by David Ryker
Sloane reached toward him. “Just grab hold. I’ll do the—what do you call it? Heavy lifting?”
“Close enough.”
Schuster took his hand and was instantly bombarded by a tsunami of sensory images. Sights, sounds, tastes, physical sensations: all came crashing into him at infinite speed and with infinite force, until he felt as if he was about to lose cohesion and dissolve into an infinite number of atoms that would never again be able to find each other.
And instant after that, he was back at the party. It appeared to be the same crowd of people, the same annoyingly soft chamber music in the background, the same servants shuttling around the room and disappearing behind hidden louvers that led to doors in and out of the room. Schuster took a moment to get his bearings before scanning the room.
His heart leapt when he caught sight of Gloom. She looked the same as she had in his reality, with the golden hair and black dress, and very much alive again. But Schuster couldn’t see Sloane.
“Where are you?” he asked aloud. No response, so instead he tried to reach out another way.
Where are you?
I’m unable to manifest here, Sloane replied. Keeping you separate from Gloom’s thoughts is proving difficult. If I stop my efforts, you’ll simply merge with her perspective and cease being a separate part of the reality.
That sounds bad.
It is. Hurry.
Schuster took the order and double-timed it toward the woman who thought she was his wife. He tried to keep a low profile so as not to startle anyone, since he had no idea how the construct of the reality would react to an interloper. When he was a few feet away, Gloom looked in his direction and smiled. He felt a warm glow despite the bizarre situation.
“Hello, handsome,” she said.
He opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, another man walked right through him and took a seat next to her on the arm of a low-backed sofa.
The man handed her a glass and clinked it with his own. “Here’s to you, love,” said a voice that sounded familiar to him, and yet somehow not. A moment later, he realized why, as a man with his own face turned and looked at him.
18
“Looks like you’re as surprised as I was,” Oleg said with a grin. “I have to admit, I may not like Zero, but I damn sure respect the guy. He threw in with Drake because he always backs a winner, but he hedged his bets by keeping Drake’s main adversary on ice as insurance.”
Quinn was still reeling from the revelation, and so was Bishop, judging by his expression. Han, meanwhile, seemed totally confused, while Ulysses simply crossed his arms over his chest.
“Him again,” he said dismissively. “This shit’s confusin’ as all hell.”
“I felt the same way,” said Oleg. “I mean, I watched King on the network less than a month ago telling the world that you people had kidnapped him and held him for two years while you were in prison. Obviously, I figured Zero was the one who had him the whole time, but I thought Zero must have convinced King to throw in with Drake somehow. Never dreamed that it was Zero himself in the video and that I had the real thing sitting right under my nose.”
“We can pay you for him,” said Quinn, desperate for a solution. “We know people with money.”
“I got more than I could spend in a hundred lifetimes,” Oleg said with a chuckle. “Why do you think I’ve had a party going twenty-four hours a day for the last five years? I have to spend it somehow, might as well make people happy while I do.”
“We all know how you make your money,” Han said acidly. It was the first time she’d spoken since she appeared with Oleg. “And it’s the polar opposite of making people happy.”
He shrugged. “Man’s gotta make a living.”
“What good is King to you if not for ransom?” asked Quinn.
“Leverage,” said Oleg. “See, war is always good for business, but historically, it’s also always bad for Russia. As much as I’d appreciate the extra income, I don’t want to subject my adopted homeland to another senseless slaughter.”
“Then we’re on the same side!” Quinn cried. “Zero wants to stop the war, too! It must be why he sent us to get King!”
“Why the hell would Zero want the real King if he could just impersonate him? And since when does Zero have a problem with war? There’s something else going on here.”
“You’re right,” said Bishop. “Zero knows that there’s an alien armada sitting in space some twenty-five light years away, just waiting for a hole to be opened in space so they can come through and take over the planet!”
“And we won’t be able to fight them if we’re mired in the middle of another fucking world war!” Quinn barked. “Zero knows that, and he wants to stop Drake and the others before they can start one!”
Oleg turned to the woman on his right. “Do you believe this shit?”
The woman didn’t respond; she and her counterpart merely stood there expressionless, their eyes hidden by oversized sunglasses.
“You have to believe us!” said Quinn, his frustration rising as all their options seemed to fly out the window. “It’s all true!”
Oleg responded by facing Ulysses. “How about you, there, hayseed? You trying to tell me it’s all true, too?”
“Nah,” he drawled.
Quinn’s stomach dropped. “What?”
Ulysses glowered at him. “Far as ah’m concerned, this is all just more o’ yer bullshit Jarhead baggage, Quinn. Fucking Frank King and Morley Drake and all that other drama. All ah knows is yuh wouldn’t o’ got off Oberon One without mah help, and for a reward ah been dragged all over hell’s half-acre and thrown back in prison again.”
“That’s not all,” said Oleg. “He’s about to get you killed, too. You’re not leaving here.”
Quinn drew in a quick breath as his battle instincts began to take over. He scanned the room looking for an exit—all that stood between them and the door at the top of the stairs was Oleg and the two women.
And Oleg’s Makarov. Shit.
“Izzat right?” Ulysses glanced from Oleg to Quinn. “Well, if we’re gonna die anyway, you mind if I do sump’n first?”
Oleg shrugged and made sure they all saw the pistol. “What do I care?”
Quinn had only a second to register what was happening before Ulysses’ right fist appeared next to his left eye and connected with his cheek, sending him staggering to his right. It was a sledgehammer blow and it rung Quinn’s bell to the point where his consciousness began to swim in and out for a moment.
“All right, I’m ready,” said Ulysses. “Let’s do this.”
Oleg eyed him curiously, while Bishop and Han stood looking stunned.
“That payback for the elbow earlier?” asked Oleg.
“Pft,” Ulysses scoffed. “Ah barely felt that. Naw, I was payin’ him back for all the other horseshit ah been puttin’ up with since we got back. Ah coulda got back together with the Saints when we landed in fuckin’ San Antonio, man. Coulda gone back to mah real life, ‘stead o’ bein’ shot at, kidnapped, thrown in jail, double-crossed and all the other shit. Thass whut happens to Marines, dude, when yer always sayin’ yessir and nossir and how high should ah jump, sir. You get fucked over.”
Quinn made it back to his feet with Bishop’s help. A shiner was starting to form under his left eye, but he hardly noticed. Ulysses was taking up all his attention at the moment.
“I appreciate your perspective,” said Oleg. “Loyalty is important, but blind obedience is just plain stupid.”
Ulysses nodded. “Amen, brother.”
“Tell me, my friend, are you still tight with your Southern Saints back in the U.S.?”
“Shee-it, if’n it weren’t for them, these Jarhead clowns wouldn’ta made it outta San Antonio alive when we first got back to Earth.” Ulysses shot Quinn a withering look. “Ain’t never did nothin’ to pay ‘em back. Me neither.”
Quinn kept his mouth shut and motioned for Bishop and Han to do the same. He didn’t know where
this was going to lead, but the conversation was giving him the time he needed to come up with a strategy. Although it wasn’t doing much good so far.
Oleg rubbed his chin while he looked them over, obviously considering what his next move would be. Quinn kept eyeing the staircase and exit behind the Russian, racking his brain for a way to get to it without getting everyone killed.
“Maybe I’m all turned around on this,” Oleg said finally. “I think we can be of some use to each other.”
Quinn sighed inwardly. Thank God—their luck was actually holding. He could see the tension starting to flow out of Bishop and Han as well.
“You won’t regret it, Mr. Johnson,” he said. “I believe we can—”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Oleg said coldly as he crossed over to Ulysses and draped an arm over his wide shoulders. “This fella here has something to offer. The rest of you are gonna die. Sorry if I led you on.”
He slipped the pistol into a shoulder holster under the arm he had around Ulysses and led him back toward the stairs.
“Take care of them,” he said as he passed the two women. “Use the elevator to dispose of the bodies.”
The women nodded and stood motionless as Oleg and Ulysses climbed the stairs toward the door. Right before they went through, Ulysses turned to face the floor.
“Got sump’n for yuh, Quinn.”
Quinn snarled. “Yeah? What’s that, asshole?”
Ulysses flipped a coppery middle finger and turned to join his newfound friend as the door to the corridor slid shut behind them.
“What the hell is this?” asked Bishop. “We’ve got Ulysses defecting on us while the Russian supervillain leaves unarmed women behind to kill us? I don’t know whether to be angry or laugh hysterically.”
“Bishop and I can take the one on the left,” Han said evenly. “Can you handle the other on your own, Quinn?”
Quinn thought he knew the answer to that, until he saw what happened next: the women smiled.
And their mouths stretched all the way across their faces.
“Ah, fuck,” he breathed as the pair simultaneously pulled off their oversized sunglasses to reveal their oversized, surgically-enhanced eyes.
“What the hell is going on here?” Han asked, her voice suddenly much less confident than it had been just a few moments earlier.
“They’re Yandares,” Bishop sighed. “So much for somebody watching over us.”
19
What the hell?
Schuster felt a wave of vertigo as he realized he was looking at himself, but Sloane’s voice was in his head almost as quickly.
It’s your CR avatar in Gloom’s reality, he said. Nothing to be alarmed about. Of course, it will likely upset her equilibrium once she sees two of you. That’s not a good thing.
What do I do?
Deal with it, Sloane said testily. I have my hands full keeping all of you sane.
The other version of Schuster didn’t appear to recognize him, so he stepped quickly and quietly out of Gloom’s line of sight and took a position behind them. How was he going to bring her out of this? He supposed he could pretend to kill the other Schuster like Sloane had done to him, but he didn’t want to put her through what he’d endured. He had the advantage of his and Sloane’s unique relationship, but Gloom had nothing like that. Shocking her that way could have dire consequences.
He waited another couple of minutes until the other Schuster finally stood up and ambled over toward a group of guests, leaving Gloom alone on the sofa. He immediately hopped around the edge and took the same position he—the other him—had just left.
Gloom looked surprised. “Back so soon?”
“Uh, yeah.” Schuster stared at her, unsure what to say. “So, uh, how’s it going?”
“Goo-od,” she said, giving him a sidelong look. “How’s it going with you?”
“Fine, fine.” Think, man! Sloane seems to have faith in you for some reason, so think of something!
“You’re sure?”
What would it take to bring her out of this state? To remember herself? He looked around the room, filled with people who represented the epitome of wealth, of avarice and overabundance. The kind of people who manipulated others and got them to do the dirty work, all the while collecting the spoils and keeping their hands clean.
“Don’t you kind of hate these people?” he asked.
Her doe eyes widened. “What? Of course not, why would you say that?”
“Why wouldn’t I? Every person in this room is here for their own gain, not Chelsea’s. You know that.”
“Well, we’re here, aren’t we? What’s your point?”
How could he shock her the way Sloane had shocked him, without going to such an extreme? The answer came to him in a flash and the words were out of his mouth almost before he’d completed the thought.
“These are the kind of people who killed Zheng,” he said coldly.
The change in Gloom’s expression was instant and alarming. Cold hate flashed in her eyes and her lip curled into a snarl, baring her perfect teeth. But just as quickly, the fire was replaced by confusion and a look of despair.
“Why did you say that?” she whispered, breathless. “That was—you’re not making sense. I don’t like it. Shut up.”
I wish I could, he groaned inwardly. “They stole Zheng’s pension from him just because he found out something he shouldn’t have.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She slouched down into the sofa, drawing her knees up to her chest. “Leave me alone.”
“Can I help you?”
Schuster looked up to see himself standing over him, giving him a mildly concerned look. Gloom’s eyes flitted from him to his doppelganger and back again, and the fear in her eyes sent a knife blade into his heart. He hated that she had to go through this, but it was the only way.
“What’s going on?” she asked no one in particular. “This—this can’t be happening. I’m going crazy.”
“Maybe you should move along,” suggested faux Schuster. “You’re upsetting my wife.”
“Fuck off,” he told himself absently, his eyes on Gloom’s. “You’re not really here. This isn’t real.”
“Stop,” she warned, but without any force. “I don’t want this. Go away.”
At that moment, Schuster noticed others in the room looking in their direction, and a few people were stepping out from behind the louvers in the wall. They wore dark suits that tagged them as security guards for the party, and they were starting to move in his direction.
Can those guys actually hurt me?
A little Japanese man with a goatee appeared out of nowhere and wandered past him. “First time you, first time me,” he said in passing.
Shit. The clock was ticking now. He didn’t know what would happen when the guards reached him, and he didn’t want to find out. Gloom, meanwhile, seemed to be descending deeper into her mind, as if trying to find something to hold onto to keep her from the madness that was encroaching. He knew the feeling.
Think, damn it!
Don’t think, said Sloane’s voice. Imagine.
And instantly, Schuster knew what to do. Sloane was right—he was letting his own brain get in his way. He closed his eyes and thought of the one thing that he knew would be a lifeline for Gloom. When he opened them again, there was a small black box in his hands. Her eyes widened as soon as she caught sight of it, and he watched them follow it as he raised his arms and aimed it at the oncoming men in black.
“Oorah,” he muttered, hitting a button that only existed because he believed it did. With that, a ring of green light flashed and expanded outward from the middle of the box, flowing through the room until it reached the outer walls and went right through. Each person it touched went stock-still, frozen in time in space, until there was only him and Gloom still moving.
“Dev?” She blinked rapidly, as if waking from a dream. “Dev, is that you?”
He took a deep breath and let it out
. “It’s me. More important, it’s you. I don’t have a lot of time to explain—we’re in a cortical reality simulation, and we have to get out of here.”
She looked around the room at the statues, then down at herself.
“What the fuck am I wearing?” she growled. “And why is my hair gold?”
Schuster grinned. They just might make it through this after all.
For the third time, Schuster walked into the gathering in Oscar Bloom’s main drawing room, only this time he had the real Gloom on his arm. The rest of the room was the same as it had been both times before, which presented a challenge because neither of them could recall seeing Ben anywhere in the room.
“Can’t Sloane look around for us?” Gloom asked.
I’M A LITTLE BUSY KEEPING YOU TWO SANE. The words buzzed loudly in Schuster’s mind like an electrical current.
“Uh, no,” he said. “It’s up to us.”
They wandered around the perimeter of the room, trying not to look too out of place. It shouldn’t have been difficult to find a young man with dreadlocks in a roomful of middle-aged people in formalwear, but then he realized that the program may have changed Ben’s appearance the way it had Gloom’s.
“I don’t understand why we can’t find him,” she said, clearly frustrated. “We’ve looked everywhere in the room.”
“Wait a minute,” he said. “That’s it—we’ve looked everywhere in the room.”
“I just said that!”
“In the room.” Schuster took her hand and headed toward the louvers in the curved far wall. “We haven’t looked outside the room.”
They reached the first of the wall panels and saw white-shirted servers standing and chatting. They passed each one, glancing behind it before moving to the next. Schuster was about to give up when they finally poked their heads around a corner and caught sight of a young black man in a dark suit.
It was Ben.
And he was pointing a machine pistol at them.
“Hands up,” he growled in a low voice.
Schuster and Gloom shared a glance as they followed his order.