by Mari Mancusi
“Welcome to the Dark Side,” Dawn says grimly. He presses a button and the bike sinks back to the earth. I let out a sigh of relief. He dismounts and walks over to the gate.
“The dark side?” I repeat skeptically. “As in, ‘Use the force, Luke’?”
“Hardy-har-har,” Dawn mutters, not sounding the least bit amused. But he does seem to recognize the Star Wars reference. Does George Lucas’s presence really stretch this far? “Dark Side. Like, the place where the Dark Siders live,” he clarifies bitterly. “Those of us deemed unworthy of mingling with the Indys of Luna Park.”
That doesn’t exactly clear things up. “Indys?”
He sighs. “You really have forgotten everything, haven’t you? Indys—short for Independents. The free citizens of Terra. They live on Level One of the underground strata in their luxurious condos with sparkling swimming pools, tennis courts, and expensive restaurants. While we, the working class, the ones who keep Terra running, are trapped down here in Stratum Two. Doomed to live in the dirt and squalor and work like slaves our entire lives.”
“You live underground?” I feel a sudden pang of sympathy for the guy. “That must be horrible!” I mean, I can’t even imagine what it must be like to live underground. Never see the sun.
Never see the moon …
Dawn chokes out a laugh. “Funny you should say that.” He presses his thumb against a small gray pad embedded in the gate. The device beeps twice, and the gate creaks open. “I mean, seeing how you betrayed the revolution and all.”
Before I can reply, he joins me back on the bike and turns over the engine, drowning out my billion questions as we rise off the ground again. We head through the gates and into the tunnel beyond. The Dark Side, I realize quickly, is very unlike the town I arrived in, one stratum above, where buildings, while decrepit, still seemed semi-normal and recognizable. This place feels more like an ant farm, with intricate, twisty-tunnels leading off in all directions. The ceilings are beyond low and dull, dirty metal doors are embedded into the rocks every few feet. The claustrophobia kicks back in—hardcore.
As Dawn bike banks a sharp left, we glide down a corridor, and the narrow passage thankfully opens up into what appears to be some kind of town square. I look around, quickly assessing. Junk stores advertise odds and ends. Tiny grocers are busy parceling out moldy vegetables and crusts of bread. Broken-down trailers with tattered canopies and multicolored Christmas lights squat wherever there’s room. And scantily clad women hang out of crumbling buildings advertising their particular services.
Steam rises from the grated floor, and condensation drips from the high ceiling, giving the impression of a drizzly rain. The place is packed, too many people for such a small area, all milling about, waiting in ridiculously long lines for groceries and junk. Most are dressed in gray rags and appear scrawny, impoverished, and blindingly pale.
Dawn parks his bike and we disembark. He gestures to the scene. “Spark any memories?” he asks, a hopeful note in his voice.
I shake my head. Just the opposite—I’ve never seen anything so foreign in my whole life. I try to imagine what living down here would be like. Trapped in a subterranean world with no hope of ever going back up to the surface …
We pass an old man hobbling down the street on a bent metal cane. I can’t help but stare as I realize he’s got an extra eye growing out of his forehead. He looks up, his trifold gaze meeting mine. Then, suddenly, his forlorn face lights up like a child’s on Christmas morning.
“Mariah?” he cries, his voice full of wonder. “Is that really you?”
“Oh, great. I was afraid of this,” Dawn mutters. “Look, Brother—we’re trying to keep a low profile—”
“Hey, everyone, it’s Mariah Quinn!” the man calls out loudly before Dawn can silence him. A moment later I find myself rushed by what appears to be the entire town. Encircled, entrapped, and completely engulfed by eager Dark Siders, their eyes shining, their voices animated as they demand to know where I’ve been. I’m smothered in hugs and questions and requests for help. I look around wildly for Dawn, pleading for his assistance.
“Hey, hey!” he yells over the roar of the crowd, shooing them away. He manages to carve out a small space between me and the Dark Siders. “I know you’re excited to see her, but Mariah’s been through a lot. She needs some time to recover before you bombard her with requests. I’m sure she’ll be setting up visiting hours soon. So just hang on until then, okay?”
“Sorry, Mariah,” several townspeople say, looking appropriately abashed. “We’re just so glad to see you again.” They step away slowly, retreating, respectful. Some touch their caps; others bow their heads.
I look over the crowd, realizing that the man with three eyes is not alone in his deformities. A young woman has an extra, useless arm hanging to one side. A small boy has a tooth growing out of his chin. A middle-aged man has an extra set of ears. They’re all mutants. Every last one of them. I glance over at Dawn. Is he deformed somehow as well? But no, he seems normal. Flawless, even. A perfect specimen.
Before I can question this, Dawn grabs my hand and leads me through the crowd. It parts like the Red Sea, heads bowing reverently as we pass. Whoever this Mariah is, she certainly has the respect of the people. Did she really betray them all? I glance back at the sad, downtrodden masses and my heart aches at the hope in their eyes. They are going to be sorely disappointed when they find out their supposed fearless leader is nothing more than a college kid from another world.
Dawn leads me out of the town square and down another tunnel. We come to a metal door, embedded in a stone wall. “Home sweet home,” he says as he presses his thumb against the sensor. The door slides open, and we step inside.
I look around; the apartment is no more than a small cave—entirely windowless and scooped out of stone. The walls are smooth, as if they’ve been sanded down and the decor and furnishings are beyond sparse. A small metal futon couch, coffee table, bookcase—a kitchenette with a half fridge and stove top burners at the far end. Two doors lead off to the side. Bedroom? Bathroom? Do they have plumbing down here? That would be something, at least.
The front door slides silently shut behind me. Dawn walks over to the futon and collapses on it, head in his hands. He scrubs his face, staring down at the rock floor, silent.
“Um,” I say, still hovering by the door. “So now what?”
Dawn grabs a small silver phone off the coffee table and presses in a code. He puts the receiver to his ear. “Yeah,” he says, after a pause. “I got her. Yeah, she’s at my place. No. No, she has no idea who she is.”
“Is that Glenda?” I ask, reaching for the phone. Dawn dodges my hand and stands up, walking to the other side of the room.
“No, you come get her. I told you I wanted nothing to do with this … Nice trick, telling her to contact me when she reentered … Yeah, whatever … As far as I’m concerned she could have rotted at Moongazer Palace.” He grips the phone tightly, his knuckles white. “Yes, I really do mean that. Look, you guys have your own agenda and that’s fine by me. But I want no part of it. I told you. I’m done. Ready to lie low. I’ve no interest in fighting the good fight anymore. And you know what? I don’t think your fearless leader even knows there is a fight.” He pauses again. “Whatever. Just come get her so I don’t have to look at her pointy little nose anymore.”
I cringe, resisting the urge to reach for my nose. He sounds so angry. So bitter. How can I convince him that I’m not who he thinks I am? That he can’t blame me for whatever it was that this Mariah chick did?
Dawn presses a button on his phone and looks over at me. “The Eclipsers are on their way,” he says. “So you can relax. You’ll be rid of me soon enough.”
“Look,” I say, figuring now that we’re relatively safe I should put all my cards on the table. “No matter what you and the people out there think, I’m not Mariah. I’m Skye Brown—a college kid from New York. I don’t know what’s going on or how I got here or where here e
ven is, but I’d really like to go home now.” My voice breaks, the strain and stress and horror of everything I’ve gone through finally overwhelming me. Tears well up in my eyes. Tears of frustration, helplessness, and rage.
There’s a pause, then a crash, as Dawn slams his phone against the stone wall, smashing it into a thousand pieces. “Goddamn you, Duske!” he roars, so loud I think I feel the apartment shake. “Goddamn you and your ‘Gazers!”
I jump back, afraid of his violent outburst. “What are you talking about?” I ask, trying desperately to keep my voice steady. “Who’s this Duske guy? And what’s a ‘Gazer?” Even as I ask, I’m not sure I want to know.
He turns to me, his face awash in anger. “Listen to me now,” he commands. “And listen good. You are not who you think you are. This Skye girl from another world? This college kid from New York? She doesn’t exist. Your name is Mariah Quinn. You’re from here—Terra. In fact, you’ve lived your whole life on Terra, till a couple of months ago.”
“But that’s crazy!” I cry. “I know who I am.”
“No. You only think you do,” Dawn volleys back. “The Moongazing drugs have made you forget who you really are. Everything about your life in fact.”
I scowl; this is ridiculous. I don’t take drugs. And I certainly haven’t forgotten who I am. “You’re wrong,” I tell him. “I’m Skye. And I have a whole lifetime of memories to prove it.”
Dawn rolls his eyes. “Implanted memories don’t count.”
“What about my family and friends, then?” I challenge. “My classmates? My teachers?”
“Strangers introduced to your new life. My guess is they were similarly wiped and implanted when you started Moongazing.”
I squeeze my hands into fists, frustrated beyond belief. “What … is … Moongazing?”
Dawn doesn’t answer, and the sudden silence is unnerving. He sinks down onto his futon, his anger seeming to dissipate into sadness. I drop to the couch, looking at him pleadingly. “Tell me,” I beg. “Please.”
But he just shakes his head. “I look at you now and see nothing but an empty shell. A shadow of a girl I once loved, with false memories to lull her to sleep while her people suffer and die, lost without their leader.” He stares at the wall so hard I half wonder if he’ll burn a hole in the rock. “You make me sick, Mariah Quinn.”
“I’m not Mariah,” I protest again, weakly this time, most of the fight in me gone. I wish he could just accept that I’m not who he thinks I am. I’m not a leader. Or a traitor, for that matter. I’ve never been here before. I’ve never laid eyes on Dawn. I’ve never laid eyes on any of these people.
Are you so sure about that?
With perfect timing, my throat constricts. Do I have my inhaler? I pat my skirt anxiously, praying it’s still in my possession. I feel a lump and reach into my pocket, fingers curling around my salvation. I pull out the device and put it to my mouth.
Dawn knocks the inhaler from my lips milliseconds before I can take a puff. It skitters across the floor, banging against the rock wall and coming to rest a few feet away.
I stare at him. “What the hell did you do that for?” I demand. I dive for my medication. But he’s too quick, jumping in front of me and grabbing it before I can.
“Give that back!” I cry, my voice cracking as I struggle to take in air. I double over, wheezing and choking, my hand out, uselessly begging.
“Look at you,” Dawn says, his voice cold. “You’re so addicted you can’t even breathe without the ‘Gazer drugs. Pathetic.”
“That’s not … ‘Gazer drugs.” I wheeze. “It’s my … asthma medication.”
“You really think I’m stupid, don’t you? Or you’re so lost it isn’t even funny.”
My heart pounds. My skin’s clammy and cold. If I don’t get my breath under control soon, I’m going to die. Here, in this horrible place. Where no one knows where I am. Or even who I am.
Dawn drops the inhaler on the floor and crushes it under his boot.
“No!” I scream, my world flying out from under me. I fall back onto the futon, struggling to fill my lungs. My vision’s gone spotty and I’m close to passing out.
Breathe in, hold, one, two, three. Breathe out, hold, one, two, three.
Please don’t let me die. Not like this.
Suddenly I feel a presence inches from my face. My eyes flutter open to find Dawn, kneeling in front of me, holding a paper bag to my lips. Desperate, I breathe into it, then suck out the air. Breathe in, suck out, breathe in.
“Come on,” he urges. “Breathe, Mariah. Just breathe.”
After what seems like an eternity, I manage to wrestle my lungs back into submission. Dawn removes the bag from my face and rises to his feet.
“Thank you,” I murmur weakly, though I should be yelling at him. Sure, he helped me. But if he hadn’t broken my inhaler I wouldn’t have needed his help to begin with.
“God, you’re in worse shape than I thought,” Dawn mutters, grabbing a burlap bag off the floor and swinging it over his shoulder.
“You don’t understand,” I argue weakly. “My medicine—I could die without it.”
“That’s what they’ve taught you to believe,” he says, looking down at me with sad eyes. “But you didn’t die, did you?”
His logic is irritating. “Um, well, no,” I admit. “But that doesn’t mean …” I trail off, not knowing what good it will do to explain. He’s obviously got his mind made up.
He glances at his watch. “Anyway, I’ve got to go.”
Panic seizes me. “What do you mean?” I cry, hating how desperate my voice sounds. Why should I want him to stay? He very nearly killed me. But at the same time, I don’t want to be left alone.
“I’ve got to stand in line for rations,” he explains. “Besides, the Eclipsers are on their way to get you. I really don’t want to deal with them today.” He pauses for a second and I catch him looking at me longingly with those beautiful glowing eyes of his. Then he shakes his head and turns abruptly away—stalking to the door and slamming it shut without so much as a good-bye. I hear it locking behind him.
I run to the door, grabbing the handle, but it’s no use. I bang on the metal, screaming at the top of my lungs for him to come back, but the door remains closed and locked and Dawn does not reemerge. Finally, after my voice gives out, I abandon the door and walk over to investigate what’s left of my inhaler. The glossy purple case is shattered, the vial cracked. Not good.
I turn to the rest of the apartment, desperate for some kind of answers. The first thing I discover, discarded on the coffee table, is an ID card of sorts, with Dawn’s image grimly smiling up at me. The ID lists him as Dawn Gray—Surface Medic, nT Alpha.
Surface medic? Is that like some kind of doctor? I frown. If he’s really in the medical profession, he should know better than to withhold someone’s medication.
I discard the ID on the coffee table, walking over to the bookcase. There’s only one book, lying on a top shelf that I can’t reach. Besides that, the bookcase displays a couple of photos, framed with crude glass and metal. The first is a group shot of a bunch of boys, dressed in identical cranberry school uniforms. The caption below reads ACADEMY ALPHA. I set the picture back on the mantel and turn to the other.
My eyes widen. I do a double-take.
No.
It can’t be.
I grab the picture and stare hard, my fingers trembling so badly it’s hard to get the image to focus. But suddenly it becomes crystal clear. A black and white portrait of a girl wielding a Japanese sword. The caption read: Mariah Quinn: Champion Swordswoman, Lunar Park Pro Division.
And she looks exactly like me.
SEVEN
My fingers fumble; I drop the picture, and it crashes to the stone floor. The glass frame shatters into a million pieces, cutting into Mariah’s face.
My face.
I sink down onto the sofa, trying to get a grip, not wanting to lose my breath again. My mind whirls with confusion, trying
to make sense of it all. I’ve never posed for a photo with a sword. Hell, I’ve never held a freaking sword to begin with. And yet, there’s no mistaking it. This is a picture of me. My face. My body. It’s absolutely identical, down to the heart-shaped birth mark on my left shoulder—the one Craig likes to nibble on when kissing me in the hallway—and the same winding daisy chain I’d regrettably had tattooed around my ankle last spring break, much to my parents’ chagrin.
The girl in the photo—she isn’t just a lookalike, someone who could easily be mistaken as me; she’s an exact replica. She is, in all respects, me.
But how is that possible?
A loud knock on the apartment door causes me to nearly jump out of my skin. I glance over, nervous. Who could it be? Then I remember. The Eclipsers. Glenda and her friends. At last. Maybe now finally I’ll get a chance at some real answers. And hopefully a one-way trip back home.
“Glenda?” I venture. “Is that you?”
The door swings open and a tall, broad-shouldered man steps through, surrounded by an army of six soldiers, all dressed in silver uniforms. I tense, remembering the uniforms from my dream. Are these Eclipsers? Or some other group altogether?
“Hello, darling,” the man coos in a deep-throated English accent. I give him a once-over, cataloging him quickly. He’s blond. Handsome. Strong Roman nose, piercing green eyes. Well built, too. As if he’s clocked in quite a few hours at the local underground gym. He’s dressed much differently than Dawn, wearing an old-fashioned black suit, much like the proprietor at Moongazer Palace, though his is tailored to fit and the fabric looks expensive.
“Thank goodness we found you,” the man says, stepping across the room and taking my hand in his. Before I realize what’s going on, he pulls me from the couch and gallantly kisses the back of my hand.
I yank my hand away with a frown. Something’s wrong. I don’t know why, exactly. Just … these guys don’t seem anything like how I’d imagined Eclipsers. Not that I had a clear picture, mind you, but still.