Forcing a deeper inhalation, I used the airflow as a foothold, prying open my lead-sealed eyes—peering into a semi-dark chamber laced with streaks of neon-blue fluid seemingly hovering in the periphery.

I was naked, lying on my back on what ABE hypothesized to be a sensory pod, its pliant surface glowing a soft crimson beneath me. Quarter-size probes were adhered to my forehead and a dozen other neural junctions along my body. An IV feed line was threaded through my right armpit, a catheter protruding from my penis.

Turning my head to the left, I saw Dharma. She was unconscious, her nude body wired in an identical state, the surface of her thermostatic table more violet than red.

Raising my head caused my sensory pod to turn a yellow hue; tearing off the neural probes powered off the table, exposing the room in its soft white radiance. Gritting my teeth, I pulled out the catheter, then yanked out a six-inch wire feed from beneath my armpit. The effort made me nauseous, forcing me to lie back down.

ABE, search personnel files in 2028. Is there any record of a Douglas or Lisa McEntrye on board the lunar shuttle sent to investigate the helium-3 deposits?

TWO MCENTYRES WERE ABOARD SHUTTLE SEA-L29. DOUGLAS MCENTYRE: CEO AND MEDICAL DIRECTOR OF MILLENNIUM TECHNOLOGY RESOURCES. LISA MCENTYRE: GENETICS ENGINEER.

That’s impossible. How can they still be alive? And what were they doing aboard that shuttle? They’re not fusion experts. Who recruited them to the mission?

GENERAL DAVID SCHALL.

I closed my eyes, my mind plunging deeper down the “rabbit hole” with each new revelation. Willing myself to move, I stood on tingling, wobbly legs and groped my way past what appeared to be an aphaeresis machine, its clear lines transporting a neon-blue elixir. Following the fluid led me down a long corridor, the frost-tinged glass walls composed of pullout drawers—similar to what one might find in a county morgue. Pressing my face to the glass caused the internal chamber to illuminate, revealing the contents of each coffin-size compartment.

Humans. Their frozen bodies were grossly disfigured, evidence of living in low gravity conditions.

“That one was me.”

I turned to find Doug McEntyre tapping the opposite wall, pointing at one of the drawers. “I was fifty-one when Lisa and I arrived on the moon; I think I look closer to thirty now, don’t you agree?”

“What the hell is going on?”

“Your bio-chip woke you, didn’t it? Damn impressive. But something gave the internal dreamscape away. Was it the food? The accommodations? We can alter any scenario, even return you to Earth if you wish—we want you to enjoy your life.”

“While you do what? Harvest our bodies? What happened twelve million years ago? What exactly are you?”