“—Dark One enslaves the world,” Mira finished. “Yes, I know. But you have to get a grip here, honey. They’re going to crucify you out there.”

“But you believe me, right?”

“Well, yes, I can help you.”

“Fine. Tell me.”

“For starters, you have to start communicating,” Mira said.

“How?”

“There’s no phone in here; you’ll have to pass them a note. Tell them there’s been a misunderstanding. Get some dialogue going. Turn on the Net and find out what they’re saying on the news. Get a feeling for what you’ve done.”

“What’s a Net?”

Mira grinned. “Come on, don’t do that.”

“I’m not doing anything. Where Johnis and I come from, there is no such thing that I’ve heard of.”

“Okay, fine. See that black box over there?” She motioned to a glass box with her chin. “You push the little green button below the screen.”

Silvie walked up to the Net, keeping Mira in her peripheral view in the event this was a ploy. “How do I know this isn’t some fancy weapon that will finish me off?”

“Let me turn it on, if you doubt me.”

“No.”

“Then push the button! It won’t bite.”

Silvie pushed the button. A picture filled the glass surface, and she jumped back, ready to defend against any attack.

“See, no harm. Now hand me the remote.” Mira nodded at a black object on the counter. She handed the remote to her prisoner, who pressed another button.

The picture on the Net changed. A woman with dark hair was talking earnestly about what they were calling “the Mira Silver kidnapping.” But what amazed Silvie even more was the smaller box to the woman’s right on which the events of the kidnapping were being played out nearly identically as . . .

No, it was an actual replay of what had happened. Silvie watched herself behind Mira, crying out for all to hear her demands.

“That’s us!”

“You really don’t know what the Net is?”

The picture suddenly changed. An image of a prison filled the glass. Vertical bars behind which stood a man.

Johnis.

“It’s . . .” Silvie took a step back, stunned at the sight. “It’s Johnis.” They had Johnis in a prison! “I told you!” she cried.

Mira didn’t reply.

The picture of him grew until his whole face filled the screen, showing clearly his dusty cheeks, his small, smudged nose. A cut on his lip—from his fight in the arena or from torture, she couldn’t tell.

Then his voice, as clear as if he were standing in that very room, was talking to her.