Writers of the Future, Volume 28 (19 page)

“Calm down, girl. I know you have smarts in your head.” Lt. anchors me by the arm and slips on a set of sunglasses. “You didn’t climb all the way to this COP just because you have a pair. Look at how you’re dressed. You were probably wearing that sleepwear the night the Grunge took us on, right
?
Practical. Now look at your feet. Adaptable. What makes sense to you probably doesn’t make sense to others, but that’s why you’re awake in the Honeycomb and about 7.9 billion people aren’t.”

He stoops down, chews the butt off a new stogie and draws a maze in the sand with a finger. “Let me put it to you straight and quick. The Grunge, they’re a psionic race. That means they can get into your head. And since you’re not a vegetable like the rest of everyone in the Honeycomb, you have the capacity to adequately react to them invading your mind. Now, the unit at COP Phoenix—those of us with the capability, that is—we go on the offensive. We do reconnaissance into waking consciousness—”

“Our Modus Operandi,” Sebastian contributes, and Lt. shoots him a bullish look.

“
And,
it’s my belief you’d fit right in.” He takes a pull on his stogie. “But what you need to understand, so that you’re not apprehended, is that the Grunge came for the experience. You say you want to know what they want.” Rising, he flicks his stogie into the sand and stubs it out with the toe of his boot. “We’ve seen it. They wear human bodies like clothing, like skin, in order to experience the physical world. To taste food and drink. To listen to music in waveform instead of through math. To smell nature, progress, and pollution. To enjoy sex. To see through human eyes. What this unit at COP Phoenix is accomplishing is the gathering of intel. The more we know about the Grunge, the more chances we have to discover a weakness and exploit it. We’ve begun by collecting those who are awake in the Honeycomb and establishing COPs.”

“Is that what the bridges are for
?
” I ask, thinking of the elaborate network of filigree arches that expand from Lt.’s ledge into the void. “Ways to get to the other COPs
?
”

“Teacher Lobsang and his students weave them,” Sebastian answers with pride. He’s creating highways in the sand with the heel of his sneaker, all the way from the point where Lt. buried his smoke. “We’ve seen campfires and lights on distant ledges and have heard voices. This is how we found Avril. She made a campfire to signal with. A very clever idea.”

I’m so engrossed, I’ve just now realized I’m humming again and it’s making my feet tingle. The hollow feeling in my stomach has receded—some.

Lt. goes on, “Before the establishment of COP Phoenix, I was sweeping the closest alcoves and found the first survivors. The first awakened minds. Teacher Lobsang and his students were amongst them. They alone are responsible for the bridges. The sheer power of mind they exhibit is phenomenal. And it’s a boon, too, because as we speak, the unit is moving further and further into the Honeycomb, in search of others, via the bridges. The more COPs we establish, the more the human race can reconnect and establish an opposition. Currently, we have fifteen COPs. But it ain’t easy.”

I look Lt. in the eye. “You used to do this in real life,” I tell him, matter-of-fact, “establish COPs.”

Lt. nods slowly and admits, “I was a commissioned officer on a transition team of advisors to the Afghani military.” For a moment, he looks at the mountains. “That billet was training,” then he bores into me, “for this.”

Butterflies collide in my stomach and that tingling feeling expands up my legs. Somehow I feel the same; I can’t explain it. I think I was meant to fight. Designed. Fated. Mom always said I was a leaf on the wind. But none of us in here appear irrational now. No sane person could have ever foreseen
this
kind of war.

“Basely is the only one of his personalities stable enough to do recon,” Avril whispers to me behind her hand, for good measure, and Basely turns up his nose.

“Soldier! Just look at you!” exclaims Lt., and I do. I look.

Holy freak!

I’m no longer in my nightie. I’m . . . I look like a member of some kind of sci-fi special forces or something. Only practical. None of those high-heeled bimbo boots that flash sex but would kill a girl in combat. Freak! This is real. Flesh-colored synthetic armor, like a second skin. Utility belt. Compact energy weapons and demolitions. Thick gloves with brass knuckles. A camel pack on my back.

I feel my hair. It’s slicked severely to my head in a braided bun.

Mother would approve.

Well, maybe of the function, but not the look—ha!

Basely and Avril are amazed. Sebastian is giggling maniacally into his hand. Even Lt. looks caught off guard, although he’s hiding it behind a smug grin, his sunglasses and the comment: “’Bout time someone projected this look.” With a shriek, Basely’s personality, Jin-Jin, who’s been hovering like a fly in the threshold to the Honeycomb, flees back inside and comes out with the entire COP in tow.

My moment of glory is ruined. They’re
staring.
Mentally, I claw at the suit, trying to keep it on, trying to force myself not to pop right back into my nightie. “Um, so I suppose you can all do recon
?
” I wonder out loud.

“Negative.” Lt. shakes his head. Angrily, he signals everyone back inside and only he, Avril, Sebastian and myself remain in his desert, his unconscious mind.

“We’ve gathered that by now, the Grunge have effectively possessed the bodies of every human soul ever born,” he tells me. “But after they invaded through that gate of theirs, from whatever dimension they came from, there were still humans with strong enough minds to contend with them. At least at one point. The Grunge called these people ‘Prize Raiment.’” Lt. spits. “Utter debasement.”

“Teacher Lobsang was one such,” Sebastian clarifies, winking at me as I continue to check myself out. “But he disassociated his mind from his body before it was too late. The same with his students, but they insist that they did not hold out as long as he did.”

“Yep.” Lt. hooks my camel pack on correctly, then thumps me. “Teacher Lobsang tells us that Prize Raiment were hunted, sought after for their strength of mind and will. Those who were caught but couldn’t be broken have all been terminated, and it’s undetermined if there are any left, or if their minds have been, eh, ‘overthrown.’”

Lt. glares in the direction of the harsh sun. It’s very hot in his desert. Just the fact that I can feel the heat is due to far more than my willing suspension of disbelief—I get it now. It’s just like Teacher Lobsang’s rice: I
assume.
I take for granted. My mind is creating the heat, not the sun. Lt.’s mind is creating the image; I’m just experiencing the effects. Yes!

“Lobsang’s physical body is a Prize Raiment,” Lt. maintains, “so it’s closely guarded and usually possessed by a cadre of Grunge. Makes it damn near impossible for him to do any recon into his own waking consciousness.” He adjusts my utility belt roughly and steps back for a look. “Trust me, we need all the help we can get.”

“None of his students dare to do recon, for the same reasons,” adds Sebastian. “Instead, they are happily weaving the bridges and welcoming newcomers, like you.” He wiggles his brows.

I can’t help myself. I have to ask this one thing—it’s absurd, I know. One of the stupidest questions that can possibly occur to me (crazy, psycho). “But why is everyone speaking English
?
” I blurt. I mean, I’m thinking Basely, Sebastian and Lobsang all have accents, and sure, English may be the business language of the world, but come on!

With his fingers, Sebastian makes the “Live long and prosper” sign from
Star Trek
and says, “Universal communicator,” before giggling into a fist.

“Telepathy just works like that.” Avril pats my arm. “Your mind automatically translates what’s being said.”

“But everyone’s lips are moving in sync with the words,” I retort. I know, I’m being a smart ass. What
?

“It’s all perception.” Sebastian looks approvingly at my feet.

I do too. I’m hovering about three inches off the ground.

“Now
there’s
perception,” Lt. muses, and I crash into the sand with a gasp. He bends over me, hand propped on a knee, his silhouette blotting out the sun. “Ever wonder why time goes so slow when you’re feelin’ pain
?
” he asks me. “At that moment, your adrenaline is pumping. Everything becomes magnified. You’re consciously aware of every little thing. Details fill up your perception from moment to moment and elongate time. Details that were already there, but you wouldn’t have noticed them otherwise, like you’re doing now. That’s perception. It works like your ability to fragment. Like how you created that armor for yourself. Like how you were just floating. We do this in our dreams all the time, but very few people have control over their dreams. Damn, soldier—you’re a quick learner!”

I’m floating again. It must be like what the good doctor said to my mom all that time ago: manipulation. How I can turn a situation on a dime to my advantage. Guess I never figured manipulation was exactly a positive talent.

Pretty freaky.

My feet touch down—gracefully this time.

Lt. pulls another stogie from his vest, and I can see it in his face: he’s ready for my presence on their team.

But what he doesn’t know is how ready
I
am for this.

C
hristina, a shy girl in her early twenties with long black hair, hands me an apple tart. She has body dysmorphic disorder (or so I’ve been told), which means that she’s excessively preoccupied with an imagined or minor defect in her physical features. Screw that. She’s the most beautiful person in this ragtag group. One of the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen. You know, if having a fragmented personality affects your state of mind when you’re awake, it’s sure serving its purpose in the Honeycomb. I wonder what all of these people really look like in real life, what they act like. Teacher Lobsang and his students are probably the only ones who actually equate to “what you see is what you get.”

Right now, the team at COP Phoenix is having dinner. Not that we need to eat. It’s just for the camaraderie and the experience. If the freakin’ Grunge could imagine their physical experiences, they wouldn’t need our bodies as scientific instruments to measure them by.

Freaks.

Lt. has gone off with Basely and Murphy the Short to COP Evergreen on convoy. One of Teacher Lobsang’s students, Chophel, has devised a clever way to tell time in here: If each full breath of the Honeycomb walls can be equated to one minute of time, and the walls undulate in waves, an hour has passed by the time one wave flows out of the darkness of the left of the void, all the way into the right. After twenty-five hours, there is a natural respiratory pause during what would normally be another full wave, so the monks mark this as a day. A twenty-five-hour day.

Lt., Basely and Murphy the Short have followed the time wave over the filigree bridges, into the indigo-blue unknown, and the team at COP Phoenix is keeping track of their departure time. The math involved in their coming and going against the moving waves goes right over my head, but I’ll take Chophel’s word for it.

This is the perfect opportunity for me to return to my house.

Noiselessly, while everyone is engrossed in jovial conversation around the campfire, I slip off the prow of the ledge and scoot along the side of the Honeycomb. I travel beyond the other ledges, all the way back to my own, humming my own marching orders. For the first time, I have a plan. For the first time ever, I have hope.

And I’m not afraid.

The woman in the cell next to mine is still sleeping. My glen is as sparkling as ever when I enter it. I wade through the grass in full battle gear, past the willow on the hill, to my house, where my Mirror Image is begging me not to go in.

Slipping through the back door, I gently close it behind me.

T
he kitchen is spotless and pristine and bathed in a golden halo of light from the window over the sink. The entire house is in sepia tones, actually. Just the way I remember it. Mind you, it’s not necessarily the way it
was;
this is just my glorified memory of it. My parents’ renovated 1800s Victorian. No sign yet of the filthy little imposters who’ve taken up residence.

The Grunge kind of remind me of the house, as a matter of fact. One thing to look at on the façade, quite another on the inside.

Cautiously, I step through a mote-infested beam of sunlight.

“Janie!” My Mirror Image has materialized across the kitchen by the back of the staircase, and her whisper is a quiet scream. “Janie!” Plastered to the wall, she’s marching her finger through the air toward the dining room and the front of the stairs. “In there.”

I scuttle around the staircase, over the dining room carpet to her, burning my hands and knees. Slipping through the trap stair into the crawl space between the first and second landings where the staircase switches back on itself, I get one last glimpse of her in the hallway. Then I’m plunged into semidarkness and the scratching sound of her latching the wooden flap behind me momentarily fills the silence.

Just in time too. A presence flits by the vent.

My heart is thudding in my chest, but I wait. An inordinate amount of time slogs by before I finally chance a peek out the vent. Through the horizontal grates I see only the kitchen. Maybe it’s my imagination playing tricks on me. Maybe my Mirror Image was wrong. But I think not.

In ways other than appearance, My Mirror Image is very different from looking in the mirror. Usually when you see yourself, it’s a reflection, void of its own thought or substance. Immaterial. But like any person when the situation calls for it, I’ll get angry or frightened, and she’s simply a piece of me, only broken off. More than fear, when I’m a microfilament away from losing my life, I’ve come to the conclusion during my time at COP Phoenix that she’s the flesh-and-blood projection of me who can and always will direct my evasion. My conscience and soul. A completely alien person. And I’ve decided to use her—finally.