Oasis (The Last Humans Book 1) (15 page)

Albert looks at him noncommittally.

“It means
I
tell the Council these types of things. It means I’m the only member of the Council who carries these burdens. I don’t get to have the ‘bliss of ignorance,’ as this child called it.” Jeremiah takes in a breath. “I do not get the peace of mind that comes with not knowing the terrible secrets of statecraft.” His voice is quieter when he adds, “I do not even get the luxury of Forgetting. Can you imagine what that’s like? Remembering your friends who have passed on?”

Albert’s confident mask slips slightly. “I didn’t mean any disrespect,” he says. “I was only giving you a suggestion.”

“Jeremiah openly admitted Forgetting,” Phoe whispers. “And the Guards seem to know about it too, though it sounds like they, as well as the rest of the Elderly, Forget with everyone else—”

Jeremiah sits down in his chair and turns his attention back to me. “Theo, please. Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll take you to see Mason. He’s been asking about you.”

His lie and chummy use of my shortened name infuriate me, but lashing out would only give away my knowledge of Mason’s fate. I take a deep breath and exhale before asking, “Are you now talking about the stonemasons?”

Jeremiah jackknifes from the chair. “I’m sick of this charade.” A little bit of Jeremiah’s spittle lands on my cheek and the restraints prevent me from wiping it away. It’s disgusting.

Jeremiah begins pacing back and forth in front of me. He looks deeply troubled. Stopping next to Albert, he extends his hand and says, “Give me your Stun Stick.”

Albert reaches for a metal object on his belt, then stops. He looks at his colleague with desperation but sees what we all see: his own reflection in his partner’s visor. He then gives Jeremiah an uncertain look and takes a few steps back.

“You.” Jeremiah points to the other Guard. “Give me
yours
.”

The Guard reaches for his belt without hesitation and takes off a metal object that looks like the baton of an ancient police officer. With no trace of hesitation, he hands the baton to Jeremiah.

“Do you know what this is?” The old man holds the baton in front of me threateningly.

“Something you should shove up your ass?” My voice comes out strained. I do recognize this thing. This is what knocked me out during the very last moments of the disk chase.

“It’s something we don’t really need in our society,” Jeremiah says in a silky voice. “A weapon. A relic of different times.” He gently taps the stick against his left palm, as though weighing it. “It’s not lethal, of course, and if used under its regular settings, it will cause its target to lose consciousness.” He turns a knob on the stick. “With a lowered current like this, though, I suspect it will
not
knock you out.” He presses a button on the device, and its tip glows with a tiny spark, accompanied by the zapping sound of electricity. “No, I think that if I use it like this, the experience will be rather… unpleasant.”

I stare at him. I think he’s talking about torture, a grisly historical practice I could never comprehend. It’s always been just a word, like genocide. You kind of know what it means, but not really.

Jeremiah steps closer to me.

My insides fill up with Antarctic snow.

Jeremiah presses the tip of the baton to my neck and pushes the button.

I
hear
that same zapping sound and smell ozone in the air. An all-consuming, buzzing pain follows. The electric current spreads through the muscles of my body, leaving them shaking violently in its wake.

Overwhelmed, I scream, and in the haze of my torment, I hear Albert say something. I can’t make out what it is, as I’m convulsing uncontrollably.

The horrid sensation stops.

“What did you say?” Jeremiah says to Albert. “I thought we had an understanding.”

“I’m sorry, Keeper, but I’m authorized to contact any Council member at my discretion.” Albert’s words are clipped. “That’s the prerogative of the Guards.”

Jeremiah points the baton at Albert. Then, perhaps realizing he might look threatening, he lowers it. “Who did you squeal to?” His rheumy eyes are slits of derision.

“The esteemed Councilor Fiona requested you wait for her to join us,” Albert says. “She’s on her way.”

Jeremiah closes his eyes for a second, then opens them and says, “I order you to leave this room.”

Albert starts to move forward, looks at me, then at Jeremiah, and stops.

“Since you brought up prerogatives,” Jeremiah says in a more commanding tone, “mine is to order you, and yours is to obey. Isn’t that right?” He gives Albert a challenging look. “So in case it’s not clear, this is a direct order.”

Albert awkwardly glances at the door.

Jeremiah turns his head to the second Guard, as though to ask for assistance, but he doesn’t get a chance to say anything. As if realizing his protests won’t amount to much, Albert exits the room, his thumping footsteps echoing down the hallway.

Jeremiah looks at the remaining Guard. “You should also go,” he says. “Though you and Albert will not recall these events after his”—he nods toward me—“Forgetting, I think it might be best for everyone concerned. Plus, if the Council starts asking you anything prior to the Forgetting…”

The Guard nods and obediently walks out.

Jeremiah turns to face me. “Sorry about all these distractions.” He crosses his arms, careful to keep the tip of the baton away from himself. “Are you ready to talk?”

I shake my head. I don’t trust myself to give him a defiant reply because my mouth is dry with panic. Worse, I fear I might plead with him if I try to say anything.

“You
should
plead with him,” Phoe says, her voice frightened. “That Guard was the only ally you had in this room, and now he’s gone.” She takes a shaky breath. “Please plead with him, Theo. And if that doesn’t work, tell him everything.”

“That was the lowest setting.” The irritation is gone from Jeremiah’s voice, and he looks almost caring and sad as he says this. “Please, Theodore, just talk to me. That’s all I ask. Your brain is not broken beyond repair like Mason’s. If you talk, there’s a chance I can make you Forget—”

I extend my left middle finger and angle it as far as my bonds will allow.

Jeremiah releases a heavy sigh and twiddles with the controls on the Stun Stick.

I freeze.

He reaches for me again.

I try to squirm away, but the bindings hold me in place.

Knowing how the Stun Stick feels makes this part more frightening.

He presses the baton’s button.

The spark shows up and stays on the tip of the horrid device.

He touches the Stun Stick to my neck.

This time around, the agony that zaps through my body is a hundred times worse. I shake and twist, battering myself against the straps. The scream is wrenched violently out of my sore throat. I feel as if I’m about to throw up, or maybe I already have.

“Theo, if he keeps this up, your heart could stop.” I hear Phoe’s voice as though from a distance. “Stop your heroics and talk.”

I can’t respond to her, not even mentally. She’s probably right. The heartbeat in my ears reminds me of automatic gunfire from ancient movies, both in terms of how rapid and how loud it is.

“Ready to talk?” Jeremiah’s voice manages to penetrate through the fog of agony. “Just nod if you’re ready.”

My universe gets laser-focused on one expression of my will: not nodding. Even as the pain intensifies, all I can do is focus on not nodding.

It becomes a macabre meditation mantra. I ride the wave of pain, thinking only of not nodding.

Though my vision is blurred, I think I see movement from the direction of the door.

My body is behaving like a marionette in a hurricane, thrashing every which way, but as long as I don’t give in, I don’t care. Even if I scream, as long as I don’t nod, it’s okay—although if this goes on another moment, I might lose control of my bladder or worse. But even that wouldn’t matter, as long as I don’t nod.

“I said,” a female voice enunciates loudly, “stop this at once.”

The pain stops, and I sag against my restraints. I’m confused. I thought it might’ve been Phoe who spoke up, but that would mean Jeremiah could hear her, making him the second person who ever has.

“Fiona,” Jeremiah says, his mouth turned down. “You shouldn’t interrupt me when—”

“The Council only authorized you to perform euthanasia”—the older woman crinkles her small nose at the word—“which was supposed to be followed by an Oasis-wide Forgetting.” She gives Jeremiah a piercing look, daring him to counter. “This—” She points her slender finger at me, disgust written across her face. “This is something else entirely.”

Her voice is melodious. Were she Fiona’s age, Phoe would sound like her, which might be why I got confused earlier.

“Fi,” Jeremiah says in a placating tone. He holds up the baton. “I don’t want to do this, but I have reason to believe this child has figured out a way to tamper with Forebear technology.”

The old woman’s already-pale face goes impossibly whiter.

She looks at Jeremiah, then at me.

Silently, I mouth the word, “Please,” figuring it’s not beneath my dignity to appeal to this woman, since she seems to be an ally.

She stands up straighter and looks at Jeremiah. “The Council members are already waiting to discuss this,” she says, her tone full of resolve. “You can explain everything once we reach the Hall.”

“Fine.” Jeremiah’s nostrils flare, and I catch a glimpse of the overly bushy hair in his nose. “Let’s get this over with.” He drops the Stun Stick on the floor. “While I deal with this minor inconvenience,” he says to me, “I hope you take this time to think about your situation.” He softens his tone. “I really want what’s best for you.” He gives Fiona a meaningful look and then adds, “For everyone.”

“I’m ready to tell you something,” I say through dry lips.

“Don’t, Theo,” Phoe says. “Don’t antagonize him.”

She must’ve read my intent.

That doesn’t matter, though, because the old man didn’t. He gets closer to me and eagerly says, “Tell me.”

“Fuck you,” I say as loudly as I can. “Fuck. You.”

The old woman looks pained upon hearing my words but says nothing. She takes Jeremiah’s elbow and leads him out the room.

I blink at the empty room.

Phoe’s ghostly shape appears in front of me. “Now, Theo,” she says, her voice trembling. “Do the gesture.” She extends her middle fingers. “Get to your cave before someone comes back.”

I mimic the gesture, wishing Jeremiah could see it.

The white light that carries me seems imbued with electricity this time—no doubt a result of me getting tortured by that particular force of nature.

In the next second, the white room is gone, and I’m standing in the virtual reality place Phoe calls my man cave.

My bonds are gone, as are any remnants of pain.

This time, the dangerous objects inhabiting this place look friendly and welcoming, and Phoe once again looks like a real girl—a girl whose pixie face has circles under her eyes.

“Get back into IRES,” she says quickly. “Beating the game is our only chance.”

“But—”

“Remember all those times I said there’s no time to discuss things?” She’s speaking so fast some of the words are jumbled.

I nod.

“This time I don’t think I need to convince you, do I?”

“It’s just that…” I have trouble talking with everything that’s happened. “It was so frightening, the last time.” As the words leave my mouth, I understand the silliness of what I’m saying. I’m about to get tortured again, then killed, and I’m worried about getting scared inside a game.

Phoe’s gaze is pained. “If I could protect you without having to do this, I would in a heartbeat, but I can’t, and it’s killing me.” Stepping toward me, she lays a hand on my shoulder. “Just don’t let the game convince you it’s real this time,” she says softly, “and you should be okay.”

Not real
, I repeat to myself a couple of times.
It isn’t real.

“That’s right,” she says. “It really won’t be.”

Cognizant of my limited time, I start to raise my hands, ready to connect my middle fingers.

“Last thing,” Phoe says, her face contorted in a kaleidoscope of emotions. “Since you could see the Screen I sent you before, I should be able to work off the fix I utilized that time and develop an even better way to stay in touch. I won’t waste time describing it since you’ll see it soon.” She squeezes my shoulder. “If it works, that is.”

“Okay,” I say and extend my middle fingers.

“Wait,” she says.

I stop the gesture and look at her questioningly.

Her face gets close to mine as if she’s about to whisper something, but she purses her lips instead.

I stare at her delicate features, trying to understand what this is about.

Her lips touch mine.

I finally get it.

She’s kissing me.

This is very different from that peck on the cheek she gave me before.

Her soft lips are moving over mine. They taste like flowers.

Instinctively, I return the kiss.

Before I understand what’s happening, I feel her tongue flick into my mouth.

My eyes open wide in response, and I note that hers are closed demurely.

In the next instant, she pulls away and says, “That’s for luck.”

I stand there, frozen in place.

“Now go,” she says. “Hurry, Theo.”

I try to connect my middle fingers, but I miss on the first try, like a drunkard from the old movies.

She grabs my wrists and steadies my arms so that I can bring my middle fingers together.

My fingers connect.

I’m so confused I almost welcome the whirlwind trip down the white tunnel.

When the flash of blinding light subsides, I look around and my heart sinks.

My body is in agony from the recent torture, and I’m once again tied up in Jeremiah’s cursed white room.

“
T
his isn’t real
,” I tell myself. “This is IRES messing with me again.”

“I’m afraid it
is
real,” Phoe says in my mind. “I know how it’s going to sound, given what happened the last time you played, but this is the real world. The game didn’t start. This is for real.”

“This is a game,” I repeat, squeezing my eyes shut.

“I’m coming in,” Phoe says. “It’s time we meet face to face.”

“That’s exactly what you said the last time,” I say, opening my eyes.

She doesn’t argue.

The door opens.

Fiona—the old woman who led Jeremiah away—is at the door.

“Theo, I’m Phoe,” she says as she steps into the room. “You might recall my real name is Fiona. You even heard Jeremiah call me Fi. Fi is what my friends call me. How did I always ask you to pronounce my name?”

“Like it rhymes with ‘fee,’” I mumble. “But this is all a coincidence, and this is still the game.”

She walks over to me and does something to my restraints. One second I’m bound, the next I’m free.

“Look at it this way,” Fiona/Phoe says, giving me a part-warm, part-sly smile that looks eerily like the one I saw on Phoe’s younger face a moment ago. “Even if this is the game, you don’t want the in-game Jeremiah to torture you. It will feel just as real as if you were in the real world.”

For a made-up person, she’s making a lot of sense.

“Fine, game-Phoe/Fiona.” I pick up the Stun Stick Jeremiah dropped on the floor. “What kind of world-ending event are you going to try to convince me to do now? Can we somehow unleash death by explosion instead of Goo?”

“I’m just here to lead you out,” the old woman says. “After that, we’ll find you a quiet hidey-hole and try to jack you into the game again.”

“Right,” I say sarcastically. Making air quotes, I add, “Again.”

She throws her hands up in a ‘I give up’ gesture and walks confidently toward the door.

I follow.

We exit into a long gray corridor.

“This way,” she says and goes right. “Walk quieter.”

I follow at my regular gait, muttering, “This isn’t real,” under my breath.

“That attitude will be your downfall,” Phoe says mentally. “Even if this were a game, which it isn’t, don’t you realize that if you die, you won’t complete your IRES mission? That means that in the so-called real world, you’ll be back in Jeremiah’s clutches, on the table in that room.” She points at the room we just left.

I shake my head.

This pseudo-Phoe continues making sense. Or is it my brain telling me this?

“Or maybe it’s IRES fucking with your mind.” Phoe’s mental voice is filled with mock paranoia.

“If you’re trying to be a convincing Elderly woman, you should abstain from using the ‘F’ word,” I subvocalize.

“Like Phoe— I mean, like
I
never used that language?” she asks challengingly.

“Enough,” I whisper. Subvocally, I add, “I’ll be careful.” To myself, I think, “But this is still a game.”

She doesn’t contradict my thought as she turns the corner.

“Shit,” her thought comes. “There’s a Guard here. Go the opposite way.”

I turn on my heels and hurry to the other end of the corridor. As I walk, I hear Fiona having a polite conversation with the Guard.

As I make my way to the end of the hallway, I wonder whether Fiona could indeed be Phoe—outside the game, that is. Could my subconscious mind have figured out who she really is and told me via IRES? Or could the game have figured it out after scanning my brain?

“Or this isn’t a game,” Phoe’s voice intrudes, “and I merely told you what’s what.”

I don’t answer.

I’ve reached a corner and need to proceed cautiously.

Repeating the maneuver I used in the Witch Prison, I crouch and peek from below a normal person’s height.

The corridor looks safe.

I get up and make the turn.

This corridor is about half the length of the other one. I can’t help but notice how much this reminds me of Witch Prison. Did IRES simply recycle that?

“If this was the game,” Phoe says, “do you think it would let you dwell on the fact that you might be in the game so much?”

“How can it stop me from thinking whatever I want?” I reply mentally. “And even if it could do that, it might find me doubting my reality entertaining.”

Phoe doesn’t have a comeback.

I walk to the end of the corridor in silence.

When I get to the corner, I repeat the stealth trick and turn into yet another empty corridor.

“Is this place a maze?” I ask as I reach a fork—empty corridors going in three directions. “Also, where are you? Where am I going? What’s the plan?”

“Go down the hallway on your right, then down the stairs,” Phoe says. “I’m already waiting for you.”

“You have to answer every one of my questions before I do anything you say,” I think at her. “So, what’s the plan?”

“There’s no time. Get here, and you’ll see,” Phoe says urgently.

I consider this. I picture going down the right corridor, walking into a room downstairs, and Fiona convincing me to press a button with her (double confirmation, of course). A digital countdown initiating some kind of self-destruct sequence for this facility, or all of Oasis, would no doubt follow.

Muttering, “This is a game,” I turn left, since that’s as close to doing the opposite of what Phoe wants as I can manage.

“You’ll regret that,” Phoe says, “when you realize how wrong you are.”

To tune her out, I mentally hum the ancient melody that I think is called
In the Hall of the Mountain King
. The suspenseful, tension-building music fits my mood perfectly.

The gray corridors go on for the next ten minutes.

This place really is a maze, which gives extra credence to my belief that I’m in a game. Games love mazes.

Another odd feature of this facility is the lack of people. I haven’t come across a single Guard after the one Phoe spoke to.

As though in response to my thought, I hear distant voices.

Great. I jinxed it.

I softly walk up to the turn in the corridor leading to where the voices are coming from, and crouch to take a look around the corner.

A white-haired man is standing there talking with a Guard.

They have their backs to me.

“Don’t, Theo,” Phoe says in my mind. “Don’t go near them.”

Since she’s telling me not to, I decide I should do exactly what my instincts are telling me to do: the complete opposite of what she says.

I crawl on the floor like a soldier going through enemy territory.

The men are too absorbed in their conversation to notice me.

When I get within reaching distance, I raise the Stun Stick and prepare to strike.

Glancing down at the nob Jeremiah was twirling earlier, I try not to shudder at the memory. There’s a little ‘plus’ icon on one side that I assume increases the voltage. Underneath that is a little button. I turn the dial in the ‘plus’ direction.

I extend the weapon, gently touch the Guard’s ankle with it, and press the button, hoping the shock will penetrate through his white boot.

The Guard twitches and falls like a sack of sand.

I quickly jump to my feet.

The white-haired man’s—Jeremiah’s—eyes look comically wide.

I thrust the Stick at him, but he dodges it. Then, in a whirl of motion, the Keeper dives for the belt of the fallen Guard.

I again try to jab him with the Stick.

I miss.

I try hitting him with the Stick, using it like a club.

It connects with his upper shoulder, but at this point, he’s already holding the Guard’s Stun Stick.

Like a fencer, he blocks my next jab with the Stick he just acquired.

His movements are too quick for what I’ve read about old people—yet another little point for the
unrealness
of what’s happening.

“Or his nanocytes are keeping him limber,” Phoe says. “Plus he could’ve trained as a fencer during his Adult years. If I were you, I’d focus on the fight. You don’t want to lose in either case.”

I don’t respond, but she’s right.

I try kicking Jeremiah in the shin.

He steps back and whacks my left elbow with the Stick, hitting the spot the ancients sarcastically called ‘the funny bone.’

My arm goes numb and agonizingly tingly. Only the memory of what this man did to me keeps me from dropping my Stick. I focus on that memory, forcing myself to ignore the pain.

Ancients called the emotion I’m feeling ‘bloodlust.’

With a shout designed to unnerve my opponent, I charge Jeremiah.

My shoulder hits him mid-stomach, and I hear air escape his lungs as my shoulder goes numb.

His Stick falls on the floor with a loud clank, and he doubles over, clutching his stomach.

In case he’s trying to trick me, I press the Stick against his skin and push the button.

He collapses to the ground in a heap of twitching limbs.

I know I should feel compassion, but I don’t. This is just a game, and even if it weren’t—

I turn in time to see the Guard grabbing for my throat.

He must’ve recovered from my jolt while I was fighting Jeremiah.

I duck, and he grabs hold of my hair. My scalp cries out in protest. It’s surprisingly painful to have your hair pulled like this.

I kick him in the groin—a move I employed against another Guard the last time I was in this game. I know this is a male Guard from having overheard his conversation with Jeremiah, which means that in theory, this kick should hurt a lot.

And yet the Guard merely slows down for a moment.

I use the pause to jam him with the Stick again, frantically pressing the button as I do so.

He shakes but doesn’t fall.

I turn the dial all the way up.

The Guard falls and convulses on the floor.

For good measure, I zap him once more and turn to look at Jeremiah.

The old man is trying to get up.

I touch his nape with the Stick.

“Don’t make any sudden movements,” I say. “We’re going for a walk.”

Without arguing, he gets up and starts walking down the corridor. I follow as he makes a left and a right down short pathways.

My Stick doesn’t leave his neck.

“He’s leading you into an ambush,” Phoe says. “He knows the Stick is nonlethal, so worst case is that you just zap him once, right before the Guards overpower you.”

I don’t respond to her, but to Jeremiah, I whisper in my most sinister tone, “If I see a single Guard, after I knock you out with this Stick, I’ll break as many of your bones as I can before they take me. I’ve read that bone density becomes a real problem as you age. You don’t want me to test that theory.” Of course, I’m bluffing. The very idea nauseates me, but he doesn’t know that. For good measure, I add, “I think I’ll start by putting this Stun Stick into your mouth and kicking it. That’ll more than likely break your jaw.”

I have no idea if my last threat is even physically possible, but it makes an impression. Jeremiah stops walking.

Up to this point, he was leading me down a long, windy corridor.

“We need to go back,” he says. “And make a left instead of a right.”

“Lead the way,” I say, trying to sound as menacing as possible.

We walk in complete silence. Even Phoe is quiet.

“I wouldn’t
really
have done
that
,” I think for Phoe’s benefit. “Not even here, in this stupid game.”

“I don’t know.” Her whisper sounds sad. “Without the usual nano-tampering, you’ve deteriorated to near-ancient neurotypical levels, and the ancients did all sorts of atrocities in the name of justice and revenge.”

“What will you do with me if I show you the exit?” Jeremiah’s hands are trembling as he walks. “Will you break my bones anyway?”

“I’ll use this Stick on you one more time.” I don’t know why I’m making my voice reassuring; this asshole certainly doesn’t deserve it. “I’ll set it to knock you out.”

“In that case, the exit is five more turns from here,” he says. “Left, right, left, and left, and right. You can knock me out here and go.”

“No,” I respond and poke him with the tip of the Stick. “Whatever trap you just tried sending me into, we’re entering it together.”

He walks silently the rest of the way, arms hanging limply at his sides.

We make the turns he suggested, and I see a door that looks like the twin to the one in the Witch Prison.

Looks like he didn’t lie to me after all—not this time anyway.

When we reach the end of the corridor, I point to the door and say, “Open it, and I’ll do as I promised.”

He looks at me. His eyes are watery. Without saying a word, he makes the regular ‘open door’ gesture. The door opens a sliver. It seems as if it would’ve opened for me just as easily.

“If I see something other than the outdoors after I open this,” I say, “I will come back in.”

He nods and squeezes his eyes shut, cringing as he waits for me to knock him out.

“You should sit”—I glance at the Stick to make sure it’s on the right setting—“so you don’t fall down and break something by accident.”

He looks at me with a mixture of gratitude and surprise. Then he lowers himself to the floor. As soon as I judge his ass is close enough to the floor, I zap him in the neck.

Jeremiah sags against the wall.

I’m about to head toward the exit, when I spot a shimmer coming from my wrist.

I look at it.

It’s as though an ancient wristwatch has formed on my arm. Instead of the usual watch dial, this device has a tiny, ghostly-looking Screen.

I recognize this Screen. I saw it toward the end of the last game, only it was bigger.

My pulse leaps, and I eagerly read the text on the Screen.

I hope you’re reading this, Theo,
it says.
This is Phoe, of course.

The little Screen runs out of viewing room after that sentence.

I stare at it, waiting.

The letters disappear, and a new message shows up.

I was finally able to hack permanently into IRES and anchor this watch to your avatar.

“I knew this was all fake,” I mentally scream at the in-game Phoe as I wait for the Screen to refresh.