return it in kind, then spin to block another attack. The pair throw more punches that fail to strike, overwhelmed as I whirl, parry and jab, fighting back.

I need to get out of this room. When I pull the door open, another adversary is standing on the other side. Unlike the others, my new opponent is armed with a blast rifle. He sees that I am weaponless, and he gleams with imagined confidence. The trigger clicks, the high-pitched whizzing begins, and glowing energy emerges from the barrel.

I do not agree.

“Stop!”

The radiant energy hangs suspended, twitching and crackling. The floating cloud is fascinating, a swirling mist of shifting color caught in an aura of sparkling glitter. I plunge a hand into the inert plasma and rapid vibrations tingle my skin. I draw my fingers in and the energy follows, forming a sphere cradled in my palm. The gift is absolutely beautiful, a rainbow of dazzling elegance contained inside a compact globe.

I smile at the man who offered the gift. “Thank you.”

His eyes fill with fright. Why? What is there to fear?

I open my palm flat. “I don’t need this. You can have it back.”

The glowing plasma leaps from my hand and streams back to its source. The beam strikes the man and surrounds his body in sizzling arcs.

“What’s the problem?” I ask. “It’s just a ball of energy.”

He has no answer, too busy coping with a convulsing body. As the intensity rises, he becomes less solid, rather an assemblage of tiny particles. Pieces of him begin breaking away, hurled outward by the furious vibrations and leaving the collection he considers to be his body. More and more, until the last trace scatters, the energy dissipates, and the man is gone.

No wonder he was afraid. There was no need to be, and maybe if he wasn’t, he’d still be here. Then we could play catch with the energy ball. That might have been fun. Oh well, that’s done, and I have work to do. I came here looking for something. A bucket? I was looking for a bucket.

The hallway leads back to the room where we were working. I enter to find Christina wielding a hose, cleaning the insides of a large machine. She is wearing a chemical-resistant apron, safety goggles, and jumbo-sized green rubber gloves. In one hand she holds the hose, the other an abrasive sponge. The machine has deep tanks that hold liquid, but the fluids have become contaminated, full of crusty remnants and moldy growths. She’s making progress, one tank looks sparkling clean, but water is everywhere, splattered across the wall and collecting in puddles on the floor.

“Did you find it?” she asks.

“Find what?”

“The blue bucket.”

“Oh yeah, I almost forgot. I looked everywhere, but I couldn’t find it.”

“Maybe it’s in the kitchen.”

“That’s a thought. I’ll go check.”

Past the doorway, I cross the living room on my way to the kitchen. The home is attractive, older but well kept, doors and windows framed by dark wood, lighter molding above, and plenty of antique furniture. A warm glow shines from the hardwood floor, covered in spots by intricately woven rugs, details rich and plush.

In the kitchen, I find a crowd of laughing people. Some guy tells a joke and scantily clad young ladies giggle. Others hold drinks, mingle and converse, a few grope each other. Some kind of party. Am I the host? Maybe not. No one seems to notice me.

I weave between the partygoers and open cabinet doors below the sink. No bucket here, either. Now the people notice me—I can feel them staring. I twist on my heels and rise to face them. Everyone is silent as their beady eyes bore into me.

The bucket must be in the garage. Out the back door, I start down the steps, but the way is blocked by more people sipping drinks and enjoying themselves, having their own party alongside the house.

“Excuse me,” I say to a man blocking the way.

He turns to me and smiles. “Are you looking for virtue?” He scans a group of ladies between the house and garage, as if searching for one in particular, named Virtue.

“No, I don’t know her. I’m looking for a bucket.”

One of the girls asks, “A bucket of virtue?”

The crowd erupts with hysterical laughter.

What a bunch of weird people. What the hell is a bucket of virtue?

But of course—dreaming again.

Time to wake up.

* * *

My first waking vision is the dresser in the corner. My dresser, in my bedroom, where I fell asleep last night. I flip the covers and get out of bed, not all that steady, still half asleep. I should make some coffee.

In the living room, past the picture window, there is activity outside. The driveway is full of men wearing orange vests and yellow hardhats, stacking equipment against the garage door. Weird enough, but weirder—I don’t have a picture window. And my garage is in the alley. I don’t even have a driveway.

I crawl onto the sofa under the window and watch the construction workers scurry back and forth to their trucks, hauling wooden barriers, scaffolding, and power tools. Another man follows the workers, armed with a video camera. He points the camera at the window, recording my bewilderment. I get a sense of why he’s doing this—to prove that I’m aware of imminent construction and can’t deny it later. Weird.

I charge outside and chase after the workers. They leave the driveway and move along the sidewalk toward another house. I’m right behind them, they should notice me, but they just keep talking among themselves like I’m invisible. One worker tells another about the next house, explaining how it needs repair, and since the owner isn’t doing it, they will, whether the owner likes it or not.

What is this nonsense? I’m still dreaming.

I wake up again, snug beneath the covers, in my bed, in my bedroom, the same place I woke up last time. Or so I thought. The same dresser is in the corner, just like before, but the dream lingers. I leap out of bed and dash to the living room, to check the driveway. I don’t want to see—

I can’t see anything. My eyes are open but there’s nothing, it’s all black. Someone is holding my hand. Madison, I think. She guides the way to the bathroom and reassures me that everything will be okay, don’t worry.

What the hell? I’ve awoken twice now.

I wake up in bed, the same bed, the same dresser in the corner, the exact same scene all over again. How can this be? A dream within a dream within a dream?

In the living room, Madison is asleep on the sofa. What is she doing here? Maybe I’m still dreaming. I wiggle her elbow.

Her groggy eyes flutter open. “Is it time to wake up?”

“I think so, but I’m not sure.”

“Why not?”

“I already have, and twice before now.”

She rolls on her side, facing the cushion, and pulls a blanket over her. “Well, you know what they say…”

“What?”

“Third time’s a charm.”

“Huh?”

She starts snoring.

How can I tell if this is a dream? Each time has been completely real, just like now. I could be dreaming this very instant. So I should just wake up. It doesn’t seem to work, everything is still the same. How will I know? There’s no way to be sure. All I can do is move through the experience and see where it leads. If this is a dream, I’ll wake up eventually.

What I really need is some coffee. I’m still in a daze. In the kitchen, I search the cupboards. There must be a tin here somewhere, there has to be. I know there’s coffee in this house, but I can’t find any.

“Madison…”

No response, not even the sound of her snoring.

I go to the living room. “Come on, Madison, wake up. I need coffee. Where is it?”

What? The sofa is empty. She was here, wasn’t she? Didn’t she talk to me? Something about a charm, or was it three charms? Third time’s a charm. Was that a dream? Or is this a dream?

Perhaps it’s all a dream.

* * *

Dream or not, I’m wearing clothes this time. After getting dressed, I step out on the deck, ease the front door shut, and zip my coat to seal out the cold morning. The ocean is calm, beneath dark purple sky just before dawn. My favorite time of day, when so many minds are at rest, the clutter of their thoughts is absent.

Close to sunrise, the sky shows few stars. But one shines bright, twinkling, adjacent to the crescent moon. Not a star—a planet. Perhaps the very planet I will visit soon, a chilling reminder that my future is all but certain.

Around the house and to the alley, I find a taxi waiting. I didn’t call a taxi. Or did I?

The driver leans out the window. “Hey there, Adam. Off to find more adventure?”

It’s Jerry. What is he doing here? The sun isn’t even up yet. Of course, the perfect explanation—more dream nonsense.

“No,” I reply. “I’m looking for a bucket.”

He stares at me like I’m a nutcase. “What are you talking about? You’re one silly dude.”

“I need the blue bucket. Take me to it immediately.”

“The only place I’m taking you is to the airport like Dave asked. What’s wrong with you? Are you even awake yet?”

I hop in the backseat. “Sometimes I wonder.”

He chuckles and we get going. So Dave sent him. Now it makes sense.

Past a few sleepy avenues, he says, “You should have listened to me.”

“About what?”

Maybe the dream nonsense is coming after all.

He stares at me in the rearview mirror.

“Now your hair looks even worse.”

* * *

For once I wish he would drive like a maniac. The road is clear, why not floor it? But no, Jerry is feeling lazy this morning, taking his time, and filling it with endless opinions about hair fashion, how mine’s a wreck, then where to surf, and wanting to know how I liked his favorite club the other night. What is a polite way to say shut up?

At last we arrive at the airport. On the curb, I slap the door shut and wave good-bye. Jerry stares at me through the windshield like he’s sad to see me go. Or he shares my dread, that I may never return.

At this early hour, the airport is quieter than before but still lively. Not everyone is sleeping, plenty have business well before the sun arrives. But this time no one notices me, like I’m invisible. Nonsense. That was just a silly dream. They don’t recognize me because of the haircut.

Out on the tarmac, a hint of magenta glows along the horizon, under dark purple sky. Our craft is upright, broken strut fully restored. Matt made good on his promise. Dave strolls around the craft, studying a clipboard and glancing at the hull, then he marks another line off his checklist.

“Hey, Dave, how’s she look?”

“Morning, Adam. Matt has a few tweaks left, but other than that, she looks ready to go.”

No comment about a bucket. So far, so good.

Dave completes his inspection and we climb aboard. Some way to start the day—seal yourself inside an oversized coffee can. The steps retract and Dave secures the hatch, then he says, “You should give Matt a hand.”

“With what?”

“Some problem with the engine. Go find him, you’ll see.”

Following his advice, I go aft and down one deck, then hear Matt hollering.

“You piece of shit. Come on, work right!”

In a compartment cluttered with tools and spare parts, he’s holding a big wrench, poised to strike. Apparently, working on the engine. Working on scolding it, like that’ll do any good.

“What’s the problem, Matt?”

“A flutter in thirty-six.”

A cover is removed from the engine, allowing a clear view of the internal components. Suddenly, it all becomes familiar. I remember this.

Everything in the universe vibrates. The engine generates precise frequencies—extremely precise—within millionths of a cycle. And more than one frequency, a great number in fact. And when the contrasting wavelengths are interlaced correctly, interference patterns result that become seemingly unrelated harmonics on which we ride, taking advantage of the fact that everything in the universe vibrates. Simple.

“Is the track clean?” I ask. “And the ball?”

“I’ve been through all that too many times. I don’t get it. Everything was fine, then all of a sudden it’s fucked.”

“Something had to change. Machines don’t stop working for no reason.”

“I didn’t change anything, I just turned it on. This fucking junk is a big pile of shit.” He slams the wrench against the cover, adding to dents already scarring the poor thing.

“To start with, Matt, stop calling it a piece of shit, and stop hitting it. Machines don’t like that any more than people do.”

I lean into the open panel. A series of circular tracks stand upright, sandwiched together to form a long tube. Each track has a depression around the internal circumference, where a small metal ball travels round and round. But not an ordinary metal ball. The vital component is constructed from a dense element, rare and difficult to acquire, machined to exacting tolerances, as is the track. The slightest variance throws it all out of whack.

“Start it up, let’s have a look.”

He works a handheld remote wired to the engine. In the center of the circular tracks, a thick shaft slowly rotates. The metal balls follow the shaft’s motion, commencing their endless journey around the tracks. The engine gains speed and the many balls become a blur, racing round and round.

Matt rattles the remote. “See, look at that flutter.”

A display on the remote indicates output frequency. The numbers are flying all over the place. This calls for a closer inspection. I reach for the exterior of the faulty track. Gadgets tell much in the way of symptoms, but touch provides feedback no gadget can match.

As the engine whines, I feel a slight flutter. Intuition has matched the gadget. Now let’s delve deeper and exchange thoughts on why.

“Bring thirty-six up a notch.”

He tweaks the remote. The rotating shaft is not a solid piece, rather many rings stacked together, each aligned with its corresponding track. At position thirty-six, a segment projects outward and that ball spins faster.

The flutter changes frequency. My conversation with the engine has begun.

“Now slow it down.”

The segment retracts more than the rest, and the ball goes around slower.

I close my eyes and listen through touch, easing my hand across the track’s exterior, searching for the slightest difference in vibration. Reaching lower, my fingers detect a rumble, not audible and extremely faint. I’m moving the right direction. Lower still, I arrive at the track mounts. A vision overtakes all perception—Matt with his wrench, and a small part in his other hand.

Matt interrupts the dreamy vision. “What are you doing?”

“Finding the cause.”

“What do you call this technique? Hands on?”

Smart-ass.

“Turn it off. I want to look at something.”

The engine winds down and the balls settle at the bottom of each track. I remove a lower access panel near the track mounts.

“Well here’s the problem, Matt. I’m surprised you hadn’t noticed yourself. Look, the nut’s cracked.”

He strains to see the tiny flaw, a defect so minor, only the most intent inspection would reveal it.

“I’ll be damned,” he says. “That never happened before.”

Probably why he didn’t think to check. What has happened before is a great place to start, but when it fails to yield a cause, you must look further—there is always a reason. Always. And finding it can be as simple as looking in the obvious places as well as those not so obvious. You must question everything and entertain all possibilities.

He roots through a box of spare parts and finds a suitable replacement, then puts his wrench to work—doing what it was meant for. He cinches the nut tight and starts the engine. He studies the readout, then looks to me.

“Adam, you’re magic.”

Magic? I don’t know about that.

* * *

How is it that one day goes all wrong, while another, everything works out perfectly? Some call it luck, magic, the stars are in alignment or other nonsense, all too often concluded as the explanation for success. Or take the example of different individuals struggling with the same problem. One fails miserably while another, under identical conditions, handles everything brilliantly. Magic? I think not. It’s called genius—looking, thinking, and acting, based solely on clues from the environment, without influence from any preconceived notion.

Doesn’t mean it’s easy. Genius is hard work, just like everything else, even when it appears effortless. Physical strain is obvious, a mind exerting itself is not. And at times, the mind is burdened far beyond anything the body could bear.

Unfortunately, the mind is seldom rewarded for its efforts. The result of its conclusions, favorable or not, are quickly attributed to magic or luck, good and bad, and this invalidation of the true source only weakens the fine instrument. The being as well, whose intent commands the mind. When intentions are denied, you’re eroding the ability to project intention, the means by which we mold existence. Deny intentions—for example, I didn’t mean it—and a dwindling spiral begins, the universe becoming whatever it is, rather than all we intend for it to be.

Further damage exists outside the being, body and mind—the opinion of others. This keeps the mind at bay and souls unsure of whether to cast their intentions. To express pride, or announce how splendidly the mind performs, rather than calling it magic or a stroke of luck, can be considered arrogant, which at times, makes others uncomfortable.

I’d explain all this to Matt, but he’d only think of me as cocky, if not worse. Better left unsaid. For now, I’ll let Matt believe it was magic.

* * *

Space travel has got to be the most boring activity ever. Once underway, the calm ride is monotonous, like we’re not even moving. We could be stuck in one spot while the universe passes by. I know that sensation means something.

Being stuck in a spacecraft with two guys doesn’t help. At least when Madison was aboard, a few nearly exciting situations developed, and her pleasant, at times aggressive, personality kept my mind busy. But now my mind wrestles with an uncertain future, and determination must battle apprehension to breed confidence. Which I hope, fuels prudent judgment and intelligent planning. A long list of virtues that continue eluding me. The lack of planning could spell our end, but I have to keep telling myself—better to act with no planning than to plan endlessly with no action. A perfect justification to throw myself and others into a dark unknown. The only virtue driving this crazy idea is my impatience to find her.

Dave suggests that we get into our costumes and become the Bobs we hope to deceive. In our berthing compartments, we change, then return to the cockpit. We have done well, the hair, the jackets, every detail, but something’s not right.

As Dave and I study each other, he seems to share the same conclusion, taking in the sum of my disguise and straining to pinpoint why it doesn’t add up.

“What’s missing?” I ask.

Busy in the pilot seat, Matt twists around to look us over. “It’s your face.”

“What’s wrong with my face?”

If we’re going to talk about someone’s face, let’s start with his.

“You look like a little boy,” he says. “Playing spy.”

Dave smirks. “Maybe because he is.”

“No,” Matt says, “not what I mean. It’s just, your expression. You look curious.”

“Well, I am. What am I supposed to do about that?”

“Look, Adam, if you’re going to fool them, you have to do more than dress up in a costume. You have to act the same.”

I try a scowl.

Dave laughs.

“And you,” Matt says to Dave. “You can’t laugh all the time. They don’t laugh.”

“How do you know? Maybe they do.”

“Think about it,” I say. “What would guys like that have to laugh about?”

Dave considers it. “Okay, so how’s this?” He scrunches his face.

“No,” Matt says. “You got it all wrong. They don’t laugh, and they don’t smile, but that doesn’t mean they’re pissed off all the time. Look emotionless, with that stupid wide-eyed stare they have, like you’re dumbfounded.”

Given the uncertainty we face, that expression won’t take much acting.

“Is this better?” Dave aims a blank stare at nothing.

He’s got it—he looks like a goon. Then he glares at me.

“What?” I ask.

“I look like a penis, I know it.”

Matt says, “Just make sure it’s an emotionless penis.”

“A limp dick?” Dave says.

Matt snickers. “If the shoe fits…”

Dave rockets at him, fills a fist with Matt’s shirt, and nearly rips him from the pilot seat.

“Knock it off.” I pull them apart. “Both of you, this is serious. Dave, you had it perfect. Try again.”

He duplicates the empty expression.

“Just like that,” I say. “Keep that face and we’ll be fine.”

“Maybe. Let’s see your best face.”

I give it a try, staring mindlessly at nothing.

“Better,” Matt says. “But keep working on it—a lot—and hope you get it right before we get there.”

Dave says, “And what is the rest of your brilliant plan? Land on the roof and hope no one notices?”

“Obviously not. We’ll have to drop off further out and make our way in on foot.”

“We have to walk?”

“A little walking won’t hurt you.”

“Sure, but what if we run into someone? What are we supposed to say? Don’t mind us, just out for an evening stroll. Yeah, agents do that all the time when they’re not laughing.”

“You could at least try to make this work, instead of making a joke of everything.”

“I’m serious here. You ever see them walking anywhere? The goons have transport, they don’t walk.”

“He’s right,” Matt says. “You’ll look totally out of place.”

Unless there’s a perfectly logical explanation for our lack of transport.

“We could be pilots,” I say.

“What good does that do?” Dave asks.

“The surviving crew of the scout craft we destroyed. We can say we were shot down and captured, and escaped after being tortured.”

“Aren’t you being a little dramatic?”

“Whatever makes a good story. And whatever the story is, we need the same story or we’re busted.”

“All right, so we’ll be shot down, tortured pilots. You expect anyone to believe that?”

I’d reply with honesty, but I require his confidence, the lack of which now has me wondering if any of this will even work.

“Someone will believe, trust me.”

* * *

The passage of time is agonizing, not knowing the challenges that await. I can only imagine and wish something else occupied my mind so it would stop entertaining the worst possible outcome. In a few days I’ll be Carl again, wondering if life is even worth living. Or long past that miserable experience and speeding toward the next, someplace even more unpleasant, wherever that may be. But then, I wouldn’t know the difference, without a memory of anything better.

All of time outside this moment holds infinite possibilities. Horrible ends and triumphs, in a past we can recall, and as many in all moments yet to come. I tried to convince Madison of this sensation of time when I’ve hardly convinced myself. I know it’s true, the past and future are incredibly similar while a universe apart from every new moment, but clinging to the fanciful idea is useless. There is nothing I can do with it. Knowing this aspect of time only makes me feel helpless, lacking any clear method that puts the idea to practical use. If only there were, perhaps I could remember the future and see the mistakes I’m about to make.

In time we do arrive, the purple globe slowly growing larger as the distance closes. Craft of immense size orbit the enemy planet, standing guard. The massive battle cruisers sprout guns from stern to aft, and we’re gliding into their sights. One alone could make our puny ride a smudge hanging in the void of space.

However, when we cruise past, the giant craft take no action. Then we skim the atmosphere, whipping up flames across the nose. Someone must notice that. We plunge into a thick overcast and the flames cease. Murky clumps of vapor stream past, then we burst from the clouds over a darkened landscape, and near the horizon, a glistening metropolis brightens the night sky.

“How do you do it?” I ask.

Busy piloting, Matt glances over his shoulder. “Do what?”

“How come they can’t see us?”

He grins. “Holograms, and a few other tricks. We don’t look like we really do. Like you guys.” He waves across our outfits and hair.

“Oh, I see.”

Dave says, “And they don’t.”

The engines roar as Matt brings the craft to a hover. Dave and I head for the rear compartment, he snaps the latch, and the exterior door swings open. The engines howl as the craft hovers above darkness.

Dave shouts over the noise, “This is it. After you.” He extends a gracious hand toward the black unknown.

I peer out. No telling if there’s even ground below. Landing on the roof might have been a better idea after all.

“Sometime this week?” he says.

Out the hatchway, I follow my feet and brace for impact. One after the other, we crash and tumble across a grassy clearing surrounded by forest. On my back, the grass doesn’t tickle and the sky is dark, other than light streaming from the hatchway we left behind, surrounded by a wavering mirage that resembles starry night. The craft, disguised. So that’s how he does it. The hatch closes and the wiggling mass of starlight-dotted-blackness shoots away, growing less distinct until it’s just another patch of night blending with the rest.

Dave and I are without transport, a recourse, or any lifeline. Our quest is confirmed—there is no turning back.

* * *

Lost in the woods, the distance from anything familiar warps all sense of time. What seems an hour is probably much less, spent hiking the forest in darkness, before we discover a two-lane highway and begin a trek toward civilization. While better than landing on the rooftop, this choice is ripe with its own disadvantages—I’m worn out already. The thin air doesn’t help, or rather it being thick with toxins that displace the oxygen, the real reason for this poor atmosphere, which only now I recall after returning here with far more memory intact than when I last departed. Back to the enemy planet, I’m back to the laborious task of inhaling frequently, as we walk the shoulder of a road that stretches out endlessly.

Dave asks, “Are you afraid?”

“In a way.”

“Doesn’t sound like you are.”

“I am, it’s just not on my mind as much as other things.”

“Christina?”

“And the others. But yeah, I really miss Christina.”

“I know,” he says. “You two are tight, more than anybody else I’ve ever known, almost like you’re the same person. Sorry we didn’t find her. Really, I tried.”

“Don’t worry about it, you did great. You got me out, and I love you for that. We’ll find her and everybody else, then we’ll stop this bullshit once and for all. We can do it.”

“No, Adam, you can do it. I couldn’t do any of this myself. It’s only possible because you’re leading the way.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Dave, there’s nothing I have that you don’t. Actually, you’re probably better off than me, considering what I went through.”

“No, Adam, it’s not that way. You’re different.”

“What do you mean by different?”

Much of our tastes differ, and we look different most of the time—though not at the moment, for good reason—but deep down we have the same passion for freedom, we’ve fought the same battles, and we share the same love of life. We’re not so different from each other.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” he says. “You just know more, or feel more, or something. I don’t know what it is. And you make things happen just by thinking about it. You’ve always been that way.”

“That’s just curiosity.”

Aren’t we all curious? I am, and existence is bursting with things to say, just not with words. We use words, but they are only a vehicle. The cargo is thought, and that language is universal.

“And you learn anything easy,” he says. “Like it’s no work, no struggle. I don’t understand that. I can’t do that, so to me it makes you different.”

“That’s not skill at studying, it’s because I already know. Think about it. After all these lifetimes, I’m not learning it for the first time, I remember it from before. All it takes is a trigger to spark the memory, a reminder. Doesn’t it work that way for everyone?”

“I don’t know, I guess it could. You make it sound so simple. For me learning is never that simple, it’s hard work.”

“You’re trying too much. Don’t bother to remember every detail, like being forced to recite it the next day. That’s not learning, that’s memorizing, and it doesn’t work. Just relax and absorb it, and let the mind file it away. That doesn’t take any special skill, other than trusting your mind to retain it. Then later, when there’s a use for it, the mind will deliver, driven by necessity.”

“Still sounds too easy, at least, compared to the rest of us. You have something else, something different.”

“That’s desire—to know, to be, and to alter existence.” I wave a hand across the sky and starlight, a cosmos of infinite possibilities. “I don’t know where it comes from, and really, I don’t care. All I know is it exists within me. It exists in everyone.”

“Maybe, but not to the same degree as you. I’m damned glad you’re not the enemy. I think I would lose.”

* * *

Our trek along the highway brings us to a small town, quiet and dark. As we advance along a central avenue, the sleepy town grows around us, buildings one and two stories, all dormant at this early hour. However, beyond an approaching intersection there is activity.

Around the corner are bright lights atop tall poles, shining down on sections of torn up pavement, surrounded by backhoes and dump trucks. The street is full of construction workers wearing orange vests and yellow hardhats, shoveling dirt, others hauling scaffolding and tools, more erecting wooden road barriers. I’ve seen this before—in the dream. But I’m not dreaming now, I’m fairly sure, as enough time has passed without any nonsense showing up. Which is perhaps one way to detect a dream—the sense of time. In reality, time is rigid, orderly. But in dreams it’s all screwed up, moving fast then slow, unrealistic. Like a rubber band stretching out and snapping back. The physical world would never allow such a thing, having rules to enforce. But then, while rules may not be broken, perhaps they could be stretched—like a rubber band.

As we approach the workers, one of them notices us. “Hello, sir,” he says. “Is there a problem? We’re following the plans to the letter.”

I assume an authoritative tone. “Yes, the work is satisfactory. However, there is an important matter at hand.”

“Certainly, sir, and what is that? Do you require our assistance?”

He appears eager to please, as though we might torture him if he doesn’t obey. I suppose we would, if we were actual Bobs.

“You will assist us immediately,” I say. “My associate and I require transport to headquarters. You will comply.”

“Of course, sir, but I don’t understand. Where is your vehicle? This is all very unusual. Not that it’s a problem, I just…”

“Information that we may not disclose. I could elaborate, but then of course, we would have to see you terminated. Standard security measures, you understand.”

His eyes fill with fright. “Yes, sir,” he says, backing away. “I’ll take you immediately. I’ll take you myself.” He scrambles into an orange pickup truck loaded with tools, wooden barriers, and safety cones.

Dave leaks a grin and we climb into the cab. The construction worker throws the truck in gear and speeds onto the highway like we’re being chased by a killer wave. Not only does he drive well above the speed limit, he turns on flashing yellow lights as if it’s an emergency. Maybe for him.

“Supplementary lighting will not be necessary,” I say. “Drive at the proper speed and return to standard headlights only. There shall be no unusual activity. You will comply.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” He kills the extra lights and slows the vehicle, then remains silent as he ferries us to our destination. The lack of conversation is uncomfortable. I might ask his name or engage in a minor chat, but either could expose that we are not genuine. Instead, miles of darkened highway pass as three guys stare straight out the windshield.

* * *

By sunrise we arrive at headquarters, the ominous black tower where I was interviewed and nearly fried. Morning brings light to the city, but as before, little hint of actual sunshine. Just a dull glow behind the perpetual gray overcast.

We get out of the truck and the construction worker makes a quick exit, tires screeching before the door even slaps shut. I take it he doesn’t like this place any better than we do.

Dave’s expression is appropriate for the costume—such trepidation that he is without emotion. I know the feeling and hope to appear the same. Just don’t smile, they don’t do that.

Wide steps rise to the entrance. The building is constructed entirely of black glass, concealing what hideous torture may be going on inside. As we scale the steps, I gaze up at the darkened panes, pondering which of the many windows is the one I peered out of during my time as a prisoner. Now I’m going back? I’m nuts. But I have to. Christina could be past any one of those windows, looking out this very instant. She might even see us, but she wouldn’t know it’s me, coming to save her.

Tall glass doors slide open and two Bobs exit the building. They notice us. They look disturbed. Something is wrong. They hurry down the steps, coming straight for us.

“What are you doing here?” one calls out.

I can do this. Keep it cool. Don’t let the fear show.

“Returning from patrol,” I announce, assuming an authoritative tone. “Our craft was shot down by rebel spies.”

The Bobs halt before us, one step higher. “Rebel spies?” one asks.

My heart falls into my stomach. His emotionless stare says it all—he doesn’t believe a word of this. An unnerving silence passes as the Bobs exchange puzzled glances. Then, to my surprise, they erupt in a roar of laughter. What? I thought these guys never laughed. They just never laughed around me, the real me, since they hate the real me.

“What spies?” Bob asks, still chuckling. “This is a joke, right? Come on, what’s the punch line?”

Now we’re in Dave’s territory. They think I’m kidding. What do I say?

Dave beats me to it. “The rebel spies infiltrating headquarters.”

Dave!

Any minute now I’ll be back in that furnace, burnt to a crisp. Or maybe not—the Bobs keep laughing.

“That’s a good one,” Bob says. “Rebel spies, that’s hilarious. And they’re infiltrating headquarters. Ha!”

His buddy says, “Yeah, like they’re smart enough to spy on anything. I suppose they tortured you, too.”

Dave glances at me and smiles, even though Matt worked so hard to convince us otherwise. But he’s right—his response blends perfectly with the situation. I reluctantly grin and force a chuckle, as if our funny little chat is refreshing.

The Bobs continue down the steps, laughter dwindling.

Quietly, I ask, “Dave, are you insane?”

“No, I’m clever. There’s a difference.”

“But what you said.”

“It was the obvious conclusion. You started a funny, I just finished up.”

“A funny?”

“You know, a joke. Something I know about.”

“And this something you know about, it told you to say that?”

“Sure. Just like any joke, you tell a serious story then end it with something ridiculous, something that doesn’t fit with the rest. That’s humor—ridiculous contrast.”

“Okay, so it worked,” I have to admit, though I can’t begin to imagine how. “But of all the things you could say, why that? It was nearly the truth.”

“Best way to hide the truth is not hide it at all. Lay it out in plain sight, but make it so incredible and farfetched, it’s unbelievable, like a joke. That makes it invisible.”

“Is there a school where you learn this stuff?”

He shrugs. “Raw instinct.”

* * *

The glass doors slide open and we enter a spacious lobby, perfectly clean and rather businesslike with nothing out of place, since it lacks anything that could be out of place. The walls are completely bare, not a single piece of art, sculpture or vase, not even a plant or two. No sofa or chairs to make a waiting area, only one long reception counter across the lobby that feels half a block away. But plenty of light, calling attention to our entrance—we’re on display.

Intersecting the lobby, a wide corridor stretches out endlessly, the gleam of polished flooring giving the semblance of a distant mirage. Directly ahead, an older woman is stationed behind the reception counter. She rises to study us, her expression of concern suggesting we may appear out of place. I’ve hardly recovered from the last confrontation.

From the corridor, a platoon of Bobs approach the lobby, their boot steps growing louder as they march neatly aligned eight abreast, some kind of drill or morning exercise. As the woman prepares to come around the counter and interrogate us, the regiment crosses the lobby, obscuring her view. Thinking fast, I pull Dave into formation and join the crowd, hoping to blend in and confuse her. She needn’t know about us rebel spies infiltrating headquarters.

Mixed in with the Bobs, we keep marching and don’t look back, that would be unusual. Better to obediently advance like all the rest, eyes fixed forward, and hope she’s lost track of us.

The platoon marches through one hallway after another, each identical to the last. Regimented exercise may benefit those obsessed with conformity, molding the participants into duplicates so precise even their limbs move in unison, but for our purposes, we’re only killing time until we’re caught.

Along the hallway are closed doors. Nothing is labeled, leaving me to guess which one might be the janitor’s closet or similar quiet space. Anywhere out of sight where I can dream up the rest of this floundering plan. The next door looks as good as any. As the column marches past, I signal for Dave to follow, pull the door open, and we slip inside.

Bad choice.

* * *

The guy behind the desk isn’t the janitor. Same helmet hair, though gray around the edges, he appears a man of status, wearing a longer coat with medals pinned to his chest. He’s reading papers, which he slaps down on the desk.

“I beg your pardon.”

Instinct screams to turn about face and go back to marching, except for the vision of armed Bobs filling the hallway after this guy sounds the alarm.

“Forgive me, sir,” I say. “We didn’t mean to—”

“Do you have business here?” he asks.

“Yes, sir, we do.”

He hollers, “Without an appointment!”

On the desk is a name plaque—General Carver. Great, just my luck.

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

“This is highly irregular.” He rises from his lofty throne. “Your business here had better be of the utmost importance.”

“Yes, sir, very important,” I inform him. Unfortunately, no one informed me. I have no clue what business to pretend, important or otherwise.

“Well!” he hollers. “Have you come here to waste my time?”

“Oh no, sir, not at all,” I say, trying to please the ornery bastard. “I wouldn’t dream of wasting your time. I can see you’re a very important man.”

Palms flat on the desk, the general leans over it to lock his stare on me. “One more word other than your business and you will find yourself mining stethorus droppings on Shezarus-nine.”

A nasty lump swells in my throat—it’s showtime. I look to Dave, hoping for a clever punch line. He stares ahead mindlessly like an emotionless robot, just as we had rehearsed. Great, I’m stuck with the lead role.

“I am Special Agent Bob,” I explain, conjuring a tone of confidence. “And this is my associate, Agent Roberts. We have been sent here by the Intelligence Department.”

“Intelligence? What are they up to? Now look here, unscheduled visits from any department violate standard procedure. I received no memo.”

“Oh no, sir, there can be no memos.”

“And why not?”

Come on, Dave, let’s have that punch line.

The general looks us over during a tense silence, then plops down in his seat and twists to face a computer terminal. “I’m done with you two. Let’s have your numbers. You’re both going down for discipline.”

Unfortunately, I did not foresee a need for numbers, precisely why we have none. I might dream up some random digits, but the computer will likely respond invalid, leading to far worse than discipline.

“I’m sorry, sir, we are unable to give you any numbers.”

Like Dave said, tell a ridiculous truth, right?

“You had better give me your numbers this instant, soldier, or—”

“I’m sorry, sir, we can’t do that.”

“And why not!” he hollers.

I step forward, hoping to add a sense of urgency. “We’re conducting a secret mission.”

“I don’t care if it’s a secret, I expect a memo.”

“Oh no, sir, our mission is so secret it bears no name, and when discussed, may only be referred to as code name, Project X.”

“All operations must be documented per the fundamental directive, and that includes Intelligence operations, secret or otherwise.”

“But you see, sir, this is a special case. Project X is so secret, its existence can be revealed only to those in positions of authority, such as yourself.”

“We’ll just see what Intelligence has to say about this.” He reaches for the phone.

“Oh no, sir, you don’t want to do that. Project X is top, top secret, so secret in fact, our presence here will be denied by all personnel involved, even ourselves. There can be no memos or potentially recorded phone conversations. It is vital that we ensure your deniability.”

“My deniability?”

That got his attention. Prepared to dial, he hesitates.

“Exactly, sir. We require your assistance, but you may be implicated if our objective is uncovered.”

“What objective?”

Dave steps forward. “Rebel spies are infiltrating headquarters.”

The general springs from his seat. “That’s preposterous!”

“Indeed,” I agree, matching his alarm. “And worse yet, Intelligence believes sympathizers are assisting the rebels.”

He smacks down the handset. “We have traitors in our ranks?”

“Within this very building.”

Little does he realize, in this very office.

Gravely concerned, he asks, “Is the R and R program at risk?”

The what? Dave is equally puzzled and fails to fire back any witty one-liners.

At a loss for anything better, I reply, “When rebels are involved, everything is at risk.”

The general contemplates my obscure comment while I nervously await his opinion of it.

“Oh, quite true.”

He lowers to his seat, and I resume breathing.

“Then you understand, sir, the importance of our mission. It is vital that we uncover the scum before it’s too late, but we must proceed with caution. The sympathizers could be powerful figures, and once exposed, the political implications will be devastating. Involvement on your part may taint your record and stall further advancement, you do understand. We would prefer to keep your impeccable record intact, so we must ask that you speak to no one regarding this matter.”

The general snaps upright. “It most certainly is impeccable! My record stands above all the rest.” He steps around the desk and slaps a hand to my shoulder. “I knew it all along, the resistance has agents lurking on the inside. And of course you would come to me. My allegiance to the Association is supreme, everybody knows that.”

“Absolutely, sir. Your accomplishments are impressive, and you have come highly recommended by parties who shall remain anonymous.”

Right, since they’re a product of my imagination.

He rattles my shoulder, then goes around the desk and reclines in his throne. “Very well. What assistance do you require?”

Wow, my load of bullshit worked. Now what?

“We require—”

What do we require? I look to Dave.

He says, “Identification, with unrestricted computer access.”

The general asks, “And whose identification do you expect me to hand over?”

Can’t he just make something up? I suppose not. Their adherence to procedure would never allow that. But there is a solution—the original plan, with one small tweak.

“Deceased identities,” I suggest.

Dave glances at me, confused. He doesn’t get it.

The general asks, “What good are deceased identities? When a soldier dies it’s a matter of public record.”

“But not for soldiers recently deceased and not yet recorded.”

Dave glances at me again, and he grows more perplexed. Hang in there, buddy, you’ll see where this leads.

“Now hold on there,” the general says. “What do you expect? Take a few good men and put them to death just so you can have their identities? I’m loyal to the cause, but that’s hardly fair to the men who have to give up a body. Let them die in battle, with honor. You won’t see any kind of help like that from me.”

“Oh no, sir, we have no intention of asking for any such thing. The deaths have already occurred, we only ask that you determine their numbers and issue replacement badges.”

Dave says, “With unrestricted computer access.”

The general is skeptical. “Are you suggesting fallen soldiers have not been recovered and fully documented? This is highly irregular. And how could you know of such a thing when I do not?”

Dave says, “We are from the Intelligence department.”

The general rises up with a scowl.

Dave!

I get between them. “What my associate means to say is, these are sensitive Intelligence matters. We could not disclose this information before meeting with you, I’m sure you understand.”

Locked on Dave, the general’s scowl slowly melts. “Oh, certainly.” He lowers back to his seat.

I explain, “Intelligence is aware of the deaths because we are responsible. A scout craft piloted by known sympathizers was intercepted and destroyed during the escape of a prominent member of the resistance. If you check your records, I’m sure you’ll find a scout craft unaccounted for.”

Dave glances at me and nearly foils his disguise when he brightens up—now he gets it.

The general turns to his computer, jabs keys, and studies the screen. “Why, yes,” he says. “A routine patrol reported rebels and engaged. That was their last transmission.”

“And they have not returned to base.”

“The record indicates missing in action, outcome undetermined.”

“I assure you, a record planted by Intelligence to conceal the hideous plot. No need for internal panic, you understand. The truth is, the pilots were aiding an escape, their craft was shot down, and Intelligence has them on ice. Our assignment is to discreetly assume their identities, infiltrate the network of sympathizers, and expose the traitors. All we require now are badges with the pilot’s identification numbers.”

Dave says, “With unrestricted computer access.”

I toss a stare his way, hoping he gets the drift. “Yes, and with the necessary access, as Agent Roberts has been so kind to mention more than once.”

“You two are from Intelligence,” the general says. “Why not make your own badges?”

A good point, and like all good points, it deserves an equally ridiculous reason to be overlooked. “You know as well as I, sir, that every time Intelligence does anything unusual, everybody gets nosey. We require the utmost discretion, Project X is top, top secret, I’m sure you understand. No one will suspect a thing if you issue replacement badges for pilots already under your command.”

Dave says, “With unrestricted computer access.”

This time I shoot a hard glare.

The general sinks inward, his gaze drifting across the desktop. He looks up at Dave, then me.

“Very well,” he says. “Let us ensure that Project X is a success.”

* * *

Following my instructions, the general modifies the computer record with further nonsense—the scout craft suffered an unfortunate accident and the matter has been fully resolved. That should keep any nosey investigators off our trail. Next he takes our photos with a small camera that spits out self-adhesive holo-magnetic strips. From a drawer he pulls out two blank cards, applies the tape with our pictures, and swipes the fresh identification through a magnetic encoder next to his terminal.

He rises and hands over the badges. I clip mine to the lapel of my jacket.

“About the escape,” he says. “Has Intelligence made any progress?”

“Progress?” I ask.

“Have you recovered the subject?”

Is he referring to my escape?

“I’m sorry, sir, we’re not allowed to discuss that, you understand of course, sensitive Intelligence matters. But please, any information you have to offer would be greatly appreciated.”

“I imagine it’s all in the report, but if I might add, a number of soldiers were injured, and I don’t mean just physically, the incident injured their dignity. I’m sure you know how bad morale destroys a unit. If you don’t mind my asking, some of us would like to participate in reprisals when the time comes.”

What the hell is he talking about? I didn’t realize Bobs had any dignity. Plenty of malice, sure, but not dignity.

“I will relay your request. I cannot make any promises, you understand, but please, tell me, what is this talk of dignity?”

He lowers to his chair. “I’m sure you’d agree, a soldier yourself. It’s awfully embarrassing when an entire unit gets its ass kicked by one girl.”

One girl? The entire room seems to glow brighter.

Except I’m supposed to know about this. I’ll blow it for sure if I get too curious.

“An unfortunate consequence,” I say, consoling the general as best I can while suppressing an overwhelming urge to ask for more. “Rest assured, she will be recovered soon and your men’s dignity restored.”

“That’s right,” he grumbles. “After we beat her senseless and have our way with her.”

My arm flinches, my fist tightens. Adrenaline soars into my pounding heart. It takes all I have to keep from lunging over the desk and strangling the macho prick. If a glare alone could harness the rising emotion, the fireball unleashed would leave a bloody stain atop his headless neck.

Dave coaxes me back, the touch across my arm like an awakening hand, shaking loose a nightmare. And like a fading dream, the anger lingers, though reality bleeds through to remind—danger still exists. No mistakes. Stick to the plan. Not the time for revenge, not yet.

Dave takes over. “General Carver, sir, Special Agent Bob and I will need to excuse ourselves, if you don’t mind. Could you direct us to somewhere quiet with computer access?”

The general studies a desktop calendar. “Academy Training Room One is vacant today.” He looks up. “You should find no one there to disturb you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Dave says. “And remember, speak to no one about our visit.”

“Consider it done.” The general stands and ceremoniously smacks his chest with a clenched fist. “Long live the Association, Guardians of Order.”

* * *

Back in the hallway, Dave and I each breathe a sigh of relief—huge.

Dave asks, “What was all that nonsense?”

I can only shrug. “Raw instinct.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I guess. Man, that was great. You’re one hell of a bullshitter.”

“A product of stress, that’s all I can say.”

“And what happened at the end? You looked ready to crush the guy’s skull.”

“You heard what he said.”

“Yeah, but shit, man, I’ve never seen you so angry.”

“If they lay a hand on Christina, you’ll see a thousand times that, trust me.” Vengeance returns, just thinking about that sadistic bastard.

Dave silently watches as my fury rises to a boil, his stare growing fearful. “I believe it,” he says.

No—don’t be angry, I won’t be effective. Kill the creep later, after we complete the mission.

I ask, “And what was all that whining about computer access?”

“I didn’t want you to forget this time.”

“Forget what?”

He grins, and it reminds me of him posing as the bum under the bridge, except this time his gleaming teeth are intact. He waves his badge across my view. “How to find what you’re looking for.”

A young woman approaches, studying papers as she moves at a resolute stride, the snap of her heels growing louder. Great, just what I wasn’t looking for. We’ll be caught for sure if we talk to anyone else. Look away and let her walk on by.

Dave gets in her path. “Excuse me, miss.”

Dave!

She stops to offer her attention, and I stop breathing.

“I’m new here,” Dave says. “My first day in fact. Could you direct me to Academy Training Room One?”

“Sure.” She turns halfway and points in the direction from which she came. “Section C. Take a right at the end of the hall, then a little farther, it’ll be on your left. There’s a sign, you can’t miss it.”

Amazing, he did it. Now if my frantic pulse would just settle down.

“Congratulations on being accepted,” she says. “The best of luck to you.” Then she becomes suspicious. “But come to think of it, there are no classes in room one today. Are you sure that’s right?”

“Did I say one? I mean two, I think. Sorry, I lost some of my paperwork. You know, the dog ate it.”

Like she’s really going to believe that. Then he smiles like it’s supposed to be funny. What? She giggles.

“That’s just past room one,” she says. “You’ll see the signs.” She continues on her way, the snap of her heels fading.

Can Dave make anyone laugh? Perhaps, and that might be a good thing. I’ll need help laughing about it when we’re caught.

* * *

Dave opens the door and we slip into Academy Training Room One. The lights are off, but high along one wall, small windows let in enough daylight to navigate the quiet space. To my relief, the place is deserted. Each confrontation is only more tense than the last.

At the head of the class is a chalkboard and inactive video screen, and to one side is the instructor’s desk. The rest of the room is filled with long tables facing the chalkboard, and computer terminals are spread across the tables, a personal station for each student.

I sit before one of the terminals, constructed of molded gray plastic that houses the keyboard and screen within a single case. Other than the keyboard, I see no other button or switch. I check the sides and back and still find nothing.

“Where do you turn this thing on?”

“Hey, don’t look at me,” Dave says, pulling a chair closer to sit beside me. “I’m just a pilot. You’re the computer genius.”

“Me? What are you talking about?”

“You know, don’t you?”

“Sorry, Dave, this isn’t working.”

“Come on, Adam, you know all about this computer stuff, remember?”

I do? Matt’s the computer geek. But he’s no smarter than me, so maybe it’s true. What do I know about computers? I know they are binary, based on the states of on or off, akin to yes or no, the most complicated decision you could expect a machine to make. But when a stream of the simple decisions are aligned in precise order and executed at lightning speed, machines become capable of seemingly complex decisions and equally complex tasks. It’s all an illusion of course, like a dream, where the unbelievable is taken for granted. An illusion we take for granted each time we use a computer, as miles of wire process instructions so quickly we mistake it for intelligence or dismiss as magic beyond our grasp, when really, we should just be amazed that any of it is even possible and the miracle actually works. But the question remains—how to turn it on. Unpowered, the miracle makes a good doorstop. In the top corner of the keyboard, one is unmarked and set off from the others, as good a choice as any. My guess is correct. Like magic, the computer comes to life, whirring followed by faint clicking, and the screen displays a single line of text.

Swipe identification

“We already did,” Dave says.

“Did what?”

He tugs at the badge clipped to my jacket. “Swiped ID. You know, from the general.”

A small red light flashes near a slot along the top edge of the keyboard.

“Don’t be a moron, Dave.” He’s right about one thing—I’m the expert here. I unclip the badge, but is it safe to use? The general might have tricked us and created badges that sound an alarm once we use them. A chance we’ll have to take. I slide my badge through the slot, the red light changes to green, and no sirens wail, to my relief.

On the screen, a vertical strip is drawn down one side where a series of buttons appear. Not real buttons, rather silly little pictograms. One is a red hexagon like a stop sign. That must mean stop. Stop what though? We have to start something before we can stop it. Another looks like a man running. Below that is a bird, wings outstretched and something in its beak, could be a sheet of paper. Then an image of a man sitting down, legs folded. Who thought up all this crap? Near the bottom, the last pictogram resembles a bucket. Maybe that bucket of virtue I never found.

“Well?” Dave asks.

“Well what?”

“What makes it go?”

That’s what I’d like to know. I touch the on-screen buttons but nothing happens. Of course—the screen is not touch-sensitive like our computers. This primitive design presents buttons as metaphors. Okay, I remember this. There’s another way, a metaphorical way to press the buttons.

“Why isn’t it working?” Dave asks.

A lone white arrow hovers in the center of the screen.

“It’s that arrow,” I say. “We have to move it over one of the buttons, then press it.”

“How?” he asks. “You just think about it?” He squints and grunts as if straining to send a telepathic command. Or having a tough time on the can. His eyes snap open and he gazes at the screen, searching for success. The little arrow hasn’t budged.

“You try it,” he says. “You’re better at that kind of thing.”

He’s not joking—he’s actually serious.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Dave. Things don’t move just by thinking about it. They move by the rules of existence.” Thinking about it helps, sure, but thought must inspire physical action, the justification for an object’s movement.

“So enlighten me, oh wise one. What are these rules we must follow?”

“Simple,” I explain. “A device here somewhere controls that arrow, and we move it with our hand, dumb-ass.”

He reaches for a palm-sized orb on the table beside the terminal. “This hunk of plastic maybe.”

Of course—the Selection Pointer Interface Device. The SPID. Spend some effort making this primitive crap more intuitive instead of wasted on clever new acronyms. It might make more sense to name it after a small rodent.

“Yeah, Dave, that’s it. The mystical orb that makes this all possible.”

He hands over the spid and I give it a try. Bingo, the arrow moves. Now let’s see what the running man does. I navigate the arrow over the pictogram and click once. The white arrow changes to a tiny image of the same running man, but animated this time, his little arms and legs going wild. Must mean he’s working on it.

Dave and I stare at the screen, waiting as the animated figure runs in place, going nowhere. What is it doing? Something, though it fails to give any clue as to what or any evidence of progress. I fear the running man could be another metaphor—angry Bobs charging through the corridor, coming this way.

* * *

There is noise at the door—the knob turning. Someone steps in, flips the switch, and the lights flicker on one by one. Unlike the Bobs, this older gent suffers from male pattern baldness, and he wears small rimless glasses. The tweed jacket with elbow patches must be an old favorite, worn daily for some time. He does not immediately notice us, rather goes directly to the instructor’s desk, hauling a satchel that he plops down and roots through. He pulls out a stack of textbooks, then realizes our presence.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. “There’s no class today.”

Not another confrontation.

Dave stands. “Working on extra credit.”

Dave!

“Credit for what?” the instructor asks. “I don’t recognize either of you. What class are you assigned to?”

Now would be a great time for a weapon. Zap this guy and make him shut up.

Dave says, “We’re working on a special project to learn where the ice goes.”

Zap Dave, too, before everybody knows our entire plan.

“Ice?” the instructor says. “What are you talking about?”

Dave glances at me like I might say something clever. Hey, don’t look at me, buddy. You started this round of nonsense, you can finish.

He says to the instructor, “Where the rebels go.”

The instructor reaches for the phone.

Dave advances on the desk. “Oh no, sir, please don’t report us. We missed class, I’m sorry, but you see, we’re here on our own time, making up the lessons.”

Missed class? He needs to shut up before he makes this any worse.

The instructor starts dialing. “Yes, it’s clear you failed just about every lesson, calling it ice of all things.”

This isn’t good. I get up and join Dave, facing the desk.

“Hello?” the instructor says into the phone. “Yes, I have an order.”

An order for our arrest. With a discreet nod, I signal Dave, and we creep toward the desk.

“Yes, the same,” the instructor explains to those at the other end of the phone. “But get it right this time—no onions.”

Poised to attack, Dave and I freeze, then exchange befuddled glances.

The instructor hangs up the phone. Shaking his head, he comes around the desk and leans against the edge. “Now look here,” he says, a scolding finger emphasizing his words. “You won’t get anywhere in life if you waste your time with needless activities other than class. This kind of behavior is not what the Association is looking for in members of the GP. You’re lucky you’ve even been accepted, now you’re throwing it all away. You had better shape up quick, or you’ll both end up losers, wandering the streets with the rest of the riffraff.”

Dave looks ready to rip the guy’s head off, but he resists. Instead, he hangs his own head. “Yes, sir.”

The instructor shifts to me, projecting a reprimand that needs no words.

I stare at the floor. “Sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”

“I’m sorry as well,” he says, “but I’m afraid this little mishap cannot go unreported. Let’s have your numbers.” He snatches the badge clipped to my jacket and studies it. “What is this? This isn’t student identification, not even cadet.” He looks up. “You’re veteran soldiers with security clearance. What’s going on here?”

We’re not talking our way out of this one. If not for the silly story about missing class, maybe, but not now.

Dave says, “Sir, I can explain everything.”

“You can start this instant, then we’ll have a talk with security. This had better be good.”

Yeah, Dave, it better, or an army of Bobs is next. The instructor goes around the desk, approaching the phone. Now’s the time, Dave, let’s have that good explanation. We don’t want him calling anyone else. I doubt the next conversation will be about lunch.

“We’re rebel spies infiltrating headquarters.”

Dave!

Equally stunned by the outrageous remark, the instructor stands dumbfounded. Then he lunges for the phone. In a blur, Dave slaps hands atop the desk and swivels horizontal, soaring across to plant boots in the instructor’s chest, knocking him back, his glasses off, and the phone from his grasp. The instructor crashes to the floor and struggles up to sprint for the door. I chase after him and slide across the smooth tile, crossing his path and tripping him as Dave catches up and secures him in a headlock. He fights to break free, arms swinging and legs flailing. Stop kicking me, you bastard!

“Intruders!” he hollers. “Sound the alarm!”

Dave ratchets down and flops over, the instructor atop his chest and facing me. A swift fist to his groin convinces him to think again about hollering, as his screams fall silent and he gasps for breath. I straddle them both and smother him while Dave tightens like a vise, restricting his airway. The instructor kicks and squirms, eyes bugging out, then fluttering lazy. His limbs calm and he falls unconscious.

Dave gets up and glares down at the instructor’s limp body. “Watch who you call a loser, asshole.” He straightens his crumpled jacket, then says to me, “Can’t talk your way around those types. Far too intellectual.”

* * *

My precious badge ended up behind the instructor’s desk. It goes in a pocket where it’s safe from grabby hands. Next we search the drawers for rope, wire, chains, anything to restrain our victim. All we find is a wimpy ball of string. Using a ridiculous amount, hoping to increase its effect, I bind him in so much that he appears outfitted in a custom-tailored suit of cotton twine, arms now a snug combo with his torso. Dave returns from the rear of the room with a wad of paper towels and stuffs them in the guy’s mouth. A good idea. When he comes around, we don’t want him hollering about us rebel spies infiltrating headquarters.

With the instructor secured, we return to the computer terminal and resume our study time that was so rudely interrupted. The white arrow is back. Seems the running man gave up on whatever he was chasing after, or running away from. In either case, the choice didn’t produce any meaningful result.

“Try the bird,” Dave says. “Look, it’s holding something in its beak. Probably what we want to know.”

The metaphor does suggest the retrieval of something, most likely information, since this contraption isn’t capable of much else. I click the bird and a new dialog box appears.

Enter search pattern

“Bravo, Dave, now you’re the computer genius. So where do we begin?”

“What was the general talking about? Some kind of program.”

“R and R.”

“Yeah. Start with that.”

I enter the mysterious term and select the running man. The arrow changes to the animated figure as before, then text boxes begin filling the screen and continue popping up one after another. Enough! The stop sign, duh. I click the red hexagon and the barrage ceases. The topmost frame contains the answer to our query.

Relocation and Rebirth program (R & R). Association directive 756915445862, approved 65675986. Due to economic hardship resulting from an extended war effort, the Relocation and Rebirth program exists as the final solution to the overpopulation of incurable subjects engaged in resistance. Nonconforming citizens will be conditioned and prepared for transport via body reduction and subsequent stasis within silicium containment fields.

Dave asks, “What’s the containment field?”

“Let’s find out.”

I’m getting the hang of this. Clicking the bird brings up a new search dialog, then after entering the term, I hit the running man. Again text boxes fill the screen and I must jab the stop button to halt the onslaught. After navigating through a ridiculous amount of text exploring the topic, a hyperlink leads to a definition.

Silicium Containment Field (SCF). Charged silica molecules embedded in glycol and trace lysozyme, suspended in a hydrogen-oxygen enclosure brought to a solid state by extreme low temperature. Functions as containment of subjects during relocation to the Restricted Zone. Dissolves on contact with sodium chloride residing in median temperature liquids.

“The ice,” Dave says.

“With a little something extra.”

“Yeah, like some poor fool trapped inside. But where does it go?”

“It says right there.” I point to the screen. “The Restricted Zone.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Well duh, it’s restricted.”

“Then it’s a good thing.”

“What is?”

He waves his badge and grins. “Unrestricted computer access.”

His overzealous insistence for access is turning out to be warranted. I call up a new search dialog and enter the phrase. Another barrage fills the screen and again I must halt the flood of information, then sort through the mess.

Restricted Zone. Sector 177, level 16. Current destination for incurable subjects engaged in resistance. All access is strictly prohibited other than approved activities relating to the Relocation and Rebirth program. Currently limited to the transport of loaded silicium containment fields and the delivery of materials required to complete the conversion of existing civilizations that have been deemed incurable. Upon conclusion of the R & R program, this region of space is to remain restricted indefinitely. All personnel will vacate and no further access will be permitted. Violation of this directive will result in severe penalty.

I point to the screen. “That’s where everyone is going.”

“Sure, but where is it?”

“It says right there. Sector one-seventy-seven, level sixteen.”

“That’s about as good as around the corner and over a few systems, then take a left at the next planet and keep going. Those numbers are meaningless, they’re Association identifiers. Don’t tell me you have a handy-dandy Association star-map in your back pocket.”

“No, can’t say that I do. But I do have an Association computer sitting right in front of me.”

All we must do is access a star-map, unrestricted as all the rest. But first these text boxes have to go. The clutter of overlapping frames is like a year’s worth of junk mail. I study the vertical bar loaded with pictures and search for the right metaphor. Someone should slap the guy who came up with this nonsense. Why not have the words? Do they think computer operators are illiterate? One button might be a paintbrush, or maybe a broom sweeping. Works for me—clean up your mess. I click the broom and the text frames vanish. Right again. Okay, this pictogram idea isn’t so bad, if you’re patient and use half a brain.

Next I call up a fresh search, this time for star-map. A program launches and black fills the screen. A single text frame appears.

Enter system identifier

We’re making progress, except for one problem—restored memories of geography are lagging behind all the rest. I haven’t a clue where we are.

“Dave, what system is this?”

“Orn.”

“That’s it? Just Orn?”

“Don’t tell me you forgot that systems are named after the star.”

“No.”

Even so, the name of our nearest star seems foreign. Probably because I think of it as simply the sun, regardless of the system. It seems goofy otherwise—an ornny day with warm ornshine begins at ornrise and ends with ornset. Sounds like nonsense from a dream. Regardless, I scoot the spid and click the bird, then enter Orn. Sure, and all that makes perfect sense.

The screen presents a diagram of the star and surrounding planets, along with a description.

Ornal system. Eight planets orbiting the yellow dwarf Orn. Three inhabitable: three, four, and six. Orn-3 primary base of Association operations.

Each planet is listed by number, its position counting outward from the star. But these planets have names, I know they do. I just don’t remember what they are.

“Dave, what’s this planet called?”

“You mean the one we’re on now?”

“No, some planet halfway across the galaxy. Of course the one we’re on now, dumb-ass.”

“Like it says, Orn-3.”

“Yeah, I understand it’s the third planet, but what’s the name?”

“That’s how they do it, they don’t use names. They identify all planets by star and orbit number.”

“What about four and six? We don’t call them by number, do we?”

“No, we’re the rebels. Like I said, that’s an Association thing.”

“Right, I get it. So what are the names?”

“Four is Idan. You know, our planet.”

“Of course I know we’re from Idan.”

Huh? But I didn’t know a second ago. Strange to recall forgetting, now that I remember.

“And six?” I ask.

He chuckles. “The big one. I figured you’d get that all on your own, since you went there so much.”

“I did?”

“You know, coordinating affairs with a certain commander.”

Affairs? Don’t tell me I’ve been fooling around in another garden.

“Who?” I ask.

He stares incredulously at the idiot me. “Duh, you bonehead. Chris.”

“Oh. I mean, right. She’s from Theabis. I knew that.”

Memory is the weirdest thing. All it takes is one little tickle. But with the recollection comes a painful reminder—where could she be, and how will I find her? A search by eye color, hair, gender? I have nothing else to go on. There must be so many subjects. How will I find the single person I’m looking for?

Dave asks, “Why are you looking up Orn? I thought we’re looking for the Restricted Zone.”

“I want to see where it is from here.”

Searching the array of pull-down menus, I find an option for secondary location. Without a specific star name, all we can do is supply the sector and level and hope that works. It does—the diagram scales down and the star-map presents the stretch of space between Orn and the Restricted Zone, complete with detailed measurements and astronomic trajectories. The distant location now included in the diagram appears empty, unlike the Ornal system, which neighbors a multitude of stars populated by a diverse collection of planets. The Restricted Zone seems a lonely corner of the galaxy, though a single star is listed, labeled Sol. I click the lone star and the diagram zooms in to provide details. A flashing message appears on the screen.

WARNING: Restricted Zone. Travel into or out of the Solar system is strictly prohibited without express authorization and is limited exclusively to activities relating to the R & R program.

Below the diagram is a description.

Solar system. Ten planets orbiting the yellow dwarf Sol. Three inhabitable: three, four, and five.

“That’s funny,” Dave says.

“What now?”

“The star name.”

“Why? What’s so funny about it?”

“It’s like an acronym. You know, S-O-L, for Shit Outta Luck.”

Perhaps an appropriate label, though I doubt our missing friends would find it so humorous. But then, stripped of their true identity, they wouldn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or be angry. Only to survive, in a world devised by our enemy, whatever that world may be.

* * *

We have a destination, now we need directions. Without a diagram listing specific coordinates, the mission has stalled. I search the pull-down menus and find an option for hard copy. From a slot below the screen, a screeching carriage plods side to side, and curly paper slowly emerges.

Dave says, “Ah, Adam…”

“What?” I ask, more interested in the flimsy scroll the computer is printing. The lazy pace it creeps out of the slot is terribly frustrating. I thought computers were quick. I could copy it down by hand faster than the damn thing.

He says, “Our friend seems to be missing.”

My attention rockets to our bound victim, who is gone. Only a pile of wimpy string and the paper towels.

BLAR, BLAR, BLAR…

The bastard turned us in.

Competing with the droning alarm, an urgent voice booms from a loudspeaker: “Intruder alert. Security personnel to section C. Intruder alert. Security personnel to section C.”

“That’s us,” Dave says.

BLAR, BLAR, BLAR…

We should hide. Then what? That’s stupid. They’ll find us and we’re toast anyway. What can we do? We can’t just stand here, they’re coming to get us.

BLAR, BLAR, BLAR…

Out the door won’t work. The window? I’m in no mood for more of that. I don’t know what to do. Dave stares at me, expecting a solution.

BLAR, BLAR, BLAR…

Maybe I could think if that damn alarm would shut up—it’s driving me nuts!

BLAR, BLAR, BLAR…

The door is our only option. We’ll have to take our chances in the hallway. If we’re lucky, we may escape with what we’ve learned so far.

We sprint for the door. Wait—the coordinates. We need the diagram. I hurry back to the computer and tear the precious information from the slot. It appears complete. No time—the curly paper goes into a pocket and I catch up with Dave.

I crack the door open just a sliver. The corridor is stuffed full of Bobs marching past. I slap the door shut.

“This isn’t good.”

Dave glares like it’s all my fault. “Ya think?”

The door bursts open, nearly off its hinges. A cluster of Bobs stands in the doorway, loaded with weaponry.

We’re at the end of the line. There’s no talking our way out of this one.

* * *

Bob’s scorching glare says it all—something unpleasant is next, just around the corner. Torture, interrogation, and without a doubt, our fiery end.

Bob says, “You two, come with us.”

Others step forward and we’re hauled into the corridor. Oh man, we’re done. No ridiculous story will save us this time, not a chance. Goons close in to surround us, shove urgently, and coax us along. Another Bob approaches, pissed off and ornery like all the rest, but worse—armed with three blast rifles. He hands one to Dave and another to me.

“Fall in, soldiers, we have intruders.”

The thugs charge away and join the advancing crowd, leaving me and Dave behind, stunned by the gracious gift of deadly weapons.

“It’s not us?” Dave asks, twisting his rifle to view all sides like it might be a toy.

I don’t know what to say, unsure of what’s happening, my confused thoughts racing to catch up with an unbelievable reality. Seems fate shines a good light on us today. Still, a fresh pair of shorts might be nice, and maybe that elusive bucket to catch the spew my stomach wants to hurl. I’m tempted to run and hide, but the Bobs expect our help with the intruders, who are, apparently, someone else besides us. Could we possibly be that lucky?

As terror subsides, rational thinking returns. We should follow the Bobs. To do otherwise may attract attention. Dave is already falling in and signaling for me to catch up. Except now is my perfect chance to exact revenge. As I contemplate how many Bobs this gift of a weapon might cut down, prudent judgment grapples with my thirst for vengeance. The plan is intact. We have to complete the mission. Cut them to pieces later.

Lost in a sea of advancing Bobs, we’re swept along despite my strong urge to hold back. We’re charging into battle whether we like it or not. But who are we fighting? That’s what I’d like to know. If this place has intruders, that means enemies of the Association. In other words—our allies.

The mob forges ahead, waving weapons and hollering, with us hopelessly jammed in with the goons. I’m reminded of soldiers charging across a battlefield, sparking memories I’d rather not look at right now, especially the terror each holds. The present is terrifying enough. Might we step aside and let the Bobs fight their own battle?

Too many past experiences cry out, No! All fueled by grisly visions of our untimely end. Transferring out of the infantry to become a combat engineer was for good reason—sneak around and wiggle out of tight spots instead of thrown at them head-on. I am not a number, just another soldier, an expendable portion of a larger force.

Ahead, the hallway intersects another where the front-line troops turn, heading into the next corridor. Beyond the corner, cracking snaps and brilliant flashes brighten the coming passage. Charred bodies soar back and litter the floor, prompting the mob to slow their advance. Yeah, a good idea, since your buddies up front just got toasted.

Electrobeams streak past and deafening snaps torture my ears. The armaments around the corner are something new. In contrast to the thin stick blast rifles favored by the goons, whatever the intruders are packing, their weapons lack the familiar whizzing, rather sound more like a whip cracking followed by a whoosh that ends in a sizzle. Even greater contrast is the result—the poor bastards who turned the corner came back in pieces tough to identify. Unlike the Bobs I zapped before, these guys aren’t getting up to straighten their jackets, ever.

More Bobs push through the crowd, advancing to the front line, equipped with body armor, helmets, and handheld cannons. They pass the rest of us unprotected fools and turn the corner. After a volley of weapons fire, a smaller few of the armored troops come soaring back, bloody and sizzling. They did better, but not by much.

An armored soldier calls out, “Fall in behind.”

The goon patrol shuffles forward. Against every effort to hold back, we’re swept along with the rest, destined for certain death by hideous dismemberment. How will I find a new body?

The column reaches the corner and flows around, into the next corridor, identical to the last other than filled with a tangle of scorching beams cutting down Bobs left, right, and center. The intruders wear snug bodysuits all black, complete with gloves and tight cloth clinging to their heads, like ski masks that hide all but eyes and mouth. Some tend to massive cannons that generate the ear-shattering snaps, and others armed with blast pistols scale the walls like spiders, deftly evading Bobs and their lousy aim while striking back with deadly accuracy. These guys are good, crack shots and unusual tactics. What seems disconcerted independent action is actually an illusion. In fact, the intruders are tightly coordinated, yet the Bobs would never suspect as they struggle to follow the seemingly random formations. But I recognize it. I know these tactics.

“Fire your weapon,” a Bob calls out from behind.

Right, I’m a bad guy today and should be firing before we appear out of place, sure to be exposed as spies, or at a minimum, harshly disciplined for severe lack of courage in the line of duty. But I can’t fire at my allies. As a compromise, I let off a few stray rounds, aimed carelessly at the walls and ceiling, even a couple—completely by accident of course—landing squarely in the backs of my pretend comrades. These things happen in the chaos of battle. Dave follows my example, blasting the hallway, not to mention a Bob now and then, which no one seems to notice. Most of the confused troops are doing the same themselves.

Engaging in battle, against allies or otherwise, was not part of the plan. Time for this nightmare to end. I signal for Dave to follow and struggle to the side, forcing our way across the advancing horde. An approaching door is our only escape from this insanity. The mob charges ahead and the door draws near. We shove and claw our way through the goons, the door bursts open, and a flood of reinforcements emerge from a stairwell.

We squeeze between an endless stream of agents and get past the doorway, then fight our way up the stairs. The flow thins and we quicken our ascent, passing a few stragglers.

One of them snatches hold of me. “Hey,” Bob says, rattling my jacket. “Where are you going? The intruders are downstairs.”

A few steps higher, Dave turns back. “There’s more on level five. Hurry!” He sprints up the steps. With Bob distracted, I get loose and catch up with Dave. Round we go up the stairs, and turning onto the next flight, I notice someone close behind. Bob is following us.

At level five we burst from the stairwell, our wannabe friend right on our heels. The hallway is identical to downstairs, same gleaming tile, the same bare walls. A duplicate in every detail, except this hallway is deserted.

“What are you talking about?” Bob says. “Nobody’s up here.”

I whirl around. “Look, pal, we’re on a secret mission, okay? So if you want to stay out of trouble, you’d better run along now and join your buddies downstairs.”

“You know,” Dave says, “it won’t stay a secret if you keep telling everyone.”

An electrobeam streaks past, raising the sparse hair clinging to my scalp. A wall explodes and plaster sprays the floor. I duck and spin around, only to discover intruders closing the distance. Dave was right about more on level five, and we just found them. The stealthy warriors match those downstairs, the same black bodysuits and ski masks that hide their faces.

Vastly outnumbered, retreat is our only option. Joined by our unwelcome tagalong Bob, Dave and I flee the opposite direction. We are met by a second batch of intruders, weapons raised to a deadly aim. I slide to a halt.

“Drop your weapons,” an intruder calls out.

No fair. I finally get a weapon, now I have to give it up. Not fair at all. Confronted by a dozen blast rifles held at a steady aim, there is no other choice. Over my shoulder, another dozen confirms our lack of options. Dave nods, and together we let our weapons slip to the floor.

Bob has other ideas. Like some stupid ambition to be a hero. He unholsters a blast pistol as if he’s some hotshot bad-ass.

“No!” I dive for his pistol. I don’t care to be caught in the crossfire when the intruders dissect this idiot with shards of light. I strike his arm and deflect his aim, but he pulls the trigger anyway, weapon point-blank, and blasts a crater where we stand.

Thrown airborne, I crash to the floor along with chunks of it, then rocket across the smooth tile and collide headfirst with a wall. Not what I had in mind for today, not at all. Maybe if I close my eyes and make a wish, and really try, I’ll wake up for the fourth time—for real this time—and none of this will be happening.

* * *

The lump crowning my skull is real, the two dozen intruders are real, and the dumb-ass, Bob, who so effectively struck his target, only confirms reality. I doubt my imagination is capable of manufacturing anyone that stupid. To wish all this was just a bad dream isn’t going to work, because it’s not.

Wishful thinking is useless, and that’s all my plan has turned out to be—an exercise in wishful thinking. To imagine I would simply walk in here and find Christina. Yeah, I’m dreaming all right.

The intruders close rank and surround us. One searches my pockets while six others hold rifles at a close aim.

“What are you looking for?” I ask.

“Shut up!” The butt of his rifle smacks my jaw, knocking me into a wall and crashing to the floor. He yanks me up to resume the search, and he’s not gentle about it, jerking me all directions while tearing through my pockets. He finds the computer printout with coordinates, figures it’s trash and stuffs it back in my pocket, then dives into another and pulls out my identification badge.

He spins around. “Try this one,” he calls to a band of approaching intruders, one burdened by a large backpack.

“It’s not any good,” I say. “It’s a fake.”

He whirls around, glaring viciously through his mask, and pounds his rifle into my belly. Doubled over and gasping for breath, I struggle to understand why he has to be so mean. Is everyone in the universe out to beat me senseless? I thought the Bobs were bad. My allies aren’t any better.

The badge-stealing intruder tosses my identification to the fellow with the backpack, who slips it off and pulls out a portable computer. He runs my badge through a card reader, studies the screen, and then looks up. “Perfect, unrestricted. This will work.”

Back on my feet, I say, “You know, guys, it may not look like it, but actually, I’m on your side. If you tell me what you’re after, maybe I can help.”

Again my jaw is clobbered and another rifle pounds my stomach. On my knees, I silently scream for air to replace the wind knocked out of me. I catch some breath, massage my battered jaw, and decide that will be quite enough.

I stand tall. “Now look here! I’m not the enemy.”

Here comes the butt of his rifle.

I do not agree.

“Stop!”

My open palm meets the blunt end of his weapon, bringing it to a sharp halt, while my intent stare locks on the eyes hiding behind the mask.

“You will not hit me again, is that clear?”

The intruder releases the rifle like it’s on fire, and with a snap of my wrist, I flick it away. It hits the floor and slides across, just as I saw it doing only moments before it did.

He steps back and others follow, some retreating two steps as they huddle closer together. A silence passes as the group stares at me, it seems in awe. Then one pushes through the crowd, uniformed as the rest, the same black bodysuit and ski mask.

“Adam?”

Who is this? My next inflictor of pain? But she called my name. This person knows who I am. She steps closer, and I search for a recognizable identity, but the black cloth clinging to her face hides all clues except for soft lips and—tender blue eyes.

* * *

The entire universe melts from view, my darling the only sight I care for. The walls ripple and fade, the floor a spread of misty clouds, the ceiling as tall as the sky. Like falling from the heavens to land in her arms, for one tiny moment, reality does not exist. Only my precious love.

She rolls the mask up and off, and her rusty hair spills out. One flick of her pretty head, she puts her mane in place, then she focuses on me. She looks disappointed.

“What happened to your hair?” she asks.

“Long story.”

“And your beard?”

“Same story.”

She gazes at me like I’m a stranger, or a bad copy. Considering the costume, I am a copy, and bad.

“Is it really you?” she asks, a tilt of her head as she studies me.

Come on, I don’t look that different. I didn’t realize a visit to the salon could kill it for us.

“Christina, trust me. I am me.”

Her eyes narrow. “Tell me the three magic words, the special way.”

Great. My memory’s whacked, leaving me to guess and risk losing the woman of my dreams, all because I fail a quiz. But as they say, better to fail trying than to fail by not.

I gaze into her tender blue eyes and convey with the utmost sincerity, “I love you.”

Her stare holds steady—no reaction. Come on, that was special, and it has to be the right three words.

Her lips curl toward a sweet grin. She removes her gloves and reaches out to my cheek, her soft fingers sliding across, then caressing my neck. That’s a nice touch. Please, more.

“I don’t want to hear it,” she says, her gaze imparting the playful, though clever tease. “I want to know it.”

Fingers clinging to my neck, she tugs gently, and her loving gaze becomes dreamy. Oh my, I’m trembling. I can’t control myself. Nearing a kiss, my eyes fall closed.

“Our objective is reached, Commander. We must depart immediately.”

Lips puckered and ready to go, I crack one eye open. An intruder has yanked her away. Hey, can’t you see we’re having a moment here? Distracted from the kiss, Christina changes instantly—tender lover turned deadly warrior.

“Of course,” she says, suddenly all business. “Gather the troops and proceed to the rendezvous. Contact the admiral and let him know we have Adam. That will set his mind at ease.”

She takes my hand and tugs, urging me to follow, to which I respond with an equally fierce tug holding her back.

“Adam!” she scolds, then a lover’s grin sneaking out. “We’ll get to that later. We have to go now.”

“Right, but what about him?” I indicate our self-appointed buddy, Bob, who wrestles in the arms of intruders restraining him.

Christina pulls a small device from her belt, advances on Bob, and applies the gadget to his neck. A buzzing sound results and his worthless body slumps to the floor. I’m a bit surprised at how easy that was.

“You didn’t kill him, did you?”

What’s wrong with me? I wanted them all dead a minute ago.

“No, you goof. I just made him sleepy for a while. What about that one?”

“That’s Dave.”

“David?” She rushes closer and gives him a hug just as the intruders release him, realizing that he’s one of us.

Dave unleashes that big white grin. “Hi, Chris. Nice to see you again.”

She steps back and studies him. “David, you look like…”

He scowls. “Like what?” He glares at me, then back to her.

One hand over her mouth, she giggles. “Like a penis.”

Dave glares hard—at me.

* * *

We climb a stairwell leading to the rooftop, the rendezvous. Rebel intruders laden with weaponry storm upward, a concert of hurried boot steps. Christina leads the way, climbing ahead of me as I indulge in each precise movement of her magnificent body, my thoughts chasing after her, catching up to a reality in which I am so near my greatest treasure. It’s too good to be true. Continuing toward our goal, she repeatedly looks over her shoulder to see that I am following, and she smiles. Each time she glances, I’m awarded the glorious vision of the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on. More than physical—what she is, how she moves, the things she says, even what she thinks. All perfect, if there could ever be such a thing. Perhaps not for everyone, but for this man, there is no question—Christina is my perfect.

She asks, “Why are you dressed like them?”

“To sneak in and rescue you.”

“I already escaped,” she says like it’s no big deal.

I vault up extra steps and continue climbing at her side. “Then why the hell are you back?”

“To sneak in and rescue you.”

Dave hurries up the steps behind us. “You two should talk more. I would’ve preferred staying home, you know, instead of risking my neck for no good reason.”

Christina keeps climbing, silent and gazing at me as I return the same. There is no need for words, our thoughts speak volumes. Yes, she agrees, there is much to talk about now that we’re together again. But first we must escape this evil place, and more so, return home to where it is safe, and where we can endlessly meld in each other’s loving arms. She reaches out and we continue up the steps, hand in hand. The simple embrace is amazing, her soft skin to mine a marvelous sensation capable of setting the entire universe at rest. Well, my universe. My every thought is calm, I am confident and free from all worry. With her hand in mine, I can do anything and succeed.

Now I will.

* * *

The stairwell ends at a single door that opens to the rooftop. The sky is blackened by a swarm of craft, Association and rebel, swooping, diving, and blasting. A chilly wind cuts to the bone, slapping so violent I must struggle for balance.

I shout above the powerful gusts, “What’s going on? All-out war?”

Christina clears scattered hair from her view. “Just a diversion until we could find you.”

One hell of a diversion. Good thing I was here.

A sonorous humming overtakes the howling wind—a large craft drops from the sky. It hovers just above the rooftop, engines whining, then an enormous hatch slides open. Beyond the hatchway is a cavernous compartment roomy enough for the rebel intruders and all their gear.

Troops stream from the stairwell, out the door, and hurry toward the waiting transport. The minor structure they flow from is no larger than the stairwell it covers, and it’s the only projection rising from the rooftop, an entirely flat area lacking even a parapet. In the absence of safeties near the edge, apprehension brews—avoid the perimeter.

Christina stands at the door, guiding troops through. A respected commander leaves no soldier behind. When the last emerge, she brings up the rear. The flow of rebel intruders begins leaping into the transport. Dave scrambles aboard and hollers for me to join him, but I hold back.

“Hurry!” I call to her, the stretch between us feeling like a mile. I want her by my side.

She is not the last. Behind her, someone else steps out the open door.

* * *

He looks different since our last encounter, though I doubt he’s become any less evil. Still the devilish gleam in his eye and rough start of a beard, but now he’s fashioned his hair in a spiky style. This time his attire is somewhat stylish—a long dark coat over a pressed dress shirt as black as night, finished with a soft gold tie.

“Leaving so soon?” Jared says, cocky as always and holding a weapon in each hand.

Christina spins to face him, a fair distance between them, but closer to him than me. I start for her. She whirls around and sprints toward me.

Jared raises one of his weapons and takes aim. A thin strand streams from the barrel and slaps around her neck. A wire-gun. The restraint holds tight, snapping her back and crashing down. She springs up to regain footing, both hands at her neck, struggling to pry the cable free.

Jared taunts with little jerks of the tether. “She makes a nice pet,” he says, grin growing. “When she’s on a leash.” He flips a lever and pulls the trigger. The wire retracts fast, reeling her in, and she goes stumbling backward, into his clutches. His other weapon is far more deadly—a blast pistol. He presses the barrel tight against her skull.

“Careful now,” he says, watching me advance. “Someone might get hurt.”

I stop dead in my tracks.

He pushes his grotesque face through her hair. “We should spend some time together.”

She swings a fist. “Go to Hell!”

He yanks the wire-gun, whirling her off-balance and out of striking range.

“Been there,” he says. “Actually, I’m the principal architect.”

“Let her go,” I demand.

He swings around to study me, standing here frozen. He eases into a sly grin. “Let her go?”

From above, a blast strikes the rooftop and another smacks the hovering transport. Our comrades take evasive action. Engines screaming, the craft launches to the sky, then the fading whine as they leave us behind.

Jared snaps the wire-gun like a whip and flings Christina careening toward the edge.

No!

At the precipice and teetering unsteady, she says, “Adam, don’t come after me.”

Jared flicks the wire-gun. Like a wave, the energy flows along the slackened line, riding high, and once arriving, knocks Christina off-balance and over the edge, screaming.

“There she goes,” he says.

I target his outstretched arm, determined to reach the wire-gun, whirring shrill and smoking as the spool unwinds furiously. Surprisingly, he steps forward and offers it. I’m nearly to him when the wire reaches the end of its supply—a loud snap. In a blur, the device launches out of his relaxed grip.

“Whoopsie,” he says, pretending surprise.

The wire-gun skitters across the rooftop, following after Christina and her fading screams. I go tearing after it.

“That’s right,” he says. “Go after her.”

I dive to the edge and stretch to reach the gun. At the precipice, it slips through my fingers and sails off the rooftop, gone forever.

Staring over the side, I have a clear view of the street, many floors down. I watch helplessly—horrified—as Christina plummets, screaming the entire distance until muffled by the thick thud of her precious body slamming into the pavement far below.

* * *

Fury blackens all sorrow—for now—as anger buries the grief. This is the last time Jared will hurt me or anyone I love. My rage is so incredible, I have become calm, triggered by an infusion of every emotion released all at once.

I get up and turn to face Jared. He laughs as I start toward him, accelerating each step and rising to a blazing sprint, locked on my prey. He loses the cocky grin and aims his pistol. I don’t care, fire all you like. Nothing—not you or your puny weapons—will stop me.

A sizzling beam shoots from the barrel. I twist and swerve and the beam whizzes past. His next blast can’t match my fluid motion, any assault is useless—I am beyond determined. On his third try I’m in his face, knocking the barrel skyward and him to the deck with a bone-crushing body-slam. I straddle the bastard, deflect his pistol and blasts, my free hand an iron fist—all the weapon I need—fueled by a lunatic frenzy of blows unleashed across his face.

His pistol crashes into my skull like a hammer, sending me over and he gets free. Stunned, I hurry to rise as he sits up and spits a mouthful of blood, his eyes and cheeks badly swollen. For a split-second we lock stares, his that of a hideous monster.

He aims the pistol. I kick for the weapon and connect, knocking it from his grasp, but a scorching blast grazes my arm, screaming fire! One leg out, I’m caught off-balance. He seizes my boot and twists, twirling me over and crashing down. He pins me and returns a frenzy of fists, beating my face until bloody and swollen to match his. I twine our legs and fling hard, flipping him over and I rise to the top, bashing his skull until he duplicates the maneuver and regains control. Then I’m back on top, blood slinging from my raging fists—then him, pummeling my face—then me—then him—trading places as we trade blows, rolling across the rooftop knocking the crap out of each other.

With well-matched strength and determination, all we accomplish is beating ourselves equally senseless. Exhausted, his blows become little more than dropping a fist, until even that is too strenuous. He flops over to land on his back, both of us collapsed and laid out flat, catching our breath, bloody, bruised, and beaten.

Jared cocks his head to see the blast pistol lying on the rooftop. He reaches for the weapon, retrieves it, and struggles up onto one knee.

He presses the barrel between my eyes. “You’re done.”

Sonorous humming comes fast and loud. The rebel transport drops from the sky, hanging over the rooftop, and the cargo door slams open. I must be dreaming, to see what I’m seeing, in the threshold wielding a blast cannon. Christina, alive.

“I brought extras,” she says, then aims for Jared.

I knock the pistol from his grip and she opens fire. Jared scrambles to his feet, dodging blasts, and dives for the only available cover—behind the rooftop access structure.

Christina leaps out and rushes to my aid.

“Give me that fucking thing.” I seize the weapon from her, pull the trigger and keep it depressed, screaming a storm of obscenities while the cannon recoils like a jackhammer gone mad. I empty the weapon blasting every square inch of the structure Jared hides behind, reducing it to a mound of debris, then hustle around to the backside, ready to finish the bastard. He stands near the roof’s edge, hands up, a face of stone. A few brisk steps and the weapon is up close and personal, my unblinking eye staring down the barrel into his.

“You’re who’s done.” Not a hint of regret, not a single reason to reconsider, this ends right here, right now. I squeeze the trigger—click.

His blank expression slowly morphs into the cocky Jared I’ve come to know, along with the smug grin I hate.

“You can’t win,” he says.

Behind him, a pair of enemy craft rise from below the precipice, weapons hanging from their bellies, wiggling for aim. He glances over his shoulder, gives me that pansy-ass grin, then drops to the deck. The enemy weapons blaze.

Christina comes out of nowhere and tackles me. We scramble for cover behind the demolished access structure. Vicious humming soars overhead—the rebel transport swoops past, door open with cargo bay full of intruders and their blast cannons. The enemy craft shift to our allies and open fire, rebels return as much or more, and blinding electrobeams fill the sky.

I peer over the smoldering debris and search for Jared. I still want to kill that bastard, at least a hundred times, maybe more.

Christina pulls me down. “Forget about Jared,” she says. “We have to get out of here.”

I call upon my infinite determination.

“I will never forget.”

* * *

Enemy squadrons dive from the sky, gunning for the transport. Christina and I sprint across the rooftop, dodging fireballs exploding in our path. Rebel fighters come head-on, soar past and slice through the enemy, delivering a barrage of counter-assault. Brilliant spheres sizzle and crack, and shards of light crash overhead. The rebel transport drops lower, cargo door open and Dave reaching out, joined by a throng of rebel intruders hollering for us to run faster. Their outstretched arms haul us aboard, the door slams shut, and the noise of battle is displaced by screaming engines. The craft tilts in a jerk, forcing all to struggle for balance. A blast strikes and rocks us sideways as the craft launches into the sky.

As the transport climbs rapidly, I stand facing Christina, struggling to comprehend how this is possible.

“Is it really you?” I ask.

“Of course, you goof. Look for yourself.” She widens her eyes.

I could become lost in those blue eyes. I certainly have, and I will again. Of course it’s her, my one and only Christina. But how? I watched her fall, and worse, witnessed the moment of impact. And now here she is, just as before. So much has happened so fast, I don’t know what to believe anymore.

The noisy cargo bay draws my attention. Past Christina, the cavernous interior of the transport spreads out like a warehouse, bustling with activity as rebels dismantle and stow weaponry. Legions of the mysterious individuals work industriously, outfitted in matching black bodysuits, but now with their ski masks removed, the intruders assume a not-so-mysterious sense of personality.

“Who are all your friends?” I ask.

“The finest soldiers this side of the galaxy.” Christina looks across the troops hurrying past, very proud of them, then back to me. “And more than happy to assist when their favorite hero is in trouble.”

“Hey,” Dave says. “Us boys from Idan aren’t so bad.”

Christina laughs. “No offense, David, but you boys wouldn’t stand a chance up against this Theabean regiment.”

“Why not?” I ask. “What makes soldiers from Theabis so special?”

She folds her arms and smiles proudly. “Their commander.”

Dave glances at me and we silently agree—good thing we’re on the same team. Neither of us would want to face Christina in battle.

He asks, “Why are women always right?”

“Easy,” I explain. “They’re female.”

Beyond Dave, an odd sight catches my eye, partly obscured by the stream of soldiers moving past. I work my way through the troops and approach a quiet corner of the cargo bay.

A string of females is seated along a bench, outfitted in the same black bodysuits, but without masks to hide their faces. Silent and unmoving, they sit with supreme posture, projecting mindless gazes from dull gray eyes.

All duplicates of Christina.

Christina—the real Christina—appears at my side. “I came prepared.”

My attention remains on the inanimate copies. “That is creepy.”

“I would have brought some for you, but I wasn’t sure if you remembered how to do it.”

“Do what?” I ask.

“Leave the body and get another,” she says like it’s no big deal.

I can only stare at—the extras. They’re units from the body farm.

“Do you?” she asks.

Her blunt question only magnifies my discomfort with the whole idea. Do I know how to die?

“This one’s fine for now. Don’t worry about me.”

Her gaze deepens and she becomes somber. She reaches out to caress my swollen cheek. “Adam, all I do is worry about you.”

* * *

Our vigorous ascent continues, rocketing into the atmosphere as Christina guides me to a berthing compartment and I hobble alongside. The reality of warfare has set in—this body has taken a beating. Cuts and bruises, both eyes blackened, and every muscle is strained. She opens a hatch and pulls me through, then puts me in a bunk where I may recuperate. She gathers antiseptic and a washcloth, then kneels at my side and begins cleaning my wounds.

“Ouch! Take it easy, will ya?”

“Don’t be such a sissy.”

“A sissy? Hey, I could’ve run away.”

“Without me?”

“For all I knew, you were dead.”

She postpones the mild torture, runs her fingers through my hair, and massages my battered skull. Yes, please, more of that. I hurt everywhere, and that kind of tender touch is medicine capable of curing any ailment.

“I would never do that to you, Adam.”

“You wouldn’t?”

She shakes her head and smiles. “No way. I’m with you forever.” She leans close, applies a tender kiss to my forehead, another to the bridge of my nose, and then face to face, our lips draw near.

My eyes fall closed.

Next thing I know, my skull whacks a bulkhead.

I look down to see Christina looking up at me, her rusty hair spreading out like flames.

We have escaped the atmosphere.

* * *

A rap on the hatch catches our combined attention. Christina draws her wandering hair into a ponytail, then pushes off and glides to the hatch. In the meantime, I fumble for something to hang on to. She opens the door and Dave floats in, studying a sheet of paper he is holding.

“Adam, I think this message is yours.”

“Who’s it from?”

“That’s the weird part.”

“Why? What’s so weird about it?”

Christina peers over his shoulder and studies the message.

Dave says, “I can’t tell if it’s a message for you, or from you.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“It came over standard channels a few minutes ago.”

Christina takes the paper from Dave, then shifts to me and rattles the sheet. “Adam, did you write this?”

“I don’t know. Let’s have a look.”

She hands over the note.

WE REMIND: The mission is intact and will progress now that we have restored memory and reassembled the team. At this time, what we sought to accomplish will be evident. Proceed immediately to the coordinates indicated by the diagram. Good luck. Adam.

“Well?” Dave asks. “Did you write it?”

“That’s not important.” I pat down the pockets of my jacket. Where is it?

“Who is we?” Christina asks.

“It doesn’t matter. More important is what it says.”

Where is that thing? I know I put it in one of these pockets.

Dave asks, “What’s it say that’s so important?”

Here it is—the computer printout with star-map and precise coordinates.

“It says my intentions are not denied. I remember what I was doing in the first place, before any of this.”

“And what is that?” he asks.

I wave the diagram. “Obtaining a scrap of restricted information.”

Christina gets excited. “You got it?”

“Got what?” Dave asks.

“We will not be going home.”

Dave looks surprised. “We’re not? Then where?”

My determination is infinite. I have restored myself, including my memory, and with it—the original mission. I know who I am, where I’ve been, and most important, where I am going. Now I will discover the unknown—the fate of our missing friends.

“The Restricted Zone.”

# # #

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The adventure continues with
Apotheosis: Dead Forever Book 2