Dreams of the Damned

by Lindsey Sparks

  It had been planted here as a last resort, a sort of storage locker for our people, should the worst happen. Well, the worst had happened, and the consciousnesses of thousands of Olympians were now stored here in the Vault of Souls. For all we knew, this site held the last remnants of my people anywhere in the universe.

  The main hallway branched off into many other hallways leading to different sections of the Omega site. I headed straight for the doorway that led to the personal quarters, waited for it to slide open, and hurried on quiet feet to the third door on the right. I ducked into the room and engaged the do not disturb setting as soon as the door panel snicked shut. It wouldn’t lock the door, but the red light surrounding the door would let the others know I didn’t want visitors.

  Blowing out a breath, I leaned back against the door, resting my head against the cool metal, and closed my eyes. Tension I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying oozed out of me, and my whole body relaxed. It wasn’t that I was avoiding the others exactly; I just didn’t know how to be around them anymore. I didn’t know how to be, period.

  With a sigh, I opened my eyes and pushed off from the door. The room was roughly a seven-foot square, with one corner closed off as a washroom of sorts if you could even call a three-foot triangle a washroom. Half of the space was taken up by a long, narrow bed. The other half was open, allowing for use of the various storage drawers and cabinets filling the wall opposite the bed. To call the room cramped was a gross understatement. It was no larger than the average prison cell.

  The part of me that had come from Cora struggled with the claustrophobic space, at times, but the part of me that had come from Peri felt at home here. During my first cycle as Peri, spent aboard the Tartarus from birth to death, I’d lived the majority of my years in a room just like this.

  I peeled off my filthy hoplon suit and sweat-soaked bra and underwear, tossing everything into the sanitizing compartment set in the wall, then tucked into the cramped washroom and ran a shower cycle. When I was finished and squeaky clean, I slid the narrow door of the washroom open only to discover I had a visitor. Immediately, I crossed my arms over my bare chest.

  My mom sat on the edge of the bed, her chestnut waves loose around her shoulders and a hand over her eyes. She held what passed for a towel in these parts in her outstretched hand, and a stack of Olympian underclothes and PJs sat on her lap. The manufacturing compartment, really just a small room with what was essentially a huge, highly advanced 3D printer, could produce pretty much anything so long as the machine had adequate fabrication material in its material cartridges beneath the floor. We would need to refill the cartridges eventually, but for now, we had plenty to supply us with pretty much anything we needed.

  “Mom!” I stood in the doorway, my heart galloping, and reached out to snag the offered towel. Apparently do not disturb didn’t apply to nosy mothers. Slightly peeved, I quickly dried off with the small square of moisture wicking fabric, then accepted each piece of clothing as my mom held it out for me to take.

  Once I was dressed, I crossed my arms and leaned my shoulder against the wall, eyeing her. “Thanks,” I said dryly.

  My mom finally looked at me. Concern shadowed her eyes. “How was your run?”

  I sighed, letting my arms drop, and rested the side of my head against the wall. “Did you talk to Meg?” The tattletale.

  My mom held up a hand, her eyebrows raising. “Now, I know what you're thinking, and no, she didn't tell me anything other than that you went for a run.”

  “I’m sure,” I said, reaching for the brush sitting on the teeny tiny shelf beside the bed. I turned to face the mirror set into the wall and pulled the brush through my long, tangled wet hair with forceful jerks. I could see my mom in the reflection. Our coloring was similar enough—dark, wavy hair, blue eyes, pale skin—that I hadn’t questioned our relationship growing up. But now that I knew she wasn’t my true biological mother, that though she had carried me in her womb, we didn’t actually share any DNA, the differences in our appearances seemed glaringly obvious. The shape of our eyes, our bone structure, even our teeth—there was no similarity to our features whatsoever.

  My mom patted the space beside her on the edge of the mattress. “Come here, sweetheart. Sit.” She glanced down at the shiny metal floor at her feet. “I'll French braid your hair…”

  My arm froze mid-brushstroke, my breath held in my lungs. Never. Never had anyone offered to braid my hair. Not during my life as Cora, when touch had meant extreme pain followed by unconsciousness, or during any lifetime before.

  The tiniest smile tugged at the corners of my mom’s mouth. “Come on,” she urged and, her smile growing and filling with encouragement, she held her hand out for the brush.

  I turned around and took a single, hesitant step toward her and handed her the brush. She knew better than anyone how much this would mean to me. Hell, it probably meant just as much to her, a mother who had been unable to offer her daughter a comforting touch for the vast majority of her daughter’s life. But the regulator dangling from a chain around my neck fixed all of that, and human touch no longer sent me into psychic overload. I took another step closer, then turned my back to her and eased down onto the floor, settling between her knees.

  The first stroke of the brush through my wet hair was far gentler than mine had been. My chin trembled and tears welled on the brim of my eyelids. I closed my eyes, and a tear broke free, streaking down my cheek. How could something so simple make me feel so much?

  My mom cleared her throat. “You know, I haven't done this since you were a little girl,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “Your hair was so fine then. It would slip out of the braid by morning and you would end up with the craziest bedhead.” She laughed softly.

  I couldn’t hold back the smile curving my lips. I didn’t remember any of that, but it was nice to hear, nonetheless.

  The brush snagged on a snarl, jerking my head back, and my eyes snapped open, my neck tensing.

  “Sorry,” my mom murmured.

  I winced as she worked through the snarl. “It’s OK.”

  Silence stretched out between us as she finished brushing my hair, then sectioned it out to begin braiding. Her nails skimming along my scalp sent goosebumps cascading down my neck and back. “How did you wear your hair . . . before?” she asked.

  I stared ahead, my eyes locked on the door panel to the washroom as my mom started to braid. I chewed on the inside of my cheek, unsure how to answer.

  On the surface, the question seemed benign enough, but I couldn’t help but spot the hidden layers of significance. I had been reluctant to talk about my past lifetimes with my mom or any of the others who knew me only as Cora. It seemed to make them uncomfortable, learning things about me that happened so long before they existed. Like I was rubbing their faces in the fact that they didn't really know me, at least, not all of me. With each passing day, I felt the chasm between me and my loved ones expanding. Soon, I feared it would be impossible to cross.

  It was so different now than it had been before, when the memories of those previous lifetimes had felt so foreign. But now, those lifetimes were mine—those memories were a part of me, making me who I was today as much as my twenty-six years as Cora Blackthorn had. I could feel myself pulling away from the people I loved before they could push me away.

  I took a deep breath, wanting to bridge that chasm. “I usually wore my hair twisted up into a tight bun atop my head,” I told my mom, “in accordance with the Amazon dress code.”

  “Like a ballerina?”

  The corner of my mouth tensed, and I exhaled a silent laugh. “Yeah, like a ballerina,” I admitted. “It was either that or cut it all off. Long hair is too dangerous in a fight. Too easy for an opponent to grab.” My latest match with Meg was proof enough of that. “Plus,” I added, “it just gets in the way.”

  “Ain't that the truth,” my mom said. “That's why I never let mine get longer than my shoulders. The Order required women to wear the
ir hair in a bun or braid in the field.”

  As I thought about her admission, I furrowed my brow. It hadn't occurred to me that maybe my mom could relate to what I was going through. Sure, she didn't have to reconcile eighteen different lifetimes, but she did have to juggle two different identities and deal with the fallout from me, her daughter, discovering she was, in essence, two entirely different people.

  I swallowed, then cleared my throat. “Do you miss it?”

  My mom’s hands stilled, the braid half-finished. “Being in the Order?”

  I shook my head gently so as not to hinder her work. “The simplicity of being Diana Blackthorn,” I clarified.

  My mom chuckled, an unexpected note of bitterness to the laugh. “Being Diana Blackthorn was never simple,” she said and resumed braiding. “I was always afraid of slipping up, of saying the wrong thing. Of you finding out the truth . . . and figuring out just how long I'd been lying to you. Don't get me wrong, sweetheart, I have loved every second of being your mom, but I have hated every moment of hiding who I really was.” She took a deep breath, sighing on her exhale. “But now the cat's out of the bag, and I'm free to be myself around you. I feel lighter than I have in years.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watched her reach for the hairband on the shelf by the bed. I felt light tugging on the braid as she twisted the band around the ends of my hair. When she was done, she released the braid and rested her hands on my shoulders.

  “I—” I took a deep breath and bowed my head, staring down at my hands as I picked at a hangnail. “I don't know if I can do that—be me. I'm afraid that if I stop trying to be just Cora, you guys will realize you don't know me anymore.” I paused, hesitating before adding, “That you don't love me anymore.”

  My mom’s grip on my shoulders tightened. “Oh, sweetheart . . .” She turned me around enough that she could see my face. “You're still you,” she said, her love for me shining in her deep blue eyes. “You're just more.” She smiled softly, the skin around her eyes crinkling. “Nobody can ever really know another person. We're all walking through the world, hiding little bits and pieces of ourselves. But one of the most exciting things we get to do during our lifetimes is find those people we love and learn as much as we can about them during the time we have together.”

  She tucked a flyaway strand of hair behind my ear. “Knowing another person is a process that never ends. There's always more to learn.” She laughed softly, brushing her thumbs under my eyes to wipe away my tears. “And, with you, there's just that much more to learn, making knowing you—and loving you—that much more of an adventure.”

  A stifled laugh-sob escaped from my chest, and I collapsed against my mom, wrapping my arms around her middle. She rubbed my back in slow circles and made soft shushing noises, gently rocking me back and forth. In that moment, this embrace was everything, and I had never loved her more.

  After a few minutes of me clinging to my mom, my cries quieted and my shoulders stilled, and I sat back on my heels and wiped the fresh tears from my cheeks. With a sniffle, I stood from the floor and sat beside my mom on the bed. She curled an arm around my waist, and I rested my head on her shoulder.

  My mom pressed her cheek against the top of my head. “Now,” she started in a tone that made my muscles tense, “do you want to tell me why you've been pushing your body to the point of collapse the past few days?”

  I closed my eyes, my gut clenching as I silently thought through my answer. “I have to be better than I am,” I started and opened my eyes.

  My thoughts zeroed in on the memory of the warning ping coming from the holoscreen a few days ago. The Tsakali were on their way to Earth. My people’s ancient enemy—the same brutal, heartless monsters who had not only driven my people from our homeworld, Olympus, but had infected us with a nano-virus that rendered us permanently infertile. They had tried their hardest to obliterate us completely, and now they were coming here, lured by the shiny new chaos stone humans had created, and I feared humanity would suffer the same fate as the Olympians.

  “I—” I cleared my throat. “The Tsakali are worse than you could ever imagine,” I told my mom. “Not even all the full-powered Amazon warriors on Olympus could defeat their invading force. I know I can't protect this world from them, but maybe if I'm strong enough, I can at least protect you.”

  “Oh, sweetheart . . .” My mom raised her head, pressing her lips to my hair and tightening her hold on me. “We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  3

  The soles of my boots clanged against the metal grating, and the filtered air whooshed in and out of my lungs as I started my twenty-fourth circuit around the ring-shaped Vault of Souls. I’d estimated the hallway running through the Vault of Souls was ten feet across and about half the length of a standard track, so about an eighth of a mile.

  The high walls on both sides of the hallway were lined with row after row of small, round recesses, reaching maybe twenty feet overhead. The recesses in the upper half of the walls were empty, the lower half filled with crystalline consciousness orbs swirling with glittering ribbons in every imaginable color. The shade of those ribbons was unique to the Olympian mind contained within each orb, the more muted colors belonging to regular Olympians, the more vibrant, luminous colors belonging to the psychically gifted, like me.

  My hoplon suit kept my body more or less sweat-free, but my face and hair were another matter entirely. The stitch in my side convinced me to take a break, and I slowed to a jog, then a walk, and then I stopped, raising one arm over my head to help ease the side ache.

  It was late morning, meaning we were trapped down here, beneath the Great Sphinx, for another ten or eleven hours, until full nightfall allowed us to sneak out to the Western Desert for some fresh air. I glanced up at the metal ceiling high overhead. It was so strange to think that a horde of tourists were traipsing around up there right now, exploring the Giza Necropolis, clueless to the alien complex hidden beneath their feet.

  Well, maybe not entirely clueless. The fabled Hall of Records was believed by many to exist down here, containing the lost history of ancient Egypt. Some even believed the Hall of Records had been built by Atlanteans. Not quite, but close enough to the truth to have me believing that at some point the ancient Egyptians knew about Hades’ hidden underground lair.

  With a quick flick of my finger around the stone in my regulator, I deactivated the device, unleashing my psychic gifts. I could sense the crowds of strangers above but tuned them out, focusing on the more familiar minds surrounding me down here. Emi, Hades, Fiona, and my mom were in the control room, while Raiden and Meg were in their respective private quarters, so far as I could tell.

  I lowered my arm and cocked my head to the side, sensing something else. It was like a whisper in my ear, tickling the very edges of my psychic senses. The whisper was all around me, and I could have sworn it was coming from the consciousness orbs.

  I moved closer to the outer wall, scanning the orbs resting in their individual recesses. One orb stood out in particular, displaying ribbons a hauntingly familiar shade of brilliant coral pink. From handling my own consciousness orb, I knew an Amazon’s regulator glowed the same hue as the threads of her stored consciousness. And this color—this consciousness—was achingly familiar to me.

  Tentatively, I reached out for the orb and brushed the tips of my fingers over the smooth surface.

  The image of a chaotic city street flashed through my mind, overlaying my perception of the space around me.

  Startled, I yanked my hand away from the orb. But curiosity got the better of me, and once again, I touched my fingertips to the glassy surface, closing my eyes and focusing on the foreign image.

  The city street reappeared, sights and sounds slowly overwhelming my own senses until this place felt just as real as the Vault of Souls, where I had been standing just a moment ago. The city surrounding me reminded me of New York City, at least as I had seen and experienced the famous city in movies and g
ames, but with an alien flare. The skyscrapers were sleeker and more uniform, the people filling the sidewalks a little too tall, their features a little too sharp to be human. This was no city here on Earth; this was an Olympian city, the likes of which I had never visited, and I stared around in wonder.

  A woman in a hoplon suit strode past me, the channels running the length of her skin-tight armor glowing a steady coral pink. Other Olympians bowed their heads as the Amazon warrior passed them. The cadence of her stride, matched with the yellow-gold bun atop her head and the telltale swagger, told me exactly who this particular Amazon warrior was—Despoina, my closest friend within the Order of Amazons.

  I stumbled forward into a jog to keep up before she could melt into the stream of people. “Des!” I called out, pushing people out of my way as I chased after her. “Despoina!”

  Despoina stopped and turned around, her eyes narrowing.

  I slowed, then stopped just out of arm’s reach of her.

  As Despoina looked at me, she shook her head, her eyes slowly widening until wonder transformed her expression. “Peri? How—” Again, she shook her head. “How are you here? You weren't supposed to be integrated into the system with the rest of us.”

  My brows bunched together, and I tilted my head to the side. “What system?” I asked, then looked around. “What is this place? I was running through the Vault of Souls, and . . .” My attention returned to my old friend.

  Despoina smiled, but there was a weariness in her eyes. “This is the Vault of Souls. Or, at least, the inside of the vault.” She held her arms out to either side of her. “Welcome to Olympus. Hades rigged the system to create a simulated reality pulled from our collective subconsciousness to keep us stimulated during our extended stay here in the ever after.” Despoina took a small step closer to me, her brow furrowing as she scanned me from head to toe. “But if you’re in the actual Vault of Souls, out in the physical world, does that mean—are you real?” Again, she stepped closer, her eyes searching mine. “Did it work? Did Hades resurrect you?”