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

by Gwynn White

  She gently pulled him away from the waterfall and lifted him on his feet. Her strength was surprising. She slid the robe from his shoulders. It bunched in a puddle around his feet. The reflection of a teenage boy looked back from the glass, a boy in boxers with long hair and a sickly yellow patch of a future bruise over his ribs. He coyly folded his arms.

  The woman returned with another robe, this one dry and warm.

  “I like you, Grey Grimm.” She wrapped the robe around him. “You’re smart, funny. Fearless.”

  He watched her fuss with the collar, cinching the fuzzy belt around his waist. How could she know anything about me?

  “There are people that love you,” she said. “There are those that don’t. There is great advantage to having both of these people in your life. Disadvantages, as well. Sometimes, it’s not simple to know which is which.”

  She brushed the hair from his forehead. He jerked back, her touch gentle but his head tender—the result of kissing the lake, full throttle. There was no memory of hitting the water, only the turbulent aftermath.

  The price paid in full.

  “Understanding is your freedom, Grey Grimm. The hunt is the destination. Know where you are, where you are going. And knowing why. Only the willing truly live. Do you understand?”

  He shook his head. Even frowning sent aching waves through his brain. This conversation was speeding ahead of him.

  “Life has you now,” she said. “We cannot intercede again. You drown next time, Grey Grimm, so go home. There is nothing here for you. Return to life; understand your risks. Only the willing can do so.”

  She tightened the collar around his neck, rose up on her toes and kissed his cheek. A sensual shiver warmed his face, soothing his aches.

  “I wish you luck.”

  He listened to her bare feet. She closed the door quietly and left him alone with the rising sun and the peaceful water. He wondered what the hell just happened, what was she talking about? Why did it seem like she had been expecting him?

  And why did she wish me luck?

  The driver waited for Grey to get out.

  He hadn’t made a sound the entire trip, even when asked a question. Vomit streaked the car’s rear quarter panel. Grey had hung out the window to unload his stomach, a sad dog with knotting hair and a sour taste. Maybe the driver was pissed about that.

  Grey checked his phone.

  Service had returned shortly after leaving the country. He texted Rach six times. Called twice. It was too early for her, but her phone was never far from her reach.

  “She’s already home.” It was the only time the driver spoke, waiting with the door open. He said he’d driven her home the night before. “She’s fine. She’s safe.”

  That didn’t help.

  Grey’s apartment building was shrouded in fog. Humidity clung in microscopic drops. The lobby was empty and musty. Grey leaned against the elevator door. The vibrations stirred the headache to life, his brain throwing stones around his skull.

  Seasickness swung him like a limp towel.

  He didn’t know her name, but he wouldn’t forget her face or the way the dress clung to her. She’d told him not to come back, in so many words. And wished him luck.

  What did she really mean?

  He opened the apartment door, threw his keys in the little basket and listened for his mom. It was Sunday morning. Sometimes she got home early when they were ahead of schedule.

  He downed four aspirin.

  His memories were making more sense. Taking the boat across the lake at night? There were few moments in his life that were more stupid. Shoving wires into an outlet came close.

  We should be dead.

  They’d saved them. They didn’t have to come for them, pull them out of the water. They didn’t have to dress him, let him sleep it off in some waterfall room. But they wouldn’t do it again. Life has you now? What the hell does that mean? Would they watch from the cliff if we dump the boat a second time?

  Only the willing live.

  His mother threw the front door open with a bag of groceries and dragged the weight of a third shift behind her. She tossed him a weak smile.

  “You’re up.”

  “Couldn’t sleep,” he said. “You’re home early.”

  “Some repairs and an early shift change.” She put milk and orange juice in the fridge. “I asked you to clean the dishes last night.”

  “Sorry.” He started unloading the dishwasher.

  His mother hovered over the toaster, watching the coils turn orange. Wispy threads of smoke wafted out. She ate the toast dry while blinking slowly. Her eyelids moved like lead.

  “What happened?”

  He froze in place. Had her question had a flatter tone, he would’ve confessed on the spot. Instead, she reached for his chin, frowning.

  “Oh, nothing. I slipped in the bathroom and hit the sink.”

  “You cut it on the sink?”

  “Yeah, it’s nothing.”

  “What’s the stuff?” She stroked the medical glue.

  “Rach had it. She stopped over last night, had it in her purse along with a hammer and a crossbow. She has everything, you know how it is. How was work?”

  “It’s over.”

  She continued chewing. That was a lot of lies to untangle. Nothing momentous and she didn’t have the energy for them.

  “Talk to your dad?” she asked. “Why aren’t you doing weekends with him?”

  “He doesn’t want me to.”

  “Why?”

  “Does he need a reason?”

  She wiped her mouth. “When’s the last time you talked to him?”

  “I don’t know, a week?” he lied again. It had been a month.

  “So he’s alive?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “To you, it should.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  She said the right thing because it was her duty. If his dad died yesterday, it wouldn’t bring her any tears. Grey, either. Then again, he hadn’t been around many dead people. His grandparents had passed before he was born. Death was a foreigner. He didn’t know how he’d answer when it came knocking.

  Maybe he’d sob like a toddler.

  “I’m going to take a shower.” She tapped his chin. He tried not to wince.

  A text arrived at noon. What’s your problem, creep?

  When did you get home? Grey texted back.

  Last night. You?

  This morning.

  Ooo. Party boy, not rude boy.

  He erased several messages before sending a reply. How much should he say through the phone? His heart was suddenly jacked on speed, his fingers tense.

  They brought me home, he finally sent.

  They?

  You sore?

  A little. She paused before adding, Headache.

  Grey followed the four aspirin he’d downed when getting home with two more and then another two. The ache was spreading like a stain. At least it wasn’t throbbing anymore.

  Meet for coffee? he wrote. So we can talk about last night.

  I’m in trouble for the boat.

  How were they going to explain the boat at the bottom of the lake? Unless the rescuers dragged it out with them. But the trailer was back at the ramp. So was her car.

  How’d you get home? he texted.

  I drove, ding-dong. How high were you?

  Your car is home?

  Are you trippin?

  She was safe. She sounded normal. Too normal. They just about sank to the bottom of the lake, the chill still in his bones. They were holding hands while clinging to the hull and she was still tired from too much sleep.

  Pick me up for coffee, he texted.

  I have to fix the dent.

  What dent? He quickly typed a follow-up. Wait, you have the boat?

  Several minutes passed before she responded. The jokes about getting high had run their course. He was officially on her nerves.

  Yes. I have the boat.

  Grey paced
around his room, trying to piece this nightmare together. It was fairly simple for a while. The people on top of the cliff were good people, normal people. They’d saved them from drowning. Obviously, there was something going on up there, Maze activity or gang-related drugs or something. They weren’t bad people or Grey would be bloated and blue by now. But now the story just went crooked. They saved the boat? he thought.

  What did you tell your gpa? he sent.

  What happened.

  You told him we crossed the lake? he wrote.

  What?

  He typed slowly, his fingers turning cold. What happened last night, Rach?

  There was a long pause. Twice she started writing something. Finally, she sent Seriously, are you trippin?

  He started to reply, but she followed up before he could send something. A knot rose in his throat. Grey dropped the phone. His tongue seemed to swell and the room began a slow turn. Do you trust your senses, Grey Grimm? he thought as he looked at it from his bed, not daring to touch the radioactive words.

  We didn’t cross the lake, creep, she texted. That would be stupid.

  The Sessions

  Five men, five women.

  They walked along the narrow hallway, wearing robes of various colors. Their flip-flops snapped. The motley crew of strangers from all over the world had only one thing in common.

  They were completely shaved.

  Rema had assisted Henk before escorting him to the group. His skin was soft and warm from a shower. She used a laser shaver to remove the hair from his head, arms and legs. It certainly would’ve been pleasurable to have her do the rest, but it wouldn’t have led to any sort of gratifying completion. In the two weeks she’d been coming to his room, he learned his exorbitant fee included everything.

  Except sex.

  They entered a large room, one that resembled a small warehouse. Pipes and conduit ran in complex patterns along the high ceiling. The smell of nutrient solution took on a vinegary tang, slightly different than the taste of the small tubs. Henk couldn’t gargle the flavor out of his throat, even when he flushed his nostrils with warm salt water. It was like putrid ink that seeped into the skin.

  Black curtains hung from cables. There was plenty of room behind them. Men and women joined the group as they entered. They were dressed in simple clothing, each of a solid color. One of them was Rema.

  “Welcome.” A tan young man with short black hair greeted them. “And congratulations on your progress.”

  He began clapping and the assistants followed his lead. Henk’s multicultural companions joined in. Henk waved Rema to come over. She pretended not to understand, having eyes only for the young man addressing the group. He spoke with a Spanish accent.

  “I hope your assistants have attended your every need?”

  Not quite.

  Another round of clapping. Some half-bowed. They were all very grateful. Rema ignored Henk’s pleas. He just needed a word.

  “Up until today, you have experienced solo awareness leaping into a computer-assisted reality. While it is limited in function, it has allowed many of you to master the basics. Today you will be introduced to the vertical tank and the networked reality.”

  The Spaniard clamped his hands behind his back.

  “However, you will soon learn there is a certain degree of synergy that occurs when several people leap together and weave an integrated alternate reality. The boundaries between you and me and the illusion that we are separate fall away when you experience this unified reality. We experience something much greater than any one of us can contain.”

  “Excuse me.” Henk raised his hand. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “No, I mean—”

  “We’re only demonstrating the process, Dr. Grimm. You are exactly where you need to be.”

  Exactly where you need to be… more Zen bullshit.

  This asshole knew exactly what he meant. Henk wasn’t ready for vertical tanking. In the days that followed his first disaster, he had regressed. Rema came to his room and lured him into the tub like a frightened dog to water. Each session ended in terror. Every time he went down, the world collapsed. He thrashed out of the tub in horror. Tremors would last for hours. Rema would hold him until they stopped.

  “There’s another way,” she had assured him. He didn’t think she was talking about vertical tanks.

  “Phillipe will be our leader,” the Spaniard said.

  Another man stepped forward, this one a freckled Caucasian. He most likely had bright red hair, but like the rest of them, he had shaved down to his pale skin.

  “Phillipe is wearing a skin suit,” the Spaniard explained. “It is a supple replication of flesh imbedded with complex electrical relays that act much like a secondary nervous system.”

  Phillipe dropped the robe around his ankles. He was wearing a black suit that formed to every curve and wrinkle. A rank smell wafted out of the disrobing, something like congealed ozone.

  “The shaving,” the Spaniard continued, “is to maximize contact with your skin suit so that all sensory flow is unimpeded. This is first-generation technology, I’m sure some of you are aware, but we find it useful to start your first vertical experience with the skin suit. By the end of your Sessions, many of you will experience more advanced techniques.”

  Rema had told Henk about the oxygenated water when she thought it was the claustrophobic effect of the respirator. The advanced methods involved jumping in nude and breathing water. It took a little practice, but she was sure he could do it.

  He was sure he couldn’t.

  Two assistants came to Phillipe’s side. One of them guided a cable dangling from the ceiling to the small of his back.

  “Are there any questions?”

  “Yes, um.” Henk cleared his throat. “Really, I don’t think I’m ready for this.”

  He swallowed spastically. Heat sweats were breaking out beneath his arms and across his chest. His legs were already quivering. Everyone was glowing with anticipation, the wide-eyed wonder of children in a chocolate factory with endless possibilities. Henk was staving off a panic attack.

  Rema pulled him from the pack. “Dr. Grimm—”

  “I’m not ready.”

  “We’re just observing.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You don’t have to do anything. Trust me, I’ve seen it benefit people greatly to watch.”

  How many times had he failed? Watching someone succeed wasn’t going to make it better. It would only bring more shame. He’d spent all of his money, much of which wasn’t his to spend, and he’d failed.

  “You said there was another way,” he whispered. “Besides this.”

  “We can discuss that later. It’s important you know the process.”

  One of the curtains dropped. A clear cylinder was gurgling with thick bubbles of solution. Henk gagged on sight. The assistants fitted a specialized mask over Phillipe’s head. He bit down on a tube that would slide into his throat, then climbed a rack of steps anchored on the side of the tank. The cable sagged.

  “It will be important to relax,” the Spaniard said, then followed with a large grin, “and breathe.”

  The others found the humor. Henk tightened. He’d sucked enough lungfuls to fill a barrel.

  Phillipe reached the top of the ladder. The cable reeled out the slack and hoisted him above the rim. He dangled like bait.

  “The cable is for support,” the Spaniard added. “Should an emergency arise, it will lift you from the tank within a second. The skin suit monitors your vitals. There is nothing that can’t be addressed should it go wrong.”

  “Puis-je poser une question?” a heavyset gentleman asked.

  “Oui,” the Spaniard answered.

  The gentleman continued in French. The Spaniard listened patiently.

  “Mr. Moreau very astutely asked where Phillipe will be going. In the network, you will experience a different sort of leap. Computers are involved but m
ore as sensory modulation. The new reality in this room will be a collaborative effort, but will hinge primarily on a host.”

  The Spaniard gestured to the large curtain behind him. It appeared to be concealing an eleventh tank, one slightly larger.

  This would be an organic host, a live human being whose dream was the foundation upon which others would leap into. Their input would help shape the new reality in which they existed. They would be like Greek gods, but the host would be the final word.

  Zeus.

  “¿Se requiere ninguna memoria?” a woman in a maroon robe asked.

  The Spaniard conversed fluidly in his native tongue before addressing the group. “Miss Martinez asked if this requires a memory wipe. It does not. Only for participants entering the Maze is a memory alteration applied. We are simply awareness leaping.”

  Phillipe placed his toe into the bubbling goo. The cable gently lowered him inside. The viscous solution surged around his thighs like corn syrup.

  Henk reached out for Rema. She held him with both hands. A sour burp burst in his throat. He swallowed down an acrid tang.

  “Phillipe will remain in the tank for an hour, but he will experience time differently where he goes. Depending on the laws of the universe he helps create, he could experience a lifetime during that period, a phenomenon known as time dilation.”

  Phillipe’s head sank below the surface and lolled in the swirling agitation. His arms drifted from his sides. The cable fell slack.

  “I can’t do this…” Henk slurred.

  Rema supported his weight.

  “Phillipe has already vacated his skin. With practice, you will find it just as effortless.”

  Henk swayed forward. His stomach twisted in a wet coil.

  “And when you complete the Sessions—”

  Henk pushed through the crowd, clawing the colorful robes off their shoulders, pushing them off balance. They were too engrossed to be offended. Rema pulled on his collar. He tripped forward and splashed on the concrete.

  “You will no longer need assistance,” the Spaniard finished.