“And kill you, evidently, as well,” I add, shoving Rupert’s corpse back into the cabinet and slamming the drawer. I lean against the wall, sucking in a breath. “I guess that’s not something they’d put in the brochure.”
Dawn screws up his face. “All along you’re thinking you’ve just traveled to a whole other plane of existence, a brave new world that you and your fellow Indys are populating. You’re ready to start a new life,” he says. “But in reality, you’re stuck in a box, lost in a drug-induced hallucination until your brain crumbles and your eyes are literally burnt out of your head.”
“And the government pockets all your assets,” I say. “This would solve the population problem to boot. It’s brilliant in a way. Sick, but brilliant.”
I stare at the rows upon rows of boxes, each labeled with a name and date. All these people went willingly to their deaths, lambs to the slaughter, with no one the wiser. Rupert’s friends, his family, his coworkers—they all assume he’s now living a perfect life on a better world. No one has any idea of his real new digs: a nine-by-three drawer in a government fridge.
I pull out the drawer again and take a photo of the body. Then I go to the next drawer, slide out the dead Indy there, and take another. I repeat this over and over, taking photos of corpse after corpse. Each looks exactly the same: naked, bloated, blackened pits for eyes. My stomach churns with nausea, begging me to stop, but I ignore it. This is too important to be queasy.
“The dates of death,” Dawn observes, scanning the drawers, “are all recent. These are all labeled from the last week.” He walks to the other side of the room. “These are a bit older. It looks like these people died a few months ago.”
I cross the room to join him, yanking open a drawer of one of the less recently deceased. I take a photo. The body still has the telltale blackened eyes, but it looks yellowed, shrunken.
“Why do they keep them?” I wonder aloud. “Why not just bury them or something?”
“Who knows? Maybe they don’t want them found. Or maybe they’re experimenting on them, trying to discover why they die prematurely. Or perhaps they even harvest their organs. I mean, if it’s only their minds and eyes that go, they die with healthy livers and kidneys and hearts, right? Perfect for the fat-cat government officials to use to prolong their own miserable lives.”
I shiver at the thought. “That’s disgusting. But it does make sense.”
I head to the back of the room to another set of drawers. Just a few more pictures and I’ll have enough evidence to rally the Indys and get them to force the government to shut down the Moongazing program for good. It won’t save these poor people, but at least it will prevent others from dying the same horrible way.
“I wonder how long it takes for someone to die,” Dawn says, pulling out another drawer. “It must be a while. After all, you were inside for a few months before the Eclipsers pulled you out.”
“Thank God they did,” I say, scanning the drawers. I’ve shot a lot of male bodies. I’d like a woman this time. “Or I’d have ended up—” The words die in my throat as my eyes focus on a name on one of the drawers. My camera falls out of my hands and crashes onto the floor. “Dawn,” I cry, my voice scratchy and hoarse. “I think you’d better get over here.”
I stare at the name, hoping, begging, praying that I’m somehow reading it wrong. But no. It’s there, clear as day. The name I never expected in a million years to read on a drawer in a morgue: Mariah Quinn.
TWENTY
“What is it?” Dawn asks, instantly appearing at my side. But my throat’s closed up and I can’t speak. I point a shaky finger at the drawer. Dawn stares, his mouth gaping, then turns to me, an uncomprehending look on his face.
“What the hell?” he whispers. “How can that—how can that be?”
I shake my head. I have no idea. I really thought nothing could top the shock of learning that Earth was just a virtual reality video game. But if Earth is a game, then by all rights I have to be Mariah. And if I’m Mariah, I’m obviously not a corpse. Which leads us to the ultimate question. Who’s in the drawer?
“Maybe it’s empty,” Dawn reasons, not sounding all that convinced. “Maybe they’re saving it for you, hoping to kill you and then put you there.”
I swallow hard. “Right,” I agree. “That must be it. The drawer’s probably empty.”
We fall silent, staring at the drawer, neither one ready to test the theory.
“Should … should I open it?” I ask at last. “I mean, so we have proof that there’s no one inside?” I really would rather not, but how can I just walk away not knowing? I’ve come this far. I have to know the truth, no matter what it turns out to be.
“I don’t know,” Dawn says, sounding at a loss. He reaches down and grabs the camera on the floor, fingering the lens. I stare at the drawer, my heart thudding painfully in my chest. What to do, what to do, what to do?
I take a deep breath and yank it open.
The drawer isn’t empty. There’s a corpse lying on the slab. The body of a girl. A naked girl with glasses who looks exactly like me.
I stumble backward, then fall to my knees, unable to catch my breath. I double over and throw up, sickly yellow bile spewing from my lips and pooling onto the stone floor. Dawn grabs me, pulling my hair from my face and rubbing a hand over my back. He’s saying something, something soothing, but the blood pounding in my ears makes it impossible to hear what’s coming from his lips. I take a deep breath and pull myself to my feet, vision blurry with unshed tears. I shiver, my body suddenly freezing cold. I realize I’m likely going into shock and I try to break free from the darkness, pull myself together. Losing it now could end very badly.
“Wow, its not every day you get to see your own dead body,” I mutter, going for gallows humor. Or ‘Gazing humor, I guess, as the case might be.
Dawn grabs and pulls me into a fierce, smothering hug, squeezing me tightly against him. I realize he’s shaking, too, as terrified and confused as I am, but trying to be strong for the both of us. I bury my face in his chest, sobbing.
“I don’t understand,” I blubber. “I’m not dead. How can my body be in this morgue?”
“I don’t know,” Dawn answers helplessly. “I just don’t know.”
“It’s definitely me, though, right? It’s definitely Mariah?” I can’t bear to take another look.
Dawns shifts in my arms for a second glance. “Yes,” he says after a pause. “It’s definitely Mariah. And it appears she’s got the burned-out eyeball thing like the rest of them.” He takes a few pictures of the corpse. “I’m going to upload these photos and send them back to headquarters,” he says, pressing a few buttons on the camera. “They have to see this. Now.”
I nod, barely listening, my whole world spun off its axis. “So, if that’s Mariah, then who am I?”
“You, my dear,” pipes in a voice from across the room, “are not exactly a ‘who’ at all.”
Dawn and I whirl around. At the entrance to the morgue stands Duske, flanked by six heavily armed guards. He’s dressed in a severe black suit, and his thumbs are swathed in white cotton bandages.
Without giving reason a second thought, I rip my sword from its sheath and charge forward, blinded by rage and madness. My vision is red. This man must die. Die for what he did to the people. Die for what he did to Mariah. Die for whatever the hell he’s done to me. Whoever I am.
The guards step in front of him, pulling out their own swords and effectively protecting their master. I stop my advance, sword still held high in the air, glowering at the man who is responsible for so many broken lives. Duske grins and gestures for the guards to withdraw. He pulls out his own sword. “This is excellent,” he says. “I’ve wanted to see you fight ever since I created you. After all, you were programmed with all the top training.”
I squint at him. “Programmed? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Duske shakes his head. “Fight first,” he commands. “If you best me, I will te
ll you everything.”
“If I best you, you will be dead and thus unable to speak.”
“No, no, my dear,” Duske says laughingly. “My guards will not let me die. Don’t be stupid. We’ll simply spar until there is a clear champion. But we must agree not to shed any blood. I will not kill you if you agree not to kill me.”
“From what I saw in the drawer over there, it appears I’m already dead. And why should I believe even for a second that you won’t just have me killed later?” I glare at him, not wanting to play games anymore. I should have killed him back at the house. Not doing so was a big mistake.
Duske shrugs. “Because you know I am a man of honor?” he suggests. Then he laughs. “No, I guess that could not be it. How about because you need to know the truth? You’re desperate for answers and you know I’m the only one who can give them to you. If you’re going to die anyway, wouldn’t you prefer to die knowing the truth?”
He’s got me there. There’s no way I can even pretend the truth doesn’t concern me. After seeing my own face dead in a drawer, realizing the world I thought I was from is just a virtual dream, it’s now vitally important I find out who I really am.
I raise my sword again, the blade flashing under the lights. “All right,” I say. “Let’s do this.” Maybe he’ll be weak. After all, how does one grasp a sword with cut thumbs? But then I remember Dawn healing my wrist. He probably just went to an nT medic and had the skin grown back in minutes.
“Skye—” Dawn interrupts my racing thoughts. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Actually, I think I do,” I reply, feeling an inner power swell inside me. It’s a growing strength and retreating fear. This is a fight for the truth. And I have to win.
Duske brandishes his blade and steps forward. I launch into an attack, swinging my sword expertly in one hand. I don’t remember learning to fight, but somehow, something inside me knows how to do it—as if I were born with the knowledge.
You weren’t born at all, an inner voice nags. I push it aside.
Our swords clash, the blades singing high-pitched squeals. I slide my sword downward, freeing the blade, then swing upward. Duske catches it again easily. He’s good, I realize. Maybe too good.
Back and forth we flurry, blades coming together, separating, then meeting once again. Sweat drips down my forehead, between my breasts, as I dance around him, looking for a sign of weakness. But he seems to effortlessly predict my every move. I’m not sure he’s even trying that hard. He certainly doesn’t seem winded.
Thinking I see an opening, I lunge. He parries with a twist of the wrist, tossing me a self-satisfied grin. He’s toying with me, I realize. If I want to win I can’t do it this way. I have to try something he won’t expect. Something that’s not “all fair in love and swordplay.” It’s then that I remember my character Allora’s finishing move in RealLife. The one my boss, Madeline, criticized for being without honor. Chivalry is based on a code, she had lectured. Everything is based on rules. But she was just an NUC, a computer-generated character.
And I’m done playing by the rules.
I drop to my knees, swing my blade, and slash at his ankles. He screams in pain as the sword makes contact with his Achilles tendon. He stumbles backward, bellowing in rage. I leap to my feet and point my blade at his now unprotected throat.
“You bitch,” he snaps. “You weren’t supposed to hurt me.”
“You’ll live,” I snarl back. “Unless I decide to kill you.” I press the blade against his throat, just enough to draw a tiny droplet of blood. One step forward and I can drive the weapon straight through and no number of guards can save his life. But, I realize, then I’d never find out the truth. And the guards will simply kill me and then Dawn after their master is dead.
Reluctantly, I lower the sword. The guards step forward and disarm me, then tie my hands behind my back. They do the same to Dawn, roughly shuffling us both to one wall.
Duske reaches down and wraps a strip of cloth torn from his suit over his wound, still grumbling. It’s immediately soaked in blood. That’s got to really hurt. I can’t believe he’s still conscious. One of the guards kneels before him and takes the ankle in his hands, closing his eyes, just as Dawn did to my wrist. Must be a Healer. How convenient to have one on staff.
A few moments later, the bleeding’s stopped and Duske’s able to walk. He saunters over to me, positioning himself so he’s inches from my face. “You should have killed me when you had the chance,” he says with a bitter laugh.
“Yes, yes,” I reply, trying to sound nonchalant, while inside everything is trembling with fear. “But I didn’t. So how about you keep up your end of the bargain? Tell me everything.”
Duske grins. “Gladly. In fact, I’m looking forward to it. Ask away.”
I swallow hard, getting up my nerve. Ignoring my pounding heart. “Is Earth just a game?” I manage to spit out.
Duske frowns. “It’s not just a game. It’s the most miraculous creation in the history of the world. It’s a new form of reality. A virtual escape, if you will, for all that plagues the Terran people. An amazing recreation of Terra the century before the war.”
“Some escape,” I mutter, glancing over at the drawers of bodies.
“Well, yes, we’re still working out the kinks. Right now it’s too expensive to run on a long-term basis. Do you think we want to be stuck intravenously feeding players for their entire Terran life spans? Or worrying about disposing of their bodily fluids? Also, we’ve found that after a few weeks, the Terran mind starts to decay from the fully immersive experience. So it’s far better to pull the ‘Gazers from their misery before their organs rot and their bodies are rendered unusable.”
“But you’ve promised these people a new life on Earth! Instead, you kill them.”
“But don’t you see? They do get a new life. We speed up the game. Twenty Earth years can pass within a day of Terran time if we want. When someone commits to a full emigration we put their life on fast forward. By the time their mind starts to decay, they’ve already experienced an entirely full life. They’re old. They’re ready to die.” He smiles, obviously proud. “And in return, here on Terra, we solve the overpopulation problem and help fund government programs. Besides, all of our subjects are perfectly willing to go.”
“But if they knew how they’d end up …”
Duske shrugs. “What’s the difference, because they never will. They’ll die peacefully, thinking they’ve lived out an entire life in paradise. What could be better than that?”
“What about Mariah?” Dawn interrupts.
“Ah, Mariah,” Duske says. “Beautiful, sweet Mariah.” He wanders over to the back of the room and looks adoringly down at the naked body lying on the slab. “We started noticing her poking around Earth about six months ago. She tried to give a false identity, but there’s not much our daemons—the program’s security subroutines—don’t pick up on. Not to mention it’s nearly impossible for a celebrated rebel like her to keep a low profile. We were amused by her interest, and so we let her take a peek around, knowing she would never find anything wrong. Not on the surface.”
“And then she got addicted?” Dawn asks.
“Sure.” Duske shrugs. “If you want to call it that. The more she jumped back and forth, the more taxing it became on her brain. With all the ‘Gaze she was inhaling, her life on Earth started seeming more real to her than her life on Terra.” He smirks. “So that’s when we decided to make our move—make it look like the infamous Mariah Quinn, would-be savior of the Dark Siders, turned traitor.”
“Make it look like?” Dawn repeats. “You mean she didn’t actually …?”
Duske stares at him, then starts to laugh. “Didn’t actually betray you?” he asks. “You really think she did?” He shakes his head in mirth. “You two may have been together, but you obviously didn’t know the girl very well at all. She was as loyal as they come. I mean, sure, she became a brainless, desperate drug addict, but still she refused
to betray the Eclipsers up until the very end. And believe me, we tried a great deal to make her spill.”
“So then, how did you know about our plans to sabotage the seminar?” Dawn demands. “You knew things that only she could have told you.”
Duske smiles. “Once we realized that no amount of convincing was going to get her to talk, we simply allowed her to go ‘Gazing in a specially doctored booth. While she was inside, we ran a brain scan and stripped her mind of all short-term memories. After running a quick analysis through a supercomputer, we got all the details we needed to thwart your pathetic plan. And Mariah never had any idea.”
Dawn is silent for a moment, probably trying to digest this startling revelation. The girl he’s been thinking a villain all this time is actually an innocent victim. He must feel so guilty for judging her. But how could he have known that in this instance two plus two did not equal four?
“But she still left us,” he says at last, grasping at straws. “She still abandoned her people for a better life on Earth.”
“Please.” Duske snorts. “She didn’t go anywhere. She was too sick. Her brain wouldn’t have survived another trip. We didn’t waste the resources. Once we had the information we needed, we killed her and sent in Skye here to start ‘Gazing in her place.”
“So then who am I?” I interject. My head is spinning. “Where do I come from and why do I look exactly like Mariah?” Even as I ask, I’m not sure I want to hear the truth.
“You’re the spare.”
“The spare?” I think I’m going to be sick again.
“Sure. A clone. Similar to the nTs. We took a sample of Mariah’s genetic code and grew a new version. Then we implanted false memories of Earth, mostly stolen from our nonuser character designs. The idea was to send the new Mariah to Earth in place of the real one so people would see her there. We could relay back clips of your new life if we wanted, prove that Mariah had really migrated there. And if we needed you for something, we could bring you back. Hell, you never do know when a spare revolutionary leader turned traitor might come in handy.” He laughs.