THE SCOURGE

“YOUR NEIGHBORHOOD’S different than I thought it would be,” Ambrose said in the strained whisper he’d been using the entire time. “It’s…” He tapped his knee, struggling to find the words. “I mean, as soon as I left the airlock, there was no way to find anything out. I guess I’m just used to accessing information, and down here it’s like stepping into a time machine and going back a hundred years. I’m not trying to insult you; it’s just—anyway, I don’t know. I wandered around, and then your … friend Jiri grabbed me, and then a second later the cops were there, and then you.”

Mistletoe kept her eyes closed. She didn’t answer him. Ever since his description of the dream—her dream—his story had become a droning background to her own racing thoughts. If he was telling the truth, and the woman in his transmission was telling the truth, did it mean she wasn’t real? Did it mean that she and Ambrose shared a common creator? She let go of his hand and rubbed the sides of her face where the dream wires had been. Smooth, unbumpy skin. Normal human features.

“It’s not true,” she said quietly.

“Sorry, I don’t mean it’s bad down here. I just mean it’s … different.”

“The message, I mean.”

Ambrose didn’t say anything. Even in the dark she could feel his halting explanation die on his lips. He’s not sure, she thought.

“Maybe it just seems extra real because it was your very last dream ever or something.”

“So you think I ran out on my life for no reason?” Ambrose said fiercely.

“Shhh!” she whispered. “I don’t know. Doesn’t seem like you do, either.”

He lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. “You have no idea what I just gave up.”

During the silence that followed, she opened her mouth twice to tell him about her dream—the dream they shared—but something held her back. If Ambrose knew, they’d have to talk about it, and she wasn’t ready for that. Instead she said, “That thing they did to you—”

“The hypothalamus modification?”

“Whatever. It’ll make you, I mean … you’ll never sleep again? Not ever? Just so you can work more?”

Ambrose took a deep breath, then let it out. Once again, she got the impression that he was struggling to communicate with someone he considered younger, even though they were the same age. She squeezed his hand tight to keep from strangling him.

“I have—” He stopped himself. “I had an enormous amount of responsibility. You could spend a lifetime trying to navigate UniCorp’s infrastructure and never make it all the way through. But imagine if you could take all the time you waste sleeping and actually apply it productively? The choice was simple.”

“So it was something you loved,” she said.

“What was?”

“The things you did, whatever they were. Process Flowing and all that. Your job.”

She felt him shrug next to her in the dark. “It’s who I am.”