The escort told her, “His mind patterns have been stored. His body is also in storage. He is not using his body at this moment; nor are his thoughts moving through his brain. They move through a different medium, where you also were once stored.” He stood beside Rhita, examining her face, gauging her reactions. “Are you in distress?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Do you want the display ended?”

“Yes! Yes!” She backed away, hiding behind her clenched fists, and began to cry hysterically. Demetrios reached out with ghostly arms, beseeching, but could not speak before he vanished.

In the indefinite chamber that was her prison, she squatted on the soft floor and buried her face in her hands. All of her remaining scant supply of courage had fled her. She realized, beneath her horror and hysteria, that at this moment she was completely vulnerable to her captors. They could put her back in a fantasy, in a dream, and she would live there happily without protest, answering their questions, just to be in some place like home, away from this nightmare.

“There is no reason for your fear,” the escort said, stooping beside her. “You would be speaking to your friend, not to an image we have made. He is still thinking. He occupies a pleasant illusion, as you did before you insisted on returning to your body.”

The escort waited patiently, saying nothing more as the paroxysm faded and she regained control of herself. She had no idea how long this took. Time was not her strong point now. “Oresias and the others…are they dead, too?” she asked between her last few sobs and gulps.

“Death has a different meaning for us,” the escort said. “Some are active in illusions; others are inactive, as if in deep sleep. None are dead.”

“Can I speak to any of them, if I want to?” she asked.

“Yes. All are available. Some might take more time to be brought here than others.”

She decided it would be best to try again, although she was not at all sure she could control herself. “Can you make Demetrios seem more real? He frightens me…. He looks like he’s dead. He looks like a ghost.”

The escort seemed to savor the word “ghost,” repeating it several times and smiling. “He can be made to seem as solid as you and I, but that will still be an illusion. Do you want such an illusion?”

“Yes. Yes.”

Demetrios reappeared, more substantial but no less miserable. Rhita got to her feet and approached him, leaning forward, arms stiff by her side, hands clenched into fists. “Who are you?” she asked between gritted teeth. Still, her body shivered.

“Demetrios, mekhanikos and didaskalos of the Mouseion of Alexandreia,” the figure replied. “You are Rhita Vaskayza? Are we dead?” He spoke as a shade might speak, voice slow and quavering. Rhita could not stop her teeth from chattering.