Dominion Rising: 23 Brand New Novels from Top Fantasy and Science Fiction Authors

by Gwynn White

  He checked his phone. Still no signal. The agency wouldn’t know where he was. But there would be clues if something happened.

  He was the last one on the balcony. Hunter found Dova at the back of the line, her hand open and inviting, slipping her fingers between his.

  They descended at least three stories, a cacophony of footsteps that measured the plunge to a cool, damp room. A hint of something pungent, slightly spoiled. He expected to see iron bars around the corner, the elaborate joke finally up.

  It was another large room, this one subtly lit with dark corners and round tables. It resembled a small nightclub. A circular dais was shrouded by a black curtain. Dova led him to a standing table, a candle flickering on a white tablecloth. She excused herself with a gentle squeeze and left him with his bottle of water.

  The crowd was less than fifty people, but how many of them were business associates pretending to buy whatever they were selling?

  Despite the air-conditioning, hot flashes were flaring inside him. He slid the cap off his head, bunching it in his hand. Sweat beaded along his forehead. The air felt stagnant. He could hear his own breath.

  He checked for a nosebleed.

  Dova was not in the room. In fact, fifty people was a small number based on how many were mingling upstairs. Each of them was welcomed by someone when they arrived. Dova was his invitation.

  Or recruiter.

  Someone had entered the room and made their way between the tables, occasionally stopping to shake hands, kiss a cheek or share a laugh. They seemed to recognize him, a celebrity among them. Maybe this wasn’t their first time, or they’d heard so much about him. His gait was graceful, fluid.

  “Welcome, everyone,” he said above the chatter. “Welcome, welcome. We can get started, finally. I know we’re running a little late, but time is relative, yes?”

  There was laughter. Hunter wasn’t in on the joke. He knew about time dilation inside the Maze, but they were laughing at something else.

  The man climbed onto the dais, his back brushing the curtain. His hair was as white as his teeth, his smile a heat lamp. Hunter could feel it in his stomach, a pleasant sensation that mingled in the heat of claustrophobia.

  He clapped his hands. “We’re glad to have you.”

  Hunter drained the bottle of water and mopped his forehead. No one else was fidgeting. They wore big smiles while sitting at attention, every word driving dead center, bull’s-eye. Maybe they were all business associates and Hunter was the only real customer in the room, all of this for his benefit, orchestrated to make him feel safe, to lure him deeper into the trap.

  All of them watching him.

  “Why are you here?” He paced around the dais. Some answered the rhetorical question; his smile never wavered. “You want something better. You know you’re more than who you are, you can feel it. Am I right?”

  Agreement murmured throughout the room.

  “How many of you dreamed last night?” Three silent steps, hands together. “Where did you go? Did you leave your body? Go to Peter Pan’s Neverland? Did you experience Foreverland?”

  Hunter flinched. Dry heat exhaled through his pores. Did he say Foreverland?

  “Who are you?” the white-haired man asked. “When you dream, do you become someone else? I speak of a convincing dream, one you feel and smell and hear, a world as real as this.”

  Several people nodded along, reminding Hunter of those mega-church gatherings.

  “Your body is merely a vehicle, not much different than a car. Your body only carries you to your destination. You care for the body, you feed it and bathe it, give it medicine to keep it working. But you step out of the vehicle when you arrive at your destination. So what are you if not the body?”

  There were several answers.

  “The mind?” The white-haired man nodded along. “I believe we’re more than that, my friends. We know the world through our five senses.” He counted them off. “Is that all there is? If we are born without sight, how do we know such a thing as seeing even exists?”

  The man straightened the curtain behind him. The silence hung as thick as velvet.

  “If your body is a vehicle, where is it taking you? I think you have come to the right place with that question, my friends. Each and every one of you has a destination. You are going somewhere, but you don’t know where. You don’t know how.” He took calculated steps around the dais, hands out. A wide smile. “You don’t know why.”

  Hunter leaned forward, waiting for the next words. They came out in a whisper but reached them all.

  “My friend, you are blind and cannot see.”

  The hook was set. They were on the edge of their seats, leaning on the table, against each other. Every word was a turn of the reel, a little closer to shore where the white-haired man waited with a net.

  He said friend, not friends.

  Hunter sniffed. Sweat seeped into his eyes, smudging details, streaking lights. The white-haired man disappeared on the other side of the curtain. Hunter’s pocket buzzed. He jolted with surprise and reached for his phone. There was a text, even though he still wasn’t getting service.

  Who is this?

  He ignored it and looked for the white-haired man. The business with no name was about enhancements, about improving the human experience. Making it more. But this was something else. Something more. He should leave before he felt worse. A swamp of perspiration spread between his shoulder blades. It trickled down his back. He needed some air.

  Why did they invite me?

  “You didn’t come here for money or fame. You have no need for carnal pleasure or simply to dream,” the white-haired man said. “You came to create.”

  Hunter’s elbow slipped from the table. An iron tang filled his throat and rang in his head. He wiped his nose. A crimson streak smudged the back of his hand.

  “For the first time in your lives, you will know the true purpose of being human. You will truly see.”

  Hunter’s past rushed up from the deep, a leviathan sinking teeth into his mind, tearing away the walls that hid his past, the events that left a scar on his forehead, enslaved him to a lifetime of yearning for something else. Something more. His haunted past had branded him with unobtainable desire. The tropical island where he was first introduced to the needle.

  “The universe, my friend, is indeed—” the man raised his hands “—endless.”

  The black curtain dropped.

  Hot air scratched through Hunter’s throat, scorching his lungs. He fell into the table and went to the floor. Only the people near him noticed. The rest of the room saw only what was center stage. Hunter caught a glimpse of the upright tank before rolling onto his back. Bubbles streamed up the sides.

  A body inside.

  He fell onto warm sand and smelled the ocean, went deep into memories that were down but never forgotten. When he hit bottom, the past was waiting.

  Foreverland was calling.

  16

  Hunter

  After the Punch

  Where am I?

  Hunter looked through a glass wall that was slightly curved, a horseshoe-shaped building a few stories below. Beyond that was a large green field, a college campus lined with palm trees with giant white birds.

  Foreverland Island.

  He was a kid when he woke up with a headache and a scramble pot of memories, memories the old men programmed in him, confused him. Memories he believed, he trusted.

  Memories that weren’t his.

  Is that what we are, memories? A record of past events, each one a building block forming an inescapable foundation? Blocks cemented beneath us in childhood, blocks that support us, convince us who we are?

  Even if the memories aren’t mine.

  His memories, the ones before the island, were of a loose childhood. He lived with adoptive parents that disciplined often. Their weapon of choice was an old car antenna that sliced the air before stinging the backs of his legs, a blazing line burning his thighs. His mom slept m
ost of the day. His dad was usually gone.

  Hunter ran away when he was young. He didn’t plan it, just left school one day and didn’t go home. It was the next morning they noticed he was gone. It wasn’t long after that he woke up on the island with no memory of how or why.

  The old men brought him there and boys like him. They scrambled their thoughts and locked them in cells, made them uncomfortable, and instilled a mad desire to escape their bodies. Eventually, they did. What was left was a young, healthy body with nobody home. The old men in their sick and failing bodies were waiting.

  It was the needle that was erasing them. They strapped on a punch and welcomed the needle as it drew them out of their suffering bodies and sent them to a dreamland where every wish came true, a place of make-believe they never wanted to leave, never wanted to return to the agony. Like all the other boys, Hunter embraced the needle, craved its kiss, clung to its escape. Even though it was erasing him, he reached for it when it was offered.

  We all did.

  He’d survived the island only because the authorities arrived, but it taught him one thing: memories couldn’t be trusted. He kept them at arm’s length, regarding them with suspicion. Who he was—his identity, his core existence—was something more than just memories; he believed, like all sentient beings, he had an essential nature that used memories to form an identity but didn’t require them to exist.

  He’d escaped the island, was rescued from the old men before they stole his body, but part of his mind never left.

  The island is inside me.

  The jungle began to fade. An off-white ceiling replaced the sun and sky. His vision was obscured by a damp cloth over his forehead. He wasn’t looking down on the island. He was lying in a chair and struggled to sit up.

  “Shh-shh.” Soft, thin fingers stroked his arm. “Slow down.”

  His body was heavy, a mold filled with wet sand. He dropped his head into a pillow. Water was running down the walls to his left and right. The wall in front of him was transparent. It overlooked a great lake. Unlike the island, this glass wall was not curved. The moon hung above the horizon.

  “What…” His throat jammed up.

  “You’re in the healing room,” Dova said. “Many find it soothing to be here after an overwhelming experience.” She smiled down on him, pupils large.

  His front teeth were numb and slightly loose. He ran his tongue over his lower lip. The taste of clean iron and the sting of a neat gash were near the tip of his tongue.

  “You fell before we could catch you,” she said. “I never should’ve left you alone. Your reaction wasn’t unusual. It just came a little faster than anticipated.”

  She dabbed his cheeks.

  He pushed onto his elbow despite her resistance. The chair folded to his new position. A full view of the lake was below. She offered a bottle of water.

  “You drugged me.” His words were long and slurred, heavy and wet. They put something in the water, uncorked all those memories of Foreverland, things he wanted to forget. But she opened it in front of me. Took a sip.

  “I assure you, Mr. Hunter, you were not drugged. Others have had a similar experience. It is why we escort our clientele. It is quite overwhelming when first exposed to the possibilities.”

  He shook his head. That wasn’t it. He knew all about tanks and awareness leaping, of the alternate realities they experienced. He’d seen that show a thousand times. It was his head. It had begun to itch. The residual was still in his skull, a creeping worm that inched its way up and down the dormant stent buried beneath the scar, scratching the gray matter in search of a way out, dragging him back to the island.

  “There is a certain energy,” she said, her full lips curling, “that fills the room during these moments. You experienced this.”

  It was illegal, what they were doing. And they knew it. Recreational tanking was what they were selling. The sales pitch suggested something more than mere entertainment, though. To create.

  Create what?

  They wanted him to see it, an agent of the federal government. But why? He twisted around. A door was in the back wall.

  “You are free to go, Mr. Hunter.” She chuckled. “You need a few moments to recover, get your strength back. Your legs are weak. Another fall like that and you’ll lose a tooth.”

  “What you’re doing, you’ll all be arrested if I leave.”

  “We are doing nothing illegal.”

  “You’re peddling awareness leaping to paying customers for recreational purposes.”

  “That is not what we’re doing, Mr. Hunter.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Teaching people to see.”

  “I have to report this, Dova. Your operation will be shut down, I promise you. You will be detained. An operation like this will get you… arrested. Prison, most likely.”

  Guilt twisted his stomach. He didn’t want to do it, didn’t want to report this. He knew why. She had cast a spell and he was lapping it up.

  “You’ve seen what we do, Mr. Hunter. You know our potential.” She dabbed his swollen lip. “And we know yours.”

  He stopped her from caressing his cheek. Her wrist was slender, the tendons rigid. He imagined the taste. He threw his weight forward. Blood surged in grainy waves, pixelating his vision. A black tunnel rounded the edges. He took a moment before standing, swaying in place.

  He made it to the glass wall with his hand out. They were two stories above the pool, the water clear blue. The top floor and balcony was above them. Weren’t there palm trees?

  He was certain he’d seen them. Palms didn’t grow this far north. But now there was only the pool and big pots spilling flowers. A sudden urge to vomit buckled his knees. He held himself up, his damp palms pressed flat.

  “What have you done to me?”

  “We have done nothing.” Dova put her hand on his waist. Her touch was delicate. Sensual. “You chose this.”

  Her fingers trailed up his back and slid over his shoulders. She wrapped her arms around his chest and stroked his chin. Her touch sent shivers through his neck, around his head. Her fingers traced the creases above his eyebrows and stopped on the tiny scar where a stent used to be.

  You chose this. Was she talking about Foreverland? Because he didn’t choose that.

  “We know who you are,” she said.

  “And who am I?”

  Her breath was in his ear. Her hand worked through his hair and found the secret on the back of his head. A queer sensation knifed through his brain. He jerked away and found himself leaning against the wall. Water spilled down his arm, dripping from his elbow.

  He worked his way to the door and turned the handle, surprised to find it unlocked. The hallway was empty. Dova remained across the room, his prints smudging the glass wall next to her. She did nothing to stop him. She didn’t have to.

  We both have secrets.

  They knew his addiction, the one he kept hidden from the world. But I didn’t choose this.

  Addiction was forced upon him, but it was his now. If the government knew, he would be ruined—an employee that compromised their entire purpose. He would be singled out as a mole, an informant. As part of the problem.

  I’m worse than that.

  But he only hurt himself. These people were doing something worse; they knew what they were doing and disguised it in some greater purpose. He just didn’t know what that greater purpose was.

  “Consider our proposal, Mr. Hunter.”

  “And what is that?”

  The itch flared in his head. He knew what they offered. Peace. If you join us, you’ll have peace.

  “Sunny Grimm,” he said. “Her son. Do you know where they are?”

  Her grin was pleasant. “You know where they are.”

  “I want to speak to Micah.”

  “When it’s time, he will find you.”

  He looked down the hall. He could ruin them. He wouldn’t even have to run; they would let him walk out and he would make a call an
d ruin their entire operation.

  Dova strode across the room. “Freedom, Mr. Hunter, cannot be forced upon you. All we can do is offer. You must see it. You must choose it.”

  “I didn’t choose this.” He clutched the hair at the back of his head, clenching his teeth. “I didn’t choose this.”

  His addiction, his compulsion lived inside him. It demanded of him. The old men did this to him. But I’m the one feeding it.

  She took his hand and walked him through the door. The hallways were empty, her footsteps sharp. A car was waiting outside, the back doors open. The grounds were empty. Where is everyone?

  She climbed inside and pressed against him. Hand on his thigh.

  “What if I tell my superiors?”

  “You are free to choose, Mr. Hunter.”

  Of course he was. They were prepared for this. He’d stepped into something much bigger than he imagined. Even now, he had no idea.

  The stars disappeared as they drove to the city. They stopped in front of his hotel, rain dancing on the hood. She opened the door, then walked him to his room and laid him on his bed.

  The brain itch had grown into the serpent inside his head. It was hungry. Dova slipped off his shoes. She removed his pants. His shirt. Her hands kneaded the knots from his shoulders. She climbed on top.

  Her flesh warm. Muscles taut.

  In the morning, she was gone. For the first time, the brain itch had disappeared without being fed. It just disappeared. He woke bright-eyed and clear-minded. A new man with a taste of peace. They had him.

  Whatever they wanted from him, he would give.

  17

  Grey

  Before the Punch

  Coffee Beaned was a long café, separated into a front and back room by an open grill and bathrooms. Grey stood next to the men’s room and watched a group of girls around a laptop. He texted a message. One of the girls looked at her phone, then turned it over.