by Mari Mancusi
“I, um—”
The blond man waves a hand. “No, no, dear,” he interrupts. “No thanks necessary. It’s my pleasure to rescue you. After all, you wouldn’t be in this horrid mess if it weren’t for me. I tried to take all the precautions, but he stole you away seconds before my men could arrive. I do apologize for the inconvenience. For making you have to spend time in this” —he looks around the room with disdain—“place.” He smiles broadly. “Now, come along. We’ve got primo reservations at Luna Park Terrace and the maitre d’ simply deplores tardiness.”
He gestures to the open door, and his guards step aside to allow me to exit. I rise from the couch. What am I supposed to do now? Go with them? I don’t even know who they are.
“I don’t …” I hedge, trailing off, not even sure what questions I should be asking. I look around the apartment, which up until this moment has been my prison cell. The place I’ve been dying to escape. So why do I have the sudden urge to stay put?
I catch the man’s glance at my shattered inhaler, still lying where Dawn left it. He looks up at me. “Your asthma medicine,” he says in a concerned voice. “What happened?”
“Uh, it … well, there was an accident,” I say, not knowing why I feel the need to cover for Dawn. After all, he very nearly killed me and it certainly was not an accident.
The man raises an eyebrow. But “I see” is all he says. “Well, no worries, we’ll get you set up with a new one as soon as we’re home.” He pauses, then adds dramatically, “Skye.”
My jaw drops. “You know who I am?” I ask incredulously. “You don’t think I’m Mariah?”
The man chuckles. “Mariah. What rubbish. Don’t tell me you’re starting to believe the Dark Siders’ wild tales. You’re Skye Brow from New York City. An honored guest here in our humble land of Terra. But surely, my dear, you must know that already.”
I let out a sigh of relief. Finally, someone who knows who I am. Who recognizes the real me. And here I was starting to believe Dawn’s crazy stories. What an idiot. A million questions tangle in my throat, warring to be asked first. “Why am I here? How did I get here? What’s Terra? Why does everyone think I’m this Mariah girl? How do I get back home?” The questions come fast and furious.
The man chuckles again. “All in good time, Skye, all in good time. But first, I think you need your medicine. You’re looking quite pale. Come with me and we’ll arrange for a new inhaler immediately. Before you have another attack. Then we can discuss returning you home.”
I pause again, torn. On one hand, I finally have someone who recognizes me as me. Who is promising a sensible explanation for all of this. Not to mention the offer to help me get home.
On the other hand, shouldn’t I wait for the Eclipsers? After all, Dawn said they could help.
Why trust Dawn? asks a voice in my head. He kidnapped you and tried to delude you into thinking you’re someone else. He’s threatened you with weapons, dragged you underground, and locked you in his house after almost killing you by destroying your medication. Not really a guy who inspires much confidence.
I can’t argue with the logic and I make my decision: I’m going with the stranger who at least seems to know who I am. Who accepts the fact that I’m from Earth, and isn’t going to feed me more disturbing lies. Who’s going to get me home—which, let’s face it, is mission number one.
“Let’s go,” I say.
I follow him and his men out of Dawn’s cave and down the twisty passageways toward the town square. To my surprise the formerly bustling city center is now startlingly vacant. I look around; where did the throng of mutants go? At the moment I almost expect tumbleweed to float across the abandoned space.
It’s then that I catch the eyes peeking from every window. From around every corner. The people are all hiding. Are they afraid of this man and his guards? I suppress a shiver, trying to convince myself it’s just from the draft.
My entourage stops in front of a shiny black limo parked just outside the town’s main gates. My host presses a button on a remote and the car doors rise like the DeLorean in Back to the Future. Still not positive I’ve made the right choice but not sure what else to do at this point, I reluctantly crawl inside. The interior is luxurious, made of some rich, soft, leatherlike material. Crystal decanters hold sparkling liquid and the lighting is soft purple. The blond man takes a seat across from me and his guards file in, two up front and four at our sides. The driver fires up the engine and the doors swing silently shut. Like Dawn’s bike, the limo rises a few inches off the ground and takes off down the tunnel at great speed.
The silence that follows is more than a little unnerving and I decide it’s time for some answers. “So who are you?” I ask. “Since you already seem to know everything about me.”
He smiles serenely. “They call me Brother Duske. I’m a senator down here in Terra. A member of the Circle of Eight.”
Shit. I stare at him, cold seeping through my insides, even though the car is well heated. This is Duske? The man I was warned about by Dawn and Glenda? The one I was told to avoid at all costs? And here I am, in a hover car with him and his soldiers, flying through the tunnels at top speed. Oh, Skye, what have you gotten yourself into?
“Judging from your face I gather you’ve heard terrible rumors about me from the Eclipsers,” Duske says, raising an eyebrow “How embarrassing.”
I blush. “It’s just that … well …”
Well, what, Skye? You think he’s evil because some random strangers told you he was? The same people who also told you that you’re a revolutionary leader for their downtrodden world? Maybe not the most reliable source, just FYI. In fact, maybe they wanted you to avoid Senator Duske because he would tell you the truth—that you’re not the precious rebel leader they want you to be. Ever think of that?
“Sorry,” I stammer. “It’s just—well, I’m feeling a bit like Alice in Wonderland today. You know, I knew who I was this morning, but I’ve changed several times since then?”
Duske laughs appreciatively. “I promise, Skye,” he says. “All will be made clear to you very, very soon.”
His words effectively end the conversation and we continue to zoom down the underground highway going this way and that. I soon lose track of all the twists and turns—the place is like a maze. Finally, we stop in front of a tall, vertical glass tube shooting up into the darkness. As I watch, curious despite myself, the driver presses a button on the car’s console and a glass door slides open. He backs the car into the tube and then presses another button. I realize that we must be in some kind of glass elevator. Very Willy Wonka. A moment later, the door slides closed, and I feel the sensation of rising fast.
Suddenly, the elevator shudders to a stop and the doors slide open. The driver steps on the gas and we float back out onto the open road. I gasp as I take in the stunning landscape before us. We appear to be in the center of a city, a hustling, bustling metropolis that looks remarkably like Times Square if Times Square were set deep underground.
Tall buildings crowd the streets, disappearing into the darkness above while strategically placed stadium lighting offers the illusion of daylight on street level. Neon signs and billboards advertise fake tanning, cosmetic surgery, and the latest and greatest in hover cars while bustling people go about their days. Girls in short skirts and high boots. Guys in black trench coats. Fashionable, well-fed, happy-looking people of seemingly every race. No mutants in sight, either.
We pass corner boutiques spilling out onto sidewalks. Restaurants serving heaping plates of food to patrons. There’s even (get this!) a Starbucks on one corner! As we ride, I look more carefully at the electronic billboards covering almost every possible surface in a garish Tokyo-esque style. “Are you ready to look into the moon?” one asks. “Try it for a day—or a lifetime!” suggests another. And one tongue-in-cheek ad recommends: “One of these days, POW! Straight to the moon!”
“Is this where the Indys live?” I ask.
Duske nods. “We
call it Luna Park. Pretty, isn’t it?”
It is. The stone walkways are elegant and well-designed. The buildings are sleek and some made entirely of glass. And the centerpiece of the city, a spiky postmodern fountain, glitters as water droplets capture the lights and fragment them into a shower of kaleidoscopic color.
But how can these people enjoy all of this, knowing what’s happening one strata down? My mind flashes back to the grubby mutant children of the Dark Side, destined to live in the gutters their entire lives. Do these people know how their neighbors are forced to live?
“Such a difference from down below,” I murmur.
“Yes. It’s unfortunate,” Duske agrees sorrowfully. “But we’re working on that. You’ll see.”
We leave the town, turning left and driving down a long road until we pull up to a mammoth Tudor-style mansion. It’s set high on a hill, is at least four stories tall and made of white stone—with a single candle illuminating every window. It’s elegant, but at the same time a bit foreboding, the sharp lightning slashing across the landscape, casting menacing shadows. The driver pulls up and around the circular driveway, stopping in front of the house.
“Here we are,” Duske announces. “Home sweet home.”
We exit the car and end up inside a majestic foyer that matches the majesty of the building’s exterior. The walls and floor are made entirely of marble. Cold. Glittering. A crystal chandelier hangs from a cathedral ceiling. In the center of the room a mammoth staircase—like something out of Gone With the Wind—sweeps upward.
I turn to Duske. “Can I have my asthma medication now?” I don’t mean to sound ungracious and hasty, but before I get completely carried away by the opulence of this stranger’s world, I want to make sure he can deliver on his promises. After all, I’m still not sure who to trust.
Duske nods and claps twice. An old, graying butler wearing a tuxedo enters the room, bowing his head as he approaches my host.
“Brother Thom, could you get Sister Skye her medication?” Duske asks. “And,” he says, after scratching his chin, “a dress suitable for dinner.”
The butler nods and disappears into the house.
“No offense to your current clothing,” Duske says, giving me a somewhat disdainful glance. “But the Park Terrace has been picky about dress codes lately. Forgive me.”
I nod absently, more concerned that he didn’t tell the butler what brand of medication I needed. But before I can speak, the butler returns. Almost as if he had exactly what his master would ask for just waiting in the next room. More than a little creepy.
But I can’t help a sigh of relief as he places the inhaler in my palm and I see the familiar Lunatropium label. Just having it in my possession makes it easier to breathe.
“Thank you,” I say. “I was really freaking out there for a bit.”
Duske nods knowingly. “My pleasure,” he says. “Though I suggest you save the medication for a moment you really need it,” he adds. “There’s not a full bottle’s worth left. Asthma medication can be so hard to acquire here in Terra.” He turns to Thom. “And the dress?”
Thom hands me a dress on a hanger, covered in plastic. I hold it up in front of me, to get a better look. It’s not just a dress, but a full-on floor-length gown. Halter-top, red, with a slit that cuts to midthigh. Even through the plastic I can see the fabric is seeded with multicolored gems. Very adult and very unlike anything I’ve ever worn before.
Thom bows stiffly. “One flight up,” he instructs. “Two doors to the left. A private bathroom where you can bathe and change.”
“Dinner’s in an hour,” Duske adds. “I trust that’s enough time to get ready?”
“Um, sure, okay,” I stammer, not wanting to appear ungrateful. But still, when do I ask him about going home?
“One more thing,” Duske adds, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a long silver chain with a sparkling charm attached. He drapes it over my head and it falls just between my breasts. “Beautiful,” he proclaims. “Just the piece to accentuate the dress.”
I grasp the charm between two trembling fingers. The necklace, I realize, is identical to the one the proprietor took from me. Identical to the hundreds of others hanging in the Moongazer Palace cabinet. What does it mean? Suddenly the sinister feeling returns with a vengeance and it’s all I can do not to reach for my inhaler again.
“Um, thanks,” I murmur, not knowing what else to say. I drop the charm and it settles, warm, against my skin.
“My pleasure,” Duske replies. “After all, it’s so rare we are fortunate enough to entertain guests from Earth. So few make the trip this way, or even learn of our existence in the first place.” He bows low. “I’ll see you back here in an hour,” he pronounces, then turns and heads into the house, leaving me behind, buzzing with a billion questions. Thom remains standing stiffly in the hall, with an expectant look on his face. I glance longingly at the front door, wondering if I should make a break for it. But where would I go? Duske’s the only person who seems to know what’s really going on in this crazy world. The only one I can convince to help me get home. Better to just get dressed and get this dinner over with, so I can make my request to return to Earth.
And so I head upstairs, trying not to drag the dress on the ground. I find the bathroom and draw in a breath as I step inside. The entire room is constructed of etched glass and marble. A hundred tiny teacup candles flicker from various nooks and crannies. Some are encapsulated in glass, others float in small vases of water. The Jacuzzi is big enough for three and filled to the brim with steaming bubbles. The vanity is covered with brightly colored soaps, glass bottles of flowery perfumes, and earthen jars of creams. There’s a video screen embedded in a wall, playing back some sort of soap opera. I watch as it goes into commercial.
“Are you looking for a new adventure?” the voiceover asks, showing film of a large full moon. “A new world where all your dreams can come true?” The video switches to a scene of a sunny beach with bathers frolicking and tanning and downing fruity cocktails. “Imagine a world where you can lie out in the sun and won’t get sick.” The picture switches to a swinging nightclub. “Where you can dance the night away under the waxing moon.” I stare, my eyes widening as I realize the club is Luna. Is that Craig in the DJ booth? “Well, look no further than Earth—a new world that mirrors the Terra of old in all the best ways. Try it for a day—or take the journey of a lifetime.” The scene closes with two people cuddling up to each other on the hood of a car under a star-filled sky. “Are you ready to look into the moon?” the voiceover asks alluringly.
The commercial ends and the TV goes back to its regularly scheduled soap opera. I shake my head. This Moongazing thing, whatever it is, is everywhere. And they make it look so great. Heck, the commercial made me excited about Earth and I’ve lived there my entire life. But what is Moongazing, exactly? Some kind of tourist initiative to send people to Earth on vacation? Seems innocent enough. But if that’s all it is, then what was all that stuff Dawn had been talking about: drugs, implanted memories, fake family and friends? How did that all fit in?
I shrug. Duske will explain, I decide. I’ll get the full scoop at dinner. I hang the dress on a hook and pull off my dirty, bloodied clothes. Then I test the water with my big toe. Perfect. Everything in this part of the world seems to be flawless—the polar opposite of the world beneath. I feel a sudden pang of guilt at the thought. Should I be enjoying this luxury while so many people are suffering below?
I shake my head. I can’t think like that right now. And refusing a hot bath will not feed a hungry child. And so, pushing back the guilt, I lower my body into the tub, trying to force my brain to stop whirring at least for a moment.
But still the questions poke and prod, refusing me rest. Where am I? How did I get here? Who are the Eclipsers and what do they want with me? Why does Dawn hate me so?
And most importantly …
Who is Mariah Quinn and why does she look exactly like me?
EIGHT
“This place is gorgeous. I’ve never seen anything like it,” I exclaim as the hostess escorts us to a plush booth at the back corner of Luna Park Terrace restaurant. And I mean it. The entire room is carved out of a sort of polished smoky blue glass—the tables, the floors, even the walls—allowing for a tremendous view of a nearby lava-filled crater. The lava bubbles and boils beside us, but we’re cool and comfortable. This place is beyond breathtaking. A study in fire and ice.
“You haven’t?” Duske asks. “What a shame. But you have so many other lovely things where you come from. I hardly think you should complain.”
“Oh,” I say, taken aback. “I’m not complaining. I’m just impressed.”
Before Duske can respond, a wrinkly man dressed in a tux and with a name tag that simply reads WAITER approaches our table. He bows at the waist.
“How do you do this fine evening, Brother Duske?” he asks with an impeccable English accent. “It is an honor to have you patronize our humble establishment.”
“It is an honor to be here, Brother Claude,” Duske answers with the same modicum of respect.
The waiter turns to me. “And you, Sister. It is an honor to—”
“A bottle of your finest vodka,” Duske interrupts.
The waiter nods, seeming a bit taken aback by the interruption. “Of course,” he says, bowing low again. “So sorry, Brother Duske.” He hesitates for a moment, as if daring to speak again. “And would you like your usual entrees?” he asks at last.
Duske glares at him. “I would like my usual,” he says. “But this young lady has never dined in your establishment. So I am sure she would like to hear the specials.”
“Right. Right,” the waiter stammers. I raise an eyebrow. Does he also think I’m Mariah? A nervousness gnaws at my stomach.
The waiter reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief, patting his brow. “Today we have a lovely butternut squash ravioli, dusted with sage and swaddled in a soy cream sauce. We also have a black bean and tortilla pie, glazed with a faux honey chipotle.”