Maggie anywhere until he knew why he’d been summoned.
In trance, one’s physical location tended to influence the dreamsphere. An experienced alucinator could reset the sphere to appear featureless, but that took effort, and Zeke didn’t see the need. A distorted version of his room leaped into view around him. Greenish walls leaned toward him as if ready to topple. He stood beside his bed, which was much bigger in the dreamsphere than in real life, taking up almost the entire room.
It felt odd to be here without Maggie and her thousand wraiths. He hadn’t been assigned duties that required him to visit without her a lot in the past two months. A standard contingent of monsters tapped his protections, but they felt like bugs on the windshield after what he’d been enduring.
Interesting. Had his shields recuperated? His were the weakest of the East Coast entries because of the perforations Karen had caused when she’d stranded him in a dream coma. Luckily, Rhys, Lillian, and that curator had been able to wake him in time, and he’d done his part to shut down Karen for good.
He resisted the urge to test his protections. Minutes in the tranced sphere were real-time, unlike sleep. The watery colors and thin, glowing mist of the sphere seemed too bright, too unblemished.
Too easy.
Working quickly, feeling out of sync, Zeke locomoted to the approximate coordinates of the coma station. Didn’t take long when he didn’t have a neonati to worry about. The arid surroundings of this part of Wyoming bubbled into being—the boxy structure of the compound, the fences, the vehicles.
This particular waystation, like most large Somnium facilities, was never fully asleep. Yet nobody responded to Zeke’s call. He scanned and couldn’t sense any signatures or conduits, locked or otherwise.
There should be an orator on duty with an open frequency. Perhaps the orator was off delivering a message?
Frustrated, Zeke issued a broadband hail. That should snag any nearby alucinators’ attention, whether they were scanning, orating, experimenting, you name it. There was always activity in the sphere at a research facility unless something had happened. Something bad.
Something bad like nobody being here but him.
Shit.
Outside Zeke’s barriers, wraiths started to form. The dark wisps appeared and disappeared in the corner of his eyes like fireflies.
He could smell and hear them, sizzling like water on coals and sniffling his shield.
Were there more than expected? More than he’d seen here before? Maybe. Maybe not. He’d lost his ability to gauge normal as he and Maggie had adjusted to greater and greater swarms.
The area darkened as wraiths formed. The edge of Zeke’s shelter grew clearly demarked from the deepening blackness outside. Their malice gnawed at his concentration. The unavoidable stench wrinkled his face. They didn’t smell this shitty in sleep unless he dropped shield.
Something whooshed behind him. Zeke whipped around but couldn’t see past his barrier, past the wraiths. They were stronger in trance, more dangerous. He could feel them nibbling, gnawing, craving his conduit. Desperate for access to the terra firma. Were this many drawn to him because of his relationship with Maggie? His perforated shields? Did this have anything to do with why he’d been called to Wyoming?
He needed answers, and he needed them now.
Zeke widened his shield to cover more square footage. It should have thinned out the wraiths and lightened things up, but there were enough that they maintained a consistent smog beyond his protections.
It was a lot like Maggie’s dreamsphere—except these wraiths could kill him.
Another whoosh behind him. He spun. A spot along the outside of his barrier had been cleared of wraiths. Head-high. Body wide.
The shape of a person.
It filled with shadows and black streamers almost before he registered what it was.
“Who’s there?” he demanded. “I need an orator.”
A response so faint
In trance, one’s physical location tended to influence the dreamsphere. An experienced alucinator could reset the sphere to appear featureless, but that took effort, and Zeke didn’t see the need. A distorted version of his room leaped into view around him. Greenish walls leaned toward him as if ready to topple. He stood beside his bed, which was much bigger in the dreamsphere than in real life, taking up almost the entire room.
It felt odd to be here without Maggie and her thousand wraiths. He hadn’t been assigned duties that required him to visit without her a lot in the past two months. A standard contingent of monsters tapped his protections, but they felt like bugs on the windshield after what he’d been enduring.
Interesting. Had his shields recuperated? His were the weakest of the East Coast entries because of the perforations Karen had caused when she’d stranded him in a dream coma. Luckily, Rhys, Lillian, and that curator had been able to wake him in time, and he’d done his part to shut down Karen for good.
He resisted the urge to test his protections. Minutes in the tranced sphere were real-time, unlike sleep. The watery colors and thin, glowing mist of the sphere seemed too bright, too unblemished.
Too easy.
Working quickly, feeling out of sync, Zeke locomoted to the approximate coordinates of the coma station. Didn’t take long when he didn’t have a neonati to worry about. The arid surroundings of this part of Wyoming bubbled into being—the boxy structure of the compound, the fences, the vehicles.
This particular waystation, like most large Somnium facilities, was never fully asleep. Yet nobody responded to Zeke’s call. He scanned and couldn’t sense any signatures or conduits, locked or otherwise.
There should be an orator on duty with an open frequency. Perhaps the orator was off delivering a message?
Frustrated, Zeke issued a broadband hail. That should snag any nearby alucinators’ attention, whether they were scanning, orating, experimenting, you name it. There was always activity in the sphere at a research facility unless something had happened. Something bad.
Something bad like nobody being here but him.
Shit.
Outside Zeke’s barriers, wraiths started to form. The dark wisps appeared and disappeared in the corner of his eyes like fireflies.
He could smell and hear them, sizzling like water on coals and sniffling his shield.
Were there more than expected? More than he’d seen here before? Maybe. Maybe not. He’d lost his ability to gauge normal as he and Maggie had adjusted to greater and greater swarms.
The area darkened as wraiths formed. The edge of Zeke’s shelter grew clearly demarked from the deepening blackness outside. Their malice gnawed at his concentration. The unavoidable stench wrinkled his face. They didn’t smell this shitty in sleep unless he dropped shield.
Something whooshed behind him. Zeke whipped around but couldn’t see past his barrier, past the wraiths. They were stronger in trance, more dangerous. He could feel them nibbling, gnawing, craving his conduit. Desperate for access to the terra firma. Were this many drawn to him because of his relationship with Maggie? His perforated shields? Did this have anything to do with why he’d been called to Wyoming?
He needed answers, and he needed them now.
Zeke widened his shield to cover more square footage. It should have thinned out the wraiths and lightened things up, but there were enough that they maintained a consistent smog beyond his protections.
It was a lot like Maggie’s dreamsphere—except these wraiths could kill him.
Another whoosh behind him. He spun. A spot along the outside of his barrier had been cleared of wraiths. Head-high. Body wide.
The shape of a person.
It filled with shadows and black streamers almost before he registered what it was.
“Who’s there?” he demanded. “I need an orator.”
A response so faint
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